memoirs of the jacobites of and . by mrs. thomson, author of "memoirs of the court of henry the eighth," "memoirs of sarah, duchess of marlborough," etc. volume iii. london: richard bentley, new burlington street, publisher in ordinary to her majesty. . london: printed by s. & j. bentley, wilson, and fley, bangor house, shoe lane. preface. in completing this work, i have to repeat my acknowledgments to those friends and correspondents to whom i expressed my obligations in the preface to the first volume; and i have the additional pleasure of recording similar obligations from other channels. i beg to testify my gratitude to sir william maxwell, bart., of montreith, for some information regarding the nithsdale family; which, i hope, at some future time, to interweave with my biography of the earl of nithsdale; and also to miss charlotte maxwell, the sister of sir william maxwell, whose enthusiasm for the subject of the jacobites is proved by the interesting collection of jacobite airs which she is forming, and which will be very acceptable to all who can appreciate poetry and song. to sir john maxwell, bart., of pollock, and to lady matilda maxwell, i offer my best thanks for their prompt and valued suggestions on the same subject. i owe much to the courtesy and great intelligence of mrs. howison craufurd, of craufurdland castle, ayrshire: i have derived considerable assistance from that lady in the life of the earl of kilmarnock, and have, through her aid, been enabled to give to the public several letters never before published. for original information regarding the derwentwater family, and for a degree of zeal, combined with accurate knowledge, i must here express my cordial thanks to the hon. mrs. douglass, to whose assistance much of the interest which will be found in the life of charles radcliffe is justly due. i have also to acknowledge the kindness of mons. amedée pichot, from whose interesting work i have derived great pleasure and profit; and to madame colmache, for her inquiries in the biblothéque du roi, for original papers relating to the subject. to w. e. aytoun, esq., of edinburgh, i beg also to express my acknowledgments for his aid in supplying me with some curious information regarding the duke of perth. the kindness with which my researches, in every direction, have been met, has added to my task a degree of gratification, which now causes its close to be regarded with something almost like regret. one advantage to be gained by the late publication of this third volume, is the criticism of friends on the two former ones. amid many errors, i have been admonished, by my kind adviser and critic, charles kirkpatrick sharpe, esq., of having erred in accepting the common authorities in regard to the celebrated and unfortunate lady grange. whatever were the sorrows of that lady, her faults and the provocation she gave to her irritated husband, were, it appears, fully equal to her misfortunes. since the story of lady grange is not strictly connected with my subject, i have only referred to it incidentally. at some future time, the singular narrative of her fate may afford me a subject of further investigation. i beg to correct a mistake into which i had fallen, in the first volume, respecting those letters relating to the earl of mar, for which i am indebted, to alexander macdonald, esq. these, a distinct collection from that with which i was favoured by james gibson craig, esq., were copied about twelve years ago, from the papers then in the possession of lady frances erskine. they have since passed into the possession of the present earl of mar. an interesting letter in the appendix of this work, will be found relative to the social state of the chevalier st. george, at rome. for permission to publish this i am indebted to the valued friendship of my brother-in-law, samuel coltman, esq., in whose possession it is, having been bequeathed, with other mss. to his mother, by the well-known joseph spence, author of the "anecdotes", and of other works. london, _ th march, ._ contents of the third volume. page lord george murray james drummond, duke of perth flora macdonald william boyd, earl of kilmarnock charles radcliffe with portraits of flora macdonald, prince charles, and lord balmerino. memoirs of the jacobites. lord george murray. this celebrated adherent of the chevalier was born in the year . he was the fifth son of john duke of atholl, and the younger brother of that marquis of tullibardine, whose biography has been already given. the family of atholl had attained a degree of power and influence in scotland, which almost raised them out of the character of subjects. it was by consummate prudence, not unattended with a certain portion of time-serving, that, until the period , the high position which these great nobles held had been in seasons of political difficulty preserved. their political principles were those of indefeasible right and hereditary monarchy. john, first marquis of atholl, the father of lord george murray, married amelia stanley, daughter of charlotte de la tremouille, countess of derby, whose princely extraction, to borrow a phrase of high value in genealogical histories, was the least of her merits. this celebrated woman was remarkable for the virtue and piety of her ordinary life; and, when the season of trial and adversity called it forth, she displayed the heroism which becomes the hour of adversity. her well-known defence of latham house in from the assaults of the parliamentarian forces, and her protracted maintenance of the isle of man, the last place in the english dominions that submitted to the parliament, were followed by a long and patient endurance of penury and imprisonment. the marquis of atholl was consistent in that adherence to the stuarts which the family of his wife had professed. he advocated the succession of james the second, and was rewarded with the royal confidence. indeed, such was the partiality of the king towards him, that had the marquis "in this sale of favour," as an old writer expresses it, "not been firm and inflexible in the point of his religion, which he could not sacrifice to the pleasure of any mortal, he might have been the first minister for scotland."[ ] after the revolution, the marquis retired into the country, and relinquished all public business; thus signifying his opinion of that event. he bequeathed to his son, john second marquis of atholl, and the father of lord george murray, as great a share of prosperity and as many sources of self-exultation as ordinarily fall to the lot of one man. to the blood of the murrays, the marriage with lady amelia stanley had added a connection in kindred with the houses of bourbon and austria, with the kings of spain and duke of savoy, the prince of orange, and most of the crowned heads in europe. upon the extinction of the descendants of john the seventh earl of derby, commonly called the loyal earl of derby, and of his wife charlotte de la tremouille, "all that great and uncommon race of royal and illustrious blood," as it has been entitled, centred in the descendants of the marquis of atholl. in , the barony of strange devolved upon the duke of atholl; and the principality of the isle of man was also bequeathed to the same house by william ninth earl of derby. this was the accession of a later period, but was the consequence of that great and honourable alliance of which the family of atholl might justly boast. the father of lord george murray adopted every precaution, as we have seen,[ ] to preserve the acquisitions of dignity and fortune which the lapse of years had added to his patrimonial possessions. sixteen coats of arms, eight on the paternal side, and eight on the maternal side, had composed the escutcheon of his father, john marquis of atholl. among those great names on the maternal side, which graced a funeral escutcheon, which has been deemed the pattern and model of perfect dignity, and the perfection of ducal grandeur, was the name of the prince of orange.[ ] this plea of kindred was not thrown away upon the marquis of atholl; he declared himself for king william, and entered early into the revolution. for this service he was rewarded with the office of high commissioner to represent his majesty in the scottish parliament. but subsequent events broke up this compact, and destroyed all the cordiality which subsisted between william and the head of the house of atholl. the refusal of the king to own the african company was, it is said, the reason why the marquis withdrew himself from court, and remained at a distance from it during the lifetime of william. the accession of anne brought, at first, fresh honours to this powerful scottish nobleman. he was created in a duke, and was made privy seal: but the politics of the court party changed; the duke of atholl was dismissed from the ministry, and he became henceforth a warm opponent of all the government measures. he spoke with boldness, yet discretion, against the union; and protested against a measure which, as he conceived, gave up all the dignity and antiquity of the kingdom. during his proud career, a marriage with katherine, the daughter of william duke of hamilton, a lady of great prudence, and of eminent piety and virtue, added to the high consideration of the duke of atholl. of this nobleman, certain historians have left the highest character. "he was," says nisbet, "of great parts, but far greater virtues; of a lively apprehension, a clear and ready judgment, a copious eloquence, and of a very considerable degree of good understanding."[ ] it is difficult to reconcile this description with the intrigues and bitterness which characterise the duke of atholl, in lovat's narrative of their rivalry; nor would it be easy to reconcile the public report of many men with the details of their private failings. that, however, which has impugned the consistency and sincerity of the duke of atholl far more than the representations of lovat, is the belief that, whilst his feelings were engaged in one cause, his professions were loud in upholding the other; that he was double and self-interested; and that he saved his vast estates from forfeiture by an act of policy which might, in some bearings, be regarded as duplicity, in proof of which it is asserted, that, whilst he pretended to condemn the conduct of his eldest son in joining the rebellion of , he was the chief instigator of that step.[ ] such was the father to whom lord george murray owed his birth. during the unbroken prosperity of his house, the future general of the jacobite army was born. he was the fifth son of eight children, borne by the first duchess of atholl, and was born in the year . of these, john the eldest, and presumptive heir to the dukedom, had been killed at the battle of mons, or malplaquet, in . he was a youth of great promise, and his death was a source of deep lamentation to his father; a sorrow which subsequent events did not, perhaps, tend to alleviate. william, marquis of tullibardine, was therefore regarded as the next heir to all the vast possessions and ancestral dignities of his house. his faithful adherence to the chevalier st. george, and the part which he adopted in the rebellion of , produced a revolution in the affairs of his family, which, one may suppose, could not be effected without some delicacy, and considerable distress. in the marquis of tullibardine was attainted by an act passed in the first year of george the first; and by a bill, which was passed in the house of commons relating to the forfeited estates, all these estates were vested in his majesty from and after the twenty-fourth of january .[ ] upon this bill being passed, the duke of atholl, who had been residing for many years with the splendour and state of a prince at his castle at blair atholl, journeyed to london, and, being graciously received by george the first, he laid his case before that monarch, representing the unhappy circumstances of his son, and pointing out what effect and influence this might have, in the event of his own death, on the succession of his family, if his estate and honour were not vested in law upon his second son, lord james murray, who had performed very signal service to his majesty in the late rebellion. this petition was received, and a bill was brought into parliament for vesting the honours of john duke of atholl in james murray, esq., commonly called lord james murray; and, as a reward of his steady loyalty, a law was passed, enacting that the act of attainder against william marquis of tullibardine should not be construed to extend to lord james murray or his issue. in consequence of this bill, on the death of the duke of atholl, in , lord james murray succeeded to all those honours and estates, which had thus been preserved through the prudence of his father, and the clemency or policy of the king. in this divided house was lord george murray reared. it soon appeared that he possessed the decision and lofty courage of his ancestry; and that his early predilections, in which probably his father secretly coincided, were all in favour of the stuarts, and that no considerations of self-interest could draw him from that adherence. the events of occurring when lord george murray was only ten years of age, his first active exertions in the cause of the stuarts did not take place until a later period. in the interim, the youth, who afterwards distinguished himself so greatly, served his first apprenticeship to arms in the british forces in flanders. in , when only fourteen years of age, a fresh plan of invasion being formed by spain, and the marquis of tullibardine having again ventured to join in the enterprise, lord george showed plainly his attachment to the jacobite cause. he came over with the marquis, with a small handful of spaniards, and was wounded at the battle of glenshiels on the tenth of june. of his fate after that event, the following account has been given by wodrow,[ ] who prefaces his statement with a congratulatory remark that several of the jacobites were by their sufferings converted from their error. "at glenshiels," he writes, referring to lord george murray, "he escaped, and with a servant got away among the highland mountains, and lurked in a hut made for themselves for some months, and saw nobody. it was a happy providence that either he or his servant had a bible, and no other books. for want of other business, he carefully read that neglected book, and the lord blessed it with his present hard circumstances to him. now he begins to appear abroad, and it is said is soon to be pardoned; and he is highly commended not only for a serious convert from jacobitism, but for a good christian, and a youth of excellent parts, hopes, and expectations." it appears, however, that lord george, however he might be changed in his opinions, did not consider himself safe in scotland. he fled to the continent, and entered the service of sardinia, then, in consequence of the quadruple alliance, allotted to the possessions of the duke of savoy. meantime, through the influence of his family, and, perhaps, on the plea of his extreme youth when he had engaged in the battle of glenshiels, a pardon was obtained for the young soldier. his father, as is related in the manuscript account of the highlands before quoted, "had found it his interest to change sides at the accession of george the first." his second brother, as he was now called, james murray, or marquis of tullibardine, was a zealous supporter of the hanoverian government, although it proved no easy matter to engage his clan in the same cause. during many succeeding years, while lord george murray was serving abroad, cultivating those military acquirements which afterwards, whilst they failed to redeem his party from ruin, extorted the admiration of every competent judge, the progress of events was gradually working its way towards a second great attempt to restore the stuarts. notwithstanding the apparent tranquillity of the chevalier st. george, he had been continually though cautiously maintaining, during his residence at albano, as friendly an intercourse with the english visitors to rome as circumstances would permit. most young men of family and condition travelled, during the time of peace, in italy; many were thus the opportunities which occurred of conciliating these youthful scions of great and influential families. as one instance of this fact, the account given by joseph spence, the author of the "anecdotes" and of "polymetis," affords a curious picture of the eagerness evinced by james and his wife, during the infancy of their son, to ingraft his infant image on the memory, and affections of the english. mr. spence visited rome while charles edward was yet in his cradle. he was expressly enjoined by his father, before his departure from england, on no account to be introduced to the chevalier. yet such were the advances made to him, as his own letter[ ] will show, that it was almost impossible for him to resist the overture: and similar overtures were made to almost every englishman of family or note who visited rome at that period. in addition to these efforts, a continual correspondence was maintained between james and his scottish adherents. the chevalier's greatest accomplishment was his art of writing letters; and he appears eminently to have excelled in that power of conciliation which was so essential in his circumstance. meantime charles grew up, justifying, as he increased in stature, and as his disposition revealed itself, the most ardent expectations of those who wished well to his cause. one failing he very early evinced; that remarkable devotion to certain favourites which marked the conduct of his ancestors; and the partiality was more commonly built upon the adulation bestowed by those favourites than founded in reason. it was in the year that the royal youth, then scarcely nineteen years of age, became acquainted with a man whose qualities of mind, and attractions of manner, exercised a very considerable influence over his destiny; and whose character, pliant, yet bitter, intriguing and perfidious, came afterwards into a painful collision with the haughty overbearing temper, and manly sincerity, of lord george murray. it was in consequence of the practice adopted by some of the hangers-on of the chevalier's court, of luring young english or scottish strangers to its circles, that john murray of broughton, afterwards secretary to prince charles, was first introduced to the young chevalier. murray was the son of sir david murray, bart., by his second wife, a daughter of sir david scott of ancrum: he was at this time only twenty-three years of age, and he had lately completed his studies at edinburgh, where he had gone through a course of philosophy, and studied the civil and municipal laws. the report which prevailed that mr. murray had been educated with the young chevalier was untrue; it was by the desire of his mother, lady murray, that he first, in , visited both france and italy, and perfected himself in the language of those countries, then by no means generally attained by scotchmen. mr. murray had been brought up in the principles of the episcopal church, and therefore there was less reason, than there would have been in the case of a roman catholic, to apprehend his being beguiled into an intimate connection with the exiled stuarts. he had not, however, been long in rome before he was asked by an acquaintance whether he had seen the santi apostoli, as the palace of the chevalier was called. on answering in the negative, he was assured that, through a knowledge of some of the servants, a sight might be obtained of the palace; and also of the protestant chapel, in which, as mr. murray heard with great surprise, the chevalier allowed service to be performed for such of the retinue of the young prince as were of the protestant persuasion. it was also alleged that this indulgence was with the cognizance of the pope, who, in order to remove the barrier which prevented the stuarts from enjoying the crown of england, was willing to allow charles edward to be brought up as a protestant. this assertion was further confirmed by the fact, that the noblemen, lord inverness and lord dunbar, who had the charge of charles edward, were both protestants; a choice on the part of james which had produced all that contention between himself and the princess clementina, with the details of which the courts of europe were entertained. the family and retinue of the chevalier st. george being then at albano, mr. murray was able to gratify his curiosity, and to inspect the chapel, which had neither crucifix, confessional, nor picture in it,--only an altar,--and was not to be distinguished from an english chapel; and here english divines officiated. here, it is said, whilst at his devotions, a slight accident occurred, which nourished a belief in presages in the mind of charles edward. a small piece of the ceiling, ornamented with flowers in fretwork, fell into his lap; it was discovered to be a thistle: soon afterwards, another of these ornaments became detached, and fell also into his lap; this proved to be a rose. such omens, coupled with the star of great magnitude which astronomers asserted to have appeared at his nativity, were, it was thought, not without their effect on the hopes and conduct of the young prince. one can hardly, however, do him so much injustice as to suppose that such could be the case. mr. murray expressed, it is affirmed, a considerable degree of curiosity to see the chevalier and his two sons, who were both highly extolled for their natural gifts and graces; the wish was communicated, and, acting upon the principle of attracting all comers to the court, was soon realised: a page was sent, intimating that mr. murray's attendance would be well received, and he was, by an order from the chevalier, graciously admitted to kiss hands. such was the commencement of that acquaintance which afterwards proved so fatal to the interests of prince charles, and so disgraceful to the cause of the jacobites. such was the introduction of the young prince to the man who subsequently betrayed his companions in misfortune. this step was shortly followed by an intimacy which, probably in the commencement, was grounded upon mutual good-will. men become perfidious by slow degrees; and perform actions, as they advance in life, which they would blush to reflect on in the day-dawn of their honest youth. this account is, however, derived from the statements of an anonymous writer, evidently an apologist for the errors of mr. murray,[ ] and is contradicted so far as the sudden conversion of the young scotchman to the cause of the stuarts, by the fact that he had all his life been a violent jacobite.[ ] on the other hand, it is alleged by mr. murray's champion, that his feelings and affections, rather than his reason, were quickly engaged in the cause of the chevalier, from his opportunities of knowing intimately the personal qualities of the two royal brothers, charles edward and henry benedict. he was, moreover, independent of circumstances; being in the enjoyment of a fortune of three or four hundred a year, which was considered a sufficient independence for a younger brother, and therefore interest, it is alleged, could not have been an inducement to his actions. whether from real admiration, or from a wish to disseminate in scotland a favourable impression of the stuart princes, it is difficult to decide; but mr. murray, in , dispatched to a lady in scotland, who had requested him to describe personages of so great interest to the jacobites, the following, perhaps, not exaggerated portrait of what charles edward was in the days of his youth, and before he had left the mild influence of his father's house. "charles edward, the eldest son of the chevalier de st. george is tall, above the common stature; his limbs are cast in the exact mould, his complexion has in it somewhat of an uncommon delicacy; all his features are perfectly regular, well turned, and his eyes the finest i ever saw; but that which shines most in him, and renders him without exception the most surprisingly handsome person of the age, is the dignity that accompanies his every gesture; there is, indeed, such an unspeakable majesty diffused throughout his whole mien and air, as it is impossible to have any idea of without seeing, and strikes those that do with such an awe, as will not suffer them to look upon him for any time, unless he emboldens them to it by his excessive affability. "thus much, madam, as to the person of this prince. his mind, by all i can judge of it, is no less worthy of admiration; he seems to me, and i find to all who know him, to have all the good nature of the stuart family blended with the spirit of the sobieskys. he is, at least as far as i am capable of seeing into men, equally qualified to preside in peace and war. as for his learning, it is extensive beyond what could be expected from double the number of his years. he speaks most of the european languages with the same ease and fluency as if each of them were the only one he knew; is a perfect master of all the different kinds of latin, understands greek very well, and is not altogether ignorant of hebrew; history and philosophy are his darling entertainments, in both which he is well versed; the _one_ he says will instruct him how to govern _others_, and the _other_ how to govern _himself_, whether in _prosperous_ or _adverse_ fortune. then for his courage, that was sufficiently proved at the siege of gaità, where though scarcely arrived at the age of fifteen, he performed such things as in attempting made his friends and his enemies alike tremble, though for different motives. what he is ordained for, we must leave to the almighty, who alone disposes all; but he appears to be born and endowed for something very extraordinary."[ ] it was not long before mr. murray perceived that, although james stuart had given up all hopes of the english crown for himself, he still cherished a desire of regaining it for his son. scotland was of course the object of all future attempts, according to the old proverb: "he that would england win, must with scotland first begin." the project of an invasion, if not suggested by murray, as has been stated, was soon communicated to him; and his credit attained to such an extent, that he was appointed by the chevalier, at the request of prince charles, to be secretary for scottish affairs. at the latter end of the year he was sent to paris, where he found an emissary of the stuarts, mr. kelly, who was negotiating in their behalf at the court of france. here murray communicated with cardinal tencin, the successor of cardinal fleury, in the management of the affairs of the chevalier, and here he met the exiled marquis of tullibardine, who, notwithstanding his losses and misfortunes in the year , was still sanguine of ultimate success. here, too, was the unfortunate charles radcliffe, who, with others once opulent, once independent, were now forced to submit to receive, with many indignities in the payment, pensions from the french government. it was easy to inflame the minds of persons so situated with false hopes; and murray is said to have been indefatigable in the prosecution of his scheme. after a delay of three weeks in paris, he set off on that memorable undertaking to engage the clans, which ultimately ended in the insurrection of . lord george murray, meantime, had returned to his native country, where he was presented to george the second, and solicited, but ineffectually, a commission in the british army. this was refused, and the ardour in the stuart cause, which we may presume to have wavered, again revived in its original vigour. previous to the insurrection of , lord george murray married amelia, the only surviving child and heiress of james murray of glencarse and strowan, a lady who appears, both from the terms of affection and respect expressed towards her by the marquis of tullibardine, and from the tenour of her own letters, to have coincided warmly in the efforts of her husband for the restoration of the stuarts.[ ] five children were the issue of this marriage. the course which public affairs were now taking checked, however, completely all hopes of domestic felicity. after several unsuccessful negotiations in paris attempted by the agents of james stuart, and in london by lord elcho, the scheme of invasion languished for some time. whilst all was apparently secure, however, the metropolis was the scene of secret cabals and meetings of the jacobites, sometimes at one place, sometimes at another; but unhappily for their cause, the party generally wanted compactness and discretion. "the little jacobites," as those who were not in the secret of these manoeuvres were called, began to flatter themselves that a large army would land in england from france that summer. nor was it the policy of government to check these reports, which strengthened the hands of the ministry, and procured a grant of the supplies with alacrity. the jacobites, meantime, ran from house to house, intoxicated with their anticipated triumphs; and such chance of success as there might be was thus rendered abortive. the year ended, however; and the visions of the jacobites vanished into air. donald cameron of lochiel, the elder, who visited paris for the purpose of ascertaining what were the real intentions of the french cabinet, found that even the cardinal tencin did not think it yet time for the attempt, and he returned to scotland disheartened. the death of the cardinal fleury in added to the discomfiture of his hopes.[ ] above all, the reluctance of the english jacobites to pledge themselves to the same assurances that had been given by the scotch, and their shyness in conversing with the people who were sent from france or scotland on the subject, perplexed the emissaries who arrived in this country, and offered but a faint hope of their assistance from england. but, in the ensuing year, the affairs of the jacobites brightened; france, which had suspended her favours, once more encouraged and flattered the party. a messenger was dispatched to the palace of albano, to acquaint the chevalier that the day was now arrived when his views might be expected to prosper; whilst at the same time the utmost pains were taken by the french government to appear to the english averse to the pretensions of james stuart. it affords, indeed, another trait of the unfortunate tendency of the stuart family to repose a misplaced confidence, that they should have relied on professions so hollow and so vague as those of france. but the dependent and desolate situation of that prince may well be supposed to have blinded a judgment not ripened by any active participation in the general business of life, and narrowed within his little court. besides, there remained some who, after the conflict at culloden was over, could even view the enterprise as having been by no means unauspicious. "upon the whole," writes maxwell of kirkconnel, "the conjuncture seemed favourable; and it is not to be wondered that a young prince, naturally brave, should readily lay hold of it. there was a prospect of recalling his father from an exile nearly as long as his life, saving his country from impending ruin, and restoring both to the enjoyment of their rights."[ ] great preparations were in fact actually made by the french government for the invasion of great britain. the young prince, who was forthwith summoned from rome, was to land in the highlands and head the clans; lord john drummond, it was arranged, should make a descent on the southern part of the island, and endeavour to join the young chevalier, and march towards edinburgh. twelve thousand french were to pour into wales at the same time, under the command of a general who was never named, and to join such english insurgents as should rally to their assistance. this scheme, had it been executed with promptness, might perhaps have prospered better than, in these later times, in the security of an undisturbed succession, we are inclined to allow. general discontents prevailed in england. the partiality which had been shown to the hanoverian troops in preference to the english at the battle of dettingen had irritated, if not alienated, the affections of the army. the king and the duke of cumberland were abroad, and a small number of ships only guarded the coast. parliament was not sitting; and most of the members both of the lords and commons, and of the privy council, were at their country-seats. but the proper moment for the enterprise was lost by delays, and the same opportunity never again occurred. meantime, the young prince who was to influence the destiny of so many brave men, accompanied by his brother, left rome furtively, under pretext of going to hunt at cisterna. a tender affection, cemented by their adversities, existed between james stuart and his sons. as they parted from each other with tears and embracings, the gallant charles edward exclaimed, "i go to claim your right to three crowns: if i fail," he added earnestly, "your next sight of me, sir, shall be in my coffin!" "my son," exclaimed the chevalier, "heaven forbid that all the crowns in the world should rob me of my child!"[ ] mr. murray of broughton was present at this interview; the prelude to disasters and dangers to the ardent young man, and of anxieties and disappointments to his father, feelingly depicted in the chevalier's touching letters to his children.[ ] by a stratagem the young prince effected his journey from rome without its becoming known, and eleven days after his departure from that city elapsed before it was made public. he was accompanied by henry benedict, who was at this time a youth of great promise. he is described as having had, as well as his brother, a very fine person, though somewhat shorter in stature than that ill-fated young man, and of a less delicate complexion. he seems to have been, perhaps, better constituted for the career of difficulty which charles edward encountered. he was of a robust form, with an unusual fire in his eyes. whilst his brother united the different qualities of the stuart and the sobieski, henry benedict is said to have been more entirely actuated by the spirit of his great ancestor, king john of poland; by whom, and the handful of christians whom he headed, a hundred and fifty thousand turks were defeated. even when only nine years of age, the high-spirited boy, whose martial qualities were afterwards subdued beneath the taming influence of a cardinal's hat, resented the refusal of his father to allow him to accompany his brother to assist the young king of naples in the recovery of his dominions; and could only be pacified by the threat of having his garter, the beloved insignia of english knighthood, taken from him as well as his sword.[ ][ ] it soon became evident that the designs of france were not unknown at st. james's. the celebrated chauvelin, secretary of state to louis the fifteenth, had long been employing his influence over the cardinal fleury to counteract the wishes of the english. by a slight accident his designs were disclosed to queen caroline. chauvelin had, unintentionally, among other papers, put into the hands of the earl of waldegrave, then ambassador in france, a letter from the chevalier. lord waldegrave immediately sent it to queen caroline. this involved a long correspondence between sir robert walpole and waldegrave on the subject. "jacobitism," to borrow the language of dr. cox, "at this time produced a tremor through every nerve of government; and the slightest incident that discovered any intercourse between the pretender and france occasioned the most serious apprehensions."[ ] the spirit of insurrection and discontent had long pervaded not only the capital, which was disturbed by frequent tumults, but the country; and the murder of porteous in edinburgh, in , was proved only to be the result of a regular systematic plan of resistance to the government.[ ] the death of queen caroline deprived the oppressed jacobites in both kingdoms of their only friend at court. the unfortunate of all modes of faith met, indeed, with protection and beneficence from that excellent princess. those roman catholics, whose zeal for the stuart cause had exposed them to the rigour of the law, were succoured by her bounty; large sums were sent by her to the indigent and ruined jacobite families; and sir robert walpole, who was greatly disturbed at this show of mercy to the delinquent party, truly exclaimed, "that the jacobites had a ready access to the queen by the backstairs, and that all attempts to suppress them would be ineffectual."[ ] the last efforts of walpole, then lord orford, were exerted to warn the country of the danger to be feared in that second invasion, for prognosticating which he had so often been severely ridiculed. he alluded to "the greatest power in europe, which was setting up a pretender to the throne; the winds alone having hindered an invasion and protected britain." he warned the lords, that the rebellion which he anticipated would be "fought on british ground." the memorable oration in which he unfolded these sentiments, which were delivered with great emotion, touched the heart of frederic prince of wales; who arose, quitted his seat, and, taking lord orford by the hand, expressed his acknowledgments.[ ] that warning was the last effort of one sinking under an excruciating disease, and to whose memory the tragedy of must still have been present. charles edward, to whose ill-omened attempts to sail from dunkirk, walpole had thus alluded, had borne that disastrous endeavour with a fortitude which augured well for his future powers of endurance. mr. maxwell[ ] thus describes his commencement of the voyage. "most of the troops," he says, "were already embarked, when a furious storm dispersed the ships of war, and drove the transports on the coast: the troops already embarked were glad to gain the shore, having lost some of their number. it is hardly possible to conceive a greater disappointment than that which the prince met with on this occasion. how severely soever he might feel it, he did not seem dejected; on the contrary, he was in appearance cheerful and easy; encouraged such of his friends as seemed most deeply affected, telling them providence would furnish him with other occasions of delivering his father's subjects, and making them happy. immediately after this disaster the expedition was given up, and the prince returned to paris, where he lived incognito till he set out for scotland. not long after his return to paris, war was declared betwixt france and england, which gave him fresh hopes that something would be undertaken. but after several months, seeing no appearance, he grew very impatient, and began to think of trying his fortune with such friends as would follow him: he was sick of the obscure way he was in; he thought himself neglected by the court of france, but could not bear the thoughts of returning to rome. he had heard much of the loyalty and bravery of the scotch highlanders; but the number of those clans he could depend upon was too inconsiderable to do anything effectual. while he was thus perplexed and fluctuating, john murray of broughton arrived from scotland." in this emergency, the flattering representations of murray of broughton found a ready response in the young prince's heart. notwithstanding the assertions of that individual in his evidence at lovat's trial, that he had used every means to dissuade the prince from going to scotland,[ ] it is expressly stated by mr. maxwell,[ ] that he "advised the prince, in his own name, to come to scotland at any rate; it was his opinion that the prince should come as well provided and attended as possible, but rather come alone than delay coming; that those who had invited the prince, and promised to join him if he came at the head of four or five thousand regular troops, would do the same if he came without any troops at all; in fine, that he had a very strong party in scotland, and would have a very good chance of succeeding. this was more than enough to determine the prince. the expedition was resolved upon, and murray despatched to scotland with such orders and instructions as were thought proper at that juncture." mr. murray may therefore be considered as in a great measure responsible for the event of that proceeding, which he afterwards denounced as a "desperate undertaking." he found, unhappily, ready instruments in the unfortunate marquis of tullibardine, in mr. radcliffe, and others, whose fate he may thus be considered to have hastened by his alluring representations of the prospects of success. when it was decided that charles edward should throw himself on the loyalty of the clans, and intimation was given of the whole scheme, lord george murray prepared for action. the landing of the prince, the erection of a standard at glenfinnin, the march through lochiel, and the encampment between glengarry and fort augustus, were events which he did not personally aid by his presence. he was, indeed, busily employed in assembling his father's tenantry; and it was not until the prince arrived at perth that lord george murray was presented to him; he was almost immediately created a lieutenant-general in the prince's service. his power in the highlands was, indeed, of a far greater extent than that military rank would seem to imply; for, although the marquis of tullibardine was the nominal commander in the north, to lord george murray was entrusted the actual management of affairs; an arrangement with which the modest and conscientious tullibardine willingly complied. the character of lord george might be considered as partly sobered by time; since, at the commencement of the rebellion of , he was forty years of age. he was in the full vigour, therefore, of his great natural and intellectual powers, which, when at that period of life they have been ripened by exercise and experience, are perhaps at their zenith. the person of lord george was tall and robust; he had the self-denial and energy of his countrymen. he slept little, and entered into every description of detail; he was persevering in everything which he undertook; he was vigilant, active, and diligent. to these qualities he united a natural genius for military operations; and his powers were such, that it was justly thought, that, had he been well instructed in military tactics, he would have formed one of the ablest generals of the day. as it was, the retreat from derby, ill-advised as it may be deemed, is said to have sufficiently manifested his skill as a commander. in addition to these attributes, lord george was brave to the highest degree; and, in all engagements, was always the first to rush sword in hand into danger. as he advanced to the charge, and looked round upon the highlanders, whose character he well understood, it was his practice to say, "i do not ask you, my lads, to go before; but only to follow me."[ ] it cannot be a matter of surprise, that, with this bold and resolute spirit, lord george was the darling of the highland soldiers; and that his strong influence over their minds should have enabled him to obviate, in some measure, the deficiencies of discipline. "taking them," as a contemporary writer asserts, "merely as they came from the plough, he made them perform prodigies of valour against english armies, always greatly superior in number to that of the prince charles edward, although the english troops are allowed to be the best in europe." thus endowed, lord george murray showed how feeble are the advantages of birth, compared with those of nature's gift. in rank, if not in family connections, and in an hereditary hold upon the affections of his countrymen, the duke of perth might be esteemed superior; but, brave and honourable as he was, that amiable nobleman could never obtain the confidence of the army as a general. it is not, however, to be supposed that any commander would ever have obtained an influence over a highland army, if he had not added high birth to his other requisites. the clansmen were especially aristocratic in their notions; and the names which they had honoured and loved from their birth, were alone those to which they would eagerly respond. to counterbalance the fine, soldierly characteristics which graced the lofty and heroic lord george murray, some defects, of too stern a nature to be called weaknesses, but yet indicative of narrowness of mind, clouded his excellent qualities. unlike most great men, he was not open to conviction. that noble candour, which can bear counsels, or receive even admonition with gratitude, was not a part of his haughty nature. a sense of superiority over every human being rendered him impatient of the slightest controul, and greedy of exclusive power. he was imperious and determined; and was deficient in the courtesy which forms, combined with honesty, so fine an attribute in a soldier's bearing. "he wanted," says one who knew him well, "the sole ordering of everything."[ ] at perth, lord george murray met with the famous chevalier johnstone, whom he soon adopted into his service. this young soldier, whose pen has supplied memoirs of the rebellion of , and upon whose statements much of the reported merits of lord george murray rests, was the only son of a merchant in edinburgh, and the descendant of an ancient and well-connected family. by the marriage of his sister he was nearly related to the house of rollo; and, from these and other circumstances, he mingled with the best society in his native city. having been educated in jacobite and episcopalian principles, young johnstone hailed with delight the arrival of prince charles: he resolved instantly to join his standard. escaping from edinburgh, he hastened to duncrub, the seat of lord rollo, near perth. here he awaited the arrival of the young chevalier; and here he was introduced by his cousins, the daughters of lord rollo, to the duke of perth and to lord george murray. the chevalier johnstone was one of the first low-countrymen that joined the standard of charles edward. lord george murray very soon discovered that the requisites for forming a good soldier and an active partizan were centred in young johnstone. for the former he was qualified by an open and impetuous character, generally combined with a desperate courage. the jollity and licence of the cavalier school, which characterized johnstone, did not materially detract from, but added rather to the popularity of his character. as a partizan, he has proved his zeal by his memoirs, which afford a sample of much heat and prejudice, and which have, in upholding lord george murray, done an injury to the memory of charles edward, of which the adversaries of his cause have not failed to take advantage. to many errors of character, and to some egotism, the chevalier johnstone, as he came to be called in after-life, united a kind heart and an enthusiastic disposition. he acted for a considerable time as aide-de-camp to lord george murray, and afterwards in the same capacity with the prince. but his liveliest admiration appears to have been directed towards the general who has been classed with montrose and dundee,[ ] and no subsequent service under other masters ever effaced his impression of respect and confidence to lord george murray. after the battle of preston-pans johnstone received a captain's commission from the prince: and, exhausted with his duties as aide-de-camp, he formed a company, with which he joined the duke of perth's regiment. his history, mingled up as it is with that of the general under whom he first served, must necessarily be incorporated with the following narrative. lord george murray continued, for some time, busily engaged in rallying around him his brother's vassals. the duke of atholl is partly proprietor, partly superior, of the country which bears his name. that region is inhabited by stuarts and robinsons, none of the duke's name living upon his estates. of these, several have fiefs or mortgages of the atholl family, and command the common people of their respective clans; but, like other highlanders, they believe that they are bound to rise in arms when the chief of their whole clan requires it. the vassals on the atholl territory were well-affected to the stuarts, great pains having been taken by the father of lord george murray, notwithstanding his efforts to appear loyal to the government, to infuse the spirit of jacobitism among them.[ ] of the events which succeeded his joining the prince's standard at perth, until the commencement of the retreat from derby, lord george murray has left a succinct relation. it is written, as are his letters, in a plain, free, manly style, which dispels all doubt as to the sincerity of the narrator. "i joined the standard at perth,"[ ] he begins, "the day his royal highness arrived there. as i had formerly known something of a highland army, the first thing i did was to advise the prince to endeavour to get proper people for provisors and commissaries, for otherwise there would be no keeping the men together, and they would straggle through the whole country upon their marches if it was left to themselves to find provisions; which, beside the inconveniency of irregular marches, and much time lost, great abuses would be committed, which, above all things, we were to avoid. i got many of the men to make small knapsacks of sacking before we left perth, to carry a peck of meal each upon occasion; and i caused take as many threepenny loaves there as would be three days' bread to our small army, which was carried in carts. i sent about a thousand of these knapsacks to crieff, to meet the men who were coming from atholl." the difficulties which lord george encountered were, it is evident, considerable. upon the arrival of charles edward at perth, his army amounted only to two thousand men,[ ] until he was joined by lord george murray, by the duke of perth, and by lord nairn, and other persons of distinction.[ ] there were few persons in that army who were capable, by being versed in military affairs, of giving lord george murray any advice or assistance. the highland chiefs possessed the most heroic courage; but they knew no other manoeuvre but that of rushing, sword in hand, upon an enemy. the irish officers were equally deficient in experience and knowledge; and, with the exception of mr. sullivan, are stated "to have had no more knowledge than the whole stock of subalterns, namely, the knowing how to mount and quit guard." such is the description given of the collected forces by johnstone. but, although not trained as regular soldiers, and accustomed chiefly to the care of herds of black cattle, whom they wandered after in the mountains, the highlanders had a discipline of their own. their chiefs usually kept about them several retainers experienced in the use of arms; and a meeting of two or three gentlemen was sure to bring together a little army, for the habits of the clansmen were essentially military. it was, some considered, a circumstance favourable to lord george murray, that, being unprepared by an early military education, he was unfettered by its formal rules, and therefore was more calculated to lead an undisciplined army of highlanders, whose native energies he knew how to direct better than a skilful tactician would have ventured to do.[ ] during his stay at perth, the highlanders, so prone to irregularities when not in active service, were tranquil under the strictest military rule.[ ] it was here, however, that the first seeds of dissension were sown between charles edward and lord george. sir thomas sheridan, the tutor of the prince, who was allowed to "have lived and died a man of honour," but who was manifestly incapable of the great charge intrusted to him, both in the education of the young princes and as their adviser in after-life, added to his other deficiencies a total ignorance of the british constitution and habits of thinking. the prince, of course, was equally ill-informed. they were therefore in the practice, in conversation, of espousing sentiments of arbitrary power, which were equally impolitic and unbecoming. sincere and shrewd, lord george murray lost no time in expressing to charles edward his decided disapproval of this tone of discourse. his motives in these expostulations were excellent, but his overbearing manner nullified all the good that might have been effected. he offended the prince, who repressed indeed his secret indignation, but whose pride, fostered by circumstances, could ill brook the assumption of his general.[ ] it was not until the prince reached edinburgh that a regular council was formed; consisting of the duke of perth, lord george murray, lord elcho, secretary murray, sir thomas sheridan, and mr. sullivan, the highland chiefs, and afterwards of all the colonels in the army. but, among the advisers of the prince, an "ill-timed emulation," as mr. maxwell calls it, now crept in, and bred great dissension and animosities. "the dissensions," he states, "began at edinburgh:" according to sir walter scott, they had an earlier origin, and originated at perth. they were aggravated, as in the council at perth in the time of lord mar, by the base passions of an individual. detesting the weak and crooked policy of mar and viewing from his calm position as an inferior actor, with a fiendish pleasure, the embarrassments and mistakes of him whom he hated, stood the master of sinclair. blinded by a selfish jealousy of power over the mind of him whom he afterwards betrayed to the ruin which he was working, and "aiming at nothing less than the sole direction and management of everything, the secretary murray sacrificed to this evil passion, this thirst for ascendancy, all the hopes of prosperity to charles edward--all present peace to the harassed and perplexed young man whom his counsels had brought to scotland. it was he," strongly, and perhaps bitterly, writes mr. maxwell, "that had engaged the prince to make this attempt upon so slight a foundation, and the wonderful success that had hitherto attended it was placed to his account." by some the sincerity of murray's loyalty and good-faith were even credited. the duke of perth, among a few others, judged of murray's heart by his own, went readily into all his schemes, and confirmed the prince in the opinion which he had imbibed of his favourite. after kelly had left the prince, murray contrived to gain over sullivan and sir thomas sheridan, and by that means effectually governed charles edward. the fearless, lofty, honest character of lord george murray alone offered an obstacle to the efforts of the secretary to obtain, for his own purposes, an entire controul; he cherished towards the general that aversion which a mean and servile nature ever feels to one whose dealings are free from fraud or deceit. he also feared him as a rival, and it became his aim to undermine him, and to lay a plot for the chief stay and prop of the undertaking. it was naturally to be supposed that lord george murray's age, his high birth, his experience and influence, and his great capacity, would have given him an advantage over his dastardly rival, and have gained the first consideration with the prince. but murray of broughton, unhappily, had acquired an early influence over the credulous mind of the young adventurer. his acquaintance beneath the roof of the santi apostoli had secured an unhappy confidence in his fidelity and worth. he shortly took advantage of the sentiments which ought to have ensured the nicest honour, the most scrupulous truth, in return, to deceive and to mislead his young master.[ ] unfortunately there was one point upon which the honour of lord george murray was to be suspected. he "_was said_" to have solicited a commission in the english army.[ ] upon this supposed early defection of lord george to the hanoverian party, murray grounded his accusations. "he began by representing lord george as a traitor to the prince; he assured him that he had joined on purpose to have an opportunity of delivering him up to government. it was hardly possible to guard against this imposture. the prince had the highest opinion of his secretary's integrity, and knew little of lord george murray. so the calumny had its full effect. lord george soon came to know the suspicion the prince had of him, and was affected, as one may easily imagine; to be sure, nothing could be more shocking to a man of honour, and one that was now for the third time venturing his life and fortune for the royal cause. the prince was partly undeceived by lord george's gallant behaviour at the battle; and, had lord george improved that opportunity, he might perhaps have gained the prince's favour, and get the better of the secretary: but his haughty and overbearing manner prevented a thorough reconciliation, and seconded the malicious insinuations of his rival." another anecdote is related, on the authority of murray of broughton: on the tenth of october the chevalier issued a manifesto, dated from holyrood house. this document is acknowledged, even by the opposite party, to have been remarkably well written:[ ] but it was not completed without some heart-burnings, arising from the distrust of many members of the kirk, who conceived that it did not contain assurances for the security of their manner of divine worship. a grand council was therefore held, concerning the alterations which were necessary to conciliate the good opinion of the presbyterians. mr. kelly, who had drawn up the manifesto, was very tenacious of his performance; but the majority of those who were present were of opinion that the manifesto would prosper better if a promise of putting the penal laws against papists into effect were added to it. upon this proposition the young chevalier was observed to change countenance, doubtless reflecting that it would be ungrateful to depress those who had been such real friends to his father. he had, however, the prudence to say but little, and to maintain a neutral position during the debate, which was carried on with much bitterness on both sides of the question. it is remarkable that the duke of perth, sullivan, and o'neil, who were all papists, voted for the addition; whilst many who were of the reformed church opposed it. amongst these was lord george murray, who, starting up and turning to charles edward, exclaimed, with an oath, "sir, if you permit this article to be inserted, you will lose five hundred thousand friends;" meaning that there were that number of papists in england. on this, the prince arose from his chair and withdrew, offended, as it was thought, by the vehemence and overbearing advice of lord george. as he left the room, he said, "i will have it decided by a majority." but the freedom with which he had been treated appears to have rankled in his mind. the additional clause was negatived, and the manifesto remained in the same state as when it came from mr. kelly's hands.[ ] there were, indeed, times when lord george endeavoured to retrieve mistakes of which he was conscious, and upon some occasions he subdued his lofty temper so far as to be "very obsequious and respectful, but had not temper to go through with it." "he now and then broke into such violent sallies as the prince could not digest, though the situation of his affairs forced him to bear with them.[ ] the secretary's station and favour had attached to him such as were confident of success, and had nothing in view but making their fortunes. nevertheless, lord george had greater weight and influence in the council, and generally brought the majority over to his opinion; which so irritated the ambitious secretary, that he endeavoured to give the prince a bad impression of the council itself, and engaged to lay it entirely aside." it was not only in regard to lord george murray that the influence of the secretary was prejudicial to the prince's interests; neither was lord george the only person whom he dreaded as a rival. having access to the most intimate communication with charles edward, he abused the youth and inexperience of the ill-fated man to inspire him with a distrust of many gentlemen of good family and of integrity, whose fidelity he contrived to whisper away. all employments were filled up at the secretary's nomination; and he contrived to bestow them upon his own creatures, who would never thwart his measures. hence it followed that places of trust were bestowed on "insignificant little fellows," while there were abundance of gentlemen of merit who might have been of great use, had they met with the confidence of their prince. "those that murray had thus placed," continues mr. maxwell, "seconded his dirty little views; and it was their interest, too, to keep their betters at a distance from the prince's person and acquaintance." until a very short time before charles edward left perth, he appears to have felt the most unqualified admiration for the highland character, which he had carefully studied.[ ] he thus expressed himself to his father: "i have occasion every day to reflect on your majesty's last words to me,--that i should find power, if tempered with justice and clemency, an easy thing to myself, and not grievous to those under me. 'tis owing to the observance of this rule, and to my conformity to the customs of these people, that i have got their hearts, to a degree not easy to be conceived by those who do not see it. one who observes the discipline which i have established, would take my little army to be a body of picked veterans; and, to see the love and harmony that reigns amongst us, he would be apt to look upon it as a large well-ordered family, in which every one loves another better than himself." he even applauded the rude climate of scotland. "i keep my health better in these wild mountains than i used to do in the campagna felice; and sleep sounder, lying on the ground, than i used to do in the palaces at rome." in this happy temper the prince set out on his march from perth to edinburgh. the march was made in the most perfect good order, and the strictest discipline prevented any depredations. as the insurgent army passed by stirling, the standard of the chevalier was saluted by some shot from the castle. nevertheless, lord george murray sent into the town, and the gates were opened; and bread, cheese, and butter sent out to sell, near to bannockburn, where the army halted. on the seventeenth of september the city of edinburgh was taken. in the description of the courtly scenes of holyrood, it does not appear that lord george murray took any conspicuous part. his sphere was the council-room, or the camp, or the battle-field; and of his proceedings in these different occupations he has left a very particular account, written with the same manly spirit and fearless tone which he displayed in ordinary life. when the prince's council had received accounts of sir john cope's landing at dunbar, they left edinburgh and lay upon their arms at duddingstone, and on the twentieth marched to meet the enemy. lord george commanded the van, and, whilst passing the south side of pinkie gardens, he heard that cope was at or near preston, and that he would probably gain the high ground at fawside. there was no time to deliberate or to wait for orders. well acquainted with the ground, lord george struck off through the fields, without keeping to any road. he went without being even preceded by the usual escort to choose the ground where to halt. in less than half an hour, by marching quickly, he gained the eminence; he slackened his pace and waited for the rear, still proceeding slowly towards tranent, always fronting the enemy. general cope's army was drawn up on the plain between preston grange and tranent, with deep broad ditches between them. after much reconnoitring and some firing, on the part of the enemy, from these ditches, at the highlanders, who they thought had never seen cannon, and would therefore be intimidated, the english army was drawn up on the east side of the village of tranent, where, on a dry stubble-field, with a small rising in front to shelter them, they lay down to repose in rank and file. "it was now night," writes lord george murray;[ ] "and when all the principal officers were called together, i proposed the attacking the enemy at break of day. i assured them that it was not only practicable, but that it would, in all probability, be attended with success. i told them i knew the ground myself, and had a gentleman or two with me who knew every part thereabouts: there was indeed a small defile at the east end of the ditches, but, once that was past, there would be no stop; and though we should be long on our march, yet, when the whole line was past the defile, they had nothing to do but to face to the left, and in a moment the whole was formed, and then to attack. the prince was highly pleased with the proposal, as indeed the whole officers were; so, after placing a few pickets, everybody lay down at their posts; and supped upon what they had with them. at midnight the principal officers were called again, and all was ordered as was at first proposed. word was sent to the atholl brigade to come off their post at two in the morning, and not to make the least noise." before four in the morning the army began to march, and an arrangement of the first line, which had been previously agreed upon, was now put into execution. those who had had the right the day before, were to have the rear and the left; and this alteration was made without the least noise or confusion. the duke of perth therefore went into the front, lord george giving up his guides to him. no horse marched at that time, for fear of being discovered. when the army had advanced within a hundred paces of the ditches, they marched on to the attack, lord george calling on cameron of lochiel to incline to the left. as the enemy discovered their approach, the noise of the cannon announced that the engagement had begun. notwithstanding that lord george murray's regiment was the last to pass the defile towards the enemy, it was the first to fire. "our whole first line," writes the gallant soldier, "broke through the enemy. some of them were rallying behind us; but when they saw our second line coming up, they then made the best of their way." lord george pursued the enemy to the walls of bankton house, the residence of colonel gardiner; and here a party of the enemy got over the ditch, and fired at the highland foe. this little company, brave as it was, was composed of only fourteen men, headed by a lieutenant-colonel. "i got before a hundred of our men," writes lord george, "who had their guns presented to fire upon them, and at my desire they kept up their fire, so that those officers and soldiers surrendered themselves prisoners; and nothing gave me more pleasure that day than having it in my power to save those men, as well as several others." this declaration was perhaps necessary, to rescue the memory of lord george from the opprobrium of cruelty; since it has been asserted, that at the battle of culloden he issued orders to give no quarter, and that such a document to that effect, in the handwriting of lord george, was in the possession of the duke of cumberland.[ ] this stigma on the fame of lord george murray may have originated from the desperate character of that last effort: his haughty temper may have been exasperated in the course of the fatal contest. it is a charge which can now only be repelled by the previous character of the individual against whom it is made, since it was never fairly made out, nor satisfactorily contradicted. after the action was partially over, lord george murray perceived that a number of people were gathered together on the height near to tranent. mistaking them for the enemy, the general marched with his regiment, accompanied by lochiel, who had kept his men together in good order, back to the narrow causeway that led up to tranent. here he found that the supposed enemy were only country-people and servants. from them, however, he learned that the enemy were at cokenny, only a mile and a half distant; and he instantly determined on pursuing them. his energy and valour in thus doing so, after the events of that harassing and exhausting day, cannot but be admired. he found on arriving at cokenny, a force of about three hundred highlanders, a volunteer company recently embodied at inverness by president forbes. these soon surrendered; between sixteen and seventeen hundred prisoners were taken that day, among whom were seventy officers.[ ] "his royal highness," adds lord george murray in giving this his personal narrative, "took the same care of their wounded as of his own. i do not mention the behaviour of all our officers and men that day; their actions shewed it. i only take notice of those two that were immediately under my eye, which was lochiel's regiment and the stewarts of appin." as the enemy's foot-soldiers had made little or no resistance during the battle of preston-pans, they might have been all cut to pieces had it not been for the interposition of prince charles and his officers, who gained that day as much honour by their humanity as by their bravery. the prince, when the rout began, mounted his horse, galloped all over the field, and his voice was heard amid that scene of horror, calling on his men to spare the lives of his enemies, "whom he no longer looked upon as such." far from being elated with the victory, which was considered as complete, the care of the kind-hearted and calumniated young man was directed to assist the wounded. owing to his exertions, eighty-three of the officers were saved, besides hundreds of soldiers. "the prince," writes mr. maxwell, "had a livelier sense of other people's misfortunes than of his own good-fortune." this spirit of humanity was extended to the two lieutenants-general. the conduct of the duke of perth was ever consistent with his mild character. on that occasion, at all events, lord george participated in the noble clemency which usually characterized the jacobites. "in the evening," he writes,[ ] "i went with the officer prisoners to a house in musselburgh that was allotted for them. those who were worst wounded were left at colonel gardiner's house, where surgeons attended them; the others walked, as i did, along with them without a guard (as they had given me their parole); and to some, who were not able to walk, i gave my own horses. it was a new-finished house that was got for them, where there was neither table, bed, chair, nor chimney grate. i caused buy some new-thrashed straw, and had by good-fortune as much cold provisions and liquor of my own as made a tolerable meal to them all; and when i was going to retire, they entreated me not to leave them; for, as they had no guard, they were afraid that some of the highlanders, who had got liquor, might come in upon them and insult or plunder them." beside these suffering men lord george lay on a floor all night, having given up the minister's house in musselburgh, which had been destined as his quarters, to those who were valetudinary. on the following day those officers who were tolerably well were removed to pinkie house, where prince charles was staying. lord george then returned to the field of battle, to give directions about the cannon, and to see about the other wounded prisoners. he afterwards repaired to pinkie house, the gardens of which were thronged that night with the prisoners, privates, to whom provisions were sent; "and the night before," as lord george relates, "i got some of their own provisions carried from cokenny to colonel gardiner's courts and gardens for their use. in these things i ever laid it down as a maxim, to do by others as i would wish they would do by me, had i been in their place, and they in mine." such is the spirit in which the unfortunate were regarded by the victors of that day; and these two accounts, that of lord george murray and that of maxwell of kirkconnel, written without any mutual compact, and at different times, and even in different countries, disprove the following gross and improbable statement of henderson's of that which occurred after the day at preston was fought and won. according to his account, professedly that of an eye-witness, the conduct of the young chevalier (who, he acknowledges, had, by the advice of the duke of perth, sent to edinburgh for surgeons,) was, in the highest degree, unfeeling and indecent. he stood by the road-side, his horse near him, "with his armour of tin, which resembled a woman's stays, affixed to the saddle; he was on foot, clad as an ordinary captain, in a coarse plaid, and large blue bonnet, a scarlet waistcoat with a narrow plain lace about it; his boots and knees were much dirtied (the effect of his having fallen into a ditch, as i afterwards understood); he was exceeding merry, and twice said, 'my highlanders have lost their plaids,' at which he laughed very heartily, being in no way affected when speaking of the dead or wounded. nor would his jollity have been interrupted, if he had not looked upon seven standards that had been taken from the dragoons; on which he said, in french, (a language he frequently spoke in,) 'we have missed some of them.' after this, he refreshed himself upon the field, and, with the utmost composure, ate a piece of cold beef and drank a glass of wine, amidst the deep and piercing groans of the poor men who had fallen victims to his ambition."[ ] after this flippant and hard-hearted conduct, as it is described, the prince is said to have ridden off to pinkie house, leaving the bulk of the wounded on the field that day, to be brought in carts to edinburgh. "few," he says, "recovered; and those who did, went begging through the streets, their heads tied about with bandages, but obtaining no relief from their conquerors. the property of the prisoners, the fine linen of the officers, their gold and silver hilted swords, their watches and rings, were worn by the lowest among the soldiery almost before their eyes."[ ] the battle of preston, which was magnified by lord lovat as a "glorious victory not to be paralleled in history," although not meriting such extravagant remarks, produced the most important consequences to the jacobite cause. among not the least important was the acquisition of all the arms of the whole body of foot, and even of the volunteers. these went to supply the recruits whom the marquis of tullibardine and others were sending daily to the camp. no enemy was left in the field to oppose the progress of charles edward's victorious troops.[ ] when, having, as the chevalier johnstone asserts, escaped from the field of battle by placing a white cockade on his head, cope arrived at coldstream with his troops in great disorder, he was greeted by lord mark ker, one of a family who had long had hereditary claims to wit as well as courage, with the bitter remark, that "he believed he was the first general in europe that had brought tidings of his own defeat." "the prince," writes maxwell of kirkconnel, "was now, properly speaking, master of scotland." the militia, which had been raised in some parts of scotland for the service of government, was dismissed; and the chevalier's orders were obeyed in many places far from his army. these advantages were, however, rather glaring than solid and permanent. after the battle of preston, it became a serious and important question what step was to be taken. it was the prince's earnest desire to push the advantages thus gained by an immediate invasion of england, before the hanoverians had time to recover from their surprise. but this spirited and, as the event proved, sagacious opinion was objected to on the score of the smallness of the forces, and the probability of an accession of strength before marching southwards. lastly, the fatal hope of aid from france, that _ignis fatuus_ which had misled the jacobite party before, and on which it was their misfortune to depend, was adduced as an argument. the prince yielded to his counsellors, and consented to remain some time in edinburgh. upon this decision lord george murray offers no opinion. the castle of edinburgh remained still unsubdued; and the prince, upon his return to that city, resolved on blockading the fortress. this was a very unpopular step, but charles had no alternative; since it was of vital importance to reduce a place of so great strength and consequence. accordingly a proclamation was issued, forbidding, under pain of death, that any provisions should be sent up to the castle; and the management of this blockade was entrusted to lord george murray.[ ] this able general now proposed to place guards in such a manner as should prevent the garrison in the castle marching out to surprise him, but his exertions were baffled by the want of judgment and incompetency of those beneath him in command. the guard was placed near the weigh-house at the foot of the castle-rock, so that the battery of the half-moon, as it was termed, near the castle-gate, bore upon it, and many of the guard within would have perished upon the first firing. this was not the only mistake. mr. o'sullivan, one of prince charles's officers, one day placed a small guard near the west kirk, which was not only exposed to the enemy's fire, but conveniently situated near the sally-port, whence the besieged might issue and take the party there prisoners; for no relief could be sent to them in less than two hours' time, owing to its being necessary to pass round the whole circumference of the castle to arrive at that point. "i never," says lord george murray, "knew of that guard's being placed there, until they were taken prisoners." so severe a service was this blockade, that it was found necessary to relieve the guards, which were thus placed, by different corps who could not know the risk which they encountered. desertions from the jacobite army were among the most formidable evils with which lord george had to contend. it was therefore important not to discourage the soldiery. in the midst of difficulty the high-minded cameron of lochiel came forward to offer his own person, and to risk his own regiment in this service. he agreed to take all the guards, and to relieve them with the soldiers of his own regiment, who were quartered for that purpose in the outer parliament house. "i was with him," writes lord george,[ ] "when the guards were relieved, and the men did their duty exceedingly, especially when there was danger; and, when the fire was hottest from the castle, they kept their post with much resolution and bravery. lochiel and i being much with them, gave them a heartiness that hindered them from complaining of a duty which was so hard, and which the rest of the army had not in their turns. we even placed new guards to keep the castle from sallying, as they seemed disposed; and keppoch's regiment was brought into town to take some of the guards and support them. i lay in town for some nights, and was constantly visiting the guards and sentinels." the castle, nevertheless, seated on the precipitous rocks, which, steep as they are, have yet been "scaled by love and ambition,"[ ] defied the blockaders. the highlanders continued to keep guard in the weigh-house, and, stationing themselves in the grass-market, the smithfield as well as the hay-market of edinburgh, lying on the south side of the castle-hill, awaited there the proceedings of the enemy. on the twenty-ninth of september, a letter was sent to the provost of edinburgh by general guest, intimating, that, unless a communication were kept up between the city and the castle, he should be under the necessity of using cannon to dislodge the highlanders. it was said that guest had an order from the government, signed by the marquis of tweedale, empowering him to lay the city in ashes if the citizens did not remove the highlanders from their quarters. a message was dispatched from the provost to general guest obtaining a respite for that night; but, meantime, the utmost consternation prevailed in the town. twelve o'clock at night was the hour fixed upon for the execution of this threat of the enemy; and, although many who reasoned did not believe in the existence of the order, the lower classes were seized with a panic, and the streets were crowded with women and children running towards the gates, and with people removing their property to more secure quarters. when the clocks struck twelve, the hour fixed in general guest's message, the noise of the cannon was heard firing upon the principal streets; but the highlanders were all under shelter, and only a few poor inhabitants were injured. nothing was heard except imprecations on that government which had issued so cruel an order, since it was quite out of the power of the citizens to dislodge the highlanders from their quarters. but the firing was soon intermitted; and whether the garrison had private orders only to threaten, or whether they found it impossible to execute so barbarous an order, is unknown. they spared the city generally, and only directed their fire to any place where they fancied that they saw a highlander. on the following morning a deputation of citizens waited on the chevalier, and showed him general guest's letter. he immediately replied, that he was surprised and concerned at the barbarity of the order, but that if, out of compassion for the city, he were to remove his guards, the castle might with equal reason summon him to quit the town, and abandon all the advantages of which he was possessed. a respite of a day was afterwards obtained; and subsequently for six days, in case the highlanders would abstain from firing at the castle; and a dispatch to london was sent to obtain a mitigation of the order in council. meantime, on the first of october, the highlanders fired; whether at some people who were carrying provisions to the castle, or at the castle itself, is uncertain. reprisals were instantly made by a heavy cannonading and small shot. the firing continued for some days, bringing terror to the hearts of those who lived remote from the scene of danger; whilst the aged and infirm were carried out of that noble city, thus threatened with destruction. sir walter scott observes, that the generation of his own time alone can remember edinburgh in peace, undisturbed by civil commotion. the fathers of that generation remembered the days of --_their_ fathers the disturbances of . the fathers of those who had witnessed the rebellion of could remember the revolution of . the merciful temper of the young chevalier saved the city of edinburgh. at first he resolved to continue the blockade; and he renewed his former orders, prohibiting any person from going to the castle without a pass from his secretary, and threatening any one who was disobedient to this proclamation with instant death. but, when he beheld the distress to which the firing had already reduced the city,--then, let it be remembered, comprised within boundaries of very moderate extent,--he issued another proclamation, expressing his deep concern for the many murders which were committed upon the innocent inhabitants of the city, so contrary to the laws of war, to the truce granted to the city, and even exceeding the powers given. his humanity had, therefore, yielded to the barbarity of his enemy; the blockade of the castle was taken off, and the threatened punishment suspended.[ ] the army of charles edward was now increasing daily; and, in consequence of the reports which were circulated in the metropolis, a panic spread there, of which no estimate can be made without consulting the newspapers of that time. among other writers who employed their talents in inveighing against the cause of james stuart, was the celebrated henry fielding, whose papers in the _true patriot_ upon the subject present a curious insight into those transient states of public feeling, which perished almost as soon as expressed. the rapidity of the progress made by the insurgents is declared by his powerful pen to have been unprecedented. "can history," he writes, "produce an instance parallel to this,--of six or seven men landing in a powerful nation, in opposition to the inclination of the people, in defiance of a vast and mighty army? (for, though the greater part of this army was not then in the kingdom, it was so nearly within call, that every man of them might, within the compass of a few days, or weeks at farthest, have been brought home and landed in any part of it.) if we consider, i say, this handful of men landing in the most desolate corner, among a set of poor, naked, hungry, disarmed slaves, abiding there with impunity till they had, as it were, in the face of a large body of his majesty's troops collected a kind of army, or rather rabble, together, it will be extremely difficult to assign any adequate cause whatsoever, for this unexampled success, without recurring to one, of whose great efficacy we have frequent instances in sacred history: i mean, the just judgment of god against an offending people." the state of public morals, fielding considers, to have drawn down upon society this signal visitation of providence. "indeed, such monstrous impieties and iniquities have i both seen and heard of, within these last three years, during my sojourning in what is called the world, particularly the last winter, while i tarried in the great city, that, while i verily believe we are the silliest people under heaven in every other light, we are wiser than sodom in wickedness."[ ] the consternation of the sister kingdom had now, indeed, become general; on the slightest report of foreign ships being seen in the downs, the dismay of the london citizens was extreme: and such was the liberality, or such were the fears of the inhabitants of the county of york, the capital of which may almost have been deemed, in those days, a northern metropolis, that forty thousand pounds were subscribed for its defence, after a grave and mournful address of the archbishop of that diocese.[ ] when the prince had determined to take off the blockade, and indeed had actually resolved to evacuate edinburgh and to march southwards, he sent orders to lord george murray to nail the cannon upon the city walls, and to retire to musselburgh and dalkeith. but the sagacious lord george, apprehending no further cannonading from the castle, begged permission not to make a precipitate retreat, and obtained leave to continue three weeks longer in edinburgh, during which time the town remained in a much quieter state than it had been heretofore. whilst lord george murray was quartered in edinburgh, he communicated frequently with his wife, the lady emilia, who remained with her children at tullibardine. that lady seems to have taken a deep interest in the events which so deeply concerned her family. she was the first to communicate to the marquis of tullibardine the intelligence of the victory of preston-pans. "i pray god," she says in her postscript, "to prosper his royal highness's arms, and congratulate your grace upon his happy success." a gentleman, who had seen her husband after the battle, had brought to the anxious wife the tidings of his success. towards the end of october the prince resolved to march into england, without waiting any longer for the landing of french auxiliaries, or even for the arrival of the friendly clans of frasers and mackintoshes, who were ready to march from the north to join charles edward. by some of the chevalier's advisers he was recommended to go to berwick; but this was a scheme counteracted by the counsels of lord george murray, who, in the presence of the principal officers, represented it as "a thing at least of great difficulty, and of not so great use as to lose time, which is precious." lord george therefore proposed marching into england by the other road; but, to conceal their design, he advised that the army should be divided into three columns; one to go by kelso, the second by moffat, and a third by galashiels, selkirk, and hawick; so that all the columns should join on an appointed day near carlisle. the plan was approved; and, the secret being very well kept, on the thirty-first of october the army prepared to march.[ ] it is remarkable, that, during the whole period of their stay in edinburgh, no general review of the jacobite forces had taken place. the consequent uncertainty of what was really the amount of those forces, which existed in england, fostered the general panic. "abundance of people," writes mr. maxwell, "friends as well as enemies, had made it their business to find out the number of the prince's army, but to no purpose. great pains had been taken to conceal its weakness."[ ] in order to conceal the design upon england, a scheme was formed, allowing three days to elapse between the marching of the two great divisions of the army; and accordingly the prince, attended by lord george murray, took up his abode at the palace of dalkeith, and here he remained until the third of november. in this princely abode the young representative of the stuart line may have remembered the adverse fortunes of queen mary, and the bold character of the regent morton, to whom the castle of dalkeith belonged, when it had acquired from the character of its owner the name of the "lion's den." after the death of morton, the barony of dalkeith was included in the attainder; and the castle had been considered, during many years, as public property, and was inhabited by general monk during the usurpation of cromwell. but, long before charles edward made it his temporary residence, dalkeith had been repaired and beautified by anne duchess of buccleugh and monmouth, the widow of the unfortunate duke of monmouth. it was, as it is now, an appropriate residence for royalty. the more ancient part of the building has, it is true, lost its castellated appearance; but the beautiful site on the steep banks of the eske, and the thickness of the walls, are still proofs of former strength and great importance, to which the contiguity of dalkeith to edinburgh conduce; whilst the junction of the north and south esk in the park add to the beauties of this noble demesne. the chevalier johnstone was still aide-de-camp to lord george murray, and remained to accompany the general on his march. among those with whom the exertions of lord george were frequently united was mr. o'sullivan, an irish officer, and the object of charles edward's partiality and confidence, and he was a man of considerable abilities. having received his education in a romish college abroad, o'sullivan had originally entered into priest's orders. it was his lot to be recommended as a tutor to the son of marshal maillebois, who, perceiving in the young ecclesiastic proofs of a genius better adapted to the use of the sword than to the gravity of the gown, encouraged him to apply himself to the profession of arms. there were not wanting in those days opportunities of cultivating a military turn, and corsica was the scene of mr. o'sullivan's first exploits. here he acted as secretary to marshal villebois; an office of no slight responsibility, for the marshal was tainted with the prevalent vice of the day, and scarcely ever left the dinner-table in a state fit for public business. o'sullivan, therefore, in the course of those oppressions which the french inflicted on the inhabitants of corsica, acquired not only great experience in business, but also in military affairs; as well as knowledge in what is termed the art of making irregular war. to this acquirement he afterwards added another; for, having served a campaign on the rhine, it was said by a french general, under whom he fought, that his knowledge of the regular art of war was equal to that of any general in europe. to his abilities were attributed much of the rapid success of those whom it was the fashion of the newspapers of the day to describe as "a handful of savages," but whom the loungers about the english court soon learned to dread.[ ] it is now necessary, before entering into details of fresh operations, to review the proceedings of lord george murray during the last few weeks, and to give some notion how he exercised the functions of his generalship. his chief sources of annoyance, besides the intrigues in the prince's council, were the deserters from the jacobite army. before leaving edinburgh, lord george murray had despatched a number of prisoners to logierait; and the following letter shows how rigid were the instructions which he peremptorily sent to his brother, the marquis of tullibardine, at perth. the correspondence of lord george murray proves him to have been a man of a stern, hard nature; and effaces much of the impression produced by his united valour and clemency in the field of battle. "dear brother, "things vary so much from time to time that i can say nothing certain as yet, but refer you to the enclosed letter; but depend upon having nothing express from me with you before monday night. but, in the mean time, you must resolve to be ready to march on tuesday morning, by keinacan and tay bridge, so as to be at crieff on wednesday; and even that way, if you do your best, you will be half a march behind: but you will be able to make up that on thursday, when i reckon we may meet at dunblane or doun: but of this more fully in my next. it is believed for certain that cope will embark at aberdeen. "i hope the meal was with you before this--thirty-five bolls--for it was at inuar last night. it shall be my study to have more meal with you on monday night, for you must distribute a peck a man; and, cost what it will, there must be pocks to each man, to contain a peck or two for the men to have always with them. buy linen, yarn, or anything; for these pocks are of absolute necessity--nothing can be done without them. his royal highness desires you to acquaint glenmoriston and glencoe, if they come your way, of this intended march, so that they may go by tay bridge (if you please, with you); and what meal you can spare, let them have. you may please tell your own people that there is a project to get arms for them. "yours, adieu! "george murray." "saturday, nine at night." "for god's sake!" he adds in another part of his letter, "cause some effectual measures to be taken about the deserters: i would have their houses and crops destroyed, for an example to others, and themselves punished in a most rigorous manner." another source of anxiety was connected with the prisoners of war. it was difficult to know how to dispose of them. the island in the loch of clunie, not far from dunkeld, was afterwards considered by the marquis as the most suitable place for the reception of the prisoners; and was conceded by lady ogilvy, the daughter of lord airlie, for that purpose, in her father's absence. in a letter addressed by tullibardine to the earl of airlie, to whom the loch of clunie belonged, a spirit of kindness and consideration is shown, very different to the stern mandates of lord george murray. "i presume," writes the marquis, "your lor'ship will not only cheerfully make everything be carefully prepared for their reception, but also contribute what's possible to prevent any dangerous mutiny or escape among them." although describing these prisoners as a "troublesome and dangerous set of people," he recommends no harsh measures, except precautionary vigilance.[ ] beef, mutton, and meal were provided and paid for by the marquis, who, ultimately, was obliged to quarter a considerable number of the prisoners in barns and other outhouses near logierait. this charge appears to have been very unwelcome to the good old tullibardine, who talks to his sister in law, lady emilia murray, of "ane unworthy pack of prisoners that is sent us."[ ] meantime, the want of money for the supply of the garrison at perth was another source of uneasiness to lord george murray. many disappointments, on this score, occurred. "i told you," lord george writes to his brother, "that some gentlemen had promised to his royal highness some money in loan, more besides what they already gave; but it is to their ladies you will please to write, as they appear to do the thing, and not the husbands."[ ] "i have been as pressing," he says in another letter to the marquis, "about money to be sent to you, both formerly and now, as if my life depended upon it. there is three hundred pounds sent at present, mostly in specie. you are desired to write to people in the country to advance money, particularly to lady methven; which if they do not immediately, their corn and other effects will be seized."[ ] previously to his march southwards, prince charles appointed viscount strathallan governor, and deputy governor of perth, and commander-in-chief during the absence of the marquis of tullibardine, whom lord george murray now summoned to join him, considering that the addition of the marquis's tenantry to the army was of the utmost importance. "i am extremely anxious," he writes, "to have our men here, at least as many as would make lord nairn's battalion, and mine, five hundred each; for at present i could get them supply'd with guns, targets, tents, and, those who want them, shoes also: but if they be not here soon, them that come first, will be first serv'd." these directions were reiterated, and were also repeated by the pen of lady emilia murray, to whom her lord sent immediate accounts of all that occurred. this spirited and indefatigable help-meet resided generally at tullibardine. "these," she writes, "were his words, 'i entreat, for god's sake, that the duke of atholl send off the men here immediately, or they will be too late for arms, targets, tents, &c.; nay, for our march, which begins on thursday." all this haste and impetuosity was meekly but decidedly resisted by the slow marquis of tullibardine. he thus writes in reply to one of his brother's most urgent entreaties: "about ten o'clock in the afternoon i received your express, dated the fourth, four o'clock, afternoon, and am very much concerned to find that it is morally impossible for me, or any of the men in these parts, to be up with you against thursday night, the day you say it is resolved, in a council of war, to march southward. did any of us endeavour to make too much haste to join the prince, i am afraid we should be like a good milk cow, that gives a great pail of milk, and after, kicks it down with her foot. forgive the comparison."[ ] other apprehensions also increased the desire of lord george to begin his march. "i am desired to let you know," he writes to the marquis of tullibardine, "that there is one kimber, an anabaptist, who came from london with a design to assassinate the prince; he is about twenty-seven years old, black hair, of a middling stature, and talks fluently and bluntly about his travels in the west indies." this man, it was suspected, afterwards changed his name to geffreys. he was supposed to have even been received by the marquis of tullibardine at his table, and to have obtained a pass from him; but nothing more was disclosed, as far as the correspondence informs us, touching this attempt. lord george continued in a fever of vexation and anxiety at the delay of his brother, upon whose arrival at the camp, the march to england was to begin. public affairs in england favoured, as he justly thought, the most decisive measures. "everything," he writes to his brother, "is in great confusion in england, particularly in london, where credite is at a stand. the greatest banquiers have stopt payment; all would go to our wish, if we could but march instantly. if you delay longer," lord george adds, "it will be the utter ruine of the cause. you should wait for nobody but your own men." the arrival of supplies from france, of arms and ammunition, though they were represented as being very inferior in quantity to what had been expected, gave encouragement to the hopes of the sanguine; and re-assured in some degree, even the anxious mind of lord george murray. before finally quitting perth, the marquis of tullibardine received a compliment from the gentlemen prisoners of war there, which proved how soldierlike and courteous his conduct towards them had been. they inquired whether he would have morning levees, since they wished "to wait upon him." to this the marquis replied, with his thanks, that, although not fond of ceremonious visits, he would always be "glad to cultivate an acquaintance with gentlemen whose actions show they are true britons, by standing up for and supporting the ancient constitution and liberties of well-born subjects, whose honour is engaged to shake off the slavery of a foreign yoke."[ ] notwithstanding all the remonstrances of lord george, who had reiterated his entreaties during the whole of the month of october, the winter was far advanced before the marquis left his castle of blair to proceed southwards.[ ] on the thirty-first of october, a considerable force took the road to duddingstone, a small village at the foot of arthur's seat; presenting, before the highland army poured in upon its serene precincts, a scene of repose and quiet beauty, finely contrasted with the clamour of the city, and the grandeur of the rugged hill. foremost rode lord elcho, commanding the first troop of horse-guards, consisting of sixty-two gentlemen, and their servants, under five officers, forming altogether a troop of a hundred and twenty horse. a smaller troop, not amounting to more than forty horse, followed under the command of arthur elphinstone, afterwards lord balmerino. then came a little squadron of horse grenadiers, with whom were incorporated the perthshire gentlemen, in the absence of their own commander, lord strathallan, who was left governor of perth. the whole of this squadron did not amount to a hundred. it was commanded by william earl of kilmarnock, the representative of an ancient and noble family, which, as an historian remarks, "sometimes matched with the blood-royal." "he was," adds the same writer, "in the flower of his age, being about forty years old. the elegance of his person, and comeliness of his features, which were every way handsome, bespake internal beauties."[ ] it is remarkable, that, at this very time, the young lord boyd, lord kilmarnock's son, held a commission in the british army and fought against the jacobites. the aberdeen and bamffshire gentlemen, amounting with their servants to a hundred and twenty, with seventy or eighty hussars, were commanded by lord pitsligo; but mr. murray, "who would have a share at least of everything," was their colonel.[ ] the infantry consisted of thirteen little battalions, for the highlanders would not be commanded by any but their own chiefs; and it was necessary therefore to have as many regiments as there were clans. on the third of november, the prince marched from dalkeith on foot, at the head of the clans, who were commanded under him by lord george murray. the acclamations of the people of edinburgh, who flocked in crowds to witness the departure of the army, were loud and friendly. yet it is remarkable, that in spite of his long residence in that city, in spite of his hereditary claims on its inhabitants, and of the popularity of his manners, the party of the prince in that capital never increased in proportion to his expectations. this indifference to the cause of charles edward has with much reason been attributed to the strong and unalterable distrust entertained by all zealous presbyterians of any approach to popery: the firmness of the scottish character to a principle may be plainly read in the reluctance of the lowlanders to hazard, even for a stuart, the safety of what they esteem to be their vital interests.[ ] it was, however, a fine, although a mournful sight, when the clans taking the road to london left dalkeith. it was indeed only after long and anxious deliberation, that these brave men had resolved to risk an advance to england, without any certain expectation of a rising in that country; yet there were many among the chiefs who went forth that day, and among these were some of the bravest and the most determined who "trusted in themselves alone."[ ] among those who were declared secretly to have desponded of success, and yet to have gone on in the career from a sense of honour, was lord george murray. the march to england was very judiciously planned and well executed. "it resembled," observes the chevalier johnstone, "on a small scale, that of marshal saxe some years before, when he advanced to lay siege to maestricht." the prince went day after day on foot, contrary to general expectation; for it was thought that he would only have done so at the beginning to encourage the soldiers: but in dirty lanes, and in deep snow, the youth reared in seclusion and luxury took his chance with the common men, and could scarcely ever be prevailed upon even to get on horseback to ford a river. "it's not to be imagined," writes his affectionate partisan and historian maxwell, "how much this manner of bringing himself down to a level with the men, and his affable behaviour to the meanest of them, endeared him to the army."[ ] on arriving at lauder, hearing that some of the highlanders had remained behind with a view, it was thought, of deserting, charles got on horseback before it was light, rode back two or three miles, and brought the stragglers with him.[ ] on the fourth instant he reached kelso. such was the success of this well-contrived march, and such the secrecy with which it was made, that marshal wade, who was at newcastle with eleven thousand men, continued to cover and protect that place, without an idea of advancing to intercept the highland troops. indeed, the secret was so well kept, that hardly any subordinate officer in the prince's service knew where the junction of the columns was intended to take place.[ ] arduous as the prince's march had been to kelso, it was enlivened by some incidents in which the stern and haughty lord george murray must have participated, as well as the gallant young chevalier. on passing through preston hall gate, the first morning of his march, the prince found breakfast there prepared for him by order of the duchess of gordon, for which act that lady was deprived of a yearly pension of one thousand pounds, given to her in consideration of her grace's having educated her family in the protestant religion.[ ] as he passed fala danes, the ladies of whitborough, who were the sisters of a zealous adherent of the prince, robert anderson, entertained charles and his chief officers with a collation in the open air. the royal guest, being asked to leave some memorial of his visit, cut from the hilt of his sword a piece of crimson velvet, which is still preserved at whitborough. at lauder, charles took up his abode in hurlestane castle, the seat of the earl of lauderdale. from kelso, charles dispatched the guards across the tweed; not so much to reconnoitre, as to amuse the enemy: they went some miles into the country, and, when they came to any english villages, made inquiries as to what reception and accommodation the army might meet with on arriving there. the object of this manoeuvre was to keep general wade in suspense as to the movements of the army, and to prevent his marching towards carlisle. such was the success of these artifices, that wade, who had decided on a march to berwick, countermanded that order. on the sixth of november the jacobite forces crossed the tweed: that river was scarcely fordable; but the highlanders were elated beyond measure, and, even when bathed in the water, expressed their delight by discharging their pieces and uttering cries of joy. such was their humour, that they gave the horses which were taken from the enemy the name of general cope, by way of expressing their contempt for the fugitive englishman. amid indications of homage, especially from the women of the town of jedburgh, who ran forth to kiss the young hero's hand, charles entered jedburgh, and took up his residence at an inn in the centre of the town, called the nag's head. on the following day he led his troops over the rule water, famous for the warriors of old who dwelt near its banks; and over the knot o' gate into liddiesdale, "noted in former times for its predatory hands, as in more recent times for its primitive yeomen and romantic minstrelsy."[ ] after a march of twenty-five miles, the prince arrived at haggiehaugh, upon liddel water; here he slept, the highlanders finding their quarters for the night as well as they could in barns, or byres, or houses, as their fortune might be. on the eighth of november charles edward, proceeding down the liddel water, met the column of horse which had taken the middle road by selkirk and hawick. they joined him at gritmill green upon the banks of the esk, four miles below langholm. shortly afterwards the first division of the prince's army crossed the river, which here separates the two kingdoms, as the tweed does at berwick, and trod upon english ground. that event was signalized by a loud shout, whilst the highlanders unsheathed their swords. but soon a general panic was spread among the soldiery, by the intelligence that cameron of lochiel, in drawing his sword, had drawn blood from his hand.[ ] this was regarded as an omen of mournful import. what was of much more vital consequence was the incessant desertion of the troops, especially from the column which the prince commanded. arms were afterwards found flung away in the fields, and the roads to lanarkshire and stirlingshire were crowded with these renegades. this circumstance lord george murray accounted for in these terms, when, upon a subsequent occasion, he wrote to his brother, complaining of the fact: "we are quite affronted with the scandalous desertion of our men: it was the taking money instead of the best men, which is the occasion of all the evil; for good men, once coming out, would have been piqued in honour, and not deserted us on the point of fighting the enemy."[ ] such was the skill and secrecy with which the whole of this march had been planned, chiefly by the suggestions of lord george murray, that the forces were very much surprised on finding that all the three columns arrived nearly at the same time, on a heath in england, about two miles distant from the city of carlisle. the plan was executed with such precision, that there was not an interval of two hours between the junction of the columns.[ ] it was now resolved to invest carlisle. few cities in england have been the scenes of more momentous events than that which was now the object of the chevalier's efforts. long the centre of border hostilities, it was the fate of carlisle to be at once the witness of the insurrection of , and the scene of punishment of those who were concerned in that movement. in modern times, the importance of carlisle as a fortress has inevitably declined; and it is at present regarded as a venerable relic of former strength, rather than as a place of defence. but, in ancient days, the warden of the marches, selected from among the nobles of tried fidelity and courage, attracted to the castle of carlisle a host of youthful aspirants for military renown, who there sought to be trained to arms, amid contests not depending upon a single achievement, but requiring watchfulness, patient labour, and skill, slowly and painfully to be acquired. founded by william rufus, who restored the city after it had lain two hundred years in ruins, owing to the depredations of the danes; and improved and enlarged successively by richard the third and henry the eighth; the castle had received the unhappy mary stuart: and here she was treated with an insidious respect which soon threw off the mask. in the time of queen elizabeth, the citadel, which was entirely built by henry the eighth, fell into decay; and after the prohibition of all incursions on england on the part of king james the sixth, carlisle ceased to be of so much importance as a military possession; and its position, as one of the keys of england, did not avail to secure any great attention to its dilapidated state. at the time of charles edward's arrival in cumberland, the fortifications of the city had been neglected for several centuries; but it still bore the outward aspect of former strength. the works, which had thus been left to moulder away, were in the form of a triangle, and were separated from the town by a deep ditch. upon the east angle, which is also cut off from the parade by a ditch, is seated the castle, properly so called, though the whole generally goes by that name. these works consist of a dungeon, the walls of which are twelve feet in thickness; a tower, called the captain's tower; two gates, one to each ward; there being an inward and an outward ward. in the castle there is a great chamber, and a hall, but no storehouse for ammunition. in the walls of the town, three gateway towers, a semi-circular bastion called springeld tower, and the citadel, complete the fortifications: unless we comprise several square towers with which the city walls are furnished; especially one at the west sally-port, and the tile tower, both of considerable strength.[ ] the foreground of the castle is formed of green and level meadows washed by the river eden; and, in modern days, two fine stone bridges add to the beauty of the scene. the hanging banks are crowned with the village and church of stanwix, and the mountains of bewcastle form the distance. "to the south," to use the words of hutchinson in his history of cumberland, "you command the plains towards penrith, shut in on either side with a vast range of mountains, over which crossfell and skiddaw are distinctly seen greatly eminent. to the east a varied tract of cultivated country, scattered over with villages and hamlets, mingle beautifully with woodlands on the extensive landscape; the distant horizon formed by the heights of northumberland. to the west, the solway frith sparkles out, a shining expanse of waters, flowing along a cultivated tract of land on the english coast; on the other, the bold heights of weffel and a chain of mountains extend towards the sea."[ ] when charles edward spread out his forces before carlisle, the garrison within its mouldering walls was composed of a company of invalids, under the command of colonel durand; but the cumberland militia were almost all collected within the city walls. colonel durand, however, as well as the mayor of the place, showed a spirit of defence; and the latter issued a proclamation informing the inhabitants that he was not paterson, a scotchman, but pattieson, a true-born englishman, who was determined to hold out the city to the last. since charles had no battering cannon, it appeared impossible to reduce the castle if it were well-defended; but it was resolved to make the attempt. whilst he was meditating an attack, the news that wade's army was marching from newcastle drew him for some days from continuing these operations. the report proved, however, to be groundless; and the duke of perth was sent, therefore, with several regiments to begin the siege. the jacobite army had all crossed the river eden at rowcliff, four miles below carlisle; and next day they marched to harraby, blackhall, and boutcherby, to the southward of carlisle. at harraby lord george murray remained, in order to cover the siege; that place being most contiguous to carlisle, and on the highway to penrith: the other troops under his command lay in the adjoining villages. the duke of perth had the direction of the trenches. it was here that an event occurred, which shortly afterwards excited the greatest discontent among the followers of charles edward.[ ] the attack upon the city was made from stanwix bank; the marquis of tullibardine, who had at length joined the insurgent army, with his tenantry, assisting the duke of perth. as it was market-day on the ninth, when the jacobites made their appearance within a quarter of a mile of carlisle, the highland soldiers were mingled with the market-people returning home, so that the garrison dared not fire upon them. on the following day, the city was attacked in three places; but the marquis of tullibardine, who commanded a four-gun battery, planted at the entrance of a lane, was heard to say to his followers, "gentlemen, we have not metal for them; retreat." after three days' attack, however, the courage of mr. pattieson, and the strength of the garrison, gave way. the valiant mayor forgot his english birth so far as to hang out a white flag, and to request a capitulation for the town. the garrison and townsmen of carlisle, in the opinion of the writers of the day, merited no more credit than that of edinburgh, in their defence and capitulation. in the siege, the highland army had only one man killed, and another wounded; and the reduction of carlisle gave great, but not lasting, lustre to their arms. on entering carlisle, lord george murray is said, in the newspapers of the day, to have encountered an old friend, who asked him how he could be so rash as to lend himself to the aid of a hopeless and futile invasion. to this lord george is declared to have replied, that he was well aware that the cause was hopeless; but that, having once engaged to maintain it, honour compelled him to continue his exertions.[ ] it was not, however, long before those fatal dissensions appeared which effectually defeated all that valour or fidelity could effect to save charles edward from defeat. it was, perhaps, the well-earned popularity of the duke of perth, his forbearance, and the gratitude evinced towards him by the inhabitants of carlisle, as he rode triumphantly through their city, that first roused the jealousy of lord george murray's proud nature. the disinterested conduct of the duke of perth, as soon as he became informed of the sentiments entertained towards him by lord george murray, was worthy of himself. that brave and excellent young man modestly withdrew from a rivalry which, he justly concluded, must be injurious to the cause of that prince whose interests he had espoused; for few men could cope with the natural abilities, the force of character, and the experience of lord george. he was by far the most able general that appeared in either of the two insurrections in the cause of the stuarts. "his personal hardihood and bravery," remarks lord mahon, "might be rivalled by many others; but none could vie with him in planning a campaign, providing against disasters, or improving victory." whilst the jacobite forces lay encamped near carlisle, certain differences of opinion arose in the council. there were some who had even thought that it would be desirable, before investing carlisle, to return to scotland to collect a greater force. lord george murray, seconded by the duke of perth, had opposed this cautious proposal; and recommended that part of the army should stay at brampton, and the rest go to blockade carlisle. the duke of perth had seconded this scheme, and it had accordingly been decided that lord george should command the blockade, whilst the duke conducted the battery. the result has been seen; and the prince was now master of carlisle. a few days after he had taken possession of the town, a council of war was called, to consider what was next to be done. some of the officers proposed returning to scotland; others were in favour of encamping near carlisle, and waiting to see whether there would be any rising in england. others advised marching forwards, by the west of england; arguing, that having carlisle, happen what might, they had a safe retreat. charles edward declared himself to be of the last-mentioned opinion, and his inclinations were seconded by lord george to a certain extent. he stated the advantages and disadvantages of both propositions; but added, that, although he could not venture to advise the prince to march into england without more encouragement than they had hitherto received, yet he was persuaded that if his royal highness marched south, his army, though but small, would follow him. upon this, charles immediately said these words, "i will venture it." "i spoke," adds lord george, "with the more caution, since some things had happened about the time of the blockade of carlisle, and a little before, which had made me desirous to serve only as a volunteer, and not as a general officer; but, as all the other officers were very pressing with me, i soon laid that thought aside."[ ] what those circumstances were, lord george explains in the following letter to his brother. his difficulties, owing to the want of arrangements, such as his skill and experience might have suggested, had he been first in command, appear to have been sufficiently trying. yet, in the extract from a letter dated nov. , from harraby, lord george does ample justice to the exertions of the duke of perth. this epistle was written whilst the blockade and battery were going on. "i am sorry to find that it is impossible to go on so quick with the battery of cannon as would have been wished. by the report of those i sent there, the ground is marshy, and vastly too much exposed; and, notwithstanding all the pains taken by the duke of perth, who is indefatigable in that service, and who meets with innumerable difficulties, i suspect the place pitched upon will not answer. but, if the thing be prosecuted, i think it my duty to tell you, so as you may represent it to his royal highness, that the men posted upon the blockade of carlisle will not expose themselves, either in trenches, or all night in the open air, within cannon-shot, or even musket-shot of the town, except it be in their turn with the rest of the army, and that it be decided by lot who is to mount the guard, first night, second, and so on. the way i would propose, if it be approved of by a council of war, is as follows:--that fifty men be draughted out of each of the battalions that are at brampton, with proper officers, and at least two majors out of the six battalions, and be sent to quarter at butcherby, which, i believe, is within a mile of the battery; and, as i suppose, one hundred and fifty men will mount guard at the battery. these six battalions will furnish two guards; your men will furnish one, general gordon and lord ogilvie's one, which, in the whole, makes four guards, or reliefs; and i think, by that time, the town will be either taken or the blockade removed. i don't mention the duke of perth's regiment, because they have more than their turn of the duty already, besides furnishing workmen, &c. and for colonel roy stuart's regiments, i suppose they have the guard of the equipage, &c.; and they will, perhaps, be able to furnish some workmen. if anything be done of this nature, the sooner i hear of it the better. i ever am, dear brother, your most affectionate brother, and faithful humble servant, "george murray."[ ] this advice was disregarded. a court-martial was held to consider of the plan suggested by lord george. by this council the detachments proposed by lord george for the relief of the battery were refused, upon the plea that those corps had lately encountered all the fatigue of the blockade at edinburgh, and that it would not be fair to put them again upon that service. on the day after receiving this decision, in the hand-writing of secretary murray, lord george addressed the following letter to the prince. his conduct upon this occasion shows the proud and fiery spirit of this able commander. " th november, . "sir, "i cannot but observe how little my advice as a general officer has any weight with your royal highness, ever since i had the honour of a commission from your hands. i therefore take leave to give up my commission. but as i ever had a firm attachment to the royal family, and in particular to the king my master, i shall go on as a volunteer, and design to be this night in the trenches as such, with any others that will please to follow me, though i own i think there are full few on this post already. your royal highness will please order whom you think fit to command on this post, and the other parts of the blockade. i have the honour to be, sir, your royal highness's most faithful and most humble servant, (signed) "george murray.[ ] "lord elcho has the command till you please to appoint it otherwise." to his brother, the marquis of tullibardine, lord george wrote still more fully. in this letter, after informing the marquis that he had given up his commission of lieutenant-general, lord george complains of a want of confidence on the part of the prince, in regard to the terms which were to be accepted or rejected in the surrender of carlisle. touching these, charles edward, who was now almost completely under the controul of secretary murray, acted in a weak and vacillating manner. when pressed by lord george murray to give him full instructions, he hesitated; lord george entreated him, if he could not decide during his presence in the camp, that the prince would send instructions after him.[ ] "when he would not come to any fixed resolution before i came away, i begged his royal highness would send his intentions and instructions after me, that i might conduct myself by them; but his secretary told me plainly, he took that matter to be his province, as he seems indeed to take everything upon him both as to civil and military. there are many other things which have determined me to wish to have no command; and it is some time past since i observed things must go into utter confusion. i shall show, as a volunteer, that no man wishes more success to the cause; and i can be of more use charging in the first rank of your atholl men than as a general, where i was constantly at a loss to know what was doing. i am of opinion you should reduce your men to two battalions; one for lord nairn, the other mr. mercer. when you are quartered anywhere, if you have a hole to spare, i shall be as often with you as i can; at other times, i shall lye with the men in a barn, which i doubt not will hearten them much. in every thing, as a volunteer, i shall do all i can to advance the service; but am determined never to act as an officer. i have several things to say at meeting. if you have occasion for tent or horses, they are at your service, for i design to keep none, but make presents of them all. "adieu! yours, george murray." "haroby, th nov. ." * * * * * not only were the seeds of disunion thus sown between the prince and the generals, but also between the marquis of tullibardine and lord george murray. "i did expect," writes lord george to the marquis, "that you would have upon occasion stood my friend; but i find you are too apt to hearken to designing people, by your being so ready to blame me before i was heard; and, except you show some regard for me, how can i expect it of others? i told his royal highness that you had acquainted me that he desired to see me. he said, no, he had nothing particular to say to me. i told him i should be as ready to serve in a private station, and as a volunteer, in the first rank of your men, as ever i could be in any other. he said i might do so. nothing else passed. i spoke a good time to sir thomas sheridan, and told him in particular, that if anything was taken amiss in my letter, as having expressed my attachment to the king, without having mentioned his royal highness, it was very injurious to me; for having mentioned the king and royal family, (and designing my letter to be short,) i thought it needless to be more particular; for surely, next to the king, i would serve none on earth before his royal highness: which, after what i have shown, and all my actions since i joined the standard, could not be called in question. i mentioned several particulars, wherein i showed that i had no authority in the station i was in, and that others acted as general who had not any call, but used his royal highness's name. that in the drudgery, i was employed, but anything of moment was done without my participation. that, in short, i had ventured my all--life, fortune, family--every thing, my honour; which last i had some to lose, but none to gain, in the way things were managed, and therefore resolved upon a private station."[ ] the concluding paragraph of this painful letter is written with a force and bitterness which show how deeply this ardent servant of a failing cause was wounded by what he justly deemed unmerited caprice and disrespect. "i wish you would be careful of the atholl men, that they be not slighted; which never should have happened as long as i had any command. i find scarce any of them have got even thanks for venturing life and fortune, and even the gallows; and, which is worse, (i don't know how it is come about,) they are not thought equally good with other men. if you would send me the notes, that were made out, of the way of modelling them into two different regiments, i would do, now that i have time to do it, as much as possible for the good of the service and general comfort. i always am, dear brother, your most faithful and humble servant and affectionate brother, "george murray."[ ] "haroby, th nov. ." * * * * * there was also another source of complaint, which, though appearing on the surface to have originated with the duke of perth, was clearly traceable to the prince, or rather to his adviser, secretary murray. a marked slight had been passed on lord george murray on the very night on which the battery on carlisle was opened. he had gone into the trenches; and, seeing the duke of perth there, he had desired him, in case of anything extraordinary happening, to let him know, and that he would aid him by every means in his power. what private orders the duke had was not known; but, far from applying to lord george for aid or counsel, he sent to brampton, seven miles' distance, whenever any difficulty occurred, and acquainted the prince with it, but took no notice of lord george, although he was an older officer than himself, and had been sent to harroby to cover the siege. upon this, lord george, who thought he was entitled to know what had passed in the trenches, complained, but received no satisfactory answer: and thus aggrieved, and, as he conceived, insulted, he sent that letter to the prince, which has justly been censured as making an invidious distinction between the young chevalier and his father.[ ] these acts of indiscretion and intemperance were followed by another proceeding still less worthy of the soldier and the man of honour: lord george murray indeed lowered himself, when, at the same time that he wrote to the prince, he set on foot a petition praying charles that he would dismiss all roman catholics from his councils. this was aimed at the duke of perth and sir thomas sheridan; nor can we assign to it any better motive than that it was intended to re-instate lord george murray in the command. some allowance may, nevertheless, be made for the prejudices of a presbyterian, acting on the determined and overbearing nature of a high-spirited man. but the vital principles of our christian faith tend to soften animosities, to humble pride, and to accord to others the same intention to act rightly as that of which we ourselves are prone to boast. a sincere, a truly pious member of the christian church cannot be an intolerant partizan of certain modes of faith. there dwells within his breast a deeper sentiment than that which is inspired by the worldly and sublunary distinctions of sect. and lord george murray, seeing his young and blameless rival, the duke of perth, brave, honourable, and moderate, had shown greater zeal for true religion had he not availed himself of an unworthy plea to base upon it an invidious and covert insinuation. he was reproved by the magnanimity of the man whom he desired to remove from the prince's councils. although the duke of perth did not profess to acquiesce in the opinion that it was unreasonable that he should have the chief command, although he did not pretend to acknowledge the justice of the claim, he nobly gave up, for the sake of a prince whom he loved, the superiority to lord george murray. his conduct on this occasion recalls the generous sentiments of the knight and soldier in ancient times; unhappily it failed in producing that unanimity which it was intended to effect. the rancour between lord george murray and the secretary still remained, although it did not break out on every occasion, and sometimes gave way to the common cause when the interests of all were at stake.[ ] at carlisle the forces were reviewed and were found to amount to above five thousand foot, with five hundred[ ] on horseback, mostly low-country gentlemen followed by their servants, under the name of guards, hussars, &c.[ ] after a few days rest, and after completing every arrangement for the preservation of carlisle, the army marched to penrith; lord george preceding the rest of the forces at the head of six regiments and some horse. this was an adventurous undertaking with so small a force; for there were now in england above sixty thousand men in arms including the militia and the newly raised regiments; but the prince, observes mr. maxwell, "had hitherto had a wonderful run of success." he was still buoyed up with hopes of a landing of french troops, and of an insurrection in his favour.[ ] on the twenty-fourth of november the prince marched from carlisle to penrith, and thence to lancaster, which he reached on the twenty-fifth, at the head of the vanguard of his army. he was dressed in a light plaid belt, with a blue sash, a blue bonnet on his head, decorated with a white rose, the sound of the bagpipes, and the drum playing "the king shall have his own again;" the banners, on which were inscribed the words "liberty and property, church and king," failed, nevertheless, to inspire the cold spectators who beheld them with a corresponding enthusiasm. the army advanced towards preston, lord george murray commanding the van; and on the twenty-sixth of november, the whole force assembled before that town, the very name of which struck terror into scottish breasts. nor were the english jacobites without their fears, nor devoid of associations with the name of a place in which the hopes of their party had been blighted in , and their banners steeped in blood. the walls of preston recalled to many of the volunteers of lancashire the prison in which their fathers had died of fever, or starvation, or of broken hearts. it is remarkable, as one of the newspapers of the day observes, that many of those who joined the chevalier's ranks were the sons of former insurgents. "hanging," adds the coarse party writer, "is hereditary in some families."[ ] lord george murray, in order to avoid the "freit," or, in other words, to humour the superstition of the highlanders, who had a notion that they never should get beyond preston, crossed the ribble bridge, and landed a great many of his men on the other side of the water, about a mile from the town, where they halted the next day, waiting for some intelligence, of which it is presumed, says lockhart, "they were disappointed." here it was necessary to divide even this little army for the convenience of quarters.[ ] at preston the prince was received with enthusiastic cheers, but when officers were ordered to beat up for recruits, no one enlisted. the tents which had been provided had been left on the road from moffat to edinburgh; and the season was so severe, that it was impossible even for highlanders to sleep in them; the town was too small to receive them; the same arrangement that had been begun at carlisle was still pursued, and the army went in two great divisions, though with scarcely a day's march between them. lord george murray commanded what was called the low-country regiments; but the greater part of these was, observes mr. maxwell, "highlanders by their language, and all were in their dress, for the highland garb was the uniform of the whole army." one can easily conceive what must have been the effect of this gallant force, unbroken by fatigue or privation, and glorying in their enterprise, as they entered into the friendly county of lancaster, filled with roman catholic gentry, who gathered around the standard of the prince. the colours of the tartan, which was worn, as we have seen, by the whole of the army, both highlanders and lowlanders, although denominated by a writer in the _scots' magazine_ as a "vulgar glare," never offend the eye, but are, according to a high authority, "beautifully blended and arranged." "great art," observed the celebrated mr. west, "(that is to say, much knowledge of the principles of colouring with pleasing effect,) has been displayed in the composition of the tartans of several clans, regarding them in general as specimens of national taste, something analogous to the affecting but artless strains of the native music of scotland." this garb, which excited the attention and admiration of napoleon at the battle of waterloo, consisted of the truis, the kilted plaid, and philibeg. the truis, be it observed, for the benefit of the dwellers in the south, were used by gentlemen on horseback, and by others according to their choice; but the common garb of the people was the plaid and kilt; and this was the usual dress down to the passing of the act for suppressing the garb. the tartan is said to have been known in flanders; and the tartan and kilt to have been adopted in the lowlands before their adoption among the mountains.[ ] without attempting to meddle in the dangerous and intricate question of antiquity, it must be acknowledged that the highland dress is well adapted to the habits of a pastoral people, as well as being extremely graceful and picturesque. it is also admirably fitted to oppose the inclemency of those regions in which, among the other habits which characterise the peculiar people who wear it, it is still regarded as a loved and revered badge of national distinction. in the various campaigns in holland, the highlanders suffered far less than other nations in that damp and chilly climate; in the retreat to corunna, under the hero sir john moore, their plaids bound lightly round their bodies, they experienced the convenience of that simple form of dress in a rapid and protracted march. light and free, the mountaineer could pursue, without restraint, the most laborious occupations; he could traverse the glens, or ascend mountains which offer a hopeless aspect to the inhabitants of more civilized spheres. but it was not only as a convenient and durable mode of apparel that the kilt and philibeg were advantageous. the highland costume, when it formed a feature among english or foreign regiments, cemented a spirit which was felt and feared by foes. it bound those who wore it in a common bond, not to dishonour the garb which their chiefs and their forefathers had worn, by an act of cowardice, or by deeds of cruelty.[ ] little did the english government, or the inhabitants of the metropolis, or probably the country in general, know the character of the brave, ill-fated band of highlanders, who were now advancing into the very heart of the country. it was the custom, especially among those who wished to gain preferment at court, or who affected to be fashionable, to speak of the highlanders as low, ignorant savages; semi-barbarians, to whom the vulgar qualities of personal courage and hardihood might be allowed, but who had neither any urbanity to strangers, nor refined notions of honour. the word "rebel," was a mild name for those who were following prince charles's standard as it was borne southwards. the hardened villains, "the desperadoes, rabble, thieves, banditti!"[ ] are the terms usually employed in expressing the sovereign contempt felt by ignorance for an honourable, religious, and primitive people. it seems also to have been thought only necessary for the duke of cumberland to show his face in the north, to put to flight a beggarly handful of undisciplined men, whose moral character, if we might credit certain passages in the magazines of the day, was as low as their military acquirements. by other nations besides their own sister country, the same erroneous notions concerning the scottish highlanders prevailed. in germany it was conceded that they might be capable of becoming "good and useful subjects when converted from heathenism." the french, too, presumed to look upon them with contempt, until they met them, when acting as auxiliaries to other powers, so often in battle, and beheld them so generally in the front, that they verily believed at last, there were twelve battalions in the army instead of two; and one of their generals, broglio, in after times remarked, that "he had often wished to be a man of six feet high, but that he became reconciled to his size after he saw the wonders performed by the little mountaineers."[ ] it is scarcely now necessary to allude to these errors at that time prevalent regarding the valour of the scottish host. tributes from every known country have long elevated this brave and oppressed people into a proud and honourable position. instead, however, of the undisciplined savages who were supposed to be traversing the country, it was sooner found than acknowledged, that the intrepidity of the highlanders was united to humanity, and to upright principles. to their noble qualities was added a deep sense of religion. in after-times it was remarked, that no trait in the character of the highlanders was more remarkable than the respect which was paid by the different regiments which were eventually employed in the british service, to their chaplains. the men when they got into any little scrape were far more anxious, writes general stuart, "to conceal it from their chaplain than from their commanding officer." but, however the public prints might revile, and the polite society at st. james's ridicule, and misunderstand the highlanders, the general whose lot it was to conquer the unfortunate jacobites knew well of what materials their forces were composed. the duke of cumberland, at the battle of fontenoy, had been so much pleased with the conduct of the famous black watch, that he had offered them any favour which they chose to ask, or which he could grant, to mark his approbation. the answer to this proof of approbation was worthy of those valiant auxiliaries, who are described by the french as "highland furies, who rushed in upon us with more fury than ever did a sea driven by a tempest." the highlanders replied, after thanking the royal duke for his courtesy, "that no favour he could bestow on them would gratify them so much as to pardon a soldier of their regiment, who lay under a sentence of court martial, by which he was decreed to incur a heavy corporal punishment; the infliction of which would," they said, "bring dishonour on themselves, their friends, and their country." the request was granted. it was, nevertheless, the countrymen of these highlanders, men as heroic as true, as nice in their sense of honour as the black watch, upon whom the duke wreaked the utmost of his vengeance after culloden, whom he hunted with bloodhounds,--whose honest hearts he broke by every possible indignity, though their gallant spirits could never be subdued. as the army advanced, a great multitude assembled to gaze upon the singular spectacle. the very arms borne by the highlanders were objects of curiosity and surprise, no less than of alarm, to the populace, who stood by the way-side expressing their good-will to the expedition, but who, when asked to join the insurgents, declined, saying, "they did not understand fighting."[ ] the formidable weapons with which the highlanders contrived to make themselves terrible to their enemies, consisted of a broad-sword, girded on the left side, and a dirk or short thick dagger on the right, used only when the combat was so close as to render the broadsword useless. in ancient times, these fierce warriors brandished a small short-handled hatchet or axe, for the purpose of a close fight. a gun, a pair of pistols, and a target, completed their armour, except when ammunition failed, when they substituted for the gun, the lochaber axe; this was a species of long lance, or pike, with a formidable weapon at the end of it, adapted either for cutting or stabbing. the lochaber axe had fallen into disuse since the introduction of the musket; but a rude, yet ready substitute had been found for it, by fixing scythes at the end of a pole, with which the highlanders resisted the attacks of cavalry. such had been their arms in the early part of the insurrection of , and such they continued until, at the battles of falkirk and preston pans, they had collected muskets from the slain on the battle-field. in addition to these weapons, the gentlemen sometimes wore suits of armour and coats of mail; in which, indeed, some of the principal jacobites have been depicted; but, with these, the common men never incumbered themselves, both on account of the expense, and of the weight, which was ill-adapted to their long marches and steep hills.[ ] a distinguishing mark which the highland clans generally adopted, was the badge. this was frequently a piece of evergreen, worn on the bonnet, and placed, during the insurrection of , beside the white cockade. when lord lovat's men assembled near the aird, they wore, according to the evidence given on the state trials, sprigs of yew in their bonnets.[ ] these badges, although generally considered to have been peculiar to the clans, were, observes a modern writer,[ ] "like armorial bearings, common to all countries in the middle ages; and shared by the highlanders among the general distinctions of chivalry, were only peculiar to them when disused by others." thus, the broom worn by geoffrey plantagenet, count d'anjou;--and the raspberry by francis the first of france, were only discontinued as an ornament to the head when transferred to the habit, or housings; but the highland clans, tenacious of their customs, wore the plant not only upon their caps, but placed them on the head of the clan standard. the white cockade was now regarded as the peculiar badge of the party; yet it seems not, at all events among the clan fraser, to have superseded the evergreen. some few traces are left, in the present day, to certify, nevertheless, that they were worn during the contest of . "lord hardwicke's act, and continual emigration," remarks john sobieski stuart, "have extirpated the memory of these distinctions once as familiar as the names of those who bore them; and all of whom i have been able to collect any evidence are, the macdonalds, the macphersons, the grants, the frasers, the stuarts, and the campbells." "the memory of most," mournfully remarks the same writer, "has now perished among the people; but, within a recent period, various lists have been composed--some by zealous enthusiasts, who preferred substitution to loss, and some by the purveyors of the carpet highlanders, who once a-year illuminate the splendour of a ball-room with the untarnished broadswords and silken hose, never dimmed in the mist of a hill, or sullied in the dew of the heather."[ ] the macdonalds, until a very short period before the rebellion of , were known by the heather bow. "let every man," said one of their chiefs of old, looking round on a field of blooming heather, "put over his head that which is under his feet." the destined sufferers of glenco were marked by their "having a fair busk of heather, well spread and displayed over the head of a staff." the clan macgregor wore the fir; and the clan grant assumed a similar badge; whilst the badge of the frasers is said to have been supplied for ages by a yew of vast size, in glen-dubh, at the head of strath fearg. the badge assigned to the macphersons was the water lily, which abounds in the lochs of hamkai, upon the margin of which was the gathering place of the clan chattan. some of these distinctions appear to have been used during the year , as we see in the case of the frasers, but all to have emerged into the one general distinction of the jacobites, the white rose, first worn by david the second, at the tournament of windsor in , when he carried the "_rose argent_." this badge had been almost forgotten in scotland, until the year , when it was worn by the adherents of james stuart, on his birthday, the tenth of june. "by the irish catholics," observes the editor of the "vestiarium scoticum," "it is still worn on the same day; but in scotland its memory is only retained in the ballads of ' , and ' ." the muses, who, as burns has remarked, are all jacobites, have celebrated this badge in these terms:-- "o' a' the days are in the year, the tenth o' june i lo' maist dear, when our _white roses_ a' appear, for the sake o' jamie the rover."[ ] the highland host, after marching through preston, to the sounds of the bagpipes, which played "the king shall have his own again," took the road through wigan, towards manchester. the prince was informed that the english troops had broken down the bridge at warrington; and that circumstance, which decided him to go through wigan, somewhat encouraged his naturally sanguine temper, as it showed fear on the part of the enemy. during this march, the kind-hearted young man went on foot, except occasionally, when we find notice of his riding a fine horse in the public prints of the day. he usually, however, gave up his carriage to the venerable lord pitsligo, and marched at the head of one of the columns. he never took dinner, but ate a hearty supper; and then, throwing himself upon a bed, slept until four in the morning, when he arose, to prosecute the fatigues of another day, fatigues which youth, a sound constitution, and, above all, a great degree of mental energy, enabled him to endure. wigan, which the chevalier's forces now approached, had been, in the time of queen elizabeth, agitated by religious differences; and the queen's commission for promoting the ordinances of the reformed church had been there met with a vigorous resistance. during the civil wars, this town, both from its vicinity to latham house, and from its attachment to charles the first, took a distinguished part, and obtained the characteristic designation of the "faithful and loyal town of wigan." after the insurrection of , the oaths of supremacy and allegiance to the reigning family had been, in vain, strongly urged upon the inhabitants of lancashire, and a large mass of landed estates were, in consequence, put in jeopardy; although it does not appear that the owners were dispossessed of their estates, or that any other use was made of the register taken of all the landed properties in the county, except to assist the magistrates in the suppression of the insurrection in the north. nevertheless, the expectation which charles might naturally entertain of a general rising in lancashire was not realized. "nothing," observes mr. maxwell, "looked like a general concurrence until he came to manchester."[ ] this was remarkable, for manchester had been the head-quarters of many of the parliamentary party in lancashire during the civil wars; whilst preston and wigan had both been royalist boroughs. but a singular alteration had taken place in the people of manchester, who had changed from roundheads to jacobites.[ ] during the whole of the preceding march the highland army had levied the public revenue with great accuracy; but no extortion, nor any attempts at plunder, had disgraced their cause, nor reflected on lord george murray as their general.[ ] at manchester, the first organized force raised in england for the chevalier joined charles edward. it was a regiment of two hundred men, commanded by colonel townley, a gentleman who had been in the french service; and was called the manchester regiment. it was composed of young men of the most reputable families in the town, of several substantial farmers and tradesmen, and of about one hundred common men. the accession of this troop gave great encouragement to the prince; yet there were still many who thought very badly of the enterprise, and the advice afterwards given by lord george murray at derby, to retreat, was also whispered at manchester, lord george being resolved to retreat, should there be no insurrection in england, nor landing from france. "at manchester, one of his friends told lord george," relates maxwell, "that he thought they had entered far enough into england, since neither of these events had happened." to this lord george replied that they might make a farther trial, and proceed to derby; where, if there should be no greater encouragement to go on, he should propose a retreat to the prince.[ ] the reception of prince charles at manchester, was celebrated with demonstrations of enthusiastic joy. as he marched on foot into the town, at the head of the clans, halting to proclaim the chevalier st. george, king, the bells rang, and preparations were made for illuminations and bonfires in the evening. the prince was attended by twelve scottish and english noblemen: from these he was distinguished by wearing the white cockade on the top of his cap, in the centre, instead of on the side, as did his general officers. peculiarly formed to grace such occasions as a triumphal entry into an important and friendly town, charles edward quickly won the good will of the female part of the community; and the beauty and grace of the kingdom were soon, to use a phrase of a contemporary writer, enlisted in his behalf. to the personal attributes of the prince, "joining the good nature of the stuarts with the spirit of the sobieski," charles edward added one accomplishment which the monarch then on the throne of england did not possess: he spoke english well, although with a foreign accent: in this last respect, he resembled some of those around him, more especially the duke of perth, who, having been long abroad, in vain endeavoured to conceal the french idiom and pronunciation by affecting a broad scottish dialect.[ ] still, in spite of these advantages, and notwithstanding the known predilection of the lancastrians for the cause of the stuarts, the lowest populace alone joined the standard of charles. one melancholy, though admirable exception has been already referred to in the person of colonel francis townley. this gentleman was a member of an ancient family, and the nephew of mr. townley, whose seat in townley hall, lancashire, lays claim to high antiquity; and yet, is modern in comparison with a former residence, once seated on what is still called the castle hill. francis townley was a man of literary acquirements, which, indeed, eminently distinguished his relative, the celebrated charles townley, who formed at rome, and afterwards brought to london, the well-known collection of marbles which was bought by the trustees of the british museum for twenty thousand pounds; (supposed to be a sum far beneath its actual value,) and which still graces that national structure. the family of townley had been remarkable for their fidelity to the stuarts long before colonel francis townley raised a troop for the chevalier. the grandfather of this unfortunate man, had been tried for rebellion, in , but acquitted; it was therefore very unlikely that when his accomplished descendant espoused the same ill-starred cause, there would be any mercy shown to a family so deeply implicated in jacobitism. francis townley was afterwards taken prisoner, and tried with other persons, chiefly captains in the manchester regiment. of these the greater number were hung on kennington common. the head of colonel townley was severed from his body, according to sentence, after death, and was placed upon temple bar; but those of most of his brothers in arms were preserved in spirits, and sent into the country, to be placed in public situations in manchester and carlisle.[ ] prince charles now prepared to proceed on his march to macclesfield, while lord george murray was sent with his division to congleton. the accompaniments of the jacobite army, if we can venture to believe a letter inserted in the gentleman's magazine for , and purporting to be written by a lady in preston to her friend in london, formed a singular spectacle. four ladies of some distinction are stated in this letter to have marched with the army. these were lady ogilvie, mrs. murray of broughton, a lady of great beauty and spirit, the celebrated jenny cameron, and another female, unknown, but who is supposed to have been the mistress of sir thomas sheridan. the populace, nevertheless, mistook sheridan for a priest, and assigned to him the nick-name of the "archbishop of canterbury." the first two ladies went in a chariot by themselves; the others were in a coach and six with the young chevalier, to whose dejection and weariness as he passed through preston, jenny cameron is said to have administered cordials. by the same writer the jacobite army are described as looking like "hunted hares." such is a specimen of one of the ephemeral slanders of the day; and the circumstance of the coach and six tends to disprove the whole letter. the prince, it is evident from every isolated account, marched on foot until he entered derby.[ ] it was, however, perfectly true that mrs. murray of broughton and lady ogilvie, whose husbands were both with the army, attended the movements of the highland force. and now were the merits of lord george murray as a general, certain very soon to be called into active play; for, on the twenty-sixth of november, william augustus, duke of cumberland, had left london at the head of an army, to oppose the insurgents. on the character of the royal individual who, in his twenty-fifth year came forward to rescue his country, as it was said, from the yoke of a foreign invader; and whose promising, but immature talents, backed by a great military force, were effectual in defeating the skill of an experienced general, some reflections will naturally arise. william, duke of cumberland, was born in the year . he very early demonstrated that predilection for military affairs which obtained for him from walpole the praise of having been "one of the five only really great men whom he had ever seen." he very soon, also, betrayed that cruel and remorseless spirit which was wreaked on the brave and the defenceless; that indifference to suffering which too aptly was repaid by an indignant people with the name of "the butcher;"--that thirst for blood which we read of in heathen countries, before the commandments of the god of israel, or the beautiful commentary of a saviour of mercy upon those sacred commandments, had chastened and humanized the people. those tendencies which, whilst england was elate with success, and when she gloried in a suppressed rebellion, raised the duke of cumberland to a hero;--and, when reflection came, sank him to a brute; were manifested in the dawn of youth. in after years, (what extreme of odium could be greater?)--even children instinctively feared him. one day, when playing with his nephew, afterwards george the third, a child, the duke drew a sword to amuse him. the incident occurred long after the mouldering bones upon the field of culloden were whitened in the sun; long after the brave balmerino had suffered, and vengeance had revelled in the doom of the beloved kilmarnock. but the sins of the remorseless cumberland cried to heaven. they were registered in the mind of a child. the boy turned pale and trembled, and acknowledged that he thought his "uncle cumberland was going to kill him." the duke shocked and deeply hurt, referred to popular prejudice the impression which was the result of crime. imperious, aspiring, independent, the grasping and able intellect of the duke soon imbibed a knowledge of affairs beyond his years. when scarcely out of the nursery he loved the council chamber, and delighted in the recitals of foreign wars. as he reached manhood, he affected a lofty and philosophical coldness; a dangerous attribute in youth, and one which either springs from a frigid disposition, or else infallibly contracts the heart. but, in the case of the duke of cumberland, it concealed a proud and selfish spirit, which could ill brook the superiority of his elder brother, frederic, prince of wales, or bear with temper the popularity of another. when, in after years, his brother's death was communicated to him, those jealous and disdainful feelings broke forth. "it is a great blow to the country," he said, sarcastically; "but i hope, in time, it will recover it." that want of faith in human nature, of reverence for good motives, that absence of a generous confidence which one can suppose strongly characterise the lost angels, were among the many odious features in the character of this truly bad man. the prevailing feeling of his mind was, contempt for everything and everybody;--a contempt for renown;--a contempt, in after life, for politics, which he conceived were below his attention; a contempt for women, whom he lowered by a sort of preference consistent with the rest of his coarse character, but whose modest virtues he mistrusted. with this affectation of superiority, the duke combined the littleness of envy. when he had attained the height of his popularity, his satisfaction was tarnished by the reputation of admiral vernon, who was the idol of the public. as a general, his acknowledged and eminent qualities were sullied by the german puerilities of an exact attention to military trifles; any deficiency in etiquette was punished like a crime: the formation of a new pattern of spatterdashes was treated as an important event. nor was this all. he introduced into an army of englishmen the german notions of military severity; he fostered a system which it has taken nearly a century of great efforts, and good works in the humane, to annul. "he was," says horace walpole, "a draco in legislation;" adding, "that in the duke's amended mutiny bill the word 'death' occurred at every clause."[ ]--such is the general colouring of his public character. a strong and sensitive feeling with regard to the national honour; a devoted reverence for the sovereign authority; which were the only principles and institutions which he seemed to respect, are the milder traits. in private, he countenanced, by his own practice, most of those vices which scarcely existed with greater impunity, or with less inconvenience from public opinion, in the days of charles the second, than in those in which cumberland flourished, and left a finished model of a character without one redeeming excellence. as a soldier, however, the merits of the duke, if merits those can be called which were the natural effects of animal courage, and of a strong, remorseless mind, must be, at all events, acknowledged. he behaved with great gallantry in his first campaign with his royal father, and was wounded at the battle of dettingen. at too early an age, in , he was placed at the head of a great army, in order to oppose marshal saxe; and the event of the battle of fontenoy proved the error. but, in that engagement, the valour of the young general was admitted on all hands. "his royal highness," relates the author of "the conduct of the officers at fontenoy considered," "was everywhere, and could not without being on the spot have cheered that highlander who with his broad sword killed nine men, and making a stroke at the tenth, had his arm shot off,--by a promise of something better than the arm which he, the duke, saw drop from him."[ ] it was with the hope of retrieving the lost reputation of the duke at fontenoy, and in order to remedy the glaring defects of general hawley, that this young man, old in hardened feelings, but full of ardour and courage, was sent to repel the forces of the chevalier. it was also thought by the government that the placing a prince of the blood-royal at the head of the army would have a powerful influence on the minds of the people, and neutralize the counter-influence of charles edward.[ ] the duke therefore assumed the command of an army ten thousand strong, and set out from london to intimidate the enemy. the duke of cumberland was by no means so ignorant of the force which he was now destined to attack, as were most of the other "good people of england, who knew as little of their neighbours of the scottish mountains, as they did of the inhabitants of the most remote quarter of the globe."[ ] in the battle of fontenoy, the duke of cumberland had become acquainted with the peculiar mode of fighting practised by the highlanders, in the manoeuvre of the "black watch," or nd; and had shown his judgment in allowing them to fight in their own way. this gallant regiment, in which many of the privates were gentlemen, were exempted at this time from the service of crushing the rebellion, only to have a duty, perhaps more cruel and more unwarrantable, forced upon them, after the battle of culloden. by a singular circumstance, the black watch was commanded by lord john murray, a brother of lord george murray's, sir robert munro officiating as acting colonel.[ ] at macclesfield, prince charles gained the intelligence that the duke of cumberland had taken the command of ligonier's army, and that he was quartered at lichfield, coventry, stafford, and newcastle-under-line. the prince then resolved to go direct to derby; and it was to conceal his design, and to induce the duke to collect his whole army at lichfield, that lord george murray marched with a division of the army to congleton, which was the road to lichfield. congleton, being on the borders of staffordshire, was sufficiently near newcastle-under-line for lord george to send general ker to that place to gain intelligence of the enemy. general ker advanced to a village about three miles from newcastle, and very nearly surprised a body of dragoons, who had only time to make off. he took one prisoner, a man named weir, who was a noted spy, and who had been at edinburgh during the whole of the prince's stay there, and had since always kept within one day's march of the army. it was proposed to hang him; but charles could not be brought to consent to the measure, and insisted that weir was not, strictly speaking, a spy, since he wore no disguise. "i cannot tell," observes mr. maxwell, "whether the prince on this occasion was guided by his opinion or by his inclination: i suspect the latter, because it was his constant practice to spare his enemies when they were in his power. i don't believe there was an instance to the contrary to be found in this expedition."[ ] upon the third of december, lord george murray with his division of the army marched by leek to ashbourn; and the prince, with the rest of the forces, came from macclesfield to leek, where, considering the distance of the two columns of his army, and the neighbourhood of the enemy, he naturally considered his situation as somewhat precarious. it was possible for the enemy, by a night-march, to get betwixt the two columns; and, contemplating this danger, the prince set out at midnight to ashbourn, where it was conceived that the forces should proceed in one body towards derby. "thus," remarks a modern historian, "two armies in succession had been eluded by the highlanders; that of wade at newcastle, in consequence of the weather or the old marshal's inactivity, and that of cumberland through the ingenuity of their own leaders."[ ] charles edward and his officers slept at ashbourn hall, now in the possession of sir william boothby, baronet; into whose family the estate passed in the time of charles the second.[ ] the young prince had now advanced far into that county which has no rival in this island in the beauty and diversity of its scenery, in the simple, honest character of its fine peasantry, or in the rank and influence of its landed proprietors. the history of these families is connected with the civil, and foreign wars of the kingdom; and already had the moors and valleys of derbyshire been the scene of contest which had the restoration of the stuarts for their aim and end. in , a battle was fought near ashbourn, in which the royalists were defeated; in , just a century before charles edward entered ashbourn, charles the first had attended service in the beautiful gothic church of ashbourn, as he marched his army through the peak towards doncaster. the inhabitants of the district retained some portion of their ancient loyalty to the stuarts. as prince charles ascended the height, from which, leading towards derby, a view of the town of ashbourn, seated in a deep valley, and of the adjacent and romantic country, may be seen, the roads were lined with peasantry, decorated with white cockades, and showing their sentiments by loud acclamations, bonfires, and other similar demonstrations. "one would have thought," remarks mr. maxwell,[ ] "that the prince was now at the crisis of his adventure; that his fate, and the fate of the three kingdoms, must be decided in a few days. the duke of cumberland was at lichfield; general wade, who was moving up with his army along the west side of yorkshire, was about this time at ferry bridge, within two or three days' march. so that the prince was, with a handful of brave, indeed, but undisciplined men, betwixt two armies of regular troops, one of them above double, the other almost double, his number." it was owing to the skill and prudence of lord george murray that this gallant but trifling force was enabled to return to scotland, for scarcely ever was there a handful of valiant men placed in a situation of more imminent peril. derby, which is fifteen miles from ashbourn, was thrown into the utmost confusion and disorder when the news that the vanguard of the insurgent army was approaching it became generally known. "the hurry," says a contemporary writer, "was much increased by the number of soldiers, and their immediate orders to march out of town, and nothing but distraction was to be read in every countenance. the best part of the effects and valuables had been sent away or secreted some days before, and most of the principal gentlemen and tradesmen, with their wives and children, were retiring as fast as possible."[ ] the borough of derby, although by no means so opulent when charles edward and his friends visited it as in the present day, presented, perhaps, a far more appropriate scene for the faint and transient shadow of a court, than it now affords. it had, even within the memory of man, an aspect singularly dignified, important, and antique in its streets; and it still possesses many residences which are adapted for the higher orders, rather than for the industrious burgesses of a town. these are chiefly seated on the outside of the town. they were, so late as , and perhaps much later, "inhabited by persons of quality, and many coaches were kept there." to the west, king's mead, where formerly there was a monastery of the benedictine order, is now graced by a series of stately detached residences, which, under the modernized name of nun's green, constitute the court end of derby. but, interspersed in the streets, there are still many ancient tenements in which prince charles and his high-born adherents might find suitable accommodation. party feeling ran high in derby, and most of its leading and principal denizens were tories, and even jacobites. it was in derby that henry sacheverell preached his famous sermon, on "communication of sin." this literary firebrand was first thrown out to the high-church party in , when the high sheriff, george sacheverell, of callow, was attended by dr. henry sacheverell as his chaplain, and the walls of all saints church resounded with the denunciations of that vehement, and ill-judging man. the seed that was thus sown fell into a land fertile in high church propensities; the grand jury intreated dr. sacheverell to print his discourse; and, eventually, when they considered that, by the mild sentence given against their preacher on his trial, they had gained a triumph, bonfires proclaimed their joy, in the market-place of that town, where the warfare of sacheverell had first begun. on the accession of george the first, and when the chevalier landed in scotland, fresh manifestations of the jacobite party broke forth. the church of all saints was again the scene of its display. three principal clergymen in the town openly espoused the stuart cause. sturges, the rector of all saints, prayed openly for "king james"--but, after a moment's pause, said, "i mean king george." "the congregation became tumultuous; the military gentlemen drew their swords, and ordered him out of the pulpit, into which he never returned."[ ] perhaps the event which tended most to quiet the spirit of jacobitism among the lower classes in the town, was the erection of silk mills, in . nothing tranquillises extreme views in politics more surely than employment; few things attach men's minds to a government more, than efforts crowned with success. notwithstanding the memory of sacheverell, a whig member had been returned, in the last election, for the borough; the great merits and influence of the house of cavendish overpowering the uproarious tories, who, in vain, broke windows, and attacked their enemies. but discontent again broke forth. the winter of found the whole nation in a state of suffering and discontent; and many of the constitutional securities for liberty and property had been given up, in order to secure the stability of the throne. taxation had been imposed, in the worst and most unpopular form, that of excise duties, in order to maintain an expensive court, and to pay for continental wars, which were maintained to preserve the hereditary german possessions of the king. yet, in spite of these crying evils, such is the difficulty of inducing englishmen to incur the risk of forfeiture and disaster, that even the town of derby had diligently provided itself with a defence against the chevalier's divided forces, on hearing of their approach. during the month of september , in consequence of instructions from london, the duke of devonshire, attended by the greatest appearance of gentlemen ever seen in the town before, assembled the clergy, in order to consider of such measures as were necessary for the support of the government. an association was entered into, and sums were liberally contributed, after a splendid dinner, at that ungrateful inn, the george, which, during the sojourn of charles edward at derby, changed its sign, into the safe and ambiguous title of the king's head. two companies of volunteers, of six hundred men each, were raised by the association. a proposal to call out the county militia was vehemently negatived, probably from that spirit of distrust which pervaded the councils of king george's government. by an order in council, passed in the previous september, all roman catholics had been prohibited from keeping a horse of above five pounds in value, and restrained from going five miles from their dwellings. it was, therefore, deemed advisable to select the volunteer forces from the well-affected, and not to employ the militia of a county so manifestly disposed to foster the young adventurer as derbyshire was at that time considered. during the month of november, a great degree of alarm had disturbed the burgesses of derby; and from the communications of the duke of devonshire, then lord-lieutenant of the county, to the mayor, it appears that the young chevalier completely baffled the duke of cumberland and general wade, by his rapid movement into the very heart of england.[ ] so late as the twelfth of december, the duke of devonshire and his eldest son, the marquis of hartington, were stationed at the george inn, to watch the event of the coming storm, and to concert means for averting the threatened danger. some days previously, the duke had reviewed a company of six hundred volunteers, together with one hundred and twenty men raised at his own expense; and those townsmen, who were not jacobites, were in high spirits, concluding that the duke of cumberland must have overtaken and attacked the insurgents. on the evening of the twelfth, the soldiers were summoned to the market-place, where they stood for some hours; they were then sent to quarters to refresh themselves; about ten the drums beat to arms, and, being again drawn out, these valiant defenders of the borough marched out of the town, by torch-light, towards nottingham, headed by the duke of devonshire. on the following morning, about eleven, two of the vanguard of the insurgent army rode into the town; and, after seizing a very good horse, belonging to a mr. stamford, went to the george inn, and there inquiring for the magistrates, they demanded billets for nine thousand men, or more. in a short time afterwards, the vanguard itself rode into the town; this detachment consisted of about thirty men; they are described in the account of a cotemporary writer, probably an eye witness, as "likely men," making a good appearance, in blue regimentals faced with red, with scarlet waistcoats trimmed with gold lace. they posted themselves in the market-place, where they rested for two or three hours; at the same time bells were rung, and bonfires made upon the pretext of "preventing any resentment" from the rebels that might ensue upon a cold reception. about midday, lord george murray, lord elcho, and several other chiefs arrived, with troops to the number of one hundred and fifty, the flower of the army, who made "a fine show." soon afterwards the main body marched into the town in tolerable order, six or eight abreast, with about eight standards, most of them having a white flag with a red cross. but the appearance of the main body was totally different to that of the vanguard, and justified the contemptuous opinion and expectations formed by the loyal inhabitants of derby, of their coming foe. as they marched along, the sound of their bagpipes was heard, for the first time, in the crowded and ancient streets of the borough; but the dress and bearing of these brave, but ill-accoutred men excited the derision of the thriving population of an important country town. they were, says the writer in the _derby mercury_ of the day, "a parcel of shabby, pitiful looking fellows, mixed up with old men and boys, dressed in dirty plaids, and as dirty shirts, without breeches, and wore their stockings, made of plaid, not half way up their legs, and some without their shoes, or next to none, and numbers of them so fatigued with their long march, that they really commanded our pity more than our fear."[ ] about five in the evening, when it was nearly dark, the prince, with the other column, arrived. he walked on foot, attended by a great body of men, to a house appointed for his reception, belonging to lord exeter, and seated in full-street. here guards were placed around the temporary abode of the prince; and here, during his stay at derby, he held his councils. "every house," adds the writer before quoted, "was pretty well filled (though they kept driving in till ten or eleven at night), and we thought we should never have seen the last of them. the duke of atholl had his lodgings at thomas gisborne's, esq.; the duke of perth at mr. rivett's; lord elcho at mr. storer's; lord pitsligo at mr. meynell's; lord george murray at mr. heathcote's; old gordon, of glenbucket, at mr. alderman smith's; lord nairn at mr. john bingham's; lady ogilvie, mrs. murray, and some other persons of distinction at mr. francey's; and their chiefs and great officers were lodged in the best gentlemen's houses.[ ] many ordinary houses both public and private, had forty or fifty men each, and some gentlemen near one hundred." the prince, upon his arrival at derby, resolved to halt for one day, and to take the advice of his council what was to be done at this juncture. his hopes were high, and his confidence in the good-will of the people of england to his cause was unabated. he continued to entertain the notion that george the second was an usurper, for whom no man would willingly draw his sword; that "the people of england, as was their duty, still nourished that allegiance for the race of their native princes which they were bound to hold sacred, and that if he did but persevere in his daring attempt, heaven itself would fight in his cause." his conversation, when at table, beneath the roof of exeter house, turned on the discussion "how he should enter london, whether on foot, or on horseback, or whether in highland or in lowland garb."[ ] nor was charles edward singular in his sanguine state of mind. it was observed, says mr. maxwell, "that the army never was in better spirits than while at derby."[ ] the judgment which lord george murray had formed at manchester, remained, however, unaltered by all these expectations. on the following morning, when the council met, he represented to the prince that they had marched so far into the country, depending on french succours, or on an insurrection, neither of which had taken place; that the prince's army, by itself, was wholly unprepared to face the troops which the "elector of hanover," as lord george denominated him, had assembled. besides general wade's army, which was coming to oppose them, and that of the duke of cumberland, forming together a force of between seventeen and eighteen thousand strong, there was a third army, encamped on finchley common, of which george the second was going to take the command in person. even supposing that the prince should be successful in an engagement with one of these armies, "he might be undone by a victory." the loss of one thousand or fifteen hundred men would incapacitate the rest of his small force from another encounter; and supposing that he was routed in that country, he and all his friends must unavoidably be killed. on the whole, including the army formed at london, there would be a force of thirty thousand men to oppose an army of five thousand fighting men; that before such a host, pursued lord george,[ ] "it could not be supposed one man could escape; for the militia, who had not appeared much against us hitherto, would, upon our defeat, possess all the roads, and the enemy's horse would surround us on all hands; that the whole world would blame us as being rash and foolish, to venture a thing that could not succeed, and the prince's person, should he escape being killed in the battle, must fall into the enemy's hands." "his royal highness," continues lord george murray in his narrative, "had no regard to his own danger, but pressed with all the force of argument to go forward. he did not doubt but the justness of his cause would prevail, and he could not think of retreating after coming so far; and he was hopeful there might be a defection in the enemy's army, and that several would declare for him. he was so very bent on putting all to the risk, that the duke of perth was for it, since his royal highness was. at last, he proposed going to wales, instead of returning to carlisle, but every other officer declared his opinion for a retreat, which some thought would be scarce practicable. i said all that i thought of to persuade the retreat, and, indeed, the arguments to me seemed unanswerable; and for the danger, though i owned an army upon a retreat did not fight with equal valour as when they advanced, yet, if the thing were agreed to, i offered to make the retreat, and be always in the rear myself; and that each regiment would take it by turns till we came to carlisle; and that the army should march in such order, that if i were attacked, i might be supported as occasion required, and without stopping the army (except a very great body of the enemy should be upon me), i would send aide-de-camps to desire such assistance as i should judge the occasion would require; but that i really believed there would be no great danger; for, as we were informed, the duke of cumberland was at stafford, and would in all appearance, that night or next morning, be drawing near london to intercept us, so that if our design were not mentioned till next morning that it should be put in execution, we would be got to ashbourn before he could have certain information of our design to retreat." the prince, who was naturally bold and enterprising, and who had been hitherto successful in every thing, was indignant at this. since he had set out from edinburgh, he had never had a thought but of going on, and fighting everything in his way to london. he had the highest idea of the bravery of his own men, and a despicable opinion of his enemies, and hitherto with good reason; and he was confirmed in these notions by some of those that were nearest his person; these sycophants, more intent upon securing his favour than promoting his interest, "were eternally saying whatever they thought would please, and never hazarded a disagreeable truth."[ ] a connected narrative of the proceedings in council has been given by lord elcho; and, at the risk of some recapitulations, it is here inserted, not having been previously published entire. "the fifth, in the morning, lord george murray, and all the commanders of battalions and squadrons, waited on the prince, and lord george told him that it was the opinion of every body present that the scots had now done all that could be expected of them. that they had marched into the heart of england, ready to join any party that would declare for him. that none had done so, and that the counties through which the army had passed had seemed much more enemies, than friends, to his cause. that there were no french landed in england; and that if there was any party in england for him, it was very odd that they had never so much as either sent him money or intelligence, or the least advice what to do. but if he could produce any letter from any person of distinction, in which there was an invitation for the army to go to london, or to any other part of england, that they were ready to go; but if nobody had either invited them, or meddled in the least in their affairs, it was to be supposed that there was either no party at all, or, if there was, they did not choose to act with them, or else they would ere now have let him know it. suppose even the army marched on and beat the duke of cumberland, yet, in the battle they must lose some men; and they had, after that, the king's own army, consisting of seven hundred men, near london to deal with. on the contrary, if either of these armies beat them, there would not a man escape; as the militia, although they durst never face the army while in a body, yet they would have courage enough to put an end to them if ever they were routed; and so the people that were in armies in scotland would fall an easy sacrifice to the fury of the government. again, suppose the army was to slip the king's and duke's army, and get into london, the success of the affair would entirely depend on the mob's declaring for or against it; and that if the mob had been much inclined to his cause since his march into england, to be sure some of his friends in london would have fallen upon some method to let him know it; but if the mob was against the affair, four thousand five hundred men would not make a great figure in london. lord george concluded by saying, that the scots army had done their part; that they came into england at the prince's request, to join his english friends, and to give them courage by their appearance to take arms and declare for him publicly, as they had done, or to join the french if they had landed. but as none of these things had happened, that certainly four thousand five hundred scots had never thought of putting a king on the english throne by themselves. so he said his opinion was, they should go back and join their friends in scotland, and live and die with them. "after lord george had spoken, all the rest of the gentlemen present spoke their sentiments, and they all agreed with lord george except two (the duke of perth and sir william gordon), who were for going to wales to see if the welsh would join. "the prince heard all these arguments with the greatest impatience, fell into a passion, and gave most of the gentlemen that had spoke very abusive language; and said they had a mind to betray him. the case was, he knew nothing about the country, nor had the smallest idea of the force that was against him, nor how they were situated." fully convinced that the regular army would never dare to fight against him, and trusting to the consciences of men more than to the broad sword of his army, he always believed that he should enter st. james's with as little difficulty as he had done holyrood-house. "he continued," says lord elcho, "all that day positive he would march to london. the irish in the army were always for what he was for, and were heard to say, that day, 'that they knew if they escaped being killed, the worst that could happen to them was a few months imprisonment.'" the reluctance of the unfortunate and brave young chevalier was increased by the evident ardour which his men, in the expectation of an engagement with the duke of cumberland, were at that very instant displaying, whilst the arguments which sealed charles edward's fate, resounded within the walls of exeter-house. the highlanders, whose heroism balanced the inequality of the respective forces, breathed nothing but a desire for the combat. they were to be seen, during all that eventful day, in crowds before the shops of the cutlers, quarrelling who should be the first to get their swords sharpened.[ ] in the very midst of the discussions, a courier arrived from lord john drummond, informing the prince that he had landed at montrose with his regiment, the scottish brigade, newly raised in france, and some pickets of the irish brigade, the rest of which would probably be in scotland before the letter reached the prince.[ ] but this favourable intelligence, far from lessening the desire of lord george to secure a retreat, rather increased his determination to uphold that resolution; and emboldened him to unfold to charles edward a plan for a scottish campaign, which, he thought, might be prosecuted with advantage. in retreating to scotland, the prince, he argued, would have the advantage of retiring upon his reinforcements, which included the highlanders at perth, and the succours brought by lord john drummond. he concluded his address by a request, in the name of the persons present, that they should go back and join their friends in scotland, to live or die with their countrymen. two councils were held upon this important subject, for in the afternoon the prince convened another, to consider of the advices which the courier sent by lord john drummond had brought. "the debates," observes the chevalier johnstone, "were very keen." the prince obstinately insisted upon giving battle to the duke of cumberland on the next day, the sixth; but he stood alone in that opinion. the chiefs of clans, who, since the council held at perth, had never opposed the prince in anything, feeling that they had now advanced too far to retreat, nevertheless opposed the march to london. they pointed to the coldness with which the insurgent army had hitherto been received; and asked how, supposing by some miracle the forces were to reach london, an army of four thousand men would appear among a population of a million people? the prince still insisted upon marching to london; he even opposed the retreat, on the ground of the immense risk. the duke of cumberland, he contended, would pursue them hotly, and be always at their heels. marshal wade, he remarked, would certainly receive orders to intercept the army, so that they would "be placed between two fires, and caught as it were, in a net." this argument was met by the assurances which have been already stated in lord george murray's own language--that he would manage the retreat, taking always the rear. that he ably and effectually fulfilled that promise, was shown in the result. at length the prince, finding the greater part of the council was of lord george's opinion, and deserted even by the duke of perth, who, after for long time resting his head on the fire-place in silence, accorded loudly with the clans, consented to the retreat. this assent, wrung from him, was given with these bitter words,--"rather than go back," exclaimed the high-spirited young man, "i would wish to be twenty feet under ground.[ ] henceforth," he added, haughtily, "i will hold no more councils, for i am accountable to no one for my actions, except to my father." the usual double-dealing, and factious contention of party, succeeded this painful scene in the council. "after the council was dismissed," says mr. maxwell,[ ] "some of those who had voted against the retreat, and the secretary, who had spoken warmly for it in private conversation with the prince, condemned this resolution, and endeavoured to instil some suspicion of the courage and fidelity of those who had promoted it. the prince was easily persuaded that he had been too complaisant in consenting to a retreat, but would not retract the consent he had given, unless he could bring back those to whom he had given it over to his own sentiments; which he hoped he might be able to do, since the secretary had altered his opinion. with this view he called another meeting of the council, in the evening, but found all the rest, to a man, firm in their former sentiments; upon which, the prince gave up a second time his own opinion and inclination, to the advice and desire of his council." the character of one individual was, however, elicited in this affair. "from this time," observes mr. maxwell,[ ] "the secretary ceased to be in odour of sanctity with those that were not highly prejudiced in his favour. the little knave appeared plainly in his conduct on this occasion. he argued strenuously for the retreat, because he thought it the only prudent measure, till he found it was carried by a great majority, and would certainly take place; and then he condemned it, to make his court to the prince, to whom it was disagreeable, and lay the odium upon other people, particularly lord george, whom he endeavoured to blacken on every occasion." some people will wonder that this bare-faced conduct did not open the prince's eyes as to the baseness of secretary murray's heart; "but," says maxwell, "if we consider that murray was in the highest degree of favour, the steps by which he rose to it, and the arts he used to maintain himself and exclude everybody that could come in competition with him, he will easily conceive how he got the better of any suspicions his behaviour might have created at this time." the question, whether the arguments of lord george murray were guided by wisdom, or whether they might be better characterised as the result of a cold, and, in this case, unworthy prudence, has been very differently canvassed. "there are not a few," observes mr. maxwell, "who still think the prince would have carried his point had he gone on from derby; they build much upon the confusion there was at london, and the panic which prevailed among the elector's troops at this juncture.[ ] it is impossible to decide with any degree of certainty, whether he would or would not have succeeded,--that depended upon the disposition of the army and of the city of london, ready to declare for the prince. what could he do with four thousand four hundred men, suppose he got to london, whatever were the dispositions of the army and the city? it is certain the prince had no intelligence from either. this leads me to examine the conduct of the prince's friends in england. the cry was general against them about this time in the prince's army, and they are still exclaimed against by foreigners, who, having but a very superficial knowledge of these affairs, conclude that either the english are all become hanoverians, or, if there are still some that have an english heart, they must be strangely degenerated, since they did not lay hold of this opportunity of shaking off the german yoke. though i am convinced the prince had a great many well-wishers in england, and though it is my opinion he would have succeeded had they all declared for him, nevertheless i cannot join in the cry against them, no more than i can condemn abundance of his friends in scotland who did not join him. i have told elsewhere upon what a slender foundation this expedition was undertaken. murray had imposed upon the prince, and hurried him into it, without concerting anything with england. the english had always insisted upon a body of regular troops, not under seven and not above twelve thousand effective men. they saw the prince in england with a handful of militia, which they could never think a match for thirty thousand regular troops. it is true the english have, in former times, taken arms upon less encouragement and less provocation than they had met with of late; but in those days the common people were accustomed to arms, and the insurgents were as good soldiers as any that could be brought against them." such is the reasoning of an eye-witness. one thing is certain, contemporary writers appear to have generally acquiesced in the propriety of the retreat; and that circumstance constitutes the strongest evidence in favour of the step. yet, viewing events at this distance of time, and taking into account the panic which seized, not only the public mind, but which affected the heads of the government on hearing of the bold and rapid march of the insurgents, our faith in the wisdom of a retreat is weakened. in the night when it was announced in the fashionable circles of st. james's that the prince had reached derby, a general consternation was diffused throughout society. a lady of the highest rank, who was in one of the assemblies of the day, related to one of her descendants that upon the intelligence reaching the party where she was, the rooms were instantly cleared, and on the following morning there was not a carriage to be seen in london. nor were these apprehensions confined to any particular sphere.[ ] the arrival of the troops at derby was known in london on the ninth of december, henceforth called by the english "black monday." many of the inhabitants fled in terror from the metropolis, taking their treasures with them; the shops were closed: people thronged to the bank to obtain payment of its notes, and it only escaped bankruptcy by the following stratagem. those who came first being entitled to priority of payment, the managers of the bank took care to be surrounded by agents with notes, to whom their pretended claims were paid in sixpences to gain time. these agents went out by one door and came back by another, so that the _bona fide_ holders of notes could never get near enough to present them; and the bank stood out by these means until the panic had died away. king george even embarked all his most precious effects on his yachts, which were stationed in the tower-quay, in readiness to convey him away, should the dreaded highlanders, as it now began to be generally expected, march to london in a few days. the "moneyed corporations," according to smollett, were all in the deepest dejection; they reflected that the highlanders, of whom they had conceived a most terrible idea, were within four days' march of the capital; they anticipated a revolution ruinous to their own prosperity, and were overwhelmed with dismay. "i was assured," writes the chevalier johnstone, (who differed from his general, lord george,) "on good authority, when i was in london, some time after our unfortunate defeat, that the duke of newcastle, then secretary of state for the war department, remained inaccessible in his own house the whole of the th of december, weighing in his mind the part which it would be most prudent for him to take, and even uncertain whether he should not instantly declare himself for the pretender. it was even said at london, that fifty thousand men had actually left that city to meet the prince and join his army, and every body in the capital was of opinion, that, if we had beaten the duke of cumberland, the army of finchley common would have dispersed of its own accord, and that by advancing rapidly to london, we might have taken possession of that city without the least resistance from the inhabitants, and without exchanging a single shot with the soldiers. thus a revolution would have been effected in england, so glorious for the few scotchmen by whom it was attempted, and altogether so surprising, that the world would not have comprehended it. it is true, the english were altogether ignorant of the number of our army, from the care we took in our marches to conceal it; and it was almost impossible for their spies ever to discover it, as we generally arrived in the towns at nightfall, and left them before the break of day. in all the english newspapers our numbers were uniformly stated as high as twelve or fifteen thousand men. under such circumstances, some temporary advantages might have been gained by marching southwards; for it is now believed that the jacobite party in england were much more numerous than we have generally understood; and that thousands would have flocked to the standard of charles edward had he been accompanied by a sufficient force to authorise the expectation of his success." the british administration was, it is true, devoid of men of talent or principle, and discontent and distress prevailed in the country. in the city of london, the jacobite party was very strong; its member was alderman heathcote, who, with sir watkin williams wynn, had announced to lord temple his determination to rise immediately upon a landing of troops from france.[ ] the prevalence of jacobite principles among the english gentry is supposed to have infected many officers in the royal army, who might have avowed them at any crisis in the public affairs; many were, at all events, suspected of jacobite principles; "and the mere suspicion," remarks lord mahon, "would have produced nearly the same effects as the reality,--bewilderment, distrust, and vacillation in the chiefs." "had, then, the highlanders combined to push forward," observes this able writer, "must not the increasing terror have palsied all power of resistance? would not the little army at finchley, with so convenient a place for dispersing as the capital behind it, have melted away at their approach?" in confirmation of this surmise may be quoted an anecdote which is related of a company of the celebrated black watch, which had been exempted during the insurrection of from serving against their countrymen; more than three hundred of the regiment having brothers and relations engaged in the jacobite army.[ ] but it was afterwards employed on a service which might well have been assigned to others;--to execute the decrees of burning, and to lay waste the districts where the forefathers of these brave men had lived. on marching one company of this famous regiment out of london, the highlanders, on arriving at hounslow, suddenly became immovable; they halted, and refused to proceed, or to bear arms against their countrymen. their commanders, in dismay, turned to the chaplain of the regiment, to use his influence. the clergyman then in office happened to be ferguson, the celebrated astronomer. he mounted on a temporary rostrum or pulpit, harangued the highlanders, and, after an emphatic address, prevailed on them to march forward. such were some of the difficulties which the english government encountered. to this may be added, the defenceless state of the coasts of kent and essex. the french ministers were now in "the very crisis of decision as to their projected expedition." the preparations at dunkirk were completed; and had charles edward, by advancing, shown that such aid was only a secondary matter in his favour, their fleet would have set sail. besides, the jacobites in england were by no means in so apathetic and subdued a condition as that which has been generally represented.[ ] "i believe then," emphatically remarks lord mahon, "that had charles marched onward from derby he might have gained the british throne; but i am far from thinking that he would long have held it." "whether he (charles edward)," says sir walter scott, "ought ever to have entered england, at least without collecting all the forces which he could command, is a very disputable point; but it was clear, that whatever influence he might for a time possess, arose from the boldness of his advance. the charm, however, was broken the moment he showed, by a movement in retreat, that he had undertaken an enterprise too difficult for him to achieve."[ ] in the opinion of the chevalier johnstone, whose judgment was formed under the influence of lord george murray, much of the failure of the expedition was owing to the inactivity of lord john drummond, who ought, according to his statement, to have advanced by forced marches to the assistance of prince charles. nor was this the only error of that zealous, but inexperienced general: through his representations, the false intelligence that an army of ten thousand men was awaiting him in scotland, was conveyed to the prince; the disembarkation of this force was continually and confidently expected. "the first thing we did in the morning," says chevalier johnstone, "was to see whether the wind was favourable;" and this delusive expectation had a very great influence in deciding the resolution taken at derby to retreat to scotland. whatever were the reasons which actuated the council of war, the result was, in the first instance, both painful to those who promoted the decision of the question, and highly obnoxious to the army. arrangements were, however, made to keep the proposed retreat as secret as possible, both in order to baffle the duke of cumberland and not to irritate the highlanders. yet the design was soon penetrated by those who were intent upon every movement of their superiors. lord george murray, in his journal, describes the sensation which the projected retreat occasioned, in the following terms.[ ] "our resolution was to be kept secret, as it was of great consequence the enemy should have the intelligence of our march as late as possible. yet, in the afternoon, one sir john macdonald, an irish officer in the french service who had come over with the prince, came where lochiel, and keppoch and i were talking together, and railed a great deal about our retreat. 'what!' says he to keppoch, 'a macdonald turn his back?' and to lochiel, 'for shame; a cameron run away from the enemy! go forward, and i'll lead you.' this gentleman was old, and had dined heartily, for he was much subject to his bottle: we endeavoured to persuade him that he was mistaken, but he still insisted, and said he had certain information of it. to tell the truth, i believe he liked his quarters and entertainment better in england than in scotland, and would rather have been taken than return; for he thought, as he was in the french service, he did not run the same risk as others did. some people, seeing the prince so much cast down about the retreat, to ingratiate themselves, blamed the resolution; and though they had in the morning, as much as any body, given their hearty concurrence in the measure, and had exprest themselves so; yet, as they saw the retreat would certainly be put in execution, though they appeared against it, they thought proper to say that their reason for agreeing to it was because they knew the army would never fight well when the officers were against it. sir thomas sheridan and his royal highness's secretary acted this part. and the duke of atholl, who had not been present in the morning, when the prince sent for him in the afternoon, and spoke to him, seemed much for going forwards. in the evening, when this was understood by the rest of the officers, they told his royal highness that they valued their lives as little as brave men ought to do; and if he inclined to go forward they would do their duty to the last, but desired that those that advised his royal highness to go forward would sign their opinion, which would be a satisfaction to them. this put a stop to all underhand dealings, and the duke of atholl when he heard others upon the same subject, was fully satisfied as to the necessity of the measure." the town of derby presented, during its occupation by the jacobites, a singular scene. the highlanders, hitherto maintaining a character for good order, now broke loose upon the townsmen of a city, which they, perhaps, began to consider as their own. they took the opportunity of replenishing themselves with gloves, buckles, powder-flasks, handkerchiefs, &c., which they demanded from the tradespeople, whose shops they entered. being refreshed with a good night's rest, they ran about from house to house, until the town looked as if it were the resort of some highland fair. "if they liked a person's shoes better than their own," relates a contemporary writer, "nothing was more common for them than to demand them off their feet, and not to give them anything, or what they asked for them." this insolence grew upon the forbearance of the townsmen, who dared not to resist martial law. even the medical profession did not escape an unwilling participation in the concerns of the jacobites. dr. hope, a physician residing in the town, and a member of the highly-respectable family there, was summoned to attend one of the sojourners in exeter-house. the tradition which has preserved this anecdote among the descendants of dr. hope, has not specified the name of the invalid. the physician was told that he must go instantly: he was blindfolded, and led by armed men into the presence of his patient, without knowing whither he was conducted; a precaution, it may be presumed, adopted to prevent a refusal. the church of all saints witnessed what its protestant ministers must have viewed with indignation and sorrow. prayers were ordered to be said at six o'clock in the evening, when a roman catholic clergyman entered the sacred edifice, and performed the service according to the ritual of his church.[ ] in addition to these impolitic acts of a short-lived power, proclamations were made by the town crier, levying the excise duties; and a demand of one hundred pounds was made upon the post-office. in other quarters, even these forms were omitted, and plunder and outrage, which, says the author of the derby mercury, "were they to be stated would fill our paper," were mercilessly committed. nevertheless, such was the tendency of the town of derby to jacobite principles, that, among the higher orders, the brief appearance of the young and unfortunate adventurer was long remembered with interest, and his fate recalled with regret. the ladies of derby vied with each other in making white cockades, of delicate and costly workmanship, to present to the hero of the day. to some of these admiring votaries he presented his picture, a dangerous gift in after-times, when a strict system of scrutiny prevailed; and when even to be suspected of jacobite principles was an effectual barrier to all promotion in offices, and a severe injury to those in trade. one of these jacobite ladies[ ] is known by her family to have kept the portrait of the prince behind the door of her bedchamber, carefully veiled from any but friendly inspection. early on the morning of friday, the sixth of december, the drums beat to arms, and the bagpipes were heard playing in different parts of the town: the forces, it was expected by the townsmen, were thus summoned to continue their march to loughborough, a town full of jacobites, who were known to have been pledging the young adventurer's health on their bare and bended knees.[ ] the retreat was begun in such haste, and attended with such confusion, that many of the highlanders left their arms behind them, where they were quartered. at nine o'clock, prince charles, in deep dejection, was seen mounted on a black horse, which had belonged to the brave colonel gardiner;--to quit exeter-house, and, crossing the market-place, to proceed to broken-row; he then turned through sadler gate, towards ashbourn; he was followed by the main body of his army. before eleven o'clock, derby, so lately resembling, in its busy streets, the animated scene of a highland fair, was totally cleared of all the highland troops. but the consternation of the inhabitants paralyzed them. on that day no market was held, as usual; nor did the bells toll to church on the next sunday; nor was divine service performed in any of the numerous and fine churches which grace the town.[ ] the retreat, thus begun under such inauspicious circumstances, was left solely to the guidance of the general who had so earnestly recommended it; and lord george murray took the sole management of it. in the dawn of the morning, when some of the troops had begun their march, the highlanders did not perceive in which direction they were marching; they believed that they were going to give the duke of cumberland battle. when they discovered that they were in retreat, a murmur of lamentation ran through the ranks. "the inferior officers," lord elcho relates,[ ] "were much surprised when they found the army moving back, and imagined some bad news had been received; but, when they were told everything, and found the army had marched so far into england without the least invitation from any englishman of distinction, they blamed their superiors much for carrying them so far, and approved much of going back to scotland. they had all along imagined they were marching to join the english, and were acting in concert with them. to the common men it was given out the army was going to meet their friends from scotland, and to prevent marshal wade from getting in between them, whose army was at wetherby and doncaster." the influence, however, of these contradictory reports upon the common men was soon conspicuous. the march was at first regular enough; but the whole bearing of the highlanders was changed. dispirited and indignant, they became reckless in their conduct: they lingered on the way, and committed outrages of which but few instances had been heard during their march southwards. lord george murray found it difficult to keep his army together. "in the advance," observes sir walter scott, "they showed the sentiments of brave men, come, in their opinion, to liberate their fellow-citizens; in the retreat, they were caterans, returning from a creagh." the cause which they had adopted, had lost, from this moment, all hope, though the mournful interest attached to it still remained, perhaps, with increasing force. in order to conceal the retreat as long from the enemy as possible, a party of horse was ordered to advance some miles in the direction of lichfield, where the duke of cumberland was posted; and, to keep up the delusion, powder was distributed among the army. it was also insinuated that wade was at hand, and that they were going to fight him; but when the soldiers found themselves on the road to ashbourn they suspected the truth, and became still more sullen and dejected. another artifice adopted to raise their spirits was a report, circulated purposely among them, that the reinforcements expected from scotland were on their road, and that having met these, near preston the army would resume its march southwards. this project, however distasteful to lord george murray, was, it seems, seriously entertained by the prince. and now commenced the difficulties of that undertaking in which lord george had pledged himself to conduct an army of little more than six thousand men, in the depth of winter, in safety to scotland, although in the neighbourhood of two great armies. the management of this retreat has been a subject of admiration to all competent judges of military affairs; it has conferred lasting honour on the capacity of lord george murray as a general. it was of the greatest importance, under his circumstances, that lord george should know of the movements and intentions of the enemy; and such was his system, such his address, in employing spies and emissaries, that he was always informed of what took place in the armies of the duke and general wade. one of his principal agents was hewett, a butcher in derby; who, from his local knowledge, could tell many particulars of the country-gentlemen, as well as of the movements of the duke and his formidable forces.[ ] the highland army arrived on the night of the sixth at ashbourn, on the following day they reached leek, on the ninth they arrived at manchester, where a great revulsion of feeling had taken place. the "hanoverian mob," to use the expression of mr. maxwell, were determined to dispute the prince's entrance; but when his vanguard appeared, these noisy heroes were instantly silenced.[ ] from manchester the prince proceeded to wigan, and thence to preston, where he halted on the twelfth. here the disappointed young man recurred to his cherished project, that of having reinforcements sent from scotland, under viscount strathallan, who had been left in command at perth, and those also under lord john drummond. upon his arrival at preston, he sent the duke of perth into scotland to bring them with the utmost expedition. he was resolved to retire no further until he met them, and then to march directly for london, casting his whole chance of success upon the event of that step. among the generals and chiefs of this army a different sentiment had now arisen. a safe retreat was their object, and the subject of universal attention. hitherto there had been little or no danger; it was impossible for the enemy to overtake the army before it had reached preston; but between preston and carlisle it was practicable for the enemy's cavalry to come up with the prince's army during that march. there was even a greater danger to be apprehended than the pursuit of the duke. marshal wade had left his position at newcastle-upon-tyne, having been ordered by the duke to place himself between the insurgent forces and scotland, in order to cut off the retreat. there were in those days but few roads, or even passes in the mountainous regions of cumberland and westmoreland, by which a regular army could march. there was, however, an excellent road from newcastle to penrith, a town through which wade might march his army, and where he could arrive a day or two before the prince, and intercept his retreat. on the fifteenth the prince arrived at kendal, and here lord george murray, taking a body of life-guards, went in person to reconnoitre the position of the enemy. he brought back several prisoners, who gave him all the information of which he was desirous. from what was thus gathered, lord george perceived that the whole cavalry of wade's army might possibly overtake the highland forces before they could reach carlisle; he therefore represented to the prince the propriety of sacrificing the cannon and heavy baggage to the safety of the men; since the mountainous journey from kendal to penrith rendered the transit of such carriages very difficult. but the prince was determined that his retreat should have the air of retiring, not of flying; he was resolved not to leave a single piece of his cannon; he would rather fight both armies than give such a proof of weakness. he issued peremptory orders that the march should be continued as before, and that not a single carriage should be left at kendal. the dissensions between charles edward and lord george murray had now ripened into reproaches on the one hand, answered by something not unlike taunts on the other. the former had cherished a predilection for battles ever since his victory at glandsmuir, and he often broke out into expressions of anger towards his general, for his having prevented his fighting the duke of cumberland at derby. as they quitted kendal, lord george observed to charles, "since your royal highness is always for battles, be the circumstances what they may; i now offer you one, in three hours from this time, with the army of marshal wade, who is only three miles distant from this place." the prince made no reply, but mounted into his carriage. all his ardour in marching at the head of the clans was gone; he had become listless, careless, and dejected since the retreat. the army were dispirited by his gloomy and mournful aspect; and a still greater degree of difficulty and responsibility devolved therefore upon their general. on the sixteenth of december the army slept at shap, and on the seventeenth the prince arrived at penrith; but the artillery, and the regiment of the macdonalds of glengarry, could only reach shap by nightfall. on the following morning lord george proceeded towards penrith. scarcely had he begun his march when he saw a number of the enemy's light horse hovering about, but not venturing within musket-shot. about midday, as the highland army began to ascend an eminence about half-way between shap and penrith, they discovered cavalry riding two and two abreast on the top of the hill. these instantly disappeared, but the noise of the kettle-drums and trumpets announced that they were only on the other side of the hill, and that they were probably forming in order of battle. lord george was in the rear of the highland army. the advanced guard stopped at the foot of the hill, when suddenly they formed a resolution to advance sword in hand on the enemy, without informing lord george of their resolution. on arriving at the summit of the hill, the party whose kettle-drums and trumpets had caused such an alarm, were found to be only three hundred light horse and chasseurs, who instantly fled. one prisoner only was made, a man who fell from his horse. it was desirable, on all accounts, to have preserved the life of this person, but the fury of the highlanders was such that he was instantly cut to pieces. after this alarm, this detachment of the highland army resumed their march: the appearance of the light horse had, however, begotten an impression that wade's forces were not far distant. the chevalier johnstone, more especially, had strong misgivings on the subject; his fears were confirmed by his serjeant dickson, who called his attention to something black on a hill about three miles distant. this appearance, which every one else regarded as bushes, was soon found to be the english army, slowly but surely advancing. before the vanguard could recover the surprise, the duke of cumberland, who had pursued them with forced marches, fell upon the macdonalds, who were in the rear, with fury. fortunately the road running between thorn hedges and ditches, the english cavalry could not act in such a manner as to surround the army, nor present a larger front than the breadth of the road. the highlanders instantly ran to the enclosures in which the english were, fell on their knees, and began to cut down the hedges with their dirks. this precaution was necessary, for their limbs were unprotected by anything lower than their kilts. during this operation, they sustained the fire of the english with admirable firmness. as soon as the hedges were cut down, they jumped into the enclosures sword in hand, and broke the english battalions. a fierce and deadly contest ensued. the english were nearly cut to pieces without quitting their ground. platoons might, indeed, be seen, composed of forty or fifty men falling beneath the highlanders, yet they remained firm, closing up their ranks, as fast as an opening was made by the broad-swords of the highlanders. this remarkable attack was made in person by lord george murray, at the head of the macphersons, whom he ordered to charge. at length the english dragoons were driven from their posts, and closely pursued until they arrived at the moor where their main body was planted. in this "scuffle" the macphersons lost only twelve men; about one hundred of the english were killed or wounded. a footman in the service of the duke of cumberland was the only prisoner made by the highlanders. this man declared that his royal master would have been killed, if the pistol, with which a highlander took aim at his head, had not missed fire. prince charles, with much courtesy, sent him back instantly to the duke.[ ] such is a brief account of the engagement which lord george murray calls a "little skirmish," but which must have afforded, at all events, some notion of highland valour to the duke of cumberland and his dragoons. but, independent of the dauntless bravery of the macphersons, to the skill of lord george murray may be attributed much of the success of the action. before the firing began, he contrived, by rolling up his colours, and causing them to be carried half open to different places, to deceive the enemy with regard to the numbers of the highland force; and to make them conclude that the whole of the army was posted in the village of clifton. with about a thousand men in all, he contrived to defeat five hundred dragoons, backed by a great body of cavalry, all well disciplined troops. the moon, which was in its second quarter, appeared at intervals during the close of the action, and gave but a fitful light, being often over-clouded, so that the combatants fought almost in gloom, except for a few minutes at a time. the english, being all on horseback, were just visible to their foes, but the "little highlanders" were in darkness. "we had the advantage," observes lord george, "of seeing their disposition, but they could not see ours."[ ] this encounter had the effect of saving the prince and the whole army. "it was lucky," calmly remarks lord george murray, "that i made that stand at clifton, for otherwise the enemy would have been at our heels, and come straight to penrith, where, after refreshing two or three hours, they might have come up with us before we got to carlisle."[ ] lord george was in imminent danger during the action at clifton. fortunately, an old man, glenbucket, who was very infirm, remained at the end of the village on horseback. he entreated lord george to be very careful, "for if any accident happened, he would be blamed." "he gave me," relates lord george, "his targe; it was convex, and covered with a plate of metal, which was painted; the paint was cleared in two or three places, with the enemy's bullets; and, indeed, they were so thick about me, that i felt them hot about my head, and i thought some of them went through my hair, which was about two inches long, my bonnet having fallen off."[ ] in this skirmish lord george commanded the glengarry regiment, who had remained, at the general's request, in the rear, to guard the baggage. the officers, observes lord george, "behaved to my wish, and punctually obeyed the orders they received. that very morning, however, the glengarry regiment had told lord george that they would not have stayed three days behind the rest of the army to guard the baggage for any man but himself." the stewarts, of appin, were also among the most valiant of the combatants; but the most signal instances of courage were shown by macpherson of clunie, and his fierce band. this unfortunate chief was engaged in the insurrection of ; that circumstance had been overlooked by government; and, in the very year , he had been appointed to a company in lord loudon's regiment, and had taken the oaths to government. his clan were, however, anxious to espouse the cause of charles edward. whilst clunie wavered, his honour requiring the fulfilment of his oaths, his affections, and his hereditary principles leading him to follow charles, his wife, although a stanch jacobite, and a daughter of lord lovat, entreated him not to break his oaths, and represented that nothing would end well which began with perjury. she was overruled by the friends of clunie, and he hastened to his ruin.[ ] the victorious general remained at clifton half an hour after all the other officers had proceeded to penrith. this circumstance disproved a statement given in the english newspapers, which intimated that the highlanders had been beaten from their post at clifton. on the contrary, "i heard," observed lord george, "that the enemy went a good many miles for quarters, and i am persuaded they were as weary of that day's fatigue as we could be." upon arriving at penrith, lord george found the prince much pleased with what had occurred. he was, however, just taking horse for carlisle. on the next day, after staying a very short time at penrith to refresh, lord george joined charles edward in that city, which had yielded so short a time previously to his arms; and here various circumstances occurred which sufficiently show the discord which prevailed in the councils of the young chevalier. during the march, the young prince had manifested a lofty sense of his own honour; but it was combined with a great degree of obstinacy in some respects, almost accompanied by puerility. disgusted with the retreat, indignant with the promoter of that step, bent upon returning to england, unhappy, discouraged, and distracted by evil counsels, the prince had plainly shown, that he would controvert the opinions of lord george in every possible instance. he had lingered so late in the morning before leaving his quarters, as to detain the rear, which that general commanded, long after the van. this was a great inconvenience, and difficult for an impetuous temper to tolerate. the prince not only refused to allow the army to be eased of any of the ammunition, being resolved "rather to fight both their armies than to give such a proof of his weakness;"[ ] but he carried that order to an extreme, behaving as a petulant young man, who exerts power more in anger than from reflection. the march thus encumbered had been made with a degree of difficulty and fatigue which tried the patience of the soldiers, who were obliged, in one instance, to drag, like horses, the heavy waggons, in order to get them through a stream of water where there was a narrow pass, and a steep ascent.[ ] no enemy had molested the troops after they left penrith; and it appeared evident that, at that time, the duke of cumberland had no intention of coming to a pitched battle, but intended only to take advantage of the disorder which he might suppose would have attended the retreat of an army of militia. on arriving at carlisle, a council of war was held. lord george murray was in favour of evacuating carlisle, but his influence was overruled. "i had been so much fatigued," he remarks, "for some days before, that i was very little at the prince's quarters that day." it was, however, determined to leave a garrison in carlisle, for prince charles had set his heart upon returning to england. he, therefore, placed in the castle mr. hamilton, whilst the unfortunate mr. townley commanded the town. "this," remarks mr maxwell,[ ] "was perhaps the worst resolution that the prince had taken hitherto. i cannot help condemning it, though there were specious pretexts for it." it would, indeed, have been highly advantageous for the prince to have retained one of the keys of england; and he might have hoped to return before the place could be retaken. of this, however, he could not be certain; and he was undoubtedly wrong in exposing the lives of the garrison without an indispensable necessity, which, according to maxwell, did not exist; for "blowing up the castle, and the gates of the town might equally have given him an entry into england." the day after the prince had arrived in carlisle, he left it, and proceeded northwards. one cause of this, apparently, needless haste was, the state of the river esk, about seven miles from carlisle; it was, by a nearer road, impassable. this stream, it was argued, might be swollen by a few hours rain, and then it could not be forded. the prince might thus be detained at carlisle; and he had now become extremely impatient to know the exact state of his affairs in scotland; to collect his forces, in order to return to england. letters from lord john drummond had re-assured him of the good will of the court of france--that delusive hope was not even then extinct. advice from viscount strathallan had imparted excellent accounts of the army in scotland. under these circumstances, charles hastened forward, and encountered the difficult passage over the esk. hope again gladdened the heart of one for whose errors, when we consider the stake for which he fought, and the cherished wishes of his youth, too little allowance has been made. but, in the eyes of others, the prospect of the young chevalier's return to england was regarded as wholly visionary; and the planting a garrison in the dilapidated fortress of carlisle, was deemed indifference to the fate of his adherents who remained, unwillingly, and certain of their doom. "the retreat from derby was considered throughout england," observes sir walter scott, "as the close of the rebellion: as a physician regards a distemper to be nearly overcome, when he can drive it from the stomach and nobler parts, into the extremities of the body."[ ] the army, after marching from three o'clock in the morning until two in the afternoon, arrived on the borders of the esk. this river, which is usually shallow, had already been swollen by an incessant rain of several days, to the depth of four feet. it was, therefore, necessary to cross it instantly, for fear of a continuation of the rain, and an increase of the danger. the passage over the esk was admirably contrived; it could only have been effected by highlanders. the cavalry formed in the river, to break the force of the current, about twenty-five paces above the ford where the infantry were to pass. then the highlanders plunged into the water, arranging themselves into ranks of ten or twelve a-breast, with their arms locked in such a manner as to support one another against the rapidity of the river, leaving sufficient intervals between their ranks for the passage of the water. "we were nearly a hundred men a-breast," writes lord george murray;[ ] "and it was a very fine show. the water was big, and most of the men breast-high. when i was near across the river, i believe there were two thousand men in the water at once: there was nothing seen but their heads and shoulders; but there was no danger, for we had crossed many waters, and the ford was good; and highlanders will pass a water where horses will not, which i have often seen. they hold by one another, by the neck of the coat, so that if one should fall, he is in no danger, being supported by the others, so all went down, or none." the scene must have been extremely singular. "the interval between the cavalry," remarks an eyewitness, "appeared like a paved street through the river, the heads of the highlanders being generally all that was seen above the water. cavalry were also placed beneath the ford, to pick up all those who might be carried away by the current. in an hour's time the whole army had passed the river esk; and the boundary between england and scotland was again passed."[ ] lord george murray had, on this occasion, assumed the national dress. "i was this day," he says "in my philibeg." well might he, in after times, when reviewing the events of the memorable campaign of , dwell with pride on the hardihood of those countrymen from whom he was for ever an exile when he composed his journal. "all the bridges that were thrown down in england," he remarks, "to prevent their advancing in their march forwards, never retarded them a moment." nor was the philibeg assumed merely for the convenience of the passage over the esk. "i did not know," writes lord george, "but the enemy might have come from penrith by brampton, so shunned the water of eden, to have attacked us in passing this water of esk; and nothing encouraged the men more, than seeing their officers dressed like themselves, and ready to share their fate." some ladies had forded the river on horseback immediately before the highland regiments. these fair, and bold equestrians might have given intelligence; but luckily they did not. the general who had provided so carefully and admirably for the safety of his troops, knew well how to temper discipline with indulgence. fires were instantly kindled to dry the men as they quitted the water. the poor highlanders, when they found themselves on scottish ground, forgot all the vexation of their retreat, and broke out into expressions of joy;--of short lived continuance among a slaughtered and hunted people. it was near night; yet the bagpipes struck up a national air as the last of the highland host passed the river: and the highlanders began dancing reels, "which," relates lord george, "in a moment dried them, for they had held up the tails of their short coats in passing the river; so when their legs were dry, all was right." this day, forming an epoch in the sorrowful narrative of the insurrection of , was the birthday of prince charles, who then attained his twenty-fifth year. many mercies had marked the expedition into england, fruitless as it had proved. after six weeks' march, and sojourn, in england, amid innumerable enemies, threatened by two formidable armies in different directions, the jacobite forces, entering england on the eighth of november, and quitting it on the twentieth of december, had returned without losing more than forty men, including the twelve killed at clifton wall. they had traversed a country well-peopled with english peasantry, without any attacks except upon such marauders as strayed from their main body. as soon as the army had passed the river, the prince formed it into two columns, which separated; the one, conducted by charles edward, took the road to ecclefechan; the other, under the command of lord george murray, marched to annan. in the disposition of these routes, the principal object was to keep the english in a state of uncertainty as to the direction in which the jacobite army intended to go, and the towns which they purposed to occupy: and the end was answered; for no just notion was given of the movements of the highlanders until after the subsequent junction of the two columns; and time was thus gained. there being no town within eight or ten miles from the river esk, the army were obliged to march nearly all night. the column conducted by the prince had to cross mossy ground, under a pouring rain, which had continued ever since the skirmish at clifton wall. the guides who conducted lord george's division led them off the road; this was, however, a necessary precaution in order to shun houses, the lights from which might have tempted the drenched and hungry soldiers to stray, and take shelter. then the hardy and energetic general of his matchless forces first felt the effects of this laborious march in unusual debility, and fever. at moffat, this column halted; and divine service was performed in different parts of the town, all the men attending. "our people," remarks lord george, "were very regular that way; and i remember, at derby, the day we halted, as a battle was soon expected, many of our officers and people took the sacrament."[ ] on the twenty-fifth of december, lord george arrived at glasgow, having passed through the towns of hamilton and douglas, and here, on the following day, charles edward also arrived, with the other column. lord elcho, who had conducted the cavalry through dumfries, preceded the two great divisions. it was resolved to give the army some days' rest after the excessive fatigue which the men had uncomplainingly sustained. the spirits of charles edward were now recruited, and his example contributed not a little to the alacrity and energy of his force. small, indeed, did it appear, when he reviewed it on glasgow-green, and found how little he had suffered during his expedition into england. hitherto charles had carefully concealed his weakness; but now, hoping in a few days to double his army, he was not unwilling to show with what a handful of men he had penetrated into england, and conducted an enterprise, bold in its conception, and admirable in its performance. at glasgow, the melancholy fate of the brave garrison in carlisle became known to the jacobite army. two days after the prince had left, the duke of cumberland invested it, and began to batter that part of the wall which is towards the irish gate. the governor of the castle, mr. hamilton, determined to capitulate even before a breach had been made in the walls; and his proposal was vainly resisted by the brave francis townley and others, who were resolved to defend themselves to the last extremity. "they were in the right."[ ] they might have held out for several days, and perhaps obtained better terms; but the governor persisted in surrendering to the clemency of king george, promised by his inhuman and dishonourable son. assurances of intercession were given by the duke of cumberland, and the garrison of three hundred men surrendered. on the duke's return to london, it was decided by the british government that he was not bound to observe a capitulation with rebels. the brave, and confiding prisoners perished, twelve of the officers by the common hangman, at kennington; others, at carlisle--many died in prison. their fate reflected strongly upon the conduct of charles edward; but the general character of that young prince, his hatred of blood, his love of his adherents, prove that it was not indifference to their safety which actuated him in the sacrifice of the garrison of carlisle. he was possessed with an infatuation, believing that he should one day, and that day not distant, re-enter england; he was surrounded by favourites, who all encouraged his predilections, and fostered the hereditary self-will of his ill-starred race. the blood of townley, and of his brave fellow-sufferers, rests not as a stain on the memory of lord george murray; and the prince alone must bear the odium of that needless sacrifice to a visionary future. "we must draw a veil," says the chevalier johnstone, "over this piece of cruelty, being altogether unable either to discover the motive for leaving this three hundred men at carlisle, or to find an excuse for it."[ ] on arriving at glasgow, the prince sent a gentleman to perth to procure a particular account of the state of affairs in that part of the country; and on finding that his forces were so widely scattered that a considerable time must elapse before they could reassemble, he gave up the hope of returning to england, and determined upon the sieges of edinburgh and stirling. on the fourth of january he marched from glasgow to bannockburn, where he took up his quarters; and lord george murray, with the clans, occupied falkirk. before the twelfth of the same month, general hawley, who had now formed a considerable army in edinburgh, resolved upon raising the siege of stirling, before which the trenches were opened. lord george murray was, however, resolved to make a strong effort to prevent this scheme of general hawley's from taking effect. hearing that there was a provision made of bread and forage at linlithgow for general hawley's troops, he resolved to surprise the town and to carry off the provisions. he set out at four o'clock in the morning; was joined by lord elcho and lord pitsligo, with their several bodies of horse, and before sunrise linlithgow was invested. the jacobites were disturbed, however, in their quarters by a party of general hawley's dragoons; and a report which prevailed that another body of horse and foot were also approaching, induced lord george to return to falkirk. on the following day he returned to stirling; and the clans were quartered in the adjacent villages. the reinforcements which had been so long expected from the north were now near at hand; so that they could scarcely fail to arrive before an engagement began. the clans were augmented in number, and what was almost of equal importance, they had regained confidence and health on returning to their native land. all were in high spirits at the prospect of an engagement. the prince employed the fifteenth day of the month in choosing a field of battle; on the sixteenth he reviewed the army. the plan of the engagement was drawn out by lord george murray, according to his usual practice. the army of the insurgents amounted to nine thousand men. on that evening he learned that general hawley had encamped on the plain between that town and the river carron: upon which a council was called, and it was resolved the next day to attack the enemy. the sympathies of the modern reader can scarcely fail to be enlisted in the cause of the jacobites, who appear henceforth in the character of the valiant defenders of their hills and homes, their hereditary monarchy, their national honour and rights. whatever an englishman may have felt on beholding the incursions of a highland force in his own country, the sentiment is altered into one of respect and of compassion when he views the scene of the contest changed, and sees the hopeless struggle fought on scottish ground. never were two parties more strongly contrasted than the hanoverians and the jacobites. the very expressions which each party used towards the other, as well as their conduct in the strife, are characteristic of the coarse insolence of possession, and the gallant contest for restoration. nothing could present a more revolting contrast than that between the individuals who headed the armies of government, and the unfortunate prince charles and his brave adherents. in opposition to his generosity and forbearance stood the remorseless vengeance of the duke of cumberland. in comparison with the lofty, honest, fearless lord george murray, was the low instrument of cumberland, the detestable hawley. one blushes to write his name an english word. succeeding general wade, whose feeble powers had become nearly extinct in the decline of age, general hawley was the beloved officer, the congenial associate of the young and royal commander-in-chief, who even at his early age could select a man without love to man, or reverence to god, for his general. these two were kindred spirits, worthy of an union in the task of breaking the noblest hearts, and crushing and enslaving the finest people that ever blessed a land of sublime beauty. perhaps, if one may venture to make so strong an assertion, the general was more odious than his patron. it is, indeed, no easy point to decide towards which of these two notorious, for i will not call them distinguished men, the disgust of all good minds must be excited in the greater degree. in contempt for their fellow men, in suspicion and distrust, they were alike. in the directions for hawley's funeral, he wrote in his will: "the priest, i conclude, will have his fee: let the puppy take it. i have written all this with my own hand; and this i did because i hate priests of all professions, and have the worst opinion of all members of the law." to this low and ignorant contempt for the members of two learned professions, hawley added an utter disregard of every tie of honour; he was wholly unconscious of the slightest emotion of humanity; he revelled in the terrors of power. the citizens beheld, with disgust, gibbets erected on his arrival there, to hang up any rebels who might fall into his hands: the very soldiers detested the general who had executioners to attend the army. the generous nature of englishmen turned against the man, who, as it has been well remarked, "deserved not the name of soldier." they gave him the nick-name of the "chief justice;" and hated him as a man unworthy to cope with brave and honourable foes. general hawley had all the contempt, fashionable in those days, for highland valour. "give me but two regiments of horse," he said, "and i will soon ride over the whole highland army." he quickly, however, learned his mistake; his contempt was, therefore, changed into a fiendish abhorrence, exhibited in the most horrible forms of unmitigated revenge. it was decided by charles and his generals, in a council held on the evening preceding the battle of falkirk, to attack the hanoverian troops by break of day. the tor wood, formerly an extensive forest, but much decayed, lay between the two armies. the high road from stirling to falkirk, through bannockburn, passes through what was once the middle of the wood. about eleven in the morning the jacobite army was seen, marching in two columns, and advancing to the rising ground. scarcely had they begun their march than the sky was overcast, and a violent storm blinded their enemy, who were, on the other hand, marching with their bayonets fixed; the fury of the tempest was such, that they could hardly secure their pieces from the rain. lord george murray, with his drawn sword in his hand, and his target on his arm, conducted the macdonalds of keppoch. this clan regiment advanced very slowly that they might keep their ranks until they had gained possession of the ground they wanted; they then turned their backs to the wind, and formed into the line of battle. the field which they intended to occupy was skirted by a deep morass as they came foot by foot, within pistol shot of the enemy. meantime, general ligonier, with three regiments of dragoons, began to move towards the highlanders: whilst lord george murray, riding along the ranks of the macdonalds, was forbidding them to fire until he gave orders. the english came at last, on full trot, almost close up to the line: then lord george murray gave the word of command to fire; the dragoons were instantly repulsed and fled back; upon which lord george commanded the macdonalds to keep within ranks, and stand firm. a total rout of the king's troops ensued; and the field of battle presented a strange spectacle. the english troops were, during the whole of the battle, severely incommoded by the storm of wind and rain, which almost blinded the enemy; but, independent of this accidental cause, their usual valour was, on this day, called into question. they fled in every direction. this famous battle did not last more than twenty minutes from the first fire of the macdonalds to the retreat of the last regiment of dragoons. before it grew dark general hawley gave orders that his tents should be burned; he then retreated to linlithgow. many brave english officers fell in this ill-conducted engagement, and their defeat was attributed at once to the arrogant confidence of hawley, and to the courage and discipline of the macdonalds of keppoch, who, under the skilful command of lord george murray, are considered to have won the day. "if the bravery of the macdonald regiments were put out of view," observes mr. chambers, "it might be said that the storm had gained the jacobites the battle." but the rain, which lasted during the whole of the battle, prevented a full advantage of the defeat being taken. the highlanders, who do not use cartridges, were unable to load again, but were forced to have recourse to their broadswords; they were, however, out-lined by one-half of the enemy's infantry, and one of the battalions wheeling about, they were thrown into disorder by the force of a flank fire. they retreated up the hill, and before they could be rallied, the english, who could not be prevailed upon to stand a second attack of the highland broadswords, had begun an orderly retreat. had the whole of the jacobite army been at hand, to rush headlong upon the enemy the moment they turned their backs, few of their infantry would have escaped being killed or taken.[ ] lord george murray, advancing with the atholl men, who had kept the line in perfect order, pursued the retreating army towards falkirk. he had arrived at the foot of the hill just as the english troops entered the town, which was at the distance of a musket-shot from the place where he stood. it was then proposed by most of the officers to retire towards dunnipace, in order to shelter the men from the incessant rain; but lord george opposed this proposition. he had observed the disorder of the english: "let them not have time," he remarked, "to rally, and to line the houses, and clean their guns, so as to defend the town of falkirk; there is not a moment to be lost." he concluded with the expression of count mercy at the battle of parma--"i will either lie in the town, or in paradise." prince charles coming up at the instant, approved of the resolution. a singular difficulty now occurred; there were no bag-pipes to inspirit the men with a warlike air; the pipers, as soon as a battle began, were in the practice of giving their pipes into the keeping of boys, who had to take care of themselves, and often disappeared with the instruments. "the pipers, who," as lord george remarks, "were commonly as good men as any," then charged with the rest. this circumstance, which might appear trifling, was in fact the cause why the macdonalds and other clans had not rallied from the first.[ ] such was the importance of the national music at this critical moment. in ancient days the bards shared the office of encouragement to the clans. it was their part to stimulate valour, and, before the battle began they passed from tribe to tribe, giving exhortations, and expatiating on the dishonour of retreat. they familiarized the people with a notion of death, and took from it, in one sense, its sting. when their voices could no longer be heard, they were succeeded by the pipes, whose wailing and powerful strains kept alive the enthusiasm which languished when those notes ceased to be heard.[ ] lochiel, lord ogilvy, colonel roy stewart, and several other chiefs, followed lord george murray into the town. on the ensuing day charles and most of the army entered it. all were disappointed not to overtake the enemy; and lord george murray has left on record proofs of his bitter disappointment at the fruitless issue of this gallant encounter, much of which he attributes to want of decision and arrangement. early on the morning of the battle, he had given the prince a scroll of the line of battle, which was approved; he had requested that it might be filled in with the names of officers appointed to command. "i never," he observes, "heard that there was any appointment made that day." when it was agreed to march towards the enemy between twelve and one, he asked the prince whether, since there was no other lieutenant-general there, he should march at the head of the army? he was answered in the affirmative, after which he never received any other instructions until the action was over. the difficulties which lord george had, therefore, to encounter, without knowing who were to command in the different stations; with only two aides-de-camp, both on foot, whilst his personal enemies were near the prince in the time of the action, and did little to advise or suggest, are strongly insisted upon in his narrative. "i believe," he adds, after firmly but dispassionately stating all these unhappy mistakes, "that my conduct was unexceptionable, and that in the advantages we gained i had a considerable share."[ ] the day succeeding the victory of falkirk was passed by the insurgents in burying the slain, and in collecting the spoils. a deep pit was dug by the country people, into which the english soldiers and the highland clansmen were precipitated into one common grave. the former were easily distinguished by the frightful gashes of the broad-swords on their breasts and limbs. the tomb contained a heap of human bodies; and long after the event the spot of this rude sepulchre might be traced by a deep hollow in the field.[ ] charles edward had now arrived at another crisis of his singular destiny. the fate of a single day had once more rendered him victorious, but it requires a superior and matured judgment to profit by success. "one thing is certain," remarks an eye-witness of this contest, and that is, "that the vanquished will always have great resources in the negligence of the victorious party." the battle of falkirk struck terror into every english heart, and the panic of the black monday again spread like a contagion throughout the country. after the retreat from derby, the higher ranks of society in england, who had betrayed an unwonted degree of alarm, concluded that they had nothing more to fear even from "a band of men so desperately brave who had done so much with such little means." the victory at falkirk was, therefore, received with redoubled alarm; and at court, during a ball which was held instantly after the event, only two persons appeared with calm and cheerful countenances. these were the king, whose personal courage was undoubted, and general cope, who rejoiced that hawley's failure might in some measure excuse his own.[ ] under these circumstances, and being assured that the panic in edinburgh equalled that in london, prince charles was strongly advised to repair to edinburgh and to resume the possession of the capital. he hesitated, and the delay proved fatal to his interests. there was no time to be lost;--the conduct of hawley had inspired universal contempt not only for his abilities, but for his cowardice. "general hawley," wrote general wightman to duncan forbes, "is much in the same situation as general cope, and was never seen in the field during the battle; and everything would have gone to wreck in a worse manner than at preston, if general huske had not acted with judgment and courage, and appeared everywhere." lord george murray remained at falkirk with the clans until apprised, through the secretary murray, that the duke of cumberland was expected at edinburgh on the twenty-eighth of the month; and that it was charles's intention to attack him as soon as he arrived at falkirk. at the first news of the project, lord george seemed to approve of it; he drew up a plan of the battle, which he submitted to the ardent young chevalier, who was delighted to think that he was to have to oppose the duke of cumberland in person. but this hope was transient; for on the very same evening, a representation, signed at falkirk, by lord george murray and all the commanders of clans, begging him to retreat, was presented to the disappointed and indignant charles edward. the great desertions which were daily taking place since the battle, was made the chief plea of this unexpected address; two thousand men, it was alleged, had gone off since that action, whilst the army of the enemy was reinforced. some of the battalions were said to be one-third weaker than before the engagement at falkirk. the prince received this address with a dissatisfaction even more apparent than that which he had shown at derby, when persuaded to retreat. he dashed his head against the wall with violence, exclaiming, "good god! have i lived to see this?" as the event showed, it had perhaps been wiser to have risked the event of an action at that time, than to have awaited the mournful catastrophe of culloden. at length, although he never could be brought to approve of the step, charles gave a reluctant and sorrowful consent to that which all his chieftains called upon him to adopt. the burden of the censure which was afterwards cast upon this decision, was thrown upon the lieutenant-general. "i was told," writes lord george, "that i was much blamed for it. i really cannot tell who was the first that spoke of it, but this i am sure, every one of us were unanimously of the same opinion." the siege of stirling had proved, indeed, wholly unsuccessful; that very morning the battery, although it had been long in preparation, was silenced in a few hours after it began to play. it was therefore determined to abandon it; and it was decided that the time of the army would be more profitably employed in driving lord loudon from inverness, and in taking the forts in the north, than in a rash engagement, or a hopeless siege. the spirit of the enterprise was, indeed, gone; otherwise such a retreat could never have been proposed and entertained. it was, however, fully determined on. the deepest dejection prevailed among the army when it was announced. the prince still remained at bannockburn. on the thirty-first of the month it was determined to have a general review of the troops; the retreat was not to begin until ten o'clock. early in the morning charles edward, still hoping that the desertions were not so numerous as had been represented, and that the "odious retreat" might be prevented, came out to view his troops. there was hardly the appearance of an army to receive him. on hearing the decision of the prince, the men had risen at day-break and had gone off to the frews, many of them having arrived by that time at that ford. there was nothing to be done; lord george murray, who had now joined the prince from falkirk, and who was quartered with some troops in the town of stirling, was summoned. the prince marched off with some of the chiefs and the few troops he had with him, and lord george brought up the rear. a great portion of the artillery was left behind; the heaviest pieces being nailed up and abandoned. the retreat was thus precipitately commenced, and presented a very different aspect to the withdrawal of the prince's troops from derby. of this disorderly and disreputable march, lord george murray knew nothing until it was begun. the very morning on which it took place, the church of st. ninian's, where the powder was lodged, was blown up. lord george murray was in his quarters when he heard the great noise of the explosion, and thought it was a firing from the castle. "my surprise," he thus writes, "is not to be expressed.[ ] i knew no enemy was even come the length of falkirk; so that, except the garrison of stirling castle, nothing could hurt us. i imagined they had sallied, and made the confusion i observed. i shall say no more about this; a particular account of it is wrote. i believe the like of it never was heard of." the destruction of st. ninian's tower is attributed by most historians to the awkwardness of the highlanders, in attempting to destroy their ammunition. "i am apt to think it was an accident," observes maxwell, "or, at least, the design of some very private person, for there was no warning given to any body to get out of the way. nine or ten country people, and five of the jacobite soldiers, perished from the explosion; and the prince, over whose existence a special providence appeared to have watched, was within being hurt when the explosion took place."[ ] the highland army was quartered on the first night of their march at doune and dumblain; and assembled the next day at crieff. here charles edward again reviewed them, and to his surprise found that they had mostly re-assembled, and that scarcely a thousand of the troops were wanting. the young prince, who had reluctantly consented to the retreat upon the supposition that he had lost one half of his army, reproached lord george murray with having advised that step. many were the censures heaped upon the general for his councils; and it must be acknowledged, that the caution apparent in his character was, in this instance, carried to an extreme. he excused himself on the plea of his opinion having been that of the whole army; but exonerated himself from any participation in the sudden departure, or, as he calls it, "the flight" from stirling. at the council which was then called, heats and animosities rose to a height which had never before been witnessed, even among the vehement and discordant advisers of the prince. after many fierce altercations, it was determined that prince charles should march to inverness by the highland road; and that lord george murray, with his horse, and the low country regiments, should proceed along the coast road, by montrose and aberdeen to the same place. during the last few months the marquis of tullibardine had been stationary, employing himself in the fruitless endeavour to stimulate the tenantry and the neighbourhood to join the army of charles edward. after leaving bannockburn he remained at polmaise, a small village in stirlingshire, until urged by lord george to repair to blair castle, to garrison that place; for which purpose, according to his opinion, a body of fifty men would be sufficient. in his letters to his brother, lord george recommends a degree of severity towards deserters which was not consonant with the mild temper of tullibardine: "those who have gone home without a special licence on furlough, must be exemplarily punished, either in their persons or effects, or in both; for when our all depends, lenity would be folly." after urging the marquis to send off the men to blair by dozens, he adds, "if rewards and punishments do not, i know not what will. by the laws of god and man you have both in your power and your person:" thus alluding to the marquis's position as a chief. but these decisive measures were impracticable. "i was ordered by the duke of atholl" writes david robertson from blair, to his brother, an officer in lord george's regiment, "to take up and imprison all deserters; but i might as well attempt to move a mountain, being left here without money, or men capable of being made officers." nor was the marquis's power more effectual. the most sincere desire to comply with every wish or counsel of lord george murray's, actuated, indeed, this estimable man. he seems, from his letters, to have felt the most unbounded and affectionate admiration for his brother; a sentiment only inferior to his devotion to the prince; yet we can perceive a covert allusion in some of his injunctions to those frequent disagreements with charles, of which the marquis was probably not ignorant. "pray, take care of our young master's glory as well as your own, and the king's service, which ought to be dear to all honest men who are above selfish views. excuse me," adds the aged nobleman, whose anxieties and sufferings were soon to close in a prison, "for not writing with my own hand; since seeing you, excessive rheumatick pains has rendered it almost impossible." by robertson of strowan, a man noted for his eccentricities, a very gloomy view was taken of the proceedings of the generals and courtiers who surrounded charles. he was ordered by the prince to stay at home, and to stop all the deserters who came in his way. he obeyed the command; but obeyed with the observation, that "all were running to the devil, except the duke of atholl and the laird of strowan." he hinted in his letters, that he could disclose much to the "duke," respecting his nearest relations, both as to their dislike to himself, and their disrespect to his grace. the friendly intercourse between lord george and his brother continued, nevertheless, unabated. the former on one occasion congratulates his brother on the valour of the "atholl men," at the battle of falkirk. the encomium was answered by the marquis's complaints of the sad change in the spirit and loyalty of the clan since the defection of their "unnatural brother james" from the stuart cause. nothing but vexations and disappointments occurred to the marquis on his return to blair. his rents were refused by his tenants on account of their expenditure in the prince's service, and the country around perth was left exposed to the enemy. for some time entreaties from lord george to his brother, that he would send men to replace those who were killed at falkirk of the atholl men, were met by excuses too well grounded in reason. all the "corners of the country" were searched by the marquis's agent, to raise the men in an "amicable way," but without avail. the exertions of poor tullibardine, nevertheless, continued indefatigable, notwithstanding the truly scottish complaints, sciatica and rheumatic pains. "i omit," he writes, "nothing that lies in my power that can contribute towards the public service. god knows what dilatory and imposing evasions one has to struggle with amid a multitude of refractory people in these parts." at length the sum of three hundred pounds was sent to him by secretary murray in order to maintain the recruits whom he had raised on his own estates. eventually the seeds of dissension were sown between lord george murray and his brother. nor can we wonder, however we may grieve, at such an event. the aim of the one was personal glory, fame. the whole heart of the other was centred in the success of the cause. when he suspected that the intentions of that brother, of whom he was so proud, were less disinterested than his own, a mild, but earnest and mournful reproof was wrung from his kind and trusting heart.[ ] until, however, the seat of war was transferred to the paternal home of lord george murray--whilst his immediate interests were spared--the marquis of tullibardine evinced the most sincere confidence in his intentions, and admiration for his talents. afterwards, suspicions, which have been in a great measure dissipated by the testimony of brave and honourable men, might disturb the repose, but could not, eventually, sully the fame of lord george murray. in thus reverting to the domestic concerns of this celebrated man, the position of his lady and children naturally recur. lady george murray had resided during the troubles of at tullibardine, in the parish of blackford, in perthshire. the castle of tullibardine had been fortified by a portion of the earl of mar's army in : but was taken by the earl of argyle. until after the close of the last insurrection it was inhabited by lady george murray; but when the fate of her husband was involved in the general wreck, the old building was suffered to fall to ruin. from this residence, such of lady george murray's letters to her husband as are preserved in the atholl correspondence are dated. they are chiefly addressed to the marquis of tullibardine, and form the medium of correspondence between him and his brother. here, too, she gave birth, after the battle of falkirk, to a daughter named katherine; and during the confinement which followed this event, her ladyship's office as correspondent was fulfilled by her young daughter, who bore the name of amelia. to the letter of this child, lord tullibardine replies with his accustomed courtesy and kindly feeling. "with extreme satisfaction i received," he says, "a mighty well wrote letter from you, which could not but charm me with your endearing merit. i rejoice in being able to congratulate your mother and you on the glorious share my brother george has again had in the fresh victory which providence has given the prince regent over his proud hanoverian enemies! dear child, i thank you kindly for enquiring after my health." to these near, and, as it appears, cherished ties, lord george was probably re-united during the march to crieff. but whatever of domestic happiness he may have enjoyed, its duration was transient; and he passed on to a service full of the hardships of war, but in which he was doomed never more to possess the laurels of victory. from crieff, lord george murray marched to perth, and thence by montrose and aberdeen to inverness. during the inclemency of the winter many of the cavalry lost their horses; but the troopers being, as sir walter relates, "chiefly gentlemen, continued to adhere with fidelity to their ill-omened standards."[ ] a storm of snow rendered the march from aberdeen both dangerous and tedious. lord george had above three hundred carriages of artillery to convey, although a great portion of the artillery was sunk in the river tay, at perth. in forming a junction at inverness, the prince had three objects in view--to reduce fort-william and fort-augustus, on one side; on the other to disperse the army with which lord loudon had opposed him in the north; lastly, to keep possession of the east coast, from which quarter reinforcements and supplies were expected to arrive from france. it was, therefore, decided that lord george murray should continue along the eastern coast, in order to intercept lord loudon's army, in case it came that way. on the sixteenth of february he crossed the river spey, and proceeded by elgin, forres, and nairn, to culloden, where he arrived the day before the castle of inverness surrendered to charles. lord george murray then gave the prince an account of his march, of which even this hardy general speaks as of a journey of inconceivable trouble and fatigue. here discussions took place, in which, as usual, the prince differed in some important points from his lieutenant-general. the plan which lord george proposed was, to procure five thousand bolls of meal in bamff, murray, and nairn, laying a tax in an equal manner on these several shires, and to send this supply to the highlands; so that in case the duke of cumberland, who was now proceeding northwards, should follow them thither, they could have subsistence. to this scheme charles objected; and the meal was lodged in inverness. his confidence in his general, notwithstanding the incessant displays of his ability, was now wholly undermined. charles's affairs were indeed rapidly declining; money, the principal sinew of war, was wanting. "his little stock might have held out a little longer," observes mr. maxwell, "had it been well managed; but it is more than probable that his principal steward was a thief from the beginning." the secretary murray, against whom this charge is levelled, was not, perhaps, more faithless when he appropriated to himself the funds of his unfortunate master, than when he planted in the breast of charles, misgivings of his friends, and abused his influence to mislead a confiding nature. there was, however, no proof against murray of broughton of dishonesty, "but there were very strong presumptions; and his underlings, who suspected that their opportunity would not last long, made the best of it, and filled their pockets with the public money."[ ] by the officers and soldiers at culloden, lord george was received with joy. they regretted his absence, and were pleased to say that had he been with them they should have "given a good account of lord loudon and his troops, whom they had been prevented from pursuing at inverness." lord george soon found that these professions were sincere. the prince was induced to send him to dingwall, that he might assist the earl of cromartie in pursuing lord loudon, who had passed up to tain. this scheme having proved impracticable, he returned to inverness. meantime the county of atholl suffered under the unparalleled cruelties of the english soldiery. the duke of cumberland had visited that interesting district; and it requires little more to be said, to comprehend that beauty was turned to desolation; that crimes hitherto unheard of among a british army reflected dishonour on the conquerors, and brought misery to the conquered. on the sixth of february, , the duke had arrived at perth. his first orders were to seize the duchess of perth, the mother of the duke, and the viscountess strathallan, and to carry them to a small, wretched prison in edinburgh, where they remained nearly a year. the duke of cumberland was succeeded at edinburgh by his brother-in-law, the prince of hesse, who had landed at leith with five thousand infantry and five hundred huzzars in the pay of england. these were stationed in the capital, ready to swarm into the country to subdue its brave inhabitants. whilst lord george murray was still at inverness, he heard that his cherished home, the territory of his proud forefathers, the scenes of his youth, were ravaged by a detachment of cumberland's army. the houses of such gentlemen as had assisted prince charles were burned; and their families, after receiving every species of indignity that could palliate the guilt of a future revenge, and that could break honest hearts, were turned out to perish on the hills with cold and hunger. the very nature of englishmen appears to have been changed during this most mournful, most disgraceful warfare; and never did the british army sink so low in morals, in humanity, as during the german yoke of a prince whom one rejects as a countryman.[ ] lord george was instantly ordered to go to atholl. little could he suspect the construction afterwards placed on his conduct, and the snare which was laid for him by his enemies, in the events of the next few weeks. lord george marched with unheard of dispatch towards atholl. already had the duke of cumberland placed at different parts, in that district, bands of the argyleshire campbells, to the amount of three hundred in number. a thousand more, it was reported, were coming from the same quarter; and it was lord george's aim to intercept this reinforcement. he set off, followed by his brave "atholl-men," conducting his march through byeways across the mountains; and in one march, day and night, he traversed a tract of thirty miles. it was, however, impossible to transport cannon through these almost impassable solitudes; yet, with a force not exceeding seven hundred men, lord george contrived to surprise the enemy at these posts. he entered atholl in the early part of the night; his detachment then separated, and, dividing itself into small parties, each gentleman whose home had been invaded took the shortest road to his own house. the english soldiers were surprised in their sleep, and, according to the chevalier johnstone, lay murdered in their beds; but this is contradicted by many authorities.[ ] these highland gentlemen attacked, during that night, thirty of the posts in question, and all of them were carried. few of the government troops were put to the sword; about three hundred were taken prisoners, and between two and three hundred barricaded themselves in the castle of blair.[ ] the marquis of tullibardine had, it appears, been driven from that fortress some time previously. misfortune was not new to one who had joined in the insurrection of . "as the late rothiemurcus,[ ] your father," he writes to a friend,[ ] in a letter to which he dared not even state his place of residence, "showed me particular friendship and kindness on just such an unfortunate occasion as the present, makes me hope you will have no less regard for me in taking care of some small concerns of mine; which consists in taking care of two of three of my servants and some baggage, which i send you, rather than it should fall into enemies' hands; so that if you cannot keep it, and get it sent me in time and place convenient, it may be of some use to yourself, whom i esteem on your family and father's account; though we have not had the occasion of a personal acquaintance, which i hope may yet agreeably happen, in whatever bad situation our affairs may at present appear; then i may agreeably be able to return you suitable thanks for such an obligation as will for ever oblige, "sir, "your affectionate humble servant and cousin, "atholl." th march, . * * * * * the clan of atholl was the largest that engaged in prince charles's service, and numbered nearly fifteen hundred men. lord george now collected three hundred more of these vassals, and invested blair castle. one difficulty he had in the deficiency of cannon; he obtained, however, some field-pieces from inverness, but his artillery was too light to make an impression on the walls. there was an alternative, which was, to reduce the castle by famine. blair, as it happened, was defended by a stout and sturdy veteran, sir andrew agnew, who was resolved only to yield upon extreme necessity his important charge. during the siege, lord george wrote on the subject of the enterprise to his brother the marquis of tullibardine. the letter was answered in a manner which shows that some want of candour had been evinced towards the marquis, who was regarded by all the jacobites as the legitimate owner of blair. the epistle breathes the tone of mournful resentment. "since, contrary to the rules of right reason, you have been pleased to tell me a sham story about the expedition to blair," such are the expressions used by the marquis of tullibardine, "you may now do what the gentlemen of that country wish with the castle."[ ] with the true value of a high-born man for the memorials of his ancestors, the marquis grieved most for the loss of his great-great-grandfather's grandfather's, and father's pictures. "they will be ane irreparable loss." but every thing that could promote the public service was to be resigned cheerfully and willingly for that cause. not only did he proffer the sacrifice of his castle, but he pointed out to his brother a gate which had formerly been a portcullis, leading into it. this was at that time half-built up, and boarded, with a hollow large enough to hold a horse at rack and manger; and the marquis suggested that this place might be more easily penetrated than any other part of the wall, so as to make an entrance into the vaulted room called "the servants' hall." whether or not lord george decided to take advantage of this hint is unknown. the attack made upon the castle of blair was conducted by him in person, and was begun simultaneously with those headed by his followers upon the various posts at blairfitty, kinachie side, and several places near blair. upon the persons of the prisoners were found copies of their orders from the duke of cumberland, and these were signed by colonel campbell, and contained instructions to attack the rebels wherever they should meet them; and in case of resistance, it was the duke's orders that _they should get no quarter_.[ ] stimulated by these intercepted documents, lord george, early on the morning of the eighteenth of march, began the siege of blair. many have been the accounts given, and various are the surmises upon the motives of lord george in not reducing the castle; but in estimating the real difficulties of his undertaking, the testimony of a soldier and a contemporary must be taken in evidence. blair was defended by a man of no ordinary character, sir andrew agnew, lieutenant-colonel of the royal north british fusiliers, who had been sent with a detachment from perth by the route of dunkeld, through the pass of killicrankie, to take possession of the castle. when sir andrew first posted himself in blair no apprehensions of a blockade were entertained; and no fear of a supply of provisions being cut off was suggested. the quantity of garrison provisions sent into it was therefore extremely small, as was also the store of ammunition. in regard to water, the garrison were in a better condition. a draw-well in the castle supplied them after the blockade: previously, the inhabitants had usually fetched the water they required from a neighbouring barn or brook, which formed itself into a pool in front of the house.[ ] blair castle was then an irregular and very high building, with walls of great thickness, having a great tower, called cumming's tower, projecting from the west end of the front of the house, which faces the north. this tower could be defended by musket shot from its windows. adjoining to the eastern gavel of the old house a new building had been begun, but had only been carried up a few feet at the time of the siege. since the year , great alterations have been made in this building, which has been lowered and modernized, and the cumming's tower wholly taken away. it was between nine and ten in the morning when lord george murray appeared before blair castle, and planted his men so as to prevent the garrison from sallying out, or from getting in provisions.[ ] the castle was soon so completely invested by the advanced guard of the jacobites, that they fired from behind the nearest walls and enclosures at the picket guard of the besieged. some horses were hurriedly taken into the castle with a small quantity of provender; and in such haste, that one of these animals was put into the lower part of cumming's tower without forage or water. there was a great entrance and staircase on the east side of the castle; this was now barricaded, and a small guard placed near it; the garrison, consisting of two hundred and seventy men, were then parcelled out into different chambers, with a charge not to fire until actually attacked. a sort of platform was laid over the new building of the castle, and an ensign with a guard of twenty-five soldiers placed on this to defend that part from serving as a lodgement to the besiegers. there was also a guard placed over the draw-well, to prevent the water being drawn up except at a certain hour in the morning. besides the garrison, there were within the castle, about seven servants of the duke of atholl's; namely, a land steward, a female housekeeper, three maid servants, a gardener, and a gamekeeper. lord george murray having established his quarters in the village of blair, about a quarter of a mile from the north of the castle, soon sent down a summons to sir andrew agnew, bart. to surrender, intimating that "he should answer to the contrary at his peril." now sir andrew was reputed to be a man of an outrageous temper; and the highlanders, who could face the duke of cumberland's dragoons, shrank from encountering the sturdy, imperious old soldier. the only person, therefore, who could be prevailed upon to carry the summons, was a maid-servant from the inn at blair, who being a comely highland girl, and acquainted with some of the soldiers, conceived herself to be on so friendly a footing with them that she might encounter the risk. the summons was written on a very dirty piece of paper; and corresponded well with the appearance of the herald who conveyed it. provided with this, the young woman set out; as she approached the castle, she waived the summons over her head several times, and drawing near one of the windows on the basement story, made herself heard. she was received by the officers with boisterous mirth; they assured her that they should soon visit the village, and her master's house, again, and drive away the highlanders. but, when entreated by the girl to take her into sir andrew's presence, they all at first refused; at last the summons was reluctantly conveyed to the commandant by a lieutenant more venturesome than the rest. this emissary soon, however, fled from the presence of the baronet, who broke out with the most vehement expressions of rage on reading the contents of the paper; uttered strong epithets against lord george murray, and threatened to shoot any messenger who might dare to convey any future communication. the young girl returned to blair. as she drew near the village, she perceived lord george murray, lord nairn, clunie macpherson and other officers standing in the churchyard of blair; and observed that they were evidently diverted by her errand, and its result.[ ] from that time lord george murray made no attempt to hold any parley with the garrison, but continued to blockade the castle. his men were even posted close up against the walls, wherever they could not be annoyed with the musketry; particularly at that part on which the scaffold guard was placed, where they stood, heaving up stones from time to time, and uttering their jokes against the veteran, sir andrew agnew.[ ] "the cannon," as lord george murray observes in his narrative, "were not only small, but bad. one of them seldom hit the castle, though not half-musket shot from it." various schemes were formed by lord george during this siege, but many obstacles concurred to check them. it had indeed been proposed before lord george left inverness, to blow up blair castle; but not only had lord george no orders to attempt that, but there seemed also to be a difficulty from the situation of the place. it appeared at one time his intention, also, to have set the building on fire. "on the eighteenth," writes lord elcho, "lord george began to fire against the castle with two four pounders; and as he had a furnace along with him, finding his bullets were too small to damage the walls, he endeavoured by firing red hot balls to set the house on fire, and several times set the roof on fire, but by the care of the besieged it was always extinguished. a constant fire of small arms was kept against the windows, and the besieged kept a close fire from the castle with their small arms." "as the castle," continues the same writer, "is situated upon rocky ground, there was no blowing it up; so the only chance lord george had to get possession of it was to starve it, which he had some hopes of, as there were so many mouths in it." from this opinion, the judgment of lord george murray, in some measure, differed. "it might, i believe," he says, "have been entered by the old stables, under protection of which the wall could have been undermined, if i had been furnished with proper workmen." but all his efforts, in both these schemes, proved ineffectual. the red hot balls lodging in the solid timbers of the roof, only charred, and did not ignite the beams; and falling down, were caught up in iron ladles brought out of the duke of atholl's kitchen, and thrown into water. disappointed in this attempt, lord george removed his few field-pieces to a nearer position on the south side of the castle, where, however, his firing produced no better effect than heretofore. never was there an officer more insensible to fear than the defender of blair. whilst lord george was thus ineffectually battering the walls of the house, sir andrew agnew looked out over the battlements; and seeing the little impression that was made on the walls, he exclaimed, "hout! i daresay the man's mad, knocking down his own brother's house." meantime the siege lasted nearly a fortnight, and the garrison were reduced to the greatest extremity for provisions. one hope, however, the commandant had, and that was of sallying forth, and escaping. the castle of menzies was then occupied by colonel webster, who was posted there in order to secure the passage of the river tay; and, as an alternative to starvation, a scheme was suggested for stealing out from blair in the night time, and marching through a mountainous part of country to join the king's troops at castle menzies. whilst this project was in contemplation, the brave garrison were threatened with a new danger. during the blockade, there was heard a noise of knocking, seemingly beneath the floor of the castle, as if miners were at work in its deep vaults, to blow it up. all the inmates of blair thought such must indeed be the case: for lord george had now gained possession of a bowling-green near the castle, and also of a house in which the bowls were kept: from this bowl-house a subterranean passage might easily have been dug to the very centre of the ground underneath the building, and a chamber or mine formed there for holding barrels of gunpowder, sufficient to complete the work of destruction. this scheme must have occurred to the mind of lord george murray, who was born at blair, and well acquainted with its construction. his objections to pursue it appear, as has been stated, to have been perceived and controverted by the marquis of tullibardine. they arose, as he has himself declared, and as the english also appear to have considered, from his want of workmen to perform the attempt. the plan of undermining was not thought practicable; and the noise which so greatly alarmed the garrison was proved to be only the reverberation of strokes of an axe with which a soldier was cutting a block of wood which lay on the floor of one of the uppermost rooms. the most unfavourable suspicions were, however, eventually affixed to lord george's neglect of this mode of attack. whether such conduct proceeded, on his part, from an aversion to destroy the home of his youth, and his birthplace; whether he had still hopes of reducing sir andrew to capitulate; or whether, as it has been often vaguely asserted, a secret agreement existed between himself and james, duke of atholl, that the castle should be saved, can only be determined by a far closer insight into motives than human power can obtain. we may accord to lord george murray, without a blemish on his fidelity, a pardonable reluctance to level to the dust the pride of his family; that every effort was made to subdue blair, except the last, is evident from the testimony of all contemporary historians. meantime the garrison had one source of confidence in their extremity, on which sailors are more apt to reckon than landsmen. they trusted to the _luck_ of their commandant. never had the stout veteran who had fought, in , at ramilies, been either sick, or wounded. he had never been in any battle that the english did not win. yet it was deemed prudent not to allow any means of aid to be neglected, in so pressing a danger as the state of the siege presented. the earl of crawford was then supposed to be at dunkeld, having the command both of the british troops and of a body of hessians who had lately been marched from edinburgh. it was resolved to send to that nobleman for aid. the duke of atholl's gardener, a man named wilson, undertook that dangerous embassy; he was charged with a letter from sir andrew to the earl, and was allowed to take his choice of any horse in the castle.[ ] before sir andrew and his starving garrison could gain intelligence of the fate of wilson, or could have heard the result of his enterprise, a strange reverse in their affairs took place. on the morning of the first of april, not a single highlander was to be seen by any of the guards on duty. all had vanished; and a visit from the young woman from the inn at blair shortly followed their disappearance. from her, the garrison heard that lord george had, in fear of the arrival of troops from dunkeld, suddenly withdrawn with all his followers. the old sir andrew, nevertheless, fearful of some stratagem, would not allow his garrison to sally out: they were shut up until the following day, when the earl of crawford appeared before the castle, and relieved all fears. the officers and soldiers were then drawn out, with sir andrew at the head of it. "my lord," cried the old soldier, "i am very glad to see you; but, _by all that's good_, you are come too late, and we have nothing to give you to eat!" to which lord crawford answered courteously; and laughing, begged of sir andrew to partake of such provisions as he had brought with him. that day sir andrew and the earl, and their officers, dined in the summer-house of the garden at blair, in high spirits at the result of the siege. the disappearance of lord george murray was soon explained; nor can the statement of those reasons which induced him to abandon the siege of blair be given in a more satisfactory manner than as they were stated by lord elcho; to whom they must have appeared satisfactory, otherwise he would not have left so clear and decisive a testimony in favour of lord george murray's motives. it is worthy of remark, that lord elcho's statement agrees in every particular with that addressed some years afterwards by lord george to mr. murray of abercairney, and now preserved in the jacobite memoirs by forbes.[ ] "on the twenty-fourth of march, the hessians from perth and crieff moved to its relief. they encamped the first night at nairn house, and next night at dunkeld, and there was some firing betwixt them and a party of lord george's across the river. those that marched from crieff encamped at tay bridge on the twenty-seventh. upon this motion of the hessians, lord george sent an express to the prince, to tell him that if he would send twelve hundred men, he would pitch upon an advantageous ground and fight them. the prince sent him word he could not send him them in the way his army was then situated. on the thirty-first the earl of crawford marched with st. george's dragoons, five hundred hessians, and sixty hussars, and encamped at dawallie, four miles north of dunkeld, and next day they advanced to pittachrie. both these days lord george had several skirmishes with the hussars; but although he laid several snares for them, he never could catch but one of them, who was an officer and a swede, who had his horse shot under him. lord george used him very civilly, and sent him back with a letter of compliment which he wrote to the prince of hesse. on the first of april lord george murray drew his men up in battle opposite to lord crawford at pittachrie, and then retreated before him, in order to draw him into the pass of killicrankie; but lord crawford never moved, but sent for reinforcements to the prince of hesse. lord george, upon hearing of the march of that reinforcement to sustain lord crawford, and that the body of hessians from lay bridge were marching to blair by kinachin, quitted the country and marched his men to strathspan, and from thence to speyside. he himself went to inverness, where he found his enemies had persuaded the prince that he might have taken blair castle if he had had a mind, but that he had spared it because it was his brother's house; and in short they made the prince believe, that in the letter he had wrote to the prince of hesse, he had engaged to betray him the first opportunity; and that by the prince of hesse and his brother's means, he was entirely reconciled to the government. what mr. murray had insinuated to the prince about lord george, on his first coming to perth had made such an impression, that the prince always believed it, notwithstanding lord george's behaviour was such (especially in action) as to convince the whole army of the falsity of such accusations. however it opened his mind upon the matter of the irish officers, so far as to make some of them promise to watch lord george's motions, particularly in case of a battle, and they promised the prince to shoot him, if they could find he intended to betray him." from the following letter addressed by lord george murray to his brother the marquis of tullibardine, it is evident that he had had it in contemplation during some time, to abandon the siege of blair, and that the sudden appearance of the body of hessians six thousand strong, within a day's march of blair, was not the only cause of his raising a siege which every one acknowledges must have terminated in favour of the besiegers within a few days. "blair, th of march, . "dear brother,[ ] "i received your letter of the th; i am sorry you seem to think i told you a sham story (as you express it) about our expedition here. i told you we were to endeavour to take possession of castle grant, and try to hinder that clan taking party against us; this was done so far as in our power. i also told you if we could contrive to surprise any of the parties in this country we might attempt it; but that depended so much upon incidents, that my very hopes could not reach so far as we performed. secrecy and expedition was our main point, once we resolved upon the thing, which was not till i met clunie and sheen in badenoch. if the greatest fatigues, dangers, and hard duties deserve approbation, i think some thanks are due to us, and from none more than yourself; for my own part, i was once seventy hours without three of sleep; but we undergo all hardships for the good of common cause. you will ever find me, dear brother, your most affectionate brother and faithful servant, "george murray." "i am so ill supported with men, money, and every thing else, our people here have no pay, that after all our endeavours, i'm afraid we must abandon this country without the castle." this letter brought the following characteristic reply. it is dated from inverness, whither the marquis had repaired.[ ] "brother george. "this evening i had yours of yesterday's date. as to any difference betwixt you and i, without prejudice to passed expedition and secrecy mentioned, at meeting it must be discussed the best way we can, since lately behaving according to dutiful sentiments, nobody is more satisfied than i am of your indefatigable activity for the public service. had you sent me your letters to the secretary, who i am very sorry to say is at elgin dangerously ill, or any other of the ministry to whom expresses were addressed, i should have directly endeavoured getting the most satisfactory answers could be sent your pressing reale demands, which are not well understood if much regarded by everybody here; i am informed by mr. hay and cruben, who were just now with me, that all the men who were with you have been fully paid till wednesday last; and that with some necessary foresight and pains, you might have had a good deal of provisions from below the pass, whilst that expedient was practicable; since you might have naturally known that money cannot be soon sent from hence, but on an absolute necessity; you know that meal can be still brought you from kiliwhimen. with that i wrote to you the twenty-sixth, in case the enemy could not be otherwise forced out of my house, i gave sir thomas sheridan an account to be sent to you of a secret passage into it, which is here again transmitted, in case of making any advantageous use of it has been hitherto neglected; was it not hoped by this time you have near got the better of these obstinate intruders into the castle, at any rate i should go myself and try if i could not usefully help towards reducing them to a speedy surrendering of such unfortified, though thick old walls as it is composed of. pray continue your accustomed vigilance on such a valuable occasion as will render you dear to all honest men, as well as particularly giving me an opportunity of showing with what esteem i am, dear brother, your most affectionate brother, and most humble servant." [no signature.] "inverness, th of march, ." in addition to the testimony of lord elcho, that of maxwell of kirkconnel, has considerable weight in lord george murray's favour. "he was censured," observes this excellent writer, "by his enemies as being too tender of a family seat.[ ] as i do not know the situation of this castle, i cannot determine whether it was in his power to blow it up, or whether he had time to do it after he was informed of the march of the hessians. but he has been so calumniated by the secretary and his creatures, that nothing less than a direct proof ought to have any weight against him. in this case it is absurd to suspect him, because the family seat could never be in danger. if it was in his power to blow it up, he had only to acquaint the governor when the mine was ready, and let him send one of his officers to view it; the governor would certainly have prevented the effecting it and saved the castle." "about the same time that the siege of blair was abandoned, that of fort william was also raised. it was found, indeed, difficult to make the highlanders perform the regular duties of a siege; extremely brave in an attack, when allowed to fight in their own way, they were not possessed of that steady valour which is necessary to maintain a post; and it was not easy to keep them long in their quarters, or even at their posts, without action."[ ] the loss of blair, and the failure of the siege of fort william, were followed by other misfortunes. fatal mistakes in the vain endeavour to retrieve a sinking cause ensued. in the midst of his adversity, the young and gallant adventurer, for whom so much blood was shed, supported his spirits in a wonderful manner, and acted, with a heavy heart, the part of the gay and prosperous. he gave balls at inverness, and even danced himself, which he had declined doing when in the midst of his prosperity at edinburgh. those who looked only on the surface of affairs were deceived by his appearance of happiness; but the well informed knew too well that the crisis which was to end the struggle was rapidly approaching. to complete the sad summary of disappointments and misfortunes, it was now ascertained that the expedition from boulogne, and that from dunkirk, with which the false-hearted french had so long amused the unfortunate jacobites, were entirely and perfidiously relinquished. lord george murray, meantime, was ordered to march to inverness. he was now worn with fatigues, and by the protracted anxieties of his situation. foreseeing, as he must have done, many of the dangers and difficulties of the contest; observing, on the one hand, his eldest brother, the marquis of tullibardine, the adherent of the stuarts, proscribed, impoverished, a nominal proprietor of his patrimonial estates; on the other, beholding his second brother, the actual duke of atholl, cherished by government, prosperous, honours showered down upon him; what impulses less strong than that of a generous, and fixed principle of fidelity could have maintained his exertions in a service so desperate as that in which he had engaged? the great deficiency in lord george murray's character was the absence of hope; but, independent of that vital defect, his attributes as a soldier and a general cannot fail to excite admiration. his exertions were unparalleled; besides the marching and fatigue that others had to undergo, he had the vast responsibility of command. "though others were relieved and took their turns," he remarks, "i had none to relieve." on first assuming the command, he received and despatched every express himself; and saw the guards and sentinels settled. in gaining intelligence he was indefatigable; and his discipline was such that the country suffered but little from the visitations of his well-governed forces. but the time was fast approaching when his great abilities, which never ceased to be acknowledged by the whole army, his fortitude, and personal valour were to be put to the severest test. on the third of april, lord george murray joined charles edward at inverness. on the eleventh intelligence was received that the duke of cumberland, who had been stationed for some time at aberdeen, was marching towards inverness. at first the intelligence of the duke's approach was received with acclamations of joy; but the circumstances under which the battle of culloden was eventually fought, and the fatigues and impediments by which it was prefaced, changed that sentiment into one of distrust and despondency.[ ] upon receiving intelligence of the duke's approach, expresses were sent in all directions in order to re-assemble the jacobite forces. those troops which had been at the siege of fort william were on their march to inverness; but lord cromartie and his detachment were still at a great distance; the duke of perth and lord john drummond were at spey-side, with a considerable body of men and all the horse. these were ordered to retire as cumberland's army approached. unhappily, many of the highlanders, it being now seed time, had slipped away to their homes, and it was, indeed, no easy task to allure them back. the influence of lord george murray over the forces continued, nevertheless, unabated. his mode of managing this fine, but rude people, was well adapted to his purpose, and proceeded from an intimate knowledge of their character. "fear" he considered as necessary as "love." "i was told," he remarks, "that all the highlanders were gentlemen, and never to be beaten, but i was well acquainted with their tempers." their chiefs even inflicted personal chastisement upon them, which they received without murmurs when conscious of an offence. but they would only receive correction from their own officers, and never would the chief of one clan correct even the lowest soldier of another. "but i," observes lord george, "had as much authority over them all as each had amongst his own men; and i will venture to say that never an officer was more beloved of the whole, without exception, than i was." at any time when there was a post of more danger than another, lord george, possessing as he did this unbounded influence over the minds of his countrymen, found it more difficult to restrain those who were too forward, than in finding those who were willing to rush into peril. on sunday morning, the thirteenth of april, it became a matter of certainty among the jacobite forces that the enemy had passed the spey. on the following day, lochiel joined the army; the duke of perth also returned, and the prince and his forces assembled on an open moor, near culloden. many of the officers suggested that it would be desirable to retire to a stronger position than this exposed plain, until the army were all collected, but the baggage being at inverness, this scheme was rejected. the experienced eye of lord george murray soon perceived that the ground which had been chosen was ill-adapted for the highland mode of warfare, and he proposed that the other side of the water of nairn should be reconnoitred. but objections were made to any change of position; and, situated as lord george now was, distrusted by the prince, and, perhaps, in some measure by others, since the failure at blair, he was in no condition to contest so important a point. it was afterwards attempted to venture an attack by night. to this proposition not only the prince, but lord george and most of the other officers were at first favourable: but, in the evening, it being generally understood that there was no provision for the subsistence of the men the next day, a circumstance attributable to the negligence of the persons employed for the purpose at inverness, a number of men dispersed in search of food. the forces being thus reduced, lord george objected, in concert with others, to the projected night march; but charles edward, trusting to the bravery of his army, and being for fighting on all occasions, was determined on the attempt. "what he had seen them do, and the justice of his cause, made him too venturous."[ ] the attack was, therefore, agreed upon, and lord george commanding the rear, after marching nearly six miles, found that it would be impossible to attack the enemy before day-break, and, therefore, gave it up, and returned to culloden about five in the morning. fatigued and hungry, the army awaited the approach of the english forces. it was between ten and eleven in the morning when they drew up on the moor, and were placed in order of battle by o'sullivan. again lord george observed to that officer, that the ground was unfavourable: the reply was, that the moor was so interspersed with moss and deep earth, that the enemy's horse and cannon could be of little service to them; and that it was therefore well selected. by this time the young and unfortunate master of lovat had joined the forces, but lord cromartie was still, by a fatal mistake, absent; and macpherson, of clunie, was at three or four miles distance, marching with all possible expedition towards culloden. the stragglers and others were also collecting, so that, as lord george conjectured, the army would have been increased by two or three thousand more men that night, or the next day. stimulated by this reflection, he again looked wistfully to the position beyond the water, and considered that if they passed there, they would probably leave the moors to the enemy, and occupy a better post. but he was overruled. * * * * * "i shall say little," writes lord george murray, in his journal, "of this battle, which was so fatal." in a memoir, written by colonel ker, of gradyne, an officer of distinguished military reputation, a minute and animated account is, however, given of all the incidents of the eventful fifteenth of april. charles edward having with some difficulty procured some bread and whiskey at culloden, reposed for a short time after marching all night. in the morning intelligence was brought him that the enemy were in sight. whilst the army was forming, colonel ker was sent to reconnoitre the enemy. on returning, he informed the prince and lord george murray, who was then with him, that the enemy were marching in three columns, with their cavalry on the left, so that they would form their line of battle in an instant. the prince then ordered his men to draw up in two lines, and the few horse which he had were disposed in the rear towards the wings; the cannon was to be dispersed in the front; this was brought up with difficulty from the want of horses. the ground which had been occupied the day before was too distant for the army to reach; so that they were drawn up a mile to the westward with a stone enclosure which ran down to the water of nairn, on the right of the first line. the highland soldiers, many of whom had been summoned from their sleep among the woods of culloden, were aroused from among the bushes, and came drowsy, and half-exhausted to the field; yet they formed themselves into order of battle with wonderful dispatch. unhappily no council of war was held upon the plain of culloden in the hurry of that day. in addition to the confusion, and want of concert which this omission produced, was a still more injurious circumstance. the army, as has been related, was drawn up in two lines; lord george commanded the first, which was composed of the atholl brigade. this regiment was placed by lord george on the right of the line: unfortunately, the clan macdonald, proud and fiery, claimed the precedence. they grounded their assertion of right to the usage of time immemorial; and to their having had it during the two previous battles. lord george, on the other hand, uncompromising as usual, insisted that in those actions even, his atholl men had the pre-eminence. the prince, unable to decide, persuaded the chief of the macdonalds to waive his claim; but the pride of the scotch is never subdued; and whilst macdonald yielded, their men were offended and disgusted with his compliance. the duke of cumberland formed his line of battle at a great distance, and marched in battle order until he came within cannon shot, when he halted, and placed his artillery in different parts in the front. his army, to use a military phrase, outwinged that of charles, both to the right and left, without his cavalry.[ ] it is not, as lord george murray observes, "an easy task to describe a battle." most officers are necessarily taken up with what is near them, and the confusion, noise, and agitation effectually impede observation. the commencement of the battle of culloden was obscured by a thick fall of hail and snow, and on this occasion the tempestuous climate of scotland favoured her enemies, for the prince's army faced the wind, and encountered the snow-storm in their faces. it was expected that the duke would begin the attack; and a party of his horse were sent during the interval to reconnoitre the jacobite army. when they came within cannon shot, loud hurras were heard on both sides; and voices (soon for ever to be silenced) sent up to heaven expressions of exultation and defiance. the young chevalier, whilst awaiting that event, rode along the lines to encourage his men, placing himself in a post of danger, in which one of his servants was killed by his side. after some few minutes of solemn expectation, lord george murray, who commanded the right of the army, sent colonel ker to the prince to know if he should begin the attack? an answer in the affirmative was returned. as the right was farther distant than the left, colonel ker went first to the duke of perth who commanded the left, and ordered him to begin; he then rode along the field until he came to the right line, where lord george murray received from him a similar command. the prince then placed himself behind the centre of the army, having the whole of his forces under his eye, and thus being able to send orders on all exigencies. the cannon of prince charles was first heard. it was returned with a firing from the enemy of grape shot, which did great execution. the highlanders, who were forbidden to move until the word of command was given, suffered that fire very impatiently. some of them threw themselves flat on the ground, and a few gave way and ran off.[ ] the artillery of the enemy was very well served; that of the jacobites was managed by common soldiers, the cannoniers belonging to one battery being absent. the contest was in every way unequal; yet the brave insurgents, although ready to drop with fatigue, seemed to forget all their weariness and hunger when the enemy advanced. at length, after some preliminary manoeuvres, the prince sent orders to lord george murray to march up to the enemy. it seemed, indeed, high time to come to a close engagement; for the cannonading of the enemy, which was directed chiefly towards the place which the prince occupied among the cavalry, was very destructive; yet still lord george delayed the attack, judging, as it is supposed, that the adversaries were still at too great a distance, and that the strength of his men would be exhausted before they could reach them. there appears also to have been another reason for the delay; lord george had, on his right, a farm-house, and some old enclosure walls, which the enemy now occupied; and he is conjectured to have been waiting until the duke of cumberland's army came up to these walls, which would prevent him being flanked by the dragoons, who were, he observed, mostly on the left. but the duke did not advance. the highlanders, who were impatient at the delay, called out loudly to be led on; and at last he gave the command to attack. his orders were obeyed. as his line began to move, the enemy began a smart fire, which played chiefly upon the atholl men, and was kept up by a detachment of campbells, who were stationed behind the enclosure walls. it was the custom of the highlanders to give a general discharge of their fire-arms, and then to rush, sword in hand, upon their foes: and the only chance of a victory for their party that day, was a general shock of their whole line at once; for the fury and valour of these northern warriors produced results almost incredible. unhappily, several circumstances destroyed this advantage. the two armies were not exactly parallel to each other, the right of prince charles's being nearer to the foe than the left. the impetuosity of the highlanders was such, that they broke their ranks before it was time to give their fire; their eagerness to come up with an enemy that had so greatly the advantage of them at such a distance, made them rush on with such violence, and in such a confusion, that their fire-arms were of little service.[ ] this, it appears, was the disadvantage which lord george had apprehended. but there was still another inconvenience: the wind, which had favoured the jacobites at falkirk, was now against them. they were buried in a cloud of smoke, and felt their enemies without seeing them. in spite of all these obstacles they went, sword in hand, and broke the first line of the enemy; but the second advancing, and firing on them, they gave way, leaving, says one who beheld the terrific scene, "many brave fellows on the spot." the rout, which began on the right of the army, soon became general. the right line was, in fact, beaten before the centre could advance to support it: and the centre of the army gave way, whilst the macdonalds, who were advancing on the left, seeing themselves abandoned on the right, and exposed to be flanked by enemies who had nothing to oppose them in front, retired also.[ ] lord george murray behaved with incomparable valour, as indeed did the whole of the line which he commanded, which was received by the enemy with bayonets. these were the more destructive, as the highlanders would never be at the trouble, on a march, to carry targets. yet the duke's line of battle was broken in several places, and two pieces of cannon were taken.[ ] the brave troops whom lord george commanded marched up to the very point of the bayonets, which they could not see until they were upon them, on account of the smoke which was driven in their faces. as the first line of the english army was broken, and as others were brought up to their relief, some cannon, charged with cartouch shot from their second line, caused lord george murray's horse to start and plunge so much, that he thought the animal was wounded: he quitted his stirrups, and was thrown. "after thus being dismounted, i brought up," writes lord george, "two regiments of our second line, who gave them fire, but nothing could be done; all was lost."[ ] the only good effect of the reinforcement was to arrest for a while the pursuit of the cavalry, and thus to save many lives. the field of battle was soon abandoned to the fury of an enemy, whose brutal thirst for vengeance increased as the danger and opposition diminished. some may consider that the day of culloden was a day of disgrace to the highlanders; but to them it was an event of honour, compared with the discredit which it brought upon their foes. to england was the disgrace. it was, at all events, even if we measure the standard of honour by the degree of military success, an inglorious victory. independent of the inequality of numbers, was the inequality of circumstances; but greater, in many senses, on this occasion, were the conquered, than their conquerors. the prince, seeing his army entirely routed, was at length prevailed upon to retire. most of his horse soldiers assembled round his person; and he rode leisurely, and in good order, for the enemy advanced very leisurely over the ground. "they made," observes maxwell, "no attack where there was any body of the prince's men together, but contented themselves with sabering such unfortunate people as fell in their way, single and disarmed." "as the duke's corps," lord elcho relates, "continued to pursue in order of battle, always firing their cannon and platoons in advancing, there were not so many people taken or killed as there would have been had they detached corps to pursue; but every body that fell into their hands got no quarter, except a few whom they reserved for public punishment." in the flight of the prince's army, most of the left wing took the road to inverness; the right wing crossed the water of nairn, and went to ruthven of badenoch; the rest, to the number of five hundred, mostly officers, followed the prince into stratherick, where he had stopped about four miles from the field of culloden. of the prince's conduct after the battle, a very painful impression is given by lord elcho. "as he had taken it into his head he had been betrayed, and particularly by lord george murray, he seemed very diffident of everybody except the irish officers; and he appeared very anxious to know whether he had given them all higher commissions than they had at their arrival, on purpose that they might get them confirmed to them upon their return to france. he neither spoke to any of the scots' officers present, nor inquired after any of the absent. nor, indeed, at any of the preceding battles did he ever inquire after any of the wounded officers. he appeared very uneasy as long as the scots were about him; and in a short time ordered them all to go to ruthven of badenoch, where he would send them orders; but before they had rode a mile, he sent mr. sheridan after them, to tell them that they might disperse, and everybody shift for himself the best way he could. lord george murray and lord john drummond repeated the same orders to all the body of the army that had assembled at ruthven. the prince kept with him some of fitzjames's horse, and went that night to a house in the head of stratherick, where he met lord lovat and a great many other scots' gentlemen, who advised him not to quit the country, but to stay and gather together his scattered forces. but he was so prejudiced against the scots, that he was afraid they would give him up to make their peace with the government; for some of the irish were at pains to relate to him, in very strong terms, how the scots had already sold his great-grandfather to the english: and, as he was naturally of a suspicious temper, it was not a difficult matter to persuade him of it. and he always believed it until the fidelity of the highlanders shown to him during the long time he was hid in their country, convinced him and everybody else of the contrary."[ ] this history of distrust and ingratitude is, however, to be contrasted with very different statements. when the prince heard from colonel ker, after the battle, that lord george murray had been thrown from his horse, but was not wounded, charles, in the presence of all the officers who were assembled around his person, desired colonel ker to find out lord george, and to "take particular care of him." nor was there, among the whole number of those writers who witnessed the battle of culloden, a dissentient voice with regard to the bravery of their lieutenant-general and to the admirable disposition of his troops. had he, like lord strathallan, sought and found his fate upon the field of battle, his memory would have been exalted into that of a hero. two days after the defeat, the duke of perth, the marquis of tullibardine, lord george murray, lord ogilvie, lord nairn, and several other chieftains and officers met at ruthven in badenoch, and discussed the events which had ended in the ruin of their cause. they were unanimous in concluding that the night attack, upon which many persons insisted as practicable, could not have been attempted.[ ] for some time after the battle, hopes were entertained of an effectual rallying of the forces. by a letter from one of the prince's aides-de-camp, alexander macleod, to clunie macpherson, on the very day of the battle, it appears that his party soon hoped, or pretended to hope, "to pay cumberland back in his own coin." a review of the fragment of the army was projected at fort-augustus, on the seventeenth of april; and amends were promised to be made for the "ruffle at culloden."[ ] "for god's sake," wrote mr. macleod, "make haste to join us; and bring with you all the people that can possibly be got together. take care in particular of lumisden and sheridan, as they carry with them the sinews of war." to this letter lord george murray added some lines, which prove how hopeless, at that moment, he considered any project of rallying; and, indeed, even before the epistle was dispatched to clunie, the prince had left gorteleg, and taken refuge in "clanranald's country." notwithstanding the prince's flight, lord george murray, presuming that he could still make a stand, remained at ruthven, where a force of between two and three thousand men was assembled. it was found, however, impossible, from the want of provisions, to keep such an army together; and, in a few days, a message from charles, ordering his ill-fated adherents to disperse, decided their fate. at this epoch lord george murray addressed a letter to charles, certainly not calculated to soothe the feelings of the unfortunate young man, nor to conciliate the bitter spirit which afterwards, during the lapse of years, never abated towards his former general. the letter began thus.[ ] "may it please your royal highness, as no person in these kingdoms ventured more frankly in the cause than myself, and as i had more at stake than almost all the others put together, i cannot but be very deeply affected with our late loss, and present situation; and i declare, that were your royal highness's person in safety, the loss of the cause, and the unfortunate and unhappy state of my countrymen is the only thing that grieves me; for i thank god i have resolution to bear my own family's ruin without a grudge." after this preface lord george, in no softened terms, pointed out what he conceived to be the causes of the failure of the enterprise;--the imprudence of having set up the standard without aid from france; the deficiencies and blunders of mr. o'sullivan, whose business it was to reconnoitre the field of battle, but who had not so much as viewed it before the affair of culloden. he next pointed out the negligence, if not treachery, of mr. hay, who had the charge of the provisions. to the disgraceful mismanagement of this important department might, indeed, the ruin of the army be traced. "for my own part," added lord george, "i never had any particular discussion with either of them; but i ever thought them incapable and unfit to serve in the stations they were placed in." after these too just remarks, lord george formally resigned his commission into the prince's hands. it had, it appears, been his intention to have done so after the failure at blair; but he was dissuaded by his friends. "i hope your royal highness will now accept of my demission. what commands you may have for me in any other situation, please honour me with them." this letter was dated from ruthven, two days after the battle of culloden. the inference which has been drawn from it was, that lord george did not contemplate the abandonment of the campaign. it appears to have been his opinion that the highlanders could have made a summer campaign without any risk, marching, as they could, through places in which no regular troops could follow them. they could never starve as long as there were sheep and cattle in the country; and they might probably have carried on an offensive, instead of a defensive war. but charles, disheartened, as men of over sanguine tempers usually are, in misfortune, to the last degree, resolved on escaping to france. he addressed a farewell letter to the chiefs, and then commenced that long and perilous course of wanderings in which his character rose to heroism, and which presents one of the most interesting episodes in history of which our annals can boast. lord george murray was long a fugitive from place to place in his native country, before he could find means to escape to the continent. in december ( ) he visited, in private, his friends in edinburgh, and then embarking at anstruther, in the frith of forth, he set sail for holland. whether he ever returned to his native country is doubtful, although it appears, from a letter among the stuart papers, that he had it in contemplation, in order to bring over his wife and family. his fate in a foreign land, however embittered by the ingratitude and hatred of charles edward, was cheered by the presence of his wife and children, with the exception of his eldest son, who was retained in scotland, and educated under the auspices of james duke of atholl. his first movement after reaching holland, was to repair to rome, there to pay his respects to the chevalier st. george, and to unfold to him the motives of his conduct in the foregoing campaign of . the chevalier, affectionately attached as he was to his eldest son, was aware of his defects, and sensible of the pernicious influence which was exercised over his mind by the enemies of lord george murray; james, who never appears in a more amiable light than in his correspondence, endeavoured to conciliate both parties. his letters to charles edward, treasured among the stuart papers, display kindness and great good sense. his mediation in this instance was, however, wholly ineffectual. after the treacherous conduct of murray of broughton, the prince began even to suspect that lord george was concerned in the baseness of that individual. this notion was urgently combated by james; at the same time he recommended the prince, not only as a matter of right, but of policy, to conciliate lord george, who "owned that he had been wrong towards charles, but insisted upon his zeal in the prince's service." "persons," adds the politic chevalier, "like him may do both good and hurt; and it is prudent to manage them, and would manifestly be of prejudice could they be able to say their former services had been disregarded." but james addressed himself to one who could never dissimulate. whatever charles's errors might be, they were not envenomed by any portion of cunning, and no motive of prudence could soften him towards one whom he unjustly disliked. lord george, who expected no favour from the english government, was, nevertheless, anxious to be "near home." he left rome in may , and after remaining some time at bologna, proceeded to paris.[ ] here charles was playing that ill-judged and desperate game, which was better suited to a rash impostor, than to the acknowledged descendant of a long line of monarchs. here he was rapidly effacing the remembrance of the brave and generous wanderer who trusted to the honesty of the highlanders; who bore his misfortunes as if he had been born in that land of heroes. the first idea of charles, upon hearing of lord george murray's arrival in paris, was to imprison him as a traitor. "i hope in god," writes his father to the young prince, "you will not think of getting lord george secured after all i wrote to you about him, and will at least receive him civilly." but no intercessions could nullify the indignation of charles towards his former general. it was far from lord george murray's intention, if we may believe the chevalier st. george, again to embroil himself in public affairs, or even to remain in paris. his intention was to live privately in germany or flanders, in the hope of being rejoined by his wife. upon reaching paris, he informed the prince of his arrival; and proposed paying his respects to him at st. omer, where charles was then living. late on the evening of the eleventh of july, , a gentleman, who at first refused to give his name, but who afterwards announced himself as mr. stafford, called on lord george to convey to him a message desiring him not to "go near" the prince, and ordering him to leave paris immediately. an answer was returned, signifying that the prince's commands should be obeyed. lord george left paris, and he and the unfortunate young man whom he had served, met no more. it is possible that the irritation of charles was aggravated by the recent intelligence of his brother's having become a cardinal: upon receiving the news of that event he shut himself up for some hours alone. the name of his brother was no longer to be uttered in his presence nor his health drunk at table.[ ] charles was at this time in the power of both the kellys, who are described by one of his adherents as "false, ambitious, and sordidly avaricious." after visiting poland, where he was received by marshall belriski as a relation, and where he endeavoured to negotiate the restitution of some crown jewels to james, as in right of the chevalier's wife, the princess sobieski, lord george settled at cleves. he changed his name to that of de valignie, and here he remained in obscurity with his family. "my wife," he writes to the chevalier st. george, "came here on the tenth of september, , but was soon after seized with an intermitting fever, which has not yet left her. she begs leave to throw herself at your majesty's feet." in , lord george removed to emmerick; here he wrote an account of his campaign, which he addressed to mr. hamilton of bangour; from this, repeated extracts have been given in this memoir of his life. the kindness of james stuart towards him continued unabated: he recommended him to the notice of the court of france; and consulted him as to the probable success of a future enterprise in scotland. on such a project lord george murray expressed himself cautiously, yet somewhat encouragingly; and declared himself ready to shed the last drop of his blood in the cause. happily his zeal was not again put to the test. lord george appears, in his letters, to have cherished in his retirement at emmerick, a lingering hope that at some future day the stuarts might make another attempt. he was now in the decline of life, and yearning to behold again the country which he was destined to see no more. "how happily," he writes to mr. edgar,[ ] "should you and i be to sit over a bottle in angus, or perthshire, after a restoration, and talk over old services. may that soon happen!" meantime some members of lord george's family suffered the severest distress. his uncle, lord nairn, had, it is true, escaped to france; but lady nairn and her daughter, lady clementina, were reduced to the utmost penury in scotland. they remained in their native country, probably with the hope of saving the wreck of their fortunes, until all that the troops had spared was sold, and the money which accrued from the sale was exhausted. such was the rapacity of the plunderers, that they took even lady nairn's watch and clothes. the government, although in possession of her estate, never gave her one farthing for subsistence, but even made her pay a rent for the garden of one of lord nairn's own houses in which she lived. but this is only one instance of that catalogue of cruelties towards the jacobites, which it would take volumes to detail. in , lord george murray visited dresden, where, owing to the mediation of james stuart, he was well received. his letters at this period refer frequently to the exertions which he made for lord macleod, the son of lord cromartie: to this young man a company was given in finland, in the prussian service, and the chevalier st. george furnished him with his accoutrements and equipage. the eldest son of lord george murray remained, as we have seen, in scotland; but the second was, through the favour of the chevalier, recommended to the especial notice of the court of prussia. the visit of lord george to dresden seems to have been chiefly designed to push the interests of this young man, who was introduced to the count and countess de bruhl. the youth was to study the military science and exercises at dresden, and at the same time to enjoy, in the house of the pope's nuncio, the advantage of seeing company, and of forming connections. having arranged these affairs, lord george returned to emmerick. his wife had left him for scotland, in order to be confined there; and this event, attended by so much inconvenience, and prefaced by a voyage of twelve days, "put her," as lord george observed, "somewhat out of countenance, after twenty-three years' marriage." her return was delayed for some time. "i shall be pretty lonely this winter ( )," writes lord george to mr. edgar, "for my wife, who was brought to bed of a daughter the middle of september, recovered but very slowly, and now the season of the year is too far advanced for her to venture so long a voyage; besides, she has some thoughts that lady sinclair (his daughter) may come with her in the spring." in his solitude, anxieties about his patrimonial property added to the sorrows of the exile. "i am told,"[ ] he writes, "that the duke of atholl is desirous of selling the roialty of the isle of man to the london government, for which, they say, he is offered fifteen thousand pounds sterling. had it not been for my situation, i believe he could not have done it without my consent; but, i'm sorry to say it, and it is a truth, that he is full as much my enemy as any of that government. he has sent my eldest son abroad, but, as i understand, with positive orders not to see nor correspond with me. all this is the more extraordinary that, thirty years ago, before he turned courtier, he seemed to have very different notions. most people in britain now regard neither probity nor any other virtue--all is selfish and vainal (venial). but how can i complean of such hard usage, when my royal master has met with what is a thousand times more cruel: he bears it like a christian hero, and it would ill suit me to repine. i thank the almighty i never did, and i think it my greatest honour and glory to suffer in so just and upright a cause." hope, however, of one day returning to scotland, was not extinct. he thus continues: "upon receipt of the note you sent me, i have gott the carabin, for which i return you many thanks. i expect to kill a wild bore with it; but i fain hope providence may still order it that i may make use of it at home, and, if all succeeds to our wishes, how happy should i think myself to send you, when you returned to angus, a good fatt stagg, shott in the forest of atholl with your own gun." until five years before his death, lord george still cherished the hope that france would again find it her interest to support the claims of the stuarts. he had always considered that the support of the french would be decisive of the success of the cause. "had the ministers of the court of versailles, ten years ago, been persuaded that the supporting of his royal highness the prince, at the beginning of his attempt, in a proper manner with the best measures they could take for the interest of their master as well as that of the king, our gracious sovereign, i think i do not say too much if i affirm that his royal highness would not have failed of success. i had at that time opportunities of knowing the sentiments and way of thinking of most people in great britain. many, very many, wished well to the cause. great numbers would have looked on, and would have turned to the side that had success. but there is no recalling what is passed. i believe that in france they are convinced now of the error they were in at the time. if ever they resolve to espouse the cause of the royal family it must be in earnest, and their main view must be that. then there would be no difficulty in adjusting limits in america. i have been much longer upon the subject than i intended. perhaps zeal has led me too far." the period was now approaching when lord george murray was to close a life of vicissitude and turmoil. he died in at medenblinck, in holland, leaving three sons and two daughters. upon the death of james duke of atholl in , john, the eldest son of lord george murray, succeeded to the dukedom, and to the great possessions of the family. he married his first cousin, charlotte, only daughter and heiress of his uncle, the duke of atholl; and in their graces sold the sovereignty of the isle of man, upon the disposal of which lord george murray had expressed much solicitude, to the british government. the present duke of atholl, who succeeded his father in , is the grandson of john, third duke of atholl, and the great-grandson of lord george murray. the descendants of this justly celebrated man have, therefore, shared a happier fortune than those of many of the other attainted noblemen of his party. the attainder was not, however, set aside in favour of the son of lord george murray without a petition to the king, upon which the house of lords gave a favourable report, and the objection was overcome.[ ] besides his eldest son, lord george left two others; james, of strowan, in right of his mother; george, of pitkeathly, who became vice-admiral of the white--and two daughters; amelia, first married to lord sinclair, and afterwards to james farquharson, of inverness; and charlotte, who died unmarried. the mind of lord george murray was one of great original power, and less dependent upon those circumstances which usually affect the formation of character, than that of most men. he was determined and inflexible in opinions, yet cautious in action. that he was sincere and honourable there can now be little doubt. it was his consciousness of upright intentions which inspired him with contempt for the littleness of others; and with his love of superiority, his self-will and ambition, there was wrought a strong conviction of his own worth, as opposed to the hollowness of some of his party. throughout all his letters, and in his journal, there is a strong evidence of his confidence in his own powers; of a self-sufficiency too lofty to be called vanity, but which sometimes descends to egotism. to his courage, his energy and perseverance, his military contemporaries have borne unanimous testimony. they seem entirely to have comprehended a character which the unfortunate charles edward could never appreciate. they felt the justness of his ascendancy, and discriminated between the bluntness of an ardent and honest mind, careless of ordinary forms, and the arrogance of an inferior capacity. as a soldier, indeed, the qualities of lord george murray rose to greatness: so enduring, and so fearless, so careless of danger to himself, yet so solicitous for others. as a general, some great defects may be pointed out in his composition, without detracting from his merits as a private individual. let us first turn to the bright side of the picture. in activity and exertion lord george murray has not been surpassed even by the more fortunate, although, perhaps, not greater commanders of modern times. he was indefatigable in business, and any one who desired access to him could see him at any hour, whether at meals or in bed. "on some occasions," he remarks, "i have been waked six times a night, and had either orders to write, or letters to answer every time; for as i mostly commanded a separate body of the army, i had many details that, in a more regular army, would belong to different people." every order, even that which sent an officer to an out-post, was written by his own hand, and explained by him; every contingency that might occur in the execution was canvassed, and every objection that was suggested was answered by himself. the officers, therefore, confiding in their general, performed their duties with cheerfulness, and made their reports with exactness. there was no confusion, nor misapprehension, wherever lord george presided. as a disciplinarian, he was pre-eminent; no army ever quitted a country with so little odium, nor left behind them such slight memorials of their march, as that of charles edward when it returned from derby. the greatest excess that the highlanders were known to commit was the seizing horses to carry their baggage, or to carry their sick;--and these it was lord george's endeavour always to restore, even at a great inconvenience to the soldiers. even with every precaution it was impossible wholly to restrain plundering, although the general undertook in person to control that evil. "how often," he writes, "have i gone into houses on our marches to drive the men out of them, and drubbed them heartily?" this able man possessed another great requisite as a commander. he thoroughly understood his materials, he was perfectly acquainted with the temper and disposition of his soldiers. it was the attribute which made marlborough unconquerable; and, in an army chiefly of highlanders, it was one of the greatest value. by this lord george acquired over the members of every respective clan as much influence as each chief separately had. his corrections were well applied, and never lessened the confidence nor affections of the soldiery. from the highest to the lowest, the men and officers had a confidence in him, which induced them to apply to him for redress in grievances, and to consider him as an umpire in disputes. but lord george was not only a disciplinarian; in his own person, he set the example of a scrupulous honesty. "i never," he writes in his explanation of his conduct, "took the least thing without paying the full value. i thought that i could not reasonably find fault with others in that, if i did not show them a good example." to the sick and wounded lord george invariably paid the utmost attention; and, under his guidance, the highlanders, heretofore so fierce towards each other in their contests, were remarkable for a degree of humanity which was disgracefully contrasted with the barbarity of their conquerors. such were his general attributes in his military station. whatever doubts may have existed in the mind of charles edward as to the fidelity of his general, are silenced by the long and hopeless exile of lord george murray, and by the continued friendship of the chevalier st. george. no overtures, as in the case of the earl of mar, to the british government, nor efforts on the part of his prosperous and favoured brother, the duke of atholl, have transpired to show that in saving blair, there was a secret understanding that there should be a future reward, nor that any surmise of treachery had opened a door to reconciliation. charles, be it remembered, was under that daily, hourly influence, which weakens the judgment, and exasperates the passions. his opinion of lord george murray must not be accepted as any evidence against one who had redeemed the inconsistencies of his youth by the great exertions of his manhood. some vital defects there were, nevertheless, in this general, of powerful intellect, and of earnest and honourable intentions. his character partook too largely of that quality which has raised his country as a nation in all other countries, prudence. for his peculiar situation he was far too cautious. persevering and inflexible, he was destitute of hope. if it be true, that he entered into the undertaking with a conviction that the cause could never prosper, he was the last man that should have been the general of an army whose ardour, when not engaged in action, he invariably restrained. all contending opinions seem to hesitate and to falter when they relate to the retreat from derby, the grand error of the enterprise; the fatal step, when the tide served, and the wind was propitious, and an opportunity never to be regained, was for ever lost. in private society, lord george murray is reported to have been overbearing and hasty; his fine person, and handsome countenance were lessened in their agreeableness by a haughty deportment. he was simple, temperate, and self-denying in his habits. in his relations of life, he appears to have been respectable. his letters show him to have enjoyed, at least, the usual means of education offered to a soldier, who entered upon active service at sixteen, or to have improved his own acquirements. they are clear and explicit, and bear the impress of sincerity and good sense. distrusted as he was by charles edward, and misrepresented by others, we may accord to lord george murray the indulgence which he claims from posterity in these, the last words of his vindication:-- "upon the whole, i shall conclude with saying, if i did not all the good i would, i am sure i did all i could." footnotes: [ ] nisbet's heraldry, part iii. p. . [ ] in the life of the marquis of tullibardine, vol. i. [ ] see nisbet's heraldry. [ ] nisbet's heraldry, part iii. p. . [ ] see a ms. account of the highlands of scotland, british museum, king's library. [ ] "case of the forfeited estates, in a letter to a certain noble lord. london, ." [ ] wodrow's analecta, vol. iii. p. . [ ] see appendix, no. . for a curious original letter from mr. spence; for this document i am indebted to my brother-in-law, samuel coltman, esq. it was in the possession of his mother. [ ] "genuine memoirs of john murray, esq. london, ." [ ] "maxwell of kirkconnel's narrative," p. . [ ] life of james murray, esq. [ ] see atholl correspondence. printed for the abbotsford club. [ ] home, p. . [ ] narrative, p. . [ ] life of john murray, esq., p. . [ ] see stuart papers, in dr. brown's history of the highlands. [ ] life of j. murray, esq., p. . [ ] this disposition, observes a modern historian, was inherited both by charles edward and his brother from their mother, the princess clementina, who devoted herself, during the years of their infancy, to their welfare with unceasing care.--histoire de charles edouard, par amedée pichot; tome première, p. . [ ] life of sir robert walpole, vol. ii. p. . [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] life of sir robert walpole, vol. ii. p. . [ ] the prince took off at the same time the interdict which had passed against any of lord orford's family appearing at his court. [ ] maxwell's narrative, p. . [ ] see state trials by howell, vol. xviii. p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] memoirs of the chevalier johnstone, p. . [ ] chevalier johnstone's memoirs. translated from the french, p. . [ ] see introduction to the chevalier johnstone's memoirs. [ ] the highlands of scotland described, ms. british museum, . [ ] see forbes's jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] one thousand is mentioned by the chevalier johnstone; two thousand, in other authorities. the prince himself wrote to his father (sept. th, from perth), "i have got together men." forbes, note, p. . [ ] johnstone's memoirs, note, p. . [ ] tales of a grandfather, rd series, vol. ii, p. . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] lord mahon. [ ] maxwell, pp. , ; also tales of a grandfather, rd series, vol. ii. p. . [ ] i adopt this expression of sir walter scott in the tales of a grandfather (vol. ii. rd series, p. ), which seems to imply some doubt on the subject. [ ] history of the rebellion. taken from the scots magazine, p. . [ ] life of murray of broughton, p. . [ ] maxwell's narrative, p. . [ ] forbes. note, p. . [ ] lord george murray's narrative. forbes, p. . [ ] british chronologist, vol. ii. p. . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] henderson's history of the rebellion, p. . [ ] ibid. [ ] henderson. maxwell of kirkconnel. [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] border antiquities, by sir walter scott. no. iv. vol. i. [ ] history of the rebellion, from the scots magazine, p. . [ ] true patriot, a weekly periodical, december , . [ ] general advertiser, . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] the true patriot, december , . [ ] jacobite correspondence, p. . [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] jacobite correspondence, p. . [ ] jacobite correspondence, p. . duke of atholl to lord george murray. [ ] jacobite correspondence, p. . [ ] see correspondence. [ ] henderson's hist. rebellion, p. . [ ] maxwell. [ ] chambers. [ ] home. [ ] maxwell's narrative, p. . [ ] ibid. [ ] chevalier johnstone, p. . [ ] chambers, hist. rebel. people's edition, p. . [ ] chambers, p. . [ ] lockhart papers, vol. ii. p. . [ ] jacobite correspondence of the atholl family, p. . [ ] chevalier johnstone, p. . [ ] border antiquities, by sir walter scott, p. ; also maxwell's narrative, p. . [ ] hutchinson's history of cumberland. [ ] lockhart papers, vol. ii. p. . [ ] general advertiser for . [ ] jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] forbes's jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] forbes's jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] see lockhart, vol. ii. p. ; also lord mahon, vol. iv. p. , note. [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] maxwell says men. two or three hundred were to be left in carlisle, p. . [ ] johnstone's memoirs of the rebellion, p. . [ ] baines's history of lancashire, ii, . [ ] general advertiser for - . [ ] maxwell, page . the following is a list of the chevalier's officers and troops, taken from the history of the rebellion, extracted from the scots' magazine for and , p. . this list makes the amount of the forces considerably greater than the statement given elsewhere. a list of the chevalier's officers and troops. _regiments._ _colonels._ _men._ lochyel cameron of loch. appin stuart of ardshiel atholl lord g. murray clanronald clan, of clan., jun. keppoch macdonald of keppoch glenco macdonald of glenco ------ carried forward ------ a list of the chevalier's officers and troops--_continued._ _regiments._ _colonels._ _men._ brought forward ogilvie lord ogilvie glenbucket gordon of glen. perth, duke of perth (and pitsligo's foot) robertson robertson of strowan maclachan mac. of maclachan glencarnick macgregor glengary macdonald of glen., jun. nairn lord nairn edinburgh john roy stuart (and lord kelly's) in several small corps {lord elcho } horse { } {lord kilmarnock } lord pitsligo's horse ----- total ----- [ ] "my grandfather," says general stuart, "always wore tartans; truis, and with the plaid thrown over the shoulder, when on horseback; and kilt, when on foot; and never any other clothes, except when in mourning." app. xxii. [ ] sketches of the highlanders, by general stuart of garth. vol. ii. app. xxii. also note. [ ] see the true patriot, under the head apocrypha, . [ ] stuart's sketches, ii. . [ ] tales of a grandfather, iii. . [ ] general stuart's sketches of the highlanders, p. . [ ] state trials, vol. xviii. p. . [ ] john sobieski stuart. [ ] vestiarium scoticum, p. , note. edited by john sobieski stuart. [ ] these observations are all taken from the notes to the vestiarium scoticum, a beautiful work, extremely interesting, as being written by the hand of a stuart, and full of information. [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] baines's history of lancashire, iv. . [ ] tales of a grandfather, iii. p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] tales of a grandfather. [ ] baines's lancashire, ii. p. ; also iii. p. . [ ] gentleman's magazine, vol. xv. p. . [ ] i omit horace walpole's exact expression, which is more witty than proper. [ ] sketches of the highlanders, by general stewart, vol. ii. p. ; also georgian era, pp. , . [ ] brown's hist. of the highlanders, vol. iii. p. . [ ] general stewart, p. . [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] chambers's hist. of the rebellion; edition for the people, p. . [ ] glover's hist. of derbyshire, vol. i. p. . there is, in ashbourn church, an exquisite monument, sculptured by banks, and supposed to have given the notion of the figures in lichfield cathedral to chantry. a young girl, the only child of her parents, sir brook and lady boothby, reposes on a cushion, not at rest, but in the uneasy posture of suffering. on the tablet beneath are these words: "i was not in safety, neither had i rest, and the trouble came." to which were added; "the unfortunate parents ventured their all on the frail bark, and the wreck was total."--a history and an admonition. [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] extract from the derby mercury. glover's hist. of derbyshire, vol. ii. p. to . [ ] glover, vol. ii. pt. ; from hutton's derby. [ ] glover, vol. ii. pt. . p. . [ ] glover, vol. ii. pt. i. p. . from the derby mercury, the first number of which was issued march , , by mr. samuel drewry, market-place. appendix to glover's hist., . [ ] probably the house wherein lord george murray was lodged, belonged to a member of the heathcote family, of stoncliffe hall, darley dale, derbyshire. [ ] tales of a grandfather, iii. p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] lord george murray's narrative, forbes, p. and . [ ] maxwell of kirkconnell, p. . [ ] chevalier johnstone, p. . [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] chambers, p. , and lord elcho's ms. [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] chevalier johnstone, p. . [ ] lord mahon's history of england, vol. iii. p. . [ ] general stewart's sketches, vol. ii. p. . [ ] lord mahon, vol. iii. p. . [ ] tales of a grandfather, vol. iii. p. . [ ] jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] such is the account of a writer in the derby mercury, see glover's history of derby; but this statement is at variance with lord george murray's journal. [ ] the grandmother of the author. [ ] tradition. [ ] glover, vol. ii. pt. i. p. . [ ] lord elcho's ms. [ ] glover, vol. ii. pt. i. p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] this account is taken from maxwell's narrative, p. and ; and from the chevalier johnstone's memoirs, p. and . [ ] jacobite mem. p. . [ ] the hussars, under the command of lord pitsligo, had gone off to penrith. [ ] jacobite mem. p. . [ ] note to general stewart's sketches, vol. i. p. . [ ] maxwell. [ ] jacobite mem. p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] tales of a grandfather, vol. iii. p. . [ ] jacobite mem. p. . [ ] johnstone, p. . [ ] this statement tends somewhat to disprove the assertion that roman catholic priests occupied the pulpits at derby, made in the papers of the time. see p. [ ] maxwell. [ ] johnstone, p. . [ ] maxwell p. . [ ] lord murray's narrative, forbes, p. . [ ] general stuart, i., p. . [ ] forbes; note, p. . [ ] chambers's hist. of the rebellion, p. . [ ] tales of a grandfather, iii. . [ ] forbes, p. . maxwell, p. . see, also, for the references to the last eight pages, lord mahon, henderson, chambers, and home. [ ] scots' magazine, p. . [ ] atholl correspondence, p. . _et passim_. [ ] tales of a grandfather, vol. iii. p. . [ ] maxwell, p. ; also forbes, p. . [ ] lord george murray's journal. forbes, p. . johnstone's memoirs, p. . maxwell, p. . [ ] according to lord elcho's account (ms.), ten or twelve only were killed, and the rest taken prisoners. [ ] forbes' johnstone. [ ] grant of rothiemurcus. [ ] atholl correspondence, p. . [ ] see vol. i.--life of the marquis of tullibardine. [ ] lord elcho's ms. [ ] see a very curious account of the siege of blair castle, written by a subaltern officer in the king's service. scots' magazine for . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] scots' magazine, p. . [ ] ibid. [ ] there was one horse which seemed endowed with supernatural strength, for when, eventually, the castle was relieved, the horse, which had been shut up without forage, was found, after eight or ten days of abstinence, alive, and "wildly staggering about" in its confinement. it was afterwards sent as a present by captain wentworth, to whom it belonged, to his sister in england. [ ] see forbes, p. , . [ ] jacobite correspondence, p. . [ ] jacobite correspondence, p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] these circumstances will be fully detailed in the life of the duke of perth. [ ] maxwell. [ ] colonel ker's narrative, forbes, p. and . [ ] lord elcho's ms. [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] lord elcho's ms. [ ] colonel ker's narrative, p. . [ ] lord g. murray's account, forbes, p. . [ ] lord elcho's ms. [ ] lockhart, vol. ii. p. . [ ] atholl correspondence, p. . [ ] brown's history of the highlands, pt. v. p. .; from the stuart papers. [ ] see stuart papers. brown, _passim_. [ ] stuart papers; from dr. brown. [ ] secretary to the chevalier st. george. [ ] stuart papers. appendix. brown, p. . [ ] chambers. ed. for the people, p. . james drummond, styled duke of perth. in a history of the house of drummond, compiled in the year , by lord strathallan, the author thus addresses his relative, james, earl of perth, on the subject of their common ancestry: "take heire a view of youre noble and renowned ancestors, of whose blood you are descended in a right and uninterrupted male line; as also of so many of the consanguinities and ancient affinities of youre family in the infancy thereof, as the penury of our oldest records and the credit of our best traditions has happily preserved from the grave of oblivion. the splendor of your fame," he adds, "needs no commendation, more than the sune does to a candle; and even a little of the truth from me may be obnoxious to the slander of flattery, or partiality, by reason of my interest in it. therefore i'll say the less; only this is generally known for a truth, that justice, loyaltie, and prudence, which have been but incident virtues and qualities in others, are all three as inherent ornaments, and hereditary in yours."[ ] such praise far exceeds in value the mere homage to ancient lineage. with these noble qualities, the race of drummond combined the courage to defend their rights, and the magnanimity to protect the feeble. this last characteristic is beautifully described in the following words: "for justice, as a poor stranger, often thrust out of doors from great houses, where grandeur and utility are commonly the idolls that's worshipped,--_quid non mortalia pectora cogis?_--has always found sanctuary in yours, which has ever been ane encouragement to the good, a terror to the bad, and free from the oppression of either." to this magnanimous spirit were added loyalty to the sovereign, and prudence in the management of private affairs; a virtue of no small price, for it rendered the house of drummond independent of court favour, and gave to its prosperity a solid basis. "the chiefs of this family lived," says their historian, "handsomely, like themselves; and still improved or preserved their fortunes since the first founder." the origin of this race is, perhaps, as interesting as that of any of the scottish nobility, and has the additional merit of being well ascertained. after the death of edward the confessor, the next claimant to the crown, edgar atheling, alarmed for his safety after the norman conquest, took shipping with his mother agatha, and with his two sisters, margaret and christiana, intended to escape to hungary; but owing to a violent storm, or, as the noble historian of the drummonds well expresses it, "through divine providence," he was driven upon the scottish coast, and forced to land upon the north side of the firth of forth. he took shelter in a little harbour west of the queen's ferry, ever since called st. margaret's hook, from edgar's sister margaret, who, for the "rare perfectiones of her body and mind," was afterwards chosen by malcolm canmore, to the great satisfaction of the nation, for his queen. margaret was therefore married to the scottish monarch at dunfermline in the year . this alliance was not the only advantage derived by the young and exiled english king from his accidental landing in scotland. penetrated with gratitude for former services conferred upon himself by edward the confessor, malcolm supported the cause of edgar, and received and bestowed upon his adherents lands and offices, in token of kindness to his royal guest. hence some of the most potent families in the kingdom had their origin. amongst the train of edgar atheling at dunfermline was an hungarian, eminent for his faithful services, but especially for his skilful and successful conduct of the vessel in which the fugitives had sailed from england. he was highly esteemed by the grateful queen margaret, who recommended him to the king; and, for his reward, lands, offices, and a coat of arms suitable to his quality, were conferred on him, together with the name of drummond. it was about this period that surnames were first introduced, and that patronymicks were found insufficient to designate heroes. since the new designations were often derived from some office, as well as the possession of lands and peculiar attributes, the hungarian obtained his name in consequence of his nautical skill; dromont, or dromond, being, in different nations, the name of a ship, whence the commander was called dromount, or dromoner. the first lands bestowed upon the hungarian were situated in dumbartonshire, and in the jurisdiction of the lennox; a county full of rivers, lochs, and mountains, "emblematically expressed," says lord strathallan, "in the coats of arms then given to him, wherein hunting, waters, hounds, inhabitants wild and naked, are represented." to these gifts was added the office of thane, seneschal, or stuart heritable of lennox,--names all meaning the same thing, but altering with the times.[ ] the hungarian, whose christian name is conjectured to have been maurice, was then naturalized a scot; and all the parts of his coat-armour were contrived to indicate his adventures, his name, office, and nation. he died in an encounter near alnwick castle, fighting valiantly, in order to avenge the surprise of that place by william rufus, in . the records of the family of drummond were for several generations defective after the death of maurice; but there exists no doubt but that he was the founder of a family once so prosperous, and afterwards so unfortunate. the name of maurice was preserved, according to the scottish custom of naming the eldest son after his father, for many succeeding generations. the family continued to increase in importance, and to enjoy the favour of royalty; and the marriage of the beautiful annabella drummond to robert the third, king of scotland, produced an alliance between the house of drummond and the royal families of austria and burgundy. in james the third ennobled the race by making john drummond, the twelfth chief in succession, a lord of parliament. as the annals of the race are reviewed, many instances of valour, wisdom, and unchangeable probity arise; whilst some events, which have the features of romance, diversify the chronicle. among these is the story of the fair margaret drummond, who has been celebrated by several of our best historians. between margaret and james the fourth of scotland an attachment existed. they were cousins; and a pretext was made by the nobles and council, on that account, to prevent a marriage which they alleged to be within the degrees of consanguinity permitted by the canon law: nevertheless, under promise of a marriage, margaret consented to live with her royal lover, and the result of that connexion was a daughter. this happened when james was only in his sixteenth year, and whilst he was duke of rothsay; yet the monarch was so much touched in conscience by the engagement, or betrothal, between him and the young lady, that he remained unmarried until the age of thirty, about a year after the death of margaret drummond. that event, it was surmised, was caused by poison; the common tradition being that a potion was provided for margaret at breakfast, in order to free the king from his bonds, that he might "match with england." "but it so happened," says the narrative,[ ] "that she called two of her sisters, then with her in drummond, to accompany her that morning, to wit, lilias, lady fleming, and a younger, sybilla, a maid; whereby it fell out all the three were destroyed with the force of the poyson. they ly burried in a curious vault covered with three faire blue marble stones, joyned closs together, about the middle of the queir of the cathedral church of dumblane; for about this time the burial-place for the familie of drummond at innerpeffrie was not yet built. the monument which containes the ashes of these three ladyes stands entire to this day, and confirms the credit of this sad storie." the daughter of margaret drummond, lady margaret stuart, was well provided for by the king; and was married, in the year , to lord gordon, the eldest son of the earl of huntley, "a gallant and handsome youth." from this union four noble families are descended; the gordons, earls of huntley; the countess of sutherland; the countess of atholl, who was the mother of lady lovat; and lady saltoun. james the fourth testified his regret for the death of his beloved margaret, and his solicitude for her soul's benefit, in a manner characteristic of his age and character. in the treasurer's accounts for february - , there occurs this entry, "item, to the priests that sing in dumblane for margaret drummond, their quarter fee, five pounds:" and this item, occurring regularly during the reign of james the fourth, "paid to two priests who were appointed to sing masses for margaret in the cathedral of dumblane, where she was buried," marks his remembrance of his betrothed wife. one of the greatest ornaments of the ancient house of drummond was william drummond, a descendant of the drummonds of carnock, son of sir john drummond of hawthornden, and author of the "history of the five james's," kings of scotland.[ ] the friend of drayton, and of ben jonson, this man of rare virtues presents one of the brightest examples of that class to which he belonged, the scottish country-gentleman. true-hearted, like the rest of his race, drummond was never called forth from a retirement over which virtue and letters cast their charms, except by the commotions of his country. his grief at the death of charles the first, whom he survived only one year, is said to have shortened his days. in , the title of earl of perth was added to the other honours of the family of drummond,[ ] who derived a still further accession of honour and repute by the probity and firmness of its members in the great rebellion. like most of the other scottish families of rank, they suffered great losses, and fell into embarrassed circumstances on account of heavy fines exacted by oliver cromwell. the house, castle drummond, was garrisoned by the protector's troops, and the estates were ravaged and ruined. yet the valiant and true-hearted descendants of those who had been thus punished for their allegiance, were ready again to adopt the same cause, and to adhere to the same principles that had guided their forefathers. in the person of james drummond, fourth earl of perth, who succeeded his father the third earl, in , several high honours were centred. he was made, by charles the second, justice-general, and afterwards lord high chancellor of scotland. he continued to be a favourite with james the second; and in , when james fled from england, the earl of perth, endeavouring to follow him, was thrown into prison, first at kirkaldy, and afterwards at stirling, until the privy council, upon his giving security for five thousand pounds, permitted him to follow his royal master. from james, the earl received the title of duke, which his successors adopted, and which was given to them by the jacobite party, of which we find repeated instances in the letters of lord mar. his son, lord drummond, succeeded to all the inconveniences which attend the partisans of the unfortunate. returning from france, in , he was obliged to give security for his good conduct, in a large sum. in consequence of the assassination plot, the vigilance of government was increased, and, in , he was committed to edinburgh castle. during the reign of william, a system of exaction was carried on with respect to this family. "in a word," says the author of lochiell's memoirs, himself a drummond, speaking of james lord drummond, "that noble lord was miserably harassed all this reign. he represented a family which had always been a blessing to the country where it resided; and he himself was possessed of so many amiable qualities, that he was too generally beloved not to be suspected by such zealous ministers. he was humble, magnificent, and generous; and had a certain elevation and greatness of soul that gave an air of dignity and grandeur to all his words and actions. he had a person well-turned, graceful and genteel, and was besides the most polite and best bred lord of his age. his affability, humanity, and goodness gained upon all with whom he conversed; and as he had many friends, so it was not known that he had any personal enemies. he had too much sincerity and honour for the times. the crafty and designing are always apt to cover their vices under the mask of the most noble and sublime virtues; and it is natural enough for great souls to believe that every person of figure truly is what he ought to be, and that a person of true honour thinks it even criminal to suspect that any he is conversing with is capable of debasing[ ] the dignity of his nature so low as to be guilty of such vile and ignoble practices. none could be freer of these, or indeed of all other vices, than the noble person i speak of. the fixed and unalterable principles of justice and integrity, which always made the rules of his conduct, were transmitted to him with his blood, and are virtues inherent and hereditary in the constitution of that noble family."[ ] lord drummond was afterwards engaged in the insurrection of : he was attainted, but escaped to france, and, dying in , left the inheritance of estates which he had saved by a timely precaution, and the empty title of duke of perth,[ ] to his son james drummond, the unfortunate subject of this memoir. such was the character borne by the father of james, duke of perth. this ill-fated adherent of the stuarts was born on the eleventh of may ; and three months afterwards, on the twenty-eighth of august, his father deemed it expedient to execute a deed conveying the family estates to him, by which means the property, at that time, escaped forfeiture. like many other young men under similar circumstances, this young nobleman was educated at the scottish college of douay, consistently with the principles of his family, who were at that time roman catholics. in his twenty-first year, the young duke of perth came over to scotland, and devoted himself, in the absence of his father, to the management of his estate. it is probable that his own inclinations might have led him to prefer the occupations of an elegant leisure to the turmoils of contention; but, be that as it may, it was not reserved for the head of the house of drummond to rest contentedly in his own halls. the nearest kinsmen of the young nobleman were active partisans of the chevalier st. george. his brother, lord john drummond who had been confirmed in all his devotion to the cause by his education at douay, had entered the service of the king of france, and had raised a regiment called the royal scots, of which he was the colonel. he was destined to take an active share in the events to which all were at this time looking forward, some with dread, others with impatience. but his influence was less likely to be permanent over his brother, than that of the duke's mother, whose wishes were all deeply engaged in behalf of james stuart. this lady, styled duchess of perth, was the daughter of george first duke of gordon, and of lady elizabeth howard, duchess of gordon, who, in , had astonished the faculty of advocates at edinburgh by sending them a silver medal with the head of the chevalier engraved upon it. the duchess of perth inherited her mother's determined character and political principles; for her adherence to which she eventually suffered, together with other ladies of rank, by imprisonment. these ties were strong inducements to the young duke of perth to take an active part in the affair of , and it is said to have been chiefly on his mother's persuasions that he took his first step. but there was another individual, whose good-faith to the cause had been proved by exertion and suffering; this was the brave william, viscount strathallan, who possessed higher qualities than those of personal valour and loyalty. "his character as a good christian," writes bishop forbes, "setting aside his other personal qualities and rank in the world, as it did endear him to all his acquaintances, so did it make his death universally regretted."[ ] lord strathallan was the eldest surviving son of sir john drummond of macheany, whom he had succeeded in his estates; and, in , became viscount strathallan, lord madertie, and lord drummond of cromlix, in consequence of the death of his cousin.[ ] he had engaged in the rebellion of , and had been taken prisoner, as well as his brother, mr. thomas drummond, at the battle of sheriff muir; but no proceedings had been instituted against him. his escape on that occasion, as well as the part which his kinsman, the earl of perth, took on that eventful day, are thus alluded to in an old ballad entitled the battle of the sheriff muir. "_to the tune of the 'horseman's sport.'_ "lord perth stood the storm; seaforth, and lukewarm kilsyth, and strathallan, not sla', man, and hamilton fled--the man was not bred, for he had no fancy to fa', man. so we ran, and they ran; and they ran, and we ran; and we ran, and they ran awa', man."[ ] lord strathallan joined the standard of prince charles in , and afterwards acted an important part in the events of that period. he was not only himself a zealous supporter of the stuarts, but was aided in no common degree by his wife, the eldest daughter of the baroness nairn and of lord william murray,--in his schemes and exertions. lady strathallan inherited from her mother, a woman of undoubted spirit and energy, the determination to act, and the fortitude to sustain the consequences of her exertions. but there was still another individual, not to specify various members of the same family, whose aid was most important to the cause of the jacobites. this was andrew drummond, one of the family of macheany, and uncle of lord strathallan. he was the founder of the banking-house of drummond at charing cross, which was formed, as it has been surmised, for the express purpose of facilitating supplies to the partisans of the chevalier. this spirited member of the family remained unchanged in his principles during the course of a life protracted until the age of eighty-one. his part in the great events of the day was well known, and meanly avenged by sir robert walpole, who, in the course of the insurrection, caused a run upon the bank. the concern, backed by its powerful connections, stood its ground; but the banker forgave not the minister. when the tumults of were at an end, mr. drummond so far yielded to the dictates of prudence as to go to court: he was received by george the second, to whom he paid his obeisance. but when the minister, anxious to conciliate his stern and formidable foe, advanced to offer him his hand, mr. drummond turned round, folded his hands behind his back, and walked away. "it was my duty," he said afterwards, "to pay my respects to his majesty, but i am not obliged to shake hands with his minister!" on the young james drummond duke of perth, as chief of the house of drummond, the eyes of the jacobites were turned, with expectations which were, to the utmost of the young nobleman's power, fulfilled. it was by his mother's desire that he had been educated in france, where he was confirmed in the principles of the romish faith. he possessed, indeed, some acquirements, and displayed certain qualities calculated to inspire hope in those who depended upon his exertions that he would prove a valuable adherent to the cause. naturally courageous, his military turn had been improved by a knowledge of the theory of war: his disposition united great vivacity to the endearing qualities of benevolence and liberality; he had the every-day virtues of good-nature, mildness, and courtesy. his pursuits were creditable to a nobleman. he was skilled in mathematics, an elegant draughtsman, a scholar in various languages, a general lover of literature, and a patron of the liberal arts. nor was a fondness for horse-racing, in which he indulged, and in which his horses frequently bore away the prize, likely to render him unpopular in the eyes of his countrymen. but there were some serious drawbacks to the utility of the young nobleman as a public man. his health, in the first place, was precarious. when a child, a barrel had been rolled over him, and a bruise was received in his lungs, to the effects of which his friends attributed a weakness and oppression from which he usually suffered at bed-time; when "he usually," as a contemporary relates, "took a little boiled bread and milk, or some such gentle food."[ ] this was an inauspicious commencement of an active and anxious career. it was afterwards discovered, that with all his acquirements and accomplishments, and with his natural gallantry, the duke was no practical soldier. in obtaining an influence over the minds of his countrymen, the young duke possessed one great advantage. he was descended from a house noted for the highest principles of honour.[ ] "to give the reader an undeniable proof of the generous maxims of that house," says the author of lochiell's memoirs, "it will be proper to notice, that, by the laws of scotland, no person succeeding to an estate is, in a legal sense, vested in the property until he serves himself heir to the person from whom he derives his title. the heir often took the advantage of this when the creditors were negligent, and passing by his father, and perhaps his grandfather, served heir to him who was last infefted; for unless they were actually seised of the estate according to the forms of law, they were no more than simple possessors, and could not encumber the land with any deed or debts; whereby the heir got clear of all that intervened betwixt himself and the person whom he represented by his service. this was an unjustifiable practice, which the diligence of creditors might always have prevented; and which is now wholly prevented by an act of parliament obliging every one possessing an estate to pay the debts of his predecessors, as well as his own, whether representing them by a service or not. "but the house of perth was always so firmly attached to honour and justice, that there are no less than fifteen retours, descending lineally from father to son, extant among their records. "now a retour is a writ returned from the court of attorney, testifying the service of every succeeding heir; and is therefore an unexceptionable evidence of paying his predecessor's debts, and of performing his obligations and deeds. such has been, and still is, the uniform practice of the truly noble lords of the house of montrose and, perhaps, some others of the ancient nobility have followed the same course, which will not only entail a blessing upon their family and posterity, but will likewise be a perpetual memorial of their integrity, honour, and antiquity." the young duke of perth fully maintained this high character of honour and liberal dealings, and as a landholder and a chief, he would, had he been spared, have proved himself a valuable member of society. he was, relates an historian, a father to the poor;--and the interval of ten years between his return to scotland and the rebellion was engaged in establishing manufactures for the employment of his tenantry, and in acts of beneficence. unhappily, it was not long before political combinations diverted the attention which was so well bestowed in the improvement of his country. in the beginning of the year , seven persons of distinction signed the association, engaging themselves to take arms, and to venture their lives and fortunes for the stuarts. among these was the duke of perth. this association was committed to drummond of bochaldy, who, besides, carried with him a list of those chiefs and chieftains who, the subscribers thought, were willing to join them, should a body of troops land from france. this list contained so great a number of names, that murray of broughton, in his evidence at the trial of lord lovat, said he considered it to be "a general list of the highlands;" a palpable refutation of the reasoning of those who have represented the jacobite insurrection as a partial and factious movement. the duke of perth had now irrevocably pledged himself to engage in the cause, which required a very different character of mind to that which he seems to have possessed. like the unfortunate lord derwentwater, he was calculated to adorn a smooth and prosperous course; but not to contend with fiery spirits, nor to act in concert with overbearing tempers. averse to interference, and retiring in his disposition, the duke was conceived, by those who mistook arrogance for talent, to have been possessed of only limited abilities. the friend or relative who composed the epitaph to his memory inscribed on the duke's tomb at antwerp, has borne testimony to the strength of his understanding. all have coincided in commending the honour and faith which procured him the respect of all parties, and the chivalric bravery which won him the affection of the soldiery. it is a melancholy task to trace the career of one so high-minded, so gentle, and so formed to adorn the peaceful tenour of a country life, through scenes of turmoil, disaster, and dismay; and, during the continuance of arduous exertions, to recall the slow and certain progress of a fatal disease, which progressed during hardships too severe for the delicate frame of this amiable young man to sustain without danger. the younger brother of the duke, lord john drummond, was constituted of different materials. courteous, honourable, and high-minded, like his brother, he added to those attributes of the gentleman a strong capacity for military affairs, to which he had applied himself from his earliest youth. intrepid and resolute, the roughness of the soldier was softened in this fine martial character by an elegance and ease of manner which sprang from a kind and gentle temper. the energy of lord john drummond's mind was shown by the enlistment of the scottish legion, under the protection of louis the fifteenth. in him the soldiers always knew that they had a sure, and firm friend: like his brother, when on the conquering side, clemency and humanity were never, even in the heat of victory, forgotten by the young general. individuals like these lamented and unfortunate brothers give a mournful interest to the history of the jacobites. the duke of perth was one of the most sanguine of those who desired to see charles edward land on the coast of scotland. of the representations which induced the prince to take that step, and especially of the part taken in the affair by the well-known murray of broughton, various accounts have been given. from mr. home we learn, that mr. murray used every argument in his power to deter the prince from invading scotland without a regular force to support him. this account was doubtless the version which the secretary himself gave of his part in the business. the statement of lord elcho differs greatly from that of mr. home.[ ] "mr. murray," says lord elcho, "in the beginning of the year , sent one young glengarry to the prince with a state of his affairs in scotland, in which it is believed he represented everybody that had ever spoke warmly of the stuart family, as people that would join him if he came."[ ] after mr. murray's own visit to france, he had an interview with all the members of the association, and there detailed to them the conference he had had with the prince. the duke of perth was the only person who did not, in that council, expressly declare against the prince's coming to scotland without assistance from france. the battle of fontenoy, on the eleventh of may , in which the british army was cut to pieces, encouraged, nevertheless, the ardent spirit of charles to proceed in his enterprise. the number of regular troops in scotland he well knew, was at that time inconsiderable; and he had, as he conceived, from the representations of murray, no other opponents than the british army. he was, probably, wholly ignorant of the powerful enemies who afterwards co-operated against him in the south-western parts of scotland.[ ] the duke of perth had already, in the beginning of the year, received, as well as others, his commission. he was appointed general of the forces in the north of scotland, and was therefore one of the most important personages for government to seize. the duke was at that time at drummond castle, a place only exceeded in beauty and splendour, in the highlands, by dunkeld and blair. the aspect of this commanding edifice is one which recalls the association of ancient power and princely wealth. beneath its walls is an expanse of a magnificent and varied country, combining all those features which characterize lands long held in peace by opulent and liberal possessors. "noble avenues, profuse woods," thus speaks one of unerring accuracy, "a waste of lawn and pasture, an unrestrained scope, everything bespeaks the carelessness of liberality and extensive possessions; while the ancient castle, its earliest part belonging to the year , stamps on it that air of high and distant opulence which adds so deep a moral interest to the rural features of baronial britain."[ ] from the castle it was now attempted to make the duke of perth a prisoner; but since it would have been impossible to detain a chief, prisoner in his own halls, and among his own retainers, a stratagem, peculiarly revolting to the highland code of honour, was adopted to ensnare the young nobleman. two highland officers, sir patrick murray and mr. campbell of inverary, were employed in this transaction, and a warrant was given to them to apprehend the duke of perth. this they knew to be impossible without a large force; they therefore condescended to lower the character of scotchmen, by violating the first principles which regulate the intercourse of gentlemen. they were base enough to abuse the hospitality of the kind and ready host who had often welcomed them to drummond castle. one day, these gentlemen sent the duke word that they should dine with him; he returned, in answer, that he should be proud to see them. on the twenty-sixth of july, , they went, and were entertained at dinner with the liberal courtesy which always shone forth under that roof. one of the duke's footmen, meantime, having espied an armed force about the house, called his grace to the door of the room, and begged him to take care of himself. this caution was even repeated more than once; but the duke, trusting that others were like himself, only smiled, and said he did not think that any gentleman "could be guilty of so dirty an action." but he found that he was mistaken. after dinner, when the officers had drunk a little, they took courage to inform the duke of their errand; and, to confirm their statement, one of them drew the warrant out of his pocket. the duke behaved with great presence of mind; he received their summons calmly, but begged permission to retire to a closet in the room where they were sitting, to get himself ready. this was assented to: the duke went into the closet, in which, however, there was a door; he opened it and, slipping down a flight of stairs, escaped to a wood adjacent to his castle. this wood was already surrounded by an armed force, and he was obliged to crawl on his hands and feet to avoid being observed by the sentinels. in such a situation he was hindered and wounded by briers and thorns, and at last was obliged to hide himself in a dry ditch from his pursuers. they were, indeed, misled by the servants at the castle, who, upon their inquiring for the fugitive, declared that he had gone away on horseback. the officers however on their return to crieff, where they were quartered, passed so near the place where he lay, that he heard what they were saying. when all the soldiers were out of sight, he sprang up; and seeing a countryman with a pony, having no bridle, but only a halter about its neck, he begged to have the use of it, and his request was granted. after this, he first rode to the house of mr. murray of abercairney, and afterwards to that of mr. drummond of logie. here he was saved by one of those presentiments of evil which one can neither explain nor deny. in the dead of night he was awakened by his host, who begged the duke to take refuge elsewhere; for fears, which he could not account for, haunted his mind. the fugitive arose from his bed, and set off elsewhere. shortly afterwards the house was invaded by a party of armed men, who came to search for him, but retired disappointed. his next meeting with his faithless guest, sir patrick murray, was on the field of gladsmuir, when the treacherous officer was made prisoner. the duke then took his revenge with characteristic good-humour; for, after saluting the captured officer, he said smilingly, "sir patie, i am to dine with _you_ to-day."[ ] after his escape from logie, the duke of perth crossed over to angus, incognito, and, attended only by one servant, rode through the north country without molestation, and arrived at the camp of prince charles. here he met the afterwards celebrated roy stuart, then a captain of grenadiers in lord john drummond's' regiment. that officer had embarked at helvoetsluys for harwich, where he had scarcely arrived before the ship in which he had sailed was searched by authority of a government warrant. charles edward was at this time at castle mingry, whence accounts had travelled to the capital of his arrival and projected hostilities. it was long before his intentions were even believed; and, when believed, they were treated at first with contempt. the duke of argyll, who was then at roseneath, had an intercepted letter of the prince's put into his hands, addressed to sir alexander macdonald, together with a copy of one to the laird of macleod. the duke hastened to edinburgh, and laid these papers before mr. craigie the advocate. "what a strange chimera," said craigie, laughing, "is it to suppose a young man with seven persons capable of overturning a throne!" "his landing with seven persons only," replied argyll gravely, "is a circumstance the more to be feared."[ ] sir john cope, nevertheless, long delayed obeying the orders of government to march northwards, although great pains were taken by some of the whig party to magnify the danger, and to add to the terrors of the foe. reports were even stated, in the presence of the magistrates, of a camp in ardnamirchan, which was a large scots mile in circumference,--of several ships of war hovering near the coast,--of cannon of an enormous size; whilst the young chevalier was described as one of the strongest men in christendom. all agreed that the invader had chosen the period of his enterprise judiciously. scotland contained but few forces, and those were newly levied men, sufficient in number merely to garrison the forts and to overawe smugglers. never was a country less prepared to receive an invasion,[ ] and general cope's blunders soon encouraged the hopes of the jacobites, until they were elated beyond measure. the sanguine charles edward pledged the general's health in a glass of brandy: "here's a health to mr. cope!" he cried, in the presence of his forces; "and, if all the usurper's generals follow his example, i shall soon be at st. james's." the toast was given by the private soldiers, to whom whiskey was distributed to drink it. well furnished with artillery, of which the insurgents were destitute, general cope might have obtained an easy victory, or at any rate have dispersed the jacobite army. happy would it have been for scotland, had the rebellion thus been extinguished, before the brave had sunk in civil strife, or loyal hearts been broken in the silent agony of imprisonment! many acts of heroism, numberless traits of fortitude, would indeed have been lost to the mournful admiration of posterity; but the vigorous hand, which crushes a hopeless struggle in its outset, is ever, in effect, the hand of mercy. from this time the duke of perth shared in the short-lived triumph of his prince. he marched with the army to dunkeld, where, supping in the house of james, duke of atholl, who retired at their approach, the unfortunate charles edward forced a gaiety which he was said, at that time, not to feel; asked for scottish dishes; and, having picked up a few words of gaelic, pledged the highland officers in that tongue. the duke of perth attended in the triumphant entrance into perth on the fourth of september. this was the first town of consequence that charles edward had visited; and his appearance, mounted on a fine horse presented to him by major macdonell, and dressed in a superb suit of tartan trimmed with gold, produced a great impression upon the assembled multitude, who greeted him with loud acclamations. he was conducted in triumph to the house of viscount stormont, the eldest brother of the celebrated earl of mansfield. lord stormont, though friendly to the cause, was not disposed to risk his life and property for the stuarts. he withdrew from the dangerous honour of entertaining the prince, yet left his family to receive him with all loyalty, and the chevalier took up his abode at lord stormont's. it was an antique house with a wooden front, which stood on the spot now occupied by the perth union bank, near the bottom of the high-street.[ ] the evening was closed by a ball given by the prince to the ladies of the town. the prince, probably wearied by the day's proceedings, danced only one dance, and then withdrew. his bed, it is said, was prepared by the fair hands of lord stormont's sister. on the following day a different scene took place, for all was not compliment that charles encountered in the loyal town of perth. mass having been celebrated publicly, charles was as publicly rebuked by a minister of the kirk, who reminded him of his father's failure in the last rebellion, which he attributed to his adherence to popery, to "which he had sacrificed his crown." "i prefer," replied the young chevalier boldly, "a heavenly crown to an earthly one!"[ ] the duke of perth had summoned many of his tenants to meet him at blair, where he required them to bring all the rent due, under pain of punishment; and he now ordered them also to carry arms to the extent of their power. he is said to have insisted upon his privilege as chief, with a degree of rigour which, when his power was exerted to force his tenants into a course of certain peril, cannot be justified. unhappily, the practice was of too frequent occurrence among some of the chieftains to permit us entirely to dismiss it as a calumny. the amiable lord derwentwater, the brave lord southesk, as has been remarked elsewhere, and proved by letters and contemporary statements, were not free from a similar charge. the following anecdote is so little in accordance with the forbearance assigned to the duke of perth both by enemies and friends, that it must, however, be read with distrust. it is related by james macpherson:[ ] speaking of the compulsory measures adopted, he says, "to this oppression of the duke of perth's likewise several submitted (such are the terrors of arbitrary power). three however resisted, declaring that besides the inconvenience which the neglect of their affairs would subject them to, and the danger of the undertaking, it was against their conscience to assist the cause of popery against the true religion of their country; to which one of them had the boldness to add, he was sorry to see his grace embarked in such a cause. upon this, the duke, flying into a rage, snatched up a pistol which lay in his tent, and immediately shot the poor man through the head. after which the other two made their escape from him, and one from the camp, the other being pursued and killed by one of the rebels, who was witness to the whole transaction." whilst the army remained at perth, a singular incident occurred, which seems to prove that the subsequent surrender of edinburgh was by no means unexpected by prince charles.[ ] one evening, when macpherson was on duty as one of the prince's guards, a person came to the camp, and was by his desire conducted to the presence of the chevalier. a long conference ensued, at which the duke of perth and the marquis of tullibardine were present. soon after the departure of this stranger, it was rumoured that edinburgh was to be betrayed to the jacobites, and that they were to take possession in a few days. there must, therefore, have been some secret communication. in the memorable events which followed this rumour, the duke of perth continually shared. he rode by the side of charles edward when the gallant adventurer, leaving perth on the eleventh of september, crossed the firth at the frew, and passed so near the walls of stirling, that the balls fired upon him and his forces from the castle fell within twenty yards of the prince. he proceeded on the march, commenced by the chevalier with the sum of only one guinea in his pocket, until they arrived at gray's hill, a place two miles west of edinburgh. here deputies from the town arrived to treat with charles. "i do not treat with subjects," was the chevalier's reply; whilst the duke of perth added, "the king's declaration, and the prince's manifesto, are such as every subject ought to accept with joy." meantime, a company of volunteers under the command of captain drummond, a gentleman of very different political sentiments to those of the majority of this name, had assembled in the college yard, when, after being addressed by their gallant leader, they proffered their services to aid the dragoons stationed in the city, under the command of general guest, in repelling the jacobites. on sunday, the fire-bell sounding in the time of divine service, emptied all the churches; and the people, rushing into the streets, beheld the volunteers drawn up in the lawn market, awaiting the arrival of the dragoons, with whom they were prepared to march out of the town to repel the rebels. but this gallant resolution was not put into execution; and a force of two thousand strong, not half of the soldiery having fire-locks, was suffered to force their way into a town garrisoned by two thousand seven hundred soldiers, all well supplied with arms and ammunition. that edinburgh was surrendered by the treachery of its provost, seems beyond all doubt. archibald stewart, who held that office at this critical moment, gave many indications of perfidy or cowardice, which have been duly related, although with little comment, by historians. notwithstanding that the approach of the insurgents had been by measured paces, and that they had advanced so leisurely as to spend some hours lying on the bank of a rivulet near linlithgow, no preparations for defence had been made, although it was the wish of many of the inhabitants to resist the jacobite army. it had been found that all the calms, or moulds for bullets, had been bought up; ladies having gone to the shops where they were made, to purchase them. when the danger became proximate, the provost merely remarked, that, if the enemy wished to enter, he did not know how they could be prevented. he viewed the fortifications, it is true, and rummaged up some grenades that had lain in a chest since . but the most suspicious incident occurred during a meeting of the town council, when a highland spy, having a letter in his hand, was apprehended, and brought before the assembly. the letter was given to the provost, who hurried it into his pocket, and in great haste broke up the assembly.[ ] in all the deliberations for the defence of the city, it was perceived that mr. provost stewart was a dead-weight upon any measures of vigour; and nothing could have been done to preserve edinburgh from surrendering, unless he had been absolutely bound in chains. yet this unworthy magistrate, so faithless to his trust, so discreditable an instrument of the jacobite cause, was afterwards acquitted, after a trial of four days, by the lords justiciary. the progress of that cause now appeared such as to promise success to the future exertions of its partisans. on the seventeenth of september, the prince received the news that edinburgh was taken, and a stand of one thousand arms seized; a circumstance which added greatly to the joy of the insurgents, who stood in need of arms. "when the army came near town," writes lord elcho, "it was met by vast multitudes of people, who by their repeated shouts and huzzas expressed a great deal of joy to see the prince. when they came into the suburbs, the crowd was prodigious, and all wishing the prince prosperity; in short, nobody doubted but that he would be joined by ten thousand men at edinburgh, if he could arm them. the army took the road to duddingston: lord strathallan marching first, at the head of the horse; the prince next, on horseback, with the duke of perth on his right, and lord elcho on his left; then lord george murray, on foot, at the head of the column of infantry. from duddingston, the army entered the king's park, by a breach made in the wall. lord george halted some time in the park, but afterwards marched the foot to duddingston; and the prince continued on horseback, always followed by the crowd, who were happy if they could touch his boots, or his horse furniture. in the steepest part of the road going down to the abbey, he was obliged to alight and walk; but the mob, out of curiosity, and some out of fondness, to touch him or kiss his hand, were like to throw him down: so, as soon as he was down the hill, he mounted his horse and rode through st. anne's yard into holyrood house, amidst the cries of six thousand people, who filled the air with their acclamations of joy. he dismounted in the inner court, and went up stairs into the gallery; and from thence into the duke of hamilton's apartments, which he occupied all the time he was at edinburgh. the crowd continued all night in the outer court of the abbey, and huzzaed every time the prince appeared at the window. he was joined, upon his entering the abbey, by the earl of kelly, lord balmerino, mr. hepburn of keith, mr. lockhart younger of carnwath, mr. graham younger of airth, mr. rollo younger of powhouse, mr. stirling of craigbarnet, mr. hamilton of bangor, sir david murray, and several other gentlemen of distinction: but not one of the mob, who were so fond of seeing him, were asked to enlist in his service; and, when he marched to fight cope, he had not one of them in his army."[ ] the prince, who was thus received with acclamations into the home of his forefathers, was at this time in the bloom of youth, being in the twenty-fifth year of his age. neither the agitation produced by the events of that critical day on his sensitive temper, nor the fatigue of the previous march to a young soldier, could diminish the grace of his deportment, nor hide the natural majesty of his carriage. "the figure and presence of charles stuart," even home remarks, "were not ill-suited to his lofty pretensions." he was in height about five feet ten inches, of a slender form; his features were aquiline; his complexion, though ruddy from the highland air, was naturally fair. he had the pointed chin, and small mouth in proportion to his other features, of charles the first. the colour of his eyes has been variously described; being, according to some, "large rolling brown eyes," whilst in many of his portraits he is depicted as having full blue eyes.[ ] the hair of charles stuart was concealed under a "pale peruke;" but, is said to have been red, or, according to most of his portraits, of a sandy hue. as he rode, with extreme grace, upon a fine bay gelding presented to him by the duke of perth, the bystanders remarked that an "irregular smile," as one of them has expressed it, lighted up, by fits, a countenance which told but too plainly every emotion of the heart. an anxious, watchful look was, at times, directed to those around and near him; and, in particular, rested on the face of lord elcho, who, though a gallant officer, the prince may perhaps have too well conjectured, was not, even at that early period, a sincere and firm adherent. to the duke of perth, on the contrary, the ill-fated young chevalier showed a marked respect, and sat for some moments on horseback in st. anne's yard, whilst the duke, like "an intelligent farmer, informed him of the different nature and produce of the different parcels of ground."[ ] dressed, as he was, in the highland garb,--a blue sash wrought with gold coming over his shoulder, a green velvet bonnet with a gold lace round it on his head, a white cockade,--the cross of st. andrew on his breast, his hand resting on a silver-hilted sword, and a pair of pistols on his saddle;--associated in the minds of all around him with the remembrance of scotland in her independence, and of scottish monarchs in their greatness, the enthusiasm which was inspired in a slow, but ardent people cannot be a matter of surprise. long did the remembrance of that day continue to be cherished, in mingled pride and sorrow! it is true, the opinions of men differed according to their secret bias. the jacobites, who looked on the young prince, compared him to robert the bruce, to whom he bore, they fancied, a resemblance. the whigs beheld in him the gentleman of fashion, but not the hero and the conqueror. all parties seem to have remarked the dejection and languor of his manner as he prepared to enter the palace of holyrood. it was, indeed, impossible, from the deportment of charles on his first introduction into scotland, or from his conduct whilst his affairs prospered, to comprehend the strength of his determination, or to calculate upon his power of endurance. in prosperity he was, it is true, brave, courteous, often amiable, often generous, but sometimes betraying the petulance and obstinacy which historians have been fond of considering as hereditary propensities in the heroic young man, but which are the common attributes of the inexperienced and the spoiled. in adversity he was meek, grateful, magnanimous; capable of forgetting his own unparalleled sufferings, in considering those of others; never breathing an accent of revenge; rising above fortune. he resembled charles the second more in his hatred of shedding blood, than in his vices, which were in the young chevalier the effect of circumstances, rather than of a depraved nature. he had the fortitude of charles the first: in truth, and right intention he exceeded both of these his ancestors; and in this, as in other respects, he showed more of the scottish character, more of the true sense of highland honour, than any of his immediate predecessors in the stuart line. naturally gay, though variable; quick and shrewd, rather than deep or strong in intellect; easily to be flattered, too easily led by some, too wilful in resisting the counsels of others,--as a prince, as the head of a court, he soon won upon the affections of the people who beheld him; but there were vital defects mingled with his great and good qualities, which well verified the saying of the whigs, "that he would prove neither a hero nor a conqueror." as the prince walked along the piazza close to the apartment of the duke of hamilton, a gentleman stepped out of the crowd, and, drawing his sword, raised his arm aloft, and walked up stairs before charles edward. the remarkable person who thus signalized his loyalty was james hepburn of keith, a gentleman of learning and intelligence, whose jacobitism was of a more enlightened description than that of the party with whom he thus identified himself. since the insurrection of , in which, when a very young man, he had been engaged, mr. hepburn had become a professed jacobite. yet he disclaimed the hereditary, indefeasible right of kings, and condemned the measures of james the second. cherishing even these opinions, he had nevertheless kept himself during twenty years ready to take up arms for charles edward, from a hatred to the union between england and scotland, a measure which he deemed injurious and humiliating to his country. idolized by the jacobites, beloved by some of the whigs, a "model of ancient simplicity, manliness and honour,"[ ] the accession of hepburn to the jacobite cause was lamented by those who esteemed him, and who saw in his notions of the independence of scotland only a visionary speculation. the entrance of prince charles had taken place early in the day: soon after noon he was proclaimed regent at the ancient cross of edinburgh, and his father's manifesto was read in the same place. six heralds in their robes, with a trumpet, came to the cross, which was surrounded by the brave camerons in three ranks. the streets and windows were crowded to excess; whilst david beato, a writing-master in edinburgh, read the papers to the heralds. the beautiful mrs. murray of broughton sat on horseback with a drawn sword in her hand beside the cross, her dress decorated with the white ribbon which was the token of adherence to the house of stuart. whilst these events took place, a spectator in the crowd, viewing clearly that all was the show of power, without the substantial capacity to perpetuate it, resolved to write the history of what, he foresaw, would be a short-lived though perhaps fierce contest. he was not mistaken. this individual was alexander henderson. the following account is given by lord elcho of the chevalier's court during the short time that he inhabited holyrood house.[ ] "the prince lived in edinburgh, from the twenty-second of september to the thirty-first of october, with great splendour and magnificence;--had every morning a numerous court of his officers. after he had held a council, he dined with his principal officers in public, where there was always a crowd of all sorts of people to see him dine. after dinner he rode out, attended by his life-guards, and reviewed his army; where there were always a great number of spectators, in coaches and on horseback. after the review he came to the abbey, where he received the ladies of fashion that came to his drawing-room. then he supped in public; and generally there was music at supper, and a ball afterwards. before he left edinburgh, he despatched sir james stewart to manage his affairs in the country and solicit succours." this remarkable scene was soon followed by the battle of preston pans. the memorable words of charles edward before the victory, "i have flung away the scabbard!" were followed by a total rout of the king's troops. the duke of perth was appointed lieutenant-general of the forces. after the engagement which ensued, when the heat of the contest was over, he distinguished himself in a manner in which every brave and loyal man would wish to imitate his example,--by saving the lives of the combatants. his tenantry, commanded by lord nairn, were among the most eager of the combatants on that day. when the defeat of the king's troops was manifest, a terrible carnage ensued. some of the conquered threw down their arms, and begged for quarter, which was refused them; others, who fled into the enclosures, were murdered; and all who were overtaken were cut in the most cruel manner by broad-swords and lochaber axes. the kind-hearted duke of perth, seeing this slaughter, made a signal to cameron of lochiel to stop the impetuosity of his men; and sent his aid-de-camp, or, as he was then called, his gentleman, for that purpose. no sooner had the duke done this, than he sprang himself upon a fleet bay mare, a racer, which had won the king's plate at leith some years before; and, taking a major of the king's troops along with him, "shot like an arrow through the field," and saved numbers: as also did his gentleman, mr. stuart.[ ] but these efforts were insufficient to prevent a cruel and terrible destruction of some of the bravest and best of the british officers. in the battle of preston pans fell the famous colonel gardiner. his fate was, it is said, envied by general cope, who, witnessing the destruction of his army, wished to have died on the field. whilst the highlanders were carried away to the house of colonel gardiner, close by, the young chevalier stood by the road-side, having sent to edinburgh by the advice of the duke of perth for surgeons. at this moment, henderson, that spectator of the proclamation who had resolved to write a history of the war, having slept at musselburgh, only at two miles' distance, the night before, stepped forward to take a survey of the field. "it was one scene of horror, capable," writes this historian,[ ] "of softening the hardest heart, being strewed not so much with the dead as with the wounded: the broken guns, halberts, pikes, and canteens showing the work of the day. in the midst of this distressing spectacle, an act of mercy shone forth, like a light from heaven." "major bowles," continues henderson, "of hamilton's dragoons, being dismounted, the enemy fell upon and wounded him in eleven different places; and just as some inhuman wretch was fetching a stroke, which perhaps would have proved mortal, mr. stuart threw up his sword and awarded the blow." from preston pans charles edward rode to pinkie house, a seat of the marquis of tweedale. in the elation of victory, a consideration which can alone excuse the disregard of the sufferings of others which the foregoing narrative states, the prince is said to have left the bulk of the wounded upon the field until the next day, when they were brought in carts to the infirmary of edinburgh. the neighbourhood was afterwards scattered over with the wounded who recovered, and who begged throughout the country, where they met with kindness and humanity from all, except from the adventurers, as they were called. such is the testimony of one who has not failed to bear witness to acts of humanity where they really existed; and it would be unfair to suppress the statements of contemporaries on either side of the question. at the same time, this account is wholly at variance with the deep sorrow afterwards betrayed by charles when he spoke of the sufferings of the scottish people on his account; nor is it consistent with the sensibility and humanity evinced, as the same historian avows, by the duke of perth.[ ] upon the return of prince charles to edinburgh, in order to carry on affairs with every appearance of royalty, he appointed a council, who met every day at holyrood house at ten o'clock for the despatch of business. the members of this council were the two lieutenants-general, the duke of perth, and lord george murray, who had been appointed in conjunction with the former; secretary murray; sullivan, quarter-master-general; lord pitsligo, lord elcho, sir thomas sheridan, and all the highland chiefs. the fine characteristics, and powerful mind of lord george murray, and the prominent part which he took in the insurrection, demand a long and separate account. among the rest of this ill-starred council, the principal members in point of rank, if not of influence, were alexander, lord forbes of pitsligo, who, after the battle of preston, joined the prince's standard with a troop of a hundred horse. the character of this nobleman gave his example a great influence among all who knew him, and who respected the ardent piety, bordering upon fanaticism, which characterized his religious sentiments, and the heartfelt earnestness of his political opinions. early in life this venerable man had sworn allegiance to william the third, and taken his seat in parliament; he became, however, an opponent to the union, and, from the period of that measure, his course was a decided system of calm and steady adherence to jacobite principles. he engaged in the rebellion of , yet by the forbearance of government was permitted to retain his title and estate. he now again embarked in the same adventurous cause, leaving the study of moral philosophy, on which he had written several essays, and the security of a private career, for the sake of conscience. no hope of gain, no inducement of ambition, lured this adherent of charles edward to the standard of the stuarts. aged, and so infirm that he was compelled by his bodily weakness to accept the generous proposal of charles edward to travel on all the marches in the prince's carriage, whilst the chevalier walked at the head of his army, lord pitsligo again came forward at what he conceived to be the dictates of duty. his example drew many others into the undertaking. of course, his subsequent history closed in the usual melancholy manner: his life was, it is true, spared; but his estates were forfeited, and his title extinguished. he died at auchiries, in aberdeenshire. david, lord elcho, who held also a place in the council, and who was colonel of the first troop of horseguards, was the son of james, fourth earl of wemyss, and of janet the daughter of colonel francis charteris of amisfield, whose immense property was afterwards vested in the wemyss family. lord elcho was at this time only twenty-four years of age, and therefore his appointment to the colonelcy of the horse was a signal compliment to his abilities. of his personal character much may be gleaned from his unpublished narrative, written in a dry, caustic, and uninspiring style; and penned by one who seems to have desired to do justice, but whose personal dislike to the young chevalier over-masters his inclination to the cause. notwithstanding a plain disapproval of many measures, and a marked conviction of the wilfulness of his young leader, lord elcho was true to the cause which he had adopted. his account of the manner in which the council of the regent, as he was styled, was conducted, is so characteristic, not only of those to whom he refers, but of his own mind, that i shall give it in the unvarnished phraseology in which he composed it.[ ] "the prince in his council used always first to declare what he was for, and then he asked everybody's opinion in their turn. there was one-third of the council whose principles were, that kings and princes can never either act, or think wrong; so, in consequence, they always confirmed whatever the prince said. the other two-thirds, who thought that kings and princes thought sometimes like other men, and were not altogether infallible, and that this prince was no more so than others, begged leave to differ from him, when they could give sufficient reasons for their difference of opinion, which very often was no hard matter to do; for as the prince and his old governor, sir thomas sheridan, were altogether ignorant of the ways and customs in great britain, and both much for the doctrine of absolute monarchy, they would very often, had they not been prevented, have fallen into blunders which might have hurt the cause. the prince could not bear to hear anybody differ in sentiment from him, and took a dislike to everybody that did; for he had a notion of commanding this army, as any general does a body of mercenaries, and so let them know only what he pleased, and they obey without inquiring further about the matter. this might have done better had his favourites been people of the country; but they were irish, and had nothing at stake. the scotch, who ought to be supposed to give the best advice they were capable of giving, thought they had a little right to know, and be consulted in what was for the good of the cause in which they had so much concern; and, if it had not been for their insisting strongly upon it, the prince, when he found that his sentiments were not always approved of, would have abolished his council long ere he did. there was a very good paper sent one day by a gentleman in edinburgh, to be perused by this council. the prince, when he heard it read, said that it was below his dignity to enter into such a reasoning with subjects, and ordered the paper to be laid aside. the paper afterwards was printed under the title of the prince's declaration to the people of england, and is esteemed the best manifesto published in those times; for the ones that were printed at rome and paris were reckoned not well calculated for the present age." before the prince had left edinburgh, intrigues had begun to distract his councils. "an ill-timed emulation," remarks an eye-witness of the rebellion, "soon crept in, and bred great dissension and animosities: the council was insensibly divided into factions, and came to be of little use, when measures were approved of, or condemned, not for themselves, but for the sake of their author."[ ] unhappily, the duke of perth, amiable, but inexperienced and unsuspecting, confided in one whose machinations, guided by an unbounded love of rule, eventually accelerated the ruin of the cause. the very name of murray of broughton recalls with a shudder the remembrance of selfish ambition and treachery. this unprincipled man, private secretary to charles edward, had a remarkable influence over the young chevalier's mind; an influence acquired during a long and intimate acquaintance abroad. "he was," observes mr. maxwell, "the only personal acquaintance the prince found in scotland." to a desire of having the sole government of the prince's council he "sacrificed what chance there was of a restoration, although upon that all his hopes were built." the expedition to scotland and england was, according to the same authority, the entire suggestion of murray; and the credit of that success which had hitherto attended the attempt, was now solely attributed to the secretary's advice. "the duke of perth," adds the same writer, "judging of murray's heart by his own, entertained the highest opinion of his integrity, went readily into all his schemes, and confirmed the prince in the esteem he had already conceived for murray." the man whom murray most dreaded as a rival was lord george murray, the coadjutor with the duke of perth in the command of the army; and it soon became no difficult task, not only to persuade prince charles, who knew but little personally of lord george, that that impetuous but honest man was a traitor, but also to inspire the amiable duke of perth with suspicions foreign to his generous nature. few of the calm spectators of the struggle were very sanguine as to its result; but the moderate hopes which they dared to entertain were all dashed to the ground by the unbridled love of sway which the secretary indulged, and which filled him with a base and bitter enmity towards men of talent and influence. too truly is the effect of his representations told in these few and simple words, written by one who was devotedly attached to the misled, confiding charles, upon whose ignorance of the world murray condescended to practise.[ ] "all those gentlemen that joined the prince after murray, were made known under the character he thought fit to give them; and all employments about the prince's person, and many in the army, were of his nomination. these he filled with such as he had reason to think would never thwart his measures, but be content to be his tools and creatures without aspiring higher. thus, some places of the greatest trust were given to little insignificant fellows; while there were abundance of gentlemen of figure and merit that had no employment at all, and who might have been of great use, had they been properly employed. those that murray had thus placed, seconded his little dirty views: it was their interest, too, to keep their betters at a distance from the prince's person and acquaintance. these were some of the disadvantages the prince laboured under during this whole expedition." as soon as the expedition into england was decided, a gentleman was dispatched to france to hasten the assistance expected from that quarter. the first intention of the insurgents was to march to newcastle, and give battle to general wade; then to proceed, if the prince proved victorious, by the eastern coast to england, in order to favour the expected landing of the french upon that side. this scheme was overruled by lord george murray, with what success history has declared. it was natural, when all was lost, for those who wished well to the cause, to retrace their steps, and to desire that any measures had been adopted, rather than those which had proved so disastrous: but this is the common feeling of regret, and cannot be relied on as the sober dictate of judgment. on his departure from edinburgh, the young chevalier was followed by the good will of many who had viewed his arrival with regret. the people, says maxwell of kirkconnel, "were affected with the dangers they apprehended he might be exposed to, and doubtful whether they ever should see him again."[ ] "everybody was mightily taken," adds the same writer, "with the prince's figure and personal behaviour. there was but one voice about them." what was still more important, the short duration of military rule exercised by charles edward had been so conducted as to create no disgust. the guard of the city had been entrusted to cameron of lochiel, the younger; and under his firm and judicious controul, the persons and effects of the citizens, had been as secure as in time of peace. "the people had the pleasure of seeing the whole apparatus of war, without feeling the effects of it."[ ] day after day some new and graceful instance of the humanity and kindness of the young chevalier's disposition had transpired. at this period of his life there was a degree of magnanimity in the sentiments of one, of whose principles despair, and the desertion of his friends afterwards made such a wreck. the following trait of this ill-fated young man is too beautiful--it reflects too much credit, through him, upon the party of whom he was the head--to be omitted; more especially as the narrative from which it is taken is not in the hands of general readers. "but what gave people the highest idea of him was, the negative he gave to a thing that very nearly concerned his interest, and upon which the success of his enterprise perhaps depended. it was proposed to send one of the prisoners to london, to demand of that court a cartel for the exchange of prisoners taken and to be taken during this war, and to intimate that a refusal would be looked upon as a resolution on their part to give no quarter. it was visible a cartel would be of great advantage to the prince's affairs: his friends would be more ready to declare for him, if they had nothing to fear but the chance of war in the field; and, if the court of london refused to settle a cartel, the prince was authorised to treat his prisoners in the same manner that the elector of hanover was determined to treat such of the prince's friends as might fall into his hands. it was urged, a few examples would compel the court of london to comply. it was to be presumed that the officers of the english army would make a point of it. they had never engaged in the service, but upon such terms as are in use among all civilized nations, and it would be no stain on their honour to lay down their commissions if these terms were not observed; and, that, owing to the obstinacy of their own prince. though this scheme was plausible, and represented as very important, the prince could never be brought into it; it was below him to make empty threats, and he would never put such as those into execution; he would never, in cold blood, take away lives which he had saved in heat of action at peril of his own."[ ] on the thirty-first of october, the prince set out from holyrood house in the evening, amid a crowd of people assembled to bid him farewell. on the following day he joined one column of his army at dalkeith. the army marched in two columns, by different roads, to carlisle: that which the prince commanded, and which was conducted by lord george murray, was composed of the guards, and the clans; charles edward marched on foot at the head of the highlanders, and the guards led the van. the other column went by peebles and moffat, having with them the artillery and heavy baggage. it was composed of the atholl brigade, the duke of perth's regiment, lord ogilvie, of glenbucket, and roy stuart's regiment. the greater part of the horse was commanded by the duke of perth. a week afterwards these two columns were re-united, and the troops were quartered in villages to the west of carlisle. on the thirteenth of october the town of carlisle was invested by the duke of perth and lord george murray, with the horse and lowland regiments. the conduct of the duke of perth, during the siege of five days which ensued, has been a subject of eulogy for every writer who has undertaken to relate the affairs of the period. the siege was attempted in the face of many difficulties, the prince having no battering cannon; so that, if the town had been well defended, it would have been found impossible to reduce it: still, being a place of great strength, and the key to england, he resolved to make the attempt. it was in this undertaking that the duke of perth reaped the benefit of his scientific knowledge of the art of war, and that he showed a degree of skill as well as of military ardour, which would, had his life been spared, have rendered him an excellent general. the castle of carlisle, built upon the east angle of the fortifications, was of course the object of his attack. on tuesday, the thirteenth of october, after his return from brampton, where the prince remained with the clans to cover the siege, the duke began his operations. his officers had forced four carpenters to go along with them in order to assist in erecting the batteries. in short, all ablebodied men were seized on by the insurgents, and those who had horses and ladders were constrained to carry them to the siege of carlisle. the duke then "broke ground," to use a military expression, about three hundred yards from the citadel, at the spring garden; and encountered the fire of the cannon from the town, approaching so near that the garrison even threw grenadoes at them. on wednesday, the trenches were opened, and were conducted by mr. grant, chief engineer, whose skill was greatly commended. on friday morning, batteries were erected within forty fathoms of the walls. during all this time the cannon and small arms from the castle played furiously, but with so little destruction to the besiegers, that only two men were killed. the weather was so intensely cold, that even the highlanders could scarcely sustain its inclemency; yet the duke of perth and the marquis of tullibardine, the one delicate in constitution, the other broken and in advancing age, worked at the trenches like any common labourer, in their shirts. on the friday, when the cannon began to play, and the scaling-ladders were brought out for an assault, a white flag was hung out, and the city offered to surrender. an express was sent to the chevalier at brampton; whose answer was, "that he would not do things by halves," and that the city had no reason to expect terms, unless the castle surrendered also. that event took place, in consequence, immediately; and the capitulation was signed by the duke of perth, and by colonel durand, who had been sent from london to defend carlisle. in the afternoon of the same day, the duke of perth entered the town, and took possession in the name of james the third, whose manifesto was read; the mayor and aldermen attending the duke, the sword and mace being carried before them. the duke of perth won many of those who were enemies to charles edward, over to his cause, by the humanity and civility with which he treated the conquered citizens, over whom he had the chief command until charles arrived. but even the important advantage thus gained could not still the animosities which had been kindled in the breasts of those who ought to have laid aside all private considerations for the good of their common undertaking. hitherto lord george murray and the duke of perth had had separate commands, and had not interfered with each other until the siege of carlisle. here the duke had acted as the chief in command; he had directed the attack, signed the capitulation, and given orders in the town until the prince arrived. this was a precedent for the whole campaign, and it ill-suited the fiery temper of lord george murray to brook it tamely. there was, indeed, much to be said in favour of lord george's alleged wrongs, in this preference of one so young and inexperienced as the duke of perth. in the first place, lord george was an older lieutenant-general than his rival; nor could it be agreeable to his lordship to serve under a man so much his inferior in age and experience. "lord george," observes mr. maxwell, "thought himself the fittest man to be at the head of the army; nor was he the only person that thought so. had it been left to the gentlemen of the army to choose a general, lord george would have carried it by vast odds against the duke of perth." but there was still another pretext, which was insisted upon as a reason less offensive to the duke of perth, whose gentle and noble qualities had much endeared him even to those who did not wish to see him chief in command; this was his religious persuasion. it was argued that, at that time in england, roman catholics were excluded from all employments, civil and military, by laws anterior to the revolution; it was contended that these laws, whether just or not, ought to be complied with until they were repealed; and that a defiance of these laws would confirm all that had been heard of old from the press and from the pulpit, of the prince's designs to subvert both church and state: neither could it be alleged in excuse for the young prince, that a superiority of genius or of experience had won this distinction, in opposition to custom, for the duke of perth. whilst these murmurs distracted the camp, immediately after the surrender of carlisle, lord george murray resigned his commission of lieutenant-general, and informed the prince that thenceforth he would serve as a volunteer. upon this step, mr. maxwell, who seems to have known intimately the merits of the case, makes the following temperate and beautiful reflection.[ ] "it would be rash in me to pretend to determine whether ambition, or zeal for the prince's service, determined lord george to take this step; or, if both had a share in it, which was predominant: it belongs to the searcher of hearts to judge of an action which might have proceeded from very different motives." under these circumstances, violent discussions took place in the army; and the result was, the wise resolution on the part of a certain officer, not improbably mr. maxwell himself, to represent the consequences of these altercations to the duke of perth. the undertaking was one of delicacy and difficulty; but the individual who undertook it had not miscalculated the true gentlemanly humility, the real dignity and disinterestedness, of the gallant man to whom he addressed himself. the narrative goes on as follows: "a gentleman who had been witness to such conversation, and dreaded nothing so much as dissension in a cause which could never succeed but by unanimity, resolved to speak to the duke of perth upon this ungrateful subject. he had observed that those that were loudest in their complaints were least inclined to give themselves any trouble in finding out a remedy." "the duke, who at this time was happy, but not elevated, upon his success, reasoned very coolly on the matter. he could never be convinced that it was unreasonable that he should have the principal command; but when it was represented to him, that since that opinion prevailed, whether well or ill founded, the prince's affairs might equally suffer, he took his resolution in a moment; said he never had anything in view but the prince's interest, and would cheerfully sacrifice everything to it. and he was as good as his word; for he took the first opportunity of acquainting the prince with the complaints that were against him, insisted upon being allowed to give up his command, and to serve henceforth at the head of his regiment." after his resignation, the duke of perth sank gracefully into the duties of the post assigned to him. but his ardour in the cause was unsubdued; and he was frequently known, during the march from carlisle to derby, to ride down three horses a day when information of the enemy was to be procured. the short sojourn of the prince at derby, and the inglorious retreat, have been detailed by the various biographers and historians of that period; but, amongst the various accounts which have been given, that which is contained in a letter from derby has not hitherto been presented to the reader, except in a collection rarely to be met with, and now but little known.[ ] on wednesday, the th of december ( ), two of the insurgents entered the town, inquired for the magistrates, and demanded billets for nine thousand men, and more. a short time afterwards the vanguard broke into the town, consisting of about thirty men, clothed in blue faced with gold, and scarlet waistcoats with gold lace; and, being "likely men," they made a good appearance. they were drawn up in the market-place, and remained there two hours; at the same time the bells were rung, and bonfires were lighted, in order to do away with the impression that the chevalier's vanguard had been received disrespectfully. about three o'clock lord elcho, on horseback, arrived at the head of the life-guards, about one hundred and fifty men, the flower of the army, who rode gallantly into the town, dressed like the vanguard, making a very fine display. the guards were followed by the main body of the army, who marched in tolerable order, two or three abreast, with eight standards, mostly having white flags and a red cross; the bag-pipers playing as they entered. whilst they were in the market-place, they caused the chevalier to be proclaimed king, and then asked for the magistrates. these functionaries appeared without their gowns of office, having cautiously sent them out of the town; a circumstance which was with some difficulty excused by the insurgents. in the dusk of the evening charles edward arrived: he walked on foot, attended by many of his men, who followed him to exeter house, where the prince remained until his retreat northwards. here he had guards placed all round the house, and here he maintained the semblance of a court, in the very heart of that country which he so longed to enter. the temporary abode of charles edward still remains in perfect repair, and much in the same state, with the exception of change of furniture, as when he held levees there. exeter house at that time belonged to brownlow, earl of exeter, whose connexion with the town of derby was owing to his marriage with a lady of that city. the house stands back from full street, and is situated within a small triangular court. an air of repose, notwithstanding the noise of a busy and important town, characterizes this interesting dwelling. it is devoid of pretension; its gables and chimneys proclaim the elizabethan period. a wide staircase, rising from a small hall, leads to a square, oak-panelled drawing-room, the presence-chamber in the days of the ill-fated charles. on either side are chambers, retaining, as far as the walls are concerned, much of the character of former days, but furnished recently. one of these served the prince as a sleeping-room; the rest were occupied by his officers of state, and by such of his retinue as could be accommodated in a house of moderate size. the tenement contains many small rooms and closets, well adapted, had there been need, for concealment and escape. the back of exeter house is picturesque in the extreme. the character of the building is here more distinctly ancient; and its architecture is uniform, though simple. beyond the steps by which you descend from a spacious dining-room, is a long lawn, enclosed between high walls, and extending to the brink of the river derwent. a tradition prevails in derby, that, after the retreat, one of the highland officers who had been left behind, hearing of the approach of the duke of cumberland's army, escaped through this garden, and, plunging into the river, swam down its quiet waters for a considerable distance, until he gained a part of the opposite shore where he thought he might land without detection. another more interesting association connects the spot with the poet dr. darwin, who is said to have planted some willows which grow on the opposite side of the river to exeter house. here charles remained for some days. the dukes of atholl and perth, and the other noblemen who commanded regiments, together with lady ogilvie and mrs. murray of broughton, were lodged in the best gentlemen's houses. every house was tolerably well filled; but the highlanders continued pouring in till ten or eleven o'clock, until the burgesses of derby began to think they "should never have seen the last of them." "at their coming in," says the writer of the letter referred to, "they were generally treated with bread, cheese, beer and ale, while all hands were aloft getting supper ready. after supper, being weary with their long march, they went to rest, most upon straw-beds, some in beds." on friday morning, only two days after the minds of the inhabitants had been agitated by the arrival of the jacobites, they heard the drums beat to arms, and the bag-pipers playing about the town. it was supposed that this was a summons to a march to loughborough, on the way to london; but a very different resolution had been adopted. the prince's council had, the very morning before, met to advise their inexperienced leader as to the steps which he might deem it advisable to take. the memorable decision to return to the north was not arrived at without a painful scene, such as those who felt deeply the situation of the chevalier could never forget. the sentiments with which the ardent young man listened to the proposal are thus detailed by mr. maxwell. the statement at once exonerates the prince of two faults with which his memory has been taxed, those of cowardice and obstinacy. to a coward the great risk of advancing would have appeared in strong colours. an obstinate man would never have yielded to the arguments which were proffered. the description which maxwell gives of the prince's flatterers is such as too fatally applies to the generality of those who have not the courage to be sincere.[ ] "the prince, naturally bold and enterprising, and hitherto successful in everything, was shocked with the mention of a retreat. since he set out from edinburgh, he had never a thought but of going on, and fighting everything he found in his way to london. he had the highest idea of the bravery of his own men, and a despicable opinion of his enemies: he had hitherto had reason for both, and was confirmed in these notions by some of those who were nearest his person. these sycophants, more intent upon securing his favour than promoting his interest, were eternally saying whatever they thought would please, and never hazarded a disagreeable truth."[ ] the duke of perth coincided, on this occasion, with charles in wishing to advance; or, to use the words of lord george murray, "the duke of perth was for it, since his royal highness was."[ ] it now seems to be admitted that the judgment of the strong mind of lord george murray was less sound in this instance than the opinion of those who were more guided by feeling than by reflection, less cautious than the sagacious general, less willing and less able to balance the arguments on either side.[ ] "there are not a few," remarks mr. maxwell, "who still think the prince would have carried his point had he gone on from derby. they built much upon the confusion there was at london, and the panic which prevailed among the elector's troops at this juncture. it is impossible to decide with any degree of certainty whether he would or would not have succeeded; that depended upon the disposition of the army, and of the city of london, ready to declare for the prince." never had the soldiery been in greater spirits than during their stay at derby; but the deepest dejection prevailed, when, in spite of some manoeuvres to deceive them, they found themselves on the road to ashbourn. the despair and disgust of the prince were as painful to behold, as they were natural. he had played for the highest stake, and lost it. yet one there was who could look on the drooping figure of the disconsolate young man as he followed the van of the army, and attribute to ill-humour the dejection of that ardent and generous mind. the following is an extract from lord elcho's narrative. "doncaster.--the prince, who had marched all the way to derby on foot at the head of a column of infantry, now mounted on horseback, and rode generally after the van of the army, and appeared to be out of humour. upon the army marching out of derby, mr. morgan, an english gentleman, came up to mr. vaughan, who was riding in the life-guards, and after saluting him said, 'd---- me, vaughan, they are going to scotland!' mr. vaughan replied, 'wherever they go, i am determined, now i have joined them, to go along with them.' upon which mr. morgan said with an oath, 'i had rather be _hanged_ than go to scotland to _starve_.' mr. morgan _was hanged_ in ; and mr. vaughan is an officer in spain."[ ] in six days afterwards the jacobite army arrived at preston, and from this place, where the prince halted, he sent the duke of perth to scotland to summon his friends from perth to join him, in order to renew the attack upon england. the prince was resolved to retire only until he met that reinforcement, and then to march to london, be the consequence what it would.[ ] but this scheme, so dearly cherished by charles, was impracticable. the duke of perth, taking with him an escort of seventy or eighty horse, set out for kendal. he was assailed as he passed through that place by a mob, which he dispersed by firing on them, and resumed his march; but near penrith he was attacked by a far more formidable force in a band of militia both horse and foot, greatly superior in numbers to his troops, and was obliged to retire to kendal. on the fifteenth he rejoined the prince's army, after this fruitless attempt. the retreat of the prince's army, managed as it was with consummate skill by lord george murray, continued without any division of the forces until they had passed the river esk. there the army separated; and the duke of perth commanding one column of the army took the eastern line to scotland, while charles marched to annan in dumfrieshire. the siege of stirling is the next event of note in which we find the duke of perth engaged. he here acted again as lieutenant-general, and commanded the siege. here, too, the valour and fidelity of two other members of his family were again proved. lord john drummond, who had landed in scotland while the jacobites were at derby, with the french brigade, was slightly wounded in the battle of falkirk. he had the honour of being near the prince in the centre of the battle with his grenadiers; and it was on his artillery and engineers that the chevalier chiefly depended for success in reducing stirling. lord strathallan had also assembled his men, and joined the army. while the prince's army were flushed with the victory of falkirk, the alternative of again marching to london, or of continuing the siege of stirling, was discussed. the last-mentioned plan was unhappily adopted; and the duke of perth called upon general blakeney to surrender. the answer was, that the general had always hitherto been regarded as a man of honour, and that he would always behave himself as such, and would hold out the place as long as it was tenable. upon this, fresh works were erected; and monsieur mirabel, the chief engineer, gave it as his opinion that the castle would be reduced in a few days. the unfortunate result of that ill-advised siege, and the consequent retreat of the prince from stirling, have been, with every appearance of reason, as much blamed as the retreat from derby. it was a fatal resolution, and one which was not adopted by the prince without sincere reluctance, and not until after a strong representation, signed at falkirk by lord george murray and by all the clans, begging that his royal highness would consent to retreat, had been presented to him. the great desertion that had taken place since the battle was adduced as a reason for this movement; and the siege of stirling, it was also urged, must necessarily be raised, on account of the inclemency of the weather, which the soldiers could hardly bear in their trenches, and the impaired state of the artillery.[ ] the winter was passed in a plan of operations, for which the generalship of prince charles, or rather the able judgment of lord george murray, has been eulogized. making the neighbourhood of inverness the centre, from which he could direct all the operations of his various generals, the prince employed his army of eight thousand men extensively and usefully. the siege of fort william was carried on by brigadier stapleton; lord george murray had invested blair castle; lord john drummond was making head against general bland; the duke of perth was in pursuit of lord loudon. this portion of the operations was attended with so much difficulty and danger, that charles must have entertained a high opinion of him to whom it was entrusted. lord cromartie had been already sent to disperse, if possible, lord loudon's little army; but that skilful and estimable nobleman had successfully eluded his adversary, who found it impossible either to entice him into an action, or to force him out of the country. lord loudon had taken up his quarters at dornoch, on the frith which divides rosshire from sutherland. here he was secure, as lord cromartie had no boats. it was therefore deemed necessary to have two detachments; one to guard the passage of the frith, the other to go by the head of it. this was a matter of some difficulty, for the prince had at that time hardly as many men at inverness as were necessary to guard his person. it was, however, essential to attack lord loudon, whose army cut off all communication with caithness, whence the prince expected provisions and men. in this dilemma an expedient had been thought of some time previously, and preparations had been made for it; but the execution was extremely dangerous. mr. maxwell gives the following account of it:[ ] "all the fishing-boats that could be got on the coast of moray had been brought to findhorn; the difficulty was, to cross the frith of moray unperceived by the english ships that were continually cruizing there: if the design was suspected, it could not succeed. two or three north-country gentlemen, that were employed in this affair, had conducted it with great secrecy and expedition. all was ready at findhorn when the orders came from inverness to make the attempt, and the enemy had no suspicion. moir of stoneywood set out with this little fleet in the beginning of the night, got safe across the frith of moray, and arrived in the morning at tain, where the duke of perth, whom the prince had sent to command this expedition, was ready. the men were embarked with great despatch, and by means of a thick fog, which happened very opportunely, got over to sutherland without being perceived. the duke of perth marched directly to the enemies' quarters, and, after some disappointments, owing to his being the dupe of his good nature and politeness, succeeded in dispersing lord loudon's army: and this era, in the opinion of mr. maxwell, is the finest part of the prince's expedition." henceforth, all was dismay and disaster. the affairs of charles edward had now begun visibly to decline, for money, the sinews of the war, was not to be had; and the military chest, plundered, as it has been stated, by villains who robbed the prince by false musters, was exhausted. the hopes of the chevalier were in the lowest state, when the intelligence reached inverness that the duke of cumberland was advancing from aberdeen to attack his forces. upon receiving these tidings, the prince sent messengers far and wide to call in his scattered troops, expecting that he should be strong enough to venture a battle. the duke of perth, who at that time commanded all the troops that were to the eastward of inverness, was planted near the river spey. when the enemy approached, he retired to elgin. on the same day, the twelfth of april , the duke of cumberland passed the spey, and encamped within three or four miles of elgin. this retreat of the duke of perth has been severely condemned. it appears, however, that he, and lord john drummond who was with him, could not muster two thousand five hundred men. the river, which was very low, was fordable in many places; so much so, that the enemy might march a battalion in front. the duke had no artillery, whilst the enemy had a very good train. there was no possibility of sending reinforcements from inverness; above all, says mr. maxwell, "nothing was to be risked that might dishearten the common soldiers on the eve of a general and decisive action." but the same candid and experienced soldier acknowledges that the duke of perth remained too long at nairn, whither he retired, and where the duke of cumberland advanced within a mile of the town, and followed the retiring army of perth for a mile or two, though to no purpose, the foot-soldiers being protected by fitzjames's horse. the delay at nairn has, it is true, been excused, on the grounds of a command from prince charles to the duke of perth and his brother not to retire too hastily before cumberland, but to keep as near to him as was consistent with their safety. this message "put them on their mettle, and well-nigh occasioned their destruction." the duke of perth continued to retreat, until he halted somewhat short of culloden, where the prince arrived that evening, and took up his quarters at culloden house.[ ] the following day was the fifteenth of april, the anniversary of that on which the duke of cumberland, the disgrace of his family, the hard-hearted conqueror of a brave and humane foe, first saw the light. it was expected that he would choose his birth-day for the combat, but the fatal engagement of culloden was deferred until the following morning. the battle of culloden was prefaced by a general sentiment of despair among those who shared its perils. "this," says mr. maxwell,[ ] referring to the morning of the engagement, "was the first time the prince, ever thought his affairs desperate. he saw his little army much reduced, and half-dead with hunger and fatigue, and found himself under a necessity of fighting in that miserable condition, for he would not think of a retreat; which he had never yielded to but with the greatest reluctance, and which, on this occasion, he imagined would disperse the few men he had, and put an inglorious end to his expedition. he resolved to wait for the enemy, be the event what it would; and he did not wait long, for he had been but a few hours at culloden, when his scouts brought him word that the enemy was within two miles, advancing towards the moor, where the prince had drawn up his army the day before. the men were scattered among the woods of culloden, the greatest part fast asleep. as soon as the alarm was given, the officers ran about on all sides to rouse them, if i may use the expression, among the bushes; and some went to inverness, to bring back such of the men as hunger had driven there. notwithstanding the pains taken by the officers to assemble the men, there were several hundreds absent from the battle, though within a mile of it: some were quite exhausted, and not able to crawl; and others asleep in coverts that had not been beat up. however, in less time than one could have imagined, the best part of the army was assembled, and formed on the moor, where it had been drawn up the day before. every corps knew its post, and went straight without waiting for fresh orders; the order of battle was as follows: the army was drawn up in two lines; the first was composed of the atholl brigade, which had the right; the camerons, stuarts of appin, frazers, macintoshes, farquharsons, chisholms, perths, roy stuart's regiment, and the macdonalds, who had the left." the highlanders, though faint with fatigue and want of sleep, forgot all their hardships at the approach of an enemy; and, as a shout was sent up from the duke of cumberland's army, they returned it with the spirit of a valiant and undaunted people. the order of battle was as follows: the right wing was commanded by lord george murray, and the left by the duke of perth; the centre of the first line by lord john drummond, and the centre of the second by brigadier stapleton. there were five cannon on the right, and four on the left of the army.[ ] the duke of perth had therefore, from his important command, the privilege of spending the short period of existence, which, as the event proved, providence allotted to him, in the service of a prince whom he loved; whilst he had the good fortune to escape that responsibility which fell to the lot of his rival, lord george murray. the influence which that nobleman had acquired over the council of war had enabled him far to eclipse the duke of perth in importance; but it was the fate of lord george murray to pay a heavy penalty for that distinction. but not only did the amiable and high-minded duke of perth calmly surrender to one, who was esteemed a better leader than himself, the post of honour; but he endeavoured to reconcile to the indignity put upon them the fierce spirit of the macdonalds, who were obliged to cede their accustomed place on the right to the atholl men. "if," said the duke, "you fight with your usual bravery, you will make the left wing a right wing; in which case i shall ever afterwards assume the honourable surname of macdonald."[ ] the duke's standard was borne, on this occasion, by the laird of comrie, whose descendant still shows the claymore which his ancestors brandished; whilst the duke exclaimed aloud, "claymore!"[ ] happy would it have been for charles, had a similar spirit purified the motives of all those on whom he was fated to depend! the battle was soon ended! half-an-hour of slaughter and despair terminated the final struggle of the stuarts for the throne of britain! during that fearful though brief[ ] space, one thousand of the jacobites were killed; no quarter being given on either side. exhausted by fatigue and want of food, the brave highlanders fell thick as autumn leaves upon the blood-stained moor, near culloden house. about two hundred only on the king's side perished in the encounter. during the whole battle, taking into account the previous cannonading, the jacobites lost, as the prisoners afterwards stated, four thousand men. but it was not until after the fury of the fight ceased, that the true horrors of war really began. these may be said to consist, not in the ardour of a strife in which the passions, madly engaged, have no check, nor stay; but in the cold, vindictive, brutal, and remorseless after-deeds, which stamp for ever the miseries of a conflict upon the broken hearts of the survivors. "exceeding few," says mr. maxwell, "were made prisoners in the field of battle, which was such a scene of horror and inhumanity as is rarely to be met with among civilized nations. every circumstance concurs to heighten the enormity of the cruelties exercised on this occasion; the shortness of the action, the cheapness of the victory, and, above all, the moderation the prince had shown during his prosperity,--the leniency, and even tenderness, with which he had always treated his enemies. but that which was done on the field of culloden was but a prelude to a long series of massacres committed in cold blood, which i shall have occasion to mention afterwards."[ ] the chevalier, leaving that part of the field upon which bodies in layers of three or four deep were lying, rode along the moor in the direction of fort augustus, where he passed the river of nairn. he halted, and held a conference with sir thomas sheridan, sullivan, and hay; and, having taken his resolution, he sent young sullivan to the gentlemen who had followed him, and who were now pretty numerous. sheridan at first pretended to conduct them to the place where the prince was to re-assemble his army; but, having ridden half a mile towards ruthven, he there stopped, and dismissed them all in the prince's name, telling them it was the prince's "pleasure that they should shift for themselves." this abrupt and impolitic, not to say ungracious and unsoldier-like proceeding, has been justified by the necessity of the moment. there were no magazines in the highlands, in which an unusual scarcity prevailed. the lowlanders, more especially, must have starved in a country that had not the means of supporting its own inhabitants, and of which they knew neither the roads nor the language. it is, however, but too probable, that various suspicions, which were afterwards dispelled, of the fidelity of the scots, induced charles to throw himself into the hands of his irish attendants at this critical juncture.[ ] the duke of perth, with his brother lord john drummond, and lord george murray, with the atholl men, and almost all the low-country men who had been in the jacobite army, retired to ruthven, where they remained a short time with two or three thousand men, but without a day's subsistence. the leaders of this band finding it impossible to keep the men together, and receiving no orders from the prince, came to a resolution of separating. they took a melancholy farewell of each other, brothers and companions in arms, and many of them united by ties of relationship. the chieftains dispersed to seek places of shelter, to escape the pursuit of cumberland's "bloodhounds:" the men went to their homes. such is the statement of maxwell of kirkconnel, relative to the duke of perth: according to another account, the course which the duke pursued was the following:-- he is said to have been wounded in the back and hands in the battle, and to have fled with great precipitancy from the field of battle. he obtained, it is supposed, that shelter which, even under the most dangerous and disastrous circumstances, was rarely refused to the poor jacobites. the exact spot of his retreat has never been ascertained; yet persons living have been heard to say, that in the houses of their grandfathers or ancestors, the duke of perth took refuge, until the vigilance of pursuit had abated. the obscurity into which this and other subjects connected with have fallen, may be accounted for by the apathy which, at the beginning of the present century existed concerning all subjects connected with the ill-starred enterprise of the stuarts; and the loss of much interesting information, which the curiosity of modern times would endeavour in vain to resuscitate, has been the result. tradition, however, often a sure guide, and seldom, at all events, wholly erroneous, has preserved some trace of the unfortunate wanderer's adventures after all was at an end. as it might be expected, and as common report in the neighbourhood of drummond castle states, the duke returned to the protection of his own people. to them, and to his stately home, he was fondly attached, notwithstanding his foreign education. on first going from perth to join the insurrection, as he lost sight of his castle, he turned round, and as if anticipating all the consequences of that step, exclaimed, 'o! my bonny drummond castle, and my bonny lands!' the personal appearance of the duke was well known over all the country, for he was universally beloved, and was in the practice of riding at the head of his tenantry and friends, called in that neighbourhood 'his guards,' to michaelmas market at crieff, the greatest fair in those parts; where thousands assembled to buy and sell cattle and horses. he was therefore afterwards easily recognised, although in disguise. "sometime after the battle of culloden," as the same authority relates,[ ] "the duke returned to drummond castle, where his mother usually resided; and lived there very privately, skulking about the woods and in disguise; he was repeatedly seen in a female dress, barefooted, and bare-headed. once a party came to search the castle unexpectedly; he instantly got into a wall press or closet, or recess of some sort, where a woman shut him in, and standing before it, remained motionless till they left that room, to carry on the search, when he got out at a window and gained the retreats in the woods. after he had withdrawn from scotland, and settled in the north of england, he occasionally visited strathearn." in one of these visits he called, disguised as an old travelling soldier, at drummond castle, and desired the housekeeper to show him the rooms of the mansion. she was humming the song of "the duke of perth's lament," and having learnt the name of the song he desired her to sing it no more. when he got into his own apartment he cried out, "this is the duke's own room;" when, lifting his arm to lay hold of one of the pictures, she observed he was in tears, and perceived better dress under his disguise, which convinced her he was the duke himself.[ ] for some time the duke continued these wanderings, stopping now and then to gaze upon his castle, the sight of which affected him to tears. "it was now," says the writer of the case of thomas drummond, "that for obvious reasons, to elude discovery, the report of his death on shipboard or otherwise, would be propagated by his friends and encouraged by himself." it is stated upon the same evidence, that instead of sailing to france, as it has been generally believed, the duke fled to england; that he was conveyed on board a ship and landed at south shields, a few miles only distant from biddick, a small sequestered village, chiefly inhabited at that time by banditti, who set all authority at defiance. biddick is situated near the river wear, a few miles from sunderland; it was, at that time, both from situation and from the character of its inhabitants, a likely place for one flying from the power of the law to find a shelter; it was, indeed, a common retreat for the unfortunate and the criminal. that the duke of perth actually took refuge there for some time, is an assertion which has gained credence from the following reasons:-- in the first place: "in the history, directory, and gazette of the counties of northumberland and durham, and the town and counties of newcastle-upon-tyne, by william parson and william white, two volumes, - , the following passage occurs relating to biddick, in the parish of houghton-le-spring:-- "it was here that the unfortunate james drummond, commonly called duke of perth, took sanctuary after the rebellion of - , under the protection of nicholas lambton, esq., of south biddick, where he died, and was buried at pain-shaw." in the case of thomas drummond, (on whom i shall hereafter make some comments,) letters stated to be from lord john drummond are referred to, and quoted in part. these are said to have been addressed by lord john drummond from boulogne, to the duke at houghton-le-spring. the passage quoted runs thus: "i think you had better come to france, and you would be out of danger; as i find you are living in obscurity at houghton-le-spring. i doubt that it is a dangerous place; you say it is reported that you died on your passage. i hope and trust you will still live in obscurity." these expressions, which it must be owned have very much the air of being coined for the purpose, would certainly, were the supposed letters authenticated, establish the fact of the duke's retreat to houghton-le-spring. upon the doubtful nature of the intelligence, which was alone gleaned by the friends and relatives of the duke of perth, a superstructure of romance, as it certainly appears to be, was reared. the duke was never, as it was believed, married; and in the estates were restored to his kinsman, the honourable john drummond, who was created baron perth, and who died in , leaving the estates, with the honour of chieftainship, to his daughter clementina sarah, now lady willoughby d'eresby. in , a claimant to the honours and estates appeared in thomas drummond, who declared himself to be the grandson of james duke of perth; according to his account, the duke of perth on reaching biddick, took up his abode with a man named john armstrong, a collier or pitman. the occupation of this man was, it was stated, an inducement for this choice on the part of the duke, as in case of pursuit, the abyss at a coal-pit might afford a secure retreat; since no one would dare to enter a coal-pit without the permission of the owners. the duke, it is stated in the case of thomas drummond, commenced soon after his arrival at biddick, the employment of a shoemaker, in order to lull suspicion; he lost money by his endeavours, and soon relinquished his new trade. he is said to have become, in the course of time, much attached to the daughter of his host, john armstrong, and to have married her at the parish church of houghton-le-spring, in . he resided with his wife's family until his first child was born, when he removed to the boat-house, a dwelling with the use and privilege of a ferry-boat attached to it, and belonging to nicholas lambton, esq. of biddick; who, knowing the rank and misfortunes of the duke, bestowed it on him from compassion. here he lived, and with the aid of a small huckster's shop on the premises, supported a family, which in process of time, amounted to six or seven children; two of whom, mrs. atkinson and mrs. peters, aged women, but still in full possession of their intellect, have given their testimony to the identity of this shoemaker and huckster to the duke of perth.[ ] the papers, letters, documents and writings, a favourite diamond ring, and a ducal patent of nobility, were, however, "all lost in the great flood of the river wear in ;" and the duke is said to have deeply lamented this misfortune. it is not, however, very likely that he would have carried his ducal patent with him in his flight; and had he afterwards sent for it from drummond castle, some of his family must have been apprised of his existence. it is stated, however, but only on hearsay, that thirteen years after the year , the duke visited his forfeited castle of drummond, disguised as an old beggar, and dressed up in a light coloured wig. this rumour rests chiefly upon the evidence of the rev. dr. malcolm, lld., who, in , published a genealogical memoir of the ancient and noble house of drummond; and who declared, on being applied to by the family of thomas drummond, that he had been told by mrs. sommers, the daughter-in-law of patrick drummond, esq., of drummondernock, the intimate friend of the duke of perth, that the duke survived the events of the battle of culloden a long time, and years afterwards, visited his estates, and was recognised by many of his "trusty tenants."[ ] a similar report was, at the same time, very prevalent at strathearn; and it has been positively affirmed, that a visit was received by mr. græme, at garnock, from the duke of perth, long after he was believed to be dead. at this time, it is indeed wholly impossible to verify, or even satisfactorily to refute such statements; but the existence of a report in scotland, that the duke did not perish at sea, may be received as an undoubted fact.[ ] in , when the case of thomas drummond was first agitated, mrs. atkinson and mrs. elizabeth peters, the supposed daughters of james duke of perth, were both alive, and on their evidence much of the stability of the case depended. the claimant, thomas drummond, who is stated to have been the eldest son of james, son of james duke of perth, was born in , and was living in at houghton-le-spring, in the occupation of a pitman. much doubt is thrown upon the whole of the case, which was not followed up, by the length of time which elapsed before any claim was made on the part of this supposed descendant of the duke of perth. the act for the restoration of the forfeited estates was not passed, indeed, until two years after the death (as it is stated) of the duke of perth, that is, in ; yet one would suppose that he would have carefully instructed his son in the proper manner to assert his rights in case of such an event. that son lived to a mature age, married and died, yet made no effort to recover what were said to be his just rights.[ ] such is the statement of those who seek to establish the belief that the duke of perth lived to a good old age, married, had children, and left heirs to his title and estates. on the other hand, it is certain that it was generally considered certain, at the time of the insurrection, that the duke died on his voyage to france; and it was even alluded to by one of the counsel at the trials of lord kilmarnock and lord balmerino in august , when the name of the duke of perth being mentioned, "who," said the speaker, "i see by the papers, is dead." but it _is_ certainly _remarkable_, that neither maxwell of kirkconnel, nor lord elcho, the one in his narrative which has been printed, the other in his manuscript memoir, mention the death of the duke of perth on the voyage, which, as they both state, they shared with him. so important and interesting a circumstance would not, one may suppose, have occurred without their alluding to it. "all the gentlemen," lord elcho relates, "who crossed to nantes, proceeded to paris after their disembarkation;"[ ] but he enters into no further particulars of their destination. his silence, and that of maxwell of kirkconnel, regarding the duke of perth's death, seems, if it really took place, to have been inexplicable. all doubt, but that the story of the unfortunate duke's death was really true, appears however to be set at rest by the epitaph which some friendly or kindred hand has inscribed on a tomb in the chapel of the english nuns at antwerp, commemorating the virtues and the fate of the duke, and of his brother lord john drummond. this monumental tribute would hardly have been inscribed without some degree of certainty that the remains of the duke were indeed interred there. m. s.[ ] fratrum illustriss, jac. et joan. ducum de perth, antiquiss. nobiliss. familiæ de drummond apud scotos, principum. jacobus, ad studia humaniora proclivior, literis excultus, artium bonarum et liberalium fautor eximius; in commune consulens, semper in otio civis dignissimus. mirâ morum suavitate, et animi fortitudine ornatus, intaminatâ fide splendebat humani generis amicus. in pace clarus, in bello clarior; appulso enim carolo p. in scotiam, gladio in causâ gentis stuartorum rearrepto, veterorum curâ posthabitâ, gloriæ et virtuti unice prospiciens, alacri vultu labores belli spectabat; pericula omnia minima ducebat: in prælio strenuus, in victoriâ clemens, heros egregius. copiis caroli tandem dissipatis, patriâ, amicis, re domi amplissimâ, cunctis præter mentem recti consciam, fortiter desertis, in galliam tendens, solum natale fugit. verum assiduis laboribus et patriæ malis gravibus oppressus, in mari magno, die natale revertente, ob. maii, ; æt. . et reliquiæ, ventis adversis, terrâ sacratâ interclusæ, in undis sepultæ. joannes, ingenio felici martiali imbutus, a primâ adolescentiâ, militiæ artibus operam dedit. fortis, intrepidus, propositi tenax, mansuetudine generosâ, et facilitate morum, militis asperitate lenitâ. legioni scoticæ regali, ab ipsomet conscriptæ, a rege christianiss. lud. xv. præpositus. flagrante bello civili in britanniâ, auxilis gallorum duxit; et post conflictum infaustum cullodinensem, in eadem navi cum fratre profugus. in flandriâ, sub imperatore com. de saxe, multùm meruit: subjectis semper præsidium, belli calamitatum (agnoscite britanni!) insigne levamen. ad summos martis dignitates gradatim assurgens, gloriæ nobilis metæ appetens, in medio cursu, improvisa lethi vi raptus, septemb. a.d. , Æt. . in angl. monach. sacello antwerpiæ jacet. the preceding narrative is given to the reader without any further comment, except upon the general improbability of the story. it might not appear impossible that the duke may have taken refuge in the then wild county of durham for a time, but that two credible historians, maxwell of kirkconnel, and lord elcho, assert positively that he sailed for nantes in a vessel which went by the north-west coast of ireland; lord elcho and maxwell being themselves on board, seems decisive of the entire failure of the case before quoted. it seems also wholly incredible, that the duke of perth, whose rank was still acknowledged in france, and whose early education in that country must have familiarised him with its habits, should have remained contentedly during the whole of his life, associating with persons of the lowest grade, in an obscure village in durham. at the time of the duke of perth's death in , one brother, lord john drummond, was living. this brave man, whose virtues and whose fate are recorded in the epitaph, survived his amiable and accomplished brother only one year, and died suddenly of a fever, after serving under marshal saxe at the siege of bergen-op-zoom. his services in the insurrection of were considerable; like his brother, he escaped to france after the contest was concluded. he died unmarried; and two sisters, the lady mary, and the lady henrietta drummond, died also unmarried. the mother of james duke of perth long survived him, living until . it is said in the case of thomas drummond, that she never forgave her son for what she considered his lukewarmness in the cause of the stuarts, and refused to have any intercourse with him after the failure of the rebellion; but those who thus write, must have formed a very erroneous conception of the duke's conduct: if he might not escape such a charge, who could deserve the praise of zeal, sincerity, and disinterestedness? the duchess was one of the most strenuous supporters of the stuarts, and suffered for her loyalty to them by an imprisonment in edinburgh castle. she was committed to prison on the eleventh of february, , and liberated on bail on the seventeenth. on the forfeiture of the drummond estates she retired to stobhall, where she remained until her death, at the advanced age of ninety. she was considered a woman of great spirit, energy, and ability, and is supposed to have influenced her son in his political opinions and actions. some idea may be formed of the painful circumstances which follow the forfeiture of estates from the following passage, extracted from the introduction to the letters of james earl of perth, chancellor of scotland in the time of james the second, and lately printed for the camden society.[ ] "when a considerable portion of the drummond estates were restored to the heir (no poor boon, though dilapidated, lopped, and impoverished,) he found upon them four settlements of cottages, in which the soldiery had been located after the battle of culloden, to keep down the _rebels_. there were thirty near drummond castle, another division at cullander, a third at balibeg, and a fourth at stobhall. demolition might satisfy the abhorrence of the latter three, but what could reconcile him to the outrage under his very eyes, as he looked from his chamber or castle terrace? it was intolerable, and that every trace might be obliterated, he caused an embankment to be made, and carried a lake-like sheet of water over the very chimney tops of the military dwellings. there is now the beautiful lake, gleaming with fish, and haunted by the wild birds of the highlands; and we believe the deepest diver of them all, could not observe one stone upon another of the cabins which held the ruthless military oppressors left by the duke of cumberland a century ago." the usual accounts of the duke's movements after the battle of culloden, state, however, that about a month subsequent to that event, when the fugitive charles stuart, in the commencement of his wanderings, landed by accident upon the little isle of errifort, on the east side of lewis, he saw, from the summit of a hill which he had climbed, two frigates sailing northwards. the chevalier in vain endeavoured to persuade the boatmen who had brought him from lewis, to go out and reconnoitre these ships. his companions judged these vessels to be english; the prince alone guessed them to be french. he was right. they were two frigates from nantes, which had been sent with money, arms, and ammunition to succour charles, and were now returning to france. on board one of them was the duke of perth, lord elcho, lord john drummond, old lochiel, sir thomas sheridan and his nephew mr. hay, maxwell of kirkconnel, and mr. lockhart of carnwath, and several low-country gentlemen, who had been wandering about in these remote parts when the frigates were setting out on their return,[ ] and finding that the prince was gone, and that nothing was to be done for his service, had determined to escape. on the tenth of june these frigates reached nantes: lord elcho affirms that "all arrived safe at nantes;" one only is said never to have gained that shore. worn out by fatigues too severe, and, perhaps, the progress of disease being aided by sorrow, the duke of perth is generally stated to have died on ship-board on his passage. his malady is understood to have been consumption. another celebrated member of this distinguished family, lord strathallan, was not spared to witness the total ruin of all his hopes. he fell at the battle of culloden. the impression among his descendants is, that, seeing the defeat certain, he rushed into the thick of the battle, determined to perish. in lord strathallan's name was included in the bill of attainder then passed; but, in , one of the most graceful acts of george the fourth, whose sentiments of compassion for the stuarts and their adherents do credit to his memory, was the restoration of the present viscount strathallan to the peerage by the title of the sixth viscount. it is with regret that we take leave, amid the discordant scenes of an historical narrative, of one whose high purposes and blameless career are the best tribute to virtue, the noblest ornament of the party which he espoused. modest, yet courageous; moderate, though in the ardour of youth; devout, without bigotry; and capable of every self-sacrifice for the good of others, on the memory of the young duke of perth not a shadow rests to attract the attention of the harsh to defects of intention, unjustly attributed to the leader of the jacobite insurrection. footnotes: [ ] genealogy of the most noble and ancient house of drummond. by a freind to vertue and the family.--unpublished. [ ] the office of thane or seneschal was, to be the _giusticiare_ or guardian of that country; to lead the men up to the war, according to the roll or list made out; and to be collector for the athbane of the kingdom for the king's rents in that district. the athbane was the highest officer in the kingdom--chief minister, treasurer, steward. the thanes were next to the athbanes, and were the first that king malcolm advanced to the new title of earls.--see lord strathallan's genealogy of the house of drummond. [ ] genealogy of the house of drummond, . [ ] amongst his other literary efforts, drummond of hawthornden left a ms "historie of the family of perth." [ ] lady willoughby d'eresby is heiress to the estate of perth, and representative in the female line of the earldom of perth in scotland and of the dukedom in france. at the same time that the dukedom of perth was created, the last earl's brother was created duke de melfort. his descendants are, therefore, the male representatives of the earldom of perth, and george drummond perth de melfort in france is now claiming the title. (letter from viscount strathallan, to whose courtesy i am indebted for this information.) [ ] "reducing."--editor [ ] memoirs of sir ewen cameron of lochiell. [ ] the title of duke was afterwards assumed by the young chief of the house of drummond, and was given to him by the jacobites generally; but, in consequence of his father's attainder, and the forfeiture of his title, he was, in the eye of the law, simply a commoner. hence he is described by home as "james drummond, commonly called duke of perth, his father having been so created by james the second at st. germains." the right of the duke to this dignity was at that time, and it still is, recognised in france. without entering into the merits of the question of right, and to prevent confusion, it is therefore expedient to designate this jacobite nobleman by the name usually assigned to him in his own time. [ ] forbes's jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] wood's peerage. [ ] curious collection of scottish songs; aberdeen, . [ ] henderson, history of the rebellion of ' , p. . [ ] memoirs of lochiell, p. . [ ] history of the rebellion, p. . [ ] lord elcho's narrative, ms. [ ] see the history of the rebellion, by rae; and the cochrane correspondence. [ ] maculloch's highlands. [ ] forbes's jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] henderson, p. . [ ] henderson, p. . [ ] chambers' history of the rebellion; edit. for the people; p. . [ ] "history of the present rebellion in scotland, . from the relation of mr. james macpherson, who was first in the service of the rebels." in contradiction to this statement, to which macpherson adds, that the chevalier attended mass daily, the testimony of one of the daily papers (the caledonian mercury) may be given, as inserted by mr. chambers in his very interesting history of the rebellion of . the prince visited an episcopal chapel; the name of the clergyman, armstrong, and the text, isaiah xiv. , are specified. it was the first protestant place of worship that the prince had ever attended. hist. of the rebellion, p. . [ ] history of the present rebellion, p. .--it is remarkable that two histories of the two rebellions were composed by men who had changed sides. that of by patten, who was rewarded for his disclosures, as king's evidence, by a pension. what reward was bestowed on mr. james macpherson does not yet appear. [ ] history of the present rebellion, p. . [ ] notes and observations taken from mss. in the possession of a. macdonald, esq., register office, edinburgh. [ ] lord elcho's ms. [ ] in exeter house, derby, there is a portrait of prince charles, painted by wright of derby, in which the eyes are hazel. that in the earl of newburgh's possession, at hassop, has blue eyes. [ ] henderson, p. . home, p. . [ ] home, . alexander henderson. [ ] lord elcho's narrative, ms. [ ] henderson, p. . [ ] henderson, p. . [ ] henderson differs in this account from home. "charles," says the latter, "remained on the field of battle till mid-day, giving orders for the relief of the wounded of both armies, for the disposal of his prisoners, and preserving, both from temper and from judgment, every appearance of moderation and humanity," p. . [ ] lord elcho's ms. [ ] maxwell of kirkconnel's narrative, p. . [ ] maxwell of kirkconnel's narrative, p. . [ ] maxwell's narrative, p. . [ ] maxwell's narrative, p. . [ ] maxwell of kirkconnel's narrative, p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] history of the rebellion of and . extracted from the scots' magazine, p. . [ ] maxwell's narrative, p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] jacobite memoirs. [ ] lord mahon is decidedly of this opinion. see vol. iv. hist. of england, respecting the jacobites. [ ] lord elcho's ms. [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] p. . [ ] chambers. [ ] lord elcho's narrative. [ ] the estate of comrie is now in the possession of sir david dundas, and the descendant of its former owner, and the duke's standard-bearer is reduced to be the landlord of the village inn. see letters of james duke of perth, chancellor of scotland. printed for the camden society, and edited by wm. jerdan, esq. [ ] the battle, according to the newspapers of the day, lasted about half an hour. [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] see lord elcho's ms. narrative; which, however, since it is written in a bitter spirit, and varies in many details and in most opinions from maxwell's, i am not disposed wholly to trust. [ ] the traditionary accounts have been collected, in the case of thos. drummond, a claimant of the honours and estates of the earldom of perth. newcastle upon tyne, . i do not vouch for the truth of these anecdotes, but they have an air of probability. [ ] case of thomas drummond, p. . [ ] see case of thomas drummond, p. . [ ] case, p. . dr. malcolm had in his book made a different statement; but had contemplated re-publishing his work, with corrections, among which the existence (after ) of james drummond, was to be asserted. [ ] for this information, and also for a copy of the case of thomas drummond, i am indebted to the kindness of w. e. aytoun, esq. [ ] in , another appeal, and a fresh claim to the drummond estates, and to the earldom of perth, were brought forward by the descendant of john drummond, the great-uncle of james, duke of perth. the said john drummond was raised to the dignity of the english peerage in , by james the second, by the title of viscount melfort; in he was raised to the dignity of earl of melfort; and afterwards, following the monarch to st. germains, was created duke of melfort. the great-grandson of the duke of melfort was a roman catholic priest, who officiated some years back at the chapel in moorfields; he was living in in france, at a very advanced age. the pamphlet in which, in , he asserted his claim, and which was laid before the house of lords, was professedly written "by an unfortunate nobleman;" with the appeal of charles edward (drummond), duke of melfort, heir male, and chief representative of the house of drummond of perth, submitted to the united kingdom of great britain, &c., vo., london, . [ ] lord elcho's ms. [ ] for the copies of these epitaphs i am indebted to robert chambers, esq. this is that gentleman's account of the inscriptions:-- "the within is a correct copy of the inscription, as entered in bishop forbes's ms., vol. , dated on title page, . the entry of inscriptions is immediately subsequent to a copied letter or memorandum of may, , and antecedent to one of november, . "fama perennis, lauru porrecta, vetat mori principes immaculatis proavum honoribus dignos. hoc elogium, d.d.d. t.d. l.l.d. "n.b.--the above is engraven, all in capitals, on the tomb at antwerp, with the coat armorial of the family on the top of the inscription." the following is the english translation of the originals in latin, copied from the papers of bishop forbes:-- sacred to the memory of the most illustrious brothers, james and john, dukes of perth, chiefs of the house of drummond, a very ancient and noble family in scotland. james, the more disposed of the two to the study of belles lettres, excelled in literature; was eminent as a favourer of the fine and liberal arts. providing for the common good, he was always a most worthy citizen in peace. characterized by the sweetness of his manners, and distinguished by the strength of his mind, he ever shone with unstained faith as a friend of mankind. great in peace, he was still greater in war, for when prince charles landed in scotland, he drew his sword in the cause of the house of stuart, put all other cares aside, and uniformly looking forward to glory and worth, he ever gazed with a cheerful countenance on the toils of war: he was utterly regardless of all danger, without want of energy in battle, he was merciful in victory, indeed a man of rare occurrence; at length when the forces of charles were wasted away, his native land, his friends, and a very ample estate, were all, when weighed in estimation with a mind conscious of right, bravely deserted: turning his steps towards france, he fled his native country. oppressed by the troubles of his lot, and the heavy misfortunes of his country, he died on the great ocean, on the th of may, in the thirty-third year of his age; and his remains, precluded from consecrated ground by adverse winds, were given to the deep. john, imbued with a happy turn of mind for military affairs, from early youth applied himself to the military art. brave, intrepid, and firm in purpose, he was ennobled by gentleness, and softened the asperity of the soldier by the ease of his manners. he was placed over the royal scotch legion, enlisted by himself, by the most christian king, louis xv. whilst the civil war was raging in britain he led the french auxiliary forces, and after the unfortunate battle of culloden, was a fugitive in the same ship as his brother. in flanders, under the general count saxe, he served a long time, ever a defence to those under his command, a remarkable comforter (learn, o britons!) in the calamities of war; gradually rising to the highest dignities of war, and seeking to attain the goal of noble glory, he was carried away by sudden death in the midst of his course, th september, a.d. . aged . [ ] edited by w. jerdan, esq., m.r.s.l., . [ ] maxwell, p. . flora macdonald. the character of this celebrated woman, heroic, yet gentle, was formed in the privacy of the strictest highland seclusion. she was born in the island of south uist, in : she was the daughter of macdonald of milton. the clan of her family was that of macdonald of clanranald; the chief of which is called in gaelic, mack-ire-allein, and in english, the captain of clan ranald. the estate of this chief, which is held principally from the crown, is situated in moidart and arisaig on the continent of scotland, and in the islands of uist, benbecula, and rum. his vassals, capable of military service, amounted in to five hundred.[ ] the hebrides were at that time regarded in the more civilized parts of europe somewhat in the same light as the arctic regions are now considered by the inhabitants of england, and other polished nations: "when i was at ferney in ," boswell relates, "i mentioned our design (of going to the hebrides) to voltaire. he looked at me as if i had talked of going to the north pole, and said, 'you do not insist on my accompanying you!' 'no, sir.' 'then i am very willing you should go.'" in this remote, and, in the circles of london, almost unknown region, flora macdonald was born and educated. the death of her father, macdonald of milton, when she was only a year old, made an important change in the destiny of the little highland girl. her mother married again, and became the wife of macdonald of armadale in skye. flora was, therefore, removed from the island of south uist to an island which was nearer to the means of acquiring information than her native place. it was a popular error of the times, more especially among the english whigs, to regard the highlanders of every grade, as an ignorant, barbarous race. so far as the lowest classes were concerned, this imputation might be well-founded, though certainly not so well as it has much longer been in the same classes in england. previously to the reign of george the third many of the peasantry could not read, and many could not understand what they read in english. there were few books in gaelic, and the defect was only partially supplied by the instruction of bards and seneachies. but, among the middle and higher classes, education was generally diffused. the excellent grammar-schools in inverness, fortrose, and dunkeld sent out men well-informed, excellent classical scholars, and these from among that order which in england is the most illiterate--the gentlemen-farmers. the universities gave them even a greater extent of advantages. when the hessian troops were quartered in atholl, the commanding officers, who were accomplished gentlemen, found a ready communication in latin at every inn. upon the colonel of the hessian cavalry halting at dunkeld, he was addressed by the innkeeper in latin. this class of innkeepers has wholly, unhappily, disappeared in the highlands.[ ] but it was in the island of skye that classical learning was the most general, and there an extraordinary degree of intelligence and acquirement prevailed among the landed gentry. "i believe," observes general stewart, "it is rather unique for the gentry of a remote corner to learn latin, merely to talk to each other; yet so it was in skye." the acquisition of this branch of learning was not, indeed, expensive. latin was taught for two shillings and sixpence the quarter, and english and writing for one shilling. indeed it is scarcely more now. the people seldom quitted their insular homes, except when on service; and, to the silence of their wild secluded scenes, the romance of poetry and the composition of song gave a relief and a charm. the education of flora macdonald received probably little aid from the classical teacher; but her mind was formed, not among the rude and uncultured, but among those who appreciated letters; and the influence of such an advantage in elevating and strengthening the character must be taken into account in forming a due estimation of her heroic qualities. thus situated, flora passed her life in obscurity, until, at the age of twenty-four, the events which succeeded the battle of culloden brought those energies, which had been nurtured in retirement, into active exertion. indeed, until about a year before she engaged in that enterprise which has rendered her name so celebrated, she had never quitted the islands of south uist and skye; she had, at that time, passed about nine months in the family of macdonald of largoe in argyleshire, and this was the only change of scene, or of sphere, which she had ever witnessed.[ ] her step-father was an enemy to the cause which, from her earliest years, her heart espoused. a company of militia had been formed to assist the british government by sir alexander macdonald, the chieftain of one division of the clan, and in this regiment macdonald of armadale held a commission as captain, at the time when the duke of cumberland was "making inquisition for blood" throughout the western highlands. but the prepossessions of flora were unalienably engaged in favour of the exiled stuarts; and they were not, perhaps, the less likely to glow from being necessarily suppressed. her disposition, notwithstanding all her subsequent display of courage, was extremely mild; and her manners corresponded to her temper. her complexion was fair; and her figure, though small, well-proportioned. in more advanced life boswell, who with dr. johnson visited her, characterized her person and deportment as "genteel." there was nothing unfeminine, either in her form or in her manners, to detract from the charm of her great natural vivacity, or give a tone of hardness to her strong good sense, calm judgment, and power of decision. her voice was sweet and low; the harsher accents of the scottish tongue were not to be detected in her discourse; and she spoke, as bishop forbes relates, "english (or rather scots) easily, and not at all through the erse tone." in all the varied circumstances of her life, she manifested a perfect modesty and propriety of behaviour, coupled with that noble simplicity of character which led her to regard with surprise the tributes which were afterwards paid to her conduct, and to express her conviction that far too much value was placed upon what she deemed merely an act of common humanity. in skye, the "isle of mist" of the poet, she could hear imperfect intelligence of the wanderings of the jacobite leaders. she was connected by kindred with some under whose roof the prince had taken refuge. the first movement which the prince made after taking leave of lord lovat at gortuleg, was to repair first to fort augustus, and then to invergarie near fort augustus. here he took leave of those followers who had attended him as he quitted the field of culloden; and retained only mr. o'sullivan, captain o'neil, captain alan macdonald, and one burke, a servant. it was not until he had remained a whole day at fort augustus that the prince could be persuaded that all hopes of his troops rejoining him were at an end. on friday, the eighteenth of april, he went to lochnargaig, where he stayed one night with dr. cameron of glenkearn; and on the following day he proceeded to oban, which is situated on a corner of clanranald's estate. he was, therefore, under the protection of a kinsman of flora macdonald. he pursued his journey on the next day to the country of arisaig, and rested at a small village called glenbeisdale, whence he proceeded to boradale, the place at which he had first landed in beginning the enterprise which was now terminated. it had been the opinion of clanranald, one of the prince's most faithful adherents, that he ought not to leave the mainland, but to take shelter in different small huts, which should be built for his accommodation; whilst clanranald should take a trip to the isles, and look out for a vessel to convey the unfortunate wanderer into france. by the influence of mr. o'sullivan this counsel was overruled; and clanranald, finding that charles was determined to sail for long island, provided an eight-oared boat, which belonged to alexander macdonald of boradale; and, having provided it with rowers and other requisites for the voyage, the party set sail from lochnanuagh for the isle of uist on the twenty-fourth of april. they assumed false names: the prince was called mr. sinclair; mr. o'sullivan was old sinclair, his father; captain alan macdonald, a relation of clanranald, became mr. graham.[ ] donald macleod the pilot, and about six men, rowers, also accompanied the prince, but did not change their names; a clergyman of the church of rome attended the party. the design which charles edward had formed, was to reach the long island, under which name are comprehended those western islands which run in a straight line from north to south, and are at a short distance from each other. from some part of the long island charles hoped to procure a vessel in which he could escape to france, or at any rate to orkney, and thence to norway or sweden. at this time a proclamation, offering a reward of thirty thousand pounds for his apprehension, had been issued by the british government. the prince set sail on the evening of the twenty-sixth of april, embarking at boradale, on the very spot where he had landed, with just sufficient daylight to get clear of loch luagh; for, as the coast had been guarded by english ships ever since his arrival in scotland, it was not safe to go beyond the mouth of the loch in open day. before the voyage was commenced, the prince was warned by his faithful pilot that there would be a storm that night. "i see it coming!" but charles edward, anxious to leave the main land, where parties were dispersed in pursuit of him, was determined to trust his fate to the winds. the party, therefore, entered the boat, the prince seating himself at the feet of the pilot. there was also another macleod in the boat; this was murdoch, the son of the pilot, a boy of fifteen years of age. the character of this youth was of no common order. when he had heard of the battle of culloden, he had provided himself with a claymore, a dirk, and a pistol; and had run off from school to take his chance in the field. after the defeat he found means to trace out the road which the prince had taken, and to follow him step by step; "and this was the way," related donald macleod, "that i met wi' my poor boy." another person who was in the boat, and who afterwards made a conspicuous figure in that romance of real life, was ned bourke, or burke. this man had belonged to a most valuable class, the chairmen of edinburgh, whose honesty is proverbial; their activity and civility almost incredible to english notions. bourke was not, as his name seemed to imply, an irishman; but a native of north uist. he had been a servant to mr. alexander macleod, one of charles edward's aides-de-camp; and was the man who had led the prince off the field of battle, and guided him all the way to boradale: for ned bourke knew scotland, and indeed a great portion of england, well, having been servant to several gentlemen. in this, his most important service, the honest man did not disgrace his ancient and honourable calling as a chairman. "excellent things" were spoken of him to donald macleod, who seems to have made some demur as to his irish name, and to have objected to taking him on board. thus guided, and thus guarded, charles edward might fear the winds and waves; but treachery was not to be dreaded. not far had the men rowed before a violent storm arose; such as even donald had not, from his own account, ever been "trysted with before," though he had all his life been a seafaring man. the prince was now as impatient to return to the land as he had been to quit it; "for," he said, "i would rather face cannons and muskets than be in such a storm as this!" but donald was firm in proceeding on the voyage: "since we are here," he replied, "we have nothing for it, but, under god, to set out to sea directly." he refused to steer for the rock, which runs three miles along the side of the loch; observing, "is it not as good for us to be drowned in clear water, as to be dashed to pieces on a rock, and drowned also?" a solemn silence followed this decisive reply. every one expected instant destruction. the night was pitch-dark; and there was no light in the boat. they dreaded being landed on some part of the island of skye, where the militia were in arms to prevent the prince's escape. but, to use the words of the pilot, "as god would have it," that danger was not encountered. by daybreak the party discovered that they were close to rushness, in the island of benbecula, having run according to the pilot's account, thirty-two leagues in eight hours. during this perilous voyage the spirits of charles never sank; he encouraged every one around him, working himself at the oars: "he was," says mr. maxwell, "the only one that seemed void of concern." such were the circumstances under which charles edward landed in the long island;--the event which brought him into communication with flora macdonald. she was at that time calmly engaged in the usual duties of her station; but the spirit so prevalent in the highlands was not extinguished in the western islands, either by the dread of the english militia, or by the defeat of the prince. all the jacobites of that period, to adopt the language of president forbes, "how prudent soever, became mad; all doubtful people became jacobites; and all bankrupts became heroes, and talked of nothing but hereditary right and victory. and what was more grievous to men of gallantry, and, if you believe me, more mischievous to the public, all the fine ladies, if you except one or two, became passionately fond of the young adventurer, and used all their arts for him in the most intemperate manner."[ ] it was not, however, an idle, romantic fancy, but a fixed sentiment of duty, acting upon a kindly heart, which originated the enthusiasm of flora. whilst the prince was traversing the long island in poverty and danger, a desolate wanderer wanting the common necessaries of life, but still patient and cheerful ever hoping once more to assemble his faithful highlanders,--living at one time four days in a desert island, then putting to sea pursued by ships,--flora macdonald had accidentally quitted her usual residence at armadale in skye, for the purpose of visiting her step-brother at milton. during her abode at milton, captain o'neil, who was loitering about the country for the purpose of gaining intelligence for charles edward, formed an acquaintance with this young lady, and, it is said, paid his addresses to her. more than two months had now elapsed since charles first trusted his hopes to the chance of finding a vessel on the coast of the long island, to take him to france. during that period his fortunes had assumed a far more threatening aspect than at any previous time. friends had proved faithless; murray of broughton, whom the prince then still regarded as one of the "firmest, honestest men in the world," had shown to others his real motives, and the deep selfishness, cowardice, and rapacity, of his heart. in his utmost need, when the prince was in want of food, that wretched man had, in reply to a message from charles asking money, answered that he had none; having _only_ sixty louis-d'ors for himself, which were not worth sending. what was perhaps of more immediate moment was, that, whilst the friends of the young chevalier had diminished, the number of his foes around him had increased. fifteen ships of war were to be seen near the coasts of the long island, thus most effectually destroying all hopes of a french vessel being able to cruize near the shore. to complete his misfortunes, the duke of cumberland, upon learning that his unfortunate kinsman had sheltered himself in the western islands, had sent captain caroline scott, an officer as infamous as hawley and lockhart, to scour the long island. such were the circumstances of charles towards the latter end of june . he was then coursing along the shores of the long island, until, pursued by french ships, he was obliged to land, happily for himself, on the island of benbecula, between the north and south uist. providence seemed to have conducted him to that wild and bleak shore. scarcely had he reached it, than a storm arose, and drove his pursuers off the coast. here the prince and his starving companions were overjoyed to find a number of crabs, or, as the scottish pilot termed them, _partans_; a boon to the famished wanderers. from a hut, about two miles from the shore, charles removed, first to the house of lady clanranald; and afterwards, by the advice of clanranald, he went to south uist, and took up his abode near the hill of coradale in the centre of the island, that being thought the most secure retreat. here charles remained until again driven from this hut by the approach of captain scott, with a detachment of five hundred men, who advanced close to the place where he was concealed. the unfortunate prince then determined upon a last and painful effort to save those who had braved hitherto the severities of their lot for his sake. he parted with all his followers except o'neil. donald macleod shed tears on bidding him farewell. macleod was taken prisoner a few days afterwards in benbecula, by lieutenant allan macdonald, of knock, in slate, in the island of skye. he was put on board the furnace,[ ] and brought down to the cabin before general campbell, who examined him minutely. the general asked him "if he had been along with the pretender?" "yes," said donald, "i was along with that young gentleman, and i winna deny it." "do you know," said the general, "what money was upon the gentleman's head? no less a sum than four thousand pounds sterling, which would have made you and your family happy for ever." "what then," said donald, "what could i have gotten by it? i could not have enjoyed it for two days, conscience would have gotten the better of me; and although i could have got england and scotland for my prince, i would not have allowed a hair of his head to be hurt."[ ] after this separation, the prince, accompanied by o'neil, again returned to traverse the mountainous districts of south uist. he walked in the direction of benbecula, and about midnight entered a shealing, or hut, which belonged to angus macdonald, the brother of his future deliverer. the interview which shortly took place between them, was not, as it may readily be conceived, unpremeditated.[ ] repeatedly, before the meeting, had o'neil asked flora whether she would like to see the prince? she answered with emotion that she would. she had even expressed an earnest desire to see him; and had said, if she could be of any use in aiding him to escape from his enemies, she would do it. o'neil had had various opportunities of studying the real character of flora macdonald. he must have had an extraordinary notion of her energy when he first proposed to her, whilst they met in clanranald's house, to take the prince with her to skye, dressed up in woman's clothes. this proposition appeared to flora so "fantastical and dangerous," that she positively declined it. "a macdonald, a macleod, a campbell militia were," she observed, "in south uist in quest of the prince: a guard was posted at every ferry; every boat was seized; no person could leave long island without a passport; and the channel between uist and skye was covered with ships of war." such was her resolution whilst she discussed the subject with o'neil at the house of her kinsman, clanranald. nor does that sense of the dangers of her undertaking lessen the heroism of the enterprise. but her woman's heart, however timid it might be at clanranald's castle, was touched, when she beheld the prince; and compassion, from which spring the noblest resolves, inspired her to exertion. as the prince, attended by o'neil, drew near to the hut belonging to angus macdonald, the latter quitted charles, and went aside, with a design to inform himself whether the independent companies of militia were to pass that way, or not, on the following day, as he had been informed. such, at least, was his pretext; but he had an appointment with flora macdonald, who was awaiting him near the hut. to his question, she answered that "they would not pass until the day after." then o'neil ventured to tell the young lady that he had brought a friend to see her. she inquired in some agitation "if it was the prince?" he replied that it was, and he instantly brought her into the shealing. the kind heart of flora was afflicted at the sight. charles was exhausted with fatigue and misery; he had become thin and weak, and his health was greatly affected by the hardships which he had undergone. he and o'neil had lost indeed the means of personal comfort; they had but two shirts with them, and every article of wearing apparel was worn out. to a feeble mind, the depressed state of prince charles's affairs, his broken-down aspect, and the dangers which surrounded him, would have inspired reluctance to serve one so desolate. these circumstances, however, only softened the resistance which flora had at first made to the scheme suggested for his escape, and renewed her desire to aid him. after her first introduction, the discourse for some time turned upon his dangerous situation; the best remedy for which was, as both the prince and o'neil hinted, for flora to convey him in disguise to skye, where her mother lived. this seemed the more feasible, from the situation which her father-in-law held, and which would enable him to give a pass for herself and her servant. the prince assented to the expediency of the proposal, which originated with o'neil, and immediately asked flora if she would undertake to carry the plan into effect. flora answered with great respect and loyalty, but declined, saying that "sir alexander macdonald, who commanded the militia in skye, was too much her friend for her to be the instrument of his ruin." o'neil endeavoured to combat this opinion, representing that sir alexander was not then in the country, and could not therefore be implicated: he added, that she might easily convey the prince to her mother's, at armadale, as she lived close by the waterside. o'neil also told her of the honour and immortal fame which would redound from so glorious an action; and the prince assured her that he should always retain a deep sense of "so conspicuous a service." the firmness of flora had resisted the arguments of o'neil; but it was overcome by these few words from the prince. she consented to let o'neil know on the following day at what time every arrangement would be made for the plan which had been proposed, and she left the prince and his adherent to shelter themselves in the mountains of coradale.[ ] on leaving the shealing, flora at first returned to milton; but, having fully made up her mind to undertake the enterprise, she set out for ormaclade, the seat of clanranald, on saturday the twenty-first of june. her journey was not without perilous adventures. on passing a ford, she was taken prisoner by one of the militia, on account of not having a passport. she inquired by whom they were commanded; and, finding that her step-father was their captain, she refused to give an answer to the questions put to her until she saw him. she was made a prisoner for that night; her captivity being shared by her servant neil mac kechan, a clansman, who was the father of marshal macdonald, duke of tarentum. in the morning, hugh macdonald of armadale, the step-father of flora, arrived, and liberated her; granting a passport for herself, her servant, and for another woman whom she styled betty burke, a good spinster, whom armadale in the innocency of his heart recommended to his wife at armadale, as she had much lint to spin. his letter has been preserved; and there is every reason to believe, that, when writing it, armadale was wholly unconscious of the design of flora.[ ] the letter of armadale to his wife ran as follows:--"i have sent your daughter from this country lest she should be frightened with the troops lying here. she has got one betty burke, an irish girl, who, as she tells me, is a good spinner. if her spinning pleases you, you may keep her till she spins all your lint: or, if you have any wool to spin, you may employ her. i have sent mac kechan along with your daughter and betty burke, to take care of them. i am, your dutiful husband, "hugh macdonald." "june nd, ." * * * * * it was late in the afternoon of the sunday on which flora had obtained her passport, before she could communicate with her friends in the mountains; about four o'clock, however, they received a message telling them that _all was well_. the prince and his companion, therefore, determined immediately to join their protectress. upon being set at liberty, flora went immediately to ormaclade, where she had, in lady clanranald, an enthusiastic assistant. she remained at ormaclade for several days, making arrangements for the complete disguise of the prince. the prince and o'neil had only waited for the arrival of flora's messenger to set out and meet their heroic friend; but the trusty individual who had brought them the tidings that _all was well_, informed them that they could not pass either of the fords which separated south uist from benbecula, as they were guarded by militia. in this extremity the prince knew not how he should ever reach the place appointed for his meeting with flora, which was rossinish, in benbecula, from which spot she was to conduct him to skye. an inhabitant of south uist, seeing his perplexity, offered him a boat: the proffered aid was accepted; and charles, with o'neil, was landed on a promontory which the pilot of the boat assured the prince was the island of benbecula. charles therefore dismissed the boatmen, with orders to meet him on the opposite side of the island; and began his journey. he had not gone far when he found himself surrounded with water, and perceived that the pilot had made a mistake. neither charles nor his companions had ever before been in this part of benbecula. they looked around them on the desolate prospect, and perceived that they were on a peninsula, perfectly desert, and which at high-water was separated from benbecula. at first charles hoped, that, when the tide was out, some passage might be discovered; but the waves retired and no passage appeared. the prince was not disheartened; for his courage, never justly questioned, had gained its best allies, patience and fortitude, during the adversities of the last few months. he supported the fainting spirits of his companions; and, to encourage them to search for a passage, said that he knew of one, although he was in fact as ignorant as they were. at length he discovered a passage, and the party reached a little hut, which they were assured was in benbecula.[ ] he marched on, exhausted as he was, to rossinish, and arrived there at midnight, but found not the deliverer they expected; on the contrary, he learned that they were within fifty miles of the enemy. hungry as they were, having eaten nothing all day, the prince and his fainting companions were obliged to retreat four miles. captain o'neil was then sent to ormaclade, to inquire why flora had not been true to her appointment. she told him that she now considered that north uist would be a safer place of refuge than skye, and that she had engaged a cousin of hers to receive him there. o'neil remained at ormaclade, and sent a boy to inform the prince, who was now only at eight miles' distance, of this proposal; but that scheme was soon abandoned, the gentleman to whom flora referred refusing to receive the prince. in this dilemma, charles was informed that his enemies had quitted rossinish, and he therefore hastened to that place. his safe arrival there was, indeed, almost miraculous. near him was a guard of fifty men; the island was full of militia; and the secret of his being in it was known to many a poor cotter. but, in these vicissitudes of his eventful and unhappy life, the prince was thrown among a faithful and honourable people, in whose bosoms the conviction was planted, that to betray him would bring down a curse upon themselves and their posterity. on arriving at rossinish, captain o'neil was again dispatched to flora to express the disappointment of charles on not seeing her, and to beg her to join him. she promised faithfully to do so on the following day; and she kept her word. having hired a six-oared boat to convey her to skye, and appointed it to be at a certain part of the coast, she set out for rossinish: accompanied by lady clanranald, whose participation in the cause was shortly afterwards punished by imprisonment;--by a mrs. macdonald, and by mac kechan, her servant. they entered a hut, where they found this unfortunate descendant of an ill-fated race preparing his own dinner. it consisted of the heart, liver, and kidneys of a sheep, which he was turning upon a wooden spit. the compassion of the ladies was roused by this sight; but charles, as he bade them welcome to the humble repast, moralized on his fate. he observed, that all _kings_ would be benefited by such an ordeal as that which he had endured. his philosophy was seasoned by the hope of attaining what he ever desired,--the hereditary monarchy which he believed to be his birthright. he observed, that the wretched to-day, may be happy to-morrow. at the dinner, flora macdonald sat on the right-hand of the prince, and lady clanranald on the left. after the meal was ended, charles was requested by flora to assume the female apparel which lady clanranald had brought. it was, of course, very homely, and consisted of a flowered linen gown, a light-coloured quilted petticoat, and a mantle of clean camlet, made after the irish fashion, with a hood. their dangers, as he put on his dress, did not check the merriment of the party; and many jokes were passed upon the costume of betty burke. a small shallop was lying near the shore, and flora proposed that they should remove near to the place whence they were to embark, for her fears had been excited by a message which arrived from ormaclade, acquainting lady clanranald that a party of soldiers, under the infamous captain fergusson, had arrived at her house, and had taken up their quarters there. lady clanranald hastened home, where she managed to deceive and perplex both general campbell, who had lately arrived in benbecula, and captain fergusson. and now another trial was at hand:--it was necessary for captain o'neil and the prince to separate. the irishman would fain have remained with charles, but flora was firm, as well as kind; her opinion on this point was decided; and o'neil was obliged to yield. this point was not gained without much difficulty, for charles even remonstrated. o'neil took his leave, and made his way, through a country traversed by troops, to south uist, where o'sullivan had been left. "i could now," writes captain o'neil in his journal, when he relates his departure from the prince, "only recommend him to god and his good fortune." this kind-hearted man was afterwards taken prisoner by captain fergusson, who had him stripped and threatened not only with the rack, but also with being whipped by his hangman, because he would not disclose where the prince was. these cruelties were opposed, however, by a junior officer, who, coming out with a drawn sword, threatened fergusson with a beating, and saved o'neil from the punishment which was to have been the requital of his fidelity. when all were gone, except flora, the prince, and mac kechan, the party proceeded to the sea-shore, where they arrived wet and wearied, and passed the night upon a rock. they made a fire to warm themselves, and endeavoured still to maintain hope and cheerfulness. how picturesque and singular must have been the group, thus awaiting the moment which should perhaps only conduct them to fresh perils! as they reclined among the heath which grew on the rock, four wherries, filled with armed men, caused the little party to extinguish their fire, and to hide themselves in the heather. the wherries, which made at first for the shore, sailed by to the southward, within a gun-shot of the spot where charles edward and flora were concealed. at eight o'clock in the evening of saturday, the twenty-eighth of june , the prince and she set sail from benbecula for skye. the evening on which they quitted the shores which had been to them such scenes of peril was clear; but, not long after they had embarked, the sea became rough, and the weather stormy. prince charles resolved never to despond, sang songs to prevent the spirits of the company from flagging, and talked gaily and hopefully of the future. exhausted by her previous exertions, flora sank into a sleep; and charles carefully watched her slumbers, being afraid lest the voices of the boatmen should arouse her, or, in the dark, that any of the men should step upon her. she awoke in a surprise at some little bustle in the boat, and asked hastily "what was the matter?" what must have been her emotions at that moment! the next day, sunday, was one of anxiety. the boatmen had lost their track, and had no compass; the wind had changed, it was then calm. they made, however, towards waternish, in the west of skye; but they found the place possessed by militia, and three boats were visible near the shore. a man on board one of the boats fired at them; on which they made away as fast as they could; for, in addition to that danger, several ships of war were now in sight. the prince and his friends took shelter, therefore, in a cleft of a rock on the shore, and there remained to rest the men, who had been up all night, and to prepare their provisions for dinner. the party then resumed their voyage: fortunately it was calm, for otherwise, in any distress of weather, they must have been overtaken and have perished, for an alarm had already been given of the appearance of a strange boat, and the militia were upon the watch; the promised reward set upon charles having excited all the vigilance of his enemies. at length, after rowing some time, they landed at kilbride in troternish, in skye, about twelve miles to the north of waternish. but several parties of militia were in the neighbourhood. flora now quitted the boat, and went with neil mac kechan to mugstat, the residence of sir alexander macdonald: here she desired one of the servants to apprise lady macdonald of her arrival. the lady was not unprepared to receive her, for a kinswoman had gone a short time before to tell her of the enterprise in which flora had engaged. lady margaret was well disposed to give the cause every assistance in her power. she was the daughter of the celebrated susanna, countess of eglintoune, and of alexander, ninth earl of eglintoune, who was supposed, while ostensibly supporting the family on the throne, to be a secret friend of the stuarts.[ ] lady margaret was one of seven sisters, famed for their loveliness, and for the "eglintoune air," a term applied to that family as a tribute to the lofty grace of their deportment. "it was a goodly sight," observes mr. chambers, "a century ago, to see the long processions of sedans containing lady eglintoune and her daughters devolve from the close,[ ] and proceed to the assembly rooms in the west bow, where there was usually a considerable crowd of plebeian admirers congregated, to behold their lofty and graceful figures step from the chairs on the pavement." lady margaret was greatly beloved in skye. when she rode through the island, the people ran before her, and took the stones off the road, lest her horse should stumble. her husband was also very popular. such was the hospitality of mugstat, that every week a hogshead of claret was drunk at his table.[ ] lady margaret had now been married six years to sir alexander macdonald of macdonald. she was the mother of three sons, two of whom were eminently distinguished. the first, sir james macdonald, was a young man of singular accomplishments, and the friend of lord lyttleton; he was endowed "with great talents for business, great propriety of behaviour, great politeness of manners." to these acquirements he added those amiable qualities, which, united to great erudition, procured him the title of the "marcellus of the western isles." his early death was regarded as a general calamity; his tomb was honoured by an inscription composed by lyttleton. when dr. johnson visited the isle of skye, this young man, who died at rome in the twenty-fifth year of his age, was still mentioned with tears. his brother, sir alexander, the english-bred chieftain, but ill-supplied his loss. he was no highlander. "were i in your place, sir," said johnson to the young chieftain, "in seven years i would make this an independent island. i would roast oxen whole, and hang out a flag as a signal to the macdonalds to come and get beef and whiskey." sir alexander, of whom johnson had heard heavy complaints of rents racked, and the islanders driven to emigration, bore with politeness the rough assaults of the doctor: he nevertheless started difficulties. "nay, sir," rejoined johnson, "if you are born to object, i have done with you, sir. i would have a magazine of arms." "they would rust," was the meek reply. "let there be men to clean them," cried the doctor, "your ancestors did not use to let their arms rust!" such was lady margaret's second son. the third, and youngest son of lady margaret, revived, however, all the fondly remembered virtues of sir james. some persons may still recall the benignant appearance of the late venerable sir archibald macdonald, lord chief baron of the court of exchequer in england: there are many who must recollect his virtues and acquirements with respect. the character of lady margaret was not that of her second son; but of a spirited generous woman. she was not one who would allow the arms of her ancestors "to rust." before the prince's arrival, her energies had been employed in contriving the fittest route for him to take after leaving mugstat, for she was as enthusiastic an adherent of charles edward as any of her female relations. whilst he was in north uist, he had sent lady margaret a letter, enclosed, by hugh macdonald of balishair, to his brother donald roy macdonald, with orders to deliver it to lady margaret alone; and, in case of attack while at sea, to sink it, by tying it to a stone. this letter revealed the secret of the prince's intention to quit the long island: it informed lady margaret that charles wanted almost all necessary habiliments; and desired that some shirts and blankets might be provided for him; the prince having hitherto slept only in his plaid, a custom which he retained almost constantly during his wanderings. balishair's letter had also unfolded a plan at that time in contemplation, that charles should take refuge on the small grass-island called fladdanuach, belonging to sir alexander macdonald, and having only one tenant upon it. thither lady margaret was to send donald roy macdonald with the articles to be in readiness for the prince. lady margaret had instantly complied with these injunctions. eventually the notion of making fladdanuach the retreat of charles was given up; but the zealous lady margaret had made the most careful preparations for that scheme, and it was not from any negligence on her part that it was abandoned. the packet sent by balishair contained, however, another valuable paper. this was a letter written in prince charles's own hand, chiefly one of compliment, and full of gratitude to lady margaret for sending him newspapers, which had been delivered to him through macdonald of balishair. this precious letter had, some time before flora had arrived at mugstat, been delivered to lady margaret. when she received it, she rose from her seat, and kissing it said, alluding to a precaution which had been recommended, "i will never burn it; i will preserve it for the sake of him who wrote it to me. although king george's forces should come to the house, i shall find means to secure it." afterwards, however, her house being searched by the dreaded fergusson, she considered it necessary for charles's safety to burn it; although, as it proved, there was no search whatsoever for papers. lady margaret had been aided in her efforts and plans by a zealous kinsman, captain roy macdonald, who had been wounded at the battle of culloden. this person was still under medical care, and was living in the house of a surgeon named maclean, at troternish. when charles landed at skye, roy macdonald, wounded as he was, had sailed to fladdanuach, at lady margaret's bidding, with clothes and money, and had returned just in time to witness her perplexity at the prince's unexpected arrival. upon that event being made known by flora macdonald to lady margaret, she sent a message to captain roy macdonald, entreating him to come to her immediately. he complied, and found lady margaret walking in the garden of mugstat, talking very earnestly to alexander macdonald of kingsburgh, a gentleman of the neighbourhood, who acted as factor, or chamberlain, to sir alexander. as roy macdonald approached, lady margaret exclaimed, holding up her hands, "oh, donald roy, we are ruined for ever!" it was then imparted to him that the prince was within a quarter of a mile from mugstat, in woman's clothes; that lieutenant macleod, who was employed to guard that part of skye, and three or four of his militia-men, were about the house; a number of others being not far distant: what was still more alarming, flora macdonald and the lieutenant were at that time conversing together in the dining-room. a consultation immediately ensued as to the plan the most proper to ensure charles edward's safety. donald roy macdonald declared, that, whatever they should agree upon, "he would undertake (god willing) to accomplish at the risk of his life." kingsburgh was first called upon to give his opinion. he proposed that the prince should sail by the point of troternish to raasay, because it would be impossible for him to remain in skye with safety. this plan was, however, opposed by lady margaret, who said, that, if the prince was to sail for raasay, it were better that he should remain at mugstat all night. in short, no scheme appeared practicable; and the consultation was frequently broken off in despair, and renewed only to start fresh difficulties. at last donald roy said, "what do you think, kingsburgh, if the prince should run the risk of making his way over to portree by land?" kingsburgh, notwithstanding that he was full of apprehension, thought that the plan might be tried, although the distance from mugstat to portree was fourteen long highland miles. at first it was decided that donald roy should be the bearer of this scheme to the prince; but it was afterwards argued, that, since the prince must make "a monstrous figure" in woman's clothes, there might be some suspicion excited by donald roy's talking to so singular a stranger. it was therefore determined that no one except flora macdonald should be entrusted with the perilous task of taking messages to charles at his station on the shore. lady margaret in the course of this conversation expressed "that she was in great difficulties." it was impossible that she could apply to any of the clan for assistance. the general belief was, that sir alexander macdonald was unfriendly to the prince, and that no greater favour could be shown by the chief than seizing the royal fugitive. this increased the danger of charles's remaining in skye, and threw her entirely upon the good offices of kingsburgh and roy donald. during this conference flora macdonald was keeping up what she afterwards described to bishop forbes as "a close chit-chat" with lieutenant macleod, who put to her questions which she answered as "she thought fit." lady margaret, meantime, could not forbear going in and out in great anxiety; a circumstance which flora observed, and which could not but add to her embarrassment; nevertheless, this extraordinary young woman maintained the utmost composure. she even dined in company with the lieutenant without betraying her perplexity in a single instance: never was the value of that admirable quality, presence of mind, more forcibly seen than in this instance. it had been the office of the lieutenant to examine every boat that had landed, and to investigate into the motives and destination of every passenger. how the boat which had conveyed the prince to skye escaped search has not been explained. at all events, flora completely baffled every inquiry; and perhaps no one could do so better than a scottish woman. the ordinary caution in reply, observable in highland females, is very striking. the prince was awaiting his fate all this time upon the rock at the shore, not above a gun-shot from the foot of the garden. the faithful and anxious servant mac kechan went to him repeatedly, but without molestation; and macdonald of kingsburgh, who could not controul his anxiety to see charles edward, providing himself with a bottle of wine and some bread, also repaired to him. the prince was then sitting upon the shore, having startled a flock of sheep, the running of which first attracted kingsburgh to the place where he was planted. charles had removed to a more distant spot than that which he had at first selected, for he had been apprised by neil mac kechan of kingsburgh's intended visit, and conducted by that faithful servant to the back of a certain hill, where he was requested to wait until kingsburgh should reach him. it was also announced to charles by neil, that he was to go to portree, resting by the way at the house of kingsburgh, who was a staunch jacobite. when kingsburgh drew near to the place where charles awaited him, he saw the prince approaching him with a short thick cudgel (not a very feminine appendage) in his hand. "are you," cried charles, "mr. macdonald of kingsburgh?" "yes, sir," replied kingsburgh. "then," said charles, "all is well; come let us be going." macdonald, however, first begged the prince to partake of some refreshment, which he did; the top of a rock serving for a table. this being done, they proceeded on their journey; kingsburgh telling his fellow-traveller with no less admiration than joy, "that he could recollect no cause either of business or duty for his being at mugstat that day." "i'll tell you the cause," said the prince; "providence sent you hither to take care of me." they were now interrupted by some country-people coming from the kirk. these sociable rustics were disposed to favour the prince and his companion with their conversation. kingsburgh could think of no other way of getting rid of them than saying, "eh, sirs! cannot ye let alone talking o' your worldly affairs on the sabbath? and have patience till another day?" the poor people took the pious hint and moved off.[ ] for some time after the prince had set out, flora remained at mugstat, where lady margaret, who could only speak to her in presence of the officer, pressed her much to stay, and feigned a great anxiety to retain her for a few days, telling her that she had promised to do so the first time that she came that way. but flora excused herself, saying that she wanted to be at home in these troublesome times, and also to see her mother. she was at length suffered to depart, accompanied by mrs. macdonald of kirkibost, the lady who had apprised lady margaret of her visit, but who was not in the secret of the prince's disguise. this lady's maid and man servant, and mac kechan completed the party. lady margaret during the whole of this agitating affair never saw the prince "in any shape."[ ] flora and her companions soon overtook the prince and kingsburgh. they found the curiosity of her companion somewhat inconvenient, for mrs. macdonald was very anxious to see the "strange woman's" face; but it was always turned away from her inquisitive gaze. yet mrs. macdonald made her observations nevertheless. "she never," she said, "had seen before such an impudent-looking woman--and she must either be an irish woman, or a man in woman's clothes!" flora, who had the happy and rare art of not saying too much, replied that "she was an irishwoman, for she had seen her before." the maid who attended mrs. macdonald took notice of the supposed irish woman's awkward way of managing her petticoats, and remarked what long strides she took in walking. in particular, in wading a rivulet, the prince lifted up his troublesome garments so high, that mac kechan called out to him "for god's sake to take care, or he would discover himself." charles laughed heartily, and thanked him for his cautions: he much feared that they would be neglected. flora began to be apprehensive of the loquacious and observant mistress and maid. she, as well as mrs. macdonald, was now on horseback, and she proposed that the ladies should go on a little faster, and leave those on foot to take their time. there was another object in this arrangement: the country was traversed by parties of militia, and it was necessary for the prince and kingsburgh to diverge by a cross-road over the hills to the place of their destination. they went therefore by by-paths, south-south-east, to kingsburgh's house, which they reached at midnight; flora having arrived there a short time before. she had parted with her other companions on the road. during this journey of seven long miles, which were performed in a drenching rain, there was no slight risk, owing to the very singular demeanour of the prince, and to the awkwardness with which he performed his part. betty burke was regarded by the gazing passers-by as a very strange woman. when the country-people greeted him with an obeisance, he returned it with a bow instead of a curtsey; and in all his gestures he forgot the woman, and retained the man. after the remonstrance upon holding his skirts too high, he let them fall down into the streams which often intersected his path. "your enemies, sir," remarked kingsburgh, "call you a pretender, but you are the worst at your trade that i ever saw." "why," replied charles laughing, "they do me perhaps as much injustice in this as in other respects. i have all my life despised assumed characters, and am the worst dissembler in the world." lady kingsburgh, not expecting her husband that night, had retired to rest; and her house was not at this time in the best possible condition for receiving visitors. kingsburgh, however, introduced charles into the hall, and sent a servant up-stairs to desire lady kingsburgh to rise and dress herself. but the lady was not disposed to comply with her husband's commands that night. she sent a message to beg that he and his guests would help themselves to whatsoever they found in the house, and excuse her absence. as soon as she had despatched this answer, her daughter, a child of seven years of age, ran into the room, and told her, with much astonishment, that her father had brought home the most odd "_ill-shaken-up wife_" that she had ever seen, and had conducted her into the hall. kingsburgh now made his appearance, and entreated his wife to come down-stairs, her presence being absolutely requisite.[ ] lady kingsburgh was now really aroused. she could not help suspecting that her husband had taken into his house some of those proscribed and wretched fugitives who were skulking about the country. she could well imagine the distress of many of the jacobites, for a paper had been, for some weeks, read in the kirks, forbidding all persons to give any sort of sustenance to a rebel, under pain of being deprived of it themselves.[ ] she now dressed herself, sending her little girl into the hall to fetch her keys. the child went down-stairs, but returned, saying that she could not go into the hall, the "strange woman" was walking backwards and forwards in so frightful a manner. lady kingsburgh therefore went herself, but stopped short at the door on seeing the stranger, whose aspect seems to have been unusually gaunt and unwomanly. her husband, however, bade her go in for her keys, and at last she found courage to enter. as she walked into the hall, charles arose from his seat and advanced to meet her. according to the custom of the day, which applied both to ladies and gentlemen, he offered her the compliment of a salute. lady kingsburgh felt the roughness of no woman's cheek against her own. alarmed at the discovery, she nearly fainted; she spoke not, neither did the stranger. she went hastily towards kingsburgh, and told him her suspicions. no reproaches were uttered on her part for the introduction, which had evidently some risk connected with it; she merely asked, "does this strange woman know anything about the prince?" her husband, taking her hand, replied, "my dear, this is the prince himself." "the prince!" returned lady kingsburgh; "then we shall all be hanged!" "we can die but once," answered kingsburgh; "could we die in a better cause? we are only doing an act of humanity." he then desired her to send in supper. "let us have eggs, butter, cheese, or whatever can be procured in the shortest time." the lady remonstrated. "eggs, butter, and cheese for a prince!" "he will never look at such a supper." "ah, my dear," returned kingsburgh, "you little know how this poor prince has fared of late. our supper will be a banquet to him. besides, any formal preparation would excite suspicion. make haste, and come to supper yourself." lady kingsburgh had now a new source of alarm. "_i_ come to supper!" she cried; "i do not know how to behave before a prince." she was reassured by her husband, who told her that there was no difficulty in behaving before _this_ prince, who was so easy and obliging. the party, who had undergone such a day's journey, sat up nearly till dawn, and became merry over their supper. never was there a more joyous or inspiring guest at a feast than the unfortunate charles. he was now in the house of a trusted adherent; and his spirits, which had been unaltered even in huts and caverns, gladdened all present. his favourite toast, was "to the black eye!" by which, as his pilot to the long island, donald macleod, relates, he meant the second daughter of france; "and i never heard him," said donald, "name any particular health but that alone. when he spoke of that lady, which he did frequently, he appeared to be more than ordinarily well-pleased."[ ] the prince ate heartily, and drank a bumper of brandy to the health of his host and hostess. when the ladies had retired, he took out a little black piece of tobacco-pipe which had been his consolation in all his wanderings, and began to smoke. like most persons who have recourse to a similar practice, prince charles framed an excuse for it on the plea of health, telling kingsburgh, that he had found it essential, in order to cure the tooth-ache, from which he had suffered much. his pipe had obtained the name, among his companions, of the "_cutty_". a small china punch-bowl was then produced by the host, and was twice replenished with the very popular beverage called toddy, of which the prince expressed his unqualified approbation. conversation, thus aided and exhilarated, flowed freely; and the charm of charles's gay courtesy was long remembered by his highland landlord, who thus, at the risk of all that was dear to him, welcomed the unfortunate wanderer to his home. morning dawned before either the prince or kingsburgh talked of retiring. at last kingsburgh became anxious. he knew that it was necessary for charles to proceed to portree early the next day; and he earnestly desired that the prince should have some rest. he refused to fill the bowl again, and began to urge his highness to retire. charles eagerly pressed for another supply of usquebaugh and warm water. in the contention, the bowl, which kingsburgh had brought from mugstat for the prince to drink the wine out of on the shore, was broken. this ended the altercation, and charles retired to rest. the next day was far advanced before the prince, after his conviviality of the preceding evening, was aroused; and the watchful flora in vain sent kingsburgh into his chamber to persuade him to rise. kingsburgh had not the heart to awaken the fugitive from a repose which he so rarely enjoyed, and, on finding him in a profound sleep, retired. at last, one o'clock had struck, and the prince was summoned to begin another journey. kingsburgh, inquiring if he had had a good night, was answered that he had never enjoyed a better one in his life. "i had almost forgotten," said charles, "what a good bed was." he then prepared to set out. he was first to go to portree; his destination being, ultimately, the island of raasay. the choice of this place as a retreat originated in the ancient league which subsisted between the families of macdonald and of raasay. whenever the head of either family died, his sword was given to the head of the other. the chief of raasay had joined the highland army, but had saved his estate by conveying it to his son, young macleod. sir alexander macdonald, on that occasion, had thus addressed his neighbour and ally: "don't be afraid, raasay; i'll use my interest to keep you safe; and, if your estate should be taken, i'll buy it for the family. and he would have done it."[ ] on quitting kingsburgh, the prince was determined to cast off his disguise. kingsburgh was favourable to the change, but flora would not consent to it: it was necessary, she thought, that the wanderer should leave the house in the same dress as he had entered it; so that, if inquiry were made, the servants would not be able to describe his appearance. he, therefore, once more figured in the habiliments of betty burke; and the only change, which was at the suggestion of kingsburgh, was in the article of shoes; those in which he had walked being now worn out; a new pair was therefore supplied by kingsburgh. when the exchange was made, kingsburgh hung up the old shoes in a corner of his room, observing, that they might still do him some service. charles inquired, "how?" "why," replied kingsburgh, "when you are at st. james's, i shall hold up these shoes before you, and thus remind you of your night's entertainment and protection under my roof." charles, with a smile, desired him to be as "good as his word." these precious deposits, never being required to appear at st. james's, were, after old kingsburgh's death, cut into pieces, and kept as relics by the jacobite ladies, and even by the grave but enthusiastic bishop forbes.[ ] it had been decided that flora macdonald should proceed on horseback to portree by a different road, and should meet the prince there. she therefore took a temporary leave of charles; and kingsburgh accompanied him to a wood not far from his house. when the prince had departed, lady kingsburgh went up-stairs, and folded up the sheets in which he had slept, declaring that they should never be washed nor used till her death, when they should be made into her winding-sheet. she was afterwards induced to divide this valuable memorial with flora macdonald. mac kechan, and a little herd-boy by way of a guide, alone accompanied the prince, as he set out upon a laborious walk of fourteen miles towards portree. it would have excited much suspicion, had any more important persons attended him. at an appointed place charles threw off his female attire, and again "grasped the claymore." his clothes were concealed in a bush until they could be carried to kingsburgh's house, where they were burnt upon the alarm of a search on the part of the military. the gown only was retained, by the express desire of kingsburgh's daughter.[ ] the prince now once more wore the highland dress, which had been furnished him by kingsburgh. meantime, captain roy macdonald had gone to seek the young macleod of raasay, or, as he was called, rona, whose very brother-in-law, archibald macqueen, was then in search for the prince in south uist. young macleod, though at first indisposed to confide the place where his father had taken refuge to roy macdonald, ended eventually by expressing, both on his own part and on that of his father, the strongest desire to serve the prince, especially in his distress. "then," said roy macdonald, "i expect the prince this night at portree; and as there is no boat on this side fit to carry him over to raasay, you must do your best, rona, to get one for the purpose to ferry the prince over to raasay, for thither he means to set out from portree." rona undertook this service, but was unwilling to leave portree until he should see the prince; for he had not been "out" in the last campaign. but, being repeatedly urged by roy macdonald, he at last embarked in a crazy old boat which filled perpetually with water, and could only with assistance be made to convey passengers from portree to raasay, a distance nearly of five miles. before young raasay embarked, roy macdonald had received a note from kingsburgh, importing that flora macdonald was so fatigued that she could not go to portree so soon as she had intended; and ordering the captain to provide a boat to ferry her about to strath, because it would be easier to her "to make it out" by sea than overland. captain roy macdonald took the hint, and judged exactly for whom the boat thus carefully alluded to was to be provided. on monday the thirtieth of june, young raasay, and his brothers murdoch macleod and malcolm macleod, arrived after a short, but perilous voyage within a mile of portree. malcolm went to the shore, leaving rona in the boat. as he walked from the beach, he saw three persons approaching. it is said, that at raasay nine months of the year are rainy. this june evening was one of the rainy periods; and malcolm macleod could not, through the darkness, discover who these three persons were. the place of meeting agreed upon was a small public-house near the shore, about half a mile from the port of portree; to this house malcolm macleod sent to captain roy macdonald, desiring him to come out and speak to a friend. roy macdonald complied with the summons, taking with him a half mutchkin stoup full of whiskey. macleod then informed him that rona and his brother murdoch were on the shore with a boat, which, with much difficulty and danger they had brought from raasay to convey the prince to that island; he begged that they would not delay, as it was raining very heavily. donald roy macdonald then told malcolm that the three persons whom he had seen going towards the public-house were the prince, mac kechan, and the herd-boy. of their approach he had been apprized by the energetic flora, who had arrived at portree some hours previously. donald roy macdonald, who is described as being the model of "a perfect highland gentleman," shared the enthusiasm of flora. although still lame from the wound in his foot, he had, during the course of that evening, looked out incessantly for the prince, but was unable to see him. he had not, however, been long in the public-house, before the voice of the herd-boy calling for the landlord, and desiring to know if one donald roy macdonald were there, drew his attention. he stepped out, and was told by the boy that there was a gentleman, a little above the house, who desired to speak to him. the captain sent the boy away, and immediately went to the spot where the prince stood. charles embraced him, putting his head first over one shoulder, and then over the other; and telling donald to use no ceremony, for that it was impossible to know who might be observing them. when donald expressed his regret at the darkness of the night, charles said, "i am more sorry that _our lady_" (so he called flora macdonald) "should be so abused with the rain." after they entered the house, a curious scene took place. "the prince," relates donald roy,[ ] "no sooner entered the house than he asked if a dram could be got there, the rain pouring down from his clothes; he having on plaid, without breeches, trews, or even philibeg. before he sat down, he got his dram; and then the company desired him to shift, and put on a dry shirt, captain roy macdonald giving him his philibeg. the prince refused to shift, as miss flora macdonald was in the room; but the captain and neil mac kechan told him, it was not time to stand upon ceremonies, and prevailed upon him to put on a dry shirt. by this time they had brought some meat into the room, (the prince having called for it before he would think of shifting,) which consisted of butter, cheese, bread, and roasted fish." the prince was so hungry and exhausted, after a walk from kingsburgh to portree, "seven good highland miles," that he began to eat before he put on his coat. the supply of food which he had brought with him consisted of a cold hen, a bottle of brandy, and a lump of sugar in one of his pockets: these, with the addition of a bottle of whiskey procured at portree, constituted his store of provisions until he reached raasay. on seeing the prince eat heartily, whilst only in his shirt and philibeg, captain donald macdonald could not forbear smiling. "sir," he observed, "i believe that is the english fashion," "what fashion do you mean?" asked the prince. "they say," replied donald, "that the english, when they eat heartily, throw off their clothes." "they are right," answered charles, "lest anything should incommode their hands when they are at work." the prince then asked, if any drink could be had. he was told that he could have nothing but whiskey or water, for no such thing as beer or ale was to be had in the isle of skye. then charles asked if he could have some milk, but was informed that there was none in the house. the only beverage which seemed attainable was water, of which there was a supply in what captain donald macdonald called an "ugly cog," which the landlord of the house used for throwing water out of his boat. this vessel though coarse, was clean. "the captain," relates donald roy, "had been taking a drink out of the cog, and he reached it to the prince,[ ] who took it out of his hand, and, after looking at the cog, he stared the captain in the face, who upon this made up to him (the landlord being in the room), and whispered him softly in the ear to drink out of it without any ceremony; for though the cog looked ill, yet it was clean; and, if he should show any nicety, it might raise a suspicion about him in the landlord's mind. the prince said, 'you are right,' and took a hearty draught of water out of the rough cog, and then he put on his coat." during all this scene, captain roy macdonald could scarcely disguise his anxiety that the prince should leave portree. but charles was reluctant to relinquish shelter and society; the rain was still heavily pouring down, and the night on which the unfortunate wanderer was again to trust his fate to strangers was very dark. in vain, therefore, did macdonald, when the landlord had left the room, represent to charles, that this, being a public-house, was frequented by all "sorts of folks," and that some curiosity would be excited by his appearance. there was, indeed, no rest for the proscribed fugitive. charles then asked for tobacco, that he might smoke a pipe "before he went off." macdonald answered, that there was no tobacco, except that which was very coarse; only "roll tobacco." but charles persisted in having it, saying "that it would serve his horn very well." the landlord therefore was ordered to bring in a quarter of a pound, which he did in scales, at four-pence halfpenny. the prince gave a sixpence, but the landlord was desired by captain macdonald to bring in the change. charles smiled at donald roy's exactness, and said he would not be at the trouble to pick up the halfpence; but donald roy persuaded him to do so, saying, that in his highness's present situation he would find "bawbees very useful to him." a bottle of whiskey having been dispatched between the prince, donald roy macdonald, and neil mac kechan, and the pipe being finished, charles reluctantly began to talk of his departure. he had learned to rely upon the fidelity of the brave clan, one young and gentle daughter of which had protected him from south uist, and brought him through a country swarming with militia to portree. he was unwilling to be separated from donald roy, and entreated him in a low voice to accompany him. but donald begged him to remember that it was not in his power to be useful to him, considering the open wound in his left foot; that he should only prove a burden to him, for it would be out of his power to skulk from place to place; and indeed it would be necessary for him to ride on horseback, so that any of the parties of militia who were ranging about would be sure to descry him at a distance, and that would be ruin to the chance of escape. charles then said, that "he had always found himself safe in the hands of a macdonald, and that, as long as he could have a macdonald with him, he still should think himself safe." again and again he urged this point. it was affecting to see how confidingly this ill-fated young man, noble in his nature, leaned upon those whom he had learned to trust. it is melancholy to reflect that a temper so kindly should ever have been worked up, and irritated almost to madness, by those intrigues and misrepresentations which eventually, combining with the wreck of his other moral qualities, alienated him from all who really loved him. "the prince," as donald relates, "could not think of parting with him at all." this was the first time that charles had entrusted himself, without a single familiar friend or attendant, to strangers. "are you," he said, again addressing donald, "afraid to go with me? so long as _i_ have, you shall not want." again captain macdonald referred to his crippled foot: "he behoved to see," he said, "that his going would only expose the prince to new dangers, of which he had already too many to contend with." in the course of the conversation he took occasion to tell the prince, since he had honoured the macdonalds with his regard, that, although sir alexander macdonald and his followers did not join his standard, they wished him well. "i am sensible enough of all that," was the reply of charles. donald also inquired whether the prince was well provided with money; as in case of need, lady margaret macdonald would supply his wants. but charles, after expressing his gratitude to lady margaret, declined her aid, as he believed that he had sufficient to carry him to the mainland. this painful and memorable scene came at last to a conclusion. after being repeatedly urged by donald to depart, charles bade mac kechan farewell. he then turned to flora macdonald: "i believe, madam," he said, "that i owe you a crown of borrowed money." she answered, in her literal and simple manner, "it was only half-a-crown." this sum the prince paid her. he then saluted her, and said: "notwithstanding all that has happened, i hope, madam, we shall meet in st. james's yet." in this calm, and, apparently laconic manner, he bade flora adieu. but, though fate did not permit charles to testify his gratitude at st. james's, he is said never to have mentioned without a deep sense of his obligations the name of his young protectress. in her loyal and simple heart a sense of duty, enthusiastic reverence, and fond regret dwelt, whilst that heart continued to beat; and, through the vicissitudes of her after-life, the service which she had rendered to the prince recurred like a ray of sunshine upon a destiny almost continually clouded and darkened by calamity. flora was left alone at portree, attended still by mac kechan, who afterwards escaped, rejoined the prince, and went to france with him. mac kechan was a man of good education, and was conjectured by bishop forbes to have been the author of the "alexis, or the young adventurer," a romance embodying the principal incidents of charles edward's life; but of this there is no proof. meanwhile the prince proceeded to the shore. he tied the bottle of whiskey, bought of the landlord, to his belt on one side, and the brandy, the cold hen, and the four shirts on the other. as he went, he saw the landlord of the public-house looking out of a window after him; on which he changed his road. he met young raasay and his brothers at the appointed place; and it was there agreed, that in a few days donald macdonald should follow the prince to raasay. at his departure the prince took out the lump of sugar from his pocket, and said, "pray give this to _our lady_, for i fear she will get no sugar where she is going." the captain refused however to accept of that which seems to have been considered as a great delicacy. charles then enjoined captain macdonald to secrecy as to his destination. "tell nobody--no, not _our lady_--where i am going; for it is right that my course should not be known."[ ] they then parted; and at daybreak, july the first, , charles sailed for raasay. captain macdonald then returned to portree, where he slept a great portion of the next day. here he was closely questioned by the landlord, who said, that he had a great notion that the gentleman who had supped at his house was the prince, for he had something noble about him. probably the imprudent liberality of charles, and his carelessness about money, may have added to the impression which his lofty air and fascinating manners generally produced. on the fourth of july, charles, after various adventures in the island of raasay, escaped to the mountains. this event was announced by a letter sent mysteriously by murdoch macleod to roy macdonald, and delivered to him in the darkness of night. it had neither address on it, nor place, nor date; but was written by charles. "sir, "i have parted as i intended. make my compliments to all to whom i have given trouble. i am, sir, your humble servant, "james hermion." this letter was burned by roy macdonald, though with great reluctance, on the day when he subsequently learned that flora macdonald had been made a prisoner. flora, after parting from the prince, went to armadale to her mother, after a very fatiguing journey across the country. her emotions on separating from charles have been expressed in a poem entitled "the lament of flora macdonald," beginning thus: "far o'er the hills of the heather so green, and down by the corrie that skips in the sea, the bonny young flora sat weeping her love-- the dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e. she looked at a boat with the breezes that swung, and ay as it lessened she sighed and she sung, 'farewell to the lad i shall ne'er see again! farewell to my hero, the gallant and young! farewell to the lad i shall ne'er see again,'"[ ] during eight or ten days flora remained in her house at armadale without imparting to any one, even to her mother, the events of the last week. to make her mother a participator in that affair would indeed have been no act of kindness, at a time when the merest suspicion of being a jacobite was regarded as a crime. at the expiration of ten days flora received a message from a person of her own name, donald macdonald of castletown, in skye, about four miles from armadale, to bid her come to his house in order to meet there the commanding officer of an independent company, one macleod of taliskar, who had ordered macdonald to surrender. flora, a little suspicious of what might happen, thought proper to consult with her friends as to what step she should take. they unanimously agreed that she ought not to go; but "go she would." then they consulted together what she should say in case of an investigation. but flora had made up her mind as to the answers she should give. she set out to meet her fate. she probably expected that she should be released after a short examination; for she knew not then through what channel the part which she had taken in the prince's escape had transpired. the fact was, that the boatmen who had brought her with charles from skye had on their return communicated to captain fergusson every particular of the prince's appearance, and had even described the gown which he had worn. flora afterwards remembered, that at mugstat lady margaret had warned her that this would be the case, and had pointed out to her the indiscretion of allowing these men to go back to north uist. as she went on the road to castleton, flora met her father-in-law, macdonald of armadale, who was returning home; and shortly afterwards she was apprehended by captain macleod of taliskar, with a party of soldiers, who were going to seek for her at her mother's house. she was not suffered to take leave of her mother, nor of her other friends; but was carried on board the furnace, a sloop of war, commanded by captain john fergusson, and which lay near raasay. happily for flora, general campbell was on board, and by his orders she was treated with the utmost respect. at her first examination she merely acknowledged, that, on leaving uist, she had been solicited by "a great lusty woman" to give her a passage, as she was a soldier's wife. her request, flora said, was granted; and the woman, upon being landed in skye, had walked away, and flora had seen nothing more of the stranger. but upon finding that she was mildly treated, and on hearing that the boatmen had related every circumstance of her voyage, she confessed the whole truth to general campbell. the vessel was bound for leith. about three weeks after she had been apprehended, as the ship cruized about, it approached the shore of armadale. here flora was permitted to land, in order to bid adieu to her parents. she was sent ashore under a guard of two officers and a party of soldiers, and was forbidden to say anything in erse, or anything at all except in presence of the officers. here she stayed two hours, and then returned to the ship. with what emotions she left the island of skye and found herself carried as a prisoner to leith, it is not perhaps in these tranquil days easy to conceive. after her apprehension, her father-in-law, armadale, to use the phrase of some of the unfortunate jacobites, "began a-skulking;" a report having gone about that he had given a pass to his daughter, although aware that she was travelling with "the pretender" disguised in woman's clothes. there was also another source of suspicion against him, which was his having the prince's pistols in his keeping. these were given him by macdonald of milton, the brother of flora; they had been received either from charles himself, or from o'sullivan or o'neil; but still they furnished a proof of some communication between charles edward and armadale. another sufferer was donald roy macdonald. among not the least energetic of those who aided the escape of charles edward from the long island, was donald roy macdonald. a model of the true highland gentleman in deportment, handsome in person, his conduct fully bore out his character. to this warm-hearted disinterested young man the prince quickly attached himself. crippled as he was, he was obliged also to "go a-skulking." he concealed himself in three different caves, where by turns he made his abode for eight weeks, wrapping himself up in his plaid, and making his bed of the heather; his subsistence he owed to the care of lady margaret macdonald, who brought him food, though at the risk of her own safety. it is consolatory to find heroic friendship, or compassionate interest, enlivening the melancholy annals of civil contentions, of revenge and treachery. the sufferings of captain macdonald during his concealment, although alleviated by lady margaret's care, were nevertheless considerable. during the months of july and august, which he passed in the caves, the midges and flies annoyed his frame, sensitive from the still open wound, and drove him for coolness into the recesses of the caverns. it was necessary to be very careful in stepping out, lest the country-people should discover his retreat. late at night, or very early in the morning, he crept out to supply his bottle with water from some neighbouring _burn_ or rivulet. at last, the act of indemnity set him free. until the month of november , his wound, exasperated by constant exertion, was very troublesome. his misery was solaced by the care and skill of a friendly surgeon, who sent donald roy dressings by a proper hand, even while he remained in the cave, and at last the wound healed. in an account of the prince's escape, written by donald at the request of bishop forbes, he says, "he (donald roy) now walks as cleverly as ever, without any the smallest pain or halt; and made his last journey from skye to edinburgh in twelve days on foot, and, as he came along, visited several friends and acquaintances."[ ] one cannot help rejoicing that lady margaret macdonald escaped all inconvenience, except suspicion. the conduct of her husband, sir alexander, had been prudent. during the progress of the insurrection he had written to keppoch, after the retreat from stirling:--"seeing i look upon your affairs as in a desperate state, i will not join you: but then, i assure you, i will as little rise against you." of sir alexander's followers, a force amounting to five hundred men, only two had joined the prince; these were james macdonald of the isle of hisker,[ ] and captain donald roy macdonald.[ ] the estates of sir alexander, therefore, remained uninjured, and his family continued to enjoy them. the chief sufferers from the visit of prince charles to their house were macdonald of kingsburgh and his wife. upon hearing of the prince's escape, captain fergusson went first to mugstat; where gaining no intelligence, he proceeded to kingsburgh. he there examined every person with the utmost exactness, and inquired into every particular of the accommodation afforded to one whom he styled "the pretender." "whom you mean by _the pretender_, i do not pretend to guess!" was the reply of mrs. macdonald of kingsburgh. kingsburgh was made prisoner, and was sent to fort augustus on parole without any guard, by general campbell's order. but the clemency shown by campbell ceased when kingsburgh reached fort augustus. he was thrown into a dungeon, was plundered of everything, and loaded with irons. sir everard faulkner, who was employed to examine him, reminded him how fine an opportunity he had lost of "making himself and his family for ever." "had i gold and silver piled heap upon heap to the bulk of yon huge mountain," was the noble reply, "that mass could not afford me half the satisfaction i find in my own breast from doing what i have done!" whilst he was confined at fort augustus, an officer of distinction came to him, and asked him if he should know the prince's head if he saw it. "i should know the head very well if it were on the shoulders," was the answer. "but if it were not on the shoulders?" said the officer. "in that case i will not pretend to know anything about it," returned kingsburgh. his discrimination was not put to the test. kingsburgh was removed to edinburgh castle under a strong guard of kingston's light-horse. he was at first put into a room with several other gentlemen, but was afterwards removed into solitary confinement, and not allowed to speak to any one, except to the officer on guard, and the keeper, who acted as his servant. in this place he remained for a year, when by the act of grace he was set at liberty on the fourth of july ; "having thus," as an author has observed, "got a whole year's safe lodging for affording that of one night!"[ ] before her farewell to her friends in armadale, flora macdonald had exchanged the vessel which captain fergusson commanded, for one commanded by commodore smith, a gentleman capable of estimating her character. at armadale, she procured a change of clothes, and took as her personal attendant an honest girl, named kate macdonald, who could speak nothing but gaelic. this girl offered herself as a servant, finding that flora could get no one else to attend her in her calamity. among her companions in trouble, she found, on returning to the ship, captain o'neil, who had persuaded her to undertake the enterprise which had produced her present imprisonment. this gentleman had also, when he urged her good offices, proffered his hand in marriage, in order that her reputation might not suffer by her adventure by "flood and field." when flora saw him on board the vessel, she went up to him, and slapping him on the cheek, said, "to that black face i owe all my misfortune!" o'neil however answered, "that, instead of being her misfortune, it was her highest honour, and it would yet redound more to her credit, if she did not pretend to be ashamed of what she had done."[ ] she was confined for a short time in dunstaffnage castle. this now ruinous fortress, once a royal residence, is situated near the mouth of loch etive, a short distance from oban, in argyleshire; it stands upon a rocky promontory which juts out into the lake, which is one of the most secluded and solemn scenes that nature, in all the grandeur of those regions, presents.[ ] near the castle is a convenient building, which is now, as probably it was in , inhabited by the factors of the duke of argyle, who is the hereditary keeper of dunstaffnage castle, under the crown. it was probably in this house that flora was lodged. the castle is on three of its sides little else than a shell; but the fourth is in tolerable repair. the entrance to this sequestered and solemn abode is from the sea, by a staircase; probably in old times a drawbridge, which fell from a staircase. the ancient grandeur of dunstaffnage, long used as one of the earliest residences of the scottish kings; famed also as the place from which the stone of dunstaffnage, sometimes called the stone of scone, on which they were crowned, was brought; had long passed away before flora tenanted its chambers. but the associations which it presented were not likely to dim the ardour of her loyalty to the last of that race who had once held their sway over the proud castle of dunstaffnage; nor would the roofless chapel, of exquisite architectural beauty, near dunstaffnage, where many of the scottish kings repose, be an object devoid of deep and mournful interest to one who had lately beheld a singular instance of the mutability of all human grandeur. two letters, which show the mode of flora macdonald's introduction to the keeper of the castle, neil campbell, have been preserved.[ ] one of them is as follows: "horse-shoe bay, aug. . "dear sir, "i must desire the favour of you to forward my letters by an express to inverary; and, if any are left with you, let them be sent by the bearer. i shall stay here with commodore smith till sunday morning. if you can't come, i beg to know if you have any men now in garrison at your house, and how many? make my compliments to your lady, and tell her i am obliged to desire the favour of her for some days to receive a very pretty young rebel. her zeal, and the persuasion of those who ought to have given her better advice, has drawn her into a most unhappy scrape by assisting the young pretender to make his escape. i need say nothing further till we meet; only assure you that i am, dear sir, your sincere friend and humble servant, "john campbell." "i suppose you have heard of miss flora macdonald." early in september the ship arrived in leith roads, and remained there until november. by this time the fame of this obscure highland girl had reached the well-wishers to prince charles in edinburgh, and many crowded to see her. among these was the rev. robert forbes, who happened at that time to be episcopal minister of the port. at this period the episcopal church of scotland consisted of a few scattered congregations, under the spiritual guidance of a reduced number of titular bishops. the church was, however, deeply attached to the stuarts; and the pious and enthusiastic man who now visited flora in her adversity, was among the most zealous of the adherents to that ill-fated cause. he had himself known calamity, having been apprehended at st. ninian's in the preceding year, , and imprisoned until the following may. this circumstance, which had prevented him from taking any active part in the commotions, preserved mr. forbes in safety; and his exertions, which were directed to the purpose of collecting, from such of the insurgents as fell in his way, narratives of their several parts in the events of , have been very effective. through his efforts a valuable collection of authentic memoirs, from which extracts have been published within these last few years, have added a new light, and consequently a new charm, to the narrative of prince charles's adventures, and to the biography of his followers. mr. forbes, at the time when he visited flora, was residing in the house of lady bruce of kinross, within the walls of cromwell's citadel at leith. it was one part of mr. forbes's plan, in the pursuit of which he contemplated forming an accurate history of the whole insurrection, to visit the state prisoners as they were either carried to london, or passed on their return to the highlands. most of his collection was therefore formed at the close of the last campaign, when the recollections of the unfortunate actors in the affair were vivid and accurate. among other minor occupations was the acquisition of relics of charles edward, whom the worthy divine almost idolized. "perhaps," says mr. chambers,[ ] "the most curious and characteristic part of the work is a series of relics which are found attached to the inside of the boards of certain volumes. in one i find a slip of thick blue silk cloth, of a texture like sarcenet, beneath which is written, 'the above is a piece of the prince's garter.' below this is a small square piece of printed linen, the figures being in lilac on a white ground, with the following inscription: 'the above is a piece of the identical gown which the prince wore for five or six days, when he was obliged to disguise himself in a female dress, under the name of betty burke. a _swatch_ of the said gown was sent from mrs. macdonald of kingsburgh,' then follows a slip of tape, with the following note: 'the following is a piece of that identical apron-string which the prince wore about him when in a female dress. the above bit i received out of miss flora macdonald's own hands, upon thursday, november , .'" in , this reverend enthusiast was chosen by the presbyteries of caithness and orkney as their bishop, and was consecrated at cupar in fife in the same year. he was the last bishop whose charge was limited only to those two districts. mr. forbes was accompanied in his visits to flora macdonald, while at leith, by lady bruce, lady mary cochrane, mrs. clerk, and many other ladies; who made valuable presents of clothes to the heroine, and who listened to her narrative, as she delivered it to mr. forbes, with many expressions of sympathy and applause. when she related that part of her voyage from uist in which the prince watched over her whilst asleep, some of these fair jacobites cried out, "o, madam! what a happy creature you are, to have that dear prince to watch over you in your sleep." "i could," cried mrs. mary clerk, "wipe your shoes with pleasure, and think it my honour to do so, when i reflect that you had the prince for your handmaid!" perhaps not the worst gift sent to flora, during her stay at leith, was a thimble and needles, with white thread of different sorts, from lady bruce. this act of friendship flora felt as much as any that she received, for she had suffered as much from the state of idleness during her being in custody, as from any other privation.[ ] her time thus passed away almost cheerfully. her gentle, prudent, and placid deportment won upon the esteem of those who were least friendly to her opinions. the officers who were appointed to guard her, although they could not permit her to set her foot on shore, were pleased at the attention which she received from visitors. commodore smith behaved to her with fatherly regard. whilst she was in leith roads, in the eltham, he presented her with a handsome riding-suit, in plain mounting, and some fine linen for riding-shirts. he gave her advice how to act in her difficult and perilous situation, and even allowed the officers to go ashore to seek for good company for their prisoner; although persons who merely came from curiosity were denied access. captain knowles of the bridgewater, also in the leith roads, was most courteous and considerate to the amiable prisoner. when her friends visited her, she was allowed to ask for such refreshments for them as she thought proper; as if she had been at her own fireside. easy, modest, and winning, in the midst of all her anxiety for her friends, and in the uncertainty of her own fate, she was cheerful; yet a subdued and modest gravity gave an interest to her unpretending character. when solicited to join in the amusement of dancing, she refused, alleging that her "dancing-days were over; and that, at all events, she could not dance until she should be assured of the prince's safety, and until she had the happiness of seeing him again." at length, carrying with her the good wishes of all who had conversed with her, flora left the harbour of leith. after being conveyed from place to place, she was put on board the royal sovereign on the twenty-seventh of november, the vessel then lying at the nore, and conveyed to london. here she was kept a prisoner under circumstances of great mitigation, for she was lodged in a private house. in this situation she continued for a year; when the act of indemnity, passed in , set her at liberty. she was then discharged, without a single question being addressed to her on the subject of her conduct. after being released,--at the instigation, according to a tradition in her family, of frederic prince of wales,--she was domesticated in the family of the dowager lady primrose, an ardent jacobite, who afterwards, in , was courageous enough to receive the young chevalier during a visit of five days, which were employed by charles in the vain endeavour to form another scheme of invasion. the abode of lady primrose was the resort of the fashionable world; and crowds of the higher classes hastened to pay their tribute to the heroine of the day. it may be readily conjectured, how singular an impression the quiet, simple manners of flora must have made upon the excited minds of those who looked, perhaps, for high pretensions,--for the presence of an amazon, and the expressions of an heroine of romance. the compliments which were offered to flora, excited in her mind nothing but the most unequivocal surprise that so simple an act should produce so extraordinary a sensation. she is stated to have been presented to frederic prince of wales, and to have received from him the highest compliment to her fidelity and heroism. when, in explanation of her conduct, flora macdonald said that she would perform the same act of humanity to any person who might be similarly situated, the prince remarked, "you would, i hope, madam, do the same, were the same event to happen over again." the grace and courtesy of this speech may partly be attributed to the amiable traits which profligate habits had not wholly obliterated in the prince; partly to his avowed opposition to his royal father, and the bad terms on which he stood with his brother. it must still be acknowledged, that frederic displayed no ordinary degree of good-feeling in this interview with flora. his son george the third, and his grandson george the fourth, both did credit to themselves by sentiments equally generous towards their ill-fated and royal kinsman. after this intoxicating scene, presenting in their most brilliant colours, to the eye of one who had never visited either edinburgh or london, the fascinations of the higher classes of society, flora returned to skye. she left the metropolis unchanged in her early affections, unaltered in the simplicity of her manners. the country, presenting so lately the miserable spectacle of civil war, was now calmed into a mournful tranquillity, as she passed through it on her journey to skye; but in the highlands, and more especially in the western isles, the love and loyalty which had of old been devoted to the stuarts were unaltered. it was, indeed, long before they were obliterated; and, for years after the fatal , the name of charles edward was uttered with tears. nor is this sentiment of respect even now extinct; nor will it, perhaps, ever be wholly annihilated. the journey from london to skye was performed by flora in a postchaise, and her expenses were defrayed by lady primrose. her companion was, by her own choice, malcolm macleod of raasay, who had met the prince at portree, and had completed the work begun by flora. he too had been imprisoned, but had regained his liberty. "so," afterwards malcolm related to his friends, with a triumphant air, "i went to london to be hanged, and returned in a postchaise with miss flora macdonald!" they visited dr. burton, another released prisoner, at york. here malcolm was asked by that gentleman what was his opinion of prince charles. "he is the most cautious man not to be a coward, and the bravest not to be rash, that i ever saw," was the reply. in , flora macdonald was married to her cousin alexander macdonald the younger of kingsburgh, who appears to have been worthy of his distinguished wife. in person, young kingsburgh had completely the figure of a gallant highlander, the graceful mien and manly looks which a certain popular scots' song has attributed to that character. "when receiving dr. johnson in after-years, kingsburgh appeared in true highland costume, with his plaid thrown about him, a large blue bonnet with a knot of black ribbon like a cockade, a brown short coat of a kind of duffil, a tartan waistcoat with gold buttons and gold button-holes, a bluish philibeg, and tartan hose. he had jet hair tied behind; and was a large stately man, with a steady sensible countenance."[ ] such was the man to whom, after a short eventful period of peril and vicissitude, it was the lot of flora macdonald to be united. kingsburgh is also declared by boswell to have had one virtue of his country in perfection--that of hospitality; and, in this, to have far surpassed the son of lady margaret macdonald, sir alexander macdonald of armadale, an english-bred chieftain, at whose house dr. johnson and his friend "had small company, and could not boast of their cheer." that gentleman, "an eton-bred scholar," had few sympathies with the poor tenants by whom he was surrounded. so true is dr. johnson's remark, "that the highland chiefs should not be allowed to go farther south than aberdeen." in her union with young kingsburgh flora enjoyed a source of satisfaction not to be estimated lightly. she became the daughter-in-law of a man whose virtues were remembered with the deepest respect in skye.[ ] when in dr. johnson and boswell visited the island, they found flora and her husband living in apparent prosperity in the dwelling wherein charles edward had been so hospitably entertained. kingsburgh the younger, as the head of the house, received the doctor at his door, and with respectful attention supported him into the house. a comfortable parlour with a good fire was appropriated to the guests, and the "dram" went round. presently supper was served, and then flora made her appearance. "to see dr. samuel johnson, the great champion of the english tories, salute miss flora macdonald in the isle of skye, was," as boswell observes, "a striking sight." in their notions flora and the doctor were in many respects congenial; and dr. johnson not only had imbibed a high opinion of flora, but found that opinion confirmed on acquaintance. conversation flowed freely. flora told him that during a recent visit to the main land she had heard that mr. boswell was coming to skye; and that mr. johnson, a young english "_buck_," was coming with him. dr. johnson was highly entertained with this fancy. he retired however early to rest, and reposed on the very bed on which charles edward had slept so long and so soundly on his way from mugstat to portree. the room was decorated with a great variety of maps and prints; among others was hogarth's head of wilkes grinning, with the cap of liberty on a pole by him. boswell appears, as far as we can guess from his expressions, to have shared the apartment. "to see dr. samuel johnson," remarks boswell, "lying on that bed in the isle of skye, in the house of miss flora macdonald, again struck me with such a group of ideas as it is not easy for words to express." upon boswell giving vent to this burst of rapture, dr. johnson smiled and said, "i have had no ambitious thoughts in it." he afterwards remarked that he would have given a great deal rather than not have lain in that bed.[ ] on quitting the house, dr. johnson and his friend were rowed by kingsburgh, across one of the lochs which flow in upon all the coasts of skye, to a place called grishinish; and here the highland host bade his guests adieu. all seemed smiling and prosperous; but even at this time kingsburgh was embarrassed in his affairs, and contemplated going to america. that scheme was eventually accomplished. during the passion for emigration which prevailed in the highlands, kingsburgh removed to north carolina, where he purchased an estate. scarcely had he settled upon his property before the american war broke out. like most of the jacobites who were in america at that time, he sided with the british government. he even took up arms in the cause, and became captain of a regiment called the north carolina highlanders. many singular adventures occurred both to him and to flora in the course of the contest. at length they returned to skye, but not together; she sailed first. in the voyage home, her ship encountered a french ship of war. an action ensued. whilst the ladies among the passengers were below, flora stayed on deck, and encouraged the sailors with her voice and manner. she was thrown down in the confusion, and broke her arm. with her wonted vivacity she afterwards observed, that she had risked her life both for the house of stuart and for that of brunswick, but had got very little for her pains. her husband remained in america for some time after she returned to scotland, but joined her at last. flora had a numerous family of sons and daughters. charles, her eldest son, was a captain in the queen's rangers. he was worthy of bearing his mother's name. as his kinsman, the late lord macdonald, saw his remains lowered into the grave, he remarked, "there lies the most finished gentleman of my family and name!" alexander, the second son, also in the king's service, was lost at sea. ranald, the third, was a captain of marines. he was remarkable for his elegant person, and estimable for his high professional reputation. james, the fourth son, served in tarlton's british legion, and was a brave officer. the late lieutenant-colonel john macdonald, in exeter, long survived his brothers. this officer was introduced to king george the fourth, who observed, on his presentation, to those around him, "this gentleman is the son of a lady to whom my family (thus designating the stuarts) owe a great obligation." of two daughters, one, mrs. macleod of lochbuy, died not many years ago. the following letters refer to the family who have been thus enumerated.[ ] from mrs. macdonald to mrs. mackenzie of delvin, by dunkell. "dunvegan, twenty-fourth july, "dear madam, "i arrived at inverness the third day after parting with you, in good health and without any accidents, which i always dread; my young 'squire continued always very obliging and attentive to me. i stayed at inverness for three days. i had the good-luck to meet with a female companion from that to skye. i was the fourth day, with great difficulty, at raasay, for my hands being so pained with the riding. "i arrived here a few days ago with my young daughter, who promises to be a stout highland dairg, quite overgrown of her age. nanny and her small family are well: her husband was not sailed the last accounts she had from him. "i have the pleasure to inform you, upon my arrival here, that i had two letters from my husband; the latter dated tenth may. he was then in very good health, and informs me that my son charles has got the command of a troop of horse in lord cathcart's regiment. but alas! i have heard nothing since i left you about my son sandy,[ ] which you may be sure gives me great uneasiness; but still hope for the best. "by public and private news, i hope we will soon have peace re-established, to our great satisfaction: which, as it's a thing long expected and wished for, will be for the utility of the whole nation; especially to poor me, that has my all engaged,--fond to hear news, and yet afraid to get it. "i wait here till a favourable opportunity for the long island shall offer itself.--as i am upon all occasions under the greatest obligations to you, would you get a letter from my son johny sooner than i would get one from him, you would very much oblige me by dropping me a few lines communicating to me the most material part of his letter. "i hope you and the ladies of your family will always accept of my kindest respects; and i ever am, with esteem, dear madam, your affectionate, humble servant, "flora macdonald. "please direct to me, to mrs. macdonald, late of kingsborrow, south uist, by dunvegan." two years, it seems, elapsed, and the summer of arrived, and the fate of alexander macdonald was still unknown; yet the mother's heart still clung to hope, as it proved by the following letter. no murmurs escape from one who seems to have sustained unrepiningly the sorrows which reach the heart most truly; the wreck of fortune, not for ourselves, but for our children, and the terrors of suspense. one source of consolation she possessed: her surviving sons were brave, honourable, and respected. but "sandy" never returned. mrs. mackenzie of delvine, by dunkell. "milton, third of july, . "dear madam, "i received your agreeable favour a fortnight ago, and am happy to find that your health is not worse than when i left you. i return you my sincere thanks for your being so mindful of me as to send me the agreeable news about johny's arrival, which relieved me from a great deal of distress, as that was the first accounts i had of him since he sailed. i think, poor man! he has been very lucky, for getting into bread so soon after landing. i had a letter from john, which, i suppose, came by the same conveyance with yours. i am told by others that it will be in his power now to show his talents, as being in the engineer department. he speaks feelingly of the advantages he got in his youth, and the good example showed him, which i hope will keep him from doing anything that is either sinful or shameful.[ ] "i received a letter from captain macdonald, my husband, dated from halifax, the twelfth of november ' ; he was then recovering his health, but had been very tender for some time before. my son charles is captain in the british legion, and james a lieutenant in the same: they are both in new york. ranald is captain of marines, and was with rodney at the taking of st. eustatia. as for my son sandy, who was a-missing, i had accounts of his being carried to lisbon, but nothing certain, which i look upon the whole as a hearsay; but the kindness of providence is still to be looked upon, as i have no reason to complain, as god has been pleased to spare his father and the rest. i am now at my brother's house, on my way to skye, to attend my daughter, who is to lie-in in august; they are all in health at present. as for my health at present, it's tolerable, considering my anxious mind and distress of times. "it gives me a great deal of pleasure to hear such good accounts of young mr. m'kinnie:[ ] no doubt he has a great debt to pay, who represents his worthy and amiable uncle. i hope you will be so good as remember me to your female companions. i do not despair of the pleasure of seeing you once more, if peace was restored; and i am, dear madam, with respect and esteem, your affectionate friend, "flora macdonald." flora died in , having attained the age of seventy. her corpse was interred, wrapt in the sheet on which charles edward had lain at kingsburgh, and which she had carried with her to america, intending that, wherever she should be entombed, it should serve as her winding-sheet. the life and character of flora macdonald exemplify how true it is, that, in the performance of daily duties, and in domestic life, the loftiest qualities of woman may be formed; for the hourly practice of self-controul, the exercise of judgment, the acquisition of fortitude, tend to the perfection of those virtues which ennobled her career. in all her trials she acted a woman's part. her spirit was fortified by a strength that was ever gentle. she was raised by circumstances above a private sphere; when these ceased to actuate her, she returned cheerfully to what many might deem obscurity, but which she gladdened by a kind and cheerful temper. no vain-glory, no egotism, vulgarized her one great effort. the simplicity of her character was inherent and unextinguishable; and the deep interest which was attached to her character was never lessened by any display. her enthusiasm for the stuart cause ceased only with her life. when any person thoughtlessly, or cruelly, applied the term "pretender" to the prince whom she reverenced, her anger for a moment was aroused. but contention ill accorded with the truly feminine, yet noble and well-principled, mind of flora macdonald. upon the error or truth of that belief in hereditary and indefeasible right which she entertained, it is of little moment, in estimating her virtues, to pass an opinion. perhaps we may venture to conclude with dr. johnson, "that being in rebellion, from a notion of another's right, is not connected with depravity; and that we had this proof of it, that all mankind applaud the pardoning of rebels, which they would not do in the case of murderers and robbers." footnotes: [ ] general stewart's sketches of the highlanders, vol. ii. p. . app. [ ] see general stewart's sketches. [ ] chambers. note, p. . [ ] lockhart's memoirs, vol. ii. p. . [ ] stewart, vol. i. p. . [ ] brown's highlands, p. . [ ] donald macleod's narrative, in bishop forbes's collection. [ ] home, app. p. . [ ] o'neil's narrative. [ ] brown's history of the highlands, p. , note, vol. iii. [ ] maxwell of kirkconnel, p. . [ ] chambers' traditions of edinburgh, p. . [ ] eglintoune house was situated on the west side of the old stamp-office close, high street. it is now occupied by a vintner.--chambers' traditions, p. . [ ] boswell, p. . [ ] a genuine account of the prince's escape.--scots' magazine for . [ ] captain roy macdonald's narrative. forbes, p. . [ ] chambers. edit. for the people, p. . [ ] note in scots' magazine for ; from a ms. by colonel macalister. [ ] donald macleod's narrative. forbes, p. . [ ] boswell's journey to the hebrides, p. . [ ] chambers, p. , and note. [ ] it was, (be it known, for the gratification of those curious in such matters,) "sprigged with blue." [ ] jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] forbes, p. . [ ] curious tracts in the british museum, vol. iv. scotland. [ ] jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] a small isle about eight miles to the westward of south uist. [ ] forbes. narrative of captain donald macdonald. [ ] scots' magazine for . [ ] note in chambers' memoirs of the rebellion. [ ] preface to the jacobite memoirs by mr. robert chambers, to whom the public owe so much on this and other subjects. [ ] brown's hist. of the highlands, vol. iii. p. . [ ] preface to jacobite memoirs, xi. [ ] chambers, p. . taken from the lyon in mourning, mss. [ ] boswell's tour to the hebrides. [ ] dr. johnson's tour to the hebrides, p. . [ ] dr. johnson's tour to the hebrides, p. . [ ] from the collection of charles kirkpatrick sharpe, esq. they were printed, on the occasion of the queen's visit to scotland, in the edinburgh advertiser for . [ ] so named, in compliment to sir alexander macdonald of slate, or rather to his wife, lady margaret, the friend of flora macdonald. [ ] this alludes to the attention paid him when young, and under the care of mr. mackenzie, by that gentleman and his family. [ ] the late sir alexander muir mackenzie of delvine, bart. william boyd, earl of kilmarnock. the unfortunate nobleman who is the subject of this memoir, could boast of as long line of ancestors as most families in europe. among his forefathers were men eminent for loyalty, and distinguished for bravery, and of honour as untainted as their blood; but when william, fourth earl of kilmarnock, succeeded to his title, there was little except this high ancestry to elate him with pride, or to raise him above dependence upon circumstances. the earl of kilmarnock derived his title from a royal borough of the same name, in the shire of cunningham in ayrshire; and, in former times when the chieftainship was in repute in that part of scotland, that branch of the family of boyd, or boyde, from whom the earl was descended, claimed to be chiefs. the greatness of the boyd family commenced with simon, the brother of walter, first high steward of scotland, and founder of the monastery of paisley, in . robert, the son of simon, is designated in the foundation church of that monastery, as nephew of walter, high steward; and is distinguished on account of his fair complexion, by the word boyt, or boyd,[ ] from the celtic boidh, signifying fair, or yellow. "he was," says nisbet, "doubtless, predecessor to the lords boyd, and earls of kilmarnock."[ ] the family of boyd continued to flourish until, in the fifteenth century, it was ennobled by james the third, who owed to one of its members, sir alexander boyd of duncow, esteemed to be a mirror of chivalry, an inculcation into the military exercises, which were deemed, in those days, essential to the education of royalty. but the sunshine of kingly favour was not enjoyed by the boyds without some alloy. robert boyd of kilmarnock, who was raised to the peerage, under the title of lord boyd, and whose eldest son was created earl of arran, experienced various vicissitudes. he died in england, in exile; and his brother, sir alexander, perished in , on a scaffold, erected on the castle hill of edinburgh. the fortunes of the family were, however, restored in the person of thomas, earl of arran, who married the eldest sister of king james the third. the beautiful island of arran was given as the dower of this lady: and her husband, who is said in the paston letters to have been a "light, clever, and well-spoken, fair archer; devoutest, most perfect, and truest to his lady, of knights," enjoyed a short gleam of royal favour. his vicissitudes, however, befel him whilst on an embassy in denmark, his enemies undermined him at home: he was driven to wander in foreign countries, and died at antwerp, where a magnificent monument was erected to his memory, by charles the bold, duke of burgundy. his title was attainted, but his property was restored to his son; and in , the title of earl of kilmarnock was added to that of lord boyd, which alone seems to have been retained by the family during the intervening generations. during the reign of charles the first, his descendants were considered to be steady royalists; but, notwithstanding their claiming descent from the stuarts, the views and principles of the family in the troublous period of the revolution of , underwent a total change. william, the third earl of kilmarnock, and the father of the unhappy adherent of charles edward, took the oaths of allegiance to the reigning family, and supported the treaty of union; joining at first the party entitled the _squâdrone volante_; but eventually deserting them for the whigs. when the insurrection of broke out, this nobleman plainly manifested that the notions which had actuated his ancestor to join the association at cumberland in favour of charles the first, were no longer deemed valid by him. the superiority of the burgh of kilmarnock having been granted in to his ancestors, the earl summoned the inhabitants of the burgh to assemble, and to arm themselves in support of government. at the general meeting of the fencible corps at cunningham, lord kilmarnock appeared, followed by five hundred of his men, well armed, and so admirably trained, that they made the best figure on that occasion among the forces collected.[ ] in compliance with orders which he received from the duke of argyll, lord kilmarnock marched with his volunteers to garrison the houses of drummakil, cardross, and gastartan, in order to prevent the rebels from crossing the forth. unhappily for the fortunes of his family, the earl died two years afterwards: and in the year , his son, then a boy of fourteen years of age, succeeded to his title. the mother of the young nobleman still survived: she was the lady eupheme, daughter of william, eleventh earl of ross; and one child only, the earl of kilmarnock, had been the issue of her marriage. the youth, whose fate afterwards extorted pity from the most prejudiced spectators of his fate, was educated in the principles of the scottish church. these, as the chaplain who attended lord kilmarnock in the last days of his existence observes, are far from "having the least tendency to sedition," and a very different bias was apparent in the conduct of the presbyterian ministers during the whole course of the insurrections of . the young nobleman appears to have imbibed, with this persuasion, a sincere conviction of those incontrovertible, and all-important truths of christianity which, happily, the contentions of sect cannot nullify, nor the passions of mankind assail. "he always believed," such is his own declaration, "in the great truths of god's being and providence, and in a future state of rewards and punishments for virtue and vice." he had never, he declared at that solemn moment when nothing appeared to him of consequence save truth, "been involved in the fashionable scepticism of the times." as he grew up, a character more amiable than energetic, and dispositions more calculated to inspire love than to insure respect, manifested themselves in the young nobleman. he was singularly handsome, being tall and slender, and possessing what was termed by an eyewitness of his trial, "an extreme fine person;" he was mild, and well-bred, humble, and conscientious. it is true, that in his hours of penitence he recalled, with anguish, "a careless and dissolute life," by which, as he affirmed, he reduced himself to great and perplexing difficulties; he repented for his "love of vanity and addictedness to impurity and sensual pleasure," which had "brought pollution and guilt upon his soul, and debased his reason, and, for a time, suspended the exercise of his social affections, which were, by nature, strong in him, and, in particular, the love of his country." such was his own account of that youth, which, deprived of the guidance of a father, with high rank and great personal attractions to endanger it, was passed, according to his own confession, in dissipation and folly. it appears, nevertheless, that he was greatly respected by his neighbours and tenantry, who were not, perhaps, disposed to judge very severely the errors of a young and popular man. when only eleven years of age, lord kilmarnock, then lord boyd, had appeared in arms for government with his father; on which occasion he conducted himself so gracefully as to attract the admiration of all beholders.[ ] his early prepossessions, granting that they may have accorded with those of his father, were, however, soon dissipated when he allied himself with a family who had been conspicuous in the jacobite cause. this was the house of livingstone, earl of linlithgow and calendar; george, the fourth earl, having, in , been engaged in the insurrection under lord mar, had been attainted, and his estate of one thousand two hundred and ninety-six pounds yearly forfeited to the crown. nor has this forfeiture ever been reversed; and the present representative of the family, sir thomas livingstone, of westquarter and bedlormie, remains, notwithstanding an appeal in before lord kenyon, then attorney-general, a commoner.[ ] lady anne livingstone, who was the object of the young lord kilmarnock's choice, is reported to have been a woman of great beauty, and, from her exertions in her husband's behalf, appears to have possessed a fine, determined spirit. although her father's title was not restored, she had sufficient interest, in , to obtain from the english government a lease of the forfeited estates for fifty-nine years, at the rent of eight hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve shillings per annum.[ ] this was, no doubt, a source of considerable pecuniary benefit to her, and also of assistance, very greatly required by lord kilmarnock, who was in impoverished circumstances. honours, indeed, centered in him, but were productive of no real benefit. by the grandmother of his wife, the lady margaret hay, sole surviving daughter of charles the twelfth earl of errol, he had a claim to that earldom, which, coupling with its dignity that of the hereditary high constable of scotland, descended in the female line, and after the death of a brother in infancy, constituted the lady anne livingstone a countess of errol in her own right. thus, lord kilmarnock had, to borrow horace walpole's expression, "four earldoms in him," kilmarnock, errol, linlithgow, and calendar; and yet he is said to have been so poor, as "often to have wanted a dinner." but to this mode of expression we must not entirely trust for accuracy. with the inheritance of the earldoms of errol, and of linlithgow, and calendar, there came a stock of old jacobite principles; lord linlithgow had, indeed, suffered what was perhaps worse than death for his adherence to james stuart. the earl of errol, the grandfather of lady kilmarnock, had led a more prudent course. still he was a hearty jacobite, and though, as lockhart declares, he did not at first make a "great outward appearance," yet he was much trusted by the party; his family had always been favourable to the stuarts, and he was, also, generally considered to cherish similar sentiments.[ ] he had, nevertheless, taken the oaths to government in ; yet on the alarm of an invasion in , he was deemed so dangerous a person that he was sent as a prisoner to edinburgh castle, where he died. the love suit of lord kilmarnock was not likely, under his impoverished circumstances, to prosper uninterruptedly. when he succeeded to his estate he had found it much encumbered, and a considerable portion of the old inheritance alienated. lord kilmarnock's disposition was not formed for economy; he was generous even to profusion, and, as we have seen had not escaped the temptations incident to his age. his addresses to the lady anne livingstone are said to have been prompted by his necessities; her fortune was deemed considerable; and her family, well knowing the state of the earl's affairs, regarded his proposals of marriage unfavourably. but the young nobleman during the course of his courtship, and in opposing these objections, formed an interest in the heart of the young lady. he was, indeed, a man born to charm the imagination of the romantic, if not at that period of his youth, to rivet affection by esteem. in his boyhood, although he made some degree of progress in classical attainments, and even in philosophy and mathematics, thus proving that natural ability was not wanting, he was far more successful in attaining mere accomplishments, which add a powerful charm to comeliness and symmetry than in mastering more solid studies. he became an adept in fencing, in riding, in drawing, and also in music; and acquired the distinctive and comprehensive designation, of being "a polite gentleman."[ ] disgusted with the cold discussions on settlements and rent rolls, and disregarding maternal cautions, lady anne soon followed the dictates of her own heart. she married the young and handsome nobleman without her mother's consent, and a tardy sanction to the union was wrung from lady livingstone only when it was too late to withhold her approval. the marriage was not, it was said by those who were disposed to scandalize the earl of kilmarnock, productive of happiness. the young countess was possessed, indeed, of beauty, wit, and good sense: but her husband, if we may accredit the memoirs of his life, gave her much cause to complain of his conduct. they lived, however, as the same doubtful authority states, "if not happily, at least civilly together." such is the statement of a contemporary writer; it must, however, be adopted with just as much allowance as we give to similar reports raised by party writers in the present day: and it will be shown[ ] not to accord with the dying declarations of lord kilmarnock. "i leave behind," he wrote to his agent, "in lady kilmarnock, what is dearest to me."[ ] subsequently to his marriage, lord kilmarnock's necessities and the additional burden of a family induced him to apply to the english government for a pension, founded, as it is probable, on his father's services to government in . but this statement, and the conditions upon which the bounty was given are left in obscurity. "whether," says the anonymous biographer of lord kilmarnock, "my lord kilmarnock's pension was a ministerial bribe, or a royal bounty, is a question i cannot determine with any certainty; but i have reason to suspect the former, since few pensions, granted by a certain administration, that of sir robert walpole, deserved the latter." the same writer truly observes, that little or no dependance is to be placed on that loyalty which wants the support of bribes and pensions. "the practice," he adds, "is too general, and a defection of this kind of men may be fatal to the state."[ ] the pension, as it appears from horace walpole's letters, was taken from lord kilmarnock by lord wilmington. "lord kilmarnock," he writes to sir horace mann, "is a presbyterian, with four earldoms in view, but so poor since lord wilmington's stopping a pension that my father had given him, that he often wanted a dinner."[ ] in the last days of his existence the earl, indeed, acknowledged that the state of his affairs was, in part, the reason of his defection from government. he attributed it, (though, it must be stated, under the pressing arguments of a minister of religion who considered what he termed "rebellion" as the most heinous sin,) to the great and pressing difficulties into which he had brought himself, by extravagance and dissipation: and declared, according to the account of his spiritual guide, that the "exigency of his affairs was very pressing at the time of the rebellion; and that, besides the general hope he had of mending his fortune by the success of it, he was also tempted by another prospect, of retrieving his circumstances if he followed the pretender's standard."[ ] until the commencement of the insurrection of , lord kilmarnock enjoyed the possession of dean castle, a very ancient edifice, situated about half a mile north east of the town of kilmarnock, in ayrshire. "it is," says grose in his antiquities of scotland, "at a small distance from the main road leading from kilmarnock to stewarton, and consists of a large vaulted square tower, which seems to have been built about the beginning of the fifteenth century: this is surrounded by a court and other buildings more modern."[ ] such is the description of dean castle before the year ; when, to add to lord kilmarnock's other necessities, it was partially destroyed by fire, leaving only a ruin which he was too much impoverished even to restore to its former habitable state. in the "great square tower," referred to by grose, and of which a view is preserved in his work on scotland, the boyd family had dwelt in the days of their greatness, when one of their race was created earl of arran. in that tower had the earl imprisoned his royal wife, the lady margaret, sister of james the third, who was divorced from him, pleading, as some say, a prior contract with the lord hamilton, to whom she was afterwards united, taking to him the isle of arran as her dower. it does not appear that the earl of kilmarnock was originally in the confidence of the jacobite party: and their designs were not only matured, but far in full operation before he took an open or active part in the stuart cause. it happened, however, that when charles edward resided at holyrood, the countess of kilmarnock was living in edinburgh. her beauty, and the gaiety of her manners, attracted the admiration of the young prince, who bestowed no small portion of attention on the fascinating daughter of one of his father's adherents. lady kilmarnock was as much attached to pleasure as the young and beautiful usually are: she delighted in public diversions, and led the way to all parties of amusement. her ambition, no less than her early prepossessions conspired, it is said, to make her a jacobite; and she hoped, by the favour of charles edward, to obtain the restoration of her father's title. her entreaties to the earl of kilmarnock to join the standard of the prince were stimulated, therefore, by a double motive; and, indeed, to a generous and romantic mind, there required neither the inducements of ambition, nor of gratified vanity, to espouse that part which seemed most natural to the scotch. after the battle of preston pans, lady kilmarnock's persuasions took effect: her husband presented himself to the young chevalier, who received him with every mark of esteem and distinction, declared him a member of the privy council, raised him to the rank of a general, and appointed him colonel of his guards.[ ] another occurrence is, however, stated to have had a considerable influence in forming the earl's decision. during the course of the conflict, he met, at linlithgow, that incomparable man, and excellent officer, colonel gardiner. this individual, whose character forms so fine a relief to the party-spirited and debased condition of the british army in the time of george the second, was a native of linlithgowshire, having been born at carriden, in the year of the revolution, . his life commencing in that important era, had been one of events. he had first entered the dutch service; then had served in marlborough's army at ramilies. until this incident of his life, the young soldier, then only nineteen, had run a course of dissolute pleasure, and had obtained, from the frankness and gaiety of his disposition, the name of the _happy rake_. being in the forlorn hope, he was wounded, and left in a state hovering between life and death, on the field, and in state of partial insensibility, from which he was aroused at times to perfect consciousness. the ball which had struck gardiner, had entered his mouth; and without breaking a single tooth, or touching the forepart of his tongue, had passed through his neck, coming out above an inch and a half on the left side of the vertebræ. he was abandoned by marlborough's troops, who, according to their custom, left the wounded to their fate, while they pursued their advantages against the french. in this state, the first serious emotions of gratitude, the first convictions of a peculiar providence suggested themselves to the mind of the young officer: and although they did not, for some years, produce an absolute amendment of life, they laid the foundation of his future conversion, and of that exemplary piety and purity which extorted admiration even in a dissolute age. after being present at every battle that marlborough had fought in flanders, colonel gardiner had signalized his courage in the insurrection of ; and in he was again ordered to the north to meet the jacobite forces near edinburgh.[ ] it was during this, his last campaign, when broken by ill health and premature age, for this brave and good man despaired of the restoration of peace to his country, that he supped in company with lord kilmarnock, at linlithgow. colonel gardiner's prognostications had long been most gloomy. "i have heard him say," declared dr. doddridge, "many years before the scottish insurrection, that a few thousands might have a fair chance for marching from edinburgh to london, uncontrolled, and throw the whole kingdom into an astonishment." this opinion was derived from his knowledge of the defenceless state of the country, and the general prevailing disaffection. and the pious, but somewhat distrustful views of gardiner led him to assign yet more solemn reasons for his anticipations of evil. "for my own part, though i fear nothing for myself, my apprehensions for the public are very gloomy, considering the deplorable prevalency of almost all kinds of wickedness among us; the natural consequences of the contempt of the gospel. i am daily offering up my prayers to god for this sinful land of ours, over which his judgments seem to be gathering; and my strength is sometimes so exhausted with those strong cries and tears, which i pour out before god upon this occasion, that i am hardly able to stand when i arise from my knees."[ ] imbued with these convictions, colonel gardiner, when he was retreating at linlithgow with the troops under his command, spoke unguardedly to lord kilmarnock of the prospects of the english army, and thus confirmed the wavering inclination of that ill-fated nobleman to follow charles edward.[ ] the decisive step was not, it appears, taken until after the battle of preston pans, in which colonel gardiner, who had a mournful presentiment of the event of that engagement, fell, after a deportment truly worthy of the british soldier, and of the christian. this brave officer, after having received two wounds, fought on, his feeble frame animated by the almost supernatural force of strong determination. as he headed a party of foot who had lost their leader, and cried out, "fire on, my lads, fear nothing;" his right-arm was cut down by a highlander who advanced with a scythe, fastened to a pole. he was dragged from his horse; and the work of butchery was completed by another highlander, who struck him on the head with a broadsword: gardiner had only power to say to his servant, "take care of yourself." the faithful creature hastened to an adjoining mill for a cart to convey his master to a place of safety. it was not until two hours had elapsed, that he was able to return. the mangled body, all stripped and plundered, was, even then, still breathing; and the agony of that gallant spirit was protracted until the next day, when he expired in the house of the minister of tranent. this digression, introducing as it does, one of the _real_ heroes of this mournful period, may be pardoned. according to the evidence on his trial, lord kilmarnock first joined the standard of charles edward on the "banks of the river which divides england from scotland;"[ ] but maxwell of kirkconnel mentions that the earl marched from edinburgh on the thirty-first of october, , at the head of a little squadron of horse grenadiers, with whom were some perthshire gentlemen, who, in the absence of their own commander, were placed under the conduct of lord kilmarnock.[ ] after this decisive step, lord kilmarnock continued to follow charles during the whole of that ill-fated campaign, which ended in the battle of culloden. during the various events of that disastrous undertaking, his character, like that of many other commanders in the chevalier's army, suffered from imputations of cruelty. that this vice was not accordant with his general disposition of mind, the minister who attended him on his death-bed sufficiently attests. "for myself," declares mr. foster, "i must do this unhappy criminal the justice to own, that he _never_ appeared, during the course of my attendance upon him, to be of any other than a soft, benevolent disposition. his behaviour was always mild and temperate. i could discern no resentment, no disturbance or agitation in him."[ ] so gentle a character is not the growth of a day; and if ever lord kilmarnock were betrayed into actions of violence, it must have been under circumstances of a peculiar nature. among other charges which were specified against him, was a participation in the blowing up of the church of st. ninian's, in the retreat from stirling. but when, in the retirement of his prison chamber, the unfortunate nobleman reviewed his conduct, and confessed the errors of his life, he fully and satisfactorily cleared himself from the heinous imputation implied in this work of destruction. when the army of charles were retiring from stirling he was confined to his bed ill of a fever. the first intimation that he had of the blowing up of the tower of st. ninian's was the noise, of which he never could obtain a clear account. by the insurgents it was represented as accidental: "this can i certainly say, as to myself, that i had no knowledge before hand, nor any concurrence in a designed act of cruelty." such was lord kilmarnock's declaration to mr. foster. another instance of barbarity also laid to the charge of the earl was, his alleged treatment of certain prisoners of war who were intrusted to his care in the church of inverness. he was accused of stripping these unfortunate persons of their clothes. upon this point he admitted that an order to deprive the prisoners of their garments for the use of the highlanders was issued by charles edward: that the warrant for executing this order was sent to him. he did not, as he declared, enter the church in person, but committed the office of execution to an inferior officer. the prisoners, as might be expected, refused to submit to this indignity; upon which a second order was issued, and their clothes were taken from them. the well-timed remonstrance of boyer, marquis d'eguilles, who had been sent by the court of france in the character of ambassador to charles edward, arrested, however, the act of cruelty, which not even extreme necessity can excuse. this nobleman had arrived some time previously at montrose, bringing in the ship in which he sailed, arms and a small sum of money,[ ] and his influence, which was exerted in behalf of the captives, was happily considerable. he represented to the earl of kilmarnock, that the rules of war did not authorise the outrage which was contemplated. lord kilmarnock, convinced by his remarks, repaired to charles edward, leaving heaps of the clothes lying in the streets of inverness, with sentinels standing to guard them. by the arguments which he addressed to the prince, these garments were restored to their unfortunate owners; and a great stain on the memory both of charles and of his adherent was thus partially effaced. of such a nature were those imputations which were charged upon lord kilmarnock; but they appear to have met with only a transient credence; whilst a general impression of his gentleness, and a prevailing regret for his fate endured as long as the memory of the dire contest, and of its tragical termination, dwelt in the recollection of those who witnessed those mournful times. after the battle of culloden, the prisoners were immediately set free. the duke of cumberland, as he entered inverness, taking his road amid the carcasses of the dead strewed in the way, called for the keys of the prisons, and with his own hands released the captives there, and, clapping them on the shoulders as they came down stairs, exclaimed, "brother soldiers, you are free."[ ] unfortunately his compassion was of a party nature, and was only aroused for his own adherents. at culloden, fatal to so many brave men, lord kilmarnock was spared only to taste much more deeply of the pangs of death than if he had met it in battle. his fate had, indeed, been anticipated by the superstitious; and it was considered a rash instance of hardihood in the unfortunate nobleman to resist an omen which, about a year before the rebellion had broken out, is said to have happened in his house. one day, as the maid who attended usually upon lady kilmarnock was inspecting some linen in an upper room of dean castle, the door of the apartment suddenly opened of its own accord, and the view of a bloody head, resembling that of lord kilmarnock, was presented to the affrighted woman. as she gazed in horror, the head rolled near her. she endeavoured in vain to repel it with her foot. she became powerless, but she was still able to scream; her shrieks brought lord kilmarnock and his countess to the chamber. the apparition had vanished; but she related succinctly the story "which, at that time," says the historian who repeats it,[ ] "lord kilmarnock too much ridiculed, though it could have been wished that he had been forewarned by the omen. such was the superstition of the times, in which ignorance and credulity found such ready supporters." at culloden, this ill-fated nobleman occupied a post not far from the prince, in the rear of whom was a line of reserve, consisting of three columns, the first of which, on the left, was commanded by lord kilmarnock; the centre column by lord lewis gordon and glenbucket; and the right by the justly-celebrated roy stewart. in the opposite ranks, an ensign in the royal regiment, was his son, lord boyd. during the confusion of the fight, when half-blinded by the smoke, the unhappy lord kilmarnock, as if fated to fulfil the omen, mistook a party of english dragoons for fitzjames's horse, and was accordingly taken prisoner. he was led along the lines of the british infantry. the vaunted beauty of his countenance, and the matchless graces of which so much has been said, were now obliterated by the disorder of his person, and his humiliating position. his hat had been lost in the conflict, and his long hair fell about his face. the soldiers as he was led along stood in mute compassion at this sight. among those who thus looked upon this unfortunate man was his son, lord boyd, who was constrained to witness, without attempting to alleviate, the distress of that moment. when the earl passed the place where his son stood, the youth, unable to bear that his father should be thus exposed bareheaded to the storm which played upon the scene of carnage, stepped out of the ranks and taking his own hat from his head, placed it on that of his father. it was the work of an instant, and not a syllable escaped the lips of the agitated young man.[ ] lord kilmarnock was carried from the moor, which already, to use the words of an eyewitness among the government troops, "was covered with blood; the men, what with killing the enemy, dabbling their feet in the blood, and splashing it about one another, looked like so many butchers."[ ] never, did even their enemies declare, was a field of battle bestrewn with a finer, perhaps with a nobler race. "every body allowed," writes one of cumberland's officers, "that men of a larger size, larger limbs, and better proportioned, could not be found." the flower of their unhappy country; hundreds of these had not yet been blessed with the repose of death, but were left to languish in agony until the next day, when they were butchered by the orders of cumberland. one of them, john alexander fraser, in the master of lovat's regiment, was rescued by lord boyd from destruction. a soldier had struck him with the butt of his musket, intending, according to the orders given, to beat out his brains. the poor wretch, his nose and cheek-bone broken, and one of his eyes pierced, still breathed when this young nobleman passed him. he observed the poor creature, and ordered his servants to carry him to a neighbouring kiln, where, in time, his wounds were cured. "he lived," observes mr. chambers, "many years afterwards, a dismal memorial of the cruelties of culloden."[ ] according to one account, lord kilmarnock owed his escape from the field of battle with his life to the brave and generous lord ancrum, who delivered him to the duke of cumberland; and the same narrative adds, that the duke issued orders that no one should mention the earl's imprisonment to his son, but considerately imparted the intelligence to the young man himself. it is only fair to mention this redeeming trait in a man who had so many awful, and almost inexpiable sins to answer for at the last day, when not our professions of kindness, but our acts of mercy or of wrong will be placed before a solemn and final account. after his surrender at culloden, the earl of kilmarnock was conveyed to london. that metropolis, in some of its most attractive features, was well known to him: he had frequently resided there for several months during the year, and had associated with the friends of government who were near the court. he was now to view it under a very different aspect; and during the period which elapsed between his surrender and his trial, he had ample time to weigh the respective value of that society which had formerly so much delighted him, and in which, it is said he "had affected to talk freely of religion;" and of those great truths which were now his only source of support. whatever may have been his early errors, the remaining days of lord kilmarnock were characterized by gentleness to those who were placed in authority over him; forbearance to those who slandered him, and submission to god. unable to conquer a natural intense love of life, he assumed no pretended intrepidity:[ ] yet manifested a still greater concern for his character, than for his fate. society in general, as well as the annalists of the times, mourned for him, and with him; and many who beheld his doom, would have sacrificed much of their own personal safety to avert the close of that tragic scene. but these were not times when the generous might venture to interfere with security.[ ] two noblemen, differing greatly in character from lord kilmarnock, shared his imprisonment: arthur, sixth earl of balmerinoch, or, as it is usually spelled balmerino, (pronounced balmérino), and george, earl of cromartie. of these individuals, lord balmerino, although an uncultured soldier, has excited by far the greatest interest. he was descended, like most of his associates from an ancient family. it was of german origin,[ ] first known in scotland in the reign of robert bruce, to whose sister, a german knight, sirnamed elphingston, or elphinstone, was married. such was the esteem in which robert bruce held his foreign brother-in-law, that he gave him lands in midlothian, which still bear the name of elphinstone.[ ] hence was he called elphinstone of that ilk--a mode of expression employed in scotland to prevent the repetition of the same name. in process of time certain estates which a descendant of the german knight acquired at arthbeg, in stirlingshire, were also endowed with that surname; and, during several centuries, the martial and hardy race to whom those lands belonged continued in the same sphere, that of private gentlemen, chiefs of the house of elphinstone. they were remarkable, in successive generations, for that bold and manly character which eventually distinguished their ill-fated descendant, arthur balmerino, and which, in time, extorted applause from the most prejudiced politicians of the opposite party. alexander elphinstone, in the reign of david the second, might have emulated the supposed deeds of guy earl of warwick; he rivalled him in gigantic figure, in immense strength, and knightly prowess. his disposition was not only martial, but chivalric; for, conscious of extraordinary power, "he was more able," says a writer of the last century, "to overlook an affront, than men less capable of resenting it." his son, inferior in bodily strength, equalled him in military exploits, which distinguished indeed a succession of the elphinstones of that ilk.[ ] at flodden, john elphinstone, who was created a lord of parliament by james the fourth, was killed by the side of his royal master, and being not unlike to that monarch in face and figure, his body was carried to berwick by the english, who mistook it for that of the king.[ ] in the reign of james the sixth, james, the second son of the third lord elphinstone, was created a baron by the name and title of lord balmerino. he rose to high honours in the state; but the first disgrace that befell the family occurred in this reign. this was the marriage of john, the second lord balmerino, to jane ker, sister of the infamous ker, earl of somerset, and favourite of james the sixth, who, for his sake, denounced a curse on his posterity, which seems, says the writer before quoted, "to have followed them and the nation ever since." like most of the noble families in scotland, the house of balmerino became impoverished during the civil wars; and when the father of arthur elphinstone succeeded to his title, he found his estates wofully diminished. he was, however, one of those men who were capable, by ability and prudence, of redeeming the fortunes of his family. circumstances were, indeed, adverse to the prosperity of any whose loyalty to the stuarts was suspected. lord balmerino was prudent, but he was sincere. he was "a man of excellent parts, improved by reading, being, perhaps, one of the very best lawyers in the kingdom, and very expert in the scottish constitution; he reasoned much and pertinently in parliament, and testifying, on all occasions, an unshaken loyalty to his prince, and zealous affection to his country, he gained the esteem and love of all good men." such was the father, of whom this noble character was drawn, to whom arthur, lord balmerino, owed his being. such was the man whom it would have been the wiser policy of the british ministry to have conciliated, on the accession of george the first, but whose son they drove into an act of imprudence by their distrust and injustice. the first wife of john, fourth lord balmerino, was the daughter of hugh, earl of eglintoun, and, consequently, she was connected with some of the most strenuous supporters of the stuart cause in the kingdom of scotland. by her he had two sons, hugh, who was killed in , at the siege of lisle, and james, who was educated to the profession of the law. upon the death of this lady, lord balmerino married anne, daughter of ross, the last archbishop of st. andrews, and by her had two sons: arthur, who became eventually lord balmerino, and alexander, who died in , unmarried; and a daughter, anne, who died also unmarried. the subject of this memoir may, therefore, be deemed the last of the house of balmerino.[ ] arthur elphinstone was born in the year . he had, until late in life, no expectation of succeeding to the title of his father after the death of hugh, there being still an elder brother, james. the characteristics of all this branch of the elphinstone family appear almost invariably to have been those of honour and justice, and james resembled his father in the integrity of his principles. the following character is drawn of him by a contemporary writer: "he was rather a solid pleader than a refined orator; but he understood the law so well, and preserved the chastity of his character so tenderly, by avoiding being concerned in any scandalous actions, that he was listened to with great attention by the bench, at a time when it was filled by the most eminent lawyers that ever appeared in scotland." the abilities of this able and conscientious man soon raised him to the bench, where he discharged his duties with that high and nice sense of integrity which can only be described by the word honour. he never mixed party-spirit with his judgments: he lent himself to no ministerial purposes. the dignity of the judge was preserved in his manly and courageous character: and such was his application to business, that his court was thronged with practitioners when those of other judges were nearly deserted. arthur, his younger brother, possessed not his application, but displayed much, nevertheless, of the natural ability of his family. "he was not much acquainted with books; and though he was rich in repartee, yet he never affected to reason." such is the remark of a contemporary writer. yet who might not envy the clear, undisturbed intellect which showed him, in a moment of peculiar temptation, the value of plain dealing, and the inestimable price of a good conscience? some members of a family seem fated to suffer for the others. arthur elphinstone was educated in the principles which brought him to the scaffold: they were those of his father and brother, who were both fortunate enough to preserve them in their own breasts, and yet not to encounter trouble on that account. and, during the reign of queen anne the family appear to have been deemed so well affected, as to procure them promotion, not only in civil but military service. when very young, arthur elphinstone obtained the command of a company of foot in lord shannon's regiment, on the accession of george the first. his real opinions were, however, manifested by his resignation of his commission; and by his joining the standard of lord mar, under whom he commanded a company, and served in the battle of sherriff muir. by throwing up his commission, he escaped being punished as a deserter, and was allowed to retire to the continent. according to some accounts, he went first to denmark; by others it is said, that he entered at once into the french service. he remained, at all events, twenty years in exile from his family; but in , an event occurred, which greatly increased the natural desire which his father, declining in strength, had long cherished of again beholding his son. alexander elphinstone, the younger brother of arthur, died at leith, two years before the insurrection broke out. this young man had had the misfortune in , to fight a duel, shortly after which his adversary, lieutenant swift, had died of his wounds. the combat took place on the links of leith; the affair was notorious, and alexander had been threatened with a prosecution, which was not, however, put into execution. this painful circumstance, coupled with alexander elphinstone's death, may have naturally added to the wish which lord balmerino entertained, to rescue his exiled son from the sentence of outlawry under which he stood, and to restore him again to his home. probably the desire of perpetuating honours which had been gained by legitimate exertions, may have been contemplated by the aged nobleman when he revolved in his mind how he could compass the safe return of his younger, and surviving son, to scotland. james, the heir to the title, great as was the lustre which his abilities and integrity shed upon it, was not likely to perpetuate more honours, having no children by his wife elizabeth carnegie, daughter of david, fourth earl of northesk. it is one of the innumerable instances of human short-sightedness, that the very recall of arthur elphinstone to scotland was the cause of the extinction of family honours, and of that line in which they rested. according to some accounts, he remained abroad until the general act of indemnity, from which he was not excepted, took effect:[ ] but by others it is stated, that his father, having made a strong application to government, obtained a free pardon for his son. if such were the case, there seems a degree of ingratitude in again joining the enemies of government, which one can scarcely reconcile with the generous character of this brave man. he was in switzerland when he received a summons to return to his native country. his conduct upon the arrival of this intelligence was honest and candid towards him, to whom, according to his notions, he owed allegiance. he wrote to the chevalier (st. george) and laid open the circumstances of the case before him; stating that he should not accept the proffered pardon without his permission. james answered this explanation with his own hand; and not only gave arthur elphinstone permission to return to scotland, but informed him that he had ordered his banker at paris to pay his travelling expenses. thus authorized, arthur returned home, welcomed by his aged father with a satisfaction which happily was not destined to be alloyed by any adverse circumstances during the lifetime of the venerable nobleman. thus was this ill-fated man restored to that land which probably, although long severed from its glens and mountains, he had not ceased to love. he was now of middle age, being in his forty-fifth year; but his disposition, in spite of his long residence among foreigners, was still thoroughly scotch. he was as undaunted by danger as any of his valiant ancestors had been, consequently he had no need to have recourse to guile; in short, falsehood would have been impossible to that frank nature. he was blunt in speech, but endowed with the kindest heart that ever throbbed in the dungeons of that grim fortress in which his manly career was closed. he had not, however, the prudence which is characteristic of his countrymen: and which, once well understood, is as distinct from selfishness and craft as their martial vehemence has generally been from cruelty. a service in foreign campaigns had not lessened his ideas of honour; which were perhaps more truly cherished among military men on the continent, than at that period in england. few british troops, for example, ever proved themselves more worthy of the name of soldiers than the hessians who served in scotland in . to the fine and soldierly attributes of lord balmerino, to an intrepidity almost amounting to indifference, to a warm and generous heart, were united that ready and careless humour which accord so well with the loftier qualities of the mind, and certainly rather enhance, than detract from the charm of graver attributes of character. in appearance, lord balmerino was strongly contrasted with the fellow-sufferer with whom his name is indelibly associated. "his person," writes a contemporary, "was very plain, his shape clumsy, but his make strong: and he had no marks of the polite gentleman about him. he was illiterate in respect of his birth; but rather from a total want of application to letters, than want of ability."[ ] his manners are said to have been natural, if not courtly; his countenance only inferior in its ungainliness to that of lovat, but, expressing, we may suppose, a very different temper of mind, harsh as were its features, it captivated, as well as that of the handsome kilmarnock, female regard.[ ] according to some statements, lord balmerino married in , before the first insurrection;[ ] but no distinct allusion to a connection of so early a period is to be found in the authenticated narratives of his life. it was not, it seems evident, until after his return from switzerland, that he married margaret, daughter of captain chalmers--"the pretty peggy," who was at once his solace and his sorrow when in the tower of london. in , the father, whom he had returned to cheer in his decline, died at his house in leith, and was buried at the family seat at restalrig in leith. his son james, succeeded to the title.[ ] when the intelligence arrived, that charles edward had landed in scotland, arthur elphinstone hastened to the standard of the prince. on the thirty-first of october, , he marched from edinburgh, on the expedition to england, having the command of a troop of horse, not complete, in number about forty.[ ] his military talents were well known, for he had distinguished himself in several campaigns in flanders.[ ] but, as he took into the field only his menial servants, no very important posts were entrusted to him; and his career appears not to have been signalized by any remarkable military exploits. in short, it may be truly said of him as of dr. donne by izaak walton, that "nothing in his life became him like the leaving it." after joining the insurgent army, lord balmerino engaged in all the various movements of that enterprise. after the siege of carlisle he entered that city at the head of his troop, with pipes playing, and colours flying, having been at twelve miles' distance when the town was taken; he then proceeded in the fatal expedition to derby, and returned a second time to carlisle, preceding in his march the main body of the army towards scotland. he was present at the battle of falkirk, but did not engage in it: some of the cavalry having been kept as a _corps de reserve_ in that engagement. his participation in that day's victory was, however, afterwards imputed to him as an act of rebellion, although he was merely drawn up in a field near the field of battle, in company with lord kilmarnock and lord pitsligo. the body which he commanded, went by the name of arthur elphinstone's life guards.[ ] a few weeks before the battle of culloden, the elder brother of arthur elphinstone, james lord balmerino, died, leaving the title which he had enjoyed for so short a period, to the brother, who was then engaged in so perilous a course. this accession of honour brought with it little increase of fortune, but rather the responsibility of succeeding to encumbered estates. of these most had, indeed, passed into other families. to the first lord balmerino charters of numerous lands and baronies had been given; barntoun, barrie, balumby, innerpeffer, balgregie, balmerino, dingwall, &c., were among his possessions. in , the barony of restalrig, in south leith, was sold to lord balmerino by the noted and profligate robert logan, baron of restalrig, to whose family that now valuable property, including the grounds lying near the river, had belonged, until the days of the queen regent, mary. this estate, on which lord balmerino's father resided, appears to have been almost the only vestige of the former opulence of this branch of the elphinstone family.[ ] his embarrassed circumstances are deemed by some writers to have had a considerable share in deciding lord balmerino to join in a contest in which he had so little to lose; but it appeared, in the hour of trial, that his principles of allegiance to the stuarts had been unaltered since the days of his youth, and that they were alone sufficient to account for the part which he adopted. at the battle of culloden lord balmerino was made prisoner by the grants, to whom, as one of the witnesses on his trial affirmed, he surrendered himself. he was conveyed to castle grant, and from thence to london, to the same dreary fortress in which lord kilmarnock was likewise immured. the fate of these two unfortunate men, hitherto but little dependant on each other, was henceforth associated, until the existence of both was closed on the scaffold. george, the third earl of cromartie, was the only one of their fellow-prisoners who was arraigned and tried with kilmarnock and balmerino. he had taken even a more decided part in the insurrection than balmerino, having raised four hundred of his clan, who were with him in the battle of falkirk. his son, the young lord macleod, was also in the jacobite army, and both father and son were surprised at dunrobin, by a party of the earl of sutherland's militia, on the fifteenth of april, and taken prisoners. lord cromartie had, as well as lords kilmarnock and balmerino, strong ties to life, strong claims upon his reason to have withheld him from a hazardous participation in a cause of peril. he had been married more than twenty years to isabel, daughter of sir william gordon, and had by her a numerous family. for this nobleman, a powerful interest was afterwards successfully exerted. these three noblemen were brought to london early in june. they were shortly afterwards followed by about eight hundred companions in misfortune. of these, who arrived in the thames on the twenty-first of june, about two hundred were left at tilbury fort; while six hundred were deposited in the various prisons of the metropolis. from henceforth scenes of distress, and even of horror, were daily presented to the prisoners. the marquis of tullibardine expired soon after his arrival at the tower; lord macleod, with happier fate, rejoined his father; mr. murray of broughton, who was treated with a distinction, at that time, unexplicable, was also lodged in the same fortress. those who were led to expect the severest measures, might envy the calm departure of the good old marquis of tullibardine; but all hearts bled when the gallant colonel townley, a roman catholic gentleman of distinction, was dragged on a sledge, along with other prisoners, to kennington, his arms pinioned; insulted by a brutal multitude, and there hanged. the horrid barbarities of this sentence being fulfilled on his body, which was still breathing, the hangman preparing to take out the heart and bowels, struck it several times on the chest, before life (and perhaps consciousness) was wholly extinct. day after day, the awful tragedies were repeated, exceeding any similar displays of power since the days of the tudors. each of these _martyrs_, as the voice of their own party pronounced them, in their last moments declared, that "they died in a just cause--that they did not repent of what they had done--that they doubted not their deaths would be avenged." when, after nine executions had taken place in one morning, the heart of the last sufferer was thrown into the fire, a savage shout from the infuriated multitude followed the words "god save king george!" the unfortunate man who had just perished was a young gentleman, named dawson, a graduate of st. john's college, cambridge. he had for some time been engaged to a young lady of good family, and great interest had been made to procure his pardon. the lovers were sanguine in their expectations, and the day of his release was to have been that of their marriage. when all hope was at an end, the young lady, not deterred by the remonstrances of her kindred, resolved upon following mr. dawson to the place of execution. her intention was at length acceded to: she drove in a hackney-coach after the sledges, accompanied by a relative, and by one female friend. as the shout of brutal joy succeeded the silence of the solemn scene, the words "my love,--i follow thee,--i follow thee!" burst from the lips of the broken-hearted girl. she fell on the neck of her companion, and, whilst she uttered these words, "sweet jesus!--receive our souls together!" expired.[ ] recitals of these domestic tragedies, proofs of the unrelenting spirit of government, tended to break the firmness of some of those who survived. lord cromartie sank into dejection; kilmarnock's fine and gentle nature was gradually purified for heaven. balmerino rose to heroism. the prisons were crowded with captives; the noblemen alone were committed to the tower; even two of the scottish chiefs were sent to newgate; the officers were committed to the new gaol, southwark; the common men to the marshalsea. meantime, strong and prompt measures were determined upon by government. bills of indictment for high treason were found against lord kilmarnock, the earl of cromartie, and the lord balmerino, by the grand jury of the county of surrey: a writ of certiorari was issued for removing the indictments into the house of peers, on the twenty-sixth of june, and their trial was appointed to take place on the twenty-eighth of july following. westminster hall was accordingly prepared for the trials, and a high steward appointed in the person of the justly celebrated lord hardwicke. on the petition of lord kilmarnock, mr. george ross was engaged as his solicitor, with permission to have free access to him at all times. on the appointed day the trials commenced. westminster hall was fitted up with unprecedented magnificence; and tickets were issued by the lord chamberlain to the peers, to give access to their friends. at eight o'clock in the morning, the judges in their robes, with the garter-king-at-arms, the usher of the black rod, and the serjeant-at-arms waited on the lord high steward at his house in ormond street: garter in his coat of the king's arms, and black rod, having the white staff attended them. after a short interval the procession to westminster hall began: lord hardwicke, designated during the term of the trial as "his grace," came forth to his coach, his train borne, and followed by the chief judges and judges. his coach was preceded by his grace's twenty gentlemen, uncovered, in five coaches two and two; by the serjeant-at-arms, and the black rod. the heralds occupied the back seats of his grace's coach; the judges in their coaches followed. as the procession entered the palace-yard, the soldiers rested their muskets and the drums beat, as to the royal family. meantime, the peers in their robes were assembled; the lord high steward having passed to the house, through the painted chamber, prayers were read; and the peers were called over by garter-king-at-arms. the lord steward, followed first by his four gentlemen attendants, two and two; and afterwards by the clerks of the house of lords, and the clerks of the crown; by the peers, and the peers' sons, proceeded to westminster hall, the lord steward being alone uncovered, and his train borne by a page. proclamation for silence having been made by the lord steward's serjeant-at-arms, the commission was read, the lords standing up, uncovered. then his grace, making obeisance to the lords, reseated himself; and garter, and the black rod, with their reverences, jointly presented the white staff, on their knees, to his grace. thus fully invested with his office, the lord steward took his staff in his hand and descended from the woolsack to a chair prepared for him on an ascent before the throne. the three lords had been brought during this time from the tower. the earl of kilmarnock was conveyed in lord cornwallis's coach, attended by general williamson, deputy governor of the tower; the earl of cromartie, in general williamson's coach, attended by captain marshal; and lord balmerino in the third coach, attended by mr. fowler, gentleman gaoler, who had the axe covered by his side. a strong body of soldiers escorted these carriages. the three lords being conducted into the hall, proclamation was made by the serjeant-at-arms that the lieutenant of the tower should bring his prisoners to the bar, the proclamation being made in this form:--"oyez, oyez, oyez, lieutenant of the tower of london, bring forward your prisoners, william earl of kilmarnock, george earl of cromartie, and arthur lord balmerino, together with the copies of their respective commitments, pursuant to the order of the house of lords." then the lords were led to the bar of the house by the lieutenant-governor, the axe being carried before them with its edge turned from them. the prisoners, when they approached the bar, made three reverences, and fell upon their knees. then said the lord high steward your "lordships may arise;" upon which the three lords arose and bowed to his grace the high steward, and to the house, which compliment was returned by the lord high steward, and by the peers. thus began the trial; "the greatest, and the most melancholy scene," wrote horace walpole to sir horace mann, "that i ever saw. as it was the most interesting sight, it was the most solemn and fine; a coronation is but a puppet show, and all the splendour of it idle; but this sight at once feasted one's eyes, and engaged one's passions;"--a signal avowal for one whom a long continuance in the world's business, and, perhaps, worse, its pleasures, had hardened. a hundred and thirty-nine lords were present, making a noble sight on their benches, and assisting at a ceremony which is said to have been conducted with the most awful solemnity and decency throughout, with one or two exceptions.[ ] the lord chancellor hardwicke, who presided on this occasion, has been justly deemed one of the brightest ornaments of the woolsack. the son of an attorney at dover, as philip yorke, he had risen to the highest offices of the law, by his immense acquirements, and his incomparable powers of illustration and arrangement. by his marriage with a niece of the celebrated lord somers, he strengthened his political interest, which, however, it required few adventitious circumstances to secure. three great men have expressed their admiration of lord hardwicke almost in similar terms: lord mansfield, burke, and wilkes. "when his lordship pronounced his decrees, wisdom herself might be supposed to speak."[ ] in manner, he was usually considered to be dignified, impressive, and unruffled; and his intentions were allowed to be as pure and elevated, as his views were patriotic. on this eventful day, since we cannot reject the testimony of an eye-witness of discernment, we must believe that party spirit, which had usually so little influence over his sense of justice, swayed the prepossessions of lord hardwicke. at all events, it affected his treatment of the unhappy men to whom he displayed a petulance wholly derogatory to his character as a judge, and discreditable to his feelings as a man. "instead of keeping up the humane dignity of the law of england, whose character is to point out any favour to the criminal, he crossed them, and almost scolded at any offer they made towards defence." such is the remark of horace walpole.[ ] comely in person, and possessing a fine voice, lord hardwicke had every opportunity, on this occasion, of a graceful display of dignity and courtesy; yet his deportment, usually so calm and lofty, was obsequious, "curiously searching for occasion to bow to the minister, and, consequently, applying to the other ministers, in a manner, for their orders;--not even ready at the ceremonial." notwithstanding, lord hardwicke, on his death-bed, could with confidence declare "that he had never wronged any man." the unhappy jacobites seem, indeed, to have been considered exceptions to all the common rules of clemency. none of the royal family were present at the trial, from a proper regard for the feelings of the prisoners, and also, perhaps, from a nice sense of the peculiarity of their own condition. after the warrants to the lieutenant of the tower were read, the lord high steward addressed the prisoners, telling them that although their crimes were of the most heinous nature, they were still open to such defences as circumstances, and the rules of law and justice would allow. the indictments for high treason were then read: to these, lords kilmarnock and cromartie pleaded guilty; but when the question was put to lord balmerino, he demanded boldly, but respectfully to be heard, objecting to two clauses in the indictment, in which he was styled "arthur lord balmerino, of the town of carlisle," and also charging him with being at the taking of carlisle, when he could prove "that he was not within twelve miles of it." not insisting upon these objections, and the question being again put to him, he then pleaded, 'not guilty.' lord kilmarnock and lord cromartie were removed from the bar, and the trial of balmerino began. it was prefaced by addresses from sir richard loyd, king's counsel, and from mr. serjeant skinner, who made, what was justly considered by h. walpole, "the most absurd speech imaginable," calling "rebellion, surely the sin of witchcraft," and applying to the duke of cumberland the unfortunate appellation of "scipio."[ ] the attorney general followed, and witnesses were afterwards examined, who fully proved, though accused by balmerino of some inconsistencies, his acts of adherence to the chevalier; his being present in towns where james stuart was proclaimed king; his wearing the regimentals of prince charles's body guards; his marching into carlisle at the head of his troops, with a white cockade in his cap; his presence at the battle of falkirk, in a field with lords kilmarnock and pitsligo, who were at the head of a corps of reserve. six witnesses were examined, but there was no cross-examination, except such as balmerino himself attempted. the witnesses were chiefly men who had served in the same cause for which the brave balmerino was soon to suffer. after they had delivered their testimony, the "old hero," as he was well styled, shook hands cordially with them. in one or two instances, as far as can be judged by the answers, the evidence seems to have been given with reluctance. lord balmerino being asked if he had any thing to offer in his defence, he observed that none of the witnesses had agreed upon the same day as that which was named in the indictment for being at carlisle; and objected to the indictment, that he was not at the taking of carlisle as therein specified. his objections were taken into consideration; the lords retired to their chamber, and there consulted the judges whether it be necessary that an overt act of high treason should be proved to have been committed on the particular day named in the indictment. the answer being in the negative, every hope of acquittal was annihilated for balmerino. he gave up every further defence, and apologised with his usual blunt courtesy for giving their lordships so much trouble: he said that his objections had been the result of advice given by mr. ross, his solicitor, who had laid the case before counsel. the question was then put by the lord high steward, standing up, uncovered, to the lords, beginning with the youngest peer, lord herbert of cherbury; "whether arthur lord balmerino were guilty of high treason, or not guilty?" an unanimous reply was uttered by all those who were present; "guilty upon my honour." lord balmerino, who had retired while the question was put, was then brought back to the bar to hear the decision of the lords. it was received with the intrepidity which had, all throughout the trial, characterised the soldier and the man. during the intervals of form, his natural playfulness and humour appeared, and the kindness of his disposition was manifested. a little boy being in the course of the trial near him, but not tall enough to see, he took him up, made room for the child, and placed him near himself. the axe inspired him with no associations of fear. he played upon it, while talking, with his fingers, and some one coming up to listen to what he was saying, he held it up like a fan between his face and that of the gentleman-gaoler, to the great amusement of all beholders. and this carelessness of the emblem of death was but a prelude to the calmness with which he met his fate. "all he troubled himself about," as a writer of the time observed, "was to end as he begun, and to let his sun set with as _full_ and _fair_ a light as it was possible."[ ] during the time that the lords were withdrawn, the solicitor-general murray, and brother of murray of broughton, addressed balmerino, asking him "how he could give the lords so much trouble," when he had been told by his solicitor that the plea could be of no use to him? the defection and perfidy of murray of broughton were now generally known; and the officious insolence of his inquiry was both revolting and indiscreet. balmerino asked who this person was, and being told, exclaimed, "oh! mr. murray, i am extremely glad to see you. i have been with several of your relations, the poor lady, your mother, was of great use to us at perth."[ ] an admirable and well-merited rebuke. he afterwards declared humorously that one of his reasons for not pleading guilty was, "that so many fine ladies might not be disappointed of their show." besides the interest which at such a moment the grave dignity of kilmarnock, contrasted with the lofty indifference of balmerino, might excite, there was some diversion among the peers, owing to the eccentricity of several of their body. of these, one, lord windsor, affectedly said when asked for his vote, "i am sorry i must say, _guilty upon my honour_." another nobleman, lord stamford, refused to answer to the name of henry, having been christened harry. "what a great way of thinking," remarks horace walpole, "on such an occasion." lord foley withdrew, as being a well-wisher to poor balmerino; lord stair on the plea of kindred--"uncle," as horace walpole sneeringly remarks, to his great-grandfather; and the earl of moray on account of his relationship to balmerino, his mother, jane elphinstone, being sister to that nobleman.[ ] but the greatest source of amusement to all who were present was the celebrated audrey, or to speak in more polite phrase, ethelreda, lady townshend, the wife of charles, third viscount townshend, and the mother of the celebrated wit, charles townshend. lady townshend was renowned for her epigrams, to which, perhaps, in this case, her being separated from her husband gave additional point. when she heard her husband vote, "_guilty upon my honour_," she remarked, "i always knew _my_ lord was _guilty_, but i never knew that he would own it upon his _honour_." her sarcastic humour was often exhibited at the expense of friend or foe. when some one related that whitfield had recanted, "no, madam," she replied, "he has only _canted_." and when lord bath ventured to complain to this audacious leader of fashion, that he had a pain in his side, she cried out, "oh! that cannot be, you have _no side_." a touch of feminine feeling softened the harshness of the professed wit, always a dangerous, and scarcely ever a pleasing character in woman. as lady townshend gazed on the prisoners at the bar, and saw the elegant and melancholy aspect of lord kilmarnock, the heart that was not wholly seared by a worldly career is said to have been deeply and seriously touched by the graces of that incomparable person, and the mournful dignity of his manner. perhaps, opposition to her husband, whose grandfather was minister to george the first, and whose mother was a walpole, gave the additional luxury of partisanship; that passion which lasted even some weeks after the scene was closed; and when the fashionable world were left to enjoy, undisturbed by any fears of any future rebellion, all the dangerous attractions of the dissolute court. the first day's proceedings being at an end, the prisoners were remanded to the tower. on the following morning the proceedings were resumed, and the lords having assembled in the painted chamber, took their places in westminster hall. the three lords were then again brought to the bar, again kneeled down, again were bidden to arise. the attorney-general having prayed for judgment upon the prisoners, they were desired by the lord high steward to say "why judgment of death should not be passed against them according to law." the reply of lord kilmarnock is described as having been a "very fine speech, delivered in a very fine voice;" his behaviour during the whole of the trial, a "most just mixture between dignity and submission." such is the avowal of one who could not be supposed very favourable to the party; but whose better feelings were, for once, called into play during this remarkable scene.[ ] the address of lord kilmarnock, however beautiful and touching in expression, will not, however, satisfy those who look for consistency in the most solemn moments of this chequered state of trial; but in perusing the summary of it, let it be remembered that he was a father; the father of those who had already suffered deeply for his adherence to charles edward; that he was the husband of a lady who, whatever may have been their differences, was at that awful hour still fondly beloved; that he dreaded penury for his children, an apprehension which those who remembered the fate of the jacobites of might well recall; a dread, aggravated by his rank; a dread, the bitterness of which is indescribable; the temptations it offers unspeakably great. these considerations, far stronger than the fear of death, actuated lord kilmarnock. he arose, and a deep silence was procured, whilst he offered no justification of his conduct, "which had been," he said, "of too heinous a nature to be vindicated, and which any endeavour to excuse would rather aggravate than diminish." he declared himself ready to submit to the sentence which he was conscious that he had deserved. "covered with confusion and grief, i throw myself at his majesty's feet." he then appealed to the uniform honour of his life, previous to the insurrection, in evidence of his principles. "my sphere of action, indeed, was narrow; but as much as i could do in that sphere, it is well known, i have always exerted myself to the utmost in every part of his majesty's service i had an opportunity to act in, from my first appearance in the world, to the time i was drawn into the crime, for which i now appeal before your lordships." he referred to his conduct during the civil contest; to his endeavours to avert needless injury to his opponents; to his care of the prisoners, a plea which he yet allowed to be no atonement for the "blood he had been accessary to the spilling of. neither," he said, "do i plead it as such, as at all in defence of my crime." "i have a son, my lords," he proceeded, "who has the honour to carry his majesty's commission; whose behaviour, i believe, will sufficiently evince, that he has been educated in the firmest revolution principles, and brought up with the warmest attachment to his majesty's interests, and the highest zeal for his most sacred person. "it was my chief care to instruct him in these principles from his earliest youth, and to confirm him, as he grew up, in the justice and necessity of them to the good and welfare of the nation. and, i thank god, i have succeeded;--for his father's example did not shake his loyalty; the ties of nature yielded to those of duty; he adhered to the principles of his family, and nobly exposed his life at the battle of culloden, in defence of his king and the liberties of great britain, in which i, his unfortunate father, was in arms to destroy." lord kilmarnock next alluded to the services of his father in , when his zeal and activity in the service of government had caused his death: "i had then," he added, "the honour to serve under him." lord kilmarnock proceeded to explain his own circumstances at the time of the insurrection: he declared that he was not one of those dangerous persons who could raise a number of men when they will, and command them on any enterprise they will: "my interests," he said, "lie on the south side of the forth, in the well inhabited, and well affected counties of kilmarnock and falkirk, in the shires of ayr and stirling." his influence he declared to be very small. this portion of his appeal was ill-advised; for it seems to have been the policy of government to have selected as objects of royal mercy those who had most in their power, not the feeble and impoverished members of the jacobite party. it has been shown what favour would have been manifested to the chief of the powerful clan cameron, had he deigned to receive it: and the event proved, that not the decayed branches, but the vigorous shoots were spared. lord cromartie, who had taken a far more signal part in the insurrection than either kilmarnock or balmerino, and whose resources were considerable, was eventually pardoned, probably with the hope of conciliating a numerous clan. after appealing to his surrender in extenuation of his sentence, and beseeching the intercession of the lords with his majesty, lord kilmarnock concluded--"it is by britons only that i pray to be recommended to a british monarch. but if justice allow not of mercy, my lords, i will lay down my life with patience and resignation; my last breath shall be employed in the most fervent prayers for the preservation and prosperity of his majesty, and to beg his forgiveness, and the forgiveness of my country." he concluded, amid the tears and commiseration of a great majority of those who heard his address. the earl of cromartie was then called upon to speak in arrest of judgment. his defence is said to have been a masterly piece of eloquence. it ended with a pathetic appeal, which fell powerless on those who heard him.[ ] "but, after all, if my safety shall be found inconsistent with that of the public, and nothing but my blood be thought necessary to atone for my unhappy crimes; if the sacrifice of my life, my fortune, and family, are judged indispensable for stopping the loud demands of public justice; if, notwithstanding all the allegations that can be urged in my favour, the bitter cup is not to pass from me, not mine, but thy will, o god, be done."[ ] balmerino then arose to answer the accustomed question. he produced a paper, which was read for him at the bar, by the clerk of the court. it was a plea which had been sent by the house of lords that morning to the prisoners, and which, it was hoped, would save all of these unfortunate men. it contained an objection to the indictments, stating that the act for regulating the trials of rebels, and empowering his majesty to remove such as are taken in arms from one county to another, where they might be tried by the common courts of peers, did not take effect till after the facts, implying treason, had been committed by the prisoners.[ ] the two earls had not made use of this plea, but lord balmerino availed himself of it, and demanded counsel on it. upon the treatment which he then encountered, the following remark is made by one who viewed the scene, and whose commiseration for the jacobites forms one of the few amiable traits of his character.[ ] "the high steward," relates horace walpole, "almost in a passion, told him, that when he had been offered counsel, he did not accept it;--but do think on the ridicule of sending them the plea, and then denying them counsel on it."[ ] a discussion among the lords then took place; and the duke of newcastle, who, as the same writer truly remarks, "never lost an opportunity of being absurd," took it up as a ministerial point "in defence of his creature, the chancellor." lord granville, however, moved, according to order, to return to the chamber of parliament, where the duke of bedford and many others spoke warmly for their "having counsel," and that privilege was granted. "i said _their_," observes walpole, "because the plea would have saved them all, and affected nine rebels who had been hanged that very morning." the lords having returned to the hall, and the prisoners being again called to the bar, lord balmerino was desired to choose his counsel. he named mr. forester, and mr. wilbraham, the latter being a very able lawyer in the house of commons. lord hardwicke is said to have remarked privately, that wilbraham, he was sure, "would as soon be hanged as plead such a cause." but he was mistaken: the conclusion of the trial was again deferred until the following day, friday, august the first, when mr. wilbraham, accompanied by mr. forester, appeared in court as counsel for the prisoners. previously, however, to the proceedings of the last day, lord balmerino was informed that his only hope was ill-founded; the plea was deemed invalid by the counsel; and the straw which had, with the kindest and most laudable intentions, been thrown on the stream to arrest his fate, was insufficient to save him. he bore this disappointment with that fortitude which has raised the character of his countrymen: when he appeared on that last day, in westminster hall, with his brother prisoners, he submitted, in the following brief and simple words, to his destiny. "as your lordships have been pleased to allow me counsel, i have advised with them; and my counsel tell me, there is nothing in that paper which i delivered in on wednesday last, that will be of any use to me; so i will not give your lordships any more trouble." when again asked, according to the usual form, as well as the other prisoners, whether he had anything more to say in arrest of judgment, lord balmerino replied; "no, my lords, i only desire to be heard for a moment." expressing his regret that he should have taken up so much of their lordships' time, he assured them that the plea had not been put in to gain time, but because he had believed there was something in the objection that would do him good. he afterwards added these few words, which one might have wished unsaid: "my lords, i acknowledge my crime, and i beg your lordships will intercede with his majesty for me." the serjeant-at-arms was then distinctly heard proclaiming silence; and the lord high steward delivered what horace walpole has termed, "his very long, and very poor speech, with only one or two good passages in it." on this, there may be, doubtless, contending opinions. those who looked upon the prisoners, and saw men in the full vigour of life, condemned to death, for acting upon acknowledged, though misapplied principles, could scarcely listen to that protracted harangue with an unbiassed judgment. the tenour of the lord high steward's address had, throughout, one marked feature; it presented no hope of mercy; it left no apology nor plea upon which the unhappy prisoners might expect it. it amplified every view of their crime, and pointed out, in strong and able language, its effect upon every relation of society. in conclusion, lord hardwicke said, "i will add no more: it has been his majesty's justice to bring your lordships to a legal trial; and it has been his wisdom to show, that as a small part of his national forces was sufficient to subdue the rebel army in the field, so the ordinary course of his law is strong enough to bring even their chiefs to justice. "what remains for me, is a very painful, though a very necessary part. it is to pronounce that sentence which the law has provided for crimes of this magnitude--a sentence full of horror! such as the wisdom of our ancestors has ordained, as one guard about the sacred person of the king, and as a fence about this excellent constitution, to be a terror to evil doers, and a security to them that do well." and then was heard, thrilling every tender heart with horror, the sentence of hanging, first to be put into execution, and followed by decapitation. the horrible particularities were added--"_of being hanged by the neck,--but not till you are dead--for you must be cut down alive;_"--the rest of this sentence, since it has long ago been suffered to fall into oblivion, may, for the sake of our english feelings, rest there. by those to whom it was addressed, it was heard in the full conviction that it might be carried out on them: since that very morning, nine prisoners of gentle birth had suffered the extreme penalties of that barbarous law.[ ] of the calm manner in which his doom was heard by one of the state prisoners, horace walpole has left the following striking anecdote: "old balmerino keeps up his spirits to the same pitch of gaiety: in the cell at westminster, he showed lord kilmarnock how he must lay his head; bid him not wince, lest the strokes should cut his head or his shoulders; and advised him to bite his lips. as they were to return, he begged they might have another bottle together, as they should never meet any more till--he pointed to his neck. at getting into his coach, he said to the gaoler, 'take care, or you will break my shins with this d----d axe.'"[ ] the english populace could not forbear delighting in the composure of balmerino, who, on returning from westminster hall after his sentence, could stop the coach in which he was about to be conducted to the tower to buy gooseberries; or, as he expressed it in his national phrase, _honey-blobs_.[ ] that night, not contented with saying publicly at his levee, that lord kilmarnock had proposed murdering the english prisoners, the duke of cumberland proposed giving his mistress a ball; but the notion was abandoned, lest it should have been regarded as an insult to the prisoners, and _not_ because a particle of highminded regret for the sufferers could ever enter that hard and depraved heart. too well did the citizens of london understand the duke of cumberland's merits, when, it being proposed to present him with the freedom of some company, one of the aldermen cried aloud, "then let it be of the butchers'!"[ ] the commission was dissolved in the usual forms: "all manner of persons here present were desired to depart in the fear of god, and of our sovereign lord the king." the white staff of office was broken by the lord high steward; the lords adjourned to the chamber of parliament; the prisoners returned to the tower.[ ] three weeks elapsed, after the trial, before the execution of lord kilmarnock and lord balmerino. during that interval, hope sometimes visited the prisoners in their cells, great intercession being made for them by persons of the highest rank. but it was in vain, for the counsels of the duke of cumberland influenced the heart of his royal father, who it is generally believed, would otherwise have been disposed to compassion. during this interval, the sorrows of the prisoners were aggravated by frequent rumours that their beloved prince was taken; but he was safe among his highlanders, and defied the power even of an armed force to surprise him in his singular and various retreats. the earl of cromartie was the only one of the three prisoners to whom royal mercy was extended. this nobleman had been considered, before the insurrection, as the only branch of the mackenzies who could be relied upon. he had been backward in joining the jacobite army, and had never shared the confidence of charles edward. he had been disgusted with the preference shown to murray and to sullivan, to the prejudice of more powerful adherents of the cause: and it was reported, had rather surrendered himself to the earl of sutherland's followers, than resisted when they apprehended him.[ ] amiable in private life, affable in manner, and exempt from the pride of a highland chieftain, this nobleman had been beloved by his neighbours of inferior rank; to the poor he had been a kind benefactor. the domestic relations of life he had fulfilled irreproachably. every heart bled for him; and the case of his son, lord macleod, who had espoused the same cause, excited universal commiseration. on the sunday following the trial, lady cromartie presented her petition to the king: he gave her no hopes; and the unhappy woman fainted when he left her. it is pleasing to rest upon one action of clemency, before returning to the horrors of capital punishment. to the intercession of frederick prince of wales, lord cromartie eventually owed his life; that intercession is believed to have been procured by the merits and the attractions of lady cromartie, who was indefatigable in her exertions. this lady, the daughter of sir william gordon of dalfolly, is said to have possessed every quality that could render a husband happy. beautiful and intellectual, she manifested a degree of spirit and perseverance when called upon to act in behalf of her husband and children, that raised her character to that of a heroine. she was then the mother of nine children, and about to give birth to a tenth. during the period of suspense, her conduct presented that just medium between stoicism and excess of feeling, which so few persons in grief can command.[ ] at last, a reprieve for lord cromartie arrived on the eleventh of august; it was not, however, followed by a release, nor even by a free pardon. during two years, lord cromartie was detained a prisoner in the tower, there, being condemned to witness the departure of his generous friends, kilmarnock and balmerino, to the scaffold. on february the eighteenth, , he was permitted to leave his prison, and to lodge in the house of a messenger. in the following august he went into devonshire, where he was desired to remain. a pardon passed the great seal for his lordship on the twentieth of october, , with a condition that he should remain in any place directed by the king. he died in poland-street in london, on the twenty-eighth of september, .[ ] on thursday, the seventh of august, the reverend james foster, a presbyterian minister, was allowed access to lord kilmarnock, to prepare him for a fate which now seemed inevitable. great intercession had been made for the ill-fated prisoner, by his kinsman, james, sixth duke of hamilton, and husband of the celebrated beauty, miss gunning; but the friendly efforts of that nobleman were thought rather to have "hurried him to the block."[ ] when a report reached him that one of the prisoners would be spared, lord kilmarnock had desired, with the utmost nobleness of soul, that cromartie should be preferred to himself. balmerino lamented that he had not been taken with lord lovat; "for then," he remarked, "we might have been sacrificed, and these two brave men have been spared." but these regrets were unavailing, and lord kilmarnock and his friend prepared to meet their doom. mr. foster, on conversing with lord kilmarnock, found him humbled, but not crushed by his misfortunes; contrite for a life characterized by many errors, but trustful of the infinite mercy, to which we fondly turn from the stern justice of unforgiving man. and the reverend gentleman on whom the solemn responsibility of preparing a soul for judgment was devolved, appears to have discharged his task with a due sense of its delicacy, with fidelity and kindness. having introduced himself to lord kilmarnock with the premises that his lordship would allow him to deal freely with him; that he did not expect to be flattered, nor to have the malignity of his crimes disguised or softened;--mr. foster told him, "that in his opinion, the wound of his mind, occasioned by his private and public vices, must be probed and searched to the bottom, before it could be capable of receiving a remedy." "if he disapproved of this plan," mr. foster thought "he could be of no use to him, and therefore declined attendance." to this lord kilmarnock replied that, "whilst he thought it was not mr. foster's province to interfere in things remote from his office, yet it was now no time to prevaricate with him, nor to play the hypocrite with god, before whose tribunal he should shortly appear." this point being settled, the minister of the gospel deemed it necessary to persuade the earl, that he was not to be amused with vain delusive hopes of a reprieve; that he must view his sentence as inevitable; otherwise that his mind might be distracted between hope and fear; and that true temper of penitence which alone could recommend him to divine mercy would be unattainable. the unfortunate earl touchingly answered, that indeed, when he consulted his reason, and argued calmly with himself, he could see no ground of mercy; yet still the hope of life would intrude itself. he was afraid, he said, that buoyed up by this delusive hope, when the warrant for his execution came down, he should have not only the terror of his sentence to contend with, but the fond delusions of his own heart:--to overcome the bitter disappointment--the impossibility of submission. he therefore assured mr. foster, that he would do all in his own power to repel that visionary enemy, and to fix his thoughts on the important task of perfecting his repentance, and of preparing for death and eternity. in regard to the part which lord kilmarnock had taken in recent events, there seemed no difficulty in impressing his mind with a deep sense of the responsibility which he had incurred in helping to diffuse terror and consternation through the land, in the depredation and ruin of his country: and in convincing him that he ought to consider himself accessory to innumerable private oppressions and murders. "yes," replied lord kilmarnock, with deep emotion "and murders of the innocent too," and frequently he acknowledged this charge with tears, and offered up short petitions to god for mercy. but when mr. foster mentioned to him that the consequences of the "rebellion and its natural tendency was to the subversion of our excellent free constitution, to extirpate our holy religion, and to introduce the monstrous superstitions and cruelties of popery," lord kilmarnock hesitated; and owned, at length, that he did not contemplate such mischiefs as the result of the contest; that he did not believe that the young chevalier would run the risk of defeating his main design by introducing popery; nor would so entirely forget the warnings which the history of his family offered, so far as to make any attacks upon the liberties and constitution of the country. his entering into the rebellion was occasioned, as he then declared, by the errors and vices of his previous life; and was a kind of desperate scheme to extricate him from his difficulties. humbled and penetrated by the remembrance of former levity, lord kilmarnock remarked, that not only was providence wise and righteous, but to him, gracious; and that he regarded it as an unspeakable mercy to his soul, that he had not fallen at the battle of culloden, impenitent and unreflecting; for that, if the rebellion had been successful, he should have gone on in his errors, without ever entertaining any serious thought of amendment. "often," added the contrite and chastened man, "have i made use of these words of christ, 'father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless, not as i will, but as thou wilt.'" but he had checked himself by the reflection, that it was not for him who had been so great a sinner, to address himself to god in the same language with his blessed saviour, who was perfectly innocent and holy. in time, aided by the representations of his spiritual attendant, the deepest remorse for a life not untainted by impurity of conduct, was succeeded by religious peace. it was then that the prisoner turned to that bread of life which christ hath left for those who hunger and thirst after righteousness. but the minister who led him into the fold of the great shepherd, would not consent to administer to him the holy sacrament without a full confession made in the presence of the gentleman gaoler, of his past offences, and of his contrition for them. at that solemn moment, when the heart was laid open to human witnesses, lord kilmarnock professed the deepest penitence for his concurrence in the rebellion, and for the irregularities of his private life: he declared his conviction that the holy sacrament would be of no benefit to him whatsoever, if his remorse and contrition were not sincere. this assurance was, in other words, yet, in substance the same, emphatically repeated. during the conversations held with lord kilmarnock, mr. foster perceived that the confessions of the penitent were free and ingenuous; that he examined his own heart with a searching and scrupulous care, sternly challenging memory to the aid of conscience. at last, he declared that he should rather prefer the speedy execution of his sentence to a longer life, if he were sure that he should again be entangled by the snares and temptations of the world. this was a few days before his death. gradually, but effectually, the spirit that had so much in it of a heavenly temper; the heart, so framed to be beloved, was purified and elevated; so that, a beautiful and holy calm, a heavenly disinterestedness, a patience worthy of him who bore the name of christian, were manifested in one whom it were henceforth wrong to call unhappy. when lord cromartie's reprieve became known to mr. foster, he dreaded, lest this subdued, yet fortified mind, should be disturbed by the jealousies to which our worldly condition is prone: he trembled lest the sorrow of separation from a world which lord kilmarnock had loved too fondly, should be revived by the pardon of his friend. "therefore," relates mr. foster, "in the morning before i waited upon him, i prepared myself to quiet and mollify his mind. but one of the first things he said to me was, that he was extremely glad that the king's mercy had been shown to lord cromartie." "my lord," inquired mr. foster, "i hope you do not think you have any injustice shown you?" lord kilmarnock's answer was, "not in the least; i have pleaded guilty: i entirely acquiesce in the justice of my sentence; and if mercy be extended to another, i can have no reason to complain, when nothing but justice is done to me." with regard to some points upon which the public odium was directed to the young chevalier and his party, lord kilmarnock was very explicit in his last conversations with mr. foster. we have already seen how far he was enabled to clear himself concerning his conduct to the prisoners at inverness. a report having been industriously circulated, probably with a view to excuse the barbarities of the duke of cumberland, that an order had been issued in the pretender's council at inverness, to destroy the prisoners who might be taken at the battle of culloden, mr. foster put the question to lord kilmarnock, whether that statement were true? "i can most sincerely and freely answer, no," was the satisfactory reply; and a similar contradiction was given by the dying man to every accusation of a similar tendency.[ ] on monday the eleventh of august, general williamson desired mr. foster, "in the gentlest terms that he could use, to apprize lord kilmarnock, that he had received the order for his, and for lord balmerino's execution." mr. foster at first refused to undertake this office. "i was so shocked at it," writes the good man "that i could not think of delivering the message myself, but would endeavour to prepare the unfortunate lord for it, by divesting him, as far as i could, of all hope of life." such, indeed, had been the continual aim of all the reverend minister's counsels; and he had hoped to entrust the last mournful task of informing him of the order to other hands. on finding lord kilmarnock in a very resigned and calm state of mind, he ventured, however, to hint to him how necessary was that diligent and constant preparation for death which he had endeavoured to impress upon his mind. this was sufficient: the ill-fated prisoner immediately inquired, "whether the warrant for his execution was come down?" "i told him that it was," relates mr. foster, "and that the day fixed upon was the following monday." lord kilmarnock received this intimation with a solemn consciousness of the awful nature of its import; but no signs of terror nor of anxiety added to the sorrows of that hour. in the course of conversation, he observed to mr. foster, that "he was chiefly concerned about the consequences of death, in comparison of which he considered the 'thing itself' a trifle: with regard to the manner of his death he had, he thought, no great reason to be terrified, for that the stroke appeared to be scarcely so much as the drawing of a tooth, or the first shock of a cold bath upon a weak and fearful temper." at the last hour, nevertheless, the crowd,--the scaffold,--the doom, upset that sublime and heavenly resignation,--the weakness of the flesh prevailed, although only for an instant. in the silence and solitude of his prison, lord kilmarnock's recollection reverted to those whom human nature were shortly to be left to buffet with the storms of their hard fate. it reverted also to those who might, in any way, have suffered at his hands. the following touching epistle, addressed to his factor, mr. robert paterson, written two days only before his execution, shows how tender was his affection for his unhappy wife: in how christian a spirit towards others he died. his consideration for the poor shoemakers of elgin is one of those beautiful traits of character which mark a conscientious mind. the original of this letter is still in existence, and is in the possession of the great-grandson of him to whom it was addressed.[ ] "sir, "i have commended to your care the inclosed packet, to be delivered to my wife in the manner your good sense shall dictate to you, will be least shocking to her. let her be prepared for it as much by degrees, and with great tenderness, as the nature of the thing will admit of. the entire dependance i have all my life had the most just reason to have on your integrity and friendship to my wife and family, as well as to myself, make me desire that the inclosed papers may come to my wife through your hands, in confidence; but you will take all the pains to comfort her, and relieve the grief i know she will be in, that you and her friends can. she is what i leave dearest behind me in the world; and the greatest service you can do to your dead friend, is to contribute as much as possible to her happiness in mind, and in her affairs. "you will peruse the state[ ] before you deliver it to her, and you will observe that there is a fund of hers (i don't mention that of five hundred scots a-year); as the interest of my mother-in-law's portion in the countess of errol's hands, with, i believe, a considerable arrear upon it; which, as i have ordered a copy of all these papers to that countess, i did not care to put in. there is another thing of a good deal of moment, which i mention only to you, because if it could be taken away without noise it would be better; but if it is pushed it will be necessary to defend it. that is, a bond which you know mr. kerr, director to the chancery, has of me for a considerable sum of money, with many years interest on it, which was almost all play debt. i don't think i ever had fifty pounds, or the half of it, of mr. kerr's money, and i am sure i never had a hundred; which however i have put it to, in the inclosed declaration, that my mind may be entirely at ease. my intention with respect to that sum was to wait till i had some money, and then buy it off, by a composition of three hundred pounds, and if that was not accepted of, to defend it; in which i neither saw, nor now see anything unjust; and now i leave it on my successors to do what they find most prudent in it. beside my personal debt mentioned in general and particular in the state,[ ] there is one for which i am liable in justice, if it is not paid, owing to poor people, who gave their work for it by my orders; it was at elgin in murray; the regiment i commanded wanted shoes. i commissioned something about seventy pair of shoes and brogues, which might come to about three shillings, or three and sixpence each, one with another. the magistrates divided them among the shoemakers of the town and country, and each shoemaker furnished his proportion. i drew on the town for the price out of the composition laid on them, but i was told afterwards at inverness, that it was believed the composition was otherwise applied, and the poor shoemakers not paid. as these poor people wrought by my orders, it will be a great ease to my heart to think they are not to lose by me, as too many have done in the course of that year; but had i lived, i might have made some enquiry after it; but now it is impossible, as their hardships in loss of horses, and such things which happened through my soldiers, are so interwoven with what was done by other people, that it would be very hard, if not impossible, to separate them. if you will write to mr. jones of dalkinty, at elgin, (with whom i was quartered when i lay there,) he will send you an account of the shoes, and if they were paid to the shoemakers or no; and if they are not, i beg you'll get my wife, or my successors, to pay them when they can. "receive a letter to me from mrs. boyd, my cousin malcomb's widow; i shall desire her to write to you for an answer. "accept of my sincere thanks for your friendship and good services to me. continue them to my wife and children. "my best wishes are to you and yours, and for the happiness and prosperity of the good town of kilmarnock, and i am, sir, your humble servant, "kilmarnock." tower of london, august th, . on the saturday previous to the execution of lord kilmarnock, general williamson gave his prisoners a minute account of all the circumstances of solemnity, and outward terror, which would accompany it. lord kilmarnock heard it much with the same expression of concern as a man of a compassionate disposition would read it, in relation to others. after suggesting a trifling alteration in the arrangements after the execution, he expressed his regret that the headsman should be, as general williamson informed him, a "good sort of man;" remarking, that one of a rougher nature and harder heart, would be more likely to do his work quickly. he then requested that four persons might be appointed to receive the head when it was severed from the body, in a red cloth; that it might not, as he had heard was the case at other executions, "roll about the scaffold and be mangled and disfigured." "for i would not," he added, "though it may be but a trifling matter, that my remains should appear with any needless indecency after the just sentence of the law is satisfied." he spoke calmly and easily on all these particulars, nor did he even shrink when told that his head would be held up and exhibited to the multitude as that of a traitor. "he knew," he said, "that it was usual, and it did not affect him." during these singular conversations, his spiritual attendant and the general, could hardly have been more precise in their descriptions had they been portraying the festive ceremonials of a coming bridal, than they were in the fearful minutiæ of the approaching execution. it was thought by them that such recitals would accustom the mind of the prisoner to the apparatus and formalities that would attend his death, and that these would lose their influence over his mind. "he allowed with me," observes mr. foster, "that such circumstances were not so melancholy as dying after a lingering disorder, in a darkened room, with weeping friends around one, and whilst the shattered frame sank under slow exhaustion." but experience and human feelings contradict this observation of the resigned and unhappy sufferer; we look to death, under such an aspect, as the approach of rest; but human nature shrinks from the violent struggle, the momentary but fierce convulsion, plunging us, as it were, into the abyss of the grave. at this moment of his existence, when it was certain ruin at court and in the army, to befriend the jacobite prisoner, a friend, the friend of his youth, came nobly forward to attend lord kilmarnock in his dying moments. this was john walkinshaw craufurd, of craufurdland in the county of ayr, between whose family and that of the house of boyd, a long and intimate friendship of several centuries had existed; "so much so," observes a member of the present family of craufurd,[ ] "that a subterranean passage is said to exist between our old castles, of which we _fancy_ proofs; but these are fire-side legends." "the family of craufurd," observes mr. burke, "is one of antiquity and eminence in a part of the empire where ancestry and exploit have ever been held in enthusiastic admiration." by marriage, in the thirteenth century, it is allied anciently with the existing house of loudon; and its connection and friendship with the house of boyd was cemented by the death of one of its heads, robert craufurd, in , in consequence of a wound received at the wyllielee, from attending james boyd, earl of arran, in a duel with the earl of eglintoun. in the days of charles the first and second, the craufurds had been covenanters, as appears in the history of that time: and in the year , they were stanch whigs; and colonel walkinshaw craufurd had, when called upon to pay a mournful proof of respect to lord kilmarnock, attained the rank of colonel in the british army. besides the ancient friendship of the family, there had been several intermarriages; and the father of colonel craufurd had espoused, after the death of miss walkinshaw, elenora, the widow of the honorable thomas boyd, the brother of lord kilmarnock. colonel walkinshaw craufurd was a fine specimen of the true scottish gentleman, and of the british officer. he was a very handsome, stately man, of high-bred manners, and portly figure, whom his tenantry both feared and honoured. he lived almost continually in the highest circles in london, except when in service, and also at the court, visiting his castle in ayrshire only in the hunting season, for he kept a pack of hounds. to such a man the sacrifice of public opinion, then all against the jacobites,--the sure loss of court favour,--the risk of losing all military promotion, were no small considerations; yet he cast them all to the winds, and came nobly forward to pay the last respect to his kinsman and friend. already had he distinguished himself at the battle of dettingen and fontenoy; and he might reasonably expect the highest military honours: yet he incurred the risk of attending lord kilmarnock on the scaffold, and performing that office for him which that nobleman required. i almost blush to write the sequel; for _this_ act, colonel craufurd was, immediately after the last scene was over, put down to the very bottom of the army list.[ ] such was the petty and vindictive policy of the british government, influenced, it may be presumed, by the same dark mind that visited upon the faithful highlanders the horrors of military law, in punishment of their fidelity and heroism. "the king," observes horace walpole, referring to these and other acts, "is much inclined to mercy; but the duke of cumberland, who has not so much of cæsar after a victory, as in gaining it, is for the utmost severity."[ ] whilst the mind of lord kilmarnock was thus gradually prepared for death, lord balmerino passed cheerfully the hours which were so soon to terminate in his doom. fondly attached to his young wife, balmerino obtained the boon of her society in his prison. so much were the people attracted by the hardihood and humour of this brave old man, that it was found necessary by the authorities to stop up the windows of his prison-chamber in the tower, in order to prevent his talking to the populace out of the window. one only was left unclosed, with characteristic cruelty: it commanded a view of the scaffolding erected for his execution.[ ] one day the lieutenant of the tower brought in the warrant for his death: lady balmerino fainted. "lieutenant," said lord balmerino, "with your d----d warrant you have spoiled my lady's dinner." lord balmerino is said to have written to the duke of cumberland a "very sensible letter," requesting his intercession with the king; but this seems to have been unavailing, from the well-known exclamation of george the second, when solicited for the other prisoners, "will no one speak a word to me for poor balmerino?" the day appointed for the execution was the eighteenth of august, at eight in the morning. mr. foster visited lord kilmarnock, and found him in a calm and happy temper, without any disturbance of that serenity which had of late blessed his days of imprisonment. he affected not to brave death, but viewed it in the awful aspect in which even the best of men, and the most hopeful christians, must consider that solemn change. he expressed his belief, that a man who had led a dissolute life, and who yet believed the consequences of death, to affect indifference at that hour, showed himself either to be very impious, or very stupid. one apprehension still clung to his mind, proving how sensitive had been that conscience which strove in vain to satisfy itself. he told mr. foster "he could not be sure that his repentance was sincere, because it had never been tried by the temptation of returning to society." lord kilmarnock continued in a composed state of mind during the whole morning. after a short prayer, offered up by mr. foster, at his desire, he was informed that the sheriffs waited for the prisoners. he heard this announcement calmly; and said to general williamson, with his wonted grace, "general, i am ready to follow you." he then quitted his prison, and descended the stairs. as he was going down, he met lord balmerino; and the friends embraced. "my lord," said the noble balmerino, "i am heartily sorry to have your company in this expedition."[ ] the prisoners then proceeded to the outward gate of the tower, where the sheriffs, who had walked there in procession, received them: this was about ten o'clock in the morning of the eighteenth of august. the bodies of the two noblemen having been delivered with the usual formalities to the sheriffs, they proceeded to the late transport office, a building near the scaffold. two presbyterian ministers, mr. foster and mr. home, accompanied lord kilmarnock, whilst the chaplain of the tower and another clergyman, attended lord balmerino. three rooms, hung with black, were prepared; one for each of the condemned noblemen; another, fronting the scaffold, for spectators. here, those who were so soon to suffer, had a short conference with each other, chiefly relating to the order, said to have been issued at culloden, to give no quarter. this was a subject, not only of importance to lord kilmarnock's memory, but to the character of the jacobite party generally. "did you, my lord," said the generous balmerino, still anxious, even at the last hour, to justify his friends, "see or know of any order, signed by the prince, to give no quarter at the battle of culloden?" "no, my lord," replied kilmarnock. "nor i neither," rejoined balmerino; "and therefore it seems to be an invention to justify their own murderous scheme." to this lord kilmarnock answered, "no, my lord, i do not think it can be an invention, because, while i was a prisoner at inverness, i was told by several officers that there was such an order, signed 'george murray,' and that it was in the duke of cumberland's custody." to this statement, (which was wholly erroneous) lord balmerino exclaimed, "lord george murray! why then, they should not charge it on the prince." after this explanation, he bade kilmarnock a last farewell: as he embraced him, he said, in the same noble spirit, that he had ever shown, "my dear lord kilmarnock, i am only sorry i cannot pay all this reckoning alone: once more, farewell for ever." lord kilmarnock was then left with the sheriffs, and his spiritual advisers. in their presence, he solemnly declared himself to be a protestant, and said that he was thoroughly satisfied of the legality of the king's claim to the throne. he had been educated in these principles, and he now thoroughly repented having ever engaged in the rebellion. he afterwards stated to his friends that he had within this week taken the sacrament twice in evidence of the truth of his repentance. the hour of noon was now fast approaching, when the last act of relentless justice was to be performed. mr. foster, after permitting the earl a few moments to compose himself, suggested that he should engage with him in prayer, and afterwards proceed to the scaffold. the minister then addressed himself to all who were present, urging them to join with him in this last solemn office, and in recommending the soul of an unhappy penitent to the mercy of god. those who were engaged in this sad scene, sank on their knees, whilst, after a petition relating to the prisoner, a prayer was offered up "for king george, for our holy religion, for our inestimable british liberties." this prayer, for the royal family, lord kilmarnock had often protested he would, at the latest moment, offer up to the throne of god. after this solemn duty had been performed, lord kilmarnock bade an affectionate farewell to the gentlemen who had accompanied him, and here mr. foster's office ceased, the rev. mr. home, a young clergyman, and a personal friend of lord kilmarnock, succeeding him in attendance upon the prisoner. many reports prevailed of lord kilmarnock's fear of death, and of the weakness of his resolution; and balmerino, it is said, apprehended that he would not "behave well," an expression used, perhaps, in reference to his opinions, perhaps in anticipation of a failure of courage. as leaning upon the arm of his friend mr. home, lord kilmarnock saw, for the first time, that outward apparatus of death to which he had taken such pains to familiarise himself; "nature still recurred upon him;"--for an instant, the home of peace, to which he was hastening, was forgotten;--"the multitude, the block, the coffin, the executioner, the instrument of death," appalled one, whose character was amiable, rather than exalted. he turned to his attendant, and exclaimed, "home, this is terrible!" yet his countenance, even as he uttered these words, was unchanged, and in a few moments, he regained the composure of one whose hope was in the mercy of his creator. what else could sustain him in the agonies of that moment? "his whole behaviour," writes mr. foster, "was so humble and resigned, that not only his friends, but every spectator, was deeply moved; the executioner burst into tears, and was obliged to use artificial spirits to support and strengthen him." as the man kneeled down, after the usual custom, to pray for forgiveness, lord kilmarnock desired him to have courage, and placing a purse of gold in his hand, told him that the dropping of a handkerchief should be the signal for the blow. mr. foster having rejoined lord kilmarnock on the scaffold, a long conversation, in a low voice, took place between them; for lord kilmarnock made no speech. "i wish," said mr. foster, "i had a voice loud enough to tell the multitude with what sentiments your lordship quits the world." again, the unfortunate nobleman embraced his friends; and bade mr. foster, who quitted the scaffold a few minutes before his execution, a last farewell. during all this time, which was more than half an hour, he took no notice of the multitude below: except, observing that the green baize over the wall obstructed the view, he desired that it might be lifted up that the crowd might see the spectacle of his execution. a delay now took place, attributed by some to lord kilmarnock's "unwillingness to depart:"[ ] but owing to a few trivial circumstances which, as mr. foster remarks, "are unnecessary to be mentioned in order to vindicate the noble penitent from the imputation of fear in the critical moment." to the last, a scrupulous attention to decorum, and nicety in dress characterized lord kilmarnock. at his trial, he was described as having been a little too precise, and his hair "too exactly dressed for a person in his situation." on the scaffold the same care was manifested. he appeared in a mourning suit, and his hair, which was unpowdered, was dressed according to the fashion of the day, in a bag, which it took some time to undo, in order to replace the bag by a cap. even then, the cap being large, and the hair long, his lordship was apprehensive that some of the hair might escape, and intercept the stroke of the axe. he therefore requested a gentleman near him, to tie the cap round his head, that he might bind up the hair more closely. as this office was performed, the person to whom he had applied, wished his lordship a continuance of his resolution until he should meet with eternal happiness. "i thank you," returned lord kilmarnock, with his usual courtesy and sweetness; "i find myself perfectly easy and resigned." there was also another impediment,--the tucking of his shirt under his waistcoat was next adjusted. then lord kilmarnock, taking out a paper containing the heads of his last devotions, advanced to the utmost stage of the scaffold, and kneeled down at the block, on which, in praying, he placed his hands, until the executioner remonstrated, begging of him to let his hands fall down, lest they should be mangled, or should intercept the blow. he was also told that the neck of his waistcoat was in the way; he therefore arose, and with the help of colonel walkinshaw craufurd, had it taken off. near him were standing those who held the cloth ready to receive his head; among these mr. home's servant heard lord kilmarnock tell the executioner, that in two minutes he would give the signal. a few moments were spent in fervent devotion; then the sign was given, and the head was severed from the body by one stroke. it was not exposed to view according to custom: but was deposited in a coffin with the body, and delivered to his lordship's friends. one peculiarity attended this execution. it is not required by law that the head of a person decapitated should be exposed; but is a custom adopted in order to satisfy the multitude that the execution has been accomplished. since, by lord kilmarnock's dying request, this practice was omitted, the sheriffs ordered that all the attendants on the scaffold should kneel down, so that the view of the execution might not be impeded[ ] to those who were below. the scaffold was immediately cleared, and put in order for another victim; and mr. ford, the under-sheriff, who had attended the first execution, went into the room in the transport office where balmerino awaited his doom. "i suppose," inquired the undaunted balmerino, "that my lord kilmarnock is no more." and having asked how he died, and being told the account, he said: "it is well done, and now, gentlemen, i will no longer detain you, for i desire not to protract my life." he spoke calmly, and even cheerfully; lord kilmarnock had shed tears as he bade his friends farewell, but balmerino, whilst others wept, was even cheerful, and hastened to the scaffold. his deportment, when in the room where he awaited the summons to death, was graceful and yet simple, without either any ostentation of bravery, or indications of indifference to his fate. he did not defy the terror, he rose above it. he conversed freely with his friends, and refreshed himself twice with wine and bread, desiring the company to drink to him, as he expressed it in his scottish phrase, "ain degrae ta haiven;" but above all, he prayed often and fervently for support, and support was given. true to the last to his professions, lord balmerino was dressed in what was called by a contemporary, "his rebellious regimentals," such as he had worn at culloden; they were of blue cloth, turned up with red; underneath them was a flannel waistcoat and a shroud. he ascended the scaffold, "treading," as an observer expressed it, "with the air of a general," and surveying the spectators, bowed to them; he walked round it, and read the inscription on his coffin, "arthurus dominus de balmerino, decollatus, ^o die august. , ætatis suæ ^o;" observed "that it was right," and with apparent pleasure looked at the block saying, it was his "pillow of rest." lord balmerino then pulling out his spectacles, read a paper to those who stood around him, and delivered it to the sheriff to do with it as he thought proper. it was subsequently printed in a garbled form, much of it being deemed too treasonable for publication, and in that form is preserved in the state trials.[ ] it is now given as it was really spoken. "i was bred in the anti-revolution principles, which i have ever persevered in, from a sincere persuasion that the restoration of the royal family, and the good of my native country, are inseparable. the action of my life which now stares me most in the face, is my having accepted a commission in the army from the late princess anne, who i knew had no more right to the crown than her predecessor, the prince of orange, whom i always considered as an infamous usurper. "in the year , as soon as the king landed in scotland, i thought it my indispensable duty to join his standard, though his affairs were then in a desperate situation. "i was in switzerland in the year , where i received a letter from my father acquainting me that he had procured me remission, and desiring me to return home. not thinking myself at liberty to comply with my father's desire without the king's approbation, i wrote to rome to know his majesty's pleasure, and was directed by him to return home; and at the same time i received a letter of credit upon his banker at paris, who furnished me with money to defray the expense of my journey, and put me in repair. i think myself bound, upon this occasion, to contradict a report which has been industriously spread, and which i never heard of till i was prisoner; that orders were given to the prince's army to give no quarter at the battle of culloden. with my eye upon the block, which will soon bring me unto the highest of all tribunals, i do declare that it is without any manner of foundation, both because it is impossible it could have escaped the knowledge of me, who was captain of the prince's life guards, or of lord kilmarnock, who was colonel of his own regiment; but still more so, as it is entirely inconsistent with the mild and generous nature of that brave prince, whose patience, fortitude, intrepidity, and humanity, i must declare upon this solemn occasion, are qualities in which he excels all men i ever knew, and which it ever was his desire to employ for the relief and preservation of his father's subjects. i believe rather, that this report was spread to palliate and excuse the murders they themselves committed in cold blood after the battle of culloden. "i think it my duty to return my sincere acknowledgments to major white and mr. fowler, for their humane and complaisant behaviour to me during my confinement. i wish i could pay the same compliment to general williamson, who used me with the greatest inhumanity and cruelty; but having taken the sacrament this day, i forgive him, as i do all my enemies. "i die in the religion of the church of england, which i look upon as the same with the episcopal church of scotland, in which i was brought up." after delivering this speech, lord balmerino laid his head upon the block, and said, "god reward my friends, and forgive my enemies: bless and restore the king; preserve the prince, and the duke of york,--and receive my soul." the executioner then being called for, and kneeling to ask forgiveness, lord balmerino interrupted him. "friend, you need not ask my forgiveness; the execution of your duty is commendable." he then gave the headsman three guineas, saying, "this is all i have; i can only add to it my coat and waistcoat," which, accordingly, he took off, laying them on the coffin for the executioner. after putting on a flannel jacket made for the occasion, and a plaid cap, he went to the block in order to show the executioner the signal. he then returned to his friends. "i am afraid," he said, addressing them, "that there are some here who may think my behaviour bold: remember, sir," he added, addressing a gentleman near him, "what i tell you; it arises from a just confidence in god, and a clear conscience." memorable, and beautiful words, distinguishing between the presumption of indifference, and the security of a living faith. when he laid his head on the block to try it, he said, "if i had a thousand lives i would lay them all down in the same cause." lord balmerino then showed the executioner where to strike the blow; he examined the edge of the axe, and bade the man to strike with resolution; "for in _that_, friend," he said, as he replaced the axe in the hand of the man, "will consist your mercy." he asked how many strokes had been given to lord kilmarnock. two clergymen coming up at that moment, he said, "no, gentlemen, i believe you have already done me all the service you can." he called loudly to the warder, and gave him his perriwig; and instantly laid down his head upon the block, but being told that he was on the wrong side, he vaulted round, and extending his arms uttered this short prayer: "o lord, reward my friends, forgive my enemies:"--he uttered, it has been stated, another ejaculation for king james; but that petition was suppressed in the printed accounts of his death: then, pronouncing these words, "receive my soul," he gave the signal by throwing up his arm, as if he were giving the signal for battle. his intrepidity, and the suddenness of that last sign terrified the executioner, whose arm became almost powerless; the affrighted man struck the blow on the part directed, but though, it is hoped, it destroyed all sensation, the head was not severed, but fell back on the shoulders, exhibiting a ghastly sight. two more strokes of the axe were requisite to complete the work. then, the head having been received in a piece of scarlet cloth, the lifeless remains of the true, and noble hearted soldier were deposited in a coffin, and delivered to his friends. a vast multitude viewed this spectacle, so execrable in its cruelty, so great in the deportment of the sufferers. even on the masts of ships, in the calm river, were the spectators piled; all classes of society were interested in this memorable scene; and, for a few short weeks, the fashionable circles were diverted by the humours of lady townshend, and the witticisms of george selwyn. during the imprisonment of kilmarnock, it had been the fancy of the former to station herself under the window of his chamber in one of the dismal towers in which he was detained; to send messages to him, and to obtain his dog and snuff-box. but even this show of affected feeling failed to make compassion fashionable in the regions of st. james's. calumny was busy at the grave of the beheaded jacobites; and the accounts of those who attended them in their last hours were attacked by anonymous pamphleteers. it was said, among other things, that balmerino uttered no prayer at the last moment; and his behaviour was contrasted with that of kilmarnock. on this allegation, mr. ford, the under-sheriff, who was on the scaffold, observes, "the authors of these attacks being concealed are unworthy of other notice, since nothing is easier to an ingenious and unprejudiced mind, than to distinguish between the subject and the man: my lord kilmarnock was happily educated in right principles, which he deviated from, and repented; whereas, the great, though unhappy balmerino, was unfortunate in his,--but, as he lived, he died."[ ] the characters of these two noblemen, who, in life, held a very dissimilar course, until they coöperated in arms, are strongly contrasted. to kilmarnock belonged the gentle qualities which enhance the pleasures of society, but often, too, increase its perils: the susceptible, affectionate nature, not fortified by self-controul; the compassionate disposition, acting rather from impulse than principle. infirm in principle, his rash alliance with a party who were opposed to all that he had learned to respect in childhood; and whom he joined, from the stimulus of a misdirected ambition, cannot be justified. to this, it was generally believed, he was greatly incited by the persuasions of his mother-in-law, the countess of errol. whilst we bestow our cordial approbation on those who engaged in civil strife from a sense of duty, and from notions of allegiance, which had never been exterminated from their moral code, we condemn such as, attaching themselves to the jacobite party, outraged their secret convictions, betrayed the trusts of government, and violated the promise of their youth. such a course must spring either from selfishness, or weakness, or from a melancholy union of both. in lord kilmarnock it was far more the result of weakness than of self-interest: his fortunes were desperate, and his mind was embittered towards the ruling government: his admiration was attracted by the gallantry and resolution of those who adhered to the chevalier: his sense of what was due to his rank, and the consciousness of high descent, coupled with empty honours and real poverty, stimulated him to take that course which seemed the most likely to regain a position, without ever enjoying which a man may be happy, but which few can bear to lose. this was his original error; he joined the standard of charles edward,--but he was no jacobite. he fought against his own convictions, the hereditary and ineffaceable prepossessions implanted in the heart by a parent. from henceforth, until immured in the tower, all in the career of lord kilmarnock was turbulence; and, it must be acknowledged, crime. for nothing can justify a resistance of sovereign power, save a belief in its illegality. "i engaged in the rebellion," was lord kilmarnock's confession, "in opposition to my own principles, and to those of my family; in contradiction to the whole tenor of my conduct." such were his expressions at that hour when no earthly considerations had power to seduce him into falsehood. by those historians who espouse the jacobite cause, this avowal has been severely censured; and lord kilmarnock has been regarded as deserting the party which he had espoused. but, with his conviction, such a line of conduct as that which he pursued in prison, could alone be honest, and therefore alone consistent with his religious hopes, before he quitted life. such censure has been well answered in lord kilmarnock's own words, "i am in little pain for the reflections which the inconsiderate or prejudiced part of my countrymen, (if there are any such whom my suffering the just sentence of the law has not mollified,) may cast upon me for this confession. the wiser or more ingenious will, i hope, approve my conduct, and allow with me, that next to doing right is to have the courage and integrity to avow that i have done wrong." these sentiments were not, be it observed, made public until after his death. if, in early life, the career of lord kilmarnock were tainted by dissolute conduct, his deep contrition, his sincere confession of his errors, his endeavours to amend them, redeem those very errors in the eyes of human judgment, as they will probably plead for him, with one who is more merciful than man. in his prison, his patience in suspense, his forbearance to those who had urged on his death, his generous sentiments towards his companions in misfortune,--his care for others, his trust in the mercy of his saviour, present as instructive a lesson as mortals can glean from the errors and the penitence of others. contrasted with the gentle, unfortunate kilmarnock, the gallant bearing of balmerino rises to heroism. one cannot, for the sake of his party, help regretting that he had not taken a more prominent part in the councils of the young chevalier, or held a more distinguished position in the field. his integrity, his strong sense, and moral courage might have had an advantageous influence over the wavering, and confirmed the indecisive. in the field, his would have been the desperate valour which suits a desperate cause; but his resources were few, and his influence proportionately small. the soldier of fortune, driven at an early age from home, sent from country to country, serving, with little hope of advancement, under various generals, balmerino had learned to view life almost as a matter of indifference, compared with the honest satisfaction of preserving consistency. his existence had been one of trial, and of banishment from all domestic pleasures, and in the perils of his youthful days, he had learned to view it as so precarious, that his final doom came not to him as a surprise, but seemed merely a natural conclusion of a career of danger and adventure. his heroism may excite less admiration even than the resignation of those who had more to lose; but his intrepidity, his courageous sincerity, his contempt of all display, his carelessness of himself, and the tender concern which he evinced for others, are qualities which we should not be _english_ not to appreciate and venerate. his were the finest attributes of the soldier and the jacobite: the firm, unflinching adherence; the enthusiastic loyalty; the utter repugnance to all compromising; and the lofty disregard of opinion, which extorted, even from those who endeavoured to ridicule, a reluctant respect. for the relentless pretext of what was called justice, which sent this brave man to his doom, there is no possibility of accounting, except in the deep party hatred of the government. lord kilmarnock is believed to have owed his death to the false report industriously spread of his having treated the english prisoners with cruelty; but no such plea could injure balmerino. one dark influence, at that time all powerful at court, all powerful among the people, denied them mercy;--and the crowds which witnessed the death of kilmarnock and of balmerino, hastened to do homage to the duke of cumberland. nothing can, in fact, more plainly show the effect of frequent executions upon the character of a people than the details of the year . with the inhabitants of london, like the french at the time of the revolution, the value of life was lowered; the indifference to scenes of horror formed a shocking feature in their conduct. in the great world, jests, and witticisms delighted the satellites of power. it was the barbarous fashion to visit temple bar for the purpose of viewing the heads exhibited there; spying glasses being let out for the ghastly spectacle. and the coarse, unfeeling invectives of the press prove the general state of the public mind, in those days, more effectually than any other fact could do:--in the present times, the cruelty which pursues its victim to the grave would not be tolerated. in his latest hours, the chief concern of lord kilmarnock seems to have been for his eldest son, to whom he addressed the following beautiful letter. extract of the late earl of kilmarnock's letter to his son lord boyd. "dated, tower, th of august, . "dear boyd, "i must take this way to bid you farewell, and i pray god may ever bless you and guide you in this world, and bring you to a happy immortality in the world to come. i must, likewise, give you my last advice. seek god in your youth, and when you are old he will not depart from you. be at pains to acquire good habits now, that they may grow up, and become strong in you. love mankind, and do justice to all men. do good to as many as you can, and neither shut your ears nor your purse to those in distress, whom it is in your power to relieve. believe me, you will find more joy in one beneficent action; and in your cool moments you will be more happy with the reflection of having made any person so, who without your assistance would have been miserable, than in the enjoyment of all the pleasures of sense (which pall in the using), and of all the pomps and gaudy show of the world. live within your circumstances, by which means you will have it in your power to do good to others. above all things, continue in your loyalty to his present majesty, and the succession to the crown as by law established. look on that as the basis of the civil and religious liberty and property of every individual in the nation. prefer the public interests to your own, wherever they interfere. love your family and your children, when you have any; but never let your regard to them drive you on the rock i split upon; when, on that account, i departed from my principles, and brought the guilt of rebellion, and civil and particular desolation on my head, for which i am now under the sentence justly due to my prince. use all your interest to get your brother pardoned and brought home as soon as possible, that his circumstances, and bad influence of those he is among, may not induce him to accept of foreign service, and lose him both to his country and his family. if money can be found to support him, i wish you would advise him to go to geneva, where his principles of religion and liberty will be confirmed, and where he may stay till you see if a pardon can be procured him. as soon as commodore burnet comes home, inquire for your brother billie, and take care of him on my account. i must again recommend your unhappy mother to you. comfort her, and take all the care you can of your brothers: and may god of his infinite mercy, preserve, guide, and comfort you and them through all the vicissitudes of this life, and after it bring you to the habitations of the just, and make you happy in the enjoyment of himself to all eternity!" paper delivered by the late earl of kilmarnock to mr. foster. "sunday, th of august, . "as it would be a vain attempt in me to speak distinctly to that great concourse of people, who will probably be present at my execution, i chose to leave this behind me, as my last solemn declaration, appealing for my integrity to god, who knows my heart. "i bless god i have little fear of temporal death, though attended with many outward circumstances of terror; the greatest sting i feel in death is that i have deserved it. "lord balmerino, my fellow-sufferer, to do justice, dies in a professed adherence to the mistaken principles he had imbibed from his cradle. but i engaged in the rebellion in opposition to my own principles, and to those of my family; in contradiction to the whole tenour of my conduct, till within these few months that i was wickedly induced to renounce my allegiance, which ever before i had preserved and held inviolable. i am in little pain for the reflection which the inconsiderate or prejudiced part of my countrymen (if there are any such, whom my suffering the just sentence of the law has not mollified,) may cast upon me for this confession. "the wiser, or more ingenious, will, i hope, approve my conduct, and allow with me that, next to doing right, is to have the courage and integrity to own that i have done wrong. "groundless accusations of cruelty have been raised and propagated concerning me; and charges spread among the people of my having solicited for, nay, even actually signed orders of general savage destruction, seldom issued among the most barbarous nations, and which my soul abhors. and that the general temper of my mind was ever averse from, and shocked at gross instances of inhumanity, i appeal to all my friends and acquaintance who have known me most intimately, and even to those prisoners of the king's troops to whom i had access, and whom i ever had it in my power to relieve; i appeal, in particular, for my justification as to this justly detested and horrid crime of cruelty, to captain master, of ross, captain-lieutenant luon, and lieutenant george cuming of alter. "these gentlemen will, i am persuaded, as far as relates to themselves, and as far as has fallen within their knowledge as credible information, do me justice; and then, surely my countrymen will not load a person, already too guilty and unfortunate, with undeserved infamy, which may not only fix itself on his own character, but reflect dishonour on his family. "i have no more to say, but that i am persuaded, if reasons of state, and the demands of public justice had permitted his majesty to follow the dictates of his own royal heart, my sentence might have been mitigated. had it pleased god to prolong my life, the remainder of it should have been faithfully employed in the service of my justly offended sovereign, and in constant endeavours to wipe away the very remembrance of my crime. "i now, with my dying breath, beseech almighty god to bless my rightful sovereign, king george, and preserve him from the attacks of public and private enemies. "may his majesty, and his illustrious descendants, be so guided by the divine providence as ever to govern with that wisdom, and that care for the public good, as will preserve to them the love of their subjects, and secure their right to reign over a free and happy people to the latest posterity." that lord boyd reciprocated the affection of his father appears from the following letter, which he addressed, a few days after the execution of lord kilmarnock, to colonel walkinshaw craufurd, who was then at scarborough. "my dear john, "i had yours last post, and i don't know in what words to express how much i am obliged to you for doing the last duties to my unfortunate father; you can be a judge what a loss i have suffered; you knew him perfectly well, that he was the best of friends, the most affectionate husband, and the tenderest parent. poor lady kilmarnock bears her loss much better than i could have imagined; but it was entirely owing to her being prepared several days before she got the melancholy accounts of it. i shall be here for some time, as i have a good deal of business to do in this country; so i shall be extremely glad to see you as soon as possible. i am, my dear john, your most sincere friend and obedient humble servant, boyd." "kilmarnock (house) august th, ." yet the young nobleman did not, it appears, entirely satisfy the expectations of those who were interested in his fate, and attached to his father's memory, as the following extract from a letter written by mr. george rosse, to colonel craufurd, shows.[ ] "dear sir, "i am favoured with yours of the thirteenth from scarborough, and had the honour of one letter from lord boyd since his father's execution, and sorry to tell you, it was not wrote in such terms as i could show or make any use of. if you had seen him, i dare say it would have been otherwise. however, i took the liberty of writing with plainness to him, in hopes of drawing from him, what may be shown to his honour and to his own immediate advantage. * * * * * "i put him in mind of writing to his cousin, duke of hamilton, and mr. home; an omission, which, with submission, is unpardonable, as he was apprised of their goodness to his father; and i gave him some hints with relation to himself, by authority of the ministry, which, if he continue in the army, may be improved upon. those things i think proper to mention to you, as i know your friendship for boyd, that you may take an opportunity of mentioning them to him, when you are with him, which i hope will be soon. he is appointed deputy captain-lieutenant; but that i look upon as a step to higher preferment. i should like to hear from you; direct to (crawfurdland) kilmarnock, and i am, dear sir, your most obedient, humble servant. "geo. rosse." leicesterfield, september th, . notwithstanding these seeming acts of negligence, which may possibly have been explained, lord boyd became, in every way, worthy of being the representative of an ancient race. he was an improved resemblance of his amiable, unhappy father. possessing his father's personal attributes, he added, to the courtesy and kindliness of his father's character, strength of principle, a perfect consistency of conduct, and sincere religious connections, both in the early and latter period of his life. his deportment is said to have combined both the sublime and the graceful; his form, six feet four inches in height, to have been the most elegant; his manners the most polished and popular of his time. in his domestic relations he was exemplary, systematic, yet with the due liberality of a nobleman, in his affairs; sagacious and conscientious as a magistrate; generous to his friends. "he puts me in mind," said one who knew him, "of an ancient hero; and i remember dr. johnson was positive that he resembled homer's character of jaspedon."[ ] "his agreeable look and address," observes that adorer of rank, boswell, "prevented that restraint, which the idea of his being lord high constable of scotland might otherwise have occasioned."[ ] at the time of his father's execution, lord boyd was only twenty years of age. he claimed and obtained the maternal estate, and obtained it in . in he succeeded mary, countess of errol in her own right, his mother's aunt, as earl of errol, and left the army in which he had continued to serve. he retired to slains castle, where he passed his days in the exercise of those virtues which become a man who is conscious, by rank and fortune, of a deep responsibility, and who regards those rather as trusts, than possessions. he died at calendar-house, in , universally lamented, and honoured. the countess of kilmarnock survived her husband only one year; and died at kilmarnock in . two sons were, however, left, in addition to lord boyd, to encounter, for some years, considerable difficulties. of these, the second, charles, who was in the insurrection of , escaped to the isle of arran, where he lay concealed, in that, the ancient territory of the boyds, for a year. he amused himself, having found an old chest of medical books, with the study of medicine and surgery, which he afterwards practised with some degree of skill among the poor. he then escaped to france, and married there a french lady; but eventually he found a home at slains castle, where he was residing when dr. johnson and boswell visited scotland. he was a man of considerable accomplishment; but, as boswell observed, "with a pompousness or formal plenitude in his conversation," or as dr. johnson expressively remarked, "with too much elaboration in his talk." "it gave me pleasure," adds boswell, "to see him, a steady branch of the family, setting forth all its advantages with much zeal." william boyd, the fourth son of lord kilmarnock, was in the royal navy, and on board commodore burnet's ship at the time of his father's execution. he was eventually promoted to a company of the th foot, in . lord balmerino left no descendants to recall the remembrance of his honest, manly character. his wife, margaret chalmers, survived him nearly twenty years, and died at restalrig, on the th of august, , aged fifty-six. the remains of these two unfortunate noblemen were deposited under the gallery, at the west end of the chapel in the tower. beside them repose those of simon, lord lovat. "as they were associates in crime, so they were companions in sepulchre," observes a modern writer, "being buried in the same grave."[ ] but the more discriminative judge of the human heart will spurn so rash, and undiscerning a remark; and marvel that, in the course of one contest, characters so differing in principle, so unlike in every attribute of the heart, and viewed, even by their enemies, with sentiments so totally opposite, should thus be mingled together in their last home. footnotes: [ ] wood's peerage. [ ] who, adds the same authority, carried azure, a fess chequé, argent and gules: and for their crest, a hand issuing out of a wreath, pointing with the thumb and two fingers: motto, _confido_; supporters, two squirrels collared or. [ ] reay, . [ ] reay, . [ ] wood's peerage. the defect of the title is the failure of issue male. the title of livingstone was considered by the same authority as untouched. [ ] ibid. [ ] lockhart papers, i. . note. calendar. [ ] memoirs of lord kilmarnock. london, , p. . [ ] memoirs of the earl of kilmarnock, p. . [ ] ms. letter presented to me by mrs. howison craufurd, of craufurdland castle, ayrshire. [ ] memoirs of lord kilmarnock, p. . [ ] horace walpole's letters, ii. p. . [ ] foster's account, p. . [ ] grose, . [ ] memoirs of lord kilmarnock, p. . [ ] life of colonel gardiner, by dr. doddridge, _passim_. [ ] doddridge. life of colonel gardiner, p. . [ ] henderson, p. . [ ] state trials of george ii. [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] forbes's account, p. . [ ] maxwell, p. . this nobleman was at the battle of culloden. [ ] henderson, p. . [ ] henderson, p. . [ ] note in chambers, p. . [ ] history of the rebellion, from the scots' magazine, p. . [ ] chambers, p. . henderson, p. . [ ] observations on the account of the behaviour of lords kilmarnock and balmerino, . [ ] ibid. [ ] nesbitt, heraldry, vol. i. p. . [ ] "elphingstone, in the shire of hadington, and in the parish of tranent, a village at the distance of three miles s.s.w. from tranent."--edinburgh gazetteer. [ ] nesbitt, p. . [ ] memoirs of lord balmerino. london, . [ ] wood's peerage. [ ] life of lord balmerino, p. . buchan's account of the earls of keith, p. . [ ] scots' magazine for . [ ] scots' magazine for . [ ] georgian era. [ ] wood's peerage. [ ] maxwell, p. . [ ] georgian era. [ ] state trials, vol. xviii. [ ] edinburgh gazetteer. art. "south leith." [ ] history of the rebellion from the scots' magazine, p. . [ ] horace walpole's letters to sir horace mann, vol. ii. p. . [ ] georgian era. [ ] ibid. [ ] state trials, vol. xviii. p. . [ ] observations on the account, &c., p. . [ ] horace walpole, vol. ii. p. [ ] ibid. vol. ii. p. . [ ] horace walpole. [ ] see scots' magazine for . [ ] state trials. [ ] state trials. [ ] note. the plea was couched in these words: "july th, . it is conceived that the late act of parliament, empowering his majesty to transport such as are taken in arms from one county to another, where they may be tried by the course of the common law, did not take place till after that time, that the facts implying treason, were actually committed by the accused prisoners, and if so, the grand jury of surrey, or of any other county whatsoever, where these acts of treason are not alleged to have been committed, could not, agreeable to law, find bills against such prisoners; and it may, on that score, be prayed, that the indictment be quashed, or that an arrest of judgment be thereupon granted." what a bitter, though unavailing feeling of regret accompanies the reflection that this benevolent attempt to save the lives of these brave men, was fruitless. [ ] letters to sir h. mann, vol. ii. p. . [ ] state trials , p. . [ ] h. walpole, p. . letters to g. montagu. [ ] walpole's letters to montagu, p. . folio. [ ] letters to sir h. mann, vol. ii. p. . [ ] state trials, by hargreaves, pp. , . [ ] memoirs of the earl of kilmarnock and cromartie, and of lord balmerino, . [ ] life of lord cromartie, . [ ] buchan's memoirs of the house of keith, p. . [ ] walpole's letters to sir h. mann, vol. ii. p. . [ ] foster's account, p. . [ ] for a copy of this letter i am indebted to the kindness of mrs. craufurd of craufurdland castle, kilmarnock. the original is in the possession of martin paterson, esq. of kilmarnock, and is endorsed "copy of the last instructions of lord kilmarnock to his factor, mr. robert paterson." [ ] statement. [ ] statement. [ ] mrs. howison craufurd, the lady of william howison craufurd, esq., of craufurdland castle, ayrshire. to this lady i am indebted for much of the information (afforded by her admirable letters) which has been introduced into this memoir of lord kilmarnock. to this lady i addressed an inquiry respecting an original portrait of lord kilmarnock. her efforts to obtain any intelligence of one have been wholly unavailing; and we have been led to the conclusion that, in the fire at dean castle, all the portraits of lord kilmarnock must have been destroyed; his resemblance, his name, his honour, and his castle thus becoming extinct at once. at craufurdland castle there is a fine portrait of lord kilmarnock's brother, his widow and daughter, painted in oils, after a singular fashion, black and white; giving it a ghastly hue. this perhaps accounts for the local tradition near kilmarnock, "that on hearing of his brother's death, mr. boyd's colour fled, and never returned; nor was he ever seen to smile again." a tradition not difficult of belief. the present mr. craufurd, of craufurdland castle, represents also the family of howison of bræ-head. in mrs. howison craufurd's family an amusing circumstance relative to lord lovat occurred. he was one evening in a ball-room, and was paying court to the great-grandmother of that lady. as he was playfully examining, and holding in his hand her diamond solitaire, a voice whispered in his ear, "that government officers were in pursuit of him; and that he must decamp." decamp he did, taking with him, _perhaps_ by accident, the costly jewel. the young lady was in the greatest trepidation, and her family were resolved to recover the ornament. many years after, on his return from france, lovat, whose character, in _no_ respect, rose above suspicion, was taxed with the robbery, and refunded a sum which gave twenty pounds to each of a host of granddaughters, then in their girlhood. [ ] in a letter from mrs. craufurd of craufurdland to the author, this fact is stated. it is mentioned as traditionary elsewhere, but is attested by the family. [ ] h. walpole, vol. ii. p. . [ ] h. walpole's letters to mr. montagu. [ ] foster's account, p. . [ ] walpole. [ ] ford's account in state trials, p. , . [ ] for the original of lord balmerino's real speech, which is highly characteristic of its author, i am indebted to charles kirkpatrick sharpe, esq. "i was brought up in true, loyal, and anti-revolution principles and i hope the world is convinced that they stuck to me. i must acknowledge i did a very inconsiderate thing, for which i am heartily sorry, in accepting a company of foot from the princess anne, who i know had no more right to the crown than her predecessor the prince of orange.... to make amends for what i had done i joined the ... (pretender) when he was in scotland in , and when all was over i made my escape, and lived abroad till the year . "in the beginning of that year i got a letter from my father which very much surprised me; it was to let me know he had a promise of a remission for me. i did not know what to do; i was then, (i think,) in the canton of berne, and had nobody to advise with: but next morning i wrote a letter to the ... (pretender) who was then at rome, to acquaint the ... (pretender) that this was come without my asking or knowledge, and that i would not accept of it without his consent. i had in answer to mine, a letter written with ... (the pretender's) own hand, allowing me to go home; and he told me his banker would give me money for my travelling charges when i came to paris, which accordingly i got. when the ... (the pretender's son) came to edinburgh i joined him, though i might easily have excused myself from taking arms on account of my age; but i never could have had peace of conscience if i had stayed at home.... i am at a loss when i come to speak of the ... (pretender's son,) i am not a fit hand to draw his character, i shall leave that to others. (here he gives a fulsome character of the pretender's son.) "pardon me if i say, wherever i had the command, i never suffered any disorders to be committed, as will appear by the duke of buccleugh's servants at east park; by the earl of findlater's minister, mr. lato, and my lord's servant, a. cullen; by mr. rose, minister at nairn, (who was pleased to favour me with a visit when i was prisoner at inverness;) by mr. stewart, principal servant to the lord president at the house of culloden; and by several other people. all this gives me great pleasure, now that i am looking upon the block on which i am ready to lay down my head; and though it would not have been my own natural inclination to protect everybody, it would have been my interest to have done it for ... (the pretender's son) abhorred all those who were capable of doing injustice to any.... i have heard since i came to this place, that there has been a most wicked report spread, and mentioned in several of the newspapers that ... (the pretender's son) before the battle of culloden, had given out orders that no quarter should be given to the enemy. this is such an unchristian thing, and so unlike ... (the pretender's son,) that nobody (the jacobites) that knows him will believe it. it is very strange if there had been any such orders, that neither the earl of kilmarnock, who was colonel of the regiment of the foot guards, nor i, who was colonel of the second troop of life guards, should ever have heard anything of it; especially since we were both at the head-quarters the morning before the battle; i am convinced that it is a malicious report industriously spread to.... "ever since my confinement in the tower, when major white or mr. fowler did me the honour of a visit, their behaviour was always so kind and obliging to me that i cannot find words to express it; but i am sorry i cannot say the same thing of a general williamson: he has treated me barbarously, but not quite so ill as he did the bishop of rochester; and had it not been for a worthy clergyman's advice, i should have prayed for him in the words of david, psalm , from the th to the th verse. i forgive him and all my enemies. i hope you will have the charity to believe i die in peace with all men; for yesterday, i received the holy eucharist from the hands of a clergyman of the church of england, in whose communion i die as in union with the episcopal church of scotland. "i shall conclude with a short prayer."--(here a prayer is mentioned much the same as in wm. ford's account.) [ ] the account which i have given of lord kilmarnock's behaviour and fate, and also of lord balmerino's, is taken from the following works, to which i have not thought it necessary separately to refer. foster's account of the behaviour of lord kilmarnock; and the vindication of foster's account from the misrepresentations of some dissenting teachers: london, . account by t. ford, under-sheriff at the execution, in the state trials, vol. xviii. p. . horace walpole's letters to geo. montagu, and to sir h. mann. scots' magazine for ; and buchan's life of marshal keith; also a collection of tracts in the british museum, relating to the rebellion, , and chiefly published during that year. [ ] for both these letters, hitherto unpublished, i am indebted for the courtesy of mrs. craufurd of craufurdland castle. [ ] forbes's life of beattie, vol. ii. p. . [ ] journey to the hebrides, p. [ ] bayley's history of the tower, p. . charles radcliffe. the fate of charles radcliffe has been regarded as one of the most severe, and his death as one of the most unjustifiable acts inflicted on those who suffered for their adherence to the stuart cause. this unfortunate man was the third son of francis earl of derwentwater, by the lady mary tudor, the daughter of charles the second, and was born in . he was the younger brother of james earl of derwentwater, who suffered in , for his adherence to the stuart cause. there was also another elder brother, francis, who died unmarried, not taking any apparent interest in the politics of the day. the family of radcliffe were not regarded by the descendants of their common ancestor, charles the second, in the light of kindred whom the rules of decorum, and the usages of society might induce them to disclaim, or at all events, to acknowledge with shame or reluctance; the vitiated notions of the day attached a very different value to the parentage of royalty, even when associated with dishonour. the marriage of sir francis radcliffe to the daughter of mary davis was that event which procured his elevation to the peerage; and this alliance, was considered as elevating the dignity of an ancient house.[ ] the closest ties of friendship united the stuarts and the radcliffes, even from their earliest infancy. educated, as well as his elder brother, james, chiefly at st. germains, and with the chevalier james stuart, and brought up in the roman catholic faith, charles radcliffe, owing to the natural ardour of his disposition, imbibed much more readily than his brother the strong party views which characterized the jacobites as a body. in james, earl of derwentwater, the convictions of his faith, grounded as they are upon the belief of those great truths common to all christians, worked healthfully; expanding the benevolence of his heart, teaching him mercy, moderation, and forbearance. on charles, impetuous, zealous, stronger in intellect than his brother, but devoid of prudence, the same mode of culture, the same precepts acted differently. he became, even in early life, violent in his opinions, until the horror of what he deemed error, amounted to bigotry. henceforth his destiny was swayed by those fierce resentments towards the opposite party by which not only his brother, but even the chevalier himself, seem to have been so rarely actuated; a remarkable degree of moderation and candour raising the character of james stuart, whilst lord derwentwater was the gentlest of opponents, the most honourable of foes. in early life charles radcliffe appears to have been chiefly dependent upon his brother's kindness and bounty; whilst his pursuits and inclinations, characterized in a letter by lord derwentwater as his "pleasures," were of an expensive description. but it was not long before other causes of concern besides want of money, or a love of dissipation began to disquiet those who were interested in the welfare of the radcliffe family. about the year , the young earl of derwentwater returned from the continent to his patrimonial property at dilstone, in northumberland, accompanied by his brother francis, and by charles who either frequently visited him, or wholly resided with him at his seat. during this period of the life of charles radcliffe, an insight into the general state of the family is afforded by several letters, addressed by the earl of derwentwater to lady swinburne of capheaton, whom he styles his "cousin." the relationship between these families originated in the marriage of mrs. lawson, daughter of sir william fenwick of meldon, after the death of her first husband, with francis, first earl of derwentwater, and grandfather of james radcliffe, and of his brothers. mrs. lawson's daughter, isabel, married sir john swinburne of capheaton who was rescued from a singular fate by one of the radcliffe family. when a child, he was sent to a monastery in france, where a member of that family accidentally saw him, and observing that he resembled the swinburnes in northumberland, he inquired his name, and how he came there? to these questions, the monks answered that they knew not his name; a sum of money was sent annually from england to defray his expenses; but of all other particulars they were wholly ignorant. on investigating the matter, it was found, however, that the child had been taught that his name was swinburne; and that circumstance, coupled with the mysterious disappearance of the heir of that family from northumberland induced the superior of the convent to permit his return home, where he identified himself to be the son of john swinburne and of jane blount, by the description which he gave of the marks of a cat, and of a punchbowl, which were still in the house.[ ] he was afterwards advanced by charles the second to the dignity of a baronet. to mary, the daughter of anthony englefield, of whiteknights, berks, and wife of sir william swinburne, of capheaton, the son of that man whose childhood has so romantic a story associated with it, the following letters are addressed. of these, the first is written by the celebrated john radcliffe, physician to queen anne. dr. radcliffe was probably a distant relation of the family, although no distinctive trace of that connection appears: he was a native of wakefield, near yorkshire; but when these letters were written, he had attained the highest eminence in his profession that could be secured by one man; and was in the possession of wealth which he eventually employed in the foundation of the radcliffe library, at oxford.[ ] the "mr. radcliffe" to whom he refers, and to whose malady his skill was called upon to administer, was colonel thomas radcliffe, the uncle of lord derwentwater: the patient was at the time suffering from mental delusion, in consequence of a fever. these to sir william swinburne at capheaton. dec. , . "sir, "yours i received, and am very glad to hear that yourself and my lady is in so good health. i hope in a short time mr. radcliffe will be so too. he is recovered; but he had such a severe fever that he continues weak still. my lord derwentwater and his brother" (francis) "and mr. fenwick, are all come safe from holland, and are very well, and we shall drink your health together this night. he intends to be with you very speedily in the country. i do not doubt that you will extremely like his conversation: for he has a great many extraordinary good qualities, and i do not doubt but he will be as well beloved as his uncle. my most humble service to your lady and the rest of the good family, and i wish you a merry christmas; and that i might be so happy as to take a share of it with you, would be a great satisfaction to him who is your most obliged and most faithful, humble servant, "john radcliffe." the next letter is from sir william swinburne to his lady; in this he speaks of the pleasure with which lord derwentwater had returned to dilstone, the seat of his ancestors, which he was, in so few short years, to forfeit. to my lady swinburne, at capheaton. beaufort, th feb. . "dear love! "my lord" (derwentwater) "is very well pleased with dilstone, and says it answers all that he has heard of it: but is resolved to build a new house, though roger fenwick told him he thought his lordship need not alter a stone of it. upon thursday my lord dines at dilstone. yours for ever, "william swinburne. "p.s. i understand my lord intends to be at capheaton on saturday, and then upon tuesday at witton, and so for widdrington. my lord's leg is a little troublesome; but he intends to hunt the fox to-morrow, and it is a rule all to be abed at ten o'clock the night. here is old mr. bacon and his son, mr. fenwick, of bywell. my lord killed a squirl, and sir marmaduke a pheasant or two, and myself one, this morning--which is all, &c." the following letter from lord derwentwater, to lady swinburne, shows that the illness which occasioned so much uneasiness was obstinate: it affords a curious sample of the medical treatment of dr. radcliffe, who kindly, and perhaps wisely, humoured his patient in the desire to go to newcastle. "i have been just now with my dear uncle, and jack thornton was with me. he received us very well: but is yet unease about those people that disturb him, and he says that he must go down to newcastle by sea, or else he will never get quitte of them. this is an ode fancy; but i believe we shall comply with it, for the doctor dous not sime very averce to it, and was for sending joseph back with him; but i have taken the horse into my stable, for i feared it mit hurt the horse to return so soon. in fin, i fansed sir william would like the value of the horse better than to have him sent back. i have been offered eighteen pound. i would have sir william let me know by the next post whether he will have the horse or the money. i shall have the honor to whrit to him very soon." the two following epistles, one from lady derwentwater, the other from the earl, speak of married happiness, alloyed, not only by the distempered fancies of an invalid uncle, but by the melancholy accounts of a brother's behaviour. it does not, however, appear certain which of the brothers, whether francis or charles, was thus alluded to. for the honourable lady swineburne, junior, at capheaton. "hadcross, aug. . "i have manny thanks to returne your ladyship for the favour of your letter and oblidging congratulations. my lord darwenwater's great merit and agreable temper makes me think i have all the prospect imadgenable of being intierly happy. i desier the favour your ladyship will present my humble sarvise to sir william. my father and mother joinse with me in this, and dessiers there complements to your ladyship, i beg you will be assured that i am, very much madam, your ladyship's most humble servant. "a. darvenwatar." for my lady swinburne, at the blew ball, in st. james's place, near st. james's, london. "heatherope, feb. . "madam, "i fear'd the good news miechal writ gibson, might be false; because i have not heard anything of it from yourself, nor from my uncle, who, i flatter myself, would writ a line to give me so much satisfaction: but i hope all my doubts will vanish if your ladyship does me the favour to confirm what will be so great a content to us. if i could but be sure that my dear uncle avows all his fancys about the men he thought spoke to him, to be nothing but the unlucky effect of his favour,[ ] and that he thinks to come over to manage his affairs, will be the most credeble and most kind way of proceeding, both as to himself and family, then i shall believe he was the same man he was befor, which, if you confirm, will be one of the most joyfull and the most unexpected good news that could befall your ladyship's humble, obedient servant, and affectionate kindsman, "darwentwater. "i should have writ to your ladyship sooner, and really can have no good excuse: for i should have write to my dear cousen, though my head was full of fox-hunting: and though i had a mind to banish out of a new-married head some melancholic accounts of my brother's behaviour, which i suppose you have had intelligence of, or else of my dear wife's second miscarriage, which has been a great affliction to us, but i flatter myself with the hope of her having better luck another time. she presents her humble service, and so does my lady webb. i hope sir william was well, and cosen jacky, when you heard last. my brother charles has been at sir marmeduke constable's, and designs for london. adieu!" in may , only one year before the fatal insurrection of broke out, the following letter, referring to different members of his family, was written by the earl. what a pleasing picture of an affectionate nature does this correspondence afford.[ ] for my lady swinburne, junior, at capheaton. "kathcrosse, may, , . "now i write with pleasure to your ladyship, since i hope to be so happy as to enjoy your good companie in a few months, i mean immediately after york races, for my two years will be out here the tenth of july. indeed sir john has behaved himself wonderfully well to us quite the holl time, really performing in everything more than i could have expected from a man of honnor, as indeed i had reason to believe him. my lady is not of so steady a temper; but however, we agree very well: and she is mighty fond of my wife, which i take very kindly, since as yet we are but one. never any body could be so desirous to goe to the north as my wife is, especially just comming from the divertions of london, except your ladyship or myself, who longs to be established there, that we may at least be out of the way of such inhuman proceedings as we saw, upon all accounts, this year at london. my poor dear uncle's case may serve for one instance. after getting the better in all the courts, and, that lastly, the lord chancellor and eleven judges had given there decree in favor of will. constable, and my uncle, a factious party, most young rakes, have reversed the decree, and given it for roper, by a divition of fifty-three against twenty-three torrys, who were resolute enough to appear in a good cause, being forsaken by their brethren, who were afraid to be caled favourers of poperie. i long to hear what my uncle will say to this news. if he be well, it will nettle him in spite of resignation. gibson writes word they are at doway; but he does not know when my uncle will sett forwards. i do not know where to wish him: for i really don't know how he is. for in one letter gibson writes, he tells me my uncle is as well as ever he was in his life; and at the end of the letter he tells me his honnor is afraid of being pursude. 'tis certain my uncle writes in another stille than usuall: for, in letters of business he continually mentions god almighty, the blessed virgin, and the saints. all i say is, god send him over a comfort to his friends, which he must be if he is well. brother frank is recovered, but is the very same man. brother charles is mighty uneasie: he is no ritcher, though i doe what i can to help him in his pleasures. "pray my duty to my uncle and aunt, to whom i will write soon, and kind services to all other relations. "if your ladyship will tell tom errington that i have executed the leases, and that i wonder cousin tom errington is not in for a quarter part of redgroves, and that, supposing there were some such valuable reason as my cousin tom's not being willing to accept of it, or having resigned it to one of those mentioned in the lease, which by the bye i should take very ill, then that lease of redgrove's may stand good: but otherways i would have the lease altered, and my cousin tom errington to come in for a quarter part, as i promised him he should. in letting him know this, your ladyship will oblige your humble and obedient servant and kinsman, "derwentwater. "my dear wife presents her humble service to your ladyship, and desires the same may be made acceptable to all with you. we expect lord wald and my lady to make my sister happy, who will do the same by them." the felicity which lord derwentwater enjoyed was of brief duration. according to tradition among his descendants, he was urged on to those steps which ended in his death by the violent counsels of his brother charles, whose impetuosity the unfortunate earl often regretted, expressing, in his private correspondence, how much his rash and intemperate spirit distressed and alarmed him. of the progress, and the principal features of the insurrection of , and of the part which lord derwentwater took in that event, an account has already been given.[ ] "happy," observes the biographer of charles radcliffe, "had it been for him, happy for his lady, and happy for his family, had the earl staid at home, and suffered himself to be withheld from that fatal expedition."[ ] charles radcliffe was at that time twenty-two years of age; he had no experience in military affairs, but was full of spirit and courage, ready to offer himself for every daring, and even hopeless enterprise, and seeming to set no value on his life where honour was to be won. such a character soon became popular with the leaders of the movement in the north; and lord derwentwater gave the conduct of his tenantry into his brother's hands, captain shaftoe commanding under mr. radcliffe. the behaviour of this young commander throughout the whole of the expedition was consistent with this character of intrepidity; but that which surprised many persons in a man who had never before engaged in war, was the judgment, as well as courage, which he displayed. and perhaps, had his counsels been followed, the result of that ill-starred rising, in which so many brave men perished, might have been less disastrous to the party whom he espoused. when the insurgents were at hexham, and intelligence was brought that general carpenter was approaching, mr. radcliffe proposed that the jacobite troops should go out and fight the english before they had recovered from their long march; but his opinion was overruled. his was that description of mind which gleans much from observation; he studied the countenances of those around him, and formed his own conclusion of their characters. when any false alarm happened to be given that the king's troops were near, it was his practice, undaunted himself, to watch the countenances of his officers, when they were ordered to head their corps, and march against the enemy. some of them, he observed, turned pale, and looked half-dead with fear; the eyes of others flashed with fire and fury: on these, he was certain that a dependence might be placed in the time of action, whilst he forbore from placing the others in any post of responsibility. nor were his own party the only subjects of his curiosity. until this eventful period of his life, he had seen but little of the world, "and now," observes his biographer, "he fancied himself on his travels." he therefore passed over no object of interest cursorily; at every town he visited, he inquired what were the customs of the place--what monuments of celebrated men, or other objects of antiquity were to be found there; and of these he made written notes; whilst in the council and the camp, he studied the tempers and passions of men. when, upon the forces arriving at hawick, the highlanders mutinied, and going to the top of a rising ground declared that they would not stir a step farther, but would march with lord wristoun to the west of scotland, mr. radcliffe thought their views reasonable, and advocated the endeavour to strike a bold stroke in scotland, and to aim at the entire conquest of that kingdom. his opinion, which events justified, was overruled, and the leaders of his party were resolute in continuing their fatal and rash project of proceeding to england. mr. radcliffe, on finding that his representations were ineffectual, begged that he might have an hundred horse given to him, that with them he might try his fortune with the highlanders: this was also denied him, for fear of weakening the force; and he was constrained to proceed with his confederates in arms to preston. in the action at that place, mr. radcliffe behaved with a heroism that deserved a happier fate. it was a fine sight to behold him and his brother lord derwentwater, endeavouring to animate their men, by words and example, and maintaining their ground with unequalled bravery, obliging the king's forces to retire. during the action mr. radcliffe encountered the utmost danger, standing in the midst of the firing, and doing as much duty as the lowest soldiers in the ranks. but his life was spared only to encounter a more disastrous termination, after a long and wearisome exile. when, being invested on all sides by the enemy, the insurgents proposed a capitulation, the gallant young man exclaimed, "that he would rather die, with his sword in his hand, like a man of honour, than be dragged to the gallows, there to die like a dog." these exclamations fell unheeded; and he was obliged to submit with the rest; soon afterwards, this fine, high-spirited youth, was carried to newgate, there to await his trial, in company with his companions in error and misfortune. in newgate, mr. radcliffe witnessed a scene of desperation, accompanied with the ordinary circumstances of licentiousness, and reckless misery, which, unchecked by adequate regulations, the prisons of that day afforded. until after the execution of lord derwentwater and of lord kenmure had taken place, hopes of a reprieve sustained the unhappy prisoners in newgate, and, "flaunting apparel, venison pasties," wine, and other luxuries, for which they paid an enormous price, were the ordinary indulgences of those who were incarcerated in that crowded receptacle.[ ] contributions were made from many different quarters for the prisoners; and the friends of the "rebels" were observed to be also very generous to the turnkeys. numbers of ladies visited the prison, and a choice of the most expensive viands was daily proffered by the lavish kindness of their fair enthusiasts. of course much scandal followed upon the steps of this dangerous and costly kindness; and escapes were facilitated, perhaps, not without connivance on the part of government. on the fourteenth of march an attempt was made by some of these unfortunate people to get out of the press-yard, by breaking through a part of the wall, from which they were to be let down by a rope; but they were discovered, and, in consequence, heavily ironed. nevertheless, on the twenty-third of march almost all of the prisoners were released from their fetters, an indulgence which was a proof of the lenity of the government, as the ordinary keepers of the prison would not have dared to have allowed it.[ ] after this, mr. forster and others amused themselves with the game of shuttlecock, at which, relates the author of the secret history of the rebels in newgate, the "valiant forster beat every one who engaged him: so that he triumphed with his feathers in the prison, though he could not do it in the field." on the tenth of april that gentleman made his escape: and henceforth, a lieutenant, with thirty of the foot guards, was ordered to do constant duty at newgate. meantime, crowded as the building was, a spotted fever broke out, and seemed likely to relieve the civil authorities from no small number of the unfortunate prisoners. on the eighth of may, mr. radcliffe was arraigned at the exchequer bar, at westminster, for high treason: to this he pleaded not guilty. in a few days afterwards he was brought there again, and tried upon the indictment; he had no plea to offer in his defence, and was found guilty. he soon afterwards was carried to westminster, accompanied by eleven other prisoners, to receive sentence of death. they were conveyed in six coaches to the court. as the coach in which mr. radcliffe was seated, drove into fleet street, it encountered the state carriage in which george the first, who was then going to hanover for the first time since his accession, was driving. this obliged mr. radcliffe's coach to stop; and, perceiving that he was opposite to a distiller's shop, he called for a pint of aniseed, which he and a fellow-prisoner, with a servant of newgate, drank, and then proceeded to westminster. mr. radcliffe was several times reprieved; and it was thought he might have been pardoned; but affrighted, perhaps, by his brother's fate, and probably weary of imprisonment, he now began to project a plan of escape, to which he was emboldened by the great success of several similar attempts. greater vigilance was, indeed, resorted to in the prison, after the flight of brigadier mackintosh, who had knocked down the turnkey, and ran off through the streets: and all cloaks, riding-hoods, and arms, were prohibited being brought in by the visiters who came to visit the prisoners. it is amusing to hear, that a certain form of riding-hoods acquired, at this time, the name of a nithsdale, in allusion to the escape of the earl of nithsdale.[ ] on the day appointed for mr. radcliffe's escape, the prisoners gave a grand entertainment in newgate: this took place in a room called the castle, in the higher part of the prison. mr. radcliffe, when the party were at the highest of their mirth, observing a little door open in the corner of the room, passed through it followed by thirteen of the prisoners; and succeeded in finding their way, unmolested, to the debtor's side, where the turnkey, not knowing them, and supposing them to be visiters to the prisoners, allowed them to pass on. mr. radcliffe was dressed in mourning, and had, according to his own subsequent account to a fellow prisoner in newgate, a "brown tye-wig." in this way, without any disguise, but wearing his ordinary attire, did he escape, leaving within the prison walls, his friend, basil hamilton, nephew of the duke of hamilton, who, as it was deposed on his trial, was his chum, or companion, living with him in a room, the windows of which looked upon the garden of the college of physicians. after remaining concealed for some time, mr. radcliffe took the first opportunity of getting a passage to france.[ ] he lived, for many years, in paris, in great poverty, tantalized with promises of assistance from the french court, yet witnessing the ungenerous treatment of the chevalier by that court. his nephew, john radcliffe, who was killed accidentally, assisted him with remittances in for some time, and james stuart gave him a small pension: his difficulties and privations must have been considerable; yet they never lessened his ardour in the cause for which he had sacrificed every worldly advantage. either to amend his ruined fortunes, or to gratify a passion long unrequited, mr. radcliffe was resolved upon marriage. the object of his hopes was charlotte maria, countess of newburgh, the widow of hugh, lord clifford of chudleigh, and the mother of two daughters by that nobleman. this lady was about a year older than himself, being born in . it is a tradition in the family of lord petre, the lineal descendant of james, earl of derwentwater, that charles radcliffe offered his hand twelve times to the countess of newburgh, and was as often refused. wearied by his importunity, lady newburgh at last forbade him the house. but the daring character of mr. radcliffe, and his strong will, suggested an expedient, and he was resolved to obtain an interview. to compass this end, he actually descended into an apartment in which the countess was sitting, through the chimney; and taking her by surprise, obtained her consent to an union. of the truth of this curious courtship, there is tolerably good evidence, not only in the belief of the petre family, but from a picture representing the fact, which is at thorndon.[ ] the nuptials took place at brussels, in the church of the virgin mary, on the twenty-fourth of june, ,[ ] and in , james bartholomew, who became, after the death of his mother, third earl of newburgh, was born at vincennes.[ ] lady newburgh had every reason, as far as prudence could be allowed to dictate to the affections, for her reluctance to a marriage with mr. radcliffe. he was, at this time, an outlawed man, with a sentence of death passed upon him, and no hope could ever be revived of his regaining, even after the death of his nephew, the family honours and estates. yet, in the ardour and fearlessness of charles radcliffe's character there must have been much to compensate for those circumstances, and to win the fancy of the young. there seems no reason to suppose that the union thus strangely formed was infelicitous; and indeed, from family documents, it is evident that the family so marked out by fate for sorrow, were happy in their mutual affection. of the two daughters of lady newburgh's first marriage, anna, the eldest, was married to the count de mahony, whose descendants, the gustiniani might claim the title of newburgh, were they not debarred by being born aliens. another was frances, who died unmarried. this lady is mentioned in a letter written by charles radcliffe, recently before his death, when he was confined to the tower, with peculiar affection, as "that other tender mother of my dear children."[ ] in the year , mr. radcliffe visited england, and resided several months in pall mall; yet the ministry did not consider it necessary to take any notice of his return, nor, probably, would they ever have concerned themselves on that subject, had not a second insurrection brought the unfortunate man into notice. in , he again returned, and endeavoured by the mediation of friends to procure a pardon, but was unsuccessful in that attempt.[ ] irritated, perhaps, by that refusal, and still passionately attached to the cause which he had espoused; undeterred by the execution of his brother, or by the sufferings of his friends, from mixing himself in the turmoils of a second contest, charles radcliffe, on the breaking out of the insurrection of , again ventured his life on the hazard. he had no lands to lose, no estates to forfeit; but he had all to gain; for the death of his nephew made him the head of the unfortunate house of radcliffe. after that event, he assumed the title of earl of derwentwater, and it was of course assigned to him at the court of st. germains, and indeed always insisted upon by him; but the estates were alienated, and there appeared no hope under the present government of ever recovering those once enviable possessions. under these circumstances, mr. radcliffe was naturally a likely object for the representations of the sanguine, or the intrigues of the designing to work upon; and in this temper of mind he met, in the year , with john murray of broughton, at paris, where that gentleman remained three weeks; and became intimately acquainted with mr. radcliffe, who is described among others, as a "wretched dependant on french pensions, with difficulty obtained, and accompanied with contempt in the payment." while the fashionable world were diverting themselves with epigrams upon the rebellion, a small expedition was fitted out, consisting of twenty french officers, and sixty scotch and irish, who embarked at dunkirk on board the esperance privateer; among these was charles radcliffe and his eldest son. at this time nothing was spoken of in london except the daring attempt in scotland,--sometimes in derision,--sometimes in serious apprehension: "the dowager strafford," writes horace walpole (sept. ), "has already written cards for my lady nithesdale, my lady tullebardine, the duchess of perth and berwick, and twenty more revived peeresses, to invite them to play at whist, monday three months: for your part, you will divert yourself with their old taffetys, and tarnished slippers, and their awkwardness the first day they go to court in clean linen."[ ] "i shall wonderfully dislike," observes the same writer, "being a loyal sufferer in a threadbare coat, and shivering in an attic chamber at hanover, or reduced to teach latin and english to the young princes at copenhagen. will you ever write to me in my garret at herenhausen? i will give you a faithful account of all the promising speeches that prince george and prince edward make whenever they have a new sword, and intend to reconquer england." one of the first adverse circumstances that befel the jacobites in , was the capture of the vessel in which mr. radcliffe hoped to reach the shores of scotland. it was taken during the month of november by the sheerness man-of-war; and mr. radcliffe and his son were carried to london and imprisoned in the tower. on the twenty-first of november he was conveyed, under a strong guard from the tower, to westminster; he was brought to the bar, by virtue of a habeas corpus, and the record of his former conviction and attainder was at the same time removed there by certiorari. these being read to him, the prisoner prayed that counsel might be allowed him; and named mr. ford and mr. jodrel, who were accordingly assigned to him as counsel. a few days were granted to prepare the defence, and on the twenty-fourth of the month the prisoner was again brought up; he pleaded that he was not the person named in the record, who was described as charles radcliffe, but maintained that he was the earl of derwentwater. he also requested that the trial might be put off, that two witnesses, one from brussels, the other from st. germains, might be summoned. this was refused. the prisoner then challenged one of the jury, but that challenge was overruled. during these proceedings the lofty, arrogant manner, and the vehement language of mr. radcliffe drew from his counsel the remark that he was disordered in his senses. the judge, mr. justice foster, who tried the case, bore his contemptuous conduct with great forbearance. when brought into court, to be arraigned, he would neither hold up his hand, nor plead, insisting that he was a subject of france, and appealing to the testimony of the neapolitan minister, who happened to be in court. but not one of these objections was allowed, and the trial proceeded. no fresh indictment was framed, and the point at issue related merely to the identity of the prisoner. the award in mr. radcliffe's case was agreeable to the precedent in the case of sir walter raleigh, and execution was awarded on his former offence, judgment not being again pronounced, having been given on the former arraignment. this mode of proceeding might be law, but no one after the lapse of thirty years, and the frequent communications of the prisoner with the english government, can regard such a proceeding as _justice_: and, as in the case of sir walter raleigh, it brought odium upon the memory of james the first, so it excited in the reign of george the second almost universal commiseration for the sufferer, and disgust at the course adopted. the evidence in this case was far from being such as would be accepted in the present day. two northumberland men were sworn to the fact that the prisoner at the bar was the younger brother of the earl of derwentwater, and that they had seen him march out from hexham, in northumberland, at the head of five hundred of lord derwentwater's tenantry; they recognized him, as they declared, by a scar on his face; they had been to see him in the tower, to refresh their memories, and could swear to him, as charles radcliffe, brother of the earl of derwentwater. after this deposition, roger downs, a person who had acted in the capacity of barber to the state prisoners, in , was called. to him mr. radcliffe thus addressed himself:[ ] "i hope, sir, you have some conscience; you are now sworn, and take heed what you say." to this downs replied; "i shall speak nothing but the truth. i well remember that i was appointed close shaver at newgate, in the year and , when the rebels were confined there, and shaved all those who were close confined." the counsel then asked, "pray, sir, did you shave charles radcliffe, esquire, the late earl of derwentwater's brother, who was confined in newgate for being concerned in the rebellion in the year , or who else did you shave of the said rebels at that time? and pray, sir, who was keeper, or who were turnkeys of the said gaol of newgate." the answer of downs was couched in these words, "william pitt, esq. was head keeper, and mr. rouse, and mr. revel, were head turnkeys, who appointed my master to be barber, to shave the prisoners; and i attended in my master's stead, and used to go daily to wait on the rebel prisoners, and i particularly remember that i shaved basil hamilton, a reputed nephew of the late duke of hamilton, and charles radcliffe, esq., brother to the late earl of derwentwater, who i perfectly remember were chums, or companions, in one room, in the press-yard, in newgate, that looked into the garden of the college of physicians, and for which service i was always very well paid." the counsel then desired him to look at the prisoner and inform the court if that gentleman were the very same charles radcliffe that he shaved in newgate, at the aforesaid time, and who after escaped out of newgate. to this downs returned the following reply: "i cannot on my oath say he is." then the head keeper of newgate was called, and he produced the books belonging to the gaol, wherein were the names of charles radcliffe, and other rebels, who had been condemned, and were respited several times. this gentleman said, that the books produced then in court were in the same condition that he found them: but as to the person of the prisoner he knew nothing, his confinement having taken place several years before he belonged to the gaol. abraham mosely, a servant of the head keeper, was then called, but he was not sworn; another gentleman was afterwards brought to the bar; as the book was handed to him to be sworn, mr. radcliffe, looking earnestly at him, inquired what book it was that he was going to be sworn upon: the officer answered it was the new testament. mr. radcliffe replied, "he is no christian, and believes neither in god nor devil." the evidence of this witness, whose name is suppressed, was, however, received, and it seems not to have been inconsistent with his alleged character. it was the disclosure of a confidential conversation on the part of mr. radcliffe, who had imparted to the witness in what manner he had escaped from newgate in . the witness was asked whether the prisoner was drunk when he made this confession: he answered that he was. then being asked if he were drunk himself, he replied that he never got drunk; upon which mr. radcliffe said hastily, that "some people would get drunk if at free cost." the prisoner examining no witnesses, the chief justice summed up the case, and in ten or fifteen minutes the jury, who had retired, brought in a verdict of guilty. a rule was then made for the proper writ for the execution of the prisoner, on the eighth of december, and he was remanded to the tower. when informed by the court of the time fixed for his doom, mr. radcliffe said he wished they had given him a longer time, that so he might have been able to acquaint some people in france, and that his brother, the earl of morton, and he might "have set out on their journey together." the unhappy mr. radcliffe returned to his prison. much has been written of the arrogance and intemperance of his conduct and language, but much must be allowed for the subservience of the contemporary writers, as well as for the irritated feelings of the man. considering himself as a nobleman, and meeting with disrespect, and, perhaps, harsh usage, a quick temper was aggravated almost to madness. to his inferiors the passion and pride of his character were so offensive that the warders of the tower could be scarcely induced to give him their attendance; and this inconvenience was the more severely felt as a man named mcdermont, who had been his equerry for twenty-three years, was sent to newgate on the very day when mr. radcliffe entered the tower. at the hour of his last earthly trial, this man, whose eventful and singular life was brought to a close at the age of fifty-three, redeemed the errors of the last few weeks of anguish, and of bitter disappointment. he submitted calmly to his doom. the sullen sorrow, and the intolerable haughtiness of his manner, were exchanged for a composure, solemn and affecting, and for a courtesy which well became the brother of lord derwentwater. between eight and nine on the morning of the eighth of december, the sheriff, driving in a mourning coach to the east gate of the tower, demanded the prisoner. the gate was opened, and in about ten minutes a landau, in which mr. radcliffe was seated, drove out at the east gate, towards little tower hill. he was accompanied by the under-sheriffs, and by the officers of the tower: the landau was surrounded by a party of foot guards, with their bayonets fixed. the street was lined with horse soldiers, from the iron gate of the tower, to the scaffold, which was encompassed also with horse soldiers. at the foot of the stairs of the scaffold a booth was erected, for the reception of the prisoner. like lord balmerino, mr. radcliffe wore his regimentals, which were those of the french army; and consisted of a scarlet coat, with gold buttons, the sleeves faced with black velvet; a scarlet waistcoat, trimmed with gold lace; and white silk stockings. his hat was encircled with a white feather. as the prisoner alighted from the landau, he saw some of his friends standing near the booth; he paid his compliments to them with the grace of a well-bred man; and, smiling, asked of the sheriffs, who had preceded him in the mourning-coach, "if he was to enter the booth?" he was answered in the affirmative. "it is well," he replied; and he went in, and there passed about ten minutes in his devotions. the scaffold had been provided early that morning with a block, covered with black, a cushion, and two sacks of sawdust; and the coffin of the unhappy prisoner, also covered with black, was placed on the stage. mr. radcliffe ascended the scaffold with great calmness, and asked for the executioner. "i am but a poor man," said the unfortunate man, "but there are ten guineas for you: if i had more, i would give it you; do your execution so as to put me to the least possible misery." he then kneeled down, and folding his hands, uttered a short prayer. he arose, and was then assisted by two of the warders in the last preparations for his doom, taking off his coat and waistcoat, and substituting for his wig a white cap. having taken a respectful leave of the sheriffs, he was about to kneel down, when it was discovered that it would be necessary to tuck back the collar of his shirt. that office was performed by the executioner. then, after saying a short prayer, and crossing himself several times, he laid his head upon the block. in less than half a minute afterwards, he gave the signal, by spreading out his hands: his head was severed at one blow, and the body fell upon the scaffold. the executioner, searching his pockets, found in them a silver crucifix, his beads, and half-a-guinea. no friend attended the man who had been so long exiled from his own country, on the scaffold; but four undertakers' men stood, with a piece of red cloth, to receive the head of the ill-fated charles radcliffe. his body, being wrapt in a blanket, was put into the coffin, with his head, and conveyed to the nag's head, in gray's inn lane, and thence, in the dead of the night, to mr. walmsbey's, north street, red lion square, whence it was removed to be interred in the church-yard of st. giles's-in-the-fields, where a neglected stone alone marks his burial-place. the following is the inscription on the coffin:--"carolus radcliffe, comes de derwentwater, decollatus, die vo. decembris, , ætatis ." to this were added the words, so appropriate to the close of an adventurous life, "requiescat in pace." desolate as these last hours appear to have been, and uncheered by the presence of a friend, some tender care was directed to the remains of the unfortunate sufferer. his head was afterwards sewn on to the body by a dependant of lord petre's family, a woman of the name of thretfall, whose grandson, a carpenter, who lived for many years at ingatestone hall, essex, a seat of lord petre's, used to relate to the happier children of a later generation (the descendants of james, earl of derwentwater), the circumstances, of which he had heard in his childhood. the countess of newburgh was afterwards buried by the side of her husband; and the sexton of st. giles's church, some years since, on the lid of the coffin giving way, perceived some gold lace in a state of preservation; so that it seems probable that the blanket in which the bleeding remains were removed, was superseded by the costly and military attire worn by the prisoner. previous to his death mr. radcliffe wrote to his family. his letters, and all the memorials of his brother, and of himself, have been sedulously preserved by the family to whom they have descended. lady anna maria radcliffe, the only daughter of james, earl of derwentwater, married in , james, eighth baron petre, of writtle, county essex. a connexion had already subsisted between the families, a sister of lord derwentwater having married a petre of the collateral branch, seated at belhouse, in essex, which branch is now extinct. lady anna radcliffe appears to have entertained the deepest reverence for her father's memory, and to have held all that belonged to him, or that related to his fate, sacred. she caused a large mahogany chest to be made to receive the clothes which he wore on the scaffold, and also the covering of the block; likewise, a cast of his face taken after death: and having deposited these relics in the chest, she added a written paper with her seal and signature, _anne petre_, authenticating the said apparel and documents, and solemnly forbidding any of her descendants or other persons to make use of the chest for any other purpose, but "to contain her father's clothes, unless some other receptacle more costly be by them provided." this box is deposited in a room at thorndon hall, with letters and papers relating both to _james_, lord derwentwater, and to his brother _charles_. the eldest son of mr. radcliffe, called the lord kinnaird, in right of the barony of kinnaird, remained a prisoner in the tower at the time of his father's execution; and the uncertainty of that young man's fate must greatly have added to the distress of his father. in the spring of , he was suffered to return to france, on a cartel, an exchange of prisoners including him as a native of france. the circumstance to which the youth owed his long imprisonment, was a report which gained ground that he was the second son of james stuart, henry benedict, whom the english political world believed, at that time, to be on the eve of going to ireland, and under this impression, the mob followed the young man as he was conveyed from the vessel to the tower with insults. before returning to france, he was received by the duke of richmond, his mother's relative, with great consideration, and entertained at what horace walpole terms "a great dinner."[ ] such was what the same author calls the _stuartism_ in some of the highest circles. lord kinnaird afterwards put in a claim for the reversion of the derwentwater estate, but without success, for it had already been sold by the commissioners. a scene of iniquitous fraud, in the sale of the forfeited estate belonging to lord derwentwater was afterwards detected by lord gage, for which dennis bond, esquire, and sergeant birch, commissioners of the sale, were expelled the house.[ ] in , an act was passed vesting the several estates of james, earl of derwentwater in trustees, for the benefit of greenwich hospital; but, out of the funds thus arising, , _l._ was appropriated to the widowed countess of newburgh, and the interest of the remaining , _l._, was to be paid to james bartholomew, lord kinnaird, during his life, and after his death the principal to revert to his eldest son.[ ] from the chevalier, the widowed countess of newburgh received, as the following letter will shew, much kindness and sympathy; the conduct of james to his fallen and powerless adherents, appears to have been almost invariably marked by compassion and generosity. the countess of newburgh survived her husband ten years, during which time the affection of the chevalier, and of his sons, for her husband's memory was evinced by kindness to his widow, as the following letter testifies:-- lady derwentwater to the chevalier de st. george.[ ] sir, i received the honour of our majesty's most gracious letter, and beg leave to return my grateful thanks. your majesty is very good in commending my dear lord who did but his duty: he gave his life most willingly for your majesty's service, and i am persuaded that your majesty never had a subject more attacht to his duty than he was. the prince of wales and the duke of york have been so good to show a great concern for my loss, and recommended most strongly to the king of france my famyly. his majesty has been most extremely good and gracious to them. my son, that was captain in dillon's, has now the brevet of colonel reform'd with appointments of livres a-year; his sisters have livres a-year each of them, with his royal promis of his protection of the famyly for ever. the marquise de mezire, and her daughter the princess de monteban have been most extremely friendly to my famyly in this affair. i am, your majesty's most dutyfull subject, charlotte derwentwater. st. germains, february, ye th, . of the countess's two younger sons, one, james clement radcliffe, an officer in the french service, survived till , the other, who bore his father's name, charles, died in . three of her daughters died unmarried, but lady mary, the fourth, married francis eyre, esq., of walworth castle, northamptonshire. on the failure of the issue of three sons, in the title of newburgh passed into the family of eyre through the marriage of the above mary, and devolved upon francis eyre, the grandson of charlotte countess of newburgh, and of charles radcliffe, father of the present earl of newburgh. by the marriage of lady anne radcliffe, the only daughter of james, earl of derwentwater, in , to robert james, eighth baron petre, the present lord petre is the rightful representative of that attainted nobleman, being the third in direct descent from lady anne radcliffe, whose only brother, john,[ ] was killed accidentally abroad, having never been married.[ ] in concluding this account of the unfortunate charles radcliffe, a reflection naturally arises in the mind, how different would have been the spirit of administration in the present day to that which the government of that period displayed:--how great would have been the horror of shedding the blood of honourable and valiant men; how universal the sentiment of mournful commiseration; and how strong the conviction, that men, so true to an ill fated cause, would have been faithful to any engagements which required them to abandon their efforts in that cause; had clemency, but too imperfectly understood in those turbulent and merciless times, excited their gratitude, and for ever ensured their fidelity. footnotes: [ ] "genuine and impartial memoirs of the life and character of charles radcliffe, wrote by a gentleman of the family, (mr. eyre,) to prevent the public being imposed on by any erroneous or partial accounts, to the prejudice of this unfortunate gentleman." london, printed for the proprietor, and sold by e. cole, . [ ] hodgson's hist. of northumberland, vol. ii. p. , note. [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] fever. [ ] at thorndon, the seat of lord petre, in norfolk, are other original letters of lord derwentwater, referring to his wife. in most touching terms he thanks the mother of lady derwentwater for having "given her to him." this, and other interesting documents, are highly prized, and consequently carefully preserved by the ancient and noble family to whom they have descended. [ ] see life of lord derwentwater, vol. i. [ ] ibid. . [ ] secret history of the rebels in newgate, rd edition, london, . [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] secret history. [ ] state trials. [ ] for this anecdote, and also for a considerable portion of the materials of this memoir, i am indebted to the great kindness and intelligence of the hon. mrs. douglas, daughter of the present lord petre. [ ] wood's peerage. [ ] ms. letter. [ ] i must again refer to the information supplied by the hon. mrs. douglas. [ ] life of charles radcliffe, p. . [ ] letter to g. montagu, p. . [ ] state trials; quoted from the impartial history of the late charles radcliffe, written at the time. [ ] letter to sir h. mann, vol. ii. p. . [ ] a review of the reign of geo. ii. london. . [ ] douglas's peerage, edit. by wood. [ ] brown's hist. highlands, (stuart papers, appendix) page . [ ] in my first volume, i have stated that the earl of newburgh was the direct representative of james earl of derwentwater. (see p. , vol. i.) into this error i was betrayed by an obscure passage in burke's extinct peerage. i am indebted to the hon. mrs. douglass, to whom i have before expressed my obligations, for a correction of this mistake, and also for the copy of the pedigree in the appendix. this lady has also explained the reason why so many accounts have stated that the body of james earl of derwentwater was interred in st. giles's church-yard. his body was privately removed to dagenham park, in essex, a house his countess had hired in order to be near london. a report, meanwhile, was circulated by his friends that he had been buried in st. giles's; and, when no further danger of tumult was to be apprehended, the remains of the earl were deposited with his ancestors in the vaults of the chapel at dilstone. the mother of the present mr. howard, of corby castle, and sister of sir thomas neave, bart., has often related to her young relations, that when she and her sisters were children, they were afraid to pass at night along the gallery at dagenham, it being popularly supposed that lord derwentwater still walked there, carrying his head under his arm. this must have been, at least, seventy years after his death. [ ] see appendix, no. , also note. appendix no. i. this letter was addressed by the rev. joseph spence, author of "polymetus," and of "spence's anecdotes," and prebend of durham, to his father, who had forbidden him to enter into the society of the chevalier, at rome. the rev. joseph spence left this letter, with other mss. and books, to the late mrs. coltman, mother of samuel coltman, esq., of darley dale. it is not dated, but undoubtedly refers to the chevalier, james stuart. "sir, "about a month ago, mr. ---- and i being in search of some of the antiquities of your place, we became acquainted with an english gentleman, very knowing in this kind of learning, and who proved of great use to us; his name is dr. cooper, a priest of the church of england, whom we did not suspect to be of the pretender's retinue, but took him to be a curious traveller, which opinion created in me a great liking for his conversation. on easter eve, he made us the compliment, that as he supposed us bred in the profession of the said church, he thought it incumbent on him to invite us to divine service, next day being easter sunday. such language, at rome, appeared to me a jest. i stared at the doctor, who added that the pretender (whom he called king), had prevailed with the late pope, to grant licence for having divine service according to the rules of the church of england, performed in his palace, for the benefit of the protestant gentlemen of his suite, his domestics, and travellers; and that dr. berkley and himself were appointed for the discharge of this duty; and that prayers were read as ordinarily here as in london. i should have remained of st. thomas's belief, had i not been a witness that this is a matter of fact, and as such, have noted it down, as one of the greatest wonders of rome. this was the occasion of my first entrance into the pretender's house: i became acquainted with both the doctors, who are sensible, well-bred men. i put several questions to them about the pretender, and, if credit can be given them, they assure me he is a moral, upright man, being far from any sort of bigotry, and most averse to disputes and distinctions of religion, whereof not a word is admitted in his family. they described him in person very much to the resemblance of king charles ii., which they say he approaches more and more every day, with a great application to business, and a head well turned that way, having only some clerks, to whom he dictates such letters as he does not write with his own hand. in some days after, my friend and i went to take the evening air, in the stately park called villa ludovici, there we met, face to face, on a sudden, with the pretender, his princess, and court; we were so very close before we understood who they were, that we could not retreat with decency, common civility obliged us to stand side-ways in the alley, as others did, to let them pass by. the pretender was easily distinguished by his star and garter, as well as by his air of greatness, which discovered a majesty superior to the rest. i felt at that instant of his approach, a strange convulsion in body and mind, such as i never was sensible of before, whether aversion, awe, or respect occasioned it, i can't tell: i remarked his eyes fixed on me, which, i confess, i could not bear--i was perfectly stunned, and not aware of myself, when, pursuant to what the standers-by did, i made him a salute; he returned it with a smile, which changed the sedateness of his first aspect into a very graceful countenance; as he passed by i observed him to be a well-sized, clean-limbed man. i had but one glimpse of the princess, which left me a great desire of seeing her again; however, my friend and i turned off into another alley, to reason at leisure on our several observations: there we met dr. cooper, and, after making some turns with him, the same company came again in our way. i was grown somewhat bolder, and resolved to let them pass as before, in order to take a full view of the princess: she is of a middling stature, well-shaped, and has lovely features: wit, vivacity, and mildness of temper, are painted in her look. when they came to us, the pretender stood, and spoke a word to the doctor, then looking at us, he asked him whether we were english gentlemen; he asked us how long we had been in town, and whether we had any acquaintance in it, then told us he had a house, where english gentlemen would be very welcome. the princess, who stood by, addressing herself to the doctor in the prettiest english i think i ever heard, said, 'pray, doctor, if these gentlemen be lovers of music, invite them to my concert, to-night; i charge you with it;' which she accompanied with a salute in the most gracious manner. it was a very hard task, sir, to recede from the honour of such an invitation, given by a princess, who, although married to the pretender, deserves so much in regard to her person, her house, and family. however, we argued the case with the doctor, and represented the strict orders we had to the contrary; he replied, there would be no prohibition to a traveller against music, even at the ceremonies of the roman catholic church; that if we missed this occasion of seeing this assembly of the roman nobility, we might not recover it while we stayed in rome; and, that it became persons of our age and degree to act always the part of gentlemen, without regard to party humours. these arguments were more forcible than ours, so we went, and saw a bright assembly of the prime roman nobility, the concert composed of the best musicians of rome, a plentiful and orderly collation served; but the courteous and affable manner of our reception was more taking than all the rest. we had a general invitation given us whilst we stayed in town, and were desired to use the palace as our house, we were indispensably obliged to make a visit next day, in order to return thanks for so many civilities received;--those are things due to a turk. we were admitted without ceremony; the pretender entertained us on the subject of our families as knowingly as if he had been all his life in england: he told me some passages of myself and father, and of his being against the followers of king charles i. and ii., and added, "that if you, sir, had been of age before my grandfather's death, to learn his principles, there had been little danger of your taking party against the rights of a stuart." "he then observed how far the prejudices of education and wrong notions of infancy are apt to carry people from the paths of their ancestors: he discoursed as pertinently on several of our neighbouring families as i could do, upon which i told him i was surprised at his so perfect knowledge of our families in england; his answer was, that from his infancy he had made it his business to acquire the knowledge of the laws, customs, and families of his country, so that he might not be reported a stranger when the almighty pleased to call him thither. these and the like discourses held until word was brought that dinner was served; we endeavoured all we could to withdraw, but there was no possibility for it after he had made us this compliment, "i assure you, gentlemen, i shall never be for straining man's inclinations; however, our grandfathers, who were worthy people, dined, and i hope there can be no fault found that we do the same." there is every day a regular table of ten or twelve covers well served, unto which some of the qualified persons of his court, or travellers, are invited: it is supplied with english and french cooking, french and italian wines; but i took notice that the pretender eat only of the english dishes, and made his dinner of roast-beef, and what we call devonshire-pie: he also prefers our march beer, which he has from leghorn, to the best wines: at the dessert, he drinks his glass of champagne very heartily, and to do him justice, he is as free and cheerful at his table as any man i know; he spoke much in favour of our english ladies, and said he was persuaded he had not many enemies among them; then he carried a health to them. the princess with a smiling countenance took up the matter, and said, "i think then, sir, it would be but just that i drink to the cavaliers." sometime after, the pretender begun a health to the prosperity of all friends in england, which he addressed to me. i took the freedom to reply, that as i presumed he meant his own friends, he would not take it ill that i meant mine. "i assure you, sir," said he, "that the friends you mean can have no great share of prosperity till they become mine, therefore, here's prosperity to yours and mine." after we had eat and drank very heartily, the princess told us we must go see her son, which could not be refused; he is really a fine promising child, and is attended by english women, mostly protestants, which the princess observed to us, saying, that as she believed he was to live and die among protestants, she thought fit to have him brought up by their hands; and that in the country where she was born, there was no other distinction but that of honour and dishonour. these women, and particularly two londoners, kept such a racket about us to make us kiss the young pretender's hand that to get clear of them as soon as we could, we were forced to comply: the princess laughed very heartily, and told us that she did not question but the day would come that we should not be sorry to have made so early an acquaintance with her son. i thought myself under a necessity of making her the compliment, that being hers, he could not miss being good and happy. on the next post day, we went, as commonly the english gentlemen here do, to the pretender's house for news. he had received a great many letters, and after perusing them he told us that there was no great prospect of amendment in the affairs of england; that the secret committee and several other honest men were taking abundance of pains to find out the cause of the nation's destruction, which knowledge, when attained to, would avail only to give the more concern to the public without procuring relief; for that the authors would find means to be above the reach of the common course of justice: he bemoaned the misfortune of england groaning under a load of debts, and the severe hardships contracted and imposed to support foreign interests: he lamented the ill-treatment and disregard of the ancient nobility; and said it gave him great trouble to see the interest of the nation abandoned to the direction of a new set of people, who must at any rate enrich themselves by the spoil of their country: "some may imagine," continued he, "that these calamities are not displeasing to me, because they may, in some measure, turn to my advantage; i renounce all such unworthy thoughts.""[ ] footnote: [ ] the rest of the letter not being material, is omitted. no. ii.--the pedigree of the derwentwater family. (_see page ._) francis radcliffe, st earl of derwentwater; died ;===catherine fenwick. | +-------------------------------------------------------------------+-+-+-+--------+-+-+-+ | | | | | | | | | francis, nd earl of derwentwater; === lady mary tudor; born ; four sons; four born ----; married ; died . | mar. three times; died . whose fates daughters. | are unknown. | +-------------------------------+---------+------------------------------------+ | | | | james, rd earl===anna maria francis; charles === charlotte, countess of mary === mr. derwentwater; | webb; no radcliffe;| newburgh, in her own tudor. | petre, beheaded ; | born ; issue. beheaded | right, the descendants | of aged . | mar. ; , | of her daughter in her | belhouse. | died . aged . | first husband, thomas | | | clifford, being born no surviving issue. | | aliens do not succeed. | | she died . +---------------+ | | | | john, died anne === robert james, | unmarried, radcliffe; | th lord petre; | about . born | born ; | mar. ; | mar. ; | died . | died . +-----------------------+-----------+ | | | | | james bartholomew,===miss james; mary; born===francis +----------------------+ th earl newburgh; | kemp. no issue; ----; mar. | eyre, of | born - ; mar. | died . ; died | hassop robert, th lord === anne howard; ; died . | . | petre; b. ; | born ; | | mar. ; | mar. ; +------------+ | died . | died . | | | anthony, === miss webb; | +---------------------------------+ th earl | now | | | newburgh; | living, | robert, th === mary howard; other b. ----; | . +----------------------------+ lord petre; | born ; issue. mar. --; | | | born ; | mar. ; died . | francis eyre,===miss gladwin. other mar. ; | died . | th earl | issue. died . | no issue. newburgh; | | born ; | +----------------------+ mar. ; | | | died . | william, th, and other | present, lord issue. +----------------------+------------------+-+-+ petre. | | | | | thomas eyre, th earl francis eyre, th, three newburgh; born ; and present, earl daughters. mar. ; died . newburgh. no issue. no. iii. the following address affords a curious specimen of the subtlety of lord lovat, and the mode usually adopted by him of cajoling his clan. it was copied by alexander macdonald, esq., from an old process, in which it was produced before the court of session, and it is preserved in the register house, edinburgh; the signature, date, and address are, holographs of lord lovat. the honourable the gentlemen of the name of fraser. my dear friends, since, by all appearances, this is the last time of my life i shall have occasion to write to you, i being now very ill of a dangerous fever, i do declare to you before god, before whom i must apear, and all of us at the great day of judgement, that i loved you all, i mean you and all the rest of my kindred and family who are for the standing of their chief and name; and, as i loved you, so i loved all my faithful commons in general more than i did my own life or health, or comfort, or satisfaction; and god to whom i must answer, knows that my greatest desire and the greatest happiness i proposed to myself under heaven was, to make you all live happy and make my poor commons flourish; and that it was my constant principle to think myself mutch hapier with a hundred pounds and see you all live well at your ease about mee than have ten thousand pounds a year, and see you in want or misery. i did faithfully desire and resolve to make up, and put at their ease allexander fraser of topatry, and james fraser of castle ladders and their familys; and whatever disputs might ever be betwixt them and me which our mutual hot temper occasioned, joyned with the malice and calomny of both our ennemies, i take god to witness, i loved those two brave men as i did my own life for their great zeal and fidelity they showed for their chief and kindred; i did likewise resolve to support the families of struy foyers and culdithels families, and to the lasting praise of culdithel and his familie. i never knew himself to sarwe from his faithfull zeal for his chief and kindred, nor none of his familie, for which i hope god will bless him and them and their posterity. i did likewise desyring to make my poor commons live at their ease and have them always well clothed and well armed after the highland maner, and not to suffer them to wear low country cloths, but make them live like their forefathers with the use of their arms, that they might always be in condition to defend themselves against their ennemies, and to do service to their friends, especially to the great duke of argile, and to his worthy brother the earl of illay, and to that glorious and noble famyly who were always our constant and faithful friends; and i conjure you and all honest frasers to be zealous and faithfull friends and servants to the family of argile and their friends, whilst a campbell and a fraser subsists. if it be god's will that for the punishment of my great and many sins and the sins of my kindred, i should now depart this life before i put these just and good resolutions in execution; yet i hope that god in his mercy will inspire you and all honest frasers to stand by and be faithfull to my cousin inverlahie and the other heirs male of my family, and to venture your lives and fortunes to put him or my nearest heirs male named in my testament written by john jacks, in the full possession of the estate and honours of my forefathers, which is the onely way to preserve you from the wicked designs of the family of tarbat and glengary joyned to the family of athol: and you may depend upon it, and you and your posterity will see it and find it, that if you do not keep stedfast to your chief, i mean the heir male of my famyly; but weakly or falsely for little private interest and views abandon your duty to your name, and suffer a pretended heiresse, and her mackenzie children to possess your country and the true right of the heirs male, they will certainly in les than an age chasse you all by slight and might, as well gentlemen, as commons, out of your native country, which will be possessed by the mackenzies and the mackdonalls, and you will be, like the miserable unnatural jews, scattered, and vagabonds throughout the unhappy kingdom of scotland, and the poor wifes and children that remains of the name, without a head or protection when they are told the traditions of their familie will be cursing from their hearts the persons and memory of those unnaturall cowardly knavish men, who sold and abandoned their chief, their name, their birthright, and their country, for a false and foolish present gain, even as the most of scots' people curs this day those who sold them and their country to the english by the fatal union, which i hope will not last long. i make my earnest and dying prayers to god almighty, that he may, in his mercy, thro the merits of christ jesus, save you and all my poor people, whom i always found honest and zealous to me and their duty, from that blindness of heart that will inevitably bring those ruins and disgraces upon you and your posterity; and i pray that almighty and mercifull god, who has often miraculously saved my family and name from utter ruin, may give you the spirit of courage, of zeal, and of fidelity, that you owe to your chief, to your name, to your selves, to your children, and to your country; and may the most mercifull, and adorable trinity, father, son and holy spirit, three persons, one god, save all your souls eternally, throu the blood of christ jesus, our blessed lord and saviour, to whom i heartily recommende you. i desire that this letter may be kept in a box, at beaufort, or maniack, and read once a-year by the heir male, or a principale gentleman of the name, to all honest frasers that will continue faithfull to the duty i have enjoined in this above-written letter, to whom, with you and all honest frasers, and my other friends, i leave my tender and affectionat blessing, and bid you my kind, and last farewell. lovat. london, the of aprile, . not being able to write myself, i did dictat the above letter to the little french boy, that's my servant. it contains the most sincere sentiments of my heart; and if it touch my kindred in reading of it, as it did me while i dictat it, i am sure it will have a good effect, which are my earnest prayers to god. iv. allusion having been made often, in the course of these memoirs, to the process of "serving oneself heir" to an estate, in scotland: the following document,[ ] shewing the form of such a process, may not be deemed uninteresting. claim for william maxwell, esq. of carruchan, who served heir-male in general of robert, fourth earl of nithisdale. "honourable persons and good men of inquest: i, william maxwell, of carruchan, who was son of captain maxwell of carruchan, who was son of alexander maxwell, of yark and terraughty, who was son of the honourable james maxwell, of breckonside, immediate younger brother of john, third earl of nithisdale, who was father of robert, fourth earl of nithisdale, say unto your wisdoms, that the said maxwell of nithisdale, nephews of my great-great-great-grandfather, died in the faith and peace of our sovereign lord the king then reigning, and that i am nearest and lawful heir male in general to the said robert, fourth earl of nithisdale, the nephew of my great-great-great-grandfather, and that i am of lawful age. therefore i beseech your wisdoms to serve and cognesce me nearest and lawful heir male in general to the said deceased robert, fourth earl of nithisdale, and cause your clerk of the court to return my service to your majesty's chancery. under my seal, "according to justice and your wisdom's answer, &c. &c." footnote: [ ] i am indebted for a copy of this process to sir john maxwell, bart. pollok. * * * * * transcriber's note: the following errors in the original have been corrected. contents page - page number for flora mcdonald changed from to page - no footnote marker for second footnote page - missing quotation mark added before (that is to say, page - missing quotation mark added after of the heather. vestiarum scoticum changed to vestiarium scoticum page - extra quotation mark removed from after retreat to the prince. page - extra quotation mark removed from after in a few days. page - missing quotation mark added before was pretty well filled page - charles had carefuly changed to charles had carefully page - missing quotation mark added about the same time page - missing quotation mark added after ( ), and before for my wife page - recal the slow changed to recall the slow page - missing quotation mark added after light from heaven. page - extra quotation mark removed from before the duke of perth marched page - roman carholic changed to roman catholic page - extra quotation mark removed from after antwerpiæ jacet. page - extra comma removed from after know who might page - missing quotation mark added after earls of kilmarnock. page - extra quotation mark removed from after linlithgow, and calendar; page - recal of arthur changed to recall of arthur page - removed unnecessary apostrophe from after giving their lordships page - missing quotation mark added before would as soon be hanged page - and exexempt changed to and exempt craufurland castle, kilmarnock changed to craufurdland castle, kilmarnock page - missing quotation mark added after receiving a remedy. page - inquired mr. forster, changed to inquired mr. foster, page - missing quotation mark added after lord balmerino's execution. page - missing quotation mark added before is one of antiquity page - missing quotation mark added before i now, with my page - missing quotation mark added before i put him in mind page - missing quotation mark added before his agreeable look page - missing quotation mark added after designs for london. adieu! page - missing volume number in footnote inserted. page - where at the highest changed to were at the highest page - willian pitt, esq. changed to william pitt, esq. page - was a a report changed to was a report page - missing quotation mark added before he then observed page - missing quotation mark added after such unworthy thoughts." the two admirals. a tale by james fenimore cooper the author of "the pilot," "red rover," "water-witch," "homeward bound," etc. complete in one volume revised and corrected with a new introduction, notes, &c, by the author. new york: george p. putnam & co., park place. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by stringer & townsend, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of new york. stereotyped by billin & brothers, north william street, n.y. r. craighead, printer come, all ye kindred chieftains of the deep, in mighty phalanx round your brother bend; hush every murmur that invades his sleep, and guard the laurel that o'ershades your friend. _lines on trippe._ preface. it is a strong proof of the diffusive tendency of every thing in this country, that america never yet collected a fleet. nothing is wanting to this display of power but the will. but a fleet requires only one commander, and a feeling is fast spreading in the country that we ought to be all commanders; unless the spirit of unconstitutional innovation, and usurpation, that is now so prevalent, at washington, be controlled, we may expect to hear of proposals to send a committee of congress to sea, in command of a squadron. we sincerely hope that their first experiment may be made on the coast of africa. it has been said of napoleon that he never could be made to understand why his fleets did not obey his orders with the same accuracy, as to time and place, as his _corps d'armée_. he made no allowances for the winds and currents, and least of all, did he comprehend that all important circumstance, that the efficiency of a fleet is necessarily confined to the rate of sailing of the dullest of its ships. more may be expected from a squadron of ten sail, all of which shall be average vessels, in this respect, than from the same number of vessels, of which one half are fast and the remainder dull. one brigade can march as fast as another, but it is not so with vessels. the efficiency of a marine, therefore, depends rather on its working qualities, than on its number of ships. perhaps the best fleet that ever sailed under the english flag, was that with which nelson fought the battle of the nile. it consisted of twelve or thirteen small seventy-fours, each of approved qualities, and commanded by an officer of known merit. in all respects it was efficient and reliable. with such men as hallowell, hood, trowbridge, foley, ball, and others, and with such ships, the great spirit of nelson was satisfied. he knew that whatever seamen could do, his comparatively little force could achieve. when his enemy was discovered at anchor, though night was approaching and his vessels were a good deal scattered, he at once determined to put the qualities we have mentioned to the highest proof, and to attack. this was done without any other order of battle than that which directed each commander to get as close alongside of an enemy as possible, the best proof of the high confidence he had in his ships and in their commanders. it is now known that all the early accounts of the man[oe]uvring at the nile, and of nelson's reasoning on the subject of anchoring inside and of doubling on his enemies, is pure fiction. the "life" by southey, in all that relates to this feature of the day, is pure fiction, as, indeed, are other portions of the work of scarcely less importance. this fact came to the writer, through the late commodore (charles valentine) morris, from sir alexander ball, in the early part of the century. in that day it would not have done to proclaim it, so tenacious is public opinion of its errors; but since that time, naval officers of rank have written on the subject, and stripped the nile, trafalgar, &c, of their poetry, to give the world plain, nautical, and probable accounts of both those great achievements. the truth, as relates to both battles, was just as little like the previously published accounts, as well could be. nelson knew the great superiority of the english seamen, their facility in repairing damages, and most of all the high advantage possessed by the fleets of his country, in the exercise of the assumed right to impress, a practice that put not only the best seamen of his own country, but those of the whole world, more or less, at his mercy. his great merit, at the nile, was in the just appreciation of these advantages, and in the extraordinary decision which led him to go into action just at nightfall, rather than give his enemy time to prepare to meet the shock. it is now known that the french were taken, in a great measure, by surprise. a large portion of their crews were on shore, and did not get off to their ships at all, and there was scarce a vessel that did not clear the decks, by tumbling the mess-chests, bags, &c, into the inside batteries, rendering them, in a measure, useless, when the english doubled on their line. it was this doubling on the french line, by anchoring inside, and putting two ships upon one, that gave nelson so high a reputation as a tactician. the merit of this man[oe]uvre belongs exclusively to one of his captains. as the fleet went in, without any order, keeping as much to windward as the shoals would permit, nelson ordered the vanguard hove-to, to take a pilot out of a fisherman. this enabled foley, hood, and one or two more to pass that fast ship. it was at this critical moment that the thought occurred to foley (we think this was the officer) to pass the head of the french line, keep dead away, and anchor inside. others followed, completely placing their enemies between two fires. sir samuel hood anchored his ship (the zealous) on the inner bow of the most weatherly french ship, where he poured his fire into, virtually; an unresisting enemy. notwithstanding the great skill manifested by the english in their mode of attack, this was the only two-decked ship in the english fleet that was able to make sail on the following morning. had nelson led in upon an american fleet, as he did upon the french at the nile, he would have seen reason to repent the boldness of the experiment. something like it _was_ attempted on lake champlain, though on a greatly diminished scale, and the english were virtually defeated before they anchored. the reader who feels an interest in such subjects, will probably detect the secret process of the mind, by which some of the foregoing facts have insinuated themselves into this fiction. the two admirals chapter i. "then, if he were my brother's. my brother might not claim him; nor your father, being none of his, refuse him: this concludes-- my mother's son did get your father's heir; your father's heir must have your father's land." king john. the events we are about to relate, occurred near the middle of the last century, previously even to that struggle, which it is the fashion of america to call "the old french war." the opening scene of our tale, however, must be sought in the other hemisphere, and on the coast of the mother country. in the middle of the eighteenth century, the american colonies were models of loyalty; the very war, to which there has just been allusion, causing the great expenditure that induced the ministry to have recourse to the system of taxation, which terminated in the revolution. the family quarrel had not yet commenced. intensely occupied with the conflict, which terminated not more gloriously for the british arms, than advantageously for the british american possessions, the inhabitants of the provinces were perhaps never better disposed to the metropolitan state, than at the very period of which we are about to write. all their early predilections seemed to be gaining strength, instead of becoming weaker; and, as in nature, the calm is known to succeed the tempest, the blind attachment of the colony to the parent country, was but a precursor of the alienation and violent disunion that were so soon to follow. although the superiority of the english seamen was well established, in the conflicts that took place between the years , and that of , the naval warfare of the period by no means possessed the very decided character with which it became stamped, a quarter of a century later. in our own times, the british marine appears to have improved in quality, as its enemies, deteriorated. in the year , however, "greek met greek," when, of a verity, came "the tug of war." the great change that came over the other navies of europe, was merely a consequence of the revolutions, which drove experienced men into exile, and which, by rendering armies all-important even to the existence of the different states, threw nautical enterprises into the shade, and gave an engrossing direction to courage and talent, in another quarter. while france was struggling, first for independence, and next for the mastery of the continent, a marine was a secondary object; for vienna, berlin, and moscow, were as easily entered without, as with its aid. to these, and other similar causes, must be referred the explanation of the seeming invincibility of the english arms at sea, during the late great conflicts of europe; an invincibility that was more apparent than real, however, as many well-established defeats were, even then, intermingled with her thousand victories. from the time when her numbers could furnish succour of this nature, down to the day of separation, america had her full share in the exploits of the english marine. the gentry of the colonies willingly placed their sons in the royal navy, and many a bit of square bunting has been flying at the royal mast-heads of king's ships, in the nineteenth century, as the distinguishing symbols of flag-officers, who had to look for their birth-places among ourselves. in the course of a chequered life, in which we have been brought in collision with as great a diversity of rank, professions, and characters, as often falls to the lot of any one individual, we have been thrown into contact with no less than eight english admirals, of american birth; while, it has never yet been our good fortune to meet with a countryman, who has had this rank bestowed on him by his own government. on one occasion, an englishman, who had filled the highest civil office connected with the marine of his nation, observed to us, that the only man he then knew, in the british navy, in whom he should feel an entire confidence in entrusting an important command, was one of these translated admirals; and the thought unavoidably passed through our mind, that this favourite commander had done well in adhering to the conventional, instead of clinging to his natural allegiance, inasmuch as he might have toiled for half a century, in the service of his native land, and been rewarded with a rank that would merely put him on a level with a colonel in the army! how much longer this short-sighted policy, and grievous injustice, are to continue, no man can say; but it is safe to believe, that it is to last until some legislator of influence learns the simple truth, that the fancied reluctance of popular constituencies to do right, oftener exists in the apprehensions of their representatives, than in reality.--but to our tale. england enjoys a wide-spread reputation for her fogs; but little do they know how much a fog may add to natural scenery, who never witnessed its magical effects, as it has caused a beautiful landscape to coquette with the eye, in playful and capricious changes. our opening scene is in one of these much derided fogs; though, let it always be remembered, it was a fog of june, and not of november. on a high head-land of the coast of devonshire, stood a little station-house, which had been erected with a view to communicate by signals, with the shipping, that sometimes lay at anchor in an adjacent roadstead. a little inland, was a village, or hamlet, that it suits our purposes to call wychecombe; and at no great distance from the hamlet itself, surrounded by a small park, stood a house of the age of henry vii., which was the abode of sir wycherly wychecombe, a baronet of the creation of king james i., and the possessor of an improveable estate of some three or four thousand a year, which had been transmitted to him, through a line of ancestors, that ascended as far back as the times of the plantagenets. neither wychecombe, nor the head-land, nor the anchorage, was a place of note; for much larger and more favoured hamlets, villages, and towns, lay scattered about that fine portion of england; much better roadsteads and bays could generally be used by the coming or the parting vessel; and far more important signal-stations were to be met with, all along that coast. nevertheless, the roadstead was entered when calms or adverse winds rendered it expedient; the hamlet had its conveniences, and, like most english hamlets, its beauties; and the hall and park were not without their claims to state and rural magnificence. a century since, whatever the table of precedency or blackstone may say, an english baronet, particularly one of the date of , was a much greater personage than he is to-day; and an estate of £ a year, more especially if not rack-rented, was of an extent, and necessarily of a local consequence, equal to one of near, or quite three times the same amount, in our own day. sir wycherly, however, enjoyed an advantage that was of still greater importance, and which was more common in , than at the present moment. he had no rival within fifteen miles of him, and the nearest potentate was a nobleman of a rank and fortune that put all competition out of the question; one who dwelt in courts, the favourite of kings; leaving the baronet, as it might be, in undisturbed enjoyment of all the local homage. sir wycherly had once been a member of parliament, and only once. in his youth, he had been a fox-hunter; and a small property in yorkshire had long been in the family, as a sort of foothold on such enjoyments; but having broken a leg, in one of his leaps, he had taken refuge against _ennui_, by sitting a single session in the house of commons, as the member of a borough that lay adjacent to his hunting-box. this session sufficed for his whole life; the good baronet having taken the matter so literally, as to make it a point to be present at all the sittings; a sort of tax on his time, which, as it came wholly unaccompanied by profit, was very likely soon to tire out the patience of an old fox-hunter. after resigning his seat, he retired altogether to wychecombe, where he passed the last fifty years, extolling england, and most especially that part of it in which his own estates lay; in abusing the french, with occasional inuendoes against spain and holland; and in eating and drinking. he had never travelled; for, though englishmen of his station often did visit the continent, a century ago, they oftener did not. it was the courtly and the noble, who then chiefly took this means of improving their minds and manners; a class, to which a baronet by no means necessarily belonged. to conclude, sir wycherly was now eighty-four; hale, hearty, and a bachelor. he had been born the oldest of five brothers; the cadets taking refuge, as usual, in the inns of court, the church, the army, and the navy; and precisely in the order named. the lawyer had actually risen to be a judge, by the style and appellation of baron wychecombe; had three illegitimate children by his housekeeper, and died, leaving to the eldest thereof, all his professional earnings, after buying commissions for the two younger in the army. the divine broke his neck, while yet a curate, in a fox-hunt; dying unmarried, and so far as is generally known, childless. this was sir wycherly's favourite brother; who, he was accustomed to say, "lost his life, in setting an example of field-sports to his parishioners." the soldier was fairly killed in battle, before he was twenty; and the name of the sailor suddenly disappeared from the list of his majesty's lieutenants, about half a century before the time when our tale opens, by shipwreck. between the sailor and the head of the family, however, there had been no great sympathy; in consequence, as it was rumoured, of a certain beauty's preference for the latter, though this preference produced no _suites_, inasmuch as the lady died a maid. mr. gregory wychecombe, the lieutenant in question, was what is termed a "wild boy;" and it was the general impression, when his parents sent him to sea, that the ocean would now meet with its match. the hopes of the family centred in the judge, after the death of the curate, and it was a great cause of regret, to those who took an interest in its perpetuity and renown, that this dignitary did not marry; since the premature death of all the other sons had left the hall, park, and goodly farms, without any known legal heir. in a word, this branch of the family of wychecombe would be extinct, when sir wycherly died, and the entail become useless. not a female inheritor, even, or a male inheritor through females, could be traced; and it had become imperative on sir wycherly to make a will, lest the property should go off, the lord knew where; or, what was worse, it should escheat. it is true, tom wychecombe, the judge's eldest son, often gave dark hints about a secret, and a timely marriage between his parents, a fact that would have superseded the necessity for all devises, as the property was strictly tied up, so far as the lineal descendants of a certain _old_ sir wycherly were concerned; but the present sir wycherly had seen his brother, in his last illness, on which occasion, the following conversation had taken place. "and now, brother thomas," said the baronet, in a friendly and consoling manner; "having, as one may say, prepared your soul for heaven, by these prayers and admissions of your sins, a word may be prudently said, concerning the affairs of this world. you know i am childless--that is to say,--" "i understand you, wycherly," interrupted the dying man, "you're a _bachelor_." "that's it, thomas; and bachelors _ought_ not to have children. had our poor brother james escaped that mishap, he might have been sitting at your bed-side at this moment, and _he_ could have told us all about it. st. james i used to call him; and well did he deserve the name!" "st. james the least, then, it must have been, wycherly." "it's a dreadful thing to have no heir, thomas! did you ever know a case in your practice, in which another estate was left so completely without an heir, as this of ours?" "it does not often happen, brother; heirs are usually more abundant than estates." "so i thought. will the king get the title as well as the estate, brother, if it should escheat, as you call it?" "being the fountain of honour, he will be rather indifferent about the baronetcy." "i should care less if it went to the next sovereign, who is english born. wychecombe has always belonged to englishmen." "that it has; and ever will, i trust. you have only to select an heir, when i am gone, and by making a will, with proper devises, the property will not escheat. be careful to use the full terms of perpetuity." "every thing was so comfortable, brother, while you were in health," said sir wycherly, fidgeting; "you were my natural heir--" "heir of entail," interrupted the judge. "well, well, _heir_, at all events; and _that_ was a prodigious comfort to a man like myself, who has a sort of religious scruples about making a will. i have heard it whispered that you were actually married to martha; in which case, tom might drop into our shoes, so readily, without any more signing and sealing." "a _filius nullius_," returned the other, too conscientious to lend himself to a deception of that nature. "why, brother, tom often seems to me to favour such an idea, himself." "no wonder, wycherly, for the idea would greatly favour him. tom and his brothers are all _filii nullorum_, god forgive me for that same wrong." "i wonder neither charles nor gregory thought of marrying before they lost their lives for their king and country," put in sir wycherly, in an upbraiding tone, as if he thought his penniless brethren had done him an injury in neglecting to supply him with an heir, though he had been so forgetful himself of the same great duty. "i did think of bringing in a bill for providing heirs for unmarried persons, without the trouble and responsibility of making wills." "that would have been a great improvement on the law of descents--i hope you wouldn't have overlooked the ancestors." "not i--everybody would have got his rights. they tell me poor charles never spoke after he was shot; but i dare say, did we know the truth, he regretted sincerely that he never married." "there, for once, wycherly, i think you are likely to be wrong. a _femme sole_ without food, is rather a helpless sort of a person." "well, well, i wish he had married. what would it have been to me, had he left a dozen widows?" "it might have raised some awkward questions as to dowry; and if each left a son, the title and estates would have been worse off than they are at present, without widows or legitimate children." "any thing would be better than having no heir. i believe i'm the first baronet of wychecombe who has been obliged to make a will!" "quite likely," returned the brother, drily; "i remember to have got nothing from the last one, in that way. charles and gregory fared no better. never mind, wycherly, you behaved like a father to us all." "i don't mind signing cheques, in the least; but wills have an irreligious appearance, in my eyes. there are a good many wychecombes, in england; i wonder some of them are not of our family! they tell me a hundredth cousin is just as good an heir, as a first-born son." "failing nearer of kin. but we have no hundredth cousins of the _whole blood_." "there are the wychecombes of surrey, brother thomas--?" "descended from a bastard of the second baronet, and out of the line of descent, altogether." "but the wychecombes of hertfordshire, i have always heard were of our family, and legitimate." "true, as regards matrimony--rather too much of it, by the way. they branched off in , long before the creation, and have nothing to do with the entail; the first of their line coming from old sir michael wychecombe, kt. and sheriff of devonshire, by his second wife margery; while we are derived from the same male ancestor, through wycherly, the only son by joan, the first wife. wycherly, and michael, the son of michael and margery, were of the half-blood, as respects each other, and could not be heirs of blood. what was true of the ancestors is true of the descendants." "but we came of the same ancestor, and the estate is far older than ." "quite true, brother; nevertheless, the half-blood can't take; so says the perfection of human reason." "i never could understand these niceties of the law," said sir wycherly, sighing; "but i suppose they are all right. there are so many wychecombes scattered about england, that i should think some one among them all might be my heir!" "every man of them bears a bar in his arms, or is of the half-blood." "you are quite sure, brother, that tom is a _filius nullus_?" for the baronet had forgotten most of the little latin he ever knew, and translated this legal phrase into "no son." "_filius nullius_, sir wycherly, the son of nobody; your reading would literally make tom nobody; whereas, he is only the son of nobody." "but, brother, he is your son, and as like you, as two hounds of the same litter." "i am _nullus_, in the eye of the law, as regards poor tom; who, until he marries, and has children of his own, is altogether without legal kindred. nor do i know that legitimacy would make tom any better; for he is presuming and confident enough for the heir apparent to the throne, as it is." "well, there's this young sailor, who has been so much at the station lately, since he was left ashore for the cure of his wounds. 'tis a most gallant lad; and the first lord has sent him a commission, as a reward for his good conduct, in cutting out the frenchman. i look upon him as a credit to the name; and i make no question, he is, some way or other, of our family." "does he claim to be so?" asked the judge, a little quickly, for he distrusted men in general, and thought, from all he had heard, that some attempt might have been made to practise on his brother's simplicity. "i thought you told me that he came from the american colonies?" "so he does; he's a native of virginia, as was his father before him." "a convict, perhaps; or a servant, quite likely, who has found the name of his former master, more to his liking than his own. such things are common, they tell me, beyond seas." "yes, if he were anything but an american, i might wish he were my heir," returned sir wycherly, in a melancholy tone; "but it would be worse than to let the lands escheat, as you call it, to place an american in possession of wychecombe. the manors have always had english owners, down to the present moment, thank god!" "should they have any other, it will be your own fault, wycherly. when i am dead, and that will happen ere many weeks, the human being will not be living, who can take that property, after your demise, in any other manner than by escheat, or by devise. there will then be neither heir of entail, nor heir at law; and you may make whom you please, master of wychecombe, provided he be not an alien." "not an american, i suppose, brother; an american is an alien, of course." "humph!--why, not in law, whatever he may be according to our english notions. harkee, brother wycherly; i've never asked you, or wished you to leave the estate to tom, or his younger brothers; for one, and all, are _filii nullorum_--as i term 'em, though my brother record will have it, it ought to be _filii nullius_, as well as _filius nullius_. let that be as it may; no bastard should lord it at wychecombe; and rather than the king; should get the lands, to bestow on some favourite, i would give it to the half-blood." "can that be done without making a will, brother thomas?" "it cannot, sir wycherly; nor with a will, so long as an heir of entail can be found." "is there no way of making tom a _filius somebody_, so that _he_ can succeed?" "not under our laws. by the civil law, such a thing might have been done, and by the scotch law; but not under the perfection of reason." "i wish you knew this young virginian! the lad bears both of my names, wycherly wychecombe." "he is not a _filius wycherly_--is he, baronet?" "fie upon thee, brother thomas! do you think i have less candour than thyself, that i would not acknowledge my own flesh and blood. i never saw the youngster, until within the last six months, when he was landed from the roadstead, and brought to wychecombe, to be cured of his wounds; nor ever heard of him before. when they told me his name was wycherly wychecombe, i could do no less than call and see him. the poor fellow lay at death's door for a fortnight; and it was while we had little or no hope of saving him, that i got the few family anecdotes from him. now, that would be good evidence in law, i believe, thomas." "for certain things, had the lad really died. surviving, he must be heard on his _voire dire_, and under oath. but what was his tale?" "a very short one. he told me his father was a wycherly wychecombe, and that his grandfather had been a virginia planter. this was all he seemed to know of his ancestry." "and probably all there was of them. my tom is not the only _filius nullius_ that has been among us, and this grandfather, if he has not actually stolen the name, has got it by these doubtful means. as for the wycherly, it should pass for nothing. learning that there is a line of baronets of this name, every pretender to the family would be apt to call a son wycherly." "the line will shortly be ended, brother," returned sir wycherly, sighing. "i wish you might be mistaken; and, after all, tom shouldn't prove to be that _filius_ you call him." mr. baron wychecombe, as much from _esprit de corps_ as from moral principle, was a man of strict integrity, in all things that related to _meum_ and _tuum_. he was particularly rigid in his notions concerning the transmission of real estate, and the rights of primogeniture. the world had taken little interest in the private history of a lawyer, and his sons having been born before his elevation to the bench, he passed with the public for a widower, with a family of promising boys. not one in a hundred of his acquaintances even, suspected the fact; and nothing would have been easier for him, than to have imposed on his brother, by inducing him to make a will under some legal mystification or other, and to have caused tom wychecombe to succeed to the property in question, by an indisputable title. there would have been no great difficulty even, in his son's assuming and maintaining his right to the baronetcy, inasmuch as there would be no competitor, and the crown officers were not particularly rigid in inquiring into the claims of those who assumed a title that brought with it no political privileges. still, he was far from indulging in any such project. to him it appeared that the wychecombe estate ought to go with the principles that usually governed such matters; and, although he submitted to the dictum of the common law, as regarded the provision which excluded the half-blood from inheriting, with the deference of an english common-law lawyer, he saw and felt, that, failing the direct line, wychecombe ought to revert to the descendants of sir michael by his second son, for the plain reason that they were just as much derived from the person who had acquired the estate, as his brother wycherly and himself. had there been descendants of females, even, to interfere, no such opinion would have existed; but, as between an escheat, or a devise in favour of a _filius nillius_, or of the descendant of a _filius nullius_, the half-blood possessed every possible advantage. in his legal eyes, legitimacy was everything, although he had not hesitated to be the means of bringing into the world seven illegitimate children, that being the precise number martha had the credit of having borne him, though three only survived. after reflecting a moment, therefore, he turned to the baronet, and addressed him more seriously than he had yet done, in the present dialogue; first taking a draught of cordial to give him strength for the occasion. "listen to me, brother wycherly," said the judge, with a gravity that at once caught the attention of the other. "you know something of the family history, and i need do no more than allude to it. our ancestors were the knightly possessors of wychecombe, centuries before king james established the rank of baronet. when our great-grandfather, sir wycherly, accepted the patent of , he scarcely did himself honour; for, by aspiring higher, he might have got a peerage. however, a baronet he became, and for the first time since wychecombe was wychecombe, the estate was entailed, to do credit to the new rank. now, the first sir wycherly had three sons, and no daughter. each of these sons succeeded; the two eldest as bachelors, and the youngest was our grandfather. sir thomas, the fourth baronet, left an only child, wycherly, our father. sir wycherly, our father, had five sons, wycherly his successor, yourself, and the sixth baronet; myself; james; charles; and gregory. james broke his neck at your side. the two last lost their lives in the king's service, unmarried; and neither you, nor i, have entered into the holy state of matrimony. i cannot survive a month, and the hopes of perpetuating the direct line of the family, rests with yourself. this accounts for all the descendants of sir wycherly, the first baronet; and it also settles the question of heirs of entail, of whom there are none after myself. to go back beyond the time of king james i.: twice did the elder lines of the wychecombes fail, between the reign of king richard ii. and king henry vii., when sir michael succeeded. now, in each of these cases, the law disposed of the succession; the youngest branches of the family, in both instances, getting the estate. it follows that agreeably to legal decisions had at the time, when the facts must have been known, that the wychecombes were reduced to these younger lines. sir michael had two wives. from the first _we_ are derived--from the last, the wychecombes of hertfordshire--since known as baronets of that county, by the style and title of sir reginald wychecombe of wychecombe-regis, herts." "the present sir reginald can have no claim, being of the half-blood," put in sir wycherly, with a brevity of manner that denoted feeling. "the half-blood is as bad as a _nullius_, as you call tom." "not quite. a person of the half-blood may be as legitimate as the king's majesty; whereas, a nullius is of _no_ blood. now, suppose for a moment, sir wycherly, that you had been a son by a first wife, and i had been a son by a second--would there have been no relationship between us?" "what a question, tom, to put to your own brother!" "but i should not be your _own_ brother, my good sir; only your _half_ brother; of the _half_, and not of the _whole_ blood." "what of that--what of that?--your father would have been my father--we would have had the same name--the same family history--the same family _feelings_--poh! poh!--we should have been both wychecombes, exactly as we are to-day." "quite true, and yet i could not have been your heir, nor you mine. the estate would escheat to the king, hanoverian or scotchman, before it came to me. indeed, to _me_ it could never come." "thomas, you are trifling with my ignorance, and making matters worse than they really are. certainly, as long as you lived, you would be _my_ heir!" "very true, as to the £ , in the funds, but not as to the baronetcy and wychecombe. so far as the two last are concerned, i am heir of blood, and of entail, of the body of sir wycherly wychecombe, the first baronet, and the maker of the entail." "had there been no entail, and had i died a child, who would have succeeded our father, supposing there had been two mothers?" "i, as the next surviving son." "there!--i knew it must be so!" exclaimed sir wycherly, in triumph; "and all this time you have been joking with me!" "not so fast, brother of mine--not so fast. i should be of the _whole_ blood, as respected our father, and all the wychecombes that have gone before him; but of the _half_-blood, as respected _you_. from our father i might have taken, as his heir-at-law: but from _you_, never, having been of the _half_-blood." "i would have made a will, in that case, thomas, and left you every farthing," said sir wycherly, with feeling. "that is just what i wish you to do with sir reginald wychecombe. you must take him; a _filius nullius_, in the person of my son tom; a stranger; or let the property escheat; for, we are so peculiarly placed as not to have a known relative, by either the male or female lines; the maternal ancestors being just as barren of heirs as the paternal. our good mother was the natural daughter of the third earl of prolific; our grandmother was the last of her race, so far as human ken can discover; our great-grandmother is said to have had semi-royal blood in her veins, without the aid of the church, and beyond that it would be hopeless to attempt tracing consanguinity on that side of the house. no, wycherly; it is sir reginald who has the best right to the land; tom, or one of his brothers, an utter stranger, or his majesty, follow. remember that estates of £ a year, don't often escheat, now-a-days." "if you'll draw up a will, brother, i'll leave it all to tom," cried the baronet, with sudden energy. "nothing need be said about the _nullius_; and when i'm gone, he'll step quietly into my place." nature triumphed a moment in the bosom of the father; but habit, and the stern sense of right, soon overcame the feeling. perhaps certain doubts, and a knowledge of his son's real character, contributed their share towards the reply. "it ought not to be, sir wycherly," returned the judge, musing, "tom has no right to wychecombe, and sir reginald has the best moral right possible, though the law cuts him off. had sir michael made the entail, instead of our great-grandfather, he would have come in, as a matter of course." "i never liked sir reginald wychecombe," said the baronet, stubbornly. "what of that?--he will not trouble you while living, and when dead it will be all the same. come--come--i will draw the will myself, leaving blanks for the name; and when it is once done, you will sign it, cheerfully. it is the last legal act i shall ever perform, and it will be a suitable one, death being constantly before me." this ended the dialogue. the will was drawn according to promise; sir wycherly took it to his room to read, carefully inserted the name of tom wychecombe in all the blank spaces, brought it back, duly executed the instrument in his brother's presence, and then gave the paper to his nephew to preserve, with a strong injunction on him to keep the secret, until the instrument should have force by his own death. mr. baron wychecombe died in six weeks, and the baronet returned to his residence, a sincere mourner for the loss of an only brother. a more unfortunate selection of an heir could not have been made, as tom wychecombe was, in reality, the son of a barrister in the temple; the fancied likeness to the reputed father existing only in the imagination of his credulous uncle. chapter ii. ----"how fearful and dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low! the crows, and choughs, that wing the midway air, show scarce so gross as beetles! half-way down hangs one that gathers samphire! dreadful trade!" king lear. this digression on the family of wychecombe has led us far from the signal-station, the head-land, and the fog, with which the tale opened. the little dwelling connected with the station stood at a short distance from the staff, sheltered, by the formation of the ground, from the bleak winds of the channel, and fairly embowered in shrubs and flowers. it was a humble cottage, that had been ornamented with more taste than was usual in england at that day. its whitened walls, thatched roof, picketed garden, and trellised porch, bespoke care, and a mental improvement in the inmates, that were scarcely to be expected in persons so humbly employed as the keeper of the signal-staff, and his family. all near the house, too, was in the same excellent condition; for while the head-land itself lay in common, this portion of it was enclosed in two or three pretty little fields, that were grazed by a single horse, and a couple of cows. there were no hedges, however, the thorn not growing willingly in a situation so exposed; but the fields were divided by fences, neatly enough made of wood, that declared its own origin, having in fact been part of the timbers and planks of a wreck. as the whole was whitewashed, it had a rustic, and in a climate where the sun is seldom oppressive, by no means a disagreeable appearance. the scene with which we desire to commence the tale, opens about seven o'clock on a july morning. on a bench at the foot of the signal-staff, was seated one of a frame that was naturally large and robust, but which was sensibly beginning to give way, either by age or disease. a glance at the red, bloated face, would suffice to tell a medical man, that the habits had more to do with the growing failure of the system, than any natural derangement of the physical organs. the face, too, was singularly manly, and had once been handsome, even; nay, it was not altogether without claims to be so considered still; though intemperance was making sad inroads on its comeliness. this person was about fifty years old, and his air, as well as his attire, denoted a mariner; not a common seaman, nor yet altogether an officer; but one of those of a middle station, who in navies used to form a class by themselves; being of a rank that entitled them to the honours of the quarter-deck, though out of the regular line of promotion. in a word, he wore the unpretending uniform of a master. a century ago, the dress of the english naval officer was exceedingly simple, though more appropriate to the profession perhaps, than the more showy attire that has since been introduced. epaulettes were not used by any, and the anchor button, with the tint that is called navy blue, and which is meant to represent the deep hue of the ocean, with white facings, composed the principal peculiarities of the dress. the person introduced to the reader, whose name was dutton, and who was simply the officer in charge of the signal-station, had a certain neatness about his well-worn uniform, his linen, and all of his attire, which showed that some person more interested in such matters than one of his habits was likely to be, had the care of his wardrobe. in this respect, indeed, his appearance was unexceptionable; and there was an air about the whole man which showed that nature, if not education, had intended him for something far better than the being he actually was. dutton was waiting, at that early hour, to ascertain, as the veil of mist was raised from the face of the sea, whether a sail might be in sight, that required of him the execution of any of his simple functions. that some one was near by, on the head-land, too, was quite evident, by the occasional interchange of speech; though no person but himself was visible. the direction of the sounds would seem to indicate that a man was actually over the brow of the cliff, perhaps a hundred feet removed from the seat occupied by the master. "recollect the sailor's maxim, mr. wychecombe," called out dutton, in a warning voice; "one hand for the king, and the other for self! those cliffs are ticklish places; and really it does seem a little unnatural that a sea-faring person like yourself, should have so great a passion for flowers, as to risk his neck in order to make a posy!" "never fear for me, mr. dutton," answered a full, manly voice, that one could have sworn issued from the chest of youth; "never fear for me; we sailors are used to hanging in the air." "ay, with good three-stranded ropes to hold on by, young gentleman. now his majesty's government has just made you an officer, there is a sort of obligation to take care of your life, in order that it may be used, and, at need, given away, in his service." "quite true--quite true, mr. dutton--so true, i wonder you think it necessary to remind me of it. i am very grateful to his majesty's government, and--" while speaking, the voice seemed to descend, getting at each instant less and less distinct, until, in the end, it became quite inaudible. dutton looked uneasy, for at that instant a noise was heard, and then it was quite clear some heavy object was falling down the face of the cliff. now it was that the mariner felt the want of good nerves, and experienced the sense of humiliation which accompanied the consciousness of having destroyed them by his excesses. he trembled in every limb, and, for the moment, was actually unable to rise. a light step at his side, however, drew a glance in that direction, and his eye fell on the form of a lovely girl of nineteen, his own daughter, mildred. "i heard you calling to some one, father," said the latter, looking wistfully, but distrustfully at her parent, as if wondering at his yielding to his infirmity so early in the day; "can i be of service to you?" "poor wychecombe!" exclaimed dutton. "he went over the cliff in search of a nosegay to offer to yourself, and--and--i fear--greatly fear--" "what, father?" demanded mildred, in a voice of horror, the rich color disappearing from a face which it left of the hue of death. "no--no--no--he _cannot_ have fallen." dutton bent his head down, drew a long breath, and then seemed to gain more command of his nerves. he was about to rise, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard, and then sir wycherly wychecombe, mounted on a quiet pony, rode slowly up to the signal-staff. it was a common thing for the baronet to appear on the cliffs early in the morning, but it was not usual for him to come unattended. the instant her eyes fell on the fine form of the venerable old man, mildred, who seemed to know him well, and to use the familiarity of one confident of being a favourite, exclaimed-- "oh! sir wycherly, how fortunate--where is richard?" "good morrow, my pretty milly," answered the baronet, cheerfully; "fortunate or not, here i am, and not a bit flattered that your first question should be after the groom, instead of his master. i have sent dick on a message to the vicar's. now my poor brother, the judge, is dead and gone, i find mr. rotherham more and more necessary to me." "oh! dear sir wycherly--mr. wychecombe--lieutenant wychecombe, i mean--the young officer from virginia--he who was so desperately wounded--in whose recovery we all took so deep an interest--" "well--what of him, child?--you surely do not mean to put him on a level with mr. rotherham, in the way of religious consolation--and, as for anything else, there is no consanguinity between the wychecombes of virginia and my family. he may be a _filius nullius_ of the wychecombes of wychecombe-regis, herts, but has no connection with those of wychecombe-hall, devonshire." "there--there--the cliff!--the cliff!" added mildred, unable, for the moment, to be more explicit. as the girl pointed towards the precipice, and looked the very image of horror, the good-hearted old baronet began to get some glimpses of the truth; and, by means of a few words with dutton, soon knew quite as much as his two companions. descending from his pony with surprising activity for one of his years, sir wycherly was soon on his feet, and a sort of confused consultation between the three succeeded. neither liked to approach the cliff, which was nearly perpendicular at the extremity of the head-land, and was always a trial to the nerves of those who shrunk from standing on the verge of precipices. they stood like persons paralyzed, until dutton, ashamed of his weakness, and recalling the thousand lessons in coolness and courage he had received in his own manly profession, made a movement towards advancing to the edge of the cliff, in order to ascertain the real state of the case. the blood returned to the cheeks of mildred, too, and she again found a portion of her natural spirit raising her courage. "stop, father," she said, hastily; "you are infirm, and are in a tremour at this moment. my head is steadier--let me go to the verge of the hill, and learn what has happened." this was uttered with a forced calmness that deceived her auditors, both of whom, the one from age, and the other from shattered nerves, were certainly in no condition to assume the same office. it required the all-seeing eye, which alone can scan the heart, to read all the agonized suspense with which that young and beautiful creature approached the spot, where she might command a view of the whole of the side of the fearful declivity, from its giddy summit to the base, where it was washed by the sea. the latter, indeed, could not literally be seen from above, the waves having so far undermined the cliff, as to leave a projection that concealed the point where the rocks and the water came absolutely in contact; the upper portion of the weather-worn rocks falling a little inwards, so as to leave a ragged surface that was sufficiently broken to contain patches of earth, and verdure, sprinkled with the flowers peculiar to such an exposure. the fog, also, intercepted the sight, giving to the descent the appearance of a fathomless abyss. had the life of the most indifferent person been in jeopardy, under the circumstances named, mildred would have been filled with deep awe; but a gush of tender sensations, which had hitherto been pent up in the sacred privacy of her virgin affections, struggled with natural horror, as she trod lightly on the very verge of the declivity, and cast a timid but eager glance beneath. then she recoiled a step, raised her hands in alarm, and hid her face, as if to shut out some frightful spectacle. by this time, dutton's practical knowledge and recollection had returned. as is common with seamen, whose minds contain vivid pictures of the intricate tracery of their vessel's rigging in the darkest nights, his thoughts had flashed athwart all the probable circumstances, and presented a just image of the facts. "the boy could not be seen had he absolutely fallen, and were there no fog; for the cliff tumbles home, sir wycherly," he said, eagerly, unconsciously using a familiar nautical phrase to express his meaning. "he must be clinging to the side of the precipice, and that, too, above the swell of the rocks." stimulated by a common feeling, the two men now advanced hastily to the brow of the hill, and there, indeed, as with mildred herself, a single look sufficed to tell them the whole truth. young wychecombe, in leaning forward to pluck a flower, had pressed so hard upon the bit of rock on which a foot rested, as to cause it to break, thereby losing his balance. a presence of mind that amounted almost to inspiration, and a high resolution, alone saved him from being dashed to pieces. perceiving the rock to give way, he threw himself forward, and alighted on a narrow shelf, a few feet beneath the place where he had just stood, and at least ten feet removed from it, laterally. the shelf on which he alighted was ragged, and but two or three feet wide. it would have afforded only a check to his fall, had there not fortunately been some shrubs among the rocks above it. by these shrubs the young man caught, actually swinging off in the air, under the impetus of his leap. happily, the shrubs were too well rooted to give way; and, swinging himself round, with the address of a sailor, the youthful lieutenant was immediately on his feet, in comparative safety. the silence that succeeded was the consequence of the shock he felt, in finding him so suddenly thrown into this perilous situation. the summit of the cliff was now about six fathoms above his head, and the shelf on which he stood, impended over a portion of the cliff that was absolutely perpendicular, and which might be said to be out of the line of those projections along which he had so lately been idly gathering flowers. it was physically impossible for any human being to extricate himself from such a situation, without assistance. this wychecombe understood at a glance, and he had passed the few minutes that intervened between his fall and the appearance of the party above him, in devising the means necessary to his liberation. as it was, few men, unaccustomed to the giddy elevations of the mast, could have mustered a sufficient command of nerve to maintain a position on the ledge where he stood. even he could not have continued there, without steadying his form by the aid of the bushes. as soon as the baronet and dutton got a glimpse of the perilous position of young wychecombe, each recoiled in horror from the sight, as if fearful of being precipitated on top of him. both, then, actually lay down on the grass, and approached the edge of the cliff again, in that humble attitude, even trembling as they lay at length, with their chins projecting over the rocks, staring downwards at the victim. the young man could see nothing of all this; for, as he stood with his back against the cliff, he had not room to turn, with safety, or even to look upwards. mildred, however, seemed to lose all sense of self and of danger, in view of the extremity in which the youth beneath was placed. she stood on the very verge of the precipice, and looked down with steadiness and impunity that would have been utterly impossible for her to attain under less exciting circumstances; even allowing the young man to catch a glimpse of her rich locks, as they hung about her beautiful face. "for god's sake, mildred," called out the youth, "keep further from the cliff--i see you, and we can now hear each other without so much risk." "what can we do to rescue you, wychecombe?" eagerly asked the girl. "tell me, i entreat you; for sir wycherly and my father are both unnerved!" "blessed creature! and _you_ are mindful of my danger! but, be not uneasy, mildred; do as i tell you, and all will yet be well. i hope you hear and understand what i say, dearest girl?" "perfectly," returned mildred, nearly choked by the effort to be calm. "i hear every syllable--speak on." "go you then to the signal-halyards--let one end fly loose, and pull upon the other, until the whole line has come down--when that is done, return here, and i will tell you more--but, for heaven's sake, keep farther from the cliff." the thought that the rope, small and frail as it seemed, might be of use, flashed on the brain of the girl; and in a moment she was at the staff. time and again, when liquor incapacitated her father to perform his duty, had mildred bent-on, and hoisted the signals for him; and thus, happily, she was expert in the use of the halyards. in a minute she had unrove them, and the long line lay in a little pile at her feet. "'tis done, wycherly," she said, again looking over the cliff; "shall i throw you down one end of the rope?--but, alas! i have not strength to raise you; and sir wycherly and father seem unable to assist me!" "do not hurry yourself, mildred, and all will be well. go, and put one end of the line around the signal-staff, then put the two ends together, tie them in a knot, and drop them down over my head. be careful not to come too near the cliff, for--" the last injunction was useless, mildred having flown to execute her commission. her quick mind readily comprehended what was expected of her, and her nimble fingers soon performed their task. tying a knot in the ends of the line, she did as desired, and the small rope was soon dangling within reach of wychecombe's arm. it is not easy to make a landsman understand the confidence which a sailor feels in a rope. place but a frail and rotten piece of twisted hemp in his hand, and he will risk his person in situations from which he would otherwise recoil in dread. accustomed to hang suspended in the air, with ropes only for his foothold, or with ropes to grasp with his hand, his eye gets an intuitive knowledge of what will sustain him, and he unhesitatingly trusts his person to a few seemingly slight strands, that, to one unpractised, appear wholly unworthy of his confidence. signal-halyards are ropes smaller than the little finger of a man of any size; but they are usually made with care, and every rope-yarn tells. wychecombe, too, was aware that these particular halyards were new, for he had assisted in reeving them himself, only the week before. it was owing to this circumstance that they were long enough to reach him; a large allowance for wear and tear having been made in cutting them from the coil. as it was, the ends dropped some twenty feet below the ledge on which he stood. "all safe, now, mildred!" cried the young man, in a voice of exultation the moment his hand caught the two ends of the line, which he immediately passed around his body, beneath the arms, as a precaution against accidents. "all safe, now, dearest girl; have no further concern about me." mildred drew back, for worlds could not have tempted her to witness the desperate effort that she knew must follow. by this time, sir wycherly, who had been an interested witness of all that passed, found his voice, and assumed the office of director. "stop, my young namesake," he eagerly cried, when he found that the sailor was about to make an effort to drag his own body up the cliff; "stop; that will never do; let dutton and me do that much for you, at least. we have seen all that has passed, and are now able to do something." "no--no, sir wycherly--on no account touch the halyards. by hauling them over the top of the rocks you will probably cut them, or part them, and then i'm lost, without hope!" "oh! sir wycherly," said mildred, earnestly, clasping her hands together, as if to enforce the request with prayer; "do not--do not touch the line." "we had better let the lad manage the matter in his own way," put in dutton; "he is active, resolute, and a seaman, and will do better for himself than i fear we can do for him. he has got a turn round his body, and is tolerably safe against any slip, or mishap." as the words were uttered, the whole three drew back a short distance and watched the result, in intense anxiety. dutton, however, so far recollected himself, as to take an end of the old halyards, which were kept in a chest at the foot of the staff, and to make, an attempt to stopper together the two parts of the little rope on which the youth depended, for should one of the parts of it break, without this precaution, there was nothing to prevent the halyards from running round the staff, and destroying the hold. the size of the halyards rendered this expedient very difficult of attainment, but enough was done to give the arrangement a little more of the air of security. all this time young wychecombe was making his own preparations on the ledge, and quite out of view; but the tension on the halyards soon announced that his weight was now pendent from them. mildred's heart seemed ready to leap from her mouth, as she noted each jerk on the lines; and her father watched every new pull, as if he expected the next moment would produce the final catastrophe. it required a prodigious effort in the young man to raise his own weight for such a distance, by lines so small. had the rope been of any size, the achievement would have been trifling for one of the frame and habits of the sailor, more especially as he could slightly avail himself of his feet, by pressing them against the rocks; but, as it was, he felt as if he were dragging the mountain up after him. at length, his head appeared a few inches above the rocks, but with his feet pressed against the cliff, and his body inclining outward, at an angle of forty-five degrees. "help him--help him, father!" exclaimed mildred, covering her face with her hands, to exclude the sight of wychecombe's desperate struggles. "if he fall now, he will be destroyed. oh! save him, save him, sir wycherly!" but neither of those to whom she appealed, could be of any use. the nervous trembling again came over the father; and as for the baronet, age and inexperience rendered him helpless. "have you no rope, mr. dutton, to throw over my shoulders," cried wychecombe, suspending his exertions in pure exhaustion, still keeping all he had gained, with his head projecting outward, over the abyss beneath, and his face turned towards heaven. "throw a rope over my shoulders, and drag my body in to the cliff." dutton showed an eager desire to comply, but his nerves had not yet been excited by the usual potations, and his hands shook in a way to render it questionable whether he could perform even this simple service. but for his daughter, indeed, he would hardly have set about it intelligently. mildred, accustomed to using the signal-halyards, procured the old line, and handed it to her father, who discovered some of his professional knowledge in his manner of using it. doubling the halyards twice, he threw the bight over wychecombe's shoulders, and aided by mildred, endeavoured to draw the body of the young man upwards and towards the cliff. but their united strength was unequal to the task, and wearied with holding on, and, indeed, unable to support his own weight any longer by so small a rope, wychecombe felt compelled to suffer his feet to drop beneath him, and slid down again upon the ledge. here, even his vigorous frame shook with its prodigious exertions; and he was compelled to seat himself on the shelf, and rest with his back against the cliff, to recover his self-command and strength. mildred uttered a faint shriek as he disappeared, but was too much horror-stricken to approach the verge of the precipice to ascertain his fate. "be composed, milly," said her father, "he is safe, as you may see by the halyards; and to say the truth, the stuff holds on well. so long as the line proves true, the boy can't fall; he has taken a double turn with the end of it round his body. make your mind easy, girl, for i feel better now, and see my way clear. don't be uneasy, sir wycherly; we'll have the lad safe on _terra firma_ again, in ten minutes. i scarce know what has come over me, this morning; but i've not had the command of my limbs as in common. it cannot be fright, for i've seen too many men in danger to be disabled by _that_; and i think, milly, it must be the rheumatism, of which i've so often spoken, and which i've inherited from my poor mother, dear old soul. do you know, sir wycherly, that rheumatism can be inherited like gout?" "i dare say it may--i dare say it may, dutton--but never mind the disease, now; get my young namesake back here on the grass, and i will hear all about it. i would give the world that i had not sent dick to mr. rotherham's this morning. can't we contrive to make the pony pull the boy up?" "the traces are hardly strong enough for such work, sir wycherly. have a little patience, and i will manage the whole thing, 'ship-shape, and brister fashion,' as we say at sea. halloo there, master wychecombe--answer my hail, and i will soon get you into deep water." "i'm safe on the ledge," returned the voice of wychecombe, from below; "i wish you would look to the signal-halyards, and see they do not chafe against the rocks, mr. dutton." "all right, sir; all right. slack up, if you please, and let me have all the line you can, without casting off from your body. keep fast the end for fear of accidents." in an instant the halyards slackened, and dutton, who by this time had gained his self-command, though still weak and unnerved by the habits of the last fifteen years, forced the bight along the edge of the cliff, until he had brought it over a projection of the rocks, where it fastened itself. this arrangement caused the line to lead down to the part of the cliffs from which the young man had fallen, and where it was by no means difficult for a steady head and active limbs to move about and pluck flowers. it consequently remained for wychecombe merely to regain a footing on that part of the hill-side, to ascend to the summit without difficulty. it is true he was now below the point from which he had fallen, but by swinging himself off laterally, or even by springing, aided by the line, it was not a difficult achievement to reach it, and he no sooner understood the nature of the change that had been made, than he set about attempting it. the confident manner of dutton encouraged both the baronet and mildred, and they drew to the cliff, again; standing near the verge, though on the part where the rocks might be descended, with less apprehension of consequences. as soon as wychecombe had made all his preparations, he stood on the end of the ledge, tightened the line, looked carefully for a foothold on the other side of the chasm, and made his leap. as a matter of course, the body of the young man swung readily across the space, until the line became perpendicular, and then he found a surface so broken, as to render his ascent by no means difficult, aided as he was by the halyards. scrambling upwards, he soon rejected the aid of the line, and sprang upon the head-land. at the same instant, mildred fell senseless on the grass. chapter iii. "i want a hero:--an uncommon want, when every year and month send forth a new one; 'till, after cloying the gazelles with cant, the age discovers he is not the true one;--" byron. in consequence of the unsteadiness of the father's nerves, the duty of raising mildred in his arms, and of carrying her to the cottage, devolved on the young man. this he did with a readiness and concern which proved how deep an interest he took in her situation, and with a power of arm which showed that his strength was increased rather than lessened by the condition into which she had fallen. so rapid was his movement, that no one saw the kiss he impressed on the palid cheek of the sweet girl, or the tender pressure with which he grasped the lifeless form. by the time he reached the door, the motion and air had begun to revive her, and wychecombe committed her to the care of her alarmed mother, with a few hurried words of explanation. he did not leave the house, however, for a quarter of an hour, except to call out to dutton that mildred was reviving, and that he need be under no uneasiness on her account. why he remained so long, we leave the reader to imagine, for the girl had been immediately taken to her own little chamber, and he saw her no more for several hours. when our young sailor came out upon the head-land again, he found the party near the flag-staff increased to four. dick, the groom, had returned from his errand, and tom wychecombe, the intended heir of the baronet, was also there, in mourning for his reputed father, the judge. this young man had become a frequent visiter to the station, of late, affecting to imbibe his uncle's taste for sea air, and a view of the ocean. there had been several meetings between himself and his namesake, and each interview was becoming less amicable than the preceding, for a reason that was sufficiently known to the parties. when they met on the present occasion, therefore, the bows they exchanged were haughty and distant, and the glances cast at each other might have been termed hostile, were it not that a sinister irony was blended with that of tom wychecombe. still, the feelings that were uppermost did not prevent the latter from speaking in an apparently friendly manner. "they tell me, mr. wychecombe," observed the judge's heir, (for this tom wychecombe might legally claim to be;) "they tell me, mr. wychecombe, that you have been taking a lesson in your trade this morning, by swinging over the cliffs at the end of a rope? now, that is an exploit, more to the taste of an american than to that of an englishman, i should think. but, i dare say one is compelled to do many things in the colonies, that we never dream of at home." this was said with seeming indifference, though with great art. sir wycherly's principal weakness was an overweening and an ignorant admiration of his own country, and all it contained. he was also strongly addicted to that feeling of contempt for the dependencies of the empire, which seems to be inseparable from the political connection between the people of the metropolitan country and their colonies. there must be entire equality, for perfect respect, in any situation in life; and, as a rule, men always appropriate to their own shares, any admitted superiority that may happen to exist on the part of the communities to which they belong. it is on this principle, that the tenant of a cock-loft in paris or london, is so apt to feel a high claim to superiority over the occupant of a comfortable abode in a village. as between england and her north american colonies in particular, this feeling was stronger than is the case usually, on account of the early democratical tendencies of the latter; not, that these tendencies had already become the subject of political jealousies, but that they left social impressions, which were singularly adapted to bringing the colonists into contempt among a people predominant for their own factitious habits, and who are so strongly inclined to view everything, even to principles, through the medium of arbitrary, conventional customs. it must be confessed that the americans, in the middle of the eighteenth century, were an exceedingly provincial, and in many particulars a narrow-minded people, as well in their opinions as in their habits; nor is the reproach altogether removed at the present day; but the country from which they are derived had not then made the vast strides in civilization, for which it has latterly become so distinguished. the indifference, too, with which all europe regarded the whole american continent, and to which england, herself, though she possessed so large a stake on this side of the atlantic, formed no material exception, constantly led that quarter of the world into profound mistakes in all its reasoning that was connected with this quarter of the world, and aided in producing the state of feeling to which we have alluded. sir wycherly felt and reasoned on the subject of america much as the great bulk of his countrymen felt and reasoned in ; the exceptions existing only among the enlightened, and those whose particular duties rendered more correct knowledge necessary, and not always among them. it is said that the english minister conceived the idea of taxing america, from the circumstance of seeing a wealthy virginian lose a large sum at play, a sort of _argumentum ad hominem_ that brought with it a very dangerous conclusion to apply to the sort of people with whom he had to deal. let this be as it might, there is no more question, that at the period of our tale, the profoundest ignorance concerning america existed generally in the mother country, than there is that the profoundest respect existed in america for nearly every thing english. truth compels us to add, that in despite of all that has passed, the cis-atlantic portion of the weakness has longest endured the assaults of time and of an increased intercourse. young wycherly, as is ever the case, was keenly alive to any insinuations that might be supposed to reflect on the portion of the empire of which he was a native. he considered himself an englishman, it is true; was thoroughly loyal; and was every way disposed to sustain the honour and interests of the seat of authority; but when questions were raised between europe and america, he was an american; as, in america itself, he regarded himself as purely a virginian, in contradistinction to all the other colonies. he understood the intended sarcasm of tom wychecombe, but smothered his resentment, out of respect to the baronet, and perhaps a little influenced by the feelings in which he had been so lately indulging. "those gentlemen who are disposed to fancy such things of the colonies, would do well to visit that part of the world," he answered, calmly, "before they express their opinions too loudly, lest they should say something that future observation might make them wish to recall." "true, my young friend--quite true," put in the baronet, with the kindest possible intentions. "true as gospel. we never know any thing of matters about which we know nothing; that we old men must admit, master dutton; and i should think tom must see its force. it would be unreasonable to expect to find every thing as comfortable in america as we have it here, in england; nor do i suppose the americans, in general, would be as likely to get over a cliff as an englishman. however, there are exceptions to all general rules, as my poor brother james used to say, when he saw occasion to find fault with the sermon of a prelate. i believe you did not know my poor brother, dutton; he must have been killed about the time you were born--st. james, i used to call him, although my brother thomas, the judge that was tom's father, there--said he was st. james the less." "i believe the rev. mr. wychecombe was dead before i was of an age to remember his virtues, sir wycherly," said dutton, respectfully; "though i have often heard my own father speak of all your honoured family." "yes, your father, dutton, was the attorney of the next town, and we all knew him well. you have done quite right to come back among us to spend the close of your own days. a man is never as well off as when he is thriving in his native soil; more especially when that soil is old england, and devonshire. you are not one of us, young gentleman, though your name happens to be wychecombe; but, then we are none of us accountable for our own births, or birth-places." this truism, which is in the mouths of thousands while it is in the hearts of scarcely any, was well meant by sir wycherly, however plainly expressed. it merely drew from the youth the simple answer that--"he was born in the colonies, and had colonists for his parents;" a fact that the others had heard already, some ten or a dozen times. "it is a little singular, mr. wychecombe, that you should bear both of my names, and yet be no relative," continued the baronet. "now, wycherly came into our family from old sir hildebrand wycherly, who was slain at bosworth field, and whose only daughter, my ancestor, and tom's ancestor, there, married. since that day, wycherly has been a favourite name among us. i do not think that the wychecombes of herts, ever thought of calling a son wycherly, although, as my poor brother the judge used to say, _they_ were related, but of the half-blood, only. i suppose your father taught you what is meant by being of the half-blood, thomas?" tom wychecombe's face became the colour of scarlet, and he cast an uneasy glance at all present; expecting in particular, to meet with a look of exultation in the eyes of the lieutenant. he was greatly relieved, however, at finding that neither of the three meant or understood more than was simply expressed. as for his uncle, he had not the smallest intention of making any allusion to the peculiarity of his nephew's birth; and the other two, in common with the world, supposed the reputed heir to be legitimate. gathering courage from the looks of those around him, tom answered with a steadiness that prevented his agitation from being detected: "certainly, my dear sir; my excellent parent forgot nothing that he thought might be useful to me, in maintaining my rights, and the honour of the family, hereafter. i very well understand that the wychecombes of hertfordshire have no claims on us; nor, indeed, any wychecombe who is not descended from my respectable grandfather, the late sir wycherly." "he must have been an _early_, instead of a _late_ sir wycherly, rather, mr. thomas," put in dutton, laughing at his own conceit; "for i can remember no other than the honourable baronet before us, in the last fifty years." "quite true, dutton--very true," rejoined the person last alluded to. "as true as that 'time and tide wait for no man.' we understand the meaning of such things on the coast here. it was half a century, last october, since i succeeded my respected parent; but, it will not be another half century before some one will succeed me!" sir wycherly was a hale, hearty man for his years, but he had no unmanly dread of his end. still he felt it could not be very distant, having already numbered fourscore and four years. nevertheless, there were certain phrases of usage, that dutton did not see fit to forget on such an occasion, and he answered accordingly, turning to look at and admire the still ruddy countenance of the baronet, by way of giving emphasis to his words. "you will yet see half of us into our graves, sir wycherly," he said, "and still remain an active man. though i dare say another half century will bring most of us up. even mr. thomas, here, and your young namesake can hardly hope to run out more line than that. well, as for myself, i only desire to live through this war, that i may again see his majesty's arms triumphant; though they do tell me that we are in for a good thirty years' struggle. wars _have_ lasted as long as _that_, sir wycherly, and i don't see why this may not, as well as another." "very true, dutton; it is not only possible, but probable; and i trust both you and i may live to see our flower-hunter here, a post-captain, at least--though it would be wishing almost too much to expect to see him an admiral. there has been _one_ admiral of the name, and i confess i should like to see another!" "has not mr. thomas a brother in the service?" demanded the master; "i had thought that my lord, the judge, had given us one of his young gentlemen." "he thought of it; but the army got both of the boys, as it turned out. gregory was to be the midshipman; my poor brother intending him for a sailor from the first, and so giving him the name that was once borne by the unfortunate relative we lost by shipwreck. i wished him to call one of the lads james, after st. james; but, somehow, i never could persuade thomas to see all the excellence of that pious young man." dutton was a little embarrassed, for st. james had left any thing but a godly savour behind him; and he was about to fabricate a tolerably bold assertion to the contrary, rather than incur the risk of offending the lord of the manor, when, luckily, a change in the state of the fog afforded him a favourable opportunity of bringing about an apposite change in the subject. during the whole of the morning the sea had been invisible from the head-land, a dense body of vapour resting on it, far as eye could reach; veiling the whole expanse with a single white cloud. the lighter portions of the vapour had at first floated around the head-land, which could not have been seen at any material distance; but all had been gradually settling down into a single mass, that now rose within twenty feet of the summit of the cliffs. the hour was still quite early, but the sun was gaining force, and it speedily drank up all the lighter particles of the mist, leaving a clear, bright atmosphere above the feathery bank, through which objects might be seen for miles. there was what seamen call a "fanning breeze," or just wind enough to cause the light sails of a ship to swell and collapse, under the double influence of the air and the motion of the hull, imitating in a slight degree the vibrations of that familiar appliance of the female toilet. dutton's eye had caught a glance of the loftiest sail of a vessel, above the fog, going through this very movement; and it afforded him the release he desired, by enabling him to draw the attention of his companions to the same object. "see, sir wycherly--see, mr. wychecombe," he cried, eagerly, pointing in the direction of the sail; "yonder is some of the king's canvass coming into our roadstead, or i am no judge of the set of a man-of-war's royal. it is a large bit of cloth, too, mr. lieutenant, for a sail so lofty!" "it is a two-decker's royal, master dutton," returned the young sailor; "and now you see the fore and main, separately, as the ship keeps away." "well," put in sir wycherly, in a resigned manner; "here have i lived fourscore years on this coast, and, for the life of me, i have never been able to tell a fore-royal from a back-royal; or a mizzen head-stay from a head mizzen-stay. they are the most puzzling things imaginable; and now i cannot discover how you know that yonder sail, which i see plain enough, is a royal, any more than that it is a jib!" dutton and the lieutenant smiled, but sir wycherly's simplicity had a cast of truth and nature about it, that deterred most people from wishing to ridicule him. then, the rank, fortune, and local interest of the baronet, counted for a good deal on all such occasions. "here is another fellow, farther east," cried dutton, still pointing with a finger; "and every inch as big as his consort! ah! it does my eyes good to see our roadstead come into notice, in this manner, after all i have said and done in its behalf--but, who have we here--a brother chip, by his appearance; i dare say some idler who has been sent ashore with despatches." "there is another fellow further east, and every inch as big as his consort," said wychecombe, as we shall call our lieutenant, in order to distinguish him from tom of the same name, repeating the very words of dutton, with an application and readiness that almost amounted to wit, pointing, in his turn, at two strangers who were ascending to the station by a path that led from the beach. "certainly both these gentlemen are in his majesty's service, and they have probably just landed from the ships in the offing." the truth of this conjecture was apparent to dutton at a glance. as the strangers joined each other, the one last seen proceeded in advance; and there was something in his years, the confident manner in which he approached, and his general appearance, that induced both the sailors to believe he might be the commander of one of the ships that had just come in view. "good-morrow, gentlemen," commenced this person, as soon as near enough to salute the party at the foot of the flag-staff; "good-morrow to ye all. i'm glad to meet you, for it's but a jacob's ladder, this path of yours, through the ravine in the cliffs. hey! why atwood," looking around him at the sea of vapour, in surprise, "what the devil has become of the fleet?" "it is lost in the fog, sir; we are above it, here; when more on a level with the ships, we could see, or fancy we saw, more of them than we do now." "here are the upper sails of two heavy ships, sir," observed wychecombe, pointing in the direction of the vessels already seen; "ay, and yonder are two more--nothing but the royals are visible." "two more!--i left eleven two-deckers, three frigates, a sloop, and a cutter in sight, when i got into the boat. you might have covered 'em all with a pocket-handkerchief, hey! atwood!" "they were certainly in close order, sir, but i'll not take it on myself to say quite as near together as that." "ay, you're a dissenter by trade, and never will believe in a miracle. sharp work, gentlemen, to get up such a hill as this, after fifty." "it is, indeed, sir," answered sir wycherly, kindly. "will you do us the favour to take a seat among us, and rest yourself after so violent an exertion? the cliff is hard enough to ascend, even when one keeps the path; though here is a young gentleman who had a fancy just now to go down it, without a path; and that, too, merely that a pretty girl might have a nosegay on her breakfast-table." the stranger looked intently at sir wycherly for a moment, then glanced his eye at the groom and the pony, after which he took a survey of tom wychecombe, the lieutenant, and the master. he was a man accustomed to look about him, and he understood, by that rapid glance, the characters of all he surveyed, with perhaps the exception of that of tom wychecombe; and even of that he formed a tolerably shrewd conjecture. sir wycherly he immediately set down as the squire of the adjacent estate; dutton's situation he hit exactly, conceiving him to be a worn-out master, who was employed to keep the signal-station; while he understood wychecombe, by his undress, and air, to be a sea-lieutenant in the king's service. tom wychecombe he thought it quite likely might be the son, and heir of the lord of the manor, both being in mourning; though he decided in his own mind that there was not the smallest family likeness between them. bowing with the courtesy of a man who knew how to acknowledge a civility, he took the proffered seat at sir wycherly's side without farther ceremony. "we must carry the young fellow to sea with us, sir," rejoined the stranger, "and that will cure him of looking for flowers in such ticklish places. his majesty has need of us all, in this war; and i trust, young gentleman, you have not been long ashore, among the girls." "only long enough to make a cure of a pretty smart hurt, received in cutting out a lugger from the opposite coast," answered wychecombe, with sufficient modesty, and yet with sufficient spirit. "lugger!--ha! what atwood? you surely do not mean, young gentleman, la voltigeuse?" "that was the name of the craft, sir--we found her in the roads of groix." "and then i've the pleasure of seeing mr. wychecombe, the young officer who led in that gallant attack?" this was said with a most flattering warmth of manner, the stranger even rising and removing his hat, as he uttered the words with a heartiness that showed how much his feelings were in unison with what he said. "i am mr. wychecombe, sir," answered the other, blushing to the temples, and returning the salute; "though i had not the honour of leading; one of the lieutenants of our ship being in another boat." "yes--i know all that--but he was beaten off, while you boarded and did the work. what have my lords commissioners done in the matter?" "all that is necessary, so far as i am concerned, sir, i do assure you; having sent me a commission the very next week. i only wish they had been equally generous to mr. walton, who received a severe wound also, and behaved as well as man could behave." "that would not be so wise, mr. wychecombe, since it would be rewarding a failure," returned the stranger, coldly. "success is all in all, in war. ah! there the fellows begin to show themselves, atwood." this remark drew all eyes, again, towards the sea, where a sight now presented itself that was really worthy of a passing notice. the vapour appeared to have become packed into a mass of some eighty or a hundred feet in height, leaving a perfectly clear atmosphere above it. in the clear air, were visible the upper spars and canvass of the entire fleet mentioned by the stranger; sixteen sail in all. there were the eleven two-deckers, and the three frigates, rising in pyramids of canvass, still fanning in towards the anchorage, which in that roadstead was within pistol-shot of the shore; while the royals and upper part of the topgallant sails of the sloop seemed to stand on the surface of the fog, like a monument. after a moment's pause, wychecombe discovered even the head of the cutter's royal-mast, with the pennant lazily fluttering ahead of it, partly concealed in vapour. the fog seemed to settle, instead of rising, though it evidently rolled along the face of the waters, putting the whole scene in motion. it was not long ere the tops of the ships of the line became visible, and then living beings were for the first time seen in the moving masses. "i suppose we offer just such a sight to the top-men of the ships, as they offer to us," observed the stranger. "they _must_ see this head-land and flag-staff, mr. wychecombe; and there can be no danger of their standing in too far!" "i should think not, sir; certainly the men aloft can see the cliffs above the fog, as we see the vessels' spars. ha! mr. dutton, there is a rear-admiral's flag flying on board the ship farthest to the eastward." "so i see, sir; and by looking at the third vessel on the western side of the line, you will find a bit of square bunting at the fore, which will tell you there is a vice-admiral beneath it." "quite true!" exclaimed wychecombe, who was ever enthusiastic on matters relating to his profession; "a vice-admiral of the red, too; which is the next step to being a full admiral. this must be the fleet of sir digby downes!" "no, young gentleman," returned the stranger, who perceived by the glance of the other's eye, that a question was indirectly put to himself; "it is the southern squadron; and the vice-admiral's flag you see, belongs to sir gervaise oakes. admiral bluewater is on board the ship that carries a flag at the mizzen." "those two officers always go together, sir wycherly," added the young man. "whenever we hear the name of sir gervaise, that of bluewater is certain to accompany it. such a union in service is delightful to witness." "well may they go in company, mr. wychecombe," returned the stranger, betraying a little emotion. "oakes and bluewater were reefers together, under old breasthook, in the mermaid; and when the first was made a lieutenant into the squid, the last followed as a mate. oakes was first of the briton, in her action with the spanish frigates, and bluewater third. for that affair oakes got a sloop, and his friend went with him as his first. the next year they had the luck to capture a heavier ship than their own, when, for the first time in their service, the two young men were separated; oakes getting a frigate, and bluewater getting the squid. still they cruised in company, until the senior was sent in command of a flying squadron, with a broad pennant, when the junior, who by this time was post, received his old messmate on board his own frigate. in that manner they served together, down to the hour when the first hoisted his flag. from that time, the two old seamen have never been parted; bluewater acting as the admiral's captain, until he got the square bunting himself. the vice-admiral has never led the van of a fleet, that the rear-admiral did not lead the rear-division; and, now that sir gervaise is a commander-in-chief, you see his friend, dick bluewater, is cruising in his company." while the stranger was giving this account of the two admirals, in a half-serious, half-jocular manner, the eyes of his companions were on him. he was a middle-sized, red-faced man, with an aquiline nose, a light-blue animated eye, and a mouth, which denoted more of the habits and care of refinement than either his dress or his ordinary careless mien. a great deal is said about the aristocracy of the ears, and the hands, and the feet; but of all the features, or other appliances of the human frame, the mouth and the nose have the greatest influence in producing an impression of gentility. this was peculiarly the case with the stranger, whose beak, like that of an ancient galley, gave the promise of a stately movement, and whose beautiful teeth and winning smile, often relieved the expression of a countenance that was not unfrequently stern. as he ceased speaking, dutton rose, in a studied manner, raised his hat entirely from his head, bowed his body nearly to a right angle, and said, "unless my memory is treacherous, i believe i have the honor to see rear-admiral bluewater, himself; i was a mate in the medway, when he commanded the chloe; and, unless five-and-twenty years have made more changes than i think probable, he is now on this hill." "your memory is a bad one, mr. dutton, and your hill has on it a much worse man, in all respects, than admiral bluewater. they say that man and wife, from living together, and thinking alike, having the same affections, loving the same objects, or sometimes hating them, get in time to look alike; hey! atwood? it may be that i am growing like bluewater, on the same principle; but this is the first time i ever heard the thing suggested. i am sir gervaise oakes, at your service, sir." the bow of dutton was now much lower than before, while young wychecombe uncovered himself, and sir wycherly arose and paid his compliments cordially, introducing himself, and offering the admiral and all his officers the hospitality of the hall. "ay, this is straight-forward and hearty, and in the good old english manner!" exclaimed the admiral, when he had returned the salutes, and cordially thanked the baronet. "one might land in scotland, now, anywhere between the tweed and john a'groat's house, and not be asked so much as to eat an oaten cake; hey! atwood?--always excepting the mountain dew." "you will have your fling at my poor countrymen, sir gervaise, and so there is no more to be said on the subject," returned the secretary, for such was the rank of the admiral's companion. "i might feel hurt at times, did i not know that you get as many scotsmen about you, in your own ship, as you can; and that a fleet is all the better in your judgment, for having every other captain from the land o' cakes." "did you ever hear the like of that, sir wycherly? because i stick to a man i like, he accuses me of having a predilection for his whole country. here's atwood, now; he was my clerk, when in a sloop; and he has followed me to the plantagenet, and because i do not throw him overboard, he wishes to make it appear half scotland is in her hold." "well, there are the surgeon, the purser, one of the mates, one of the marine officers, and the fourth lieutenant, to keep me company, sir gervaise," answered the secretary, smiling like one accustomed to his superior's jokes, and who cared very little about them. "when you send us all back to scotland, i'm thinking there will be many a good vacancy to fill." "the scotch make themselves very useful, sir gervaise," put in sir wycherly, by way of smoothing the matter over; "and now we have a brunswick prince on the throne, we englishmen have less jealousy of them than formerly. i am sure i should be happy to see all the gentlemen mentioned by mr. atwood, at wychecombe hall." "there, you're all well berthed while the fleet lies in these roads. sir wycherly, in the name of scotland, i thank you. but what an extr'ornary (for so admirals pronounced the word a hundred years ago) scene this is, hey! atwood? many a time have i seen the hulls of ships when their spars were hid in the fog; but i do not remember ever to have seen before, sixteen sets of masts and sails moving about on vapour, without a single hull to uphold them. the tops of all the two-decked ships are as plainly to be seen, as if the air were without a particle of vapour, while all below the cat-harpings is hid in a cloud as thick as the smoke of battle. i do not half like bluewater's standing in so far; perhaps, mr. dutton, they cannot see the cliffs, for i assure you we did not, until quite close under them. we went altogether by the lead, the masters feeling their way like so many blind beggars!" "we always keep that nine-pounder loaded, sir gervaise," returned the master, "in order to warn vessels when they are getting near enough in; and if mr. wychecombe, who is younger than i, will run to the house and light this match, i will prime, and we may give 'em warning where they are, in less than a minute." the admiral gave a ready assent to this proposition, and the respective parties immediately set about putting it in execution. wychecombe hastened to the house to light the match, glad of an opportunity to inquire after mildred; while dutton produced a priming-horn from a sort of arm-chest that stood near the gun, and put the latter in a condition to be discharged. the young man was absent but a minute, and when all was ready, he turned towards the admiral, in order to get the signal to proceed. "let 'em have it, mr. wychecombe," cried sir gervaise, smiling; "it will wake bluewater up; perhaps he may favour us with a broadside, by way of retort." the match was applied, and the report of the gun succeeded. then followed a pause of more than a minute; when the fog lifted around the cæsar, the ship that wore a rear-admiral's flag, a flash like lightning was seen glancing in the mist, and then came the bellowing of a piece of heavy ordnance. almost at the same instant, three little flags appeared at the mast-head of the cæsar, for previously to quitting his own ship, sir gervaise had sent a message to his friend, requesting him to take care of the fleet. this was the signal to anchor. the effect of all this, as seen from the height, was exceedingly striking. as yet not a single hull had become visible, the fog remaining packed upon the water, in a way to conceal even the lower yards of the two-deckers. all above was bright, distinct, and so near, as almost to render it possible to distinguish persons. there every thing was vivid, while a sort of supernatural mystery veiled all beneath. each ship had an officer aloft to look out for signals, and no sooner had the cæsar opened her three little flags, which had long been suspended in black balls, in readiness for this service, than the answers were seen floating at the mast-head of each of the vessels. then commenced a spectacle still more curious than that which those on the cliff had so long been regarding with interest. ropes began to move, and the sails were drawn up in festoons, apparently without the agency of hands. cut off from a seeming communication with the ocean, or the hulls, the spars of the different ships appeared to be instinct with life; each machine playing its own part independently of the others, but all having the same object in view. in a very few minutes the canvass was hauled up, and the whole fleet was swinging to the anchors. presently head after head was thrown out of the fog, the upper yards were alive with men, and the sails were handed. next came the squaring of the yards, though this was imperfectly done, and a good deal by guess-work. the men came down, and there lay a noble fleet at anchor, with nothing visible to those on the cliffs, but their top-hamper and upper spars. sir gervaise oakes had been so much struck and amused with a sight that to him happened to be entirely novel, that he did not speak during the whole process of anchoring. indeed, many a man might pass his life at sea, and never witness such a scene; but those who have, know that it is one of the most beautiful and striking spectacles connected with the wonders of the great deep. by this time the sun had got so high, as to begin to stir the fog, and streams of vapour were shooting up from the beach, like smoke rising from coal-pits. the wind increased, too, and rolled the vapour before it, and in less than ten minutes, the veil was removed; ship after ship coming out in plain view, until the entire fleet was seen riding in the roadstead, in its naked and distinct proportions. "now, bluewater is a happy fellow," exclaimed sir gervaise. "he sees his great enemy, the land, and knows how to deal with it." "i thought the french were the great and natural enemies of every british sailor," observed sir wycherly, simply, but quite to the point. "hum--there's truth in that, too. but the land is an enemy to be feared, while the frenchman is not--hey! atwood?" it was, indeed, a goodly sight to view the fine fleet that now lay anchored beneath the cliffs of wychecombe. sir gervaise oakes was, in that period, considered a successful naval commander, and was a favourite, both at the admiralty and with the nation. his popularity extended to the most distant colonies of england, in nearly all of which he had served with zeal and credit. but we are not writing of an age of nautical wonders, like that which succeeded at the close of the century. the french and dutch, and even the spaniards, were then all formidable as naval powers; for revolutions and changes had not destroyed their maritime corps, nor had the consequent naval ascendency of england annihilated their navigation; the two great causes of the subsequent apparent invincibility of the latter power. battles at sea, in that day, were warmly contested, and were frequently fruitless; more especially when fleets were brought in opposition. the single combats were usually more decisive, though the absolute success of the british flag, was far from being as much a matter of course as it subsequently became. in a word, the science of naval warfare had not made those great strides, which marked the career of england in the end, nor had it retrograded among her enemies, to the point which appears to have rendered their defeat nearly certain. still sir gervaise was a successful officer; having captured several single ships, in bloody encounters, and having actually led fleets with credit, in four or five of the great battles of the times; besides being second and third in command, on various similar occasions. his own ship was certain to be engaged, let what would happen to the others. equally as captains and as flag-officers, the nation had become familiar with the names of oakes and bluewater, as men ever to be found sustaining each other in the thickest of the fight. it may be well to add here, that both these favourite seamen were men of family, or at least what was considered men of family among the mere gentry of england; sir gervaise being a baronet by inheritance, while his friend actually belonged to one of those naval lines which furnishes admirals for generations; his father having worn a white flag at the main; and his grandfather having been actually ennobled for his services, dying vice-admiral of england. these fortuitous circumstances perhaps rendered both so much the greater favourites at court. chapter iv. ----"all with you; except three on duty, and our leader israel, who is expected momently." marino faliero. as his fleet was safely anchored, and that too, in beautiful order, in spite of the fog, sir gervaise oakes showed a disposition to pursue what are termed ulterior views. "this has been a fine sight--certainly a very fine sight; such as an old seaman loves; but there must be an end to it," he said. "you will excuse me, sir wycherly, but the movements of a fleet always have interest in my eyes, and it is seldom that i get such a bird's-eye view of those of my own; no wonder it has made me a somewhat unreflecting intruder." "make no apologies, sir gervaise, i beg of you; for none are needed, on any account. though this head-land does belong to the wychecombe property, it is fairly leased to the crown, and none have a better right to occupy it than his majesty's servants. the hall is a little more private, it is true, but even that has no door that will close upon our gallant naval defenders. it is but a short walk, and nothing will make me happier than to show you the way to my poor dwelling, and to see you as much at home under its roof, as you could be in the cabin of the plantagenet." "if any thing could make me as much at home in a house as in a ship, it would be so hearty a welcome; and i intend to accept your hospitality in the very spirit in which it is offered. atwood and i have landed to send off some important despatches to the first lord, and we will thank you for putting us in the way of doing it, in the safest and most expeditious manner. curiosity and surprise have already occasioned the loss of half an hour; while a soldier, or a sailor, should never lose half a minute." "is a courier who knows the country well, needed, sir gervaise?" the lieutenant demanded, modestly, though with an interest that showed he was influenced only by zeal for the service. the admiral looked at him, intently, for a moment, and seemed pleased with the hint implied in the question. "can you ride?" asked sir gervaise, smiling. "i could have brought half-a-dozen youngsters ashore with me; but, besides the doubts about getting a horse--a chaise i take it is out of the question here--i was afraid the lads might disgrace themselves on horseback." "this must be said in pleasantry, sir gervaise," returned wychecombe; "he would be a strange virginian at least, who does not know how to ride!" "and a strange englishman, too, bluewater would say; and yet i never see the fellow straddle a horse that i do not wish it were a studding-sail-boom run out to leeward! we sailors _fancy_ we ride, mr. wychecombe, but it is some such fancy as a marine has for the fore-topmast-cross-trees. can a horse be had, to go as far as the nearest post-office that sends off a daily mail?" "that can it, sir gervaise," put in sir wycherly. "here is dick mounted on as good a hunter as is to be found in england; and i'll answer for my young namesake's willingness to put the animal's mettle to the proof. our little mail has just left wychecombe for the next twenty-four hours, but by pushing the beast, there will be time to reach the high road in season for the great london mail, which passes the nearest market-town at noon. it is but a gallop of ten miles and back, and that i'll answer for mr. wychecombe's ability to do, and to join us at dinner by four." young wychecombe expressing his readiness to perform all this, and even more at need, the arrangement was soon made. dick was dismounted, the lieutenant got his despatches and his instructions, took his leave, and had galloped out of sight, in the next five minutes. the admiral then declared himself at liberty for the day, accepting the invitation of sir wycherly to breakfast and dine at the hall, in the same spirit of frankness as that in which it had been given. sir wycherly was so spirited as to refuse the aid of his pony, but insisted on walking through the village and park to his dwelling, though the distance was more than a mile. just as they were quitting the signal-station, the old man took the admiral aside, and in an earnest, but respectful manner, disburthened his mind to the following effect. "sir gervaise," he said, "i am no sailor, as you know, and least of all do i bear his majesty's commission in the navy, though i am in the county commission as a justice of the peace; so, if i make any little mistake you will have the goodness to overlook it, for i know that the etiquette of the quarter-deck is a very serious matter, and is not to be trifled with;--but here is dutton, as good a fellow in his way as lives--his father was a sort of a gentleman too, having been the attorney of the neighbourhood, and the old man was accustomed to dine with me forty years ago--" "i believe i understand you, sir wycherly," interrupted the admiral; "and i thank you for the attention you wish to pay my prejudices; but, you are master of wychecombe, and i should feel myself a troublesome intruder, indeed, did you not ask whom you please to dine at your own table." "that's not quite it, sir gervaise, though you have not gone far wide of the mark. dutton is only a master, you know; and it seems that a master on board ship is a very different thing from a master on shore; so dutton, himself, has often told me." "ay, dutton is right enough as regards a king's ship, though the two offices are pretty much the same, when other craft are alluded to. but, my dear sir wycherly, an admiral is not disgraced by keeping company with a boatswain, if the latter is an honest man. it is true we have our customs, and what we call our quarter-deck and forward officers; which is court end and city, on board ship; but a master belongs to the first, and the master of the plantagenet, sandy mcyarn, dines with me once a month, as regularly as he enters a new word at the top of his log-book. i beg, therefore, you will extend your hospitality to whom you please--or--" the admiral hesitated, as he cast a good-natured glance at the master, who stood still uncovered, waiting for his superior to move away; "or, perhaps, sir wycherly, you would permit _me_ to ask a friend to make one of our party." "that's just it, sir gervaise," returned the kind-hearted baronet; "and dutton will be one of the happiest fellows in devonshire. i wish we could have mrs. dutton and milly, and then the table would look what my poor brother james--st. james i used to call him--what the rev. james wychecombe was accustomed to term, mathematical. he said a table should have all its sides and angles duly filled. james was a most agreeable companion, sir gervaise, and, in divinity, he would not have turned his back on one of the apostles, i do verily believe!" the admiral bowed, and turning to the master, he invited him to be of the party at the hall, in the manner which one long accustomed to render his civilities agreeable by a sort of professional off-handed way, well knew how to assume. "sir wycherly has insisted that i shall consider his table as set in my own cabin," he continued; "and i know of no better manner of proving my gratitude, than by taking him at his word, and filling it with guests that will be agreeable to us both. i believe there is a mrs. dutton, and a miss--a--a--a--" "milly," put in the baronet, eagerly; "miss mildred dutton--the daughter of our good friend dutton, here, and a young lady who would do credit to the gayest drawing-room in london." "you perceive, sir, that our kind host anticipates the wishes of an old bachelor, as it might be by instinct, and desires the company of the ladies, also. miss mildred will, at least, have two young men to do homage to her beauty, and _three_ old ones to sigh in the distance--hey! atwood?" "mildred, as sir wycherly knows, sir, has been a little disturbed this morning," returned dutton, putting on his best manner for the occasion; "but, i feel no doubt, will be too grateful for this honour, not to exert herself to make a suitable return. as for my wife, gentlemen--" "and what is to prevent mrs. dutton from being one of the party," interrupted sir wycherly, as he observed the husband to hesitate; "she sometimes favours me with her company." "i rather think she will to-day, sir wycherly, if mildred is well enough to go; the good woman seldom lets her daughter stray far from her apron-strings. she keeps her, as i tell her, within the sweep of her own hawse, sir gervaise." "so much the wiser she, master dutton," returned the admiral, pointedly. "the best pilot for a young woman is a good mother; and now you have a fleet in your roadstead, i need not tell a seaman of your experience that you are on pilot-ground;--hey! atwood?" here the parties separated, dutton remaining uncovered until his superior had turned the corner of his little cottage, and was fairly out of sight. then the master entered his dwelling to prepare his wife and daughter for the honours they had in perspective. before he executed this duty, however, the unfortunate man opened what he called a locker--what a housewife would term a cupboard--and fortified his nerves with a strong draught of pure nantes; a liquor that no hostilities, custom-house duties, or national antipathies, has ever been able to bring into general disrepute in the british islands. in the mean time the party of the two baronets pursued its way towards the hall. the village, or hamlet of wychecombe, lay about half-way between the station and the residence of the lord of the manor. it was an exceedingly rural and retired collection of mean houses, possessing neither physician, apothecary, nor attorney, to give it importance. a small inn, two or three shops of the humblest kind, and some twenty cottages of labourers and mechanics, composed the place, which, at that early day, had not even a chapel, or a conventicle; dissent not having made much progress then in england. the parish church, one of the old edifices of the time of the henrys, stood quite alone, in a field, more than a mile from the place; and the vicarage, a respectable abode, was just on the edge of the park, fully half a mile more distant. in short, wychecombe was one of those places which was so far on the decline, that few or no traces of any little importance it may have once possessed, were any longer to be discovered; and it had sunk entirely into a hamlet that owed its allowed claims to be marked on the maps, and to be noted in the gazetteers, altogether to its antiquity, and the name it had given to one of the oldest knightly families in england. no wonder then, that the arrival of a fleet under the head, produced a great excitement in the little village. the anchorage was excellent, so far as the bottom was concerned, but it could scarcely be called a roadstead in any other point of view, since there was shelter against no wind but that which blew directly off shore, which happened to be a wind that did not prevail in that part of the island. occasionally, a small cruiser would come-to, in the offing, and a few frigates had lain at single anchors in the roads, for a tide or so, in waiting for a change of weather; but this was the first fleet that had been known to moor under the cliffs within the memory of man. the fog had prevented the honest villagers from ascertaining the unexpected honour that had been done them, until the reports of the two guns reached their ears, when the important intelligence spread with due rapidity over the entire adjacent country. although wychecombe did not lie in actual view of the sea, by the time the party of sir wycherly entered the hamlet, its little street was already crowded with visiters from the fleet; every vessel having sent at least one boat ashore, and many of them some three or four. captain's and gun-room stewards, midshipmen's foragers, loblolly boys, and other similar harpies, were out in scores; for this was a part of the world in which bum-boats were unknown; and if the mountain would not come to mahomet, mahomet must fain go to the mountain. half an hour had sufficed to exhaust all the unsophisticated simplicity of the hamlet; and milk, eggs, fresh butter, soft-tommy, vegetables, and such fruits as were ripe, had already risen quite one hundred per cent. in the market. sir gervaise had called his force the southern squadron, from the circumstance of its having been cruising in the bay of biscay, for the last six months. this was a wild winter-station, the danger from the elements greatly surpassing any that could well be anticipated from the enemy. the duty notwithstanding had been well and closely performed; several west india, and one valuable east india convoy having been effectually protected, as well as a few straggling frigates of the enemy picked up; but the service had been excessively laborious to all engaged in it, and replete with privations. most of those who now landed, had not trod terra firma for half a year, and it was not wonderful that all the officers whose duties did not confine them to the vessels, gladly seized the occasion to feast their senses with the verdure and odours of their native island. quite a hundred guests of this character were also pouring into the street of wychecombe, or spreading themselves among the surrounding farm-houses; flirting with the awkward and blushing girls, and keeping an eye at the same time to the main chance of the mess-table. "our boys have already found out your village, sir wycherly, in spite of the fog," the vice-admiral remarked, good-humouredly, as he cast his eyes around at the movement of the street; "and the locusts of egypt will not come nearer to breeding a famine. one would think there was a great dinner _in petto_, in every cabin of the fleet, by the number of the captain's stewards that are ashore, hey! atwood? i have seen nine of the harpies, myself, and the other seven can't be far off." "here is galleygo, sir gervaise," returned the secretary, smiling; "though _he_ can scarcely be called a captain's steward, having the honour to serve a vice-admiral and a commander-in-chief." "ay, but _we_ feed the whole fleet at times, and have some excuse for being a little exacting--harkee, galleygo--get a horse-cart, and push off at once, four or five miles further into the country; you might as well expect to find real pearls in fishes' eyes, as hope to pick up any thing nice among so many gun-room and cock-pit boys. i dine ashore to-day, but captain greenly is fond of mutton-chops, you'll remember." this was said kindly, and in the manner of a man accustomed to treat his domestics with the familiarity of humble friends. galleygo was as unpromising a looking butler as any gentleman ashore would be at all likely to tolerate; but he had been with his present master, and in his present capacity, ever since the latter had commanded a sloop of war. all his youth had been passed as a top-man, and he was really a prime seaman; but accident having temporarily placed him in his present station, captain oakes was so much pleased with his attention to his duty, and particularly with his order, that he ever afterwards retained him in his cabin, notwithstanding the strong desire the honest fellow himself had felt to remain aloft. time and familiarity, at length reconciled the steward to his station, though he did not formally accept it, until a clear agreement had been made that he was not to be considered an idler on any occasion that called for the services of the best men. in this manner david, for such was his christian name, had become a sort of nondescript on board of a man-of-war; being foremost in all the cuttings out, a captain of a gun, and was frequently seen on a yard in moments of difficulty, just to keep his hand in, as he expressed it, while he descended to the duties of the cabin in peaceable times and good weather. near thirty years had he thus been half-steward, half-seaman when afloat, while on land he was rather a counsellor and minister of the closet, than a servant; for out of a ship he was utterly useless, though he never left his master for a week at a time, ashore or afloat. the name of galleygo was a _sobriquet_ conferred by his brother top-men, but had been so generally used, that for the last twenty years most of his shipmates believed it to be his patronymic. when this compound of cabin and forecastle received the order just related, he touched the lock of hair on his forehead, a ceremony he always used before he spoke to sir gervaise, the hat being removed at some three or four yards' distance, and made his customary answer of-- "ay-ay-sir--your honour has been a young gentleman yourself, and knows what a young gentleman's stomach gets to be, a'ter a six months' fast in the bay of biscay; and a young gentleman's _boy's_ stomach, too. i always thinks there's but a small chance for us, sir, when i sees six or eight of them light cruisers in my neighbourhood. they're som'mat like the sloops and cutters of a fleet, which picks up all the prizes." "quite true, master galleygo; but if the light cruisers get the prizes, you should recollect that the admiral always has his share of the prize-money." "yes, sir, i knows we has our share, but that's accordin' to law, and because the commanders of the light craft can't help it. let 'em once get the law on their side, and not a ha'pence would bless our pockets! no, sir, what we gets, we gets by the law; and as there is no law to fetch up young gentlemen or their boys, that pays as they goes, we never gets any thing they or their boys puts hands on." "i dare say you are right, david, as you always are. it wouldn't be a bad thing to have an act of parliament to give an admiral his twentieth in the reefers' foragings. the old fellows would sometimes get back some of their own poultry and fruit in that way, hey! atwood?" the secretary smiled his assent, and then sir gervaise apologized to his host, repeated the order to the steward, and the party proceeded. "this fellow of mine, sir wycherly, is no respecter of persons, beyond the etiquette of a man-of-war," the admiral continued, by way of further excuse. "i believe his majesty himself would be favoured with an essay on some part of the economy of the cabin, were galleygo to get an opportunity of speaking his mind to him. nor is the fool without his expectations of some day enjoying this privilege; for the last lime i went to court, i found honest david rigged, from stem to stern, in a full suit of claret and steel, under the idea that he was 'to sail in company with me,' as he called it, 'with or without signal!'" "there was nothing surprising in that, sir gervaise," observed the secretary. "galleygo has sailed in company with you so long, and to so many strange lands; has been through so many dangers at your side, and has got so completely to consider himself as part of the family, that it was the most natural thing in the world he should expect to go to court with you." "true enough. the fellow would face the devil, at my side, and i don't see why he should hesitate to face the king. i sometimes call him lady oakes, sir wycherly, for he appears to think he has a right of dower, or to some other lawyer-like claim on my estate; and as for the fleet, he always speaks of _that_, as if we commanded it in common. i wonder how bluewater tolerates the blackguard; for he never scruples to allude to him as under _our_ orders! if any thing should befal me, dick and david would have a civil war for the succession, hey! atwood?" "i think military subordination would bring galleygo to his senses, sir gervaise, should such an unfortunate accident occur--which heaven avert for many years to come! there is admiral bluewater coming up the street, at this very moment, sir." at this sudden announcement, the whole party turned to look in the direction intimated by the secretary. it was by this time at one end of the short street, and all saw a man just entering the other, who, in his walk, air, attire, and manner, formed a striking contrast to the active, merry, bustling, youthful young sailors who thronged the hamlet. in person, admiral bluewater was exceedingly tall and exceedingly thin. like most seamen who have that physical formation, he stooped; a circumstance that gave his years a greater apparent command over his frame, than they possessed in reality. while this bend in his figure deprived it, in a great measure, of the sturdy martial air that his superior presented to the observer, it lent to his carriage a quiet and dignity that it might otherwise have wanted. certainly, were this officer attired like an ordinary civilian, no one would have taken him for one of england's bravest and most efficient sea-captains; he would have passed rather as some thoughtful, well-educated, and refined gentleman, of retired habits, diffident of himself, and a stranger to ambition. he wore an undress rear-admiral's uniform, as a matter of course; but he wore it carelessly, as if from a sense of duty only; or conscious that no arrangement could give him a military air. still all about his person was faultlessly neat, and perfectly respectable. in a word, no one but a man accustomed to the sea, were it not for his uniform, would suspect the rear-admiral of being a sailor; and even the seaman himself might be often puzzled to detect any other signs of the profession about him, than were to be found in a face, which, fair, gentlemanly, handsome, and even courtly as it was, in expression and outline, wore the tint that exposure invariably stamps on the mariner's countenance. here, however, his unseaman-like character ceased. admiral oakes had often declared that "dick bluewater knew more about a ship than any man in england;" and as for a fleet, his mode of man[oe]uvring one had got to be standard in the service. as soon as sir gervaise recognised his friend, he expressed a wish to wait for him, which was courteously converted by sir wycherly into a proposition to return and meet him. so abstracted was admiral bluewater, however, that he did not see the party that was approaching him, until he was fairly accosted by sir gervaise, who led the advance by a few yards. "good-day to you, bluewater," commenced the latter, in his familiar, off-hand way; "i'm glad you have torn yourself away from your ship; though i must say the manner in which you came-to, in that fog, was more like instinct, than any thing human! i determined to tell you as much, the moment we met; for i don't think there is a ship, half her length out of mathematical order, notwithstanding the tide runs, here, like a race-horse." "that is owing to your captains, sir gervaise," returned the other, observing the respect of manner, that the inferior never loses with his superior, on service, and in a navy; let their relative rank and intimacy be what they may on all other occasions; "good captains make handy ships. our gentlemen have now been together so long, that they understand each other's movements; and every vessel in the fleet has her character as well as her commander!" "very true, admiral bluewater, and yet there is not another officer in his majesty's service, that could have brought a fleet to anchor, in so much order, and in such a fog; and i ask your leave, sir, most particularly to thank you for the lesson you have given, not only to the captains, but to the commander-in-chief. i presume i may admire that which i cannot exactly imitate." the rear-admiral merely smiled and touched his hat in acknowledgment of the compliment, but he made no direct answer in words. by this time sir wycherly and the others had approached, and the customary introductions took place. sir wycherly now pressed his new acquaintance to join his guests, with so much heartiness, that there was no such thing as refusing. "since you and sir gervaise both insist on it so earnestly, sir wycherly," returned the rear-admiral, "i must consent; but as it is contrary to our practice, when on foreign service--and i call this roadstead a foreign station, as to any thing we know about it--as it is contrary to our practice for both flag-officers to sleep out of the fleet, i shall claim the privilege to be allowed to go off to my ship before midnight. i think the weather looks settled, sir gervaise, and we may trust that many hours, without apprehension." "pooh--pooh--bluewater, you are always fancying the ships in a gale, and clawing off a lee-shore. put your heart at rest, and let us go and take a comfortable dinner with sir wycherly, who has a london paper, i dare to say, that may let us into some of the secrets of state. are there any tidings from our people in flanders?" "things remain pretty much as they have been," returned sir wycherly, "since that last terrible affair, in which the duke got the better of the french at--i never can remember an outlandish name; but it sounds something like a christian baptism. if my poor brother, st. james, were living, now, he could tell us all about it." "christian baptism! that's an odd allusion for a field of battle. the armies can't have got to jerusalem; hey! atwood?" "i rather think, sir gervaise," the secretary coolly remarked, "that sir wycherly wychecombe refers to the battle that took place last spring--it was fought at font-something; and a font certainly has something to do with christian baptism." "that's it--that's it," cried sir wycherly, with some eagerness; "fontenoï was the name of the place, where the duke would have carried all before him, and brought marshal saxe, and all his frog-eaters prisoners to england, had our dutch and german allies behaved better than they did. so it is with poor old england, gentlemen; whatever _she_ gains, her allies always _lose_ for her--the germans, or the colonists, are constantly getting us into trouble!" both sir gervaise and his friend were practical men, and well knew that they never fought the dutch or the french, without meeting with something that was pretty nearly their match. they had no faith in general national superiority. the courts-martial that so often succeeded general actions, had taught them that there were all degrees of spirit, as well as all degrees of a want of spirit; and they knew too much, to be the dupes of flourishes of the pen, or of vapid declamation at dinner-speeches, and in the house of commons. men, well led and commanded, they had ascertained by experience, were worth twice as much as the same men when ill led and ill commanded; and they were not to be told that the moral tone of an army or a fleet, from which all its success was derived, depended more on the conventional feeling that had been got up through moral agencies, than on birth-place, origin, or colour. each glanced his eye significantly at the other, and a sarcastic smile passed over the face of sir gervaise, though his friend maintained his customary appearance of gravity. "i believe le grand monarque and marshal saxe give a different account of that matter, sir wycherly," drily observed the former; "and it may be well to remember that there are two sides to every story. whatever may be said of dettingen, i fancy history will set down fontenoï as any thing but a feather in his royal highness' cap." "you surely do not consider it possible for the french arms to overthrow a british army, sir gervaise oakes!" exclaimed the simple-minded provincial--for such was sir wycherly wychecombe, though he had sat in parliament, had four thousand a year, and was one of the oldest families in england--"it sounds like treason to admit the possibility of such a thing." "god bless us, my dear sir, i am as far from supposing any such thing, as the duke of cumberland himself; who, by the way, has as much english blood in his veins, as the baltic may have of the water of the mediterranean--hey! atwood? by the way, sir wycherly, i must ask a little tenderness of you in behalf of my friend the secretary, here, who has a national weakness in favour of the pretender, and all of the clan stuart." "i hope not--i sincerely hope not, sir gervaise!" exclaimed sir wycherly, with a warmth that was not entirely free from alarm; his own loyalty to the new house being altogether without reproach. "mr. atwood has the air of a gentleman of too good principles not to see on which side real religious and political liberty lie. i am sure you are pleased to be jocular, sir gervaise; the very circumstance that he is in your company is a pledge of his loyalty." "well, well, sir wycherly, i would not give you a false idea of my friend atwood, if possible; and so i may as well confess, that, while his scotch blood inclines him to toryism, his english reason makes him a whig. if charles stuart never gets the throne until stephen atwood helps him to a seat on it, he may take leave of ambition for ever." "i thought as much, sir gervaise--i thought _your_ secretary could never lean to the doctrine of 'passive obedience and non-resistance.' that's a principle which would hardly suit sailors, admiral bluewater." admiral bluewater's line, full, blue eye, lighted with an expression approaching irony; but he made no other answer than a slight inclination of the head. in point of fact, _he_ was a jacobite: though no one was acquainted with the circumstance but his immediate commanding officer. as a seaman, he was called on only to serve his country; and, as often happens to military men, he was willing to do this under any superior whom circumstances might place over his head, let his private sentiments be what they might. during the civil war of , he was too young in years, and too low in rank to render his opinions of much importance; and, kept on foreign stations, his services could only affect the general interests of the nation, without producing any influence on the contest at home. since that period, nothing had occurred to require one, whose duty kept him on the ocean, to come to a very positive decision between the two masters that claimed his allegiance. sir gervaise had always been able to persuade him that he was sustaining the honour and interests of his country, and that ought to be sufficient to a patriot, let who would rule. notwithstanding this wide difference in political feeling between the two admirals--sir gervaise being as decided a whig, as his friend was a tory--their personal harmony had been without a shade. as to confidence, the superior knew the inferior so well, that he believed the surest way to prevent his taking sides openly with the jacobites, or of doing them secret service, was to put it in his power to commit a great breach of trust. so long as faith were put in his integrity, sir gervaise felt certain his friend bluewater might be relied on; and he also knew that, should the moment ever come when the other really intended to abandon the service of the house of hanover, he would frankly throw up his employments, and join the hostile standard, without profiting, in any manner, by the trusts he had previously enjoyed. it is also necessary that the reader should understand that admiral bluewater had never communicated his political opinions to any person but his friend; the pretender and his counsellors being as ignorant of them, as george ii. and his ministers. the only practical effect, therefore, that they had ever produced was to induce him to decline separate commands, several of which had been offered to him; one, quite equal to that enjoyed by sir gervaise oakes, himself. "no," the latter answered to sir wycherly's remark; though the grave, thoughtful expression of his face, showed how little his feelings chimed in, at the moment, with the ironical language of his tongue. "no--sir wycherly, a man-of-war's man, in particular, has not the slightest idea of 'passive obedience and non-resistance,'--that is a doctrine which is intelligible only to papists and tories. bluewater is in a brown study; thinking no doubt of the manner in which he intends to lead down on monsieur de gravelin, should we ever have the luck to meet that gentleman again; so we will, if it's agreeable to all parties, change the subject." "with all my heart, sir gervaise," answered the baronet, cordially; "and, after all, there is little use in discussing the affair of the pretender any longer, for he appears to be quite out of men's minds, since that last failure of king louis xv." "yes, norris rather crushed the young viper in its shell, and we may consider the thing at an end." "so my late brother, baron wychecombe, always treated it, sir gervaise. he once assured me that the twelve judges were clearly against the claim, and that the stuarts had nothing to expect from _them_." "did he tell you, sir, on what ground these learned gentlemen had come to this decision?" quietly asked admiral bluewater. "he did, indeed; for he knew my strong desire to make out a good case against the tories so well, that he laid all the law before me. i am a bad hand, however, to repeat even what i hear; though my poor brother, the late rev. james wychecombe--st. james as i used to call him--could go over a discourse half an hour long, and not miss a word. thomas and james appear to have run away with the memories of the rest of the family. nevertheless, i recollect it all depended on an act of parliament, which is supreme; and the house of hanover reigning by an act of parliament, no court could set aside the claim." "very clearly explained, sir," continued bluewater; "and you will permit me to say that there was no necessity for an apology on account of the memory. your brother, however, might not have exactly explained what an act of parliament is. king, lords, and commons, are all necessary to an act of parliament." "certainly--we all know that, my dear admiral; we poor fellows ashore here, as well as you mariners at sea. the hanoverian succession had all three to authorize it." "had it a king?" "a king! out of dispute--or what we bachelors ought to consider as much better, it had a _queen_. queen anne approved of the act, and that made it an act of parliament. i assure you, i learned a good deal of law in the baron's visits to wychecombe; and in the pleasant hours we used to chat together in his chambers!" "and who signed the act of parliament that made anne a queen? or did she ascend the throne by regular succession? both mary and anne were sovereigns by acts of parliament, and we must look back until we get the approval of a prince who took the crown by legal descent." "come--come, bluewater," put in sir gervaise, gravely; "we may persuade sir wycherly, in this manner, that he has a couple of furious jacobites in company. the stuarts were dethroned by a revolution, which is a law of nature, and enacted by god, and which of course overshadows all other laws when it gets into the ascendant, as it clearly has done in this case. i take it, sir wycherly, these are your park-gates, and that yonder is the hall." this remark changed the discourse, and the whole party proceeded towards the house, discussing the beauty of its position, its history, and its advantages, until they reached its door. chapter v. "monarch and ministers, are awful names: whoever wear them, challenge our devoir." young. our plan does not require an elaborate description of the residence of sir wycherly. the house had been neither priory, abbey, nor castle; but it was erected as a dwelling for himself and his posterity, by a sir michael wychecombe, two or three centuries before, and had been kept in good serviceable condition ever since. it had the usual long, narrow windows, a suitable hall, wainscoted rooms, battlemented walls, and turreted angles. it was neither large, nor small; handsome, nor ugly; grand, nor mean; but it was quaint, respectable in appearance, and comfortable as an abode. the admirals were put each in possession of bed-chambers and dressing-rooms, as soon as they arrived; and atwood was _berthed_ not far from his commanding-officer, in readiness for service, if required. sir wycherly was naturally hospitable; but his retired situation had given him a zest for company, that greatly increased the inborn disposition. sir gervaise, it was understood, was to pass the night with him, and he entertained strong hopes of including his friend in the same arrangement. beds were ordered, too, for dutton, his wife, and daughter; and his namesake, the lieutenant, was expected also to sleep under his roof, that night. the day passed in the customary manner; the party having breakfasted, and then separated to attend to their several occupations, agreeably to the usages of all country houses, in all parts of the world, and, we believe, in all time. sir gervaise, who had sent a messenger off to the plantagenet for certain papers, spent the morning in writing; admiral bluewater walked in the park, by himself; atwood was occupied with his superior; sir wycherly rode among his labourers; and tom wychecombe took a rod, and pretended to go forth to fish, though he actually held his way back to the head-land, lingering in and around the cottage until it was time to return home. at the proper hour, sir wycherly sent his chariot for the ladies; and a few minutes before the appointed moment, the party began to assemble in the drawing-room. when sir wycherly appeared, he found the duttons already in possession, with tom doing the honours of the house. of the sailing-master and his daughter, it is unnecessary to say more than that the former was in his best uniform--an exceedingly plain one, as was then the case with the whole naval wardrobe--and that the last had recovered from her illness, as was evident by the bloom that the sensitive blushes constantly cast athwart her lovely face. her attire was exactly what it ought to have been; neat, simple, and becoming. in honour of the host, she wore her best; but this was what became her station, though a little jewelry that rather surpassed what might have been expected in a girl of her rank of life, threw around her person an air of modest elegance. mrs. dutton was a plain, matronly woman--the daughter of a land-steward of a nobleman in the same county--with an air of great mental suffering, from griefs she had never yet exposed to the heartless sympathy of the world. the baronet was so much in the habit of seeing his humble neighbours, that an intimacy had grown up between them. sir wycherly, who was anything but an acute observer, felt an interest in the melancholy-looking, and almost heart-broken mother, without knowing why; or certainly without suspecting the real character of her habitual sadness; while mildred's youth and beauty had not failed of producing the customary effect of making a friend of the old bachelor. he shook hands all round, therefore, with great cordiality; expressing his joy at meeting mrs. dutton, and congratulating the daughter on her complete recovery. "i see tom has been attentive to his duty," he added, "while i've been detained by a silly fellow about a complaint against a poacher. my namesake, young wycherly, has not got back yet, though it is quite two hours past his time; and mr. atwood tells me the admiral is a little uneasy about his despatches. i tell him mr. wycherly wychecombe, though i have not the honour of ranking him among my relatives, and he is only a virginian by birth, is a young man to be relied on; and that the despatches are safe, let what may detain the courier." "and why should not a virginian be every way as trustworthy and prompt as an englishman, sir wycherly?" asked mrs. dutton. "he _is_ an englishman, merely separated from us by the water." this was said mildly, or in the manner of one accustomed to speak under a rebuked feeling; but it was said earnestly, and perhaps a little reproachfully, while the speaker's eye glanced with natural interest towards the beautiful face of her daughter. "why not, sure enough, my dear mrs. dutton!" echoed the baronet. "they _are_ englishmen, like ourselves, only born out of the realm, as it might be, and no doubt a little different on that account. they are fellow-subjects, mrs. dutton, and that is a great deal. then they are miracles of loyalty, there being scarcely a jacobite, as they tell me, in all the colonies." "mr. wycherly wychecombe is a very respectable young gentleman," said dutton; "and i hear he is a prime seaman for his years. he has not the honour of being related to this distinguished family, like mr. thomas, here, it is true; but he is likely to make a name for himself. should he get a ship, and do as handsome things in her, as he has done already, his majesty would probably knight him; and then we should have _two_ sir wycherly wychecombes!" "i hope not--i hope not!" exclaimed the baronet; "i think there must be a law against _that_. as it is, i shall be obliged to put bart. after my name, as my worthy grandfather used to do, in order to prevent confusion; but england can't bear two sir wycherlys, any more than the world can bear two suns. is not that your opinion, miss mildred?" the baronet had laughed at his own allusion, showing he spoke half jocularly; but, as his question was put in too direct a manner to escape general attention, the confused girl was obliged to answer. "i dare say mr. wychecombe will never reach a rank high enough to cause any such difficulty," she said; and it was said in all sincerity; for, unconsciously perhaps, she secretly hoped that no difference so wide might ever be created between the youth and herself. "if he should, i suppose his rights would be as good as another's, and he must keep his name." "in such a case, which is improbable enough, as miss mildred has so well observed," put in tom wychecombe, "we should have to submit to the _knighthood_, for that comes from the king, who might knight a chimney-sweep, if he see fit; but a question might be raised as to the _name_. it is bad enough as it is; but if it really got to be _two_ sir wycherlys, i think my dear uncle would be wrong to submit to such an invasion of what one might call his individuality, without making some inquiry as to the right of the gentleman to one or both his names. the result might show that the king had made a sir something nobody." the sneer and spite with which this was uttered, were too marked to escape notice; and both dutton and his wife felt it would be unpleasant to mingle farther in the discourse. still the last, submissive, rebuked, and heart-broken as she was, felt a glow on her own pale cheek, as she saw the colour mount in the face of mildred, and she detected the strong impulses that urged the generous girl herself to answer. "we have now known mr. wychecombe several months," observed mildred, fastening her full, blue eye calmly on tom's sinister-looking face; "and we have never known any thing to cause us to think he would bear a name--or names--that he does not at least think he has a right to." this was said gently, but so distinctly, that every word entered fairly into tom wychecombe's soul; who threw a quick, suspicious glance at the lovely speaker, as if to ascertain how far she intended any allusion to himself. meeting with no other expression than that of generous interest, he recovered his self-command, and made his reply with sufficient coolness. "upon my word, mrs. dutton," he cried, laughing; "we young men will all of us have to get over the cliff, and hang dangling at the end of a rope, in order to awaken an interest in miss mildred, to defend us when our backs are turned. so eloquent--and most especially, so lovely, so charming an advocate, is almost certain of success; and my uncle and myself must admit the absent gentleman's right to our name; though, heaven be praised, he has not yet got either the title or the estate." "i hope i have said nothing, sir wycherly, to displease _you_," returned mildred, with emphasis; though her face was a thousand times handsomer than ever, with the blushes that suffused it. "nothing would pain me more, than to suppose i had done so improper a thing. i merely meant that we cannot believe mr. wycherly wychecombe would willingly take a name he had no right to." "my little dear," said the baronet, taking the hand of the distressed girl, and kissing her cheek, as he had often done before, with fatherly tenderness; "it is not an easy matter for _you_ to offend _me_; and i'm sure the young fellow is quite welcome to both my names, if you wish him to have 'em." "and i merely meant, miss mildred," resumed tom, who feared he might have gone too far; "that the young gentleman--quite without any fault of his own--is probably ignorant how he came by two names that have so long pertained to the head of an ancient and honourable family. there is many a young man born, who is worthy of being an earl, but whom the law considers--" here tom paused to choose terms suitable for his auditor, when the baronet added, "a _filius nullius_--that's the phrase, tom--i had it from your own father's mouth." tom wychecombe started, and looked furtively around him, as if to ascertain who suspected the truth. then he continued, anxious to regain the ground he feared he had lost in mildred's favour. "_filius nullius_ means, miss mildred, exactly what i wish to express; a family without any legal origin. they tell me, however, that in the colonies, nothing is more common than for people to take the names of the great families at home, and after a while they fancy themselves related." "i never heard mr. wycherly wychecombe say a word to lead us to suppose that he was, in any manner, connected with this family, sir," returned mildred, calmly, but quite distinctly. "did you ever hear him say he was _not_, miss mildred?" "i cannot say i ever did, mr. wychecombe. it is a subject that has seldom been introduced in my hearing." "but it has often been introduced in his! i declare, sir wycherly, it has struck me as singular, that while you and i have so very frequently stated in the presence of this gentleman, that our families are in no way connected, he has never, in any manner, not even by a nod or a look of approbation, assented to what he must certainly know to be the case. but i suppose, like a true colonist, he was unwilling to give up his hold on the old stock." here the entrance of sir gervaise oakes changed the discourse. the vice-admiral joined the party in good spirits, as is apt to be the case with men who have been much occupied with affairs of moment, and who meet relaxation with a consciousness of having done their duty. "if one could take with him to sea, the comforts of such a house as this, sir wycherly, and such handsome faces as your own, young lady," cried sir gervaise, cheerfully, after he had made his salutations; "there would be an end of our exclusiveness, for every _petit maître_ of paris and london would turn sailor, as a matter of course. six months in the bay of biscay gives an old fellow, like myself, a keen relish for these enjoyments, as hunger makes any meat palatable; though i am far, very far, indeed, from putting this house or this company, on a level with an indifferent feast, even for an epicure." "such as it is, sir gervaise, the first is quite at your service, in all things," rejoined the host; "and the last will do all in its power to make itself agreeable." "ah--here comes bluewater to echo all i have said and feel. i am telling sir wycherly and the ladies, of the satisfaction we grampuses experience when we get berthed under such a roof as this, with woman's sweet face to throw a gleam of happiness around her." admiral bluewater had already saluted the mother, but when his eye fell on the face and person of mildred, it was riveted, for an instant, with an earnestness and intentness of surprise and admiration that all noted, though no one saw fit to comment on it. "sir gervaise is so established an admirer of the sex," said the rear-admiral, recovering himself, after a pause; "that i am never astonished at any of his raptures. salt water has the usual effect on him, however; for i have now known him longer than he might wish to be reminded of, and yet the only mistress who can keep him true, is his ship." "and to that i believe i may be said to be constant. i don't know how it is with you, sir wycherly, but every thing i am accustomed to i like. now, here i have sailed with both these gentlemen, until i should as soon think of going to sea without a binnacle, as to go to sea without 'em both--hey! atwood? then, as to the ship, my flag has been flying in the plantagenet these ten years, and i can't bear to give the old craft up, though bluewater, here, would have turned her over to an inferior after three years' service. i tell all the young men they don't stay long enough in any one vessel to find out her good qualities. i never was in a slow ship yet." "for the simple reason that you never get into a fast one, that you do not wear her fairly out, before you give her up. the plantagenet, sir wycherly, is the fastest two-decker in his majesty's service, and the vice-admiral knows it too well to let any of us get foot in her, while her timbers will hang together." "let it be so, if you will; it only shows, sir wycherly, that i do not choose my friends for their bad qualities. but, allow me to ask, young lady, if you happen to know a certain mr. wycherly wychecombe--a namesake, but no relative, i understand, of our respectable host--and one who holds a commission in his majesty's service?" "certainly, sir gervaise," answered mildred, dropping her eyes to the floor, and trembling, though she scarce knew why; "mr. wychecombe has been about here, now, for some months, and we all know something of him." "then, perhaps you can tell me whether he is generally a loiterer on duty. i do not inquire whether he is a laggard in his duty to you, but whether, mounted on a good hunter, he could get over twenty miles, in eight or ten hours, for instance?" "i think sir wycherly would tell you that he could, sir." "he may be a wychecombe, sir wycherly, but he is no plantagenet, in the way of sailing. surely the young gentleman ought to have returned some hours since!" "it's quite surprising to me that he is not back before this," returned the kind-hearted baronet. "he is active, and understands himself, and there is not a better horseman in the county--is there, miss mildred?" mildred did not think it necessary to reply to this direct appeal; but spite of the manner in which she had been endeavouring to school her feelings, since the accident on the cliff, she could not prevent the deadly paleness that dread of some accident had produced, or the rush of colour to her cheeks that followed from the unexpected question of sir wycherly. turning to conceal her confusion, she met the eye of tom wychecombe riveted on her face, with an expression so sinister, that it caused her to tremble. fortunately, at this moment, sir gervaise turned away, and drawing near his friend, on the other side of the large apartment, he said in an under tone-- "luckily, atwood has brought ashore a duplicate of my despatches, bluewater, and if this dilatory gentleman does not return by the time we have dined, i will send off a second courier. the intelligence is too important to be trifled with; and after having brought the fleet north, to be in readiness to serve the state in this emergency, it would be rare folly to leave the ministry in ignorance of the reasons why i have done it." "nevertheless, they would be almost as well-informed, as i am myself," returned the rear-admiral, with a little point, but quite without any bitterness of manner. "the only advantage i have over them is that i _do_ know where the fleet is, which is more than the first lord can boast of." "true--i had forgot, my friend--but you must feel that there _is_ a subject on which i had better not consult you. i have received some important intelligence, that my duty, as a commander-in-chief, renders it necessary i should--keep to myself." sir gervaise laughed as he concluded, though he seemed vexed and embarrassed. admiral bluewater betrayed neither chagrin, nor disappointment; but strong, nearly ungovernable curiosity, a feeling from which he was singularly exempt in general, glowed in his eyes, and lighted his whole countenance. still, habitual submission to his superior, and the self-command of discipline, enabled him to wait for any thing more that his friend might communicate. at this moment, the door opened, and wycherly entered the room, in the state in which he had just dismounted. it was necessary to throw but a single glance at his hurried manner, and general appearance, to know that he had something of importance to communicate, and sir gervaise made a sign for him not to speak. "this is public service, sir wycherly," said the vice-admiral, "and i hope you will excuse us for a few minutes. i beg this good company will be seated at table, as soon as dinner is served, and that you will treat us as old friends--as i should treat you, if we were on board the plantagenet. admiral bluewater, will you be of our conference?" nothing more was said until the two admirals and the young lieutenant were in the dressing-room of sir gervaise oakes. then the latter turned, and addressed wycherly, with the manner of a superior. "i should have met you with a reproof, for this delay, young gentleman," he commenced, "did i not suspect, from your appearance, that something of moment has occurred to produce it. had the mail passed the market-town, before you reached it, sir?" "it had not, admiral oakes; and i have the satisfaction of knowing that your despatches are now several hours on their way to london. i reached the office just in season to see them mailed." "humph! on board the plantagenet, it is the custom for an officer to report any important duty done, as soon as it is in a condition to be thus laid before the superior!" "i presume that is the usage in all his majesty's ships, sir gervaise oakes: but i have been taught that a proper discretion, when it does not interfere with positive orders, and sometimes when it does, is a surer sign of a useful officer, than even the most slavish attention to rules." "that is a just distinction, young gentleman, though safer in the hands of a captain, perhaps, than in those of a lieutenant," returned the vice-admiral, glancing at his friend, though he secretly admired the youth's spirit. "discretion is a comparative term; meaning different things with different persons. may i presume to ask what mr. wycherly wychecombe calls discretion, in the present instance?" "you have every right, sir, to know, and i only wanted your permission to tell my whole story. while waiting to see the london mail start with your despatches, and to rest my horse, a post-chaise arrived that was carrying a gentleman, who is suspected of being a jacobite, to his country-seat, some thirty miles further west. this gentleman held a secret conference with another person of the same way of thinking as himself; and there was so much running and sending of messages, that i could not avoid suspecting something was in the wind. going to the stable to look after sir wycherly's hunter, for i knew how much he values the animal, i found one of the stranger's servants in discourse with the ostler. the latter told me, when the chaise had gone, that great tidings had reached exeter, before the travellers quitted the town. these tidings he described as news that 'charley was no longer over the water.' it was useless, sir gervaise, to question one so stupid; and, at the inn, though all observed the manner of the traveller and his visiter, no one could tell me any thing positive. under the circumstances, therefore, i threw myself into the return chaise, and went as far as fowey, where i met the important intelligence that prince charles has actually landed, and is at this moment up, in scotland!" "the pretender is then really once more among us!" exclaimed sir gervaise, like one who had half suspected the truth. "not the pretender, sir gervaise, as i understand the news; but his young son, prince charles edward, one much more likely to give the kingdom trouble. the fact is certain, i believe; and as it struck me that it might be important to the commander of so fine a fleet as this which lies under wychecombe head, to know it, i lost no time in getting back with the intelligence." "you have done well, young gentleman, and have proved that discretion _is_ quite as useful and respectable in a lieutenant, as it can possibly prove to be in a full admiral of the white. go, now, and make yourself fit to take a seat by the side of one of the sweetest girls in england, where i shall expect to see you, in fifteen minutes. well, bluewater," he continued, as soon as the door closed on wycherly; "this _is_ news, of a certainty!" "it is, indeed; and i take it to be the news, or connected with the news, that you have sent to the first lord, in the late despatches. it has not taken you altogether by surprise, if the truth were said?" "it has not, i confess. you know what excellent intelligence we have had, the past season, from the bordeaux agent; he sent me off such proofs of this intended expedition, that i thought it advisable to bring the fleet north on the strength of it, that the ships might be used as the exigency should require." "thank god, it is a long way to scotland, and it is not probable we can reach the coast of that country until all is over! i wish we had inquired of this young man with what sort of, and how large a naval force the prince was accompanied with. shall i send for him, that we may put the question?" "it is better that you remain passive, admiral bluewater. i now promise you that you shall learn all i hear; and that, under the circumstances, i think ought to content you." the two admirals now separated, though neither returned to the company for some little time. the intelligence they had just learned was too important to be lightly received, and each of these veteran seamen paced his room, for near a quarter of an hour, reflecting on what might be the probable consequences to the country and to himself. sir gervaise oakes expected some event of this nature, and was less taken by surprise than his friend; still he viewed the crisis as exceedingly serious, and as one likely to destroy the prosperity of the nation, as well as the peace of families. there was then in england, as there is to-day, and as there probably will be throughout all time, two parties; one of which clung to the past with its hereditary and exclusive privileges, while the other looked more towards change for anticipated advantages, and created honours. religion, in that age, was made the stalking-horse of politicians; as is liberty on one side, and order on the other, in our own times; and men just as blindly, as vehemently, and as regardlessly of principle, submitted to party in the middle of the eighteenth century, as we know they do in the middle of the nineteenth. the mode of acting was a little changed, and the watchwords and rallying points were not exactly the same, it is true; but, in all that relates to ignorant confidence, ferocious denunciation, and selfishness but half concealed under the cloak of patriotism, the england of the original whigs and tories, was the england of conservatism and reform, and the america of , the america of . still thousands always act, in political struggles, with the fairest intentions, though they act in bitter opposition to each other. when prejudice becomes the stimulant of ignorance, no other result may be hoped for; and the experience of the world, in the management of human affairs, has left the upright and intelligent, but one conclusion as the reward of all the pains and penalties with which political revolutions have been effected--the conviction that no institutions can be invented, which a short working does not show will be perverted from their original intention, by the ingenuity of those entrusted with power. in a word, the physical constitution of man does not more infallibly tend to decrepitude and imbecility, imperiously requiring a new being, and a new existence, to fulfil the objects of his creation, than the moral constitutions which are the fruits of his wisdom, contain the seeds of abuses and decay, that human selfishness will be as certain to cultivate, as human indulgence is to aid the course of nature, in hastening the approaches of death. thus, while on the one hand, there exists the constant incentive of abuses and hopes to induce us to wish for modifications of the social structure, on the other there stands the experience of ages to demonstrate their insufficiency to produce the happiness we aim at. if the world advances in civilization and humanity, it is because knowledge will produce its fruits in every soil, and under every condition of cultivation and improvement. both sir gervaise oakes and admiral bluewater believed themselves to be purely governed by principles, in submitting to the bias that each felt towards the conflicting claims of the houses of brunswick and stuart. perhaps no two men in england were in fact less influenced by motives that they ought to feel ashamed to own; and yet, as has been seen, while they thought so much alike on most other things, on this they were diametrically opposed to each other. during the many years of arduous and delicate duties that they had served together, jealousy, distrust, and discontent had been equally strangers to their bosoms; for each had ever felt the assurance that his own honour, happiness, and interests were as much ruling motives with his friend, as they could well be with himself their lives had been constant scenes of mutual but unpretending kindnesses; and this under circumstances that naturally awakened all the most generous and manly sentiments of their natures. when young men, their laughing messmates had nick-named them pylades and orestes; and later in life, on account of their cruising so much in company, they were generally known in the navy as the "twin captains." on several occasions had they fought enemies' frigates, and captured them; on these occasions, as a matter of course, the senior of the two became most known to the nation; but sir gervaise had made the most generous efforts to give his junior a full share of the credit, while captain bluewater never spoke of the affairs without mentioning them as victories of the commodore. in a word, on all occasions, and under all circumstances, it appeared to be the aim of these generous-minded and gallant seamen, to serve each other; nor was this attempted with any effort, or striving for effect; all that was said, or done, coming naturally and spontaneously from the heart. but, for the first time in their lives, events had now occurred which threatened a jarring of the feelings between them, if they did not lead to acts which must inevitably place them in open and declared hostility to each other. no wonder, then, that both looked at the future with gloomy forebodings, and a distrust, which, if it did not render them unhappy, at least produced uneasiness. chapter vi. "the circle form'd, we sit in silent state, like figures drawn upon a dial-plate; yes ma'am, and no ma'am, uttered softly show, every five minutes how the minutes go." cowper. it is scarcely necessary to tell the reader that england, as regarded material civilization, was a very different country a hundred years since, from what it is to-day. we are writing of an age of heavy wagons, coaches and six, post-chaises and four; and not of an era of macadam-roads, or of cars flying along by steam. a man may now post down to a country-house, some sixty or eighty miles, to dinner; and this, too, by the aid of only a pair of horses; but, in such an engagement would have required at least a start on the previous day; and, in many parts of the island, it would have been safer to have taken two days' grace. scotland was then farther from devonshire, in effect, than geneva is now; and news travelled slowly, and with the usual exaggerations and uncertainties of delay. it was no wonder, then, that a jacobite who was posting off to his country-house--the focus of an english landlord's influence and authority--filled with intelligence that had reached him through the activity of zealous political partisans, preceded the more regular tidings of the mail, by several hours. the little that had escaped this individual, or his servants rather, for the gentleman was tolerably discreet himself, confiding in only one or two particular friends at each relay, had not got out to the world, either very fully, or very clearly. wycherly had used intelligence in making his inquiries, and he had observed an officer's prudence in keeping his news for the ears of his superior alone. when sir gervaise joined the party in the drawing-room, therefore, he saw that sir wycherly knew nothing of what had occurred at the north; and he intended the glance which he directed at the lieutenant to convey a hearty approval of his discretion. this forbearance did more to raise the young officer in the opinion of the practised and thoughtful admiral, than the gallantry with which the youth had so recently purchased his commission; for while many were brave, few had the self-command, and prudence, under circumstances like the present, that alone can make a man safe in the management of important public interests. the approbation that sir gervaise felt, and which he desired to manifest, for wycherly's prudence, was altogether a principle, however; since there existed no sufficient reason for keeping the secret from as confirmed a whig as his host. on the contrary, the sooner those opinions, which both of them would be apt to term sound, were promulgated in the neighbourhood, the better it might prove for the good cause. the vice-admiral, therefore, determined to communicate himself, as soon as the party was seated at table, the very secret which he so much commended the youth for keeping. admiral bluewater joining the company, at this instant, sir wycherly led mrs. dutton to the table. no alteration had taken place among the guests, except that sir gervaise wore the red riband; a change in his dress that his friend considered to be openly hoisting the standard of the house of hanover. "one would not think, sir wycherly," commenced the vice-admiral, glancing his eyes around him, as soon as all were sealed; "that this good company has taken its place at your hospitable table, in the midst of a threatened civil war, if not of an actual revolution." every hand was arrested, and every eye turned towards the speaker; even admiral bluewater earnestly regarding his friend, anxious to know what would come next. "i believe my household is in due subjection," answered sir wycherly, gazing to the right and left, as if he expected to see his butler heading a revolt; "and i fancy the only change we shall see to-day, will be the removal of the courses, and the appearance of their successors." "ay, so says the hearty, comfortable devonshire baronet, while seated at his own board, favoured by abundance and warm friends. but it would seem the snake was only scotched; not killed." "sir gervaise oaken has grown figurative; with his _snakes_ and _scotch_ings," observed the rear-admiral, a little drily. "it is _scotch_-ing, as you say with so much emphasis, bluewater. i suppose, sir wycherly--i suppose, mr. dutton, and you, my pretty young lady--i presume all of you have heard of such a person as the pretender;--some of you may possibly have _seen_ him." sir wycherly now dropt his knife and fork, and sat gazing at the speaker in amazement. to him the christian religion, the liberties of the subject--more especially of the baronet and lord of the manor, who had four thousand a year--and the protestant succession, all seemed to be in sudden danger. "i always told my brother, the judge--mr. baron wychecombe, who is dead and gone--that what between the french, that rogue the pope, and the spurious offspring of king james ii., we should yet see troublesome times in england! and now, sir, my predictions are verified!" "not as to england, yet, my good sir. of scotland i have not quite so good news to tell you; as your namesake, here, brings us the tidings that the son of the pretender has landed in that kingdom, and is rallying the clans. he has come unattended by any frenchmen, it would seem, and has thrown himself altogether on the misguided nobles and followers of his house." "'tis, at least, a chivalrous and princely act!" exclaimed admiral bluewater. "yes--inasmuch as it is a heedless and mad one. england is not to be conquered by a rabble of half-dressed scotchmen." "true; but england may be conquered by england, notwithstanding." sir gervaise now chose to remain silent, for never before had bluewater come so near betraying his political bias, in the presence of third persons. this pause enabled sir wycherly to find his voice. "let me see, tom," said the baronet, "fifteen and ten are twenty-five, and ten are thirty, and ten are forty-five--it is just thirty years since the jacobites were up before! it would seem that half a human life is not sufficient to fill the cravings of a scotchman's maw, for english gold." "twice thirty years would hardly quell the promptings of a noble spirit, when his notions of justice showed him the way to the english throne," observed bluewater, coolly. "for my part, i like the spirit of this young prince, for he who nobly dares, nobly deserves. what say you, my beautiful neighbour?" "if you mean to address me, sir, by that compliment," answered mildred, modestly, but with the emphasis that the gentlest of her sex are apt to use when they feel strongly; "i must be suffered to say that i hope every englishman will dare as nobly, and deserve as well in defence of his liberties." "come--come, bluewater," interrupted sir gervaise, with a gravity that almost amounted to reproof; "i cannot permit such innuendoes before one so young and unpractised. the young lady might really suppose that his majesty's fleet was entrusted to men unworthy to enjoy his confidence, by the cool way in which you carry on the joke. i propose, now, sir wycherly, that we eat our dinner in peace, and say no more about this mad expedition, until the cloth is drawn, at least. it's a long road to scotland, and there is little danger that this adventurer will find his way into devonshire before the nuts are placed before us." "it would be nuts to us, if he did, sir gervaise," put in tom wycherly, laughing heartily at his own wit. "my uncle would enjoy nothing more than to see the spurious sovereign on his own estate, here, and in the hands of his own tenants. i think, sir, that wychecombe and one or two of the adjoining manors, would dispose of him." "that might depend on circumstances," the admiral answered, a little drily. "these scots have such a thing as a claymore, and are desperate fellows, they tell me, at a charge. the very fact of arming a soldier with a short sword, shows a most bloody-minded disposition." "you forget, sir gervaise, that we have our cornish hug, here in the west of england; and i will put our fellows against any scotch regiment that ever charged an enemy." tom laughed again at his own allusion to a proverbial mode of grappling, familiar to the adjoining county. "this is all very well, mr. thomas wychecombe, so long as devonshire is in the west of england, and scotland lies north of the tweed. sir wycherly might as well leave the matter in the hands of the duke and his regulars, if it were only in the way of letting every man follow his own trade." "it strikes me as so singularly insolent in a base-born boy like this, pretending to the english crown, that i can barely speak of him with patience! we all know that his father was a changeling, and the son of a changeling can have no more right than the father himself. i do not remember what the law terms such pretenders; but i dare say it is something sufficiently odious." "_filius nullius_, thomas," said sir wycherly, with a little eagerness to show his learning. "that's the very phrase. i have it from the first authority; my late brother, baron wychecombe, giving it to me with his own mouth, on an occasion that called for an understanding of such matters. the judge was a most accurate lawyer, particularly in all that related to names; and i'll engage, if he were living at this moment, he would tell you the legal appellation of a changeling ought to be _filius nullius_." in spite of his native impudence, and an innate determination to make his way in the world, without much regard to truth, tom wychecombe felt his cheek burn so much, at this innocent allusion of his reputed uncle, that he was actually obliged to turn away his face, in order to conceal his confusion. had any moral delinquency of his own been implicated in the remark, he might have found means to steel himself against its consequences; but, as is only too often the case, he was far more ashamed of a misfortune over which he had no possible control, than he would have been of a crime for which he was strictly responsible in morals. sir gervaise smiled at sir wycherly's knowledge of law terms, not to say of latin; and turning good-humouredly to his friend the rear-admiral, anxious to re-establish friendly relations with him, he said with well-concealed irony-- "sir wycherly must be right, bluewater. a changeling is _nobody_--that is to say, he is not the _body_ he pretends to be, which is substantially being nobody--and the son of nobody, is clearly a _filius nullius_. and now having settled what may be called the law of the case, i demand a truce, until we get our nuts--for as to mr. thomas wychecombe's having _his_ nut to crack, at least to-day, i take it there are too many loyal subjects in the north." when men know each other as well as was the case with our two admirals, there are a thousand secret means of annoyance, as well as of establishing amity. admiral bluewater was well aware that sir gervaise was greatly superior to the vulgar whig notion of the day, which believed in the fabricated tale of the pretender's spurious birth; and the secret and ironical allusion he had made to his impression on that subject, acted as oil to his own chafed spirit, disposing him to moderation. this had been the intention of the other; and the smiles they exchanged, sufficiently proved that their usual mental intercourse was temporarily restored at least. deference to his guests made sir wycherly consent to change the subject, though he was a little mystified with the obvious reluctance of the two admirals to speak of an enterprise that ought to be uppermost, according to his notion of the matter, in every englishman's mind. tom had received a rebuke that kept him silent during the rest of the dinner; while the others were content to eat and drink, as if nothing had happened. it is seldom that a party takes its seat at table without some secret man[oe]uvring, as to the neighbourhood, when the claims of rank and character do not interfere with personal wishes. sir wycherly had placed sir gervaise on his right and mrs. dutton on his left. but admiral bluewater had escaped from his control, and taken his seat next to mildred, who had been placed by tom wychecombe close to himself, at the foot of the table. wycherly occupied the seat opposite, and this compelled dutton, and mr. rotherham, the vicar, to fill the other two chairs. the good baronet had made a wry face, at seeing a rear-admiral so unworthily bestowed; but sir gervaise assuring him that his friend was never so happy as when in the service of beauty, he was fain to submit to the arrangement. that admiral bluewater was struck with mildred's beauty, and pleased with her natural and feminine manner, one altogether superior to what might have been expected from her station in life, was very apparent to all at table; though it was quite impossible to mistake his parental and frank air for any other admiration than that which was suitable to the difference in years, and in unison with their respective conditions and experience. mrs. dutton, so far from taking the alarm at the rear-admiral's attentions, felt gratification in observing them; and perhaps she experienced a secret pride in the consciousness of their being so well merited. it has been said, already, that she was, herself, the daughter of a land-steward of a nobleman, in an adjoining county; but it may be well to add, here, that she had been so great a favourite with the daughters of her father's employer, as to have been admitted, in a measure, to their society; and to have enjoyed some of the advantages of their education. lady wilmeter, the mother of the young ladies, to whom she was admitted as a sort of humble companion, had formed the opinion it might be an advantage to the girl to educate her for a governess; little conceiving, in her own situation, that she was preparing a course of life for martha ray, for such was mrs. dutton's maiden name, that was perhaps the least enviable of all the careers that a virtuous and intelligent female can run. this was, as education and governesses were appreciated a century ago; the world, with all its faults and sophisms, having unquestionably made a vast stride towards real civilization, and moral truths, in a thousand important interests, since that time. nevertheless, the education was received, together with a good many tastes, and sentiments, and opinions, which it may well be questioned, whether they contributed most to the happiness or unhappiness of the pupil, in her future life. frank dutton, then a handsome, though far from polished young sea-lieutenant, interfered with the arrangement, by making martha ray his wife, when she was two-and-twenty. this match was suitable, in all respects, with the important exception of the educations and characters of the parties. still, as a woman may well be more refined, and in some things, even more intelligent than her husband; and as sailors, in the commencement of the eighteenth century, formed a class of society much more distinct than they do to-day, there would have been nothing absolutely incompatible with the future well-being of the young couple, had each pursued his, or her own career, in a manner suitable to their respective duties. young dutton took away his bride, with the two thousand pounds she had received from her father, and for a long time he was seen no more in his native county. after an absence of some twenty years, however, he returned, broken in constitution, and degraded in rank. mrs. dutton brought with her one child, the beautiful girl introduced to the reader, and to whom she was studiously imparting all she had herself acquired in the adventitious manner mentioned. such were the means, by which mildred, like her mother, had been educated above her condition in life; and it had been remarked that, though mrs. dutton had probably no cause to felicitate herself on the possession of manners and sentiments that met with so little sympathy, or appreciation, in her actual situation, she assiduously cultivated the same manners and opinions in her daughter; frequently manifesting a sort of sickly fastidiousness on the subject of mildred's deportment and tastes. it is probable the girl owed her improvement in both, however, more to the circumstance of her being left so much alone with her mother, than to any positive lessons she received; the influence of example, for years, producing its usual effects. no one in wychecombe positively knew the history of dutton's professional degradation. he had never risen higher than to be a lieutenant; and from this station he had fallen by the sentence of a court-martial. his restoration to the service, in the humbler and almost hopeless rank of a master, was believed to have been brought about by mrs. dutton's influence with the present lord wilmeter, who was the brother of her youthful companions. that the husband had wasted his means, was as certain as that his habits, on the score of temperance at least, were bad, and that his wife, if not positively broken-hearted, was an unhappy woman; one to be pitied, and admired. sir wycherly was little addicted to analysis, but he could not fail to discover the superiority of the wife and daughter, over the husband and father; and it is due to his young namesake to add, that his obvious admiration of mildred was quite as much owing to her mind, deportment, character, and tastes, as to her exceeding personal charms. this little digression may perhaps, in the reader's eyes, excuse the interest admiral bluewater took in our heroine. with the indulgence of years and station, and the tact of a man of the world, he succeeded in drawing mildred out, without alarming her timidity; and he was surprised at discovering the delicacy of her sentiments, and the accuracy of her knowledge. he was too conversant with society, and had too much good taste, to make any deliberate parade of opinions; but in the quiet manner that is so easy to those who are accustomed to deal with truths and tastes as familiar things, he succeeded in inducing her to answer his own remarks, to sympathize with his feelings, to laugh when he laughed, and to assume a look of disapproval, when he felt that disapprobation was just. to all this wycherly was a delighted witness, and in some respects he participated in the conversation; for there was evidently no wish on the part of the rear-admiral to monopolize his beautiful companion to himself. perhaps the position of the young man, directly opposite to her, aided in inducing mildred to bestow so many grateful looks and sweet smiles, on the older officer; for she could not glance across the table, without meeting the admiring gaze of wycherly, fastened on her own blushing face. it is certain, if our heroine did not, during this repast, make a conquest of admiral bluewater, in the ordinary meaning of the term, that she made him a friend. sir gervaise, even, was struck with the singular and devoted manner in which his old messmate gave all his attention to the beautiful girl at his side; and, once or twice, he caught himself conjecturing whether it were possible, that one as practised, as sensible, and as much accustomed to the beauties of the court, as bluewater, had actually been caught, by the pretty face of a country girl, when so well turned of fifty, himself! then discarding the notion as preposterous, he gave his attention to the discourse of sir wycherly; a dissertation on rabbits, and rabbit-warrens. in this manner the dinner passed away. mrs. dutton asked her host's permission to retire, with her daughter, at the earliest moment permitted by propriety. in quitting the room she cast an anxious glance at the face of her husband, which was already becoming flushed with his frequent applications of port; and spite of an effort to look smiling and cheerful, her lips quivered, and by the time she and mildred reached the drawing-room, tears were fast falling down her cheeks. no explanation was asked, or needed, by the daughter, who threw herself into her mother's arms, and for several minutes they wept together, in silence. never had mrs. dutton spoken, even to mildred, of the besetting and degrading vice of her husband; but it had been impossible to conceal its painful consequences from the world; much less from one who lived in the bosom of her family. on that failing which the wife treated so tenderly, the daughter of course could not touch; but the silent communion of tears had got to be so sweet to both, that, within the last year, it was of very frequent occurrence. "really, mildred," said the mother, at length, after having succeeded in suppressing her emotion, and in drying her eyes, while she smiled fondly in the face of the lovely and affectionate girl; "this admiral bluewater is getting to be so particular, i hardly know how to treat the matter." "oh! mother, he is a delightful old gentleman! and he is so gentle, while he is so frank, that he wins your confidence almost before you know it. i wonder if he could have been serious in what he said about the noble daring and noble deserving of prince edward!" "that must pass for trifling, of course; the ministry would scarcely employ any but a true whig, in command of a fleet. i saw several of his family, when a girl, and have always heard them spoken of with esteem and respect. lord bluewater, this gentleman's cousin, was very intimate with the present lord wilmeter, and was often at the castle. i remember to have heard that he had a disappointment in love, when quite a young man, and that he has ever since been considered a confirmed bachelor. so you will take heed, my love." "the warning was unnecessary, dear mother," returned mildred, laughing; "i could dote on the admiral as a father, but must be excused from considering him young enough for a nearer tie." "and yet he has the much admired profession, mildred," said the mother, smiling fondly, and yet a little archly. "i have often heard you speak of your passion for the sea." "that was formerly, mother, when i spoke as a sailor's daughter, and as girls are apt to speak, without much reflection. i do not know that i think better of a seaman's profession, now, than i do of any other. i fear there is often much misery in store for soldiers' and sailors' wives." mrs. dutton's lip quivered again; but hearing a foot at the door, she made an effort to be composed, just as admiral bluewater entered. "i have run away from the bottle, mrs. dutton, to join you and your fair daughter, as i would run from an enemy of twice my force," he said, giving each lady a hand, in a manner so friendly, as to render the act more than gracious; for it was kind. "oakes is bowsing out his jib with his brother baronet, as we sailors say, and i have hauled out of the line, without a signal." "i hope sir gervaise oakes does not consider it necessary to drink more wine than is good for the mind and body," observed mrs. dutton, with a haste that she immediately regretted. "not he. gervaise oakes is as discreet a man, in all that relates to the table, as an anchorite; and yet he has a faculty of _seeming_ to drink, that makes him a boon companion for a four-bottle man. how the deuce he does it, is more than i can tell you; but he does it so well, that he does not more thoroughly get the better of the king's enemies, on the high seas, than he floors his friends under the table. sir wycherly has begun his libations in honour of the house of hanover, and they will be likely to make a long sitting." mrs. dutton sighed, and walked away to a window, to conceal the paleness of her cheeks. admiral bluewater, though perfectly abstemious himself, regarded license with the bottle after dinner, like most men of that age, as a very venial weakness, and he quietly took a seat by the side of mildred, and began to converse. "i hope, young lady, as a sailor's child, you feel an hereditary indulgence for a seaman's gossip," he said. "we, who are so much shut up in our ships, have a poverty of ideas on most subjects; and as to always talking of the winds and waves, that would fatigue even a poet." "as a sailor's daughter, i honour my father's calling, sir; and as an english girl, i venerate the brave defenders of the island. nor do i know that seamen have less to say, than other men." "i am glad to hear you confess this, for--shall i be frank with you, and take a liberty that would better become a friend of a dozen years, than an acquaintance of a day;--and, yet, i know not why it is so, my dear child, but i feel as if i had long known you, though i am certain we never met before." "perhaps, sir, it is an omen that we are long to know each other, in future," said mildred, with the winning confidence of unsuspecting and innocent girlhood. "i hope you will use no reserve." "well, then, at the risk of making a sad blunder, i will just say, that 'my nephew tom' is any thing but a prepossessing youth; and that i hope all eyes regard him exactly as he appears to a sailor of fifty-five." "i cannot answer for more than those of a girl of nineteen, admiral bluewater," said mildred, laughing; "but, for her, i think i may say that she does not look on him as either an adonis, or a crichton." "upon my soul! i am right glad to hear this, for the fellow has accidental advantages enough to render him formidable. he is the heir to the baronetcy, and this estate, i believe?" "i presume he is. sir wycherly has no other nephew--or at least this is the eldest of three brothers, i am told--and, being childless himself, it _must_ be so. my father tells me sir wycherly speaks of mr. thomas wychecombe as his future heir." "your father!--ay, fathers look on these matters with eyes very different from their daughters!" "there is one thing about seamen that renders them at least safe acquaintances," said mildred, smiling; "i mean their frankness." "that is a failing of mine, as i have heard. but you will pardon an indiscretion that arises in the interest i feel in yourself. the eldest of three brothers--is the lieutenant, then, a younger son?" "_he_ does not belong to the family at all, i believe," mildred answered, colouring slightly, in spite of a resolute determination to appear unconcerned. "mr. wycherly wychecombe is no relative of our host, i hear; though he bears both of his names. he is from the colonies; born in virginia." "_he_ is a noble, and a noble-looking fellow! were i the baronet, i would break the entail, rather than the acres should go to that sinister-looking nephew, and bestow them on the namesake. from virginia, and not even a relative, at all?" "that is what mr. thomas wychecombe says; and even sir wycherly confirms it. i have never heard mr. wycherly wychecombe speak on the subject, himself." "a weakness of poor human nature! the lad finds an honourable, ancient, and affluent family here, and has not the courage to declare his want of affinity to it; happening to bear the same name." mildred hesitated about replying; but a generous feeling got the better of her diffidence. "i have never seen any thing in the conduct of mr. wycherly wychecombe to induce me to think that he feels any such weakness," she said, earnestly. "he seems rather to take pride in, than to feel ashamed of, his being a colonial; and you know, we, in england, hardly look on the people of the colonies as our equals." "and have you, young lady, any of that overweening prejudice in favour of your own island?" "i hope not; but i think most persons have. mr. wycherly wychecombe admits that virginia is inferior to england, in a thousand things; and yet he seems to take pride in his birth-place." "every sentiment of this nature is to be traced to self. we know that the fact is irretrievable, and struggle to be proud of what we cannot help. the turk will tell you he has the honour to be a native of stamboul; the parisian will boast of his faubourg; and the cockney exults in wapping. personal conceit lies at the bottom of all; for we fancy that places to which _we_ belong, are not places to be ashamed of." "and yet i do not think mr. wycherly at all remarkable for conceit. on the contrary, he is rather diffident and unassuming." this was said simply, but so sincerely, as to induce the listener to fasten his penetrating blue eye on the speaker, who now first took the alarm, and felt that she might have said too much. at this moment the two young men entered, and a servant appeared to request that admiral bluewater would do sir gervaise oakes the favour to join him, in the dressing-room of the latter. tom wychecombe reported the condition of the dinner-table to be such, as to render it desirable for all but three and four-bottle men to retire. hanoverian toasts and sentiments were in the ascendant, and there was every appearance that those who remained intended to make a night of it. this was sad intelligence for mrs. dutton, who had come forward eagerly to hear the report, but who now returned to the window, apparently irresolute as to the course she ought to take. as both the young men remained near mildred, she had sufficient opportunity to come to her decision, without interruption, or hindrance. chapter vii. ----"somewhat we will do. and, look, when i am king, claim thou of me the earldom of hereford, and all the moveables whereof the king my brother was possessed." richard iii. rear-admiral bluewater found sir gervaise oakes pacing a large dressing-room, quarter-deck fashion, with as much zeal, as if just released from a long sitting, on official duty, in his own cabin. as the two officers were perfectly familiar with each other's personal habits, neither deviated from his particular mode of indulging his ease; but the last comer quietly took his seat in a large chair, disposing of his person in a way to show he intended to consult his comfort, let what would happen. "bluewater," commenced sir gervaise, "this is a very foolish affair of the pretender's son, and can only lead to his destruction. i look upon it as altogether unfortunate." "that, as it may terminate. no man can tell what a day, or an hour, may bring forth. i am sure, such a rising was one of the last things _i_ have been anticipating, down yonder, in the bay of biscay." "i wish, with all my heart, we had never left it," muttered sir gervaise, so low that his companion did not hear him. then he added, in a louder tone, "_our_ duty, however, is very simple. we have only to obey orders; and it seems that the young man has no naval force to sustain him. we shall probably be sent to watch brest, or l'orient, or some other port. monsieur must be kept in, let what will happen." "i rather think it would be better to let him out, our chances on the high seas being at least as good as his own. i am no friend to blockades, which strike me as an un-english mode of carrying on a war." "you are right enough, dick, in the main," returned sir gervaise, laughing. "ay, and _on_ the main, oakes. i sincerely hope the first lord will not send a man like you, who are every way so capable of giving an account of your enemy with plenty of sea-room, on duly so scurvy as a blockade." "a man like _me_! why a man like _me_ in particular? i trust i am to have the pleasure of admiral bluewater's company, advice and assistance?" "an inferior never can know, sir gervaise, where it may suit the pleasure of his superiors to order him." "that distinction of superior and inferior, bluewater, will one day lead you into a confounded scrape, i fear. if you consider charles stuart your sovereign, it is not probable that orders issued by a servant of king george will be much respected. i hope you will do nothing hastily, or without consulting your oldest and truest friend!" "you know my sentiments, and there is little use in dwelling on them, now. so long as the quarrel was between my own country and a foreign land, i have been content to serve; but when my lawful prince, or his son and heir, comes in this gallant and chivalrous manner, throwing himself, as it might be, into the very arms of his subjects, confiding all to their loyalty and spirit; it makes such an appeal to every nobler feeling, that the heart finds it difficult to repulse. i could have joined norris, with right good will, in dispersing and destroying the armament that louis xv. was sending against us, in this very cause; but here every thing is english, and englishmen have the quarrel entirely to themselves. i do not see how, as a loyal subject of my hereditary prince, i can well refrain from joining his standard." "and would _you_, dick bluewater, who, to my certain knowledge, were sent on board ship at twelve years of age, and who, for more than forty years, have been a man-of-war's-man, body and soul; would you now strip your old hulk of the sea-blue that has so long covered and become it, rig yourself out like a soldier, with a feather in your hat,--ay, d----e, and a camp-kettle on your arm, and follow a drummer, like one of your kinsmen, lord bluewater's fellows of the guards?--for of sailors, your lawful prince, as you call him, hasn't enough to stopper his conscience, or to whip the tail of his coat, to keep it from being torn to tatters by the heather of scotland. if you _do_ follow the adventurer, it must be in some such character, since i question if he can muster a seaman, to tell him the bearings of london from perth." "when i join him, he will be better off." "and what could even _you_ do alone, among a parcel of scotchmen, running about their hills under bare poles? your signals will not man[oe]uvre regiments, and as for man[oe]uvring in any other manner, you know nothing. no--no; stay where you are, and help an old friend with knowledge that is useful to him.--i should be afraid to do a dashing thing, unless i felt the certainty of having you in my van, to strike the first blow; or in my rear, to bring me off, handsomely. "you would be afraid of nothing, gervaise oakes, whether i stood at your elbow, or were off in scotland. fear is not your failing, though temerity may be." "then i want your presence to keep me within the bounds of reason," said sir gervaise, stopping short in his walk, and looking his friend smilingly in the face. "in some mode, or other, i always need your aid." "i understand the meaning of your words, sir gervaise, and appreciate the feeling that dictates them. you must have a perfect conviction that i will do nothing hastily, and that i will betray no trust. when i turn my back on king george, it will be loyalty, in one sense, whatever he may think of it in another; and when i join prince charles edward, it will be with a conscience that he need not be ashamed to probe. what names he bears! they are the designations of ancient english sovereigns, and ought of themselves, to awaken the sensibilities of englishmen." "ay, charles in particular," returned the vice-admiral, with something like a sneer. "there's the second charles, for instance--st. charles, as our good host, sir wycherly, might call him--he is a pattern prince for englishmen to admire. then his father was of the school of the star-chamber martyrs!" "both were lineal descendants of the conqueror, and of the saxon princes; and both united the double titles to the throne, in their sacred persons. i have always considered charles ii. as the victim of the rebellious conduct of his subjects, rather than vicious. he was driven abroad into a most corrupt state of society, and was perverted by our wickedness. as to the father, he was the real st. charles, and a martyred saint he was; dying for true religion, as well as for his legal rights. then the edwards--glorious fellows!--remember that they were all but one plantagenets; a name, of itself, to rouse an englishman's fire!" "and yet the only difference between the right of these very plantagenets to the throne, and that of the reigning prince, is, that one produced a revolution by the strong hand, and the other was produced by a revolution that came from the nation. i do not know that your plantagenets ever did any thing for a navy; the only real source of england's power and glory. d----e, dick, if i think so much of your plantagenets, after all!" "and yet the name of oakes is to be met with among their bravest knights, and most faithful followers." "the oakes, like the pines, have been timbers in every ship that has floated," returned the vice-admiral, half-unconscious himself, of the pun he was making. for more than a minute sir gervaise continued his walk, his head a little inclined forward, like a man who pondered deeply on some matter of interest. then, suddenly stopping, he turned towards his friend, whom he regarded for near another minute, ere he resumed the discourse. "i wish i could fairly get you to exercise your excellent reason on this matter, dick," he said, after the pause; "then i should be certain of having secured you on the side of liberty." admiral bluewater merely shook his head, but he continued silent, as if he deemed discussion altogether supererogatory. during this pause, a gentle tap at the door announced a visiter; and, at the request to enter, atwood made his appearance. he held in his hand a large package, which bore on the envelope the usual stamp that indicated it was sent on public service. "i beg pardon, sir gervaise," commenced the secretary, who always proceeded at once to business, when business was to be done; "but his majesty's service will not admit of delay. this packet has just come to hand, by the arrival of an express, which left the admiralty only yesterday noon." "and how the devil did he know where to find me!" exclaimed the vice-admiral, holding out a hand to receive the communication. "it is all owing to this young lieutenant's forethought in following up the jacobite intelligence to a market-town. the courier was bound to falmouth, as fast as post-horses could carry him, when he heard, luckily, that the fleet lay at anchor, under wychecombe head; and, quite as luckily, he is an officer who had the intelligence to know that you would sooner get the despatches, if he turned aside, and came hither by land, than if he went on to falmouth, got aboard the sloop that was to sail with him, for the bay of biscay, and came round here by water." sir gervaise smiled at this sally, which was one in keeping with all atwood's feelings; for the secretary had matured a system of expresses, which, to his great mortification, his patron laughed at, and the admiralty entirely overlooked. no time was lost, however, in the way of business; the secretary having placed the candles on a table, where sir gervaise took a chair, and had already broken a seal. the process of reading, nevertheless, was suddenly interrupted by the vice-admiral's looking up, and exclaiming-- "why, you are not about to leave us, bluewater?" "you may have private business with mr. atwood, sir gervaise, and perhaps i had better retire." now, it so happened that while sir gervaise oakes had never, by look or syllable, as he confidently believed, betrayed the secret of his friend's jacobite propensities, atwood was perfectly aware of their existence. nor had the latter obtained his knowledge by any unworthy means. he had been neither an eavesdropper, nor an inquirer into private communications, as so often happens around the persons of men in high trusts; all his knowledge having been obtained through native sagacity and unavoidable opportunities. on the present occasion, the secretary, with the tact of a man of experience, felt that his presence might be dispensed with; and he cut short the discussion between the two admirals, by a very timely remark of his own. "i have left the letters uncopied, sir gervaise," he said, "and will go and finish them. a message by locker"--this was sir gervaise's body-servant--"will bring me back at a moment's notice, should you need me again to-night." "that atwood has a surprising instinct, for a scotchman!" exclaimed the vice-admiral, as soon as the door was closed on the secretary. "he not only knows when he _is_ wanted, but when he is _not_ wanted. the last is an extraordinary attainment, for one of his nation." "and one that an englishman may do well to emulate," returned bluewater. "it is possible my company may be dispensed with, also, just at this important moment." "you are not so much afraid of the hanoverians, dick, as to run away from their hand-writing, are ye? ha--what's this?--as i live, a packet for yourself, and directed to 'rear-admiral sir richard bluewater, k.b.' by the lord, my old boy, they've given you the red riband at last! this is an honour well earned, and which may be fitly worn." "'tis rather unexpected, i must own. the letter, however, cannot be addressed to me, as i am not a knight of the bath." "this is rank nonsense. open the packet, at once, or i will do it for you. are there two dick bluewaters in the world, or another rear-admiral of the same name?" "i would rather not receive a letter that does not strictly bear my address," returned the other, coldly. "as i'll be sworn this does. but hand it to me, since you are so scrupulous, and i will do that small service for you." as this was said, sir gervaise tore aside the seals; and, as he proceeded rather summarily, a red riband was soon uncased and fell upon the carpet. the other usual insignia of the bath made their appearance, and a letter was found among them, to explain the meaning of all. every thing was in due form, and went to acquaint rear-admiral bluewater, that his majesty had been graciously pleased to confer on him one of the vacant red ribands of the day, as a reward for his eminent services on different occasions. there was even a short communication from the premier, expressing the great satisfaction of the ministry in thus being able to second the royal pleasure with hearty good will. "well, what do you think of that, richard bluewater?" asked sir gervaise, triumphantly. "did i not always tell you, that sooner or later, it _must_ come?" "it has come too late, then," coldly returned the other, laying the riband, jewels, and letters, quietly on the table. "this is an honour, i can receive, _now_, only from my rightful prince. none other can legally create a knight of the bath." "and pray, mr. richard bluewater, who made you a captain, a commander, a rear-admiral? do you believe me an impostor, because i wear this riband on authority no better than that of the house of hanover? am i, or am i not, in your judgment, a vice-admiral of the red?" "i make a great distinction, oakes, between rank in the navy, and a mere personal dignity. in the one case, you serve your country, and give quite as much as you receive; whereas, in the other, it is a grace to confer consideration on the person honoured, without such an equivalent as can find an apology for accepting a rank illegally conferred." "the devil take your distinctions, which would unsettle every thing, and render the service a babel. if i am a vice-admiral of the red, i am a knight of the bath; and, if you are a rear-admiral of the white, you are also a knight of that honourable order. all comes from the same source of authority, and the same fountain of honour." "i do not view it thus. our commissions are from the admiralty, which represents the country; but dignities come from the prince who happens to reign, let _his_ title be what it may." "do you happen to think richard iii. a usurper, or a lawful prince?" "a usurper, out of all question; and a murderer to boot. his name should be struck from the list of english kings. i never hear it, without execrating him, and his deeds." "pooh--pooh, dick, this is talking more like a poet than a seaman. if only one-half the sovereigns who deserve to be execrated had their names erased, the list of even our english kings would be rather short; and some countries would be without historical kings at all. however much richard iii. may deserve cashiering in this summary manner, his peers and laws are just as good as any other prince's peers and laws. witness the duke of norfolk, for instance." "ay, that cannot be helped by me; but it _is_ in my power to prevent richard bluewater's being made a knight or the bath, by george ii.; and the power shall be used." "it would seem not, as he is already created; and i dare to say, gazetted." "the oaths are not yet taken, and it is, at least, an englishman's birth-right, to decline an honour; if, indeed, this can be esteemed an honour, at all." "upon my word, rear-admiral sir richard bluewater, you are disposed to be complimentary, to-night! the unworthy knight present, and all the rest of the order, are infinitely indebted to you!" "your case and mine, oakes, are essentially different," returned the other, with some emotion in his voice and manner. "your riband was fairly won, fighting the battles of england, and can be worn with credit to yourself and to your country; but these baubles are sent to me, at a moment when a rising was foreseen, and as a sop to keep me in good-humour, as well as to propitiate the whole bluewater interest." "that is pure conjecture, and i dare say will prove to be altogether a mistake. here are the despatches to speak for themselves; and, as it is scarcely possible that the ministry should have known of this rash movement of the pretender's son, more than a few days, my life on it, the dates will show that your riband was bestowed before the enterprise was even suspected." as sir gervaise commenced, with his constitutional ardour, to turn over the letters, as soon as his mind was directed to this particular object, admiral bluewater resumed his seat, awaiting the result, with not a little curiosity; though, at the same time, with a smile of incredulity. the examination disappointed sir gervaise oakes. the dates proved that the ministers were better informed than he had supposed; for it appeared they had been apprised about the time he was himself of the intended movement. his orders were to bring the fleet north, and in substance to do the very thing his own sagacity had dictated. so far every thing was well; and he could not entertain a doubt about receiving the hearty approbation of his superiors, for the course he had taken. but here his gratification ended; for, on looking at the dates of the different communications, it was evident that the red riband was bestowed after the intelligence of the pretender's movement had reached london. a private letter, from a friend at the board of admiralty, too, spoke of his own probable promotion to the rank of admiral of the blue; and mentioned several other similar preferments, in a way to show that the government was fortifying itself, in the present crisis, as much as possible, by favours. this was a politic mode of procedure, with ordinary men, it is true; but with officers of the elevation of mind, and of the independence of character of our two admirals, it was most likely to produce disgust. "d--n 'em, dick," cried sir gervaise, as he threw down the last letter of the package, with no little sign of feeling; "you might take st. paul, or even wychecombe's dead brother, st. james the less, and put him at court, and he would come out a thorough blackguard, in a week!" "that is not the common opinion concerning a court education," quietly replied the friend; "most people fancying that the place gives refinement of manners, if not of sentiment." "poh--poh--you and i have no need of a dictionary to understand each other. i call a man who never trusts to a generous motive--who thinks it always necessary to bribe or cajole--who has no idea of any thing's being done without its direct _quid pro quo_, a scurvy blackguard, though he has the airs and graces of phil. stanhope, or chesterfield, as he is now. what do you think those chaps at the board, talk of doing, by way of clinching my loyalty, at this blessed juncture?" "no doubt to get you raised to the peerage. i see nothing so much out of the way in the thing. you are of one of the oldest families of england, and the sixth baronet by inheritance, and have a noble landed estate, which is none the worse for prize-money. sir gervaise oakes of bowldero, would make a very suitable lord bowldero." "if it were only that, i shouldn't mind it; for nothing is easier than to refuse a peerage. i've done _that_ twice already, and can do it a third time, at need. but one can't very well refuse promotion in his regular profession; and, here, just as a true gentleman would depend on the principles of an officer, the hackneyed consciences of your courtiers have suggested the expediency of making gervaise oakes an admiral of the blue, by way of sop!--me, who was made vice-admiral of the red, only six months since, and who take an honest pride in boasting that every commission, from the lowest to the highest, has been fairly earned in battle!" "they think it a more delicate service, perhaps, for a gentleman to be true to the reigning house, when so loud an appeal is made to his natural loyalty; and therefore class the self-conquest with a victory at sea!" "they are so many court-lubbers, and i should like to have an opportunity of speaking my mind to them. i'll not take the new commission; for every one must see, dick, that it is a sop." "ay, that's just my notion, too, about the red riband; and i'll not take _that_. you have had the riband these ten years, have declined the peerage twice, and their only chance is the promotion. take it you ought, and must, however, as it will be the means of pushing on some four or five poor devils, who have been wedged up to honours, in this manner, ever since they were captains. i am glad they do not talk of promoting _me_, for i should hardly know how to refuse such a grace. there is great virtue in parchment, with all us military men." "still it must be parchment fairly won. i think you are wrong, notwithstanding, bluewater, in talking of refusing the riband, which is so justly your due, for a dozen different acts. there is not a man in the service, who has been less rewarded for what he has done, than yourself." "i am sorry to hear you give this as your opinion; for just at this moment, i would rather think that i have no cause of complaint, in this way, against the reigning family, or its ministers. i'm sure i was posted when quite a young man, and since that time, no one has been lifted over my head." the vice-admiral looked intently at his friend; for never before had he detected a feeling which betrayed, as he fancied, so settled a determination in him to quit the service of the powers that were. acquainted from boyhood with all the workings of the other's mind, he perceived that the rear-admiral had been endeavouring to persuade himself that no selfish or unworthy motive could be assigned to an act which he felt to proceed from disinterested chivalry, just as he himself broke out with his expression of an opinion that no officer had been less liberally rewarded for his professional services than his friend. while there is no greater mystery to a selfish manager, than a man of disinterested temperament, they who feel and submit to generous impulses, understand each other with an instinctive facility. when any particular individual is prone to believe that there is a predominance of good over evil in the world he inhabits, it is a sign of inexperience, or of imbecility; but when one acts and reasons as if _all_ honour and virtue are extinct, he furnishes the best possible argument against his own tendencies and character. it has often been remarked that stronger friendships are made between those who have different personal peculiarities, than between those whose sameness of feeling and impulses would be less likely to keep interest alive; but, in all cases of intimacies, there must be great identity of principles, and even of tastes in matters at all connected with motives, in order to ensure respect, among those whose standard of opinion is higher than common, or sympathy among those with whom it is lower. such was the fact, as respected admirals oakes and bluewater. no two men could be less alike in temperament, or character, physically, and in some senses, morally considered; but, when it came to principles, or all those tastes or feelings that are allied to principles, there was a strong native, as well as acquired affinity. this union of sentiment was increased by common habits, and professional careers so long and so closely united, as to be almost identical. nothing was easier, consequently, than for sir gervaise oakes to comprehend the workings of admiral bluewater's mind, as the latter endeavoured to believe he had been fairly treated by the existing government. of course, the reasoning which passed through the thoughts of sir gervaise, on this occasion, required much less time than we have taken to explain its nature; and, after regarding his friend intently, as already related, for a few seconds, he answered as follows; a good deal influenced, unwittingly to himself, with the wish to check the other's jacobite propensities. "i am sorry not to be able to agree with you, dick," he said, with some warmth. "so far from thinking you _well_ treated, by any ministry, these twenty years, i think you have been very _ill_ treated. your rank you have, beyond a question; for of that no brave officer can well be deprived in a regulated service; but, have you had the _commands_ to which you are entitled?--i was a commander-in-chief when only a rear-admiral of the blue; and then how long did i wear a broad pennant, before i got a flag at all!" "you forget how much i have been with you. when two serve together, one must command, and the other must obey. so far from complaining of these hanoverian boards, and first lords, it seems to me that they have always kept in view the hollowness of their claims to the throne, and have felt a desire to purchase honest men by their favours." "you are the strangest fellow, dick bluewater, it has ever been my lot to fall in with! d----e me, if i believe you know always, when you _are_ ill treated. there are a dozen men in service, who have had separate commands, and who are not half as well entitled to them, as you are yourself." "come, come, oakes, this is getting to be puerile, for two old fellows, turned of fifty. you very well know that i was offered just as good a fleet, as this of your own, with a choice of the whole list of flag-officers below me, to pick a junior from; and, so, we'll say no more about it. as respects their red riband, however, it may go a-begging for me." sir gervaise was about to answer in his former vein, when a tap at the door announced the presence of another visiter. this time the door opened on the person of galleygo, who had been included in sir wycherly's hospitable plan of entertaining every soul who immediately belonged to the suite of sir gervaise. "what the d----l has brought _you_ here!" exclaimed the vice-admiral, a little warmly; for he did not relish an interruption just at this moment. "recollect you're not on board the plantagenet, but in the dwelling of a gentleman, where there are both butler and housekeeper, and who have no occasion for your advice, or authority, to keep things in order." "well, there, sir gervaise i doesn't agree with you the least bit; for i thinks as a ship's steward--i mean a _cabin_ steward, and a good 'un of the quality--might do a great deal of improvement in this very house. the cook and i has had a partic'lar dialogue on them matters, already; and i mentioned to her the names of seven different dishes, every one of which she quite as good as admitted to me, was just the same as so much gospel to _her_." "i shall have to quarantine this fellow, in the long run, bluewater! i do believe if i were to take him to lambeth palace, or even to st. james's, he'd thrust his oar into the archbishop's benedictions, or the queen's caudle-cup!" "well, sir gervaise, where would be the great harm, if i did? a man as knows the use of an oar, may be trusted with one, even in a church, or an abbey. when your honour comes to hear what the dishes was, as sir wycherly's cook had never heard on, you'll think it as great a cur'osity as i do myself. if i had just leave to name 'em over, i think as both you gentlemen would look at it as remarkable." "what are they, galleygo?" inquired bluewater, putting one of his long legs over an arm of the adjoining chair, in order to indulge himself in a yarn with his friend's steward, with greater freedom; for he greatly delighted in galleygo's peculiarities; seeing just enough of the fellow to find amusement, without annoyance in them. "i'll answer for sir gervaise, who is always a little diffident about boasting of the superiority of a ship, over a house." "yes, your honour, that he is--that is just one of sir jarvy's weak p'ints, as a body might say. now, i never goes ashore, without trimming sharp up, and luffing athwart every person's hawse, i fall in with; which is as much as to tell 'em, i belongs to a flag-ship, and a racer, and a craft as hasn't her equal on salt-water; no disparagement to the bit of bunting at the mizzen-topgallant-mast-head of the cæsar, or to the ship that carries it. i hopes, as we are so well acquainted, admiral bluewater, no offence will be taken." "where none is meant, none ought to be taken, my friend. now let us hear your bill-of-fare." "well, sir, the very first dish i mentioned to mrs. larder, sir wycherly's cook, was lobscous; and, would you believe it, gentlemen, the poor woman had never heard of it! i began with a light hand, as it might be, just not to overwhelm her with knowledge, at a blow, as sir jarvy captivated the french frigate with the upper tier of guns, that he might take her alive, like." "and the lady knew nothing of a lobscous--neither of its essence, nor nature?" "there's no essences as is ever put in a lobscous, besides potaties, admiral bluewater; thof we make 'em in the old planter"--_nautice_ for plantagenet--"in so liquorish a fashion, you might well think they even had jamaiky, in 'em. no, potaties is the essence of lobscous; and a very good thing is a potatie, sir jarvy, when a ship's company has been on salted oakum for a few months." "well, what was the next dish the good woman broke down under?" asked the rear-admiral, fearful the master might order the servant to quit the room; while he, himself, was anxious to get rid of any further political discussion. "well, sir, she knowed no more of a chowder, than if the sea wern't in the neighbourhood, and there wern't such a thing as a fish in all england. when i talked to her of a chowder, she gave in, like a spaniard at the fourth or fifth broadside." "such ignorance is disgraceful, and betokens a decline in civilization! but, you hoisted out more knowledge for her benefit, galleygo--small doses of learning are poor things." "yes, your honour; just like weak grog--burning the priming, without starting the shot. to be sure, i did, admiral blue. i just named to her burgoo, and then i mentioned duff (_anglice_ dough) to her, but she denied that there was any such things in the cookery-book. do you know, sir jarvy, as these here shore craft get their dinners, as our master gets the sun; all out of a book as it might be. awful tidings, too, gentlemen, about the pretender's son; and i s'pose we shall have to take the fleet up into scotland, as i fancy them 'ere sogers will not make much of a hand in settling law?" "and have you honoured us with a visit, just to give us an essay on dishes, and to tell us what you intend to do with the fleet?" demanded sir gervaise, a little more sternly than he was accustomed to speak to the steward. "lord bless you, sir jarvy, i didn't dream of one or t'other! as for telling you, or admiral blue, (so the seamen used to call the second in rank,) here, any thing about lobscous, or chowder, why, it would be carrying coals to new market. i've fed ye both with all such articles, when ye was nothing but young gentlemen; and when you was no longer young gentlemen, too, but a couple of sprightly luffs, of nineteen. and as for moving the fleet, i know, well enough, that will never happen, without our talking it over in the old planter's cabin; which is a much more nat'ral place for such a discourse, than any house in england!" "may i take the liberty of inquiring, then, what _did_ bring you here?" "that you may, with all my heart, sir jarvy, for i likes to answer your questions. my errand is not to your honour this time, though you are my master. it's no great matter, after all, being just to hand this bit of a letter over to admiral blue." "and where did this letter come from, and how did it happen to fall into your hands?" demanded bluewater, looking at the superscription, the writing of which he appeared to recognise. "it hails from lun'nun, i hear; and they tell me it's to be a great secret that you've got it, at all. the history of the matter is just this. an officer got in to-night, with orders for us, carrying sail as hard as his shay would bear. it seems he fell in with master atwood, as he made his land-fall, and being acquainted with that gentleman, he just whipped out his orders, and sent 'em off to the right man. then he laid his course for the landing, wishing to get aboard of the dublin, to which he is ordered; but falling in with our barge, as i landed, he wanted to know the where-away of admiral blue, here; believing him to be afloat. some 'un telling him as i was a friend and servant of both admirals, as it might be, he turned himself over to me for advice. so i promised to deliver the letter, as i had a thousand afore, and knowed the way of doing such things; and he gives me the letter, under special orders, like; that is to say, it was to be handed to the rear-admiral as it might be under the lee of the mizzen-stay-sail, or in a private fashion. well, gentlemen, you both knows i understand that, too, and so i undertook the job." "and i have got to be so insignificant a person that i pass for no one, in your discriminating mind, master galleygo!" exclaimed the vice-admiral, sharply. "i have suspected as much, these five-and-twenty years." "lord bless you, sir jarvy, how flag-officers will make mistakes sometimes! they're mortal, i says to the people of the galley, and have their appetites false, just like the young gentlemen, when they get athwart-hawse of a body, i says. now, i count admiral blue and yourself pretty much as one man, seeing that you keep few, or no secrets from each other. i know'd ye both as young gentlemen, and then you loved one another like twins; and then i know'd ye as luffs, when ye'd walk the deck the whole watch, spinning yarns; and then i know'd ye as pillardees and arrestee, though one pillow might have answered for both; and as for arrest, i never know'd either of ye to got into that scrape. as for telling a secret to one, i've always looked upon it as pretty much telling it to t'other." the two admirals exchanged glances, and the look of kindness that each met in the eyes of his friend removed every shadow that had been cast athwart their feelings, by the previous discourse. "that will do, galleygo," returned sir gervaise, mildly. "you're a good fellow in the main, though a villanously rough one--" "a little of old boreus, sir jarvy," interrupted the steward, with a grim smile: "but it blows harder at sea than it does ashore. these chaps on land, ar'n't battened down, and caulked for such weather, as we sons of neptun' is obligated to face." "quite true, and so good-night. admiral bluewater and myself wish to confer together, for half an hour; all that it is proper for you to know, shall be communicated another time." "good-night, and god bless your honour. good-night, admiral blue: we three is the men as can keep any secret as ever floated, let it draw as much water as it pleases." sir gervaise oakes stopped in his walk, and gazed at his friend with manifest interest, as he perceived that admiral bluewater was running over his letter for the third time. being now without a witness, he did not hesitate to express his apprehensions. "'tis as i feared, dick!" he cried. "that letter is from some prominent partisan of edward stuart?" the rear-admiral turned his eyes on the face of his friend, with an expression that was difficult to read; and then he ran over the contents of the epistle, for the fourth time. "a set of precious rascals they are, gervaise!" at length the rear-admiral exclaimed. "if the whole court was culled, i question if enough honesty could be found to leaven one puritan scoundrel. tell me if you know this hand, oakes? i question if you ever saw it before." the superscription of the letter was held out to sir gervaise, who, after a close examination, declared himself unacquainted with the writing. "i thought as much," resumed bluewater, carefully tearing the signature from the bottom of the page, and burning it in a candle; "let this disgraceful part of the secret die, at least. the fellow who wrote this, has put 'confidential' at the top of his miserable scrawl: and a most confident scoundrel he is, for his pains. however, no man has a right to thrust himself, in this rude manner, between me and my oldest friend; and least of all will i consent to keep this piece of treachery from your knowledge. i do more than the rascal merits in concealing his name; nevertheless, i shall not deny myself the pleasure of sending him such an answer as he deserves. read that, oakes, and then say if keelhauling would be too good for the writer." sir gervaise took the letter in silence, though not without great surprise, and began to peruse it. as he proceeded, the colour mounted to his temples, and once he dropped his hand, to cast a look of wonder and indignation towards his companion. that the reader may see how much occasion there was for both these feelings, we shall give the communication entire. it was couched in the following words: "dear admiral bluewater: "our ancient friendship, and i am proud to add, affinity of blood, unite in inducing me to write a line, at this interesting moment. of the result of this rash experiment of the pretender's son, no prudent man can entertain a doubt. still, the boy may give us some trouble, before he is disposed of altogether. we look to all our friends, therefore, for their most efficient exertions, and most prudent co-operation. on _you_, every reliance is placed; and i wish i could say as much for _every flag-officer afloat_. some distrust--unmerited, i sincerely hope--exists in a very high quarter, touching the loyalty of a certain commander-in-chief, who is so completely under your observation, that it is felt enough is done in hinting the fact to one of your political tendencies. the king said, this morning, 'vell, dere isht bluevater; of _him_ we are shure asht of ter sun.' you stand excellently well _there_, to my great delight; and i need only say, be watchful and prompt. "yours, with the most sincere faith and attachment, my dear bluewater, &c., &c. "rear-admiral bluewater. "p. s.--i have just heard that they have sent you the red riband. the king himself, was in this." when sir gervaise had perused this precious epistle to himself, he read it slowly, and in a steady, clear voice, aloud. when he had ended, he dropped the paper, and stood gazing at his friend. "one would think the fellow some exquisite satirist," said bluewater, laughing. "_i_ am to be vigilant, and see that _you_ do not mutiny, and run away with the fleet to the highlands, one of these foggy mornings! carry it up into scotland, as galleygo has it! now, what is your opinion of that letter?" "that all courtiers are knaves, and all princes ungrateful. i should think my loyalty to the good _cause_, if not to the _man_, the last in england to be suspected." "nor is it suspected, in the smallest degree. my life on it, neither the reigning monarch, nor his confidential servants, are such arrant dunces, as to be guilty of so much weakness. no, this masterly move is intended to secure _me_, by creating a confidence that they think no generous-minded man would betray. it is a hook, delicately baited to catch a gudgeon, and not an order to watch a whale." "can the scoundrels be so mean--nay, dare they be so bold! they must have known you would show me the letter." "not they--they have reasoned on my course, as they would on their own. nothing catches a weak man sooner than a pretended confidence of this nature; and i dare say this blackguard rates me just high enough to fancy i may be duped in this flimsy manner. put your mind at rest; king george knows he may confide in _you_, while i think it probable _i_ am distrusted." "i hope, dick, you do not suspect _my_ discretion! my own secret would not be half so sacred to me." "i know that, full well. of _you_, i entertain no distrust, either in heart or head; of myself, i am not quite so certain. when we _feel_, we do not always _reason_; and there is as much feeling, as any thing else, in this matter." "not a line is there, in all my despatches, that go to betray the slightest distrust of me, or any one else. you are spoken of, but it is in a manner to gratify you, rather than to alarm. take, and read them all; i intended to show them to you, as soon as we had got through with that cursed discussion" as sir gervaise concluded, he threw the whole package of letters on the table, before his friend. "it will be time enough, when you summon me regularly to a council of war," returned bluewater, laying the letters gently aside. "perhaps we had better sleep on this affair; in the morning we shall meet with cooler heads, and just as warm hearts." "good-night, dick," said sir gervaise, holding out both hands for the other to shake as he passed him, in quitting the room. "good-night, gervaise; let this miserable devil go overboard, and think no more of him. i have half a mind to ask you for a leave, to-morrow, just to run up to london, and cut off his ears." sir gervaise laughed and nodded his head, and the two friends parted, with feelings as kind as ever had distinguished their remarkable career. chapter viii. "look to't, think on't, i do not use to jest. thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise; an' you be mine, i'll give you to my friend; an' you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i' the streets." romeo and juliet. wychecombe hall, had most of the peculiarities of a bachelor's dwelling, in its internal government; nor was it, in any manner, behind, or, it might be better to say, before, the age, in its modes and customs connected with jollifications. when its master relaxed a little, the servants quite uniformly imitated his example. sir wycherly kept a plentiful table, and the servants' hall fared nearly as well as the dining-room; the single article of wine excepted. in lieu of the latter, however, was an unlimited allowance of double-brewed ale; and the difference in the potations was far more in the name, than in the quality of the beverages. the master drank port; for, in the middle of the last century, few englishmen had better wine--and port, too, that was by no means of a very remarkable delicacy, but which, like those who used it, was rough, honest, and strong; while the servant had his malt liquor of the very highest stamp and flavour. between indifferent wine and excellent ale, the distance is not interminable; and sir wycherly's household, was well aware of the fact, having frequently instituted intelligent practical comparisons, by means of which, all but the butler and mrs. larder had come to the conclusion to stand by the home-brewed. on the present occasion, not a soul in the house was ignorant of the reason why the baronet was making a night of it. every man, woman, and child, in or about the hall, was a devoted partisan of the house of hanover; and as soon as it was understood that this feeling was to be manifested by drinking "success to king george, and god bless him," on the one side; and "confusion to the pretender, and his mad son," on the other; all under the roof entered into the duty, with a zeal that might have seated a usurper on a throne, if potations could do it. when admiral bluewater, therefore, left the chamber of his friend, the signs of mirth and of a regular debauch were so very obvious, that a little curiosity to watch the result, and a disinclination to go off to his ship so soon, united to induce him to descend into the rooms below, with a view to get a more accurate knowledge of the condition of the household. in crossing the great hall, to enter the drawing-room, he encountered galleygo, when the following discourse took place. "i should think the master-at-arms has not done his duty, and dowsed the glim below, master steward," said the rear-admiral, in his quiet way, as they met; "the laughing, and singing, and hiccupping, are all upon a very liberal scale for a respectable country-house." galleygo touched the lock of hair on his forehead, with one hand, and gave his trowsers a slue with the other, before he answered; which he soon did, however, though with a voice a little thicker than was usual with him, on account of his having added a draught or two to those he had taken previously to visiting sir gervaise's dressing-room; and which said additional draught or two, had produced some such effect on his system, as the fresh drop produces on the cup that is already full. "that's just it, admiral blue," returned the steward, in passing good-humour, though still sober enough to maintain the decencies, after his own fashion; "that's just it, your honour. they've passed the word below to let the lights stand for further orders, and have turned the hands up for a frolic. such ale as they has, stowed in the lower hold of this house, like leaguers in the ground-tier, it does a body's heart good to conter'plate. all hands is bowsing out their jibs on it, sir, and the old hall will soon be carrying as much sail as she can stagger under. it's nothing but loose-away and sheet-home." "ay, ay, galleygo, this may be well enough for the people of the household, if sir wycherly allows it; but it ill becomes the servants of guests to fall into this disorder. if i find tom has done any thing amiss, he will hear more of it; and as your own master is not here to admonish _you_, i'll just take the liberty of doing it for him, since i know it would mortify him exceedingly to learn that his steward had done any thing to disgrace himself." "lord bless your dear soul, admiral blue, take just as many liberties as you think fit, and i'll never pocket one on 'em. i know'd you, when you was only a young gentleman, and now you're a rear. you're close on our heels; and by the time we are a full admiral, you'll be something like a vice. i looks upon you as bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh,--pillardees and arrestees--and i no more minds a setting-down from your honour, than i does from sir jarvy, hisself." "i believe that is true enough, galleygo; but take my advice, and knock off with the ale for to-night. can you tell me how the land lies, with the rest of the company?" "you couldn't have asked a better person, your honour, as i've just been passing through all the rooms, from a sort of habit i has, sir; for, d'ye see, i thought i was in the old planter, and that it was my duty to overlook every thing, as usual. the last pull at the ale, put that notion in my head; but it's gone now, and i see how matters is. yes, sir, the mainmast of a church isn't stiffer and more correct-like, than my judgment is, at this blessed moment. sir wycherly guv' me a glass of his black-strap, as i ran through the dining-room, and told me to drink 'confusion to the pretender,' which i did, with hearty good-will; but his liquor will no more lay alongside of the ale they've down on the orlop, than a frenchman will compare with an englishman. what's your opinion, admiral blue, consarning this cruise of the pretender's son, up in the highlands of scotland?" bluewater gave a quick, distrustful glance at the steward, for he knew that the fellow was half his time in the outer cabin and pantries of the plantagenet, and he could not tell how much of his many private dialogues with sir gervaise, might have been overheard. meeting with nothing but the unmeaning expression of one half-seas-over, his uneasiness instantly subsided. "i think it a gallant enterprise, galleygo," he answered; too manly even to feign what he did not believe; "but i fear as a _cruise_, it will not bring much prize-money. you have forgotten you were about to tell me how the land lies. sir wycherly, mr. dutton, mr. rotherham, are still at the table, i fancy--are these all? what have become of the two young gentlemen?" "there's none ashore, sir," said galleygo, promptly, accustomed to give that appellation only to midshipmen. "i mean the two mr. wychecombes; one of whom, i had forgot, is actually an officer." "yes, sir, and a most partic'lar fine officer he is, as every body says. well, sir, _he's_ with the ladies; while his namesake has gone back to the table, and has put luff upon luff, to fetch up leeway." "and the ladies--what have they done with themselves, in this scene of noisy revelry?" "they'se in yonder state-room, your honour. as soon as they found how the ship was heading, like all women-craft, they both makes for the best harbour they could run into. yes, they'se yonder." as galleygo pointed to the door of the room he meant, bluewater proceeded towards it, parting with the steward after a few more words of customary, but very useless caution. the tap of the admiral was answered by wycherly in person, who opened the door, and made way for his superior to enter, with a respectful obeisance. there was but a single candle in the little parlour, in which the two females had taken refuge from the increasing noise of the debauch; and this was due to a pious expedient of mildred's, in extinguishing the others, with a view to conceal the traces of tears that were still visible on her own and her mother's cheeks. the rear-admiral was, at first, struck with this comparative obscurity; but it soon appeared to him appropriate to the feelings of the party assembled in the room. mrs. dutton received him with the ease she had acquired in her early life, and the meeting passed as a matter of course, with persons temporarily residing under the same roof. "our friends appear to be enjoying themselves," said bluewater, when a shout from the dining-room forced itself on the ears of all present. "the loyalty of sir wycherly seems to be of proof." "oh! admiral bluewater," exclaimed the distressed wife, feeling, momentarily, getting the better of discretion; "_do_ you--_can_ you call such a desecration of god's image enjoyment?" "not justly, perhaps, mrs. dutton; and yet it is what millions mistake for it. this mode of celebrating any great event, and even of illustrating what we think our principles, is, i fear, a vice not only of our age, but of our country." "and yet, neither you, nor sir gervaise oakes, i see, find it necessary to give such a proof of your attachment to the house of hanover, or of your readiness to serve it with your time and persons." "you will remember, my good, lady, that both oakes and myself are flag-officers in command, and it would never do for us to fall into a debauch in sight of our own ships. i am glad to see, however, that mr. wychecombe, here, prefers such society as i find him in, to the pleasures of the table." wycherly bowed, and mildred cast an expressive, not to say grateful, glance towards the speaker; but her mother pursued the discourse, in which she found a little relief to her suppressed emotion. "god be thanked for that!" she exclaimed, half-unconscious of the interpretation that might be put on her words; "all that we have seen of mr. wychecombe would lead us to believe that this is not an unusual, or an accidental forbearance." "so much the more fortunate for him. i congratulate you, young sir, on this triumph of principle, or of temperament, or of both. we belong to a profession, in which the bottle is an enemy more to be feared, than any that the king can give us. a sailor can call in no ally as efficient in subduing this mortal foe, as an intelligent and cultivated mind. the man who really _thinks_ much, seldom _drinks_ much; but there are hours--nay, weeks and months of idleness in a ship, in which the temptation to resort to unnatural excitement in quest of pleasure, is too strong for minds, that are not well fortified, to resist. this is particularly the case with commanders, who find themselves isolated by their rank, and oppressed with responsibility, in the privacy of their own cabins, and get to make a companion of the bottle, by way of seeking relief from uncomfortable thoughts, and of creating a society of their own. i deem the critical period of a sailor's life, to be the first few years of solitary command." "how true!--how true!" murmured mrs. dutton. "oh! that cutter--that cruel cutter!" the truth flashed upon the recollection of bluewater, at this unguarded, and instantly regretted exclamation. many years before, when only a captain himself, he had been a member of a court-martial which cashiered a lieutenant of the name of dutton, for grievous misconduct, while in command of a cutter; the fruits of the bottle. from the first, he thought the name familiar to him; but so many similar things had happened in the course of forty years' service, that this particular incident had been partially lost in the obscurity of time. it was now completely recalled, however; and that, too, with all its attendant circumstances. the recollection served to give the rear-admiral renewed interest in the unhappy wife, and lovely daughter, of the miserable delinquent. he had been applied to, at the time, for his interest in effecting the restoration of the guilty officer, or even to procure for him, the hopeless station he now actually occupied; but he had sternly refused to be a party in placing any man in authority, who was the victim of a propensity that not only disgraced himself, but which, in the peculiar position of a sailor, equally jeoparded the honour of the country, and risked the lives of all around him. he was aware that the last application had been successful, by means of a court influence it was very unusual to exert in cases so insignificant; and, then, he had, for years, lost sight of the criminal and his fortunes. this unexpected revival of his old impressions, caused him to feel like an ancient friend of the wife and daughter; for well could he recall a scene he had with both, in which the struggle between his humanity and his principles had been so violent as actually to reduce him to tears. mildred had forgotten the name of this particular officer, having been merely a child; but well did mrs. dutton remember it, and with fear and trembling had she come that day, to meet him at the hall. the first look satisfied her that she was forgotten, and she had struggled herself, to bury in oblivion, a scene which was one of the most painful of her life. the unguarded expression, mentioned, entirely changed the state of affairs. "mrs. dutton," said bluewater, kindly taking a hand of the distressed wife; "i believe we are old friends; if, after what has passed, you will allow me so to consider myself." "ah! admiral bluewater, my memory needed no admonisher to tell me _that_. your sympathy and kindness are as grateful to me, now, as they were in that dreadful moment, when we met before." "and i had the pleasure of seeing this young lady, more than once, on that unpleasant occasion. this accounts for a fancy that has fairly haunted me throughout the day; for, from the instant my eye fell on miss mildred, it struck me that the face, and most of all, its expression, was familiar to me. certainly it is not a countenance, once seen, easily to be forgotten." "mildred was then but a child, sir, and your recollection must have been a fancy, indeed, as children of her age seldom make any lasting impression on the mind, particularly in the way of features." "it is not the features that i recognize, but the expression; and that, i need not tell the young lady's mother, is an expression not so very easily forgotten. i dare say mr. wychecombe is ready enough to vouch for the truth of what i say." "hark!" exclaimed mrs. dutton, who was sensitively alive to any indication of the progress of the debauch. "there is great confusion in the dining-room!--i hope the gentlemen are of one mind as respects this rising in scotland!" "if there is a jacobite among them, he will have a warm time of it; with sir wycherly, his nephew, and the vicar--all three of whom are raging lions, in the way of loyalty. there does, indeed, seem something out of the way, for those sounds, i should think, are the feet of servants, running to and fro. if the servants'-hall is in the condition i suspect, it will as much need the aid of the parlour, as the parlour can possibly--" a tap at the door caused bluewater to cease speaking; and as wycherly threw open the entrance, galleygo appeared on the threshold, by this time reduced to the necessity of holding on by the casings. "well, sir," said the rear-admiral, sternly, for he was no longer disposed to trifle with any of the crapulous set; "well, sir, what impertinence has brought you here?" "no impertinence at all, your honour; we carries none of _that_, in the old planter. there being no young gentlemen, hereabouts, to report proceedings, i thought i'd just step in and do the duty with my own tongue. we has so many reports in our cabin, that there isn't an officer in the fleet that can make 'em better, as myself, sir." "there are a hundred who would spend fewer words on any thing. what is your business?" "why, sir, just to report one flag struck, and a commander-in-chief on his beam-ends." "good god! nothing has happened to sir gervaise--speak, fellow, or i'll have you sent out of this babel, and off to the ship, though it were midnight." "it be pretty much that, admiral blue; or past six bells; as any one may see by the ship's clock on the great companion ladder; six bells, going well on to seven--" "your business, sir! what has happened to sir gervaise?" repeated bluewater, shaking his long fore-finger menacingly, at the steward. "we are as well, admiral blue, as the hour we came over the planter's side. sir jarvy will carry sail with the best on 'em, i'll answer for it, whether the ship floats in old port oporto, or in a brewer's vat. let sir jarvy alone for them tricks--he wasn't a young gentleman, for nothing." "have a moment's patience, sir," put in wycherly, "and i will go myself, and ascertain the truth." "i shall make but another inquiry," continued admiral bluewater, as wycherly left the room. "why, d'ye see, your honour, old sir wycherly, who is commander-in-chief, along shore here, has capsized in consequence of carrying sail too hard, in company with younger craft; and they're now warping him into dock to be overhauled." "is this all!--that was a result to be expected, in such a debauch. you need not have put on so ominous a face, for this, galleygo." "no, sir, so i thought, myself; and i only tried to look as melancholy as a young gentleman who is sent below to report a topgallant-mast over the side, or a studding-sail-boom gone in the iron. d'ye remember the time, admiral blue, when you thought to luff up on the old planter's weather-quarter, and get between her and the french ninety on three decks, and how your stu'n-sails went, one a'ter another, just like so many musherrooms breaking in peeling?" galleygo, who was apt to draw his images from his two trades, might have talked on an hour, without interruption; for, while he was uttering the above sentence, wycherly returned, and reported that their host was seriously, even dangerously ill. while doing the honours of his table, he had been seized with a fit, which the vicar, a noted three-bottle man, feared was apoplexy. mr. rotherham had bled the patient, who was already a little better, and an express had been sent for a medical man. as a matter of course, the _convives_ had left the table, and alarm was frightening the servants into sobriety. at mrs. dutton's earnest request, wycherly immediately left the room again, forcing galleygo out before him, with a view to get more accurate information concerning the baronet's real situation; both the mother and daughter feeling a real affection for sir wycherly; the kind old man having won their hearts by his habitual benevolence, and a constant concern for their welfare. "_sic transit gloria mundi_," muttered admiral bluewater, as he threw his tall person, in his own careless manner, on a chair, in a dark corner of the room. "this baronet has fallen from his throne, in a moment of seeming prosperity and revelry; why may not another do the same?" mrs. dutton heard the voice, without distinguishing the words, and she felt distressed at the idea that one whom she so much respected and loved, might be judged of harshly, by a man of the rear-admiral's character. "sir wycherly is one of the kindest-hearted men, breathing," she said, a little hurriedly; "and there is not a better landlord in england. then he is by no means addicted to indulgence at table, more than is customary with gentlemen of his station. his loyalty has, no doubt, carried him this evening farther than was prudent, or than we could have wished." "i have every disposition to think favourably of our poor host, my dear mrs. dutton; and we seamen are not accustomed to judge a _bon vivant_ too harshly." "ah! admiral bluewater, _you_, who have so wide-spread a reputation for sobriety and correct deportment! well do i remember how i trembled, when i heard your name mentioned as one of the leading members of that dreadful court!" "you let your recollections dwell too much on these unpleasant subjects, mrs. dutton, and i should like to see you setting an example of greater cheerfulness to your sweet daughter. i could not befriend you, _then_, for my oath and my duty were both against it; but, _now_, there exists no possible reason, why i should not; while there does exist almost every possible disposition, why i should. this sweet child interests me in a way i can hardly describe." mrs. dutton was silent and thoughtful. the years of admiral bluewater did not absolutely forbid his regarding mildred's extreme beauty, with the eyes of ordinary admiration; but his language, and most of all, his character, ought to repel the intrusive suspicion. still mildred was surpassingly lovely, and men were surpassingly weak in matters of love. many a hero had passed a youth of self-command and discretion, to consummate some act of exceeding folly, of this very nature, in the decline of life; and bitter experience had taught her to be distrustful. nevertheless, she could not, at once, bring herself to think ill of one, whose character she had so long respected; and, with all the rear-admiral's directness of manner, there was so much real and feeling delicacy, blended with the breeding of a gentleman-like sailor, that it was not easy to suppose he had any other motives than those he saw fit to avow. mildred had made many a friend, by a sweetness of countenance, that was even more winning, than her general beauty of face and form was attractive; and why should not this respectable old seaman be of the number. this train of thought was interrupted by the sudden and unwelcome appearance of dutton. he had just returned from the bed-side of sir wycherly, and now came to seek his wife and daughter, to bid them prepare to enter the chariot, which was in waiting to convey them home. the miserable man was not intoxicated, in the sense which deprives a man of the use of speech and limbs; but he had drunk quite enough to awaken the demon within him, and to lay bare the secrets of his true character. if any thing, his nerves were better strung than common; but the wine had stirred up all the energies of a being, whose resolutions seldom took the direction of correct feeling, or of right doing. the darkness of the room, and a slight confusion which nevertheless existed in his brain, prevented him from noticing the person of his superior, seated, as the latter was, in the dark corner; and he believed himself once more alone with those who were so completely dependent on his mercy, and who had so long been the subjects of his brutality and tyranny. "i hope sir wycherly is better, dutton," the wife commenced, fearful that her husband might expose himself and her, before he was aware of the presence in which he stood. "admiral bluewater is as anxious, as we are ourselves, to know his real state." "ay, you women are all pity and feeling for baronets and rear-admirals," answered dutton, throwing himself rudely into a chair, with his back towards the stranger, in an attitude completely to exclude the latter from his view; "while a husband, or father, might die a hundred deaths, and not draw a look of pity from your beautiful eyes, or a kind word from your devilish tongues." "neither mildred nor i, merit this from _you_, dutton!" "no, you're both perfection; like mother, like child. haven't i been, fifty times, at death's door, with this very complaint of sir wycherly's, and did either of you ever send for an apothecary, even?" "you have been occasionally indisposed, dutton, but never apoplectic; and we have always thought a little sleep would restore you; as, indeed, it always has." "what business had you to _think_? surgeons think, and medical men, and it was your duty to send for the nearest professional man, to look after one you're bound both to honour and obey. you are your own mistress, martha, i do suppose, in a certain degree; and what can't be cured must be endured; but mildred is my child; and i'll have her respect and love, if i break both your hearts in order to get at them." "a pious daughter always respects her parent, dutton," said the wife, trembling from head to foot; "but love must come willingly, or, it will not come at all." "we'll see as to that, mrs. martha dutton; we'll see as to that. come hither, mildred; i have a word to say to you, which may as well be said at once." mildred, trembling like her mother, drew near; but with a feeling of filial piety, that no harshness could entirely smother, she felt anxious to prevent the father from further exposing himself, in the presence of admiral bluewater. with this view, then, and with this view only, she summoned firmness enough to speak. "father," she said, "had we not better defer our family matters, until we are alone?" under ordinary circumstances, bluewater would not have waited for so palpable a hint, for he would have retired on the first appearance of any thing so disagreeable as a misunderstanding between man and wife. but, an ungovernable interest in the lovely girl, who stood trembling at her father's knee, caused him to forget his habitual delicacy of feeling, and to overlook what might perhaps be termed almost a law of society. instead of moving, therefore, as mildred had both hoped and expected, he remained motionless in his seat. dutton's mind was too obtuse to comprehend his daughter's allusions, in the absence, of ocular evidence of a stranger's presence, and his wrath was too much excited to permit him to think much of any thing but his own causes of indignation. "stand more in front of me, mildred," he answered, angrily. "more before my face, as becomes one who don't know her duty to her parent, and needs be taught it." "oh! dutton," exclaimed the afflicted wife; "do not--do not--accuse mildred of being undutiful! you know not what you say--know not her obliga--you cannot know her _heart_, or you would not use these cruel imputations!" "silence, mrs. martha dutton--my business is not with _you_, at present, but with this young lady, to whom, i hope, i may presume to speak a little plainly, as she is my own child. silence, then, mrs. martha dutton. if my memory is not treacherous, you once stood up before god's altar with me, and there vow'd to love, honour, and _obey_. yes, that was the word; _obey_, mrs. martha dutton." "and what did _you_ promise, at the same time, frank?" exclaimed the wife, from whose bruised spirit this implied accusation was torn in an agony of mental suffering. "nothing but what i have honestly and manfully performed. i promised to provide for you; to give you food and raiment; to let you hear my name, and stand before the world in the honourable character of honest frank dutton's wife." "honourable!" murmured the wife, loud enough to be heard by both the admiral and mildred, and yet in a tone so smothered, as to elude the obtuse sense of hearing, that long excess had left her husband. when this expressive word had broken out of her very heart, however, she succeeded in suppressing her voice, and sinking into a chair, concealed her face in her hands, in silence. "mildred, come hither," resumed the brutalized parent. "_you_ are my daughter, and whatever others have promised at the altar, and forgotten, a law of nature teaches you to obey me. you have two admirers, either of whom you ought to be glad to secure, though there is a great preference between them--" "father!" exclaimed mildred, every feeling of her sensitive nature revolting at this coarse allusion to a connection, and to sentiments, that she was accustomed to view as among the most sacred and private of her moral being. "surely, you cannot mean what you say!" "like mother, like child! let but disobedience and disrespect get possession of a wife, and they are certain to run through a whole family, even though there were a dozen children! harkee, miss mildred, it is _you_ who don't happen to know what you say, while i understand myself as well as most parents. your mother would never acquaint you with what i feel it a duty to put plainly before your judgment; and, therefore, i expect you to listen as becomes a dutiful and affectionate child. you can secure either of these young wychecombes, and either of them would be a good match for a poor, disgraced, sailing-master's daughter." "father, i shall sink through the floor, if you say another word, in this cruel manner!" "no, dear; you'll neither sink nor swim, unless it be by making a bad, or a good choice. mr. thomas wychecombe is sir wycherly's heir, and must be the next baronet, and possessor of this estate. of course he is much the best thing, and you ought to give him a preference." "dutton, _can_ you, as a father and a christian, give such heartless counsel to your own child!" exclaimed mrs. dutton, inexpressibly shocked at the want of principle, as well as at the want of feeling, discovered in her husband's advice. "mrs. martha dutton, i can; and believe the counsel to be any thing but heartless, too. do you wish your daughter to be the wife of a miserable signal-station keeper, when she may become lady wychecombe, with a little prudent management, and the mistress of this capital old house, and noble estate?" "father--father," interrupted mildred, soothingly, though ready to sink with shame at the idea of admiral bluewater's being an auditor of such a conversation; "you forget yourself, and overlook my wishes. there is little probability of mr. thomas wychecombe's ever thinking of me as a wife--or, indeed of anyone else's entertaining such thoughts." "that will turn out, as you manage matters, milly. mr. thomas wychecombe does not think of you as a _wife_, quite likely, just at this moment; but the largest whales are taken by means of very small lines, when the last are properly handled. this young lieutenant would have you to-morrow; though a more silly thing than for you two to marry, could not well be hit upon. he is only a lieutenant; and though his name is so good a one, it does not appear that he has any particular right to it." "and yet, dutton, you were only a lieutenant when _you_ married, and your name was _nothing_ in the way of interest, or preferment," observed the mother, anxious to interpose some new feeling between her daughter, and the cruel inference left by the former part of her husband's speech. "we _then_ thought all lay bright before us!" "and so all would lie to this hour, mrs. dutton, but for that one silly act of mine. a man with the charges of a family on him, little pay, and no fortune, is driven to a thousand follies to hide his misery. you do not strengthen your case by reminding me of _that_ imprudence. but, mildred, i do not tell you to cut adrift this young virginian, for he may he of use in more ways than one. in the first place, you can play him off against mr. thomas wychecombe; and, in the second place, a lieutenant is likely, one day, to be a captain; and the wife of a captain in his majesty's navy, is no disreputable birth. i advise you, girl, to use this youngster as a bait to catch the heir with; and, failing a good bite, to take up with the lad himself." this was said dogmatically, but with a coarseness of manner that fully corresponded with the looseness of the principles, and the utter want of delicacy of feeling that alone could prompt such advice. mrs. dutton fairly groaned, as she listened to her husband, for never before had he so completely thrown aside the thin mask of decency that he ordinarily wore; but mildred, unable to control the burst of wild emotion that came over her, broke away from the place she occupied at her father's knee, and, as if blindly seeking protection in any asylum that she fancied safe, found herself sobbing, as if her heart would break, in admiral bluewater's arms. dutton followed the ungovernable, impulsive movement, with his eye, and for the first time he became aware in whose presence he had been exposing his native baseness. wine had not so far the mastery of him, as to blind him to all the consequences, though it did stimulate him to a point that enabled him to face the momentary mortification of his situation. "i beg a thousand pardons, sir," he said, rising, and bowing low to his superior; "i was totally ignorant that i had the honour to be in the company of admiral bluewater--admiral blue, i find jack calls you, sir; ha-ha-ha--a familiarity which is a true sign of love and respect. i never knew a captain, or a flag-officer, that got a regular, expressive ship's name, that he wasn't the delight of the whole service. yes, sir; i find the people call sir gervaise, little jarvy, and yourself, admiral blue--ha-ha-ha--an infallible sign of merit in the superior, and of love in the men." "i ought to apologize, mr. dutton, for making one, so unexpectedly to myself, in a family council," returned the rear-admiral. "as for the men, they are no great philosophers, though tolerable judges of when they are well commanded, and well treated.--but, the hour is late, and it was my intention to sleep in my own ship, to-night. the coach of sir wycherly has been ordered to carry me to the landing, and i hope to have your permission to see these ladies home in it." the answer of dutton was given with perfect self-possession, and in a manner to show that he knew how to exercise the courtesies of life, or to receive them, when in the humour. "it is an honour, sir, they will not think of declining, if my wishes are consulted," he said. "come, milly, foolish girl, dry your tears, and smile on admiral bluewater, for his condescension. young women, sir, hardly know how to take a joke; and our ship's humours are sometimes a little strong for them. i tell my dear wife, sometimes--'wife,' i say, 'his majesty can't have stout-hearted and stout-handed seamen, and the women poets and die-away swains, and all in the same individual,' says i. mrs. dutton understands me, sir; and so does little milly; who is an excellent girl in the main; though a little addicted to using the eye-pumps, as we have it aboard ship, sir." "and, now, mr. dutton, it being understood that i am to see the ladies home, will you do me the favour to inquire after the condition of sir wycherly. one would not wish to quit his hospitable roof, in uncertainty as to his actual situation." dutton was duly sensible of an awkwardness in the presence of his superior, and he gladly profited by this commission to quit the room; walking more steadily than if he had not been drinking. all this time, mildred hung on admiral bluewater's shoulder, weeping, and unwilling to quit a place that seemed to her, in her fearful agitation, a sort of sanctuary. "mrs. dutton," said bluewater, first kissing the cheek of his lovely burthen, in a manner so parental, that the most sensitive delicacy could not have taken the alarm; "you will succeed better than myself, in quieting the feelings of this little trembler. i need hardly say that if i have accidentally overheard more than i ought, it is as much a secret with me, as it would be with your own brother. the characters of all cannot be affected by the mistaken and excited calculations of one; and this occasion has served to make me better acquainted with you, and your admirable daughter, than i might otherwise have been, by means of years of ordinary intercourse." "oh! admiral bluewater, do not judge him _too_ harshly! he has been too long at that fatal table, which i fear has destroyed poor dear sir wycherly, and knew not what he said. never before have i seen him in such a fearful humour, or in the least disposed to trifle with, or to wound the feelings of this sweet child!" "her extreme agitation is a proof of this, my good madam, and shows all you can wish to say. view me as your sincere friend, and place every reliance on my discretion." the wounded mother listened with gratitude, and mildred withdrew from her extraordinary situation, wondering by what species of infatuation she could have been led to adopt it. chapter ix. ----"ah, montague, if thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand, and with thy lips keep in my soul awhile! thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst, thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood that glues my lips, and will not let me speak. come quickly, montague, or i am dead." king henry vi. sir wycherly had actually been seized with a fit of apoplexy. it was the first serious disease he had experienced in a long life of health and prosperity; and the sight of their condescending, good-humored, and indulgent master, in a plight so miserable, had a surprising effect on the heated brains of all the household. mr. rotherham, a good three-bottle man, on emergency, had learned to bleed, and fortunately the vein he struck, as his patient still lay on the floor, where he had fallen, sent out a stream that had the effect not only to restore the baronet to life, but, in a great measure, to consciousness. sir wycherly was not a _hard_ drinker, like dutton; but he was a _fair_ drinker, like mr. rotherham, and most of the beneficed clergy of that day. want of exercise, as he grew older, had as much influence in producing his attack as excess of wine; and there were already, strong hopes of his surviving it, aided as he was, by a good constitution. the apothecary had reached the hall, within five minutes after the attack, having luckily been prescribing to the gardener; and the physician and surgeon of the family were both expected in the course of the morning. sir gervaise oakes had been acquainted with the state of his host, by his own valet, as soon as it was known in the servants'-hall, and being a man of action, he did not hesitate to proceed at once to the chamber of the sick, to offer his own aid, in the absence of that which might be better. at the door of the chamber, he met atwood, who had been summoned from his pen, and they entered together, the vice-admiral feeling for a lancet in his pocket, for he, too, had acquired the art of the blood-letter. they now learned the actual state of things. "where is bluewater?" demanded sir gervaise, after regarding his host a moment with commiseration and concern. "i hope he has not yet left the house." "he is still here, sir gervaise, but i should think on the point of quitting us. i heard him say, that, notwithstanding all sir wycherly's kind plans to detain him, he intended to sleep in his own ship." "that i've never doubted, though i've affected to believe otherwise. go to him, atwood, and say i beg he will pull within hail of the plantagenet, as he goes off, and desire mr. magrath to come ashore, as soon as possible. there shall be a conveyance at the landing to bring him here; and he may order his own surgeon to come also, if it be agreeable to himself." with these instructions the secretary left the room; while sir gervaise turned to tom wychecombe, and said a few of the words customary on such melancholy occasions. "i think there is hope, sir," he added, "yes, sir, i think there is hope; though your honoured relative is no longer young--still, this early bleeding has been a great thing; and if we can gain a little time for poor sir wycherly, our efforts will not be thrown away. sudden death is awful, sir, and few of us are prepared for it, either in mind, or affairs. we sailors have to hold our lives in our hands, it is true, but then it is for king and country; and we hope for mercy on all who fall in the discharge of their duties. for my part, i am never unprovided with a will, and that disposes of all the interests of this world, while i humbly trust in the great mediator, for the hereafter. i hope sir wycherly is equally provident as to his worldly affairs?" "no doubt my dear uncle could wish to leave certain trifling memorials behind him to a few of his intimates," returned tom, with a dejected countenance; "but he has not been without a will, i believe, for some time; and i presume you will agree with me in thinking he is not in a condition to make one, now, were he unprovided in that way?" "perhaps not exactly at this moment, though a rally might afford an opportunity. the estate is entailed, i think mr. dutton told me, at dinner." "it is, sir gervaise, and i am the unworthy individual who is to profit by it, according to the common notions of men, though heaven knows i shall consider it any thing but a gain; still, i am the unworthy individual who is to be benefited by my uncle's death." "your father was the baronet's next brother?" observed sir gervaise, casually, a shade of distrust passing athwart his mind, though coming from what source, or directed to what point, he was himself totally unable to say. "mr. baron wychecombe, i believe, was your parent?" "he was, sir gervaise, and a most tender and indulgent father, i ever found him. he left me his earnings, some seven hundred a year, and i am sure the death of sir wycherly is as far from my necessities, as it is from my wishes." "of course you will succeed to the baronetcy, as well as to the estate?" mechanically asked sir gervaise, led on by the supererogatory expressions of tom, himself, rather than by a vulgar curiosity, to ask questions that, under other circumstances, he might have thought improper. "of course, sir. my father was the only surviving brother of sir wycherly; the only one who ever married; and i am _his_ eldest child. since this melancholy event has occurred, it is quite fortunate that i lately obtained this certificate of the marriage of my parents--is it not, sir?" here tom drew from his pocket a soiled piece of paper, which professed to be a certificate of the marriage of thomas wychecombe, barrister, with martha dodd, spinster, &c. &c. the document was duly signed by the rector of a parish church in westminster, and bore a date sufficiently old to establish the legitimacy of the person who held it. this extraordinary precaution produced the very natural effect of increasing the distrust of the vice-admiral, and, in a slight degree, of giving it a direction. "you go well armed, sir," observed sir gervaise, drily. "is it your intention, when you succeed, to carry the patent of the baronetcy, and the title-deeds, in your pocket?" "ah! i perceive my having this document strikes you as odd, sir gervaise, but it can be easily explained. there was a wide difference in rank between my parents, and some ill-disposed persons have presumed so far to reflect on the character of my mother, as to assert she was not married at all." "in which case, sir, you would do well to cut off half-a-dozen of their ears." "the law is not to be appeased in that way, sir gervaise. my dear parent used to inculcate on me the necessity of doing every thing according to law; and i endeavour to remember his precepts. he avowed his marriage on his death-bed, made all due atonement to my respected and injured mother, and informed me in whose hands i should find this very certificate; i only obtained it this morning, which fact will account for its being in my pocket, at this melancholy and unexpected crisis, in my beloved uncle's constitution." the latter part of tom's declaration was true enough; for, after having made all the necessary inquiries, and obtained the hand-writing of a clergyman who was long since dead, he had actually forged the certificate that day, on a piece of soiled paper, that bore the water-mark of . his language, however, contributed to alienate the confidence of his listener; sir gervaise being a man who was so much accustomed to directness and fair-dealing, himself, as to feel disgust at any thing that had the semblance of cant or hypocrisy. nevertheless, he had his own motives for pursuing the subject; the presence of neither at the bed-side of the sufferer, being just then necessary. "and this mr. wycherly wychecombe," he said; "he who has so much distinguished himself of late; your uncle's namesake;--is it true that he is not allied to your family?" "not in the least, sir gervaise," answered tom, with one of his sinister smiles. "he is only a virginian, you know, sir, and cannot well belong to us. i have heard my uncle say, often, that the young gentleman must be descended from an old servant of his father's, who was transported for stealing silver out of a shop on ludgate hill, and who was arrested for passing himself off, as one of the wychecombe family. they tell me, sir gervaise, that the colonies are pretty much made of persons descended from that sort of ancestors?" "i cannot say that i have found it so; though, when i commanded a frigate, i served several years on the north american station. the larger portion of the americans, like much the larger portion of the english, are humble labourers, established in a remote colony, where civilization is not far advanced, wants are many, and means few; but, in the way of character, i am not certain that they are not quite on a level with those they left behind them; and, as to the gentry of the colonies, i have seen many men of the best blood of the mother country among them;--younger sons, and their descendants, as a matter of course, but of an honourable and respected ancestry." "well, sir, this surprises me; and it is not the general opinion, i am persuaded! certainly, it is not the fact as respects the gentleman--stranger, i might call him, for stranger he is at wychecombe--who has not the least right to pretend to belong to us." "did you ever know him to lay claim to that honour, sir?" "not directly, sir gervaise; though i am told he has made many hints to that effect, since he landed here to be cured of his wound. it would have been better had he presented his rights to the landlord, than to present them to the tenants, i think you will allow, as a man of honour, yourself, sir gervaise?" "i can approve of nothing clandestine in matters that require open and fair dealing, mr. thomas wychecombe. but i ought to apologize for thus dwelling on your family affairs, which concern me only as i feel an interest in the wishes and happiness of my new acquaintance, my excellent host." "sir wycherly has property in the funds that is not entailed--quite £ a year, beyond the estates--and i know he has left a will," continued tom; who, with the short-sightedness of a rogue, flattered himself with having made a favourable impression on his companion, and who was desirous of making him useful to himself, in an emergency that he felt satisfied must terminate in the speedy death of his uncle. "yes, a good £ a year, in the fives; money saved from his rents, in a long life. this will probably has some provision in favour of my younger brothers; and perhaps of this namesake of his,"--tom was well aware that it devised every shilling, real and personal, to himself;--"for a kinder heart does not exist on earth. in fact, this will my uncle put in my possession, as heir at law, feeling it due to my pretensions, i suppose; but i have never presumed to look into it." here was another instance of excessive finesse, in which tom awakened suspicion by his very efforts to allay it. it seemed highly improbable to sir gervaise, that a man like the nephew could long possess his uncle's will, and feel no desire to ascertain its contents. the language of the young man was an indirect admission, that he might have examined the will if he would; and the admiral felt disposed to suspect that what he might thus readily have done, he actually had done. the dialogue, however, terminated here; dutton, just at that moment, entering the room on the errand on which he had been sent by admiral bluewater, and tom joining his old acquaintance, as soon as the latter made his appearance. sir gervaise oakes was too much concerned for the condition of his host, and had too many cares of his own, to think deeply or long on what had just passed between himself and tom wychecombe. had they separated that night, what had been said, and the unfavourable impressions it had made, would have been soon forgotten; but circumstances subsequently conspired to recall the whole to his mind, of which the consequences will be related in the course of our narrative. dutton appeared to be a little shocked as he gazed upon the pallid features of sir wycherly, and he was not sorry when tom led him aside, and began to speak confidentially of the future, and of the probable speedy death of his uncle. had there been one present, gifted with the power of reading the thoughts and motives of men, a deep disgust of human frailties must have come over him, as these two impure spirits betrayed to him their cupidity and cunning. outwardly, they were friends mourning over a mutual probable loss; while inwardly, dutton was endeavouring to obtain such a hold of his companion's confidence, as might pave the way to his own future preferment to the high and unhoped-for station of a rich baronet's father-in-law; while tom thought only of so far mystifying the master, as to make use of him, on an emergency, as a witness to establish his own claims. the manner in which he endeavoured to effect his object, however, must be left to the imagination of the reader, as we have matters of greater moment to record at this particular juncture. from the time sir wycherly was laid on his bed, mr. rotherham had been seated at the sick man's side, watching the course of his attack, and ready to interpret any of the patient's feebly and indistinctly expressed wishes. we say indistinctly, because the baronet's speech was slightly affected with that species of paralysis which reduces the faculty to the state that is vulgarly called thick-tongued. although a three-bottle man, mr. rotherham was far from being without his devout feelings, on occasions, discharging all the clerical functions with as much unction as the habits of the country, and the opinions of the day, ordinarily exacted of divines. he had even volunteered to read the prayers for the sick, as soon as he perceived that the patient's recollection had returned; but this kind offer had been declined by sir wycherly, under the clearer views of fitness, that the near approach of death is apt to give, and which views left a certain consciousness that the party assembled was not in the best possible condition for that sacred office. sir wycherly revived so much, at last, as to look about him with increasing consciousness; and, at length, his eyes passed slowly over the room, scanning each person singly, and with marked deliberation. "i know you all--now," said the kind-hearted baronet, though always speaking thick, and with a little difficulty; "am sorry to give--much trouble. i have--little time to spare." "i hope not, sir wycherly," put in the vicar, in a consolatory manner; "you have had a sharp attack, but then there is a good constitution to withstand it." "my time--short--feel it here," rejoined the patient, passing his hand over his forehead. "note that, dutton," whispered tom wycherly. "my poor uncle intimates himself that his mind is a little shaken. under such circumstances, it would be cruel to let him injure himself with business." "it cannot be done _legally_, mr. thomas--i should think admiral oakes would interfere to prevent it." "rotherham," continued the patient, "i will--settle with--world; then, give--thoughts--to god. have we--guests--the house?--men of family--character?" "certainly, sir wycherly; admiral oakes is in the room, even; and admiral bluewater, is, i believe, still in the house. you invited both to pass the night with you." "i remember it--now; my mind--still--confused,"--here tom wychecombe again nudged the master--"sir gervaise oakes--an admiral--ancient baronet--man of high honour. admiral bluewater, too--relative--lord bluewater; gentleman--universal esteem. you, too, rotherham; wish my poor brother james--st. james--used to call him--had been living;--you--good neighbour--rotherham." "can i do any thing to prove it, my dear sir wycherly? nothing would make me happier than to know, and to comply with, all your wishes, at a moment so important!" "let all quit--room--but yourself--head feels worse--i cannot delay--" "'tis cruel to distress my beloved uncle with business, or conversation, in his present state," interposed tom wychecombe, with emphasis, and, in a slight degree, with authority. all not only felt the truth of this, but all felt that the speaker, by his consanguinity, had a clear right to interfere, in the manner he had. still sir gervaise oakes had great reluctance in yielding to this remonstrance; for, to the distrust he had imbibed of tom wychecombe, was added an impression that his host wished to reveal something of interest, in connection with his new favourite, the lieutenant. he felt compelled, notwithstanding, to defer to the acknowledged nephew's better claims, and he refrained from interfering. fortunately, sir wycherly was yet in a state to enforce his own wishes. "let all quit--room," he repeated, in a voice that was startling by its unexpected firmness, and equally unexpected distinctness. "all but sir gervaise oakes--admiral bluewater--mr. rotherham, gentlemen--favour to remain--rest depart." accustomed to obey their master's orders, more especially when given in a tone so decided, the domestics quitted the room, accompanied by dutton; but tom wychecombe saw fit to remain, as if his presence were to be a matter of course. "do me--favour--withdraw,--mr. wychecombe," resumed the baronet, after fixing his gaze on his nephew for some time, as if expecting him to retire without this request. "my beloved uncle, it is i--thomas, your own brother's son--your next of kin--waiting anxiously by your respected bed-side. do not--do not--confound me with strangers. such a forgetfulness would break my heart!" "forgive me, nephew--but i wish--alone with these gentle----head--getting--confused--" "you see how it is, sir gervaise oakes--you see how it is, mr. rotherham. ah! there goes the coach that is to take admiral bluewater to his boat. my uncle wished for three witnesses to something, and i can remain as one of the three." "is it your pleasure, sir wycherly, to wish to see us alone?" asked sir gervaise, in a manner that showed authority would be exercised to enforce his request, should the uncle still desire the absence of his nephew. a sign from the sick man indicated the affirmative, and that in a manner too decided to admit of mistake. "you perceive, mr. wychecombe, what are your uncle's wishes," observed sir gervaise, very much in the way that a well-bred superior intimates to an inferior the compliance he expects; "i trust his desire will not be disregarded, at a moment like this." "i am sir wycherly wychecombe's next of kin," said tom, in a slightly bullying tone; "and no one has the same right as a relative, and, i may say, his heir, to be at his bed-side." "that depends on the pleasure of sir wycherly wychecombe himself, sir. _he_ is master here; and, having done me the honour to invite me under his roof as a guest, and, now, having requested to see me alone, with others he has expressly named--one of whom you are not--i shall conceive it my duty to see his wishes obeyed." this was said in the firm, quiet way, that the habit of command had imparted to sir gervaise's manner; and tom began to see it might be dangerous to resist. it was important, too, that one of the vice-admiral's character and station should have naught to say against him, in the event of any future controversy; and, making a few professions of respect, and of his desire to please his uncle, tom quitted the room. a gleam of satisfaction shot over the sick man's countenance, as his nephew disappeared; and then his eye turned slowly towards the faces of those who remained. "bluewater," he said, the thickness of his speech, and the general difficulty of utterance, seeming to increase; "the rear-admiral--i want all--respectable--witnesses in the house." "my friend has left us, i understand," returned sir gervaise, "insisting on his habit of never sleeping out of his ship; but atwood must soon be back; i hope _he_ will answer!" a sign of assent was given; and, then, there was the pause of a minute, or two, ere the secretary made his appearance. as soon, however, as he had returned, the three collected around the baronet's bed, not without some of the weakness which men are supposed to have inherited from their common mother eve, in connection with the motive for this singular proceeding of the baronet. "sir gervaise--rotherham--mr. atwood," slowly repeated the patient, his eye passing from the face of one to that of another, as he uttered the name of each; "three witnesses--that will do--thomas said--must have _three_--three _good_ names." "what can we do to serve you, sir wycherly?" inquired the admiral, with real interest. "you have only to name your requests, to have them faithfully attended to." "old sir michael wychecombe, kt.--two wives--margery and joan. two wives--two sons--half-blood--thomas, james, charles, and gregory, _whole_--sir reginald wychecombe, _half_. understand--hope--gentlemen?" "this is not being very clear, certainly," whispered sir gervaise; "but, perhaps by getting hold of the other end of the rope, we may under-run it, as we sailors say, and come at the meaning--we will let the poor man proceed, therefore. quite plain, my dear sir, and what have you next to tell us. you left off without saying only _half_ about sir reginald." "half-blood; only _half_--tom and the rest, whole. sir reginald, no _nullius_--young tom, a _nullius_." "a _nullius_, mr. rotherham! you understand latin, sir; what can a _nullius_, mean? no such rope in the ship, hey! atwood?" "_nullius_, or _nullius_, as it ought sometimes to be pronounced, is the genitive case, singular, of the pronoun _nullus; nullus, nulla, nullum_; which means, 'no man,' 'no woman,' 'no thing.' _nullius_ means, 'of no man,' 'of no woman,' 'of no thing.'" the vicar gave this explanation, much in the way a pedagogue would have explained the matter to a class. "ay-ay--any school-boy could have told that, which is the first form learning. but what the devil can 'nom. _nullus, nulla, nullum_; gen. _nullius, nullius, nullius_,' have to do with mr. thomas wychecombe, the nephew and heir of the present baronet?" "that is more than i can inform you, sir gervaise," answered the vicar, stiffly; "but, for the latin, i will take upon myself to answer, that it is good." sir gervaise was too-well bred to laugh, but he found it difficult to suppress a smile. "well, sir wycherly," resumed the vice-admiral, "this is quite plain--sir reginald is only _half_, while your nephew tom, and the rest, are _whole_--margery and joan, and all that. any thing more to tell us, my dear sir?" "tom _not_ whole--_nullus_, i wish to say. sir reginald _half_--no _nullus_." "this is like being at sea a week, without getting a sight of the sun! i am all adrift, now, gentlemen." "sir wycherly does not attend to his cases," put in atwood, drily. "at one time, he is in the _genitive_, and then he gets back to the _nominative_; which is leaving us in the _vocative_" "come--come--atwood, none of your gun-room wit, on an occasion so solemn as this. my dear sir wycherly, have you any thing more to tell us? i believe we perfectly understand you, now. tom is not _whole_--you wish to say _nullus_, and not to say _nullius_. sir reginald is only _half_, but he is no _nullus_." "yes, sir--that is it," returned the old man, smiling. "_half_, but no _nullus_. change my mind--seen too much of the other, lately--tom, my nephew--want to make _him_ my heir." "this is getting clearer, out of all question. you wish to make your nephew, tom, your heir. but the law does that already, does it not my dear sir? mr. baron wychecombe was the next brother of the baronet; was he not, mr. rotherham?" "so i have always understood, sir; and mr. thomas wychecombe must be the heir at law." "no--no--_nullus_--_nullus_," repeated sir wycherly, with so much eagerness as to make his voice nearly indistinct; "sir reginald--sir reginald--sir reginald." "and pray, mr. rotherham, who may this sir reginald be? some old baronet of the family, i presume." "not at all, sir; it is sir reginald wychecombe of wychecombe-regis, herts; a baronet of queen anne's time, and a descendant from a cadet of this family, i am told." "this is getting on soundings--i had taken it into my head this sir reginald was some old fellow of the reign of one of the plantagenets. well, sir wycherly, do you wish us to send an express into hertfordshire, in quest of sir reginald wychecombe, who is quite likely your executor? do not give yourself the pain to speak; a sign will answer." sir wycherly seemed struck with the suggestion, which, the reader will readily understand, was far from being his real meaning; and then he smiled, and nodded his head in approbation. sir gervaise, with the prompitude of a man of business, turned to the table where the vicar had written notes to the medical men, and dictated a short letter to his secretary. this letter he signed, and in five minutes atwood left the room, to order it to be immediately forwarded by express. when this was done, the admiral rubbed his hands, in satisfaction, like a man who felt he had got himself cleverly out of a knotty difficulty. "i don't see, after all, mr. rotherham," he observed to the vicar, as they stood together, in a corner of the room, waiting the return of the secretary; "what he lugged in that school-boy latin for--_nullus, nulla, nullum_! can you possibly explain _that_?" "not unless it was sir wycherly's desire to say, that sir reginald, being descended from a younger son, was nobody--as yet, had no woman--and i believe he is not married--and was poor, or had 'no _thing_.'" "and is sir wycherly such a desperate scholar, that he would express himself in this hieroglyphical manner, on what i fear will prove to be his death-bed?" "why, sir gervaise, sir wycherly was educated like all other young gentlemen, but has forgotten most of his classics, in the course of a long life of ease and affluence. is it not probable, now, that his recollection has returned to him suddenly, in consequence of this affection of the head? i think i have read of some curious instances of these reviving memories, on a death-bed, or after a fit of sickness." "ay, that you may have done!" exclaimed sir gervaise, smiling; "and poor, good sir wycherly, must have begun afresh, at the very place where he left off. but here is atwood, again." after a short consultation, the three chosen witnesses returned to the bed-side, the admiral being spokesman. "the express will be off in ten minutes. sir wycherly," he said; "and you may hope to see your relative, in the course of the next two or three days." "too late--too late," murmured the patient, who had an inward consciousness of his true situation; "too late--turn the will round--sir reginald, tom;--tom, sir reginald. turn the will round." "turn the will round!--this is very explicit, gentlemen, to those who can understand it. sir reginald, tom;--tom, sir reginald. at all events, it is clear that his mind is dwelling on the disposition of his property, since he speaks of wills. atwood, make a note of these words, that there need be no mistake. i wonder he has said nothing of our brave young lieutenant, his namesake. there can be no harm, mr. rotherham, in just mentioning that fine fellow to him, in a moment like this?" "i see none, sir. it is _our_ duty to remind the sick of _their_ duties." "do you not wish to see your young namesake, lieutenant _wycherly_ wychecombe, sir wycherly?" asked the admiral; sufficiently emphasizing the christian name. "he must be in the house, and i dare say would be happy to obey your wishes." "i hope he is well, sir--fine young gentleman--honour to the name, sir." "quite true, sir wycherly; and an honour to the _nation_, too." "didn't know virginia was a _nation_--so much the better--fine young _virginian_, sir." "of your _family_, no doubt, sir wycherly, as well as of your name," added the admiral, who secretly suspected the young sailor of being a son of the baronet, notwithstanding all he had heard to the contrary. "an exceedingly fine young man, and an honour to any house in england!" "i suppose they _have_ houses in virginia--bad climate; houses necessary. no relative, sir;--probably a _nullus_. many wychecombes, _nulluses_. tom, a _nullus_--this young gentleman, a _nullus_--wychecombes of surrey, all _nulluses_--sir reginald no _nullus_; but a _half_--thomas, james, charles, and gregory, all _whole_. my brother, baron wychecombe, told me--before died." "_whole what_, sir wycherly?" asked the admiral, a little vexed at the obscurity of the other's language. "blood--_whole blood_, sir. capital law, sir gervaise; had it from the baron--first hand." now, one of the peculiarities of england is, that, in the division of labour, few know any thing material about the law, except the professional men. even their knowledge is divided and sub-divided, in a way that makes a very fair division of profit. thus the conveyancer is not a barrister; the barrister is not an attorney; and the chancery practitioner would be an unsafe adviser for one of the purely law courts. that particular provision of the common law, which baron wychecombe had mentioned to his brother, as the rule of the _half-blood_, has been set aside, or modified, by statute, within the last ten years; but few english laymen would be at all likely to know of such a law of descent even when it existed; for while it did violence to every natural sentiment of right, it lay hidden in the secrets of the profession. were a case stated to a thousand intelligent englishmen, who had not read law, in which it was laid down that brothers, by different mothers, though equally sons of the founder of the estate, could not take from each other, unless by devise or entail, the probability is that quite nine in ten would deny the existence of any rule so absurd; and this, too, under the influence of feelings that were creditable to their sense of natural justice. nevertheless, such was one of the important provisions of the "perfection of reason," until the recent reforms in english law; and it has struck us as surprising, that an ingenious writer of fiction, who has recently charmed his readers with a tale, the interest of which turns principally on the vicissitudes of practice, did not bethink him of this peculiar feature of his country's laws; inasmuch as it would have supplied mystery sufficient for a dozen ordinary romances, and improbabilities enough for a hundred. that sir gervaise and his companions should be ignorant of the "law of the half-blood," is, consequently, very much a matter of course; and no one ought to be surprised that the worthy baronet's repeated allusions to the "whole," and the "half," were absolutely enigmas, which neither had the knowledge necessary to explain. "what _can_ the poor fellow mean?" demanded the admiral, more concerned than he remembered ever before to have been, on any similar occasion. "one could wish to serve him as much as possible, but all this about '_nullus_,' and 'whole blood,' and 'half,' is so much gibberish to me--can you make any thing of it,--hey! atwood?" "upon my word, sir gervaise, it seems a matter for a judge, rather than for man-of-war's men, like ourselves." "it certainly can have no connection with this rising of the jacobites? _that_ is an affair likely to trouble a loyal subject, in his last moments, mr. rotherham!" "sir wycherly's habits and age forbid the idea that he knows more of _that_, sir, than is known to us all. his request, however, to 'turn the will round,' i conceive to be altogether explicit. several capital treatises have appeared lately on the 'human will,' and i regret to say, my honoured friend and patron has not always been quite as orthodox on that point, as i could wish. i, therefore, consider his words as evidence of a hearty repentance." sir gervaise looked about him, as was his habit when any droll idea crossed his mind; but again suppressing the inclination to smile, he answered with suitable gravity-- "i understand you, sir; you think all these inexplicable terms are connected with sir wycherly's religious feelings. you may certainly be right, for it exceeds my knowledge to connect them with any thing else. i wish, notwithstanding, he had not disowned this noble young lieutenant of ours! is it quite certain the young man is a virginian?" "so i have always understood it, sir. he has never been known in this part of england, until he was landed from a frigate in the roads, to be cured of a serious wound. i think none of sir wycherly's allusions have the least reference to _him_." sir gervaise oakes now joined his hands behind his back, and walked several times, quarter-deck fashion, to and fro, in the room. at each turn, his eyes glanced towards the bed, and he ever found the gaze of the sick man anxiously fastened on himself. this satisfied him that religion had nothing to do with his host's manifest desire to make himself understood; and his own trouble was greatly increased. it seemed to him, as if the dying man was making incessant appeals to his aid, without its being in his power to afford it. it was not possible for a generous man, like sir gervaise, to submit to such a feeling without an effort; and he soon went to the side of the bed, again, determined to bring the affair to some intelligible issue. "do you think, sir wycherly, you could write a few lines, if we put pen, ink, and paper before you?" he asked, as a sort of desperate remedy. "impossible--can hardly see; have got no strength--stop--will try--if you please." sir gervaise was delighted with this, and he immediately directed his companions to lend their assistance. atwood and the vicar bolstered the old man up, and the admiral put the writing materials before him, substituting a large quarto bible for a desk. sir wycherly, after several abortive attempts, finally got the pen in his hand, and with great difficulty traced six or seven nearly illegible words, running the line diagonally across the paper. by this time his powers failed him altogether, and he sunk back, dropping the pen, and closing his eyes in a partial insensibility. at this critical instant, the surgeon entered, and at once put an end to the interview, by taking charge of the patient, and directing all but one or two necessary attendants, to quit the room. the three chosen witnesses of what had just past, repaired together to a parlour; atwood, by a sort of mechanical habit, taking with him the paper on which the baronet had scrawled the words just mentioned. this, by a sort of mechanical use, also, he put into the hands of sir gervaise, as soon as they entered the room; much as he would have laid before his superior, an order to sign, or a copy of a letter to the secretary of the navy board. "this is as bad as the '_nullus_!'" exclaimed sir gervaise, after endeavouring to decipher the scrawl in vain. "what is this first word, mr. rotherham--'irish,' is it not,--hey! atwood?" "i believe it is no move than 'i-n,' stretched over much more paper than is necessary." "you are right enough, vicar; and the next word is 'the,' though it looks like a _chevaux de frise_--what follows? it looks like 'man-of-war.' atwood?" "i beg your pardon, sir gervaise; this first letter is what i should call an elongated n--the next is certainly an a--the third looks like the waves of a river--ah! it is an m--and the last is an e--n-a-m-e--that makes 'name,' gentlemen." "yes," eagerly added the vicar, "and the two next words are, 'of god.'" "then it is religion, after all, that was on the poor man's mind!" exclaimed sir gervaise, in a slight degree disappointed, if the truth must be told. "what's this a-m-e-n--'amen'--why it's a sort of prayer." "this is the form in which it is usual to commence wills, i believe, sir gervaise," observed the secretary, who had written many a one, on board ship, in his day. "'in the name of god, amen.'" "by george, you're right, atwood; and the poor man was trying, all the while, to let us know how he wished to dispose of his property! what could he mean by the _nullus_--it is not possible that the old gentleman has nothing to leave?" "i'll answer for it, sir gervaise, _that_ is not the true explanation," the vicar replied. "sir wycherly's affairs are in the best order; and, besides the estate, he has a large sum in the funds." "well, gentlemen, we can do no more to-night. a medical man is already in the house, and bluewater will send ashore one or two others from the fleet. in the morning, if sir wycherly is in a state to converse, this matter shall be attended to." the party now separated; a bed being provided for the vicar, and the admiral and his secretary retiring to their respective rooms. chapter x. "bid physicians talk our veins to temper, and with an argument new-set a pulse; then think, my lord, of reasoning into love." young. while the scene just related, took place in the chamber of the sick man, admiral bluewater, mrs. dutton, and mildred left the house, in the old family-coach. the rear-admiral had pertinaciously determined to adhere to his practice of sleeping in his ship; and the manner in which he had offered seats to his two fair companions--for mrs. dutton still deserved to be thus termed--has already been seen. the motive was simply to remove them from any further brutal exhibitions of dutton's cupidity, while he continued in his present humour; and, thus influenced, it is not probable that the gallant old sailor would be likely to dwell, more than was absolutely necessary, on the unpleasant scene of which he had been a witness. in fact, no allusion was made to it, during the quarter of an hour the party was driving from the hall to the station-house. they all spoke, with regret,--mildred with affectionate tenderness, even,--of poor sir wycherly; and several anecdotes, indicative of his goodness of heart, were eagerly related to bluewater, by the two females, as the carriage moved heavily along. in the time mentioned, the vehicle drew up before the door of the cottage, and all three alighted. if the morning of that day had been veiled in mist, the sun had set in as cloudless a sky, as is often arched above the island of great britain. the night was, what in that region, is termed a clear moonlight. it was certainly not the mimic day that is so often enjoyed in purer atmospheres, but the panorama of the head-land was clothed in a soft, magical sort of semi-distinctness, that rendered objects sufficiently obvious, and exceedingly beautiful. the rounded, shorn swells of the land, hove upward to the eye, verdant and smooth; while the fine oaks of the park formed a shadowy background to the picture, inland. seaward, the ocean was glittering, like a reversed plane of the firmament, far as eye could reach. if our own hemisphere, or rather this latitude, may boast of purer skies than are enjoyed by the mother country, the latter has a vast superiority in the tint of the water. while the whole american coast is bounded by a dull-looking sheet of sea-green, the deep blue of the wide ocean appears to be carried close home to the shores of europe. this glorious tint, from which the term of "ultramarine" has been derived, is most remarkable in the mediterranean, that sea of delights; but it is met with, all along the rock-bound coasts of the peninsula of spain and portugal, extending through the british channel, until it is in a measure, lost on the shoals of the north sea; to be revived, however, in the profound depths of the ocean that laves the wild romantic coast of norway. "'tis a glorious night!" exclaimed bluewater, as he handed mildred, the last, from the carriage; "and one can hardly wish to enter a cot, let it swing ever so lazily." "sleep is out of the question," returned mildred, sorrowfully. "these are nights in which even the weary are reluctant to lose their consciousness; but who can sleep while there is this uncertainty about dear sir wycherly." "i rejoice to hear you say this, mildred,"--for so the admiral had unconsciously, and unrepelled, begun to call his sweet companion--"i rejoice to hear you say this, for i am an inveterate star-gazer and moon-ite; and i shall hope to persuade you and mrs. dutton to waste yet another hour, with me, in walking on this height. ah! yonder is sam yoke, my coxswain, waiting to report the barge; i can send sir gervaise's message to the surgeons, by deputy, and there will be no occasion for my hastening from this lovely spot, and pleasant company." the orders were soon given to the coxswain. a dozen boats, it would seem, were in waiting for officers ashore, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour; and directions were sent for two of them to pull off, and obtain the medical men. the coach was sent round to receive the latter, and then all was tranquil, again, on the height. mrs. dutton entered the house, to attend to some of her domestic concerns, while the rear-admiral took the arm of mildred, and they walked, together, to the verge of the cliffs. a fairer moonlight picture seldom offered itself to a seaman's eye, than that which now lay before the sight of admiral bluewater and mildred. beneath them rode the fleet; sixteen sail of different rigs, eleven of which, however, were two-decked ships of the largest size then known in naval warfare; and all of which were in that perfect order, that an active and intelligent commander knows how to procure, even from the dilatory and indifferent. if admiral bluewater was conspicuous in man[oe]uvring a fleet, and in rendering every vessel of a line that extended a league, efficient, and that too, in her right place, sir gervaise oakes had the reputation of being one of the best seamen, in the ordinary sense of the word, in england. no vessel under his command, ever had a lubberly look; and no ship that had any sailing in her, failed to have it brought out of her. the vice-admiral was familiar with that all-important fact--one that members equally of congress and of parliament are so apt to forgot, or rather not to know at all--that the efficiency of a whole fleet, as a fleet, is necessarily brought down to the level of its worst ships. of little avail is it, that four or five vessels of a squadron sail fast, and work well, if the eight or ten that remain, behave badly, and are dull. a separation of the vessels is the inevitable consequence, when the properties of all are thoroughly tried; and the division of a force, is the first step towards its defeat; as its proper concentration, is a leading condition of victory. as the poorer vessels cannot imitate the better, the good are compelled to regulate their movements by the bad; which is at once essentially bringing down the best ships of a fleet to the level of its worst; the proposition with which we commenced. sir gervaise oakes was so great a favourite, that all he asked was usually conceded to him. one of his conditions was, that his vessels should sail equally well; "if you give me fast ships," he said, "i can overtake the enemy; if dull, the enemy can overtake me; and i leave you to say which course will be most likely to bring on an action. at any rate, give me _consorts_; not one flyer, and one drag; but vessels that can keep within hail of each other, without anchoring." the admiralty professed every desire to oblige the gallant commander; and, as he was resolved never to quit the plantagenet until she was worn out, it was indispensably necessary to find as many fast vessels as possible, to keep her company. the result was literally a fleet of "horses," as galleygo used to call it; and it was generally said in the service, that "oakes had a squadron of flyers, if not a flying-squadron." vessels like these just mentioned, are usually symmetrical and graceful to the eye, as well as fast. this fact was apparent to mildred, accustomed as she was to the sight of ships and she ventured to express as much, after she and her companion had stood quite a minute on the cliff, gazing at the grand spectacle beneath them. "your vessels look even handsomer than common, admiral bluewater," she said, "though a ship, to me, is always an attractive sight." "this is because they _are_ handsomer than common, my pretty critic. vice-admiral oakes is an officer who will no more tolerate an ugly ship in his fleet, than a peer of the realm will marry any woman but one who is handsome; unless indeed she happen to be surpassingly rich." "i have heard that men are accustomed to lose their hearts under such an influence," said mildred, laughing; "but i did not know before, that they were ever frank enough to avow it!" "the knowledge has been imparted by a prudent mother, i suppose," returned the rear-admiral, in a musing manner; "i wish i stood sufficiently in the parental relation to you, my young friend, to venture to give a little advice, also. never, before, did i feel so strong a wish to warn a human being of a great danger that i fear is impending over her, could i presume to take the liberty." "it is not a liberty, but a duty, to warn any one of a danger that is known to ourselves, and not to the person who incurs the risk. at least so it appears to the eyes of a very young girl." "yes, if the danger was of falling from these cliffs, or of setting fire to a house, or of any other visible calamity. the case is different, when young ladies, and setting fire to the heart, are concerned." "certainly, i can perceive the distinction," answered mildred, after a short pause; "and can understand that the same person who would not scruple to give the alarm against any physical danger, would hesitate even at hinting at one of a moral character. nevertheless, if admiral bluewater think a simple girl, like me, of sufficient importance to take the trouble to interest himself in her welfare, i should hope he would not shrink from pointing out this danger. it is a terrible word to sleep on; and i confess, besides a little uneasiness, to a good deal of curiosity to know more." "this is said, mildred, because you are unaccustomed to the shocks which the tongue of rude man may give your sensitive feelings." "unaccustomed!" said mildred, trembling so that the weakness was apparent to her companion. "unaccustomed! alas! admiral bluewater, can this be so, after what you have seen and heard!" "pardon me, dear child: nothing was farther from my thoughts, than to wish to revive those unpleasant recollections. if i thought i should be forgiven, i might venture, yet, to reveal my secret; for never before--though i cannot tell the reason of so sudden and so extraordinary an interest in one who is almost a stranger--" "no--no--not a stranger, dear sir. after all that has passed to-day; after you have been admitted, though it were by accident, to one most sacred secret;--after all that was said in the carriage, and the terrible scenes my beloved mother went through in your presence so many years since, you can never be a stranger to _us_, whatever may be your own desire to fancy yourself one." "girl, you do not fascinate--you do not charm me, but you _bind_ me to you in a way i did not think it in the power of any human being to subjugate my feelings!" this was said with so much energy, that mildred dropped the arm she held, and actually recoiled a step, if not in alarm, at least in surprise. but, on looking up into the face of her companion, and perceiving large tears actually glistening on his cheek, and seeing the hair that exposure and mental cares had whitened more than time, all her confidence returned, and she resumed the place she had abandoned, of her own accord, and as naturally as a daughter would have clung to the side of a father. "i am sure, sir, my gratitude for this interest ought to be quite equal to the honour it does me," mildred said, earnestly. "and, now, admiral bluewater, do not hesitate to speak to me with the frankness that a parent might use. i will listen with the respect and deference of a daughter." "then do listen to what i have to say, and make no answer, if you find yourself wounded at the freedom i am taking. it would seem that there is but one subject on which a man, old fellow or young fellow, can speak to a lovely young girl, when he gets her alone, under the light of a fine moon;--and that is love. nay, start not again, my dear, for, if i am about to speak on so awkward a subject, it is not in my own behalf i hardly know whether you will think it in behalf of any one; as what i have to say, is not an appeal to your affections, but a warning against bestowing them." "a warning, admiral bluewater! do you really think that can be necessary?" "nay, my child, that is best known to yourself. of one thing i am certain; the young man i have in my eye, affects to admire you, whether he does or not; and when young women are led to believe they are loved, it is a strong appeal to all their generous feelings to answer the passion, if not with equal warmth, at least with something very like it." "affects to admire, sir!--and why should any one be at the pains of _affecting_ feelings towards me, that they do not actually entertain? i have neither rank, nor money, to bribe any one to be guilty of an hypocrisy so mean, and which, in my ease, would be so motiveless." "yes, if it _were_ motiveless to win the most beautiful creature in england! but, no matter. we will not stop to analyze motives, when _facts_ are what we aim at. i should think there must be some passion in this youth's suit, and that will only make it so much the more dangerous to its object. at all events, i feel a deep conviction that he is altogether unworthy of you. this is a bold expression of opinion on an acquaintance of a day; but there are such reasons for it, that a man of my time of life, if unprejudiced, can scarcely be deceived." "all this is very singular, sir, and i had almost used your own word of 'alarming,'" replied mildred, slightly agitated by curiosity, but more amused. "i shall be as frank as yourself, and say that you judge the gentleman harshly. mr. rotherham may not have all the qualities that a clergyman ought to possess, but he is far from being a bad man. good or bad, however, it is not probable that he will carry his transient partiality any farther than he has gone already." "mr. rotherham!--i have neither thought nor spoken of the pious vicar at all!" mildred was now sadly confused. mr. rotherham had made his proposals for her, only the day before, and he had been mildly, but firmly refused. the recent occurrence was naturally uppermost in her mind; and the conjecture that her rejected suitor, under the influence of wine, might have communicated the state of his wishes, or what he fancied to be the state of his wishes, to her companion, was so very easy, that she had fallen into the error, almost without reflection. "i beg pardon, sir--i really imagined," the confused girl answered; "but, it was a natural mistake for me to suppose you meant mr. rotherham, as he is the only person who has ever spoken to my mother on the subject of any thing like a preference for me." "i should have less fear of those who spoke to your mother, mildred, than of those who spoke only to _you_. as i hate ambiguity, however, i will say, at once, that my allusion was to mr. wychecombe." "mr. wychecombe, admiral bluewater!"--and the veteran felt the arm that leaned on him tremble violently, a sad confirmation of even more than he apprehended, or he would not have been so abrupt. "surely--surely--the warning you mean, cannot, _ought_ not to apply to a gentleman of mr. wychecombe's standing and character!" "such is the world, miss dutton, and we old seamen, in particular, get to know it, whether willingly or not. my sudden interest in you, the recollection of former, but painful scenes, and the events of the day, have made me watchful, and, you will add, bold--but i am resolved to speak, even at the risk of disobliging you for ever--and, in speaking, i must say that i never met with a young man who has made so unfavourable an impression on me, as this same mr. wychecombe." mildred, unconsciously to herself, withdrew her arm, and she felt astonished at her own levity, in so suddenly becoming sufficiently intimate with a stranger to permit him thus to disparage a confirmed friend. "i am sorry, sir, that you entertain so indifferent an opinion of one who is, i believe, a general favourite, in this part of the country," she answered, with a coldness that rendered her manner marked. "i perceive i shall share the fate of all unwelcome counsellors, but can only blame my own presumption. mildred, we live in momentous times, and god knows what is to happen to myself, in the next few months; but, so strong is the inexplicable interest that i feel in your welfare, that i shall venture still to offend. i like not this mr. wychecombe, who is so devout an admirer of yours--real or affected--and, as to the liking of dependants for the heir of a considerable estate, it is so much a matter of course, that i count it nothing." "the heir of a considerable estate!" repeated mildred, in a voice to which the natural sweetness returned, quietly resuming the arm, she had so unceremoniously dropped--"surely, dear sir, you are not speaking of mr. thomas wychecombe, sir wycherly's nephew." "of whom else should i speak?--has he not been your shadow the whole day?--so marked in his attentions, as scarce to deem it necessary to conceal his suit?" "has it really struck you thus, sir?--i confess i did not so consider it. we are so much at home at the hall, that we rather expect all of that family to be kind to us. but, whether you are right in your conjecture, or not, mr. thomas wychecombe can never be ought to me--and as proof, admiral bluewater, that i take your warning, as it is meant, in kindness and sincerity, i will add, that he is not a very particular favourite." "i rejoice to hear it! now there is his namesake, our young lieutenant, as gallant and as noble a fellow as ever lived--would to heaven be was not so wrapt up in his profession, as to be insensible to any beauties, but those of a ship. were you my own daughter, mildred, i could give you to that lad, with as much freedom as i would give him my estate, were he my son." mildred smiled--and it was archly, though not without a shade of sorrow, too--but she had sufficient self-command, to keep her feelings to herself, and too much maiden reserve not to shrink from betraying her weakness to one who, after all, was little more than a stranger. "i dare say, sir," she answered, with an equivocation which was perhaps venial, "that your knowledge of the world has judged both these gentlemen, rightly. mr. thomas wychecombe, notwithstanding all you heard from my poor father, is not likely to think seriously of me; and i will answer for my own feelings as regards _him_. i am, in no manner, a proper person to become lady wychecombe; and, i trust, i should have the prudence to decline the honour were it even offered to me. believe me, sir, my father would have held a different language to-night, had it not been for sir wycherly's wine, and the many loyal toasts that were drunk. he _must_ be conscious, in his reflecting moments, that a child of his is unsuited to so high a station. our prospects in life were once better than they are now, admiral bluewater; but they have never been such as to raise these high expectations in us." "an officer's daughter may always claim to be a gentlewoman, my dear; and, as such, you might become the wife of a duke, did he love you. since i find my warning unnecessary, however, we will change the discourse. did not something extraordinary occur at this cliff, this morning, and in connection with this very mr. thomas wychecombe? sir gervaise was my informant; but he did not relate the matter very clearly." mildred explained the mistake, and then gave a vivid description of the danger in which the young lieutenant had been placed, as well as of the manner in which he had extricated himself. she particularly dwelt on the extraordinary presence of mind and resolution, by means of which he had saved his life, when the stone first gave way beneath his foot. "all this is well, and what i should have expected from so active and energetic a youth," returned the rear-admiral, a little gravely; "but, i confess i would rather it had not happened. your inconsiderate and reckless young men, who risk their necks idly, in places of this sort, seldom have much in them, after all. had there been a motive, it would have altered the case." "oh! but there _was_ a motive, sir; he was far from doing so silly a thing for nothing!" "and what was the motive, pray?--i can see no sufficient reason why a man of sense should trust his person over a cliff as menacing as this. one may approach it, by moonlight; but in the day, i confess to you i should not fancy standing as near it, as we do at this moment." mildred was much embarrassed for an answer. her own heart told her wycherly's motive, but that it would never do to avow to her companion, great as was the happiness she felt in avowing it to herself. gladly would she have changed the discourse; but, as this could not be done, she yielded to her native integrity of character, and told the truth, as far as she told any thing. "the flowers that grow on the sunny side of these rocks, admiral bluewater, are singularly fragrant and beautiful," she said; "and hearing my mother and myself speaking of them, and how much the former delighted in them, though they were so seldom to be had, he just ventured over the cliff--not here, where it is so _very_ perpendicular, but yonder, where one _may_ cling to it, very well, with a little care--and it was in venturing a little--just a _very_ little too far, he told me, himself, sir, to-day, after dinner,--that the stone broke, and the accident occurred, i do not think mr. wycherly wychecombe in the least fool-hardy, and not at all disposed to seek a silly admiration, by a silly exploit." "he has a most lovely and a most eloquent advocate," returned the admiral, smiling, though the expression of his countenance was melancholy, even to sadness; "and he is acquitted. i think few men of his years would hesitate about risking their necks for flowers so fragrant and beautiful, and so much coveted by _your_ mother, mildred." "and he a sailor, sir, who thinks so little of standing on giddy places, and laughs at fears of this nature?" "quite true; though there are few cliffs on board ship. ropes are our sources of courage." "so i should think, by what passed to-day," returned mildred, laughing. "mr. wycherly called out for a rope, and we just threw him one, to help him out of his difficulty. the moment he got his rope, though it was only yonder small signal-halyards, he felt himself as secure as if he stood up here, on the height, with acres of level ground around him. i do not think he was frightened, at any time; but when he got hold of that little rope, he was fairly valiant!" mildred endeavoured to laugh at her own history, by way of veiling her interest in the event; but her companion was too old, and too discerning, to be easily deceived. he continued silent, as he led her away from the cliff; and when he entered the cottage, mildred saw, by the nearer light of the candles, that his countenance was still sad. admiral bluewater remained half an hour longer in the cottage, when he tore himself away, from a society which, for him, possessed a charm that he could not account for, nor yet scarcely estimate. it was past one, when he bid mrs. dutton and her daughter adieu; promising, however, to see them again, before the fleet sailed. late as it was, the mother and mildred felt no disposition to retire, after the exciting scenes they had gone through; but, feeling a calm on their spirits, succeeding the rude interruption produced by dutton's brutality, they walked out on the cliff, to enjoy the cool air, and the bland scenery of the head-land, at that witching hour. "i should feel alarm at this particularity of attention, from most men, my child," observed the prudent mother, as they left the house: "but the years, and especially the character of admiral bluewater, are pledges that he meditates nothing foolish, nor wrong." "his _years_ would be sufficient, mother," cried mildred, laughing--for her laugh came easily, since the opinion she had just before heard of wycherly's merit--"leaving the character out of the question." "for you, perhaps, mildred, but not for himself. men rarely seem to think themselves too old to win the young of our sex; and what they want in attraction, they generally endeavour to supply by flattery and artifice. but, i acquit our new friend of all that." "had he been my own father, dearest mother, his language, and the interest he took in me, could not have been more paternal. i have found it truly delightful to listen to such counsel, from one of his sex; for, in general, they do not treat me in so sincere and fatherly a manner." mrs. dutton's lip quivered, her eye-lids trembled too, and a couple of tears fell on her cheeks. "it _is_ new to you, mildred, to listen to the language of disinterested affection and wisdom from one of his years and sex. i do not censure your listening with pleasure, but merely tell you to remember the proper reserve of your years and character. hist! there are the sounds of his barge's oars." mildred listened, and the measured but sudden jerk of oars in the rullocks, ascended on the still night-air, as distinctly as they might have been heard in the boat. at the next instant, an eight-oared barge moved swiftly out from under the cliff, and glided steadily on towards a ship, that had one lantern suspended from the end of her gaff, another in her mizzen-top, and the small night-flag of a rear-admiral, fluttering at her mizzen-royal-mast-head. the cutter lay nearest to the landing, and, as the barge approached her, the ladies heard the loud hail of "boat-ahoy!" the answer was also audible; though given in the mild gentleman-like voice of bluewater, himself. it was simply, "rear-admiral's flag." a death-like stillness succeeded this annunciation of the rank of the officer in the passing boat, interrupted only by the measured jerk of the oars. once or twice, indeed, the keen hearing of mildred made her fancy she heard the common dip of the eight oars, and the wash of the water, as they rose from the element, to gain a renewed purchase. as each vessel was approached, however, the hail and the answer were renewed, the quiet of midnight, in every instance, succeeding. at length the barge was seen shooting along on the quarter of the cæsar, the rear-admiral's own ship, and the last hail was given. this time, there was a slight stir in the vessel; and, soon after the sound of the oars ceased, the lanterns descended from the stations they had held, since nightfall. two or three other lanterns were still displayed at the gaffs of other vessels, the signs that their captains were not on board; though whether they were ashore, or visiting in the fleet, were facts best known to themselves. the plantagenet, however, had no light; it being known that sir gervaise did not intend to come off that night. when all this was over, mrs. dutton and mildred sought their pillows, after an exciting day, and, to them, one far more momentous than they were then aware of. chapter xi. "when i consider life, 'tis all a cheat; yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit; trust on, and think to-morrow will repay; to-morrow's falser than the former day." dryden. although admiral bluewater devoted the minimum of time to sleep, he was not what the french term _matinal_. there is a period in the morning, on board of a ship of war,--that of washing decks,--which can best be compared to the discomfort of the american purification, yelep'd "a house-cleaning." this occurs daily, about the rising of the sun; and no officer, whose rank raises him above mingling with the duty, ever thinks, except on extraordinary occasions that may require his presence for other purposes, of intruding on its sacred mysteries. it is a rabid hour in a ship, and the wisest course, for all idlers, and all watch-officers, who are not on duty, is to keep themselves under hatches, if their convenience will possibly allow it. he who wears a flag, however, is usually reposing in his cot, at this critical moment; or, if risen at all, he is going through similar daily ablutions of his own person. admiral bluewater was in the act of opening his eyes, when the splash of the first bucket of water was heard on the deck of the cæsar, and he lay in the species of enjoyment which is so peculiar to naval men, after they have risen to the station of commander; a sort of semi-trance, in which the mind summons all the ancient images, connected with squalls; reefing top-sails in the rain; standing on the quarter of a yard, shouting "haul out to leeward;" peering over the weather hammock-cloths to eye the weather, with the sleet pricking the face like needles;--and, washing decks! these dreamy images of the past, however, are summoned merely to increase the sense of present enjoyment. they are so many well-contrived foils, to give greater brilliancy to the diamonds of a comfortable cot, and the entire consciousness of being no longer exposed to an untimely summons on deck. our rear-admiral, nevertheless, was not a vulgar dreamer, on such occasions. he thought little of personal comforts at any time, unless indeed when personal discomforts obtruded themselves on his attention; he knew little, or nothing, of the table, whereas his friend was a knowing cook, and in his days of probation had been a distinguished caterer; but he was addicted to a sort of dreaming of his own, even when the sun stood in the zenith, and he was walking the poop, in the midst of a circle of his officers. still, he could not refrain from glancing back at the past, that morning, as plash after plash was heard, and recalling the time when _magna pars quorum_ fuit. at this delectable instant, the ruddy face of a "young gentleman" appeared in his state-room door, and, first ascertaining that the eyes of his superior were actually open, the youngster said-- "a note from sir gervaise, admiral bluewater." "very well, sir,"--taking the note.--"how's the wind, lord geoffrey?" "an irishman's hurricane, sir; right up and down. our first says, sir, he never knew finer channel weather." "our first is a great astrologer. is the fleet riding flood yet?" "no, sir; it's slack-water; or, rather, the ebb is just beginning to make." "go on deck, my lord, and see if the dover has hove in any upon her larboard bower, so as to bring her more on our quarter." "ay-ay-sir," and this cadet of one of the most illustrious houses of england, skipped up the ladder to ascertain this fact. in the mean while, bluewater stretched out an arm, drew a curtain from before his little window, fumbled for some time among his clothes before he got his spectacles, and then opened the note. this early epistle was couched in the following words-- "dear blue:-- "i write this in a bed big enough to ware a ninety in. i've been athwart ships half the night, without knowing it. galleygo has just been in to report 'our fleet' all well, and the ships riding flood. it seems there is a good look-out from the top of the house, where part of the roads are visible. magrath, and the rest of them, have been at poor sir wycherly all night. i learn, but he remains down by the head, yet. i am afraid the good old man will never be in trim again. i shall remain here, until something is decided; and as we cannot expect our orders until next day after to-morrow, at the soonest, one might as well be here, as on board. come ashore and breakfast with us; when we can consult about the propriety of remaining, or of abandoning the wreck. adieu, "oakes. "rear-admiral bluewater. "p.s.--there was a little occurrence last night, connected with sir thomas wycherly's will, that makes me particularly anxious to see you, as early as possible, this morning. "o." sir gervaise, like a woman, had written his mind in his postscript. the scene of the previous night had forcibly presented itself to his recollection on awakening, and calling for his writing-desk, he had sent off this note, at the dawn of day, with the wish of having as many important witnesses as he could well obtain, at the interview he intended to demand, at the earliest practicable hour. "what the deuce can oakes have to do with sir wycherly wychecombe's will?" thought the rear-admiral. "by the way, that puts me in mind of my own; and of my own recent determination. what are my poor £ , to a man with the fortune of lord bluewater. having neither a wife nor child, brother nor sister of my own, i'll do what i please with my money. oakes _won't_ have it; besides, he's got enough of his own, and to spare. an estate of £ a year, besides heaps of prize-money funded. i dare say, he has a good £ , a year, and nothing but a nephew to inherit it all. i'm determined to do as i please with my money. i made every shilling of it, and i'll give it to whom i please." the whole time, admiral bluewater lay with his eyes shut, and with a tongue as motionless as if it couldn't stir. with all his _laissez aller_ manner, however, he had the promptitude of a sailor, when his mind was made up to do a thing, though he always performed it in his own peculiar mode. to rise, dress, and prepare to quit his state-room, occupied him but a short time; and he was seated before his own writing-desk, in the after-cabin, within twenty minutes after the thoughts just recorded, had passed through his mind. his first act was to take a folded paper from a private drawer, and glance his eye carelessly over it. this was the will in favour of lord bluewater: it was expressed in very concise terms, filling only the first side of a page. this will he copied, _verbatim et literatim_, leaving blanks for the name of the legatee, and appointing sir gervaise oakes his executor, as in the will already executed. when finished in this manner, he set about filling up the blanks. for a passing instant, he felt tempted to insert the name of the pretender; but, smiling at his own folly, he wrote that of "mildred dutton, daughter of francis dutton, a master in his majesty's navy," in all the places that it was requisite so to do. then he affixed the seal, and, folding all the upper part of the sheet over, so as to conceal the contents, he rang a little silver bell, which always stood at his elbow. the outer cabin-door was opened by the sentry, who thrust his head in at the opening. "i want one of the young gentlemen, sentry," said the rear-admiral. the door closed, and, in another minute, the smiling face of lord geoffrey was at the entrance of the after-cabin. "who's on deck, my lord," demanded bluewater, "beside the watch?" "no one, sir. all the idlers keep as close as foxes, when the decks are getting it; and as for any of our snorers showing their faces before six bells, it's quite out of the question, sir." "some one must surely be stirring in the gun-room, by this time! go and ask the chaplain and the captain of marines to do me the favour to step into the cabin--or the first lieutenant; or the master; or any of the idlers." the midshipman was gone two or three minutes, when he returned with the purser and the chaplain. "the first lieutenant is in the forehold, sir; all the marines have got their dead-lights still in, and the master is working-up his log, the gun-room steward says. i hope these will do, sir; they are the greatest idlers in the ship, i believe." lord geoffrey cleveland was the second son of the third duke in the english empire, and he knew it, as well as any one on board. admiral bluewater had no slavish respect for rank; nevertheless, like all men educated under an aristocratic system, he was influenced by the feeling to a degree of which he himself was far from being conscious. this young scion of nobility was not in the least favoured in matters of duty, for this his own high spirit would have resented; but he dined in the cabin twice as often as any other midshipman on board, and had obtained for himself a sort of license for the tongue, that emboldened him to utter what passed for smart things in the cock-pit and gun-room, and which, out of all doubt, were pert things everywhere. neither the chaplain nor the purser took offence at his liberties on the present occasion; and, as for the rear-admiral, he had not attended to what had been uttered. as soon, however, as he found others in his cabin, he motioned to them to approach his desk, and pointed to the paper, folded down, as mentioned. "every prudent man," he said, "and, especially every prudent sailor and soldier, in a time of war, ought to be provided with a will. this is mine, just drawn up, by myself; and that instrument is an old one, which i now destroy in your presence. i acknowledge this to be my hand and seal," writing his name, and touching the seal with a finger as he spoke; "affixed to this my last will and testament. will you have the kindness to act as witnesses?" when the chaplain and purser had affixed their names, there still remained a space for a third signature. this, by a sign from his superior, the laughing midshipman filled with his own signature. "i hope you've recollected, sir," cried the boy, with glee, as he took his seat to obey; "that the bluewaters and clevelands are related. i shall be grievously disappointed, when this will is proved, if my name be not found somewhere in it!" "so shall i, too, my lord," drily returned bluewater; "for, i fully expect it will appear as a witness; a character that is at once fatal to all claims as a legatee." "well, sir, i suppose flag-officers can do pretty much as they please with their money, since they do pretty much as they please with the ships, and all in them. i must lean so much the harder on my two old aunts, as i appear to have laid myself directly athwart-hawse of fortune, in this affair!" "gentlemen," said the rear-admiral, with easy courtesy, "i regret it is not in my power to have your company at dinner, to-day, as i am summoned ashore by sir gervaise, and it is uncertain when i can get off, again; but to-morrow i shall hope to enjoy that pleasure." the officers bowed, expressed their acknowledgments, accepted the invitation, bowed once or twice more each, and left the cabin, with the exception of the midshipman. "well, sir," exclaimed bluewater, a little surprised at finding he was not alone, after a minute of profound reverie; "to what request am i indebted still for the pleasure of your presence?" "why, sir, it's just forty miles to my father's house in cornwall, and i know the whole family is there; so i just fancied, that by bending on two extra horses, a chaise might make the park gates in about five hours; and by getting under way on the return passage, to-morrow about this time, the old cæsar would never miss a crazy reefer, more or less." "very ingeniously put, young gentleman, and quite plausible. when i was of your age, i was four years without once seeing either father or mother." "yes, sir, but that was such a long time ago! boys can't stand it, half as well now, as they did then, as all old people say." the rear-admiral's lips moved slightly, as if a smile struggled about his mouth; then his face suddenly lost the expression, in one approaching to sadness. "you know, geoffrey, i am not commander-in-chief. sir gervaise alone can give a furlough." "very true, sir; but whatever you ask of sir gervaise, he always does; more especially as concerns us of your flag-ship." "perhaps that is true. but, my boy, we live in serious times, and we may sail at an hour's notice. are you ignorant that prince charles edward has landed in scotland, and that the jacobites are up and doing? if the french back him, we may have our hands full here, in the channel." "then my dear mother must go without a kiss, for the next twelvemonth!" cried the gallant boy, dashing a hand furtively across his eyes, in spite of his resolution. "the throne of old england must be upheld, even though not a mother nor a sister in the island, see a midshipman in years!" "nobly said, lord geoffrey, and it shall be known at head-quarters. _your_ family is whig; and you do well, at your time of life, to stick to the family politics." "a small run on the shore, sir, would be a great pleasure, after six months at sea?" "you must ask captain stowel's leave for that. you know i never interfere with the duty of the ship." "yes, sir, but there are so many of us, and all have a hankering after _terra firma_. might i just say, that i have your permission, to ask captain stowel, to let me have a run on the cliffs?" "you may do _that_, my lord, if you wish it; but stowel knows that he can do as he pleases." "he would be a queer captain of a man-of-war, if he didn't sir! thank you, admiral bluewater; i will write to my mother, and i know she'll be satisfied with the reason i shall give her, for not coming to see her. good-morning, sir." "good-morning,"--then, when the boy's hand was on the lock of the cabin-door--"my lord?" "did you wish to say any thing more, sir?" "when you write, remember me kindly to the duchess. we were intimate, when young people; and, i might say, loved each other." the midshipman promised to do as desired; then the rear-admiral was left alone. he walked the cabin, for half an hour, musing on what he had done in relation to his property, and on what he ought to do, in relation to the pretender; when he suddenly summoned his coxswain, gave a few directions, and sent an order on deck to have his barge manned. the customary reports went their usual rounds, and reached the cabin in about three minutes more; lord geoffrey bringing them down, again. "the barge is manned, sir," said the lad, standing near the cabin-door, rigged out in the neat, go-ashore-clothes of a midshipman. "have you seen captain stowel, my lord?" demanded the rear-admiral. "i have, sir; and he has given me permission to drift along shore, until sunset; to be off with the evening gun of the vice-admiral." "then do me the favour to take a seat in my barge, if you are quite ready." this offer was accepted, and, in a few minutes, all the ceremonies of the deck had been observed, and the rear-admiral was seated in his barge. it was now so late, that etiquette had fair play, and no point was omitted on the occasion. the captain was on deck, in person, as well as gun-room officers enough to represent their body; the guard was paraded, under its officers; the drums rolled; the boatswain piped six side boys over, and lord geoffrey skipped down first into the boat, remaining respectfully standing, until his superior was seated. all these punctilios observed, the boat was shoved off from the vessel's side, the eight oars dropped, as one, and the party moved towards the shore. every cutter, barge, yawl, or launch that was met, and which did not contain an officer of rank itself, tossed its oars, as this barge, with the rear-admiral's flag fluttering in its bow, passed, while the others lay on theirs, the gentlemen saluting with their hats. in this manner the barge passed the fleet, and approached the shore. at the landing, a little natural quay formed by a low flat rock, there was a general movement, as the rear-admiral's flag was seen to draw near; and even the boats of captains were shoved aside, to give the naval _pas_. as soon, however, as the foot of bluewater touched the rock, the little flag was struck; and, a minute later, a cutter, with only a lieutenant in her, coming in, that officer ordered the barge to make way for _him_, with an air of high and undisputed authority. perhaps there was not a man in the british marine, to whom the etiquette of the service gave less concern, than to bluewater. in this respect, he was the very reverse of his friend; for sir gervaise was a punctilious observer, and a rigid enforcer of all the prescribed ceremonials. this was by no means the only professional point on which these two distinguished officers differed. it has already been mentioned, that the rear-admiral was the best tactician in england, while the vice-admiral was merely respectable in that branch of his duty. on the other hand, sir gervaise was deemed the best practical seaman afloat, so far as a single ship was concerned, while bluewater had no particular reputation in that way. then, as to discipline, the same distinction existed. the commander-in-chief was a little of a _martinet_, exacting compliance with the most minute regulations; while his friend, even when a captain, had thrown the police duty of his ship very much on what is called the executive officer: or the first lieutenant; leaving to that important functionary, the duty of devising, as well as of executing the system by which order and cleanliness were maintained in the vessel. nevertheless, bluewater had his merit even in this peculiar feature of the profession. he had made the best captain of the fleet to his friend, that had ever been met with. this office, which, in some measure, corresponds to that of an adjutant-general on shore, was suited to his generalizing and philosophical turn of mind; and he had brought all its duties within the circle and control of clear and simple principles, which rendered them pleasant and easy. then, too, whenever he commanded in chief, as frequently happened, for a week or two at a time, sir gervaise being absent, it was remarked that the common service of the fleet went on like clock-work; his mind seeming to embrace generals, when it refused to descend to details. in consequence of these personal peculiarities, the captains often observed, that bluewater ought to have been the senior, and oakes the junior; and then, their joint commands would have produced perfection; but these criticisms must be set down, in a great measure, to the natural propensity to find fault, and an inherent desire in men, even when things are perfectly well in themselves, to prove their own superiority, by pointing out modes and means by which they might be made much better. had the service been on land, this opinion might possibly have had more practical truth in it; but, the impetuosity and daring of sir gervaise, were not bad substitutes for tactics, in the straight-forward combats of ships. to resume the narrative. when bluewater landed, he returned the profound and general salute of all on or near the rock, by a sweeping, but courteous bow, which was nevertheless given in a vacant, slovenly manner; and immediately began to ascend the ravine. he had actually reached the grassy acclivity above, before he was at all aware of any person's being near him. turning, he perceived that the midshipman was at his heels, respect alone preventing one of the latter's active limbs and years from skipping past his superior on the ascent. the admiral recollected how little there was to amuse one of the boy's habits in a place like wychecombe, and he good-naturedly determined to take him along with himself. "you are little likely to find any diversion here, lord geoffrey," he said; "if you will accept of the society of a dull old fellow, like myself, you shall see all i see, be it more or less." "i've shipped for the cruise, sir, and am ready and happy, too, to follow your motions, with or without signals," returned the laughing youngster. "i suppose wychecombe is about as good as portsmouth, or plymouth; and i'm sure these green fields are handsomer than the streets of any dirty town i ever entered." "ay, green fields are, indeed, pleasant to the eyes of us sailors, who see nothing but water, for months at a time. turn to the right, if you please, my lord; i wish to call at yonder signal-station, on my way to the hall." the boy, as is not usual with lads of his age, inclined in "the way he was told to go," and in a few minutes both stood on the head-land. as it would not have done for the master to be absent from his staff, during the day, with a fleet in the roads, dutton was already at his post, cleanly dressed as usual, but trembling again with the effect of the last night's debauch on his nerves. he arose, with great deference of manner, to receive the rear-admiral, and not without many misgivings of conscience; for, while memory furnished a tolerable outline of what had occurred in the interview between himself and his wife and daughter, wine had lost its influence, and no longer helped to sustain his self-command. he was much relieved, however, by the discreet manner in which he was met by bluewater. "how is sir wycherly?" inquired the admiral saluting the master, as if nothing had happened; "a note from sir gervaise, written about day-break, tells me he was not, then, essentially better." "i wish it were in my power to give you any good news, sir. he must be conscious, notwithstanding; for dick, his groom, has just ridden over with a note from mr. rotherham, to say that the excellent old baronet particularly desires to see my wife and daughter; and that the coach will be here, to take them over in a few minutes. if you are bound to the hall, this morning, sir, i'm certain the ladies would be delighted to give you a seat." "then i will profit by their kindness," returned bluewater, seating himself on the bench at the foot of the staff; "more especially, if you think they will excuse my adding lord geoffrey cleveland, one of stowel's midshipmen, to the party. he has entered, to follow my motions, with or without signals." dutton uncovered again, and bowed profoundly, at this announcement of the lad's name and rank; the boy himself, taking the salute in an off-hand and indifferent way, like one already wearied with vulgar adulation, while he gazed about him, with some curiosity, at the head-land and flag-staff. "this a good look-out, sir," observed the midshipman; "and one that is somewhat loftier than our cross-trees. a pair of sharp eyes might see every thing that passes within twenty miles; and, as a proof of it, i shall be the first to sing out, 'sail, ho!'" "where-away, my young lord?" said dutton, fidgeting, as if he had neglected his duty, in the presence of a superior; "i'm sure, your lordship can see nothing but the fleet at anchor, and a few boats passing between the different ships and the landing!" "where-away, sure enough, youngster?" added the admiral. "i see some gulls glancing along the surface of the water, a mile or two outside the ships, but nothing like a sail." the boy caught up dutton's glass, which lay on the seat, and, in a minute, he had it levelled at the expanse of water. it was some little time, and not without much sighting along the barrel of the instrument, that he got it to suit himself. "well, master sharp-eyes," said bluewater, drily, "is it a frenchman, or a spaniard?" "hold on, a moment, sir, until i can get this awkward glass to bear on it.--ay--now i have her--she's but a speck, at the best--royals and head of top-gallant-sails--no, sir, by george, it's our own cutter, the active, with her square-sail set, and the heads of her lower sails just rising. i know her by the way she carries her gaff." "the active!--that betokens news," observed bluewater, thoughtfully--for the march of events, at that moment, must necessarily brink on a crisis in his own career. "sir gervaise sent her to look into cherbourg." "yes, sir; we all know that--and, there she comes to tell us, i hope, that monsieur de vervillin, has, at last, made up his mind to come out and face us, like a man. will you look at the sail, sir?" bluewater took the glass, and sweeping the horizon, he soon caught a view of his object. a short survey sufficed, for one so experienced, and he handed the glass back to the boy. "you have quick eyes, sir," he said, as he did so; "that is a cutter, certainly, standing in for the roads, and i believe you may be right in taking her for the active." "'tis a long way to know so small a craft!" observed dutton, who also took his look at the stranger. "very true, sir," answered the boy; "but one ought to tell a friend as far as he can see him. the active carries a longer and a lower gaff, than any other cutter in the navy, which is the way we all tell her from the gnat, the cutter we have with us." "i am glad to find your lordship is so close an observer," returned the complaisant dutton; "a certain sign, my lord, that your lordship will make a good sailor, in time." "geoffrey is a good sailor, already," observed the admiral, who knew that the youngster was never better pleased, than when he dropped the distance of using his title, and spoke to, or of him, as of a connection; which, in truth, he was. "he has now been with me four years; having joined when he was only twelve. two more years will make an officer of him." "yes, sir," said dutton, bowing first to one, and then to the other. "yes, sir; his lordship may well look forward to that, with _his_ particular merit, _your_ esteemed favour, and his _own_ great name. ah! sir, they've caught a sight of the stranger in the fleet, and bunting is at work, already." in anchoring his ships, admiral bluewater had kept them as close together, as the fog rendered safe; for one of the great difficulties of a naval commander is to retain his vessels in compact order, in thick or heavy weather. orders had been given, however, for a sloop and a frigate to weigh, and stretch out into the offing a league or two, as soon as the fog left them, the preceding day, in order to sweep as wide a reach of the horizon as was convenient. in order to maintain their ground in a light wind, and with a strong tide running, these two cruisers had anchored; one, at the distance of a league from the fleet, and the other, a mile or two farther outside, though more to the eastward. the sloop lay nearest to the stranger, and signals were flying at her main-royal-mast-head, which the frigate was repeating, and transmitting to the flag-ship of the commander-in-chief. bluewater was so familiar with all the ordinary signals, that it was seldom he had recourse to his book for the explanations; and, in the present instance, he saw at once that it was the active's number that was shown. other signals, however, followed, which it surpassed the rear-admiral's knowledge to read, without assistance; from all which he was satisfied that the stranger brought intelligence of importance, and which could only be understood by referring to the private signal-book. while these facts were in the course of occurrence, the coach arrived to convey mrs. dutton and mildred to the hall. bluewater now presented himself to the ladies, and was received as kindly as they had separated from him a few hours before; nor were the latter displeased at hearing he was to be their companion back to the dwelling of sir wycherly. "i fear this summons bodes evil tidings," said mrs. dutton; "he would hardly think of desiring to see us, unless something quite serious were on his mind; and the messenger said he was no better." "we shall learn all, my dear lady, when we reach the hall," returned bluewater; "and the sooner we reach it, the sooner our doubts will be removed. before we enter the carriage, let me make you acquainted with my young friend, lord geoffrey cleveland, whom i have presumed to invite to be of the party." the handsome young midshipman was well received, though mrs. dutton had been too much accustomed, in early life, to see people of condition, to betray the same deference as her husband for the boy's rank. the ladies occupied, as usual, the hind seat of the coach, leaving that in front to their male companions. the arrangement accidentally brought mildred and the midshipman opposite each other; a circumstance that soon attracted the attention of the admiral, in a way that was a little odd; if not remarkable. there is a charm in youth, that no other period of life possesses; infancy, with its helpless beauty, scarcely seizing upon the imagination and senses with an equal force. both the young persons in question, possessed this advantage in a high degree; and had there been no other peculiarity, the sight might readily have proved pleasing to one of bluewater's benevolence and truth of feeling. the boy was turned of sixteen; an age in england when youth does not yet put on the appearance of manhood; and he retained all the evidences of a gay, generous boyhood, rendered a little _piquant_, by the dash of archness, roguery, and fun, that a man-of-war is tolerably certain to impart to a lad of spirit. nevertheless, his countenance retained an expression of ingenuousness and of sensitive feeling, that was singularly striking in one of his sex, and which, in spite of her beauty of feature, hair, and complexion, formed the strongest attraction in the loveliness of mildred; that expression, which had so much struck and charmed bluewater--haunted him, we might add--since the previous day, by appearing so familiar, even while so extraordinary, and for which he had been unable to recollect a counterpart. as she now sat, face to face with lord geoffrey, to his great surprise, the rear-admiral found much of the same character of this very expression in the handsome boy, as in the lovely girl. it is true, the look of ingenuousness and of sensitive feeling, was far less marked in young cleveland, than in mildred, and there was little general resemblance of feature or countenance between the two; still, the first was to be found in both, and so distinctly, as to be easily traced, when placed in so close contact. geoffrey cleveland had the reputation of being like his mother; and, furnished with this clue, the fact suddenly flashed on bluewater's mind, that the being whom mildred so nearly and strikingly resembled, was a deceased sister of the duchess, and a beloved cousin of his own. miss hedworth, the young lady in question, had long been dead; but, all who had known her, retained the most pleasing impressions equally of her charms of person and of mind. between her and bluewater there had existed a tender friendship, in which, however, no shade of passion had mingled; a circumstance that was in part owing to the difference in their years, captain bluewater having been nearly twice his young relative's age; and in part, probably, to the invincible manner in which the latter seemed wedded to his profession, and his ship. agnes hedworth, notwithstanding, had been very dear to our sailor, from a variety of causes,--far more so, than her sister, the duchess, though _she_ was a favourite--and the rear-admiral, when his mind glanced rapidly through the chain of association, that traced the accidental resemblance of mildred to this esteemed object, had a sincere delight in finding he had thus been unconsciously attracted by one whose every look and smile now forcibly reminded him of the countenance of a being whom, in her day, he had thought so near perfection. this delight, however, was blended with sadness, on various accounts; and the short excursion proved to be so melancholy, that no one was sorry when it terminated. chapter xii. "nath. truly, master holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least. but, sir, i assure ye, it was a buck of the first head. _hol._ sir nathaniel, _haud credo_. _bull. 'twas not a _haud credo_, 'twas a pricket." lover's labour lost. every appearance of the jolly negligence which had been so characteristic of life at wychecombe-hall, had vanished, when the old coach drew up in the court, to permit the party it had brought from the station to alight. as no one was expected but mrs. dutton and her daughter, not even a footman appeared to open the door of the carriage; the vulgar-minded usually revenging their own homage to the powerful, by manifesting as many slights as possible to the weak. galleygo let the new-comers out, and, consequently, he was the first person of whom inquiries were made, as to the state of things in the house. "well," said admiral bluewater, looking earnestly at the steward; "how is sir wycherly, and what is the news?" "sir wycherly is still on the doctor's list, your honour; and i expects his case is set down as a hard 'un. we's as well as can be expected, and altogether in good heart. sir jarvy turned out with the sun, thof he didn't turn in 'till the middle-watch was half gone--or _two_ bells, as they calls 'em aboard this house--_four_ bells, as we should say in the old planter--and chickens, i hears, has riz, a shillin' a head, since our first boat landed." "it's a melancholy business, mrs. dutton; i fear there can be little hope." "yes, it's all _that_, admiral blue," continued galleygo, following the party into the house, no one but himself hearing a word he uttered; "and 'twill be worse, afore it's any better. they tells me potaties has taken a start, too; and, as all the b'ys of all the young gentlemen in the fleet is out, like so many wild locusts of hegypt, i expects nothing better than as our mess will fare as bad as sogers on a retreat." in the hall, tom wychecombe, and his namesake, the lieutenant, met the party. from the formal despondency of the first, every thing they apprehended was confirmed. the last, however, was more cheerful, and not altogether without hope; as he did not hesitate openly to avow. "for myself, i confess i think sir wycherly much better," he said; "although the opinion is not sanctioned by that of the medical men. his desiring to see these ladies is favourable; and then cheering news for him has been brought back, already, by the messenger sent, only eight hours since, for his kinsman, sir reginald wychecombe. he has sensibly revived since that report was brought in." "ah! my dear namesake," rejoined tom, shaking his head, mournfully; "you cannot know my beloved uncle's constitution and feelings as well as i! rely on it, the medical men are right; and your hopes deceive you. the sending for mrs. dutton and miss mildred, both of whom my honoured uncle respects and esteems, looks more like leave-taking than any thing else; and, as to sir reginald wychecombe,--though a relative, beyond a question,--i think there has been some mistake in sending for him; since he is barely an acquaintance of the elder branch of the family, and he is of the half-blood." "_half_ what, mr. thomas wychecombe?" demanded the vice-admiral so suddenly, behind the speaker, as to cause all to start; sir gervaise having hastened to meet the ladies and his friend, as soon as he knew of their arrival. "i ask pardon, sir, for my abrupt inquiry; but, as _i_ was the means of sending for sir reginald wychecombe, i feel an interest in knowing his exact relationship to my host?" tom started, and even paled, at this sudden question; then the colour rushed into his temples; he became calmer, and replied: "_half-blood_, sir gervaise," he said, steadily. "this is an affinity that puts a person altogether out of the line of succession; and, of course, removes any necessity, or wish, to see sir reginald." "half-_blood_--hey! atwood?" muttered the vice-admiral, turning away towards his secretary, who had followed him down stairs. "this may be the solution, after all! do you happen to know what half-_blood_ means? it cannot signify that sir reginald comes from one of those, who have no father--all their ancestry consisting only of a mother?" "i should think not, sir gervaise; in that case, sir reiginald would scarcely be considered of so honourable a lineage, as he appears to be. i have not the smallest idea, sir, what half-_blood_ means; and, perhaps, it may not be amiss to inquire of the medical gentlemen. magrath is up stairs; possibly he can tell us." "i rather think it has something to do with the law. if this out-of-the-way place, now, could furnish even a lubberly attorney, we might learn all about it. harkee, atwood; you must stand by to make sir wycherly's will, if he says any thing more about it--have you got the heading all written out, as i desired." "it is quite ready, sir gervaise--beginning, as usual, 'in the name of god, amen.' i have even ventured so far as to describe the testator's style and residence, &c. &c.--'i, sir wycherly wychecombe, bart., of wychecombe hall, devon, do make and declare this to be my last will and testament, &c. &c.' nothing is wanting but the devises, as the lawyers call them. i can manage a will, well enough, sir gervaise, i believe. one of mine has been in the courts, now, these five years, and they tell me it sticks there, as well as if it had been drawn in the middle temple." "ay, i know your skill. still, there can be no harm in just asking magrath; though i think it must be law, after all! run up and ask him, atwood, and bring me the answer in the drawing-room, where i see bluewater has gone with his convoy; and--harkee--tell the surgeons to let us know the instant the patient says any thing about his temporal affairs. the twenty thousand in the funds are his, to do what he pleases with; let the land be tied up, as it may." while this "aside," was going on in the hall, bluewater and the rest of the party had entered a small parlour, that was in constant use, still conversing of the state of sir wycherly. as all of them, but the two young men, were ignorant of the nature of the message to sir reginald wychecombe, and of the intelligence in connection with that gentleman, which had just been received, mrs. dutton ventured to ask an explanation, which was given by wycherly, with a readiness that proved _he_ felt no apprehensions on the subject. "sir wycherly desired to see his distant relative, sir reginald," said the lieutenant; "and the messenger who was sent to request his attendance, fortunately learned from a post-boy, that the hertfordshire baronet, in common with many other gentlemen, is travelling in the west, just at this moment; and that he slept last night, at a house only twenty miles distant. the express reached him several hours since, and an answer has been received, informing us that we may expect to see him, in an hour or two." thus much was related by wycherly; but, we may add that sir reginald wychecombe was a catholic, as it was then usual to term the romanists, and in secret, a jacobite; and, in common with many of that religious persuasion, he was down in the west, to see if a rising could not be organized in that part of the kingdom, as a diversion to any attempt to repel the young pretender in the north. as the utmost caution was used by the conspirators, this fact was not even suspected by any who were not in the secret of the whole proceeding. understanding that his relation was an inefficient old man, sir reginald, himself an active and sagacious intriguer, had approached thus near to the old paternal residence of his family, in order to ascertain if his own name and descent might not aid him in obtaining levies among the ancient tenantry of the estate. that day he had actually intended to appear at wychecombe, disguised, and under an assumed name. he proposed venturing on this step, because circumstances put it in his power, to give what he thought would be received as a sufficient excuse, should his conduct excite comment. sir reginald wychecombe was a singular, but by no means an unnatural compound of management and integrity. his position as a papist had disposed him to intrigue, while his position as one proscribed by religious hostility, had disposed him to be a papist. thousands are made men of activity, and even of importance, by persecution and proscription, who would pass through life quietly and unnoticed, if the meddling hand of human forethought did not force them into situations that awaken their hostility, and quicken their powers. this gentleman was a firm believer in all the traditions of his church, though his learning extended little beyond his missal; and he put the most implicit reliance on the absurd, because improbable, fiction of the nag's head consecration, without having even deemed it necessary to look into a particle of that testimony by which alone such a controversy could be decided. in a word, he was an instance of what religious intolerance has ever done, and will probably for ever continue to do, with so wayward a being as man. apart from this weakness, sir reginald wychecombe had both a shrewd and an inquiring mind. his religion he left very much to the priests; but of his temporal affairs he assumed a careful and prudent supervision. he was much richer than the head of the family; but, while he had no meannesses connected with money, he had no objection to be the possessor of the old family estates. of his own relation to the head of this family, he was perfectly aware, and the circumstance of the half-blood, with all its legal consequences, was no secret to him. sir reginald wychecombe was not a man to be so situated, without having recourse to all proper means, in order, as it has become the fashion of the day to express it, "to define his position." by means of a shrewd attorney, if not of his own religious, at least of his own political opinions, he had ascertained the fact, and this from the mouth of martha herself, that baron wychecombe had never married; and that, consequently, tom and his brothers were no more heirs at law to the wychecombe estate, than he was in his own person. he fully understood, too, that there _was_ no heir at law; and that the lands must escheat, unless the present owner made a will; and to this last act, his precise information told him that sir wycherly had an unconquerable reluctance. under such circumstances, it is not at all surprising, that when the hertfordshire baronet was thus unexpectedly summoned to the bed-side of his distant kinsman, he inferred that his own claims were at length to be tardily acknowledged, and that he was about to be put in possession of the estates of his legitimate ancestors. it is still less wonderful, that, believing this, he promptly promised to lose no time in obeying the summons, determining momentarily to forget his political, in order to look a little after his personal interests. the reader will understand, of course, that all these details were unknown to the inmates of the hall, beyond the fact of the expected arrival of sir reginald wychecombe, and that of the circumstance of the half-blood; which, in its true bearing, was known alone to tom. their thoughts were directed towards the situation of their host, and little was said, or done, that had not his immediate condition for the object. it being understood, however, that the surgeons kept the sick chamber closed against all visiters, a silent and melancholy breakfast was taken by the whole party, in waiting for the moment when they might be admitted. when this cheerless meal was ended, sir gervaise desired bluewater to follow him to his room, whither he led the way in person. "it is possible, certainly, that vervillin is out," commenced the vice-admiral, when they were alone; "but we shall know more about it, when the cutter gets in, and reports. you saw nothing but her number, i think you told me?" "she was at work with private signals, when i left the head-land; of course i was unable to read them without the book." "that vervillin is a good fellow," returned sir gervaise, rubbing his hands; a way he had when much pleased; "and has stuff in him. he has thirteen two-decked ships, dick, and that will be one apiece for our captains, and a spare one for each of our flags. i believe there is no three-decker in that squadron?" "there you've made a small mistake, sir gervaise, as the comte de vervillin had his flag in the largest three-decker of france; _le bourbon_ . the rest of his ships are like our own, though much fuller manned." "never mind, blue--never mind:--we'll put two on the bourbon, and try to make our frigates of use. besides, you have a knack at keeping the fleet so compact, that it is nearly a single battery." "may i venture to ask, then, if it's your intention to go out, should the news by the active prove to be what you anticipate?" sir gervaise cast a quick, distrustful glance at the other, anxious to read the motive for the question, at the same time that he did not wish to betray his own feelings; then he appeared to meditate on the answer. "it is not quite agreeable to lie here, chafing our cables, with a french squadron roving the channel," he said; "but i rather think it's my duty to wait for orders from the admiralty, under present circumstances." "do you expect my lords will send you through the straits of dover, to blockade the frith?" "if they do, bluewater, i shall hope for your company. i trust, a night's rest has given you different views of what ought to be a seaman's duty, when his country is at open war with her ancient and most powerful enemies." "it is the prerogative of the _crown_ to declare war, oakes. no one but a _lawful_ sovereign can make a _lawful_ war." "ay, here come your cursed distinctions about _de jure_ and _de facto_, again. by the way, dick, you are something of a scholar--can you tell me what is understood by calling a man a _nullus_?" admiral bluewater, who had taken his usual lolling attitude in the most comfortable chair he could find, while his more mercurial friend kept pacing the room, now raised his head in surprise, following the quick motions of the other, with his eyes, as if he doubted whether he had rightly heard the question. "it's plain english, is it not?--or plain _latin_, if you will--what is meant by calling a man a _nullus_?" repeated sir gervaise, observing the other's manner. "the latin is _plain_ enough, certainly," returned bluewater, smiling; "you surely do not mean _nullus, nulla, nullum_?" "exactly that--you've hit it to a gender.--_nullus_, nulla, nullum_. no _man_, no _woman_, no _thing_. masculine, feminine, neuter." "i never heard the saying. if ever used, it must be some silly play on sounds, and mean a numskull--or, perhaps, a fling at a fellow's position, by saying he is a 'nobody.' who the deuce has been calling another a _nullus_, in the presence of the commander-in-chief of the southern squadron?" "sir wycherly wychecombe--our unfortunate host, here: the poor man who is on his death-bed, on this very floor." again bluewater raised his head, and once more his eye sought the face of his friend. sir gervaise had now stopped short, with his hands crossed behind his back, looking intently at the other, in expectation of the answer. "i thought it might be some difficulty from the fleet--some silly fellow complaining of another still more silly for using such a word. sir wycherly!--the poor man's mind must have failed him." "i rather think not; if it has, there is 'method in his madness,' for he persevered most surprisingly, in the use of the term. his nephew, tom wychecombe, the presumptive heir, he insists on it, is a _nullus_; while this sir reginald, who is expected to arrive every instant, he says is only _half_--or half-_blood_, as it has since been explained to us." "i am afraid this nephew will prove to be any thing but _nullus_, when he succeeds to the estate and title," answered bluewater, gravely. "a more sinister-looking scoundrel, i never laid eyes on." "that is just my way of thinking; and not in the least like the family." "this matter of likenesses is not easily explained, oakes. we see parents and children without any visible resemblance to each other; and then we find startling likenesses between utter strangers." "_bachelor's children_ may be in that predicament, certainly; but i should think few others. i never yet studied a child, that i did not find some resemblance to both parents; covert and only transitory, perhaps; but a likeness so distinct as to establish the relationship. what an accursed chance it is, that our noble young lieutenant should have no claim on this old baronet; while this d----d _nullus_ is both heir at law, and heir of entail! i never took half as much interest in any other man's estate, as i take in the succession to this of our poor host!" "there you are mistaken, oakes; you took more in _mine_; for, when i made a will in your own favour, and gave it to you to read, you tore it in two, and threw it overboard, with your own hand." "ay, that was an act of lawful authority. as your superior, i countermanded that will! i hope you've made another, and given your money, as i told you, to your cousin, the viscount." "i did, but _that_ will has shared the fate of the first. it appearing to me, that we are touching on serious times, and bluewater being rich already, i destroyed the devise in his favour, and made a new one, this very morning. as you are my executor, as usual, it may be well to let you know it." "dick, you have not been mad enough to cut off the head of your own family--your own flesh and blood, as it might be--to leave the few thousands you own, to this mad adventurer in scotland!" bluewater smiled at this evidence of the familiarity of his friend with his own way of thinking and feeling; and, for a single instant, he regretted that he had not put his first intention in force, in order that the conformity of views might have been still more perfect; but, putting a hand in his pocket he drew out the document itself, and leaning forward, gave it carelessly to sir gervaise. "there is the will; and by looking it over, you will know what i've done," he said. "i wish you would keep it; for, if 'misery makes us acquainted with strange bed-fellows,' revolutions reduce us, often, to strange plights, and the paper will be safer with you than with me. of course, you will keep my secret, until the proper time to reveal it shall arrive." the vice-admiral, who knew that he had no direct interest in his friend's disposition of his property, took the will, with a good deal of curiosity to ascertain its provisions. so short a testament was soon read; and his eye rested intently on the paper until it had taken in the last word. then his hand dropped, and he regarded bluewater with a surprise he neither affected, nor wished to conceal. he did not doubt his friend's sanity, but he greatly questioned his discretion. "this is a very simple, but a very ingenious arrangement, to disturb the order of society," he said; "and to convert a very modest and unpretending, though lovely girl, into a forward and airs-taking old woman! what is this mildred dutton to you, that you should bequeath to her £ , ?" "she is one of the meekest, most ingenuous, purest, and loveliest, of her meek, ingenuous, pure, and lovely sex, crushed to the earth by the curse of a brutal, drunken father; and, i am resolute to see that this world, for once, afford some compensation for its own miseries." "never doubt that, richard bluewater; never doubt _that_. so certain is vice, or crime, to bring its own punishment in this life, that one may well question if any other hell is needed. and, depend on it, your meek, modest ingenuousness, in its turn, will not go unrewarded." "quite true, so far as the spirit is concerned; but, i mean to provide a little for the comfort of the body. you remember agnes hedworth, i take it for granted?" "remember her!--out of all question. had the war left me leisure for making love, she was the only woman i ever knew, who could have brought me to her feet--i mean as a dog, dick." "do you see any resemblance between her and this mildred dutton? it is in the expression rather than in the features--but, it is the expression which alone denotes the character." "by george, you're right, bluewater; and this relieves me from some embarrassment i've felt about that very expression of which you speak. she _is_ like poor agnes, who became a saint earlier than any of us could have wished. living or dead, agnes hedworth must be an angel! you were fonder of her, than of any other woman, i believe. at one time, i thought you might propose for her hand." "it was not that sort of affection, and you could not have known her private history, or you would not have fancied this. i was so situated in the way of relatives, that agnes, though only the child of a cousin-german, was the nearest youthful female relative i had on earth; and i regarded her more as a sister, than as a creature who could ever become my wife. she was sixteen years my junior; and by the time she had become old enough to marry, i was accustomed to think of her only as one destined for another station. the same feeling existed as to her sister, the duchess, though in a greatly lessened degree." "poor, sweet agnes!--and it is on account of this accidental resemblance, that you have determined to make the daughter of a drunken sailing-master your heiress?" "not altogether so; the will was drawn before i was conscious that the likeness existed. still, it has probably, unknown to myself, greatly disposed me to view her with favour. but, gervaise, agnes herself was not fairer in person, or more lovely in mind, than this very mildred dutton." "well, you have not been accustomed to regard _her_ as a sister; and _she_ has become marriageable, without there having been any opportunity for your regarding her as so peculiarly sacred, dick!" returned sir gervaise, half suppressing a smile as he threw a quiet glance at his friend. "you know this to be idle, oakes. some one must inherit my money; my brother is long since dead; even poor, poor agnes is gone; her sister don't need it; bluewater is an over-rich bachelor, already; _you_ won't take it, and what better can i do with it? if you could have seen the cruel manner in which the spirits of both mother and daughter were crushed to the earth last night, by that beast of a husband and father, you would have felt a desire to relieve their misery, even though it had cost you bowldero, and half your money in the funds." "umph! bowldero has been in my family five centuries, and is likely to remain there, master bluewater, five more; unless, indeed, your dashing pretender should succeed, and take it away by confiscation." "there, again, was another inducement. should i leave my cash to a rich person, and should chance put me on the wrong side in this struggle, the king, _de facto_, would get it all; whereas, even a german would not have the heart to rob a poor creature like mildred of her support." "the _scotch_ are notorious for bowels, in such matters! well, have it your own way, dick. it's of no great moment what you do with your prize-money; though i had supposed it would fall into the hands of this boy, geoffrey cleveland, who is no discredit to your blood." "he will have a hundred thousand pounds, at five-and-twenty, that were left him by old lady greenfield, his great-aunt, and that is more than he will know what to do with. but, enough of this. have you received further tidings from the north, during the night?" "not a syllable. this is a retired part of the country, and half scotland might be capsized in one of its loughs, and we not know of it, for a week, down here in devonshire. should i get no intelligence or orders, in the next thirty-six hours, i think of posting up to london, leaving you in command of the fleet." "that may not be wise. you would scarcely confide so important a trust, in such a crisis, to a man of my political feelings--i will not say _opinions_; since you attribute all to sentiment." "i would confide my life and honour to you, richard bluewater, with the utmost confidence in the security of both, so long as it depended on your own acts or inclinations. we must first see, however, what news the active brings us; for, if de vervillin is really out, i shall assume that the duty of an english sailor is to beat a frenchman, before all other considerations." "if he _can_," drily observed the other, raising his right leg so high as to place the foot on the top of an old-fashioned chair; an effort that nearly brought his back in a horizontal line. "i am far from regarding it as a matter of course, admiral bluewater; but, it _has_ been done sufficiently often, to render it an event of no very violent _possibility_. ah, here is magrath to tell us the condition of his patient." the surgeon of the plantagenet entering the room, at that moment, the conversation was instantly changed. "well, magrath," said sir gervaise, stopping suddenly in his quarter-deck pace; "what news of the poor man?" "he is reviving, admiral oakes," returned the phlegmatic surgeon; "but it is like the gleaming of sunshine that streams through clouds, as the great luminary sets behind the hills--" "oh! hang your poetry, doctor; let us have nothing but plain matter-of-fact, this morning." "well, then, sir gervaise, as commander-in-chief, you'll be obeyed, i think. sir wycherly wychecombe is suffering under an attack of apoplexy--or [greek: apoplêxis], as the greeks had it. the diagnosis of the disease is not easily mistaken, though it has its affinities as well as other maladies. the applications for gout, or _arthritis_--sometimes produce apoplexy; though one disease is seated in the head, while the other usually takes refuge in the feet. ye'll understand this the more readily, gentlemen, when ye reflect that as a thief is chased from one hiding-place, he commonly endeavours to get into another. i much misgive the prudence of the phlebotomy ye practised among ye, on the first summons to the patient." "what the d---l does the man mean by phlebotomy?" exclaimed sir gervaise, who had an aversion to medicine, and knew scarcely any of the commonest terms of practice, though expert in bleeding. "i'm thinking it's what you and admiral bluewater so freely administer to his majesty's enemies, whenever ye fall in with 'em at sea;--he-he-he--" answered magrath, chuckling at his own humour; which, as the quantity was small, was all the better in quality. "surely he does not mean powder and shot! we give the french shot; sir wycherly has not been shot?" "varra true, sir gervaise, but ye've let him blood, amang ye: a measure that has been somewhat precipitately practised, i've my misgivings!" "now, any old woman can tell us better than that, doctor. blood-letting is the every-day remedy for attacks of this sort." "i do not dispute the dogmas of elderly persons of the other sex, sir gervaise, or your _every-day remedia_. if 'every-day' doctors would save life and alleviate pain, diplomas would be unnecessary; and we might, all of us, practise on the principle of the 'de'el tak' the hindmaist,' as ye did yoursel', sir gervaise, when ye cut and slash'd amang the dons, in boarding el lirio. i was there, ye'll both remember, gentlemen; and was obleeged to sew up the gashes ye made with your own irreverent and ungodly hands." this speech referred to one of the most desperate, hand-to-hand struggles, in which the two flag-officers had ever been engaged; and, as it afforded them the means of exhibiting their personal gallantry, when quite young men, both usually looked back upon the exploit with great self-complacency; sir gervaise, in particular, his friend having often declared since, that they ought to have been laid on the shelf for life, as a punishment for risking their men in so mad an enterprise, though it did prove to be brilliantly successful. "that was an affair in which one might engage at twenty-two, magrath," observed bluewater; "but which he ought to hesitate about thinking of even, after thirty." "i'd do it again, this blessed day, if you would give us a chance!" exclaimed sir gervaise, striking the back of one hand into the palm of the other, with a sudden energy, that showed how much he was excited by the mere recollection of the scene. "that w'ud ye!--that w'ud ye!" said magrath, growing more and more scotch, as he warmed in the discourse; "ye'd board a mackerel-hoy, rather than not have an engagement. ye'r a varra capital vice-admiral of the red, sir gervaise, but i'm judging ye'd mak' a varra indeeferent loblolly-boy." "bluewater, i shall be compelled to change ships with you, in order to get rid of the old stand-by's of the plantagenets! they stick to me like leeches; and have got to be so familiar, that they criticise all my orders, and don't more than half obey them, in the bargain." "no one will criticise your nautical commands, sir gervaise; though, in the way of the healing airt,--science, it should be called--ye're no mair to be trusted, than one of the young gentlemen. i'm told ye drew ye'r lancet on this poor gentleman, as ye'd draw ye'r sword on an enemy!" "i did, indeed, sir; though mr. rotherham had rendered the application of the instrument unnecessary. apoplexy is a rushing of the blood to the head; and by diminishing the quantity in the veins of the arms or temples, you lessen the pressure on the brain." "just layman's practice, sir--just layman's practice. will ye tell me now if the patient's face was red or white? every thing depends on _that_; which is the true diagnosis of the malady." "red, i think; was it not, bluewater? red, like old port, of which i fancy the poor man had more than his share." "weel, in that case, you were not so varra wrong; but, they tell me his countenance was pallid and death-like; in which case ye came near to committing murder. there is one principle that controls the diagnosis of all cases of apoplexy among ye'r true country gentlemen--and that is, that the system is reduced and enfeebled, by habitual devotion to the decanter. in such attacks ye canna' do warse, than to let blood. but, i'll no be hard upon you, sir gervaise; and so we'll drop the subject--though, truth to say, i do not admire your poaching on my manor. sir wycherly is materially better, and expresses, as well as a man who has not the use of his tongue, _can_ express a thing, his besetting desire to make his last will and testament. in ordinary cases of _apoplexia_, it is good practice to oppose this craving; though, as it is my firm opinion that nothing can save the patient's life, i do not set myself against the measure, in this particular case. thar' was a curious discussion at edinbro', in my youth, gentlemen, on the question whether the considerations connected with the disposition of the property, or the considerations connected with the patient's health, ought to preponderate in the physician's mind, when it might be reasonably doubted whether the act of making a will, would or would not essentially affect the nervous system, and otherwise derange the functions of the body. a very pretty argument, in excellent edinbro' latin, was made on each side of the question. i think, on the whole, the physicos had the best o' it; for they could show a plausible present evil, as opposed to a possible remote good." "has sir wycherly mentioned my name this morning?" asked the vice-admiral, with interest. "he has, indeed, sir gervaise; and that in a way so manifestly connected with his will, that i'm opining ye'll no be forgotten in the legacies. the name of bluewater was in his mouth, also." "in which case no time should be lost; for, never before have i felt half the interest in the disposition of a stranger's estate. hark! are not those wheels rattling in the court-yard?" "ye'r senses are most pairfect, sir gervaise, and that i've always said was one reason why ye'r so great an admiral," returned magrath. "mind, only _one_, sir gervaise; for many qualities united, are necessary to make a truly great man. i see a middle-aged gentleman alighting, and servants around him, who wear the same liveries as those of this house. some relative, no doubt, come to look after the legacies, also." "this must be sir reginald wychecombe; it may not be amiss if we go forward to receive him, bluewater." at this suggestion, the rear-admiral drew in his legs, which had not changed their position on account of the presence of the surgeon, arose, and followed sir gervaise, as the latter left the room. chapter xiii. "_videsne quis venit?_" "_video, et gaudeo._" nathaniel et holofernes. tom wychecombe had experienced an uneasiness that it is unnecessary to explain, ever since he learned that his reputed uncle had sent a messenger to bring the "half-blood" to the hall. from the moment he got a clue to the fact, he took sufficient pains to ascertain what was in the wind; and when sir reginald wychecombe entered the house, the first person he met was this spurious supporter of the honours of his name. "sir reginald wychecombe, i presume, from the arms and the liveries," said tom, endeavouring to assume the manner of a host. "it is grateful to find that, though we are separated by quite two centuries, all the usages and the bearings of the family are equally preserved and respected, by both its branches." "i am sir reginald wychecombe, sir, and endeavour not to forget the honourable ancestry from which i am derived. may i ask what kinsman i have the pleasure now to meet?" "mr. thomas wychecombe, sir, at your command; the _eldest_ son of sir wycherly's next brother, the late mr. baron wychecombe. i trust, sir reginald, you have not considered us as so far removed in blood, as to have entirely overlooked our births, marriages, and deaths." "i have _not_, sir," returned the baronet, drily, and with an emphasis that disturbed his listener, though the cold jesuitical smile that accompanied the words, had the effect to calm his vivid apprehensions. "_all_ that relates to the house of wychecombe has interest in my eyes; and i have endeavoured, successfully i trust, to ascertain _all_ that relates to its births, _marriages_, and deaths. i greatly regret that the second time i enter this venerable dwelling, should be on an occasion as melancholy as this, on which i am now summoned. how is your respectable--how is sir wycherly wychecombe, i wish to say?" there was sufficient in this answer, taken in connection with the deliberate, guarded, and yet expressive manner of the speaker to make tom extremely uncomfortable, though there was also sufficient to leave him in doubts as to his namesake's true meaning. the words emphasized by the latter, were touched lightly, though distinctly; and the cold, artificial smile with which they were uttered, completely baffled the sagacity of a rogue, as common-place as the heir-expectant. then the sudden change in the construction of the last sentence, and the substitution of the name of the person mentioned, for the degree of affinity in which he was supposed to stand to tom, might be merely a rigid observance of the best tone of society, or it might be equivocal. all these little distinctions gleamed across the mind of tom wychecombe; but that was not the moment to pursue the investigation. courtesy required that he should make an immediate answer, which he succeeded in doing steadily enough as to general appearances, though his sagacious and practised questioner perceived that his words had not failed of producing the impression he intended; for he had looked to their establishing a species of authority over the young man. "my honoured and beloved uncle has revived a little, they tell me," said tom; "but i fear these appearances are delusive. after eighty-four, death has a fearful hold upon us, sir! the worst of it is, that my poor, dear uncle's mind is sensibly affected; and it is quite impossible to get at any of his little wishes, in the way of memorials and messages--" "how then, sir, came sir wycherly to honour _me_ with a request to visit him?" demanded the other, with an extremely awkward pertinency. "i suppose, sir, he has succeeded in muttering your name, and that a natural construction has been put on its use, at such a moment. his will has been made some time, i understand; though i am ignorant of even the name of the executor, as it is closed in an envelope, and sealed with sir wycherly's arms. it cannot be, then, on account of a _will_, that he has wished to see you. i rather think, as the next of the family, _out of the direct line of succession_, he may have ventured to name you as the executor of the will in existence, and has thought it proper to notify you of the same." "yes, sir," returned sir reginald, in his usual cold, wary manner; "though it would have been more in conformity with usage, had the notification taken the form of a request to serve, previously to making the testament. my letter was signed 'gervaise oakes,' and, as they tell me a fleet is in the neighbourhood, i have supposed that the celebrated admiral of that name, has done me the honour to write it." "you are not mistaken, sir; sir gervaise oakes is in the house--ah--here he comes to receive you, accompanied by rear-admiral bluewater, whom the sailors call his mainmast." the foregoing conversation had taken place in a little parlour that led off from the great hall, whither tom had conducted his guest, and in which the two admirals now made their appearance. introductions were scarcely necessary, the uniform and star--for in that age officers usually appeared in their robes--the uniform and star of sir gervaise at once proclaiming his rank and name; while, between sir reginald and bluewater there existed a slight personal acquaintance, which had grown out of their covert, but deep, jacobite sympathies. "sir gervaise oakes," and "sir reginald wychecombe," passed between the gentlemen, with a hearty shake of the hand from the admiral, which was met by a cold touch of the fingers on the part of the other, that might very well have passed for the great model of the sophisticated manipulation of the modern salute, but which, in fact, was the result of temperament rather than of fashion. as soon as this ceremony was gone through, and a few brief expressions of courtesy were exchanged, the new comer turned to bluewater, with an air of greater freedom, and continued-- "and you, too, sir richard bluewater! i rejoice to meet an acquaintance in this melancholy scene." "i am happy to see you, sir reginald; though you have conferred on me a title to which i have no proper claim." "no!--the papers tell us that you have received one of the lately vacant red ribands?" "i believe some such honour has been in contemplation--" "contemplation!--i do assure you, sir, your name is fairly and distinctly gazetted--as, by sending to my carriage, it will be in my power to show you. i am, then, the first to call you sir richard." "excuse me, sir reginald--there is some little misapprehension in this matter; i prefer to remain plain rear-admiral bluewater. in due season, all will be explained." the parties exchanged looks, which, in times like those in which they lived, were sufficiently intelligible to both; and the conversation was instantly changed. before sir reginald relinquished the hand he held, however, he gave it a cordial squeeze, an intimation that was returned by a warm pressure from bluewater. the party then began to converse of sir wycherly, his actual condition, and his probable motive in desiring to see his distant kinsman. this motive, sir gervaise, regardless of the presence of tom wychecombe, declared to be a wish to make a will; and, as he believed, the intention of naming sir reginald his executor, if not in some still more interesting capacity. "i understand sir wycherly has a considerable sum entirely at his own disposal," continued the vice-admiral; "and i confess i like to see a man remember his friends and servants, generously, in his last moments. the estate is entailed, i hear; and i suppose mr. thomas wychecombe here, will be none the worse for that precaution in his ancestor; let the old gentleman do as he pleases with his savings." sir gervaise was so much accustomed to command, that he did not feel the singularity of his own interference in the affairs of a family of what might be called strangers, though the circumstance struck sir reginald, as a little odd. nevertheless, the last had sufficient penetration to understand the vice-admiral's character at a glance, and the peculiarity made no lasting impression. when the allusion was made to tom's succession, as a matter of course, however, he cast a cold, but withering look, at the reputed heir, which almost chilled the marrow in the bones of the jealous rogue. "might i say a word to you, in your own room, sir gervaise?" asked sir reginald, in an aside. "these matters ought not to be indecently hurried; and i wish to understand the ground better, before i advance." this question was overheard by bluewater; who, begging the gentlemen to remain where they were, withdrew himself, taking tom wychecombe with him. as soon as they were alone, sir reginald drew from his companion, by questions warily but ingeniously put, a history of all that had occurred within the last twenty-four hours; a knowledge of the really helpless state of sir wycherly, and of the manner in which he himself had been summoned, included. when satisfied, he expressed a desire to see the sick man. "by the way, sir reginald," said the vice-admiral, with his hand on the lock of the door, arresting his own movement to put the question; "i see, by your manner of expressing yourself, that the law has not been entirely overlooked in your education. do you happen to know what 'half-blood' means? it is either a medical or a legal term, and i understand few but nautical." "you could not apply to any man in england, sir gervaise, better qualified to tell you," answered the hertfordshire baronet, smiling expressively. "i am a barrister of the middle temple, having been educated as a younger son, and having since succeeded an elder brother, at the age of twenty-seven; i stand in the unfortunate relation of the 'half-blood' myself, to this very estate, on which we are now conversing." sir reginald then proceeded to explain the law to the other, as we have already pointed it out to the reader; performing the duty succinctly, but quite clearly. "bless me!--bless me! sir reginald," exclaimed the direct-minded and _just_-minded sailor--"here must be some mistake! a fortieth cousin, or the king, take this estate before yourself, though you are directly descended from all the old wychecombes of the times of the plantagenets!" "such is the common law, sir gervaise. were i sir wycherly's half-brother, or a son by a second wife of our common father, i could not take from _him_, although that common father had earned the estate by his own hands, or services." "this is damnable, sir--damnable--and you'll pardon me, but i can hardly believe we have such a monstrous principle in the good, honest, well-meaning laws, of good, honest, well-meaning old england!" sir reginald was one of the few lawyers of his time, who did not recognize the virtue of this particular provision of the common law; a circumstance that probably arose from his having so _small_ an interest now in the mysteries of the profession, and so _large_ an interest in the family estate of wychecombe, destroyed by its _dictum_. he was, consequently, less surprised, and not at all hurt, at the evident manner in which the sailor repudiated his statement, as doing violence equally to reason, justice, and probability. "good, honest, well-meaning old england tolerates many grievous things, notwithstanding, sir gervaise," he answered; "among others, it tolerates the law of the half-blood. much depends on the manner in which men view these things; that which seems gold to one, resembling silver in the eyes of another. now, i dare say,"--this was said as a feeler, and with a smile that might pass for ironical or confiding, as the listener pleased to take it--"now, i dare say, the clans would tell us that england tolerates an usurper, while her lawful prince was in banishment; though _you_ and _i_ might not feel disposed to allow it." sir gervaise started, and cast a quick, suspicious glance at the speaker; but there the latter stood, with as open and guileless an expression on his handsome features, as was ever seen in the countenance of confiding sixteen. "your supposititious case is no parallel," returned the vice-admiral, losing every shade of suspicion, at this appearance of careless frankness; "since men often follow their feelings in their allegiance, while the law is supposed to be governed by reason and justice. but, now we are on the subject, will you tell me. sir reginald, if you also know what a _nullus_ is?" "i have no farther knowledge of the subject, sir gervaise," returned the other, smiling, this time, quite naturally; "than is to be found in the latin dictionaries and grammars." "ay--you mean _nullus, nulla, nullum_. even we sailors know _that_; as we all go to school before we go to sea. but, sir wycherly, in efforts to make himself understood, called you a 'half-blood.'" "and quite correctly--i admit such to be the fact; and that i have no more _legal_ claim, whatever on this estate, than you have yourself. my _moral_ right, however, may be somewhat better." "it is much to your credit, that you so frankly admit it, sir reginald; for, hang me, if i think even the judges would dream of raising such an objection to your succeeding, unless reminded of it." "therein you do them injustice, sir gervaise; as it is their duty to administer the laws, let them be what they may." "perhaps you are right, sir. but the reason for my asking what a _nullus_ is, was the circumstance that sir wycherly, in the course of his efforts to speak, repeatedly called his nephew and heir, mr. thomas wychecombe, by that epithet." "did he, indeed?--was the epithet, as you well term it, _filius nullius_?" "i rather think it was _nullus_--though i do believe the word _filius_ was muttered, once or twice, also." "yes, sir, this has been the case; and i am not sorry sir wycherly is aware of the fact, as i hear that the young man affects to consider himself in a different point of view. a _filius nullius_ is the legal term for a bastard--the 'son of nobody,' as you will at once understand. i am fully aware that such is the unfortunate predicament of mr. thomas wychecombe, whose father, i possess complete evidence to show, was never married to his mother." "and yet, sir reginald, the impudent rascal carries in his pocket even, a certificate, signed by some parish priest in london, to prove the contrary." the civil baronet seemed surprised at this assertion of his military brother; but sir gervaise explaining what had passed between himself and the young man, he could no longer entertain any doubt of the fact. "since you have seen the document," resumed sir reginald, "it must, indeed, be so; and this misguided boy is prepared to take any desperate step in order to obtain the title and the estate. all that he has said about a will must be fabulous, as no man in his senses would risk his neck to obtain so hollow a distinction as a baronetcy--we are equally members of the class, and may speak frankly, sir gervaise--and the will would secure the estate, if there were one. i cannot think, therefore, that there is a will at all." "if this will were not altogether to the fellow's liking, would not the marriage, beside the hollow honour of which you have spoken, put the whole of the landed property in his possession, under the entail?" "it would, indeed; and i thank you for the suggestion. if, however, sir wycherly is desirous, _now_, of making a _new_ will, and has strength and mind sufficient to execute his purpose, the _old_ one need give us no concern. this is a most delicate affair for one in my situation to engage in, sir; and i greatly rejoice that i find such honourable and distinguished witnesses, in the house, to clear my reputation, should any thing occur to require such exculpation. on the one side, sir gervaise, there is the danger of an ancient estate's falling into the hands of the crown, and this, too, while one of no _stain_ of blood, derived from the same honourable ancestors as the last possessor, is in existence; or, on the other, of its becoming the prey of one of base blood, and of but very doubtful character. the circumstance that sir wycherly desired my presence, is a great deal; and i trust to you, and to those with you, to vindicate the fairness of my course. if it's your pleasure, sir, we will now go to the sick chamber." "with all my heart. i think, however, sir reginald," said the vice-admiral, as he approached the door; "that even in the event of an escheat, you would find these brunswick princes sufficiently liberal to restore the property. i could not answer for those wandering scotchmen; who have so many breechless nobles to enrich; but, i think, with the hanoverians, you would be safe." "the last have certainly one recommendation the most," returned the other, smiling courteously, but in a way so equivocal that even sir gervaise was momentarily struck by it; "they have fed so well, now, at the crib, that they may not have the same voracity, as those who have been long fasting. it would be, however, more pleasant to take these lands from a wychecombe--a wychecombe to a wychecombe--than to receive them anew from even the plantagenet who made the first grant." this terminated the private dialogue, as the colloquists entered the hall, just as the last speaker concluded. wycherly was conversing, earnestly, with mrs. dutton and mildred, at the far end of the hall, when the baronets appeared; but, catching the eye of the admiral, he said a few words hastily to his companions, and joined the two gentlemen, who were now on their way to the sick man's chamber. "here is a namesake, if not a relative, sir reginald," observed sir gervaise, introducing the lieutenant; "and one, i rejoice to say, of whom all of even your honourable name have reason to be proud." sir reginald's bow was courteous and bland, as the admiral proceeded to complete the introduction; but wycherly felt that the keen, searching look he bestowed on himself, was disagreeable. "i am not at all aware, that i have the smallest claim to the honour of being sir reginald wychecombe's relative," he said, with cold reserve. "indeed, until last evening, i was ignorant of the existence of the hertfordshire branch of this family; and you will remember, sir gervaise, that i am a virginian." "a virginian!" exclaimed his namesake, taken so much by surprise as to lose a little of his self-command, "i did not know, indeed, that any who bear the name had found their way to the colonies." "and if they had, sir, they would have met with a set of fellows every way fit to be their associates, sir reginald. we english are a little clannish--i hate the word, too; it has such a narrow scotch sound--but we _are_ clannish, although generally provided with garments to our nether limbs; and we sometimes look down upon even a son, whom the love of adventure has led into that part of the world. in my view an englishman is an englishman, let him come from what part of the empire he may. that is what i call genuine liberality, sir reginald." "quite true, sir gervaise; and a scotchman is a scotchman, even though he come from the north of tweed." this was quietly said, but the vice-admiral felt the merited rebuke it contained, and he had the good-nature and the good sense to laugh at it, and to admit his own prejudices. this little encounter brought the party to sir wycherly's door, where all three remained until it was ascertained that they might enter. the next quarter of an hour brought about a great change in the situation of all the principal inmates of wychecombe hall. the interdict was taken off the rooms of sir wycherly, and in them had collected all the gentlemen, mrs. dutton and her daughter, with three or four of the upper servants of the establishment. even galleygo contrived to thrust his ungainly person in, among the rest, though he had the discretion to keep in the background among his fellows. in a word, both dressing-room and bed-room had their occupants, though the last was principally filled by the medical men, and those whose rank gave them claims to be near the person of the sick. it was now past a question known that poor sir wycherly was on his death-bed. his mind had sensibly improved, nor was his speech any worse; but his physical system generally had received a shock that rendered recovery hopeless. it was the opinion of the physicians that he might possibly survive several days; or, that he might be carried off, in a moment, by a return of the paralytic affection. the baronet, himself, appeared to be perfectly conscious of his situation; as was apparent by the anxiety he expressed to get his friends together, and more especially the concern he felt to make a due disposition of his worldly affairs. the medical men had long resisted both wishes, until, convinced that the question was reduced to one of a few hours more or less of life, and that denial was likely to produce worse effects than compliance, they finally and unanimously consented. "it's no a great concession to mortal infirmity to let a dying man have his way," whispered magrath to the two admirals, as the latter entered the room. "sir wycherly is a hopeless case, and we'll just consent to let him make a few codicils, seeing that he so fairvently desires it; and then there may be fewer hopeless deevils left behind him, when he's gathered to his forefathers." "here we are, my dear sir wycherly," said the vice-admiral, who never lost an occasion to effect his purpose, by any unnecessary delay; "here we all are anxious to comply with your wishes. your kinsman, sir reginald wychecombe, is also present, and desirous of doing your pleasure." it was a painful sight to see a man on his death-bed, so anxious to discharge the forms of the world, as the master of the hall now appeared to be. there had been an unnecessary alienation between the heads of the two branches of the family; not arising from any quarrel, or positive cause of disagreement, but from a silent conviction in both parties, that each was unsuited to the other. they had met a few times, and always parted without regret. the case was now different; the separation was, in one sense at least, to be eternal; and all minor considerations, all caprices of habits or despotism of tastes, faded before the solemn impressions of the moment. still, sir wycherly could not forget that he was master of wychecombe, and that his namesake was esteemed a man of refinement; and, in his simple way of thinking he would fain have arisen, in order to do him honour. a little gentle violence, even, was necessary to keep the patient quiet. "much honoured, sir--greatly pleased," muttered sir wycherly, the words coming from him with difficulty. "same ancestors--same name--plantagenets--old house, sir--head go, new one come--none better, than--" "do not distress yourself to speak, unnecessarily, my dear sir," interrupted sir reginald, with more tenderness for the patient than consideration for his own interest, as the next words promised to relate to the succession. "sir gervaise oakes tells me, he understands your wishes, generally, and that he is now prepared to gratify them. first relieve your mind, in matters of business; and, then, i shall be most happy to exchange with you the feelings of kindred." "yes, sir wycherly," put in sir gervaise, on this hint; "i believe i have now found the clue to all you wish to say. the few words written by you, last night, were the commencement of a will, which it is your strong desire to make. do not speak, but raise your right hand, if i am not mistaken." the sick man actually stretched his right arm above the bed-clothes, and his dull eyes lighted with an expression of pleasure, that proved how strongly his feelings were enlisted in the result. "you see, gentlemen!" said sir gervaise, with emphasis. "no one can mistake the meaning of this! come nearer, doctor--mr. rotherham--all who have no probable interest in the affair--i wish it to be seen that sir wycherly wychecombe is desirous of making his will." the vice-admiral now went through the ceremony of repeating his request, and got the same significant answer. "so i understood it, sir wycherly, and i believe now i also understand all about the 'half,' and the 'whole,' and the '_nullus_.' you meant to tell us that your kinsman, sir reginald wychecombe, was of the 'half-blood' as respects yourself, and that mr. thomas wychecombe, your nephew, is what is termed in law--however painful this may be, gentlemen, at such solemn moments the truth must be plainly spoken--that mr. thomas wychecombe is what the law terms a '_filius nullius_.' if we have understood you in this, also, have the goodness to give this company the same sign of assent." the last words were scarcely spoken, before sir wycherly again raised his arm, and nodded his head. "here there can be no mistake, and no one rejoices in it more than i do myself; for, the unintelligible words gave me a great deal of vexation. well, my dear sir, understanding your wishes, my secretary, mr. atwood, has drawn the commencement of a will, in the usual form, using your own pious and proper language of--'in the name of god, amen,' as the commencement; and he stands ready to write down your bequests, as you may see fit to name them. we will take them, first, on a separate piece of paper; then read them to you, for your approbation; and afterwards, transcribe them into the will. i believe, sir reginald, that mode would withstand the subtleties of all the gentlemen of all the inns of court?" "it is a very proper and prudent mode for executing a will, sir, under the peculiar circumstances," returned he of hertfordshire. "but, sir gervaise, my situation, here, is a little delicate, as may be that of mr. thomas wychecombe--others of the name and family, if any such there be. would it not be well to inquire if our presence is actually desired by the intended testator?" "is it your wish, sir wycherly, that your kinsmen and namesakes remain in the room, or shall they retire until the will is executed? i will call over the names of the company, and when you wish any one, in particular, to stay in the room, you will nod your head." "all--all stay," muttered sir wycherly; "sir reginald--tom--wycherly--all--" "this seems explicit enough, gentlemen," resumed the vice-admiral. "you are _all_ requested to stay; and, if i might venture an opinion, our poor friend has named those on whom he intends his bequests to fall--and pretty much, too, in the order in which they will come." "that will appear more unanswerably when sir wycherly has expressed his intentions in words," observed sir reginald, very desirous that there should not be the smallest appearance of dictation or persuasion offered to his kinsman, at a moment so grave. "let me entreat that no leading questions be put." "sir gervaise understands leading in battle, much better than in a cross-examination, sir reginald," bluewater observed, in a tone so low, that none heard him but the person to whom the words were addressed. "i think we shall sooner get at sir wycherly's wishes, by allowing him to take his own course." the other bowed, and appeared disposed to acquiesce. in the mean time preparations were making for the construction of the will. atwood seated himself at a table near the bed, and commenced nibbing his pens; the medical men administered a cordial; sir gervaise caused all the witnesses to range themselves around the room, in a way that each might fairly see, and be seen; taking care, however, so to dispose of wycherly, as to leave no doubt of his handsome person's coming into the sick man's view. the lieutenant's modesty might have rebelled at this arrangement, had he not found himself immediately at the side of mildred. chapter xiv. "yet, all is o'er!--fear, doubt, suspense, are fled, let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead! the final ordeal of the soul is past, and the pale brow is sealed to heaven at last." mrs. hemans. it will be easily supposed that tom wychecombe witnessed the proceedings related in the preceding chapter with dismay. the circumstance that he actually possessed a _bona fide_ will of his uncle, which left him heir of all the latter owned, real or personal, had made him audacious, and first induced him to take the bold stand of asserting his legitimacy, and of claiming all its consequences. he had fully determined to assume the title on the demise of sir wycherly; plausibly enough supposing that, as there was no heir to the baronetcy, the lands once in his quiet possession, no one would take sufficient interest in the matter to dispute his right to the rank. here, however, was a blow that menaced death to all his hopes. his illegitimacy seemed to be known to others, and there was every prospect of a new will's supplanting the old one, in its more important provisions, at least. he was at a loss to imagine what had made this sudden change in his uncle's intentions; for he did not sufficiently understand himself, to perceive that the few months of close communion which had succeeded the death of his reputed father, had sufficed to enlighten sir wycherly on the subject of his own true character, and to awaken a disgust that had remained passive, until suddenly aroused by the necessity of acting; and, least of all, could he understand how surprisingly the moral vision of men is purified and enlarged, as respects both the past and the future, by the near approach of death. although symptoms of strong dissatisfaction escaped him, he quieted his feelings as much as possible, cautiously waiting for any occurrence that might be used in setting aside the contemplated instrument, hereafter; or, what would be still better, to defeat its execution, now. as soon as the necessary preparations were made, atwood, his pen nibbed, ink at hand, and paper spread, was ready to proceed: and a breathless stillness existing in the chamber, sir gervaise resumed the subject on which they were convened. "atwood will read to you what he has already written, sir wycherly," he said; "should the phraseology be agreeable to you, you will have the goodness to make a sign to that effect. well, if all is ready, you can now commence--hey! atwood?" "'in the name of god, amen,'" commenced the methodical secretary; "'i, wycherly wychecombe, bart., of wychecombe-hall, in the county of devon, being of sound mind, but of a feeble state of health, and having the view of death before my eyes, revoking all other wills, codicils, or testamentary devises, whatsoever, do make and declare this instrument to be my last will and testament: that is to say, imprimis, i do hereby constitute and appoint ---- ---- of ----, the executor of this my said will, with all the powers and authority that the law gives, or may hereafter give to said executor. secondly, i give and bequeath to ----.' this is all that is yet written, sir gervaise, blanks being left for the name or names of the executor or executors, as well for the 's' at the end of 'executor,' should the testator see fit to name more than one." "there, sir reginald," said the vice-admiral, not altogether without exultation; "this is the way we prepare these things on board a man-of-war! a flag-officer's secretary needs have himself qualified to do any thing, short of a knowledge of administering to the cure of souls!" "and the cure of bodies, ye'll be permitting me to add, sir gervaise," observed magrath, taking an enormous pinch of a strong yellow snuff. "our secretary would make but a lubberly fist at turning off a delicate turtle-soup out of pig's-head; such as we puts on our table at sea, so often," muttered galleygo in the ear of mrs. larder. "i see nothing to object to, sir gervaise, if the language is agreeable to sir wycherly," answered the barrister by profession, though not by practice. "it would be advisable to get his approbation of even the language." "that we intend to do, of course, sir. sir wycherly, do you find the terms of this will to your liking?" sir wycherly smiled, and very clearly gave the sign of assent. "i thought as much--for, atwood has made the wills of two admirals, and of three captains, to my knowledge; and my lord chief justice said that one of the last would have done credit to the best conveyancer in england, and that it was a pity the testator had nothing to bequeath. now, sir wycherly, will you have one executor, or more? if _one_, hold up a single finger; and a finger for each additional executor you wish us to insert in these blanks. one, atwood--you perceive, gentlemen, that sir wycherly raises but _one_ finger; and so you can give a flourish at the end of the 'r,' as the word will be in the singular;--hey! atwood?" the secretary did as directed, and then reported himself ready to proceed. "it will be necessary for you now to _name_ your executor, sir wycherly--make as little effort as possible, as we shall understand the name, alone." sir wycherly succeeded in uttering the name of "sir reginald wychecombe," quite audibly. "this is plain enough," resumed the vice-admiral; "how does the sentence read now, atwood?" "'_imprimis:_--i do hereby constitute and appoint sir reginald wychecombe of wychecombe-regis, in the county of herts, baronet, the executor of this my said will, &c.'" "if that clause is to your liking, sir wycherly, have the goodness to give the sign agreed on." the sick man smiled, nodded his head, raised his hand, and looked anxiously at his kinsman. "i consent to serve, sir wycherly, if such is your desire," observed the nominee, who detected the meaning of his kinsman's look. "and now, sir," continued the vice-admiral; "it is necessary to ask you a few questions, in order that atwood may know what next to write. is it your desire to bequeath any real estate?" sir wycherly assented. "do you wish to bequeath _all_ your real estate?" the same sign of assent was given. "do you wish to bequeath _all_ to one person?" the sign of assent was given to this also. "this makes plain sailing, and a short run,--hey! atwood?" the secretary wrote as fast as possible, and in two or three minutes he read aloud, as follows-- "'secondly, i make and declare the following bequests or devises--that is to say, i give and bequeath to ---- ---- of ------, all the real estate of which i may die seised, together with all the houses, tenements, hereditaments, and appurtenances thereunto belonging, and all my rights to the same, whether in law or equity, to be possessed and enjoyed by the said ---- ---- of ------ in fee, by ---- heirs, executors, administrators, or assigns, for ever.' there are blanks for the name and description, as well as for the sex of the devisee," added the secretary. "all very proper and legal, i believe, sir reginald?--i am glad you think so, sir. now, sir wycherly, we wait for the name of the lucky person you mean thus to favour." "sir reginald wychecombe," the sick man uttered, painfully; "half-blood--no _nullus_. sir michael's heir--_my_ heir." "this is plain english!" cried sir gervaise, in the way of a man who is not displeased; "put in the name of 'sir reginald wychecombe of wychecombe-regis, herts,' atwood--ay--that justs fills the blank handsomely--you want '_his_ heirs, executors, &c.' in the other blank." "i beg your pardon, sir gervaise; it should read 'by _himself, his_ heirs, &c.'" "very true--very true, atwood. now read it slowly, and sir wycherly will assent, if he approve." this was done, and sir wycherly not only approved, but it was apparent to all present, the abashed and confounded tom himself not excepted, that he approved, with a feeling akin to delight. "that gives a black eye to all the land,--hey! atwood?" said sir gervaise; who, by this time, had entered into the business in hand, with all the interest of a regular notary--or, rather, with that of one, on whose shoulders rested the responsibility of success or failure. "we come next to the personals. do you wish to bequeath your furniture, wines, horses, carriages, and other things of that sort, to any particular person, sir wycherly?" "all--sir reginald--wychecombe--half-blood--old sir michael's heir," answered the testator. "good--clap that down, atwood, for it is doing the thing, as i like to see family affairs settled. as soon as you are ready, let us hear how it sounds in writing." "i furthermore bequeath to the said sir reginald wychecombe of wychecombe-regis, as aforesaid, baronet, all my personal property, whatsoever,'" read atwood, as soon as ready; "'including furniture, wines, pictures, books, horses and carriages, and all other goods and chattels, of which i may die possessed, excepting thereout and therefrom, nevertheless, such sums in money, stocks, bonds, notes, or other securities for debts, or such articles as i may in this instrument especially devise to any other person.' we can now go to especial legacies, sir gervaise, and then another clause may make sir reginald residuary legatee, if such be sir wycherly's pleasure." "if you approve of that clause, my dear sir, make the usual sign of assent." sir wycherly both raised his hand and nodded his head, evidently quite satisfied. "now, my good sir, we come to the pounds--no--guineas? you like that better--well, i confess that it sounds better on the ear, and is more in conformity with the habits of gentlemen. will you now bequeath guineas? good--first name the legatee--is that right, sir reginald?" "quite right, sir gervaise; and sir wycherly will understand that he now names the first person to whom he wishes to bequeath any thing else." "milly," muttered the sick man. "what? mills!--the mills go with the lands, sir reginald?" "he means miss mildred dutton," eagerly interposed wycherly, though with sufficient modesty. "yes--right--right," added the testator. "little milly--milly dutton--good little milly." sir gervaise hesitated, and looked round at bluewater, as much as to say "this is bringing coals to newcastle;" but atwood took the idea, and wrote the bequest, in the usual form. "'i give and bequeath to mildred dutton,'" he read aloud, "'daughter of francis dutton of the royal navy, the sum of ----' what sum shall i fill the blank with, sir wycherly?" "three--three--yes, three." "hundreds or thousands, my good sir?" asked sir gervaise, a little surprised at the amount of the bequest. "guineas--three--thousand--guineas--five per cents." "that's as plain as logarithms. give the young lady three thousand guineas in the fives, atwood." "'i give and bequeath to mildred dutton, daughter of francis dutton of the royal navy, the sum of three thousand guineas in the five per cent. stocks of this kingdom.' will that do, sir wycherly?" the old man looked at mildred and smiled benevolently; for, at that moment, he felt he was placing the pure and lovely girl above the ordinary contingencies of her situation, by rendering her independent. "whose name shall we next insert, sir wycherly?" resumed the vice-admiral. "there must be many more of these guineas left." "gregory--and--james--children of my brother thomas--baron wychecombe--five thousand guineas each," added the testator, making a great effort to express his meaning as clearly as possible. he was understood; and, after a short consultation with the vice-admiral, atwood wrote out the devise at length. "'i give and bequeath to my nephews, gregory and james wychecombe, the reputed sons of my late brother, thomas wychecombe, one of the barons of his majesty's exchequer, the sum of five thousand guineas, each, in the five per cent. funded debt of this kingdom.'" "do you approve of the devise, sir wycherly? if so, make the usual sign of assent?" sir wycherly complied, as in all the previous cases of his approval. "whose name shall we next insert, in readiness for a legacy, sir wycherly?" asked the admiral. here was a long pause, the baronet evidently turning over in his mind, what he had done, and what yet remained to do. "spread yourselves, my friends, in such a way as to permit the testator to see you all," continued the vice-admiral, motioning with his hand to widen the circle around the bed, which had been contracted a little by curiosity and interest; "stand more this way, _lieutenant wycherly wychecombe_, that the ladies may see and be seen; and you, too, mr. thomas wychecombe, come further in front, where your uncle will observe you." this speech pretty exactly reflected the workings of the speaker's mind. the idea that wycherly was a natural child of the baronet's, notwithstanding the virginian story, was uppermost in his thoughts; and, taking the supposed fact in connection with the young man's merit, he earnestly desired to obtain a legacy for him. as for tom, he cared little whether his name appeared in the will or not. justice was now substantially done, and the judge's property being sufficient for his wants, the present situation of the lately reputed heir excited but little sympathy. nevertheless, sir gervaise thought it would be generous, under the circumstances, to remind the testator that such a being as tom wychecombe existed. "here is your nephew, mr. thomas, sir wycherly," he said; "is it your wish to let his name appear in your will?" the sick man smiled coldly; but he moved his head, as much as to imply assent. "'i give and bequeath to thomas wychecombe, the eldest reputed son of my late brother, thomas, one of the barons of his majesty's exchequer,'" read atwood, when the clause was duly written; "'the sum of ----, in the five per cent. stocks of this kingdom.'" "what sum will you have inserted, sir wycherly?" asked the vice-admiral. "fifty--fifty--_pounds_" said the testator, in a voice clearer and fuller than he had before used that day. the necessary words were immediately inserted; the clause, as completed, was read again, and the approval was confirmed by a distinctly pronounced "yes." tom started, but, as all the others maintained their self-command, the business of the moment did not the less proceed. "do you wish any more names introduced into your will, sir wycherly?" asked the vice-admiral. "you have bequeathed but--a-a-a--how much--hey! atwood?--ay, ten and three are thirteen, and fifty _pounds_, make £ , ; and i hear you have £ , funded, besides loose cash, beyond a doubt." "ann larder--samuel cork--richard bitts--david brush--phoebe keys," said sir wycherly, slowly, giving time after each pause, for atwood to write; naming his cook, butler, groom, valet or body-servant, and housekeeper, in the order they have been laid before the reader. "how much to each, sir wycherly?--i see atwood has made short work, and put them all in the same clause--that will never do, unless the legacies are the same." "good--good--right," muttered the testator; "£ --each--£ --all--money--money." this settled the point, and the clause was regularly written, read, and approved. "this raises the money bequests to £ , , sir wycherly--some or £ more must remain to be disposed of. stand a little further this way, if you please, mr. _wycherly_ wychecombe, and allow the ladies more room. whose name shall we insert next, sir?" sir wycherly, thus directed by the eager desire of the admiral to serve the gallant lieutenant, fastened his eyes on the young man, regarding him quite a minute in silent attention. "virginian--same name--american--colonies--good lad--_brave_ lad--£ ," muttered the sick man between his teeth; and, yet so breathless was the quiet of the chamber, at that moment, every syllable was heard by all present. "yes--£ --wycherly wychecombe--royal navy--" atwood's pen was running rapidly over the paper, and had just reached the name of the contemplated legatee, when his hand was arrested by the voice of the young man himself. "stop, mr. atwood--do not insert any clause in my favour!" cried wycherly, his face the colour of crimson, and his chest heaving with the emotions he felt it so difficult to repress. "i decline the legacy--it will be useless to write it, as i will not receive a shilling." "young sir," said sir gervaise, with a little of the severity of a superior, when he rebukes an interior, in his manner; "you speak hastily. it is not the office of an auditor or of a spectator, to repel the kindness of a man about to pass from the face of the earth, into the more immediate presence of his god!" "i have every sentiment of respect for sir wycherly wychecombe, sir;--every friendly wish for his speedy recovery, and a long evening to his life; but, i will accept of the money of no man who holds my country in such obvious distaste, as, it is apparent, the testator holds mine." "you are an englishman, i believe, _lieutenant_ wychecombe; and a servant of king george ii.?" "i am _not_ an englishman, sir gervaise oakes--but an american; a virginian, entitled to all the rights and privileges of a british subject. i am no more an englishman, than dr. magrath may lay claim to the same character." "this is putting the case strongly,--hey! atwood?" answered the vice-admiral, smiling in spite of the occasion. "i am far from saying that you are an englishman, in all senses, sir; but you are one in the sense that gives you national character and national rights. you are a _subject_ of _england_." "no, sir gervaise; your pardon. i am the subject of george ii., but in no manner a subject of _england_. i am, in one sense, perhaps, a subject of the british empire; but i am not the less a virginian, and an american. not a shilling of any man's money will i ever touch, who expresses his contempt for either." "you forget yourself, young man, and overlook the future. the hundred or two of prize-money, bought at the expense of your blood, in the late affair at groix, will not last for ever." "it is gone, already, sir, every shilling of it having been sent to the widow of the boatswain who was killed at my side. i am no beggar, sir gervaise oakes, though only an american. i am the owner of a plantation, which affords me a respectable independence, already; and i do not serve from necessity, but from choice. perhaps, if sir wycherly knew this, he would consent to omit my name. i honour and respect him; would gladly relieve his distress, either of body or mind; but i cannot consent to accept his money when offered on terms i consider humiliating." this was said modestly, but with a warmth and sincerity which left no doubt that the speaker was in earnest. sir gervaise too much respected the feelings of the young man to urge the matter any further, and he turned towards the bed, in expectation of what the sick man might next say. sir wycherly heard and understood all that passed, and it did not fail to produce an impression, even in the state to which he was reduced. kind-hearted, and indisposed to injure even a fly, all the natural feelings of the old man resumed their ascendency, and he would gladly have given every shilling of his funded property to be able freely to express his compunction at having ever uttered a syllable that could offend sensibilities so noble and generous. but this exceeded his powers, and he was fain to do the best he could, in the painful situation in which he was placed. "noble fellow!" he stuttered out; "honour to name--come here--sir gervaise--bring here--" "i believe it is the wish of sir wycherly, that you would draw near the bed, mr. wychecombe of _virginia_," said the vice-admiral, pithily, though he extended a hand to, and smiled kindly on, the youth as the latter passed him in compliance. the sick man now succeeded, with a good deal of difficulty, in drawing a valuable signet-ring from a finger.--this ring bore the wychecombe arms, engraved on it. it was without the bloody hand, however; for it was far older than the order of baronets, having, as wycherly well knew, been given by one of the plantagenet dukes to an ancestor of the family, during the french wars of henry vi., and that, too, in commemoration of some signal act of gallantry in the field. "wear this--noble fellow--honour to name," said sir wycherly. "_must_ be descended--all wychecombes descended--him--" "i thank you, sir wycherly, for this present, which i prize as it ought to be prized," said wycherly, every trace of any other feeling than that of gratitude having vanished from his countenance. "i may have no claims to your honours or money; but this ring i need not be ashamed to wear, since it was bestowed on one who was as much _my_ ancestor, as he was the ancestor of any wychecombe in england." "legitimate?" cried tom, a fierce feeling of resentment upsetting his caution and cunning. "yes, sir, _legitimate_," answered wycherly, turning to his interrogator, with the calmness of one conscious of his own truth, and with a glance of the eye that caused tom to shrink back again into the circle. "i need no _bar_, to enable me to use this seal, which, you may perceive, sir gervaise oakes, is a _fac simile_ of the one i ordinarily wear, and which was transmitted to me from my direct ancestors." the vice-admiral compared the seal on wycherly's watch-chain with that on the ring, and, the bearings being principally griffins, he was enabled to see that one was the exact counterpart of the other. sir reginald advanced a step, and when the admiral had satisfied himself, he also took the two seals and compared them. as all the known branches of the wychecombes of wychecombe, bore the same arms, viz., griffins for wychecombe, with three battering-rams quartered, for wycherly,--he saw, at once, that the young man habitually carried about his person, this proof of a common origin. sir reginald knew very well that arms were often assumed, as well as names, and the greater the obscurity of the individual who took these liberties, the greater was his impunity; but the seal was a very ancient one, and innovations on personal rights were far less frequent a century since, than they are to-day. then the character and appearance of wycherly put fraud out of the question, so far as the young lieutenant himself was concerned. although the elder branch of the family, legitimately speaking, was reduced to the helpless old man who was now stretched upon his death-bed, his own had been extensive; and it well might be that some cadet of the wychecombes of wychecombe-regis, had strayed into the colonies and left descendants. secretly resolving to look more closely into these facts, he gravely returned the seals, and intimated to sir gervaise that the more important business before them had better proceed. on this hint, atwood resumed the pen, and the vice-admiral his duties. "there want yet some or £ to make up £ , , sir wycherly, which i understand is the sum you have in the funds. whose name or names will you have next inserted?" "rotherham--vicar--poor st. james--gone; yes--mr.--rotherham--vicar." the clause was written, the sum of £ was inserted, and the whole was read and approved. "this still leaves us some £ more to deal with, my dear sir?" a long pause succeeded, during which time sir wycherly was deliberating what to do with the rest of his ready money. at length his wandering eye rested on the pale features of mrs. dutton; and, while he had a sort of liking, that proceeded from habit, for her husband, he remembered that she had many causes for sorrow. with a feeling that was creditable to his own heart, he uttered her name, and the sum of £ . the clause was written, accordingly, read and approved. "we have still £ certainly, if not £ ," added sir gervaise. "milly--dear little--milly--pretty milly," stammered out the baronet, affectionately. "this must go into a codicil, sir gervaise," interrupted atwood; "there being already one legacy in the young lady's favour. shall it be one, two, three, or four thousand pounds, sir wycherly, in favour of miss mildred, to whom you have already bequeathed £ ." the sick man muttered the words "three thousand," after a short pause, adding "codicil." his wishes were complied with, and the whole was read and approved. after this, sir gervaise inquired if the testator wished to make any more devises. sir wycherly, who had in effect bequeathed, within a few hundred pounds, all he had to bestow, bethought himself, for a few moments, of the state of his affairs, and then he signified his satisfaction with what had been done. "as it is possible, sir wycherly, that you may have overlooked something," said sir gervaise, "and it is better that nothing should escheat to the crown, i will suggest the expediency of your making some one residuary legatee." the poor old man smiled an assent, and then he succeeded in muttering the name of "sir reginald wychecombe." this clause, like all the others, was written, read, and approved. the will was now completed, and preparations were made to read it carefully over to the intended testator. in order that this might be done with sufficient care for future objections, the two admirals and atwood, who were selected for the witnesses, each read the testament himself, in order to say that nothing was laid before the testator but that which was fairly contained in the instrument, and that nothing was omitted. when all was ready, the will was audibly and slowly read to sir wycherly, by the secretary, from the beginning to the end. the old man listened with great attention; smiled when mildred's name was mentioned; and clearly expressed, by signs and words, his entire satisfaction when all was ended. it remained only to place a pen in his hand, and to give him such assistance as would enable him to affix his name twice; once to the body of the instrument; and, when this was duly witnessed, then again to the codicil. by this time, tom wychecombe thought that the moment for interposing had arrived. he had been on thorns during the whole proceeding, forming desperate resolutions to sustain the bold fraud of his legitimacy, and thus take all the lands and heirlooms of the estate, under the entail; still he well knew that a subordinate but important question might arise, as between the validity of the two wills, in connection with sir wycherly's competency to make the last. it was material, therefore, in his view of the case, to enter a protest. "gentlemen," he said, advancing to the foot of the bed; "i call on you all to observe the nature of this whole transaction. my poor, beloved, but misled uncle, no longer ago than last night, was struck with a fit of apoplexy, or something so very near it as to disqualify him to judge in these matters; and here he is urged to make a will--" "by whom, sir?" demanded sir gervaise, with a severity of tone that induced the speaker to fall back a step. "why, sir, in my judgment, by all in the room. if not with their tongues, at least with their eyes." "and why should all in the room do this? am i a legatee?--is admiral bluewater to be a gainer by this will?--_can_ witnesses to a will be legatees?" "i do not wish to dispute the matter with you, sir gervaise oakes; but i solemnly protest against this irregular and most extraordinary manner of making a will. let all who hear me, remember this, and be ready to testify to it when called on in a court of justice." here sir wycherly struggled to rise in the bed, in evident excitement, gesticulating strongly to express his disgust, and his wish for his nephew to withdraw. but the physicians endeavoured to pacify him, while atwood, with the paper spread on a port-folio, and a pen in readiness, coolly proceeded to obtain the necessary signatures. sir wycherly's hand trembled so much when it received the pen, that, for the moment, writing was out of the question, and it became necessary to administer a restorative in order to strengthen his nerves. "away--out of sight," muttered the excited baronet, leaving no doubt on all present, that the uppermost feeling of the moment was the strong desire to rid himself of the presence of the offensive object. "sir reginald--little milly--poor servants--brothers--all the rest, stay." "just be calming the mind, sir wycherly wychecombe," put in magrath, "and ye'll be solacing the body by the same effort. when the mind is in a state of exaltation, the nervous system is apt to feel the influence of sympathy. by bringing the two in harmonious co-operation, the testamentary devises will have none the less of validity, either in reality or in appearances." sir wycherly understood the surgeon, and he struggled for self-command. he raised the pen, and succeeded in getting its point on the proper place. then his dim eye lighted, and shot a reproachful glance at tom; he smiled in a ghastly manner, looked towards the paper, passed a hand across his brow, closed his eyes, and fell back on the pillow, utterly unconscious of all that belonged to life, its interests, its duties, or its feelings. in ten minutes, he ceased to breathe. thus died sir wycherly wychecombe, after a long life, in which general qualities of a very negative nature, had been somewhat relieved, by kindness of feeling, a passive if not an active benevolence, and such a discharge of his responsible duties as is apt to flow from an absence of any qualities that are positively bad; as well as of many of material account, that are affirmatively good. chapter xv. "come ye, who still the cumbrous load of life push hard up hill; but at the farthest steep you trust to gain, and put on end to strife, down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, and hurls your labours to the valley deep;--" thomson. the sudden, and, in some measure, unlooked-for event, related in the close of the last chapter, produced a great change in the condition of things at wychecombe hall. the first step was to make sure that the baronet was actually dead; a fact that sir gervaise oakes, in particular, was very unwilling to believe, in the actual state of his feelings. men often fainted, and apoplexy required _three_ blows to kill; the sick man might still revive, and at least be able to execute his so clearly expressed intentions. "ye'll never have act of any sort, testamentary or matrimonial, legal or illegal, in this life, from the late sir wycherly wychecombe of wychecombe hall, devonshire," coolly observed magrath, as he collected the different medicines and instruments he had himself brought forth for the occasion. "he's far beyond the jurisdiction of my lord high chancellor of the college of physicians and surgeons; and therefore, ye'll be acting prudently to consider him as deceased; or, in the light in which the human body is placed by the cessation of all the animal functions." this decided the matter, and the necessary orders were given; all but the proper attendants quitting the chamber of death. it would be far from true to say that no one lamented sir wycherly wychecombe. both mrs. dutton and mildred grieved for his sudden end, and wept sincerely for his loss; though totally without a thought of its consequences to themselves. the daughter did not even once think how near she had been to the possession of £ , and how unfortunately the cup of comparative affluence had been dashed from her lips; though truth compels us to avow that the mother did once recall this circumstance, with a feeling akin to regret. a similar recollection had its influence on the manifestations of sorrow that flowed from others. the domestics, in particular, were too much astounded to indulge in any very abstracted grief, and sir gervaise and atwood were both extremely vexed. in short, the feelings, usual to such occasions were but little indulged in, though there was a strict observance of decorum. sir reginald wychecombe noted these circumstances attentively, and he took his measures accordingly. seizing a favourable moment to consult with the two admirals, his decision was soon made; and, within an hour after his kinsman's death, all the guests and most of the upper servants were assembled in the room, which it was the usage of the house to call the library; though the books were few, and seldom read. previously, there had been a consultation between sir reginald and the two admirals, to which atwood had been admitted, _ex officio_. as every thing, therefore, had been arranged in advance, there was no time lost unnecessarily, when the company was collected; the hertfordshire baronet coming to the point at once, and that in the clearest manner. "gentlemen, and you, good people, domestics of the late sir wycherly wychecombe," he commenced; "you are all acquainted with the unfortunate state of this household. by the recent death of its master, it is left without a head; and the deceased departing this life a bachelor, there is no child to assume his place, as the natural and legal successor. in one sense, i might be deemed the next of kin; though, by a _dictum_ of the common law i have no claim to the succession. nevertheless, you all know it was the intention of our late friend to constitute me his executor, and i conceive it proper that search should now be made for a will, which, by being duly executed, must dispose of all in this house, and let us know who is entitled to command at this solemn and important moment. it strikes me, sir gervaise oakes, that the circumstances are so peculiar as to call for prompt proceedings." "i fully agree with you, sir reginald," returned the vice-admiral; "but before we proceed any further, i would suggest the propriety of having as many of those present as possible, who have an interest in the result. mr. thomas wychecombe, the reputed nephew of the deceased, i do not see among us." on examination, this was found to be true, and the man of tom wychecombe, who had been ordered by his master to be present as a spy, was immediately sent to the latter, with a request that he would attend. after a delay of two or three minutes, the fellow returned with the answer. "sir thomas wychecombe's compliments, gentlemen," he said, "and he desires to know the object of your request. he is in his room, indulging in natural grief for his recent loss; and he prefers to be left alone with his sorrows, just at this moment, if it be agreeable to you." this was taking high ground in the commencement; and, as the man had his cue, and delivered his message with great distinctness and steadiness, the effect on the dependants of the household was very evident. sir reginald's face flushed, while sir gervaise bit his lip; bluewater played with the hilt of his sword, very indifferent to all that was passing; while atwood and the surgeons shrugged their shoulders and smiled. the first of these persons well knew that tom had no shadow of a claim to the title he had been in so much haste to assume, however, and he hoped that the feebleness of his rights in all particulars, was represented by the mixed feebleness and impudence connected with this message. determined not to be bullied from his present purpose, therefore, he turned to the servant and sent him back with a second message, that did not fail of its object. the man was directed to inform his master, that sir reginald wychecombe was in possession of facts that, in his opinion, justified the course he was taking, and if "mr. thomas wychecombe" did not choose to appear, in order to look after his own interests, he should proceed without him. this brought tom into the room, his face pale with uncertainty, rather than with grief, and his mind agitated with such apprehensions as are apt to beset even the most wicked, when they take their first important step in evil. he bowed, however, to the company with an air that he intended to represent the manner of a well-bred man acknowledging his duties to respected guests. "if i appear remiss in any of the duties of a host, gentlemen," he said, "you will overlook it, i trust, in consideration of my present feelings. sir wycherly was my father's elder brother, and was very dear, as he was very _near_ to me. by this melancholy death, sir reginald, i am suddenly and unexpectedly elevated to be the head of our ancient and honourable family; but i know my own personal unworthiness to occupy that distinguished place, and feel how much better it would be filled by yourself. although the law has placed a wide and impassable barrier between all of your branch of the family and ourselves, i shall ever be ready to acknowledge the affinity, and to confess that it does us quite as much honour as it bestows." sir reginald, by a great effort, commanded himself so far as to return the bow, and apparently to receive the condescending admissions of the speech, with a proper degree of respect. "sir, i thank you," he answered, with formal courtesy; "no affinity that can be properly and legally established, will ever be disavowed by me. under present circumstances, however, summoned as i have been to the side of his death-bed, by the late sir wycherly, himself, and named by him, as one might say, with his dying breath, as his executor, i feel it a duty to inquire into the rights of all parties, and, if possible, to ascertain who is the successor, and consequently who has the best claim to command here." "you surely do not attach any validity, sir reginald, to the pretended will that was so singularly drawn up in my dear uncle's presence, an hour before he died! had that most extraordinary instrument been duly signed and sealed, i cannot think that the doctor's commons would sustain it; but _unsigned_ and _unsealed_, it is no better than so much waste paper." "as respects the real estate, sir, though so great a loser by the delay of five minutes, i am willing to admit that you are right. with regard to the personals, a question in equity--one of clearly-expressed intention--might possibly arise; though even of that i am by no means certain." "no, sir; no--" cried tom, a glow of triumph colouring his cheek, in spite of every effort to appear calm; "no english court would ever disturb the natural succession to the personals! i am the last man to wish to disturb some of these legacies--particularly that to mr. rotherham, and those to the poor, faithful domestics,"--tom saw the prudence of conciliating allies, at such a critical moment, and his declaration had an instant and strong effect, as was evident by the countenances of many of the listeners;--"and i may say, that to miss mildred dutton; all of which will be duly paid, precisely as if my beloved uncle had been in his right mind, and had actually made the bequests; for this mixture of reason and justice, with wild and extraordinary conceits, is by no means uncommon among men of great age, and in their last moments. however, sir reginald, i beg you will proceed, and act as in your judgment the extraordinary circumstances of what may be called a very peculiar case, require." "i conceive it to be our duty, sir, to search for a will. if sir wycherly has actually died intestate, it will be time enough to inquire into the question of the succession at common law. i have here the keys of his private secretary; and mr. furlong, the land-steward, who has just arrived, and whom you see in the room, tells me sir wycherly was accustomed to keep all his valuable papers in this piece of furniture. i shall now proceed to open it." "do so, sir reginald; no one can have a stronger desire than myself to ascertain my beloved uncle's pleasure. those to whom he _seemed_ to wish to give, even, shall not be losers for the want of his name." tom was greatly raised in the opinions of half in the room, by this artful declaration, which was effectually securing just so many friends, in the event of any occurrence that might render such support necessary. in the mean time, sir reginald, assisted by the steward, opened the secretary, and found the deposite of papers. the leases were all in order; the title-deeds were properly arranged; the books and accounts appeared to be exactly kept: ordinary bills and receipts were filed with method; two or three bags of guineas proved that ready cash was not wanting; and, in short, every thing showed that the deceased had left his affairs in perfect order, and in a very intelligible condition. paper after paper, however, was opened, and nothing like a will, rough draft or copied, was to be found. disappointment was strongly painted on the faces of all the gentlemen present; for, they had ignorantly imbibed the opinion, that the production of a will would, in some unknown manner, defeat the hopes of the _soi-disant_ sir thomas wychecombe. nor was tom, himself, altogether without concern; for, since the recent change in his uncle's feelings towards himself, he had a secret apprehension that some paper might be found, to defeat all his hopes. triumph, however, gradually assumed the place of fear, in the expression of his countenance; and when mr. furlong, a perfectly honest man, declared that, from the late baronet's habits, as well as from the result of this search, he did not believe that any such instrument existed, his feelings overflowed in language. "not so fast, master furlong--not so fast," he cried; "here is something that possibly even your legal acumen may be willing to term a will. you perceive, gentlemen, i have it in my possession on good authority, as it is addressed to me by name, and that, too, in sir wycherly's own hand-writing; the envelope is sealed with his private seal. you will pronounce this to be my dear uncle's hand. furlong,"--showing the superscription of the letter--"and this to be his seal?" "both are genuine, gentlemen," returned the steward, with a sigh. "thus far, mr. thomas is in the right." "_mr._ thomas, sirrah!--and why not _sir_ thomas? are baronets addressed as other men, in england? but, no matter! there is a time for all things. sir gervaise oakes, as you are perfectly indifferent in this affair, i ask of you the favour to break the seal, and to inquire into the contents of the paper?" the vice-admiral was not slow in complying; for, by this time, he began to feel an intense interest in the result. the reader will readily understand that tom had handed to sir gervaise the will drawn up by his father, and which, after inserting his reputed nephew's name, sir wycherly had duly executed, and delivered to the person most interested. the envelope, address, and outer seal, tom had obtained the very day the will was signed, after assuring himself of the contents of the latter, by six or eight careful perusals. the vice-admiral read the instrument from beginning to end, before he put it into the hands of sir reginald to examine. the latter fully expected to meet with a clumsy forgery; but the instant his eyes fell on the phraseology, he perceived that the will had been drawn by one expert in the law. a second look satisfied him that the hand was that of mr. baron wychecombe. it has already been said, that in this instrument, sir wycherly bequeathed all he had on earth, to "his nephew, thomas wychecombe, son, &c., &c.," making his heir, also, his executor. "this will appears to me to have been drawn up by a very skilful lawyer; the late baron wychecombe," observed the baronet. "it was, sir reginald," answered tom, endeavouring to appear unconcerned. "he did it to oblige my respected uncle, leaving blanks for the name of the devisee, not liking to make a will so very decidedly in favour of his own son. the writing in the blanks is by sir wycherly himself, leaving no doubts of _his_ intentions." "i do not see but you may claim to be the heir of wychecombe, sir, as well as of the personals; though your claims to the baronetcy shall certainly be contested and defeated." "and why defeated?" demanded wycherly, stepping forward for the first time, and speaking with a curiosity he found it difficult to control. "is not mr. thomas--_sir_ thomas, i ought rather to say,--the eldest son of the late sir wycherly's next brother; and, as a matter of course, heir to the title, as well as to the estate?" "not he, as i can answer from a careful examination of proofs. mr. baron wychecombe was never married, and thus _could have_ no heir at law." "is this possible!--how have we all been deceived then, in america!" "why do you say this, young gentleman? can _you_ have any legal claims here?" "i am wycherly, the _only_ son of wycherly, who was the eldest son of gregory, the younger brother of the late baronet; and if what you say be true, the next in succession to the baronetcy, at least." "this is--" tom's words stuck in his throat; for the quiet, stern eye of the young sailor met his look and warned him to be prudent.--"this is a _mistake_," he resumed. "my uncle gregory was lost at sea, and died a bachelor. he can have left no lawful issue." "i must say, young gentleman," added sir reginald, gravely, "that such has always been the history of his fate. i have had too near an interest in this family, to neglect its annals." "i know, sir, that such has been the opinion here for more than half a century; but it was founded in error. the facts are simply these. my grandfather, a warm-hearted but impetuous young man, struck an older lieutenant, when ashore and on duty, in one of the west india islands. the penalty was death; but, neither the party injured nor the commander of the vessel, wished to push matters to extremity, and the offender was advised to absent himself from the ship, at the moment of sailing. the injured party was induced to take this course, as in a previous quarrel, my grandfather had received his fire, without returning it; frankly admitting his fault. the ship did sail without mr. gregory wychecombe, and was lost, every soul on board perishing. my grandfather passed into virginia, where he remained a twelvemonth, suppressing his story, lest its narration might lead to military punishment. love next sealed his future fate. he married a woman of fortune, and though his history was well known in his own retired circle, it never spread beyond it. no one supposed him near the succession, and there was no motive for stating the fact, on account of his interests. once he wrote to sir wycherly, but he suppressed the letter, as likely to give more pain than pleasure. that letter i now have, and in his own hand-writing. i have also his commission, and all the other proofs of identity that such a person would be apt to possess. they are as complete as any court in christendom would be likely to require, for he never felt a necessity for changing his name. he has been dead but two years, and previously to dying he saw that every document necessary to establish my claim, should a moment for enforcing it ever arrive, was put in such a legal form as to admit of no cavilling. he outlived my own father, but none of us thought there was any motive for presenting ourselves, as all believed that the sons of baron wychecombe were legitimate. i can only say, sir, that i have complete legal evidence that i am heir at law of gregory, the younger brother of the late sir wycherly wychecombe. whether the fact will give me any rights here, you best can say." "it will make you heir of entail to this estate, master of this house, and of most of what it contains, and the present baronet. you have only to prove what you say, to defeat every provision of this will, with the exception of that which refers to the personal estate." "bravo!" cried sir gervaise, fairly rubbing his hands with delight. "bravo, dick; if we were aboard the plantagenet, by the lord, i'd turn the hands up, and have three cheers. so then, my brave young seaman, you turn out to be sir wycherly wychecombe, after all!" "yes, that's the way we always does, on board ship," observed galleygo, to the group of domestics; "whenever any thing of a hallooing character turns up. sometimes we makes a signal to admiral blue and the rest on 'em, to 'stand by to cheer,' and all of us sets to, to cheer as if our stomachs was lull of hurrahs, and we wanted to get rid on 'em. if sir jarvy would just pass the word now, you'd have a taste of that 'ere custom, that would do your ears good for a twelvemonth. it's a cheering matter when the one of the trade falls heir to an estate." "and would this be a proper mode of settling a question of a right of property, sir gervaise oakes?" asked tom, with more of right and reason than he commonly had of his side; "and that, too, with my uncle lying dead beneath this roof?" "i acknowledge the justice of the reproof, young sir, and will say no more in the matter--at least, nothing as indiscreet as my last speech. sir reginald, you have the affair in hand, and i recommend it to your serious attention." "fear nothing, sir gervaise," answered he of hertfordshire. "justice shall be done in the premises, if justice rule in england. your story, young gentleman, is probable, and naturally told, and i see a family likeness between you and the wychecombes, generally; a likeness that is certainly not to be traced in the person of the other claimant. did the point depend on the legitimacy of mr. thomas wychecombe, it might be easily determined, as i have his own mother's declaration to the fact of his illegitimacy, as well as of one other material circumstance that may possibly unsettle even the late baron wychecombe's will. but this testamentary devise of sir wycherly appears to be perfect, and nothing but the entail can defeat it. you speak of your proofs; where are they? it is all-important to know which party is entitled to possession." "here they are, sir," answered wycherly, removing a belt from his body, and producing his papers; "not in the originals, certainly; for most of _them_ are matters of official record, in virginia; but in, what the lawyers call 'exemplified copies,' and which i am told are in a fit state to be read as evidence in any court in england, that can take cognizance of the matter." sir reginald took the papers, and began to read them, one by one, and with deep attention. the evidence of the identity of the grandfather was full, and of the clearest nature. he had been recognised as an old schoolfellow, by one of the governors of the colony, and it was at this gentleman's suggestion that he had taken so much pains to perpetuate the evidence of his identity. both the marriages, one with jane beverly, and the other with rebecca randolph, were fully substantiated, as were the two births. the personal identity of the young man, and this too as the only son of wycherly, the _eldest_ son of gregory, was well certified to, and in a way that could leave no doubt as to the person meant. in a word, the proofs were such as a careful and experienced lawyer would have prepared, in a case that admitted of no doubt, and which was liable to be contested in a court of law. sir reginald was quite half an hour in looking over the papers; and during this time, every eye in the room was on him, watching the expression of his countenance with the utmost solicitude. at length, he finished his task, when he again turned to wycherly. "these papers have been prepared with great method, and an acute knowledge of what might be required," he said. "why have they been so long suppressed, and why did you permit sir wycherly to die in ignorance of your near affinity to him, and of your claims?" "of my claims i was ignorant myself, believing not only mr. thomas wychecombe, but his two brothers, to stand before me. this was the opinion of my grandfather, even when he caused these proofs to be perpetuated. they were given to me, that i might claim affinity to the family on my arrival in england; and it was the injunction of my grandfather that they should be worn on my person, until the moment arrived when i could use them." "this explains your not preferring the claim--why not prefer the relationship?" "what for, sir? i found america and americans looked down on, in england--colonists spoken of as a race of inferior beings--of diminished stature, feebler intellects, and a waning spirit, as compared to those from whom they had so recently sprung; and i was too proud to confess an affinity where i saw it was not desired. when wounded, and expecting to die, i was landed here, at my own request, with an intention to state the facts; but, falling under the care of ministering angels,"--here wycherly glanced his eye at mildred and her mother--"i less felt the want of relatives. sir wycherly i honoured; but he too manifestly regarded us americans as inferiors, to leave any wish to tell him i was his great-nephew." "i fear we are not altogether free from this reproach, sir gervaise," observed sir reginald, thoughtfully. "we do appear to think there is something in the air of this part of the island, that renders us better than common. nay, if a claim comes from _over water_, let it be what it may, it strikes us as a foreign and inadmissible claim. the fate from which even princes are not exempt, humbler men must certainly submit to!" "i can understand the feeling, and i think it honourable to the young man. admiral bluewater, you and i have had occasion often to rebuke this very spirit in our young officers; and you will agree with me when i say that this gentleman has acted naturally, in acting as he has." "i must corroborate what you say, sir gervaise," answered bluewater; "and, as one who has seen much of the colonies, and who is getting to be an old man, i venture to predict that this very feeling, sooner or later, will draw down upon england its own consequences, in the shape of condign punishment." "i don't go as far as that, dick--i don't go as far as that. but it is unwise and unsound, and we, who know both hemispheres, ought to set our faces against it. we have already some gallant fellows from that quarter of the world among us, and i hope to live to see more." this, let it be remembered, was said before the hallowells, and coffins, and brentons of our own times, were enrolled in a service that has since become foreign to that of the land of their birth; but it was prophetic of their appearance, and of that of many other high names from the colonies, in the lists of the british marine. wycherly smiled proudly, but he made no answer. all this time, sir reginald had been musing on what had passed. "it would seem, gentlemen," the latter now observed, "that, contrary to our belief, there is an heir to the baronetcy, as well as to the estate of wychecombe; and all our regrets that the late incumbent did not live to execute the will we had drawn at his request, have become useless. sir wycherly wychecombe, i congratulate you, on thus succeeding to the honours and estates of your family; and, as a member of the last, i may be permitted to congratulate all of the name in being so worthily represented. for one of that family i cheerfully recognise you as its head and chief." wycherly bowed his acknowledgments, receiving also the compliments of most of the others present. tom wychecombe, however, formed an exception, and instead of manifesting any disposition to submit to this summary disposal of his claims, he was brooding over the means of maintaining them. detecting by the countenances of the upper servants that they were effectually bribed by his promise to pay the late baronet's legacies, he felt tolerably confident of support from that quarter. he well knew that possession was nine points of the law, and his thoughts naturally turned towards the means necessary to securing this great advantage. as yet, the two claimants were on a par, in this respect; for while the executed will might seem to give him a superior claim, no authority that was derived from an insufficient source would be deemed available in law; and sir wycherly had clearly no right to devise wychecombe, so long as there existed an heir of entail. both parties, too, were merely guests in the house; so that neither had any possession that would require a legal process to eject him. tom had been entered at the temple, and had some knowledge of the law of the land; more especially as related to real estate; and he was aware that there existed some quaint ceremony of taking possession, as it existed under the feudal system; but he was ignorant of the precise forms, and had some reasonable doubts how far they would benefit him, under the peculiar circumstances of this case. on the whole, therefore, he was disposed to try the effect of intimidation, by means of the advantages he clearly possessed, and of such little reason as the facts connected with his claim, allowed him to offer. "sir reginald wychecombe," he said gravely, and with as much indifference as he could assume; "you have betrayed a facility of belief in this american history, that has surprised me in one with so high a reputation for prudence and caution. this sudden revival of the dead may answer for the credulous lovers of marvels, but it would hardly do for a jury of twelve sober-minded and sworn men. admitting the whole of this gentleman's statement to be true, however, you will not deny the late sir wycherly's right to make a will, if he only devised his old shoes; and, having this right, that of naming his executor necessarily accompanied it. now, sir, i am clearly that executor, and as such i demand leave to exercise my functions in this house, as its temporary master at least." "not so fast--not so fast, young sir. wills must be proved and executors qualified, before either has any validity. then, again, sir wycherly could only give authority over that which was his own. the instant he ceased to breathe, his brother gregory's grandson became the life-tenant of this estate, the house included; and i advise him to assert that right, trusting to the validity of his claim, for his justification in law, should it become necessary. in these matters he who is right is safe; while he who is wrong must take the consequences of his own acts. mr. furlong, your steward-ship ceased with the life of your principal; if you have any keys or papers to deliver, i advise your placing them in the hands of this gentleman, whom, beyond all cavil, i take to be the rightful sir wycherly wychecombe." furlong was a cautious, clear-headed, honest man, and with every desire to see tom defeated, he was tenacious of doing his duty. he led sir reginald aside, therefore, and examined him, at some length, touching the nature of the proofs that had been offered; until, quite satisfied that there could be no mistake, he declared his willingness to comply with the request. "certainly, i hold the keys of the late sir wycherly's papers,--those that have just been seen in the search for the will," he said, "and have every wish to place them in the hands of their proper owner. here they are, sir wycherly; though i would advise you to remove the bags of gold that are in the secretary, to some other place; as _those_ your uncle had a right to bequeath to whom he saw fit. every thing else in the secretary goes with the estate; as do the plate, furniture, and other heir-looms of the hall." "i thank you, mr. furlong, and i will first use these keys to follow your advice," answered the new baronet; "then i will return them to you with a request that you will still retain the charge of all your former duties." this was no sooner said than done; wycherly placing the bags of gold on the floor, until some other place of security could be provided. "all that i legally can, sir wycherly, will i cheerfully do, in order to aid you in the assertion of your right; though i do not see how i can transfer more than i hold. _qui facit per alium, facit per se_, is good law, sir reginald; but the principal must have power to act, before the deputy can exercise authority. it appears to me that this is a case, in which each party stands on his own rights, at his own peril. the possession of the farms is safe enough, for the time being, with the tenants; but as to the hall and park, there would seem to be no one in the legal occupancy. this makes a case in which title is immediately available." "such is the law, mr. furlong, and i advise sir wycherly to take possession of the key of the outer door at once, as master of the tenement." no sooner was this opinion given, than wycherly left the room, followed by all present to the hall. here he proceeded alone to the vestibule, locked the great door of the building, and put the key in his pocket. this act was steadily performed, and in a way to counteract, in a great degree, the effect on the domestics, of tom's promises concerning the legacies. at the same moment, furlong whispered something in the ear of sir reginald. "now you are quietly in possession, sir wycherly," said the latter, smiling; "there is no necessity of keeping us all prisoners in order to maintain your claims. david, the usual porter, mr. furlong tells me, is a faithful servant, and if he will accept of the key as _your_ agent it may be returned to him with perfect legal safety." as david cheerfully assented to this proposition, the key was put into his hands again, and the new sir wycherly was generally thought to be in possession. nor did tom dare to raise the contemplated question of his own legitimacy before sir reginald, who, he had discovered, possessed a clue to the facts; and he consequently suppressed, for the moment at least, the certificate of marriage he had so recently forged. bowing round to the whole company, therefore, with a sort of sarcastic compliance, he stalked off to his own room with the air of an injured man. this left our young hero in possession of the field; but, as the condition of the house was not one suitable to an unreasonable display of triumph, the party soon separated; some to consult concerning the future, some to discourse of the past, and all to wonder, more or less, at the present. chapter xvi. "let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, i fear not wove nor wind; yet marvel not, sir childe, that i am sorrowful of mind." childe harold. "well, sir jarvy," said galleygo, following on the heels of the two admirals, as the latter entered the dressing-room of the officer addressed; "it has turned out just as i thought; and the county of fairvillain has come out of his hole, like a porpoise coming up to breathe, the moment our backs is turned! as soon as we gives the order to square-away for england, and i see the old planter's cabin windows turned upon franco, i foreseed them consequences. well, gentlemen, here's been a heap of prize-money made in this house without much fighting. we shall have to give the young lieutenant a leave, for a few months, in order that he may take his swing ashore, here, among his brother squires!" "pray, sir, what may be your pleasure?" demanded sir gervaise; "and what the devil has brought you at my heels?" "why, big ships always tows small craft, your honour," returned galleygo, simpering. "howsever, i never comes without an errand, as every body knows. you see, sir jarvy,--you see, admiral blue, that our signal-officer is ashore, with a report for us; and meeting me in the hall, he made it to me first like, that i might bring it up to you a'terwards. his news is that the french county is gone to sea, as i has just told you, gentlemen." "can it be possible that bunting has brought any such tidings here! harkee, galleygo; desire mr. bunting to walk up; and then see that you behave yourself as is decent in a house of mourning." "ay-ay-sir. no fears of i, gentlemen. i can put on as grievous a look as the best on 'em, and if they wishes to see sorrow becomingly, and ship-shape, let them study my conduct and countenance. we has all seen dead men afore now, gentlemen, as we all knows. when we fou't mounsheer graveland, (gravelin,) we had forty-seven slain, besides the hurt that lived to tell their own pain; and when we had the--" "go to the devil, master galleygo, and desire mr. bunting to walk up stairs," cried sir gervaise, impatiently. "ay-ay-sir. which will your honour have done first?" "let me see the signal-officer, _first_," answered the vice-admiral, laughing; "then be certain of executing the other order." "well," muttered galleygo, as he descended the stairs; "if i was to do as he says, now, what would we do with the fleet? ships wants orders to fight; and flags wants food to give orders; and food wants stewards to be put upon the table; and stewards wants no devils to help 'em do their duty. no--no--sir jarvy; i'll not pay that visit, till we all goes in company, as is suitable for them that has sailed so long together." "this will be great news, dick, if de vervillin has really come out!" cried sir gervaise, rubbing his hands with delight. "hang me, if i wait for orders from london; but we'll sail with the first wind and tide. let them settle the quarrel at home, as they best can; it is _our_ business to catch the frenchman. how many ships do you really suppose the count to have?" "twelve of two decks, besides one three-decker, and beating us in frigates. two or three, however, are short vessels, and cannot be quite as heavy as our own. i see no reason why we should not engage him." "i rejoice to hear you say so! how much more honourable is it to seek the enemy, than to be intriguing about a court! i hope you intend to let me announce that red riband in general orders to-morrow, dick?" "never, with my consent, sir gervaise, so long as the house of hanover confers the boon. but what an extraordinary scene we have just had below! this young lieutenant is a noble fellow, and i hope, with all my heart, he will be enabled to make good his claim." "of that sir reginald assures me there can be no manner of doubt. his papers are in perfect order, and his story simple and probable. do you not remember hearing, when we were midshipmen in the west indies, of a lieutenant of the sappho's striking a senior officer, ashore; and of his having been probably saved from the sentence of death, by the loss of the ship?" "as well as if it were yesterday, now you name the vessel. and this you suppose to have been the late sir wycherly's brother. did he belong to the sappho?" "so they tell me, below; and it leaves no doubt on my mind, of the truth of the whole story." "it is a proof, too, how easy it is for one to return to england, and maintain his rights, after an absence of more than half a century. he in scotland has a claim quite as strong as that of this youth!" "dick bluewater, you seem determined to pull a house down about your own ears! what have you or i to do with these scotch adventurers, when a gallant enemy invites us to come out and meet him! but, mum--here is bunting." at this instant the signal-lieutenant of the plantagenet was shown into the room, by galleygo, in person. "well, bunting; what tidings from the fleet?" demanded sir gervaise. "do the ships still ride to the flood?" "it is slack-water, sir gervaise, and the vessels are looking all ways at once. most of us are clearing hawse, for there are more round turns in our cables, than i remember ever to have seen in so short a time." "that comes of there being no wind, and the uselessness of the stay-sails and spankers. what has brought you ashore? galleygo tells us something of a cutter's coming in, with information that the french are out; but _his_ news is usually _galley_-news." "not always, sir gervaise," returned the lieutenant, casting a side-look at the steward, who often comforted him with ship's delicacies in the admiral's cabin; "this time, he is right, at least. the active is coming in slowly, and has been signalling us all the morning. we make her out to say that monsieur vervillin is at sea with his whole force." "yes," muttered galleygo to the rear-admiral, in a sort of aside; "the county of fairvillain has come out of his hole, just as i told sir jarvy. fair-weather-villains they all is, and no bones broken." "silence--and you think, bunting, you read the signals clearly?" "no doubt of it, sir gervaise. captain greenly is of the same opinion, and has sent me ashore with the news. he desired me to tell you that the ebb would make in half an hour, and that we can then fetch past the rocks to the westward, light as the wind is." "ay, that is greenly, i can swear!--he'll not sit down until we are all aweigh, and standing out. does the cutter tell us which way the count was looking?" "to the westward, sir; on an easy bowline, and under short canvass." "the gentleman is in no hurry, it would seem. has he a convoy?" "not a sail, sir. nineteen sail, all cruisers, and only twelve of the line. he has one two-decker, and two frigates more than we can muster; just a frenchman's odds, sir." "the count has certainly with him, the seven new ships that were built last season," quietly observed bluewater, leaning back in his easy-chair, until his body inclined at an angle of forty-five degrees, and stretching a leg on an empty stand, in his usual self-indulgent manner. "they are a little heavier than their old vessels, and will give us harder work." "the tougher the job, the more creditable the workmanship. the tide is turning, you say, bunting?" "it is, sir gervaise; and we shall all tend ebb, in twenty minutes. the frigates outside are riding down channel already. the chloe seems to think that we shall be moving soon, as she has crossed top-gallant and royal-yards. even captain greenly was thinking of stretching along the messenger." "ah! you're a set of uneasy fellows, all round!--you tire of your native land in twenty-four hours, i find. well, mr. bunting; you can go off, and say that all is very well. this house is in a sad state of confusion, as, i presume, you know. mention this to captain greenly." "ay-ay-sir; is it your pleasure i should tell him any thing else, sir gervaise oakes?" "why--yes--bunting," answered the vice-admiral, smiling; "you may as well give him a hint to get all his fresh grub off, as fast as he can--and--yes; to let no more men quit the ship on liberty." "any thing more, sir gervaise?" added the pertinacious officer. "on the whole, you may as well run up a signal to be ready to unmoor. the ships can very well ride at single anchors, when the tide has once fairly made. what say you, bluewater?" "a signal to unmoor, at once, would expedite matters. you know very well, you intend to go to sea, and why not do the thing off-hand?" "i dare say, now, bunting, you too would like to give the commander-in-chief a nudge of some sort or other." "if i could presume so far, sir gervaise. i can only say, sir, that the sooner we are off, the sooner we shall flog the french." "and master galleygo, what are your sentiments, on this occasion? it is a full council, and all ought to speak, freely." "you knows, sir jarvy, that i never speaks in these matters, unless spoken to. admiral blue and your honour are quite enough to take care of the fleet in most circumstances, though there is some knowledge in the tops, as well as in the cabin. my ideas is, gentlemen, that, by casting to starboard on this ebb tide, we shall all have our heads off-shore, and we shall fetch into the offing as easily as a country wench turns in a jig. what we shall do with the fleet, when we gets out, will be shown in our ultra movements." by "ultra," david meant "ulterior," a word he had caught up from hearing despatches read, which he understood no better than those who wrote them at the admiralty. "thanks to you all, my friends!" cried sir gervaise, who was so delighted at the prospect of a general engagement, that he felt a boyish pleasure in this fooling; "and now to business, seriously. mr. bunting, i would have the signal for sailing shown. let each ship fire a recall-gun for her boats. half an hour later, show the bunting to unmoor; and send my boat ashore as soon as you begin to heave on the capstan. so, good-morning, my fine fellow, and show your activity." "mr. bunting, as you pass the cæsar, do me the favour to ask for my boat, also," said bluewater, lazily, but half-raising his body to look after the retiring lieutenant. "if we are to move, i suppose i shall have to go with the rest of them. of course we shall repeat all your signals." sir gervaise waited until bunting was out of the room, when he turned to the steward, and said with some dryness of manner-- "mr. galleygo, you have my permission to go on board, bag and baggage." "yes, sir jarvy, i understands. we are about to get the ships under way, and good men ought to be in their places. good-by, admiral blue. we shall meet before the face of the french, and then i expects every man on us will set an example to himself of courage and devotion." "that fellow grows worse and worse, each day, and i shall have to send him forward, in order to check his impertinence," said sir gervaise, half-vexed and half-laughing. "i wonder you stand his saucy familiarity as well as you appear to do--with his admiral blues!" "i shall take offence as soon as i find sir jarvy really out of humour with him. the man is brave, honest, and attached; and these are virtues that would atone for a hundred faults." "let the fellow go to the devil!--do you not think i had better go out, without waiting for despatches from town?" "it is hard to say. your orders may send us all down into scotland, to face charles stuart. perhaps, too, they may make you a duke, and me a baron, in order to secure our fidelity!" "the blackguards!--well, say no more of that, just now. if m. de vervillin is steering to the westward, he can hardly be aiming at edinburgh, and the movements in the north." "that is by no means so certain. your really politic fellows usually look one way and row another." "it is my opinion, that his object is to effect a diversion, and my wish is to give it to him, to his heart's content. so long as this force is kept near the chops of the channel, it can do no harm in the north, and, in-so-much, must leave the road to germany open." "for one, i think it a pity--not to say a disgrace--that england cannot settle her own quarrels without calling in the aid of either frenchman or dutchman." "we must take the world as it is, dick, and act like two straight-forward seamen, without stopping to talk politics. i take it for granted, notwithstanding your stuart fervour, that you are willing enough to help me thresh monsieur de vervillin." "beyond a question. nothing but the conviction that he was directly employed in serving my natural and legitimate prince, could induce me to show him any favour. still, oakes, it is possible he may have succours for the scotch on board, and be bound to the north by the way of the irish channel!" "ay, pretty succours, truly, for an englishman to stomach! _mousquetaires_, and _régiments de croy_, or _de dillon_, or some d----d french name or other; and, perhaps, beautiful muskets from the _bois de vincennes_; or some other infernal nest of gallic inventions to put down the just ascendency of old england! no--no--dick bluewater, your excellent, loyal, true-hearted english mother, never bore you to be a dupe of bourbon perfidy and trick. i dare say she sickened at the very name of louis!" "i'll not answer for that, sir jarvy," returned the rear-admiral, with a vacant smile; "for she passed some time at the court of _le grand monarque_. but all this is idle; we know each other's opinions, and, by this time, ought to know each other's characters. have you digested any plan for your future operations; and what part am i to play in it?" sir gervaise paced the room, with hands folded behind his back, in an air of deep contemplation, for quite five minutes, before he answered. all this time, bluewater remained watching his countenance and movements, in anticipation of what was to come. at length, the vice-admiral appeared to have made up his mind, and he delivered himself of his decision, as follows. "i have reflected on them, dick," he said, "even while my thoughts have seemed to be occupied with the concerns of others. if de vervillin is out, he must still be to the eastward of us; for, running as the tides do on the french coast, he can hardly have made much westing with this light south-west wind. we are yet uncertain of his destination, and it is all-important that we get immediate sight of him, and keep him in view, until he can be brought to action. now, my plan is this. i will send out the ships in succession, with orders to keep on an easy bowline, until each reaches the chops of the channel, when she is to go about and stand in towards the english coast. each succeeding vessel, however, will weigh as soon as her leader is hull down, and keep within signal distance, in order to send intelligence through the whole line. nothing will be easier than to keep in sight of each other, in such fine weather; and by these means we shall spread a wide clew,--quite a hundred miles,--and command the whole of the channel. as soon as monsieur de vervillin is made, the fleet can close, when we will be governed by circumstances should we see nothing of the french, by the time we make their coast, we may be certain they have gone up channel; and then, a signal from the van can reverse the order of sailing, and we will chase to the eastward, closing to a line abreast as fast as possible." "all this is very well, certainly; and by means of the frigates and smaller cruisers we can easily sweep a hundred and fifty miles of ocean;--nevertheless, the fleet will be much scattered." "you do not think there will be any danger of the french's engaging the van, before the rear can close to aid it?" asked sir gervaise, with interest, for he had the profoundest respect for his friend's professional opinions. "i intended to lead out in the plantagenet, myself, and to have five or six of the fastest ships next to me, with a view that we might keep off, until you could bring up the rear. if they chase, you know we can retire." "beyond a doubt, if sir gervaise oakes can make up his mind to _retire_, before any frenchman who was ever born," returned bluewater, laughing. "all this sounds well; but, in the event of a meeting, i should expect to find you, with the whole van dismasted, fighting your hulks like bull-dogs, and keeping the count at bay, leaving the glory of covering your retreat to me." "no--no--dick: i'll give you my honour i'll do nothing so boyish and silly. i'm a different man at fifty-five, from what i was at twenty-five. you may be certain that i will run, until i think myself strong enough to fight." "will you allow me to make a suggestion, admiral oakes; and this with all the frankness that ought to characterize our ancient friendship?" sir gervaise stopped short in his walk, looked bluewater steadily in the face, and nodded his head. "i understand by the expression of your countenance," continued the other, "that i am expected to speak. i had no more to say, than to make the simple suggestion that your plan would be most likely to be executed, were i to lead the van, and were _you_ to bring up the rear." "the devil you do!--this comes as near mutiny--or _scandalum magnatum_--as one can wish! and why do you suppose that the plan of the commander-in-chief will be least in danger of failing, if admiral bluewater lead on this occasion, instead of admiral oakes?" "merely because i think admiral oakes, when an enemy is pressing him, is more apt to take counsel of his heart than of his head; while admiral bluewater is _not_. you do not know yourself, sir jarvy, if you think it so easy a matter to run away." "i've spoiled you, dick, by praising your foolish man[oe]uvring so much before your face, and that's the whole truth of the matter. no--my mind is made up; and, i believe you know me well enough to feel sure, when that is the case, even a council of war could not move it. _i_ lead out, in the _first_ two-decked ship that lifts her anchor, and _you_ follow in the _last_. you understand my plan, and will see it executed, as you see every thing executed, in face of the enemy." admiral bluewater smiled, and not altogether without irony in his manner; though he managed, at the same time, to get the leg that had been lowest for the last five minutes, raised by an ingenuity peculiar to himself, several inches above its fellow. "nature never made you for a conspirator, oakes," he said, as soon as this change was effected to his mind; "for you carry a top-light in your breast that even the blind can see!" "what crotchet is uppermost in your mind, now, dick? ar'n't the orders plain enough to suit you?" "i confess it;--as well as the motive for giving them just in this form." "let's have it, at once. i prefer a full broadside to your minute-guns. what is my motive?" "simply that you, sir jarvy, say to a certain sir gervaise oakes, bart., vice-admiral of the red, and member for bowldero, in your own mind, 'now, if i can just leave that fellow, dick bluewater, behind me, with four or five ships, he'll never desert _me_, when in front of the enemy, whatever he might do with _king george_; and so i'll make sure of him by placing the question in such a light that it shall be one of friendship, rather than one of loyalty.'" sir gervaise coloured to the temples, for the other had penetrated into his most secret thoughts; and, yet, spite of his momentary vexation, he faced his accuser, and both laughed in the heartfelt manner that the circumstance would be likely to excite. "harkee, dick," said the vice-admiral, as soon as he could command sufficient gravity to speak; "they made a mistake when they sent you to sea; you ought to have been apprenticed to a conjuror. i care not what you think about it; my orders are given, and they must be obeyed. have you a clear perception of the plan?" "one quite as clear, i tell you, as i have of the motive." "enough of this, bluewater; we have serious duties before us." sir gervaise now entered more at length into his scheme; explaining to his friend all his wishes and hopes, and letting him know, with official minuteness, what was expected at his hands. the rear-admiral listened with his accustomed respect, whenever any thing grave was in discussion between them; and, had any one entered while they were thus engaged, he would have seen in the manner of one, nothing but the dignified frankness of a friendly superior, and in the other the deference which the naval inferior usually pays to rank. as he concluded sir gervaise rang his bell, and desired the presence of sir wycherly wychecombe. "i could have wished to remain and see this battle for the succession fairly fought," he said; "but a battle of a different sort calls us in another quarter. show him in," he added, as his man intimated that the young baronet was in waiting. "what between the duties of our professional stations, and those of the guest to the host," said the vice-admiral, rising and bowing to the young man; "it is not easy to settle the question of etiquette between us, sir wycherly; and i have, from habit, thought more of the admiral and the lieutenant, than of the lord of the manor and his obliged guests. if i have erred, you will excuse me." "my new situation is so very novel, that i still remain all sailor, sir gervaise," answered the other, smiling; "as such i hope _you_ will ever consider me. can i be of any service, here?" "one of our cutters has just come in with news that will take the fleet to sea, again, this morning; or, as soon as the tide begins to run a strong ebb. the french are out, and we must go and look for them. it was my intention and my hope, to be able to take you to sea with me in the plantagenet. the date of your commission would not put you very high among her lieutenants; but, bunting deserves a first lieutenancy, and i meant to give it to him this afternoon, in which case there would be a vacancy in the situation of my own signal-officer, a duty you could well perform. as it is, you ought not to quit this house, and i must take my leave of you with regret it is so." "admiral oakes, what is there that ought to keep one of my station ashore, on the eve of a general battle? i sincerely hope and trust you will alter the last determination, and return to the first." "you forget your own important interests--remember that possession is nine points of the law." "we had heard the news below, and sir reginald, mr. furlong, and myself, were discussing the matter when i received your summons. these gentlemen tell me, that possession can be held by deputy, as well as in person. i am satisfied we can dispose of this objection." "your grandfather's brother, and the late head of your family, lies dead in this house; it is proper his successor should be present at his funeral obsequies." "we thought of that, also. sir reginald has kindly offered to appear in my place; and, then, there is the chance that the meeting with monsieur de vervillin will take place within the next eight-and-forty hours; whereas my uncle cannot be interred certainly for a week or ten days." "i see you have well calculated all the chances, young sir," said sir gervaise, smiling. "bluewater, how does this matter strike you?" "leave it in my hands, and i will see to it. you will sail near or quite twenty-four hours before me, and there will be time for more reflection. sir wycherly can remain with me in the cæsar, in the action; or he can be thrown aboard the plantagenet, when we meet." after a little reflection, sir gervaise, who liked to give every one a fair chance, consented to the arrangement, and it was decided that wycherly should come out in the cæsar, if nothing occurred to render the step improper. this arrangement completed, the vice-admiral declared he was ready to quit the hall. galleygo and the other servants had already made the dispositions necessary for embarking, and it only remained to take leave of the inmates of the dwelling. the parting between the baronets was friendly; for the common interest they felt in the success of wycherly, had, in a degree, rendered them intimates, and much disposed sir reginald to overlook the sailor's well-known whiggery. dutton and the ladies took their departure at the same time, and what passed between them and sir gervaise on this occasion, took place on the road to the head-land, whither all parties proceeded on foot. a person so important as sir gervaise oakes did not leave the roof that had sheltered him, to embark on board his own ship, without a due escort to the shore. bluewater accompanied him, in order to discuss any little point of duty that might occur to the mind of either, at the last moment; and wycherly was of the group, partly from professional feeling, and more from a desire to be near mildred. then there were atwood, and the surgeons, mr. rotherham, and two or three of the cabin attendants. lord geoffrey, too, strolled along with the rest, though it was understood that his own ship would not sail that day. just as the party issued from the gate of the park into the street of the hamlet, a heavy gun was fired from the fleet. it was soon succeeded by others, and whiffs and cornets were seen flying from the mast-heads that rose above the openings in the cliffs, the signals of recall for all boats. this set every one in motion, and, never within the memory of man, had wychecombe presented such a scene of confusion and activity. half-intoxicated seamen were driven down to the boats, by youngsters with the cloth diamond in their collars, like swine, who were reluctant to go, and yet afraid to stay. quarters of beeves were trundled along in carts or barrows, and were soon seen swinging at different main-stays; while the gathering of eggs, butter, poultry, mutton, lamb, and veal, menaced the surrounding country with a scarcity. through this throng of the living and the dead, our party held its way, jostled by the eager countrymen, and respectfully avoided by all who belonged to the fleet, until it reached the point where the roads to the cliffs and the landing separated, when the vice-admiral turned to the only midshipman present, and courteously lifting his hat, as if reluctant to impose such a duty on a "young gentleman" on liberty, he said-- "do me the favour, lord geoffrey, to step down to the landing and ascertain if my barge is there. the officer of the boat will find me at the signal-station." the boy cheerfully complied; and this son of an english duke, who, by the death of an elder brother, became in time a duke himself, went on a service that among gentlemen of the land would be deemed nearly menial, with as much alacrity as if he felt honoured by the request. it was by a training like this, that england came, in time, to possess a marine that has achieved so many memorable deeds; since it taught those who were destined to command, the high and useful lesson how to obey. while the midshipman was gone to look for the boat, the two admirals walked the cliff, side by side, discussing their future movements; and when all was ready, sir gervaise descended to the shore, using the very path by which he had ascended the previous day; and, pushing through the throng that crowded the landing, almost too much engaged to heed even his approach, he entered his barge. in another minute, the measured strokes of the oars urged him swiftly towards the plantagenet. chapter xvii. "'twas not without some reason, for the wind increased at night, until it blew a gale; and though 'twas not much to a naval mind, some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, for sailors are, in fact, a different kind; at sunset they began to take in sail, for the sky show'd it would come on to blow, and carry away, perhaps, a mast or so." byron. as it was just past the turn of the day, bluewater determined to linger on the cliffs for several hours, or until it was time to think of his dinner. abstracted as his thoughts were habitually, his mind found occupation and pleasure in witnessing the evolutions that succeeded among the ships; some of which evolutions it may be well now briefly to relate. sir gervaise oakes' foot had not been on the deck of the plantagenet five minutes, before a signal for all commanders was flying at that vessel's mast-head. in ten minutes more every captain of the fleet, with the exception of those belonging to the vessels in the offing, were in the flag-ship's cabin, listening to the intentions and instructions of the vice-admiral. "my plan of sailing, gentlemen, is easily comprehended," continued the commander-in-chief, after he had explained his general intentions to chase and engage; "and everyone of you will implicitly follow it. we have the tide strong at ebb, and a good six-knot breeze is coming up at south-west. i shall weigh, with my yards square, and keep them so, until the ship has drawn out of the fleet, and then i shall luff up on a taut bowline and on the starboard tack, bringing the ebb well under my lee-bow. this will hawse the ship over towards morlaix, and bringing us quite as far to windward as is desirable. while the ebb lasts, and this breeze stands, we shall have plain sailing; the difficulty will come on the flood, or with a shift of wind. the ships that come out last must be careful to keep their seconds, ahead and astern, in plain sight, and regulate their movements, as much as they can, by the leading vessels. the object is to spread as wide a clew as possible, while we hold the ships within signal-distance of each other. towards sunset i shall shorten sail, and the line will close up within a league from vessel to vessel, and i have told bluewater to use his discretion about coming out with the last ships, though i have requested him to hold on as long as he shall deem it prudent, in the hope of receiving another express from the admiralty. when the flood makes, i do not intend to go about, but shall continue on the starboard tack, and i wish you all to do the same. this will bring the leading vessels considerably to windward of those astern, and may possibly throw the fleet into a bow and quarter line. being in the van, it will fall to my duty to look to this, and to watch for the consequences. but i ask of you to keep an eye on the weather, and to hold your ships within plain signal-distance of each other. if it come on thick, or to blow very hard, we must close, from van to rear, and try our luck, in a search in compact order. let the man who first sees the enemy make himself heard at once, and send the news, with the bearings of the french, both ahead and astern, as fast as possible. in that case you will all close on the point from which the intelligence comes; and, mark me, no cruising to get to windward, in your own fashions, as if you sailed with roving commissions. you know i'll not stand _that_. and now, gentlemen, it is probable that we shall all never meet again. god bless you! come and shake hands with me, one by one, and then to your boats, for the first lieutenant has just sent greenly word that we are up and down. let him trip, greenly, and be off as soon as we can." the leave-taking, a scene in which joyousness and sadness were strangely mingled, succeeded, and then the captains disappeared. from that moment every mind was bent on sailing. although bluewater did not witness the scene in the plantagenet's cabin, he pictured it, in his mind's eye, and remained on the cliffs to watch the succeeding movements. as wycherly had disappeared in the house, and dutton clung to his flag-staff, the rear-admiral had no one but lord geoffrey for a companion. the latter, perceiving that his relation did not seem disposed to converse, had the tact to be silent himself; a task that was less difficult than common, on account of the interest he felt in the spectacle. the boats of the different captains were still shoving off from the starboard side of the plantagenet, whither etiquette had brought them together, in a little crowd, when her three top-sails fell, and their sheets steadily drew the clews towards the ends of the lower yards. even while this was in process, the yards began to ascend, and rose with that steady but graduated movement which marks the operation in a man-of-war. all three were fairly mast-headed in two minutes. as the wind struck the canvass obliquely, the sails filled as they opened their folds, and, by the time their surfaces were flattened by distension, the plantagenet steadily moved from her late berth, advancing slowly against a strong tide, out of the group of ships, among which she had been anchored. this was a beautiful evolution, resembling that of a sea-fowl, which lazily rises on its element, spreads its wings, emerges from the water, and glides away to some distant and unseen point. the movement of the flag-ship was stately, measured, and grand. for five minutes she held her way nearly due east, with the wind on her starboard quarter, meeting the tide in a direct line; until, having drawn sufficiently ahead of the fleet, she let fall her courses, sheeted home top-gallant-sails and royals, set her spanker, jibs, and stay-sails, and braced up sharp on a wind, with her head at south-southeast. this brought the tide well under her lee fore-chains, and set her rapidly off the land, and to windward. as she trimmed her sails, and steadied her bowlines, she fired a gun, made the numbers of the vessels in the offing to weigh, and to pass within hail. all this did bluewater note, with the attention of an _amateur_, as well as with the critical analysis of a _connoisseur_. "very handsomely done, master geoffrey--very handsomely done, it must be allowed! never did a bird quit a flock with less fuss, or more beautifully, than the plantagenet has drawn out of the fleet. it must be admitted that greenly knows how to handle his ship." "i fancy captain stowel would have done quite as well with the cæsar, sir," answered the boy, with a proper esprit-de-_ship_. "don't you remember, admiral bluewater, the time when we got under way off l'orient, with the wind blowing a gale directly on shore? even sir gervaise said, afterwards, that we lost less ground than any ship in the fleet, and yet the plantagenet is the most weatherly two-decker in the navy; as every body says." "every body!--she is certainly a weatherly vessel, but not more so than several others. whom did you ever hear give that character to this particular ship?" "why, sir, her reefers are always bragging as much as _that_; and a great deal _more_, too." "her reefers!--young gentlemen are particularly struck with the charms of their first loves, both ashore and afloat, my boy. did you ever hear an _old seaman_ say that much for the plantagenet?" "i think i have, sir," returned lord geoffrey, blushing. "galleygo, sir gervaise's steward, is commonly repeating some such stuff or other. they are furious braggarts, the plantagenet's, all round, sir." "that comes honestly," answered bluewater, smiling, "her namesakes and predecessors of old, having some such characteristic, too. look at that ship's yards, boy, and learn how to trim a vessel's sails on a wind. the pencil of a painter could not draw lines more accurate!" "captain stowel tells us, sir, that the yards ought not to be braced in exactly alike; but that we ought to check the weather-braces, a little, as we go aloft, so that the top-sail yard should point a little less forward than the lower yard, and the topgallant than the top-sail." "you are quite right in taking stowel's opinion in all such matters, geoffrey: but has not captain greenly done the same thing in the plantagenet? when i speak of symmetry, i mean the symmetry of a seaman." the boy was silenced, though exceedingly reluctant to admit that any ship could equal his own. in the mean time, there was every appearance of a change in the weather. just about the time the plantagenet braced up, the wind freshened, and in ten minutes it blew a stiff breeze. some time before the admiral spoke the vessels outside, he was compelled to take in all his light canvass; and when he filled, again, after giving his orders to the frigate and sloop, the topgallant sheets were let fly, a single reef was taken in the top-sails, and the lighter sails were set over them. this change in the weather, more especially as the night threatened to be clouded, if not absolutely dark, would necessarily bring about a corresponding change in the plan of sailing, reducing the intervals between the departures of the vessels, quite one-half. to such vicissitudes are all maritime operations liable, and it is fortunate when there is sufficient capacity in the leaders to remedy them. in less than an hour, the plantagenet's hull began to sink, to those on a level with it, when the carnatic tripped her anchor, opened her canvass, shot out of the fleet, hauled by the wind, and followed in the admiral's wake. so accurate was the course she steered, that, half an hour after she had braced up, a hawse-bucket, which had been dropped from the plantagenet in hauling water, was picked up. we may add, here, though it will be a little anticipating events, that the thunderer followed the carnatic; the blenheim the thunderer; the achilles the blenheim; the warspite the achilles; the dover the warspite; the york the dover; the elizabeth the york; the dublin the elizabeth; and the cæsar the dublin. but hours passed before all these ships were in motion, and hours in which we shall have some occurrences to relate that took place on shore. still it will aid the reader in better understanding the future incidents of our tale, if we describe, at once, some of the circumstances under which all these ships got in motion. by the time the plantagenet's top-sails were beginning to dip from the cliffs, the carnatic, the thunderer, the blenheim, the achilles, and the warspite were all stretching out in line, with intervals of quite two leagues between them, under as much canvass as they could now bear. the admiral had shortened sail the most, and was evidently allowing the carnatic to close, most probably on account of the threatening look of the sky, to windward; while he was suffering the frigate and sloop, the chloe and driver, to pass ahead of him, the one on his weather, and the other on his lee bow. when the dover weighed, the admiral's upper sail was not visible from her tops, though the warspite's hull had not yet disappeared from her deck. she left the fleet, or the portions of it that still remained at anchor, with her fore-course set, and hauled by the wind, under double-reefed top-sails, a single reef in her main-sail, and with her main-topgallant sail set over its proper sail. with this reduced canvass, she started away on the track of her consorts, the brine foaming under her bows, and with a heel that denoted the heavy pressure that bore on her sails. by this time, the york was aweigh, the tide had turned, and it became necessary to fill on the other tack in order to clear the land to the eastward. this altered the formation, but we will now revert to the events as they transpired on the shore, with a view to relate them more in their regular order. it is scarcely necessary to say that bluewater must have remained on, or about the cliffs several hours, in order to witness the departure of so many of the vessels. instead of returning to the hall at the dinner hour, agreeably to promise, he profited by the appearance of wycherly, who left the cottage with a flushed, agitated manner, just as he was thinking of the necessity of sending a message to sir reginald, and begged the young man to be the bearer of his excuses. he thought that the change in the weather rendered it necessary for him to remain in sight of the sea. dutton overheard this message, and, after a private conference with his wife, he ventured to invite his superior to appease his appetite under his own humble roof. to this bluewater cheerfully assented; and when the summons came to the table, to his great joy he found that his only companion was to be mildred, who, like himself, for some reason known only to her own bosom, had let the ordinary dining hour pass without appearing at table, but whom her mother had now directed to take some sustenance. "the late events at the hall have agitated the poor child, sir," said mrs. dutton, in the way of apology, "and she has not tasted food since morning. i have told her you would excuse the intrusion, and receive her carving and attentions as an excuse for her company." bluewater looked at the pallid countenance of the girl, and never before had he found the resemblance to agnes hedworth so strong, as that moment. the last year or two of his own sweet friend's life had been far from happy, and the languid look and tearful eyes of mildred revived the recollection of the dead with painful distinctness. "good god!" he murmured to himself; "that two such beings should exist only to suffer! my good mrs. dutton, make no excuses; but believe me when i say that you could not have found in england another that would have proved as welcome as my present little messmate." mildred struggled for a smile; and she did succeed in looking extremely grateful. beyond this, however, it exceeded her powers to go. mrs. dutton was gratified, and soon left the two to partake of their neat, but simple meal, by themselves; household duties requiring her presence elsewhere. "let me persuade you to take a glass of this really excellent port, my child," said bluewater. "if you had cruised as long as i have done, on the coast of portugal, you would know how to value a liquor as pure as this. i don't know of an admiral that has as good!" "it is probably _our_ last, sir," answered mildred, shaking a tear from each of her long dark lashes, by an involuntarily trembling motion, as she spoke. "it was a present from dear, old, sir wycherly, who never left my mother wholly unsupplied with such plain delicacies, as he fancied poverty placed beyond our reach. the wine we can easily forget; not so easily the donor." bluewater felt as if he could draw a cheque for one-half the fortune he had devised to his companion; and, yet, by a caprice of feeling that is not uncommon to persons of the liveliest susceptibility, he answered in a way to smother his own emotion. "there will not soon be another _old_ sir wycherly to make his neighbours comfortable; but there is a _young_ one, who is not likely to forget his uncle's good example. i hope you all here, rejoice at the sudden rise in fortune, that has so unexpectedly been placed within the reach of our favourite lieutenant?" a look of anguish passed over mildred's face, and her companion noted it; though surprise and pity--not to say resentment--prevented his betraying his discovery. "we _endeavour_ to be glad, sir," answered mildred, smiling in so suffering a manner, as to awaken all her companion's sympathies; "but it is not easy for us to rejoice at any thing which is gained by the loss of our former valued friend." "i am aware that a young follow, like the present sir wycherly, can be no substitute for an old fellow like the last sir wycherly, my dear; but as one is a sailor, and the other was only a landsman, my professional prejudices may not consider the disparity as great as it may possibly appear to be to your less partial judgment." bluewater thought the glance he received was imploring, and he instantly regretted that he had taken such means to divert his companion's sadness. some consciousness of this regret probably passed through mildred's mind, for she rallied her spirits, and made a partially successful effort to be a more agreeable companion. "my father thinks, sir," she said, "that our late pleasant weather is about to desert us, and that it is likely to blow heavily before six-and-thirty hours are over." "i am afraid mr. dutton will prove to be too accurate an almanac. the weather has a breeding look, and i expect a dirty night. good or bad, we seamen must face it, and that, too, in the narrow seas, where gales of wind are no gales of araby." "ah, sir, it is a terrible life to lead! by living on this cliff, i have learned to pity sailors." "perhaps, my child, you pity us when we are the most happy. nine seamen in ten prefer a respectable gale to a flat calm. there are moments when the ocean is terrific; but, on the whole, it is capricious, rather than malignant. the night that is before us promises to be just such a one as sir gervaise oakes delights in. he is never happier than when he hears a gale howling through the cordage of his ship." "i have heard him spoken of as a very daring and self-relying commander. but _you_ cannot entertain such feelings, admiral bluewater; for to me you seem better fitted for a fireside, well filled with friends and relatives, than for the conflicts and hardships of the sea." mildred had no difficulty now in forcing a smile, for the sweet one she bestowed on the veteran almost tempted him to rise and fold her in his arms, as a parent would wrap a beloved daughter to his heart. discretion, however, prevented a betrayal of feelings that might have been misinterpreted, and he answered in his original vein. "i fear i am a wolf in sheep's clothing," he said; "while oakes admits the happiness he feels in seeing his ship ploughing through a raging sea, in a dark night, he maintains that my rapture is sought in a hurricane. i do not plead guilty to the accusation, but i will allow there is a sort of fierce delight in participating, as it might be, in a wild strife of the elements. to me, my very nature seems changed at such moments, and i forget all that is mild and gentle. that comes of having lived so much estranged from your sex, my dear; desolate bachelor, as i am." "do you think sailors ought to marry?" asked mildred, with a steadiness that surprised herself; for, while she put the question, consciousness brought the blood to her temples. "i should be sorry to condemn a whole profession, and that one i so well love, to the hopeless misery of single life. there are miseries peculiar to the wedded lives of both soldiers and sailors; but are there not miseries peculiar to those who never separate? i have heard seamen say--men, too, who loved their wives and families--that they believed the extreme pleasure of meetings after long separations, the delights of hope, and the zest of excited feelings, have rendered their years of active service more replete with agreeable sensations, than the stagnant periods of peace. never having been married myself, i can only speak on report." "ah! this may be so with _men_; but--surely--surely--_women_ never can feel thus!" "i suppose, a sailor's daughter yourself, you know jack's account of his wife's domestic creed! 'a good fire, a clean hearth, the children abed, and the husband at sea,' is supposed to be the climax of felicity." "this may do for the sailor's jokes, admiral bluewater," answered mildred, smiling; "but it will hardly ease a breaking heart. i fear from all i have heard this afternoon, and from the sudden sailing of the ships, that a great battle is at hand?" "and why should you, a british officer's daughter, dread that? have you so little faith in us, as to suppose a battle will necessarily bring defeat! i have seen much of my own profession, miss dutton, and trust i am in some small degree above the rhodomontade of the braggarts; but it is _not_ usual for us to meet the enemy, and to give those on shore reason to be ashamed of the english flag. it has never yet been my luck to meet a frenchman who did not manifest a manly desire to do his country credit; and i have always felt that we must fight hard for him before we could get him; nor has the result ever disappointed me. still, fortune, or skill, or _right_, is commonly of our side, and has given us the advantage in the end." "and to which, sir, do you ascribe a success at sea, so very uniform?" "as a protestant, i ought to say to our _religion_; but, this my own knowledge of protestant _vices_ rejects. then to say _fortune_ would be an exceeding self-abasement--one, that between us, is not needed; and i believe i must impute it to skill. as plain seamen, i do believe we are more expert than most of our neighbours; though i am far from being positive we have any great advantage over them in tactics. if any, the dutch are our equals." "notwithstanding, you are quite certain of success. it must be a great encouragement to enter into the fight with a strong confidence in victory! i suppose--that is, it seems to me--it is a matter of course, sir,--that our new sir wycherly will not be able to join in the battle, this time?" mildred spoke timidly, and she endeavoured to seem unconcerned; but bluewater read her whole heart, and pitied the pain which she had inflicted on herself, in asking the question. it struck him, too, that a girl of his companion's delicacy and sensibility would not thus advert to the young man's movements at all, if the latter had done aught justly to awaken censure; and this conviction greatly relieved his mind as to the effect of sudden elevation on the handsome lieutenant. as it was necessary to answer, however, lest mildred might detect his consciousness of her feelings, not a moment was lost before making a reply. "it is not an easy matter to prevent a young, dashing sailor, like this sir wycherly wychecombe, from doing his part in a general engagement, and that, too, of the character of the one to which we are looking forward," he said. "oakes has left the matter in my hands; i suppose i shall have to grant the young man's request." "he has then requested to be received in your ship?" asked mildred, her hand shaking as she used the spoon it held. "that of course. no one who wears the uniform could or would do less. it seems a ticklish moment for him to quit wychecombe, too; where i fancy he will have a battle of his own to fight ere long; but professional feeling will overshadow all others, in young men. among us seamen, it is said to be even stronger than love." mildred made no answer; but her pale cheek and quivering lips, evidences of feeling that her artlessness did not enable her to conceal, caused bluewater again to regret the remark. with a view to restore the poor girl to her self-command, he changed the subject of conversation, which did not again advert to wycherly. the remainder of the meal was consequently eaten in peace, the admiral manifesting to the last, however, the sudden and generous interest he had taken in the character and welfare of his companion. when they rose from table, mildred joined her mother, and bluewater walked out upon the cliffs again. it was now evening, and the waste of water that lay stretched before the eye, though the softness of summer was shed upon it, had the wild and dreary aspect that the winds and waves lend to a view, as the light of day is about to abandon the ocean to the gloom of night. all this had no effect on bluewater, however, who knew that two-decked ships, strongly manned, with their heavy canvass reduced, would make light work of worrying through hours of darkness that menaced no more than these. still the wind had freshened, and when he stood on the verge of the cliff sustained by the breeze, which pressed him back from the precipice, rendering his head more steady, and his footing sure, the elizabeth was casting, under close-reefed top-sails, and two reefs in her courses, with a heavy stay-sail or two, to ease her helm. he saw that the ponderous machine would stagger under even this short canvass, and that her captain had made his dispositions for a windy night. the lights that the dover and the york carried in their tops were just beginning to be visible in the gathering gloom, the last about a league and a half down channel, the ship standing in that direction to get to windward, and the former, more to the southward, the vessel having already tacked to follow the admiral. a chain of lights connected the whole of the long line, and placed the means of communication in the power of the captains. at this moment, the plantagenet was full fifty miles at sea, ploughing through a heavy south-west swell, which the wind was driving into the chops of the channel, from the direction of the bay of biscay, and the broad atlantic. bluewater buttoned his coat, and he felt his frame invigorated by a gale that came over his person, loaded by the peculiar flavour of the sea. but two of the heavy ships remained at their anchors, the dublin and the cæsar; and his experienced eye could see that stowel had every thing on board the latter ready to trip and be off, as soon as he, himself, should give the order. at this moment the midshipman, who had been absent for hours, returned, and stood again at his side. "our turn will soon come, sir," said the gallant boy, "and, for one, i shall not be sorry to be in motion. those chaps on board the plantagenet will swagger like so many dons, if they should happen to get a broadside at monsieur de vervillin, while we are lying here, under the shore, like a gentleman's yacht hauled into a bay, that the ladies might eat without disturbing their stomachs." "little fear of that, geoffrey. the active is too light of foot, especially in the weather we have had, to suffer heavy ships to be so close on her heels. she must have had some fifteen or twenty miles the start, and the french have been compelled to double cape la hogue and alderney, before they could even look this way. if coming down channel at all, they are fully fifty miles to the eastward; and should our van stretch far enough by morning to head them off, it will bring us handsomely to windward. sir gervaise never set a better trap, than he has done this very day. the elizabeth has her hands full, boy, and the wind seems to be getting scant for her. if it knock her off much more, it will bring the flood on her weather-bow, and compel her to tack. this will throw the rear of our line into confusion!" "what should we do, sir, in such a case? it would never answer to leave poor sir jarvy out there, by himself!" "we would try not to do _that_!" returned bluewater, smiling at the affectionate solicitude of the lad, a solicitude that caused him slightly to forget his habitual respect for the commander-in-chief, and to adopt the _sobriquet_ of the fleet. "in such a case, it would become my duty to collect as many ships as i could, and to make the best of our way towards the place where we might hope to fall in with the others, in the morning. there is little danger of losing each other, for any length of time, in these narrow waters, and i have few apprehensions of the french being far enough west, to fall in with our leading vessels before morning. if they _should_, indeed, geoffrey--" "ay, sir, if they _should_, i know well enough what would come to pass!" "what, boy?--on the supposition that monsieur de vervillin _did_ meet with sir gervaise by day-break, what, in your experienced eyes, seem most likely to be the consequences?" "why, sir, sir jarvy, would go at 'em, like a dolphin at a flying-fish; and if he _should_ really happen to catch one or two of 'em, there'll be no sailing in company with the plantagenet's, for us cæsar's!--when we had the last 'bout with monsieur de gravelin, they were as saucy as peacocks, because we didn't close until their fore-yard and mizzen-top-gallant-mast were gone, although the shift of wind brought us dead to leeward, and, after all, we had eleven men the most hurt in the fight. you don't know them plantagenet's, sir; for they never _dare_ say any thing before _you_!" "not to the discredit of my young cæsars, i'll answer for it. yet, you'll remember sir gervaise gave us full credit, in his despatches." "yes, sir, all very true. sir gervaise knows better; and then _he_ understands what the cæsar _is_; and what she _can_ do, and _has_ done. but it's a very different matter with his youngsters, who fancy because they carry a red flag at the fore, they are so many blakes and howards, themselves. there's jack oldcastle, now; he's always talking of our reefers as if there was no sea-blood in our veins, and that just because his own father happened to be a captain--a _commodore_, he says, because he happened once to have three frigates under his orders." "well, that would make a commodore, for the time being. but, surely he does not claim privilege for the oldcastle blood, over that of the clevelands!" "no, sir, it isn't that sort of thing, at all," returned the fine boy, blushing a little, in spite of his contempt for any such womanly weakness; "you know we never talk of that nonsense in our squadron. with us it's all service, and that sort of thing. jack oldcastle says the clevelands are all civilians, as he calls 'em; or _soldiers_, which isn't much better, as you know, sir. now, i tell him that there is an old picture of one of 'em, with an anchor-button, and that was long before queen anne's time--queen elizabeth's, perhaps,--and then you know, sir, i fetch him up with a yarn about the hedworths; for i am just as much hedworth as cleveland." "and what does the impudent dog say to that, geoffrey?" "why, sir, he says the name should be spelt head_work_, and that they were all _lawyers_. but i gave him as good as he sent for that saucy speech, i'm certain!" "and what did you give him, in return for such a compliment? did you tell him the oldcastles were just so much stone, and wood, and old iron; and that, too, in a tumbledown condition?" "no, sir, not i," answered the boy, laughing; "i didn't think of any answer half so clever; and so i just gave him a dig in the nose, and that, laid on with right good will." "and how did he receive that argument? was it conclusive;--or did the debate continue?" "oh, of course, sir, we fought it out. 'twas on board the dover, and the first lieutenant saw fair play. jack carried too many guns for me, sir, for he's more than a year older; but i hulled him so often that he owned it was harder work than being mast-headed. after that the dover's chaps took my part, and they said the hedworths had no head_work_ at all, but they were regular sailors; admirals, and captains, and youngsters, you know, sir, like all the rest of us. i told 'em my grandfather hedworth was an admiral, and a good one, too." "in that you made a small mistake. your mother's father was only a _general_; but _his_ father was a full admiral of the red,--for he lived before that grade was abolished--and as good an officer as ever trod a plank. he was my mother's brother, and both sir gervaise and myself served long under his orders. he was a sailor of whom you well might boast." "i don't think any of the plantagenets will chase in that quarter again, sir; for we've had an overhauling among our chaps, and we find we can muster four admirals, two commodores, and thirteen captains in our two messes; that is, counting all sorts of relatives, you know, sir." "well, my dear boy, i hope you may live to reckon all that and more too, in your own persons, at some future day. yonder is sir reginald wychecombe, coming this way, to my surprise; perhaps he wishes to see me alone. go down to the landing and ascertain if my barge is ashore, and let me know it, as soon as is convenient. remember, geoffrey, you will go off with me; and hunt up sir wycherly wychecombe, who will lose his passage, unless ready the instant he is wanted." the boy touched his cap, and went bounding down the hill to execute the order. chapter xviii. "so glozed the tempter, and his poison tuned; into the heart of eve his words made way, though at the voice much marvelling." milton. it was, probably, a species of presentiment, that induced bluewater to send away the midshipman, when he saw the adherent of the dethroned house approaching. enough had passed between the parties to satisfy each of the secret bias of the other; and, by that sort of free-masonry which generally accompanies strong feelings of partisanship, the admiral felt persuaded that the approaching interview was about to relate to the political troubles of the day. the season and the hour, and the spot, too, were all poetically favourable to an interview between conspirators. it was now nearly dark; the head-land was deserted, dutton having retired, first to his bottle, and then to his bed; the wind blew heavily athwart the bleak eminence, or was heard scuffling in the caverns of the cliffs, while the portentous clouds that drove through the air, now veiled entirely, and now partially and dimly revealed the light of the moon, in a way to render the scene both exciting and wild. no wonder, then, that bluewater, his visiter drawing near, felt a stronger disposition than had ever yet come over him to listen to the tale of the tempter, as, under all the circumstances, it would scarcely exceed the bounds of justice to call sir reginald. "in seeking you at such a spot, and in the midst of this wild landscape," said the latter, "i might have been assured i should be certain of finding one who really loved the sea and your noble profession. the hall is a melancholy house, just at this moment; and when i inquired for you, no one could say whither you had strolled. in following what i thought a seaman's instinct, it appears that i did well.--do my eyes fail me, or are there no more than three vessels at anchor yonder?" "your eyes are still good, sir reginald; admiral oakes sailed several hours since, and he has been followed by all the fleet, with the exception of the two line-of-battle ships, and the frigate you see; leaving me to be the last to quit the anchorage." "is it a secret of state, or are you permitted to say whither so strong a force has so suddenly sailed?" demanded the baronet, glancing his dark eye so expressively towards the other as to give him, in the growing obscurity, the appearance of an inquisitor. "i had been told the fleet would wait for orders from london?" "such was the first intention of the commander-in-chief; but intelligence of the sailing of the comte de vervillin has induced sir gervaise to change his mind. an english admiral seldom errs when he seeks and beats an active and dangerous enemy." "is this always true, admiral bluewater?" returned sir reginald, dropping in at the side of the other, and joining in his walk, as he paced, to and fro, a short path that dutton called his own quarter-deck; "or is it merely an unmeaning generality that sometimes causes men to become the dupes of their own imaginations. are those _always_ our enemies who may seem to be so? or, are we so infallible that every feeling or prejudice may be safely set down as an impulse to which we ought to submit, without questioning its authority?" "do you esteem it a prejudice to view france as the natural enemy of england, sir reginald?" "by heaven, i do, sir! i can conceive that england may be much more her own enemy than france has ever proved to be. then, conceding that ages of warfare have contributed to awaken some such feeling as this you hint at, is there not a question of right and wrong that lies behind all? reflect how often england has invaded the french soil, and what serious injuries she has committed on the territory of the latter, while france has so little wronged us, in the same way; how, even her throne has been occupied by our princes, and her provinces possessed by our armies." "i think you hardly allow for all the equity of the different cases. parts of what is now france, were the just inheritance of those who have sat on the english throne, and the quarrels were no more than the usual difficulties of neighbourhood. when our claims were just in themselves, you surely could not have wished to see them abandoned." "far from it; but when claims were disputed, is it not natural for the loser to view them as a hardship? i believe we should have had a much better neighbourhood, as you call it, with france, had not the modern difficulties connected with religious changes, occurred." "i presume you know. sir reginald, that i, and all my family are protestants." "i do, admiral bluewater; and i rejoice to find that a difference of opinion on this great interest, does not necessarily produce one on all others. from several little allusions that have passed between us to-day, i am encouraged to believe that we think alike on certain temporal matters, however wide the chasm between us on spiritual things." "i confess i have fallen into the same conclusion; and i should be sorry to be undeceived if wrong." "what occasion, then, for farther ambiguity? surely two honourable men may safely trust each other with their common sentiments, when the times call for decision and frankness! i am a jacobite, admiral bluewater; if i risk life or fortune by making the avowal, i place both, without reserve at your mercy." "they could not be in safer hands, sir; and i know no better mode of giving you every possible assurance that the confidence will not be abused, than by telling you in return, that i would cheerfully lay down my life could the sacrifice restore the deposed family to the throne." "this is noble, and manly, and frank, as i had hoped from a sailor!" exclaimed sir reginald, more delighted than he well knew how to express at the moment. "this simple assurance from your lips, carries more weight than all the oaths and pledges of vulgar conspiracy. we understand each other, and i should be truly sorry to inspire less confidence than i feel." "what better proof can i give you of the reliance placed on your faith, than the declaration you have heard, sir reginald? my head would answer for your treachery in a week; but i have never felt it more securely on my shoulders than at this moment." the baronet grasped the other's hand, and each gave and received a pressure that was full of meaning. then both walked on, thoughtful and relieved, for quite a minute, in profound silence. "this sudden appearance of the prince in scotland has taken us all a little by surprise," sir reginald resumed, after the pause; "though a few of us knew that his intentions led him this way. perhaps he has done well to come unattended by a foreign force, and to throw himself, as it might be singly, into the arms of his subjects; trusting every thing to their generosity, loyalty, and courage. some blame him; but i do not. he will awaken interest, now, in every generous heart in the nation,"--this was artfully adapted to the character of the listener;--"whereas some might feel disposed to be lukewarm under a less manly appeal to their affections and loyalty. in scotland, we learn from all directions that his royal highness is doing wonders, while the friends of his house are full of activity in england, though compelled, for a time, to be watchful and prudent." "i rejoice, from the bottom of my heart, to hear this!" said bluewater, drawing a long breath, like one whose mind was unexpectedly relieved from a heavy load. "from the bottom of my heart, do i rejoice! i had my apprehensions that the sudden appearance of the prince might find his well-wishers unprepared and timid." "as far from that as possible, my dear sir; though much still depends on the promptitude and resolution of the master spirits of the party. we are strong enough to control the nation, if we can bring those forward who have the strength to lead and control ourselves. all we now want are some hundred or two of prominent men to step out of their diffidence, and show us the way to honourable achievement and certain success." "can such men be wanting, at a moment like this?" "i think we are secure of most of the high nobility, though their great risks render them all a little wary in the outset. it is among the professional men--the gallant soldiers, and the bold, ardent seamen of the fleet, that we must look for the first demonstrations of loyalty and true patriotism. to be honest with you, sir, i tire of being ruled by a german." "do you know of any intention to rally a force in this part of england, sir reginald? if so, say but the word--point out the spot where the standard is to be raised, and i will rally under it, the instant circumstances will permit!" "this is just what i expected, mr. bluewater," answered the baronet, more gratified than he thought it prudent to express; "though it is not exactly the _form_ in which you can best serve us at this precise moment. cut off from the north, as we are in this part of the island, by all the resources of the actual government, it would be the height of imprudence in us to show our hands, until all the cards are ready to be played. active and confidential agents are at work in the army; london has its proper share of business men, while others are in the counties, doing their best to put things in a shape for the consummation we so anxiously look for. i have been with several of our friends in this vicinity, to bring matters into a combined state; and it was my intention to visit this very estate, to see what my own name might do with the tenantry, had not the late sir wycherly summoned me as he did, to attend his death-bed. have you any clue to the feelings of this new and young head of my family, the sea-lieutenant and present baronet?" "not a very plain one, sir, though i doubt if they be favourable to the house of stuart." "i feared as much; this very evening i have had an anonymous communication that i think must come from his competitor, pretty plainly intimating that, by asserting _his_ rights, as they are called, the whole wychecombe tenantry and interest could be united, in the present struggle, on whichever side i might desire to see them." "this is a bold and decided stroke, truly! may i inquire as to your answer, sir reginald?" "i shall give none. under all circumstances i will ever refuse to place a bastard in the seat of a legitimate descendant of my family. we contend for legal and natural rights, my dear admiral, and the means employed should not be unworthy of the end. besides, i know the scoundrel to be unworthy of trust, and shall not have the weakness to put myself in his power. i could wish the other boy to be of another mind; but, by getting him off to sea, whither he tells me he is bound, we shall at least send him out of harm's way." in all this sir reginald was perfectly sincere; for, while he did not always hesitate about the employment of means, in matters of politics, he was rigidly honest in every thing that related to private properly; a species of moral contradiction that is sometimes found among men who aim at the management of human affairs; since those often yield to a besetting weakness who are nearly irreproachable in other matters. bluewater was glad to hear this declaration; his own simplicity of character inducing him to fancy it was an indication to the general probity of his companion. "yes," observed the latter, "in all eases, we must maintain the laws of the land, in an affair of private right. this young man is not capable, perhaps, of forming a just estimate of his political duties, in a crisis like this, and it may be well, truly, to get him off to sea, lest by taking the losing side, he endangers his estate before he is fairly possessed of it. and having now disposed of sir wycherly, what can i do most to aid the righteous and glorious cause?" "this is coming to the point manfully, sir richard--i beg pardon for thus styling you, but i happen to know that your name has been before the prince, for some time, as one of those who are to receive the riband from a sovereign really _authorized_ to bestow it; if i have spoken a little prematurely, i again entreat your pardon;--but, this is at once coming manfully to the point! serve us you can, of course, and that most effectually, and in an all-important manner. i now greatly regret that my father had not put me in the army, in my youth, that i might serve my prince as i could wish, in this perilous trial. but we have many friends accustomed to arms, and among them your own honourable name will appear conspicuous as to the past, and encouraging as to the future." "i have carried arms from boyhood, it is true, sir reginald, but it is in a service that will scarcely much avail us in this warfare. prince edward has no ships, nor do i know he will need any." "true, my dear sir, but king george has! as for the necessity, permit me to say you are mistaken; it will soon be all-important to keep open the communication with the continent. no doubt, monsieur de vervillin is out, with some such object, already." bluewater started, and he recoiled from the firm grasp which the other took of his arm, in the earnestness of discourse, with some such instinctive aversion as a man recoils from the touch of the reptile. the thought of a treachery like that implied in the remark of his companion had never occurred to him, and his honest mind turned with a strong disrelish, from even the implied proposition of the other. still, he was not quite certain how far sir reginald wished to urge him, and he felt it just to ascertain his real views before he answered them. plausible as this appeared, it was a dangerous delay for one so simple-minded, when brought in contact with a person so practised as the baronet; sir reginald having the tact to perceive that his new friend's feelings had already taken the alarm, and at once determined to be more wary. "what am i to understand by this, sir reginald wychecombe?" demanded the rear-admiral. "in what manner can i possibly be connected with the naval resources of the house of hanover, when it is my intention to throw off its service? king george's fleets will hardly aid the stuarts; and they will, at least, obey the orders of their own officers." "not the least doubt in the world of this, admiral bluewater! what a glorious privilege it was for monk to have it in his power to put his liege sovereign in his rightful seat, and thus to save the empire, by a _coup de main_, from the pains and grievances of a civil contest! of all the glorious names in english history, i esteem that of george monk as the one most to be envied! it is a great thing to be a prince--one born to be set apart as god's substitute on earth, in all that relates to human justice and human power;--yet it is greater, in my eyes, to be the subject to _restore_ the order of these almost divine successions, when once deranged by lawless and presuming men." "this is true enough, sir; though i would rather have joined charles on the beach at dover, armed only with an untainted sword, than followed by an army at my heels!" "what, when that army followed _cheerfully_, and was equally eager with yourself to serve their sovereign!" "that, indeed, might somewhat qualify the feeling. but soldiers and sailors are usually influenced by the opinions of those who have been placed over them by the higher authorities." "no doubt they are; and that is as it should be. we are encouraged to believe that some ten or fifteen captains are already well-disposed towards us, and will cheerfully take their respective ships to the points our wants require, the moment they feel assured of being properly led, when collected. by a little timely concert, we can command the north sea, and keep open important communications with the continent. it is known the ministry intend to employ as many german troops as they can assemble, and a naval force will be all-important in keeping these mustachoed foreigners at a distance the quarrel is purely english, sir, and ought to be decided by englishmen only." "in that, indeed, i fully concur, sir reginald," answered bluewater, breathing more freely. "i would cruise a whole winter in the north sea to keep the dutchmen at home, and let englishmen decide who is to be england's king. to me, foreign interference, in such a matter, is the next evil to positive disloyalty to my rightful prince." "these are exactly my sentiments, dear sir, and i hope to see you act on them. by the way, how happens it you are left alone, and in what manner do you admirals divide your authority when serving in company?" "i do not know i comprehend your question, sir reginald. i am left here to sail the last with the cæsar; sir gervaise leading out in the plantagenet, with a view to draw a line across the channel that shall effectually prevent de vervillin from getting to the westward." "to the _westward_!" repeated the other, smiling ironically, though the darkness prevented the admiral from seeing the expression of his features. "does admiral oakes then think that the french ships are steering in _that_ direction?" "such is our information; have you any reason to suppose that the enemy intend differently?" the baronet paused, and he appeared to ruminate. enough had already passed to satisfy him he had not an ordinary mind in that of his companion to deal with, and he was slightly at a loss how to answer. to bring the other within his lures, he was fully resolved; and the spirits that aid the designing just at that moment suggested the plan which, of all others, was most likely to be successful. bluewater had betrayed his aversion to the interference of foreign troops in the quarrel, and on this subject he intended to strike a chord which he rightly fancied would thrill on the rear-admiral's feelings. "we have our information, certainly," answered sir reginald, like one who was reluctant to tell all he knew; "though good faith requires it should not actually be exposed. nevertheless, any one can reason on the probabilities. the duke of cumberland will collect his german auxiliaries, and they must get into england the best way that they can. would an intelligent enemy with a well-appointed fleet suffer this junction, if he could prevent it? we know he would not; and when we remember the precise time of the sailing of the comte, his probable ignorance of the presence of this squadron of yours, in the channel, and all the other circumstances of the case, who can suppose otherwise than to believe his aim is to intercept the german regiments." "this does seem plausible; and yet the active's signals told us that the french were steering west; and that, too, with a light westerly wind." "do not fleets, like armies, frequently make false demonstrations? might not monsieur de vervillin, so long as his vessels were in sight from the shore, have turned toward the west, with an intention, as soon as covered by the darkness, to incline to the east, again, and sail up channel, under english ensigns, perhaps? is it not possible for him to pass the straits of dover, even, as an english squadron--your own, for instance--and thus deceive the hanoverian cruisers until ready to seize or destroy any transports that may be sent?" "hardly, sir reginald," said bluewater, smiling. "a french ship can no more be mistaken for an english ship, than a frenchman can pass for a briton. we sailors are not as easily deceived as that would show. it is true, however, that a fleet might well stand in one direction, until far enough off the land or covered by night, when it might change its course suddenly, in an opposite direction; and it _is possible_ the comte de vervillin has adopted some such stratagem. if he actually knew of the intention to throw german troops into the island, it is even quite _probable_. in that case, for one, i could actually wish him success!" "well, my dear sir, and what is to prevent it?" asked sir reginald, with a triumph that was not feigned. "nothing, you will say, unless he fall in with sir gervaise oakes. but you have not answered my inquiry, as to the manner in which flag-officers divide their commands, at sea?" "as soldiers divide their commands ashore. the superior orders, and the inferior obeys." "ay, this is true; but it does not meet my question. here are eleven large ships, and two admirals; now what portion of these ships are under your particular orders, and what portion under those of sir gervaise oakes?" "the vice-admiral has assigned to himself a division of six of the ships, and left me the other five. each of us has his frigates and smaller vessels. but an order that the commander-in-chief may choose to give any captain must be obeyed by him, as the inferior submits, as a rule, to the last order." "and _you_," resumed sir reginald, with quickness; "how are _you_ situated, as respects these captains?" "should i give a direct order to any captain in the fleet, it would certainly be his duty to obey it; though circumstances might occur which would render it obligatory on him to let me know that he had different instructions from our common superior. but, why these questions, sir reginald?" "your patience, my dear admiral;--and what ships have you specifically under your care?" "the cæsar, my own; the dublin, the elizabeth, the york, and the dover. to these must be added the druid frigate, the sloop of war, and the gnat. my division numbers eight in all." "what a magnificent force to possess at a moment as critical as this!--but where are all these vessels? i see but four and a cutter, and only two of these seem to be large." "the light you perceive there, along the land to the westward, is on board the elizabeth; and that broad off here, in the channel, is on board the york. the dover's lantern has disappeared further to the southward. ah! there the dublin casts, and is off after the others!" "and you intend to follow, admiral bluewater?" "within an hour, or i shall lose the division. as it is, i have been deliberating on the propriety of calling back the sternmost ships, and collecting them in close squadron; for this increase and hauling of the wind render it probable they will lose the vice-admiral, and that day-light will find the line scattered and in confusion. one mind must control the movements of ships, as well as of battalions, sir reginald, if they are to act in concert." "with what view would you collect the vessels you have mentioned, and in the manner you have named, if you do not deem my inquiry indiscreet?" demanded the baronet, with quickness. "simply that they might be kept together, and brought in subjection to my own particular signals. this is the duty that more especially falls to my share, as head of the division." "have you the means to effect this, here, on this hill, and by yourself, sir?" "it would be a great oversight to neglect so important a provision. my signal-officer is lying under yonder cover, wrapped in his cloak, and two quarter-masters are in readiness to make the very signal in question; for its necessity has been foreseen, and really would seem to be approaching. if done at all, it must be done quickly, too. the light of the york grows dim in the distance. it _shall_ be done, sir; prudence requires it, and you shall see the manner in which we hold our distant ships in command." bluewater could not have announced more agreeable intelligence to his companion. sir reginald was afraid to propose the open treason he meditated; but he fancied, if the rear-admiral could fairly withdraw his own division from the fleet, it would at once weaken the vice-admiral so much, as to render an engagement with the french impossible, and might lead to such a separation of the commands as to render the final defection of the division inshore easier of accomplishment. it is true, bluewater, himself, was actuated by motives directly contrary to these wishes; but, as the parties travelled the same road to a certain point, the intriguing baronet had his expectations of being able to persuade his new friend to continue on in his own route. promptitude is a military virtue, and, among seamen, it is a maxim to do every thing that is required to be done, with activity and vigour. these laws were not neglected on the present occasion. no sooner had the rear-admiral determined on his course, than he summoned his agents to put it in execution. lord geoffrey had returned to the heights and was within call, and he carried the orders to the lieutenant and the quarter-masters. the lanterns only required lighting, and then they were run aloft on dutton's staff, as regularly as the same duty could have been performed on the poop of the cæsar. three rockets were thrown up, immediately after, and the gun kept on the cliffs for that purpose was fired, to draw attention to the signal. it might have been a minute ere the heavy ordnance of the cæsar repeated the summons, and the same signal was shown at her mast-head. the dublin was still so near that no time was lost, but according to orders, she too repeated the signal; for in the line that night, it was understood that an order of this nature was to be sent from ship to ship. "now for the elizabeth!" cried bluewater; "she cannot fail to have heard our guns, and to see our signals." "the york is ahead of her, sir!" exclaimed the boy; "see; she has the signal up already!" all this passed in a very few minutes, the last ships having sailed in the expectation of receiving some such recall. the york preceded the ship next to her in the line, in consequence of having gone about, and being actually nearer to the rear-admiral than her second astern. it was but a minute, before the gun and the lanterns of the elizabeth, however, announced her knowledge of the order, also. the two ships last named were no longer visible from the cliffs, though their positions were known by their lights; but no sign whatever indicated the part of the ocean on which the dover was struggling along through the billows. after a pause of several minutes, bluewater spoke. "i fear we shall collect no more," he said; "one of my ships must take her chance to find the commander-in-chief, alone. ha!--that means something!" at this instant a faint, distant flash was seen, for a single moment, in the gloom, and then all heads were bent forward to listen, in breathless attention. a little time had elapsed, when the dull, smothered report of a gun proclaimed that even the dover had caught the rapidly transmitted order. "what means that, sir?" eagerly demanded sir reginald, who had attended to every thing with intense expectation. "it means, sir, that all of the division are still under my command. no other ship would note the order. _their_ directions, unless specifically pointed out by their numbers, must come from the vice-admiral. is my barge ashore, lord geoffrey cleveland?" "it is, sir, as well as the cutter for mr. cornet and the quarter-masters." "it is well. gentlemen, we will go on board; the cæsar must weigh and join the other vessels in the offing. i will follow you to the landing, but you will shove off, at once, and desire captain stowel to weigh and cast to-port. we will fill on the starboard tack, and haul directly off the land." the whole party immediately left the station, hurrying down to the boats, leaving bluewater and sir reginald to follow more leisurely. it was a critical moment for the baronet, who had so nearly effected his purpose, that his disappointment would have been double did he fail of his object altogether. he determined, therefore, not to quit the admiral while there was the slightest hope of success. the two consequently descended together to the shore, walking, for the first minute or two, in profound silence. "a great game is in your hands, admiral bluewater," resumed the baronet; "rightly played, it may secure the triumph of the good cause. i think i may say i _know_ de vervillin's object, and that his success will reseat the stuarts on the thrones of their ancestors! one who loves them should ponder well before he does aught to mar so glorious a result." this speech was as bold as it was artful. in point of fact, sir reginald wychecombe knew no more of the comte de vervillin's intended movements than his companion; but he did not hesitate to assert what he now did, in order to obtain a great political advantage, in a moment of so much importance. to commit bluewater and his captains openly on the side of the stuarts would be a great achievement in itself; to frustrate the plans of sir gervaise might safely be accounted another; and, then, there were all the chances that the frenchman was not at sea for nothing, and that his operations might indeed succour the movements of the prince. the baronet, upright as he was in other matters, had no scruples of conscience on this occasion; having long since brought himself over to the belief that it was justifiable to attain ends as great as those he had in view, by the sacrifice of any of the minor moral considerations. the effect on bluewater was not trifling. the devil had placed the bait before his eyes in a most tempting form; for he felt that he had only to hold his division in reserve to render an engagement morally improbable. abandon his friend to a superior force he could and would not; but, it is our painful duty to avow that his mind had glimpses of the possibility of doing the adventurer in scotland a great good, without doing the vice-admiral and the van of the fleet any very essential harm. let us be understood, however. the rear-admiral did not even contemplate treason, or serious defection of any sort; but through one of those avenues of frailty by which men are environed, he had a glance at results that the master-spirit of evil momentarily placed before his mental vision as both great and glorious. "i wish we were really certain of de vervillin's object," he said; the only concession he made to this novel feeling, in words. "it might, indeed, throw a great light on the course we ought to take ourselves. i do detest this german alliance, and would abandon the service ere i would convoy or transport a ragamuffin of them all to england." here sir reginald proved how truly expert he was in the arts of management. a train of thought and feeling had been lighted in the mind of his companion, which he felt might lead to all he wished, while he was apprehensive that further persuasion would awaken opposition, and renew old sentiments. he wisely determined, therefore, to leave things as they were, trusting to the strong and declared bias of the admiral in favour of the revolution, to work out its own consequences, with a visible and all-important advantage so prominently placed before his eyes. "i know nothing of ships," he answered, modestly; "but i do _know_ that the comte has our succour in view. it would ill become me to advise one of your experience how to lead a force like this, which is subject to your orders; but a friend of the good cause, who is now in the west, and who was lately in the presence itself, tells me that the prince manifested extreme satisfaction when he learned how much it might be in your power to serve him." "do you then think my name has reached the royal ear, and that the prince has any knowledge of my real feelings?" "nothing but your extreme modesty could cause you to doubt the first, sir; as to the last, ask yourself how came i to approach you to-night, with my heart in my hand, as it might be, making you master of my life as well as of my secret. love and hatred are emotions that soon betray themselves." it is matter of historical truth that men of the highest principles and strongest minds have yielded to the flattery of rank. bluewater's political feelings had rendered him indifferent to the blandishments of the court at london, while his imagination, that chivalrous deference to antiquity and poetical right, which lay at the root of his jacobitism, and his brooding sympathies, disposed him but too well to become the dupe of language like this. had he been more a man of facts, one less under the influence of his own imagination; had it been his good fortune to live even in contact with those he now so devoutly worshipped, in a political sense at least, their influence over a mind as just and clear-sighted as his own, would soon have ceased; but, passing his time at sea, they had the most powerful auxiliary possible, in the high faculty he possessed of fancying things as he wished them to be. no wonder, then, that he heard this false assertion of sir reginald with a glow of pleasure; with even a thrill at the heart to which he had long been a stranger. for a time, his better feelings were smothered in this new and treacherous sensation. the gentlemen, by this time, were at the landing, and it became necessary to separate. the barge of the rear-admiral was with difficulty kept from leaping on the rock, by means of oars and boat-hooks, and each instant rendered the embarkation more and more difficult. the moments were precious on more accounts than one, and the leave-taking was short. sir reginald said but little, though he intended the pressure of the hand he gave his companion to express every thing. "god be with you," he added; "and as you prove true, may you prove successful! remember, 'a lawful prince, and the claims of birth-right.' god be with you!" "adieu, sir reginald; when we next meet, the future will probably be more apparent to us all.--but who comes hither, rushing like a madman towards the boat?" a form came leaping through the darkness; nor was it known, until it stood within two feet of bluewater, it was that of wycherly. he had heard the guns and seen the signals. guessing at the reasons, he dashed from the park, which he was pacing to cool his agitation, and which now owned him for a master, and ran the whole distance to the shore, in order not to be left. his arrival was most opportune; for, in another minute, the barge left the rock. chapter xix. "o'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea. our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free. far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, survey our empire and behold our home." the corsair. one is never fully aware of the extent of the movement that agitates the bosom of the ocean until fairly subject to its action himself, when indeed we all feel its power and reason closely on its dangers. the first pitch of his boat told bluewater that the night threatened to be serious. as the lusty oarsmen bent to their stroke, the barge rose on a swell, dividing the foam that glanced past it like a marine aurora borealis, and then plunged into the trough as if descending to the bottom. it required several united and vigorous efforts to force the little craft from its dangerous vicinity to the rocks, and to get it in perfect command. this once done, however, the well-practised crew urged the barge slowly but steadily ahead. "a dirty night!--a dirty night!" muttered bluewater, unconsciously to himself; "we should have had a wild berth, had we rode out this blow, at anchor. oakes will have a heavy time of it out yonder in the very chops of the channel, with a westerly swell heaving in against this ebb." "yes, sir," answered wycherly; "the vice-admiral will be looking out for us all, anxiously enough, in the morning." not another syllable did bluewater utter until his boat had touched the side of the cæsar. he reflected deeply on his situation, and those who know his feelings will easily understand that his reflections were not altogether free from pain. such as they were, he kept them to himself, however, and in a man-of-war's boat, when a flag-officer chooses to be silent, it is a matter of course for his inferiors to imitate his example. the barge was about a quarter of a mile from the landing, when the heavy flap of the cæsar's main-top-sail was heard, as, close-reefed, it struggled for freedom, while her crew drew its sheets down to the blocks on the lower yard-arms. a minute later, the gnat, under the head of her fore-and-aft-main-sail, was seen standing slowly off from the land, looking in the darkness like some half-equipped shadow of herself. the sloop of war, too, was seen bending low to the force of the wind, with her mere apology of a top-sail thrown aback, in waiting for the flag-ship to cast. the surface of the waters was a sheet of glancing foam, while the air was filled with the blended sounds of the wash of the element, and the roar of the winds. still there was nothing chilling or repulsive in the temperature of the air, which was charged with the freshness of the sea, and was bracing and animating, bringing with it the flavour that a seaman loves. after fully fifteen minutes' severe tugging at the oars, the barge drew near enough to permit the black mass of the cæsar to be seen. for some time, lord geoffrey, who had seated himself at the tiller,--yoke-lines were not used a century since,--steered by the top-light of the rear-admiral; but now the maze of hamper was seen waving slowly to and fro in the lurid heavens, and the huge hull became visible, heaving and setting, as if the ocean groaned with the labour of lifting such a pile of wood and iron. a light gleamed from the cabin-windows, and ever and anon, one glanced athwart an open gun-room port. in all other respects, the ship presented but one hue of blackness. nor was it an easy undertaking, even after the barge was under the lee of the ship, for those in it, to quit its uneasy support and get a firm footing on the cleets that lined the vessel's side like a ladder. this was done, however, and all ascended to the deck but two of the crew, who remained to hook-on the yard and stay-tackles. this effected, the shrill whistle gave the word, and that large boat, built to carry at need some twenty souls, was raised from the raging water, as it were by some gigantic effort of the ship herself, and safely deposited in her bosom. "we are none too soon, sir," said stowel, the moment he had received the rear-admiral with the customary etiquette of the hour. "it's a cap-full of wind already, and it promises to blow harder before morning. we are catted and fished, sir, and the forecastle-men are passing the shank-painter at this moment." "fill, sir, and stretch off, on an easy bowline," was the answer; "when a league in the offing, let me know it. mr. cornet, i have need of you, in my cabin." as this was said, bluewater went below, followed by his signal-officer. at the same instant the first lieutenant called out to man the main-braces, and to fill the top-sail. as soon as this command was obeyed, the cæsar started ahead. her movement was slow, but it had a majesty in it, that set at naught the turbulence of the elements. bluewater had paced to and fro in his cabin no less than six times, with his head drooping, in a thoughtful attitude, ere his attention was called to any external object. "do you wish my presence, admiral bluewater?" the signal-officer at length inquired. "i ask your pardon, mr. cornet; i was really unconscious that you were in the cabin. let me see--ay--our last signal was, 'division come within hail of rear-admiral.' they must get close to us, to be able to do _that_ to-night, cornet! the winds and waves have begun their song in earnest." "and yet, sir, i'll venture a month's pay that captain drinkwater brings the dover so near us, as to put the officer of the watch and the quarter-master at the wheel in a fever. we once made that signal, in a gale of wind, and he passed his jib-boom-end over our taffrail." "he is certainly a most literal gentleman, that captain drinkwater, but he knows how to take care of his ship. look for the number of 'follow the rear-admiral's motions.' 'tis , i think." "no, sir; but . blue, red, and white, with the flags. with the lanterns, 'tis one of the simplest signals we have." "we will make it, at once. when that is done, show 'the rear-admiral; keep in his wake, in the general order of sailing.' that i am sure is ." "yes, sir; you are quite right. shall i show the second signal as soon as all the vessels have answered the first, sir?" "that is my intention, cornet. when all have answered, let me know it." mr. cornet now left the cabin, and bluewater took a seat in an arm-chair, in deep meditation. for quite half an hour the former was busy on the poop, with his two quarter-masters, going through the slow and far from easy duty of making night-signals, as they were then practised at sea. it was some time before the most distant vessel, the dover, gave any evidence of comprehending the first order, and then the same tardy operation had to be gone through with for the second. at length the sentinel threw open the cabin-door, and cornet re-appeared. during the whole of his absence on deck, bluewater had not stirred; scarce seemed to breathe. his thoughts were away from his ships, and for the first time, in the ten years he had worn a flag, he had forgotten the order he had given. "the signals are made and answered, sir," said cornet, as soon as he had advanced to the edge of the table, on which the rear-admiral's elbow was leaning. "the dublin is already in our wake, and the elizabeth is bearing down fast on our weather-quarter; she will bring herself into her station in ten minutes." "what news of the york and dover, cornet?" asked bluewater, rousing himself from a fit of deep abstraction. "the york's light nears us, quite evidently; though that of the dover is still a fixed star, sir," answered the lieutenant, chuckling a little at his own humour; "it seems no larger than it did when we first made it." "it is something to have made it at all. i was not aware it could be seen from deck?" "nor can it, sir; but, by going up half-a-dozen ratlins we get a look at it. captain drinkwater bowses up his lights to the gaff-end, and i can see him always ten minutes sooner than any other ship in the fleet, under the same circumstances." "drinkwater is a careful officer; do the bearings of his light alter enough to tell the course he is steering?" "i think they do, sir, though our standing out athwart his line of sailing would make the change slow, of course. every foot we get to the southward, you know, sir, would throw his bearings farther west; while every foot he comes east, would counteract that change and throw his bearings further south." "that's very clear; but, as he must go three fathoms to our one, running off with square yards before such a breeze, i think we should be constantly altering his bearings to the southward." "no doubt of it, in the world, sir; and that is just what we _are_ doing. i think i can see a difference of half a point, already; but, when we get his light fairly in view from the poop, we shall be able to tell with perfect accuracy." "all very well, cornet. do me the favour to desire captain stowel to step into the cabin and keep a bright look-out for the ships of the division. stay, for a single instant; what particularly sharp-eyed youngster happens to belong to the watch on deck?" "i know none keener in that way than lord geoffrey cleveland, sir; he can see all the roguery that is going on in the whole fleet, at any rate, and ought to see other things." "he will do perfectly well; send the young gentleman to me, sir; but, first inform the officer of the watch that i have need of him." bluewater was unusually fastidious in exercising his authority over those who had temporary superiors on the assigned duty of the ship; and he never sent an order to any of the watch, without causing it to pass through the officer of that watch. he waited but a minute before the boy appeared. "have you a good gripe to-night, boy?" asked the rear-admiral, smiling; "or will it be both hands for yourself and none for the king? i want you on the fore-top-gallant-yard, for eight or ten minutes." "well, sir, it's a plain road there, and one i've often travelled," returned the lad, cheerfully. "that i well know; you are certainly no skulk when duty is to be done. go aloft then, and ascertain if the lights of any of sir gervaise's squadron are to be seen. you will remember that the dover bears somewhere about south-west from us, and that she is still a long way to seaward. i should think all of sir gervaise's ships must be quite as far to windward as that point would bring them, but much further off. by looking sharp a point or half a point to windward of the dover, you may possibly see the light of the warspite, and then we shall get a correct idea of the bearings of all the rest of the division--" "ay-ay-sir," interrupted the boy; "i think i understand exactly what you wish to know, admiral bluewater." "that is a natural gift at sixteen, my lord," returned the admiral, smiling; "but it may be improved a little, perhaps, by the experience of fifty. now, it is possible sir gervaise may have gone about, as soon as the flood made; in which case he ought to bear nearly west of us, and you will also look in that direction. on the other hand, sir gervaise may have stretched so far over towards the french coast before night shut in, as to feel satisfied monsieur de vervillin is still to the eastward of him; in which case he would keep off a little, and may, at this moment, be nearly ahead of us. so that, under all the circumstances, you will sweep the horizon, from the weather-beam to the lee-bow, ranging forward. am i understood, now, my lord?" "yes, sir, i think you are," answered the boy, blushing at his own impetuosity. "you will excuse my indiscretion, admiral bluewater; but i _thought_ i understood all you desired, when i spoke so hastily." "no doubt you did, geoffrey, but you perceive you did not. nature has made you quick of apprehension, but not quick enough to _foresee_ all an old man's gossip. come nearer, now, and let us shake hands. so go aloft, and hold on well, for it is a windy night, and i do not desire to lose you overboard." the boy did as told, squeezed bluewater's hand, and dashed out of the cabin to conceal his tears. as for the rear-admiral, he immediately relapsed into his fit of forgetfulness, waiting for the arrival of stowel. a summons to a captain does not as immediately produce a visit, on board a vessel of war, as a summons to a midshipman. captain stowel was busy in looking at the manner in which his boats were stowed, when cornet told him of the rear-admiral's request; and then he had to give some orders to the first lieutenant concerning the fresh meat that had been got off, and one or two other similar little things, before he was at leisure to comply. "see me, do you say, mr. cornet; in his own cabin, as soon as it is convenient?" he at length remarked, when all these several offices had been duly performed. the signal-officer repeated the request, word for word as he had heard it, when he turned to take another look at the light of the dover. as for stowel, he cared no more for the dover, windy and dark as the night promised to be, than the burgher is apt to care for his neighbour's house when the whole street is threatened with destruction. to him the cæsar was the great centre of attraction, and cornet paid him off in kind; for, of all the vessels in the fleet, the cæsar was precisely the one to which he gave the least attention; and this for the simple reason that she was the only ship to which he never gave, or from which he never received, a signal. "well, mr. bluff," said stowel to the first lieutenant; "one of us will have to be on deck most of the night, and i'll take a slant below, for half an hour first, and see what the admiral wishes." thus saying, the captain left the deck, in order to ascertain his superior's pleasure. captain stowel was several years the senior of bluewater, having actually been a lieutenant in one of the frigates in which the rear-admiral had served as a midshipman; a circumstance to which he occasionally alluded in their present intercourse. the change in the relative positions was the result of the family influence of the junior, who had passed his senior in the grade of master and commander; a rank that then brought many an honest man up for life, in the english marine. at the age of five-and-forty, that at which bluewater first hoisted his flag, stowell was posted; and soon after he was invited by his old shipmate, who had once had him under him as his first lieutenant in a sloop of war, to take the command of his flag-ship. from that day down to the present moment, the two officers had sailed together, whenever they sailed at all, perfectly good friends; though the captain never appeared entirely to forget the time when they were in the aforesaid frigate; one a gun-room officer, and the other only a "youngster." stowel must now have been about sixty-five; a square, hard-featured, red-faced seaman, who knew all about his ship, from her truck to her limber-rope, but who troubled himself very little about any thing else. he had married a widow when he was posted, but was childless, and had long since permitted his affections to wander back into their former channels; from the domestic hearth to his ship. he seldom spoke of matrimony, but the little he saw fit to say on the subject was comprehensive and to the point. a perfectly sober man, he consumed large quantities of both wine and brandy, as well as of tobacco, and never seemed to be the worse for either. loyal he was by political faith, and he looked upon a revolution, let its object be what it might, as he would have regarded a mutiny in the cæsar. he was exceedingly pertinacious of his rights as "captain of his own ship," both ashore and afloat; a disposition that produced less trouble with the mild and gentlemanly rear-admiral, than with mrs. stowel. if we add that this plain sailor never looked into a book, his proper scientific works excepted, we shall have said all of him that his connection with our tale demands. "good-evening, admiral bluewater," said this true tar, saluting the rear-admiral, as one neighbour would greet another, on dropping in of an evening, for they occupied different cabins. "mr. cornet told me you would like to say a word to me, before i turned in; if, indeed, turn in at all, i do this blessed night." "take a seat, stowel, and a glass of this sherry, in the bargain," bluewater answered, kindly, showing how well he understood his man, by the manner in which he shoved both bottle and glass within reach of his hand. "how goes the night?--and is this wind likely to stand?" "i'm of opinion, sir--we'll drink his majesty, if you've no objection, admiral bluewater,--i'm of opinion, we shall stretch the threads of that new main-top-sail, before we've done with the breeze, sir. i believe i've not told you, yet, that i've had the new sail bent, since we last spoke together on the subject. it's a good fit, sir; and, close-reefed, the sails stands like the side of a house." "i'm glad to hear it, stowel; though i think all your canvass usually appears to be in its place." "why you know, admiral bluewater, that i've been long enough at it, to understand something about the matter. it is now more than forty years since we were in the calypso together, and ever since that time i've borne the commission of an officer. you were then a youngster, and thought more of your joke, than of bending sails, or of seeing how they would stand." "there wasn't much of me, certainly, forty years ago, stowel; but i well remember the knack you had of making every robin, sheet, bowline, and thread do its duty, then, as you do to-day. by the way, can you tell me any thing of the dover, this evening?" "not i, sir; she came out with the rest of us i suppose, and must be somewhere in the fleet; though i dare say the log will have it all, if she has been anywhere near us, lately. i am sorry we did not go into one of the watering-ports, instead of this open roadstead, for we must be at least twenty-seven hundred gallons short of what we ought to have, by my calculation; and then we want a new set of light spars, pretty much all round; and the lower hold hasn't as many barrels of provisions in it, by thirty-odd, as i could wish to see there." "i leave these things to you, entirely, stowel; you will report in time to keep the ship efficient." "no fear of the cæsar, sir; for, between mr. bluff, the master, and myself, we know pretty much all about _her_, though i dare say there are men in the fleet who can tell you more about the dublin, or the dover, or the york. we will drink the queen, and all the royal family, if you please, sir." as usual, bluewater merely bowed, for his companion required no further acquiescence in his toasts. just at that moment, too, it would have needed a general order, at least, to induce him to drink any of the family of the reigning house. "oakes must be well off, mid-channel, by this time, captain stowel?" "i should think he might be, sir; though i can't say i took particular notice of the time he sailed. i dare say it's all in the log. the plantagenet is a fast ship, sir, and captain greenly understands her trim, and what she can do on all tacks; and, yet, i do think his majesty has one ship in this fleet that can find a frenchman quite as soon, and deal with him, when found, quite as much to the purpose." "of course you mean the cæsar;--well, i'm quite of your way of thinking, though sir gervaise manages never to be in a slow ship. i suppose you know, stowel, that monsieur de vervillin is out, and that we may expect to see or hear something of him, to-morrow." "yes, sir, there is some such conversation in the ship, i know; but the quantity of galley-news is so great in this squadron, that i never attend much to what is said. one of the officers brought off a rumour, i believe, that there was a sort of a row in scotland. by the way, sir, there is a supernumerary lieutenant on board, and as he has joined entirely without orders, i'm at a loss how to berth or to provision him. we can treat the gentleman hospitably to-night; but in the morning i shall be obliged to get him regularly on paper." "you mean sir wycherly wychecombe; he shall come into my mess, rather than give you any trouble." "i shall not presume to meddle with any gentleman you may please to invite into your cabin, sir," answered stowel, with a stiff bow, in the way of apology. "that's what i always tell mrs. stowel, sir;--that my _cabin_ is my _own_, and even a wife has no right to shake a broom in it." "which is a great advantage to us seamen; for it gives us a citadel to retreat to, when the outworks are pressed. you appear to take but little interest in this civil war, stowel!" "then it's true, is it, sir? i didn't know but it might turn out to be galley-news. pray what is the rumpus all about, admiral bluewater? for, i never could get that story fidded properly, so as to set up the rigging, and have the spar well stayed in its place." "it is merely a war to decide who shall be king of england; nothing else, i do assure you, sir." "they're an uneasy set ashore, sir, if the truth must be said of them! we've got one king, already; and on what principle does any man wish for more? now, there was captain blakely, from the elizabeth, on board of me this afternoon; and we talked the matter over a little, and both of us concluded that they got these things up much as a matter of profit among the army contractors, and the dealers in warlike stores." bluewater listened with intense interest, for here was proof how completely two of his captains, at least, would be at his own command, and how little they would be likely, for a time, at least, to dispute any of his orders. he thought of sir reginald, and of the rapture with which _he_ would have received this trait of nautical character. "there are people who set their hearts on the result, notwithstanding," carelessly observed the rear-admiral; "and some who see their fortunes marred or promoted, by the success or downfall of the parties. they think de vervillin is out on some errand connected with this rising in the north." "well, i don't see what _he_ has got to do with the matter at all; for, i don't suppose that king louis is such a fool as to expect to be king of england as well as king of france!" "the dignity would be too much for one pair of shoulders to bear. as well might one admiral wish to command all the divisions of his own fleet, though they were fifty leagues asunder." "or one captain two ships; or what is more to the purpose, sir, one ship to keep two captains. we'll drink to discipline, if you've no objection, sir. 'tis the soul of order and quiet, ashore or afloat. for my part, i want no _co-equal_--i believe that's the cant word they use on such occasions--but i want no co-equal, in the cæsar, and i am unwilling to have one in the house at greenwich; though mrs. stowel thinks differently. here's my ship; she's in her place in the line; it's my business to see she is fit for any service that a first-class two-decker can undertake, and that duty i endeavour to perform; and i make no doubt it is all the better performed because there's no wife or co-equal aboard here. _where_ the ship is to _go_, and _what_ she is to _do_, are other matters, which i take from general orders, special orders, or signals. let them act up to this principle in london, and we should hear no more of disturbances, north or south." "certainly, stowel, your doctrine would make a quiet nation, as well as a quiet ship. i hope you do me the justice to think there is no co-equal in my commands!" "that there is not, sir--and i have the honour to drink your health--that there is not. when we were in the calypso together, i had the advantage; and i must say that i never had a youngster under me who ever did his duty more cheerfully. since that day we've shifted places; end for end, as one might say; and i endeavour to pay you, in your own coin. there is no man whose orders i obey more willingly or more to my own advantage; always excepting those of admiral oakes, who, being commander-in-chief, overlays us all with his anchor. we must dowse our peaks to his signals, though we _can_ maintain, without mutinying, that the cæsar is as good a boat on or off a wind, as the plantagenet, the best day sir jarvy ever saw." "there is no manner of doubt of that. you have all the notions of a true sailor, i find, stowel; obey orders before all other things. i am curious to know how our captains, generally, stand affected to this claim which the pretender has set up to the throne." "can't tell you, on my soul, sir; though i fancy few of them give themselves any great anxiety in the matter. when the wind is fair we can run off large, and when it is foul we must haul upon a bowline, let who will reign. i was a youngster under queen anne, and she was a stuart, i believe; and i have served under the german family ever since; and to be frank with you, admiral bluewater, i see but little difference in the duty, the pay, or the rations. my maxim is to obey orders, and then i know the blame will fall on them that give them, if any thing goes wrong." "we have many scotchmen in the fleet, stowel," observed the rear-admiral, in a musing manner, like one who rather thought aloud than spoke. "several of the captains are from the north of tweed." "ay, sir, one is pretty certain of meeting gentlemen from that part of the island, in almost all situations in life. i never have understood that scotland had much of a navy in ancient times, and yet the moment old england has to pay for it, the lairds are willing enough to send their children to sea." "nevertheless it must be owned that they make gallant and useful officers, stowel." "no doubt they do, sir; but gallant and useful men are not scarce anywhere. you and i are too old and too experienced, admiral bluewater, to put any faith in the notion that courage belongs to any particular part of the world, or usefulness either. i never fought a frenchman yet that i thought a coward; and, in my judgment, there are brave men enough in england, to command all her ships, and to fight them too." "let this be so, stowel, still we must take things as they come. what do you think of the night?" "dirty enough before morning, i should think, sir, though it is a little out of rule, that it does not rain with this wind, already. the next time we come-to, admiral bluewater, i intend to anchor with a shorter scope of cable than we have been doing lately; for, i begin to think there is no use in wetting so many yarns in the summer months. they tell me the york brings up always on forty fathoms." "that's a short range, i should think, for a heavy ship. but here is a visiter." the sentinel opened the cabin-door, and lord geoffrey, with his cap fastened to his head by a pocket-handkerchief, and his face red with exposure to the wind, entered the cabin. "well," said bluewater, quietly; "what is the report from aloft?" "the dover is running down athwart our forefoot, and nearing us fast, sir," returned the midshipman. "the york is close on our weather-beam, edging in to her station; but i can make out nothing ahead of us, though i was on the yard twenty minutes." "did you look well on the weather-beam, and thence forward to the lee-bow?" "i did, sir; if any light is in view, better eyes than mine must find it." stowel looked from one to the other, as this short conversation was held; but, as soon as there was a pause, he put in a word in behalf of the ship. "you've been up forward, my lord?" he said. "yes, i have, captain stowel." "and did you think of seeing how the heel of the top-gallant-mast stood it, in this sea? bluff tells me 'tis too loose to be fit for very heavy weather." "i did not, sir. i was sent aloft to look out for the ships of the commander-in-chief's division, and didn't think of the heel of the top-gallant-mast's being too loose, at all." "ay, that's the way with all the youngsters, now-a-days. in my time, or even in _yours_, admiral bluewater, we never put our feet on a ratlin, but hands and eyes were at work, until we reached the halting place, even though it should be the truck. that is the manner to know what a ship is made of!" "i kept my hands and eyes at work, too, captain stowel; but it was to hold on well, and to look out well." "that will never do--that will never do, if you wish to make yourself a sailor. begin with your own ship first; learn all about _her_, then, when you get to be an admiral, as your father's son, my lord, will be certain to become, it will be time enough to be inquiring about the rest of the fleet." "you forget, captain stowel--" "that will do, lord geoffrey," bluewater soothingly interposed, for he knew that the captain preached no more than he literally practised; "if _i_ am satisfied with your report, no one else has a right to complain. desire sir wycherly wychecombe to meet me on deck, where we will now go, stowel, and take a look at the weather for ourselves." "with all my heart, admiral bluewater, though i'll just drink the first lord's health before we quit this excellent liquor. that youngster has stuff in him, in spite of his nobility, and by fetching him up, with round turns, occasionally, i hope to make a man of him, yet." "if he do not grow into that character, physically and morally, within the next few years, sir, he will be the first person of his family who has ever failed of it." as bluewater said this, he and the captain left his cabin, and ascended to the quarter-deck. here stowel stopped to hold a consultation with his first lieutenant, while the admiral went up the poop-ladder, and joined cornet. the last had nothing new to communicate, and as he was permitted to go below, he was desired to send wycherly up to the poop, where the young man would be expected by the rear-admiral. some little time elapsed before the virginian could be found; no sooner was this effected, however, than he joined bluewater. they had a private conversation of fully half an hour, pacing the poop the whole time, and then cornet was summoned back, again, to his usual station. the latter immediately received an order to acquaint captain stowel the rear-admiral desired that the cæsar might be hove-to, and to make a signal for the druid , to come under the flag-ship's lee, and back her main-top-sail. no sooner did this order reach the quarter-deck than the watch was sent to the braces, and the main-yard was rounded in, until the portion of sail that was still set lay against the mast. this deadened the way of the huge body, which rose and fell heavily in the seas, as they washed under her, scarcely large enough to lift the burthen it imposed upon them. just at this instant, the signal was made. the sudden check to the movement of the cæsar brought the dublin booming up in the darkness, when putting her helm up, that ship surged slowly past to leeward, resembling a black mountain moving by in the gloom. she was hailed and directed to heave-to, also, as soon as far enough ahead. the elizabeth followed, clearing the flag-ship by merely twenty fathoms, and receiving a similar order. the druid had been on the admiral's weather-quarter, but she now came gliding down, with the wind abeam, taking room to back her top-sail under the cæsar's lee-bow. by this time a cutter was in the water, rising six or eight feet up the black side of the ship, and sinking as low apparently beneath her bottom. next, wycherly reported himself ready to proceed. "you will not forget, sir," said bluewater, "any part of my commission; but inform the commander-in-chief of the _whole_. it may be important that we understand each other fully. you will also hand him this letter which i have hastily written while the boat was getting ready." "i think i understand your wishes, sir;--at least, i _hope_ so;--and i will endeavour to execute them." "god bless you, sir wycherly wychecombe," added bluewater, with emotion. "we may never meet again; we sailors carry uncertain lives; and we may be said to carry them in our hands." wycherly took his leave of the admiral, and he ran down the poop-ladder to descend into the boat. twice he paused on the quarter-deck, however, in the manner of one who felt disposed to return and ask some explanation; but each time he moved on, decided to proceed. it needed all the agility of our young sailor to get safely into the boat. this done, the oars fell and the cutter was driven swiftly away to leeward. in a few minutes, it shot beneath the lee of the frigate, and discharged its freight. wycherly could not have been three minutes on the deck of the druid, ere her yards were braced up, and her top-sail filled with a heavy flap. this caused her to draw slowly ahead. five minutes later, however, a white cloud was seen dimly fluttering over her hull, and the reefed main-sail was distended to the wind. the effect was so instantaneous that the frigate seemed to glide away from the flag-ship, and in a quarter of an hour, under her three top-sails double-reefed, and her courses, she was a mile distant on her weather-bow. those who watched her movements without understanding them, observed that she lowered her light, and appeared to detach herself from the rest of the division. it was some time before the cæsar's boat was enabled to pull up against the tide, wind, and sea. when this hard task was successfully accomplished, the ship filled, passed the dublin and elizabeth, and resumed her place in the line. bluewater paced the poop an hour longer, having dismissed his signal-officer and the quarter-masters to their hammocks. even stowel had turned in, nor did mr. bluff deem it necessary to remain on deck any longer. at the end of the hour, the rear-admiral bethought him of retiring too. before he quitted the poop, however, he stood at the weather-ladder, holding on to the mizzen-rigging, and gazing at the scene. the wind had increased, as had the sea, but it was not yet a gale. the york had long before hauled up in her station, a cable's length ahead of the cæsar, and was standing on, under the same canvass as the flag-ship, looking stately and black. the dover was just shooting into her berth, under the standing sailing-orders, at the same distance ahead of the york; visible, but much less distinct and imposing. the sloop and the cutter were running along, under the lee of the heavy snips, a quarter of a mile distant, each vessel keeping her relative position, by close attention to her canvass. further than this, nothing was in sight. the sea had that wild mixture of brightness and gloom, which belongs to the element when much agitated in a dark night, while the heavens were murky and threatening. within the ship, all was still. here and there a lantern threw its wavering light around, but the shadows of the masts and guns, and other objects, rendered this relief to the night trifling. the lieutenant of the watch paced the weather side of the quarter-deck, silent but attentive. occasionally he hailed the look-outs, and admonished them to be vigilant, also, and at each turn he glanced upward to see how the top-sail stood. four or five old and thoughtful seamen walked the waist and forecastle, but most of the watch were stowed between the guns, or in the best places they could find, under the lee of the bulwarks, catching cat's naps. this was an indulgence denied the young gentlemen, of whom one was on the forecastle, leaning against the mast, dreaming of home, one in the waist, supporting the nettings, and one walking the lee-side of the quarter-deck, his eyes shut, his thoughts confused, and his footing uncertain. as bluewater stepped on the quarter-deck-ladder, to descend to his own cabin, the youngster hit his foot against an eye-bolt, and fetched way plump up against his superior. bluewater caught the lad in his arms, and saved him from a fall, setting him fairly on his feet before he let him go. "'tis seven bells, geoffrey," said the admiral, in an under tone. "hold on for half an hour longer, and then go dream of your dear mother." before the boy could recover himself to thank his superior, the latter had disappeared. chapter xx. "yet notwithstanding, being incensed, he's flint; as humorous as winter, and as sudden as flaws congealed in the spring of day. his temper, therefore, must be well observed." shakespeare. the reader will remember that the wind had not become fresh when sir gervaise oakes got into his barge, with the intention of carrying his fleet to sea. a retrospective glance at the state of the weather, will become necessary to the reader, therefore, in carrying his mind back to that precise period whither it has now become our duty to transport him in imagination. the vice-admiral governed a fleet on principles very different from those of bluewater. while the last left so much to the commanders of the different vessels, his friend looked into every thing himself. the details of the service he knew were indispensable to success on a larger scale, and his active mind descended into all these minutiæ, to a degree sometimes, that annoyed his captains. on the whole, however, he was sufficiently observant of that formidable barrier to excessive familiarity, and that great promoter of heart-burnings in a squadron, naval etiquette, to prevent any thing like serious misunderstandings, and the best feelings prevailed between him and the several magnates under his orders. perhaps the circumstance that he was a _fighting_ admiral contributed to this internal tranquillity; for, it has been often remarked, that armies and fleets will both tolerate more in leaders that give them plenty to do with the enemy, than in commanders who leave them inactive and less exposed. the constant encounters with the foe would seem to let out all the superfluous quarrelsome tendencies. nelson, to a certain extent, was an example of this influence in the english marine, suffren[ ] in that of france, and preble, to a much greater degree than in either of the other cases, in our own. at all events, while most of his captains sensibly felt themselves less of commanders, while sir gervaise was on board or around their ships, than when he was in the cabin of the plantagenet, the peace was rarely broken between them, and he was generally beloved as well as obeyed. bluewater was a more invariable favourite, perhaps, though scarcely as much respected; and certainly not half as much feared. [footnote : suffren, though one of the best sea-captains france ever possessed, was a man of extreme severity and great roughness of manner. still he must have been a man of family, as his title of _bailli_ de suffren, was derived from his being a knight of malta. it is a singular circumstance connected with the death of this distinguished officer, which occurred not long before the french revolution, that he disappeared in an extraordinary manner, and is buried no one knows where. it is supposed that he was killed by one of his own officers, in a rencontre in the streets of paris, at night, and that the influence of the friends of the victor was sufficiently great to suppress inquiry. the cause of the quarrel is attributed to harsh treatment on service.] on the present occasion, the vice-admiral did not pull through the fleet, without discovering the peculiar propensity to which we have alluded. in passing one of the ships, he made a sign to his coxswain to cause the boat's crew to lay on their oars, when he hailed the vessel, and the following dialogue occurred. "carnatic, ahoy!" cried the admiral. "sir," exclaimed the officer of the deck, jumping on a quarter-deck gun, and raising his hat. "is captain parker on board, sir?" "he is, sir gervaise; will you see him, sir?" a nod of the head sufficed to bring the said captain parker on deck, and to the gangway, where he could converse with his superior, without inconvenience to either. "how do you do, _captain_ parker?"--a certain sign sir gervaise meant to rap the other over the knuckles, else would it have been _parker_."--how do you do, _captain_ parker? i am sorry to see you have got your ship too much down by the head, sir. she'll steer off the wind, like a colt when he first feels the bridle; now with his head on one side, and now on the other. you know i like a compact line, and straight wakes, sir." "i am well aware of that, sir gervaise," returned parker, a gray-headed, meek old man, who had fought his way up from the forecastle to his present honourable station, and, who, though brave as a lion before the enemy, had a particular dread of all his commanders; "but we have been obliged to use more water aft than we could wish, on account of the tiers. we shall coil away the cables anew, and come at some of the leaguers forward, and bring all right again, in a week, i hope, sir." "a week?--the d----l, sir; that will never do, when i expect to see de vervillin _to-morrow_. fill all your empty casks aft with salt-water, immediately; and if that wont do, shift some of your shot forward. i know that craft of yours, well; she is as tender as a fellow with corns, and the shoe musn't pinch anywhere." "very well, sir gervaise; the ship shall be brought in trim, as soon as possible." "ay, ay, sir, that is what i expect from every vessel, at _all_ times; and more especially when we are ready to meet an enemy. and, i say, _parker_,"--making a sign to his boat's crew to stop rowing again--"i say, _parker_, i know you love brawn;--i'll send you some that galleygo tells me he has picked up, along-shore here, as soon as i get aboard. the fellow has been robbing all the hen-roosts in devonshire, by his own account of the matter." sir gervaise waved his hand, _parker_ smiled and bowed his thanks, and the two parted with feelings of perfect kindness, notwithstanding the little skirmish with which the interview had commenced. "mr. williamson," said captain parker to his first lieutenant, on quitting the gangway, "you hear what the commander-in-chief says; and he must be obeyed. i _don't_ think the carnatic would have sheered out of the line, even if she is a little by the head; but have the empty casks filled, and bring her down six inches more by the stern." "that's a good fellow, that old parker," said sir gervaise to his purser, whom he was carrying off good-naturedly to the ship, lest he might lose his passage; "and i wonder how he let his ship get her nose under water, in that fashion. i like to have him for a second astern; for i feel sure he'd follow if i stood into cherbourg, bows on! yes; a good fellow is parker; and, locker,"--to his own man, who was also in the boat;--"mind you send him _two_ of the best pieces of that brawn--hey!--hey!--hey!--what the d----l has lord morganic"--a descendant from royalty by the left hand,--"been doing now! that ship is kept like a tailor's jay figure, just to stuff jackets and gim-cracks on her--achilles, there!" a quarter-master ran to the edge of the poop, and then turning, he spoke to his captain, who was walking the deck, and informed him that the commander-in-chief hailed the ship. the earl of morganic, a young man of four-and-twenty, who had succeeded to the title a few years before by the death of an elder brother,--the usual process by which an _old_ peer is brought into the british navy, the work being too discouraging for those who have fortune before their eyes from the start,--now advanced to the quarter of the ship, bowed with respectful ease, and spoke with a self-possession that not one of the old commanders of the fleet would have dared to use. in general, this nobleman's intercourse with his superiors in naval rank, betrayed the consciousness of his own superiority in civil rank; but sir gervaise being of an old family, and quite as rich as he was himself, the vice-admiral commanded more of his homage than was customary. his ship was full of "nobs," as they term it in the british navy, or the sons and relatives of nobles; and it was by no means an uncommon thing for her messes to have their jokes at the expense of even flag-officers, who were believed to be a little ignorant of the peculiar sensibilities that are rightly enough imagined to characterize social station. "good-morning, sir gervaise," called out this noble captain; "i'm glad to see you looking so well, after our long cruise in the bay; i intended to have the honour to inquire after your health in person, this morning, but they told me you slept out of your ship. we shall have to hold a court on you, sir, if you fall much into that habit!" all within hearing smiled, even to the rough old tars, who were astraddle of the yards; and even sir gervaise's lip curled a little, though he was not exactly in a joking humour. "come, come, morganic, do you let my habits alone, and look out for your own fore-top-mast. why, in the name of seamanship, is that spar stayed forward in such a fashion, looking like a xebec's foremast?" "do you dislike it, sir gervaise?--now to our fancies aboard here, it gives the achilles a knowing look, and we hope to set a fashion. by carrying the head-sails well forward, we help the ship round in a sea, you know, sir." "indeed, i know no such thing, my lord. what you gain after being taken aback, you lose in coming to the wind. if i had a pair of scales suitable to such a purpose, i would have all that hamper you have stayed away yonder over your bows, on the end of such a long lever, weighed, in order that you might learn what a beautiful contrivance you've invented, among you, to make a ship pitch in a head sea. why, d----e, if i think you'd lie-to, at all, with so much stuff aloft to knock you off to leeward. come up, every thing, forward; come up every thing, my lord, and bring the mast as near perpendicular as possible. it's a hard matter, i find, to make one of your new-fashioned captains keep things in their places." "well, now, sir gervaise, i think the achilles makes as good an appearance as most of the other ships; and as to travelling or working, i do not know that she is either dull or clumsy!" "she's pretty well, morganic, considering how many bond-street ideas you have got among you; but she'll never do in a head sea, with that fore-top-mast threatening your knight-heads. so get the mast up-and-down, again, as soon as convenient, and come and dine with me, without further invitation, the first fine day we have at sea. i'm going to send parker some brawn; but, i'll feed _you_ on some of galleygo's turtle-soup, made out of pig's heads." "thank'ee, sir gervaise; we'll endeavour to straighten the slick, since you _will_ have it so; though, i confess i get tired of seeing every thing to-day, just as we had it yesterday." "yes--yes--that's the way with most of these st. james cruisers," continued the vice-admiral, as he rowed away. "they want a fashionable tailor to rig a man-of-war, as they are rigged themselves. there's my old friend and neighbour, lord scupperton--he's taken a fancy to yachting, lately, and when his new brig was put into the water, lady scupperton made him send for an upholsterer from town to fit out the cabin; and when the blackguard had surveyed the unfortunate craft, as if it were a country box, what does he do but give an opinion, that 'this here edifice, my lord, in my judgment, should be furnished in cottage style,'--the vagabond!" this story, which was not particularly original, for sir gervaise himself had told it at least a dozen times before, put the admiral in a good humour, and he found no more fault with his captains, until he reached the plantagenet. "daly," said the earl of morganic to his first lieutenant, an experienced old irishman of fifty, who still sung a good song and told a good story, and what was a little extraordinary for either of these accomplishments, knew how to take good care of a ship;--"daly, i suppose we must humour the old gentleman, or he'll be quarantining me, and that i shouldn't particularly like on the eve of a general action; so we'll ease off forward, and set up the strings aft, again. hang me if i think he could find it out if we didn't, so long as we kept dead in his wake!" "that wouldn't be a very safe desait for sir jarvy, my lord, for he's a wonderful eye for a rope! were it admiral blue, now, i'd engage to cruise in his company for a week, with my mizzen-mast stowed in the hold, and there should be no bother about the novelty, at all; quite likely he'd be hailing us, and ask 'what brig's that?' but none of these tricks will answer with t'other, who misses the whipping off the end of a gasket, as soon as any first luff of us all. and so i'll just go about the business in earnest; get the carpenter up with his plumb-bob, and set every thing as straight up-and-down as the back of a grenadier." lord morganic laughed, as was usual with him when his lieutenant saw fit to be humorous; and then his caprice in changing the staying of his masts, as well as the order which countermanded it, was forgotten. the arrival of sir gervaise on board his own ship was always an event in the fleet, even though his absence had lasted no longer than twenty-four hours. the effect was like that which is produced on a team of high-mettled cattle, when they feel that the reins are in the hands of an experienced and spirited coachman. "good-morning, greenly, good-morning to you all, gentlemen," said the vice-admiral, bowing to the quarter-deck in gross, in return for the 'present-arms,' and rattling of drums, and lowering of hats that greeted his arrival; "a fine day, and it is likely we shall have a fresh breeze. captain greenly, your sprit-sail-yard wants squaring by the lifts; and, bunting, make the thunderer's signal to get her fore-yard in its place, as soon as possible. she's had it down long enough to make a new one, instead of merely fishing it. are your boats all aboard, greenly?" "all but your own barge, sir gervaise, and that is hooked on." "in with it, sir; then trip, and we'll be off. monsieur de vervillin has got some mischief in his head, gentlemen, and we must go and take it out of him." these orders were promptly obeyed; but, as the manner in which the plantagenet passed out of the fleet, and led the other ships to sea, has been already related, it is unnecessary to repeat it. there was the usual bustle, the customary orderly confusion, the winding of calls, the creaking of blocks, and the swinging of yards, ere the vessels were in motion. as the breeze freshened, sail was reduced, as already related, until, by the time the leading ship was ten leagues at sea, all were under short canvass, and the appearance of a windy, if not a dirty night, had set in. of course, all means of communication between the plantagenet and the vessels still at anchor, had ceased, except by sending signals down the line; but, to those sir gervaise had no recourse, since he was satisfied bluewater understood his plans, and he then entertained no manner of doubt of his friend's willingness to aid them. little heed was taken of any thing astern, by those on board the plantagenet. every one saw, it is true, that ship followed ship in due succession, as long as the movements of those inshore could be perceived at all; but the great interest centred on the horizon to the southward and eastward. in that quarter of the channel the french were expected to appear, for the cause of this sudden departure was a secret from no one in the fleet. a dozen of the best look-outs in the ship were kept aloft the whole afternoon, and captain greenly, himself, sat in the forward-cross-trees, with a glass, for more than an hour, just as the sun was setting, in order to sweep the horizon. two or three sail were made, it is true, but they all proved to be english coasters; guernsey or jerseymen, standing for ports in the west of england, most probably laden with prohibited articles from the country of the enemy. whatever may be the dislike of an englishman for a frenchman, he has no dislike to the labour of his hands; and there probably has not been a period since civilization has introduced the art of smuggling among its other arts, when french brandies, and laces, and silks, were not exchanged against english tobacco and guineas, and that in a contraband way, let it be in peace or let it be in war. one of the characteristics of sir gervaise oakes was to despise all petty means of annoyance; usually he disdained even to turn aside to chase a smuggler. fishermen he never molested at all; and, on the whole, he carried on a marine warfare, a century since, in a way that some of his successors might have imitated to advantage in our own times. like that high-spirited irishman, caldwell,[ ] who conducted a blockade in the chesapeake, at the commencement of the revolution, with so much liberality, that his enemies actually sent him an invitation to a public dinner, sir gervaise knew how to distinguish between the combatant and the non-combatant, and heartily disdained all the money-making parts of his profession, though large sums had fallen into his hands, in this way, as pure god-sends. no notice was taken, therefore, of any thing that had not a warlike look; the noble old ship standing steadily on towards the french coast, as the mastiff passes the cur, on his way to encounter another animal, of a mould and courage more worthy of his powers. [footnote : the writer believes this noble-minded sailor to have been the late admiral sir benjamin caldwell. it is scarcely necessary to say that the invitation could not be accepted, though quite seriously given.] "make nothing of 'em, hey! greenly," said sir gervaise, as the captain came down from his perch, in consequence of the gathering obscurity of evening, followed by half-a-dozen lieutenants and midshipmen, who had been aloft as volunteers. "well, we know they cannot yet be to the westward of us, and by standing on shall be certain of heading them off, before this time six months. how beautifully all the ships behave, following each other as accurately as if bluewater himself were aboard each vessel to conn her!" "yes, sir, they do keep the line uncommonly well, considering that the tides run in streaks in the channel. i _do_ think if we were to drop a hammock overboard, that the carnatic would pick it up, although she must be quite four leagues astern of us." "let old parker alone for that! i'll warrant you, _he_ is never out of the way. were it lord morganic, now, in the achilles, i should expect him to be away off here on our weather-quarter, just to show us how his ship can eat us out of the wind when he _tries_: or away down yonder, under our lee, that we might understand how she falls off, when he _don't_ try." "my lord is a gallant officer, and no bad seaman, for his years, notwithstanding, sir gervaise," observed greenly, who generally took the part of the absent, whenever his superior felt disposed to berate them. "i deny neither, greenly, most particularly the first. i know very well, were i to signal morganic, to run into brest, he'd do it; but whether he would go in, ring-tail-boom, or jib-boom first, i couldn't tell till i saw it. now you are a youngish man yourself. greenly--" "every day of eight-and-thirty, sir gervaise, and a few months to spare; and i care not if the ladies know it." "poh!--they like us old fellows, half the time, as well as they do the boys. but you are of an age not to feel time in your bones, and can see the folly of some of our old-fashioned notions, perhaps; though you are not quite as likely to understand the fooleries that have come in, in your own day. nothing is more absurd than to be experimenting on the settled principles of ships. they are machines, greenly, and have their laws, just the same as the planets in the heavens. the idea comes from a fish,--head, run, and helm; and all we have to do is to study the fishes in order to get the sort of craft we want. if there is occasion for bulk, take the whale, and you get a round bottom, full fore-body, and a clean run. when you want speed, models are plenty--take the dolphin, for instance,--and there you find an entrance like a wedge, a lean fore-body, and a run as clean as this ship's decks. but some of our young captains would spoil a dolphin's sailing, if they could breathe under water, so as to get at the poor devils. look at their fancies! the first lord shall give one of his cousins a frigate, now, that is moulded after nature itself, as one might say; with a bottom that would put a trout to shame. well, one of the first things the lad does, when he gets on board her, is to lengthen his gaff, perhaps, put a cloth or two in his mizzen, and call it a spanker, settle away the peak till it sticks out over his taffrail like a sign-post, and then away he goes upon a wind, with his helm hard-up, bragging what a weatherly craft he has, and how hard it is to make her even _look_ to leeward." "i have known such sailors, i must confess, sir gervaise; but time cures them of that folly." "that is to be hoped; for what would a man think of a fish to which nature had fitted a tail athwart-ships, and which was obliged to carry a fin, like a lee-board, under its lee-jaw, to prevent falling off dead before the wind!" here sir gervaise laughed heartily at the picture of the awkward creature to which his own imagination had given birth; greenly joining in the merriment, partly from the oddity of the conceit, and partly from the docility with which commander-in-chief's jokes are usually received. the feeling of momentary indignation which had aroused sir gervaise to such an expression of his disgust at modern inventions, was appeased by this little success; and, inviting his captain to sup with him,--a substitute for a dinner,--he led the way below in high good-humour, galleygo having just announced that the table was ready. the _convives_ on this occasion were merely the admiral himself, greenly, and atwood. the fare was substantial, rather than scientific; but the service was rich; sir gervaise uniformly eating off of plate. in addition to galleygo, no less than five domestics attended to the wants of the party. as a ship of the plantagenet's size was reasonably steady at all times, a gale of wind excepted, when the lamps and candles were lighted, and the group was arranged, aided by the admixture of rich furniture with frowning artillery and the other appliances of war, the great cabin of the plantagenet was not without a certain air of rude magnificence. sir gervaise kept no less than three servants in livery, as a part of his personal establishment, tolerating galleygo, and one or two more of the same stamp, as a homage due to neptune. the situation not being novel to either of the party, and the day's work having been severe, the first twenty minutes were pretty studiously devoted to the duty of "restoration," as it is termed by the great masters of the science of the table. by the end of that time, however, the glass began to circulate, though moderately, and with it tongues to loosen. "your health, captain greenly--atwood, i remember you," said the vice-admiral, nodding his head familiarly to his two guests, on the eve of tossing off a glass of sherry. "these spanish wines go directly to the heart, and i only wonder why a people who can make them, don't make better sailors." "in the days of columbus, the spaniards had something to boast of in that way, too, sir gervaise," atwood remarked. "ay, but that was a long time ago, and they have got bravely over it. i account for the deficiencies of both the french and spanish marines something in this way, greenly. columbus, and the discovery of america, brought ships and sailors into fashion. but a ship without an officer fit to command her, is like a body without a soul. fashion, however, brought your young nobles into their services, and men were given vessels because their fathers were dukes and counts, and not because they knew any thing about them." "is our own service entirely free from this sort of favouritism?" quietly demanded the captain. "far from it, greenly; else would not morganic have been made a captain at twenty, and old parker, for instance, one only at fifty. but, somehow, our classes slide into each other, in a way that neutralizes, in a great degree, the effect of birth. is it not so, atwood?" "_some_ of our classes, sir gervaise, manage to _slide_ into all the best places, if the truth must be said." "well, that is pretty bold for a scotchman!" rejoined the vice-admiral, good-humouredly. "ever since the accession of the house of stuart, we've built a bridge across the tweed that lets people pass in only one direction. i make no doubt this pretender's son will bring down half scotland at his heels, to fill all the berths they may fancy suitable to their merits. it's an easy way of paying bounty--promises." "this affair in the north, they tell me, seems a little serious," said greenly. "i believe this is mr. atwood's opinion?" "you'll find it serious enough, if sir gervaise's notion about the bounty be true," answered the immovable secretary. "scotia is a small country, but it's well filled with 'braw sperits,' if there's an opening for them to prove it." "well, well, this war between england and scotland is out of place, while we have the french and spaniards on our hands. most extraordinary scenes have we had ashore, yonder, greenly, with an old devonshire baronet, who slipped and is off for the other world, while we were in his house." "magrath has told me something of it, sir; and, he tells me the _fill-us-null-us_--hang me if i can make out his gibberish, five minutes after it was told to me." "_filius nullius_, you mean; nobody's baby--the son of nobody--have you forgotten your latin, man?" "faith, sir gervaise, i never had any to forget. my father was a captain of a man-of-war before me, and he kept me afloat from the time i was five, down to the day of his death; latin was no part of my spoon-meat." "ay--ay--my good fellow, i knew your father, and was in the third ship from him, in the action in which he fell," returned the vice-admiral, kindly. "bluewater was just ahead of him, and we all loved him, as we did an elder brother. you were not promoted, then." "no, sir, i was only a midshipman, and didn't happen to be in his own ship that day," answered greenly, sensibly touched with this tribute to his parent's merit; "but i was old enough to remember how nobly you all behaved on the occasion. well,"--slily brushing his eye with his hand,--"latin may do a schoolmaster good, but it is of little use on board ship. i never had but one scholar among all my cronies and intimates." "and who was he, greenly? you shouldn't despise knowledge, because you don't understand it. i dare say your intimate was none the worse for a little latin--enough to go through _nullus, nulla, nullum_, for instance. who was this intimate, greenly?" "john bluewater--handsome jack, as he was called; the younger brother of the admiral. they sent him to sea, to keep him out of harm's way in some love affair; and you may remember that while he was with the admiral, or _captain_ bluewater, as he was then, i was one of the lieutenants. although poor jack was a soldier and in the guards, and he was four or five years my senior, he took a fancy to me, and we became intimate. _he_ understood latin, better than he did his own interests." "in what did he fail?--bluewater was never very communicative to me about that brother." "there was a private marriage, and cross guardians, and the usual difficulties. in the midst of it all, poor john fell in battle, as you know, and his widow followed him to the grave, within a month or two. 'twas a sad story all round, and i try to think of it as little as possible." "a private marriage!" repeated sir gervaise, slowly. "are you quite sure of _that_? i don't think bluewater is aware of that circumstance; at least, i never heard him allude to it. could there have been any issue?" "no one can know it better than myself, as i helped to get the lady off, and was present at the ceremony. that much i _know_. of issue, i should think there was none; though the colonel lived a year after the marriage. how far the admiral is familiar with all these circumstances i cannot say, as one would not like to introduce the particulars of a private marriage of a deceased brother, to his commanding officer." "i am glad there was no issue, greenly--particular circumstances make me glad of that. but we will change the discourse, as these family disasters make one melancholy; and a melancholy dinner is like ingratitude to him who bestows it." the conversation now grew general, and in due season, in common with the feast, it ended. after sitting the usual time, the guests retired. sir gervaise then went on deck, and paced the poop for an hour, looking anxiously ahead, in quest of the french signal; and, failing of discovering them, he was fain to seek his berth out of sheer fatigue. before he did this, however, the necessary orders were given; and that to call him, should any thing out of the common track occur, was repeated no less than four times. chapter xxi. "roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean--roll ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; man marks the earth with ruin--his control stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain the wrecks are all thy deed." childe harold. it was broad day-light, when sir gervaise oakes next appeared on deck. as the scene then offered to his view, as well as the impression it made on his mind, will sufficiently explain to the reader the state of affairs, some six hours later than the time last included in our account, we refer him to those for his own impressions. the wind now blew a real gale, though the season of the year rendered it less unpleasant to the feelings than is usual with wintry tempests. the air was even bland, and still charged with the moisture of the ocean; though it came sweeping athwart sheets of foam, with a fury, at moments, which threatened to carry the entire summits of waves miles from their beds, in spray. even the aquatic birds seemed to be terrified, in the instants of the greatest power of the winds, actually wheeling suddenly on their wings, and plunging into the element beneath to seek protection from the maddened efforts of that to which they more properly belonged. still, sir gervaise saw that his ships bore up nobly against the fierce strife. each vessel showed the same canvass; viz.--a reefed fore-sail; a small triangular piece of strong, heavy cloth, fitted between the end of the bowsprit and the head of the fore-top-mast; a similar sail over the quarter-deck, between the mizzen and main masts, and a close-reefed main-top-sail several times that morning, captain greenly had thought he should be compelled to substitute a lower surface to the wind than that of the sail last mentioned. as it was an important auxiliary, however, in steadying the ship, and in keeping her under the command of her helm, on each occasion the order had been delayed, until he now began to question whether the canvass could be reduced, without too great a risk to the men whom it would be necessary to send aloft. he had decided to let it stand or blow away, as fortune might decide. similar reasoning left nearly all the other vessels under precisely the same canvass. the ships of the vice-admiral's division had closed in the night, agreeably to an order given before quitting the anchorage, which directed them to come within the usual sailing distance, in the event of the weather's menacing a separation. this command had been obeyed by the ships astern carrying sail hard, long after the leading vessels had been eased by reducing their canvass. the order of sailing was the plantagenet in the van, and the carnatic, achilles, thunderer, blenheim, and warspite following, in the order named; some changes having been made in the night, in order to bring the ships of the division into their fighting-stations, in a line ahead, the vice-admiral leading. the superiority of the plantagenet was a little apparent, notwithstanding; the carnatic alone, and that only by means of the most careful watching, being able to keep literally in the commander-in-chief's wake; all the other vessels gradually but almost imperceptibly setting to leeward of it. these several circumstances struck sir gervaise, the moment his foot touched the poop, where he found greenly keeping an anxious look-out on the state of the weather and the condition of his own ship; leaning at the same time, against the spanker-boom to steady himself in the gusts of the gale. the vice-admiral braced his own well-knit and compact frame, by spreading his legs; then he turned his handsome but weather-beaten face towards the line, scanning each ship in succession, as she lay over to the wind, and came wallowing on, shoving aside vast mounds of water with her bows, her masts describing short arcs in the air, and her hull rolling to windward, and lurching, as if boring her way through the ocean. galleygo, who never regarded himself as a steward in a gale of wind, was the only other person on the poop, whither he went at pleasure by a sort of imprescriptibly right. "well done, old planter!" cried sir gervaise, heartily, as soon as his eye had taken in the leading peculiarities of the view. "you see, greenly, she has every body but old parker to leeward, and she would have him there, too, but he would carry every stick he has, out of the carnatic, rather than not keep his berth. look at master morganic; he has his main course close-reefed on the achilles, to luff into his station, and i'll warrant you will get a good six months' wear out of that ship in this one gale; loosening her knees, and jerking her spars like so many whip-handles; and all for love of the new fashion of rigging an english two-decker like an algerian xebec! well, let him tug his way up to windward, bond-street fashion, if he likes the fun. what has become of the chloe, greenly?" "here she is, sir, quite a league on our lee-bow, looking out, according to orders." "ay, that is her work, and she'll do it effectually.--but i don't see the driver!" "she's dead ahead sir," answered greenly, smiling; "_her_ orders being rather more difficult of execution. her station would be off yonder to windward, half a league ahead of us; but it's no easy matter to get into that position, sir gervaise, when the plantagenet is really in earnest." sir gervaise laughed, and rubbed his hands, then he turned to look for the active, the only other vessel of his division. this little cutter was dancing over the seas, half the time under water, notwithstanding, under the head of her main-sail, broad off, on the admiral's weather-beam; finding no difficulty in maintaining her station there, in the absence of all top-hamper, and favoured by the lowness of her hull. after this he glanced upward at the sails and spars of the plantagenet, which he studied closely. "no signs of _de vervillin_, hey! greenly?" the admiral asked, when his survey of the whole fleet had ended. "i was in hopes we might see something of _him_, when the light returned this morning." "perhaps it is quite as well as it is, sir gervaise," returned the captain. "we could do little besides look at each other, in this gale, and admiral bluewater ought to join before i should like even to do _that_." "think you so, master greenly!--there you are mistaken, then; for i'd lie by him, were i alone in this ship, that i might know where he was to be found as soon as the weather would permit us to have something to say to him." these words were scarcely uttered, when the look-out in the forward cross-trees, shouted at the top of his voice, "sail-ho!" at the next instant the chloe fired a gun, the report of which was just heard amid the roaring of the gale, though the smoke was distinctly seen floating above the mists of the ocean; she also set a signal at her naked mizzen-top-gallant-mast-head. "run below, young gentleman," said the vice-admiral, advancing to the break of the poop and speaking to a midshipman on the quarter-deck; "and desire mr. bunting to make his appearance. the chloe signals us--tell him not to look for his knee-buckles." a century since, the last injunction, though still so much in use on ship-board, was far more literal than it is to-day, nearly all classes of men possessing the articles in question, though not invariably wearing them when at sea. the midshipman dove below, however, as soon as the words were out of his superior's mouth; and, in a very few minutes, bunting appeared, having actually stopped on the main-deck ladder to assume his coat, lest he might too unceremoniously invade the sacred precincts of the quarter-deck, in his shirt-sleeves. "there it is, bunting," said sir gervaise, handing the lieutenant the glass; "two hundred and twenty-seven--'a large sail ahead,' if i remember right." "no, sir gervaise, '_sails_ ahead;' the number of them to follow. hoist the answering flag, quarter-master." "so much the better! so much the better, bunting! the number to follow? well, _we'll_ follow the number, let it be greater or smaller. come, sirrah, bear a hand up with your answering flag." the usual signal that the message was understood was now run up between the masts, and instantly hauled down again, the flags seen in the chloe descending at the same moment. "now for the number of the sails, ahead," said sir gervaise, as he, greenly, and bunting, each levelled a glass at the frigate, on board which the next signal was momentarily expected. "eleven, by george!" "no, sir gervaise," exclaimed greenly, "i know better than _that_. red above, and blue beneath, with the distinguishing pennant _beneath_, make _fourteen_, in our books, now!" "well, sir, if they are _forty_, we'll go nearer and see of what sort of stuff they are made. show your answering flag, bunting, that we may know what else the chloe has to tell us." this was done, the frigate hauling down her signals in haste, and showing a new set as soon as possible. "what now, bunting?--what now, greenly?" demanded sir gervaise, a sea having struck the side of the ship and thrown so much spray into his face as to reduce him to the necessity of using his pocket-handkerchief, at the very moment he was anxious to be looking through his glass. "what do you make of _that_, gentlemen?" "i make out the number to be ," answered greenly; "but what it means, i know not." "'strange sails, _enemies_,'" read bunting from the book. "show the answer, quarter-master." "we hardly wanted a signal for _that_, greenly, since there can be no friendly force, here away; and fourteen sail, on this coast, always means mischief. what says the chloe next?" "'strange sails on the larboard tack, heading as follows.'" "by george, crossing our course!--we shall soon see them from deck. do the ships astern notice the signals?" "every one of them, sir gervaise," answered the captain; "the thunderer has just lowered her answering flag, and the active is repeating. i have never seen quarter-masters so nimble!" "so much the better--so much the better--down he comes; stand by for another." after the necessary pause, the signal to denote the point of the compass was shown from the chloe. "heading how, bunting?" the vice-admiral eagerly inquired. "heading how, sir?" "north-west-and-by-north," or as bunting pronounced it "nor-west-and-by-loathe, i believe, sir,--no, i am mistaken, sir gervaise; it is nor-nor-west." "jammed up like ourselves, hard on a wind! this gale comes directly from the broad atlantic, and one party is crossing over to the north and the other to the south shore. we _must_ meet, unless one of us run away--hey! greenly?" "true enough, sir gervaise; though fourteen sail is rather an awkward odds for seven." "you forget the driver and active, sir; we've _nine_; nine hearty, substantial british cruisers." "to wit: six ships of the line, one frigate, a _sloop_, and a _cutter_," laying heavy emphasis on the two last vessels. "what does the chloe say now, bunting? that we're enough for the french, although they _are_ two to one?" "not exactly that, i believe, sir gervaise. 'five more sail ahead.' they increase fast, sir." "ay, at that rate, they may indeed grow too strong for us," answered sir gervaise, with more coolness of manner; "nineteen to nine are rather heavy odds. i wish we had bluewater here!" "that is what i was about to suggest, sir gervaise," observed the captain. "if we had the other division, as some of the frenchmen are probably frigates and corvettes, we might do better. admiral bluewater cannot be far from us; somewhere down here, towards north-east--or nor-nor-east. by warring round, i think we should make his division in the course of a couple of hours." "what, and leave to monsieur de vervillin the advantage of swearing he frightened us away! no--no--greenly; we will first _pass_ him fairly and manfully, and that, too, within reach of shot; and then it will be time enough to go round and look after our friends." "will not that be putting the french exactly between our two divisions, sir gervaise, and give him the advantage of dividing our force. if he stand far, on a nor-nor-west course, i think he will infallibly get between us and admiral bluewater." "and what will he gain by that, greenly?--what, according to your notions of matters and things, will be the great advantage of having an english fleet on each side of him?" "not much, certainly, sir gervaise," answered greenly, laughing; "if these fleets were at all equal to his own. but as they will be much inferior to him, the comte may manage to close with one division, while the other is so far off as to be unable to assist; and one hour of a hot fire may dispose of the victory." "all this is apparent enough, greenly; yet i could hardly brook letting the enemy go scathe less. so long as it blows as it does now, there will not be much fighting, and there can be no harm in taking a near look at m. de vervillin. in half an hour, or an hour at most, we must get a sight of him from off deck, even with this slow headway of the two fleets. let them heave the log, and ascertain how fast we go, sir." "should we engage the french in such weather, sir gervaise," answered greenly, after giving the order just mentioned; "it would be giving them the very advantage they like. they usually fire at the spars, and one shot would do more mischief, with such a strain on the masts, than half-a-dozen in a moderate blow." "that will do, greenly--that will do," said the vice-admiral, impatiently; "if i didn't so well know you, and hadn't seen you so often engaged, i should think you were afraid of these nineteen sail. you have lectured long enough to render me prudent, and we'll say no more." here sir gervaise turned on his heel, and began to pace the poop, for he was slightly vexed, though not angered. such little dialogues often occurred between him and his captain, the latter knowing that his commander's greatest professional failing was excess of daring, while he felt that his own reputation was too well established to be afraid to inculcate prudence. next to the honour of the flag, and his own perhaps, greenly felt the greatest interest in that of sir gervaise oakes, under whom he had served as midshipman, lieutenant, and captain; and this his superior knew, a circumstance that would have excused far greater liberties. after moving swiftly to and fro several times, the vice-admiral began to cool, and he forgot this passing ebullition of quick feelings. greenly, on the other hand, satisfied that the just mind of the commander-in-chief would not fail to appreciate facts that had been so plainly presented to it, was content to change the subject. they conversed together, in a most friendly manner, sir gervaise being even unusually frank and communicative, in order to prove he was not displeased, the matter in discussion being the state of the ship and the situation of the crew. "you are always ready for battle, greenly," the vice-admiral said, smilingly, in conclusion; "when there is a necessity; and always just as ready to point out the inexpediency of engaging, where you fancy nothing is to be gained by it. you would not have me run away from a shadow, however; or a signal; and that is much the same thing: so we will stand on, until we make the frenchmen fairly from off-deck, when it will be time enough to determine what shall come next." "sail-ho!" shouted one of the look-outs from aloft, a cry that immediately drew all eyes towards the mizzen-top-mast-cross-trees, whence the sound proceeded. the wind blew too fresh to render conversation, even by means of a trumpet, easy, and the man was ordered down to give an account of what he had seen. of course he first touched the poop-deck, where he was met by the admiral and captain, the officer of the watch, to whom he properly belonged, giving him up to the examination of his two superiors, without a grimace. "where-away is the sail you've seen, sir?" demanded sir gervaise a little sharply, for he suspected it was no more than one of the ships ahead, already signaled. "down yonder to the southward and eastward--hey! sirrah?" "no, sir jarvy," answered the top-man, hitching his trowsers with one hand, and smoothing the hair on his forehead with the other; "but out here, to the forward and westward, on our weather-quarter. it's none o' them french chaps as is with the county of fairvillian,"--for so all the common men of the fleet believed their gallant enemy to be rightly named,--"but is a square-rigged craft by herself, jammed up on a wind, pretty much like all on us." "that alters the matter, greenly! how do you know she is square-rigged, my man?" "why, sir jarvy, your honour, she's under her fore and main-taw-sails, close-reefed, with a bit of the main-sail set, as well as i can make it out, sir." "the devil she is! it must be some fellow in a great hurry, to carry that canvass in this blow! can it be possible, greenly, that the leading vessel of bluewater is heaving in sight?" "i rather think not, sir gervaise; it would be too far to windward for any of his two-deckers. it may turn out to be a look-out ship of the french, got round on the other tack to keep her station, and carrying sail hard, because she dislikes our appearance." "in that case she must claw well to windward to escape us! what's your name, my lad--tom davis, if i'm not mistaken?" "no, sir jarvy, it's jack brown; which is much the same, your honour. we's no ways partic'lar about names." "well, jack, does it blow hard aloft? so as to give you any trouble in holding on?" "nothing to speak on, sir jarvy. a'ter cruising a winter and spring in the bay of biscay, i looks on this as no more nor a puff. half a hand will keep a fellow in his berth, aloft." "galleygo--take jack brown below to my cabin, and give him a fresh nip in his jigger--he'll hold on all the better for it." this was sir gervaise's mode of atoning for the error in doing the man injustice, by supposing he was mistaken about the new sail, and jack brown went aloft devoted to the commander-in-chief. it costs the great and powerful so little to become popular, that one is sometimes surprised to find that any are otherwise; but, when we remember that it is also their duty to be just, astonishment ceases; justice being precisely the quality to which a large portion of the human race are most averse. half an hour passed, and no further reports were received from aloft. in a few minutes, however, the warspite signalled the admiral, to report the stranger on her weather-quarter, and, not long after, the active did the same. still neither told his character; and the course being substantially the same, the unknown ship approached but slowly, notwithstanding the unusual quantity of sail she had set. at the end of the period mentioned, the vessels in the south-eastern board began to be visible from the deck. the ocean was so white with foam, that it was not easy to distinguish a ship, under short canvass, at any great distance; but, by the aid of glasses, both sir gervaise and greenly satisfied themselves that the number of the enemy at the southward amounted to just twenty; one more having hove in sight, and been signalled by the chloe, since her first report. several of these vessels, however, were small; and, the vice-admiral, after a long and anxious survey, lowered his glass and turned to his captain in order to compare opinions. "well, greenly," he asked, "what do you make of them, now?--according to my reckoning, there are thirteen of the line, two frigates, four corvettes, and a lugger; or twenty sail in all." "there can be no doubt of the twenty sail, sir gervaise, though the vessels astern are still too distant to speak of their size. i rather think it will turn out _fourteen_ of the line and only three frigates." "that is rather too much for us, certainly, without bluewater. his five ships, now, and this westerly position, would make a cheering prospect for us. we might stick by mr. de vervillin until it moderated, and then pay our respects to him. what do you say to _that_, greenly?" "that it is of no great moment, sir gervaise, so long as the other division is _not_ with us. but yonder are signals flying on board the active, the warspite, and the blenheim." "ay, they've something to tell us of the chap astern and to windward. come, bunting, give us the news." "'stranger in the north-west shows the druid's number;'" the signal-officer read mechanically from the book. "the deuce he does! then bluewater cannot be far off. let dick alone for keeping in his proper place; he has an instinct for a line of battle, and i never knew him fail to be in the very spot i could wish to have him, looking as much at home, as if his ships had all been built there! the druid's number! the cæsar and the rest of them are in a line ahead, further north, heading up well to windward even of our own wake. this puts the comte fairly under our lee." but greenly was far from being of a temperament as sanguine as that of the vice-admiral's. he did not like the circumstance of the druid's being alone visible, and she, too, under what in so heavy a gale, might be deemed a press of canvass. there was no apparent reason for the division's carrying sail so hard, while the frigate would he obliged to do it, did she wish to overtake vessels like the plantagenet and her consorts. he suggested, therefore, the probability that the ship was alone, and that her object might be to speak them. "there is something in what you say, greenly," answered sir gervaise, after a minute's reflection; "and we must look into it. if denham doesn't give us any thing new from the count to change our plans, it may be well to learn what the druid is after." denham was the commander of the chloe, which ship, a neat six-and-thirty, was pitching into the heavy seas that now came rolling in heavily from the broad atlantic, the water streaming from her hawse-holes, as she rose from each plunge, like the spouts of a whale. this vessel, it has been stated, was fully a league ahead and to leeward of the plantagenet, and consequently so much nearer to the french, who were approaching from that precise quarter of the ocean, in a long single line, like that of the english; a little relieved, however, by the look-out vessels, all of which, in their case, were sailing along on the weather-beam of their friends. the distance was still so great, as to render glasses necessary in getting any very accurate notions of the force and the point of sailing of monsieur de vervillin's fleet, the ships astern being yet so remote as to require long practice to speak with any certainty of their characters. in nothing, notwithstanding, was the superior practical seamanship of the english more apparent, than in the manner in which these respective lines were formed. that of sir gervaise oakes was compact, each ship being as near as might be a cable's length distant from her seconds, ahead and astern. this was a point on which the vice-admiral prided himself; and by compelling his captains rigidly to respect their line of sailing, and by keeping the same ships and officers, as much as possible, under his orders, each captain of the fleet had got to know his own vessel's rate of speed, and all the other qualities that were necessary to maintain her precise position. all the ships being weatherly, though some, in a slight degree, were more so than others, it was easy to keep the line in weather like the present, the wind not blowing sufficiently hard to render a few cloths more or less of canvass of any very great moment. if there was a vessel sensibly out of her place, in the entire line, it was the achilles; lord morganic not having had time to get all his forward spars as far aft as they should have been; a circumstance that had knocked him off a little more than had happened to the other vessels. nevertheless, had an air-line been drawn at this moment, from the mizzen-top of the plantagenet to that of the warspite, it would have been found to pass through the spars of quite half the intermediate vessels, and no one of them all would have been a pistol-shot out of the way. as there were six intervals between the vessels, and each interval as near as could be guessed at was a cable's length, the extent of the whole line a little exceeded three-quarters of a mile. on the other hand, the french, though they preserved a very respectable degree of order, were much less compact, and by no means as methodical in their manner of sailing. some of their ships were a quarter of a mile to leeward of the line, and the intervals were irregular and ill-observed. these circumstances arose from several causes, neither of which proceeded from any fault in the commander-in-chief, who was both an experienced seaman and a skilful tactician. but his captains were new to each other, and some of them were recently appointed to their ships; it being just as much a matter of course that a seaman should ascertain the qualities of his vessel, by familiarity, as that a man should learn the character of his wife, in the intimacy of wedlock. at the precise moment of which we are now writing, the chloe might have been about a league from the leading vessel of the enemy, and her position to leeward of her own fleet threatened to bring her, half an hour later, within range of the frenchmen's guns. this fact was apparent to all in the squadron; still the frigate stood on, having been placed in that station, and the whole being under the immediate supervision of the commander-in-chief. "denham will have a warm berth of it, sir, should he stand on much longer," said greenly, when ten minutes more had passed, during which the ships had gradually drawn nearer. "i was hoping he might get between the most weatherly french frigate and her line," answered sir gervaise; "when i think, by edging rapidly away, we could take her alive, with the plantagenet." "in which case we might as well clear for action; such a man[oe]uvre being certain to bring on a general engagement." "no--no--i'm not quite mad enough for that, master telemachus; but, we can wait a little longer for the chances. how many flags can you make out among the enemy, bunting?" "i see but two, sir gervaise; one at the fore, and the other at the mizzen, like our own. i can make out, now, only twelve ships of the line, too; neither of which is a three-decker." "so much for rumour; as flagrant a liar as ever wagged a tongue! twelve ships on two decks, and eight frigates, sloops and luggers. there can be no great mistake in this." "i think not, sir gervaise; their commander-in-chief is in the fourth ship from the head of the line. his flag is just discernible, by means of our best glass. ay, there goes a signal, this instant, at the end of his gaff!" "if one could only read french now, greenly," said the vice-admiral, smiling; "we might get into some of mr. de vervillin's secrets. perhaps it's an order to go to quarters or to clear; look out sharp, bunting, for any signs of such a movement. what do you make of it?" "it's to the frigates, sir gervaise; all of which answer, while the other vessels do not." "we want no french to read that signal, sir," put in greenly; "the frigates themselves telling us what it means. monsieur de vervillin has no idea of letting the plantagenet take any thing he has, _alive_." this was true enough. just as the captain spoke, the object of the order was made sufficiently apparent, by all the light vessels to windward of the french fleet, bearing up together, until they brought the wind abaft their beams, when away they glided to leeward, like floating objects that have suddenly struck a swift current. before this change in their course, these frigates and corvettes had been struggling along, the seas meeting them on their weather-bows, at the rate of about two knots or rather less; whereas, their speed was now quadrupled, and in a few minutes, the whole of them had sailed through the different intervals in their main line, and had formed as before, nearly half a league to leeward of it. here, in the event of an action, their principal duties would have been to succour crippled ships that might be forced out of their allotted stations during the combat. all this sir gervaise viewed with disgust. he had hoped that his enemy might have presumed on the state of the elements, and suffered his light vessels to maintain their original positions. "it would be a great triumph to us, greenly," he said, "if denham could pass without shifting his berth. there would be something manly and seamanlike in an inferior fleet's passing a superior, in such a style." "yes, sir, though it _might_ cost us a fine frigate. the count can have no difficulty in fighting his weather main-deck guns, and a discharge from two or three of his leading vessels might cut away some spar that denham would miss sadly, just at such a moment." sir gervaise placed his hands behind his back, paced the deck a minute, and then said decidedly-- "bunting, make the chloe's signal to ware--tacking in this sea, and under that short canvass, is out of the question." bunting had anticipated this order, and had even ventured clandestinely to direct the quarter-masters to bend on the necessary flags; and sir gervaise had scarcely got the words out of his mouth, before the signal was abroad. the chloe was equally on the alert; for she too each moment expected the command, and ere her answering flag was seen, her helm was up, the mizen-stay-sail down, and her head falling off rapidly towards the enemy. this movement seemed to be expected all round--and it certainly had been delayed to the very last moment--for the leading french ship fell off three or four points, and as the frigate was exactly end-on to her, let fly the contents of all the guns on her forecastle, as well as of those on her main-deck, as far aft as they could be brought to bear. one of the top-sail-sheets of the frigate was shot away by this rapid and unexpected fire, and some little damage was done to the standing rigging; but luckily, none of immediate moment. captain denham was active, and the instant he found his top-sail flapping, he ordered it clewed up, and the main-sail loosed. the latter was set, close-reefed, as the ship came to the wind on the larboard tack, and by the time every thing was braced up and hauled aft, on that tack, the main-top-sail was ready to be sheeted home, anew. during the few minutes that these evolutions required, sir gervaise kept his eye riveted on the vessel; and when he saw her fairly round, and trimmed by the wind, again, with the main-sail dragging her ahead, to own the truth, he felt mentally relieved. "not a minute too soon, sir gervaise," observed the cautious greenly, smiling. "i should not be surprised if denham hears more from that fellow at the head of the french line. his weather chase-guns are exactly in a range with the frigate, and the two upper ones might be worked, well enough." "i think not, greenly. the forecastle gun, possibly; scarcely any thing below it." sir gervaise proved to be partly right and partly wrong. the frenchman _did_ attempt a fire with his main-deck gun; but, at the first plunge of the ship, a sea slapped up against her weather-bow, and sent a column of water through the port, that drove half its crew into the lee-scuppers. in the midst of this waterspout, the gun exploded, the loggerhead having been applied an instant before, giving a sort of chaotic wildness to the scene in-board. this satisfied the party below; though that on the forecastle fared better. the last fired their gun several times, and always without success. this failure proceeded from a cause that is seldom sufficiently estimated by nautical gunners; the shot having swerved from the line of sight, by the force of the wind against which it flew, two or three hundred feet, by the time it had gone the mile that lay between the vessels. sir gervaise anxiously watched the effect of the fire, and perceiving that all the shot fell to leeward of the chloe, he was no longer uneasy about that vessel, and he began to turn his attention to other and more important concerns. as we are now approaching a moment when it is necessary that the reader should receive some tolerably distinct impression of the relative positions of the two entire fleets, we shall close the present chapter, here; reserving the duty of explanation for the commencement of a new one. chapter xxii. ----"all were glad, and laughed, and shouted, as she darted on, and plunged amid the foam, and tossed it high, over the deck, as when a strong, curbed steed flings the froth from him in his eager race." percival the long twilight of a high latitude had now ended, and the sun, though concealed behind clouds, had risen. the additional light contributed to lessen the gloomy look of the ocean, though the fury of the winds and waves still lent to it a dark and menacing aspect. to windward there were no signs of an abatement of the gale, while the heavens continued to abstain from letting down their floods, on the raging waters beneath. by this lime, the fleet was materially to the southward of cape la hogue, though far to the westward, where the channel received the winds and waves from the whole rake of the atlantic, and the seas were setting in, in the long, regular swells of the ocean, a little disturbed by the influence of the tides. ships as heavy as the two-deckers moved along with groaning efforts, their bulk-heads and timbers "complaining," to use the language of the sea, as the huge masses, loaded with their iron artillery, rose and sunk on the coming and receding billows. but their movements were stately and full of majesty; whereas, the cutter, sloop, and even the frigates, seemed to be tossed like foam, very much at the mercy of the elements. the chloe was passing the admiral, on the opposite tack, quite a mile to leeward, and yet, as she mounted to the summit of a wave, her cut-water was often visible nearly to the keel. these are the trials of a vessel's strength; for, were a ship always water-borne equally on all her lines, there would not be the necessity which now exists to make her the well-knit mass of wood and iron she is. the progress of the two fleets was very much the same, both squadrons struggling along through the billows, at the rate of about a marine league in the hour. as no lofty sail was carried, and the vessels were first made in the haze of a clouded morning, the ships had not become visible to each other until nearer than common; and, by the time at which we have now arrived in our tale, the leading vessels were separated by a space that did not exceed two miles, estimating the distance only on their respective lines of sailing; though there would be about the same space between them, when abreast, the english being so much to windward of their enemies. any one in the least familiar with nautical man[oe]uvres will understand that these circumstances would bring the van of the french and the rear of their foes much nearer together in passing, both fleets being close-hauled. sir gervaise oakes, as a matter of course, watched the progress of the two lines with close and intelligent attention. mons. de vervillin did the same from the poop of le foudroyant, a noble eighty-gun ship in which his flag of _vice-admiral_ was flying, as it might be, in defiance. by the side of the former stood greenly, bunting, and bury, the plantagenet's first lieutenant; by the side of the latter his capitaine de vaisseau, a man as little like the caricatures of such officers, as a hostile feeling has laid before the readers of english literature, as washington was like the man held up to odium in the london journals, at the commencement of the great american war. m. de vervillin himself was a man of respectable birth, of a scientific education, and of great familiarity with ships, so far as a knowledge of their general powers and principles was concerned; but here his professional excellence ceased, all that infinity of detail which composes the distinctive merit of the practical seaman being, in a great degree, unknown to him, rendering it necessary for him to _think_ in moments of emergency; periods when the really prime mariner seems more to act by a sort of _instinct_ than by any very intelligible process of ratiocination. with his fleet drawn out before him, however, and with no unusual demands on his resources, this gallant officer was an exceedingly formidable foe to contend with in squadron. sir gervaise oakes lost all his constitutional and feverish impatience while the fleets drew nigher and nigher. as is not unusual with brave men, who are naturally excitable, as the crisis approached he grew calmer, and obtained a more perfect command over himself; seeing all things in their true colours, and feeling more and more equal to control them. he continued to walk the poop, but it was with a slower step; and, though his hands were still closed behind his back, the fingers were passive, while his countenance became grave and his eye thoughtful. greenly knew that his interference would now be hazardous; for whenever the vice-admiral assumed that air, he literally became commander-in-chief; and any attempt to control or influence him, unless sustained by the communication of new facts, could only draw down resentment on his own head. bunting, too, was aware that the "admiral was aboard," as the officers, among themselves, used to describe this state of their superior's mind, and was prepared to discharge his own duty in the most silent and rapid manner in his power. all the others present felt more or less of this same influence of an established character. "_mr._ bunting," said sir gervaise, when the distance between the plantagenet and _le téméraire_ the leading french vessel, might have been about a league, allowing for the difference in the respective lines of sailing--"_mr._ bunting, bend on the signal for the ships to go to quarters. we may as well be ready for any turn of the dice." no one dared to comment on this order: it was obeyed in readiness and silence. "signal ready, sir gervaise," said bunting, the instant the last flag was in its place. "run it up at once, sir, and have a bright look-out for the answers. captain greenly, go to quarters, and see all clear on the main-deck, to use the batteries if wanted. the people can stand fast below, as i think it might be dangerous to open the ports." captain greenly passed off the poop to the quarter-deck, and in a minute the drum and fife struck up the air which is known all over the civilized world as the call to arms. in most services this summons is made by the drum alone, which emits sounds to which the fancy has attached peculiar words; those of the soldiers of france being "_prend ton sac_--_prend ton sac_--_prend ton sac_," no bad representatives of the meaning; but in english and american ships, this appeal is usually made in company with the notes of the "ear-piercing fife," which gives it a melody that might otherwise be wanting. "signal answered throughout the fleet, sir gervaise," said bunting. no answer was given to this report beyond a quiet inclination of the head. after a moment's pause, however, the vice-admiral turned to his signal officer and said-- "i should think, bunting, no captain can need an order to tell him _not_ to open his lee-lower-deck ports in such a sea as this?" "i rather fancy not, sir gervaise," answered bunting, looking drolly at the boiling element that gushed up each minute from beneath the bottom of the ship, in a way to appear as high as the hammock-cloths. "the people at the _main_-deck guns would have rather a wet time of it." "bend on the signal, sir, for the ships astern to keep in the vice-admiral's wake. young gentleman," to the midshipman who always acted as his aid in battle, "tell captain greenly i desire to see him as soon as he has received all the reports." down to the moment when the first tap of the drum was heard, the plantagenet had presented a scene of singular quiet and unconcern, considering the circumstances in which she was placed. a landsman would scarcely credit that men could be so near their enemies, and display so much indifference to their vicinity; but this was the result of long habit, and a certain marine instinct that tells the sailor when any thing serious is in the wind, and when not. the difference in the force of the two fleets, the heavy gale, and the weatherly position of the english, all conspired to assure the crew that nothing decisive could yet occur. here and there an officer or an old seaman might be seen glancing through a port, to ascertain the force and position of the french; but, on the whole, their fleet excited little more attention than if lying at anchor in cherbourg. the breakfast hour was approaching, and that important event monopolized the principal interest of the moment. the officers' boys, in particular, began to make their appearance around the galley, provided, as usual, with their pots and dishes, and, now and then, one cast a careless glance through the nearest opening to see how the strangers looked; but as to warfare there was much more the appearance of it between the protectors of the rights of the different messes, than between the two great belligerent navies themselves. nor was the state of things materially different in the gun-room, or cock-pit, or on the orlops. most of the people of a two-decked ship are berthed on the lower gun deck, and the order to "clear ship" is more necessary to a vessel of that construction, before going to quarters seriously, than to smaller craft; though it is usual in all. so long as the bags, mess-chests, and other similar appliances were left in their ordinary positions, jack saw little reason to derange himself; and as reports were brought below, from time to time, respecting the approach of the enemy, and more especially of his being well to leeward, few of those whose duty did not call them on deck troubled themselves about the matter at all. this habit of considering his fortune as attached to that of his ship, and of regarding himself as a point on her mass, as we all look on ourselves as particles of the orb we accompany in its revolutions, is sufficiently general among mariners; but it was particularly so as respects the sailors of a fleet, who were kept so much at sea, and who had been so often, with all sorts of results, in the presence of the enemy. the scene that was passing in the gun-room at the precise moment at which our tale has arrived, was so characteristic, in particular, as to merit a brief description. all the idlers by this time were out of their berths and cotts; the signs of those who "slept in the country," as it is termed, or who were obliged, for want of state-rooms, to sling in the common apartment, having disappeared. magrath was reading a treatise on medicine, in good leyden latin, by a lamp. the purser was endeavouring to decipher his steward's hieroglyphics, favoured by the same light, and the captain of marines was examining the lock of an aged musket. the third and fourth lieutenants were helping each other to untangle one of their bay-of-biscay reckonings, which had set both plane and spherical trigonometry at defiance, by a lamp of their own; and the chaplain was hurrying the steward and the boys along with the breakfast--his usual occupation at that "witching time" in the morning. while things were in this state, the first lieutenant, mr. bury, appeared in the gun-room. his arrival caused one or two of the mess to glance upward at him, though no one spoke but the junior lieutenant, who, being an honourable, was at his ease with every one on board, short of the captain. "what's the news from deck, bury?" asked this officer, a youth of twenty, his senior being a man ten years older. "is mr. de vervillin thinking of running away yet?" "not he, sir; there's too much of the game-cock about him for _that_." "i'll warrant you he can _crow_! but what _is_ the news, bury?" "the news is that the old planter is as wet as a wash-tub, forward, and i must have a dry jacket--do you hear, there, tom? soundings," turning to the master, who just then came in from forward, "have you taken a look out of doors this morning?" "you know i seldom forget that, mr. bury. a pretty pickle the ship would soon be in, if _i_ forgot to look about me!" "he swallowed the deep-sea, down in the bay," cried the honourable, laughing, "and goes every morning at day-light to look for it out at the bridle-ports." "well, then, soundings, what do you think of the third ship in the french line?" continued bury, disregarding the levity of the youth: "did you ever see such top-masts, as she carries, before?" "i scarce ever saw a frenchman without them, mr. bury. you'd have just such sticks in this fleet, if sir jarvy would stand them." "ay, but sir jarvy _won't_ stand them. the captain who sent such a stick up in his ship, would have to throw it overboard before night. i never saw such a pole in the air in my life!" "what's the matter with the mast, mr. bury?" put in magrath, who kept up what he called constant scientific skirmishes with the _elder_ sea-officers; the _junior_ being too inexperienced in his view to be worthy of a contest. "i'll engage the spar is moulded and fashioned agreeably to the most approved pheelosphical principles; for in _that_ the french certainly excel us." "who ever heard of _moulding_ a spar?" interrupted soundings, laughing loudly, "we _mould_ a ship's frame, doctor, but we _lengthen_ and _shorten_, and _scrape_ and _fid_ her masts." "i'm answered as usual, gentlemen, and voted down, i suppose by acclamation, as they call it in other learned bodies. i would advise no creature that has a reason to go to sea; an instinct being all that is needed to make a lord high admiral of twenty tails." "i should like sir jarvy to hear _that_, my man of books," cried the fourth, who had satisfied himself that a book was not his own forte--"i fancy your instinct, doctor, will prevent you from whispering this in the vice-admiral's ear!" although magrath had a profound respect for the commander-in-chief, he was averse to giving in, in a gun-room discussion. his answer, therefore, partook of the feeling of the moment. "sir gervaise," (he pronounced this word jairvis,) "sir gervaise oakes, _honourable_ sir," he said, with a sneer, "may be a good seaman, but he's no linguist. now, there he was, ashore among the dead and dying, just as ignorant of the meaning of _filius nullius_, which is boy's latin, as if he had never seen a horn-book! nevertheless, gentlemen, it is science, and not even the classics, that makes the man; as for a creature's getting the sciences by instinct, i shall contend it is against the possibilities, whereas the attainment of what you call seamanship, is among even the lesser probabilities." "this is the most marine-ish talk i ever heard from your mouth, doctor," interrupted soundings. "how the devil can a man tell how to ware ship by instinct, as you call it, if one may ask the question?" "simply, soundings, because the process of ratiocination is dispensed with. do you have to _think_ in waring ship, now?--i'll put it to your own honour, for the answer." "think!--i should be a poor creature for a master, indeed, if much thinking were wanting in so simple a matter as tacking or veering. no--no--your real sea-dog has no occasion for much _thinking_, when he has his work before him." "that'll just be it, gentlemen!--that'll be just what i'm telling ye," cried the doctor, exulting in the success of his artifice. "not only will mr. soundings not _think_, when he has his ordinary duties to perform, but he holds the process itself in merited contempt, ye'll obsairve; and so my theory is established, by evidence of a pairty concerned; which is more than a postulate logically requires." here magrath dropped his book, and laughed with that sort of hissing sound that seems peculiar to the genus of which he formed a part. he was still indulging in his triumph, when the first tap of the drum was heard. all listened; every ear pricking like that of a deer that hears the hound, when there followed--"r-r-r-ap tap--r-r-r-ap tap--r-r-r-ap tapa-tap-tap--rap-a-tap--a-rap-a-tap a-rap-a-tap--a-tap-tap." "instinct or reason, sir jarvy is going to quarters!" exclaimed the honourable. "i'd no notion we were near enough to the monsieurs, for _that_!" "now," said magrath, with a grinning sneer, as he rose to descend to the cock-pit, "there'll may be arise an occasion for a little learning, when i'll promise ye all the science that can be mustered in my unworthy knowledge. soundings, i may have to heave the lead in the depths of your physical formation, in which case i'll just endeevour to avoid the breakers of ignorance." "go to the devil, or to the cock-pit, whichever you please, sir," answered the master; "i've served in six general actions, already, and have never been obliged to one of your kidney for so much as a bit of court-plaster or lint. with me, oakum answers for one, and canvass for the other." while this was saying, all hands were in motion. the sea and marine officers looking for their side-arms, the surgeon carefully collecting his books, and the chaplain seizing a dish of cold beef, that was hurriedly set upon a table, carrying it down with him to his quarters, by way of taking it out of harm's way. in a minute, the gun-room was cleared of all who usually dwelt there, and their places were supplied by the seamen who manned the three or four thirty-two's that were mounted in the apartment, together with their opposites. as the sea-officers, in particular, appeared among the men, their faces assumed an air of authority, and their voices were heard calling out the order to "tumble up," as they hastened themselves to their several stations. all this time, sir gervaise oakes paced the poop. bunting and the quarter-master were in readiness to hoist the new signal, and greenly merely waited for the reports, to join the commander-in-chief. in about five minutes after the drum had given its first tap, these were completed, and the captain ascended to the poop. "by standing on, on our present course, captain greenly," observed sir gervaise, anxious to justify to himself the evolution he contemplated, "the rear of our line and the van of the french will be brought within fair range of shot from each other, and, by an accident, we might lose a ship; since any vessel that was crippled, would necessarily sag directly down upon the enemy. now, i propose to keep away in the plantagenet, and just brush past the leading french ships, at about the distance the warspite will _have_ to pass, and so alter the face of matters a little. what do you think would be the consequence of such a man[oe]uvre?" "that the van of our line and the van of the french will be brought as near together, as you have just said must happen to the rear, sir gervaise, in any case." "it does not require a mathematician to tell that much, sir. you will keep away, as soon as bunting shows the signal, and bring the wind abeam. never mind the braces; let _them_ stand fast; as soon as we have passed the french admiral, i shall luff, again. this will cause us to lose a little of our weatherly position, but about that i am very indifferent. give the order, sir--bunting, run up the signal." these commands were silently obeyed, and presently the plantagenet was running directly in the troughs of the seas, with quite double her former velocity. the other ships answered promptly, each keeping away as her second ahead came down to the proper line of sailing, and all complying to the letter with an order that was very easy of execution. the effect, besides giving every prospect of a distant engagement, was to straighten the line to nearly mathematical precision. "is it your wish, sir gervaise, that we should endeavour to open our lee lower ports?" asked greenly. "unless we attempt something of the sort, we shall have nothing heavier than the eighteens to depend on, should monsieur de vervillin see fit to begin." "and will _he_ be any better off?--it would be next to madness to think of fighting the lower-deck guns, in such weather, and we will keep all fast. should the french commence the sport, we shall have the advantage of being to windward; and the loss of a few weather shrouds might bring down the best mast in their fleet." greenly made no answer, though he perfectly understood that the loss of a mast would almost certainly ensure the loss of the ship, did one of his own heavier spars go. but this was sir gervaise's greatest weakness as a commander, and he knew it would be useless to attempt persuading him to suffer a single ship under his order to pass the enemy nearer than he went himself in the plantagenet. this was what he called covering his ships; though it amounted to no more than putting all of them in the jeopardy that happened to be unavoidable, as regarded one or two. the comte de vervillin seemed at a loss to understand this sudden and extraordinary movement in the van of his enemy. his signals followed, and his crews went to their guns; but it was not an easy matter for ships that persevered in hugging the wind to make any material alterations in their relative positions, in such a gale. the rate of sailing of the english, however, now menaced a speedy collision, if collision were intended, and it was time to be stirring, in order to be ready for it. on the other hand, all was quiet, and, seemingly, death-like, in the english ships. their people were at their quarters, already, and this is a moment of profound stillness in a vessel of war. the lower ports being down, the portions of the crews stationed on those decks were buried, as it might be, in obscurity, while even those above were still partly concealed by the half-ports. there was virtually nothing for the sail-trimmers to do, and every thing was apparently left to the evolutions of the vast machines themselves, in which they floated. sir gervaise, greenly, and the usual attendants still remained on the poop, their eyes scarcely turning for an instant from the fleet of the enemy. by this time the plantagenct and _le téméraire_ were little more than a mile apart, each minute lessening this distance. the latter ship was struggling along, her bows plunging into the seas to the hawse-holes, while the former had a swift, easy motion through the troughs, and along the summits of the waves, her flattened sails aiding in steadying her in the heavy lurches that unavoidably accompanied such a movement. still, a sea would occasionally break against her weather side, sending its crest upward in a brilliant _jet-d'eau_, and leaving tons of water on the decks. sir gervaise's manner had now lost every glimmering of excitement. when he spoke, it was in a gentle, pleasant tone, such as a gentleman might use in the society of women. the truth was, all his energy had concentrated in the determination to do a daring deed; and, as is not unusual with the most resolute men, the nearer he approached to the consummation of his purpose, the more he seemed to reject all the spurious aids of manner. "the french do not open their lower ports, greenly," observed the vice-admiral, dropping the glass after one of his long looks at the enemy, "although they have the advantage of being to leeward. i take that to be a sign they intend nothing very serious." "we shall know better five minutes hence, sir gervaise. this ship slides along like a london coach." "his line is lubberly, after all, greenly! look at those two ships astern--they are near half a mile to windward of the rest of the fleet, and at least half a mile astern. hey! greenly?" the captain turned towards the rear of the french, and examined the positions of the two ships mentioned with sufficient deliberation; but sir gervaise dropped his head in a musing manner, and began to pace the poop again. once or twice he stopped to look at the rear of the french line, then distant from him quite a league, and as often did he resume his walk. "bunting," said the vice-admiral, mildly, "come this way, a moment. our last signal was to keep in the commander-in-chief's wake, and to follow his motions?" "it was, sir gervaise. the old order to follow motions, 'with or without signals,' as one might say." "bend on the signals to close up in line, as near as safe, and to carry sail by the flag-ship." "ay, ay, sir gervaise--we'll have 'em both up in five minutes, sir." the commander-in-chief now even seemed pleased. his physical excitement returned a little, and a smile struggled round his lip. his eye glanced at greenly, to see if he were suspected, and then all his calmness of exterior returned. in the mean time the signals were made and answered. the latter circumstance was reported to sir gervaise, who cast his eyes down the line astern, and saw that the different ships were already bracing in, and easing off their sheets, in order to diminish the spaces between the different vessels. as soon as it was apparent that the carnatic was drawing ahead, captain greenly was told to lay his main and fore-yards nearly square, to light up all his stay-sail sheets, and to keep away sufficiently to make every thing draw. although these orders occasioned surprise, they were implicitly obeyed. the moment of meeting had now come. in consequence of having kept away so much, the plantagenet could not be quite three-fourths of a mile on the weather-bow of _le téméraire_, coming up rapidly, and threatening a semi-transverse fire. in order to prevent this, the french ship edged off a little, giving herself an easier and more rapid movement through the water, and bringing her own broadside more fairly to the shock. this evolution was followed by the two next ships, a little prematurely, perhaps; but the admiral in _le foudroyant_, disdaining to edge off from her enemy, kept her luff. the ships astern were governed by the course of their superior. this change produced a little disorder in the van of the french, menacing still greater, unless one party or the other receded from the course taken. but time pressed, and the two fleets were closing so fast as to induce other thoughts. "there's lubberly work for you, greenly!" said sir gervaise, smiling. "a commander-in-chief heading up with the bowlines dragged, and his second and third ahead--not to say fourth--running off with the wind abeam! now, if we can knock the comte off a couple of points, in passing, all his fellows astern will follow, and the warspite and blenheim and thunderer will slip by like girls in a country-dance! send bury down to the main-deck, with orders to be ready with those eighteens." greenly obeyed, of course, and he began to think better of audacity in naval warfare, than he had done before, that day. this was the usual course of things with these two officers; one arguing and deciding according to the dictates of a cool judgment, and the other following his impulses quite as much as any thing else, until facts supervened to prove that human things are as much controlled by adventitious agencies, the results of remote and unseen causes, as by any well-digested plans laid at the moment. in their cooler hours, when they came to reason on the past, the vice-admiral generally consummated his triumphs, by reminding his captain that if he had not been in the way of luck, he never could have profited by it; no bad creed for a naval officer, who is otherwise prudent and vigilant. the quarter-masters of the fleet were just striking six bells, or proclaiming that it was seven o'clock in the morning watch, as the plantagenet and _le téméraire_ came abeam of each other. both ships lurched heavily in the troughs of the seas, and both rolled to windward in stately majesty, and yet both slid through the brine with a momentum that resembled the imperceptible motion of a planet. the water rolled back from their black sides and shining hammock-cloths, and all the other dark panoply that distinguishes a ship-of-war glistened with the spray; but no sign of hostility proceeded from either. the french admiral made no signal to engage, and sir gervaise had reasons of his own for wishing to pass the enemy's van, if possible, unnoticed. minute passed after minute, in breathless silence, on board the plantagenet and the carnatic, the latter vessel being now but half a cable's-length astern of the admiral. every eye that had any outlet for such a purpose, was riveted on the main-deck ports of _le téméraire_ in expectation of seeing the fire issue from her guns. each instant, however, lessened the chances, as regarded that particular vessel, which was soon out of the line of fire from the plantagenet, when the same scene was to follow with the same result, in connection with _le conquereur_, the second ship of the french line. sir gervaise smiled as he passed the three first ships, seemingly unnoticed; but as he drew nearer to the admiral, he felt confident this impunity must cease. "what they _mean_ by it all, greenly," he observed to his companion, "is more than i can say; but we will go nearer, and try to find out. keep her away a little more, sir; keep her away half a point." greenly was not disposed to remonstrate now, for his prudent temperament was yielding to the excitement of the moment just reversing the traits of sir gervaise's character; the one losing his extreme discretion in feeling, as the other gained by the pressure of circumstances. the helm was eased a little, and the ship sheered nearer to _le foudroyant_. as is usual in all services, the french commander-in-chief was in one of the best vessels of his fleet. not only was the foudroyant a heavy ship, carrying french forty-twos below, a circumstance that made her rate as an eighty, but, like the plantagenet, she was one of the fastest and most weatherly vessels of her class known. by "hugging the wind," this noble vessel had got, by this time, materially to windward of her second and third ahead, and had increased her distance essentially from her supports astern. in a word, she was far from being in a position to be sustained as she ought to be, unless she edged off herself, a movement that no one on board her seemed to contemplate. "he's a noble fellow, greenly, that comte de vervillin!" murmured sir gervaise, in a tone of admiration, "and so have i always found him, and so have i always _reported_ him, too! the fools about the gazettes, and the knaves about the offices, may splutter as they will; mr. de vervillin would give them plenty of occupation were they _here_. i question if he mean to keep off in the least, but insists on holding every inch he can gain!" the next moment, however, satisfied sir gervaise that he was mistaken in his last conjecture, the bows of the foudroyant gradually falling off, until the line of her larboard guns bore, when she made a general discharge of the whole of them, with the exception of those on the lower deck. the plantagenets waited until the ship rose on a sea, and then they returned the compliment in the same manner. the carnatic's side showed a sheet of flame immediately after; and the achilles, lord morganic, luffing briskly to the wind, so as to bring her guns to bear, followed up the game, like flashes of lightning. all three of these ships had directed their fire at le foudroyant, and the smoke had not yet driven from among her spars, when sir gervaise perceived that all three of her top-masts were hanging to leeward. at this sight, greenly fairly sprang from the deck, and gave three cheers the men below caught up the cry, even to those who were, in a manner, buried on the lower deck, and presently, spite of the gale, the carnatic's were heard following their example astern. at this instant the whole french and english lines opened their fire, from van to rear, as far as their guns would bear, or the shot tell. "now, sir, now is our time to close with de vervillin!" exclaimed greenly, the instant he perceived the manner in which his ship was crippled. "in our close order we might hope to make a thorough wreck of him." "not so, greenly," returned sir gervaise calmly. "you see he edges away already, and will be down among his other ships in five minutes; we should have a general action with twice our force. what is done, is _well_ done, and we will let it stand. it is _something_ to have dismasted the enemy's commander-in-chief; do you look to it that the enemy don't do the same with ours. i heard shot rattling aloft, and every thing now bears a hard strain." greenly went to look after his duty, while sir gervaise continued to pace the poop. the whole of le foudroyant's fire had been directed at the plantagenet, but so rough was the ocean that not a shot touched the hull. a little injury had been done aloft, but nothing that the ready skill of the seamen was not able to repair even in that rough weather. the fact is, most of the shot had touched the waves, and had flown off from their varying surfaces at every angle that offered. one of the secrets that sir gervaise had taught his captains was to avoid hitting the surface of the sea, if possible, unless that surface was reasonably smooth, and the object intended to be injured was near at hand. then the french admiral received the _first_ fire--always the most destructive--of three fresh vessels; and his injuries were in proportion. the scene was now animated, and not without a wild magnificence. the gale continued as heavy as ever, and with the raging of the ocean and the howling of the winds, mingled the roar of artillery, and the smoky canopy of battle. still the destruction on neither side bore any proportion to the grandeur of the accompaniments; the distance and the unsteadiness of the ships preventing much accuracy of aim. in that day, a large two-decked ship never carried heavier metal than an eighteen above her lower batteries; and this gun, efficient as it is on most occasions, does not bring with it the fearful destruction that attends a more modern broadside. there was a good deal of noise, notwithstanding, and some blood shed in passing; but, on the whole, when the warspite, the last of the english ships, ceased her fire, on account of the distance of the enemy abreast of her, it would have been difficult to tell that any vessel but le foudroyant, had been doing more than saluting. at this instant greenly re-appeared on the poop, his own ship having ceased to fire for several minutes. "well, greenly, the main-deck guns are at least scaled," said sir gervaise, smiling; "and _that_ is not to be done over again for some time. you keep every thing ready in the batteries, i trust?" "we are all ready, sir gervaise, but there is nothing to be done. it would be useless to waste our ammunition at ships quite two miles under our lee." "very true--very true, sir. but _all_ the frenchmen are not quite so far to leeward, greenly, as you may see by looking ahead. yonder two, at least, are not absolutely out of harm's way!" greenly turned, gazed an instant in the direction in which the commander-in-chief pointed, and then the truth of what sir gervaise had really in view in keeping away, flashed on his mind, as it might be, at a glance. without saying a word, he immediately quitted the poop, and descending even to the lower deck, passed through the whole of his batteries, giving his orders, and examining their condition. chapter xxiii. "by heaven! it is a splendid sight to see, (for one who hath no friend, nor brother there,) their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery-- their various arms that glitter in the air!" childe harold. the little conflict between the english ships and the head of the french line, the evolutions that had grown out of it, the crippling of le foudroyant, and the continuance of the gale, contributed to produce material changes in the relative positions of the two fleets. all the english vessels kept their stations with beautiful accuracy, still running to the southward in a close line ahead, having the wind a trifle abaft the beam, with their yards braced in. under the circumstances, it needed but some seven or eight minutes for these ships to glide a mile through the troubled ocean, and this was about the period the most exposed of them all had been under the random and slow fire that the state of the weather permitted. the trifling damages sustained were already repaired, or in a way soon to be so. on the other hand, considerable disorder prevailed among the french. their line had never been perfect, extending quite a league; a few of the leading vessels, or those near the commander-in-chief, sustaining each other as well as could be desired, while long intervals existed between the ships astern. among the latter, too, as has been stated, some were much farther to windward than the others; an irregularity that proceeded from a desire of the comte to luff up as near as possible to the enemy--a desire, which, practised on, necessarily threw the least weatherly vessels to leeward. thus the two ships in the extreme rear, as has been hinted at already, being jammed up unusually hard upon the wind, had weathered materially on their consorts, while their way through the water had been proportionably less. it was these combined circumstances which brought them so far astern and to windward. at the time sir gervaise pointed out their positions to greenly, the two vessels just mentioned were quite half a mile to the westward of their nearest consort, and more than that distance to the southward. when it is remembered that the wind was nearly due west, and that all the french vessels, these two excepted, were steering north, the relative positions of the latter will be understood. le foudroyant, too, had kept away, after the loss of her top-masts, until fairly in the wake of the ships ahead of her, in her own line, and, as the vessels had been running off with the wind abeam, for several minutes, this man[oe]uvre threw the french still farther to leeward. to make the matter worse, just as the warspite drew out of the range of shot from the french, m. de vervillin showed a signal at the end of his gaff, for his whole fleet to ware in succession; an order, which, while it certainly had a gallant semblance, as it was bringing his vessels round on the same tack as his enemy, and looked like a defiance, was singularly adapted to restoring to the latter all the advantage of the wind they had lost by keeping away. as it was necessary to take room to execute this evolution, in order to clear the ships that were now crowded in the van, when le téméraire came to the wind again on the starboard tack, she was fully half a mile to leeward of the admiral, who had just put his helm up. as a matter of course, in order to form anew, with the heads of the ships to the southward, each vessel had to get into her leader's wake, which would be virtually throwing the whole french line, again, two miles to leeward of the english. nevertheless, the stragglers in the rear of the french continued to hug the wind, with a pertinacity that denoted a resolution to have a brush with their enemies in passing. the vessels were le scipion and la victoire, each of seventy-four guns. the first of these ships was commanded by a young man of very little professional experience, but of high court influence; while the second had a captain who, like old parker, had worked his way up to his present station, through great difficulties, and by dint of hard knocks, and harder work. unfortunately the first ranked, and the humble _capitaine de frégate_, placed by accident in command of a ship of the line, did not dare to desert a _capitaine de vaisseau_, who had a _duc_ for an elder brother, and called himself _comte_. there was perhaps a redeeming gallantry in the spirit which determined the comte de chélincourt to incur the risk of passing so near six vessels with only two, that might throw a veil over the indiscretion; more especially as his own fleet was near enough to support him in the event of any disaster, and it was certainly possible that the loss of a material spar on board either of his foes, might induce the capture of the vessel. at all events, thus reasoned m. de chélincourt; who continued boldly on, with his larboard tacks aboard, always hugging the wind, even after the téméraire was round; and m. comptant chose to follow him in la victoire. the plantagenet, by this time, being not a mile distant from the scipio, coming on with steady velocity, these intentions and circumstances created every human probability that she would soon be passing her weather beam, within a quarter of a mile, and, consequently, that a cannonade, far more serious than what had yet occurred, must follow. the few intervening minutes gave sir gervaise time to throw a glance around him, and to come to his final decision. the english fleet was never in better line than at that precise moment. the ships were as close to each other as comported with safety, and every thing stood and drew as in the trade winds. the leading french vessels were waring and increasing their distance to leeward, and it would require an hour for them to get up near enough to be at all dangerous in such weather, while all the rest were following, regardless of the two that continued their luff. the chloe had already got round, and, hugging the wind, was actually coming up to windward of her own line, though under a press of canvass that nearly buried her. the active and driver were in their stations, as usual; one on the weather beam, and the other on the weather bow; while the druid had got so near as to show her hull, closing fast, with square yards. "that is either a very bold, or a very obstinate fellow; he, who commands the two ships ahead of us," observed greenly, as he stood at the vice-admiral's side, and just as the latter terminated his survey. "what object can he possibly have in braving three times his force in a gale like this?" "if it were an englishman, greenly, we should call him a hero! by taking a mast out of one of us, he might cause the loss of the ship, or compel us to engage double _our_ force. do not blame him, but help me, rather, to disappoint him. now, listen, and see all done immediately." sir gervaise then explained to the captain what his intentions really were, first ordering, himself, (a very unusual course for one of his habits,) the first lieutenant, to keep the ship off as much as practicable, without seeming to wish to do so; but, as the orders will be explained incidentally, in the course of the narrative, it is not necessary to give them here. greenly then went below, leaving sir gervaise, bunting, and their auxiliaries, in possession of the poop. a private signal had been bent on some little time, and it was now hoisted. in about five minutes it was read, understood, and answered by all the ships of the fleet. sir gervaise rubbed his hands like a man who was delighted, and he beckoned to bury, who had the trumpet on the quarter-deck, to join him on the poop. "did captain greenly let you into our plot, bury," asked the vice-admiral, in high good-humour, as soon as obeyed, "i saw he spoke to you in going below?" "he only told me, sir gervaise, to edge down upon the frenchmen as close as i could, and this we are doing, i think, as fast as mounsheer"--bury was an anglo-gallican--"will at all like." "ah! there old parker sheers bravely to leeward! trust to him to be in the right place. the carnatic went fifty fathoms out of the line at that one twist. the thunderer and warspite too! never was a signal more beautifully obeyed. if the frenchmen don't take the alarm, now, every thing will be to our minds." by this time, bury began to understand the man[oe]uvre. each alternate ship of the english was sheering fast to leeward, forming a weather and a lee line, with increased intervals between the vessels, while all of them were edging rapidly away, so as greatly to near the enemy. it was apparent now, indeed, that the plantagenet herself must pass within a hundred fathoms of the scipio, and that in less than two minutes. the delay in issuing the orders for this evolution was in favour of its success, inasmuch as it did not give the enemy time for deliberation. the comte de chélincourt, in fact, did not detect it; or, at least, did not foresee the consequences; though both were quite apparent to the more experienced _capitaine de frégate_ astern. it was too late, or the latter would have signalled his superior to put him on his guard; but, as things were, there remained no alternative, apparently, but to run the gauntlet, and trust all to the chances of battle. in a moment like that we are describing, events occur much more rapidly than they can be related. the plantagenet was now within pistol-shot of le scipion, and on her weather bow. at that precise instant, when the bow-guns, on both sides, began to play, the carnatic, then nearly in a line with the enemy, made a rank sheer to leeward, and drove on, opening in the very act with her weather-bow guns. the thunderer and warspite imitated this man[oe]uvre, leaving the frenchman the cheerless prospect of being attacked on both sides. it is not to be concealed that m. de chélincourt was considerably disturbed by this sudden change in his situation. that which, an instant before, had the prospect of being a chivalrous, but extremely hazardous, passage in front of a formidable enemy, now began to assume the appearance of something very like destruction. it was too late, however, to remedy the evil, and the young comte, as brave a man as existed, determined to face it manfully. he had scarcely time to utter a few cheering sentiments, in a dramatic manner, to those on the quarter-deck, when the english flag-ship came sweeping past in a cloud of smoke, and a blaze of fire. his own broadside was nobly returned, or as much of it as the weather permitted, but the smoke of both discharges was still driving between his masts, when the dark hamper of the carnatic glided into the drifting canopy, which was made to whirl back on the devoted frenchman in another torrent of flame. three times was this fearful assault renewed on the scipio, at intervals of about a minute, the iron hurricane first coming from to windward, and then seeming to be driven back from to leeward, as by its own rebound, leaving no breathing time to meet it. the effect was completely to silence her own fire; for what between the power of the raging elements, and the destruction of the shot, a species of wild and blood-fraught confusion took the place of system and order. her decks were covered with killed and wounded, among the latter of whom was the comte de chélincourt, while orders were given and countermanded in a way to render them useless, if not incoherent. from the time when the plantagenet fired her first gun, to that when the warspite fired her last, was just five minutes by the watch. it seemed an hour to the french, and but a moment to their enemies. one hundred and eighty-two men and boys were included in the casualties of those teeming moments on board the scipio alone; and when that ship issued slowly from the scene of havoc, more by the velocity of her assailants in passing than by her own, the foremast was all that stood, the remainder of her spars dragging under her lee. to cut the last adrift, and to run off nearly before the wind, in order to save the spars forward, and to get within the cover of her own fleet, was all that could now be done. it may as well be said here, that these two objects were effected. the plantagenet had received damage from the fire of her opponent. some ten or fifteen men were killed and wounded; her main-top-sail was split by a shot, from clew to earing; one of the quarter-masters was carried from the poop, literally dragged overboard by the sinews that connected head and body; and several of the spars, with a good deal of rigging, required to be looked to, on account of injuries. but no one thought of these things, except as they were connected with present and pressing duties. sir gervaise got a sight of la victoire, some hundred and twenty fathoms ahead, just as the roar of the carnatic's guns was rushing upon his ears. the french commander saw and understood the extreme jeopardy of his consort, and he had already put his helm hard up. "starboard--starboard hard, bury!" shouted sir gervaise from the poop. "damn him, run him aboard, if he dare hold on long enough to meet us." the lieutenant signed with his hand that the order was understood, and the helm being put up, the ship went whirling off to leeward on the summit of a hill of foam. a cheer was heard struggling in the tempest, and glancing over his left shoulder, sir gervaise perceived the carnatic shooting out of the smoke, and imitating his own movement, by making another and still ranker sheer to leeward. at the same moment she set her main-sail close-reefed, as if determined to outstrip her antagonist, and maintain her station. none but a prime seaman could have done such a thing so steadily and so well, in the midst of the wild haste and confusion of such a scene. sir gervaise, now not a hundred yards from the carnatic, waved high his hat in exultation and praise; and old parker, alone on his own poop, bared his grey hairs in acknowledgment of the compliment. all this time the two ships drove madly ahead, while the crash and roar of the battle was heard astern. the remaining french ship was well and nimbly handled. as she came round she unavoidably sheered towards her enemies, and sir gervaise found it necessary to countermand his last order, and to come swiftly up to the wind, both to avoid her raking broadside, and to prevent running into his own consort. but the carnatic, having a little more room, first kept off, and then came to the wind again, as soon as the frenchman had fired, in a way to compel him to haul up on the other tack, or to fall fairly aboard. almost at the same instant, the plantagenet closed on his weather quarter and raked. parker had got abeam, and pressing nearer, he compelled la victoire to haul her bowlines, bringing her completely between two fires. spar went after spar, and being left with nothing standing but the lower masts, the plantagenet and carnatic could not prevent themselves from passing their victim, though each shortened sail; the first being already without a top-sail. their places, however, were immediately supplied by the achilles and the thunderer, both ships having hauled down their stay-sails to lessen their way. as the blenheim and warspite were quite near astern, and an eighteen-pound shot had closed the earthly career of the poor _capitaine de frégate_, his successor in command deemed it prudent to lower his ensign; after a resistance that in its duration was unequal to the promise of its commencement. still the ship had suffered materially, and had fifty of her crew among the casualties. his submission terminated the combat. sir gervaise oakes had now leisure and opportunity to look about him. most of the french ships had got round; but, besides being quite as far astern, when they should get up abeam, supposing himself to remain where he was, they would be at very long gun-shot dead to leeward. to remain where he was, however, formed no part of his plan, for he was fully resolved to maintain all his advantages. the great difficulty was to take possession of his prize, the sea running so high as to render it questionable if a boat would live. lord morganic, however, was just of an age and a temperament to bring that question to a speedy issue. being on the weather-beam of la victoire, as her flag came down, he ordered his own first lieutenant into the larger cutter, and putting half-a-dozen marines, with the proper crew, into the boat, it was soon seen dangling in the air over the cauldron of the ocean; the oars on-end. to lower, let go, and unhook, were the acts of an instant; the oars fell, and the boat was swept away to leeward. a commander's commission depended on his success, and daly made desperate efforts to obtain it. the prize offered a lee, and the french, with a national benevolence, courtesy, and magnanimity, that would scarcely have been imitated had matters been reversed, threw ropes to their conquerors, to help to rescue them from a very awkward dilemma. the men did succeed in getting into the prize; but the boat, in the end, was stove and lost. the appearance of the red flag of england, the symbol of his own professional rank, and worn by most under his own orders, over the white ensign of france, was the sign to sir gervaise that the prize-officer was in possession. he immediately made the signal for the fleet to follow the motions of the commander-in-chief. by this time, his own main-sail, close-reefed, had taken the place of the torn top-sail, and the plantagenet led off to the southward again, as if nothing unusual had occurred. daly had a quarter of an hour of extreme exertion on board the prize, before he could get her fairly in motion as he desired; but, by dint of using the axe freely, he cut the wreck adrift, and soon had la victoire liberated from that incumbrance. the fore-sail and fore and mizzen stay-sails were on the ship, and the main-sail, close-reefed also, was about to be set, to drag her-from the _mêlée_ of her foes, when her ensign came down. by getting the tack of the latter aboard, and the sheet aft, he would have all the canvass set the gale would allow, and to this all-essential point he directed his wits. to ride down the main-tack of a two-decked ship, in a gale of wind, or what fell little short of a real gale, was not to be undertaken with twenty men, the extent of daly's command; and he had recourse to the assistance of his enemies. a good natured, facetious irishman, himself, with a smattering of french, he soon got forty or fifty of the prisoners in a sufficient humour to lend their aid, and the sail was set, though not without great risk of its splitting. from this moment, la victoire was better off, as respected the gale and keeping a weatherly position, than any of the english ships; inasmuch as she could carry all the canvass the wind permitted, while she was relieved from the drift inseparable from hamper aloft. the effect, indeed, was visible in the first hour, to daly's great delight and exultation. at the end of that period, he found himself quite a cable's-length to windward of the line. but in relating this last particular, events have been a little anticipated. greenly, who had gone below to attend to the batteries, which were not worked without great difficulty in so heavy a sea, and to be in readiness to open the lower ports should occasion offer, re-appeared on deck just as the commander-in-chief showed the signal for the ships to follow his own motions. the line was soon formed, as mentioned, and ere long it became apparent that the prize could easily keep in her station. as most of the day was still before him, sir gervaise had little doubt of being able to secure the latter, ere night should come to render it indispensable. the vice-admiral and his captain shook hands cordially on the poop, and the former pointed out to the latter, with honest exultation, the result of his own bold man[oe]uvres. "we've clipped the wings of two of them," added sir gervaise, "and have fairly bagged a third, my good friend; and, god willing, when bluewater joins, there will not be much difficulty with the remainder. i cannot see that any of our vessels have suffered much, and i set them all down as sound. there's been time for a signal of inability, that curse to an admiral's evolutions, but no one seems disposed to make it. if we really escape that nuisance, it will be the first instance in my life!" "half-a-dozen yards may be crippled, and no one the worse for it, in this heavy weather. were we under a press of canvass, it would be a different matter; but, now, so long as the main sticks stand, we shall probably do well enough. i can find no injury in my own ship that may not be remedied at sea." "and she has had the worst of it. 'twas a decided thing, greenly, to engage such an odds in a gale; but we owe our success, most probably, to the audacity of the attack. had the enemy believed it possible, it is probable he would have frustrated it. well, master galleygo, i'm glad to see you unhurt! what is your pleasure?" "why, sir jarvy, i've two opportunities, as a body might say, on the poop, just now. one is to shake hands, as we always does a'ter a brush, you knows, sir, and to look a'ter each other's health; and the other is to report a misfortin that will bear hard on this day's dinner. you see, sir jarvy, i had the dead poultry slung in a net, over the live stock, to be out of harm's way; well, sir, a shot cut the lanyard, and let all the chickens down by the run, in among the gun-room grunters; and as they never half feeds them hanimals, there isn't as much left of the birds as would make a meal for a sick young gentleman. to my notion, no one ought to _have_ live stock but the commanders-in-chief." "to the devil with you and the stock! give me a shake of the hand, and back into your top--how came you, sir, to quit your quarters without leave?" "i didn't, sir jarvy. seeing how things was a going on, among the pigs, for our top hoverlooks the awful scene, i axed the young gentleman to let me come down to condole with your honour; and as they always lets me do as i axes, in such matters, why down i come. we has had one rattler in at our top, howsever, that came nigh lo clear us all out on it!" "is any spar injured?" asked sir gervaise, quickly. "this must be looked to--hey! greenly?" "not to signify, your honour; not to signify. one of them french eighteens aboard the prize just cocked its nose up, as the ship lurched, and let fly a round 'un and a grist of grape, right into our faces. i see'd it coming and sung out 'scaldings;' and 'twas well i did. we all ducked in time, and the round 'un cleared every thing, but a handful of the marbles are planted in the head of the mast, making the spar look like a plum-pudding, or a fellow with the small-pox." "enough of this. you are excused from returning to the top;--and, greenly, beat the retreat. bunting, show the signal for the retreat from quarters. let the ships pipe to breakfast, if they will." this order affords a fair picture of the strange admixture of feelings and employments that characterize the ordinary life of a ship. at one moment, its inmates find themselves engaged in scenes of wild magnificence and fierce confusion, while at the next they revert to the most familiar duties of humanity. the crews of the whole fleet now retired from the guns, and immediately after they were seated around their kids, indulging ravenously in the food for which the exercise of the morning had given keen appetites. still there was something of the sternness of battle in the merriment of this meal, and the few jokes that passed were seasoned with a bitterness that is not usual among the light-hearted followers of the sea. here and there, a messmate was missed, and the vacancy produced some quaint and even pathetic allusion to his habits, or to the manner in which he met his death; seamen usually treating the ravages of this great enemy of the race, after the blow has been struck, with as much solemnity and even tenderness, as they regard his approaches with levity. it is when spared themselves, that they most regard the destruction of battle. a man's standing in a ship, too, carries great weight with it, at such times; the loss of the quarter-master, in particular, being much regretted in the plantagenet. this man messed with a portion of the petty officers, a set of men altogether more thoughtful and grave than the body of the crew; and who met, when they assembled around their mess-chest that morning, with a sobriety and even sternness of mien, that showed how much in the management of the vessel had depended on their individual exertions. several minutes elapsed in the particular mess of the dead man, before a word was spoken; all eating with appetites that were of proof, but no one breaking the silence. at length an old quarter-gunner, named tom sponge, who generally led the discourse, said in a sort of half-inquiring, half-regretting, way-- "i suppose there's no great use in asking why jack glass's spoon is idle this morning. they says, them forecastle chaps, that they see'd his body streaming out over the starboard quarter, as if it had been the fly of one of his own ensigns. how was it, ned? you was thereaway, and ought to know all about it." "to be sure i does," said ned, who was bunting's remaining assistant. "i was there, as you says, and see'd as much of it as a man can see of what passes between a poor fellow and a shot, when they comes together, and that not in a very loving manner. it happened just as we come upon the weather beam of that first chap--him as we winged so handsomely among us. well, sir jarvy had clapped a stopper on the signals, seeing as we had got fairly into the smoke, and jack and i was looking about us for the muskets, not knowing but a chance might turn up to chuck a little lead into some of the parly-woos; and so says jack, says he, 'ned, you's got my musket;--(as i _had_, sure enough)--and says he, 'ned, you's got my musket; but no matter arter all, as they're much of a muchness.' so when he'd said this, he lets fly; but whether he hit any body, is more than i can say. if he _did_, 'twas likely a frenchman, as he shot that-a-way. 'now,' says jack, says he, 'ned, as this is your musket, you can load it, and hand over mine, and i'll sheet home another of the b----s.' well, at that moment the frenchman lifted for'ard, on a heavy swell, and let drive at us, with all his forecastle guns, fired as it might be with one priming--" "that was bad gunnery," growled tom sponge, "it racks a ship woundily." "yes, they'se no judgment in ships, in general. well, them french twelves are spiteful guns; and a _little_ afore they fired, it seemed to me i heard something give jack a rap on the check, that sounded as if a fellow's ear was boxed with a clap of thunder. i looked up, and there was jack streaming out like the fly of the ensign, head foremost, with the body towing after it by strings in the neck." "i thought when a fellow's head was shot off," put in another quarter-master named ben barrel, "that the body was left in the ship while only the truck went!" "that comes of not seeing them things, ben," rejoined the eye-witness. "a fellow's head is staid in its berth just like a ship's mast. there's for'ard and back-stays, and shrouds, all's one as aboard here; the only difference is that the lanyards are a little looser, so as to give a man more play for his head, than it might be safe to give to a mast. when a fellow makes a bow, why he only comes up a little aft, and bowses on the fore-stay, and now and then you falls in with a chap that is stayed altogether too far for'ard, or who's got a list perhaps from having the shrouds set up too taut to port or to starboard." "that sounds reasonable," put in the quarter-gunner, gravely; "i've seen such droggers myself." "if you'd been on the poop an hour or too ago, you'd ha' seen more on it! now, there's all our marines, their back-stays have had a fresh pull since they were launched, and, as for their captain, i'll warrant you, _he_ had a luff upon luff!" "i've heard the carpenter overhauling them matters," remarked sam wad, another quarter-gunner, "and he chalked it all out by the square and compass. it seems reasonable, too." "if you'd seen jack's head dragging his body overboard, just like the frenchman dragging his wreck under his lee, you'd ha' _thought_ it reasonable. what's a fellow's shoulders for, but to give a spread to his shrouds, which lead down the neck and are set up under the arms somewhere. they says a great deal about the heart, and i reckons it's likely every thing is key'd there." "harkee, ned," observed a quarter-master, who knew little more than the mess generally, "if what you say is true, why don't these shrouds lead straight from the head to the shoulders, instead of being all tucked up under a skin in the neck? answer me that, now." "who the devil ever saw a ship's shrouds that wasn't cat-harpened in!" exclaimed ned, with some heat. "a pretty hand a wife would make of it, in pulling her arms around a fellow's neck if the rigging spread in the way you mean! them things is all settled according to reason when a chap's keel's laid." this last argument seemed to dispose of the matter, the discourse gradually turning on, and confining itself to the merits of the deceased. sir gervaise had directed galleygo to prepare his breakfast as soon as the people were piped to their own; but he was still detained on deck in consequence of a movement in one of his vessels, to which it has now become necessary more particularly to recur. the appearance of the druid to the northward, early in the morning, will doubtless be remembered by the reader. when near enough to have it made out, this frigate had shown her number; after which she rested satisfied with carrying sail much harder than any vessel in sight. when the fleets engaged, she made an effort to set the fore-top-sail, close-reefed, but several of the critics in the other ships, who occasionally noticed her movements, fancied that some accident must have befallen her, as the canvass was soon taken in, and she appeared disposed to remain content with the sail carried when first seen. as this ship was materially to windward of the line, and she was running the whole time a little free, her velocity was much greater than that of the other vessels, and by this time she had got so near that sir gervaise observed she was fairly abeam of the plantagenet, and a little to leeward of the active. of course her hull, even to the bottom, as she rose on a sea, was plainly visible, and such of her people as were in the tops and rigging could be easily distinguished by the naked eye. "the druid must have some communication for us from the other division of the fleet," observed the vice-admiral to his signal-officer, as they stood watching the movements of the frigate; "it is a little extraordinary blewet does not signal! look at the book, and find me a question to put that will ask his errand?" bunting was in the act of turning over the leaves of his little vocabulary of questions and answers, when three or four dark balls, that sir gervaise, by the aid of the glass, saw suspended between the frigate's masts, opened into flags, effectually proving that blewet was not absolutely asleep. "four hundred and sixteen, ordinary communication," observed the vice-admiral, with his eye still at the glass. "look up that, bunting, and let us know what it means." "the commander-in-chief--wish to speak him!" read bunting, in the customary formal manner in which he announced the purport of a signal. "very well--answer; then make the druid's number to come within hail! the fellow has got cloth enough spread to travel two feet to our one; let him edge away and come under our lee. speaking will be rather close work to-day." "i doubt if a ship _can_ come near enough to make herself heard," returned the other, "though the second lieutenant of that ship never uses a trumpet in the heaviest weather, they tell me, sir. our gents say his father was a town-crier, and that he has inherited the family estate." "ay, our gents are a set of saucy fellows, as is usually the case when there isn't work enough aboard." "you should make a little allowance, sir gervaise, for being in the ship of a successful commander-in-chief. that makes us all carry weather-helms among the other messes." "up with your signal, sir; up with your signal. i shall be obliged to order greenly to put you upon watch-and-watch for a month, in order to bring you down to the old level of manners." "signal answered, already, sir gervaise. by the way, sir, i'll thank you to request captain greenly to give me another quarter-master. it's nimble work for us when there is any thing serious to do." "you shall have him, bunting," returned the vice-admiral, a shade passing over his face for the moment. "i had missed poor jack glass, and from seeing a spot of blood on the poop, guessed his fate. i fancied, indeed, i heard a shot strike something behind me." "it struck the poor fellow's head, sir, and made a noise as if a butcher were felling an ox." "well--well--let us try to forget it, until something can be done for his son, who is one of the side boys. ah! there's blewet keeping away in earnest. how the deuce he is to speak us, however, is more than i can tell." sir gervaise now sent a message to his captain to say that he desired his presence. greenly soon appeared, and was made acquainted with the intention of the druid, as well as with the purport of the last signals. by this time, the rent main-top-sail was mended, and the captain suggested it should be set again, close-reefed, as before, and that the main-sail should be taken in. this would lessen the plantagenet's way, which ship was sensibly drawing ahead of her consorts. sir gervaise assenting, the change was made, and the effects were soon apparent, not only in the movement of the ship, but in her greater ease and steadiness of motion. it was not long before the druid was within a hundred fathoms of the flag-ship, on her weather-quarter, shoving the brine before her in a way to denote a fearful momentum. it was evidently the intention of captain blewet to cross the plantagenet's stern, and to luff up under her lee quarter; the safest point at which he could approach, in so heavy a swell, provided it were done with discretion. captain blewet had a reputation for handling his frigate like a boat, and the occasion was one which would be likely to awaken all his desire to sustain the character he had already earned. still no one could imagine how he was to come near enough to make a communication of any length. the stentorian lungs of the second lieutenant, however, might effect it; and, as the news of the expected hail passed through the ship, many who had remained below, in apathy, while the enemy was close under their lee, came on deck, curious to witness what was about to pass. "hey! atwood?" exclaimed sir gervaise, for the little excitement had brought the secretary up from the commander-in-chief's cabin;--"what is blewet at! the fellow cannot mean to set a studding-sail!" "he is running out a boom, nevertheless, sir gervaise, or my thirty years' experience of nautical things have been thrown away." "he is truly rigging out his weather fore-topmast-studding-sail-boom, sir!" added greenly, in a tone of wonder. "it _is_ out," rejoined the vice-admiral, as one would give emphasis to the report of a calamity. "hey!--what? isn't that a man they're running up to the end of it, bunting? level your glass, and let us know at once." "a glass is not necessary to make out that much, sir gervaise. it is a man, beyond a doubt, and there he hangs at the boom-end, as if sentenced by a general court-martial." sir gervaise now suppressed every expression of surprise, and his reserve was imitated, quite as a matter of course, by the twenty officers, who, by this time, had assembled on the poop. the druid, keeping away, approached rapidly, and had soon crossed the flag-ship's wake. here she came by the wind, and favoured by the momentum with which she had come down, and the addition of the main-sail, drew heavily but steadily up on her lee-quarter. both vessels being close-hauled, it was not difficult steering; and by watching the helms closely, it would have been possible, perhaps, notwithstanding the heavy sea, to have brought the two hulls within ten yards of each other, and no harm should come of it. this was nearer, however, than it was necessary to approach; the studding-sail-boom, with the man suspended on the end of it, projecting twice that distance, beyond the vessel's bows. still it was nice work; and while yet some thirty or forty feet from the perpendicular, the man on the boom-end made a sign for attention, swung a coil of line he hold, and when he saw hands raised to catch it, he made a cast. a lieutenant caught the rope, and instantly hauled in the slack. as the object was now understood, a dozen others laid hold of the line, and, at a common signal, when those on board the plantagenet hauled in strongly, the people of the druid lowered away. by this simple, but united movement, the man descended obliquely, leaping out of the bowline in which he had sat, and casting the whip adrift. shaking himself to gain his footing, he raised his cap and bowed to sir gervaise, who now saw wycherly wychecombe on his poop. chapter xxiv. "yet weep not thou--the struggle is not o'er, o victors of philippi! many a field hath yielded palms to us:--one effort more, by one stern conflict must our fate be sealed." mrs. hemans. as soon as the people of the plantagenet, who had so far trespassed on discipline, when they perceived a man hanging at the end of the studding-sail-boom, as to appear in the rigging, on the booms, and on the guns, to watch the result, saw the stranger safely landed on the poop, they lifted their hats and caps, and, as one voice, greeted him with three cheers. the officers smiled at this outbreak of feeling, and the violation of usage was forgotten; the rigid discipline of a man-of-war even, giving way occasionally to the sudden impulses of natural feeling. as the druid approached the flag-ship, captain blewet had appeared in her weather mizzen-rigging, conning his vessel in person; and the order to luff, or keep off, had been given by his own voice, or by a gesture of his own hand. as soon as he saw wycherly's feet on the poop of the plantagenet, and his active form freed from the double-bowline, in which it had been seated, the captain made a wide sweep of the arm, to denote his desire to edge away; the helm of the frigate was borne up hard, and, as the two-decker surged ahead on the bosom of a sea, the druid's bows were knocked off to leeward, leaving a space of about a hundred feet, or more, between the two ships, as it might be, in an instant. the same causes continuing to operate, the plantagenet drove still farther ahead, while the frigate soon came to the wind again, a cable's-length to leeward, and abreast of the space between the admiral and his second, astern. here, captain blewet seemed disposed to wait for further orders. sir gervaise oakes was not accustomed to betray any surprise he might feel at little events that occurred on duty. he returned the bow of wycherly, coolly, and then, without question or play of feature, turned his eyes on the further movements of the druid. satisfied that all was right with the frigate, he directed the messenger to follow him, and went below himself, leaving wycherly to obey as fast as the many inquiries he had to answer as he descended the ladders would allow. atwood, an interested observer of what had passed, noted that captain greenly, of all present, was the only person who seemed indifferent to the nature of the communication the stranger might bring, though perhaps the only one entitled by rank to put an interrogatory. "you have come aboard of us in a novel and extraordinary mode, sir wycherly wychecombe!" observed the vice-admiral, a little severely, as soon as he found himself in his own cabin, alone with the lieutenant. "it was the plan of captain blewet, sir, and was really the only one that seemed likely to succeed, for a boat could scarcely live. i trust the success of the experiment, and the nature of the communications i may bring, will be thought sufficient excuses for the want of ceremony." "it is the first time, since the days of the conqueror, i fancy, that an english vice-admiral's ship has been boarded so cavalierly; but, as you say, the circumstances may justify the innovation. what is your errand, sir?" "this letter, i presume, sir gervaise, will explain itself. i have little to say in addition, except to report that the druid has sprung her foremast in carrying sail to close with you, and that we have not lost a moment since admiral bluewater ordered us to part company with himself." "you sailed on board the cæsar, then?" asked sir gervaise, a great deal mollified by the zeal for service in a youth, situated ashore, as he knew wycherly to be. "you left her, with this letter?" "i did, sir gervaise, at admiral bluewater's command." "did you go aboard the druid boom-fashion, or was that peculiar style reserved for the commander-in-chief?" "i left the cæsar in a boat, sir gervaise; and though we were much nearer in with the coast, where the wind has not the rake it has here, and the strength of the gale had not then come, we were nearly swamped." "if a true virginian, you would not have drowned, wychecombe," answered the vice-admiral, in better humour. "you americans swim like cork. excuse me, while i read what admiral bluewater has to say." sir gervaise had received wycherly in the great cabin, standing at the table which was lashed in its centre. he would have been puzzled himself, perhaps, to have given the real reason why he motioned to the young man to take a chair, while he went into what he called his "drawing-room;" or the beautiful little apartment between the two state-rooms, aft, which was fitted with an elegance that might have been admired in a more permanent dwelling, and whither he always withdrew when disposed to reflection. it was probably connected, however, with a latent apprehension of the rear-admiral's political bias, for, when by himself, he paused fully a minute before he opened the letter. condemning this hesitation as unmanly, he broke the seal, however, and read the contents of a letter, which was couched in the following terms: "my dear oakes:--since we parted, my mind has undergone some violent misgivings as to the course duty requires of me, in this great crisis. one hand--one heart--one voice even, may decide the fate of england! in such circumstances, all should listen to the voice of conscience, and endeavour to foresee the consequences of their own acts. confidential agents are in the west of england, and one of them i have seen. by his communications i find more depends on myself than i could have imagined, and more on the movements of m. de vervillin. do not be too sanguine--take time for your own decisions, and grant _me_ time; for i feel like a wretch whose fate must soon be sealed. on no account engage, because you think this division near enough to sustain you, but at least keep off until you hear from me more positively, or we can meet. i find it equally hard to strike a blow against my rightful prince, or to desert my friend. for god's sake act prudently, and depend on seeing me in the course of the next twenty-four hours. i shall keep well to the eastward, in the hope of falling in with you, as i feel satisfied de vervillin has nothing to do very far west. i may send some verbal message by the bearer, for my thoughts come sluggishly, and with great reluctance. "ever _yours_, "richard bluewater." sir gervaise oakes read this letter twice with great deliberation; then he crushed it in his hand, as one would strangle a deadly serpent. not satisfied with this manifestation of distaste, he tore the letter into pieces so small as to render it impossible to imagine its contents, opened a cabin-window, and threw the fragments into the ocean. when he fancied that every sign of his friend's weakness had thus been destroyed, he began to pace the cabin in his usual manner. wycherly heard his step, and wondered at the delay; but his duty compelled him to pass an uncomfortable half-hour in silence, ere the door opened, and sir gervaise appeared. the latter had suppressed the signs of distress, though the lieutenant could perceive he was unusually anxious. "did the rear-admiral send any message, sir wycherly?" inquired sir gervaise; "in his letter he would seem to refer me to some verbal explanations from yourself." "i am ashamed to say, sir, none that i can render very intelligible. admiral bluewater, certainly, did make a few communications that i was to repeat, but when we had parted, by some extraordinary dullness of my own i fear, i find it is out of my power to give them any very great distinctness or connection." "perhaps the fault is less your own, sir, than his. bluewater is addicted to fits of absence of mind, and then he has no reason to complain that others do not understand him, for he does not always understand himself." sir gervaise said this with a little glee, delighted at finding his friend had not committed himself to his messenger. the latter, however, was less disposed to excuse himself by such a process, inasmuch as he felt certain that the rear-admiral's feelings were in the matter he communicated, let the manner have been what it might. "i do not think we can attribute any thing to admiral bluewater's absence of mind, on this occasion, sir," answered wycherly, with generous frankness. "his feelings appeared to be strongly enlisted in what he said. it might have been owing to the strength of these feelings that he was a little obscure, but it could not have been owing to indifference." "i shall best understand the matter, then, by hearing what he did say, sir." wycherly paused, and endeavoured to recall what had passed, in a way to make it intelligible. "i was frequently told to caution you not to engage the french, sir, until the other division had closed, and was ready to assist. but, really, whether this was owing to some secret information that the rear-admiral had obtained, or to a natural desire to have a share in the battle, is more than i can say." "each may have had its influence. was any allusion made to secret intelligence, that you name it?" "i never felt more cause to be ashamed of my own dullness, than at this present moment, sir gervaise oakes," exclaimed wycherly, who almost writhed under the awkwardness of his situation; for he really began to suspect that his own personal grounds of unhappiness had induced him to forget some material part of his message;--"recent events ashore, had perhaps disqualified me for this duty." "it is natural it should be so, my young friend; and as i am acquainted with them all, you can rest satisfied with my indulgence." "all! no--sir gervaise, you know not half--but, i forget myself, sir, and beg your pardon." "i have no wish to pry into your secrets, sir wycherly wychecombe, and we will drop the subject. you may say, however, if the rear-admiral was in good spirits--as an english seaman is apt to be, with the prospect of a great battle before him." "i thought not, sir gervaise. admiral bluewater to me seemed sad, if i may presume to mention it--almost to tears, i thought, sir, one or twice." "poor dick!" mentally ejaculated the vice-admiral; "he never could have made up his mind to desert _me_ without great anguish of soul. was there any thing said," speaking aloud, "about the fleet of m. de vervillin?" "certainly a good deal, sir; and yet am i ashamed to say, i scarce know what! admiral bluewater appeared to think the comte de vervillin had no intention to strike a blow at any of our colonies, and with this he seemed to connect the idea that there would be less necessity for our engaging him. at all events, i cannot be mistaken in his wish that you would keep off, sir, until he could close." "ay, and you see how instinctively i have answered to his wishes!" said sir gervaise, smiling a little bitterly. "nevertheless, had the rear of the fleet been up this morning, sir wycherly, it might have been a glorious day for england!" "it _has_ been a glorious day, as it is, sir. we, in the druid, saw it all; and there was not one among us that did not exult in the name of englishman!" "what, even to the virginian, wychecombe!" rejoined sir gervaise, greatly gratified with the natural commendation conveyed in the manner and words of the other, and looking in a smiling, friendly manner, at the young man. "i was afraid the hits you got in devonshire might have induced you to separate your nationality from that of old england." "even to the virginian, sir gervaise. you have been in the colonies, sir, and must know we do not merit all that we sometimes receive, on this side of the atlantic. the king has no subjects more loyal than those of america." "i am fully aware of it, my noble lad, and have told the king as much, with my own mouth. but think no more of this. if your old uncle did give you an occasional specimen of true john bullism, he has left you an honourable title and a valuable estate. i shall see that greenly finds a berth for you, and you will consent to mess with me, i hope. i trust some time to see you at bowldero. at present we will go on deck; and if any thing that admiral bluewater has said _should_ recur to your mind more distinctly, you will not forget to let me know it." wycherly now bowed and left the cabin, while sir gervaise sat down and wrote a note to greenly to request that he would look a little after the comfort of the young man. the latter then went on deck, in person. although he endeavoured to shake off the painful doubts that beset him, and to appear as cheerful as became an officer who had just performed a brilliant exploit, the vice-admiral found it difficult to conceal the shock he had received from bluewater's communication. certain as he felt of striking a decisive blow at the enemy, could he be reinforced with the five ships of the rear division, he would cheerfully forego the triumph of such additional success, to be certain his friend did not intend to carry his disaffection to overt acts. he found it hard to believe that a man like bluewater could really contemplate carrying off with him the ships he commanded; yet he knew the authority his friend wielded over his captains, and the possibility of such a step would painfully obtrude itself on his mind, at moments. "when a man can persuade himself into all the nonsense connected with the _jus divinum_," thought sir gervaise, "it is doing no great violence to common sense to persuade himself into all its usually admitted consequences." then, again, would interpose his recollections of bluewater's integrity and simplicity of character, to reassure him, and give him more cheering hopes for the result. finding himself thus vacillating between hope and dread, the commander-in-chief determined to drive the matter temporarily from his mind, by bestowing his attention on the part of the fleet he had with him. just as this wise resolution was formed, both greenly and wycherly appeared on the poop. "i am glad to see you with a hungry look, greenly," cried sir gervaise, cheerfully; "here has galleygo just been to report his breakfast, and, as i know your cabin has not been put in order since the people left the guns, i hope for the pleasure of your company. sir wycherly, my gallant young virginian, here, will take the third chair, i trust, and then our party will be complete." the two gentlemen assenting, the vice-admiral was about to lead the way below, when suddenly arresting his footsteps, on the poop-ladder, he said-- "did you not tell me, wychecombe, that the druid had sprung her foremast?" "badly, i believe, sir gervaise, in the hounds. captain blewet carried on his ship fearfully, all night." "ay, he's a fearful fellow with spars, that tom blewet. i never felt certain of finding all the sticks in their places, on turning out of a morning, when he was with you as a lieutenant, greenly. how many jib-booms and top-gallant yards did he cost us, in that cruise off the cape of good hope? by george, it must have been a dozen, at least!" "not quite as bad as that, sir gervaise, though he did expend two jib-booms and three top-gallant yards, for me. captain blewet has a fast ship, and he wishes people to know it." "and he has sprung his foremast and he shall see _i_ know it! harkee, bunting, make the druid's number to lie by the prize; and when that's answered, tell him to take charge of the frenchman, and to wait for further orders. i'll send him to plymouth to get a new foremast, and to see the stranger in. by the way, does any body know the name of the frenchman--hey! greenly?" "i cannot tell you, sir gervaise, though some of our gentlemen think it is the ship that was the admiral's second ahead, in our brush off cape finisterre. i am not of the same opinion, however; for that vessel had a billet-head, and this has a woman figure-head, that looks a little like a minerva. the french have a _la minerve_, i think." "not now, greenly, if this be she, for she is _ours_." here sir gervaise laughed heartily at his own humour, and all near him joined in, as a matter of course. "but la minerve has been a frigate time out of mind. the goddess of wisdom has never been fool enough to get into a line of battle when she has had it in her power to prevent it." "_we_ thought the figure-head of the prize a venus, as we passed her in the druid," wycherly modestly observed. "there is a way of knowing, and it shall be tried. when you've done with the druid, bunting, make the prize's signal to repeat her name by telegraph. you know how to make a prize's number, i suppose, when she has none." "i confess i do not, sir gervaise," answered bunting, who had shown by his manner that he was at a loss. "having no number in our books, one would be at a stand how to get at her, sir." "how would _you_ do it, young man?" asked sir gervaise, who all this time was hanging on to the man-rope of the poop-ladder. "let us see how well you've been taught, sir." "i believe it may be done in different modes, sir gervaise," wycherly answered, without any appearance of triumph at his superior readiness, "but the simplest i know is to hoist the french flag under the english, by way of saying for whom the signal is intended." "do it, bunting," continued sir gervaise, nodding his head as he descended the ladder, "and i warrant you, daly will answer. what sort of work he will make with the frenchman's flags, is another matter. i doubt, too, if he had the wit to carry one of our books with him, in which case he will be at a loss to read our signal. try him, however, bunting; an irishman always has _something_ to say, though it be a bull." this order given, sir gervaise descended to his cabin. in half an hour the party was seated at table, as quietly as if nothing unusual had occurred that day. "the worst of these little brushes which lead to nothing, is that they leave as strong a smell of gunpowder in your cabin, greenly, as if a whole fleet had been destroyed," observed the vice-admiral good-humouredly, as he began to help his guests. "i hope the odour we have here will not disturb your appetites, gentlemen." "you do this day's success injustice, sir gervaise, in calling it only a brush," answered the captain, who, to say the truth, had fallen to as heartily upon the delicacies of galleygo, as if he had not eaten in twenty-four hours. "at any rate, it has brushed the spars out of two of king louis's ships, and one of them into our hands; ay, and in a certain sense into our pockets." "quite true, greenly--quite true; but what would it have been if--" the sudden manner in which the commander-in-chief ceased speaking, induced his companions to think that he had met with some accident in eating or drinking; both looked earnestly at him, as if to offer assistance. he _was_ pale in the face, but he smiled, and otherwise appeared at his ease. "it is over, gentlemen," said sir gervaise, gently--"we'll think no more of it." "i sincerely hope you've not been hit, sir?" said greenly. "i've known men hit, who did not discover that they were hurt until some sudden weakness has betrayed it." "i believe the french have let me off this time, my good friend--yes, i think magrath will be plugging no shot-holes in my hull for this affair. sir wycherly, those eggs are from your own estate, galleygo having laid the manor under contribution for all sorts of good things. try them, greenly, as coming from our friend's property." "sir wycherly is a lucky fellow in _having_ an estate," said the captain. "few officers of his rank can boast of such an advantage; though, now and then, an old one is better off." "that is true enough--hey! greenly? the army fetches up most of the fortunes; for your rich fellows like good county quarters and county balls. i was a younger brother when they sent _me_ to sea, but i became a baronet, and a pretty warm one too, while yet a reefer. poor josselin died when i was only sixteen, and at seventeen they made me an officer." "ay, and we like you all the better, sir gervaise, for not giving us up when the money came. now lord morganic was a captain when _he_ succeeded, and we think much less of that." "morganic remains in service, to teach us how to stay top-masts and paint figure-heads;" observed sir gervaise, a little drily. "and yet the fellow handled his ship well to-day; making much better weather of it than i feared he would be able to do." "i hear we are likely to get another duke in the navy, sir; it's not often we catch one of that high rank." sir gervaise cared much less for things of this sort than bluewater, but he naturally cast a glance at the speaker, as this was said, as much as to ask whom he meant. "they tell me, sir, that lord montresor, the elder brother of the boy in the cæsar, is in a bad way, and lord geoffrey stands next to the succession. i think there is too much stuff in _him_ to quit us now he is almost fit to get his commission." "true, bluewater has that boy of high hopes and promise with him, too;" answered sir gervaise in a musing manner, unconscious of what he said. "god send he may not forget _that_, among other things!" "i don't think rank makes any difference with admiral bluewater, or captain stowel. the nobles are worked up in their ship, as well as the humblest reefer of them all. here is bunting, sir, to tell us something."' sir gervaise started from a fit of abstraction, and, turning, he saw his signal-officer ready to report. "the druid has answered properly, sir gervaise, and has already hauled up so close that i think she will luff through the line, though it may be astern of the carnatic." "and the prize, bunting? have you signalled the prize, as i told you to do?" "yes, sir; and she has answered so properly that i make no question the prize-officer took a book with him. the telegraphic signal was answered like the other." "well, what does he say? have you found out the name of the frenchman?" "that's the difficulty, sir; _we_ are understood, but mr. daly has shown something aboard the prize that the quarter-master swears is a paddy." "a paddy!--what, he hasn't had himself run up at a yard-arm, or stun'sail-boom end, has he--hey! wychecombe? daly's an irishman, and has only to show _himself_ to show a paddy." "but this is a sort of an image of some kind or other, sir gervaise, and yet it isn't mr. daly. i rather think he hasn't the flags necessary for our words, and has rigged out a sort of a woman, to let us know his ship's name; for she _has_ a woman figure-head, you know, sir." "the devil he has! well, that will form an era in signals. galleygo, look out at the cabin window and let me know if you can see the prize from them--well, sir, what's the news?" "i sees her, sir jarvy," answered the steward, "and i sees her where no french ship as sails in company with british vessels has a right to be. if she's a fathom, your honour, she's fifty to windward of our line! quite out of her place, as a body might say, and onreasonable." "that's owing to our having felled the forests of her masts, mr. galleygo; every spar that is left helping to put her where she is. that prize must be a weatherly ship, though, hey! greenly? she and her consort were well to windward of their own line, or we could never have got 'em as we did. these frenchmen _do_ turn off a weatherly vessel now and then, that we must all admit." "yes, sir jarvy," put in galleygo, who never let the conversation flag when he was invited to take a part in it; "yes, sir jarvy, and when they've turned 'em off the stocks they turns 'em over to us, commonly, to sail 'em. building a craft is one piece of knowledge, and sailing her _well_ is another." "enough of your philosophy, sirrah; look and ascertain if there is any thing unusual to be seen hanging in the rigging of the prize. unless you show more readiness, i'll send one of the bowlderos to help you." these bowlderos were the servants that sir gervaise brought with him from his house, having been born on his estate, and educated as domestics in his own, or his father's family; and though long accustomed to a man-of-war, as their ambition never rose above their ordinary service, the steward held them exceedingly cheap. a severer punishment could not be offered him, than to threaten to direct one of these common menials to do any duty that, in the least, pertained to the profession. the present menace had the desired effect, galleygo losing no time in critically examining the prize's rigging. "i calls nothing extr'ornary in a frenchman's rigging, sir jarvy," answered the steward, as soon as he felt sure of his fact; "their dock-men have idees of their own, as to such things. now there is sum'mat hanging at the lee fore-yard-arm of that chap, that looks as if it might be a top-gallant-stun'sail made up to be sent aloft and set, but which stopped when it got as high as it is, on finding out that there's no hamper over-head to spread it to." "that's it, sir," put in bunting. "mr. daly has run his woman up to the fore-yard-arm, like a pirate." "woman!" repeated galleygo--"do you call that 'ere thing-um-mee a woman, mr. buntin'? i calls it a bundle of flags, made up to set, if there was any thing to set 'em to." "it's nothing but an irish woman, master galleygo, as you'll see for yourself, if you'll level this glass at it." "i'll do that office myself," cried sir gervaise. "have you any curiosity, gentlemen, to read mr. daly's signal? galleygo, open that weather window, and clear away the books and writing-desk, that we may have a look." the orders were immediately obeyed, and the vice-admiral was soon seated examining the odd figure that was certainly hanging at the lee fore-yard-arm of the prize; a perfect nondescript as regarded all nautical experience. "hang me, if i can make any thing of it. greenly," said sir gervaise, after a long look. "do _you_ take this seat, and try your hand at an observation. it resembles a sort of a woman, sure enough." "yes, sir," observed bunting, with the earnestness of a man who felt his reputation involved in the issue, "i was certain that mr. daly has run up the figure to let us know the name of the prize, and that for want of a telegraph-book to signal the letters; and so i made sure of what i was about, before i took the liberty to come below and report." "and pray what do you make of it, bunting? the figure-head might tell us better, but that seems to be imperfect." "the figure-head has lost all its bust, and one arm, by a shot," said greenly, turning the glass to the object named; "and i can tell mr. daly that a part of the gammoning of his bowsprit is gone, too! that ship requires looking to, sir gervaise; she'll have no foremast to-morrow morning, if this wind stand! another shot has raked the lower side of her fore-top, and carried away half the frame. yes, and there's been a fellow at work, too--" "never mind the shot--never mind the shot, greenly," interrupted the vice-admiral. "a poor devil like him, couldn't have six of us at him, at once, and expect to go 'shot free.' tell us something of the woman." "well, sir gervaise, no doubt daly has hoisted her as a symbol. ay, no doubt the ship is the minerva, after all, for there's something on the head like a helmet." "it never can be the minerva," said the vice-admiral, positively, "for _she_, i feel certain, is a frigate. hand me the little book with a red cover, bunting; that near your hand; it has a list of the enemy's navy. here it is, '_la minerve_, , _le capitaine de frégate, mondon_. built in , old and dull.' that settles the minerva, for this list is the last sent us by the admiralty." "then it must be the pallas," rejoined greenly, "for she wears a helmet, too, and i am certain there is not only a cap to resemble a helmet, but a guernsey frock on the body to represent armour. both minerva and pallas, if i remember right, wore armour." "this is coming nearer to the point,--hey! greenly!" the vice-admiral innocently chimed in; "let us look and see if the pallas is a two-decker or not. by george, there's no such name on the list. that's odd, now, that the french should have one of these goddesses and not the other!" "they never has any thing right, sir jarvy," galleygo thrust in, by way of commentary on the vice-admiral's and the captain's classical lore; "and it's surprising to me that they should have any goddess at all, seeing that they has so little respect for religion, in general." wycherly fidgeted, but respect for his superiors kept him silent. as for bunting, 'twas all the same to him, his father having been a purser in the navy, and he himself educated altogether on board ship, and this, too, a century since. "it might not be amiss, sir gervaise," observed the captain, "to work this rule backwards, and just look over the list until we find a two-decked ship that _ought_ to have a woman figure-head, which will greatly simplify the matter. i've known difficult problems solved in that mode." the idea struck sir gervaise as a good one, and he set about the execution of the project in good earnest. just as he came to _l'hécate_, , an exclamation from greenly caught his attention, and he inquired its cause. "look for yourself, sir gervaise; unless my eyes are good for nothing, daly is running a kedge up alongside of his woman." "what, a kedge?--ay, that is intended for an anchor, and it means hope. every body knows that hope carries an anchor,--hey! wychecombe? upon my word, daly shows ingenuity. look for the hope, in that list, bunting,--you will find the english names printed first, in the end of the book." "'the hope, or _l' esperance_,'" read the signal-officer; "' , _lee capitang dee frigate dee courtraii_.'" "a single-decked ship after all! this affair is as bad as the d----d _nullus_, ashore, there. i'll not be beaten in learning, however, by any frenchman who ever floated. go below, locker, and desire doctor magrath to step up here, if he is not occupied with the wounded. he knows more latin than any man in the ship." "yes, sir jarvy, but this is french, you knows, your honour, and is'nt as latin, at all. i expects she'll turn out to have some name as no modest person wishes to use, and we shall have to halter it." "ay, he's catted his anchor, sure enough; if the figure be not hope, it must be faith, or charity." "no fear of them, sir jarvy; the french has no faith, nor no charity, no, nor no bowels, as any poor fellow knows as has ever been wrecked on their coast, as once happened to me, when a b'y. i looks upon 'em as no better than so many heatheners, and perhaps that's the name of the ship. i've seed heatheners, a hundred times, sir jarvy, in that sort of toggery." "what, man, did you ever see a heathen with an anchor?--one that will weigh three hundred, if it will weigh a pound?" "perhaps not, your honour, with a downright hanchor, but with sum'mat like a killog. but, that's no hanchor, a'ter all, but only a kedge, catted hanchor-fashion, sir." "here comes magrath, to help us out of the difficulty; and we'll propound the matter to him." the vice-admiral now explained the whole affair to the surgeon, frankly admitting that the classics of the cabin were at fault, and throwing himself on the gun-room for assistance. magrath was not a little amused, as he listened, for this was one of his triumphs, and he chuckled not a little at the dilemma of his superiors. "well, sir jairvis," he answered, "ye might do warse than call a council o' war on the matter; but if it's the name ye'll be wanting, i can help ye to that, without the aids of symbols, and signs, and hyeroglyphics of any sort. as we crossed the vessel's wake, a couple of hours since, i read it on her stern, in letters of gold. it's _la victoire_, or the victory; a most unfortunate cognomen for an unlucky ship. she's a french victory, however, ye'll remember, gentlemen!" "that must be a mistake, magrath; for daly has shown an anchor, yonder; and victory carries no anchor." "it's hard to say, veece-admiral, one man's victory being another man's defeat. as for mr. daly's image, it's just an _irish_ goddess; and allowances must be made for the country." sir gervaise laughed, invited the gentlemen to help demolish the breakfast, and sent orders on deck to hoist the answering flag. at a later day, daly, when called on for an explanation, asserted that the armour and helmet belonged to victory, as a matter of course; though he admitted that he had at first forgotten the anchor; "but, when i _did_ run it up, they read it aboard the ould planter, as if it had been just so much primmer." chapter xxv. "there's beauty in the deep:-- the wave is bluer than the sky; and, though the light shines bright on high, more softly do the sea-gems glow, that sparkle in the depths below; the rainbow's tints are only made when on the waters they are laid. and sun and moon most sweetly shine upon the ocean's level brine. there's beauty in the deep." brainard. as daly was the recognised jester of the fleet, his extraordinary attempt to announce his vessel's name was received as a characteristic joke, and it served to laugh at until something better offered. under the actual circumstances of the two squadrons, however, it was soon temporarily forgotten in graver things, for few believed the collision that had already taken place was to satisfy a man of the known temperament of the commander-in-chief. as the junction of the rear division was the only thing wanting to bring on a general engagement, as soon as the weather should moderate a little, every ship had careful look-outs aloft, sweeping the horizon constantly with glasses, more particularly towards the east and north-east. the gale broke about noon, though the wind still continued fresh from the same quarter as before. the sea began to go down, however, and at eight bells material changes had occurred in the situations of both fleets. some of these it may be necessary to mention. the ship of the french admiral, _le foudroyant_, and _le scipion_, had been received, as it might be, in the arms of their own fleet in the manner already mentioned; and from this moment, the movement of the whole force was, in a measure, regulated by that of these two crippled vessels. the former ship, by means of her lower sails, might have continued to keep her station in the line, so long as the gale lasted; but the latter unavoidably fell off, compelling her consorts to keep near, or to abandon her to her fate. m. de vervillin preferred the latter course. the consequences were, that, by the time the sun was in the zenith, his line, a good deal extended, still, and far from regular, was quite three leagues to leeward of that of the english. nor was this all: at that important turn in the day, sir gervaise oakes was enabled to make sail on all his ships, setting the fore and mizzen-top-sails close-reefed; while _la victoire_, a fast vessel, was enabled to keep in company by carrying whole courses. the french could not imitate this, inasmuch as one of their crippled vessels had nothing standing but a foremast. sir gervaise had ascertained, before the distance became too great for such observations, that the enemy was getting ready to send up new top-masts, and the other necessary spars on board the admiral, as well as jury lower-masts in _le scipion_; though the sea would not yet permit any very positive demonstrations to be made towards such an improvement. he laid his own plans for the approaching night accordingly; determining not to worry his people, or notify the enemy of his intentions, by attempting any similar improvement in the immediate condition of his prize. about noon, each ship's number was made in succession, and the question was put if she had sustained any material injury in the late conflict. the answers were satisfactory in general, though one or two of the vessels made such replies as induced the commander-in-chief to resort to a still more direct mode of ascertaining the real condition of his fleet. in order to effect this important object, sir gervaise waited two hours longer, for the double purpose of letting all the messes get through with their dinners, and to permit the wind to abate and the sea to fall, as both were now fast doing. at the expiration of that time, however, he appeared on the poop, summoning bunting to his customary duty. at p.m. it blew a whole top-sail breeze, as it is called; but the sea being still high, and the ships close-hauled, the vice-admiral did not see fit to order any more sail. perhaps he was also influenced by a desire not to increase his distance from the enemy, it being a part of his plan to keep m. de vervillin in plain sight so long as the day continued, in order that he might have a tolerable idea of the position of his fleet, during the hours of darkness. his present intention was to cause his vessels to pass before him in review, as a general orders his battalions to march past a station occupied by himself and staff, with a view to judge by his own eye of their steadiness and appearance. vice-admiral oakes was the only officer in the british navy who ever resorted to this practice; but he did many things of which other men never dreamed, and, among the rest, he did not hesitate to attack double his force, when an occasion offered, as has just been seen. the officers of the fleet called these characteristic reviews "sir jarvy's field-days," finding a malicious pleasure in comparing any thing out of the common nautical track, to some usage of the soldiers. bunting got his orders, notwithstanding the jokes of the fleet; and the necessary signals were made and the answers given. captain greenly then received his verbal instructions, when the commander-in-chief went below, to prepare himself for the approaching scene. when sir gervaise re-appeared on the poop, he was in full uniform, wearing the star of the bath, as was usual with him on all solemn official occasions. atwood and bunting were at his side, while the bowlderos, in their rich shore-liveries, formed a group at hand. captain greenly and his first lieutenant joined the party as soon as their duty with the ship was over. on the opposite side of the poop, the whole of the marines off guard were drawn up in triple lines, with their officers at their head. the ship herself had hauled up her main-sail, hauled down all her stay-sails, and lay with her main-top-sail braced sharp aback, with orders to the quarter-master to keep her little off the wind; the object being to leave a little way through the water, in order to prolong the expected interviews. with these preparations the commander-in-chief awaited the successive approach of his ships, the sun, for the first time in twenty-four hours, making his appearance in a flood of brilliant summer-light, as if purposely to grace the ceremony. the first ship that drew near the plantagenet was the carnatic, as a matter of course, she being the next in the line. this vessel, remarkable, as the commander-in-chief had observed, for never being out of the way, was not long in closing, though as she luffed up on the admiral's weather-quarter, to pass to windward, she let go all her top-sail bowlines, so as to deaden her way, making a sort of half-board. this simple evolution, as she righted her helm, brought her about fifty yards to windward of the plantagenet, past which ship she surged slowly but steadily, the weather now permitting a conversation to be held at that distance, and by means of trumpets, with little or no effort of the voice. most of the officers of the carnatic were on her poop, as she came sweeping up heavily, casting her shadow on the plantagenet's decks. captain parker himself was standing near the ridge-ropes, his head uncovered, and the grey hairs floating in the breeze. the countenance of this simple-minded veteran was a little anxious, for, had he feared the enemy a tenth part as much as he stood in awe of his commanding officer, he would have been totally unfit for his station. now he glanced upward at his sails, to see that all was right; then, as he drew nearer, fathom by fathom as it might be, he anxiously endeavoured to read the expression of the vice-admiral's face. "how do you do, captain parker?" commenced sir gervaise, with true trumpet formality, making the customary salutation. "how is sir gervaise oakes to-day? i hope untouched in the late affair with the enemy?" "quite well, i thank you, sir. has the carnatic received any serious injury in the battle?" "none to mention, sir gervaise. a rough scrape of the foremast; but not enough to alarm us, now the weather has moderated; a little rigging cut, and a couple of raps in the hull." "have your people suffered, sir?" "two killed and seven wounded, sir gervaise. good lads, most of 'em; but enough like 'em remain." "i understand, then, captain parker, that you report the carnatic fit for any service?" "as much so as my poor abilities enable me to make her, sir gervaise oakes," answered the other, a little alarmed at the formality and precision of the question. "meet her with the helm--meet her with the helm." all this passed while the carnatic was making her half-board, and, the helm being righted, she now slowly and majestically fell off with her broadside to the admiral, gathering way as her canvass began to draw again. at this instant, when the yard-arms of the two ships were about a hundred feet asunder, and just as the carnatic drew up fairly abeam, sir gervaise oakes raised his hat, stepped quickly to the side of the poop, waved his hand for silence, and spoke with a distinctness that rendered his words audible to all in both vessels. "captain parker," he said, "i wish, publicly, to thank you for your noble conduct this day. i have always said a surer support could never follow a commander-in-chief into battle; you have more than proved my opinion to be true. i wish, publicly, to thank you, sir." "sir gervaise--i cannot express--god bless you, sir gervaise!" "i have but one fault to find with you, sir, and that is easily pardoned." "i'm sure i hope so, sir." "you handled your ship so rapidly and so surely, that _we_ had hardly time to get out of the way of your guns!" old parker could not now have answered had his life depended on it; but he bowed, and dashed a hand across his eyes. there was but a moment to say any more. "if his majesty's sword be not laid on _your_ shoulder for this day's work, sir, it shall be no fault of mine," added sir gervaise, waving his hat in adieu. while this dialogue lasted, so profound was the stillness in the two ships, that the wash of the water under the bows of the carnatic, was the only sound to interfere with sir gervaise's clarion voice; but the instant he ceased to speak, the crews of both vessels rose as one man, and cheered. the officers joined heartily, and to complete the compliment, the commander-in-chief ordered his own marines to present arms to the passing vessel. then it was that, every sail drawing, again the carnatic took a sudden start, and shot nearly her length ahead, on the summit of a sea. in half a minute more, she was ahead of the plantagenet's flying-jib-boom-end, steering a little free, so as not to throw the admiral to leeward. the carnatic was scarcely out of the way, before the achilles was ready to take her place. this ship, having more room, had easily luffed to windward of the plantagenet, simply letting go her bowlines, as her bows doubled on the admiral's stern, in order to check her way. "how do you do to-day, sir gervaise?" called out lord morganic, without waiting for the commander-in-chief's hail--"allow me to congratulate you, sir, on the exploits of this glorious day!" "i thank you, my lord, and wish to say i am satisfied with the behaviour of your ship. you've _all_ done well, and i desire to thank you _all_. is the achilles injured?" "nothing to speak of, sir. a little rigging gone, and here and there a stick." "have you lost any men, my lord? i desire particularly to know the condition of each ship." "some eight or ten poor fellows, i believe, sir gervaise; but we are ready to engage this instant." "it is well, my lord; steady your bowlines, and make room for the thunderer." morganic gave the order, but as his ship drew ahead he called out in a pertinacious way,--"i hope, sir gervaise, you don't mean to give that other lame duck up. i've got my first lieutenant on board one of 'em, and confess to a desire to put the second on board another." "ay--ay--morganic, _we_ knock down the birds, and _you_ bag 'em. i'll give you more sport in the same way, before i've done with ye." this little concession, even sir gervaise oakes, a man not accustomed to trifle in matters of duty, saw fit to make to the other's rank; and the achilles withdrew from before the flag-ship, as the curtain is drawn from before the scene. "i do believe, greenleaf," observed lord morganic to his surgeon, one of his indulged favourites; "that sir jarvy is a little jealous of us, because daly got into the prize before he could send one of his own boats aboard of her. 'twill tell well in the gazette, too, will it not?--'the french ship was taken possession of, and brought off, by the achilles, captain the earl of morganic!' i hope the old fellow will have the decency to give us our due. i rather think it _was_ our last broadside that brought the colours down?" a suitable answer was returned, but as the ship is drawing ahead, we cannot follow her to relate it. the vessel that approached the third, was the thunderer, captain foley. this was one of the ships that had received the fire of the three leading french vessels, after they had brought the wind abeam, and being the leading vessel of the english rear, she had suffered more than any other of the british squadron. the fact was apparent, as she approached, by the manner in which her rigging was knotted, and the attention that had been paid to her spars. even as she closed, the men were on the yard bending a new main-course, the old one having been hit on the bolt-rope, and torn nearly from the spar. there were also several plugs on her lee-side to mark the spots where the french guns had told. the usual greetings passed between the vice-admiral and his captain, and the former put his questions. "we have not been quite exchanging salutes, sir gervaise," answered captain foley; "but the ship is ready for service again. should the wind moderate a little, i think everything would stand to carry sail _hard_." "i'm glad to hear it, sir--_rejoiced_ to hear it, sir. i feared more for you, than for any other vessel. i hope you've not suffered materially in your crew?" "nine killed. sir gervaise; and the surgeon tells me sixteen wounded." "that proves you've not been in port, foley! well, i dare say, could the truth be known, it would be found that m. de vervillin's vessels bear your marks, in revenge. adieu--adieu--god bless you." the thunderer glided ahead, making room for the blenheim, captain sterling. this was one of your serviceable ships, without any show or style about her; but a vessel that was always ready to give and take. her commander was a regular sea-dog, a little addicted to hard and outlandish oaths, a great consumer of tobacco and brandy; but who had the discrimination never to swear in the presence of the commander-in-chief, although he had been known to do so in a church; or to drink more than he could well carry, when he was in presence of an enemy or a gale of wind. he was too firm a man, and too good a seaman, to use the bottle as a refuge; it was the companion of his ease and pleasure, and to confess the truth, he then treated it with an affectionate benevolence, that rendered it exceedingly difficult for others not to entertain some of his own partiality for it. in a word, captain sterling was a sailor of the "old school;" for there was an "old school" in manners, habits, opinions, philosophy, morals, and reason, a century since, precisely as there _is_ to-day, and probably _will_ be, a century hence. the blenheim made a good report, not having sustained any serious injury whatever; nor had she a man hurt. the captain reported his ship as fit for service as she was the hour she lifted her anchor. "so much the better, sterling--so much the better. you shall take the edge off the next affair, by way of giving you another chance. i rely on the blenheim, and on her captain." "i thank you, sir," returned sterling, as his ship moved on; "by the way, sir gervaise, would it not be fair-play to rummage the prize's lockers before she gets into the hands of the custom-house? out here on the high seas, there can be no smuggling in _that_: there must be good claret aboard her." "there would be 'plunder of a prize,' sterling," said the vice-admiral, laughing, for he knew that the question was put more as a joke than a serious proposition; "and that is death, without benefit of clergy. move on; here is goodfellow close upon your heels." the last ship in the english line was the warspite, captain goodfellow, an officer remarkable in the service at that day, for a "religious turn," as it was called. as is usually the case with men of this stamp, captain goodfellow was quiet, thoughtful, and attentive to his duty. there was less of the real tar in him, perhaps, than in some of his companions; but his ship was in good order, always did her duty, and was remarkably attentive to signals; a circumstance that rendered her commander a marked favourite with the vice-admiral. after the usual questions were put and answered, sir gervaise informed goodfellow that he intended to change the order of sailing so as to bring him near the van. "we will give old parker a breathing spell, goodfellow," added the commander-in-chief, "and you will be my second astern. i must go ahead of you all, or you'll be running down on the frenchman without orders; pretending you can't see the signals, in the smoke." the warspite drove ahead, and the plantagenet was now left to receive the prize and the druid; the chloe, driver, and active, not being included in the signal. daly had been gradually eating the other ships out of the wind, as has been mentioned already, and when the order was given to pass within hail, he grumbled not a little at the necessity of losing so much of his vantage-ground. nevertheless, it would not do to joke with the commander-in-chief in a matter of this sort, and he was fain to haul up his courses, and wait for the moment when he might close. by the time the warspite was out of the way, his ship had drifted down so near the admiral, that he had nothing to do but to haul aboard his tacks again, and pass as near as was at all desirable. when quite near, he hauled up his main-sail, by order of the vice-admiral. "are you much in want of any thing, mr. daly?" demanded sir gervaise, as soon as the lieutenant appeared forward to meet his hail. "the sea is going down so fast, that we might now send you some boats." "many thanks, sir gervaise; i want to get rid of a hundred or two frenchmen, and to have a hundred englishmen in their places. we are but twenty-one of the king's subjects here, all told." "captain blewet is ordered to keep company with you, sir; and as soon as it is dark, i intend to send you into plymouth under the frigate's convoy. is she a nice ship, hey! daly?" "why, sir gervaise, she's like a piece of broken crockery, just now, and one can't tell all her merits. she's not a bad goer, and weatherly, i think, all will call her. but she's thundering french, inside." "we'll make her english in due time, sir. how are the leaks? do the pumps work freely?" "deuce the l'ake has she, sir gervaise, and the pumps suck like a nine months' babby. and if they didn't we're scarce the boys to find out the contrary, being but nineteen working hands." "very well, daly; you can haul aboard your main-tack, now; remember, you're to go into plymouth, as soon as it is dark. if you see any thing of admiral bluewater, tell him i rely on his support, and only wait for his appearance to finish monsieur de vervillin's job." "i'll do all that, with hearty good will, sir. pray, sir gervaise," added daly, grinning, on the poop of the prize, whither he had got by this time, having walked aft as his ship went ahead, "how do you like french signals? for want of a better, we were driven to the classics!" "ay, you'd be bothered to explain all your own flags, i fancy. the name of the ship is the victory, i am told; why did you put her in armour, and whip a kedge up against the poor woman?" "it's according to the books, sir gervaise. every word of it out of cicero, and cordairy, and cornelius nepos, and those sort of fellows. oh! i went to school, sir, before i went to sea, as you say yourself, sometimes, sir gervaise; and literature is the same in ireland, as it is all over the world. victory needs armour, sir, in order to be victorious, and the anchor is to show that she doesn't belong to 'the cut and run' family. i am as sure that all was right, as i ever was of my moods and tenses." "very well, daly," answered sir gervaise, laughing--"my lords shall know your merits in that way, and it may get you named a professor--keep your luff, or you'll be down on our sprit-sail-yard;--remember and follow the druid." here the gentlemen waved their hands in adieu as usual, and la victoire, clipped as she was of her wings, drew slowly past. the druid succeeded, and sir gervaise simply gave blewet his orders to see the prize into port, and to look after his own foremast. this ended the field day; the frigate luffing up to windward of the line again, leaving the plantagenet in its rear. a few minutes later, the latter ship filled and stood after her consorts. the vice-admiral having now ascertained, in the most direct manner, the actual condition of his fleet, had _data_ on which to form his plans for the future. but for the letter from bluewater, he would have been perfectly happy; the success of the day having infused a spirit into the different vessels, that, of itself, was a pledge of more important results. still he determined to act as if that letter had never been written, finding it impossible to believe that one who had so long been true, could really fail him in the hour of need. "i know his heart better than he knows it himself," he caught himself mentally exclaiming, "and before either of us is a day older, this will i prove to him, to his confusion and my triumph." he had several short and broken conversations with wycherly in the course of the afternoon, with a view to ascertain, if possible, the real frame of mind in which his friend had written, but without success, the young man frankly admitting that, owing to a confusion of thought that he modestly attributed to himself, but which sir gervaise well knew ought in justice to be imputed to bluewater, he had not been able to bring away with him any very clear notions of the rear-admiral's intentions. in the mean while, the elements were beginning to exhibit another of their changeful humours. a gale in summer is seldom of long duration, and twenty-four hours would seem to be the period which nature had assigned to this. the weather had moderated materially by the time the review had taken place, and five hours later, not only had the sea subsided to a very reasonable swell, but the wind had hauled several points; coming out a fresh top-gallant breeze at north-west. the french fleet wore soon after, standing about north-east-by-north, on an easy bowline. they had been active in repairing damages, and the admiral was all a-tanto again, with every thing set that the other ships carried. the plight of le scipion was not so easily remedied, though even she had two jury-masts rigged, assistance having been sent from the other vessels as soon as boats could safely pass. as the sun hung in the western sky, wanting about an hour of disappearing from one of the long summer days of that high latitude, this ship set a mizzen-top-sail in the place of a main, and a fore-top-gallant-sail in lieu of a mizzen-top-sail. thus equipped, she was enabled to keep company with her consorts, all of which were under easy canvass, waiting for the night to cover their movements. sir gervaise oakes had made the signal for his fleet to tack in succession, from the rear to the van, about an hour before le scipion obtained this additional sail. the order was executed with great readiness, and, as the ships had been looking up as high as west-south-west before, when they got round, and headed north-north-east, their line of sailing was still quite a league to windward of that of the enemy. as each vessel filled on the larboard tack, she shortened sail to allow the ships astern to keep away, and close to her station. it is scarcely necessary to say, that this change again brought the plantagenet to the head of the line, with the warspite, however, instead of the carnatic, for her second astern; the latter vessel being quite in the rear. it was a glorious afternoon, and there was every promise of as fine a night. still, as there were but about six hours of positive darkness at that season of the year, and the moon would rise at midnight, the vice-admiral knew he had no time to lose, if he would effect any thing under the cover of obscurity. reefs were no longer used, though all the ships were under short canvass, in order to accommodate their movements to those of the prize. the latter, however, was now in tow of the druid, and, as this frigate carried her top-gallant-sails, aided by her own courses, la victoire was enabled not only to keep up with the fleet, then under whole top-sails, but to maintain her weatherly position. such was the state of things just as the sun dipped, the enemy being on the lee bow, distant one and a half leagues, when the plantagenet showed a signal for the whole fleet to heave to, with the main-top-sails to the masts. this command was scarcely executed, when the officers on deck were surprised to hear a boatswain's mate piping away the crew of the vice-admiral's barge, or that of the boat which was appropriated to the particular service of the commander-in-chief. "did i hear aright, sir gervaise?" inquired greenly, with curiosity and interest; "is it your wish to have your barge manned, sir?" "you heard perfectly right, greenly; and, if disposed for a row this fine evening, i shall ask the favour of your company. sir wycherly wychecombe, as you are an idler here, i have a flag-officer's right to press yon into my service. by the way, greenly, i have made out and signed an order to this gentleman to report himself to you, as attached to my family, as the soldiers call it; as soon as atwood has copied it, it will be handed to him, when i beg you will consider him as my first aid." to this no one could object, and wycherly made a bow of acknowledgment. at that instant the barge was seen swinging off over the ship's waist, and, at the next, the yard tackles were heard overhauling themselves. the splash of the boat in the water followed. the crew was in her, with oars on end, and poised boat-hooks, in another minute. the guard presented, the boatswain piped over, the drum rolled, and wycherly jumped to the gangway and was out of sight quick as thought. greenly and sir gervaise followed, when the boat shoved off. although the seas had greatly subsided, and their combs were no longer dangerous, the atlantic was far from being as quiet as a lake in a summer eventide. at the very first dash of the oars the barge rose on a long, heavy swell that buoyed her up like a bubble, and as the water glided from under her again, it seemed as if she was about to sink into some cavern of the ocean. few things give more vivid impressions of helplessness than boats thus tossed by the waters when not in their raging humours; for one is apt to expect better treatment than thus to be made the plaything of the element. all, however, who have ever floated on even the most quiet ocean, must have experienced more or less of this helpless dependence, the stoutest boat, impelled by the lustiest crews, appearing half the time like a feather floating in capricious currents of the air. the occupants of the barge, however, were too familiar with their situation to think much of these matters; and, as soon as sir gervaise assented to wycherly's offer to take the tiller, he glanced upward, with a critical eye, in order to scan the plantagenet's appearance. "that fellow, morganic, has got a better excuse for his xebec-rig than i had supposed, greenly," he said, after a minute of observation. "your fore-top-mast is at least six inches too far forward, and i beg you will have it stayed aft to-morrow morning, if the weather permit. none of your mediterranean craft for me, in the narrow seas." "very well, sir gervaise; the spar shall be righted in the morning watch," quietly returned the captain. "now, there's goodfellow, half-parson as he is; the man contrives to keep his sticks more upright than any captain in the fleet. you never see a spar half an inch out of its place, on board the warspite." "that is because her captain trims every thing by his own life, sir," rejoined greenly, smiling. "were we half as good as he is, in other matters, we might be better than we are in seamanship." "i do not think religion hurts a sailor, greenly--no, not in the least. that is to say, when he don't wedge his masts too tight, but leaves play enough for all weathers. there is no cant in goodfellow." "not the least of it, sir, and that it is which makes him so great a favourite. the chaplain of the warspite is of some use; but one might as well have a bowsprit rigged out of a cabin-window, as have our chap." "why, we never bury a man, greenly, without putting him into the water as a christian should be," returned sir gervaise, with the simplicity of a true believer of the decency school. "i hate to see a seaman tossed in the ocean like a bag of old clothes." "we get along with that part of the duty pretty well; but _before_ a man is dead, the parson is of opinion that he belongs altogether to the doctor." "i'd bet a hundred guineas, magrath has had some influence over him, in this matter--give the blenheim a wider berth, sir wycherly, i wish to see how she looks aloft--he's a d----d fellow, that magrath,"--no one swore in sir gervaise's boat but himself, when the vice-admiral's flag was flying in her bows;--"and he's just the sort of man to put such a notion into the chaplain's head." "why, there, i believe you're more than half right, sir gervaise; i overheard a conversation between them one dark night, when they were propping the mizzen-mast under the break of the poop, and the surgeon _did_ maintain a theory very like that you mention, sir." "ah!--he did, did he? it's just like the scotch rogue, who wanted to persuade me that your poor uncle, sir wycherly, ought not to have been blooded, in as clear a case of apoplexy as ever was met with." "well, i didn't think he could have carried his impudence as far as that," observed greenly, whose medical knowledge was about on a par with that of sir gervaise. "i didn't think even a doctor would dare to hold such a doctrine! as for the chaplain, to him he laid down the principle that religion and medicine never worked well together. he said religion was an 'alterative,' and would neutralize a salt as quick as fire." "he's a great vagabond, that magrath, when he gets hold of a young hand, sir; and i wish with all my heart the pretender had him, with two or three pounds of his favourite medicines with him--i think, between the two, england might reap some advantage, greenly.--now, to my notion, wychecombe, the blenheim would make better weather, if her masts were shortened at least two feet." "perhaps she might, sir gervaise; but would she be as certain a ship, in coming into action in light winds and at critical moments?" "umph! it's time for us old fellows to look about us, greenly, when the boys begin to reason on a line of battle! don't blush, wychecombe; don't blush. your remark was sensible, and shows reflection. no country can ever have a powerful marine, or, one likely to produce much influence in her wars, that does not pay rigid attention to the tactics of fleets. your frigate actions and sailing of single ships, are well enough as drill; but the great practice must be in squadron. ten heavy ships, in good _fleet_ discipline, and kept at sea, will do more than a hundred single cruisers, in establishing and maintaining discipline; and it is only by using vessels _together_, that we find out what both ships and men can do. now, we owe the success of this day, to our practice of sailing in close order, and in knowing how to keep our stations; else would six ships never have been able to carry away the palm of victory from twelve--palm!--ay, that's the very word. greenly, i was trying to think of this morning. daly's paddy should have had a palm-branch in its hand, as an emblem of victory." chapter xxvi. "he that has sailed upon the dark-blue sea, has viewed at times, i ween, a full fair sight; when the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, the white sail set, the gallant frigate tight; mast, spires and strand, retiring to the sight, the glorious main expanding o'er the bow, the convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, the dullest sailer waring bravely now, so gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow." byron. as sir gervaise oakes' active mind was liable to such sudden mutations of thought as that described in the close of the last chapter, greenly neither smiled, nor dwelt on the subject at all; he simply pointed out to his superior the fact, that they were now abreast of the thunderer, and desired to know whether it was his pleasure to proceed any further. "to the carnatic, greenly, if sir wycherly will have the goodness to shape his course thither. i have a word to say to my friend parker, before we sleep to-night. give us room, however, to look at morganic's fancies, for i never pass his ship without learning something new. lord morganic's vessel is a good school for us old fellows to attend--hey! greenly?" "the achilles is certainly a model vessel in some respects, sir gervaise, though i flatter myself the plantagenets have no great occasion to imitate her, in order to gain a character." "_you_ imitate morganic in order to know how to keep a ship in order!--poh! let morganic come to school to _you_. yet the fellow is not bashful in battle neither; keeps his station well, and makes himself both heard and felt. ah! there he is, flourishing his hat on the poop, and wondering what the deuce sir jarvy's after, now! sheer in, wychecombe, and let us hear what he has to say." "good evening, sir gervaise," called out the earl, as usual taking the _initiative_ in the discourse; "i was in hopes when i saw your flag in the boat, that you were going to do me the favour to open a bottle of claret, and to taste some fruit, i have still standing on the table." "i thank you, my lord, but business before pleasure. we have not been idle to-day, though to-morrow shall be still more busy. how does the achilles steer; now her foremast is in its place?" "yaws like a fellow with his grog aboard, sir gervaise, on my honour! we shall never do any thing with her, until you consent to let us stay her spars, in our own fashion. do you intend to send me daly back, or am i to play first lieutenant myself, admiral?" "daly's shipped for the cruise, and you must do as well as you can without him. if you find yourself without a second astern, in the course of the night, do not fancy she has gone to the bottom. keep good look-outs, and pay attention to signals." as sir gervaise waved his hand, the young noble did not venture to reply, much less to ask a question, though there was not a little speculation on the poop of the achilles, concerning the meaning of his words. the boat moved on, and five minutes later sir gervaise was on the quarter-deck of the carnatic. parker received the commander-in-chief, hat in hand, with a solicitude and anxiety that were constitutional, perhaps, and which no consciousness of deserving could entirely appease. habit, however, had its share in it, since, accustomed to defer to rank from boyhood, and the architect of his own "little fortune," he had ever attached more importance to the commendation of his superior, than was usual with those who had other props to lean on than their own services. as soon as the honours of the quarter-deck had been duly paid--for these sir gervaise never neglected himself, nor allowed others to neglect--the vice-admiral intimated to captain parker a desire to see him in his cabin, requesting greenly and wycherly to accompany them below. "upon my word, parker," commenced sir gervaise, looking around him at the air of singular domestic comfort that the after-cabin of the ship presented, "you have the knack of taking a house to sea with you, that no other captain of the fleet possesses! no finery, no morganics, but a plain, wholesome, domestic look, that might make a man believe he was in his father's house. i would give a thousand pounds if my vagabonds could give the cabin of the plantagenet such a bowldero look, now!" "less than a hundred, sir, have done the little you see here. mrs. parker makes it a point to look to those matters, herself, and in that lies the whole secret, perhaps. a good wife is a great blessing, sir gervaise, though you have never been able to persuade yourself into the notion, i believe." "i hardly think, parker, the wife can do it all. now there's stowel, bluewater's captain, he is married as well as yourself--nay, by george, i've heard the old fellow say he had as much wife as any man in his majesty's service--but _his_ cabin looks like a cobbler's barn, and his state-room like a soldier's bunk! when we were lieutenants together in the eurydice, parker, your state-room had just the same air of comfort about it that this cabin has at this instant. no--no--it's in the grain, man, or it would never show itself, in all times and places." "you forget, sir gervaise, that when i had the honour to be your messmate in the eurydice, i was a married man." "i beg your pardon, my old friend; so you were, indeed! why, that was a confounded long time ago, hey! parker?" "it was, truly, sir; but i was poor, and could not afford the extravagances of a single life. _i_ married for the sake of economy, admiral oakes." "and love--" answered sir gervaise, laughing. "i'll warrant you, greenly, that he persuaded mrs. parker into that notion, whether true or not. i'll warrant you, he didn't tell _her_ he married for so sneaking a thing as economy! i should like to see your state-room now, parker." "nothing easier, sir gervaise," answered the captain, rising and opening the door. "here it is, air, though little worthy the attention of the owner of bowldero." "a notable place, truly!--and with a housewife-look about it that must certainly remind you of mrs. parker--unless, indeed, that picture at the foot of your cot puts other notions into your head! what young hussy have you got there, my old eurydice?--hey! parker?" "that is a picture of my faithful wife, sir gervaise; a proper companion, i hope, of my cruise?" "hey! what, that young thing your wife, parker! how the d--l came she to have you?" "ah, sir gervaise, she is a young thing no longer, but is well turned towards sixty. the picture was taken when she was a bride, and is all the dearer to me, now that i know the original has shared my fortunes so long. i never look at it, without remembering, with gratitude, how much she thinks of me in our cruises, and how often she prays for our success. _you_ are not forgotten, either, sir, in her prayers." "i!" exclaimed the vice-admiral, quite touched at the earnest simplicity of the other. "d'ye hear that, greenly? i'll engage, now, this lady is a good woman--a really excellent creature--just such another as my poor sainted mother was, and a blessing to all around her! give me your hand, parker; and when you write next to your wife, tell her from me, god bless her; and say all you think a man ought to say on such an occasion. and now to business. let us seat ourselves in this snug domestic-looking cabin of yours, and talk our matters over." the two captains and wycherly followed the vice-admiral into the after-cabin, where the latter seated himself on a small sofa, while the others took chairs, in respectful attitudes near him, no familiarity or jocularity on the part of a naval superior ever lessening the distance between him and those who _hold subordinate commissions_--a fact that legislators would do well to remember, when graduating rank in a service. as soon as all were placed, sir gervaise opened his mind. "i have a delicate piece of duty, captain parker," he commenced, "which i wish entrusted to yourself. you must know that we handled the ship which escaped us this morning by running down into her own line, pretty roughly, in every respect; besides cutting two of her masts out of her. this ship, as you may have seen, has got up jury-masts, already; but they are spars that can only be intended to carry her into port. monsieur de vervillin is not the man i take him to be, if he intends to leave the quarrel between us where it is. still he cannot keep that crippled ship in his fleet, any more than we can keep our prize, and i make no doubt he will send her off to cherbourg as soon as it is dark; most probably accompanied by one of his corvettes; or perhaps by a frigate." "yes, sir gervaise," returned parker, thoughtfully, as soon as his superior ceased to speak; "what you predict, is quite likely to happen." "it _must_ happen, parker, the wind blowing directly for his haven. now, you may easily imagine what i want of the carnatic." "i suppose i understand you, sir;--and yet, if i might presume to express a wish--" "speak out, old boy--you're talking to a friend. i have chosen you to serve you, both as one i like, and as the oldest captain in the fleet. whoever catches that ship will hear more of it." "very true, sir; but are we not likely to have more work, here? and would it be altogether prudent to send so fine a ship as the carnatic away, when the enemy will count ten to six, even if she remain?" "all this has been thought of; and i suppose your own feeling has been anticipated. you think it will be more honourable to your vessel, to keep her place in the line, than to take a ship already half beaten." "that's it, indeed, sir gervaise. i do confess some such thoughts were crossing my mind." "then see how easy it is to rose them out of it. i cannot fight the french, in this moderate weather, without a reinforcement. when the rear joins, we shall be just ten to ten, without you, and with you, should be eleven to ten. now, i confess, i don't wish the least odds, and shall send away somebody; especially when i feel certain a noble two-decked ship will be the reward. if a frigate accompany the crippled fellow, you'll have your hands full, and a very fair fight; and should you get either, it will be a handsome thing. what say you _now_, parker?" "i begin to think better of the plan, sir gervaise, and am grateful for the selection. i wish, however, i knew your own precise wishes--i've always found it safe to follow them, sir." "here they are, then. get four or five sets of the sharpest eyes you have, and send them aloft to keep a steady look on your chap, while there is light enough to be certain of him. in a little while, they'll be able to recognise him in the dark; and by keeping your night-glasses well levelled, he can scarcely slip off, without your missing him. the moment he is gone, ware short round, and make the best of your way for cape la hogue, or alderney; you will go three feet to his two, and, my life on it, by day-light you'll have him to windward of you, and then you'll be certain of him. wait for no signals from me, but be off, as soon as it is dark. when your work is done, make the best of your way to the nearest english port, and clap a scotchman on your shoulder to keep the king's sword from chafing it. they thought me fit for knighthood at three-and-twenty, and the deuce is in it, parker, if you are not worthy of it at three-and-sixty!" "ah! sir gervaise, every thing you undertook succeeded! you never yet failed in any expedition." "that has come from attempting much. my _plans_ have often failed; but as something good has generally followed from them, i have the credit of designing to do, exactly what i've done." then followed a long, detailed discourse, on the subject before them, in which greenly joined; the latter making several useful suggestions to the veteran commander of the carnatic. after passing quite an hour in the cabin of parker, sir gervaise took his leave and re-entered his barge. it was now so dark that small objects could not be distinguished a hundred yards, and the piles of ships, as the boat glided past them, resembled black hillocks, with clouds floating among their tree-like and waving spars. no captain presumed to hail the commander-in-chief, as he rowed down the line, again, with the exception of the peer of the realm. he indeed had always something to say; and, as he had been conjecturing what could induce the vice-admiral to pay so long a visit to the carnatic, he could not refrain from uttering as much aloud, when he heard the measured stroke of the oars from the returning barge. "we shall all be jealous of this compliment to captain parker, sir gervaise," he called out, "unless your favours are occasionally extended to some of us less worthy ones." "ay--ay--morganic, you'll be remembered in proper time. in the mean while, keep your people's eyes open, so as not to lose sight of the french. we shall have something to say to them in the morning." "spare us a night-action, if possible, sir gervaise! i do detest fighting when sleepy; and i like to see my enemy, too. as much as you please in the day-time; but a quiet night, i do beseech you, sir." "i'll warrant you, now, if the opera, or ranelagh, or a drum, or a masquerade, were inviting you, morganic, you'd think but little of your pillow!" answered sir gervaise, drily; "whatever you do yourself, my lord, don't let the achilles get asleep on duty; i may have need of her to-morrow. give way, wychecombe, give way, and let us get home again." in fifteen minutes from that instant, sir gervaise was once more on the poop of the plantagenet, and the barge in its place on deck. greenly was attending to the duties of his ship, and bunting stood in readiness to circulate such orders as it might suit the commander-in-chief to give. it was now nine o'clock, and it was not easy to distinguish objects on the ocean, even as large as a ship, at the distance of half a league. by the aid of the glasses, however, a vigilant look-out was kept on the french vessels, which, by this time, were quite two leagues distant, drawing more ahead. it was necessary to fill away, in order to close with them, and a night-signal was made to that effect. the whole british line braced forward their main-yards, as it might be, by a common impulse, and had there been one there of sufficiently acute senses, he might have heard all six of the main-top-sails flapping at the same instant. as a matter of course the vessels started ahead, and, the order being to follow the vice-admiral in a close line ahead, when the plantagenet edged off, so as to bring the wind abeam, each vessel did the same, in succession, or as soon as in the commander-in-chief's wake, as if guided by instinct. about ten minutes later, the carnatic, to the surprise of those who witnessed the man[oe]uvre in the achilles, wore short round, and set studding-sails on her starboard side, steering large. the darkest portion of the horizon being that which lay to the eastward, or, in the direction of the continent, in twenty minutes the pyramid of her shadowy outline was swallowed in the gloom. all this time, la victoire, with the druid leading and towing, kept upon a bowline; and an hour later, when sir gervaise found himself abeam of the french line again, and half a league to windward of it, no traces were to be seen of the three ships last mentioned. "so far, all goes well, gentlemen," observed the vice-admiral to the group around him on the poop; "and we will now try to count the enemy, to make certain _he_, too, has no stragglers out to pick up waifs. greenly, try that glass; it is set for the night, and your eyes are the best we have. be particular in looking for the fellow under jury-masts." "i make out but ten ships in the line, sir gervaise," answered the captain, after a long examination; "of course the crippled ship must have gone to leeward. of _her_, certainly, i can find no traces." "you will oblige me, sir wycherly, by seeing what _you_ can make out, in the same way." after a still longer examination than that of the captain, wycherly made the same report, adding that he thought he also missed the frigate that had been nearest le foudroyant, repeating her signals throughout the day. this circumstance gratified sir gervaise, as he was pleased to find his prognostics came true, and he was not sorry to be rid of one of the enemy's light cruisers; a species of vessel that often proved embarrassing, after a decided affair, even to the conqueror. "i think, sir gervaise," wycherly modestly added, "that the french have boarded their tacks, and are pressing up to windward to near us. did it not appear so to you, captain greenly?" "not at all. if they carry courses, the sails have been set within the last five minutes--ha! sir gervaise, that is an indication of a busy night!" as he spoke. greenly pointed to the place where the french admiral was known to be, where at that instant appeared a double row of lights; proving that the batteries had their lanterns lit, and showing a disposition to engage. in less than a minute the whole french line was to be traced along the sea, by the double rows of illumination, the light resembling that which is seen through the window of a room that has a bright fire, rather than one in which lamps or candles are actually visible. as this was just the species of engagement in which the english had much to risk, and little to gain, sir gervaise immediately gave orders to brace forward the yards, to board fore-and-main tacks, and to set top-gallant-sails. as a matter of course, the ships astern made sail in the same manner, and hauled up on taut bowlines, following the admiral. "this is not our play," coolly remarked sir gervaise; "a crippled ship would drop directly into their arms and as for any success at long-shot, in a two-to-one fight, it is not to be looked for. no--no--monsieur de vervillin, show us your teeth if you will, and a pretty sight it is, but you do not draw a shot from me. i hope the order to show no lights is duly attended to." "i do not think there is a light visible from any ship in the fleet, sir gervaise," answered bunting, "though we are so near, there can be no great difficulty in telling where we are." "all but the carnatic and the prize, bunting. the more fuss they make with us, the less will they think of them." it is probable the french admiral had been deceived by the near approach of his enemy, for whose prowess he had a profound respect. he had made his preparations in expectation of an attack, but he did not open his fire, although heavy shot would certainly have told with effect. indisposed to the uncertainty of a night-action, he declined bringing it on, and the lights disappeared from his ports an hour later; at that time the english ships, by carrying sail harder than was usual in so stiff a breeze, found themselves out of gun-shot, on the weather-bow of their enemies. then, and not till then, did sir gervaise reduce his canvass, having, by means of his glasses, first ascertained that the french had again hauled up their courses, and were moving along at a very easy rate of sailing. it was now near midnight, and sir gervaise prepared to go below. previously to quitting the deck, however, he gave very explicit orders to greenly, who transmitted them to the first lieutenant, that officer or the captain intending to be on the look-out through the night; the movements of the whole squadron being so dependent on those of the flag ship. the vice-admiral then retired, and went coolly to bed. he was not a man to lose his rest, because an enemy was just out of gun-shot. accustomed to be man[oe]uvring in front of hostile fleets, the situation had lost its novelty, and he had so much confidence in the practice of his captains, that he well knew nothing could occur so long as his orders were obeyed; to doubt the latter would have been heresy in his eyes. in professional nonchalance, no man exceeded our vice-admiral. blow high, or blow low, it never disturbed the economy of his cabin-life, beyond what unavoidably was connected with the comfort of his ship; nor did any prospect of battle cause a meal to vary a minute in time or a particle in form, until the bulk-heads were actually knocked down, and the batteries were cleared for action. although excitable in trifles, and sometimes a little irritable, sir gervaise, in the way of his profession, was a great man on great occasions. his temperament was sanguine, and his spirit both decided and bold; and, in common with all such men who see the truth at all, when he did see it, he saw it so clearly, as to throw all the doubts that beset minds of a less masculine order into the shade. on the present occasion, he was sure nothing could well occur to disturb his rest; and he took it with the composure of one on _terra-firma_, and in the security of peace. unlike those who are unaccustomed to scenes of excitement, he quietly undressed himself, and his head was no sooner on its pillow, than he fell into a profound sleep. it would have been a curious subject of observation to an inexperienced person, to note the manner in which the two fleets man[oe]uvred throughout that night. after several hours of ineffectual efforts to bring their enemies fairly within reach of their guns, after the moon had risen, the french gave the matter up for a time, shortening sail while most of their superior officers caught a little rest. the sun was just rising, as galleygo laid his hand on the shoulder of the vice-admiral, agreeably to orders given the previous night. the touch sufficed: sir gervaise being wide awake in an instant. "well," he said, rising to a sitting attitude, and putting the question which first occurs to a seaman, "how's the weather?" "a good top-gallant breeze, sir jarvy, and just what's this ship's play. if you'd only let her out, and on them johnny crapauds, she'd be down among 'em, in half an hour, like a hawk upon a chicken. i ought to report to your honour, that the last chicken will be dished for breakfast unless we gives an order to the gun-room steward to turn us over some of his birds, as pay for what the pigs eat; which were real capons." "why, you pirate, you would not have me commit a robbery, on the high seas, would ye?" "what robbery would it be to order the gun-room to _sell_ us some poultry. lord! sir jarvy, i'm as far from wishing to take a thing without an order, as the gunner's yeoman; but, let mr. atwood put it in black and white." "tush!" interrupted the master. "how did the french bear from us, when you were last on deck?" "why, there they is, sir jarvy," answered galleygo, drawing the curtain from before the state-room window, and allowing the vice-admiral to see the rear of the french line for himself, by turning half round; "and just where we wants 'em. their leading ship a little abaft our lee-beam, distant one league. that's what i calls satisfactory, now." "ay, that _is_ a good position, master galleygo. was the prize in sight, or were you too chicken-headed to look." "i chicken-headed! well, sir jarvy, of all characters and descriptions of _me_, that your honour has seen fit to put abroad, this is the most unjustest; chickens being a food i never thinks on, off soundings. pig-headed you might in reason call me, sir jarvy; for i _do_ looks arter the pigs, which is the only real stand-by in a ship; but i never dreams of a chicken, except for _your_ happetite. when they was eight on 'em--" "was the prize in sight?" demanded sir gervaise, a little sharply. "no, sir jarvy; she had disappeared, and the druid with her. but this isn't all, sir; for they does say, some'at has befallen the carnatic, she having gone out of our line, like a binnacle-lamp at eight bells." "ay, _she_ is not visible, either." "not so much as a hen-coop, sir jarvy! we all wonders what has become of captain parker; no sign of him or of his ship is to be found on the briny ocean. the young gentlemen of the watch laugh, and say she must have gone up in a waterspout, but they laughs so much at misfortins, generally, that i never minds 'em." "have you had a good look-out at the ocean, this morning, master galleygo," asked sir gervaise, drawing his head out of a basin of water, for, by this time, he was half-dressed, and making his preparations for the razor. "you used to have an eye for a chase, when we were in a frigate, and ought to be able to tell me if bluewater is in sight." "admiral blue!--well, sir jarvy, it _is_ remarkable, but i had just rubbed his division out of my log, and forgotten all about it. there _was_ a handful of craft, or so, off here to the nor'ard, at day-light, but i never thought it was admiral blue, it being more nat'ral to suppose him in his place, as usual, in the rear of our own line. let me see, sir jarvy, how many ships has we absent under admiral blue?" "why, the five two-deckers of his own division, to be sure, besides the ranger and the gnat. seven sail in all." "yes, that's just it! well, your honour, there _was_ five sail to be seen, out here to the nor'ard, as i told you, and, sure enough, it may have been admiral blue, with all his craft." by this time, sir gervaise had his face covered with lather, but he forgot the circumstance in a moment. as the wind was at the north-west, and the plantagenet was on the larboard tack, looking in the direction of the bill of portland, though much too far to the southward to allow the land to be seen, his own larboard quarter-gallery window commanded a good view of the whole horizon to windward. crossing over from the starboard state-room, which he occupied _ex-officio_, he opened the window in question, and took a look for himself. there, sure enough, was visible a squadron of five ships, in close order, edging leisurely down on the two lines, under their top-sails, and just near enough to allow it to be ascertained that their courses were not set. this sight produced a sudden change in all the vice-admiral's movements. the business of the toilet was resumed in haste, and the beard was mowed with a slashing hand, that might have been hazardous in the motion of a ship, but for the long experience of a sailor. this important part of the operation was scarcely through, when locker announced the presence of captain greenly in the main cabin. "what now, greenly?--what now?" called out the vice-admiral, puffing as he withdrew his head, again, from the basin--"what now, greenly? any news from bluewater?" "i am happy to tell you, sir gervaise, he has been in sight more than an hour, and is closing with us, though shyly and slowly. i would not let you be called, as all was right, and i knew sleep was necessary to a clear head." "you have done quite right, greenly; god willing, i intend this to be a busy day! the french must see our rear division?" "beyond a doubt, sir, but they show no signs of making off. m. de vervillin will fight, i feel certain; though the experience of yesterday may render him a little shy as to the mode." "and his crippled ship?--old parker's friend--i take it _she_ is not visible." "you were quite right in your conjecture, sir gervaise; the crippled ship is off, as is one of the frigates, no doubt to see her in. blewet, too, has gone well to windward of the french, though he can fetch into no anchorage short of portsmouth, if this breeze stand." "any haven will do. our little success will animate the king's party, and give it more _éclat_, perhaps, than it really merits. let there be no delay with the breakfast this morning, greenly; it will be a busy day." "ay--ay, sir," answered the captain in the sailor's usual manner; "_that_ has been seen to already, as i have expected as much. admiral bluewater keeps his ships in most beautiful order, sir! i do not think the cæsar, which leads, is two cable's-length from the dublin, the sternmost vessel. he is driving four-in-hand, with a tight rein, too, depend on it, sir." at this instant, sir gervaise came out of his state-room, his coat in his hand, and with a countenance that was thoughtful. he finished dressing with an abstracted air, and would not have known the last garment was on, had not galleygo given a violent pull on its skirts, in order to smooth the cloth about the shoulders. "it is odd, that bluewater should come down nearly before the wind, in a line ahead, and not in a line abreast!" sir gervaise rejoined, as his steward did this office for him. "let admiral blue alone, for doing what's right," put in galleygo, in his usual confident and sell-possessed manner. "by keeping his ships astern of hisself, he can tell where to find 'em, and we understands from experience, if admiral blue knows where to find a ship, he knows how to use her." instead of rebuking this interference, which went a little further than common, greenly was surprised to see the vice-admiral look his steward intently in the face, as if the man had expressed some shrewd and comprehensive truth. then turning to his captain, sir gervaise intimated an intention of going on deck to survey the state of things with his own eyes. chapter xxvii. "_thou_ shouldst have died, o high-soul'd chief! in those bright days of glory fled, when triumph so prevailed o'er grief, we scarce would mourn the dead." mrs. hemans. the eventful day opened with most of the glories of a summer's morning. the wind alone prevented it from being one of the finest sun-risings of july. that continued fresh, at north-west, and, consequently, cool for the season. the seas of the south-west gale had entirely subsided, and were already succeeded by the regular but comparatively trilling swell of the new breeze. for large ships, it might be called smooth water; though the driver and active showed by their pitching and unsteadiness, and even the two-deckers, by their waving masts, that the unquiet ocean was yet in motion. the wind seemed likely to stand, and was what seamen would be apt to call a good six-knot breeze. to leeward, still distant about a league, lay the french vessels, drawn up in beautiful array, and in an order so close, and a line so regular, as to induce the belief that m. de vervillin had made his dispositions to receive the expected attack, in his present position. all his main-top-sails lay flat aback; the top-gallant-sails were flying loose, but with buntlings and clew-lines hauled up; the jibs were fluttering to leeward of their booms, and the courses were hanging in festoons beneath their yards. this was gallant fighting-canvass, and it excited the admiration of even his enemies. to increase this feeling, just as sir gervaise's foot reached the poop, the whole french line displayed their ensigns, and _le foudroyant_ fired a gun to windward. "hey! greenly?" exclaimed the english commander-in-chief; "this is a manly defiance, and coming from m. de vervillin, it means something! he wishes to take the day for it; though, as i think half that time will answer, we will wash up the cups before we go at it. make the signals, bunting, for the ships to heave-to, and then to get their breakfasts, as fast as possible. steady breeze--steady breeze, greenly, and all we want!" five minutes later, while sir gervaise was running his eye over the signal-book, the plantagenet's calls were piping the people to their morning meal, at least an hour earlier than common; the people repaired to their messes, with a sort of stern joy; every man in the ship understanding the reason of a summons so unusual. the calls of the vessels astern were heard soon after, and one of the officers who was watching the enemy with a glass, reported that he thought the french were breakfasting, also. orders being given to the officers to employ the next half hour in the same manner, nearly everybody was soon engaged in eating; few thinking that the meal might probably be their last. sir gervaise felt a concern, which he succeeded in concealing, however, at the circumstance that the ships to windward made no more sail; though he refrained from signalling the rear-admiral to that effect, from tenderness to his friend, and a vague apprehension of what might be the consequences. while the crews were eating, he stood gazing, thoughtfully, at the noble spectacle the enemy offered, to leeward, occasionally turning wistful glances at the division that was constantly drawing nearer to windward. at length greenly, himself, reported that the plantagenet had "turned the hands-to," again. at this intelligence, sir gervaise started, as from a reverie, smiled, and spoke. we will here remark, that now, as on the previous day, all the natural excitability of manner had disappeared from the commander-in-chief, and he was quiet, and exceedingly gentle in his deportment. this, all who knew him, understood to denote a serious determination to engage. "i have desired galleygo to set my little table, half an hour hence, in the after-cabin, greenly, and you will share the meal with me. sir wycherly will be of our party, and i hope it will not be the last time we may meet at the same board. it is necessary every thing should be in fighting-order to-day!" "so i understand it, sir gervaise. we are ready to begin, as soon as the order shall be received." "wait one moment until bunting comes up from his breakfast. ah! here he is, and we are quite ready for him, having bent-on the signal in his absence. show the order, bunting; for the day advances." the little flags were fluttering at the main-top-gallant-mast-head of the plantagenet in less than one minute, and in another it was repeated by the chloe, driver, and active, all of which were lying-to, a quarter of a mile to windward, charged in particular with this, among other duties. so well was this signal known, that not a book in the fleet was consulted, but all the ships answered, the instant the flags could be seen and understood. then the shrill whistles were heard along the line, calling "all hands" to "clear ship for action, ahoy!" no sooner was this order given in the plantagenet, than the ship became a scene of active but orderly exertion. the top-men were on the yards, stoppering, swinging the yards in chains, and lashing, in order to prevent shot from doing more injury than was unavoidable; bulwarks were knocked down; mess-chest, bags, and all other domestic appliances, disappeared _below_,[ ] and the decks were cleared of every thing which could be removed, and which would not be necessary in an engagement. fully a quarter of an hour was thus occupied, for there was no haste, and as it was no moment of mere parade, it was necessary that the work should be effectually done. the officers forbade haste, and nothing important was reported as effected, that some one in authority did not examine with his own eyes, to see that no proper care had been neglected. then mr. bury, the first lieutenant, went on the main-yard, in person, to look at the manner in which it had been slung, while he sent the boatswain up forward, on the same errand. these were unusual precautions, but the word had passed through the ship "that sir jarvy was in earnest;" and whenever it was known that "sir jarvy" was in such a humour, every one understood that the day's work was to be hard, if not long. [footnote : in the action of the nile, many of the french ships, under the impression that the enemy _must_ engage on the _outside_, put their lumber, bags, &c., into the ports, and between the guns, in the larboard, or _inshore_ batteries; and when the british anchored _inshore_ of them, these batteries could not be used.] "our breakfast is ready, sir jarvy," reported galleygo, "and as the decks is all clear, the b'ys can make a clean run of it from the coppers. i only wants to know when to serve it, your honour." "serve it now, my good fellow. tell the bowlderos to be nimble, and expect us below. come, greenly--come, wychecombe--we are the last to eat--let us not be the last at our stations." "ship's clear, sir," reported bury to his captain, as the three reached the quarter-deck, on their way to the cabin. "very well, bury; when the fleet is signalled to go to quarters, we will obey with the rest." as this was said, greenly looked at the vice-admiral to catch his wishes. but sir gervaise had no intention of fatiguing his people unnecessarily. he had left his private orders with bunting, and he passed down without an answer or a glance. the arrangements in the after-cabin were as snug and as comfortable as if the breakfast-table had been set in a private house, and the trio took their seats and commenced operations with hearty good will. the vice-admiral ordered the doors thrown open, and as the port-lids were up, from the place where he sat he could command glimpses, both to leeward and to windward, that included a view of the enemy, as well as one of his own expected reinforcements. the bowlderos were in full livery, and more active and attentive than usual even. their station in battle--for no man on board a vessel of war is an "_idler_" in a combat--was on the poop, as musketeers, near the person of their master, whose colours they wore, under the ensign of their prince, like vassals of an ancient baron. notwithstanding the crisis of the morning, however, these men performed their customary functions with the precision and method of english menials, omitting no luxury or usage of the table. on a sofa behind the table, was spread the full dress-coat of a vice-admiral, then a neat but plain uniform, without either lace or epaulettes, but decorated with a rich star in brilliants, the emblem of the order of the bath. this coat sir gervaise always wore in battle, unless the weather rendered a "storm-uniform," as he used to term a plainer attire, necessary. the breakfast passed off pleasantly, the gentlemen eating as if no momentous events were near. just at its close, however, sir gervaise leaned forward, and looking through one of the weather-ports of the main-cabin, an expression of pleasure illuminated his countenance, as he said-- "ah! there go bluewater's signals, at last!--a certain proof that he is about to put himself in communication with us." "i have been a good deal surprised, sir," observed greenly, a little drily, though with great respect of manner, "that you have not ordered the rear-admiral to make more sail. he is jogging along like a heavy wagon, and yet i hardly think he can mistake these five ships for frenchmen!" "he is never in a hurry, and no doubt wishes to let _his_ crews breakfast, before he closes. i'll warrant ye, now, gentlemen, that his ships are at this moment all as clear as a church five minutes after the blessing has been pronounced." "it will not be one of our virginian churches, then, sir gervaise," observed wycherly, smiling; "_they_ serve for an exchange, to give and receive news in, after the service is over." "ay, that's the old rule--first pray, and then gossip. well, bunting, what does the rear-admiral say?" "upon my word, sir gervaise, i can make nothing of the signal, though it is easy enough to make out the flags," answered the puzzled signal-officer. "will you have the goodness to look at the book yourself, sir. the number is one hundred and forty." "one hundred and forty! why, that must have something to do with anchoring!--ay, here it is. 'anchor, i cannot, having lost my cables.' who the devil asked him to anchor?" "that's just it, sir. the signal-officer on board the cæsar must have made some mistake in his flags; for, though the distance is considerable, our glasses are good enough to read them." "perhaps admiral bluewater has set the private, personal, telegraph at work, sir," quietly observed greenly. the commander-in-chief actually changed colour at this suggestion. his face, at first, flushed to crimson; then it became pale, like the countenance of one who suffered under acute bodily pain. wycherly observed this, and respectfully inquired if sir gervaise were ill. "i thank you, young sir," answered the vice-admiral, smiling painfully; "it is over. i believe i shall have to go into dock, and let magrath look at some of my old hurts, which _are_ sometimes troublesome. mr. bunting, do me the favour to go on deck, and ascertain, by a careful examination, if a short red pennant be not set some ten or twelve feet above the uppermost flag. now, greenly, we will take the other cup of tea, for there is plenty of leisure." two or three brooding minutes followed. then bunting returned to say the pennant _was_ there, a fact he had quite overlooked in his former observations, confounding the narrow flag in question with the regular pennant of the king. this short red pennant denoted that the communication was verbal, according to a method invented by bluewater himself, and by means of which, using the ordinary numbers, he was enabled to communicate with his friend, without any of the captains, or, indeed, without sir gervaise's own signal-officer's knowing what was said. in a word, without having recourse to any new flags, but, by simply giving new numbers to the old ones, and referring to a prepared dictionary, it was possible to hold a conversation in sentences, that should be a secret to all but themselves. sir gervaise took down the number of the signal that was flying, and directed bunting to show the answering flag, with a similar pennant over it, and to continue this operation so long as the rear-admiral might make his signals. the numbers were to be sent below as fast as received. as soon as bunting disappeared, the vice-admiral unlocked a secretary, the key of which was never out of his own possession, took from it a small dictionary, and laid it by his plate. all this time the breakfast proceeded, signals of this nature frequently occurring between the two admirals. in the course of the next ten minutes, a quarter-master brought below a succession of numbers written on small pieces of paper; after which bunting appeared himself to say that the cæsar had stopped signalling. sir gervaise now looked out each word by its proper number, and wrote it down with his pencil as he proceeded, until the whole read--"god sake--make no signal. engage not." no sooner was the communication understood, than the paper was torn into minute fragments, the book replaced, and the vice-admiral, turning with a calm determined countenance to greenly, ordered him to beat to quarters as soon as bunting could show a signal to the fleet to the same effect. on this hint, all but the vice-admiral went on deck, and the bowlderos instantly set about removing the table and all the other appliances. finding himself annoyed by the movements of the servants, sir gervaise walked out into the great cabin, which, regardless of its present condition, he began to pace as was his wont when lost in thought. the bulk-heads being down, and the furniture removed, this was in truth walking in sight of the crew. all who happened to be on the main-deck could see what passed, though no one presumed to enter a spot that was tabooed to vulgar feet, even when thus exposed. the aspect and manner of "sir jarvy," however, were not overlooked, and the men prognosticated a serious time. such was the state of things, when the drums beat to quarters, throughout the whole line. at the first tap, the great cabin sunk to the level of an ordinary battery; the seamen of two guns, with the proper officers, entering within the sacred limits, and coolly setting about clearing their pieces, and making the other preparations necessary for an action. all this time sir gervaise continued pacing what would have been the centre of his own cabin had the bulk-heads stood, the grim-looking sailors avoiding him with great dexterity, and invariably touching their hats as they were compelled to glide near his person, though every thing went on as if he were not present. sir gervaise might have remained lost in thought much longer than he did, had not the report of a gun recalled him to a consciousness of the scene that was enacting around him. "what's that?" suddenly demanded the vice-admiral--"is blue water signalling again?" "no, sir gervaise," answered the fourth lieutenant, looking out of a lee port; "it is the french admiral giving us another weather-gun; as much as to ask why we don't go down. this is the second compliment of the same sort that he has paid us already to-day!" these words were not all spoken before the vice-admiral was on the quarter-deck; in half a minute more, he was on the poop. here he found greenly, wychecombe, and bunting, all looking with interest at the beautiful line of the enemy. "monsieur de vervillin is impatient to wipe off the disgrace of yesterday," observed the first, "as is apparent by the invitations he gives us to come down. i presume admiral bluewater will wake up at this last hint." "by heaven, he has hauled his wind, and is standing to the northward and eastward!" exclaimed sir gervaise, surprise overcoming all his discretion. "although an extraordinary movement, at such a time, it is wonderful in what beautiful order bluewater keeps his ships!" all that was said was true enough. the rear-admiral's division having suddenly hauled up, in a close line ahead, each ship followed her leader as mechanically as if they moved by a common impulse. as no one in the least doubted the rear-admiral's loyalty, and his courage was of proof, it was the general opinion that this unusual man[oe]uvre had some connection with the unintelligible signals, and the young officers laughingly inquired among themselves what "sir jarvy was likely to do next?" it would seem, however, that monsieur de vervillin suspected a repetition of some of the scenes of the preceding day; for, no sooner did he perceive that the english rear was hugging the wind, than five of his leading ships filled, and drew ahead, as if to meet that division, man[oe]uvring to double on the head of his line; while the remaining five, with the foudroyant, still lay with their top-sails to the mast, waiting for their enemy to come down. sir gervaise could not stand this long. he determined, if possible, to bring bluewater to terms, and he ordered the plantagenet to fill. followed by his own division, he wore immediately, and went off under easy sail, quartering, towards monsieur de vervillin's rear, to avoid being raked. the quarter of an hour that succeeded was one of intense interest, and of material changes; though not a shot was fired. as soon as the comte de vervillin perceived that the english were disposed to come nearer, he signalled his own division to bear up, and to run off dead before the wind, under their top-sails, commencing astern; which reversed his order of sailing, and brought le foudroyant in the rear, or nearest to the enemy. this was no sooner done, than he settled all his top-sails on the caps. there could be no mistaking this man[oe]uvre. it was a direct invitation to sir gervaise to come down, fairly alongside; the bearing up at once removing all risk of being raked in so doing. the english commander-in-chief was not a man to neglect such a palpable challenge; but, making a few signals to direct the mode of attack he contemplated, he set fore-sail and main-top-gallant-sail, and brought the wind directly over his own taffrail. the vessels astern followed like clock-work, and no one now doubted that the mode of attack was settled for that day. as the french, with monsieur de vervillin, were still half a mile to the southward and eastward of the approaching division, of their enemy, the comte collected all his frigates and corvettes on his starboard hand, leaving a clear approach to sir gervaise on his larboard beam. this hint was understood, too, and the plantagenet steered a course that would bring her up on that side of le foudroyant, and at the distance of about one hundred yards from the muzzles of her guns. this threatened to be close work, and unusual work in fleets, at that day; but it was the game our commander-in-chief was fond of playing, and it was one, also, that promised soonest to bring matters to a result. these preliminaries arranged, there was yet leisure for the respective commanders to look about them. the french were still fully a mile ahead of their enemies, and as both fleets were going in the same direction, the approach of the english was so slow as to leave some twenty minutes of that solemn breathing time, which reigns in a disciplined ship, previous to the commencement of the combat. the feelings of the two commanders-in-chief, at this pregnant instant, were singularly in contradiction to each other. the comte de vervillin saw that the rear division of his force, under the comte-amiral le vicomte des prez, was in the very position he desired it to be, having obtained the advantage of the wind by the english division's coming down, and by keeping its own luff. between the two french officers there was a perfect understanding as to the course each was to take, and both now felt sanguine hopes of being able to obliterate the disgrace of the previous day, and that, too, by means very similar to those by which it had been incurred. on the other hand, sir gervaise was beset with doubts as to the course bluewater might pursue. he could not, however, come to the conclusion that he would abandon him to the joint efforts of the two hostile divisions; and so long as the french rear-admiral was occupied by the english force to windward, it left to himself a clear field and no favour in the action with monsieur de vervillin. he knew bluewater's generous nature too well not to feel certain his own compliance with the request not to signal his inferior would touch his heart, and give him a double chance with all his better feelings. nevertheless, sir gervaise oakes did not lead into this action without many and painful misgivings. he had lived too long in the world not to know that political prejudice was the most demoralising of all our weaknesses, veiling our private vices under the plausible concealment of the public weal, and rendering even the well-disposed insensible to the wrongs they commit to individuals, by means of the deceptive flattery of serving the community. as doubt was more painful than the certainty of his worst forebodings, however, and it was not in his nature to refuse a combat so fairly offered, he was resolved to close with the comte at every hazard, trusting the issue to god, and his own efforts. the plantagenet presented an eloquent picture of order and preparation, as she drew near the french line, on this memorable occasion. her people were all at quarters, and, as greenly walked through her batteries, he found every gun on the starboard side loose, levelled, and ready to be fired; while the opposite merely required a turn or two of the tackles to be cast loose, the priming to be applied, and the loggerhead to follow, in order to be discharged, also. a death-like stillness reigned from the poop to the cock-pit, the older seamen occasionally glancing through their ports in order to ascertain the relative positions of the two fleets, that they might be ready for the collision. as the english got within musket-shot, the french ran their top-sails to the mast-heads, and their ships gathered fresher way through the water. still the former moved with the greatest velocity, carrying the most sail, and impelled by the greater momentum. when near enough, however, sir gervaise gave the order to reduce the canvass of his own ship. "that will do, greenly," he said, in a mild, quiet tone. "let run the top-gallant-halyards, and haul up the fore-sail. the way you have, will bring you fairly alongside." the captain gave the necessary orders, and the master shortened sail accordingly. still the plantagenet shot ahead, and, in three or four minutes more, her bows doubled so far on le foudroyant's quarter, as to permit a gun to bear. this was the signal for both sides, each ship opening as it might be in the same breath. the flash, the roar, and the eddying smoke followed in quick succession, and in a period of time that seemed nearly instantaneous. the crash of shot, and the shrieks of wounded mingled with the infernal din, for nature extorts painful concessions of human weaknesses, at such moments, even from the bravest and firmest. bunting was in the act of reporting to sir gervaise that no signal could yet be seen from the cæsar, in the midst of this uproar, when a small round-shot, discharged from the frenchman's poop, passed through his body, literally driving the heart before it, leaving him dead at his commander's feet. "i shall depend on you, sir wycherly, for the discharge of poor bunting's duty, the remainder of the cruise," observed sir gervaise, with a smile in which courtesy and regret struggled singularly for the mastery. "quarter-masters, lay mr. bunting's body a little out of the way, and cover it with those signals. they are a suitable pall for so brave a man!" just as this occurred, the warspite came clear of the plantagenet, on her outside, according to orders, and she opened with her forward guns, taking the second ship in the french line for her target. in two minutes more these vessels also were furiously engaged in the hot strife. in this manner, ship after ship passed on the outside of the plantagenet, and sheered into her berth ahead of her who had just been her own leader, until the achilles, lord morganic, the last of the five, lay fairly side by side with le conquereur, the vessel now at the head of the french line. that the reader may understand the incidents more readily, we will give the opposing lines in the precise form in which they lay, viz. plantagenet le foudroyant warspite le téméraire blenheim le dugay trouin thunderer l'ajax achilles le conquereur. the constantly recurring discharges of four hundred pieces of heavy ordnance, within a space so small, had the effect to repel the regular currents of air, and, almost immediately, to lessen a breeze of six or seven knots, to one that would not propel a ship more than two or three. this was the first observable phenomenon connected with the action, but, as it had been expected, sir gervaise had used the precaution to lay his ships as near as possible in the positions in which he intended them to fight the battle. the next great physical consequence, one equally expected and natural, but which wrought a great change in the aspect of the battle, was the cloud of smoke in which the ten ships were suddenly enveloped. at the first broadsides between the two admirals, volumes of light, fleecy vapour rolled over the sea, meeting midway, and rising thence in curling wreaths, left nothing but the masts and sails of the adversary visible in the hostile ship. this, of itself, would have soon hidden the combatants in the bosom of a nearly impenetrable cloud; but as the vessels drove onward they entered deeper beneath the sulphurous canopy, until it spread on each side of them, shutting out the view of ocean, skies, and horizon. the burning of the priming below contributed to increase the smoke, until, not only was respiration often difficult, but those who fought only a few yards apart frequently could not recognise each other's faces. in the midst of this scene of obscurity, and a din that might well have alarmed the caverns of the ocean, the earnest and well-drilled seamen toiled at their ponderous guns, and remedied with ready hands the injuries received in the rigging, each man as intent on his own particular duty as if he wrought in the occupations of an ordinary gale. "sir wycherly," observed the vice-admiral, when the cannonading had continued some twenty minutes, "there is little for a flag-officer to do in such a cloud of smoke. i would give much to know the exact positions of the divisions of our two rear-admirals." "there is but one mode of ascertaining that, sir gervaise--if it be your pleasure, i will attempt it. by going on the main-top-gallant-yard, one might get a clear view, perhaps." sir gervaise smiled his approbation, and presently he saw the young man ascending the main-rigging, though half concealed in smoke. just at this instant, greenly ascended to the poop, from making a tour of observation below. without waiting for a question, the captain made his report. "we are doing pretty well, now, sir gervaise, though the first broadside of the comte treated us roughly. i think his fire slackens, and bury says, he is certain that his fore-top-mast is already gone. at all events, our lads are in good spirits, and as yet all the sticks keep their places." "i'm glad of this, greenly; particularly of the latter, just at this moment. i see you are looking at those signals--they cover the body of poor bunting." "and this train of blood to the ladder, sir--i hope our young baronet is not hurt?" "no, it is one of the bowlderos, who has lost a leg. i shall have to see that he wants for nothing hereafter." there was a pause; then both the gentlemen smiled, as they heard the crashing work made by a shot just beneath them, which, by the sounds and the direction, they knew had passed through greenly's crockery. still neither spoke. after a few more minutes of silent observation, sir gervaise remarked that he thought the flashes of the french guns more distant than they had been at first, though, at that instant, not a trace of their enemy was to be discovered, except in the roar of the guns, and in these very flashes, and their effect on the plantagenet. "if so, sir, the comte begins to find his berth too hot for him; here is the wind still directly over _our_ taffrail, such as it is." "no--no--we steer as we began--i keep my eye on that compass below, and am certain we hold a straight course. go forward, greenly, and see that a sharp look-out is kept ahead. it is time some of our own ships should be crippled; we must be careful not to run into them. should such a thing happen sheer hard to starboard, and pass _inside_." "ay--ay--sir gervaise; your wishes shall be attended to." as this was said, greenly disappeared, and, at the next instant, wycherly stood in his place. "well, sir--i am glad to see you back safe. if greenly were here now, _he_ would inquire about his _masts_, but _i_ wish to know the position of the _ships_." "i am the bearer of bad news, sir. nothing at all could be seen from the top; but in the cross-trees, i got a good look through the smoke, and am sorry to say the french rear-admiral is coming down fast on our larboard-quarter, with all his force. we shall have him abeam in five minutes." "and bluewater?" demanded sir gervaise, quick as lightning. "i could see nothing of admiral bluewater's ships; but knowing the importance of this intelligence, i came down immediately, and by the back-stay." "you have done well, sir. send a midshipman forward for captain greenly; then pass below yourself, and let the lieutenants in the batteries hear the news. they must divide their people, and by all means give a prompt and well-directed _first_ broadside." wycherly waited for no more. he ran below with the activity of his years. the message found greenly between the knight-heads, but he hurried aft to the poop to ascertain its object. it took sir gervaise but a moment to explain it all to the captain. "in the name of heaven, what can the other division be about," exclaimed greenly, "that it lets the french rear-admiral come upon us, in a moment like this!" "of that, sir, it is unnecessary to speak _now_," answered the commander-in-chief, solemnly. "our present business is to get ready for this new enemy. go into the batteries again, and, as you prize victory, be careful not to throw away the first discharge, in the smoke." as time pressed, greenly swallowed his discontent, and departed. the five minutes that succeeded were bitter minutes to sir gervaise oakes. beside himself there were but five men on the poop; viz., the quarter-master who tended the signals, and three of the bowlderos. all of these were using muskets as usual, though the vice-admiral never permitted marines to be stationed at a point which he wished to be as clear of smoke, and as much removed from bustle as possible. he began to pace this comparatively vacant little deck with a quick step, casting wistful glances towards the larboard-quarter; but though the smoke occasionally cleared a little in that direction, the firing having much slackened from exhaustion in the men, as well as from injuries given and received, he was unable to detect any signs of a ship. such was the state of things when wycherly returned and reported that his orders were delivered, and part of the people were already in the larboard-batteries. chapter xxviii. "and oh, the little warlike world within! the well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, the hoarse command, the busy humming din. when at a word, the tops are manned on high: hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry! while through the seaman's hand the tackle glides, or school-boy midshipman, that, standing by, strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides, and well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides." byron. "are you quite sure, sir wycherly wychecombe, that there is not some mistake about the approach of the rear division of the french?" inquired the vice-admiral, endeavouring to catch some glimpse of the water, through the smoke on the larboard hand. "may not some crippled ship of our own have sheered from the line, and been left by us, unknowingly, on that side?" "no, sir gervaise, there is _no_ mistake; there _can_ be none, unless i may have been deceived a little in the distance. i saw nothing but the sails and spars, not of a single vessel, but of _three_ ships; and one of them wore the flag of a french rear-admiral at the mizzen. as a proof that i was not mistaken, sir, there it is this minute!" the smoke on the off side of the plantagenet, as a matter of course, was much less dense than that on the side engaged, and the wind beginning to blow in eddies, as ever happens in a heavy cannonade, there were moments in which it cast aside the "shroud of battle." at that instant an opening occurred through which a single mast, and a single sail were visible, in the precise spot where wycherly had stated the enemy might be looked for. it was a mizzen-top-sail, beyond a question, and above it was fluttering the little square flag of the rear-admiral. sir gervaise decided on the character of the vessel, and on his own course, in an instant. stepping to the edge of the poop, with his natural voice, without the aid of a trumpet of any sort, he called out in tones that rose above the roar of the contest, the ominous but familiar nautical words of "stand by!" perhaps a call from powerful lungs (and the vice-admiral's voice, when he chose to use it, was like the blast of a clarion) is clearer and more impressive, when unaided by instruments, than when it comes disguised and unnatural through a tube. at any rate, these words were heard even on the lower deck, by those who stood near the hatches. taking them up, they were repeated by a dozen voices, with such expressions as "look out, lads; sir jarvy's awake!" "sight your guns!" "wait till she's square!" and other similar admonitions that it is usual for the sea-officer to give, as he is about to commence the strife. at this critical moment, sir gervaise again looked up, and caught another glimpse of the little flag, as it passed into a vast wreath of smoke; he saw that the ship was fairly abeam, and, as if doubling all his powers, he shouted the word "fire!" greenly was standing on the lower-deck ladder, with his head just even with the coamings of the hatch, as this order reached him, and he repeated it in a voice scarcely less startling. the cloud on the larboard side was driven in all directions, like dust scattered by wind. the ship seemed on fire, and the missiles of forty-one guns flew on their deadly errand, as it might be at a single flash. the old plantagenet trembled to her keel, and even bowed a little at the recoils, but, like one suddenly relieved from a burthen, righted and went on her way none the less active. that timely broadside saved the english commander-in-chiefs ship from an early defeat. it took the crew of le pluton, her new adversary, by surprise; for they had not been able to distinguish the precise position of their enemy; and, besides doing vast injury to both hull and people, drew her fire at an unpropitious moment. so uncertain and hasty, indeed, was the discharge the french ship gave in return, that no small portion of the contents of her guns passed ahead of the plantagenet, and went into the larboard quarter of le téméraire, the french admiral's second ahead. "that was a timely salute," said sir gervaise, smiling as soon as the fire of his new enemy had been received without material injury. "the first blow is always half the battle. we may now work on with some hopes of success. ah! here comes greenly again, god be praised! unhurt." the meeting of these two experienced seamen was cordial, but not without great seriousness. both felt that the situation of not only the ship, but of the whole fleet, was extremely critical, the odds being much too great, and the position of the enemy too favourable, not to render the result, to say the very least, exceedingly doubtful. some advantage had certainly been obtained, thus far; but there was little hope of preserving it long. the circumstances called for very decided and particularly bold measures. "my mind is made up, greenly," observed the vice-admiral. "we must go aboard of one of these ships, and make it a hand-to-hand affair. we will take the french commander-in-chief; he is evidently a good deal cut up by the manner in which his fire slackens, and if we can carry him, or even force him out of the line, it will give us a better chance with the rest. as for bluewater, god only knows what has become of him! he is not here at any rate, and we must help ourselves." "you have only to order, sir gervaise, to be obeyed. i will lead the boarders, myself." "it must be a general thing, greenly; i rather think we shall all of us have to go aboard of le foudroyant. go, give the necessary orders, and when every thing is ready, round in a little on the larboard braces, clap your helm a-port, and give the ship a rank sheer to starboard. this will bring matters to a crisis at once. by letting the fore-sail fall, and setting the spanker, you might shove the ship ahead a little faster." greenly instantly left the poop on this new and important duty. he sent his orders into the batteries, bidding the people remain at their guns, however, to the last moment; and particularly instructing the captain of marines, as to the manner in which he was to cover, and then follow the boarding-party. this done, he gave orders to brace forward the yards, as directed by sir gervaise. the reader will not overlook the material circumstance that all we have related occurred amid the din of battle. guns were exploding at each instant, the cloud of smoke was both thickening and extending, fire was flashing in the semi-obscurity of its volumes, shot were rending the wood and cutting the rigging, and the piercing shrieks of agony, only so much the more appalling by being extorted from the stern and resolute, blended their thrilling accompaniments. men seemed to be converted into demons, and yet there was a lofty and stubborn resolution to conquer mingled with all, that ennobled the strife and rendered it heroic. the broadsides that were delivered in succession down the line, as ship after ship of the rear division reached her station, however, proclaimed that monsieur des prez had imitated sir gervaise's mode of closing, the only one by means of which the leading vessel could escape destruction, and that the english were completely doubled on. at this moment, the sail-trimmers of the plantagenet handled their braces. the first pull was the last. no sooner were the ropes started, than the fore-top-mast went over the bows, dragging after it the main with all its hamper, the mizzen snapping like a pipe-stem, at the cap. by this cruel accident, the result of many injuries to shrouds, back-stays, and spars, the situation of the plantagenet became worse than ever; for, not only was the wreck to be partially cleared, at least, to fight many of the larboard guns, but the command of the ship was, in a great measure, lost, in the centre of one of the most infernal _mêlées_ that ever accompanied a combat at sea. at no time does the trained seaman ever appear so great, as when he meets sudden misfortunes with the steadiness and quiet which it is a material part of the _morale_ of discipline to inculcate. greenly was full of ardour for the assault, and was thinking of the best mode of running foul of his adversary, when this calamity occurred; but the masts were hardly down, when he changed all his thoughts to a new current, and called out to the sail-trimmers to "lay over, and clear the wreck." sir gervaise, too, met with a sudden and violent check to the current of his feelings. he had collected his bowlderos, and was giving his instructions as to the manner in which they were to follow, and keep near his person, in the expected hand-to-hand encounter, when the heavy rushing of the air, and the swoop of the mass from above, announced what had occurred. turning to the men, he calmly ordered them to aid in getting rid of the incumbrances, and was in the very act of directing wycherly to join in the same duty, when the latter exclaimed-- "see, sir gervaise, here comes another of the frenchmen close upon our quarter. by heavens, _they_ must mean to board!" the vice-admiral instinctively grasped his sword-hilt tighter, and turned in the direction mentioned by his companion. there, indeed, came a fresh ship, shoving the cloud aside, and, by the clearer atmosphere that seemed to accompany her, apparently bringing down a current of air stronger than common. when first seen, the jib-boom and bowsprit were both enveloped in smoke, but his bellying fore-top-sail, and the canvass hanging in festoons, loomed grandly in the vapour, the black yards seeming to embrace the wreaths, merely to cast them aside. the proximity, too, was fearful, her yard-arms promising to clear those of the plantagenet only by a few feet, as her dark bows brushed along the admiral's side. "this will be fearful work, indeed!" exclaimed sir gervaise. "a fresh broadside from a ship so near, will sweep all from the spars. go, wychecombe, tell greenly to call in--hold--'tis an english ship! no frenchman's bowsprit stands like that! almighty god be praised! 'tis the cæsar--there is the old roman's figure-head just shoving out of the smoke!" this was said with a yell, rather than a cry, of delight, and in a voice so loud that the words were heard below, and flew through the ship like the hissing of an ascending rocket. to confirm the glorious tidings, the flash and roar of guns on the off-side of the stranger announced the welcome tidings that le pluton had an enemy of her own to contend with, thus enabling the plantagenet's people to throw all their strength on the starboard guns, and pursue their other necessary work without further molestation from the french rear-admiral. the gratitude of sir gervaise, as the rescuing ship thrust herself in between him and his most formidable assailant was too deep for language. he placed his hat mechanically before his face, and thanked god, with a fervour of spirit that never before had attended his thanksgivings. this brief act of devotion over, he found the bows of the cæsar, which ship was advancing very slowly, in order not to pass too far ahead, just abreast of the spot where he stood, and so near that objects were pretty plainly visible. between her knight-heads stood bluewater, conning the ship, by means of a line of officers, his hat in his hand, waving in encouragement to his own people, while geoffrey cleveland held the trumpet at his elbow. at that moment three noble cheers were given by the crews of the two friendly vessels, and mingled with the increasing roar of the cæsar's artillery. then the smoke rose in a cloud over the forecastle of the latter ship, and persons could no longer be distinguished. nevertheless, like all that thus approached, the relieving ship passed slowly ahead, until nearly her whole length protected the undefended side of her consort, delivering her fire with fearful rapidity. the plantagenets seemed to imbibe new life from this arrival, and their starboard guns spoke out again, as if manned by giants. it was five minutes, perhaps, after this seasonable arrival, before the guns of the other ships of the english rear announced their presence on the outside of monsieur des prez's force; thus bringing the whole of the two fleets into four lines, all steering dead before the wind, and, as it were, interwoven with each other. by that time, the poops of the plantagenet and cæsar became visible from one to the other, the smoke now driving principally off from the vessels. there again were our two admirals each anxiously watching to get a glimpse of his friend. the instant the place was clear, sir gervaise applied the trumpet to his mouth, and called out-- "god bless you--dick! may god for ever bless you--_your_ ship can do it--clap your helm hard a-starboard, and sheer into m. des prez; you'll have him in five minutes." bluewater smiled, waved his hand, gave an order, and laid aside his trumpet. two minutes later, the cæsar sheered into the smoke on her larboard beam, and the crash of the meeting vessels was heard. by this time, the wreck of the plantagenet was cut adrift, and she, too, made a rank sheer, though in a direction opposite to that of the cæsar's. as she went through the smoke, her guns ceased, and when she emerged into the pure air, it was found that le foudroyant had set courses and top-gallant-sails, and was drawing so fast ahead, as to render pursuit, under the little sail that could be set, unprofitable. signals were out of the question, but this movement of the two admirals converted the whole battle scene into one of inexplicable confusion. ship after ship changed her position, and ceased her fire from uncertainty what that position was, until a general silence succeeded the roar of the cannonade. it was indispensable to pause and let the smoke blow away. it did not require many minutes to raise the curtain on the two fleets. as soon as the firing stopped, the wind increased, and the smoke was driven off to leeward in a vast straggling cloud, that seemed to scatter and disperse in the air spontaneously. then a sight of the havoc and destruction that had been done in this short conflict was first obtained. the two squadrons were intermingled, and it required some little time for sir gervaise to get a clear idea of the state of his own ships. generally, it might be said that the vessels were scattering, the french sheering towards their own coast, while the english were principally coming by the wind on the larboard tack, or heading in towards england. the cæsar and le pluton were still foul of each other, though a rear-admiral's flag was flying at the mizzen of the first, while that which had so lately fluttered at the royal-mast-head of the other, had disappeared. the achilles, lord morganic, was still among the french, more to leeward than any other english ship, without a single spar standing. her ensigns were flying, notwithstanding, and the thunderer and dublin, both in tolerable order, were edging away rapidly to cover their crippled consort; though the nearest french vessels seemed more bent on getting out of the _mêlée_, and into their own line again, than on securing any advantage already obtained. le téméraire was in the same predicament as the achilles as to spars, though much more injured in her hull, besides having thrice as many casualties. her flag was down; the ship having fairly struck to the warspite, whose boats were already alongside of her. le foudroyant, with quite one-third of her crew killed and wounded, was running off to leeward, with signals flying for her consorts to rally round her; but, within less than ten minutes after she became visible, her main and mizzen-masts both went. the blenheim had lost all her top-masts, like the plantagenet, and neither the elizabeth nor the york had a mizzen-mast standing, although engaged but a very short time. several lower yards were shot away, or so much injured as to compel the ships to shorten sail; this accident having occurred in both fleets. as for the damage done to the standing and running rigging, and to the sails, it is only necessary to say that shrouds, back and head-stays, braces, bowlines and lifts, were dangling in all directions, while the canvass that was open exhibited all sorts of rents, from that which had been torn like cloth in the shopman's hands, to the little eyelet holes of the canister and grape. it appeared, by the subsequent reports of the two parties, that, in this short but severe conflict, the slain and wounded of the english amounted to seven hundred and sixty-three, including officers; and that of the french, to one thousand four hundred and twelve. the disparity in this respect would probably have been greater against the latter, had it not been for the manner in which m. des prez succeeded in doubling on his enemies. little need be said in explanation of the parts of this battle that have not been distinctly related. m. des prez had man[oe]uvered in the manner he did, at the commencement of the affair, in the hope of drawing sir gervaise down upon the division of the comte de vervillin; and no sooner did he see, the first fairly enveloped in smoke, than he wore short round and joined in the affair, as has been mentioned. at this sight, bluewater's loyalty to the stuarts could resist no longer. throwing out a general signal to engage, he squared away, set every thing that would draw on the cæsar, and arrived in time to save his friend. the other ships followed, engaging on the outside, for want of room to imitate their leader. two more of the french ships, at least, in addition to _le téméraire_ and _le pluton_, might have been added to the list of prizes, had the actual condition of their fleet been known. but, at such moments, a combatant sees and feels his own injuries, while he has to conjecture many of those of his adversaries; and the english were too much occupied in making the provisions necessary to save their remaining spars, to risk much in order to swell an advantage that was already so considerable. some distant firing passed between the thunderer and dublin, and l'ajax, le dugay trouin, and l'hector, before the two former succeeded in getting lord morganic out of his difficulties; but it led to no material result; merely inflicting new injuries on certain spars that were sufficiently damaged before, and killing and wounding some fifteen or twenty men quite uselessly. as soon as the vice-admiral saw what was likely to be the effects of this episode, he called off captain o'neil of the dublin, by signal, he being an officer of a "hot temper," as the soldier said of himself at waterloo. the compliance with this order may be said to have terminated the battle. the reader will remember that the wind, at the commencement of the engagement, was at north-west. it was nearly "killed," as seamen express it, by the cannonade; then it revived a little, as the concussions of the guns gradually diminished. but the combined effect of the advance of the day, and the rushing of new currents of air to fill the vacuums produced by the burning of so much powder, was a sudden shift of wind; a breeze coming out strong, and as it might be, in an instant, from the eastward. this unexpected alteration in the direction and power of the wind, cost the thunderer her foremast, and did other damage to different ships; but, by dint of great activity and careful handling, all the english vessels got their heads round to the northward, while the french filled the other way, and went off free, steering nearly south-east, making the best of their way for brest. the latter suffered still more than their enemies, by the change just mentioned; and when they reached port, as did all but one the following day, no less than three were towed in without a spar standing, bowsprits excepted. the exception was _le caton_, which ship m. de vervillin set fire to and blew up, on account of her damages, in the course of the afternoon. thus of twelve noble two-decked ships with which this officer sailed from cherbourg only two days before, he reached brest with but seven. nor were the english entirely without their embarrassments. although the warspite had compelled le téméraire to strike, she was kept afloat herself with a good deal of difficulty, and that, too, not without considerable assistance from the other vessels. the leaks, however, were eventually stopped, and then the ship was given up to the care of her own crew. other vessels suffered of course, but no english ship was in as much jeopardy as this. the first hour after the action ceased, was one of great exertion and anxiety to our admiral. he called the chloe alongside by signal, and, attended by wycherly and his own quarter-masters, galleygo, who went without orders, and the bowlderos who were unhurt, he shifted his flag to that frigate. then he immediately commenced passing from vessel to vessel, in order to ascertain the actual condition of his command. the achilles detained him some time, and he was near her, or to leeward, when the wind shifted; which was bringing him to windward in the present stale of things. of this advantage he availed himself, by urging the different ships off as fast as possible; and long before the sun was in the meridian, all the english vessels were making the best of their way towards the land, with the intention of fetching into plymouth if possible; if not, into the nearest and best anchorage to leeward. the progress of the fleet was relatively slow, as a matter of course, though it got along at the rate of some five knots, by making a free wind of it. the master of the chloe had just taken the sun, in order to ascertain his latitude, when the vice-admiral commanded denham to set top-gallant-sails, and go within hail of the cæsar. that ship had got clear of _le pluton_ half an hour after the action ceased, and she was now leading the fleet, with her three top-sails on the caps. aloft she had suffered comparatively little; but sir gervaise knew that there must have been a serious loss of men in carrying, hand to hand, a vessel like that of m. des prez. he was anxious to see his friend, and to hear the manner in which his success had been obtained, and, we might add, to remonstrate with bluewater on a course that had led the latter to the verge of a most dangerous abyss. the chloe was half an hour running through the fleet, which was a good deal extended, and was sailing without any regard to a line. sir gervaise had many questions to ask, too, of the different commanders in passing. at last the frigate overtook le téméraire, which vessel was following the cæsar under easy canvass. as the chloe came up abeam, sir gervaise appeared in the gangway of the frigate, and, hat in hand, he asked with an accent that was intelligible, though it might not have absolutely stood the test of criticism,-- _"le vice-admiral oakes demande comment se porte-il, le contre-amiral, le vicomte des prez?"_ a little elderly man, dressed with extreme care, with a powdered head, but of a firm step and perfectly collected expression of countenance, appeared on the verge of le téméraire's poop, trumpet in hand, to reply. "_le vicomte des prez remercie bien monsieur le chevalier oake, et désire vivement de savoir comment se porte monsieur le vice-amiral?_" mutual waves of the trumpets served as replies to the questions, and then, after taking a moment to muster his french, sir gervaise continued-- _"j'espère voir monsieur le contre-amiral à dîner, à cinq heures, précis."_ the vicomte smiled at this characteristic manifestation of good-will and courtesy; and after pausing an instant to choose an expression to soften his refusal, and to express his own sense of the motive of the invitation, he called out-- _"veuillez bien recevoir nos excuses pour aujourd'hui, mons. le chevalier. nous n'avons pas encore digéré le repas si noble reçu à vos mains comme déjeuner."_ the chloe passing ahead, bows terminated the interview. sir gervaise's french was at fault, for what between the rapid, neat, pronunciation of the frenchman, the trumpet, and the turn of the expression, he did not comprehend the meaning of the _contre-amiral_. "what does he say, wychecombe?" he asked eagerly of the young man. "will he come, or not?" "upon my word, sir gervaise, french is a sealed language to me. never having been a prisoner, no opportunity has offered for acquiring the language. as i understood, you intended to ask him to dinner; i rather think, from his countenance, he meant to say he was not in spirits for the entertainment." "pooh! we would have put him in spirits, and bluewater could have talked to him in his own tongue, by the fathom. we will close with the cæsar to leeward, denham; never mind rank on an occasion like this. it's time to let the top-gallant-halyards run; you'll have to settle your top-sails too, or we shall shoot past her. bluewater may take it as a salute to his gallantry in carrying so fine a ship in so handsome a manner." several minutes now passed in silence, during which the frigate was less and less rapidly closing with the larger vessel, drawing ahead towards the last, as it might be, foot by foot. sir gervaise got upon one of the quarter-deck guns, and steadying himself against the hammock-cloths, he was in readiness to exchange the greetings he was accustomed to give and to receive from his friend, in the same heartfelt manner as if nothing had occurred to disturb the harmony of their feelings. the single glance of the eye, the waving of the hat, and the noble manner in which bluewater interposed between him and his most dangerous enemy, was still present to his mind, and disposed him even more than common to the kindest feelings of his nature. stowel was already on the poop of the cæsar, and, as the chloe came slowly on, he raised his hat in deference to the commander-in-chief. it was a point of delicacy with sir gervaise never to interfere with any subordinate flag-officer's vessel any more than duty rigidly required; consequently his communications with the captain of the cæsar had usually been of a general nature, verbal orders and criticisms being studiously avoided. this circumstance rendered the commander-in-chief even a greater favourite than common with stowel, who had all his own way in his own ship, in consequence of the rear-admiral's indifference to such matters. "how do you do, stowel?" called out sir gervaise, cordially. "i am delighted to see you on your legs, and hope the old roman is not much the worse for this day's treatment" "i thank you, sir gervaise, we are both afloat yet, though we have passed through warm times. the ship is damaged, sir, as you may suppose; and, although it stands so bravely, and looks so upright, that foremast of ours is as good as a condemned spar. one thirty-two through the heart of it, about ten feet from the deck, an eighteen in the hounds, and a double-header sticking in one of the hoops! a spar cannot be counted for much that has as many holes in it as those, sir!" "deal tenderly with it, my old friend, and spare the canvass; those chaps at plymouth will set all to rights, again, in a week. hoops can be had for asking, and as for holes in the heart, many a poor fellow has had them, and lived through it all. you are a case in point; mrs. stowel not having spared you in that way, i'll answer for it." "mrs. stowel commands ashore, sir gervaise, and i command afloat; and in that way, we keep a quiet ship and a quiet house, i thank you, sir; and i endeavour to think of her at sea, as little as possible." "ay, that's the way with you doting husbands;--always ashamed of your own lively sensibilities. but what has become of bluewater?--does he know that we are alongside?" stowel looked round, cast his eyes up at the sails, and played with the hilt of his sword. the rapid eye of the commander-in-chief detected this embarrassment, and quick as thought he demanded what had happened. "why, sir gervaise, you know how it is with some admirals, who like to be in every thing. i told our respected and beloved friend, that he had nothing to do with boarding; that if either of us was to go, _i_ was the proper man; but that we ought both to stick by the ship. he answered something about lost honour and duty, and you know, sir, what legs he has, when he wishes to use them! one might as well think of stopping a deserter by a halloo; away he went, with the first party, sword in hand, a sight i never saw before, and never wish to see again! thus you see how it was, sir." the commander-in-chief compressed his lips, until his features, and indeed his whole form was a picture of desperate resolution, though his face was as pale as death, and the muscles of his mouth twitched, in spite of all his physical self-command. "i understand you, sir," he said, in a voice that seemed to issue from his chest; "you wish to say that admiral bluewater is killed." "no, thank god! sir gervaise, not _quite_ as bad as that, though sadly hurt; yes, indeed, very sadly hurt!" sir gervaise oakes groaned, and for a few minutes he leaned his head on the hammock-cloths, veiling his face from the sight of men. then he raised his person erect, and said steadily-- "run your top-sails to the mast-head, captain stowel, and round your ship to. i will come on board of you." an order was given to denham to take room, when the chloe came to the wind on one tack and the cæsar on the other. this was contrary to rule, as it increased the distance between the ships; but the vice-admiral was impatient to be in his barge. in ten minutes he was mounting the cæsar's side, and in two more he was in bluewater's main-cabin. geoffrey cleveland was seated by the table, with his face buried in his arms. touching his shoulder, the boy raised his head, and showed a face covered with tears. "how is he, boy?" demanded sir gervaise, hoarsely. "do the surgeons give any hopes?" the midshipman shook his head, and then, as if the question renewed his grief, he again buried his face in his arms. at this moment, the surgeon of the ship came from the rear-admiral's state-room, and following the commander-in-chief into the after-cabin, they had a long conference together. minute after minute passed, and the cæsar and chloe still lay with their main-top-sails aback. at the end of half an hour, denham wore round and laid the head of his frigate in the proper direction. ship after ship came up, and went on to the northward, fast as her crippled state would allow, yet no sign of movement was seen in the cæsar. two sail had appeared in the south-eastern board, and they, too, approached and passed without bringing the vice-admiral even on deck. these ships proved to be the carnatic and her prize, le scipion, which latter ship had been intercepted and easily captured by the former. the steering of m. de vervillin to the south-west had left a clear passage to the two ships, which were coming down with a free wind at a handsome rate of sailing. this news was sent into the cæsar's cabin, but it brought no person and no answer out of it. at length, when every thing had gone ahead, the barge returned to the chloe. it merely took a note, however, which was no sooner read by wycherly, than he summoned the bowlderos and galleygo, had all the vice-admiral's luggage passed into the boat, struck his flag, and took his leave of denham. as soon as the boat was clear of the frigate, the latter made all sail after the fleet, to resume her ordinary duties of a look-out and a repeating-ship. as soon as wycherly reached the cæsar, that ship hoisted in the vice-admiral's barge. a report was made to sir gervaise of what had been done, and then an order came on deck that occasioned all in the fleet to stare with surprise. the red flag of sir gervaise oakes was run up at the foreroyal-mast-head of the cæsar, while the white flag of the rear-admiral was still flying at her mizzen. such a thing had never before been known to happen, if it has ever happened since; and to the time when she was subsequently lost, the cæsar was known as the double flag-ship. chapter xxix. "he spoke; when behold the fair geraldine's form on the canvass enchantingly glowed; his touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm; and the pure pearly white, and the carnation warm, contending in harmony flowed." alston. we shall now ask permission of the reader to advance the time just eight-and-forty hours; a liberty with the unities which, he will do us the justice to say, we have not often taken. we must also transfer the scene to that already described at wychecombe, including the head, the station, the roads, and the inland and seaward views. summer weather had returned, too, the pennants of the ships at anchor scarce streaming from their masts far enough to form curved lines. most of the english fleet was among these vessels, though the squadron had undergone some changes. the druid had got into portsmouth with _la victoire_; the driver and active had made the best of their way to the nearest ports; with despatches for the admiralty; and the achilles, in tow of the dublin, with the chloe to take care of both, had gone to leeward, with square yards, in the hope of making falmouth. the rest of the force was present, the crippled ships having been towed into the roads that morning. the picture among the shipping was one of extreme activity and liveliness. jury-masts were going up in the warspite; lower and top-sail-yards were down to be fished, or new ones were rigging to be sent aloft in their places; the plantagenet was all a-tanto, again, in readiness for another action, with rigging secured and masts fished, while none but an instructed eye could have detected, at a short distance, that the cæsar, carnatic, dover, york, elizabeth, and one or two more, had been in action at all. the landing was crowded with boats as before, and gun-room servants and midshipmen's boys were foraging as usual; some with honest intent to find delicacies for the wounded, but more with the roguish design of contributing to the comforts of the unhurt, by making appeals to the sympathies of the women of the neighbourhood, in behalf of the hurt. the principal transformation that had been brought about by this state of things, however, was apparent at the station. this spot had the appearance of a place to which the headquarters of an army had been transferred, in the vicissitudes of the field; warlike sailors, if not soldiers, flocking to it, as the centre of interest and intelligence. still there was a singularity observable in the manner in which these heroes of the deck paid their court; the cottage being seemingly tabooed, or at most, approached by very few, while the grass at the foot of the flag-staff was already beginning to show proofs of the pressure of many feet. this particular spot, indeed, was the centre of attraction; there, officers of all ranks and ages were constantly arriving, and thence they were as often departing; all bearing countenances sobered by anxiety and apprehension. notwithstanding the constant mutations, there had been no instant since the rising of the sun, when some ten or twelve, at least, including captains, lieutenants, masters and idlers, had not been collected around the bench at the foot of the signal-staff, and frequently the number reached even to twenty. a little retired from the crowd, and near the verge of the cliff, a large tent had been pitched. a marine paced in its front, as a sentinel. another stood near the gate of the little door-yard of the cottage, and all persons who approached either, with the exception of a few of the privileged, were referred to the sergeant who commanded the guard. the arms of the latter were stacked on the grass, at hand, and the men off post were loitering near. these were the usual military signs of the presence of officers of rank, and may, in sooth, be taken as clues to the actual state of things, on and around the head. admiral bluewater lay in the cottage, while sir gervaise oakes occupied the tent. the former had been transferred to the place where he was about to breathe his last, at his own urgent request, while his friend had refused to be separated from him, so long as life remained. the two flags were still flying at the mast-heads of the cæsar, a sort of melancholy memorial of the tie that had so long bound their gallant owners in the strong sympathies of an enduring personal and professional friendship. persons of the education of mrs. dutton and her daughter, had not dwelt so long on that beautiful head-land, without leaving on the spot some lasting impressions of their tastes. of the cottage, we have already spoken. the little garden, too, then bright with flowers, had a grace and refinement about it that we would hardly have expected to meet in such a place; and even the paths that led athwart the verdant common which spread over so much of the upland, had been directed with an eye to the picturesque and agreeable. one of these paths, too, led to a rustic summer-house--a sort of small, rude pavilion, constructed, like the fences, of fragments of wrecks, and placed on a shelf of the cliff, at a dizzy elevation, but in perfect security. so far from there being any danger in entering this summer-house, indeed, wycherly, during his six months' residence near the head, had made a path that descended still lower to a point that was utterly concealed from all eyes above, and had actually planted a seat on another shelf with so much security, that both mildred and her mother often visited it in company. during the young man's recent absence, the poor girl, indeed, had passed much of her time there, weeping and suffering in solitude. to this seat, dutton never ventured; the descent, though well protected with ropes, requiring greater steadiness of foot and head than intemperance had left him. once or twice, wycherly had induced mildred to pass an hour with him alone in this romantic place, and some of his sweetest recollections of this just-minded and intelligent girl, were connected with the frank communications that had there occurred between them. on this bench he was seated at the time of the opening of the present chapter. the movement on the head, and about the cottage, was so great, as to deprive him of every chance of seeing mildred alone, and he had hoped that, led by some secret sympathy, she, too, might seek this perfectly retired seat, to obtain a moment of unobserved solitude, if not from some still dearer motive. he had not waited long, ere he heard a heavy foot over his head, and a man entered the summer-house. he was yet debating whether to abandon all hopes of seeing mildred, when his acute ear caught her light and well-known footstep, as she reached the summer-house, also. "father, i have come as you desired," said the poor girl, in those tremulous tones which wycherly too well understood, not to imagine the condition of dutton. "admiral bluewater dozes, and mother has permitted me to steal away." "ay, admiral bluewater is a great man, though but little better than a dead one!" answered dutton, as harshly in manner as the language was coarse. "you and your mother are all attention to _him_; did _i_ lie in his place, which of you would be found hanging over my bed, with pale cheeks and tearful eyes?" "_both_ of us, father! _do_ not--_do_ not think so ill of your wife and daughter, as to suppose it possible that either of them could forget her duty." "yes, _duty_ might do something, perhaps; what has duty to do with this useless rear-admiral? i _hate_ the scoundrel--he was one of the court that cashiered me; and one, too, that i am told, was the most obstinate in refusing to help me into this pitiful berth of a master." mildred was silent. she could not vindicate her friend without criminating her father. as for wycherly, he would have given a year's income to be at sea; yet he shrunk from wounding the poor daughter's feelings by letting her know he overheard the dialogue. this indecision made him the unwilling auditor of a conversation that he ought not to have heard--an occurrence which, had there been time for reflection, he would have taken means to prevent. "sit you down here, mildred," resumed dutton, sternly, "and listen to what i have to say. it is time that there should no longer be any trifling between us. you have the fortunes of your mother and myself in your hands; and, as one of the parties so deeply concerned, i am determined _mine_ shall be settled at once." "i do not understand you, father," said mildred, with a tremour in her voice that almost induced the young man to show himself, though, we owe it to truth to say, that a lively curiosity _now_ mingled with his other sensations. "how can i have the keeping of dear mother's fortunes and yours?" "_dear_ mother, truly!--_dear_ enough has she proved to me; but i intend the daughter shall pay for it. hark you, mildred; i'll have no more of this trifling--but i ask you in a father's name, if any man has offered you his hand? speak plainly, and conceal nothing--i _will_ be answered." "i wish to conceal nothing, father, that ought to be told; but when a young woman declines the honour that another does her in this way, _ought_ she to reveal the secret, even to her father?" "she _ought_; and, in your case, she _shall_. no more hesitation; name _one_ of the offers you have had." mildred, after a brief pause, in a low, tremulous voice, pronounced the name of "mr. rotherham." "i suspected as much," growled dutton; "there was a time when even _he_ might have answered, but we can do better than that now. still he may be kept as a reserve; the thousand pounds mr. thomas says shall be paid, and that and the living will make a comfortable port after a stormy life. well, who next, mildred? has mr. thomas wychecombe ever come to the point?" "he has asked me to become his wife, within the last twenty-four hours; if that is what you mean." "no affectations, milly; i can't bear them. you know well enough what i mean. what was your answer?" "i do not love him in the least, father, and, of course, i told him i could not marry him." "that don't follow _of course_, by any means, girl! the marrying is done by the priest, and the love is a very different thing. i hope you consider mrs. dutton as my wife?" "what a question!" murmured mildred. "well, and do you suppose she _loves_ me; _can_ love me, now i am a disgraced, impoverished man?" "father!" "come--come--enough of this. mr. thomas wychecombe may not be legitimate--i rather think he is not, by the proofs sir reginald has produced within the last day or two; and i understand his own mother is dissatisfied with him, and _that_ will knock his claim flat aback. notwithstanding, mildred, tom wychecombe has a good six hundred a year already, and sir reginald himself admits that he must take all the personal property the late baronet could leave." "you forget, father," said mildred, conscious of the inefficacy of any other appeal, "that mr. thomas has promised to pay the legacies that sir wycherly _intended_ to leave." "don't place any expectations on that, mildred. i dare say he would settle ten of the twenty thousand on you to-morrow, if you would consent to have him. but, now, as to this new baronet, for it seems he is to have both title and estate--has _he_ ever offered?" there was a long pause, during which wycherly thought he heard the hard but suppressed breathing of mildred. to remain quiet any longer, he felt was as impossible as, indeed, his conscience told him was dishonourable, and he sprang along the path to ascend to the summer-house. at the first sound of his footstep, a faint cry escaped mildred; but when wycherly entered the pavilion, he found her face buried in her hands, and dutton tottering forward, equally in surprise and alarm. as the circumstances would not admit of evasion, the young man threw aside all reserve, and spoke plainly. "i have been an unwilling listener to a _part_ of your discourse with mildred, mr. dutton," he said, "and can answer your last question for myself. i _have_ offered my hand to your daughter, sir; an offer that i now renew, and the acceptance of which would make me the happiest man in england. if your influence could aid me--for she has refused my hand." "refused!" exclaimed dutton, in a surprise that overcame the calculated amenity of manner he had assumed the instant wycherly appeared--"refused sir wycherly wychecombe! but it was before your rights had been as well established as they are now. mildred, answer to this--how _could_ you--nay, how _dare_ you refuse such an offer as this?" human nature could not well endure more. mildred suffered her hands to fall helplessly into her lap, and exposed a face that was lovely as that of an angel's, though pale nearly to the hue of death. feeling extorted the answer she made, though the words had hardly escaped her, ere she repented having uttered them, and had again buried her face in her hands-- "father"--she said--"_could_ i--_dare_ i to encourage sir wycherly wychecombe to unite himself to a family like ours!" conscience smote dutton with a force that nearly sobered him, and what explanation might have followed it is hard to say; wycherly, in an under-tone, however, requested to be left alone with the daughter. dutton had sense enough to understand he was _de trop_, and shame enough to wish to escape. in half a minute, he had hobbled up to the summit of the cliff and disappeared. "mildred!--_dearest_ mildred"--said wycherly, tenderly, gently endeavouring to draw her attention to himself, "we are alone now; surely--surely--you will not refuse to _look_ at _me_!" "is he gone?" asked mildred, dropping her hands, and looking wildly around. "thank god! it is over, for this time, at least! now, let us go to the house; admiral bluewater may miss me." "no, mildred, not yet. you surely can spare me--me, who have suffered so much of late on your account--nay, by your _means_--you can, in mercy, spare me a few short minutes. was _this_ the reason--the _only_ reason, dearest girl, why you so pertinaciously refused my hand?" "was it not sufficient, wycherly?" answered mildred, afraid the chartered air might hear her secret. "remember _who_ you are, and _what_ i am! could i suffer you to become the husband of one to whom such cruel, cruel propositions had been made by her own father!" "i shall not affect to conceal my horror of such principles, mildred, but your virtues shine all the brighter by having flourished in their company. answer me but one question frankly, and every other difficulty can be gotten over. do you love me well enough to be my wife, were you an orphan?" mildred's countenance was full of anguish, but this question changed its expression entirely. the moment was extraordinary as were the feelings it engendered, and, almost unconsciously to herself, she raised the hand that held her own to her lips, in a sort of reverence. in the next instant she was encircled in the young man's arms, and pressed with fervour to his heart. "let us go"--said mildred, extricating herself from an embrace that was too involuntarily bestowed, and too heartfelt to alarm her delicacy. "i feel certain admiral bluewater will miss me!" "no, mildred, we cannot part thus. give me, at least, the poor consolation of knowing, that if _this_ difficulty did not exist--that if you were an orphan for instance--you would be mine." "oh! wycherly, how gladly--how gladly!--but, say no more--nay--" this time the embrace was longer, more fervent even than before, and wycherly was too much of a sailor to let the sweet girl escape from his arms without imprinting on her lips a kiss. he had no sooner relinquished his hold of the slight person of mildred, ere it vanished. with this characteristic leave-taking, we change the scene to the tent of sir gervaise oakes. "you have seen admiral bluewater?" demanded the commander-in-chief, as soon as the form of magrath darkened the entrance, and speaking with the sudden earnestness of a man determined to know the worst. "if so, tell me at once what hopes there are for him." "of all the human passions, sir jairvis," answered magrath, looking aside, to avoid the keen glance of the other, "hope is generally considered, by all rational men, as the most treacherous and delusive; i may add, of all denominations or divisions of hope, that which decides on life is the most unsairtain. we all hope to live, i'm thinking, to a good old age, and yet how many of us live just long enough to be disappointed!" sir gervaise did not move until the surgeon ceased speaking; then he began to pace the tent in mournful silence. he understood magrath's manner so well, that the last faint hope he had felt from seeking his opinion was gone; he now knew that his friend must die. it required all his fortitude to stand up against this blow; for, single, childless, and accustomed to each other almost from infancy, these two veteran sailors had got to regard themselves as merely isolated parts of the same being. magrath was affected more than he chose to express, and he blew his nose several times in a way that an observer would have found suspicious. "will you confer on me the favour, dr. magrath," said sir gervaise, in a gentle, subdued manner, "to ask captain greenly to come hither, as you pass the flag-staff?" "most willingly, sir jairvis; and i know he'll be any thing but backward in complying." it was not long ere the captain of the plantagenet made his appearance. like all around him, the recent victory appeared to bring no exultation. "i suppose magrath told _you_ all," said the vice-admiral, squeezing the other's hand. "he gives no hopes, sir gervaise, i sincerely regret to say." "i knew as much! i knew as much! and yet he is easy, greenly!--nay, even seems happy. i _did_ feel a little hope that this absence from suffering might be a favourable omen." "i am glad to hear that much, sir; for i have been thinking that it is my duty to speak to the rear-admiral on the subject of his brother's marriage. from his own silence on the subject, it is possible--nay, from _all_ circumstances, it is _probable_ he never knew of it, and there may be reasons why he ought to be informed of the affair. as you say he is so easy, would there be an impropriety in mentioning it to him?" greenly could not possibly have made a suggestion that was a greater favour to sir gervaise. the necessity of doing, his habits of decision, and having an object in view, contributed to relieve his mind by diverting his thoughts to some active duty; and he seized his hat, beckoned greenly to follow, and moved across the hill with a rapid pace, taking the path to the cottage. it was necessary to pass the flag-staff. as this was done, every countenance met the vice-admiral's glance, with a look of sincere sympathy. the bows that were exchanged, had more in them than the naked courtesies of such salutations; they were eloquent of feeling on both sides. bluewater was awake, and retaining the hand of mildred affectionately in his own, when his friend entered. relinquishing his hold, however, he grasped the hand of the vice-admiral, and looked earnestly at him, as if he pitied the sorrow that he knew the survivor must feel. "my dear bluewater," commenced sir gervaise, who acted under a nervous excitement, as well as from constitutional decision, "here is greenly with something to tell you that we both think you ought to know, at a moment like this." the rear-admiral regarded his friend intently, as if inviting him to proceed. "why, it's about your brother jack. i fancy you cannot have known that he was ever married, or i think i should have heard you speak of it." "married!" repeated bluewater, with great interest, and speaking with very little difficulty. "i think that must be an error. inconsiderate and warm-hearted he was, but there was only one woman he _could_, nay, _would_ have married. she is long since dead, but not as _his_ wife; for that her uncle, a man of great wealth, but of unbending will, would never have suffered. _he_ survived her, though my poor brother did not." this was said in a mild voice, for the wounded man spoke equally without effort, and without pain. "you hear, greenly?" observed sir gervaise. "and yet it is not probable that you should be mistaken." "certainly, i am not, gentlemen. i saw colonel bluewater married, as did another officer who is at this moment in this very fleet. captain blakely is the person i mean, and i know that the priest who performed the ceremony is still living, a beneficed clergyman." "this is wonderful to me! he fervently loved agnes hedworth, but his poverty was an obstacle to the union; and both died so young, that there was little opportunity of conciliating the uncle." "that, sir, is your mistake. agnes hedworth was the bride." a noise in the room interrupted the dialogue, and the three gentlemen saw wycherly and mildred stooping to pick up the fragments of a bowl that mrs. dutton had let fall. the latter, apparently in alarm, at the little accident, had sunk back into a seat, pale and trembling. "my dear mrs. dutton, take a glass of water," said sir gervaise, kindly approaching her; "your nerves have been sorely tried of late; else would not such a trifle affect you." "it is not _that_!" exclaimed the matron, huskily. "it is not _that_! oh! the fearful moment has come at last; and, from my inmost spirit i thank thee, my lord and my god, that it has come free from shame and disgrace!" the closing words were uttered on bended knees, and with uplifted hands. "mother!--dearest, dearest mother," cried mildred, falling on her mother's neck. "what mean you? what new misery has happened to-day?" "_mother!_ yes, sweet one, thou art, thou ever _shalt_ be my child! this is the pang i have most dreaded; but what is an unknown tie of blood, to use, and affection, and to a mother's care? if i did not bear thee, mildred, no natural mother could have loved thee more, or would have died for thee, as willingly!" "distress has disturbed her, gentlemen," said mildred, gently extricating herself from her mother's arms, and helping her to rise. "a few moments of rest will restore her." "no, darling; it must come now--it _ought_ to come now--after what i have just heard, it would be unpardonable not to tell it, _now_. did i understand you to say, sir, that you were present at the marriage of agnes hedworth, and that, too, with the brother of admiral bluewater?" "of that fact, there can be no question, madam. i and others will testify to it. the marriage took place in london, in the summer of , while blakely and myself were up from portsmouth, on leave. colonel bluewater asked us both to be present, under a pledge of secresy." "and in the summer of , agnes hedworth died in my house and my arms, an hour after giving birth to this dear, this precious child--mildred dutton, as she has ever since been called--mildred bluewater, as it would seem her name should be." it is unnecessary to dwell on the surprise with which all present, or the delight with which bluewater and wycherly heard this extraordinary announcement. a cry escaped mildred, who threw herself on mrs. dutton's neck, entwining it with her arms, convulsively, as if refusing to permit the tie that had so long bound them together, to be thus rudely torn asunder. but half an hour of weeping, and of the tenderest consolations, calmed the poor girl a little, and she was able to listen to the explanations. these were exceedingly simple, and so clear, as, in connection with the other evidence, to put the facts out of all doubt. miss hedworth had become known to mrs. dutton, while the latter was an inmate of the house of her patron. a year or two after the marriage of the lieutenant, and while he was on a distant station, agnes hedworth threw herself on the protection of his wife, asking a refuge for a woman in the most critical circumstances. like all who knew agnes hedworth, mrs. dutton both respected and loved her; but the distance created between them, by birth and station, was such as to prevent any confidence. the former, for the few days passed with her humble friend, had acted with the quiet dignity of a woman conscious of no wrong; and no questions could be asked that implied doubts. a succession of fainting fits prevented all communications in the hour of death, and mrs. dutton found herself left with a child on her hands, and the dead body of her friend. miss hedworth had come to her dwelling unattended and under a false name. these circumstances induced mrs. dutton to apprehend the worst, and she proceeded to make her arrangements with great tenderness for the reputation of the deceased. the body was removed to london, and letters were sent to the uncle to inform him where it was to be found, with a reference should he choose to inquire into the circumstances of his niece's death. mrs. dutton ascertained that the body was interred in the usual manner, but no inquiry was ever made, concerning the particulars. the young duchess, miss hedworth's sister, was then travelling in italy, whence she did not return for more than a year; and we may add, though mrs. dutton was unable to make the explanation, that her inquiries after the fate of a beloved sister, were met by a simple statement that she had died suddenly, on a visit to a watering-place, whither she had gone with a female friend for her health. whether mr. hedworth himself had any suspicions of his niece's condition, is uncertain; but the probabilities were against it, for she had offended him by refusing a match equal in all respects to that made by her elder sister, with the single exception that the latter had married a man she loved, whereas he exacted of agnes a very different sacrifice. owing to the alienation produced by this affair, there was little communication between the uncle and niece; the latter passing her time in retirement, and professedly with friends that the former neither knew nor cared to know. in short, such was the mode of life of the respective parties, that nothing was easier than for the unhappy young widow to conceal her state from her uncle. the motive was the fortune of the expected child; this uncle having it in his power to alienate from it, by will, if he saw fit, certain family property, that might otherwise descend to the issue of the two sisters, as his co-heiresses. what might have happened in the end, or what poor agnes meditated doing, can never be known; death closing the secret with his irremovable seal. mrs. dutton was the mother of a girl but three months old, at the time this little stranger was left on her hands. a few weeks later her own child died; and having waited several months in vain for tidings from the hedworth family, she had the surviving infant christened by the same name as that borne by her own daughter, and soon came to love it, as much, perhaps, as if she had borne it. three years passed in this manner, when the time drew near for the return of her husband from the east indies. to be ready to meet him, she changed her abode to a naval port, and, in so doing, changed her domestics. this left her accidentally, but fortunately, as she afterwards thought, completely mistress of the secret of mildreth's birth; the one or two others to whom it was known being in stations to render it improbable they should ever communicate any thing on the subject, unless it were asked of them. her original intention, however, was to communicate the facts, without reserve, to her husband. but he came back an altered man; brutal in manners, cold in his affections, and the victim of drunkenness. by this time, the wife was too much attached to the child to think of exposing it to the wayward caprices of such a being; and mildred was educated, and grew in stature and beauty as the real offspring of her reputed parents. all this mrs. dutton related clearly and briefly, refraining, of course, from making any allusion to the conduct of her husband, and referring all her own benevolence to her attachment to the child. bluewater had strength enough to receive mildred in his arms, and he kissed her pale cheek, again and again, blessing her in the most fervent and solemn manner. "my feelings were not treacherous or unfaithful," he said; "i loved thee, sweetest, from the first. sir gervaise oakes has my will, made in thy favour, before we sailed on this last cruise, and every shilling i leave will be thine. mr. atwood, procure that will, and add a codicil explaining this recent discovery, and confirming the legacy; let not the last be touched, for it is spontaneous and comes from the heart." "and, now," answered mrs. dutton, "enough has passed for once. the sick-bed should be more quiet. give me my child, again:--i cannot yet consent to part with her for ever." "mother! mother!" exclaimed mildred, throwing herself on mrs. dutton's bosom--"i am yours, and yours only." "not so, i fear. mildred, if all i suspect be true, and this is as proper a moment as another to place that matter also before your honoured uncle. come forward, sir wycherly--i have understood you to say, this minute, in my ear, that you hold the pledge of this wilful girl to become your wife, should she ever be an orphan. an orphan she is, and has been since the first hour of her birth." "no--no--no," murmured mildred, burying her face still deeper in her mother's bosom, "not while _you_ live, _can_ i be an orphan. not now--another time--this is unseasonable--cruel--nay, it is not what i said."' "take her away, dearest mrs. dutton," said bluewater, tears of joy forcing themselves from his eyes. "take her away, lest too much happiness come upon me at once. my thoughts should be calmer at such a moment." wycherly removed mildred from her mother's arms, and gently led her from the room. when in mrs. dutton's apartment, he whispered something in the ear of the agitated girl that caused her to turn on him a look of happiness, though it came dimmed with tears; then _he_ had his turn of holding her, for another precious instant, to his heart. "my dear mrs. dutton--nay, my dear _mother_," he said, "mildred and myself have both need of parents. i am an orphan like herself, and we can never consent to part with you. look forward, i entreat you, to making one of our family in all things, for never can either mildred or myself cease to consider you as any thing but a parent entitled to more than common reverence and affection." wycherly had hardly uttered this proper speech, when he received what he fancied a ten-fold reward. mildred, in a burst of natural feeling, without affectation or reserve, but yielding to her heart only, threw her arms around his neck, murmured the word "thanks" several times, and wept freely on his bosom. when mrs. dutton received the sobbing girl from him, wycherly kissed the mother's cheek, and he left the room. admiral bluewater would not consent to seek his repose until he had a private conference with his friend and wycherly. the latter was frankness and liberality itself, but the former would not wait for settlements. these he trusted to the young man's honour. his own time was short, and he should die perfectly happy could he leave his niece in the care of one like our virginian. he wished the marriage to take place in his presence. on this, he even insisted, and, of course, wycherly make no objections, but went to state the case to mrs. dutton and mildred. "it is singular, dick," said sir gervaise, wiping his eyes, as he looked from a window that commanded a view of the sea, "that i have left both our flags flying in the cæsar! i declare, the oddness of the circumstance never struck me till this minute." "let them float thus a little longer, gervaise. they have faced many a gale and many a battle together, and may endure each other's company a few hours longer." chapter xxx. "compound or weakness and of strength, mighty, yet ignorant of thy power! loftier than earth, or air, or sea, yet meaner than the lowliest flower! margaret davidson. not a syllable of explanation, reproach, or self-accusation had passed between the commander-in-chief and the rear-admiral, since the latter received his wound. each party appeared to blot out the events of the last few days, leaving the long vista of their past services and friendship, undisfigured by a single unsightly or unpleasant object. sir gervaise, while he retained an active superintendence of his fleet, and issued the necessary orders right and left, hovered around the bed of bluewater with the assiduity and almost with the tenderness of a woman; still not the slightest allusion was made to the recent battles, or to any thing that had occurred in the short cruise. the speech recorded at the close of the last chapter, was the first words he had uttered which might, in any manner, carry the mind of either back to events that both might wish forgotten. the rear-admiral felt this forbearance deeply, and now that the subject was thus accidentally broached between them, he had a desire to say something in continuation. still he waited until the baronet had left the window and taken a seat by his bed. "gervaise," bluewater then commenced, speaking low from weakness, but speaking distinctly from feeling, "i cannot die without asking your forgiveness. there were several hours when i actually meditated treason--i will not say to my _king_; on that point my opinions are unchanged--but to _you_." "why speak of this, dick? you did not know yourself when you believed it possible to desert me in the face of the enemy. how much better i judged of your character, is seen in the fact that i did not hesitate to engage double my force, well knowing that you could not fail to come to my rescue." bluewater looked intently at his friend, and a smile of serious satisfaction passed over his pallid countenance as he listened to sir gervaise's words, which were uttered with his usual warmth and sincerity of manner. "i believe you know me better than i know myself," he answered, after a thoughtful pause; "yes, better than i know myself. what a glorious close to our professional career would it have been, oakes, had i followed you into battle, as was our old practice, and fallen in your wake, imitating your own high example!" "it is better as it is, dick--if any thing that has so sad a termination can be well--yes, it is better as it is; you have fallen at my _side_, as it were. we will think or talk no more of this." "we have been friends, and close friends too, for a long period, gervaise," returned bluewater, stretching his arm from the bed, with the long, thin fingers of the hand extended to meet the other's grasp; "yet, i cannot recall an act of yours which i can justly lay to heart, as unkind, or untrue." "god forgive me, if you can--i hope not, dick; most sincerely do i hope not. it would give me great pain to believe it." "_you_ have no cause for self-reproach. in no one act or thought can you justly accuse yourself with injuring _me_. i should die much happier could i say the same of myself, oakes!" "thought!--dick?--thought! you never meditated aught against _me_ in your whole life. the love you bear _me_, is the true reason why you lie there, at this blessed moment." "it is grateful to find that i have been understood. i am deeply indebted to you, oakes, for declining to signal me and my division down, when i foolishly requested that untimely forbearance. i was then suffering an anguish of mind, to which any pain of the body i may now endure, is an elysium; your self-denial gave time--" "for the _heart_ to prompt you to that which your feelings yearned to do from the first, bluewater," interrupted sir gervaise. "and, now, as your commanding officer, i enjoin silence on this subject, _for ever_." "i will endeavour to obey. it will not be long, oakes, that i shall remain under your orders," added the rear-admiral, with a painful smile. "there should be no charge of mutiny against me in the _last_ act of my life. you ought to forgive the one sin of omission, when you remember how much and how completely my will has been subject to yours, during the last five-and-thirty years,--how little my mind has matured a professional thought that yours has not originated!" "speak no more of 'forgive,' i charge you, dick. that you have shown a girl-like docility in obeying all my orders, too, is a truth i will aver before god and man; but when it comes to _mind_, i am far from asserting that mine has had the mastery. i do believe, could the truth he ascertained, it would be found that i am, at this blessed moment, enjoying a professional reputation, which is more than half due to you." "it matters little, now, gervaise--it matters little, now. we were two light-hearted and gay lads, oakes, when we first met as boys, fresh from school, and merry as health and spirits could make us." "we were, indeed, dick!--yes, we were; thoughtless as if this sad moment were never to arrive!" "there were george anson, and peter warren, little charley saunders, jack byng, and a set of us, that did, indeed, live as if we were never to die! we carried our lives, as it might be, in our hands, oakes!" "there is much of that, dick, in boyhood and youth. but, he is happiest, after all, who can meet this moment as you do--calmly, and yet without any dependence on his own merits." "i had an excellent mother, oakes! little do we think, in youth, how much we owe to the unextinguishable tenderness, and far-seeing lessons of our mothers! ours both died while we were young, yet i do think we were their debtors for far more than we could ever repay." sir gervaise simply assented, but making no immediate answer, otherwise, a long pause succeeded, during which the vice-admiral fancied that his friend was beginning to doze. he was mistaken. "you will be made viscount bowldero, for these last affairs, gervaise," the wounded man unexpectedly observed, showing how much his thoughts were still engrossed with the interests of his friend. "nor do i see why you should again refuse a peerage. those who remain in this world, may well yield to its usages and opinions, while they do not interfere with higher obligations." "i!"--exclaimed sir gervaise, gloomily. "the thought of so commemorating what has happened, would be worse than defeat to me! no--i ask no change of name to remind me constantly of my loss!" bluewater looked grateful, rather than pleased; but he made no answer. now, he fell into a light slumber, from which he did not awake until the time he had himself set for the marriage of wycherly and mildred. with one uncle dead and still unburied, and another about to quit the world for ever, a rite that is usually deemed as joyous as it is solemn, might seem unseasonable; but the dying man had made it a request that he might have the consolation of knowing ere he expired, that he left his niece under the legal protection of one as competent, as he was desirous of protecting her. the reader must imagine the arguments that were used for the occasion, but they were such as disposed all, in the end, to admit the propriety of yielding their ordinary prejudices to the exigencies of the moment. it may be well to add, also, to prevent useless cavilling, that the laws of england were not as rigid on the subject of the celebration of marriages in , as they subsequently became; and that it was lawful then to perform the ceremony in a private house without a license, and without the publishing of banns, even; restrictions that were imposed a few years later. the penalty for dispensing with the publication of banns, was a fine of £ , imposed on the clergyman; and this fine bluewater chose to pay, rather than leave the only great object of life that now remained before him unaccomplished. this penalty in no degree impaired the validity of the contract, though mrs. dutton, as a woman, felt averse to parting with her beloved, without a rigid observance of all the customary forms. the point had finally been disposed of, by recourse to arguments addressed to the reason of this respectable woman, and by urging the necessity of the case. her consent, however, was not given without a proviso, that a license should be subsequently procured, and a second marriage be had at a more fitting moment, should the ecclesiastical authorities consent to the same; a most improbable thing in itself. mr. rotherham availed himself of the statute inflicting the penalty, as an excuse for not officiating. his real motive, however, was understood, and the chaplain of the plantagenet, a divine of character and piety, was substituted in his place. bluewater had requested that as many of the captains of the fleet should be present as could be collected, and it was the assembling of these warriors of the deep, together with the arrival of the clergyman, that first gave notice of the approach of the appointed hour. it is not our intention to dwell on the details of a ceremony that had so much that was painful in its solemnities. neither wycherly nor mildred made any change in their attire, and the lovely bride wept from the time the service began, to the moment when she left the arms of her uncle, to be received in those of her husband, and was supported from the room. all seemed sad, indeed, but bluewater; to him the scene was exciting, but it brought great relief to his mind. "i am now ready to die, gentlemen," he said, as the door closed on the new-married couple. "my last worldly care is disposed of, and it were better for me to turn all my thoughts to another state of being. my niece, lady wychecombe, will inherit the little i have to leave; nor do i know that it is of much importance to substantiate her birth, as her uncle clearly bestowed what would have been her mother's property, on her aunt, the duchess. if my dying declaration can be of any use, however, you hear it, and can testify to it. now, come and take leave of me, one by one, that i may bless you all, and thank you for much undeserved, and, i fear, unrequited love." the scene that followed was solemn and sad. one by one, the captains drew near the bed, and to each the dying man had something kind and affectionate to say. even the most cold-hearted looked grave, and o'neil, a man remarkable for a _gaité de c[oe]ur_ that rendered the excitement of battle some of the pleasantest moments of his life, literally shed tears on the hand he kissed. "ah! my old friend," said the rear-admiral, as parker, of the carnatic, drew near in his customary meek and subdued manner, "you perceive it is not years alone that bring us to our graves! they tell me you have behaved as usual in these late affairs; i trust that, after a long life of patient and arduous services, you are about to receive a proper reward." "i will acknowledge, admiral bluewater," returned parker, earnestly, "that it would be peculiarly grateful to receive some mark of the approbation of my sovereign; principally on account of my dear wife and children. we are not, like yourself, descended from a noble family; but must carve our rights to distinction, and they who have never known honours of this nature, prize them highly." "ay, my good parker," interrupted the rear-admiral, "and they who have ever known them, know their emptiness; most especially as they approach that verge of existence whence the eye looks in a near and fearful glance, over the vast and unknown range of eternity." "no doubt, sir; nor am i so vain as to suppose that hairs which have got to be grey as mine, can last for ever. but, what i was about to say is, that precious as honours are to the humble, i would cheerfully yield every hope of the sort i have, to see you on the poop of the cæsar again, with mr. cornet at your elbow, leading the fleet, or following the motions of the vice-admiral." "thank you, my good parker; that can never be; nor can i say, now, that i wish it might. when we have cast off from the world, there is less pleasure in looking back, than in looking ahead. god bless you, parker, and keep you, as you ever have been, an honest man." stowel was the last to approach the bed, nor did he do it until all had left the room but sir gervaise and himself. the indomitable good-nature, and the professional nonchalance of bluewater, by leaving every subordinate undisturbed in the enjoyment of his own personal caprices, had rendered the rear-admiral a greater favourite, in one sense at least, than the commander-in-chief. stowel, by his near connection with bluewater, had profited more by these peculiarities than any other officer under him, and the effect on his feelings had been in a very just proportion to the benefits. he could not refrain, it is true, from remembering the day when he himself had been a lieutenant in the ship in which the rear-admiral had been a midshipman, but he no longer recollected the circumstance with the bitterness that it sometimes drew after it. on the contrary, it was now brought to his mind merely as the most distant of the many land-marks in their long and joint services. "well, stowel," observed bluewater, smiling sadly, "even the old cæsar must be left behind. it is seldom a flag-captain has not some heart-burnings on account of his superior, and most sincerely do i beg you to forget and forgive any i may have occasioned yourself." "heaven help me, sir!--i was far, just then, from thinking of any such thing! i was fancying how little i should have thought it probable, when we were together in the calypso, that i should ever be thus standing at _your_ bed-side. really, admiral bluewater, i would rejoice to share with you the remnant of life that is left me." "i do believe you would, stowel; but that can never be. i have just performed my last act in this world, in giving my niece to sir wycherly wychecombe." "yes, sir;--yes, sir--marriage is no doubt honourable, as i often tell mrs. stowel, and therefore not to be despised; and yet it _is_ singular, that a gentleman who has lived a bachelor himself, should fancy to see a marriage ceremony performed, and that, too, at the cost of £ , if any person choose to complain, just at the close of his own cruise! however, men are no more alike in such matters, than women in their domestic qualities; and i sincerely hope this young sir wycherly may find as much comfort, in the old house i understand he has a little inland here, as you and i have had together, sir, in the old cæsar. i suppose there'll be no co-equals in wychecombe hall." "i trust not, stowel. but you must now receive my last orders, as to the cæsar--" "the commander-in-chief has his own flag flying aboard of us, sir!" interrupted the methodical captain, in a sort of admonitory way. "never mind that, stowel;--i'll answer for his acquiescence. my body must be received on board, and carried round in the ship to plymouth. place it on the main-deck, where the people can see the coffin; i would pass my last hours above ground, in their midst." "it shall be done, sir--yes, sir, to the letter, sir gervaise not countermanding. and i'll write this evening to mrs. stowel to say she needn't come down, as usual, as soon as she hears the ship is in, but that she must wait until your flag is fairly struck." "i should be sorry, stowel, to cause a moment's delay in the meeting of husband and wife!" "don't name it, admiral bluewater;--mrs. stowel will understand that it's duty; and when we married, i fully explained to her that duty, with a sailor, came before matrimony." a little pause succeeded, then bluewater took a final and affectionate leave of his captain. some twenty minutes elapsed in a profound silence, during which sir gervaise did not stir, fancying that his friend again dozed. but it was ordered that bluewater was never to sleep again, until he took the final rest of the dead. it was the mind, which had always blazed above the duller lethargy of his body, that buoyed him thus up, giving an unnatural impulse to his physical powers; an impulse, however, that was but momentary, and which, by means of the reaction, contributed, in the end, to his more speedy dissolution. perceiving, at length, that his friend did not sleep, sir gervaise drew near his bed. "richard," he said, gently, "there is one without, who pines to be admitted. i have refused even his tears, under the impression that you felt disposed to sleep." "never less so. my mind appears to become brighter and clearer, instead of fading; i think i shall never sleep, in the sense you mean. whoever the person is, let him be admitted." receiving this permission, sir gervaise opened the door, and geoffrey cleveland entered. at the same moment, galleygo, who came and went at pleasure, thrust in his own ungainly form. the boy's face betrayed the nature and the extent of his grief. in his mind, admiral bluewater was associated with all the events of his own professional life; and, though the period had in truth been so short, in his brief existence, the vista through which he looked back, seemed quite as long as that which marked the friendship of the two admirals, themselves. although he struggled manfully for self-control, feeling got the better of the lad, and he threw himself on his knees, at the side of his bed, sobbing as if his heart would break. bluewater's eye glistened, and he laid a hand affectionately on the head of his young relative. "gervaise, you will take charge of this boy, when i'm gone," he said; "receive him in your own ship. i leave him to you, as a very near and dear professional legacy. cheer up--cheer up--my brave boy; look upon all this as a sailor's fortune. our lives are the--" the word "king's," which should have succeeded, seemed to choke the speaker. casting a glance of meaning at his friend, with a painful smile on his face, he continued silent. "ah! dear sir," answered the midshipman, ingenuously; "i knew that _we_ might all be killed, but it never occurred to me that an admiral could lose his life in battle. i'm sure--i'm sure you are the very first that has met with this accident!" "not by many, my poor geoffrey. as there are but few admirals, few fall; but we are as much exposed as others." "if i had only run that monsieur des prez through the body, when we closed with him," returned the boy, grating his teeth, and looking all the vengeance for which, at the passing instant, he felt the desire; "it would have been _something_! i might have done it, too, for he was quite unguarded!" "it would have been a very bad _thing_, boy, to have injured a brave man, uselessly." "of what use was it to shoot you, sir? we took their ship, just the same as if you had not been hurt." "i rather think, geoffrey, their ship was virtually taken before i was wounded," returned bluewater, smiling. "but i was shot by a french marine, who did no more than his duty." "yes, sir," exclaimed the boy, impatiently; "and _he_ escaped without a scratch. _he_, at least, ought to have been _massacred_." "thou art bloody-minded, child; i scarce know thee. _massacred_ is not a word for either a british nobleman or a british sailor. i saved the life of that marine; and, when you come to lie, like me, on your death-bed, geoffrey, you will learn how sweet a consolation can be derived from the consciousness of such an act; we all need mercy, and none ought to expect it, for themselves, who do not yield it to others." the boy was rebuked, and his feelings took a better, though scarcely a more natural direction. bluewater now spoke to him of his newly-discovered cousin, and had a melancholy satisfaction in creating an interest in behalf of mildred, in the breast of the noble-hearted and ingenuous boy. the latter listened with respectful attention, as had been his wont, until, deceived by the tranquil and benevolent manner of bluewater, he permitted himself to fall into the natural delusion of believing the wound of the rear-admiral less serious than he had supposed, and to begin to entertain hopes that the wounded man might yet survive. calmed by these feelings, he soon ceased to weep; and, promising discretion, was permitted by sir gervaise to remain in the room, where he busied himself in the offices of a nurse. another long pause succeeded this exciting little scene, during which bluewater lay quietly communing with himself and his god. sir gervaise wrote orders, and read reports, though his eye was never off the countenance of his friend more than a minute or two at a time. at length, the rear-admiral aroused himself, again, and began to take an interest once more, in the persons and things around him. "galleygo, my old fellow-cruiser," he said, "i leave sir gervaise more particularly in your care. as we advance in life, our friends decrease in numbers; it is only those that have been well tried that we can rely on." "yes, admiral blue, i knows that, and so does sir jarvy. yes, old shipmates afore young 'uns, any day, and old sailors, too, afore green hands. sir jarvy's bowlderos are good plate-holders, and the likes of that; but when it comes to heavy weather, and a hard strain, i thinks but little on 'em, all put together." "by the way, oakes," said bluewater, with a sudden interest in such a subject, that he never expected to feel again, "i have heard nothing of the first day's work, in which, through the little i have gleaned, by listening to those around me, i understand you took a two-decker, besides dismasting the french admiral?" "pardon me, dick; you had better try and catch a little sleep; the subject of those two days' work is really painful to me." "well, then, sir jarvy, if you has an avarsion to telling the story to admiral blue, i can do it, your honour," put in galleygo, who gloried in giving a graphic description of a sea-fight. "i thinks, now, a history of that day will comfort a flag-hofficer as has been so badly wounded himself." bluewater offering no opposition, galleygo proceeded with his account of the evolutions of the ships, as we have already described them, succeeding surprisingly well in rendering the narrative interesting, and making himself perfectly intelligible and clear, by his thorough knowledge, and ready use, of the necessary nautical terms. when he came to the moment in which the english line separated, part passing to windward, and part to leeward of the two french ships, he related the incident in so clear and spirited a manner, that the commander-in-chief himself dropped his pen, and sat listening with pleasure. "who could imagine, dick," sir gervaise observed, "that those fellows in the tops watch us so closely, and could give so accurate an account of what passes!" "ah! gervaise, and what is the vigilance of galleygo to that of the all-seeing eye! it is a terrible thought, at an hour like this, to remember that nothing can be forgotten. i have somewhere read that not an oath is uttered that does not continue to vibrate through all time, in the wide-spreading currents of sound--not a prayer lisped, that its record is not also to be found stamped on the laws of nature, by the indelible seal of the almighty's will!" there was little in common between the religious impressions of the two friends. they were both sailors, and though the word does not necessarily imply that they were sinners in an unusual degree, neither does it rigidly imply that they were saints. each had received the usual elementary education, and then each had been turned adrift, as it might be on the ocean of life, to suffer the seed to take root, and the fruit to ripen as best they might. few of those "who go down to the great deep in ships," and who escape the more brutalizing effects of lives so rude, are altogether without religious impressions. living so much, as it were, in the immediate presence of the power of god, the sailor is much disposed to reverence his omnipotence, even while he transgresses his laws; but in nearly all those instances in which nature has implanted a temperament inclining to deep feeling, as was the case with bluewater, not even the harsh examples, nor the loose or irresponsible lives of men thus separated from the customary ties of society, can wholly extinguish the reverence for god which is created by constantly dwelling in the presence of his earthly magnificence. this sentiment in bluewater had not been altogether without fruits, for he both read and reflected much. sometimes, though at isolated and distant intervals, he even prayed; and that fervently, and with a strong and full sense of his own demerits. as a consequence of this general disposition, and of the passing convictions, his mind was better attuned for the crisis before him, than would have been the case with most of his brethren in arms, who, when overtaken with the fate so common to the profession, are usually left to sustain their last moments with the lingering enthusiasm of strife and victory. on the other hand, sir gervaise was as simple as a child in matters of this sort. he had a reverence for his creator, and such general notions of his goodness and love, as the well-disposed are apt to feel; but all the dogmas concerning the lost condition of the human race, the mediation, and the power of faith, floated in his mind as opinions not to be controverted, and yet as scarcely to be felt. in short, the commander-in-chief admitted the practical heresy, which overshadows the faith of millions, while he deemed himself to be a stout advocate of church and king. still, sir gervaise oakes, on occasions, was more than usually disposed to seriousness, and was even inclined to be devout; but it was without much regard to theories or revelation. at such moments, while his opinions would not properly admit him within the pale of any christian church, in particular, his feelings might have identified him with all. in a word, we apprehend he was a tolerably fair example of what vague generalities, when acting on a temperament not indisposed to moral impressions, render the great majority of men; who flit around the mysteries of a future state, without alighting either on the consolations of faith, or discovering any of those logical conclusions which, half the time unconsciously to themselves, they seem to expect. when bluewater made his last remark, therefore, the vice-admiral looked anxiously at his friend; and religion for the first time since the other received his hurt, mingled with his reflections. he had devoutly, though mentally, returned thanks to god for his victory, but it had never occurred to him that bluewater might need some preparation for death. "would you like to see the plantagenet's chaplain, again, dick?" he said, tenderly; "you are no _papist_; of _that_ i am certain." "in that you are quite right, gervaise. i consider all churches--_the_ one holy _catholic_ church, if you will, as but a means furnished by divine benevolence to aid weak men in their pilgrimage; but i also believe that there is even a shorter way to his forgiveness than through these common avenues. how far i am right," he added, smiling, "none will probably know better than myself, a few hours hence." "friends _must_ meet again, hereafter, bluewater; it is irrational to suppose that they who have loved each other so well in this state of being, are to be for ever separated in the other." "we will hope so, oakes," taking the vice-admiral's hand; "we will hope so. still, there will be no ships for us--no cruises--no victories--no triumphs! it is only at moments like this, at which i have arrived, that we come to view these things in their proper light. of all the past, your constant, unwavering friendship, gives me the most pleasure!" the vice-admiral could resist no longer. he turned aside and wept. this tribute to nature, in one so manly, was imposing even to the dying man, and galleygo regarded it with awe. familiar as the latter had become with his master, by use and indulgence, no living being, in his estimation, was as authoritative or as formidable as the commander-in-chief; and the effect of the present spectacle, was to induce him to hide his own face in self-abasement. bluewater saw it all, but he neither spoke, nor gave any token of his observation. he merely prayed, and that right fervently, not only for his friend, but for his humble and uncouth follower. a reaction took place in the system of the wounded man, about nine o'clock that night. at this time he believed himself near his end, and he sent for wycherly and his niece, to take his leave of them. mrs. dutton was also present, as was magrath, who remained on shore, in attendance. mildred lay for half an hour, bathing her uncle's pillow with her tears, until she was removed at the surgeon's suggestion. "ye'll see, sir gervaise," he whispered--(or "sir jairvis," as he always pronounced the name,)--"ye'll see, sir jairvis, that it's a duty of the faculty to _prolong_ life, even when there's no hope of _saving_ it; and if ye'll be regairding the judgment of a professional man, lady wychecombe had better withdraw. it would really be a matter of honest exultation for us plantagenets to get the rear-admiral through the night, seeing that the surgeon of the cæsar said he could no survive the setting sun." at the moment of final separation, bluewater had little to say to his niece. ho kissed and blessed her again and again, and then signed that she should be taken away. mrs. dutton, also, came in for a full share of his notice, he having desired her to remain after wycherly and mildred had quitted the room. "to your care and affection, excellent woman," he said, in a voice that had now sunk nearly to a whisper--"we owe it, that mildred is not unfit for her station. her recovery would have been even more painful than her loss, had she been restored to her proper family, uneducated, vulgar, and coarse." "that could hardly have happened to mildred, sir, in any circumstances," answered the weeping woman. "nature has done too much for the dear child, to render her any thing but delicate and lovely, under any tolerable circumstances of depression." "she is better as she is, and god be thanked that he raised up such a protector for her childhood. you have been all in all to her in her infancy, and she will strive to repay it to your age." of this mrs. dutton felt too confident to need assurances; and receiving the dying man's blessing, she knelt at his bed-side, prayed fervently for a few minutes, and withdrew. after this, nothing out of the ordinary track occurred until past midnight, and magrath, more than once, whispered his joyful anticipations that the rear-admiral would survive until morning. an hour before day, however, the wounded man revived, in a way that the surgeon distrusted. he knew that no physical change of this sort could well happen that did not arise from the momentary ascendency of mind over matter, as the spirit is on the point of finally abandoning its earthly tenement; a circumstance of no unusual occurrence in patients of strong and active intellectual properties, whose faculties often brighten for an instant, in their last moments, as the lamp flashes and glares as it is about to become extinct. going to the bed, he examined his patient attentively, and was satisfied that the final moment was near. "you're a man and a soldier, sir jairvis," he said, in a low voice, "and it'll no be doing good to attempt misleading your judgment in a case of this sort. our respectable friend, the rear-admiral, is _articulo mortis_, as one might almost say; he cannot possibly survive half an hour." sir gervaise started. he looked around him a little wistfully; for, at that moment, he would have given much to be alone with his dying friend. but he hesitated to make a request, which, it struck him, might seem improper. from this embarrassment, however, he was relieved by bluewater, himself, who had the same desire, without the same scruples about confessing it. _he_ drew the surgeon to his side, and whispered a wish to be left alone with the commander-in-chief. "well, there will be no trespass on the rules of practice in indulging the poor man in his desire," muttered magrath, as he looked about him to gather the last of his professional instruments, like the workman who is about to quit one place of toil to repair to another; "and i'll just be indulging him." so saying, he pushed galleygo and geoffrey from the room before him, left it himself, and closed the door. finding himself alone, sir gervaise knelt at the side of the bed and prayed, holding the hand of his friend in both his own. the example of mrs. dutton, and the yearnings of his own heart, exacted this sacrifice; when it was over he felt a great relief from sensations that nearly choked him. "do you forgive me, gervaise?" whispered bluewater. "name it not--name it not, my best friend. we all have our moments of weakness, and our need of pardon. may god forget all _my_ sins, as freely as i forget your errors!" "god bless you, oakes, and keep you the same simple-minded, true-hearted man, you have ever been." sir gervaise buried his face in the bed-clothes, and groaned. "kiss me, oakes," murmured the rear-admiral. in order to do this, the commander-in-chief rose from his knees and bent over the body of his friend. as he raised himself from the cheek he had saluted, a benignant smile gleamed on the face of the dying man, and he ceased to breathe. near half a minute followed, however, before the last and most significant breath that is ever drawn from man, was given. the remainder of that night sir gervaise oakes passed in the chamber alone, pacing the floor, recalling the many scenes of pleasure, danger, pain, and triumph, through which he and the dead had passed in company. with the return of light, he summoned the attendants, and retired to his tent. chapter xxxi. "and they came for the buried king that lay at rest in that ancient fane; for he must be armed on the battle day, with them to deliver spain!-- then the march went sounding on, and the moors by noontide sun, were dust on tolosa's plain." mrs. hemans. it remains only to give a rapid sketch of the fortunes of our principal characters, and of the few incidents that are more immediately connected with what has gone before. the death of bluewater was announced to the fleet, at sunrise, by hauling down his flag from the mizzen of the cæsar. the vice-admiral's flag came down with it, and re-appeared at the next minute at the fore of the plantagenet. but the little white emblem of rank never went aloft again in honour of the deceased. at noon, it was spread over his coffin, on the main-deck of the ship, agreeably to his own request; and more than once that day, did some rough old tar use it, to wipe the tear from his eyes. in the afternoon of the day after the death of one of our heroes, the wind came round to the westward, and all the vessels lifted their anchors, and proceeded to plymouth. the crippled ships, by this time, were in a state to carry more or less sail, and a stranger who had seen the melancholy-looking line, as it rounded the start, would have fancied it a beaten fleet on its return to port. the only signs of exultation that appeared, were the jacks that were flying over the white flags of the prizes; and even when all had anchored, the same air of sadness reigned among these victorious mariners. the body was landed, with the usual forms; but the procession of warriors of the deep that followed it, was distinguished by a gravity that exceeded the ordinary aspects of mere form. many of the captains, and greenly in particular, had viewed the man[oe]uvring of bluewater with surprise, and the latter not altogether without displeasure; but his subsequent conduct completely erased these impressions, leaving no other recollection connected with his conduct that morning than the brilliant courage, and admirable handling of his vessels, by which the fortunes of a nearly desperate day were retrieved. those who did reflect any longer on the subject, attributed the singularity of the course pursued by the rear-admiral, to some private orders communicated in the telegraphic signal, as already mentioned. it is unnecessary for us to dwell on the particular movements of the fleet, after it reached plymouth. the ships were repaired, the prizes received into the service, and, in due time, all took the sea again, ready and anxious to encounter their country's enemies. they ran the careers usual to english heavy cruisers in that age; and as ships form characters in this work, perhaps it may not be amiss to take a general glance at their several fortunes, together with those of their respective commanders. sir gervaise fairly wore out the plantagenet, which vessel was broken up three years later, though not until she had carried a blue flag at her main, more than two years. greenly lived to be a rear-admiral of the red, and died of yellow-fever in the island of barbadoes. the cæsar, with stowel still in command of her, foundered at sea in a winter's cruise in the baltic, every soul perishing. this calamity occurred the winter succeeding the summer of our legend, and the only relieving circumstance connected with the disaster, was the fact that her commander got rid of mrs. stowel altogether, from that day forward. the thunderer had her share in many a subsequent battle, and foley, her captain, died rear-admiral of england, and a vice-admiral of the red, thirty years later. the carnatic was commanded by parker, until the latter got a right to hoist a blue flag at the mizzen; which was done for just one day, to comply with form, when both ship and admiral were laid aside, as too old for further use. it should be added, however, that parker was knighted by the king on board his own ship; a circumstance that cast a halo of sunshine over the close of the life of one, who had commenced his career so humbly, as to render this happy close more than equal to his expectations. in direct opposition to this, it may be said here, that sir gervaise refused, for the third time, to be made viscount bowldero, with a feeling just the reverse of that of parker's; for, secure of his social position, and careless of politics, he viewed the elevation with an indifference that was a natural consequence enough of his own birth, fortune, and high character. on this occasion,--it was after another victory,--george ii. personally alluded to the subject, remarking that the success we have recorded had never met with its reward; when the old seaman let out the true secret of his pertinaciously declining an honour, about which he might otherwise have been supposed to be as indifferent to the acceptance, as to the refusal. "sir," he answered to the remark of the king, "i am duly sensible of your majesty's favour; but, i can never consent to receive a patent of nobility that, in my eyes, will always seem to be sealed with the blood of my closest and best friend." this reply was remembered, and the subject was never adverted to again. the fate of the blenheim was one of those impressive blanks that dot the pages of nautical history. she sailed for the mediterranean alone, and after she had discharged her pilot, was never heard of again. this did not occur, however, until captain sterling had been killed on her decks, in one of sir gervaise's subsequent actions. the achilles was suffered to drift in, too near to some heavy french batteries, before the treaty of aix-la-chapelle was signed; and, after every stick had been again cut out of her, she was compelled to lower her flag. his earldom and his courage, saved lord morganic from censure; but, being permitted to go up to paris, previously to his exchange, he contracted a matrimonial engagement with a celebrated _danseuse_, a craft that gave him so much future employment, that he virtually abandoned his profession. nevertheless, his name was on the list of vice-admirals of the blue, when he departed this life. the warspite and captain goodfellow both died natural deaths; one as a receiving-ship, and the other as a rear-admiral of the white. the dover, captain drinkwater, was lost in attempting to weather scilly in a gale, when her commander, and quite half her crew, were drowned. the york did many a hard day's duty, before her time arrived; but, in the end, she was so much injured in a general action as to be abandoned and set fire to, at sea. her commander was lost overboard, in the very first cruise she took, after that related in this work. the elizabeth rotted as a guard-ship, in the medway; and captain blakely retired from the service with one arm, a yellow admiral. the dublin laid her bones in the cove of cork, having been condemned after a severe winter passed on the north coast. captain o'neil was killed in a duel with a french officer, after the peace; the latter having stated that his ship had run away from two frigates commanded by the _chevalier_. the chloe was taken by an enemy's fleet, in the next war; but captain denham worked his way up to a white flag at the main, and a peerage. the druid was wrecked that very summer, chasing inshore, near bordeaux; and blewet, in a professional point of view, never regained the ground he lost, on this occasion. as for the sloops and cutters, they went the way of all small cruisers, while their nameless commanders shared the usual fates of mariners. wycherly remained at wychecombe until the interment of his uncle took place; at which, aided by sir reginald's influence and knowledge, and, in spite of tom's intrigues, he appeared as chief mourner. the affair of the succession was also so managed as to give him very little trouble. tom, discovering that his own illegitimacy was known, and seeing the hopelessness of a contest against such an antagonist as sir reginald, who knew quite as much of the facts as he did of the law of the case, was fain to retire from the field. from that moment, no one heard any thing more of the legacies. in the end he received the £ , in the five per cents, and the few chattels sir wycherly had a right to give away; but his enjoyment of them was short, as he contracted a severe cold that very autumn, and died of a malignant fever, in a few weeks. leaving no will, his property escheated; but it was all restored to his two uterine brothers, by the liberality of the ministry, and out of respect to the long services of the baron, which two brothers, it will he remembered, alone had any of the blood of wychecombe in their veins to boast of. this was disposing of the savings of both the baronet and the judge, with a very suitable regard to moral justice. wycherly also appeared, though it was in company with sir gervaise oakes, as one of the principal mourners at the funeral obsequies of admiral bluewater. these were of a public character, and took place in westminster abbey. the carriages of that portion of the royal personages who were not restrained by the laws of court-etiquette, appeared in the procession; and several members of that very family that the deceased regarded as intruders, were present incog. at his last rites. this, however, was but one of the many illusions that the great masquerade of life is constantly offering to the public gaze. there was little difficulty in establishing the claims of mildred, to be considered the daughter of colonel bluewater and agnes hedworth. lord bluewater was soon satisfied; and, as he was quite indifferent to the possession of his kinsman's money, an acquisition he neither wished nor expected, the most perfect good-will existed between the parties. there was more difficulty with the duchess of glamorgan, who had acquired too many of the notions of very high rank, to look with complacency on a niece that had been educated as the daughter of a sailing-master in the navy. she raised many objections, while she admitted that she had been the confidant of her sister's attachment to john bluewater. her second son, geoffrey, did more to remove her scruples than all the rest united; and when sir gervaise oakes, in person, condescended to make a journey to the park, to persuade her to examine the proofs, she could not well decline. as soon as one of her really candid mind entered into the inquiry, the evidence was found to be irresistible, and she at once yielded to the feelings of nature. wycherly had been indefatigable in establishing his wife's claims--more so, indeed, than in establishing his own; and, at the suggestion of the vice-admiral--or, admiral of the white, as he had become by a recent general promotion--he consented to accompany the latter in this visit, waiting at the nearest town, however, for a summons to the park, as soon as it could be ascertained that his presence would be agreeable to its mistress. "if my niece prove but half as acceptable in appearance, as my _nephew_, sir gervaise," observed the duchess, when the young virginian was introduced to her, and laying stress on the word we have italicised--"nothing can be wanting to the agreeables of this new connection. i am impatient, now, to see my niece; sir wycherly wychecombe has prepared me to expect a young woman of more than common merit." "my life on it, duchess, he has not raised your expectations too high. the poor girl is still dwelling in her cottage, the companion of her reputed mother; but it is time, wychecombe, that you had claimed your bride." "i expect to find her and mrs. dutton at the hall, on my return, sir gervaise; it having been thus arranged between us. the sad ceremonies through which we have lately been, were unsuited to the introduction of the new mistress to her abode, and the last had been deferred to a more fitting occasion." "let the first visit that lady wychecombe pays, be to this place," said the duchess. "i do not command it, sir wycherly, as one who has some slight claims to her duty; but i solicit it, as one who wishes to possess every hold upon her love. her mother was an _only_ sister; and an _only_ sister's child must be very near to one." it would have been impossible for the duchess of glamorgan to have said as much as this before she saw the young virginian; but, now he had turned out a person so very different from what she expected, she had lively hopes in behalf of her niece. wycherly returned to wychecombe, after this short visit to mildred's aunt, and found his lovely bride in quiet possession, accompanied by her mother. dutton still remained at the station, for he had the sagacity to see that he might not be welcome, and modesty enough to act with a cautious reserve. but wycherly respected his excellent wife too profoundly not to have a due regard to her feelings, in all things; and the master was invited to join the party. brutality and meanness united, like those which belonged to the character of dutton, are not easily abashed, and he accepted the invitation, in the hope that, after all, he was to reap as many advantages by the marriage of mildred with the affluent baronet, as if she had actually been his daughter. after passing a few weeks in sober happiness at home, wycherly felt it due to all parties, to carry his wife to the park, in order that she might make the acquaintance of the near relatives who dwelt there. mrs. dutton, by invitation, was of the party; but dutton was left behind, having no necessary connection with the scenes and the feelings that were likely to occur. it would be painting the duchess too much _en beau_, were we to say that she met mildred without certain misgivings and fears. but the first glimpse of her lovely niece completely put natural feelings in the ascendency. the resemblance to her sister was so strong as to cause a piercing cry to escape her, and, bursting into tears, she folded the trembling young woman to her heart, with a fervour and sincerity that set at naught all conventional manners. this was the commencement of a close intimacy; which lasted but a short time, however, the duchess dying two years later. wycherly continued in the service until the peace of aix-la-chapelle, when he finally quitted the sea. his strong native attachments led him back to virginia, where all his own nearest relatives belonged, and where his whole heart might be said to be, when he saw mildred and his children at his side. with him, early associations and habits had more strength, than traditions and memorials of the past. he erected a spacious dwelling on the estate inherited from his father, where he passed most of his time; consigning wychecombe to the care of a careful steward. with the additions and improvements that he was now enabled to make, his virginian estate produced even a larger income than his english, and his interests really pointed to the choice he had made. but no pecuniary considerations lay at the bottom of his selection. he really preferred the graceful and courteous ease of the intercourse which characterized the manners of james' river. in that age, they were equally removed from the coarse and boisterous jollity of the english country-squire, and the heartless conventionalities of high life. in addition to this, his sensitive feelings rightly enough detected that he was regarded in the mother-country as a sort of intruder. he was spoken of, alluded to in the journals, and viewed even by his tenants as the _american_ landlord; and he never felt truly at home in the country for which he had fought and bled. in england, his rank as a baronet was not sufficient to look down these little peculiarities; whereas, in virginia, it gave him a certain _éclat_, that was grateful to one of the main weaknesses of human nature. "at home," as the mother-country was then affectionately termed, he had no hope of becoming a privy councillor; while, in his native colony, his rank and fortune, almost as a matter of course, placed him in the council of the governor. in a word, while wycherly found most of those worldly considerations which influence men in the choice of their places of residence, in favour of the region in which he happened to be born, his election was made more from feeling and taste than from any thing else. his mind had taken an early bias in favour of the usages and opinions of the people among whom he had received his first impressions, and this bias he retained to the hour of his death. like a true woman, mildred found her happiness with her husband and children. of the latter she had but three; a boy and two girls. the care of the last was early committed to mrs. dutton. this excellent woman had remained at wychecombe with her husband, until death put an end to his vices, though the close of his career was exempt from those scenes of brutal dictation and interference that had rendered the earlier part of her life so miserable. apprehension of what might be the consequences to himself, acted as a check, and he had sagacity enough to see that the physical comforts he now possessed were all owing to the influence of his wife. he lived but four years, however. on his death, his widow immediately took her departure for america. it would be substituting pure images of the fancy for a picture of sober realities, were we to say that lady wychecombe and her adopted mother never regretted the land of _their_ birth. this negation of feeling, habits, and prejudices, is not to be expected even in an esquimaux. they both had occasional strictures to make on the _climate_, (and this to wycherly's great surprise, for _he_ conscientiously believed that of england to be just the worst in the world,) on the fruits, the servants, the roads, and the difficulty of procuring various little comforts. but, as this was said good-naturedly and in pleasantry, rather than in the way of complaint, it led to no unpleasant scenes or feelings. as all three made occasional voyages to england, where his estates, and more particularly settlements with his factor, compelled the baronet to go once in about a lustrum, the fruits and the climate were finally given up by the ladies. after many years, even the slip-shod, careless, but hearty attendance of the negroes, came to be preferred to the dogged mannerism of the english domestics, perfect as were the latter in their parts; and the whole subject got to be one of amusement, instead of one of complaint. there is no greater mistake than to suppose that the traveller who passes _once_ through a country, with his home-bred, and quite likely _provincial_ notions thick upon him, is competent to describe, with due discrimination, even the usages of which he is actually a witness. this truth all the family came, in time, to discover; and while it rendered them more strictly critical in their remarks, it also rendered them more tolerant. as it was, few happier families were to be found in the british empire, than that of sir wycherly wychecombe; its head retaining his manly and protecting affection for all dependent on him, while his wife, beautiful as a matron, as she had been lovely as a girl, clung to him with the tenacity of the vine to its own oak. of the result of the rising in the north, it is unnecessary to say much. the history of the _chevalier's_ successes in the first year, and of his final overthrow at culloden, is well known. sir reginald wychecombe, like hundreds of others, played his cards so skilfully that he avoided committing himself; and, although he lived and eventually died a suspected man, he escaped forfeitures and attainder. with sir wycherly, as the head of his house, he maintained a friendly correspondence to the last, even taking charge of the paternal estate in its owner's absence; manifesting to the hour of his death, a scrupulous probity in matters of money, mingled with an inherent love of management and intrigue, in things that related to politics and the succession. sir reginald lived long enough to see the hopes of the jacobites completely extinguished, and the throne filled by a native englishman. many long years after the events which rendered the week of its opening incidents so memorable among its actors, must now be imagined. time had advanced with its usual unfaltering tread, and the greater part of a generation had been gathered to their fathers. george iii. had been on the throne not less than three lustrums, and most of the important actors of the period of ' , were dead;--many of them, in a degree, forgotten. but each age has its own events and its own changes. those colonies, which in were so loyal, so devoted to the house of hanover, in the belief that political and religious liberty depended on the issue, had revolted against the supremacy of the parliament of the empire. america was already in arms against the mother country, and the very day before the occurrence of the little scene we are about to relate, the intelligence of the battle of bunker hill had reached london. although the gazette and national pride had, in a degree, lessened the characteristics of this most remarkable of all similar combats, by exaggerating the numbers of the colonists engaged, and lessening the loss of the royal troops, the impression produced by the news is said to have been greater than any known to that age. it had been the prevalent opinion of england--an opinion that was then general in europe, and which descended even to our own times--that the animals of the new continent, man included, had less courage and physical force, than those of the old; and astonishment, mingled with the forebodings of the intelligent, when it was found that a body of ill-armed countrymen had dared to meet, in a singularly bloody combat, twice their number of regular troops, and that, too, under the guns of the king's shipping and batteries. rumours, for the moment, were rife in london, and the political world was filled with gloomy anticipations of the future. on the morning of the day alluded to, westminster abbey, as usual, was open to the inspection of the curious and interested. several parties were scattered among its aisles and chapels, some reading the inscriptions on the simple tablets of the dead which illustrate a nation, in illustrating themselves; others listening to the names of princes who derived their consequence from their thrones and alliances; and still other sets, who were wandering among the more elaborate memorials that have been raised equally to illustrate insignificance, and to mark the final resting-places of more modern heroes and statesmen. the beauty of the weather had brought out more visiters than common, and not less than half-a-dozen equipages were in waiting, in and about palace yard. among others, one had a ducal coronet. this carriage did not fail to attract the attention that is more than usually bestowed on rank, in england. all were empty, however, and more than one party of pedestrians entered the venerable edifice, rejoicing that the view of a duke or a duchess, was to be thrown in, among the other sights, gratuitously. all who passed on foot, however, were not influenced by this vulgar feeling; for, one group went by, that did not even cast a glance at the collection of carriages; the seniors of the party being too much accustomed to such things to lend them a thought, and the juniors too full of anticipations of what they were about to see, to think of other matters. this party consisted of a handsome man of fifty-odd, a lady some three or four years his junior well preserved and still exceedingly attractive; a young man of twenty-six, and two lovely girls, that looked like twins; though one was really twenty-one, and the other but nineteen. these were sir wycherly and lady wychecombe, wycherly their only son, then just returned from a five years' peregrination on the continent of europe, and mildred and agnes, their daughters. the rest of the family had arrived in england about a fortnight before, to greet the heir on his return from the _grand tour_, as it was then termed. the meeting had been one of love, though lady wychecombe had to reprove a few innocent foreign affectations, as she fancied them to be, in her son; and the baronet, himself, laughed at the scraps of french, italian, and german, that quite naturally mingled in the young man's discourse. all this, however, cast no cloud over the party, for it had ever been a family of entire confidence and unbroken love. "this is a most solemn place to me," observed sir wycherly, as they entered at the poets' corner, "and one in which a common man unavoidably feels his own insignificance. but, we will first make our pilgrimage, and look at these remarkable inscriptions as we come out. the tomb we seek is in a chapel on the other side of the church, near to the great doors. when i last saw it, it was quite alone." on hearing this, the whole party moved on; though the two lovely young virginians cast wistful and curious eyes behind them, at the wonders by which they were surrounded. "is not this an extraordinary edifice, wycherly?" half whispered agnes, the youngest of the sisters, as she clung to one arm of her brother, mildred occupying the other. "can the whole world furnish such another?" "so much for hominy and james' river!" answered the young man, laughing--"now could you but see the pile at rouen, or that at rheims, or that at antwerp, or even that at york, in this good kingdom, old westminster would have to fall back upon its little tablets and big names. but sir wycherly stops; he must see what he calls his land-fall." sir wycherly had indeed stopped. it was in consequence of having reached the head of the _ch[oe]ur_, whence he could see the interior of the recess, or chapel, towards which he had been moving. it still contained but a single monument, and that was adorned with an anchor and other nautical emblems. even at that distance, the words "richard bluewater, rear-admiral of the white," might be read. but the baronet had come to a sudden halt, in consequence of seeing a party of three enter the chapel, in which he wished to be alone with his own family. the party consisted of an old man, who walked with tottering steps, and this so much the more from the circumstance that he leaned on a domestic nearly as old as himself, though of a somewhat sturdier frame, and of a tall imposing-looking person of middle age, who followed the two with patient steps. several attendants of the cathedral watched this party from a distance with an air of curiosity and respect; but they had been requested not to accompany it to the chapel. "they must be some old brother-officers of my poor uncle's, visiting his tomb!" whispered lady wychecombe. "the very venerable gentleman has naval emblems about his attire." "_do_ you--_can_ you forget him, love? 'tis sir gervaise oakes, the pride of england! yet how changed! it is now five-and-twenty years since we last met; still i knew him at a glance. the servant is old galleygo, his steward; but the gentleman with him is a stranger. let us advance; _we_ cannot be intruders in such a place." sir gervaise paid no attention to the entrance of the wychecombes. it was evident, by the vacant look of his countenance, that time and hard service had impaired his faculties, though his body remained entire; an unusual thing for one who had been so often engaged. still there were glimmerings of lively recollections, and even of strong sensibilities about his eyes, as sudden fancies crossed his mind. once a year, the anniversary of his friend's interment, he visited that chapel; and he had now been brought here as much from habit, as by his own desire. a chair was provided for him, and he sat facing the tomb, with the large letters before his eyes. he regarded neither, though he bowed courteously to the salute of the strangers. his companion at first seemed a little surprised, if not offended at the intrusion; but when wycherly mentioned that they were relatives of the deceased, he also bowed complacently, and made way for the ladies. "this it is as what you wants to see, sir jarvy," observed galleygo, jogging his master's shoulder by way of jogging his memory. "them 'ere cables and hanchors, and that 'ere mizzen-mast, with a rear-admiral's flag a-flying, is rigged in this old church, in honour of our friend admiral blue, as was; but as is now dead and gone this many a long year." "admiral of the blue," repeated sir gervaise coldly. "you're mistaken, galleygo, i'm an admiral of the white, and admiral of the fleet in the bargain. i know my own rank, sir." "i knows that as well as you does yourself, sir jarvy," answered galleygo, whose grammar had rather become confirmed than improved, by time, "or as well as the first lord himself. but admiral blue was once your best friend, and i doesn't at all admire at your forgetting him--one of these long nights you'll be forgetting _me_." "i beg your pardon, galleygo; i rather think not. i remember _you_, when a very young man." "well, and so you mought remember admiral blue, if you'd just try. i know'd ye both when young luffs, myself." "this is a painful scene," observed the stranger to sir wycherly, with a melancholy smile. "this gentleman is now at the tomb of his dearest friend; and yet, as you see, he appears to have lost all recollection that such a person ever existed. for what do we live, if a few brief years are to render our memories such vacant spots!" "has he been long in this way?" asked lady wychecombe, with interest. the stranger started at the sound of her voice. he looked intently into the face of the still fair speaker, before he answered; then he bowed, and replied-- "he has been failing these five years, though his last visit here was much less painful than this. but are our own memories perfect?--surely, i have seen that face before!--these young ladies, too--" "geoffrey--_dear_ cousin geoffrey!" exclaimed lady wychecombe, holding out both her hands. "it is--it must be the duke of glamorgan, wycherly!" no further explanations were needed. all the parties recognised each other in an instant. they had not met for many--many years, and each had passed the period of life when the greatest change occurs in the physical appearance; but, now that the ice was broken, a flood of recollections poured in. the duke, or geoffrey cleveland, as we prefer to call him, kissed his cousin and her daughters with frank affection, for no change of condition had altered his simple sea-habits, and he shook hands with the gentlemen, with a cordiality like that of old times. all this, however, was unheeded by sir gervaise, who sat looking at the monument, in a dull apathy. "galleygo," he said; but galleygo had placed himself before sir wycherly, and thrust out a hand that looked like a bunch of knuckles. "i knows ye!" exclaimed the steward, with a grin. "i know'd ye in the offing yonder, but i couldn't make out your number. lord, sir, if this doesn't brighten sir jarvy up, again, and put him in mind of old times, i shall begin to think we have run out cable to the better end." "i will speak to him, duke, if you think it advisable?" said sir wycherly, in an inquiring manner. "galleygo," put in sir gervaise, "what lubber fitted that cable?--he has turned in the clench the wrong way." "ay--ay, sir, they _is_ great lubbers, them stone-cutters, sir jarvy; and they knows about as much of ships, as ships knows of them. but here is _young_ sir wycherly wychecombe come to see you--the _old_ 'un's nevy." "sir wycherly, you are a very welcome guest. bowldero is a poor place for a gentleman of your merit; but such as it is, it is entirely at your service. what did you say the gentleman's name was, galleygo?" "sir wycherly wychecombe, the _young_ 'un--the _old_ 'un slipped the night as we moored in his house." "i hope, sir gervaise, i have not entirely passed from your recollection; it would grieve me sadly to think so. and my poor uncle, too; he who died of apoplexy in your presence!" "_nullus, nulla, nullum._ that's good latin, hey! duke? _nullius, nullius, nullius._ my memory _is_ excellent, gentlemen; nominative, _penna_; genitive, _pennæ_, and so on." "now, sir jarvy, since you're veering out your latin, _i_ should likes to know if you can tell a 'clove-hitch' from a 'carrick-bend?'" "that is an extraordinary question, galleygo, to put to an old seaman!" "well, if you remembers _that_, why can't you just as reasonably remember your old friend, admiral blue?" "admiral of the blue! i do recollect _many_ admirals of the blue. they ought to make me an admiral of the blue, duke; i've been a rear-admiral long enough." "you've _been_ an admiral of the blue _once_; and that's enough for any man," interrupted galleygo, again in his positive manner; "and it isn't five minutes since you know'd your own rank as well as the secretary to the admiralty himself. he veers and hauls, in this fashion, on an idee, gentlemen, until he doesn't know one end of it from t'other." "this is not uncommon with men of great age," observed the duke. "they sometimes remember the things of their youth, while the whole of later life is a blank. i have remarked this with our venerable friend, in whose mind i think it will not be difficult, however, to revive the recollection of admiral bluewater, and even of yourself, sir wycherly. let _me_ make the effort, galleygo." "yes, lord geoffrey," for so the steward always called the quondam reefer, "you does handle him more like a quick-working boat, than any on us; and so i'll take an hopportunity of just overhauling our old lieutenant's young 'uns, and of seeing what sort of craft he has set afloat for the next generation." "sir gervaise," said the duke, leaning over the chair, "here is sir wycherly wychecombe, who once served a short time with us as a lieutenant; it was when you were in the plantagenet. you remember the plantagenet, i trust, my dear sir?" "the plantagenets? certainly, duke; i read all about them when a boy. edwards, and henrys, and _richards_--" at the last name he stopped; the muscles of his face twitched; memory had touched a sensitive chord. but it was too faintly, to produce more than a pause. "there, now," growled galleygo, in agnes' face, he being just then employed in surveying her through a pair of silver spectacles that were a present from his master, "you see, he has forgotten the old planter; and the next thing, he'll forget to eat his dinner. it's _wicked_, sir jarvy, to forget _such_ a ship." "i trust, at least, you have not forgotten richard bluewater?" continued the duke, "he who fell in our last action with the comte de vervillin?" a gleam of intelligence shot into the rigid and wrinkled face; the eye lighted, and a painful smile struggled around the lips. "what, _dick_!" he exclaimed, in a voice stronger than that in which he had previously spoken. "_dick!_ hey! duke? _good, excellent dick?_ we were midshipmen together, my lord duke; and i loved him like a brother!" "i _knew_ you did! and i dare say now you can recollect the melancholy occasion of his death?" "is dick _dead_?" asked the admiral, with a vacant gaze. "lord--lord, sir jarvy, you knows he is, and that 'ere marvel constructure is his monerment--now you _must_ remember the old planter, and the county of fairvillian, and the threshing we guv'd him?" "pardon me, galleygo; there is no occasion for warmth. when i was a midshipman, warmth of expression was disapproved of by all the elder officers." "you cause me to lose ground," said the duke, looking at the steward by way of bidding him be silent: "is it not extraordinary, sir wycherly, how his mind reverts to his youth, overlooking the scenes of latter life! yes, _dick is_ dead, sir gervaise. he fell in that battle in which you were doubled on by the french--when you had le foudroyant on one side of you, and le pluton on the other--" "_i remember it!_" interrupted sir gervaise, in a clear strong voice, his eye flashing with something like the fire of youth--"i remember it! le foudroyant was on our starboard beam; le pluton a little on our larboard bow--bunting had gone aloft to look out for bluewater--no--poor bunting was killed--" "sir wycherly wychecombe, who afterwards married mildred bluewater, dick's niece," put in the baronet, himself, almost as eager as the admiral had now become; "sir wycherly wychecombe _had_ been aloft, but was returned to report the pluton coming down!" "so he did!--god bless him! a clever youth, and he _did_ marry dick's niece. god bless them _both_. well, sir, you're a stranger, but the story will interest you. there we lay, almost smothered in the smoke, with one two-decker at work on our starboard beam, and another hammering away on the larboard bow, with our top-masts over the side, and the guns firing through the wreck." "ay, now you're getting it like a book!" exclaimed galleygo exultingly, flourishing his stick, and strutting about the little chapel; "that's just the way things was, as i knows from seeing 'em!" "i'm quite certain i'm right, galleygo?" "right! your honour's righter than any log-book in the fleet. give it to 'em, sir jarvy, larboard and starboard!" "that we did--that we did"--continued the old man earnestly, becoming even grand in aspect, as he rose, always gentleman-like and graceful, but filled with native fire, "that did we! de vervillin was on our right, and des prez on our left--the smoke was choking us all--bunting--no; young wychecombe was at my side; he said a fresh frenchman was shoving in between us and le pluton, sir--god forbid! i _thought_; for we had enough of them, us it was. there she comes! see, here is her flying-jib-boom-end--and there--hey! wychecombe?--_that's_ the _old roman_, shoving through the smoke!--cæsar himself! and there stands dick and young geoffrey cleveland--_he_ was of your family, duke--there stands dick bluewater, between the knight-heads, waving his hat--_hurrah!_--he's true, at last!--he's true, at last--_hurrah! hurrah!_" the clarion tones rose like a trumpet's blast, and the cheering of the old sailor rang in the arches of the abbey church, causing all within hearing to start, as if a voice spoke from the tombs. sir gervaise, himself, seemed surprised; he looked up at the vaulted roof, with a gaze half-bewildered, half-delighted. "is this bowldero, or glamorgan house, my lord duke," he asked, in a whisper. "it is neither, admiral oakes, but westminster abbey; and this is the tomb of your friend, rear-admiral richard bluewater." "galleygo, help me to kneel," the old man added in the manner of a corrected school-boy. "the stoutest of us all, should kneel to god, in his own temple. i beg pardon, gentlemen; i wish to pray." the duke of glamorgan and sir wycherly wychecombe helped the admiral to his knees, and galleygo, as was his practice, knelt beside his master, who bowed his head on his man's shoulders. this touching spectacle brought all the others into the same humble attitude. wycherly, mildred, and their children, with the noble, kneeling and praying in company. one by one, the latter arose; still galleygo and his master continued on the pavement. at length geoffrey cleveland stepped forward, and raised the old man, placing him, with wycherly's assistance, in the chair. here he sat, with a calm smile on his aged features, his open eyes riveted seemingly on the name of his friend, perfectly dead. there had been a reaction, which suddenly stopped the current of life, at the heart. thus expired sir gervaise oakes, full of years and of honours; one of the bravest and most successful of england's sea-captains. he had lived his time, and supplied an instance of the insufficiency of worldly success to complete the destiny of man; having, in a degree, survived his faculties, and the consciousness of all he had done, and all he merited. as a small offset to this failing of nature, he had regained a glimmering view of one of the most striking scenes, and of much the most enduring sentiment, of a long life, which god, in mercy, permitted to be terminated in the act of humble submission to his own greatness and glory. out in the forty-five, or duncan keith's vow, by emily sarah holt. ________________________________________________________________________ this book is written in the style of a diary written by the youngest of four sisters. she is a very sensitive young girl, and her observations are very acute. most of them are of a religious nature, and the description of the work of a preacher called whitefield is very well worth reading. i felt quite emotional while reading it. as you may gather from the title the book is set in the time of , at the time the bonny prince charlie landed in an attempt to claim his title to the throne, currently held by the elector of hanover, who was not very popular among the people we meet in this book, most of whom would be called jacobites. it is interesting to see that jacobite families like this one were more or less left alone, except when they actually took up arms. the book takes about hours to read aloud. some of the speech is in broad lowland scots, but you will probably have little difficulty in understanding it. you will probably come away from reading this book resolved upon an amendment of life. if so then the book has done its work. this is the first book by this author that we have come across (lent to us for the occasion) and i am sure we shall add a few more by her in due course. ________________________________________________________________________ out in the forty-five, or duncan keith's vow, by emily sarah holt. chapter one. we alight at brocklebank fells. "sure, there is room within our hearts good store; for we can lodge transgressions by the score: thousands of toys dwell there, yet out of door we leave thee." george herbert. "girls!" said my aunt kezia, looking round at us, "i should just like to know what is to come of the whole four of you!" my aunt kezia has an awful way of looking round at us. she begins with sophy--she is our eldest--then she goes to fanny, then to hatty, and ends up with me. as i am the youngest, i have to be ended up with. she generally lays down her work to do it, too; and sometimes she settles her spectacles first, and that makes it feel more awful than ever. however, when she has gone round, she always takes them off--spectacles, i mean--and wipes them, and gives little solemn shakes of her head while she is doing it, as if she thought we were all four going to ruin together, and had got very near the bottom. this afternoon, when she said that, instead of sitting quiet, as we generally do, hatty--she is the pert one amongst us--actually spoke up. "i should think we shall be married, aunt kezia, one of these days-- shan't we?" "my dear, if you are," was my aunt kezia's reply, more solemn than ever, "the only wedding present that i shall be conscientiously able to give to those four misguided men will be a rope a-piece to hang themselves with." "oh dear! i do wish she would not!" said fanny in a plaintive whisper behind me. "considering who brought us up, aunt kezia," replied impertinent hatty, "i should have thought they would have had better bargains than that." "hester, you forget yourself," said my aunt severely. then, though she had only just finished wiping her spectacles, she took them off, and wiped them again, with more little shakes of her head. "and i did not bring you all up, neither." my cheeks grew hot, for i knew that meant me. my aunt kezia did not bring me up, as she did the rest. i was thought sickly in my youth, and as brocklebank fells is but a bleak place, i was packed off to carlisle, where grandmamma lived, and there i have been with her until six weeks back, when she went to live with uncle charles down in the south, and i came home to brocklebank, being thought to have now outgrown my sickliness. my aunt kezia is father's sister, and has kept house for him since mamma died, so of course she is no kin to grandmamma at all. i know it sounds queer to say "father and mamma," instead of "father and mother," but i cannot help it. grandmamma would never let me say "mother;" she said it was old-fashioned and vulgar: and now, when i come back, father will not hear of my calling him "papa," which he says is new-fangled finnicking nonsense. i did not get used, either, to saying "papa," as i did "mamma," for grandmamma never seemed to care to hear about him; i don't believe she liked him. she never seemed to want to hear about anything at brocklebank. i don't think she ever took even to the girls, except fanny. they all came to see me in turns, but grandmamma said sophy was only fit to be a country parson's wife; she knew nothing except things about the house and sewing and mending: she said fine breeding would be thrown away upon her. she might do very well, grandmamma said, with her snuff-box elegantly held in her left hand, and taking a pinch out of it with the mittened fingers of her right--that is, grandmamma, not sophy--she said sophy might do very well for a country squire's eldest daughter and some parson's wife, to cut out clothes and roll pills and make dumplings, but that was all she was good for. then hatty's pert speeches she could not bear one bit. grandmamma said it was perfectly dreadful, and that her great glazed red cheeks--that is what she called them--were insufferably vulgar; she wouldn't like anybody to hear that such a creature was her grand-daughter. she wanted hatty to take a lot of castor oil or some such horrid stuff, to bring down her red cheeks and make her slender and ladylike; she was ever so much too fat, grandmamma said, and she thought it so vulgar to be fat. she wanted to pinch her in with stays, too, but it was all of no use. hatty would not be pinched, and she would not take castor oil, and she would eat and drink--like a plough-boy, grandmamma said--so at last she gave her up as a bad job. then fanny came, and she is more like grandmamma in her ways, and she did not mind the castor oil, but swallowed bottles of it; and she did not mind the stays, but let grandmamma pinch her anyhow she pleased, so i think she rather liked fanny. i was pale and thin enough without castor oil, so she did not give me any, for which i am thankful, for i could not have swallowed it as meekly as fanny. it looked very queer to me, after grandmamma's houseful of servants, to come home and find only four at brocklebank, and but three of those in the house, and my aunt kezia doing half the work herself, and expecting us girls to help her. grandmamma would hardly let me pick up my kerchief, if i dropped it; i had to call willet, her woman, to give it to me. and here, my aunt kezia looks as if she thought i ought to want no telling how to dust a table or make an apple pie. she has only cook-maid and chambermaid,--maria and bessy, their names are,--and sam the serving-man. there is the old shepherd, will, but he only comes into the house by nows and thens. grandmamma had a black man who waited on us. she said it gave the place an air, and that there were gentlewomen in carlisle who would scarce have come to see her if she had not had a black man to look genteel. i don't fancy i should care much for people who would not come to see me unless i had a black servant. i should think they came to visit him, not me. but grandmamma said that my old lady mary garsington, in the close, never came to see anybody who had less than a thousand a year, and did not keep a black. she was the grandest person grandmamma knew at carlisle, for most of her friends live in the south. i do not know exactly where the south is, nor what it is like. of course london is in the south; i know that. but grandmamma used to talk about the south as if she thought it so fine; and my uncle charles once said nobody could be a gentleman who had not lived in the south. they were all clodhoppers up here, he said, and you could only get any proper polish in the south. fanny was there then, and she was quite hurt with it. she did not like to think father a clodhopper; and i am sure he is not. besides, our ancestors did come from the south. our grandfather, william courtenay, who bought the land and built brocklebank, belonged [note .] wiltshire, and his father was a devonshire man, and a courtenay of powderham, whatever that may mean: father knows more about it than i do, and so, i think, does fanny. grandmamma once told me she would never have thought of allowing mamma to marry father, if he had not been a courtenay and a man of substance. she said all his other relations were so very mean and low, she could not have condescended so far as to connect herself with them. why, i believe one of them was only a farmer's daughter: and i think, from what i have heard grandmamma and my uncle charles say, that another of them had something to do with those low people called dissenters. i don't suppose she really was one--that would be too shocking; but grandmamma always went into the clouds when she mentioned these vulgar ancestors of mine, so i never heard more than "that poor wretched mother of your grandfather's, my dear," or "that dreadful farming creature whom your grandfather married." i once asked my aunt dorothea--that is, uncle charles's wife--if this wretched great-grandmother of mine had been a very bad woman. but she said, "oh no, not _bad_"--and i think she might have told me something more, but my uncle charles put in, in that commanding way he has, "could not have been worse, my dear dorothea--connected with those dissenters,"--so i got to know no more, and i was sorry. father once had two more sisters, who were both married, one in derbyshire, and one in scotland. they both left children, so we have two lots of cousins on father's side. our cousins in derbyshire are both girls; their names are charlotte and amelia bracewell: and there are two of our scotch cousins, but they are a boy and a girl, and they have queer scotch names, angus and flora drummond. at least, they were boy and girl, i suppose; for angus drummond must be over twenty now, and flora is not far off it. it is more than ten years since we saw the drummonds, but the bracewells have been to visit us several times. amelia bracewell is fanny made hotter, or fanny is amelia and water-- which you like. she makes me laugh, and my aunt kezia sniff. the other day, my aunt kezia came into the room while we were talking about amelia, and she heard fanny say,-- "she is so full of sympathy. she always comes and wants you to sympathise with her. she just lives upon sympathy." "so full of sympathy!" said my aunt kezia, turning round on fanny. "so empty, child, you mean. what poor weak thing are you talking about?" "cousin amelia bracewell," answered fanny. "she is such a charming creature. don't you think so, aunt kezia? such a dear sympathetic darling!" "it is well you told me whom you meant, fanny," said my aunt kezia, pursing up her lips. "i should never have guessed you meant amelia bracewell, from what you said. well, how differently two people can see the same thing, to be sure!" "don't you like her, aunt kezia?" returned fanny in an astonished tone. "if i am to speak the full truth, my dear," said my aunt kezia, "i am afraid i come as near to despising her as a christian woman and a communicant has any business to do. i never had any fancy for birds of prey." "birds of prey!" exclaimed fanny, blankly. "birds of prey," repeated my aunt in a very different tone. "she is one of those folks who are for ever drawing twopenny cheques upon your feelings, and there are no funds in my bank to meet them. i can stand a bucketful of feeling drawn out of me, but i hate to let it waste away in a drop here and a driblet there about nothing at all. now i will just tell you, girls--i once went to see a woman who had lost fifteen hundred a year, all at a blow, without a bit of warning. what she had to say was--`the lord has taken it, and he knows best. i can trust him to care for me.' well, about a week afterwards, i had a visit from another woman, who had let a pan boil over, and had spoilt a lot of jam. she wanted me to say she was the most tried creature since adam. and i could not, girls--i really could not. i have not the slightest doubt there have been a million women worse tried since the battle of prague, never mention adam. as to amelia bracewell, who carries her fan as if it were a sceptre, and slurs her r's like a londoner, silly chit! i have hardly any patience with her. charlotte's bad enough, but amelia! my word, she takes some standing, i can tell you!" now, i always admired the way amelia sounds her r's, or, i suppose i ought to say, the way she does not sound them. it is so soft and pretty. then she writes poetry,--all about the blue sea and the silver moon, or else the gleaming sunbeams and the hoary hills--so grand! i never read anything so beautiful as amelia's poetry. she told me once that a gentleman from london, who was fourth cousin to a peer of some sort, had told her she wrote as well as mr pope. only think! charlotte is as different as she can be. her notion of things is to go down to the stable and saddle her own horse, and scamper all over the country, all by herself. father says she is a fine girl, but she will break her neck some day. my aunt kezia says, saint paul told women to be keepers at home, and she thinks that page must have dropped out of charlotte's bible. she does some other things, too, that i do not fancy she would care for my aunt kezia to hear. she calls her father "the old gentleman," and sometimes "the old boy." i do not know what my aunt kezia would say, if she did hear it. i wonder what flora drummond is like now. i used to think she had not much in her. perhaps it was only that she did not let it come out. however, i shall have a chance of finding out soon; for she and angus are coming to stay with us, on his way to york, where his father is sending him on some kind of business. i do not know what it is, and i don't care. business is always dry, uninteresting stuff. flora will stay with us while angus goes on to york, and then he will pick her up again as he comes back. i wish the bracewells might be here at the same time. i should like flora and amelia to know one another, and i do not think they do at all. it is shocking dull here at brocklebank. i dare say i feel it more than my sisters, having lived in carlisle all my life, so to speak: and as to my aunt kezia, i do believe, if she had her garden, and orchard, and kitchen, and dairy, and her work-box, and a bible, and prayer-book, and the compleat gentlewoman, she would be satisfied to live at the north pole or anywhere. but i am perfectly delighted when anybody comes to see us, if 'tis only ephraim hebblethwaite. he is the son of farmer hebblethwaite, lower down the valley, and i believe he admires fanny. fanny cannot bear him; she says he has such an ugly name. but i think he is very pleasant, and i suppose he could change his name, though i can't see why it signifies. beside him, and ambrose catterall, and esther langridge, we know no young people except our cousins. father being squire of brocklebank, we cannot mix with the common folks. old mr digby is the vicar, and i do not think he is far short of a hundred years old. he is an old bachelor, and has nobody to keep his house but our sam's mother, a scotchwoman--old elspie they call her. he does not often preach of late years--except on good friday and easter sunday, and such high days. a pleasant old man he used to be, but he grows forgetful now, for the last time we met him, he patted my head just as if i were still a little child, and i shall be seventeen in march. he has been vicar over sixty years, and christened father and married my grand-parents. i do wish we had just a few more friends. it really is too bad, for we might have known the family at seven stones, only two miles off, if they had not been whigs, and there are five sons and four daughters there. father would no more think of shaking hands with a whig (if he knew it) than he would eat roast beef on good friday. i should not care. why should one not have some fun, because old mr outhwaite is a whig? i shall have to keep my book locked up if i tell it all i think, as i have been doing now. i would not have hatty get hold of it for all the world. and as to my aunt kezia--i believe she would whip me and send me to bed if she read only the last page. here comes ambrose catterall up the walk, and i must go down, though i do not expect there will be any fun. he will stay supper, i dare say, and then he and father will have a game of whist with sophy and fanny, and i shall sit by with my sewing, and hatty will knit and whisper into my ear things that i want to laugh at and dare not. if i did, father would look up over his cards with a black brow and say "silence!" in such a tone that i shall wish i was somebody else. who i don't know-- only not caroline courtenay. father does not like our names--at least mine and sophy's. mamma named us, and he says we have both fine romantic silly names. hatty was called after his mother, and that he likes; and fanny is after a sister of mamma's who died young. but father never gives over growling because one of us was not a boy. "four girls!" he says: "four girls, and never a lad! who on earth wants four girls? i'll sell one or two of you cheap, if i can find him." but i don't think he would, if it came to the point. i know, for all his queer speeches sometimes, he is proud of fanny's good looks, and sophy's good housekeeping, and even hatty's pert sayings. i know by the way he chuckles now and then when she says anything particularly smart. i don't know what he is proud of in me, unless it is my manners. of course, having lived in carlisle with grandmamma, i have the best manners of any. and i speak the best, i know. sophy talks shockingly broad; she says, "aw wanted him to coom, boot he would not." fanny has found that will not do, so she tries to imitate my aunt dorothea and amelia bracewell, but she goes on the other side of her pattern, and does not sound the u full where she ought to do it, but says, "the basin is fell of shegar." hatty laughs at them both, and lets her u go where it likes, but she is not so bad as sophy. i think i shall try and put the notion into my aunt kezia's head to have the bracewells here for christmas. i know angus and flora will be here then, and later. that would make a decent party, if we got ephraim hebblethwaite, and ambrose catterall too. after all, i went on writing so late, that i only got down-stairs in time to see ambrose catterall's back as he went down the drive. he could not stay for some reason--i did not hear what. father growled as he heard him go off, singing, down the walk. "where on earth did the fellow get hold of that piece of whiggery?" said he. "just listen to him!" i listened, and heard the refrain of the whigs' favourite song,-- "send him victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us--" "disgusting stuff!" said father, with some stronger words which i know my aunt kezia would not let me put down if she were looking. "where did the fellow get hold of it? his father is a decent tory enough. what is he at now? listen, girls." ambrose's tune had changed to,-- "king george he was born in the month of october,-- 'tis a sin for a subject that month to be sober!" "i'll forbid him my house!" cries father, starting up. "i'll send a bullet through his head! i'll october him, and sober him too, if he has not a care! fan! where's fan? go to the spinnet, girl, and sing me a right good tory song, to take the taste of that abominable stuff out of my mouth." "nay, brother," saith my aunt kezia, who was pinning a piece of work on the table, "surely a man may use respect to the powers that be, though they be not the powers he might wish to be?" "`powers that be!'" saith father. "powers that shouldn't be, you mean. i'll tell you what, kezia,--you may have been bred a tory, but you were born a puritan. whereon earth you got it--! as for that fellow, i'll forbid him my house. `king george,' forsooth! let me hear one of you call the elector of hanover by that name, and i'll--i'll--. come along, fan, and give me a tory song." so fanny sat down to the spinnet, and played the new song that all the tories are so fond of. how often she made britain arise from out the azure waves, i am sure i don't know, but she, and father with her, sang it so many times that all that day i had "britons never shall be slaves!" ringing in my ears till i heartily wished they would be slaves and have done with it. at night, when we were going to bed, after father had blessed us, hatty runs round to his back and whispers in his ear. "don't send ambrose catterall away, there's a good father!" says she: "there will be two of us old maids as it is." father laughed, and pinched hatty's ear. so i saw my gentlewoman had been thinking the same thing i had. but i don't think she ought to have said it out. stay, now! why should it be worse to say things than to think them? is it as bad to think them as to say them? oh dear! but if one were for ever sifting one's thoughts in that way,--why, it would be just dreadful! not many people are careful about their words, but one's thoughts! no, i don't think i could do it, really. i suppose my aunt kezia would say i ought. i do so dislike my aunt kezia's oughts. she always thinks you ought to do just what you do not want. if only people would say, now and then, that you ought to eat plum-pudding, or you ought to dance, or you ought to wear jewels! but no! it is always you ought to sew, or you ought to carry some broken victuals to old goody branscombe, or you ought to be as sweet as a rosebud when hatty says things at you. stop! would it be so if i always wanted to do the things i ought? i suppose not. then why don't i? but why ought i? there's another question. i wish we either wanted to do what we ought, or else that we ought to do what we want! i was obliged to stop last night all at once, because i heard hatty coming up the garret stairs. i always write in the garret and keep my book there, so that none of the girls shall get hold of it--hatty particularly. she would make such shocking game of it. i had only just put my book away safely when in she came. "what on earth are you doing up here?" cried she. "what are you doing?" said i. "looking for you," she says. "then why should not i be looking for you?" said i. "because you weren't, miss caroline courtenay!" and she makes a swimming courtesy. "oh yes, you don't need to tell me you have a secret, my young gentlewoman. i know as well as if i had seen it. o pussy, have you come too? do you know what it is, pussy? does she come up here to read her love-letters--does she? oh, how charming! wouldn't i like to see them! how does she get them, pussy? she has been rather fond of going to see elspie this past week or two; is that it, pussy? won't you tell me, my pretty, pretty cat?" "hatty, don't be so absurd!" cried i. "we know, don't we, pussy?" says hatty in a provoking whisper to the cat in her arms. "i thought there would be somebody at carlisle that she would be sorry to leave--didn't you, pussy-cat? what is he like, pussy? tall and dark, i'll wager, with a pair of handsome mustachios, and the most beautiful black eyes you ever saw! won't that be about it, pussy?" i could have thrown the cat at her. how could any mortal creature be sweet, or keep quiet, talked to in that way? i flew out. "hatty, you are the most vexatious tease that ever lived! do, for pity's sake, go down and let me alone. you know perfectly well it is all stuff and nonsense!" "oh, how angry she is, my pretty pussy!" says hatty, hiding her laughing face behind the cat. "it was all nonsense, you know; but really, when she gets into such a tantrum, i begin to think i must have hit the white. what do you say, pussy?" i stamped on the garret floor. "hatty, will you take that hideous cat down and be quiet?" cried i. "dear, dear! to think of her calling you a hideous cat! doesn't that show how angry she is? people should not get angry--should they, pussy? she will box our ears next. i really think we had better go, my darling tabby." so off went hatty with the cat in her arms, but as she was going down the stairs, she said, i am sure for me to hear,-- "we will come some other time, won't we, pussy? when the dragon is out of her den: and we will have a quiet rummage, you and i; and we'll find her love-letters!" now is not that too bad? what is one to do? job could not have kept his temper if he had lived with hatty. i wish she would get married--i do! fanny never interferes with any one--she just goes her way and lets you go yours. and when sophy interferes, it is only because something is left untidy, or you have not done something you promised to do. she does not tease for teasing's sake, like hatty. and then, when i came down, after having composed my face, and passed hatty on my way into the parlour, what should she say but,-- "didn't you wish i was in heaven just now?" "i should not have cared where you were, if you had kept out of the garret!" said i. hatty gave one of her odious giggles, and away she went. now, how can i live at peace with hatty, will anybody tell me? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i am so delighted! my aunt kezia has come into my plan for having the bracewells here at christmas, along with the drummonds. "it might be as well," said she, "if we could do some good to that poor frivolous thing amelia; but don't you get too much taken up with her, caroline, my dear. she is a silly maid at best." "oh, amelia is fanny's friend, not mine, aunt kezia," said i. "and charlotte is sophy's." "and is flora to be yours?" said aunt kezia. "i have not made one yet," i answered. "i do not know what flora is like." "as well to wait and see, trow," says my aunt kezia. sam was bringing in breakfast while this was said; and as soon as he had set down the cold beef he turned to my aunt kezia and said,-- "then she's just a braw lassie, miss flora, nae mair and nae less; and she'll bring ye a' mickle gude, and nae harm." "why, how do you know, sam?" asked my aunt kezia. "hoots! my mither's sister's daughter was her nurse," said he. "helen raeburn they ca' her, and her man's ane o' the macdonalds. trust me, but i ha'e heard monie a tale o' thae drummonds,--their faither and mither and their gudesire and minnie an' a'." "what is angus like, sam?" said i. "atweel, he's a bonnie laddie; but no just--" sam stopped short and pulled a face. "not just what?" says my aunt kezia. "ye'll be best to find oot for yersel, mrs kezia, i'm thinkin'." and off trudged sam after jelly, and we got no more out of him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i wonder where the living creature is that could stand hatty! there was i at work this morning in the parlour, when in she came--there were sophy and fanny too--holding up something above her head. "`busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!'" sang hatty. "look what i've found, just now, in the garret! oh yes, miss caroline, you can look too." "hatty, if you don't give me that book this minute--!" cried i. "i did think i had hidden it out of search of your prying fingers." "dear, yes, and of my bright eyes, i feel no doubt," laughed hatty. "you are not quite so clever as you fancy, miss caroline. carlisle is a charming city, but it does not hold all the brains in the world." "what is it, hatty?" said sophy. "don't tease the child." "wait a little, miss sophia, if you please. this is a most interesting and savoury volume, wherein miss caroline courtenay sets down her convictions on all manner of subjects in general, and her unfortunate sisters in particular. i find--" "hatty, do be reasonable, and give the child her book," said fanny. "it is a shame!" "oh, you keep one too, do you, miss frances?" laughed hatty. "i had my suspicions, i will own." "what do you mean?" said fanny, flushing. "only that the rims of your pearly ears would not be quite so ruddy, my charmer, if you were not in like case. well, i find from this book that we are none of us perfect, but so far as i can gather, fanny comes nearest the angelic world of any of us. as to--" "hatty, you ought to be ashamed of yourself if you have been so dishonourable as to read what was not meant for any one to see." "my beloved sophy, don't halloo till you are out of the wood. and you are not out, by any means. you are vulgar and ill-bred, my dear; you say `coom' and `boot,' and you are only fit to marry a country curate, and cut out shirts and roll pills." "i say what?" asked sophy, disregarding the other particulars. "you say `coom' and `boot,' my darling, and it ought to be `kem' and `bet'," said hatty, with such an affected pronunciation that sophy and fanny both burst out laughing. "what do you mean?" said sophy amid her laughter. "then--fanny, my dear, you are not to escape! you are better bred than sophy, because you take castor oil--" "hatty, what nonsense you are talking!" i cried, unable to endure any longer. but hatty went on, taking no notice. "but you drop your r's, deah, and say deah caroline,--(can't manage it right, my dear!)--and you are slow and affected." "hatty, you know i never said so!" i screamed. "then as to me," pursued hatty, casting her eyes up to the ceiling, "as to poor me, i am--well, not one of the angels, on any consideration. i tease my sweetest sister in the most cruel manner--" "well, that is true, hatty, if nothing else is," said fanny. "i have `horrid glazed red cheeks,' and i eat like a plough-boy; and i don't take castor oil. castor oil is evidently one of the christian graces." "how can you be so ridiculous!" said sophy. "see, you have made the poor child cry." "with passion, my dear, which is a very wicked thing, as i am sure my aunt kezia would tell her. a little castor oil would--" "what is that about your aunt kezia?" came in another voice from the doorway. oh, i was so glad to see her! "hoity-toity! why, what is all this, girls?" said she, severely. "hester, what are you doing? what is cary crying for?" "hatty is teasing her, aunt," said fanny. "she is always doing it, i think." "give me that book, hester," said my aunt kezia; and hatty passed it to her without a word. "now, whom does this book belong?" "it is mine, aunt kezia," i said, as well as my sobs would let me; "and hatty has found it, and she is teasing me dreadfully about it." "what is it, my dear?" said my aunt kezia. "it is my diary, aunt kezia; and i did not want hatty to get hold of it." "she says such things, aunt kezia, you can't imagine, about you and all of us." "i am sure i never said anything about you, aunt kezia," i sobbed. "if you did, my dear, i dare say it was nothing worse than all of you have thought in turn," saith my aunt kezia, drily. "hester, you will go to bed as soon as the dark comes. take your book, cary; and remember, my dear, whenever you write in it again, that god is looking at every word you write." hatty made a horrid face at me behind my aunt kezia's back; but i don't believe she really cared anything about it. she went to bed, of course; and it is dark now by half-past five. but she was not a bit daunted, for i heard her singing as she lay in bed, "fair rosalind, in woful wise," [note .] and afterwards, "i ha'e nae kith, i ha'e nae kin." [note .] if father had heard that last, my aunt kezia would have had to forgive her and let her off the rest of her sentence. i have found a new hiding-place for my book, where i do not think hatty will find it in a hurry. but when i sit down to write now, my aunt kezia's words come back to me with an awful sound. "god is looking at every word you write!" i suppose it is so: but somehow i never rightly took it in before. i hardly think i should have written some words if i had. was that what my aunt kezia meant? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . this and similar expressions are northern provincialisms. note . "fair rosalind, in woful wise, six hearts has bound in thrall; as yet she undetermined lies which she her spouse shall call." note . perhaps the most plaintive and poetical of all the popular jacobite ballads. chapter two. tawny eyes. "she has two eyes so soft and brown, take care! she gives a side-glance and looks down,-- beware! beware! trust her not, she is fooling thee!" longfellow. here they all are at last, and the house is as full as it will hold. the bracewells came first in their great family coach and four-- charlotte and amelia and a young friend whom they had with them. her name is cecilia osborne, and she is such a genteel-looking girl! she moves about, not languidly like amelia, but in such a graceful, airy way as i never saw. she has dark hair, nearly black, and brown eyes with a sort of tawny light in them,--large eyes which gleam out on you just when you are not expecting it, for she generally looks down. amelia appears more listless and affected than ever by the side of her, and charlotte's hoydenish romping seems worse and more vulgar. the drummonds did not come for nearly a week afterwards. i was rather afraid what cecilia would think of them for i expected they would talk scotch--i know angus used to do--and cecilia is from the south, and i thought she would be quite shocked. but i find they talk just as we do, only with a little scots accent, as if they were walking over sandhills in their throats--as least that is how it sounds to me. flora has rather more of it than angus, but then her voice is so clear and soft that it sounds almost pretty. a young gentleman came with them, named duncan keith, who was going with angus about that business he has to do. they only stayed one night, didn't [note .] mr keith and angus, and then went on about their business; but father was so pleased with mr keith, that he invited him to come back when angus does, which will be in about three weeks or a month. so here we are, eight girls instead of four, with never a young man among us. father says, when angus and mr keith come back, we will have ephraim hebblethwaite and ambrose catterall to spend the evening, and perhaps esther langridge too. i don't feel quite sure that i should like esther to come. she is not only as bad as sophy with her "buts" and her "comes" but she does not behave quite genteelly in some other ways: and i don't want cecilia osborne to fancy that we are a set of vulgar creatures who do not know how to behave. i don't care half so much what flora thinks. cecilia has not been here a fortnight, and yet i keep catching myself wondering what she will think about everything. it is not that i have made a friend of her: in fact, i am not sure that i quite like her. she seems to throw a sort of spell over me, does cecilia, as if i were afraid of her and must obey her. i don't half like it. my aunt kezia has put us into rooms in pairs, while they are here. in sophy's chamber, where i generally sleep, are sophy and charlotte. in fanny's, which she and hatty have when we are by ourselves, are fanny and amelia. in the green spare chamber are hatty and cecilia; and in the blue one, flora and me. my aunt kezia said she thought we should find that the pleasantest arrangement; but i do wish she had given flora to hatty, and put cecilia with me. i am sure i should have understood cecilia much better than hatty, who will persist in calling her cicely, which she says she does not like because it is such a vulgar name--and so common, too. cecilia says she wishes she had not been called by a name which had a vulgar short one to it: she would like to have been either camilla or henrietta. she thinks my name sweetly pretty; but she wonders why we call hester, hatty, which she says is quite low and ugly, and hardly, is the proper short for hester. she says hatty and gatty are properly short for harriet, and hester should be essie, which is much prettier. but then we call esther langridge, essie, and we could not do with two essies. i know father used to call mamma, gatty, but grandmamma said she always thought it so vulgar. grandmamma was always talking about things being vulgar, and so is cecilia. i notice that some people--for instance, my aunt kezia and flora--never seem to think whether things are vulgar or not. cecilia says that is because they are so vulgar they don't know it. i wonder if it be. but cecilia says--she said i was not to repeat it, though--that my aunt kezia and sophy are below vulgarity. when we were dressing one morning, i asked flora what she thought. she is as genteel in her manners as cecilia herself, only in quite a different way. cecilia behaves as if she wanted you to notice how genteel she is. flora is just herself: it seems to come natural to her, as if she never thought about it. so i asked flora what she thought "vulgarity" meant, and if people could be below vulgarity. "i should not think they could get below it," said she. "it is easy to get above it, if you only go the right way. how can you get below a thing which is down at the bottom?" "but how would you do, flora, not to be vulgar?" "learn good manners and then never think about them." "but you must keep, up your company manners," said i. "why have any?" said she. "what, always have one's company manners on!" cried i, "and be courtesying and bowing to one's sisters as if they were people one had never seen before?" "nay, those are ceremonies, not manners," said flora. "by manners, i do not understand ceremonies, but just the way you behave to anybody at any time. it is not a ceremony to set a chair for a lame man, nor to shut a door lest the draught blow on a sick woman. it is not a ceremony to eat with a knife and fork, or to see that somebody else is comfortable before you make yourself so." "why, but that is just kindness!" cried i. "what are manners but kindness?" said flora. "let a maiden only try to be as kind as she can to every creature of god, and she will not find much said in reproof of her manners." "are you always trying to be kind to everybody, flora?" "i hope so, cary," she said, gravely. "flora, have you any friend?" said i. "i mean a particular friend--a girl friend like yourself." "yes," she said. "my chief friend is annas keith." "mr duncan keith's sister?" "yes," said flora. "do tell me what she is like," said i. "i am not sure that i could," said flora. "and if i did, it would only be like looking at a map. suppose somebody showed you a map of the british isles, and put his finger on a little pink spot, and told you that was selkirk. how much wiser would you be? you could not see the yarrow and ettrick, and breathe the caller air and gather the purple heather. and i don't think describing people is much better than to show places on a map. such different things strike different people." "how?" said i. "i don't see how they could, in the same face." "as we were coming from carlisle with uncle courtenay," said flora, smiling, "i asked him to tell me what you were like, cary." "well, what did father say?" i said, and i felt very much amused. "he said, `oh, a girl with a pale face and a lot of light thatch on it, with fine ways that she picked up in carlisle.' but when i came to see you, i thought that if i had had to describe you, those were just the things i should not have mentioned." "come, then, describe me, flora," said i, laughing. "what do you see?" "i see two large, earnest-looking blue eyes," she said, "under a broad white forehead; eyes that look right at you; clear, honest eyes,--not-- at least, the sort of eyes i like to look at me. then i see a small nose--" "let my nose alone, please," said i: "i know it turns up, and i don't want to hear you say so." flora laughed. "very well; i will leave your nose alone. underneath it, i see two small red lips, and a little forward chin; a rather self-willed little chin, if you please, cary--and a good figure, which has learned to hold itself up and to walk gracefully. will that do for a description?" "yes," i said, looking in the glass; "i suppose that is me." "is it, cary? that may be all i see; but is it you? why, it is only the morocco case that holds you. you are the jewel inside, and what that is, really and fully, i cannot see. god can see it; and you can see some of it. but i can see only what you choose to show me, or, now and then, what you cannot help showing me." "do you know that you are a very queer girl, flora? girls don't talk in that way. cecilia osborne told me yesterday she thought you a very curious girl indeed." "i think my match might be found," said flora, rather drily. "for one thing, cary, you must remember i have had nothing to do with other girls except annas keith. father and angus have been my only companions; and a girl who has neither mother nor sisters perhaps gets out of girls' ways in some respects." "but you are not the only `womankind,' as father calls it, in the house?" said i. "oh, no, there is helen raeburn," answered flora: "but she is an old woman, and she is not in my station. she would not teach me girls' ways." "then who taught you manners, flora?" "oh, father saw to all that helen could not," she said. "helen could teach me common decencies, of course; such as not to eat with my fingers, and to shake hands, and so forth: but the little niceties of ladylike behaviour that were beyond her--father saw to those." "well, i think you have very pleasant manners, flora. i only wish you were not quite so grave." "thank you for the compliment, miss caroline courtenay," said flora, dropping me a courtesy. "i would rather be too grave than too giddy." that very afternoon, cecilia osborne asked me to walk up the scar with her. somehow, when she asks you to do a thing, you feel as if you must do it. i do not like that sort of enchanted feeling at all. however, i fetched my hood and scarf, and away we went. we climbed up the scar without much talk--in fact, it is rather too steep for that: but when we got to the top, cecilia proposed to sit down on the bank. it was a beautiful day, and quite warm for the time of the year. so down we sat, and cecilia pulled her sacque carefully on one side, that it should not get spoiled--she was very charmingly dressed in a sacque of purple lutestring, with such a pretty bonnet, of red velvet with a gold pompoon in front--and then she began to talk, as if she had come for that, and i believe she had. it was not long before i felt pretty sure that she had brought me there to pump me. "how long have you known miss drummond?" she began. "well, all my life, in a fashion," i said; "but it is nearly ten years since we met." "ten years is a good deal of your life, is it not?" said cecilia, darting at me one of those side-glances from her tawny eyes. i tried to do it last night, and made my eyes feel so queer that i was not sure they would get right by morning. "well, i suppose it is," said i; "i am not quite seventeen yet." "you dear little thing!" said cecilia, imprisoning my hand. "what is miss drummond's father?" "a minister," said i. "a scotch presbyterian, i suppose?" she said, turning up her nose. i did not think she looked any prettier for it. "well," said i, "i suppose he is." "and mr angus--what do they mean to make of him, do you know?" "flora hopes he will be a minister too. his father wishes it; but she is not sure that angus likes the notion himself." "dear me! i should think not," said cecilia, "he is fit for something far better." "what can be better?" i answered. "you have such charming ideas!" replied cecilia. she put in another word, which i never heard before, and i don't know what it means. she brought it with her from the south, i suppose. unso--unsophy--no, unsophisticated--i think that was it. it sounded uncommon long and fine, i know. "i suppose scotch ministers have not much money?" continued cecilia. "i don't know--i think not," i answered. "but i rather fancy my uncle drummond has a little of his own." cecilia darted another look at me, and then dropped her eyes as if she were studying the grass. "and mr keith?" she said presently, "is he a relation?" "i don't know much about him," said i, "only what i have heard flora say. he is no relation of theirs, i believe. i think he is the squire's son." "the squire's son!" cried cecilia, in a more interested tone. "and who is the squire?--is he rich?--where is the place?" "as to who he is," said i, "he is mr keith, i suppose. i don't know a bit whether he is rich or poor. i forget the name of the place--i think it is abbotsmuir, or something like that. either an abbot or a monk has something to do with it." "and you don't know if mr keith is a rich man?" said cecilia, i thought in rather a disappointed tone. "no, i don't," said i. "i can ask flora, if you want to know." "not for the world!" cried cecilia, laying her hand again on mine. "don't on any account let miss drummond know that i asked you such a question. if you like to ask from yourself, you know--well, that is another matter; but not from me, on any consideration." "i don't understand you, miss osborne," said i. "no, you dear little thing, i believe you don't understand me," said cecilia, kissing me. "what pretty hair you have, and how nice you keep it, to be sure!--so smooth and glossy! come, had we not better be going down, do you think?" so down we came, and found dinner ready; and i do not think i ever thought of it again till i was going to bed. then i said to flora,--"do you like cecilia osborne?" "i--think we had better not talk about people, cary, if you please." but there was such a pause where i have drawn that long stroke, that i am sure that was not what she intended to say at first. "then you don't," said i, making a hit at the truth, and, i think, hitting it in the bull's eye. "well, no more do i." flora looked at me, but did not speak. oh, how different her look is from cecilia's sudden flashes! "she has been trying to pump me, i am sure, about you and angus, and mr keith," said i; "and i think it is quite as well i knew so little." "what about?" said flora. "oh, about money, mostly," said i. "whether uncle had much money, and if mr keith was a rich man, and all on like that. i can't bear girls who are always thinking about money." flora drew a long breath. "that is it, is it?" she said, in a low voice, as she tied her nightcap, but it was rather as if she were speaking to herself than to me. "cary, perhaps i had better answer you. i am afraid miss osborne is a very dangerous girl; and she would be more so than she is if she were a shade more clever, so as to hide her cards a little better. don't tell her anything you can help." "but what shall i say if she asks me again? because she wanted me not to tell you that she had asked, but to get to know as if i wanted it myself." "tell her to ask me," said flora, with more spirit than i had expected from her. when cecilia began again (as she did) asking me the same sort of things, i said to her, "why don't you ask cousin flora instead of me? she knows so much more about it than i do." cecilia put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me. "because i like to ask you," said she, "and i should not like to ask her." my aunt kezia was just coming into the room. "miss cecilia, my dear," said she, "do you always think what you like?" "of course, mrs kezia," said cecilia, smiling at her. "then you will be a very useless woman," said my aunt, "and not a very happy one neither." "happy--ah!" said cecilia, with a long sigh. "this world is not the place to find happiness." "no, it isn't," said my aunt kezia, "for people who spend all their time hunting for it. it is a deal better to let happiness hunt for you. you don't go the right way to get it, child." "i do not, indeed!" answered cecilia, with a very sorrowful look. "ah, mrs kezia, `the heart knoweth his own bitterness.' that is scripture, i believe." "yes, it does," said my aunt, "and it makes a deal of it, too." "oh dear, mrs kezia!" cried cecilia. "how could anybody make unhappiness?" "if you don't, you are the first girl i have met of your sort," saith my aunt kezia, turning down the hem of a kerchief. then, when she came to the end of the hem, she looked up at cecilia. "my dear, there is a lesson we all have to learn, and the sooner you learn it, the better and happier woman you will be. the end of selfishness is not pleasure, but pain. you don't think so, do you? ah, but you will find as you go through life, that always you are not only better, but happier, with god's blessing on the thing you don't like, than without it on the thing you do. ay, it always turns to ashes in your mouth when you will have the quails instead of the manna. i've noted many a time--for when i was a girl, and later than that, i was as self-willed as any of you--that sometimes when i have set my heart upon a thing, and would have it, then, if i may speak it with reverence, god has given way to me. like a father with an obstinate child, he has said to me, as it were, `poor foolish child! you will have this glittering piece of mischief. well, have your way: and when you have cut yourself badly with it, and are bleeding and smarting as i did not wish to see you, come back to your father and tell him all about it, and be healed and comforted.' ah dear me, the dullest of us is quite as clever as she need be in making rods for her own back. and then, if our father keep us from hurting ourselves, and won't let us have the bright knife to cut our fingers with, how we do mewl and whine, to be sure! we are just a set of silly babes, my dear--the best of us." "my aunt dorothea once told me," said i, "that the papists have what they call `exercises of detachment.' perhaps you would think them good things, aunt kezia. for instance, if an abbess sees a nun who seems to have a fancy for any little thing particularly, she will take it from her and give it to somebody else." "eh, poor foolish things!" said aunt kezia. "bits of children playing with the father's tools! they are more like to hurt themselves a deal than to get his work done. ay, god has his exercises of detachment, and they are far harder than man's. he knows how to do it. he can lay a finger right on the core of your heart, the very spot where it hurts worst. men can seldom do that. they would sometimes if they could, i believe; but they cannot, except god guides them to it. many's the time i've been asked, with a deal of hesitation and apology, to do a thing that did not cost me a farthing's worth of grief or labour; and as lightly as could be, to do another which would have gone far to break either my back or my heart. different folks see things in such different ways. i'll be bound, now, if each of us were asked to pick out for one another the thing in this house that each cared most about, we should well-nigh all of us guess wrong. we know so little of each other's inmost hearts. that little kingdom, your own heart, is a thing that you must keep to yourself; you can't let another into it. you can bring him to the gate, and let him peep in, and show him a few of your treasures; but you cannot give him the freedom of the city. depend upon it, you would think very differently of me from what you do, and i should think differently of each of you, if we could see each other's inmost hearts." "better or worse, mrs kezia?" said cecilia. "may be the one, and may be the other, my dear. it would hang a little on the heart you looked at, and a great deal on the one who looked at it. i dare say we should all get one lesson we need badly--we might learn to bear with each other. 'tis so easy to think, `oh, she cannot understand me! she never had this pain or that sorrow.' whereas, if you could see her as she really is, you would find she knew more about it than you did, and understood some other things beside, which were dark riddles to you. that is often a mountain to one which is only a molehill to another. and trouble is as it is taken. if there were no more troubles in this world than what we give each other in pure kindness or in simple ignorance, girls, there would be plenty left." "then you think there were troubles in eden?" said cecilia, mischievously. "i was not there," said my aunt kezia. "after the old serpent came there were troubles enough, i'll warrant you. if adam came off scot-free for saying, `the woman whom thou gavest to be with me,' eve must have been vastly unlike her daughters." i was quite unable to keep from laughing, but cecilia did not seem to see anything to laugh at. she never does, when people say funny things; and she never says funny things herself. i cannot understand her. she only laughs when she does something; and, nine times out of ten, it is something in which i cannot see anything to laugh at--something which-- well, if it were not cecilia, i should say was rather silly and babyish. i never did see any fun in playing foolish tricks on people, and worrying them in all sorts of ways. hatty just enjoys it; but i don't. however, before anything else was said, father came in, and a young gentleman with him, whom he introduced as mr anthony parmenter, the vicar's nephew (he turned out to be the vicar's grand-nephew, which, i suppose, is the same thing.) i am sure he must have come from the south. he did not shake hands, nor profess to do it. he just touched the hand you gave him with the tips of his fingers, and then with his lips, as if you were a china tea-dish that he was terribly frightened of breaking. cecilia seemed quite used to this sort of thing, but i did not know what he was going to do; and, as for my aunt kezia, she just seized his hand, and gave it a good old-fashioned shake, at which he looked very much put out. then she asked him how the vicar was, and he did not seem to know; and how long he was going to stay, and he did not know that; and when he came, to which he said thursday, in a very hesitating way, as if he were not at all sure that it was not wednesday or friday. one thing he knew--that it was hawidly cold--there, that is just how he said it. i suppose he meant horribly. my aunt kezia gave him up after a while, and went on sewing in silence. then cecilia took him up, and they seemed to understand each other exactly. they talked about all sorts of things and people that i never heard of before; and i sat and listened, and so did my aunt kezia, only that she put in a word now and then, and i did not. before they had been long at it, fanny and amelia came in from a walk, in their bonnets and scarves, and mr parmenter bowed over their hands in the same curious way that he did before. amelia took it as she does everything--that is, in a languid, limp sort of way, as if she did not care about anything; but fanny looked as if she did not know what he was going to do to her, and i saw she was puzzled whether she ought to shake hands or not. then fanny went away to take her things off, but amelia sat down, and pulled off her scarf, and laid it beside her on the sofa, not neatly folded, but all huddled up in a heap, and there it might have stayed till next week if my aunt kezia (who hates amelia's untidy ways) had not said to her,-- "my dear, had you not better take your things up-stairs?" amelia rose with the air of a martyr, threw the scarf on her arm, and carrying her bonnet by one string, went slowly up-stairs. when they came down together, my aunt kezia said to fanny,-- "my dear, you had better take a shorter walk another time." "we have not had a long one, aunt," said fanny, looking surprised. "we only went up by the scar, and back by ellen water." "i thought you had been much farther than that," says my aunt kezia, in her dry way. "poor emily [note .] seemed so tired she could not get up-stairs." fanny stared, and amelia gave a faint laugh. my aunt kezia said no more, but went on running tucks: and amelia joined in the conversation between cecilia and mr parmenter. i hardly listened, for i was trying the new knitting stitch which flora taught me, and it is rather a difficult one, so that it took all my mind: but all at once i heard amelia say,-- "the beauty of self-sacrifice!" my aunt kezia lapped up the petticoat in which she was running the tucks, laid it on her knee, folded her hands on it, and looked full at amelia. "will you please, miss emily bracewell, to tell me what you mean?" "mean, aunt?" "yes, my dear, mean." "how can the spirit of that sweet poetical creature," murmured fanny, behind me, "be made plain to such a mere thing of fact as my aunt kezia?" "well," said amelia, in a rather puzzled tone, "i mean--i mean--the beauty of self-sacrifice. i do not see how else to put it." "and what makes it beautiful, think you?" said my aunt kezia. "it is beautiful in itself," said amelia. "it is the fairest thing in the moral world. we see it in all the analogies of creation." "my dear emily," said my aunt kezia, "you may have learned latin and greek, but i have not. i will trouble you to speak plain, if you please. i am a plain english woman, who knows more about making shirts and salting butter than about moral worlds and the analogies of creation. please to explain yourself--if you understand what you are talking about. if you don't, of course i wouldn't wish it." "well, a comparison, then," answered amelia, in a slightly peevish tone. "that will do," said my aunt kezia. "i know what a comparison is. well, let us hear it." "do we not see," continued amelia, with kindling eyes, "the beauty of self-sacrifice in all things? in the patriot daring death for his country, in the mother careless of herself, that she may save her child, in the physician braving all risks at the bedside of his patient? nay, even in the lower world, when we mark how the insect dies in laying her eggs, and see the fresh flowers of the spring arise from the ashes of the withered blossoms of autumn, can we doubt the loveliness of self-sacrifice?" "how beautiful!" murmured fanny. "do listen, cary." "i am listening," i said. "charming, madam!" said mr parmenter, stroking his mustachio. "undoubtedly, all these are lessons to those who have eyes to see." i did not quite like the glance which was shot at him just then out of cecilia's eyes, nor the look in his which replied. it appeared to me as if those two were only making game of amelia, and that they understood each other. but almost before i had well seen it, cecilia's eyes were dropped, and she looked as demure as possible. "some folk's eyes don't see things that are there," saith my aunt kezia, "and some folk's eyes are apt to see things that aren't. my bible tells me that god hath made everything beautiful in its season. not out of its season, you see. your beautiful self-sacrifice is a means to an end, not the end itself. and if you make the means into the end, you waste your strength and turn your action into nonsense. take the comparisons amelia has given us. your patriot risks death in order to obtain some good for his country; the mother, that she may save the child; the physician, that he may cure his patient. what would be the good of all these sacrifices if nothing were to be got by them? my dears, do let me beg of you not to be caught by claptrap. there's a deal of it in the world just now. and silly stuff it is, i assure you. self-sacrifice is as beautiful as you please when it is a man's duty, and as a means of good; but self-sacrifice for its own sake, and without an object, is not beautiful, but just ridiculous nonsense." "then would you say, aunt kezia," asked amelia, "that all those grand acts of mortification of the early christians, or of the old monks, were worthless and ridiculous? they were not designed to attain any object, but just for discipline and obedience." "as for the early christians, poor souls! they had mortifications enough from the heathen around them, without giving themselves trouble to make troubles," said my aunt kezia. "and the old monks, poor misguided dirty things! i hope you don't admire them. but what do you mean by saying they were not means to an end, but only discipline? if that were so, discipline was the end of them. but, my dear, discipline is a sharp-edged tool which men do well to let alone, except for children. we are prone to make sad blunders when we discipline ourselves. that tool is safer in god's hands than in ours." "but there is so much poetry in mortification!" sighed amelia. "i am glad if you can see it," said my aunt kezia. "i can't. poetry in cabbage-stalks, eaten with all the mud on, and ditch water scooped up in a dirty pannikin! there would be a deal more poetry in needles and thread, and soap and water. making verses is all very well in its place; but you try to make a pudding of poetry, and you'll come badly off for dinner." "dinner!" said amelia, contemptuously. "yes, my dear, dinner. you dine once a day, i believe." "dear, i never care what i eat," cried amelia. "the care of the body is entirely beneath those who have learned to prize the superlative value of the mind." my aunt kezia laughed. "my dear," said she, "if you were a little older i might reason with you. but you are just at that age when girls take up with every silly notion they come across, and carry it ever so much farther, and just make regular geese of themselves. 'tis a comfort to hope you will grow out of it. ten years hence, if we are both alive, i shall find you making pies and cutting out bodices like other sensible women. at least i hope so." "never!" cried amelia. "i never could demean myself to be just an every-day creature like that!" "i am sorry for your husband," said my aunt kezia, bluntly, "and still more for yourself. if you set up to be an uncommon woman, the chances are that instead of rising above the common, you will just sink below it, into one of those silly things that spend their time sipping tea and flirting fans, and making men think all women foolish and unstable. and if you do that--well, all i have to say is, may god forgive you!--cary, i want some jumballs for tea. just go and see to them." so away i went to the kitchen, and heard no more of the talk. but what was i to do? i knew how to eat jumballs very well indeed, but how to make them i knew no more than mr parmenter's eyeglass. she forgets, does my aunt kezia, that i have lived all my life in carlisle, where grandmamma would as soon have thought of my building a house as making jumballs. "maria," said i, "my aunt kezia has sent me to make jumballs, and i don't know how, not one bit!" "don't you, miss cary?" said maria, laughing: "well, i reckon i do. half a pound of butter--will you weigh it yourself, miss?--and the same of white sugar, and a pound of flour, and three ounces of almonds, and three eggs, and a little lemon peel--that's what you'll want." [note .] we were going about the buttery, as she spoke, gathering up and weighing these things, and putting them together on the kitchen table. then maria tied a big apron on me, which she said was fanny's, and gave me a little pan in which she bade me melt the butter. then i had to beat the sugar into it, and then came the hard part--breaking the eggs, for only the yolks were wanted. i spoiled two, and then i said,-- "maria, do break them for me! i shall never manage this business." "oh yes, you will, miss cary, in time," says she, cheerily. "it comes hard at first, till you're used to it. most things does. see now, you pound them almonds--i have blanched 'em--and i'll put the eggs in." so we put in the yolks of eggs, and the almonds, and the flour, and the lemon peel, till it began to smell uncommon good, and then maria showed me how to make coiled-up snakes of it on the baking-tin, as jumballs always are: and i washed my hands, and took off fanny's apron, and went back into the parlour. i found there all whom i had left, and hatty and flora as well. when tea came, and my jumballs with it, my aunt kezia says very calmly,-- "pass me those jumballs, my dear, will you? amelia won't want any; she is an uncommon woman, and does not care what she eats. you may give me some, because i am no better than other folks." "o aunt kezia, but i like jumballs!" said amelia. "you do?" says my aunt kezia. "well, but, my dear, they don't grow on trees. somebody has to make them, if they are to be eaten; and 'tis quite as well we are not all uncommon women, or i fear there would be none to eat.--cary, you deserve a compliment, if you made these all by yourself." i hastened to explain that i deserved none at all, for maria had helped me all through; but my aunt kezia did not seem at all vexed to hear it; she only laughed, and said, "good girl!" "isn't it horrid work?" said cecilia, who sat next me, in a whisper. "oh no!" said i; "i rather like it." she shrugged her shoulders in what hatty calls a frenchified way. "catch me at it!" she said. "you can come to the kitchen and catch me at it, if you like," said i, laughing. "but it is all as new to me as to you. till a few months ago, i lived with my grandmother in carlisle, and she never let me do anything of that sort." "what was her name?" said cecilia. "desborough," said i; "mrs general desborough." "oh, is mrs desborough your grandmother?" cried she. "i know mrs charles desborough so well." "that is my aunt dorothea," said i. "grandmamma is gone to live with my uncle charles." "how pleasant!" said cecilia. "you are such a sweet little darling!" and she squeezed my hand under the table. i began to wonder if she meant it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "o cary!" cried cecilia the next morning, "do come here and tell me who this is." "who what is?" said i, for i looked out of the window, and could see nobody but ephraim hebblethwaite. "oh, that handsome young man coming up the drive," returned she. "that?" i said. "is he handsome? why, 'tis but ephraim hebblethwaite." "whom?" cried cecilia, with one of her little shrieking laughs. "you never mean to say that fine young man has such a horrid name as ephraim hebblethwaite!" hatty had come to look over my shoulder. "well, i am afraid he has," said i. "just that exactly, my dear," returned hatty, in her teasing way. "poor creature! he is sweet on fanny." "is he?" asked cecilia, in an interested tone. "surely she will not marry a man with such a name as that?" "well, if you wish to have my private opinion about it," said hatty, in her coolest, that is to say, her most provoking manner, "i rather-- think--she--will." "i wouldn't do such a thing!" disdainfully cried cecilia. "nobody asked you, my dear," was hatty's answer. "i hope you would not, unless you are prepared to provide another admirer for fanny. they are scarce in these parts." "i cannot think how you can live up here in these uncivilised regions!" cried cecilia. "the country people are all just like bears--" "do they hug you so very hard?" said hatty. "they are so rough and unpolished," continued cecilia, "so--so--really, i could not bear to live in cumberland or any of these northern counties. it is just horrid!" "then hadn't you better go back again?" said hatty, coolly. "i am sure i shall be thankful when the time comes," answered cecilia, rather sharply. "except you in this family, i do think--" "oh, pray don't except us!" laughed hatty, turning round the next minute to speak to ephraim hebblethwaite. "mr ephraim hebblethwaite, this is miss cecilia osborne, a young lady from the south pole or somewhere on the way, who does not admire us cumbrians in the smallest degree, and will be absolutely delighted to turn her back upon the last of us." "you know i never said that!" said cecilia, rather affectedly, as she rose and courtesied to ephraim. ephraim is the only person i know who can get along with hatty. he always seems to see through what she says to what she means; and he never answers any of her pert speeches, nor tries to explain things, nor smooth her down, as many others do. "miss osborne must stay and learn to like us a little better," said he, good-humouredly. "where is fanny?" "looking in the glass, i imagine," said hatty, calmly. "hatty!" said i. "she is in the garden with sophy." "you are the nymphs of the winds," laughed ephraim, "and hatty is the north wind." "are you sure she is not the east?" said i, for i was vexed. and as i turned away, i heard hatty say, laughing,-- "i do enjoy teasing cary!" "for shame, hatty!" answered ephraim, who speaks to us all as if we were his sisters. "i assure you i do," pursued hatty, in a voice of great glee, "particularly when my lady puts on her grand carlisle air, and sweeps out of the room as she did just now. it is such fun!" i had slipped into the next window, where they could not see me, and i suppose hatty thought i had gone out of the door beyond. i had not the least idea of eavesdropping, and what i might hear when they fancied me gone never came into my head till i heard it. "you see," hatty went on, "there is no fun in teasing sophy, for she just laughs with you, and gives you as good as you bring; and fanny melts into tears as if she were a lump of sugar, and father wants to know why she has been crying, and my aunt kezia sends you to bed before dark--so teasing her comes too expensive. but cary is just the one to tease; she gets into a tantrum, and that is rich!" was it really cecilia's voice which said, "she is rather vain, certainly, poor thing!" "she is just as stuck-up as a peacock!" replied hatty: "and 'tis all from living with grandmamma at carlisle--she fancies herself ever so much better than we are, just because she learned french and dancing." "well, if i had a sister, i would not say things of that sort about her," said ephraim, bluntly. "hatty, you ought to be ashamed." "thank you, mr hebblethwaite, i don't feel so at all," answered laughing hatty. "and she really has no true polish--only a little outside varnish," said cecilia. "if she were to be introduced at an assembly in town, she would be set down directly as a little country girl who did not know anything. it is a pity she cannot see herself better." "there are some woods that don't take polish nearly so well as others," said ephraim, in a rather curious tone. i felt hurt; was he turning against me too? "so there are," said cecilia. "i see, mr hebblethwaite, you understand the matter." "pardon me, miss osborne," was ephraim's dry answer. "i am one of those that do not polish well. compliments are wasted on me--particularly when the shaft is pointed with poison for my friends. and as to seeing one's self better--i wish, madam, we could all do that." as ephraim walked away, which he did at once, i am sure he caught sight of me. his eyes gave a little flash, and the blood mounted in his cheek, but he kept on his way to the other end of the room, where fanny and amelia sat talking together. i slipped out of the door as soon as i could. that wicked, deceitful cecilia! how many times had she told me that i was a sweet little creature--that my life at carlisle had given me such a polish that i should not disgrace the princess's drawing-room! [note .] and now--! i went into my garret, and told my book about it, and if i must confess the truth, i am afraid i cried a little. but my eyes do not show tears, like fanny's, for ever so long after, and when i had bathed them and become a little calmer, i went down again into the parlour. i found my aunt kezia there now, and i was glad, for i knew that both cecilia and hatty would be on their best behaviour in her presence. ephraim was talking with fanny, as he generally does, and there was that "hawid" creature mr parmenter, with his drawl and his eyeglass and all the rest of it. "indeed, it is very trying!" he was saying, as i came in; but he never sounds an r, so that he said, "vewy twying." i don't know whether it is that he can't, or that he won't. "very trying, truly, madam, to see men give their lives for a falling cause. distressing--quite so." "i don't know that it hurts me to see a man give his life for a falling cause," saith my aunt kezia. "sometimes, that is one of the grandest things a man can do. but to see a man give his life up for a false cause--a young man especially, full of hope and fervency, whose life might have been made a blessing to his friends and the world--that is trying, mr parmenter, if you like." "are we not bound to give our lives for the cause of truth and beauty?" asked amelia, in that low voice which sounds like an aeolian harp. "truth--yes," saith my aunt kezia. "i do not know what you mean by beauty, and i am not sure you do. but, my dear, we do give our lives, always, for some cause. unfortunately, it is very often a false one." "what do you mean, aunt?" said amelia. "why, when you give your life to a cause, is it not the same thing in the end as giving it for one?" answered my aunt kezia. "i do not see that it matters, really, whether you give it in twenty minutes or through twenty years. the twenty years are the harder thing to do--that is all." "duncan keith says--" flora began, and stopped. "let us hear it, my dear, if it be anything good," quoth my aunt kezia. "i cannot tell if you will think it good or not, aunt," said flora. "he says that very few give their lives to or for any cause. they nearly always give them for a person." "mr keith must be a hero of chivalry," drawled mr parmenter, showing his white teeth in a lazy laugh. (why do people always simper when they have fine teeth?) "chivalry ought to be another name for christian courage and charity," saith my aunt kezia. "ay, child--mr keith is right. it is a pity it isn't always the right person." "how are you to know you have found the right person, aunt?" said hatty, in her pert way. my aunt kezia looked round at her in her awful fashion. then she said, gravely, "you will find, hatty, you have always got the wrong one, unless you aim at the highest person of all." i heard cecilia whisper to mr parmenter, "oh, dear! is she going to preach a sermon?" and he hid a laugh under a yawn. somebody else heard it too. "mrs kezia's sermons are as short as some parsons' texts," said ephraim, quietly, and not in a whisper. "but you would not say," observed mr parmenter, without indicating to whom he addressed himself, "that this cause, now--ha--of which we were speaking,--that the lives, i mean--ha--were sacrificed to any particular person?" "i never saw one plainer, if you mean me," said my aunt kezia, bluntly. "what do nine-tenths of the men care about monarchy or commonwealth-- absolute kings or limited ones--stuart or hanoverian? they just care for prince charles, and his fine person and ringing voice, and his handsome dress: what else? and the women are worse than the men. some men will give their lives for a cause, but you don't often see a woman do it. mostly, with women, it is father or brother, lover or husband, that carries the day: at least, if you have seen women of another sort, they haven't come my way." "but, aunt, that is so ignoble a way of acting!" cried amelia, as though she wanted to show that she was one of the other sort. "love and devotion to a holy or chivalrous cause should be free from all petty personal considerations." "you can get yours free, my dear, if you like--and find you can manage it," said my aunt kezia. "i couldn't. as to ignoble, that hangs much on the person. when queen margaret of scotland was drowning in yonder border river, and the good knight rode into the water and held forth his hand to her, and said, `grip fast!' was that a petty, ignoble consideration? it was a purely personal matter." "oh, of course, if you--" said amelia, and did not go on. "things look very different, sometimes, according to the side on which you see them," saith my aunt kezia. i could not help thinking that people did so. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . emily was used during the last century as a diminutive for amelia. there is really no etymological connection between the two names. note . in and about london, the name of jumbles is given to a common kind of gingerbread, to be obtained at the small sweet-shops: but these are not the old english jumball of the text. note . there was no queen at this time. augusta of saxe gotha was princess of wales, and the king had three grown-up unmarried daughters. note . this provincialism is correct for lancashire, and as far as i know for cumberland. chapter three. the hunt-supper. "alas! what haste they make to be undone!" george herbert. before he went away, ephraim came up into the window where i sat with my knitting. mr parmenter was gone then, and cecilia was up-stairs with fanny and amelia. "cary," said he, "may i ask you a question?" "why, ephraim, i thought you did that every day," i said, feeling rather diverted at his saying such a thing. "ah, common questions that do not signify," said he, with a smile. "but this is not an insignificant question, cary; and it is one that i have no right to ask unless you choose to give it me." "go on, ephraim," said i, wondering what he meant. "are you very fond of miss osborne?" "i never was particularly fond of her," i said, rather hotly, and i felt my cheeks flush; "and if i had been, i think this morning would have put an end to it." "she is not true," he said. "she rings like false metal. those who trust in her professions will find the earth open and let them in. and i should not like you to be one, cary." "thank you, ephraim," said i. "i think there is no fear." "your cousin amelia is foolish," he went on, "but i do not think she is false. she will grow out of most of her nonsense. but cecilia osborne never will. it is ingrain. she is an older woman at this moment than mrs kezia." "older than my aunt kezia!" i am afraid i stared. "i do not mean by the parish register, cary," said ephraim, with a smile. "but she is old in satan's ways and wiles, in the hard artificial fashions of the world, in everything which, if i had a sister, i should pray god she might never know anything about. such women are dangerous. i speak seriously, caroline." i thought it had come to a serious pass, when ephraim called me caroline. "it is not altogether a bad thing to know people for what they are," he continued. "it may hurt you at the time to have the veil taken off; and that veil, whether by the people themselves or by somebody else, is often pulled off very roughly. but it is better than to have it on, cary, or to see the ugly thing through beautiful coloured glass, which makes it look all kinds of lovely hues that it is not. the plain white glass is the best. when you do come to something beautiful, then, you see how beautiful it is." then, changing his tone, he went on,--"esther langridge sent you her love, cary, and told me to say she was coming up here this afternoon." i did not quite wish that esther would keep away, and yet i came very near doing it. she is not a beautiful thing--i mean in her ways and manners. she speaks more broadly than sophy, and much worse than the rest of us, and she eats her peas with a knife, which grandmamma used to say was the sure sign of a vulgar creature. esther is as kind-hearted a girl as breathes; but--oh dear, what will cecilia say to her! i felt quite uncomfortable. and yet, why should i care what cecilia says? she has shown me plainly enough that she does not care for me. but somehow, she seemed so above us with those dainty ways, and that soft southern accent, and all she knew about etiquette and the mode, and the stories she was constantly telling about great people. sir george blank had said such a fine thing to her when she was at my lady dash's assembly; and my lady camilla such-an-one was her dearest friend; and the honourable annabella this carried her to drive, and my lord herbert that held her cloak at the opera. it was so grand to hear her! somehow, cecilia never said things of that kind when my aunt kezia was in the room, and i noted that her grand stories were always much tamer in flora's or sophy's presence. she did not seem to care about hatty much either way. but when there were only amelia, fanny, charlotte and me, then, i could not help seeing, she laid the gilt on much thicker. charlotte used to sit and stare, and then laugh in a way that i thought very rude; but cecilia did not appear to mind it. when father came into the parlour, she did so change. oh, then she was so sweet and amiable!--so delicately attentive!--so anxious that he should be made comfortable, and have everything just as he liked it! i did think, considering that he had four daughters, she might have left that to us. to ephraim hebblethwaite she was very attentive and charming, too, but in quite a different way. but she wasted no attention at all on mr parmenter, except for those side-glances now and then out of the tawny eyes, which seemed to say that they perfectly understood one another, and that no explanations of any sort were necessary between them. i cannot make out what mr parmenter does for his living. he is not a man of property, for the vicar told father that his nephew, mr parmenter's father, left nothing at all for his children. yet mr anthony never seems to do anything but look through his eyeglass, and twirl his mustachios, and talk. i asked amelia if she knew, for one of the miss parmenters, who is married now, lives not far from bracewell hall. amelia, however, applied to cecilia, saying she would be more likely to know. "oh, he does nothing," said cecilia; "he is a beau." "now what does that mean?" put in hatty. "i'll tell you what it means," said charlotte. "emily, you be quiet. it means that his income is twenty pence a year, and he spends two thousand pounds; that he is always dressed to perfection, that he is ready to make love to anybody at two minutes' notice--that is, if her fortune is worth it; that he is never at home in an evening, nor out of bed before noon; that he spends four hours a day in dressing, and would rather ten times lose his wife (when he has one) than break his clouded cane, or damage his gold snuff-box. isn't that it, cicely?" "you are so absurd!" said amelia, languidly. "i told you to keep quiet," was charlotte's answer. "never mind whether it is absurd; is it true?" "well, partly." "but i don't understand," i said. "how can a man spend two thousand pounds, if he have but twenty pence?" "know, ignorant creature," replied charlotte, with mock solemnity, "that lansquenet can be played, and that tradesmen's bills can be put behind the fire." "then you mean, i suppose, that he games, and does not pay his debts?" "that is about the etiquette, [note .] my charmer." "well, i don't know what you call that down in the south," said i, "but up here in cumberland we do not call it honesty." "the south! oh, hear the child!" screamed charlotte. "she thinks derbyshire is in the south!" "they teach the children so, my dear, in the carlisle schools," suggested hatty. "i don't know what they teach in the carlisle schools," i said, "for i did not go there. but if derbyshire be not south of cumberland, i haven't learned much geography." "oh dear, how you girls do chatter!" cried sophy, coming up to us. "i wish one or two of you would think a little more about what wants doing. cary, you might have made the turnovers for supper. i am sure i have enough on my hands." "but, sophy, i do not know how," said i. "then you ought, by this time," she answered. "do not know how to make an apple turnover! why, it is as easy as shutting your eyes." "when you know how to do it," put in hatty. "that is more than you do," returned sophy, "for you are safe to leave something out." hatty made her a low courtesy, and danced away, humming, "cease your funning," just as we heard the sound of horses' feet on the drive outside. there were all sorts of guesses as to who was coming, and none of them the right one, for when the door opened at last, in walked angus drummond and mr keith. "well, you did not expect us, i suppose?" said angus. "certainly not to-night," was sophy's answer. "we finished our business sooner than we expected, and now we are ready to begin our holiday," said he. father came in then, and there was a great deal of kissing and hand-shaking all round; but my aunt kezia and flora were not in the room. they came in together, nearly half an hour later; but i think i never saw such a change in any girl's face as in flora's, when she saw what had happened. she must be very fond of angus, i am sure. her cheeks grew quite rosy--she is generally pale--and her eyes were like stars. i did not think angus seemed nearly so glad to see her. essie langridge was very quiet all the evening; i fancy she was rather frightened of cecilia. she said very little. father had a long day's hunting yesterday, and angus drummond went with him. mr keith would not go, though father laughed about it, and asked if he were afraid of the hares eating him up. neither would he go to the hunt-supper, afterwards. there were fourteen gentlemen at it, and a pretty racket they made. my aunt kezia does not like these hunt-suppers a bit; she would be glad if they were anywhere else than here; but father being the squire, of course they cannot be. she always packs us girls out of the way, and will not allow us to show our heads. so we sat up-stairs, in sophy's chamber, which is the largest and most out of the way; and we had some good fun, first in finding seats, for there were only two chairs in the room, and then in playing hunt the slipper and all sorts of games. i am afraid we got rather too noisy at last, for my aunt kezia looked in with,-- "girls, are you daft? i protest you make nigh as much racket as the gentlemen themselves!" what mr keith did with himself i do not know. i think he went off for a walk somewhere. i know he tried to persuade angus to go with him, but angus said he wanted his share of the fun. i heard mr keith say, in a low voice,-- "what would your father say, angus?" "oh, my father's a minister, and they are bound to be particular," said angus, carelessly. "i can't pretend to make such a fash as he would." i did not hear what mr keith answered, but i believe he went on talking about it. when i got up-stairs with the rest, however, i missed flora; and going to our room to look for her, i found her crying. i never saw flora weep before. "why, flora!" said i, "what is the matter with you?" "nothing with me, cary," she said, "but a great deal with angus." "you do not like his being at the supper?" i said. i hardly knew what to say, and i felt afraid of saying either too much or too little. it seems so difficult to talk without hurting people. "not only that," she said. "i do not like the way he is going on altogether. i know my father would be in a sad way if he knew it." i told flora what i had heard angus say to mr keith. "ah!" she said, with another sob, "angus would not have said that three months ago. i was sure it must have been going on for some time. he has been in bad company, i feel certain. and angus always was one to take the colour of his company, just as a glass takes the colour of anything you pour in. what can i do? oh, what can i do? if he will not listen to duncan--" "ambrose catterall says that young men must always sow their wild oats," i said, when she stopped thus. "that is one of the devil's maxims," exclaimed flora, earnestly. "god calls it sowing to the flesh: and he says the harvest of it is corruption. some flowers seed themselves: thistles do. did you ever know roses grow from thistle seed? no: `whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap.' ah me, for angus's harvest!" "well, i don't see what you can do," said i. "there is the sting," she replied. "it would be silly to weep if i did. no, in such cases, i think there is only one thing a woman can do--and that is to cry mightily unto god to loose the bonds of the oppressor, and let the oppressed go free. i don't know--i may be mistaken--but i hardly think it is of much use for women to talk to such a man. it is not talking that he needs. he knows his own folly, very often, at least as well as you can tell him, and would be glad enough to be loosed from his bonds, if only somebody would come and tear them asunder. he cannot: and you cannot. only god can. some evil spirits can be cast out by nothing but prayer. cary--" flora broke off suddenly, and looked up earnestly in my face. "don't mention this, will you, dear? i should not have said a word to you nor any one if you had not surprised me." i promised her i would not, unless somebody first spoke to me. she would not come to sophy's room. "tell the girls," she said, "that i want to write home; for i shall do it presently, when i feel a little calmer." something struck me as i was turning away. "flora," i said, "why do you not tell my aunt kezia all about it? i am sure she would help you, if any one could." "yes, dear, i think she would," said flora, gently; "but you see no one could. and remember, cary!" she called me back as i was leaving the chamber, and came to me, and took both my hands; and her great sorrowful eyes, which looked just like brown velvet, gazed into mine like the eyes of a dog which is afraid of a scolding: "remember, cary, that angus is not wicked. he is only weak. but how weak he is!" she broke down with another sob. "but men should be stronger than women," said i, "not weaker." "they are, in body and mind," replied flora: "but sex, i suppose, does not extend to soul. there, some men are far weaker than some women. look at peter. i dare say the maid who kept the door would have been less frightened of the two, if he had taunted her with being one of `this man's disciples.'" "well, i should feel ashamed!" i said. "i am not sure if women do not feel moral weakness a greater shame than men do," replied flora. "men seem to think so much more of want of physical bravery. many a soldier will not stand an ill-natured laugh, who would want to fight you in a minute if you hinted that he was afraid of being hurt. things seem to look so different to men from what they do to women; and, i think, to the angels, and to god." i did not like to leave her alone in her trouble: but she said she wanted nothing, and was going to write to her father; so i went back to sophy's room, and gave flora's message to the girls. "dear! i am sure we don't want her," said hatty: and charlotte added, "she is more of a spoil-sport than anything else." so we played at "hunt the slipper," and "questions and commands," and "the parson has lost his cloak," and "blind man's buff": and then when we got tired we sat down--on the beds or anywhere--hatty took off the mirror and perched herself on the dressing-table, and charlotte wanted to climb up and sit on the mantel-shelf, but sophy would not let her-- and then we had a round of "how do you like it?" and then we went to bed. in the middle of the night i awoke with a start, and heard a great noise, and sam's voice, and old will's, and a lot of queer talking, as if something were being carried up-stairs that was hard to pull along; and there were a good many words that i am sure my aunt kezia would not let me write, and--well, if he do look at what i am writing, i should not like god to see them neither. i felt sure that the gentlemen were being carried up to bed--such of them as could not walk--and such as could were being helped along. i rather wonder that gentlemen like to drink so much, and get themselves into such a queer condition. i do not think they would like it if the ladies began to do such things. i could not help wondering if angus were among them. flora, who had lain awake for a long while, and had only dropped asleep, as she told me afterwards, about half an hour before, for she heard the clock strike one, slept on at first, and i hoped she would not awake. but as the last lot were being dragged past our door, flora woke up with a start, and cried,-- "what is that? o cary, what can be the matter?" i wanted to make as light of it as i could. "oh, go to sleep," i said; "there is nothing wrong." "but what is that dreadful noise?" she persisted. "well, it is only the gentlemen going to bed," said i. just then, sounds came through the door, which showed that they were close outside. somebody--so far as i could guess from what we heard-- was determined to sit down on the stairs, and sam was trying to prevail upon him to go quietly to bed. all sorts of queer things were mixed up with it--hunting cries, bits of songs, invectives against hanoverians and dissenters, and i scarcely know what else. "who is that wretched creature?" whispered flora to me. i had recognised the voice, and was able to answer. "it is mr bagnall," said i, "the vicar of dornthwaite." "a minister!" was flora's answer, in an indescribable tone. "oh, that does not make any difference," i replied, "with the clergy about here. mr digby is too old for it now, but i have heard say that when he was a younger man, he used to be as uproarious as anybody." at last sam's patience seemed to be exhausted, and he and will between them lifted the reverend gentleman off his feet, and carried him to bed despite his struggles. at least i supposed so from what i heard. about ten minutes later, sam and will passed our door on their way back. "yon's a bonnie loon to ca' a minister," i heard sam say as he went past. "but what could ye look for in a prelatist?" "he gets up i' t' pu'pit, and tells us our dooty, of a sunda', but who does hisn of a monda, think ye?" was old will's response. the footsteps passed on, and i was just going to relieve my feelings by a good laugh, when i was stopped and astonished by flora's voice. "o cary, how dreadful!" "dreadful!" said i, "what is dreadful?" "that wretched man!" she said in a tone which matched her words. "he does not think himself a wretched man, by any means," i said. "his living is worth quite two hundred a year, and he has a little private property beside. they say he does not stand at all a bad chance for a deanery. his wife is not a pleasant woman, i believe; she has a temper: but his son is carrying all before him at college, and his daughters are thought to be among the prettiest girls in the county." "has he children? poor things!" sighed flora. "why, flora, i cannot make you out," said i. "i could understand your being uncomfortable about angus; but what is mr bagnall to you?" "cary!" i cannot describe the tone. "well?" said i. "is the lord nothing to me?" she said, almost passionately; "nor the poor misguided souls committed to that man's charge, for which he will have to give account at the last day?" "my dear flora, you do take things so seriously!" i said, trying to laugh; but her tone and words had startled me, for all that. "it is well to take sin seriously," said she. "men are serious enough in hell; and sin is its antechamber." "you don't suppose poor mr bagnall will be sent there, for a little too much champagne at a hunt-supper?" said i. i did not like it, for i thought of father. i have heard him singing "old king cole" and half a dozen more songs, all mixed up in a heap, after a hunt-supper. "men always do it there. and i can assure you mr bagnall is thought a first-class preacher. people go to hear him even from cockermouth." "that is worse than ever," said flora, "a man who preaches the truth and serves the devil--that must be awful!" "flora, you do say the queerest things!" said i. "does your father never do so?" "my father?" she answered in an astonished, indignant voice. "_my father_! cary! but,"--with a change in the tone--"you do not know him, of course. why, cary, if he knew that angus had been for once in the midst of such a scene as that, i think it would break my father's heart." i wondered how angus had fared, and if he were singing snatches of scotch songs in some bed-chamber at the other end of the long gallery, but i had not the cruelty to say it to flora. when we came down the next morning, i was curious to peep into the dining-room, just to see what it was like. the wreck of a ship is the only thing i can think of, which might look like it. half the chairs were flung over in all directions, and two broken to pieces; a quantity of broken glass was heaped both on the floor and the table; dark wine stains on the carpet, and pools upon the table, not yet dry, were sufficient signs of what the night had been. bessy stood in the window, duster in hand, picking up the chairs, and setting them in their places. "didn't the gentlemen enjoy theirselves, miss cary?" said she. "my word, but they made a night on't! i'd like to ha' been wi' 'em, just for to see!" i made no answer beyond nodding my head. flora's words came back to me,--"it is well to take sin seriously." i could not laugh and jest, as i dare say i should have done but for them. when i came into the parlour, i only found three of all the gentlemen in the house,--father, mr keith, and ambrose catterall. i thought father seemed rather cross, and he was finding fault with everybody for something. sophy's hair was rough, and hatty had put on a gown he did not like, and fanny's ruffle had a hole in it; and then he turned round and scolded my aunt kezia for not having us in better order. my aunt kezia said never a word, but i felt sure from her drawn brow and set lips, as she stood making tea, that she could have said a great many. mr keith was silent and grave. ambrose catterall seemed to think it his duty to make fun for everybody, and he laughed and joked and chattered away finely. i asked where old mr catterall was. "oh, in bed with a headache," laughed ambrose, "like everybody else this morning." "speak for yourself," said mr keith. "i have not one." "well, mine's going," returned ambrose, gaily. "a cup of mrs kezia's capital tea will finish it off." "finish what off?" asked my aunt kezia. "my last night's headache," said he. "that tea must have come from heaven, then, instead of china," replied she. "nay, ambrose catterall; it will take blood to finish off the consequence of your doings last night." "why, mrs kezia, are you going to fight me?" asked he, laughing. "young man, why don't you fight the devil?" answered my aunt kezia, looking him full in the face. "he does not pay good wages, ambrose." "never saw the colour of his money yet," said ambrose, who seemed extremely amused. "i wish you never may," quoth my aunt. "but i sadly fear you are going the way to do it." the more ambrose laughed, the graver my aunt kezia seemed to grow. before we had finished breakfast, angus came languidly into the room. "what ails you, old comrade?" said ambrose; and flora's eyes looked up with the same question, but i think there were tears on the brown velvet. "oh, my head aches conf--i mean--abominably," said angus, flushing. "take a hair of the dog that bit you," suggested ambrose; "unless you think humble pie will agree with you better. i fancy miss drummond would rather help you to that last." i saw a flash in mr keith's eyes, which gave me the idea that he might not be a pleasant person to meet alone in a glen at midnight, if he had no scruples as to what he did. "you hold your tongue!" growled angus. "by all means, if you prefer it," said ambrose, lightly. one after another, the gentlemen strolled in,--all but two who stayed in bed till afternoon, and of these mr catterall was one. among the last to appear was mr bagnall; but he looked quite fresh and gay when he came, like ambrose. "we had to say grace for ourselves, mr bagnall," said father. "sit down, and let me help you to some of this turkey pie." "thanks--if you please. what a lovely morning!" was mr bagnall's answer. "the young ladies look like fresh rosebuds with the dew on them." "we have not you gentlemen to thank for it, if we do," broke in hatty. "our slumbers were all the less profound for your kind assistance. oh yes, you can look, mr bagnall! i mean _you_. i heard `sally in our alley' about one o'clock this morning." "no, was i singing that, now?" said mr bagnall, laughing. "i did not know i got quite so far. but at a hunt-supper, you know, everything is excusable." "would you give me a reference to the passage which says so, mr bagnall?" came from behind the tea-pot. "i should like to note it in my bible." mr bagnall laughed again, but rather uncomfortably. "my dear mrs kezia, you do not imagine the bible has anything to do with a hunt-supper?" "it is to be hoped i don't, or i should be woefully disappointed," she answered. "but i always thought, mr bagnall, that the word of god and the ministers of god should have something to do with one another." "kezia, keep your puritan notions to yourself!" roared father from the other end of the table; and he put some words before it which i would rather not write. "i can't think," he went on, looking round, "wherever kezia can have picked up such mad whims as she has. for a sister of mine to say such a thing to a clergyman--i declare it makes my hair stand on end!" "your hair may lie down again, brother. i've done," said my aunt kezia, coolly. "as to where i got it, i should think you might know. it runs in the blood. and i suppose deborah hunter was your grandmother as well as mine." father's reply was full of the words i do not want to write, but it was not a compliment to his grandmother. "come, mrs kezia," said mr bagnall, "let us make it up by glasses all round, and a toast to the sweet puritan memory of mrs deborah hunter." "no, thank you," said my aunt kezia. "as to deborah hunter, she has been a saint in heaven these thirty years, and finely she'd like it (if she knew it) to have you drinking yourselves drunk in her honour. but let me tell you--and you can say what you like after it--she taught me that `the chief end of man was to glorify god, and to enjoy him for ever.' your notion seems to be that the chief end of man is to glorify himself, and to enjoy him for ever. i think mine's the better of the two: and as to yours, the worst thing i wish any of you is that you may get mine instead of it. now then, brother, i've had my say, and you can have yours." and not another word did my aunt kezia say, though father stormed, and the other gentlemen laughed and joked, and paid her sarcastic compliments, all the while breakfast lasted. there were two who were silent, and those were angus and mr keith. angus seemed too poorly and unhappy to take any interest in the matter; and as to mr keith, i believe in his heart (if i read it right in his eyes) that he was perfectly delighted with my aunt kezia. "the young ladies did not honour us by riding to the meet," said mr bagnall at last, looking at that one of us who sat nearest him--which, by ill luck, happened to be flora. "no, sir. i do not think my aunt would have allowed it; but--" flora stopped, and cast her eyes on her plate. "but if she had, you would have been pleased to come?" suggested mr bagnall, rubbing his hands. he spoke in that disagreeable way in which some men do speak to girls--i do not know what to call it. it is a condescending, patronising kind of manner, as if--yes, that is it!--as if they wanted to amuse themselves by hearing the opinion of something so totally incapable of forming one. i wish they knew how the girls long to shake the nonsense out of them. but flora did not lose her temper, as i should have done: she held her own with a quiet dignity which i envied, but could never have imitated. "pardon me, sir. i was about to say the direct contrary--that if my aunt had allowed it, i for one would rather not have gone." "afraid of a fall, eh?" laughed mr bagnall. "well, ladies are not expected to be as venturesome as men." now, why do men always fancy that it is a woman's duty to do what men expect her? i cannot see it one bit. "i was not afraid of that, sir," said flora. father, with whom flora is a favourite, was listening with a smile. i believe aunt drummond was his pet sister. "no? why, what then?" said mr bagnall, shaking the pepper over his turkey pie until i wondered what sort of a throat he would have when he had finished it. "i am afraid of hardening my heart, sir," said flora, in her calm decisive way. "hardening your heart, girl! what do you mean?" said father. "hardening your heart by riding to hounds!" "a little puzzling, certainly," said sir robert dacre, who sat opposite. "we must ask miss drummond to explain." he did not speak in that disagreeable way that mr bagnall did; but flora flushed up when she found three gentlemen looking at her, and asking her for an explanation. "i mean," she answered, "that one hardens one's heart by taking pleasure in anything which gives another creature pain. but i beg your pardon; indeed i did not mean to put myself forward." "no, no, child; we drew you forward," said father, kindly. he gets over his tempers in a moment, and he seemed to have quite forgotten the passage at arms with my aunt kezia. "still, i do not quite understand," said sir robert, not at all unkindly. "who is the injured creature in this case, miss drummond?" flora's colour rose again. "the hare, sir," she said. "the hare!" cried mr bagnall, leaning back in his chair to laugh. "well, miss flora, you are quixotic." "may i quote my father, sir?" was her reply. "he says that don quixote (supposing him a real person, which i take it he was not) was one of the noblest men the world ever saw, only the world was not ready for him." "the world not ready for him? no, i should think not!" laughed father. "not just yet, my little lady-errant." flora smiled quietly. "perhaps it will be, some day. uncle courtenay," she said. "when the larks fall from the sky--eh, miss flora?" said mr bagnall, rubbing his hands again in that odious way he has. "when `they shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain,'" was flora's soft answer. "surely you don't suppose that literal?" replied mr bagnall, laughing. "why, you must be as bad--i had nearly said as _mad_--as my next neighbour, everard murthwaite (of holme cultram, you know," he explained aside to father). "why, he has actually got a notion that the jews are to be restored to palestine! whoever heard of such a mad idea? only think--the jews!" "ridiculous nonsense!" said father. "is it not usually the case," asked mr keith, who till then had hardly spoken, "that the world counts as mad the wisest men in it?" "why, mr keith, you must be one of them!" cried mr bagnall. "of the wise men? thank you!" said mr keith, drily. there was a laugh at this. "but i can tell you of something queerer still," mr bagnall went on. "old cis crosthwaite, in my parish, says she knows her sins are forgiven." such exclamations came from most of the gentlemen at that! "preposterous!" said one. "ridiculous!" said another. "insufferable presumption!" cried a third. "cis crosthwaite!" said sir robert dacre, more quietly. "yes, cis crosthwaite," repeated mr bagnall; "an old wretch of a woman who has never been any better than she should be, and whom i met sticking hedges only last winter. her son joe is the worst poacher in the parish." all the gentlemen seemed to think that most dreadful. i do not know why it is they always appear to reckon snaring wild game which belongs nobody a more wicked thing than breaking all the ten commandments. would it not have been in them if it were? only sir robert dacre said, "poor old creature! don't let us saddle her with joe's sins. i dare say she has plenty of her own." "plenty? i should think so. she is a horrid old wretch," answered mr bagnall. "and do but think, if this miserable creature has not the arrogance and presumption to say that her sins are forgiven!" "i suppose christ died that somebody's sins might be forgiven?" said mr keith, in his quiet way. "of course, but those are respectable people," mr bagnall said, rather indignantly. "before or after the forgiveness?" asked mr keith. "sir," said mr bagnall, rather stiffly, "i am not accustomed to discuss such matters as these at table." "are you not? i am," said mr keith, quite simply. "but," continued mr bagnall, "i thought every one understood the orthodox view--namely, that a man must do his best, and practise virtue, and lead a proper sort of life, and then, when god almighty sees you a decent and fit person, and endeavouring to be good he helps you with his grace." [note .] "of course!" said the vicar of sebergham--i suppose by way of amen. "men are to do their best, then, and practise these virtues, in the first instance, without any assistance from god's grace? that gospel sounds rather ill tidings," was mr keith's answer. everybody was listening by this time. sir robert dacre, i thought, seemed secretly diverted; and hatty's eyes were gleaming with fun. father looked uncomfortable, and as if he did not know what mr keith would be at. from my aunt kezia little nods of satisfaction kept coming to what he said. "sir," demanded mr bagnall, looking his adversary straight in the face, "are you not orthodox?" he spoke rather in the tone in which he might have asked, "are you not honest?" "may i ask you to explain the word, before i answer?" was mr keith's response. "i mean, are you one of these methodists?" "certainly not. i belong to the kirk of scotland." mr bagnall's "oh!" seemed to say that some at any rate of mr keith's queer notions might be accounted for, if he were so unfortunate as to have been born in a different church. "but," pursued mr keith, "seeing that the church of england, and the kirk of scotland, and the methodists, all accept the word of god as the rule of faith, they should all, methinks, be sound in the faith, if that be what you mean by `orthodox.'" "by `orthodox,'" said the vicar of sebergham, after a sonorous clearing of his throat, "i understand a man who keeps to the articles of the church, and does not run into any extravagances and enthusiasm." "hear him!" cried mr bagnall, as if he were at a tory meeting. hatty burst out laughing, but immediately smothered it in her handkerchief. "i do hear him, and with pleasure," said mr keith. "i am no friend to extravagance, i assure you. let a churchman keep to the bible and the articles, and i ask no more of him. but excuse me if i say that we are departing from the question before us, which was the propriety, or impropriety, of one saying that his sins were forgiven. may i ask why you object to that?--and is the objection to the forgiveness, or to the proclamation of it?" "sir," said mr bagnall, warmly, "i think it presumption--arrogance-- horrible self-conceit." "to have forgiveness?--or to say so?" "i cannot answer such a question, sir!" said mr bagnall, getting red in the face, and seizing the pepper-box once more, with which he dusted his pie recklessly. "when a man sets himself up to be better than his neighbours in that way, it is scandalous--perfectly scandalous, sir!" "`better than his neighbours!'" repeated mr keith, as if he were considering the question. "if a pardoned criminal be better than his neighbours, i suppose the neighbours are worse criminals?" "sir, you misunderstand me. they fancy themselves better than others." mr bagnall was getting angry. "but seeing all are criminals alike, and they own it every sunday," was mr keith's answer, "does it not look rather odd that an objection should be made to one of them stating that he has been pardoned? is it because the rest are unpardoned, and are conscious of it?" "come, friends!" said sir robert, before mr bagnall could reply. "let us not lose our tempers, i beg. mr keith is a scotsman, and such are commonly good reasoners and love a tilt; and 'tis but well in a young man to keep his wits in practice. but we must not get too far, you know." "just so! just so!" saith father, who i think was glad to have a stop put to this sort of converse. "mr bagnall, i am sure, bears no malice. sir robert, when do the holme cultram hounds meet next?" mr bagnall growled something, i know not what, and gave himself up to his pie for the rest of the time, mr keith smiled, and said no more. but i know in whose hands i thought the victory rested. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the word "ticket" was still spelt "etiquette." note . these exact expressions are quoted in whitefield's sermons. chapter four. things begin to happen. "the untrue liveth only in the heart of vain humanity, which fain would be its own poor centre and circumference." rev horatius bonar, d.d. this afternoon i went up the scar by myself. first i climbed right to the top, and after looking round a little, as i always like to do on the top of a mountain, i went down a few yards to the flat bit where the old roman wall runs, and sat down on the grass just above. it was a lovely day. i had not an idea that any one was near the place but myself, and i was just going to sing, when to my surprise i heard a voice on the other side of the roman wall. it was angus drummond's. "duncan keith, why don't you say something?" he broke out suddenly, in a petulant tone--rather the tone of a child who knows it has been naughty, and wants to get the scolding over which it feels sure is coming some time. "what do you wish me to say?" mr keith's tone was cold and constrained, i thought. "why don't you tell me i am an unhanged reprobate, and that you are ashamed to be seen walking with me? you know you are thinking it." "no, angus. i was thinking something very different." "what, then?" asked angus, sulkily. "`doth he not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, _until he find it_?'" there was no coldness in mr keith's tone now. "what has that got to do with it?" growled angus in his throat. "angus," was the soft answer, "the sheep sometimes makes it a very hard journey for him." i know i ought to have risen and crept away long before this: but i did not. it was not right of me, but i sat on. i knew they could not see me through the wall, nor could they get across it at any place so near that i could not be gone far enough before they could catch sight of me. "i suppose," said angus, in the same sort of sulky murmur, "that is your way of telling me, mr keith, that i am a miserable sinner." "are you not?" "miserable enough, heaven knows! but, duncan, i don't see why you, and flora, and mrs kezia, and all the good folks, or the folks who think themselves extra good, which comes to the same thing--" "does it? i was not aware of that," said mr keith. "i can't see," angus went on, "why you must all turn up the whites of your eyes like a duck in thunder, and hold up your hands in pious horror at me, because i have done just once what every gentleman in the land does every week, and thinks nothing of it. if you had not been brought up in a hen-coop, and ruled like a copy-book, you would not be so con-- so hideously strict and particular! just ask ambrose catterall whether there is any weight on his conscience; or ask that jolly parson, who tackled you and flora at breakfast, what he has to say to it. i'll be bound he will read prayers next sabbath with as much grace and unction as if he had never been drunk in his life. and because i get let in just once, why--" angus paused as if to consider how to finish his sentence, and mr keith answered one point of his long speech, letting all the rest, go. "is it just this once, angus?" "i suppose you mean that night at york, when i got let in with those fellows of greensmith's," growled angus, more grumpily than ever. "now, duncan, that's not generous of you. i did the humble and penitent for that, and you should not cast it up to me. just that time and this!" "and no more, angus?" angus muttered something which did not reach me. "angus, you know why i came with you?" "yes, i know well enough why you came with me," said angus, bitterly. "just because that stupid old meddler, helen raeburn, took it into her wooden head that i could not take care of myself, and talked my father into sending me with you now, instead of letting me go the other way round by myself! could not take care of myself, forsooth!" "have you done it?" "i hadn't it to do. mr duncan keith was to take care of me, just as if i had been a baby--stuff! there is no end to the folly of old women!" "i think young men might sometimes match them. well, angus, i have taken as much care as you let me. but you deceived me, boy. i know more about it than you think. it was not one or two transgressions that let you down to this pitch. i know you had a private key from rob greensmith, and let yourself in and out when i believed you asleep." angus sputtered out some angry words, which i did not catch. "no. you are mistaken. leigh did not tell of you or his brother. your friend robert told me himself. he wanted to get out of the scrape, and he did not care about leaving you in it. the friendship of the wicked is not worth much, angus. but if i had not known it, i should still have felt perfectly sure that there had been more going on than you ever confessed to me. three months since, angus, you would not have used words which you have used this day. you would not have spoken so lightly of being `let in'--let into what? just stop and think. and twice to-day--once in flora's presence--you have only just stopped your tongue from a worse word than that. would you have said such a thing to your father before we left abbotscliff?" "uncle courtenay was as drunk as any of them last night," angus blurted out. i did not like to hear that of father. till now i never thought much about such things, except that they were imperfections which men had and women had not, and the women must put up with them. sins?--well, yes, i suppose getting drunk is a sin, if you come to think about it; but so is getting into a passion, and telling falsehoods, and plenty more things which one thinks little or nothing about, because one sees everybody do them every day. it is only the extra good people, like my aunt kezia, and flora, and mr keith, that put on grave faces about things of that kind. but stay! god must be better than the extra good people. then will he not think even worse of such things than they do? it was just because those three seemed to think it so awful, and to be inclined to make a fuss over it, that i did not like to hear what angus said about father. grandmamma never thought anything about it; she always said drinking and gaming were gentlemanly vices, which the king himself--(i mean, of course, the elector, but grandmamma said the king)--need not be ashamed of practising. i listened rather uneasily for mr keith's answer. i am beginning to feel a good deal of respect for his opinion and himself, and i did not want to hear him say anything about father that was not agreeable. but he put it quietly aside. "if you please, angus, we will let other people alone. both you and i shall find our own sins quite enough to repent of, i expect. you have not answered my question, angus." "what question?" grumbled angus. i fancy he did not want to answer it. "would you, three months since, have let your father see and hear what you have let me do within even the last week?" angus growled something in the bottom of his throat which i could not make out. mr keith's tone changed suddenly. "angus, dear old fellow, are you happier now than you were then?" "duncan, i am the most miserable wretch that ever lived! i want no preaching to, i can tell you. that last text my father preached from keeps tolling in my ear like a funeral bell--and it is all the worse because it comes in his voice: `remember from whence thou art fallen!' don't i remember it? do i want telling whence i have fallen? haven't i made a thousand resolves never, _never_ to fail again, and the next time i get into company, all my resolves melt away and my hard knots come undone, and i feel as strong as a spoonful of water, and any of them can lead me that tries, like an animal with a ring through his nose?" "water is not a bad comparison, angus, if you look at both sides of it. what is stronger than water, when the wind blows it with power? and you know who is compared to the wind. `awake, o north wind, and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.' it is the wind of god's spirit that we want, to blow the water--powerless of itself--in the right direction. it will carry all before it then." "oh, yes, all that sounds very well," said angus, but in a pleasanter tone than before--not so much like a big growling dog. "but you don't know, duncan--you don't know! you have no temptations. what can you know about it? i tell you i _can't_ keep out of it. it is no good talking." "`no temptations!' i wish that were true. but you are quite right as to yourself; you cannot keep out of it. do you mean to add that god cannot keep you?" i did not hear angus's reply, and i fancy it came in a gesture, and not in words. but mr keith said, very softly,-- "angus, will you let him keep you?" instead of the answer for which i was eagerly listening, another sound came to my ear, which made me jump up in a hurry, almost without caring whether i was heard or not. that was the clock of brocklebank church striking twelve. i should be ever so much too late for dinner; and what would my aunt kezia say? i got away as quietly as i could for a few yards, and then ran down the scar as fast as i dared for fear of falling, and came into the dining-room, feeling hot and breathless, just as cecilia, looking fresh and bright as a white lily, was entering it from the other end. the rest were seated at the table. of course mr keith and angus were not there. "caroline, where have you been?" saith my aunt kezia. i trembled, for i knew what i had to expect when my aunt kezia said caroline in full. "i am very sorry, aunt," said i. "i went up the scar, and--well, i am afraid i forgot all about the time." my aunt kezia nodded, as if my frank confession satisfied her, and father said, "good maid!" as i slipped into the chair where i always sit, on his left hand. but cecilia, who was arranging her skirts just opposite, said in that way which men seem to call charming, and women always see through and despise (at least my aunt kezia says so),-- "am i a little late?" "don't name it!" said father. "dear, no, my charmer!" cried hatty. "cary's shockingly late, of course: but you are not--quite impossible." cecilia gave one of her soft smiles, and said no more. i really am beginning to wish the bracewells gone. yet it is not so much on their own account, amelia is vain and silly, and charlotte rude and romping; but i do not think either of them is a hypocrite. charlotte is not, i am sure; she lets you see the very worst side of her: and amelia's affectation is so plain and unmistakable, that it cannot be called insincerity. it is on account of that horrid cecilia that i want them to go, because i suppose she will go with them. yes, truth is truth, and cecilia is horrid. i am getting quite frightened of her. i do not know what she means to do next: but she seems to me to be always laying traps of some sort, and for somebody. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i wonder if people ever do what you expect of them? if somebody had asked me to make a list of things that could not happen, i expect that i should have put on it one thing that has just happened. sophy and i went up this morning to goody branscombe's cot, to take her some wine and eggs from my aunt kezia. anne branscombe thinks she is failing, poor old woman, and my aunt kezia told her to beat up an egg with a little wine and sugar, and give it to her fasting of a morning: she thinks it a fine thing for keeping up strength. we came round by the vicarage on our way back, and stepped in to see old elspie. we found her ironing the vicar's shirts and ruffles, and she put us in rocking-chairs while we sat and talked. old elspie wanted to know all we could tell her about flora and angus, and i promised i would bring flora to see her some day. she says mr keith--mr duncan keith's father, that is--is the squire of abbotscliff, a very rich man, and a tremendous tory. "you're vara nigh strangers, young leddies," said elspie, as she ironed away. "miss fanny, she came to see me a twa-three days back, and miss bracewell wi' her; and there was anither young leddy, but i disremember her name." "was it charlotte bracewell?" said sophy. "na, na, i ken miss charlotte ower weel to forget her, though she has grown a deal sin' i saw her afore. this was a lassie wi' black hair, and e'en like the new wood the minister has his dinner-table, wi' the fine name--what ca' ye that, now?" "mahogany?" said i. "ay, it has some sic fremit soun'," said old elspie, rather scornfully. "i ken it was no sae far frae muggins [mugwort]. mrs sophy, my dear, ha'e ye e'er suppit muggins in may? 'tis the finest thing going for keeping a lassie in gude health, and it suld be drinkit in the spring. atweel, what's her name wi' the copper-colourit e'en?" "cecilia osborne," said i. "what did you think of her, elspie?" the iron went up and down the vicar's shirt-front, and i saw a curious gathering together of old elspie's lips--still she did not speak. at last sophy said,-- "couldn't you make up your mind about her, elspie?" "i had nae mickle fash about _that_, mrs sophy," said elspeth, setting down her iron on the stand with something like a bang. "and gin i can see through a millstane a wee bittie, she'll gi'e ye the chance to make up yourn afore lang." "nay, mine's made up long since," answered sophy. "i shall see the back of her with a deal more pleasure than i did her face a month ago. won't you, cary?" "i don't like her the least bit," said i. "ye'll be wiser lassies, young leddies, gin ye're no ower ready to say it," said elspie, coolly. "it was no ane o' _your_ white days when she came to brocklebank fells. ay, weel, weel! the lord's ower a'." as we went down the road, i said to sophy, "what did old elspie mean, do you suppose?" "i am afraid i can guess what she meant, cary." sophy's tone was so strange that i looked up at her; and i saw her eyes flashing and her lips set and white. "sophy! what is the matter?" i cried. "don't trouble your little head, cary," she said, kindly enough. "it will be trouble in plenty when it comes." i could not get her to say more. as we reached the door, hatty came dancing out to meet us. "`the rose is white, the rose is red,'-- the sun gives light, queen anne is dead: ladies with white and rosy hues, what will you give me for my news?" "hatty, you must have made that yourself!" said sophy. "i have, just this minute," laughed hatty. "now then, who'll bid for my news?" "i dare say it isn't worth a farthing," said sophy. "well, to you, perhaps not. it may be rather mortifying. my sweet sophia, you are the eldest of us, but your younger sister has stolen a march on you. you have played your cards ill, miss courtenay. fanny is going to be the first of us married, unless i contrive to run away with somebody in the interval. i don't know whom--there's the difficulty." "well, i always thought she would be," said sophy, quite good-humouredly. "she is the prettiest of us, is fanny." "so much obliged for the compliment!" gleefully cried hatty. "cary, don't you feel delighted?" "is ephraim here now?" i said, for of course i never thought of anybody else. "ephraim!" hatty whirled round, laughing heartily. "ephraim, my dear, will have to break his heart at leisure. ambrose catterall has stolen a march on _him_." "you don't mean that fanny and ambrose are to be married!" cried sophy, with wide-open eyes. "i do, madam; and my aunt kezia is as mad as a hatter about it. she would have liked ephraim for her nephew ever so much better than ambrose." "well, i do think!" exclaimed sophy. "if ephraim did really care for fanny, she has used him shamefully." "so _i_ think!" said hatty. "i mean to present him on his next birthday with a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs, embroidered in the corner with an urn and a willow-tree." "an urn, you ridiculous child!" returned sophy. "that means that somebody is dead." "don't throw cold water on my charming conceits!" pleaded hatty. "now go in and face my aunt kezia--if you dare." we found her cutting out flannel petticoats in the parlour. my aunt kezia's brows were drawn together, and my aunt kezia's lips were thin; and i trembled. however, she took no note of us, but went on tearing up flannel, and making little piles of it upon the table end. sophy, with heroic bravery, attacked the citadel at once. "well, aunt, this is pretty news!" "what is?" said my aunt kezia, standing up straight and stiff. "why, this about fanny and ambrose catterall." "oh, that! i wish there were nothing worse than that in _this_ world." my aunt kezia spoke as if she would have preferred some other world, where things went straighter than they do in this. "hatty said you were put out about it, aunt." "that's all hatty knows. i think 'tis a blunder, and fanny will find it out, likely enough. but if that were all--girls, 'tis nigh dinner-time. you had better take your bonnets off." "what is the matter with my aunt kezia?" said i to sophy, as we went up-stairs. "don't ask _me_!" said that young lady. half-way up-stairs we met charlotte. "oh, what fun you have missed, you two!" cried she. "why didn't you come home a little sooner? i would not have lost it for a hundred pounds." "lost what, charlotte?" "lost _what_? ask my aunt kezia--now just you _do_!" "my aunt kezia seems unapproachable," said sophy. charlotte went off into a fit of laughter, and then slid down the banister to the hall--a feat which my aunt kezia has forbidden her to perform a dozen times at least. we went forward, made ourselves ready for dinner, and came down to the dining-parlour. in the dining-room we found a curious group. my aunt kezia looked as stiff as whalebone; father, pleased and radiant; flora and mr keith both seemed rather puzzled. angus was in a better temper than usual. charlotte was evidently full of something very funny, which she did not want to let out; cecilia, soft, serene, and velvety; fanny looked nervous and uncomfortable; hatty, scornful; while amelia was her usual self. when dinner was over, we went back to the parlour. my aunt kezia gathered up her heaps of flannel, gave one to flora and another to me, and began to stitch away at a third herself. amelia threw herself on the sofa, saying she was tired to death; and i was surprised to see that my aunt kezia took no notice. fanny sat down to draw; hatty went on with her knitting; charlotte strolled out into the garden; and cecilia disappeared, i know not whither. for an hour or more we worked away in solemn silence. hatty tried to whisper once or twice to fanny, making her blush and look uncomfortable; but fanny did not speak, and i fancy hatty got tired. amelia went to sleep. at last, and all at once, flora--honest, straightforward flora--laid her work on her knee, and looked up at my aunt kezia's grim set face. "aunt kezia, will you tell me, is something the matter?" "yes, my dear," my aunt kezia seemed to snap out. "satan's the matter." "i don't know what you mean, aunt," said flora. "'tis a mercy if you don't. no, child, there is not much the matter for you. the matter's for me and these girls here. well, to be sure! there's no fool like an old f--caroline! (i fairly jumped) can't you look what you are doing? you are herring-boning that seam on the wrong side!" alas! the charge was true. i cannot tell how or why it is, but if there are two seams to anything, i am sure to do one of them on the wrong side. it is very queer. i suppose there is something wanting in my brains. hatty says--at least she did once when i said that--the brains are wanting. however, we sat on and sewed away, till at last amelia woke up and went up-stairs; flora finished her petticoat, and my aunt kezia told her to go into the garden. only we four sisters were left. then my aunt kezia put down her flannel, wiped her spectacles, and looked round at us. i knew something was coming, and i felt quite sure that it was something disagreeable; but i could not form an idea what it was. "girls," said my aunt kezia, "i think you may as well hear at once that i am going to leave brocklebank." i fairly gasped in astonishment. brocklebank without my aunt kezia! it sounded like hearing that the sun was going out of the sky. i could not imagine such a state of things. "is sophy to be mistress, then?" said fanny, blankly. "aunt kezia, are you going to be married?" our impertinent hatty wanted to know. "no, hester," said my aunt kezia, shortly. "at my time of life a woman has a little sense left; or if she have not, she is only fit for bedlam. i do not think sophy will be mistress, fanny. somebody else is going to take that place. otherwise, i should have stayed in it." "what do you mean, aunt kezia?" said fanny, speaking very slowly, and in a bewildered sort of way. sophy said nothing. i think she knew. and all at once it seemed to come over me--as if somebody had shut me up inside a lump of ice--what it was that was going to happen. "i mean, my dear," my aunt kezia replied quietly, "that your father intends to marry again." sophy's face and tongue gave no sign that she had heard anything which was news to her. fanny cried, "never, surely!" hatty said, "how jolly!" and then in a whisper to me, "won't i lead her a life!" i believe i said nothing. i felt shut up in that lump of ice. "but, aunt kezia, what is to become of us all? are we to stay here, or go with you?" asked fanny. "your father desires me to tell you, my dears," said my aunt kezia, "that he wishes to leave you quite free to please yourselves. if you choose to remain here, he will be glad to have you; and if any of you like to come with me to fir vale, you will be welcome, and you know what to expect." "what are we to expect if we stop here?" asked sophy, in a hard, dry voice. "that is more than i can say," was my aunt kezia's answer. "but who is it?" said fanny, in the same bewildered way. "o fanny, what a bat you are!" cried hatty. "i wonder you ask," answered sophy. "i have seen her fishing-rod for ever so long. cecilia, of course." "cecilia!" screamed fanny. "i thought it was some middle-aged, respectable gentlewoman." hatty burst out laughing. i never felt less inclined to laugh. my aunt kezia had taken off her spectacles, and was going on with her tucks as if nothing had happened. "well, i will think about it," said sophy. "i am not sure i shall stay." "_i_ shall stay," announced hatty. "i expect it will be grand fun. she will fill the house with company--that will suit me; and i shall just look sharp after her and keep her in order." "hatty!" cried fanny, in a shocked tone. "i hope you will keep yourself in order," said my aunt kezia, drily. "little cary, you have not spoken yet. what do you want to do?" her voice softened as i had never heard it do before when she spoke to me. it touched me very much; yet i think i should have said the same without it. "o aunt kezia, please let me go with you!" "thank you, cary," said my aunt kezia in the same tone. "the old woman is not to be left quite alone, then? but it will be dull, child, for a young thing like you." "i would rather have it dull than lively the wrong way about," said i; and hatty broke out again. "would you!" said she, when she had done laughing. "i wouldn't, i promise you. sophy, don't you know a curate you could marry? you had better, if you can find one." "not one that has asked me," was sophy's dry answer. "you don't want me, then, miss hatty?" "you would be rather meddlesome, i am afraid," said hatty, with charming frankness. "you would always be doing conscience." "don't you intend to keep one?" returned sophy. "i mean to lay it up in lavender," said hatty, "and take it out on sundays." "hatty, if you haven't a care--" "please go on, aunt kezia. unfinished sentences are always awful things, because you don't know how they are going to end." "_you_'ll end in the lock-up, if you don't mind," said my aunt kezia; "and if i were you, i wouldn't." "i'll try to keep on this side the door," said hatty, as lightly as ever. "and when is it to be, aunt kezia?" "the month after next, i believe." "isn't cecilia going home first, to see what her friends say about it?" "she has none belonging to her, except an uncle and his family, and she says they will be delighted to hear it. hatty, you had better get out of the way of calling her cecilia. it won't do now, you know." "but you don't mean, aunt kezia, that we are to call her mother!" cried fanny, in a most beseeching tone. "my dear, that must be as your father wishes. he may allow you to call her mrs courtenay. that is what i shall call her." "isn't it dreadful!" said poor fanny. "one thing more i have to say," continued my aunt kezia, laying down her flannel again and putting on her spectacles. "your father does not wish you to be present at his marriage." "aunt kezia!" came, i think, from us all--indignantly from sophy, sorrowfully from fanny, petulantly from hatty, and from me in sheer astonishment. "i suppose he has his reasons," said my aunt kezia; "but that being so, i think sophy had better go home for a while with the bracewells, and hatty, too. you, cary, may go with flora instead, if you like. fanny, of course, is arranged for already, as she will be married by then, and will only have to stop at home." i thought i would very much rather go with flora. "i have had a letter from your aunt dorothea lately," my aunt kezia went on, "in which she asks for cary to pay her a visit next june. but now we are only in march. so, as cary must be somewhere between times, and i think she would be better out of the way, she will go to abbotscliff with flora--unless, my dear," she added, turning to me, "you would rather be at bracewell hall? you may, if you like." "i would rather be at abbotscliff, very much, aunt kezia," said i; and i think aunt kezia was pleased. "aunt kezia, don't send me away!" pleaded sophy. "do let me stay and help you to settle at fir vale. i should hate to stay at bracewell, and i should just like bustling about and helping you in that way. won't you let me?" "well, my dear, we will see," said my aunt kezia; and i think she was pleased with sophy too. hatty declared that bracewell would just suit her, and she would not stay at any price, if she had leave to choose. so it seems to be settled in that way. fanny will be married on the th,--that is three weeks hence; and the week after, hatty goes with the bracewells, and i with flora, to their own homes; and my aunt kezia and sophy will remain here, and only leave the house on the evening before the marriage. it seems very odd that father should have wished not to have us at his wedding. was it cecilia who did not wish it? but i am not to call her cecilia any more. when my cousins came in for tea, they were told too. charlotte cried, "well, i never!" for which piece of vulgarity she was sharply pulled up by my aunt kezia. amelia fanned herself--she always does, whatever time of year it may be--and languidly remarked, "dear!" angus said, "castor and pollux!" for which he also got rebuked. and after a sort of "oh!" flora said nothing, but looked very sorrowfully at us. cec--i mean miss osborne--did not appear at all until tea was nearly over, and then she came in from the garden, and mr parmenter with her, that everlasting eyeglass stuck in his eye. i do so dislike the man. father never comes to tea. he says it is only women's rubbish, and laughs at ephraim hebblethwaite because he says he likes it. i fancy few men drink tea. my uncle charles never does, i know; but my aunt dorothea says she could not exist a day without tea and cards. i wonder if it will be pleasant to stay with my aunt dorothea. i believe she and my uncle charles are living in london now. i should like dearly to see london, and the fine shops, and the lions in the tower, and ranelagh, and all the grand people. and yet, somehow, i feel just a little bit uneasy about it, as if i were going into some place where i did not know what i should find, and it might be something that would hurt me. i do not feel that about abbotscliff. i expect it will be pleasant there, only perhaps rather dull. and i want to see my uncle drummond, and flora's friend, annas keith. i wonder if she is like her brother. and i never saw a presbyterian minister, nor indeed a minister of any sort. i do hope my uncle drummond will not be like mr bagnall, and i hope all the gentlemen in the south are not like that odious mr parmenter. flora seems very much pleased about my going back with her. i do not know why, but i fancied angus did not quite like it. can he be afraid of my telling his father the story of the hunt-supper? he knows nothing of what i heard up on the scar. i do hope ephraim hebblethwaite is not very unhappy about fanny. i should think it must be dreadful, when you love any one very much, to see her go and give herself quite away to somebody else. and ambrose thinks of going to live in cheshire, where his uncle has a large farm, and he has no children, so the farm will come to ambrose some day; and his uncle, mr minshull, would like him to come and live there now. of course, if that be settled so, we shall lose fanny altogether. must there always be changes and break-ups in this world? i do not mean the change of death: that, we know, must come. but why must there be all these other changes? why could we not go on quietly as we were? it seems now as if we should never be the same any more. if that uncle of cecilia's would only have tied her to the leg of a table, or locked her up in her bed-chamber, or done something to keep her down there in the south, so that she had never come to torment us! i suppose i ought not to wish that, if she makes father happier. ay, but will she make him happy? that is just what i am uncomfortable about! i don't believe she cares a pin for him, though i dare say she likes well enough to be the squire's lady, and queen it at brocklebank. somehow, i cannot trust those tawny eyes, with their sidelong glances. am i very wicked, or is she? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ will things never give over happening? this morning, just after i came down--there were only my aunt kezia, mr keith, flora, and me in the dining-parlour--we suddenly heard the great bell of brocklebank church begin to toll. my aunt kezia set down the chocolate-pot. "it must be somebody who has died suddenly, poor soul!" cried she. "maybe, ellen armathwaite's baby: it looked very bad when i saw it last, on thursday. hark!" the bell stopped tolling, and we listened for the sound which would tell us the sex and age of the departed. "one!" then silence. that meant a man. ellen armathwaite's baby girl it could not be. then the bell began again, and we counted. it tolled on up to twenty-- thirty--forty: we could not think who it could be. "surely not farmer catterall!" said my aunt kezia, "i have often felt afraid of an apoplexy for him." but the bell went on past sixty, and we knew it was not farmer catterall. "is it never going to stop?" said flora, when it had passed eighty. my aunt kezia went to the door, and calling sam, bade him go out and inquire. still the bell tolled on. it stopped just as sam came in, at ninety-six. "who is it, sam?--one of the old bedesmen?" "nay, mrs kezia; puir soul, 'tis just the auld vicar!" "mr digby!" we all cried together. "ay; my mither found him deid i' his bed early this morrow. she's come up to tell ye, an' to ask gin' ye can spare me to go and gi'e a haun', for that puir witless body, mr anthony parmenter, seems all but daft." miss osborne and amelia came in together, and i saw cecilia turn very white. (oh dear! how shall i give over calling her cecilia?) my aunt kezia told them what had happened, and i thought she looked relieved. "what ails mr parmenter?" asked my aunt kezia. "'deed, and what ails a fule onie day?" said sam, always more honest than soft-spoken. "he's just as ill as a bit lassie--fair frichtened o' his auld uncle, now he is deid, that ne'er did him a bawbee's worth o' harm while he was alive. my mither says she's vara sure he'll be here the morn, begging and praying ye to tak' him in and keep him safe frae his puir auld uncle's ghaist. hech, sirs! i'll ghaist him, gin' he comes my way." "now, sam, keep a civil tongue in your head," quoth my aunt kezia, "and don't let me hear of your playing tricks on mr parmenter or any one else. you should be old enough to have some sense by this time. i will come out and speak to your mother in a moment. yes, i suppose we must let you go. what cuckoos there are in this world, to be sure!" but mr parmenter did not wait till to-morrow--he came up this afternoon, just as sam said he would. father was not at home, and to my surprise my aunt kezia would not take him in, but sent him on to farmer catterall's. i do not think the tawny eyes liked it, for though they were mostly bent on the ground, i saw them give one sidelong flash at my aunt kezia which did not look to me like loving-kindness. i feel to-night what i think angus means when he says that he is flat. everything feels flat. fanny is gone--she was married on saturday. amelia, charlotte, and hatty set forth on tuesday, and they are gone. i thought that ce--miss osborne would have gone with them, and have returned by-and-by; but she stays on, and will do so, i hear, almost till my aunt kezia goes, when mrs hebblethwaite has asked her to stay at the fells farm for the last few days before the wedding. it is settled now that my aunt kezia and sophy stay here till the day before it. it does seem so queer for sophy to be here till then, and not be at the wedding! i don't believe it is father's doing. it is not like him. flora, angus, mr keith, and i are to start to-morrow; but mr keith only goes with us as far as carlisle--that is, the first day's journey; then he leaves us for newcastle, where he has some sort of business (that horrid word!), and i go on with my cousins to abbotscliff. we shall be met at carlisle by a scots gentleman who is travelling thence to selkirk, and is a friend of my uncle drummond. he goes in his own chaise, with two mounted servants, and both he and they are armed, so i hope we shall get clear of freebooters on the border. he has nobody with him, and says he shall have plenty of room in the chaise. it is very lucky that this mr cameron should just be going at the same time as we are. i don't think angus would be much protection, though i should not wish him to know i said so. if ephraim hebblethwaite have broken his heart, he behaves very funnily. he was not only at fanny's wedding, but was best man; and he looks quite well and happy. i begin to think that we must have been mistaken in guessing that he cared for fanny. perhaps it only amused him to talk to her. fanny's wedding was very smart and gay, and everybody came to it. the bridesmaids were we three, esther langridge, and two cousins of ambrose's, whose names are annabel catterall and priscilla minshull. i rather liked annabel, but priscilla was horrid. (sophy says i say "horrid" too often, and about all sorts of things. but if people and things are horrid, how am i to help saying it?) i am sure priscilla minshull was horrid. she reminded me of angus's saying about turning up one's eyes like a duck in thunder. i never watched a duck in thunder, and i don't know whether it turns up its eyes or it does not: only priscilla did. she seemed to think us all (my aunt kezia said) no better than the dirt she walked on. and i am sure she need not be so stuck-up, for mr james minshull, her father, is only a parson, and not only that, but a chaplain too: so priscilla is not anybody of any consequence. i said so to flora, and she replied that priscilla would be much less likely to be proud if she were. i was dreadfully tired on sunday. we had been so hard at work all the fortnight before, first making the wedding dress, and then dressing the wedding-dinner; and when i went to bed on saturday night, i thought i never wanted to see another. another wedding, of course, i mean. however, everything went off very well; and fanny looked charming in her pink silk brocaded with flowers, with white stripes down it here and there, and a pink quilted slip beneath. she had pink rosettes, too, in her shoes, and a white hood lined with pink and trimmed with pink bows. her hoop came from carlisle, and was the biggest i have seen yet. the mantua-maker from carlisle, who was five days in the house, said that hoops were getting very much larger this year, and she thought they would soon be as big as they were in queen anne's time. we had much smaller hoops--of course it would not have been seemly to have the bridesmaids as smart as the bride--and we were dressed alike, in white french cambric, with light green trimmings. of course we all wore white ribbons. i think father would have stormed at us if we had put on any other colour. i should not like to be the one to wear a red ribbon when he was by! [note .] we wore straw milk-maid hats, with green ribbon mixed with the white; and just a sprinkle of grey powder in our hair. cecilia would not be a bridesmaid, though she was asked. i don't think she liked the dress chosen; and indeed it would not have suited her. but wasn't she dressed up! she wore--i really must set it down--a purple lutestring, [note .] over such a hoop that she had to lift it on one side when she went in at the church door; this was guarded with gold lace and yellow feathers. she had a white laced apron, purple velvet slippers with red heels, and her lace ruffles were something to look at! and wasn't she patched! and hadn't she powdered her hair, and made it as stiff with pomatum as if it had been starched! then on the top of this head went a lace cap--it was not a hood--just a little, light, fly-away cap, with purple ribbons and gold embroidery, and in the middle of the front a big gold pompoon. what a contrast there was between her and my aunt kezia! she wore a silk dress too, only it was a dark stone-colour, as quiet as a quakeress, just trimmed with two rows of braid, the same colour, round the bottom, and a white silk scarf, with a dark blue hood, and just a little rosette of white lace at the top of it. aunt kezia's hood was a hood, too, and was tied under her chin as if she meant it to be some good. and her elbow-ruffles were plain nett, with long dark doe-skin gloves drawn up to meet them. cecilia wore white silk mittens. i hate mittens; they are horrid things. if you want to make your hands look as ugly as you can, you have only to put on a pair of mittens. the wedding-dinner, which was at noon, was a very grand one. it should have been, for didn't my arms ache with beating eggs and keeping pans stirred! hatty said we were martyrs in a good cause. but i do think fanny might have taken a little more trouble herself, seeing it was her wedding. now, let us see, what had we? there was a turkey pie, and a boar's head, chickens in different ways, and a great baron of roast beef; cream beaten to snow (sophy did that, i am glad to say), candied fruits, and ices, and several sorts of pudding, for dessert. then for drink, there were wine, and mead, purl, and burton ale. well! it is all over now, and fanny is gone. there will never be four of us any more. there seems to me something very sad about it. poor dear fanny, i hope she will be happy! "i dare guess she will, in her way," says my aunt kezia. "she does not keep a large cup for her happiness. 'tis all the easier to fill when you don't; but a deal more will go in when you do. there are advantages and disadvantages on each side of most things in this world." "is there any advantage, aunt kezia, in my having just pricked my finger shockingly?" "yes, cary. learn to be more careful in future." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the white ribbon, like the white cockade, distinguished a jacobite; the red ribbon and the black cockade were hanoverian. note . a variety of silk then fashionable. chapter five. leaving the nest. "i've kept old ways, and loved old friends, till, one by one, they've slipped away; stand where we will, cling as we like, there's none but god can be our stay. 'tis only by our hold on him we keep a hold on those who pass out of our sight across the seas, or underneath the churchyard grass." isabella fyvie mayo. carlisle, april the th, or . i really feel that i must put a date to my writing now, when this is the first time of my going out into the great world. i have never been beyond carlisle before, and now i am going, first into a new country, and then to london itself, if all go well. news came last night, just before we started, that my lord orford is dead--he that was sir robert walpole, and the elector's prime minister. father says his death is a good thing for the country, for it gives more hope that the king may come by his own. i don't know what would happen if he did. i suppose it would not make much difference to us. indeed, i rather wish things would not happen, for the things that happen are so often disagreeable ones. i said so this evening, and mr keith smiled, and answered, "you are young to have reached that conviction, miss caroline." "oh, rubbish!" said angus. "only old women talk so!" "angus, will you please tell me," said i, "whether young men have generally more sense than old women?" "of course they have!" replied he. "the young men are apt to think so," added flora. "but have young women more sense than old ones?" said i. "because i see, whenever people mean to speak of anything as particularly silly, they always say it is worthy of an old woman. now why an old woman? have i more commonsense now than i shall have fifty years hence? and if so, at what age may i expect it to take leave of me?" "you are not talking sense now, at any rate," replied angus--who might be my brother, instead of my cousin, for the way in which he takes me up, whatever i say. "pardon me," said mr keith. "i think miss caroline is talking very good sense." "then you may answer her," said angus. "nay," returned mr keith. "the question was addressed to you." "oh, all women are sillies!" was angus's flattering answer. "they're just a pack of ninnies, the whole lot of them." "it seems to me, angus," observed mr keith, quite gravely, "that you must have paid twopence extra for manners." flora and i laughed. "i was not rich enough to go in for any," growled angus. "i'm not a laird's son, mr duncan keith, so you don't need to throw stones at me." "did i, angus? i beg your pardon." angus muttered something which i did not hear, and was silent. i thought i had better let the subject drop. but before we went to bed, something happened which i never saw before. mr keith took a book from his pocket, and sat down at the table. flora rose and went to the sofa, motioning to me to come beside her. even angus twisted himself round, and sat in a more decorous way. "what are we going to do?" i asked of flora. "the exercise, dear," said she. "exercise!" cried i. "what are we to exercise?" a curious sort of gurgle came from angus's part of the room, as if a laugh had made its way into his throat, and he had smothered it in its cradle. "the word is strange to miss caroline," said mr keith, looking round with a smile. "we scots people, madam, speak of exercising our souls in prayer. we are about to read in god's word, and pray, if you please. it is our custom, morning and evening." "but how can we pray?" said i. "there is no clergyman." "though i am not a minister," replied mr keith, "yet i trust i have learned to pray." it seemed to me so strange that anybody not a clergyman should think of praying before other people! however, i sat down, of course, on the sofa by flora, and listened while mr keith read something out of the gospel of saint john, about the woman of samaria, and what our lord said to her. but i never heard such reading in my life! i thought i could have gone on listening to him all night. the only clergymen that i ever heard read were mr bagnall and poor old mr digby, and the one always read in a high singsong tone, which gave me the idea that it was nothing i need listen to; and the other mumbled indistinctly, so that i never heard what he said. but mr keith read as if the converse were really going on, and you actually heard our lord and the woman talking to one another at the well. he made it seem so real that i almost fancied i could hear the water trickling, and see the cool wet green mosses round the old well. oh, if clergymen would always read and preach as if the things were real, how different going to church would be! then we knelt down, and mr keith prayed. it was not out of the prayer-book. and i dare say, if i were to hear nothing but such prayers, i might miss the dear old prayers that have been like sweet sounds floating around me ever since i knew anything. but this evening, when it was all new, it came to me as so solemn and so real! this was not saying one's prayers; it was talking to one's friend. and it seemed as if god really were mr keith's friend--as if they knew each other, and were not strangers at all, but each understood what the other would like or dislike, and they wanted to please one another. i hope i am not irreverent in writing so, but really it did seem like that. and i never saw anything like it before. i suppose, to the others, it was an old worn-out story--all this which came so new and fresh to me. when we rose up, angus said, without any pause,-- "well! i am off to bed. good-night, all of you." flora went up to him and offered him a kiss, which he took as if it were a condescension to an inferior creature; and then, without saying anything more to mr keith or me, lighted his candle and went away. flora sighed as she looked after him, and mr keith looked at her as if he felt for her. "i shall be glad to get him home," said flora, answering mr keith's look, i think. "if he can only get back to father, then, perhaps--" "aye," said mr keith, meaningly, "it is all well, when we do get back to the father." flora shook her head sorrowfully. "not that!" she answered. "o duncan, i am afraid, not that, yet! i feel such terrible fear sometimes lest he should never come back at all, or if he do, should have to come over sharp stones and through thorny paths." "`so he bringeth them unto their desired haven,'" was mr keith's gentle answer. "i know!" she said, with a sigh. "i suppose i ought to pray and wait. father does, i am sure. but it is hard work!" mr keith did not answer for a moment; and when he did, it was by another bit of the bible. at least i think it was the bible, for it sounded like it, but i should not know where to find it. "`wait on the lord; be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart; wait, i say, on the lord.'" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ castleton, april the sixth. mr keith left us so early this morning that there was not time for anything except breakfast and good-bye. i feel quite sorry to lose him, and wish i had a brother like him. (not like angus--dear me, no!) why could we four girls not have had one brother? about half an hour after mr keith was gone, the scots gentleman with whom we were to travel--mr cameron--came in. he is a man of about fifty, bald-headed and rosy-faced, pleasant and chatty enough, only i do not quite always understand him. by six o'clock we were all packed into his chaise, and a few minutes later we set forth from the inn door. the streets of carlisle felt like home; but as we left them behind, and came gradually out into the open country, it dawned upon me that now, indeed, i was going out into the great world. we sleep here to-night, where flora and i have a little bit of a bed-chamber next door to a larger one where mr cameron and angus are. on monday we expect to reach abbotscliff. i am too tired to write more. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ abbotscliff manse, april the ninth. i really could not go on any sooner. we reached the manse--what an odd name for a vicarage!--about four o'clock yesterday afternoon. the church (which flora calls the kirk) and the manse, with a few other houses, stand on a little rising ground, and the rest of the village lies below. but before i begin to talk about the manse, i want to write down a conversation which took place on monday morning as we journeyed, in which mr cameron told us some curious things that i do not wish to forget. we were driving through such a pretty little village, and in one of the doorways an old woman sat with her knitting. "oh, look at that dear old woman!" cries flora. "how pleasant she looks, with her clean white apron and mutch!" "much, flora?" said i. "what do you mean?" i thought it such an odd word to use. what was she much? flora looked puzzled, and mr cameron answered for her, with amusement in his eyes. "a mutch, young lady," said he, "is what you in the south call a cap." "the south!" cried i. "why, mr cameron, you do not think we live in the south?" i felt almost vexed that he should fancy such a thing. for all that grandmamma and my aunt dorothea used to say, i always look down upon the south. all the people i have seen who came from the south seemed to me to have a great deal of wiliness and foolishness, and no commonsense. i suppose the truth is that there are agreeable people, and good people, in the south, only they have not come my way. when i cried out like that, mr cameron laughed. "well," said he, "north and south are comparative terms. we in scotland think all england `the south,'--and so it is, if you will think a moment. you in cumberland, i suppose, draw the line at the trent or the humber; lower down, they employ the thames; and a surrey man thinks sussex is the south. 'tis all a matter of comparison." "what does a sussex man call the south?" said angus. "spain and portugal, i should think," said mr cameron. "but, mr cameron," said i, "asking your pardon, is there not some difference of character or disposition between those in the north and in the south--i mean, of england?" "quite right, young lady," said he. "they are different tribes; and the lowland scots, among whom you are now coming, have the same original as yourself. there were two tribes amongst those whom we call anglo-saxons, that peopled england after the britons were driven into wales--namely, as you might guess, the angles and the saxons. the angles ran from the frith of forth to the trent; the saxons from the thames southward. the midland counties were in all likelihood a mixture of the two. there are, moreover, several foreign elements beyond this, in various counties. for instance, there is a large influx of danish blood on the eastern coast, in parts of lancashire, in yorkshire and lincolnshire, and in the weald of sussex; there was a flemish settlement in lancashire and norfolk, of considerable extent; the britons were left in great numbers in cumberland and cornwall; the jutes--a variety of dane--peopled kent entirely. nor must we forget the romans, who left a deep impress upon us, especially amongst welsh families. 'tis not easy for any of our mixed race to say, i am this, or that. why, if most of us spoke the truth (supposing we might know it), we should say, `i am one-quarter saxon, one-eighth british, one-sixteenth iberian, one-eighth danish, one-sixteenth flemish, one-thirty-secondth part roman,'--and so forth. now, miss caroline, how much of that can you remember?" "all of it, i hope, sir," said i; "i shall try to do so. i like to hear of those old times. but would you please to tell me, what is an iberian?" "my dear," said mr cameron, smiling, "i would gladly give you fifty pounds in gold, if you could tell me." "sir!" cried i, in great surprise. he went on, more as if he were talking to himself, or to some very learned man, than to me. "what is an iberian? ah, for the man who could tell us! what is a basque?--what is an etruscan?--what is a magyar?--above all, what is a cagot? miss caroline, my dear, there are deep questions in all arts and sciences; and, without knowing it, you have lighted on one of the deepest and most interesting. the most learned man that breathes can only answer you, as i do now (though i am far from being a learned man)--i do not know. i will, nevertheless, willingly tell you what little i do know; and the rather if you take an interest in such matters. all that we really know of the iberii is that they came from spain, and that they had reached that country from the east; that they were a narrow-headed people (the celts or later britons were round-headed); that they dwelt in rude houses in the interior of the country, first digging a pit in the ground, and building over it a kind of hut, sometimes of turf and sometimes of stone; that they wore very rude clothing, and were generally much less civilised than the celts, who lived mainly on the coast; that they loved to dwell, and especially to worship, on a mountain top; that they followed certain eastern observances, such as running or leaping through the fire to bel,--which savours of a phoenician or assyrian origin; and that it is more than likely that we owe to them those stupendous monuments yet standing-- stonehenge, avebury, the white horse of berkshire, and the white man of wilmington." "but what sort of a religion had they, if you please, sir?" said i; for i wanted to get to know all i could about these strange fathers of ours. "idolatry, my dear, as you might suppose," answered mr cameron. "they worshipped the sun, which they identified with the serpent; and they had, moreover, a sacred tree--all, doubtless, relics of eden. they would appear also to have had some sort of woman-worship, for they held women in high honour, loved female sovereignty, and practised polyandry--that is, each woman had several husbands." "i never heard of such queer folks!" said i. "and what became of them, sir?" "the iberians and celts together," he answered, "made up the people we call britons. when the saxons invaded the country, they were driven into the remote fastnesses of wales, cumberland, and cornwall. some antiquaries think the picts had the same original, but this is one of the unsettled points of history." "i wish it were possible to settle all such questions!" said flora. "so do the antiquaries, i can assure you," returned mr cameron, with a smile. "but it is scarce possible to come to a conclusion with any certainty as to the origin of a people of whom we cannot recover the language." "if you please, sir," said i, "what has the language to do with it?" "it has everything to do with it, miss caroline. you did not know that languages grew, like plants, and could be classified in groups after the same manner?" "please explain to us, mr cameron," said flora. "it all sounds so strange." "but it is very interesting," i said. "i want to know all about it." "if you want to know _all_ about it," answered our friend, "you must consult some one else than me, for i do not know nearly all about it. in truth, no one does. for myself, i have only arrived at the stage of knowing that i know next to nothing." "that's easy enough to know, surely," said angus. "not at all, angus. it is one of the most difficult things to ascertain in this world. no man is so ready to give an off-hand opinion on any and every subject, as the man who knows absolutely nothing. but we must not start another hare while the young ladies' question remains unanswered. languages, my dears, are not made; they grow. the first language--that spoken in eden--may have been given to man ready-made, by god; but i rather imagine, from the expressions of holy writ, that what was granted to adam was the inward power of forming a tongue which should be rational and consistent with itself; and, if so, no doubt it was granted to eve that she should understand him--perhaps that she should possess a similar power." "the woman made the language, sir, you may be sure," said angus. "they are shocking chatterers." "unfortunately, my boy, scripture is against you. `whatsoever adam'-- not eve--`called the name of every living creature, that was the name thereof.' to proceed:--the confusion of tongues at babel seems, from what we can gather, to have called into being a number of languages quite separate from each other, yet all having a certain affinity. the structure differs; but some of the words are alike, or at least so nearly alike that the resemblance can be traced. take the word for `father' in all languages: cut down to its root, there is the same root found in all. ab in hebrew, abba in syriac, pater in greek and latin, vater in low dutch, pere in french, padre in spanish and italian, father in english--ay, even the child's papa and the infant's daddy--all come from one root. but this cutting away of superfluities to get at the root, is precisely what a 'prentice hand should not attempt; like an unskilled gardener, he will prune away the wrong branches." "then, sir," i asked, "what are the languages which belong to the same class as ours?" "ours, young lady, is a composite language. it may almost be said to be made up of bits of other languages. german or low dutch is its mother, and the scandinavian group--swedish, danish, and so forth--may be termed its aunts. it belongs mostly to what is called the teutonic group; but there are in it traces of celtic, and though more dimly perceptible, even of latin and oriental tongues. we are altogether a made-up nation--to which fact some say that we owe those excellences on which we are so fond of priding ourselves." "please, sir, what are they?" i asked. mr cameron seemed much amused at the question. "what are the excellences we have?" said he; "or, what are those on which we pride ourselves? they are often not the same. and--notice it, young ladies, as you go through life--the virtue on which a man plumes himself the most highly is very frequently one which he possesses in small measure. (i do not say, in no measure.) well, i suppose the qualities on which we english--" "we are not english!" cried angus, hotly. "for this purpose we are," was mr cameron's answer. "as i observed before, the lowland scots and the northern english are one tribe. but i was going to say, when you were so rude as to interrupt me, english and scots, young gentleman." angus growled out, "beg your pardon." "take it," said mr cameron, pleasantly. "now for the question. on what good qualities do we plume ourselves? well, i think, on steadiness, independence, loyalty, truthfulness, firmness, honesty, and love of fair play. how far we are justified in doing so, perhaps other nations are the better judges. they, i believe, generally regard us as a proud and surly race--qualities on which there is no occasion to plume ourselves." "much loyalty we have got to glory in!" said angus. "we have always tried," replied mr cameron, "to run loyalty and liberty together; and when the two pull smoothly, undoubtedly the national chaise gets along the best. unhappily, when harnessed to the same chariot, one of those steeds is very apt to kick over the traces. but we will not venture on such delicate ground, seeing that our political colours differ; nor is this the time to do it, for here is the inn where we are to dine." when we drove up to the manse on wednesday, the floor stood open, and in the doorway was helen raeburn, who had evidently seen our chaise, and was waiting for us. flora was out the first, and she and helen flew into one another's arms, and hugged and kissed each other as if they could never leave off. i was surprised to find helen so old. i thought elspie's niece would have been between thirty and forty; and she looks more like sixty. then flora flew into the house to find her father, and helen turned to me. "you're vara welcome, young leddy," said she, "and the lord make ye a blessin' amang us. will ye come ben the now? miss flora, she's aff to find the minister, bless her bonnie face!--but if ye'll please to come awa' wi' me, i'll show ye the way.--maister angus, my laddie, welcome hame!--are ye grown too grand to kiss your auld nursie, my callant?" angus gave her a kiss, but not at all like flora; rather as if he had it to do, and wanted to get it over. "well, helen!" said mr cameron, as he came down from the chaise, "and how goes the world with you, my woman?" "i wish ye a gude evening, mr alexander," said she. "the warld gaes vara weel wi' me, thanks to ye for speirin'. no that the warld's onie better, but the lord turns all to gude for his ain. the minister's in his study, and he'll be blithe to see ye. now, my lassie--i ask your pardon, but ye see i'm used to miss flora." "please call me just what you like," i said, and i followed helen up a little passage paved with stone, and into a room on the right hand, where i found flora standing by a tall fine-looking man, who had his arm round her shoulders, and who was so like her that he could only be her father. flora's face was lighted up as i had seen it but once before-- so bright and happy she looked! "and here is our young guest, your cousin," said my uncle drummond, turning to me with a very kind smile. "my dear, may your stay be profitable and pleasant among us,--ay, and mayest thou find favour in the eyes of the god of israel, under whose wings thou art come to trust!" it sounded very strange to me. did these people pray about everything? i had heard father speak contemptuously of "praying presbyters," and i thought uncle drummond must be one of that sort. but i could not see that a minister looked at all different from a clergyman. they seemed to me very much the same sort of creature. mr cameron was to stay the night at the manse, and to go on in the morning to his own home, which is about fourteen miles further. flora carried me off to her chamber, where she and i were to sleep, and we changed our travelling dresses, and had a good wash, and then came down to supper. during the evening mr cameron said, laughingly,-- "well, my fair maid who objects to the south, have you digested the iberii?" "i think i have remembered all you told us, sir," said i; "but if you please, i am very sorry, but i am afraid we do come from the south. our family, i mean. my father's father, i believe, belonged wiltshire; and his father, who was a captain in the navy, was a courtenay of powderham, whatever that means. my sister fanny knows all about it, but i don't understand it--only i am afraid we must have come from the south." mr cameron laughed, and so did my uncle drummond and flora. "don't you, indeed, young lady?" said the first. "well, it only means that you have half the kings of england and france, and a number of emperors of the east, among your forefathers. very blue blood indeed, miss caroline. i do not see how, with that pedigree, you could be anything but a tory. mr courtenay is rather warm that way, i understand." "oh, father is as strong as he can be," said i. "i should not dare to talk of the elector of hanover by any other name if he heard me." "well, you may call that gentleman what you please here," said mr cameron; "but i usually style him king george." "nay, sandy, do not teach the child to disobey her father," said my uncle drummond. "the fifth command is somewhat older than the brunswick succession and the act of settlement." "a little," said mr cameron, drily. "little cary," said my uncle, softly, turning to me, "do you know that you are very like somebody?" "like whom, uncle?" said i. "somebody i loved very much, my child," he answered, rather sadly; "from whom angus has his blue eyes, and flora her smile." "you mean aunt jane," said i, speaking as softly as he had done, for i felt that she had been very dear to him. "yes, my dear," he replied; "i mean my jeannie. you are very like her. i think we shall love each other, cary." i thought so too. mr cameron left us this morning. to-day i have been exploring with flora, who wants to go all over the house and garden and village--speaks of her pet plants as if they were old friends, and shakes hands with everyone she meets, and pats every dog and cat in the place. and they all seem so glad to see her--the dogs included; i do not know about the cats. as we went down the village street, it was quite amusing to hear the greetings from every doorway. "atweel, miss flora, ye've won hame!" said one. "how's a' wi' ye, my bairn?" said another. "a blessing on your bonnie e'en, my lassie!" said a third. and flora had the same sort of thing for all of them. it was, "well, jeannie, is your maggie still in her place?" or, "i hope sandy's better now?" or, "have you lost your pains, isabel?" she seemed to know all about each one. i was quite diverted to hear it all. they all appeared rather shy with me, only very kindly; and when flora introduced me as "her cousin from england," which she did in every cottage, they had all something kind to say: that they hoped i was well after my journey, or they trusted i should like scotland, or something of that sort. two told me i was a bonnie lassie. but at last we came to a shut door--most were open--and flora knocked and waited for an answer. she said gravely to me,-- "a king's daughter lies here, cary, waiting for her father's chariot to take her home." a fresh-coloured, middle-aged woman came to the door, and i was surprised to hear flora say, "how is your grandmother, elsie?" "she's mickle as ye laft her, miss flora, only weaker; i'm thinkin' she'll no be lang the now. but come ben, my bonnie lassie; you're as welcome as flowers in may. and how's a' wi' ye?" flora answered as we were following elsie down the chamber and round a screen which boxed off the end of it. behind the screen was a bed, and on it lay, as i thought, the oldest woman on whom i ever set my eyes. her face was all wrinkled up, yet there was a fresh colour in her cheeks, and her eyes, though much sunk, seemed piercingly bright. "ye're come at last," she said, in a low clear voice, as flora sat down on the bed, and took the wrinkled brown hand in hers. "yes, dear mirren, come at last," said she. "i'm very glad to get home." "ay, and that's what i'll be the morn." "so soon, mirren?" "ay, just sae soon. i askit him to let me bide while ye came hame. i ay thocht i wad fain see ye ance mair--my miss flora's lad's lassie. he's gi'en me a' that ever i askit him--but ane thing, an' that was the vara desire o' my heart." "you mean," said flora, gently, "you wanted ronald to come home?" "ay, i wanted him to come hame frae the far country!" said old mirren with a sigh. "i'd ha'e likit weel to see him come hame to abbotscliff-- vara weel. but i longed mickle mair to see him come hame to the father's house. it's no for his auld minnie to see that. but if it's for the lord to see some ither day, i'm content. and he has gi'en me sae monie things that i ne'er askit him wi' ane half the longing that i did for that, i dinna think he'll say me nay the now." "is he with you, mirren dear?" i could not imagine how flora thought mirren was to know that. but she answered, with a light in those bright eyes,-- "ay, my doo. `his left haun is under my heid, and his richt haun doth embrace me.'" i sat and listened in wonder. it all sounded so strange. yet flora seemed to understand. and i had such an unpleasant sense of being outside, and not understanding, as i never felt before, and i did not like it a bit. i knew quite well that if father had been there, he would have said it was all stuff and cant. but i did not feel so sure of my aunt kezia. and suppose it were not cant, but was something unutterably real,--something that i ought to know, and must know some day, if i were ever to get to heaven! i did not like it. i felt that i was among a new sort of people--people who lived, as it were, in a different place from me--a sort of whom i had never seen one before (that did not come from abbotscliff) except my aunt kezia, and there were differences between her and them. my uncle drummond and flora, and mr keith, and this old mirren, and i thought helen raeburn and mr cameron, all belonged this new sort of people. the one who did not seem to belong them was angus. yet i did not like angus nearly so well as the rest. and yet he belonged my sort of people. it was a puzzle altogether, and not a pleasant puzzle. and how anybody was to get out of the one set into the other set, i could not tell at all. stop! i did know one other person at brocklebank who belonged this new sort of people. it was ephraim hebblethwaite. he was not, i thought-- well, i don't know how to put it--he did not seem so far on the road as the others; only he was on that road, and not on this road. and then it struck me, too, whether old elspie, and perhaps sam, were not on the road as well. i ran over in my mind, as i was walking back to the manse with flora, who was very silent, all the people i knew; and i could not think of one other who might be on flora's road. father and my sisters, esther langridge, the catteralls, the bracewells, cecilia--oh dear, no!--mr digby, mr bagnall (yet they were parsons), mr parmenter--no, not one. at all the four i named last, my mind gave a sort of jump as if it were quite astonished to be asked the question. but where did the roads lead? flora and her sort, i felt quite sure, were going to heaven. then where were angus and i and all the rest going? and i did not like the answer at all. but i felt that the two roads led in opposite ways, and they could not both go to one place. as we walked up the path to the manse, helen came out to meet us. "my lassie," she said to flora, "there's miss annas i' the garden, and leddy monksburn wad ha'e ye gang till monksburn for a dish o' tea, and miss cary wi' ye." flora's face lighted up. "oh, how delightful!" she said. "come, cary--come and see annas keith." i was very curious to see annas, and i followed willingly. under the old beech at the bottom of the garden sat a girl-woman--she was not either, but both--in a gown of soft camlet, which seemed as if it were part of her; i do not mean so much in the fit of it, as in the complete suitableness of it and her. her head was bent down over a book, and i could not see her face at first--only her hair, which was neither light nor dark, but had a kind of golden shimmer. her hat lay beside her on the seat. flora ran down the walk with a glad cry of "annas!" and then she stood up, and i saw annas keith. a princess! was my first thought. i saw a tall, slight figure, a slender white throat, a pure pale face, dark grey eyes with black lashes, and a soul in them. some people have no souls in their eyes, annas keith has. yet i could not have said then, and i cannot say now, when i try to recall her picture in my mind's eye, whether annas keith is beautiful. it does not seem the right word to describe her: and yet "ugly" would be much further off. she is one of those women about whose beauty or want of beauty you never think unless you are trying to describe them, and then you cannot tell what to say about it. she takes you captive. there is a charm about her that i cannot put into words. only it is as different from the spell that cecilia osborne threw over me (at first) as light differs from darkness. the charm about annas feels as if it lifted me higher, into a purer air. whenever i had been long with cecilia, my mind felt soiled, as if i had been breathing bad air. when flora introduced me, miss keith turned and kissed me, and i felt as if i had been presented to a queen. "we want to know you," she said. "all flora's friends are our friends. you will come, both of you?" "i thank you, miss keith," said i. "i should like to come very much." "annas, please," she said quietly, with that sweet smile of hers. it is only when she smiles that she reminds me of her brother. "and how are the laird and lady monksburn?" said flora. i did not know that the laird (as they always seem to call the squires here) had been a titled gentleman: and i said so. annas smiled. "our titles will seem odd to you," said she. "we call a scots gentleman by the name of his estate, and every laird's wife is `lady'--only by custom and courtesy, you understand. my mother really is only mrs keith, but you will hear everybody call her lady monksburn." "then if my father were here, they would call him--" i hesitated, and flora ended the sentence for me. "the laird of brocklebank; and if you had a mother she would be lady brocklebank." i thought it sounded rather pleasant. "and when is duncan coming home?" asked flora. "to-morrow, or the day after, we hope," said annas. i noticed that she had less of the scots accent than flora; and mr keith has it scarcely at all. i found after a while that lady monksburn is english, and that annas has spent much of her life in england. i wanted to know what part of england it was, and she said, "the isle of wight." "why, then you do really come from the south!" cried i. "do tell me something about it. are there any agreeable people there?--i mean, except you." annas laughed. "i hope you have seen few people from the south," said she, "if that be your impression of them." "only two," said i; "and i did not like either of them one bit." "well, two is no large acquaintance," said annas. "let me assure you that there are plenty of agreeable people in the south, and good people also; though i will not say that they are not different from us in the north. they speak differently, and their manners are more polished." "but it is just that polish i feel afraid of," i replied. "it looks to me so like a mask. if we are bears in the north, at least we mean what we say." "i do not think you need fear a polished christian," said annas. "a worldly man, polished or unpolished, may do you hurt." "but are we not all christians?" said i. and the words were scarcely out of my lips when the thoughts came back to me which had been tormenting me as we walked up from old mirren's cottage. those two roads! did annas mean that only those were christians who took the higher one? only, what was there in the air of abbotscliff which seemed to make people christians? or in that of brocklebank, which seemed unfavourable to it? "those are christians who follow christ," said annas. "do you think they who do not, have a right to the name?" "i should like to think more about it," i answered. "it all looks strange to me." "do think about it," replied annas. when we came to monksburn, which is about a mile from the manse, i found it was a most charming place on the banks of the tweed. the lawn ran sloping down to the river; and the house was a lovely old building of grey stone, in some places almost lost in ivy. annas said it had been the abbots grange belonging to the old abbey which gives its name to abbotscliff and monksburn, and several other estates and villages in the neighbourhood. here we found lady monksburn in the drawing-room, busied with some soft kind of embroidered work; and i thought i could have guessed her to be the mother of mr keith. then when the laird came in, i saw that his grey eyes were annas's, though i should not call them alike in other respects. lady monksburn is a dear old lady; and as she comes from the south, i must never say a word against southerners again. she took both my hands in her soft white ones, and spoke to me so kindly that before i had known her ten minutes i was almost surprised to find myself chattering away to her as if she were quite an old friend--telling her all about brocklebank, and my sisters, and father, and my aunt kezia. i could not tell how it was,--i felt so completely at home in that monksburn drawing-room. everybody was so kind, and seemed to want me to enjoy myself, and yet there was no fuss about it. if those be southern manners, i wish i could catch them, like small-pox. but perhaps they are christian manners. that may be it. and i don't suppose you can catch that like the small-pox. however, i certainly did enjoy myself this afternoon. mr keith, i find, can draw beautifully, and they let me look through some of his portfolios, which was delightful. and when annas, at her mother's desire, at down to the harpsichord, and sang us some old scots songs, i thought i never heard anything so charming-- until flora joined in, and then it was more delicious still. i think it would be easy to be good, if one lived at monksburn! those grey eyes of annas's seem to see everything. i am sure she saw that flora would like a quiet talk with lady monksburn, and she carried me to see her peacocks and silver pheasants, which are great pets, she says; and they are so tame that they will come and eat out of her hand. of course they were shy with me. then we had a charming little walk on the path which ran along by the side of the river, and annas pointed out some lovely peeps through the trees at the scenery beyond. when we came in, i saw that flora had been crying; but she seemed so much calmer and comforted, that i am sure her talk had done her good. then came supper, and then angus, who had cleared up wonderfully, and was more what he used to be as a boy, instead of the cross, gloomy young man he has seemed of late. lady monksburn offered to send a servant with arms to accompany us home, but angus appeared to think it quite unnecessary. he had his dirk and a pistol, he said; and surely he could take care of two girls! i am not sure that flora would not rather have had the servant, and i know i would. however, we came safe to the manse, meeting nothing more terrific than a white cow, which wicked angus tried to persuade us was a lady without a head. chapter six. new ideas for cary. "o jesu, thou art pleading, in accents meek and low, i died for you, my children, and will ye treat me so? o lord, with shame and sorrow, we open now the door: dear saviour, enter, enter, and leave us never more!" bishop walsham how. as we drank our tea, this evening, i said,-- "uncle, will you please tell me something?" "surely, my dear, if i can," answered my uncle drummond kindly, laying down his book. "are all the people at abbotscliff going to heaven?" i really meant it, but my uncle drummond put on such a droll expression, and angus laughed so much, that i woke up to see that they thought i had said something very queer. when my uncle spoke, it was not at first to me. "flora," said he, "where have you taken your cousin?" "only into the cottages, father, and to monksburn," said flora, in a diverted tone, as if she were trying not to laugh. "either they must all have had their sabbath manners on," said my uncle drummond, "or else there are strange folks at brocklebank. no, my dear; i fear not, by any means." "i am afraid," said i, "we must be worse folks at brocklebank than i thought we were. but these seem to me, uncle, such a different kind of people--as if they were travelling on another road, and had a different end in view. nearly all the people i see here seem to think more of what they ought to do, and at brocklebank we think of what we like to do." i did not, somehow, like to say right out what i really meant--to the one set god seemed a friend, to the other he was a stranger. "do you hear, angus, what a good character we have?" said my uncle drummond, smiling. "we must try to keep it, my boy." of course i could not say that i did not think angus was included in the "we." but the momentary trouble in flora's eyes, as she glanced at him, made me feel that she saw it, as indeed i could have guessed from what i had heard her say to mr keith. "well, my lassie," my uncle drummond went on, "while i fear we do not all deserve the compliment you pay us, yet have you ever thought what those two roads are, and what end they have in view?" "yes, uncle, i can see that," said i. "heaven is at the end of one, i am sure." "and of the other, cary?" i felt the tears come into my eyes. "uncle, i don't like to think about that. but do tell me, for that is what i want to know, what is the difference? i do not see how people get from the one road to the other." i did not say--but i feel sure that my uncle drummond did not need it-- that i felt i was on the wrong one. "lassie, if you had fallen into a deep tank of water, where the walls were so high that it was not possible you could climb out by yourself, for what would you hope?" "that somebody should come and help me, i suppose." "true. and who is the somebody that can help you in this matter?" i thought, and thought, and could not tell. it seems strange that i did not think what he meant. but i had been so used to think of our lord jesus christ as a person who had a great deal to do with going to church and the prayer-book, but nothing at all to do with me, that really i did not think what my uncle meant me to say. "there is but one man, my child, who can give you any help. and he longed to help you so much, that he came down from heaven to do it. you know who i mean now, cary?" "you mean our lord jesus christ," i said. "but, uncle, you say he longed to help? i never knew that, i always thought--" "you thought he did not wish to help you at all, and that you would have very hard work to persuade him?" "well--something like it," i said, hesitatingly flora had left the room a moment before, and now she put her head in at the door and called angus. my uncle drummond and i were left alone. "my dear lassie," said he, as tenderly as if i had been his own child, "you would never have wished to be helped if he had not first wished to help you. but remember, cary, help is not the right word. the true word is save. you are not a few yards out of the path, and able to turn back at any moment. you are lost. dear cary, will you let the lord find you?" "can i hinder him?" i said. "yes, my dear," was the solemn answer. "he allows himself to be hindered, if you choose the way of death. he will not save you against your will. he demands your joining in that work. take, again, the emblem of the tank: the man holds out his hands to you; you cannot help yourself out; but you can choose whether you will put your hands in his or not. it will not be his fault if you are drowned; it will be your own." "uncle, how am i to put my hands in _his_?" "hold them out to him, cary. ask him, with all your heart, to take you, and make you his own. and if he refuse, let me know." "i will try, uncle," i answered. "but you said--does god _never_ save anybody against his will?" my uncle drummond was silent for a moment. "well, cary, perhaps at times he does. but it is not his usual way of working. and no man has any right to expect it in his own case, though we may be allowed to hope for it in that of another." i wonder very much now, as i write it all down, how i ever came to say all this to my uncle drummond. i never meant it at all when i began. i suppose i got led on from one thing to another. when i came to think of it, i was very grateful to flora for going away and calling angus after her. "but, uncle," i said, recollecting myself suddenly, "how does anybody know when the lord has heard him?" he smiled. "if you were lifted out of the tank and set on dry ground, cary, do you think you would have much doubt about it?" "but i could see that, uncle." "take another emblem, then. you love some people very dearly, and there are others whom you do not like at all. you cannot see love and hate. but have you any doubt whom you love, or whom you dislike?" "no," said i,--"at least, not when i really love or dislike them very much. but there are people whom i cannot make up my mind about; i neither like nor dislike them exactly." "those are generally people of whom you have not seen much, i think," said my uncle drummond; "or else they are those colourless men and women of whom you say that they have nothing in them. you could not feel so towards a person of decided character, and one whom you knew well." "no, uncle; i do not think i could." "you may rest assured, my dear, that unless he be an utter stranger, you will never feel so towards the lord. when you come to know him, you must either love or hate him. you cannot help yourself." it almost frightened me to hear my uncle drummond say that. it must be such a dreadful thing to go wrong on that road! "cary," he added suddenly, but very softly, "would you find it difficult to love a man who was going to die voluntarily instead of you?" "i do not see how i could help it, uncle," cried i. "then how is it," he asked in the same tone, "that you have any difficulty in loving the man who has died in your stead?" i thought a minute. "uncle," i said, "it does not seem real. the other would." "in other words, cary--you do not believe it." "do not believe it!" cried i. "surely, uncle, i believe in our lord! don't i say the creed every sunday?" "probably you do, my dear." "but i do believe it!" cried i again. "you do believe--what?" said my uncle drummond. "why, i believe that christ came down from heaven, and was crucified, dead, and buried, and rose again, and ascended into heaven. of course i believe it, uncle--every bit of it." "and what has it to do with you, my dear? it all took place a good while ago, did it not?" i thought again. "i suppose," i said slowly, "that christ died to save sinners; and i must be a sinner. but somehow, i don't quite see how it is to be put together. uncle, it seems like a chinese puzzle of which i have lost a piece, and none of the others will fit properly. i cannot explain it, and yet i do not quite know why." "listen, cary, and i will tell you why." i did, with both my ears and all my mind. "your mistake is a very common one, little lassie. you are trying to believe what, and you have got to believe whom. if you had to cross a raging torrent, and i offered to carry you over, it would signify nothing whether you knew where i was born, or if i were able to speak latin. but it would signify a great deal to you whether you knew me; whether you believed that i would carry you safe over, or that i would take the opportunity to drop you into the water and run away. would it not?" "of course it would," i said; "the whole thing would depend on whether i trusted you." my uncle drummond rose and laid his hand on my head--not as mr digby used to do, as though he were condescending to a little child; but as if he were blessing me in god's name. then he said, in that low, soft, solemn tone which sounds to me so very high and holy, as if an angel spoke to me:--"cary, dear child, the whole thing depends--your soul and your eternity depend--on whether you trust the lord jesus." then he went out of the room, and left me alone, as if he wanted me to think well about that before he said anything more. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i think something is coming to help me. my uncle drummond was late for supper last night--a thing which i could see was very unusual. and when he did come, he was particularly silent and meditative. at length, when supper was over, as we turned our chairs round from the table, and were sitting down again to our work, my uncle drummond, who generally goes to his study after supper, sat down among us. "young people," said he, with a look on his face which it seemed to me was partly grave and partly diverted, "considering that you are more travelled persons than i, i come to you for information. have you--any of you--while in england, either seen or heard anything of one mr george whitefield, a clergyman of the church of england, who is commonly reckoned a methodist?" angus made a grimace, and said, "plenty!" flora was doubtful; she thought she had heard his name. i said, "i have heard his name too, uncle; but i do not know much about him, only father seemed to think it a good joke that anybody should fancy him a wise man." "angus appears to be the best informed of you," said my uncle. "speak out, my boy, and tell us what you know." "well, he is a queer sort of fellow, i fancy," said angus. "he was one of the methodists; but they say those folks have had a split, and whitefield has broken with them. he travels about preaching, though, as they do; and they say that the reason why he took to field-preaching was because no church would hold the enormous congregations which gathered to hear him. he has been several times to the american colonies, where they say he draws larger crowds than john wesley himself." "a good deal of `they say'," observed uncle drummond, with a smile. "do `they say' that the bishops and clergy are friendly to this remarkable preacher, or not?" "well, i should rather think not," answered angus. "there is one bishop who has stuck to him through thick and thin--the bishop of gloucester, who gave him his orders to begin with; but the rest of them look askance at him over their shoulders, i believe. it is irregular, you know, to preach in fields--wholly improper to save anybody's soul out of church; and these english folks take the horrors at anything irregular. the women like him because he makes them cry so much." "angus!" cried flora and i together. "that's what i was told, i assure you, young ladies," returned angus, "i am only repeating what i have heard." "well, that you may shortly have an opportunity of judging," said my uncle drummond; "for this gentleman has come to selkirk, and has asked leave of the presbytery to preach in certain kirks of this neighbourhood. there was some demur at first to the admission of a prelatist; but after some converse with him this was withdrawn, and he will preach next sabbath morning at selkirk, and in the afternoon at monks' brae. you can go to monks' brae to hear him, if you will; i, of course, shall not be able to accompany you, but i trust to find an opportunity when he preaches in the fields, if there be one. i should like to hear this great english preacher, i confess. what say you?" "they'll go, you may be sure, sir," said angus, before we could answer. "trust a lassie to gad about if she has the chance. mind you take all the pocket-handkerchiefs you have with you. they say 'tis dreadful the way this man gars you greet. 'tis true, you english are more given that way than we scots; but folks say you cannot help yourself,--you must cry, whether you will or no." "i should like to go, i think, uncle," said i. "only--i suppose he is a real clergyman?" "there goes a genuine englishwoman!" said angus. "if paul himself were to preach, she would not go to hear him till she knew what bishop had ordained him." "yes, cary," answered my uncle drummond, smiling; "he is a real clergyman. more `real' than you think me, i fear." "oh, you are different, uncle," said i; "but i am sure father would not like me to hear any preacher who was not--at least--i don't know--he did not seem to think this mr whitefield all right, somehow. perhaps he did not know he was a proper person." "`a proper person!'" sighed angus, casting up his eyes. "my dear," said my uncle drummond, kindly, "you are a good lassie to think of your father's wishes. never mind angus; he is only making fun, and is a foolish young fellow yet. of course, not having spoken with your father, i cannot tell so well as yourself what his wishes are; and 'tis quite possible he may think, for i hear many do, that this gentleman is a schismatic, and may disapprove of him on that account only. if so, i can tell you for certain, 'tis a mistake. but as to anything else, you must judge for yourself, and do what you think right." "you see no objection to our going, father?" asked flora, who had not spoken hitherto. "not at all, my dear," said my uncle. "go by all means, if you like it. you may never have another opportunity, and 'tis very natural you should wish it." "thank you," answered flora. "then, if angus will take me, i will go." "well, i don't know," said angus. "i am afraid some of my handkerchiefs are at the wash. i should not like to be quite drowned in my tears. i might wash you away, too; and that would be a national calamity." "don't jest on serious subjects, my boy," said uncle; and angus grew grave directly. "i am no enemy to honest, rational fun; 'tis human, and natural more especially to the young. but never, never let us make a jest of the things that pertain to god." "i beg your pardon, father," said angus, in a low voice. "i'll take you, flora. what say you, cary?" "yes, i should like to go," i said. and i wondered directly whether i had said right or wrong. but i do so want to hear something that would help me. i found that monks' brae was on the monksburn road, but nearly two miles further on. 'tis the high road from selkirk to galashiels, after you leave monksburn, and pretty well frequented; so that angus was deemed guard enough. but last night the whole road was so full of people going to hear mr whitefield, that it was like walking in a crowd all the way. the kirk was crammed to the very doors, and outside people stood looking in and listening through the doors and the open windows. mr lundie, the minister of monks' brae, led the worship (as they say here); and when the sermon came, i looked with some curiosity at the great preacher who did such unusual things, and whom some people seemed to think it so wrong to like. mr whitefield is not anything particular to look at: just a young man in a fair wig, with a round face and rosy cheeks. he has a most musical voice, and he knows how to put it to the best advantage. every word is as distinct as can be, and his voice rings out clear and strong, like a well-toned bell. but he had not preached ten minutes before i forgot his voice and himself altogether, and could think of nothing but what he was preaching about. and i never heard such a sermon in my life. my uncle drummond's are the only ones i have heard which even approach it, and he does not lift you up and carry you away, as mr whitefield does. all the other preachers i ever heard, except those two, are always telling you to do something. come to church, and say your prayers, and take the sacrament; but particularly, do your duty. now it always seems to me that there are two grand difficulties in the way of doing one's duty. the first is, to find out what is one's duty. of course there is the bible; but, if i may say it with reverence, the bible has never seemed to have much to do with me. it is all about people who lived ever so long ago, and what they did; and what has that to do with me, cary courtenay, and what i am doing? then suppose i do know what my duty is--and certainly i do in some respects--i am not sure that i can express it properly, but i feel as if i wanted something to come and make me do it. i am like a watch, with all the wheels and springs there, ready to go, but i want somebody to come and wind me up. and i do not know how that is to be done. but mr whitefield made me wish, oh so much! that that unknown somebody would come and do it. i never thought much about it before, until that talk with my uncle drummond, and now it feels to be what i want more than anything else. i cannot write the sermon down: not a page of it. i think you never can write down on paper the things that stir your very soul. it is the things which just tickle your brains that you can put down in elegant language on paper. when a thing comes close to you, into your real self, and grapples with you, and leaves a mark on you for ever hereafter, whether for good or evil, you cannot write or talk about that,--you can only feel it. the text was, "what think ye of christ?" mr whitefield saith any man that will may have his sins forgiven, and may know it. i have heard mr bagnall speak of this doctrine, which he said was shocking and wicked, for it gave men licence to live in sin. mr whitefield named this very thing (whereby i saw it had been brought as a charge against him), and showed plainly that it did not tend to destroy good works, but only built them up on a safer and surer foundation. we work, saith he, not for that we would be saved by our works, but out of gratitude that we have been saved by christ, who commands these works to such as would follow him. and he quoted an article of the church, [note ] saying that he desired men to see that he was no schismatic preaching his own fancies, but that the church whereof he was a minister held the same doctrine. i wonder if mr bagnall knows that, and if he ever reads the articles. he spoke much, also, of the new birth, or conversion. i never heard any other preacher, except uncle, mention that at all. i know mr digby thought it a fanatical notion only fit for enthusiasts. but certainly there are texts in the bible that speak plainly of it. and mr whitefield saith that we do not truly believe in christ, unless we so believe as to have him dwelling in us, and to receive life and nourishment from him as the branch does from the vine. and saint john says the same thing. how can it be enthusiasm to say what the bible says? people seem so dreadfully frightened of what they call enthusiasm [note ]. grandmamma used to say there was nothing more vulgar. but the queer thing is that many of these very people will let you get as enthusiastic as ever you like about a game of cards, or one horse coming in before another in a race, or about politics, or poaching, and things of that sort that have to do with this world. it is about the things of real consequence--things which have to do with your soul and the next world--that you must not get enthusiastic! may one not have too little enthusiasm, i wonder, as well as too much? would it not be reasonable to be enthusiastic about things that really signify, and cool about the things that do not? i want to write down a few sentences which mr whitefield said, that i may not forget them. i do not know how they came in among the rest. they stuck to me just as they are. [note ]. he says:-- "our senses are the landing-ports of our spiritual enemies." "we must take care of healing before we see sinners wounded." "the king of the church has all its adversaries in a chain." "if other sins have slain their thousands of professing christians, worldly-mindedness has slain its ten thousands." "how can any say, `lead us not into temptation,' in the morning, when they are resolved to run into it at night?" "how many are kept from seeing christ in glory, by reason of the press!" (that is, he explained, that people are ashamed of being singularly good [note ], unless their acquaintances are on the same side.) "christ will thank you for coming to his feast." when mr whitefield came near the end of his sermon, i thought i could see why people said he made them cry so much. his voice sank into a soft, pleading, tender accent, as if he yearned over the souls before him. his hands were held out as if he were just holding out jesus christ to us, and we must take him or turn away and be lost. and he begged us all so pitifully not to turn away. i saw tears running down the cheeks of many hard-looking men and women. flora cried, and so did i. but angus did not. he did not look as though he felt at all inclined to do it. this is one of the last sermons, we hear, that mr whitefield will preach on this side the sea. he sails for the american colonies next month. he is said to be very fond of his american friends, and very much liked by them. [note ]. as we were coming away, we came upon our friends from monksburn, whom we had not seen before. "this is preaching!" said annas, as she clasped our hands. "eh, puir laddie, he'll just wear himself out," said the laird. "i hope he has a gude wife, for sic men are rare, and they should be well taken care of while they are here." "he has a wife, sir," observed angus, "and the men of his own kidney think he would be rather better off if he had none." "hoots, but i'm sorry to hear it," said the laird. "what ails her, ken ye, laddie?" "as i understood, sir, she had three grave drawbacks. in the first place, she is a widow with a rich jointure." "that's a queer thing to call a drawback!" said the laird. "in the second place, she is a widow with a temper, and a good deal of it." "dinna name it!" cried the laird, lifting up his hands. "dinna name it! eh, puir laddie, but i'm wae for him, gin he's fashed wi' ane o' that sort." "and in the third place," continued angus, "i have been told that he may well preach against worldly-mindedness, for he gets enough of it at home. mrs whitefield knows what are trumps, considerably better than she knows where to look in the bible for her husband's text." "dear, dear!" cried lady monksburn in her soft voice. "what could the good man be thinking of, to bind such a burden as that upon his life?" "he thought he had converted her, i believe," said angus, "but she came undone." "i should think," remarked mr keith, "that he acted as joshua did with the gibeonites." "how was that?" said angus. "it won't hurt you to look for it," was the answer. i don't know whether angus looked for it, but i did as soon as i got in, and i saw that mr keith thought there had been too much hastiness, and perhaps a little worldly-mindedness in mr whitefield himself. that may be why he preaches so earnestly against it. we know so well where the slippery places are, when we have been down ourselves. and when we have been down once, we are generally very, very careful to keep off that slide for the future. mr whitefield said last night that it was not true to say, as some do, "that a man may be in christ to-day, and go to the devil to-morrow." then if anybody is converted, how can he, as angus said, "come undone"? i only see one explanation, and it is rather a terrible one: namely, that the conversion was not real, but only looked like it. and i am afraid that must be the truth. but what a pity it is that mr whitefield did not find it out sooner! "well, helen, and how did you like the great english preacher?" i said to flora's nurse. "atweel, miss cary, the discourse was no that ill for a prelatist," was the answer. and that was as much admiration as i could get from helen. there was more talk about mr whitefield this morning at breakfast. i cannot tell what has come to angus. going to hear mr whitefield preach at monks' brae seems to have made him worse instead of better. flora and i both liked it so much; but angus talks of it with a kind of bitter hardness in his voice, and as if it pleased him to let us know all the bad things which had been said about the preacher. he told us that they said--(i wish they would give over saying!)--that mr whitefield had got his money matters into some tangle, in the business of building his orphan house in georgia; and "they said" he had acted fraudulently in the matter. my uncle drummond put this down at once, with-- "my son, never repeat a calumny against a good man. you may not know it, but you do satan's very work for him." angus made a grimace behind his hand, which i fancy he did not mean his father to see. then, he went on, "`they say' that mr whitefield is so fanatical and extravagant in preaching against worldliness, that he counts it sinful to smell to a rose, or to eat anything relishing." "did he say so?" asked my uncle: "or did `they' say it for him?" "well, sir," answered angus with a laugh, "i heard mr whitefield had said that he would give his people leave to smell to a rose and a pink also, so long as they would avoid the appearance of sin: and, quoth he, `if you can find any diversion which you would be willing to be found at by our lord in his coming, i give you free licence to go to it and welcome.'" "then we have disposed of that charge," saith my uncle. "what next?" "well, they say he hath given infinite displeasure to the english gentry by one of his favourite sayings--that `man is half a beast and half a devil.' he will not allow them to talk of `passing the time'--how dare they waste the time, saith he, when they have the devil and the beast to get out of their souls? folks don't like, you see, to be painted in those colours." "no, we rarely admire a portrait that is exactly like us," saith my uncle drummond. "pray, sir, think you that is a likeness?" said angus. "more like, my son, than you and i think. some of us have more of the one, and some of the other: but in truth i cannot contradict mr whitefield. 'tis a just portrait of what man is by nature." "but, sir!" cried angus, "do you allow nothing for a man's natural virtues?" "what are they?" asked my uncle. "i allow that `there is none that doeth good, no, not one.' you were not taught, angus, that a man had virtues natural to him, except as the spirit of god implanted them in him." "no, sir; but when i go forth into the world, i cannot help seeing that it is so." "i wish i could see it!" said my uncle. "it would be a much more agreeable sight than many things i do see." "well, sir, take generosity and good temper," urged angus. "do you not see much of these in men who, as mr whitefield would say, are worldly and ungodly?" "i often see the lord's restraining grace," answered my uncle, quietly; "but am i to give the credit of it to those whom he restrains?" "but think you, sir, that it is wise--" angus paused. "go on, my boy," said my uncle. "i like you to speak out, like an honest man. by all means have courage to own your convictions. if they be right ones, you may so have them confirmed; and if they be wrong, you stand in better case to have them put right." i did not think angus looked quite comfortable. he hesitated a moment, and then, i suppose, came out with what he had meant to say. "think you not, sir, that it is wise to leave unsaid such things as offend people, and make them turn away from preaching? should we not be careful to avoid offence?" "unnecessary offence," saith my uncle. "but the offence of the cross is precisely that which we are warned not to avoid. `not with wisdom of words,' saith the apostle, `lest the cross of christ should be made of none effect.' in his eyes, `then is the offence of the cross ceased,' was sufficient to condemn the preaching whereof he spoke. and that policy of keeping back truth is the devil's policy; 'tis jesuitical. `will ye speak wickedly for god, and talk deceitfully for him?' `shall the throne of iniquity have fellowship with _thee_?' never, angus: never!" "but our lord himself seems to have kept things back from his disciples," pleaded angus, uneasily. "yes, what they were not ready for and could not yet understand. but never that which offended them. he offended them terribly when he told them that the son of man was about to be crucified. so did the jesuits to the chinese: and when they found the offence, they altered their policy, and said the story of the crucifixion was an invention of christ's enemies. did he?" angus made no answer: and breakfast being over, we separated to our several work. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . "enthusiasm" was the term then usually applied to the doctrines of grace, when the word was used in a religious sense. note . these sentences are not taken from any one of whitefield's sermons exclusively, but are gathered from the gems of thought scattered through his works. note . singular still meant alone in whitefield's day. note . articles twelve and thirteen. all the members of the church of england ought to be perfectly familiar with the articles and homilies, as the reformers intended them to be. how else can they know what they profess to hold, when they call themselves members of the church? if they do not share her opinions, they have no right to use her name. note . he died at newbury port, in new england, in september . america has no nobler possession than the grave of george whitefield. chapter seven. rumours of war. "they've left their bonnie highland hills, their wives and bairnies dear, to draw the sword for scotland's lord, the young chevalier." caroline, lady nairn. yesterday, when flora and i sat at our sewing in the manse parlour, something happened which has set everything in a turmoil. we had been talking, but we were silent just then: and i was thinking over what my uncle drummond and mr whitefield had said, when all at once we heard the gate dashed open, and angus came rushing up the path with his plaid flying behind him. flora sprang up and ran to meet him. "what is the matter?" she said. "'tis so unlike angus to come dashing up in that way. i do hope nothing is wrong with father." i dropped my sewing and ran after her. "angus, what is wrong?" she cried. "why should anything be wrong? can't something be right?" cried angus, as he came up; and i saw that his cheeks were flushed and his eyes flashing. "the prince has landed, and the old flag is flying at glenfinnan. hurrah!" and angus snatched off his cap, and flung it up so high that i wondered if it would come down again. "the prince!" cried flora; and looking at her, i saw that she had caught the infection too. "o angus, what news! who told you? is it true? are you quite sure?" "sure as the hills. duncan told me. i have been over to monksburn, and he has just come home. all the clans in scotland will be up to-morrow. that was the one thing we wanted--our prince himself among us. you will hear of no faint hearts now." "what will the elector do?" said flora. "he cannot, surely, make head against our troops." "make head! we shall be in london in a month. sir john cope has gone to meet tullibardine at glenfinnan. i expect he will come back a trifle faster than he went. long live the king, and may god defend the right!" all at once, angus's tone changed, as his eyes fell upon me. "cary, i hope you are not a traitor in the camp? you look as if you cared nothing about it, and you rather wondered we did." "i know next to nothing about it, angus," i answered. "father would care a great deal; and if i understood it, i dare say i might. but i don't, you see." "what do i hear!" cried angus, in mock horror, clasping his hands, and casting up his eyes. "the daughter of squire courtenay of brocklebank knows next to nothing about toryism! hear it, o hills and dales!" "about politics of any sort," said i. "don't you know, i was brought up with grandmamma desborough, who is a whig so far as she is anything--but she always said it was vulgar to get warm over politics, so i never had the chance of hearing much about it." "poor old tabby!" said irreverent angus. "but have you heard nothing since you came to brocklebank?" asked flora, with a surprised look. "oh, i have heard father toast `the king over the water,' and rail at the elector; and i have heard fanny chant that `britons never shall be slaves' till i never wanted to hear the tune again; and i have heard ambrose catterall sing whig songs to put father in a pet, and heard lots of people talk about lots of things which are to be done when the king has his own again. that is about all i know. of course i know how the revolution came about, and all that: and i have heard of the war thirty years ago, and the dreadful executions after it--" "executions! massacres!" cried angus, hotly. "well, massacres if you like," said i. "i am sure they were shocking enough to be called any ugly name." angus seemed altogether changed. he could not keep to one subject, nor stand still for one minute. i was not much surprised so long as it was only he; but i was astonished when i saw the change which came over my uncle drummond. i never supposed he could get so excited about anything which had to do with earth. and yet his first thought was to connect it with heaven. [note .] i shall never forget the ring of his prayer that night. an exile within sight of home, a prisoner to whom the gates had just been opened, might have spoken in the words and tones that he did. "lord, thou hast been gracious unto thy land!" "let them give thanks whom the lord hath redeemed, and delivered from the hand of the enemy!" that was the key-note of every sentence. i found, before long, that i had caught the complaint myself. i went about singing, "the king shall ha'e his ain again," and got as hot and eager for fresh news as anybody. "oh dear, i hope the prince will conquer the elector before i go to london," i said to flora: "for i do not know whatever grandmamma will say if i go to her in this mood. she always says there is nothing so vulgar as to get enthusiastic over anything. you ought to be calm, composed, collected, and everything else which is cold and begins with c." flora laughed, but was grave again directly. "i expect, cary, your journey to london is a long way off," said she. "how are you to travel, if all the country be up, and troops going to and fro everywhere?" "i am sure i don't care if it be," said i. "i would rather stay here, a great deal." i thought we were tolerably warm about the prince's landing, at abbotscliff; but when i got to monksburn, i found the weather still hotter. the laird is almost beside himself; mr keith as i never saw him before. annas has the air of an inspired prophetess, and even lady monksburn is moved out of her usual quietude, though she makes the least ado of any. news came while we were there, that sir john cope had been so hard pressed by the king's army that he was forced to fall back on inverness; and nothing would suit the laird but to go out and make a bonfire on the first hill he came to, so as to let people see that something had happened. the elector, we hear, has come back from hanover, and his followers are in a panic, i hope they will stay there. everybody agrees that the army will march southwards at once after this victory, and that unless my journey could take place directly, i shall have to stay where i am, at least over the winter. the laird wishes he could get annas out of the way. if i were going, i believe he would send her with me, to those friends of lady monksburn in the isle of wight. i thought lady monksburn looked rather anxious, and wistful too, when he spoke about it. annas herself did not seem to care. "the lord will not go to the isle of wight," she said, quietly. oh, if i could feel as they do--that god is everywhere, and that everywhere he is my friend! and then, my uncle drummond's words come back upon me. but how do you trust christ? what have you to do? if people would make things plain! well, it looks as if i should have plenty of time for learning. for it seems pretty certain, whatever else is doubtful, that i am a fixture at abbotscliff. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i wonder if things always happen just when one has made up one's mind that they are not going to happen? about ten o'clock this morning, flora and i were sewing in the parlour, just as we have been doing every day since i came here. my uncle drummond was out, and angus was fixing a white cockade in his bonnet. helen raeburn put in her head at the door. "if you please, miss cary," said she, "my cousin samuel wad be fain to speak wi' ye." for one moment i could not think who she meant. what had i to do with her cousin samuel? and then, all at once, it flashed upon me that helen's cousin samuel was our own old sam. "sam!" i almost screamed. "has he come from brocklebank? oh, is anything wrong at home?" "there's naething wrang ava, miss cary, but a hantle that's richt--only ane thing belike--and that's our loss mair than yours. but will ye see samuel?" "oh, yes!" i cried. and flora bade helen bring him in. in marched sam--the old familiar sam, though he had put on a flowered waistcoat and a glossy green tie which made him look rather like a merry andrew. "your servant, ladies! your servant, maister angus! i trust all's weel wi' ye the morn?" and sam sighed, as if he felt relieved after that speech. "sam, is all well at home? who sent you?" "all's weel, miss cary, the lord be thanked. and mrs kezia sent me." "is my aunt kezia gone to her new house? does she want me to come back?" "thank goodness, na!" said sam, which at first i thought rather a poor compliment; but i saw the next minute that it was the answer to my first question. "mrs kezia's gone nowhere. nor they dinna want ye back at brocklebank nae mair. i'm come to ha'e a care of ye till london town. the lord grant i win hame safe mysel' at after!" "is the country so disturbed, sam?" said flora. "the country's nae disturbed, miss flora. i was meanin' temptations and sic-like. leastwise, ay--the country is a bit up and down, as ye may say; but no sae mickle. we'll win safe eneuch to london, me and miss cary, if the lord pleases. it's the comin' haim i'm feared for." "and is--" i hardly knew how to ask what i wanted to know. flora helped me. i think she saw i needed it. "was the wedding very grand, sam?" "whose wedding, miss flora? there's been nae weddings at brocklebank, but ben dykes and auld bet donnerthwaite, and i wish ben joy on't. i am fain he's no me." "nay, you are fain you are no he," laughed angus. "i'm fain baith ways, maister angus. the laird 'd hae his table ill served gin ben tried his haun." "but what do you mean, sam?" cried i. "has not--" i stopped again, but sam helped me out himself. "na, miss cary, there's nae been siccan a thing, the lord be thanked! she took pepper in the nose, and went affa gude week afore it suld ha'e been; and a gude riddance o' ill rubbish, say i. mrs kezia and miss sophy, they are at hame, a' richt: and miss hatty comes back in a twa-three days, without thae young leddies suld gang till london toun, and gin they do she'll gang wi' 'em." "father is not married?" i exclaimed. "he's better aff," said sam, determinedly. "i make na count o' thae hizzies." how glad i felt! though father might be sorry at first, i felt so sure he would be thankful afterwards. as for the girl who had jilted him, i thought i could have made her into mincemeat. but i was so glad of his escape. "the laird wad ha'e had ye come wi' yon lanky loon wi' the glass of his e'e," went on sam: "he was bound frae carlisle to london this neist month. but mrs kezia, she wan him o'er to send me for ye. an' i was for to say that gin the minister wad like miss flora to gang wi' ye, i micht care ye baith, or onie ither young damsel wha's freens wad like to ha'e her sent soothwards." "o flora," i cried at once--"annas!" "yes, we will send word to monksburn," answered flora: and angus jumped up and said he would walk over. "as for me," said flora, turning to sam, "i must hear my father's bidding. i do not think i shall go--not if i may stay with him. but the laird of monksburn wishes miss keith to go south, and i think he would be glad to put her in your care." "and i'd be proud to care miss annas," said sam, with a pull at his forelock. "i mind her weel, a bit bonnie lassie. the laird need nae fear gin she gangs wi' me. but i'd no ha'e said sae mickle for yon puir weak silken chiel wi' the glass in his e'e." "why, sam, who do you mean?" said i. "wha?" said sam. "yon pawky chiel, the auld vicar's nevey--maister parchmenter, or what ye ca him--a bonnie ane to guard a pair o' lassies he'd be!" "mr parmenter!" cried i. "did father think of sending us with him?" "he just did, gin mrs kezia had nae had mair wit nor himsel'. she sent ye her loving recommend, young leddies, and ye was to be gude lassies, the pair o' ye, and no reckon ye kent better nor him that had the charge o' ye." "sam, you put that in yourself," said angus. "atweel, sir, mrs kezia said she hoped they'd be gude lassies, and discreet--that's as true as my father's epitaph." "where is miss osborne gone, sam?" asked flora. "gin naebody wants to ken mair than me, miss flora, there'll no be mickle speiring. i'm only sure o' ane place where she'll no be gane, i'm thinkin', and that's heaven." "you don't seem to me to have fallen in love with her, sam," said angus, who appeared exceedingly amused. "is't me, sir? ma certie, but gin there were naebody in this haill warld but her an' me, i'd tak' a lodging for her in the finest street i could find i' london toun, an' i'd be aff mysel' to the orkneys by the neist ship as left the docks. i wad, sae!" angus laughed till he cried, and flora and i were no much better. he went at once to monksburn, and came back with tidings that the laird was very glad of the opportunity to send annas southwards. and when my uncle drummond came in, though his lip trembled and her eyes pleaded earnestly, he said flora must go too. and to-night mr keith brought news that men were up all over the highlands, and that the prince was marching on perth. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ my uncle drummond says we must go at once--there is not to be a day's delay that can be helped. mr keith and angus are both to join the prince as soon as they can be ready. my uncle will go with us himself to hawick, and then sam will go on with us to carlisle, where we are to wait one day, while sam rides over to brocklebank to fetch and exchange such things as we may need, and if we can hear of any friend of father's or my uncle's who is going south, we are to join their convoy. the laird of monksburn sends one of his men with us; and both he and sam will be well armed. i am sure i hope there will be no occasion for the arms. angus is in a mental fever, and dashes about, here, there, and everywhere, without apparent reason, and also without much consideration. i mean consideration in both senses--reflection, and forbearance. flora is grave and anxious--i think, a little frightened, both for herself and angus. mr keith takes the affair very seriously; that i can see, though he does not say much. annas seems (now that the first excitement is over) as calm as a summer eve. we are to start, if possible, on friday, and sleep at hawick the first night. "hech, sirs!" was helen's comment, when she heard it. "my puir bairns, may the lord be wi' ye! it's ill setting forth of a friday." "clashes and clavers!" cries sam, turning on her. "helen raeburn, ye're just daft! is the lord no sae strang o' friday as ither days? what will fules say neist?" "atweel, ye may lauch, sam, an' ye will," answered helen: "but i tell ye, i ne'er brake my collar-bone of a journey but ance, and that was when i'd set forth of a friday." "and i ne'er brake mine ava, and i've set forth monie a time of a friday," returned sam. "will ye talk sense, woman dear, gin women maun talk?" i do feel so sorry to leave abbotscliff. i wish i were not going to london. and i do not quite like to ask myself why. i should not mind going at all, if it were only a change of place. abbotscliff is very lovely, but there is a great deal in london that i should like to see. if i were to lead the same sort of life as here, and with the same sort of people, i should be quite satisfied to go. but i know it will be very different. everything will be changed. not only the people, but the ways of the people. instead of breezy weather there will be hot crowded rooms, and instead of the tweed rippling over the pebbles there will be noisy music and empty chatter. and it is not so much that i am afraid it will be what i shall not like. it will at first, i dare say: but i am afraid that in time i shall get to like it, and it will drive all the better things out of my head, and i shall just become one of those empty chatterers. i am sure there is danger of it. and i do not know how to help it. it is pleasant to please people, and to make them laugh, and to have them say how pretty, or how clever you are: and then one gets carried away, and one says things one never meant to say, and the things go and do something which one never meant to do. and i should not like to be another of my aunt dorothea! i do not think there is half the fear for flora that there is for me. she does not seem to get carried off her mind's feet, as it were: there is something solid underneath her. and it is not at all certain that flora will be there. if she be asked to stay, uncle says, she may please herself, for he knows she can be trusted: but if grandmamma or my aunt dorothea do not ask her, then she goes on with annas to her friends, who, annas says, will be quite delighted to see her. i do so wish that flora might stay with me! this afternoon we went over to monksburn to say farewell. flora and annas had a good deal to settle about our journey, and all the people and things we were leaving behind. they went into the garden, but i asked leave to stay. i did so want a talk with lady monksburn on two points. i thought, i hardly know why, that she would understand me. i sat for a few minutes, watching her bright needles glance in and out among the soft wools: and at last i brought out the less important of my two questions. if she answered that kindly, patiently, and as if she understood, the other was to come after. if not, i would keep it to myself. "will you tell me, madam--is it wrong to pray about anything? i mean, is there anything one ought not to pray about?" lady monksburn looked up, but only for a moment. "dear child!" she said, with a gentle smile, "is it wrong to tell your father of something you want?" "but may one pray about things that do not belong to church and sunday and the bible?" said i. "everything belongs to the bible," said she. "it is the chart for the voyage of life. you mean, dear heart, is it right to pray about earthly things which have to do with the body? no doubt it is. `give us this day our daily bread.'" "but does that mean real, common bread?" i asked. "i thought people said it meant food for the soul." "people say very foolish things sometimes, my dear. it may include food for the soul, and very likely does. but i think it means food for the body first. `your father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.' that, surely, was said of meat and drink and clothing." i thought a minute. "but i mean more than that," i said; "things that one wishes for, which are not necessaries for the body, and yet are not things for the soul." "necessaries for the mind?" suggested lady monksburn. "my dear, your mind is a part of you as much as your body and spirit. and `he careth for you,' body, soul, and spirit--not the spirit only, and not the spirit and body only." "for instance," i said, "suppose i wanted very much to go somewhere, or not to go somewhere--for reasons which seemed good ones to me--would it be wicked to ask god to arrange it so?" lady monksburn looked up at me with her gentle, motherly eyes. "dear child," she said, "you may ask god for anything in all the world, if only you will bear in mind that he loves you, and is wiser than you. `father, if it be possible,--nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done.' you cannot ask a more impossible thing than that which lay between those words. if the world were to be saved, if god were to be glorified, it was not possible. did he not know that who asked it with strong crying and tears? was not the asking done to teach us two things--that he was very man, like ourselves, shrinking from pain and death as much as the very weakest of us can shrink, and also that we may ask anything and everything, if only we desire beyond it that god's will be done?" "thank you," i said, drawing a long breath. yes, i might ask my second question. "lady monksburn, what is it to trust the lord jesus?" "do you want to know what trust is, cary,--or what he is? my child, i think i can tell you the first, but i can never attempt to paint the glory of the second." "_i_ want to know what people mean by _trusting_ him. how are you to trust somebody whom you do not know?" "it is hard. i think you must know a little before you can trust. and by the process of trusting you learn to know. trust and love are very near akin. you must talk with him, cary, if you want to know him." "you mean, pray, i suppose?" "that is talking to him. it is a poor converse where all the talk is on one side." "but what is the other side--reading the bible?" "that is part of it." "what is the other part of it?" lady monksburn looked up at me again, with a smile which i do not know how to describe. i can only say that it filled me with a sudden yearning for my dead mother. she might have smiled on me like that. "my darling!" she answered, "there are things which can be described, and there are things which can but be felt. no man can utter the secret of the lord--only the lord himself. ask him to whisper it to you. you will care little for the smiles or the frowns of the world when he has done so." is not that just what i want? "but will he tell it to any one?" i said. "he tells it to those who long for it," she replied. "his smile may be had by any who will have it. it costs a great deal, sometimes. but it is worth the cost." "what does it cost, madam?" "it costs what most men think very precious, and yet is really worth nothing at all. it costs the world's flatteries, which are as a net for the feet; and the world's pleasures, which are as the crackling of thorns under the pot; and the world's honours, which are empty air. it often costs these. there are few men who can be trusted with both." there was a minute's silence, and then she said,-- "the scottish catechism, my dear, saith that `man's chief end is to glorify god, and to enjoy him for ever.' grander words were never penned out of god's own word. and among the most striking words in it are those of david, which may be called the response thereto--`when i awake up after thy likeness, i shall be satisfied with it.'" then annas and flora came in. but i had got what i wanted. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ bloomsbury square, london, september rd . while we were travelling, i could not get at my book to write anything; and had i been able, i doubt whether i should have found time. we journeyed from early morning till late at night, really almost as though we were flying from a foe: though of course we should have had nothing to fear, had the royal army overtaken us. it was only the elector's troops who would have meddled with us; and they were in scotland somewhere. there is indeed a rumour flying abroad to-night (saith my uncle charles), that the prince has entered edinburgh: but we know not if it be true or no. if so, he will surely push on straight for london, since the rebellious troops must have been driven quite away, before he could do that. so my uncle charles says; and he saith too, that they are a mere handful of raw german mercenaries, who would never stand a moment against the courage, the discipline, and the sense of right, which must animate the king's army. oh dear! where shall i begin, if i am to write down all about the journey? and if i do not, it will look like a great gap in my tale. well, my uncle drummond took us to hawick--but stop! i have not left abbotscliff yet, and here i am coming to hawick. that won't do. i must begin again. mr keith and angus marched on thursday night, with a handful of volunteers from tweedside. it was hard work parting. even i felt it, and of course angus is much less to me than the others. mr keith said farewell to my uncle and me, and he came last to flora. she lifted her eyes to him full of tears as she put her hand in his. "duncan," she said, "will you make me a promise?" "certainly, flora, if it be anything that will ease your mind." "indeed it will," she said, with trembling lips. "never lose sight of angus, and try to keep him safe and true." "true to the cause, or true to god?" "true to both. i cannot separate between right and right." i thought there was just one second's hesitation--no more--before mr keith gave his solemn answer. "i will, so help me god!" flora thanked him amidst her sobs. he held her hand a moment longer, and i almost thought that he was going to ask her for something. but suddenly there came a setting of stern purpose into his lips and eyes, and he kissed her hand and let it go, with no more than--"god bless you, dear flora. farewell!" then angus came up, and gave us a much warmer (and rougher) good-bye: but i felt there was something behind mr keith's, which he had not spoken, and i wondered what it was. we left abbotscliff ourselves at six o'clock next morning. flora and i were in the chaise; my uncle drummond, sam, and wedderburn (the laird's servant) on horseback. at the gates at monksburn we took up annas, and wedderburn joined us there too. the laird came to see us off, and nearly wrung my hand off as he said, to flora and me, "take care of my bairn. the lord's taking them both from their auld father. if i be bereaved of my children, i am bereaved." "the lord will keep them himself, dear friend," said my uncle drummond. "surely you see the need to part with them?" "oh ay, i see the need clear enough! and an auld noodle i am, to be lamenting to you, who are suffering the very same loss." then he turned to annas. "god be with thee, my bonnie birdie," he said: "the auld grange will be lone without thy song. but thou wilt let us hear a word of thy welfare as oft as thou canst." "as often as ever i can, dear father," said annas: and as he turned back, and we drove away, she broke down as i had never imagined annas would do. we slept that night at the inn at hawick. on the saturday morning, my uncle drummond left us, and we went on to carlisle, which we reached late at night. here we were to stay with dr and mrs benn, friends of father's, who made much of us, and seemed to think themselves quite honoured in having us: and sam went off at once on a fresh horse to brocklebank, which he hoped to reach by midnight. they would be looking for him. i charged him with all sorts of messages, which he said grimly that he would deliver if he recollected them when he got there: and i gave him a paper for my aunt kezia, with a list of things i would have sent. on sunday we went to the cathedral with our hosts, and spent the day quietly. but on monday morning, what was my astonishment, as i was just going into the parlour, to hear a familiar voice say-- "did you leave your eyes at abbotscliff, my dear?" "aunt kezia!" i cried. yes, there stood my aunt kezia, in her hood and scarf, looking as if only an hour had passed since i saw her before. i was glad to see her, and i ventured to say so. "why, child, did you think i was going to send my lamb out into the wilderness, with never a farewell?" "but how early you must have had to rise, aunt kezia!" "mrs kezia, this is an unlooked-for pleasure," said the doctor, coming forward. "i could never have hoped to see you at this hour." "this hour! why, 'tis but eight o'clock!" cries my aunt kezia. "what sort of a lig-a-bed do you think me, doctor?" "madam, i think you the flower of creation!" cries he, bowing over her hand. "you must have been reading the poets," saith she, "and not to much good purpose.--flora, child, you look but white! and is this miss annas keith, your friend? i am glad to see you, my dear. don't mind an old woman's freedom: i call all girls `my dear'." annas smiled, and said she was very pleased to feel as though my aunt kezia reckoned her among her friends. "my friends' friends are mine," saith my aunt kezia. "well, cary, i have brought you all the things in your minute, save your purple lutestring scarf, which i could not find. it was not in the bottom shelf, as you set down." "why, where could i have put it?" said i. "i always keep it on that shelf." i was sorry to miss it, because it is my best scarf, and i thought i should want it in london, where i suppose everybody goes very fine. however, there was no more to be said--on my side. i found there was on my aunt kezia's. "here, hold your hand, child," saith she. "your father sends you ten guineas to spend; and here are five more from me, and this pocket-piece from sophy. you can get a new scarf in london, if you need it, or anything else you like better." "oh, thank you, aunt kezia!" i cried. "why, how rich i shall be!" "don't waste your money, cary: lay it out wisely, and then we shall be pleased. i will give you a good rule: never buy anything without sleeping on it. don't rush off and get it the first minute it comes into your head. you will see the bottom of your purse in a veek if you do." "but it might be gone, aunt kezia." "then it is something you can do without." "is hatty come home, aunt?" said flora. "not she," saith my aunt kezia. "miss hatty's gone careering off, the deer know where. i dare be bound you'll fall in with her. she is gone with charlotte and emily up to town." i was sorry to hear that. i don't much want to meet hatty--above all if grandmamma be there. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the great majority of scottish jacobites were episcopalians and "moderates," a term equivalent to the english "high and dry." there were, however, a very few presbyterians among them. chapter eight. rules and ribbons. "no fond belief can day and night from light and darkness sever; and wrong is wrong, and right is right, for ever and for ever." last evening, as we were drawing our chairs up for a chat round the fire in our chamber, who should walk in but my aunt kezia. "nay, i'll not hold you long," saith she, as i arose and offered my seat. "i come but to give a bit of good counsel to my nieces here. miss annas, my dear, it will very like not hurt you too." "i shall be very glad of it, mrs kezia," said annas. "well,"--saith my aunt, and broke off all at once. "eh, girls, girls! poor unfledged birds, fluttering your wings on the brim of the nest, and pooh-poohing the old bird behind you, that says, `take care, my dears, or you will fall!' she never flew out of the nest, did she?--she never preened her wings, and thought all the world lay before her, and she could fly as straight as any lark of them all, and catch as many flies as any swallow? ay, nor she never tumbled off into the mire, and found she could not fly a bit, and all the insects went darting past her as safe as if she were a dead leaf? eh, my lassies, this would be a poor world, if it were all. i have seen something of it, though you thought not, likely enough. but flowers are flowers, and dirt is dirt, whether you find them on the banks of the thames or of ellen water. and i have not dwelt all my life at brocklebank: though if i had, i should have seen men and women, and they are much alike all the world over." i could not keep it in, and out it came. "please, aunt kezia, don't be angry, but what is become of cecilia osborne?" "i dare say you will know, cary, before i do. she went to london, i believe." "oh, i don't want to see her, aunt kezia." "then you are pretty sure to do it." "but why did she not--" i was afraid to go on. "why did she not keep her word? you can ask her if you want to know. don't say i wanted to know, that's all. i don't." "but how was it, aunt kezia?" said i, for i was on fire with curiosity. flora made an attempt to check me. "you are both welcome to know all i know," said my aunt: "and that is, that she spent one evening at the fells with us, and the hebblethwaites and mr parmenter were there: the next day we saw nothing of her, and on the evening of the third there came a little note to me--a dainty little pink three-cornered note, all over perfume--in which miss cecilia osborne presented her compliments to mrs kezia courtenay, and begged to say that she found herself obliged to go to london, and would have set out before the note should reach me. that is as much as i know, and more than i want to know." "and she did not say when she was coming back?" "not in any hurry, i fancy," said my aunt kezia, grimly. "going to stop away altogether?" "she's welcome," answered my aunt, in the same tone. "then who will live at fir vale?" asked flora. "don't know. the first of you may that gets married. don't go and do it on purpose." annas seemed much diverted. i wanted very much to know how father had taken cecilia's flight, but i did not feel i could ask that. "any more questions, young ladies?" saith my aunt kezia, quizzically. "we will get them done first, if you please." "i beg your pardon, aunt," said i. "only i did want to know so much." my aunt kezia gave a little laugh. "my dear, curiosity is eve's legacy to her daughters. you might reasonably feel it in this instance. i should almost have thought you unfeeling if you had not. however, that business is all over; and well over, to my mind. i am thankful it is no worse. now for what i want to say to you. i have been turning over in my mind how i might say to you what would be likely to do you good, in such a way that you could easily bear it in mind. and i have settled to give you a few plain rules, which you will find of service if you follow them. now don't you go saying to yourselves that aunt kezia is an old country woman who knows nothing of grand town folks. as i was beginning to say when you interrupted me, cary--there, don't look abashed, child; i am not angry with you--manners change, but natures don't. dress men and women how you will, and let them talk what language you please, and have what outside ways you like, they are men and women still. wherever you go, you will find human nature is unchanged; and the devil that tempts men is unchanged; and the god that saves them is unchanged. there are more senses than one, lassies, in which the things that are seen are temporal; but the things that are not seen are eternal." my aunt kezia began to feel in her bag--that great print bag with the red poppies and blue cornflowers, and the big brass top, by which i should know my aunt kezia was near if i saw it in the american plantations, or in the moon, for that matter--and out came three little books, bound in red sheepskin. such pretty little books! scarcely the size of my hand, and with gilded leaves. "now, girls," she said, "i brought you these for keepsakes. they are only blank paper, as you see, and you can put down in them what you spend, or what you see, or any good sayings you meet with, or the like-- just what you please: but you will find my rules written on the first leaf, so you can't say you had not a chance to bear them in mind. miss annas, my dear, i hope i don't make too free, but you see i did not like to leave you out in the cold, as it were. will you accept one of them? they are good rules for any young maid, though i say it." "how kind of you, mrs kezia!" said annas. "indeed i will, and value it very much." i turned at once--indeed, i think we all did--to my aunt kezia's rules. they were written, as she said, on the first page, in her neat, clear handwriting, which one could read almost in the dark. this is what she had written. "put the lord first in everything. "let the approval of those who love you best come second. "judge none by the outside, till you have seen what is within. "never take compliment for earnest. "never put off doing a right or kind thing. "if you doubt a thing being right, it is safe not to do it. "if you know a thing to be right, go on with it, though the world stand in your way. "`if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.' "`if any man sin, we have an advocate with the father.' never wait to confess sin and be forgiven. "in all that is not wrong, put the comfort of others before your own. "think it possible you may be mistaken. "test everything by the word of god. "remember that the world passeth away." flora was the first of us to speak. "thank you, indeed, aunt kezia for taking so much trouble for us. if we govern ourselves by your rules, we can hardly go far wrong." i tried to say something of the same sort, but i am afraid i bungled it. "i cannot tell when we shall meet again, my lassies," saith my aunt kezia. "only it seems likely to be some time first. of course, if things fall out ill, and mrs desborough counts it best to remove from london, or to send you elsewhere, you must be ruled by her, as you cannot refer to your father. remember, cary--your grandmother and uncle will stand to you in place of father and mother while you are with them. your father sends you to them, and puts his authority into their hands. don't go to think you know better--girls so often do. a little humility and obedience won't hurt you, and you need not be afraid there will ever be too much of them in this world." "but, aunt!" said i, in some alarm, "suppose grandmamma tells me to do something which i know you would not allow?" "follow your rule, cary: set the lord always before you. if it is anything which he would not allow, then you are justified in standing out. not otherwise." "but how am i to know, aunt?" it was a foolish question of mine, for i might have known what my aunt kezia would say. "what do you think the bible was made for, cary?" "but, aunt, i can't go and read through the bible every time grandmamma gives me an order." "you must do that first, my dear. the bible won't jump down your throat, that is certain. you must be ready beforehand. you will learn experience, children, as the time goes on--ay, whether you choose or no. but there are two sorts of experience--sweet and bitter: and `they that will not be ruled by the rudder must be ruled by the rock.' be ruled by the rudder, lassies. it is the wisest plan." my aunt kezia said more, but it does not come back to me as that does. and the next morning we said good-bye, and went out into the wide world. i cannot profess to tell the whole of our journey. we slept the first night at kendal--and a cold bleak journey it was, by shap fells--the second at bolton, the third at bakewell, the fourth at leicester, the fifth at bedford, and on the saturday evening we reached london. i believe annas was very much diverted at some of my speeches during the journey. when i cried, after we had passed bolton, and were going over a moor, that i did not know there was heather in the south, she said, "you have been a very short time in coming to the south, cary." "what do you mean, annas?" said i. "only that a midland man would think we were still in the north," said she. "what, is this not the south?" said i. "i thought everything was south after we passed lancaster." "england is a little longer than that," said annas, laughing. "no, cary: we do not get into the midlands on this side of derby, nor into the south on this side of bedford." so i had to wait until friday before i saw the south. when i did, i thought it very flat and very woody. i could scarcely see anything for trees; only [note .] there were no hills to see. and how strange the talk sounded! they seemed to speak all their u's as if they were e's, and their a's the same. annas laughed when i said that "take up the mat" sounded in the south like "teek ep the met." it really did, to me. "i suppose," said flora, "our words sound just as queer to these people." "o flora, they can't!" i cried. because we say the words right; and how can that sound queer? it was nearly six o'clock when the chaise drew up before the door of my uncle charles's house in bloomsbury square. these poor southerners think, i hear, that bloomsbury square is one of the wonders of the world. the world must be very short of wonders, and so i said. "o cary, you are a bundle of prejudices!" laughed annas. flora--who never can bear a word of disagreement--turned the discourse by saying that mr cameron had told her bloomsbury came from blumond's bury, the town of some man called blumond. and just then the door opened, and i felt almost terrified of the big, grand-looking man who stood behind it. however, as it was i who was the particularly invited guest, i had to jump down from the chaise, after a boy had let down the steps, and to tell the big man who i was and whence i came: when he said, in that mincing way they have in the south, as if they must cut their words small before they could get them into their mouths, that madam expected me, and i was to walk up-stairs. my heart went pit-a-pat, but up i marched, annas and flora following; and if the big man did not call out my name to another big man, just the copy of him, who stood at the top of the stairs, so loud that i should think it must have been heard over half the house. i felt quite ashamed, but i walked straight on, into a grand room all over looking-glasses and crimson, where a circle of ladies and gentlemen were sitting round the fire. we have not begun fires in the north. i do think they are a nesh [note .] lot of folks who live in the south. grandmamma was at one end of the circle, and my aunt dorothea at the other. i went straight up to grandmamma. "how do you, grandmamma?" said i. "this is my cousin, flora drummond, and this is our friend, annas keith. fa--papa, i mean, and aunt kezia, sent their respectful compliments, and begged that you would kindly allow them to tarry here for a night on their way to the isle of wight." grandmamma looked at me, then at flora, then at annas, and took a pinch of snuff. "how dusty you are, my dear!" said she. "pray go and shift your gown. perkins will show you the way." she just gave a nod to the other two, and then went back to her discourse with the gentleman next her. those are what grandmamma calls easy manners, i know: but i think i like the other sort better. my aunt kezia would have given the girls a warm grasp of the hand and a kiss, and told them they were heartily welcome, and begged them to make themselves at home. grandmamma thinks that rough and coarse and country-bred: but i am sure it makes me feel more as if people really were pleased to see me. i felt that i must just speak first to my aunt dorothea; and she did shake hands with flora and me, and courtesied to annas. then we courtesied to the company, and left the room, i telling the big man that grandmamma wished perkins to attend us. the big man looked over the banisters, and said, "harry, call perkins." when perkins came, she proved, as i expected, to be grandmamma's waiting-maid; and she carried us off to a little chamber on the upper floor, where was hardly room for anything but two beds. flora, i saw, seemed to feel strange and uncomfortable, as if she were somewhere where she had no business to be; but annas behaved like one to the manner born, and handed her gloves to perkins with the air of a princess--i do not mean proudly, but easily, as if she knew just what to do, and did it, without any feeling of awkwardness. we had to wait till the trunks were carried up, and perkins had unpacked our tea-gowns; then we shifted ourselves, and had our hair dressed, and went back to the withdrawing room. perkins is a stranger to me, and i was sorry not to see willet, grandmamma's old maid: but grandmamma never keeps servants long, so i was not surprised. i don't believe willet had been with her above six years, when i left carlisle. annas sat down on an empty chair in the circle, and began to talk with the lady nearest to her. flora, apparently in much hesitation, took a chair, but did not venture to talk. i knew what i had to do, and i felt as if my old ways would come back if i called them. i sat down near my aunt dorothea. "that friend of yours, cary, is quite a distinguished-looking girl," said my aunt dorothea, in a low voice. "really presentable, for the country, you know." i said annas came of a high scots family, and was related to sir james de lannoy, of the isle of wight. i saw that annas went up directly in my aunt dorothea's thermometer. "de lannoy!" said she. "a fine old norman line. very well connected, then? i am glad to hear it." flora, i saw, was getting over her shyness--indeed, i never knew her seem shy before--and beginning to talk a little with her next neighbour. i looked round, but could not see any one i knew. i took refuge in an inquiry after my uncle charles. "he is very well," said my aunt dorothea. "he is away somewhere--men always are. at the court, i dare say." how strange it did sound! i felt as if i had come into a new world. "i hope that is not your best gown, child?" said my aunt dorothea. "but it is, aunt--my best tea-gown," i answered. "then you must have a better," replied she. "it is easy to see that was made in the country." "certainly it was, aunt. fanny and i made it." my aunt dorothea shrugged her shoulders, gave me a glance which said plainly, "don't tell tales out of school!" and turned to another lady in the group. at brocklebank we never thought of not saying such things. but i see i have forgotten many of my carlisle habits, and i shall have to pick them up again by degrees. when we went up to bed, i found that grandmamma had asked annas to stay in london. annas replied that her father had given her leave to stay a month if she wished it and were offered the chance, and she would be very pleased: but that as flora was her guest, the invitation would have to include both. grandmamma glanced again at flora, and took another pinch of snuff. "i suppose she has some courtenay blood in her," said she. "and drummond is not a bad name--for a scotswoman. she can stay, if she be not a covenanter, and won't want to pray and preach. she must have a new gown, and then she will do, if she keep her mouth shut. she has a fine pair of shoulders, if she were only dressed decently." "i am glad," said i, "for i know what that means. grandmamma likes annas, and will like flora in time. don't be any shyer than you can help, flora; that will not please her." "i do not think i am shy," said flora; "at least, i never felt so before. but to-night--cary, i don't know what it looked like! i could only think of a great spider's web, and we three poor little flies had to walk straight into it." "i wonder where duncan and angus are to-night," said annas; "i hope no one is playing spider there." flora sighed, but made no answer. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ our new gowns had to be made in a great hurry, for grandmamma had invited an assembly for the thursday night, and she wished flora and me to be decently dressed, she said. i am sure i don't know how the mantua-maker managed it, for the cloth was only bought on monday morning; i suppose she must have had plenty of apprentices. the gowns were sacques of cherry damask, with quilted silk petticoats of black trimmed with silver lace. i find hoops are all the mode again, and very large indeed--so big that when you enter a door you have to double your hoop round in front, or lift it on one side out of the way. the cap is a little scrap of a thing, scarce bigger than a crown-piece, and a flower or pompoon is stuck at the side; stomachers are worn, and very full elbow-ruffles; velvet slippers with high heels. grandmamma put a little grey powder in my hair, but when flora said she was sure that her father would disapprove, she did not urge her to wear it. but she did want us both to wear red ribbons mixed with our white ones. i did not know what to do. "i did not know mrs desborough was a trimmer," said annas, in the severest tone i ever heard from her lips. "what shall we do?" said i. "i shall not wear them," said flora. "mrs desborough is not my grandmother; nor has my father put me in her care. i do not see, therefore, that i am at all bound to obey her. for you, cary, it is different. i think you will have to submit." "but only think what it means!" cried i. "it means," said annas, "that you are indifferent in the matter of politics." "if it meant only that," i said, "i should not think much about it. but surely it means more, much more. it means that i am disloyal; that i do not care whether the king or the elector wins the day; or even that i do care, and am willing to hide my belief for fashion's or money's sake. this red ribbon on me is a lie; and an acted lie is no better than a spoken one." my aunt dorothea came in so immediately after i had spoken that i felt sure she must have heard me. "dear me, what a fuss about a bit of ribbon!" said she. "cary, don't be a little goose." "aunt, i only want to be true!" cried i. "it is my truth i make a fuss about, not my ribbons. i will wear a ribbon of every colour in the rainbow, if grandmamma wish it, except just this one which tells falsehoods about me." "my dear, it is so unbecoming in you to be thus warm!" said my aunt dorothea. "enthusiasm is always in bad taste, no matter what it is about. you will not see half-a-dozen ladies in the room in white ribbons. nobody expects the prince to come south." "but, aunt, please give me leave to say that it will not alter my truthfulness, whether the prince comes to london or goes to the north pole!" cried i. "if the elector himself--" "'sh-'sh!" said my aunt dorothea. "my dear, that sort of thing may be very well at brocklebank, but it really will not do in bloomsbury square. you must not bring your wild, antiquated tory notions here. tories are among the extinct animals." "not while my father is alive, please, aunt." "my dear, we are not at brocklebank, as i told you just now," answered my aunt dorothea. "it may be all very well to toast the chevalier, and pray for him, and so forth--(i am sure i don't know whether it do him any good): but when you come to living in the world with other people, you must do as they do.--yes, perkins, certainly, put miss courtenay a red ribbon, and miss drummond also.--my dear girls, you must." "not for me, mrs charles, if you please," said flora, very quietly: "i should prefer, if you will allow it, to remain in this room." my aunt dorothea looked at her, and seemed puzzled what to do with her. "miss keith," said she, "do you wear the red?" "certainly not, madam," replied annas. "well!" said my aunt dorothea, shrugging her shoulders, "i suppose we must say you are scots girls, and have not learnt english customs.--you can let it alone for miss drummond, perkins.--but that won't do for you, cary; you must have one." "aunt dorothea, i will wear it if you bid me," said i: "but i shall tell everybody who speaks to me that my red ribbon is a lie." "then you had better have none!" cried my aunt dorothea, petulantly. "that would be worse than wearing all white. cary, i never knew you were so horribly obstinate." "i suppose i am older, aunt, and understand things better now," said i. "dear, i wish girls would stay girls!" said my aunt dorothea. "well, perkins, let it alone. just do up that lace a little to the left, that the white ribbon may not show so much. there, that will do.--cary, if your grandmamma notices this, i must tell her it is all your fault." well, down-stairs we went, and found the company beginning to come. my aunt dorothea, i knew, never cares much about anything to last, but i was in some fear of grandmamma. (by the way, i find this house is grandmamma's, not my uncle charles's, as i thought.) there was one lady there, a mrs francis, who was here the other evening when we came, and she spoke kindly to us, and began to talk with annas and flora. i rather shrank into a corner by the window, for i did not want grandmamma to see me. people were chattering away on all sides of me; and very droll it was to listen first to one and then to another. i was amusing myself in this way, and laughing to myself under a grave face, when all at once i heard three words from the next window. who said "by no means!" in that soft velvet voice, through which ran a ripple of silvery laughter? i should have known that voice in the desert of arabia. and the next moment she moved away from the window, and i saw her face. we stood fronting each other, cecilia and i. that she knew me as well as i knew her, i could not doubt for an instant. for one moment she hesitated whether to speak to me, and i took advantage of it. dropping the lowest courtesy i could make, i turned my back upon her, and walked straight away to the other end of the room. but not before i had seen that she was superbly dressed, and was leaning on the arm of mr parmenter. not, also, before i caught a fiery flash gleaming at me out of the tawny eyes, and knew that i had made an enemy of the most dangerous woman in my world. but what could i have done else? if i had accepted cecilia's hand, and treated her as a friend, i should have felt as though i were conniving at an insult to my father. at the other end of the room, i nearly ran against a handsome, dark-haired girl in a yellow satin slip, who to my great astonishment said to me,-- "well played, miss caroline courtenay! i have been watching the little drama, and i really compliment you on your readiness and spirit. you have taken the wind out of her ladyship's sails." "hatty!" i cried, in much amazement. "is it you?" "well, i fancy so," said she, in her usual mocking way. "my beloved cary, do tell me, have you brought that delicious journal? do let me read to-night's entry!" "hatty!" i cried all at once. "you--" "yes, madam?" if she had not on my best purple scarf--my lost scarf, that my aunt kezia could not find! but i did not go on. i felt it was of no earthly use to talk to hatty. "seen it before, haven't you?" said hatty, in her odious teasing way. "yes, i thought i had better have it: mine is so shabby; and you are only a little miss--it does not matter for you. beside, you have grandmamma to look after you. you shall have it again when i have done with it." i had to bite my tongue terribly hard, but i did manage to hold it. i only said, "where are you staying, hatty?" "at mrs crossland's, in charles street, where i shall be perfectly delighted to see my youngest sister." "oh! not with the bracewells?" "with the bracewells, certainly. did you suppose they had pitch-forked me through the window into mrs crossland's drawing-room?" "but who is mrs crossland?" "a friend of the bracewells," said hatty, with an air of such studied carelessness that i began to wonder what was behind it. "has mrs crossland daughters?" i asked. "one--a little chit, scarce in her teens." "is there a mr crossland?" "there isn't a papa crossland, if you mean that. there is a young mr crossland." "oh!" said i. "pray, miss caroline, what do you mean by `oh'?" asked hatty, whose eyes laughed with fun. "oh, nothing," i replied. "oh!" replied hatty, so exactly in my tone that i could not help laughing. "take care, her ladyship may see you." "hatty, why do you call cecilia `her ladyship'?" "well, it doesn't know anything, does it?" replied hatty, in her teasing way. "only just up from the country, isn't it? madam, mr anthony parmenter as was (as old will says) is sir anthony parmenter; and miss cecilia osborne as was, is her ladyship." "do you mean to say cecilia has married mr parmenter?" "oh dear, no! she has married sir anthony." "then she jilted our father for a title? the snake!" "don't use such charming language, my sweetest; her ladyship might not admire it. and if i were you, i would make myself scarce; she is coming this way." "then i will go the other," said i, and i did. to my astonishment, as soon as i had left her, what should hatty do but walk up and shake hands with cecilia, and in a few minutes they and mr parmenter were all laughing about something. i was amazed beyond words. i had always thought hatty pert, teasing, disagreeable; but never underhand or mean. but just then i saw a good-looking young man join them, and offer his arm to hatty for a walk round the room; and it flashed on me directly that this was young mr crossland, and that he was a friend of mr--i mean sir anthony--parmenter. when we were undressing that night, i said,-- "annas, can a person do anything to make the world better?" "what person?" asked she, and smiled. "well, say me. can i do anything?" "certainly. you can be as good as you know how to be." "but that won't make other people better." "i do not know that. some other people it may." "but that will be the people who are good already. i want to mend the people who are bad." "then pray for them," said annas, gravely. pray for cecilia osborne! it came upon me with a feeling of intense aversion. i could not pray for her! nor did i think there would be a bit of good in praying for hatty. and yet--if she were getting drawn into cecilia's toils--if that young mr crossland were not a good man--i might pray for her to be kept safe. i thought i would try it. but when i began to pray for hatty, it seemed unkind to leave out fanny and sophy. and then i got to father and my aunt kezia; and then to maria and bessy; and then to sam and will; and then to old elspie; and then to helen raeburn, and my uncle drummond, and angus, and mr keith, and the laird, and lady monksburn--and so on and on, till the whole world seemed full of people to be prayed for. i suppose it is so always--if we only thought of it! grandmamma never noticed my ribbons--or rather my want of them. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it really is of no use my trying to keep to dates. i have begun several times, and i cannot get on with it. that last piece, dated the rd, took me nearly a week to write; so that what was to-morrow when i began, was behind yesterday before i had finished. i shall just go right on without any more pother, and put a date now and then when it is very particular. grandmamma has an assembly every week,--tuesday is her day [note .]-- and now and then an extra one on thursday or saturday. i do not think anything would persuade her to have an assembly, or play cards, on a friday. but on a sunday evening she always has her rubber, to flora's horror. it does not startle me, because i remember it always was so when i lived with her at carlisle: nor annas, because she knew people did such things in the south. i find grandmamma usually spends the winter at the bath: but she has not quite made up her mind whether to go this year or not, on account of all the tumults in the north. if the royal army should march on london (and annas says of course they will) we may be shut up here for a long while. but annas says if we heard anything certain of it, she and flora would set off at once to "the island", as she always calls the isle of wight. last tuesday, i was sitting by a young lady whom i have talked with more than once; her name is newton. i do not quite know how we got on to the subject, but we began to talk politics. i said i could not understand why it was, but people in the south did not seem to care for politics nearly so much as i was accustomed to see done. half the ladies in the room appeared to be trimmers; and many more wore the red ribbon alone. such people, with us, would never be received into a tory family. "we do not take things so seriously as you," said she, with a diverted look. "that with us is an opinion which with you is an enthusiasm. i suppose up there, where the sun never shines, you have to make some sort of noise and fuss to keep yourselves alive." "`the sun never shines!'" cried i. "now, really, miss newton! you don't mean to say you believe that story?" "i am only repeating what i have been told," said she. "i never was north of barnet." "we are alive enough," said i. "i wonder if you are. it looks to me much more like living, to make beds and boil puddings and stitch shirts, than to sit on a sofa in a satin gown, flickering a fan and talking rubbish." "oh, fie!" said miss newton, laughing, and tapping me on the arm with her fan. "that really will not do, miss courtenay. you will shock everybody in the room." "i can tell you, most whom i see here shock me," said i. "they seem to have no honour and no honesty. they think white and they wear red, or the other way about, just as it happens. if the prince were to enter london on monday, what colour would all these ribbons be next tuesday night?" "the colour of yours, undoubtedly," she said, laughing. "and do you call that honesty?" said i. "these people could not change their opinions and feelings between monday and tuesday: and to change their ribbons without them would be simply falsehood." "i told you, you take things so seriously!" she answered. "but is it not a serious thing?" i continued. "and ought we to take serious things any way but seriously? miss newton, do you not see that it is a question of right--not a question of taste or convenience? your allegiance is not a piece of jewellery, that you can give to the person you like best; it is a debt, which you can only pay to the person to whom you owe it. do you not see that?" "my dear miss courtenay," said miss newton, in a low voice, "excuse me, but you are a little too warm. it is not thought good taste, you know, to take up any subject so very decidedly as that." "and is right only to be thought a matter of taste?" cried i, quite disregarding her caution. "am i to rule my life, as i do my trimmings, by the fashion-book? we have not come to that yet in the north, i can assure you! we are a sturdy race there, madam, and don't swallow our opinions as we do pills, of whatever the apothecary likes to put into them. we prefer to know what we are taking." "do excuse me," said miss newton, with laughter in her eyes, and laying her hand upon my arm; "but don't you see people are looking round?" "let them look round!" cried i. "i am not ashamed of one word that i have spoken." "dear miss courtenay, i am not objecting to your words. every one, of course, has his opinions: yours, i suppose, are your father's." "not a bit of it!" cried i; "they are my own!" "but young ladies of your age should not have strong opinions," said she. she is about five years older than i am. "will you tell me how to help it?" said i. "i must go through the world with my eyes shut, if i am not to form opinions." "oh yes, moderately," she replied. "shut my eyes moderately?" i asked; "or, form opinions moderately?" "both," answered miss newton, laughing. "your advice is worse than wasted, my dear miss newton," said a voice behind us. "that young person will never do anything in moderation." "you know better, hatty!" said i. "and, as your elder sister, my darling, let me give you a scrap of advice. men never like contentious, arguing women. don't be a little goose." i don't know whether i am a goose or a duck, but i am afraid i could have done something to hatty just then which i should have found agreeable, and she would not. that elder-sister air of hers is so absurd, for she is not eighteen months older than i am; i can stand it well enough from sophy, but from hatty it really is too ridiculous. but that was nothing, compared with the insult she had offered, not so much to me, as through me to all womanhood. "men don't like!" does it signify three halfpence what they like? are women to make slaves of themselves, considering what men fancy or don't fancy? men, mark you! not, your father, or brother, or husband: that would be right and reasonable enough: but, men! "hatty," i said, after doing battle with myself for a moment, "i think i had better give you no answer. if i did, and if my words and tones suited my feelings, i should scream the house down." she burst out laughing behind her fan. i walked away at once, lest i should be tempted to reply further. i am afraid i almost ran, for i came bolt against a gentleman in the corner, and had to stop and make my apologies. "don't run quite over me, cary, if it suit you," said somebody who, i thought, was in cumberland. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the assemblies on a lady's visiting day required no invitations. the rooms were open to any person acquainted with members of the family. note . southerners are respectfully informed that the use of only for but is a northern peculiarity. note . sensitive, delicate. chapter nine. difficulties. "and 't was na for a popish yoke that bravest men came forth to part wi' life and dearest ties, and a' that life was worth." jacobite ballad. "ephraim hebblethwaite!" i cried out. "i believe so," he said, laughing. "where did you come from?" "from a certain place in the north, called brocklebank." "but what brought you to london?" i cried. "what brought me to london?" he repeated, in quite a different tone,--so much softer. "well, cary, i wanted to see something." "have you been to see it?" i asked, more to give myself time to cool down than because i cared to know. "yes, i have been to see it," he said, and smiled. "and did you find it as agreeable as you expected?" "quite. i had seen it before, and i wanted to know if it were spoiled." "oh, i hope it is not spoiled!" said i. "not at all," said he, his voice growing softer and softer. "no, it is not spoiled yet, cary." "do you expect it will be?" i was getting cooler now. "i don't know," he answered, very gravely for him, for ephraim is not at all given to moroseness and long faces. "god grant it never may!" i could not think what he meant, and i did not like to ask him. indeed, i had not much opportunity, for he began talking about our journey, and brocklebank, and all the people there, and i was so interested that we did not get back to what ephraim came to see. there is a new vicar, he says, whose name is mr liversedge, and he has quite changed things in the parish. the people are divided about him; some like him, and some do not. he does not read his sermons, which is very strange, but speaks them out just as if he were talking to you; and he has begun to catechise the children in an afternoon, and to visit everybody in the parish; and he neither shoots, hunts, nor fishes. his sermons have a ring in them, says ephraim; they wake you up, old john oakley complains that he can't nap nigh so comfortable as when th' old vicar were there; and mally crosthwaite says she never heard such goings on--why, th' parson asked her if she were a christian!--she that had always kept to her church, rain and shine, and never missed once! and it was hard if she were to miss the christmas dole this year, along o' not being a christian. she'd always thought being church was plenty good enough--none o' your low dissenting work: but, mercy on us, she didn't know what to say to this here parson, that she didn't! a christian, indeed! the parson was a christian, was he? well, if so, she didn't make much 'count o' christians, for all he was a parson. didn't he tell old john he couldn't recommend him for the dole, just by reason he rapped out an oath or two when his grand-daughter let the milk-jug fall?--and if old bet donnerthwaite had had a sup too much one night at the ale-house, was it for a gentleman born like the parson to take note of that? "but he has done worse things than that, cary," said ephraim, with grave mouth and laughing eyes. "what? go on," said i, for i saw something funny was coming. "why, would you believe it?" said ephraim. "he called on mr bagnall, and asked him if he felt satisfied with the pattern he was setting his flock." "i am very glad he did!" said i. "what did mr bagnall say?" "got into an awful rage, and told it to all the neighbourhood--as bearing against mr liversedge, you understand." "well, then, he is a greater simpleton than i took him for," said i. "i am rather afraid," said ephraim, in a hesitating tone, "that he will call at the fells: and if he say anything that the squire thinks impertinent or interfering, he will make an enemy of him." "oh, father would just show him the door," said i, "without more ado." "yes, i fear so," replied ephraim. "and i am sure he is a good man, cary. a little rash and incautious, perhaps; does not take time to study character, and so forth; but i am sure he means to do right." "it will be a pity," said i. "ephraim, do you think the prince will march on london?" "i have not a doubt of it, cary." "oh!" said i. i don't quite know whether i felt more glad or sorry. "but you will not stay here if he do?" "yes, i think i shall," said he. "you will join the army?" "no, not unless i am pressed." i suppose my face asked another question, for he added with a smile, "i came to keep watch of--that. i must see that it is not spoiled." i wonder what _that_ is! if ephraim would tell me, i might take some care of it too. i should not like anything he cared for to be spoiled. as i sat in a corner afterwards, i was looking at him, and comparing him in my own mind with all the fine gentlemen in the chamber. ephraim was quite as handsome as any of them; but his clothes certainly had a country cut, and he did not show as easy manners as they. i am afraid grandmamma would say he had no manners. he actually put his hand out to save a tray when grandmamma's black boy, caesar, stumbled at the tiger-skin mat: and i am sure no other gentleman in the room would have condescended to see it. there are many little things by which it is easy to tell that ephraim has not been used to the best society. and yet, i could not help feeling that if i were ill and wanted to be helped up-stairs, or if i were wretched and wanted comforting, it would be ephraim to whom i should appeal, and not one of these fine gentlemen. they seemed only to be made for sunshine. he would wear, and stand rain. if hatty's "men" were all ephraims, there might be some sense in caring for their opinions. but these fellows--i really can't afford a better word--these "chiels with glasses in their e'en," as sam says, who seem to have no opinions beyond the colour of their coats and paying compliments to everything they see with a petticoat on--do they expect sensible women to care what they think? let them have a little more sense themselves first--that's what i say! i said so, one morning as we were dressing: and to my surprise, annas replied,-- "i fancy they have sense enough, cary, when there are no women in the room. they think we only care for nonsense." "yes, i expect that is it," added flora. i flew out. i could not stand that. what sort of women must their mothers and sisters be? "card-playing snuff-takers and giddy flirts," said annas. "be just to them, cary. if they never see women of any other sort, how are they to know that such are?" "poor wretches! do you think that possible. annas?" said i. "miserably possible," she said, very seriously. "in every human heart, cary, there is a place where the man or the woman dwells inside all the frippery and mannerism; the real creature itself, stripped of all disguises. dig down to that place if you want to see it." "i should think it takes a vast deal of digging!" "yes, in some people. but that is the thing god looks at: that is it for which christ died, and for which christ's servants ought to feel love and pity." i thought it would be terribly difficult to feel love or pity for some people! my uncle charles has just come in, and he says a rumour is flying that there has been a great battle near edinburgh, and that the prince (who was victorious) is marching on carlisle. flora went very white, and even annas set her lips: but i do not see what we have to fear--at least if angus and mr keith are safe. "charles," said grandmamma, "where are those white cockades we used to have?" "i haven't a notion, mother." nor had my aunt dorothea. but when perkins was asked, she said, "isn't it them, madam, as you pinned in a parcel, and laid away in the garret?" "oh, i dare say," said grandmamma. "fetch them down, and let us see if they are worth anything." so perkins fetched the parcel, and the cockades were looked over, and pronounced useable by torchlight, though too bad a colour for the day-time. "keep the packet handy, perkins," said grandmamma. "shall i give them out now, madam?" asked perkins. "oh, not yet!" said grandmamma. "wait till we see how things turn out. white soils so soon, too: we had much better go on with the black ones, at any rate, till the prince has passed bedford." it is wicked, i suppose, to despise one's elders. but is it not sometimes very difficult to help doing it? i have been reading over the last page or two that i writ, and i came on a line that set me thinking. things do set me thinking of late in a way they never used to do. it was that about ephraim's not being used to the best society. what is the best society? god and the angels; i suppose nobody could question that. yet, if an angel had been in grandmamma's rooms just then, would he not have cared more that caesar should not fall and hurt himself, and most likely be scolded as well, than that he should be thought to have fine easy manners himself? and i suppose the lord jesus died even for caesar, black though he be. well, then, the next best society must be those who are going to heaven: and ephraim is one of them, i believe. and those who are not going must be bad society, even if they are dressed up to the latest fashion-book, and have the newest and finest breeding at the tips of their fingers. the world seems to be turned round. ah, but what was that text mr whitefield quoted? "love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. if any man love the world, the love of the father is not in him. for all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, are not of the father, but are of the world." then must we turn the world round before we get things put straight? it looks like it. i have just been looking at another text, where saint paul gives a list of the works of the flesh; [note: galatians five to .] and i find, along with some things which everybody calls wicked, a lot of others which everybody in "the world" does, and never seems to think of as wrong. "hatred, variance, emulations, ... envyings, ... drunkenness, revellings, and such like:" and he says, "they which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of god." that is dreadful. i am afraid the world must be worse than i thought. i must take heed to my aunt kezia's rules--set the lord always before me, and remember that this world passeth away. i suppose the world will laugh at me, if i be not one of its people. what will that matter, if it passeth away? the angels will like me all the better: and they are the best society. and i was thinking the other night as i lay awake, what an awful thing it would be to hear the lord jesus, the very man who died for me, say, "depart from me!" i think i could stand the world's laughter, but i am sure i could never bear that. christ could help and comfort me if the world used me ill; but who could help me, or comfort me, when he had cast me out? there would be nothing to take refuge in--not even the world, for it would be done with then. oh, i do hope our saviour will never say that to me! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i seem bound to get into fights with miss newton. i do not mean quarrels, but arguments. she is a pleasant, good-humoured girl, but she has such queer ideas. i dare say she thinks i have. i do not know what my aunt kezia would say to her. she does not appear to see the right and wrong of things at all. it is only what people will think, and what one likes. if everybody did only what they liked,--is that proper grammar, i wonder? oh, well, never mind!--i think it would make the world a very disagreeable place to live in, and it is not too pleasant now. and as to people thinking, what on earth does it signify what they think, if they don't think right? if one person thinking that two and two make three does not alter the fact, why should ten thousand people thinking so be held to make any difference? how many simpletons does it take to be equal to a wise man? i wonder people do not see how ridiculous such notions are. we hear nothing at all from the north--the seat of war, as they begin to call it now. everybody supposes that the prince is marching southwards, and will be here some day before long. it diverts me exceedingly to sit every tuesday in a corner of the room, and watch the red ribbons disappearing and the white ones coming instead. grandmamma's two footmen, morris and dobson, have orders to take the black cockade out of their hats and clap on a white one, the minute they hear that the royal army enters middlesex. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ november nd. the prince has taken carlisle! it is said that he is marching on derby as fast as his troops can come. everybody is in a flutter. i can guess where father is, and how excited he will be. i know he would go to wait on his royal highness directly, and i should not wonder if a number of the officers are quartered at brocklebank--were, i should say. i almost wish we were there! but when i said so to ephraim, who comes every tuesday, such a strange look of pain came into his eyes, and he said, "don't, cary!" so sadly. i wonder what the next thing will be! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ after i had written this, came one of grandmamma's extra assemblies--oh, i should have altered my date! it is so troublesome--on thursday evening, and i looked round, and could not see one red ribbon that was not mixed with white. a great many wore plain white, and among them miss newton. i sat down by her. "how do you this evening, miss newton?" i mischievously asked. "i am so delighted to see you become a tory since i saw you last tuesday." "how do you know i was not one before?" asked she, laughing. "your ribbons were not," said i. "they were red on tuesday." "well, you ought to compliment me on the suddenness of my conversion," said she: "for i never was a trimmer. oh, how absurd it is to make ribbons and patches mean things! why should one not wear red and white just as one does green and blue?" "it would be a boon to some people, i am sure," said i. "perhaps we shall, some day, when the world has become sensible," said miss newton. "can you give me the date, madam?" it was a strange voice which asked this question. i looked up over my shoulder, and saw a man of no particular age, dressed in gown and cassock. [note .] miss newton looked up too, laughing. "indeed i cannot, mr raymond," said she. "can you?" "only by events," he answered. "i should expect it to be after the king has entered his capital." i felt, rather than saw, what he meant. "i am a poor hand at riddles," said miss newton, shaking her head. "i did not expect to see you here, mr raymond." "nor would you have seen me here," was the answer, "had i not been charged to deliver a message of grave import to one who is here." "not me, i hope?" said miss newton, looking graver. "not you. i trust you will thank god for it. and now, can you kindly direct me to the young lady for whom i am to look? is there here a miss flora drummond?" i sprang up with a smothered cry of "angus!" "are you miss drummond?" he asked, very kindly. "flora drummond is my cousin," i answered. "i will take you to her. but is it about angus?" "it is about her brother, lieutenant drummond. he is not killed--let me say so at once." we were pressing through the superb crowd, and the moment afterwards we reached flora. she was standing by a little table, talking with ephraim hebblethwaite, who spoke to mr raymond in a way which showed that they knew each other. flora just looked at him, and then said, quietly enough to all appearance, though she went very white-- "you have bad news for some one, and i think for me." "lieutenant drummond was severely wounded at prestonpans, and has fallen into the hands of the king's troops," said mr raymond, gently, as if he wished her to know the worst at once. "he is a prisoner now." flora clasped her hands with a long breath of pain and apprehension. "you are sure, sir? there is no mistake?" "i think, none," he replied. "i have the news from colonel keith." "if you heard it from him, it must be true," she said. "but is he in london?" "yes; and he ran some risk, as you may guess, to send that message to you." "duncan is always good," said flora, with tears in her eyes. "he was not hurt, i hope? will you see him again?" "he said he was not hurt worth mention." (i began to wonder what size of a hurt mr keith would think worth mention.) "yes, i shall see him again this evening or to-morrow." "oh, do give him the kindest words and thanks from me," said flora, commanding her voice with some difficulty. "i wish i could have seen him! let me tell annas--she may wish--" and away she went to fetch annas, while mr raymond looked after her with a look which i thought half sad and half diverted. "will you tell me," i said, "how mr keith ran any risk?" "why, you do not suppose, young lady, that london is in the hands of the rebels?" "the rebels!--oh, you are a whig; i see. but the prince is coming, and fast. is he not?" "not just yet, i think," said mr raymond, with an odd look in his eyes. "why, we hear it from all quarters," said i; "and the red ribbons are all getting white." mr raymond smiled. "rather a singular transformation, truly. but i think the ribbons will be well worn before the young chevalier reviews his army in hyde park." "i will not believe it!" cried i. "the prince must be victorious! god defends the right!" "god defends his own," said mr raymond. "do you see in history that he always defends the cause which you account to be right?" no; i could not say that. "how can you be an opponent of the cause?" i cried--i am afraid, shifting my ground. he smiled again. "i can well understand the attraction of the cause," said he, "to a young and enthusiastic nature. there is something very enticing in the son of an exiled prince, come to win back what he conceives to be the inheritance of his fathers. and in truth, if the old pretender were really the son of king james,--well, it might be more difficult to say what a man's duty would be in that case. but that, as you know, is thought by many to be at best very doubtful." "you do not believe he is?" cried i. "i do not believe it," said mr raymond. i wondered how he could possibly doubt it. "nor is that all that is to be considered," he went on. "i can tell you, young lady, if he were to succeed, we should all rue it bitterly before long. his triumph is the triumph of rome--the triumph of persecution and martyrdom and agony for god's people." "i know that," said i. "but right is right, for all that! the crown is his, not the elector's. on that principle, any man might steal money, if he meant to do good with it." "the crown is neither george's nor james's, as some think," said mr raymond, "but belongs to the people." who could have stood such a speech as that? "the people!" i cried. "the mob--the rabble--the crown is theirs! how can any man imagine such a thing?" "you forget, methinks, young lady," said mr raymond, as quietly as before, "that you are one of those of whom you speak." "i forget nothing of the kind," cried i, too angry to be civil. "of course i know i am one of the people. what do you mean? am i to maintain that black beetles are cherubim, because i am a black beetle? truth is truth. the crown is god's, not the people's. when he chose to make the present king--king james of course, not that wretched elector-- the son of his father, he distinctly told the people whom he wished them to have for their king. what right have they to dispute his ordinance?" i was quite beyond myself. i had forgotten where i was, and to whom i was talking--forgotten mr raymond, and angus, and flora, and even grandmamma. it seemed to me as if there were only two parties in the world, and on the one hand were god and the king, and on the other a miserable mass of silly nobodies called the people. how could such contemptible insects presume to judge for themselves, or to set their wills up in opposition to the will of him whom god had commanded them to obey? the softest, lightest of touches fell on my shoulder. i looked up into the grave grey eyes of annas keith. and feeling myself excessively rude and utterly extinguished,--(and yet, after all, right)--i slipped out of the group, and made my way into the farthest corner. mr raymond, of course, would think me no gentlewoman. well, it did not much matter what he thought; he was only a whig. and when the prince were actually come, which would be in a very few days at the furthest--then he would see which of us was right. meantime, i could wait. and the next minute i felt as if i could not wait--no, not another instant. "sit down, cary. you look tired," said ephraim beside me. "i am not a bit tired, thank you," said i, "but i am abominably angry." "nothing more tiring," said he. "what about?" "oh, don't make me go over it! i have been talking to a whig." "that means, i suppose, that the whig has been talking to you. which beat? i beg pardon--you did, of course." "i was right and he was wrong, if you mean that," said i. "but whether he thinks he is beaten--" "if he be an englishman, he does not," said ephraim. "particularly if he be a north country man." "i don't know what country he comes from," cried i. "i should like to make mincemeat of him." "indigestible," suggested ephraim, quite gravely. "ephraim, what are we to do for angus?" said i, as it came back to me: and i told him the news which mr raymond had brought. ephraim gave a soft whispered whistle. "you may well ask," said he. "i am afraid, cary, nothing can be done." "what will they do to him?" his face grew graver still. "you know," he said, in a low voice, "what they did to lord derwentwater. colonel keith had better lie close." "but that whig knows where he is!" cried i. "he--ephraim, do you know him?" "know whom, cary?" "mr raymond." "is he your whig?" asked ephraim, laughing. "pray, don't make him into mincemeat; he is one of the best men in england." "he need be," said i; "he is a horrid whig! what do you, being friends with such a man?" "he is a very good man, cary. he was one of my tutors at school. i never knew what his politics were before to-night." we were silent for a while; and then grandmamma sent for me, not, as i feared, to scold me for being loud-spoken and warm, but to tell me that one of my lappets hung below the other, and i must make perkins alter it before tuesday. i do not know how i bore the rest of the evening. when i went up at last to our chamber, i found it empty. lucette, grandmamma's french woman, who waits on her, while perkins is rather my aunt dorothea's and ours, came in to tell me that perkins was gone to bed with a headache, and hoped that we would allow her to wait on us to-night, when she was dismissed by the elder ladies. "oh, i want no waiting at all," said i, "if somebody will just take the pins out of my head-dress carefully. do that, lucette, and then i shall need nothing else, i cannot speak for the other young ladies." lucette threw a wrapping-cape over my shoulders, and began to remove the pins with deft fingers. grandmamma had not yet come up-stairs. "mademoiselle agnes looks charmante to-night," said she: "but then she is always charmante. but what has mademoiselle flore? so white, so white she is! i saw her through the door." i told her that flora's brother had been taken prisoner. "ah, this horrible war!" cried she. "can the grands seigneurs not leave alone the wars? or else fight out their quarrels their own selves?" "oh, the prince will soon be here," said i, "and then it will all be over." "all be over? ah, _sapristi_! mademoiselle does not know. the prince means the priests: and the priests mean--_bon_! have i not heard my grandmother tell?" "tell what, lucette? i thought you were a papist, like all frenchwomen." "a catholic--i? why then came my grandfather to this country, and my father, and all? does mademoiselle suppose they loved better spitalfields than blois? should they then leave a country where the sun is glorious and the vines _ravissantes_, for this black cold place where the sun shine once a year? _vraiment! serait-il possible_?" i laughed. "the sun shines oftener in cumberland, lucette. i won't defend spitalfields. but i want to know what your grandmother told you about the priests." "the priests have two sides, mademoiselle. on the one is the confessional: you must go--you shall not choose. you kneel; you speak out all--every thought in your heart, every secret of your dearest friend. you may not hide one little thought. the priest hears you hesitate? the questions come:--mademoiselle, terrible questions, questions i could not ask, nor you understand. you learn to understand them. they burn up your heart, they drag down to hell your soul. that is one side." "would they see me there twice!" said i. "then, if not so, there is the other side. the chains, the torture-irons, the fire. you can choose, so: you tell, or you die. there is no more choice. does mademoiselle wonder that we came?" "no, indeed, lucette. how could i? but that was in france. this is england. we are a different sort of people here." "you--yes. but the church and the priests are the same everywhere. everywhere! may the good god keep them from us!" "why, lucette! you are praying against the prince, if it be as you say!" "ah! would i then do harm to _monseigneur le prince_? let him leave there the priests, and none shall be more glad to see him come than i. i love the right, always. but the priests! no, no." "but if it be right, lucette?" "the good god knows what is right. but, mademoiselle, can it be right to bring in the priests and the confessions?" "is it not god who brings them, lucette? we only bring the king. if the king choose to bring the priests--" "ah! then the lord will bring the fires. but the lord bring the priests! the lord shut up the preches and set up the mass? the lord burn his poor servants, and clothe the servants of satan in gold and scarlet? the lord forbid his word, and set up images? _comment_, mademoiselle! it would not be possible." "but, lucette, the king has the right." "the lord christ has the right," said lucette, solemnly. "is it not he whose right it is? mademoiselle, he stands before the king!" we heard grandmamma saying good-night to my uncle charles at the foot of the stairs, and lucette ran off to her chamber. i felt more plagued than ever. what _is_ right? just then annas and flora came up; annas grave but composed, flora with a white face and red eyes. "o cary, cary!" she came and put her arms round me. "pray for angus; we shall never see him again. and he is not ready--he is not ready." "my poor flora!" i said, and i did my best to soothe her. but annas did better. "the lord can make him ready," she said. "he healed the paralytic man, dear, as some have it, entirely for the faith of them that bore him. and surely the daughter of the canaanitish woman could have no faith herself." "pray for him, annas!" sobbed flora. "you have more faith than i." "i am not so hard tried--yet," was the grave reply. "you do not think mr keith in danger?" said i. "i think the lord sitteth above the water-floods, cary; and i would rather not look lower. not till i must, and that may be very soon." "annas," said i, "i wish you would tell me what right is. i do get so puzzled." "what puzzles you, cary? right is what god wills." "but would the prince not have the right, if god did not will him to succeed?" "the lawgiver can always repeal his own laws. we in the crowd, cary, can only judge when they be repealed by hearing him decree something contrary to them. and there are no precedents in that court. `whatsoever the lord pleased, that did he.' we can only wait and see. until we do see it, we must follow our last orders." "my father says," added flora, "that this question was made harder than it need have been, by the throwing out of the exclusion bill. the house of commons passed it, but the bishops and lord halifax threw it out; if that had been passed, making it impossible for a papist to be king, then king james would never have come to the throne at all, and all the troubles and persecutions of his reign would not have happened. that, my father says, was where they went wrong." "well," said i, "it does look like it. but how queer that the bishops should be the people to go wrong!" annas laughed. "you will find that nothing new, cary, if you search," said she. "`they that lead thee cause thee to err' is as old a calamity as the prophets. and where priests or would-be priests are the leaders, they very generally do go wrong." "i wish," said i, "there were a few more `thou shalt nots' in the bible." "have you finished obeying all there are?" i considered that question with one sleeve off. "well, no, i suppose not," i said at length, pulling off the other. annas smiled gravely, and said no more. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ glorious news! the prince is at derby. i am sure there is no more need to fear for angus. his royal highness will be here in a very few days now: and then let the whigs look to themselves! grandmamma has bought some more white cockades. she says hatty has improved wonderfully; her cheeks are not so shockingly red, and she speaks better, and has more decent manners. she thinks the crosslands have done her a great deal of good. i thought hatty looking not at all well the last time she was here; and so grave for her--almost sad. and i am afraid the crosslands, or somebody, have done her a great deal of bad. but somehow, hatty is one of those people whom you cannot question unless she likes. something inside me will not put the questions. i don't know what it is. i wish i knew everything! if i could only understand myself, i should get on better. and how am i going to understand other people? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . a clergyman always wore his cassock at this time. whitefield was very severe on those worldly clergy who laid it aside, and went "disguised"--namely, in the ordinary coat--to entertainments of various kinds. chapter ten. spiders' webs. "why does he find so many tangled threads, so many dislocated purposes, so many failures in the race of life?" rev horatius bonar, d.d. we had a grand time of it last night, to celebrate the prince's entry into derby. i did not see one red ribbon. grandmamma is very much put out at the forbidding of french cambrics; she says nobody will be able to have a decent ruffle or a respectable handkerchief now: but what can you expect of these hanoverians? and i am sure she looked smart enough last night. we had dancing--first, the minuet, and then a round--"pepper's black," and then "dull sir john," and a country dance, "smiling polly." flora would not dance, and grandmamma excused her, because she was a minister's daughter: grandmamma always says a clergyman when she tells people: she says minister is a low word only used by dissenters, and she does not want people to know that any guest of hers has any connection with those creatures. "however, thank heaven! (says she) the girl is not my grand-daughter!" i don't know what she would say if i were to turn dissenter. i suppose she would cut me off with a shilling. ephraim said so, and i asked him what it meant. shillings are not very sharp, and what was i to be cut off? ephraim seemed excessively amused. "you are too good, cary," said he. "did you think the shilling was a knife to cut you off something? it means she will only leave you a shilling in her will." "well, that will be a shilling more than i expect," said i: and ephraim went off laughing. i asked miss newton, as she seemed to know him, who mr raymond was. she says he is the lecturer at saint helen's, and might have been a decent man if that horrid creature mr wesley had not got hold of him. "oh, do you know anything about mr wesley, or mr whitefield?" cried i. "are they in london now?" if i could hear them again! "i am sure i cannot tell you," said miss newton, laughing. "i have heard my father speak of them with some very strong language after it-- that i know. my dear miss courtenay, does everything rouse your enthusiasm? for how you can bring that brilliant light into your eyes for the prince, and for mr wesley, is quite beyond me. i should have thought they were the two opposite ends of a pole." "i don't know anything about mr wesley," i said, "and i have only heard mr whitefield preach once in scotland." "you have heard him?" she asked. "yes, and liked him very much," said i. miss newton shrugged her shoulders in that little french way she has. "why, some people think him the worse of the two," she said. "i don't know anything about them, i can tell you--only that mr wesley makes dissenters faster than you could make tatting-stitches." "what does he do to them?" said i. "i don't know, and i don't want to know," said she. "if he had lived in former times, i am sure he would have been taken up for witchcraft. he is a clergyman, or they say so; but i really wonder the bishops have not turned him out of the church long ago." "a clergyman, and makes people dissenters!" cried i. "why, mr whitefield quoted the articles in his sermon." "they said so," she replied. "i know nothing about it; i never heard the man, thank heaven! but they say he goes about preaching to all sorts of dreadful creatures--those wild miners down in cornwall, and coal-heavers, and any sort of mobs he can get to listen. only fancy a clergyman--a gentleman--doing any such thing!" i thought a moment, and some words came to my mind. "do you think mr wesley was wrong?" i said. "`the common people heard him gladly.' and i suppose you would not say that our lord was not a gentleman." "dear miss courtenay, forgive me, but what very odd things you say! and--excuse me--don't you know it is not thought at all good taste to quote the bible in polite society?" "is the bible worse off for that?" said i. "or is it the polite society? the best society, i suppose, ought to be in heaven: and i fancy they do not shut out the bible there. what think you?" "are you very innocent?" she answered, laughing; "or are you only making believe? you must know, surely, that religion is not talked about except from the pulpit, and on sundays." "but can we all be sure of dying on a sunday?" i answered. "we shall want religion then, shall we not?" "hush! we don't talk of dying either--it is too shocking!" "but don't we do it sometimes?" i said. miss newton looked as if she did not know whether to laugh or be angry-- certainly very much disturbed. "let us talk of something more agreeable, i beg," said she. "see, miss bracewell is going to sing." "oh, she will sing nothing worth listening to," said i. "i suppose you think only methodist hymns worth listening to," responded miss newton, rather sneeringly. i don't like to be sneered at. i suppose nobody does. but it does not make me feel timid and yield, as it seems to do many: it only makes me angry. "well," said i, "listen how much this is worth." amelia drew off her gloves with a listless air which i believe she thought exceedingly genteel. i cannot undertake to describe her song: it was one of those queer lackadaisical ditties which always remind me of those tunes which go just where you don't expect them to go, and end nowhere. i hate them. and i don't like the songs much better. of course there was a lady wringing her hands--why do people in ballads wring their hands so much? i never saw anybody do it in my life--and a cavalier on a coal-black steed, and a silvery moon; what would become of the songwriters if there were no moon and no sea?--and "she sat and wailed," and he did something or other, i could not exactly hear what; and at last he, or she, or both of them (only that would not suit the grammar) "was at rest," and i was thankful to hear it, for amelia stopped singing. "how sweet and sad!" said miss newton. "do you like that kind of song? i think it is rubbish." she laughed with that little deprecating air which she often uses to me. i looked up to see who was going to sing next: and to my extreme surprise, and almost equal pleasure, i saw annas sit down to the harp. "oh, miss keith is going to sing!" cried i. "i should like to hear hers." "a scottish ballad, no doubt," replied miss newton. there was a soft, low, weird-like prelude: and then came a voice like that of a thrush, at which every other in the room seemed to hush instinctively. each word was clear. this was annas's song. "she said,--`we parted for a while, but we shall meet again ere long; i work in lowly, lonely room, and he amid the foreign throng: but here i willingly abide,-- here, where i see the other side. "`look to those hills which reach away beyond the sea that rolls between; here from my casement, day by day, their happy summits can be seen: happy, although they us divide,-- i know he sees the other side. "`the days go on to make the year-- a year we must be parted yet-- i sing amid my crosses light, for on those hills mine eyes are set: you say, those hills our eyes divide? ay, but he sees the other side! "`so these dividing hills become our point of meeting, every eve; up to the hills we look and pray and love--our work so soon we leave; and then no more shall aught divide-- we dwell upon the other side.'" "pretty!" said miss newton, in the tone which people use when they do not think a thing pretty, but fancy that you expect them to say so: "but not so charming as miss bracewell's song." "wait," said i; "she has not finished yet." the harp was speaking now--in a sad low voice, rising gradually to a note of triumph. then it sank low again, and annas's voice continued the song. "she said,--`we parted for a while, but we shall meet again ere long; i dwell in lonely, lowly room, and he hath joined the heavenly throng: yet here i willingly abide, for yet i see the other side. "`i look unto the hills of god beyond the life that rolls between; here from my work by faith each day their blessed summits can be seen; blessed, although they us divide,-- i know he sees the other side. "`the days go on, the days go on,-- through earthly life we meet not yet; i sing amid my crosses light, for on those hills mine eyes are set: 'tis true, those hills our eyes divide-- ay, but he sees the other side! "`so the eternal hills become our point of meeting, every eve; up to the hills i look and pray and love--soon all my work i leave: and then no more shall aught divide-- we dwell upon the other side.'" i turned to miss newton with my eyes full, as annas rose from the harp. the expression of her face was a curious mixture of feelings. "was ever such a song sung in mrs desborough's drawing-room!" she cried. "she will think it no better than a methodist hymn. i am afraid miss keith has done herself no good with her hostess." "but grandmamma would never--" i said, hesitatingly. "annas keith's connections are--" "i advise you not to be too sure what she could never," answered miss newton, with a little capable nod. "mrs desborough would scarce be civil to the princess herself if she sang a pious song in her drawing-room on a reception evening." "but it was charming!" i said. miss newton shrugged her shoulders. "the same things do not charm everybody," said she. "it seemed to me no better than that methodist doggerel. the latter half, at least; the beginning promised better." when we went up to bed, annas came to me as i stood folding my shoulder-knots, and laid a hand on each of my shoulders from behind. "cary, we must say `good-bye,' i think. i scarce expected it. but mrs desborough's face, when my song was ended, had `good-bye' in it." "o annas!" said i. "surely she would never be angry with you for a mere song! your connections are so good, and grandmamma thinks so much of connections." "if my song had only had a few wicked words in it," replied annas, with that slight curl of her lip which i was learning to understand, "i dare say she would have recovered it by to-morrow. and if my connections had been poor people,--or better, whigs,--or better still, disreputable rakes--she might have got over that. but a pious song, and a sisterly connection of spirit with mr whitefield and the scottish covenanters. no, cary, she will not survive that. i never yet knew a worldly woman forgive that one crime of crimes--calvinism. anything else! don't you see why, my dear? it sets her outside. and she knows that i know she is outside. therefore i am unforgivable. however absurd the idea may be in reality, it is to her mind equivalent to my setting her outside. she is unable to recognise that she has chosen to stay without, and i am guilty of nothing worse than unavoidably seeing that she is there. that i should be able to see it is unpardonable. i am sorry it should have happened just now; but i suppose it was to be." "are you going to tell her so?" i asked, wondering what annas meant. "i expect she will tell me before to-morrow is over," said annas, with a peculiar smile. "but what made you choose that song, then? i thought it so pretty." "i chose the one i knew, to which i supposed she would object the least," replied annas. "she asked me to sing." when we came down to breakfast, the next morning, i felt that something was in the air. grandmamma sat so particularly straight up, and my aunt dorothea looked so prim, and my uncle charles fidgetted about between the fire and the window, like a man who knew of something coming which he wanted to have over. my aunt dorothea poured the chocolate in silence. when all were served, grandmamma took a pinch of snuff. "miss keith!" "madam!" "do you think the air of the isle of wight wholesome at this season of the year?" "so much so, madam, that i am inclined to propose we should resume our journey thither." grandmamma took another pinch. "i will beg you, then, to make my compliments to sir james, and tell him how much entertained i have been by your visit, and especially by your performance on the harp. you have a fine finger, miss keith, and your choice of a song is unexceptionable." "i thank you for the compliment, madam, which i shall be happy to make to sir james." there was nothing but dead silence after that until breakfast was over. when we were back in our room, i broke down. to lose both annas and flora was too much. "o annas! why did you take the bull by the horns?" i cried. she laughed. "it is always the best way, cary, when you see him put his head down!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ annas and flora are gone, and i feel like one shipwrecked. i wander about the house, and do not know what to do. i might read, but grandmamma has no books except dreary romances in huge volumes, which date, i suppose, from the time when she was a girl at school; and my uncle charles has none but books about farming and etiquette. i have looked up and mended all my clothes, and cannot find any sewing to do. i wrote to sophy only last week, and they will not expect another letter for a while. i wish something pleasant would happen. the only thing i can think of to do is to go in a chair to visit hatty and the bracewells, and i am afraid that would be something unpleasant. i have not spoken to mr crossland, but i do not like the look of him; and mrs crossland is a stranger, and i am tired of strangers. they so seldom seem to turn out pleasant people. just as i had written that, as if to complete my vexation, my aunt dorothea looked in and told me to put on my cherry satin this evening, for sir anthony and my lady parmenter were expected. if there be a creature i particularly wish not to see, he is sure to come! i wish i knew why things are always going wrong in this world! there are two or three people that i would give a good deal for, and i am quite sure they will not be here; and i should think cecilia dear at three-farthings, with sir anthony thrown in for the penny. i wish i were making jumballs in the kitchen at brocklebank, and could have a good talk with my aunt kezia afterwards! somehow, i never cared much about it when i could, and now that i cannot, i feel as if i would give anything for it. are things always like that? does nothing in this world ever happen just as one would like it in every point? in my cherry-coloured satin, with white shoulder-knots, a blue pompoon in my hair, and my new hoop (i detest these hoops; they are horrid), i came down to the withdrawing room, and cast my eye round the chamber. grandmamma, in brocaded black silk, sat where she always does, at the side of the fire, and my uncle charles--who for a wonder was at home-- and my aunt dorothea were receiving the people as they came in. the bracewells were there already, and hatty, and mr crossland, and a middle-aged lady, who i suppose was his mother, and miss newton, and a few more whose faces and names i know. sir anthony and my lady parmenter came in just after i got there. what has come over hatty? she does not look like the same girl. grandmamma can never talk of her glazed red cheeks now. she is whiter almost than i am, and so thin! i am quite sure she is either ill, or unhappy, or both. but i cannot ask her, for somehow we never meet each other except for a minute. several times i have thought, and the thought grows upon me, that somebody does not want hatty and me to have a quiet talk with each other. at first i thought it was hatty who kept away from me herself, but i am beginning to think now that somebody else is doing it. i do not trust that young mr crossland, not one bit. yet, why he should wish to keep us apart, i cannot even imagine. i made up my mind to get hold of hatty and ask her when she were going home; i think she would be safer there than here. but it was a long, long while before i could reach her. so many people seemed to be hemming her in. i sat on an ottoman in the corner, watching my opportunity, when all at once a voice called me back to something else. "dear little cary, i have been so wishing for a chat with you." hatty used to say that you may always know something funny is coming when you see a cat wag her tail. i had come to the conclusion that whenever one person addressed me with endearing phrases, something sinister was coming. i looked up this time: i did not courtesy and walk away, as i did on the last occasion. i wanted to avoid an open quarrel. if she had sought me out after that, i could not avoid it. but to speak to me as if nothing had happened!--how could the woman be so brazen as that? i looked up, and saw a large gold-coloured fan, most beautifully painted with birds of all the hues of the rainbow, from over which those tawny eyes were glancing at me; and for one moment i wished that hating people were not wicked. "for what purpose, madam?" i replied. "dear child, you are angry with me," she said, and the soft, warm, gloved hand pressed mine, before i could draw it away. "it is so natural, for of course you do not understand. but it makes me very sorry, for i loved you so much." o serpent, how beautiful you are! but you are a serpent still. "did you?" i said, and my voice sounded hard and cold to my own ears. "i take the liberty of doubting whether you and i give that name to the same thing." the light gleamed and flashed, softened and darkened, then shot out again from those wonderful, beautiful eyes. "and you won't forgive me?" she said, in a soft sad voice. how she can govern that voice, to be sure! "forgive you? yes," i answered. "but trust you? no. i think never again, my lady parmenter." "you will be sorry some day that you did not." was it a regret? was it a threat? the voice conveyed neither, and might have stood for both. i looked up again, but she had vanished, and where she had been the moment before stood mr raymond. "a penny for your thoughts, miss courtenay." "you shall have my past thoughts, if you please," said i, trying to speak lightly. "i would rather not sell my present ones at the price." he smiled, and drew out a new penny. "then let me make the less valuable purchase." even mr raymond was a welcome change from her. "then tell me, mr raymond," said i, "do things ever happen exactly as one wishes them to do?" "once in a thousand times, perhaps," said he. "i should imagine, though, that the occasion usually comes after long waiting and bitter pain. generally there is something to remind us that this is not our rest." "why?" i said, and i heard my soul go into the word. "why not?" answered he, pithily. "is the servant so much greater than his lord that he may reasonably look for things to be otherwise? cast your mind's eye over the life of christ our master, and see on how many occasions matters happened in a way which you would suppose entirely to his liking? can you name one?" i thought, and could not see anything, except when he did a miracle, or when he spent a night in prayer to god. "i give you those nights of prayer," said mr raymond. "but i think you must yield me the miracles. unquestionably it must have given him pleasure to relieve pain; but see how much pain to himself was often mixed in it!--`looking up to heaven, he sighed' ere he did one; he wept, just before performing another; he cried, `how long shall i be with you, and suffer you!' ere he worked a third. no, miss courtenay, the miracles of our divine master were not all pleasure to himself. indeed, i should be inclined to venture further, and ask if we have no hint that they were wrought at a considerable cost to himself. he `took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses'; he knew when `virtue had gone out of him.' that may mean only that his divine knowledge was conscious of it; but taking both passages together, is it not possible that his wonderful works were wrought at personal expense--that his human body suffered weakness, faintness, perhaps acute pain, as the natural consequence of doing them? you will understand that i merely throw out the hint. scripture does not speak decisively; and where god does not decide, it is well for men to be cautious." "mr raymond," i exclaimed, "how can you be a whig?" "pardon me, but what is the connection?" asked he, looking both astonished and diverted. "don't you see it? you are much too good for one." mr raymond laughed. "thank you; i fear i did not detect the compliment. may i put the counter question, and ask how you came to be a tory?" "why, i was born so," said i. "and so was i a whig," replied he. "excuse me!" came laughingly from my other hand, in miss newton's voice. "the waters are not quite so smooth as they were, and i thought i had better be at hand to pour a little oil if necessary. mr raymond, i am afraid you are getting worldly. is that not the proper word?" "it is the proper word for an improper thing," said mr raymond. "on what evidence do you rest your accusation, miss theresa?" "on the fact that you have twice in one week made your appearance in mrs desborough's rooms, which are the very pink of worldliness." "have i come without reason?" "you have not given it me," said the young lady, laughing. "you cannot always come to tell one of the guests that his (or her) relations have been taken prisoner." i looked up so suddenly that mr raymond answered my eyes before he replied to miss newton's words. "no, miss courtenay, i did not come with ill news. i suppose a man may have two reasons at different times for the same action?" "where is our handsome friend of the dreadful name?" asked miss newton. "mr hebblethwaite? he told me he could not be here this evening." "that man will have to change his name before anybody will marry him," said miss newton. "then, if he takes my advice, he will continue in single blessedness," was mr raymond's answer. "now, why?" "do you not think it would be preferable to marrying a woman whose regard for you was limited by the alphabet?" "mr raymond, you and miss courtenay do say such odd things! is that because you are religious people?" oh, what a strange feeling came over me when miss newton said that! what made her count me a "religious person"? am i one? i should not have dared to say it. i should like to be so; i am afraid to go further. to reckon myself one would be to sign my name as a queen, and i am not sufficiently sure of my royal blood to do it. but what had i ever said to miss newton that she should entertain such an idea? mr raymond glanced at me with a brotherly sort of smile, which i wished from my heart that i deserved, (for all he is a whig!) and was afraid i did not. then he said,-- "religious people, i believe, are often very odd things in the eyes of irreligious people. do you count yourself among the latter class, miss theresa?" "oh, i don't make any profession," said she. "i have but one life, and i want to enjoy it." "that is exactly my position," said mr raymond, smiling. "now, what do you mean?" demanded she. "don't the methodists label everything `wicked' that one wants to do?" "`one' sometimes means another," replied mr raymond, with a funny look in his eyes. "they do not put that label on anything i want to do. i cannot answer for other people." "i am sure they would put it on a thousand things that i should," said miss newton. "am i to understand that speaks badly for them?--or for you?" "mr raymond! you know i make no profession of religion. i think it is much better to be free." the look in mr raymond's eyes seemed to me very like divine compassion. "miss theresa, your remark makes me ask two questions: do you suppose that `making no profession' will excuse you to the lord? does your bible read, `he that maketh no profession shall be saved'? and also-- are you free?" "am i free? why, of course i am!" she cried. "i can do what i like, without asking leave of priest or minister." "god forbid that you should ask leave of priest or minister! but i can do what i like, also. what the lord likes, i like. no priest on earth shall come between him and me." "that sounds very grand, mr raymond. but just listen to me. i know a young gentlewoman who says the same thing. she is dead against everything which she thinks to be popery. submit to the pope?--no, not for a moment! but this dear creature has a pet minister, who is to her exactly what the pope is to his subjects. she won't dance, because mr gardiner disapproves of it; she can't sing a song, of the most innocent sort, because mr gardiner thinks songs naughty; she won't do this, and she can't go there, because mr gardiner says this and that. now, what do you call that?" "human nature, miss theresa. depend upon it, popery would never have the hold it has if there were not in it something very palatable to human nature. human nature is of two varieties, and satan's two grand masterpieces appeal to both. to the proud man, who is a law unto himself, he brings infidelity as the grand temptation: `ye shall be as gods'--`yea, hath god said?'--and lastly, `there is no god.' to the weaker nature, which demands authority to lean on, he brings popery, offering to decide for you all the difficult questions of heart and life with authority--offering you the romantic fancy of a semi-goddess in its worship of the virgin, in whose gentle bosom you may repose every trouble, and an infallible church which can set everything right for you. now just notice how far god's religion is from both. it does not say, `ye shall be as gods;' but, `this man receiveth sinners': not, `hath god said?' but, `thus saith the lord.' turn to the other side, and instead of your compassionate goddess, it offers you jesus, the god-man, able to succour them that are tempted, in that he himself hath suffered being tempted. infallibility, too, it offers you, but not resident in a man, nor in a body of men. it resides in a book, which is not the word of man, but the word of god, and effective only when it is interpreted and applied by the living spirit, whose guidance may be had by the weakest and poorest child that will ask god for him." "we are not in church, my dear mr raymond!" said miss newton, shrugging her shoulders. "if you preach over the hour, mrs desborough will be sending caesar to show you the clock." "i have not exceeded it yet, i think," said mr raymond. "well, i wish you would talk to eliza wilkinson instead of me. she says she has been--is `converted' the word? i am ill up in methodist terms. and ever since she is converted, or was converted, she does not commit sin. i wish you would talk to her." "i am not fit to talk to such a seraph. i am a sinner." "oh, but i think there is some distinction, which i do not properly understand. she does not wilfully sin; and as to those little things which everybody does, that are not quite right, you know,--well, they don't count for anything. she is a child of god, she says, and therefore he will not be hard upon her for little nothings. is that your creed, mr raymond?" "do you know the true name of that creed, miss theresa?" "dear, no! i understand nothing about it." mr raymond's voice was very solemn: "`so hast thou also them that hold the doctrine of the nicolaitanes, _which thing i hate_.' `turning the grace of our god into lasciviousness.' antinomianism is the name of it. it has existed in the church of god from a date, you see, earlier than the close of the inspired canon. essentially the same thing survives in the popish church, under the name of mortal and venial sins; and it creeps sooner or later into every denomination, in its robes of an angel of light. but it belongs to the darkness. sin! do we know the meaning of that awful word? i believe none but god knows rightly what sin is. but he who does not know something of what sin is can have very poor ideas of the christ who saves from sin. he does not save men in sin, but from sin: not only from penalty,--from sin. christ is not dead, but alive. and sin is not a painted plaything, but a deadly poison. god forgive them who speak lightly of it!" i do not know what miss newton said to this, for at that minute i caught sight of hatty in a corner, alone, and seized my opportunity at once. threading my way with some difficulty among bewigged and belaced gentlemen, and ladies with long trains and fluttering fans, i reached my sister, and sat down by her. "hatty," said i, "i hardly ever get a word with you. how long do you stay with the crosslands?" "i do not know, cary," she answered, looking down, and playing with her fan. "do you know that you look very far from well?" "there are mirrors in charles street," she replied, with a slight curl of her lip. "hatty, are those people kind to you?" i said, thinking i had better, like annas, take the bull by the horns. "i suppose so. they mean to be. let it alone, cary; you are not old enough to interfere--hardly to understand." "i am only eighteen months younger than you," said i. "i do not wish to interfere, hatty; but i do want to understand. surely your own sister may be concerned if she see you looking ill and unhappy." "do i look so, cary?" i thought, from the tone, that hatty was giving way a little. "you look both," i said. "i wish you would come here." "do you wish it, cary?" the tone now was very unlike hatty. "indeed i do, hatty," said i, warmly. "i don't half believe in those people in charles street; and as to amelia and charlotte, i doubt if either of them would see anything, look how you might." "oh, charlotte is not to blame; thoughtlessness is her worst fault," said hatty, still playing with her fan. "and somebody is to blame? is it amelia?" "i did not say so," was the answer. "no," i said, feeling disappointed; "i cannot get you to say anything. hatty, i do wish you would trust me. nobody here loves you except me." "you did not love me much once, cary." "oh, i get vexed when you tease me, that is all," said i. "but i want you to look happier, hatty, dear." "i should not tease you much now, cary." i looked up, and saw that hatty's eyes were full of tears. "do come here, hatty!" i said, earnestly. "grandmamma has not asked me," she replied. "then i will beg her to ask you. i think she will. she said the other day that you were very much improved." "at all events, my red cheeks and my plough-boy appetite would scarcely distress her now," returned hatty, rather bitterly. "mr crossland is coming for me--i must go." and while she held my hand, i was amazed to hear a low whisper, in a voice of unutterable longing,--"cary, pray for me!" that horrid mr crossland came up and carried her off. poor dear hatty! i am sure something is wrong. and somehow, i think i love her better since i began to pray for her, only that was not last night, as she seemed to think. this morning at breakfast, i asked grandmamma if she would do me a favour. "yes, child, if it be reasonable," said she. "what would you have?" "please, grandmamma, will you ask hatty to come for a little while? i should so like to have her; and i cannot talk to her comfortably in a room full of people." grandmamma took a pinch of snuff, as she generally does when she wants to consider a minute. "she is very much improved," said she. "she really is almost presentable. i should not feel ashamed, i think, of introducing her as my grand-daughter. well, cary, if you wish it, i do not mind. you are a tolerably good girl, and i do not object to give you a pleasure. but it must be after she has finished her visit to the crosslands. i could not entice her away." "i asked her how long she was going to stay there, grandmamma, and she said she did not know." "then, my dear, you must wait till she do." [note .] but what may happen before then? i knew it would be of no use to say any more to grandmamma: she is a perfect mede and persian when she have once declared her royal pleasure. and my aunt dorothea will never interfere. my uncle charles is the only one who dare say another word, and it was a question if he would. he is good-natured enough, but so careless that i could not feel at all certain of enlisting him. oh dear! i do feel to be growing so old with all my cares! it seems as if hatty, and annas, and flora, and angus, and colonel keith, and the prince,--i beg his pardon, he should have come first,--were all on my shoulders at once. and i don't feel strong enough to carry such a lot of people. i wish my aunt kezia was here. i have wished it so many times lately. when i had written so far, i turned back to look at my aunt kezia's rules. and then i saw how foolish i am. why, instead of putting the lord first, i had been leaving him out of the whole thing. could he not carry all these cares for me? did he not know what ailed hatty, and how to deliver angus, and all about it? i knelt down there and then (i always write in my own chamber), and asked him to send hatty to me, and better still, to bring her to him; and to show me whether i had better speak to my uncle charles, or try to get things out of amelia. as to charlotte, i would not ask her about anything which i did not care to tell the town crier. the next morning--(there, my dates are getting all wrong again! it is no use trying to keep them straight)--as my uncle charles was putting on his gloves to go out, he said,-- "well, cary, shall i bring you a fairing of any sort?" "uncle charles," i said, leaping to a decision at once, "do bring me hatty! i am sure she is not happy. do get grandmamma to let her come now." "not happy!" cried my uncle charles, lifting his eyebrows. "why, what is the matter with the girl? can't she get married? time enough, surely." oh dear, how can men be so silly! but i let it pass, for i wanted hatty to come, much more than to make my uncle charles sensible. in fact, i am afraid the last would take too much time and labour. there, now, i should not have said that. "won't you try, uncle charles? i do want her so much." "child, i cannot interfere with my mother. ask hatty to spend the day. then you can have a talk with her." "uncle, please, will you ask grandmamma?" "if you like," said he, with a laugh. i heard no more about it till supper-time, when my uncle charles said, as if it had just occurred to him (which i dare say it had),--"madam, i think this little puss is disappointed that hatty cannot come at once. might she not spend the day here? it would be a treat for both girls." grandmamma's snuff-box came out as usual. i sat on thorns, while she rapped her box, opened it, took a pinch, shut the box with a snap, and consigned it to her pocket. "yes," she said, at last. "dorothea, you can send caesar with a note." "oh, thank you, grandmamma!" cried i. grandmamma looked at me, and gave an odd little laugh. "these fresh girls!" she said, "how they do care about things, to be sure!" "grandmamma, is it pleasanter not to care about things?" said i. "it is better, my dear. to be at all warm or enthusiastic betrays under-breeding." "but--please, grandmamma--do not well-bred people get very warm over politics?" "sometimes well-bred people forget themselves," said grandmamma, "but it is more allowable to be warm over some matters than others. politics are to some degree an exception. we do not make exhibitions of our personal affections, caroline, and above all things we avoid showing warmth on religious questions. we do not talk of such things at all in good society." now--i say this to my book, of course, not to grandmamma--is not that very strange? we are not to be warm over the most important things, matters of life and death, things we really care about in our inmost hearts: but over all the little affairs that we do not care about, we may lose our tempers a little (in an elegant and reasonable way) if we choose to do so. would it not be better the other way about? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the use of the subjunctive with _when_ and _until_, now obsolete, was correct english until the present century was some thirty years old. chapter eleven. cary in a new character. "god has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear." browning. i feel more and more certain that something is wrong in charles street. the invitation is declined, not by hatty herself, but in a note from mrs crossland: "miss hester courtenay has so sad a catarrh that it will not be safe for her to venture out for some days to come." [note .] "why, cary, that is a disappointment for you," said my uncle charles, kindly. "i think, madam, as hester cannot come, mrs crossland might have offered a counter-invitation to caroline." "it would have been well-bred," said grandmamma. "mrs crossland is not very well connected. she was the daughter or niece of an archdeacon, i believe; rather raised by her marriage. i am sorry you are disappointed, child." this was a good deal for grandmamma to say, and i thanked her. well, one thing had failed me; i must try another. at the next evening assembly i watched my chance, and caught charlotte in a corner. i asked how hatty was. "hatty?" said charlotte, looking surprised. "she is well enough, for aught i know." "i thought she had a bad catarrh?" said i. "didn't know she had one. she is going to my lady milworth's assembly with mrs crossland." i felt more sure of ill-play than ever, but to charlotte i said no more. the next person whom i pinned to the wall was amelia. with her i felt more need of caution in one sense, for i did not know how far she might be in the plot, whatever it was. that no living mortal with any shadow of brains would have trusted charlotte with a secret, i felt as sure as i did that my ribbons were white, and not red. "emily," i said, "why did not hatty come with you to-night?" "i did not ask," was amelia's languid answer. i do think she gets more and more limp and unstarched as time goes on. "is she better?" "what is the matter with her?" amelia's eyes betrayed no artifice. "a catarrh, i understand." "oh, you heard that from miss newton. the newtons asked her for an assembly, and mrs crossland did not want to give up my lady milworth, so she sent word hatty had a catarrh, i believe. it is all nonsense." "and it is not telling falsehoods?" said i. "my dear, i have nothing to do with it," said amelia, fanning herself. "mrs crossland may carry her own shortcomings." i felt pretty sure now that amelia was not in the plot. "will you give a message to hatty?" i said. "if it be not too long to remember." "tell her i wanted her to spend the day, and my aunt dorothea writ to ask her to come, and mrs crossland returned answer that she had too bad a catarrh, and must keep indoors for some days." "did she--to mrs desborough?" said amelia, with a surprised look. "i rather wonder at that, too." "emily, help me!" i said. "these crosslands want to keep hatty and me apart. there is something wrong going on. do help us, if you ever cared for either of us." amelia looked quite astonished and nuzzled. "really, i knew nothing about it! of course i care for you, cary. but what can i do?" "give that message to hatty. bid her, from me, break through the snares, and come. then we can see what must be done next." "i will give her the message," said amelia, with what was energy for her. "cary, i have had nothing to do with it, if something be wrong. i never even guessed it." "i don't believe you have," said i. "but tell me one thing, emily: are they scheming to make hatty marry mr crossland?" "most certainly not!" cried amelia, with more warmth than i had thought was in her. "impossible! why, mr crossland is engaged to marianne newton." "is miss marianne newton a friend of yours?" "yes, the dearest friend i have." "then you will be on my side. keep your eyes and ears open, and find out what it is. i tell you, something is wrong. put yourself in the breach; help miss marianne, if you like; but, for pity's sake, save hatty!" "but what makes you suppose that what is wrong has anything to do with mr crossland?" "i do not know why i fancy it; but i do. i cannot let the idea go. i do not like the look of him. he does not look like a true man." "cary, you have grown up since you came to london." "i feel like somebody's grandmother," said i. "but i think i have been growing; to it, amelia, since i left brocklebank." "well, you certainly are much less of a child than you were. i will do my best, cary." and amelia looked as if she meant it. "but take no one into your confidence," said i.--"least of all charlotte." "thank you, i don't need that warning!" said amelia, with her languid laugh, as she furled her fan and turned away. and as i passed on the other side i came upon ephraim hebblethwaite. all at once my resolution was taken. "come this way, ephraim," said i; "i want to show you my uncle charles's new engravings." i lifted down the large portfolio, with ephraim's help,--i don't think ephraim would let a cat jump down by itself if he thought the jump too far,--set it on a little table, and under cover of the engravings i told him the whole story, and all my uneasiness about hatty. he listened very attentively, but without showing either the surprise or the perplexity which amelia had done. "if you suspect rightly," said he, when i had finished my tale, "the first thing to be done is to get her out of charles street." "do you think me too ready to suspect?" i replied. "no," was his answer; "i am afraid you are right." "but what do they want to do with her, or to her?" cried i, under my breath. "cary," said ephraim, gravely, "i am very glad you have told me this. i will go so far as to tell you in return that i too have my suspicions of young crossland, though they are of rather a different kind from yours. you suspect him, so far as i understand you, of matrimonial designs on hatty, real or feigned. i am afraid rather that these appearances are a blind to hide something deeper and worse. i know something of this man, not enough to let me speak with certainty, but just sufficient to make me doubt him, and to guide me in what direction to look. we must walk carefully on this path, for if i mistake not, the ground is strewn with snares." "what do you mean?" i cried, feeling terrified. "i would rather not tell you till i know more. i will try to do that as soon as possible." "i never thought of anything worse," said i, "than that knowing, as he is likely to do, that hatty will some day have a few hundreds a year of her own, he is trying to inveigle her to marry him, and is not a man likely to be kind to her and make her happy." "he is certainly likely to make her very unhappy," replied ephraim. "but i do not believe that he has any intentions of marriage, towards hatty or anybody else." "but don't you think he may make her think so? amelia told me he was engaged in marriage with a gentlewoman she knows." "i am sorry for the gentlewoman. make her think so? yes, and under cover of that, work out his plot. i would advise miss bracewell to beware that she is not made a catspaw." i told ephraim what i had said to amelia. "then she is put on her guard: so far, well." "ephraim, have you heard anything more of angus?" "nothing but what you know already." "nor, i suppose, of colonel keith? i wish i knew what he is doing." "he has not had much chance of doing anything yet," said ephraim, rather drily. "a sick-bed is not the most favourable place for helping one's friends out of prison." "has colonel keith been ill?" cried i. "mr raymond did not tell you?" "he never told me a word. i do not know what he may have said to annas." "a broken arm, and a fever on the top of it," said ephraim. "the doctor talks of letting him go out to-morrow, if the weather suit." "o ephraim!" cried i. "but where is he?" "don't tell any one, if i tell you. remember, colonel keith is a proscribed man." "i will do no harm to annas's brother, trust me!" said i. "he is at raymond's house, where he and i have been nursing him." "in a fever!" "oh, it is not a catching fever. think you either of us would have come here if it were?" "ephraim, is mr raymond to be trusted?" said i. "i am sure he is a good man, but he is a shocking whig. and i do believe one of the queerest things in this queer world is the odd notions that men take of what it is their duty to do." "have you found that out?" said he, looking much diverted. "i am always finding things out," i answered. "i had no idea there was so much to be found. but, don't you see, mr raymond might fancy it his duty to betray colonel keith? is there no danger?" "not the slightest," said ephraim, warmly. "mr raymond would be much more likely to give up his own life. don't you know, cary, that scripture forbids us to betray a fugitive? and all the noblest instincts of human nature forbid it too." "i know all one's feelings are against it," said i, "but i did not know that there was anything about it in the bible." "look in the twenty-third of deuteronomy," replied ephraim, "the fifteenth verse. the passage itself refers to a slave, but it must be equally applicable to a political fugitive." "i will look," i answered. "but tell me, ephraim, can nothing be done for angus?" "if it can, it will be done," he made answer. he said no more, but from his manner i could not but fancy that somebody was trying to do something. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i never had two letters at once, by the same post, in my life: but this morning two came--one from flora, and one from my aunt kezia. flora's is not long: it says that she and annas have reached the isle of wight in safety, and were but three hours a-crossing from portsmouth; and she begs me, if i can obtain it, to send her some news of angus. my lady de lannoy was extreme kind to them both, and flora says she is very comfortable, and would be quite happy but for her anxiety about my uncle drummond and angus. my uncle drummond has not writ once, and she is very fearful lest some ill have befallen him. my aunt kezia's letter is long, and full of good counsel, which i am glad to have, for i do find the world a worse place than i thought it, and yet not in the way i expected. she warns me to have a care lest my tongue get me into trouble; and that is one of the dangers i find, and did not look for. father is well, and all other friends: and i am not to be surprised if i should hear of sophy's marriage. fanny gets on very well, and makes a better housekeeper than my aunt kezia expected. but i have spent much thought over the last passage of her letter, and i do not like it at all:-- "is hatty yet in charles street? we have had but one letter from the child in all this time, and that was short and told nothing. i hope you see her often, and can give us some tidings. squire bracewell writ to your father a fortnight gone that he was weary of dwelling alone, and as the prince's army is in retreat, he thinks it now safe to have the girls home. if this be so, we shall soon have hatty here. i have writ to her, by your father's wish, that she is not to tarry behind." i cried aloud when i came to this: "the prince in retreat from derby! uncle charles, do you know anything of it? sure, it can never be true!" "nonsense!" he made answer. "some silly rumour, no doubt." "but my uncle bracewell writ it to my aunt kezia, and he dwells within fifteen miles," i said. my uncle charles looked much disturbed. "i must go forth and see about this," answered he. "with your catarrh, mr desborough!" cried my aunt dorothea. for above a week my uncle charles has not ventured from the door, having a bad catarrh. "my catarrh must take care of itself," he made answer. "this is serious news. dobson, have you heard aught about the prince being in retreat?" dobson, who was setting down the chocolate-pot, looked up and smiled. "yes, sir, we heard that yesterday." "you idiot! why did you not tell me?" cried my uncle charles. "in retreat! i cannot believe it." "run to the coffee-house, dobson," said grandmamma, "and ask what news they have this morning." so dobson went off, and has not yet returned. my aunt dorothea laughs all to scorn, but my uncle charles is uneasy, and i am sure grandmamma believes the report. it is dreadful if it is true. are we to sit down under another thirty years of foreign oppression? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ before dobson could get back, mrs newton came in her chair. she is a very stout old lady, and she puffed and panted as she came up the stairs, leaning on her black footman, with her little dutch pug after, which is as fat as its mistress, and it panted and puffed too. her two daughters came in behind her. "oh, my dear--mrs desborough! my--dear creature! this is--the horridest news! we must--go back to our--red ribbons and--black cockades! could i ever have--thought it! aren't you--perfectly miserable? dear, dear me!" "ma is miserable because red does not suit her," said miss marianne. "i can wear it quite well, so i don't need to be." "marianne!" said her sister, laughing. "well, you know, theresa, you don't care two pins whether the prince wins or loses. who does?" "the prince and my lord tullibardine," said miss newton. "oh, of course, those who looked to the prince to make their fortunes are disappointed enough. i don't." "i rather thought mr crossland did," said miss newton, with a mischievous air. "well, i hope there are other people in the world beside mr crossland," said miss marianne. "all right, my dear," replied her sister. "if you don't care, i am sure i need not. i am not in love with mr crossland--not by any means. i never did admire the way in which his nose droops over his mouth. he has fine teeth--that is a redeeming point." "is it? i don't want him to bite me," observed miss marianne. miss newton went off into a little (subdued) burst of silvery laughter, and i sat astonished. was this the sort of thing which girls called love?--and was this the way in which fashionable women spoke of the men whom they had pledged themselves to marry? i am sure i like mr crossland little enough; but i felt almost sorry for him as i listened to the girl who professed to love him. meanwhile, grandmamma and mrs newton were lamenting over the news--as i supposed: but when i began to listen, i found all that was over and done with. first, the merits of puck, the fat pug, were being discussed, and then the wretchedness of being unable to buy or wear french cambrics, and the whole history of mrs newton's last cambric gown: they washed it, and mended it, and ripped it, and made it up again. and then grandmamma's brocaded silk came on, and how much worse it wore than the last: and when i was just wondering how many more gowns would have to be taken to pieces, mrs newton rose to go. "really, mrs desborough, i ought to make my apologies for coming so early. but this sad news, you know,--the poor prince! i could not bear another minute. i knew you would feel it so much. i felt as if i must come. now, my dear girls." "ma, you haven't asked mrs desborough what you came for," said miss marianne. "what i--oh!" and mrs newton turned back. "this absurd child! would you believe it, she gave me no peace till i had asked if you would be so good as to allow your cook to give mine her receipt for paradise pudding. marianne dotes on your paradise puddings. do you mind? i should be so infinitely obliged to you." "dear, no!" said grandmamma, taking a pinch of snuff, just as dobson tapped at the door. "dobson, run down and tell cook to send somebody over to mrs newton's with her receipt for paradise pudding. be sure it is not forgotten." "yes, madam," said dobson. "if you please, madam, the army is a-going back; all the coffee-houses have the news this morning." "dear, it must be true, then," said grandmamma, taking another pinch. "what a pity!--be sure you do not forget the paradise pudding." "yes, madam. they say, madam, the prince was nigh heart-broke that he couldn't come on." "ah, i dare say. poor young gentleman!" said mrs newton. "dear mrs desborough, do excuse me, but where did you meet with that lovely crewel fringe on your curtains? it is so exactly what i wanted and could not get anywhere." "i got it at cooper and smithson's--holborn bars, you know," said grandmamma. "this is sad news, indeed. but your curtains, my dear, have an extreme pretty trimming." "oh, tolerable," said mrs newton, gathering up her hoop. away they went, with another lament over the prince and the news; and i sat wondering whether everybody in this world were as hollow as a tobacco-pipe. i do think, in london, they must be. then my thoughts went back to my aunt kezia's letter. "grandmamma," i said, after a few minutes' reflection, "may i have a chair this afternoon? i want to go and see hatty." grandmamma nodded. she had come, i think, to an awkward place in her tatting. "take caesar with you," was all she said. so after dinner i sent caesar for the chair, and, dressed in my best, went over to charles street to see hatty. i sent in my name, and waited an infinite time in a cold room before any one appeared. at last charlotte bounced in--i cannot use another word, for it was just what she did--saying,-- "o cary, you here? emily is coming, as soon as she can settle her ribbons. isn't it fun? they are all coming out in red now." "i don't think it is fun at all," said i. "it is very sad." "oh, pother!--what do you and i care?" cried she. "you do not care much, it seems," said i: but charlotte was off again before i had finished. a minute later, the door opened much more gently, and amelia entered in her calm, languid way. but as soon as she saw me, her eyes lighted up, and she closed the door and sat down. amelia spoke in a hurried whisper as she kissed me. "one word, before any one comes," she said. "insist on seeing hatty. don't go without it." "will they try to prevent me?" i replied. before she could answer, mrs crossland sailed in, all over rose-coloured ribbons. "why, miss caroline, what an unexpected pleasure!" said she, and if she had added "an unwelcome one," i fancy she would have spoken the truth. "dear, what was cicely thinking of to put you in this cold room? pray come up-stairs to the fire." "thank you," said i, and rose to follow her. the room up-stairs was warm and comfortable, but hatty was not there. a girl of about fourteen, in a loose blue sacque, which looked very cold for the weather, came forward and shook hands with me. "my daughter," said mrs crossland. "annabella, my dear, run up and ask miss hester if she feels well enough to come down. tell her that her sister is here." "allow me to go up with miss annabella, and perhaps save her a journey," said i. "messages are apt to be returned and to make further errands." "oh, but--pray do not give yourself that trouble," said miss annabella, glancing at her mother. "certainly not. i cannot think of it," answered mrs crossland, hastily. "poor miss hester has been suffering so much from toothache--i beg you will not disturb her, miss caroline." i suppose i was rude: but how could i help it? "why should i disturb her more than miss crossland?" i replied. "sisters do not make strangers of each other." "oh, she does not expect you: and indeed, miss caroline,--do let me beg of you,--dr summerfield did just hint yesterday--just a hint, you understand,--about small-pox. i could not on any account let you go up, for your own sake." "is my sister so ill as that?" i replied. "i think we might have expected to be told it sooner. then, madam, i shall certainly go up. miss crossland, will you show me the way?" i do not know whether mrs crossland thought me bold and unladylike, but if she had known how every bit of me was trembling, she might perhaps have changed that view. "o miss caroline, how can you? i could not allow annabella to do such a thing. think of the clanger!--annabella, come back! you shall not go into an infected air." "pardon me, madam, but i thought you proposed yourself to send miss annabella. then i will not trouble any one. i can find the way myself." and resolutely closing the door behind me, up-stairs i walked. i did not believe a word about hatty having the small-pox: but if i had done, i should have done the same. i heard behind me exclamations of--"that bold, brazen thing! she will find out all. annabella, call godfrey! call him! that hussy must not--" i was up-stairs by this time. i rapped at the first door, and had no answer; the second was the same. from the third i heard the sound of weeping, and a man's voice, which i thought i recognised as that of mr crossland. "i shall not allow of any more hesitation," he was saying. "you must make your choice to-day. you have given me trouble enough, and have made far too many excuses. i shall wait no longer." "oh, once more!--only once more!" was the answer, interrupted by heartrending sobs,--in whose voice i rather guessed than heard. neither would i wait any longer. i never thought about ceremony and gentility, any more than about the possible dangers, known and unknown, which i might be running. i opened the door and walked straight in. mr crossland stood on the hearth, clad in a queer long black gown, and a black cap upon his head. on a chair near him sat a girl, her head bowed down in her hands upon the table, weeping bitterly. her long dark hair was partly unfastened, and falling over her shoulder: what i could see of her face was white as death. was this white, cowed creature our once pert, bright hatty? "what do you want?" said mr crossland, angrily, as he caught sight of me. "oh, i beg pardon, miss caroline. your poor sister is suffering so much to-day. i have been trying to divert her a little, but her pain is so great. how very good of you to come! was no one here to show you anywhere, that you had to come by yourself?" the bowed head had been lifted up, and the face that met my eyes was one of the extremest misery. she held out her arms to me with a low, sad, wailing cry-- "o cary, cary, save me! cannot you save me?" i walked past that black-robed wretch, and took poor hatty in my arms, drawing her head to lie on my bosom. "yes, my dear, you shall be saved," i said,--i hope, god said through me. "mr crossland, will you have the goodness to leave my sister to me?" if looks had power to kill, i think i should never have spoken again in this world. mr crossland turned on his heel, and walked out of the room without another word. the moment he was gone, i made a rush at the door, drew out the key (which was on the outside), locked it, and put the key on the table. then i went back to hatty. "my poor darling, what have they done to you?" somehow, i felt as if i were older than she that day. but she could not tell me at first. "o cary, cary!" seemed to be all that she could say. i rang the bell, and when somebody tried the door, i asked the unknown helper to send miss amelia bracewell. "i beg your pardon, madam, i dare not," answered a girl's voice. "nobody is allowed to enter this chamber but my mistress and fa--and my master." it seemed as if an angel must be helping me, and whispering what to do. perhaps it was so. "will you be so good as to take a message to the black servant who came with me?" i said. "certainly, madam." "then please to tell him that i wish to speak with him at the door of this room." "madam, forgive me, but i dare not bring any one here." i tore a blank leaf out of a book on the table. i had a pencil in my pocket. "give him this, then; and let no one take it from you. you shall have a guinea to do it." "gemini!" i heard the girl whisper to herself in amazement. i wrote hastily:--"beg my uncle charles to come this moment, and bring dobson. tell him, if he ever loved either me or miss hester, he will do this. it is a matter of life and death." "promise me," i said, unlocking the door to give it to her, "that this piece of paper shall be in my black servant's hands directly, and that no one else shall see it." i spoke to a young girl, apparently one of the lower servants of the house. her round eyes opened wide. "please do it, betty!" sobbed poor hatty. "do it, for pity's sake!" "i'll do it for yours, miss hester," said the girl, and her kindly, honest-looking face reassured me. she hid the paper in her bosom, and ran down. i locked the door again, and went back to hatty. "o cary, dear, god sent you!" she sobbed. "i thought i must give in." "what are they trying to make you do, hatty?" to my amazement, she replied,--"to be a nun." "to be what?" i shrieked. "are these people papists, then?" "not to acknowledge it. i had not an idea when we came--nor the bracewells, i am sure." "and did they want all three of you to be nuns?" "no--only me, i believe. i heard father godfrey saying to the mother that neither charlotte nor amelia would answer the purpose: but what the purpose was, i don't know." "who are you talking about? who is father godfrey?--mr crossland?" "yes. he is a jesuit priest." "you mean his mother, then, by `_the_ mother'?" "oh, she is not his mother. i don't think they are related." "what is she?" "the abbess of a convent of english nuns at bruges." "and is that poor little girl, miss annabella, one of the conspirators?" "she is the decoy. i think her wits have been terrified out of her; she only does as she is told." "hatty," i said, "you do not believe the doctrines of popery?" "i don't know what i believe, or don't believe," she sobbed. "if you can get me out of here and back home, i shall think there is a god again. i was beginning to doubt that and everything else." a voice came up the stairs, raised rather loudly. "you must pardon me, madam, but i am quite sure both my nieces are here," said my uncle charles's welcome tones. i rushed to the door again. "this way, uncle charles!" i cried. "hatty, where is your bonnet?" "i don't know. they took all my outdoor things away." "tie my scarf over your head, and get into the chair. as my uncle charles is here, i can walk very well." he had come up now, and stood looking at hatty's white, miserable face. if he had seen it a few minutes earlier, he would have thought the misery far greater. "well, this is a pretty to-do!" cried my uncle. "hatty, child, these wretches have used you ill. why on earth did you stay with them?" "at first i did not want to get away, uncle," she said, "and afterwards i could not." we went down-stairs. mrs crossland was standing in the door of the drawing-room, with thin, shut-up lips, and a red, angry spot on either cheek. inside the room i caught a glimpse of annabella, looking woefully white and frightened. mr crossland i could nowhere see. "madam," said my uncle charles, sarcastically, "i will thank you to give up those other young ladies, my nieces' cousins. if they wish to remain in london, they can do so, but it will not be in charles street. did you not tell me, cary, that their father wished them to come home?" "my aunt kezia said that he intended to write to them to say so," i answered, feeling as though it were about a year since i had received my aunt kezia's letter. "really, sir!" mrs crossland began, "the father of these gentlewomen consigned them to my care--" "and i take them out of your care," returned my uncle charles. "i will take the responsibility to mr bracewell." "i'll take all the responsi-what's-its-name," said charlotte, suddenly appearing among us. "thank you, mr desborough; i'd rather not stop here when hatty is gone. emily!" she shouted. amelia came down-stairs with her bonnet on, and charlotte's in her hand. "you can't go without a bonnet, my dear child." "oh, pother!" cried charlotte, seizing her bonnet by the strings, and sticking it on the top of her head anyhow it liked. "one word before we leave, mr desborough, if you please," said amelia, with more dignity than i had thought she possessed. "i have strong reason to believe these persons to be popish recusants, and the last to whom my father would have confided us, had he known their real character. they have not used any of us so kindly that i need spare them out of any tenderness." "i thank you, miss bracewell," said my uncle charles, who also, i thought, was showing qualities that i had not known to be in him. (how scenes like these do bring one's faculties out!) "i rather thought there was some sort of jesuitry at work. madam," he turned to mrs crossland, "i am sure there is no necessity for me to recall the penal laws to your mind. so long as these young ladies are left undisturbed in my care, in any way,--so long, madam,--they will not be put in force against you. you understand me, i feel sure. now, girls, let us go." so, we three girls walking, and hatty in the chair, with dobson and caesar as a guard behind, we reached bloomsbury square. "charles, what is it all about?" said grandmamma, taking a bigger pinch than usual, and spilling some of it on her lace stomacher. "a spider's web, madam, from which i have been freeing four flies. but one was a blue-bottle, and broke some of the threads," said my uncle charles, laughing, and patting my shoulder. "really!" said grandmamma. "i am pleased to see you, young ladies. hester, my dear, are you sure you are quite well?" "i shall be better now," hatty tried to say, in a trembling voice,--and fainted away. there was a great commotion then, four or five talking at once, making impossible recommendations, and getting in each other's way; but at the end of it all we got poor hatty into bed in my chamber, and even grandmamma said that rest was the best thing for her. my aunt dorothea mixed a cordial draught, which she gave her to take; and as hatty's head sank on the pillow, she said to my surprise,-- "oh, the rest of being free again! cary, i never expected you to be the heroine of the family." "i think you are the heroine, hatty." "most people would have thought i should be. but i have proved weak as water--yet not till after long suffering and hard pressure. you will never see the old hatty again, cary." "oh yes, dear!" said i. "wait a few days, till you have had a good rest, and we have fed you up. you will feel quite different a week hence." "my body will, i dare say, but me--that inside feeling and thinking machine--that will never be the same again. i want to tell you everything." "and i want to hear it," i replied. "but don't talk now, hatty; go to sleep, like a good girl. you will be much better for a long rest." i drew the curtains, and asked amelia to stay until hatty was asleep. i knew she would not talk much, and hatty would not care to tell her things as she would me. going down-stairs, my uncle charles greeted me, laughing, with,-- "here she comes, the good queen bess! cary, you deserve a gold medal." grandmamma bade me come to her, and tell her all i knew. she exclaimed several times, and took ever so many pinches of snuff, till she had to call on my aunt dorothea to refill the box. at the end of it she called me a good child, and the jesuits traitors and scoundrels, to which my uncle charles added some rather stronger language. charlotte seems to have known nothing of what was going on; or, i should rather say, to have noticed nothing. she is such a careless girl in every way that i am scarce surprised. amelia did notice things, but she had a mistaken notion of what they meant. she fancied that hatty was in love with mr crossland, and that she, not knowing of his engagement in marriage with miss marianne newton, was very jealous of what she thought his double-dealing. until after i spoke to her, she had no notion that there might be any sort of popish treachery. something which happened soon after that, helped to turn her mind in that direction. but hatty says she knew next to nothing. "but," says my uncle charles, "how could a jesuit priest marry anybody? it seems to be all in a muddle." that i cannot answer. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ hatty is better to-day, after a quiet night's rest. she still looks woefully ill, and grandmamma will not let her speak yet. now that grandmamma is roused about it, she is very kind to hatty and me also. i do hope, now, that things have done happening! the poor prince is a fugitive somewhere in scotland, and everybody says, "the rebellion is quashed." they did not call it a rebellion until he turned back from derby. my uncle bracewell has writ to my uncle charles again with news, and has asked him to see amelia and charlotte sent off homeward. hatty will tarry here till we can return together. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ at last our poor hatty has told her story: and a sad, sad story it is. it seems that mr crossland was pretending to make court to her at first, and she believed in him, and loved him. at that time, she says, she would not have brooked a word against him; and as to believing him to be the wretch he has turned out, she would as soon have thought the sun created darkness. there was no show of popery at all in the family. they went to church like other people, and talked just like others. from a word dropped by miss theresa newton, hatty began to think that mr crossland's heart was not so undividedly her own as she had hoped; and she presently discovered that he was not to be trusted on that point. they had a quarrel, and he professed penitence, and promised to give up miss marianne; and for a while hatty thought all was right again. then, little by little, mrs crossland (whose right name seems to be mother mary benedicta of the annunciation--what queer names they do use, to be sure!)--well, mrs crossland began to tell hatty all kinds of strange stories about the saints, and miracles, and so forth, which she said she had heard from the irish peasantry. at first she told them as things to laugh at; then she began to wonder if there might be some truth in one or two of them; there were strange things in this world! and so she went on from little to little, always drawing back and keeping silence for a while if she found that she was going too fast for hatty to follow. "i can see it all now, looking back," said hatty. "it was all one great whole; but at the time i did not see it at all. they seemed mere passing remarks, bits of conversation that came in anyhow." hatty felt sure that mrs crossland was a concealed papist long before she suspected the young man. and when, at last, both threw the mask off, they had her fast in their toils. she was strictly warned never to talk with me except on mere trifling subjects; and she had to give an account of every word that had been said when she returned. if she hid the least thing from them, she was assured it would be a terrible sin. "but you don't mean to say you believed all that rubbish?" cried i. "it was not a question of belief," she answered. "i loved him. i would have done anything in all the world to win a smile from him; and he knew it. as to belief--i do not know what i believed: my brain felt like a chaos, and my heart in a whirl." "and now, hatty?" said i. i meant to ask what she believed now: but she answered me differently. "now," she said, in a low, hopeless voice, "the shrine is deserted, and the idol is broken, and the world feels a great wide, empty place where there is no room for me--a cold, hard place that i must toil through, and the only hope left is to get to the end as soon as possible." oh, i wish flora or annas were here! i do not know how to deal with my poor hatty. thoughts which would comfort me seem to fall powerless with her; and i have nobody to counsel me. i suppose my aunt kezia would say i must set the lord before me; but i do not see how to do it in this case. i am sure i have prayed enough. what i want is an angel to whisper to me what to do again; and my angel has gone back into heaven, i suppose, for i feel completely puzzled now. at any rate, i do hope things have done happening. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . our forefathers thought colds a much more serious affair than we do. they probably knew much less about them. chapter twelve. bought with a price. _host._ "trust me, i think 'tis almost day." _julia._ "not so; but it hath been the longest night that e'er i watched, and the most heaviest." shakespeare. i am writing four days later than my last sentence, and i wonder whether things have finished beginning to happen. grandmamma's tuesday was the day after i writ. the newtons were there,--at least mrs newton and miss theresa,--and ever so many people whom i knew and cared nothing about. my lady parmenter came early, but did not stay long; and very late, long after every one else, ephraim hebblethwaite. mr raymond i did not see, and have not done so for several times. i was not much inclined to talk, and i got into a corner with some pictures which i had seen twenty times, and turned them over just as an excuse for keeping quiet. all at once i heard ephraim's voice at my side: "cary, i want to speak to you. go on looking at those pictures: other ears are best away. how is hatty?" "she is better," i said; "but she is not the old hatty." "i don't think the old hatty will come back," he said. "perhaps the new one may be better. are the miss bracewells gone home?" "they start to-morrow," said i. "cary, i am going to ask you something. don't show any surprise. are you a brave girl?" "i hardly know," said i, resisting the temptation to look up and see what he meant. "why?" "because a woman is wanted for a piece of work, and we think you would answer." "what piece of work?--and who are `we'?" i asked, turning over some views of rome with very little notion what they were. "`we' are colonel keith, raymond, and myself." "and what `piece of work'?" i asked again. "to attempt the rescue of angus." "how?--what am i to do?" "did you ever try to personate anybody?" "well, we used to act little pieces sometimes at carlisle, i and the grandison girls and lucretia carnwath. there has never been anything of the sort here." "did they think you did it well?" "lucretia carnwath and diana grandison were thought the best performers; but once they said i made a capital housemaid." "were you ever a laundress?" "no, but i dare say i could have managed it." "are you willing to try?" "i am ready to do anything, if it will help angus. i don't see at present how my playing the laundress is to do that." "you will not play it on a mock stage in a drawing-room, but in reality. neither you nor i are to do the hardest part of the work; colonel keith takes that." "what have i to do?" "to carry a basket of clothes into the prison, and bring it out again." "i hope angus will not be in the basket," said i, trying to smother my laughter; "i could not carry him." "oh, no," replied ephraim, laughing too. "now listen." "i am all attention," said i. "next tuesday evening, about nine o'clock, slip out of this room, and throw a large cloak over your dress--one that will quite hide you. you will find me at the foot of the back-stairs. we shall go out of the back-door, and get to raymond's house. a lady, whom you will find there, will help you to put on the dress which is prepared. then you and i (who are brother and sister, if you please) will carry the basket to the prison. just before reaching it, i shall pretend to hear something, and run off to see what is the matter. you will be left alone (in appearance), and will call after me in vain, and abuse me roundly when i do not return, declaring that you cannot possibly carry that heavy basket in alone. then, but not before, you will descry a certain william standing close by,--who will be colonel keith,--and showing surprise at seeing him there, will ask him to help you with the basket. he and you will carry the basket into the prison, and you will stand waiting a little while, during which time he will (with the connivance of a warder in our pay) visit angus's cell. presently `william' will return to you, but it will be angus and not keith. you are to scold him for having kept you such an unconscionable time, and, declaring that you will have no more to do with him, to take up the empty basket and walk off. our warder will then declare that he cannot do with all this row,--you must make as much noise as you can,--and push you both out of the prison door. angus will follow you, expressing penitence and begging to be allowed to carry the basket, but you are not to let him. a few yards from the prison, i shall come running out of a side-street, seize the basket, give angus a thump or two with it and bid him be off, for i am not going to have such good-for-noughts loitering about and making up to my sister. he will pretend to be cowed, and run away, and you will then abuse me in no measured terms for having left you without protector, in the first place, and for having behaved so badly to your dear will in the second. when we are out of sight, we may gradually drop our pretended quarrel; and when we reach mr raymond's house, you will return to caroline courtenay, and i shall be ephraim hebblethwaite. there is the programme. can you carry out your part?-- and are you willing?" my heart stood still a moment, and then came up and throbbed violently in my throat. "could i? yes, i think i could. but i want to know something first. how far i am willing will depend on circumstances. what is going to become of colonel keith in this business?" "he takes angus's place--don't you see?" "yes, but when angus has got away, how is he to escape?" "god knoweth. it is not likely that he can." "and do you mean to say that colonel keith is to be sacrificed to save angus?" "the sacrifice is his own. the proposal comes from himself." "and you mean to _let_ him?" "not if i could do it myself," was the quiet answer. "i don't want you to do it. is there nobody else?" "no one except keith, raymond, and myself. raymond is too tall, and i am not tall enough. keith and angus are just of a height." "and if colonel keith cannot escape, what will become of him?" silence answered me,--a silence which said far more than words. "ephraim, colonel keith is worth fifty of angus." "i have not spent these weeks at his bedside, cary, without finding that out." "and is the worse to be bought with the better?" "it was done once, upon the hill of calvary. and `this is my commandment, that ye love one another as i have loved you.'" i was silent. i did not like the idea at all. "you must talk to keith about it before we leave the house," said ephraim. "but i am afraid it will be of no use. we have all tried in vain." i said no more. "well, cary,--will you undertake it?" "ephraim," i said, looking up at last, "i cannot bear to think of sacrificing colonel keith. i could do it, i think, for anything but that. it would be hard work, no doubt, at the best; but i would go through with it to save angus. but cannot it be done in some other way?" ephraim shook his head. "we can see no other way at all. there are only three men who could do it--colonel keith, mr raymond, and myself; and keith is far the best for personal reasons. beside the matter of height, he has, or at any rate could easily put on, a slight scots accent, which we should find difficult, and might very likely do it wrong. he is acquainted with all the places and people that angus is; we are not. and remember, it is not only the getting angus out of the place that is of consequence: whoever takes his place must personate angus for some hours, till he can get safely away. [note .] only keith can do this with any chance of success. as to sacrifice, why, soldiers sacrifice themselves every day, and he is a soldier. i can assure you, it seems to him a natural, commonplace affair. he is very anxious to do it." "he must be fonder of angus--" i stopped. "than we are?" answered ephraim, with a smile. "perhaps he is. but i think he has other reasons, cary." "what made you think of me?" "well, we must have a girl in the affair, and we were very much puzzled whom to ask. if miss keith had been here, we should certainly have asked her." "annas? oh, how could she?" i cried. "she has pluck enough," said ephraim. "of course, miss drummond would have been the most natural person to play the part, but keith would not hear of that, and raymond doubted if she were a suitable person. with her, the scots accent would be in the way, and rouse suspicion; and i am not sure whether she could manage such a thing in other respects. then we thought of hatty and you; but hatty, i suppose, is out of the question at present." "oh yes, quite," said i. "she would have been the very one if she had been well and strong. she has plenty of go and dash in her. but raymond and keith both wanted you." "and you did not?" said i, feeling rather mortified that ephraim should seem to think more of hatty than of me. "no, i did not, cary," he said, in a changed voice. "you think i am paying you a poor compliment. perhaps, some day, you will know better." "does anyone in this house know of the rescue plot?" "mr desborough knows that an attempt may be made, but not that you are in it. lucette is engaged to keep the coast clear while we get away. and now, cary, what say you?" "yes, ephraim, i will do it, though i almost wish it were anything else. may god help colonel keith!" "amen, with all my heart!" we had no opportunity to say more. so now i wait for next tuesday, not knowing what it may bring forth. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was about a quarter of an hour before the fated moment, when miss theresa newton sat down by me. "very serious to-night, miss caroline!" said she, jestingly. i thought i had good cause, considering what was about to happen. but i turned it off as best i could. "where is our handsome friend this evening?" said she. "have we only one?" replied i. miss newton laughed that musical laugh of hers. "i should hope we are rather happier. i meant mr hebblethwaite-- horrible name!" "i saw him a little while ago," said i, wondering if he were then at the foot of the back-stairs. "what has become of the crosslands? have you any idea? i have not seen them here now for--ever so long." "nor have i. i do not know at all," said i, devoutly hoping that i never should see them again. "my sister is perfectly in despair. her intended never comes to see her now. i tell her she had better find somebody else. it is too tiresome to keep on and off with a man in that way. oh, you don't know anything about it. your time has not come yet." "when it do," said i, "i will either be on or off, if you please. i should not like to be on and off, by any means." miss newton hid her laughing face behind her fan. "my dear child, you are so refreshing! don't change, i beg of you. it is charming to meet any one like you." "i thank you for your good opinion," i replied; and, my aunt dorothea just then coming up, i resigned my seat to her, and dropped the conversation. for a minute or two i wandered about,--asked hatty if she were tired (this was her first evening in the drawing-room with company), and when she said, "not yet," i inquired after puck's health from mrs newton, told miss emma page that grandmamma had been admiring her sister's dress, and slipped out of the door when i arrived at it. in my room lucette was standing with the cloak ready to throw over me. "monsieur ebate is at the _escalier derobe_," said she. poor lucette could get no nearer hebblethwaite. "he tell me, this night, mademoiselle goes on an errand for the good lord. may the lord keep safe his messenger!" "mr hebblethwaite goes with me," said i. "he will take all the care of me he can." "i will trust him for that!" said lucette, with a little nod. "he is good man, _celui-la_. but, mademoiselle, `except the lord keep the city--' you know." "`the watchman waketh but in vain.' yes, lucette, i know, in every sense. but how do you know that mr hebblethwaite is a good man?" "ah! i know, i. and i know what makes him stay in london, all same. now mademoiselle is ready, and caesar is at the door, la-bas." down-stairs i ran, joined ephraim, who also wore a large cloak over his evening dress, and we went out of the back-door, which was guarded by caesar, whose white teeth and gleaming eyes were all i could see of him in the dusk. "lucette asked leave to take caesar into the affair," said ephraim. "she promised to answer for him as for herself. now, cary, we must step out: there is no time to lose." "as fast as you please," said i. in a few minutes, we came to mr raymond's house. i never knew before where he lived. it is in a small house in endell street. an elderly woman opened the door, who evidently expected us, and ushered us at once into a living-room on the right hand. here i saw mr raymond and a lady--a lady past her youth, who had, as i could not help seeing, been extreme beautiful. i thought there was no one else till i heard a voice beside me: "i fear i am almost a stranger, miss cary." "mr keith!" i did not feel him a stranger, but a very old friend indeed. but how ill he looked! i told him so, and he said he was wonderfully better,--quite well again,--with that old, sweet smile that he always had. my heart came up into my throat. "mr keith, must you go into this danger?" "if i fail to go where my master calls me, how can i look for his presence and blessing to go with me? they who go with god are they with whom god goes." "are you quite sure he has called you?" "quite sure." his fine eyes lighted up. "have you thought--" "forgive my interruption. i have thought of everything. miss cary, you heard the vow which i took to god and flora drummond--never to lose sight of angus, and to keep him true and safe. i have kept it so far as it lay in me, and i will keep it to the end. come what may, i will be true to god and her." and looking up into his eyes, i saw--revealed to me as by a flash of lightning--what was duncan keith's most precious thing. "now, miss caroline," said mr raymond, "will you kindly go up with this lady,"--i fancied i heard the shortest possible sign of hesitation before the last two words,--"and she will be so good as to help you to assume the dress you are to wear." i went up-stairs with the beautiful woman, who gave a little laugh as she shut the door. "poor mr raymond!" said she; "i feel so sorry for the man. nature meant him to be a tory, and education has turned him into a whig. he has the kindest of hearts, and the most unmanageable of consciences. he will help us to free a prisoner, but he would not call me anything but `mistress' to save his life." "and your ladyship--?" said i, guessing in an instant what she ought to be called, and that she was the wife of a peer--not a hanoverian peer. "oh, my ladyship can put up with it very well," said she, laughing, as she helped me off with my evening dress. "i wish i may never have anything worse. the man would not pain me for the world. it is only his awful puritan conscience; methodist, perhaps, puritan was the word in my day. when one lives in exile, one almost loses one's native tongue." and i thought i heard a light sigh. her ladyship, however, said no more, except what had reference to our business. when the process was over, i found myself in a printed linen gown, with a linen hood on my head, a long white apron made quite plain, and stout clumsy shoes. "now, be as vulgar as you possibly can," said her ladyship. "try to forget all your proprieties, and do everything th' wrong way. you are betty walkden, if you please, and mr hebblethwaite is joel walkden, and your brother. you are a washerwoman, and your mistress, mrs richardson, lives in chelsea. don't forget your history. oh! i am forgetting one thing myself. colonel keith, and therefore lieutenant drummond, as they are the same person for this evening, is will clowes, a young gardener at wandsworth, who is your lover, of whom your brother joel does not particularly approve. now then, keep up your character. and remember,"--her ladyship was very grave now--"to call any of them by his real name may be death to all of you." i turned round and faced her. "madam, what will become of colonel keith?" i thought her ladyship looked rather keenly at me. "`the sword devoureth one as well as another,'" was her reply. "you know whence that comes, miss courtenay." "is that all?" i answered. "if any act of mine lead to his death, how shall i answer it to his father and mother, and to annas?" "they gave him up to the cause, my dear, when they sent him forth to join the prince. a soldier must always do his duty." "forgive me, madam. i was not questioning his duty, but my own." "too late for that, miss courtenay. my dear, he is ready for death. i would more of us were!" i read in the superb eyes above me that she was not. "forward!" she said, as if giving a word of command. somehow, i felt as if i must go. her ladyship was right: it was too late to draw back. so ephraim and i set forth on our dangerous errand. i cannot undertake to say how we went, or where. it all comes back to me as if i had walked it in a dream: and i felt as if i were dreaming all the while. at last, as we went along, carrying the basket, ephraim suddenly set it down with, "hallo! what's that?" i knew then that we must be close to the prison, and that he was about to leave me. "i say, i must see after that. you go on, bet!" cried ephraim; and he was off in a minute--in what direction i could not even see. "gemini!" cried i, catching up the word i had heard from mrs cropland's betty. "joel! i say, joel! you bad fellow, can't you come back? how am i to lift this great thing, i should like to know?" a dark shadow close to the wall moved a little. "come now, can't one of you lads help a poor maid?" said i. "it's a shame of joel to leave me in the lurch like this. come, give us a hand!" i was trembling like an aspen leaf. suppose the wrong man offered to help me! what could i do then? "want a hand, my pretty maid?" said a voice which certainly was not colonel keith's. "i'm your man! give us hold!" oh, what was i to do! this horrid man would carry the basket, and how could i explain to the warder? how could i know which warder was the right one? "now then, hold hard, mate!" said a second voice, which i greeted with delight. "just you let this here young woman be. how do, betty? why, wherever's joel? he's no call to let the likes o' you carry things o' thisn's." what had the colonel done with his scots accent? i did not hear a trace of it. "oh, will clowes, is that you?" said i, giving a little toss of my head, which i thought would be in character. "well, i don't know whether i shall let you carry it." the next minute i felt how wrong i was to say so. "yes, you will," said colonel keith, and took the basket out of my hands. i should never have known him, dressed in corduroy, and with a rake over his shoulder. he shouted something, and the great prison door opened slowly, and a warder put his head out. "who goes there?" "washing for cartwright's ward." "ay, all right. come within. cartwright!" shouted the porter. we went in, and stood waiting a moment just inside the door, till a warder appeared, who desired colonel keith to "bring that 'ere basket up, now." "you can wait a bit, betty," said the colonel, turning to me. "don't be afraid, my girl. nobody 'll touch you, and will 'll soon be back." they say it is unlucky to watch people out of sight. i hope it is not true. true or untrue, i watched him. yes, will clowes might be back soon; but would duncan keith ever return any more? and then a feeling came, as if a tide of fear swept over me,--was it right of flora to ask him to make that promise? i have wondered vaguely many a time: but in that minute, with all my senses sharpened, i seemed to see what a blunder it was. is it ever right to ask people for such unconditional pledges to a distinct course of action, when we cannot know what is going to happen? to what agony--nay, even to what wrong-doing--may we pledge them without knowing it! it seems to me that influence is a very awful thing, for it reaches so much farther than you can see. may it not be said sometimes of us all, "they know not what they do"? and then to think that when we come out of that valley of the shadow into the clear light of the judgment bar, all our unknown sins may burst upon us like a great army, more than we can count or imagine-- it is terrible! o my god, save me from unknown sins! o christ, be my help and advocate when i come to know them! how i lived through the next quarter of an hour i can never say to anybody. i sat upon a settle near the door of the prison, praying--how earnestly!--for both of those in danger, but more especially for colonel keith. at last i saw a man coming towards me with the empty basket, in which he had inserted his head, like a bonnet, so that it rather veiled his face. i remembered then that i was to "make as much noise as i could," and quarrel with my supposed lover. "well, you are a proper young man!" said i, standing up. "how long do you mean to keep me waiting, i should like to know? you think i've nothing in the world to do, don't you, now? and missis 'll say nought to me, will she, for coming home late? just you give me that basket-- men be such dolts!" "come, my girl,"--in a deprecating tone--said a voice, which i recognised as that of angus. i hoped nobody else would. "i'm not your girl, and i'll not come unless i've a mind, neither!" cried i, loudly, trying to put in practice her ladyship's advice to be as vulgar as i could. "i'm not a-going to have fellows dangling at my heels as keeps me a-waiting--" "come, young woman, you just clear out," said the warder cartwright. "my word, lad, but she's a spitfire! you be wise, and think better of it. now then, be off, both of you!" and he laid his hand on my shoulder, as if to push me through the door, which i pretended to resent very angrily, and angus flung down the basket and began to strip up his sleeves, as if he meant to fight the warder. "now, we can't do with that kind of thing here!" cried another man, coming forward, whom i took to be somewhat above the rest. "be off at once--you must not offer to fight the king's warders. turn them out, cartwright, and shut the door on them." angus caught up the basket and dashed through the door, and i followed, making all the noise i could, and scolding everybody. we had only just got outside the gate when ephraim came running up, and snatched the basket from angus. there was a few minutes' pretended struggle between them, and then ephraim chased angus into a side-street, and came back to me, whom he began to scold emphatically for encouraging such idle ne'er-do-wells as that rascal clowes. i tried to give him as good as he brought; and so we went on, jangling as we walked, until nearly within sight of mr raymond's door. then, declaring that i would not speak to him if he could not behave better, and that i was not going to walk in his leading-strings, i marched on with my head held very high, and ephraim trudged after me, looking as sulky as he knew how. we rapped on the back-door, and mr raymond's servant let us in. in the parlour we found mr raymond and her ladyship. "i am thankful to see you safe back!" cried the former; and his manner suggested to me the idea that he had not felt at all sure of doing so. "is all well accomplished?" "angus drummond is out, and keith is in," replied ephraim. "as to the rest, we must leave it for time to reveal. i am frightfully tired of quarrelling; i never did so much in my life before." "has miss courtenay done her part well?" asked her ladyship. "too well, if anything," said ephraim. "i was sadly afraid of a slip once. if that fellow had insisted on carrying in the basket, cary, we should have had a complete smash of the whole thing." "why, did you see that?" said i. "of course i did," he answered. "i was never many yards from you. i lay hidden in a doorway, close to. cary, you make a deplorably good scold! i never guessed you would do that part of the business so well." "i am glad to hear it, for i found it the hardest part," said i. her ladyship came up and helped me to change my dress. "the cause owes something to you to-night, miss courtenay," said she. "at least, if colonel keith can escape." "and if not, madam?" "if not, my dear, we shall but have done our duty. good-night. will you accept a little reminder of this evening--and of lady inverness?" i looked up in astonishment. was this beautiful woman, with her tinge of sadness in face and voice, the woman who had so long stood first at the court of montefiascone--the mistress of the robes to queen clementina, and as some said, of the heart of king james? my lady inverness drew from her finger a small ring of chased gold. "it will fit you, i think, my dear. you are a brave maid, and i like you. farewell." i am not at all sure that my aunt kezia would have allowed me to accept it. some, even among the tories, thought my lady inverness a wicked woman; others reckoned her an injured and a slandered one. i gave her what father calls "the benefit of the doubt," thanked her, and accepted the ring. i do not know whether i did right or wrong. to run down-stairs, say good-bye to mr raymond,--by the way, would mr raymond have allowed my lady to enter his house, if he had believed the tales against her?--and hasten back with ephraim to bloomsbury square, took but few minutes. lucette let us in; i think she had been watching. "the good lord has watched over mademoiselle," said she, as she took my cloak from me. ephraim had gone back to the drawing-room, and i followed. i glanced at the french clock on the mantelpiece, where a gold cupid in a robe of blue enamel was mowing down an array of hearts with a scythe, and saw that we had been away a little over an hour. could that be all? how strange it seemed! people were chattering, and flirting fans, and playing cards, as if nothing at all had happened. miss newton was sitting where i had left her, talking to mr robert page. grandmamma sat in her chair, just as usual. nobody seemed to have missed us, except hatty, who said with a smile,--"i had lost you, cary, for the last half-hour." "yes," said i, "something detained me out of the room." i only exchanged one other sentence in the course of the evening with ephraim: "you will let me know how things go on? i shall be very anxious." "of course. yes, i will take care of that." and then the company broke up, and i helped hatty to bed, and prayed from my heart for colonel keith and angus, and did not fall asleep till i had heard saint olave's clock strike two. when i woke, i had been making jumballs in the drawing-room with somebody who was both my lady inverness and my aunt kezia, and who told me that colonel keith had been appointed governor of the american plantations, and that he would have to be dressed in corduroy. when i arose in the morning, i could--and willingly would--have thought the whole a dream. but there on my finger, a solid contradiction, was my lady inverness's ring. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ for four days i heard nothing more. on the friday, my uncle charles told us that rumours were abroad of the escape of a prisoner, and he hoped it might be angus. my aunt dorothea wanted to hear all the particulars. i sat and listened, looking as grave as i could. "why, it seems they must have bribed some fellow to carry in a basket of foul clothes, and then to change clothes with the prisoner, and so let him get out. there appears to have been a girl in it as well--a girl and a man. i suppose they were both bribed, very likely. anyhow, the prisoner is set free, i only hope it is young drummond, cary." i said i hoped so too. "but, dear me, what will become of the man that went in?" asked my aunt dorothea. "oh, he'll be hanged, sure enough," said my uncle charles. "only some low fellow, i suppose, that was willing to sell himself." "a man does not sell his life in a hurry," said my aunt dorothea. "my dear," replied my uncle charles, "there are men who would sell their own mothers and children." "oh, i dare say, but not themselves," said she. "i suppose somebody cared for him," observed hatty. i found it hard work to keep silence. "only low people like himself," said grandmamma. "those creatures will do anything for money." and then, caesar bringing in a note with mrs newton's compliments, the talk went off to something else. on the saturday evening there was an extra assembly, and i caught ephraim as soon as ever i could. "ephraim, they have found it out!" i said, in a whisper. "turn your back on the room," said he, quietly. "yes, cary, they have. there goes keith's first chance of safety--yet it was a poor one from the beginning." "can nobody intercede for him?" "with whom? the electress is dead: and they say she was the only one who had much influence with the elector." "he has daughters," i suggested. ephraim shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that was a very poor hope. "your friend mr raymond, being a whig," i urged, "might be able to do something." "i will see," said he. "do you know that miss keith is to be in london this evening?" "annas? no! i have never heard a word about it." "i was told so," said ephraim, looking hard at an engraving which he had taken up. i wondered very much who told him. "she might possibly go to the princess caroline. people say she is the best of the family. bad is the best, i am afraid." [note .] "how did mr raymond come to know my lady inverness?" "oh, you discovered who she was, did you?" "she told me herself." "ah!--i cannot say; i am not sure that he knew anything of her before tuesday night. she was our superior officer, and gave orders which we obeyed--that was all." "i cannot understand how mr raymond could have anything to do with it!" cried i. "nor i, precisely. i believe there are wheels within wheels. is he not a friend of your uncle, mr drummond?--an old friend, i mean, when they were young men." "possibly," said i; "i do not know." somebody came up now, and drew ephraim away. i had no more private talk with him. but how could he come to know anything about annas? and where is she going to be? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the next morning caesar brought me a little three-cornered note. i guessed at once from whom it came, and eagerly tore it open. "we arrived in london last night, my dear caroline, and are very desirous of seeing you. could you meet me at mr raymond's house this afternoon? mr hebblethwaite will be so good as to call for you, if you can come. love from both to you and hester. your affectionate friend, a. k." come! i should think i would come! i only hoped annas already knew of my share in the plot to rescue angus. if not, what would she say to me? i read the note again. "we"--who were "we"?--and "love from both." surely flora must be with her! i kept wishing--and i could not tell myself why--that ephraim had less to do with it. i did not like his seeming to be thus at the beck and call of annas; and i did not know why it vexed me. i must be growing selfish. that would never do! why should ephraim not do things for annas? i was an older friend, it is true, but that was all. i had no more claim on him than any one else. i recognised that clearly enough: yet i could not banish the feeling that i was sorry for it. when ephraim came, i thought he looked exceeding grave. i had told grandmamma beforehand that annas (and i thought flora also) had returned to london, and asked me to go and see them, which i begged her leave to do. grandmamma took a pinch of snuff over it, and then said that caesar might call me a chair. "could i not walk, grandmamma? it is very near." "walk!" cried grandmamma, and looked at me much as if i had asked if i might not lie or steal. "my dear, you must not bring country ways to town like that. walk, indeed!--and you a courtenay of powderham! why, people would take you for a mantua-maker." "but, grandmamma, please,--if i am a courtenay, does it signify what people take me for?" "i should like to know, caroline," said grandmamma, with severity, "where you picked up such levelling ideas? why, they are whiggery, and worse. i cannot bear these dreadful mob notions that creep about now o' days. we shall soon be told that a king may as well sell his crown and sceptre, because he would be a king without them." "he would not, madam?" i am afraid i spoke mischievously. "my dear, of course he would. once a king, always a king. but the common people need to have symbols before their eyes. they cannot take in any but common notions of what they see. a monarch without a crown, or a judge without robes, or a bishop without lawn sleeves, would never do for them. why, they would begin to think they were just men like themselves! they do think so, a great deal too much." and grandmamma took two pinches in rapid succession, which proceeding with her always betrays uneasiness of mind. "dear, dear!" she muttered, as she snapped her box again, and dropped it into her pocket. "it must be that lamentable mixture in your blood. whatever a courtenay could be thinking of, to marry a dissenter,--a puritan minister's daughter, too,--he must have been mad! yet she was of good blood on the mother's side." i believe grandmamma knows the pedigree of every creature in this mortal world, up to the seventh generation. "was that deborah hunter, grandmamma?" "what do you know about deborah hunter?" returned grandmamma pulling out her snuff-box, and taking a third pinch in a hurry, as if the mere mention of a dissenter made her feel faint. "who has been talking to you about such a creature? the less you hear of her the better." "oh, we always knew her name, madam," said hatty, "and that she was a presbyter's daughter." "well, that is as much as you will know of her with my leave!" said grandmamma. i do not know what more she might have said, if my uncle charles had not come in: but he brought news that the prince's army had been victorious at falkirk, and the cause is looking up again. "they say the folks at saint james's are very uneasy," said my uncle charles, "and the elector's son is to be sent against the prince with a larger army. i hear he set forth for edinburgh last night." "what, fred?" said grandmamma. "fred? no,--will," [note .] answered my uncle charles. "that is the lad who was wounded at dettingen?" replied she. "the same," he made answer. "oh, they are not without pluck, this family, foreigners though they be. the old blood is in them, though there's not much of it." "they are a pack of rascals!" said grandmamma, with another pinch. i thought the box would soon be empty if she were much more provoked. "nay, madam, under your pleasure: the lad is great-grandson to the queen of bohemia, and she was without reproach. i would rather have fred or will than oliver." grandmamma sat extreme upright, and spoke in those measured tones, and with that nice politeness, which showed that she was excessively put out. "may i trouble you, charles, if you please, never to name that--person-- in my hearing again!" "certainly, madam," said my uncle charles, with a naughty look at me which nearly upset my gravity. if i had dared to laugh, i do not know what would have happened to me. "the age is quite levelling enough, and the scoundrels quite numerous enough, without your joining them, mr charles carlingford desborough!" saying which, grandmamma arose, and as hatty said afterwards, "swept from the room"--my uncle charles offering her his arm, and assuring her, with a most disconcerting look over his shoulder at us, that he would do his very best to mend his manners. "your manners are good enough, sir," said grandmamma severely: "'tis your morals i wish to mend." when we thought grandmamma out of hearing, we did laugh: and my uncle charles, coming down, joined us,--which i am afraid neither he nor we ought to have done. "my mother's infinitely put out," said he. "her snuff-box is empty: and she never gave me my full name but twice before, that i remember. when i am charles desborough, she is not pleased; when i am mr charles desborough, she is gravely annoyed; but when i become mr charles carlingford desborough, matters are desperate indeed. i shall have to go to the cost of a new snuff-box, i expect, before i get forgiven. yet i have no doubt oliver was a pretty decent fellow--putting his politics on one side." "i am afraid, uncle charles," said hatty, "a snuff-box would hardly make your peace for that." "oh, that's for you maids, not for her. she is not a good forgiver," said my uncle charles, more gravely. "she takes after her mother, my lady sophia. don't i remember my lady sophia!" and i should say, from the expression of my uncle charles's face, that his recollections of my lady sophia carlingford were not among the pleasantest he had. hatty is growing much more like herself, with the pertness left out. she looks a great deal better, and can smile and laugh now; but her old sharp, bright ways are gone, and only show now and then, in a little flash, what she was once. the crosslands have disappeared--nobody knows where. but i do not think miss marianne newton has broken her heart; indeed, i am not quite sure that she has one. in the afternoon, ephraim came, and i went in a chair under his escort to mr raymond's house. hatty declined to come; she seemed to have a dislike to go out of doors, further than just to take the air in the square, with dobson behind her. i should not like that at all. it would make me feel as if the constable had me in custody. but grandmamma insists on it; and hatty does not seem to feel safe without somebody. in mr raymond's parlour, i found annas and flora, alone. i do not know what to say they looked like. both are white and worn, as if a great strain had been on their hearts: but flora is much the more broken-down of the two. annas is more queenly than ever, with a strange, far-away look in the dear grey eyes, that i can hardly bear to see. i ran up to her first thing. "o annas, tell me!" i cried, amidst my kisses, "tell me, did i do right or wrong?" i felt sure she would need no explanation. "you did right, cary,"--and the dark grey eyes looked full into mine. "who are we, to refuse our best to the master when he calls? but it is hard, hard to bear it!" "is there _any_ hope of escape?" i asked. "there is always hope where god is," said annas. "but it is not always hope for earth." flora kissed me, and whispered, "thank you for angus!" but then she broke down, and cried like a child. "have you heard anything of angus?" i asked. "yes," said annas, who shed no tears. "he is safe in france, with friends of the cause." "in france!" cried i. "yes. did you think he could stay in england? impossible, except now and then in disguise, for a stolen visit, perhaps, when some years are gone." "then if colonel keith could escape--" "that would be his lot. of course, unless the prince were entirely successful." i felt quite dismayed. i had never thought of this. "and how long do you stay here?" said i. "only till i can obtain a hearing of the princess caroline. that is arranged by mr raymond, through some friends of his. he and mr hebblethwaite have been very, very good to us." "i do not know what we should have done without them," said flora, wiping her eyes. "and is the day fixed for you to see the princess?" "not quite, but i expect it will be thursday next. pray for us, cary, for that seems the last hope." "and you have heard nothing, i suppose, from the colonel?" "yes, i have." annas put her hand into her bosom, and drew forth a scrap of paper. "you may read it, cary. it will very likely be the last." my own eyes were dim as i carried the paper to the window. i could have read it where i was, but i wanted an excuse to turn my back on every one. "my own dear sister,--if it make you feel happier, do what you will for my release: but beyond that do nothing. i have ceased even to wish it. i am so near the gates of pearl, that i do not want to turn back unless i hear my master call me. and i think he is calling from the other side. "that does not mean that i love you less: rather, if it be possible, the more. tell our father and mother that we shall soon meet again, and in the meantime they know how safe their boy must be. say to angus, if you have the opportunity, that so far as in him lies, i charge him to be to god and man all that i hoped to have been. thank miss c. courtenay and mr hebblethwaite for their brave help: they both played their part well. and tell flora that i kept my vow, and that she shall hear the rest when we meet again. "god bless you, every one. farewell, darling annas. "your loving brother, not till, but beyond, death, duncan keith." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the prince of wales and the duke of cumberland. the former distinguished himself by little beyond opposition to his father, and an extremely profligate life. the jacobite epitaph written on his death, five years later, will show the light in which he and his relatives were regarded by that half of the nation: "here lies fred, who was alive and is dead. had it been his father, i had much rather; had it been his sister, no one would have missed her; had it been his brother, still better than another: but since 'tis only fred, who was alive and is dead, why, there's no more to be said." note . ephraim does the princess caroline an injustice. she was a lily among the thorns. note . how far such a personation is consistent with truth and righteousness may be reasonably questioned. but very few persons would have thought of raising the question in . chapter thirteen. stepping northwards. "it were to be wished the flaws were fewer in the earthen vessels holding treasure which lies as safe in a golden ewer: but the main thing is, does it hold good measure?" browning. i turned back to the table, and dropping the letter on it, i laid my head down upon my arms and wept bitterly. he who wrote it had done with the world and the world's things for ever. words such as these were not of earth. they had come from the other side of the world-storm and the life's fever. and he was nearly there. i wondered how much flora understood. did she guess anything of that unwhispered secret which he promised to tell her in the courts of heaven? had she ever given to duncan keith what he had given her? i rose at last, and returned the letter to annas. "thank you," i said. "you will be glad some day to have had that letter." "i am glad now," said annas, quietly, as she restored it to its place. "and ere long we shall be glad together. the tears help the journey, not hinder it." "how calm you are, annas!" i said, wondering at her. "the time for miss keith to be otherwise has not come yet," said mr raymond's voice behind me. "i think, miss courtenay, you have not seen much sorrow." "i have not, sir," said i, turning to him. "i think i have seen--and felt--more in the last six months than ever before." "and i dare say you have grown more in that period," he made answer, "than in all the years before. you know in what sort of stature i mean." he left us, and went up-stairs, and ephraim came in soon after. i had no words with flora alone, and only a moment with annas. she came with us to the door. "does flora understand?" i whispered, as i kissed annas for good-bye. "i think not, cary. i hope not. it would be far better." "_you_ do?" said i. "i knew it long ago," she answered. "it is no new thing." we went back to bloomsbury square, where i found in the drawing-room a whole parcel of visitors--mrs newton and her daughters, and a lot of the pages (there are twelve of them), sir anthony parmenter, and a young gentleman and gentlewoman who were strangers to me. grandmamma called me up at once. "here, child," said she, "come and speak to your cousins. these are my brother's grandchildren--your second cousins, my dear." and she introduced them--mr roland and miss hilary carlingford. what contrasts there are in this world, to be sure! as my cousin hilary sat by me, and asked me if i went often to the play, and if i had seen mrs bellamy, [a noted actress of that day] and whether i loved music, and all those endless questions that people seem as if they must ask you when they first make acquaintance with you,--all at once there came up before me the white, calm face of annas keith, and the inner vision of colonel keith in his prison, waiting so patiently and heroically for death. and oh, how small did the one seem, and how grand the other! could there be a doubt which was nearer god? a lump came up in my throat, which i had to swallow before i could tell hilary that i loved old ballads and such things better than what they call classical music, much of which seems to me like running up and down without any aim or tune to it--and she was giving me a tap with her fan, and saying,-- "oh, fie, cousin caroline! don't tell the world your taste is so bad as that!" suddenly a sound broke across it all, that sent everything vanishing away, present and future, good and ill, and carried me off to the old winter parlour at brocklebank. "bless me, man! don't you know how to carry a basket?" said a voice, which i felt as ready and as glad to welcome as if it had been that of an angel. "well, you londoners have not much pith. we cumberland folks don't carry our baskets with the tips of our fingers--can't, very often; they are a good heft." "madam," said dobson at the door, looking more uncomfortable than i had ever seen him, "here is a--a person--who--" "woman, man! i'm a woman, and not ashamed of it! mrs desborough, madam, i hope you are well." what grandmamma was going to do or say, i cannot tell. she sat looking at her visitor from head to foot, as if she were some kind of curiosity. i am afraid i spoilt the effect completely, for with a cry of "aunt kezia!" i rushed to her and threw my arms round her neck, and got a warmer hug than i expected my aunt kezia to have given me. oh dear, what a comfort it was to see her! she was what nobody else was in bloomsbury square--something to lean on and cling to. and i did cling to her: and if i went down in the esteem of all the big people round me, i felt as if i did not care a straw about it, now that i had got my own dear aunt kezia again. "here's one glad to see me, at any rate!" said my aunt kezia; and i fancy her eyes were not quite dry. "here are two, aunt kezia," said hatty, coming up. "mrs kezia courtenay, is it not?" said grandmamma, so extra graciously that i felt sure she was vexed. "i am extreme glad to see you, madam. have you come from the north to-day? hester, my dear, you will like to take your aunt to your chamber. caroline, you may go also, if you desire it." thus benignantly dismissed, we carried off my aunt kezia as if she had been a casket of jewels. and as to what the fine folks said behind our backs, either of her or of us, i do not believe either hatty or i cared a bit. i can answer for one of us, anyhow. "now sit down and rest yourself, aunt kezia," said i, when we reached our chamber. "oh, how delightful it is to have you! is father well? are we to go home?" and then it flashed upon me--to go home, leaving colonel keith in prison, and annas and flora in such a position! must we do that? i listened somewhat anxiously for my aunt kezia's answer. "it is pleasant to see you, girls, i can tell you. and it is double pleasant to have such a hearty welcome to anybody. your father and sophy are quite well, and everybody else. you are to go home?--ay: but when, we'll see by-and-by. but now i want my questions answered, if you please. i shall be glad to know what has come to you both? i sent off two throddy, rosy-cheeked maids to london, that did a bit of credit to cumberland air and country milk, and here are two poor, thin, limp, white creatures, that look as if they had lost all the sunshine out of them. what have you been doing to yourselves?--or what has somebody else been doing to you? which is it?" "cary must speak for herself," said hatty, "hatty must speak for herself," said i. hatty laughed. "it is somebody else, with hatty," i went on, "and i don't quite know how it is with me, aunt kezia. i have been feeling for some weeks past as if i had the world on my shoulders." "your shoulders are not strong enough for that, child," replied my aunt kezia. "there is but one shoulder which can carry the world. `the government shall be upon his shoulder.' you may well look poor if you have been at that work. where are flora and miss keith?--and what has become of their brothers, both?" "annas and flora have just come back to london," said hatty. "but angus is in dreadful trouble, aunt; and i do not know where colonel keith is-- with the prince, i suppose." "no, hatty," said i. "aunt kezia, angus is safe, but an exile in france; and colonel keith lies in newgate prison, waiting for death." "what do you know about it?" asked hatty, in an astonished tone. my aunt kezia looked from one of us to the other. "you cannot both be right," said she. "i hope you are mistaken, cary." "i have no chance to be so," i answered; and i heard my voice tremble. "colonel keith bought angus's freedom with his own life. at least, there is every reason to fear that result, and none to hope." "then that man who escaped was angus?" asked hatty. i bowed my head. i felt inclined to burst out crying if i spoke. "but who told you? and how come you to be so sure it is true?" "i was the girl who carried the basket into the prison." i just managed to say so much without breaking down, though that tiresome lump in my throat kept teasing me. "you!" cried hatty, in more tones than the word has letters. "cary, you must be dreaming! when could you have done it?" "in the evening, on one of grandmamma's tuesdays, and i was back before any one missed me, except you." "who went with you?--who was in the plot? do tell us, cary!" "yes, i suppose you may know now," i said, for i could now speak more calmly. "ephraim took me to the place where i put on the disguise, and forward to the prison. then colonel keith and i carried in the basket, and angus brought it out. ephraim came to us after we left the prison, and brought me back here." "ephraim hebblethwaite helped _you_ to do _that_?" i did not understand hatty's tone. she was astonished, undoubtedly so, but she was something else too, and what that was i could not tell. my aunt kezia listened silently. "why, cary, you are a heroine! i could not have believed that a timid little thing like you--" hatty stopped. "there was nobody else," said i. "you were not well enough, you know. i had to do it; but i can assure you, hatty, i felt like anything but a hero." "they are the heroes," said my aunt kezia, softly, "who feel unlike heroes, but have to do it, and go and do it therefore. colonel keith and cary seem to be of that sort. and there is only one other kind of heroes--those who stand by and see their best beloved do such things, and, knowing it to be god's will, bid them god-speed with cheerful countenance, and cry their own hearts out afterwards, when no one sees them but himself." "that is annas' sort," said i. "yes, and one other," replied my aunt kezia. "but hatty did not know till afterwards," said i. "child, i did not mean hatty. do flora and miss keith look as white as you poor thin things?" "much worse, i think," said i. "annas keeps up, and does not shed a tear, and flora cries her eyes out. but they are both white and sadly worn." "poor souls!" said my aunt kezia. "maybe they would like to go home with us. do you know when they wish to go?" "annas has been promised a hearing of princess caroline, to intercede for her brother," i made answer. "i think she will be ready to go as soon as that is over. there would be no good in waiting." and my voice choked a little as i remembered for what our poor annas would otherwise wait. "cary courtenay, do you know you have got ten years on your head in six months?" "i feel as if i were a good deal older," i said, smiling. "you are the elder of the two now," said my aunt kezia, drily. "not but what hatty has been through the kiln too; but it has softened her, and hardened you." "then hatty is gold, and i am only clay," i said, and i could not help laughing a little, though i have not laughed much lately. "there is some porcelain sells for its weight in gold," said my aunt kezia. "thank you for the compliment, aunt kezia." "nay, lass, i'm a poor hand at compliments; but i know gold when i see it--and brass, too. you'll be home in good time for sophy's wedding." "aunt kezia, who does sophy marry?" "mr liversedge, the rector." "is not he rather rough?" "rough? not a bit of it. he is a rough diamond, if he be." "i fancied from what sam said when he came back to carlisle--" "oh, we had seen nought of him then. he has done more good at brocklebank than mr digby did all the years he was there. you'll see fast enough when you get back. 'tis the nature of the sun to shine." "what do you mean by that, aunt kezia?" "keep your eyes open--that's what i mean. girls, your father bade me please myself about tarrying a bit before i turned homeward. i doubt i'm not just as welcome to your grandmother as to you; but i think we shall do best to bide till we see if the others can come with us. maybe ephraim may be ready to go home by then, too. 'tis a bad thing for a young man to get into idle habits." "o aunt kezia, ephraim is not idle!" i cried. "pray, who asked you to stand up for him, miss?" replied my aunt kezia. "`a still tongue makes a wise head,' lass. i'll tell you what, i rather fancy mrs desborough thinks me rough above a bit. if i'm to be stroked alongside of these fine folks here, i shall feel rough, i've no doubt. that smart, plush fellow, with his silver clocks to his silk stockings, took up my basket as if he expected it to bite his fingers. we don't take hold of baskets that road in our parts. i haven't seen a pair of decent clogs since i passed derby. they are all slim french finnicking pattens down here. how many of those fine lords-in-waiting have you in the house?" "three, and a black boy, aunt." "and how many maids?" "i must count. lucette and perkins, and the cook-maid, and the kitchen girl, four; and two chambermaids, six, and a seamstress, seven." "what, have you a mantua-maker all to yourselves?" "oh, she does not make gowns; she only does plain sewing." "and two cook-maids, and two chambermaids, and two beside! why, whatever in all the world can they find to do?" "lucette is grandmamma's woman, and perkins is my aunt dorothea's," said i. "but what have they got to do? that's what i want to know," said my aunt kezia. "well, lucette gets up grandmamma's laces and fine things," said i, "and quills the nett for her ruffles, and dresses her hair, and alters her gowns--" "what's that for?" said my aunt kezia. "when a gown has been worn two or three times," said hatty, "they turn it upside down, aunt, and put some fresh trimming on it, so that it looks like a new one." "but what for?" repeated my aunt kezia. "why, then, you see, people don't remember that you had it on last week." "i'll be bound i should!" "we have very short memories in london," said hatty, laughing. "seems so! but why should not folks remember? i am fairly dumfoozled with it all. how any mortal woman can get along with four men and seven maids to look after, passes me. i find maria and bessy and sam enough, i can tell you: too many sometimes. mrs desborough must be up early and down late; or does mrs charles see to things?" i began to laugh. the idea of grandmamma "seeing to" anything, except fancy work and whist, was so extreme diverting. "why, aunt kezia, nobody ever sees to anything here," said hatty. "and do things get done?" asked my aunt kezia with uplifted eyebrows. "sometimes," said hatty, again laughing. "they don't do much dusting, i fancy. i could write my name on the dust on the tables, now and then, and generally on the windows." my aunt kezia glanced at the window, and set her lips grimly. "if i were mistress in this house for a week," said she, "i reckon those four men and seven maids would scarce send up a round robin begging me to stop another!" "lucette does her work thoroughly," said i, "and so does cicely, the under chambermaid; and caesar, the black boy, is an honest lad. i am afraid i cannot say much for the rest. but really, aunt, it seemed to me when i came that people hadn't a notion what work was in the south." "i guess it'll seem so to me, coming and going too," said my aunt kezia, in the same tone as before. "no wonder. i couldn't work in silk stockings with silver clocks, and sleeves with lace ruffles, and ever so many yards of silk bundled up of a heap behind me. i like gowns i can live in. i've had this on a bit over three times, hatty." "i should think so, aunt!" said hatty, laughing something like her old self. "why, i remember your making it the winter before last. did not i run the seams?" "i dare say you did, child. when you see me bedecked in the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, you may expect to catch larks by the sky falling. at least, i hope so." "mademoiselle!" said lucette's voice at the door, "madame bids me say the company comes from going, and if madame and mesdemoiselles will descend, she will be well at ease." "that's french lingo is it?" said my aunt kezia. "poor lass!" so down we went to the drawing-room, where we found grandmamma, my aunt dorothea, and my uncle charles, who came forward and led my aunt kezia to a chair. (miss newton told me that ceremony was growing out of date, and was only practised now by nice old-fashioned people; but grandmamma likes it, and i fancy my uncle charles will keep it up while she lives.) "madam," said grandmamma, "i trust mr courtenay is well, and that you had a prosperous journey." "he is better than ever he was, i thank you, madam," answered my aunt kezia. "as for my journey, i did not much enjoy it, but here i am, and that is well." "your other niece, miss drummond, is in town, as i hear," said grandmamma. "dorothea, my dear, it would doubtless be agreeable to mrs kezia if that young gentlewoman came here. write a line and ask her to tarry with us while mrs kezia stays." "i thank you, madam," said my aunt kezia. "if miss keith be with her, she may as well be asked too," observed grandmamma, after she had refreshed her faculties with a pinch of snuff. my aunt dorothea sat down and writ the note, and then, bidding me ring the bell, sent caesar with it. he returned with a few lines from flora, accepting the invitation for herself, but declining it for annas. i was less surprised than sorry. certainly, were i annas, i should not care to come back to bloomsbury square. "poor white thing!" said my aunt kezia, when she saw flora in the evening. "why, you are worse to look at than these girls, and they are ill enough." flora brings news that annas is to see the princess next thursday, but she has made up her mind to tarry longer in london, and will not go back with us. i asked where she was going to be, and flora said at mr raymond's. "what, all alone?" said hatty. "oh, no!" answered flora; "mr raymond's mother is there." i did not know that mr raymond had a mother. annas had a letter this morning from lady monksburn: the loveliest letter, says flora, that ever woman penned. mr raymond said, when he had read it (which she let him do) that it was worthy of a martyr's mother. "is mr raymond coming round?" said i. "what, in politics?" replied flora, with a smile. "i don't quite know, cary. i doubt if he will turn as quickly as you did." "as i did? what can you mean, flora?" "did you not know you had become of a very cool politician a very warm one?" she said. "i remember, when you first went with me to abbotscliff, angus used to tease you about being a whig: and you once told me you knew little about such matters, and cared less." i looked back at myself, as it were, and i think flora must be right. i certainly thought much less of such things six months ago. i suppose hearing them always talked of has made a change in me. there is another thing that i have been thinking about to-night. what is it in my aunt kezia that makes her feel so strong and safe to lean upon--so different from other people? i should never dream of feeling in that way to grandmamma: and even father,--though it is pleasant to rely on his strength and kindness, when one wants something done beyond one's own strength,--yet he is not restful to lean on in the same way that she is. is she so safe to hold by, because she holds by god? this is grandmamma's last tuesday, as lent begins to-morrow, and i believe she would as soon steal a diamond necklace as have an assembly in lent. i had been walking a great deal, as i have carried my aunt kezia these last few days to see all manner of sights, and i was very tired; so i crept into a little corner, and there ephraim found me. by the way, it is most diverting to carry my aunt kezia to see things. my uncle charles has gone with us sometimes, and ephraim some other times: but it is so curious to watch her. she is the sight, to me. in the first place, she does not care a bit about going to see a thing just because everybody goes to see it. then she has very determined ideas of her own about everything she does see. i believe she quite horrified my uncle charles, one day, when he carried us to see a collection of beautiful paintings. we stopped before one, which my uncle charles told us was thought a great deal of, and had cost a mint of money. "what's it all about?" said my aunt kezia. "'tis a picture of the holy family," he answered, "by the great painter rubens." "now, stop a bit: who's what?" said my aunt kezia, and set herself to study it. "who is that old man that hasn't shaved himself?" "that, madam, is saint joseph." "never heard of him before. oh, do you mean joseph the carpenter? i see. well, and who is that woman with the child on her knee? why ever does not she put him some more clothes on? he'll get his death of cold." "my dear madam, that is the blessed virgin!" "i hope it isn't," said my aunt kezia, bluntly. "i'll go bail she kept her linen better washed than that. but what's that queer thing sprawling all over the sky?" "the angel gabriel, madam." "i hope he hasn't flown in here and seen this," said my aunt kezia. "i should say, if he have, he didn't feel flattered by his portrait." my aunt kezia did not seem to care for fine things--smart clothes, jewels, and splendid coaches, or anything like that. she was interested in the lions at the tower, and she liked to see any famous person of whom my uncle charles could tell her; but for ranelagh she said she did not care twopence. there were men and women plenty wherever you went, and as to silks and laces, she could see them any day over a mercer's counter. vauxhall was still worse, and spring gardens did not please her any better. but when, in going through the tower, we came to the axe which beheaded my lady jane grey, she showed no lack of interest in that. and the next day, when my uncle charles said he would show us some of the fine things in the city, and we were driving in grandmamma's coach towards newgate, my aunt kezia wanted to know what the open space was; and my uncle charles told her,--"smithfield." "smithfield!" cried she. "pray you, mr desborough, bid your coachman stop. i would liever see this than a lord mayor's show." "my dear madam, there is nothing to see," answered my uncle charles, who seemed rather perplexed. "this is not a market-day." "there'll be plenty i can see!" was my aunt kezia's reply; and, my uncle charles pulling the check-string, we alighted. my aunt kezia stood a moment, looking round. "you see, there is nothing to see," he observed. "nothing to see!" she made answer. "there are the fires to see, and the martyrs, and the angels around, and the devils, and the men well-nigh as ill as devils. there is the land to see that they saved, and the church that their blood watered, and the greatness of england that they preserved. ay, and there is the day of judgment, when martyrs and persecutors will have their reward--and you and i, mr desborough, shall meet with ours. my word, but there is enough to see for them that have eyes to see it!" "oh!--ah!" said my uncle charles. my aunt kezia said no more, except a few words which i heard her whisper softly to herself,--"`they shall reign for ever and ever.' `the noble army of martyrs praise thee.'" then, as she turned back to the coach, she added, "i thank you, sir. it was worth coming to london to look at that. it makes one feel as if one got nearer to them." and i thought, but did not say, that i should never be nearer to them than i had been that winter night, when colonel keith helped me to carry the basket into the gates of that grim, black pile beyond. he was there yet. if i had been a bird, to have flown in and sung to him!--or, better, a giant, to tear away locks and bars, and let him out! and i could do _nothing_. but here i am running ever so far from grandmamma's tuesday, and the news ephraim brought. annas has seen the princess caroline. she liked her, and thought her very gentle and good. but she held out no hope at all, and did not seem to think that anything which she could say would influence her father. she would lay the matter before him, but she could promise no more. however, she appointed another day, about a month hence, when annas may go to her again, and hear the final answer. so annas must wait for that. ephraim and annas seem to be great friends. is it not shockingly selfish of me to wish it otherwise? i do not quite know why i wish it. but sometimes i wonder--no, i won't wonder. it will be all right, of course, however it be arranged. why should i always want people to care for me, and think of me, and put me first? cary courtenay, you are growing horribly vain and selfish! i wonder at you! it is settled now that we go home the week after easter day. we, means my aunt kezia, and flora, and hatty, and me. i do not know how four women are to travel without a gentleman, or even a serving-man: but i suppose we shall find out when the time comes. i said to my aunt kezia that perhaps grandmamma would lend us dobson. "him!" cried she. "dear heart, but i'd a vast deal liever be without him! he would want all the coach-pockets for his silk stockings, and would take more waiting on than prince charlie himself. i make no account of your grand gentlemen in plush, that pick up baskets with the tips of their fingers! (my aunt kezia cannot get over that.) give me a man, or a woman either, with some brains in his head, and some use in his hands. these southern folks seem to have forgotten how to use theirs. i watched that girl martha dusting the other day, and if i did not long to snatch the duster out of her hands and whip her with it! she just drew it lazily across the top of the table,--never troubled herself about the sides,--and gave it one whisk across the legs, and then she had done. i'd rather do my work myself, every bit of it, than have such a pack of idle folks about me--ay, ten times over, i would! they don't seem to have a bit of gumption. they say lawyers go to heaven an inch every good friday; but if those lazy creatures get there or anywhere else in double the time, i wonder! and just look at the way they dress! a good linsey petticoat and a quilted linen bed-gown was good enough for a woman that had her work to do, when i was young; but now, dear me! my ladies must have their gowns, and their muslin aprons of an afternoon, and knots of ribbon in their hair. i do believe they will take to wearing white stockings, next thing! and gloves when they go to church! eh dear, girls! i tell you what, this world is coming to something!" later in the evening, miss newton came up to me, with her fan held before her laughing face. "my dear miss courtenay, what curious things your worthy aunt does say! she asked me just now why i came into the world. i told her i did not know, and the idea had never before occurred to me: and she said, `well, then, it is high time it did, and some to spare!' do all the people in cumberland ask you such droll questions?" i said i thought not, but my aunt kezia did, often enough. "well, she is a real curiosity!" said miss newton, and went away laughing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ brocklebank fells, april the th, . at least i begin on the th, but when i shall finish is more than i can tell. things went on happening so fast after the last page i writ, that i neither had time to set them down, nor heart for doing it. prince william of hanover (whom the whigs call duke of cumberland) left edinburgh with a great army, not long after i writ; but no news has yet reached us of any hostile meeting betwixt him and the prince. mr raymond saith colonel keith's chances may depend somewhat upon the results of the battle, which is daily expected. nevertheless, he adds, there is no chance, for the lord orders all things. my aunt kezia and mr raymond have taken wonderfully to one another. hatty said to her that she could not think how they got on when they chanced on politics. "bless you, child, we never do!" said my aunt kezia. "we have got something better to talk about. and why should two brothers quarrel because one likes red heels to his shoes and the other admires black ones?" "ah, if that were all, aunt!" said i. "but how can you leave it there? it seems to me not a matter for opinion, but a question of right. we have to take sides; and we may choose the wrong one." "i don't see that a woman need take any side unless she likes," quoth my aunt kezia. "i can bake as tasty a pie, and put on as neat a patch, whether i talk of prince charles or the young pretender. and patches and pies are my business: the prince isn't. i reckon the lord will manage to see that every one gets his rights, without kezia courtenay running up to help him." "but somebody has it to do, aunt." "let them do it, then. i'm glad i'm not somebody." "but, aunt kezia, don't you want people to have their rights?" "depends on what their rights are, child. some of us would be very sadly off if we got them. i should not like my rights, i know." "ah, you mean your deserts, aunt," said hatty. "but rights are not just the same thing, are they?" "let us look it in the face, girls, if you wish," saith my aunt kezia. "i hate seeing folks by side-face. if you want to see anybody, or understand anything, look right in its face. what are rights? they are not always deserts,--you are right there, hatty,--for none of us hath any rights as regards god. rights concern ourselves and our fellow-men. i take it, every man hath a right to what he earns, and to what is given him,--whether god or man gave it to him,--so long as he that gave had the right over what he gave. now, as to this question, it seems to me all lies in a nut-shell. if king james be truly the son of the old king (which i cannot doubt), then god gave him the crown of england, of which no man can possibly have any right to deprive him. only god can do that. then comes the next question, has god done that? time must answer. without a revelation from heaven, we cannot find it out any other way." "but until we do find it out, where are we to stand?" "keep to your last orders till you get fresh ones. a servant will make sad blunders who goes contrary to orders, just because he fancies that his master may have changed his mind." i see that for all practical purposes my aunt kezia agrees with annas. and indeed what they say sounds but reasonable. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was the second of april when we left london. it had been arranged that we should travel by the flying machine [note. stage-coaches originally bore this hyperbolical name.] which runs from london to gloucester, setting forth from the saracen's head on snow hill. the last evening before we set out, my aunt kezia, hatty, and i, spent at mr raymond's with annas. his mother is a very pleasant old silver-haired gentlewoman, with a soft, low voice and gentle manner that reminded me of lady monksburn. i felt it very hard work to say farewell to annas. what might not have happened before we met again? ephraim was there for the last hour or so, and was very attentive to her. i do think--and i am rather afraid the laird, her father, will not like it. but ephraim is good enough for anybody. and i hope, when he marry annas, which i think is coming, that he will not quite give over being my friend. he has been more like our brother than anybody else. i should not like to lose him. i have always wished we had a brother. "no, not good-bye just yet, cary," said ephraim, in answer to my farewell. "you will see me again in the morning." "oh, are you coming to see us off?" he nodded; and we only said good-night. grandmamma was very kind when we took leave of her. she gave each of us a keepsake--a beautiful garnet necklace to hatty, and a handsome pearl pin to me. "and, my dear," said she to hatty, "i do hope you will try to keep as genteel as you are now. don't, for mercy's sake, go and get those blowzed red cheeks again. they are so unbecoming a gentlewoman. and garnets, though they are the finest things in the world for a pale, clear complexion, look horrid worn with great red cheeks. cary, your manners had rather gone back when you came, from what they used to be; but you have improved again now. mind you keep it up. don't get warm and enthusiastic over things,--that is your danger, my dear,--especially things of no consequence, and which don't concern you. a young gentlewoman should not be a politician; and to be warm over anything which has to do with religion, as i have many times told you, is exceeding bad taste. you should leave those matters to public men and the clergy. it is their business--not yours. my dears," and out came grandmamma's snuff-box, "i wish you to understand, once for all, that if one of you ever joins those insufferable creatures, the methodists, i will cut her off with a shilling! i shall wash my hands of her completely. i would not even call her my grand-daughter again! but i am sure, my dears, you have too much sense. i shall not insult you by supposing such a thing. make my compliments to your father, and tell him i think you both much improved by your winter in town. good-bye, my dears. mrs kezia, i wish you a safe and pleasant journey." "i thank you, madam, and wish you every blessing," said my aunt kezia, with a warm clasp of grandmamma's hand, which i am sure she would think sadly countrified. "but might i ask you, madam, to explain something which puzzled me above a bit in what you have just said?" "certainly, mrs kezia," said grandmamma, in her most gracious manner. "then, madam, as i suppose the clergy are going to heaven (and i am sure you would be as sorry to think otherwise as i should), if the way to get there is their business and not yours, where are you going, if you please?" grandmamma looked at my aunt kezia as if she thought that she must have taken leave of her wits. "madam! i--i do not understand--" my aunt kezia did not flinch in the least. she stood quietly looking into grandmamma's face, with an air of perfect simplicity, and waited for the answer. "of course, we--we are all going to heaven," said grandmamma, in a hesitating way. "but it is the business of the clergy to see that we do. excuse me, madam; i am not accustomed to--to talk about such subjects." and grandmamma took two pinches, one after the other. "well, you see, i am," coolly said my aunt kezia. "seems to me, madam, that going to heaven is every bit as much my business as going to gloucester; and i have not left that for the clergy to see to, nor do i see why i should the other. folks don't always remember what you trust them with, and sometimes they can't manage the affair. and i take the liberty to think they'll find that matter rather hard to do, without i see to it as well, and without the lord sees to it beside. farewell, madam; i shall be glad to meet you up there, and i do hope you'll make sure you've got on the right road, for it would be uncommon awkward to find out at last that it was the wrong one. good-morrow, and god bless you!" not a word came in answer, but i just glanced back through the crack of the door, and saw grandmamma sitting with the reddest face i ever did see to her, and two big wrinkles in her forehead, taking pinch after pinch in the most reckless manner. my aunt dorothea, who stood in the door, said acidly,--"i think, madam, it would have been as well to keep such remarks till you were alone with my mother. i do not know how it may be in cumberland, but they are not thought becoming to a gentlewoman here. believe me, i am indeed sorry to be forced to the discourtesy of saying so; but you were the first offender." "ay," said my aunt kezia. "folks that tell the naked truth generally meet with more kicks than halfpence. but i would have spoken out of these girls' hearing, only i got never a chance. and you see i shall have to give in my account some day, and i want it to be as free from blots as i can." "i suppose you thought you were doing a good work for your own soul!" said my aunt dorothea, sneeringly. "eh, no, poor soul!" was my aunt kezia's sorrowful reply. "my soul's beyond my saving, but christ has it safe. and knowing that, madam, makes one very pitiful to unsaved souls." "upon my word, madam!" cried my aunt dorothea. "you take enough upon you! `unsaved souls,' indeed! well, i am thankful i never had the presumption to say that my soul was safe. i have a little more humility than that." "it would indeed be presumption in some cases," said my aunt kezia, solemnly. "but, madam, if you ask a princess whose daughter she is, it is scarce presuming that she should answer you, `the king's.' what else can she answer? `we know that we have eternal life.'" "an apostle writ that, i suppose," said my aunt dorothea, in a hard tone. "they were not apostles he writ to," said my aunt kezia. "and he says he writ on purpose that they might know it." "now, ladies, 'tis high time to set forth," called my uncle charles's voice from the hall; and i was glad to hear it. i and hatty ran off at once, but i could not but catch my aunt kezia's parting words,-- "god bless you, madam, and i thank you for all your kindness. and when i next see you, i hope you will know it." we drove to snow hill in grandmamma's coach, and took our seats (bespoken some days back) in the flying machine, where our company was two countrywomen with baskets, a youth that looked very pale and cadaverous, and wore his hair uncommon long, a lady in very smart clothes, and a clergyman in his cassock. my uncle charles bade us farewell very kindly, and wished us a safe journey. mr raymond was there also, and he bade god bless us. somehow, in all the bustle, i had not a right chance to take leave of ephraim. the coach set forth rather sooner than i expected, while flora and i were charging mr raymond with messages to annas; and he had only time to step back with a bow and a smile. i looked for ephraim, but could not even see him. i was so sorry, and i thought of little else until we got to uxbridge. at uxbridge we got out, and went into the inn to dine at the ordinary, which is always spread ready for the coming of the flying machine on a wednesday. as i sat down beside my aunt kezia, a man came and took the chair on the other side of me. "tired, cary?" he said, to my amazement. "ephraim!" i cried. "wherever have you come from?" "did you think i had taken up my abode in london?" said he, looking diverted. "but i thought you went after some business," i said, feeling very much puzzled that he should be going home just now, and leaving poor annas in all her trouble. "i did," he answered. "business gets done some time. it would be a sad thing if it did not. will you have some of this rabbit pie?" i accepted the pie, for i did not care what i had. "then your business is done?" i said, in some surprise. his business could hardly have any connection with annas, in that case. it must be real business--something that concerned his father. "yes, cary; my business was finished last night, so i was just in time to come with you." and the look of fun came into his eyes again. "oh, i am glad!" said i. "i wondered how my aunt kezia would manage all by herself." "had you three made up your minds to be particularly naughty?" asked he, laughing. "now, ephraim!" said i. "sounded like it," he replied. "well, cary, are you glad to go home?" "well, yes--i think--i am," answered i. "then certainly i think you are not." "well. i am glad for some reasons." "and not for others. yes, i understand that. and i guess one of the reasons--you are sorry to leave miss keith." i wondered if he guessed that because he was sorry. "yes, i am very sorry to leave her in this trouble. do you think it likely that colonel keith can escape?" ephraim shook his head. "is it possible?" "`possible' is a divine word, not fit for the lips of men. what god wills is possible. and it is not often that he lets us see long beforehand what he means to do." "then you think all lies with god?" i said--i am afraid, in a rather hopeless tone. "does not everything, at all times, lie with god? that means hope, cary, not despair. `whatsoever the lord pleased, that did he.'" "oh dear! that sounds as if--ephraim, i don't mean to say anything wicked--as if he did not care." "he cares for our sanctification: that is, in the long run, for our happiness. would you rather that he cared just to rid you of the pain of the moment, and not for your eternal happiness?" "oh no! but could i not have both?" "no, cary, i don't suppose you could." "but if god can do everything, why can he not do that? do you never want to know the answers to such questions? or do they not trouble you? they are always coming up with me." "far too often. satan takes care of that." "you think it is wicked to want the answers?" "it is rebellion, cary. the king is the best judge of what concerns his subjects' welfare." i felt in a corner, so i ate my pie and was silent. we slept at reading, and the next day we dined at wallingford, and slept at the angel at oxford. next morning, which was saturday, we were up before the sun, to see as much as we could of the city before the machine should set forth. i cannot say that i got a very clear idea of the place, for when i try to remember it, my head seems a confused jumble of towers and gateways, colleges and churches, stained windows and comical gargoyles--at least that is what ephraim called the funny faces which stuck out from some of the walls. i don't know where he got the word. this day's stage was the longest. we dined at lechlade; and it had long been dark when we rattled into the courtyard of the bell inn at gloucester, where we were to pass the sunday. oh, how tired i was! almost too tired to sleep. on sunday, we went to church at the cathedral, where we had a very dull sermon from a minor canon. in the afternoon, as we sat in the host's parlour, ephraim said to me,-- "cary, did you ever hear of george whitefield?" "oh yes, ephraim!" i cried, and i felt the blood rush to my cheeks, and my eyes light up. "i heard him preach in scotland, when i was there with flora. have you heard him?" "yes, many times, and mr wesley also." i was pleased to hear that. "and what were you going to say about him?" "that if you knew his name, it would interest you to hear that he was born in this inn. his parents kept it." "and he chose to be a field-preacher!" cried i. "why, that was coming down in the world, was it not?" [note .] "it was coming down, in this world," said he. "but there is another world, cary, and i fancy it was going up in that. you must remember, however, that he did not choose to be a field-preacher nor a dissenter: he was turned out of the church." "but why should he have been turned out?" "i expect, because he would not hold his tongue." "but why did anybody want him to hold his tongue?" "well, you see, he let it run to awkward subjects. ladies and gentlemen did not like him because he set his face against fashionable diversions, and told them that they were miserable sinners, and that there was only one way into heaven, which they would have to take as well as the poor in the almshouses. the neighbouring clergy did not like him because he was better than themselves. and the bishops did not like him because he said they ought to do their duty better, and look after their dioceses, instead of setting bad examples to their clergy by hunting and card-playing and so forth; or, at the best, sitting quiet in their closets to write learned books, which was not the duty they promised when they were ordained. but, as was the case with another preacher, `the common people heard him gladly.'" "and he was really turned out?" "seven years ago." "i wonder if it were a wise thing," said i, thinking. "mr raymond says it was the most unwise thing they could have done. and he says so of the turning forth under the act of uniformity, eighty years ago. he thinks the men who were the very salt of the church left her then: and that now she is a saltless, soulless thing, that will die unless god's mercy put more salt in her." "but suppose it do, and the bishops get them turned out again?" "then, says raymond, let the bishops look to themselves. there is such a thing as judicial blindness: and there is such a thing as salt that has lost its savour, and is trodden under foot of men. if the church cast out the children of god, god may cast out the church of england. there are precedents for it in the books of heaven. and in all those cases, god let them go on for a while: over and over again they grieved his spirit and persecuted his servants; but at last there always came one time which was the last time, and after that the spirit withdrew, and that church, or that nation, was left to the lot which it had chosen." "oh, ephraim, that sounds dreadful." "it will be dreadful," he answered, "if we provoke it at the lord's hand." "one feels as if one would like to save such men," i said. "do you? i feel as if i should like to save such churches. it is like a son's feeling who sees his own mother going down to the pit of destruction, and is utterly powerless to hold out a hand to save her. she will not be saved. and i wonder, sometimes, whether any much sorer anguish can be on this side heaven!" i was silent. "it makes it all the harder," he said, in a troubled voice, "when the father's other sons, whose mother she is not, jeer at the poor falling creature, and at her own children for their very anguish in seeing it. i do not think the father can like them to do that. it is hard enough for the children without it. and surely he loves her yet, and would fain save her and bring her home." and i felt he spoke in parables. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . at this date, an innkeeper stood higher in the estimation of society than at present, and a clergyman considerably lower, unless the latter were a dignitary, or a man whose birth and fortune were regarded as entitling him to respect apart from his profession. chapter fourteen. how things came round. "they say, when cities grow too big, their smoke may make the skies look dim; and so may life hide god from us, but still it cannot alter him. and age and sorrow clear the soul, as night and silence clear the sky, and hopes steal out like silver stars, and next day brightens by and by." isabella fyvie mayo. on the monday morning, we left gloucester on horseback, with two baggage-horses beside those we rode. we dined at worcester, and lay that night at bridgenorth. on the tuesday, we slept at macclesfield; on the wednesday, at colne; on the thursday, at appleby; and on friday, about four o'clock in the afternoon, we reached home. on the steps, waiting for us, stood father and sophy. i had not been many minutes in the house before i felt, in some inward, indescribable way, that things were changed. i wonder what that is by which we feel things that we cannot know? it was not the house which was altered. the old things, which i had known from a child, all seemed to bid me welcome home. it was father and sophy in whom the change was. it was not like sophy to kiss me so warmly, and call me "darling." and i was not one bit like father to stroke my hair, and say so solemnly, "god bless my lassie!" i have had many a kiss and a loving word from him, but i never heard him speak of god except when he repeated the responses in church, or when-- i wondered what had come to father. and how i did wonder when after supper sam brought, not a pack of cards, but the big bible which used to lie in the hall window with such heaps of dust on it, and he and maria and bessy sat down on the settle at the end of the hall, and father, in a voice which trembled a little, read a psalm, and then we knelt down, and said the confession, and the general thanksgiving, and the lord's prayer. i looked at my aunt kezia, and saw that this was nothing new to her. and then i remembered all at once that she had hinted at something which we should see when we came home, and had bidden us keep our eyes open. the pack of cards did not come out at all. the next morning i was the first to come down. i found sam setting the table in the parlour. we exchanged good-morrows, and sam hoped i was not very tired with the journey. then he said, without looking up, as he went on with his work-- "ye'll ha'e found some changes here, i'm thinking, miss." "i saw one last night, sam," said i, smiling. "there's mair nor ane," he replied. "there's three things i' this warld that can ne'er lie hidden: ye may try to cover them up, but they'll ay out, sooner or later. and that's blood, and truth, and the grace o' god." "i am not so sure the truth of things always comes out, sam," said i. "ye've no been sae lang i' this warld as me, miss cary," said sam. "and 'deed, sometimes 'tis a lang while first. but the grace o' god shows up quick, mostly. 'tis its nature to be hard at wark. ye'll no put barm into a batch o' flour, and ha'e it lying idle. and the kingdom o' heaven is like unto leaven: it maun wark. ay, who shall let it?" "is mr liversedge well liked, sam?" i asked, when i had thought a little. "he's weel eneuch liked o' them as is weel liking," said sam, setting his forks in their places. "the angels like him, i've nae doubt; and the lost sheep like him: but he does nae gang doun sae weel wi' the ninety and nine. they'd hae him a bit harder on the sinners, and a bit safter wi' the saints--specially wi' theirsels, wha are the vara crown and flower o' a' the saints, and ne'er were sinners--no to speak o', ye ken, and outside the responses. and he disna gang saft and slippy doun their throats, as they'd ha'e him, but he is just main hard on 'em. he tells 'em gin they're saints they suld live like saints, and they'd like the repute o' being saints without the fash o' living. he did himsel a main deal o' harm wi' sic-like by a discourse some time gane--ye'll judge what like it was when i tell ye the scripture it was on: `he that saith he abideth in him ought himself also so to walk even as he walked.' and there's a gey lot of folks i' this warld 'd like vara weel to abide, but they're a hantle too lazy to walk. and the minister, he comes and stirs 'em up wi' the staff o' the word, and bids 'em get up and gang their ways, and no keep sat down o' the promises, divertin' theirsels wi' watching ither folk trip. he's vara legal, miss cary, is the minister; he reckons folk suld be washed all o'er, and no just dip their tongues in the fountain, and keep their hearts out. he disna make much count o' giving the lord your tongue, and ay hauding the de'il by the hand ahint your back. and the o'er gude folks disna like that. they'd liever keep friendly wi' baith." "then you think the promises were not made to be sat on, sam?" said i, feeling much diverted with sam's quaint way of putting things. sam settled the cream-jug and sugar-bowl before he answered. "i'll tell ye how it is, miss. the promises was made to be lain on by weary, heavy-laden sinners that come for rest, and want to lay down both theirsels and their burden o' sins on the lord's heart o' love: but they were ne'er made for auld jeshurun to sit on and wax fat, and kick the puir burdened creatures as they come toiling up the hill. last time i was in carlisle, i went to see a kinsman o' mine there as has set up i' the cabinet-making trade, and he showed me a balk o' yon bonnie new wood as they ha'e getten o'er o' late--the auld vicar used to ha'e his dining-table on't; it comes frae some outlandish pairts, and they call it a queer name; i canna just mind it the noo--i reckon i'm getting too auld to tak' in new notions." "mahogany?" "ay, maybe that's it: i ken it minded me o' mud and muggins. atweel, my cousin tauld me they'd a rare call for siccan wood, and being vara costly, they'd hit o' late in the trade on a new way o' making furniture, as did nae come to sae mickle--they ca' it veneer." "oh yes, i know," said i. "ay, ye'll hae seen it i' london toun, i daur say? all that's bad's safe to gang there." i believe sam thinks all londoners a pack of thieves. "atweel, miss cary, there's a gran' sicht o' veneered christians i' this country. they look as spic-span, and as glossy, and just the richt shade o' colour, and bonnily grained, and a' that--till ye get ahint 'em, and then ye see that, saving a thin bit o' facing, they're just common deal, like ither folk. ay, and it's maistly the warst bits o' the deal as is used up ahint the veneer. it is, sae! ye see, 'tis no meant to last, but only to sell. and there's a monie folks 'll gi'e the best price for sic-like, and fancy they ha'e getten the true thing. but i'm thinkin' the king 'll no gi'e the price. his eyes are as a flame o' fire, and they'll see richt through siccan rubbish, and burn it up." "and mr liversedge, i suppose, is the real mahogany?" "he is sae: and he's a gey awkward way of seeing ahint thae bits o' veneered stuff, and finding out they're no worth the money. and they dinna like him onie better for 't." "but i hope he does not make a mistake the other way, sam, and take the real thing for the veneer?" "you trust him for that. he was no born yestre'en. there's a hantle o' folk makes that blunder, though." away went sam for the kettle. when he brought it back, he said,--"miss cary, ye'll mind annie crosthwaite, as lives wi' auld mally?" ah, did i not remember annie crosthwaite?--poor, fragile, pretty spring flower, that some cruel hand plucked and threw away, and men trod on the bemired blossom as it lay in the mire, and women drew their skirts aside to keep from touching the torn, soiled petals? "yes, sam," i said, in a low voice. "ay, the minister brought yon puir lassie a message frae the gude lord--`yet return again to me'--and she just took it as heartily as it was gi'en, and went and fand rest--puir, straying, lost sheep!--but when she came to the table o' the lord, the ninety and nine wad ha'e nane o' her--she was gude eneuch for him in the white robe o' his richteousness, but she was no near gude eneuch for them, sin she had lost her ain--and not ane soul i' a' the parish wad kneel down aside o' her. miss cary, i ne'er saw the minister's e'en flash out sparks o' fire as they did when he heard that! and what, think ye, said he?" "i should like to hear, sam." "`vara gude,' says he. `i beg,' he says, `that none o' ye all will come to the table to-morrow. annie crosthwaite and i will gang thither our lane: but there'll be three,' says he, `for the blessed lord himsel' will come and eat wi' us, and we wi' him, for he receiveth sinners, and eateth with them.' and he did it, for a' they tald him the bishop wad be doun on him. `let him,' says he, `and he shall hear the haill story': and not ane o' them a' wad he let come that morn. they were no worthy, he said." "and did the bishop hear of it?" "ay, did he, and sent doun a big chiel, like an auld eagle, wi' a' his feathers ruffled the wrang way. but the minister, he stood his ground: `there were three, mr archdeacon,' says he, as quiet as a mill-tarn, `and the lord himsel' made the third.' `and how am i to ken that?' says the big chiel, ruffling up his feathers belike. `will ye be sae gude as to ask him?' says the minister. i dinna ken what the big chiel made o' the tale to the bishop, but we heard nae mair on't. maybe he did ask him, and gat the auld answer,--`touch not mine anointed, and do my prophet no harm.'" "still, rules ought to be kept, sam." "rules ought to be kept in ordinar'. but this was bye-ordinar', ye see. if a big lad has been tauld no to gang frae the parlour till his faither comes back, and he sees his little brither drooning in the pond just afore the window, i reckon his faither 'll no be mickle angered if he jumps out of the window and saves him. any way, i wad nae like to ha'e what he'd get, gin he said,--`faither, ye bade me tarry in this chalmer, and sae i could nae do a hand's turn for willie.' rules are man's, miss cary, but truth and souls belang to god." my aunt kezia and sophy had come in while sam was talking, and father and hatty followed now, so we sat down to breakfast. "sam has told you one story, girls," said my aunt kezia, "and i will tell you another. you will find the singers changed when you go to church. dan oldfield and susan nixon are gone." "dan and susan!" cried hatty. "the two best voices in the gallery!" "well, you know, under old mr digby, there always used to be an anthem before the service began, in which dan and susan did their best to show off. the second week that mr liversedge was here, he stopped the anthem. up started the singers, and told him they would not stand it. it wasn't worth their while coming just for the psalms. mr liversedge heard them out quietly, and then said,--`do you mean what you have just said?' yes, to be sure they meant it. `then consider yourselves dismissed from the gallery without more words,' says he. `you are not worthy to sing the praises of him before whom multitudes of angels veil their faces. not worth your while to praise god!--but worth your while to show man what fine voices he gave you whom you think scorn to thank for it!' and he turned them off there and then." the next time i was alone with sophy, she said to me, with tears in her eyes,--"cary, i don't want you to reckon me worse than i am. that is bad enough, in all conscience. i would have knelt down with annie crosthwaite, and so, i am sure, would my aunt kezia; but it was while she was up in london with you, and father was so poorly with the gout, i could not leave him. you see there was nobody to take my place, with all of you away. please don't fancy i was one of those that refused, for indeed it was not so." "i fancy you are a dear, good sophy," said i, kissing her; "and i suppose, if mr liversedge asked you to shake hands with a chimney-sweep just come down the chimney, you would be delighted to do it." "well, perhaps i might," said sophy, laughing. "but that, cary, i should have done, not for him, but for our master." i found that i liked mr liversedge very much, as one would wish to like a brother-in-law that was to be. his whole heart seems to be in his lord's work: and if, perhaps, he is a little sharp and abrupt at times, i think it is simply because he sees everything quickly and distinctly, and speaks as he sees. i was afraid he would have something of the pope about him, but i find he is not like that at all. he lets you alone for all mere differences of opinion, though he will talk them over with you readily if he sees that you wish it. but let those keen, black eyes perceive something which he thinks sin, and down he comes on you in the very manner of the old prophets. yet show him that he has made a mistake, and that your action was justified, and he begs your forgiveness in a moment. and i never saw a man who seemed more fitted to deal with broken-hearted sinners. to them he is tenderness and comfort itself. "he just takes pattern frae his maister; that's whaur it is," said old elspie. "mind ye, he was unco gentle wi' the puir despised publicans, and vara tender to the wife that had been a sinner. it was the pharisees he was hard on. and that's just what the minister is. miss cary, he's just the best blessing the lord ever sent till brocklebank!" "i hardly thought, elspie," said i, a little mischievously, "to hear you speak so well of a prelatist clergyman." "hoot awa', we a' ha'e our bees in our bonnets, miss cary," said the old woman, a trifle testily. "the minister's no pairfect, i daur say. but he's as gran' at praying as john knox himself and he gars ye feel the loue and loueliness o' christ like maister rutherford did. and sae lang 's he'll do that, i'm no like to quarrel wi' him, if he do ha'e a fancy for lawn sleeves and siccan rubbish, i wish him better sense, that's a'. maybe he'll ha'e it ane o' thae days." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i cannot understand hatty as she is now. for a while after that affair with the crosslands she was just like a drooping, broken-down flower; all her pertness, and even her brightness, completely gone. now that is changed, and she has become, not pert again, but hard--hard and bitter. nobody can do anything to suit her, and she says things now and then which make me jump. things, i mean, as if she believed nothing and cared for nobody. when hatty speaks in that way, i often see my aunt kezia looking at her with a strange light in her eyes, which seems to be half pain and half hopefulness. mr liversedge, i fancy, is studying her; and i am not sure that he knows what to make of her. yesterday evening, fanny and ambrose came in and sat a while. fanny is ever so much improved. she has brightened up, and lost much of that languid, limp, fanciful way she used to have; and, instead of writing odes to the stars, she seems to take an interest in her poultry-yard and dairy. my aunt kezia says fanny wanted an object in life, and i suppose she has it now. when they had been there about an hour, mr liversedge came in. he does not visit sophy often; i fancy he is too busy; but tuesday evening is usually his leisure time, so far as he can be said to have one, and he generally spends it here when he can. he and ambrose presently fell into discourse upon the parish, and somehow they got to talking of what a clergyman's duties were. ambrose thought if he baptised and married and buried people, and administered the sacrament four times a year, and preached every month or so, and went to see sick people when they sent for him, he had done all that could be required, and might quite reasonably spend the rest of his time in hunting either foxes or latin and greek, according as his liking led him. "you think christ spent his life so?" asked mr liversedge, in that very quiet tone in which he says his sharpest things, and which reminds me so often of colonel keith. ambrose looked as if he did not know what to say; and before he had found out, mr liversedge went on,-- "because, you see, he left me an example, that i should follow his steps." "mr liversedge, i thought you were orthodox." "i certainly should have thought so, as long as i quoted scripture," said the vicar. "but, you know, nobody does such a thing," said ambrose. "then is it not high time somebody should?" "mr liversedge, you will never get promotion, if that be the way you are going on." "in which world?" "`which world'! there is only one." "i thought there were two." ambrose fidgetted uneasily on his chair. "i tell you what, my good sir, you are on the way to preach your church empty. the pews have no souls to be saved, i believe,"--and ambrose chuckled over his little joke. "what of the souls of the absent congregation?" asked mr liversedge. "oh, they'll have to get saved elsewhere," answered ambrose. "then, if they do get saved, what reason shall i have to regret their absence? but suppose they do not, mr catterall,--is that my loss or theirs?" "why couldn't you keep them?" said ambrose. "at what cost?" was the vicar's answer. "a little more music and rather less thunder," said ambrose, laughing. "give us back the anthem--you have no idea how many have taken seats at all saints' because of that. and do you know your discarded singers are there?" "all saints' is heartily welcome to everybody that has gone there," replied mr liversedge. "if i drive them away by preaching error, i shall answer to god for their souls. but if men choose to go because they find truth unpalatable, i have no responsibility for them. the lord has not given me those souls; that is plain. if he have given them to another sower of seed, by all means let them go to him as fast as they can." "mr liversedge, i do believe,"--ambrose drew his chair back an inch--"i do almost think--you must be--a--a calvinist." "it is not catching, i assure you, mr catterall." "but are you?" "that depends on what you mean. i certainly do not go blindly over hedge and ditch after the opinions of john calvin. i am not sure that any one does." "no, but--you believe that people are--a--are elect or non-elect; and if they be elect, they will be saved, however they live, and if they be not, they must needs be lost, however good they are. excuse my speaking so freely." "i am very much obliged to you for it. no, mr catterall, i do not believe anything of the sort. if that be what you mean by calvinism, i abhor it as heartily as you do." "why, i thought all calvinists believed that!" "i answer most emphatically, no. i believe that men are elect, but that they are elected `unto sanctification': and a man who has not the sanctification shows plainly--unless he repent and amend--that he is not one of the elect." "now i know a man who says, rolling the whites of his eyes and clasping his palms together as if he were always saying his prayers, like the figures on that old fellow's tomb in the chancel--he says he was elected to salvation from all eternity, and cannot possibly be lost: and he is the biggest swearer and drinker in the parish. what say you to that? am i to believe him?" "can you manage it?" "i can't: that is exactly the thing." "don't, then. i could not." "but now, do you believe, mr liversedge,--i have picked up the words from this fellow--that god elected men because he foreknew them, or that he foreknew because he had elected them?" ambrose gave a little wink at fanny and me, sitting partly behind him, as if he thought that he had driven the vicar completely into a corner. "when the angel gabriel is sent to tell me, mr catterall, i shall be most happy to let you know. until then, you must excuse my deciding a question on which i am entirely ignorant." ambrose looked rather blank. "well, then, mr liversedge, as to free-will. do you think that every man can be saved, if he likes, or not?" "let christ answer you--not me. `no man can come to me, except the father which hath sent me draw him.'" "ah! then man has no responsibility?" and ambrose gave another wink at us. "let christ answer you again. `ye will not come unto me, that ye might have life.' if they had come, you see, they might have had it." "but how do you reconcile the two?" said ambrose, knitting his brows. "when the lord commands me to reconcile them, he will show me how. but i do not expect him to do either, in this world. to what extent our knowledge on such subjects may be enlarged in heaven, i cannot venture to say." "but surely you must reconcile them?" "pardon me. i must act on them." "can you act on principles you cannot reconcile?" "certainly--if you can put full trust in their proposer. every child does it, every day. you will be a long while in the dark, mr catterall, if you must know why a candle burns before you light it. better be content to have the light, and work by it." "there are more sorts of light than one," said my aunt kezia. "that is the best light by which you see clearest," was the vicar's answer. "what have you got to see?" asked ambrose. "your sins and your saviour," was the reply. "and till you have looked well at both those, mr catterall, and are sure that you have laid the sins upon the sacrifice, it is as well not to look much at anything else." i think ambrose found that he was in the corner this time, and just the kind of corner that he did not care to get in. at any rate, he said no more. sophy's wedding, which took place this evening, was the quietest i ever saw. she let mr liversedge say how everything should be, and he seemed to like it as plain and simple as possible. no bridesmaids, no favours, no dancing, no throwing the stocking, no fuss of any sort! i asked him if he had any objection to a cake. "none at all," said he, "so long as you don't want me to eat it. and pray don't let us have any sugary cupids on the top, nor any rubbish of that sort." so the cake was quite plain, but i took care it should be particularly good, and hatty made a wreath of spring flowers to put round it. the house feels so quiet and empty now, when all is over, and sophy gone. of course she is not really gone, because the vicarage is only across a couple of fields, and ten minutes will take us there at any time. but she is not one of us any longer, and that always feels sad. i do feel, somehow, very sorrowful to-night--more, i think, than i have any reason. i cannot tell why sometimes a sort of tired, sad feeling comes over one, when there seems to be no cause for it. i feel as if i had not something i wanted: and yet, if anybody asked me what i wanted, i am not sure that i could tell. or rather, i am afraid i could tell, but i don't want to say so. there is something gone out of my life which i wanted more of, and since we came home i have had none of it, or next to none. no, little book, i am not going to tell you what it is. only there is a reason for my feeling sad, and i must keep it to myself, and never let anybody know it. i suppose other women have had to do the same thing many a time. and some of them, perhaps, grow hard and cold, and say bitter things, and people dislike and avoid them, not knowing that if they lifted up the curtain of their hearts they would see a grave there, in which all their hopes were buried long ago. well, god knows best, and will do his best for us all. how can i wish for anything more? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ nd. when we went up to bed last night, to my surprise hatty came to me, and put her arms round me. "there are only us two left now, cary," she said. "and i know i have been very bitter and unloving of late. but i mean to try and do better, dear. will you love me as much as you can, and help me? i have been very unhappy." "i was afraid so, and i was very sorry for you," i answered, kissing her. "must i not ask anything, hatty?" "you can ask what you like," she replied. "i think, cary, that christ was knocking at my door, and i did not want to open it; and i could not be happy while i knew that i was keeping him outside. and at last--it was last night, in the sermon--he spoke to me, as it were, through that closed door; and i could not bear it any longer--i had to rise and open it, and let him in. and before that, with him, i kept everybody out; and now i feel as if, with him, i wanted to take everybody in." dear hatty! she seems so changed, and so happy, and i am so thankful. but my prospect looks very dark. it ought not to do so, for i let him in before hatty did; and i suppose some day it will be clearer, and i shall have nobody but him, and shall be satisfied with it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ th. you thought you knew a great deal of what was going to happen, did you not, cary courtenay? such a wise girl you were! and how little you did know! this evening, esther langridge came in, and stayed to supper. she said ephraim had gone to the parsonage on business, and had promised to call for her on his way home. he came rather later than esther expected. (we have only seen him twice since we returned from london, except just meeting at church and so forth: he seemed to be always busy.) he said he had had to see mr liversedge, and had been detained later than he thought. he sat and talked to all of us for a while, but i thought his mind seemed somewhere else. i guessed where, and thought i found myself right whet after a time, when father had come in, and ambrose with him, and they were all talking over the fire, ephraim left them, and coming across to my corner, asked me first thing if i had heard anything from annas. i have not had a line from her, nor heard anything of her, and he looked disappointed when i said so. he was silent for a minute, and then he said,-- "cary, what do you think i have been making up my mind to do?" "i do not know, ephraim," said i. i did not see how that could have to do with annas, for i believed he had made up his mind on that subject long ago. "would you be very much surprised if i told you that i mean to take holy orders?" "ephraim!" i was very, very much surprised. how would annas like it? "yes, i thought you would be," said he. "it is no new idea to me. but i had to get my father's consent, and smooth away two or three difficulties, before i thought it well to mention it to any one but the vicar. he will give me a title. i am to be ordained, cary, next trinity sunday." "why, that is almost here!" cried i. "yes, it is almost here," he replied, with that far-away look in his eyes which i had seen now and then. then annas had been satisfied, for of course she was one of the difficulties which had to be smoothed away. "i shall hope to see more of my friends now," he went on, with a smile. "i know i have seemed rather a hermit of late, while this matter has been trembling in the balance. i hope the old friend will not be further off because he is the curate. i should not like that." "i do not think you need fear," said i, trying to speak lightly. but how far my heart went down! the future master of the fells farm was a fixture at brocklebank: but the future parson of some parish might be carried a hundred miles away from us. a few months, and we might see him no more. just then, father set his foot on one of the great logs, and it blazed and crackled, sending a shower of sparkles up the chimney, and a ruddy glow all over the room. but my fire was dying out, and the sparkles were gone already. perhaps it was as well that just at that moment a rather startling diversion occurred, by the entrance of sam with a letter, which he gave to flora. "here's ill tidings, sir!" said sam to father. "miss flora's letter was brought by ane horseman, that's ridden fast and far; the puir beastie's a' o'er foam, and himsel's just worn-out. he brings news o' a gran' battle betwixt the prince and yon loon they ca' cumberland,--ma certie, but cumberland's no mickle beholden to 'em!--and the prince's army's just smashed to bits, and himsel' a puir fugitive in the highlands. ill luck tak' 'em!--though that's no just becoming to a christian man, but there's times as a chiel disna stop to measure his words and cut 'em off even wi' scissors. 'twas at a place they ca' culloden, this last week gane: and they say there's na mair chance for the prince the now than for last year's christmas to come again." father, of course, was extreme troubled by this news, and went forth into the hall to speak with the horseman, whom sam had served with a good supper. ambrose followed, and so did my aunt kezia, for she said men knew nought about airing beds, and it was as like as not bessy would take the blankets from the wrong chest if she were not after her. hatty was not in the room, and flora had carried off her letter, which was from my uncle drummond. so ephraim and i were left alone, for, somewhat to my surprise, he made no motion to follow the rest. "cary," he said, in a low tone, as he took the next chair, "i have had news, also." it was bad news--in a moment i knew that. his tone said so. i looked up fearfully. i felt, before i heard, the terrible words that were coming. "duncan keith rests with god!" oh, it was no wonder if i let my work drop, and hid my face in my hands, and wept as if my heart were breaking. not for colonel keith. he should never see evil any more. for annas, and for flora, and for the stricken friends at monksburn, and for my uncle drummond, who loved him like another son,--and--yes, let me confess it, for cary courtenay, who had just then so much to mourn over, and must not mourn for it except with the outside pretence of something else. "did you care so much for him, cary?" what meant that intense pain in ephraim's voice? did he fancy--and what did it matter to him, if he did? i tried to wipe away my tears and speak. "did you care so little?" i said, as well as i could utter. "think of annas, and his parents, and--and, ephraim, we led him to his death--you and i!" "nay, not so," he answered. "you must not look at it in that light, cary. we did but our duty. it is never well to measure duties by consequences. yes, of course i think of his parents and sister, poor souls! it will be hard for them to bear. yet i almost think i would change with them rather than with angus, when he comes to know. cary, somebody must write to miss keith: and it ought to be either miss drummond or you." i felt puzzled. would he not break it best to her himself? if all were settled betwixt them, and it looked as if it were, was he not the proper person to write? "you have not written to her?" i said. "why, no," he answered. "i scarce like to intrude myself on her. she has not seen much of me, you know. besides, i think a woman would know far better how to break such news. men are apt to touch a wound roughly, even when they wish to act as gently as possible. no, cary--i am unwilling to place such a burden on you, but i think it must be one of you." could he speak of annas thus, if--i felt bewildered. "unless," he said, thoughtfully, looking out of the window, where the moon was riding like a queen through the somewhat troubled sky, "unless you think--for you, as a girl, can judge better than i--that raymond would be the best breaker. perhaps you do not know that raymond is not at home? my lady inverness writ the news to him, and said she had not spoken either to mrs raymond or miss keith. she plainly shrank from doing it. perhaps he would help her to bear it best." "how should he be the best?" i said. "mrs raymond might--" "why, cary, is it possible you do not know that raymond and miss keith are troth-plight?" "troth-plight! mr raymond! annas!" i started up in my astonishment. here was a turning upside down of all my notions! "so that is news to you?" said ephraim, evidently surprised himself. "why, i thought you had known it long ago. of course i must have puzzled you! i see, now." "i never heard a word about it," i said, feeling as though i must be dreaming, and should awake by-and-by. "i always thought--" "you always thought what?" "i thought you cared for annas," i forced my lips to say. "you thought i cared for miss keith?" ephraim's tone was a stronger negative than any words could have been. "yes, i cared for her as your friend, and as a woman in trouble, and a woman of fine character: but if you fancied i wished to make her my wife, you were never more mistaken. no, cary; i fixed on somebody else for that, a long while ago--before i ever saw miss keith. may i tell you her name?" then we were right at first, and it was fanny. i said, "yes," as well as i could. "cary, i never loved, and never shall love, any one but you." i cannot tell you, little book, either what i said, or exactly what happened after that. i only know that the moaning wind outside chanted a triumphal march, and the dying embers on my hearthstone sprang up into a brilliant illumination, and i did not care a straw for all the battles that ever were fought, and envied neither annas keith nor anybody else. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "well, hatty! i did not think you were going to be the old maid of the family!" said my aunt kezia. "i did not, either, once," was hatty's answer, in a low tone, but not a sad one. "perhaps i was the best one for it, aunt. at any rate, you and father will always have one girl to care for you." we did not see flora till the next morning. i knew that my uncle drummond's letter must be that in which he answered the news of angus's escape, and i did not wonder if it unnerved her. she let me read it afterwards. the laird and lady monksburn had plainly given up their son for ever when they heard what he had done. and knowing what i knew, i felt it was best so. i had to tell flora my news:--to see the light die suddenly out of her dear brown velvet eyes,--will it ever come back again? and i wondered, watching her by the light of my own new-born happiness, whether duncan keith were as little to her as i had supposed. i knew, somewhat later, that i had misunderstood her, that we had misinterpreted her. her one wish seemed to be to get back home. and father said he would take her himself as far as the border, if my uncle drummond would come for her to the place chosen. when the parting came, as we took our last kiss, i told her i prayed god bless her, and that some day she might be as happy as i was. there was a moment's flash in the brown eyes. "take that wish back, cary," she said, quietly. "happy as you are, the woman whom duncan keith loved can never be, until she meet him again at the gates of pearl." "that may be a long while, dear." "it will be just so long as the lord hath need of me," she answered: "and i hope, for his sake, that will be as long as my father needs me. and then--oh, but it will be a blithe day when the call comes to go home!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the fells farm, september th. five months since i writ a word! and how much has happened in them--so much that i could never find time to set it down, and now i must do it just in a few lines. i have been married six weeks. father shook his head with a smile when ephraim first spoke to him, and said his lass was only in the cradle yesterday: but he soon came round. it was as quiet a wedding as sophy's, and i am sure i liked it all the better, whatever other people might think. we are to live at the fells farm during the year of ephraim's curacy, and then father thinks he can easily get him a living through the interest of friends. where it will be, of course we cannot guess. flora has writ thrice since she returned home. she says my uncle drummond was very thankful to have her back again: but she can see that lady monksburn is greatly changed, and the laird has so failed that he scarce seems the same man. of herself she said nothing but one sentence,-- "waiting, dear cary,--always waiting." from angus we do not hear a word. mr raymond and annas are to be married when their year of mourning is out. i cannot imagine how they will get along--he a whig clergyman, and she a tory presbyterian! however, that is their affair. i am rather thankful 'tis not mine. my aunt dorothea has writ me one letter--very kind to me--(it was writ on the news of my marriage), but very stiff toward my aunt kezia. i see she cannot forgive her easily, and i do not think grandmamma ever will. grandmamma sent me a large chest from london, full of handsome presents,--a fine set of dresden tea china (which travelled very well-- only one saucer broke); a new hoop, so wide round that methinks i shall never dare to wear it in the country; a charming piece of dove-coloured damask, and a petticoat, to wear with it, of blue quilted satin; two calico gowns from india, a beautiful worked scarf from the same country, six pair pearl-coloured silk stockings, a new fan, painted with flowers, most charmingly done, a splendid piece of white and gold brocade, and a superb set of turquoise and pearl jewellery. i cannot think when or how i am to wear them; they seem so unfit for the wife of a country curate. "oh, wait till i am a bishop," says ephraim, laughingly; "then you can make the dean's lady faint away for envy of all your smart things. and as to the white and gold brocade, keep it till the king comes to stay with us, and it will be just the thing for a state bed for him." "i wonder what colour it will be!" said i. "which king?" ephraim makes me a low bow--over the water bottle. [note .] i must lay down my pen, for i hear a shocking smash in the kitchen. that girl dolly is so careless! i don't believe i shall ever have much time for writing now. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ langbeck rectory, under the cheviots, august the th, . nearly a whole year since i writ one line! our lot is settled now, and we moved in here in may last. i am very thankful that the lines have fallen to me still in my dear north--i have not pleasant recollections of the south. and i fancy--but perhaps unjustly--that we northerners have a deeper, more yearning love for our hills and dales than they have down there. we are about midway between brocklebank and abbotscliff, which is just where i would have chosen to be, if i could have had the choice. it is not often that god gives a man all the desires of his heart; perhaps to a woman he gives it even less often. how thankful i ought to be! my aunt kezia was so good as to come with us, to help me to settle down. i should not have got things straight in twice the time if she had not been here. sophy spent the days with father while my aunt kezia was here, and just went back to the vicarage for the night. father is very much delighted with sophy's child, and calls him a bouncing boy, and a credit to the family; and sophy thinks him the finest child that ever lived, as my aunt kezia saith every mother hath done since eve. the night before my aunt kezia went home, as she and i sat together,--it was not yet time for ephraim to come in from his work in the parish, for he is one of the few parsons who do work, and do not pore over learned books or go a-hunting, and leave their parishes to take care of themselves--well, as my aunt and i sat by the window, she said something which rather astonished me. "cary, i don't know what you and ephraim would say, but i am beginning to think we made a mistake." "do you mean about the chinese screens, aunt?" said i. "the gold lacquer would have gone very well with the damask, but--" "chinese screens!" saith my aunt, with a hearty laugh. "why, whatever is the girl thinking about? no, child! i mean about the prince." "aunt kezia!" i cried. "you never mean to say we did wrong in fighting for our king?" "wrong? no, child, for we meant to do right. i gather from scripture that the lord takes a deal more account of what a man means than of what he does. thank god it is so! for if a man means to come to christ, he does come, no matter how: ay, and if a man means to reject christ, he does that too, however fair and orthodox he may look in the eyes of the world. therefore, as to those matters that are in doubt, and cannot be plainly judged by scripture, but christian men may and do lawfully differ about them, if a man honestly meant to do god's will, so far as he knew it, i don't believe he will be judged as if he had not cared to do it. but what i intend to say is this--that it is plain to me now that the lord hath repealed the decree whereby he gave england to the house of stuart. there is no right against him, cary. he doeth as he will with all the kingdoms of the world. maybe it's not so plain to you--if so, don't you try to see through my eyes. follow your own conscience until the lord teaches yourself. if our fathers had been truer men, and had passed the bill of exclusion in , the troubles of would never have come, nor those of neither. they ate sour grapes, and set our teeth on edge--ay, and their own too, poor souls! it was the bishops and lord halifax that did it, and the bishops paid the wyte, as sam says. it must have been a bitter pill to those seven in the tower, to think that all might have been prevented by lawful, constitutional means, and that they--their order, i mean--had just pulled their troubles on their own heads." "aunt kezia," i cried in distress, "you never mean to say that colonel keith died for a wrongful cause?" "god forbid!" she said, gravely. "colonel keith did not die for that cause. he died for right and righteousness, for truth and honour, for faithfulness, for loyalty and love--no bad things to die for. not for the prince--only for god and flora, and a little, perhaps, for angus. god forbid that i should judge any true and honourable man--most of all that man who gave his life for those we love. only, cary, the cause is dead and gone. the struggle is over for ever: and we may thank god it is so. on the wreck of the old england a new england may arise--an england standing fast in the liberty wherewith christ hath made her free, free from priestly yoke and priest-ridden rulers, free not to revolt but to follow, not to disobey, but to obey. if only--ah! if only she resolve, and stand to it, never to be entangled again with the yoke of bondage, never to forget the lessons which god has taught her, never again to eat the sour grapes, and set the children's teeth on edge. let her once begin to think of the tiger's beauty, and forget its deathly claws--once lay aside her watchword of `no peace with rome'--and she will find it means no peace with god, for his scourge has always pursued her when she has truckled to his great enemy. eh, but men have short memories, never name short sight. like enough, by a hundred years are over, they'll be looking at roman sugar-sticks as the scarlet woman holds them out, and thinking that she is very fair and fine-spoken, and why shouldn't they have a few sweets? well! it is well the government of the world isn't in old kezia's hands, for if it were, some people would find themselves uncommonly uncomfortable before long." "you don't mean me, i hope?" i said, laughing. "nay, child, i don't mean you, nor yet your husband. very like you'll not see it as i do. but you'll live to see it--if only you live long enough." well, my aunt kezia may be right, though i do not see it. only that i do think it was a sad blunder to throw out the bill of exclusion. it had passed the commons, so they were not to blame. but one thing i should like to set down, for any who may read this book a hundred years hence, if it hath not been tore up for waste-paper long ere that--that we protestants who fought for the prince never fought nor meant to fight for popery. we hated it every bit as much as any who stood against him. we fought because the contrary seemed to us to be doing evil that good might come. but i won't say we may not live to be thankful that we lost our cause. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it has been a warm afternoon, and i sat with the window open in the parlour, singing and sewing; ephraim was out in the parish. i was turning down a hem when a voice in the garden spoke to me,-- "an't like you, madam, to give a drink of whey to a poor soldier?" there was a slight scots accent with the words. "whence come you?" i said. "i fought at prestonpans," he answered. he looked a youngish man, but very ragged and bemired. "on which side?" i said, as i rose up. of course i was not going to refuse him food and drink, however that might be, but i dare say i should have made it a little more dainty for one of prince charlie's troops than for a hanoverian, and i felt pretty sure he was the former from his accent. i fancied i saw a twinkle in his eyes. "the side you are on, madam," said he. "how can you know which side i am on?" said i. "come round to the back-door, friend, and i will find you a drink of whey." "i suppose," said my beggar, looking down at himself, "i don't look quite good enough for the front door. but i am an officer for all that, madam." "sir, i beg your pardon," i made answer. "i will let you in at the front,"--for when he spoke more, i heard the accent of a gentleman. "pray don't give yourself that trouble, cousin cary." and to my utter amazement, the beggar jumped in at the window, which was low and easily scaled. "angus!" i almost screamed. "at your service, madam." "when did you leave france? where are you come from? have you been to abbotscliff? are--" "halt! can't fight more than three men at once. and i won't answer a question till i have had something to eat. forgive me, cary, but i am very nearly starving." i rushed into the kitchen, and astonished caitlin by laying violent hands on a pan of broth which she was going to serve for supper. i don't know what i said to her. i hastily poured the broth into a basin, and seizing a loaf of bread and a knife, dashed back to angus. "eat that now, angus. you shall have something better by-and-by." he ate like a man who was nearly starving, as he had said. when he had finished, he said,-- "now! i left france a fortnight since. i have not been to abbotscliff. i know nothing but the facts that you are married, and where you live, which i learned by accident, and i instantly thought that your house, if you would take me in, would be a safer refuge than either brocklebank or abbotscliff. now tell me some thing in turn. are my father and flora well?" "yes, for anything i know." "and all at brocklebank?" "quite." "and the keiths? has annas bagged her pheasant?" "what do you mean, angus?" "why, is she mrs raymond? i saw all that. i suppose duncan got away without any difficulty?" "annas is mr raymond's wife," i said. "but, angus, i cannot think how it is, but--i am afraid you do not understand." "understand what?" "is it possible you do not know what price was paid for your ransom?" angus rose hastily, and laid his hand on my arm. "speak out, cary! what do i not know?" "angus, colonel keith bought your life with his own." in all my life i never saw a man's face change as the face of angus drummond changed then. it was plainly to be read there that he had never for a moment understood at what cost he had been purchased. a low moan of intense sorrow broke from him, and he hid his face upon the table. "i think he paid the price very willingly, angus," i said, softly. "and he sent annas a last message for you--he bade you, to the utmost of what your opportunities might be, to be to god and man what he hoped to have been." "o duncan, duncan!" came in anguish from the white lips. "and i never knew--i never thought--" ah, it was so like angus, "never to think." he lifted his head at last, with the light of a settled purpose shining in his eyes. "to man i can never be what he would have been. i am a proscribed fugitive. you harbour me at a risk even now. but to god! cary, i have been a rebel: but i never was a deserter from that service. god helping me, i will enlist now. if my worthless life have cost the most precious life in scotland, it shall not have been given in vain." "there was another who gave his life for you, angus," i could not help saying. "ay, i have been bought twice over," was the trembling answer. "god help me to live worthy of the cost!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ we all keep the name of duncan keith in our inmost hearts--unspoken, but very dear. but i think it is dearest of all in a little house in the outskirts of amsterdam, where, now that my uncle drummond has been called to his reward, our flora keeps home bright for a protestant pastor who works all the day through in the prisons of amsterdam, among the lowest of the vile; who knows what exile and imprisonment are; and who, once in every year, as the day of his substitute's death comes round, pleads with these prisoners from words which are overwhelming to himself,--"ye are not your own; for ye are bought with a price." many of those men and women sink back again into the mire. but now and then the pastor knows that a soul has been granted to his pleadings,-- that in one more instance, as in his own case, the price was not paid in vain. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the recognised jacobite way of answering:--"the king _over the water_." the end. memoirs of the jacobites of and . by mrs. thomson, author of "memoirs of the court of henry the eighth," "memoirs of sarah, duchess of marlborough," etc. volume ii. london: richard bentley, new burlington street, publisher in ordinary to her majesty. . london: printed by s. & j. bentley, wilson, and fley, bangor house, shoe lane. contents to the second volume. page william maxwell, earl of nithisdale (with a portrait of the countess of nithisdale) william gordon, viscount kenmure william murray, marquis of tullibardine sir john maclean rob roy macgregor campbell simon fraser, lord lovat (with a portrait) memoirs of the jacobites. william maxwell, earl of nithisdale. it is happily remarked by the editor of the culloden papers, with regard to the devotion of many of the highland clans to the exiled family of stuart, that "it cannot be a subject requiring vindication; nor," adds the writer, "if it raise a glow on the face of their descendants, is it likely to be the blush of shame." the descendants of william maxwell, earl of nithisdale, have reason to remember, with a proud interest, the determined and heroic affection which rescued their ancestor from prison, no less than the courage and fidelity which involved their chief in a perilous undertaking, and in a miserable captivity. the first of that ancient race, who derived their surname from the lordship of maxwell, in the county of dumfries, was robert de maxwell of carlaverock, who, in , was killed at the battle of bannockburn, fighting under the banners of king james the third. from that period until the seventeenth century, the house of maxwell continued to enjoy signal proofs of royal favour; it was employed in important services and on high missions, extending its power and increasing its possessions by intermarriages with the richest and noblest families in scotland. an enumeration of the honours and privileges enjoyed by this valiant race will show in how remarkable a degree it was favoured by the stuarts, and how various and how forcible were the reasons which bound it to serve that generous and beloved race of scottish monarchs. herbert, who succeeded john de maxwell, was one of the commissioners sent by alexander the second to england, to treat for a marriage with one of the daughters of that crown; and, having concluded the negotiation favourably, was endowed with the office of lord great chamberlain of scotland, which he held during his life-time, and which was afterwards bestowed on his son. eustace de maxwell, in the time of robert de bruce, was among those patriots who adhered to the scottish king. the castle of carlaverock, one of the most ancient possessions of the brave maxwells, stands a memento, in its noble ruins, of the disinterested loyalty of its owners. the remains of carlaverock afford but a slight notion of its former strength. the importance of its situation is, however, undoubted. situated on the south borders of the nith, near to glencapel quay, it constituted a stronghold for the scottish noble, who scarcely feared a siege within its walls, and when the army of edward advanced to invest it, refused to surrender; "for the fortress was well furnished," says grose, "with soldiers, engines, and provisions." but this defiance was vain; after sustaining an assault, carlaverock was obliged to capitulate; when the generosity of edward's measures excited the admiration of all humane minds. the troops, only sixty in number, were taken into the king's service, as a token of his approval of their brave defence; they were then released, ransom free, and received each a new garment, as a gift from the king. carlaverock was, some time after, retaken by the scotch, and sir eustace de maxwell resumed his command over the garrison. it was again invested by king edward; but, on this occasion, eustace drove the english from the attack, and retained possession of the fortress. afterwards, of his own free will, he demolished the fortress, that no possession of his might favour the progress of the enemy. he was rewarded by several grants of lands, and twenty-two pounds in money. in the fifteenth century, herbert de maxwell marrying a daughter of the maxwells of terregles (terre eglise), the son of that marriage was ennobled, and was dignified by the title of lord de maxwell. his successor perished at flodden, but the grandson of the first lord had a happier fortune, and was entrusted by james the fifth to bring over mary of guise to scotland, first marrying her as the king's proxy. the house of maxwell prospered until the reign of james the sixth; by whom john, lord maxwell, was created earl of morton, and made warden of the marches: but a reverse of fortune ensued. from some court intrigue, the warden was removed from office, and his place supplied by the laird of johnstones; all the blood of the maxwells was aroused; a quarrel and a combat were the result; and, in the scuffle, the new-made earl of morton was killed. the injury was not forgotten, and john, who succeeded the murdered man, deemed it incumbent upon him to avenge his father. in consequence, the laird of johnstone soon fell a sacrifice to this notion of honour, or outbreak of offended pride. the crime was not, however, passed over by law; the offender was tried, and executed, in , at the cross in edinburgh; and his honours were forfeited. but again the favour of the stuarts shone forth; the title of morton was not restored, but robert, the brother of the last earl of morton, was created earl of nithisdale, and restored to the lordship of maxwell; with precedency, as earl, according to his father's creation as earl of morton. this kindness was requited by a devoted loyalty; and, in the reign of charles the first, the earl of nithisdale suffered much, both by sequestration and imprisonment, for the royal cause. in , in consequence of failure of the direct line, the title and estates of the nithisdale family devolved on a kinsman, john lord herries, whose grandson, william, the subject of this memoir, proved to be the last of the maxwell family that has ever enjoyed the earldom. he was served heir male, and of line male and entail of his father, on the twenty-sixth of may, ; and heir male of his grandfather, the earl of nithisdale, on the sixteenth of the same month.[ ] at his accession to his title, the earl of nithisdale possessed no common advantages of fortune and station. "he was allied," says the scottish peerage, "to most of the noble families in the two kingdoms." his mother, the lady lucy, was daughter to the marquis of douglas; his only sister, lady mary maxwell, was married to charles stewart, earl of traquair; and he had himself wedded a descendant of that noble and brave marquis of worcester who had defended ragland castle against fairfax. in addition to these family honours, lord nithisdale possessed rich patrimonial estates in one of the most fertile and luxuriant counties in scotland. the valley of the nith, from which he derived his title, owned his lordship over some of its fairest scenes. young, rich, and happily married, he was in the full sunshine of prosperity when, in the year , he was called upon to prove the sincerity of that fidelity to the house of stuart for which his family had so greatly suffered, and for which it had been so liberally repaid. it is remarkable that the adventurers in the unfortunate cause of the chevalier st. george were, with rare exceptions, men of established credit, men who had vast stakes in their country, and who had lost no portion of their due consideration in the eyes of others by extravagance or profligacy. this fact marks the insurrection of , as presenting a very different aspect to that of other insurrections raised by faction, and supported by men of desperate fortunes. so early as the year , it appears by colonel hooke's secret negotiations in favour of the stuarts, that the bulk of the scottish nobility had their hearts engaged in the cause, and that their honour was pledged to come forward on the first occasion. in the enumeration given by one of the agents employed in traversing the country, lord nithisdale and his relatives are mentioned as certain and potent allies. "in tweedale," writes mr. fleming to the minister of louis the fourteenth, "the earl of traquair, of the house of stuart, and the laird of stanhope are powerful. in the shires of annandale, niddesdale, and galloway, are the earl of niddesdale, with the viscount of kenmure, the laird of spinkell, with the numerous clan of the maxwells; and there is some hope also of the earl of galloway; thus the king's party is connected through the whole kingdom, and we are certain of being masters of all the shires, except argyleshire, clydesdale, renfrew, dumbarton, and kyle."[ ] "an affair of this nature," adds mr. fleming, "cannot be communicated to all the well affected; and it is a great proof of the zeal of those to whom it is trusted, that so many people have been able to keep this secret so inviolably." such was the commencement of that compact which, held together by the word of scotchmen, was in few instances broken; but was maintained with as scrupulous a regard to honour and fidelity by the poorest highlander that ever trod down the heather, as by the great nobleman within his castle hall. among the list of the most considerable chiefs in scotland, with an account of their disposition for or against the government, the earl of nithisdale is specified by contemporary writers as one who is able to raise three hundred men, and willing to employ that force in the service of the pretender.[ ] in the resolution to carry the aid of his clansmen to the service of either side, the chieftain of that day was powerfully assisted by the blind devotion of the brave and faithful people whom he led to battle. unhappily, the influence of the chief was often arbitrarily, and even cruelly exerted, in cases of doubtful willingness in their followers. it will be interesting to scrutinize the motives and characters of those who occupied the chief posts in command, upon the formation of this southern party in favour of the chevalier. although some of these chiefs have obtained celebrity in history, yet their efforts were sincere; their notions of patriotism, be they just, or be they erroneous, deserve a rescue from oblivion; their sufferings, and the heroism with which they were encountered, show to what an extent the fixed principle to which the scotch are said ever to recur, will carry the exertions, and support the fortitude, of that enduring and determined people. to william gordon, viscount kenmure and baron of lochinvar, was entrusted, in a commission from the earl of mar, the command of the insurgents in the south of scotland. this choice of a general displayed the usual want of discernment which characterized the leaders of the rebellion of . grave, and as a contemporary describes him, "full aged;" of extraordinary knowledge in public affairs, but a total stranger to all military matters; calm, but slow in judgment; of unsullied integrity,--endowed, in short, with qualities truly respectable, but devoid of energy, boldness, and address, yet wanting not personal courage, there could scarcely have been found a more excellent man, nor a more feeble commander. at the head of a troop of gentlemen, full of ardour in the cause, the plain dress and homely manners of lord kenmure seemed inappropriate to the conspicuous station which he held; for the exercise of his functions as commander was attended by some circumstances which required a great combination of worldly knowledge with singleness of purpose. george seaton, the fifth earl of wintoun, was another of those noblemen who raised a troop of horse, and engaged, from the very first commencement of the rebellion, in its turmoils. the family of seaton, of which the earl of wintoun was the last in the direct line, "affords in its general characteristics," says a celebrated scottish genealogist, "the best specimen of our ancient nobility. they seem to have been the first to have introduced the refined arts, and an improved state of architecture in scotland. they were consistent in their principles, and, upon the whole, as remarkable for their deportment and baronial respectability, as for their descent and noble alliances."[ ] in consequence of so many great families having sprung from the seatons, they were styled "_magnæ nobilitatis domini_;" and their antiquity was as remarkable as their alliances, the male representation of the family, and the right to the honours which they bore, having been transmitted to the present earl of eglintoun, through an unbroken descent of seven centuries and a half. the loyalty of the seatons was untainted. the first earl of wintoun had adopted as one of his mottoes, "_intaminatis fulget honoribus_," and the sense of those words was fully borne out by the testimony of time. the seatoun charter chest contained, as one of their race remarked, no remission of any offence against government, a fact which could not be affirmed of any other scottish family of note. but this brave and ancient house had signal reason for remaining hitherto devoted to the monarchs of the scottish throne. four times had the seatons been allied with royalty: two instances were remarkable. george seatoun, second earl of huntly, married the princess annabella, daughter of james the first, and from that union numerous descendants of scottish nobility exist to this day: and george, the third lord seaton, again allied his house with that of stuart, by marrying the lady margaret stuart, daughter of the earl of buchan, and granddaughter of robert the second. in consequence of these several intermarriages, it was proverbially said of the house of seaton, "the family is come of princes, and reciprocally princes are come of the family." and these bonds of relationship were cemented by services performed and honours conferred. the devotion of the seatons to mary, queen of scots, has been immortalised by the pen of sir walter scott. george, the seventh lord seaton, attended on that unhappy princess in some of the most brilliant scenes of her eventful life, and clung to her in every vicissitude of her fate. he, as ambassador to france, negotiated her marriage with the dauphin, and was present at the celebration of the nuptials. he afterwards aided his royal mistress to escape from lochleven castle, in , and conducted her to niddry castle, his own seat. when, in gratitude for his fidelity, mary would have created him an earl, lord seaton declined the honour, and preferred his existing rank as premier baron of scotland. mary celebrated his determination in a couplet, written both in french and in latin: "il y a des comtes, des rois, des ducs aussi, ce't assez pour moy d'estre signeur de seton." the successor of lord seaton, robert, judged differently from his father, and accepted from james the sixth the patent for the earldom of wintoun; distinguishing the new honour by a courage which procured for him the appellation of "greysteel."[ ] george, the fifth earl of wintoun, and the unfortunate adherent to the jacobite cause, succeeded to the honours of his ancestors under circumstances peculiarly embarrassing. his legitimacy was doubted: at the time when his father died, this ill-fated young man was abroad, his residence was obscure; and as he held no correspondence with any of his relations, little was known with regard to his personal character. in consequence partly of his absence from scotland, partly, it is said, of an actual hereditary tendency, a belief soon prevailed that he was insane, or rather, as a contemporary expresses it, "mighty subject to a particular kind of caprice natural to his family."[ ] the viscount kingston, next heir to the title of wintoun, having expressed his objections to lord wintoun's legitimacy, the young man, in , took steps to establish himself as his father's heir. two witnesses were produced who were present at the marriage of his parents, and bonds were found in the family chests, designating lord wintoun as "our eldest lawful son," by dame christian hepburn countess of wintoun, "our spouse." this important point being established, lord wintoun served himself heir to his father and became the possessor of the family estates, chiefly situated in east lothian, their principal residence being the palace of seaton, so recognized in the royal charters, from its having been the favourite resort of royalty, the scene of entertainment to mary of scots, and her court, and the residence of charles the first, when in scotland in . it was afterwards the place of meeting for the jacobite nobles, and their adherents.[ ] differing from many of his companions in arms, lord wintoun was a zealous protestant; but without any regard to the supremacy of either mode of faith, it appears to have been a natural consequence of his birth and early associations that he should cling to the house of the stuarts. one would almost have applied to the young nobleman the term "recreant," had he wavered when the descendant of mary stuart claimed his services. but such a course was far from his inclination. it was afterwards deemed expedient by his friends to plead for him on the ground of natural weakness of intellect; "but," says a contemporary, "lord wintoun wants no courage, nor so much capacity as his friends find it for his interest to suggest."[ ] he was forward in action, and stimulated the military ardour of his followers, as they rushed with their ancient cry of "set-on" to the combat. the earliest motto borne on these arms by the seatons, "hazard, yet forward," might indeed be mournfully applied to all who engaged in the hopeless rebellion of . lord wintoun, like lord derwentwater, was in the bloom of his youth when he summoned his tenantry to follow him to the rendezvous appointed by lord kenmure. he took with him three hundred men to the standard of james stuart; but he appears to have carried with him a fiery and determined temper,--the accompaniment, perhaps, of noble qualities, but a dangerous attribute in times of difficulty. robert dalzell, sixth earl of carnwath, was another of those scottish noblemen whose adherence to the stuarts can only be regarded as a natural consequence of their birth and education. the origin of his family, which was of great antiquity in the county of lanark, but had been transplanted into nithisdale, is referred to in the following anecdote. in the reign of kenneth the second, a kinsman of the king having been taken and hung by the picts, a great reward was offered by kenneth, if any one would rescue and restore the corpse of his relation. the enterprise was so hazardous, that no one would venture on so great a risk. "at last," so runs the tale, "a certain gentleman came to the king, and said, 'dalziel,' which is the old scottish word for 'i dare.' he performed his engagement, and won for himself and his posterity the name which he had verified, and an armorial bearing corresponding to the action." to james the first and to charles the first the dalziels owed their honours, and had the usual fortune of paying dearly for them, during the great rebellion, by sequestration, and by the imprisonment of robert, first earl of carnwath, after the battle of worcester, whither he attended charles the second. undaunted by the adversities which his house had formerly endured, robert dalzell, of glenæ, sixth earl of carnwath, again came forward in to maintain the principles in which he had been nurtured, and to assist the family for whom his ancestors had suffered. during his childhood, the tutor of this nobleman had made it his chief care to instil into his mind the doctrine of hereditary right, and its consequent, passive obedience and non-resistance. at the university of cambridge, young dalzell had imbibed an affection for the liturgy and discipline of the church of england; whilst his attainments had kept pace with the qualities of his heart, and the graces of his deportment. he was, in truth, a young man of fair promise, and one whose fate excited great interest, when a sombre tranquillity had succeeded to the turbulence of rebellion. gentle in his address, affable, kind-hearted, lord carnwath had a natural and ready wit, and a great command of language, to which his english education had doubtless contributed. he was related by a former marriage between the families to the earl of wintoun, whose troop was commanded by captain james dalzell, the brother of lord carnwath. this young officer had served in the army of george the first, but he threw up his commission at the beginning of the rebellion,--a circumstance which saved him from being shot at preston as a deserter.[ ] robert balfour, fifth earl of burleigh, was among the chiefs who, shortly after the outbreak, avowed their adherence to the pretender's party. he was one of the few jacobites whose personal character has reflected discredit upon his motives, and disgraced his compeers: his story has the air of romance, but is perfectly reconcilable with the spirit of the times in which lord burleigh figured. when a very young man he became attached to a girl of low rank, and was sent abroad by his friends in hopes of removing his attachment. before he quitted scotland, he swore, however, that if the young woman married in his absence, he would kill her husband. upon returning home, he found that the unfortunate object of his affections had been united to henry stenhouse, the schoolmaster at inverkeithing. the threat had not been uttered without a deep meaning: young balfour kept his word, and hastening to the school where stenhouse was pursuing his usual duties, he stabbed him in the midst of his scholars. the victim of this murderous attack died twelve days afterwards. nearly eight years had elapsed since the crime had been perpetrated, and the wretched murderer had encountered, since that time, his trial, in the court of justiciary, and had received sentence of death by beheading; but he escaped from prison a few days previously, by exchanging clothes with his sister. he was then a commoner; but in , the title of lord burleigh, and an estate of six hundred and ninety-seven pounds yearly, devolved upon him. when the rebellion broke out, his restless spirit, as well, perhaps, as the loss of reputation, and the miseries of reflection, impelled him to enter into the contest. such were the principal promoters of the insurrection in the south of scotland; they were held together by firm bonds of sympathy, and their plans were concerted in renewed conferences at stated periods. the twenty-ninth of may was, of course, religiously observed by this increasing and formidable party. during the previous year ( ) the jacobite gentry had met at lochmaben, under pretence of a horse-racing; and, although it does not appear that the earl of nithisdale was among those who assembled on that occasion, yet several of his kinsmen attended. the plates which were the prizes had significant devices: on one of them were wrought figures of men in a falling posture; above them stood one "eminent person," the pretender, underneath whom were inscribed the words from ezekiel, xxi. , "i will overturn, overturn, overturn it: and it shall be no more, until he come whose right it is, and i will give it him." when the races were ended, lord burleigh, then master of burleigh, led the way to the cross of lochmaben, where, with great solemnity, drums beating, and colours displayed, those there colected drank to "_their king's health;_" the master of burleigh giving the toast, and uttering an imprecation on all such as should refuse to pledge it. these meetings had been continued for several years, and, during the reign of queen anne, without any molestation from government.[ ] lord nithisdale took a decided part in all these measures, and was one of those who were considered as entirely to be trusted by the earl of mar, with regard to the projected arrival of the pretender in scotland. on the sixth of august, , that project was communicated by mar to the earl of nithisdale, through the medium of captain dalzell, who was despatched likewise to lord kenmure, and to the earl of carnwath. lord nithisdale obeyed the summons, and met the great council of the jacobite nobles at braemar, where the decisive and irrevocable step was taken. lord nithisdale, in common with the other members of what was now termed the jacobite association, had been diligently preparing the contest. meetings of the association had been frequent, and even public. the finest horses had been bought up at any cost, with saddles and accoutrements, and numbers of horse-shoes. many country gentlemen, who were in the habit of keeping only two or three saddle-horses at a time, now collected double the number; and a suspicion prevailed that it was the intention of some, who were jacobites, to mount a troop. but no seizure had been made of their property in the last reign, there being few justices of the peace in dumfriesshire, nominated by queen anne, who were not in the service of the chevalier.[ ] trained bands were, however, soon raised by the well-affected gentry of the county for the protection of the neighbourhood; and nithisdale was traversed by armed bands,--closeburn house, then the residence of sir thomas kirkpatrick,[ ] being a frequent point of union for the friends of the hanoverian interests to assemble.[ ] at trepons, in the upper part of nithisdale, was the first blood drawn that was shed in this disastrous quarrel, mr. bell of nimsea, a jacobite gentleman, being there shot through the leg by one of the guards, on his refusing to obey orders.[ ] the occurrence was typical of the remorseless cruelty which was afterwards exhibited towards the brave but unfortunate insurgents. by a clause in the act "for encouraging loyalty in scotland," passed on the thirtieth of august, power was given to the authorities to summon to edinburgh all the heads of the jacobite clans, and other suspected persons, by a certain day, to find bail for their good conduct. among the long list of persons who were thus cited to appear, was the earl of nithisdale. upon his non-appearance, he was, with the rest, denounced, and declared a rebel.[ ] this citation was followed by an outbreak on the part of lord kenmure and his followers, simultaneous to that on which the northumberland jacobites had decided. and the borders now became the chief haunts of the insurgents, who continued moving from place to place, and from house to house, in order to ripen the scheme which involved, as they considered, their dearest interests. the loyal inhabitants of dumfries were engaged, one saturday, in the solemnities of preparation for the holy sacrament, when they received intimation of a plot to surprise and take possession of the town on the following sabbath, during the time of communion. this project was defeated by the prompt assembling of forces, notwithstanding that lord kenmure, with one hundred and fifty-three horsemen, advanced within a mile and a half of the town, on his march from moffat. upon being advised of the preparations made for defence, this too prudent commander addressed his troops, and said, "that he doubted not there were, in the town, as brave gentlemen there as himself, and that he would not go on to dumfries that day." he returned to lochmaben, where, on the following thursday, the pretender's standard was proclaimed: lochmaben is a small market-town about fifteen miles from dumfries; it served for some time as the head-quarters of the jacobite party. "at their approach," relates the historian of that local insurrection, "the people of that place had put their cattle into a fold to make room for their horses; but the beasts having broken the fold, some of them drew home to the town a little before day; and a townsman, going to hunt one of 'em out of his yeard, called on his dog nam'd 'help.' hereupon the sentries cried 'where?' and apprehending it had been a party from dumfries to attack them, gave the alarm to the rebels, who got up in great confusion." lord kenmure, attended by the jacobite chiefs, and lord nithisdale, soon quitted the town of lochmaben; and proceeding to ecclefechan, and thence marching to langholme, reached hawick on the fifteenth of september, and determined on proceeding from that place into teviotdale. meantime measures were taken by the duke of roxburgh, who was lieutenant governor of dumfriesshire, to prevent the castle of carlaverock being made available for the jacobite forces. the duke gave orders that the back bridge of the isle should be taken off, and a communication thus cut off between the papists in the lower part of galloway and the rebels in the borders. the inhabitants of the parish of carlaverock were also strictly watched, being tenants, mostly, of the earl of nithisdale; and the same precaution was taken with regard to his lordship's tenantry in traquair, terregles, and kirkcunyean; yet, according to the statement of mr. reay, a most violent partisan against the jacobites, the humble dwellers on these estates were but little disposed to follow their chieftain, who took, so the same account declares, "only two or three domestic servants with him."[ ] this, however, is contradicted by the assertion of mr. patten, who specifies that lord nithisdale was followed by three hundred of his tenantry; and also by the expectations which were founded, upon a close survey and scrutiny, by the agents of the chevalier before the outbreak.[ ] lord nithisdale had now taken a last farewell of the beautiful and smiling country of his forefathers; with what bright hopes, with what anticipations of a successful march and a triumphant return he may have quitted terregles, it is easy to conjecture. unhappily his enterprise was linked to one over which a man, singularly ill-fitted for the office of command, presided: for it was decreed that the jacobite forces, under the command of lord kenmure, should proceed to the assistance of mr. forster's ill-fated insurrection in the north of england. the history of that luckless and ill-concerted enterprise has been already given.[ ] the earl of nithisdale was taken prisoner after the battle of preston, but little mention is made of his peculiar services at that place. lord nithisdale was, with other prisoners of the same rank, removed to london. the prisoners of inferior rank were disposed of, under strong guards, in the different castles of lancaster, chester, and liverpool. the indignities which were wreaked upon the unfortunate jacobites as they entered london have been detailed in the life of lord derwentwater. amid the cries of a savage populace, and the screams of "no warming pan," "king george for ever!" an exclamation which proves how deeply the notion of spurious birth had sunk into the minds of the people, the earl of nithisdale was conducted, his arms tied with cords, and the reins of his horse taken from him, with his unfortunate companions, into the tower. he arrived in london on the th of december, .[ ] of the manner in which the state prisoners of that period were treated, there are sufficient records left to prove that no feeling of compassion for what might be deemed a wrong, but yet a generous principle of devotion to the stuarts, no high-toned sentiment of respect to bravery, nor consideration for the habits and feelings of their prisoners, influenced the british government during that time of triumph. the mode in which those unfortunate captives were left in the utmost penury and necessity to petition for some provision, after their estates were escheated, plainly manifests how little there was of that sympathy with calamity which marks the present day.[ ] but if the state prisoners in london were treated with little humanity, those who were huddled together in close prisons at preston, chester, liverpool, and the other towns were in a still more wretched condition. in the stores of the state paper office are to be found heartrending appeals for mercy, from prisoners sinking under dire diseases from too close contiguity, or from long confinement in one apartment. consumption seems to have been very prevalent; and in newgate the gaol fever raged. for this rigorous confinement the excuse was, that it had been found impossible to give the prisoners air, without risk of escape. in chester, the townspeople conspired to assist the poor wretches in this endeavour; and perhaps, in regard to those of meaner rank, the authorities were not very averse to the success of such efforts, for the prisons were crowded, and the expense of even keeping the unfortunate captives alive began to be a source of complaint on the part of government. the great majority of the prisoners of the north were country gentlemen, roman catholics, from cumberland and northumberland,--men who were hearty and sincere in their convictions of the righteousness of their cause--men, whose ancestors had mustered their tenantry in the field for charles the first. to those whose lives were spared, a petition was recommended, and taken round for signature, praying that their sentence of death or of imprisonment might be exchanged for transportation. but, whether these high-spirited gentlemen expected that another insurrection might act in their favour, or whether they preferred death to a final farewell, under circumstances so dreadful, to their country, does not appear. they mostly refused to sign the petition, which was offered to them singly: and the commandant at preston, colonel rapin, in his correspondence with lord townshend, expresses his annoyance at their obstinacy, and expatiates on the inconvenience of the numbers under his charge at preston. at length, after captain john dalzell, brother to the earl of carnwath, had signed the petition, a large body of the prisoners were ordered to be transported without their petitioning, and to be put in irons. they were hurried away to liverpool, to embark thence for the colonies, gentlemen and private soldiers mingled in one mass; but orders were afterwards sent by lord townshend to detain the gentlemen. three hundred and twenty-seven prisoners had, however, been already shipped off. those who remained were not permitted to converse, even with each other, without risk,--one thomas wells being appointed as a spy to write to the jacobites, and to discourse with them, under the garb of friendliness, in order to draw out their real sentiments.[ ] from this digression, which may not be deemed irrelevant, since it marks the spirit of the times, we return to the unhappy prisoners in the tower, which was now thickly tenanted by the fallen jacobites. lord nithisdale had the sorrow of knowing that many of his friends and kinsmen were in the same gloomy and impenetrable fortress to which he had been conducted. it is possible that the jacobite noblemen were not hopeless; and that remembering the clemency of william the third to those who had held a treasonable correspondence with the court of st. germains, they might look for a similar line of policy from the reigning monarch. it must be acknowledged, however, that government had been greatly exasperated by acts of violence and of wanton destruction on the part of the jacobites throughout the country; and that the general disaffection throughout the north, and, in particular, the strong tory predilections at oxford, must have greatly aggravated the dangers, and consequently, in a political view, have enhanced the crimes of the chevalier's adherents. "the country," writes colonel rapin to lord townshend, "is full of them [the jacobites], and the same spirit reigns in london." "oxford," writes an informant, under the name of _philopoliticus_, "is debauched by jacobitism. they call the parliament the rump; and riots in the street, with cries of 'down with the rump!' occur daily." even the fellows and heads of the colleges were disposed to jacobite opinions; and the jacobites had expected that the city would become the chevalier's head-quarters as it had been that of charles the first.[ ] but that which hastened the fate of the earl of nithisdale and of his friends, was the landing of james stuart, at peterhead, in scotland, on the twenty-second of december,--an event which took place too late for his friends and partisans, and fatally increased the calamities of those who had suffered in his cause. on monday, the ninth of january, he made his public entry into perth, and, on the same day, the reigning monarch addressed his parliament.[ ] "among the many unavoidable ill consequences of this rebellion," said the king, "none affects me more sensibly than that extraordinary burden which it has, and must, create to my faithful subjects. to ease them as far as lies in my power, i take this first opportunity of declaring that i freely give up all the estates that shall become forfeited to the crown by this rebellion, to be applied towards defraying the extraordinary expense incurred on this occasion." as soon as a suitable address had been returned by both houses, a debate concerning the prisoners taken in rebellion ensued, and a conference was determined on with the house of lords. mr. lechmere, who was named to carry up the message to the lords, returned, and made a long and memorable speech, concerning the rise, depth, and extent of the rebellion; after which it was resolved, _nemine contradicente_, to impeach the earl of derwentwater, william lord widdrington, william earl of nithisdale, robert earl of carnwath, george earl of wintoun, william viscount kenmure, and william lord nairn, of high treason. the same evening, a committee was appointed to draw up articles of impeachment; and so great was the dispatch used, and so zealous were the committee, that in two hours the articles were prepared, agreed to, and ordered to be engrossed with the usual saving clause. during this time, the lords remained sitting, and before ten o'clock the articles were presented before that assembly. on the following day, the prisoners were conducted before the bar of the house, where the articles of impeachment were read to them, and they were desired to prepare their replies on the sixteenth day of the month. thus only six days were allowed for their answers; upon application, however, two days more were granted. the prisoners were allowed to choose counsel, and also to have a free communication with any persons, either peers or commoners, whom they might name. on the twenty-first of january, the king again addressed his parliament, and referred to the recent landing of the "pretender" in scotland. the reply of the two houses to this speech emphatically declares, "that the landing of the pretender hath increased their indignation against him and his adherents, and that they were determined to do everything in their power to assist his majesty, not only in subduing the present rebellion, but in destroying the seeds and causes of it, that the like disturbance may never rise again to impair the blessings of his majesty's reign."[ ] on the ninth of february the six impeached lords were brought, at eleven in the morning, to the court erected in westminster hall, wherein both lords and commons were assembled. the ceremonial of opening this celebrated court was conducted in the following manner:-- the lords being placed on their proper seats, and the lord high steward on the woolsack, the clerk of the crown in the court of chancery, after making three reverences to the lord steward, presented, on his knees, the king's commission; which, after the usual reverences, was placed on the table. a proclamation for silence was then heard. the high steward stood up and addressed the peers, "his majesty's commission is going to be read; your lordships are desired to attend." the peers hereupon arose, uncovered themselves, and stood while the commission was being read. the voice of the sergeant-at-arms exclaimed, "god save the king!" the herald and gentleman usher of the black rod, after three reverences, kneeling, then presented the white staff to his grace, the high steward; upon which his grace, attended by the herald, the black rod, and seal bearer, removed from the woolsack to an armed chair which was placed on the uppermost step but one next to the throne. the clerk of the crown ordered the serjeant-at-arms to make another proclamation for silence; and amidst the stillness, the lieutenant of the tower brought in, amid an assembly of their compeers, his prisoners. lord wintoun was alone absent; for he had obtained a few days of delay.[ ] the earl of nithisdale pleaded guilty, with his companions in misfortune. on thursday, the nineteenth of january, when called upon for his answer, his defence was couched in the following terms: "it is with the greatest confusion," he began, "the said earl appears at your lordships' bar, under the weight of an impeachment by the commons of great britain for high treason." he went on to declare that he had ever been a zealous assertor of the liberties of his country, and never engaged in any design to subvert the established government and good laws of the kingdom. when summoned by those who were entrusted with the administration of the government in scotland to edinburgh, he did, he alleged, not obey the summons, being assured that if he went thither he would be made a close prisoner. he was therefore forced to abscond; for being at that time in ill-health, a confinement in edinburgh castle would have endangered his life. the earl also stated that he had remained in privacy, until several of the persons mentioned in the impeachment had appeared in arms very near the place where they had lain concealed. he then "inconsiderately and unfortunately" joined them, with four domestics only, and proceeded in their company to the places named in the indictment; but knew nothing of the intended insurrection until the party "were actually in arms." after some expressions, stating that he was deeply sensible of his offence, he confessed, with "a sorrow equal to his crime," that he was guilty; "but referred to his hopes of mercy, grounded on his having capitulated at preston, where he performed the duty of a christian in preventing effusion of blood; and on his reliance on his majesty's mercy." on being further asked by the lord high steward whether he had anything to say "why judgment should not pass upon him according to law," lord nithisdale recapitulated the points in his answer in so weak a voice, that the lord steward reiterated the former question: "have you pleaded anything in arrest of judgment?" "no, my lord, i have not," was the reply. the earl of nithisdale received the sentence of condemnation with the other lords; and, like them, had the misery of hearing his doom prefaced by a long and admired harangue. the sentence was then pronounced in all its barbarous particularities; the law being in this, as the lord high steward declared, deaf to all distinctions of rank, "required that he should pronounce them." but his grace intimated the most ignominious and painful parts of the sentence were usually remitted. lord nithisdale, unlike lord widdrington and lord kenmure, who had referred in terms of anguish to their wives and children, had made no appeal on the plea of those family ties, to which few of his judges could have been insensible. he returned to the tower, under sentence of death, to be saved by the heroism of a woman; according to some accounts, of his mother;[ ] but actually, by the fearless, devoted affection of his wife. winifred, countess of nithisdale, appears, from her portrait by kneller, to have conjoined to an heroic contempt of danger a feminine and delicate appearance, with great loveliness of countenance.[ ] she was descended from a family who knew no prouder recollection than that their castle-towers had been the last to welcome the unhappy charles the first in the manner suited to royalty. her mother was the lady elizabeth herbert, daughter of edward, the second marquis of worcester, and author of "the century of inventions." lady nithisdale was therefore the great-granddaughter of that justly honoured marquis of worcester whose loyalty and disinterestedness were features of a character as excellent in private life, as benevolent, as sincere, as it was conspicuous in his public career. yet, so universal, so continual has been the popular prejudice against popery in this country, that even the virtues of this good man could scarcely rescue him from the imputation, as lord clarendon expresses it, of being "that sort of catholics, the people rendered odious, by accusing to be most jesuited." the maternal family of lady nithisdale were, therefore, of the same faith with her husband, and, like his family, they had suffered deeply for the cause of the stuarts; and it is remarkable that, with what some might deem infatuation, many descendants of those who had seen their fairest possessions ravaged, their friends and kindred slain, should be ready to suffer again. it is impossible for any reasoning to dispel the idea that this must be a true and fixed principle, independent, in many noble instances, of the hope of reward,--a far less enduring motive, and one which would be apt to change with every change of fortune. lady nithisdale, on her father's side, was descended from the herberts of powis castle, who were ennobled in the reign of james the first. she was the fourth daughter of william, marquis of powis, who followed james the second, after his abdication, to france, and was created by that monarch duke of powis, a title not recognised in england.[ ] the titular duke of powis, as he is frequently called in history, chose to remain at st. germains, and was at length outlawed for not returning within a certain period. he died at st. germains in . upon the death of her father, lady winifred herbert was placed with her elder sister, the lady lucy, in the english convent at bruges, of which lady lucy eventually became abbess. a less severe fate was, however, in store for the younger sister. under these adverse circumstances, so far as related to the proper maintenance of her father's rank in england, was winifred herbert reared. how and where she met with lord nithisdale, and whether the strong attachment which afterwards united them so indissolubly, was nurtured in the saloons of st. germains, or in the romantic haunts of nithisdale, we have no information to decide, neither have the descendants of the family been able even to ascertain the date of her marriage. it is not improbable, however, that, before his marriage, lord nithisdale visited paris and rome, since the practice of making what was called "the grand tour" not only prevailed among the higher classes, but especially among the jacobite nobility, many of whom, as in the case of lord derwentwater, were educated abroad; and this is more especially likely to have been the case in the instance of lord nithisdale, since, as lady nithisdale remarks in her narrative, her husband was a roman catholic in a part of scotland peculiarly adverse to that faith, "the only support," as she calls him, "of the catholics against the inveteracy of the whigs, who were very numerous in that part of scotland." in her participation of those decided political opinions, which were inbred in lady nithisdale, she appears not to have departed from that feminine character which rises to sublimity when coupled with a fearless sacrifice of selfish considerations. it was the custom of the day for ladies to share in the intrigues of faction, more or less. lady fauconbridge, the countess of derwentwater, lady seaforth, all appear to have taken a lively part in the interests of the jacobites. the duchess of marlborough was, politically speaking, extinct; but the restless love of ascendancy is never extinct. the fashionable world were still divided between her, and the rival whom she so despised, catherine sedley, duchess of buckingham. but lady nithisdale, living in the north, and possibly occupied with her two children, remained, as she affirms, in the country, until the intelligence of her lord's committal to the tower brought her from her seclusion years afterwards; she writes thus to her sister, the lady lucy herbert, abbess of the english augustine nuns at bruges, who had, it seems, requested from her an account of the circumstances under which lord nithisdale escaped from the tower. "i first came to london," lady nithisdale writes, "upon hearing that my lord was committed to the tower. i was at the same time informed that he had expressed the greatest anxiety to see me, having, as he afterwards told me, no one to console him till i came. i rode to newcastle, and from thence took the stage to york. when i arrived there, the snow was so deep that the stage could not set out for london. the season was so severe, and the roads so bad, that the post itself was stopped: however, i took horses and rode to london, though the snow was generally above the horses' girths and arrived safe without any accident." after this perilous journey, the determined woman sought interviews with the reigning ministers, but she met with no encouragement; on the contrary, she was assured that, although some of the prisoners were to be saved, lord nithisdale would not be of the number. "when i inquired," she continues, "into the reason of this distinction, i could obtain no other answer than that they would not flatter me. but i soon perceived the reasons, which they declined alleging me. a roman catholic upon the frontiers of scotland, who headed a very considerable party, a man whose family had always signalized itself by its loyalty to the royal house of stuart, would," she argued, "become a very agreeable sacrifice to the opposite party. they still," so thought lady nithisdale, "remembered the defence of the castle of carlaverock against the republicans by lord nithisdale's grandfather, and were resolved not to let his grandson escape from their power." upon weighing all these considerations, lady nithisdale perceived that all hope of mercy was vain; she determined to dismiss all such dependance from her mind, and to confide in her own efforts. it was not impossible to bribe the guards who were set over the state prisoners: indeed, from the number of escapes, there must either have been a very venal spirit among the people who had the charge of the prisoners generally, or a compassionate leaning in their favour. having formed her resolution, lady nithisdale decided to communicate it to no one, except to her "dear evans," a maid, or companion, who was of paramount assistance to her in the whole affair. meantime, public indications of compassion for the condemned lords, seemed to offer better hopes than the dangerous enterprise of effecting an escape. on the eighteenth of february, orders were sent both to the lieutenant of the tower and to the sheriffs of london and middlesex for the executions of the rebel lords.[ ] great solicitations had, meantime, been made for them, and the petitions for mercy not only reached the court, but came down to the two houses of parliament, and being seconded by some members, debates ensued. that in the commons ended in a motion for an adjournment, carried by a majority of seven only, and intended to avoid any further interposition in that house. many who used to vote with the government, influenced, says a contemporary writer, by "the word _mercy_, voted with the contrary party." in the house of peers, however, the question being put, whether the petitions should be received and read, it was carried by a majority of nine or ten voices. but the sanguine hopes of those who were hanging upon the decisions of the lords for life or death, were again cruelly disappointed. after reading the petitions, the next question was, whether in case of an impeachment, the king had power to reprieve? this was carried by an affirmative, and followed by a motion to address his majesty, humbly to desire him to reprieve the lords who lay under sentence of death. these relentings, and the successive tides of feeling displayed in this high assembly, prove how divided the higher classes were on the points of hereditary monarchy, and others also at issue; but the whig ascendancy prevailed. there was a clause introduced into the address, which nullified all former show of mercy; and the king was merely petitioned "to reprieve such of the condemned lords as deserve his mercy; and that the time of the respite should be left to his majesty's discretion." this clause was carried by five votes only. to the address the following inauspicious answer was returned from king george: "that on this, and other occasions, he would do what he thought most consistent with the dignity of his crown, and the safety of his people." this struggle between the parties ended, says the author of the register, "in the execution of two of these condemned lords, and the removal of some others from their employments, that had been most solicitous for their preservation." the objects of this petty tyranny could well afford to succumb under the workings of that mean and revengeful spirit, whilst they might cherish the conviction of having used their efforts in the true spirit of that christianity which remembers no considerations of worldly interest, when opposed to duty. lady nithisdale's relation of this anxious and eventful day, the twenty-third of february, is far too animated to be changed in a single expression. she had refused to remain confined with lord nithisdale in the tower, on the plea of infirm health; but actually, because she well knew that she could better aid his cause whilst herself at liberty. she was then forbidden to see her husband; but by bribing the guards, she often contrived to have secret interviews with him, until the day before that on which the prisoners were condemned. "on the twenty-second of february, which fell on a thursday, our general petition was presented to the house of lords, the purport of which was to interest the lords to intercede with his majesty to pardon the prisoners. we were, however, disappointed. the day before the petition was to be presented, the duke of st. albans, who had promised my lady derwentwater to present it, when it came to the point, failed in his word. however, as she was the only english countess concerned, it was incumbent on her to have it presented. we had but one day left before the execution, and the duke still promised to present the petition; but for fear he should fail, i engaged the duke of montrose to secure its being done by one or the other. i then went in company with most of the ladies of quality then in town, to solicit the interest of the lords as they were going to the house. they all behaved to me with great civility, but particularly the earl of pembroke, who, though he desired me not to speak to him, yet he promised to employ his interest in my favour, and honourably kept his word, for he spoke very strongly in our behalf."[ ] "the subject of the debate was, whether the king had the power to pardon those who had been condemned by parliament: and it was chiefly owing to lord pembroke's speech that it was carried in the affirmative. however, one of the lords stood up and said that the house could only intercede for those who should prove themselves worthy of their intercession, but not for all of them indiscriminately. this salvo quite blasted all my hopes, for i was assured that it was aimed at the exclusion of those who should refuse to subscribe to the petition, which was a thing i knew my lord would never submit to; nor, in fact, could i wish to preserve his life on those terms. as the motion had passed generally, i thought i could draw from it some advantage in favour of my design. accordingly i immediately left the house of lords, and hastened to the tower, where, affecting an air of joy and satisfaction, i told the guards i passed by, that i came to bring joyful tidings to the prisoners. i desired them to lay aside their fears, for the petition had passed the house in their favour. i then gave them some money to drink to the lords and his majesty, though it was trifling; for i thought if i were too liberal on the occasion, they might suspect my designs, and that giving them something would gain their good will and services for the next day, which was the eve of the execution." on the following day lady nithisdale was too much occupied in preparations for her scheme to visit the tower; the evening of the eventful twenty-third of february arrived; and when all things were put in readiness, this resolute and well-judging woman threw herself upon the confidence of one in whose power she was, to a certain degree, and whose co-operation she could only secure by such a proceeding. she sent for the landlady of the house in which she lodged, and told her that she had made up her mind to effect lord nithisdale's escape, since there was no chance of his being pardoned. she added those few but thrilling words: "this is the last night before his execution!" while she spoke, perhaps, the condemned nobleman was supplicating on his knees to god for that mercy which was withheld by man. imagination paints the despondency of lord derwentwater; the calm and dignified sorrow of the justly pitied kenmure. lady nithisdale then made a request calculated to alarm a woman of an ordinary character; but she seems to have understood the disposition of the person whom she thus addressed. "i told her that i had every thing in readiness, and that i trusted she would not refuse to accompany me, that my lord might pass for her. i pressed her to come immediately, as we had no time to lose." this sudden announcement, which a less sagacious mind might have deemed injudicious, had the effect which lady nithisdale expected; the undertaking was one of such risk, that it could only be an enterprise of impulse, except to her whose affections were deeply interested in the result. the consent of mrs. mills was carried by storm, as well as that of another coadjutor, a mrs. morgan, who usually bore the name of hilton, to whom lady nithisdale dispatched a messenger, begging her to come immediately. "their surprise and astonishment," remarks lady nithisdale, speaking of these, her two confidantes, "made them consent, without ever thinking of the consequences." the scheme was, that mrs. mills, who was tall and portly, should pass for lord nithisdale; mrs. morgan was to carry concealed the bundle of "clothes that were to serve mrs. mills when she left her own behind her." after certain other preparations, all managed with infinite dexterity and shrewdness, these three heroines set out in a coach for the tower, into which they were to be admitted, under the plea of taking a last leave of lord nithisdale. lady nithisdale, even whilst her heart throbbed with agitation, continued to support her spirits. "when we were in the coach;" she relates, "i never ceased talking, that they her companions might have no leisure to repent. "on our arrival at the tower, the first i introduced was mrs. morgan (for i was only allowed to take in one at a time). she brought in the clothes which were to serve mrs. mills when she left her own behind her. when mrs. morgan had taken off what she had brought for my purpose, i conducted her back to the staircase; and in going i begged her to send my maid to dress me, that i was afraid of being too late to present my last petition that night if she did not come immediately. i dispatched her safe, and went partly down stairs to meet mrs. mills, who had the precaution to hold her handkerchief to her face, as is natural for a woman to do when she is going to take her last farewell of a friend on the eve of his execution. i had indeed desired her to do so, that my lord might go out in the same manner. her eyebrows were rather inclined to be sandy, and my lord's were very dark and very thick. however, i had prepared some paint of the colour of hers, to disguise his with; i also brought an artificial head-dress of the same coloured hair as hers, and i painted his face and his cheeks with rouge to hide his long beard, which he had not had time to shave. "all this provision i had before left in the tower. the poor guards, whom my slight liberality the day before had endeared me to, let me go quietly out with my company, and were not so strictly on the watch as they usually had been; and the more so, as they were persuaded, from what i had told them the day before, that the prisoners would obtain their pardon. i made mrs. mills take off her own hood, and put on that which i had brought for her. i then took her by the hand and led her out of my lord's chamber; and in passing through the next room, in which were several people, with all the concern imaginable i said, 'my dear mrs. catherine, go in all haste, and send me my waiting-maid; she certainly cannot reflect how late it is. i am to present my petition to-night, and if i let slip this opportunity i am undone, for to-morrow is too late. hasten her as much as possible, for i shall be on thorns till she comes.' everybody in the room, who were chiefly the guards' wives and daughters, seemed to compassionate me exceedingly, and the sentinel officiously opened me the door. when i had seen her safe out, i returned to my lord and finished dressing him. i had taken care that mrs. mills did not go out crying, as she came in, that my lord might better pass for the lady who came in crying and afflicted; and the more so, as he had the same dress that she wore. when i had almost finished dressing my lord in all my petticoats except one, i perceived it was growing dark, and was afraid that the light of the candles might betray us, so i resolved to set off. i went out leading him by the hand, whilst he held his handkerchief to his eyes. i spoke to him in the most piteous and afflicted tone, bewailing bitterly the negligence of evans, who had ruined me by her delay. then i said, 'my dear mrs. betty, for the love of god, run quickly and bring her with you; you know my lodging, and if you ever made dispatch in your life, do it at present: i am almost distracted with this disappointment.' the guards opened the door, and i went down stairs with him, still conjuring him to make all possible dispatch. as soon as he had cleared the door i made him walk before me, for fear the sentinel should take notice of his walk, but i continued to press him to make all the dispatch he possibly could. at the bottom of the stairs i met my dear evans, into whose hands i confided him. i had before engaged mr. mills to be in readiness before the tower to conduct him to some place of safety, in case we succeeded. he looked upon the affair as so very improbable to succeed, that his astonishment, when he saw us, threw him into such a consternation that he was almost out of himself; which evans perceiving, with the greatest presence of mind, without telling him anything, lest he should mistrust them, conducted him to some of her own friends on whom she could rely, and so secured him, without which we certainly should have been undone. when she had conducted him and left him with them, she returned to mr. mills, who had by this time recovered himself from his astonishment. they went home together; and having found a place of security, they conducted him to it. in the mean time, as i had pretended to have sent the young lady on a message, i was obliged to return up stairs and go back to my lord's room in the same feigned anxiety of being too late, so that everybody seemed sincerely to sympathise in my distress. when i was in the room, i talked as if he had been really present. i answered my own questions in my lord's voice, as nearly as i could imitate it. i walked up and down as if we were conversing together, till i thought they had time enough thoroughly to clear themselves of the guards. i then thought proper to make off also. i opened the door and stood half in it, that those in the outward chamber might hear what i said, but held it so close that they could not look in. i bade my lord formal farewell for the night, and added, that something more than usual must have happened to make evans negligent on this important occasion, who had always been so punctual in the smallest trifles, that i saw no other remedy than to go in person. that if the tower was then open, when i had finished my business, i would return that night; but that he might be assured i would be with him as early in the morning as i could gain admittance into the tower, and i flattered myself i should bring more favourable news. then, before i shut the door, i pulled through the string of the latch, so that it could only be opened in the inside. "i then shut it with some degree of force, that i might be sure of its being well shut. i said to the servant as i passed by (who was ignorant of the whole transaction), that he need not carry in candles to his master till my lord sent for them, as he desired to finish some prayers first."[ ] thus ended this singular, successful, and heroic scheme. it was now necessary that the devoted lady nithisdale should secure her own safety. she had, it seems, been bent upon proffering a last petition to king george, in case her attempt had failed. she drove home to her lodgings, where a friend, named mackenzie, waited to take her petition. "there is no need of a petition," were the words that broke from the agitated woman; "my lord is safe, and out of the tower, and out of the hands of his enemies, though i know not where he is." lady nithisdale then discharged the coach which had brought her to her lodgings, a precaution which she always observed for fear of being traced,--never going in the same vehicle to more than one place. she sent for a chair, and went to the duchess of buccleugh, who had promised to present her petition, having taken her precaution against all events. the duchess expected her, but had company with her; and lady nithisdale barely escaped being shown into the room where her friend was with her company. she, however, excused herself, and, sending a message to her grace, proceeded to the residence of the duchess of montrose. "this lady had ever," said lady nithisdale, "borne a part in my distresses;" she now left her company to see and console the wife of the rebel lord, of whom, she conjectured, lady nithisdale must have taken, that night, a last farewell. as the two friends met, the duchess, to her astonishment, found her visitor in a transport of joy; "she was extremely shocked and frightened," writes lady nithisdale; "and has since confessed to me that she thought my troubles had driven me out of myself." she cautioned lady nithisdale to secrecy, and even to flight; for the king had been extremely irritated by the petition already sent in by lady nithisdale. the generous duchess was, among those who frequented the court, the only person that knew lady nithisdale's secret. after a brief interview, lady nithisdale, sending for a fresh chair, hurried away to a house which her faithful attendant evans had found for her, and where she was to learn tidings of lord nithisdale. here she learned that lord nithisdale had been removed from the lodging to which he had at first been conducted, to the mean abode of a poor woman just opposite the guard-house. here the former lord of carlaverock and of nithisdale met his wife. lady nithisdale hurries over the meeting, but her simple account has its own powers of description. the good woman of the house had, it seems, but one small room up a pair of stairs, and a very small bed in it. "we threw ourselves on the bed that we might not be heard walking up and down. she left us a bottle of wine and some bread, and mrs. mills brought us some more in her pockets the next day. we subsisted on this provision from thursday till saturday night, when mr. mills came and conducted my lord to the venetian ambassador's. we did not communicate the affair to his excellency, but one of the servants concealed him in his own room till wednesday, on which day the ambassador's coach-and-six was to go down to dover to meet his brother. my lord put on a livery, and went down in the retinue, without the least suspicion, to dover; where mr. michel (which was the name of the ambassador's servant) hired a small vessel, and immediately set sail for calais. the passage was so remarkably short, that the captain threw out this reflection,--that the wind could not have served better if the passengers had been flying for their lives, little thinking it to be really the case. "mr. michel might have easily returned without suspicion of being concerned in my lord's escape; but my lord seemed inclined to have him with him, which he did, and he has at present a good place under our young master. this is an exact and as full an account of this affair, and of the persons concerned in it, as i could possibly give you, to the best of my memory, and you may rely upon the truth of it. for my part, i absconded to the house of a very honest man in drury lane, where i remained till i was assured of my lord's safe arrival on the continent. i then wrote to the duchess of buccleugh (everybody thought till then that i was gone off with my lord) to tell her that i understood i was suspected of having contrived my lord's escape, as was very natural to suppose; that if i could have been happy enough to have done it, i should be flattered to have the merit of it attributed to me; but that a bare suspicion without proof, would never be a sufficient ground for my being punished for a supposed offence, though it might be motive sufficient for me to provide a place of security; so i entreated her to procure leave for me to go about my business. so far from granting my request, they were resolved to secure me if possible. after several debates, mr. solicitor-general, who was an utter stranger to me, had the humanity to say, that since i showed such respect to government as not to appear in public, it would be cruel to make any search after me. upon which it was resolved that no further search should be made if i remained concealed; but that if i appeared either in england or scotland, i should be secured. but this was not sufficient for me, unless i could submit to see my son exposed to beggary. my lord sent for me up to town in such haste, that i had not time to settle anything before i left scotland. i had in my hand all the family papers, and i dared trust them to nobody: my house might have been searched without warning, consequently they were far from being secure there. in this distress, i had the precaution to bury them in the ground, and nobody but myself and the gardener knew where they were. i did the same with other things of value. the event proved that i had acted prudently; for after my departure they searched the house, and god only knows what might have transpired from those papers! all these circumstances rendered my presence absolutely necessary, otherwise they might have been lost; for though they retained the highest preservation after one very severe winter, (for when i took them up they were as dry as if they came from the fire-side,) yet they could not possibly have remained so much longer without prejudice." lord nithisdale went to rome, and never revisited his native country; indeed, the project of the rebellion of , and the unceasing efforts and hopes by which it was preceded on the part of the jacobites, must have rendered such a step impracticable to one who seems to have been especially obnoxious to the house of hanover. his escape, according to lady nithisdale, both infuriated and alarmed george the first, "who flew into an excessive passion," as she expresses it, on the news transpiring; and exclaimed that he was betrayed, and that it could not have been done without a confederacy. he instantly dispatched messengers to the tower, to give orders that the prisoners who were still there, might be the more effectually secured. he never forgave lady nithisdale; and the effects of his powerful resentment were such, as eventually to drive her for ever from england. inexperienced, young, a stranger in the vast metropolis, lady nithisdale was now left alone, to skulk from place to place that she might avoid the effects of the royal displeasure. she absconded to the house of an "honest man" in drury lane, where she remained in concealment until she heard of her husband's safe arrival on the continent. a report, meantime, prevailed of her having been the means of lord nithisdale's escape; and it was generally believed that she had gone with him. to the surprise of the duchess of buccleugh, lady nithisdale one day appeared before her, the object of that sudden and perhaps undesired visit being to obtain, by the influence of the duchess, leave to quit london; and to disseminate, through her grace, a belief that the safety of lord nithisdale was not procured by his wife's means. it must have been one of the most aggravating circumstances to that noble and affectionate being, to have employed so much artifice in the conduct of this affair; but, if ever artifice be allowable, it is when opposed as a weapon to tyranny. besides, lady nithisdale had now not only her own safety to consider; she had to protect the interests of her son. those whom she had mortally offended were eager to punish her courage by imprisonment. the solicitor-general, however, showed a more compassionate spirit than his employers, and in the course of several debates in the house of commons, submitted that if lady nithisdale paid so much respect to government as not to appear in public, it would be cruel to make any farther search after her. it was therefore decided that unless the lady were seen in england or scotland, she should be unmolested; but if she were observed in either of those countries, she should be secured. this might be a decision of mercy, but lady nithisdale could not submit to it, unless she left her son's estate to be ruined by waste and plunder. hurried as she had been to london, she had found time only to make one arrangement, which proved to be of the utmost importance. "i had in my hands," she relates, "all the family papers, and dared trust them to nobody. my house might have been searched without warning, consequently they were far from being secure there. in this distress i had the precaution to bury them in the ground, and nobody but myself and the gardener knew where they were: i did the same with other things of value. the event proved that i had acted prudently to save these papers." lady nithisdale determined to return, at all risks, to scotland; and it was, perhaps, from her care in concealing the important documents to which she refers, that the estates were not escheated. she soon put into execution the heroic determination, of which she made no boast. her journey was full of perils; not only those incident to the time and season of the year, but the great risk of being betrayed and discovered. little respect was paid, in that reign, when truly the spirit of chivalry was extinguished, to the weaker sex. ladies, active and instrumental as they were in political intrigues, if found out, were made to pay the penalty of their dissaffection with hard imprisonment; or, if at large, wandered from place to place, conscious that the eye of the law pursued their footsteps. lady seaforth, the wife of one of the rebel lords, was reduced to necessity, even of the common necessaries of life; and lady widdrington and her children shared the same cruel privations.[ ] believing herself, also, to be an object of peculiar dislike to george the first, lady nithisdale's courage in braving the royal displeasure a second time, certainly appears to border upon folly and a rash temerity. but she knew well that if she could once reach the land of the maxwells, the strict respect paid to the head of the clan, and the remarkable fidelity of all ranks of the scotch to those who trust to their honour, would there prove her safeguard. the great danger was in making the journey. but the young heroic countess dismissed all fear from her mind, and prepared for her enterprise. "in short," she thus prefaces her narrative, "as i had once exposed my life for the safety of the father, i could not do less than hazard it once more for the fortune of the son. i had never travelled on horseback but from york to london, as i told you; but the difficulties did not arise now from the severity of the season, but the fear of being discovered and arrested. to avoid this, i bought three saddle-horses, and set off with my dear evans and a very trusty servant, whom i brought with me out of scotland. we put up at all the smallest inns on the road, that could take in a few horses, and where i thought i was not known; for i was thoroughly known at all the considerable inns on the northern road. thus i arrived safe at traquhair, where i thought myself secure, for the lieutenant of the county being a friend of my lord's, would not permit any search to be made after me without sending me previous notice to abscond. here i had the assurance to rest myself two whole days, pretending that i was going to my own house with leave from government. i sent no notice to my house, that the magistrates of dumfries might not make too narrow enquiries about me. so they were ignorant of my arrival in the country till i was at home, where i still feigned to have permission to remain. to carry on the deceit the better, i sent to all my neighbours and invited them to come to my house. i took up my papers at night and sent them off to traquhair. it was a particular stroke of providence that i made the dispatch i did, for they soon suspected me, and by a very favourable accident, one of them was overheard to say to the magistrates of dumfries, that the next day they would insist on seeing my leave from government. this was bruited about, and when i was told of it, i expressed my surprise that they should be so backward in coming to pay their respects; 'but,' said i, 'better late than never: be sure to tell them that they shall be welcome whenever they choose to come.' "this was after dinner, but i lost no time to put everything in readiness with all possible secrecy; and the next morning before day-break, i set off again for london with the same attendants, and, as before, put up at the smallest inns and arrived safe once more."[ ] the report of her journey into scotland had preceded lady nithisdale's return to london; and, if we may credit her assertions, which are stated with so much candour as to impart a certain conviction of their truthfulness, their king was irritated beyond measure at the intelligence. orders were immediately issued for her arrest; and the monarch protested that lady nithisdale did whatever she pleased in spite of him; that she had given him more trouble than any other woman in europe. again driven into obscurity, lady nithisdale took the opinion of a very celebrated lawyer, whose name she does not specify, and, upon his opinion, determined to retire to the continent. the reasons which her legal adviser assigned for this counsel was, that although, in other circumstances, a wife cannot be prosecuted for saving her husband, yet in cases of high treason, according to the rigour of the law, the head of a wife is responsible for that of a husband. since the king was so incensed against lady nithisdale there could be no answering for the consequences, and he therefore earnestly besought her to leave the kingdom. lady nithisdale, conscious of the wisdom of this recommendation, and wearied, perhaps, of a life of apprehension, determined to adopt the plan recommended. it is evident that she joined lord nithisdale at rome, whither he had retired; for the statement which she has left concludes in a manner which shows that the devoted and heroic wife had been enabled to rejoin the husband for whom she had encountered so much anxiety, contumely, and peril. her son, it appears, also accompanied her, from her reference to "our young master," meaning the master of nithisdale; since, when she wrote, the prince charles edward could not be endowed with that appellation, his father being then alive. her narrative is thus concluded:[ ]-- "this is the full narrative of what you desired, and of all the transactions which passed relative to this affair. nobody besides yourself could have obtained it from me; but the obligations i owe you, throw me under the necessity of refusing you nothing that is in my power to do. as this is for yourself alone, your indulgence will excuse all the faults which must occur in this long recital. the truth you may, however, depend upon; attend to that and overlook all deficiencies. my lord desires you to be assured of his sincere friendship. i am, with the strongest attachment, my dear sister, yours most affectionately, "winifred nithisdale." little is known of the earl of nithisdale after his escape to rome, where he died in . he thus lived through a period of comparative quiet, till his native country was again on the eve of being embroiled in a civil war, more replete with danger, sullied by greater crimes, and more disastrous to his native country, than the short-lived struggle of . an exile from his scottish possessions, lord nithisdale possibly implanted in the mind of his own son that yearning to establish the rights of the stuarts which appears not to have been eradicated from the hearts of the scottish jacobites until their beloved and royal race had become lineally extinct. the descendants of william, earl of nithisdale, have never been able to ascertain where his lordship is buried. his noble and admirable wife died at rome, as well as her husband; but her remains were brought to this country, and they are deposited at arundel castle. john maxwell, who assumed the title of earl of nithisdale, appears to have remained absent from scotland until the troubles of began. it was probably on the death of his father in , that he returned to take possession of the family estates,--that this, the representative of the family of maxwell, ventured to appear in dumfriesshire. the following correspondence which passed between the earl of nithisdale, popularly so called, and his friend, mr. craik, of arbigland[ ] in dumfriesshire, is a curious commentary upon the motives and reasons which actuated the minds of the jacobites in the second attempt to re-establish the stuart family. the first letter from mr. craik is dated october the thirteenth, , when edinburgh castle was blockaded by charles edward, who was publishing his manifestoes from the saloons of holyrood house. the answer from lord nithisdale is written in reply to one of remonstrance addressed to him by his friend. there is no date, but it is obviously written at edinburgh. the remonstrances from mr. craik were instantly dispatched, to avert, if possible, any decided step on the part of lord nithisdale. the arguments which it contains shew the friendly intention of the earnest writer. lord nithisdale had, in his former letter, challenged his friend to assign his reasons for dissuading him from the enterprise. letter from mr. craik to lord nithisdale. "my waiting for a safe hand to convey this to you has prevented my answering yours of the thirteenth sooner. it must give me great pleasure that you have not determined to engage in the present enterprize, which from several apparent symptoms i had reason to apprehend; and if you stick by your promise of doeing nothing rashly (fitt only for desperados indeed!) in a matter of such moment, i shall be sett at ease from the anxiety i felt on your account. "in mine which gave occasion to yours, i really had no intention to enter into the merits of the cause: all i meant was, to make experiment how far my interest with you could prevail to keep you undetermined till meeting, when i might promise myself more success in reasoning upon the subject, than while you remained in town, where the spirit of the place, the people you converse with, the things you hear and see, all unite to inflame your passions and confound your understanding. but since it has, beyond my intention, engaged you to explain your sentiments at large, and to call upon you to give my opinion, and since i suppose your arguments contain all that can be said by those of the party who would be thought to judge coolly and act reasonably at this juncture, i shall, with the freedom and openness of a friend, consider them as they lye before me in yours; and if i am forced to exceed the limits of a letter, you may blame yourself, who drew me in. you tell me you are ready to believe; i agree in opinion with you, that as matters are come to this length, it's now greatly to the interest of scotland to wish success to the undertaking, and that nothing but the improbability of success should hinder every scotsman to join in it. this tho' a verrie material point, you take for granted without assigning a single reason; but as i know it is one of their delusive arguments, now much in use where you are, and the chief engine of the party to seduce well-meaning men to concur in the ruin of the constitution and their country, i shall give you what i apprehend you must mean by it in the most favourable light it will bear; and then from an impartial stating of the fact as it truely stands, leave yourself to judge how far an honest man, a wise one, and a lover of his country, can justify either to himself or the worlde, his being of this opinion. the meaning of your argument i take to be this: that by the unaccountable success of the enterprize and the tame submission of the people in general, if the scheme misgive all scotland becomes involved in the guilt, and may expect the outmost severitys this government and the people of england can afflict them with; but on the other hand, should the undertaking be crowned with success, as scotesmen have the merit of it, they must become the peculiar favourites of the family they have raised to the throne, and reap all the advantages they can promise themselves from a grateful and generous prince. i hope i have done justice to your argument, allow me allso to do justice to facts and truth. "the people of great britain having found, from repeated experiments, how precarious their libertys were in the hands of the princes who founded their title to govern them in hereditary right,--that however absurd the pretence was in itself, no example could make them forego a claim which so much flattered their ambition, and upon which only, with any shew of reason, arbitrary power and tyranny can be built at last,--determined to secure (as far as human prudence can) the possession of that inestimable blessing to themselves and posterity by fixing the royal power in a family whose only title should be the free choice of the people, and who, should they attempt, would be restrained from inslaving those they governed, and would not only act most absurdly, but might reckon upon having the same voice of the people against them. "the maxims by which our hereditary princes conducted themselves, were sufficiently felt to the sad experience of our forefathers; thank god we were reserved for happier times! history will inform you of their repeated and unwearied attempts to subvert the constitution and inslave a free people. their sacrifizing the interest of the nation to france, their violating their oaths and promises, their persecutions and their schemes to establish a religion which in its nature is inconsistent with the toleration of any other, though reasons of state may make it wink at this on particular occasions,--but should i descend to particulars, it would lead me beyond the limites i have prescribed myself. "the present family have now reigned over us these thirty years, and though during so long a time they may have fallen into errors, or may have committed faults, (as what government is without?) yett i will defy the most sanguin zealot to find in history a period equal to this in which scotland possessed so uninterrupted a felicity, in which liberty, civil and religious, was so universally enjoyed by all people of whatever denomination--nay, by the open and avowed ennemys of the family and constitution, or a period in which all ranks of men have been so effectually secured in their property. have not trade, manufactures, agriculture, and the spirit of industry in our country, extended themselves further during this period and under this family than for ages before? has any man suffered in his liberty, life, or fortune, contrary to law? stand forth and name him if you can. tho' the king's person, his family, his government, and his ministers, have been openly abused a thousand times in the most scurrilous and reproachful terms, could it ever provoke him to one arbitrary act or to violate those laws which he had made the rule of his government? look into the reigns of the james's and the charles's, and tell me wither these divine and hereditary princes were guided by the same spirit of mildness and forgivness? "i am sensible how often and how many destructive designs have been imputed to the prince upon the throne and his ministers, of the cry raised against standing armies, of the complaints of corruption, long parliaments, and hanoverian interest pursued in opposition to that of britain; but i am allso sensible there is not a true friend to liberty, a dispassionate and sober man, but who (now the mask is laid aside) perceives they were, at bottom, the artifices and popular pretences of men struggling to force themselves into power, or of those who in the dark were aiming the destruction of our happy constitution. "men endued with popular talents, of figure and fortune in the world, and without the advantages of apparent disinterestedness on their side, will allways have address enough, with a seeming plausibility, to pervert every act of government at home, and to defame and run down every publick transaction abroad; and disciples will never be wanting of capacity and passions fitted to become the dupes of such false apostles. the corruption complained of is but too universal, and it's to be feared too deep-rooted to be cured; it is the constant attendant of peace and wealth; and such is the depravity of our natures, that these blessings cannot be enjoyed without having this plague, the most sordid and detestable of all vices, accompanying them. but if it is in our governours, it is also in the people, and change your kings and ministers as often as you please, whoever is in possession, or whoever is in quest of power, will allways lay hold of the vices, the follys, or the prejudices of mankind to exclude others from it or to acquire it to themselves. "it's to be hoped most people now perceive with what views they were taught to exclaim against and oppose a standing body of native and freeborn troops; but it is to be lamented their eyes were reserved to be opened only by the greatest of all publick calamitys." it appears, however, from the following letter of mr. craik, that lord nithisdale was really implicated in the insurrection:-- "my lord, "i am sincerely and deeply touched with your lordship's situation, and can honestly assure you it would give me a real satisfaction could i any how contribute to save you on this unhappy occasion. as you have done me the honour to ask my opinion how you are to conduct yourself, and as the doctor has informed me of the circumstances of your journey, i should but ill deserve the character of humanity and good nature you are pleased to give me, if i did not, with freedom and candour, lay before you what, after this day having fully considered it, appears to me most for your honour, and the safty and preservation of your life and family. "it is certain the habeas corpus act is suspended, and i doubt not but as soon as the lenth you have gone and your being returned is known above, warrants will be issued to carrie you up to london; if you retire out of the kingdom, it will not prevent your being attainted; and i am afraid the unfortunate step you have made will putt your estate but too much within the reach of the law, and your family is undone. if you stay till you are apprehended, not only your estate, but your person is in the mercy of the government, and how far severitys on this occasion may be carried, is not for me to prescribe; only i am apprehensive your religion, quality, and estate, will make you but too obnoxious to the government, and when the affair is over, informers will not be wanting to furnish them with materials. "we are not ignorant what arts and industry have been employed to draw you out of the retirement and quiet you were well disposed to remain in. we are sensible you were imposed upon by those already embarked; and it will acquit you before god and every sober man, if you no longer keep measures with those who have deceived you in a matter of such moment, when your life and fortune were at stake. my lord, i have impartially laid before you the present circumstance you are in, as far as my abilities enable me to judge, that you may have it under your lordship's consideration; i shall next take the freedom to suggest what to me appears the safest and most prudent part now left to you to act, and which i likeways submit to your lordship's own judgment, without taking upon me to decide. what i mean is this, that your lordship should, without loss of time, surrender your person to the governor of carlisle, and acquaint him you came to throw yourself upon the clemency of the government; at the same time, your lordship would, by express, have some proper friend at london advised of your intention, and one of some weight and interest, and who was fitt to put your conduct in the most favourable light. you will easily perceive that this confidence in the government, and voluntary surrender of your person, and your preventing all others in an early repentance must distinguish you, in the eyes of the government, from every other person who has embarked, and entitle you to its favour and protection: whereas, if you wait till you are apprehended, or leave the kingdom, your case, tho' quite different, will be ranked with those who have gone the greatest lengths. if your lordship approve of this, if you think proper to lett me know by a line to-morrow, i shall not faill to be in town on tuesday; and as i have a friend at london who i know is very capable and well disposed to serve you, if it be agreeable to you, shall, with the doctor, concert the letter proper to be sent." the answer of lord nithisdale contains a curious summary of some of the motives which actuated the jacobites of . letter from lord nithisdale to mr. craik. "dear sir, "i have both yours, giving your opinion on the present affairs, without assigning your reasons, and as i take it, urging an answer from me, whether i am determined to take a share in the present enterprise, which you seem to think i should not. i shall answer the last first, by telling you that i have not yet fully digested my thoughts on that matter; only be assured i'll do nothing rashly--that's only for desperados. as to the other, i'm ready to believe you agree in opinion with me, that as matters are come this length, it's now greatly the interest of scotland to wish success to the undertaking; and that nothing but the improbability of success should hinder every scotsman to join in it; and indeed i don't think there's great reason to fear that either, unless vast numbers of foreign forces are poured into the country for support of the party in possession. "the militia of england are little to be feared, nor do i believe they'll be trusted with arms, as there's a chance what way they may be used, particularly by that part of the country who only know how to handle them. as to the dutch who are come over, there's now greater reason to believe they'll be recalled, and it may be some time before others are sent in their place, if at all. i do believe the united states, if they dare, will give all the support they can; but if france shall really prove in earnest, i imagine they'll consider it necessary to be quiet. other foreign forces may be sent in, but on the other hand there's a very great improbability; thir people will likewise get aid, and here there's assembling a very numerous resolute army. the prospect of the situation of the country for some time to come, must affect every well-wisher to it, and the consequences to this part, if the undertaking shall misgive, appear to me terrible; if it succeed, what have we to fear? you'll answer, the introduction of popery and arbitrary government; but i don't imagine, considering the success and fate of his grandfather and uncle, that will be attempted; and as to any fear that we may be made dependant and tributary to the foreign powers giving aid to the present adventure, that i'm not apprehensive of, nor do i imagine it would be in his power to accomplish, tho' inclinable to it. i shall say no more on the subject; only it's easier preventing an evil than remedying, and that may be applyed to both sides; only this one further i observe, that i think it's the interest of the nation to have a sovereign settled whose title is unquestionable: we see the inconveniencys attending the other. you'll perhaps answer, there will still be a pretender; but i reply, not so dangerous an one, if at all. you write, in your letter, that people may, without meaning, be treated and led away with popular arguments. i assure you i'm none of these--what i have said now, is on a sunday forenoon. however, i should wish you communicate my mind to nobody. if any material news occur before the bearer leave edinburgh, you shall have them; and to-morrow i'll mind your commission, and any other you shall give with respect to your nursery, &c., which i hope you're still carrying on, and that your garden-wall is now completed. if you had some pieces of cannon to place in it, would it not keep out against an army not provided with battering-pieces, seeing it's at a sufficient distance from the thundering of any castle? were it not for fear of your horses, i should wish you came in here and saw the fortifications made on our city-wall, and the army against which they were intended; the last is worth your while. no court in europe is filled with such a set of well-look'd brave fellows. "i hope my dykers are going on, and beg you'll acquaint the tenants to have the rents ready, in regard i'm to be soon in the country, and won't make any stay above a day or two; this to you, but to yourself i can yet fix no time for coming out as i can't think of leaving edinburgh till i see how matters turn, and it's also necessary to stay and take care of my house, furniture, papers, &c. i believe i shall eat my christmas goose with you, if i don't go into england, which i would incline for sake of a jaunt, if i thought it safe and had a right set with me. i ever am, dear sir, "your's &c." another letter from a kinsman of lord nithisdale's shews that he was not alone in his inclination to join in the insurrection of . letter from mr. maxwell of carruchan. "october th. "dr. willie, "by accounts this day from edinburgh, allmost everybody is going along with the stream, so that a short delay wou'd lose all the merit. this has determined me to do the thing so suddenly, that i have not time to send for you, unless it were to see me go off, which is impossible. i depend upon your protection for those i leave behind. what gives me the greatest concern is least some such creditors as have still my father's security, should molest him in my absence. i recommend particularly to you, that if you can hear of any, you'll endeavour to make them sensible that they are as safe as before, and tell the comissary that i expect the same piece of friendship from him, who lyes more in the way of hearing what passes of that kind. i believe there are three or four thousand french or irish landed in wales, with lord john drummond. the highland army marches south the beginning of the week. farewell dear willie. god bless you! ever your's (signed) ja. maxwell." "saturday.--i set out before daylight to-morrow." from mr. maxwell of carruchan, to mr. craik of arbigland. since lord nithisdale's name did not appear in the list of the young chevalier's officers, we must conclude that he did not persevere in his resolutions. there is no date to mr. craik's second letter, but it must have been written after carlisle had surrendered to the duke of cumberland,--an event which took place on the thirtieth of december, . the earl of nithisdale, as he was styled, lived until the year , and possibly in peace and prosperity, since the family estates were spared to him. he married his first cousin, lady catherine stewart, daughter of the earl of traquhair by lady mary maxwell, and left an only daughter. this lady, named after her celebrated grandmother winifred, was also, by courtesy, endowed with the honours of the forfeited rank, and styled lady winifred maxwell. her ladyship would have inherited the barony of herries, of terregles, but for the attainder of her grandfather. the estates of lord nithisdale were inherited by her son, marmaduke william constable, esq., of everingham park, in the county of york; who, on the death of his mother, assumed, by royal licence, the surname of maxwell. the title of nithisdale, except for the attainder, would have descended upon the next heir, mr. maxwell of carruchan.[ ] footnotes: [ ] there is no statement of the date of lord nithisdale's birth in any of the usual authorities, neither can his descendant, william constable maxwell, esq., of terregles, supply the deficient information. [ ] secret history of colonel hooke's negotiations, by himself, p. . london, . [ ] patten's history of the rebellion, of , p. . [ ] service of the earl of eglintoun, as heir male of the earl of wintoun. printed for the family. extract from "peerage law by riddell," p. . published in . [ ] service of the earl of eglintoun, p. . [ ] buchan's account of the earls marischal, p. . [ ] eglinton case. [ ] patten, p. . [ ] patten, p. . life of the earls marischal, p. . [ ] reay's history of the late rebellion. dumfries, . [ ] reay, p. . [ ] now of sir charles stuart menteath, bart. [ ] reay, p. . [ ] id. [ ] id. p. . [ ] reay, p. . [ ] patten, pp. - . colonel hooke's negotiations. [ ] in the life of lord derwentwater. [ ] reay, p. . [ ] see letters in the state paper office from lord widdrington, and many others of inferior rank, no. . . [ ] state papers, , no. . [ ] state papers, no. , july , . [ ] reay, p. . [ ] reay, p. . [ ] a faithful register of the late rebellion, london, p. , . [ ] faithful register, p. . [ ] her picture, painted in the bloom of her youth, is still at terregles, in dumfriesshire, the seat of william constable maxwell, esq., the descendant of lord nithisdale. to mrs. constable maxwell, of terregles, i am indebted for the following interesting description of the portrait of lady nithisdale, to which i have referred. "her hair is light brown, slightly powdered, and she is represented with large soft eyes, regular features, and fair, rather pale complexion. her soft expression and delicate appearance give little indication of the strength of mind and courage which she displayed. her dress is blue silk, with a border of cambric, and the drapery a cloak of brown silk." [ ] his son was restored to his father's honours. the title of marquis of powis became extinct; but the estates devolved on lord herbert of cherbury, husband to the last marquis's niece; and ultimately to lady henrietta herbert, who married lord clive, created earl of powis.--_burke's extinct peerage_. [ ] faithful register, p. . [ ] faithful register, p. . [ ] burke's history of the commoners of great britain and ireland, vol. i. p. . [ ] see letters and petitions in the state papers, no. iii. p. . [ ] see burke's commoners, vol. i. p. . [ ] see burke's commoners, vol. i. p. . [ ] i am indebted to the present mr. craik, of arbigland, for this correspondence. [ ] i am indebted for some of these particulars to the courtesy of william constable maxwell, esq., present owner of terregles, carlaverock, and also of the beautiful hereditary property of lincluden. william gordon, viscount kenmure. the origin of the distinguished surname of gordon is not clearly ascertained: "some," says douglass, "derive the gordons from a city of macedonia, named gordonia; others from a manor in normandy called gordon, possessed by a family of that name. the territory of gordon in berwickshire was, according to another account, conferred by david the first upon an anglo-norman settler, who assumed from it the name of gordon." william gordon, sixth earl of kenmure, was descended from a younger son of the ducal house of gordon; in sir john gordon of lochinvar was created viscount kenmure and lord of lochinvar; and the estates continued in an unbroken line until they descended to william, the sixth viscount, who was the only scottish peer in who suffered capital punishment. this unfortunate nobleman succeeded his father in ; and possessed, up to the period of his taking the command of the army in the south, the estates belonging to his family in the stuartry of kirkcudbright. kenmure castle, still happily enjoyed by the family of gordon, stands upon an eminence overlooking the meadows, at that point where the river ken expands into a lake. the castle was originally a single tower, to which various additions have been made according to the taste of different owners. the castle keep is now ruinous and unroofed, but the body of the house is in good repair. a fine prospect over the scenery of the glenhens is commanded by the eminence on which the castle stands. an ancient avenue of lime-trees constitutes the approach to the fortress from the road. in this abode dwelt the viscount kenmure until the summons of lord mar called him from the serene tenour of a course honoured by others, and peaceful from the tranquillity of the unhappy nobleman's own disposition; for his was not the restless ambition of mar, nor the blind devotion of the duke of perth; nor the passion for fame and ascendancy which stimulated lord george murray in his exertions. lord kenmure was, it is true, well acquainted with public business, and an adept in the affairs of the political world, in which he had obtained that insight which long experience gives. his acquaintance with books and men was said to be considerable; he is allowed, even by one who had deserted the party which lord kenmure espoused, to be of a "very extraordinary knowledge."[ ] but his calm, reflective mind, his experience, his resources of learning, rather indisposed than inclined this nobleman from rising when called upon to lend his aid to the perilous enterprise of james stuart. beloved in private life, of a singularly good temper, calm, mild, of simple habits, and plain in his attire, he was as it was generally observed, the last man whom one might have expected to rush into the schemes of the jacobite party. that one so skilled in human affairs should venture, even in a subordinate degree, to espouse so desperate a cause as that of james was generally reputed to be, might seem to prove that even the wise were sanguine, or that they were carried away by the enthusiasm of the hour. neither of these circumstances appear to bear any considerable weight in revolving the conduct of lord kenmure. a stronger influence, perhaps, than that of loyalty operated on the conduct of viscount kenmure. he was married: his wife, the spirited and energetic mary dalzell, was the only sister of robert, sixth earl of carnwath. her family were deeply imbued with the principles of hereditary right and of passive obedience; and lady kenmure cherished these sentiments, and bestowed the energies of her active mind on the promotion of that cause which she held sacred. the house of dalzell had been sufferers in the service of the stuarts. by her mother's side, lady kenmure was connected with sir william murray of stanhope, and with his singular, and yet accomplished son, sir alexander murray of stanhope, who was taken prisoner at preston, fighting for the jacobites. the earl of carnwath, lady kenmure's brother, was one of those men whose virtues and acquirements successfully recommend a cause to all who are under the influence of such a character. having been educated at cambridge, he had imbibed an early affection for the liturgy of the church of england; his gentle manners, his talents, and his natural eloquence, established him in the affections of his friends and acquaintance. this nobleman was, like his sister, ready to sacrifice everything for conscience sake: like her, he was a sufferer for that which he esteemed to be justice. he was afterwards taken prisoner at preston, impeached before the house of peers in , and sentenced to be executed as a traitor, and his estate forfeited; but eventually he was respited and pardoned. he survived to be four times married. another of lady kenmure's brothers, john dalzell, was, it is true, a captain in the army upon the breaking out of the rebellion in ; but, at the summons of him whom he esteemed his lawful sovereign, he threw up his commission, and engaged in the service of james. when lord kenmure received a commission from the earl of mar to head the friends of the chevalier in the south, he had ties which perhaps were among some of the considerations which led him to hesitate and to accept the proffered honour unwillingly. on his trial he referred to his wife and "four small children," as a plea for mercy. but lady kenmure, sanguine and resolute, did not view these little dependent beings as obstacles to a participation in the insurrection. if she might be considered to transgress her duty as a mother, in thus risking the fortunes of her children, she afterwards compensated by her energy and self-denial for her early error of judgment. it had been arranged that the insurrection in dumfriesshire was to break out in conjunction with that headed in northumberland by mr. forster. to effect this end, numbers of disaffected, or, as the jacobite writers call them, well-affected noblemen and gentlemen assembled in parties at the houses of their friends, moving about from place to place, in order to prepare for the event. it was on the twelfth of october, , that viscount kenmure set out in the intention of joining the earl of wintoun, who was on his road to moffat, and who was accompanied by a party of lothian gentlemen and their servants. it is said by the descendants of viscount kenmure, on hearsay, that his lordship's horse three times refused to go forward on that eventful morning; nor could he be impelled to do so, until lady kenmure taking off her apron, and throwing it over the horse's eyes, the animal was led forward. the earl of carnwath had joined with lord kenmure, and rode forwards with him to the rencontre with lord wintoun. lord kenmure took with him three hundred men to the field.[ ] at the siege of preston, in which those who fell dead upon the field were less to be compassionated than the survivors, lord kenmure was taken prisoner. his brother-in-law, the earl of carnwath, shared the same fate. they were sent with the principal state prisoners to london. the same circumstances, the same indignities, attended the removal of lord kenmure to his last earthly abode, as those which have been already related as disgracing the humanity of englishmen, when the earl of derwentwater was carried to the tower. the subsequent sufferings of these brave men were aggravated by the abuses which then existed in the state prisons of england. the condition of these receptacles of woe, at that period, beggars all description. corruption and extortion gave every advantage to those who could command money enough to purchase luxuries at an enormous cost. oppression and an utter carelessness of the well-being of the captive, pressed hardly upon those who were poor. no annals can convey a more heartrending description of the sufferings of the prisoners confined in county gaols, than their own touching and heartfelt appeals, some of which are to be found in the state paper office. in the tower, especially, it appears from a diary kept by a gentleman who was confined there, that the greatest extortion was openly practised. mr. forster and a mr. anderton, who were allowed to live in the governor's house, were charged the sum of five pounds a-week for their lodging and diet,--a demand which, more than a century ago, was deemed enormous. several of the highland chiefs, and among them the celebrated brigadier mackintosh, were "clapped up in places of less accommodation, for which, nevertheless, they were charged as much as would have almost paid the rent of the best houses in st. james's square and piccadilly." mr. forster, it must be added, was obliged to pay sixty guineas for his privilege of living in the governor's house; and mr. anderton to give a bribe of twenty-five guineas for having his irons off. a similar tax was made upon every one who entered, and who could pay, and they were thankful to proffer the sum of twenty guineas, the usual demand, to be free from irons. it was, indeed, not the mere freedom from chains for which they paid, but for the power of effecting their escape. upon every one who did not choose to be turned over to the common side, a demand was made of ten guineas fee, besides two guineas weekly for lodging, although in some rooms men lay four in a bed. presents were also given privately, so that in three or four months' time, three or four thousand pounds were paid by the prisoners to their jailers. many of the prisoners being men of fortune, their tables were of the most luxurious description; forty shillings was often paid for a dish of peas and beans, and thirty shillings for a dish of fish; and this fare, so unlike that of imprisonment, was accompanied by the richest french wines. the vicious excesses and indecorums which went on in the tower, among the state prisoners, are said to have scandalized the graver lookers on.[ ] the subsequent distress and misery which ensued may, of course, be traced, in part to this cause. lord derwentwater, ever decorous and elevated in his deportment, was shocked at the wayward and reckless conduct of some of the jacobites on their road to london, told one of the king's officers at barnet that these prisoners "were only fit for bedlam." to this it was remarked, that they were only fit for bridewell. whilst hopes of life continued, this rebuke still applied. the prisoners were aided in their excesses by the enthusiasm of the fair sex. the following extract from another obscure work, "the history of the press-yard," is too curious to be omitted. "that while they [the prisoners] flattered themselves with hopes of life, which they were made to believe were the necessary consequences of a surrender at discretion, they did, without any retrospect to the crimes they were committed for, live in so profuse a manner, and fared so voluptuously, through the means of daily visitants and helps from abroad, that money circulated very plentifully; and while it was difficult to change a guinea almost at any house in the street, nothing was more easy than to have silver for gold to any quantity, and gold for silver, in the prison,--those of the fair sex, from persons of the first rank to tradesmen's wives and daughters, making a sacrifice of their husbands' and parents' rings, and other precious moveables, for the use of those prisoners; so that, till the trial of the condemned lords was over, and that the earl of derwentwater and viscount kenmure were beheaded, there was scarce anything to be seen amongst them but flaunting apparel, venison pasties, hams, chickens, and other costly meats, with plenty of wine." meantime the trial of the attainted lords took place, and checked, like the sudden appearance of a ghostly apparition, this horrible merriment,--with which, however, few names which one desires to cherish and to respect are connected. the same forms that attended the impeachment and trial of his companions, were carried on at the trial of lord kenmure. the unhappy nobleman replied in few and touching words, and, in a voice which could not be heard, pleaded guilty; an inconsistency, to express it in the mildest terms, of which he afterwards sincerely repented. at the end of the trial, to the question "what have you to say for yourself why judgment should not be passed upon you according to law?" "my lords," replied lord kenmure, "i am truly sensible of my crime, and want words to express my repentance. god knows i never had any personal prejudice against his majesty, nor was i ever accessory to any previous design against him. i humbly beg my noble peers and the honourable house of commons to intercede with the king for mercy to me, that i may live to show myself the dutifullest of his subjects, and to be the means to keep my wife and four small children from starving; the thoughts of which, with my crime, makes me the most unfortunate of all gentlemen." after the trial, great intercessions were made for mercy, but without any avail, as far as lord derwentwater and lord kenmure were concerned. they were ordered for execution on the th of february, . the intelligence of the condemnation of these two lords, produced the greatest dismay among their fellow sufferers in the tower; and the notion of escape, a project which was singularly successful in some instances, was resorted to, in the despair and anguish of the moment, by those who dreaded a cruel and ignominious death. lord kenmure, meantime, prepared for death. a very short interval was, indeed, allowed for those momentous considerations which his situation induced. he was sentenced on the ninth of february, and in a fortnight afterwards was to suffer. yet the execution of that sentence was, it seems, scarcely expected by the sufferer, even when the fatal day arrived. the night before his execution, lord kenmure wrote a long and affecting letter to a nobleman who had visited him in prison a few days previously. there is something deeply mournful in the fate of one who had slowly and unwillingly taken up the command which had ensured to him the severest penalties of the law. there is an inexpressibly painful sentiment of compassion and regret, excited by the yearning to live--the allusion to a reprieve--the allusion to the case of lord carnwath as affording more of hope than his own--lastly, to what he cautiously calls "an act of indiscretion," the plea of guilty, which was wrung from this conscientious, but sorrowing man, by a fond value for life and for the living. so little did lord kenmure anticipate his doom, that, when he was summoned to the scaffold the following day, he had not even prepared a black suit,--a circumstance which he much regretted, since he "might be said to have died with more decency." the following is the letter which he wrote, and which he addressed to a certain nobleman. "my very good lord, "your lordship has interested yourself so far in mine, and the lords, my fellow prisoners' behalf, that i should be the greatest criminal now breathing, should i, whether the result of your generous intercession be life or death, be neglectful of paying my acknowledgments for that act of compassion. "we have already discoursed of the motives that induced me to take arms against the prince now in possession of the throne, when you did me the honour of a visit three days since in my prison here; i shall therefore wave that point, and lament my unhappiness for joining in the rest of the lords in pleading guilty, in the hopes of that mercy, which the generals wills and carpenter will do us the justice to say was promised us by both of them. mr. piggot and mr. eyres, the two lawyers employed by us, advised us to this plea, the avoiding of which might have given us further time for looking after the concerns of another life, though it had ended in the same sentence of losing this which we now lie under. thanks be to the divine majesty, to whose infinite mercy as king of kings, i recommend myself in hopes of forgiveness, tho' it shall be my fate to fail of it here on earth. had the house of commons thought fit to have received our petition with the same candour as yours has done, and recommended us to the prince, we might have entertained some hopes of life; but the answer from st. james's is such as to make us have little or no thoughts of it. "under these dismal apprehensions, then, of approaching dissolution, which, i thank my god for his holy guidance, i have made due preparation for, give me leave to tell you, that howsoever i have been censured on account of the family of the gordons, which i am an unhappy branch of, that i have ever lived and will die in the profession of the protestant religion, and that i abhor all king-killing doctrines that are taught by the church of rome as dangerous and absurd. and though i have joined with some that have taken arms, of that persuasion, no other motive but that of exercising to the person called the pretender, whom i firmly believe to be the son of the late king james the second, and in defence of whose title i am now going to be a sacrifice, has induced me to it. your lordship will remember the papers i have left with you, and deliver them to my son. they may be of use to his future conduct in life, when these eyes of mine are closed in death, which i could have wished might have stolen upon me in the ordinary course of nature, and not by the hand of the executioner. but as my blessed saviour and redeemer suffered an ignominious and cruel death, and the son of god, made flesh, did not disdain to have his feet nailed to the cross for the sins of the world; so may i, poor miserable sinner, as far as human nature will allow, patiently bear with the hands of violence, that i expect suddenly to be stretched out against me. "your lordship will also, provided there is no hopes of a reprieve this night, make me acquainted with it as soon as possible, that i may meet that fate with readiness which, in a state of uncertainty, i expect with uneasiness. i must also be pressing with your lordship that if, in case of death, any paper under my name should come out as pretended to have been written by me, in the manner or form of a speech, you will not believe it to be genuine; for i, that am heartily sorry for disowning my principles in one spoken before your lordship and the rest of my peers, will never add to that act of indiscretion by saying anything on the scaffold but my prayers for the forgiveness of my poor self and those that have brought me to be a spectacle to men and angels, especially since i must speak in my last moments according to the dictates of my conscience, and not prevaricate as i did before the lords, for which i take shame to myself. and such a method of proceeding might do injury to my brother carnwath, who, i am told, is in a much fairer way than i am of not being excluded from grace. i have nothing farther than to implore your lordships to charge your memory with the recommendations i gave you to my wife and children, beseeching god that he will so sanctify their afflictions, that after the pains and terrors of this mortal life they may with me be translated to the regions of everlasting joy and happiness, to which blessed state of immortality your lordship shall also, while i am living, be recommended in the prayers of, my very good lord, your most affectionate kinsman, kenmure." "from my prison, in the tower of london, feb. , ." the following paper, the original of which is still in the hands of his descendants, was written by lord kenmure the night before his execution:-- "it having pleased the almighty god to call me now to suffer a violent death, i adore the divine majesty, and cheerfully resign my soul and body to his hands, whose mercy is over all his works. it is my very great comfort that he has enabled me to hope, through the merits and by the blood of jesus christ, he will so purifie me how that i perish not eternally. i die a protestant of the church of england, and do from my heart forgive all my enemies. i thank god i cannot accuse my selfe of the sin of rebellion, however some people may by a mistaken notion think me guilty of it for all i did upon a laite occasione; and my only desire ever was to contribute my small endeavour towards the re-establishing my rightfull sovereigne and the constitutione of my countrie to ther divine rights and loyall setlment; and by pleading guilty i meant no more then ane acknowledgment of my having been in armes, and (not being bred to the law) had no notion of my therby giving my assent to any other thing contained in that charge. i take god to wittnes, before whom i am very soon to apear, that i never had any desire to favour or to introduce popery, and i have been all along fully satisfied that the king has given all the morall security for the church of england that is possible for him in his circumstances. i owne i submitted myselfe to the duck of brunswick, justly expecting that humantity would have induced him to give me my life, which if he had done i was resolved for the future to have lived peaceably, and to have still reteaned a greatfull remembrance of so greatt a favour, and i am satisfied the king would never have desired me to have been in action for him after; but the caice is otherways. i pray god forgive those who thirst after blood. had we been all putt to the sword immediatly upon our surrender, that might have born the construction of being don in the heatt and fury of passion; but now i am to die in cold blood, i pray god it be not imputed to them. may almighty god restore injured right, and peace, and truth, and may he in mercy receave my soull. kenmure."[ ] it was decreed that the earl of derwentwater and the viscount kenmure should suffer on the same day. on the morning of the twenty-fourth of february, at ten o'clock, these noblemen were conducted to the transport office on tower hill, where they had separate rooms for their private devotions, and where such friends as desired to be admitted to them could take a last farewell. it had been settled that the earl of nithisdale should also suffer at the same time, but during the previous night he had escaped. whether the condemned lords, who were so soon to exchange life for immortality, were made aware of that event or not, has not transpired. what must have been their emotions, supposing that they were conscious that one who had shared their prison, was likely to be restored to his liberty and to his family! lord kenmure conducted himself with a manly composure and courage during this last trial of his submission and fortitude. his reserve, however, on the scaffold was remarkable. it proceeded from a fear, incidental to a conscientious mind, of saying anything inconsistent with his loyalty and principles; and from an apprehension, natural in the dying husband and father, of injuring the welfare of those whom he was to leave at the mercy of government. lord derwentwater suffered first: his last ejaculation, "sweet jesus be merciful unto me!" was cut short by the executioner severing his head from his body. then, after the body and the head had been carried away, the scaffold was decently cleared, and fresh baize laid upon the block, and saw-dust strewed, that none of the blood might appear to shock the unhappy man who was to succeed the young and gallant derwentwater in that tragic scene. lord kenmure then advanced. he was formally delivered from the hands of one sheriff to those of the other, who had continued on the stage on which the scaffold was erected all the time, and who then addressed the condemned man. the first question related to the presence of clergy, and of other friends; and lord kenmure stated, in reply, that he had the assistance of two clergymen, and desired the presence of some friends who were below. these persons were then called up, and lord kenmure retired with his friends and the two clergymen to the south side of the stage, where they joined in penitential prayers, some of them written for the occasion, and others out of a printed book, not improbably the book of common prayer, since lord kenmure was a protestant and an episcopalian. lord kenmure employed himself for some time in private supplications; and afterwards a clergyman, in a prayer, recommended the dying man to the mercy of god. a requiem completed the devotions of the unfortunate kenmure. sir john fryer, one of the sheriffs, then inquired if his lordship had had sufficient time; and expressed his willingness to wait as long as lord kenmure wished. he also requested to know if lord kenmure had anything to say in private; to these questions a negative was returned. the executioner now came forward. lord kenmure was accompanied by an undertaker, to whom the care of his body was to be entrusted; he was also attended by a surgeon, who directed the executioner how to perform his office, by drawing his finger over that part of the neck where the blow was to be given. lord kenmure then kissed the officers and gentlemen on the scaffold, some of them twice and thrice; and being again asked if he had anything to say, answered, "no." he had specified the chevalier st. george in his prayers, and he now repeated his repentance for having pleaded guilty at his trial. he turned to the executioner, who, according to the usual form, asked forgiveness. "my lord," said the man, "what i do, is to serve the nation; do you forgive me?" "i do," replied lord kenmure; and he placed the sum of eight guineas in the hands of the headsman. the final preparations were instantly made. lord kenmure pulled off, unassisted, his coat and waistcoat: one of his friends put a white linen cap on his head; and the executioner turned down the collar of his shirt, in order to avoid all obstacles to the fatal stroke. then the executioner said, "my lord, will you be pleased to try the block?" lord kenmure, in reply, laid down his head on the block, and spread forth his hands. the headsman instantly performed his office. the usual words, "this is the head of a traitor!" were heard as the executioner displayed the streaming and ghastly sight to the multitude. the body of lord kenmure, after being first deposited at an undertaker's in fleet street, was carried to scotland, and there buried among his ancestors. a letter was found in his pocket addressed to the chevalier, recommending to him the care of his children; but it was suppressed.[ ] thus died one of those men, whose honour, had his life been spared, might have been trusted never again to enter into any scheme injurious to the reigning government; and whose death inspires, perhaps, more unmitigated regret than that of any of the jacobite lords. lord kenmure's short-lived authority was sullied by no act of cruelty; and his last hours were those of a pious, resigned, courageous christian. he was thrust into a situation as commander in the south, peculiarly unfitted for his mild, reserved, and modest disposition: and he was thus carried away from that private sphere which he was calculated to adorn.[ ] after her husband's death, the energies of lady kenmure were directed to secure the estates of kenmure to her eldest son. she instantly posted down to scotland, and reached kenmure castle in time to secure the most valuable papers. when the estates were put up for sale, she contrived, with the assistance of her friends, to raise money enough to purchase them; and lived so carefully as to be able to deliver them over to her son, clear of all debt, when he came of age. four children were left dependent upon her exertions and maternal protection. of these robert, the eldest, died in unmarried, in his twenty-eighth year. james also died unmarried. harriet, the only daughter, was married to her mother's cousin-german, captain james dalzell, uncle of robert earl of carnwath. john gordon, the second and only surviving son of lord kenmure, married, in , the lady frances mackenzie, daughter of the earl of seaforth; and from this marriage is descended the present viscount kenmure, to whom the estate was restored in . lady kenmure survived her husband sixty-one years. in , she appears to have resided in paris, where, after the commotions of , she probably took refuge. here, aged as she must have been, the spirit of justice, and the love of consistency were shewn in an anecdote related of her by drummond of bochaldy, who was mingled up in the cabals of the melancholy court of st. germains. it had become the fashion among prince charles's sycophants and favourites, to declare that it was not for the interest of the party that there should be any restoration while king james lived; this idea was diligently circulated by kelly, a man described by drummond as full of trick, falsehood, deceit, and imposition; and joined to these, having qualities that make up a thorough sycophant. it was kelly's fashion to toast the prince in all companies first, and declare that the king could not last long. at one of the entertainments, which he daily frequented, at the house of lady redmond, the dinner, which usually took place at noon, being later than usual, lady kenmure, in making an afternoon's visit, came in before dinner was over. she was soon surprised and shocked to hear the company drinking the prince's health without mentioning the king's. "lady kenmure," adds drummond, "could not bear it, and said it was new to her to see people forget the duty due to the king." kelly immediately answered, "madam, you are old fashioned; these fashions are out of date." she said that she really was old fashioned, and hoped god would preserve her always sense and duty enough to continue so; on which she took a glass and said "god preserve our king, and grant him long life, and a happy reign over us!"[ ] lady kenmure died on the th of august, , at terregles, in dumfriesshire, the seat of the nithisdale family. footnotes: [ ] patten, p. [ ] patten. reay. [ ] "secret history of the rebels in newgate;" a scarce sixpenny tract, in the british museum. third edition. [ ] for this interesting paper i am indebted to the hon. mrs. bellamy, sister of the present and niece of the late viscount kenmure. [ ] faithful register of the late rebellion, p. ; also state trials. [ ] the impression on the minds of lord kenmure's descendants is, that he was by no means a man of feeble character, but one of great fortitude and resolution. [ ] memoirs of sir ewen cameron of lochiel, p. . presented to the abbotsford club. william murray, marquis of tullibardine. among the nobility who hastened to the hunting-field of braemar, was william marquis of tullibardine and eldest son of the first duke of athole. the origin of the powerful family of murray commences with sir william de moraira, who was sheriff in perth in , in the beginning of the reign of king alexander the second. the lands of tullibardine were obtained by the knight in , by his marriage with adda, the daughter of malise, seneschal of stratherio. after the death of william de moraira, the name of this famous house merged into that of murray, and its chieftains were for several centuries known by the appellation of murray of tullibardine. it was not until the seventeenth century that the family of murray was ennobled, when james the sixth created sir john murray earl of tullibardine. the unfortunate subject of this memoir was the son of one of the most zealous promoters of the revolution of . his father, nearly connected in blood with william the third, was appointed to the command of a regiment by that monarch, and entrusted with several posts of great importance, which he retained in the time of queen anne, until a plot was formed to ruin him by lord lovat, who endeavoured to implicate the duke in the affair commonly known by the name of the queensbury plot. the duke of athole courted inquiry upon that occasion; but the business having been dropped without investigation, he resigned the office of privy seal, which he then held, and became a warm opponent of the act of union which was introduced into parliament in . after this event the duke of athole retired to perthshire, and there lived in great magnificence until, upon the tories coming into power, he was chosen one of the representatives of the scottish peerage in , and afterwards a second time constituted lord privy seal. it is singular that, beholding his father thus cherished by government, the marquis of tullibardine should have adopted the cause of the chevalier: and not, as it appears, from a momentary caprice, but, if we take into consideration the conduct of his whole life, from a fixed and unalienable conviction. at the time of the first rebellion, the marquis was twenty-seven years of age; he may therefore be presumed to have been mature in judgment, and to have passed over the age of wild enthusiasm. the impulses of fanaticism had no influence in promoting the adoption of a party to which an episcopalian as well as a roman catholic might probably be peculiarly disposed. lord tullibardine had been brought up a presbyterian; his father was so firm and zealous in that faith, as to excite the doubts of the tory party, to whom he latterly attached himself, of his sincerity in their cause. according to lord lovat, the arch-enemy of the athole family, the duke had not any considerable portion of that quality in his character, which lord lovat represents as one compound of meanness, treachery, and revenge, and attributes the hatred with which athole persecuted the brave and unfortunate duke of argyle, to the circumstance of his having received a blow from that nobleman before the whole court at edinburgh, without having the spirit to return the insult.[ ] it appears, from the same authority, that the loyalty which the duke of athole professed towards king william was of a very questionable description. it becomes, indeed, very difficult to ascertain what were really the duke of athole's political tenets. under these conflicting and unsettled opinions the young marquis of tullibardine was reared. there seems little reason to doubt that his father, the duke of athole, continued to act a double part in the troublous days which followed the accession of george the first. it was, of course, of infinite importance to government to secure the allegiance of so powerful a family as that of murray, the head of whom was able to bring a body of six thousand men into the field. it nevertheless soon appeared that the young heir of the house of athole had imbibed very different sentiments to those with which it was naturally supposed a nobleman, actually in office at that time, would suffer in his eldest son. the first act of the marquis was to join the earl of mar with two thousand men, clansmen from the highlands, and with fourteen hundred of the duke of athole's tenants;[ ] his next, to proclaim the chevalier king. almost simultaneously, and whilst his tenantry were following their young leader to the field, the duke of athole was proclaiming king george at perth.[ ] the duke was ordered, meantime, by the authorities, to remain at his castle of blair to secure the peace of the county, of which he was lord-lieutenant. the marquis of tullibardine's name appears henceforth in most of the events of the rebellion. there exists little to shew how he acquitted himself in the engagement of sherriff muir, where he led several battalions to the field; but he shewed his firmness and valour by remaining for some time at the head of his vassals, after the unhappy contest of was closed by the ignominious flight of the chevalier. all hope of reviving the jacobite party being then extinct for a time, the marquis escaped to france, where he remained in tranquillity for a few years; but his persevering endeavours to aid the stuart cause were only laid aside, and not abandoned. during his absence, the fortunes of the house of athole sustained no important change. the office of privy seal was, it is true, taken from the duke and given to the marquis of annandale; but by the favour of government the estates escaped forfeiture, and during the very year in which the rebellion occurred, the honours and lands which belonged to the unfortunate tullibardine were vested, by the intercession of his father, in a younger son, lord james murray. the effect of this may have been to render the marquis still more determined in his adherence to the stuart line. he was not, however, the only member of the house of murray who participated in the jacobite cause. no less consistent in his opinions than the marquis of tullibardine, william, the second lord nairn, came forward to espouse the cause of the stuarts. this nobleman was the uncle of lord tullibardine, and bore, before his marriage with margaret, only daughter of the first lord nairn, the appellation of lord william murray. the title was, however, settled by patent upon him and his heirs; and this obligation, conferred by charles the second, was bestowed upon one whose gratitude and devotion to the line of stuart ceased only with his life. lord nairn had been educated to the naval service, and had distinguished himself for bravery. he refused the oaths at the revolution, and consequently did not take his seat in parliament. his wife, margaret, appears to have shared in her husband's enthusiasm, and to have resembled him in courage. in the earl of mar's correspondence frequent allusion is made to her under the name of mrs. mellor. "i wish," says the earl on one occasion, "our men had her spirit." and the remembrances which he sends her, and his recurrence to her, show how important a personage lady nairn must have been. aided by these two influential relations, the marquis of tullibardine had engaged in the dangerous game which cost scotland so dear. upon the close of the rebellion, lord nairn was not so fortunate as to escape to france with his relation. he was taken prisoner, tried, and condemned to be executed. at his trial he pleaded guilty; but he was respited, and afterwards pardoned. his wife and children were eventually provided for out of the forfeited estate; but neither punishment nor favour prevented his sons from sharing in the rebellion of . another individual who participated in the rebellion of was lord charles murray, the fourth surviving son of the duke of athole, and one of those gallant, fine-tempered soldiers, whose graceful bearing and good qualities win upon the esteem even of their enemies. at the beginning of the rebellion, lord charles was an officer on half-pay in the british service; he quickly joined the insurgent army, and obtained the command of a regiment. such was his determination to share all dangers and difficulties with his troops, that he never could be prevailed upon to ride at the head of his regiment, but went in his highland dress, on foot, throughout the marches. this young officer crossed the forth with general mackintosh, and joined the northumbrian insurgents in the march to preston. at the siege of that town lord charles defended one of the barriers, and repelled colonel dormer's brigade from the attack. he was afterwards made prisoner at the surrender, tried by a court-martial, and sentenced to be shot as a deserter from the british army. he was, however, subsequently reprieved, but died only five years afterwards.[ ] the marquis of tullibardine was not, however, the only jacobite member of the family who had been spared after the rebellion of , to renew his efforts in the cause. his brother, the celebrated lord george murray, was also deeply engaged in the same interests. in , the hopes of the party were revived by the war with spain, and their invasion of great britain was quietly planned by the duke of ormond, who hastened to madrid to hold conferences with alberoni. shortly afterwards the chevalier was received in that capital, and treated as king of england. in march, , the ill-fated expedition under the duke of ormond was formed, and a fleet, destined never to reach its appointed place of rendezvous, sailed from cadiz. the enterprise met with the usual fate of all the attempts formed in favour of the stuarts. with the exception of two frigates, none of the ships proceeded farther than cape finisterre, where they were disabled by a storm. these two vessels reached the coast of scotland, having on board of them the earl of seaforth, the earl marischal, the marquis of tullibardine,[ ] three hundred spaniards, and arms for two thousand men. they landed at the island of lewes, but found the body of the jacobite party resolved not to move until all the forces under ormond should be assembled. during this interval of suspense, disputes between the marquis of tullibardine and the lord marischal, which should have the command, produced the usual effects among a divided and factious party, of checking exertion by diminishing confidence. it appears, however, that the marquis had a commission from the chevalier to invade scotland; in virtue of which he left the island of lewes, whence he had for some time been carrying on a correspondence with the highland chieftains, and landed with the three hundred spaniards on the main land. the ministers of george the first lost no time in repelling this attempt by a foreign power, and it is singular that they employed dutch troops for the purpose; and that scotland, for the first time, beheld her rights contested by soldiers speaking different languages, and natives of different continental regions. the government had brought over two thousand dutch soldiers, and six battalions of imperial troops from the austrian netherlands, and these were now sent down to inverness, where general wightman was stationed. as soon as he was informed of the landing of the spanish forces, that commander marched his troops to glenshiel, a place between fort augustus and benera. he attacked the invaders: the highlanders were quickly repulsed and fled to their hills; the spaniards were taken prisoners; but the marquis of tullibardine and the earl of seaforth escaped, and, retreating to the island of lewes, again escaped to france. during twenty-six years the marquis of tullibardine, against whom an act of attainder was passed, remained in exile. he appears to have avoided taking any active part in political affairs. "these seven or eight years," he says in a letter addressed to the chevalier, "have sufficiently shewn me how unfit i am for meddling with the deep concerns of state."[ ] he resided at puteaux, a small town near paris, until called imperatively from his retreat. during the period of inaction, no measures were taken to reconcile those whom he had left, the more gallant portion of the highlanders, to the english government. "the state of arms," says mr. home, "was allowed to remain the same; the highlanders lived under their chiefs, in arms; the people of england and the lowlanders of scotland lived, without arms, under their sheriffs and magistrates; so that every rebellion was a war carried on by the highlanders against the standing army; and a declaration of war with france or spain, which required the service of the troops abroad, was a signal for a rebellion at home. strange as it may seem, it was actually so."[ ] during the interval between the two rebellions of and , the arts of peace were cultivated in england, and the national wealth augmented; but no portion of that wealth altered the habits of the highland chieftains, who, looking continually for another rebellion, estimated their property by the number of men whom they could bring into the field. an anecdote, illustrative of this peculiarity, is told of macdonald of keppoch, who was killed at the battle of culloden. some low-country gentlemen were visiting him in , and were entertained with the lavish hospitality of a highland home. one of these guests ventured to ask of the landlord, what was the rent of his estate. "i can bring five hundred men into the field," was the reply. it was estimated, about this time, that the whole force which could be raised by the highlanders amounted to no more than twelve thousand men; yet, with this inconsiderable number, the jacobites could shake the british throne. the danger which might arise to the government, in case of a foreign war, from the highlanders, was foreseen by duncan forbes of culloden, and a scheme was formed by that good and great man, and communicated to lord hay, adapted to reconcile the chieftains to the sovereignty of the house of hanover, and at the same time to preserve the peace of the country. this was, to raise four or five highland regiments, appointing an english or scotch officer of undoubted loyalty to king george, to be colonel of each regiment, and naming all the inferior officers from a list drawn up by president forbes, and comprising all the chiefs and chieftains of the disaffected clans. most unhappily this plan was rejected. had it been adopted, the melancholy events of the last rebellion might not have left an indelible stain upon our national character. the highlanders, once enlisted in the cause of government, would have been true to their engagements; and the fidelity of the officers, when serving abroad, would have been a guarantee for the good conduct of their relations at home. it was not, however, deemed practicable; and the energies of a determined and unemployed people were again brought into active force. it is said to have met with the decided approbation of sir robert walpole, but it was negatived by the cabinet.[ ] the year witnessed the revival of the jacobite association, which had been annihilated by the attainders and exiles of its members after the last rebellion. the declaration of war between spain and england, induced a belief that hostilities with france would follow; and accordingly, in , seven persons of distinction met at edinburgh, and signed an association, which was to be carried to the chevalier st. george at rome, together with a list of those chiefs and chieftains who were ready to join the association, if a body of french troops should land in scotland. this was the commencement of the second rebellion; and it was seconded with as pure a spirit of devotion to the cause, as exalted an enthusiasm, as if none had bled on the scaffold in the previous reign, or attainders and forfeitures had never visited with poverty and ruin the adherents of james stuart. the marquis of tullibardine was selected as one of the attendants of charles edward, in the perilous enterprise of the invasion. he was the person of the highest rank among those who accompanied the gallant and unfortunate adventurer in his voyage from the mouth of the loire to scotland, in a little vessel, la doutelle, with its escort of a ship of seven hundred tons, the elizabeth. during this voyage the strictest incognito was preserved by the prince, who was dressed in the habit of the scotch college, at paris, and who suffered his beard to grow, in order still better to disguise himself. at night the ship sailed without a light, except that which proceeded from the compass, and which was closely covered, the more effectually to defy pursuit. as it tracked the ocean, with its guardian, the elizabeth, the sight of a british man-of-war off lizard point excited the ardour of the youthful hero on board of la doutelle. captain d'eau, the commander of the elizabeth, determined to attack the english ship, and requested the aid of mr. walsh, who commanded the doutelle. his request was denied, probably from the responsibility which would have been incurred by walsh, if he had endangered the safety of the vessel in which the prince sailed. the attack was therefore made by the brave d'eau alone. it was succeeded by a fight of two hours, during which the doutelle looked on, while the prince vainly solicited walsh to engage in the action. the commander refused, and threatened the royal youth to send him to his cabin if he persisted. both ships were severely damaged in the encounter and la doutelle was obliged to proceed on her way alone, the elizabeth returning to france to refit. on the twenty-first of july, la doutelle approached the remote range of the hebrides, comprehending lewes, uist, and barra, often called, from being seen together, the long island. as the vessel neared the shore, a large hebridean eagle hovered over the masts. the marquis of tullibardine observed it, and attributed to its appearance that importance to which the imagination of his countrymen gives to such incidents; yet, not wishing to appear superstitious, or to show what is called a "highland freit," it was not until the bird had followed the ship's course for some time, that he drew the attention of the prince to the circumstance. as they returned on deck after dinner, he pointed out the bird to charles edward, observing at the same time, "sir, i hope this is a happy omen, and promises good things to us; the king of birds is come to welcome your royal highness, on your arrival in scotland." the prince and his followers landed, on the twenty-third of july, at the island of eriska, belonging to clanranald, and situated between the isles of barra and of south uist, their voyage having been accomplished in eighteen days. here all the party landed, with the exception of the marquis, who was laid up with the gout, and unable to move. his condition was supposed to be one of peril, for two ships had been espied, and the prince and his associates hurried off, with all the expedition they could, to shore. the long boat was got out, and sent to procure a pilot, who was discovered in the person of the hereditary piper of clanranald, who piloted the precious freight safely to shore. the two vessels which had produced so much alarm, proved afterwards to be only merchant-vessels. in these "malignant regions," as dr. johnson describes them, referring to the severity of the climate and the poverty of the soil, prince charles and his adherents were lodged in a small country house, with a hole in the roof for a chimney, and a fire in the middle of the room. the young adventurer, reared among the delicacies of the palace at albano, was often obliged to go to the door for fresh air. "what a plague is the matter with that fellow," exclaimed angus macdonald, the landlord, "that he can neither sit nor stand still, nor keep within nor without doors?" the night, it must be observed, was unusually wet and stormy, so that the prince had no alternative between smoke and rain. the pride of the scotch, in this remote region, was exemplified in another trifling occurrence: the prince, who was less fatigued than the rest of the party, with that consideration for others, and disregard of his own personal comfort, which formed at this period so beautiful a part of his character, insisted that his attendants should retire to rest. he took a particular care of sir thomas sheridan, his tutor, and examined closely the bed appropriated to him, in order to see that it was well aired. the landlord, indignant at this investigation, called out to him, "that the bed was so good, and the sheets were so good, that a prince might sleep in them."[ ] the farm-house in which this little incident took place, and which first received the prince, who was destined to occupy so great a variety of dwellings in scotland, was situated in borrodale, a wild, mountainous tract of country, which forms a tongue of land between two bays. borrodale, being difficult of access, was well-chosen as the landing-place of charles; whilst around, in most directions, were the well-wishers to his cause. the marquis of tullibardine accompanied charles in his progress until the prince landed at glenfinnin,[ ] which is situated about twenty miles from fort william, and forms the outlet from moidart to lochaber; here the standard of charles edward was unfurled. the scene in which this ill-omened ceremonial took place is a deep and narrow valley, in which the river finnin runs between high and craggy mountains, which are inaccessible to every species of carriage, and only to be surmounted by travellers on foot. at each end of the vale is a lake of about twelve miles in length, and behind the stern mountains which enclose the glen, are salt-water lakes, one of them an arm of the sea. the river finnin empties itself into the lake of glenshiel, at the extremity of the glen. on the eighteenth of august prince charles crossed this lake, slept at glensiarick, and on the nineteenth proceeded to glenfinnin. when charles landed in the glen, he gazed around anxiously for cameron of lochiel, the younger, whom he expected to have joined him. he looked for some time in vain; that faithful adherent was not then in sight, nor was the glen, as the prince had expected, peopled by any of the clansmen whose gathering he had expected. a few poor people from the little knot of hovels, which was called the village, alone greeted the ill-starred adventurer. disconcerted, prince charles entered one of the hovels, which are still standing, and waited there for about two hours. at the end of that time, the notes of the pibroch were heard, and presently, descending from the summit of a hill, appeared the camerons, advancing in two lines, each of them three men deep. between the lines walked the prisoners of war, who had been taken some days previously near loch lochiel. the prince, exhilarated by the sight of six or seven hundred brave highlanders, immediately gave orders for the standard to be unfurled. the office of honour was entrusted to the marquis of tullibardine, on account of his high rank and importance to the cause. the spot chosen for the ceremony was a knoll in the centre of the vale. upon this little eminence the marquis stood, supported on either side by men, for his health was infirm, and what we should now call a premature old age was fast approaching. the banner which it was his lot to unfurl displayed no motto, nor was there inscribed upon it the coffin and the crown which the vulgar notion in england assigned to it. it was simply a large banner of red silk, with a white space in the middle. the marquis held the staff until the manifesto of the chevalier and the commission of regency had been read. in a few hours the glen in which this solemnity had been performed, was filled not only with highlanders, but with ladies and gentlemen to admire the spectacle. among them was the celebrated miss, or, more properly, mrs. jeanie cameron, whose passionate attachment for the prince rendered her so conspicuous in the troublous period of . the description given of her in bishop forbes's jacobite memoirs destroys much of the romance of the story commonly related of her. "she is a widow," he declares, "nearer fifty than forty years of age. she is a genteel, well-looking, handsome woman, with a pair of pretty eyes, and hair black as jet. she is of a very sprightly genius, and is very agreeable in conversation. she was so far from accompanying the prince's army, that she went off with the rest of the spectators as soon as the army marched; neither did she ever follow the camp, nor ever was with the prince in private, except when he was in edinburgh."[ ] soon after the unfurling of the standard, we find the marquis of tullibardine writing to mrs. robertson of lude, a daughter of lord nairn, and desiring her to put the castle of blair into some order, and to do honours of the place when the prince should come there. the marquis, it is here proper to mention, was regarded by all the jacobites as still the head of his house, and uniformly styled by that party the "duke of athole," yet he seldom adopted the title himself; and in only one or two instances in his correspondence does the signature of athole occur.[ ] on the thirty-first of august the prince visited the famous blair athole, or field of athole, the word _blair_ signifying a pleasant land, and being descriptive of that beautiful vale situated in the midst of wild and mountainous scenery. after riding along a black moor, in sight of vast mountains, the castle, a plain massive white house, appears in view. it is seated on an eminence above a plain watered by the gary, called, by pennant, "an outrageous stream, which laves and rushes along vast beds of gravel on the valley below." the approach to blair castle winds up a very steep and high hill, and through a great birch wood, forming a most picturesque scene, from the pendent form of the boughs waving with the wind from the bottom to the utmost summits of the mountains. on attaining the top, a view of the beautiful little straith, fertile and wooded, with the river in the middle, delights the beholder. the stream, after meandering in various circles, suddenly swells into a lake that fills the vale from side to side; this lake is about three miles long, and retains the name of the river. when prince charles visited blair, it was a fortified house, and capable of holding out a siege afterwards against his adherents. its height was consequently lowered, but the inside has been finished with care by the ducal owner. the environs of this beautiful place are thus described by the graphic pen of pennant,[ ] whose description of them, having been written in , is more likely to apply to the state in which it was when prince charles beheld it, than that of any more modern traveller. "the duke of athoel's estate is very extensive, and the country populous; while vassalage existed, the chieftain could raise two or three thousand fighting-men, and leave sufficient at home to take care of the ground. the forests, or rather chases, (for they are quite naked,) are very extensive, and feed vast numbers of stags, which range at certain times of the year in herds of five hundred. some grow to a great size. the hunting of these animals was formerly after the manner of an eastern monarch. thousands of vassals surrounded a great tract of country, and drove the deer to the spot where the chieftains were stationed, who shot them at their leisure. "near the house is a fine walk surrounding a very deep glen, finely wooded, but in dry weather deficient in water at the bottom; but on the side of the walk on the rock is a small crystalline fountain, inhabited at that time by a pair of naiads, in the form of golden fish. "in a spruce-fir was a hang-nest of some unknown bird, suspended at the four corners to the boughs; it was open at top an inch and a half in diameter, and two deep; the sides and bottom thick, the materials moss, worsted, and birch-bark, lined with hair and feathers. the stream affords the parr,[ ] a small species of trout seldom exceeding eight inches in length, marked on the sides with nine large bluish spots, and on the lateral line with small red ones. no traveller should omit visiting yorke cascade, a magnificent cataract, amidst most suitable scenery, about a mile distant from the house. this country is very mountainous, has no natural woods, except of birch; but the vast plantations that begin to cloath the hills will amply supply these defects."[ ] with what sensations must the marquis of tullibardine have approached this beautiful and princely territory, from which he had been excluded, his vassals becoming the vassals of a younger brother, and he a proscribed and aged man, visiting as an alien the home of his youth! sanguine hopes, however, perhaps mitigated the bitterness of the reflections with which the faithful and disinterested marquis of tullibardine once more found himself within the precincts of his proud domain. several anecdotes are told of prince charles at blair; among others, "that when the prince was at the castle, he went into the garden, and taking a walk upon the bowling-green, he said he had never seen a bowling-green before; upon which mrs. robertson of lude called for some bowls that he might see them, but he told her that he had had a present of bowls sent him, as a curiosity, to rome from england."[ ] on the second of september, the prince left blair and went to the house of lude, where he was very cheerful, and took his share in several dances, such as minuets and highland reels; the first reel the prince called for was, "this is no' mine ain house;" he afterwards commanded a strathspey minuet to be danced. on the following day, while dining at dunkeld, some of the company happened to observe what a thoughtful state his father would now be in from the consideration of those dangers and difficulties which he had to encounter, and remarked that upon this account he was much to be pitied, because his mind must be much upon the rack. the prince replied, that he did not half so much pity his father as his brother;[ ] "for," (he said) "the king has been inured to disappointments and distresses, and has learnt to bear up easily under the misfortunes of life; but, poor harry!--his young and tender years make him much to be pitied, for few brothers love as we do." on the fourth of september, prince charles entered perth; the marquis of tullibardine, as it appears from several letters addressed to him by lord george murray, who wrote from perth, remained at blair, but only, as it is evident from the following extract from a letter by lord george murray, whilst awaiting the arrangement of active operations. on the twenty-second of september he received a commission from the prince, constituting and appointing him commander-in-chief of the forces north of the forth; the active duties of the post were, however, fulfilled by lord george murray, who writes in the character of a general:[ ] "dear brother, "things vary so much from time to time, that i can say nothing certain as yet, but refer you to the enclosed letter; but depend upon having another express from me with you before monday night. but in the meantime you must resolve to be ready to march on tuesday morning, by keinacan and tay bridge, so as to be at crieff on wednesday, and even that way, if you do your best, you will be half a mark behind; but you will be able to make that up on thursday, when i reckon we may meet at dumblane, or doun; but of this more fully in my next. it is believed for certain, that cope will embark at aberdeen. "i hope the meal was with you this day, thirty-five bolls,--for it was at invar last night. it shall be my study to have more meal with you on monday night, for you must distribute a peck a man; and cost what it will, there must be frocks made to each man to contain a peck or two for the men to have always with them. "buy linen, yarn, or anything, for these frocks are of absolute necessity--nothing can be done without them. his royal highness desires you to acquaint glenmoriston and glenco, if they come your way of this intended march, so that they may go by taybridge (if you please, with you), and what meal you can spare let them have. you may please tell your own people that there is a project to get arms for them. yours. adieu. "george murray." from his age and infirmities, the marquis was precluded from taking an active part in the long course of events which succeeded the unfurling of the standard at glenfinnin. he appears to have exercised a gentle, but certain sway over the conduct of others, and especially to have possessed a control over the high-spirited lord george murray, whose conduct he did not always approve.[ ] whilst at blair, the marquis was saluted as duke of athole by all who entered his house; but the honour was accompanied by some mortifications. his younger brother, the duke of athole, had taken care to carry away everything that could be conveyed, and to drive off every animal that could be driven from his territory. the marquis had therefore great difficulty in providing even a moderate entertainment for the prince; whilst the army, now grown numerous, were almost starving. "the priests," writes a contemptuous opponent, "never had a fitter opportunity to proclaim a general fast than the present. no bull of the pope's would ever have been more certain of finding a most exact and punctual obedience." after the battle of culloden had sealed the fate of the jacobites, the marquis of tullibardine was forced, a second time, to seek a place of refuge. he threw himself, unhappily, upon the mercy of one who little deserved the confidence which was reposed in his honour, or merited the privilege of succouring the unfortunate. the following are the particulars of his fate:-- about three weeks after the battle of culloden the marquis of tullibardine traversed the moors and mountains through strathane in search of a place of safety and repose: he had become a very infirm old man, and so unfit for travelling on horseback, that he had a saddle made on purpose, somewhat like a chair, in which he rode in the manner ladies usually do. on arriving in the vicinity of loch lomond he was quite worn out, and recollecting that a daughter of the family of polmain (who were connected with his own) was married to buchanan of drumakiln, who lived in a detached peninsula, running out into the lake, the fainting fugitive thought, on these accounts, that the place might be suitable for a temporary refuge. the marquis was attended by a french secretary, two servants of that nation, and two or three highlanders, who had guided him through the solitary passes of the mountains. against the judgment of these faithful attendants, he bent his course to the ross, for so the house of drumakiln is called, where the laird of drumakiln was living with his son. the marquis, after alighting, begged to have a private interview with his cousin, the wife of drumakiln; he told this lady he was come to put his life into her hands, and what, in some sense, he valued more than life, a small casket,[ ] which he delivered to her, intreating her, whatever became of him, that she would keep that carefully till demanded in his name, as it contained papers of consequence to the honour and safety of many other persons. whilst he was thus talking, the younger drumakiln rudely broke in upon him, and snatching away the casket, he said he would secure it in a safe place, and went out. meantime the french secretary and the servants were watchful and alarmed at seeing the father and son walking in earnest consultation, and observing horses saddled and dispatched with an air of mystery, whilst every one appeared to regard them with compassion. all this time the marquis was treated with seeming kindness; but his attendants suspected some snare. they burst into loud lamentations, and were described by some children, who observed them, to be 'greeting and roaring like women.' this incident the lady of drumakiln (who was a person of some capacity) afterwards told her neighbours as a strange instance of effeminacy in these faithful adherents. at night the secretary went secretly to his master's bedside, and assured him there was treachery. the marquis answered he could believe no gentleman capable of such baseness, and at any rate he was incapable of escaping through such defiles as they had passed; he told him in that case it could only aggravate his sorrow to see him also betrayed; and advised him to go off immediately, which he did. early in the morning a party from dumbarton, summoned for that purpose, arrived to carry the marquis away prisoner. he bore his fate with calm magnanimity. the fine horses which he brought with him were detained, and he and one attendant who remained were mounted on some horses belonging to drumakiln. such was the general sentiment of disgust with drumakiln, that the officer who commanded the party taunted that gentleman in the bitterest manner, and the commander of dumbarton castle, who treated his noble prisoner with the utmost respect and compassion, regarded drumakiln with the coldest disdain. the following anecdotes of the odium which drumakiln incurred, are related by mrs. grant.[ ] "very soon after the marquis had departed, young drumakiln mounted the marquis's horse, (the servant riding another which had belonged to that nobleman,) and set out to a visit to his father-in-law polmaise. "when he alighted, he gave his horse to a groom who, knowing the marquis well, recognised him--'come in poor beast (said he); times are changed with you since you carried a noble marquis, but you shall always be treated well here for his sake.' drumakiln ran in to his father-in-law, complaining that his servant insulted him. polmaise made no answer, but turning on his heel, rang the bell for the servant, saying, 'that gentleman's horses.' "after this and several other rebuffs the father and son began to shrink from the infamy attached to this proceeding. there was at that time only one newspaper published at edinburgh, conducted by the well-known ruddiman; to this person the elder drumakiln addressed a letter or paragraph to be inserted in his paper, bearing that on such a day the marquis surrendered to him at his house. this was regularly dated at ross: very soon after the father and son went together to edinburgh, and waiting on the person appointed to make payments for affairs of this nature, demanded their reward. it should have been before observed, that the government were at this time not at all desirous to apprehend the marquis, though his name was the first inserted in the proclamation. this capture indeed greatly embarrassed them, as it would be cruel to punish, and partial to pardon him. the special officer desired drumakiln to return the next day for the money. meanwhile he sent privately to ruddiman and examined him about the paragraph already mentioned. they found it on his file, in the old laird's handwriting, and delivered it to the commissioner. the commissioner delivered the paragraph, in his own handwriting, up to the elder, saying, '_there_ is an order to the treasury, which ought to satisfy you,' and turned away from him with marked contempt." "soon after the younger laird was found dead in his bed, to which he had retired in usual health. of five children which he left, it would shock humanity to relate the wretched lives, and singular, and untimely deaths, of whom, indeed, it might be said, "on all the line a sudden vengeance waits, and frequent hearses shall besiege their gates." and they were literally considered by all the neighbourhood as caitiffs, "whose breasts the furies steel'd and curst with hearts unknowing how to yield."--pope. the blasting influence of more than dramatic justice, or of corroding infamy, seemed to reach every branch of this devoted family. after the extinction of the direct male heirs, a brother, who was a captain in the army, came home to take possession of the property. he was a person well-respected in life, and possessed some talent, and much amenity of manners. the country gentlemen, however, shunned and disliked him, on account of the existing prejudice. this person, thus shunned and slighted, seemed to grow desperate, and plunged into the lowest and most abandoned profligacy. it is needless to enter into a detail of crimes which are hastening to desired oblivion. it is enough to observe that the signal miseries of this family have done more to impress the people of that district with a horror of treachery, and a sense of retributive justice, than volumes of the most eloquent instruction could effect. on the dark question relative to temporal judgments it becomes us not to decide. yet it is of some consequence, in a moral view, to remark how much all generous emulation, all hope of future excellence, is quenched in the human mind by the dreadful blot of imputed infamy."[ ] this account of the retributive justice of public opinion which was visited upon drumakiln, is confirmed by other authority.[ ] it is consolatory to reflect that the marquis of tullibardine, after a life spent in an honest devotion to the cause which he believed to be just, was spared, by a merciful release, from the horrors of a public trial, and of a condemnation to the scaffold, which age and ill-health were not sufficient pleas to avert. after remaining some weeks in confinement at dumbarton, he was carried to edinburgh, where he remained until the thirteenth of may, . he was then put on board the eltham man-of-war, lying in the leith roads, bound for london. his health all this time was declining, yet he had the inconvenience of a long sea voyage to sustain, for the eltham went north for other prisoners before it sailed for london. but at length the marquis reached his last home, the tower, where he arrived on the twenty-first of june. he survived only until the ninth of july. little is known of this unfortunate nobleman, except what is honourable, consistent, and amiable. he had almost ceased to be scotch, except in his attachments, and could scarcely write his own language. he seems to have been generally respected; and he bore his reverses of fortune with calmness and fortitude. in his last moments he is said to have declared, that although he had been as much attached to the cause of james stuart as any of his adherents, if he might now advise his countrymen, it should be never more to enter into rebellious measures, for, having failed in the last attempt, every future one would be hopeless.[ ] the marquis died in the fifty-eighth year of his age, and was buried in the chapel in the tower, which has received few more honest men, or public characters more true to the principles which they have professed. the following letter, written in march, , during the siege of blair castle, when it was commanded by a garrison under sir andrew agnew, and addressed to lord george murray, shows the strong sense which the marquis entertained of what was due to his country and his cause. "brother george, "since, contrary to the rules of right reason, you was pleased to tell me a sham story about the expedition to blair, without further ceremony for me, you may now do what the gentlemen of the country think fit with the castle: i am in no concern about it. our great-great-grandfather, grandfather, and father's pictures will be an irreparable loss on blowing up the house; but there is no comparison to be made with these faint images of our forefathers and the more necessary publick service, which requires we should sacrifice everything that can valuably contribute towards the country's safety, as well as materially advancing the royal cause. pray give my kind service to all valuable friends, to which i can add nothing but that, in all events, you may be assured i shall ever be found with just regard, dear brother, your most affectionate brother and humble servant." "inverness, "march , ." "ps. at the upper end of the door of the old stable, there was formerly a gate which had a portcullis into the castle; it is half built up and boarded over on the stable side, large enough to hold a horse at hack and manger. people that don't know the place imagine it may be much easier dug through than any other part of the wall, so as to make a convenient passage into the vaulted room, which is called the servants' hall." of the fate of this princely territory, and upon the fortunes of the family of which the marquis of tullibardine was so respectable a member, much remains to be related; but it appertains more properly to the life of the warlike and ambitious brother of the marquis, the celebrated lord george murray. footnotes: [ ] lord lovat's memoirs, p. . [ ] wood's peerage. [ ] reay, p. . [ ] wood's peerage. [ ] see brown's history of the highlands. but home, in his history of the rebellion, speaks of lords tullibardine and seaforth as coming from a different quarter. "most of these persons," he says, "came privately from france." [ ] athol correspondence. printed for the abbotsford club. app. . [ ] home's history of the rebellion, p. . [ ] home, pp. , . [ ] jacobite memoirs. [ ] glenfinnin is in the shire of inverness, and the parish of glenelg. it is situated at the head of loch shiel. [ ] jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] introductory notice, athol correspondence, p. ix. [ ] pennant's scotland, vol. i. p. . [ ] it has lately been proved, beyond doubt, that the parr is a young salmon, not a distinct fish. [ ] pennant, p. . [ ] jacobite memoirs, pp. , . [ ] henry benedict, afterwards cardinal york. [ ] jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] see forbes's jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] this casket was never more seen. it was supposed to contain family jewels. [ ] mrs. grant's ms. for which i am indebted for the whole of this account. [ ] mrs. grant's ms. [ ] note in forbes's jacobite memoirs, p. . [ ] wood's peerage. [ ] athole correspondence. introductory notice. sir john maclean. the name maclean, abbreviated from mac gillean, is derived from the founder of the clan, "gillean n'a tuaidh," gillean of the battle-axe, so called from his carrying with him as his ordinary weapon, a battle-axe. from this hero are descended the three principal families who compose the clan maclean, who was also designated gillean of duart. it is related of gillean that, being one day engaged in a stag-hunt on the mountain of bein't sheala, and having wandered away from the rest of his party, the mountain became suddenly enveloped in a deep mist, and that he lost his track. for three days he wandered about; and, at length exhausted, threw himself under the shelter of a cranberry bush, previously fixing the handle of his battle-axe in the earth. he was discovered by his party, who had been vainly endeavouring to find him, insensible on the ground, with his arm round the handle of the battle-axe, whilst the head of the weapon rose above the bush. hence, probably, the origin of the crest used by the clan maclean, the battle-axe surrounded by a laurel-branch.[ ] to gillean of the battle-axe various origins have been ascribed; truly is it observed, that "there is little wisdom in attempting to thread the mazes of fanciful and traditionary genealogies."[ ] like other families of importance, in feudal times, the macleans had their seneachie, or historian; and, by the last of these, dr. john beaton, the descent, in regular order, from aonaglius turmi teanebrach, a powerful monarch of ireland, to fergus the first, of scotland, is traced. a tradition had indeed prevailed, that the founder, of the house of maclean was a son of fitzgerald, an earl of kildare,--a supposition which is contemptuously rejected by the historian of this ancient race. "in fact," he remarks, "from various sources, gillean can be proved to have been in his grave, long before such a title as earl of kildare was known, and nearly two hundred years before the name of fitzgerald existed."[ ] it appears, indeed, undoubted, from ancient records and well-authenticated sources, that the origin of gillean was derived from the source which has been stated. when the lordship of the isles was forfeited, the clan maclean was divided into four branches, each of which held of the lords of the isles; these branches were the macleans of duart, the macleans of lochbuy, the macleans of coll, and the macleans of ardgour. of these, the most important branch was the family of duart, founded by lachlan maclean, surnamed lubanich. this powerful chief obtained such an ascendant at the court of the lord of the isles, as to provoke the enmity of the chief of mackinnon, who, on the occasion of a stag-hunt, formed a plot to cut off lachlan and his brother, hector maclean. but the conspiracy was discovered by its objects; mackinnon suffered death at the hands of the two brothers for his design; and the lord of the isles, sailing in his galley towards his castle of ardtorinsh in morven, was captured, and carried to icolumb-kill, where he was obliged, sitting on the famous black rock of iona, held sacred in those days, to swear that he would bestow in marriage upon lachlan lubanich his daughter margaret, granddaughter, by her mother's side, of robert the second, king of scotland: and with her, as a dowry, to give to the lord of duart, eriska, with all its isles. the dowry demanded consisted of a towering rock, commanding an extensive view of the islands by which it is surrounded, and occupying a central situation among those tributaries.[ ] from the bold and aspiring chief was sir john maclean of duart descended. the marriage of lachlan lubanich with margaret of the isles took place in the year .[ ] between the time of lachlan lubanich and the birth of sir john maclean, the house of duart encountered various reverses of fortune. it has been shown how the chief added the rock of eriska to his possessions; in the course of the following century, a great part of the isles of mull and tirey, with detached lands in isla, jura, scarba, and in the districts of morven, lochaber, and knapdale, were included in the estates of the chiefs of duart, who rose, in the time of james the sixth, to be among the most powerful of the families of the hebrides. the principal seats of the chiefs of the macleans were duart and aros castles in mull, castle gillean in kerrara, on the coast of lorn, and ardtornish castle in morven. in , on occasion of the visit of one of the chiefs, lachlan, to the court of charles the first, he was created a baronet of nova scotia, by the title of sir lachlan maclean of morven. but various circumstances, and more especially the enmity of the argyle family, and the adherence of maclean to the stuarts, had contributed to the decline of their pre-eminence before the young chief, whose destiny it was to make his name known and feared at the court of england, had seen the light. the family of maclean in all its numerous and complicated branches, had been distinguished for loyalty and independence during the intervening centuries between the career of gillean and the birth of that chieftain whose devotion to the jacobite cause proved eventually the ruin of the house of duart. throughout the period of the great rebellion, and of the protectorate, the chief of the macleans had made immense sacrifices to support the interests of the king, and to bring his clan into the field. in the disgraceful transactions, by which it was agreed that scotland should withdraw her troops from england upon the payment of four hundred thousand pounds, in full of all demands, the faithful highland clans of the north and west, the grahams, macleans, camerons, and many others, had no participation. one main actor in that bargain, by which a monarch was bought and sold, was the marquis of argyle, the enemy and terror of his highland neighbours, the macleans of duart. upon the suppression of the royal authority, domestic feuds were ripened into hostilities during the general anarchy; and few of the oppressed and harassed clans suffered more severely, or more permanently than the macleans of duart. archibald, the first marquis of argyle, fixed an indelible stain upon his memory by acts of unbridled licence and aggression, in relation to his highland neighbours; the unfortunate macleans of duart especially experienced the effects of his wrath, and suffered from his manoeuvres.[ ] in the time of cromwell, argyle having procured from the lords of the treasury, a grant of the tithes of argyleshire, with a commission to collect several arrears of the feu-duty, cesses, taxation, and supply, and some new contributions laid on the subject by parliament, under the names of ammunition and contribution money, the power which such an authority bestowed, in days when the standard of right was measured by the amount of force, may readily be conceived. on the part of argyle, long-cherished views on the territories of his neighbour, maclean of duart, were now brought into co-operation with the most remorseless abuse of authority. sir lachlan maclean of duart, the great-grandfather of sir john maclean, was then chief of the clan. the marquis of argyle directed that application should be made to this unfortunate man for his quota of these arrears, and also for some small sums for which he had himself been security for the chief. sir lachlan was in no condition to comply with this demand; for he had suffered more deeply in the royal cause than any of his predecessors. during the rule of argyle and leslie in scotland, a rule which might aptly be denominated a reign of terror, the possessions of the chief in mull had been ravaged by the parliamentary troops, without any resistance from the harmless inhabitants, who had been instructed by their lord to offer no retaliation that could furnish a plea for future oppression. the castle of duart had been besieged, and surrendered to argyle and leslie, upon condition that the defenceless garrison, and eight irish gentlemen, inmates of the hospitable highlander's home, should be spared. still more, the infant son of sir lachlan had been kidnapped from his school at dumbarton by argyle, and was paraded by the side of the marquis to intimidate the chief, who was made to understand that any resistance from him would be fatal to his child,--"an instrument," observes the seneachie, "which the coward well knew might be used with greater effect upon the noble father of his captive, than all the campbell swords the craven lord could muster." under these circumstances, sir lachlan maclean was neither in the temper nor the condition to comply with the exactions of those whom he also regarded as having usurped the sovereign authority. he refused; and his refusal was exactly what his enemy desired. the next step which argyle took was to claim the amount due to him from the chief, which, by buying up all the debts, public and private, of maclean, he swelled to thirty thousand pounds, before a court of law. such was the state of scottish judicial proceedings in those days, that the process was ended before sir lachlan had even heard of its commencement. he hastened, when informed of it, to edinburgh, in order to make known his case before the "committee of estates," then acting with sovereign authority in scotland. but he was intercepted at inverary, cast into prison upon a writ of attachment, issued and signed by argyle himself, and immured in argyle's castle of carrick, for a debt due to archibald, marquis of argyle. it was there required of him that he should grant a bond for fourteen thousand pounds scots, and sign a doqueted account for sixteen thousand pounds more, bearing interest. for a time the unhappy chief refused to sign the bond thus demanded; for a year he resisted the oppression of his enemy, and bore his imprisonment, with the aggravation of declining health. at last his friends, alarmed at his sinking condition, entreated him, as the only means of release, to comply with the demand of argyle. sir lachlan signed the document, was set free, and returned to duart, where he expired in april, . to his family he bequeathed a legacy of contention and misfortune. his successor, sir hector maclean, the young hostage who had been kidnapped from dumbarton, was a youth of a warlike and determined spirit, who resisted the depredations of the plundering clan of campbells in lorn and ardnamuchan, and, on one occasion, hung up two of the invaders at his castle of dunnin morvern. such, in spite of this summary mode of proceeding, were sir hector's ideas of honour, that, notwithstanding his doubts of the validity of the bond obtained from his father, he conceived that the superscription of his father's name to it rendered it his duty to comply with its conditions as he could. he is declared by one authority to have paid ten thousand pounds of the demand; by another that fact is doubted, since, when sir john maclean's guardians investigated it, no receipts for sums alleged to have been paid on account were to be found.[ ] but this is again accounted for by the seneachie or family historian. sir hector maclean fell in the battle of inverkeithing, where, out of eight hundred of his clan who fought against general lambert, only forty escaped. he was succeeded by his brother allan, a child, subject to the management of guardians. by their good care, a great portion of the debt to argyle was paid, but there still remained sufficient to afford the insatiable enemy of his house a fair pretext of aggression. the case was again brought before the scottish council; it was even referred to charles the second; but, by the representations of the duke of lauderdale, the argyle influence prevailed. the famous marquis of argyle was, indeed, no longer in existence; he had perished on the scaffold: but his son still grasped at the possessions of his neighbour; and, although king charles desired that lauderdale "should see that maclean had justice," the duke, who was then scottish lord commissioner, on his return to scotland, decided that the rents of the estates should be made payable to argyle on account of the bond, a certain portion of them being reserved for the maintenance of the chief. sir allan died a little more than a year after this decision had been made, ignorant of the decree; and left, to bear the buffeting of the storm, his son, sir john maclean, a child only four years of age, who succeeded his father in .[ ] his estates had been placed under the care of two of his nearest kinsmen, lachlan maclean of brolas, and lachlan maclean of torloisk, men of profound judgment and of firm character, from whose guardianship much was expected by the clan. but the minor possessed a friend as true as any kinsman could be, and one of undoubted influence and sagacity, in the celebrated sir ewan cameron of lochiel. against his interest, in despite of argyle, that brave and noble man espoused the cause of the weak and of the fatherless, notwithstanding that he was himself a debtor to argyle, of whose power and will to injure he had shortly a proof. finding that lochiel was resolved to protect and assist the young maclean, the earl of argyle[ ] sent to demand from sir ewan the payment of the debt he owed, assuring him that it was his intention to follow out the law with the greatest rigour. sir ewan answered that he had not the money to pay, neither would he act against his friends. this threat, however, obliged sir ewan to continue in arms, contrary to proclamation, and also to obtain a protection from the privy council in edinburgh, against the vengeance of argyle. but that which occasioned the greatest vexation to sir ewan, was an opportunity which he conceived that the tutors or guardians of the young maclean had lost the power of emancipating their ward from the clutches of argyle's power. this, he thought, might have been effected upon the forfeiture of the marquis of argyle to the crown, when he considered that an opportunity might have been afforded to maclean's guardians to release their ward from argyle's hands, by a transaction with certain creditors of that nobleman, to whom the sum claimed by argyle from maclean had been promised, but never paid. thus, by an unaccountable oversight, the power of the argyle family over the fortunes of the macleans was continued. under these adverse circumstances, sir john maclean succeeded to his inheritance. his principal guardian, although bearing a high reputation among the clan, was esteemed by sir ewan as "a person who seems to have been absolutely unfitt for manageing his affairs att such a juncture;"[ ] and soon proved to be far too easy and credulous to contest with the crafty campbells. full of compassion for the helpless infant chief, sir ewan now resolved never to abandon the macleans until matters were adjusted between them. he passed the winter of the year in edinburgh, where he was, at one time, so much incensed against the earl of argyle for his cruelty to the macleans, and so indignant at his conduct to himself, that the valiant chief of the camerons was with difficulty restrained by his servant from shooting argyle as he stepped into his coach to attend the council.[ ] whilst the counsels of sir ewan cameron prevailed with the guardians, the macleans remained merely on the defensive; but when the insinuations of lord macdonald, who had much influence with one of the young heir's guardians, were listened to, the macleans were incited to reprisals and plunder, to which it was at all times no difficult matter to stimulate highlanders. at length the powerful and mortal foe succeeded to his heart's content in his scheme of oppression. argyle, in his capacity of hereditary justiciary of the isles, summoned the clan maclean to appear and stand their trials for treasonable convocations, garrisoning their houses and castles, &c.; the unfortunate clansmen, knowing their enemy to be both judge and evidence, did not obey. immediately they were declared rebels and outlaws, and a commission of fire and sword was issued against them. all communication between them and the privy council, who might have redressed their wrongs, was cut off: those who happened to fall into the hands of the campbells, were cruelly treated; and those who styled themselves maclean were blockaded in the islands, and almost starved for want of provisions. reduced in strength by the battle of inverkeithing, the clan was but ill-prepared to resist so formidable a foe as argyle, whose men, therefore, landed without opposition, the people flying to their mountains as the enemy approached. the young chief was sent, for protection, first to the fortified island of thernburg, and afterwards to kintail, under the care of the earl of seaforth, who had, not long previously, acted as a sort of arbitrator in the affairs of the family.[ ] while sir john maclean was thus, probably, unconscious of his wrongs and dangers, secured from personal injury, the strong old castle of duart was taken possession of by argyle, who, finding it garrisoned, was obliged to publish an indemnity, which he had obtained on purpose, remitting all crimes committed by the macleans since the eighteenth of september, , on condition that the castle should be delivered to him,--a demand with which the islanders were forced to comply. but in vain did argyle endeavour to prevail upon the honest and simple clansmen to renounce their allegiance to their chief, and to become his vassals.[ ] every species of indignity and of plunder was inflicted upon these hapless, but faithful highlanders in vain; a "monster," as he is termed, "bearing the stamp of human appearance, named sir neill campbell," in vain chased the poor inhabitants to the hills, and there exhibited acts of cruelty too shocking to be related. a promise, however, of payment of rents was at last obtained by argyle, and he left the island, after garrisoning the castles. but this tribute was never paid. the macleans could neither bear to see the halls of duart and of aros castle tenanted by their foes, nor would they submit to pay to them their rents. a league of defence was again formed; letters of fire and sword were, in consequence, issued; but argyle was baffled by a hurricane in his second invasion of duart. nature conspired with the injured in their protection; and, after some time, the guardians of sir john maclean, accompanied by lord macdonald, proceeded to london in order to appeal to the privy council. the appeal thus made was prolonged until the year , when it was at last settled by the scottish council; and the island of tyrie was given to the earl of argyle, in full payment of his claim upon the estates of sir john maclean. the character of the young chief was, meantime, formed under the influence of these events, of which, when he grew up, whilst yet the storm raged, he could not be ignorant. one principle he inherited from his ancestors--a determined fidelity to the stuart cause. when he was fifteen years of age, the death of his guardians threw the management of his affairs into his own hands; this was in the years and , one of the most critical periods in english history. having appointed certain gentlemen his agents, or factors, the young chief went, according to the fashion of his times, to travel. he first repaired to the court of england, at that time under the sway of james the second; he then crossed to france, and returned not to the british dominions until he accompanied james into ireland. the character of sir john maclean, as he attained manhood, and entered into the active business of life, has been drawn with great felicity by the author of "the memoirs of lochiel."[ ] "he was," says this writer, "of a person and disposition more turned for the court and the camp, than for the business of a private life. there was a natural vivacity and politeness in his manner, which he afterwards much improved by a courtly education; and, as his person was well-made and gracefull, so he took care to sett it off by all the ornaments and luxury of dress. he was of a sweet temper, and good-natured. his witt lively and sparkeling, and his humour pleasant and facetious. he loved books, and acquired the languages with great facility, whereby he cultivated and enriched his understanding with all manner of learning, but especially the belles lettres; add to this, a natural elegancy of expression, and ane inexhaustible fancy, which, on all occasions, furnished him with such a copious variety of matter, as rendered his conversation allways new and entertaining. but with all these shining qualitys, the natural indolence of his temper, and ane immoderate love of pleasure, made him unsuiteable to the circumstances of his family. no persons talked of affairs, private or publick, with a better grace, or more to the purpose, but he could not prevail with himself to be att the least trouble in the execution. he seemed to know everything, and from the smallest hint so penetrated into the circumstances of other people's buisiness, that he often did great services by his excellent advice; and he was of a temper so kind and obligeing, that he was fond of every occasion or doeing good to his friends, while he neglected many inviteing opportunities of serveing himself." the first hostilities between france and england, after the revolution, broke out in ireland, whence it was the design of james the second to incite his english and scottish subjects to his cause. and there was, apparently, ample grounds for hope; england was rent with factions, lord dundee was raising a civil war in scotland, and half europe was in contention with the other, whether the late king of england should be supported. "i will recover my own dominions with my own subjects," was the boast of james, "or perish in the attempt." unhappily, like his son, his magnanimity ended in expressions. sir john maclean accompanied james when he landed, on the twelfth of march, , in ireland; after the siege of derry, the chief returned to scotland, accompanied by sir alexander maclean of otter, and there very soon showed his determination in favour of the insurrection raised by dundee. sir john maclean's first step was to send maclean of lochbuy as his lieutenant with three hundred men to join dundee. his party encountered a major of general mackay's army at knockbreak in badenoch; a conflict ensued, and mackay's men were put to flight. this was the first blood that was shed for james the second in scotland. sir john maclean soon afterwards joined dundee in person, leaving his castle of duart well defended. this fort, which had witnessed so many invasions, was besieged during the absence of the chief by sir george rooke, who cannonaded it several days without effect. its owner, meantime, had joined dundee, and was appointed to the command of the right wing of the army. at the battle of killicrankie, sir john maclean distinguished himself, as became the descendant of a brave and loyal race, at the head of his clan; he probably witnessed the death of dundee. few events in scottish history could have affected those who followed a general to the field so severely. lord dundee had been foremost on foot during the action; he was foremost on horseback, when the enemy retreated, in the pursuit. he pressed on to the mouth of the pass of killicrankie to cut off the escape. in a short time he perceived that he had overrun his men: he stopped short: he waved his arm in the air to make them hasten their speed. conspicuous in his person he was observed; a musket-ball was aimed at that extended arm; it struck him, and found entrance through an opening in his armour. the brave general was wounded in the arm-pit. he rode off the field, desiring that the mischance might not be disclosed, and fainting, dropped from his horse. as soon as he was revived, he desired to be raised, and looking towards the field of battle asked how things went. "well," was the reply. "then," he said, "i am well," and expired. william the third understood the merits of his brave opponent. an express was sent to edinburgh with an account of the action. "dundee," said the king (and the _soldier_ spoke), "must be dead, or he would have been at edinburgh before the express." when urged to send troops to scotland, "it is needless," he answered; "the war ended with dundee's life." and the observation was just: a peace was soon afterwards concluded.[ ] sir john maclean, nevertheless, continued in arms under the command of colonel cannon, and lost several brave officers by the incapacity of this commander. after the peace was signed, he returned to live upon his estates, until argyle, having procured a commission from william to reduce the macleans by fire or sword, invaded the island of mull with two thousand five hundred men. sir john being unprepared to resist him, after advising his vassals to accept protection from argyle, again retired to the island of thernburg, whence he captured several of king william's vessels which were going to supply the army in ireland.[ ] the massacre of glencoe operated in some respects favourably, after the tragedy had been completed, upon the circumstances of the jacobites. terrified at the odium incurred, a more lenient spirit was henceforth shown to them by government. many persons were exempted from taking the oaths, and were allowed to remain in their houses. early in the year , sir john maclean took advantage of this favourable turn of affairs, and, after obtaining permission through the influence of argyle, and placing the castle of duart under that nobleman's control, he went to england. he soon became a favourite at the court of one who, if we except the massacre of glencoe, evinced few dispositions of cruelty to the scottish jacobites. king william is said, nevertheless, to have had a real antipathy to the highlanders; and queen mary, whose heart turned to the adherents of her forefathers, was obliged to conceal her partiality for her northern subjects. it had appeared, however, on several occasions, during the absence of her consort, and was now evinced in her good offices to the chief of the clan maclean. that the chief was of a deportment to confirm the kind sentiments thus shown towards him, the character which has been given of him amply proves. sir john maclean was, as the author of sir ewan cameron's life relates, "the only person of his party that went to court, which no doubt contributed much to his being so particularly observed by the queen, who received him most graciously, honoured him frequently with her conversation, and said many kind and obliging things to him. sir john on his part acquitted himself with so much politeness and address, that her majesty soon began to esteem him. he took the proper occasions to inform her of the misfortunes of his family, and artfully insinuated that he and his predecessors had drawn them all upon themselves by the services they had rendered to her grandfather, father, and uncle. she answered, that the antiquity and merit of his family were no strangers to her ears; and that, though she had taken a resolution never to interpose betwixt her father's friends and the king her husband, yet, she would distinguish him so far as to recommend his services to his majesty by a letter under her own hand; and that she doubted not but that it would have some influence, since it was the first favour of that nature which she had ever demanded." sir john is, however, declared by another authority to have declined the commission thus offered to him. although he had received king james's permission to reconcile himself with the government, he did not, it appears, choose to bear arms in its defence. such is the statement of one historian.[ ] by another it is said that "sir john was much caressed while he continued in the army,"[ ]--a sentence which certainly seems to imply that he had assented to king william's offer. at all events, he managed to engage the confidence of the king so far, that william "not only honoured him with his countenance, but told argyle that he must part with sir john's estate, and that he himself would be the purchaser." the nobleman to whom william addressed this injunction was of a very different temper from his father and grandfather, who had both died on the scaffold. archibald, afterwards created by william duke of argyle, had in become the head of that powerful family; he was of a frank, noble, and generous disposition. "he loved," says the same writer, "his pleasures, affected magnificence, and valued money no further than as it contributed to support the expence which the gallantry of his temper daily put him to. he several times offered very easy terms to sir john; and particularly he made one overture of quitting all his pretentions to that estate, on condition of submitting to be the earl's vassall for the greatest part of it, and paying him two thousand pounds sterling, which he had then by him in ready money; but the expensive gayety of sir john's temper made him unwilling to part with the money, and the name of a vassall suited as ill with his vanity, which occasioned that and several other proposals to be refused. however, as the generous earl was noways uneasy to part with the estate, so he, with his usewall frankness, answered king william that his majesty might always command him and his fortunes; and that he submitted his claim upon sir john's estate, as he did everything else, to his royal pleasure." a tradition exists in the family, that when argyle sent messengers with his proposals to the castle of duart, sir john pushed away the boat, as it neared the shore, with his own hands. this was worthy the pride of a highland chieftain. to such a height, in short, did william's favour amount, and so far did he in this instance carry his usual policy of conciliating his enemies by courtesy and aid, that he ordered maclean to go as a volunteer in his service, assuring him that he would see that no harm was done to his property in his absence. sir john, previous to his intended departure from england, went to scotland to put his affairs in order. on his return he was told by queen mary that there were reports to his prejudice; he denied them, and satisfied the queen that all suspicions of his fidelity were unfounded. upon the strength of this assurance the queen wrote in maclean's favour to the king, in holland, whither sir john then proceeded to join his majesty. but this profession of fidelity to one monarch soon proved to be hollow. maclean was truly one of the politicians of the day, swayed by every turn of fortune, and cherishing a deep regard for his own interest in his heart. to inspire dislike and distrust wherever he desired to secure allegiance was the lot of william, of whom it has been bitterly said, that in return for having delivered three kingdoms from popery and slavery, he was, before having been a year on the throne, repaid "with faction in one of them, with rebellion in the other, and with both in the third." how expressive was the exclamation wrung from him, "that he wished he had never been king of scotland." sir john maclean was one of those who added another proof to the king's conviction, "that the flame of party once raised, it was in vain to expect that truth, justice, or public interest could extinguish it."[ ] on arriving at bruges, maclean heard of the battle of landau, in which the french army had proved victorious against the confederates; and at the same time a report prevailed that a counter revolution had taken place in england, and that william was already dethroned. sir john changed his course upon this intelligence, and hastened to st. germains, where he was, as might be expected, coldly received. he remained there until the death of william, and then he married the daughter of sir enæas macpherson of skye. upon the accession of anne, sir john took advantage of the general indemnity offered to those who had gone abroad with james the second, and resolved to avail himself of this opportunity of returning home; but, unluckily, he was detained until a day after the act had specified, by the confinement of his wife, who was taken ill at paris, and there, in november , gave birth to a son, who afterwards succeeded to the baronetcy. although there was some risk in proceeding, yet sir john, trusting to the queen's favourable disposition to the jacobites, embarked, and with his wife and child reached london. there he was immediately committed to the tower, but his imprisonment had a deeper source than the mere delay of a few weeks. the queensbury plot at that time agitated the public, and produced considerable embarrassment in the counsels of state.[ ] it appears that sir john maclean had taken no part in this obscure transaction which could affect his honour, or impair his chance of favour from queen anne; for, so soon as he was liberated, she bestowed upon him a pension of five hundred pounds a-year, which he enjoyed during the remainder of his life. for some years sir john maclean continued to divide his time between london and the highlands, where he frequently visited his firm friend sir ewan cameron of lochiel, at his castle of achnacarry. his estates had not been materially benefited by the brief sunshine of king william's favour. upon finding that maclean had gone to st. germains, that monarch had confirmed to the duke of argyle the former grant of the island of tyrie, which the successors of the duke have since uninterruptedly enjoyed until the present day. its value was, at the time of its passing into the hands of the campbells, about three hundred pounds sterling per annum.[ ] the chief of the clan maclean was certain never to escape the suspicions of the government, after the death of anne, during whose reign the highlanders experienced an unwonted degree of tranquillity. upon her demise the whole state of affairs was changed; and none experienced greater inconveniences from the vigilance of government than sir ewan cameron and his friend maclean. lochiel, as his biographer observes, "drank deeply of this bitter cup."[ ] it was during one of maclean's visits to achnacarry, when in company with his now venerable friend, that the governor of fort william attempted to take him and sir ewan prisoners, but they made their escape. during the night of their flight, however, sir maclean caught a severe cold, which ended afterwards fatally. when the earl of mar raised the standard of the chevalier in scotland, sir john joined him at achterarder, some days before the battle of sherriff muir. in that engagement the clan maclean distinguished themselves, and some of their brave chieftains were killed in the battle. after the day was over, sir john retired to keith, where he parted from his followers, never to rejoin them. a consumption, incurred from the cold caught in his escape, was then far advanced. he declined an offer made to receive him on board the chevalier's ship, bound for france, and went to gordon castle, where, on the twelfth of march, , he expired. thus ended a life characterized by no ordinary share of vicissitude and misfortune. if the fate of sir john maclean be less tragical than that of other distinguished jacobites, it was, it must be acknowledged, one replete with anxiety and disappointment. he may be said to have been peculiarly "born to trouble." to our modern notions of honour and consistency, his conduct in becoming a courtier of william the third, appears to betray that unsoundness and hollowness of political principle which, more or less, was the prevalent moral disease of the period, and which was attributable to some of the most celebrated men of the day. it undoubtedly forms an unfavourable contrast to the stern independence of sir ewan cameron of lochiel, and of other highland chieftains, and too greatly resembles the code of politics adopted by the earl of mar. but those who knew sir john maclean intimately, considered him a man of straightforward integrity; they deemed him above dissimulation, and have placed his name among those who despised every worldly advantage for the sake of principle, and who loved the cause which he had espoused for its own sake. the broken towers of duart and of aros, the ruins of those once proud lords of the soil, attest the sacrifices which they made, and form a melancholy commentary upon their history. the castle of aros, in the island of mull, "is interesting," says macculloch,[ ] "from the picturesque object which it affords to the artist; the more so, as the country is so devoid of scenes on which his pencil can be exerted. still more striking, from its greater magnitude and more elevated position, is duart castle, once the stronghold of the macleans, and till lately garrisoned by a detachment from fort william. it is fast falling into ruin since it was abandoned as a barrack. when a few years shall have passed, the almost roofless tenant will surrender his spacious apartments to the bat and the owl, and seek shelter, like his neighbours, in the thatched hovel which rises near him. but the walls, of formidable thickness, may long bid defiance even to the storms of this region; remaining to mark to future times the barbarous splendour of the ancient highland chieftains, and, with the opposite fortress of ardtornish, serving to throw a gleam of historical interest over the passage of the sound of mull." hitherto iona had received the last remains of the lords of duart; but sir john maclean was not carried to the resting-place of his forefathers. he was buried in the church of raffin in bamffshire, in the family vault of the gordons of buckie. in iona, that former "light of the western world," are the tombs of the brave and unfortunate macleans. their bones are interred in the vaults of the cathedral, which, after coasting the barren rocks of mull, buffeted by the waves, the traveller beholds rising out of the sea, "giving," as it is finely expressed, "to this desolate region an air of civilization, and recalling the consciousness of that human society which, presenting elsewhere no visible traces, seems to have abandoned these rocky shores to the cormorant and the gull." on the tombs of the highland warriors who repose within st. mary's church in iona, are sculptured ships, swords, armorial bearings, appropriate memorials to the island lords, or, as the chevalier not inaptly called them, "little kings;" and, undistinguishable from the graves of the chiefs, are the funereal allotments of the kings of scotland, iceland, and norway.[ ] sir john maclean left one son and six daughters. his son hector was born in france, but brought to scotland at the age of four, and placed under the care of his kinsman, maclean of coll, where he remained until he was eighteen years of age; when he repaired to edinburgh, and in the college made considerable progress in the usual course of studies in that institution. after various journeys abroad, chiefly to paris, sir hector maclean returned in to edinburgh, intending again to lead his clansmen to the standard of prince charles; but a temporary imprisonment, occasioned by the treachery of a man in whose house he lodged, prevented his appearance in the field. he was detained in confinement until released as a subject of the king of france. he died at rome in the year , in the forty-seventh year of his age. at his death the title of baronet devolved upon allan of brolas, great-grandson of donald, first maclean of brolas, and younger brother of the first baronet. although the chief was thus prevented from following prince charles to the field of culloden, many of his clan distinguished themselves there; charles maclean of drimnin appeared at the head of five hundred of the clan, and his regiment, which was under the command of the duke of perth, was among those that broke forward with drawn swords from the lines, and routed the left wing of the duke of cumberland's army. the whole of the front line of this gallant regiment was swept away as they presented themselves before their foes. they were afterwards overpowered by numbers, and obliged to retire. their leader, as he retreated, inquired for one of his sons, who was missing. "i fear," said an attendant to whom the inquiry was addressed, "that he has fallen." the fate of the father is well told in these few words,[ ] "if he has, it shall not be for naught," was his reply; and he rushed forward to avenge him. many of the clan fell in the massacre after the battle of culloden muir. hundreds of the highlanders who escaped the inhumanity of their conquerors, died of their wounds or of hunger, in the hills, at twelve or fourteen miles' distance from the field of battle. "their misery," says a contemporary writer, "was inexpressible." while the cannon was sounding, and bells were pealing in the capital cities of england and ireland, for the united events of the duke of cumberland's birth and the battle of culloden moor, fires were seen blazing in morvern, in which numerous villages were burned by order of the victorious cumberland. the macleans who came from mull, seem generally to have escaped; they made off in one of the long boats for their island, the night after the engagement, and were fortunate enough to carry with them a cargo of brandy and some money.[ ] a calmer, though less interesting career has, since , been the fate of the chiefs of the clan maclean.[ ] sir allan, respected and beloved, became a colonel in the british army. he retired eventually to the sacred isle of inch kenneth, in mull, where he exercised the hospitality characteristic, in ancient times, of the lords of duart. dr. johnson has handed down the memory of the venerable chief, not only in a few descriptive pages of a tour to the hebrides, but in a latin poem, translated by sir daniel sandford.[ ] in the lines he refers to sir allan in these terms. "o'er glassy tides i thither flew, the wonders of the spot to view; in lowly cottage great maclean held there his high ancestral reign."[ ] sir allan maclean died in : he was succeeded by his nearest male relation, sir hector maclean, of the family of brolas. the brother of sir hector, sir fitzroy grafton maclean, a distinguished officer, and formerly governor of the island of st. thomas, is now chief of the clan maclean. two sons continue the line. of these, the eldest, colonel charles fitzroy maclean, has chosen, like his father, the profession of arms. he commands the eighty-first foot: and has, by his marriage with a daughter of the hon. and rev. dr. marsham, an heir to the ancestral honours of the house. the youngest son of sir fitzroy maclean is donald maclean, of witton castle, durham, the member for oxford, married to harriet, daughter of general frederick maitland, a descendant of the duke of lauderdale, whose former injustice to the clan maclean has been noticed in this work. it is remarkable, that the same fidelity, the same loyalty, that sacrificed every possession to the cause of james stuart, has been, since the extinction of that cause, worthily employed, with distinguished talent and success, in the service of government. such instances are not uncommon in the history of the jacobites. footnotes: [ ] historical and genealogical account of the clan maclean, by a seneachie. [ ] brown's highlands. [ ] historical account of the clan maclean, p. . [ ] "eriska is interesting as having been the first place where charles edward landed in scotland. it is the boundary of ottervore toward the north, and is separated from south uist by a narrow rocky sound. upon a detached and high rock at its southern end are to be seen the remains of a square tower, the abode of some ancient chieftain."--_macculloch_, vol. i. p. . [ ] hist. account. [ ] memoirs of lochiel, p. . this account is preferable to that given by the historian of the house of maclean, as it is of course a more dispassionate statement, although the facts stated are nearly the same. see hist. and gen. acct. pp. , . [ ] memoir of lochiel, p. . [ ] according to the memoirs of lochiel, it appears that sir allan must have died in or ; since the author speaks, in , of the "late sir allan." [ ] archibald, ninth earl, was only restored to the earldom. [ ] memoirs of lochiel, p. . [ ] id. p. . [ ] mem. of lochiel, p. . hist. acct. of the clan, p. . [ ] memoirs of lochiel. [ ] supposed to be john drummond of balhaldy. [ ] dalrymple's memorials, p. . [ ] hist. acct. p. . [ ] memoirs of lochiel, p. . [ ] hist. account of the maclean family, p. . [ ] memoirs of lochiel, p. . [ ] dalrymple, p. . [ ] dalrymple's memorials. see collection of original papers, p. . sir john maclean's discovery, part ii. p. . [ ] mem. of locheil, p. . [ ] id. p. . [ ] macculloch's western islands of scotland, vol. i. p. . [ ] macculloch, vol. i. p. . [ ] hist. notices of the macleans, p. . [ ] hist. of the rebellion, p. . from the scots' magazine. aberdeen, . [ ] an accomplished descendant of the macleans of lochbuy, miss moss, of edinburgh, has left a beautiful tribute to the valour of her clan in a ballad of the forty-five. the following passage occurs in dr. brown's history of the highlands, vol. iv. part ii. p. , relative to the macleans of lochbuy, coll, and ardgour:--"their estates being afterwards restored, they listened to the persuasions of professor forbes, and remained quiet until the subsequent insurrection of , when a general rising of the clans would most probably have placed the crown upon the head of the descendant of their ancient line of kings." this reproach rests only on the three houses just mentioned, and not on the macleans of brolas, nor of mull, who were at the battle of culloden. for a portion of the materials of the foregoing narrative i am greatly indebted to the historical and genealogical account of the clan maclean, by a seneachie. the work is compiled chiefly from the duart manuscripts. [ ] hist. notices, p. . [ ] see history of iona by lachlan maclean, esq., glasgow. rob roy macgregor campbell. "the clan gregiour," according to an anonymous writer of the seventeenth century, "is a race of men so utterly infamous for thieving, depredation, and murder, that after many acts of the council of scotland against them, at length in the reign of king charles the first, the parliament made a strict act suppressing the very name." upon the restoration, when, as the same writer declares, "the reins were given to all licentiousness, and loyalty, as it was called, was thought sufficient to compound for all wickedness, the act was rescinded. but, upon the late happy revolution, when the nation began to recover her senses, some horrid barbarities having been committed by that execrable crew, under the leading of one robert roy macgregiour, yet living, the parliament under king william and queen mary annulled the said act rescissory, and revived the former penal statute against them."[ ] such is the summary account of one who is evidently adverse to the political creed, no less than to the daring violence, of the clan macgregor. little can, it is true, be offered in palliation for the extraordinary career of spoliation and outrage which the history of this race of highlanders presents; and which terminated only with the existence of the clan itself. the clan gregor, anciently known by the name of clan albin, dated their origin from the ninth century, and assumed to be the descendants of king alpin, who flourished in the year : so great is its antiquity, that an old chronicle asserts, speaking of the clan macarthur, "that none are older than that clan, except the hills, the rivers, and the clan albin." among the conflicts which for centuries rendered the highlands the theatre of perpetual strife, the clan albin, or, as in process of time it was called, the clan gregor, was marked as the most turbulent members of the state. it was never safe to dispute with them, and was deemed idle to inquire whether the lands which they occupied were theirs by legal titles, or by the right of the sword. situate on the confines of scotland, and protected by the inaccessible mountains which surrounded them, they could defy even their most powerful neighbours, who were always desirous of conciliating allies so dangerous in times of peace, so prompt in war. the boundaries which they occupied stretched along the wilds of the trosaëhs and balquhidder, to the northern and western heights of mannach and glenurely, comprehending portions of the counties of argyle, perth, dumbarton, and stirling, which regions obtained the name of the country of the mac gregors. a part of these domains being held by the _coir à glaive_, or right of the sword, exposed the clan gregor to the enmity of their formidable neighbours, the earls of argyle and breadalbane, who, obtaining royal grants of such lands, lost no opportunity of annoying and despoiling their neighbours, under legal pretexts. hence many of the contests which procured for the macgregors a character of ferocity, and brought upon them 'letters of fire and sword.' a commission was granted first in the reign of queen mary, in , to the most powerful clansmen and nobles, to pursue, and exterminate the clan gregor, and prohibiting, at the same time, that her majesty's liege subjects should receive or assist any of the clan, or give them meat, drink, or clothes. the effect which such an edict was likely to produce upon a bold, determined, desperate people may readily be conceived. hitherto the clan gregor had been a loyal clan. from the house of alpin had descended the royal family of stewart, with whom the macgregors claimed kindred, bearing upon their shields, in gaelic, the words, 'my tribe is royal.' they had been also in favour with the early scottish monarchs, one of whom had ennobled the macgregors of glenurely, who could cope with the most elevated families in scotland, in possessions and importance. but, after the edict of mary, a palpable decline in the fortunes of the clan gregor was manifest, until it was for ever extinguished in modern days. henceforth the macgregors exhibited a contempt for those laws which had never afforded them protection. they became, in consequence of the cruel proclamation against them, dependent for subsistence upon their system of predatory warfare. they grew accustomed to bloodshed, and could easily be '_hounded out_,' as sir walter scott expresses it, to commit deeds of violence. hence they were incessantly engaged in desperate feuds, in which the vengeance of an injured and persecuted people was poured out mercilessly upon the defenceless. hence they became objects of hatred to the community, until the famous contest of glenfruin, between the macgregors and the colquhouns of luss, brought once more the royal displeasure upon them in the reign of james the sixth. the sequestered valley, which obtained, from the memorable and tragical events of the combat, the name of the glen of sorrow, is situated about six miles from loch lomond, and is watered by the river fruin which empties itself into that lake. in the spring of the year , alexander of glenstrae, chief of the macgregors, went from the country of lennox to balquhidder, for the express purpose of conciliating the feuds which subsisted between his brother and sir humphrey colquhoun of luss. after a conference, apparently pacific, but well understood by the macgregors to augur no friendly intentions, the assembled members of that clan prepared to return to their homes. they were followed by the laird of luss, who was resolved to surprise them on their route. but his treachery was secretly known by those whom he pursued. the right bank of loch lomond is so steep and woody that before the formation of roads, the highlanders found it impossible to pass that way. the way to argyleshire, therefore, ran along the vale of fruin in a circuitous direction to the head of loch long, and again turned eastward towards loch lomond. in the middle of the glen the macgregors, who were peacefully returning home, were attacked by the colquhouns. the assailants were four to one; but the valour of the macgregors prevailed, and two hundred colquhouns were left dead on the field. the very name of colquhoun was nearly annihilated. the account of the battle was transmitted by the laird of luss to james the sixth, at edinburgh; and the message was accompanied by two hundred and twenty shirts, stained with blood, which were presented to the king by sixty women, widows of those slain in the glen of sorrow. these ladies rode on white poneys, and carried in their hands long poles, on which were extended the stained garments. but the shirts, it is said, were soiled by the way, and the widows were hireling mourners, who comforted themselves with the loved beverages of their country on their return, and were in many instances obliged to be carried to their homes.[ ] the indignation of james the sixth, unmitigated by any friendly representations on behalf of the macgregors, burst forth fatally for the clan. the macgregors were formally outlawed by act of parliament; they were pursued with blood-hounds, and when seized, were put to death without trial. their chief, the unfortunate alexander of glenstrae surrendered to his enemy the earl of argyle, with eighteen of his followers, on condition that he might be taken safely out of scotland. but the severity of government stopped not here. the very name of gregor was blotted out, by an order in council, from the names of scotland. those who had hitherto borne it were commanded to change it under pain of death, and were forbidden to retain the appellations which they had been accustomed from their infancy to cherish. those who had been at glenfruin were also deprived of their weapons, excepting a pointless knife to cut their victuals. they were never to assemble in any number exceeding four; and by an act of parliament passed in , these laws were extended to the rising generation, lest as the children of the proscribed parents grew up, the strength of the clan should be restored. for these severe acts, the only apology that can be offered is the unbridled fury and cruelty of the macgregors, when irritated; of which it is necessary to mention one instance, as an example of the many left on record, of which the clan were convicted. in the battle of glenfruin, which james had visited so rigorously upon the macgregors, the greater part of those who bore the name of colquhoun were exterminated. yet a still more savage act was perpetrated after the day was won. the town of dumbarton contained, at that time, a seminary famous for learning, where many of the colquhouns, as well as the sons of the neighbouring gentry, were sent for education. upon hearing of the encounter at glenfruin, eighty of these high-spirited boys set off to join their relatives; but the colquhouns, anxious for the safety of their young kinsfolk, would not permit them to join in the fight, but locked them up in a barn for safety. here they remained, until the event of the day left the macgregors masters of what might well be called "the glen of sorrow." the boys, growing impatient for their release, became noisy; when the macgregors, discovering their hiding-place, and thirsting for vengeance, set fire to the barn, and the young inmates were consumed. according to another account, they were all put to the sword by one of the guard, a macgregor, whose distinctive appellation was ciar mohr, "the mouse-coloured man." when the chief of the macgregor's clan repaired to the barn, and, knowing that the boys were the sons of gentlemen, was desirous of ensuring their safety, he asked their guards where they were. when told of what had occurred, macgregor broke out into the exclamation, that "his clan was ruined." the sad event was commemorated, until the year , by an annual procession of the dumbarton youths, to a field at some distance from their school, where they enacted the melancholy ceremonial of a mock funeral, over which they set up a loud lamentation. the site of the farm where this scene was enacted is still pointed out; and near it runs a rivulet, the gaelic name of which signifies "the burn of the young ghosts:" so deep was the memory of this horrible deed.[ ] a fearful retribution followed the clan for years. they had no friend at court to plead their cause; and the most cruel hardships became the lot of the innocent, as well as the guilty, of their clan. the country was filled with troops ready to destroy them, so that all who were able, were forced to fly to rocks, caverns, and to hide themselves among the woods. few of the macgregors, at this period of the scottish history, were permitted to die a natural death. as an inducement to the murder of these wretched people, a reward was offered for every head of a macgregor that was conveyed to the privy council at edinburgh. those who died a natural death were buried in silence and secrecy by their kinsfolk, for the graves of the persecuted clan were not respected; the bodies of the dead being exhumed, and the heads cut off, to be sent to the council. never has there been, in the history of mankind, a more signal instance of national odium than that which pursued this brave, though violent race. the spirit in which they were denounced has in it little of the character of justice, and reminds us of the vengeance of the jewish people upon the different hostile tribes to whom they were opposed. in process of time, the last remnant of the lands pertaining to the macgregors was bestowed upon archibald, seventh earl of argyle, whose family had profited largely by the destruction of the clan: for every macgregor whom they had destroyed, they had received a reward. in , the earl was commanded to root out this thievish and barbarous race; a commission which he executed remorselessly, dragging the parents to death, and leaving their offspring to misery and to revenge; for the deep consciousness of their wrongs grew up with the young, and prepared them for deeds of violence and vengeance. notwithstanding the severities of the stuarts towards the macgregors, the loyalty of the clan continued unimpeachable. it was appreciated by one who is not celebrated for remembering benefits. charles the second had, in , the grace to remove the proscription from the macgregors, by an act which was passed in the first scottish parliament after his restoration. he permitted them the use of their family name, and other privileges of his liege subjects, assigning as a reason for this act of favour, that the loyalty and affection of those who were once called macgregors, during the late troubles, might justly wipe off all former reproach from their clan. this act of grace, according to the anonymous writer quoted in the commencement of this memoir, was to be accounted for by the prevalent licentiousness of that monarch's reign. it gave, indeed, but little satisfaction to the nonconforming presbyterians, who saw with resentment that the penalties unjustly imposed upon themselves were relaxed in favour of the macgregors. but this dissatisfaction was of short duration. after the revolution, "an influence," says sir walter scott, "inimical to this unfortunate clan, said to be the same with that which afterwards dictated the massacre of glencoe, occasioned the reaction of the penal statutes against the macgregors."[ ] it is, however, consolatory to find that the proscription was not acted upon during the reign of william. the name of macgregor was again heard in public halls, in parliament, and courts of justice. still, however, whilst the statutes remained, it could not legally be borne. attempts were made to restore the appellation of clan alb, but nothing was decided; when, at length, all necessity for such an alteration was done away by an act of parliament abolishing forever the penal statutes against the clan. whilst the macgregors were still a proscribed race, robert macgregor campbell, or robert roy, so called among his kindred, in the adoption of a celtic phrase, expressive of his ruddy complexion and red hair, appeared as their champion. at the time of his birth, to bear the name of macgregor was felony; and the descendant of king alpin adopted the maiden name of his mother, a daughter of campbell of fanieagle, in order to escape the penalty of disobedience. his father, donald macgregor of glengyle, was a lieutenant-colonel in the king's service: his ancestry was deduced from ciar mohr, "the mouse-coloured man," who had slain the young students at the battle of glenfruin. after the death of allaster macgregor of glenstrae, the last chieftain, the office of chief had ceased to be held by any representative of the scattered remnant of this hunted tribe. various families had ranged themselves under the guidance of chieftains, which, among highlanders, signifies the head of a branch of a tribe, in contradistinction to that of chief, who is the leader of the whole name.[ ] the chieftain of glengyle lived in the mountainous region between loch lomond and loch katrine; his right to his territories there might or might not be legal; it was far more convenient to his neighbours to waive the question with any member of this fierce race, than to inquire too rigidly into the tenure by which the lands were held. rob roy, though he deduced his origin from a younger son of the laird of macgregor, was one of a family who had, within the preceding century, been of humble fortunes. his great-grandfather had been a cotter; from his grandfather he inherited the generous temper and the daring spirit which, more or less, characterized the clan. callum, or malcolm, had been outlawed for an attempt to carry off an heiress, but obtained his pardon for saving the life of his enemy, the duke of argyle. the date of rob roy's birth is uncertain, but is supposed to have taken place about the middle of the seventeenth century; consequently, after the period when his clan had endured every variety of fortune, from the cruel edicts of james the sixth to the consolatory acts of charles the second. the education of this extraordinary man was limited; and he is said not to have exhibited in his youth any striking traits of the intrepidity which distinguished him in after life. but he was endowed with a vigorous intellect, and with an enthusiasm which had been deepened by the peculiar circumstances of his clan and kinsfolk. it is impossible to comprehend the character of rob roy, unless we look into the history of his race, as we have briefly done, and consider how strong must have been the impressions which hereditary feuds, and wrongs visited upon father and child, had made upon a mind of no common order. his youth was occupied in acquiring the rude accomplishments of the age. in the management of the broadsword the ardent and daring boy soon acquired proficiency; his frame was robust and muscular, and his arm of unusual length. at an early age he is said by tradition to have tried his powers in a predatory excursion, of which he was the leader. this was in the year , and it was called the herdship, or devastation of kippen, in the lennox. no lives were sacrificed, but the marauding system was carried to its extent. the young macgregor was educated in the presbyterian faith. "he was not," says his biographer,[ ] "free from those superstitious notions so prevalent in his country; and, although few men possessed more strength of mind in resisting the operation of false and gloomy tenets, he was sometimes led away from the principles he had adopted, to a belief in supernatural appearances." nor was it likely that it should be otherwise; for the wildest dreams of fancy were cherished in the seclusion of the region, then inconceivably retired and remote, in which rob roy is said to have passed days in silent admiration of nature in her grandest aspects; for the man who afterwards appeared so stern and rugged to his enemies, was accessible to the tenderest feelings, and to the most generous sympathies.[ ] although his father had succeeded in military life, rob roy was destined to a far more humble occupation. the discrepancy between the scottish pride of ancestry and the lowly tracks which are occasionally chalked out for persons of the loftiest pretensions to origin, is manifest in the destination of rob roy. he became a dealer in cattle. it was, it is true, the custom for landed proprietors, as well as their tenantry, to deal in the trade of grazing and selling cattle. in those days, no lowlanders, nor any english drovers, had the audacity to enter the highlands. "the cattle," says sir walter scott, "which were the staple commodity of the mountains, were escorted down to fairs, on the borders of the lowlands, by a party of highlanders, with their arms rattling round them; and who dealt, however, in all faith and honour with their southern customers." after describing the nature of the affrays which were the result of such collision, sir walter remarks, "a slash or two, or a broken head, was easily accommodated, and as the trade was of benefit to both parties, trifling skirmishes were not allowed to interrupt its harmony." for some time, the speculations in which rob roy engaged were profitable; he took a tract of land in balquhidder for the purpose of grazing, and his success soon raised him in the estimation of the county. but his cattle were often carried away by hordes of big robbers from inverness, ross, and sutherland, and he was obliged, in defence, to maintain a party of men to repel these incursions. hence the warlike tastes which were afterwards more fully displayed. the death of his father placed rob roy in an important situation in his county; he became, moreover, guardian to his nephew, gregor of macgregor of glengyle,--a position which gave him great influence with the clan. he had now become the proprietor of craig royston; but his ordinary dwelling was at inversnaid, from which place he took his appellation, macgregor of inversnaid. these estates were of considerable extent, but of small value: they extended from the head of loch lomond twelve miles along its eastern border, and stretched into the interior of the country, partly around the base of ben lomond. from these estates rob roy assumed sometimes the title of craig royston, sometimes that of baron of inversnaid,--a term long applied in scotland to puisne lairds.[ ] the influence of an energetic and powerful mind was now plainly exhibited in the celebrity which rob roy soon acquired in the neighbouring counties. the macgregors had a peculiar constitution in their clanship, which rendered them compact and formidable as a body. in all the forays so common at that period, rob roy took little or no part; yet the terror of his name caused him to receive all the credit of much that occurred in the vicinity. three great noblemen, bitter enemies, sought his alliance; of these one was james the first duke of montrose, and archibald tenth earl of argyle, who were opposed to each other not only in political opinions, but from personal dislike. montrose deemed it essential to conciliate rob roy as a matter of speculation, and entered into a sort of partnership with the far-famed drover in the buying and selling of cattle, of which rob roy was considered an excellent judge. argyle, on the other hand, was conscious of the injuries which his ancestors had inflicted on the macgregors, and was inclined to befriend rob roy from compassion, and a sense of justice. the earl was also flattered by the laird's having assumed the name of campbell, which he regarded as a compliment to himself. but the overtures of argyle were at first spurned by rob roy, whose alliance with the marquis of montrose increased his hatred of argyle. he was afterwards won over to more moderate sentiments, and a lasting friendship was eventually formed between him and argyle. the friendship and patronage of montrose were secure until money transactions, the usual source of alienations and bickerings, produced distrust on the one hand, and bitterness on the other. montrose had advanced rob roy certain sums to carry on his speculations: they were successful until the defalcation of a third and inferior partner prevented rob roy from repaying the marquis the money due to him. he was required to give up his lands to satisfy the demands upon him. for a time he refused, but ultimately he was compelled by a law-suit to mortgage his estates to montrose with an understanding that they were to be restored to him whenever he could pay the money. some time afterwards he made an attempt to recover his estate by the payment of his debts; but he was at first amused by excuses, and afterwards deprived of his property. such is the simple statement of his partial biographer; but sir walter scott gives the story a darker colouring. in his preface to rob roy he mentions that rob roy absconded, taking with him the sum of one thousand pounds which he had obtained from different gentlemen in scotland for the purpose of buying cattle. in an advertisement to that effect was put into the daily papers repeatedly; but the active highlander was beyond the reach of law. to this period we must assign a total change in the habits and characteristics of rob roy, who now began a lawless and marauding course of life. he went up into the highlands where he was followed by one whose character has been variously represented--mary macgregor of comar, his wife. according to one account, she was by no means the masculine and cruel being whom scott has so powerfully described; yet, from several traits, it is obvious that she was one of the most determined of her sex, and that her natural boldness of spirit was exaggerated by an insult which was never forgiven, either by herself or by her husband. this was the forcible expulsion of herself and her family from their home at inversnaid by graham of killearn, one of montrose's agents; and the cruel act was accompanied by circumstances which nothing but death could blot from the memory of the outraged and injured macgregor. the loss of property was nothing when compared with that one galling recollection. the kind and once honourable rob roy was now driven to desperation. his natural capacity for warlike affairs had been improved in the collection of the black mail, or protection fees; a service of danger, in which many a bloody conflict with freebooters had shown the macgregors of what materials their leader was composed. the black mail was a private contribution, often compulsatory, for the maintenance of the famous black watch, an independent corps of provincial militia, and so called from the colour of their dress, in contradistinction to the red soldiers, or _leidar dearag_. "from the time they were first embodied," writes general stewart, "till they were regimented, the highlanders continued to wear the dress of their country. this, as it consisted so much of the black, green, and blue tartan, gave them a dark and sombre appearance in comparison with the bright uniform of the regulars, who, at that time, had coats waistcoats, and breeches of scarlet cloth. hence the term _dhu_, or black, as applied to this corps."[ ] in collecting both the imposts laid on for the maintenance of this corps, and in enforcing the black mail, rob roy had already gained the confidence of the better classes, whilst, by his exploits, he had taught the freebooter to tremble at his name. his journeys to england had not, either, been unprofitable to him in gaining friends. by a strict regard to his word, a true highland quality, he had gained confidence; whilst his open and engaging demeanour had procured him friends. soon after his expulsion from his property, rob roy travelled into england to collect a sum of money which was due to him. on returning through moffat, his generous indignation was aroused by seeing the penalty of the law inflicted upon a young girl for fanaticism: two of her kinsmen had already suffered. as a party of soldiers were preparing to carry the girl, bound hand and foot, to a river, rob roy interposed; and, receiving an insolent reply, he sprang upon the soldiers and in an instant released the young woman, by plunging eight of her guards into the water. he then drew his claymore, and cut the cords which bound the intended victim. a short skirmish left him master of the field. rob roy now prepared to remove from his dwelling at inversnaid, into one more remote, and protected by its natural position. this was craig royston, or, as it is sometimes spelt, craigrostan, whither rob roy removed his furniture and other effects. a tract, entitled "the highland rogue," published during the lifetime of rob roy, contains a striking description of this almost inaccessible retreat. it is situated on the borders of loch lomond, and is surrounded with stupendous rocks and mountains. the passages along these heights are so narrow, that two men cannot walk abreast; "it is a place," adds the same writer, "of such strength and safety, that one person well acquainted with it, and supplied with ammunition, might easily destroy a considerable army if they came to attack him, and he, at the same time, need not so much as be seen by them." for this romantic scene, rob roy quitted inversnaid; henceforth his occupation as a grazier and drover, and his character as a country gentleman, were lost in that of a freebooter. many anecdotes have been related of his feats in the dangerous course which he henceforth adopted: but of these, some are so extraordinary, as to be incredible; others are perfectly consistent with the daring spirit of a man who had vowed to avenge his wrongs. the duke of montrose was the first object of his wrath; accordingly, hearing that the tenantry of the duke had notice to pay their rents, he mustered his men, and visiting these gentlemen, compelled them to pay him the money, giving them, nevertheless receipts, which discharged them of any future call from montrose. this practice he carried on with impunity for several years, until a more flagrant outrage drew down the anger of his enemy. this was no less than the abduction of the duke's factor, killearn, who had formerly expelled the family of rob roy from inversnaid. killearn had gone to chapellaroch in stirlingshire, for the purpose of collecting rents; he anticipated, on this occasion, no interruption to his office, because rob roy had caused it to be given out, by proclamation, some days before, that he had gone to ireland. towards evening, nevertheless, he made his appearance before the inn at chapellaroch, his piper playing before him; his followers were stationed in a neighbouring wood. the rents had just been collected, when the sound of the bagpipes announced to killearn the approach of his enemy. the factor sprang up, and threw the bags, full of money, into a loft. rob roy entered, with the usual salutations, laid down his sword, and sat down to partake of the entertainment. no sooner was the repast ended, than he desired his piper to strike up a tune. in a few minutes, by this signal, six armed men entered the room; when rob roy, taking hold of his sword, asked the factor, "how he had prospered in his collection of the rents?" "i have got nothing yet," replied the trembling killearn; "i have not begun to collect." "no, no, chamberlain," cried rob roy, "falsehood will not do for me. i demand your book." the book was produced, the money was found and delivered to rob roy, who gave his usual receipt. after this, the unfortunate factor was carried off to an island near the east of loch katrine, where he was confined a considerable time; and when he was released, was warned not to collect the rents of the country in future, as rob roy intended to do so himself,--the more especially as the lands had originally belonged to the macgregors, and he was, therefore, only reclaiming his own.[ ] this predatory war against the duke of montrose was carried on for a considerable time. it was favoured by the nature of the country over which the freebooter ruled triumphant, and by the secret good wishes of the highlanders who resided in the neighbourhood. no roads were at that time formed in this region of singular beauty. narrow valleys, thinly inhabited, and surrounded by forests and wilds, and guarded by rocks, passes, and other features of natural strength, afforded to rob roy all those advantages which he, who knew every defence which nature gave to marauders in those retired haunts, could well appreciate. the habits of the highlanders were also, at this time, essentially warlike. "the use of arms," to borrow a description from an anonymous writer, "formed their common occupation, and the affairs of war their ordinary pursuit. they appeared on all public occasions, at market, and even at church, with their broadswords and their dirks; and, more recently, when the use of fire-arms became general, they seldom travelled without a musket and pistol." the clan macgregor possessed these military tastes in an inordinate degree; and the wars of the foregoing century had accustomed them to a degree of union and discipline not, at that period, common among the highlanders, who were considered, in those respects, as superior to their lowland brethren.[ ] the vicinity of the rich districts of the lowlands gave a rich stimulus to the appetite for plunder natural to a martial and impoverished people. above all, their energies were inspired by an undying sense of ancient and present injuries, and the remembrance of their sufferings was never erased from their minds. at this time, the most disturbed districts in scotland were those nearest to the lowlands; the bitterness of political feelings was added to the sense of injustice, and the loss of lands. rob roy knew well how to avail himself of this additional incentive to violence; he avowed his determination to molest all who were not of jacobite principles; and he put that resolution into active practice. the character of the individual who exercised so singular a control over his followers, and over the district in which he lived, had changed since his early, dreamy days, or since the period of his honest exertions as a drover. rob roy had become in repute with robin hood of the lowlands. his personal appearance added greatly to the impression of his singular qualities. the author of "the highland rogue" describes him as a man of prodigious strength, and of such uncommon stature as to approach almost to a gigantic size. he wore a beard above a foot long, and his face as well as his body was covered with dark red hair, from which his nick-name originated. the description given by sir walter scott does not entirely correspond with this portraiture. "his stature," says that writer, "was not of the tallest, but his person was uncommonly strong and compact." the great peculiarity of his frame was the great length of his arms, owing to which he could, without stooping, tie the garters of his highland hose, which are placed two inches below the knee. his countenance was sternly expressive in the hour of peril; but, at calmer moments, it wore that frank and kindly aspect which wins upon the affections of our species. his frame was so muscular, that his knee was described as resembling that of a highland bull, evincing strength similar to that animal. his exercise of the broadsword was, even in those days, superlative; and his intimate knowledge of the wild country over which he may be said to have ruled, gave him as great an advantage as his personal prowess. to these qualifications may be added another, perhaps more important still,--that quick perception of character, and that penetration into human motives, without which no mind can obtain a mastery over another. to these characteristics were added a fearless and generous spirit, a hatred of oppression, and compassion for the oppressed. although descended from the dark murderer of the young students, rob roy had none of the ferocity of his race in his composition. he was never the cause of unnecessary bloodshed, nor the contriver of any act of cruel revenge. "like robin hood," says scott, "he was a kind and gentle robber, and while he took from the rich, he was liberal to the poor. this might in part be policy, but the universal tradition of the country speaks it to have arisen from a better motive. all whom i have conversed with, and i have in my youth seen some who knew rob roy personally, gave him the character of a benevolent, humane man, in his way." that "way" was certainly not followed out on the most approved principles of morality, and he is well described as resembling in his code of morals an "arab chief." but if ever man may be excused for a predatory course of life, the chieftain, as he was now called, of the macgregors may be pardoned for actions which, in those who had suffered less from wrong and oppression, would be deemed unpardonable. the revival of that latent affection for the stuarts which ever existed in the highlands, greatly favoured the success of rob roy in his unsettled and exciting career. many of the chieftains were now arraying their people to follow them to the field upon a summons from their rightful prince; and even the duke of argyle, who had at first attached himself to the prince of orange, was wavering in his resolutions, never having been restored to his property and jurisdiction since the attainder and death of his father. under these circumstances the assistance of rob roy became of infinite importance to argyle. the most deadly feuds raged between him and montrose, who, upon hearing that roy was on friendly terms with argyle, had sent to offer to the freebooter not only that he would withdraw his claims on his estate, but also that he would give him a sum of money if he would go to edinburgh and give information against argyle for treasonable practices. but this base overture was indignantly rejected by rob roy, who deigned not even to reply to the letter, but contented himself with forwarding it to argyle. hence the bitter enmity of montrose towards the macgregors, during the whole course of his future life.[ ] from this time rob roy kept no measures with his enemies, and his incursions were so frequent and so dreaded, that in a garrison was established at inversnaid to check the irruptions of his party. but rob roy was too subtle and too powerful for his enemies. he bribed an old woman of his clan, who lived within the garrison, to distribute whiskey to the soldiers. whilst they were in a state of intoxication, he set fire to the fort. he was suspected of this outrage, but still it passed with impunity, for no one dared to attack him; the affair was passed over in silence, and the government re-established the fort of inversnaid. numbers of the desperate and vagrant part of his clansmen now crowded around rob roy at craig royston, and swore obedience to him as their chieftain. the country was kept in continual awe by these marauders, who broke into houses and carried off the inmates to craig royston, there to remain until heavy ransoms were paid. their chieftain, meantime, laughed at justice, and defied even the great montrose. he had spies in every direction, who brought him intelligence of all that was going on. no person could travel near the abode of this mountain bandit without risk of being captured and carried to craig royston. in many instances the treatment of the prisoners is said to have been harsh; in some it was tempered by the relentings of rob roy. on one occasion, having seized upon a gentleman whose means had been reduced by great losses, he not only set him at liberty, but gave him money to pay his travelling expenses, and sent him in one of his own boats as far as he could travel by water. the incursions of this scottish robin hood were contrived with the utmost caution and secrecy, and executed with almost incredible rapidity. no one knew when he would appear, nor in what direction he would turn his dreaded attention. he is even said to have threatened the duke of montrose in his own residence at buchanan. his enterprises were, however, not always contrived for a serious end, but sometimes partook of the love of a practical joke, which is a feature in the scottish character. "the highland rogue" gives the following account of one of his exploits:--[ ] "rob roy's creditors now grew almost past hopes of recovering their money. they offered a large reward to any that should attempt it successfully; but not an officer could be found who was willing to run such a hazard of his life; till at length a bailiff, who had no small opinion of his own courage and conduct, undertook the affair. "having provided a good horse and equipt himself for the journey, he set out without any attendance, and in a few hours arrived at craigroiston, where, meeting with some of rob roy's men, he told them he had business of great importance to deliver to their master in private. rob roy having notice of it, ordered them to give him admittance. as soon as he came in, the captain demanded his business. 'sir,' (says the other) 'tho' you have had misfortunes in the world, yet knowing you to be in your nature an honourable gentleman, i made bold to visit you upon account of a small debt, which i don't doubt but you will discharge if it lies in your power.' 'honest friend,' (says m'gregor) 'i am sorry that at present i cannot answer your demand; but if your affairs will permit you to lodge at my house to-night, i hope by to-morrow i shall be better provided.' the bailiff complied, and was overjoyed at the success he had met with. he was entertained with abundance of civility, and went to bed at a seasonable time. "rob roy then ordered an old suit of clothes to be stuffed full of straw, not wholly unlike one of the taffies that the mob dress up and expose upon the st of march, in ridicule of the welshmen; only, instead of a hat with a leek in it, they bound his head with a napkin. the ghastly figure being completely formed, they hung it upon the arm of a tree directly opposite to the window where the officer lay: he rising in the morning and finding his door locked, steps back to the window and opens the casement, in expectation of finding some of the servants, when, to his great astonishment, he cast his eye upon the dreary object before him: he knew not what to make of it; he began to curse his enterprise, and wished himself safe in his own house again. in the midst of his consternation, he spied one of the servants, and calling to him, desired him to open the door. the fellow seemed surprised at finding it locked, begged his pardon, and protested it was done by mistake. as soon as the bailiff got out, 'prithee friend,' (says he) 'what is it that hangs upon yonder tree?' 'o sir,' (says the other) ''tis a bailiff, a cursed rogue that has the impudence to come hither to my master, and dun him for an old debt; and therefore he ordered him to be hanged there for a warning to all his fraternity. i think the impudent dog deserved it, and in troth, we have been commended by all his neighbours for so doing.' the catchpole was strangely terrified at this account, but hoping that the servant did not know him to be one of the same profession, he walked away with a seeming carelessness, till he thought himself out of sight, and then looking round and finding the way clear, he threw off his coat and ran for his life, not resting, nor so much as looking behind him, till he came to a village about three or four miles off; where, when he had recovered breath, he told the story of his danger and escape, just as he apprehended it to be. rob roy was so pleased with the success of his frolic, that the next day he sent home the bailiff's coat and horse, and withal let his neighbours know that it was only a contrivance to frighten him away; by which means the poor rogue became the common subject of the people's diversion." this adventure was immediately recounted to the governor of stirling castle by the messenger, who hastened to that fortress. a party of soldiers was ordered out to seize rob roy; but the chieftain gained intelligence of their approach, and rob roy retreated to the hills; whilst the country of the macgregors was roused, and put into a state of defence. the soldiers, meantime, worn out with their search among the hills, took possession of an empty house and filled it with heath for beds. the macgregors, always active and watchful, set fire to the house, and drove their enemies from their post. thus rob roy escaped the pursuit of justice, the troopers being obliged to return to stirling castle. he was not always so fortunate as to avoid imminent danger; yet he had a faithful friend who watched over his safety, and who would have willingly sacrificed his life for that of macgregor. this was the chieftain's lieutenant, fletcher, or macanaleister, "the _little john_ of his band," and an excellent marksman. "it happened," writes sir w. scott, "that macgregor and his party had been surprised and dispersed by a superior force of horse and foot, and the word was given to 'split and squander.' jack shifted for himself; but a bold dragoon attached himself to pursuit of rob roy, and overtaking him, struck at him with his broadsword. a plate of iron in his bonnet saved mac gregor from being cut down to the teeth; but the blow was heavy enough to bear him to the ground, crying as he fell, 'o macanaleister, there is naething in her,' (_i.e._ in the gun:) the trooper at the same time exclaiming, 'd--n ye, your mother never brought your nightcap;' had his arm raised for a second blow, when macanaleister fired, and the ball pierced the dragoon." his feats had, however, in most instances, the character of an unwarrantable oppression, notwithstanding that they were sometimes accompanied by traits of a generous and chivalric spirit. very few of those who lived in his neighbourhood could depend upon an hour's security, without paying the tax of black mail, which he audaciously demanded; and the licentiousness of his reckless troop was the theme of just reprobation, and the cause of terror to many innocent and peaceable inhabitants in the west of perth and stirlingshire. on one occasion campbell, of abernchile, who had found it convenient to submit to the assessment of the black mail, neglected the regular payment of the tax. rob roy, angry at his disobedience, rode up to his house, knocked at the door, and demanded admittance. a party of friends was at dinner with the host, and the door was closed against macgregor. rob roy sounded his horn; instantly his followers appeared in view. rob roy ordered them to drive off the cattle from the estate: abernchile was forced to make an humble apology in order to avert his wrath, and to pay the exaction. another enterprise of rob roy's was directed to the welfare of his ward and relative, macgregor of glengyle. the estates of glengyle were pledged, or, as it is called in scotland, "under a contract of wadset." the creditor was a man of influence and fortune; but, like most other scottish proprietors who were enabled to take advantage of the wadset rights, he was grasping and merciless. it was not uncommon, in those times, for men to whom estates had been pledged, to take the most unfair advantages of small and needy proprietors; and from the great superiority which a superior claimed over his vassals, it became almost impossible for his inferiors to resist his rapacity, or to defeat his cunning. some months before the period of redemption had expired, rob roy, aware of the danger to which his ward was exposed, raised a sum of money in order to redeem the pledge. it was pretended by the creditor, that the bond securing the power of redemption was lost; and since a few months only of the period remained, a plan was formed by him for protracting the settlement of the affair. rob roy, unhappily, was elsewhere occupied: the period expired; the young macgregor ceased, therefore, to be the proprietor of his estate; he was ordered to leave it, and to remove his attendants, cattle, and tenants within eight days. "but law," as dr. johnson observes, "is nothing without power." before those eight days had elapsed, rob roy had assembled his _gillies_, had followed his creditor into argyleshire, had met him, nevertheless, in strathfillan, and had carried him prisoner to an inn. there the unjust creditor was desired to give up the bond, and told to send for it from his castle. the affrighted man promised all that could be required of him; rob roy would not trust him, but sent two of his followers for the bond, which was brought at the end of two days. when it was delivered to macgregor, he refused to pay the sum of redemption, telling the creditor that the money was too small a fine for the wrong which he had inflicted; and that he might be thankful to escape as well as he might. against all acts of oppression, except those which he thought proper to commit himself, rob roy waged war. he was the avenger of the injured, and the protector of the humble; and lest his own resources should prove insufficient for these purposes, a contract was entered into with several neighbouring proprietors to combine, for the purposes of defence, and protection to others. the duke of montrose and his agent, graham of killearn, were still the especial objects of macgregor's hatred. when a widow was persecuted by the merciless factor, and distrained for rent, rob roy intercepted the officers who went out against her, and gave them a severe chastisement; and a similar excursion was made in favour of any poor man who was obliged to pay a sum of money for rent. the collectors of the rent were disarmed, and obliged to refund what they had received. upon the same principle of might against right, rob roy supported his family and retainers upon the contents of a meal-store which montrose kept at a place called moulin; and when any poor family in the neighbourhood were in want of meat, rob roy went to the store-keeper, ordered the quantity which he wanted, and directed the tenants to carry it away. there was no power either of resistance or complaint. if the parks of montrose were cleared of their cattle, the duke was obliged to bear the loss in silence. at length, harassed by constant depredations, montrose applied to the privy council for redress, and obtained the power of pursuing and repressing robbers, and of recovering the goods stolen by them. but, in this act, such was the dread of rob roy's power, that his name was intentionally omitted in the order in council. the retreat into which rob roy retired, in times of danger, was a cave at the base of ben lomond, and on the borders of the loch. the entrance to this celebrated recess is extremely difficult from the precipitous heights which surround it. mighty fragments of rock, partially overgrown with brushwood and heather, guard the approach. here robert de bruce sheltered himself from his enemies; and here rob roy, who had an enthusiastic veneration for that monarch, believed that he was securing to himself an appropriate retirement. it was, indeed, inaccessible to all but those who knew the rugged entrance; and here, had it not been for the projects which brought the chevalier st. george to england, rob roy might have defied, during his whole lifetime, the vengeance of montrose. from this spot macgregor could almost command the whole country around loch lomond; a passionate affection to the spot became the feeling, not only of his mind, but of that of his wife, who, upon being compelled to quit the banks of loch lomond, gave way to her grief in a strain which obtained the name of "rob roy's lament." of the exquisite beauty, and of the grandeur and interest of the scene of rob roy's seclusion, thousands can now form an estimate. dr. johnson was no enthusiast when he thus coldly and briefly adverted to the characteristics of loch lomond. "had loch lomond been in a happier climate, it would have been the boast of wealth and vanity to own one of the little spots which it incloses, and to have employed upon it all the arts of embellishment. but as it is, the islets which court the gazer at a distance, disgust him at his approach, when he finds instead of soft lawns and shady thickets, nothing more than uncultivated ruggedness."[ ] from this retreat rob roy frequently emerged upon some mission of destruction, or some errand of redress. his name was a terror to all who had ever incurred his wrath; his depredations were soon extended to the lowlands. one night a report prevailed in dumbarton, that rob roy intended to surprise the militia and to fire the town. it was resolved to anticipate this attack, and accordingly the militia made their way to craig royston; and having secured the boats on loch lomond, which belonged to the macgregors, they proceeded to seek for rob roy. but the chieftain had collected his followers, and, retreating into his cave, he laughed at his enemies, who were forced to retire without encountering him, the object of their search. it is indeed remarkable, that outrages so audacious, and a power so imperative as that of rob roy, should have defied all control within forty miles of the city of glasgow, an important and commercial city. "thus," as sir walter scott observes, "a character like his, blending the wild virtues, the subtle policy, and unconstrained licence of an american indian, was flourishing in scotland during the augustan age of queen anne and george the first. addison, it is probable, and pope, would have been considerably surprised if they had known that there existed, in the same island with them, a personage of rob roy's peculiar habits and profession." to the various other traits in the character of rob roy, there was added that tenacity of purpose, that obstinate and indefatigable hatred, which were common to the highlanders. their feuds were, it is true, hereditary, and were implanted in their minds before the reason could calm the passions. the fierce, implacable temper of the macgregors had been aggravated by long-standing injuries and insults; among those who might be considered the chief foes of their race were the heads of the house of athole. an uncontrolled, vehement spirit of revenge against that family burned in the breast of rob roy macgregor; nor did he lose any opportunity of proving the sincerity of his professions of hatred. hitherto the wild feats of the marauder had met with continual success; no reverse had lessened his control over his followers, nor lowered his individual pride. but at length his enemy, the earl of athole, had a brief, but signal triumph over the dreaded chief. the circumstances under which it occurred are the following:-- emboldened by his continued success, rob roy had descended into the plains, and headed an enterprise which was attended with the direst consequences: so desolating were its effects, that it is known by the name of the "herriship of kilrane." the outrage was severely taken up by government, and a reward was offered for the head of the freebooter. it was even resolved to explore his cave. one day, when on the banks of lochearn, attended by two of his followers, rob roy encountered seven men, who required him to surrender; but the freebooter darted from their view, and climbed a neighbouring hill, whence he shot three of the troopers, and dispersed the rest. this occurrence drove him, for some time, from his stronghold on loch lomond. the earl of athole had deeply felt the insults of rob roy, and he now took advantage of this temporary change of fortune to ensnare him. on a former occasion he had made an ineffectual attempt to overcome macgregor. the scene had taken place on the day of the funeral of rob roy's mother. this was at balquhidder: when rob roy had beheld the party of the earl's friends approaching, he grasped his sword, yet met the earl with a smile, and affected to thank him for the honour of his company. the earl replied, that his was not a visit of compliment: and that rob roy must accompany him to perth. remonstrance was vain, and rob roy pretended compliance; but, whilst his friends looked on indignant and amazed, macgregor drew his sword; the earl instantly discharged a pistol at him: it missed its mark, and, during a momentary pause, the sister of rob roy, and the wife of glenfalloch, grasped athole by the throat and brought him to the ground. the clan meantime assembled in numbers, and the earl was thankful to be released from the fierce amazon who held him, and to retire from the country of the macgregors. the earl of athole now judged force to be unavailing, and he resolved to try stratagem. after wandering, in consequence of the proclamation of government, from place to place, rob roy was greeted by a friendly message from the earl of athole, inviting him to blair athole. macgregor had not forgotten the day of his mother's funeral. he acted, on this occasion, with the frankness of an honest and unsuspecting nature. he doubted the earl's sincerity; and he wrote to him, freely stating that he did so. he was answered by the most solemn assurances of protection, notwithstanding that all this time athole was employed by government to bring rob roy to justice. macgregor was, however, deceived: he rode to blair, attended only by one servant, and was received with the utmost professions of regard, but was requested to lay aside his dirk and sword, as the countess of athole would not suffer any armed man to enter the castle. rob roy complied with lord athole's entreaty. what was his surprise when the first remark made by lady athole was her surprise at his appearing unarmed; rob roy then felt that he was betrayed. angry words, followed by a scuffle, ensued: the freebooter was overpowered; for sixty men, armed, entered before he could strike a blow. rob roy was carried towards edinburgh. he had proceeded as far as logierait, under a strong guard, when he contrived, with his usual address and good luck, to make his escape. but the dangers which attended his eventful career were not at an end. he was surprised as he retired to the farm of portnellan, near the head of loch katrine, by his old enemy, the factor of montrose, with a party of men, who surrounded the house in which rob roy slept before he was out of bed; yet, the moment that he appeared, sword in hand, they fled in dismay. these, and many other incidents, rest so much upon tradition, and are so little supported by authority, that they belong rather to romance than to history. it is with the part which rob roy took in the actual concerns of his country that his biographer has most concern. this brave but reckless individual was exactly the man to adopt a dangerous cause, and to play a desperate game. proscribed, hunted, surrounded by enemies, burning under the consciousness of wrong, and unable to retrace his path to a peaceable mode of life, rob roy was a ready partisan of the jacobite cause. in , he had transactions with two emissaries of the house of stuart, and was called to account for that negotiation before the commander-in-chief in edinburgh. he escaped punishment; and prepared, in , to lead his clans to the field, headed by macgregor of glengyle, his nephew.[ ] upon michaelmas day, having made themselves masters of the boats in loch lomond, seventy of the macgregors possessed themselves of inch-murrain, a large island on the lake. about midnight they went ashore at bonhill, about three miles above dumbarton. meantime the alarm was spread over the country; bells were rung, and cannon fired from dumbarton castle. the macgregors, therefore, thought fit to scamper away to their boats, and to return to the island. here they indulged themselves in their usual marauding practices, "carrying off deer, slaughtering cows, and other depredations." soon afterwards they all hurried away to the earl of mar's encampment at perth; here they did not long remain, but returned to loch lomond on the tenth of october.[ ] they now mustered their forces. such was the terror of their name, that both parties appear to have been afraid of the macgregors, and to think "it would be their wisdom to part peaceably with them, because, if they should make any resistance, and shed the blood of so much as one macgregiour, they would set no bounds to their fury, but burn and slay without mercy." this was the opinion held by some; by others resistance was thought the more discreet as well as the more honourable part. a body of volunteers was brought from paisley, and it was resolved, if possible, to retake the boats captured by the macgregors, who could now make a descent wherever they pleased. a singular spectacle was beheld on the bosom of loch lomond: four pinnaces and seven boats, which had been drawn by the strength of horses up the river levin, which, next to the spey, is the most rapid stream in scotland, were beheld, their sails spread, cleaving the dark waters which reflected in their mirror a sight of armed men, who were marching along the side of the loch, in order to scour the coast. never had anything been seen of the kind on loch lomond before. "the men on the shore," writes an eyewitness, "marched with the greatest ardour and alacrity. the pinnaces on the water discharging their patararoes, and the men their small arms, made so very dreadful a noise thro' the multiply'd rebounding echoes of the vast mountains on both sides the loch, that perhaps there never was a more lively resemblance of thunder." this little fleet was joined in the evening by the enemy of the macgregors, sir humphrey colquhoun of luss, followed by "fourty or fifty stately fellows, in their short hose and belted plaids, armed each of 'em with a well-fixed gun on his shoulder." at luss a report prevailed that the macgregors were reinforced by macdonald of glengarry, and had amounted to fifteen hundred strong: but this proved to be an idle rumour; their numbers were only four hundred. this falsehood did not dishearten the men of paisley. "they knew," says the chronicler of their feats, "that the macgregiours and the devil are to be dealt with after the same way; and that if they be resisted, they will flee." on the following morning the party from paisley went on their expedition, and arrived at inversnaid. here, in order to "arouse those thieves and rebels from their dens," they fired a gun through the roof of a house on the declivity of a mountain; upon which an old woman or two came crawling out, and scrambled up the hill; but no other persons appeared. "whereupon," adds the narrator,[ ] "the paisley men, under the command of captain finlason, assisted by captain scot, a half-pay officer, of late a lieutenant of colonel kerr's regiment of dragoons, who is indeed an officer, wise, stout, and honest; the dumbarton men, under the command of david colquhoun and james duncanson, of garshark, magistrates of the burgh, with several of the other companies, to the number of an hundred men in all, with the greatest intrepidity leapt on shore, got up to the top of the mountain, and drew up in order, and stood about an hour, their drums beating all the while: but no enemie appearing, they thereupon went in quest of the boats which the rebels had seized; and having casually lighted on some ropes, anchors, and oars hid among the shrubs, at length they found the boats drawn up a good way on the land, which they hurled down to the loch. such of them as were not damaged, they carried off with them; and such as were, they sunk or hewed in pieces. and that same night they return'd to luss, and thence next day, without the loss or hurt of so much as one man, to dumbarton, whence they had first set out altogether, bringing along with them the whole boats they found in their way on either side the loch, and in creeks of the isles, and moored them under the cannon of the castle. and thus in a short time, and with little expense, the m'greigours were towed, and a way pointed how the government might easily keep them in awe." the historian remarks, as a good augury, that a violent storm had raged for three days before. in the morning, notwithstanding this much magnified triumph on the part of his enemies, neither rob roy nor his followers were in the least daunted, but went about "proclaiming the pretender," and carrying off plunder. "yesternight,[ ] about seven," writes the same historian, "we had ane accountt from one of our townsmen, who had been five miles in the country, in the paroch of baldernock, that three or four hundred of the clans, forerunners of the body coming, had at drummen, near dunkeld, proclaimed the pretender; but no accountt to us from these places, nor from sterling. our magistrates sent fitt men at eight yesternight for information, and can hardly return till afternoon, if they have access to the three garrisons, of which they are i hear ordered to goe to to-day. i hear by report, without sufficient authority, that it's the m'grigors come with a party, proclaimed the pretender, tore the exciseman's book, and went away. h. e." * * * * * in a letter from leslie, dated the twentieth of january, , it is stated that the country did not oppose the incursions of rob roy, being mostly in his interest, or indifferent. emboldened by this passive conduct, rob roy marched to falkland on the fourth of january, , and took possession of the palace for a garrison. he afterwards joined the earl of mar's forces at perth, yet, whether from indolence or caution, took but little share in the signal events of the day. he hovered sometimes in the lowlands, uncertain whether to proclaim peace, or to embark with his macgregors in the war: some said he declined fighting under lord mar, from the fear of offending the duke of argyle; at all events he had the wiliness to make the belligerent powers each conceive him as of their respective parties. at the battle of sherriff muir, macgregor had the address to make both the jacobites and hanoverians conceive, that, had he joined them, the glory of the day would have been secured. the inhabitants of leslie, who had heard, with dismay, the news of the burning of auchterarder and blackford, were now affrighted by a rumour that rob roy had a commission to burn leslie, and all between that place and perth. but, whilst the burgesses of leslie were daily looking for this dreaded event, rob roy was forced to retreat to dundee, by the approach of the king's troops. he left behind him a character of reckless rapacity, and of a determined will, notwithstanding some generous and humane actions. he was, nevertheless, esteemed to be among the fairest and discreetest of the party to whom he was attached, notwithstanding his favourite speech, "that he desired no better breakfast than to see a whig's house burning." the people could not, indeed, trust any man's assurances after the recent and cruel devastation at auchterarder. when the fortune of the battle was decided, he was heard to say, in answer to demands that he should send his forces to the attack, "if they cannot do it without me, they cannot do it with me," and he immediately left the field. such is the popular account of his conduct on that occasion. the partizans of rob roy have, however, given a very different version of his conduct. the duke of argyle was the patron and friend of macgregor; and he could neither, therefore, openly adopt a course which the duke disapproved, nor would he altogether retire from a cause to which he was disposed to be favourable. with the true gaelic caution rob roy waited to see which side prevailed, and then hastened to avail himself of an opportunity of that which had become the darling pursuit of his existence--plunder. he retired from sherriff muir to falkland, carrying terror wherever he passed. * * * * * the following letter, descriptive of his progress affords a curious picture of the state of that harassed and wretched country:-- "d. b. "i received yours this evening, but i find you have been quit mistaken about our condition. you datt our freedom and libertie from the rebels long befor its commencement, and for profe take the folowing accompt of what past heir these last ten days. upon the fourth instant rob roey, with one hundred and fifty men, com to falkland, and took possession of the place for a garrison, from which they came through the countrey side and robs and plunder, taking cloaths and victuals, and every thing that maks for them, nor to oposs them till this day eight days. the sixth instant there coms thirty-two highland men (i had almost said devils) to leslie; we saw them at formand hills and resolved to resist, and so man, wife, and child drew out. "the men went to the east end of the town, and met them in the green with drawn swords in the hands, and we askt them what they were for; they said they wanted cloaths and money; we answeared they should get neither of them heir, at which they stormed and swore terribly, and we told them if they were come for mischeif they should have thee fill of it; at which ther were some blows. but they seeing us so bold, they began to feear that we should fall upon them, and so they askt libertie to march through the town, which we granted, but withall told them if they went upon the least house in the town, ther should never a man go back to fackland to tell the news, though we should die on the spot, and so they marsht through the town and got not so much as the rise of a cap. and they were so afraid that they did not return, but went down over the hank hill, and east to the minister's land; and their they faced about and fired twenty shots in upon the peple that were looking at them, but, glory to god, without doing the least hurt. and so they went off to the formand hils, and plundred all the could carry or drive, and threatned dreadfully they should be avenged on leslie and burn it." the pursuit of plunder was considered by rob roy as a far more venial offence than if he had fought against lord mar, or offended argyle, with whom he continued on such convenient terms, that he did not leave perth until after the arrival of that general. he then retired with the spoils he had acquired, and continued for some years in the practice of the same marauding incursions which had already proved so troublesome and distressing to his neighbours. in the subsequent indemnity, or free pardon, the tribe of macgregor was specially excepted; and their leader, robert campbell, alias macgregor, commonly called robert roy, was attainted. the severities which followed the rebellion of , drove rob roy to a remote retreat in the highlands, where he lived in a solitary hut, half covered with copsewood, and seated under the brow of a barren mountain. here he resided in poverty, and what was worse to his restless spirit, in idleness. here he was in frequent dread of pursuit from the agents of the law; and several anecdotes are told with what veracity it is difficult to judge, of his dexterity in evading justice. attainted, disappointed, aged, and poor, he had one grievous addition to his sorrows, which it required a cheerful and energetic mind to sustain,--that of a family devoid of principle. among the five sons of macgregor, coll, james, robert, duncan, and ronald, four were known to be but too worthy of the name given by the enemies of the macgregors to the individuals of that tribe--"devils." of coll, the eldest, little is ascertained. robert, or robbiq, or the younger, as the gaelic word signifies, inherited all the fierceness, without the generosity, of his race. at sixteen years of age, he deliberately shot at a man of the name of maclaren, and wounded him so severely that he died. his brothers were implicated in this murder. on their trials, they were charged with being not only murderers, but notorious thieves and receivers of stolen goods. robert was proved to have boasted of having drawn the first blood of the maclarens; and the brothers were all accused of having followed this murder by houghing and killing forty head of young cattle belonging to a kinsman of the deceased. robert roy, the principal party in the crime, did not appear before the high court of justiciary, to which he was summoned: he was therefore outlawed. the other brothers were tried, and the prosecution was conducted by the celebrated duncan forbes, of culloden. the prisoners were acquitted of being accessory to the murder of maclaren; but the jury were unanimous in thinking that the charge of being reputed thieves was made out, and they were ordered to find caution for their good behaviour. robert roy was advised to retire to france: his brother james remained in scotland, and took an active part in the rebellion of ; when, with the assistance of his cousin glengyle, he surprised the fort of inversnaid; he afterwards led to the battle of preston pans six companies of his clan. his thigh-bone was broken in that battle; yet he appeared again at culloden, and was subsequently attainted. the life of james macgregor was spared only to present a tissue of guilty schemes, and to end in infamy and exile. that of rob roy was dyed yet deeper in crimes, of which a second trial and an ignominious death were the dreadful result. he was hung in the grass market in edinburgh, in the year . james, his brother, being reduced to the most humiliating condition, died in france, after exhibiting in his conduct, whilst in scotland, if possible, almost a deeper shade of depravity than that displayed by his brother. their father was, however, released from his existence before these desperate men had sullied the name which he transmitted to them by their transgressions. as he declined in strength, rob roy became more peaceable in disposition; and his nephew, the head of the clan, renounced the enmity which had subsisted between the macgregors and the duke of montrose. the time of this celebrated freebooter's death is uncertain, but is generally supposed to have occurred after the year . "when he found himself approaching his final change," says sir walter scott, "he expressed some contrition for particular parts of his life. his wife laughed at these scruples of conscience, and exhorted him to die like a man, as he had lived. in reply, he rebuked her for her violent passions and the counsels she had given him. "you have put strife," he said, "betwixt me and the best men of my country, and now you would place enmity between me and my god."" although he had been educated in the protestant faith, rob roy had become a catholic long before his death. "it was a convenient religion," he used to say, "which for a little money could put asleep the conscience, and clear the soul from sin." the time and causes of his conversion are only surmised; but when he had resolved on this important step, the freebooter left his lovely residence in the highlands, and repairing to drummond castle, in perthshire, sought an old catholic priest, by name alexander drummond. his confessions were stated by himself to have been received by groans from the aged man to whom he unburthened his heart, and who frequently crossed himself whilst listening to the recital. even after this manifestation of penitence, rob roy returned to his old practices, and accompanying his nephew to the northern highlands, he is stated to have so greatly enriched himself, that he returned to the braes of balquhidder, and began farming. he is said in the decline of life to have visited london, and to have been pointed out to george the second by the duke of argyle, whilst walking in the front of st. james's palace. he still had an imposing and youthful appearance, and the king is said to have declared that he had never seen a handsomer man in the highland garb.[ ] but this, and other anecdotes, rest on no better authority than tradition. his strength, always prodigious, continued until a very late period; but at last it was extinguished even before the spirit which had stimulated it had died away. he is acknowledged, even by his partial biographer, to have declined one duel, and to have been worsted in another; but impaired eyesight, and decayed faculties are pleaded in defence of a weakness which cast dishonour on macgregor. his deathbed was in character with his life: when confined to bed, a person with whom he was at enmity proposed to visit him. "raise me up," said rob roy to his attendants, "dress me in my best clothes, tie on my arms, place me in my chair. it shall never be said that rob roy macgregor was seen defenceless and unarmed by an enemy." his wishes were executed; and he received his guest with haughty courtesy. when he had departed, the dying chief exclaimed: "it is all over now--put me to bed--call in the piper; let him play '_ha til mi tulidh_' (we return no more) as long as i breathe." he was obeyed,--he died, it is said, before the dirge was finished. his tempestuous life was closed at the farm of inverlochlarigbeg, (the scene, afterwards, of his son's frightful crimes,) in the braes of balquhidder. he died in , and his remains repose in the parish churchyard, beneath a stone upon which some admirer of this extraordinary man has carved a sword. his funeral is said to have been attended by all ranks of people, and a deep regret was expressed for one whose character had much to recommend it to the regard of highlanders. he left behind him the memory of a character by nature singularly noble, humane, and honourable, but corrupted by the indulgence of predatory habits. that he had ever very deep religious impressions is doubted; and his conversion to popery has been conjectured to have succeeded a wavering and unsettled faith. when dying, he showed that he entertained a sense of the practical part of christianity, very consistent with his highland notions. he was exhorted by the clergyman who attended him to forgive his enemies; and that clause in the lord's prayer which enjoins such a state of mind was quoted. rob roy replied: "ay, now ye hae gien me baith law and gospel for it. it's a hard law, but i ken it's gospel." "rob," he said, turning to his son, "my sword and dirk lie there: never draw them without reason, nor put them up without honour. i forgive my enemies; but see you to them,--or may"--the words died away, and he expired. reason may disapprove of such a character as that of rob roy, but the imagination and the feelings are carried away by so much generosity, such dauntless exertion in behalf of the friendless, as were displayed by the outlawed and attainted freebooter. he was true to his word, faithful to his friends, and honourable in the fulfilment of his pecuniary obligations. how many are there, who abide in the sunshine of the world's good opinion, who have little claim to similar virtues! footnotes: [ ] from the wodrow ms. in the advocate's library. [ ] macleay's history of the macgregors, p. . [ ] historical memoir of the clan macgregor, by dr. macleay, p. . [ ] preface to rob roy. waverley novels. [ ] sir w. scott. [ ] macleay. [ ] id. [ ] macleay. [ ] stewart's sketches, vol. i. p. . [ ] macleay, p. . [ ] trials of the macgregors, xxiv. [ ] macleay, p. . [ ] see trials, &c. p. . [ ] tour to the hebrides. [ ] macleay. [ ] this account of what is called in history the "loch lomond expedition," is taken from the wodrow mss. in the advocate's library in edinburgh. extracts from these mss. have been printed by james dennistoun, esq., to whose work i am indebted for this narrative of rob roy's martial career. [ ] the loch lomond expedition, p. . [ ] loch lomond expedition. wodrow correspondence, p. . also reay's history of the rebellion, p. . [ ] macleay, p. . simon fraser, lord lovat. the memoirs of simon fraser, lord lovat, have been written in various forms, and with a great diversity of opinions. some have composed accounts of this singular, depraved, and unfortunate man, with the evident determination to give to every action the darkest possible tinge; others have waived all discussion on his demerits by insisting largely upon the fame and antiquity of his family. he has himself bequeathed to posterity an apology for his life, and from his word we are bound to take so much, but only so much, as may accord with the statements of others in mitigation of the heinous facts which blast his memory with eternal opprobrium. as far as the researches into the remote antiquity of scotland may be relied upon, it appears that the name of fraser was amongst the first of those which scotland derived from normandy, and the origin of this name has been referred to the remote age of charles the simple. a nobleman of bourbon--such is the fable,--presented that monarch with a dish of strawberries. the loyal subject, who bore the name of julius de berry, was knighted on the spot, and the sirname of fraize was given him in lieu of that which he had borne. hence the ancient armorial bearing of the frasers, a field azure, semé with strawberries: and hence the widely-spreading connection of the frasers with the noble family of frezeau, or frezel, in france, a race connected with many of the royal families in europe. for a considerable period after the elevation of julius de berry, the name was written frezeau, or frisil. the period at which the frasers left normandy for scotland has been assigned to the days of malcolm canmore, where john, the eldest of three brothers of the house, founded the fortunes of the frasers of oliver castle in tweedale, by marrying eupheme sloan, heiress of tweedale: whilst another brother settled beyond the forth, and became possessed of the lands of inverkeithing. eventually those members of this norman race who had at first settled in tweedale, branched off to aberdeenshire, and to inverness-shire;[ ] and it was in this latter county, at beaufort, a property which had been long held by his family, that the famous lord lovat was born. such is the account generally received. according to others, the family of fraser is of scandinavian origin. when the scandinavians invaded the eastern coast of britain, and the northern coast of france, one branch of the family of frizell, or fryzell, settled in scotland; another in normandy, where the name has retained its original pronunciation.[ ] the castle of beaufort, anciently a royal fortress, had been bestowed upon the frasers, in the year . it is situated in the beautiful neighbourhood of inverness, in the district of the aird; it was besieged by the army of edward the first during the invasion of scotland by the usual method of throwing stones from catapultæ, at a distance of seven hundred yards. a subsidiary fortress, lovat, heretofore inhabited by one of the constables of the crown, whom the lawlessness of the wild inhabitants and the turbulence of their chieftains had rendered it necessary to establish in the west of scotland, also fell into the possession of the frasers. the present seat of the family of lovat, still called beaufort, is built on a part of the ground originally occupied by a fortress. it lies on a beautiful eminence near the beauly, and is surrounded by extensive plantations. the race, thus engrafted upon a scottish stock, continued to acquire from time to time fresh honours. it was distinguished by bravery and fidelity. when edward the first determined to subdue scotland, he found three powers refuse to acknowledge his pretensions. these were, sir william wallace, sir simon fraser, commonly called the patriot, and the garrison of stirling. when bruce, with an inconsiderable force fought the english army at methven, near perth, and was thrice dismounted, sir simon fraser thrice replaced him on his saddle; he was himself taken prisoner and ordered to be executed. and then might be witnessed one of those romantic instances of highland devotion, which appear almost incredible to the calmer notions of a modern era. a rumour went abroad that the stay of the country, the gallant fraser, was to suffer for his fidelity to his country's interests. herbert de norham, one of his followers, and thomas de boys, his armour-bearer, swore, that if the report were true, they would not survive their master. they died voluntarily on the day of his execution. in , the frasers were ennobled; the head of the house was created a lord of parliament by james the first, and the title was preserved in regular succession, until, by the death of hugh, the eleventh lord lovat, it reverted, together with all the family estates, now of considerable value and extent, to thomas fraser, of beaufort, great uncle of the last nobleman. this destination of the property and honours was settled by a deed, executed by hugh, lord lovat, in order to preserve the male succession in the family. it was the cause of endless heart-burnings and feuds. hugh had married the lady emelia murray, daughter of john, marquis of athole, and had daughters by that marriage. he had, in the first instance, settled upon the eldest of them the succession, on condition of her marrying a gentleman of the name of fraser. but this arrangement agreed ill with the highland pride; and upon a plea of his having been prevailed on to give this bond, contrary to the old rights and investments of the family, he being of an easy temper, having been imposed on to grant this bond, he set it aside by a subsequent will in favour of his great uncle, dated march th, .[ ] the families of murray and fraser were, at the time that the title of lovat descended upon thomas fraser, united in what outwardly appeared to be an alliance of friendship. their politics, indeed, at times differed. the late lord lovat had persisted in his adherence to james the second of england after his abdication, and had marshalled his own troops under the banners of the brave dundee. the marquis of athole, then lord tullibardine, on the other hand, had adopted the principles of the revolution, and had received a commission of colonel from william the third, to raise a regiment of infantry for the reigning monarch.[ ] thus were the seeds of estrangement between these families, so nearly united in blood, sown; and they were aggravated by private and jarring interests, and by manoeuvres and intrigues, of which lord lovat, who has left a recital of them, was, from his own innate taste for cabals, and aptitude to dissimulation, calculated to be an incomparable judge. of the character of thomas of beaufort, the father of simon, little idea can be formed, except that he seems to have been chiefly guided by the subtle spirit of his son simon. the loss of an elder son, alexander, after whose death simon was considered as the acknowledged heir of the frasers, may have increased the influence which a young, ardent temper naturally exercises over a parent advanced in years. of his father, simon, in his various memoirs and letters, always speaks with respect; and he refers with pride and pleasure to his mother's lineage. "his mother," he remarks, writing in the third person, "was dame sybilla macleod, daughter of the chief of the clan of the macleods, so famous for its inviolable loyalty to its princes."[ ] during his life-time his great nephew, thomas fraser of beaufort, had borne the title of laird of beaufort. "he now took possession," says his biographer, "without opposition, of the honours and titles which had descended to him, and enjoyed them until his death." according to other authorities, however, thomas fraser never assumed the rank of a nobleman, but retired to the isle of sky, where he died in , three years after his accession to the disputed honours and estates. the family of thomas of beaufort was numerous. of fourteen children, six died in infancy; of the eight who survived, simon fraser only mentions two,--his elder brother, alexander, and his younger, john. alexander, who died in , was of a violent and daring temper. a determined adherent of james the second, he joined viscount dundee in , when the standard was raised in favour of the abdicated monarch. during a funeral which had assembled at beauly, near inverness, alexander received some affront, which, in a fit of passion, he avenged. he killed his antagonist, and instantly fled to wales, in order to escape the effects of his crime. he died in wales, without issue. john became a brigadier in the dutch service, and was known by the name of le chevalier fraser. he died in , "when," says his brother, lord lovat, in his memoirs, "i lost my only brother, a fine young fellow."[ ] simon fraser, afterwards lord lovat, was born at inverness,--according to some accounts in , to others in : he fixes the date himself at . he was educated at the university of aberdeen, where he distinguished himself, and took the degree of master of arts. during his boyhood he shewed his hereditary affection to the stuarts,--an affection which was probably sincere at that early age: and he was even imprisoned for his open avowal of that cause, at the time when his elder brother repaired to the standard of dundee. deserting the study of the civil law, to which he had been originally destined, simon fraser entered a company in the regiment of lord tullibardine, his relation; nevertheless, he twice attempted to benefit the jacobite cause,--once, by joining the insurrection promoted by general buchan, and a second time by forming a plan, which was rendered abortive by the famous victory at la hogue, for surprising the castle of edinburgh, and proclaiming king james in that capital. this plot escaped detection; and the young soldier pursued his military duties, until the death of hugh lord lovat drew him from the routine of his daily life into intrigues which better suited his restless and dauntless character. although his father, it is clearly understood, never bore the title of lord lovat, simon, immediately upon the death of lord hugh, took upon himself the dignity and the offices of master of lovat. he seems, indeed, to have assumed all the importance, and to have exercised all the authority, which properly belonged to lord lovat. he was at this time nearly thirty years of age, and he had passed his life, not in mere amusement, but in acquiring a knowledge of the world in prosecuting his own interests. it is true, his leisure hours might have been more innocently bestowed even in the most desultory pursuits, than in the debasing schemes and scandalous society in which his existence was passed: it is true, that in studying his own interests, he forgot his true interest, and failed lamentably; still, he had not been idle in his vocation. he is said, on tradition, to have been one of the most frightful men ever seen; and the portrait which hogarth took of him, corroborates that report. he inherited the courage natural to his family, and his character, in that single respect, shone out at the last with a radiancy that one almost regrets, since it seemed so inconsistent that a career of the blackest vice and perfidy should close with something little less than dignity of virtue. he seems to have been endowed with a capacity worthy of a better employment than waiting upon a noble and wealthy relative, or inflaming discords between highland clans. if we may adduce the latin quotations which lovat parades in his memoirs, and which he uttered during his last hours, we must allow him to have cultivated the classics. his letters are skilful, even masterly, cajoling, yet characteristic. it is affirmed that in spite of a physiognomy vulgar in feature, and coarse and malignant in expression, he could, like richard of gloucester, obliterate the impression produced by his countenance, and charm those whom it was his interest to please. his effrontery was unconquerable: whilst conscious of the most venal motives, and even after he had displayed to the world a shameless tergiversation, he had the assurance always to claim for himself the merit of patriotism. "for my part," he said on one occasion, in conversation with his friends, "i die a martyr to my country."[ ] in after life, lovat is described by a contemporary writer, "to have had a fine comely head to grace temple bar." he was a man of lofty stature, and large proportion; and in the later portion of his life, he grew so corpulent, that "i imagined," says the same writer, "the doors of the tower must be altered to get him in."[ ] "lord lovat," says another writer, "makes an odd figure, being generally more loaded with clothes than a dutchman: he is tall, walks very upright, considering his great age, and is tolerably well shaped; he has a large mouth and short nose, with eyes very much contracted and down-looking; a very small forehead, covered with a large periwig,--this gives him a grim aspect, but on addressing any one, he puts on a smiling countenance: he is near-sighted, and affects to be much more so than he really is." "his natural abilities," remarks the editor of the culloden papers, "were excellent, and his address, accomplishments, and learning far above the usual lot of his countrymen, even of equal rank. with the civilized, he was the modern perfect fine gentleman; and in the north, among his people, the feudal baron of the tenth century."[ ] it seems absurd to talk of the religious principles of a man who violated every principle which religion inculcates; yet the mind is naturally curious to know whether any bonds of faith, or suggestion of conscience ever checked, even for an instant, the career of this base, unprincipled man. after much deception, much shuffling, and perhaps much self-delusion, lord lovat was, by his own declaration, a roman catholic: his sincerity, even in this avowal, has been questioned. in politics, he was in heart (if he had a heart) a jacobite; and yet, on his trial, he insisted strongly upon his affection for the reigning family. such were the characteristics of simon fraser, when, by the death of hugh lord lovat, his father and himself were raised from the subservience of clansmen to the dignity of chieftains. to these traits may be added a virtue rare in those days, and, until a long time afterwards, rare in highland districts;--he was temperate: when others lost themselves by excesses, he preserved the superiority of sobriety; and perhaps his crafty character, his never-ending designs, his remorseless selfishness, were rendered more fatal and potent by this singular feature in his deportment. there was another circumstance, less rare in his country, the advantage of an admirable constitution. it was this, coupled with his original want of feeling, which sustained him in the imprisonment in the tower, and enabled him to display, at eighty, the elasticity of youth. lord lovat was never known to have had the headache, and to the hour of his death he read without spectacles. a very short time after the death of hugh lord lovat elapsed, before those relatives to whom he had bequeathed his estates were involved in the deadliest quarrel with the family of lord tullibardine. the family of lord tullibardine, at that time called lord murray, furnish one of those numerous instances which occur in the reign of william the third, of an open avowal of whig principles, joined to a secret inclination to favour the jacobite party. the marquis of athole, the father of lord tullibardine, had been a powerful royalist in the time of charles the first; but had, nevertheless, promoted the revolution, and had hastened, in , to court the favour of the prince of orange, with whom his lady claimed kindred. disappointed in his hopes of distinction, the marquis returned to his former views upon the subject of legitimacy; and finally retired into private life, leaving the pursuit of fortune to his son, lord john, afterwards earl tullibardine, and marquis of athole. the disgust of the old marquis towards the government of william the third, and the evident determination which his son soon manifested to ingratiate himself with that monarch, had, at the time when the death of hugh lord lovat took place, completely alienated the marquis from his son, and produced an entire separation of their interests.[ ] in his zeal for the king's service, lord tullibardine had endeavoured to raise a regiment of infantry; and it happened, that at this time simon fraser, as he expresses it, "by a most extraordinary stroke of providence, held a commission in that regiment." this commission had been procured for him by his cousin, lord lovat, who looked upon it as the best means of "bringing him out in the world," as he expressed himself. the mode in which simon was induced by lord murray to accept of this commission, and the manner in which he was, according to his own statement, induced to support a scheme which was adverse to the interests of king james, is narrated in his own memoirs. if we may believe his account, he opposed the formation of this regiment by every exertion in his power: he aided the stewarts and robinsons of athole, devoted jacobites, and determined opposers of lord murray, whose claims on them as their chieftain they refused to admit; and when lord murray, on being appointed one of the secretaries of state, resolved to give up the colonelcy of the troop, he tried every means in his power to dissuade his cousin, hugh lord lovat, to whom it was offered, from accepting the honour which it was inconsistent with his principles to bear. this conduct, according to the hero of the tale, was highly applauded by the old marquis of athole, who even engaged his young relative, simon, to pass the winter in the city of perth with the younger son of the marquis, lord mungo murray, in order that they might there prosecute together the study of mathematics. simon accepted the invitation; and whilst he was at perth, he was, according to his own statement, cajoled by lord murray into accepting the commission, which "he held by a stroke of providence;" and which was represented by lord murray, as simon affirms, to be actually a regiment intended for the service of king james, who, it was expected, would make a descent into scotland in the following summer. and it was observed that since the laird of beaufort was so zealous in his service, he could not do his majesty a greater benefit than in accepting this commission. influenced by these declarations, simon had not only accepted the commission, but had used his influence to make up a complete company from his own clan: nevertheless, the command of the company was long delayed. his pride as a highlander and a soldier was aggrieved by being obliged to sit down content, for some time, as a lieutenant of grenadiers; and, at last, the company was only given upon the payment of a sum of money to the captain, who made room for the laird of beaufort. nor was this all; for upon the lord murray being made one of the secretaries of state, he insisted upon the regiment taking oath of abjuration, which had never before been tendered to the scottish army.[ ] such had been the state of affairs when hugh lord lovat was taken ill, and died at perth. the manner in which simon fraser represents this event, is far more characteristic of his own malignant temper, than derogating to the family upon whom he wreaks all the luxury of vengeance that words could give. simon, it appears, had persuaded lord lovat to go to dunkeld, to meet his wife, the daughter of the marquis of athole, in order to conduct her to lovat. lord lovat, disgusted by the treachery of the earl of tullibardine in respect to the regiment, had refused to have anything more to do with "this savage family of athole," as he called them, "who would certainly kill him."[ ] according to an account more to be relied on than that of the scheming and perfidious simon, the aversion which lord lovat imbibed during his latter days to his wife's kindred, was implanted in his mind by simon fraser, in order to gain his weak-minded relative over to that plot which he had formed in order to secure the estates of lovat to his own branch of the house.[ ] this, however, is the account given by fraser of his kinsman's last illness:-- "in reality he had been only two days at dunkeld, when he fell sick, and the atholes, not willing to be troubled with the care of an invalid, or for some other reasons, sent him to an inn in the city of perth, hard by the house of dr. james murray, a physician, the relation or creature of the marquis of athole, upon whom the care of lord lovat's person was devolved. "the moment the laird of beaufort heard the news that lord lovat had been conducted, very ill, to the town of perth, he set out to his assistance. but before his arrival, in consequence of the violent remedies that had been administered to him, he lost the use of his reason, and lay in his bed in a manner incapable of motion,--abandoned by his wife and the whole family of athole, who waited for his dissolution in great tranquillity, at the house of dr. murray, their relation." lord lovat, however, recollected his cousin, and embracing him said, "did not i tell you, my dear simon, that these devils would certainly kill me? see in what a condition i am!" simon could not refrain from tears at this melancholy spectacle. he threw himself on the bed beside lord lovat, and did not quit him till he died the next morning in his arms. meanwhile, not an individual of the athole family entered his apartment after having once seen him in the desperate condition in which he had been found by the laird of beaufort. such was the state of family discord when lord lovat died; and it was discovered, to the consternation of the marquis of athole and his sons, that he had made a will in favour of his relation thomas of beaufort, and to the exclusion of his own daughter. the right of thomas of beaufort was deemed incontestable; and not a man, it was presumed, dreamed of disputing it. yet it was soon obvious that the earl of tullibardine, who had now acquired the title of viceroy of scotland, was determined to support a claim in behalf of the daughter of lord lovat, and to have her declared heiress to her father. this scheme was coupled with a design of marrying the young lady also to one of lord tullibardine's own sons,[ ] of whom he had five, and, according to simon fraser, without fortune to bestow on any of his children. the master of lovat, simon fraser, as he rightfully was now, communicated this scheme to his father, and entreated him to resist this claim. recourse was had to several of the most able lawyers of the kingdom, and their opinion unanimously was, that lord tullibardine had no more right to make his "niece heiress of lovat than to put her in possession of the throne of scotland: that the right of thomas of beaufort to those honours and estates was incontrovertible, and that the king himself would not deprive him of them, except for high treason." it appears that lord tullibardine was satisfied of the justice of the opinion as far as the title was concerned, but he still considered that the property of the last lord lovat ought to descend to his daughter and heiress. the point was warmly viewed between the earl and the master of lovat; but the conference ended with no farther satisfaction to either of the gentlemen than that of having each a full opportunity of reviling the other: such, at least, is the account given by one of the parties; no reasonable person will venture wholly to vouch for its accuracy, yet the dialogue does not appear improbable. this firmness and spirit threw the lord commissioner into a violent passion; he exclaimed in a furious tone, "i have always known you for an obstinate, insolent rascal; i don't know what should hinder me from cutting off your ears, or from throwing you into a dungeon, and bringing you to the gallows, as your treasons against the government so richly deserve." simon, having never before been accustomed to such language, immediately stuck his hat on his head, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, was upon the point of drawing it, when he observed that lord tullibardine had no sword: upon this he addressed him in the following manner. "i do not know what hinders me, knave and coward as you are, from running my sword through your body. you are well known for a poltroon, and if you had one grain of courage, you would never have chosen your ground in the midst of your guards, to insult a gentleman of a better house, and of a more honourable birth than your own; but i shall one day have my revenge. as for the paltry company that i hold in your regiment, and which i have bought dearer than ever any company was bought before,--it is the greatest disgrace to which i was ever subject, to be a moment under your command; and now, if you please, you may give it to your footman."[ ] such was the beginning of a long course of hostilities which were thenceforth carried on between the murrays and the clan of fraser, and which was productive of the deepest crimes on the part of the master of lovat. that he was fully prepared to enter into any schemes, however desperate, to ensure the succession of the estates of lovat, cannot be doubted. he prosecuted his designs without remorse or shame. the matter of surprise must be, that he found partisans and followers willing to aid him in crime, and that he possessed an influence over his followers little short, on their part, of infatuation. the first suggestion that occurred to the mind of this bold and reckless man was, perhaps, a natural and certainly an innocent method of securing tranquillity to the enjoyment of his inheritance. he resolved to engage the affections of the young daughter of the late lord lovat, and, by an union with that lady, to satisfy himself that no doubt could arise as to his title to the estates, nor with regard to any children whom he might have in that marriage; nor was the hand of the master of lovat, if we put aside the important point of character, a proffer to be despised. the estate of beaufort had long been in the possession of his father, as an appanage of a younger son; and had only been lent as a residence to hugh lord lovat, on account of the ruinous state of the castle of lovat. downie castle, another important fortress, also accrued to the father of simon lovat; and the estate of lovat itself was one of the finest and best situated in scotland.[ ] in addition to these, the family owned the large domain of sthratheric, which stretches along the western banks of the ness, and comprises almost the whole circumference of that extensive and beautiful lake. the pretensions of the master were, therefore, by no means contemptible; and as he was young, although, according to dates, ten years older than he states himself to be, in his memoir of his life, he had every reason to augur success. for a time, this scheme seemed to prosper. the young lady, amelia fraser, was not averse to receive the master of lovat as her suitor; and the intermediate party, fraser, of tenechiel, who acted as interpreter to the wishes of the master, actually succeeded in persuading the young creature to elope with him, and to fix the very day of her marriage with the master, to whom fraser promised to conduct her. but either she repented of this clandestine step, or fraser of tenechiel, dreading the power of the athole family, drew back; for he reconducted her back to her mother at castle downie, even after her assurance had been given that she would marry her cousin.[ ] the circumstances of this elopement are obscurely stated by lord lovat in his account of the affair; and he does not refer to the treachery or remorse of his emissary fraser of tenechiel, nor does he dwell upon a disappointment which must have gratified his mortal enemies of the house of athole. yet it appears, from the long and early intimacy to which he alludes as having subsisted between himself and the dowager lady lovat, that he may have had many opportunities of gaining the regard of the young daughter of that lady,--an idea which accounts, in some measure, for her readiness to engage in the scheme of the elopement. at all events, he expresses his rage and contempt, and makes no secret of his determined revenge on those who had, as he conceived, frustrated his project. the young lady was at first placed under the protection of her mother at castle downie, the chief residence of the clan fraser; but there it was not thought prudent to allow her to abide, and she was therefore carried, under an escort, to dunkeld, the house of her uncle, the marquis of athole. and here another match was very soon provided for her, and again her consent was gained, and again the preliminaries of marriage were arranged for this passive individual. the nobleman whom her relations now proposed to her was william, afterwards eleventh lord salton, also a fraser, whose father was a man of great wealth and influence, although referred to by the master of lovat as the "representative of an unconsiderable branch of the frasers who had settled in the lowlands of the county of aberdeen."[ ] this match was suggested to the athole family by one robert fraser "an apostate wretch," as the master of lovat calls him, a kinsman, and an advocate; and he advised the marquis of athole, not only to marry the young lady to the heir of lord salton, but also, by various schemes and manoeuvres, to get lord salton declared head of the clan of frasers. this plot was soon divulged; disappointment, rage, revenge were raised to the height in the breast of the master of lovat. his pride was as prominent a feature in this bold and vindictive man, as his duplicity. throughout life, he could, it is true, bend for a purpose, as low as his designs required him to bend; but the fierce exclusiveness of a highland chieftain never died away, but rankled in his heart to the last. it must be admitted that he had just cause of irritation against the murrays, first for disputing the claim of his father to the lovat title and estates, a claim indisputably just; nor was their project for constituting lord salton the head of the clan fraser, either a wise or an equitable scheme. it was heard with loud indignation in that part of the country where the original stock of this time-honoured race were, until their name was stained by the crimes of simon fraser, held in love and reverence. it was heard by the master of lovat perhaps with less expression of his feelings than by his followers; but the meditated affront was avenged, and avenged by a scheme which none but a demon could have devised. it was avenged; but it brought ruin on the head of the avenger. perhaps in no other country, at the same period, could the wrongs of an individual have been visited upon an aggressor with the same dispatch and ruthless determination as in the highlands. until the year , when the spirit of clanship was broken, never to be restored, those "hereditary monarchies founded on custom, and allowed by general consent rather than established by laws,"[ ] existed in their full vigour. the military ranks of the clans was fixed and continual during the rare intervals of local quiet, and every head of a family was captain of his own tribe.[ ] the spirit of rivalry between the clans kept up a taste for hostility, and converted rapine into a service of honour. revenge was considered as a duty, and superstition aided the dictates of a fiery and impetuous spirit. a people naturally humane, naturally forbearing, had thus, by the habits of ages immemorial, become remorseless plunderers and resolute avengers. when any affront was offered to a chieftain, the clan was instantly summoned. they came from their straths and their secluded valleys, wherein there was little intercourse with society in general to tame their native pride, or to weaken the predominant emotion of their hearts,--their pride in their chieftain. they came fearlessly, trusting, not only in the barriers which nature had given them in their rocks and fastnesses, but in the unanimity of their purpose. each clan had its stated place of meeting, and when it was summoned upon any emergency, the fiery cross, one end burning, the other wrapt in a piece of linen stained with blood, was sent among the aroused clansmen, traversing those wild moors, and penetrating into the secluded glens of those sublime regions. it was sent, by two messengers, throughout the country, and passed from hand to hand, these messengers shouting, as they went, the war-cry of the clan, which was echoed from rock to rock. and then arose the cry of the coronach, that wail, appropriate to the dead, but uttered also by women, as the fiery cross roused them from their peaceful occupations, and hurried from them their sons and their husbands. never was the fiery cross borne throughout the beautiful country of invernessshire, never was the wail of the coronach heard on a more ignoble occasion, than on the summons of the master of lovat, in the september of the year . after some fruitless negotiation, it is true, with lord salton, and after availing himself of the power of his father, as chieftain, to imprison robert fraser, and several other disaffected clansmen whom that person had seduced from their allegiance, the master of lovat prepared for action. the traitors to his cause had escaped death by flight, but the clan were otherwise perfectly faithful to their chieftain. fear, as well as love, had a part in their allegiance; yet it has been conjectured that the hereditary devotion of the highlanders must, originally, have had its origin in gratitude for services and for bounty, which it was the interest of every chieftain to bestow. the master of lovat, or, as he was called by his people, the chieftain, first assembled his people at their accustomed place, to the number of sixty and seventy, and bade them be in readiness when called upon. he thanked them for their prompt attendance, and then dismissed them. during the next month, however, he was met, coming from inverness, by lord salton and lord mungo murray, who were returning from castle downie. such was the preparation for the disgraceful scenes which quickly followed. as soon as the master of lovat and his father were informed of the flight of their treacherous clansmen, they wrote a letter to lord salton, and conjured him, in the name of the clan, to remain at home, and not to disturb their repose nor to interfere with the interests of their chief; and they assured him, that though a fraser, he should, if he entered their country, pay for that act of audacity by his head. such is lord lovat's account: it is not borne out by the statements of others; yet since the affair must have been generally discussed among the clan, it is probable, that he would not have given this version of it without foundation. lord salton, according to the same statement, at first received this letter in good part; and wrote to lord lovat and to the master, giving his word that he would only interfere to make peace; and that, for this reason, he would proceed to the seat of the dowager lady lovat, at beaufort.[ ] upon afterwards discovering that this courtesy was a mere feint, and that this new claimant to the honours of chief was in close correspondence with the murrays, who were with him and the dowager at beaufort, the master of lovat wrote to his father, who was at sthratheric, to meet him at lovat, which was only three miles' distance from beaufort, whilst he should himself proceed to the same place by way of inverness, where he trusted that lord salton would grant him an interview for the purpose of explaining their mutual differences.[ ] no sooner had the master arrived at inverness, than he found, as he declares, so much reason to distrust the assurances of lord salton, that he wrote him a letter, sent, as he says, "with all diligence by a gentleman of his train, to adhere to his word passed to his father and himself, and to meet him the next day at two in the afternoon, three miles from beaufort, either like a friend, or with sword and pistol, as he pleased."[ ] such is the account transmitted by lord lovat, and intended to give the air of an "affair of honour" to a desperate and lawless attack upon fraser of salton, and on those friends who supported his pretensions to the hand of the heiress of lovat. the real facts of the case were, that fraser of salton was to pass through inverness on his way to dunkeld, where the espousals between him and the heiress of lovat were to be celebrated. whether simon fraser purposed merely to prevent the accomplishment of this marriage, or whether he had fully matured another scheme:--whether he was incited by disappointment to rush into unpremeditated deeds of violence, or whether his design had been fostered in the recesses of his own dark mind, cannot be fully ascertained. in some measure his revenge was gratified. he was enabled, by the events which followed, to delay the marriage of fraser of salton, and to retard the nuptials,--which, indeed, never took place. "this wild enterprise," observes arnot, in his collection of criminal trials in scotland, "was to be accomplished by such deeds, that the stern contriver of the principal action is less shocking than the abject submission of his accomplices."[ ] lord salton dispatched an answer, saying, that he would meet the master of lovat at the appointed time, as his "good friend and servant." but the bearer of that message distrusted the reply, and informed the master that he believed it was fraser of salton's intention to set out and to pass through inverness early in the morning, in order to escape the interview. measures were taken accordingly, by the master of lovat. at a very early hour he was seen passing over the bridge of inverness, attended by six gentlemen, as he himself relates, and two servants, completely armed. this is the master's statement; but on his subsequent trial, it appeared that the fiery cross and the coronach had been sent throughout all the country; that a body of four or five hundred men in arms were in attendance, and that they had met in the house of one of the clansmen, fraser of strichen, where the master took their oaths of fidelity, and where they swore on their dirks to be faithful to him in his enterprise.[ ] "the inhabitants of inverness," says lord lovat, "observing their alert and spirited appearance, lifted up their hands to heaven, and prayed god to prosper their enterprise." these simple and deluded people, doubtless, but partially understood the nature of that undertaking which they thus called on heaven to bless. the master of lovat and his party had not proceeded more than four or five miles from inverness, than they observed a large party of "runners issuing out of the wood of bonshrive, which is crossed by the high road." "it is a custom," adds lord lovat, "in the north of scotland, for almost every gentleman to have a servant in livery, who runs before his horse, and who is always at his stirrup when he wishes to mount or to alight; and however swift any horse may be, a good runner is always able to match him." the gentlemen who attended the master of lovat, were soon able to perceive that lord salton was one of the leaders of the party who was quitting the wood of bonshrive, and emerging into the high road; and that his lordship was accompanied by lord mungo murray, a younger son of the marquis of athole, and, as the master of lovat intimates, an early friend of his own. the account which lord lovat's narrative henceforth presents, of that which ensued, is so totally at variance with the evidence on his trial, that it must be disregarded and rejected as unworthy of credit, as well as the boast with which he concludes it, of having generously saved the lives of lord salton, and of his own kinsman, lord mungo. it appeared afterwards, that his followers had orders to seize them, dead or alive. these two young noblemen were, it seems, almost instantly overpowered by numbers, notwithstanding the attendance of the "runners," on whom lord lovat so much insists. lord mungo was taken prisoner by the master himself. they were then deprived of their horses, and being mounted on poneys, were conducted to fanellan, guards surrounding them, with their muskets loaded, and dirks drawn, to a house belonging to lord lovat, where they were kept in close confinement, guarded by a hundred clansmen. gibbets were erected under the windows of the house, to intimidate the prisoners; and at the end of a week they were marched off to castle downie,--the master of lovat going there in warlike array, with a pair of colours and a body of five hundred men. from castle downie, lord salton and lord mungo were led away into the islands and mountains, and were treated with great indignity. these adversaries being thus disposed of, the master of lovat invested the castle of downie with an armed force, and soon took possession of a fortress, tenanted only by a defenceless woman, the dowager lady lovat. but that lady was a murray; one of a resolute family, and descended on her mother's side from a stanley. she was the grand-daughter of charlotte de la tremouille, who defended latham house against the parliamentary forces in . notwithstanding that armed men were placed in the different apartments of the castle, she was undaunted. attempts were made by the master of lovat to compel her to sign certain deeds, securing to him that certainty of the right to the estates, for which he was ready to plunge in the deepest of crimes. she was firm--she refused to subscribe her name. her refusal was the signal, or the incentive, for the completion of another plot, of a last resource,--a compulsory marriage between the master of lovat and herself. the awful and almost incredible details of that last act of infuriated villany, prove lady lovat to have been a woman of strong resolution, and of a deep sensibility. the ceremony of marriage was pronounced by robert monro, minister of abertaaffe. the unhappy lady lovat's resistance and prayers were heard in the very court-yard below, although the sound of bagpipes were intended to drown her screams. morning found the poor wretched being, to make use of one of the expressions used by an eye-witness, "out of her judgment; she spoke none, but gave the deponent a broad stare." for several days reason was not restored to her, until, greeted by one of her friends with the epithet "madam," she answered, "call me not madam, but the most miserable wretch alive." the scene of this act of diabolical wickedness[ ] is razed to the ground: castle downie was burned by the royal troops, in the presence of him who had committed such crimes within its walls, and of three hundred of his clansmen, shortly after the battle of culloden. it appears from a letter written by thomas lovat, the father of the master, to the duke of argyle, that he and his son were shortly "impeached for a convocation," and for making prisoners of lord salton and lord mungo murray, for which they were charged before him, were fined, discharged their fines, and "gave security to keep the peace."[ ] so lightly was that gross invasion of the liberty that threatened the lives of others at first treated! "we have many advertisements," adds thomas lovat, "that athole is coming here in person, with all the armed men he is able to make, to compel us to duty, and that without delay. if he come, so we are resolved to defend ourselves; the laws of god, of nature, and the laws of all nations, not only allowing, but obliging all men, _vim vi repellere_. and i should wish from my heart, if it were consistent with divine and human laws, that the estates of athole and lovat were laid as a prize, depending on the result of a fair day betwixt him and me."[ ] it was, perhaps, an endeavour to avert the impending ruin and devastation that followed, that the master of lovat gave their liberty to lord saltoun and lord mungo murray, although not until he had threatened them both with hanging for interfering with his inheritance, and compelling lord saltoun to promise that he would, on arriving at inverness, send a formal obligation for eight thousand pounds, never more to concern himself with the affairs of the lovat estate, and that neither he nor the marquis of athole would ever prosecute either lord lovat or his son, or their clan in general, for the disgrace they had received in having been made prisoners, for any of the transactions of this affair.[ ] but it was evident that, in spite of this concession, the vengeance of the marquis of athole never slept; and that he was resolved to wreak it upon the head of the wretch who had for ever blasted the happiness of his sister. the master of lovat was shortly aware that it would no longer be prudent to remain with his victim in the castle of downie. his wife, as it was then his pleasure to call her, remained in a condition of the deepest despair. she would neither eat nor drink whilst she was in his power; and her health appears to have suffered greatly from distress and fear. in the dead of night she was summoned to leave castle downie, to be removed to a more remote and a wilder region, where the unhappy creature might naturally expect, from the desperate character of her pretended husband, no mitigation of her sorrows. since rumours were daily increasing of the approach of lord athole's troops, the clan of fraser was again, when lady lovat was conveyed from the scene of her anguish, called forth to assist their leader, and the wail of the coronach was again heard in that dismal and portentous night: for portentous it was. this crime, the first signal offence of simon fraser, stamped his destiny. its effects followed him through life: it entailed others: it was the commencement of a catalogue of iniquities almost unprecedented in the career of one man's existence. crushed, broken-spirited, afraid of returning to her kindred, whose high fame she seems to have thought would be sullied by her misfortunes, lady lovat was conducted by fraser to the island of aigas. they stole thither on horseback, attended by a single servant, and arriving at the sea-shore, they there took a boat, and were carried to the obscure island which fraser had chosen for his retreat. thomas fraser of beaufort, the father of simon, thus writes to the duke of argyle respecting this singular and revolting union. "we have gained a considerable advantage by my eldest son's being married to the dowager of lovat; and if it please god they live together some years, our circumstances will be very good. our enemies are so galled at it, that there is nothing malice or cruelty can invent but they design and practice against us; so that we are forced to take to the hills, and keep spies at all parts; by which, among many other difficulties, the greatest is this,--that my daughter-in-law, being a tender creature, fatigue and fear of bloodshed may put an end to her, which would make our condition worse than ever."[ ] and now there took place, in the mind of lady lovat, one of those singular revulsions which experience teaches us to explain rather than induces us to believe as neither impossible nor uncommon. lady lovat, it is said upon the grave authority of a reverend biographer, became attached to the bonds which held her. "here," says mr. arbuthnot, in his life of lord lovat,[ ] "he continued a month or six weeks, and by this time the captain had found means to work himself so effectually into the good graces of the lady, that, as he reported, 'she doated on him, and was always unhappy at his absence.'" however true or however false this representation may be, the marriage service was again, as it was said, solemnized, at the suggestion of the master of lovat, and with the free consent of lady lovat.[ ] on the twenty-sixth of october, , we find simon fraser writing in the following terms to the laird of culloden. the answer is not given in the culloden papers, but it not improbably contained a recommendation to repeat the marriage ceremonials:-- "beaufort, the th of oct., . "dear sir, "thir lords att inverness, with the rest of my implacable enemies, does so confound my wife, that she is uneasy till she see them. i am afraid that they are so madd with this disapointment, that they will propose something to her that is dangerous, her brother having such power with her; so that really, till things be perfectly accommodatt, i do nott desire they should see her, and i know not how to manage her. so i hope you will send all the advice you can to your oblidged humble servant, sim. fraser." "i hope you will excuse me for not going your lenth, since i have such a hard task at home." from simon fraser to the laird of culloden. "nov. rd, . "sir, "i pray you receive the inclosed acompt of my business, and see if your own conscience, in sight of god, doth not convince you that it is literally true. i hade sent it to you upon saturday last, but you were not at home; however, i sent it that day to the laird of calder, who, i hope, will not sitt down on me, but transmitt it to my best friends; and i beseech you, sir, for god's sak, that you do the like. i know the chancellour is a just man, notwithstanding his friendship to my lord tilliberdine. i forgive you for betraying of me; but neither you, nor i, nor i hope god himself, will forgive him that deceived you, and caused you to do it. i am very hopeful in my dear wife's constancey, if they do not put her to death. now i ad no more, but leaves myself to your discretion; and reste, sir, your faithful friend and servant, sim. fraser." lady lovat lived to hear her husband deny that he had ever sought her in marriage, and to see him married to two different wives; and he scrupled not to represent the unfortunate lady lovat as the last possible object of his regard--as a "widow, old enough to be his mother, dwarfish in her person, and deformed in her shape."[ ] this, as far as related to disparity of years, was untrue; the dowager was only four years older than the master of lovat. meantime justice had not slumbered; and one morning, a charge "against captain simon fraser, of beaufort, and many others, persons mostly of the clan fraser, for high treason, in forming unlawful associations, collecting an armed force, occupying and fortifying houses and garrisons, &c.," was left by the herald, pursuant to an old scottish custom, in a cloven stick which was deposited at the river side, opposite to the isle of aigas.[ ] of this no notice was taken by simon, except to renew his addresses to his clan, and to hasten, as far as he could from his secluded retreat, a systematic resistance to the marquis of athole, and even to the royal troops, whose approach was expected. but his fears were aroused. again he sought to avert the coming danger by concession; and he determined, in the first instance, on restoring lady lovat to her friends. it is stated by mr. arbuthnot, but still on the authority of the master of lovat, that lady lovat had now become reluctant to return to her relations. nor is it improbable that this statement is true, without referring that reluctance to any affection for the wretch with whom her fate was linked. she complied, nevertheless, with the proposal of the master; and leaving the island of aigas, she proceeded first to castle downie, and afterwards to dunkeld, where, according to arbuthnot, she was obliged by her brother, the marquis, to join in a prosecution against her husband, for a crime which she had forgiven. according to a letter from the duke of argyle, addressed to the rev. mr. carstares, chaplain to king william, she fully exculpated the master from the charges made against him on her account.[ ] this exculpation was doubtless given when the unhappy woman was under the influence of that subtle and powerful mind, which lent its aid to its guilty schemes. simon fraser himself, as we have seen, in writing to duncan forbes, declared--"i am very hopeful in my dear wife's constancy, if they do not put her to death." this might be only a part of his usual acting,--a trait of that dissimulation which was the moral taint of his character; or it may have been true that the humiliated being whom he called his wife had really learned to cherish one who seemed born to be distrusted, hated, and shunned. the return of lady lovat to her family was of no avail in mitigating the indignation of the marquis of athole. by his influence with the privy council, who were, it is said, completely under his control, he procured an order from king william for the march of troops against the clan of fraser, with instructions, according to simon fraser, to overrun the country, to burn, kill, and to destroy the whole clan, without exception; and, without issuing a citation to thomas fraser of beaufort, or to his son, to appear--without examining a single witness--a printed sentence was published against all the frasers, men and women and children, and their adherents. even the sanctuary of churches was not to be respected: "in a word," says lord lovat's manifesto, "history, sacred or profane, cannot produce an order so pregnant with such unexampled cruelty as this sentence, which is carefully preserved in the house of lovat, to the eternal confusion and infamy of those who signed it."[ ] the government which sanctioned the massacre of glencoe was perfectly capable of issuing a proclamation which confounded the innocent with the guilty, and punished before trial. the master of lovat assembled his clan. that simple and faithful people, trusting in the worth and honour of their leader, swore that they would never desert him, that they would leave their wives, their children, and all that they most valued, to live and die with him. an organized resistance was planned; and the master of lovat intreated his father, as he himself expressed it, with tears, "to retire into the country of his kinsmen, the macleods of rye." the proposal was accepted, and thomas of beaufort, for he never assumed the disputed title of lord lovat, took refuge among that powerful and friendly clan. the prosecution against the master of lovat was, in the mean time, commenced in the court of justiciary; "the only case," so it has been called, "since the revolution, in which a person was tried in absence, before the court of justiciary, a proof led, a jury inclosed, a verdict returned, and sentence pronounced; forfeiting life, estate, honours, fame, and posterity."[ ] none of the parties who were summoned, appeared. the jury returned a verdict finding the indictment proved, and the court adjudged captain fraser and the other persons accused, to be executed as traitors; "their name, fame, memory, and honours, to be extinct, and their arms to be riven forth and deleted out of the books of arms; so that their posterity may never have place, nor be able hereafter to bruite or enjoy any honours, offices, titles, or dignities; and to have forfeited all their lands, heritages, and possessions whatsoever."[ ] after this sentence, a severer one than that usually passed in such cases, the master of lovat, for the period of four years, led a life of skirmishes, escapes, and hardships of every description. he retired into the remote highlands, then almost impenetrable; and, followed by a small band of his clansmen, he wandered from mountain to mountain, resolved never to submit, nor yield himself up to justice. since his father's estates were forfeited, and he could draw no means of subsistence from them, he was often obliged to the charity of the hospitable highlanders for some of their coarse fare; and when that resource failed, or when he had lived too long on the bounty of a neighbourhood, he and his companions made nightly incursions into the lowlands, and, carrying off cattle and provisions, retreated again to their caverns, there to satisfy hunger with the fruits of their incursions.[ ] during the four years of misery and peril in which the master of lovat continued to evade justice, his father died, among his relations in the island of skye. his decease was caused, according to the representation of his son, by a hasty march made to escape the king's troops, who, he heard, were coming to the islands to pursue him. among the few humane traits in the character of simon fraser, the habitual respect and affection borne by the highlanders to parents appears to have been perceptible. he speaks of thomas of beaufort in his life with regret and regard; but seals those expressions of tenderness with an oath that he "would revenge himself on his own and his father's enemies with their blood, or perish in the attempt." such were his notions of filial piety. the master of lovat had now attained the rank for which he had made such sacrifices of safety and of fame; and had the hollow satisfaction of a disputed title, with an attainted estate, and a life over which the sword of destiny was suspended. a sentence of outlawry followed that of condemnation, and letters of fire and sword were issued against him. he was forbidden all correspondence or intercourse with his fellow subjects: he was cast off and rejected by his friends, and in constant danger either of being captured by the officers of justice, or assassinated by his enemies. the commission for destroying the clan of fraser was not, indeed, put into execution; but that wild and beautiful district which owned him for its lord, was ravaged by the king's troops stationed at inverness, or intimidated by the highland army, commanded by lord lovat's early companions, but now deadly foes,--lord james and lord mungo murray. at length, after gaining a complete victory, according to his own account, at stratheric, over the tributaries of lord athole, and extracting from the prisoners an oath by which they "renounced the claims on our saviour and their hopes in heaven if ever they returned to the territories of his enemy, the guilty and unfortunate man grew weary of his life of wandering, penury, and disgrace." he was always fertile in expedients, and audacious in proffering his petitions for mercy. during his father's life, a petition in the form of a letter, written by thomas of beaufort, and signed by seven frasers, had been addressed to the duke of argyle, appealing to his aid at court, upon the plea of that "entire friendship which the family of lovat had with, and dependence upon, that of argyle, grounded upon an ancient propinquity of blood, and zealously maintained by both through a tract and series of many ages."[ ] the duke of argyle had, it was well understood, made some applications on behalf of the frasers; and lord lovat now resolved to push his interest in the same friendly quarter, and to endeavour to obtain a remission of the sentence out against his head. his efforts were the more successful, because king william had by this time begun to suspect the fidelity of lord tullibardine, and to place a strong reliance upon the integrity and abilities of the duke of argyle. the duke represented to his majesty not only the ancient friendship subsisting between the house of campbell and that of fraser, but also that the king might spend "a hundred times the value of the fraser estate before he could reduce it, on account of its inaccessible situation and its connection with the neighbouring clans."[ ] the duke's account of his success is given with characteristic good sense in the following letter:-- the earl of argyle to the laird of culloden. "edinburgh, sept. , . "sir, "in complyance with your desyre and a great many other gentlemen, with my own inclination to endeavour a piece of justice, i have made it my chief concern to obtain beaufort's (now i think i may say lord lovatt's) pardon, and the other gentlemen concerned with him in the convocation and seizing of prisoners, which are crymes more immediately against his majesty, which i have at last obtained and have it in my custody. i designe to-morrow for argyllshire; and, there not being a quorum of exchequer in town, am oblidged to delay passing the remission till next moneth. we have all had lyes enuf of his majestie before: his goodness in this will, i hope, return my friend culloden to his old consistency, and make e. argyll appear to him as good a presbiterian and a weel wisher to his country in no lesse a degree then tullibardine, who plundered my land some tyme agoe, and culloden's lately. pray recover the same spiritt you had at the revolution; let us lay assyde all resentments ill founded, all projects which may shake our foundation; let us follow no more phantasms (i may say rather divells), who, with a specious pretext leading us into the dark, may drownd us. i fynd some honest men's eyes are opened, and i shall be sorie if culloden's continue dimm. you have been led by jacobitt generales to fight for presbiterie and the liberty of the country. is that consistent? if not speedily remedied, remember i tell you the posteritie of such will curse them. let me have a plain satisfactorie answer from you, that i may be in perfect charitie with culloden. adieu." accordingly, the duke having obtained his pardon, lord lovat was enjoined to lay down his arms, and to go privately to london. that sentence, which had followed the prosecution on the part of lady lovat, was not, at that time, remitted, for fear of disobliging the athole family. upon arriving in london, lord lovat found that lord seafield, the colleague of the earl of tullibardine, was disinclined to risk incurring the displeasure of the athole family. he put off the signing of the pardon from time to time. he was even so much in awe of the earl of tullibardine, that he endeavoured to get the king to sign the pardon when he was at loo; that mr. pringle, the other secretary of state, might bear the odium of presenting it for signature. during this delay, lord lovat, not being able with safety to return to scotland, resolved to occupy the interval of suspense by a journey into france. whilst lord lovat's affairs were in this condition, the marquis of athole, resolved for ever to put it out of lord lovat's power to gain any ascendancy over the young heiress of lovat, amelia fraser, was employed in arranging a marriage for that lady to the son of alexander mackenzie, lord prestonhall. it was agreed, by a marriage settlement, that mr. mackenzie should take the name and title of fraserdale, and that the children of that marriage should bear the name of fraser. the estate of lovat was settled upon fraserdale in his life, with remainder to his children by his wife.[ ] it indeed appears, that the estate of lovat was never surrendered to lord lovat; that he bore in scotland, according to some statements, no higher title than that of lord of beaufort; and that a regular receiver of the rents was appointed by the guardians of amelia fraser:[ ] so completely were the dark designs of simon fraser defeated in their object! he was, however, graciously received at st. germains, whither he went whilst yet, james the second, in all the glory of a sanctified superstition, lived with his queen, the faithful partner of his misfortunes. lord lovat ascribes this visit to st. germains to his intention of dissipating the calumnious stories circulated against him by the marquis of athole. the flourishing statement which he gives in his memoirs of king james's reception, may, however, be treated as wholly apocryphal. james the second, with all his errors, was too shrewd a man, too practised in kingcraft, to speak of the "perfidious family of athole," or to mention the head of that noble house by the title of that "old traitor." lord lovat's incapacity to write the truth, and his perpetual endeavour to magnify himself in his narrative, cause us equally to distrust the existence of that document, with the royal seal affixed to it, which he says the king signed with his own hand, declaring that he would protect lord lovat from "the perfidious and faithless family of athole."[ ] the fact is, and it redounds to the credit of james the second, that monarch, eager as he ever remained to attach partisans to his interests, never received lord lovat into his presence.[ ] the infamy of the exploits of the former master of lovat had preceded his visit to france: the whole account of his own reception at st. germains, written with astonishing audacity, and most circumstantially worded, was a fabrication. lord lovat's usual readiness in difficulties did not fail him; he was a ruined man, and it was puerile to shrink from expedients. he applied to the pope's nuncio, and expressed his readiness to become a roman catholic. the suit was, of course, encouraged, and the arch hypocrite, making a recantation of all his former errors, professed himself a member of the holy catholic church, and acknowledged the pope as its head. this avowal cost him little, for he was by no means prejudiced in favour of any specific faith; and it gained him for the time, some little popularity in the gay metropolis in which he had taken refuge. king james, indeed, to his honour, was still resolute in declining his personal homage; but louis the fourteenth was less scrupulous, and the marquis de torcy, the favourite and minister of the french king, presented the abjured of england and scotland at the palais of versailles. it is difficult to picture to oneself the savage and merciless fraser, the pillager, the destroyer, the outlaw, conversing, as he is said to have done, with the saintly and sagacious madame maintenon. it is scarcely possible to conceive elegant and refined women of any nation receiving this depraved, impenitent man, with the rumour of his recent crimes still fresh in their memory, into their polished circles. yet they made no scruple in that dissolute city, to associate with the abandoned wretch who dared not return to scotland, and who only looked for a pardon for his crimes through the potent workings of a faction. lord lovat well knew the value of female influence. he dressed in the height of fashion--he adapted his language and sentiments to the tone of those around the court. he was a man of considerable conversational talents; "his deportment," says his biographer, "was graceful and manly." when he was first presented to louis the fourteenth, who was desirous of asking some questions concerning the invasion of scotland, he is said to have prepared an elaborate address, which he forgot in the confusion produced by the splendour around him, but to have delivered an able extempore speech, with infinite ease and good taste, upon the spur of the moment, to the great amusement of louis, who learned from de torcy the circumstance.[ ] his advancement at the court of versailles was interrupted by the necessity of his return to england, in order to obtain at last a final pardon from the king for his offences. it is singular that the instrument by whom he sought to procure this remission was william carstairs, that extraordinary man, who had suffered in the reign of james the second the thumb-screw, and had been threatened with the iron boot, for refusing to disclose the correspondence between the friends of the revolution. mr. carstairs was now secretary to king william, and he little knew, when he counselled that monarch to pardon lovat, what a partisan of the jacobite cause he was thus restoring to society. his mediation was effectual, perhaps owing to a dislike which had arisen in the mind of william against the athole family; and a pardon was procured for lord lovat. the affair was concluded at loo, whither lovat followed the king from england. "he is a bold man," the monarch is said to have observed to carstairs, "to come so far under sentence of death." the pardon was unlimited, and that it might comprise the offence against lady athole, it was now "a complete and ample pardon for every imaginable crime." the royal seal was appended to it, and there remained only to get that of scotland also affixed. lovat entrusted the management of that delicate and difficult matter to a cousin, a simon fraser also, by whose treachery it was suppressed; and lord seafield caused another pardon to pass the great seal, in which the treason against king william was alone specified; and other offences were left unpardoned. upon this, lord lovat cited the marquis of athole before the lords justiciary in edinburgh to answer before them for a false accusation: but on the very day of supporting his charge, as the biographer of his family relates, his patron the duke of argyle was informed that the judges had been corrupted, and that "certain death would be the result if he appeared."[ ] this statement is taken from lord lovat's own complication of falsehoods, his incomparably audacious "manifesto." notwithstanding that lovat had appeared with a retinue of a hundred armed gentlemen, "as honorable as himself," with the intention of intimidating the judges;--in spite of the duke of argyle's powerful influence, the friends of the outlawed nobleman counselled him again to retreat to england, and to suffer judgment to go by default. the duke of argyle, he says, would not lose sight of him till he had seen him on horseback, and had ordered his own best horse to be brought round to the door. there was no remedy for what was called by lord lovat's friends, the "rascality" of the judges:--and again this unworthy highlander was driven from his own country to seek safety in the land wherein his offences had received their pardon. the inflexibility of the justiciary lords, or their known integrity, form a fine incident in history; for the scottish nation was at this period, ridden by court faction, and broken down by recent oppression and massacre. lord lovat, meeting the duke of argyle on the frontiers, accompanied his grace to london; and here, notwithstanding his boast, "that after his arrival in london he was at the duke's house every day," he appears, about this time, to have been reduced to a state of miserable poverty, and merited desertion. in the following letter to mr. carstairs, he complains that nothing is done for him--he applies to mr. carstairs for a little money to carry him home, "having no other door open." lord lovat to mr. carstairs, "london, june th, . "dear sir, "i reckon myself very unhappy that my friends here do so much neglect me; and i believe my last journey to england has done me a vast prejudice; for if i had been at home, i would have got something done in my lord evelin's business, and would have got money before now, that might serve me to go a volunteer with the king, or maintain me anywhere; but my friend at home must have worse thoughts now of my affairs than ever, having staid so long here, and got nothing done. however, i now resolve to go to scotland, not being able to subsist longer here. i have sent the inclosed note, that, according to your kind promise, i may have the little money which will carry me home, and it shall be precisely paid before two months; and i must say, it is one of the greatest favours ever was done me, not having any other door open, if you were not so generous as to assist me, which i shall alwise gratefully remember, and continue with all sincerity, dear sir, your faithful and obliged servant, lovat." the death of william the third revived the hopes of the jacobite party; and to that centre of attraction the ruined and the restless, the aspiring and the profligate, alike turned their regards. never was so great a variety of character, and so great a diversity of motives displayed in any cause, as in the various attempts which were made to secure the restoration of the stuarts. on some natures those opinions, those schemes, which were generally known under the name of jacobitism, acted as an incentive to self-sacrifice--and to a constancy worthy of better fortune. in other minds the poison of faction worked irremediable mischief: many who began with great and generous resolves, sank into intrigue, and ended in infidelity to the cause which that had espoused. but lord lovat came under neither of these classes; he knew not the existence of a generous emotion; he was consistent in the undeviating selfishness and baseness of his career. if he had a sincere predilection, he was disposed to the interest of king james. hereditary tendencies scarcely ever lose their hold upon the mind entirely: notions on politics are formed at a much earlier age than is generally supposed. the family of fraser had been, as we have seen, from ages immemorial employed in defence of the stuart kings; and early prepossessions were imbibed by the unworthy descendant of a brave race, before his passions had interfered to warp the generous sentiment of loyalty. as he grew up, lord lovat learned to accommodate himself to any party; and it was justly observed by lord middleton, one of the favourite courtiers at st. germains, that though he boasted so much of his adherence to his sovereign, he had never served any sovereign but king william, in whose army he had commanded a regiment.[ ] the period was now, however, approaching, when he whose moral atmosphere was, like his native climate, the tempest and the whirlwind, might hope to glean some benefit from the impending storm which threatened the peace of the british empire. on the sixth of september, , james the second of england expired at st. germains. this event was favourable to those of the jacobite party who wished to bring forward the interests of the young prince of wales. james had long been infirm, and had laid aside all schemes of worldly elevation. he had passed his time between the diversion of hunting and the duties of religion. his widowed queen retained, on the contrary, an ardent desire to see her son restored to the throne of england. she implanted that wish in his own breast; she nourished it by the society of those whom she placed around him; and she passed her time in constantly forming new schemes for the promotion of that restoration to which her sanguine anticipations were continually directed. the death of james was succeeded by two events: one, the avowed determination of louis the fourteenth to take the exiled family of stuart under his protection, and the consequent proclamation of the young prince of wales as king of england; the other, the bill for the attainder of the pretended prince of wales, in the english parliament, with an additional clause of attainder against the queen, mary of modena, together with an oath of abjuration of the "pretender." the debates which impeded the progress of this measure, plainly prove how deeply engrafted in the hearts of many of the higher classes were those rights which they were thus enforced to abjure.[ ] this was one of the last acts of william. his death, in , revived the spirits of the jacobites, for the partiality of anne to her brother, the young prince, was generally understood; and it appears, from the letters which have been published in later days to have been of a far more real and sisterly character than has generally been supposed. the death of the young duke of gloucester appeared, naturally, to make way for the restoration of the stuart family; and there is no doubt but that anne earnestly desired it; and that on one occasion, when her brother's life was in danger from illness, her anxiety was considerable on his account. it is, therefore, no matter of reproach to the jacobites, as an infatuation, although it has frequently been so represented, that they cherished those schemes which were ultimately so unfortunate, but which, had it not been that "popery appeared more dreadful in england than even the prospect of slavery and temporal oppression," would doubtless have been successful without the disastrous scenes which marked the struggle to bring them to bear. lord lovat was at this time no insignificant instrument in the hands of the jacobite party. when he found that the sentence of outlawry was not reversed; when he perceived that he must no longer hope for the peaceable enjoyment of the lovat inheritance, his whole soul turned to the restoration of king james; and, after his death, to that of the young prince of wales. yet he seems, in the course of the extraordinary affairs in which the queen, mary of modena, was rash enough to employ him, to have one eye fixed upon st. james's, another upon st. germains, and to have been perfectly uncertain as to which power he should eventually dedicate his boasted influence and talents. lord lovat may be regarded as the first promoter of the insurrection of in scotland. whether his exertions proceeded from a real endeavour to promote the cause of the jacobites, or whether they were, as it has been supposed, the result of a political scheme of the duke of queensbury's, it is difficult to determine, and immaterial to decide; because his perfidy in disclosing the whole to that nobleman has been clearly discovered. it seems, however, more than probable, that he could not go on in the straightforward path; and that he was in the employ of the duke of queensbury from the first, has been confidently stated.[ ] early in , lord lovat went to france, and pretending to have authority from some of the highland clans and scottish nobility, offered the services of his countrymen to the court of st. germains. this offer was made shortly before the death of james the second, and a proposal was made in the name of the scottish jacobites to raise an army of twelve thousand men, if the king of france would consent to land five thousand men at dundee, and five hundred at fort william. his proposals were listened to, but his integrity was suspected.[ ] according to his own account, lord lovat, being in full possession of his family honours, upon the death of king william, immediately proclaimed the prince of wales in his own province, and acting, as he declares, in accordance with the advice of his friend, the duke of argyle, repaired to france, "in order to do the best that he could in that country."[ ] he immediately, to pursue his own statement, engaged the earl lord marischal, the earl of errol, lord constable of scotland, in the cause; and then, passing through england and holland, in order to go to france through flanders, he arrived in paris with this commission about the month of september. sir john maclean, cousin-german of lord lovat, had resided ten years at the court of st. germains, and to his guidance lovat confided himself. by maclean, lovat was introduced to the duke of perth, as he was called, who had been chancellor of scotland when james the second abdicated, and whose influence was now divided at the court of st. germains, by the earl of middleton. for never was faction more virulent than in the court of the exiled monarch, and during the minority of his son. the duke of perth represented lord middleton as a "faithless traitor, a pensionary of the english parliament, to give intelligence of all that passes at the court of st. germains." it was therefore agreed that this scheme of the invasion should be carried on unknown to that nobleman, and to this secrecy the queen, it is said, gave her consent. she hailed the prospect of an insurrection in scotland with joy, and declared twenty times to lord lovat that she had sent her jewels to paris to be sold, in order to send the twenty thousand crowns,[ ] which lord lovat represented would be necessary to equip the highland forces. hitherto the court of st. germains had been contented merely to keep up a correspondence with their friends, retaining them in their principles, though without any expectation of immediate assistance. the offer of lord lovat was the first step towards more active exertions in the cause of the stuarts. it is in this sense that he may almost be considered as the father of the rebellion of . he first excited those ardent spirits to unanimity and to action; and the project of restoration, which only languished whilst anne lived, was never afterwards abandoned until after the year . either through the indiscretion of queen mary of modena, or through some other channel, the plot of the invasion became known to lord middleton. jealous of the family of perth, his avowed enemies, lord middleton, according to lord lovat, was enraged at the project, and determined to ruin the projectors. it is very true that the antipathies between the prevailing factions may have excited lord middleton's anger; but it is evident, from his lordship's letters and memoranda, that his dislike had a far deeper source--the profligacy of the agent lovat; a profligacy which had deterred, as it was afterwards found, many of the highland chiefs from lending their aid to the cause. party fury, however, ran high, and before the affair of the insurrection could be settled, lord middleton, declaring that the last words of king james had made a powerful impression on his mind, retired into the convent of benedictines at paris, to be satisfied of some doubts, and to be instructed in the doctrines of the roman catholic church. but this temporary retirement rather revived than decreased the favour of the queen towards him. she trusted to his advice; and, as the statement which lord lovat gave of the affairs of scotland appeared too favourable to the excluded family to be believed, louis the fourteenth counselled the court of st. germains to send with lord lovat, or, as he is invariably called in all contemporary documents, simon fraser, a person who could be trusted to bring back a genuine account. accordingly, james murray of stanhope, the brother of sir david murray, was employed to this effect. "he was," says lord lovat, "a spy of lord middleton's, his sworn creature, and a man who had no other means of subsistence."[ ] from other accounts, however, mr. murray is shown to have been a man of probity, although in great pecuniary difficulties, as many of the younger members of old families were at that time.[ ] mr. james murray was sent forward into scotland six weeks before lord lovat set out from france; and the court had the wisdom to send with the latter another emissary in the person of mr. john murray, of abercairney. after these arrangements were completed, lord lovat received his commission. he set out upon his expedition by way of brussels, to calais. not being furnished with passports, and having no other pass than the orders of the marquis de torcy to the commandants of the different forts upon the coast, he was obliged also, to wait for an entire month, the arrival of an english packet for the exchange of prisoners,--the captain of the vessel having been bribed to take him and his companions on board as english prisoners of war, and to put them on shore during the night, in his boat, near dover. through the interest of louis the fourteenth, lovat had received the commission from king james of major-general, with power to raise and command forces in his behalf:[ ] and thus provided, he proceeded to scotland, where he was met by the duke of argyle, his friend, and conducted by that nobleman to edinburgh. such was the simple statement of lovat's first steps on this occasion. according to his memorial, which he afterwards presented to queen mary, he received assurances of support from the catholic gentry of durham, who, "when he showed them the king's picture, fell down on their knees and kissed it."[ ] this flattering statement appeared, however, to resemble the rest of the memorial of his proceedings, and met with little or no credence even in the quarter where it was most likely to be well received. from the duke of queensbury, lord lovat received a pass to go into the highlands, which was procured under feigned names, both for him and his two companions, from lord nottingham, then secretary of state. after this necessary preliminary, lord lovat made a tour among some of the principal nobility in the lowlands. he found them, even according to his own statement, averse to take up arms without an express commission from the king. but he remarks, writing always as he does in the third person, "my lord lovat pursued his journey to the highlands, where they were overjoyed to see him, because they believed him dead, having been fourteen months in france, without writing any word to his country. they came from all quarters to see him. he showed them the king's instructions, and the king of france's great promises. they were ravished to see them, and prayed to god to have their king there, and they should soon put him on the throne. my lord lovat told them that they must first fight for him, and beat his enemies in the kingdom. they answered him, that, if they got the assistance he promised them, they would march in three days' advertisement, and beat all the king's enemies in the kingdom."[ ] this statement, though possibly not wholly untrue, must be taken with more than the usual degree of allowance for the exaggeration of a partisan. many of the highland noblemen and chieftains were, indeed, well disposed to the cause of which lord lovat was the unfortunate and unworthy representative; but all regretted that their young king, as they styled him, should repose trust in so bad a character, and in many instances refused to treat with lovat. and, indeed, the partial success which he attained might be ascribed to the credit of his companion captain john murray, a gentleman of good family, whose brother, murray of abercairney, was greatly respected in his county. the embryo of the two rebellions may be distinctly traced in the plain and modest memorial which captain murray also presented, on his return from scotland, at the court of st. germains. "the earl and countess of errol," he relates, "with their son lord hay, were the first to whom i spoke of the affairs of the king of england." "speaking at edinburgh with the king's friends, about his majesty's affairs, in a more serious way than i had done before, i found that these affairs had not been mentioned among them a long time before, and that it was to them an agreeable surprise to see some hopes that they were to be revived by my negotiation." the greatest families in scotland were, indeed,[ ] ready to come forward upon condition of a certain assistance from france; and a scheme seems even to have been suggested for the invasion of england, and to have formed the main feature in one of those various plots which were as often concerted, and as often defeated, in favour of the excluded family.[ ] in france, these continual schemes, and the various changes in the english government, were regarded with the utmost contempt. "the people," writes the duke of perth, chancellor of scotland, "are kept from amusement, frameing conceits of government and religion, such as our giddy people frame to themselves, and make themselves the scorn and reproach of mankind, for all are now foes under the name of english, and we are said to be so changeable and foolish, that nothing from our parts seems strange. beheading, dethroning, and banishing of kings, being but children's play with us."[ ] but all the promise of this plan was defeated, as it is generally and confidently asserted, by the character of lord lovat. a general distrust prevailed, of his motives and of his authority, even in that very country where he had once led on his clansmen to crimes for which they had paid dearly in the humiliation and devastation of their clan. he was indeed, prevented from lingering near the home of his youth, from the decrees which had been issued against him, and the risk of discovery. disappointed in his efforts, unable to raise even fifty men of his own clan, and resolved upon gaining influence and favour in some quarter or another, he determined upon betraying the whole scheme, which has since obtained in history the name of the scottish plot, to the duke of queensbury. it was on pretext of obtaining a passport for france, that lord lovat now sought an interview with the duke in london. he there discovered to that able and influential minister, then secretary of state for scotland, the entire details of the meditated insurrection, together with the names of the principal scottish nobility concerned in the conspiracy. the duke, it appears, perfectly appreciated the character of his informant. he seems to have reflected, that from such materials as those which composed the desperate and hardened character of lovat, the best instruments of party may be selected. he consented, it is generally believed,--although historians differ greatly according to their particular bias, as to the fact,--to furnish lovat with a passport, and to employ him as a spy in the french court, in order to prosecute his discoveries still farther. when lovat was afterwards charged with this act of treachery, he declared, that he had told the duke of queensbury little more than what had escaped through the folly or malice of the jacobites; but acknowledged that a mutual compact had passed between him and the duke of queensbury.[ ] somerville, in his history of the reign of queen anne, remarks, that it is doubtful whether fraser of lovat had ever any intention of performing effectual service to the chevalier. "no sooner had he set foot in england," adds the same historian, "than he formed the nefarious project of counter-plotting his associate, and betraying the trust which he had procured through the facility and precipitate confidence of the queen."[ ] the duke of queensbury immediately communicated the plot, disclosed by lovat, to queen anne. in the main points the conduct of that able and influential minister appears to have been tolerably free from blame during the inquiry into the scottish plot which was afterwards instituted; but it is a proof of the horror and suspicion in which lord lovat was held, that the duke of queensbury's negotiations with so abandoned a tool for some time diminished the political sway which he had heretofore possessed in scotland.[ ] lord lovat returned to paris, where he had the effrontery to hand in a boasting memorial of his services, written with that particularity which gives an air of extreme accuracy to any statement. in this art he was generally accomplished, yet he seems on this occasion to have failed. for some time he flourished; alternately, one day at versailles--one day at st. germains; and, whilst an under-current of dislike and suspicion marked his course, all, apparently, went on successfully with this great dissembler. the earl of middleton, indeed, was undeceived. "i doubt not," he writes to the marquis de torcy, "you will be as much surprised at lord lovat's memorial as we have been; for although i never had a good opinion of him, yet, i did not believe him fool enough to accuse himself. he has not, in some places, been as careful as authors of romance to preserve probability." "if the king thinks proper to apprehend him," concludes lord middleton, "it should be done without noise. his name should not be mentioned any more, and at the same time his papers should be seized."[ ] such were the preparations for the secret incarceration which it was then the practice of the french court to sanction. lord lovat was not long in ignorance of the intrigues, as he calls them, which were carried on to blast his reputation at the court of st. germains. in other words, he perceived that the double game which he had been playing was discovered, and discovered in time to prevent any new or important trust being committed to his command. he fell ill, or perhaps feigned illness, probably in order to account for his absence from court; and, although backed by the influence of the earl of melfort, brother of the duke of perth, and by the marquis de torcy, he found that he could never recover the confidence of the queen mother. he took the usual plan adopted by servants who perceive that they are on the eve of being discarded--he announced his determination to retire. "my lord," he wrote to lord middleton, "i am daily informed, that the queen has but a scurvy opinion of me, and that i did her majesty bad rather than good service by my journey. my lord, i find that my enemies have greater power with the queen than i can have; and to please them, and ease her majesty, i am resolved to meddle no more with any affairs till the king is of age."[ ] there seemed to have been little need of this voluntary surrender of his employments; for, after undergoing an examination, in writing from the pope's nuncio, and after several letters had passed between lord middleton and himself, the altercation was peremptorily closed by a _lettre de cachet_, and lord lovat was committed, according to some statements, to the bastille,--as others relate, to the castle of angoulême.[ ] upon this occasion the hardihood of lord lovat's character, which shone out so conspicuously at his death, was thus exemplified. "as they went along the captain (by this name he was generally called among his friends) discoursed the officer with the same freedom as if he had been carrying him to some merry-meeting; and, on observing on his men's coats a badge all full of points, with this device--_monstrorum terror_,--'the terror of monsters,' he said wittily, pointing to the men, 'behold there the terror, and here the monster!' meaning himself. 'and if either of the kings had a hundred thousand of such, they would be fitter to fright their enemies than to hurt any one of them.' he took occasion, also, to let his attendants know of what a great and noble family he was, and how much blood had been spent in the cause of the monarchs by his ancestors."[ ] according to lord lovat's manifesto, he was at dinner at bourges, whither he had been sent on some pretext by the french government, when "a grand fat prevôt, accompanied by his lieutenant and twenty-four archers, stole into the drawing-room, and seized lord lovat as if he had been an assassin, demanding from him his sword in the king's name. the villain of a prevôt," adds his lordship, "was so obliging as to attend lord lovat, with his archers, all the way to angoulême. he had the luck to procure a cursed little chaise, where lord lovat was in a manner buried alive under the unwieldy bulk of this enormous porpoise." this relation, so different from that given by mr. arbuthnot, weakens the veracity of both accounts, and leads one to infer that the long narrative by the reverend gentleman of lord lovat's adventures in the bastille were written upon hearsay.[ ] in the castle of angoulême lord lovat continued for three years; at first, being treated with great severity: "thirty-five days in perfect darkness, where every moment he expected death, and prepared to meet it with becoming fortitude. he listened with eagerness and anxiety to every noise, and, when his door screached upon its hinges, he believed that it was the executioner come to put an end to his unfortunate days." in this predicament, finding that the last punishment was delayed, he "thought proper to address himself to a grim jailoress, who came every day to throw him something to eat, in the same silent and cautious manner in which you would feed a mad dog."[ ] by the "clink of a louis d'or," the prisoner managed to subdue the fidelity of this fair jailoress; she supplied him with pens and paper, and he immediately began a correspondence with his absent friends at the french court. after a time, the severity of lord lovat's imprisonment was mitigated. the castle of angoulême was, in a manner, an open prison, having an extensive park within its walls, with walks open to the inhabitants; and here, through the influence of monsieur de torcy, lord lovat was permitted to take exercise. his insinuating manners won upon the inhabitants, and the prison of angoulême became so agreeable to him, that he was often heard to say, that "if there was a beautiful and enchanting prison in the world, it was the castle of angoulême." meantime, the scheme of invasion was by no means relinquished on the part of the jacobites, although it had received a considerable check from the treachery of its agents. it is stated by some historians that scarcely had lord lovat quitted england, than sir john maclean, his cousin-german, and campbell, of glendarnel, disclosed the plot to lord athole and lord tarbat. these noblemen instantly went to queen anne, and accused the duke of queensbury of high treason, in carrying on a villanous plot with the court of st. germains. queensbury defended himself before the house of lords, and the accusation, which rested chiefly on the assertions of ferguson, the famous hatcher of plots, was declared false and scandalous, and ferguson was committed to newgate. the reluctance of the duke of queensbury to give up the correspondence, excited, however, suspicions of his integrity; which, as harley, lord oxford, expressed it, could only be cleared up by fraser, lord lovat;[ ] but lord lovat was not then to be found. in all this singular and complicated affair, it is impossible to help wondering at the folly and audacity which lord lovat had shown in returning to france, conscious of having placed himself at the mercy of ruthless politicians, and aware that in that country he could expect no redress nor protection from law. but the original crime for which he had been sent forth, an outlaw from his country, was the source of all his subsequent mistakes and misfortunes. france was open to him; scotland was closed; and england was a scene of peril to one who trod on fragile ice, beneath which a deep gulf yawned. lord lovat had been two years in prison before any of his former friends, for even he was not wholly devoid of partisans, interfered with success in his behalf; and it was the good, old-fashioned feeling of kindred that finally moved the marquis de frezelière, or frezel, or frezeau de la frezelière, to interest himself in the fate of his despised, and perhaps forgotten, relative. "the house of frezelière, which ascends," says lord lovat, "in an uninterrupted line, and without any unequal alliance, to the year , with its sixty-four quarterings in its armorial bearings, and all noble, its titles of seven hundred years standing in the abbey of nôtre dame de noyers in touraine, and its many other circumstances of inherent dignity," was, as we have seen, derived from the same blood with the family of frezel, or fraser. in former, and more prosperous days, a common and authentic act of recognition of this relationship had been drawn up at paris by the marquis and his many illustrious kinsmen, the three sons of the marshal luxembourg de montmorenci; and executed, on the other hand, by simon fraser, lord lovat, and by his brother, and several of their nearest kin. the marquis de frezelière appears to have been a fine specimen of that proud and valiant aristocracy, not even then wholly broken down in france by the effeminacy of the times. he was haughty and determined, "an eagle in the concerns of war," and of a spirit not to be subdued. by his powerful intercession, checked only by the disgust which mary of modena felt towards lovat, he procured from the king of france permission for his relative to repair to the waters of bourbon for the restoration of his health. this order was signed by louis the fourteenth, and countersigned by the marquis de torcy, as "colbert." four days afterwards, a second order was received by the authorities at angoulême, by which his majesty commanded that lord lovat, after the restoration of his health, should repair to his town of saumur, until further orders. "at the same time," says lord lovat, "he was permitted to take with him the chevalier de frezel, his brother." these orders were dated august the second and august the fourteenth, . the brother, whom lord lovat always designates as the chevalier de fraser, had been placed with a doctor of the civil law at bourges, in order to learn french, and the profession of a civilian. he had been arrested at the same time with lord lovat; and was now, after a temporary separation, permitted to share the pleasures of a removal to bourbon. according to lord lovat, a pension from the french government was settled upon this young man as long as he resided in france; and lord lovat received also the ample income of four thousand francs, (one hundred and sixty-six pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence,) from the same quarter: nor was it in the power of his enemies at st. germains to induce louis the fourteenth to withdraw this allowance.[ ] the marquis de frezelière continued firm in his regard towards lord lovat. on his road to saumur, lord lovat was received and entertained at the château of the marquis with hospitality and kindness, and no opportunity was omitted by which the marquis could testify the sincerity of his interest in the fate of his relative. meantime daily reports were circulated that the projected insurrection, far from being abandoned, had been revived, and that the chevalier was going to undertake the conduct of the invasion in person. but that young prince was still inexorable to any petition in favour of lovat, and was wisely resolved not to let him participate in the operations. "were he not already in prison," he is stated by lovat himself to have said, "i would make it my first request to the king of france to throw him into one." this fixed aversion was owing to the determined dislike of the queen to abdicate, as it was her resolution, if there were no other person to be employed, never to make lord lovat an instrument of her affairs. lovat, therefore, now clearly perceived that, during the life of the queen and of lord middleton, he must look for nothing favourable from the court of st. germains. that of versailles, although, by his account, decidedly friendly to his release, refused to support those whom the chevalier had renounced. he resolved, therefore, to make every exertion to return to his own country, and to place himself once more at the head of his clan, who, in spite of his crimes, in spite of his long absence and imprisonment, had still refused to acknowledge any other chief. the attempt was indeed desperate, but lovat resolved to risk it, and to escape, at all events, from france. to the vengeance of the athole family, lord lovat always imputed much of the severity shown him by the court at st. germains: and it is probable that the representations of that powerful house may have contributed to the odium in which the character of lord lovat was universally held. his own deeds were, however, sufficient to ensure him universal hatred. the great source of surprise is, that this unscrupulous intriguer, this unprincipled member of society, seems, at times, during the course of his eventful life, to have met with friends, firm in their faith to him, and to have enjoyed, in that respect, the privilege of virtue. the young heiress of lovat, amelia fraser, was now married to alexander mackenzie, son of lord prestonhall; mr. mackenzie had adopted the title of fraserdale; and a son had been born of this marriage, who had been named after his grandfather, hugh. fraserdale and his lady had taken possession both of the title and estates of lord lovat, during his absence; but, since the dignity and estates had always been enjoyed by an heir-male, from the origin of the house of fraser, these claimants to the estate of the outlawed lovat spread a report that the honours and lands had, in old times, belonged to the bissets, whose daughter and only child had married a fraser, from whom the estates had descended to the heir of that line. a suit was instituted against lord lovat and, on the ninth of march, , lord prestonhall, the father of fraserdale, himself adjudged the lordship and barony of lovat to amelia fraser. an entail of the estates and honours upon the heirs of the marriage between amelia fraser and mackenzie of fraserdale, was then executed, and the former assumed the title of lady lovat, whilst her son was designated the master of lovat.[ ] lord prestonhall seems to have acted with the same unscrupulous spirit which characterizes most of the business transactions of those who intermeddled with the forfeited or disputed estates. it was his aim, as the memorial for the lovat case, subsequently tried, sets forth, to extirpate the clan of the frasers, and to raise that of the mackenzies upon its ruins. "accordingly," says mr. anderson, in his curious and elaborate account of the house of fraser, "he framed a deed, with the sly contrivance of sinking the frasers into the mackenzies, by encouraging the former to change their names, and providing, as a condition of the estate, that should they return to, and reassume their ancient name of fraser, they should forfeit their right."[ ] the arms of mackenzie, macleod of lewis, and bisset, were to be quartered with those of fraser, in this deed, which bore the signature of robert mackenzie, and was dated the twenty-third of february, . this decision, and the deed which followed it, appeared to complete the misfortunes of the disgraced and banished lord lovat. but, in fact, the act of injustice and rapacity, so repugnant to the spirit of the highlanders,--this attempt to force upon the heirs of fraser a foreign name, and thus to lower the dignity of the clan, was the most auspicious event that could happen to the wretched outlaw. what was his exact condition, or what were his circumstances, during the seven years of his imprisonment, three of which were passed under strict, though not harsh control, in the castle of angoulême, and four, apparently on his parole, in the fortress of saumur, it is not easy to describe. the cause of the obscurity of his fate at this time, is not that too little, but that too much, has been stated relative to his movements. it is always an inconvenience when one cannot take a man's own story in evidence. according to lord lovat's own account, these weary years were spent in visits to different members of the nobility. the charming countess de la roche succeeded the marquis de la frezelière as his friend and patroness, after the death of the marquis in , an event which, according to lord lovat's statement, brought him nearly to the grave from grief. the countess was a woman of a masculine understanding, and of admirable talents, bold, insinuating, and ambitious. her education in the household of the great condé, and her long attendance upon the princess de conti, the hero's daughter, had qualified her for those arduous and delicate intrigues, without which no woman of intellect at that period in france might think herself sufficiently distinguished. the appointment of the duke of hamilton as ambassador at the court of louis, rendered such a friend as madame de la roche, who was also distantly related to him, very essential for the prosecution of lord lovat's present schemes, which were, to obtain his release, and to procure employment in any enterprise concerted by the jacobites against england. fate, however, relieved lord lovat from one apprehension. the duke of hamilton was killed in a duel by lord mohun, in hyde park; and this fresh source of danger was thus annihilated. the kindness which the famous colbert, marquis de torcy, had shown to lord lovat, and the promise which he had given to that nobleman, not to break his parole, and to return to england, seems to have been the only check to a long-cherished project on the part of lord lovat to escape to london, and to risk all that law might there inflict. it is uncertain in what manner, during the tedious interval between intrigues and intrigues, he solaced his leisure. it has been stated by one of his biographers that he actually joined a society of jesuits,--by another, that he took priest's orders, and acted as parochial priest at st. omers. of course, in compiling a defence of his life, the wary man of the world omitted such particulars as would, at any rate, betray inconsistency, and beget suspicion. his object in becoming a jesuit, is said to have been to hear confessions and to discover intrigues. with respect to the report of his having entered the order of jesuits, it is justly alleged in answer, that no jesuit is permitted to hear confessions until he has been fifteen years a member of the society, or, at least, in priest's orders.[ ] the rumour of his having become an ecclesiastic, in any way, no doubt originated in lord lovat's joke on a subsequent occasion, when "he declared that had he wished it, and had remained in priest's orders, which he did not deny having assumed for some purpose, he might have become pope in time."[ ] whilst lord lovat, contrary to the advice of madame la roche, was deliberating whether he should not leave france, he was surprised, in the summer of , by a visit from one of the principal gentlemen of his clan, fraser of castle lader, son of malcolm fraser, of culdelthel, a very considerable branch of the family of lovat. this gentleman brought lord lovat a strong remonstrance from all his clan at his absence--an entreaty to him to return--a recommendation that he would join himself in an alliance with the duke of argyle, who was disposed to aid him; he added affectionate greetings from some of the principal gentry of his neighbourhood, and, among others, from john forbes, of culloden. this important ally was the father of the justly celebrated duncan forbes, afterwards lord president. these messages decided lord lovat. after some indecision he left saumur, and being allowed by his parole to travel to any place in france, he went on the twelfth of august, , to rouen, under pretence of paying a visit there. from rouen he proceeded to dieppe, but finding no vessel there, he travelled along the coast of normandy, and from thence to boulogne. from that port he sailed in a small smack, in a rough sea, during the night, and landed at dover, november the eleventh, . he met his kinsman, alexander fraser, on the quay at dover, and with him proceeded to london. his former friend, the duke of argyle, was now dead; but alliances, as well as antipathies, are hereditary in scotland, and john, duke of argyle, was well disposed to assist one whose family had been anciently connected with his own. besides, the state of public affairs was now totally changed since lord lovat had left england, and it was incumbent upon the government to avail themselves of any tool which they might require for certain ends and undertakings. queen anne was now dead,--the last of the stuart dynasty in this kingdom. whatever were her failings and her weaknesses as a woman, she has left behind her the character of having loved her people; and she was endeared to them by her purely english birth, her homely virtue of economy, and her domestic unpretending qualities. her reign had been one of mercy; no subject had suffered for treason during her rule: she had few relations with foreign powers; and when, in her opening speech to the parliament, she expressed that her heart was "wholly english," she spoke her real sentiments, and described, in that simple touch the true character of her mind. she was succeeded by a german prince, who immediately showered marks of his royal favour upon the whigs; whilst the tories, who formed so large a party in the kingdom, were alienated from the government by the manifest aversion to them which george the first rather aimed to evince than laboured to conceal. the jacobites differed in some measure from the tories, inasmuch as the latter were generally well affected to the accession of the hanoverian family, until disgusted by the choice of the new administration. dissensions quickly rose to their height; and when the government was attacked in the house of commons by sir william wyndham, the unusual sounds, "the tower! the tower!" were heard once more amid the inflamed assembly. the spirit of disaffection quickly spread throughout england; the very life-guards were compelled by an angry populace, when celebrating the anniversary of the restoration of the stuarts, to join in the cry of "high church and ormond!" lord bolingbroke had withdrawn to france--treasonable papers were discovered and intercepted on their way from jacobite emissaries to dr. swift, tumults were raised in the city of london and in westminster, and were punished with a severity to which the metropolis had been unaccustomed since the reign of james the second. all these manifestations had their origin in one common source,--the deeply concerted schemes which were now nearly brought into maturity at the court of st. germains. the following extract of a letter dated from luneville, and taken from the macpherson papers, shows what was meditated abroad; it is in schrader's hand. (translation.) "luneville, june th, . "it is likely the chevalier st. george is preparing for some great design, which is kept very private. it was believed he would drink the waters of plombière for three weeks, as is customary, and that he would come afterwards to pass fifteen days at luneville; but he changed his measures; he did not continue to drink the waters, which he drank only for ten days, and came back to luneville on saturday last. he sets out to-morrow very early for bar. lord galmoy went before him, and set out this morning. lord talmo, who came lately from france, is with him, and some say that the duke of berwick is incognito in this neighbourhood. "the chevalier appears pensive,--that, indeed, is his ordinary humour. mr. floyd, who has been these five days at the court of his royal highness, told a mistress he has there, that when he leaves her now, he will take his leave of her perhaps for the last time:--in short, it is certain that everything here seems sufficiently to announce preparations for a journey. it is said, likewise, in private, that the chevalier has had letters that the queen is very ill. i have done everything i could to discover something of his designs. i supped last night with several of his attendants, thinking to learn something; but they avoid to explain themselves. they only say that the chevalier did not find himself the better for drinking the waters; that he would now go to repose himself for some time at bar, until he goes, the beginning of next month, to the prince de vandemont's, at commercie, where their royal highnesses will come likewise. they say they do not know yet if they will remain in this country or not; that they will follow the destiny of the chevalier, and that it is not known yet what it shall be."[ ] when lord lovat thus precipitately threw himself once more on the mercy of his country, he could not have been ignorant that the cabals which had long been carried on against the hanoverian succession, were now shortly to break out in open rebellion; and it was, without doubt, in the hope of profiting in some measure during the confusion of the coming troubles, that he had hastened, at the risk of his life, to england. he entrusted the secret of his arrival immediately to the duke of argyle, whom he met in london. that nobleman, one of the few disinterested men whose virtues might almost obtain the name of patriotism in those days, saw the danger which lord lovat would incur if he returned to scotland. sentence of death had been passed upon him; it might be acted upon by an adverse judge at any moment. he besought lovat to remain in england until a remission of that sentence could be obtained; and for this purpose addresses to the court for mercy were circulated for signature throughout the northern counties of scotland.[ ] to further the success of this scheme, lord lovat had recourse to his neighbour and early friend, john forbes, laird of culloden, whose after-services in the royal cause, and whose strict alliance of friendship with the duke of argyle, secured to him a considerable influence in that part of scotland in which he resided. "much honoured and dear sir,"--thus wrote lord lovat to the laird,--"the real friendship that i know you have for my person and family makes me take the freedom to assure you of my kind service, and to entreat you to join with my other friends between sky and nesse, to sign the addresse which the court requires, in order to give me my remission. your cousin james, who has generously exposed himself to bring me out of chains, will inform you of all steps and circumstances of my affairs since he saw me. i wish, dear sir, from my heart, you were here; i am confident you would speak to the duke of argyle and to the earl of isla, to let them know their own interest, and their reiterated promises to do for me. perhaps they may have, sooner than they expect, a most serious occasion for my service. but it is needless to preach now that doctrine to them; they think themselves in ane infallible security; i wish they may not be mistaken. however, i think it's the interest of all who love this government, betwixt sky and nesse, to see me at the head of my clan, ready to join them; so that i believe none of them will refuse to sign ane adresse to make me a scotsman. i am perswaded, dear sir, that you will be of good example to them on that head. but secrecy, above all, must be keept; without which all may go wrong. i hope you will be stirring for the parliament, for i will not be reconciled to you if you let prestonall outvote you. brigadier grant, to whom i am infinitely obliged, has written to foyers to give you his vote, and he is ane ungrat villian if he refuses him. [if] i was at home, the little pitiful barons of the aird durst not refuse you. but i am hopefull that the news of my going to brittain will hinder prestonall to go north; for i may come to meet him when he lest thinks of me. i am very impatient to see you, and to assure you most sincerely how much i am, with love and respect, right honourable, your most obedient and most humble servant, "lovat." "the th of nov. ." the nature of the address to which this letter refers was not only an appeal to the king in behalf of lord lovat, but also an engagement, on the part of his friends, to answer for the loyalty of lord lovat, in any sum required. it is remarkable that when james fraser, the kinsman of lovat, arrived in the county of inverness, and declared the purpose of his journey, the lairds who were well-affected to the nobility, joined in giving their subscriptions; and the earl of sutherland, the lord strathallan, and the nobility of the counties of ross and sutherland, signed them also. the duke of montrose, however, boldly opposed them, and described lord lovat as a man unworthy of the king's confidence.[ ] a year, however, had elapsed, whilst lovat was hanging about the court, before the address was brought to london by lord isla, brother of the duke of argyle, and afterwards archibald, duke of argyle. the address was presented on sunday, the twenty-fourth of july, . "the earl of orkney," says lord lovat, "who was the lord in waiting, held out his hand to receive them from the king, according to custom. the king, however, drew them back, folded them up, and, as if he had been pre-advised of their contents, put them into his pocket."[ ] and with this sentence, denoting that the crisis of his affairs was at hand, end the memoirs which lord lovat either wrote or dictated to others, of the early portion of his life. meantime, the earl of stair, the english ambassador at paris, had discovered the embryo scheme of invasion, and had communicated it to the british court, although, unhappily for both parties, not in sufficient time to damp the hopes of the unfortunate jacobites. on the sixth of september, , the earl of mar set up his standard at braemar. consistent with the usual fatality attending every attempt of the stuarts, this event was preceded only five days by the death of louis the fourteenth--the only real friend of the excluded family; but the jacobites had now proceeded too far to recede.[ ] lord lovat resolved, however, to profit in the general disasters. his influence among his clansmen was obvious: whether for good or, in some instances, for evil, there is much to admire in the resolute adherence of those faithful mountaineers, who had resisted the assumption of a stranger, and invited back to their hills the long-absent and ruined chief, whom they regarded as their own. lord lovat now found means to represent to the english government, that if he could have a passport to go into the highlands, he might be instrumental in quelling the rebellion. the ministry, in their perplexities, availed themselves of his aid, and a pass was granted to him, under the name of captain brown. he once more set out for his own country, and reached edinburgh in safety, attended only by his kinsman, major fraser. from edinburgh he resolved to proceed in a ship--when he could procure one, for the country was all in commotion. meantime he took up his abode, still maintaining his disguise, in the grass market. his real name was soon discovered, and information was given to the lord justice clerk, who granted a warrant for his apprehension, as a person "outlawed and intercommuned;" and to prevent any difficulty in apprehending the prisoner, a party of the town guard was ordered to escort the peace officers to the lodgings of lord lovat. the officer who had the command of the town guard happened, however, to be acquainted with lovat, and he interposed his aid on this occasion. he listened to the account which lovat gave of the business which had brought him to edinburgh. the provost was next gained over to the opinion, that it would be wrong to oppose any obstruction to one who had his majesty's passport: he ordered lord lovat to be set at liberty; and in order to give some colour of justice to this act, he declared that the information must have been wrong, it being laid against captain fraser,--whereas, the person taken appeared to be captain brown. lovat was once more in safety: he changed his lodgings, however; and, as soon as possible, set sail for inverness. again danger, in another form, retarded his arrival among his clan. a storm arose, the ship was obliged to put into the nearest harbour, and lord lovat was driven into fraserburgh, which happened to be within a few miles of the abode of his old enemy and rival lord saltoun. mr. forbes, one of the culloden family, was now fortunately for lord lovat, with him on his majesty's service. after some consultation together, he and lovat decided to make themselves known to mr. baillie, town-clerk of fraserburgh: they did so, were kindly received, and provided with horses to convey them to culloden house, the seat of the future lord president of scotland, duncan forbes. here they arrived in november, after incurring great risks from the jacobite troops, who were patroling in parties over the country.[ ] culloden house, famed in history, was inhabited by a race whose views, conduct, and personal character present a singular contrast, with those of lord lovat, or with those of other adventurers in political life. the head of the family was, at the period of the first insurrection, john forbes, a worthy representative of an honourable, consistent, and spirited family. the younger brother of john forbes was the celebrated duncan forbes, a man whose toleration of lord lovat, not to say countenance of that compound of violence and duplicity, seems to be the only incomprehensible portion of his lofty and beautiful character. "duncan forbes was born," observes a modern writer, "of parents who transmitted their estate to his elder brother, and to all their children an hereditary aversion to the house of stuart, which they appear to have resisted from the very commencement of the civil wars, and upon the true grounds on which that resistance ought to have been made."[ ] by a singular fortune the hereditary estates of culloden and ferintosh had been ravaged, the year after the revolution, by the soldiers of buchan and cannon, on account of the jacobite principles of the owners. a liberal compensation was made in the form of a perpetual grant of a liberty to distil into spirits the grain of the barony of ferintosh,--a name which has become almost as famous as that of culloden. it was the subsequent fate of culloden to witness on its moors the total destruction of that cause which its owners had so long resisted and deprecated. duncan forbes, who, during a course of many years, was bound by an inexplicable alliance with lovat, was at this period about thirty years of age. he had already attained the highest reputation for eloquence, assiduity, and learning at the scottish bar, and during his frequent opportunities for display before the house of lords. but it was his personal character, during a period of vacillating principles, and almost of disturbed national reason, which obtained that singular and benignant influence over his fellow-countrymen for which the life of duncan forbes is far more remarkable, far more admirable, than for the exercise of his brilliant and varied talents. he had "raised himself," observes the same discriminating commentator on his life and correspondence, "to the high station which he afterwards held by the unassisted excellence of a noble character, by the force of which he had previously won and adorned all the subordinate gradations of office."[ ] he adorned this unenvied and unsullied pinnacle of fame by virtues of which the record is ennobling to the mind. "he is," observes another writer, "in every situation, so full of honour, of gentleness, of kindness, and intrepidity, that we doubt if there be any one public man in this part of the empire, or of the age that is gone, whose qualities ought to be so strongly recommended to the contemplation of all those who wish to serve their country." it was in such society as this that lord lovat, by a rare fortune, was brought, after his long and disgraceful exile. it was to such a home of virtue, of intelligence, of the purest and best affections, that he was introduced after a long course of contamination in the lowest scenes of french corruption, which had succeeded an equally demoralising initiation into the less graceful vices of the court of george the first. the inestimable privilege came too late in one sense. lord lovat had gained nothing but wariness by the lapse of years; but the benefit to his worldly condition was considerable. from this time until a few years before the insurrection of , lord lovat may be regarded as a jealous partisan of the house of hanover. no doubt, a general survey of the state of society in scotland would, independent of his own personal views, have satisfied him that in such a course was the only chance of permanent safety. the wretchedness of the state of things at that period, can scarcely be adequately comprehended by those who live in times when liberty of opinion is universally an understood condition of civilized intercourse. it is difficult for any person who lives now to carry himself back, by reading or conversation, into the prospects or feelings of the people of scotland about a hundred years ago. the religious persecutions of the stuarts had given a darker hue to the old austerity of their calvinism. the expectation of change constantly held out by that family divided the nation into two parties, differing on a point which necessarily made each of them rebels in the eyes of the other; and thus the whole kingdom was racked by jealousies, heart-burnings, and suspicions. the removal, by the union, of all the patronage and show of royalty, spread a gloom and discontent, not only over the lower, but over the higher ranks. the commencement of a strict system of general taxation was new, while the miserable poverty of the country rendered it unproductive and unpopular. the great families still lorded it over their dependants, and exercised legal jurisdiction within their own domains; by which the general police of the kingdom was crippled, and the grossest legal oppression practised. the remedy adopted for all these evils, which was to abate nothing and to enforce everything under the direction of english counsels or of english men, completed the national wretchedness, and infused its bitterest ingredient into the brim full cup. the events of the year present but a feeble exemplification of the truth of this description compared with the annals of , for the first rebellion was, happily, soon closed. lord lovat did not hesitate long on which side he should enlist himself; and the intelligence that his rival, mackenzie of fraserdale, had taken up arms in favour of the chevalier, decided his course.[ ] on the fifth of november he assembled all those of his clan who were still faithful to him, and who had been warned of his approach by his friends. he was received among them with exclamations of joy; and, hearing that a body of mackintoshes, a jacobite clan, were marching to reinforce sir john mackenzie, who commanded the castle at inverness, he marched forward with his adherents to intercept them, and to prevent their joining what he then called "the rebel garrison." the citadel of inverness, built in by oliver cromwell, and called oliver's fort, stood on the east bank of the river ness, and was a regular pentagon, with bastions, ramparts, and a moat; the standard of the protectorate, with the word "emmanuel" inscribed upon it, had formerly been displayed upon its ramparts. it was calculated to hold two thousand men, and was washed on one side by the river. as a fortress it had many inconveniencies; approaches to it were easy, and the town afforded a quarter for an enemy's army. in it had been partly dismantled by charles the second, because it was the relic of usurpation, and constituted a check upon the adjacent highlanders, who were then considered loyal.[ ] it is said by one who saw it after the restoration to have been a very superb work, and it was one of the regular places for the deposition of arms at the time of the rebellion of . subsequently it was much augmented and enlarged, and bore, until its destruction after the battle of culloden, the name of fort george, an appellation now transferred to its modern successor on the promontory of ardesseil. it was against this important fortress that lord lovat now marched with as much zeal and intrepidity as if he had been fighting in the cause of that family for whom his ancestors had suffered. he proceeded straight to inverness, and placing himself on the west side of the town despatched a party of troops to prevent any supply of arms or provisions from approaching the castle by the firth. forbes of culloden lay to the east, and the grants, to the number of eight hundred, to the south side of the town. sir john mackenzie finding himself thus invested on all sides, took advantage of a spring tide that came up to the town and made the river navigable, to escape with all his troops; and lord lovat immediately gained possession of the citadel. the fame of this inglorious triumph has, however, been divided between lovat and hugh rose of kilravock,[ ] whose brother, in pursuing the jacobite guard to the tolbooth, was shot through the body. but whoever really deserved the laurel, lord lovat profited largely by his dishonest exertions in a cause which he began life by disliking, and ended by abjuring. on the thirteenth of november lord lovat was joined by the earl of sutherland; and, leaving a garrison in inverness, the two noblemen marched into the territory of the earl of seaforth, where they intimidated the natives into submission. lord lovat also despatched a friend to perth, where the main portion of the jacobite army lay, to claim the submission of his clansmen, who were led by his rival, mackenzie of fraserdale. they complied with his summons to the number of four hundred, and lovat, after entering murray and strathspey, and exacting obedience to the king's troops in these districts, prepared to attack lord seaforth, who was threatening to invest inverness. but duncan forbes, who was then serving with the army, restrained the ardour of his neighbour, and hostilities were terminated in the north without further bloodshed.[ ] lord lovat was quickly repaid for his exertions. from george the first he received three letters of thanks, and an invitation to go to court; and in march, , a remission of the sentence of death which had been passed upon him, received the royal signature. he was appointed governor of inverness, with a free company of highlanders. what, perhaps, still more gratified his natural thirst for vengeance was the fate of his rival, the husband of amelia lovat, mackenzie of fraserdale, who was attainted of high treason, and whose life-interest in the lands and barony of lovat were forfeited and escheated to the crown. to complete the good fortune of lovat, the king was graciously pleased, in june, , to make him a present of the forfeited lands; and lovat immediately took possession of the estate, and entered his claim to the honours and dignities which were appended to the lands.[ ] it was now that he added another motto to the arms of the frasers, and struck out the quarterings of the bisset family, which had been made a plea for his adversary. the ancient frasers, or frizells, had for their motto "_je suis prest_," to which this honour to their house now added the words, "_sine sanguine victor_," denoting that he had come peaceably to the estate.[ ] he was now the undisputed lord lovat; hitherto he had borne, generally, the convenient name of captain fraser, given to him in his military capacity; and it appears, in spite of all his boastings, that he had scarcely been called by any other title at the french court than that of fraser of beaufort. he had now an admirable opportunity of obliterating the remembrance of his past life, and of conciliating good opinion by the consistency and regulation of his present conduct. notwithstanding his crimes his clansmen turned towards him gladly; his neighbours were willing to assist him in the support of his honours, and he enjoyed what he had never before experienced, the confidence of his sovereign. lord lovat began his season of prosperity by litigations, which lasted between twelve and fourteen years. his first aim was to set aside the pretensions of hugh fraser, the son of mackenzie of fraserdale, who claimed the title of lord lovat after his father's death; and also, by virtue of settlements, asserted rights to the estate. the contest was finally decided by the house of lords in favour of lord lovat's enjoying the honours and lands during his life, the fee remaining with fraserdale, who died in . vexatious and expensive suits occupied the period between and , when they were brought to a final conclusion. lovat now assumed a state corresponding to his station, and suitable to the turn of his mind for display. not only the lands, heritages, tenements, annual rents, &c., of the unfortunate mackenzie of fraserdale were bestowed on him for his services in suppressing what in the deed of gift was termed "the late unnatural rebellion in the north of scotland;" but also the "goods, jewels, gear, utensils and _domecills_, horses, sheep, cattle, corn," and, in short, whatsoever had belonged to the mackenzies, together with five hundred pounds of money, which had fallen into the king's hands. it was, indeed, some time before all this could be accomplished, as the correspondence between lord lovat and his friend duncan forbes sufficiently shows. "inverness, the th march, . "my dearest general,[ ] "i send you the inclosed letter from the name of macleod, which i hope you will make good use of; for it's most certain, i keep'd the m'leods at home, which was considerable service done to the government. the earle went off from cullodin to cromarty last night; and tho' he got a kind letter from marlbrugh, congratulating him on his glorious actions, yet he was obliged to own to general wightman, that his lordship would have got nothing done in the north without my dear general and me. i wish he may do us the same justice at court: if not, i am sure, if i live, i will inform the king in person of all that passed here since the rebellion. the earle's creatures openly speak of the duke of argyle's being recalled. i could not bear it. you know my too great vivacity on that head. i was really sick with it, and could not sleep well since. i expect impatiently a letter from you to determinal my going to london, or my stay here, where i am very well with general wightman, but always much mortified to see myself the servant of all, without a post or character. i go to-morrow to castle grant to take my leave of my dear alister dow. your brother is to follow and to go with alister to london this week. i find the duke was gone before you could be at london. i hope, my dear general, you will take a start to london to serve his grace, and do something for your poor old corporal; and, if you suffer glengarry, frazerdale, or the chisholm, to be pardoned, i will never carry a musquet any more under your command, though i should be obliged to go to affrick. however, you know how obedient i am to my general's orders. you forgot to give the order, signed by you and the other depicts, to meddle with frazerdale's estate for the king's service. i intreat you send it me, for ---- is afraid to meddle without authority. adieu, mon aimable general; vous savez que je vous aime tendrement; et que je suis mille fois plus à vous qu'à moy-même pour la vie. "lovat." in another letter, he observes--"the king has been pleased, this very day, to give me a gift of all fraserdale's escheat." still, however, one thing was wanting; the rapacious lovat had not obtained his former enemy's plate; general wightman had taken possession of it as from the person with whom it was deposited; and he was celebrated for his unwillingness to part with what he had gained. at last, however, the greediness of lovat was appeased if not satisfied by a present from general cadogan of the plate which he had taken, belonging to fraserdale; and by a compromise with general wightman, lovat paying the general one-half of the value of the plate which was worth only one hundred and fifty pounds. thus were the remains of the unhappy jacobites parcelled out among these military plunderers. during this year, the avocations of lord lovat's turbulent leisure were pleasingly varied by the cares of a love suit. the young lady who was persuaded to link her fate to his, was margaret, the fourth daughter of ludovick grant, of grant; she is said to have been young and beautiful. but several obstacles retarded for awhile her union with lord lovat. in the first place, he was not wholly unmarried to the dowager of lovat, who was still alive. the family of athole had, it is true, annulled that marriage, yet there were still legal doubts and difficulties in the way of a fresh bond. lord lovat was now, however, according to his own report to his "dearest general" at culloden, in high favour with king george and the prince of wales; and to them he broached the subject of his marriage. "i had a private audience of king george this day; and i can tell you, dear general, that no man ever spoke freer language to his majesty or to the prince than i did." "they still behave to me like kind brothers; and i spoke to them both of my marriage, they approve of it mightily, and my lord islay brother of the duke [of argyle], is to make the proposition to the king; and, so that i believe it will do, with that agreement that my two great friends wish and desire it."[ ] he could, however, do nothing except in a sinister manner; nor was there ever one motive which sprang from a right source. again he thus addresses duncan forbes:-- "i spoke to the duke and my lord islay about my marriage, and told them that one of my greatest motifs to that design, was to secure them the joint interest of the north." this must have been a pleasing consideration for the young lady, but that which follows is scarcely less promising and agreeable. "they [the duke and lord islay] are both to speak of it to the king; but islay desired me to write to you, to know if there would be any fear of a poursuit of adherence from that other person [the dowager lady lovat], which is a chimirical business, and tender fear for me in my dear islay. but when i told him that the lady denyed, before the justice court, that i had anything to do with her, and that the pretended marriage is declared nul (which islay says should be done by the commissarys only), yet, when i told him that the witnesses were all dead who were at the pretended marriage, he was satisfyed that they could make nothing of it, though they would endeavour it."[ ] this letter, which shows in too clear colours how unscrupulous even men of reputed honour, such as lord islay, were on some points in those days, seems to have removed all obstacles; and, during the following year ( ), lord lovat was united to margaret grant. her father was the head of a numerous and powerful clan, and this marriage tended greatly to increase the influence of lord lovat among the highlanders. two children, a son and a daughter, were the result of this union. prosperity once more shone upon the chieftain of the frasers; and he now restored to his home, castle downie, all the baronial state which must so well have accorded with that ancient structure. the famous sergeant macleod, in his memoirs, gives a graphic account of his reception at castle downie by lord lovat, where the old soldier repaired to seek a commission in the celebrated highland company, afterwards called the highland watch.[ ] "at three o'clock," says the biographer of macleod,[ ] "on a summer's morning, he set out on foot from edinburgh; and about the same hour, on the second day thereafter, he stood on the green of castle downie, lord lovat's residence, about five or six miles beyond inverness; having performed in forty-eight hours a journey of a hundred miles and upwards, and the greater part of it through a mountainous country. his sustenance on this march was bread and cheese, with an onion, all which he carried in his pocket, and a dram of whiskey at each of the three great stages on the road,--and at falkland, the half-way house between edinburgh, by the way of kinghorn and perth. he never went to bed during the whole of this journey; though he slept once or twice for an hour or two together, in the open air, on the road side. "by the time he arrived at lord lovat's park the sun had risen upwards of an hour, and shone pleasantly, according to the remark of our hero, well pleased to find himself in this spot, on the walls of castle downie, and those of the ancient abbey of beaulieu in the near neighbourhood. between the hours of five and six lord lovat appeared walking about in his hall, in a morning dress, and at the same time a servant flung open the great folding doors, and all the outer doors and windows of the house. it is about this time that many of the great families of the present day go to bed. "as macleod walked up and down on the lawn before the house, he was soon observed by lord lovat who immediately went out, and, bowing to the sergeant with great courtesy, invited him to come in. lovat was a fine-looking tall man, and had something very insinuating in his manners and address. he lived in the fullness of hospitality, being more solicitous, according to the genius of the feudal times, to retain and multiply adherents than to accumulate wealth by the improvement of his estate. as scarcely any fortune, and certainly not _his_ fortune, was adequate to the extent of his views, he was obliged to regulate his unbounded hospitality by rules of prudent economy. as his spacious hall was crowded by kindred visitors, neighbours, vassals, and tenants of all ranks, the table, that extended from one end of it nearly to the other, was covered at different places with different kinds of meat and drink--though of each kind there was always great abundance. at the head of the table the lords and lairds pledged his lordship in claret, and sometimes champagne; the tacksmen, or demiwassals, drank port or whiskey-punch; tenants, or common husbandmen, refreshed themselves with strong beer; and below the utmost extent of the table, at the door, and sometimes without the door of the hall, you might see a multitude of frasers, without shoes or bonnets, regaling themselves with bread and onions, with a little cheese, perhaps, and small beer. yet amidst the whole of the aristocratic inequality, lord lovat had the address to keep all his guests in perfectly good humour. 'cousin,' he would say to such and such a tacksman or demiwassal, 'i told my pantry lads to hand you some claret, but they tell me you like port or punch best.' in like manner to the beer drinkers he would say, 'gentlemen, there is what you please at your service; but i send you ale because i understand you like ale.' everybody was thus well pleased; and none were so ill bred as to gainsay what had been reported to his lordship. "this introduction was followed by still further condescension on the part of lord lovat. he looked at the veteran who had served in lord orkney's regiment, under marlborough, at ramilies and malplaquet, with approbation. "'i know,' said his lordship, 'without your telling me, that you have come to enlist in the highland watch; for a thousand men like you i would give an estate.' donald macleod then, at lovat's request, related his history and pedigree,--that subject which most delights the heart of a highlander. lord lovat clasped him in his arms, and kissed him, and then led him into an adjoining bedchamber, where lady lovat then lay, to whom he introduced the sergeant. lady lovat raised herself in her bed, called for a bottle of brandy, and drank prosperity to lord lovat, to the highland watch, and to donald macleod. 'it is superfluous to say,' adds the sergeant, 'that in this toast the lady was pledged by the gentlemen.'" in contradiction to this attractive account of lord lovat's splendour and hospitality we must quote a very different description, given by the astronomer ferguson. lord lovat's abode, according to his account, boasted, indeed, a numerous feudal retinue within its walls, but presented little or no comfort. it was a rude tower with only four apartments in it, and none of these spacious. lord lovat's own room served at once as his place for constant residence, his room for receiving company, and his bedchamber. lady lovat's bedchamber was allotted to her for all these purposes also. the domestics and a herd of retainers were lodged in the four lower rooms of the tower, a quantity of straw constituting their bed-furniture. sometimes above four hundred persons were thus huddled together here; the power which their savage and ungrateful chieftain exercised over them was despotic; and ferguson himself had occasionally the pleasurable sight of some half dozen of them hung up by the heels for hours, on a few trees near the house.[ ] the pretended loyalty of the chief to the exiled family constituted a strong bond of union between lovat and his followers; and having them once under his command, "that indefinable magic by which he all his life swayed those who neither loved nor esteemed him," to borrow mrs. grant's expression, caused them afterwards to follow his desperate fortunes. "he resembled, in this respect," says the same admirable writer, "david when in the cave of adullam, for every one that was discontented, and every one that was in debt, literally resorted to him." lovat, once settled in the abode of his ancestors, did all that he could do to efface the memory of the past, and to redeem the good opinion of his neighbours. one thing he alone left undone,--he did not amend his life. crafty, vindictive, gross, tyrannical, few men ever continued long such a career with impunity. he was long distrusted by the good of both parties; by the one he was regarded as a spy of government, by the other as one whose jacobite loyalty was only a pretext to win the affections of the honest and simple highlanders. yet, at last, he succeeded in obtaining influence, partly by his real talents, partly by his artifices and knowledge of character. "when one considers," observes mrs. grant, "that his appearance was disgusting and repulsive, his manners, except when he had some deep part to play, grossly familiar, and meanly cajoling, and that he was not only stained with crimes, but well known to possess no one amiable quality but fortitude, which he certainly displayed in the last extremity, his influence over others is to be regarded as inexplicable." although the most valuable possessions of his family were on the aird, the chief centre of his popularity was in stratheric, a wild hilly district between inverness and fort augustus. there he was beloved by the common people, who looked upon him as a patriot, and there he made it his chief study to secure their affections, often going unlooked for to spend the day and night with his tenants there, and banishing reserve, he indulged in a peculiar strain of jocularity perfectly suited to his audience. his conversation, composed of ludicrous fancies and blandishments, was often intermingled with sound practical advice and displays of good sense. the following curious account of his table deportment, and ordinary mode of living, is from the pen of mrs. grant of laggan, who was well acquainted with those who had personally known lord lovat. "if he met a boy on the road, he was sure to ask whom he belonged to, and tell him of his consequence and felicity in belonging to the memorable clan of fraser, and if he said his name was simon to give him half-a-crown, at that time no small gift in stratheric; but the old women, of all others, were those he was at most pains to win, even in the lowest ranks. he never was unprovided with snuff and flattery, both which he dealt liberally among them, listened patiently to their old stories, and told them others of the king of france, and king james, by which they were quite captivated, and concluded by entreating that they impress their children with attachment and duty to their chief, and they would not fail to come to his funeral and assist in the coranach _keir_. at castle downie he always kept an open table to which all comers were welcome, for of all his visitors he contrived to make some use;--from the nobleman and general by whose interest he could provide for some of his followers, and by that means strengthen his interest with the rest, to the idle hanger-on whose excursions might procure the fish and game which he was barely suffered to eat a part of at his patron's table. never was there a mixture of society so miscellaneous as was there assembled. from an affectation of loyalty to his new masters lovat paid a great court to the military stationed in the north; such of the nobility in that quarter as were not in the sunshine, received his advances as from a man who enjoyed court favour, and he failed not to bend to his own purposes every new connection he formed. in the mean time the greatest profusion appeared at table while the meanest parsimony reigned through the household. the servants who attended had little if any wages; their reward was to be recommended to better service afterwards; and meantime they had no other food allowed to them but what they carried off on the plates: the consequence was, that you durst not quit your knife and fork for a moment, your plate was snatched while you looked another way; if you were not very diligent, you might fare as ill amidst abundance as the governor of barataria. a surly guest once cut the fingers of one of these harpies when snatching his favourite morsel away untasted. i have heard a military gentleman who occasionally dined at castle downie describe those extraordinary repasts. there was a very long table loaded with a great variety of dishes, some of the most luxurious, others of the plainest--nay, coarsest kind: these were very oddly arranged; at the head were all the dainties of the season, well dressed and neatly sent in; about the middle appeared good substantial dishes, roasted mutton, plain pudding and such like. at the bottom coarse pieces of beef, sheeps' heads, haggiss, and other national but inelegant dishes, were served in a slovenly manner in great pewter platters; at the head of the table were placed guests of distinction, to whom alone the dainties were offered; the middle was occupied by gentlemen of his own tribe, who well knew their allotment, and were satisfied with the share assigned to them. at the foot of the table sat hungry retainers, the younger sons of younger brothers, who had at some remote period branched out from the family; for which reason he always addressed them by the title of 'cousin.' this, and a place, however low, at his table, so flattered these hopeless hangers-on, that they were as ready to do lovat's bidding "in the earth or in the air" as the spirits are to obey the command of prospero." "the contents of his sideboard were as oddly assorted as those of his table, and served the same purpose. he began,--'my lord, here is excellent venison, here turbot, &c.: call for any wine you please; there is excellent claret and champagne on the sideboard. pray, now, dunballock or killbockie, help yourselves to what is before you; there are port and lisbon, strong ale and porter, excellent in their kind;' then calling to the other end of the table,--'pray, dear cousin, help yourself and my other cousins to that fine beef and cabbage; there is whiskey-punch and excellent table-beer.' his conversation, like his table, was varied to suit the character of every guest. the retainers soon retired, and lovat (on whom drink made no impression) found means to unlock every other mind, and keep his own designs impenetrably secret; while the ludicrous and careless air of his discourse helped to put people off their guard; and searchless cunning and boundless ambition were hid under the mask of careless hilarity." but darker deeds even than these diversified the pursuits of a man who had quitted the prisons of angoulême and of saumur only to wreak, upon his own faithful and trusting clansmen, or his neighbours, as well as his foes, the vindictive cruelty of a nature utterly depraved, not softened even by kindness, still less chastened by a long series of misfortunes. lovat's re-establishment at the head of his clan seems to have intoxicated him, and the display of his power to have risen into a ruling passion. above all, he boasted of it to duncan forbes, whose endurance of this wretched ally's correspondence lasted until the pretended friendship was succeeded by avowed treachery to the government to which he had professed such gratitude, and to the king and prince whom he was wont to call "the bravest fellows in the world."[ ] in accordance with this spirit of self-glorification was lovat's erection of two monuments,--filial piety dictating the inscription on one of them, that dedicated to his father, and his own audacious vanity assisting in the composition of the tribute to his own virtues. it was his lordship's favourite boast that at his birth a number of swords which hung up in the hall of his paternal home leaped themselves out of their scabbards, denoting that he was to be a mighty man of arms. the presage was not fulfilled, but lord lovat's ingenuity suggested the following means of imposing upon the credulity of his simple clansmen, by the composition of an epitaph which he erected in the old church of kirkhill, a few miles from castle downie. to the memory of thomas lord fraser, of lovat, who chose rather to undergo the greatest hardships of fortune than to part with the ancient honours of his house, and bore these hardships with undaunted fortitude of mind. this monument was erected by simon lord fraser of lovat, his son. who, likewise, having undergone many and great vicissitudes of good and bad fortune, through the malice of his enemies, he, in the end, at the head of his clan, forced his way to his paternal inheritance with his sword in his hand, and relieved his kindred and followers from oppression and slavery; and both at home and in foreign countries, by his eminent actions in the war and the state, he has acquired great honours and reputation. hic tegit ossa lapis simonis fortis in armis, restituit pressum nam genus ille suum: hoc marmor posuit cari genitoris honori, in genus afflictum par erat ejus amor. sir robert munro, who was killed at the battle of falkirk, being on a visit to lord lovat, went with his host to see this monument. "simon," said the brave and free-spoken scotsman, "how the devil came you to put up such boasting romantic stuff?" "the monument and inscription," replied lovat, "are chiefly for the frasers, who must believe whatever i require, their chief, of them, and then posterity will think it as true as the gospel." yet he did not scruple, when it suited his purpose, to designate his clansmen, the lairds around him, as "the little pitiful barons of the aird;"--this was, however, when writing to his friends of opposite politics to the frasers, generally to duncan forbes. the devotion of his unfortunate adherents can hardly be conceived in the present day. in the early part of his career, before his rapacity, his licentiousness, and falsehood were fully known, one may imagine a fearless and ardent young leader, of known bravery, engaging the passions even of the most wary among his followers in his personal quarrels: but it is wonderful how, when the character of the man stood revealed before them, any could be found to lend their aid to deeds which had not the colour of justice, nor even the pretence of a generous ardour, to recommend them to the brave. but lovat was not the only melancholy instance in which that extraordinary feature in the highland character, loyalty to a chieftain, was employed in aiding the darkest treachery, and in deeds of violence and cruelty. for many years, lovat revelled in the indulgence of the fiercest passions; but he paid in time the usual penalty of guilt. his name came to be a bye-word. every act of violence, done in the darkness of night,--the oppressions of the helpless, the corruption of the innocent,--every plot which was based upon the lowest principles, were attributed to him. his vengeance was such, that while the public knew the hand that dealt out destruction, they dared not to name the man. the hated word was whispered by the hearth; it was muttered with curses in the hovel; but the voice which breathed it was hushed when the band of numerous retainers, swift to execute the will of the feudal tyrant, was remembered. his power, thus tremblingly acknowledged, was fearful; his wrath, never was appeased except by the ruin of those who had offended him. with all this, the manners of lord lovat were courteous, and, for the times, polished; whilst beneath that superficial varnish lay the coarsest thoughts, the most degrading tastes. his address must have been consummate; and to that charm of manner may be ascribed the wonderful ascendancy which he acquired even over the respectable part of the community. something of his ready humour was displayed soon after lord lovat's restoration to his title, in his rencontre with his early friend, lord mungo murray, in the streets of edinburgh. lord mungo had sworn to avenge the wrongs and insults inflicted by lord lovat on himself and lord saltoun, whenever he had an opportunity. seeing lord lovat approaching, he drew his sword and made towards him as fast as he could. lord lovat, being near-sighted, did not perceive him, but was apprised of his danger by a friend who was walking with him; upon which his lordship also drew, and prepared for his defence. lord mungo, seeing this, thought proper to decline the engagement, and wheeled round in order to retire. the people crowded about the parties, and somewhat impeded lord mungo's retreat; upon which lord lovat called out to the people, "pray, gentlemen, make room for lord mungo murray," lord mungo slank away, and the affair ended without bloodshed. an affair with the profligate duke of wharton, was very near ending more fatally. lord lovat, during the year , happening to be in london, mingled there in the fashionable society for which his long residence in france had, in some measure, qualified him. in the course of his different amusements, he encountered one evening, at the haymarket, the beautiful doña eleanora sperria, a spanish lady who had visited england under the character of the ambassador's niece. his attentions to this lady, and his admiration of her attractions, were observed by the jealous eye of the duke of wharton, who immediately sent him a challenge. lord lovat accepted it, replying, that "none of the family of lovat were ever cowards," and appointing to meet the duke with sword and pistol. the encounter took place in hyde-park. they first fired at each other, and then had recourse to the usual weapon, the sword. lovat was unlucky enough to fall over the stump of a tree, and was disarmed by wharton, who gave him his life, and what was in those days perhaps even still more generous, never boasted of the affair until some years afterwards. lovat lived, however, chiefly in scotland. four children were born to writhe under his sway; the eldest, simon, the master of lovat, gentle, sincere, of promising abilities, and upright in conduct, suffered early and late from the jealousy of his father, who could not comprehend his mild virtues. this unfortunate young man was treated with the utmost harshness by lord lovat, who kept him in slavish subjection to his own imperious will, and treated him as if he had been the offspring of some low-born dependant, instead of his heir. still, those who were well-wishers to the lovat family, built their hopes upon the virtues of the young master of lovat, and they were not deceived. although forced by his father to quit the university of st. andrews, where he was studying in , and to enter into the rebellion, he retrieved that early act by a subsequent respectability of life, and by long and faithful services. but there was another victim still more to be pitied, and over whose destiny the vices of lord lovat exercised a still more fatal sway than on those of his son. the story of primrose campbell is, perhaps, the saddest among this catalogue of crimes and calamities. she was the daughter of john campbell, of mamore, and the sister of john duke of argyle, the friend and patron of duncan forbes; and she had been, by lovat's introduction, for some time a companion of his first wife.[ ] lord lovat, about the year , became a widower. he then cast his eyes upon the ill-fated miss campbell, and sought her in marriage. the match was of great importance to him, on account of the family connection; and lord lovat had reason to believe, that whatever the young lady might think of it, her friends were not opposed to the union. she was staying with her sister, lady roseberry, when lovat proffered his odious addresses. she to whom they were addressed, knew him well: for she entertained the utmost abhorrence of her suitor, and repeatedly rejected his proposals. at last, he gained her consent to the union which he sought, by the following stratagem. miss campbell, while residing still with her sister in the country, received a letter, written apparently by her mother, and, beseeching her immediate attendance at a particular house in edinburgh, in which she lay at the point of death. the young lady instantly set out, and reached the appointed place: here, instead of beholding her mother, she was received by the hated and dreaded lovat.[ ] she was constrained to listen to his proffers of marriage; but she still firmly refused her assent. upon this, lord lovat told the unhappy creature that the house to which she had been brought was one in which no respectable woman ought ever to enter;--and he threatened to blast her character upon her continued refusal to become his wife. distracted, intimidated by a confinement of several days, the young lady finally consented. she was married to the tyrant, who conveyed her to one of his castles in the north, probably to downie, the scene of his previous crimes. here she was secluded in a lonely tower, and treated with the utmost barbarity, probably because she could neither conceal nor conquer her disgust to the husband of her forced acceptance. yet outward appearances were preserved: a lady, the intimate friend of her youth, was advised to visit, as if by accident, the unhappy lady lovat, in order to ascertain the truth of the reports which prevailed of lord lovat's cruelty. the visitor was received by lovat with extravagant expressions of welcome, and many assurances of the pleasure which it would afford lady lovat to see her. his lordship then retired, and hastening to his wife, who was secluded without even tolerable clothes, and almost in a state of starvation, placed a costly dress before her, and desired her to attire herself, and to appear before her friend. his commands were obeyed; he watched his prisoner and her visitor so closely, that no information could be conveyed of the unhappiness of the one, or of the intentions of the other.[ ] this outrageous treatment, which lord lovat is reported, also, to have exercised over his first wife, went on for some time. lady lovat was daily locked up in a room by herself, a scanty supply of food being sent her, which she was obliged to devour in silence. the monotony of her hapless solitude was only broken by rare visits from his lordship. under these circumstances, she bore a son, who was named archibald campbell fraser, and who eventually succeeded to the title. in after years, when he frowned at any contradiction that she gave him, lady lovat used to exclaim, "oh, boy! dinna look that gate--ye look so like your father." these words spoke volumes. the character of the lady whose best years were thus blighted by cruelty, and who was condemned through a long life to bear the name of her infamous husband, was one peculiarly scotch. homely in her habits, and possessing little refinement of manner, she had the kindest heart, the most generous and self-denying nature that ever gladdened a house, or bore up a woman's weakness under oppression. the eldest son of lord lovat, simon, was a sickly child. his father, who was very anxious to have him to his house, placed him under lady lovat's charge; and, whenever he went to the highlands, left her with this pleasing intimation, "that if he found either of the boys dead on his return, he would shoot her through the head." partly through fear, and partly from the goodness and rectitude of her mind, lady lovat devoted her attentions so entirely to the care of the delicate and motherless boy, that she saved his life, and won his filial reverence and affection by her attention. he loved her as a real parent. the skill in nursing and in the practical part of medicine thus acquired, was never lost; and lady lovat was noted ever after, among those who knew her, as the "old lady of the faculty." family archives, it is said, reveal a tissue of almost unprecedented acts of cruelty towards this excellent lady. they were borne with the same spirit that in all her life guided her conduct,--a strict dependance upon providence. she regarded her calamities as trials, or tests, sent from heaven, and received them with meek submission. in after years, during the peaceful decline of her honoured life, when a house near her residence in blackfriars wynd, edinburgh, took fire, she sat calmly knitting a stocking, and watching, occasionally, the progress of the flames. the magistrates and ministers came, in vain, to entreat her to leave her house in a sedan; she refused, saying, that if her hour was come, it was in vain for her to think of eluding her fate: if it were not come, she was safe where she was. at length she permitted the people around her to fling wet blankets over the house, by which it was protected from the sparks. she seems, however, to have made considerable exertions to rid herself from an unholy bond with her husband. like many other scottish ladies of quality, in those days, her education had been limited; and it was not until late in life that she acquired the art of writing, which she then learned by herself without a master. she never attained the more difficult process of spelling accurately. she now, however, contrived to make herself understood by her friends in this her dire distress: and to acquaint them with her situation and injuries, by rolling a letter up in a clue of yarn, and dropping it out of her window to a confidential person below. her family then interfered, and the wretched lady was released, by a legal separation, from her miseries. she retired to the house of her sister, and eventually to edinburgh. when, in after times, her grand nephews and nieces crowded around her, she would talk to them of these days of sorrow. "listen, bairns," she was known to observe, "the events of my life would make a good novel; but they have been of sae strange a nature, that i'm sure naebody wad believe them."[ ] but domestic tyranny was a sphere of far too limited a scope for lord lovat: his main object was to make himself absolute over that territory of which he was the feudal chieftain; to bear down everything before him, either by the arts of cunning, or through intimidation. some instances, singular, as giving some insight into the state of society in the highlands at that period, have been recorded.[ ] very few years after the restitution of his family honours had elapsed, before he happened to have some misunderstanding with one of the dowager lady lovat's agents, a mr. robertson, whom her ladyship had appointed as receiver of her rents. one night, during the year , a number of persons, armed and disguised, were seen in the dead of night, very busy among mr. robertson's barns and outhouses. that night, the whole of his stacks of corn and hay were set on fire and entirely consumed. lord lovat was suspected of being the instigator of this destruction; yet such was the dread of his power, that mr. robertson chose rather to submit to the loss in silence than to prosecute, or even to name, the destroyer. a worse outrage was perpetrated against fraser of phopachy, a gentleman of learning and character, and one who had befriended lord lovat in all his troubles, and had refused to join with fraserdale in the rebellion of . mr. fraser had the charge of lord lovat's domestic affairs, more especially of his law contests, both in edinburgh and in london. when accounts were balanced between lord lovat and mr. fraser, it was found that a considerable sum was due to the latter. among his other peculiarities lord lovat had a great objection to pay his debts. as usual, he insulted fraser, and even threatened him with a suit. mr. fraser, knowing well the man with whom he had to deal, submitted the affair to arbitration. a mr. cuthbert of castlehill was chosen on the part of his lordship; the result was, a decision that a very considerable sum was due to fraser. lord lovat was violently enraged at this, and declared that castlehill had broken his trust. not many days afterwards, castlehill park, near inverness, was invaded by a party of highlanders, armed and disguised; the fences and enclosures were broken down, and a hundred of his best milch-cows killed. again the finger of public opinion pointed at lovat, but pointed in silence, as the author of this wicked attack. none dared to name him; all dreaded a summary vengeance: his crimes were detailed with a shudder of horror and disgust; their author was not mentioned. lord lovat, moreover, instantly commenced a law-suit against fraser, in order to set aside the arbitration. this process, which lasted during the lifetime of the victim, was scarcely begun when one night fraser's seat at phopachy, which, unhappily, was near the den of horrors, castle downie, was beset by highlanders, armed and disguised, who broke into the house and inquired for mr. fraser. he was, luckily, abroad. the daughters of the unfortunate gentleman were, however, in the house; they were bound to the bed-posts and gagged; and, doubtless, the whole premises would have been pillaged or destroyed, had not a female servant snatched a dirk from the hands of one of the ruffians; and although wounded, defended herself, while by her shrieks she roused the servants and neighbours. the villains fled, all save two, who were taken, and who, after a desperate resistance, were carried off to the gaol at inverness; they were afterwards tried, and capitally convicted of housebreaking, or _hamesaken_, as it is called in scotland, and eventually hung. it appeared, from the confession of one of these men to a clergyman at inverness, that the same head which planned the destruction of mr. robertson's stacks had contrived this outrage, and had even determined on the murder of his former friend, mr. fraser. but the hour was now at hand in which retribution for these crimes was to be signally visited upon this disgrace to his species.[ ] one more sufferer under his vile designs must be recorded, the unhappy lady grange. in that story which has been related of her fate, and which might, indeed, furnish a theme for romance, she is said to have ever alluded to lord lovat as the remorseless contriver of that scheme which doomed her to sufferings far worse than death, and to years of imbecility and wanderings.[ ] the subtlety of lord lovat equalled his fierceness; it is not often that such qualities are combined in such fearful perfection. he could stoop to the smallest attentions to gain an influence or promote an alliance: a tradition is even believed of his going to the dancing-school with two young ladies, and buying them _sweeties_, in order to conciliate the favour of their father, lord alva. his habitual cunning and management were manifested in his discipline of his clan. it was his chief aim to impress upon the minds of his vassals that his authority among them was absolute, and that no power on earth could absolve them from it; that they had no right to inquire into the merits or justifiableness of the action they were ordered to engage in; his will ought to be their law, his resentment a sufficient reason for taking his part in a quarrel, whether it were right or wrong. one can hardly conceive that it could be requisite for the frasers to give any fresh proof of their obedience and fealty; yet it seems to have required a continual effort on the part of lord lovat to establish his authority and to keep up his dignity among the frasers. the reason assigned for this is, that though they were his vassals, tenants, and dependants, yet they must be brought to acknowledge his sovereignty; otherwise, when on some emergency he might require their assistance, they might assume their natural right of independence, and refuse to rise. it was lord lovat's policy, therefore, to discourage all disposition in his clansmen to enter trade or to go to sea and seek their fortunes abroad, lest they should both shake off their dependence on him, and also, by emigrating, diminish the broad and pompous retinue with which he chose to appear on all occasions. it was therefore his endeavour to check industry, to oppose improvement, to preach up the heroism of his ancestors, who never stooped to the meannesses of commerce, but made themselves famous by martial deeds. "never," thus argued the chieftain, "had those brave men enervated their bodies and debased their minds by labours fit only for beasts or stupid drudges. should not the generous blood which flowed in their veins still animate the brave frasers to deeds of heroism?"[ ] notwithstanding all these exalted sentiments, the chief, who was set upon this pinnacle of power, hesitated not to retain a hired assassin for the purpose of executing any of his dark projects. donald gramoach, a notorious robber, was long in the employ of lovat, who lavished large sums upon him. at length, in the year , this man was apprehended, lodged in dingwall gaol; and being convicted of robbery, was sentenced to be hanged. lord lovat immediately despatched a body of his highlanders to rescue the prisoner; but the magistrates were aware of his intentions; the prison was doubly guarded, and the culprit met with his due punishment. lord lovat had long thrown off the mask of courtesy, and had laid aside the arts of fawning to which he had had recourse before his claims to the honours and estates had been fully acknowledged. his tenants now felt the iron rule of a merciless and necessitous master; for lord lovat's expenditure far exceeded his means and revenue. he raised his rents, and many of the farmers were forced to quit their farms; but his _vassals by tenure_ were even more ruinously oppressed by suits of law, compelling them to make out their titles to their estates; if they failed in so doing, he insisted on forfeiture or escheate; and, in some instances, these suits were so expensive that it was almost wiser to relinquish an estate, than to be plundered in long and anxious processes. at last, to prevent their utter ruin, the gentlemen who held lands under lord lovat determined upon resistance; after twenty-seven years of bondage they resolved to free themselves. they met together, and unanimously resolved to unite their arms, and to deliver themselves by their swords; to this extremity were reduced these brave and devoted adherents, who had blindly rushed into every crime and every danger at the command of their ungrateful chieftain. their resolution alarmed the tyrant; he ordered the suits against his vassals to be stopped, and excused, as well as he could, and with his usual odious courtesy, the severities into which he had been led. he was playing a desperate game; and the adherence of these unhappy dependants was soon to be put to the test. his oppression of his stewards and agents was consistent with the rest of his conduct. they could rarely induce him to settle his accounts; and if they ventured to ask for sums due to them, he threatened them with actions at law. he was all powerful, and they were forced to submit. his inferior servants were treated even still more oppressively. if they wished to leave his lordship's service, or asked for their wages, he alleged some crime against them, which he always found sufficient witnesses to prove. they were then sent off to the cave of beauly, a dismal retreat, about a mile from his castle, where they were confined until they were reduced to submission. that such enormities should have been tolerated in a land of liberty, seems almost incredible; but the slavery of the clans, the poverty and ignorance of the people, the vast power and influence of the chief, account, in some measure, for this degrading bondage on the one hand, this absolute monarchy on the other.[ ] this long-endured course of tyranny had not tended to humble the heart of him who indulged in such an immoderate exercise of power. the ambition of lord lovat, always of a low and personal nature, increased with years. he watched the state of public affairs, and built upon their threatening character a scheme by which he might, as he afterwards said, "be in a condition of humbling his neighbours." his allegiance was henceforth given to the jacobites, and his fidelity, if such a word could ever be used as applied to him, seems actually to have lasted two years,--that is from to , when a spanish invasion was undertaken in favour of the pretender. to that lord lovat promised to lend his aid, and wrote to lord seaforth, promising to join him. but the invasion was then defeated, and lovat continued to enjoy royal favour at home. on this occasion the letter which lord lovat had written to lord seaforth, was shown to chisholm of knoebsford before it was delivered, and an affidavit of its contents was sent up to court. upon lord lovat becoming acquainted with this, he immediately got himself introduced at court, possibly with a view to deceiving the public mind. lady seaforth having asked some favour from him, he refused to grant it, unless she would return that letter, which had been addressed to her son. with his usual cunning he had omitted to sign the letter, which he thought could not therefore be fixed upon him. upon receiving it back, lovat showed it to a friend, who remarked that there was enough in it to condemn thirty lords. he immediately threw it into the fire. during many years of iniquity, lord lovat had preserved, to all appearance, the good will of duncan forbes. that great lawyer had been lovat's legal advocate during the long and expensive suits for the establishment of his claims, and had generously refused all fees or remuneration for his exertions. the letters addressed by lovat to him breathe the utmost regard, and speak an intimacy which, as sir walter scott observes, "is less wonderful when we consider that duncan forbes could endure the society of the infamous charteris."[ ] lovat's expressions of regard were frequently written in french. "mon aimable general:" he writes to mr. john forbes, also, the president's elder brother.--"my dear culloden." "your affectionate friend, and most obedient and most humble servant." to the president, whom he always addressed with some allusion to his brief military service,--"my dear general." "your own lovat." in such professions as these are made to mr. john forbes. "my dearest provost (we must give you your title, since it is to last but short), my dear general's letter and yours are terrible; but i was long ere now prepared for all that could happen to me on your illustrious brother's account: i'll stand by him to the last; and if i fall, as i do not doubt but i will, i'll receive the blow without regret. but all i can tell you is this, that we are very like to see a troublesome world, and my generall and you will be yet useful; and i am ready to be with you to the last drop, for i am yours eternally, lovat." his frequent style to the president was thus,--"the most faithfull and affectionat of your slaves." it is indeed evident, in almost every letter, what real obligations lovat received from both culloden and his brother; and how strenuously they supported his claim against fraserdale.[ ] at the hospitable house of culloden he was a frequent guest,--"a house, or castle," says the author of "letters from the north," written previous to the year , "belonging to a gentleman whose hospitality knows no bounds. it is the custom of that house, at the first visit or introduction, to take up war freedom, by cracking his nut, as he terms it; that is, a cocoa-shell, which holds a pint, filled with champagne, or such other sort of wine as you shall chuse. you may guess, by the introduction, of the contents of the volume. few go away sober at any time; and for the greatest part of his guests, in the conclusion, they cannot go at all." "this he partly brings about artfully, by proposing, after the public healths (which always imply bumpers), such private ones as he knows will pique the interest or inclination of each particular person of the company, whose turn it is to take the lead, to begin it in a brimmer; and he himself being always cheerful, and sometimes saying good things, his guests soon lose their guard, and then--i need say no more."[ ] in this hospitable house, a strange contrast to the penuriousness and despotic management of castle downie, lord lovat was on the most intimate footing. his professions of friendship to the laird were unceasing. "i dare freely say," he observes in one of his characteristic letters, "that there is not a forbes alive wishes your personal health and prosperity more than i do, affectionate and sincerely; and i should be a very ungrateful man if it was otherways, for no man gave me more proofs of love and friendship at home and abroad than john forbes of colodin did. "as to carrying your lime to lovat, i shall do more in it than if it was for my own use. i shall give the most pressing orders to my officers to send in my tenants' horses; and to show them the zeal and desire that i have to serve you, i shall send my own labouring horses to carry it, with as much pleasure as if it was to build a house in castle downie." even his wife and his "bearns" are "colodin's faithful slaves--" "i'll never see a laird of culodin i love so much," he declares in another letter;--in which, also, he reminds mr. forbes of a promise that he "will do him the honour, since he cannot himself at this time be present, to hold up his forthcoming child to receive the holy water of baptisme, and make it a better christian than the father. i expect this mark of friendship from my dear john forbes of culodin."[ ] yet all these professions were wholly forgotten, when lord lovat, being fairly established in his honours, no longer deemed the friendship of the forbes family necessary to him. an occasion then occurred, in which mr. forbes's "grateful slave" showed the caprice inherent in his nature. forbes of culloden had long been the representative of inverness, chiefly through the interest of lord lovat; but when sir william grant came forward to oppose the return of forbes, to the dismay of that gentleman, lord lovat turned round, and, upon the plea of consanguinity, used his interest in favour of the new candidate. the disappointment resulting from this defeat is said to have preyed upon the spirits of the worthy laird of culloden, and to have caused his death.[ ] the decline of this alliance between the forbes family and lord lovat, was the prelude to greater changes. in order to repress the local disturbances in the highlands, government had adopted a remedy, well termed by sir walter scott, "of a doubtful and dangerous character." this was the raising of a number of independent companies among the highlanders, to be commanded by chieftains, and officered by their sons, by tackmen, or by _dnihne_ vassals. at the period when those great military roads were formed in the highlands between the year and , these companies were better calculated, it was supposed, to maintain the repose of a country with which they were well acquainted, than regular troops. but the experiment did not succeed. the highland companies, known by the famous name of the black watch, traversed the country, it is true, night and day, and tracked its inmost recesses; they knew the most dangerous characters; they were supposed to suppress all internal disorders. but they were highlanders. whilst they looked leniently upon robberies and outrages to which they had been familiarized from their youth, they revived in their countrymen the military spirit which the late act for disarming the clans had subdued. upon their removal from the highlands, and their exportation to flanders, the mischief became apparent; and no regular force being sent to the highlands in their stead, those chieftains who were favourable to the exiled family, found it easy to turn the restless temper and martial habits of their clansmen to their own purposes. lord lovat was one of those who thus acted. the ministry, irritated by his patronage of sir william grant's interests, in preference to those of forbes, at the election for inverness, suddenly deprived him of his pension in , and also of the command of the free company of highlanders. this was a rash proceeding, and contrary to the advice of president forbes. lord lovat, who had caused his clansmen to enter his regiment by rotation, and had thus, without suspicion, been training his clan to the use of arms, soon showed how dangerous a weapon had been placed in his hand, and at how critical a period he had been incensed to turn it against government. he had long been suspected. even in , information had been given of his buying up muskets, broadswords, and targets, in numbers. when challenged to defend himself from the imputation of jacobitism by a friend, he insisted upon the services he had done in as a reason why he should for ever be free from the imputation of disloyalty; and he continued to play the same subtle part, and to pretend indifference to all fresh enterprises, to his friends at culloden, as that which he had always affected. "everybody expects we shall have a war very soon," he writes to his friend john forbes in --"which i am not fond of; for being now growne old, i desire and wish to live in peace with all mankind, except some damned presbyterian ministers who dayly plague me."[ ] yet, even then he was engaged in a plot to restore the stuarts. in , when he was sheriff for the county, he received the celebrated roy stuart, who was imprisoned at inverness for high treason, when he broke out of gaol, and kept him six weeks in his house; sending by him an assurance to the pretender of his fidelity, and at the same time desiring roy stuart to procure him a commission as lieutenant-general, and a patent of dukedom. this was the secret spring of his whole proceeding. it is degrading to the rest of the jacobites, to give this double traitor an epithet ever applied to honourable, and fervent, and disinterested men. the sole business of lovat was personal aggrandizement; revenge was his amusement. henderson, in his "history of the rebellion," attributes to lord lovat the entire suggestion of the invasion of . it is true that the chevalier refused to accede to the proposal made by roy stuart of an invasion in , not considering, as he said, that the "time for his deliverance was as yet come." but, after consulting the pope, it was agreed that the present time might be well employed in "whetting the minds of the highlanders, and in sowing in them the seeds of loyalty that so frequently appeared." in consequence of this, lord lovat's request was granted; a letter was written to him from the court, then at albano, giving him full power to act in the name of james, and the title of duke of fraser and lieutenant-general of the highlands was conferred upon the man who seems to have had the art of infatuating all with whom he dealt.[ ] lord lovat immediately changed the whole style of his deportment. he quitted the comparative retirement of castle downie; went to edinburgh, where he set up a chariot, and lived there in a sumptuous manner, though with little of those ceremonials which we generally associate with rank and opulence. he now sought and obtained a very general acquaintance. few men had more to tell; and he could converse about his former hardships, relate the account of his introduction to louis the fourteenth, and to the gracious maintenon. he returned to castle downie. that seat, conducted hitherto on the most penurious scale, suddenly became the scene of a plenteous hospitality; and its lord, once churlish and severe, became liberal and free. he entertained the clans after their hearts' desire, and he kept a purse of sixpences for the poor. as his castle was almost in the middle of the highlands, it was much frequented; and the crafty lovat now adapted his conversation to his own secret ends. he expatiated to the highlanders, always greedy of fame, and vain beyond all parallel of their country, upon the victories of montrose on the fields of killicrankie and cromdale. "such a sword and target," he would say to a listener, "your honest grandfather wore that day, and with it he forced his way through a hundred men. well did i know him; he was my great friend, and an honest man. few are like him now-a-days;--you resemble him pretty much." then he began to interpret prophecies and dreams, and to relate to his superstitious listeners the dreams their fathers had before the battle, in which they fought. he would trace genealogies as far back as the clansmen pleased, and show their connection with their chieftains. they were all his "cousins and friends;" for he knew every person that had lived in the country for years. then he spoke of the superiority of the broad-sword and target over the gun and the bayonet; he sneered at the weakness of an army, after so many years of peace, commanded by boys; he boasted of the valour of the scots in sweden and france; he even unriddled the prophecies of bede and of merlin. by these methods he prepared the minds of those over whom he ruled for the rebellion; but in the event, as it has been truly said, "the thread of his policy was spun so fine that at last it failed in the maker's hand."[ ] the shrewdness of lovat's judgment might indeed be called in question, when he decided to risk the undisturbed possession of his highland property for a dukedom and prospect. but there were many persons of rank and influence who believed, with prince charles edward, that "the hanoverian yoke was severely felt in england, and that now was the time to shake it off." "the intruders of the family of hanover," observes a strenuous jacobite,[ ] "conscious of the lameness of their title and the precariousness of their tenure, seem to have had nothing in view but increasing their power, and gratifying their insatiable avarice: by the former, they proposed to get above the caprice of the people; and by the latter, they made sure of something, happen what would." "abundance of the tories," he further remarks, "had still a warm side for the family of stuart; and as for the old stanch whigs, their attachment and aversion to families had no other spring but their love of liberty, which they saw expiring with the family of hanover: they had still this, and but this chance to recover it. in fine, there was little opposition to be dreaded from any quarter but from the army,--gentlemen of that profession being accustomed to follow their leaders, and obey orders without asking any questions. but there were malcontents among them, too; such as were men of property, whose estates exceeded the value of their commissions, did by no means approve of the present measures."[ ] upon the whole the conjuncture seemed favourable, and lord lovat, whose political views were very limited, was the first to sign the association despatched in , according to some accounts, by others in , and signed and sealed by many persons of note in scotland, inviting the chevalier to come over to that country. his belief was, that france had at all times the power to bring in james stuart if she had the will; that, indeed, was the general expectation of the jacobites. "most of the powers in europe," writes mr. maxwell, "were engaged, either as principals or auxiliaries, in a war about the succession to the austrian dominions. france and england were hitherto only auxiliaries, but so deeply concerned, and so sanguine, that it was visible they would soon come to an open rupture with one another; and spain had been at war with england some years, nor was there the least prospect of an accommodation. from those circumstances it seemed highly probable that france and spain would concur in forwarding the prince's views." influenced by these considerations, lovat now became chiefly involved in all the schemes of the chevalier. in , when the invasion was actually resolved upon, lovat was fixed upon as a person of importance to conduct the insurrection in the highlands. nor did the failure of that project deter him from continued exertions. during the two succeeding years, and until after the battle of preston pans, he acted with such caution and dissimulation, that, had his party lost, he might still have made terms, as he thought, with the hanoverians. in the beginning of the year , prince charles despatched several commissions to be distributed among his friends in scotland, with certain letters delivered by sir hector maclean, begging his friends in the highlands to be in readiness to receive him, and desiring, "if possible, that all the castles and fortresses in scotland might be taken before his arrival."[ ] on the twenty-fifth of july,[ ] the gallant charles edward landed in a remote corner of the western highlands, with only seven adherents. lord lovat was informed of this event, but he continued to play the deep game which his perfidious mind suggested on all occasions. he sent one of his principal agents into lochaber to receive the young prince's commands, as regent of the three kingdoms, and to express his joy at his arrival. he sent also secretly for his son, who was then a student at the university of st. andrews, and compelled him to leave his pursuits there, appointing him colonel of his clan. arms, money, and provisions were collected; and the fiery cross was circulated throughout the country. such proceedings could not be concealed, and the lord advocate, craigie, wrote to lord lovat from edinburgh, in the month of august, calling upon him to prove his allegiance, referring to lovat's son as well able to assist him, and asking his counsels on the state of the highlands. the epistle alluded to a long cessation of any friendly correspondence between the lord advocate and lord lovat. it was answered by assurances of loyalty. "i am as ready this day (as far as i am able) to serve the king and government as i was in the year , &c. but my clan and i have been so neglected these many years past, that i have not twelve stand of arms in my country, though i thank god i could bring twelve hundred good men to the field for the king's service if i had arms and other accoutrements for them." he then entreats a supply of arms, names a thousand stand to be sent to inverness, and promises to engage himself in the king's service. he continues,--"therefore, my good lord, i earnestly entreat that as you wish that i would do good service to the government on this critical occasion, you may order immediately a thousand stand of arms to be delivered to me and my clan at inverness, and then your lordship shall see that i will exert myself for the king's service; and if we do not get these arms immediately, we will certainly be undone; for these madmen that are in arms with the pretended prince of wales, threaten every day to burn and destroy my country if we do not rise in arms and join them; so that my people cry hourly that they have no arms to defend themselves, nor no protection or support from the government. so i earnestly entreat your lordship may consider seriously on this, for it will be an essential and singular loss to the government if my clan and kindred be destroyed, who possess the centre of the highlands of scotland, and the countries most proper, by their situation, to serve the king and government." "as to my son, my lord, that you are so good as to mention, he is very young, and just done with his colleges at st. andrews, under the care of a relation of yours, mr. thomas craigie, professor of hebrew, who i truly think one of the prettiest, most complete gentlemen that i ever conversed with in any country: and i think i never saw a youth that pleased him more than my eldest son; he says he is a very good scholar, and has the best genius for learning of any he has seen, and it is by mr. thomas craigie's positive advice, which he will tell you when you see him, that i send my son immediately to utrecht to complete his education. but i have many a one of my family more fitted to command than he is at his tender age; and i do assure your lordship that they will behave well if they are supported as they ought from the government." this artful letter, wherein he talks of sending his son to utrecht, when he was, at that time, by threats and persuasion driving him into the field of civil war, is finished thus:-- "i hear that mad and unaccountable gentleman" (thus he designates the prince) "has set up a standard at a place called glenfinnin--monday last. this place is the inlet from moydart to lochaber; and i hear of none that joined him as yet, except the camerons and macdonells." but this masterpiece of art could not deceive the honest yet discerning mind of him to whom it was addressed. since the death of mr. forbes, the president had resided frequently at culloden, now his own property; his observing eye was turned upon the proceedings of his neighbour at castle downie, but still appearances were maintained between him and lovat. "this day," writes the president to a friend, "the lord lovat came to dine with me. he said he had heard with uneasiness the reports that were scattered abroad; but that he looked on the attempt as very desperate; that though he thought himself but indifferently used lately, in taking his company from him, yet his wishes still being, as well as his interest, led him to support the present royal family; that he had lain absolutely still and quiet, lest his stirring in any sort might have been misrepresented or misconstrued; and he said his business with me was, to be advised what was to be done on this occasion. i approved greatly of his disposition, and advised him, until the scene should open a little, to lay himself out to gain the most certain intelligence he could come at, which the situation of his clan will enable him to execute, and to prevent his kinsmen from being seduced by their mad neighbours, which he readily promised to do." consistent with these professions were the letters of lovat to the president. "i have but melancholy news to tell you, my dear lord, of my own country; for i have a strong report that mad foyers is either gone, or preparing to go, to the west; and i have the same report of poor kilbockie; but i don't believe it. however, if i be able to ride in my chariot the length of inverness, i am resolved to go to stratherrick next week, and endeavour to keep my people in order. i forgot to tell you that the man yesterday assured me that they were resolved to burn and destroy all the countries where the men would not join them, with fire and sword, which truly frights me much, and has made me think of the best expedient i could imagine to preserve my people. "as i know that the laird of lochiel has always a very affectionate friendship for me, as his relation, and a man that did him singular services, and as he is perfectly well acquainted with gortuleg, i endeavoured all i could to persuade tom to go there, and that he should endeavour in my name to persuade lochiel to protect my country; in which i think i could succeed; but i cannot persuade gortuleg to go; he is so nice with his points of honour that he thinks his going would bring upon him the character of a spy, and that he swears he would not have for the creation. i used all the arguments that i was capable of, and told him plainly that it was the greatest service he could do to me and to my country, as i knew he could bring me a full account of their situation, and that is the only effectual means that i can think of to keep the stratherrick men and the rest of my people at home. he told me at last he would take some days to consider of it until he comes out of stratherrick; but i am afraid that will be too late. i own i was not well pleased with him, and we parted in a cooler manner than we used to do."[ ] in all his letters he characterizes charles edward, to whom he had just pledged his allegiance, as the "pretended prince." his affectation of zeal in the cause of government, his pretence of an earnest endeavour to arrest the career of the very persons whom he was exciting to action, his exertions with my "cousin gortuleg," and his delight to find that "honest kilbockie," whom he had been vilifying, had not stirred, and would do nothing without his consent, might be amusing if they were not traits of such wanton irreclaimable falsehood in an aged man, soon to be called to an account, before a heavenly tribunal, for a long career of crime and injury to his neighbours. if any further instance of his duplicity can be read with patience, the following letter to lochiel, who, according to lovat, had a very affectionate friendship for him, affords a curious specimen of cunning.[ ] " . "dear lochiel, "i fear you have been over rash in going ere affairs were ripe. you are in a dangerous state. the elector's general, cope, is in your rear, hanging at your tail with three thousand men, such as have not been seen here since dundee's affair, and we have no force to meet him. if the macphersons will take the field i would bring out my lads to help the work; and 'twixt the two we might cause cope to keep his christmas here; but only cluny is earnest in the cause, and my lord advocate plays at cat and mouse with me; but times may change, i may bring him to saint johnstone's tippet. meantime look to yourselves, for ye may expect many a sour face and sharp weapons in the south. i'll aid when i can, but my prayers are all i can give at present. my service to the prince, but i wish he had not come here so empty-handed. siller would go far in the highlands. i send this by evan fraser, whom i have charged to give it to yourself; for were duncan to find it, it would be my head to an onion. farewell! "your faithful friend, "lovat." "for the laird of lochiel. "yese." but perhaps the most odious feature in this part of lovat's career was his treachery to duncan forbes, whose exertions had placed his unworthy client in possession of his property, and whose early ties of neighbourhood ought, at any rate, to have secured him from danger. a party of the stratherric frasers, kinsmen and clansmen of lovat's, attacked culloden house, as there was every reason to believe with the full concurrence of lovat. forbes, who was perfectly aware of the source whence the assault proceeded, appeared to treat it lightly, talked of it as an "idle attempt," never hinting that he guessed lovat's participation in the affair, and only lamenting that the ruffians had "robbed the gardener and the poor weaver, who was a common benefit to the country." lovat, as it has been sagaciously remarked, the guilty man, took it up much more knowingly. this tissue of artifice was carried on for some weeks; first by a vehement desire to have arms sent in order to repel the rebels, then by hints that the inclinations of his people, and the extensive popularity of the cause began to make it doubtful whether he could control their rash ardour. "your lordship may remember," he wrote to forbes, "that i had a vast deal of trouble to prevent my men rising at the beginning of this affair; but now the contagion is so general, by the late success of the highlanders, that they laugh at any man that would dissuade them from going; so that i really know not how to behave. i really wish i had been in any part of britain these twelve months past, both for my health and other considerations."[ ] the feebleness of his health was a point on which, for some reasons or other, he continually insisted. it is not often that one can hear an aged man complain, without responding by pity and sympathy. "i'm exceeding glad to know that your lordship is in great health and spirits: i am so unlucky that my condition is the reverse; for i have neither health nor spirits. i have entirely lost the use of my limbs, for i can neither walk nor mount a horseback without the help of three or four men, which makes my life both uneasy and melancholy. but i submit to the will of god." this account, indeed, rather confirms a tradition that lord lovat, after the separation from his wife, sank into a state of despondency, and lay two years in bed previous to the rebellion of . when the news of the prince's landing was brought to him, he cried out, "lassie, bring me my brogues.--i'll rise too."[ ] at length, this wary traitor took a decisive step. his dilatoriness had made many of the pretender's friends uneasy, and showed too plainly that he had been playing a double game. he was urged by some emissaries of charles edward "to throw off the mask," upon which he pulled off his hat and exclaimed "there it is!" he then, in the midst of his assembled vassals, drank "confusion to the white horse, and all the generation of them."[ ] he declared that he would "cut off" in a moment any of his tenants who refused to join the cause, and expressed his conviction that as sure as the sun shined his "master would prevail." this was in the latter part of the summer: on the twenty-first of september the battle of preston pans raised the hopes of the jacobites to the highest pitch, and alexander macleod was sent to the highland chieftains to stimulate their loyalty and to secure their rising. upon his visiting castle downie he found lovat greatly elated by the recent victory, which he declared was not to be paralleled. he now began to assemble his men, and to prepare in earnest for that part which he had long intended to adopt; "but," observes sir walter scott, "with that machiavelism inherent in his nature, he resolved that his own personal interest in the insurrection should be as little evident as possible, and determined that his son, whose safety he was bound, by the laws of god and man, to prefer to his own, should be his stalking-horse, and in case of need his scape-goat."[ ] lord president forbes, who had been addressing himself to the highland chieftains, exhorting the well-affected to bestir themselves, and entreating those who were devoted to the pretender not to involve themselves and their families in ruin, expostulated by letter with lord lovat upon the course which his son was now openly pursuing, pointing out how greatly it would reflect upon the father, whose co-operation or countenance he supposed to be impossible. the letters written on this subject by forbes are admirable, and show a deep interest not only in the security of his country, but also in the fate of the young man, who afterwards redeemed his involuntary errors by a career of the highest respectability. "you have now so far pulled off the mask," writes the president, "that we can see the mark you aimed at." "you sent away your son, and the best part of your clan," he adds, after a remonstrance full of good sense and candour, "to join the pretender, with as little concern as if no danger had attended such a step. and i am sorry to tell you, my lord, that i could sooner undertake to plead the cause of any one of those unhappy gentlemen who are actually in arms against his majesty; and i could say more in defence of their conduct, than i could in defence of your lordship's."[ ] can any instance of moral degradation be adduced more complete than this? the implication of a son by a father, who had used his absolute authority to drive his son into an active part in the affairs of the day? "i received the honour of your lordship's letter," writes lovat, in reply, "late last night, of yesterday's date; and i own that i never received any one like it since i was born; and i give your lordship the thousand thanks for the kind freedom you use with me in it; for i see by it that for my misfortune of having ane obstinate stubborn son, and ane ungrateful kindred, my family must go to destruction, and i must lose my life in my old age. such usage looks rather like a turkish or persian government than like a british. am i, my lord, the first father that had ane undutiful and unnatural son? or am i the first man that has made a good estate, and saw it destroyed in his own time? but i never heard till now, that the foolishness of a son, would take away the liberty and life of a father, that lived peaceably, that was ane honest man, and well inclined to the rest of mankind. but i find the longer a man lives, the more wonders, and extraordinary things he sees. "now, my lord, as to the civil war that occasions my misfortune; and in which, almost the whole kingdom is involved on one side or other. i humbly think that men should be moderate on both sides, since it is morally impossible to know the event. for thousands, nay, ten thousands on both sides are positive that their own party will carry; and suppose that this highland army should be utterly defeat, and that the government should carry all in triumph, no man can think that any king upon the throne would destroy so many ancient families that are engaged in it." upon the news of the pretender's troops marching to england, the frasers, headed by the master of lovat, formed a sort of blockade round fort augustus; upon which the earl of loudon, with a large body of the well-affected clans, marched, in a very severe frost during the month of december, to the relief of fort augustus. his route lay through stratherric, lord lovat's estate, on the south side of loch ness. fort augustus surrendered without opposition; and the next visit which lord loudon paid was to castle downie, where he prevailed on lord lovat to go with him to inverness, and to remain there under loudon's eye, until his clan should have been compelled to bring in their arms. lord lovat was now very submissive; he promised that this should be done in three days, and highly condemned the conduct of his son. but he still delayed to surrender the arms; and, at last, found means, in spite of his lameness which he was always lamenting, to get out of the house where he was lodged by a back passage, and to make his escape to the isle of muily, in glenstrathfarrer. here he occupied himself in exciting all the clans, especially his own frasers, to join in the insurrection. a scheme having been submitted to the duke of cumberland, for the prevention of all future disturbances by transporting all those who had been found in arms to america, lord lovat had this document translated into gaelic, and circulated in the highlands, in order to exasperate the natives against the duke, and to show that that general intended to extirpate them root and branch. unhappily, the event did not serve to dispel those suspicions. this manifesto, as it was called, was read publicly in the churches every sunday. the march of the rebels to inverness drove lord loudon to retire into sutherland early in , and president forbes had accompanied him in his retreat. it was, therefore, again practicable for lord lovat to return to his own territory; and we find him, before the battle of culloden, alternately at castle downie, or among some of his adherents, chiefly at the house of fraser of gortuleg, from which the following letter which exemplifies much of the character of lovat, appears to have been written. "march , . "my dearest child, "gortulegg came home last night, with inocralachy's brother; and the two sandy fairfield's son, and mine: and i am glad to know, that you are in perfect health, which you may be sure i wish the continuance of. i am sure for all sandy's reluctance to come to this country, he will be better pleased with it than any where else; for he has his commerade, gortuleg's son, to travell up and down with him; i shall not desire him to stay ane hour in the house but when he pleases. "my cousin, mr. william fraser, tells me that the prince sent notice to sir alexander bennerman, by sir john m'donell, that he would go some of these days, and view my country of the aird, and fish salmon upon my river of beauly, i do not much covet that great honour at this time as my house is quite out of order, and that i am not at home myself nor you: however, if the prince takes the fancy to go, you must offer to go along with him, and offer him a glass of wine and any cold meat you can get there. i shall send sanday doan over immediately, if you think that the prince is to go: so i have ordered the glyd post to be here precisely this night. "mr. william fraser says, that sir alexander bennerman will not give his answer to sir john m'donell, till he return about the prince's going to beaufort; and that cannot be before saturday morning. so i beg, my dearest child, you may consider seriously of this, not to let us be affronted; for after sir alexander and other gentlemen were entertained at your house, if the prince should go and meet with no reception, it will be ane affront, and a stain upon you and me while we breathe. so, my dearest child, don't neglect this; for it is truely of greater consequence to our honour than you can imagine, tho' in itself it's but a maggot: but, i fancy, since cumberland is comeing so near, that these fancy's will be out of head. however, i beg you may not neglect to acquaint me (if it was by ane express) when you are rightly informed that the prince is going. i have been extreamly bad these four days past with a fever and a cough; but i thank god i am better since yesterday affernoon. i shall be glad to see you here, if you think it proper for as short or as long a time as you please. all in this family offer you their compliments: and i ever am, more than i can express, my dearest child, your most affected and dutiful father, "----." "p.s.--the prince's reason for going to my house is, to see a salmon kill'd with the rod, which he never saw before; and if he proposes that fancy, he must not be disappointed. "i long to hear from you by the glyd post some time this night. i beg, my dear child, you may send me any news you have from the east, and from the north, and from the south."[ ] it was not until after the battle of culloden that charles edward and lord lovat first met. in that engagement, lovat's infirmities, as well as his precautions, had prevented his taking an active part; but his son, the master of lovat, whose energy in the cause which he had unwillingly espoused, met the praise of prince charles, led his clan up to the encounter, and was one of the few who effected a junction with the prince on the morning of the battle. fresh auxiliaries from the clan fraser were hastening in at the very moment of that ill-judged action; and they behaved with their accustomed bravery, and were permitted to march off unattacked, with their pipes playing, and their colours flying. the great body of the clan fraser were led by charles fraser, junior, of inverlaltochy, as lieutenant-colonel in the absence of the master of lovat, who was coming up with three hundred men, but met the highlanders flying. the brave inverlaltochy was killed; and the fugitives were sorely harassed by kingston's light horse. the battle of culloden occurring shortly afterwards, decided the question of lord lovat's political bias. very different accounts have been transmitted of the feelings and conduct of prince charles after the fury of the contest had been decided. by some it has been stated, that he lost on that sad occasion those claims to a character for valour which even his enemies had not hitherto refused him; but mr. maxwell has justified the unfortunate and inexperienced young man. "the prince," he says, "seeing his army entirely routed, and all his endeavours to rally the men fruitless, was at last prevailed upon to retire. most of his horse assembled around his person to secure his retreat, which was made without any danger, for the enemy advanced very leisurely over the ground. they were too happy to have got so cheap a victory over a prince and an enemy that they had so much reason to dread. they made no attack where there was any body of the prince's men together, but contented themselves with sabering such unfortunate people as fell in his way single and disarmed."[ ] "if he did less at culloden than was expected from him," adds this partial, but honest follower, "'twas only because he had formerly done more than could be expected." he justly blames the prince's having come over without any officer of experience to guide him. "he was too young himself, and had too little experience to perform all the functions of a general; and though there are examples of princes that seem to have been born generals, they had the advice and assistance of old experienced officers, men that understood, in detail, all that belongs to any army."[ ] lord elcho, in his manuscript, thus accounts for the censures which were cast upon the prince by those who shared his misfortunes. "what displeased the people of fashion (consequence) was, that he did not seem to have the least sense of what they had done for him; but, after all, would afterwards say they had done nothing but their duty, as his father's subjects were bound to do. "and there were people about him that took advantage to represent the scotch to him as a mutinous people, and that it was not so much for him they were fighting as for themselves; and repeated to him all their bad behaviour to charles the first and charles the second, and put it to him in the worst light, that at the battle of culloden he thought that all the scots in general were a parcel of traitors. and he would have continued in the same mind had he got out of the country immediately; but the care they took of his person when he was hiding made him change his mind, and affix treason only to particulars."[ ] after the battle was decided, and the plain of culloden abandoned to the fury of an enemy more merciless and insatiable than any who ever before or after answered to an english name, the prince retired across a moor in the direction of fort augustus, and, according to maxwell, slept that night at the house of fraser of gortuleg; and there for the first time saw lord lovat. but this interview is declared by arbuthnot, who appears to have gathered his facts chiefly from local information, in the castle of downie; and the testimony of sir walter scott confirms the assertion. "a lady," writes sir walter, "who, then a girl, was residing in lord lovat's family, described to us the unexpected appearance of prince charles and his flying attendants at castle downie. the wild and desolate vale on which she was gazing with indolent composure, was at once so suddenly filled with horsemen riding furiously towards the castle, that, impressed with the idea that they were fairies, who, according to men, are visible only from one twinkle of the eyelid to another, she strove to refrain from the vibration which she believed would occasion the strange and magnificent apparition to become invisible. to lord lovat it brought a certainty more dreadful than the presence of fairies or even demons. the tower on which he had depended had fallen to crush him, and he only met the chevalier to exchange mutual condolences."[ ] the prince, it is affirmed, rushed into the chamber where lovat, supported by men, for he could not stand without assistance, awaited his approach. the unhappy fugitive broke into lamentations. "my lord," he exclaimed, "we are undone; my army is routed: what will become of poor scotland?" unable to utter any more, he sank fainting on a bed near him. lord lovat immediately summoned assistance, and by proper remedies the prince was restored to a consciousness of his misfortunes, and to the recollection that castle downie, a spot upon which the vengeance of the government was sure to fall, could be no safe abiding place for him or for his followers.[ ] such was the commencement of those wanderings, to the interest and romance of which no fiction can add. after this conference was ended, prince charles went to invergarie; lord lovat prepared for flight. his first place of retreat was to a mountain, whence he could behold the field of battle; he collected his officers and men around him, and they gazed with mournful interest upon the plain of culloden. heaps of wounded men were lying in their blood; others were still pursued by the soldiers of an army whose orders were, from their royal general, _to give no quarter_; fire and sword were everywhere; vengeance and fury raged on the moor watered by the river nairn. here, too, the unhappy frasers and their chief might view culloden house, a large fabric of stone, graced with a noble avenue of great length leading to the house, and surrounded by a park covered with heather. here charles edward had slept the night before the battle. the remembrance of many social hours, of the hospitality of that old hall, might recur at this moment to the mind of lovat. but whatever might be his reflections, his fortitude remained unbroken. he turned to the sorrowful clan around them, and addressed them. he recurred to his former predictions: "i have foretold," he said, still attempting to keep up his old influence over the minds of his clans, "that our enemies would destroy us with the fire and sword; they have begun with me, nor will they cease until they have ravaged all the country." he still, however, exhorted his captains to keep together their men, and to maintain a mountain war, so that at least they might obtain better terms of peace. having thus counselled them, he was carried upon the shoulders of his followers to the still farther mountains, from one of which he is said, by a singular stroke of retributive justice, to have beheld castle downie, the scene of his crime, to maintain the splendour of which he had sacrificed every principle, and compassed every crime, burned by the infuriated enemy. nine hundred men, under brigadier mordaunt, were detached for this purpose. in one of the highland fastnesses lovat remained some time; but the blood-thirsty cumberland was eager in pursuit. parties of soldiers were sent out in search of lovat, and he soon found that it was no longer safe to remain in the vicinity of beaufort. he fled, in the first instance, to cawdor castle. in this famous structure, with its iron-grated doors, its ancient tapestry hanging over secret passages and obscure approaches, he took refuge. in one of its towers, in a small low chamber beneath the roof, the wretched old man concealed himself for some months. when he was at last obliged to quit it, he descended by means of a rope from his chamber. he had still lost neither resolution nor energy. on the fourth of may, fifteen of the jacobite chieftains, lord lovat among the number, met in the island of mortlaig, to concert measures for raising a body of men to resist the victorious troops. on this occasion lord lovat declared that they need not be uneasy, since he had no doubt but that they should be able to collect eight or ten thousand men to fight the elector of hanover's troops. cameron of lochiel, murray of broughton, and several other leaders of distinction were present; lord lovat was attended by many of his own clan, who were armed with dirks, swords, and pistols, and marked by wearing sprays of yew in their bonnets. but the conference broke up without any important result. the leaders embraced each other, drank to prince charles's health, and separated. on this occasion lord lovat headed that party among the jacobites who still looked for aid from france, and abjured the notion of surrendering to the conqueror.[ ] still hunted, to use his own expression, "like a fox," through the main land, lovat now got off in a boat to the island of morar, where he thought himself secure from his enemies; but it was decreed that his iniquitous life should not close in peaceful obscurity. it was not long before he heard that a party of the king's troops had arrived in pursuit of him, and a detachment of the garrison of fort william, on board the terror and furnace sloops, was also despatched, to make descents on different parts of the island. lovat retreated into the woods; captain mellon, who commanded the detachment searched every town, village, and house; but not finding the fugitive, he resolved to traverse the woods, planting parties at the openings to intercept an escape. in the course of his researches he passed a very old tree, which, from some slits in its trunk, he and his men perceived to be hollow. one of the soldiers, peeping into the aperture, thought he saw a man's leg; upon which he summoned his captain, who, on investigating farther, found on one side a large opening, in which stood a pair of legs, the rest of the figure being hidden within the hollow of the tree. this was, however, quickly discovered to be lord lovat, for whom this party had then been three days in search. he was wrapped in blankets, to protect his aged limbs from the cold. thus discovered, lovat was forced to surrender, but his spirit rose with the occasion: he told captain mellon that "he had best take care of him; for if he did not, he should make him answer for his conduct before a set of gentlemen the very sight of whom would make him tremble." he was taken, in the first instance, to fort william, where he was treated with humanity, in obedience to the express orders of the duke of cumberland. from this prison lovat wrote a letter to the duke, reminding his royal highness of the services which he had performed in , and of the favour shown him by george the first. "i often carried your royal highness," pursues the unhappy old man, "in my arms, in the palaces of kensington and of hampton court, to hold you up to your royal grandfather, that he might embrace you, for he was very fond of you and the young princesses." he then represented to the duke that if mercy were shown him, and he "might have the honour to kiss the duke's hand, he might do more service to the king and government than destroying a hundred such old and very infirm men like me, (past seventy, without the least use of my hands, legs, or knees,) can be of advantage in any shape to the government." he was conveyed soon after this letter, which is dated june the twenty-second, , to fort augustus. he had requested that a litter might be prepared for him, for he was not able either to stand, walk, or ride. on the fifteenth of july he was removed, under a strong guard, to stirling, where a party of lord mark ker's dragoons received him. after a few days rest he passed through edinburgh for the last time; thence to berwick, and on the twenty-fifth he began his last journey under the escort of sixty dragoons commanded by major gardner. his journey to london was divided into twenty stages, and he was to travel one stage a day. it was, indeed, of importance to the government that he should reach london alive, since many disclosures were expected from lovat. on reaching newcastle three days afterwards he appeared to be in a very feeble state, and walked from his coach to his lodgings supported by two of the dragoons. as he travelled along in a sort of cage, or horse-litter, the acclamations and hisses of the populace everywhere assailed him; but his spirits were unbroken, and he talked confidently of his return. but as he drew near london this security diminished. he happened to reach london a few days before the unhappy jacobite noblemen were beheaded on tower hill. on his way to the tower he passed the scaffold which was erected for their execution. "ah!" he exclaimed, "i suppose it will not be long before i shall make my exit there." he was received in the tower by the lieutenant-governor, who conducted him to the apartment prepared for his reception. here, reclining in an elbow chair, he is said to have broken out into reflections upon his eventful and singular career. he uttered many moral sentiments, and expressed himself, as many other men have done on similar occasions, perfectly satisfied with his own intentions. such was the self-deception of this extraordinary man.[ ] in this prison lovat remained during five months without being brought to trial. but the delay was of infinite importance; it prepared him to quit, with what may be almost termed heroism, a life which he had employed in iniquity. without remembering this interval, during which ample time for preparation had been afforded, the hardihood which could sport with the most solemn of all subjects, would shock rather than astonish. in consideration of the conduct of many of our state prisoners on the scaffold, we must recollect how familiarized they had previously become with death, in those gloomy chambers whence they could see many a fellow sufferer issue, to shed his blood on the same scaffold which would soon be re-erected for themselves. during his imprisonment, lovat had the affliction of hearing that his estates, after being plundered of everything and destroyed by fire, were given by the duke of cumberland to james fraser of cullen castle.[ ] he was therefore left without a shilling of revenue during his confinement, and was thus treated as a convicted prisoner. in this situation he was reduced to the utmost distress, and indebted solely to the bounty of a kinsman, administered through governor williamson, for subsistence. at length, early in the year , upon preferring a petition to the house of lords, these grievances were in a great measure redressed. yet the unhappy prisoner had sustained many hardships. among others the legal plunder of his strong box, containing the sum of seven hundred pounds, and of many valuables.[ ] after much deliberation on the part of the crown lawyers, lord lovat was impeached of high treason. "we learn," says mr. anderson, "from lord mansfield's speech in the sutherland cause, that much deliberation was necessary. it was foreseen that his lordship would have recourse to art. if he was tried as a commoner he might claim to be a peer; if tried as a peer he might claim to be a commoner. everything was fully considered; the true solid ground upon which he was tried as a peer, was the presumption in favour of the heirs male."[ ] on monday, the ninth of march, the proceedings were commenced against lord lovat; and a renewal took place of that scene which horace walpole declared to be "most solemn and fine;--a coronation is a puppet-show, and all the splendour of it idle; but this sight at once feasted the eyes, and engaged all one's passions." lord lovat was now dragged forth to play the last scene of his eventful life. his size had by this time become enormous, so that when he had first entered the tower it was jestingly said that the doors must be enlarged to receive him. he could neither walk nor ride, as he was almost helpless; he was deaf, purblind, eighty years of age, ignorant of english law, and it was therefore not a matter of surprise that the high-born tribes, who thronged to his trial, were disappointed in the brilliancy of his parts, and in the readiness of his wit. "i see little of parts in him," observes walpole, "nor attribute much to that cunning for which he is so famous; it might catch wild highlanders." singular, indeed, must have been the contrast between lord lovat and the polished assembly around him: the lord high steward, hardwicke, comely, and endowed with a fine voice, but "curiously searching for occasions to bow to the minister, henry pelham," and asking at all hands what he was to do. the rude highland clansmen, vassals of lord lovat's, but witnesses against him; above all, the blot and scourge of the jacobite cause, murray of broughton, who was the chief witness against the prisoner, must have formed an assembly of differing characters not often to be seen, and never to be forgotten. the trial lasted five days; it affords, as has been well remarked, a history of the whole of the rebellion of . robert chevis of muirtown, a near neighbour of lovat's, but, as the counsel for the crown observed, a man of very different principles, gave testimony against the prisoner. at the end of the third day, lord lovat, pleading that he had been up at four o'clock in the morning, "to attend their lordships," and declaring that he would rather "die on the road than not pay them that respect," prayed a respite of a day, which was granted. it appeared, indeed, doubtful in what form death would seize him first, and whether disease and age might not cheat the scaffold of its victim. lord lovat spoke long in his defence, but without producing any revulsion in his favour. throughout the whole of the proceedings he appears not to have dreaded the rigour of the law; when the defence was closed, and the lord high steward was about to put the question, guilty or not guilty, to the house, the lieutenant of the tower was ordered by the lord steward to take the prisoner from the bar, but not back to the tower. "if your lordships," said lovat, "would send me to the highlands, i would not go to the tower any more." he was pronounced guilty by the unanimous votes of one hundred and seventeen lords present. he was then informed of his sentence, and remanded to his prison. on the following day, march the nineteenth, he was brought up to receive sentence. on that occasion, in reply to the question "why judgment of death should not be passed upon him," he made a long and, considering his fatigues and infirmities, an extraordinary speech, giving the lords "millions of thanks for being so good in their patience and attendance," and drawing a parallel between the two different men of the name of murray, who had figured in the trial. the one was murray of broughton; the other, murray afterwards lord mansfield. he then went into the history of his life; or, at least, into such passages of it as were proper for the public ear. he was interrupted by the lord high steward, whose conduct to the unhappy state prisoner is said to have been peevish and overbearing. judgment of death was then pronounced upon him, and the barbarous sentence which had been passed upon the earl of wintoun was pronounced; "to be hanged by the neck, but not till you are dead," &c. the prisoner then spoke again; hoping by this reiterated reference to his services, to obtain a mitigation of the sentence; but he spoke to those who heard, without compassion, the petitions for mercy which fell from an aged, tottering, and miserable old man. well has it been said, "whatever his character or his crimes might be, the humanity of the british government incurred a deep reproach, from the execution of an old man on the very verge of the grave."[ ] at last, the lord high steward put the final question; "would you offer anything further?" "nothing," was the reply, "but to thank your lordships for your goodness to me. god bless you all; i bid you an everlasting farewell. we shall not meet all again in the same place,--i am sure of that." lord lovat was reconducted to the tower--that prison on entering which he had boasted, that if he were not old and infirm they would have found it difficult to have kept him there. the people told him they had kept those who were much younger. "yes," he answered, "but they had not broken so many gaols as i have." he now met his approaching fate with a composure that it is difficult not to admire, even in lovat. and yet reflection may perhaps suggest that the insensibility to the fear of death--an emotion incident to conscientious minds--bespeaks, in one whose responsibilities had been so grossly abused, an insensibility springing from utter depravity. let us, however, give to the wretched man every possible allowance. he wrote, in terms of affection, a letter full of religious sentiments to his son, after his own condemnation. when the warrant came down for his execution, he exclaimed, "god's will be done!" with the courtesy that had charmed and had betrayed others all his life, he took the gentleman who brought the warrant by the hand, thanked him, drank his health, and assured him that he would not then change places with any prince in christendom. he appears, indeed, to have had no misgivings, or he affected to have none, as to his eternal prospects. when the lieutenant of the fortress in the tower asked him how he did? "do?" was his reply; "why i am about doing very well, for i am going to a place where hardly any majors, and very few lieutenant-generals go." some friends still remained warmly attached to this singular man. mr. william fraser, his cousin, advanced a large sum of money to general williamson, to provide for his wants; and, after acting as his solicitor, attended him to the last. but lord lovat felt deeply the circumstance of his having been convicted by his own servants: "it is shocking," he observed, "to human nature. i believe that they will carry about with them a sting that will accompany them to their grave; yet i wish them no evil." he prayed daily, and fervently; and expressed unbounded confidence in the divine mercy. "so, my dear child," he thus wrote to his son, "do not be in the least concerned for me; for i bless god i have strong reasons to hope that when it is god's will to call me out of this world, it will be by his mercy, and the suffering of my saviour, jesus christ, to enjoy everlasting happiness in the other world. i wish this may be yours." after he had penned this remarkable letter, he asked a gentleman who was in his room how he liked the letter? the reply was, "i like it very well; it is a very good letter." "i think," answered lord lovat, "it is a christian letter."[ ] in this last extremity of his singular fortunes, the wife, whom he had so cruelly treated, forgetful of every thing but her christian duty, wrote to him, and offered to repair immediately to london, and to go to him in the tower, if he desired it. but lord lovat returned an answer, in which, for the first time, he adopted the language of conjugal kindness to lady lovat, and refused the generous proposal, worthy of the disinterestedness of woman's nature. he declared that he could not take advantage of it, after all that had occurred.[ ] meantime, an application was made in favour of lovat by a mr. painter, of st. john's college, oxford, in the form of three letters, one of which was addressed to the king, another to lord chesterfield, a third to henry pelham. the courage of the intercession can scarcely be appreciated in the present day; in that melancholy period, the slightest word uttered in behalf of the insurgents, brought on the interceder the imputation of secret jacobitism, a suspicion which even president forbes incurred. the petitions for mercy were worded fearlessly; "in a word," thus concludes that which was addressed to the king, "bid lovat live; punish the vile traytor with life; but let me die; let me bow down my head to the block, and receive without fear the friendly blow, which, i verily believe, will only separate the soul from its body and miseries together."[ ] in his letter to lord chesterfield the oxonian repeats his offer of undergoing the punishment instead of the decrepid old man: "this i will be bold to say," he adds: "i will not disgrace your patronage by want of intrepidity in the hour of death, and that all the devils in milton, with all the ghastly ghosts of scotsmen that fell at culloden, if they could be conjured there, should never move me to say, coming upon the scaffold, 'sir, this is terrible.'"[ ] to mr. pelham he declared, that "the post that he wanted was not of the same nature with other court preferments, for which there is generally a great number of competitors, but may be enjoyed without a rival." the observations which lord lovat made upon this well-meant but absurd proposal, show his natural shrewdness, or his disbelief in all that is good and generous. "this," he exclaimed, on being told of these remarkable letters, "is an extraordinary man indeed. i should like to know what countryman he is, and whether the thing is fact. perhaps it may be only some _finesse_ in politics, to cast an odium on some particular person. in short, sir, i'm afraid the poor gentleman is weary of living in this wicked world; in that case, the obligation is altered, because a part of the benefit is intended for himself." in his last days, lovat avowed himself a roman catholic; but his known duplicity caused even this profession of faith to be distrusted. it is probable that like many men who have seen much of the world, and have mingled with those of different persuasions, lord lovat attached but little importance to different modes of faith. he was as unscrupulous in his religious professions as in all other respects. early in his career, he thought it expedient to obtain the favour of the pope's nuncio at paris by conforming to the romish faith. he declared to the duke of argyle and to lord leven that he could not get the court of st. germains to listen to his projects until he had declared himself a papist. one can scarcely term this venal conversion[ ] an adoption of the principles of any church. the outward symbols of his pretended persuasion had, however, become dear to him, from habit: he carried about his person a silver crucifix, which he often kissed. "observe," he said, "this crucifix! did you ever see a better? how strongly the passions are marked, how fine the expression is! we keep pictures of our best friends, of our parents, and others, but why should we not keep a picture of him who has done more than all the world for us?" when asked, "of what particular sort of catholic are you? a jesuit?" he answered to the nobleman who inquired, (and whose name was not known,) "no, no, my lord, i am a jansenist;" he then avowed his intimacy with that body of men, and assured the nobleman, that in _his_ sense of being a roman catholic, he "was as far from being one as his lordship, or as any other nobleman in the house." "this is my faith," he observed on another occasion, after affirming that he had studied controversy for three years, and then turned roman catholic; "but i have charity for all mankind, and i believe every honest man bids fair for heaven, let his persuasion be what it may; for the mercies of the almighty are great, and his ways past finding out." the allusion to his funeral had something touching, coming from the old highland chieftain. almost the solitary good trait in lovat's character was the fondness for his highland home--a pride in his clan--a yearning to the last for the mountains, the straths, the burns, now ravaged by the despoiler, and red with the blood of the frasers. "bury me," he said, "in my own tomb in the church of kirk hill; in former days, i had made a codicil to my will, that all the pipers from john o'groat's house to edinburgh should be invited to play at my funeral: that may not be now--but still i am sure there will be some good old highland women to sing a coronach at my funeral; and there will be a crying and clapping of hands--for i am one of the greatest of the highland chieftains." the circumstance which gave him the most uneasiness was the bill then depending for destroying the ancient privileges and jurisdiction of the highland chiefs. "for my part," he exclaimed, when referring to the measure, "i die a martyr to my country." he became much attached to one of his warders, and the usual influence which he seems to have possessed over every being with whom he came into collision, attracted the regards of this man to him. "go with me to the scaffold," said lovat--"and leave me not till you see this head cut off the body. tell my son, the master of lovat, with what tenderness i have parted from you." "do you think," he exclaimed, on the man's expressing some sympathy with his approaching fate, "i am afraid of an axe? 'tis a debt we all owe, and what we must all pay; and do you not think it better to go off so, than to linger with a fever, gout, or consumption? though my constitution is so good, i might have lived twenty years longer had i not been brought hither." during the week which elapsed between the warrant for his being brought down to the tower, and his death, although, says a gentleman who attended him to the scaffold, "he had a great share of memory and understanding, and an awful idea of religion and a future state, i never could observe, in his gesture or speech, the least symptom of fear, or indeed any symptoms of uneasiness."[ ] "i die," was his own expression, "as a christian, and a highland chieftain should do,--that is, not in my bed." throughout the whole of that solemn interval, the certainty of his fate never dulled the remarkable vivacity of his conversation, nor the gay courtesy of his manners. no man ever died less consistently with his life. "it is impossible,"--such is the admission of a writer who detests his crimes,--"not to admire the fearlessness even of this monster in his last moments. but, in another view, it is somewhat difficult to resist a laugh of scorn at his impudent project of atoning for all the vices of a long and odious career, by going off with a fine sentiment on his lips."[ ] on thursday, the ninth of april, and the day appointed for his death, lord lovat awoke about three in the morning, and then called for a glass of wine and water, as was his custom. he took the greatest pains that every outward arrangement should bear the marks of composure and decency,--a care which may certainly incline one to fancy, that the heroism of his last moments may have had effect, in part, for its aim, and that, as talleyrand said of mirabeau, "he dramatized his death." but, it must be remembered, that in those days, it was the custom and the aim of the state prisoners to go to the scaffold gallantly; and thus virtuous men and true penitents walked to their doom attired with the precision of coxcombs. lord lovat, who had smoked his pipe merrily during his imprisonment with those about him, and had heard the last apprisal of his fate without emotion, was angry, when within a few hours of death and judgment, that his wig was not so much powdered as usual. "if he had had a suit of velvet embroidered, he would wear it," he said, "on that occasion." he then conversed with his barber, whose father was a muggletonian, about the nature of the soul, adding with a smile, "i hope to be in heaven at one o'clock, or i should not be so merry now." but, with all this loquacity, and display of what was, perhaps, in part, the insensibility of extreme age, the "behaviour that was said to have had neither dignity nor gravity"[ ] in it at the trial, had lost the buffoonish character which characterized it in the house of lords. at ten o'clock, a scaffold which had been erected near the block fell down, and several persons were killed, and many injured; but the proceedings of the day went on. no reprieve, no thoughts of mercy ever came to shake the fortitude of the old man. at eleven, the sheriffs of london sent to demand the prisoner's body: lord lovat retired for a few moments to pray; then, saying, "i am ready," he left his chamber, and descended the stairs, complaining as he went, "that they were very troublesome to him." he was carried to the outer gate in the governor's coach, and then delivered to the sheriffs, and was by them conveyed to a house, lined with black, near to the scaffold. he was promised that his head should not be exposed on the four corners of the scaffold, that practice, in similar cases, having been abandoned: and that his clothes might be delivered with his corpse to his friends, as a compensation for which, to the executioner, he presented ten guineas contained in a purse of rich texture. he then thanked the sheriff, and saluted his friends, saying, "my blood, i hope, will be the last shed upon this occasion." he then walked towards the scaffold. it was a memorable and a mournful sight to behold the aged prisoner ascending those steps, supported by others, thus to close a life which must, at any rate, soon have been extinguished in a natural decay. as he looked round and saw the multitudes assembled to witness this disgraceful execution, "god save us!" he exclaimed; "why should there be such a bustle about taking off an old grey head, that cannot get up three steps without two men to support it?" seeing one of his friends deeply dejected, "cheer up," he said, clapping him on the shoulder; "i am not afraid, why should you be?" he then gave the executioner his last gift, begging him not to hack and cut about his shoulders, under pain of his rising to reproach him. he felt the edge of the axe, and said "he believed it would do;" then his eyes rested for some moments on the inscription on his coffin. "simon dominus fraser de lovat, decollat. april , . Ætat ." he repeated the line from horace:-- "dulce et decorum est pro patriâ mori." then quoted ovid:--"nam genus et proavos, et quæ non fecimus ipsi, vix ea nostra voco." he took leave of his solicitor, mr. william fraser, and presented him with his gold cane, as a mark of his confidence and token of remembrance. then he embraced another relative, mr. james fraser. "james," said the old chieftain, "i am going to heaven, but you must continue to crawl a little longer in this evil world." he made no address to the assembled crowds, but left a paper, which he delivered to the sheriffs, containing his last protestations. after his sentence, lovat had accustomed his crippled limbs to kneel, that he might be able to assume that posture at the block. he now kneeled down, and after a short prayer gave the preconcerted signal that he was ready; this was the throwing of a handkerchief upon the floor. the executioner severed his head from his body at one blow. a piece of scarlet cloth received his head, which was placed in the coffin with his body and conveyed to the tower, where it remained until four o'clock. it was then given to an undertaker. in the paper delivered to the sheriff there were these words, which would have partly been deemed excellent had they proceeded from any other man:--"as it may reasonably be expected of me that i should say something of myself in this place, i declare i die a true but unworthy member of the holy, catholic, apostolic church. as to my death, i cannot look upon it but as glorious. i sincerely pardon all my enemies, persecutors, and slanderers, from the highest to the lowest, whom god forgive as i heartily do. i die in perfect charity with all mankind. i sincerely repent of all my sins, and firmly hope to obtain pardon and forgiveness for them through the merits and passion of my blessed lord and redeemer, jesus christ, into whose hands i recommend my soul. amen. lovat." "in the tower, april , ." * * * * * the public might well contrast the relentless hand of justice, in this instance, with the mercy of queen anne. she, like her brother the chevalier, averse from shedding blood, had spared the life of an old man, who had been condemned in her reign for treason. many other precedents of a similar kind have been adduced.[ ] but this act of inhumanity was only part of a system of what was called justice; but which was the justice of the heathen, and not of the christian. if the character of lord lovat cannot be deduced from his actions, it must be impossible to understand the motives of man from any course of life; for never was a career more strongly marked by the manifestation of the passions, than that of this unworthy descendant of a great line. his selfishness was unbounded, his rapacity insatiable; his brutality seems incredible. in the foregoing narrative, the mildest view has been adopted of his remorseless cruelty: of his gross and revolting indulgences, of his daily demeanour, which is said to have outraged everything that is seemly, everything that is holy, in private life, little has been written. much that was alleged to lovat, in this particular, has been contradicted: much may be ascribed to the universal hatred of his name, which tinted, perhaps too highly, his vices, in his own day. something may be ascribed to party prejudice, which gladly seized upon every occasion of reproach to an adversary. yet still, there is too much that is probable, too much that is too true, to permit a hope that the private and moral character of lord lovat can be vindicated from the deepest stains. by his public life, he has left an indelible stain upon the honour of the highland character, upon his party, upon his country. of principle he had none:--for prudence, he substituted a low description of time-serving: he never would have promoted the interests of the hanoverians in the reign of george the first, if the court of st. germains had tolerated his alliance: he never would have sided with charles edward, if the court of st. james's had not withdrawn its confidence. his pride and his revengeful spirit went hand in hand together. the former quality had nothing in it of that lofty character which raises it almost to a virtue, in the stern scottish character: it was the narrow-minded love of power which is generated in a narrow sphere. in the different relations of his guilty life, only one redeeming feature is apparent,--the reverence which lord lovat bore to his father. with that parent, seems to have been buried every gentle affection: he regarded his wives as slaves; he looked upon his sons with no other regard and solicitude, than as being heirs of his estates. as a chief and a master, his conduct has been variously represented; the prevailing belief is, that it was marked by oppression, violence, and treachery: yet, as no man in existence ever was so abandoned as not to have his advocates, even the truth of this popular belief has been questioned, on the ground that the influence which he exercised over them, in being able to urge them to engage in whatsoever side he pleased, argues some qualities which must have engaged their affections.[ ] he who pleads thus, must, however, have forgotten the hereditary sway of a highland chieftain, existing in unbroken force in those days: he must have forgotten the sentiment which was inculcated from the cradle, the loyalty of clanship,--a sentiment which led on the brave hearts in which it was cherished to far more remarkable exertions and proofs of fidelity than even the history of the frasers can supply. but the deepest dye of guilt appears in lord lovat's conduct as a father. it was not only that he was, in the infancy and boyhood of his eldest born, harsh and imperious: such was the custom of the period. it was not only that he impelled the young man into a course which his own reason disapproved, and which he undertook with reluctance and disgust throwing, on one occasion, his white cockade into the fire, and only complying with his father's orders upon force. this was unjustifiable compulsion in any father, but it might be excused on the plea of zeal for the cause. but it appeared on the trial that the putting forward the master of lovat was a mere feint to save himself at the expense of his son, if affairs went wrong. in lord lovat's letters to president forbes the poor young man was made to bear the brunt of the whole blame; although lord lovat had frequently complained of his son's backwardness to certain members of his clan. on the trial it appeared that the whole aim of lord lovat was, as sir john strange expressed it, "an endeavour to avoid being fixed himself and to throw it all upon his son,--that son whom he had, in a manner, forced into the rebellion." rare, indeed, is such a case;--with that, let these few remarks on the character of lord lovat, conclude. human nature can sink to no lower depth of degradation. lord lovat left, by his first wife, three children:--simon, master of lovat; janet, who was married to ewan macpherson of cluny,--a match which lord lovat projected in order to increase his influence, and to strengthen his highland connections. this daughter was grandmother to the present chief, and died in . he had also another daughter, sybilla. this daughter was one of those rare beings whose elevated minds seem to expand in despite of every evil influence around them. her mother died in giving her birth; and lord lovat, perhaps from remorse for the uncomplaining and ill-used wife, evinced much concern at the death of his first lady, and showed a degree of consideration for his daughters which could hardly have been expected from one so steeped in vice. although his private life at castle downie, after the death of their mother was disgusting in detail, and therefore, better consigned to oblivion, the gentle presence of his two daughters restrained the coarse witticisms of their father, and he seemed to regard them both with affection and respect, and to be proud of the decorum of their conduct and manners. disgusted with the profligacy which, as they grew up, they could not but observe at castle downie, the young ladies generally chose to reside at leatwell, with lady mackenzie, their only aunt; and lord lovat did not resent their leaving him, but rather applauded a delicacy of feeling which cast so deep a reproach upon him. he was to them a kind indulgent father. when janet, lady clunie, was confined of her first child, he brought her to castle downie that she might have the attendance of physicians more easily than in the remote country where the macphersons lived. he always expressed regret that her mother had not been sufficiently attended to when her last child was born. the fate of sybilla fraser presents her as another victim to the hardness and impiety of lovat. "she possessed," says mrs. grant, "a high degree of sensibility, which when strongly excited by the misfortunes of her family, exalted her habitual piety into all the fervour of enthusiasm." when lovat passed through badenoch, after his apprehension, sybilla, who was there with lady clunie, followed him to dalwhinney, and there, in an agony of mind which may be readily conceived, entreated her aged father to reconcile himself to his maker, and to withdraw his thoughts from the world. she was answered by taunts at her "womanish weakness," as lovat called it, and by coarse ridicule of his enemies, with a levity of mind shocking under such circumstances. the sequel cannot be better told than in these few simple words: "sybilla departed almost in despair; prayed night and day, not for his life, but for his soul; and when she heard soon after, that 'he had died and made no sign,' grief in a short time put an end to her life."[ ] the master of lovat was implicated, as we have shown, in the troubles of . early in that year, he had the misery of discovering the treachery of his father, by accidentally finding the rough draught of a letter which lord lovat had written to the president, in order to excuse himself at the expense of his son. "good god!" exclaimed the young man, "how can he use me so? i will go at once to the president, and put the saddle on the right horse." in spite of this provocation, he did not, however, reveal his father's treachery; whilst lord lovat was balancing between hopes and fears, and irresolute which side to choose, the master at last entreated, with tears in his eyes, that "he might no longer be made a tool of--but might have such orders as his father might stand by." having received these orders, and engaged in the insurrection, the master of lovat was zealous in discharging the duties in which he had thus unwillingly engaged. his clan were among the few who came up at culloden in time to effect a junction with prince charles. in an act of attainder was passed against him; he surrendered himself to government, and was confined nine months in edinburgh castle. in a full and free pardon passed the seals for him. he afterwards became an advocate, but eventually returned to a military life, and was permitted to enter the english army. in he raised a regiment of one thousand eight hundred men, of which he was constituted colonel, at the head of which he distinguished himself at louisbourg and quebec. he was afterwards appointed colonel of the st foot, and performed eminent services in the american war. the title of his father had been forfeited, and his lands attainted. but in the lands and estates were restored upon certain conditions, in consideration of colonel fraser's eminent services, and in consideration of his having been involved in "the late unnatural rebellion" at a tender age. colonel fraser rose to the rank of lieutenant-general, and died in without issue; he was generally respected and compassionated. he was succeeded in the estates by his half-brother, archibald campbell fraser, the only child whom lord lovat had by his second wife. this young man had mingled, when a boy, from childish curiosity among the jacobite troops at the battle of culloden, and had narrowly escaped from the dragoons. he afterwards entered into the portuguese service, where he remained some years; but, being greatly attached to his own country, he returned. he could not, however, conscientiously take the oaths to government, and therefore never had any other military employment. "with much truth, honour, and humanity," relates mrs. grant, "he inherited his father's wit and self-possession, with a vein of keen satire which he indulged in bitter expressions against the enemies of his family. some of these i have seen, and heard many songs of his composing, which showed no contemptible power of poetic genius, although rude and careless of polish." he sank into habits of dissipation and over-conviviality, which impaired a reputation otherwise high in his neighbourhood, and became careless and hopeless of himself. what little he had to bequeath was left to a lady of his own name to whom he was attached, and who remained unmarried long after his death. it is rather remarkable that archibald campbell fraser, generally, from his command of the invernessshire militia, called colonel fraser, should survive his five sons, and that the estates which lord lovat had sacrificed so much to secure to his own line should revert to another family of the clan fraser,--the frasers of stricken, the present proprietors of lovat and stricken, being in aberdeenshire the twenty-second in succession from simon fraser of invernessshire.[ ] footnotes: [ ] anderson's historical account of the family of frisel or fraser, p. . [ ] one of lord lovat's family--it is not easy to ascertain which--emigrated after the rebellion of into ireland, and settled in that country, where he possessed considerable landed property, which is still enjoyed by one of his descendants. there is an epitaph on the family vault of this branch of the frizells or frazers, in the churchyard of old ross, in the county of wexford, bearing this inscription:--"the burial place of charles frizell, son of charles fraser frizell of ross, and formerly of beaufort, north britain." for this information i am indebted to the rev. john frizell, of great normanton, derbyshire, and one of this irish branch of the family, of which his brother is the lineal representative. [ ] anderson's historical account of the family of fraser. [ ] memoirs of the life of lord lovat, written by himself in the french language, p. . [ ] memoirs of the life of lord lovat, p. . [ ] in speaking of the other members of the family, mr. anderson remarks:--"the parish registers of kiltarlity, kirkill, and kilmorack, were at the same time examined with the view of tracing the other children of thomas of beaufort, but the communications of the various clergymen led to the knowledge that no memorials of them exist. the remote branches called to the succession in general fraser's entail proves, to a certainty, that these children died unmarried."--_anderson's historical account of the family of fraser._ it appears, however, from a previous note, that a branch of the family still exists in ireland. [ ] see state trials. lovat. [ ] letter from fort augustus in gentleman's magazine for . [ ] introduction to culloden papers, p. . gentleman's magazine, vol. xvi. p. . [ ] see lord lovat's memoirs, p. . also anderson and woods. [ ] lord lovat's memoirs, p. . [ ] lord lovat's memoirs, p. . [ ] chambers's biography. [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] lord lovat's memoirs, p. . [ ] lord lovat's memoirs, p. . [ ] arnot on the state trials, p. . [ ] memoirs. [ ] stewart's sketches, p. . [ ] brown's highlands, vol. i. p. . [ ] memoirs, p. . [ ] id. p. [ ] memoirs, p. . [ ] arnot, p. . [ ] arnot, p. . anderson, p. . [ ] arnot, p. . [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] lord lovat's manifesto, p. . [ ] ibid. [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] life and adventures of lord lovat, by the rev. archibald arbuthnot, one of the society for propagating christian knowledge, and minister of killarlaty, presbytery of inverness. london, . [ ] life and adventures, p. . [ ] manifesto. [ ] arnot, p. . [ ] chambers's dictionary. [ ] manifesto, p. . [ ] arnot, p. . [ ] arnot, p. . [ ] life of lord lovat, p. . [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] manifesto, p. . [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] macpherson. stuart papers, vol. i. p. . [ ] manifesto. [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] macpherson papers. [ ] see smollet, vol. ix. pp. and . [ ] lockhart memoirs, vol. i. p. . [ ] macpherson. stuart papers, vol. i. p. . [ ] manifesto, p. . [ ] two thousand five hundred pounds. [ ] manifesto, p. . [ ] see murray papers. advocate's library in edinburgh. [ ] lockhart memoirs, vol. i. p. . [ ] stuart papers. macpherson, vol. i. p. . [ ] stuart papers. macpherson, vol. i. p. . [ ] stuart papers. macpherson, vol. i. p. . [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] letter from james earl of perth, chancellor of scotland, &c.--edited by william jerdan, esq., and printed for the camden society, p. . [ ] arbuthnot, p, . [ ] somerville, p. . [ ] somerville, p. . also, lockhart's memoirs, p. ; macpherson, vol. i. p. . [ ] stuart papers, p. . [ ] id. p. . [ ] anderson. chambers. [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] of the two accounts of lord lovat's imprisonment, namely, mr. arbuthnot's and lord lovat's, the latter bears, strange to say, the greatest air of truth. mr. arbuthnot's, independent of his erring in the place of imprisonment, appears to me a pure romance. [ ] manifesto, p. . [ ] carstares. state papers, p. . [ ] manifesto, p. . [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] id. p. . [ ] free examination of the memoir of lord lovat, quoted in arbuthnot, p. . [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] from the macpherson papers, vol. ii. p. . [ ] culloden papers, p. . [ ] manifesto, p. . [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] smollet, p. xi. patten's history of the rebellion, p. . [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] edinburgh review, no. li. art. _culloden papers_, . this article is attributed to the honourable lord cockburn. [ ] see introduction to the culloden papers. [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] shaw's hist. of moray, p. . [ ] ibid. [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] shaw, p. . [ ] such was the style in which lovat, to be complimentary, usually addressed duncan forbes, on account of the military capacity in which the future lord president had acted during the rebellion. [ ] culloden papers, p. . [ ] culloden papers, p. . [ ] sergeant macleod served in , when only thirteen years of age, in the scots royals, afterwards under marlborough, then at the battle of sherriff muir in . after a variety of campaigns he was wounded in the battle of quebec, in , and came home in the same ship that brought general wolf's body to england. macleod died in chelsea hospital at the age of one hundred and three. his memoirs are interesting. [ ] memoirs of the life of sergeant donald macleod, p. . london, . [ ] anderson. from king's monumenta antiqua. [ ] culloden papers. [ ] mrs. grant's ms. [ ] anderson, p. . from family archives. [ ] chambers's traditions of edinburgh. [ ] chambers's traditions of edinburgh, p. . [ ] culloden papers, "quarterly review," vol. xiv. this article is written by sir walter scott, and the anecdote is given on his personal knowledge. [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] lady grange's memoirs. [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] arbuthnot. [ ] quarterly review, vol. xiv. culloden papers. [ ] culloden papers, p. . [ ] burt's letters from the north, vol. xxi. [ ] culloden papers, p. . [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] culloden papers, p. . [ ] henderson's history of the rebellion, p. . [ ] henderson, p. . [ ] james maxwell, of kirkconnell; his narrative, of which i have a copy, has been printed for the maitland club, in edinburgh; it is remarkably clear, and ably and dispassionately written, and was composed immediately after the events of the year , of which mr. maxwell was an eye-witness. [ ] maxwell of kirkconnell's narrative of the prince's expedition, p. . [ ] see lord elcho's narrative. ms. [ ] some say the fifteenth. see henderson. [ ] culloden papers, pp. , . [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] culloden papers, p. . [ ] chambers's traditions of edinburgh, p. . [ ] explained in the trial, by chevis, one of the witnesses, to be in allusion to the royal arms. [ ] quarterly review, vol. xiv. p. . [ ] edinburgh review, , vol. xxvi. p. . [ ] state trials, vol. xviii. [ ] maxwell of kirkconnel, p. . [ ] id. [ ] lord elcho's mss. [ ] quarterly review, vol. xiv. p. . [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] state trials, vol. xviii. p. . [ ] arbuthnot, p. . [ ] chambers's biography. art. _fraser_. [ ] state trials. [ ] anderson, p. . [ ] laing's history of scotland, p. . [ ] state trials, vol. xviii. p. . [ ] chambers's traditions of edinburgh, p. . [ ] gentleman's magazine, vol. xvii. p. . these letters were afterwards collected and sold for a guinea. [ ] in allusion to the expression of agony and dismay used some time before by lord kilmarnock. [ ] somerville's reign of queen anne, p. , to edition; from lockhart and macpherson. [ ] state trials. [ ] edinburgh review, vol. xxvi. p . [ ] horace walpole. [ ] state trials, vol. xviii. p. . [ ] free examination of the life of lord lovat; london . [ ] mrs. grant's ms. [ ] anderson, p. . end of the second volume. * * * * * transcriber's note: the following errors in the original have been corrected. page - willian gordon changed to william gordon page - missing quotation mark added after to the action. page - missing quotation mark added after he was guilty page - lady winifrid herbert changed to lady winifred herbert page - missing quotation marked added after their preservation. page - they cold not changed to they could not page - missing quotation mark added after name of gordon. page - missing quotation mark added before soon after page - missing footnote marker for footnote between "pleas to avert" and "would be hopeless" page - a high a reputation changed to a high reputation page - missing footnote marker for footnote between "he soon became" and "never to interpose" page - themselves was relaxed changed to themselves were relaxed page - now affrighed changed to now affrighted page - missing quotation mark added after me and my god." page - missing quotation mark added after for high treason. page - referred to the changed to referred to by the page - missing quotation mark added before hereditary monarchies page - missing quotation mark added after high road. page - missing quotation mark added before gave security page - extra quotation mark removed from after without delay. page - thomas fraser of beufort changed to thomas fraser of beaufort page - extra quotation mark removed from after "beaufort, the th of oct., . page - missing quotation mark added after neighbouring clans. page - missing quotation mark added before as honorable as missing quotation mark added before certain death page - missing quotation mark added after means of subsistence. page - missing comma added after marquis de torcy page - missing apostrophe added to priests orders page - missing quotation mark added after cattle, corn, page - missing quotation mark added before this introduction tacksmen or demiwassal changed to tacksman or demiwassal page - 'oh, boy! changed to "oh, boy! page - under london's changed to under loudon's page - jacobites chieftains changed to jacobite chieftains page - missing single quotation mark added after this is terrible. page - missing quotation mark added before and leave me page - missing quotation mark added before he might no longer [transcriber's note: i feel that it is important to note that this book is part of the caledonian series. the caledonian series is a group of books comprising all of sir walter scott's works.] waverley or 't is sixty years since by sir walter scott volume i publishers' note it has long been the ambition of the present publishers to offer to the public an ideal edition of the writings of sir walter scott, the great poet and novelist of whom william hazlitt said, 'his works are almost like a new edition of human nature.' secure in the belief not only that his writings have achieved a permanent place in the literature of the world, but that succeeding generations will prize them still more highly, we have, after the most careful planning and study, undertaken the publication of this edition of the waverley novels and the complete poetical writings. it is evident that the ideal edition of a great classic must be distinguished in typography, must present the best available text, and must be illustrated in such a way as at once to be beautiful in itself and to add to the reader's pleasure and his understanding of the book. as to the typography and text, little need be said here. the format of the edition has been most carefully studied, and represents the use of the best resources of the riverside press. the text has been carefully edited in the light of scott's own revisions; all of his own latest notes have been included, glossaries have been added, and full descriptive notes to the illustrations have been prepared which will, we hope, add greatly to the reader's interest and instruction in the reading of the novels and poems. of the illustrations, which make the special feature of this edition, something more may be said. in the case of an author like sir walter scott, the ideal edition requires that the beautiful and romantic scenery amid which he lived and of which he wrote shall be adequately presented to the reader. no other author ever used more charming backgrounds or employed them to better advantage. to see scotland, and to visit in person all the scenes of the novels and poems, would enable the reader fully to understand these backgrounds and thereby add materially to his appreciation of the author. before beginning the preparation of this edition, the head of the department having it in charge made a visit in person to the scenes of the novels and poems, determined to explore all the localities referred to by the author, so far as they could be identified. the field proved even more productive than had been at first supposed, and photographs were obtained in sufficient quantity to illustrate all the volumes. these pictures represent the scenes very much as scott saw them. the natural scenery--mountains, woods, lakes, rivers, seashore, and the like--is nearly the same as in his day. the ruins of ancient castles and abbeys were found to correspond very closely with his descriptions, though in many instances he had in imagination rebuilt these ruins and filled them with the children of his fancy. the scenes of the stories extend into nearly every county in scotland and through a large part of england and wales. all of these were thoroughly investigated, and photographs were made of everything of interest. one of the novels has to do with france and belgium, one with switzerland, one with the holy land, one with constantinople, and one with india. for all of these lands, which scott did not visit in person, and therefore did not describe with the same attention to detail as in the case of his own country, interesting pictures of characteristic scenery were secured. by this method the publishers have hoped to bring before the reader a series of photographs which will not only please the eye and give a satisfactory artistic effect to the volumes, but also increase the reader's knowledge of the country described and add a new charm to the delightful work of the author. in addition to the photographs, old engravings and paintings have been reproduced for the illustration of novels having to do with old buildings, streets, etc., which have long since disappeared. for this material a careful search was made in the british museum, the advocates' library and city museum, edinburgh, the library at abbotsford, the bibliotheque nationale, paris, and other collections. it has been thought, too, that the ideal edition of scott's works would not be complete without an adequate portrayal of his more memorable characters. this has been accomplished in a series of frontispieces specially painted for this edition by twenty of the most distinguished illustrators of england. park street, boston. advertisement to the waverley novels it has been the occasional occupation of the author of waverley, for several years past, to revise and correct the voluminous series of novels which pass under that name, in order that, if they should ever appear as his avowed productions, he might render them in some degree deserving of a continuance of the public favour with which they have been honoured ever since their first appearance. for a long period, however, it seemed likely that the improved and illustrated edition which he meditated would be a posthumous publication. but the course of the events which occasioned the disclosure of the author's name having, in a great measure, restored to him a sort of parental control over these works, he is naturally induced to give them to the press in a corrected, and, he hopes, an improved form, while life and health permit the task of revising and illustrating them. such being his purpose, it is necessary to say a few words on the plan of the proposed edition. in stating it to be revised and corrected, it is not to be inferred that any attempt is made to alter the tenor of the stories, the character of the actors, or the spirit of the dialogue. there is no doubt ample room for emendation in all these points,--but where the tree falls it must lie. any attempt to obviate criticism, however just, by altering a work already in the hands of the public is generally unsuccessful. in the most improbable fiction, the reader still desires some air of vraisemblance, and does not relish that the incidents of a tale familiar to him should be altered to suit the taste of critics, or the caprice of the author himself. this process of feeling is so natural, that it may be observed even in children, who cannot endure that a nursery story should be repeated to them differently from the manner in which it was first told. but without altering, in the slightest degree, either the story or the mode of telling it, the author has taken this opportunity to correct errors of the press and slips of the pen. that such should exist cannot be wondered at, when it is considered that the publishers found it their interest to hurry through the press a succession of the early editions of the various novels, and that the author had not the usual opportunity of revision. it is hoped that the present edition will be found free from errors of that accidental kind. the author has also ventured to make some emendations of a different character, which, without being such apparent deviations from the original stories as to disturb the reader's old associations, will, he thinks, add something to the spirit of the dialogue, narrative, or description. these consist in occasional pruning where the language is redundant, compression where the style is loose, infusion of vigour where it is languid, the exchange of less forcible for more appropriate epithets--slight alterations in short, like the last touches of an artist, which contribute to heighten and finish the picture, though an inexperienced eye can hardly detect in what they consist. the general preface to the new edition, and the introductory notices to each separate work, will contain an account of such circumstances attending the first publication of the novels and tales as may appear interesting in themselves, or proper to be communicated to the public. the author also proposes to publish, on this occasion, the various legends, family traditions, or obscure historical facts which have formed the ground-work of these novels, and to give some account of the places where the scenes are laid, when these are altogether, or in part, real; as well as a statement of particular incidents founded on fact; together with a more copious glossary, and notes explanatory of the ancient customs and popular superstitions referred to in the romances. upon the whole, it is hoped that the waverley novels, in their new dress, will not be found to have lost any part of their attractions in consequence of receiving illustrations by the author, and undergoing his careful revision. abbotsford, january, . general preface to the waverley novels ---and must i ravel out my weaved-up follies? richard ii, act iv. having undertaken to give an introductory account of the compositions which are here offered to the public, with notes and illustrations, the author, under whose name they are now for the first time collected, feels that he has the delicate task of speaking more of himself and his personal concerns than may perhaps be either graceful or prudent. in this particular he runs the risk of presenting himself to the public in the relation that the dumb wife in the jest-book held to her husband, when, having spent half of his fortune to obtain the cure of her imperfection, he was willing to have bestowed the other half to restore her to her former condition. but this is a risk inseparable from the task which the author has undertaken, and he can only promise to be as little of an egotist as the situation will permit. it is perhaps an indifferent sign of a disposition to keep his word, that, having introduced himself in the third person singular, he proceeds in the second paragraph to make use of the first. but it appears to him that the seeming modesty connected with the former mode of writing is overbalanced by the inconvenience of stiffness and affectation which attends it during a narrative of some length, and which may be observed less or more in every work in which the third person is used, from the commentaries of caesar to the autobiography of alexander the corrector. i must refer to a very early period of my life, were i to point out my first achievements as a tale-teller; but i believe some of my old schoolfellows can still bear witness that i had a distinguished character for that talent, at a time when the applause of my companions was my recompense for the disgraces and punishments which the future romance-writer incurred for being idle himself, and keeping others idle, during hours that should have been employed on our tasks. the chief enjoyment of my holidays was to escape with a chosen friend, who had the same taste with myself, and alternately to recite to each other such wild adventures as we were able to devise. we told, each in turn, interminable tales of knight-errantry and battles and enchantments, which were continued from one day to another as opportunity offered, without our ever thinking of bringing them to a conclusion. as we observed a strict secrecy on the subject of this intercourse, it acquired all the character of a concealed pleasure, and we used to select for the scenes of our indulgence long walks through the solitary and romantic environs of arthur's seat, salisbury crags, braid hills, and similar places in the vicinity of edinburgh; and the recollection of those holidays still forms an oasis in the pilgrimage which i have to look back upon. i have only to add, that my friend still lives, a prosperous gentleman, but too much occupied with graver business to thank me for indicating him more plainly as a confidant of my childish mystery. when boyhood advancing into youth required more serious studies and graver cares, a long illness threw me back on the kingdom of fiction, as if it were by a species of fatality. my indisposition arose, in part at least, from my having broken a blood-vessel; and motion and speech were for a long time pronounced positively dangerous. for several weeks i was confined strictly to my bed, during which time i was not allowed to speak above a whisper, to eat more than a spoonful or two of boiled rice, or to have more covering than one thin counterpane. when the reader is informed that i was at this time a growing youth, with the spirits, appetite, and impatience of fifteen, and suffered, of course, greatly under this severe regimen, which the repeated return of my disorder rendered indispensable, he will not be surprised that i was abandoned to my own discretion, so far as reading (my almost sole amusement) was concerned, and still less so, that i abused the indulgence which left my time so much at my own disposal. there was at this time a circulating library in edinburgh, founded, i believe, by the celebrated allan ramsay, which, besides containing a most respectable collection of books of every description, was, as might have been expected, peculiarly rich in works of fiction. it exhibited specimens of every kind, from the romances of chivalry and the ponderous folios of cyrus and cassandra, down to the most approved works of later times. i was plunged into this great ocean of reading without compass or pilot; and, unless when some one had the charity to play at chess with me, i was allowed to do nothing save read from morning to night. i was, in kindness and pity, which was perhaps erroneous, however natural, permitted to select my subjects of study at my own pleasure, upon the same principle that the humours of children are indulged to keep them out of mischief. as my taste and appetite were gratified in nothing else, i indemnified myself by becoming a glutton of books. accordingly, i believe i read almost all the romances, old plays, and epic poetry in that formidable collection, and no doubt was unconsciously amassing materials for the task in which it has been my lot to be so much employed. at the same time i did not in all respects abuse the license permitted me. familiar acquaintance with the specious miracles of fiction brought with it some degree of satiety, and i began by degrees to seek in histories, memoirs, voyages and travels, and the like, events nearly as wonderful as those which were the work of imagination, with the additional advantage that they were at least in a great measure true. the lapse of nearly two years, during which i was left to the exercise of my own free will, was followed by a temporary residence in the country, where i was again very lonely but for the amusement which i derived from a good though old-fashioned library. the vague and wild use which i made of this advantage i cannot describe better than by referring my reader to the desultory studies of waverley in a similar situation, the passages concerning whose course of reading were imitated from recollections of my own. it must be understood that the resemblance extends no farther. time, as it glided on, brought the blessings of confirmed health and personal strength, to a degree which had never been expected or hoped for. the severe studies necessary to render me fit for my profession occupied the greater part of my time; and the society of my friends and companions, who were about to enter life along with, me, filled up the interval with the usual amusements of young men. i was in a situation which rendered serious labour indispensable; for, neither possessing, on the one hand, any of those peculiar advantages which are supposed to favour a hasty advance in the profession of the law, nor being, on the other hand, exposed to unusual obstacles to interrupt my progress, i might reasonably expect to succeed according to the greater or less degree of trouble which i should take to qualify myself as a pleader. it makes no part of the present story to detail how the success of a few ballads had the effect of changing all the purpose and tenor of my life, and of converting a painstaking lawyer of some years' standing into a follower of literature. it is enough to say, that i had assumed the latter character for several years before i seriously thought of attempting a work of imagination in prose, although one or two of my poetical attempts did not differ from romances otherwise than by being written in verse. but yet i may observe, that about this time (now, alas! thirty years since) i had nourished the ambitious desire of composing a tale of chivalry, which was to be in the style of the castle of otranto, with plenty of border characters and supernatural incident. having found unexpectedly a chapter of this intended work among some old papers, i have subjoined it to this introductory essay, thinking some readers may account as curious the first attempts at romantic composition by an author who has since written so much in that department. [footnote: see appendix no i.] and those who complain, not unreasonably, of the profusion of the tales which have followed waverley, may bless their stars at the narrow escape they have made, by the commencement of the inundation, which had so nearly taken place in the first year of the century, being postponed for fifteen years later. this particular subject was never resumed, but i did not abandon the idea of fictitious composition in prose, though i determined to give another turn to the style of the work. my early recollections of the highland scenery and customs made so favourable an impression in the poem called the lady of the lake, that i was induced to think of attempting something of the same kind in prose. i had been a good deal in the highlands at a time when they were much less accessible and much less visited than they have been of late years, and was acquainted with many of the old warriors of , who were, like most veterans, easily induced to fight their battles over again for the benefit of a willing listener like myself. it naturally occurred to me that the ancient traditions and high spirit of a people who, living in a civilised age and country, retained so strong a tincture of manners belonging to an early period of society, must afford a subject favourable for romance, if it should not prove a curious tale marred in the telling. it was with some idea of this kind that, about the year , i threw together about one-third part of the first volume of waverley. it was advertised to be published by the late mr. john ballantyne, bookseller in edinburgh, under the name of waverley; or, 'tis fifty years since--a title afterwards altered to 'tis sixty years since, that the actual date of publication might be made to correspond with the period in which the scene was laid. having proceeded as far, i think, as the seventh chapter, i showed my work to a critical friend, whose opinion was unfavourable; and having then some poetical reputation, i was unwilling to risk the loss of it by attempting a new style of composition. i therefore threw aside the work i had commenced, without either reluctance or remonstrance. i ought to add that, though my ingenious friend's sentence was afterwards reversed on an appeal to the public, it cannot be considered as any imputation on his good taste; for the specimen subjected to his criticism did not extend beyond the departure of the hero for scotland, and consequently had not entered upon the part of the story which was finally found most interesting. be that as it may, this portion of the manuscript was laid aside in the drawers of an old writing-desk, which, on my first coming to reside at abbotsford in , was placed in a lumber garret and entirely forgotten. thus, though i sometimes, among other literary avocations, turned my thoughts to the continuation of the romance which i had commenced, yet, as i could not find what i had already written, after searching such repositories as were within my reach, and was too indolent to attempt to write it anew from memory, i as often laid aside all thoughts of that nature. two circumstances in particular recalled my recollection of the mislaid manuscript. the first was the extended and well-merited fame of miss edgeworth, whose irish characters have gone so far to make the english familiar with the character of their gay and kind-hearted neighbours of ireland, that she may be truly said to have done more towards completing the union than perhaps all the legislative enactments by which it has been followed up. without being so presumptuous as to hope to emulate the rich humour, pathetic tenderness, and admirable tact which pervade the works of my accomplished friend, i felt that something might be attempted for my own country, of the same kind with that which miss edgeworth so fortunately achieved for ireland--something which might introduce her natives to those of the sister kingdom in a more favourable light than they had been placed hitherto, and tend to procure sympathy for their virtues and indulgence for their foibles. i thought also, that much of what i wanted in talent might be made up by the intimate acquaintance with the subject which i could lay claim to possess, as having travelled through most parts of scotland, both highland and lowland, having been familiar with the elder as well as more modern race, and having had from my infancy free and unrestrained communication with all ranks of my countrymen, from the scottish peer to the scottish plough-man. such ideas often occurred to me, and constituted an ambitious branch of my theory, however far short i may have fallen of it in practice. but it was not only the triumphs of miss edgeworth which worked in me emulation, and disturbed my indolence. i chanced actually to engage in a work which formed a sort of essay piece, and gave me hope that i might in time become free of the craft of romance-writing, and be esteemed a tolerable workman. in the year - i undertook, at the request of john murray, esq., of albemarle street, to arrange for publication some posthumous productions of the late mr. joseph strutt, distinguished as an artist and an antiquary, amongst which was an unfinished romance, entitled queenhoo hall. the scene of the tale was laid in the reign of henry vi, and the work was written to illustrate the manners, customs, and language of the people of england during that period. the extensive acquaintance which mr. strutt had acquired with such subjects in compiling his laborious horda angel-cynnan, his regal and ecclesiastical antiquities, and his essay on the sports and pastimes of the people of england had rendered him familiar with all the antiquarian lore necessary for the purpose of composing the projected romance; and although the manuscript bore the marks of hurry and incoherence natural to the first rough draught of the author, it evinced (in my opinion) considerable powers of imagination. as the work was unfinished, i deemed it my duty, as editor, to supply such a hasty and inartificial conclusion as could be shaped out from the story, of which mr. strutt had laid the foundation. this concluding chapter [footnote: see appendix no. ii.] is also added to the present introduction, for the reason already mentioned regarding the preceding fragment. it was a step in my advance towards romantic composition; and to preserve the traces of these is in a great measure the object of this essay. queenhoo hall was not, however, very successful. i thought i was aware of the reason, and supposed that, by rendering his language too ancient, and displaying his antiquarian knowledge too liberally, the ingenious author had raised up an obstacle to his own success. every work designed for mere amusement must be expressed in language easily comprehended; and when, as is sometimes the case in queenhoo hall, the author addresses himself exclusively to the antiquary, he must be content to be dismissed by the general reader with the criticism of mungo, in the padlock, on the mauritanian music, 'what signifies me hear, if me no understand?' i conceived it possible to avoid this error; and, by rendering a similar work more light and obvious to general comprehension, to escape the rock on which my predecessor was shipwrecked. but i was, on the other hand, so far discouraged by the indifferent reception of mr. strutt's romance as to become satisfied that the manners of the middle ages did not possess the interest which i had conceived; and was led to form the opinion that a romance founded on a highland story and more modern events would have a better chance of popularity than a tale of chivalry. my thoughts, therefore, returned more than once to the tale which i had actually commenced, and accident at length threw the lost sheets in my way. i happened to want some fishing-tackle for the use of a guest, when it occurred to me to search the old writing-desk already mentioned, in which i used to keep articles of that nature. i got access to it with some difficulty; and, in looking for lines and flies, the long-lost manuscript presented itself. i immediately set to work to complete it according to my original purpose. and here i must frankly confess that the mode in which i conducted the story scarcely deserved the success which the romance afterwards attained. the tale of waverley was put together with so little care that i cannot boast of having sketched any distinct plan of the work. the whole adventures of waverley, in his movements up and down the country with the highland cateran bean lean, are managed without much skill. it suited best, however, the road i wanted to travel, and permitted me to introduce some descriptions of scenery and manners, to which the reality gave an interest which the powers of the author might have otherwise failed to attain for them. and though i have been in other instances a sinner in this sort, i do not recollect any of these novels in which i have transgressed so widely as in the first of the series. among other unfounded reports, it has been said that the copyright of waverley was, during the book's progress through the press, offered for sale to various book-sellers in london at a very inconsiderable price. this was not the case. messrs. constable and cadell, who published the work, were the only persons acquainted with the contents of the publication, and they offered a large sum for it while in the course of printing, which, however, was declined, the author not choosing to part with the copyright. the origin of the story of waverley, and the particular facts on which it is founded, are given in the separate introduction prefixed to that romance in this edition, and require no notice in this place. waverley was published in , and, as the title-page was without the name of the author, the work was left to win its way in the world without any of the usual recommendations. its progress was for some time slow; but after the first two or three months its popularity had increased in a degree which must have satisfied the expectations of the author, had these been far more sanguine than he ever entertained. great anxiety was expressed to learn the name of the author, but on this no authentic information could be attained. my original motive for publishing the work anonymously was the consciousness that it was an experiment on the public taste which might very probably fail, and therefore there was no occasion to take on myself the personal risk of discomfiture. for this purpose considerable precautions were used to preserve secrecy. my old friend and schoolfellow, mr. james ballantyne, who printed these novels, had the exclusive task of corresponding with the author, who thus had not only the advantage of his professional talents, but also of his critical abilities. the original manuscript, or, as it is technically called, copy, was transcribed under mr. ballantyne's eye by confidential persons; nor was there an instance of treachery during the many years in which these precautions were resorted to, although various individuals were employed at different times. double proof-sheets were regularly printed off. one was forwarded to the author by mr. ballantyne, and the alterations which it received were, by his own hand, copied upon the other proof-sheet for the use of the printers, so that even the corrected proofs of the author were never seen in the printing office; and thus the curiosity of such eager inquirers as made the most minute investigation was entirely at fault. but although the cause of concealing the author's name in the first instance, when the reception of waverley was doubtful, was natural enough, it is more difficult, it may be thought, to account for the same desire for secrecy during the subsequent editions, to the amount of betwixt eleven and twelve thousand copies, which followed each other close, and proved the success of the work. i am sorry i can give little satisfaction to queries on this subject. i have already stated elsewhere that i can render little better reason for choosing to remain anonymous than by saying with shylock, that such was my humour. it will be observed that i had not the usual stimulus for desiring personal reputation, the desire, namely, to float amidst the conversation of men. of literary fame, whether merited or undeserved, i had already as much as might have contented a mind more ambitious than mine; and in entering into this new contest for reputation i might be said rather to endanger what i had than to have any considerable chance of acquiring more. i was affected, too, by none of those motives which, at an earlier period of life, would doubtless have operated upon me. my friendships were formed, my place in society fixed, my life had attained its middle course. my condition in society was higher perhaps than i deserved, certainly as high as i wished, and there was scarce any degree of literary success which could have greatly altered or improved my personal condition. i was not, therefore, touched by the spur of ambition, usually stimulating on such occasions; and yet i ought to stand exculpated from the charge of ungracious or unbecoming indifference to public applause. i did not the less feel gratitude for the public favour, although i did not proclaim it; as the lover who wears his mistress's favour in his bosom is as proud, though not so vain, of possessing it as another who displays the token of her grace upon his bonnet. far from such an ungracious state of mind, i have seldom felt more satisfaction than when, returning from a pleasure voyage, i found waverley in the zenith of popularity, and public curiosity in full cry after the name of the author. the knowledge that i had the public approbation was like having the property of a hidden treasure, not less gratifying to the owner than if all the world knew that it was his own. another advantage was connected with the secrecy which i observed. i could appear or retreat from the stage at pleasure, without attracting any personal notice or attention, other than what might be founded on suspicion only. in my own person also, as a successful author in another department of literature, i might have been charged with too frequent intrusions on the public patience; but the author of waverley was in this respect as impassible to the critic as the ghost of hamlet to the partisan of marcellus. perhaps the curiosity of the public, irritated by the existence of a secret, and kept afloat by the discussions which took place on the subject from time to time, went a good way to maintain an unabated interest in these frequent publications. there was a mystery concerning the author which each new novel was expected to assist in unravelling, although it might in other respects rank lower than its predecessors. i may perhaps be thought guilty of affectation, should i allege as one reason of my silence a secret dislike to enter on personal discussions concerning my own literary labours. it is in every case a dangerous intercourse for an author to be dwelling continually among those who make his writings a frequent and familiar subject of conversation, but who must necessarily be partial judges of works composed in their own society. the habits of self-importance which are thus acquired by authors are highly injurious to a well-regulated mind; for the cup of flattery, if it does not, like that of circe, reduce men to the level of beasts, is sure, if eagerly drained, to bring the best and the ablest down to that of fools. this risk was in some degree prevented by the mask which i wore; and my own stores of self-conceit were left to their natural course, without being enhanced by the partiality of friends or adulation of flatterers. if i am asked further reasons for the conduct i have long observed, i can only resort to the explanation supplied by a critic as friendly as he is intelligent; namely, that the mental organisation of the novelist must be characterised, to speak craniologically, by an extraordinary development of the passion for delitescency! i the rather suspect some natural disposition of this kind; for, from the instant i perceived the extreme curiosity manifested on the subject, i felt a secret satisfaction in baffling it, for which, when its unimportance is considered, i do not well know how to account. my desire to remain concealed, in the character of the author of these novels, subjected me occasionally to awkward embarrassments, as it sometimes happened that those who were sufficiently intimate with me would put the question in direct terms. in this case, only one of three courses could be followed. either i must have surrendered my secret, or have returned an equivocating answer, or, finally, must have stoutly and boldly denied the fact. the first was a sacrifice which i conceive no one had a right to force from me, since i alone was concerned in the matter. the alternative of rendering a doubtful answer must have left me open to the degrading suspicion that i was not unwilling to assume the merit (if there was any) which i dared not absolutely lay claim to; or those who might think more justly of me must have received such an equivocal answer as an indirect avowal. i therefore considered myself entitled, like an accused person put upon trial, to refuse giving my own evidence to my own conviction, and flatly to deny all that could not be proved against me. at the same time i usually qualified my denial by stating that, had i been the author of these works, i would have felt myself quite entitled to protect my secret by refusing my own evidence, when it was asked for to accomplish a discovery of what i desired to conceal. the real truth is, that i never expected or hoped to disguise my connection with these novels from any one who lived on terms of intimacy with me. the number of coincidences which necessarily existed between narratives recounted, modes of expression, and opinions broached in these tales and such as were used by their author in the intercourse of private life must have been far too great to permit any of my familiar acquaintances to doubt the identity betwixt their friend and the author of waverley; and i believe they were all morally convinced of it. but while i was myself silent, their belief could not weigh much more with the world than that of others; their opinions and reasoning were liable to be taxed with partiality, or confronted with opposing arguments and opinions; and the question was not so much whether i should be generally acknowledged to be the author, in spite of my own denial, as whether even my own avowal of the works, if such should be made, would be sufficient to put me in undisputed possession of that character. i have been often asked concerning supposed cases, in which i was said to have been placed on the verge of discovery; but, as i maintained my point with the composure of a lawyer of thirty years' standing, i never recollect being in pain or confusion on the subject. in captain medwyn's conversations of lord byron the reporter states himself to have asked my noble and highly gifted friend,' if he was certain about these novels being sir walter scott's?' to which lord byron replied, 'scott as much as owned himself the author of waverley to me in murray's shop. i was talking to him about that novel, and lamented that its author had not carried back the story nearer to the time of the revolution. scott, entirely off his guard, replied, "ay, i might have done so; but--" there he stopped. it was in vain to attempt to correct himself; he looked confused, and relieved his embarrassment by a precipitate retreat.' i have no recollection whatever of this scene taking place, and i should have thought that i was more likely to have laughed than to appear confused, for i certainly never hoped to impose upon lord byron in a case of the kind; and from the manner in which he uniformly expressed himself, i knew his opinion was entirely formed, and that any disclamations of mine would only have savoured of affectation. i do not mean to insinuate that the incident did not happen, but only that it could hardly have occurred exactly under the circumstances narrated, without my recollecting something positive on the subject. in another part of the same volume lord byron is reported to have expressed a supposition that the cause of my not avowing myself the author of waverley may have been some surmise that the reigning family would have been displeased with the work. i can only say, it is the last apprehension i should have entertained, as indeed the inscription to these volumes sufficiently proves. the sufferers of that melancholy period have, during the last and present reign, been honoured both with the sympathy and protection of the reigning family, whose magnanimity can well pardon a sigh from others, and bestow one themselves, to the memory of brave opponents, who did nothing in hate, but all in honour. while those who were in habitual intercourse with the real author had little hesitation in assigning the literary property to him, others, and those critics of no mean rank, employed themselves in investigating with persevering patience any characteristic features which might seem to betray the origin of these novels. amongst these, one gentleman, equally remarkable for the kind and liberal tone of his criticism, the acuteness of his reasoning, and the very gentlemanlike manner in which he conducted his inquiries, displayed not only powers of accurate investigation, but a temper of mind deserving to be employed on a subject of much greater importance; and i have no doubt made converts to his opinion of almost all who thought the point worthy of consideration. [footnote: letters on the author of waverly; rodwell and martin, london, .] of those letters, and other attempts of the same kind, the author could not complain, though his incognito was endangered. he had challenged the public to a game at bo-peep, and if he was discovered in his 'hiding-hole,' he must submit to the shame of detection. various reports were of course circulated in various ways; some founded on an inaccurate rehearsal of what may have been partly real, some on circumstances having no concern whatever with the subject, and others on the invention of some importunate persons, who might perhaps imagine that the readiest mode of forcing the author to disclose himself was to assign some dishonourable and discreditable cause for his silence. it may be easily supposed that this sort of inquisition was treated with contempt by the person whom it principally regarded; as, among all the rumours that were current, there was only one, and that as unfounded as the others, which had nevertheless some alliance to probability, and indeed might have proved in some degree true. i allude to a report which ascribed a great part, or the whole, of these novels to the late thomas scott, esq., of the th regiment, then stationed in canada. those who remember that gentleman will readily grant that, with general talents at least equal to those of his elder brother, he added a power of social humour and a deep insight into human character which rendered him an universally delightful member of society, and that the habit of composition alone was wanting to render him equally successful as a writer. the author of waverley was so persuaded of the truth of this, that he warmly pressed his brother to make such an experiment, and willingly undertook all the trouble of correcting and superintending the press. mr. thomas scott seemed at first very well disposed to embrace the proposal, and had even fixed on a subject and a hero. the latter was a person well known to both of us in our boyish years, from having displayed some strong traits of character. mr. t. scott had determined to represent his youthful acquaintance as emigrating to america, and encountering the dangers and hardships of the new world, with the same dauntless spirit which he had displayed when a boy in his native country. mr. scott would probably have been highly successful, being familiarly acquainted with the manners of the native indians, of the old french settlers in canada, and of the brules or woodsmen, and having the power of observing with accuracy what i have no doubt he could have sketched with force and expression. in short, the author believes his brother would have made himself distinguished in that striking field in which, since that period, mr. cooper has achieved so many triumphs. but mr. t. scott was already affected by bad health, which wholly unfitted him for literary labour, even if he could have reconciled his patience to the task. he never, i believe, wrote a single line of the projected work; and i only have the melancholy pleasure of preserving in the appendix [footnote: see appendix no. iii.] the simple anecdote on which he proposed to found it. to this i may add, i can easily conceive that there may have been circumstances which gave a colour to the general report of my brother being interested in these works; and in particular that it might derive strength from my having occasion to remit to him, in consequence of certain family transactions, some considerable sums of money about that period. to which it is to be added that if any person chanced to evince particular curiosity on such a subject, my brother was likely enough to divert himself with practising on their credulity. it may be mentioned that, while the paternity of these novels was from time to time warmly disputed in britain, the foreign booksellers expressed no hesitation on the matter, but affixed my name to the whole of the novels, and to some besides to which i had no claim. the volumes, therefore, to which the present pages form a preface are entirely the composition of the author by whom they are now acknowledged, with the exception, always, of avowed quotations, and such unpremeditated and involuntary plagiarisms as can scarce be guarded against by any one who has read and written a great deal. the original manuscripts are all in existence, and entirely written (horresco referens) in the author's own hand, excepting during the years and , when, being affected with severe illness, he was obliged to employ the assistance of a friendly amanuensis. the number of persons to whom the secret was necessarily entrusted, or communicated by chance, amounted, i should think, to twenty at least, to whom i am greatly obliged for the fidelity with which they observed their trust, until the derangement of the affairs of my publishers, messrs. constable and co., and the exposure of their account books, which was the necessary consequence, rendered secrecy no longer possible. the particulars attending the avowal have been laid before the public in the introduction to the chronicles of the canongate. the preliminary advertisement has given a sketch of the purpose of this edition. i have some reason to fear that the notes which accompany the tales, as now published, may be thought too miscellaneous and too egotistical. it maybe some apology for this, that the publication was intended to be posthumous, and still more, that old men may be permitted to speak long, because they cannot in the course of nature have long time to speak. in preparing the present edition, i have done all that i can do to explain the nature of my materials, and the use i have made of them; nor is it probable that i shall again revise or even read these tales. i was therefore desirous rather to exceed in the portion of new and explanatory matter which is added to this edition than that the reader should have reason to complain that the information communicated was of a general and merely nominal character. it remains to be tried whether the public (like a child to whom a watch is shown) will, after having been satiated with looking at the outside, acquire some new interest in the object when it is opened and the internal machinery displayed to them. that waverly and its successors have had their day of favour and popularity must be admitted with sincere gratitude; and the author has studied (with the prudence of a beauty whose reign has been rather long) to supply, by the assistance of art, the charms which novelty no longer affords. the publishers have endeavoured to gratify the honourable partiality of the public for the encouragement of british art, by illustrating this edition with designs by the most eminent living artists. [footnote: the illustrations here referred to were made for the edition of ] to my distinguished countryman, david wilkie, to edwin landseer, who has exercised his talents so much on scottish subjects and scenery, to messrs. leslie and newton, my thanks are due, from a friend as well as an author. nor am i less obliged to messrs. cooper, kidd, and other artists of distinction to whom i am less personally known, for the ready zeal with which they have devoted their talents to the same purpose. farther explanation respecting the edition is the business of the publishers, not of the author; and here, therefore, the latter has accomplished his task of introduction and explanation. if, like a spoiled child, he has sometimes abused or trifled with the indulgence of the public, he feels himself entitled to full belief when he exculpates himself from the charge of having been at any time insensible of their kindness. abbotsford, st january, . waverley or 't is sixty years since under which king, bezonian? speak, or die! henry iv, part ii. volume ii introduction the plan of this edition leads me to insert in this place some account of the incidents on which the novel of waverley is founded. they have been already given to the public by my late lamented friend, william erskine, esq. (afterwards lord kinneder), when reviewing the tales of my landlord for the quarterly review in . the particulars were derived by the critic from the author's information. afterwards they were published in the preface to the chronicles of the canongate. they are now inserted in their proper place. the mutual protection afforded by waverley and talbot to each other, upon which the whole plot depends, is founded upon one of those anecdotes which soften the features even of civil war; and, as it is equally honourable to the memory of both parties, we have no hesitation to give their names at length. when the highlanders, on the morning of the battle of preston, , made their memorable attack on sir john cope's army, a battery of four field-pieces was stormed and carried by the camerons and the stewarts of appine. the late alexander stewart of invernahylewas one of the foremost in the charge, and observing an officer of the king's forces, who, scorning to join the flight of all around, remained with his sword in his hand, as if determined to the very last to defend the post assigned to him, the highland gentleman commanded him to surrender, and received for reply a thrust, which he caught in his target. the officer was now defenceless, and the battle-axe of a gigantic highlander (the miller of invernahyle's mill) was uplifted to dash his brains out, when mr. stewart with difficulty prevailed on him to yield. he took charge of his enemy's property, protected his person, and finally obtained him liberty on his parole. the officer proved to be colonel whitefoord, an ayrshire gentleman of high character and influence, and warmly attached to the house of hanover; yet such was the confidence existing between these two honourable men, though of different political principles, that, while the civil war was raging, and straggling officers from the highland army were executed without mercy, invernahyle hesitated not to pay his late captive a visit, as he returned to the highlands to raise fresh recruits, on which occasion he spent a day or two in ayrshire among colonel whitefoord's whig friends, as pleasantly and as good-humouredly as if all had been at peace around him. after the battle of culloden had ruined the hopes of charles edward and dispersed his proscribed adherents, it was colonel whitefoord's turn to strain every nerve to obtain mr. stewart's pardon. he went to the lord justice clerk to the lord advocate, and to all the officers of state, and each application was answered by the production of a list in which invernahyle (as the good old gentleman was wont to express it) appeared 'marked with the sign of the beast!' as a subject unfit for favour or pardon. at length colonel whitefoord applied to the duke of cumberland in person. from him, also, he received a positive refusal. he then limited his request, for the present, to a protection for stewart's house, wife, children, and property. this was also refused by the duke; on which colonel whitefoord, taking his commission from his bosom, laid it on the table before his royal highness with much emotion, and asked permission to retire from the service of a sovereign who did not know how to spare a vanquished enemy. the duke was struck, and even affected. he bade the colonel take up his commission, and granted the protection he required. it was issued just in time to save the house, corn, and cattle at invernahyle from the troops, who were engaged in laying waste what it was the fashion to call 'the country of the enemy.' a small encampment of soldiers was formed on invernahyle's property, which they spared while plundering the country around, and searching in every direction for the leaders of the insurrection, and for stewart in particular. he was much nearer them than they suspected; for, hidden in a cave (like the baron of bradwardine), he lay for many days so near the english sentinels that he could hear their muster-roll called. his food was brought to him by one of his daughters, a child of eight years old, whom mrs. stewart was under the necessity of entrusting with this commission; for her own motions, and those of all her elder inmates, were closely watched. with ingenuity beyond her years, the child used to stray about among the soldiers, who were rather kind to her, and thus seize the moment when she was unobserved and steal into the thicket, when she deposited whatever small store of provisions she had in charge at some marked spot, where her father might find it. invernahyle supported life for several weeks by means of these precarious supplies; and, as he had been wounded in the battle of culloden, the hardships which he endured were aggravated by great bodily pain. after the soldiers had removed their quarters he had another remarkable escape. as he now ventured to his own house at night and left it in the morning, he was espied during the dawn by a party of the enemy, who fired at and pursued him. the fugitive being fortunate enough to escape their search, they returned to the house and charged the family with harbouring one of the proscribed traitors. an old woman had presence of mind enough to maintain that the man they had seen was the shepherd. 'why did he not stop when we called to him?' said the soldier. 'he is as deaf, poor man, as a peat-stack,' answered the ready-witted domestic. 'let him be sent for directly.' the real shepherd accordingly was brought from the hill, and, as there was time to tutor him by the way, he was as deaf when he made his appearance as was necessary to sustain his character. invernahyle was afterwards pardoned under the act of indemnity. the author knew him well, and has often heard these circumstances from his own mouth. he was a noble specimen of the old highlander, far descended, gallant, courteous, and brave, even to chivalry. he had been out, i believe, in and , was an active partaker in all the stirring scenes which passed in the highlands betwixt these memorable eras; and, i have heard, was remarkable, among other exploits, for having fought a duel with the broadsword with the celebrated rob roy macgregor at the clachan of balquidder. invernahyle chanced to be in edinburgh when paul jones came into the firth of forth, and though then an old man, i saw him in arms, and heard him exult (to use his own words) in the prospect of drawing his claymore once more before he died.' in fact, on that memorable occasion, when the capital of scotland was menaced by three trifling sloops or brigs, scarce fit to have sacked a fishing village, he was the only man who seemed to propose a plan of resistance. he offered to the magistrates, if broadswords and dirks could be obtained, to find as many highlanders among the lower classes as would cut off any boat's crew who might be sent into a town full of narrow and winding passages, in which they were like to disperse in quest of plunder. i know not if his plan was attended to, i rather think it seemed too hazardous to the constituted authorities, who might not, even at that time, desire to see arms in highland hands. a steady and powerful west wind settled the matter by sweeping paul jones and his vessels out of the firth. if there is something degrading in this recollection, it is not unpleasant to compare it with those of the last war, when edinburgh, besides regular forces and militia, furnished a volunteer brigade of cavalry, infantry, and artillery to the amount of six thousand men and upwards, which was in readiness to meet and repel a force of a far more formidable description than was commanded by the adventurous american. time and circumstances change the character of nations and the fate of cities; and it is some pride to a scotchman to reflect that the independent and manly character of a country, willing to entrust its own protection to the arms of its children, after having been obscured for half a century, has, during the course of his own lifetime, recovered its lustre. other illustrations of waverley will be found in the notes at the foot of the pages to which they belong. those which appeared too long to be so placed are given at the end of the chapters to which they severally relate. [footnote: in this edition at the end of the several volumes.] preface to the third edition to this slight attempt at a sketch of ancient scottish manners the public have been more favourable than the author durst have hoped or expected. he has heard, with a mixture of satisfaction and humility, his work ascribed to more than one respectable name. considerations, which seem weighty in his particular situation, prevent his releasing those gentlemen from suspicion by placing his own name in the title-page; so that, for the present at least, it must remain uncertain whether waverley be the work of a poet or a critic, a lawyer or a clergyman, or whether the writer, to use mrs. malaprop's phrase, be, 'like cerberus, three gentlemen at once.' the author, as he is unconscious of anything in the work itself (except perhaps its frivolity) which prevents its finding an acknowledged father, leaves it to the candour of the public to choose among the many circumstances peculiar to different situations in life such as may induce him to suppress his name on the present occasion. he may be a writer new to publication, and unwilling to avow a character to which he is unaccustomed; or he may be a hackneyed author, who is ashamed of too frequent appearance, and employs this mystery, as the heroine of the old comedy used her mask, to attract the attention of those to whom her face had become too familiar. he may be a man of a grave profession, to whom the reputation of being a novel-writer might be prejudicial; or he may be a man of fashion, to whom writing of any kind might appear pedantic. he may be too young to assume the character of an author, or so old as to make it advisable to lay it aside. the author of waverley has heard it objected to this novel, that, in the character of callum beg and in the account given by the baron of bradwardine of the petty trespasses of the highlanders upon trifling articles of property, he has borne hard, and unjustly so, upon their national character. nothing could be farther from his wish or intention. the character of callum beg is that of a spirit naturally turned to daring evil, and determined, by the circumstances of his situation, to a particular species of mischief. those who have perused the curious letters from the highlands, published about , will find instances of such atrocious characters which fell under the writer's own observation, though it would be most unjust to consider such villains as representatives of the highlanders of that period, any more than the murderers of marr and williamson can be supposed to represent the english of the present day. as for the plunder supposed to have been picked up by some of the insurgents in , it must be remembered that, although the way of that unfortunate little army was neither marked by devastation nor bloodshed, but, on the contrary, was orderly and quiet in a most wonderful degree, yet no army marches through a country in a hostile manner without committing some depredations; and several, to the extent and of the nature jocularly imputed to them by the baron, were really laid to the charge of the highland insurgents; for which many traditions, and particularly one respecting the knight of the mirror, may be quoted as good evidence. [footnote: a homely metrical narrative of the events of the period, which contains some striking particulars, and is still a great favourite with the lower classes, gives a very correct statement of the behaviour of the mountaineers respecting this same military license; and, as the verses are little known, and contain some good sense, we venture to insert them.] the author's address to all in general now, gentle readers, i have let you ken my very thoughts, from heart and pen, 'tis needless for to conten' or yet controule, for there's not a word o't i can men'; so ye must thole. for on both sides some were not good; i saw them murd'ring in cold blood, not the gentlemen, but wild and rude, the baser sort, who to the wounded had no mood but murd'ring sport! ev'n both at preston and falkirk, that fatal night ere it grew mirk, piercing the wounded with their durk, caused many cry! such pity's shown from savage and turk as peace to die. a woe be to such hot zeal, to smite the wounded on the fiell! it's just they got such groats in kail, who do the same. it only teaches crueltys real to them again. i've seen the men call'd highland rogues, with lowland men make shangs a brogs, sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs out at the door, take cocks, hens, sheep, and hogs, and pay nought for. i saw a highlander,'t was right drole, with a string of puddings hung on a pole, whip'd o'er his shoulder, skipped like a fole, caus'd maggy bann, lap o'er the midden and midden-hole, and aff he ran. when check'd for this, they'd often tell ye, 'indeed her nainsell's a tume belly; you'll no gie't wanting bought, nor sell me; hersell will hae't; go tell king shorge, and shordy's willie, i'll hae a meat.' i saw the soldiers at linton-brig, because the man was not a whig, of meat and drink leave not a skig, within his door; they burnt his very hat and wig, and thump'd him sore. and through the highlands they were so rude, as leave them neither clothes nor food, then burnt their houses to conclude; 't was tit for tat. how can her nainsell e'er be good, to think on that? and after all, o, shame and grief! to use some worse than murd'ring thief, their very gentleman and chief, unhumanly! like popish tortures, i believe, such cruelty. ev'n what was act on open stage at carlisle, in the hottest rage, when mercy was clapt in a cage, and pity dead, such cruelty approv'd by every age, i shook my head. so many to curse, so few to pray, and some aloud huzza did cry; they cursed the rebel scots that day, as they'd been nowt brought up for slaughter, as that way too many rowt. therefore, alas! dear countrymen, o never do the like again, to thirst for vengeance, never ben' your gun nor pa', but with the english e'en borrow and len', let anger fa'. their boasts and bullying, not worth a louse, as our king's the best about the house. 't is ay good to be sober and douce, to live in peace; for many, i see, for being o'er crouse, gets broken face. waverley or 'tis sixty years since chapter i introductory the title of this work has not been chosen without the grave and solid deliberation which matters of importance demand from the prudent. even its first, or general denomination, was the result of no common research or selection, although, according to the example of my predecessors, i had only to seize upon the most sounding and euphonic surname that english history or topography affords, and elect it at once as the title of my work and the name of my hero. but, alas! what could my readers have expected from the chivalrous epithets of howard, mordaunt, mortimer, or stanley, or from the softer and more sentimental sounds of belmour, belville, belfield, and belgrave, but pages of inanity, similar to those which have been so christened for half a century past? i must modestly admit i am too diffident of my own merit to place it in unnecessary opposition to preconceived associations; i have, therefore, like a maiden knight with his white shield, assumed for my hero, waverley, an uncontaminated name, bearing with its sound little of good or evil, excepting what the reader shall hereafter be pleased to affix to it. but my second or supplemental title was a matter of much more difficult election, since that, short as it is, may be held as pledging the author to some special mode of laying his scene, drawing his characters, and managing his adventures. had i, for example, announced in my frontispiece, 'waverley, a tale of other days,' must not every novel-reader have anticipated a castle scarce less than that of udolpho, of which the eastern wing had long been uninhabited, and the keys either lost, or consigned to the care of some aged butler or housekeeper, whose trembling steps, about the middle of the second volume, were doomed to guide the hero, or heroine, to the ruinous precincts? would not the owl have shrieked and the cricket cried in my very title-page? and could it have been possible for me, with a moderate attention to decorum, to introduce any scene more lively than might be produced by the jocularity of a clownish but faithful valet, or the garrulous narrative of the heroine's fille-de-chambre, when rehearsing the stories of blood and horror which she had heard in the servants' hall? again, had my title borne, 'waverley, a romance from the german,' what head so obtuse as not to image forth a profligate abbot, an oppressive duke, a secret and mysterious association of rosycrucians and illuminati, with all their properties of black cowls, caverns, daggers, electrical machines, trap-doors, and dark-lanterns? or if i had rather chosen to call my work a 'sentimental tale,' would it not have been a sufficient presage of a heroine with a profusion of auburn hair, and a harp, the soft solace of her solitary hours, which she fortunately finds always the means of transporting from castle to cottage, although she herself be sometimes obliged to jump out of a two-pair-of-stairs window, and is more than once bewildered on her journey, alone and on foot, without any guide but a blowzy peasant girl, whose jargon she hardly can understand? or, again, if my waverley had been entitled 'a tale of the times,' wouldst thou not, gentle reader, have demanded from me a dashing sketch of the fashionable world, a few anecdotes of private scandal thinly veiled, and if lusciously painted, so much the better? a heroine from grosvenor square, and a hero from the barouche club or the four-in-hand, with a set of subordinate characters from the elegantes of queen anne street east, or the dashing heroes of the bow-street office? i could proceed in proving the importance of a title-page, and displaying at the same time my own intimate knowledge of the particular ingredients necessary to the composition of romances and novels of various descriptions;--but it is enough, and i scorn to tyrannise longer over the impatience of my reader, who is doubtless already anxious to know the choice made by an author so profoundly versed in the different branches of his art. by fixing, then, the date of my story sixty years before this present st november, , i would have my readers understand, that they will meet in the following pages neither a romance of chivalry nor a tale of modern manners; that my hero will neither have iron on his shoulders, as of yore, nor on the heels of his boots, as is the present fashion of bond street; and that my damsels will neither be clothed 'in purple and in pall,' like the lady alice of an old ballad, nor reduced to the primitive nakedness of a modern fashionable at a rout. from this my choice of an era the understanding critic may farther presage that the object of my tale is more a description of men than manners. a tale of manners, to be interesting, must either refer to antiquity so great as to have become venerable, or it must bear a vivid reflection of those scenes which are passing daily before our eyes, and are interesting from their novelty. thus the coat-of-mail of our ancestors, and the triple-furred pelisse of our modern beaux, may, though for very different reasons, be equally fit for the array of a fictitious character; but who, meaning the costume of his hero to be impressive, would willingly attire him in the court dress of george the second's reign, with its no collar, large sleeves, and low pocket-holes? the same may be urged, with equal truth, of the gothic hall, which, with its darkened and tinted windows, its elevated and gloomy roof, and massive oaken table garnished with boar's-head and rosemary, pheasants and peacocks, cranes and cygnets, has an excellent effect in fictitious description. much may also be gained by a lively display of a modern fete, such as we have daily recorded in that part of a newspaper entitled the mirror of fashion, if we contrast these, or either of them, with the splendid formality of an entertainment given sixty years since; and thus it will be readily seen how much the painter of antique or of fashionable manners gains over him who delineates those of the last generation. considering the disadvantages inseparable from this part of my subject, i must be understood to have resolved to avoid them as much as possible, by throwing the force of my narrative upon the characters and passions of the actors;--those passions common to men in all stages of society, and which have alike agitated the human heart, whether it throbbed under the steel corslet of the fifteenth century, the brocaded coat of the eighteenth, or the blue frock and white dimity waistcoat of the present day. [footnote: alas' that attire, respectable and gentlemanlike in , or thereabouts, is now as antiquated as the author of waverley has himself become since that period! the reader of fashion will please to fill up the costume with an embroidered waistcoat of purple velvet or silk, and a coat of whatever colour he pleases.] upon these passions it is no doubt true that the state of manners and laws casts a necessary colouring; but the bearings, to use the language of heraldry, remain the same, though the tincture may be not only different, but opposed in strong contradistinction. the wrath of our ancestors, for example, was coloured gules; it broke forth in acts of open and sanguinary violence against the objects of its fury. our malignant feelings, which must seek gratification through more indirect channels, and undermine the obstacles which they cannot openly bear down, may be rather said to be tinctured sable. but the deep-ruling impulse is the same in both cases; and the proud peer, who can now only ruin his neighbour according to law, by protracted suits, is the genuine descendant of the baron who wrapped the castle of his competitor in flames, and knocked him on the head as he endeavoured to escape from the conflagration. it is from the great book of nature, the same through a thousand editions, whether of black-letter, or wire-wove and hot-pressed, that i have venturously essayed to read a chapter to the public. some favourable opportunities of contrast have been afforded me by the state of society in the northern part of the island at the period of my history, and may serve at once to vary and to illustrate the moral lessons, which i would willingly consider as the most important part of my plan; although i am sensible how short these will fall of their aim if i shall be found unable to mix them with amusement--a task not quite so easy in this critical generation as it was 'sixty years since.' chapter ii waverley-honour--a retrospect it is, then, sixty years since edward waverley, the hero of the following pages, took leave of his family, to join the regiment of dragoons in which he had lately obtained a commission. it was a melancholy day at waverley-honour when the young officer parted with sir everard, the affectionate old uncle to whose title and estate he was presumptive heir. a difference in political opinions had early separated the baronet from his younger brother richard waverley, the father of our hero. sir everard had inherited from his sires the whole train of tory or high-church predilections and prejudices which had distinguished the house of waverley since the great civil war. richard, on the contrary, who was ten years younger, beheld himself born to the fortune of a second brother, and anticipated neither dignity nor entertainment in sustaining the character of will wimble. he saw early that, to succeed in the race of life, it was necessary he should carry as little weight as possible. painters talk of the difficulty of expressing the existence of compound passions in the same features at the same moment; it would be no less difficult for the moralist to analyse the mixed motives which unite to form the impulse of our actions. richard waverley read and satisfied himself from history and sound argument that, in the words of the old song, passive obedience was a jest, and pshaw! was non-resistance; yet reason would have probably been unable to combat and remove hereditary prejudice could richard have anticipated that his elder brother, sir everard, taking to heart an early disappointment, would have remained a bachelor at seventy-two. the prospect of succession, however remote, might in that case have led him to endure dragging through the greater part of his life as 'master richard at the hall, the baronet's brother,' in the hope that ere its conclusion he should be distinguished as sir richard waverley of waverley-honour, successor to a princely estate, and to extended political connections as head of the county interest in the shire where it lay. but this was a consummation of things not to be expected at richard's outset, when sir everard was in the prime of life, and certain to be an acceptable suitor in almost any family, whether wealth or beauty should be the object of his pursuit, and when, indeed, his speedy marriage was a report which regularly amused the neighbourhood once a year. his younger brother saw no practicable road to independence save that of relying upon his own exertions, and adopting a political creed more consonant both to reason and his own interest than the hereditary faith of sir everard in high-church and in the house of stuart. he therefore read his recantation at the beginning of his career, and entered life as an avowed whig and friend of the hanover succession. the ministry of george the first's time were prudently anxious to diminish the phalanx of opposition. the tory nobility, depending for their reflected lustre upon the sunshine of a court, had for some time been gradually reconciling themselves to the new dynasty. but the wealthy country gentlemen of england, a rank which retained, with much of ancient manners and primitive integrity, a great proportion of obstinate and unyielding prejudice, stood aloof in haughty and sullen opposition, and cast many a look of mingled regret and hope to bois le due, avignon, and italy. [footnote: where the chevalier st. george, or, as he was termed, the old pretender, held his exiled court, as his situation compelled him to shift his place of residence.] the accession of the near relation of one of those steady and inflexible opponents was considered as a means of bringing over more converts, and therefore richard waverley met with a share of ministerial favour more than proportioned to his talents or his political importance. it was, however, discovered that he had respectable talents for public business, and the first admittance to the minister's levee being negotiated, his success became rapid. sir everard learned from the public 'news-letter,' first, that richard waverley, esquire, was returned for the ministerial borough of barterfaith; next, that richard waverley, esquire, had taken a distinguished part in the debate upon the excise bill in the support of government; and, lastly, that richard waverley, esquire, had been honoured with a seat at one of those boards where the pleasure of serving the country is combined with other important gratifications, which, to render them the more acceptable, occur regularly once a quarter. although these events followed each other so closely that the sagacity of the editor of a modern newspaper would have presaged the two last even while he announced the first, yet they came upon sir everard gradually, and drop by drop, as it were, distilled through the cool and procrastinating alembic of dyer's 'weekly letter.' [footnote: see note i. ] for it may be observed in passing, that instead of those mail-coaches, by means of which every mechanic at his six-penny club, may nightly learn from twenty contradictory channels the yesterday's news of the capital, a weekly post brought, in those days, to waverley-honour, a weekly intelligencer, which, after it had gratified sir everard's curiosity, his sister's, and that of his aged butler, was regularly transferred from the hall to the rectory, from the rectory to squire stubbs's at the grange, from the squire to the baronet's steward at his neat white house on the heath, from the steward to the bailiff, and from him through a huge circle of honest dames and gaffers, by whose hard and horny hands it was generally worn to pieces in about a month after its arrival. this slow succession of intelligence was of some advantage to richard waverley in the case before us; for, had the sum total of his enormities reached the ears of sir everard at once, there can be no doubt that the new commissioner would have had little reason to pique himself on the success of his politics. the baronet, although the mildest of human beings, was not without sensitive points in his character; his brother's conduct had wounded these deeply; the waverley estate was fettered by no entail (for it had never entered into the head of any of its former possessors that one of their progeny could be guilty of the atrocities laid by dyer's 'letter' to the door of richard), and if it had, the marriage of the proprietor might have been fatal to a collateral heir. these various ideas floated through the brain of sir everard without, however, producing any determined conclusion. he examined the tree of his genealogy, which, emblazoned with many an emblematic mark of honour and heroic achievement, hung upon the well-varnished wainscot of his hall. the nearest descendants of sir hildebrand waverley, failing those of his eldest son wilfred, of whom sir everard and his brother were the only representatives, were, as this honoured register informed him (and, indeed, as he himself well knew), the waverleys of highley park, com. hants; with whom the main branch, or rather stock, of the house had renounced all connection since the great law-suit in . this degenerate scion had committed a farther offence against the head and source of their gentility, by the intermarriage of their representative with judith, heiress of oliver bradshawe, of highley park, whose arms, the same with those of bradshawe the regicide, they had quartered with the ancient coat of waverley. these offences, however, had vanished from sir everard's recollection in the heat of his resentment; and had lawyer clippurse, for whom his groom was despatched express, arrived but an hour earlier, he might have had the benefit of drawing a new settlement of the lordship and manor of waverley-honour, with all its dependencies. but an hour of cool reflection is a great matter when employed in weighing the comparative evil of two measures to neither of which we are internally partial. lawyer clippurse found his patron involved in a deep study, which he was too respectful to disturb, otherwise than by producing his paper and leathern ink-case, as prepared to minute his honour's commands. even this slight manoeuvre was embarrassing to sir everard, who felt it as a reproach to his indecision. he looked at the attorney with some desire to issue his fiat, when the sun, emerging from behind a cloud, poured at once its chequered light through the stained window of the gloomy cabinet in which they were seated. the baronet's eye, as he raised it to the splendour, fell right upon the central scutcheon, inpressed with the same device which his ancestor was said to have borne in the field of hastings,--three ermines passant, argent, in a field azure, with its appropriate motto, sans tache. 'may our name rather perish,' exclaimed sir everard, 'than that ancient and loyal symbol should be blended with the dishonoured insignia of a traitorous roundhead!' all this was the effect of the glimpse of a sunbeam, just sufficient to light lawyer clippurse to mend his pen. the pen was mended in vain. the attorney was dismissed, with directions to hold himself in readiness on the first summons. the apparition of lawyer clippurse at the hall occasioned much speculation in that portion of the world to which waverley-honour formed the centre. but the more judicious politicians of this microcosm augured yet worse consequences to richard waverley from a movement which shortly followed his apostasy. this was no less than an excursion of the baronet in his coach-and-six, with four attendants in rich liveries, to make a visit of some duration to a noble peer on the confines of the shire, of untainted descent, steady tory principles, and the happy father of six unmarried and accomplished daughters. sir everard's reception in this family was, as it may be easily conceived, sufficiently favourable; but of the six young ladies, his taste unfortunately determined him in favour of lady emily, the youngest, who received his attentions with an embarrassment which showed at once that she durst not decline them, and that they afforded her anything but pleasure. sir everard could not but perceive something uncommon in the restrained emotions which the young lady testified at the advances he hazarded; but, assured by the prudent countess that they were the natural effects of a retired education, the sacrifice might have been completed, as doubtless has happened in many similar instances, had it not been for the courage of an elder sister, who revealed to the wealthy suitor that lady emily's affections were fixed upon a young soldier of fortune, a near relation of her own. sir everard manifested great emotion on receiving this intelligence, which was confirmed to him, in a private interview, by the young lady herself, although under the most dreadful apprehensions of her father's indignation. honour and generosity were hereditary attributes of the house of waverley. with a grace and delicacy worthy the hero of a romance, sir everard withdrew his claim to the hand of lady emily. he had even, before leaving blandeville castle, the address to extort from her father a consent to her union with the object of her choice. what arguments he used on this point cannot exactly be known, for sir everard was never supposed strong in the powers of persuasion; but the young officer, immediately after this transaction, rose in the army with a rapidity far surpassing the usual pace of unpatronised professional merit, although, to outward appearance, that was all he had to depend upon. the shock which sir everard encountered upon this occasion, although diminished by the consciousness of having acted virtuously and generously had its effect upon his future life. his resolution of marriage had been adopted in a fit of indignation; the labour of courtship did not quite suit the dignified indolence of his habits; he had but just escaped the risk of marrying a woman who could never love him, and his pride could not be greatly flattered by the termination of his amour, even if his heart had not suffered. the result of the whole matter was his return to waverley-honour without any transfer of his affections, notwithstanding the sighs and languishments of the fair tell-tale, who had revealed, in mere sisterly affection, the secret of lady emily's attachment, and in despite of the nods, winks, and innuendos of the officious lady mother, and the grave eulogiums which the earl pronounced successively on the prudence, and good sense, and admirable dispositions, of his first, second, third, fourth, and fifth daughters. the memory of his unsuccessful amour was with sir everard, as with many more of his temper, at once shy, proud, sensitive, and indolent, a beacon against exposing himself to similar mortification, pain, and fruitless exertion for the time to come. he continued to live at waverley-honour in the style of an old english gentleman, of an ancient descent and opulent fortune. his sister, miss rachel waverley, presided at his table; and they became, by degrees, an old bachelor and an ancient maiden lady, the gentlest and kindest of the votaries of celibacy. the vehemence of sir everard's resentment against his brother was but short-lived; yet his dislike to the whig and the placeman, though unable to stimulate him to resume any active measures prejudicial to richard's interest, in the succession to the family estate, continued to maintain the coldness between them. richard knew enough of the world, and of his brother's temper, to believe that by any ill-considered or precipitate advances on his part, he might turn passive dislike into a more active principle. it was accident, therefore, which at length occasioned a renewal of their intercourse. richard had married a young woman of rank, by whose family interest and private fortune he hoped to advance his career. in her right he became possessor of a manor of some value, at the distance of a few miles from waverley-honour. little edward, the hero of our tale, then in his fifth year, was their only child. it chanced that the infant with his maid had strayed one morning to a mile's distance from the avenue of brerewood lodge, his father's seat. their attention was attracted by a carriage drawn by six stately long-tailed black horses, and with as much carving and gilding as would have done honour to my lord mayor's. it was waiting for the owner, who was at a little distance inspecting the progress of a half-built farm-house. i know not whether the boy's nurse had been a welsh--or a scotch-woman, or in what manner he associated a shield emblazoned with three ermines with the idea of personal property, but he no sooner beheld this family emblem than he stoutly determined on vindicating his right to the splendid vehicle on which it was displayed. the baronet arrived while the boy's maid was in vain endeavouring to make him desist from his determination to appropriate the gilded coach-and-six. the rencontre was at a happy moment for edward, as his uncle had been just eyeing wistfully, with something of a feeling like envy, the chubby boys of the stout yeoman whose mansion was building by his direction. in the round-faced rosy cherub before him, bearing his eye and his name, and vindicating a hereditary title to his family, affection, and patronage, by means of a tie which sir everard held as sacred as either garter or blue-mantle, providence seemed to have granted to him the very object best calculated to fill up the void in his hopes and affections. sir everard returned to waverley-hall upon a led horse, which was kept in readiness for him, while the child and his attendant were sent home in the carriage to brerewood lodge, with such a message as opened to richard waverley a door of reconciliation with his elder brother. their intercourse, however, though thus renewed, continued to be rather formal and civil than partaking of brotherly cordiality; yet it was sufficient to the wishes of both parties. sir everard obtained, in the frequent society of his little nephew, something on which his hereditary pride might found the anticipated pleasure of a continuation of his lineage, and where his kind and gentle affections could at the same time fully exercise themselves. for richard waverley, he beheld in the growing attachment between the uncle and nephew the means of securing his son's, if not his own, succession to the hereditary estate, which he felt would be rather endangered than promoted by any attempt on his own part towards a closer intimacy with a man of sir everard's habits and opinions. thus, by a sort of tacit compromise, little edward was permitted to pass the greater part of the year at the hall, and appeared to stand in the same intimate relation to both families, although their mutual intercourse was otherwise limited to formal messages and more formal visits. the education of the youth was regulated alternately by the taste and opinions of his uncle and of his father. but more of this in a subsequent chapter. chapter iii education the education of our hero, edward waverley, was of a nature somewhat desultory. in infancy his health suffered, or was supposed to suffer (which is quite the same thing), by the air of london. as soon, therefore, as official duties, attendance on parliament, or the prosecution of any of his plans of interest or ambition, called his father to town, which was his usual residence for eight months in the year, edward was transferred to waverley-honour, and experienced a total change of instructors and of lessons, as well as of residence. this might have been remedied had his father placed him under the superintendence of a permanent tutor. but he considered that one of his choosing would probably have been unacceptable at waverley-honour, and that such a selection as sir everard might have made, were the matter left to him, would have burdened him with a disagreeable inmate, if not a political spy, in his family. he therefore prevailed upon his private secretary, a young man of taste and accomplishments, to bestow an hour or two on edward's education while at brerewood lodge, and left his uncle answerable for his improvement in literature while an inmate at the hall. this was in some degree respectably provided for. sir everard's chaplain, an oxonian, who had lost his fellowship for declining to take the oaths at the accession of george i, was not only an excellent classical scholar, but reasonably skilled in science, and master of most modern languages. he was, however, old and indulgent, and the recurring interregnum, during which edward was entirely freed from his discipline, occasioned such a relaxation of authority, that the youth was permitted, in a great measure, to learn as he pleased, what he pleased, and when he pleased. this slackness of rule might have been ruinous to a boy of slow understanding, who, feeling labour in the acquisition of knowledge, would have altogether neglected it, save for the command of a taskmaster; and it might have proved equally dangerous to a youth whose animal spirits were more powerful than his imagination or his feelings, and whom the irresistible influence of alma would have engaged in field-sports from morning till night. but the character of edward waverley was remote from either of these. his powers of apprehension were so uncommonly quick as almost to resemble intuition, and the chief care of his preceptor was to prevent him, as a sportsman would phrase it, from over-running his game--that is, from acquiring his knowledge in a slight, flimsy, and inadequate manner. and here the instructor had to combat another propensity too often united with brilliancy of fancy and vivacity of talent--that indolence, namely, of disposition, which can only be stirred by some strong motive of gratification, and which renounces study as soon as curiosity is gratified, the pleasure of conquering the first difficulties exhausted, and the novelty of pursuit at an end. edward would throw himself with spirit upon any classical author of which his preceptor proposed the perusal, make himself master of the style so far as to understand the story, and, if that pleased or interested him, he finished the volume. but it was in vain to attempt fixing his attention on critical distinctions of philology, upon the difference of idiom, the beauty of felicitous expression, or the artificial combinations of syntax. 'i can read and understand a latin author,' said young edward, with the self-confidence and rash reasoning of fifteen, 'and scaliger or bentley could not do much more.' alas! while he was thus permitted to read only for the gratification of his amusement, he foresaw not that he was losing for ever the opportunity of acquiring habits of firm and assiduous application, of gaining the art of controlling, directing, and concentrating the powers of his mind for earnest investigation--an art far more essential than even that intimate acquaintance with classical learning which is the primary object of study. i am aware i may be here reminded of the necessity of rendering instruction agreeable to youth, and of tasso's infusion of honey into the medicine prepared for a child; but an age in which children are taught the driest doctrines by the insinuating method of instructive games, has little reason to dread the consequences of study being rendered too serious or severe. the history of england is now reduced to a game at cards, the problems of mathematics to puzzles and riddles, and the doctrines of arithmetic may, we are assured, be sufficiently acquired by spending a few hours a week at a new and complicated edition of the royal game of the goose. there wants but one step further, and the creed and ten commandments may be taught in the same manner, without the necessity of the grave face, deliberate tone of recital, and devout attention, hitherto exacted from the well-governed childhood of this realm. it may, in the meantime, be subject of serious consideration, whether those who are accustomed only to acquire instruction through the medium of amusement may not be brought to reject that which approaches under the aspect of study; whether those who learn history by the cards may not be led to prefer the means to the end; and whether, were we to teach religion in the way of sport, our pupils may not thereby be gradually induced to make sport of their religion. to our young hero, who was permitted to seek his instruction only according to the bent of his own mind, and who, of consequence, only sought it so long as it afforded him amusement, the indulgence of his tutors was attended with evil consequences, which long continued to influence his character, happiness, and utility. edward's power of imagination and love of literature, although the former was vivid and the latter ardent, were so far from affording a remedy to this peculiar evil, that they rather inflamed and increased its violence. the library at waverley-honour, a large gothic room, with double arches and a gallery, contained such a miscellaneous and extensive collection of volumes as had been assembled together, during the course of two hundred years, by a family which had been always wealthy, and inclined, of course, as a mark of splendour, to furnish their shelves with the current literature of the day, without much scrutiny or nicety of discrimination. throughout this ample realm edward was permitted to roam at large. his tutor had his own studies; and church politics and controversial divinity, together with a love of learned ease, though they did not withdraw his attention at stated times from the progress of his patron's presumptive heir, induced him readily to grasp at any apology for not extending a strict and regulated survey towards his general studies. sir everard had never been himself a student, and, like his sister, miss rachel waverley, he held the common doctrine, that idleness is incompatible with reading of any kind, and that the mere tracing the alphabetical characters with the eye is in itself a useful and meritorious task, without scrupulously considering what ideas or doctrines they may happen to convey. with a desire of amusement, therefore, which better discipline might soon have converted into a thirst for knowledge, young waverley drove through the sea of books like a vessel without a pilot or a rudder. nothing perhaps increases by indulgence more than a desultory habit of reading, especially under such opportunities of gratifying it. i believe one reason why such numerous instances of erudition occur among the lower ranks is, that, with the same powers of mind, the poor student is limited to a narrow circle for indulging his passion for books, and must necessarily make himself master of the few he possesses ere he can acquire more. edward, on the contrary, like the epicure who only deigned to take a single morsel from the sunny side of a peach, read no volume a moment after it ceased to excite his curiosity or interest; and it necessarily happened, that the habit of seeking only this sort of gratification rendered it daily more difficult of attainment, till the passion for reading, like other strong appetites, produced by indulgence a sort of satiety. ere he attained this indifference, however, he had read, and stored in a memory of uncommon tenacity, much curious, though ill-arranged and miscellaneous information. in english literature he was master of shakespeare and milton, of our earlier dramatic authors, of many picturesque and interesting passages from our old historical chronicles, and was particularly well acquainted with spenser, drayton, and other poets who have exercised themselves on romantic fiction, of all themes the most fascinating to a youthful imagination, before the passions have roused themselves and demand poetry of a more sentimental description. in this respect his acquaintance with italian opened him yet a wider range. he had perused the numerous romantic poems, which, from the days of pulci, have been a favourite exercise of the wits of italy, and had sought gratification in the numerous collections of novelle, which were brought forth by the genius of that elegant though luxurious nation, in emulation of the 'decameron.' in classical literature, waverley had made the usual progress, and read the usual authors; and the french had afforded him an almost exhaustless collection of memoirs, scarcely more faithful than romances, and of romances so well written as hardly to be distinguished from memoirs. the splendid pages of froissart, with his heart-stirring and eye-dazzling descriptions of war and of tournaments, were among his chief favourites; and from those of brantome and de la noue he learned to compare the wild and loose, yet superstitious, character of the nobles of the league with the stern, rigid, and sometimes turbulent disposition of the huguenot party. the spanish had contributed to his stock of chivalrous and romantic lore. the earlier literature of the northern nations did not escape the study of one who read rather to awaken the imagination than to benefit the understanding. and yet, knowing much that is known but to few, edward waverley might justly be considered as ignorant, since he knew little of what adds dignity to man, and qualifies him to support and adorn an elevated situation in society. the occasional attention of his parents might indeed have been of service to prevent the dissipation of mind incidental to such a desultory course of reading. but his mother died in the seventh year after the reconciliation between the brothers, and richard waverley himself, who, after this event, resided more constantly in london, was too much interested in his own plans of wealth and ambition to notice more respecting edward than that he was of a very bookish turn, and probably destined to be a bishop. if he could have discovered and analysed his son's waking dreams, he would have formed a very different conclusion. chapter iv castle-building i have already hinted that the dainty, squeamish, and fastidious taste acquired by a surfeit of idle reading had not only rendered our hero unfit for serious and sober study, but had even disgusted him in some degree with that in which he had hitherto indulged. he was in his sixteenth year when his habits of abstraction and love of solitude became so much marked as to excite sir everard's affectionate apprehension. he tried to counterbalance these propensities by engaging his nephew in field-sports, which had been the chief pleasure of his own youthful days. but although edward eagerly carried the gun for one season, yet when practice had given him some dexterity, the pastime ceased to afford him amusement. in the succeeding spring, the perusal of old isaac walton's fascinating volume determined edward to become 'a brother of the angle.' but of all diversions which ingenuity ever devised for the relief of idleness, fishing is the worst qualified to amuse a man who is at once indolent and impatient; and our hero's rod was speedily flung aside. society and example, which, more than any other motives, master and sway the natural bent of our passions, might have had their usual effect upon the youthful visionary. but the neighbourhood was thinly inhabited, and the home-bred young squires whom it afforded were not of a class fit to form edward's usual companions, far less to excite him to emulation in the practice of those pastimes which composed the serious business of their lives. there were a few other youths of better education and a more liberal character, but from their society also our hero was in some degree excluded. sir everard had, upon the death of queen anne, resigned his seat in parliament, and, as his age increased and the number of his contemporaries diminished, had gradually withdrawn himself from society; so that when, upon any particular occasion, edward mingled with accomplished and well-educated young men of his own rank and expectations, he felt an inferiority in their company, not so much from deficiency of information, as from the want of the skill to command and to arrange that which he possessed. a deep and increasing sensibility added to this dislike of society. the idea of having committed the slightest solecism in politeness, whether real or imaginary, was agony to him; for perhaps even guilt itself does not impose upon some minds so keen a sense of shame and remorse, as a modest, sensitive, and inexperienced youth feels from the consciousness of having neglected etiquette or excited ridicule. where we are not at ease, we cannot be happy; and therefore it is not surprising that edward waverley supposed that he disliked and was unfitted for society, merely because he had not yet acquired the habit of living in it with ease and comfort, and of reciprocally giving and receiving pleasure. the hours he spent with his uncle and aunt were exhausted in listening to the oft-repeated tale of narrative old age. yet even there his imagination, the predominant faculty of his mind, was frequently excited. family tradition and genealogical history, upon which much of sir everard's discourse turned, is the very reverse of amber, which, itself a valuable substance, usually includes flies, straws, and other trifles; whereas these studies, being themselves very insignificant and trifling, do nevertheless serve to perpetuate a great deal of what is rare and valuable in ancient manners, and to record many curious and minute facts which could have been preserved and conveyed through no other medium. if, therefore, edward waverley yawned at times over the dry deduction of his line of ancestors, with their various intermarriages, and inwardly deprecated the remorseless and protracted accuracy with which the worthy sir everard rehearsed the various degrees of propinquity between the house of waverley-honour and the doughty barons, knights, and squires to whom they stood allied; if (notwithstanding his obligations to the three ermines passant) he sometimes cursed in his heart the jargon of heraldry, its griffins, its moldwarps, its wyverns, and its dragons, with all the bitterness of hotspur himself, there were moments when these communications interested his fancy and rewarded his attention. the deeds of wilibert of waverley in the holy land, his long absence and perilous adventures, his supposed death, and his return on the evening when the betrothed of his heart had wedded the hero who had protected her from insult and oppression during his absence; the generosity with which the crusader relinquished his claims, and sought in a neighbouring cloister that peace which passeth not away; [footnote: see note .]--to these and similar tales he would hearken till his heart glowed and his eye glistened. nor was he less affected when his aunt, mrs. rachel, narrated the sufferings and fortitude of lady alice waverley during the great civil war. the benevolent features of the venerable spinster kindled into more majestic expression as she told how charles had, after the field of worcester, found a day's refuge at waverley-honour, and how, when a troop of cavalry were approaching to search the mansion, lady alice dismissed her youngest son with a handful of domestics, charging them to make good with their lives an hour's diversion, that the king might have that space for escape. 'and, god help her,' would mrs. rachel continue, fixing her eyes upon the heroine's portrait as she spoke, 'full dearly did she purchase the safety of her prince with the life of her darling child. they brought him here a prisoner, mortally wounded; and you may trace the drops of his blood from the great hall door along the little gallery, and up to the saloon, where they laid him down to die at his mother's feet. but there was comfort exchanged between them; for he knew, from the glance of his mother's eye, that the purpose of his desperate defence was attained. ah! i remember,' she continued, 'i remember well to have seen one that knew and loved him. miss lucy saint aubin lived and died a maid for his sake, though one of the most beautiful and wealthy matches in this country; all the world ran after her, but she wore widow's mourning all her life for poor william, for they were betrothed though not married, and died in--i cannot think of the date; but i remember, in the november of that very year, when she found herself sinking, she desired to be brought to waverley-honour once more, and visited all the places where she had been with my grand-uncle, and caused the carpets to be raised that she might trace the impression of his blood, and if tears could have washed it out, it had not been there now; for there was not a dry eye in the house. you would have thought, edward, that the very trees mourned for her, for their leaves dropt around her without a gust of wind, and, indeed, she looked like one that would never see them green again.' from such legends our hero would steal away to indulge the fancies they excited. in the corner of the large and sombre library, with no other light than was afforded by the decaying brands on its ponderous and ample hearth, he would exercise for hours that internal sorcery by which past or imaginary events are presented in action, as it were, to the eye of the muser. then arose in long and fair array the splendour of the bridal feast at waverley-castle; the tall and emaciated form of its real lord, as he stood in his pilgrim's weeds, an unnoticed spectator of the festivities of his supposed heir and intended bride; the electrical shock occasioned by the discovery; the springing of the vassals to arms; the astonishment of the bridegroom; the terror and confusion of the bride; the agony with which wilibert observed that her heart as well as consent was in these nuptials; the air of dignity, yet of deep feeling, with which he flung down the half-drawn sword, and turned away for ever from the house of his ancestors. then would he change the scene, and fancy would at his wish represent aunt rachel's tragedy. he saw the lady waverley seated in her bower, her ear strained to every sound, her heart throbbing with double agony, now listening to the decaying echo of the hoofs of the king's horse, and when that had died away, hearing in every breeze that shook the trees of the park, the noise of the remote skirmish. a distant sound is heard like the rushing of a swoln stream; it comes nearer, and edward can plainly distinguish the galloping of horses, the cries and shouts of men, with straggling pistol-shots between, rolling forwards to the hall. the lady starts up--a terrified menial rushes in--but why pursue such a description? as living in this ideal world became daily more delectable to our hero, interruption was disagreeable in proportion. the extensive domain that surrounded the hall, which, far exceeding the dimensions of a park, was usually termed waverley-chase, had originally been forest ground, and still, though broken by extensive glades, in which the young deer were sporting, retained its pristine and savage character. it was traversed by broad avenues, in many places half grown up with brush-wood, where the beauties of former days used to take their stand to see the stag coursed with greyhounds, or to gain an aim at him with the crossbow. in one spot, distinguished by a moss-grown gothic monument, which retained the name of queen's standing, elizabeth herself was said to have pierced seven bucks with her own arrows. this was a very favourite haunt of waverley. at other times, with his gun and his spaniel, which served as an apology to others, and with a book in his pocket, which perhaps served as an apology to himself, he used to pursue one of these long avenues, which, after an ascending sweep of four miles, gradually narrowed into a rude and contracted path through the cliffy and woody pass called mirkwood dingle, and opened suddenly upon a deep, dark, and small lake, named, from the same cause, mirkwood-mere. there stood, in former times, a solitary tower upon a rock almost surrounded by the water, which had acquired the name of the strength of waverley, because in perilous times it had often been the refuge of the family. there, in the wars of york and lancaster, the last adherents of the red rose who dared to maintain her cause carried on a harassing and predatory warfare, till the stronghold was reduced by the celebrated richard of gloucester. here, too, a party of cavaliers long maintained themselves under nigel waverley, elder brother of that william whose fate aunt rachel commemorated. through these scenes it was that edward loved to 'chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancy,' and, like a child among his toys, culled and arranged, from the splendid yet useless imagery and emblems with which his imagination was stored, visions as brilliant and as fading as those of an evening sky. the effect of this indulgence upon his temper and character will appear in the next chapter. chapter v choice of a profession from the minuteness with which i have traced waverley's pursuits, and the bias which these unavoidably communicated to his imagination, the reader may perhaps anticipate, in the following tale, an imitation of the romance of cervantes. but he will do my prudence injustice in the supposition. my intention is not to follow the steps of that inimitable author, in describing such total perversion of intellect as misconstrues the objects actually presented to the senses, but that more common aberration from sound judgment, which apprehends occurrences indeed in their reality, but communicates to them a tincture of its own romantic tone and colouring. so far was edward waverley from expecting general sympathy with his own feelings, or concluding that the present state of things was calculated to exhibit the reality of those visions in which he loved to indulge, that he dreaded nothing more than the detection of such sentiments as were dictated by his musings. he neither had nor wished to have a confidant, with whom to communicate his reveries; and so sensible was he of the ridicule attached to them, that, had he been to choose between any punishment short of ignominy, and the necessity of giving a cold and composed account of the ideal world in which he lived the better part of his days, i think he would not have hesitated to prefer the former infliction. this secrecy became doubly precious as he felt in advancing life the influence of the awakening passions. female forms of exquisite grace and beauty began to mingle in his mental adventures; nor was he long without looking abroad to compare the creatures of his own imagination with the females of actual life. the list of the beauties who displayed their hebdomadal finery at the parish church of waverley was neither numerous nor select. by far the most passable was miss sissly, or, as she rather chose to be called, miss cecilia stubbs, daughter of squire stubbs at the grange. i know not whether it was by the 'merest accident in the world,' a phrase which, from female lips, does not always exclude malice prepense, or whether it was from a conformity of taste, that miss cecilia more than once crossed edward in his favourite walks through waverley-chase. he had not as yet assumed courage to accost her on these occasions; but the meeting was not without its effect. a romantic lover is a strange idolater, who sometimes cares not out of what log he frames the object of his adoration; at least, if nature has given that object any passable proportion of personal charms, he can easily play the jeweller and dervise in the oriental tale, [footnote: see hoppner's tale of the seven lovers.] and supply her richly, out of the stores of his own imagination, with supernatural beauty, and all the properties of intellectual wealth. but ere the charms of miss cecilia stubbs had erected her into a positive goddess, or elevated her at least to a level with the saint her namesake, mrs. rachel waverley gained some intimation which determined her to prevent the approaching apotheosis. even the most simple and unsuspicious of the female sex have (god bless them!) an instinctive sharpness of perception in such matters, which sometimes goes the length of observing partialities that never existed, but rarely misses to detect such as pass actually under their observation. mrs. rachel applied herself with great prudence, not to combat, but to elude, the approaching danger, and suggested to her brother the necessity that the heir of his house should see something more of the world than was consistent with constant residence at waverley-honour. sir everard would not at first listen to a proposal which went to separate his nephew from him. edward was a little bookish, he admitted, but youth, he had always heard, was the season for learning, and, no doubt, when his rage for letters was abated, and his head fully stocked with knowledge, his nephew would take to field-sports and country business. he had often, he said, himself regretted that he had not spent some time in study during his youth: he would neither have shot nor hunted with less skill, and he might have made the roof of saint stephen's echo to longer orations than were comprised in those zealous noes, with which, when a member of the house during godolphin's administration, he encountered every measure of government. aunt rachel's anxiety, however, lent her address to carry her point. every representative of their house had visited foreign parts, or served his country in the army, before he settled for life at waverley-honour, and she appealed for the truth of her assertion to the genealogical pedigree, an authority which sir everard was never known to contradict. in short, a proposal was made to mr. richard waverley, that his son should travel, under the direction of his present tutor mr. pembroke, with a suitable allowance from the baronet's liberality. the father himself saw no objection to this overture; but upon mentioning it casually at the table of the minister, the great man looked grave. the reason was explained in private. the unhappy turn of sir everard's politics, the minister observed, was such as would render it highly improper that a young gentleman of such hopeful prospects should travel on the continent with a tutor doubtless of his uncle's choosing, and directing his course by his instructions. what might mr. edward waverley's society be at paris, what at rome, where all manner of snares were spread by the pretender and his sons--these were points for mr. waverley to consider. this he could himself say, that he knew his majesty had such a just sense of mr. richard waverley's merits, that, if his son adopted the army for a few years, a troop, he believed, might be reckoned upon in one of the dragoon regiments lately returned from flanders. a hint thus conveyed and enforced was not to be neglected with impunity; and richard waverley, though with great dread of shocking his brother's prejudices, deemed he could not avoid accepting the commission thus offered him for his son. the truth is, he calculated much, and justly, upon sir everard's fondness for edward, which made him unlikely to resent any step that he might take in due submission to parental authority. two letters announced this determination to the baronet and his nephew. the latter barely communicated the fact, and pointed out the necessary preparations for joining his regiment. to his brother, richard was more diffuse and circuitous. he coincided with him, in the most flattering manner, in the propriety of his son's seeing a little more of the world, and was even humble in expressions of gratitude for his proposed assistance; was, however, deeply concerned that it was now, unfortunately, not in edward's power exactly to comply with the plan which had been chalked out by his best friend and benefactor. he himself had thought with pain on the boy's inactivity, at an age when all his ancestors had borne arms; even royalty itself had deigned to inquire whether young waverley was not now in flanders, at an age when his grandfather was already bleeding for his king in the great civil war. this was accompanied by an offer of a troop of horse. what could he do? there was no time to consult his brother's inclinations, even if he could have conceived there might be objections on his part to his nephew's following the glorious career of his predecessors. and, in short, that edward was now (the intermediate steps of cornet and lieutenant being overleapt with great agility) captain waverley, of gardiner's regiment of dragoons, which he must join in their quarters at dundee in scotland, in the course of a month. sir everard waverley received this intimation with a mixture of feelings. at the period of the hanoverian succession he had withdrawn from parliament, and his conduct in the memorable year had not been altogether unsuspected. there were reports of private musters of tenants and horses in waverley-chase by moonlight, and of cases of carbines and pistols purchased in holland, and addressed to the baronet, but intercepted by the vigilance of a riding officer of the excise, who was afterwards tossed in a blanket on a moonless night, by an association of stout yeomen, for his officiousness. nay, it was even said, that at the arrest of sir william wyndham, the leader of the tory party, a letter from sir everard was found in the pocket of his night-gown. but there was no overt act which an attainder could be founded on, and government, contented with suppressing the insurrection of , felt it neither prudent nor safe to push their vengeance farther than against those unfortunate gentlemen who actually took up arms. nor did sir everard's apprehensions of personal consequences seem to correspond with the reports spread among his whig neighbours. it was well known that he had supplied with money several of the distressed northumbrians and scotchmen, who, after being made prisoners at preston in lancashire, were imprisoned in newgate and the marshalsea, and it was his solicitor and ordinary counsel who conducted the defence of some of these unfortunate gentlemen at their trial. it was generally supposed, however, that, had ministers possessed any real proof of sir everard's accession to the rebellion, he either would not have ventured thus to brave the existing government, or at least would not have done so with impunity. the feelings which then dictated his proceedings were those of a young man, and at an agitating period. since that time sir everard's jacobitism had been gradually decaying, like a fire which burns out for want of fuel. his tory and high-church principles were kept up by some occasional exercise at elections and quarter-sessions; but those respecting hereditary right were fallen into a sort of abeyance. yet it jarred severely upon his feelings, that his nephew should go into the army under the brunswick dynasty; and the more so, as, independent of his high and conscientious ideas of paternal authority, it was impossible, or at least highly imprudent, to interfere authoritatively to prevent it. this suppressed vexation gave rise to many poohs and pshaws which were placed to the account of an incipient fit of gout, until, having sent for the army list, the worthy baronet consoled himself with reckoning the descendants of the houses of genuine loyalty, mordaunts, granvilles, and stanleys, whose names were to be found in that military record; and, calling up all his feelings of family grandeur and warlike glory, he concluded, with logic something like falstaff's, that when war was at hand, although it were shame to be on any side but one, it were worse shame to be idle than to be on the worst side, though blacker than usurpation could make it. as for aunt rachel, her scheme had not exactly terminated according to her wishes, but she was under the necessity of submitting to circumstances; and her mortification was diverted by the employment she found in fitting out her nephew for the campaign, and greatly consoled by the prospect of beholding him blaze in complete uniform. edward waverley himself received with animated and undefined surprise this most unexpected intelligence. it was, as a fine old poem expresses it, 'like a fire to heather set,' that covers a solitary hill with smoke, and illumines it at the same time with dusky fire. his tutor, or, i should say, mr. pembroke, for he scarce assumed the name of tutor, picked up about edward's room some fragments of irregular verse, which he appeared to have composed under the influence of the agitating feelings occasioned by this sudden page being turned up to him in the book of life. the doctor, who was a believer in all poetry which was composed by his friends, and written out in fair straight lines, with a capital at the beginning of each, communicated this treasure to aunt rachel, who, with her spectacles dimmed with tears, transferred them to her commonplace book, among choice receipts for cookery and medicine, favourite texts, and portions from high-church divines, and a few songs, amatory and jacobitical, which she had carolled in her younger days, from whence her nephew's poetical tentamina were extracted when the volume itself, with other authentic records of the waverley family, were exposed to the inspection of the unworthy editor of this memorable history. if they afford the reader no higher amusement, they will serve, at least, better than narrative of any kind, to acquaint him with the wild and irregular spirit of our hero:-- late, when the autumn evening fell on mirkwood-mere's romantic dell, the lake return'd, in chasten'd gleam, the purple cloud, the golden beam: reflected in the crystal pool, headland and bank lay fair and cool; the weather-tinted rock and tower, each drooping tree, each fairy flower, so true, so soft, the mirror gave, as if there lay beneath the wave, secure from trouble, toil, and care, a world than earthly world more fair. but distant winds began to wake, and roused the genius of the lake! he heard the groaning of the oak, and donn'd at once his sable cloak, as warrior, at the battle-cry, invests him with his panoply: then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd he 'gan to shake his foamy crest o'er furrow'd brow and blacken'd cheek, and bade his surge in thunder speak. in wild and broken eddies whirl'd. flitted that fond ideal world, and to the shore in tumult tost the realms of fairy bliss were lost. yet, with a stern delight and strange, i saw the spirit-stirring change, as warr'd the wind with wave and wood, upon the ruin'd tower i stood, and felt my heart more strongly bound, responsive to the lofty sound, while, joying in the mighty roar, i mourn'd that tranquil scene no more. so, on the idle dreams of youth, breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth, bids each fair vision pass away, like landscape on the lake that lay, as fair, as flitting, and as frail, as that which fled the autumn gale.-- for ever dead to fancy's eye be each gay form that glided by, while dreams of love and lady's charms give place to honour and to arms! in sober prose, as perhaps these verses intimate less decidedly, the transient idea of miss cecilia stubbs passed from captain waverley's heart amid the turmoil which his new destinies excited. she appeared, indeed, in full splendour in her father's pew upon the sunday when he attended service for the last time at the old parish church, upon which occasion, at the request of his uncle and aunt rachel, he was induced (nothing both, if the truth must be told) to present himself in full uniform. there is no better antidote against entertaining too high an opinion of others than having an excellent one of ourselves at the very same time. miss stubbs had indeed summoned up every assistance which art could afford to beauty; but, alas! hoop, patches, frizzled locks, and a new mantua of genuine french silk, were lost upon a young officer of dragoons who wore for the first time his gold-laced hat, jack-boots, and broadsword. i know not whether, like the champion of an old ballad,-- his heart was all on honour bent, he could not stoop to love; no lady in the land had power his frozen heart to move; or whether the deep and flaming bars of embroidered gold, which now fenced his breast, defied the artillery of cecilia's eyes; but every arrow was launched at him in vain. yet did i mark where cupid's shaft did light; it lighted not on little western flower, but on bold yeoman, flower of all the west, hight jonas culbertfield, the steward's son. craving pardon for my heroics (which i am unable in certain cases to resist giving way to), it is a melancholy fact, that my history must here take leave of the fair cecilia, who, like many a daughter of eve, after the departure of edward, and the dissipation of certain idle visions which she had adopted, quietly contented herself with a pisaller, and gave her hand, at the distance of six months, to the aforesaid jonas, son of the baronet's steward, and heir (no unfertile prospect) to a steward's fortune, besides the snug probability of succeeding to his father's office. all these advantages moved squire stubbs, as much as the ruddy brown and manly form of the suitor influenced his daughter, to abate somewhat in the article of their gentry; and so the match was concluded. none seemed more gratified than aunt rachel, who had hitherto looked rather askance upon the presumptuous damsel (as much so, peradventure, as her nature would permit), but who, on the first appearance of the new-married pair at church, honoured the bride with a smile and a profound curtsy, in presence of the rector, the curate, the clerk, and the whole congregation of the united parishes of waverley cum beverley. i beg pardon, once and for all, of those readers who take up novels merely for amusement, for plaguing them so long with old-fashioned politics, and whig and tory, and hanoverians and jacobites. the truth is, i cannot promise them that this story shall be intelligible, not to say probable, without it. my plan requires that i should explain the motives on which its action proceeded; and these motives necessarily arose from the feelings, prejudices, and parties of the times. i do not invite my fair readers, whose sex and impatience give them the greatest right to complain of these circumstances, into a flying chariot drawn by hippogriffs, or moved by enchantment. mine is a humble english post-chaise, drawn upon four wheels, and keeping his majesty's highway. such as dislike the vehicle may leave it at the next halt, and wait for the conveyance of prince hussein's tapestry, or malek the weaver's flying sentrybox. those who are contented to remain with me will be occasionally exposed to the dulness inseparable from heavy roads, steep hills, sloughs, and other terrestrial retardations; but with tolerable horses and a civil driver (as the advertisements have it), i engage to get as soon as possible into a more picturesque and romantic country, if my passengers incline to have some patience with me during my first stages. [footnote: these introductory chapters have been a good deal censured as tedious and unnecessary. yet there are circumstances recorded in them which the author has not been able to persuade himself to retrench or cancel.] chapter vi the adieus of waverley it was upon the evening of this memorable sunday that sir everard entered the library, where he narrowly missed surprising our young hero as he went through the guards of the broadsword with the ancient weapon of old sir hildebrand, which, being preserved as an heirloom, usually hung over the chimney in the library, beneath a picture of the knight and his horse, where the features were almost entirely hidden by the knight's profusion of curled hair, and the bucephalus which he bestrode concealed by the voluminous robes of the bath with which he was decorated. sir everard entered, and after a glance at the picture and another at his nephew, began a little speech, which, however, soon dropt into the natural simplicity of his common manner, agitated upon the present occasion by no common feeling. 'nephew,' he said; and then, as mending his phrase, 'my dear edward, it is god's will, and also the will of your father, whom, under god, it is your duty to obey, that you should leave us to take up the profession of arms, in which so many of your ancestors have been distinguished. i have made such arrangements as will enable you to take the field as their descendant, and as the probable heir of the house of waverley; and, sir, in the field of battle you will remember what name you bear. and, edward, my dear boy, remember also that you are the last of that race, and the only hope of its revival depends upon you; therefore, as far as duty and honour will permit, avoid danger--i mean unnecessary danger--and keep no company with rakes, gamblers, and whigs, of whom, it is to be feared, there are but too many in the service into which you are going. your colonel, as i am informed, is an excellent man--for a presbyterian; but you will remember your duty to god, the church of england, and the--' (this breach ought to have been supplied, according to the rubric, with the word king; but as, unfortunately, that word conveyed a double and embarrassing sense, one meaning de facto and the other de jure, the knight filled up the blank otherwise)--'the church of england, and all constituted authorities.' then, not trusting himself with any further oratory, he carried his nephew to his stables to see the horses destined for his campaign. two were black (the regimental colour), superb chargers both; the other three were stout active hacks, designed for the road, or for his domestics, of whom two were to attend him from the hall; an additional groom, if necessary, might be picked up in scotland. 'you will depart with but a small retinue,' quoth the baronet, 'compared to sir hildebrand, when he mustered before the gate of the hall a larger body of horse than your whole regiment consists of. i could have wished that these twenty young fellows from my estate, who have enlisted in your troop, had been to march with you on your journey to scotland. it would have been something, at least; but i am told their attendance would be thought unusual in these days, when every new and foolish fashion is introduced to break the natural dependence of the people upon their landlords.' sir everard had done his best to correct this unnatural disposition of the times; for he had brightened the chain of attachment between the recruits and their young captain, not only by a copious repast of beef and ale, by way of parting feast, but by such a pecuniary donation to each individual as tended rather to improve the conviviality than the discipline of their march. after inspecting the cavalry, sir everard again conducted his nephew to the library, where he produced a letter, carefully folded, surrounded by a little stripe of flox-silk, according to ancient form, and sealed with an accurate impression of the waverley coat-of-arms. it was addressed, with great formality, 'to cosmo comyne bradwardine, esq., of bradwardine, at his principal mansion of tully-veolan, in perthshire, north britain. these--by the hands of captain edward waverley, nephew of sir everard waverley, of waverley-honour, bart.' the gentleman to whom this enormous greeting was addressed, of whom we shall have more to say in the sequel, had been in arms for the exiled family of stuart in the year , and was made prisoner at preston in lancashire. he was of a very ancient family, and somewhat embarrassed fortune; a scholar, according to the scholarship of scotchmen, that is, his learning was more diffuse than accurate, and he was rather a reader than a grammarian. of his zeal for the classic authors he is said to have given an uncommon instance. on the road between preston and london, he made his escape from his guards; but being afterwards found loitering near the place where they had lodged the former night, he was recognised, and again arrested. his companions, and even his escort, were surprised at his infatuation, and could not help inquiring, why, being once at liberty, he had not made the best of his way to a place of safety; to which he replied, that he had intended to do so, but, in good faith, he had returned to seek his titus livius, which he had forgot in the hurry of his escape. [footnote: see note .] the simplicity of this anecdote struck the gentleman, who, as we before observed, had managed the defence of some of those unfortunate persons, at the expense of sir everard, and perhaps some others of the party. he was, besides, himself a special admirer of the old patavinian, and though probably his own zeal might not have carried him such extravagant lengths, even to recover the edition of sweynheim and pannartz (supposed to be the princeps), he did not the less estimate the devotion of the north briton, and in consequence exerted himself to so much purpose to remove and soften evidence, detect legal flaws, et cetera, that he accomplished the final discharge and deliverance of cosmo comyne bradwardine from certain very awkward consequences of a plea before our sovereign lord the king in westminster. the baron of bradwardine, for he was generally so called in scotland (although his intimates, from his place of residence, used to denominate him tully-veolan, or more familiarly, tully), no sooner stood rectus in curia than he posted down to pay his respects and make his acknowledgments at waverley-honour. a congenial passion for field-sports, and a general coincidence in political opinions, cemented his friendship with sir everard, notwithstanding the difference of their habits and studies in other particulars; and, having spent several weeks at waverley-honour, the baron departed with many expressions of regard, warmly pressing the baronet to return his visit, and partake of the diversion of grouse-shooting, upon his moors in perthshire next season. shortly after, mr. bradwardine remitted from scotland a sum in reimbursement of expenses incurred in the king's high court of westminster, which, although not quite so formidable when reduced to the english denomination, had, in its original form of scotch pounds, shillings, and pence, such a formidable effect upon the frame of duncan macwheeble, the laird's confidential factor, baron-bailie, and man of resource, that he had a fit of the cholic, which lasted for five days, occasioned, he said, solely and utterly by becoming the unhappy instrument of conveying such a serious sum of money out of his native country into the hands of the false english. but patriotism, as it is the fairest, so it is often the most suspicious mask of other feelings; and many who knew bailie macwheeble concluded that his professions of regret were not altogether disinterested, and that he would have grudged the moneys paid to the loons at westminster much less had they not come from bradwardine estate, a fund which he considered as more particularly his own. but the bailie protested he was absolutely disinterested-- 'woe, woe, for scotland, not a whit for me!' the laird was only rejoiced that his worthy friend, sir everard waverley of waverley-honour, was reimbursed of the expenditure which he had outlaid on account of the house of bradwardine. it concerned, he said, the credit of his own family, and of the kingdom of scotland at large, that these disbursements should be repaid forthwith, and, if delayed, it would be a matter of national reproach. sir everard, accustomed to treat much larger sums with indifference, received the remittance of l , s. d. without being aware that the payment was an international concern, and, indeed, would probably have forgot the circumstance altogether, if bailie macwheeble had thought of comforting his cholic by intercepting the subsidy. a yearly intercourse took place, of a short letter and a hamper or a cask or two, between waverley-honour and tully-veolan, the english exports consisting of mighty cheeses and mightier ale, pheasants, and venison, and the scottish returns being vested in grouse, white hares, pickled salmon, and usquebaugh; all which were meant, sent, and received as pledges of constant friendship and amity between two important houses. it followed as a matter of course, that the heir-apparent of waverley-honour could not with propriety visit scotland without being furnished with credentials to the baron of bradwardine. when this matter was explained and settled, mr. pembroke expressed his wish to take a private and particular leave of his dear pupil. the good man's ex hortations to edward to preserve an unblemished life and morals, to hold fast the principles of the christian religion, and to eschew the profane company of scoffers and latitudinarians, too much abounding in the army, were not unmingled with his political prejudices. it had pleased heaven, he said, to place scotland (doubtless for the sins of their ancestors in ) in a more deplorable state of darkness than even this unhappy kingdom of england. here, at least, although the candlestick of the church of england had been in some degree removed from its place, it yet afforded a glimmering light; there was a hierarchy, though schismatical, and fallen from the principles maintained by those great fathers of the church, sancroft and his brethren; there was a liturgy, though woefully perverted in some of the principal petitions. but in scotland it was utter darkness; and, excepting a sorrowful, scattered, and persecuted remnant, the pulpits were abandoned to presbyterians, and, he feared, to sectaries of every description. it should be his duty to fortify his dear pupil to resist such unhallowed and pernicious doctrines in church and state as must necessarily be forced at times upon his unwilling ears. here he produced two immense folded packets, which appeared each to contain a whole ream of closely written manuscript. they had been the labour of the worthy man's whole life; and never were labour and zeal more absurdly wasted. he had at one time gone to london, with the intention of giving them to the world, by the medium of a bookseller in little britain, well known to deal in such commodities, and to whom he was instructed to address himself in a particular phrase and with a certain sign, which, it seems, passed at that time current among the initiated jacobites. the moment mr. pembroke had uttered the shibboleth, with the appropriate gesture, the bibliopolist greeted him, notwithstanding every disclamation, by the title of doctor, and conveying him into his back shop, after inspecting every possible and impossible place of concealment, he commenced: 'eh, doctor!--well--all under the rose--snug--i keep no holes here even for a hanoverian rat to hide in. and, what--eh! any good news from our friends over the water?--and how does the worthy king of france?--or perhaps you are more lately from rome? it must be rome will do it at last--the church must light its candle at the old lamp.--eh--what, cautious? i like you the better; but no fear.' here mr. pembroke with some difficulty stopt a torrent of interrogations, eked out with signs, nods, and winks; and, having at length convinced the bookseller that he did him too much honour in supposing him an emissary of exiled royalty, he explained his actual business. the man of books with a much more composed air proceeded to examine the manuscripts. the title of the first was 'a dissent from dissenters, or the comprehension confuted; showing the impossibility of any composition between the church and puritans, presbyterians, or sectaries of any description; illustrated from the scriptures, the fathers of the church, and the soundest controversial divines.' to this work the bookseller positively demurred. 'well meant,' he said, 'and learned, doubtless; but the time had gone by. printed on small-pica it would run to eight hundred pages, and could never pay. begged therefore to be excused. loved and honoured the true church from his soul, and, had it been a sermon on the martyrdom, or any twelve-penny touch--why, i would venture something for the honour of the cloth. but come, let's see the other. "right hereditary righted!"--ah! there's some sense in this. hum--hum--hum--pages so many, paper so much, letter-press--ah--i'll tell you, though, doctor, you must knock out some of the latin and greek; heavy, doctor, damn'd heavy--(beg your pardon) and if you throw in a few grains more pepper--i am he that never preached my author. i have published for drake and charlwood lawton, and poor amhurst [footnote: see note .]--ah, caleb! caleb! well, it was a shame to let poor caleb starve, and so many fat rectors and squires among us. i gave him a dinner once a week; but, lord love you, what's once a week, when a man does not know where to go the other six days? well, but i must show the manuscript to little tom alibi the solicitor, who manages all my law affairs--must keep on the windy side; the mob were very uncivil the last time i mounted in old palace yard--all whigs and roundheads every man of them, williamites and hanover rats.' the next day mr. pembroke again called on the publisher, but found tom alibi's advice had determined him against undertaking the work. 'not but what i would go to--(what was i going to say?) to the plantations for the church with pleasure--but, dear doctor, i have a wife and family; but, to show my zeal, i'll recommend the job to my neighbour trimmel--he is a bachelor, and leaving off business, so a voyage in a western barge would not inconvenience him.' but mr. trimmel was also obdurate, and mr. pembroke, fortunately perchance for himself, was compelled to return to waverley-honour with his treatise in vindication of the real fundamental principles of church and state safely packed in his saddle-bags. as the public were thus likely to be deprived of the benefit arising from his lucubrations by the selfish cowardice of the trade, mr. pembroke resolved to make two copies of these tremendous manuscripts for the use of his pupil. he felt that he had been indolent as a tutor, and, besides, his conscience checked him for complying with the request of mr. richard waverley, that he would impress no sentiments upon edward's mind inconsistent with the present settlement in church and state. but now, thought he, i may, without breach of my word, since he is no longer under my tuition, afford the youth the means of judging for himself, and have only to dread his reproaches for so long concealing the light which the perusal will flash upon his mind. while he thus indulged the reveries of an author and a politician, his darling proselyte, seeing nothing very inviting in the title of the tracts, and appalled by the bulk and compact lines of the manuscript, quietly consigned them to a corner of his travelling trunk. aunt rachel's farewell was brief and affectionate. she only cautioned her dear edward, whom she probably deemed somewhat susceptible, against the fascination of scottish beauty. she allowed that the northern part of the island contained some ancient families, but they were all whigs and presbyterians except the highlanders; and respecting them she must needs say, there could be no great delicacy among the ladies, where the gentlemen's usual attire was, as she had been assured, to say the least, very singular, and not at all decorous. she concluded her farewell with a kind and moving benediction, and gave the young officer, as a pledge of her regard, a valuable diamond ring (often worn by the male sex at that time), and a purse of broad gold-pieces, which also were more common sixty years since than they have been of late. chapter vii a horse-quarter in scotland the next morning, amid varied feelings, the chief of which was a predominant, anxious, and even solemn impression, that he was now in a great measure abandoned to his own guidance and direction, edward waverley departed from the hall amid the blessings and tears of all the old domestics and the inhabitants of the village, mingled with some sly petitions for sergeantcies and corporalships, and so forth, on the part of those who professed that 'they never thoft to ha' seen jacob, and giles, and jonathan go off for soldiers, save to attend his honour, as in duty bound.' edward, as in duty bound, extricated himself from the supplicants with the pledge of fewer promises than might have been expected from a young man so little accustomed to the world. after a short visit to london, he proceeded on horseback, then the general mode of travelling, to edinburgh, and from thence to dundee, a seaport on the eastern coast of angus-shire, where his regiment was then quartered. he now entered upon a new world, where, for a time, all was beautiful because all was new. colonel gardiner, the commanding officer of the regiment, was himself a study for a romantic, and at the same time an inquisitive youth. in person he was tall, handsome, and active, though somewhat advanced in life. in his early years he had been what is called, by manner of palliative, a very gay young man, and strange stories were circulated about his sudden conversion from doubt, if not infidelity, to a serious and even enthusiastic turn of mind. it was whispered that a supernatural communication, of a nature obvious even to the exterior senses, had produced this wonderful change; and though some mentioned the proselyte as an enthusiast, none hinted at his being a hypocrite. this singular and mystical circumstance gave colonel gardiner a peculiar and solemn interest in the eyes of the young soldier. [footnote: see note .] it may be easily imagined that the officers, of a regiment commanded by so respectable a person composed a society more sedate and orderly than a military mess always exhibits; and that waverley escaped some temptations to which he might otherwise have been exposed. meanwhile his military education proceeded. already a good horseman, he was now initiated into the arts of the manege, which, when carried to perfection, almost realise the fable of the centaur, the guidance of the horse appearing to proceed from the rider's mere volition, rather than from the use of any external and apparent signal of motion. he received also instructions in his field duty; but i must own, that when his first ardour was past, his progress fell short in the latter particular of what he wished and expected. the duty of an officer, the most imposing of all others to the inexperienced mind, because accompanied with so much outward pomp and circumstance, is in its essence a very dry and abstract task, depending chiefly upon arithmetical combinations, requiring much attention, and a cool and reasoning head to bring them into action. our hero was liable to fits of absence, in which his blunders excited some mirth, and called down some reproof. this circumstance impressed him with a painful sense of inferiority in those qualities which appeared most to deserve and obtain regard in his new profession. he asked himself in vain, why his eye could not judge of distance or space so well as those of his companions; why his head was not always successful in disentangling the various partial movements necessary to execute a particular evolution; and why his memory, so alert upon most occasions, did not correctly retain technical phrases and minute points of etiquette or field discipline. waverley was naturally modest, and therefore did not fall into the egregious mistake of supposing such minuter rules of military duty beneath his notice, or conceiting himself to be born a general, because he made an indifferent subaltern. the truth was, that the vague and unsatisfactory course of reading which he had pursued, working upon a temper naturally retired and abstracted, had given him that wavering and unsettled habit of mind which is most averse to study and riveted attention. time, in the mean while, hung heavy on his hands. the gentry of the neighbourhood were disaffected, and showed little hospitality to the military guests; and the people of the town, chiefly engaged in mercantile pursuits, were not such as waverley chose to associate with. the arrival of summer, and a curiosity to know something more of scotland than he could see in a ride from his quarters, determined him to request leave of absence for a few weeks. he resolved first to visit his uncle's ancient friend and correspondent, with the purpose of extending or shortening the time of his residence according to circumstances. he travelled of course on horse-back, and with a single attendant, and passed his first night at a miserable inn, where the landlady had neither shoes nor stockings, and the landlord, who called himself a gentleman, was disposed to be rude to his guest, because he had not bespoke the pleasure of his society to supper. [footnote: see note .] the next day, traversing an open and uninclosed country, edward gradually approached the highlands of perthshire, which at first had appeared a blue outline in the horizon, but now swelled into huge gigantic masses, which frowned defiance over the more level country that lay beneath them. near the bottom of this stupendous barrier, but still in the lowland country, dwelt cosmo comyne bradwardine of bradwardine; and, if grey-haired eld can be in aught believed, there had dwelt his ancestors, with all their heritage, since the days of the gracious king duncan. chapter viii a scottish manor-house sixty years since it was about noon when captain waverley entered the straggling village, or rather hamlet, of tully-veolan, close to which was situated the mansion of the proprietor. the houses seemed miserable in the extreme, especially to an eye accustomed to the smiling neatness of english cottages. they stood, without any respect for regularity, on each side of a straggling kind of unpaved street, where children, almost in a primitive state of nakedness, lay sprawling, as if to be crushed by the hoofs of the first passing horse. occasionally, indeed, when such a consummation seemed inevitable, a watchful old grandam, with her close cap, distaff, and spindle, rushed like a sibyl in frenzy out of one of these miserable cells, dashed into the middle of the path, and snatching up her own charge from among the sunburnt loiterers, saluted him with a sound cuff, and transported him back to his dungeon, the little white-headed varlet screaming all the while, from the very top of his lungs, a shrilly treble to the growling remonstrances of the enraged matron. another part in this concert was sustained by the incessant yelping of a score of idle useless curs, which followed, snarling, barking, howling, and snapping at the horses' heels; a nuisance at that time so common in scotland, that a french tourist, who, like other travellers, longed to find a good and rational reason for everything he saw, has recorded, as one of the memorabilia of caledonia, that the state maintained, in each village a relay of curs, called collies, whose duty it was to chase the chevaux de poste (too starved and exhausted to move without such a stimulus) from one hamlet to another, till their annoying convoy drove them to the end of their stage. the evil and remedy (such as it is) still exist.--but this is remote from our present purpose, and is only thrown out for consideration of the collectors under mr. dent's dog bill. as waverley moved on, here and there an old man, bent as much by toil as years, his eyes bleared with age and smoke, tottered to the door of his hut, to gaze on the dress of the stranger and the form and motions of the horses, and then assembled, with his neighbours, in a little group at the smithy, to discuss the probabilities of whence the stranger came and where he might be going. three or four village girls, returning from the well or brook with pitchers and pails upon their heads, formed more pleasing objects, and, with their thin short-gowns and single petticoats, bare arms, legs, and feet, uncovered heads and braided hair, somewhat resembled italian forms of landscape. nor could a lover of the picturesque have challenged either the elegance of their costume or the symmetry of their shape; although, to say the truth, a mere englishman in search of the comfortable, a word peculiar to his native tongue, might have wished the clothes less scanty, the feet and legs somewhat protected from the weather, the head and complexion shrouded from the sun, or perhaps might even have thought the whole person and dress considerably improved by a plentiful application of spring water, with a quantum sufficit of soap. the whole scene was depressing; for it argued, at the first glance, at least a stagnation of industry, and perhaps of intellect. even curiosity, the busiest passion of the idle, seemed of a listless cast in the village of tully-veolan: the curs aforesaid alone showed any part of its activity; with the villagers it was passive. they stood, and gazed at the handsome young officer and his attendant, but without any of those quick motions and eager looks that indicate the earnestness with which those who live in monotonous ease at home look out for amusement abroad. yet the physiognomy of the people, when more closely examined, was far from exhibiting the indifference of stupidity; their features were rough, but remarkably intelligent; grave, but the very reverse of stupid; and from among the young women an artist might have chosen more than one model whose features and form resembled those of minerva. the children also, whose skins were burnt black, and whose hair was bleached white, by the influence of the sun, had a look and manner of life and interest. it seemed, upon the whole, as if poverty, and indolence, its too frequent companion, were combining to depress the natural genius and acquired information of a hardy, intelligent, and reflecting peasantry. some such thoughts crossed waverley's mind as he paced his horse slowly through the rugged and flinty street of tully-veolan, interrupted only in his meditations by the occasional caprioles which his charger exhibited at the reiterated assaults of those canine cossacks, the collies before mentioned. the village was more than half a mile long, the cottages being irregularly divided from each other by gardens, or yards, as the inhabitants called them, of different sizes, where (for it is sixty years since) the now universal potato was unknown, but which were stored with gigantic plants of kale or colewort, encircled with groves of nettles, and exhibited here and there a huge hemlock, or the national thistle, overshadowing a quarter of the petty inclosure. the broken ground on which the village was built had never been levelled; so that these inclosures presented declivities of every degree, here rising like terraces, there sinking like tan-pits. the dry-stone walls which fenced, or seemed to fence (for they were sorely breached), these hanging gardens of tully-veolan were intersected by a narrow lane leading to the common field, where the joint labour of the villagers cultivated alternate ridges and patches of rye, oats, barley, and pease, each of such minute extent that at a little distance the unprofitable variety of the surface resembled a tailor's book of patterns. in a few favoured instances, there appeared behind the cottages a miserable wigwam, compiled of earth, loose stones, and turf, where the wealthy might perhaps shelter a starved cow or sorely galled horse. but almost every hut was fenced in front by a huge black stack of turf on one side of the door, while on the other the family dunghill ascended in noble emulation. about a bowshot from the end of the village appeared the inclosures proudly denominated the parks of tully-veolan, being certain square fields, surrounded and divided by stone walls five feet in height. in the centre of the exterior barrier was the upper gate of the avenue, opening under an archway, battlemented on the top, and adorned with two large weather-beaten mutilated masses of upright stone, which, if the tradition of the hamlet could be trusted, had once represented, at least had been once designed to represent, two rampant bears, the supporters of the family of bradwardine. this avenue was straight and of moderate length, running between a double row of very ancient horse-chestnuts, planted alternately with sycamores, which rose to such huge height, and nourished so luxuriantly, that their boughs completely over-arched the broad road beneath. beyond these venerable ranks, and running parallel to them, were two high walls, of apparently the like antiquity, overgrown with ivy, honeysuckle, and other climbing plants. the avenue seemed very little trodden, and chiefly by foot-passengers; so that being very broad, and enjoying a constant shade, it was clothed with grass of a deep and rich verdure, excepting where a foot-path, worn by occasional passengers, tracked with a natural sweep the way from the upper to the lower gate. this nether portal, like the former, opened in front of a wall ornamented with some rude sculpture, with battlements on the top, over which were seen, half-hidden by the trees of the avenue, the high steep roofs and narrow gables of the mansion, with lines indented into steps, and corners decorated with small turrets. one of the folding leaves of the lower gate was open, and as the sun shone full into the court behind, a long line of brilliancy was flung upon the aperture up the dark and gloomy avenue. it was one of those effects which a painter loves to represent, and mingled well with the struggling light which found its way between the boughs of the shady arch that vaulted the broad green alley. the solitude and repose of the whole scene seemed almost monastic; and waverley, who had given his horse to his servant on entering the first gate, walked slowly down the avenue, enjoying the grateful and cooling shade, and so much pleased with the placid ideas of rest and seclusion excited by this confined and quiet scene, that he forgot the misery and dirt of the hamlet he had left behind him. the opening into the paved court-yard corresponded with the rest of the scene. the house, which seemed to consist of two or three high, narrow, and steep-roofed buildings, projecting from each other at right angles, formed one side of the inclosure. it had been built at a period when castles were no longer necessary, and when the scottish architects had not yet acquired the art of designing a domestic residence. the windows were numberless, but very small; the roof had some nondescript kind of projections, called bartizans, and displayed at each frequent angle a small turret, rather resembling a pepper-box than a gothic watchtower. neither did the front indicate absolute security from danger. there were loop-holes for musketry, and iron stanchions on the lower windows, probably to repel any roving band of gypsies, or resist a predatory visit from the caterans of the neighbouring highlands. stables and other offices occupied another side of the square. the former were low vaults, with narrow slits instead of windows, resembling, as edward's groom observed, 'rather a prison for murderers, and larceners, and such like as are tried at 'sizes, than a place for any christian cattle.' above these dungeon-looking stables were granaries, called girnels, and other offices, to which there was access by outside stairs of heavy masonry. two battlemented walls, one of which faced the avenue, and the other divided the court from the garden, completed the inclosure. nor was the court without its ornaments. in one corner was a tun-bellied pigeon-house, of great size and rotundity, resembling in figure and proportion the curious edifice called arthur's oven, which would have turned the brains of all the antiquaries in england, had not the worthy proprietor pulled it down for the sake of mending a neighbouring dam-dyke. this dove-cot, or columbarium, as the owner called it, was no small resource to a scottish laird of that period, whose scanty rents were eked out by the contributions levied upon the farms by these light foragers, and the conscriptions exacted from the latter for the benefit of the table. another corner of the court displayed a fountain, where a huge bear, carved in stone, predominated over a large stone-basin, into which he disgorged the water. this work of art was the wonder of the country ten miles round. it must not be forgotten, that all sorts of bears, small and large, demi or in full proportion, were carved over the windows, upon the ends of the gables, terminated the spouts, and supported the turrets, with the ancient family motto, 'beware the bear', cut under each hyperborean form. the court was spacious, well paved, and perfectly clean, there being probably another entrance behind the stables for removing the litter. everything around appeared solitary, and would have been silent, but for the continued plashing of the fountain; and the whole scene still maintained the monastic illusion which the fancy of waverley had conjured up. and here we beg permission to close a chapter of still life. [footnote: see note .] chapter ix more of the manor-house and its environs after having satisfied his curiosity by gazing around him for a few minutes, waverley applied himself to the massive knocker of the hall-door, the architrave of which bore the date . but no answer was returned, though the peal resounded through a number of apartments, and was echoed from the court-yard walls without the house, startling the pigeons from the venerable rotunda which they occupied, and alarming anew even the distant village curs, which had retired to sleep upon their respective dunghills. tired of the din which he created, and the unprofitable responses which it excited, waverley began to think that he had reached the castle of orgoglio as entered by the victorious prince arthur,-- when 'gan he loudly through the house to call, but no man cared to answer to his cry; there reign'd a solemn silence over all, nor voice was heard, nor wight was seen in bower or hall. filled almost with expectation of beholding some 'old, old man, with beard as white as snow,' whom he might question concerning this deserted mansion, our hero turned to a little oaken wicket-door, well clenched with iron-nails, which opened in the court-yard wall at its angle with the house. it was only latched, notwithstanding its fortified appearance, and, when opened, admitted him into the garden, which presented a pleasant scene. [footnote: footnote: at ravelston may be seen such a garden, which the taste of the proprietor, the author's friend and kinsman, sir alexander keith, knight mareschal, has judiciously preserved. that, as well as the house is, however, of smaller dimensions than the baron of bradwardine's mansion and garden are presumed to have been.] the southern side of the house, clothed with fruit-trees, and having many evergreens trained upon its walls, extended its irregular yet venerable front along a terrace, partly paved, partly gravelled, partly bordered with flowers and choice shrubs. this elevation descended by three several flights of steps, placed in its centre and at the extremities, into what might be called the garden proper, and was fenced along the top by a stone parapet with a heavy balustrade, ornamented from space to space with huge grotesque figures of animals seated upon their haunches, among which the favourite bear was repeatedly introduced. placed in the middle of the terrace between a sashed-door opening from the house and the central flight of steps, a huge animal of the same species supported on his head and fore-paws a sun-dial of large circumference, inscribed with more diagrams than edward's mathematics enabled him to decipher. the garden, which seemed to be kept with great accuracy, abounded in fruit-trees, and exhibited a profusion of flowers and evergreens, cut into grotesque forms. it was laid out in terraces, which descended rank by rank from the western wall to a large brook, which had a tranquil and smooth appearance, where it served as a boundary to the garden; but, near the extremity, leapt in tumult over a strong dam, or wear-head, the cause of its temporary tranquillity, and there forming a cascade, was overlooked by an octangular summer-house, with a gilded bear on the top by way of vane. after this feat, the brook, assuming its natural rapid and fierce character, escaped from the eye down a deep and wooded dell, from the copse of which arose a massive, but ruinous tower, the former habitation of the barons of bradwardine. the margin of the brook, opposite to the garden, displayed a narrow meadow, or haugh, as it was called, which formed a small washing-green; the bank, which retired behind it, was covered by ancient trees. the scene, though pleasing, was not quite equal to the gardens of alcina; yet wanted not the 'due donzellette garrule' of that enchanted paradise, for upon the green aforesaid two bare-legged damsels, each standing in a spacious tub, performed with their feet the office of a patent washing-machine. these did not, however, like the maidens of armida, remain to greet with their harmony the approaching guest, but, alarmed at the appearance of a handsome stranger on the opposite side, dropped their garments (i should say garment, to be quite correct) over their limbs, which their occupation exposed somewhat too freely, and, with a shrill exclamation of 'eh, sirs!' uttered with an accent between modesty and coquetry, sprung off like deer in different directions. waverley began to despair of gaining entrance into this solitary and seemingly enchanted mansion, when a man advanced up one of the garden alleys, where he still retained his station. trusting this might be a gardener, or some domestic belonging to the house, edward descended the steps in order to meet him; but as the figure approached, and long before he could descry its features, he was struck with the oddity of its appearance and gestures. sometimes this mister wight held his hands clasped over his head, like an indian jogue in the attitude of penance; sometimes he swung them perpendicularly, like a pendulum, on each side; and anon he slapped them swiftly and repeatedly across his breast, like the substitute used by a hackney-coachman for his usual flogging exercise, when his cattle are idle upon the stand, in a clear frosty day. his gait was as singular as his gestures, for at times he hopped with great perseverance on the right foot, then exchanged that supporter to advance in the same manner on the left, and then putting his feet close together he hopped upon both at once. his attire also was antiquated and extravagant. it consisted in a sort of grey jerkin, with scarlet cuffs and slashed sleeves, showing a scarlet lining; the other parts of the dress corresponded in colour, not forgetting a pair of scarlet stockings, and a scarlet bonnet, proudly surmounted with a turkey's feather. edward, whom he did not seem to observe, now perceived confirmation in his features of what the mien and gestures had already announced. it was apparently neither idiocy nor insanity which gave that wild, unsettled, irregular expression to a face which naturally was rather handsome, but something that resembled a compound of both, where the simplicity of the fool was mixed with the extravagance of a crazed imagination. he sung with great earnestness, and not without some taste, a fragment of an old scottish ditty:-- false love, and hast thou play'd me this in summer among the flowers? i will repay thee back again in winter among the showers. unless again, again, my love, unless you turn again; as you with other maidens rove, i'll smile on other men. [footnote: this is a genuine ancient fragment, with some alteration in the two last lines.] here lifting up his eyes, which had hitherto been fixed in observing how his feet kept time to the tune, he beheld waverley, and instantly doffed his cap, with many grotesque signals of surprise, respect, and salutation. edward, though with little hope of receiving an answer to any constant question, requested to know whether mr. bradwardine were at home, or where he could find any of the domestics. the questioned party replied, and, like the witch of thalaba, 'still his speech was song,'-- the knight's to the mountain his bugle to wind; the lady's to greenwood her garland to bind. the bower of burd ellen has moss on the floor, that the step of lord william be silent and sure. this conveyed no information, and edward, repeating his queries, received a rapid answer, in which, from the haste and peculiarity of the dialect, the word 'butler' was alone intelligible. waverley then requested to see the butler; upon which the fellow, with a knowing look and nod of intelligence, made a signal to edward to follow, and began to dance and caper down the alley up which he had made his approaches. a strange guide this, thought edward, and not much unlike one of shakespeare's roynish clowns. i am not over prudent to trust to his pilotage; but wiser men have been led by fools. by this time he reached the bottom of the alley, where, turning short on a little parterre of flowers, shrouded from the east and north by a close yew hedge, he found an old man at work without his coat, whose appearance hovered between that of an upper servant and gardener; his red nose and ruffled shirt belonging to the former profession; his hale and sunburnt visage, with his green apron, appearing to indicate old adam's likeness, set to dress this garden. the major domo, for such he was, and indisputably the second officer of state in the barony (nay, as chief minister of the interior, superior even to bailie macwheeble in his own department of the kitchen and cellar)--the major domo laid down his spade, slipped on his coat in haste, and with a wrathful look at edward's guide, probably excited by his having introduced a stranger while he was engaged in this laborious, and, as he might suppose it, degrading office, requested to know the gentleman's commands. being informed that he wished to pay his respects to his master, that his name was waverley, and so forth, the old man's countenance assumed a great deal of respectful importance. 'he could take it upon his conscience to say, his honour would have exceeding pleasure in seeing him. would not mr. waverley choose some refreshment after his journey? his honour was with the folk who were getting doon the dark hag; the twa gardener lads (an emphasis on the word twa) had been ordered to attend him; and he had been just amusing himself in the mean time with dressing miss rose's flower-bed, that he might be near to receive his honour's orders, if need were; he was very fond of a garden, but had little time for such divertisements.' 'he canna get it wrought in abune twa days in the week at no rate whatever,' said edward's fantastic conductor. a grim look from the butler chastised his interference, and he commanded him, by the name of davie gellatley, in a tone which admitted no discussion, to look for his honour at the dark hag, and tell him there was a gentleman from the south had arrived at the ha'. 'can this poor fellow deliver a letter?' asked edward. 'with all fidelity, sir, to any one whom he respects. i would hardly trust him with a long message by word of mouth--though he is more knave than fool.' waverley delivered his credentials to mr. gellatley, who seemed to confirm the butler's last observation, by twisting his features at him, when he was looking another way, into the resemblance of the grotesque face on the bole of a german tobacco pipe; after which, with an odd conge to waverley, he danced off to discharge his errand. 'he is an innocent, sir,' said the butler; 'there is one such in almost every town in the country, but ours is brought far ben. [footnote: see note .] he used to work a day's turn weel enough; but he helped miss rose when she was flemit with the laird of killancureit's new english bull, and since that time we ca' him davie do-little; indeed we might ca' him davie do-naething, for since he got that gay clothing, to please his honour and my young mistress (great folks will have their fancies), he has done naething but dance up and down about the toun, without doing a single turn, unless trimming the laird's fishing-wand or busking his flies, or may be catching a dish of trouts at an orra time. but here comes miss rose, who, i take burden upon me for her, will be especial glad to see one of the house of waverley at her father's mansion of tully-veolan.' but rose bradwardine deserves better of her unworthy historian than to be introduced at the end of a chapter. in the mean while it may be noticed, that waverley learned two things from this colloquy: that in scotland a single house was called a town, and a natural fool an innocent. chapter x rose bradwardine and her father miss bradwardine was but seventeen; yet, at the last races of the county town of ----, upon her health being proposed among a round of beauties, the laird of bumperquaigh, permanent toast-master and croupier of the bautherwhillery club, not only said more to the pledge in a pint bumper of bourdeaux, but, ere pouring forth the libation, denominated the divinity to whom it was dedicated, 'the rose of tully-veolan'; upon which festive occasion three cheers were given by all the sitting members of that respectable society, whose throats the wine had left capable of such exertion. nay, i am well assured, that the sleeping partners of the company snorted applause, and that although strong bumpers and weak brains had consigned two or three to the floor, yet even these, fallen as they were from their high estate, and weltering--i will carry the parody no farther--uttered divers inarticulate sounds, intimating their assent to the motion. such unanimous applause could not be extorted but by acknowledged merit; and rose bradwardine not only deserved it, but also the approbation of much more rational persons than the bautherwhillery club could have mustered, even before discussion of the first magnum. she was indeed a very pretty girl of the scotch cast of beauty, that is, with a profusion of hair of paley gold, and a skin like the snow of her own mountains in whiteness. yet she had not a pallid or pensive cast of countenance; her features, as well as her temper, had a lively expression; her complexion, though not florid, was so pure as to seem transparent, and the slightest emotion sent her whole blood at once to her face and neck. her form, though under the common size, was remarkably elegant, and her motions light, easy, and unembarrassed. she came from another part of the garden to receive captain waverley, with a manner that hovered between bashfulness and courtesy. the first greetings past, edward learned from her that the dark hag, which had somewhat puzzled him in the butler's account of his master's avocations, had nothing to do either with a black cat or a broomstick, but was simply a portion of oak copse which was to be felled that day. she offered, with diffident civility, to show the stranger the way to the spot, which, it seems, was not far distant; but they were prevented by the appearance of the baron of bradwardine in person, who, summoned by david gellatley, now appeared, 'on hospitable thoughts intent,' clearing the ground at a prodigious rate with swift and long strides, which reminded waverley of the seven-league boots of the nursery fable. he was a tall, thin, athletic figure, old indeed and grey-haired, but with every muscle rendered as tough as whip-cord by constant exercise. he was dressed carelessly, and more like a frenchman than an englishman of the period, while, from his hard features and perpendicular rigidity of stature, he bore some resemblance to a swiss officer of the guards, who had resided some time at paris, and caught the costume, but not the ease or manner, of its inhabitants. the truth was, that his language and habits were as heterogeneous as his external appearance. owing to his natural disposition to study, or perhaps to a very general scottish fashion of giving young men of rank a legal education, he had been bred with a view to the bar. but the politics of his family precluding the hope of his rising in that profession, mr. bradwardine travelled with high reputation for several years, and made some campaigns in foreign service. after his demele with the law of high treason in , he had lived in retirement, conversing almost entirely with those of his own principles in the vicinage. the pedantry of the lawyer, superinduced upon the military pride of the soldier, might remind a modern of the days of the zealous volunteer service, when the bar-gown of our pleaders was often flung over a blazing uniform. to this must be added the prejudices of ancient birth and jacobite politics, greatly strengthened by habits of solitary and secluded authority, which, though exercised only within the bounds of his half-cultivated estate, was there indisputable and undisputed. for, as he used to observe, 'the lands of bradwardine, tully-veolan, and others, had been erected into a free barony by a charter from david the first, cum liberali potest. habendi curias et justicias, cum fossa et furca (lie, pit and gallows) et saka et soka, et thol et theam, et infang-thief et outfang-thief, sive hand-habend. sive bak-barand.' the peculiar meaning of all these cabalistical words few or none could explain; but they implied, upon the whole, that the baron of bradwardine might, in case of delinquency, imprison, try, and execute his vassals at his pleasure. like james the first, however, the present possessor of this authority was more pleased in talking about prerogative than in exercising it; and excepting that he imprisoned two poachers in the dungeon of the old tower of tully-veolan, where they were sorely frightened by ghosts, and almost eaten by rats, and that he set an old woman in the jougs (or scottish pillory) for saying' there were mair fules in the laird's ha' house than davie gellatley,' i do not learn that he was accused of abusing his high powers. still, however, the conscious pride of possessing them gave additional importance to his language and deportment. at his first address to waverley, it would seem that the hearty pleasure he felt to behold the nephew of his friend had somewhat discomposed the stiff and upright dignity of the baron of bradwardine's demeanour, for the tears stood in the old gentleman's eyes, when, having first shaken edward heartily by the hand in the english fashion, he embraced him a la mode francoise, and kissed him on both sides of his face; while the hardness of his gripe, and the quantity of scotch snuff which his accolade communicated, called corresponding drops of moisture to the eyes of his guest. 'upon the honour of a gentleman,' he said, 'but it makes me young again to see you here, mr. waverley! a worthy scion of the old stock of waverley-honour--spes altera, as maro hath it--and you have the look of the old line, captain waverley; not so portly yet as my old friend sir everard--mais cela viendra avec le tems, as my dutch acquaintance, baron kikkitbroeck, said of the sagesse of madame son epouse. and so ye have mounted the cockade? right, right; though i could have wished the colour different, and so i would ha' deemed might sir everard. but no more of that; i am old, and times are changed. and how does the worthy knight baronet, and the fair mrs. rachel?--ah, ye laugh, young man! in troth she was the fair mrs. rachel in the year of grace seventeen hundred and sixteen; but time passes--et singula praedantur anni--that is most certain. but once again ye are most heartily welcome to my poor house of tully-veolan! hie to the house, rose, and see that alexander saunderson looks out the old chateau margaux, which i sent from bourdeaux to dundee in the year .' rose tripped off demurely enough till she turned the first corner, and then ran with the speed of a fairy, that she might gain leisure, after discharging her father's commission, to put her own dress in order, and produce all her little finery, an occupation for which the approaching dinner-hour left but limited time. 'we cannot rival the luxuries of your english table, captain waverley, or give you the epulae lautiores of waverley-honour. i say epulae rather than prandium, because the latter phrase is popular: epulae ad senatum, prandium vero ad populum attinet, says suetonius tranquillus. but i trust ye will applaud my bourdeaux; c'est des deux oreilles, as captain vinsauf used to say; vinum primae notae, the principal of saint andrews denominated it. and, once more, captain waverley, right glad am i that ye are here to drink the best my cellar can make forthcoming.' this speech, with the necessary interjectional answers, continued from the lower alley where they met up to the door of the house, where four or five servants in old-fashioned liveries, headed by alexander saunderson, the butler, who now bore no token of the sable stains of the garden, received them in grand costume, in an old hall hung round with pikes and with bows, with old bucklers and corslets that had borne many shrewd blows. with much ceremony, and still more real kindness, the baron, without stopping in any intermediate apartment, conducted his guest through several into the great dining parlour, wainscotted with black oak, and hung round with the pictures of his ancestry, where a table was set forth in form for six persons, and an old-fashioned beaufet displayed all the ancient and massive plate of the bradwardine family. a bell was now heard at the head of the avenue; for an old man, who acted as porter upon gala days, had caught the alarm given by waverley's arrival, and, repairing to his post, announced the arrival of other guests. these, as the baron assured his young friend, were very estimable persons. 'there was the young laird of balmawhapple, a falconer by surname, of the house of glenfarquhar, given right much to field-sports--gaudet equis et canibus--but a very discreet young gentleman. then there was the laird of killancureit, who had devoted his leisure untill tillage and agriculture, and boasted himself to be possessed of a bull of matchless merit, brought from the county of devon (the damnonia of the romans, if we can trust robert of cirencester). he is, as ye may well suppose from such a tendency, but of yeoman extraction--servabit odorem testa diu--and i believe, between ourselves, his grandsire was from the wrong side of the border--one bullsegg, who came hither as a steward, or bailiff, or ground-officer, or something in that department, to the last girnigo of killancureit, who died of an atrophy. after his master's death, sir,--ye would hardly believe such a scandal, --but this bullsegg, being portly and comely of aspect, intermarried with the lady dowager, who was young and amorous, and possessed himself of the estate, which devolved on this unhappy woman by a settlement of her umwhile husband, in direct contravention of an unrecorded taillie, and to the prejudice of the disponer's own flesh and blood, in the person of his natural heir and seventh cousin, girnigo of tipperhewit, whose family was so reduced by the ensuing law-suit, that his representative is now serving as a private gentleman-sentinel in the highland black watch. but this gentleman, mr. bullsegg of killancureit that now is, has good blood in his veins by the mother and grandmother, who were both of the family of pickletillim, and he is well liked and looked upon, and knows his own place. and god forbid, captain waverley, that we of irreproachable lineage should exult over him, when it may be, that in the eighth, ninth, or tenth generation, his progeny may rank, in a manner, with the old gentry of the country. rank and ancestry, sir, should be the last words in the mouths of us of unblemished race--vix ea nostra voco, as naso saith. there is, besides, a clergyman of the true (though suffering) episcopal church of scotland. [footnote: see note .] he was a confessor in her cause after the year , when a whiggish mob destroyed his meeting-house, tore his surplice, and plundered his dwelling-house of four silver spoons, intromitting also with his mart and his mealark, and with two barrels, one of single and one of double ale, besides three bottles of brandy. my baron-bailie and doer, mr. duncan macwheeble, is the fourth on our list. there is a question, owing to the incertitude of ancient orthography, whether he belongs to the clan of wheedle or of quibble, but both have produced persons eminent in the law.'-- as such he described them by person and name, they enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. chapter xi the banquet the entertainment was ample and handsome, according to the scotch ideas of the period, and the guests did great honour to it. the baron eat like a famished soldier, the laird of balmawhapple like a sportsman, bullsegg of killancureit like a farmer, waverley himself like a traveller, and bailie macwheeble like all four together; though, either out of more respect, or in order to preserve that proper declination of person which showed a sense that he was in the presence of his patron, he sat upon the edge of his chair, placed at three feet distance from the table, and achieved a communication with his plate by projecting his person towards it in a line which obliqued from the bottom of his spine, so that the person who sat opposite to him could only see the foretop of his riding periwig. this stooping position might have been inconvenient to another person; but long habit made it, whether seated or walking, perfectly easy to the worthy bailie. in the latter posture it occasioned, no doubt, an unseemly projection of the person towards those who happened to walk behind; but those being at all times his inferiors (for mr. macwheeble was very scrupulous in giving place to all others), he cared very little what inference of contempt or slight regard they might derive from the circumstance. hence, when he waddled across the court to and from his old grey pony, he somewhat resembled a turnspit walking upon its hind legs. the nonjuring clergyman was a pensive and interesting old man, with much of the air of a sufferer for conscience' sake. he was one of those who, undeprived, their benefice forsook. for this whim, when the baron was out of hearing, the bailie used sometimes gently to rally mr. rubrick, upbraiding him with the nicety of his scruples. indeed, it must be owned, that he himself, though at heart a keen partisan of the exiled family, had kept pretty fair with all the different turns of state in his time; so that davie gellatley once described him as a particularly good man, who had a very quiet and peaceful conscience, that never did him any harm. when the dinner was removed, the baron announced the health of the king, politely leaving to the consciences of his guests to drink to the sovereign de facto or de jure, as their politics inclined. the conversation now became general; and, shortly afterwards, miss bradwardine, who had done the honours with natural grace and simplicity, retired, and was soon followed by the clergyman. among the rest of the party, the wine, which fully justified the encomiums of the landlord, flowed freely round, although waverley, with some difficulty, obtained the privilege of sometimes neglecting the glass. at length, as the evening grew more late, the baron made a private signal to mr. saunders saunderson, or, as he facetiously denominated him, alexander ab alexandro, who left the room with a nod, and soon after returned, his grave countenance mantling with a solemn and mysterious smile, and placed before his master a small oaken casket, mounted with brass ornaments of curious form. the baron, drawing out a private key, unlocked the casket, raised the lid, and produced a golden goblet of a singular and antique appearance, moulded into the shape of a rampant bear, which the owner regarded with a look of mingled reverence, pride, and delight, that irresistibly reminded waverley of ben jonson's tom otter, with his bull, horse, and dog, as that wag wittily denominated his chief carousing cups. but mr. bradwardine, turning towards him with complacency, requested him to observe this curious relic of the olden time. 'it represents,' he said, 'the chosen crest of our family, a bear, as ye observe, and rampant; because a good herald will depict every animal in its noblest posture, as a horse salient, a greyhound currant, and, as may be inferred, a ravenous animal in actu ferociori, or in a voracious, lacerating, and devouring posture. now, sir, we hold this most honourable achievement by the wappen-brief, or concession of arms, of frederick red-beard, emperor of germany, to my predecessor, godmund bradwardine, it being the crest of a gigantic dane, whom he slew in the lists in the holy land, on a quarrel touching the chastity of the emperor's spouse or daughter, tradition saith not precisely which, and thus, as virgilius hath it-- mutemus clypeos, danaumque insignia nobis aptemus. then for the cup, captain waverley, it was wrought by the command of saint duthac, abbot of aberbrothock, for behoof of another baron of the house of bradwardine, who had valiantly defended the patrimony of that monastery against certain encroaching nobles. it is properly termed the blessed bear of bradwardine (though old doctor doubleit used jocosely to call it ursa major), and was supposed, in old and catholic times, to be invested with certain properties of a mystical and supernatural quality. and though i give not in to such anilia, it is certain it has always been esteemed a solemn standard cup and heirloom of our house; nor is it ever used but upon seasons of high festival, and such i hold to be the arrival of the heir of sir everard under my roof; and i devote this draught to the health and prosperity of the ancient and highly-to-be-honoured house of waverley.' during this long harangue, he carefully decanted a cob-webbed bottle of claret into the goblet, which held nearly an english pint; and, at the conclusion, delivering the bottle to the butler, to be held carefully in the same angle with the horizon, he devoutly quaffed off the contents of the blessed bear of bradwardine. edward, with horror and alarm, beheld the animal making his rounds, and thought with great anxiety upon the appropriate motto, 'beware the bear'; but, at the same time, plainly foresaw that, as none of the guests scrupled to do him this extraordinary honour, a refusal on his part to pledge their courtesy would be extremely ill received. resolving, therefore, to submit to this last piece of tyranny, and then to quit the table, if possible, and confiding in the strength of his constitution, he did justice to the company in the contents of the blessed bear, and felt less inconvenience from the draught than he could possibly have expected. the others, whose time had been more actively employed, began to show symptoms of innovation--'the good wine did its good office.' [footnote: southey's madoc.] the frost of etiquette and pride of birth began to give way before the genial blessings of this benign constellation, and the formal appellatives with which the three dignitaries had hitherto addressed each other were now familiarly abbreviated into tully, bally, and killie. when a few rounds had passed, the two latter, after whispering together, craved permission (a joyful hearing for edward) to ask the grace-cup. this, after some delay, was at length produced, and waverley concluded the orgies of bacchus were terminated for the evening. he was never more mistaken in his life. as the guests had left their horses at the small inn, or change-house, as it was called, of the village, the baron could not, in politeness, avoid walking with them up the avenue, and waverley from the same motive, and to enjoy after this feverish revel the cool summer evening, attended the party. but when they arrived at luckie macleary's the lairds of balmawhapple and killancureit declared their determination to acknowledge their sense of the hospitality of tully-veolan by partaking, with their entertainer and his guest captain waverley, what they technically called deoch an doruis, a stirrup-cup, [footnote : see note ] to the honour of the baron's roof-tree. it must be noticed that the bailie, knowing by experience that the day's jovialty, which had been hitherto sustained at the expense of his patron, might terminate partly at his own, had mounted his spavined grey pony, and, between gaiety of heart and alarm for being hooked into a reckoning, spurred him into a hobbling canter (a trot was out of the question), and had already cleared the village. the others entered the change-house, leading edward in unresisting submission; for his landlord whispered him, that to demur to such an overture would be construed into a high misdemeanour against the leges conviviales, or regulations of genial compotation. widow macleary seemed to have expected this visit, as well she might, for it was the usual consummation of merry bouts, not only at tully-veolan, but at most other gentlemen's houses in scotland, sixty years since. the guests thereby at once acquitted themselves of their burden of gratitude for their entertainer's kindness, encouraged the trade of his change-house, did honour to the place which afforded harbour to their horses, and indemnified themselves for the previous restraints imposed by private hospitality, by spending what falstaff calls the sweet of the night in the genial license of a tavern. accordingly, in full expectation of these distinguished guests, luckie macleary had swept her house for the first time this fortnight, tempered her turf-fire to such a heat as the season required in her damp hovel even at midsummer, set forth her deal table newly washed, propped its lame foot with a fragment of turf, arranged four or five stools of huge and clumsy form upon the sites which best suited the inequalities of her clay floor; and having, moreover, put on her clean toy, rokelay, and scarlet plaid, gravely awaited the arrival of the company, in full hope of custom and profit. when they were seated under the sooty rafters of luckie macleary's only apartment, thickly tapestried with cobwebs, their hostess, who had already taken her cue from the laird of balmawhapple, appeared with a huge pewter measuring-pot, containing at least three english quarts, familiarly denominated a tappit hen, and which, in the language of the hostess, reamed (i.e., mantled) with excellent claret just drawn from the cask. it was soon plain that what crumbs of reason the bear had not devoured were to be picked up by the hen; but the confusion which appeared to prevail favoured edward's resolution to evade the gaily circling glass. the others began to talk thick and at once, each performing his own part in the conversation without the least respect to his neighbour. the baron of bradwardine sung french chansons-a-boire, and spouted pieces of latin; killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key, of top-dressing and bottom-dressing, [footnote: this has been censured as an anachronism; and it must be confessed that agriculture of this kind was unknown to the scotch sixty years since.] and year-olds, and gimmers, and dinmonts, and stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a proposed turnpike-act; while balmawhapple, in notes exalted above both, extolled his horse, his hawks, and a greyhound called whistler. in the middle of this din, the baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened to beseech their attention 'unto a military ariette, which was a particular favourite of the marechal duc de berwick'; then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of a french musquetaire, he immediately commenced,-- mon coeur volage, dit elle, n'est pas pour vous, garcon; est pour un homme de guerre, qui a barbe au menton. lon, lon, laridon. qui port chapeau a plume, soulier a rouge talon, qui joue de la flute, aussi du violon. lon, lon, laridon. balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he called a d--d good song, composed by gibby gaethroughwi't, the piper of cupar; and, without wasting more time, struck up,-- it's up glenbarchan's braes i gaed, and o'er the bent of killiebraid, and mony a weary cast i made, to cuittle the moor-fowl's tail. [footnote: suum cuique. this snatch of a ballad was composed by andrew macdonald, the ingenious and unfortunate author of vimonda.] the baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more obstreperous strains of balmawhapple, now dropped the competition, but continued to hum 'lon, lon, laridon,' and to regard the successful candidate for the attention of the company with an eye of disdain, while balmawhapple proceeded,-- if up a bonny black-cock should spring, to whistle him down wi' a slug in his wing, and strap him on to my lunzie string, right seldom would i fail. after an ineffectual attempt to recover the second verse, he sung the first over again; and, in prosecution of his triumph, declared there was 'more sense in that than in all the derry-dongs of france, and fifeshire to the boot of it.' the baron only answered with a long pinch of snuff and a glance of infinite contempt. but those noble allies, the bear and the hen, had emancipated the young laird from the habitual reverence in which he held bradwardine at other times. he pronounced the claret shilpit, and demanded brandy with great vociferation. it was brought; and now the demon of politics envied even the harmony arising from this dutch concert, merely because there was not a wrathful note in the strange compound of sounds which it produced. inspired by her, the laird of balmawhapple, now superior to the nods and winks with which the baron of bradwardine, in delicacy to edward, had hitherto checked his entering upon political discussion, demanded a bumper, with the lungs of a stentor, 'to the little gentleman in black velvet who did such service in , and may the white horse break his neck over a mound of his making!' edward was not at that moment clear-headed enough to remember that king william's fall, which occasioned his death, was said to be owing to his horse stumbling at a mole-hill; yet felt inclined to take umbrage at a toast which seemed, from the glance of balmawhapple's eye, to have a peculiar and uncivil reference to the government which he served. but, ere he could interfere, the baron of bradwardine had taken up the quarrel. 'sir,' he said, 'whatever my sentiments tanquam privatus may be in such matters, i shall not tamely endure your saying anything that may impinge upon the honourable feelings of a gentleman under my roof. sir, if you have no respect for the laws of urbanity, do ye not respect the military oath, the sacramentum militare, by which every officer is bound to the standards under which he is enrolled? look at titus livius, what he says of those roman soldiers who were so unhappy as exuere sacramentum, to renounce their legionary oath; but you are ignorant, sir, alike of ancient history and modern courtesy.' 'not so ignorant as ye would pronounce me,' roared balmawhapple. 'i ken weel that you mean the solemn league and covenant; but if a' the whigs in hell had taken the--' here the baron and waverley both spoke at once, the former calling out, 'be silent, sir! ye not only show your ignorance, but disgrace your native country before a stranger and an englishman'; and waverley, at the same moment, entreating mr. bradwardine to permit him to reply to an affront which seemed levelled at him personally. but the baron was exalted by wine, wrath, and scorn above all sublunary considerations. 'i crave you to be hushed, captain waverley; you are elsewhere, peradventure, sui juris,--foris-familiated, that is, and entitled, it may be, to think and resent for yourself; but in my domain, in this poor barony of bradwardine, and under this roof, which is quasi mine, being held by tacit relocation by a tenant at will, i am in loco parentis to you, and bound to see you scathless. and for you, mr. falconer of balmawhapple, i warn ye, let me see no more aberrations from the paths of good manners.' 'and i tell you, mr. cosmo comyne bradwardine of bradwardine and tully-veolan,' retorted the sportsman in huge disdain, 'that i'll make a moor-cock of the man that refuses my toast, whether it be a crop-eared english whig wi' a black ribband at his lug, or ane wha deserts his ain friends to claw favour wi' the rats of hanover.' in an instant both rapiers were brandished, and some desperate passes exchanged. balmawhapple was young, stout, and active; but the baron, infinitely more master of his weapon, would, like sir toby belch, have tickled his opponent other gates than he did had he not been under the influence of ursa major. edward rushed forward to interfere between the combatants, but the prostrate bulk of the laird of killancureit, over which he stumbled, intercepted his passage. how killancureit happened to be in this recumbent posture at so interesting a moment was never accurately known. some thought he was about to insconce himself under the table; he himself alleged that he stumbled in the act of lifting a joint-stool, to prevent mischief, by knocking down balmawhapple. be that as it may, if readier aid than either his or waverley's had not interposed, there would certainly have been bloodshed. but the well-known clash of swords, which was no stranger to her dwelling, aroused luckie macleary as she sat quietly beyond the hallan, or earthen partition of the cottage, with eyes employed on boston's 'crook the lot,' while her ideas were engaged in summing up the reckoning. she boldly rushed in, with the shrill expostulation, 'wad their honours slay ane another there, and bring discredit on an honest widow-woman's house, when there was a' the lee-land in the country to fight upon?' a remonstrance which she seconded by flinging her plaid with great dexterity over the weapons of the combatants. the servants by this time rushed in, and being, by great chance, tolerably sober, separated the incensed opponents, with the assistance of edward and killancureit. the latter led off balmawhapple, cursing, swearing, and vowing revenge against every whig, presbyterian, and fanatic in england and scotland, from john-o'-groat's to the land's end, and with difficulty got him to horse. our hero, with the assistance of saunders saunderson, escorted the baron of bradwardine to his own dwelling, but could not prevail upon him to retire to bed until he had made a long and learned apology for the events of the evening, of which, however, there was not a word intelligible, except something about the centaurs and the lapithae. chapter xii repentance and a reconciliation waverley was unaccustomed to the use of wine, excepting with great temperance. he slept therefore soundly till late in the succeeding morning, and then awakened to a painful recollection of the scene of the preceding evening. he had received a personal affront--he, a gentleman, a soldier, and a waverley. true, the person who offered it was not, at the time it was given, possessed of the moderate share of sense which nature had allotted him; true also, in resenting this insult, he would break the laws of heaven as well as of his country; true, in doing so, he might take the life of a young man who perhaps respectably discharged the social duties, and render his family miserable, or he might lose his own--no pleasant alternative even to the bravest, when it is debated coolly and in private. all this pressed on his mind; yet the original statement recurred with the same irresistible force. he had received a personal insult; he was of the house of waverley; and he bore a commission. there was no alternative; and he descended to the breakfast parlour with the intention of taking leave of the family, and writing to one of his brother officers to meet him at the inn midway between tully-veolan and the town where they were quartered, in order that he might convey such a message to the laird of balmawhapple as the circumstances seemed to demand. he found miss bradwardine presiding over the tea and coffee, the table loaded with warm bread, both of flour, oatmeal, and barleymeal, in the shape of loaves, cakes, biscuits, and other varieties, together with eggs, reindeer ham, mutton and beef ditto, smoked salmon, marmalade, and all the other delicacies which induced even johnson himself to extol the luxury of a scotch breakfast above that of all other countries. a mess of oatmeal porridge, flanked by a silver jug, which held an equal mixture of cream and butter-milk, was placed for the baron's share of this repast; but rose observed, he had walked out early in the morning, after giving orders that his guest should not be disturbed. waverley sat down almost in silence, and with an air of absence and abstraction which could not give miss bradwardine a favourable opinion of his talents for conversation. he answered at random one or two observations which she ventured to make upon ordinary topics; so that, feeling herself almost repulsed in her efforts at entertaining him, and secretly wondering that a scarlet coat should cover no better breeding, she left him to his mental amusement of cursing doctor doubleit's favourite constellation of ursa major as the cause of all the mischief which had already happened and was likely to ensue. at once he started, and his colour heightened, as, looking toward the window, he beheld the baron and young balmawhapple pass arm in arm, apparently in deep conversation; and he hastily asked, 'did mr. falconer sleep here last night?' rose, not much pleased with the abruptness of the first question which the young stranger had addressed to her, answered drily in the negative, and the conversation again sunk into silence. at this moment mr. saunderson appeared, with a message from his master, requesting to speak with captain waverley in another apartment. with a heart which beat a little quicker, not indeed from fear, but from uncertainty and anxiety, edward obeyed the summons. he found the two gentlemen standing together, an air of complacent dignity on the brow of the baron, while something like sullenness or shame, or both, blanked the bold visage of balmawhapple. the former slipped his arm through that of the latter, and thus seeming to walk with him, while in reality he led him, advanced to meet waverley, and, stopping in the midst of the apartment, made in great state the following oration: 'captain waverley--my young and esteemed friend, mr. falconer of balmawhapple, has craved of my age and experience, as of one not wholly unskilled in the dependencies and punctilios of the duello or monomachia, to be his interlocutor in expressing to you the regret with which he calls to remembrance certain passages of our symposion last night, which could not but be highly displeasing to you, as serving for the time under this present existing government. he craves you, sir, to drown in oblivion the memory of such solecisms against the laws of politeness, as being what his better reason disavows, and to receive the hand which he offers you in amity; and i must needs assure you that nothing less than a sense of being dans son tort, as a gallant french chevalier, mons. le bretailleur, once said to me on such an occasion, and an opinion also of your peculiar merit, could have extorted such concessions; for he and all his family are, and have been, time out of mind, mavortia pectora, as buchanan saith, a bold and warlike sept, or people.' edward immediately, and with natural politeness, accepted the hand which balmawhapple, or rather the baron in his character of mediator, extended towards him. 'it was impossible,' he said, 'for him to remember what a gentleman expressed his wish he had not uttered; and he willingly imputed what had passed to the exuberant festivity of the day.' 'that is very handsomely said,' answered the baron; 'for undoubtedly, if a man be ebrius, or intoxicated, an incident which on solemn and festive occasions may and will take place in the life of a man of honour; and if the same gentleman, being fresh and sober, recants the contumelies which he hath spoken in his liquor, it must be held vinum locutum est; the words cease to be his own. yet would i not find this exculpation relevant in the case of one who was ebriosus, or an habitual drunkard; because, if such a person choose to pass the greater part of his time in the predicament of intoxication, he hath no title to be exeemed from the obligations of the code of politeness, but should learn to deport himself peaceably and courteously when under influence of the vinous stimulus. and now let us proceed to breakfast, and think no more of this daft business.' i must confess, whatever inference may be drawn from the circumstance, that edward, after so satisfactory an explanation, did much greater honour to the delicacies of miss bradwardine's breakfast-table than his commencement had promised. balmawhapple, on the contrary, seemed embarrassed and dejected; and waverley now, for the first time, observed that his arm was in a sling, which seemed to account for the awkward and embarrassed manner with which he had presented his hand. to a question from miss bradwardine, he muttered in answer something about his horse having fallen; and seeming desirous to escape both from the subject and the company, he arose as soon as breakfast was over, made his bow to the party, and, declining the baron's invitation to tarry till after dinner, mounted his horse and returned to his own home. waverley now announced his purpose of leaving tully-veolan early enough after dinner to gain the stage at which he meant to sleep; but the unaffected and deep mortification with which the good-natured and affectionate old gentleman heard the proposal quite deprived him of courage to persist in it. no sooner had he gained waverley's consent to lengthen his visit for a few days than he laboured to remove the grounds upon which he conceived he had meditated a more early retreat. 'i would not have you opine, captain waverley, that i am by practice or precept an advocate of ebriety, though it may be that, in our festivity of last night, some of our friends, if not perchance altogether ebrii, or drunken, were, to say the least, ebrioli, by which the ancients designed those who were fuddled, or, as your english vernacular and metaphorical phrase goes, half-seas-over. not that i would so insinuate respecting you, captain waverley, who, like a prudent youth, did rather abstain from potation; nor can it be truly said of myself, who, having assisted at the tables of many great generals and marechals at their solemn carousals, have the art to carry my wine discreetly, and did not, during the whole evening, as ye must have doubtless observed, exceed the bounds of a modest hilarity.' there was no refusing assent to a proposition so decidedly laid down by him, who undoubtedly was the best judge; although, had edward formed his opinion from his own recollections, he would have pronounced that the baron was not only ebriolus, but verging to become ebrius; or, in plain english, was incomparably the most drunk of the party, except perhaps his antagonist the laird of balmawhapple. however, having received the expected, or rather the required, compliment on his sobriety, the baron proceeded--'no, sir, though i am myself of a strong temperament, i abhor ebriety, and detest those who swallow wine gulce causa, for the oblectation of the gullet; albeit i might deprecate the law of pittacus of mitylene, who punished doubly a crime committed under the influence of 'liber pater'; nor would i utterly accede to the objurgation of the younger plinius, in the fourteenth book of his 'historia naturalis.' no, sir, i distinguish, i discriminate, and approve of wine so far only as it maketh glad the face, or, in the language of flaccus, recepto amico.' thus terminated the apology which the baron of bradwardine thought it necessary to make for the superabundance of his hospitality; and it may be easily believed that he was neither interrupted by dissent nor any expression of incredulity. he then invited his guest to a morning ride, and ordered that davie gellatley should meet them at the dern path with ban and buscar. 'for, until the shooting season commence, i would willingly show you some sport, and we may, god willing, meet with a roe. the roe, captain waverley, may be hunted at all times alike; for never being in what is called pride of grease, he is also never out of season, though it be a truth that his venison is not equal to that of either the red or fallow deer. [footnote: the learned in cookery dissent from the baron of bradwardine, and hold the roe venison dry and indifferent food, unless when dressed in soup and scotch collops.] but he will serve to show how my dogs run; and therefore they shall attend us with david gellatley.' waverley expressed his surprise that his friend davie was capable of such trust; but the baron gave him to understand that this poor simpleton was neither fatuous, nec naturaliter idiota, as is expressed in the brieves of furiosity, but simply a crack-brained knave, who could execute very well any commission which jumped with his own humour, and made his folly a plea for avoiding every other. 'he has made an interest with us,' continued the baron, 'by saving rose from a great danger with his own proper peril; and the roguish loon must therefore eat of our bread and drink of our cup, and do what he can, or what he will, which, if the suspicions of saunderson and the bailie are well founded, may perchance in his case be commensurate terms.' miss bradwardine then gave waverley to understand that this poor simpleton was dotingly fond of music, deeply affected by that which was melancholy, and transported into extravagant gaiety by light and lively airs. he had in this respect a prodigious memory, stored with miscellaneous snatches and fragments of all tunes and songs, which he sometimes applied, with considerable address, as the vehicles of remonstrance, explanation, or satire. davie was much attached to the few who showed him kindness; and both aware of any slight or ill usage which he happened to receive, and sufficiently apt, where he saw opportunity, to revenge it. the common people, who often judge hardly of each other as well as of their betters, although they had expressed great compassion for the poor innocent while suffered to wander in rags about the village, no sooner beheld him decently clothed, provided for, and even a sort of favourite, than they called up all the instances of sharpness and ingenuity, in action and repartee, which his annals afforded, and charitably bottomed thereupon a hypothesis that david gellatley was no farther fool than was necessary to avoid hard labour. this opinion was not better founded than that of the negroes, who, from the acute and mischievous pranks of the monkeys, suppose that they have the gift of speech, and only suppress their powers of elocution to escape being set to work. but the hypothesis was entirely imaginary; david gellatley was in good earnest the half-crazed simpleton which he appeared, and was incapable of any constant and steady exertion. he had just so much solidity as kept on the windy side of insanity, so much wild wit as saved him from the imputation of idiocy, some dexterity in field-sports (in which we have known as great fools excel), great kindness and humanity in the treatment of animals entrusted to him, warm affections, a prodigious memory, and an ear for music. the stamping of horses was now heard in the court, and davie's voice singing to the two large deer greyhounds, hie away, hie away, over bank and over brae, where the copsewood is the greenest, where the fountains glisten sheenest, where the lady-fern grows strongest, where the morning dew lies longest, where the black-cock sweetest sips it, where the fairy latest trips it. hie to haunts right seldom seen, lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, over bank and over brae, hie away, hie away. 'do the verses he sings,' asked waverley, 'belong to old scottish poetry, miss bradwardine?' 'i believe not,' she replied. 'this poor creature had a brother, and heaven, as if to compensate to the family davie's deficiencies, had given him what the hamlet thought uncommon talents. an uncle contrived to educate him for the scottish kirk, but he could not get preferment because he came from our ground. he returned from college hopeless and brokenhearted, and fell into a decline. my father supported him till his death, which happened before he was nineteen. he played beautifully on the flute, and was supposed to have a great turn for poetry. he was affectionate and compassionate to his brother, who followed him like his shadow, and we think that from him davie gathered many fragments of songs and music unlike those of this country. but if we ask him where he got such a fragment as he is now singing, he either answers with wild and long fits of laughter, or else breaks into tears of lamentation; but was never heard to give any explanation, or to mention his brother's name since his death.' 'surely,' said edward, who was readily interested by a tale bordering on the romantic, 'surely more might be learned by more particular inquiry.' 'perhaps so,' answered rose; 'but my father will not permit any one to practise on his feelings on this subject.' by this time the baron, with the help of mr. saunderson, had indued a pair of jack-boots of large dimensions, and now invited our hero to follow him as he stalked clattering down the ample stair-case, tapping each huge balustrade as he passed with the butt of his massive horse-whip, and humming, with the air of a chasseur of louis quatorze,-- pour la chasse ordonnee il faut preparer tout. ho la ho! vite! vite debout! chapter xiii a more rational day than the last the baron of bradwardine, mounted on an active and well-managed horse, and seated on a demi-pique saddle, with deep housings to agree with his livery, was no bad representative of the old school. his light-coloured embroidered coat, and superbly barred waistcoat, his brigadier wig, surmounted by a small gold-laced cocked-hat, completed his personal costume; but he was attended by two well-mounted servants on horseback, armed with holster-pistols. in this guise he ambled forth over hill and valley, the admiration of every farm-yard which they passed in their progress, till, 'low down in a grassy vale,' they found david gellatley leading two very tall deer greyhounds, and presiding over half a dozen curs, and about as many bare-legged and bare-headed boys, who, to procure the chosen distinction of attending on the chase, had not failed to tickle his ears with the dulcet appellation of maister gellatley, though probably all and each had hooted him on former occasions in the character of daft davie. but this is no uncommon strain of flattery to persons in office, nor altogether confined to the barelegged villagers of tully-veolan; it was in fashion sixty years since, is now, and will be six hundred years hence, if this admirable compound of folly and knavery, called the world, shall be then in existence. these gillie-wet-foots, as they were called, were destined to beat the bushes, which they performed with so much success, that, after half an hour's search, a roe was started, coursed, and killed; the baron following on his white horse, like earl percy of yore, and magnanimously flaying and embowelling the slain animal (which, he observed, was called by the french chasseurs, faire la curee) with his own baronial couteau de chasse. after this ceremony, he conducted his guest homeward by a pleasant and circuitous route, commanding an extensive prospect of different villages and houses, to each of which mr. bradwardine attached some anecdote of history or genealogy, told in language whimsical from prejudice and pedantry, but often respectable for the good sense and honourable feelings which his narrative displayed, and almost always curious, if not valuable, for the information they contained. the truth is, the ride seemed agreeable to both gentlemen, because they found amusement in each other's conversation, although their characters and habits of thinking were in many respects totally opposite. edward, we have informed the reader, was warm in his feelings, wild and romantic in his ideas and in his taste of reading, with a strong disposition towards poetry. mr bradwardine was the reverse of all this, and piqued himself upon stalking through life with the same upright, starched, stoical gravity which distinguished his evening promenade upon the terrace of tully-veolan, where for hours together--the very model of old hardyknute-- stately stepp'd he east the wa', and stately stepp'd he west as for literature, he read the classic poets, to be sure, and the 'epithalamium' of georgius buchanan and arthur johnston's psalms, of a sunday; and the 'deliciae poetarum scotorum,' and sir david lindsay's 'works', and barbour's 'brace', and blind harry's 'wallace', and 'the gentle shepherd', and 'the cherry and the slae.' but though he thus far sacrificed his time to the muses, he would, if the truth must be spoken, have been much better pleased had the pious or sapient apothegms, as well as the historical narratives, which these various works contained, been presented to him in the form of simple prose. and he sometimes could not refrain from expressing contempt of the 'vain and unprofitable art of poem-making', in which, he said,'the only one who had excelled in his time was allan ramsay, the periwigmaker.' [footnote: the baron ought to have remembered that the joyous allan literally drew his blood from the house of the noble earl whom he terms-- dalhousie of an old descent my stoup, my pride, my ornament.] but although edward and he differed toto coelo, as the baron would have said, upon this subject, yet they met upon history as on a neutral ground, in which each claimed an interest. the baron, indeed, only cumbered his memory with matters of fact, the cold, dry, hard outlines which history delineates. edward, on the contrary, loved to fill up and round the sketch with the colouring of a warm and vivid imagination, which gives light and life to the actors and speakers in the drama of past ages. yet with tastes so opposite, they contributed greatly to each other's amusement. mr. bradwardine's minute narratives and powerful memory supplied to waverley fresh subjects of the kind upon which his fancy loved to labour, and opened to him a new mine of incident and of character. and he repaid the pleasure thus communicated by an earnest attention, valuable to all story-tellers, more especially to the baron, who felt his habits of self-respect flattered by it; and sometimes also by reciprocal communications, which interested mr. bradwardine, as confirming or illustrating his own favourite anecdotes. besides, mr. bradwardine loved to talk of the scenes of his youth, whichl had been spent in camps and foreign lands, and had many interesting particulars to tell of the generals under whom he had served and the actions he had witnessed. both parties returned to tully-veolan in great good-humour with each other; waverley desirous of studying more attentively what he considered as a singular and interesting character, gifted with a memory containing a curious register of ancient and modern anecdotes; and bradwardine disposed to regard edward as puer (or rather juvenis) bonae spei et magnae indolis, a youth devoid of that petulant volatility which is impatient of, or vilipends, the conversation and advice of his seniors, from which he predicted great things of his future success and deportment in life. there was no other guest except mr. rubrick, whose information and discourse, as a clergyman and a scholar, harmonised very well with that of the baron and his guest. shortly after dinner, the baron, as if to show that his temperance was not entirely theoretical, proposed a visit to rose's apartment, or, as he termed it, her troisieme etage. waverley was accordingly conducted through one or two of those long awkward passages with which ancient architects studied to puzzle the inhabitants of the houses which they planned, at the end of which mr. bradwardine began to ascend, by two steps at once, a very steep, narrow, and winding stair, leaving mr. rubrick and waverley to follow at more leisure, while he should announce their approach to his daughter. after having climbed this perpendicular corkscrew until their brains were almost giddy, they arrived in a little matted lobby, which served as an anteroom to rose's sanctum sanctorum, and through which they entered her parlour. it was a small, but pleasant apartment, opening to the south, and hung with tapestry; adorned besides with two pictures, one of her mother, in the dress of a shepherdess, with a bell-hoop; the other of the baron, in his tenth year, in a blue coat, embroidered waistcoat, laced hat, and bag-wig, with a bow in his hand. edward could not help smiling at the costume, and at the odd resemblance between the round, smooth, red-cheeked, staring visage in the portrait, and the gaunt, bearded, hollow-eyed, swarthy features, which travelling, fatigues of war, and advanced age, had bestowed on the original. the baron joined in the laugh. 'truly,' he said,'that picture was a woman's fantasy of my good mother's (a daughter of the laird of tulliellum, captain waverley; i indicated the house to you when we were on the top of the shinnyheuch; it was burnt by the dutch auxiliaries brought in by the government in ); i never sate for my pourtraicture but once since that was painted, and it was at the special and reiterated request of the marechal duke of berwick.' the good old gentleman did not mention what mr. rubrick afterwards told edward, that the duke had done him this honour on account of his being the first to mount the breach of a fort in savoy during the memorable campaign of , and his having there defended himself with his half-pike for nearly ten minutes before any support reached him. to do the baron justice, although sufficiently prone to dwell upon, and even to exaggerate, his family dignity and consequence, he was too much a man of real courage ever to allude to such personal acts of merit as he had himself manifested. miss rose now appeared from the interior room of her apartment, to welcome her father and his friends. the little labours in which she had been employed obviously showed a natural taste, which required only cultivation. her father had taught her french and italian, and a few of the ordinary authors in those languages ornamented her shelves. he had endeavoured also to be her preceptor in music; but as he began with the more abstruse doctrines of the science, and was not perhaps master of them himself, she had made no proficiency farther than to be able to accompany her voice with the harpsichord; but even this was not very common in scotland at that period. to make amends, she sung with great taste and feeling, and with a respect to the sense of what she uttered that might be proposed in example to ladies of much superior musical talent. her natural good sense taught her that, if, as we are assured by high authority, music be 'married to immortal verse,' they are very often divorced by the performer in a most shameful manner. it was perhaps owing to this sensibility to poetry, and power of combining its expression with those of the musical notes, that her singing gave more pleasure to all the unlearned in music, and even to many of the learned, than could have been communicated by a much finer voice and more brilliant execution unguided by the same delicacy of feeling. a bartizan, or projecting gallery, before the windows of her parlour, served to illustrate another of rose's pursuits; for it was crowded with flowers of different kinds, which she had taken under her special protection. a projecting turret gave access to this gothic balcony, which commanded a most beautiful prospect. the formal garden, with its high bounding walls, lay below, contracted, as it seemed, to a mere parterre; while the view extended beyond them down a wooded glen, where the small river was sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in copse. the eye might be delayed by a desire to rest on the rocks, which here and there rose from the dell with massive or spiry fronts, or it might dwell on the noble, though ruined tower, which was here beheld in all its dignity, frowning from a promontory over the river. to the left were seen two or three cottages, a part of the village, the brow of the hill concealed the others. the glen, or dell, was terminated by a sheet of water, called loch veolan, into which the brook discharged itself, and which now glistened in the western sun. the distant country seemed open and varied in surface, though not wooded; and there was nothing to interrupt the view until the scene was bounded by a ridge of distant and blue hills, which formed the southern boundary of the strath or valley. to this pleasant station miss bradwardine had ordered coffee. the view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some family anecdotes and tales of scottish chivalry, which the baron told with great enthusiasm. the projecting peak of an impending crag which rose near it had acquired the name of saint swithin's chair. it was the scene of a peculiar superstition, of which mr. rubrick mentioned some curious particulars, which reminded waverley of a rhyme quoted by edgar in king lear; and rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in which they had been interwoven by some village poet, who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, saved others' names, but left his own unsung. the sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music, gave all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, and which his poetry so much wanted. i almost doubt if it can be read with patience, destitute of these advantages, although i conjecture the following copy to have been somewhat corrected by waverley, to suit the taste of those who might not relish pure antiquity. saint swithin's chair on hallow-mass eve, ere ye boune ye to rest, ever beware that your couch be bless'd; sign it with cross, and sain it with bead, sing the ave, and say the creed. for on hallow-mass eve the night-hag will ride, and all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side, whether the wind sing lowly or loud, sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud. the lady she sat in saint swithin's chair, the dew of the night has damp'd her hair: her cheek was pale; but resolved and high was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye. she mutter'd the spell of swithin bold, when his naked foot traced the midnight wold, when he stopp'd the hag as she rode the night, and bade her descend, and her promise plight. he that dare sit on saint swithin's chair, when the night-hag wings the troubled air, questions three, when he speaks the spell, he may ask, and she must tell. the baron has been with king robert his liege these three long years in battle and siege; news are there none of his weal or his woe, and fain the lady his fate would know. she shudders and stops as the charm she speaks;-- is it the moody owl that shrieks? or is it that sound, betwixt laughter and scream, the voice of the demon who haunts the stream? the moan of the wind sunk silent and low, and the roaring torrent had ceased to flow; the calm was more dreadful than raging storm, when the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form! 'i am sorry to disappoint the company, especially captain waverley, who listens with such laudable gravity; it is but a fragment, although i think there are other verses, describing the return of the baron from the wars, and how the lady was found "clay-cold upon the grounsill ledge.'" 'it is one of those figments,' observed mr. bradwardine, 'with which the early history of distinguished families was deformed in the times of superstition; as that of rome, and other ancient nations, had their prodigies, sir, the which you may read in ancient histories, or in the little work compiled by julius obsequens, and inscribed by the learned scheffer, the editor, to his patron, benedictus skytte, baron of dudershoff.' 'my father has a strange defiance of the marvellous, captain waverley,' observed rose, 'and once stood firm when a whole synod of presbyterian divines were put to the rout by a sudden apparition of the foul fiend.' waverley looked as if desirous to hear more. 'must i tell my story as well as sing my song? well--once upon a time there lived an old woman, called janet gellatley, who was suspected to be a witch, on the infallible grounds that she was very old, very ugly, very poor, and had two sons, one of whom was a poet and the other a fool, which visitation, all the neighbourhood agreed, had come upon her for the sin of witchcraft. and she was imprisoned for a week in the steeple of the parish church, and sparely supplied with food, and not permitted to sleep until she herself became as much persuaded of her being a witch as her accusers; and in this lucid and happy state of mind was brought forth to make a clean breast, that is, to make open confession of her sorceries, before all the whig gentry and ministers in the vicinity, who were no conjurors themselves. my father went to see fair play between the witch and the clergy; for the witch had been born on his estate. and while the witch was confessing that the enemy appeared, and made his addresses to her as a handsome black man,--which, if you could have seen poor old blear-eyed janet, reflected little honour on apollyon's taste,--and while the auditors listened with astonished ears, and the clerk recorded with a trembling hand, she, all of a sudden, changed the low mumbling tone with which she spoke into a shrill yell, and exclaimed, "look to yourselves! look to yourselves! i see the evil one sitting in the midst of ye." the surprise was general, and terror and flight its immediate consequences. happy were those who were next the door; and many were the disasters that befell hats, bands, cuffs, and wigs, before they could get out of the church, where they left the obstinate prelatist to settle matters with the witch and her admirer at his own peril or pleasure.' 'risu solvuntur tabulae,' said the baron; 'when they recovered their panic trepidation they were too much ashamed to bring any wakening of the process against janet gellatley.' [footnote: see note ] this anecdote led to a long discussion of all those idle thoughts and fantasies, devices, dreams, opinions unsound, shows, visions, soothsays, and prophecies, and all that feigned is, as leasings, tales, and lies. with such conversation, and the romantic legends which it introduced, closed our hero's second evening in the house of tully-veolan. chapter xiv a discovery--waverley becomes domesticated at tully-veolan the next day edward arose betimes, and in a morning walk around the house and its vicinity came suddenly upon a small court in front of the dog-kennel, where his friend davie was employed about his four-footed charge. one quick glance of his eye recognised waverley, when, instantly turning his back, as if he had not observed him, he began to sing part of an old ballad:-- young men will love thee more fair and more fast; heard ye so merry the little bird sing? old men's love the longest will last, and the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. the young man's wrath is like light straw on fire; heard ye so merry the little bird sing? but like red-hot steel is the old man's ire, and the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. the young man will brawl at the evening board; heard ye so merry the little bird sing? but the old man will draw at the dawning the sword, and the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. waverley could not avoid observing that davie laid something like a satirical emphasis on these lines. he therefore approached, and endeavoured, by sundry queries, to elicit from him what the innuendo might mean; but davie had no mind to explain, and had wit enough to make his folly cloak his knavery. edward could collect nothing from him, excepting that the laird of balmawhapple had gone home yesterday morning 'wi' his boots fu' o' bluid.' in the garden, however, he met the old butler, who no longer attempted to conceal that, having been bred in the nursery line with sumack and co. of newcastle, he sometimes wrought a turn in the flower-borders to oblige the laird and miss rose. by a series of queries, edward at length discovered, with a painful feeling of surprise and shame, that balmawhapple's submission and apology had been the consequence of a rencontre with the baron before his guest had quitted his pillow, in which the younger combatant had been disarmed and wounded in the sword arm. greatly mortified at this information, edward sought out his friendly host, and anxiously expostulated with him upon the injustice he had done him in anticipating his meeting with mr. falconer, a circumstance which, considering his youth and the profession of arms which he had just adopted, was capable of being represented much to his prejudice. the baron justified himself at greater length than i choose to repeat. he urged that the quarrel was common to them, and that balmawhapple could not, by the code of honour, evite giving satisfaction to both, which he had done in his case by an honourable meeting, and in that of edward by such a palinode as rendered the use of the sword unnecessary, and which, being made and accepted, must necessarily sopite the whole affair. with this excuse, or explanation, waverley was silenced, if not satisfied; but he could not help testifying some displeasure against the blessed bear, which had given rise to the quarrel, nor refrain from hinting that the sanctified epithet was hardly appropriate. the baron observed, he could not deny that 'the bear, though allowed by heralds as a most honourable ordinary, had, nevertheless, somewhat fierce, churlish, and morose in his disposition (as might be read in archibald simson, pastor of dalkeith's 'hieroglyphica animalium') and had thus been the type of many quarrels and dissensions which had occurred in the house of bradwardine; of which,' he continued, 'i might commemorate mine own unfortunate dissension with my third cousin by the mother's side, sir hew halbert, who was so unthinking as to deride my family name, as if it had been quasi bear-warden; a most uncivil jest, since it not only insinuated that the founder of our house occupied such a mean situation as to be a custodier of wild beasts, a charge which, ye must have observed, is only entrusted to the very basest plebeians; but, moreover, seemed to infer that our coat-armour had not been achieved by honourable actions in war, but bestowed by way of paranomasia, or pun, upon our family appellation,--a sort of bearing which the french call armoires parlantes, the latins arma cantantia, and your english authorities canting heraldry, [footnote: see note ] being indeed a species of emblazoning more befitting canters, gaberlunzies, and such like mendicants, whose gibberish is formed upon playing upon the word, than the noble, honourable, and useful science of heraldry, which assigns armorial bearings as the reward of noble and generous actions, and not to tickle the ear with vain quodlibets, such as are found in jestbooks.' of his quarrel with sir hew he said nothing more than that it was settled in a fitting manner. having been so minute with respect to the diversions of tully-veolan on the first days of edward's arrival, for the purpose of introducing its inmates to the reader's acquaintance, it becomes less necessary to trace the progress of his intercourse with the same accuracy. it is probable that a young man, accustomed to more cheerful society, would have tired of the conversation of so violent an assertor of the 'boast of heraldry' as the baron; but edward found an agreeable variety in that of miss bradwardine, who listened with eagerness to his remarks upon literature, and showed great justness of taste in her answers. the sweetness of her disposition had made her submit with complacency, and even pleasure, to the course of reading prescribed by her father, although it not only comprehended several heavy folios of history, but certain gigantic tomes in high-church polemics. in heraldry he was fortunately contented to give her only such a slight tincture as might be acquired by perusal of the two folio volumes of nisbet. rose was indeed the very apple of her father's eye. her constant liveliness, her attention to all those little observances most gratifying to those who would never think of exacting them, her beauty, in which he recalled the features of his beloved wife, her unfeigned piety, and the noble generosity of her disposition, would have justified the affection of the most doting father. his anxiety on her behalf did not, however, seem to extend itself in that quarter where, according to the general opinion, it is most efficiently displayed, in labouring, namely, to establish her in life, either by a large dowry or a wealthy marriage. by an old settlement, almost all the landed estates of the baron went, after his death, to a distant relation; and it was supposed that miss bradwardine would remain but slenderly provided for, as the good gentleman's cash matters had been too long under the exclusive charge of bailie macwheeble to admit of any great expectations from his personal succession. it is true, the said bailie loved his patron and his patron's daughter next (though at an incomparable distance) to himself. he thought it was possible to set aside the settlement on the male line, and had actually procured an opinion to that effect (and, as he boasted, without a fee) from an eminent scottish counsel, under whose notice he contrived to bring the point while consulting him regularly on some other business. but the baron would not listen to such a proposal for an instant. on the contrary, he used to have a perverse pleasure in boasting that the barony of bradwardine was a male fief, the first charter having been given at that early period when women were not deemed capable to hold a feudal grant; because, according to les coustusmes de normandie, c'est l'homme ki se bast et ki conseille; or, as is yet more ungallantly expressed by other authorities, all of whose barbarous names he delighted to quote at full length, because a woman could not serve the superior, or feudal lord, in war, on account of the decorum of her sex, nor assist him with advice, because of her limited intellect, nor keep his counsel, owing to the infirmity of her disposition. he would triumphantly ask, how it would become a female, and that female a bradwardine, to be seen employed in servitio exuendi, seu detrahendi, caligas regis post battaliam? that is, in pulling off the king's boots after an engagement, which was the feudal service by which he held the barony of bradwardine. 'no,' he said, 'beyond hesitation, procul dubio, many females, as worthy as rose, had been excluded, in order to make way for my own succession, and heaven forbid that i should do aught that might contravene the destination of my forefathers, or impinge upon the right of my kinsman, malcolm bradwardine of inchgrabbit, an honourable, though decayed branch of my own family.' the bailie, as prime minister, having received this decisive communication from his sovereign, durst not press his own opinion any farther, but contented himself with deploring, on all suitable occasions, to saunderson, the minister of the interior, the laird's self-willedness, and with laying plans for uniting rose with the young laird of balmawhapple, who had a fine estate, only moderately burdened, and was a faultless young gentleman, being as sober as a saint--if you keep brandy from him and him from brandy--and who, in brief, had no imperfection but that of keeping light company at a time; such as jinker, the horse-couper, and gibby gaethroughwi't, the piper o' cupar; 'o' whilk follies, mr. saunderson, he'll mend, he'll mend,' pronounced the bailie. 'like sour ale in simmer,' added davie gellatley, who happened to be nearer the conclave than they were aware of. miss bradwardine, such as we have described her, with all the simplicity and curiosity of a recluse, attached herself to the opportunities of increasing her store of literature which edward's visit afforded her. he sent for some of his books from his quarters, and they opened to her sources of delight of which she had hitherto had no idea. the best english poets, of every description, and other works on belles-lettres, made a part of this precious cargo. her music, even her flowers, were neglected, and saunders not only mourned over, but began to mutiny against, the labour for which he now scarce received thanks. these new pleasures became gradually enhanced by sharing them with one of a kindred taste. edward's readiness to comment, to recite, to explain difficult passages, rendered his assistance invaluable; and the wild romance of his spirit delighted a character too young and inexperienced to observe its deficiencies. upon subjects which interested him, and when quite at ease, he possessed that flow of natural, and somewhat florid eloquence, which has been supposed as powerful even as figure, fashion, fame, or fortune, in winning the female heart. there was, therefore, an increasing danger in this constant intercourse to poor rose's peace of mind, which was the more imminent as her father was greatly too much abstracted in his studies, and wrapped up in his own dignity, to dream of his daughter's incurring it. the daughters of the house of bradwardine were, in his opinion, like those of the house of bourbon or austria, placed high above the clouds of passion which might obfuscate the intellects of meaner females; they moved in another sphere, were governed by other feelings, and amenable to other rules than those of idle and fantastic affection. in short, he shut his eyes so resolutely to the natural consequences of edward's intimacy with miss bradwardine, that the whole neighbourhood concluded that he had opened them to the advantages of a match between his daughter and the wealthy young englishman, and pronounced him much less a fool than he had generally shown himself in cases where his own interest was concerned. if the baron, however, had really meditated such an alliance, the indifference of waverley would have been an insuperable bar to his project. our hero, since mixing more freely with the world, had learned to think with great shame and confusion upon his mental legend of saint cecilia, and the vexation of these reflections was likely, for some time at least, to counterbalance the natural susceptibility of his disposition. besides, rose bradwardine, beautiful and amiable as we have described her, had not precisely the sort of beauty or merit which captivates a romantic imagination in early youth. she was too frank, too confiding, too kind; amiable qualities, undoubtedly, but destructive of the marvellous, with which a youth of imagination delights to dress the empress of his affections. was it possible to bow, to tremble, and to adore, before the timid, yet playful little girl, who now asked edward to mend her pen, now to construe a stanza in tasso, and now how to spell a very--very long word in her version of it? all these incidents have their fascination on the mind at a certain period of life, but not when a youth is entering it, and rather looking out for some object whose affection may dignify him in his own eyes than stooping to one who looks up to him for such distinction. hence, though there can be no rule in so capricious a passion, early love is frequently ambitious in choosing its object; or, which comes to the same, selects her (as in the case of saint cecilia aforesaid) from a situation that gives fair scope for le beau ideal, which the reality of intimate and familiar life rather tends to limit and impair. i knew a very accomplished and sensible young man cured of a violent passion for a pretty woman, whose talents were not equal to her face and figure, by being permitted to bear her company for a whole afternoon. thus, it is certain, that had edward enjoyed such an opportunity of conversing with miss stubbs, aunt rachel's precaution would have been unnecessary, for he would as soon have fallen in love with the dairy-maid. and although miss bradwardine was a very different character, it seems probable that the very intimacy of their intercourse prevented his feeling for her other sentiments than those of a brother for an amiable and accomplished sister; while the sentiments of poor rose were gradually, and without her being conscious, assuming a shade of warmer affection. i ought to have said that edward, when he sent to dundee for the books before mentioned, had applied for, and received permission, extending his leave of absence. but the letter of his commanding officer contained a friendly recommendation to him not to spend his time exclusively with persons who, estimable as they might be in a general sense, could not be supposed well affected to a government which they declined to acknowledge by taking the oath of allegiance. the letter further insinuated, though with great delicacy, that although some family connections might be supposed to render it necessary for captain waverley to communicate with gentlemen who were in this unpleasant state of suspicion, yet his father's situation and wishes ought to prevent his prolonging those attentions into exclusive intimacy. and it was intimated, that, while his political principles were endangered by communicating with laymen of this description, he might also receive erroneous impressions in religion from the prelatic clergy, who so perversely laboured to set up the royal prerogative in things sacred. this last insinuation probably induced waverley to set both down to the prejudices of his commanding officer. he was sensible that mr. bradwardine had acted with the most scrupulous delicacy, in never entering upon any discussion that had the most remote tendency to bias his mind in political opinions, although he was himself not only a decided partisan of the exiled family, but had been trusted at different times with important commissions for their service. sensible, therefore, that there was no risk of his being perverted from his allegiance, edward felt as if he should do his uncle's old friend injustice in removing from a house where he gave and received pleasure and amusement, merely to gratify a prejudiced and ill-judged suspicion. he therefore wrote a very general answer, assuring his commanding officer that his loyalty was not in the most distant danger of contamination, and continued an honoured guest and inmate of the house of tully-veolan. chapter xv a creagh, and its consequences when edward had been a guest at tully-veolan nearly six weeks, he descried, one morning, as he took his usual walk before the breakfast hour, signs of uncommon perturbation in the family. four bare-legged dairy-maids, with each an empty milk-pail in her hand, ran about with frantic gestures, and uttering loud exclamations of surprise, grief, and resentment. from their appearance, a pagan might have conceived them a detachment of the celebrated belides, just come from their baling penance. as nothing was to be got from this distracted chorus, excepting 'lord guide us!' and 'eh sirs!' ejaculations which threw no light upon the cause of their dismay, waverley repaired to the fore-court, as it was called, where he beheld bailie macwheeble cantering his white pony down the avenue with all the speed it could muster. he had arrived, it would seem, upon a hasty summons, and was followed by half a score of peasants from the village who had no great difficulty in keeping pace with him. the bailie, greatly too busy and too important to enter into explanations with edward, summoned forth mr. saunderson, who appeared with a countenance in which dismay was mingled with solemnity, and they immediately entered into close conference. davie gellatley was also seen in the group, idle as diogenes at sinope while his countrymen were preparing for a siege. his spirits always rose with anything, good or bad, which occasioned tumult, and he continued frisking, hopping, dancing, and singing the burden of an old ballad-- 'our gear's a' gane,' until, happening to pass too near the bailie, he received an admonitory hint from his horse-whip, which converted his songs into lamentation. passing from thence towards the garden, waverley beheld the baron in person, measuring and re-measuring, with swift and tremendous strides, the length of the terrace; his countenance clouded with offended pride and indignation, and the whole of his demeanour such as seemed to indicate, that any inquiry concerning the cause of his discomposure would give pain at least, if not offence. waverley therefore glided into the house, without addressing him, and took his way to the breakfast-parlour, where he found his young friend rose, who, though she neither exhibited the resentment of her father, the turbid importance of bailie macwheeble, nor the despair of the handmaidens, seemed vexed and thoughtful. a single word explained the mystery. 'your breakfast will be a disturbed one, captain waverley. a party of caterans have come down upon us last night, and have driven off all our milch cows.' 'a party of caterans?' 'yes; robbers from the neighbouring highlands. we used to be quite free from them while we paid blackmail to fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr; but my father thought it unworthy of his rank and birth to pay it any longer, and so this disaster has happened. it is not the value of the cattle, captain waverley, that vexes me; but my father is so much hurt at the affront, and is so bold and hot, that i fear he will try to recover them by the strong hand; and if he is not hurt himself, he will hurt some of these wild people, and then there will be no peace between them and us perhaps for our life-time; and we cannot defend ourselves as in old times, for the government have taken all our arms; and my dear father is so rash--o what will become of us!'--here poor rose lost heart altogether, and burst into a flood of tears. the baron entered at this moment, and rebuked her with more asperity than waverley had ever heard him use to any one. 'was it not a shame,' he said, 'that she should exhibit herself before any gentleman in such a light, as if she shed tears for a drove of horned nolt and milch kine, like the daughter of a cheshire yeoman!--captain waverley, i must request your favourable construction of her grief, which may, or ought to proceed, solely from seeing her father's estate exposed to spulzie and depredation from common thieves and sorners, while we are not allowed to keep half a score of muskets, whether for defence or rescue.' bailie macwheeble entered immediately afterwards, and by his report of arms and ammunition confirmed this statement, informing the baron, in a melancholy voice, that though the people would certainly obey his honour's orders, yet there was no chance of their following the gear to ony guid purpose, in respect there were only his honour's body servants who had swords and pistols, and the depredators were twelve highlanders, completely armed after the manner of their country. having delivered this doleful annunciation, he assumed a posture of silent dejection, shaking his head slowly with the motion of a pendulum when it is ceasing to vibrate, and then remained stationary, his body stooping at a more acute angle than usual, and the latter part of his person projecting in proportion. the baron, meanwhile, paced the room in silent indignation, and at length fixing his eye upon an old portrait, whose person was clad in armour, and whose features glared grimly out of a huge bush of hair, part of which descended from his head to his shoulders, and part from his chin and upper-lip to his breast-plate,--'that gentleman, captain waverley, my grandsire,' he said, 'with two hundred horse,--whom he levied within his own bounds, discomfited and put to the rout more than five hundred of these highland reivers, who have been ever lapis offensionis et petra scandali, a stumbling-block and a rock of offence, to the lowland vicinage--he discomfited them, i say, when they had the temerity to descend to harry this country, in the time of the civil dissensions, in the year of grace sixteen hundred forty and two. and now, sir, i, his grandson, am thus used at such unworthy hands.' here there was an awful pause; after which all the company, as is usual in cases of difficulty, began to give separate and inconsistent counsel. alexander ab alexandro proposed they should send some one to compound with the caterans, who would readily, he said, give up their prey for a dollar a head. the bailie opined that this transaction would amount to theft-boot, or composition of felony; and he recommended that some canny hand should be sent up to the glens to make the best bargain he could, as it were for himself, so that the laird might not be seen in such a transaction. edward proposed to send off to the nearest garrison for a party of soldiers and a magistrate's warrant; and rose, as far as she dared, endeavoured to insinuate the course of paying the arrears of tribute money to fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr, who, they all knew, could easily procure restoration of the cattle, if he were properly propitiated. none of these proposals met the baron's approbation. the idea of composition, direct or implied, was absolutely ignominious; that of waverley only showed that he did not understand the state of the country, and of the political parties which divided it; and, standing matters as they did with fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr, the baron would make no concession to him, were it, he said, 'to procure restitution in integrum of every stirk and stot that the chief, his forefathers, and his clan, had stolen since the days of malcolm canmore.' in fact his voice was still for war, and he proposed to send expresses to balmawhapple, killancureit, tulliellum, and other lairds, who were exposed to similar depredations, inviting them to join in the pursuit; 'and then, sir, shall these nebulones nequissimi, as leslaeus calls them, be brought to the fate of their predecessor cacus, "elisos oculos, et siccum sanguine guttur."' the bailie, who by no means relished these warlike counsels, here pulled forth an immense watch, of the colour, and nearly of the size, of a pewter warming-pan, and observed it was now past noon, and that the caterans had been seen in the pass of ballybrough soon after sunrise; so that, before the allied forces could assemble, they and their prey would be far beyond the reach of the most active pursuit, and sheltered in those pathless deserts, where it was neither advisable to follow, nor indeed possible to trace them. this proposition was undeniable. the council therefore broke up without coming to any conclusion, as has occurred to councils of more importance; only it was determined that the bailie should send his own three milkcows down to the mains for the use of the baron's family, and brew small ale, as a substitute for milk, in his own. to this arrangement, which was suggested by saunderson, the bailie readily assented, both from habitual deference to the family, and an internal consciousness that his courtesy would, in some mode or other, be repaid tenfold. the baron having also retired to give some necessary directions, waverley seized the opportunity to ask, whether this fergus, with the unpronounceable name, was the chief thief-taker of the district? 'thief-taker!' answered rose, laughing; 'he is a gentleman of great honour and consequence, the chieftain of an independent branch of a powerful highland clan, and is much respected, both for his own power and that of his kith, kin, and allies.' 'and what has he to do with the thieves, then? is he a magistrate, or in the commission of the peace?' asked waverley. 'the commission of war rather, if there be such a thing,' said rose; 'for he is a very unquiet neighbour to his unfriends, and keeps a greater following on foot than many that have thrice his estate. as to his connection with the thieves, that i cannot well explain; but the boldest of them will never steal a hoof from any one that pays black-mail to vich lan vohr.' 'and what is black-mail?' 'a sort of protection-money that low-country gentlemen and heritors, lying near the highlands, pay to some highland chief, that he may neither do them harm himself, nor suffer it to be done to them by others; and then if your cattle are stolen, you have only to send him word, and he will recover them; or it may be, he will drive away cows from some distant place, where he has a quarrel, and give them to you to make up your loss.' [footnote: see note .] 'and is this sort of highland jonathan wild admitted into society, and called a gentleman?' 'so much so,' said rose, 'that the quarrel between my father and fergus mac-ivor began at a county meeting, where he wanted to take precedence of all the lowland gentlemen then present, only my father would not suffer it. and then he upbraided my father that he was under his banner, and paid him tribute; and my father was in a towering passion, for bailie macwheeble, who manages such things his own way, had contrived to keep this black-mail a secret from him, and passed it in his account for cess-money. and they would have fought; but fergus mac-ivor said, very gallantly, he would never raise his hand against a grey head that was so much respected as my father's.--o i wish, i wish they had continued friends!' 'and did you ever see this mr. mac-ivor, if that be his name, miss bradwardine?' 'no, that is not his name; and he would consider master as a sort of affront, only that you are an englishman, and know no better. but the lowlanders call him, like other gentlemen, by the name of his estate, glennaquoich; and the highlanders call him vich ian vohr, that is, the son of john the great; and we upon the braes here call him by both names indifferently.' 'i am afraid i shall never bring my english tongue to call him by either one or other.' 'but he is a very polite, handsome man,' continued rose; 'and his sister flora is one of the most beautiful and accomplished young ladies in this country; she was bred in a convent in france, and was a great friend of mine before this unhappy dispute. dear captain waverley, try your influence with my father to make matters up. i am sure this is but the beginning of our troubles; for tully-veolan has never been a safe or quiet residence when we have been at feud with the highlanders. when i was a girl about ten, there was a skirmish fought between a party of twenty of them and my father and his servants behind the mains; and the bullets broke several panes in the north windows, they were so near. three of the highlanders were killed, and they brought them in wrapped in their plaids, and laid them on the stone floor of the hall; and next morning, their wives and daughters came, clapping their hands, and crying the coronach, and shrieking, and carried away the dead bodies, with the pipes playing before them. i could not sleep for six weeks without starting and thinking i heard these terrible cries, and saw the bodies lying on the steps, all stiff and swathed up in their bloody tartans. but since that time there came a party from the garrison at stirling, with a warrant from the lord justice clerk, or some such great man, and took away all our arms; and now, how are we to protect ourselves if they come down in any strength?' waverley could not help starting at a story which bore so much resemblance to one of his own day-dreams. here was a girl scarce seventeen, the gentlest of her sex, both in temper and appearance, who had witnessed with her own eyes such a scene as he had used to conjure up in his imagination, as only occurring in ancient times, and spoke of it coolly, as one very likely to recur. he felt at once the impulse of curiosity, and that slight sense of danger which only serves to heighten its interest. he might have said with malvolio, '"i do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me!" i am actually in the land of military and romantic adventures, and it only remains to be seen what will be my own share in them.' the whole circumstances now detailed concerning the state of the country seemed equally novel and extraordinary. he had indeed often heard of highland thieves, but had no idea of the systematic mode in which their depredations were conducted; and that the practice was connived at, and even encouraged, by many of the highland chieftains, who not only found the creaghs, or forays, useful for the purpose of training individuals of their clan to the practice of arms, but also of maintaining a wholesome terror among their lowland neighbours, and levying, as we have seen, a tribute from them, under colour of protection-money. bailie macwheeble, who soon afterwards entered, expatiated still more at length upon the same topic. this honest gentleman's conversation was so formed upon his professional practice, that davie gellatley once said his discourse was like a 'charge of horning.' he assured our hero, that 'from the maist ancient times of record, the lawless thieves, limmers, and broken men of the highlands, had been in fellowship together by reason of their surnames, for the committing of divers thefts, reifs, and herships upon the honest men of the low country, when they not only intromitted with their whole goods and gear, corn, cattle, horse, nolt, sheep, outsight and insight plenishing, at their wicked pleasure, but moreover made prisoners, ransomed them, or concussed them into giving borrows (pledges) to enter into captivity again;--all which was directly prohibited in divers parts of the statute book, both by the act one thousand five hundred and sixty-seven, and various others; the whilk statutes, with all that had followed and might follow thereupon, were shamefully broken and vilipended by the said sorners, limmers, and broken men, associated into fellowships, for the aforesaid purposes of theft, stouthreef, fire-raising, murther, raptus mulierum, or forcible abduction of women, and such like as aforesaid.' it seemed like a dream to waverley that these deeds of violence should be familiar to men's minds, and currently talked of as falling within the common order of things, and happening daily in the immediate vicinity, without his having crossed the seas, and while he was yet in the otherwise well-ordered island of great britain. chapter xvi an unexpected ally appears the baron returned at the dinner-hour, and had in a great measure recovered his composure and good-humour. he not only confirmed the stories which edward had heard from rose and bailie macwheeble, but added many anecdotes from his own experience, concerning the state of the highlands and their inhabitants. the chiefs he pronounced to be, in general, gentlemen of great honour and high pedigree, whose word was accounted as a law by all those of their own sept, or clan. 'it did not indeed,' he said, 'become them, as had occurred in late instances, to propone their prosapia, a lineage which rested for the most part on the vain and fond rhymes of their seannachies or bhairds, as aequiponderate with the evidence of ancient charters and royal grants of antiquity, conferred upon distinguished houses in the low country by divers scottish monarchs; nevertheless, such was their outrecuidance and presumption, as to undervalue those who possessed such evidents, as if they held their lands in a sheep's skin.' this, by the way, pretty well explained the cause of quarrel between the baron and his highland ally. but he went on to state so many curious particulars concerning the manners, customs, and habits of this patriarchal race that edward's curiosity became highly interested, and he inquired whether it was possible to make with safety an excursion into the neighbouring highlands, whose dusky barrier of mountains had already excited his wish to penetrate beyond them. the baron assured his guest that nothing would be more easy, providing this quarrel were first made up, since he could himself give him letters to many of the distinguished chiefs, who would receive him with the utmost courtesy and hospitality. while they were on this topic, the door suddenly opened, and, ushered by saunders saunderson, a highlander, fully armed and equipped, entered the apartment. had it not been that saunders acted the part of master of the ceremonies to this martial apparition, without appearing to deviate from his usual composure, and that neither mr. bradwardine nor rose exhibited any emotion, edward would certainly have thought the intrusion hostile. as it was, he started at the sight of what he had not yet happened to see, a mountaineer in his full national costume. the individual gael was a stout, dark, young man, of low stature, the ample folds of whose plaid added to the appearance of strength which his person exhibited. the short kilt, or petticoat, showed his sinewy and clean-made limbs; the goatskin purse, flanked by the usual defences, a dirk and steel-wrought pistol, hung before him; his bonnet had a short feather, which indicated his claim to be treated as a duinhe-wassel, or sort of gentleman; a broadsword dangled by his side, a target hung upon his shoulder, and a long spanish fowling-piece occupied one of his hands. with the other hand he pulled off his bonnet, and the baron, who well knew their customs, and the proper mode of addressing them, immediately said, with an air of dignity, but without rising, and much, as edward thought, in the manner of a prince receiving an embassy, 'welcome, evan dhu maccombich; what news from fergus mac-ivor vich lan vohr?' 'fergus mac-ivor vich lan vohr,' said the ambassador, in good english, 'greets you well, baron of bradwardine and tully-veolan, and is sorry there has been a thick cloud interposed between you and him, which has kept you from seeing and considering the friendship and alliances that have been between your houses and forebears of old; and he prays you that the cloud may pass away, and that things may be as they have been heretofore between the clan ivor and the house of bradwardine, when there was an egg between them for a flint and a knife for a sword. and he expects you will also say, you are sorry for the cloud, and no man shall hereafter ask whether it descended from the bill to the valley, or rose from the valley to the hill; for they never struck with the scabbard who did not receive with the sword, and woe to him who would lose his friend for the stormy cloud of a spring morning.' to this the baron of bradwardine answered with suitable dignity, that he knew the chief of clan ivor to be a well-wisher to the king, and he was sorry there should have been a cloud between him and any gentleman of such sound principles, 'for when folks are banding together, feeble is he who hath no brother.' this appearing perfectly satisfactory, that the peace between these august persons might be duly solemnised, the baron ordered a stoup of usquebaugh, and, filling a glass, drank to the health and prosperity of mac-ivor of glennaquoich; upon which the celtic ambassador, to requite his politeness, turned down a mighty bumper of the same generous liquor, seasoned with his good wishes to the house of bradwardine. having thus ratified the preliminaries of the general treaty of pacification, the envoy retired to adjust with mr. macwheeble some subordinate articles with which it was not thought necessary to trouble the baron. these probably referred to the discontinuance of the subsidy, and apparently the bailie found means to satisfy their ally, without suffering his master to suppose that his dignity was compromised. at least, it is certain, that after the plenipotentiaries had drunk a bottle of brandy in single drams, which seemed to have no more effect upon such seasoned vessels than if it had been poured upon the two bears at the top of the avenue, evan dhu maccombich, having possessed himself of all the information which he could procure respecting the robbery of the preceding night, declared his intention to set off immediately in pursuit of the cattle, which he pronounced to be 'no that far off; they have broken the bone,' he observed, 'but they have had no tune to suck the marrow.' our hero, who had attended evan dhu during his perquisitions, was much struck with the ingenuity which he displayed in collecting information, and the precise and pointed conclusions which he drew from it. evan dhu, on his part, was obviously flattered with the attention of waverley, the interest he seemed to take in his inquiries, and his curiosity about the customs and scenery of the highlands. without much ceremony he invited edward to accompany him on a short walk of ten or fifteen miles into the mountains, and see the place where the cattle were conveyed to; adding, 'if it be as i suppose, you never saw such a place in your life, nor ever will, unless you go with me or the like of me.' our hero, feeling his curiosity considerably excited by the idea of visiting the den of a highland cacus, took, however, the precaution to inquire if his guide might be trusted. he was assured that the invitation would on no account have been given had there been the least danger, and that all he had to apprehend was a little fatigue; and, as evan proposed he should pass a day at his chieftain's house in returning, where he would be sure of good accommodation and an excellent welcome, there seemed nothing very formidable in the task he undertook. rose, indeed, turned pale when she heard of it; but her father, who loved the spirited curiosity of his young friend, did not attempt to damp it by an alarm of danger which really did not exist, and a knapsack, with a few necessaries, being bound on the shoulders of a sort of deputy gamekeeper, our hero set forth with a fowling-piece in his hand, accompanied by his new friend evan dhu, and followed by the gamekeeper aforesaid, and by two wild highlanders, the attendants of evan, one of whom had upon his shoulder a hatchet at the end of a pole, called a lochaber-axe, [footnote: see note ] and the other a long ducking-gun. evan, upon edward's inquiry, gave him to understand that this martial escort was by no means necessary as a guard, but merely, as he said, drawing up and adjusting his plaid with an air of dignity, that he might appear decently at tully-veolan, and as vich ian vohr's foster-brother ought to do. 'ah!' said he, 'if you saxon duinhe-wassel (english gentleman) saw but the chief with his tail on!' 'with his tail on?' echoed edward in some surprise. 'yes--that is, with all his usual followers, when he visits those of the same rank. there is,' he continued, stopping and drawing himself proudly up, while he counted upon his fingers the several officers of his chief's retinue; 'there is his hanchman, or right-hand man; then his bard, or poet; then his bladier, or orator, to make harangues to the great folks whom he visits; then his gilly-more, or armour-bearer, to carry his sword and target, and his gun; then his gilly-casfliuch, who carries him on his back through the sikes and brooks; then his gilly-comstrian, to lead his horse by the bridle in steep and difficult paths; then his gilly-trushharnish, to carry his knapsack; and the piper and the piper's man, and it may be a dozen young lads beside, that have no business, but are just boys of the belt, to follow the laird and do his honour's bidding.' 'and does your chief regularly maintain all these men?' demanded waverley. 'all these?' replied evan; 'ay, and many a fair head beside, that would not ken where to lay itself, but for the mickle barn at glennaquoich.' with similar tales of the grandeur of the chief in peace and war, evan dhu beguiled the way till they approached more closely those huge mountains which edward had hitherto only seen at a distance. it was towards evening as they entered one of the tremendous passes which afford communication between the high and low country; the path, which was extremely steep and rugged, winded up a chasm between two tremendous rocks, following the passage which a foaming stream, that brawled far below, appeared to have worn for itself in the course of ages. a few slanting beams of the sun, which was now setting, reached the water in its darksome bed, and showed it partially, chafed by a hundred rocks and broken by a hundred falls. the descent from the path to the stream was a mere precipice, with here and there a projecting fragment of granite, or a scathed tree, which had warped its twisted roots into the fissures of the rock. on the right hand, the mountain rose above the path with almost equal inaccessibility; but the hill on the opposite side displayed a shroud of copsewood, with which some pines were intermingled. 'this,' said evan, 'is the pass of bally-brough, which was kept in former times by ten of the clan donnochie against a hundred of the low-country carles. the graves of the slain are still to be seen in that little corrie, or bottom, on the opposite side of the burn; if your eyes are good, you may see the green specks among the heather. see, there is an earn, which you southrons call an eagle. you have no such birds as that in england. he is going to fetch his supper from the laird of bradwardine's braes, but i 'll send a slug after him.' he fired his piece accordingly, but missed the superb monarch of the feathered tribes, who, without noticing the attempt to annoy him, continued his majestic flight to the southward. a thousand birds of prey, hawks, kites, carrion-crows, and ravens, disturbed from the lodgings which they had just taken up for the evening, rose at the report of the gun, and mingled their hoarse and discordant notes with the echoes which replied to it, and with the roar of the mountain cataracts. evan, a little disconcerted at having missed his mark, when he meant to have displayed peculiar dexterity, covered his confusion by whistling part of a pibroch as he reloaded his piece, and proceeded in silence up the pass. it issued in a narrow glen, between two mountains, both very lofty and covered with heath. the brook continued to be their companion, and they advanced up its mazes, crossing them now and then, on which occasions evan dhu uniformly offered the assistance of his attendants to carry over edward; but our hero, who had been always a tolerable pedestrian, declined the accommodation, and obviously rose in his guide's opinion, by showing that he did not fear wetting his feet. indeed he was anxious, so far as he could without affectation, to remove the opinion which evan seemed to entertain of the effeminacy of the lowlanders, and particularly of the english. through the gorge of this glen they found access to a black bog, of tremendous extent, full of large pit-holes, which they traversed with great difficulty and some danger, by tracks which no one but a highlander could have followed. the path itself, or rather the portion of more solid ground on which the travellers half walked, half waded, was rough, broken, and in many places quaggy and unsound. sometimes the ground was so completely unsafe that it was necessary to spring from one hillock to another, the space between being incapable of bearing the human weight. this was an easy matter to the highlanders, who wore thin-soled brogues fit for the purpose, and moved with a peculiar springing step; but edward began to find the exercise, to which he was unaccustomed, more fatiguing than he expected. the lingering twilight served to show them through this serbonian bog, but deserted them almost totally at the bottom of a steep and very stony hill, which it was the travellers' next toilsome task to ascend. the night, however, was pleasant, and not dark; and waverley, calling up mental energy to support personal fatigue, held on his march gallantly, though envying in his heart his highland attendants, who continued, without a symptom of abated vigour, the rapid and swinging pace, or rather trot, which, according to his computation, had already brought them fifteen miles upon their journey. after crossing this mountain and descending on the other side towards a thick wood, evan dhu held some conference with his highland attendants, in consequence of which edward's baggage was shifted from the shoulders of the gamekeeper to those of one of the gillies, and the former was sent off with the other mountaineer in a direction different from that of the three remaining travellers. on asking the meaning of this separation, waverley was told that the lowlander must go to a hamlet about three miles off for the night; for unless it was some very particular friend, donald bean lean, the worthy person whom they supposed to be possessed of the cattle, did not much approve of strangers approaching his retreat. this seemed reasonable, and silenced a qualm of suspicion which came across edward's mind when he saw himself, at such a place and such an hour, deprived of his only lowland companion. and evan immediately afterwards added,'that indeed he himself had better get forward, and announce their approach to donald bean lean, as the arrival of a sidier roy (red soldier) might otherwise be a disagreeable surprise.' and without waiting for an answer, in jockey phrase, he trotted out, and putting himself to a very round pace, was out of sight in an instant. waverley was now left to his own meditations, for his attendant with the battle-axe spoke very little english. they were traversing a thick, and, as it seemed, an endless wood of pines, and consequently the path was altogether indiscernible in the murky darkness which surrounded them. the highlander, however, seemed to trace it by instinct, without the hesitation of a moment, and edward followed his footsteps as close as he could. after journeying a considerable time in silence, he could not help asking, 'was it far to the end of their journey?' 'ta cove was tree, four mile; but as duinhe-wassel was a wee taiglit, donald could, tat is, might--would--should send ta curragh.' this conveyed no information. the curragh which was promised might be a man, a horse, a cart, or chaise; and no more could be got from the man with the battle-axe but a repetition of 'aich ay! ta curragh.' but in a short time edward began to conceive his meaning, when, issuing from the wood, he found himself on the banks of a large river or lake, where his conductor gave him to understand they must sit down for a little while. the moon, which now began to rise, showed obscurely the expanse of water which spread before them, and the shapeless and indistinct forms of mountains with which it seemed to be surrounded. the cool and yet mild air of the summer night refreshed waverley after his rapid and toilsome walk; and the perfume which it wafted from the birch trees, [footnote: it is not the weeping birch, the most common species in the highlands, but the woolly-leaved lowland birch, that is distinguished by this fragrance.] bathed in the evening dew, was exquisitely fragrant. he had now time to give himself up to the full romance of his situation. here he sate on the banks of an unknown lake, under the guidance of a wild native, whose language was unknown to him, on a visit to the den of some renowned outlaw, a second robin hood, perhaps, or adam o' gordon, and that at deep midnight, through scenes of difficulty and toil, separated from his attendant, left by his guide. what a variety of incidents for the exercise of a romantic imagination, and all enhanced by the solemn feeling of uncertainty at least, if not of danger! the only circumstance which assorted ill with the rest was the cause of his journey--the baron's milk-cows! this degrading incident he kept in the background. while wrapt in these dreams of imagination, his companion gently touched him, and, pointing in a direction nearly straight across the lake, said, 'yon's ta cove.' a small point of light was seen to twinkle in the direction in which he pointed, and, gradually increasing in size and lustre, seemed to flicker like a meteor upon the verge of the horizon. while edward watched this phenomenon, the distant dash of oars was heard. the measured sound approached near and more near, and presently a loud whistle was heard in the same direction. his friend with the battle-axe immediately whistled clear and shrill, in reply to the signal, and a boat, manned with four or five highlanders, pushed for a little inlet, near which edward was sitting. he advanced to meet them with his attendant, was immediately assisted into the boat by the officious attention of two stout mountaineers, and had no sooner seated himself than they resumed their oars, and began to row across the lake with great rapidity. chapter xvii the hold of a highland robber the party preserved silence, interrupted only by the monotonous and murmured chant of a gaelic song, sung in a kind of low recitative by the steersman, and by the dash of the oars, which the notes seemed to regulate, as they dipped to them in cadence. the light, which they now approached more nearly, assumed a broader, redder and more irregular splendour. it appeared plainly to be a large fire, but whether kindled upon an island or the mainland edward could not determine. as he saw it, the red glaring orb seemed to rest on the very surface of the lake itself, and resembled the fiery vehicle in which the evil genius of an oriental tale traverses land and sea. they approached nearer, and the light of the fire sufficed to show that it was kindled at the bottom of a huge dark crag or rock, rising abruptly from the very edge of the water; its front, changed by the reflection to dusky red, formed a strange and even awful contrast to the banks around, which were from time to time faintly and partially illuminated by pallid moonlight. the boat now neared the shore, and edward could discover that this large fire, amply supplied with branches of pine-wood by two figures, who, in the red reflection of its light, appeared like demons, was kindled in the jaws of a lofty cavern, into which an inlet from the lake seemed to advance; and he conjectured, which was indeed true, that the fire had been lighted as a beacon to the boatmen on their return. they rowed right for the mouth of the cave, and then, shifting their oars, permitted the boat to enter in obedience to the impulse which it had received. the skiff passed the little point or platform of rock on which the fire was blazing, and running about two boats' lengths farther, stopped where the cavern (for it was already arched overhead) ascended from the water by five or six broad ledges of rock, so easy and regular that they might be termed natural steps. at this moment a quantity of water was suddenly flung upon the fire, which sunk with a hissing noise, and with it disappeared the light it had hitherto afforded. four or five active arms lifted waverley out of the boat, placed him on his feet, and almost carried him into the recesses of the cave. he made a few paces in darkness, guided in this manner; and advancing towards a hum of voices, which seemed to sound from the centre of the rock, at an acute turn donald bean lean and his whole establishment were before his eyes. the interior of the cave, which here rose very high, was illuminated by torches made of pine-tree, which emitted a bright and bickering light, attended by a strong though not unpleasant odour. their light was assisted by the red glare of a large charcoal fire, round which were seated five or six armed highlanders, while others were indistinctly seen couched on their plaids in the more remote recesses of the cavern. in one large aperture, which the robber facetiously called his spence (or pantry), there hung by the heels the carcasses of a sheep, or ewe, and two cows lately slaughtered. the principal inhabitant of this singular mansion, attended by evan dhu as master of the ceremonies, came forward to meet his guest, totally different in appearance and manner from what his imagination had anticipated. the profession which he followed, the wilderness in which he dwelt, the wild warrior forms that surrounded him, were all calculated to inspire terror. from such accompaniments, waverley prepared himself to meet a stern, gigantic, ferocious figure, such as salvator would have chosen to be the central object of a group of banditti. [footnote: see note .] donald bean lean was the very reverse of all these. he was thin in person and low in stature, with light sandy-coloured hair, and small pale features, from which he derived his agnomen of bean or white; and although his form was light, well proportioned and active, he appeared, on the whole, rather a diminutive and insignificant figure. he had served in some inferior capacity in the french army, and in order to receive his english visitor in great form, and probably meaning, in his way, to pay him a compliment, he had laid aside the highland dress for the time, to put on an old blue and red uniform and a feathered hat, in which he was far from showing to advantage, and indeed looked so incongruous, compared with all around him, that waverley would have been tempted to laugh, had laughter been either civil or safe. the robber received captain waverley with a profusion of french politeness and scottish hospitality, seemed perfectly to know his name and connections, and to be particularly acquainted with his uncle's political principles. on these he bestowed great applause, to which waverley judged it prudent to make a very general reply. being placed at a convenient distance from the charcoal fire, the heat of which the season rendered oppressive, a strapping highland damsel placed before waverley, evan, and donald bean three cogues, or wooden vessels composed of staves and hoops, containing eanaruich, [footnote: this was the regale presented by rob roy to the laird of tullibody.] a sort of strong soup, made out of a particular part of the inside of the beeves. after this refreshment, which, though coarse, fatigue and hunger rendered palatable, steaks, roasted on the coals, were supplied in liberal abundance, and disappeared before evan dhu and their host with a promptitude that seemed like magic, and astonished waverley, who was much puzzled to reconcile their voracity with what he had heard of the abstemiousness of the highlanders. he was ignorant that this abstinence was with the lower ranks wholly compulsory, and that, like some animals of prey, those who practise it were usually gifted with the power of indemnifying themselves to good purpose when chance threw plenty in their way. the whisky came forth in abundance to crown the cheer. the highlanders drank it copiously and undiluted; but edward, having mixed a little with water, did not find it so palatable as to invite him to repeat the draught. their host bewailed himself exceedingly that he could offer him no wine: 'had he but known four-and-twenty hours before, he would have had some, had it been within the circle of forty miles round him. but no gentleman could do more to show his sense of the honour of a visit from another than to offer him the best cheer his house afforded. where there are no bushes there can be no nuts, and the way of those you live with is that you must follow,' he went on regretting to evan dhu the death of an aged man, donnacha an amrigh, or duncan with the cap, 'a gifted seer,' who foretold, through the second sight, visitors of every description who haunted their dwelling, whether as friends or foes. 'is not his son malcolm taishatr (a second-sighted person)?' asked evan. 'nothing equal to his father,' replied donald bean. 'he told us the other day, we were to see a great gentleman riding on a horse, and there came nobody that whole day but shemus beg, the blind harper, with his dog. another time he advertised us of a wedding, and behold it proved a funeral; and on the creagh, when he foretold to us we should bring home a hundred head of horned cattle, we gripped nothing but a fat bailie of perth.' from this discourse he passed to the political and military state of the country; and waverley was astonished, and even alarmed, to find a person of this description so accurately acquainted with the strength of the various garrisons and regiments quartered north of the tay. he even mentioned the exact number of recruits who had joined waverley's troop from his uncle's estate, and observed they were pretty men, meaning, not handsome, but stout warlike fellows. he put waverley in mind of one or two minute circumstances which had happened at a general review of the regiment, which satisfied him that the robber had been an eye-witness of it; and evan dhu having by this time retired from the conversation, and wrapped himself up in his plaid to take some repose, donald asked edward, in a very significant manner, whether he had nothing particular to say to him. waverley, surprised and somewhat startled at this question from such a character, answered, he had no motive in visiting him but curiosity to see his extraordinary place of residence. donald bean lean looked him steadily in the face for an instant, and then said, with a significant nod, 'you might as well have confided in me; i am as much worthy of trust as either the baron of bradwardine or vich ian vohr. but you are equally welcome to my house.' waverley felt an involuntary shudder creep over him at the mysterious language held by this outlawed and lawless bandit, which, in despite of his attempts to master it, deprived him of the power to ask the meaning of his insinuations. a heath pallet, with the flowers stuck uppermost, had been prepared for him in a recess of the cave, and here, covered with such spare plaids as could be mustered, he lay for some time watching the motions of the other inhabitants of the cavern. small parties of two or three entered or left the place, without any other ceremony than a few words in gaelic to the principal outlaw, and, when he fell asleep, to a tall highlander who acted as his lieutenant, and seemed to keep watch during his repose. those who entered seemed to have returned from some excursion, of which they reported the success, and went without farther ceremony to the larder, where, cutting with their dirks their rations from the carcasses which were there suspended, they proceeded to broil and eat them at their own pleasure and leisure. the liquor was under strict regulation, being served out either by donald himself, his lieutenant, or the strapping highland girl aforesaid, who was the only female that appeared. the allowance of whisky, however, would have appeared prodigal to any but highlanders, who, living entirely in the open air and in a very moist climate, can consume great quantities of ardent spirits without the usual baneful effects either upon the brain or constitution. at length the fluctuating groups began to swim before the eyes of our hero as they gradually closed; nor did he re-open them till the morning sun was high on the lake without, though there was but a faint and glimmering twilight in the recesses of uaimh an ri, or the king's cavern, as the abode of donald bean lean was proudly denominated. chapter xviii waverley proceeds on his journey when edward had collected his scattered recollection, he was surprised to observe the cavern totally deserted. having arisen and put his dress in some order, he looked more accurately round him; but all was still solitary. if it had not been for the decayed brands of the fire, now sunk into grey ashes, and the remnants of the festival, consisting of bones half burnt and half gnawed, and an empty keg or two, there remained no traces of donald and his band. when waverley sallied forth to the entrance of the cave, he perceived that the point of rock, on which remained the marks of last night's beacon, was accessible by a small path, either natural or roughly hewn in the rock, along the little inlet of water which ran a few yards up into the cavern, where, as in a wetdock, the skiff which brought him there the night before was still lying moored. when he reached the small projecting platform on which the beacon had been established, he would have believed his further progress by land impossible, only that it was scarce probable but what the inhabitants of the cavern had some mode of issuing from it otherwise than by the lake. accordingly, he soon observed three or four shelving steps, or ledges of rock, at the very extremity of the little platform; and, making use of them as a staircase, he clambered by their means around the projecting shoulder of the crag on which the cavern opened, and, descending with some difficulty on the other side, he gained the wild and precipitous shores of a highland loch, about four miles in length and a mile and a half across, surrounded by heathy and savage mountains, on the crests of which the morning mist was still sleeping. looking back to the place from which he came, he could not help admiring the address which had adopted a retreat of such seclusion and secrecy. the rock, round the shoulder of which he had turned by a few imperceptible notches, that barely afforded place for the foot, seemed, in looking back upon it, a huge precipice, which barred all further passage by the shores of the lake in that direction. there could be no possibility, the breadth of the lake considered, of descrying the entrance of the narrow and low-browed cave from the other side; so that, unless the retreat had been sought for with boats, or disclosed by treachery, it might be a safe and secret residence to its garrison as long as they were supplied with provisions. having satisfied his curiosity in these particulars, waverley looked around for evan dhu and his attendants, who, he rightly judged, would be at no great distance, whatever might have become of donald bean lean and his party, whose mode of life was, of course, liable to sudden migrations of abode. accordingly, at the distance of about half a mile, he beheld a highlander (evan apparently) angling in the lake, with another attending him, whom, from the weapon which he shouldered, he recognised for his friend with the battle-axe. much nearer to the mouth of the cave he heard the notes of a lively gaelic song, guided by which, in a sunny recess, shaded by a glittering birch-tree, and carpeted with a bank of firm white sand, he found the damsel of the cavern, whose lay had already reached him, busy, to the best of her power, in arranging to advantage a morning repast of milk, eggs, barley-bread, fresh butter, and honey-comb. the poor girl had already made a circuit of four miles that morning in search of the eggs, of the meal which baked her cakes, and of the other materials of the breakfast, being all delicacies which she had to beg or borrow from distant cottagers. the followers of donald bean lean used little food except the flesh of the animals which they drove away from the lowlands; bread itself was a delicacy seldom thought of, because hard to be obtained, and all the domestic accommodations of milk, poultry, butter, etc., were out of the question in this scythian camp. yet it must not be omitted that, although alice had occupied a part of the morning in providing those accommodations for her guest which the cavern did not afford, she had secured time also to arrange her own person in her best trim. her finery was very simple. a short russet-coloured jacket and a petticoat of scanty longitude was her whole dress; but these were clean, and neatly arranged. a piece of scarlet embroidered cloth, called the snood, confined her hair, which fell over it in a profusion of rich dark curls. the scarlet plaid, which formed part of her dress, was laid aside, that it might not impede her activity in attending the stranger. i should forget alice's proudest ornament were i to omit mentioning a pair of gold ear-rings and a, golden rosary, which her father (for she was the daughter of donald bean lean) had brought from france, the plunder, probably, of some battle or storm. her form, though rather large for her years, was very well proportioned, and her demeanour had a natural and rustic grace, with nothing of the sheepishness of an ordinary peasant. the smiles, displaying a row of teeth of exquisite whiteness, and the laughing eyes, with which, in dumb show, she gave waverley that morning greeting which she wanted english words to express, might have been interpreted by a coxcomb, or perhaps by a young soldier who, without being such, was conscious of a handsome person, as meant to convey more than the courtesy of an hostess. nor do i take it upon me to say that the little wild mountaineer would have welcomed any staid old gentleman advanced in life, the baron of bradwardine, for example, with the cheerful pains which she bestowed upon edward's accommodation. she seemed eager to place him by the meal which she had so sedulously arranged, and to which she now added a few bunches of cranberries, gathered in an adjacent morass. having had the satisfaction of seeing him seated at his breakfast, she placed herself demurely upon a stone at a few yards' distance, and appeared to watch with great complacency for some opportunity of serving him. evan and his attendant now returned slowly along the beach, the latter bearing a large salmon-trout, the produce of the morning's sport, together with the angling-rod, while evan strolled forward, with an easy, self-satisfied, and important gait, towards the spot where waverley was so agreeably employed at the breakfast-table. after morning greetings had passed on both sides, and evan, looking at waverley, had said something in gaelic to alice, which made her laugh, yet colour up to her eyes, through a complexion well en-browned by sun and wind, evan intimated his commands that the fish should be prepared for breakfast. a spark from the lock of his pistol produced a light, and a few withered fir branches were quickly in flame, and as speedily reduced to hot embers, on which the trout was broiled in large slices. to crown the repast, evan produced from the pocket of his short jerkin a large scallop shell, and from under the folds of his plaid a ram's horn full of whisky. of this he took a copious dram, observing he had already taken his morning with donald bean lean before his departure; he offered the same cordial to alice and to edward, which they both declined. with the bounteous air of a lord, evan then proffered the scallop to dugald mahony, his attendant, who, without waiting to be asked a second time, drank it off with great gusto. evan then prepared to move towards the boat, inviting waverley to attend him. meanwhile, alice had made up in a small basket what she thought worth removing, and flinging her plaid around her, she advanced up to edward, and with the utmost simplicity, taking hold of his hand, offered her cheek to his salute, dropping at the same time her little curtsy. evan, who was esteemed a wag among the mountain fair, advanced as if to secure a similar favour; but alice, snatching up her basket, escaped up the rocky bank as fleetly as a roe, and, turning round and laughing, called something out to him in gaelic, which he answered in the same tone and language; then, waving her hand to edward, she resumed her road, and was soon lost among the thickets, though they continued for some time to hear her lively carol, as she proceeded gaily on her solitary journey. they now again entered the gorge of the cavern, and stepping into the boat, the highlander pushed off, and, taking advantage of the morning breeze, hoisted a clumsy sort of sail, while evan assumed the helm, directing their course, as it appeared to waverley, rather higher up the lake than towards the place of his embarkation on the preceding night. as they glided along the silver mirror, evan opened the conversation with a panegyric upon alice, who, he said, was both canny and fendy; and was, to the boot of all that, the best dancer of a strathspey in the whole strath. edward assented to her praises so far as he understood them, yet could not help regretting that she was condemned to such a perilous and dismal life. 'oich! for that,' said evan, 'there is nothing in perthshire that she need want, if she ask her father to fetch it, unless it be too hot or too heavy.' 'but to be the daughter of a cattle-stealer--a common thief!' 'common thief!--no such thing: donald bean lean never lifted less than a drove in his life.' 'do you call him an uncommon thief, then?' 'no; he that steals a cow from a poor widow, or a stirk from a cotter, is a thief; he that lifts a drove from a sassenach laird is a gentleman-drover. and, besides, to take a tree from the forest, a salmon from the river, a deer from the hill, or a cow from a lowland strath, is what no highlander need ever think shame upon.' 'but what can this end in, were he taken in such an appropriation?' 'to be sure he would die for the law, as many a pretty man has done before him.' 'die for the law!' 'ay; that is, with the law, or by the law; be strapped up on the kind gallows of crieff, [footnote: see note .] where his father died, and his goodsire died, and where i hope he'll live to die himsell, if he's not shot, or slashed, in a creagh.' 'you hope such a death for your friend, evan?' 'and that do i e'en; would you have me wish him to die on a bundle of wet straw in yon den of his, like a mangy tyke?' 'but what becomes of alice, then?' 'troth, if such an accident were to happen, as her father would not need her help ony langer, i ken nought to hinder me to marry her mysell.' 'gallantly resolved,' said edward; 'but, in the meanwhile, evan, what has your father-in-law (that shall be, if he have the good fortune to be hanged) done with the baron's cattle?' 'oich,' answered evan,'they were all trudging before your lad and allan kennedy before the sun blinked ower ben lawers this morning; and they'll be in the pass of bally-brough by this time, in their way back to the parks of tully-veolan, all but two, that were unhappily slaughtered before i got last night to uaimh an ri.' 'and where are we going, evan, if i may be so bold as to ask?' said waverley. 'where would you be ganging, but to the laird's ain house of glennaquoich? ye would not think to be in his country, without ganging to see him? it would be as much as a man's life's worth.' 'and are we far from glennaquoich?' 'but five bits of miles; and vich ian vohr will meet us.' in about half an hour they reached the upper end of the lake, where, after landing waverley, the two highanders drew the boat into a little creek among thick flags and reeds, where it lay perfectly concealed. the oars they put in another place of concealment, both for the use of donald bean lean probably, when his occasions should next bring him to that place. the travellers followed for some time a delightful opening into the hills, down which a little brook found its way to the lake. when they had pursued their walk a short distance, waverley renewed his questions about their host of the cavern. 'does he always reside in that cave?' 'out, no! it's past the skill of man to tell where he's to be found at a' times; there's not a dern nook, or cove, or corrie, in the whole country that he's not acquainted with.' 'and do others beside your master shelter him?' 'my master? my master is in heaven,' answered evan, haughtily; and then immediately assuming his usual civility of manner, 'but you mean my chief;--no, he does not shelter donald bean lean, nor any that are like him; he only allows him (with a smile) wood and water.' 'no great boon, i should think, evan, when both seem to be very plenty.' 'ah! but ye dinna see through it. when i say wood and water, i mean the loch and the land; and i fancy donald would be put till 't if the laird were to look for him wi' threescore men in the wood of kailychat yonder; and if our boats, with a score or twa mair, were to come down the loch to uaimh an ri, headed by mysell, or ony other pretty man.' 'but suppose a strong party came against him from the low country, would not your chief defend him?' 'na, he would not ware the spark of a flint for him--if they came with the law.' 'and what must donald do, then?' 'he behoved to rid this country of himsell, and fall back, it may be, over the mount upon letter scriven.' 'and if he were pursued to that place?' 'i'se warrant he would go to his cousin's at rannoch.' 'well, but if they followed him to rannoch?' 'that,' quoth evan, 'is beyond all belief; and, indeed, to tell you the truth, there durst not a lowlander in all scotland follow the fray a gun-shot beyond bally-brough, unless he had the help of the sidier dhu.' 'whom do you call so?' 'the sidier dhu? the black soldier; that is what they call the independent companies that were raised to keep peace and law in the highlands. vich ian vohr commanded one of them for five years, and i was sergeant mysell, i shall warrant ye. they call them sidier dhu because they wear the tartans, as they call your men--king george's men--sidier roy, or red soldiers.' 'well, but when you were in king george's pay, evan, you were surely king george's soldiers?' 'troth, and you must ask vich ian vohr about that; for we are for his king, and care not much which o' them it is. at ony rate, nobody can say we are king george's men now, when we have not seen his pay this twelve-month.' this last argument admitted of no reply, nor did edward attempt any; he rather chose to bring back the discourse to donald bean lean. 'does donald confine himself to cattle, or does he lift, as you call it, anything else that comes in his way?' 'troth, he's nae nice body, and he'll just tak onything, but most readily cattle, horse, or live christians; for sheep are slow of travel, and inside plenishing is cumbrous to carry, and not easy to put away for siller in this country.' 'but does he carry off men and women?' 'out, ay. did not ye hear him speak o' the perth bailie? it cost that body five hundred merks ere he got to the south of bally-brough. and ance donald played a pretty sport. [footnote: see note .] there was to be a blythe bridal between the lady cramfeezer, in the howe o' the mearns (she was the auld laird's widow, and no sae young as she had been hersell), and young gilliewhackit, who had spent his heirship and movables, like a gentleman, at cock-matches, bull-baitings, horse-races, and the like. now, donald bean lean, being aware that the bridegroom was in request, and wanting to cleik the cunzie (that is, to hook the siller), he cannily carried off gilliewhackit ae night when he was riding dovering hame (wi' the malt rather abune the meal), and with the help of his gillies he gat him into the hills with the speed of light, and the first place he wakened in was the cove of uaimh an ri. so there was old to do about ransoming the bridegroom; for donald would not lower a farthing of a thousand punds--' 'the devil!' 'punds scottish, ye shall understand. and the lady had not the siller if she had pawned her gown; and they applied to the governor o' stirling castle, and to the major o' the black watch; and the governor said it was ower far to the northward, and out of his district; and the major said his men were gane hame to the shearing, and he would not call them out before the victual was got in for all the cramfeezers in christendom, let alane the mearns, for that it would prejudice the country. and in the meanwhile ye'll no hinder gilliewhackit to take the small-pox. there was not the doctor in perth or stirling would look near the poor lad; and i cannot blame them, for donald had been misguggled by ane of these doctors about paris, and he swore he would fling the first into the loch that he catched beyond the pass. however some cailliachs (that is, old women) that were about donald's hand nursed gilliewhackit sae weel that, between the free open air in the cove and the fresh whey, deil an he did not recover maybe as weel as if he had been closed in a glazed chamber and a bed with curtains, and fed with red wine and white meat. and donald was sae vexed about it that, when he was stout and weel, he even sent him free home, and said he would be pleased with onything they would like to gie him for the plague and trouble which he had about gilliewhackit to an unkenn'd degree. and i cannot tell you precisely how they sorted; but they agreed sae right that donald was invited to dance at the wedding in his highland trews, and they said that there was never sae meikle siller clinked in his purse either before or since. and to the boot of all that, gilliewhackit said that, be the evidence what it liked, if he had the luck to be on donald's inquest, he would bring him in guilty of nothing whatever, unless it were wilful arson or murder under trust.' with such bald and disjointed chat evan went on illustrating the existing state of the highlands, more perhaps to the amusement of waverley than that of our readers. at length, after having marched over bank and brae, moss and heather, edward, though not unacquainted with the scottish liberality in computing distance, began to think that evan's five miles were nearly doubled. his observation on the large measure which the scottish allowed of their land, in comparison to the computation of their money, was readily answered by evan with the old jest, 'the deil take them wha have the least pint stoup.' [footnote: the scotch are liberal in computing their land and liquor; the scottish pint corresponds to two english quarts. as for their coin, every one knows the couplet-- how can the rogues pretend to sense? their pound is only twenty pence.] and now the report of a gun was heard, and a sportsman was seen, with his dogs and attendant, at the upper end of the glen. 'shough,' said dugald mahony, 'tat's ta chief.' 'it is not,' said evan, imperiously. 'do you think he would come to meet a sassenach duinhe-wassel in such a way as that?' but as they approached a little nearer, he said, with an appearance of mortification, 'and it is even he, sure enough; and he has not his tail on after all; there is no living creature with him but callum beg.' in fact, fergus mac-ivor, of whom a frenchman might have said as truly as of any man in the highlands, 'qu'il connoit bien ses gens' had no idea of raising himself in the eyes of an english young man of fortune by appearing with a retinue of idle highlanders disproportioned to the occasion. he was well aware that such an unnecessary attendance would seem to edward rather ludicrous than respectable; and, while few men were more attached to ideas of chieftainship and feudal power, he was, for that very reason, cautious of exhibiting external marks of dignity, unless at the time and in the manner when they were most likely to produce an imposing effect. therefore, although, had he been to receive a brother chieftain, he would probably have been attended by all that retinue which evan described with so much unction, he judged it more respectable to advance to meet waverley with a single attendant, a very handsome highland boy, who carried his master's shooting-pouch and his broadsword, without which he seldom went abroad. when fergus and waverley met, the latter was struck with the peculiar grace and dignity of the chieftain's figure. above the middle size and finely proportioned, the highland dress, which he wore in its simplest mode, set off his person to great advantage. he wore the trews, or close trowsers, made of tartan, chequed scarlet and white; in other particulars his dress strictly resembled evan's, excepting that he had no weapon save a dirk, very richly mounted with silver. his page, as we have said, carried his claymore; and the fowling-piece, which he held in his hand, seemed only designed for sport. he had shot in the course of his walk some young wild-ducks, as, though close time was then unknown, the broods of grouse were yet too young for the sportsman. his countenance was decidedly scottish, with all the peculiarities of the northern physiognomy, but yet had so little of its harshness and exaggeration that it would have been pronounced in any country extremely handsome. the martial air of the bonnet, with a single eagle's feather as a distinction, added much to the manly appearance of his head, which was besides ornamented with a far more natural and graceful cluster of close black curls than ever were exposed to sale in bond street. an air of openness and affability increased the favorable impression derived from this handsome and dignified exterior. yet a skilful physiognomist would have been less satisfied with the countenance on the second than on the first view. the eyebrow and upper lip bespoke something of the habit of peremptory command and decisive superiority. even his courtesy, though open, frank, and unconstrained, seemed to indicate a sense of personal importance; and, upon any check or accidental excitation, a sudden, though transient lour of the eye showed a hasty, haughty, and vindictive temper, not less to be dreaded because it seemed much under its owner's command. in short, the countenance of the chieftain resembled a smiling summer's day, in which, notwithstanding, we are made sensible by certain, though slight signs that it may thunder and lighten before the close of evening. it was not, however, upon their first meeting that edward had an opportunity of making these less favourable remarks. the chief received him as a friend of the baron of bradwardine, with the utmost expression of kindness and obligation for the visit; upbraided him gently with choosing so rude an abode as he had done the night before; and entered into a lively conversation with him about donald bean's housekeeping, but without the least hint as to his predatory habits, or the immediate occasion of waverley's visit, a topic which, as the chief did not introduce it, our hero also avoided. while they walked merrily on towards the house of glennaquoich, evan, who now fell respectfully into the rear, followed with callum beg and dugald mahony. we shall take the opportunity to introduce the reader to some particulars of fergus mac-ivor's character and history, which were not completely known to waverley till after a connection which, though arising from a circumstance so casual, had for a length of time the deepest influence upon his character, actions, and prospects. but this, being an important subject, must form the commencement of a new chapter. chapter xix the chief and his mansion the ingenious licentiate francisco de ubeda, when he commenced his history of 'la picara justina diez,'--which, by the way, is one of the most rare books of spanish literature,--complained of his pen having caught up a hair, and forthwith begins, with more eloquence than common sense, an affectionate expostulation with that useful implement, upbraiding it with being the quill of a goose,--a bird inconstant by nature, as frequenting the three elements of water, earth, and air indifferently, and being, of course, 'to one thing constant never.' now i protest to thee, gentle reader, that i entirely dissent from francisco de ubeda in this matter, and hold it the most useful quality of my pen, that it can speedily change from grave to gay, and from description and dialogue to narrative and character. so that if my quill display no other properties of its mother-goose than her mutability, truly i shall be well pleased; and i conceive that you, my worthy friend, will have no occasion for discontent. from the jargon, therefore, of the highland gillies i pass to the character of their chief. it is an important examination, and therefore, like dogberry, we must spare no wisdom. the ancestor of fergus mac-ivor, about three centuries before, had set up a claim to be recognised as chief of the numerous and powerful clan to which he belonged, the name of which it is unnecessary to mention. being defeated by an opponent who had more justice, or at least more force, on his side, he moved southwards, with those who adhered to him, in quest of new settlements, like a second aeneas. the state of the perthshire highlands favoured his purpose. a great baron in that country had lately become traitor to the crown; ian, which was the name of our adventurer, united himself with those who were commissioned by the king to chastise him, and did such good service that he obtained a grant of the property, upon which he and his posterity afterwards resided. he followed the king also in war to the fertile regions of england, where he employed his leisure hours so actively in raising subsidies among the boors of northumberland and durham, that upon his return he was enabled to erect a stone tower, or fortalice, so much admired by his dependants and neighbours that he, who had hitherto been called ian mac-ivor, or john the son of ivor, was thereafter distinguished, both in song and genealogy, by the high title of ian nan chaistel, or john of the tower. the descendants of this worthy were so proud of him that the reigning chief always bore the patronymic title of vich ian vohr, i.e. the son of john the great; while the clan at large, to distinguish them from that from which they had seceded, were denominated sliochd nan ivor, the race of ivor. the father of fergus, the tenth in direct descent from john of the tower, engaged heart and hand in the insurrection of , and was forced to fly to france, after the attempt of that year in favour of the stuarts had proved unsuccessful. more fortunate than other fugitives, he obtained employment in the french service, and married a lady of rank in that kingdom, by whom he had two children, fergus and his sister flora. the scottish estate had been forfeited and exposed to sale, but was repurchased for a small price in the name of the young proprietor, who in consequence came to reside upon his native domains. [footnote: see note .] it was soon perceived that he possessed a character of uncommon acuteness, fire, and ambition, which, as he became acquainted with the state of the country, gradually assumed a mixed and peculiar tone, that could only have been acquired sixty years since. had fergus mac-ivor lived sixty years sooner than he did, he would in all probability have wanted the polished manner and knowledge of the world which he now possessed; and had he lived sixty years later, his ambition and love of rule would have lacked the fuel which his situation now afforded. he was indeed, within his little circle, as perfect a politician as castruccio castracani himself. he applied himself with great earnestness to appease all the feuds and dissensions which often arose among other clans in his neighbourhood, so that he became a frequent umpire in their quarrels. his own patriarchal power he strengthened at every expense which his fortune would permit, and indeed stretched his means to the uttermost to maintain the rude and plentiful hospitality which was the most valued attribute of a chieftain. for the same reason he crowded his estate with a tenantry, hardy indeed, and fit for the purposes of war, but greatly outnumbering what the soil was calculated to maintain. these consisted chiefly of his own clan, not one of whom he suffered to quit his lands if he could possibly prevent it. but he maintained, besides, many adventurers from the mother sept, who deserted a less warlike, though more wealthy chief to do homage to fergus mac-ivor. other individuals, too, who had not even that apology, were nevertheless received into his allegiance, which indeed was refused to none who were, like poins, proper men of their hands, and were willing to assume the name of mac-ivor. he was enabled to discipline these forces, from having obtained command of one of the independent companies raised by government to preserve the peace of the highlands. while in this capacity he acted with vigour and spirit, and preserved great order in the country under his charge. he caused his vassals to enter by rotation into his company, and serve for a certain space of time, which gave them all in turn a general notion of military discipline. in his campaigns against the banditti, it was observed that he assumed and exercised to the utmost the discretionary power which, while the law had no free course in the highlands, was conceived to belong to the military parties who were called in to support it. he acted, for example, with great and suspicious lenity to those freebooters who made restitution on his summons and offered personal submission to himself, while he rigorously pursued, apprehended, and sacrificed to justice all such interlopers as dared to despise his admonitions or commands. on the other hand, if any officers of justice, military parties, or others, presumed to pursue thieves or marauders through his territories, and without applying for his consent and concurrence, nothing was more certain than that they would meet with some notable foil or defeat; upon which occasions fergus mac-ivor was the first to condole with them, and after gently blaming their rashness, never failed deeply to lament the lawless state of the country. these lamentations did not exclude suspicion, and matters were so represented to government that our chieftain was deprived of his military command. [footnote: see note .] whatever fergus mac-ivor felt on this occasion, he had the art of entirely suppressing every appearance of discontent; but in a short time the neighbouring country began to feel bad effects from his disgrace. donald bean lean, and others of his class, whose depredations had hitherto been confined to other districts, appeared from thenceforward to have made a settlement on this devoted border; and their ravages were carried on with little opposition, as the lowland gentry were chiefly jacobites, and disarmed. this forced many of the inhabitants into contracts of black-mail with fergus mac-ivor, which not only established him their protector, and gave him great weight in all their consultations, but, moreover, supplied funds for the waste of his feudal hospitality, which the discontinuance of his pay might have otherwise essentially diminished. in following this course of conduct, fergus had a further object than merely being the great man of his neighbourhood, and ruling despotically over a small clan. from his infancy upward he had devoted himself to the cause of the exiled family, and had persuaded himself, not only that their restoration to the crown of britain would be speedy, but that those who assisted them would be raised to honour and rank. it was with this view that he laboured to reconcile the highlanders among themselves, and augmented his own force to the utmost, to be prepared for the first favourable opportunity of rising. with this purpose also he conciliated the favour of such lowland gentlemen in the vicinity as were friends to the good cause; and for the same reason, having incautiously quarrelled with mr. bradwardine, who, notwithstanding his peculiarities, was much respected in the country, he took advantage of the foray of donald bean lean to solder up the dispute in the manner we have mentioned. some, indeed, surmised that he caused the enterprise to be suggested to donald, on purpose to pave the way to a reconciliation, which, supposing that to be the case, cost the laird of bradwardine two good milch cows. this zeal in their behalf the house of stuart repaid with a considerable share of their confidence, an occasional supply of louis-d'or, abundance of fair words, and a parchment, with a huge waxen seal appended, purporting to be an earl's patent, granted by no less a person than james the third king of england, and eighth king of scotland, to his right feal, trusty, and well-beloved fergus mac-ivor of glennaquoich, in the county of perth, and kingdom of scotland. with this future coronet glittering before his eyes, fergus plunged deeply into the correspondence and plots of that unhappy period; and, like all such active agents, easily reconciled his conscience to going certain lengths in the service of his party, from which honour and pride would have deterred him had his sole object been the direct advancement of his own personal interest. with this insight into a bold, ambitious, and ardent, yet artful and politic character, we resume the broken thread of our narrative. the chief and his guest had by this time reached the house of glennaquoich, which consisted of ian nan chaistel's mansion, a high rude-looking square tower, with the addition of a lofted house, that is, a building of two stories, constructed by fergus's grandfather when he returned from that memorable expedition, well remembered by the western shires under the name of the highland host. upon occasion of this crusade against the ayrshire whigs and covenanters, the vich ian vohr of the time had probably been as successful as his predecessor was in harrying northumberland, and therefore left to his posterity a rival edifice as a monument of his magnificence. around the house, which stood on an eminence in the midst of a narrow highland valley, there appeared none of that attention to convenience, far less to ornament and decoration, which usually surrounds a gentleman's habitation. an inclosure or two, divided by dry-stone walls, were the only part of the domain that was fenced; as to the rest, the narrow slips of level ground which lay by the side of the brook exhibited a scanty crop of barley, liable to constant depredations from the herds of wild ponies and black cattle that grazed upon the adjacent hills. these ever and anon made an incursion upon the arable ground, which was repelled by the loud, uncouth, and dissonant shouts of half a dozen highland swains, all running as if they had been mad, and every one hallooing a half-starved dog to the rescue of the forage. at a little distance up the glen was a small and stunted wood of birch; the hills were high and heathy, but without any variety of surface; so that the whole view was wild and desolate rather than grand and solitary. yet, such as it was, no genuine descendant of ian nan chaistel would have changed the domain for stow or blenheim. there was a sight, however, before the gate, which perhaps would have afforded the first owner of blenheim more pleasure than the finest view in the domain assigned to him by the gratitude of his country. this consisted of about a hundred highlanders, in complete dress and arms; at sight of whom the chieftain apologised to waverley in a sort of negligent manner. 'he had forgot,' he said, 'that he had ordered a few of his clan out, for the purpose of seeing that they were in a fit condition to protect the country, and prevent such accidents as, he was sorry to learn, had befallen the baron of bradwardine. before they were dismissed, perhaps captain waverley might choose to see them go through a part of their exercise.' edward assented, and the men executed with agility and precision some of the ordinary military movements. they then practised individually at a mark, and showed extraordinary dexterity in the management of the pistol and firelock. they took aim, standing, sitting, leaning, or lying prostrate, as they were commanded, and always with effect upon the target. next, they paired off for the broadsword exercise; and, having manifested their individual skill and dexterity, united in two bodies, and exhibited a sort of mock encounter, in which the charge, the rally, the flight, the pursuit, and all the current of a heady fight, were exhibited to the sound of the great war bagpipe. on a signal made by the chief, the skirmish was ended. matches were then made for running, wrestling, leaping, pitching the bar, and other sports, in which this feudal militia displayed incredible swiftness, strength, and agility; and accomplished the purpose which their chieftain had at heart, by impressing on waverley no light sense of their merit as soldiers, and of the power of him who commanded them by his nod. [footnote: see note .] 'and what number of such gallant fellows have the happiness to call you leader?' asked waverley. 'in a good cause, and under a chieftain whom they loved, the race of ivor have seldom taken the field under five hundred claymores. but you are aware, captain waverley, that the disarming act, passed about twenty years ago, prevents their being in the complete state of preparation as in former times; and i keep no more of my clan under arms than may defend my own or my friends' property, when the country is troubled with such men as your last night's landlord; and government, which has removed other means of defence, must connive at our protecting ourselves.' 'but, with your force, you might soon destroy or put down such gangs as that of donald bean lean.' 'yes, doubtless; and my reward would be a summons to deliver up to general blakeney, at stirling, the few broadswords they have left us; there were little policy in that, methinks. but come, captain, the sound of the pipes informs me that dinner is prepared. let me have the honour to show you into my rude mansion.' chapter xx a highland feast ere waverley entered the banqueting hall, he was offered the patriarchal refreshment of a bath for the feet, which the sultry weather, and the morasses he had traversed, rendered highly acceptable. he was not, indeed, so luxuriously attended upon this occasion as the heroic travellers in the odyssey; the task of ablution and abstersion being performed, not by a beautiful damsel, trained to chafe the limb, and pour the fragrant oil, but by a smoke-dried skinny old highland woman, who did not seem to think herself much honoured by the duty imposed upon her, but muttered between her teeth, 'our fathers' herds did not feed so near together that i should do you this service.' a small donation, however, amply reconciled this ancient handmaiden to the supposed degradation; and, as edward proceeded to the hall, she gave him her blessing in the gaelic proverb, 'may the open hand be filled the fullest.' the hall, in which the feast was prepared, occupied all the first story of lan nan chaistel's original erection, and a huge oaken table extended through its whole length. the apparatus for dinner was simple, even to rudeness, and the company numerous, even to crowding. at the head of the table was the chief himself, with edward, and two or three highland visitors of neighbouring clans; the elders of his own tribe, wadsetters and tacksmen, as they were called, who occupied portions of his estate as mortgagers or lessees, sat next in rank; beneath them, their sons and nephews and foster-brethren; then the officers of the chief's household, according to their order; and lowest of all, the tenants who actually cultivated the ground. even beyond this long perspective, edward might see upon the green, to which a huge pair of folding doors opened, a multitude of highlanders of a yet inferior description, who, nevertheless, were considered as guests, and had their share both of the countenance of the entertainer and of the cheer of the day. in the distance, and fluctuating round this extreme verge of the banquet, was a changeful group of women, ragged boys and girls, beggars, young and old, large greyhounds, and terriers, and pointers, and curs of low degree; all of whom took some interest, more or less immediate, in the main action of the piece. this hospitality, apparently unbounded, had yet its line of economy. some pains had been bestowed in dressing the dishes of fish, game, etc., which were at the upper end of the table, and immediately under the eye of the english stranger. lower down stood immense clumsy joints of mutton and beef, which, but for the absence of pork, [footnote: see note .] abhorred in the highlands, resembled the rude festivity of the banquet of penelope's suitors. but the central dish was a yearling lamb, called 'a hog in har'st,' roasted whole. it was set upon its legs, with a bunch of parsley in its mouth, and was probably exhibited in that form to gratify the pride of the cook, who piqued himself more on the plenty than the elegance of his master's table. the sides of this poor animal were fiercely attacked by the clansmen, some with dirks, others with the knives which were usually in the same sheath with the dagger, so that it was soon rendered a mangled and rueful spectacle. lower down still, the victuals seemed of yet coarser quality, though sufficiently abundant. broth, onions, cheese, and the fragments of the feast regaled the sons of ivor who feasted in the open air. the liquor was supplied in the same proportion, and under similar regulations. excellent claret and champagne were liberally distributed among the chief's immediate neighbours; whisky, plain or diluted, and strong beer refreshed those who sat near the lower end. nor did this inequality of distribution appear to give the least offence. every one present understood that his taste was to be formed according to the rank which he held at table; and, consequently, the tacksmen and their dependants always professed the wine was too cold for their stomachs, and called, apparently out of choice, for the liquor which was assigned to them from economy. [footnote: see note .] the bag-pipers, three in number, screamed, during the whole time of dinner, a tremendous war-tune; and the echoing of the vaulted roof, and clang of the celtic tongue, produced such a babel of noises that waverley dreaded his ears would never recover it. mac-ivor, indeed, apologised for the confusion occasioned by so large a party, and pleaded the necessity of his situation, on which unlimited hospitality was imposed as a paramount duty. 'these stout idle kinsmen of mine,' he said, 'account my estate as held in trust for their support; and i must find them beef and ale, while the rogues will do nothing for themselves but practise the broadsword, or wander about the hills, shooting, fishing, hunting, drinking, and making love to the lasses of the strath. but what can i do, captain waverley? everything will keep after its kind, whether it be a hawk or a highlander.' edward made the expected answer, in a compliment upon his possessing so many bold and attached followers. 'why, yes,' replied the chief, 'were i disposed, like my father, to put myself in the way of getting one blow on the head, or two on the neck, i believe the loons would stand by me. but who thinks of that in the present day, when the maxim is, "better an old woman with a purse in her hand than three men with belted brands"?' then, turning to the company, he proposed the 'health of captain waverley, a worthy friend of his kind neighbour and ally, the baron of bradwardine.' 'he is welcome hither,' said one of the elders, 'if he come from cosmo comyne bradwardine.' 'i say nay to that,' said an old man, who apparently did not mean to pledge the toast; 'i say nay to that. while there is a green leaf in the forest, there will be fraud in a comyne. 'there is nothing but honour in the baron of bradwardine,' answered another ancient; 'and the guest that comes hither from him should be welcome, though he came with blood on his hand, unless it were blood of the race of ivor.' the old man whose cup remained full replied, 'there has been blood enough of the race of ivor on the hand of bradwardine.' 'ah! ballenkeiroch,' replied the first, 'you think rather of the flash of the carbine at the mains of tully-veolan than the glance of the sword that fought for the cause at preston.' 'and well i may,' answered ballenkeiroch; 'the flash of the gun cost me a fair-haired son, and the glance of the sword has done but little for king james.' the chieftain, in two words of french, explained to waverley that the baron had shot this old man's son in a fray near tully-veolan, about seven years before; and then hastened to remove ballenkeiroch's prejudice, by informing him that waverley was an englishman, unconnected by birth or alliance with the family of bradwardine; upon which the old gentleman raised the hitherto-untasted cup and courteously drank to his health. this ceremony being requited in kind, the chieftain made a signal for the pipes to cease, and said aloud, 'where is the song hidden, my friends, that mac-murrough cannot find it?' mac-murrough, the family bhairdh, an aged man, immediately took the hint, and began to chant, with low and rapid utterance, a profusion of celtic verses, which were received by the audience with all the applause of enthusiasm. as he advanced in his declamation, his ardour seemed to increase. he had at first spoken with his eyes fixed on the ground; he now cast them around as if beseeching, and anon as if commanding, attention, and his tones rose into wild and impassioned notes, accompanied with appropriate gestures. he seemed to edward, who attended to him with much interest, to recite many proper names, to lament the dead, to apostrophise the absent, to exhort, and entreat, and animate those who were present. waverley thought he even discerned his own name, and was convinced his conjecture was right from the eyes of the company being at that moment turned towards him simultaneously. the ardour of the poet appeared to communicate itself to the audience. their wild and sun-burnt countenances assumed a fiercer and more animated expression; all bent forward towards the reciter, many sprung up and waved their arms in ecstasy, and some laid their hands on their swords. when the song ceased, there was a deep pause, while the aroused feelings of the poet and of the hearers gradually subsided into their usual channel. the chieftain, who, during this scene had appeared rather to watch the emotions which were excited than to partake their high tone of enthusiasm, filled with claret a small silver cup which stood by him. 'give this,' he said to an attendant, 'to mac-murrough nan fonn (i.e. of the songs), and when he has drank the juice, bid him keep, for the sake of vich ian vohr, the shell of the gourd which contained it.' the gift was received by mac-murrough with profound gratitude; he drank the wine, and, kissing the cup, shrouded it with reverence in the plaid which was folded on his bosom. he then burst forth into what edward justly supposed to be an extemporaneous effusion of thanks and praises of his chief. it was received with applause, but did not produce the effect of his first poem. it was obvious, however, that the clan regarded the generosity of their chieftain with high approbation. many approved gaelic toasts were then proposed, of some of which the chieftain gave his guest the following versions:-- 'to him that will not turn his back on friend or foe.' 'to him that never forsook a comrade.' 'to him that never bought or sold justice.' 'hospitality to the exile, and broken bones to the tyrant.' 'the lads with the kilts.' 'highlanders, shoulder to shoulder,'--with many other pithy sentiments of the like nature. edward was particularly solicitous to know the meaning of that song which appeared to produce such effect upon the passions of the company, and hinted his curiosity to his host. 'as i observe,' said the chieftain, 'that you have passed the bottle during the last three rounds, i was about to propose to you to retire to my sister's tea-table, who can explain these things to you better than i can. although i cannot stint my clan in the usual current of their festivity, yet i neither am addicted myself to exceed in its amount, nor do i,' added he, smiling, 'keep a bear to devour the intellects of such as can make good use of them.' edward readily assented to this proposal, and the chieftain, saying a few words to those around him, left the table, followed by waverley. as the door closed behind them, edward heard vich ian vohr's health invoked with a wild and animated cheer, that expressed the satisfaction of the guests and the depth of their devotion to his service. chapter xxi the chieftain's sister the drawing-room of flora mac-ivor was furnished in the plainest and most simple manner; for at glennaquoich every other sort of expenditure was retrenched as much as possible, for the purpose of maintaining, in its full dignity, the hospitality of the chieftain, and retaining and multiplying the number of his dependants and adherents. but there was no appearance of this parsimony in the dress of the lady herself, which was in texture elegant, and even rich, and arranged in a manner which partook partly of the parisian fashion and partly of the more simple dress of the highlands, blended together with great taste. her hair was not disfigured by the art of the friseur, but fell in jetty ringlets on her neck, confined only by a circlet, richly set with diamonds. this peculiarity she adopted in compliance with the highland prejudices, which could not endure that a woman's head should be covered before wedlock. flora mac-ivor bore a most striking resemblance to her brother fergus; so much so that they might have played viola and sebastian with the same exquisite effect produced by the appearance of mrs. henry siddons and her brother, mr. william murray, in these characters. they had the same antique and regular correctness of profile; the same dark eyes, eye-lashes, and eye-brows; the same clearness of complexion, excepting that fergus's was embrowned by exercise and flora's possessed the utmost feminine delicacy. but the haughty and somewhat stern regularity of fergus's features was beautifully softened in those of flora. their voices were also similar in tone, though differing in the key. that of fergus, especially while issuing orders to his followers during their military exercise, reminded edward of a favourite passage in the description of emetrius: --whose voice was heard around, loud as a trumpet with a silver sound. that of flora, on the contrary, was soft and sweet--'an excellent thing in woman'; yet, in urging any favourite topic, which she often pursued with natural eloquence, it possessed as well the tones which impress awe and conviction as those of persuasive insinuation. the eager glance of the keen black eye, which, in the chieftain, seemed impatient even of the material obstacles it encountered, had in his sister acquired a gentle pensiveness. his looks seemed to seek glory, power, all that could exalt him above others in the race of humanity; while those of his sister, as if she were already conscious of mental superiority, seemed to pity, rather than envy, those who were struggling for any farther distinction. her sentiments corresponded with the expression of her countenance. early education had impressed upon her mind, as well as on that of the chieftain, the most devoted attachment to the exiled family of stuart. she believed it the duty of her brother, of his clan, of every man in britain, at whatever personal hazard, to contribute to that restoration which the partisans of the chevalier st. george had not ceased to hope for. for this she was prepared to do all, to suffer all, to sacrifice all. but her loyalty, as it exceeded her brother's in fanaticism, excelled it also in purity. accustomed to petty intrigue, and necessarily involved in a thousand paltry and selfish discussions, ambitious also by nature, his political faith was tinctured, at least, if not tainted, by the views of interest and advancement so easily combined with it; and at the moment he should unsheathe his claymore, it might be difficult to say whether it would be most with the view of making james stuart a king or fergus mac-ivor an earl. this, indeed, was a mixture of feeling which he did not avow even to himself, but it existed, nevertheless, in a powerful degree. in flora's bosom, on the contrary, the zeal of loyalty burnt pure and unmixed with any selfish feeling; she would have as soon made religion the mask of ambitious and interested views as have shrouded them under the opinions which she had been taught to think patriotism. such instances of devotion were not uncommon among the followers of the unhappy race of stuart, of which many memorable proofs will recur to the minds of most of my readers. but peculiar attention on the part of the chevalier de st. george and his princess to the parents of fergus and his sister, and to themselves when orphans, had riveted their faith. fergus, upon the death of his parents, had been for some time a page of honour in the train of the chevalier's lady, and, from his beauty and sprightly temper, was uniformly treated by her with the utmost distinction. this was also extended to flora, who was maintained for some time at a convent of the first order at the princess's expense, and removed from thence into her own family, where she spent nearly two years. both brother and sister retained the deepest and most grateful sense of her kindness. having thus touched upon the leading principle of flora's character, i may dismiss the rest more slightly. she was highly accomplished, and had acquired those elegant manners to be expected from one who, in early youth, had been the companion of a princess; yet she had not learned to substitute the gloss of politeness for the reality of feeling. when settled in the lonely regions of glennaquoich, she found that her resources in french, english, and italian literature were likely to be few and interrupted; and, in order to fill up the vacant time, she bestowed a part of it upon the music and poetical traditions of the highlanders, and began really to feel the pleasure in the pursuit which her brother, whose perceptions of literary merit were more blunt, rather affected for the sake of popularity than actually experienced. her resolution was strengthened in these researches by the extreme delight which her inquiries seemed to afford those to whom she resorted for information. her love of her clan, an attachment which was almost hereditary in her bosom, was, like her loyalty, a more pure passion than that of her brother. he was too thorough a politician, regarded his patriarchal influence too much as the means of accomplishing his own aggrandisement, that we should term him the model of a highland chieftain. flora felt the same anxiety for cherishing and extending their patriarchal sway, but it was with the generous desire of vindicating from poverty, or at least from want and foreign oppression, those whom her brother was by birth, according to the notions of the time and country, entitled to govern. the savings of her income, for she had a small pension from the princess sobieski, were dedicated, not to add to the comforts of the peasantry, for that was a word which they neither knew nor apparently wished to know, but to relieve their absolute necessities when in sickness or extreme old age. at every other period they rather toiled to procure something which they might share with the chief, as a proof of their attachment, than expected other assistance from him save what was afforded by the rude hospitality of his castle, and the general division and subdivision of his estate among them. flora was so much beloved by them that, when mac-murrough composed a song in which he enumerated all the principal beauties of the district, and intimated her superiority by concluding, that 'the fairest apple hung on the highest bough,' he received, in donatives from the individuals of the clan, more seed-barley than would have sowed his highland parnassus, the bard's croft, as it was called, ten times over. from situation as well as choice, miss mac-ivor's society was extremely limited. her most intimate friend had been rose bradwardine, to whom she was much attached; and when seen together, they would have afforded an artist two admirable subjects for the gay and the melancholy muse. indeed rose was so tenderly watched by her father, and her circle of wishes was so limited, that none arose but what he was willing to gratify, and scarce any which did not come within the compass of his power. with flora it was otherwise. while almost a girl she had undergone the most complete change of scene, from gaiety and splendour to absolute solitude and comparative poverty; and the ideas and wishes which she chiefly fostered respected great national events, and changes not to be brought round without both hazard and bloodshed, and therefore not to be thought of with levity. her manner, consequently, was grave, though she readily contributed her talents to the amusement of society, and stood very high in the opinion of the old baron, who used to sing along with her such french duets of lindor and cloris, etc., as were in fashion about the end of the reign of old louis le grand. it was generally believed, though no one durst have hinted it to the baron of bradwardine, that flora's entreaties had no small share in allaying the wrath of fergus upon occasion of their quarrel. she took her brother on the assailable side, by dwelling first upon the baron's age, and then representing the injury which the cause might sustain, and the damage which must arise to his own character in point of prudence--so necessary to a political agent, if he persisted in carrying it to extremity. otherwise it is probable it would have terminated in a duel, both because the baron had, on a former occasion, shed blood of the clan, though the matter had been timely accommodated, and on account of his high reputation for address at his weapon, which fergus almost condescended to envy. for the same reason she had urged their reconciliation, which the chieftain the more readily agreed to as it favoured some ulterior projects of his own. to this young lady, now presiding at the female empire of the tea-table, fergus introduced captain waverley, whom she received with the usual forms of politeness. chapter xxii highland minstrelsy when the first salutations had passed, fergus said to his sister, 'my dear flora, before i return to the barbarous ritual of our forefathers, i must tell you that captain waverley is a worshipper of the celtic muse, not the less so perhaps that he does not understand a word of her language. i have told him you are eminent as a translator of highland poetry, and that mac-murrough admires your version of his songs upon the same principle that captain waverley admires the original,--because he does not comprehend them. will you have the goodness to read or recite to our guest in english the extraordinary string of names which mac-murrough has tacked together in gaelic? my life to a moor-fowl's feather, you are provided with a version; for i know you are in all the bard's councils, and acquainted with his songs long before he rehearses them in the hall.' 'how can you say so, fergus? you know how little these verses can possibly interest an english stranger, even if i could translate them as you pretend.' 'not less than they interest me, lady fair. to-day your joint composition, for i insist you had a share in it, has cost me the last silver cup in the castle, and i suppose will cost me something else next time i hold cour pleniere, if the muse descends on mac-murrough; for you know our proverb,--"when the hand of the chief ceases to bestow, the breath of the bard is frozen in the utterance."--well, i would it were even so: there are three things that are useless to a modern highlander,--a sword which he must not draw, a bard to sing of deeds which he dare not imitate, and a large goat-skin purse without a louis-d'or to put into it.' 'well, brother, since you betray my secrets, you cannot expect me to keep yours. i assure you, captain waverley, that fergus is too proud to exchange his broardsword for a marechal's baton, that he esteems mac-murrough a far greater poet than homer, and would not give up his goat-skin purse for all the louis-d'or which it could contain.' 'well pronounced, flora; blow for blow, as conan [footnote: see note .] said to the devil. now do you two talk of bards and poetry, if not of purses and claymores, while i return to do the final honours to the senators of the tribe of ivor.' so saying, he left the room. the conversation continued between flora and waverley; for two well-dressed young women, whose character seemed to hover between that of companions and dependants, took no share in it. they were both pretty girls, but served only as foils to the grace and beauty of their patroness. the discourse followed the turn which the chieftain had given it, and waverley was equally amused and surprised with the account which the lady gave him of celtic poetry. 'the recitation,' she said, 'of poems recording the feats of heroes, the complaints of lovers, and the wars of contending tribes, forms the chief amusement of a winter fire-side in the highlands. some of these are said to be very ancient, and if they are ever translated into any of the languages of civilised europe, cannot fail to produce a deep and general sensation. others are more modern, the composition of those family bards whom the chieftains of more distinguished name and power retain as the poets and historians of their tribes. these, of course, possess various degrees of merit; but much of it must evaporate in translation, or be lost on those who do not sympathise with the feelings of the poet.' 'and your bard, whose effusions seemed to produce such effect upon the company to-day, is he reckoned among the favourite poets of the mountains?' 'that is a trying question. his reputation is high among his countrymen, and you must not expect me to depreciate it. [footnote: the highland poet almost always was an improvisatore. captain burt met one of them at lovat's table.] 'but the song, miss mac-ivor, seemed to awaken all those warriors, both young and old.' 'the song is little more than a catalogue of names of the highland clans under their distinctive peculiarities, and an exhortation to them to remember and to emulate the actions of their forefathers.' 'and am i wrong in conjecturing, however extraordinary the guess appears, that there was some allusion to me in the verses which he recited?' 'you have a quick observation, captain waverley, which in this instance has not deceived you. the gaelic language, being uncommonly vocalic, is well adapted for sudden and extemporaneous poetry; and a bard seldom fails to augment the effects of a premeditated song by throwing in any stanzas which may be suggested by the circumstances attending the recitation.' 'i would give my best horse to know what the highland bard could find to say of such an unworthy southron as myself.' 'it shall not even cost you a lock of his mane. una, mavourneen! (she spoke a few words to one of the young girls in attendance, who instantly curtsied and tripped out of the room.) i have sent una to learn from the bard the expressions he used, and you shall command my skill as dragoman.' una returned in a few minutes, and repeated to her mistress a few lines in gaelic. flora seemed to think for a moment, and then, slightly colouring, she turned to waverley--'it is impossible to gratify your curiosity, captain waverley, without exposing my own presumption. if you will give me a few moments for consideration, i will endeavour to engraft the meaning of these lines upon a rude english translation which i have attempted of a part of the original. the duties of the tea-table seem to be concluded, and, as the evening is delightful, una will show you the way to one of my favourite haunts, and cathleen and i will join you there.' una, having received instructions in her native language, conducted waverley out by a passage different from that through which he had entered the apartment. at a distance he heard the hall of the chief still resounding with the clang of bagpipes and the high applause of his guests. having gained the open air by a postern door, they walked a little way up the wild, bleak, and narrow valley in which the house was situated, following the course of the stream that winded through it. in a spot, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, two brooks, which formed the little river, had their junction. the larger of the two came down the long bare valley, which extended, apparently without any change or elevation of character, as far as the hills which formed its boundary permitted the eye to reach. but the other stream, which had its source among the mountains on the left hand of the strath, seemed to issue from a very narrow and dark opening betwixt two large rocks. these streams were different also in character. the larger was placid, and even sullen in its course, wheeling in deep eddies, or sleeping in dark blue pools; but the motions of the lesser brook were rapid and furious, issuing from between precipices, like a maniac from his confinement, all foam and uproar. it was up the course of this last stream that waverley, like a knight of romance, was conducted by the fair highland damsel, his silent guide. a small path, which had been rendered easy in many places for flora's accommodation, led him through scenery of a very different description from that which he had just quitted. around the castle all was cold, bare, and desolate, yet tame even in desolation; but this narrow glen, at so short a distance, seemed to open into the land of romance. the rocks assumed a thousand peculiar and varied forms. in one place a crag of huge size presented its gigantic bulk, as if to forbid the passenger's farther progress; and it was not until he approached its very base that waverley discerned the sudden and acute turn by which the pathway wheeled its course around this formidable obstacle. in another spot the projecting rocks from the opposite sides of the chasm had approached so near to each other that two pine-trees laid across, and covered with turf, formed a rustic bridge at the height of at least one hundred and fifty feet. it had no ledges, and was barely three feet in breadth. while gazing at this pass of peril, which crossed, like a single black line, the small portion of blue sky not intercepted by the projecting rocks on either side, it was with a sensation of horror that waverley beheld flora and her attendant appear, like inhabitants of another region, propped, as it were, in mid air, upon this trembling structure. she stopped upon observing him below, and, with an air of graceful ease which made him shudder, waved her handkerchief to him by way of signal. he was unable, from the sense of dizziness which her situation conveyed, to return the salute; and was never more relieved than when the fair apparition passed on from the precarious eminence which she seemed to occupy with so much indifference, and disappeared on the other side. advancing a few yards, and passing under the bridge which he had viewed with so much terror, the path ascended rapidly from the edge of the brook, and the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheatre, waving with birch, young oaks, and hazels, with here and there a scattered yew-tree. the rocks now receded, but still showed their grey and shaggy crests rising among the copse-wood. still higher rose eminences and peaks, some bare, some clothed with wood, some round and purple with heath, and others splintered into rocks and crags. at a short turning the path, which had for some furlongs lost sight of the brook, suddenly placed waverley in front of a romantic waterfall. it was not so remarkable either for great height or quantity of water as for the beautiful accompaniments which made the spot interesting. after a broken cataract of about twenty feet, the stream was received in a large natural basin filled to the brim with water, which, where the bubbles of the fall subsided, was so exquisitely clear that, although it was of great depth, the eye could discern each pebble at the bottom. eddying round this reservoir, the brook found its way as if over a broken part of the ledge, and formed a second fall, which seemed to seek the very abyss; then, wheeling out beneath from among the smooth dark rocks which it had polished for ages, it wandered murmuring down the glen, forming the stream up which waverley had just ascended. [footnote: see note .] the borders of this romantic reservoir corresponded in beauty; but it was beauty of a stern and commanding cast, as if in the act of expanding into grandeur. mossy banks of turf were broken and interrupted by huge fragments of rock, and decorated with trees and shrubs, some of which had been planted under the direction of flora, but so cautiously that they added to the grace without diminishing the romantic wildness of the scene. here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapes of poussin, waverley found flora gazing on the waterfall. two paces further back stood cathleen, holding a small scottish harp, the use of which had been taught to flora by rory dall, one of the last harpers of the western highlands. the sun, now stooping in the west, gave a rich and varied tinge to all the objects which surrounded waverley, and seemed to add more than human brilliancy to the full expressive darkness of flora's eye, exalted the richness and purity of her complexion, and enhanced the dignity and grace of her beautiful form. edward thought he had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined a figure of such exquisite and interesting loveliness. the wild beauty of the retreat, bursting upon him as if by magic, augmented the mingled feeling of delight and awe with which he approached her, like a fair enchantress of boiardo or ariosto, by whose nod the scenery around seemed to have been created an eden in the wilderness. flora, like every beautiful woman, was conscious of her own power, and pleased with its effects, which she could easily discern from the respectful yet confused address of the young soldier. but, as she possessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the scene and other accidental circumstances full weight in appreciating the feelings with which waverley seemed obviously to be impressed; and, unacquainted with the fanciful and susceptible peculiarities of his character, considered his homage as the passing tribute which a woman of even inferior charms might have expected in such a situation. she therefore quietly led the way to a spot at such a distance from the cascade that its sound should rather accompany than interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and, sitting down upon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp from cathleen. 'i have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, captain waverley, both because i thought the scenery would interest you, and because a highland song would suffer still more from my imperfect translation were i to introduce it without its own wild and appropriate accompaniments. to speak in the poetical language of my country, the seat of the celtic muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill, and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream. he who woos her must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.' few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with a voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that the muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriate representative. but waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind, found no courage to utter it. indeed, the wild feeling of romantic delight with which he heard the few first notes she drew from her instrument amounted almost to a sense of pain. he would not for worlds have quitted his place by her side; yet he almost longed for solitude, that he might decipher and examine at leisure the complication of emotions which now agitated his bosom. flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard for a lofty and uncommon highland air, which had been a battle-song in former ages. a few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild and peculiar tone, which harmonised well with the distant waterfall, and the soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen, which overhung the seat of the fair harpress. the following verses convey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and accompanied, they were heard by waverley:-- there is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, but more dark is the sleep of the sons of the gael. a stranger commanded--it sunk on the land, it has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand! the dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, the bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust; on the hill or the glen if a gun should appear, it is only to war with the heath-cock or deer. the deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone, that shall bid us remember the fame that is flown. but the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, the morn on our mountains is dawning at last; glenaladale's peaks are illumined with the rays, and the streams of glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze. [footnote: the young and daring adventurer, charles edward, landed at glenaladale, in moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley of glenfinnan, mustering around it the mac-donalds, the camerons, and other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him. there is a monument erected on the spot, with a latin inscription by the late doctor gregory.] o high-minded moray! the exiled! the dear! in the blush of the dawning the standard uprear! wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly, like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh! [footnote: the marquis of tullibardine's elder brother, who, long exiled, returned to scotland with charles edward in .] ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? that dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye, but it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die. o, sprung from the kings who in islay kept state, proud chiefs of clan ranald, glengarry, and sleat! combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, and resistless in union rush down on the foe! true son of sir evan, undaunted lochiel, place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! rough keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell, till far coryarrick resound to the knell! stern son of lord kenneth, high chief of kintail, let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! may the race of clan gillean, the fearless and free, remember glenlivat, harlaw, and dundee! let the clan of grey fingon, whose offspring has given such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven, unite with the race of renown'd rorri more, to launch the long galley and stretch to the oar. how mac-shimei will joy when their chief shall display the yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey! how the race of wrong'd alpine and murder'd glencoe shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe! ye sons of brown dermid, who slew the wild boar, resume the pure faith of the great callum-more! mac-neil of the islands, and moy of the lake, for honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake! here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon flora and interrupted her music by his importunate caresses. at a distant whistle he turned and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow. 'that is fergus's faithful attendant, captain waverley, and that was his signal. he likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good time to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucy english poets calls our bootless host of high-born beggars, mac-leans, mac-kenzies, and mac-gregors.' waverley expressed his regret at the interruption. 'o you cannot guess how much you have lost! the bard, as in duty bound, has addressed three long stanzas to vich ian vohr of the banners, enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a cheerer of the harper and bard--"a giver of bounteous gifts." besides, you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son of the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green--the rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. this valiant horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors were distinguished by their loyalty as well as by their courage. all this you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, i judge, from the distant sound of my brother's whistle, i may have time to sing the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation.' awake on your hills, on your islands awake, brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 't is the bugle--but not for the chase is the call; 't is the pibroch's shrill summons--but not to the hall. 't is the summons of heroes for conquest or death, when the banners are blazing on mountain and heath: they call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, to the march and the muster, the line and the charge. be the brand of each chieftain like fin's in his ire! may the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire! burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore, or die like your sires, and endure it no more! chapter xxiii waveeley continues at glennaquoich as flora concluded her song, fergus stood before them. 'i knew i should find you here, even without the assistance of my friend bran. a simple and unsublimed taste now, like my own, would prefer a jet d'eau at versailles to this cascade, with all its accompaniments of rock and roar; but this is flora's parnassus, captain waverley, and that fountain her helicon. it would be greatly for the benefit of my cellar if she could teach her coadjutor, mac-murrough, the value of its influence: he has just drunk a pint of usquebaugh to correct, he said, the coldness of the claret. let me try its virtues.' he sipped a little water in the hollow of his hand, and immediately commenced, with a theatrical air,-- 'o lady of the desert, hail! that lovest the harping of the gael, through fair and fertile regions borne, where never yet grew grass or corn. but english poetry will never succeed under the influence of a highland helicon. allons, courage! o vous, qui buvez, a tasse pleine, a cette heureuse f ontaine, ou on ne voit, sur le rivage, que quelques vilains troupeaux, suivis de nymphes de village, qui les escortent sans sabots--' 'a truce, dear fergus! spare us those most tedious and insipid persons of all arcadia. do not, for heaven's sake, bring down coridon and lindor upon us.' 'nay, if you cannot relish la houlette et le chalumeau, have with you in heroic strains.' 'dear fergus, you have certainly partaken of the inspiration of mac-murrough's cup rather than of mine.' 'i disclaim it, ma belle demoiselle, although i protest it would be the more congenial of the two. which of your crack-brained italian romancers is it that says, io d'elicona niente mi curo, in fe de dio; che'l bere d'acque (bea chi ber ne vuol) sempre mi spiacque! [footnote: good sooth, i reck nought of your helicon; drink water whoso will, in faith i will drink none.] but if you prefer the gaelic, captain waverley, here is little cathleen shall sing you drimmindhu. come, cathleen, astore (i.e. my dear), begin; no apologies to the cean-kinne.' cathleen sung with much liveliness a little gaelic song, the burlesque elegy of a countryman on the loss of his cow, the comic tones of which, though he did not understand the language, made waverley laugh more than once. [footnote: this ancient gaelic ditty is still well known, both in the highlands and in ireland it was translated into english, and published, if i mistake not, under the auspices of the facetious tom d'urfey, by the title of 'colley, my cow.'] 'admirable, cathleen!' cried the chieftain; 'i must find you a handsome husband among the clansmen one of these days.' cathleen laughed, blushed, and sheltered herself behind her companion. in the progress of their return to the castle, the chieftain warmly pressed waverley to remain for a week or two, in order to see a grand hunting party, in which he and some other highland gentlemen proposed to join. the charms of melody and beauty were too strongly impressed in edward's breast to permit his declining an invitation so pleasing. it was agreed, therefore, that he should write a note to the baron of bradwardine, expressing his intention to stay a fortnight at glennaquoich, and requesting him to forward by the bearer (a gilly of the chieftain's) any letters which might have arrived for him. this turned the discourse upon the baron, whom fergus highly extolled as a gentleman and soldier. his character was touched with yet more discrimination by flora, who observed he was the very model of the old scottish cavalier, with all his excellencies and peculiarities. 'it is a character, captain waverley, which is fast disappearing; for its best point was a self-respect which was never lost sight of till now. but in the present time the gentlemen whose principles do not permit them to pay court to the existing government are neglected and degraded, and many conduct themselves accordingly; and, like some of the persons you have seen at tully-veolan, adopt habits and companions inconsistent with their birth and breeding. the ruthless proscription of party seems to degrade the victims whom it brands, however unjustly. but let us hope a brighter day is approaching, when a scottish country gentleman may be a scholar without the pedantry of our friend the baron, a sportsman without the low habits of mr. falconer, and a judicious improver of his property without becoming a boorish two-legged steer like killancureit.' thus did flora prophesy a revolution, which time indeed has produced, but in a manner very different from what she had in her mind. the amiable rose was next mentioned, with the warmest encomium on her person, manners, and mind. 'that man,' said flora, 'will find an inestimable treasure in the affections of rose bradwardine who shall be so fortunate as to become their object. her very soul is in home, and in the discharge of all those quiet virtues of which home is the centre. her husband will be to her what her father now is, the object of all her care, solicitude, and affection. she will see nothing, and connect herself with nothing, but by him and through him. if he is a man of sense and virtue, she will sympathise in his sorrows, divert his fatigue, and share his pleasures. if she becomes the property of a churlish or negligent husband, she will suit his taste also, for she will not long survive his unkindness. and, alas! how great is the chance that some such unworthy lot may be that of my poor friend! o that i were a queen this moment, and could command the most amiable and worthy youth of my kingdom to accept happiness with the hand of rose bradwardine!' 'i wish you would command her to accept mine en attendant,' said fergus, laughing. i don't know by what caprice it was that this wish, however jocularly expressed, rather jarred on edward's feelings, notwithstanding his growing inclination to flora and his indifference to miss bradwardine. this is one of the inexplicabilities of human nature, which we leave without comment. 'yours, brother?' answered flora, regarding him steadily. 'no; you have another bride--honour; and the dangers you must run in pursuit of her rival would break poor rose's heart.' with this discourse they reached the castle, and waverley soon prepared his despatches for tully-veolan. as he knew the baron was punctilious in such matters, he was about to impress his billet with a seal on which his armorial bearings were engraved, but he did not find it at his watch, and thought he must have left it at tully-veolan. he mentioned his loss, borrowing at the same time the family seal of the chieftain. 'surely,' said miss mac-ivor, 'donald bean lean would not--' 'my life for him in such circumstances,' answered her brother; 'besides, he would never have left the watch behind.' 'after all, fergus,' said flora, 'and with every allowance, i am surprised you can countenance that man.' 'i countenance him? this kind sister of mine would persuade you, captain waverley, that i take what the people of old used to call "a steakraid," that is, a "collop of the foray," or, in plainer words, a portion of the robber's booty, paid by him to the laird, or chief, through whose grounds he drove his prey. o, it is certain that, unless i can find some way to charm flora's tongue, general blakeney will send a sergeant's party from stirling (this he said with haughty and emphatic irony) to seize vich lan vohr, as they nickname me, in his own castle.' 'now, fergus, must not our guest be sensible that all this is folly and affectation? you have men enough to serve you without enlisting banditti, and your own honour is above taint. why don't you send this donald bean lean, whom i hate for his smoothness and duplicity even more than for his rapine, out of your country at once? no cause should induce me to tolerate such a character.' 'no cause, flora?' said the chieftain significantly. 'no cause, fergus! not even that which is nearest to my heart. spare it the omen of such evil supporters!' 'o but, sister,' rejoined the chief gaily, 'you don't consider my respect for la belle passion. evan dhu maccombich is in love with donald's daughter, alice, and you cannot expect me to disturb him in his amours. why, the whole clan would cry shame on me. you know it is one of their wise sayings, that a kinsman is part of a man's body, but a foster-brother is a piece of his heart.' 'well, fergus, there is no disputing with you; but i would all this may end well.' 'devoutly prayed, my dear and prophetic sister, and the best way in the world to close a dubious argument. but hear ye not the pipes, captain waverley? perhaps you will like better to dance to them in the hall than to be deafened with their harmony without taking part in the exercise they invite us to.' waverley took flora's hand. the dance, song, and merry-making proceeded, and closed the day's entertainment at the castle of vich ian vohr. edward at length retired, his mind agitated by a variety of new and conflicting feelings, which detained him from rest for some time, in that not unpleasing state of mind in which fancy takes the helm, and the soul rather drifts passively along with the rapid and confused tide of reflections than exerts itself to encounter, systematise, or examine them. at a late hour he fell asleep, and dreamed of flora mac-ivor. chapter xxiv a stag-hunt and its consequences shall this be a long or a short chapter? this is a question in which you, gentle reader, have no vote, however much you may be interested in the consequences; just as you may (like myself) probably have nothing to do with the imposing a new tax, excepting the trifling circumstance of being obliged to pay it. more happy surely in the present case, since, though it lies within my arbitrary power to extend my materials as i think proper, i cannot call you into exchequer if you do not think proper to read my narrative. let me therefore consider. it is true that the annals and documents in my hands say but little of this highland chase; but then i can find copious materials for description elsewhere. there is old lindsay of pitscottie ready at my elbow, with his athole hunting, and his 'lofted and joisted palace of green timber; with all kind of drink to be had in burgh and land, as ale, beer, wine, muscadel, malvaise, hippocras, and aquavitae; with wheat-bread, main-bread, ginge-bread, beef, mutton, lamb, veal, venison, goose, grice, capon, coney, crane, swan, partridge, plover, duck, drake, brisselcock, pawnies, black-cock, muir-fowl, and capercailzies'; not forgetting the 'costly bedding, vaiselle, and napry,' and least of all the 'excelling stewards, cunning baxters, excellent cooks, and pottingars, with confections and drugs for the desserts.' besides the particulars which may be thence gleaned for this highland feast (the splendour of which induced the pope's legate to dissent from an opinion which he had hitherto held, that scotland, namely, was the--the--the latter end of the world)--besides these, might i not illuminate my pages with taylor the water poet's hunting in the braes of mar, where,-- through heather, mosse,'mong frogs, and bogs, and fogs, 'mongst craggy cliffs and thunder-batter'd hills, hares, hinds, bucks, roes, are chased by men and dogs, where two hours' hunting fourscore fat deer kills. lowland, your sports are low as is your seat; the highland games and minds are high and great? but without further tyranny over my readers, or display of the extent of my own reading, i shall content myself with borrowing a single incident from the memorable hunting at lude, commemorated in the ingenious mr. gunn's essay on the caledonian harp, and so proceed in my story with all the brevity that my natural style of composition, partaking of what scholars call the periphrastic and ambagitory, and the vulgar the circumbendibus, will permit me. the solemn hunting was delayed, from various causes, for about three weeks. the interval was spent by waverley with great satisfaction at glennaquoich; for the impression which flora had made on his mind at their first meeting grew daily stronger. she was precisely the character to fascinate a youth of romantic imagination. her manners, her language, her talents for poetry and music, gave additional and varied influence to her eminent personal charms. even in her hours of gaiety she was in his fancy exalted above the ordinary daughters of eve, and seemed only to stoop for an instant to those topics of amusement and gallantry which others appear to live for. in the neighbourhood of this enchantress, while sport consumed the morning and music and the dance led on the hours of evening, waverley became daily more delighted with his hospitable landlord, and more enamoured of his bewitching sister. at length the period fixed for the grand hunting arrived, and waverley and the chieftain departed for the place of rendezvous, which was a day's journey to the northward of glennaquoich. fergus was attended on this occasion by about three hundred of his clan, well armed and accoutred in their best fashion. waverley complied so far with the custom of the country as to adopt the trews (he could not be reconciled to the kilt), brogues, and bonnet, as the fittest dress for the exercise in which he was to be engaged, and which least exposed him to be stared at as a stranger when they should reach the place of rendezvous. they found on the spot appointed several powerful chiefs, to all of whom waverley was formally presented, and by all cordially received. their vassals and clansmen, a part of whose feudal duty it was to attend on these parties, appeared in such numbers as amounted to a small army. these active assistants spread through the country far and near, forming a circle, technically called the tinchel, which, gradually closing, drove the deer in herds together towards the glen where the chiefs and principal sportsmen lay in wait for them. in the meanwhile these distinguished personages bivouacked among the flowery heath, wrapped up in their plaids, a mode of passing a summer's night which waverley found by no means unpleasant. for many hours after sunrise the mountain ridges and passes retained their ordinary appearance of silence and solitude, and the chiefs, with their followers, amused themselves with various pastimes, in which the joys of the shell, as ossian has it, were not forgotten. 'others apart sate on a hill retired,' probably as deeply engaged in the discussion of politics and news as milton's spirits in metaphysical disquisition. at length signals of the approach of the game were descried and heard. distant shouts resounded from valley to valley, as the various parties of highlanders, climbing rocks, struggling through copses, wading brooks, and traversing thickets, approached more and more near to each other, and compelled the astonished deer, with the other wild animals that fled before them, into a narrower circuit. every now and then the report of muskets was heard, repeated by a thousand echoes. the baying of the dogs was soon added to the chorus, which grew ever louder and more loud. at length the advanced parties of the deer began to show themselves; and as the stragglers came bounding down the pass by two or three at a time, the chiefs showed their skill by distinguishing the fattest deer, and their dexterity in bringing them down with their guns. fergus exhibited remarkable address, and edward was also so fortunate as to attract the notice and applause of the sportsmen. but now the main body of the deer appeared at the head of the glen, compelled into a very narrow compass, and presenting such a formidable phalanx that their antlers appeared at a distance, over the ridge of the steep pass, like a leafless grove. their number was very great, and from a desperate stand which they made, with the tallest of the red-deer stags arranged in front, in a sort of battle-array, gazing on the group which barred their passage down the glen, the more experienced sportsmen began to augur danger. the work of destruction, however, now commenced on all sides. dogs and hunters were at work, and muskets and fusees resounded from every quarter. the deer, driven to desperation, made at length a fearful charge right upon the spot where the more distinguished sportsmen had taken their stand. the word was given in gaelic to fling themselves upon their faces; but waverley, on whose english ears the signal was lost, had almost fallen a sacrifice to his ignorance of the ancient language in which it was communicated. fergus, observing his danger, sprung up and pulled him with violence to the ground, just as the whole herd broke down upon them. the tide being absolutely irresistible, and wounds from a stag's horn highly dangerous, the activity of the chieftain may be considered, on this occasion, as having saved his guest's life. he detained him with a firm grasp until the whole herd of deer had fairly run over them. waverley then attempted to rise, but found that he had suffered several very severe contusions, and, upon a further examination, discovered that he had sprained his ankle violently. [footnote: the thrust from the tynes, or branches, of the stag's horns was accounted far more dangerous than those of the boar's tusk:-- if thou be hurt with horn of stag, it brings thee to thy bier, but barber's hand shall boar's hurt heal, thereof have thou no fear.] this checked the mirth of the meeting, although the highlanders, accustomed to such incidents, and prepared for them, had suffered no harm themselves. a wigwam was erected almost in an instant, where edward was deposited on a couch of heather. the surgeon, or he who assumed the office, appeared to unite the characters of a leech and a conjuror. he was an old smoke-dried highlander, wearing a venerable grey beard, and having for his sole garment a tartan frock, the skirts of which descended to the knee, and, being undivided in front, made the vestment serve at once for doublet and breeches. [footnote: this garb, which resembled the dress often put on children in scotland, called a polonie (i. e. polonaise), is a very ancient modification of the highland garb. it was, in fact, the hauberk or shirt of mail, only composed of cloth instead of rings of armour.] he observed great ceremony in approaching edward; and though our hero was writhing with pain, would not proceed to any operation which might assuage it until he had perambulated his couch three times, moving from east to west, according to the course of the sun. this, which was called making the deasil, [footnote: old highlanders will still make the deasil around those whom they wish well to. to go round a person in the opposite direction, or withershins (german wider-shins), is unlucky, and a sort of incantation.] both the leech and the assistants seemed to consider as a matter of the last importance to the accomplishment of a cure; and waverley, whom pain rendered incapable of expostulation, and who indeed saw no chance of its being attended to, submitted in silence. after this ceremony was duly performed, the old esculapius let his patient's blood with a cupping-glass with great dexterity, and proceeded, muttering all the while to himself in gaelic, to boil on the fire certain herbs, with which he compounded an embrocation. he then fomented the parts which had sustained injury, never failing to murmur prayers or spells, which of the two waverley could not distinguish, as his ear only caught the words gaspar-melchior-balthazar-max-prax-fax, and similar gibberish. the fomentation had a speedy effect in alleviating the pain and swelling, which our hero imputed to the virtue of the herbs or the effect of the chafing, but which was by the bystanders unanimously ascribed to the spells with which the operation had been accompanied. edward was given to understand that not one of the ingredients had been gathered except during the full moon, and that the herbalist had, while collecting them, uniformly recited a charm, which in english ran thus:-- hail to thee, them holy herb, that sprung on holy ground! all in the mount olivet first wert thou found. thou art boot for many a bruise, and healest many a wound; in our lady's blessed name, i take thee from the ground. [footnote: this metrical spell, or something very like it, is preserved by reginald scott in his work on witchcraft.] edward observed with some surprise that even fergus, notwithstanding his knowledge and education, seemed to fall in with the superstitious ideas of his countrymen, either because he deemed it impolitic to affect scepticism on a matter of general belief, or more probably because, ike most men who do not think deeply or accurately on such subjects, he had in his mind a reserve of superstition which balanced the freedom of his expressions and practice upon other occasions. waverley made no commentary, therefore, on the manner of the treatment, but rewarded the professor of medicine with a liberality beyond the utmost conception of his wildest hopes. he uttered on the occasion so many incoherent blessings in gaelic and english that mac-ivor, rather scandalised at the excess of his acknowledgments, cut them short by exclaiming, ceud mile mhalloich ort! i.e. 'a hundred thousand curses on you!' and so pushed the helper of men out of the cabin. after waverley was left alone, the exhaustion of pain and fatigue--for the whole day's exercise had been severe--threw him into a profound, but yet a feverish sleep, which he chiefly owed to an opiate draught administered by the old highlander from some decoction of herbs in his pharmacopoeia. early the next morning, the purpose of their meeting being over, and their sports damped by the untoward accident, in which fergus and all his friends expressed the greatest sympathy, it became a question how to dispose of the disabled sportsman. this was settled by mac-ivor, who had a litter prepared, of 'birch and hazel-grey,' [footnote: on the morrow they made their biers of birch and hazel grey. chevy chase.] which was borne by his people with such caution and dexterity as renders it not improbable that they may have been the ancestors of some of those sturdy gael who have now the happiness to transport the belles of edinburgh in their sedan-chairs to ten routs in one evening. when edward was elevated upon their shoulders he could not help being gratified with the romantic effect produced by the breaking up of this sylvan camp. [footnote: see note .] the various tribes assembled, each at the pibroch of their native clan, and each headed by their patriarchal ruler. some, who had already begun to retire, were seen winding up the hills, or descending the passes which led to the scene of action, the sound of their bagpipes dying upon the ear. others made still a moving picture upon the narrow plain, forming various changeful groups, their feathers and loose plaids waving in the morning breeze, and their arms glittering in the rising sun. most of the chiefs came to take farewell of waverley, and to express their anxious hope they might again, and speedily, meet; but the care of fergus abridged the ceremony of taking leave. at length, his own men being completely assembled and mustered, mac-ivor commenced his march, but not towards the quarter from which they had come. he gave edward to understand that the greater part of his followers now on the field were bound on a distant expedition, and that when he had deposited him in the house of a gentleman, who he was sure would pay him every attention, he himself should be under the necessity of accompanying them the greater part of the way, but would lose no time in rejoining his friend. waverley was rather surprised that fergus had not mentioned this ulterior destination when they set out upon the hunting-party; but his situation did not admit of many interrogatories. the greater part of the clansmen went forward under the guidance of old ballenkeiroch and evan dhu maccombich, apparently in high spirits. a few remained for the purpose of escorting the chieftain, who walked by the side of edward's litter, and attended him with the most affectionate assiduity. about noon, after a journey which the nature of the conveyance, the pain of his bruises, and the roughness of the way rendered inexpressibly painful, waverley was hospitably received into the house of a gentleman related to fergus, who had prepared for him every accommodation which the simple habits of living then universal in the highlands put in his power. in this person, an old man about seventy, edward admired a relic of primitive simplicity. he wore no dress but what his estate afforded; the cloth was the fleece of his own sheep, woven by his own servants, and stained into tartan by the dyes produced from the herbs and lichens of the hills around him. his linen was spun by his daughters and maidservants, from his own flax; nor did his table, though plentiful, and varied with game and fish, offer an article but what was of native produce. claiming himself no rights of clanship or vassalage, he was fortunate in the alliance and protection of vich ian vohr and other bold and enterprising chieftains, who protected him in the quiet unambitious life he loved. it is true, the youth born on his grounds were often enticed to leave him for the service of his more active friends; but a few old servants and tenants used to shake their grey locks when they heard their master censured for want of spirit, and observed, 'when the wind is still, the shower falls soft.' this good old man, whose charity and hospitality were unbounded, would have received waverley with kindness had he been the meanest saxon peasant, since his situation required assistance. but his attention to a friend and guest of vich ian vohr was anxious and unremitted. other embrocations were applied to the injured limb, and new spells were put in practice. at length, after more solicitude than was perhaps for the advantage of his health, fergus took farewell of edward for a few days, when, he said, he would return to tomanrait, and hoped by that time waverley would be able to ride one of the highland ponies of his landlord, and in that manner return to glennaquoich. the next day, when his good old host appeared, edward learned that his friend had departed with the dawn, leaving none of his followers except callum beg, the sort of foot-page who used to attend his person, and who had now in charge to wait upon waverley. on asking his host if he knew where the chieftain was gone, the old man looked fixedly at him, with something mysterious and sad in the smile which was his only reply. waverley repeated his question, to which his host answered in a proverb,-- what sent the messengers to hell, was asking what they knew full well. [footnote: corresponding to the lowland saying, 'mony ane speirs the gate they ken fu' weel.'] he was about to proceed, but callum beg said, rather pertly, as edward thought, that 'ta tighearnach (i.e. the chief) did not like ta sassenagh duinhe-wassel to be pingled wi' mickle speaking, as she was na tat weel.' from this waverley concluded he should disoblige his friend by inquiring of a stranger the object of a journey which he himself had not communicated. it is unnecessary to trace the progress of our hero's recovery. the sixth morning had arrived, and he was able to walk about with a staff, when fergus returned with about a score of his men. he seemed in the highest spirits, congratulated waverley on his progress towards recovery, and finding he was able to sit on horseback, proposed their immediate return to glennaquoich. waverley joyfully acceded, for the form of its fair mistress had lived in his dreams during all the time of his confinement. now he has ridden o'er moor and moss, o'er hill and many a glen, fergus, all the while, with his myrmidons, striding stoutly by his side, or diverging to get a shot at a roe or a heath-cock. waverley's bosom beat thick when they approached the old tower of ian nan chaistel, and could distinguish the fair form of its mistress advancing to meet them. fergus began immediately, with his usual high spirits, to exclaim, 'open your gates, incomparable princess, to the wounded moor abindarez, whom rodrigo de narvez, constable of antiquera, conveys to your castle; or open them, if you like it better, to the renowned marquis of mantua, the sad attendant of his half-slain friend baldovinos of the mountain. ah, long rest to thy soul, cervantes! without quoting thy remnants, how should i frame my language to befit romantic ears!' flora now advanced, and welcoming waverley with much kindness, expressed her regret for his accident, of which she had already heard particulars, and her surprise that her brother should not have taken better care to put a stranger on his guard against the perils of the sport in which he engaged him. edward easily exculpated the chieftain, who, indeed, at his own personal risk, had probably saved his life. this greeting over, fergus said three or four words to his sister in gaelic. the tears instantly sprung to her eyes, but they seemed to be tears of devotion and joy, for she looked up to heaven and folded her hands as in a solemn expression of prayer or gratitude. after the pause of a minute, she presented to edward some letters which had been forwarded from tully-veolan during his absence, and at the same time delivered some to her brother. to the latter she likewise gave three or four numbers of the caledonian mercury, the only newspaper which was then published to the north of the tweed. both gentlemen retired to examine their despatches, and edward speedily found that those which he had received contained matters of very deep interest. chapter xxv news from england the letters which waverley had hitherto received from his relations in england were not such as required any particular notice in this narrative. his father usually wrote to him with the pompous affectation of one who was too much oppressed by public affairs to find leisure to attend to those of his own family. now and then he mentioned persons of rank in scotland to whom he wished his son should pay some attention; but waverley, hitherto occupied by the amusements which he had found at tully-veolan and glennaquoich, dispensed with paying any attention to hints so coldly thrown out, especially as distance, shortness of leave of absence, and so forth furnished a ready apology. but latterly the burden of mr. richard waverley's paternal epistles consisted in certain mysterious hints of greatness and influence which he was speedily to attain, and which would ensure his son's obtaining the most rapid promotion, should he remain in the military service. sir everard's letters were of a different tenor. they were short; for the good baronet was none of your illimitable correspondents, whose manuscript overflows the folds of their large post paper, and leaves no room for the seal; but they were kind and affectionate, and seldom concluded without some allusion to our hero's stud, some question about the state of his purse, and a special inquiry after such of his recruits as had preceded him from waverley-honour. aunt rachel charged him to remember his principles of religion, to take care of his health, to beware of scotch mists, which, she had heard, would wet an englishman through and through, never to go out at night without his great-coat, and, above all, to wear flannel next to his skin. mr. pembroke only wrote to our hero one letter, but it was of the bulk of six epistles of these degenerate days, containing, in the moderate compass of ten folio pages, closely written, a precis of a supplementary quarto manuscript of addenda, delenda, et corrigenda in reference to the two tracts with which he had presented waverley. this he considered as a mere sop in the pan to stay the appetite of edward's curiosity until he should find an opportunity of sending down the volume itself, which was much too heavy for the post, and which he proposed to accompany with certain interesting pamphlets, lately published by his friend in little britain, with whom he had kept up a sort of literary correspondence, in virtue of which the library shelves of waverley-honour were loaded with much trash, and a good round bill, seldom summed in fewer than three figures, was yearly transmitted, in which sir everard waverley of waverley-honour, bart., was marked dr. to jonathan grubbet, bookseller and stationer, little britain. such had hitherto been the style of the letters which edward had received from england; but the packet delivered to him at glennaquoich was of a different and more interesting complexion. it would be impossible for the reader, even were i to insert the letters at full length, to comprehend the real cause of their being written, without a glance into the interior of the british cabinet at the period in question. the ministers of the day happened (no very singular event) to be divided into two parties; the weakest of which, making up by assiduity of intrigue their inferiority in real consequence, had of late acquired some new proselytes, and with them the hope of superseding their rivals in the favour of their sovereign, and overpowering them in the house of commons. amongst others, they had thought it worth while to practise upon richard waverley. this honest gentleman, by a grave mysterious demeanour, an attention to the etiquette of business rather more than to its essence, a facility in making long dull speeches, consisting of truisms and commonplaces, hashed up with a technical jargon of office, which prevented the inanity of his orations from being discovered, had acquired a certain name and credit in public life, and even established, with many, the character of a profound politician; none of your shining orators, indeed, whose talents evaporate in tropes of rhetoric and flashes of wit, but one possessed of steady parts for business, which would wear well, as the ladies say in choosing their silks, and ought in all reason to be good for common and every-day use, since they were confessedly formed of no holiday texture. this faith had become so general that the insurgent party in the cabinet, of which we have made mention, after sounding mr. richard waverley, were so satisfied with his sentiments and abilities as to propose that, in case of a certain revolution in the ministry, he should take an ostensible place in the new order of things, not indeed of the very first rank, but greatly higher, in point both of emolument and influence, than that which he now enjoyed. there was no resisting so tempting a proposal, notwithstanding that the great man under whose patronage he had enlisted, and by whose banner he had hitherto stood firm, was the principal object of the proposed attack by the new allies. unfortunately this fair scheme of ambition was blighted in the very bud by a premature movement. all the official gentlemen concerned in it who hesitated to take the part of a voluntary resignation were informed that the king had no further occasion for their services; and in richard waverley's case, which the minister considered as aggravated by ingratitude, dismissal was accompanied by something like personal contempt and contumely. the public, and even the party of whom he shared the fall, sympathised little in the disappointment of this selfish and interested statesman; and he retired to the country under the comfortable reflection that he had lost, at the same time, character, credit, and,--what he at least equally deplored,--emolument. richard waverley's letter to his son upon this occasion was a masterpiece of its kind. aristides himself could not have made out a harder case. an unjust monarch and an ungrateful country were the burden of each rounded paragraph. he spoke of long services and unrequited sacrifices; though the former had been overpaid by his salary, and nobody could guess in what the latter consisted, unless it were in his deserting, not from conviction, but for the lucre of gain, the tory principles of his family. in the conclusion, his resentment was wrought to such an excess by the force of his own oratory, that he could not repress some threats of vengeance, however vague and impotent, and finally acquainted his son with his pleasure that he should testify his sense of the ill-treatment he had sustained by throwing up his commission as soon as the letter reached him. this, he said, was also his uncle's desire, as he would himself intimate in due course. accordingly, the next letter which edward opened was from sir everard. his brother's disgrace seemed to have removed from his well-natured bosom all recollection of their differences, and, remote as he was from every means of learning that richard's disgrace was in reality only the just as well as natural consequence of his own unsuccessful intrigues, the good but credulous baronet at once set it down as a new and enormous instance of the injustice of the existing government. it was true, he said, and he must not disguise it even from edward, that his father could not have sustained such an insult as was now, for the first time, offered to one of his house, unless he had subjected himself to it by accepting of an employment under the present system. sir everard had no doubt that he now both saw and felt the magnitude of this error, and it should be his (sir everard's) business to take care that the cause of his regret should not extend itself to pecuniary consequences. it was enough for a waverley to have sustained the public disgrace; the patrimonial injury could easily be obviated by the head of their family. but it was both the opinion of mr. richard waverley and his own that edward, the representative of the family of waverley-honour, should not remain in a situation which subjected him also to such treatment as that with which his father had been stigmatised. he requested his nephew therefore to take the fittest, and at the same time the most speedy, opportunity of transmitting his resignation to the war office, and hinted, moreover, that little ceremony was necessary where so little had been used to his father. he sent multitudinous greetings to the baron of bradwardine. a letter from aunt rachel spoke out even more plainly. she considered the disgrace of brother richard as the just reward of his forfeiting his allegiance to a lawful though exiled sovereign, and taking the oaths to an alien; a concession which her grandfather, sir nigel waverley, refused to make, either to the roundhead parliament or to cromwell, when his life and fortune stood in the utmost extremity. she hoped her dear edward would follow the footsteps of his ancestors, and as speedily as possible get rid of the badge of servitude to the usurping family, and regard the wrongs sustained by his father as an admonition from heaven that every desertion of the line of loyalty becomes its own punishment. she also concluded with her respects to mr. bradwardine, and begged waverley would inform her whether his daughter, miss rose, was old enough to wear a pair of very handsome ear-rings, which she proposed to send as a token of her affection. the good lady also desired to be informed whether mr. bradwardine took as much scotch snuff and danced as unweariedly as he did when he was at waverley-honour about thirty years ago. these letters, as might have been expected, highly excited waverley's indignation. from the desultory style of his studies, he had not any fixed political opinion to place in opposition to the movements of indignation which he felt at his father's supposed wrongs. of the real cause of his disgrace edward was totally ignorant; nor had his habits at all led him to investigate the politics of the period in which he lived, or remark the intrigues in which his father had been so actively engaged. indeed, any impressions which he had accidentally adopted concerning the parties of the times were (owing to the society in which he had lived at waverley-honour) of a nature rather unfavourable to the existing government and dynasty. he entered, therefore, without hesitation into the resentful feeling of the relations who had the best title to dictate his conduct, and not perhaps the less willingly when he remembered the tedium of his quarters, and the inferior figure which he had made among the officers of his regiment. if he could have had any doubt upon the subject it would have been decided by the following letter from his commanding officer, which, as it is very short, shall be inserted verbatim:-- sir,-- having carried somewhat beyond the line of my duty an indulgence which even the lights of nature, and much more those of christianity, direct towards errors which may arise from youth and inexperience, and that altogether without effect, i am reluctantly compelled, at the present crisis, to use the only remaining remedy which is in my power. you are, therefore, hereby commanded to repair to--, the headquarters of the regiment, within three days after the date of this letter. if you shall fail to do so, i must report you to the war office as absent without leave, and also take other steps, which will be disagreeable to you as well as to, sir, your obedient servant, j. gardiner, lieut.-col. commanding the ----regt. dragoons. edward's blood boiled within him as he read this letter. he had been accustomed from his very infancy to possess in a great measure the disposal of his own time, and thus acquired habits which rendered the rules of military discipline as unpleasing to him in this as they were in some other respects. an idea that in his own case they would not be enforced in a very rigid manner had also obtained full possession of his mind, and had hitherto been sanctioned by the indulgent conduct of his lieutenant-colonel. neither had anything occurred, to his knowledge, that should have induced his commanding officer, without any other warning than the hints we noticed at the end of the fourteenth chapter, so suddenly to assume a harsh and, as edward deemed it, so insolent a tone of dictatorial authority. connecting it with the letters he had just received from his family, he could not but suppose that it was designed to make him feel, in his present situation, the same pressure of authority which had been exercised in his father's case, and that the whole was a concerted scheme to depress and degrade every member of the waverley family. without a pause, therefore, edward wrote a few cold lines, thanking his lieutenant-colonel for past civilities, and expressing regret that he should have chosen to efface the remembrance of them by assuming a different tone towards him. the strain of his letter, as well as what he (edward) conceived to be his duty in the present crisis, called upon him to lay down his commission; and he therefore inclosed the formal resignation of a situation which subjected him to so unpleasant a correspondence, and requested colonel gardiner would have the goodness to forward it to the proper authorities. having finished this magnanimous epistle, he felt somewhat uncertain concerning the terms in which his resignation ought to be expressed, upon which subject he resolved to consult fergus mac-ivor. it may be observed in passing that the bold and prompt habits of thinking, acting, and speaking which distinguished this young chieftain had given him a considerable ascendency over the mind of waverley. endowed with at least equal powers of understanding, and with much finer genius, edward yet stooped to the bold and decisive activity of an intellect which was sharpened by the habit of acting on a preconceived and regular system, as well as by extensive knowledge of the world. when edward found his friend, the latter had still in his hand the newspaper which he had perused, and advanced to meet him with the embarrassment of one who has unpleasing news to communicate. 'do your letters, captain waverley, confirm the unpleasing information which i find in this paper?' he put the paper into his hand, where his father's disgrace was registered in the most bitter terms, transferred probably from some london journal. at the end of the paragraph was this remarkable innuendo:-- 'we understand that "this same richard who hath done all this" is not the only example of the wavering honour of w-v-r-ly h-n-r. see the gazette of this day.' with hurried and feverish apprehension our hero turned to the place referred to, and found therein recorded, 'edward waverley, captain in ---- regiment dragoons, superseded for absence without leave'; and in the list of military promotions, referring to the same regiment, he discovered this farther article, 'lieut. julius butler, to be captain, vice edward waverley, superseded.' our hero's bosom glowed with the resentment which undeserved and apparently premeditated insult was calculated to excite in the bosom of one who had aspired after honour, and was thus wantonly held up to public scorn and disgrace. upon comparing the date of his colonel's letter with that of the article in the gazette, he perceived that his threat of making a report upon his absence had been literally fulfilled, and without inquiry, as it seemed, whether edward had either received his summons or was disposed to comply with it. the whole, therefore, appeared a formed plan to degrade him in the eyes of the public; and the idea of its having succeeded filled him with such bitter emotions that, after various attempts to conceal them, he at length threw himself into mac-ivor's arms, and gave vent to tears of shame and indignation. it was none of this chieftain's faults to be indifferent to the wrongs of his friends; and for edward, independent of certain plans with which he was connected, he felt a deep and sincere interest. the proceeding appeared as extraordinary to him as it had done to edward. he indeed knew of more motives than waverley was privy to for the peremptory order that he should join his regiment. but that, without further inquiry into the circumstances of a necessary delay, the commanding officer, in contradiction to his known and established character, should have proceeded in so harsh and unusual a manner was a mystery which he could not penetrate. he soothed our hero, however, to the best of his power, and began to turn his thoughts on revenge for his insulted honour. edward eagerly grasped at the idea. 'will you carry a message for me to colonel gardiner, my dear fergus, and oblige me for ever?' fergus paused. 'it is an act of friendship which you should command, could it be useful, or lead to the righting your honour; but in the present case i doubt if your commanding officer would give you the meeting on account of his having taken measures which, however harsh and exasperating, were still within the strict bounds of his duty. besides, gardiner is a precise huguenot, and has adopted certain ideas about the sinfulness of such rencontres, from which it would be impossible to make him depart, especially as his courage is beyond all suspicion. and besides, i--i, to say the truth--i dare not at this moment, for some very weighty reasons, go near any of the military quarters or garrisons belonging to this government.' 'and am i,' said waverley, 'to sit down quiet and contented under the injury i have received?' 'that will i never advise my friend,' replied mac-ivor. 'but i would have vengeance to fall on the head, not on the hand, on the tyrannical and oppressive government which designed and directed these premeditated and reiterated insults, not on the tools of office which they employed in the execution of the injuries they aimed at you.' 'on the government!' said waverley. 'yes,' replied the impetuous highlander, 'on the usurping house of hanover, whom your grandfather would no more have served than he would have taken wages of red-hot gold from the great fiend of hell!' 'but since the time of my grandfather two generations of this dynasty have possessed the throne,' said edward coolly. 'true,' replied the chieftain; 'and because we have passively given them so long the means of showing their native character,--because both you and i myself have lived in quiet submission, have even truckled to the times so far as to accept commissions under them, and thus have given them an opportunity of disgracing us publicly by resuming them, are we not on that account to resent injuries which our fathers only apprehended, but which we have actually sustained? or is the cause of the unfortunate stuart family become less just, because their title has devolved upon an heir who is innocent of the charges of misgovernment brought against his father? do you remember the lines of your favourite poet? had richard unconstrain'd resign'd the throne, a king can give no more than is his own; the title stood entail'd had richard had a son. you see, my dear waverley, i can quote poetry as well as flora and you. but come, clear your moody brow, and trust to me to show you an honourable road to a speedy and glorious revenge. let us seek flora, who perhaps has more news to tell us of what has occurred during our absence. she will rejoice to hear that you are relieved of your servitude. but first add a postscript to your letter, marking the time when you received this calvinistical colonel's first summons, and express your regret that the hastiness of his proceedings prevented your anticipating them by sending your resignation. then let him blush for his injustice.' the letter was sealed accordingly, covering a formal resignation of the commission, and mac-ivor despatched it with some letters of his own by a special messenger, with charge to put them into the nearest post-office in the lowlands. chapter xxvi an eclaircissement the hint which the chieftain had thrown out respecting flora was not unpremeditated. he had observed with great satisfaction the growing attachment of waverley to his sister, nor did he see any bar to their union, excepting the situation which waverley's father held in the ministry, and edward's own commission in the army of george ii. these obstacles were now removed, and in a manner which apparently paved the way for the son's becoming reconciled to another allegiance. in every other respect the match would be most eligible. the safety, happiness, and honourable provision of his sister, whom he dearly loved, appeared to be ensured by the proposed union; and his heart swelled when he considered how his own interest would be exalted in the eyes of the ex-monarch to whom he had dedicated his service, by an alliance with one of those ancient, powerful, and wealthy english families of the steady cavalier faith, to awaken whose decayed attachment to the stuart family was now a matter of such vital importance to the stuart cause. nor could fergus perceive any obstacle to such a scheme. waverley's attachment was evident; and as his person was handsome, and his taste apparently coincided with her own, he anticipated no opposition on the part of flora. indeed, between his ideas of patriarchal power and those which he had acquired in france respecting the disposal of females in marriage, any opposition from his sister, dear as she was to him, would have been the last obstacle on which he would have calculated, even had the union been less eligible. influenced by these feelings, the chief now led waverley in quest of miss mac-ivor, not without the hope that the present agitation of his guest's spirits might give him courage to cut short what fergus termed the romance of the courtship. they found flora, with her faithful attendants, una and cathleen, busied in preparing what appeared to waverley to be white bridal favours. disguising as well as he could the agitation of his mind, waverley asked for what joyful occasion miss mac-ivor made such ample preparation. 'it is for fergus's bridal,' she said, smiling. 'indeed!' said edward; 'he has kept his secret well. i hope he will allow me to be his bride's-man.' 'that is a man's office, but not yours, as beatrice says,' retorted flora. 'and who is the fair lady, may i be permitted to ask, miss mac-ivor?' 'did not i tell you long since that fergus wooed no bride but honour?' answered flora. 'and am i then incapable of being his assistant and counsellor in the pursuit of honour?' said our hero, colouring deeply. 'do i rank so low in your opinion?' 'far from it, captain waverley. i would to god you were of our determination! and made use of the expression which displeased you, solely because you are not of our quality, but stand against us as an enemy.' 'that time is past, sister,' said fergus; 'and you may wish edward waverley (no longer captain) joy of being freed from the slavery to an usurper, implied in that sable and ill-omened emblem.' 'yes,' said waverley, undoing the cockade from his hat, 'it has pleased the king who bestowed this badge upon me to resume it in a manner which leaves me little reason to regret his service.' 'thank god for that!' cried the enthusiast; 'and o that they may be blind enough to treat every man of honour who serves them with the same indignity, that i may have less to sigh for when the struggle approaches!' 'and now, sister,' said the chieftain, 'replace his cockade with one of a more lively colour. i think it was the fashion of the ladies of yore to arm and send forth their knights to high achievement.' 'not,' replied the lady, 'till the knight adventurer had well weighed the justice and the danger of the cause, fergus. mr. waverley is just now too much agitated by feelings of recent emotion for me to press upon him a resolution of consequence.' waverley felt half alarmed at the thought of adopting the badge of what was by the majority of the kingdom esteemed rebellion, yet he could not disguise his chagrin at the coldness with which flora parried her brother's hint. 'miss mac-ivor, i perceive, thinks the knight unworthy of her encouragement and favour,' said he, somewhat bitterly. 'not so, mr. waverley,' she replied, with great sweetness. 'why should i refuse my brother's valued friend a boon which i am distributing to his whole clan? most willingly would i enlist every man of honour in the cause to which my brother has devoted himself. but fergus has taken his measures with his eyes open. his life has been devoted to this cause from his cradle; with him its call is sacred, were it even a summons to the tomb. but how can i wish you, mr. waverley, so new to the world, so far from every friend who might advise and ought to influence you,--in a moment, too, of sudden pique and indignation,--how can i wish you to plunge yourself at once into so desperate an enterprise?' fergus, who did not understand these delicacies, strode through the apartment biting his lip, and then, with a constrained smile, said, 'well, sister, i leave you to act your new character of mediator between the elector of hanover and the subjects of your lawful sovereign and benefactor,' and left the room. there was a painful pause, which was at length broken by miss mac-ivor. 'my brother is unjust,' she said, 'because he can bear no interruption that seems to thwart his loyal zeal.' 'and do you not share his ardour?' asked waverley, 'do i not?' answered flora. 'god knows mine exceeds his, if that be possible. but i am not, like him, rapt by the bustle of military preparation, and the infinite detail necessary to the present undertaking, beyond consideration of the grand principles of justice and truth, on which our enterprise is grounded; and these, i am certain, can only be furthered by measures in themselves true and just. to operate upon your present feelings, my dear mr. waverley, to induce you to an irretrievable step, of which you have not considered either the justice or the danger, is, in my poor judgment, neither the one nor the other.' 'incomparable flora!' said edward, taking her hand, 'how much do i need such a monitor!' 'a better one by far,' said flora, gently withdrawing her hand, 'mr. waverley will always find in his own bosom, when he will give its small still voice leisure to be heard.' 'no, miss mac-ivor, i dare not hope it; a thousand circumstances of fatal self-indulgence have made me the creature rather of imagination than reason. durst i but hope--could i but think--that you would deign to be to me that affectionate, that condescending friend, who would strengthen me to redeem my errors, my future life--' 'hush, my dear sir! now you carry your joy at escaping the hands of a jacobite recruiting officer to an unparalleled excess of gratitude.' 'nay, dear flora, trifle with me no longer; you cannot mistake the meaning of those feelings which i have almost involuntarily expressed; and since i have broken the barrier of silence, let me profit by my audacity. or may i, with your permission, mention to your brother--' 'not for the world, mr. waverley!' 'what am i to understand?' said edward. 'is there any fatal bar--has any prepossession--' 'none, sir,' answered flora. 'i owe it to myself to say that i never yet saw the person on whom i thought with reference to the present subject.' 'the shortness of our acquaintance, perhaps--if miss mac-ivor will deign to give me time--' 'i have not even that excuse. captain waverley's character is so open--is, in short, of that nature that it cannot be misconstrued, either in its strength or its weakness.' 'and for that weakness you despise me?' said edward. 'forgive me, mr. waverley--and remember it is but within this half hour that there existed between us a barrier of a nature to me insurmountable, since i never could think of an officer in the service of the elector of hanover in any other light than as a casual acquaintance. permit me then to arrange my ideas upon so unexpected a topic, and in less than an hour i will be ready to give you such reasons for the resolution i shall express as may be satisfactory at least, if not pleasing to you.' so saying flora withdrew, leaving waverley to meditate upon the manner in which she had received his addresses. ere he could make up his mind whether to believe his suit had been acceptable or no, fergus re-entered the apartment. 'what, a la mort, waverley?' he cried. 'come down with me to the court, and you shall see a sight worth all the tirades of your romances. an hundred firelocks, my friend, and as many broadswords, just arrived from good friends; and two or three hundred stout fellows almost fighting which shall first possess them. but let me look at you closer. why, a true highlander would say you had been blighted by an evil eye. or can it be this silly girl that has thus blanked your spirit. never mind her, dear edward; the wisest of her sex are fools in what regards the business of life.' 'indeed, my good friend,' answered waverley, 'all that i can charge against your sister is, that she is too sensible, too reasonable.' 'if that be all, i ensure you for a louis-d'or against the mood lasting four-and-twenty hours. no woman was ever steadily sensible for that period; and i will engage, if that will please you, flora shall be as unreasonable to-morrow as any of her sex. you must learn, my dear edward, to consider women en mousquetaire.' so saying, he seized waverley's arm and dragged him off to review his military preparations. chapter xxvii upon the same subject fergus mac-ivor had too much tact and delicacy to renew the subject which he had interrupted. his head was, or appeared to be, so full of guns, broadswords, bonnets, canteens, and tartan hose that waverley could not for some time draw his attention to any other topic. 'are you to take the field so soon, fergus,' he asked, 'that you are making all these martial preparations?' 'when we have settled that you go with me, you shall know all; but otherwise, the knowledge might rather be prejudicial to you.' 'but are you serious in your purpose, with such inferior forces, to rise against an established government? it is mere frenzy.' 'laissez faire a don antoine; i shall take good care of myself. we shall at least use the compliment of conan, who never got a stroke but he gave one. i would not, however,' continued the chieftain, 'have you think me mad enough to stir till a favourable opportunity: i will not slip my dog before the game's afoot. but, once more, will you join with us, and you shall know all?' 'how can i?' said waverley; 'i, who have so lately held that commission which is now posting back to those that gave it? my accepting it implied a promise of fidelity, and an acknowledgment of the legality of the government.' 'a rash promise,' answered fergus, 'is not a steel handcuff, it may be shaken off, especially when it was given under deception, and has been repaid by insult. but if you cannot immediately make up your mind to a glorious revenge, go to england, and ere you cross the tweed you will hear tidings that will make the world ring; and if sir everard be the gallant old cavalier i have heard him described by some of our honest gentlemen of the year one thousand seven hundred and fifteen, he will find you a better horse-troop and a better cause than you have lost.' 'but your sister, fergus?' 'out, hyperbolical fiend!' replied the chief, laughing; 'how vexest thou this man! speak'st thou of nothing but of ladies?' 'nay, be serious, my dear friend,' said waverley; 'i feel that the happiness of my future life must depend upon the answer which miss mac-ivor shall make to what i ventured to tell her this morning.' 'and is this your very sober earnest,' said fergus, more gravely, 'or are we in the land of romance and fiction?' 'my earnest, undoubtedly. how could you suppose me jesting on such a subject?' 'then, in very sober earnest,' answered his friend, 'i am very glad to hear it; and so highly do i think of flora, that you are the only man in england for whom i would say so much. but before you shake my hand so warmly, there is more to be considered. your own family--will they approve your connecting yourself with the sister of a high-born highland beggar?' 'my uncle's situation,' said waverley, 'his general opinions, and his uniform indulgence, entitle me to say, that birth and personal qualities are all he would look to in such a connection. and where can i find both united in such excellence as in your sister?' 'o nowhere! cela va sans dire,' replied fergus, with a smile. 'but your father will expect a father's prerogative in being consulted.' 'surely; but his late breach with the ruling powers removes all apprehension of objection on his part, especially as i am convinced that my uncle will be warm in my cause.' 'religion perhaps,' said fergus, 'may make obstacles, though we are not bigotted catholics.' 'my grandmother was of the church of rome, and her religion was never objected to by my family. do not think of my friends, dear fergus; let me rather have your influence where it may be more necessary to remove obstacles--i mean with your lovely sister.' 'my lovely sister,' replied fergus, 'like her loving brother, is very apt to have a pretty decisive will of her own, by which, in this case, you must be ruled; but you shall not want my interest, nor my counsel. and, in the first place, i will give you one hint--loyalty is her ruling passion; and since she could spell an english book she has been in love with the memory of the gallant captain wogan, who renounced the service of the usurper cromwell to join the standard of charles ii, marched a handful of cavalry from london to the highlands to join middleton, then in arms for the king, and at length died gloriously in the royal cause. ask her to show you some verses she made on his history and fate; they have been much admired, i assure you. the next point is--i think i saw flora go up towards the waterfall a short time since; follow, man, follow! don't allow the garrison time to strengthen its purposes of resistance. alerte a la muraille! seek flora out, and learn her decision as soon as you can, and cupid go with you, while i go to look over belts and cartouch-boxes.' waverley ascended the glen with an anxious and throbbing heart. love, with all its romantic train of hopes, fears, and wishes, was mingled with other feelings of a nature less easily defined. he could not but remember how much this morning had changed his fate, and into what a complication of perplexity it was likely to plunge him. sunrise had seen him possessed of an esteemed rank in the honourable profession of arms, his father to all appearance rapidly rising in the favour of his sovereign. all this had passed away like a dream: he himself was dishonoured, his father disgraced, and he had become involuntarily the confidant at least, if not the accomplice, of plans, dark, deep, and dangerous, which must infer either the subversion of the government he had so lately served or the destruction of all who had participated in them. should flora even listen to his suit favourably, what prospect was there of its being brought to a happy termination amid the tumult of an impending insurrection? or how could he make the selfish request that she should leave fergus, to whom she was so much attached, and, retiring with him to england, wait, as a distant spectator, the success of her brother's undertaking, or the ruin of all his hopes and fortunes? or, on the other hand, to engage himself, with no other aid than his single arm, in the dangerous and precipitate counsels of the chieftain, to be whirled along by him, the partaker of all his desperate and impetuous motions, renouncing almost the power of judging, or deciding upon the rectitude or prudence of his actions, this was no pleasing prospect for the secret pride of waverley to stoop to. and yet what other conclusion remained, saving the rejection of his addresses by flora, an alternative not to be thought of in the present high-wrought state of his feelings with anything short of mental agony. pondering the doubtful and dangerous prospect before him, he at length arrived near the cascade, where, as fergus had augured, he found flora seated. she was quite alone, and as soon as she observed his approach she rose and came to meet him. edward attempted to say something within the verge of ordinary compliment and conversation, but found himself unequal to the task. flora seemed at first equally embarrassed, but recovered herself more speedily, and (an unfavourable augury for waverley's suit) was the first to enter upon the subject of their last interview. 'it is too important, in every point of view, mr. waverley, to permit me to leave you in doubt on my sentiments.' 'do not speak them speedily,' said waverley, much agitated, 'unless they are such as i fear, from your manner, i must not dare to anticipate. let time--let my future conduct--let your brother's influence--' 'forgive me, mr. waverley,' said flora, her complexion a little heightened, but her voice firm and composed. 'i should incur my own heavy censure did i delay expressing my sincere conviction that i can never regard you otherwise than as a valued friend. i should do you the highest injustice did i conceal my sentiments for a moment. i see i distress you, and i grieve for it, but better now than later; and o, better a thousand times, mr. waverley, that you should feel a present momentary disappointment than the long and heart-sickening griefs which attend a rash and ill-assorted marriage!' 'good god!' exclaimed waverley, 'why should you anticipate such consequences from a union where birth is equal, where fortune is favourable, where, if i may venture to say so, the tastes are similar, where you allege no preference for another, where you even express a favourable opinion of him whom you reject?' 'mr. waverley, i have that favourable opinion,' answered flora; 'and so strongly that, though i would rather have been silent on the grounds of my resolution, you shall command them, if you exact such a mark of my esteem and confidence.' she sat down upon a fragment of rock, and waverley, placing himself near her, anxiously pressed for the explanation she offered. 'i dare hardly,' she said, 'tell you the situation of my feelings, they are so different from those usually ascribed to young women at my period of life; and i dare hardly touch upon what i conjecture to be the nature of yours, lest i should give offence where i would willingly administer consolation. for myself, from my infancy till this day i have had but one wish--the restoration of my royal benefactors to their rightful throne. it is impossible to express to you the devotion of my feelings to this single subject; and i will frankly confess that it has so occupied my mind as to exclude every thought respecting what is called my own settlement in life. let me but live to see the day of that happy restoration, and a highland cottage, a french convent, or an english palace will be alike indifferent to me.' 'but, dearest flora, how is your enthusiastic zeal for the exiled family inconsistent with my happiness?' 'because you seek, or ought to seek, in the object of your attachment a heart whose principal delight should be in augmenting your domestic felicity and returning your affection, even to the height of romance. to a man of less keen sensibility, and less enthusiastic tenderness of disposition, flora mac-ivor might give content, if not happiness; for, were the irrevocable words spoken, never would she be deficient in the duties which she vowed.' 'and why,--why, miss mac-ivor, should you think yourself a more valuable treasure to one who is less capable of loving, of admiring you, than to me?' 'simply because the tone of our affections would be more in unison, and because his more blunted sensibility would not require the return of enthusiasm which i have not to bestow. but you, mr. waverley, would for ever refer to the idea of domestic happiness which your imagination is capable of painting, and whatever fell short of that ideal representation would be construed into coolness and indifference, while you might consider the enthusiasm with which i regarded the success of the royal family as defrauding your affection of its due return.' 'in other words, miss mac-ivor, you cannot love me?' said her suitor dejectedly. 'i could esteem you, mr. waverley, as much, perhaps more, than any man i have ever seen; but i cannot love you as you ought to be loved. o! do not, for your own sake, desire so hazardous an experiment! the woman whom you marry ought to have affections and opinions moulded upon yours. her studies ought to be your studies; her wishes, her feelings, her hopes, her fears, should all mingle with yours. she should enhance your pleasures, share your sorrows, and cheer your melancholy.' 'and why will not you, miss mac-ivor, who can so well describe a happy union, why will not you be yourself the person you describe?' 'is it possible you do not yet comprehend me?' answered flora. 'have i not told you that every keener sensation of my mind is bent exclusively towards an event upon which, indeed, i have no power but those of my earnest prayers?' 'and might not the granting the suit i solicit,' said waverley, too earnest on his purpose to consider what he was about to say, 'even advance the interest to which you have devoted yourself? my family is wealthy and powerful, inclined in principles to the stuart race, and should a favourable opportunity--' 'a favourable opportunity!' said flora--somewhat scornfully. 'inclined in principles! can such lukewarm adherence be honourable to yourselves, or gratifying to your lawful sovereign? think, from my present feelings, what i should suffer when i held the place of member in a family where the rights which i hold most sacred are subjected to cold discussion, and only deemed worthy of support when they shall appear on the point of triumphing without it!' 'your doubts,' quickly replied waverley, 'are unjust as far as concerns myself. the cause that i shall assert, i dare support through every danger, as undauntedly as the boldest who draws sword in its behalf.' 'of that,' answered flora, 'i cannot doubt for a moment. but consult your own good sense and reason rather than a prepossession hastily adopted, probably only because you have met a young woman possessed of the usual accomplishments in a sequestered and romantic situation. let your part in this great and perilous drama rest upon conviction, and not on a hurried and probably a temporary feeling.' waverley attempted to reply, but his words failed him. every sentiment that flora had uttered vindicated the strength of his attachment; for even her loyalty, although wildly enthusiastic, was generous and noble, and disdained to avail itself of any indirect means of supporting the cause to which she was devoted. after walking a little way in silence down the path, flora thus resumed the conversation.--'one word more, mr. waverley, ere we bid farewell to this topic for ever; and forgive my boldness if that word have the air of advice. my brother fergus is anxious that you should join him in his present enterprise. but do not consent to this; you could not, by your single exertions, further his success, and you would inevitably share his fall, if it be god's pleasure that fall he must. your character would also suffer irretrievably. let me beg you will return to your own country; and, having publicly freed yourself from every tie to the usurping government, i trust you will see cause, and find opportunity, to serve your injured sovereign with effect, and stand forth, as your loyal ancestors, at the head of your natural followers and adherents, a worthy representative of the house of waverley.' 'and should i be so happy as thus to distinguish myself, might i not hope--' 'forgive my interruption,' said flora. 'the present time only is ours, and i can but explain to you with candour the feelings which i now entertain; how they might be altered by a train of events too favourable perhaps to be hoped for, it were in vain even to conjecture. only be assured, mr. waverley, that, after my brother's honour and happiness, there is none which i shall more sincerely pray for than for yours.' with these words she parted from him, for they were now arrived where two paths separated. waverley reached the castle amidst a medley of conflicting passions. he avoided any private interview with fergus, as he did not find himself able either to encounter his raillery or reply to his solicitations. the wild revelry of the feast, for mac-ivor kept open table for his clan, served in some degree to stun reflection. when their festivity was ended, he began to consider how he should again meet miss mac-ivor after the painful and interesting explanation of the morning. but flora did not appear. fergus, whose eyes flashed when he was told by cathleen that her mistress designed to keep her apartment that evening, went himself in quest of her; but apparently his remonstrances were in vain, for he returned with a heightened complexion and manifest symptoms of displeasure. the rest of the evening passed on without any allusion, on the part either of fergus or waverley, to the subject which engrossed the reflections of the latter, and perhaps of both. when retired to his own apartment, edward endeavoured to sum up the business of the day. that the repulse he had received from flora would be persisted in for the present, there was no doubt. but could he hope for ultimate success in case circumstances permitted the renewal of his suit? would the enthusiastic loyalty, which at this animating moment left no room for a softer passion, survive, at least in its engrossing force, the success or the failure of the present political machinations? and if so, could he hope that the interest which she had acknowledged him to possess in her favour might be improved into a warmer attachment? he taxed his memory to recall every word she had used, with the appropriate looks and gestures which had enforced them, and ended by finding himself in the same state of uncertainty. it was very late before sleep brought relief to the tumult of his mind, after the most painful and agitating day which he had ever passed. chapter xxviii a letter from tully-veolan in the morning, when waverley's troubled reflections had for some time given way to repose, there came music to his dreams, but not the voice of selma. he imagined himself transported back to tully-veolan, and that he heard davie gellatley singing in the court those matins which used generally to be the first sounds that disturbed his repose while a guest of the baron of bradwardine. the notes which suggested this vision continued, and waxed louder, until edward awoke in earnest. the illusion, however, did not seem entirely dispelled. the apartment was in the fortress of lan nan chaistel, but it was still the voice of davie gellatley that made the following lines resound under the window:-- my heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here, my heart's in the highlands a-chasing the deer; a-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, my heart's in the highlands wherever i go. [footnote: these lines form the burden of an old song to which burns wrote additional verses.] curious to know what could have determined mr. gellatley on an excursion of such unwonted extent, edward began to dress himself in all haste, during which operation the minstrelsy of davie changed its tune more than once:-- there's nought in the highlands but syboes and leeks, and lang-leggit callants gaun wanting the breeks, wanting the breeks, and without hose and shoon, but we'll a'win the breeks when king jamie comes hame. [footnote: these lines are also ancient, and i believe to the tune of we'll never hae peace till jamie comes hame, to which burns likewise wrote some verses.] by the time waverley was dressed and had issued forth, david had associated himself with two or three of the numerous highland loungers who always graced the gates of the castle with their presence, and was capering and dancing full merrily in the doubles and full career of a scotch foursome reel, to the music of his own whistling. in this double capacity of dancer and musician he continued, until an idle piper, who observed his zeal, obeyed the unanimous call of seid suas (i.e. blow up), and relieved him from the latter part of his trouble. young and old then mingled in the dance as they could find partners. the appearance of waverley did not interrupt david's exercise, though he contrived, by grinning, nodding, and throwing one or two inclinations of the body into the graces with which he performed the highland fling, to convey to our hero symptoms of recognition. then, while busily employed in setting, whooping all the while, and snapping his fingers over his head, he of a sudden prolonged his side-step until it brought him to the place where edward was standing, and, still keeping time to the music like harlequin in a pantomime, he thrust a letter into our hero's hand, and continued his saltation without pause or intermission. edward, who perceived that the address was in rose's hand-writing, retired to peruse it, leaving the faithful bearer to continue his exercise until the piper or he should be tired out. the contents of the letter greatly surprised him. it had originally commenced with 'dear sir'; but these words had been carefully erased, and the monosyllable 'sir' substituted in their place. the rest of the contents shall be given in rose's own language. i fear i am using an improper freedom by intruding upon you, yet i cannot trust to any one else to let you know some things which have happened here, with which it seems necessary you should be acquainted. forgive me, if i am wrong in what i am doing; for, alas! mr. waverley, i have no better advice than that of my own feelings; my dear father is gone from this place, and when he can return to my assistance and protection, god alone knows. you have probably heard that, in consequence of some troublesome news from the highlands, warrants were sent out for apprehending several gentlemen in these parts, and, among others, my dear father. in spite of all my tears and entreaties that he would surrender himself to the government, he joined with mr. falconer and some other gentlemen, and they have all gone northwards, with a body of about forty horsemen. so i am not so anxious concerning his immediate safety as about what may follow afterwards, for these troubles are only beginning. but all this is nothing to you, mr. waverley, only i thought you would be glad to learn that my father has escaped, in case you happen to have heard that he was in danger. the day after my father went off there came a party of soldiers to tully-veolan, and behaved very rudely to bailie macwheeble; but the officer was very civil to me, only said his duty obliged him to search for arms and papers. my father had provided against this by taking away all the arms except the old useless things which hung in the hall, and he had put all his papers out of the way. but o! mr. waverley, how shall i tell you, that they made strict inquiry after you, and asked when you had been at tully-veolan, and where you now were. the officer is gone back with his party, but a non-commissioned officer and four men remain as a sort of garrison in the house. they have hitherto behaved very well, as we are forced to keep them in good-humour. but these soldiers have hinted as if, on your falling into their hands, you would be in great danger; i cannot prevail on myself to write what wicked falsehoods they said, for i am sure they are falsehoods; but you will best judge what you ought to do. the party that returned carried off your servant prisoner, with your two horses, and everything that you left at tully-veolan. i hope god will protect you, and that you will get safe home to england, where you used to tell me there was no military violence nor fighting among clans permitted, but everything was done according to an equal law that protected all who were harmless and innocent. i hope you will exert your indulgence as to my boldness in writing to you, where it seems to me, though perhaps erroneously, that your safety and honour are concerned. i am sure--at least i think, my father would approve of my writing; for mr. rubrick is fled to his cousin's at the duchran, to to be out of danger from the soldiers and the whigs, and bailie macwheeble does not like to meddle (he says) in other men's concerns, though i hope what may serve my father's friend at such a time as this cannot be termed improper interference. farewell, captain waverley! i shall probaby never see you more; for it would be very improper to wish you to call at tully-veolan just now, even if these men were gone; but i will always remember with gratitude your kindness in assisting so poor a scholar as myself, and your attentions to my dear, dear father. i remain, your obliged servant, rose comyne bradwardine. p.s.--i hope you will send me a line by david gellatley, just to say you have received this and that you will take care of yourself; and forgive me if i entreat you, for your own sake, to join none of these unhappy cabals, but escape, as fast as possible, to your own fortunate country. my compliments to my dear flora and to glennaquoich. is she not as handsome and accomplished as i have described her? thus concluded the letter of rose bradwardine, the contents of which both surprised and affected waverley. that the baron should fall under the suspicions of government, in consequence of the present stir among the partisans of the house of stuart, seemed only the natural consequence of his political predilections; but how he himself should have been involved in such suspicions, conscious that until yesterday he had been free from harbouring a thought against the prosperity of the reigning family, seemed inexplicable. both at tully-veolan and glennaquoich his hosts had respected his engagements with the existing government, and though enough passed by accidental innuendo that might induce him to reckon the baron and the chief among those disaffected gentlemen who were still numerous in scotland, yet until his own connection with the army had been broken off by the resumption of his commission, he had no reason to suppose that they nourished any immediate or hostile attempts against the present establishment. still he was aware that, unless he meant at once to embrace the proposal of fergus mac-ivor, it would deeply concern him to leave the suspicious neighbourhood without delay, and repair where his conduct might undergo a satisfactory examination. upon this he the rather determined, as flora's advice favoured his doing so, and because he felt inexpressible repugnance at the idea of being accessary to the plague of civil war. whatever were the original rights of the stuarts, calm reflection told him that, omitting the question how far james the second could forfeit those of his posterity, he had, according to the united voice of the whole nation, justly forfeited his own. since that period four monarchs had reigned in peace and glory over britain, sustaining and exalting the character of the nation abroad and its liberties at home. reason asked, was it worth while to disturb a government so long settled and established, and to plunge a kingdom into all the miseries of civil war, for the purpose of replacing upon the throne the descendants of a monarch by whom it had been wilfully forfeited? if, on the other hand, his own final conviction of the goodness of their cause, or the commands of his father or uncle, should recommend to him allegiance to the stuarts, still it was necessary to clear his own character by showing that he had not, as seemed to be falsely insinuated, taken any step to this purpose during his holding the commission of the reigning monarch, the affectionate simplicity of rose and her anxiety for his safety, his sense too of her unprotected state, and of the terror and actual dangers to which she might be exposed, made an impression upon his mind, and he instantly wrote to thank her in the kindest terms for her solicitude on his account, to express his earnest good wishes for her welfare and that of her father, and to assure her of his own safety. the feelings which this task excited were speedily lost in the necessity which he now saw of bidding farewell to flora mac-ivor, perhaps for ever. the pang attending this reflection was inexpressible; for her high-minded elevation of character, her self-devotion to the cause which she had embraced, united to her scrupulous rectitude as to the means of serving it, had vindicated to his judgment the choice adopted by his passions. but time pressed, calumny was busy with his fame, and every hour's delay increased the power to injure it. his departure must be instant. with this determination he sought out fergus, and communicated to him the contents of rose's letter, with his own resolution instantly to go to edinburgh, and put into the hands of some one or other of those persons of influence to whom he had letters from his father his exculpation from any charge which might be preferred against him. 'you run your head into the lion's mouth,' answered mac-ivor. 'you do not know the severity of a government harassed by just apprehensions, and a consciousness of their own illegality and insecurity. i shall have to deliver you from some dungeon in stirling or edinburgh castle.' 'my innocence, my rank, my father's intimacy with lord m--, general g--, etc., will be a sufficient protection,' said waverley. 'you will find the contrary,' replied the chieftain, 'these gentlemen will have enough to do about their own matters. once more, will you take the plaid, and stay a little while with us among the mists and the crows, in the bravest cause ever sword was drawn in?' [footnote: a highland rhyme on glencairn's expedition, in , has these lines-- we'll bide a while amang ta crows, we'll wiske ta sword and bend ta bows] 'for many reasons, my dear fergus, you must hold me excused.' 'well then,' said mac-ivor, 'i shall certainly find you exerting your poetical talents in elegies upon a prison, or your antiquarian researches in detecting the oggam [footnote: the oggam is a species of the old irish character. the idea of the correspondence betwixt the celtic and punic, founded on a scene in plautus, was not started till general vallancey set up his theory, long after the date of fergus mac-ivor] character or some punic hieroglyphic upon the keystones of a vault, curiously arched. or what say you to un petit pendement bien joli? against which awkward ceremony i don't warrant you, should you meet a body of the armed west-country whigs.' 'and why should they use me so?' said waverley. 'for a hundred good reasons,' answered fergus. 'first, you are an englishman; secondly, a gentleman; thirdly, a prelatist abjured; and, fourthly, they have not had an opportunity to exercise their talents on such a subject this long while. but don't be cast down, beloved; all will be done in the fear of the lord.' 'well, i must run my hazard.' 'you are determined, then?' 'i am.' 'wilful will do't' said fergus. 'but you cannot go on foot, and i shall want no horse, as i must march on foot at the head of the children of ivor; you shall have brown dermid.' 'if you will sell him, i shall certainly be much obliged.' 'if your proud english heart cannot be obliged by a gift or loan, i will not refuse money at the entrance of a campaign: his price is twenty guineas. [remember, reader, it was sixty years since.] and when do you propose to depart?' 'the sooner the better,' answered waverley. 'you are right, since go you must, or rather, since go you will. i will take flora's pony and ride with you as far as bally-brough. callum beg, see that our horses are ready, with a pony for yourself, to attend and carry mr. waverley's baggage as far as--(naming a small town), where he can have a horse and guide to edinburgh. put on a lowland dress, callum, and see you keep your tongue close, if you would not have me cut it out. mr. waverley rides dermid.' then turning to edward, 'you will take leave of my sister?' 'surely--that is, if miss mac-ivor will honour me so far.' 'cathleen, let my sister know mr. waverley wishes to bid her farewell before he leaves us. but rose bradwardine, her situation must be thought of; i wish she were here. and why should she not? there are but four red-coats at tully-veolan, and their muskets would be very useful to us.' to these broken remarks edward made no answer; his ear indeed received them, but his soul was intent upon the expected entrance of flora. the door opened. it was but cathleen, with her lady's excuse, and wishes for captain waverley's health and happiness. chapter xxix waverley's reception in the lowlands after his highland tour it was noon when the two friends stood at the top of the pass of bally-brough. 'i must go no farther,' said fergus mac-ivor, who during the journey had in vain endeavoured to raise his friend's spirits. 'if my cross-grained sister has any share in your dejection, trust me she thinks highly of you, though her present anxiety about the public cause prevents her listening to any other subject. confide your interest to me; i will not betray it, providing you do not again assume that vile cockade.' 'no fear of that, considering the manner in which it has been recalled. adieu, fergus; do not permit your sister to forget me.' 'and adieu, waverley; you may soon hear of her with a prouder title. get home, write letters, and make friends as many and as fast as you can; there will speedily be unexpected guests on the coast of suffolk, or my news from france has deceived me.' [footnote: the sanguine jacobites, during the eventful years - , kept up the spirits of their party by the rumour of descents from france on behalf of the chevalier st. george.] thus parted the friends; fergus returning back to his castle, while edward, followed by callum beg, the latter transformed from point to point into a low-country groom, proceeded to the little town of--. edward paced on under the painful and yet not altogether embittered feelings which separation and uncertainty produce in the mind of a youthful lover. i am not sure if the ladies understand the full value of the influence of absence, nor do i think it wise to teach it them, lest, like the clelias and mandanes of yore, they should resume the humour of sending their lovers into banishment. distance, in truth, produces in idea the same effect as in real perspective. objects are softened, and rounded, and rendered doubly graceful; the harsher and more ordinary points of character are mellowed down, and those by which it is remembered are the more striking outlines that mark sublimity, grace, or beauty. there are mists too in the mental as well as the natural horizon, to conceal what is less pleasing in distant objects, and there are happy lights, to stream in full glory upon those points which can profit by brilliant illumination. waverley forgot flora mac-ivor's prejudices in her magnanimity, and almost pardoned her indifference towards his affection when he recollected the grand and decisive object which seemed to fill her whole soul. she, whose sense of duty so wholly engrossed her in the cause of a benefactor, what would be her feelings in favour of the happy individual who should be so fortunate as to awaken them? then came the doubtful question, whether he might not be that happy man,--a question which fancy endeavoured to answer in the affirmative, by conjuring up all she had said in his praise, with the addition of a comment much more flattering than the text warranted. all that was commonplace, all that belonged to the every-day world, was melted away and obliterated in those dreams of imagination, which only remembered with advantage the points of grace and dignity that distinguished flora from the generality of her sex, not the particulars which she held in common with them. edward was, in short, in the fair way of creating a goddess out of a high-spirited, accomplished, and beautiful young woman; and the time was wasted in castle-building until, at the descent of a steep hill, he saw beneath him the market-town of ----. the highland politeness of callum beg--there are few nations, by the way, who can boast of so much natural politeness as the highlanders [footnote: the highlander, in former times, had always a high idea of his own gentility, and was anxious to impress the same upon those with whom he conversed. his language abounded in the phrases of courtesy and compliment; and the habit of carrying arms, and mixing with those who did so, made it particularly desirable they should use cautious politeness in their intercourse with each other.]--the highland civility of his attendant had not permitted him to disturb the reveries of our hero. but observing him rouse himself at the sight of the village, callum pressed closer to his side, and hoped 'when they cam to the public, his honour wad not say nothing about vich ian vohr, for ta people were bitter whigs, deil burst tem.' waverley assured the prudent page that he would be cautious; and as he now distinguished, not indeed the ringing of bells, but the tinkling of something like a hammer against the side of an old mossy, green, inverted porridge-pot that hung in an open booth, of the size and shape of a parrot's cage, erected to grace the east end of a building resembling an old barn, he asked callum beg if it were sunday. 'could na say just preceesely; sunday seldom cam aboon the pass of bally-brough.' on entering the town, however, and advancing towards the most apparent public-house which presented itself, the numbers of old women, in tartan screens and red cloaks, who streamed from the barn-resembling building, debating as they went the comparative merits of the blessed youth jabesh rentowel and that chosen vessel maister goukthrapple, induced callum to assure his temporary master 'that it was either ta muckle sunday hersell, or ta little government sunday that they ca'd ta fast.' on alighting at the sign of the seven-branched golden candlestick, which, for the further delectation of the guests, was graced with a short hebrew motto, they were received by mine host, a tall thin puritanical figure, who seemed to debate with himself whether he ought to give shelter to those who travelled on such a day. reflecting, however, in all probability, that he possessed the power of mulcting them for this irregularity, a penalty which they might escape by passing into gregor duncanson's, at the sign of the highlander and the hawick gill, mr. ebenezer cruickshanks condescended to admit them into his dwelling. to this sanctified person waverley addressed his request that he would procure him a guide, with a saddle-horse, to carry his portmanteau to edinburgh. 'and whar may ye be coming from?' demanded mine host of the candlestick. 'i have told you where i wish to go; i do not conceive any further information necessary either for the guide or his saddle-horse.' 'hem! ahem!' returned he of the candlestick, somewhat disconcerted at this rebuff. 'it's the general fast, sir, and i cannot enter into ony carnal transactions on sic a day, when the people should be humbled and the backsliders should return, as worthy mr. goukthrapple said; and moreover when, as the precious mr. jabesh rentowel did weel observe, the land was mourning for covenants burnt, broken, and buried.' 'my good friend,' said waverley, 'if you cannot let me have a horse and guide, my servant shall seek them elsewhere.' 'aweel! your servant? and what for gangs he not forward wi' you himsell?' waverley had but very little of a captain of horse's spirit within him--i mean of that sort of spirit which i have been obliged to when i happened, in a mail coach or diligence, to meet some military man who has kindly taken upon him the disciplining of the waiters and the taxing of reckonings. some of this useful talent our hero had, however, acquired during his military service, and on this gross provocation it began seriously to arise. 'look ye, sir; i came here for my own accommodation, and not to answer impertinent questions. either say you can, or cannot, get me what i want; i shall pursue my course in either case.' mr. ebenezer cruickshanks left the room with some indistinct mutterings; but whether negative or acquiescent, edward could not well distinguish. the hostess, a civil, quiet, laborious drudge, came to take his orders for dinner, but declined to make answer on the subject of the horse and guide; for the salique law, it seems, extended to the stables of the golden candlestick. from a window which overlooked the dark and narrow court in which callum beg rubbed down the horses after their journey, waverley heard the following dialogue betwixt the subtle foot-page of vich ian vohr and his landlord:-- 'ye'll be frae the north, young man?' began the latter. 'and ye may say that,' answered callum. 'and ye'll hae ridden a lang way the day, it may weel be?' 'sae lang, that i could weel tak a dram.' 'gudewife, bring the gill stoup.' here some compliments passed fitting the occasion, when my host of the golden candlestick, having, as he thought, opened his guest's heart by this hospitable propitiation, resumed his scrutiny. 'ye'll no hae mickle better whisky than that aboon the pass?' 'i am nae frae aboon the pass.' 'ye're a highlandman by your tongue?' 'na; i am but just aberdeen-a-way.' 'and did your master come frae aberdeen wi' you?' 'ay; that's when i left it mysell,' answered the cool and impenetrable callum beg. 'and what kind of a gentleman is he?' 'i believe he is ane o' king george's state officers; at least he's aye for ganging on to the south, and he has a hantle siller, and never grudges onything till a poor body, or in the way of a lawing.' 'he wants a guide and a horse frae hence to edinburgh?' 'ay, and ye maun find it him forthwith.' 'ahem! it will be chargeable.' 'he cares na for that a bodle.' 'aweel, duncan--did ye say your name was duncan, or donald?' 'na, man--jamie--jamie steenson--i telt ye before.' this last undaunted parry altogether foiled mr. cruickshanks, who, though not quite satisfied either with the reserve of the master or the extreme readiness of the man, was contented to lay a tax on the reckoning and horse-hire that might compound for his ungratified curiosity. the circumstance of its being the fast day was not forgotten in the charge, which, on the whole, did not, however, amount to much more than double what in fairness it should have been. callum beg soon after announced in person the ratification of this treaty, adding, 'ta auld deevil was ganging to ride wi' ta duinhe-wassel hersell.' 'that will not be very pleasant, callum, nor altogether safe, for our host seems a person of great curiosity; but a traveller must submit to these inconveniences. meanwhile, my good lad, here is a trifle for you to drink vich ian vohr's health.' the hawk's eye of callum flashed delight upon a golden guinea, with which these last words were accompanied. he hastened, not without a curse on the intricacies of a saxon breeches pocket, or spleuchan, as he called it, to deposit the treasure in his fob; and then, as if he conceived the benevolence called for some requital on his part, he gathered close up to edward, with an expression of countenance peculiarly knowing, and spoke in an undertone, 'if his honour thought ta auld deevil whig carle was a bit dangerous, she could easily provide for him, and teil ane ta wiser.' 'how, and in what manner?' 'her ain sell,' replied callum, 'could wait for him a wee bit frae the toun, and kittle his quarters wi'her skene-occle.' 'skene-occle! what's that?' callum unbuttoned his coat, raised his left arm, and, with an emphatic nod, pointed to the hilt of a small dirk, snugly deposited under it, in the lining of his jacket. waverley thought he had misunderstood his meaning; he gazed in his face, and discovered in callum's very handsome though embrowned features just the degree of roguish malice with which a lad of the same age in england would have brought forward a plan for robbing an orchard. 'good god, callum, would you take the man's life?' 'indeed,' answered the young desperado, 'and i think he has had just a lang enough lease o 't, when he's for betraying honest folk that come to spend siller at his public.' edward saw nothing was to be gained by argument, and therefore contented himself with enjoining callum to lay aside all practices against the person of mr. ebenezer cruickshanks; in which injunction the page seemed to acquiesce with an air of great indifference. 'ta duinhe-wassel might please himsell; ta auld rudas loon had never done callum nae ill. but here's a bit line frae ta tighearna, tat he bade me gie your honour ere i came back.' the letter from the chief contained flora's lines on the fate of captain wogan, whose enterprising character is so well drawn by clarendon. he had originally engaged in the service of the parliament, but had abjured that party upon the execution of charles i; and upon hearing that the royal standard was set up by the earl of glencairn and general middleton in the highlands of scotland, took leave of charles ii, who was then at paris, passed into england, assembled a body of cavaliers in the neighbourhood of london, and traversed the kingdom, which had been so long under domination of the usurper, by marches conducted with such skill, dexterity, and spirit that he safely united his handful of horsemen with the body of highlanders then in arms. after several months of desultory warfare, in which wogan's skill and courage gained him the highest reputation, he had the misfortune to be wounded in a dangerous manner, and no surgical assistance being within reach he terminated his short but glorious career. there were obvious reasons why the politic chieftain was desirous to place the example of this young hero under the eye of waverley, with whose romantic disposition it coincided so peculiarly. but his letter turned chiefly upon some trifling commissions which waverley had promised to execute for him in england, and it was only toward the conclusion that edward found these words: 'i owe flora a grudge for refusing us her company yesterday; and, as i am giving you the trouble of reading these lines, in order to keep in your memory your promise to procure me the fishing-tackle and cross-bow from london, i will enclose her verses on the grave of wogan. this i know will tease her; for, to tell you the truth, i think her more in love with the memory of that dead hero than she is likely to be with any living one, unless he shall tread a similar path. but english squires of our day keep their oak-trees to shelter their deer parks, or repair the losses of an evening at white's, and neither invoke them to wreathe their brows nor shelter their graves. let me hope for one brilliant exception in a dear friend, to whom i would most gladly give a dearer title.' the verses were inscribed, to an oak tree in the church-yard of ----, in the highlands of scotland, said to mark the grave of captain wogan, killed in . emblem of england's ancient faith, full proudly may thy branches wave, where loyalty lies low in death, and valour fills a timeless grave. and thou, brave tenant of the tomb! repine not if our clime deny, above thine honour'd sod to bloom the flowerets of a milder sky. these owe their birth to genial may; beneath a fiercer sun they pine, before the winter storm decay; and can their worth be type of thine? no! for, 'mid storms of fate opposing, still higher swell'd thy dauntless heart, and, while despair the scene was closing, commenced thy brief but brilliant part. 't was then thou sought'st on albyn's hill, (when england's sons the strife resign'd) a rugged race resisting still, and unsubdued though unrefined. thy death's hour heard no kindred wail, no holy knell thy requiem rung; thy mourners were the plaided gael, thy dirge the clamourous pibroch sung. yet who, in fortune's summer-shine to waste life's longest term away, would change that glorious dawn of thine, though darken'd ere its noontide day! be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs brave summer's drought and winter's gloom. rome bound with oak her patriots' brows, as albyn shadows wogan's tomb. whatever might be the real merit of flora mac-ivor's poetry, the enthusiasm which it intimated was well calculated to make a corresponding impression upon her lover. the lines were read--read again, then deposited in waverley's bosom, then again drawn out, and read line by line, in a low and smothered voice, and with frequent pauses which prolonged the mental treat, as an epicure protracts, by sipping slowly, the enjoyment of a delicious beverage. the entrance of mrs. cruickshanks with the sublunary articles of dinner and wine hardly interrupted this pantomime of affectionate enthusiasm. at length the tall ungainly figure and ungracious visage of ebenezer presented themselves. the upper part of his form, notwithstanding the season required no such defence, was shrouded in a large great-coat, belted over his under habiliments, and crested with a huge cowl of the same stuff, which, when drawn over the head and hat, completely overshadowed both, and, being buttoned beneath the chin, was called a trot-cozy. his hand grasped a huge jockey-whip, garnished with brassmounting. his thin legs tenanted a pair of gambadoes, fastened at the sides with rusty clasps. thus accoutred, he stalked into the midst of the apartment, and announced his errand in brief phrase: 'yer horses are ready.' 'you go with me yourself then, landlord?' 'i do, as far as perth; where ye may be supplied with a guide to embro', as your occasions shall require.' thus saying, he placed under waverley's eye the bill which he held in his hand; and at the same time, self-invited, filled a glass of wine and drank devoutly to a blessing on their journey. waverley stared at the man's impudence, but, as their connection was to be short and promised to be convenient, he made no observation upon it; and, having paid his reckoning, expressed his intention to depart immediately. he mounted dermid accordingly and sallied forth from the golden candlestick, followed by the puritanical figure we have described, after he had, at the expense of some time and difficulty, and by the assistance of a 'louping-on-stane,' or structure of masonry erected for the traveller's convenience in front of the house, elevated his person to the back of a long-backed, raw-boned, thin-gutted phantom of a broken-down blood-horse, on which waverley's portmanteau was deposited. our hero, though not in a very gay humour, could hardly help laughing at the appearance of his new squire, and at imagining the astonishment which his person and equipage would have excited at waverley-honour. edward's tendency to mirth did not escape mine host of the candlestick, who, conscious of the cause, infused a double portion of souring into the pharisaical leaven of his countenance, and resolved internally that, in one way or other, the young 'englisher' should pay dearly for the contempt with which he seemed to regard him. callum also stood at the gate and enjoyed, with undissembled glee, the ridiculous figure of mr. cruickshanks. as waverley passed him he pulled off his hat respectfully, and, approaching his stirrup, bade him 'tak heed the auld whig deevil played him nae cantrip.' waverley once more thanked and bade him farewell, and then rode briskly onward, not sorry to be out of hearing of the shouts of the children, as they beheld old ebenezer rise and sink in his stirrups to avoid the concussions occasioned by a hard trot upon a half-paved street. the village of--was soon several miles behind him. chapter xxx shows that the loss of a horse's shoe may be a serious inconvenience the manner and air of waverley, but, above all, the glittering contents of his purse, and the indifference with which he seemed to regard them, somewhat overawed his companion, and deterred him from making any attempts to enter upon conversation. his own reflections were moreover agitated by various surmises, and by plans of self-interest with which these were intimately connected. the travellers journeyed, therefore, in silence, until it was interrupted by the annunciation, on the part of the guide, that his 'naig had lost a fore-foot shoe, which, doubtless, his honour would consider it was his part to replace.' this was what lawyers call a fishing question, calculated to ascertain how far waverley was disposed to submit to petty imposition. 'my part to replace your horse's shoe, you rascal!' said waverley, mistaking the purport of the intimation. 'indubitably,' answered mr. cruickshanks; 'though there was no preceese clause to that effect, it canna be expected that i am to pay for the casualties whilk may befall the puir naig while in your honour's service. nathless, if your honour--' 'o, you mean i am to pay the farrier; but where shall we find one?' rejoiced at discerning there would be no objection made on the part of his temporary master, mr. cruickshanks assured him that cairnvreckan, a village which they were about to enter, was happy in an excellent blacksmith; 'but as he was a professor, he would drive a nail for no man on the sabbath or kirk-fast, unless it were in a case of absolute necessity, for which he always charged sixpence each shoe.' the most important part of this communication, in the opinion of the speaker, made a very slight impression on the hearer, who only internally wondered what college this veterinary professor belonged to, not aware that the word was used to denote any person who pretended to uncommon sanctity of faith and manner. as they entered the village of cairnvreckan, they speedily distinguished the smith's house. being also a public, it was two stories high, and proudly reared its crest, covered with grey slate, above the thatched hovels by which it was surrounded. the adjoining smithy betokened none of the sabbatical silence and repose which ebenezer had augured from the sanctity of his friend. on the contrary, hammer clashed and anvil rang, the bellows groaned, and the whole apparatus of vulcan appeared to be in full activity. nor was the labour of a rural and pacific nature. the master smith, benempt, as his sign intimated, john mucklewrath, with two assistants, toiled busily in arranging, repairing, and furbishing old muskets, pistols, and swords, which lay scattered around his workshop in military confusion. the open shed, containing the forge, was crowded with persons who came and went as if receiving and communicating important news, and a single glance at the aspect of the people who traversed the street in haste, or stood assembled in groups, with eyes elevated and hands uplifted, announced that some extraordinary intelligence was agitating the public mind of the municipality of cairnvreckan. 'there is some news,' said mine host of the candlestick, pushing his lantern-jawed visage and bare-boned nag rudely forward into the crowd--'there is some news; and, if it please my creator, i will forthwith obtain speirings thereof.' waverley, with better regulated curiosity than his attendant's, dismounted and gave his horse to a boy who stood idling near. it arose, perhaps, from the shyness of his character in early youth, that he felt dislike at applying to a stranger even for casual information, without previously glancing at his physiognomy and appearance. while he looked about in order to select the person with whom he would most willingly hold communication, the buzz around saved him in some degree the trouble of interrogatories. the names of lochiel, clanronald, glengarry, and other distinguished highland chiefs, among whom vich ian vohr was repeatedly mentioned, were as familiar in men's mouths as household words; and from the alarm generally expressed, he easily conceived that their descent into the lowlands, at the head of their armed tribes, had either already taken place or was instantly apprehended. ere waverley could ask particulars, a strong, large-boned, hard-featured woman, about forty, dressed as if her clothes had been flung on with a pitchfork, her cheeks flushed with a scarlet red where they were not smutted with soot and lamp-black, jostled through the crowd, and, brandishing high a child of two years old, which she danced in her arms without regard to its screams of terror, sang forth with all her might,-- charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling, charlie is my darling, the young chevalier! 'd' ye hear what's come ower ye now,' continued the virago, 'ye whingeing whig carles? d'ye hear wha's coming to cow yer cracks? little wot ye wha's coming, little wot ye wha's coming, a' the wild macraws are coming.' the vulcan of cairnvreckan, who acknowledged his venus in this exulting bacchante, regarded her with a grim and ire-foreboding countenance, while some of the senators of the village hastened to interpose. 'whisht, gudewife; is this a time or is this a day to be singing your ranting fule sangs in?--a time when the wine of wrath is poured out without mixture in the cup of indignation, and a day when the land should give testimony against popery, and prelacy, and quakerism, and independency, and supremacy, and erastianism, and antinomianism, and a' the errors of the church?' 'and that's a' your whiggery,' reechoed the jacobite heroine; 'that's a' your whiggery, and your presbytery, ye cut-lugged, graning carles! what! d' ye think the lads wi' the kilts will care for yer synods and yer presbyteries, and yer buttock-mail, and yer stool o' repentance? vengeance on the black face o't! mony an honester woman's been set upon it than streeks doon beside ony whig in the country. i mysell--' here john mucklewrath, who dreaded her entering upon a detail of personal experience, interposed his matrimonial authority. 'gae hame, and be d--(that i should say sae), and put on the sowens for supper.' 'and you, ye doil'd dotard,' replied his gentle helpmate, her wrath, which had hitherto wandered abroad over the whole assembly, being at once and violently impelled into its natural channel, 'ye stand there hammering dog-heads for fules that will never snap them at a highlandman, instead of earning bread for your family and shoeing this winsome young gentleman's horse that's just come frae the north! i'se warrant him nane of your whingeing king george folk, but a gallant gordon, at the least o' him.' the eyes of the assembly were now turned upon waverley, who took the opportunity to beg the smith to shoe his guide's horse with all speed, as he wished to proceed on his journey; for he had heard enough to make him sensible that there would be danger in delaying long in this place. the smith's eyes rested on him with a look of displeasure and suspicion, not lessened by the eagerness with which his wife enforced waverley's mandate. 'd'ye hear what the weel-favoured young gentleman says, ye drunken ne'er-do-good?' 'and what may your name be, sir?' quoth mucklewrath. 'it is of no consequence to you, my friend, provided i pay your labour.' 'but it may be of consequence to the state, sir,' replied an old farmer, smelling strongly of whisky and peat-smoke; 'and i doubt we maun delay your journey till you have seen the laird.' 'you certainly,' said waverley, haughtily, 'will find it both difficult and dangerous to detain me, unless you can produce some proper authority.' there was a pause and a whisper among the crowd--'secretary murray'--'lord lewis gordon'--'maybe the chevalier himsell!' such were the surmises that passed hurriedly among them, and there was obviously an increased disposition to resist waverley's departure. he attempted to argue mildly with them, but his voluntary ally, mrs. mucklewrath, broke in upon and drowned his expostulations, taking his part with an abusive violence which was all set down to edward's account by those on whom it was bestowed. 'ye'll stop ony gentleman that's the prince's freend?' for she too, though with other feelings, had adopted the general opinion respecting waverley. 'i daur ye to touch him,' spreading abroad her long and muscular fingers, garnished with claws which a vulture might have envied. 'i'll set my ten commandments in the face o' the first loon that lays a finger on him.' 'gae hame, gudewife,' quoth the farmer aforesaid; 'it wad better set you to be nursing the gudeman's bairns than to be deaving us here.' 'his bairns?' retorted the amazon, regarding her husband with a grin of ineffable contempt--'his bairns! o gin ye were dead, gudeman, and a green turf on your head, gudeman! then i wad ware my widowhood upon a ranting highlandman' this canticle, which excited a suppressed titter among the younger part of the audience, totally overcame the patience of the taunted man of the anvil. 'deil be in me but i'll put this het gad down her throat!' cried he in an ecstasy of wrath, snatching a bar from the forge; and he might have executed his threat, had he not been withheld by a part of the mob, while the rest endeavoured to force the termagant out of his presence. waverley meditated a retreat in the confusion, but his horse was nowhere to be seen. at length he observed at some distance his faithful attendant, ebenezer, who, as soon as he had perceived the turn matters were likely to take, had withdrawn both horses from the press, and, mounted on the one and holding the other, answered the loud and repeated calls of waverley for his horse. 'na, na! if ye are nae friend to kirk and the king, and are detained as siccan a person, ye maun answer to honest men of the country for breach of contract; and i maun keep the naig and the walise for damage and expense, in respect my horse and mysell will lose to-morrow's day's wark, besides the afternoon preaching.' edward, out of patience, hemmed in and hustled by the rabble on every side, and every moment expecting personal violence, resolved to try measures of intimidation, and at length drew a pocket-pistol, threatening, on the one hand, to shoot whomsoever dared to stop him, and, on the other, menacing ebenezer with a similar doom if he stirred a foot with the horses. the sapient partridge says that one man with a pistol is equal to a hundred unarmed, because, though he can shoot but one of the multitude, yet no one knows but that he himself may be that luckless individual. the levy en masse of cairnvreckan would therefore probably have given way, nor would ebenezer, whose natural paleness had waxed three shades more cadaverous, have ventured to dispute a mandate so enforced, had not the vulcan of the village, eager to discharge upon some more worthy object the fury which his helpmate had provoked, and not ill satisfied to find such an object in waverley, rushed at him with the red-hot bar of iron with such determination as made the discharge of his pistol an act of self-defence. the unfortunate man fell; and while edward, thrilled with a natural horror at the incident, neither had presence of mind to unsheathe his sword nor to draw his remaining pistol, the populace threw themselves upon him, disarmed him, and were about to use him with great violence, when the appearance of a venerable clergyman, the pastor of the parish, put a curb on their fury. this worthy man (none of the goukthrapples or rentowels) maintained his character with the common people, although he preached the practical fruits of christian faith as well as its abstract tenets, and was respected by the higher orders, notwithstanding he declined soothing their speculative errors by converting the pulpit of the gospel into a school of heathen morality. perhaps it is owing to this mixture of faith and practice in his doctrine that, although his memory has formed a sort of era in the annals of cairnvreckan, so that the parishioners, to denote what befell sixty years since, still say it happened 'in good mr. morton's time,' i have never been able to discover which he belonged to, the evangelical or the moderate party in the kirk. nor do i hold the circumstance of much moment, since, in my own remembrance, the one was headed by an erskine, the other by a robertson. [footnote: the reverend john erskine, d. d, an eminent scottish divine and a most excellent man, headed the evangelical party in the church of scotland at the time when the celebrated doctor robertson, the historian, was the leader of the moderate party. these two distinguished persons were colleagues in the old grey friars' church, edinburgh; and, however much they differed in church politics, preserved the most perfect harmony as private friends and as clergymen serving the same cure] mr. morton had been alarmed by the discharge of the pistol and the increasing hubbub around the smithy. his first attention, after he had directed the bystanders to detain waverley, but to abstain from injuring him, was turned to the body of mucklewrath, over which his wife, in a revulsion of feeling, was weeping, howling, and tearing her elf-locks in a state little short of distraction. on raising up the smith, the first discovery was that he was alive; and the next that he was likely to live as long as if he had never heard the report of a pistol in his life. he had made a narrow escape, however; the bullet had grazed his head and stunned him for a moment or two, which trance terror and confusion of spirit had prolonged somewhat longer. he now arose to demand vengeance on the person of waverley, and with difficulty acquiesced in the proposal of mr. morton that he should be carried before the laird, as a justice of peace, and placed at his disposal. the rest of the assistants unanimously agreed to the measure recommended; even mrs. mucklewrath, who had begun to recover from her hysterics, whimpered forth, 'she wadna say naething against what the minister proposed; he was e'en ower gude for his trade, and she hoped to see him wi' a dainty decent bishop's gown on his back; a comelier sight than your geneva cloaks and bands, i wis.' all controversy being thus laid aside, waverley, escorted by the whole inhabitants of the village who were not bed-ridden, was conducted to the house of cairnvreckan, which was about half a mile distant. chapter xxxi an examination major melville of cairnvreckan, an elderly gentleman, who had spent his youth in the military service, received mr. morton with great kindness, and our hero with civility, which the equivocal circumstances wherein edward was placed rendered constrained and distant. the nature of the smith's hurt was inquired into, and, as the actual injury was likely to prove trifling, and the circumstances in which it was received rendered the infliction on edward's part a natural act of self-defence, the major conceived he might dismiss that matter on waverley's depositing in his hands a small sum for the benefit of the wounded person. 'i could wish, sir,' continued the major, 'that my duty terminated here; but it is necessary that we should have some further inquiry into the cause of your journey through the country at this unfortunate and distracted time.' mr. ebenezer cruickshanks now stood forth, and communicated to the magistrate all he knew or suspected from the reserve of waverley and the evasions of callum beg. the horse upon which edward rode, he said, he knew to belong to vich ian vohr, though he dared not tax edward's former attendant with the fact, lest he should have his house and stables burnt over his head some night by that godless gang, the mac-ivors. he concluded by exaggerating his own services to kirk and state, as having been the means, under god (as he modestly qualified the assertion), of attaching this suspicious and formidable delinquent. he intimated hopes of future reward, and of instant reimbursement for loss of time, and even of character, by travelling on the state business on the fast-day. to this major melville answered, with great composure, that so far from claiming any merit in this affair, mr. cruickshanks ought to deprecate the imposition of a very heavy fine for neglecting to lodge, in terms of the recent proclamation, an account with the nearest magistrate of any stranger who came to his inn; that, as mr. cruickshanks boasted so much of religion and loyalty, he should not impute this conduct to disaffection, but only suppose that his zeal for kirk and state had been lulled asleep by the opportunity of charging a stranger with double horse-hire; that, however, feeling himself incompetent to decide singly upon the conduct of a person of such importance, he should reserve it for consideration of the next quarter-sessions. now our history for the present saith no more of him of the candlestick, who wended dolorous and malcontent back to his own dwelling. major melville then commanded the villagers to return to their homes, excepting two, who officiated as constables, and whom he directed to wait below. the apartment was thus cleared of every person but mr. morton, whom the major invited to remain; a sort of factor, who acted as clerk; and waverley himself. there ensued a painful and embarrassed pause, till major melville, looking upon waverley with much compassion, and often consulting a paper or memorandum which he held in his hand, requested to know his name. 'edward waverley.' 'i thought so; late of the--dragoons, and nephew of sir everard waverley of waverley-honour?' 'the same.' 'young gentleman, i am extremely sorry that this painful duty has fallen to my lot.' 'duty, major melville, renders apologies superfluous.' 'true, sir; permit me, therefore, to ask you how your time has been disposed of since you obtained leave of absence from your regiment, several weeks ago, until the present moment?' 'my reply,' said waverley, 'to so general a question must be guided by the nature of the charge which renders it necessary. i request to know what that charge is, and upon what authority i am forcibly detained to reply to it?' 'the charge, mr. waverley, i grieve to say, is of a very high nature, and affects your character both as a soldier and a subject. in the former capacity you are charged with spreading mutiny and rebellion among the men you commanded, and setting them the example of desertion, by prolonging your own absence from the regiment, contrary to the express orders of your commanding officer. the civil crime of which you stand accused is that of high treason and levying war against the king, the highest delinquency of which a subject can be guilty.' 'and by what authority am i detained to reply to such heinous calumnies?' 'by one which you must not dispute, nor i disobey.' he handed to waverley a warrant from the supreme criminal court of scotland, in full form, for apprehending and securing the person of edward waverley, esq., suspected of treasonable practices and other high crimes and misdemeanours. the astonishment which waverley expressed at this communication was imputed by major melville to conscious guilt, while mr. morton was rather disposed to construe it into the surprise of innocence unjustly suspected. there was something true in both conjectures; for although edward's mind acquitted him of the crime with which he was charged, yet a hasty review of his own conduct convinced him he might have great difficulty in establishing his innocence to the satisfaction of others. 'it is a very painful part of this painful business,' said major melville, after a pause, 'that, under so grave a charge, i must necessarily request to see such papers as you have on your person.' 'you shall, sir, without reserve,' said edward, throwing his pocket-book and memorandums upon the table; 'there is but one with which i could wish you would dispense.' 'i am afraid, mr. waverley, i can indulge you with no reservation,' 'you shall see it then, sir; and as it can be of no service, i beg it may be returned.' he took from his bosom the lines he had that morning received, and presented them with the envelope. the major perused them in silence, and directed his clerk to make a copy of them. he then wrapped the copy in the envelope, and placing it on the table before him, returned the original to waverley, with an air of melancholy gravity. after indulging the prisoner, for such our hero must now be considered, with what he thought a reasonable time for reflection, major melville resumed his examination, premising that, as mr. waverley seemed to object to general questions, his interrogatories should be as specific as his information permitted. he then proceeded in his investigation, dictating, as he went on, the import of the questions and answers to the amanuensis, by whom it was written down. 'did mr. waverley know one humphry houghton, a non-commissioned officer in gardiner's dragoons?' 'certainly; he was sergeant of my troop, and son of a tenant of my uncle.' 'exactly--and had a considerable share of your confidence, and an influence among his comrades?' 'i had never occasion to repose confidence in a person of his description,' answered waverley. 'i favoured sergeant houghton as a clever, active young fellow, and i believe his fellow-soldiers respected him accordingly.' 'but you used through this man,' answered major melville, 'to communicate with such of your troop as were recruited upon waverley-honour?' 'certainly; the poor fellows, finding themselves in a regiment chiefly composed of scotch or irish, looked up to me in any of their little distresses, and naturally made their countryman and sergeant their spokesman on such occasions.' 'sergeant houghton's influence,' continued the major, 'extended, then, particularly over those soldiers who followed you to the regiment from your uncle's estate?' 'surely; but what is that to the present purpose?' 'to that i am just coming, and i beseech your candid reply. have you, since leaving the regiment, held any correspondence, direct or indirect, with this sergeant houghton?' 'i!--i hold correspondence with a man of his rank and situation! how, or for what purpose?' 'that you are to explain. but did you not, for example, send to him for some books?' 'you remind me of a trifling commission,' said waverley, 'which i gave sergeant houghton, because my servant could not read. i do recollect i bade him, by letter, select some books, of which i sent him a list, and send them to me at tully-veolan.' 'and of what description were those books?' 'they related almost entirely to elegant literature; they were designed for a lady's perusal.' 'were there not, mr. waverley, treasonable tracts and pamphlets among them?' 'there were some political treatises, into which i hardly looked. they had been sent to me by the officiousness of a kind friend, whose heart is more to be esteemed than his prudence or political sagacity; they seemed to be dull compositions.' 'that friend,' continued the persevering inquirer, 'was a mr. pembroke, a nonjuring clergyman, the author of two treasonable works, of which the manuscripts were found among your baggage?' 'but of which, i give you my honour as a gentleman,' replied waverley, 'i never read six pages.' 'i am not your judge, mr. waverley; your examination will be transmitted elsewhere. and now to proceed. do you know a person that passes by the name of wily will, or will ruthven?' 'i never heard of such a name till this moment.' 'did you never through such a person, or any other person, communicate with sergeant humphry houghton, instigating him to desert, with as many of his comrades as he could seduce to join him, and unite with the highlanders and other rebels now in arms under the command of the young pretender?' 'i assure you i am not only entirely guiltless of the plot you have laid to my charge, but i detest it from the very bottom of my soul, nor would i be guilty of such treachery to gain a throne, either for myself or any other man alive.' 'yet when i consider this envelope in the handwriting of one of those misguided gentlemen who are now in arms against their country, and the verses which it enclosed, i cannot but find some analogy between the enterprise i have mentioned and the exploit of wogan, which the writer seems to expect you should imitate.' waverley was struck with the coincidence, but denied that the wishes or expectations of the letter-writer were to be regarded as proofs of a charge otherwise chimerical. 'but, if i am rightly informed, your time was spent, during your absence from the regiment, between the house of this highland chieftain and that of mr. bradwardine of bradwardine, also in arms for this unfortunate cause?' 'i do not mean to disguise it; but i do deny, most resolutely, being privy to any of their designs against the government.' 'you do not, however, i presume, intend to deny that you attended your host glennaquoich to a rendezvous, where, under a pretence of a general hunting match, most of the accomplices of his treason were assembled to concert measures for taking arms?' 'i acknowledge having been at such a meeting,' said waverley; 'but i neither heard nor saw anything which could give it the character you affix to it.' 'from thence you proceeded,' continued the magistrate, 'with glennaquoich and a part of his clan to join the army of the young pretender, and returned, after having paid your homage to him, to discipline and arm the remainder, and unite them to his bands on their way southward?' 'i never went with glennaquoich on such an errand. i never so much as heard that the person whom you mention was in the country.' he then detailed the history of his misfortune at the hunting match, and added, that on his return he found himself suddenly deprived of his commission, and did not deny that he then, for the first time, observed symptoms which indicated a disposition in the highlanders to take arms; but added that, having no inclination to join their cause, and no longer any reason for remaining in scotland, he was now on his return to his native country, to which he had been summoned by those who had a right to direct his motions, as major melville would perceive from the letters on the table. major melville accordingly perused the letters of richard waverley, of sir everard, and of aunt rachel; but the inferences he drew from them were different from what waverley expected. they held the language of discontent with government, threw out no obscure hints of revenge, and that of poor aunt rachel, which plainly asserted the justice of the stuart cause, was held to contain the open avowal of what the others only ventured to insinuate. 'permit me another question, mr. waverley,' said major melville. 'did you not receive repeated letters from your commanding officer, warning you and commanding you to return to your post, and acquainting you with the use made of your name to spread discontent among your soldiers?' 'i never did, major melville. one letter, indeed, i received from him, containing a civil intimation of his wish that i would employ my leave of absence otherwise than in constant residence at bradwardine, as to which, i own, i thought he was not called on to interfere; and, finally, i received, on the same day on which i observed myself superseded in the "gazette," a second letter from colonel gardiner, commanding me to join the regiment, an order which, owing to my absence, already mentioned and accounted for, i received too late to be obeyed. if there were any intermediate letters, and certainly from the colonel's high character i think it probable that there were, they have never reached me.' 'i have omitted, mr. waverley,' continued major melville, 'to inquire after a matter of less consequence, but which has nevertheless been publicly talked of to your disadvantage. it is said that a treasonable toast having been proposed in your hearing and presence, you, holding his majesty's commission, suffered the task of resenting it to devolve upon another gentleman of the company. this, sir, cannot be charged against you in a court of justice; but if, as i am informed, the officers of your regiment requested an explanation of such a rumour, as a gentleman and soldier i cannot but be surprised that you did not afford it to them.' this was too much. beset and pressed on every hand by accusations, in which gross falsehoods were blended with such circumstances of truth as could not fail to procure them credit,--alone, unfriended, and in a strange land, waverley almost gave up his life and honour for lost, and, leaning his head upon his hand, resolutely refused to answer any further questions, since the fair and candid statement he had already made had only served to furnish arms against him. without expressing either surprise or displeasure at the change in waverley's manner, major melville proceeded composedly to put several other queries to him. 'what does it avail me to answer you?' said edward sullenly. 'you appear convinced of my guilt, and wrest every reply i have made to support your own preconceived opinion. enjoy your supposed triumph, then, and torment me no further. if i am capable of the cowardice and treachery your charge burdens me with, i am not worthy to be believed in any reply i can make to you. if i am not deserving of your suspicion--and god and my own conscience bear evidence with me that it is so--then i do not see why i should, by my candour, lend my accusers arms against my innocence. there is no reason i should answer a word more, and i am determined to abide by this resolution.' and again he resumed his posture of sullen and determined silence. 'allow me,' said the magistrate, 'to remind you of one reason that may suggest the propriety of a candid and open confession. the inexperience of youth, mr. waverley, lays it open to the plans of the more designing and artful; and one of your friends at least--i mean mac-ivor of glennaquoich--ranks high in the latter class, as, from your apparent ingenuousness, youth, and unacquaintance with the manners of the highlands, i should be disposed to place you among the former. in such a case, a false step or error like yours, which i shall be happy to consider as involuntary, may be atoned for, and i would willingly act as intercessor. but, as you must necessarily be acquainted with the strength of the individuals in this country who have assumed arms, with their means and with their plans, i must expect you will merit this mediation on my part by a frank and candid avowal of all that has come to your knowledge upon these heads; in which case, i think i can venture to promise that a very short personal restraint will be the only ill consequence that can arise from your accession to these unhappy intrigues.' waverley listened with great composure until the end of this exhortation, when, springing from his seat with an energy he had not yet displayed, he replied, 'major melville, since that is your name, i have hitherto answered your questions with candour, or declined them with temper, because their import concerned myself alone; but, as you presume to esteem me mean enough to commence informer against others, who received me, whatever may be their public misconduct, as a guest and friend, i declare to you that i consider your questions as an insult infinitely more offensive than your calumnious suspicions; and that, since my hard fortune permits me no other mode of resenting them than by verbal defiance, you should sooner have my heart out of my bosom than a single syllable of information on subjects which i could only become acquainted with in the full confidence of unsuspecting hospitality.' mr. morton and the major looked at each other; and the former, who, in the course of the examination, had been repeatedly troubled with a sorry rheum, had recourse to his snuff-box and his handkerchief. 'mr. waverley,' said the major, 'my present situation prohibits me alike from giving or receiving offence, and i will not protract a discussion which approaches to either. i am afraid i must sign a warrant for detaining you in custody, but this house shall for the present be your prison. i fear i cannot persuade you to accept a share of our supper?--(edward shook his head)--but i will order refreshments in your apartment.' our hero bowed and withdrew, under guard of the officers of justice, to a small but handsome room, where, declining all offers of food or wine, he flung himself on the bed, and, stupified by the harassing events and mental fatigue of this miserable day, he sunk into a deep and heavy slumber. this was more than he himself could have expected; but it is mentioned of the north-american indians, when at the stake of torture, that on the least intermission of agony they will sleep until the fire is applied to awaken them. chapter xxxii a conference and the consequence major melville had detained mr. morton during his examination of waverley, both because he thought he might derive assistance from his practical good sense and approved loyalty, and also because it was agreeable to have a witness of unimpeached candour and veracity to proceedings which touched the honour and safety of a young englishman of high rank and family, and the expectant heir of a large fortune. every step he knew would be rigorously canvassed, and it was his business to place the justice and integrity of his own conduct beyond the limits of question. when waverley retired, the laird and clergyman of cairnvreckan sat down in silence to their evening meal. while the servants were in attendance neither chose to say anything on the circumstances which occupied their minds, and neither felt it easy to speak upon any other. the youth and apparent frankness of waverley stood in strong contrast to the shades of suspicion which darkened around him, and he had a sort of naivete and openness of demeanour that seemed to belong to one unhackneyed in the ways of intrigue, and which pleaded highly in his favour. each mused over the particulars of the examination, and each viewed it through the medium of his own feelings. both were men of ready and acute talent, and both were equally competent to combine various parts of evidence, and to deduce from them the necessary conclusions. but the wide difference of their habits and education often occasioned a great discrepancy in their respective deductions from admitted premises. major melville had been versed in camps and cities; he was vigilant by profession and cautious from experience, had met with much evil in the world, and therefore, though himself an upright magistrate and an honourable man, his opinions of others were always strict, and sometimes unjustly severe. mr. morton, on the contrary, had passed from the literary pursuits of a college, where he was beloved by his companions and respected by his teachers, to the ease and simplicity of his present charge, where his opportunities of witnessing evil were few, and never dwelt upon but in order to encourage repentance and amendment; and where the love and respect of his parishioners repaid his affectionate zeal in their behalf by endeavouring to disguise from him what they knew would give him the most acute pain, namely, their own occasional transgressions of the duties which it was the business of his life to recommend. thus it was a common saying in the neighbourhood (though both were popular characters), that the laird knew only the ill in the parish and the minister only the good. a love of letters, though kept in subordination to his clerical studies and duties, also distinguished the pastor of cairnvreckan, and had tinged his mind in earlier days with a slight feeling of romance, which no after incidents of real life had entirely dissipated. the early loss of an amiable young woman whom he had married for love, and who was quickly followed to the grave by an only child, had also served, even after the lapse of many years, to soften a disposition naturally mild and contemplative. his feelings on the present occasion were therefore likely to differ from those of the severe disciplinarian, strict magistrate, and distrustful man of the world. when the servants had withdrawn, the silence of both parties continued, until major melville, filling his glass and pushing the bottle to mr. morton, commenced-- 'a distressing affair this, mr. morton. i fear this youngster has brought himself within the compass of a halter.' 'god forbid!' answered the clergyman. 'marry, and amen,' said the temporal magistrate; 'but i think even your merciful logic will hardly deny the conclusion.' 'surely, major,' answered the clergyman, 'i should hope it might be averted, for aught we have heard tonight?' 'indeed!' replied melville. 'but, my good parson, you are one of those who would communicate to every criminal the benefit of clergy.' 'unquestionably i would. mercy and long-suffering are the grounds of the doctrine i am called to teach.' 'true, religiously speaking; but mercy to a criminal may be gross injustice to the community. i don't speak of this young fellow in particular, who i heartily wish may be able to clear himself, for i like both his modesty and his spirit. but i fear he has rushed upon his fate.' 'and why? hundreds of misguided gentlemen are now in arms against the government, many, doubtless, upon principles which education and early prejudice have gilded with the names of patriotism and heroism; justice, when she selects her victims from such a multitude (for surely all will not be destroyed), must regard the moral motive. he whom ambition or hope of personal advantage has led to disturb the peace of a well-ordered government, let him fall a victim to the laws; but surely youth, misled by the wild visions of chivalry and imaginary loyalty, may plead for pardon.' 'if visionary chivalry and imaginary loyalty come within the predicament of high treason,' replied the magistrate, 'i know no court in christendom, my dear mr. morton, where they can sue out their habeas corpus.' 'but i cannot see that this youth's guilt is at all established to my satisfaction,' said the clergyman. 'because your good-nature blinds your good sense,' replied major melville. 'observe now: this young man, descended of a family of hereditary jacobites, his uncle the leader of the tory interest in the county of ----, his father a disobliged and discontented courtier, his tutor a nonjuror and the author of two treasonable volumes--this youth, i say, enters into gardiner's dragoons, bringing with him a body of young fellows from his uncle's estate, who have not stickled at avowing in their way the high-church principles they learned at waverley-honour, in their disputes with their comrades. to these young men waverley is unusually attentive; they are supplied with money beyond a soldier's wants and inconsistent with his discipline; and are under the management of a favourite sergeant, through whom they hold an unusually close communication with their captain, and affect to consider themselves as independent of the other officers, and superior to their comrades.' 'all this, my dear major, is the natural consequence of their attachment to their young landlord, and of their finding themselves in a regiment levied chiefly in the north of ireland and the west of scotland, and of course among comrades disposed to quarrel with them, both as englishmen and as members of the church of england.' 'well said, parson!' replied the magistrate. 'i would some of your synod heard you. but let me go on. this young man obtains leave of absence, goes to tully-veolan--the principles of the baron of bradwardine are pretty well known, not to mention that this lad's uncle brought him off in the year fifteen; he engages there in a brawl, in which he is said to have disgraced the commission he bore; colonel gardiner writes to him, first mildly, then more sharply--i think you will not doubt his having done so, since he says so; the mess invite him to explain the quarrel in which he is said to have been involved; he neither replies to his commander nor his comrades. in the meanwhile his soldiers become mutinous and disorderly, and at length, when the rumour of this unhappy rebellion becomes general, his favourite sergeant houghton and another fellow are detected in correspondence with a french emissary, accredited, as he says, by captain waverley, who urges him, according to the men's confession, to desert with the troop and join their captain, who was with prince charles. in the meanwhile this trusty captain is, by his own admission, residing at glennaquoich with the most active, subtle, and desperate jacobite in scotland; he goes with him at least as far as their famous hunting rendezvous, and i fear a little farther. meanwhile two other summonses are sent him; one warning him of the disturbances in his troop, another peremptorily ordering him to repair to the regiment, which, indeed, common sense might have dictated, when he observed rebellion thickening all round him. he returns an absolute refusal, and throws up his commission.' 'he had been already deprived of it,' said mr. morton. 'but he regrets,' replied melville, 'that the measure had anticipated his resignation. his baggage is seized at his quarters and at tully-veolan, and is found to contain a stock of pestilent jacobitical pamphlets, enough to poison a whole country, besides the unprinted lucubrations of his worthy friend and tutor mr. pembroke.' 'he says he never read them,' answered the minister. 'in an ordinary case i should believe him,' replied the magistrate, 'for they are as stupid and pedantic in composition as mischievous in their tenets. but can you suppose anything but value for the principles they maintain would induce a young man of his age to lug such trash about with him? then, when news arrive of the approach of the rebels, he sets out in a sort of disguise, refusing to tell his name; and, if yon old fanatic tell truth, attended by a very suspicious character, and mounted on a horse known to have belonged to glennaquoich, and bearing on his person letters from his family expressing high rancour against the house of brunswick, and a copy of verses in praise of one wogan, who abjured the service of the parliament to join the highland insurgents, when in arms to restore the house of stuart, with a body of english cavalry--the very counterpart of his own plot--and summed up with a "go thou and do likewise" from that loyal subject, and most safe and peaceable character, fergus mac-ivor of glennaquoich, vich ian vohr, and so forth. and, lastly,' continued major melville, warming in the detail of his arguments, 'where do we find this second edition of cavalier wogan? why, truly, in the very track most proper for execution of his design, and pistolling the first of the king's subjects who ventures to question his intentions.' mr. morton prudently abstained from argument, which he perceived would only harden the magistrate in his opinion, and merely asked how he intended to dispose of the prisoner? 'it is a question of some difficulty, considering the state of the country,' said major melville. 'could you not detain him (being such a gentleman-like young man) here in your own house, out of harm's way, till this storm blow over?' 'my good friend,' said major melville, 'neither your house nor mine will be long out of harm's way, even were it legal to confine him here. i have just learned that the commander-in-chief, who marched into the highlands to seek out and disperse the insurgents, has declined giving them battle at coryarrick, and marched on northward with all the disposable force of government to inverness, john-o'-groat's house, or the devil, for what i know, leaving the road to the low country open and undefended to the highland army.' 'good god!' said the clergyman. 'is the man a coward, a traitor, or an idiot?' 'none of the three, i believe,' answered melville. 'sir john has the commonplace courage of a common soldier, is honest enough, does what he is commanded, and understands what is told him, but is as fit to act for himself in circumstances of importance as i, my dear parson, to occupy your pulpit.' this important public intelligence naturally diverted the discourse from waverley for some time; at length, however, the subject was resumed. 'i believe,' said major melville, 'that i must give this young man in charge to some of the detached parties of armed volunteers who were lately sent out to overawe the disaffected districts. they are now recalled towards stirling, and a small body comes this way to-morrow or next day, commanded by the westland man--what's his name? you saw him, and said he was the very model of one of cromwell's military saints.' 'gilfillan, the cameronian,' answered mr. morton. 'i wish the young gentleman may be safe with him. strange things are done in the heat and hurry of minds in so agitating a crisis, and i fear gilfillan is of a sect which has suffered persecution without learning mercy.' 'he has only to lodge mr. waverley in stirling castle,' said the major; 'i will give strict injunctions to treat him well. i really cannot devise any better mode for securing him, and i fancy you would hardly advise me to encounter the responsibility of setting him at liberty.' 'but you will have no objection to my seeing him tomorrow in private?' said the minister. 'none, certainly; your loyalty and character are my warrant. but with what view do you make the request?' 'simply,' replied mr. morton, 'to make the experiment whether he may not be brought to communicate to me some circumstances which may hereafter be useful to alleviate, if not to exculpate, his conduct.' the friends now parted and retired to rest, each filled with the most anxious reflections on the state of the country. chapter xxxiii a confidant waverley awoke in the morning from troubled dreams and unrefreshing slumbers to a full consciousness of the horrors of his situation. how it might terminate he knew not. he might be delivered up to military law, which, in the midst of civil war, was not likely to be scrupulous in the choice of its victims or the quality of the evidence. nor did he feel much more comfortable at the thoughts of a trial before a scottish court of justice, where he knew the laws and forms differed in many respects from those of england, and had been taught to believe, however erroneously, that the liberty and rights of the subject were less carefully protected. a sentiment of bitterness rose in his mind against the government, which he considered as the cause of his embarrassment and peril, and he cursed internally his scrupulous rejection of mac-ivor's invitation to accompany him to the field. 'why did not i,' he said to himself, 'like other men of honour, take the earliest opportunity to welcome to britain the descendant of her ancient kings and lineal heir of her throne? why did not i-- unthread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith, seek out prince charles, and fall before his feet? all that has been recorded of excellence and worth in the house of waverley has been founded upon their loyal faith to the house of stuart. from the interpretation which this scotch magistrate has put upon the letters of my uncle and father, it is plain that i ought to have understood them as marshalling me to the course of my ancestors; and it has been my gross dulness, joined to the obscurity of expression which they adopted for the sake of security, that has confounded my judgment. had i yielded to the first generous impulse of indignation when i learned that my honour was practised upon, how different had been my present situation! i had then been free and in arms fighting, like my forefathers, for love, for loyalty, and for fame. and now i am here, netted and in the toils, at the disposal of a suspicious, stern, and cold-hearted man, perhaps to be turned over to the solitude of a dungeon or the infamy of a public execution. o, fergus! how true has your prophecy proved; and how speedy, how very speedy, has been its accomplishment!' while edward was ruminating on these painful subjects of contemplation, and very naturally, though not quite so justly, bestowing upon the reigning dynasty that blame which was due to chance, or, in part at least, to his own unreflecting conduct, mr. morton availed himself of major melville's permission to pay him an early visit. waverley's first impulse was to intimate a desire that he might not be disturbed with questions or conversation; but he suppressed it upon observing the benevolent and reverend appearance of the clergyman who had rescued him from the immediate violence of the villagers. 'i believe, sir,' said the unfortunate young man,'that in any other circumstances i should have had as much gratitude to express to you as the safety of my life may be worth; but such is the present tumult of my mind, and such is my anticipation of what i am yet likely to endure, that i can hardly offer you thanks for your interposition.' mr. morton replied, that, far from making any claim upon his good opinion, his only wish and the sole purpose of his visit was to find out the means of deserving it. 'my excellent friend, major melville,' he continued, 'has feelings and duties as a soldier and public functionary by which i am not fettered; nor can i always coincide in opinions which he forms, perhaps with too little allowance for the imperfections of human nature.' he paused and then proceeded: 'i do not intrude myself on your confidence, mr. waverley, for the purpose of learning any circumstances the knowledge of which can be prejudicial either to yourself or to others; but i own my earnest wish is that you would intrust me with any particulars which could lead to your exculpation. i can solemnly assure you they will be deposited with a faithful and, to the extent of his limited powers, a zealous agent.' 'you are, sir, i presume, a presbyterian clergyman?' mr. morton bowed. 'were i to be guided by the prepossessions of education, i might distrust your friendly professions in my case; but i have observed that similar prejudices are nourished in this country against your professional brethren of the episcopal persuasion, and i am willing to believe them equally unfounded in both cases.' 'evil to him that thinks otherwise,' said mr. morton; 'or who holds church government and ceremonies as the exclusive gage of christian faith or moral virtue.' 'but,' continued waverley, 'i cannot perceive why i should trouble you with a detail of particulars, out of which, after revolving them as carefully as possible in my recollection, i find myself unable to explain much of what is charged against me. i know, indeed, that i am innocent, but i hardly see how i can hope to prove myself so.' 'it is for that very reason, mr. waverley,' said the clergyman, 'that i venture to solicit your confidence. my knowledge of individuals in this country is pretty general, and can upon occasion be extended. your situation will, i fear, preclude your taking those active steps for recovering intelligence or tracing imposture which i would willingly undertake in your behalf; and if you are not benefited by my exertions, at least they cannot be prejudicial to you.' waverley, after a few minutes' reflection, was convinced that his reposing confidence in mr. morton, so far as he himself was concerned, could hurt neither mr. bradwardine nor fergus mac-ivor, both of whom had openly assumed arms against the government, and that it might possibly, if the professions of his new friend corresponded in sincerity with the earnestness of his expression, be of some service to himself. he therefore ran briefly over most of the events with which the reader is already acquainted, suppressing his attachment to flora, and indeed neither mentioning her nor rose bradwardine in the course of his narrative. mr. morton seemed particularly struck with the account of waverley's visit to donald bean lean. 'i am glad,' he said, 'you did not mention this circumstance to the major. it is capable of great misconstruction on the part of those who do not consider the power of curiosity and the influence of romance as motives of youthful conduct. when i was a young man like you, mr. waverley, any such hair-brained expedition (i beg your pardon for the expression) would have had inexpressible charms for me. but there are men in the world who will not believe that danger and fatigue are often incurred without any very adequate cause, and therefore who are sometimes led to assign motives of action entirely foreign to the truth. this man bean lean is renowned through the country as a sort of robin hood, and the stories which are told of his address and enterprise are the common tales of the winter fireside. he certainly possesses talents beyond the rude sphere in which he moves; and, being neither destitute of ambition nor encumbered with scruples, he will probably attempt, by every means, to distinguish himself during the period of these unhappy commotions.' mr. morton then made a careful memorandum of the various particulars of waverley's interview with donald bean lean and the other circumstances which he had communicated. the interest which this good man seemed to take in his misfortunes, above all, the full confidence he appeared to repose in his innocence, had the natural effect of softening edward's heart, whom the coldness of major melville had taught to believe that the world was leagued to oppress him. he shook mr. morton warmly by the hand, and, assuring him that his kindness and sympathy had relieved his mind of a heavy load, told him that, whatever might be his own fate, he belonged to a family who had both gratitude and the power of displaying it. the earnestness of his thanks called drops to the eyes of the worthy clergyman, who was doubly interested in the cause for which he had volunteered his services, by observing the genuine and undissembled feelings of his young friend. edward now inquired if mr. morton knew what was likely to be his destination. 'stirling castle,' replied his friend; 'and so far i am well pleased for your sake, for the governor is a man of honour and humanity. but i am more doubtful of your treatment upon the road; major melville is involuntarily obliged to intrust the custody of your person to another.' 'i am glad of it,' answered waverley. 'i detest that cold-blooded calculating scotch magistrate. i hope he and i shall never meet more. he had neither sympathy with my innocence nor with my wretchedness; and the petrifying accuracy with which he attended to every form of civility, while he tortured me by his questions, his suspicions, and his inferences, was as tormenting as the racks of the inquisition. do not vindicate him, my dear sir, for that i cannot bear with patience; tell me rather who is to have the charge of so important a state prisoner as i am.' 'i believe a person called gilfillan, one of the sect who are termed cameronians.' 'i never heard of them before.' 'they claim,' said the clergyman, 'to represent the more strict and severe presbyterians, who, in charles second's and james second's days, refused to profit by the toleration, or indulgence, as it was called, which was extended to others of that religion. they held conventicles in the open fields, and, being treated with great violence and cruelty by the scottish government, more than once took arms during those reigns. they take their name from their leader, richard cameron.' 'i recollect,' said waverley; 'but did not the triumph of presbytery at the revolution extinguish that sect?' 'by no means,' replied morton; 'that great event fell yet far short of what they proposed, which was nothing less than the complete establishment of the presbyterian church upon the grounds of the old solemn league and covenant. indeed, i believe they scarce knew what they wanted; but being a numerous body of men, and not unacquainted with the use of arms, they kept themselves together as a separate party in the state, and at the time of the union had nearly formed a most unnatural league with their old enemies the jacobites to oppose that important national measure. since that time their numbers have gradually diminished; but a good many are still to be found in the western counties, and several, with a better temper than in , have now taken arms for government. this person, whom they call gifted gilfillan, has been long a leader among them, and now heads a small party, which will pass here to-day or to-morrow on their march towards stirling, under whose escort major melville proposes you shall travel. i would willingly speak to gilfillan in your behalf; but, having deeply imbibed all the prejudices of his sect, and being of the same fierce disposition, he would pay little regard to the remonstrances of an erastian divine, as he would politely term me. and now, farewell, my young friend; for the present i must not weary out the major's indulgence, that i may obtain his permission to visit you again in the course of the day.' chapter xxxiv things mend a little about noon mr. morton returned and brought an invitation from major melville that mr. waverley would honour him with his company to dinner, notwithstanding the unpleasant affair which detained him at cairnvreckan, from which he should heartily rejoice to see mr. waverley completely extricated. the truth was that mr. morton's favourable report and opinion had somewhat staggered the preconceptions of the old soldier concerning edward's supposed accession to the mutiny in the regiment; and in the unfortunate state of the country the mere suspicion of disaffection or an inclination to join the insurgent jacobites might infer criminality indeed, but certainly not dishonour. besides, a person whom the major trusted had reported to him (though, as it proved, inaccurately) a contradiction of the agitating news of the preceding evening. according to this second edition of the intelligence, the highlanders had withdrawn from the lowland frontier with the purpose of following the army in their march to inverness. the major was at a loss, indeed, to reconcile his information with the well-known abilities of some of the gentlemen in the highland army, yet it was the course which was likely to be most agreeable to others. he remembered the same policy had detained them in the north in the year , and he anticipated a similar termination to the insurrection as upon that occasion. this news put him in such good-humour that he readily acquiesced in mr. morton's proposal to pay some hospitable attention to his unfortunate guest, and voluntarily added, he hoped the whole affair would prove a youthful escapade, which might be easily atoned by a short confinement. the kind mediator had some trouble to prevail on his young friend to accept the invitation. he dared not urge to him the real motive, which was a good-natured wish to secure a favourable report of waverley's case from major melville to governor blakeney. he remarked, from the flashes of our hero's spirit, that touching upon this topic would be sure to defeat his purpose. he therefore pleaded that the invitation argued the major's disbelief of any part of the accusation which was inconsistent with waverley's conduct as a soldier and a man of honour, and that to decline his courtesy might be interpreted into a consciousness that it was unmerited. in short, he so far satisfied edward that the manly and proper course was to meet the major on easy terms that, suppressing his strong dislike again to encounter his cold and punctilious civility, waverley agreed to be guided by his new friend. the meeting at first was stiff and formal enough. but edward, having accepted the invitation, and his mind being really soothed and relieved by the kindness of morton, held himself bound to behave with ease, though he could not affect cordiality. the major was somewhat of a bon vivant, and his wine was excellent. he told his old campaign stories, and displayed much knowledge of men and manners. mr. morton had an internal fund of placid and quiet gaiety, which seldom failed to enliven any small party in which he found himself pleasantly seated. waverley, whose life was a dream, gave ready way to the predominating impulse and became the most lively of the party. he had at all times remarkable natural powers of conversation, though easily silenced by discouragement. on the present occasion he piqued himself upon leaving on the minds of his companions a favourable impression of one who, under such disastrous circumstances, could sustain his misfortunes with ease and gaiety. his spirits, though not unyielding, were abundantly elastic, and soon seconded his efforts. the trio were engaged in very lively discourse, apparently delighted with each other, and the kind host was pressing a third bottle of burgundy, when the sound of a drum was heard at some distance. the major, who, in the glee of an old soldier, had forgot the duties of a magistrate, cursed, with a muttered military oath, the circumstances which recalled him to his official functions. he rose and went towards the window, which commanded a very near view of the highroad, and he was followed by his guests. the drum advanced, beating no measured martial tune, but a kind of rub-a-dub-dub, like that with which the fire-drum startles the slumbering artizans of a scotch burgh. it is the object of this history to do justice to all men; i must therefore record, in justice to the drummer, that he protested he could beat any known march or point of war known in the british army, and had accordingly commenced with 'dumbarton's drums,' when he was silenced by gifted gilfillan, the commander of the party, who refused to permit his followers to move to this profane, and even, as he said, persecutive tune, and commanded the drummer to beat the th psalm. as this was beyond the capacity of the drubber of sheepskin, he was fain to have recourse to the inoffensive row-de-dow as a harmless substitute for the sacred music which his instrument or skill were unable to achieve. this may be held a trifling anecdote, but the drummer in question was no less than town-drummer of anderton. i remember his successor in office, a member of that enlightened body, the british convention. be his memory, therefore, treated with due respect. chapter xxxv a volunteer sixty years since on hearing the unwelcome sound of the drum, major melville hastily opened a sashed door and stepped out upon a sort of terrace which divided his house from the highroad from which the martial music proceeded. waverley and his new friend followed him, though probably he would have dispensed with their attendance. they soon recognised in solemn march, first, the performer upon the drum; secondly, a large flag of four compartments, on which were inscribed the words, covenant, kirk, king, kingdoms. the person who was honoured with this charge was followed by the commander of the party, a thin, dark, rigid-looking man, about sixty years old. the spiritual pride, which in mine host of the candlestick mantled in a sort of supercilious hypocrisy, was in this man's face elevated and yet darkened by genuine and undoubting fanaticism. it was impossible to behold him without imagination placing him in some strange crisis, where religious zeal was the ruling principle. a martyr at the stake, a soldier in the field, a lonely and banished wanderer consoled by the intensity and supposed purity of his faith under every earthly privation, perhaps a persecuting inquisitor, as terrific in power as unyielding in adversity; any of these seemed congenial characters to this personage. with these high traits of energy, there was something in the affected precision and solemnity of his deportment and discourse that bordered upon the ludicrous; so that, according to the mood of the spectator's mind and the light under which mr. gilfillan presented himself, one might have feared, admired, or laughed at him. his dress was that of a west-country peasant, of better materials indeed than that of the lower rank, but in no respect affecting either the mode of the age or of the scottish gentry at any period. his arms were a broadsword and pistols, which, from the antiquity of their appearance, might have seen the rout of pentland or bothwell brigg. as he came up a few steps to meet major melville, and touched solemnly, but slightly, his huge and over-brimmed blue bonnet, in answer to the major, who had courteously raised a small triangular gold-laced hat, waverley was irresistibly impressed with the idea that he beheld a leader of the roundheads of yore in conference with one of marlborough's captains. the group of about thirty armed men who followed this gifted commander was of a motley description. they were in ordinary lowland dresses, of different colours, which, contrasted with the arms they bore, gave them an irregular and mobbish appearance; so much is the eye accustomed to connect uniformity of dress with the military character. in front were a few who apparently partook of their leader's enthusiasm, men obviously to be feared in a combat, where their natural courage was exalted by religious zeal. others puffed and strutted, filled with the importance of carrying arms and all the novelty of their situation, while the rest, apparently fatigued with their march, dragged their limbs listlessly along, or straggled from their companions to procure such refreshments as the neighbouring cottages and alehouses afforded. six grenadiers of ligonier's, thought the major to himself, as his mind reverted to his own military experience, would have sent all these fellows to the right about. greeting, however, mr. gilfillan civilly, he requested to know if he had received the letter he had sent to him upon his march, and could undertake the charge of the state prisoner whom he there mentioned as far as stirling castle. 'yea,' was the concise reply of the cameronian leader, in a voice which seemed to issue from the very penetralia of his person. 'but your escort, mr. gilfillan, is not so strong as i expected,' said major melville. 'some of the people,' replied gilfillan, 'hungered and were athirst by the way, and tarried until their poor souls were refreshed with the word.' 'i am sorry, sir,' replied the major, 'you did not trust to your refreshing your men at cairnvreckan; whatever my house contains is at the command of persons employed in the service.' 'it was not of creature-comforts i spake,' answered the covenanter, regarding major melville with something like a smile of contempt; 'howbeit, i thank you; but the people remained waiting upon the precious mr. jabesh rentowel for the out-pouring of the afternoon exhortation.' 'and have you, sir,' said the major, 'when the rebels are about to spread themselves through this country, actually left a great part of your command at a fieldpreaching?' gilfillan again smiled scornfully as he made this indirect answer --'even thus are the children of this world wiser in their generation than the children of light!' 'however, sir,' said the major, 'as you are to take charge of this gentleman to stirling, and deliver him, with these papers, into the hands of governor blakeney, i beseech you to observe some rules of military discipline upon your march. for example, i would advise you to keep your men more closely together, and that each in his march should cover his file-leader, instead of straggling like geese upon a common; and, for fear of surprise, i further recommend to you to form a small advance-party of your best men, with a single vidette in front of the whole march, so that when you approach a village or a wood'--(here the major interrupted himself)--'but as i don't observe you listen to me, mr. gilfillan, i suppose i need not give myself the trouble to say more upon the subject. you are a better judge, unquestionably, than i am of the measures to be pursued; but one thing i would have you well aware of, that you are to treat this gentleman, your prisoner, with no rigour nor incivility, and are to subject him to no other restraint than is necessary for his security.' 'i have looked into my commission,' said mr. gilfillan,' subscribed by a worthy and professing nobleman, william, earl of glencairn; nor do i find it therein set down that i am to receive any charges or commands anent my doings from major william melville of cairnvreckan.' major melville reddened even to the well-powdered ears which appeared beneath his neat military sidecurls, the more so as he observed mr. morton smile at the same moment. 'mr. gilfillan,' he answered, with some asperity, 'i beg ten thousand pardons for interfering with a person of your importance. i thought, however, that as you have been bred a grazier, if i mistake not, there might be occasion to remind you of the difference between highlanders and highland cattle; and if you should happen to meet with any gentleman who has seen service, and is disposed to speak upon the subject, i should still imagine that listening to him would do you no sort of harm. but i have done, and have only once more to recommend this gentleman to your civility as well as to your custody. mr. waverley, i am truly sorry we should part in this way; but i trust, when you are again in this country, i may have an opportunity to render cairnvreckan more agreeable than circumstances have permitted on this occasion.' so saying, he shook our hero by the hand. morton also took an affectionate farewell, and waverley, having mounted his horse, with a musketeer leading it by the bridle and a file upon each side to prevent his escape, set forward upon the march with gilfillan and his party. through the little village they were accompanied with the shouts of the children, who cried out, 'eh! see to the southland gentleman that's gaun to be hanged for shooting lang john mucklewrath, the smith! appendices to the general preface no. i fragment [footnote: it is not to be supposed that these fragments are given in possessing any intrinsic value of themselves; but there may be some curiosity attached to them, as to the first etchings of a plate, which are accounted interesting by those who have, in any degree, been interested in the more finished works of the artist.] of a romance which was to have been entitled thomas the rhymer chapter i the sun was nearly set behind the distant mountains of liddesdale, when a few of the scattered and terrified inhabitants of the village of hersildoune, which had four days before been burned by a predatory band of english borderers, were now busied in repairing their ruined dwellings. one high tower in the centre of the village alone exhibited no appearance of devastation. it was surrounded with court walls, and the outer gate was barred and bolted. the bushes and brambles which grew around, and had even insinuated their branches beneath the gate, plainly showed that it must have been many years since it had been opened. while the cottages around lay in smoking ruins, this pile, deserted and desolate as it seemed to be, had suffered nothing from the violence of the invaders; and the wretched beings who were endeavouring to repair their miserable huts against nightfall seemed to neglect the preferable shelter which it might have afforded them without the necessity of labour. before the day had quite gone down, a knight, richly armed and mounted upon an ambling hackney, rode slowly into the village. his attendants were a lady, apparently young and beautiful, who rode by his side upon a dappled palfrey; his squire, who carried his helmet and lance, and led his battlehorse, a noble steed, richly caparisoned. a page and four yeomen bearing bows and quivers, short swords, and targets of a span breadth, completed his equipage, which, though small, denoted him to be a man of high rank. he stopped and addressed several of the inhabitants whom curiosity had withdrawn from their labour to gaze at him; but at the sound of his voice, and still more on perceiving the st. george's cross in the caps of his followers, they fled, with a loud cry, 'that the southrons were returned.' the knight endeavoured to expostulate with the fugitives, who were chiefly aged men, women, and children; but their dread of the english name accelerated their flight, and in a few minutes, excepting the knight and his attendants, the place was deserted by all. he paced through the village to seek a shelter for the night, and, despairing to find one either in the inaccessible tower or the plundered huts of the peasantry, he directed his course to the left hand, where he spied a small decent habitation, apparently the abode of a man considerably above the common rank. after much knocking, the proprietor at length showed himself at the window, and speaking in the english dialect, with great signs of apprehension, demanded their business. the warrior replied that his quality was an english knight and baron, and that he was travelling to the court of the king of scotland on affairs of consequence to both kingdoms. 'pardon my hesitation, noble sir knight,' said the old man, as he unbolted and unbarred his doors--'pardon my hesitation, but we are here exposed to too many intrusions to admit of our exercising unlimited and unsuspicious hospitality. what i have is yours; and god send your mission may bring back peace and the good days of our old queen margaret!' 'amen, worthy franklin,' quoth the knight--'did you know her?' 'i came to this country in her train,' said the franklin; 'and the care of some of her jointure lands which she devolved on me occasioned my settling here.' 'and how do you, being an englishman,' said the knight, 'protect your life and property here, when one of your nation cannot obtain a single night's lodging, or a draught of water were he thirsty?' 'marry, noble sir,' answered the franklin, 'use, as they say, will make a man live in a lion's den; and as i settled here in a quiet time, and have never given cause of offence, i am respected by my neighbours, and even, as you see, by our forayers from england.' 'i rejoice to hear it, and accept your hospitality. isabella, my love, our worthy host will provide you a bed. my daughter, good franklin, is ill at ease. we will occupy your house till the scottish king shall return from his northern expedition; meanwhile call me lord lacy of chester.' the attendants of the baron, assisted by the franklin, were now busied in disposing of the horses, and arranging the table for some refreshment for lord lacy and his fair companion. while they sat down to it, they were attended by their host and his daughter, whom custom did not permit to eat in their presence, and who afterwards withdrew to an outer chamber, where the squire and page (both young men of noble birth) partook of supper, and were accommodated with beds. the yeomen, after doing honour to the rustic cheer of queen margaret's bailiff, withdrew to the stable, and each, beside his favourite horse, snored away the fatigues of their journey. early on the following morning the travellers were roused by a thundering knocking at the door of the house, accompanied with many demands for instant admission in the roughest tone. the squire and page of lord lacy, after buckling on their arms, were about to sally out to chastise these intruders, when the old host, after looking out at a private casement, contrived for reconnoitring his visitors, entreated them, with great signs of terror, to be quiet, if they did not mean that all in the house should be murdered. he then hastened to the apartment of lord lacy, whom he met dressed in a long furred gown and the knightly cap called a mortier, irritated at the noise, and demanding to know the cause which had disturbed the repose of the household. 'noble sir,' said the franklin, 'one of the most formidable and bloody of the scottish border riders is at hand; he is never seen,' added he, faltering with terror, 'so far from the hills but with some bad purpose, and the power of accomplishing it; so hold yourself to your guard, for--' a loud crash here announced that the door was broken down, and the knight just descended the stair in time to prevent bloodshed betwixt his attendants and the intruders. they were three in number; their chief was tall, bony, and athletic, his spare and muscular frame, as well as the hardness of his features, marked the course of his life to have been fatiguing and perilous. the effect of his appearance was aggravated by his dress, which consisted of a jack or jacket, composed of thick buff leather, on which small plates of iron of a lozenge form were stitched in such a manner as to overlap each other and form a coat of mail, which swayed with every motion of the wearer's body. this defensive armour covered a doublet of coarse grey cloth, and the borderer had a few half-rusted plates of steel on his shoulders, a two-edged sword, with a dagger hanging beside it, in a buff belt; a helmet, with a few iron bars, to cover the face instead of a visor, and a lance of tremendous and uncommon length, completed his appointments. the looks of the man were as wild and rude as his attire: his keen black eyes never rested one moment fixed upon a single object, but constantly traversed all around, as if they ever sought some danger to oppose, some plunder to seize, or some insult to revenge. the latter seemed to be his present object, for, regardless of the dignified presence of lord lacy, he uttered the most incoherent threats against the owner of the house and his guests. 'we shall see--ay, marry shall we--if an english hound is to harbour and reset the southrons here. thank the abbot of melrose and the good knight of coldingnow that have so long kept me from your skirts. but those days are gone, by saint mary, and you shall find it!' it is probable the enraged borderer would not have long continued to vent his rage in empty menaces, had not the entrance of the four yeomen with their bows bent convinced him that the force was not at this moment on his own side. lord lacy now advanced towards him. 'you intrude upon my privacy, soldier; withdraw yourself and your followers. there is peace betwixt our nations, or my servants should chastise thy presumption.' 'such peace as ye give such shall ye have,' answered the moss-trooper, first pointing with his lance towards the burned village and then almost instantly levelling it against lord lacy. the squire drew his sword and severed at one blow the steel head from the truncheon of the spear. 'arthur fitzherbert,' said the baron, 'that stroke has deferred thy knighthood for one year; never must that squire wear the spurs whose unbridled impetuosity can draw unbidden his sword in the presence of his master. go hence and think on what i have said.' the squire left the chamber abashed. 'it were vain,' continued lord lacy, 'to expect that courtesy from a mountain churl which even my own followers can forget. yet, before thou drawest thy brand (for the intruder laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword), thou wilt do well to reflect that i came with a safe-conduct from thy king, and have no time to waste in brawls with such as thou.' 'from my king--from my king!' re-echoed the mountaineer. 'i care not that rotten truncheon (striking the shattered spear furiously on the ground) for the king of fife and lothian. but habby of cessford will be here belive; and we shall soon know if he will permit an english churl to occupy his hostelrie.' having uttered these words, accompanied with a lowering glance from under his shaggy black eyebrows, he turned on his heel and left the house with his two followers. they mounted their horses, which they had tied to an outer fence, and vanished in an instant. 'who is this discourteous ruffian?' said lord lacy to the franklin, who had stood in the most violent agitation during this whole scene. 'his name, noble lord, is adam kerr of the moat, but he is commonly called by his companions the black rider of cheviot. i fear, i fear, he comes hither for no good; but if the lord of cessford be near, he will not dare offer any unprovoked outrage.' 'i have heard of that chief,' said the baron. 'let me know when he approaches, and do thou, rodulph (to the eldest yeoman), keep a strict watch. adelbert (to the page), attend to arm me.' the page bowed, and the baron withdrew to the chamber of the lady isabella to explain the cause of the disturbance. no more of the proposed tale was ever written; but the author's purpose was that it should turn upon a fine legend of superstition which is current in the part of the borders where he had his residence, where, in the reign of alexander iii of scotland, that renowned person thomas of hersildoune, called the rhymer, actually flourished. this personage, the merlin of scotland, and to whom some of the adventures which the british bards assigned to merlin caledonius, or the wild, have been transferred by tradition, was, as is well known, a magician, as well as a poet and prophet. he is alleged still to live in the land of faery, and is expected to return at some great convulsion of society, in which he is to act a distinguished part, a tradition common to all nations, as the belief of the mahomedans respecting their twelfth imaum demonstrates. now, it chanced many years since that there lived on the borders a jolly, rattling horse-cowper, who was remarkable for a reckless and fearless temper, which made him much admired and a little dreaded amongst his neighbours. one moonlight night, as he rode over bowden moor, on the west side of the eildon hills, the scene of thomas the rhymer's prophecies, and often mentioned in his story, having a brace of horses along with him which he had not been able to dispose of, he met a man of venerable appearance and singularly antique dress, who, to his great surprise, asked the price of his horses, and began to chaffer with him on the subject. to canobie dick, for so shall we call our border dealer, a chap was a chap, and he would have sold a horse to the devil himself, without minding his cloven hoof, and would have probably cheated old nick into the bargain. the stranger paid the price they agreed on, and all that puzzled dick in the transaction was, that the gold which he received was in unicorns, bonnet-pieces, and other ancient coins, which would have been invaluable to collectors, but were rather troublesome in modern currency. it was gold, however, and therefore dick contrived to get better value for the coin than he perhaps gave to his customer. by the command of so good a merchant, he brought horses to the same spot more than once, the purchaser only stipulating that he should always come, by night, and alone. i do not know whether it was from mere curiosity, or whether some hope of gain mixed with it, but after dick had sold several horses in this way, he began to complain that dry bargains were unlucky, and to hint that, since his chap must live in the neighbourhood, he ought, in the courtesy of dealing, to treat him to half a mutchkin. 'you may see my dwelling if you will,' said the stranger; 'but if you lose courage at what you see there, you will rue it all your life.' dicken, however, laughed the warning to scorn, and, having alighted to secure his horse, he followed the stranger up a narrow foot-path, which led them up the hills to the singular eminence stuck betwixt the most southern and the centre peaks, and called from its resemblance to such an animal in its form the lucken hare. at the foot of this eminence, which is almost as famous for witch meetings as the neighbouring wind-mill of kippilaw, dick was somewhat startled to observe that his conductor entered the hillside by a passage or cavern, of which he himself, though well acquainted with the spot, had never seen or heard. 'you may still return,' said his guide, looking ominously back upon him; but dick scorned to show the white feather, and on they went. they entered a very long range of stables; in every stall stood a coal-black horse; by every horse lay a knight in coal-black armour, with a drawn sword in his hand; but all were as silent, hoof and limb, as if they had been cut out of marble. a great number of torches lent a gloomy lustre to the hall, which, like those of the caliph vathek, was of large dimensions. at the upper end, however, they at length arrived, where a sword and horn lay on an antique table. 'he that shall sound that horn and draw that sword,' said the stranger, who now intimated that he was the famous thomas of hersildoune, 'shall, if his heart fail him not, be king over all broad britain. so speaks the tongue that cannot lie. but all depends on courage, and much on your taking the sword or the horn first.' dick was much disposed to take the sword, but his bold spirit was quailed by the supernatural terrors of the hall, and he thought to unsheath the sword first might be construed into defiance, and give offence to the powers of the mountain. he took the bugle with a trembling hand, and [sounded] a feeble note, but loud enough to produce a terrible answer. thunder rolled in stunning peals through the immense hall; horses and men started to life; the steeds snorted, stamped, grinded their bits, and tossed on high their heads; the warriors sprung to their feet, clashed their armour, and brandished their swords. dick's terror was extreme at seeing the whole army, which had been so lately silent as the grave, in uproar, and about to rush on him. he dropped the horn, and made a feeble attempt to seize the enchanted sword; but at the same moment a voice pronounced aloud the mysterious words: 'woe to the coward, that ever he was born, who did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!' at the same time a whirlwind of irresistible fury howled through the long hall, bore the unfortunate horse-jockey clear out of the mouth of the cavern, and precipitated him over a steep bank of loose stones, where the shepherds found him the next morning, with just breath sufficient to tell his fearful tale, after concluding which he expired. this legend, with several variations, is found in many parts of scotland and england; the scene is sometimes laid in some favourite glen of the highlands, sometimes in the deep coal-mines of northumberland and cumberland, which run so far beneath the ocean. it is also to be found in reginald scott's book on "witchcraft," which was written in the sixteenth century. it would be in vain to ask what was the original of the tradition. the choice between the horn and sword, may perhaps, include as a moral that it is foolhardy to awaken danger before we have arms in our hands to resist it. although admitting of much poetical ornament, it is clear that this legend would have formed but an unhappy foundation for a prose story, and must have degenerated into a mere fairy tale. doctor john leyden has beautifully introduced the tradition in his scenes of infancy:-- mysterious rhymer, doom'd by fate's decree, still to revisit eildon's fated tree; where oft the swain, at dawn of hallow-day, hears thy fleet barb with wild impatience neigh; say who is he, with summons long and high. shall bid the charmed sleep of ages fly, roll the long sound through eildon's caverns vast, while each dark warrior kindles at the blast: the horn, the falchion grasp with mighty hand, and peal proud arthur's march from fairy-land? scenes of infancy, part i. in the same cabinet with the preceding fragment, the following occurred among other disjecta membra. it seems to be an attempt at a tale of a different description from the last, but was almost instantly abandoned. the introduction points out the time of the composition to have been about the end of the eighteenth century. the lord of ennerdale a fragment of a letter from john b----, esq., of that ilk, to william g----, f.r.s.e. 'fill a bumper,' said the knight; 'the ladies may spare us a little longer. fill a bumper to the archduke charles.' the company did due honour to the toast of their landlord. 'the success of the archduke,' said the muddy vicar, 'will tend to further our negotiation at paris; and if--' 'pardon the interruption, doctor,' quoth a thin emaciated figure, with somewhat of a foreign accent; 'but why should you connect those events, unless to hope that the bravery and victories of our allies may supersede the necessity of a degrading treaty?' 'we begin to feel, monsieur l'abbe,' answered the vicar, with some asperity, 'that a continental war entered into for the defence of an ally who was unwilling to defend himself, and for the restoration of a royal family, nobility, and priesthood who tamely abandoned their own rights, is a burden too much even for the resources of this country.' 'and was the war then on the part of great britain,' rejoined the abbe, 'a gratuitous exertion of generosity? was there no fear of the wide-wasting spirit of innovation which had gone abroad? did not the laity tremble for their property, the clergy for their religion, and every loyal heart for the constitution? was it not thought necessary to destroy the building which was on fire, ere the conflagration spread around the vicinity?' 'yet, if upon trial,' said the doctor,' the walls were found to resist our utmost efforts, i see no great prudence in persevering in our labour amid the smouldering ruins.' 'what, doctor,' said the baronet,'must i call to your recollection your own sermon on the late general fast? did you not encourage us to hope that the lord of hosts would go forth with our armies, and that our enemies, who blasphemed him, should be put to shame?' 'it may please a kind father to chasten even his beloved children,' answered the vicar. 'i think,' said a gentleman near the foot of the table,'that the covenanters made some apology of the same kind for the failure of their prophecies at the battle of dunbar, when their mutinous preachers compelled the prudent lesley to go down against the philistines in gilgal.' the vicar fixed a scrutinizing and not a very complacent eye upon this intruder. he was a young man, of mean stature, and rather a reserved appearance. early and severe study had quenched in his features the gaiety peculiar to his age, and impressed upon them a premature cast of thoughtfulness. his eye had, however, retained its fire, and his gesture its animation. had he remained silent, he would have been long unnoticed; but when he spoke there was something in his manner which arrested attention. 'who is this young man?' said the vicar in a low voice to his neighbour. 'a scotchman called maxwell, on a visit to sir henry,' was the answer. 'i thought so, from his accent and his manners,' said the vicar. it may be here observed that the northern english retain rather more of the ancient hereditary aversion to their neighbours than their countrymen of the south. the interference of other disputants, each of whom urged his opinion with all the vehemence of wine and politics, rendered the summons to the drawing-room agreeable to the more sober part of the company. the company dispersed by degrees, and at length the vicar and the young scotchman alone remained, besides the baronet, his lady, daughters, and myself. the clergyman had not, it would seem, forgot the observation which ranked him with the false prophets of dunbar, for he addressed mr. maxwell upon the first opportunity. 'hem! i think, sir, you mentioned something about the civil wars of last century? you must be deeply skilled in them, indeed, if you can draw any parallel betwixt those and the present evil days--days which i am ready to maintain are the most gloomy that ever darkened the prospects of britain.' 'god forbid, doctor, that i should draw a comparison between the present times and those you mention. i am too sensible of the advantages we enjoy over our ancestors. faction and ambition have introduced division among us; but we are still free from the guilt of civil bloodshed, and from all the evils which flow from it. our foes, sir, are not those of our own household; and while we continue united and firm, from the attacks of a foreign enemy, however artful, or however inveterate, we have, i hope, little to dread.' 'have you found anything curious, mr. maxwell, among the dusty papers?' said sir henry, who seemed to dread a revival of political discussion. 'my investigation amongst them led to reflections at which i have just now hinted,' said maxwell; 'and i think they are pretty strongly exemplified by a story which i have been endeavouring to arrange from some of your family manuscripts.' 'you are welcome to make what use of them you please,' said sir henry;' they have been undisturbed for many a day, and i have often wished for some person as well skilled as you in these old pot-hooks to tell me their meaning.' 'those i just mentioned,' answered maxwell, 'relate to a piece of private history, savouring not a little of the marvellous, and intimately connected with your family; if it is agreeable, i can read to you the anecdotes in the modern shape into which i have been endeavouring to throw them, and you can then judge of the value of the originals.' there was something in this proposal agreeable to all parties. sir henry had family pride, which prepared him to take an interest in whatever related to his ancestors. the ladies had dipped deeply into the fashionable reading of the present day. lady ratcliff and her fair daughters had climbed every pass, viewed every pine-shrouded ruin, heard every groan, and lifted every trap-door in company with the noted heroine of udolpho. they had been heard, however, to observe that the famous incident of the black veil singularly resembled the ancient apologue of the mountain in labour, so that they were unquestionably critics as well as admirers. besides all this, they had valorously mounted en croupe behind the ghostly horseman of prague, through all his seven translators, and followed the footsteps of moor through the forest of bohemia. moreover, it was even hinted (but this was a greater mystery than all the rest) that a certain performance called the 'monk,' in three neat volumes, had been seen by a prying eye in the right hand drawer of the indian cabinet of lady ratcliff's dressing-room. thus predisposed for wonders and signs, lady ratcliff and her nymphs drew their chairs round a large blazing wood-fire and arranged themselves to listen to the tale. to that fire i also approached, moved thereunto partly by the inclemency of the season, and partly that my deafness, which you know, cousin, i acquired during my campaign under prince charles edward, might be no obstacle to the gratification of my curiosity, which was awakened by what had any reference to the fate of such faithful followers of royalty as you well know the house of ratcliff have ever been. to this wood-fire the vicar likewise drew near, and reclined himself conveniently in his chair, seemingly disposed to testify his disrespect for the narration and narrator by falling asleep as soon as he conveniently could. by the side of maxwell (by the way, i cannot learn that he is in the least related to the nithsdale family) was placed a small table and a couple of lights, by the assistance of which he read as follows:-- 'journal of jan van eulen 'on the th november , i, jan van eulen, merchant in rotterdam, embarked with my only daughter on board of the good vessel vryheid of amsterdam, in order to pass into the unhappy and disturbed kingdom of england. th november--a brisk gale--daughter sea-sick--myself unable to complete the calculation which i have begun of the inheritance left by jane lansache of carlisle, my late dear wife's sister, the collection of which is the object of my voyage. th november--wind still stormy and adverse--a horrid disaster nearly happened--my dear child washed overboard as the vessel lurched to leeward. memorandum--to reward the young sailor who saved her out of the first moneys which i can recover from the inheritance of her aunt lansache. th november--calm--p.m. light breezes from n. n. w. i talked with the captain about the inheritance of my sister-in-law, jane lansache. he says he knows the principal subject, which will not exceed l in value. n. b. he is a cousin to a family of petersons, which was the name of the husband of my sister-in-law; so there is room to hope it may be worth more than he reports. th november, a.m. may god pardon all our sins!--an english frigate, bearing the parliament flag, has appeared in the offing, and gives chase.-- a.m. she nears us every moment, and the captain of our vessel prepares to clear for action.--may god again have mercy upon us!' 'here,' said maxwell, 'the journal with which i have opened the narration ends somewhat abruptly.' 'i am glad of it,' said lady ratcliff. 'but, mr. maxwell,' said young frank, sir henry's grandchild, 'shall we not hear how the battle ended?' i do not know, cousin, whether i have not formerly made you acquainted with the abilities of frank ratcliff. there is not a battle fought between the troops of the prince and of the government during the years - , of which he is not able to give an account. it is true, i have taken particular pains to fix the events of this important period upon his memory by frequent repetition. 'no, my dear,' said maxwell, in answer to young frank ratcliff--'no, my dear, i cannot tell you the exact particulars of the engagement, but its consequences appear from the following letter, despatched by garbonete von eulen, daughter of our journalist, to a relation in england, from whom she implored assistance. after some general account of the purpose of the voyage and of the engagement her narrative proceeds thus:-- 'the noise of the cannon had hardly ceased before the sounds of a language to me but half known, and the confusion on board our vessel, informed me that the captors had boarded us and taken possession of our vessel. i went on deck, where the first spectacle that met my eyes was a young man, mate of our vessel, who, though disfigured and covered with blood, was loaded with irons, and whom they were forcing over the side of the vessel into a boat. the two principal persons among our enemies appeared to be a man of a tall thin figure, with a high-crowned hat and long neckband, and short-cropped head of hair, accompanied by a bluff, open-looking elderly man in a naval uniform. "yarely! yarely! pull away, my hearts," said the latter, and the boat bearing the unlucky young man soon carried him on board the frigate. perhaps you will blame me for mentioning this circumstance; but consider, my dear cousin, this man saved my life, and his fate, even when my own and my father's were in the balance, could not but affect me nearly. '"in the name of him who is jealous, even to slaying," said the first--' cetera desunt no. ii conclusion of mr. strutt's romance of queenhoo-hall by the author of waverley chapter iv a hunting party--an adventure--a deliverance the next morning the bugles were sounded by daybreak in the court of lord boteler's mansion, to call the inhabitants from their slumbers to assist in a splendid chase with which the baron had resolved to entertain his neighbour fitzallen and his noble visitor st. clare. peter lanaret, the falconer, was in attendance, with falcons for the knights and teircelets for the ladies, if they should choose to vary their sport from hunting to hawking. five stout yeomen keepers, with their attendants, called ragged robins, all meetly arrayed in kendal green, with bugles and short hangers by their sides, and quarter-staffs in their hands, led the slow-hounds or brachets by which the deer were to be put up. ten brace of gallant greyhounds, each of which was fit to pluck down, singly, the tallest red deer, were led in leashes, by as many of lord boteler's foresters. the pages, squires, and other attendants of feudal splendour well attired, in their best hunting-gear, upon horseback or foot, according to their rank, with their boar-spears, long bows, and cross-bows, were in seemly waiting. a numerous train of yeomen, called in the language of the times retainers, who yearly received a livery coat and a small pension for their attendance on such solemn occasions, appeared in cassocks of blue, bearing upon their arms the cognisance of the house of boteler, as a badge of their adherence. they were the tallest men of their hands that the neighbouring villages could supply, with every man his good buckler on his shoulder, and a bright burnished broadsword dangling from his leathern belt. on this occasion they acted as rangers for beating up the thickets and rousing the game. these attendants filled up the court of the castle, spacious as it was. on the green without you might have seen the motley assemblage of peasantry convened by report of the splendid hunting, including most of our old acquaintances from tewin, as well as the jolly partakers of good cheer at hob filcher's. gregory the jester, it may well be guessed, had no great mind to exhibit himself in public after his recent disaster; but oswald the steward, a great formalist in whatever concerned the public exhibition of his master's household state, had positively enjoined his attendance. 'what,' quoth he,'shall the house of the brave lord boteler, on such a brave day as this, be without a fool? certes, the good lord saint clere and his fair lady sister might think our housekeeping as niggardly as that of their churlish kinsman at gay bowers, who sent his father's jester to the hospital, sold the poor sot's bells for hawk-jesses, and made a nightcap of his long-eared bonnet. and, sirrah, let me see thee fool handsomely--speak squibs and crackers, instead of that dry, barren, musty gibing which thou hast used of late; or, by the bones! the porter shall have thee to his lodge, and cob thee with thine own wooden sword till thy skin is as motley as thy doublet.' to this stern injunction gregory made no reply, any more than to the courteous offer of old albert drawslot, the chief parkkeeper, who proposed to blow vinegar in his nose to sharpen his wit, as he had done that blessed morning to bragger, the old hound, whose scent was failing. there was, indeed, little time for reply, for the bugles, after a lively flourish, were now silent, and peretto, with his two attendant minstrels, stepping beneath the windows of the strangers' apartments, joined in the following roundelay, the deep voices of the rangers and falconers making up a chorus that caused the very battlements to ring again:-- waken, lords and ladies gay, on the mountain dawns the day; all the jolly chase is here, with hawk and horse, and hunting spear; hounds are in their couples yelling, hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, merrily, merrily, mingle they, 'waken, lords and ladies gay.' waken, lords and ladies gay, the mist has left the mountain grey; springlets in the dawn are streaming, diamonds on the brake are gleaming, and foresters have busy been, to track the buck in thicket green; now we come to chant our lay, 'waken, lords and ladies gay.' waken, lords and ladies gay, to the green-wood haste away; we can show you where he lies, fleet of foot and tall of size; we can show the marks he made, when 'gamst the oak his antlers frayed; you shall see him brought to bay, 'waken, lords and ladies gay.' louder, louder chant the lay, waken, lords and ladies gay; tell them youth, and mirth, and glee run a course as well as we; time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, stanch as hound and fleet as hawk? think of this and rise with day, gentle lords and ladies gay. by the time this lay was finished, lord boteler, with his daughter and kinsman, fitzallen of harden, and other noble guests, had mounted their palfreys, and the hunt set forward in due order. the huntsmen, having carefully observed the traces of a large stag on the preceding evening, were able, without loss of time, to conduct the company, by the marks which they had made upon the trees, to the side of the thicket in which, by the report of drawslot, he had harboured all night. the horsemen, spreading themselves along the side of the cover, waited until the keeper entered, leading his ban-dog, a large blood-hound tied in a learn or band, from which he takes his name. but it befell thus. a hart of the second year, which was in the same cover with the proper object of their pursuit, chanced to be unharboured first, and broke cover very near where the lady emma and her brother were stationed. an inexperienced varlet, who was nearer to them, instantly unloosed two tall greyhounds, who sprung after the fugitive with all the fleetness of the north wind. gregory, restored a little to spirits by the enlivening scene around him, followed, encouraging the hounds with a loud layout, for which he had the hearty curses of the huntsman, as well as of the baron, who entered into the spirit of the chase with all the juvenile ardour of twenty. 'may the foul fiend, booted and spurred, ride down his bawling throat with a scythe at his girdle,' quoth albert drawslot; 'here have i been telling him that all the marks were those of a buck of the first head, and he has hallooed the hounds upon a velvet-headed knobbler! by saint hubert, if i break not his pate with my cross-bow, may i never cast off hound more! but to it, my lords and masters! the noble beast is here yet, and, thank the saints, we have enough of hounds.' the cover being now thoroughly beat by the attendants, the stag was compelled to abandon it and trust to his speed for his safety. three greyhounds were slipped upon him, whom he threw out, after running a couple of miles, by entering an extensive furzy brake, which extended along the side of a hill. the horsemen soon came up, and casting off a sufficient number of slow-hounds, sent them with the prickers into the cover, in order to drive the game from his strength. this object being accomplished, afforded another severe chase of several miles, in a direction almost circular, during which the poor animal tried every wile to get rid of his persecutors. he crossed and traversed all such dusty paths as were likely to retain the least scent of his footsteps; he laid himself close to the ground, drawing his feet under his belly, and clapping his nose close to the earth, lest he should be betrayed to the hounds by his breath and hoofs. when all was in vain, and he found the hounds coming fast in upon him, his own strength failing, his mouth embossed with foam, and the tears dropping from his eyes, he turned in despair upon his pursuers, who then stood at gaze, making an hideous clamour, and awaiting their two-footed auxiliaries. of these, it chanced that the lady eleanor, taking more pleasure in the sport than matilda, and being a less burden to her palfrey than the lord boteler, was the first who arrived at the spot, and taking a cross-bow from an attendant, discharged a bolt at the stag. when the infuriated animal felt himself wounded, he pushed frantically towards her from whom he had received the shaft, and lady eleanor might have had occasion to repent of her enterprise, had not young fitzallen, who had kept near her during the whole day, at that instant galloped briskly in, and, ere the stag could change his object of assault, despatched him with his short hunting-sword. albert drawslot, who had just come up in terror for the young lady's safety, broke out into loud encomiums upon fitzallen's strength and gallantry. 'by 'r lady,' said he, taking off his cap and wiping his sun-burnt face with his sleeve, 'well struck, and in good time! but now, boys, doff your bonnets and sound the mort.' the sportsmen then sounded a treble mort, and set up a general whoop, which, mingled with the yelping of the dogs, made the welkin ring again. the huntsman then offered his knife to lord boteler, that he might take the say of the deer, but the baron courteously insisted upon fitzallen going through that ceremony. the lady matilda was now come up, with most of the attendants; and the interest of the chase being ended, it excited some surprise that neither saint clere nor his sister made their appearance. the lord boteler commanded the horns again to sound the recheat, in hopes to call in the stragglers, and said to fitzallen, 'methinks saint clere so distinguished for service in war, should have been more forward in the chase.' 'i trow,' said peter lanaret, 'i know the reason of the noble lord's absence; for, when that mooncalf gregory hallooed the dogs upon the knobbler, and galloped like a green hilding, as he is, after them, i saw the lady emma's palfrey follow apace after that varlet, who should be thrashed for overrunning, and i think her noble brother has followed her, lest she should come to harm. but here, by the rood, is gregory to answer for himself.' at this moment gregory entered the circle which had been formed round the deer, out of breath, and his face covered with blood. he kept for some time uttering inarticulate cries of 'harrow!' and 'wellaway!' and other exclamations of distress and terror, pointing all the while to a thicket at some distance from the spot where the deer had been killed. 'by my honour,' said the baron, 'i would gladly know who has dared to array the poor knave thus; and i trust he should dearly abye his outrecuidance, were he the best, save one, in england.' gregory, who had now found more breath, cried, 'help, an ye be men! save lady emma and her brother, whom they are murdering in brokenhurst thicket.' this put all in motion. lord boteler hastily commanded a small party of his men to abide for the defence of the ladies, while he himself, fitzallen, and the rest made what speed they could towards the thicket, guided by gregory, who for that purpose was mounted behind fabian. pushing through a narrow path, the first object they encountered was a man of small stature lying on the ground, mastered and almost strangled by two dogs, which were instantly recognised to be those that had accompanied gregory. a little farther was an open space, where lay three bodies of dead or wounded men; beside these was lady emma, apparently lifeless, her brother and a young forester bending over and endeavouring to recover her. by employing the usual remedies, this was soon accomplished; while lord boteler, astonished at such a scene, anxiously inquired at saint clere the meaning of what he saw, and whether more danger was to be expected. 'for the present i trust not,' said the young warrior, who they now observed was slightly wounded; 'but i pray you, of your nobleness, let the woods here be searched; for we were assaulted by four of these base assassins, and i see three only on the sward.' the attendants now brought forwaid the person whom they had rescued from the dogs, and henry, with disgust, shame, and astonishment, recognised his kinsman, gaston saint clere. this discovery he communicated in a whisper to lord boteler, who commanded the prisoner to be conveyed to queenhoo-hall, and closely guarded; meanwhile he anxiously inquired of young saint clere about his wound. 'a scratch, a trifle!' cried henry. 'i am in less haste to bind it than to introduce to you one without whose aid that of the leech would have come too late. where is he? where is my brave deliverer?' 'here, most noble lord,' said gregory, sliding from his palfrey and stepping forward, 'ready to receive the guerdon which your bounty would heap on him.' 'truly, friend gregory,' answered the young warrior,'thou shalt not be forgotten, for thou didst run speedily, and roar manfully for aid, without which, i think verily, we had not received it. but the brave forester, who came to my rescue when these three ruffians had nigh overpowered me, where is he?' every one looked around, but though all had seen him on entering the thicket, he was not now to be found. they could only conjecture that he had retired during the confusion occasioned by the detention of gaston. 'seek not for him,' said the lady emma, who had now in some degree recovered her composure, 'he will not be found of mortal, unless at his own season.' the baron, convinced from this answer that her terror had for the time somewhat disturbed her reason, forbore to question her; and matilda and eleanor, to whom a message had been despatched with the result of this strange adventure, arriving, they took the lady emma between them, and all in a body returned to the castle. the distance was, however, considerable, and before reaching it they had another alarm. the prickers, who rode foremost in the troop, halted and announced to the lord boteler, that they perceived advancing towards them a body of armed men. the followers of the baron were numerous, but they were arrayed for the chase, not for battle, and it was with great pleasure that he discerned, on the pennon of the advancing body of men-at-arms, instead of the cognisance of gaston, as he had some reason to expect, the friendly bearings of fitzosborne of diggswell, the same young lord who was present at the may-games with fitzallen of harden. the knight himself advanced, sheathed in armour, and, without raising his visor, informed lord boteler that, having heard of a base attempt made upon a part of his train by ruffianly assassins, he had mounted and armed a small party of his retainers to escort them to queenhoo-hall. having received and accepted an invitation to attend them thither, they prosecuted their journey in confidence and security, and arrived safe at home without any further accident. chapter v investigation of the adventure of the hunting--a discovery--gregory's manhood--pate of gaston saint clere--conclusion so soon as they arrived at the princely mansion of boteler, the lady emma craved permission to retire to her chamber, that she might compose her spirits after the terror she had undergone. henry saint clere, in a few words, proceeded to explain the adventure to the curious audience. 'i had no sooner seen my sister's palfrey, in spite of her endeavours to the contrary, entering with spirit into the chase set on foot by the worshipful gregory, than i rode after to give her assistance. so long was the chase that, when the greyhounds pulled down the knobbler, we were out of hearing of your bugles; and having rewarded and coupled the dogs, i gave them to be led by the jester, and we wandered in quest of our company, whom it would seem the sport had led in a different direction. at length, passing through the thicket where you found us, i was surprised by a cross-bow bolt whizzing past mine head. i drew my sword and rushed into the thicket, but was instantly assailed by two ruffians, while other two made towards my sister and gregory. the poor knave fled, crying for help, pursued by my false kinsman, now your prisoner; and the designs of the other on my poor emma (murderous no doubt) were prevented by the sudden apparition of a brave woodsman, who, after a short encounter, stretched the miscreant at his feet and came to my assistance. i was already slightly wounded, and nearly overlaid with odds. the combat lasted some time, for the caitiffs were both well armed, strong, and desperate; at length, however, we had each mastered our antagonist, when your retinue, my lord boteler, arrived to my relief. so ends my story; but, by my knighthood, i would give an earl's ransom for an opportunity of thanking the gallant forester by whose aid i live to tell it.' 'fear not,' said lord boteler, 'he shall be found, if this or the four adjacent counties hold him. and now lord fitzosborne will be pleased to doff the armour he has so kindly assumed for our sakes, and we will all bowne ourselves for the banquet.' when the hour of dinner approached, the lady matilda and her cousin visited the chamber of the fair darcy. they found her in a composed but melancholy postmire. she turned the discourse upon the misfortunes of her life, and hinted, that having recovered her brother, and seeing him look forward to the society of one who would amply repay to him the loss of hers, she had thoughts of dedicating her remaining life to heaven, by whose providential interference it had been so often preserved. matilda coloured deeply at something in this speech, and her cousin inveighed loudly against emma's resolution. 'ah, my dear lady eleanor,' replied she, 'i have to-day witnessed what i cannot but judge a supernatural visitation, and to what end can it call me but to give myself to the altar? that peasant who guided me to baddow through the park of danbury, the same who appeared before me at different times and in different forms during that eventful journey--that youth, whose features are imprinted on my memory, is the very individual forester who this day rescued us in the forest. i cannot be mistaken; and, connecting these marvellous appearances with the spectre which i saw while at gay bowers, i cannot resist the conviction that heaven has permitted my guardian angel to assume mortal shape for my relief and protection.' the fair cousins, after exchanging looks which implied a fear that her mind was wandering, answered her in soothing terms, and finally prevailed upon her to accompany them to the banqueting-hall. here the first person they encountered was the baron fitzosborne of diggswell, now divested of his armour, at the sight of whom the lady emma changed colour, and exclaiming, 'it is the same!' sunk senseless into the arms of matilda. 'she is bewildered by the terrors of the day,' said eleanor;' and we have done ill in obliging her to descend.' 'and i,'said fitzosborne, 'have done madly in presenting before her one whose presence must recall moments the most alarming in her life.' while the ladies supported emma from the hall, lord boteler and saint clere requested an explanation from fitzosborne of the words he had used. 'trust me, gentle lords,' said the baron of diggswell, 'ye shall have what ye demand when i learn that lady emma darcy has not suffered from my imprudence.' at this moment lady matilda, returning, said that her fair friend, on her recovery, had calmly and deliberately insisted that she had seen fitzosborne before, in the most dangerous crisis of her life. 'i dread,' said she, 'her disordered mind connects all that her eye beholds with the terrible passages that she has witnessed.' 'nay,' said fitzosborne, 'if noble saint clere can pardon the unauthorized interest which, with the purest and most honourable intentions, i have taken in his sister's fate, it is easy for me to explain this mysterious impression.' he proceeded to say that, happening to be in the hostelry called the griffin, near baddow, while upon a journey in that country, he had met with the old nurse of the lady emma darcy, who, being just expelled from gay bowers, was in the height of her grief and indignation, and made loud and public proclamation of lady emma's wrongs. from the description she gave of the beauty of her foster-child, as well as from the spirit of chivalry, fitzosborne became interested in her fate. this interest was deeply enhanced when, by a bribe to old gaunt the reve, he procured a view of the lady emma as she walked near the castle of gay bowers. the aged churl refused to give him access to the castle; yet dropped some hints as if he thought the lady in danger, and wished she were well out of it. his master, he said, had heard she had a brother in life, and since that deprived him of all chance of gaining her domains by purchase, he--in short, gaunt wished they were safely separated. 'if any injury,' quoth he, 'should happen to the damsel here, it were ill for us all. i tried by an innocent stratagem to frighten her from the castle, by introducing a figure through a trap-door, and warning her, as if by a voice from the dead, to retreat from thence; but the giglet is wilful, and is running upon her fate.' finding gaunt, although covetous and communicative, too faithful a servant to his wicked master to take any active steps against his commands, fitzosborne applied himself to old ursely, whom he found more tractable. through her he learned the dreadful plot gaston had laid to rid himself of his kinswoman, and resolved to effect her deliverance. but aware of the delicacy of emma's situation, he charged ursely to conceal from her the interest he took in her distress, resolving to watch over her in disguise until he saw her in a place of safety. hence the appearance he made before her in various dresses during her journey, in the course of which he was never far distant; and he had always four stout yeomen within hearing of his bugle, had assistance been necessary. when she was placed in safety at the lodge, it was fitzosborne's intention to have prevailed upon his sisters to visit and take her under their protection; but he found them absent from diggswell, having gone to attend an aged relation who lay dangerously ill in a distant county. they did not return until the day before the may-games; and the other events followed too rapidly to permit fitzosborne to lay any plan for introducing them to lady emma darcy. on the day of the chase he resolved to preserve his romantic disguise, and attend the lady emma as a forester, partly to have the pleasure of being near her and partly to judge whether, according to an idle report in the country, she favoured his friend and comrade fitzallen of marden. this last motive, it may easily be believed, he did not declare to the company. after the skirmish with the ruffians, he waited till the baron and the hunters arrived, and then, still doubting the farther designs of gaston, hastened to his castle to arm the band which had escorted them to queenhoo-hall. fitzosborne's story being finished, he received the thanks of all the company, particularly of saint clere, who felt deeply the respectful delicacy with which he had conducted himself towards his sister. the lady was carefully informed of her obligations to him; and it is left to the well-judging reader whether even the raillery of lady eleanor made her regret that heaven had only employed natural means for her security, and that the guardian angel was converted into a handsome, gallant, and enamoured knight. the joy of the company in the hall extended itself to the buttery, where gregory the jester narrated such feats of arms done by himself in the fray of the morning as might have shamed bevis and guy of warwick. he was, according to his narrative, singled out for destruction by the gigantic baron himself, while he abandoned to meaner hands the destruction of saint clere and fitzosborne. 'but certes,' said he, 'the foul paynim met his match; for, ever as he foined at me with his brand, i parried his blows with my bauble, and, closing with him upon the third veny, threw him to the ground, and made him cry recreant to an unarmed man.' 'tush, man,' said drawslot, 'thou forgettest thy best auxiliaries, the good greyhounds, help and holdfast! i warrant thee, that when the hump-backed baron caught thee by the cowl, which he hath almost torn off, thou hadst been in a fair plight had they not remembered an old friend, and come in to the rescue. why, man, i found them fastened on him myself; and there was odd staving and stickling to make them "ware haunch!" their mouths were full of the flex, for i pulled a piece of the garment from their jaws. i warrant thee, that when they brought him to ground thou fledst like a frighted pricket.' 'and as for gregory's gigantic paynim,' said fabian, 'why, he lies yonder in the guard-room, the very size, shape, and colour of a spider in a yew-hedge.' 'it is false!' said gregory. 'colbrand the dane was a dwarf to him.' 'it is as true,' returned fabian, 'as that the tasker is to be married on tuesday to pretty margery. gregory, thy sheet hath brought them between a pair of blankets.' 'i care no more for such a gillflirt,' said the jester,' than i do for thy leasings. marry, thou hop-o'-my-thumb, happy wouldst thou be could thy head reach the captive baron's girdle.' 'by the mass,' said peter lanaret, 'i will have one peep at this burly gallant'; and, leaving the buttery, he went to the guard-room where gaston saint clere was confined. a man-at-arms, who kept sentinel on the strong studded door of the apartment, said he believed he slept; for that, after raging, stamping, and uttering the most horrid imprecations, he had been of late perfectly still. the falconer gently drew back a sliding board of a foot square towards the top of the door, which covered a hole of the same size, strongly latticed, through which the warder, without opening the door, could look in upon his prisoner. from this aperture he beheld the wretched gaston suspended by the neck by his own girdle to an iron ring in the side of his prison. he had clambered to it by means of the table on which his food had been placed; and, in the agonies of shame and disappointed malice, had adopted this mode of ridding himself of a wretched life. he was found yet warm, but totally lifeless. a proper account of the manner of his death was drawn up and certified. he was buried that evening in the chapel of the castle, out of respect to his high birth; and the chaplain of fitzallen of marden, who said the service upon the occasion, preached the next sunday an excellent sermon upon the text, 'radix malorum est cupiditas,' which we have here transcribed. here the manuscript, from which we have painfully transcribed, and frequently, as it were, translated, this tale for the reader's edification, is so indistinct and defaced, that, excepting certain howbeits, nathlesses, lo ye's! etc., we can pick out little that is intelligible, saving that avarice is defined 'a likourishness of heart after earthly things.' a little farther there seems to have been a gay account of margery's wedding with ralph the tasker, the running at the quintain, and other rural games practised on the occasion. there are also fragments of a mock sermon preached by gregory upon that occasion, as for example:-- 'my dear cursed caitiffs, there was once a king, and he wedded a young old queen, and she had a child; and this child was sent to solomon the sage, praying he would give it the same blessing which he got from the witch of endor when she bit him by the heel. hereof speaks the worthy doctor radigundus potator; why should not mass be said for all the roasted shoe souls served up in the king's dish on saturday; for true it is, that saint peter asked father adam, as they journeyed to camelot, an high, great, and doubtful question, "adam, adam, why eated'st thou the apple without paring?" [footnote: this tirade of gibberish is literally taken or selected from a mock discourse pronounced by a professed jester, which occurs in an ancient manuscript in the advocates' library, the same from which the late ingenious mr. weber published the curious comic romance of the hunting of the hare. it was introduced in compliance with mr strutt's plan of rendering his tale an illustration of ancient manners a similar burlesque sermon is pronounced by the fool in sir david lindesay's satire of the three estates. the nonsense and vulgar burlesque of that composition illustrate the ground of sir andrew aguecheek's eulogy on the exploits of the jester in twelfth night, who, reserving his sharper jests for sir toby, had doubtless enough of the jargon of his calling to captivate the imbecility of his brother knight, who is made to exclaim--'in sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of pigrogremitus, and of the vapours passing the equinoctials of quenbus; 't was very good, i' faith!' it is entertaining to find commentators seeking to discover some meaning in the professional jargon of such a passage as this.] with much goodly gibberish to the same effect; which display of gregory's ready wit not only threw the whole company into convulsions of laughter, but made such an impression on rose, the potter's daughter, that it was thought it would be the jester's own fault if jack was long without his jill. much pithy matter, concerning the bringing the bride to bed, the loosing the bridegroom's points, the scramble which ensued for them, and the casting of the stocking, is also omitted from its obscurity. the following song which has been since borrowed by the worshipful author of the famous history of fryar bacon, has been with difficulty deciphered. it seems to have been sung on occasion of carrying home the bride bridal song to the tune of--'i have been a fiddler,' etc, and did you not hear of a mirth befell the morrow after a wedding day, and carrying a bride at home to dwell? and away to tewin, away, away! the quintain was set, and the garlands were made, 't is pity old customs should ever decay; and woe be to him that was horsed on a jade, for he carried no credit away, away. we met a consort of fiddle-de-dees; we set them a cockhorse, and made them play the winning of bullen and upsey-frees, and away to tewin, away, away! there was ne'er a lad in all the parish that would go to the plough that day; but on his fore-horse his wench he carries. and away to tewin, away, away! the butler was quick, and the ale he did tap, the maidens did make the chamber full gay; the servants did give me a fuddling cup, and i did carry't away, away. the smith of the town his liquor so took, that he was persuaded that the ground look'd blue; and i dare boldly be sworn on a book, such smiths as he there's but a few. a posset was made, and the women did sip, and simpering said, they could eat no more; full many a maiden was laid on the lip,-- i'll say no more, but give o'er (give o'er). but what our fair readers will chiefly regret is the loss of three declarations of love; the first by saint clere to matilda; which, with the lady's answer, occupies fifteen closely written pages of manuscript. that of fitzosborne to emma is not much shorter; but the amours of fitzallen and eleanor, being of a less romantic cast, are closed in three pages only. the three noble couples were married in queenhoo-hall upon the same day, being the twentieth sunday after easter. there is a prolix account of the marriage-feast, of which we can pick out the names of a few dishes, such as peterel, crane, sturgeon, swan, etc. etc., with a profusion of wild-fowl and venison. we also see that a suitable song was produced by peretto on the occasion; and that the bishop who blessed the bridal beds which received the happy couples was no niggard of his holy water, bestowing half a gallon upon each of the couches. we regret we cannot give these curiosities to the reader in detail, but we hope to expose the manuscript to abler antiquaries so soon as it shall be framed and glazed by the ingenious artist who rendered that service to mr. ireland's shakspeare mss. and so (being unable to lay aside the style to which our pen is habituated), gentle reader, we bid thee heartily farewell. no. iii anecdote of school days upon which mr. thomas scott proposed to found a tale of fiction it is well known in the south that there is little or no boxing at the scottish schools. about forty or fifty years ago, however, a far more dangerous mode of fighting, in parties or factions, was permitted in the streets of edinburgh, to the great disgrace of the police and danger of the parties concerned. these parties were generally formed from the quarters of the town in which the combatants resided, those of a particular square or district fighting against those of an adjoining one. hence it happened that the children of the higher classes were often pitted against those of the lower, each taking their side according to the residence of their friends. so far as i recollect, however, it was unmingled either with feelings of democracy or aristocracy, or indeed with malice or ill-will of any kind towards the opposite party. in fact, it was only a rough mode of play. such contests were, however, maintained with great vigour with stones and sticks and fisticuffs, when one party dared to charge and the other stood their ground. of course mischief sometimes happened; boys are said to have been killed at these bickers, as they were called, and serious accidents certainly took place, as many contemporaries can bear witness. the author's father residing in george square, in the southern side of edinburgh, the boys belonging to that family, with others in the square, were arranged into a sort of company, to which a lady of distinction presented a handsome set of colours. now this company or regiment, as a matter of course, was engaged in weekly warfare with the boys inhabiting the crosscauseway, bristo street, the potterrow--in short, the neighbouring suburbs. these last were chiefly of the lower rank, but hardy loons, who threw stones to a hair's-breadth and were very rugged antagonists at close quarters. the skirmish sometimes lasted for a whole evening, until one party or the other was victorious, when, if ours were successful, we drove the enemy to their quarters, and were usually chased back by the reinforcement of bigger lads who came to their assistance. if, on the contrary, we were pursued, as was often the case, into the precincts of our square, we were in our turn supported by our elder brothers, domestic servants, and similar auxiliaries. it followed, from our frequent opposition to each other, that, though not knowing the names of our enemies, we were yet well acquainted with their appearance, and had nicknames for the most remarkable of them. one very active and spirited boy might be considered as the principal leader in the cohort of the suburbs. he was, i suppose, thirteen or fourteen years old, finely made, tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair, the very picture of a youthful goth. this lad was always first in the charge and last in the retreat--the achilles, at once, and ajax of the crosscauseway. he was too formidable to us not to have a cognomen, and, like that of a knight of old, it was taken from the most remarkable part of his dress, being a pair of old green livery breeches, which was the principal part of his clothing; for, like pentapolin, according to don quixote's account, green-breeks, as we called him, always entered the battle with bare arms, legs, and feet. it fell, that once upon a time, when the combat was at the thickest, this plebeian champion headed a sudden charge, so rapid and furious that all fled before him. he was several paces before his comrades, and had actually laid his hands on the patrician standard, when one of our party, whom some misjudging friend had entrusted with a couleau de chasse, or hanger, inspired with a zeal for the honour of the corps worthy of major sturgeon himself, struck poor green-breeks over the head with strength sufficient to cut him down. when this was seen, the casualty was so far beyond what had ever taken place before, that both parties fled different ways, leaving poor green-breeks, with his bright hair plentifully dabbled in blood, to the care of the watchman, who (honest man) took care not to know who had done the mischief. the bloody hanger was flung into one of the meadow ditches, and solemn secrecy was sworn on all hands; but the remorse and terror of the actor were beyond all bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadful character. the wounded hero was for a few days in the infirmary, the case being only a trifling one. but, though inquiry was strongly pressed on him, no argument could make him indicate the person from whom he had received the wound, though he must have been perfectly well known to him. when he recovered and was dismissed, the author and his brothers opened a communication with him, through the medium of a popular ginger-bread baker, of whom both parties were customers, in order to tender a subsidy in name of smart-money. the sum would excite ridicule were i to name it; but sure i am that the pockets of the noted green-breeks never held as much money of his own. he declined the remittance, saying that he would not sell his blood; but at the same time reprobated the idea of being an informer, which he said was clam, i.e. base or mean. with much urgency he accepted a pound of snuff for the use of some old woman--aunt, grandmother, or the like--with whom he lived. we did not become friends, for the bickers were more agreeable to both parties than any more pacific amusement; but we conducted them ever after under mutual assurances of the highest consideration for each other. such was the hero whom mr. thomas scott proposed to carry to canada, and involve in adventures with the natives and colonists of that country. perhaps the youthful generosity of the lad will not seem so great in the eyes of others as to those whom it was the means of screening from severe rebuke and punishment. but it seemed to those concerned to argue a nobleness of sentiment far beyond the pitch of most minds; and however obscurely the lad who showed such a frame of noble spirit may have lived or died, i cannot help being of opinion that, if fortune had placed him in circumstances calling for gallantry or generosity, the man would have fulfilled the promise of the boy. long afterwards, when the story was told to my father, he censured us severely for not telling the truth at the time, that he might have attempted to be of use to the young man in entering on life. but our alarms for the consequences of the drawn sword, and the wound inflicted with such a weapon, were far too predominant at the time for such a pitch of generosity. perhaps i ought not to have inserted this schoolboy tale; but, besides the strong impression made by the incident at the time, the whole accompaniments of the story are matters to me of solemn and sad recollection. of all the little band who were concerned in those juvenile sports or brawls, i can scarce recollect a single survivor. some left the ranks of mimic war to die in the active service of their country. many sought distant lands to return no more. others, dispersed in different paths of life,'my dim eyes now seek for in vain.' of five brothers, all healthy and promising in a degree far beyond one whose infancy was visited by personal infirmity, and whose health after this period seemed long very precarious, i am, nevertheless, the only survivor. the best loved, and the best deserving to be loved, who had destined this incident to be the foundation of literary composition, died 'before his day' in a distant and foreign land; and trifles assume an importance not their own when connected with those who have been loved and lost. notes note i long the oracle of the country gentlemen of the high tory party. the ancient news-letter was written in manuscript and copied by clerks, who addressed the copies to the subscribers. the politician by whom they were compiled picked up his intelligence at coffee-houses, and often pleaded for an additional gratuity in consideration of the extra expense attached to frequenting such places of fashionable resort. note there is a family legend to this purpose, belonging to the knightly family of bradshaigh, the proprietors of haigh hall, in lancashire, where, i have been told, the event is recorded on a painted glass window. the german ballad of the noble moringer turns upon a similar topic. but undoubtedly many such incidents may have taken place, where, the distance being great and the intercourse infrequent, false reports concerning the fate of the absent crusaders must have been commonly circulated, and sometimes perhaps rather hastily credited at home. note the attachment to this classic was, it is said, actually displayed in the manner mentioned in the text by an unfortunate jacobite in that unhappy period. he escaped from the jail in which he was confined for a hasty trial and certain condemnation, and was retaken as he hovered around the place in which he had been imprisoned, for which he could give no better reason than the hope of recovering his favourite titus livius. i am sorry to add that the simplicity of such a character was found to form no apology for his guilt as a rebel, and that he was condemned and executed. note nicholas amhurst, a noted political writer, who conducted for many years a paper called the craftsman, under the assumed name of caleb d'anvers. he was devoted to the tory interest, and seconded with much ability the attacks of pulteney on sir robert walpole. he died in , neglected by his great patrons and in the most miserable circumstances. 'amhurst survived the downfall of walpole's power, and had reason to expect a reward for his labours. if we excuse bolingbroke, who had only saved the shipwreck of his fortunes, we shall be at a loss to justify pulteney, who could with ease have given this man a considerable income. the utmost of his generosity to amhurst that i ever heard of was a hogshead of claret! he died, it is supposed, of a broken heart; and was buried at the charge of his honest printer, richard francklin.'--lord chesterfield's characters reviewed, p. . note i have now given in the text the full name of this gallant and excellent man, and proceed to copy the account of his remarkable conversion, as related by doctor doddridge. 'this memorable event,' says the pious writer, 'happened towards the middle of july . the major had spent the evening (and, if i mistake not, it was the sabbath) in some gay company, and had an unhappy assignation with a married woman, whom he was to attend exactly at twelve. the company broke up about eleven, and, not judging it convenient to anticipate the time appointed, he went into his chamber to kill the tedious hour, perhaps with some amusing book, or some other way. but it very accidentally happened that he took up a religious book, which his good mother or aunt had, without his knowledge, slipped into his portmanteau. it was called, if i remember the title exactly, the christian soldier, or heaven taken by storm, and it was written by mr. thomas watson. guessing by the title of it that he would find some phrases of his own profession spiritualised in a manner which he thought might afford him some diversion, he resolved to dip into it, but he took no serious notice of anything it had in it; and yet, while this book was in his hand, an impression was made upon his mind (perhaps god only knows how) which drew after it a train of the most important and happy consequences. he thought he saw an unusual blaze of light fall upon the book which he was reading, which he at first imagined might happen by some accident in the candle, but, lifting up his eyes, he apprehended to his extreme amazement that there was before him, as it were suspended in the air, a visible representation of the lord jesus christ upon the cross, surrounded on all sides with a glory; and was impressed as if a voice, or something equivalent to a voice, had come to him, to this effect (for he was not confident as to the words), "oh, sinner! did i suffer this for thee, and are these thy returns?" struck with so amazing a phenomenon as this, there remained hardly any life in him, so that he sunk down in the arm-chair in which he sat, and continued, he knew not how long, insensible.' 'with regard to this vision,' says the ingenious dr. hibbert, 'the appearance of our saviour on the cross, and the awful words repeated, can be considered in no other light than as so many recollected images of the mind, which probably had their origin in the language of some urgent appeal to repentance that the colonel might have casually read or heard delivered. from what cause, however, such ideas were rendered as vivid as actual impressions, we have no information to be depended upon. this vision was certainly attended with one of the most important of consequences connected with the christian dispensation--the conversion of a sinner. and hence no single narrative has, perhaps, done more to confirm the superstitious opinion that apparitions of this awful kind cannot arise without a divine fiat.' doctor hibbert adds in a note--'a short time before the vision, colonel gardiner had received a severe fall from his horse. did the brain receive some slight degree of injury from the accident, so as to predispose him to this spiritual illusion?'--hibbert's philosophy of apparitions, edinburgh, , p. . note the courtesy of an invitation to partake a traveller's meal, or at least that of being invited to share whatever liquor the guest called for, was expected by certain old landlords in scotland even in the youth of the author. in requital mine host was always furnished with the news of the country, and was probably a little of a humorist to boot. the devolution of the whole actual business and drudgery of the inn upon the poor gudewife was very common among the scottish bonifaces. there was in ancient times, in the city of edinburgh, a gentleman of good family who condescended, in order to gain a livelihood, to become the nominal keeper of a coffee-house, one of the first places of the kind which had been opened in the scottish metropolis. as usual, it was entirely managed by the careful and industrious mrs. b--; while her husband amused himself with field sports, without troubling his head about the matter. once upon a time, the premises having taken fire, the husband was met walking up the high street loaded with his guns and fishing-rods, and replied calmly to someone who inquired after his wife, 'that the poor woman was trying to save a parcel of crockery and some trumpery books'; the last being those which served her to conduct the business of the house. there were many elderly gentlemen in the author's younger days who still held it part of the amusement of a journey 'to parley with mine host,' who often resembled, in his quaint humour, mine host of the garter in the merry wives of windsor; or blague of the george in the merry devil of edmonton. sometimes the landlady took her share of entertaining the company. in either case the omitting to pay them due attention gave displeasure, and perhaps brought down a smart jest, as on the following occasion: a jolly dame who, not 'sixty years since,' kept the principal caravansary at greenlaw, in berwickshire, had the honour to receive under her roof a very worthy clergyman, with three sons of the same profession, each having a cure of souls; be it said in passing, none of the reverend party were reckoned powerful in the pulpit. after dinner was over, the worthy senior, in the pride of his heart, asked mrs. buchan whether she ever had had such a party in her house before. 'here sit i,' he said, 'a placed minister of the kirk of scotland, and here sit my three sons, each a placed minister of the same kirk. confess, luckie buchan, you never had such a party in your house before.' the question was not premised by any invitation to sit down and take a glass of wine or the like, so mrs. b. answered drily, 'indeed, sir, i cannot just say that ever i had such a party in my house before, except once in the forty-five, when i had a highland piper here, with his three sons, all highland pipers; and deil a spring they could play amang them.' note there is no particular mansion described under the name of tully-veolan; but the peculiarities of the description occur in various old scottish seats. the house of warrender upon bruntsfield links and that of old ravelston, belonging, the former to sir george warrender, the latter to sir alexander keith, have both contributed several hints to the description in the text. the house of dean, near edinburgh, has also some points of resemblance with tully-veolan. the author has, however, been informed that the house of grandtully resembles that of the baron of bradwardine still more than any of the above. note i am ignorant how long the ancient and established custom of keeping fools has been disused in england. swift writes an epitaph on the earl of suffolk's fool-- whose name was dickie pearce in scotland, the custom subsisted till late in the last century; at glamis castle is preserved the dress of one of the jesters, very handsome, and ornamented with many bells. it is not above thirty years since such a character stood by the sideboard of a nobleman of the first rank in scotland, and occasionally mixed in the conversation, till he carried the joke rather too far, in making proposals to one of the young ladies of the family, and publishing the bans betwixt her and himself in the public church. note after the revolution of , and on some occasions when the spirit of the presbyterians had been unusually animated against their opponents, the episcopal clergymen, who were chiefly nonjurors, were exposed to be mobbed, as we should now say, or rabbled, as the phrase then went, to expiate their political heresies. but notwithstanding that the presbyterians had the persecution in charles ii and his brother's time to exasperate them, there was little mischief done beyond the kind of petty violence mentioned in the text. note i may here mention that the fashion of compotation described in the text was still occasionally practised in scotland in the author's youth. a company, after having taken leave of their host, often went to finish the evening at the clachan or village, in 'womb of tavern.' their entertainer always accompanied them to take the stirrup-cup, which often occasioned a long and late revel. the poculum potatorium of the valiant baron, his blessed bear, has a prototype at the fine old castle of glamis, so rich in memorials of ancient times; it is a massive beaker of silver, double gilt, moulded into the shape of a lion, and holding about an english pint of wine. the form alludes to the family name of strathmore, which is lyon, and, when exhibited, the cup must necessarily be emptied to the earl's health. the author ought perhaps to be ashamed of recording that he has had the honour of swallowing the contents of the lion; and the recollection of the feat served to suggest the story of the bear of bradwardine. in the family of scott of thirlestane (not thirlestane in the forest, but the place of the same name in roxburghshire) was long preserved a cup of the same kind, in the form of a jack-boot. each guest was obliged to empty this at his departure. if the guest's name was scott, the necessity was doubly imperative. when the landlord of an inn presented his guests with deoch an doruis, that is, the drink at the door, or the stirrup-cup, the draught was not charged in the reckoning. on this point a learned bailie of the town of forfar pronounced a very sound judgment. a., an ale-wife in forfar, had brewed her 'peck of malt' and set the liquor out of doors to cool; the cow of b., a neighbour of a., chanced to come by, and seeing the good beverage, was allured to taste it, and finally to drink it up. when a. came to take in her liquor, she found her tub empty, and from the cow's staggering and staring, so as to betray her intemperance, she easily divined the mode in which her 'browst' had disappeared. to take vengeance on crummie's ribs with a stick was her first effort. the roaring of the cow brought b., her master, who remonstrated with his angry neighbour, and received in reply a demand for the value of the ale which crummie had drunk up. b. refused payment, and was conveyed before c., the bailie, or sitting magistrate. he heard the case patiently; and then demanded of the plaintiff a. whether the cow had sat down to her potation or taken it standing. the plaintiff answered, she had not seen the deed committed, but she supposed the cow drank the ale while standing on her feet, adding, that had she been near she would have made her use them to some purpose. the bailie, on this admission, solemnly adjudged the cow's drink to be deoch an doruis, a stirrup-cup, for which no charge could be made without violating the ancient hospitality of scotland. note the story last told was said to have happened in the south of scotland; but cedant arma togae and let the gown have its dues. it was an old clergyman, who had wisdom and firmness enough to resist the panic which seized his brethren, who was the means of rescuing a poor insane creature from the cruel fate which would otherwise have overtaken her. the accounts of the trials for witchcraft form one of the most deplorable chapters in scottish story. note although canting heraldry is generally reprobated, it seems nevertheless to have been adopted in the arms and mottos of many honourable families. thus the motto of the vernons, ver non semper viret, is a perfect pun, and so is that of the onslows, festina lente. the periissem ni per-iissem of the anstruthers is liable to a similar objection. one of that ancient race, finding that an antagonist, with whom he had fixed a friendly meeting, was determined to take the opportunity of assassinating him, prevented the hazard by dashing out his brains with a battle-axe. two sturdy arms, brandishing such a weapon, form the usual crest of the family, with the above motto, periissem ni per-iissem--i had died, unless i had gone through with it. note mac-donald of barrisdale, one of the very last highland gentlemen who carried on the plundering system to any great extent, was a scholar and a well-bred gentleman. he engraved on his broad-swords the well-known lines-- hae tibi erunt artes pacisque imponere morem, parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos. indeed, the levying of black-mail was, before , practised by several chiefs of very high rank, who, in doing so, contended that they were lending the laws the assistance of their arms and swords, and affording a protection which could not be obtained from the magistracy in the disturbed state of the country. the author has seen a memoir of mac-pherson of cluny, chief of that ancient clan, from which it appears that he levied protection-money to a very large amount, which was willingly paid even by some of his most powerful neighbours. a gentleman of this clan, hearing a clergyman hold forth to his congregation on the crime of theft, interrupted the preacher to assure him, he might leave the enforcement of such doctrines to cluny mac-pherson, whose broadsword would put a stop to theft sooner than all the sermons of all the ministers of the synod. note the town-guard of edinburgh were, till a late period, armed with this weapon when on their police-duty. there was a hook at the back of the axe, which the ancient highlanders used to assist them to climb over walls, fixing the hook upon it and raising themselves by the handle. the axe, which was also much used by the natives of ireland, is supposed to have been introduced into both countries from scandinavia. note an adventure very similar to what is here stated actually befell the late mr. abercromby of tullibody, grandfather of the present lord abercromby, and father of the celebrated sir ralph. when this gentleman, who lived to a very advanced period of life, first settled in stirlingshire, his cattle were repeatedly driven off by the celebrated rob roy, or some of his gang; and at length he was obliged, after obtaining a proper safe-conduct, to make the cateran such a visit as that of waverley to bean lean in the text. rob received him with much courtesy, and made many apologies for the accident, which must have happened, he said, through some mistake. mr. abercromby was regaled with collops from two of his own cattle, which were hung up by the heels in the cavern, and was dismissed in perfect safety, after having agreed to pay in future a small sum of black-mail, in consideration of which rob roy not only undertook to forbear his herds in future, but to replace any that should be stolen from him by other freebooters. mr. abercromby said rob roy affected to consider him as a friend to the jacobite interest and a sincere enemy to the union. neither of these circumstances were true; but the laird thought it quite unnecessary to undeceive his highland host at the risk of bringing on a political dispute in such a situation. this anecdote i received many years since (about ) from the mouth of the venerable gentleman who was concerned in it. note this celebrated gibbet was, in the memory of the last generation, still standing at the western end of the town of crieff, in perthshire. why it was called the kind gallows we are unable to inform the reader with certainty; but it is alleged that the highlanders used to touch their bonnets as they passed a place which had been fatal to many of their countrymen, with the ejaculation 'god bless her nain sell, and the teil tamn you!' it may therefore have been called kind, as being a sort of native or kindred place of doom to those who suffered there, as in fulfilment of a natural destiny. note the story of the bridegroom carried off by caterans on his bridal-day is taken from one which was told to the author by the late laird of mac-nab many years since. to carry off persons from the lowlands, and to put them to ransom, was a common practice with the wild highlanders, as it is said to be at the present day with the banditti in the south of italy. upon the occasion alluded to, a party of caterans carried off the bridegroom and secreted him in some cave near the mountain of schiehallion. the young man caught the small-pox before his ransom could be agreed on; and whether it was the fine cool air of the place, or the want of medical attendance, mac-nab did not pretend to be positive; but so it was, that the prisoner recovered, his ransom was paid, and he was restored to his friends and bride, but always considered the highland robbers as having saved his life by their treatment of his malady. note this happened on many occasions. indeed, it was not till after the total destruction of the clan influence, after , that purchasers could be found who offered a fair price for the estates forfeited in , which were then brought to sale by the creditors of the york buildings company, who had purchased the whole, or greater part, from government at a very small price. even so late as the period first mentioned, the prejudices of the public in favour of the heirs of the forfeited families threw various impediments in the way of intending purchasers of such property. note this sort of political game ascribed to mac-ivor was in reality played by several highland chiefs, the celebrated lord lovat in particular, who used that kind of finesse to the uttermost. the laird of mac---was also captain of an independent company, but valued the sweets of present pay too well to incur the risk of losing them in the jacobite cause. his martial consort raised his clan and headed it in . but the chief himself would have nothing to do with king-making, declaring himself for that monarch, and no other, who gave the laird of mac ---- 'half-a-guinea the day and half-a-guinea the morn.' note in explanation of the military exercise observed at the castle of glennaquoich, the author begs to remark that the highlanders were not only well practised in the use of the broadsword, firelock, and most of the manly sports and trials of strength common throughout scotland, but also used a peculiar sort of drill, suited to their own dress and mode of warfare. there were, for instance, different modes of disposing the plaid, one when on a peaceful journey, another when danger was apprehended; one way of enveloping themselves in it when expecting undisturbed repose, and another which enabled them to start up with sword and pistol in hand on the slightest alarm. previous to or thereabouts, the belted plaid was universally worn, in which the portion which surrounded the middle of the wearer and that which was flung around his shoulders were all of the same piece of tartan. in a desperate onset all was thrown away, and the clan charged bare beneath the doublet, save for an artificial arrangement of the shirt, which, like that of the irish, was always ample, and for the sporran-mollach, or goat's-skin purse. the manner of handling the pistol and dirk was also part of the highland manual exercise, which the author has seen gone through by men who had learned it in their youth. note pork or swine's flesh, in any shape, was, till of late years, much abominated by the scotch, nor is it yet a favourite food amongst them. king jamie carried this prejudice to england, and is known to have abhorred pork almost as much as he did tobacco. ben jonson has recorded this peculiarity, where the gipsy in a masque, examining the king's hand, says-- you should, by this line, love a horse and a hound, but no part of a swine. the gipsies metamorphosed. james's own proposed banquet for the devil was a loin of pork and a poll of ling, with a pipe of tobacco for digestion. note in the number of persons of all ranks who assembled at the same table, though by no means to discuss the same fare, the highland chiefs only retained a custom which had been formerly universally observed throughout scotland. 'i myself,' says the traveller, fynes morrison, in the end of queen elizabeth's reign, the scene being the lowlands of scotland, 'was at a knight's house, who had many servants to attend him, that brought in his meat with their heads covered with blue caps, the table being more than half furnished with great platters of porridge, each having a little piece of sodden meat. and when the table was served, the servants did sit down with us; but the upper mess, instead of porridge, had a pullet, with some prunes in the broth.'--travels, p. . till within this last century the farmers, even of a respectable condition, dined with their work-people. the difference betwixt those of high degree was ascertained by the place of the party above or below the salt, or sometimes by a line drawn with chalk on the dining-table. lord lovat, who knew well how to feed the vanity and restrain the appetites of his clansmen, allowed each sturdy fraser who had the slightest pretensions to be a duinhewassel the full honour of the sitting, but at the same time took care that his young kinsmen did not acquire at his table any taste for outlandish luxuries. his lordship was always ready with some honourable apology why foreign wines and french brandy, delicacies which he conceived might sap the hardy habits of his cousins, should not circulate past an assigned point on the table. note in the irish ballads relating to fion (the fingal of mac-pherson) there occurs, as in the primitive poetry of most nations, a cycle of heroes, each of whom has some distinguishing attribute; upon these qualities, and the adventures of those possessing them, many proverbs are formed, which are still current in the highlands. among other characters, conan is distinguished as in some respects a kind of thersites, but brave and daring even to rashness. he had made a vow that he would never take a blow without returning it; and having, like other heroes of antiquity, descended to the infernal regions, he received a cuff from the arch-fiend who presided there, which he instantly returned, using the expression in the text. sometimes the proverb is worded thus--'claw for claw, and the devil take the shortest nails, as conan said to the devil.' note the description of the waterfall mentioned in this chapter is taken from that of ledeard, at the farm so called, on the northern side of lochard, and near the head of the lake, four or five miles from aberfoyle. it is upon a small scale, but otherwise one of the most exquisite cascades it is possible to behold. the appearance of flora with the harp, as described, has been justly censured as too theatrical and affected for the lady-like simplicity of her character. but something may be allowed to her french education, in which point and striking effect always make a considerable object. note the author has been sometimes accused of confounding fiction with reality. he therefore thinks it necessary to state that the circumstance of the hunting described in the text as preparatory to the insurrection of is, so far as he knows, entirely imaginary. but it is well known such a great hunting was held in the forest of brae-mar, under the auspices of the earl of mar, as preparatory to the rebellion of ; and most of the highland chieftains who afterwards engaged in that civil commotion were present on this occasion. glossary a', all. aboon, abune, above. aby, abye, endure, suffer. accolade, the salutation marking the bestowal of knighthood. ain, own. alane, alone. an, if. ane, one. array, annoy, trouble. auld, old. aweel, well. aye, always. bailie, a city magistrate in scotland. ban, curse. bawty, sly, cunning. baxter, a baker. bees, in the, stupefied, bewildered. belive, belyve, by and by. ben, in, inside. bent, an open field. bhaird, a bard. black-fishing, fishing by torchlight poaching. blinked, glanced. blude, braid, blood. blythe, gay, glad. bodle, a copper coin worth a third of an english penny. bole, a bowl. boot-ketch, a boot-jack. brae, the side of a hill. brissel-cock, a turkey cock. breeks, breeches. brogues, highland shoes. broken men, outlaws. brought far ben, held in special favor browst, a brewing. bruik, enjoy. buckie, a perverse or refractory person. bullsegg, a gelded bull. burd, bird, a term of familiarity. burn, a brook. busking, dress, decoration. buttock-mail, a fine for fornication. bydand, awaiting. cailliachs, old women on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead, which the irish call keening. callant, a young lad, a fine fellow. canny, prudent, skillful, lucky. canter, a canting, whining beggar. cantrip, a trick. carle, a churl, an old man. cateran, a highland irregular soldier, a freebooter. chap, a customer. clachan, a hamlet. claw favour, curry favour. claymore, a broad sword. cleek, a hook. cleik the cunzie, steal the silver. cob, beat. coble, a small fishing boat. cogs, wooden vessels. cogue, a round wooden vessel. concussed, violently shaken, disturbed, forced. coronach, a dirge. corrie, a mountain hollow. cove, a cave. crame, a booth, a merchant's shop. creagh, an incursion for plunder, termed on the borders a raid. crouse, bold, courageous. crummy, a cow with crooked horns. cuittle, tickle. curragh, a highland boat. daft, mad, foolish. debinded, bound down. decreet, an order of decree. deoch an doruis, the stirrup-cup or parting drink. dern, concealed, secret. dinmonts, wethers in the second year. doer, an agent, a manager. doon, doun, down. dovering, dozing. duinhe-wassel, dunniewassal, a highland gentleman, usually the cadet of a family of rank. eanaruich, the regalia presented by rob roy to the laird of tullibody. eneugh, eneuch, enough. ergastulo, in a penitentiary. exeemed, exempt. factory, stewardship. feal and divot, turf and thatch. feck, a quantity. feifteen, the jacobite rebellion of . fendy, good at making a shift. fire-raising, setting an incendiary fire. flemit, frightened, frae, from. fu, full. fule, fool. gaberlunzie, a kind of professional beggar. gane, gone. gang, go. gar, make. gate, gait, way. gaun, going. gay, gey, very. gear, goods, property. gillflirt, a flirty girl. gillie, a servant, an attendant. gillie-wet-foot, a barefooted highland lad. gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. glisked, glimpsed. gripple, rapacious, niggardly. gulpin, a simpleton. ha', hall. hag, a portion of copse marked off for cutting. hail, whole. hallan, a partition, a screen. hame, home. hantle, a great deal. harst, harvest. herships, plunder. hilding, a coward. hirsts, knolls. horning, charge of, a summons to pay a debt, on pain of being pronounced a rebel, to the sound of a horn. howe, a hollow. houlerying and poulerying, hustling and pulling. hurley-house, a brokendown manor house. ilk, same; of that ilk, of the same name or place. ilka, each, every. in the bees, stupefied. intromit, meddle with. ken, know. kittle, tickle, ticklish. knobbler, a male deer in its second year. kyloe, a small highland cow. laird, squire, lord of the manor. lang-leggit, long-legged. lawing, a tavern reckoning. lee land, pasture land. lie, a word used in old scottish legal documents to call attention to the following word or phrase. lift, capture, carry off by theft. limmer, a jade. loch, a lake. loon, an idle fellow, a lout, a rogue. luckie, an elderly woman. lug, an ear, a handle. lunzie, the loins, the waist. mae, mair, more. mains, the chief farm of an estate. malt abune the meal, the drink above the food, half-seas over. maun, must. meal ark, a meal chest. merk, / pence in english money. mickle, much, great. misguggled, mangled, rumpled. mony, many. morn, the morn, tomorrow. morning, a morning dram. muckle, much, great. muir, moor. na, nae, no, not. nainsell, own self. nice, simple. nolt, black cattle. ony, any. orra, odd, unemployed. orra-time, occasionally. ower, over. peel-house, a fortified tower. pendicle, a small piece of ground. pingle, a fuss, trouble. plenishing, furnishings. ploy, sport, entertainment. pretty men, stout, warlike fellows. reifs, robberies. reivers, robbers. riggs, ridges, ploughed ground. rokelay, a short cloak. rudas, coarse, hag-like. sain, mark with the sign of the cross, bless. sair, sore, very. saumon, salmon. saut, salt. say, a sample. schellum, a rascal. scouping, scowping, skipping, leaping, running. seannachie, a highland antiquary. shearing, reaping, harvest. shilpit, weak, sickly. shoon, shoes. sic, siccan, such. sidier dhu, black soldiers, independent companies raised to keep peace in the highlands; named from the tartans they wore. sidier roy, red soldiers, king george's men. sikes, small brooks. siller, silver, money. simmer, summer. sliver, slice, slit. smoky, suspicious. sneck, cut. snood, a fillet worn by young women. sopite, quiet a brawl. sorners, sornars, sojourners, sturdy beggars, especially those unwelcome visitors who exact lodgings and victuals by force. sorted, arranged, adjusted. speir, ask, investigate. sporran-mollach, a highland purse of goatskin. sprack, animated, lively. spring, a cheerful tune. spurrzie, spoil. stieve, stiff, firm. stirk, a young steer or heifer. stot, a bullock. stoup, a jug, a pitcher. stouthreef, robbery. strae, straw. strath, a valley through which a river runs. syboes, onions. ta, the. taiglit, harassed, loitered. tailzie, taillie, a deed of entail. tappit-hen, a pewter pot that holds three english quarts. tayout, tailliers-hors; in modern phrase, tally-ho! teil, the devil. teinds, tithes. telt, told. till, to. toun, a hamlet, a farm. trews, trousers. trow, believe, suppose. twa, two. tyke, a dog, a snarling fellow. unco, strange, very. unkenn'd, unknown. usquebaugh, whiskey. wa', wall. ware, spend. weel, well. wha, who. whar, where. what for, why. whilk, which. wiske, whisk, brandish. end of volume i waverley by sir walter scott volume ii waverley or 'tis sixty years since chapter xxxvi an incident the dinner hour of scotland sixty years since was two o'clock. it was therefore about four o'clock of a delightful autumn afternoon that mr. gilfillan commenced his march, in hopes, although stirling was eighteen miles distant, he might be able, by becoming a borrower of the night for an hour or two, to reach it that evening. he therefore put forth his strength, and marched stoutly along at the head of his followers, eyeing our hero from time to time, as if he longed to enter into controversy with him. at length, unable to resist the temptation, he slackened his pace till he was alongside of his prisoner's horse, and after marching a few steps in silence abreast of him, he suddenly asked--'can ye say wha the carle was wi' the black coat and the mousted head, that was wi' the laird of cairnvreckan?' 'a presbyterian clergyman,' answered waverley. 'presbyterian!' answered gilfillan contemptuously; 'a wretched erastian, or rather an obscure prelatist, a favourer of the black indulgence, ane of thae dumb dogs that canna bark; they tell ower a clash o' terror and a clatter o' comfort in their sermons, without ony sense, or savour, or life. ye've been fed in siccan a fauld, belike?' 'no; i am of the church of england,' said waverley. 'and they're just neighbour-like,' replied the covenanter; 'and nae wonder they gree sae weel. wha wad hae thought the goodly structure of the kirk of scotland, built up by our fathers in , wad hae been defaced by carnal ends and the corruptions of the time;--ay, wha wad hae thought the carved work of the sanctuary would hae been sae soon cut down!' to this lamentation, which one or two of the assistants chorussed with a deep groan, our hero thought it unnecessary to make any reply. whereupon mr. gilfillan, resolving that he should be a hearer at least, if not a disputant, proceeded in his jeremiade. 'and now is it wonderful, when, for lack of exercise anent the call to the service of the altar and the duty of the day, ministers fall into sinful compliances with patronage, and indemnities, and oaths, and bonds, and other corruptions,--is it wonderful, i say, that you, sir, and other sic-like unhappy persons, should labour to build up your auld babel of iniquity, as in the bluidy persecuting saint-killing times? i trow, gin ye werena blinded wi' the graces and favours, and services and enjoyments, and employments and inheritances, of this wicked world, i could prove to you, by the scripture, in what a filthy rag ye put your trust; and that your surplices, and your copes and vestments, are but cast-off garments of the muckle harlot that sitteth upon seven hills and drinketh of the cup of abomination. but, i trow, ye are deaf as adders upon that side of the head; ay, ye are deceived with her enchantments, and ye traffic with her merchandise, and ye are drunk with the cup of her fornication!' how much longer this military theologist might have continued his invective, in which he spared nobody but the scattered remnant of hill-folk, as he called them, is absolutely uncertain. his matter was copious, his voice powerful, and his memory strong; so that there was little chance of his ending his exhortation till the party had reached stirling, had not his attention been attracted by a pedlar who had joined the march from a cross-road, and who sighed or groaned with great regularity at all fitting pauses of his homily. 'and what may ye be, friend?' said the gifted gilfillan. 'a puir pedlar, that's bound for stirling, and craves the protection of your honour's party in these kittle times. ah' your honour has a notable faculty in searching and explaining the secret,--ay, the secret and obscure and incomprehensible causes of the backslidings of the land; ay, your honour touches the root o' the matter.' 'friend,' said gilfillan, with a more complacent voice than he had hitherto used, 'honour not me. i do not go out to park-dikes and to steadings and to market-towns to have herds and cottars and burghers pull off their bonnets to me as they do to major melville o' cairnvreckan, and ca' me laird or captain or honour. no; my sma' means, whilk are not aboon twenty thousand merk, have had the blessing of increase, but the pride of my heart has not increased with them; nor do i delight to be called captain, though i have the subscribed commission of that gospel-searching nobleman, the earl of glencairn, fa whilk i am so designated. while i live i am and will be called habakkuk gilfillan, who will stand up for the standards of doctrine agreed on by the ance famous kirk of scotland, before she trafficked with the accursed achan, while he has a plack in his purse or a drap o' bluid in his body.' 'ah,' said the pedlar, 'i have seen your land about mauchlin. a fertile spot! your lines have fallen in pleasant places! and siccan a breed o' cattle is not in ony laird's land in scotland.' 'ye say right,--ye say right, friend' retorted gilfillan eagerly, for he was not inaccessible to flattery upon this subject,--'ye say right; they are the real lancashire, and there's no the like o' them even at the mains of kilmaurs'; and he then entered into a discussion of their excellences, to which our readers will probably be as indifferent as our hero. after this excursion the leader returned to his theological discussions, while the pedlar, less profound upon those mystic points, contented himself with groaning and expressing his edification at suitable intervals. 'what a blessing it would be to the puir blinded popish nations among whom i hae sojourned, to have siccan a light to their paths! i hae been as far as muscovia in my sma' trading way, as a travelling merchant, and i hae been through france, and the low countries, and a' poland, and maist feck o' germany, and o! it would grieve your honour's soul to see the murmuring and the singing and massing that's in the kirk, and the piping that's in the quire, and the heathenish dancing and dicing upon the sabbath!' this set gilfillan off upon the book of sports and the covenant, and the engagers, and the protesters, and the whiggamore's raid, and the assembly of divines at westminster, and the longer and shorter catechism, and the excommunication at torwood, and the slaughter of archbishop sharp. this last topic, again, led him into the lawfulness of defensive arms, on which subject he uttered much more sense than could have been expected from some other parts of his harangue, and attracted even waverley's attention, who had hitherto been lost in his own sad reflections. mr. gilfillan then considered the lawfulness of a private man's standing forth as the avenger of public oppression, and as he was labouring with great earnestness the cause of mas james mitchell, who fired at the archbishop of saint andrews some years before the prelate's assassination on magus muir, an incident occurred which interrupted his harangue. the rays of the sun were lingering on the very verge of the horizon as the party ascended a hollow and somewhat steep path which led to the summit of a rising ground. the country was uninclosed, being part of a very extensive heath or common; but it was far from level, exhibiting in many places hollows filled with furze and broom; in others, little dingles of stunted brushwood. a thicket of the latter description crowned the hill up which the party ascended. the foremost of the band, being the stoutest and most active, had pushed on, and, having surmounted the ascent, were out of ken for the present. gilfillan, with the pedlar and the small party who were waverley's more immediate guard, were near the top of the ascent, and the remainder straggled after them at a considerable interval. such was the situation of matters when the pedlar, missing, as he said, a little doggie which belonged to him, began to halt and whistle for the animal. this signal, repeated more than once, gave offence to the rigour of his companion, the rather because it appeared to indicate inattention to the treasures of theological and controversial knowledge which were pouring out for his edification. he therefore signified gruffly that he could not waste his time in waiting for an useless cur. 'but if your honour wad consider the case of tobit--' 'tobit!' exclaimed gilffflan, with great heat; 'tobit and his dog baith are altogether heathenish and apocryphal, and none but a prelatist or a papist would draw them into question. i doubt i hae been mista'en in you, friend.' 'very likely,' answered the pedlar, with great composure; 'but ne'ertheless, i shall take leave to whistle again upon puir bawty.' this last signal was answered in an unexpected manner; for six or eight stout highlanders, who lurked among the copse and brushwood, sprung into the hollow way and began to lay about them with their claymores. gilfillan, unappalled at this undesirable apparition, cried out manfully, 'the sword of the lord and of gideon!' and, drawing his broadsword, would probably have done as much credit to the good old cause as any of its doughty champions at drumclog, when, behold! the pedlar, snatching a musket from the person who was next him bestowed the butt of it with such emphasis on the head of his late instructor in the cameronian creed that he was forthwith levelled to the ground. in the confusion which ensued the horse which bore our hero was shot by one of gilfillan's party, as he discharged his firelock at random. waverley fell with, and indeed under, the animal, and sustained some severe contusions. but he was almost instantly extricated from the fallen steed by two highlanders, who, each seizing him by the arm, hurried him away from the scuffle and from the highroad. they ran with great speed, half supporting and half dragging our hero, who could, however, distinguish a few dropping shots fired about the spot which he had left. this, as he afterwards learned, proceeded from gilfillan's party, who had now assembled, the stragglers in front and rear having joined the others. at their approach the highlanders drew off, but not before they had rifled gilfillan and two of his people, who remained on the spot grievously wounded. a few shots were exchanged betwixt them and the westlanders; but the latter, now without a commander, and apprehensive of a second ambush, did not make any serious effort to recover their prisoner, judging it more wise to proceed on their journey to stirling, carrying with them their wounded captain and comrades. chapter xxxvii waverley is still in distress the velocity, and indeed violence, with which waverley was hurried along nearly deprived him of sensation; for the injury he had received from his fall prevented him from aiding himself so effectually as he might otherwise have done. when this was observed by his conductors, they called to their aid two or three others of the party, and, swathing our hero's body in one of their plaids, divided his weight by that means among them, and transported him at the same rapid rate as before, without any exertion of his own. they spoke little, and that in gaelic; and did not slacken their pace till they had run nearly two miles, when they abated their extreme rapidity, but continued still to walk very fast, relieving each other occasionally. our hero now endeavoured to address them, but was only answered with 'cha n'eil beurl agam' i.e. 'i have no english,' being, as waverley well knew, the constant reply of a highlander when he either does not understand or does not choose to reply to an englishman or lowlander. he then mentioned the name of vich lan vohr, concluding that he was indebted to his friendship for his rescue from the clutches of gifted gilfillan, but neither did this produce any mark of recognition from his escort. the twilight had given place to moonshine when the party halted upon the brink of a precipitous glen, which, as partly enlightened by the moonbeams, seemed full of trees and tangled brushwood. two of the highlanders dived into it by a small foot-path, as if to explore its recesses, and one of them returning in a few minutes, said something to his companions, who instantly raised their burden and bore him, with great attention and care, down the narrow and abrupt descent. notwithstanding their precautions, however, waverley's person came more than once into contact, rudely enough, with the projecting stumps and branches which overhung the pathway. at the bottom of the descent, and, as it seemed, by the side of a brook (for waverley heard the rushing of a considerable body of water, although its stream was invisible in the darkness), the party again stopped before a small and rudely-constructed hovel. the door was open, and the inside of the premises appeared as uncomfortable and rude as its situation and exterior foreboded. there was no appearance of a floor of any kind; the roof seemed rent in several places; the walls were composed of loose stones and turf, and the thatch of branches of trees. the fire was in the centre, and filled the whole wigwam with smoke, which escaped as much through the door as by means of a circular aperture in the roof. an old highland sibyl, the only inhabitant of this forlorn mansion, appeared busy in the preparation of some food. by the light which the fire afforded waverley could discover that his attendants were not of the clan of ivor, for fergus was particularly strict in requiring from his followers that they should wear the tartan striped in the mode peculiar to their race; a mark of distinction anciently general through the highlands, and still maintained by those chiefs who were proud of their lineage or jealous of their separate and exclusive authority. edward had lived at glennaquoich long enough to be aware of a distinction which he had repeatedly heard noticed, and now satisfied that he had no interest with, his attendants, he glanced a disconsolate eye around the interior of the cabin. the only furniture, excepting a washing-tub and a wooden press, called in scotland an ambry, sorely decayed, was a large wooden bed, planked, as is usual, all around, and opening by a sliding panel. in this recess the highlanders deposited waverley, after he had by signs declined any refreshment. his slumbers were broken and unrefreshing; strange visions passed before his eyes, and it required constant and reiterated efforts of mind to dispel them. shivering, violent headache, and shooting pains in his limbs succeeded these symptoms; and in the morning it was evident to his highland attendants or guard, for he knew not in which light to consider them, that waverley was quite unfit to travel. after a long consultation among themselves, six of the party left the hut with their arms, leaving behind an old and a young man. the former addressed waverley, and bathed the contusions, which swelling and livid colour now made conspicuous. his own portmanteau, which the highlanders had not failed to bring off, supplied him with linen, and to his great surprise was, with all its undiminished contents, freely resigned to his use. the bedding of his couch seemed clean and comfortable, and his aged attendant closed the door of the bed, for it had no curtain, after a few words of gaelic, from which waverley gathered that he exhorted him to repose. so behold our hero for a second time the patient of a highland esculapius, but in a situation much more uncomfortable than when he was the guest of the worthy tomanrait. the symptomatic fever which accompanied the injuries he had sustained did not abate till the third day, when it gave way to the care of his attendants and the strength of his constitution, and he could now raise himself in his bed, though not without pain. he observed, however, that there was a great disinclination on the part of the old woman who acted as his nurse, as well as on that of the elderly highlander, to permit the door of the bed to be left open, so that he might amuse himself with observing their motions; and at length, after waverley had repeatedly drawn open and they had as frequently shut the hatchway of his cage, the old gentleman put an end to the contest by securing it on the outside with a nail so effectually that the door could not be drawn till this exterior impediment was removed. while musing upon the cause of this contradictory spirit in persons whose conduct intimated no purpose of plunder, and who, in all other points, appeared to consult his welfare and his wishes, it occurred to our hero that, during the worst crisis of his illness, a female figure, younger than his old highland nurse, had appeared to flit around his couch. of this, indeed, he had but a very indistinct recollection, but his suspicions were confirmed when, attentively listening, he often heard, in the course of the day, the voice of another female conversing in whispers with his attendant. who could it be? and why should she apparently desire concealment? fancy immediately aroused herself and turned to flora mac-ivor. but after a short conflict between his eager desire to believe she was in his neighbourhood, guarding, like an angel of mercy, the couch of his sickness, waverley was compelled to conclude that his conjecture was altogether improbable; since, to suppose she had left her comparatively safe situation at glennaquoich to descend into the low country, now the seat of civil war, and to inhabit such a lurking-place as this, was a thing hardly to be imagined. yet his heart bounded as he sometimes could distinctly hear the trip of a light female step glide to or from the door of the hut, or the suppressed sounds of a female voice, of softness and delicacy, hold dialogue with the hoarse inward croak of old janet, for so he understood his antiquated attendant was denominated. having nothing else to amuse his solitude, he employed himself in contriving some plan to gratify his curiosity, in despite of the sedulous caution of janet and the old highland janizary, for he had never seen the young fellow since the first morning. at length, upon accurate examination, the infirm state of his wooden prison-house appeared to supply the means of gratifying his curiosity, for out of a spot which was somewhat decayed he was able to extract a nail. through this minute aperture he could perceive a female form, wrapped in a plaid, in the act of conversing with janet. but, since the days of our grandmother eve, the gratification of inordinate curiosity has generally borne its penalty in disappointment. the form was not that of flora, nor was the face visible; and, to crown his vexation, while he laboured with the nail to enlarge the hole, that he might obtain a more complete view, a slight noise betrayed his purpose, and the object of his curiosity instantly disappeared, nor, so far as he could observe, did she again revisit the cottage. all precautions to blockade his view were from that time abandoned, and he was not only permitted but assisted to rise, and quit what had been, in a literal sense, his couch of confinement. but he was not allowed to leave the hut; for the young highlander had now rejoined his senior, and one or other was constantly on the watch. whenever waverley approached the cottage dooi the sentinel upon duty civilly, but resolutely, placed himself against it and opposed his exit, accompanying his action with signs which seemed to imply there was danger in the attempt and an enemy in the neighbourhood. old janet appeared anxious and upon the watch; and waverley, who had not yet recovered strength enough to attempt to take his departure in spite of the opposition of his hosts, was under the necessity of remaining patient his fare was, in every point of view, better than he could have conceived, for poultry, and even wine, were no strangers to his table. the highlanders never presumed to eat with him, and, unless in the circumstance of watching him, treated him with great respect. his sole amusement was gazing from the window, or rather the shapeless aperture which was meant to answer the purpose of a window, upon a large and rough brook, which raged and foamed through a rocky channel, closely canopied with trees and bushes, about ten feet beneath the site of his house of captivity. upon the sixth day of his confinement waverley found himself so well that he began to meditate his escape from this dull and miserable prison-house, thinking any risk which he might incur in the attempt preferable to the stupefying and intolerable uniformity of janet's retirement. the question indeed occurred, whither he was to direct his course when again at his own disposal. two schemes seemed practicable, yet both attended with danger and difficulty. one was to go back to glennaquoich and join fergus mac-ivor, by whom he was sure to be kindly received; and in the present state of his mind, the rigour with which he had been treated fully absolved him, in his own eyes, from his allegiance to the existing government. the other project was to endeavour to attain a scottish seaport, and thence to take shipping for england. his mind wavered between these plans, and probably, if he had effected his escape in the manner he proposed, he would have been finally determined by the comparative facility by which either might have been executed. but his fortune had settled that he was not to be left to his option. upon the evening of the seventh day the door of the hut suddenly opened, and two highlanders entered, whom waverley recognised as having been a part of his original escort to this cottage. they conversed for a short time with the old man and his companion, and then made waverley understand, by very significant signs, that he was to prepare to accompany them. this was a joyful communication. what had already passed during his confinement made it evident that no personal injury was designed to him; and his romantic spirit, having recovered during his repose much of that elasticity which anxiety, resentment, disappointment, and the mixture of unpleasant feelings excited by his late adventures had for a time subjugated, was now wearied with inaction. his passion for the wonderful, although it is the nature of such dispositions to be excited by that degree of danger which merely gives dignity to the feeling of the individual exposed to it, had sunk under the extraordinary and apparently insurmountable evils by which he appeared environed at cairnvreckan. in fact, this compound of intense curiosity and exalted imagination forms a peculiar species of courage, which somewhat resembles the light usually carried by a miner--sufficiently competent, indeed, to afford him guidance and comfort during the ordinary perils of his labour, but certain to be extinguished should he encounter the more formidable hazard of earth damps or pestiferous vapours. it was now, however, once more rekindled, and with a throbbing mixture of hope, awe, and anxiety, waverley watched the group before him, as those who were just arrived snatched a hasty meal, and the others assumed their arms and made brief preparations for their departure. as he sat in the smoky hut, at some distance from the fire, around which the others were crowded, he felt a gentle pressure upon his arm. he looked round; it was alice, the daughter of donald bean lean. she showed him a packet of papers in such a manner that the motion was remarked by no one else, put her finger for a second to her lips, and passed on, as if to assist old janet in packing waverley's clothes in his portmanteau. it was obviously her wish that he should not seem to recognise her, yet she repeatedly looked back at him, as an opportunity occurred of doing so unobserved, and when she saw that he remarked what she did, she folded the packet with great address and speed in one of his shirts, which she deposited in the portmanteau. here then was fresh food for conjecture. was alice his unknown warden, and was this maiden of the cavern the tutelar genius that watched his bed during his sickness? was he in the hands of her father? and if so, what was his purpose? spoil, his usual object, seemed in this case neglected; for not only waverley's property was restored, but his purse, which might have tempted this professional plunderer, had been all along suffered to remain in his possession. all this perhaps the packet might explain; but it was plain from alice's manner that she desired he should consult it in secret. nor did she again seek his eye after she had satisfied herself that her manoeuvre was observed and understood. on the contrary, she shortly afterwards left the hut, and it was only as she tript out from the door, that, favoured by the obscurity, she gave waverley a parting smile and nod of significance ere she vanished in the dark glen. the young highlander was repeatedly despatched by his comrades as if to collect intelligence. at length, when he had returned for the third or fourth time, the whole party arose and made signs to our hero to accompany them. before his departure, however, he shook hands with old janet, who had been so sedulous in his behalf, and added substantial marks of his gratitude for her attendance. 'god bless you! god prosper you, captain waverley!' said janet, in good lowland scotch, though he had never hithero heard her utter a syllable, save in gaelic. but the impatience of his attendants prohibited his asking any explanation. chapter xxxviii a nocturnal adventure there was a moment's pause when the whole party had got out of the hut; and the highlander who assumed the command, and who, in waverley's awakened recollection, seemed to be the same tall figure who had acted as donald bean lean's lieutenant, by whispers and signs imposed the strictest silence. he delivered to edward a sword and steel pistol, and, pointing up the track, laid his hand on the hilt of his own claymore, as if to make him sensible they might have occasion to use force to make good their passage. he then placed himself at the head of the party, who moved up the pathway in single or indian file, waverley being placed nearest to their leader. he moved with great precaution, as if to avoid giving any alarm, and halted as soon as he came to the verge of the ascent. waverley was soon sensible of the reason, for he heard at no great distance an english sentinel call out 'all's well.' the heavy sound sunk on the night-wind down the woody glen, and was answered by the echoes of its banks. a second, third, and fourth time the signal was repeated fainter and fainter, as if at a greater and greater distance. it was obvious that a party of soldiers were near, and upon their guard, though not sufficiently so to detect men skilful in every art of predatory warfare, like those with whom he now watched their ineffectual precautions. when these sounds had died upon the silence of the night, the highlanders began their march swiftly, yet with the most cautious silence. waverley had little time, or indeed disposition, for observation, and could only discern that they passed at some distance from a large building, in the windows of which a light or two yet seemed to twinkle. a little farther on the leading highlander snuffed the wind like a setting spaniel, and then made a signal to his party again to halt. he stooped down upon all fours, wrapped up in his plaid, so as to be scarce distinguishable from the heathy ground on which he moved, and advanced in this posture to reconnoitre. in a short time he returned, and dismissed his attendants excepting one; and, intimating to waverley that he must imitate his cautious mode of proceeding, all three crept forward on hands and knees. after proceeding a greater way in this inconvenient manner than was at all comfortable to his knees and shins, waverley perceived the smell of smoke, which probably had been much sooner distinguished by the more acute nasal organs of his guide. it proceeded from the corner of a low and ruinous sheep-fold, the walls of which were made of loose stones, as is usual in scotland. close by this low wall the highlander guided waverley, and, in order probably to make him sensible of his danger, or perhaps to obtain the full credit of his own dexterity, he intimated to him, by sign and example, that he might raise his head so as to peep into the sheep-fold. waverley did so, and beheld an outpost of four or five soldiers lying by their watch-fire. they were all asleep except the sentinel, who paced backwards and forwards with his firelock on his shoulder, which glanced red in the light of the fire as he crossed and re-crossed before it in his short walk, casting his eye frequently to that part of the heavens from which the moon, hitherto obscured by mist, seemed now about to make her appearance. in the course of a minute or two, by one of those sudden changes of atmosphere incident to a mountainous country, a breeze arose and swept before it the clouds which had covered the horizon, and the night planet poured her full effulgence upon a wide and blighted heath, skirted indeed with copse-wood and stunted trees in the quarter from which they had come, but open and bare to the observation of the sentinel in that to which their course tended. the wall of the sheep-fold indeed concealed them as they lay, but any advance beyond its shelter seemed impossible without certain discovery. the highlander eyed the blue vault, but far from blessing the useful light with homer's, or rather pope's benighted peasant, he muttered a gaelic curse upon the unseasonable splendour of mac-farlane's buat (i.e. lantern) [footnote: see note ]. he looked anxiously around for a few minutes, and then apparently took his resolution. leaving his attendant with waverley, after motioning to edward to remain quiet, and giving his comrade directions in a brief whisper, he retreated, favoured by the irregularity of the ground, in the same direction and in the same manner as they had advanced. edward, turning his head after him, could perceive him crawling on all fours with the dexterity of an indian, availing himself of every bush and inequality to escape observation, and never passing over the more exposed parts of his track until the sentinel's back was turned from him. at length he reached the thickets and underwood which partly covered the moor in that direction, and probably extended to the verge of the glen where waverley had been so long an inhabitant. the highlander disappeared, but it was only for a few minutes, for he suddenly issued forth from a different part of the thicket, and, advancing boldly upon the open heath as if to invite discovery, he levelled his piece and fired at the sentinel. a wound in the arm proved a disagreeable interruption to the poor fellow's meteorological observations, as well as to the tune of 'nancy dawson,' which he was whistling. he returned the fire ineffectually, and his comrades, starting up at the alarm, advanced alertly towards the spot from which the first shot had issued. the highlander, after giving them a full view of his person, dived among the thickets, for his ruse de guerre had now perfectly succeeded. while the soldiers pursued the cause of their disturbance in one direction, waverley, adopting the hint of his remaining attendant, made the best of his speed in that which his guide originally intended to pursue, and which now (the attention of the soldiers being drawn to a different quarter) was unobserved and unguarded. when they had run about a quarter of a mile, the brow of a rising ground which they had surmounted concealed them from further risk of observation. they still heard, however, at a distance the shouts of the soldiers as they hallooed to each other upon the heath, and they could also hear the distant roll of a drum beating to arms in the same direction. but these hostile sounds were now far in their rear, and died away upon the breeze as they rapidly proceeded. when they had walked about half an hour, still along open and waste ground of the same description, they came to the stump of an ancient oak, which, from its relics, appeared to have been at one time a tree of very large size. in an adjacent hollow they found several highlanders, with a horse or two. they had not joined them above a few minutes, which waverley's attendant employed, in all probability, in communicating the cause of their delay (for the words 'duncan duroch' were often repeated), when duncan himself appeared, out of breath indeed, and with all the symptoms of having run for his life, but laughing, and in high spirits at the success of the stratagem by which he had baffled his pursuers. this indeed waverley could easily conceive might be a matter of no great difficulty to the active mountaineer, who was perfectly acquainted with the ground, and traced his course with a firmness and confidence to which his pursuers must have been strangers. the alarm which he excited seemed still to continue, for a dropping shot or two were heard at a great distance, which seemed to serve as an addition to the mirth of duncan and his comrades. the mountaineer now resumed the arms with which he had entrusted our hero, giving him to understand that the dangers of the journey were happily surmounted. waverley was then mounted upon one of the horses, a change which the fatigue of the night and his recent illness rendered exceedingly acceptable. his portmanteau was placed on another pony, duncan mounted a third, and they set forward at a round pace, accompanied by their escort. no other incident marked the course of that night's journey, and at the dawn of morning they attained the banks of a rapid river. the country around was at once fertile and romantic. steep banks of wood were broken by corn-fields, which this year presented an abundant harvest, already in a great measure cut down. on the opposite bank of the river, and partly surrounded by a winding of its stream, stood a large and massive castle, the half-ruined turrets of which were already glittering in the first rays of the sun. [footnote: see note .] it was in form an oblong square, of size sufficient to contain a large court in the centre. the towers at each angle of the square rose higher than the walls of the building, and were in their turn surmounted by turrets, differing in height and irregular in shape. upon one of these a sentinel watched, whose bonnet and plaid, streaming in the wind, declared him to be a highlander, as a broad white ensign, which floated from another tower, announced that the garrison was held by the insurgent adherents of the house of stuart. passing hastily through a small and mean town, where their appearance excited neither surprise nor curiosity in the few peasants whom the labours of the harvest began to summon from their repose, the party crossed an ancient and narrow bridge of several arches, and, turning to the left up an avenue of huge old sycamores, waverley found himself in front of the gloomy yet picturesque structure which he had admired at a distance. a huge iron-grated door, which formed the exterior defence of the gateway, was already thrown back to receive them; and a second, heavily constructed of oak and studded thickly with iron nails, being next opened, admitted them into the interior court-yard. a gentleman, dressed in the highland garb and having a white cockade in his bonnet, assisted waverley to dismount from his horse, and with much courtesy bid him welcome to the castle. the governor, for so we must term him, having conducted waverley to a half-ruinous apartment, where, however, there was a small camp-bed, and having offered him any refreshment which he desired, was then about to leave him. 'will you not add to your civilities,' said waverley, after having made the usual acknowledgment, 'by having the kindness to inform me where i am, and whether or not i am to consider myself as a prisoner?' 'i am not at liberty to be so explicit upon this subject as i could wish. briefly, however, you are in the castle of doune, in the district of menteith, and in no danger whatever.' 'and how am i assured of that?' 'by the honour of donald stewart, governor of the garrison, and lieutenant-colonel in the service of his royal highness prince charles edward.' so saying, he hastily left the apartment, as if to avoid further discussion. exhausted by the fatigues of the night, our hero now threw himself upon the bed, and was in a few minutes fast asleep. chapter xxxix the journey is continued before waverley awakened from his repose, the day was far advanced, and he began to feel that he had passed many hours without food. this was soon supplied in form of a copious breakfast, but colonel stewart, as if wishing to avoid the queries of his guest, did not again present himself. his compliments were, however, delivered by a servant, with an offer to provide anything in his power that could be useful to captain waverley on his journey, which he intimated would be continued that evening. to waverley's further inquiries, the servant opposed the impenetrable barrier of real or affected ignorance and stupidity. he removed the table and provisions, and waverley was again consigned to his own meditations. as he contemplated the strangeness of his fortune, which seemed to delight in placing him at the disposal of others, without the power of directing his own motions, edward's eye suddenly rested upon his portmanteau, which had been deposited in his apartment during his sleep. the mysterious appearance of alice in the cottage of the glen immediately rushed upon his mind, and he was about to secure and examine the packet which she had deposited among his clothes, when the servant of colonel stewart again made his appearance, and took up the portmanteau upon his shoulders. 'may i not take out a change of linen, my friend?' 'your honour sall get ane o' the colonel's ain ruffled sarks, but this maun gang in the baggage-cart.' and so saying, he very coolly carried off the portmanteau, without waiting further remonstrance, leaving our hero in a state where disappointment and indignation struggled for the mastery. in a few minutes he heard a cart rumble out of the rugged court-yard, and made no doubt that he was now dispossessed, for a space at least, if not for ever, of the only documents which seemed to promise some light upon the dubious events which had of late influenced his destiny. with such melancholy thoughts he had to beguile about four or five hours of solitude. when this space was elapsed, the trampling of horse was heard in the court-yard, and colonel stewart soon after made his appearance to request his guest to take some further refreshment before his departure. the offer was accepted, for a late breakfast had by no means left our hero incapable of doing honour to dinner, which was now presented. the conversation of his host was that of a plain country gentleman, mixed with some soldier-like sentiments and expressions. he cautiously avoided any reference to the military operations or civil politics of the time; and to waverley's direct inquiries concerning some of these points replied, that he was not at liberty to speak upon such topics. when dinner was finished the governor arose, and, wishing edward a good journey, said that, having been informed by waverley's servant that his baggage had been sent forward, he had taken the freedom to supply him with such changes of linen as he might find necessary till he was again possessed of his own. with this compliment he disappeared. a servant acquainted waverley an instant afterwards that his horse was ready. upon this hint he descended into the court-yard, and found a trooper holding a saddled horse, on which he mounted and sallied from the portal of doune castle, attended by about a score of armed men on horseback. these had less the appearance of regular soldiers than of individuals who had suddenly assumed arms from some pressing motive of unexpected emergency. their uniform, which was blue and red, an affected imitation of that of french chasseurs, was in many respects incomplete, and sate awkwardly upon those who wore it. waverley's eye, accustomed to look at a well-disciplined regiment, could easily discover that the motions and habits of his escort were not those of trained soldiers, and that, although expert enough in the management of their horses, their skill was that of huntsmen or grooms rather than of troopers. the horses were not trained to the regular pace so necessary to execute simultaneous and combined movements and formations; nor did they seem bitted (as it is technically expressed) for the use of the sword. the men, however, were stout, hardy-looking fellows, and might be individually formidable as irregular cavalry. the commander of this small party was mounted upon an excellent hunter, and, although dressed in uniform, his change of apparel did not prevent waverley from recognising his old acquaintance, mr. falconer of balmawhapple. now, although the terms upon which edward had parted with this gentleman were none of the most friendly, he would have sacrificed every recollection of their foolish quarrel for the pleasure of enjoying once more the social intercourse of question and answer, from which he had been so long secluded. but apparently the remembrance of his defeat by the baron of bradwardine, of which edward had been the unwilling cause, still rankled in the mind of the low-bred and yet proud laird. he carefully avoided giving the least sign of recognition, riding doggedly at the head of his men, who, though scarce equal in numbers to a sergeant's party, were denominated captain falconer's troop, being preceded by a trumpet, which sounded from time to time, and a standard, borne by cornet falconer, the laird's younger brother. the lieutenant, an elderly man, had much the air of a low sportsman and boon companion; an expression of dry humour predominated in his countenance over features of a vulgar cast, which indicated habitual intemperance. his cocked hat was set knowingly upon one side of his head, and while he whistled the 'bob of dumblain,' under the influence of half a mutchkin of brandy, he seemed to trot merrily forward, with a happy indifference to the state of the country, the conduct of the party, the end of the journey, and all other sublunary matters whatever. from this wight, who now and then dropped alongside of his horse, waverley hoped to acquire some information, or at least to beguile the way with talk. 'a fine evening, sir,' was edward's salutation. 'ow, ay, sir! a bra' night,' replied the lieutenant, in broad scotch of the most vulgar description. 'and a fine harvest, apparently,' continued waverley, following up his first attack. 'ay, the aits will be got bravely in; but the farmers, deil burst them, and the corn-mongers will make the auld price gude against them as has horses till keep.' 'you perhaps act as quartermaster, sir?' 'ay, quartermaster, riding-master, and lieutenant,' answered this officer of all work. 'and, to be sure, wha's fitter to look after the breaking and the keeping of the poor beasts than mysell, that bought and sold every ane o' them?' 'and pray, sir, if it be not too great a freedom, may i beg to know where we are going just now?' 'a fule's errand, i fear,' answered this communicative personage. 'in that case,' said waverley, determined not to spare civility, 'i should have thought a person of your appearance would not have been found on the road.' 'vera true, vera true, sir,' replied the officer, 'but every why has its wherefore. ye maun ken, the laird there bought a' thir beasts frae me to munt his troop, and agreed to pay for them according to the necessities and prices of the time. but then he hadna the ready penny, and i hae been advised his bond will not be worth a boddle against the estate, and then i had a' my dealers to settle wi' at martinmas; and so, as he very kindly offered me this commission, and as the auld fifteen [footnote: the judges of the supreme court of session in scotland are proverbially termed among the country people, the fifteen.] wad never help me to my siller for sending out naigs against the government, why, conscience! sir, i thought my best chance for payment was e'en to gae out [footnote: see note .] mysell; and ye may judge, sir, as i hae dealt a' my life in halters, i think na mickle o' putting my craig in peril of a saint john-stone's tippet.' 'you are not, then, by profession a soldier?' said waverley. 'na, na; thank god,' answered this doughty partizan, 'i wasna bred at sae short a tether, i was brought up to hack and manger. i was bred a horse-couper, sir; and if i might live to see you at whitson-tryst, or at stagshawbank, or the winter fair at hawick, and ye wanted a spanker that would lead the field, i'se be caution i would serve ye easy; for jamie jinker was ne'er the lad to impose upon a gentleman. ye're a gentleman, sir, and should ken a horse's points; ye see that through--ganging thing that balmawhapple's on; i selled her till him. she was bred out of lick-the-ladle, that wan the king's plate at caverton-edge, by duke hamilton's white-foot,' etc., etc., etc. but as jinker was entered full sail upon the pedigree of balmawhapple's mare, having already got as far as great-grandsire and great-grand-dam, and while waverley was watching for an opportunity to obtain from him intelligence of more interest, the noble captain checked his horse until they came up, and then, without directly appearing to notice edward, said sternly to the genealogist, 'i thought, lieutenant, my orders were preceese, that no one should speak to the prisoner?' the metamorphosed horse-dealer was silenced of course, and slunk to the rear, where he consoled himself by entering into a vehement dispute upon the price of hay with a farmer who had reluctantly followed his laird to the field rather than give up his farm, whereof the lease had just expired. waverley was therefore once more consigned to silence, foreseeing that further attempts at conversation with any of the party would only give balmawhapple a wished-for opportunity to display the insolence of authority, and the sulky spite of a temper naturally dogged, and rendered more so by habits of low indulgence and the incense of servile adulation. in about two hours' time the party were near the castle of stirling, over whose battlements the union flag was brightened as it waved in the evening sun. to shorten his journey, or perhaps to display his importance and insult the english garrison, balmawhapple, inclining to the right, took his route through the royal park, which reaches to and surrounds the rock upon which the fortress is situated. with a mind more at ease waverley could not have failed to admire the mixture of romance and beauty which renders interesting the scene through which he was now passing--the field which had been the scene of the tournaments of old--the rock from which the ladies beheld the contest, while each made vows for the success of some favourite knight--the towers of the gothic church, where these vows might be paid--and, surmounting all, the fortress itself, at once a castle and palace, where valour received the prize from royalty, and knights and dames closed the evening amid the revelry of the dance, the song, and the feast. all these were objects fitted to arouse and interest a romantic imagination. but waverley had other objects of meditation, and an incident soon occurred of a nature to disturb meditation of any kind. balmawhapple, in the pride of his heart, as he wheeled his little body of cavalry round the base of the castle, commanded his trumpet to sound a flourish and his standard to be displayed. this insult produced apparently some sensation; for when the cavalcade was at such distance from the southern battery as to admit of a gun being depressed so as to bear upon them, a flash of fire issued from one of the embrazures upon the rock; and ere the report with which it was attended could be heard, the rushing sound of a cannon-ball passed over balmawhapple's head, and the bullet, burying itself in the ground at a few yards' distance, covered him with the earth which it drove up. there was no need to bid the party trudge. in fact, every man, acting upon the impulse of the moment, soon brought mr. jinker's steeds to show their mettle, and the cavaliers, retreating with more speed than regularity, never took to a trot, as the lieutenant afterwards observed, until an intervening eminence had secured them from any repetition of so undesirable a compliment on the part of stirling castle. i must do balmawhapple, however, the justice to say that he not only kept the rear of his troop, and laboured to maintain some order among them, but, in the height of his gallantry, answered the fire of the castle by discharging one of his horse-pistols at the battlements; although, the distance being nearly half a mile, i could never learn that this measure of retaliation was attended with any particular effect. the travellers now passed the memorable field of bannockburn and reached the torwood, a place glorious or terrible to the recollections of the scottish peasant, as the feats of wallace or the cruelties of wude willie grime predominate in his recollection. at falkirk, a town formerly famous in scottish history, and soon to be again distinguished as the scene of military events of importance, balmawhapple proposed to halt and repose for the evening. this was performed with very little regard to military discipline, his worthy quarter-master being chiefly solicitous to discover where the best brandy might be come at. sentinels were deemed unnecessary, and the only vigils performed were those of such of the party as could procure liquor. a few resolute men might easily have cut off the detachment; but of the inhabitants some were favourable, many indifferent, and the rest overawed. so nothing memorable occurred in the course of the evening, except that waverley's rest was sorely interrupted by the revellers hallooing forth their jacobite songs, without remorse or mitigation of voice. early in the morning they were again mounted and on the road to edinburgh, though the pallid visages of some of the troop betrayed that they had spent a night of sleepless debauchery. they halted at linlithgow, distinguished by its ancient palace, which sixty years since was entire and habitable, and whose venerable ruins, not quite sixty years since, very narrowly escaped the unworthy fate of being converted into a barrack for french prisoners. may repose and blessings attend the ashes of the patriotic statesman who, amongst his last services to scotland, interposed to prevent this profanation! as they approached the metropolis of scotland, through a champaign and cultivated country, the sounds of war began to be heard. the distant yet distinct report of heavy cannon, fired at intervals, apprized waverley that the work of destruction was going forward. even balmawhapple seemed moved to take some precautions, by sending an advanced party in front of his troop, keeping the main body in tolerable order, and moving steadily forward. marching in this manner they speedily reached an eminence, from which they could view edinburgh stretching along the ridgy hill which slopes eastward from the castle. the latter, being in a state of siege, or rather of blockade, by the northern insurgents, who had already occupied the town for two or three days, fired at intervals upon such parties of highlanders as exposed themselves, either on the main street or elsewhere in the vicinity of the fortress. the morning being calm and fair, the effect of this dropping fire was to invest the castle in wreaths of smoke, the edges of which dissipated slowly in the air, while the central veil was darkened ever and anon by fresh clouds poured forth from the battlements; the whole giving, by the partial concealment, an appearance of grandeur and gloom, rendered more terrific when waverley reflected on the cause by which it was produced, and that each explosion might ring some brave man's knell. ere they approached the city the partial cannonade had wholly ceased. balmawhapple, however, having in his recollection the unfriendly greeting which his troop had received from the battery at stirling, had apparently no wish to tempt the forbearance of the artillery of the castle. he therefore left the direct road, and, sweeping considerably to the southward so as to keep out of the range of the cannon, approached the ancient palace of holyrood without having entered the walls of the city. he then drew up his men in front of that venerable pile, and delivered waverley to the custody of a guard of highlanders, whose officer conducted him into the interior of the building. a long, low, and ill-proportioned gallery, hung with pictures, affirmed to be the portraits of kings, who, if they ever flourished at all, lived several hundred years before the invention of painting in oil colours, served as a sort of guard chamber or vestibule to the apartments which the adventurous charles edward now occupied in the palace of his ancestors. officers, both in the highland and lowland garb, passed and repassed in haste, or loitered in the hall as if waiting for orders. secretaries were engaged in making out passes, musters, and returns. all seemed busy, and earnestly intent upon something of importance; but waverley was suffered to remain seated in the recess of a window, unnoticed by any one, in anxious reflection upon the crisis of his fate, which seemed now rapidly approaching. chapter xl an old and a new acquaintance while he was deep sunk in his reverie, the rustle of tartans was heard behind him, a friendly arm clasped his shoulders, and a friendly voice exclaimed, 'said the highland prophet sooth? or must second-sight go for nothing?' waverley turned, and was warmly embraced by fergus mac-ivor. 'a thousand welcomes to holyrood, once more possessed by her legitimate sovereign! did i not say we should prosper, and that you would fall into the hands of the philistines if you parted from us?' 'dear fergus!' said waverley, eagerly returning his greeting. 'it is long since i have heard a friend's voice. where is flora?' 'safe, and a triumphant spectator of our success.' 'in this place?' said waverley. 'ay, in this city at least,' answered his friend, 'and you shall see her; but first you must meet a friend whom you little think of, who has been frequent in his inquiries after you.' thus saying, he dragged waverley by the arm out of the guard chamber, and, ere he knew where he was conducted, edward found himself in a presence room, fitted up with some attempt at royal state. a young man, wearing his own fair hair, distinguished by the dignity of his mien and the noble expression of his well-formed and regular features, advanced out of a circle of military gentlemen and highland chiefs by whom he was surrounded. in his easy and graceful manners waverley afterwards thought he could have discovered his high birth and rank, although the star on his breast and the embroidered garter at his knee had not appeared as its indications. 'let me present to your royal highness,' said fergus, bowing profoundly-- 'the descendant of one of the most ancient and loyal families in england,' said the young chevalier, interrupting him. 'i beg your pardon for interrupting you, my dear mac-ivor; but no master of ceremonies is necessary to present a waverley to a stuart.' thus saying, he extended his hand to edward with the utmost courtesy, who could not, had he desired it, have avoided rendering him the homage which seemed due to his rank, and was certainly the right of his birth. 'i am sorry to understand, mr. waverley, that, owing to circumstances which have been as yet but ill explained, you have suffered some restraint among my followers in perthshire and on your march here; but we are in such a situation that we hardly know our friends, and i am even at this moment uncertain whether i can have the pleasure of considering mr. waverley as among mine.' he then paused for an instant; but before edward could adjust a suitable reply, or even arrange his ideas as to its purport, the prince took out a paper and then proceeded:--'i should indeed have no doubts upon this subject if i could trust to this proclamation, set forth by the friends of the elector of hanover, in which they rank mr. waverley among the nobility and gentry who are menaced with the pains of high-treason for loyalty to their legitimate sovereign. but i desire to gain no adherents save from affection and conviction; and if mr. waverley inclines to prosecute his journey to the south, or to join the forces of the elector, he shall have my passport and free permission to do so; and i can only regret that my present power will not extend to protect him against the probable consequences of such a measure. but,' continued charles edward, after another short pause, 'if mr. waverley should, like his ancestor, sir nigel, determine to embrace a cause which has little to recommend it but its justice, and follow a prince who throws himself upon the affections of his people to recover the throne of his ancestors or perish in the attempt, i can only say, that among these nobles and gentlemen he will find worthy associates in a gallant enterprise, and will follow a master who may be unfortunate, but, i trust, will never be ungrateful.' the politic chieftain of the race of ivor knew his advantage in introducing waverley to this personal interview with the royal adventurer. unaccustomed to the address and manners of a polished court, in which charles was eminently skilful, his words and his kindness penetrated the heart of our hero, and easily outweighed all prudential motives. to be thus personally solicited for assistance by a prince whose form and manners, as well as the spirit which he displayed in this singular enterprise, answered his ideas of a hero of romance; to be courted by him in the ancient halls of his paternal palace, recovered by the sword which he was already bending towards other conquests, gave edward, in his own eyes, the dignity and importance which he had ceased to consider as his attributes. rejected, slandered, and threatened upon the one side, he was irresistibly attracted to the cause which the prejudices of education and the political principles of his family had already recommended as the most just. these thoughts rushed through his mind like a torrent, sweeping before them every consideration of an opposite tendency,--the time, besides, admitted of no deliberation,--and waverley, kneeling to charles edward, devoted his heart and sword to the vindication of his rights! the prince (for, although unfortunate in the faults and follies of his forefathers, we shall here and elsewhere give him the title due to his birth) raised waverley from the ground and embraced him with an expression of thanks too warm not to be genuine. he also thanked fergus mac-ivor repeatedly for having brought him such an adherent, and presented waverley to the various noblemen, chieftains, and officers who were about his person as a young gentleman of the highest hopes and prospects, in whose bold and enthusiastic avowal of his cause they might see an evidence of the sentiments of the english families of rank at this important crisis. [footnote: see note .] indeed, this was a point much doubted among the adherents of the house of stuart; and as a well-founded disbelief in the cooperation of the english jacobites kept many scottish men of rank from his standard, and diminished the courage of those who had joined it, nothing could be more seasonable for the chevalier than the open declaration in his favour of the representative of the house of waverley-honour, so long known as cavaliers and royalists. this fergus had foreseen from the beginning. he really loved waverley, because their feelings and projects never thwarted each other; he hoped to see him united with flora, and he rejoiced that they were effectually engaged in the same cause. but, as we before hinted, he also exulted as a politician in beholding secured to his party a partizan of such consequence; and he was far from being insensible to the personal importance which he himself gained with the prince from having so materially assisted in making the acquisition. charles edward, on his part, seemed eager to show his attendants the value which he attached to his new adherent, by entering immediately, as in confidence, upon the circumstances of his situation. 'you have been secluded so much from intelligence, mr. waverley, from causes of which i am but indistinctly informed, that i presume you are even yet unacquainted with the important particulars of my present situation. you have, however, heard of my landing in the remote district of moidart, with only seven attendants, and of the numerous chiefs and clans whose loyal enthusiasm at once placed a solitary adventurer at the head of a gallant army. you must also, i think, have learned that the commander-in-chief of the hanoverian elector, sir john cope, marched into the highlands at the head of a numerous and well-appointed military force with the intention of giving us battle, but that his courage failed him when we were within three hours' march of each other, so that he fairly gave us the slip and marched northward to aberdeen, leaving the low country open and undefended. not to lose so favourable an opportunity, i marched on to this metropolis, driving before me two regiments of horse, gardiner's and hamilton's, who had threatened to cut to pieces every highlander that should venture to pass stirling; and while discussions were carrying forward among the magistracy and citizens of edinburgh whether they should defend themselves or surrender, my good friend lochiel (laying his hand on the shoulder of that gallant and accomplished chieftain) saved them the trouble of farther deliberation by entering the gates with five hundred camerons. thus far, therefore, we have done well; but, in the meanwhile, this doughty general's nerves being braced by the keen air of aberdeen, he has taken shipping for dunbar, and i have just received certain information that he landed there yesterday. his purpose must unquestionably be to march towards us to recover possession of the capital. now there are two opinions in my council of war: one, that being inferior probably in numbers, and certainly in discipline and military appointments, not to mention our total want of artillery and the weakness of our cavalry, it will be safest to fall back towards the mountains, and there protract the war until fresh succours arrive from france, and the whole body of the highland clans shall have taken arms in our favour. the opposite opinion maintains, that a retrograde movement, in our circumstances, is certain to throw utter discredit on our arms and undertaking; and, far from gaining us new partizans, will be the means of disheartening those who have joined our standard. the officers who use these last arguments, among whom is your friend fergus mac-ivor, maintain that, if the highlanders are strangers to the usual military discipline of europe, the soldiers whom they are to encounter are no less strangers to their peculiar and formidable mode of attack; that the attachment and courage of the chiefs and gentlemen are not to be doubted; and that, as they will be in the midst of the enemy, their clansmen will as surely follow them; in fine, that having drawn the sword we should throw away the scabbard, and trust our cause to battle and to the god of battles. will mr. waverley favour us with his opinion in these arduous circumstances?' waverley coloured high betwixt pleasure and modesty at the distinction implied in this question, and answered, with equal spirit and readiness, that he could not venture to offer an opinion as derived from military skill, but that the counsel would be far the most acceptable to him which should first afford him an opportunity to evince his zeal in his royal highness's service. 'spoken like a waverley!' answered charles edward; 'and that you may hold a rank in some degree corresponding to your name, allow me, instead of the captain's commission which you have lost, to offer you the brevet rank of major in my service, with the advantage of acting as one of my aides-de-camp until you can be attached to a regiment, of which i hope several will be speedily embodied.' 'your royal highness will forgive me,' answered waverley (for his recollection turned to balmawhapple and his scanty troop), 'if i decline accepting any rank until the time and place where i may have interest enough to raise a sufficient body of men to make my command useful to your royal highness's service. in the meanwhile, i hope for your permission to serve as a volunteer under my friend fergus mac-ivor.' 'at least,' said the prince, who was obviously pleased with this proposal, 'allow me the pleasure of arming you after the highland fashion.' with these words, he unbuckled the broadsword which he wore, the belt of which was plaited with silver, and the steel basket-hilt richly and curiously inlaid. 'the blade,' said the prince, 'is a genuine andrea ferrara; it has been a sort of heir-loom in our family; but i am convinced i put it into better hands than my own, and will add to it pistols of the same workmanship. colonel mac-ivor, you must have much to say to your friend; i will detain you no longer from your private conversation; but remember we expect you both to attend us in the evening. it may be perhaps the last night we may enjoy in these halls, and as we go to the field with a clear conscience, we will spend the eve of battle merrily.' thus licensed, the chief and waverley left the presence-chamber. chapter xli the mystery begins to be cleared up 'how do you like him?' was fergus's first question, as they descended the large stone staircase. 'a prince to live and die under' was waverley's enthusiastic answer. 'i knew you would think so when you saw him, and i intended you should have met earlier, but was prevented by your sprain. and yet he has his foibles, or rather he has difficult cards to play, and his irish officers, [footnote: see note .] who are much about him, are but sorry advisers: they cannot discriminate among the numerous pretensions that are set up. would you think it--i have been obliged for the present to suppress an earl's patent, granted for services rendered ten years ago, for fear of exciting the jealousy, forsooth, of c---- and m----? but you were very right, edward, to refuse the situation of aide-de-camp. there are two vacant, indeed, but clanronald and lochiel, and almost all of us, have requested one for young aberchallader, and the lowlanders and the irish party are equally desirous to have the other for the master of f--. now, if either of these candidates were to be superseded in your favour, you would make enemies. and then i am surprised that the prince should have offered you a majority, when he knows very well that nothing short of lieutenant-colonel will satisfy others, who cannot bring one hundred and fifty men to the field. "but patience, cousin, and shuffle the cards!" it is all very well for the present, and we must have you properly equipped for the evening in your new costume; for, to say truth, your outward man is scarce fit for a court.' 'why,' said waverley, looking at his soiled dress,'my shooting jacket has seen service since we parted; but that probably you, my friend, know as well or better than i.' 'you do my second-sight too much honour,' said fergus. 'we were so busy, first with the scheme of giving battle to cope, and afterwards with our operations in the lowlands, that i could only give general directions to such of our people as were left in perthshire to respect and protect you, should you come in their way. but let me hear the full story of your adventures, for they have reached us in a very partial and mutilated manner.' waverley then detailed at length the circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted, to which fergus listened with great attention. by this time they had reached the door of his quarters, which he had taken up in a small paved court, retiring from the street called the canongate, at the house of a buxom widow of forty, who seemed to smile very graciously upon the handsome young chief, she being a person with whom good looks and good-humour were sure to secure an interest, whatever might be the party's "political opinions". here callum beg received them with a smile of recognition. 'callum,' said the chief, 'call shemus an snachad' (james of the needle). this was the hereditary tailor of vich lan vohr. 'shemus, mr. waverley is to wear the cath dath (battle colour, or tartan); his trews must be ready in four hours. you know the measure of a well-made man--two double nails to the small of the leg--' 'eleven from haunch to heel, seven round the waist. i give your honour leave to hang shemus, if there's a pair of sheers in the highlands that has a baulder sneck than her's ain at the cumadh an truais' (shape of the trews). 'get a plaid of mac-ivor tartan and sash,' continued the chieftain, 'and a blue bonnet of the prince's pattern, at mr. mouat's in the crames. my short green coat, with silver lace and silver buttons, will fit him exactly, and i have never worn it. tell ensign maccombich to pick out a handsome target from among mine. the prince has given mr. waverley broadsword and pistols, i will furnish him with a dirk and purse; add but a pair of low-heeled shoes, and then, my dear edward (turning to him), you will be a complete son of ivor.' these necessary directions given, the chieftain resumed the subject of waverley's adventures. 'it is plain,' he said,'that you have been in the custody of donald bean lean. you must know that, when i marched away my clan to join the prince, i laid my injunctions on that worthy member of society to perform a certain piece of service, which done, he was to join me with all the force he could muster. but, instead of doing so, the gentleman, finding the coast clear, thought it better to make war on his own account, and has scoured the country, plundering, i believe, both friend and foe, under pretence of levying blackmail, sometimes as if by my authority, and sometimes (and be cursed to his consummate impudence) in his own great name! upon my honour, if i live to see the cairn of benmore again, i shall be tempted to hang that fellow! i recognise his hand particularly in the mode of your rescue from that canting rascal gilfillan, and i have little doubt that donald himself played the part of the pedlar on that occasion; but how he should not have plundered you, or put you to ransom, or availed himself in some way or other of your captivity for his own advantage, passes my judgment.' 'when and how did you hear the intelligence of my confinement?' asked waverley. 'the prince himself told me,' said fergus, 'and inquired very minutely into your history. he then mentioned your being at that moment in the power of one of our northern parties--you know i could not ask him to explain particulars--and requested my opinion about disposing of you. i recommended that you should be brought here as a prisoner, because i did not wish to prejudice you farther with the english government, in case you pursued your purpose of going southward. i knew nothing, you must recollect, of the charge brought against you of aiding and abetting high treason, which, i presume, had some share in changing your original plan. that sullen, good-for-nothing brute, balmawhapple, was sent to escort you from doune, with what he calls his troop of horse. as to his behaviour, in addition to his natural antipathy to everything that resembles a gentleman, i presume his adventure with bradwardine rankles in his recollection, the rather that i daresay his mode of telling that story contributed to the evil reports which reached your quondam regiment.' 'very likely,' said waverley; 'but now surely, my dear fergus, you may find time to tell me something of flora.' 'why,' replied fergus, 'i can only tell you that she is well, and residing for the present with a relation in this city. i thought it better she should come here, as since our success a good many ladies of rank attend our military court; and i assure you that there is a sort of consequence annexed to the near relative of such a person as flora mac-ivor, and where there is such a justling of claims and requests, a man must use every fair means to enhance his importance.' there was something in this last sentence which grated on waverley's feelings. he could not bear that flora should be considered as conducing to her brother's preferment by the admiration which she must unquestionably attract; and although it was in strict correspondence with many points of fergus's character, it shocked him as selfish, and unworthy of his sister's high mind and his own independent pride. fergus, to whom such manoeuvres were familiar, as to one brought up at the french court, did not observe the unfavourable impression which he had unwarily made upon his friend's mind, and concluded by saying,' that they could hardly see flora before the evening, when she would be at the concert and ball with which the prince's party were to be entertained. she and i had a quarrel about her not appearing to take leave of you. i am unwilling to renew it by soliciting her to receive you this morning; and perhaps my doing so might not only be ineffectual, but prevent your meeting this evening.' while thus conversing, waverley heard in the court, before the windows of the parlour, a well-known voice. 'i aver to you, my worthy friend,' said the speaker, 'that it is a total dereliction of military discipline; and were you not as it were a tyro, your purpose would deserve strong reprobation. for a prisoner of war is on no account to be coerced with fetters, or debinded in ergastulo, as would have been the case had you put this gentleman into the pit of the peel-house at balmawhapple. i grant, indeed, that such a prisoner may for security be coerced in carcere, that is, in a public prison.' the growling voice of balmawhapple was heard as taking leave in displeasure, but the word 'land-louper' alone was distinctly audible. he had disappeared before waverley reached the house in order to greet the worthy baron of bradwardine. the uniform in which he was now attired, a blue coat, namely, with gold lace, a scarlet waistcoat and breeches, and immense jack-boots, seemed to have added fresh stiffness and rigidity to his tall, perpendicular figure; and the consciousness of military command and authority had increased, in the same proportion, the self-importance of his demeanour and the dogmatism of his conversation. he received waverley with his usual kindness, and expressed immediate anxiety to hear an explanation of the circumstances attending the loss of his commission in gardiner's dragoons; 'not,' he said, 'that he had the least apprehension of his young friend having done aught which could merit such ungenerous treatment as he had received from government, but because it was right and seemly that the baron of bradwardine should be, in point of trust and in point of power, fully able to refute all calumnies against the heir of waverley-honour, whom he had so much right to regard as his own son.' fergus mac-ivor, who had now joined them, went hastily over the circumstances of waverley's story, and concluded with the flattering reception he had met from the young chevalier. the baron listened in silence, and at the conclusion shook waverley heartily by the hand and congratulated him upon entering the service of his lawful prince. 'for,' continued he, 'although it has been justly held in all nations a matter of scandal and dishonour to infringe the sacramentum militare, and that whether it was taken by each soldier singly, whilk the romans denominated per conjurationem, or by one soldier in name of the rest, yet no one ever doubted that the allegiance so sworn was discharged by the dimissio, or discharging of a soldier, whose case would be as hard as that of colliers, salters, and other adscripti glebes, or slaves of the soil, were it to be accounted otherwise. this is something like the brocard expressed by the learned sanchez in his work "de jure-jurando" which you have questionless consulted upon this occasion. as for those who have calumniated you by leasing-making, i protest to heaven i think they have justly incurred the penalty of the "memnonia lex," also called "lex rhemnia," which is prelected upon by tullius in his oration "in verrem." i should have deemed, however, mr. waverley, that before destining yourself to any special service in the army of the prince, ye might have inquired what rank the old bradwardine held there, and whether he would not have been peculiarly happy to have had your services in the regiment of horse which he is now about to levy.' edward eluded this reproach by pleading the necessity of giving an immediate answer to the prince's proposal, and his uncertainty at the moment whether his friend the baron was with the army or engaged upon service elsewhere. this punctilio being settled, waverley made inquiry after miss bradwardine, and was informed she had come to edinburgh with flora mac-ivor, under guard of a party of the chieftain's men. this step was indeed necessary, tully-veolan having become a very unpleasant, and even dangerous, place of residence for an unprotected young lady, on account of its vicinity to the highlands, and also to one or two large villages which, from aversion as much to the caterans as zeal for presbytery, had declared themselves on the side of government, and formed irregular bodies of partizans, who had frequent skirmishes with the mountaineers, and sometimes attacked the houses of the jacobite gentry in the braes, or frontier betwixt the mountain and plain. 'i would propose to you,' continued the baron,'to walk as far as my quarters in the luckenbooths, and to admire in your passage the high street, whilk is, beyond a shadow of dubitation, finer than any street whether in london or paris. but rose, poor thing, is sorely discomposed with the firing of the castle, though i have proved to her from blondel and coehorn, that it is impossible a bullet can reach these buildings; and, besides, i have it in charge from his royal highness to go to the camp, or leaguer of our army, to see that the men do condamare vasa, that is, truss up their bag and baggage for tomorrow's march.' 'that will be easily done by most of us,' said mac-ivor, laughing. 'craving your pardon, colonel mac-ivor, not quite so easily as ye seem to opine. i grant most of your folk left the highlands expedited as it were, and free from the incumbrance of baggage; but it is unspeakable the quantity of useless sprechery which they have collected on their march. i saw one fellow of yours (craving your pardon once more) with a pier-glass upon his back.' 'ay,' said fergus, still in good-humour, 'he would have told you, if you had questioned him, "a ganging foot is aye getting." but come, my dear baron, you know as well as i that a hundred uhlans, or a single troop of schmirschitz's pandours, would make more havoc in a country than the knight of the mirror and all the rest of our clans put together.' 'and that is very true likewise,' replied the baron; 'they are, as the heathen author says, ferociores in aspectu, mitiores in actu, of a horrid and grim visage, but more benign in demeanour than their physiognomy or aspect might infer. but i stand here talking to you two youngsters when i should be in the king's park.' 'but you will dine with waverley and me on your return? i assure you, baron, though i can live like a highlander when needs must, i remember my paris education, and understand perfectly faire la meilleure chere.' 'and wha the deil doubts it,' quoth the baron, laughing, 'when ye bring only the cookery and the gude toun must furnish the materials? weel, i have some business in the toun too; but i'll join you at three, if the vivers can tarry so long.' so saying, he took leave of his friends and went to look after the charge which had been assigned him. chapter xlii a soldier's dinner james of the needle was a man of his word when whisky was no party to the contract; and upon this occasion callum beg, who still thought himself in waverley's debt, since he had declined accepting compensation at the expense of mine host of the candlestick's person, took the opportunity of discharging the obligation, by mounting guard over the hereditary tailor of sliochd nan ivor; and, as he expressed himself, 'targed him tightly' till the finishing of the job. to rid himself of this restraint, shemus's needle flew through the tartan like lightning; and as the artist kept chanting some dreadful skirmish of fin macoul, he accomplished at least three stitches to the death of every hero. the dress was, therefore, soon ready, for the short coat fitted the wearer, and the rest of the apparel required little adjustment. our hero having now fairly assumed the 'garb of old gaul,' well calculated as it was to give an appearance of strength to a figure which, though tall and well-made, was rather elegant than robust, i hope my fair readers will excuse him if he looked at himself in the mirror more than once, and could not help acknowledging that the reflection seemed that of a very handsome young fellow. in fact, there was no disguising it. his light-brown hair--for he wore no periwig, notwithstanding the universal fashion of the time--became the bonnet which surmounted it. his person promised firmness and agility, to which the ample folds of the tartan added an air of dignity. his blue eye seemed of that kind, which melted in love, and which kindled in war; and an air of bashfulness, which was in reality the effect of want of habitual intercourse with the world, gave interest to his features, without injuring their grace or intelligence. 'he's a pratty man, a very pratty man,' said evan dhu (now ensign maccombich) to fergus's buxom landlady. 'he's vera weel,' said the widow flockhart, 'but no naething sae weel-far'd as your colonel, ensign.' 'i wasna comparing them,' quoth evan, 'nor was i speaking about his being weel-favoured; but only that mr. waverley looks clean-made and deliver, and like a proper lad o' his quarters, that will not cry barley in a brulzie. and, indeed, he's gleg aneuch at the broadsword and target. i hae played wi' him mysell at glennaquoich, and sae has vich lan vohr, often of a sunday afternoon.' 'lord forgie ye, ensign maccombich,' said the alarmed presbyterian; 'i'm sure the colonel wad never do the like o' that!' 'hout! hout! mrs. flockhart,' replied the ensign, 'we're young blude, ye ken; and young saints, auld deils.' 'but will ye fight wi' sir john cope the morn, ensign maccombich?' demanded mrs. flockhart of her guest. 'troth i'se ensure him, an he'll bide us, mrs. flockhart,' replied the gael. 'and will ye face thae tearing chields, the dragoons, ensign maccombich?' again inquired the landlady. 'claw for claw, as conan said to satan, mrs. flockhart, and the deevil tak the shortest nails.' 'and will the colonel venture on the bagganets himsell?' 'ye may swear it, mrs. flockhart; the very first man will he be, by saint phedar.' 'merciful goodness! and if he's killed amang the redcoats!' exclaimed the soft-hearted widow. 'troth, if it should sae befall, mrs. flockhart, i ken ane that will no be living to weep for him. but we maun a' live the day, and have our dinner; and there's vich lan vohr has packed his dorlach, and mr. waverley's wearied wi' majoring yonder afore the muckle pier-glass; and that grey auld stoor carle, the baron o' bradwardine that shot young ronald of ballenkeiroch, he's coming down the close wi' that droghling coghling bailie body they ca' macwhupple, just like the laird o' kittlegab's french cook, wi' his turnspit doggie trindling ahint him, and i am as hungry as a gled, my bonny dow; sae bid kate set on the broo', and do ye put on your pinners, for ye ken vich lan vohr winna sit down till ye be at the head o' the table;--and dinna forget the pint bottle o' brandy, my woman.' this hint produced dinner. mrs. flockhart, smiling in her weeds like the sun through a mist, took the head of the table, thinking within herself, perhaps, that she cared not how long the rebellion lasted that brought her into company so much above her usual associates. she was supported by waverley and the baron, with the advantage of the chieftain vis-a-vis. the men of peace and of war, that is, bailie macwheeble and ensign maccombich, after many profound conges to their superiors and each other, took their places on each side of the chieftain. their fare was excellent, time, place, and circumstances considered, and fergus's spirits were extravagantly high. regardless of danger, and sanguine from temper, youth, and ambition, he saw in imagination all his prospects crowned with success, and was totally indifferent to the probable alternative of a soldier's grave. the baron apologized slightly for bringing macwheeble. they had been providing, he said, for the expenses of the campaign. 'and, by my faith,' said the old man, 'as i think this will be my last, so i just end where i began: i hae evermore found the sinews of war, as a learned author calls the caisse mttitaire, mair difficult to come by than either its flesh, blood, or bones.' 'what! have you raised our only efficient body of cavalry and got ye none of the louis-d'or out of the doutelle [footnote: the doutelle was an armed vessel which brought a small supply of money and arms from france for the use of the insurgents.] to help you?' 'no, glennaquoich; cleverer fellows have been before me.' 'that's a scandal,' said the young highlander; 'but you will share what is left of my subsidy; it will save you an anxious thought tonight, and will be all one tomorrow, for we shall all be provided for, one way or other, before the sun sets.' waverley, blushing deeply, but with great earnestness, pressed the same request. 'i thank ye baith, my good lads,' said the baron, 'but i will not infringe upon your peculium. bailie macwheeble has provided the sum which is necessary.' here the bailie shifted and fidgeted about in his seat, and appeared extremely uneasy. at length, after several preliminary hems, and much tautological expression of his devotion to his honour's service, by night or day, living or dead, he began to insinuate, 'that the banks had removed a' their ready cash into the castle; that, nae doubt, sandie goldie, the silversmith, would do mickle for his honour; but there was little time to get the wadset made out; and, doubtless, if his honour glennaquoich or mr. wauverley could accommodate--' 'let me hear of no such nonsense, sir,' said the baron, in a tone which rendered macwheeble mute, 'but proceed as we accorded before dinner, if it be your wish to remain in my service.' to this peremptory order the bailie, though he felt as if condemned to suffer a transfusion of blood from his own veins into those of the baron, did not presume to make any reply. after fidgeting a little while longer, however, he addressed himself to glennaquoich, and told him, if his honour had mair ready siller than was sufficient for his occasions in the field, he could put it out at use for his honour in safe hands and at great profit at this time. at this proposal fergus laughed heartily, and answered, when he had recovered his breath--'many thanks, bailie; but you must know, it is a general custom among us soldiers to make our landlady our banker. here, mrs. flockhart,' said he, taking four or five broad pieces out of a well-filled purse and tossing the purse itself, with its remaining contents, into her apron, 'these will serve my occasions; do you take the rest. be my banker if i live, and my executor if i die; but take care to give something to the highland cailliachs [footnote: old women, on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead, which the irish call keening.] that shall cry the coronach loudest for the last vich lan vohr.' 'it is the testamentum militare,' quoth the baron, 'whilk, amang the romans, was privilegiate to be nuncupative.' but the soft heart of mrs. flockhart was melted within her at the chieftain's speech; she set up a lamentable blubbering, and positively refused to touch the bequest, which fergus was therefore obliged to resume. 'well, then,' said the chief, 'if i fall, it will go to the grenadier that knocks my brains out, and i shall take care he works hard for it.' bailie macwheeble was again tempted to put in his oar; for where cash was concerned he did not willingly remain silent. 'perhaps he had better carry the gowd to miss mac-ivor, in case of mortality or accidents of war. it might tak the form of a mortis causa donation in the young leddie's favour, and--wad cost but the scrape of a pen to mak it out.' 'the young lady,' said fergus,'should such an event happen, will have other matters to think of than these wretched louis-d'or.' 'true--undeniable--there's nae doubt o' that; but your honour kens that a full sorrow--' 'is endurable by most folk more easily than a hungry one? true, bailie, very true; and i believe there may even be some who would be consoled by such a reflection for the loss of the whole existing generation. but there is a sorrow which knows neither hunger nor thirst; and poor flora--' he paused, and the whole company sympathised in his emotion. the baron's thoughts naturally reverted to the unprotected state of his daughter, and the big tear came to the veteran's eye. 'if i fall, macwheeble, you have all my papers and know all my affairs; be just to rose.' the bailie was a man of earthly mould, after all; a good deal of dirt and dross about him, undoubtedly, but some kindly and just feelings he had, especially where the baron or his young mistress were concerned. he set up a lamentable howl. 'if that doleful day should come, while duncan macwheeble had a boddle it should be miss rose's. he wald scroll for a plack the sheet or she kenn'd what it was to want; if indeed a' the bonnie baronie o' bradwardine and tully-veolan, with the fortalice and manor-place thereof (he kept sobbing and whining at every pause), tofts, crofts, mosses, muirs--outfield, infield--buildings--orchards--dove-cots--with the right of net and coble in the water and loch of veolan--teinds, parsonage and vicarage--annexis, connexis--rights of pasturage--feul, feal and divot--parts, pendicles, and pertinents whatsoever--(here he had recourse to the end of his long cravat to wipe his eyes, which overflowed, in spite of him, at the ideas which this technical jargon conjured up)--all as more fully described in the proper evidents and titles thereof--and lying within the parish of bradwardine and the shire of perth--if, as aforesaid, they must a' pass from my master's child to inch-grabbit, wha's a whig and a hanoverian, and be managed by his doer, jamie howie, wha's no fit to be a birlieman, let be a bailie--' the beginning of this lamentation really had something affecting, but the conclusion rendered laughter irresistible. 'never mind, bailie,' said ensign maccombich, 'for the gude auld times of rugging and riving (pulling and tearing) are come back again, an' sneckus mac-snackus (meaning, probably, annexis, connexis), and a' the rest of your friends, maun gie place to the langest claymore.' 'and that claymore shall be ours, bailie,' said the chieftain, who saw that macwheeble looked very blank at this intimation. 'we'll give them the metal our mountain affords, lillibulero, bullen a la, and in place of broad-pieces, we'll pay with broadswords, lero, lero, etc. with duns and with debts we will soon clear our score, lillibulero, etc. for the man that's thus paid will crave payment no more, lero, lero, etc. [footnote: these lines, or something like them, occur in an old magazine of the period.] but come, bailie, be not cast down; drink your wine with a joyous heart; the baron shall return safe and victorious to tully-veolan, and unite killancureit's lairdship with his own, since the cowardly half-bred swine will not turn out for the prince like a gentleman.' 'to be sure, they lie maist ewest,' said the bailie, wiping his eyes, 'and should naturally fa' under the same factory.' 'and i,' proceeded the chieftain,'shall take care of myself, too; for you must know, i have to complete a good work here, by bringing mrs. flockhart into the bosom of the catholic church, or at least half way, and that is to your episcopal meeting-house. o baron! if you heard her fine counter-tenor admonishing kate and matty in the morning, you, who understand music, would tremble at the idea of hearing her shriek in the psalmody of haddo's hole.' 'lord forgie you, colonel, how ye rin on! but i hope your honours will tak tea before ye gang to the palace, and i maun gang and mask it for you.' so saying, mrs. flockhart left the gentlemen to their own conversation, which, as might be supposed, turned chiefly upon the approaching events of the campaign. chapter xliii the ball ensign maccombich having gone to the highland camp upon duty, and bailie macwheeble having retired to digest his dinner and evan dhu's intimation of martial law in some blind change-house, waverley, with the baron and the chieftain, proceeded to holyrood house. the two last were in full tide of spirits, and the baron rallied in his way our hero upon the handsome figure which his new dress displayed to advantage. 'if you have any design upon the heart of a bonny scotch lassie, i would premonish you, when you address her, to remember and quote the words of virgilius:-- nunc insanus amor duri me martis in armis, tela inter media atque adversos detinet hostes; whilk verses robertson of struan, chief of the clan donnochy (unless the claims of lude ought to be preferred primo loco), has thus elegantly rendered:-- for cruel love had gartan'd low my leg, and clad my hurdies in a philabeg. although, indeed, ye wear the trews, a garment whilk i approve maist of the twa, as mair ancient and seemly.' 'or rather,' said fergus, 'hear my song:-- she wadna hae a lowland laird, nor be an english lady; but she's away with duncan grame, and he's row'd her in his plaidy.' by this time they reached the palace of holyrood, and were announced respectively as they entered the apartments. it is but too well known how many gentlemen of rank, education, and fortune took a concern in the ill-fated and desperate undertaking of . the ladies, also, of scotland very generally espoused the cause of the gallant and handsome young prince, who threw himself upon the mercy of his countrymen rather like a hero of romance than a calculating politician. it is not, therefore, to be wondered that edward, who had spent the greater part of his life in the solemn seclusion of waverley-honour, should have been dazzled at the liveliness and elegance of the scene now exhibited in the long deserted halls of the scottish palace. the accompaniments, indeed, fell short of splendour, being such as the confusion and hurry of the time admitted; still, however, the general effect was striking, and, the rank of the company considered, might well be called brilliant. it was not long before the lover's eye discovered the object of his attachment. flora mac-ivor was in the act of returning to her seat, near the top of the room, with rose bradwardine by her side. among much elegance and beauty, they had attracted a great degree of the public attention, being certainly two of the handsomest women present. the prince took much notice of both, particularly of flora, with whom he danced, a preference which she probably owed to her foreign education and command of the french and italian languages. when the bustle attending the conclusion of the dance permitted, edward almost intuitively followed fergus to the place where miss mac-ivor was seated. the sensation of hope with which he had nursed his affection in absence of the beloved object seemed to vanish in her presence, and, like one striving to recover the particulars of a forgotten dream, he would have given the world at that moment to have recollected the grounds on which he had founded expectations which now seemed so delusive. he accompanied fergus with downcast eyes, tingling ears, and the feelings of the criminal who, while the melancholy cart moves slowly through the crowds that have assembled to behold his execution, receives no clear sensation either from the noise which fills his ears or the tumult on which he casts his wandering look. flora seemed a little--a very little--affected and discomposed at his approach. 'i bring you an adopted son of ivor,' said fergus. 'and i receive him as a second brother,' replied flora. there was a slight emphasis on the word, which would have escaped every ear but one that was feverish with apprehension. it was, however, distinctly marked, and, combined with her whole tone and manner, plainly intimated, 'i will never think of mr. waverley as a more intimate connexion.' edward stopped, bowed, and looked at fergus, who bit his lip, a movement of anger which proved that he also had put a sinister interpretation on the reception which his sister had given his friend. 'this, then, is an end of my day-dream!' such was waverley's first thought, and it was so exquisitely painful as to banish from his cheek every drop of blood. 'good god!' said rose bradwardine, 'he is not yet recovered!' these words, which she uttered with great emotion, were overheard by the chevalier himself, who stepped hastily forward, and, taking waverley by the hand, inquired kindly after his health, and added that he wished to speak with him. by a strong and sudden effort; which the circumstances rendered indispensable, waverley recovered himself so far as to follow the chevalier in silence to a recess in the apartment. here the prince detained him some time, asking various questions about the great tory and catholic families of england, their connexions, their influence, and the state of their affections towards the house of stuart. to these queries edward could not at any time have given more than general answers, and it may be supposed that, in the present state of his feelings, his responses were indistinct even to confusion. the chevalier smiled once or twice at the incongruity of his replies, but continued the same style of conversation, although he found himself obliged to occupy the principal share of it, until he perceived that waverley had recovered his presence of mind. it is probable that this long audience was partly meant to further the idea which the prince desired should be entertained among his followers, that waverley was a character of political influence. but it appeared, from his concluding expressions, that he had a different and good-natured motive, personal to our hero, for prolonging the conference. 'i cannot resist the temptation,' he said, 'of boasting of my own discretion as a lady's confidant. you see, mr. waverley, that i know all, and i assure you i am deeply interested in the affair. but, my good young friend, you must put a more severe restraint upon your feelings. there are many here whose eyes can see as clearly as mine, but the prudence of whose tongues may not be equally trusted,' so saying, he turned easily away and joined a circle of officers at a few paces' distance, leaving waverley to meditate upon his parting expression, which, though not intelligible to him in its whole purport, was sufficiently so in the caution which the last word recommended. making, therefore, an effort to show himself worthy of the interest which his new master had expressed, by instant obedience to his recommendation, he walked up to the spot where flora and miss bradwardine were still seated, and having made his compliments to the latter, he succeeded, even beyond his own expectation, in entering into conversation upon general topics. if, my dear reader, thou hast ever happened to take post-horses at ---- or at ----(one at least of which blanks, or more probably both, you will be able to fill up from an inn near your own residence), you must have observed, and doubtless with sympathetic pain, the reluctant agony with which the poor jades at first apply their galled necks to the collars of the harness. but when the irresistible arguments of the post-boy have prevailed upon them to proceed a mile or two, they will become callous to the first sensation; and being warm in the harness, as the said post-boy may term it, proceed as if their withers were altogether unwrung. this simile so much corresponds with the state of waverley's feelings in the course of this memorable evening, that i prefer it (especially as being, i trust, wholly original) to any more splendid illustration with which byshe's 'art of poetry' might supply me. exertion, like virtue, is its own reward; and our hero had, moreover, other stimulating motives for persevering in a display of affected composure and indifference to flora's obvious unkindness. pride, which supplies its caustic as an useful, though severe, remedy for the wounds of affection, came rapidly to his aid. distinguished by the favour of a prince; destined, he had room to hope, to play a conspicuous part in the revolution which awaited a mighty kingdom; excelling, probably, in mental acquirements, and equalling at least in personal accomplishments, most of the noble and distinguished persons with whom he was now ranked; young, wealthy, and high-born,--could he, or ought he, to droop beneath the frown of a capricious beauty? o nymph, unrelenting and cold as thou art, my bosom is proud as thine own. with the feeling expressed in these beautiful lines (which, however, were not then written), [footnote: they occur in miss seward's fine verses, beginning--'to thy rocks, stormy lannow, adieu.'] waverley determined upon convincing flora that he was not to be depressed by a rejection in which his vanity whispered that perhaps she did her own prospects as much injustice as his. and, to aid this change of feeling, there lurked the secret and unacknowledged hope that she might learn to prize his affection more highly, when she did not conceive it to be altogether within her own choice to attract or repulse it. there was a mystic tone of encouragement, also, in the chevalier's words, though he feared they only referred to the wishes of fergus in favour of an union between him and his sister. but the whole circumstances of time, place, and incident combined at once to awaken his imagination and to call upon him for a manly and decisive tone of conduct, leaving to fate to dispose of the issue. should he appear to be the only one sad and disheartened on the eve of battle, how greedily would the tale be commented upon by the slander which had been already but too busy with his fame! never, never, he internally resolved, shall my unprovoked enemies possess such an advantage over my reputation. under the influence of these mixed sensations, and cheered at times by a smile of intelligence and approbation from the prince as he passed the group, waverley exerted his powers of fancy, animation, and eloquence, and attracted the general admiration of the company. the conversation gradually assumed the tone best qualified for the display of his talents and acquisitions. the gaiety of the evening was exalted in character, rather than checked, by the approaching dangers of the morrow. all nerves were strung for the future, and prepared to enjoy the present. this mood of mind is highly favourable for the exercise of the powers of imagination, for poetry, and for that eloquence which is allied to poetry. waverley, as we have elsewhere observed, possessed at times a wonderful flow of rhetoric; and on the present occasion, he touched more than once the higher notes of feeling, and then again ran off in a wild voluntary of fanciful mirth. he was supported and excited by kindred spirits, who felt the same impulse of mood and time; and even those of more cold and calculating habits were hurried along by the torrent. many ladies declined the dance, which still went forward, and under various pretences joined the party to which the 'handsome young englishman' seemed to have attached himself. he was presented to several of the first rank, and his manners, which for the present were altogether free from the bashful restraint by which, in a moment of less excitation, they were usually clouded, gave universal delight. flora mac-ivor appeared to be the only female present who regarded him with a degree of coldness and reserve; yet even she could not suppress a sort of wonder at talents which, in the course of their acquaintance, she had never seen displayed with equal brilliancy and impressive effect. i do not know whether she might not feel a momentary regret at having taken so decisive a resolution upon the addresses of a lover who seemed fitted so well to fill a high place in the highest stations of society. certainly she had hitherto accounted among the incurable deficiencies of edward's disposition the mauvaise honte which, as she had been educated in the first foreign circles, and was little acquainted with the shyness of english manners, was in her opinion too nearly related to timidity and imbecility of disposition. but if a passing wish occurred that waverley could have rendered himself uniformly thus amiable and attractive, its influence was momentary; for circumstances had arisen since they met which rendered in her eyes the resolution she had formed respecting him final and irrevocable. with opposite feelings rose bradwardine bent her whole soul to listen. she felt a secret triumph at the public tribute paid to one whose merit she had learned to prize too early and too fondly. without a thought of jealousy, without a feeling of fear, pain, or doubt, and undisturbed by a single selfish consideration, she resigned herself to the pleasure of observing the general murmur of applause. when waverley spoke, her ear was exclusively filled with his voice, when others answered, her eye took its turn of observation, and seemed to watch his reply. perhaps the delight which she experienced in the course of that evening, though transient, and followed by much sorrow, was in its nature the most pure and disinterested which the human mind is capable of enjoying. 'baron,' said the chevalier, 'i would not trust my mistress in the company of your young friend. he is really, though perhaps somewhat romantic, one of the most fascinating young men whom i have ever seen.' 'and by my honour, sir,' replied the baron,'the lad can sometimes be as dowff as a sexagenary like myself. if your royal highness had seen him dreaming and dozing about the banks of tully-veolan like an hypochondriac person, or, as burton's "anatomia" hath it, a phrenesiac or lethargic patient, you would wonder where he hath sae suddenly acquired all this fine sprack festivity and jocularity.' 'truly,' said fergus mac-ivor, 'i think it can only be the inspiration of the tartans; for, though waverley be always a young fellow of sense and honour, i have hitherto often found him a very absent and inattentive companion.' 'we are the more obliged to him,' said the prince, 'for having reserved for this evening qualities which even such intimate friends had not discovered. but come, gentlemen, the night advances, and the business of tomorrow must be early thought upon. each take charge of his fair partner, and honour a small refreshment with your company.' he led the way to another suite of apartments, and assumed the seat and canopy at the head of a long range of tables with an air of dignity, mingled with courtesy, which well became his high birth and lofty pretensions. an hour had hardly flown away when the musicians played the signal for parting so well known in scotland. [footnote: which is, or was wont to be, the old air of 'good-night and joy be wi' you a'.] 'good-night, then,' said the chevalier, rising; 'goodnight, and joy be with you! good-night, fair ladies, who have so highly honoured a proscribed and banished prince! good-night, my brave friends; may the happiness we have this evening experienced be an omen of our return to these our paternal halls, speedily and in triumph, and of many and many future meetings of mirth and pleasure in the palace of holyrood!' when the baron of bradwardine afterwards mentioned this adieu of the chevalier, he never failed to repeat, in a melancholy tone, 'audiit, et voti phoebus succedere partem mente dedit; partem volucres dispersit in auras; which,' as he added, 'is weel rendered into english metre by my friend bangour:-- ae half the prayer wi' phoebus grace did find, the t'other half he whistled down the wind.' chapter xliv the march the conflicting passions and exhausted feelings of waverley had resigned him to late but sound repose. he was dreaming of glennaquoich, and had transferred to the halls of lan nan chaistel the festal train which so lately graced those of holyrood. the pibroch too was distinctly heard; and this at least was no delusion, for the 'proud step of the chief piper' of the 'chlain macivor' was perambulating the court before the door of his chieftain's quarters, and as mrs. flockhart, apparently no friend to his minstrelsy, was pleased to observe, 'garring the very stane-and-lime wa's dingle wi' his screeching.' of course it soon became too powerful for waverley's dream, with which it had at first rather harmonised. the sound of callum's brogues in his apartment (for mac-ivor had again assigned waverley to his care) was the next note of parting. 'winna yer honour bang up? vich lan vohr and ta prince are awa to the lang green glen ahint the clachan, tat they ca' the king's park, [footnote: the main body of the highland army encamped, or rather bivouacked, in that part of the king's park which lies towards the village of duddingston.] and mony ane's on his ain shanks the day that will be carried on ither folk's ere night.' waverley sprung up, and, with callum's assistance and instructions, adjusted his tartans in proper costume. callum told him also,' tat his leather dorlach wi' the lock on her was come frae doune, and she was awa again in the wain wi' vich ian vohr's walise.' by this periphrasis waverley readily apprehended his portmanteau was intended. he thought upon the mysterious packet of the maid of the cavern, which seemed always to escape him when within his very grasp. but this was no time for indulgence of curiosity; and having declined mrs. flockhart's compliment of a morning, i.e. a matutinal dram, being probably the only man in the chevalier's army by whom such a courtesy would have been rejected, he made his adieus and departed with callum. 'callum,' said he, as they proceeded down a dirty close to gain the southern skirts of the canongate, 'what shall i do for a horse?' 'ta deil ane ye maun think o',' said callum. 'vich ian vohr's marching on foot at the head o' his kin (not to say ta prince, wha does the like), wi' his target on his shoulder; and ye maun e'en be neighbour-like.' 'and so i will, callum, give me my target; so, there we are fixed. how does it look?' 'like the bra' highlander tat's painted on the board afore the mickle change-house they ca' luckie middlemass's,' answered callum; meaning, i must observe, a high compliment, for in his opinion luckie middlemass's sign was an exquisite specimen of art. waverley, however, not feeling the full force of this polite simile, asked him no further questions. upon extricating themselves from the mean and dirty suburbs of the metropolis, and emerging into the open air, waverley felt a renewal of both health and spirits, and turned his recollection with firmness upon the events of the preceding evening, and with hope and resolution towards those of the approaching day. when he had surmounted a small craggy eminence called st. leonard's hill, the king's park, or the hollow between the mountain of arthur's seat and the rising grounds on which the southern part of edinburgh is now built, lay beneath him, and displayed a singular and animating prospect. it was occupied by the army of the highlanders, now in the act of preparing for their march. waverley had already seen something of the kind at the hunting-match which he attended with fergus macivor; but this was on a scale of much greater magnitude, and incomparably deeper interest. the rocks, which formed the background of the scene, and the very sky itself, rang with the clang of the bagpipers, summoning forth, each with his appropriate pibroch, his chieftain and clan. the mountaineers, rousing themselves from their couch under the canopy of heaven with the hum and bustle of a confused and irregular multitude, like bees alarmed and arming in their hives, seemed to possess all the pliability of movement fitted to execute military manoeuvres. their motions appeared spontaneous and confused, but the result was order and regularity; so that a general must have praised the conclusion, though a martinet might have ridiculed the method by which it was attained. the sort of complicated medley created by the hasty arrangements of the various clans under their respective banners, for the purpose of getting into the order of march, was in itself a gay and lively spectacle. they had no tents to striket having generally, and by choice, slept upon the open field, although the autumn was now waning and the nights began to be frosty. for a little space, while they were getting into order, there was exhibited a changing, fluctuating, and confused appearance of waving tartans and floating plumes, and of banners displaying the proud gathering word of clanronald, ganion coheriga (gainsay who dares), loch-sloy, the watchword of the macfarlanes; forth, fortune, and fill the fetters, the motto of the marquis of tullibardine; bydand, that of lord lewis gordon, and the appropriate signal words and emblems of many other chieftains and clans. at length the mixed and wavering multitude arranged themselves into a narrow and dusky column of great length, stretching through the whole extent of the valley. in the front of the column the standard of the chevalier was displayed, bearing a red cross upon a white ground, with the motto tandem triumphans. the few cavalry, being chiefly lowland gentry, with their domestic servants and retainers, formed the advanced guard of the army; and their standards, of which they had rather too many in respect of their numbers, were seen waving upon the extreme verge of the horizon. many horsemen of this body, among whom waverley accidentally remarked balmawhapple and his lieutenant, jinker (which last, however, had been reduced, with several others, by the advice of the baron of bradwardine, to the situation of what he called reformed officers, or reformadoes), added to the liveliness, though by no means to the regularity, of the scene, by galloping their horses as fast forward as the press would permit, to join their proper station in the van. the fascinations of the circes of the high street, and the potations of strength with which they had been drenched over night, had probably detained these heroes within the walls of edinburgh somewhat later than was consistent with their morning duty. of such loiterers, the prudent took the longer and circuitous, but more open, route to attain their place in the march, by keeping at some distance from the infantry, and making their way through the inclosures to the right, at the expense of leaping over or pulling down the drystone fences. the irregular appearance and vanishing of these small parties of horsemen, as well as the confusion occasioned by those who endeavoured, though generally without effect, to press to the front through the crowd of highlanders, maugre their curses, oaths, and opposition, added to the picturesque wildness what it took from the military regularity of the scene. while waverley gazed upon this remarkable spectacle, rendered yet more impressive by the occasional discharge of cannon-shot from the castle at the highland guards as they were withdrawn from its vicinity to join their main body, callum, with his usual freedom of interference, reminded him that vich lan vohr's folk were nearly at the head of the column of march which was still distant, and that 'they would gang very fast after the cannon fired.' thus admonished, waverley walked briskly forward, yet often casting a glance upon the darksome clouds of warriors who were collected before and beneath him. a nearer view, indeed, rather diminished the effect impressed on the mind by the more distant appearance of the army. the leading men of each clan were well armed with broad-sword, target, and fusee, to which all added the dirk, and most the steel pistol. but these consisted of gentlemen, that is, relations of the chief, however distant, and who had an immediate title to his countenance and protection. finer and hardier men could not have been selected out of any army in christendom; while the free and independent habits which each possessed, and which each was yet so well taught to subject to the command of his chief, and the peculiar mode of discipline adopted in highland warfare, rendered them equally formidable by their individual courage and high spirit, and from their rational conviction of the necessity of acting in unison, and of giving their national mode of attack the fullest opportunity of success. but, in a lower rank to these, there were found individuals of an inferior description, the common peasantry of the highland country, who, although they did not allow themselves to be so called, and claimed often, with apparent truth, to be of more ancient descent than the masters whom they served, bore, nevertheless, the livery of extreme penury, being indifferently accoutred, and worse armed, half naked, stinted in growth, and miserable in aspect. each important clan had some of those helots attached to them: thus, the maccouls, though tracing their descent from comhal, the father of finn or fingal, were a sort of gibeonites, or hereditary servants to the stewarts of appin; the macbeths, descended from the unhappy monarch of that name, were subjects to the morays and clan donnochy, or robertsons of athole; and many other examples might be given, were it not for the risk of hurting any pride of clanship which may yet be left, and thereby drawing a highland tempest into the shop of my publisher. now these same helots, though forced into the field by the arbitrary authority of the chieftains under whom they hewed wood and drew water, were in general very sparingly fed, ill dressed, and worse armed. the latter circumstance was indeed owing chiefly to the general disarming act, which had been carried into effect ostensibly through the whole highlands, although most of the chieftains contrived to elude its influence by retaining the weapons of their own immediate clansmen, and delivering up those of less value, which they collected from these inferior satellites. it followed, as a matter of course, that, as we have already hinted, many of these poor fellows were brought to the field in a very wretched condition. from this it happened that, in bodies, the van of which were admirably well armed in their own fashion, the rear resembled actual banditti. here was a pole-axe, there a sword without a scabbard; here a gun without a lock, there a scythe set straight upon a pole; and some had only their dirks, and bludgeons or stakes pulled out of hedges. the grim, uncombed, and wild appearance of these men, most of whom gazed with all the admiration of ignorance upon the most ordinary productions of domestic art, created surprise in the lowlands, but it also created terror. so little was the condition of the highlands known at that late period that the character and appearance of their population, while thus sallying forth as military adventurers, conveyed to the south-country lowlanders as much surprise as if an invasion of african negroes or esquimaux indians had issued forth from the northern mountains of their own native country. it cannot therefore be wondered if waverley, who had hitherto judged of the highlanders generally from the samples which the policy of fergus had from time to time exhibited, should have felt damped and astonished at the daring attempt of a body not then exceeding four thousand men, and of whom not above half the number, at the utmost, were armed, to change the fate and alter the dynasty of the british kingdoms. as he moved along the column, which still remained stationary, an iron gun, the only piece of artillery possessed by the army which meditated so important a revolution, was fired as the signal of march. the chevalier had expressed a wish to leave this useless piece of ordnance behind him; but, to his surprise, the highland chiefs interposed to solicit that it might accompany their march, pleading the prejudices of their followers, who, little accustomed to artillery, attached a degree of absurd importance to this field-piece, and expected it would contribute essentially to a victory which they could only owe to their own muskets and broadswords. two or three french artillerymen were therefore appointed to the management of this military engine, which was drawn along by a string of highland ponies, and was, after all, only used for the purpose of firing signals. [footnote: see note .] no sooner was its voice heard upon the present occasion than the whole line was in motion. a wild cry of joy from the advancing batallions rent the air, and was then lost in the shrill clangour of the bagpipes, as the sound of these, in their turn, was partially drowned by the heavy tread of so many men put at once into motion. the banners glittered and shook as they moved forward, and the horse hastened to occupy their station as the advanced guard, and to push on reconnoitring parties to ascertain and report the motions of the enemy. they vanished from waverley's eye as they wheeled round the base of arthur's seat, under the remarkable ridge of basaltic rocks which fronts the little lake of duddingston. the infantry followed in the same direction, regulating their pace by another body which occupied a road more to the southward. it cost edward some exertion of activity to attain the place which fergus's followers occupied in the line of march. chapter xlv an incident gives rise to unavailing reflections when waverley reached that part of the column which was filled by the clan of mac-ivor, they halted, formed, and received him with a triumphant flourish upon the bagpipes and a loud shout of the men, most of whom knew him personally, and were delighted to see him in the dress of their country and of their sept. 'you shout,' said a highlander of a neighbouring clan to evan dhu, 'as if the chieftain were just come to your head.' '_mar e bran is e a brathair_, if it be not bran, it is bran's brother,' was the proverbial reply of maccombich. [footnote: bran, the well-known dog of fingal. is often the theme of highland proverb as well as song.] 'o, then, it is the handsome sassenach duinhe-wassel that is to be married to lady flora?' 'that may be, or it may not be; and it is neither your matter nor mine, gregor.' fergus advanced to embrace the volunteer, and afford him a warm and hearty welcome; but he thought it necessary to apologize for the diminished numbers of his battalion (which did not exceed three hundred men) by observing he had sent a good many out upon parties. the real fact, however, was, that the defection of donald bean lean had deprived him of at least thirty hardy fellows, whose services he had fully reckoned upon, and that many of his occasional adherents had been recalled by their several chiefs to the standards to which they most properly owed their allegiance. the rival chief of the great northern branch, also, of his own clan had mustered his people, although he had not yet declared either for the government or for the chevalier, and by his intrigues had in some degree diminished the force with which fergus took the field. to make amends for these disappointments, it was universally admitted that the followers of vich ian vohr, in point of appearance, equipment, arms, and dexterity in using them, equalled the most choice troops which followed the standard of charles edward. old ballenkeiroch acted as his major; and, with the other officers who had known waverley when at glennaquoich, gave our hero a cordial reception, as the sharer of their future dangers and expected honours. the route pursued by the highland army, after leaving the village of duddingston, was for some time the common post-road betwixt edinburgh and haddington, until they crossed the esk at musselburgh, when, instead of keeping the low grounds towards the sea, they turned more inland, and occupied the brow of the eminence called carberry hill, a place already distinguished in scottish history as the spot where the lovely mary surrendered herself to her insurgent subjects. this direction was chosen because the chevalier had received notice that the army of the government, arriving by sea from aberdeen, had landed at dunbar, and quartered the night before to the west of haddington, with the intention of falling down towards the sea-side, and approaching edinburgh by the lower coast-road. by keeping the height, which overhung that road in many places, it was hoped the highlanders might find an opportunity of attacking them to advantage. the army therefore halted upon the ridge of carberry hill, both to refresh the soldiers and as a central situation from which their march could be directed to any point that the motions of the enemy might render most advisable. while they remained in this position a messenger arrived in haste to desire mac-ivor to come to the prince, adding that their advanced post had had a skirmish with some of the enemy's cavalry, and that the baron of bradwardine had sent in a few prisoners. waverley walked forward out of the line to satisfy his curiosity, and soon observed five or six of the troopers who, covered with dust, had galloped in to announce that the enemy were in full march westward along the coast. passing still a little farther on, he was struck with a groan which issued from a hovel. he approached the spot, and heard a voice, in the provincial english of his native county, which endeavoured, though frequently interrupted by pain, to repeat the lord's prayer. the voice of distress always found a ready answer in our hero's bosom. he entered the hovel, which seemed to be intended for what is called, in the pastoral counties of scotland, a smearing-house; and in its obscurity edward could only at first discern a sort of red bundle; for those who had stripped the wounded man of his arms and part of his clothes had left him the dragoon-cloak in which he was enveloped. 'for the love of god,' said the wounded man, as he heard waverley's step, 'give me a single drop of water!' 'you shall have it,' answered waverley, at the same time raising him in his arms, bearing him to the door of the hut, and giving him some drink from his flask. 'i should know that voice,' said the man; but looking on waverley's dress with a bewildered look--'no, this is not the young squire!' this was the common phrase by which edward was distinguished on the estate of waverley-honour, and the sound now thrilled to his heart with the thousand recollections which the well-known accents of his native country had already contributed to awaken. 'houghton!' he said, gazing on the ghastly features which death was fast disfiguring, 'can this be you?' 'i never thought to hear an english voice again,' said the wounded man;'they left me to live or die here as i could, when they found i would say nothing about the strength of the regiment. but, o squire! how could you stay from us so long, and let us be tempted by that fiend of the pit, rufinn? we should have followed you through flood and fire, to be sure.' 'rufin! i assure you, houghton, you have been vilely imposed upon.' 'i often thought so,' said houghton,'though they showed us your very seal; and so tims was shot and i was reduced to the ranks.' 'do not exhaust your strength in speaking,' said edward; 'i will get you a surgeon presently.' he saw mac-ivor approaching, who was now returning from headquarters, where he had attended a council of war, and hastened to meet him. 'brave news!'shouted the chief; 'we shall be at it in less than two hours. the prince has put himself at the head of the advance, and, as he drew his sword, called out, "my friends, i have thrown away the scabbard." come, waverley, we move instantly.' 'a moment--a moment; this poor prisoner is dying; where shall i find a surgeon?' 'why, where should you? we have none, you know, but two or three french fellows, who, i believe, are little better than _garqons apothecaires_.' 'but the man will bleed to death.' 'poor fellow!' said fergus, in a momentary fit of compassion; then instantly added, 'but it will be a thousand men's fate before night; so come along.' 'i cannot; i tell you he is a son of a tenant of my uncle's.' 'o, if he's a follower of yours he must be looked to; i'll send callum to you; but _diaoul! ceade millia mottigheart_,' continued the impatient chieftain, 'what made an old soldier like bradwardine send dying men here to cumber us?' callum came with his usual alertness; and, indeed, waverley rather gained than lost in the opinion of the highlanders by his anxiety about the wounded man. they would not have understood the general philanthropy which rendered it almost impossible for waverley to have passed any person in such distress; but, as apprehending that the sufferer was one of his _following_ they unanimously allowed that waverley's conduct was thatof akind and considerate chieftain, who merited the attachment of his people. in about a quarter of an hour poor humphrey breathed his last, praying his young master, when he returned to waverley-honour, to be kind to old job houghton and his dame, and conjuring him not to fight with these wild petticoat-men against old england. when his last breath was drawn, waverley, who had beheld with sincere sorrow, and no slight tinge of remorse, the final agonies of mortality, now witnessed for the first time, commanded callum to remove the body into the hut. this the young highlander performed, not without examining the pockets of the defunct, which, however, he remarked had been pretty well spunged. he took the cloak, however, and proceeding with the provident caution of a spaniel hiding a bone, concealed it among some furze and carefully marked the spot, observing that, if he chanced to return that way, it would be an excellent rokelay for his auld mother elspat. it was by a considerable exertion that they regained their place in the marching column, which was now moving rapidly forward to occupy the high grounds above the village of tranent, between which and the sea lay the purposed march of the opposite army. this melancholy interview with his late sergeant forced many unavailing and painful reflections upon waverley's mind. it was clear from the confession of the man that colonel gardiner's proceedings had been strictly warranted, and even rendered indispensable, by the steps taken in edward's name to induce the soldiers of his troop to mutiny. the circumstance of the seal he now, for the first time, recollected, and that he had lost it in the cavern of the robber, bean lean. that the artful villain had secured it, and used it as the means of carrying on an intrigue in the regiment for his own purposes, was sufficiently evident; and edward had now little doubt that in the packet placed in his portmanteau by his daughter he should find farther light upon his proceedings. in the meanwhile the repeated expostulation of houghton--'ah, squire, why did you leave us?' rung like a knell in his ears. 'yes,' he said, 'i have indeed acted towards you with thoughtless cruelty. i brought you from your paternal fields, and the protection of a generous and kind landlord, and when i had subjected you to all the rigour of military discipline, i shunned to bear my own share of the burden, and wandered from the duties i had undertaken, leaving alike those whom it was my business to protect, and my own reputation, to suffer under the artifices of villainy. o, indolence and indecision of mind, if not in yourselves vices--to how much exquisite misery and mischief do you frequently prepare the way!' chapter xlvi the eve of battle although the highlanders marched on very fast, the sun was declining when they arrived upon the brow of those high grounds which command an open and extensive plain stretching northward to the sea, on which are situated, but at a considerable distance from each other, the small villages of seaton and cockenzie, and the larger one of preston. one of the low coastroads to edinburgh passed through this plain, issuing upon it from the enclosures of seaton house, and at the town or village of preston again entering the denies of an enclosed country. by this way the english general had chosen to approach the metropolis, both as most commodious for his cavalry, and being probably of opinion that by doing so he would meet in front with the highlanders advancing from edinburgh in the opposite direction. in this he was mistaken; for the sound judgment of the chevalier, or of those to whose advice he listened, left the direct passage free, but occupied the strong ground by which it was overlooked and commanded. when the highlanders reached the heights above the plain described, they were immediately formed in array of battle along the brow of the hill. almost at the same instant the van of the english appeared issuing from among the trees and enclosures of seaton, with the purpose of occupying the level plain between the high ground and the sea; the space which divided the armies being only about half a mile in breadth. waverley could plainly see the squadrons of dragoons issue, one after another, from the defiles, with their videttes in front, and form upon the plain, with their front opposed to that of the prince's army. they were followed by a train of field-pieces, which, when they reached the flank of the dragoons, were also brought into line and pointed against the heights. the march was continued by three or four regiments of infantry marching in open column, their fixed bayonets showing like successive hedges of steel, and their arms glancing like lightning, as, at a signal given, they also at once wheeled up, and were placed in direct opposition to the highlanders. a second train of artillery, with another regiment of horse, closed the long march, and formed on the left flank of the infantry, the whole line facing southward. while the english army went through these evolutions, the highlanders showed equal promptitude and zeal for battle. as fast as the clans came upon the ridge which fronted their enemy, they were formed into line, so that both armies got into complete order of battle at the same moment. when this was accomplished, the highlanders set up a tremendous yell, which was re-echoed by the heights behind them. the regulars, who were in high spirits, returned a loud shout of defiance, and fired one or two of their cannon upon an advanced post of the highlanders. the latter displayed great earnestness to proceed instantly to the attack, evan dhu urging to fergus, by way of argument, that 'the sidier roy was tottering like an egg upon a staff, and that they had a' the vantage of the onset, for even a haggis (god bless her!) could charge down hill.' but the ground through which the mountaineers must have descended, although not of great extent, was impracticable in its character, being not only marshy but intersected with walls of dry stone, and traversed in its whole length by a very broad and deep ditch, circumstances which must have given the musketry of the regulars dreadful advantages before the mountaineers could have used their swords, on which they were taught to rely. the authority of the commanders was therefore interposed to curb the impetuosity of the highlanders, and only a few marksmen were sent down the descent to skirmish with the enemy's advanced posts and to reconnoitre the ground. here, then, was a military spectacle of no ordinary interest or usual occurrence. the two armies, so different in aspect and discipline, yet each admirably trained in its own peculiar mode of war, upon whose conflict the temporary fate at least of scotland appeared to depend, now faced each other like two gladiators in the arena, each meditating upon the mode of attacking their enemy. the leading officers and the general's staff of each army could be distinguished in front of their lines, busied with spy-glasses to watch each other's motions, and occupied in despatching the orders and receiving the intelligence conveyed by the aides-de-camp and orderly men, who gave life to the scene by galloping along in different directions, as if the fate of the day depended upon the speed of their horses. the space between the armies was at times occupied by the partial and irregular contest of individual sharp-shooters, and a hat or bonnet was occasionally seen to fall, as a wounded man was borne off by his comrades. these, however, were but trifling skirmishes, for it suited the views of neither party to advance in that direction. from the neighbouring hamlets the peasantry cautiously showed themselves, as if watching the issue of the expected engagement; and at no great distance in the bay were two square-rigged vessels, bearing the english flag, whose tops and yards were crowded with less timid spectators. when this awful pause had lasted for a short time, fergus, with another chieftain, received orders to detach their clans towards the village of preston, in order to threaten the right flank of cope's army and compel him to a change of position. to enable him to execute these orders, the chief of glennaquoich occupied the church-yard of tranent, a commanding situation, and a convenient place, as evan dhu remarked, 'for any gentleman who might have the misfortune to be killed, and chanced to be curious about christian burial.' to check or dislodge this party, the english general detached two guns, escorted by a strong party of cavalry. they approached so near that waverley could plainly recognise the standard of the troop he had formerly commanded, and hear the trumpets and kettle-drums sound the signal of advance which he had so often obeyed. he could hear, too, the well-known word given in the english dialect by the equally well-distinguished voice of the commanding officer, for whom he had once felt so much respect. it was at that instant, that, looking around him, he saw the wild dress and appearance of his highland associates, heard their whispers in an uncouth and unknown language, looked upon his own dress, so unlike that which he had worn from his infancy, and wished to awake from what seemed at the moment a dream, strange, horrible, and unnatural. 'good god!' he muttered, 'am i then a traitor to my country, a renegade to my standard, and a foe, as that poor dying wretch expressed himself, to my native england!' ere he could digest or smother the recollection, the tall military form of his late commander came full in view, for the purpose of reconnoitring. 'i can hit him now,' said callum, cautiously raising his fusee over the wall under which he lay couched, at scarce sixty yards' distance. edward felt as if he was about to see a parricide committed in his presence; for the venerable grey hair and striking countenance of the veteran recalled the almost paternal respect with which his officers universally regarded him. but ere he could say 'hold!' an aged highlander who lay beside callum beg stopped his arm. 'spare your shot,' said the seer, 'his hour is not yet come. but let him beware of to-morrow; i see his winding-sheet high upon his breast.' callum, flint to other considerations, was penetrable to superstition. he turned pale at the words of the _taishatr_, and recovered his piece. colonel gardiner, unconscious of the danger he had escaped, turned his horse round and rode slowly back to the front of his regiment. by this time the regular army had assumed a new line, with one flank inclined towards the sea and the other resting upon the village of preston; and, as similar difficulties occurred in attacking their new position, fergus and the rest of the detachment were recalled to their former post. this alteration created the necessity of a corresponding change in general cope's army, which was again brought into a line parallel with that of the highlanders. in these manoeuvres on both sides the daylight was nearly consumed, and both armies prepared to rest upon their arms for the night in the lines which they respectively occupied. 'there will be nothing done to-night,' said fergus to his friend waverley; 'ere we wrap ourselves in our plaids, let us go see what the baron is doing in the rear of the line.' when they approached his post, they found the good old careful officer, after having sent out his night patrols and posted his sentinels, engaged in reading the evening service of the episcopal church to the remainder of his troop. his voice was loud and sonorous, and though his spectacles upon his nose, and the appearance of saunders saunderson, in military array, performing the functions of clerk, had something ludicrous, yet the circumstances of danger in which they stood, the military costume of the audience, and the appearance of their horses saddled and picqueted behind them, gave an impressive and solemn effect to the office of devotion. 'i have confessed to-day, ere you were awake,' whispered fergus to waverley; 'yet i am not so strict a catholic as to refuse to join in this good man's prayers.' edward assented, and they remained till the baron had concluded the service. as he shut the book, 'now, lads,' said he, 'have at them in the morning with heavy hands and light consciences.' he then kindly greeted mac-ivor and waverley, who requested to know his opinion of their situation. why, you know tacitus saith, "in rebus bellicis maxime dominalur fortuna," which is equiponderate with our vernacular adage, "luck can maist in the mellee." but credit me, gentlemen, yon man is not a deacon o' his craft. he damps the spirits of the poor lads he commands by keeping them on the defensive, whilk of itself implies inferiority or fear. now will they lie on their arms yonder as anxious and as ill at ease as a toad under a harrow, while our men will be quite fresh and blithe for action in the morning. well, good-night. one thing troubles me, but if to-morrow goes well off, i will consult you about it, glennaquoich.' 'i could almost apply to mr. bradwardine the character which henry gives of fluellen,' said waverley, as his friend and he walked towards their bivouac: 'though it appears a little out of fashion, there is much care and valour in this "scotchman."' 'he has seen much service,' answered fergus, 'and one is sometimes astonished to find how much nonsense and reason are mingled in his composition. i wonder what can be troubling his mind; probably something about rose. hark! the english are setting their watch.' the roll of the drum and shrill accompaniment of the fifes swelled up the hill--died away--resumed its thunder--and was at length hushed. the trumpets and kettle-drums of the cavalry were next heard to perform the beautiful and wild point of war appropriated as a signal for that piece of nocturnal duty, and then finally sunk upon the wind with a shrill and mournful cadence. the friends, who had now reached their post, stood and looked round them ere they lay down to rest. the western sky twinkled with stars, but a frost-mist, rising from the ocean, covered the eastern horizon, and rolled in white wreaths along the plain where the adverse army lay couched upon their arms. their advanced posts were pushed as far as the side of the great ditch at the bottom of the descent, and had kindled large fires at different intervals, gleaming with obscure and hazy lustre through the heavy fog which encircled them with a doubtful halo. the highlanders,'thick as leaves in vallombrosa,' lay stretched upon the ridge of the hill, buried (excepting their sentinels) in the most profound repose. 'how many of these brave fellows will sleep more soundly before to-morrow night, fergus!' said waverley, with an involuntary sigh. 'you must notthink of that,' answered fergus, whose ideas were entirely military. 'you must only think of your sword, and by whom it was given. all other reflections are now too late.' with the opiate contained in this undeniable remark edward endeavoured to lull the tumult of his conflicting feelings. the chieftain and he, combining their plaids, made a comfortable and warm couch. callum, sitting down at their head (for it was his duty to watch upon the immediate person of the chief), began a long mournful song in gaelic, to a low and uniform tune, which, like the sound of the wind at a distance, soon lulled them to sleep. chapter xlvii the conflict when fergus mac-ivor and his friend had slept for a few hours, they were awakened and summoned to attend the prince. the distant village clock was heard to toll three as they hastened to the place where he lay. he was already surrounded by his principal officers and the chiefs of clans. a bundle of pease-straw, which had been lately his couch, now served for his seat. just as fergus reached the circle, the consultation had broken up. 'courage, my brave friends!' said the chevalier, 'and each one put himself instantly at the head of his command; a faithful friend [footnote: see note .] has offered to guide us by a practicable, though narrow and circuitous, route, which, sweeping to our right, traverses the broken ground and morass, and enables us to gain the firm and open plain upon which the enemy are lying. this difficulty surmounted, heaven and your good swords must do the rest.' the proposal spread unanimous joy, and each leader hastened to get his men into order with as little noise as possible. the army, moving by its right from off the ground on which they had rested, soon entered the path through the morass, conducting their march with astonishing silence and great rapidity. the mist had not risen to the higher grounds, so that for some time they had the advantage of star-light. but this was lost as the stars faded before approaching day, and the head of the marching column, continuing its descent, plunged as it were into the heavy ocean of fog, which rolled its white waves over the whole plain, and over the sea by which it was bounded. some difficulties were now to be encountered, inseparable from darkness, a narrow, broken, and marshy path, and the necessity of preserving union in the march. these, however, were less inconvenient to highlanders, from their habits of life, than they would have been to any other troops, and they continued a steady and swift movement. as the clan of ivor approached the firm ground, following the track of those who preceded them, the challenge of a patrol was heard through the mist, though they could not see the dragoon by whom it was made--'who goes there?' 'hush!' cried fergus, 'hush! let none answer, as he values his life; press forward'; and they continued their march with silence and rapidity. the patrol fired his carabine upon the body, and the report was instantly followed by the clang of his horse's feet as he galloped off. 'hylax in limine latrat,' said the baron of bradwardine, who heard the shot;'that loon will give the alarm.' the clan of fergus had now gained the firm plain, which had lately borne a large crop of corn. but the harvest was gathered in, and the expanse was unbroken by tree, bush, or interruption of any kind. the rest of the army were following fast, when they heard the drums of the enemy beat the general. surprise, however, had made no part of their plan, so they were not disconcerted by this intimation that the foe was upon his guard and prepared to receive them. it only hastened their dispositions for the combat, which were very simple. the highland army, which now occupied the eastern end of the wide plain, or stubble field, so often referred to, was drawn up in two lines, extending from the morass towards the sea. the first was destined to charge the enemy, the second to act as a reserve. the few horse, whom the prince headed in person, remained between the two lines. the adventurer had intimated a resolution to charge in person at the head of his first line; but his purpose was deprecated by all around him, and he was with difficulty induced to abandon it. both lines were now moving forward, the first prepared for instant combat. the clans of which it was composed formed each a sort of separate phalanx, narrow in front, and in depth ten, twelve, or fifteen files, according to the strength of the following. the best-armed and best-born, for the words were synonymous, were placed in front of each of these irregular subdivisions. the others in the rear shouldered forward the front, and by their pressure added both physical impulse and additional ardour and confidence to those who were first to encounter the danger. 'down with your plaid, waverley,' cried fergus, throwing off his own; 'we'll win silks for our tartans before the sun is above the sea.' the clansmen on every side stript their plaids, prepared their arms, and there was an awful pause of about three minutes, during which the men, pulling off their bonnets, raised their faces to heaven and uttered a short prayer; then pulled their bonnets over their brows and began to move forward, at first slowly. waverley felt his heart at that moment throb as it would have burst from his bosom. it was not fear, it was not ardour: it was a compound of both, a new and deeply energetic impulse that with its first emotion chilled and astounded, then fevered and maddened his mind. the sounds around him combined to exalt his enthusiasm; the pipes played, and the clans rushed forward, each in its own dark column. as they advanced they mended their pace, and the muttering sounds of the men to each other began to swell into a wild cry. at this moment the sun, which was now risen above the horizon, dispelled the mist. the vapours rose like a curtain, and showed the two armies in the act of closing. the line of the regulars was formed directly fronting the attack of the highlanders; it glittered with the appointments of a complete army, and was flanked by cavalry and artillery. but the sight impressed no terror on the assailants. 'forward, sons of ivor,' cried their chief, 'or the camerons will draw the first blood!' they rushed on with a tremendous yell. the rest is well known. the horse, who were commanded to charge the advancing highlanders in the flank, received an irregular fire from their fusees as they ran on and, seized with a disgraceful panic, wavered, halted, disbanded, and galloped from the field. the artillery men, deserted by the cavalry, fled after discharging their pieces, and the highlanders, who dropped their guns when fired and drew their broadswords, rushed with headlong fury against the infantry. it was at this moment of confusion and terror that waverley remarked an english officer, apparently of high rank, standing, alone and unsupported, by a fieldpiece, which, after the flight of the men by whom it was wrought, he had himself levelled and discharged against the clan of mac-ivor, the nearest group of highlanders within his aim. struck with his tall, martial figure, and eager to save him from inevitable destruction, waverley outstripped for an instant even the speediest of the warriors, and, reaching the spot first, called to him to surrender. the officer replied by a thrust with his sword, which waverley received in his target, and in turning it aside the englishman's weapon broke. at the same time the battle-axe of dugald mahony was in the act of descending upon the officer's head. waverley intercepted and prevented the blow, and the officer, perceiving further resistance unavailing, and struck with edward's generous anxiety for his safety, resigned the fragment of his sword, and was committed by waverley to dugald, with strict charge to use him well, and not to pillage his person, promising him, at the same time, full indemnification for the spoil. on edward's right the battle for a few minutes raged fierce and thick. the english infantry, trained in the wars in flanders, stood their ground with great courage. but their extended files were pierced and broken in many places by the close masses of the clans; and in the personal struggle which ensued the nature of the highlanders' weapons, and their extraordinary fierceness and activity, gave them a decided superiority over those who had been accustomed to trust much to their array and discipline, and felt that the one was broken and the other useless. waverley, as he cast his eyes towards this scene of smoke and slaughter, observed colonel gardiner, deserted by his own soldiers in spite of all his attempts to rally them, yet spurring his horse through the field to take the command of a small body of infantry, who, with their backs arranged against the wall of his own park (for his house was close by the field of battle), continued a desperate and unavailing resistance. waverley could perceive that he had already received many wounds, his clothes and saddle being marked with blood. to save this good and brave man became the instant object of his most anxious exertions. but he could only witness his fall. ere edward could make his way among the highlanders, who, furious and eager for spoil, now thronged upon each other, he saw his former commander brought from his horse by the blow of a scythe, and beheld him receive, while on the ground, more wounds than would have let out twenty lives. when waverley came up, however, perception had not entirely fled. the dying warrior seemed to recognize edward, for he fixed his eye upon him with an upbraiding, yet sorrowful, look, and appeared to struggle, for utterance. but he felt that death was dealing closely with him, and resigning his purpose, and folding his hands as if in devotion, he gave up his soul to his creator. the look with which he regarded waverley in his dying moments did not strike him so deeply at that crisis of hurry and confusion as when it recurred to his imagination at the distance of some time. [footnote: see note .] loud shouts of triumph now echoed over the whole field. the battle was fought and won, and the whole baggage, artillery, and military stores of the regular army remained in possession of the victors. never was a victory more complete. scarce any escaped from the battle, excepting the cavalry, who had left it at the very onset, and even these were broken into different parties and scattered all over the country. so far as our tale is concerned, we have only to relate the fate of balmawhapple, who, mounted on a horse as headstrong and stiff-necked as his rider, pursued the flight of the dragoons above four miles from the field of battle, when some dozen of the fugitives took heart of grace, turned round, and cleaving his skull with their broadswords, satisfied the world that the unfortunate gentleman had actually brains, the end of his life thus giving proof of a fact greatly doubted during its progress. his death was lamented by few. most of those who knew him agreed in the pithy observation of ensign maccombich, that there 'was mair tint (lost) at sheriff-muir.' his friend, lieutenant jinker, bent his eloquence only to exculpate his favourite mare from any share in contributing to the catastrophe. 'he had tauld the laird a thousand times,' he said,'that it was a burning shame to put a martingale upon the puir thing, when he would needs ride her wi' a curb of half a yard lang; and that he could na but bring himsell (not to say her) to some mischief, by flinging her down, or otherwise; whereas, if he had had a wee bit rinnin ring on the snaffle, she wad ha' rein'd as cannily as a cadger's pownie.' such was the elegy of the laird of balmawhapple. [footnote: see note .] chapter xlviii an unexpected embarrassment when the battle was over, and all things coming into order, the baron of bradwardine, returning from the duty of the day, and having disposed those under his command in their proper stations, sought the chieftain of glennaquoich and his friend edward waverley. he found the former busied in determining disputes among his clansmen about points of precedence and deeds of valour, besides sundry high and doubtful questions concerning plunder. the most important of the last respected the property of a gold watch, which had once belonged to some unfortunate english officer. the party against whom judgment was awarded consoled himself by observing, 'she (i.e. the watch, which he took for a living animal) died the very night vich lan vohr gave her to murdoch'; the machine, having, in fact, stopped for want of winding up. it was just when this important question was decided that the baron of bradwardine, with a careful and yet important expression of countenance, joined the two young men. he descended from his reeking charger, the care of which he recommended to one of his grooms. 'i seldom ban, sir,' said he to the man; 'but if you play any of your hound's-foot tricks, and leave puir berwick before he's sorted, to rin after spuilzie, deil be wi' me if i do not give your craig a thraw.' he then stroked with great complacency the animal which had borne him through the fatigues of the day, and having taken a tender leave of him--' weel, my good young friends, a glorious and decisive victory,' said he; 'but these loons of troopers fled ower soon. i should have liked to have shown you the true points of the pralium equestre, or equestrian combat, whilk their cowardice has postponed, and which i hold to be the pride and terror of warfare. weel--i have fought once more in this old quarrel, though i admit i could not be so far ben as you lads, being that it was my point of duty to keep together our handful of horse. and no cavalier ought in any wise to begrudge honour that befalls his companions, even though they are ordered upon thrice his danger, whilk, another time, by the blessing of god, may be his own case. but, glennaquoich, and you, mr. waverley, i pray ye to give me your best advice on a matter of mickle weight, and which deeply affects the honour of the house of bradwardine. i crave your pardon, ensign maccombich, and yours, inveraughlin, and yours, edderalshendrach, and yours, sir.' the last person he addressed was ballenkeiroch, who, remembering the death of his son, loured on him with a look of savage defiance. the baron, quick as lightning at taking umbrage, had already bent his brow when glennaquoich dragged his major from the spot, and remonstrated with him, in the authoritative tone of a chieftain, on the madness of reviving a quarrel in such a moment. 'the ground is cumbered with carcasses,' said the old mountaineer, turning sullenly away; 'one more would hardly have been kenn'dupon it; and if it wasna for yoursell, vich lan vohr, that one should be bradwardine's or mine.' the chief soothed while he hurried him away; and then returned to the baron. 'it is ballenkeiroch,' he said, in an under and confidential voice, 'father of the young man who fell eight years since in the unlucky affair at the mains.' 'ah!' said the baron, instantly relaxing the doubtful sternness of his features, 'i can take naickle frae a man to whom i have unhappily rendered sic a displeasure as that. ye were right to apprise me, glennaquoich; he may look as black as midnight at martinmas ere cosmo comyne bradwardine shall say he does him wrang. ah! i have nae male lineage, and i should bear with one i have made childless, though you are aware the blood-wit was made up to your ain satisfaction by assythment, and that i have since expedited letters of slains. weel, as i have said, i have no male issue, and yet it is needful that i maintain the honour of my house; and it is on that score i prayed ye for your peculiar and private attention.' the two young men awaited to hear him, in anxious curiosity. 'i doubt na, lads,' he proceeded, 'but your education has been sae seen to that ye understand the true nature of the feudal tenures?' fergus, afraid of an endless dissertation, answered, 'intimately, baron,' and touched waverley as a signal to express no ignorance. 'and ye are aware, i doubt not, that the holding of the barony of bradwardine is of a nature alike honourable and peculiar, being blanch (which craig opines ought to be latinated blancum, or rather francum, a free holding) pro sermtio detrahendi, seu exuendi, caligas regis post battalliam.' here fergus turned his falcon eye upon edward, with an almost imperceptible rise of his eyebrow, to which his shoulders corresponded in the same degree of elevation. 'now, twa points of dubitation occur to me upon this topic. first, whether this service, or feudal homage, be at any event due to the person of the prince, the words being, per expressum, caligas regis, the boots of the king himself; and i pray your opinion anent that particular before we proceed farther.' 'why, he is prince regent,' answered mac-ivor, with laudable composure of countenance; 'and in the court of france all the honours are rendered to the person of the regent which are due to that of the king. besides, were i to pull off either of their boots, i would render that service to the young chevalier ten times more willingly than to his father.' ' ay, but i talk not of personal predilections. however, your authority is of great weight as to the usages of the court of france; and doubtless the prince, as alter ego, may have a right to claim the homagium of the great tenants of the crown, since all faithful subjects are commanded, in the commission of regency, to respect him as the king's own person. far, therefore, be it from me to diminish the lustre of his authority by withholding this act of homage, so peculiarly calculated to give it splendour; for i question if the emperor of germany hath his boots taken off by a free baron of the empire. but here lieth the second difficulty--the prince wears no boots, but simply brogues and trews.' this last dilemma had almost disturbed fergus's gravity. 'why,' said he, 'you know, baron, the proverb tells us, "it's ill taking the breeks off a highlandman," and the boots are here in the same predicament.' 'the word caligce, however,' continued the baron, 'though i admit that, by family tradition, and even in our ancient evidents, it is explained "lie-boots," means, in its primitive sense, rather sandals; and caius caesar, the nephew and successor of caius tiberius, received the agnomen of caligula, a caligulis sine caligis levioribus, quibus adolescentior usus fuerat in exercitu germanici patris sui. and the caligce were also proper to the monastic bodies; for we read in an ancient glossarium upon the rule of saint benedict, in the abbey of saint amand, that caligae were tied with latchets.' 'that will apply to the brogues,' said fergus. 'it will so, my dear glennaquoich, and the words are express: caligae, dicta sunt quia ligantur; nam socci non ligantur, sed tantum intromittuntur; that is, caligae are denominated from the ligatures wherewith they are bound; whereas socci, which may be analogous to our mules, whilk the english denominate slippers, are only slipped upon the feet. the words of the charter are also alternative, exuere seu detrahere; that is, to undo, as in the case of sandals or brogues, and to pull of, as we say vernacularly concerning boots. yet i would we had more light; but i fear there is little chance of finding hereabout any erudite author de re vestiaria.' 'i should doubt it very much,' said the chieftain, looking around on the straggling highlanders, who were returning loaded with spoils of the slain,'though the res vestiaria itself seems to be in some request at present.' this remark coming within the baron's idea of jocularity, he honoured it with a smile, but immediately resumed what to him appeared very serious business. 'bailie macwheeble indeed holds an opinion that this honorary service is due, from its very nature, si petatur tantum; only if his royal highness shall require of the great tenant of the crown to perform that personal duty; and indeed he pointed out the case in dirleton's doubts and queries, grippit versus spicer, anent the eviction of an estate ob non solutum canonem; that is, for non-payment of a feu-duty of three pepper-corns a year, whilk were taxt to be worth seven-eighths of a penny scots, in whilk the defender was assoilzied. but i deem it safest, wi' your good favour, to place myself in the way of rendering the prince this service, and to proffer performance thereof; and i shall cause the bailie to attend with a schedule of a protest, whilk he has here prepared (taking out a paper), intimating, that if it shall be his royal highness's pleasure to accept of other assistance at pulling off his caligae (whether the same shall be rendered boots or brogues) save that of the said baron of bradwardine, who is in presence ready and willing to perform the same, it shall in no wise impinge upon or prejudice the right of the said cosmo comyne bradwardine to perform the said service in future; nor shall it give any esquire, valet of the chamber, squire, or page, whose assistance it may please his royal highness to employ, any right, title, or ground for evicting from the said cosmo comyne bradwardine the estate and barony of bradwardine, and others held as aforesaid, by the due and faithful performance thereof.' fergus highly applauded this arrangement; and the baron took a friendly leave of them, with a smile of contented importance upon his visage. 'long live our dear friend the baron,' exclaimed the chief, as soon as he was out of hearing, 'for the most absurd original that exists north of the tweed! i wish to heaven i had recommended him to attend the circle this evening with a boot-ketch under his arm. i think he might have adopted the suggestion if it had been made with suitable gravity.' 'and how can you take pleasure in making a man of his worth so ridiculous?' 'begging pardon, my dear waverley, you are as ridiculous as he. why, do you not see that the man's whole mind is wrapped up in this ceremony? he has heard and thought of it since infancy as the most august privilege and ceremony in the world; and i doubt not but the expected pleasure of performing it was a principal motive with him for taking up arms. depend upon it, had i endeavoured to divert him from exposing himself he would have treated me as an ignorant, conceited coxcomb, or perhaps might have taken a fancy to cut my throat; a pleasure which he once proposed to himself upon some point of etiquette not half so important, in his eyes, as this matter of boots or brogues, or whatever the caliga shall finally be pronounced by the learned. but i must go to headquarters, to prepare the prince for this extraordinary scene. my information will be well taken, for it will give him a hearty laugh at present, and put him on his guard against laughing when it might be very mal-a-propos. so, au revoir, my dear waverley.' chapter xlix the english prisoner the first occupation of waverley, after he departed from the chieftain, was to go in quest of the officer whose life he had saved. he was guarded, along with his companions in misfortune, who were very numerous, in a gentleman's house near the field of battle. on entering the room where they stood crowded together, waverley easily recognised the object of his visit, not only by the peculiar dignity of his appearance, but by the appendage of dugald mahony, with his battleaxe, who had stuck to him from the moment of his captivity as if he had been skewered to his side. this close attendance was perhaps for the purpose of securing his promised reward from edward, but it also operated to save the english gentleman from being plundered in the scene of general confusion; for dugald sagaciously argued that the amount of the salvage which he might be allowed would be regulated by the state of the prisoner when he should deliver him over to waverley. he hastened to assure waverley, therefore, with more words than he usually employed, that he had 'keepit ta sidier roy haill, and that he wasna a plack the waur since the fery moment when his honour forbad her to gie him a bit clamhewit wi' her lochaber-axe.' waverley assured dugald of a liberal recompense, and, approaching the english officer, expressed his anxiety to do anything which might contribute to his convenience under his present unpleasant circumstances. 'i am not so inexperienced a soldier, sir,' answered the englishman, 'as to complain of the fortune of war. i am only grieved to see those scenes acted in our own island which i have often witnessed elsewhere with comparative indifference.' 'another such day as this,' said waverley, 'and i trust the cause of your regrets will be removed, and all will again return to peace and order.' the officer smiled and shook his head. 'i must not forget my situation so far as to attempt a formal confutation of that opinion; but, notwithstanding your success and the valour which achieved it, you have undertaken a task to which your strength appears wholly inadequate.' at this moment fergus pushed into the press. 'come, edward, come along; the prince has gone to pinkie house for the night; and we must follow, or lose the whole ceremony of the caligae. your friend, the baron, has been guilty of a great piece of cruelty; he has insisted upon dragging bailie macwheeble out to the field of battle. now, you must know, the bailie's greatest horror is an armed highlander or a loaded gun; and there he stands, listening to the baron's instructions concerning the protest, ducking his head like a sea-gull at the report of every gun and pistol that our idle boys are firing upon the fields, and undergoing, by way of penance, at every symptom of flinching a severe rebuke from his patron, who would not admit the discharge of a whole battery of cannon, within point-blank distance, as an apology for neglecting a discourse in which the honour of his family is interested.' 'but how has mr. bradwardine got him to venture so far?' said edward. 'why, he had come as far as musselburgh, i fancy, in hopes of making some of our wills; and the peremptory commands of the baron dragged him forward to preston after the battle was over. he complains of one or two of our ragamuffins having put him in peril of his life by presenting their pieces at him; but as they limited his ransom to an english penny, i don't think we need trouble the provost-marshal upon that subject. so come along, waverley.' 'waverley!' said the english officer, with great emotion;' the nephew of sir everard waverley, of ----shire?' 'the same, sir,' replied our hero, somewhat surprised at the tone in which he was addressed. 'i am at once happy and grieved,' said the prisoner, 'to have met with you.' 'i am ignorant, sir,' answered waverley, 'how i have deserved so much interest.' 'did your uncle never mention a friend called talbot?' 'i have heard him talk with great regard of such a person,' replied edward; 'a colonel, i believe, in the army, and the husband of lady emily blandeville; but i thought colonel talbot had been abroad.' 'i am just returned,' answered the officer; 'and being in scotland, thought it my duty to act where my services promised to be useful. yes, mr. waverley, i am that colonel talbot, the husband of the lady you have named; and i am proud to acknowledge that i owe alike my professional rank and my domestic happiness to your generous and noble-minded relative. good god! that i should find his nephew in such a dress, and engaged in such a cause!' 'sir,' said fergus, haughtily, 'the dress and cause are those of men of birth and honour.' 'my situation forbids me to dispute your assertion,' said colonel talbot; 'otherwise it were no difficult matter to show that neither courage nor pride of lineage can gild a bad cause. but, with mr. waverley's permission and yours, sir, if yours also must be asked, i would willingly speak a few words with him on affairs connected with his own family.' 'mr. waverley, sir, regulates his own motions. you will follow me, i suppose, to pinkie,' said fergus, turning to edward, 'when you have finished your discourse with this new acquaintance?' so saying, the chief of glennaquoich adjusted his plaid with rather more than his usual air of haughty assumption and left the apartment. the interest of waverley readily procured for colonel talbot the freedom of adjourning to a large garden belonging to his place of confinement. they walked a few paces in silence, colonel talbot apparently studying how to open what he had to say; at length he addressed edward. 'mr. waverley, you have this day saved my life; and yet i would to god that i had lost it, ere i had found you wearing the uniform and cockade of these men.' 'i forgive your reproach, colonel talbot; it is well meant, and your education and prejudices render it natural. but there is nothing extraordinary in finding a man whose honour has been publicly and unjustly assailed in the situation which promised most fair to afford him satisfaction on his calumniators.' 'i should rather say, in the situation most likely to confirm the reports which they have circulated,' said colonel talbot, 'by following the very line of conduct ascribed to you. are you aware, mr. waverley, of the infinite distress, and even danger, which your present conduct has occasioned to your nearest relatives?' 'danger!' 'yes, sir, danger. when i left england your uncle and father had been obliged to find bail to answer a charge of treason, to which they were only admitted by the exertion of the most powerful interest. i came down to scotland with the sole purpose of rescuing you from the gulf into which you have precipitated yourself; nor can i estimate the consequences to your family of your having openly joined the rebellion, since the very suspicion of your intention was so perilous to them. most deeply do i regret that i did not meet you before this last and fatal error.' 'i am really ignorant,' said waverley, in a tone of reserve, 'why colonel talbot should have taken so much trouble on my account.' 'mr. waverley,' answered talbot, 'i am dull at apprehending irony; and therefore i shall answer your words according to their plain meaning. i am indebted to your uncle for benefits greater than those which a son owes to a father. i acknowledge to him the duty of a son; and as i know there is no manner in which i can requite his kindness so well as by serving you, i will serve you, if possible, whether you will permit me or no. the personal obligation which you have this day laid me under (although, in common estimation, as great as one human being can bestow on another) adds nothing to my zeal on your behalf; nor can that zeal be abated by any coolness with which you may please to receive it.' 'your intentions may be kind, sir,' said waverley, drily; 'but your language is harsh, or at least peremptory.' 'on my return to england,' continued colonel talbot, 'after long absence, i found your uncle, sir everard waverley, in the custody of a king's messenger, in consequence of the suspicion brought upon him by your conduct. he is my oldest friend--how often shall i repeat it?--my best benefactor! he sacrificed his own views of happiness to mine; he never uttered a word, he never harboured a thought, that benevolence itself might not have thought or spoken. i found this man in confinement, rendered harsher to him by his habits of life, his natural dignity of feeling, and--forgive me, mr. waverley--by the cause through which this calamity had come upon him. i cannot disguise from you my feelings upon this occasion; they were most painfully unfavorable to you. having by my family interest, which you probably know is not inconsiderable, succeeded in obtaining sir everard's release, i set out for scotland. i saw colonel gardiner, a man whose fate alone is sufficient to render this insurrection for ever execrable. in the course of conversation with him i found that, from late circumstances, from a reexamination of the persons engaged in the mutiny, and from his original good opinion of your character, he was much softened towards you; and i doubted not that, if i could be so fortunate as to discover you, all might yet be well. but this unnatural rebellion has ruined all. i have, for the first time in a long and active military life, seen britons disgrace themselves by a panic flight, and that before a foe without either arms or discipline. and now i find the heir of my dearest friend--the son, i may say, of his' affections--sharing a triumph for which he ought the first to have blushed. why should i lament gardiner? his lot was happy compared to mine!' there was so much dignity in colonel talbot's manner, such a mixture of military pride and manly sorrow, and the news of sir everard's imprisonment was told in so deep a tone of feeling, that edward stood mortified, abashed, and distressed in presence of the prisoner who owed to him his life not many hours before. he was not sorry when fergus interrupted their conference a second time. 'his royal highness commands mr. waverley's attendance.' colonel talbot threw upon edward a reproachful glance, which did not escape the quick eye of the highland chief. 'his immediate attendance,' he repeated, with considerable emphasis. waverley turned again towards the colonel. 'we shall meet again,' he said; 'in the meanwhile, every possible accommodation--' 'i desire none,' said the colonel; 'let me fare like the meanest of those brave men who, on this day of calamity, have preferred wounds and captivity to flight; i would almost exchange places with one of those who have fallen to know that my words have made a suitable impression on your mind.' 'let colonel talbot be carefully secured,' said fergus to the highland officer who commanded the guard over the prisoners; 'it is the prince's particular command; he is a prisoner of the utmost importance.' 'but let him want no accommodation suitable to his rank,' said waverley. 'consistent always with secure custody,' reiterated fergus. the officer signified his acquiescence in both commands, and edward followed fergus to the garden-gate, where callum beg, with three saddle-horses, awaited them. turning his head, he saw colonel talbot reconducted to his place of confinement by a file of highlanders; he lingered on the threshold of the door and made a signal with his hand towards waverley, as if enforcing the language he had held towards him. 'horses,' said fergus, as he mounted, 'are now as plenty as blackberries; every man may have them for the catching. come, let callum adjust your stirrups and let us to pinkie house [footnote: charles edward took up his quarters after the battle at pinkie house, adjoining to musselburgh.] as fast as these ci-devant dragoon-horses choose to carry us.' chapter l rather unimportant 'i was turned back,' said fergus to edward, as they galloped from preston to pinkie house, 'by a message from the prince. but i suppose you know the value of this most noble colonel talbot as a prisoner. he is held one of the best officers among the red-coats, a special friend and favourite of the elector himself, and of that dreadful hero, the duke of cumberland, who has been summoned from his triumphs at fontenoy to come over and devour us poor highlanders alive. has he been telling you how the bells of st. james's ring? not "turn again, whittington," like those of bow, in the days of yore?' 'fergus!' said waverley, with a reproachful look. 'nay, i cannot tell what to make of you,' answered the chief of mac-ivor, 'you are blown about with every wind of doctrine. here have we gained a victory unparalleled in history, and your behaviour is praised by every living mortal to the skies, and the prince is eager to thank you in person, and all our beauties of the white rose are pulling caps for you;--and you, the preux chevalier of the day, are stooping on your horse's neck like a butter-woman riding to market, and looking as black as a funeral!' 'i am sorry for poer colonel gardiner's death; he was once very kind to me.' 'why, then, be sorry for five minutes, and then be glad again; his chance to-day may be ours to-morrow; and what does it signify? the next best thing to victory is honourable death; but it is a pis-aller, and one would rather a foe had it than one's self.' 'but colonel talbot has informed me that my father and uncle are both imprisoned by government on my account.' 'we'll put in bail, my boy; old andrew ferrara [footnote: see note ] shall lodge his security; and i should like to see him put to justify it in westminster hall!' 'nay, they are already at liberty, upon bail of a more civic disposition.' 'then why is thy noble spirit cast down, edward? dost think that the elector's ministers are such doves as to set their enemies at liberty at this critical moment if they could or durst confine and punish them? assure thyself that either they have no charge against your relations on which they can continue their imprisonment, or else they are afraid of our friends, the jolly cavaliers of old england. at any rate, you need not be apprehensive upon their account; and we will find some means of conveying to them assurances of your safety.' edward was silenced but not satisfied with these reasons. he had now been more than once shocked at the small degree of sympathy which fergus exhibited for the feelings even of those whom he loved, if they did not correspond with his own mood at the time, and more especially if they thwarted him while earnest in a favourite pursuit. fergus sometimes indeed observed that he had offended waverley, but, always intent upon some favourite plan or project of his own, he was never sufficiently aware of the extent or duration of his displeasure, so that the reiteration of these petty offences somewhat cooled the volunteer's extreme attachment to his officer. the chevalier received waverley with his usual favour, and paid him many compliments on his distinguished bravery. he then took him apart, made many inquiries concerning colonel talbot, and when he had received all the information which edward was able to give concerning him and his connexions, he proceeded--'i cannot but think, mr. waverley, that since this gentleman is so particularly connected with our worthy and excellent friend, sir everard waverley, and since his lady is of the house of blandeville, whose devotion to the true and loyal principles of the church of england is so generally known, the colonel's own private sentiments cannot be unfavorable to us, whatever mask he may have assumed to accommodate himself to the times.' 'if i am to judge from the language he this day held to me, i am under the necessity of differing widely from your royal highness.' 'well, it is worth making a trial at least. i therefore entrust you with the charge of colonel talbot, with power to act concerning him as you think most advisable; and i hope you will find means of ascertaining what are his real dispositions towards our royal father's restoration.' 'i am convinced,' said waverley, bowing,'that if colonel talbot chooses to grant his parole, it may be securely depended upon; but if he refuses it, i trust your royal highness will devolve on some other person than the nephew of his friend the task of laying him under the necessary restraint.' 'i will trust him with no person but you,' said the prince, smiling, but peremptorily repeating his mandate; 'it is of importance to my service that there should appear to be a good intelligence between you, even if you are unable to gain his confidence in earnest. you will therefore receive him into your quarters, and in case he declines giving his parole, you must apply for a proper guard. i beg you will go about this directly. we return to edinburgh tomorrow.' being thus remanded to the vicinity of preston, waverley lost the baron of bradwardine's solemn act of homage. so little, however, was he at this time in love with vanity, that he had quite forgotten the ceremony in which fergus had laboured to engage his curiosity. but next day a formal 'gazette' was circulated, containing a detailed account of the battle of gladsmuir, as the highlanders chose to denominate their victory. it concluded with an account of the court afterwards held by the chevalier at pinkie house, which contained this among other high-flown descriptive paragraphs:-- 'since that fatal treaty which annihilates scotland as an independent nation, it has not been our happiness to see her princes receive, and her nobles discharge, those acts of feudal homage which, founded upon the splendid actions of scottish valour, recall the memory of her early history, with the manly and chivalrous simplicity of the ties which united to the crown the homage of the warriors by whom it was repeatedly upheld and defended. but on the evening of the th our memories were refreshed with one of those ceremonies which belong to the ancient days of scotland's glory. after the circle was formed, cosmo comyne bradwardine of that ilk, colonel in the service, etc., etc., etc., came before the prince, attended by mr. d. macwheeble, the bailie of his ancient barony of bradwardine (who, we understand, has been lately named a commissary), and, under form of instrument, claimed permission to perform to the person of his royal highness, as representing his father, the service used and wont, for which, under a charter of robert bruce (of which the original was produced and inspected by the masters of his royal highness's chancery for the time being), the claimant held the barony of bradwardine and lands of tully-veolan. his claim being admitted and registered, his royal highness having placed his foot upon a cushion, the baron of bradwardine, kneeling upon his right knee, proceeded to undo the latchet of the brogue, or low-heeled highland shoe, which our gallant young hero wears in compliment to his brave followers. when this was performed, his royal highness declared the ceremony completed; and, embracing the gallant veteran, protested that nothing but compliance with an ordinance of robert bruce could have induced him to receive even the symbolical performance of a menial office from hands which had fought so bravely to put the crown upon the head of his father. the baron of bradwardine then took instruments in the hands of mr. commissary macwheeble, bearing that all points and circumstances of the act of homage had been rite et solenniter acta et peracta; and a corresponding entry was made in the protocol of the lord high chamberlain and in the record of chancery. we understand that it is in contemplation of his royal highness, when his majesty's pleasure can be known, to raise colonel bradwardine to the peerage, by the title of viscount bradwardine of bradwardine and tully-veolan, and that, in the meanwhile, his royal highness, in his father's name and authority, has been pleased to grant him an honourable augmentation to his paternal coat of arms, being a budget or boot-jack, disposed saltier-wise with a naked broadsword, to be borne in the dexter cantle of the shield; and, as an additional motto, on a scroll beneath, the words, "draw and draw off."' 'were it not for the recollection of fergus's raillery,' thought waverley to himself, when he had perused this long and grave document,' how very tolerably would all this sound, and how little should i have thought of connecting it with any ludicrous idea! well, after all, everything has its fair as well as its seamy side; and truly i do not see why the baron's boot-jack may not stand as fair in heraldry as the water-buckets, waggons, cart-wheels, plough-socks, shuttles, candlesticks, and other ordinaries, conveying ideas of anything save chivalry, which appear in the arms of some of our most ancient gentry.' this, however, is an episode in respect to the principal story. when waverley returned to preston and rejoined colonel talbot, he found him recovered from the strong and obvious emotions with which a concurrence of unpleasing events had affected him. he had regained his natural manner, which was that of an english gentleman and soldier, manly, open and generous, but not unsusceptible of prejudice against those of a different country, or who opposed him in political tenets. when waverley acquainted colonel talbot with the chevalier's purpose to commit him to his charge, 'i did not think to have owed so much obligation to that young gentleman,' he said, 'as is implied in this destination. i can at least cheerfully join in the prayer of the honest presbyterian clergyman, that, as he has come among us seeking an earthly crown, his labours may be speedily rewarded with a heavenly one. [footnote: the clergyman's name was mac-vicar. protected by the cannon of the castle, he preached every sunday in the west kirk while the highlanders were in possession of edinburgh, and it was in presence of some of the jacobites that he prayed for prince charles edward in the terms quoted in the text.] i shall willingly give my parole not to attempt an escape without your knowledge, since, in fact, it was to meet you that i came to scotland; and i am glad it has happened even under this predicament. but i suppose we shall be but a short time together. your chevalier (that is a name we may both give to him), with his plaids and blue caps, will, i presume, be continuing his crusade southward?' 'not as i hear; i believe the army makes some stay in edinburgh to collect reinforcements.' 'and to besiege the castle?' said talbot, smiling sarcastically. 'well, unless my old commander, general preston, turn false metal, or the castle sink into the north loch, events which i deem equally probable, i think we shall have some time to make up our acquaintance. i have a guess that this gallant chevalier has a design that i should be your proselyte; and, as i wish you to be mine, there cannot be a more fair proposal than to afford us fair conference together. but, as i spoke today under the influence of feelings i rarely give way to, i hope you will excuse my entering again upon controversy till we are somewhat better acquainted.' chapter li intrigues of love and politics it is not necessary to record in these pages the triumphant entrance of the chevalier into edinburgh after the decisive affair at preston. one circumstance, however, may be noticed, because it illustrates the high spirit of flora mac-ivor. the highlanders by whom the prince was surrounded, in the license and extravagance of this joyful moment, fired their pieces repeatedly, and one of these having been accidentally loaded with ball, the bullet grazed the young lady's temple as she waved her handkerchief from a balcony. [footnote: see note ii.] fergus, who beheld the accident, was at her side in an instant; and, on seeing that the wound was trifling, he drew his broadsword with the purpose of rushing down upon the man by whose carelessness she had incurred so much danger, when, holding him by the plaid, 'do not harm the poor fellow,' she cried; 'for heaven's sake, do not harm him! but thank god with me that the accident happened to flora mac-ivor; for had it befallen a whig, they would have pretended that the shot was fired on purpose.' waverley escaped the alarm which this accident would have occasioned to him, as he was unavoidably delayed by the necessity of accompanying colonel talbot to edinburgh. they performed the journey together on horseback, and for some time, as if to sound each other's feelings and sentiments, they conversed upon general and ordinary topics. when waverley again entered upon the subject which he had most at heart, the situation, namely, of his father and his uncle, colonel talbot seemed now rather desirous to alleviate than to aggravate his anxiety. this appeared particularly to be the case when he heard waverley's history, which he did not scruple to confide to him. 'and so,' said the colonel,'there has been no malice prepense, as lawyers, i think, term it, in this rash step of yours; and you have been trepanned into the service of this italian knight-errant by a few civil speeches from him and one or two of his highland recruiting sergeants? it is sadly foolish, to be sure, but not nearly so bad as i was led to expect. however, you cannot desert, even from the pretender, at the present moment; that seems impossible. but i have little doubt that, in the dissensions incident to this heterogeneous mass of wild and desperate men, some opportunity may arise, by availing yourself of which you may extricate yourself honourably from your rash engagement before the bubble burst. if this can be managed, i would have you go to a place of safety in flanders which i shall point out. and i think i can secure your pardon from government after a few months' residence abroad.' 'i cannot permit you, colonel talbot,' answered waverley, 'to speak of any plan which turns on my deserting an enterprise in which i may have engaged hastily, but certainly voluntarily, and with the purpose of abiding the issue.' 'well,' said colonel talbot, smiling, 'leave me my thoughts and hopes at least at liberty, if not my speech. but have you never examined your mysterious packet?' 'it is in my baggage,' replied edward; 'we shall find it in edinburgh.' in edinburgh they soon arrived. waverley's quarters had been assigned to him, by the prince's express orders, in a handsome lodging, where there was accommodation for colonel talbot. his first business was to examine his portmanteau, and, after a very short search, out tumbled the expected packet. waverley opened it eagerly. under a blank cover, simply addressed to e. waverley, esq., he found a number of open letters. the uppermost were two from colonel gardiner addressed to himself. the earliest in date was a kind and gentle remonstrance for neglect of the writer's advice respecting the disposal of his time during his leave of absence, the renewal of which, he reminded captain waverley, would speedily expire. 'indeed,' the letter proceeded, 'had it been otherwise, the news from abroad and my instructions from the war office must have compelled me to recall it, as there is great danger, since the disaster in flanders, both of foreign invasion and insurrection among the disaffected at home. i therefore entreat you will repair as soon as possible to the headquarters of the regiment; and i am concerned to add that this is still the more necessary as there is some discontent in your troop, and i postpone inquiry into particulars until i can have the advantage of your assistance.' the second letter, dated eight days later, was in such a style as might have been expected from the colonel's receiving no answer to the first. it reminded waverley of his duty as a man of honour, an officer, and a briton; took notice of the increasing dissatisfaction of his men, and that some of them had been heard to hint that their captain encouraged and approved of their mutinous behaviour; and, finally, the writer expressed the utmost regret and surprise that he had not obeyed his commands by repairing to headquarters, reminded him that his leave of absence had been recalled, and conjured him, in a style in which paternal remonstrance was mingled with military authority, to redeem his error by immediately joining his regiment. 'that i may be certain,' concluded the letter, 'that this actually reaches you, i despatch it by corporal tims of your troop, with orders to deliver it into your own hand.' upon reading these letters waverley, with great bitterness of feeling, was compelled to make the amende honorable to the memory of the brave and excellent writer; for surely, as colonel gardiner must have had every reason to conclude they had come safely to hand, less could not follow, on their being neglected, than that third and final summons, which waverley actually received at glennaquoich, though too late to obey it. and his being superseded, in consequence of his apparent neglect of this last command, was so far from being a harsh or severe proceeding, that it was plainly inevitable. the next letter he unfolded was from the major of the regiment, acquainting him that a report to the disadvantage of his reputation was public in the country, stating, that one mr. falconer of ballihopple, or some such name, had proposed in his presence a treasonable toast, which he permitted to pass in silence, although it was so gross an affront to the royal family that a gentleman in company, not remarkable for his zeal for government, had never theless taken the matter up, and that, supposing the account true, captain waverley had thus suffered another, comparatively unconcerned, to resent an affront directed against him personally as an officer, and to go out with the person by whom it was offered. the major concluded that no one of captain waverley's brother officers could believe this scandalous story, but that it was necessarily their joint opinion that his own honour, equally with that of the regiment, depended upon its being instantly contradicted by his authority, etc. etc. etc. 'what do you think of all this?' said colonel talbot, to whom waverley handed the letters after he had perused them. 'think! it renders thought impossible. it is enough to drive me mad.' 'be calm, my young friend; let us see what are these dirty scrawls that follow.' the first was addressed,-- 'for master w. ruffin, these.'-- 'dear sur, sum of our yong gulpins will not bite, thof i tuold them you shoed me the squoire's own seel. but tims will deliver you the lettrs as desired, and tell ould addem he gave them to squoir's bond, as to be sure yours is the same, and shall be ready for signal, and hoy for hoy church and sachefrel, as fadur sings at harvestwhome. yours, deer sur, 'h. h. 'poscriff.--do'e tell squoire we longs to heer from him, and has dootings about his not writing himself, and lifetenant bottler is smoky.' 'this ruffin, i suppose, then, is your donald of the cavern, who has intercepted your letters, and carried on a correspondence with the poor devil houghton, as if under your authority?' 'it seems too true. but who can addem be?' 'possibly adam, for poor gardiner, a sort of pun on his name.' the other letters were to the same purpose; and they soon received yet more complete light upon donald bean's machinations. john hodges, one of waverley's servants, who had remained with the regiment and had been taken at preston, now made his appearance. he had sought out his master with the purpose of again entering his service. from this fellow they learned that some time after waverley had gone from the headquarters of the regiment, a pedlar, called ruthven, rufnn, or rivane, known among the soldiers by the name of wily will, had made frequent visits to the town of dundee. he appeared to possess plenty of money, sold his commodities very cheap, seemed always willing to treat his friends at the ale-house, and easily ingratiated himself with many of waverley's troop, particularly sergeant houghton and one tims, also a non-commissioned officer. to these he unfolded, in waverley's name, a plan for leaving the regiment and joining him in the highlands, where report said the clans had already taken arms in great numbers. the men, who had been educated as jacobites, so far as they had any opinion at all, and who knew their landlord, sir everard, had always been supposed to hold such tenets, easily fell into the snare. that waverley was at a distance in the highlands was received as a sufficient excuse for transmitting his letters through the medium of the pedlar; and the sight of his well-known seal seemed to authenticate the negotiations in his name, where writing might have been dangerous. the cabal, however, began to take air, from the premature mutinous language of those concerned. wily will justified his appellative; for, after suspicion arose, he was seen no more. when the 'gazette' appeared in which waverley was superseded, great part of his troop broke out into actual mutiny, but were surrounded and disarmed by the rest of the regiment in consequence of the sentence of a court-martial, houghton and tims were condemned to be shot, but afterwards permitted to cast lots for life. houghton, the survivor, showed much penitence, being convinced, from the rebukes and explanations of colonel gardiner, that he had really engaged in a very heinous crime. it is remarkable that, as soon as the poor fellow was satisfied of this, he became also convinced that the instigator had acted without authority from edward, saying, 'if it was dishonourable and against old england, the squire could know nought about it; he never did, or thought to do, anything dishonourable, no more didn't sir everard, nor none of them afore him, and in that belief he would live and die that ruffin had done it all of his own head.' the strength of conviction with which he expressed himself upon this subject, as well as his assurances that the letters intended for waverley had been delivered to ruthven, made that revolution in colonel gardiner's opinion which he expressed to talbot. the reader has long since understood that donald bean lean played the part of tempter on this occasion. his motives were shortly these. of an active and intriguing spirit, he had been long employed as a subaltern agent and spy by those in the confidence of the chevalier, to an extent beyond what was suspected even by fergus mac-ivor, whom, though obliged to him for protection, he regarded with fear and dislike. to success in this political department he naturally looked for raising himself by some bold stroke above his present hazardous and precarious trade of rapine. he was particularly employed in learning the strength of the regiments in scotland, the character of the officers, etc., and had long had his eye upon waverley's troop as open to temptation. donald even believed that waverley himself was at bottom in the stuart interest, which seemed confirmed by his long visit to the jacobite baron of bradwardine. when, therefore, he came to his cave with one of glennaquoich's attendants, the robber, who could never appreciate his real motive, which was mere curiosity, was so sanguine as to hope that his own talents were to be employed in some intrigue of consequence, under the auspices of this wealthy young englishman. nor was he undeceived by waverley's neglecting all hints and openings afforded for explanation. his conduct passed for prudent reserve, and somewhat piqued donald bean, who, supposing himself left out of a secret where confidence promised to be advantageous, determined to have his share in the drama, whether a regular part were assigned him or not. for this purpose during waverley's sleep he possessed himself of his seal, as a token to be used to any of the troopers whom he might discover to be possessed of the captain's confidence. his first journey to dundee, the town where the regiment was quartered, undeceived him in his original supposition, but opened to him a new field of action. he knew there would be no service so well rewarded by the friends of the chevalier as seducing a part of the regular army to his standard. for this purpose he opened the machinations with which the reader is already acquainted, and which form a clue to all the intricacies and obscurities of the narrative previous to waverley's leaving glennaquoich. by colonel talbot's advice, waverley declined detaining in his service the lad whose evidence had thrown additional light on these intrigues. he represented to him, that it would be doing the man an injury to engage him in a desperate undertaking, and that, whatever should happen, his evidence would go some length at least in explaining the circumstances under which waverley himself had embarked in it. waverley therefore wrote a short state of what had happened to his uncle and his father, cautioning them, however, in the present circumstances, not to attempt to answer his letter. talbot then gave the young man a letter to the commander of one of the english vessels of war cruising in the frith, requesting him to put the bearer ashore at berwick, with a pass to proceed to ----shire. he was then furnished with money to make an expeditious journey, and directed to get on board the ship by means of bribing a fishing-boat, which, as they afterwards learned, he easily effected. tired of the attendance of callum beg, who, he thought, had some disposition to act as a spy on his motions, waverley hired as a servant a simple edinburgh swain, who had mounted the white cockade in a fit of spleen and jealousy, because jenny jop had danced a whole night with corporal bullock of the fusileers. chapter lii intrigues of society and love colonel talbot became more kindly in his demeanour towards waverley after the confidence he had reposed in him, and, as they were necessarily much together, the character of the colonel rose in waverley's estimation. there seemed at first something harsh in his strong expressions of dislike and censure, although no one was in the general case more open to conviction. the habit of authority had also given his manners some peremptory hardness, notwithstanding the polish which they had received from his intimate acquaintance with the higher circles. as a specimen of the military character, he differed from all whom waverley had as yet seen. the soldiership of the baron of bradwardine was marked by pedantry; that of major melville by a sort of martinet attention to the minutiae and technicalities of discipline, rather suitable to one who was to manoeuvre a battalion than to him who was to command an army; the military spirit of fergus was so much warped and blended with his plans and political views, that it was less that of a soldier than of a petty sovereign. but colonel talbot was in every point the english soldier. his whole soul was devoted to the service of his king and country, without feeling any pride in knowing the theory of his art with the baron, or its practical minutiae with the major, or in applying his science to his own particular plans of ambition, like the chieftain of glennaquoich. added to this, he was a man of extended knowledge and cultivated taste, although strongly tinged, as we have already observed, with those prejudices which are peculiarly english. the character of colonel talbot dawned upon edward by degrees; for the delay of the highlanders in the fruitless siege of edinburgh castle occupied several weeks, during which waverley had little to do excepting to seek such amusement as society afforded. he would willingly have persuaded his new friend to become acquainted with some of his former intimates. but the colonel, after one or two visits, shook his head, and declined farther experiment. indeed he went farther, and characterised the baron as the most intolerable formal pedant he had ever had the misfortune to meet with, and the chief of glennaquoich as a frenchified scotchman, possessing all the cunning and plausibility of the nation where he was educated, with the proud, vindictive, and turbulent humour of that of his birth. 'if the devil,' he said, 'had sought out an agent expressly for the purpose of embroiling this miserable country, i do not think he could find a better than such a fellow as this, whose temper seems equally active, supple, and mischievous, and who is followed, and implicitly obeyed, by a gang of such cut-throats as those whom you are pleased to admire so much.' the ladies of the party did not escape his censure. he allowed that flora mac-ivor was a fine woman, and rose bradwardine a pretty girl. but he alleged that the former destroyed the effect of her beauty by an affectation of the grand airs which she had probably seen practised in the mock court of st. germains. as for rose bradwardine, he said it was impossible for any mortal to admire such a little uninformed thing, whose small portion of education was as ill adapted to her sex or youth as if she had appeared with one of her father's old campaign-coats upon her person for her sole garment. now much of this was mere spleen and prejudice in the excellent colonel, with whom the white cockade on the breast, the white rose in the hair, and the mac at the beginning of a name would have made a devil out of an angel; and indeed he himself jocularly allowed that he could not have endured venus herself if she had been announced in a drawing-room by the name of miss mac-jupiter. waverley, it may easily be believed, looked upon these young ladies with very different eyes. during the period of the siege he paid them almost daily visits, although he observed with regret that his suit made as little progress in the affections of the former as the arms of the chevalier in subduing the fortress. she maintained with rigour the rule she had laid down of treating him with indifference, without either affecting to avoid him or to shun intercourse with him. every word, every look, was strictly regulated to accord with her system, and neither the dejection of waverley nor the anger which fergus scarcely suppressed could extend flora's attention to edward beyond that which the most ordinary politeness demanded. on the other hand, rose bradwardine gradually rose in waverley's opinion. he had several opportunities of remarking that, as her extreme timidity wore off, her manners assumed a higher character; that the agitating circumstances of the stormy time seemed to call forth a certain dignity of feeling and expression which he had not formerly observed; and that she omitted no opportunity within her reach to extend her knowledge and refine her taste. flora mac-ivor called rose her pupil, and was attentive to assist her in her studies, and to fashion both her taste and understanding. it might have been remarked by a very close observer that in the presence of waverley she was much more desirous to exhibit her friend's excellences than her own. but i must request of the reader to suppose that this kind and disinterested purpose was concealed by the most cautious delicacy, studiously shunning the most distant approach to affectation. so that it was as unlike the usual exhibition of one pretty woman affecting to proner another as the friendship of david and jonathan might be to the intimacy of two bond street loungers. the fact is that, though the effect was felt, the cause could hardly be observed. each of the ladies, like two excellent actresses, were perfect in their parts, and performed them to the delight of the audience; and such being the case, it was almost impossible to discover that the elder constantly ceded to her friend that which was most suitable to her talents. but to waverley rose bradwardine possessed an attraction which few men can resist, from the marked interest which she took in everything that affected him. she was too young and too inexperienced to estimate the full force of the constant attention which she paid to him. her father was too abstractedly immersed in learned and military discussions to observe her partiality, and flora mac-ivor did not alarm her by remonstrance, because she saw in this line of conduct the most probable chance of her friend securing at length a return of affection. the truth is, that in her first conversation after their meeting rose had discovered the state of her mind to that acute and intelligent friend, although she was not herself aware of it. from that time flora was not only determined upon the final rejection of waverley's addresses, but became anxious that they should, if possible, be transferred to her friend. nor was she less interested in this plan, though her brother had from time to time talked, as between jest and earnest, of paying his suit to miss bradwardine. she knew that fergus had the true continental latitude of opinion respecting the institution of marriage, and would not have given his hand to an angel unless for the purpose of strengthening his alliances and increasing his influence and wealth. the baron's whim of transferring his estate to the distant heir-male, instead of his own daughter, was therefore likely to be an insurmountable obstacle to his entertaining any serious thoughts of rose bradwardine. indeed, fergus's brain was a perpetual workshop of scheme and intrigue, of every possible kind and description; while, like many a mechanic of more ingenuity than steadiness, he would often unexpectedly, and without any apparent motive, abandon one plan and go earnestly to work upon another, which was either fresh from the forge of his imagination or had at some former period been flung aside half finished. it was therefore often difficult to guess what line of conduct he might finally adopt upon any given occasion. although flora was sincerely attached to her brother, whose high energies might indeed have commanded her admiration even without the ties which bound them together, she was by no means blind to his faults, which she considered as dangerous to the hopes of any woman who should found her ideas of a happy marriage in the peaceful enjoyment of domestic society and the exchange of mutual and engrossing affection. the real disposition of waverley, on the other hand, notwithstanding his dreams of tented fields and military honour, seemed exclusively domestic. he asked and received no share in the busy scenes which were constantly going on around him, and was rather annoyed than interested by the discussion of contending claims, rights, and interests which often passed in his presence. all this pointed him out as the person formed to make happy a spirit like that of rose, which corresponded with his own. she remarked this point in waverley's character one day while she sat with miss bradwardine. 'his genius and elegant taste,' answered rose, 'cannot be interested in such trifling discussions. what is it to him, for example, whether the chief of the macindallaghers, who has brought out only fifty men, should be a colonel or a captain? and how could mr. waverley be supposed to interest himself in the violent altercation between your brother and young corrinaschian whether the post of honour is due to the eldest cadet of a clan or the youngest?' 'my dear rose, if he were the hero you suppose him he would interest himself in these matters, not indeed as important in themselves, but for the purpose of mediating between the ardent spirits who actually do make them the subject of discord. you saw when corrinaschian raised his voice in great passion, and laid his hand upon his sword, waverley lifted his head as if he had just awaked from a dream, and asked with great composure what the matter was.' 'well, and did not the laughter they fell into at his absence of mind serve better to break off the dispute than anything he could have said to them?' 'true, my dear,' answered flora; 'but not quite so creditably for waverley as if he had brought them to their senses by force of reason.' 'would you have him peacemaker general between all the gunpowder highlanders in the army? i beg your pardon, flora, your brother, you know, is out of the question; he has more sense than half of them. but can you think the fierce, hot, furious spirits of whose brawls we see much and hear more, and who terrify me out of my life every day in the world, are at all to be compared to waverley?' 'i do not compare him with those uneducated men, my dear rose. i only lament that, with his talents and genius, he does not assume that place in society for which they eminently fit him, and that he does not lend their full impulse to the noble cause in which he has enlisted. are there not lochiel, and p--, and m--, and g--, all men of the highest education as well as the first talents,--why will he not stoop like them to be alive and useful? i often believe his zeal is frozen by that proud cold-blooded englishman whom he now lives with so much.' 'colonel talbot? he is a very disagreeable person, to be sure. he looks as if he thought no scottish woman worth the trouble of handing her a cup of tea. but waverley is so gentle, so well informed--' 'yes,' said flora, smiling, 'he can admire the moon and quote a stanza from tasso.' 'besides, you know how he fought,' added miss bradwardine. 'for mere fighting,' answered flora,' i believe all men (that is, who deserve the name) are pretty much alike; there is generally more courage required to run away. they have besides, when confronted with each other, a certain instinct for strife, as we see in other male animals, such as dogs, bulls, and so forth. but high and perilous enterprise is not waverley's forte. he would never have been his celebrated ancestor sir nigel, but only sir nigel's eulogist and poet. i will tell you where he will be at home, my dear, and in his place--in the quiet circle of domestic happiness, lettered indolence, and elegant enjoyments of waverley-honour. and he will refit the old library in the most exquisite gothic taste, and garnish its shelves with the rarest and most valuable volumes; and he will draw plans and landscapes, and write verses, and rear temples, and dig grottoes; and he will stand in a clear summer night in the colonnade before the hall, and gaze on the deer as they stray in the moonlight, or lie shadowed by the boughs of the huge old fantastic oaks; and he will repeat verses to his beautiful wife, who will hang upon his arm;--and he will be a happy man.' and she will be a happy woman, thought poor rose. but she only sighed and dropped the conversation. chapter liii fergus a suitor waverley had, indeed, as he looked closer into the state of the chevalier's court, less reason to be satisfied with it. it contained, as they say an acorn includes all the ramifications of the future oak, as many seeds of tracasserie and intrigue as might have done honour to the court of a large empire. every person of consequence had some separate object, which he pursued with a fury that waverley considered as altogether disproportioned to its importance. almost all had their reasons for discontent, although the most legitimate was that of the worthy old baron, who was only distressed on account of the common cause. 'we shall hardly,' said he one morning to waverley when they had been viewing the castle--'we shall hardly gain the obsidional crown, which you wot well was made of the roots or grain which takes root within the place besieged, or it may be of the herb woodbind, parietaria, or pellitory; we shall not, i say, gain it by this same blockade or leaguer of edinburgh castle.' for this opinion he gave most learned and satisfactory reasons, that the reader may not care to hear repeated. having escaped from the old gentleman, waverley went to fergus's lodgings by appointment, to await his return from holyrood house. 'i am to have a particular audience to-morrow,' said fergus to waverley overnight, 'and you must meet me to wish me joy of the success which i securely anticipate.' the morrow came, and in the chief's apartment he found ensign maccombich waiting to make report of his turn of duty in a sort of ditch which they had dug across the castle-hill and called a trench. in a short time the chief's voice was heard on the stair in a tone of impatient fury: 'callum! why, callum beg! diaoul!' he entered the room with all the marks of a man agitated by a towering passion; and there were few upon whose features rage produced a more violent effect. the veins of his forehead swelled when he was in such agitation; his nostril became dilated; his cheek and eye inflamed; and hislook that of a demoniac. these appearances of half-suppressed rage were the more frightful because they were obviously caused by a strong effort to temper with discretion an almost ungovernable paroxysm of passion, and resulted from an internal conflict of the most dreadful kind, which agitated his whole frame of mortality. as he entered the apartment he unbuckled his broadsword, and throwing it down with such violence that the weapon rolled to the other end of the room, 'i know not what,' he exclaimed, 'withholds me from taking a solemn oath that i will never more draw it in his cause. load my pistols, callum, and bring them hither instantly--instantly!' callum, whom nothing ever startled, dismayed, or disconcerted, obeyed very coolly. evan dhu, upon whose brow the suspicion that his chief had been insulted called up a corresponding storm, swelled in sullen silence, awaiting to learn where or upon whom vengeance was to descend. 'so, waverley, you are there,' said the chief, after a moment's recollection. 'yes, i remember i asked you to share my triumph, and you have come to witness my disappointment we shall call it.' evan now presented the written report he had in his hand, which fergus threw from him with great passion. 'i wish to god,' he said, 'the old den would tumble down upon the heads of the fools who attack and the knaves who defend it! i see, waverley, you think i am mad. leave us, evan, but be within call.' 'the colonel's in an unco kippage,' said mrs. flockhart to evan as he descended; 'i wish he may be weel,--the very veins on his brent brow are swelled like whipcord; wad he no tak something?' 'he usually lets blood for these fits,' answered the highland ancient with great composure. when this officer left the room, the chieftain gradually reassumed some degree of composure. 'i know, waverley,' he said, 'that colonel talbot has persuaded you to curse ten times a day your engagement with us; nay, never deny it, for i am at this moment tempted to curse my own. would you believe it, i made this very morning two suits to the prince, and he has rejected them both; what do you think of it?' 'what can i think,' answered waverley,'till i know what your requests were?' 'why, what signifies what they were, man? i tell you it was i that made them--i to whom he owes more than to any three who have joined the standard; for i negotiated the whole business, and brought in all the perthshire men when not one would have stirred. i am not likely, i think, to ask anything very unreasonable, and if i did, they might have stretched a point. well, but you shall know all, now that i can draw my breath again with some freedom. you remember my earl's patent; it is dated some years back, for services then rendered; and certainly my merit has not been diminished, to say the least, by my subsequent behaviour. now, sir, i value this bauble of a coronet as little as you can, or any philosopher on earth; for i hold that the chief of such a clan as the sliochd nan ivor is superior in rank to any earl in scotland. but i had a particular reason for assuming this cursed title at this time. you must know that i learned accidentally that the prince has been pressing that old foolish baron of bradwardine to disinherit his male heir, or nineteenth or twentieth cousin, who has taken a command in the elector of hanover's militia, and to settle his estate upon your pretty little friend rose; and this, as being the command of his king and overlord, who may alter the destination of a fief at pleasure, the old gentleman seems well reconciled to.' 'and what becomes of the homage?' 'curse the homage! i believe rose is to pull off the queen's slipper on her coronation-day, or some such trash. well, sir, as rose bradwardine would always have made a suitable match for me but for this idiotical predilection of her father for the heir-male, it occurred to me there now remained no obstacle unless that the baron might expect his daughter's husband to take the name of bradwardine (which you know would be impossible in my case), and that this might be evaded by my assuming the title to which i had so good a right, and which, of course, would supersede that difficulty. if she was to be also viscountess bradwardine in her own right after her father's demise, so much the better; i could have no objection.' 'but, fergus,' said waverley, 'i had no idea that you had any affection for miss bradwardine, and you are always sneering at her father.' 'i have as much affection for miss bradwardine, my good friend, as i think it necessary to have for the future mistress of my family and the mother of my children. she is a very pretty, intelligent girl, and is certainly of one of the very first lowland families; and, with a little of flora's instructions and forming, will make a very good figure. as to her father, he is an original, it is true, and an absurd one enough; but he has given such severe lessons to sir hew halbert, that dear defunct the laird of balmawhapple, and others, that nobody dare laugh at him, so his absurdity goes for nothing. i tell you there could have been no earthly objection--none. i had settled the thing entirely in my own mind.' 'but had you asked the baron's consent,' said waverley, 'or rose's?' 'to what purpose? to have spoke to the baron before i had assumed my title would have only provoked a premature and irritating discussion on the subject of the change of name, when, as earl of glennaquoich, i had only to propose to him to carry his d--d bear and bootjack party per pale, or in a scutcheon of pretence, or in a separate shield perhaps--any way that would not blemish my own coat of arms. and as to rose, i don't see what objection she could have made if her father was satisfied.' 'perhaps the same that your sister makes to me, you being satisfied.' fergus gave a broad stare at the comparison which this supposition implied, but cautiously suppressed the answer which rose to his tongue. 'o, we should easily have arranged all that. so, sir, i craved a private interview, and this morning was assigned; and i asked you to meet me here, thinking, like a fool, that i should want your countenance as bride's-man. well, i state my pretension--they are not denied; the promises so repeatedly made and the patent granted--they are acknowledged. but i propose, as a natural consequence, to assume the rank which the patent bestowed. i have the old story of the jealousy of c---- and m---- trumped up against me. i resist this pretext, and offer to procure their written acquiescence, in virtue of the date of my patent as prior to their silly claims; i assure you i would have had such a consent from them, if it had been at the point of the sword. and then out comes the real truth; and he dares to tell me to my face that my patent must be suppressed for the present, for fear of disgusting that rascally coward and faineant (naming the rival chief of his own clan), who has no better title to be a chieftain than i to be emperor of china, and who is pleased to shelter his dastardly reluctance to come out, agreeable to his promise twenty times pledged, under a pretended jealousy of the prince's partiality to me. and, to leave this miserable driveller without a pretence for his cowardice, the prince asks it as a personal favour of me, forsooth, not to press my just and reasonable request at this moment. after this, put your faith in princes!' 'and did your audience end here?' 'end? o no! i was determined to leave him no pretence for his ingratitude, and i therefore stated, with all the composure i could muster,--for i promise you i trembled with passion,--the particular reasons i had for wishing that his royal highness would impose upon me any other mode of exhibiting my duty and devotion, as my views in life made what at any other time would have been a mere trifle at this crisis a severe sacrifice; and then i explained to him my full plan.' 'and what did the prince answer?' 'answer? why--it is well it is written, "curse not the king, no, not in thy thought!"--why, he answered that truly he was glad i had made him my confidant, to prevent more grievous disappointment, for he could assure me, upon the word of a prince, that miss bradwardine's affections were engaged, and he was under a particular promise to favour them. "so, my dear fergus," said he, with his most gracious cast of smile, "as the marriage is utterly out of question, there need be no hurry, you know, about the earldom." and so he glided off and left me plante la.' 'and what did you do?' 'i'll tell you what i could have done at that moment--sold myself to the devil or the elector, whichever offered the dearest revenge. however, i am now cool. i know he intends to marry her to some of his rascally frenchmen or his irish officers, but i will watch them close; and let the man that would supplant me look well to himself. bisogna coprirsi, signor.' after some further conversation, unnecessary to be detailed, waverley took leave of the chieftain, whose fury had now subsided into a deep and strong desire of vengeance, and returned home, scarce able to analyse the mixture of feelings which the narrative had awakened in his own bosom. chapter liv 'to one thing constant never' 'i am the very child of caprice,'said waverley to himself, as he bolted the door of his apartment and paced it with hasty steps. 'what is it to me that fergus mac-ivor should wish to marry rose bradwardine? i love her not; i might have been loved by her perhaps; but rejected her simple, natural, and affecting attachment, instead of cherishing it into tenderness, and dedicated myself to one who will never love mortal man, unless old warwick, the king-maker, should arise from the dead the baron too--i would not have cared about his estate, and so the name would have been no stumbling-block. the devil might have taken the barren moors and drawn off the royal caligae for anything i would have minded. but, framed as she is for domestic affection and tenderness, for giving and receiving all those kind and quiet attentions which sweeten life to those who pass it together, she is sought by fergus mac-ivor. he will not use her ill, to be sure; of that he is incapable. but he will neglect her after the first month; he will be too intent on subduing some rival chieftain or circumventing some favourite at court, on gaining some heathy hill and lake or adding to his bands some new troop of caterans, to inquire what she does, or how she amuses herself. and then will canker sorrow eat her bud, and chase the native beauty from her cheek; and she will look as hollow as a ghost, and dim and meagre as an ague fit, and so she'll die. and such a catastrophe of the most gentle creature on earth might have been prevented if mr. edward waverley had had his eyes! upon my word, i cannot understand how i thought flora so much, that is, so very much, handsomer than rose. she is taller indeed, and her manner more formed; but many people think miss bradwardine's more natural; and she is certainly much younger. i should think flora is two years older than i am. i will look at them particularly this evening.' and with this resolution waverley went to drink tea (as the fashion was sixty years since) at the house of a lady of quality attached to the cause of the chevalier, where he found, as he expected, both the ladies. all rose as he entered, but flora immediately resumed her place and the conversation in which she was engaged. rose, on the contrary, almost imperceptibly made a little way in the crowded circle for his advancing the corner of a chair. 'her manner, upon the whole, is most engaging,' said waverley to himself. a dispute occurred whether the gaelic or italian language was most liquid, and best adapted for poetry; the opinion for the gaelic, which probably might not have found supporters elsewhere, was here fiercely defended by seven highland ladies, who talked at the top of their lungs, and screamed the company deaf with examples of celtic euphonia. flora, observing the lowland ladies sneer at the comparison, produced some reasons to show that it was not altogether so absurd; but rose, when asked for her opinion, gave it with animation in praise of italian, which she had studied with waverley's assistance. "she has a more correct ear than flora, though a less accomplished musician," said waverley to himself. 'i suppose miss mac-ivor will next compare mac-murrough nan fonn to ariosto!' lastly, it so befell that the company differed whether fergus should be asked to perform on the flute, at which he was an adept, or waverley invited to read a play of shakspeare; and the lady of the house good-humouredly undertook to collect the votes of the company for poetry or music, under the condition that the gentleman whose talents were not laid under contribution that evening should contribute them to enliven the next. it chanced that rose had the casting vote. now flora, who seemed to impose it as a rule upon herself never to countenance any proposal which might seem to encourage waverley, had voted for music, providing the baron would take his violin to accompany fergus. 'i wish you joy of your taste, miss mac-ivor,' thought edward, as they sought for his book. 'i thought it better when we were at glennaquoich; but certainly the baron is no great performer, and shakspeare is worth listening to.' 'romeo and juliet' was selected, and edward read with taste, feeling, and spirit several scenes from that play. all the company applauded with their hands, and many with their tears. flora, to whom the drama was well known, was among the former; rose, to whom it was altogether new, belonged to the latter class of admirers. 'she has more feeling too,' said waverley, internally. the conversation turning upon the incidents of the play and upon the characters, fergus declared that the only one worth naming, as a man of fashion and spirit, was mercutio. 'i could not,' he said, 'quite follow all his old-fashioned wit, but he must have been a very pretty fellow, according to the ideas of his time.' 'and it was a shame,' said ensign maccombich, who usually followed his colonel everywhere, 'for that tibbert, or taggart, or whatever was his name, to stick him under the other gentleman's arm while he was redding the fray.' the ladies, of course, declared loudly in favour of romeo, but this opinion did not go undisputed. the mistress of the house and several other ladies severely reprobated the levity with which the hero transfers his affections from rosalind to juliet. flora remained silent until her opinion was repeatedly requested, and then answered, she thought the circumstance objected to not only reconcilable to nature, but such as in the highest degree evinced the art of the poet. 'romeo is described,' said she, 'as a young man peculiarly susceptible of the softer passions; his love is at first fixed upon a woman who could afford it no return; this he repeatedly tells you,-- from love's weak, childish bow she lives unharmed, and again-- she hath forsworn to love. now, as it was impossible that romeo's love, supposing him a reasonable being, could continue to subsist without hope, the poet has, with great art, seized the moment when he was reduced actually to despair to throw in his way an object more accomplished than her by whom he had been rejected, and who is disposed to repay his attachment. i can scarce conceive a situation more calculated to enhance the ardour of romeo's affection for juliet than his being at once raised by her from the state of drooping melancholy in which he appears first upon the scene to the ecstatic state in which he exclaims-- --come what sorrow can, it cannot countervail the exchange of joy that one short moment gives me in her sight.' 'good now, miss mac-ivor,' said a young lady of quality, 'do you mean to cheat us out of our prerogative? will you persuade us love cannot subsist without hope, or that the lover must become fickle if the lady is cruel? o fie! i did not expect such an unsentimental conclusion.' 'a lover, my dear lady betty,' said flora, 'may, i conceive, persevere in his suit under very discouraging circumstances. affection can (now and then) withstand very severe storms of rigour, but not a long polar frost of downright indifference. don't, even with your attractions, try the experiment upon any lover whose faith you value. love will subsist on wonderfully little hope, but not altogether without it.' 'it will be just like duncan mac-girdie's mare,' said evan, 'if your ladyships please, he wanted to use her by degrees to live without meat, and just as he had put her on a straw a day the poor thing died!' evan's illustration set the company a-laughing, and the discourse took a different turn. shortly afterwards the party broke up, and edward returned home, musing on what flora had said. 'i will love my rosalind no more,' said he; 'she has given me a broad enough hint for that; and i will speak to her brother and resign my suit. but for a juliet--would it be handsome to interfere with fergus's pretensions? though it is impossible they can ever succeed; and should they miscarry, what then? why then alors comme alors.' and with this resolution of being guided by circumstances did our hero commit himself to repose. chapter lv a brave man in sorrow ifmy fair readers should be of opinion that my hero's levity in love is altogether unpardonable, i must remind them that all his griefs and difficulties did not arise from that sentimental source. even the lyric poet who complains so feelingly of the pains of love could not forget, that at the same time he was 'in debt and in drink,' which, doubtless, were great aggravations of his distress. there were, indeed, whole days in which waverley thought neither of flora nor rose bradwardine, but which were spent in melancholy conjectures on the probable state of matters at waverley-honour, and the dubious issue of the civil contest in which he was pledged. colonel talbot often engaged him in discussions upon the justice of the cause he had espoused. 'not,' he said, 'that it is possible for you to quit it at this present moment, for, come what will, you must stand by your rash engagement. but i wish you to be aware that the right is not with you; that you are fighting against the real interests of your country; and that you ought, as an englishman and a patriot, to take the first opportunity to leave this unhappy expedition before the snowball melts.' in such political disputes waverley usually opposed the common arguments of his party, with which it is unnecessary to trouble the reader. but he had little to say when the colonel urged him to compare the strength by which they had undertaken to overthrow the government with that which was now assembling very rapidly for its support. to this statement waverley had but one answer: 'if the cause i have undertaken be perilous, there would be the greater disgrace in abandoning it.' and in his turn he generally silenced colonel talbot, and succeeded in changing the subject. one night, when, after a long dispute of this nature, the friends had separated and our hero had retired to bed, he was awakened about midnight by a suppressed groan. he started up and listened; it came from the apartment of colonel talbot, which was divided from his own by a wainscotted partition, with a door of communication. waverley approached this door and distinctly heard one or two deep-drawn sighs. what could be the matter? the colonel had parted from him apparently in his usual state of spirits. he must have been taken suddenly ill. under this impression he opened the door of communication very gently, and perceived the colonel, in his night-gown, seated by a table, on which lay a letter and a picture. he raised his head hastily, as edward stood uncertain whether to advance or retire, and waverley perceived that his cheeks were stained with tears. as if ashamed at being found giving way to such emotion, colonel talbot rose with apparent displeasure and said, with some sternness, 'i think, mr. waverley, my own apartment and the hour might have secured even a prisoner against--' 'do not say intrusion, colonel talbot; i heard you breathe hard and feared you were ill; that alone could have induced me to break in upon you.' 'i am well,' said the colonel, 'perfectly well.' 'but you are distressed,' said edward; 'is there anything can be done?' 'nothing, mr. waverley; i was only thinking of home, and some unpleasant occurrences there.' 'good god, my uncle!' exclaimed waverley. 'no, it is a grief entirely my own. i am ashamed you should have seen it disarm me so much; but it must have its course at times, that it may be at others more decently supported. i would have kept it secret from you; for i think it will grieve you, and yet you can administer no consolation. but you have surprised me,--i see you are surprised yourself,--and i hate mystery. read that letter.' the letter was from colonel talbot's sister, and in these words:-- 'i received yours, my dearest brother, by hodges. sir e. w. and mr. r. are still at large, but are not permitted to leave london. i wish to heaven i could give you as good an account of matters in the square. but the news of the unhappy affair at preston came upon us, with the dreadful addition that you were among the fallen. you know lady emily's state of health, when your friendship for sir e. induced you to leave her. she was much harassed with the sad accounts from scotland of the rebellion having broken out; but kept up her spirits, as, she said, it became your wife, and for the sake of the future heir, so long hoped for in vain. alas, my dear brother, these hopes are now ended! notwithstanding all my watchful care, this unhappy rumour reached her without preparation. she was taken ill immediately; and the poor infant scarce survived its birth. would to god this were all! but although the contradiction of the horrible report by your own letter has greatly revived her spirits, yet dr. ---- apprehends, i grieve to say, serious, and even dangerous, consequences to her health, especially from the uncertainty in which she must necessarily remain for some time, aggravated by the ideas she has formed of the ferocity of those with whom you are a prisoner. 'do therefore, my dear brother, as soon as this reaches you, endeavour to gain your release, by parole, by ransom, or any way that is practicable. i do not exaggerate lady emily's state of health; but i must not--dare not--suppress the truth. ever, my dear philip, your most affectionate sister, 'lucy talbot.' edward stood motionless when he had perused this letter; for the conclusion was inevitable, that, by the colonel's journey in quest of him, he had incurred this heavy calamity. it was severe enough, even in its irremediable part; for colonel talbot and lady emily, long without a family, had fondly exulted in the hopes which were now blasted. but this disappointment was nothing to the extent of the threatened evil; and edward, with horror, regarded himself as the original cause of both. ere he could collect himself sufficiently to speak, colonel talbot had recovered his usual composure of manner, though his troubled eye denoted his mental agony. 'she is a woman, my young friend, who may justify even a soldier's tears.' he reached him the miniature, exhibiting features which fully justified the eulogium; 'and yet, god knows, what you see of her there is the least of the charms she possesses--possessed, i should perhaps say--but god's will be done.' ' you must fly--you must fly instantly to her relief. it is not--it shall not be too late.' 'fly? how is it possible? i am a prisoner, upon parole.' 'i am your keeper; i restore your parole; i am to answer for you.' 'you cannot do so consistently with your duty; nor can i accept a discharge from you, with due regard to my own honour; you would be made responsible.' 'i will answer it with my head, if necessary,' said waverley impetuously. 'i have been the unhappy cause of the loss of your child, make me not the murderer of your wife.' 'no, my dear edward,' said talbot, taking him kindly by the hand, 'you are in no respect to blame; and if i concealed this domestic distress for two days, it was lest your sensibility should view it in that light. you could not think of me, hardly knew of my existence, when i left england in quest of you. it is a responsibility, heaven knows, sufficiently heavy for mortality, that we must answer for the foreseen and direct result of our actions; for their indirect and consequential operation the great and good being, who alone can foresee the dependence of human events on each other, hath not pronounced his frail creatures liable.' 'but that you should have left lady emily,' said waverley, with much emotion, 'in the situation of all others the most interesting to a husband, to seek a--' 'i only did my duty,' answered colonel talbot, calmly, 'and i do not, ought not, to regret it. if the path of gratitude and honour were always smooth and easy, there would be little merit in following it; but it moves often in contradiction to our interest and passions, and sometimes to our better affections. these are the trials of life, and this, though not the least bitter' (the tears came unbidden to his eyes), 'is not the first which it has been my fate to encounter. but we will talk of this to-morrow,' he said, wringing waverley's hands. 'good-night; strive to forget it for a few hours. it will dawn, i think, by six, and it is now past two. good-night.' edward retired, without trusting his voice with a reply. chapter lvi exertion when colonel talbot entered the breakfast-parlour next morning, he learned from waverley's servant that our hero had been abroad at an early hour and was not yet returned. the morning was well advanced before he again appeared. he arrived out of breath, but with an air of joy that astonished colonel talbot. 'there,' said he, throwing a paper on the table, 'there is my morning's work. alick, pack up the colonel's clothes. make haste, make haste.' the colonel examined the paper with astonishment. it was a pass from the chevalier to colonel talbot, to repair to leith, or any other port in possession of his royal highness's troops, and there to embark for england or elsewhere, at his free pleasure; he only giving his parole of honour not to bear arms against the house of stuart for the space of a twelve-month. 'in the name of god,' said the colonel, his eyes sparkling with eagerness, 'how did you obtain this?' 'i was at the chevalier's levee as soon as he usually rises. he was gone to the camp at duddingston. i pursued him thither, asked and obtained an audience--but i will tell you not a word more, unless i see you begin to pack.' 'before i know whether i can avail myself of this passport, or how it was obtained?' 'o, you can take out the things again, you know. now i see you busy, i will go on. when i first mentioned your name, his eyes sparkled almost as bright as yours did two minutes since. "had you," he earnestly asked, "shown any sentiments favourable to his cause?" "not in the least, nor was there any hope you would do so." his countenance fell. i requested your freedom. "impossible," he said; "your importance as a friend and confidant of such and such personages made my request altogether extravagant." i told him my own story and yours; and asked him to judge what my feelings must be by his own. he has a heart, and a kind one, colonel talbot, you may say what you please. he took a sheet of paper and wrote the pass with his own hand. "i will not trust myself with my council," he said; "they will argue me out of what is right. i will not endure that a friend, valued as i value you, should be loaded with the painful reflections which must afflict you in case of further misfortune in colonel talbot's family; nor will i keep a brave enemy a prisoner under such circumstances. besides," said he, "i think i can justify myself to my prudent advisers by pleading the good effect such lenity will produce on the minds of the great english families with whom colonel talbot is connected."' 'there the politician peeped out,' said the colonel. 'well, at least he concluded like a king's son: "take the passport; i have added a condition for form's sake; but if the colonel objects to it, let him depart without giving any parole whatever. i come here to war with men, but not to distress or endanger women."' 'well, i never thought to have been so much indebted to the pretend--' 'to the prince,' said waverley, smiling. 'to the chevalier,' said the colonel; 'it is a good travelling name, and which we may both freely use. did he say anything more?' 'only asked if there was anything else he could oblige me in; and when i replied in the negative, he shook me by the hand, and wished all his followers were as considerate, since some friends of mine not only asked all he had to bestow, but many things which were entirely out of his power, or that of the greatest sovereign upon earth. indeed, he said, no prince seemed, in the eyes of his followers, so like the deity as himself, if you were to judge from the extravagant requests which they daily preferred to him.' 'poor young gentleman,' said the colonel, 'i suppose he begins to feel the difficulties of his situation. well, dear waverley, this is more than kind, and shall not be forgotten while philip talbot can remember anything. my life--pshaw--let emily thank you for that; this is a favour worth fifty lives. i cannot hesitate on giving my parole in the circumstances; there it is (he wrote it out in form). and now, how am i to get off?' 'all that is settled: your baggage is packed, my horses wait, and a boat has been engaged, by the prince's permission, to put you on board the fox frigate. i sent a messenger down to leith on purpose.' 'that will do excellently well. captain beaver is my particular friend; he will put me ashore at berwick or shields, from whence i can ride post to london; and you must entrust me with the packet of papers which you recovered by means of your miss bean lean. i may have an opportunity of using them to your advantage. but i see your highland friend, glen ---- what do you call his barbarous name? and his orderly with him; i must not call him his orderly cut-throat any more, i suppose. see how he walks as if the world were his own, with the bonnet on one side of his head and his plaid puffed out across his breast! i should like now to meet that youth where my hands were not tied: i would tame his pride, or he should tame mine.' 'for shame, colonel talbot! you swell at sight of tartan as the bull is said to do at scarlet. you and mac-ivor have some points not much unlike, so far as national prejudice is concerned.' the latter part of this discourse took place in the street. they passed the chief, the colonel and he sternly and punctiliously greeting each other, like two duellists before they take their ground. it was evident the dislike was mutual. 'i never see that surly fellow that dogs his heels,' said the colonel, after he had mounted his horse, 'but he reminds me of lines i have somewhere heard--upon the stage, i think:-- close behind him stalks sullen bertram, like a sorcerer's fiend, pressing to be employed. 'i assure you, colonel,' said waverley,'that you judge too harshly of the highlanders.' 'not a whit, not a whit; i cannot spare them a jot; i cannot bate them an ace. let them stay in their own barren mountains, and puff and swell, and hang their bonnets on the horns of the moon, if they have a mind; but what business have they to come where people wear breeches, and speak an intelligible language? i mean intelligible in comparison to their gibberish, for even the lowlanders talk a kind of english little better than the negroes in jamaica. i could pity the pr----, i mean the, chevalier himself, for having so many desperadoes about him. and they learn their trade so early. there is a kind of subaltern imp, for example, a sort of sucking devil, whom your friend glena----glenamuck there, has sometimes in his train. to look at him, he is about fifteen years; but he is a century old in mischief and villainy. he was playing at quoits the other day in the court; a gentleman, a decent-looking person enough, came past, and as a quoit hit his shin, he lifted his cane; but my young bravo whips out his pistol, like beau clincher in the "trip to the jubilee," and had not a scream of gardez l'eau from an upper window set all parties a-scampering for fear of the inevitable consequences, the poor gentleman would have lost his life by the hands of that little cockatrice.' 'a fine character you'll give of scotland upon your return, colonel talbot.' 'o, justice shallow,' said the colonel, 'will save me the trouble --"barren, barren, beggars all, beggars all. marry, good air,"--and that only when you are fairly out of edinburgh, and not yet come to leith, as is our case at present.' in a short time they arrived at the seaport. the boat rock'd at the pier of leith, full loud the wind blew down the ferry; the ship rode at the berwick law. 'farewell, colonel; may you find all as you would wish it! perhaps we may meet sooner than you expect; they talk of an immediate route to england.' 'tell me nothing of that,' said talbot; 'i wish to carry no news of your motions.' 'simply, then, adieu. say, with a thousand kind greetings, all that is dutiful and affectionate to sir everard and aunt rachel. think of me as kindly as you can, speak of me as indulgently as your conscience will permit, and once more adieu.' 'and adieu, my dear waverley; many, many thanks for your kindness. unplaid yourself on the first opportunity. i shall ever think on you with gratitude, and the worst of my censure shall be, que diable alloit--il faire dans cette galere?' and thus they parted, colonel talbot going on board of the boat and waverley returning to edinburgh. chapter lvii the march it is not our purpose to intrude upon the province of history. we shall therefore only remind our readers that about the beginning of november the young chevalier, at the head of about six thousand men at the utmost, resolved to peril his cause on an attempt to penetrate into the centre of england, although aware of the mighty preparations which were made for his reception. they set forward on this crusade in weather which would have rendered any other troops incapable of marching, but which in reality gave these active mountaineers advantages over a less hardy enemy. in defiance of a superior army lying upon the borders, under field-marshal wade, they besieged and took carlisle, and soon afterwards prosecuted their daring march to the southward. as colonel mac-ivor's regiment marched in the van of the clans, he and waverley, who now equalled any highlander in the endurance of fatigue, and was become somewhat acquainted with their language, were perpetually at its head. they marked the progress of the army, however, with very different eyes. fergus, all air and fire, and confident against the world in arms, measured nothing but that every step was a yard nearer london. he neither asked, expected, nor desired any aid except that of the clans to place the stuarts once more on the throne; and when by chance a few adherents joined the standard, he always considered them in the light of new claimants upon the favours of the future monarch, who, he concluded, must therefore subtract for their gratification so much of the bounty which ought to be shared among his highland followers. edward's views were very different. he could not but observe that in those towns in which they proclaimed james the third, 'no man cried, god bless him.' the mob stared and listened, heartless, stupefied, and dull, but gave few signs even of that boisterous spirit which induces them to shout upon all occasions for the mere exercise of their most sweet voices. the jacobites had been taught to believe that the north-western counties abounded with wealthy squires and hardy yeomen, devoted to the cause of the white rose. but of the wealthier tories they saw little. some fled from their houses, some feigned themselves sick, some surrendered themselves to the government as suspected persons. of such as remained, the ignorant gazed with astonishment, mixed with horror and aversion, at the wild appearance, unknown language, and singular garb of the scottish clans. and to the more prudent their scanty numbers, apparent deficiency in discipline, and poverty of equipment seemed certain tokens of the calamitous termination of their rash undertaking. thus the few who joined them were such as bigotry of political principle blinded to consequences, or whose broken fortunes induced them to hazard all on a risk so desperate. the baron of bradwardine, being asked what he thought of these recruits, took a long pinch of snuff, and answered drily,'that he could not but have an excellent opinion of them, since they resembled precisely the followers who attached themselves to the good king david at the cave of adullam--videlicet, every one that was in distress, and every one that was in debt, and every one that was discontented, which the vulgate renders bitter of soul; and doubtless,' he said, 'they will prove mighty men of their hands, and there is much need that they should, for i have seen many a sour look cast upon us.' but none of these considerations moved fergus. he admired the luxuriant beauty of the country, and the situation of many of the seats which they passed. 'is waverley-honour like that house, edward?' 'it is one-half larger.' 'is your uncle's park as fine a one as that?' 'it is three times as extensive, and rather resembles a forest than a mere park.' 'flora will be a happy woman.' 'i hope miss mac-ivor will have much reason for happiness unconnected with waverley-honour.' 'i hope so too; but to be mistress of such a place will be a pretty addition to the sum total.' 'an addition, the want of which, i trust, will be amply supplied by some other means.' 'how,' said fergus, stopping short and turning upon waverley--'how am i to understand that, mr. waverley? had i the pleasure to hear you aright?' 'perfectly right, fergus.' 'and am i to understand that you no longer desire my alliance and my sister's hand?' 'your sister has refused mine,' said waverley, 'both directly and by all the usual means by which ladies repress undesired attentions.' 'i have no idea,' answered the chieftain, 'of a lady dismissing or a gentleman withdrawing his suit, after it has been approved of by her legal guardian, without giving him an opportunity of talking the matter over with the lady. you did not, i suppose, expect my sister to drop into your mouth like a ripe plum the first moment you chose to open it?' 'as to the lady's title to dismiss her lover, colonel,' replied edward, 'it is a point which you must argue with her, as i am ignorant of the customs of the highlands in that particular. but as to my title to acquiesce in a rejection from her without an appeal to your interest, i will tell you plainly, without meaning to undervalue miss mac-ivor's admitted beauty and accomplishments, that i would not take the hand of an angel, with an empire for her dowry, if her consent were extorted by the importunity of friends and guardians, and did not flow from her own free inclination.' 'an angel, with the dowry of an empire,' repeated fergus, in a tone of bitter irony, 'is not very likely to be pressed upon a ----shire squire. but, sir,' changing his tone, 'if flora mac-ivor have not the dowry of an empire, she is my sister; and that is sufficient at least to secure her against being treated with anything approaching to levity.' 'she is flora mac-ivor, sir,' said waverley, with firmness, 'which to me, were i capable of treating any woman with levity, would be a more effectual protection.' the brow of the chieftain was now fully clouded; but edward felt too indignant at the unreasonable tone which he had adopted to avert the storm by the least concession. they both stood still while this short dialogue passed, and fergus seemed half disposed to say something more violent, but, by a strong effort, suppressed his passion, and, turning his face forward, walked sullenly on. as they had always hitherto walked together, and almost constantly side by side, waverley pursued his course silently in the same direction, determined to let the chief take his own time in recovering the good-humour which he had so unreasonably discarded, and firm in his resolution not to bate him an inch of dignity. after they had marched on in this sullen manner about a mile, fergus resumed the discourse in a different tone. 'i believe i was warm, my dear edward, but you provoke me with your want of knowledge of the world. you have taken pet at some of flora's prudery, or high-flying notions of loyalty, and now, like a child, you quarrel with the plaything you have been crying for, and beat me, your faithful keeper, because my arm cannot reach to edinburgh to hand it to you. i am sure, if i was passionate, the mortification of losing the alliance of such a friend, after your arrangement had been the talk of both highlands and lowlands, and that without so much as knowing why or wherefore, might well provoke calmer blood than mine. i shall write to edinburgh and put all to rights; that is, if you desire i should do so; as indeed i cannot suppose that your good opinion of flora, it being such as you have often expressed to me, can be at once laid aside.' 'colonel mac-ivor,' said edward, who had no mind to be hurried farther or faster than he chose in a matter which he had already considered as broken off, 'i am fully sensible of the value of your good offices; and certainly, by your zeal on my behalf in such an affair, you do me no small honour. but as miss mac-ivor has made her election freely and voluntarily, and as all my attentions in edinburgh were received with more than coldness, i cannot, in justice either to her or myself, consent that she should again be harassed upon this topic. i would have mentioned this to you some time since, but you saw the footing upon which we stood together, and must have understood it. had i thought otherwise i would have earlier spoken; but i had a natural reluctance to enter upon a subject so painful to us both.' 'o, very well, mr. waverley,' said fergus, haughtily, 'the thing is at an end. i have no occasion to press my sister upon any man.' 'nor have i any occasion to court repeated rejection from the same young lady,' answered edward, in the same tone. 'i shall make due inquiry, however,' said the chieftain, without noticing the interruption, 'and learn what my sister thinks of all this, we will then see whether it is to end here.' 'respecting such inquiries, you will of course be guided by your own judgment,' said waverley. 'it is, i am aware, impossible miss mac-ivor can change her mind; and were such an unsupposable case to happen, it is certain i will not change mine. i only mention this to prevent any possibility of future misconstruction.' gladly at this moment would mac-ivor have put their quarrel to a personal arbitrement, his eye flashed fire, and he measured edward as if to choose where he might best plant a mortal wound. but although we do not now quarrel according to the modes and figures of caranza or vincent saviola, no one knew better than fergus that there must be some decent pretext for a mortal duel. for instance, you may challenge a man for treading on your corn in a crowd, or for pushing you up to the wall, or for taking your seat in the theatre; but the modern code of honour will not permit you to found a quarrel upon your right of compelling a man to continue addresses to a female relative which the fair lady has already refused. so that fergus was compelled to stomach this supposed affront until the whirligig of time, whose motion he promised himself he would watch most sedulously, should bring about an opportunity of revenge. waverley's servant always led a saddle-horse for him in the rear of the battalion to which he was attached, though his master seldom rode. but now, incensed at the domineering and unreasonable conduct of his late friend, he fell behind the column and mounted his horse, resolving to seek the baron of bradwardine, and request permission to volunteer in his troop instead of the mac-ivor regiment. 'a happy time of it i should have had,' thought he, after he was mounted, 'to have been so closely allied to this superb specimen of pride and self-opinion and passion. a colonel! why, he should have been a generalissimo. a petty chief of three or four hundred men! his pride might suffice for the cham of tartary--the grand seignior--the great mogul! i am well free of him. were flora an angel, she would bring with her a second lucifer of ambition and wrath for a brother-in-law.' the baron, whose learning (like sancho's jests while in the sierra morena) seemed to grow mouldy for want of exercise, joyfully embraced the opportunity of waverley's offering his service in his regiment, to bring it into some exertion. the good-natured old gentleman, however, laboured to effect a reconciliation between the two quondam friends. fergus turned a cold ear to his remonstrances, though he gave them a respectful hearing; and as for waverley, he saw no reason why he should be the first in courting a renewal of the intimacy which the chieftain had so unreasonably disturbed. the baron then mentioned the matter to the prince, who, anxious to prevent quarrels in his little army, declared he would himself remonstrate with colonel mac-ivor on the unreasonableness of his conduct. but, in the hurry of their march, it was a day or two before he had an opportunity to exert his influence in the manner proposed. in the meanwhile waverley turned the instructions he had received while in gardiner's dragoons to some account, and assisted the baron in his command as a sort of adjutant. 'parmi les aveugles un borgne est roi,' says the french proverb; and the cavalry, which consisted chiefly of lowland gentlemen, their tenants and servants, formed a high opinion of waverley's skill and a great attachment to his person. this was indeed partly owing to the satisfaction which they felt at the distinguished english volunteer's leaving the highlanders to rank among them; for there was a latent grudge between the horse and foot, not only owing to the difference of the services, but because most of the gentlemen, living near the highlands, had at one time or other had quarrels with the tribes in their vicinity, and all of them looked with a jealous eye on the highlanders' avowed pretensions to superior valour and utility in the prince's service. chapter lviii the confusion of king agramant's camp itwas waverley's custom sometimes to ride a little apart from the main body, to look at any object of curiosity which occurred on the march. they were now in lancashire, when, attracted by a castellated old hall, he left the squadron for half an hour to take a survey and slight sketch of it. as he returned down the avenue he was met by ensign maccombich. this man had contracted a sort of regard for edward since the day of his first seeing him at tully-veolan and introducing him to the highlands. he seemed to loiter, as if on purpose to meet with our hero. yet, as he passed him, he only approached his stirrup and pronounced the single word 'beware!' and then walked swiftly on, shunning all further communication. edward, somewhat surprised at this hint, followed with his eyes the course of evan, who speedily disappeared among the trees. his servant, alick polwarth, who was in attendance, also looked after the highlander, and then riding up close to his master, said,-- 'the ne'er be in me, sir, if i think you're safe amang thae highland rinthereouts.' 'what do you mean, alick?' said waverley. 'the mac-ivors, sir, hae gotten it into their heads that ye hae affronted their young leddy, miss flora; and i hae heard mae than ane say, they wadna tak muckle to mak a black-cock o' ye; and ye ken weel eneugh there's mony o' them wadna mind a bawbee the weising a ball through the prince himsell, an the chief gae them the wink, or whether he did or no, if they thought it a thing that would please him when it was dune.' waverley, though confident that fergus mac-ivor was incapable of such treachery, was by no means equally sure of the forbearance of his followers. he knew that, where the honour of the chief or his family was supposed to be touched, the happiest man would be he that could first avenge the stigma; and he had often heard them quote a proverb, 'that the best revenge was the most speedy and most safe.' coupling this with the hint of evan, he judged it most prudent to set spurs to his horse and ride briskly back to the squadron. ere he reached the end of the long avenue, however, a ball whistled past him, and the report of a pistol was heard. 'it was that deevil's buckle, callum beg,' said alick; 'i saw him whisk away through amang the reises.' edward, justly incensed at this act of treachery, galloped out of the avenue, and observed the battalion of mac-ivor at some distance moving along the common in which it terminated. he also saw an individual running very fast to join the party; this he concluded was the intended assassin, who, by leaping an enclosure, might easily make a much shorter path to the main body than he could find on horseback. unable to contain himself, he commanded alick to go to the baron of bradwardine, who was at the head of his regiment about half a mile in front, and acquaint him with what had happened. he himself immediately rode up to fergus's regiment. the chief himself was in the act of joining them. he was on horseback, having returned from waiting on the prince. on perceiving edward approaching, he put his horse in motion towards him. 'colonel mac-ivor,' said waverley, without any farther salutation, 'i have to inform you that one of your people has this instant fired at me from a lurking-place.' 'as that,' answered mac-ivor, 'excepting the circumstance of a lurking-place, is a pleasure which i presently propose to myself, i should be glad to know which of my clansmen dared to anticipate me.' 'i shall certainly be at your command whenever you please; the gentleman who took your office upon himself is your page there, callum beg.' 'stand forth from the ranks, callum! did you fire at mr. waverley?' 'no,' answered the unblushing callum. 'you did,' said alick polwarth, who was already returned, having met a trooper by whom he despatched an account of what was going forward to the baron of bradwardine, while he himself returned to his master at full gallop, neither sparing the rowels of his spurs nor the sides of his horse. 'you did; i saw you as plainly as i ever saw the auld kirk at coudingham.' 'you lie,' replied callum, with his usual impenetrable obstinacy. the combat between the knights would certainly, as in the days of chivalry, have been preceded by an encounter between the squires (for alick was a stout-hearted merseman, and feared the bow of cupid far more than a highlander's dirk or claymore), but fergus, with his usual tone of decision, demanded callum's pistol. the cock was down, the pan and muzzle were black with the smoke; it had been that instant fired. 'take that,' said fergus, striking the boy upon the head with the heavy pistol-butt with his whole force--'take that for acting without orders, and lying to disguise it.' callum received the blow without appearing to flinch from it, and fell without sign of life. 'stand still, upon your lives!' said fergus to the rest of the clan; 'i blow out the brains of the first man who interferes between mr. waverley and me.' they stood motionless; evan dhu alone showed symptoms of vexation and anxiety. callum lay on the ground bleeding copiously, but no one ventured to give him any assistance. it seemed as if he had gotten his death-blow. 'and now for you, mr. waverley; please to turn your horse twenty yards with me upon the common.' waverley complied; and fergus, confronting him when they were a little way from the line of march, said, with great affected coolness, 'i could not but wonder, sir, at the fickleness of taste which you were pleased to express the other day. but it was not an angel, as you justly observed, who had charms for you, unless she brought an empire for her fortune. i have now an excellent commentary upon that obscure text.' 'i am at a loss even to guess at your meaning, colonel mac-ivor, unless it seems plain that you intend to fasten a quarrel upon me.' 'your affected ignorance shall not serve you, sir. the prince--the prince himself has acquainted me with your manoeuvres. i little thought that your engagements with miss bradwardine were the reason of your breaking off your intended match with my sister. i suppose the information that the baron had altered the destination of his estate was quite a sufficient reason for slighting your friend's sister and carrying off your friend's mistress.' 'did the prince tell you i was engaged to miss bradwardine?' said waverley. 'impossible.' 'he did, sir,' answered mac-ivor; 'so, either draw and defend yourself or resign your pretensions to the lady.' 'this is absolute madness,' exclaimed waverley, 'or some strange mistake!' 'o! no evasion! draw your sword!' said the infuriated chieftain, his own already unsheathed. 'must i fight in a madman's quarrel?' 'then give up now, and forever, all pretensions to miss bradwardine's hand.' 'what title have you,' cried waverley, utterly losing command of himself--'what title have you, or any man living, to dictate such terms to me?' and he also drew his sword. at this moment the baron of bradwardine, followed by several of his troop, came up on the spur, some from curiosity, others to take part in the quarrel which they indistinctly understood had broken out between the mac-ivors and their corps. the clan, seeing them approach, put themselves in motion to support their chieftain, and a scene of confusion commenced which seamed likely to terminate in bloodshed. a hundred tongues were in motion at once. the baron lectured, the chieftain stormed, the highlanders screamed in gaelic, the horsemen cursed and swore in lowland scotch. at length matters came to such a pass that the baron threatened to charge the mac-ivors unless they resumed their ranks, and many of them, in return, presented their firearms at him and the other troopers. the confusion was privately fostered by old ballenkeiroch, who made no doubt that his own day of vengeance was arrived, when, behold! a cry arose of 'room! make way! place a monseigneur! place a monseigneur!' this announced the approach of the prince, who came up with a party of fitz-james's foreign dragoons that acted as his body-guard. his arrival produced some degree of order. the highlanders reassumed their ranks, the cavalry fell in and formed squadron, and the baron and chieftain were silent. the prince called them and waverley before him. having heard the original cause of the quarrel through the villainy of callum beg, he ordered him into custody of the provost-marshal for immediate execution, in the event of his surviving the chastisement inflicted by his chieftain. fergus, however, in a tone betwixt claiming a right and asking a favour, requested he might be left to his disposal, and promised his punishment should be exemplary. to deny this might have seemed to encroach on the patriarchal authority of the chieftains, of which they were very jealous, and they were not persons to be disobliged. callum was therefore left to the justice of his own tribe. the prince next demanded to know the new cause of quarrel between colonel mac-ivor and waverley. there was a pause. both gentlemen found the presence of the baron of bradwardine (for by this time all three had approached the chevalier by his command) an insurmountable barrier against entering upon a subject where the name of his daughter must unavoidably be mentioned. they turned their eyes on the ground, with looks in which shame and embarrassment were mingled with displeasure. the prince, who had been educated amongst the discontented and mutinous spirits of the court of st. germains, where feuds of every kind were the daily subject of solicitude to the dethroned sovereign, had served his apprenticeship, as old frederick of prussia would have said, to the trade of royalty. to promote or restore concord among his followers was indispensable. accordingly he took his measures. 'monsieur de beaujeu!' 'monseigneur!' said a very handsome french cavalry officer who was in attendance. 'ayez la bonte d'aligner ces montagnards la, ainsi que la cavalerie, s'il vous plait, et de les remettre a la marche. vous parlez si bien l'anglois, cela ne vous donneroit pas beaucoup de peine.' 'ah! pas du tout, monseigneur,' replied mons. le comte de beaujeu, his head bending down to the neck of his little prancing highly-managed charger. accordingly he piaffed away, in high spirits and confidence, to the head of fergus's regiment, although understanding not a word of gaelic and very little english. 'messieurs les sauvages ecossois--dat is, gentilmans savages, have the goodness d'arranger vous.' the clan, comprehending the order more from the gesture than the words, and seeing the prince himself present, hastened to dress their ranks. 'ah! ver well! dat is fort bien!' said the count de beaujeu. 'gentilmans sauvages! mais, tres bien. eh bien! qu'est ce que vous appelez visage, monsieur?' (to a lounging trooper who stood by him). 'ah, oui! face. je vous remercie, monsieur. gentilshommes, have de goodness to make de face to de right par file, dat is, by files. marsh! mais, tres bien; encore, messieurs; il faut vous mettre a la marche. ... marchez done, au nom de dieu, parceque j'ai oublie le mot anglois; mais vous etes des braves gens, et me comprenez tres bien.' the count next hastened to put the cavalry in motion. 'gentilmans cavalry, you must fall in. ah! par ma foi, i did not say fall off! i am a fear de little gross fat gentilman is moche hurt. ah, mon dieu! c'est le commissaire qui nous a apporte les premieres nouvelles de ce maudit fracas. je suis trop fache, monsieur!' but poor macwheeble, who, with a sword stuck across him, and a white cockade as large as a pancake, now figured in the character of a commissary, being overturned in the bustle occasioned by the troopers hastening to get themselves in order in the prince's presence, before he could rally his galloway, slunk to the rear amid the unrestrained laughter of the spectators. 'eh bien, messieurs, wheel to de right. ah! dat is it! eh, monsieur de bradwardine, ayez la bonte de vous mettre a la tete de votre regiment, car, par dieu, je n'en puis plus!' the baron of bradwardine was obliged to go to the assistance of monsieur de beaujeu, after he had fairly expended his few english military phrases. one purpose of the chevalier was thus answered. the other he proposed was, that in the eagerness to hear and comprehend commands issued through such an indistinct medium in his own presence, the thoughts of the soldiers in both corps might get a current different from the angry channel in which they were flowing at the time. charles edward was no sooner left with the chieftain and waverley, the rest of his attendants being at some distance, than he said, 'if i owed less to your disinterested friendship, i could be most seriously angry with both of you for this very extraordinary and causeless broil, at a moment when my father's service so decidedly demands the most perfect unanimity. but the worst of my situation is, that my very best friends hold they have liberty to ruin themselves, as well as the cause they are engaged in, upon the slightest caprice.' both the young men protested their resolution to submit every difference to his arbitration. 'indeed,' said edward, 'i hardly know of what i am accused. i sought colonel mac-ivor merely to mention to him that i had narrowly escaped assassination at the hand of his immediate dependent, a dastardly revenge which i knew him to be incapable of authorising. as to the cause for which he is disposed to fasten a quarrel upon me, i am ignorant of it, unless it be that he accuses me, most unjustly, of having engaged the affections of a young lady in prejudice of his pretensions.' 'if there is an error,' said the chieftain, 'it arises from a conversation which i held this morning with his royal highness himself.' 'with me?' said the chevalier; 'how can colonel mac-ivor have so far misunderstood me?' he then led fergus aside, and, after five minutes' earnest conversation, spurred his horse towards edward. 'is it possible--nay, ride up, colonel, for i desire no secrets--is it possible, mr. waverley, that i am mistaken in supposing that you are an accepted lover of miss bradwardine? a fact of which i was by circumstances, though not by communication from you, so absolutely convinced that i alleged it to vich ian vohr this morning as a reason why, without offence to him, you might not continue to be ambitious of an alliance which, to an unengaged person, even though once repulsed, holds out too many charms to be lightly laid aside.' 'your royal highness,' said waverley,'must have founded on circumstances altogether unknown to me, when you did me the distinguished honour of supposing me an accepted lover of miss bradwardine. i feel the distinction implied in the supposition, but i have no title to it. for the rest, my confidence in my own merit is too justly slight to admit of my hoping for success in any quarter after positive rejection.' the chevalier was silent for a moment, looking steadily at them both, and then said, 'upon my word, mr. waverley, you are a less happy man than i conceived i had very good reason to believe you. but now, gentlemen, allow me to be umpire in this matter, not as prince regent but as charles stuart, a brother adventurer with you in the same gallant cause. lay my pretensions to be obeyed by you entirely out of view, and consider your own honour, and how far it is well or becoming to give our enemies the advantage and our friends the scandal of showing that, few as we are, we are not united. and forgive me if i add, that the names of the ladies who have been mentioned crave more respect from us all than to be made themes of discord.' he took fergus a little apart and spoke to him very earnestly for two or three minutes, and then returning to waverley, said, 'i believe i have satisfied colonel mac-ivor that his resentment was founded upon a misconception, to which, indeed, i myself gave rise; and i trust mr. waverley is too generous to harbour any recollection of what is past when i assure him that such is the case. you must state this matter properly to your clan, vich ian vohr, to prevent a recurrence of their precipitate violence.' fergus bowed. 'and now, gentlemen, let me have the pleasure to see you shake hands.' they advanced coldly, and with measured steps, each apparently reluctant to appear most forward in concession. they did, however, shake hands, and parted, taking a respectful leave of the chevalier. charles edward [footnote: see note .] then rode to the head of the macivors, threw himself from his horse, begged a drink out of old ballenkeiroch's cantine, and marched about half a mile along with them, inquiring into the history and connexions of sliochd nan ivor, adroitly using the few words of gaelic he possessed, and affecting a great desire to learn it more thoroughly. he then mounted his horse once more, and galloped to the baron's cavalry, which was in front, halted them, and examined their accoutrements and state of discipline; took notice of the principal gentlemen, and even of the cadets; inquired after their ladies, and commended their horses; rode about an hour with the baron of bradwardine, and endured three long stories about field-marshal the duke of berwick. 'ah, beaujeu, mon cher ami,' said he, as he returned to his usual place in the line of march, 'que mon metier de prince errant est ennuyant, par fois. mais, courage! c'est le grand jeu, apres tout.' chapter lix a skirmish theeader need hardly be reminded that, after a council of war held at derby on the th of december, the highlanders relinquished their desperate attempt to penetrate farther into england, and, greatly to the dissatisfaction of their young and daring leader, positively determined to return northward. they commenced their retreat accordingly, and, by the extreme celerity of their movements, outstripped the motions of the duke of cumberland, who now pursued them with a very large body of cavalry. this retreat was a virtual resignation of their towering hopes. none had been so sanguine as fergus macivor; none, consequently, was so cruelly mortified at the change of measures. he argued, or rather remonstrated, with the utmost vehemence at the council of war; and, when his opinion was rejected, shed tears of grief and indignation. from that moment his whole manner was so much altered that he could scarcely have been recognised for the same soaring and ardent spirit, for whom the whole earth seemed too narrow but a week before. the retreat had continued for several days, when edward, to his surprise, early on the th of december, received a visit from the chieftain in his quarters, in a hamlet about half-way between shap and penrith. having had no intercourse with the chieftain since their rupture, edward waited with some anxiety an explanation of this unexpected visit; nor could he help being surprised, and somewhat shocked, with the change in his appearance. his eye had lost much of its fire; his cheek was hollow, his voice was languid, even his gait seemed less firm and elastic than it was wont; and his dress, to which he used to be particularly attentive, was now carelessly flung about him. he invited edward to walk out with him by the little river in the vicinity; and smiled in a melancholy manner when he observed him take down and buckle on his sword. as soon as they were in a wild sequestered path by the side of the stream, the chief broke out--'our fine adventure is now totally ruined, waverley, and i wish to know what you intend to do;--nay, never stare at me, man. i tell you i received a packet from my sister yesterday, and, had i got the information it contains sooner, it would have prevented a quarrel which i am always vexed when i think of. in a letter written after our dispute, i acquainted her with the cause of it; and she now replies to me that she never had, nor could have, any purpose of giving you encouragement; so that it seems i have acted like a madman. poor flora! she writes in high spirits; what a change will the news of this unhappy retreat make in her state of mind!' waverley, who was really much affected by the deep tone of melancholy with which fergus spoke, affectionately entreated him to banish from his remembrance any unkindness which had arisen between them, and they once more shook hands, but now with sincere cordiality. fergus again inquired of waverley what he intended to do. 'had you not better leave this luckless army, and get down before us into scotland, and embark for the continent from some of the eastern ports that are still in our possession? when you are out of the kingdom, your friends will easily negotiate your pardon; and, to tell you the truth, i wish you would carry rose bradwardine with you as your wife, and take flora also under your joint protection.'--edward looked surprised.--'she loves you, and i believe you love her, though, perhaps, you have not found it out, for you are not celebrated for knowing your own mind very pointedly.' he said this with a sort of smile. 'how,' answered edward, 'can you advise me to desert the expedition in which we are all embarked?' 'embarked?' said fergus; 'the vessel is going to pieces, and it is full time for all who can to get into the long-boat and leave her.' 'why, what will other gentlemen do?' answered waverley, 'and why did the highland chiefs consent to this retreat if it is so ruinous?' 'o,' replied mac-ivor, 'they think that, as on former occasions, the heading, hanging, and forfeiting will chiefly fall to the lot of the lowland gentry; that they will be left secure in their poverty and their fastnesses, there, according to their proverb, "to listen to the wind upon the hill till the waters abate." but they will be disappointed; they have been too often troublesome to be so repeatedly passed over, and this time john bull has been too heartily frightened to recover his good-humour for some time. the hanoverian ministers always deserved to be hanged for rascals; but now, if they get the power in their hands,--as, sooner or later, they must, since there is neither rising in england nor assistance from france,--they will deserve the gallows as fools if they leave a single clan in the highlands in a situation to be again troublesome to government. ay, they will make root-and-branch-work, i warrant them.' 'and while you recommend flight to me,' said edward,--'a counsel which i would rather die than embrace,--what are your own views?' 'o,' answered fergus, with a melancholy air, 'my fate is settled. dead or captive i must be before tomorrow.' 'what do you mean by that, my friend?' said edward. 'the enemy is still a day's march in our rear, and if he comes up, we are still strong enough to keep him in check. remember gladsmuir.' 'what i tell you is true notwithstanding, so far as i am individually concerned.' 'upon what authority can you found so melancholy a prediction?' asked waverley. 'on one which never failed a person of my house. i have seen,' he said, lowering his voice, 'i have seen the bodach glas.' 'bodach glas?' 'yes; have you been so long at glennaquoich, and never heard of the grey spectre? though indeed there is a certain reluctance among us to mention him.' 'no, never.' 'ah! it would have been a tale for poor flora to have told you. or, if that hill were benmore, and that long blue lake, which you see just winding towards yon mountainous country, were loch tay, or my own loch an ri, the tale would be better suited with scenery. however, let us sit down on this knoll; even saddleback and ulswater will suit what i have to say better than the english hedgerows, enclosures, and farmhouses. you must know, then, that when my ancestor, ian nan chaistel, wasted northumberland, there was associated with him in the expedition a sort of southland chief, or captain of a band of lowlanders, called halbert hall. in their return through the cheviots they quarrelled about the division of the great booty they had acquired, and came from words to blows. the lowlanders were cut off to a man, and their chief fell the last, covered with wounds by the sword of my ancestor. since that time his spirit has crossed the vich ian vohr of the day when any great disaster was impending, but especially before approaching death. my father saw him twice, once before he was made prisoner at sheriff-muir, another time on the morning of the day on which he died.' 'how can you, my dear fergus, tell such nonsense with a grave face?' ' i do not ask you to believe it; but i tell you the truth, ascertained by three hundred years' experience at least, and last night by my own eyes.' 'the particulars, for heaven's sake!' said waverley, with eagerness. 'i will, on condition you will not attempt a jest on the subject. since this unhappy retreat commenced i have scarce ever been able to sleep for thinking of my clan, and of this poor prince, whom they are leading back like a dog in a string, whether he will or no, and of the downfall of my family. last night i felt so feverish that i left my quarters and walked out, in hopes the keen frosty air would brace my nerves--i cannot tell how much i dislike going on, for i know you will hardly believe me. however--i crossed a small footbridge, and kept walking backwards and forwards, when i observed with surprise by the clear moonlight a tall figure in a grey plaid, such as shepherds wear in the south of scotland, which, move at what pace i would, kept regularly about four yards before me.' 'you saw a cumberland peasant in his ordinary dress, probably.' 'no; i thought so at first, and was astonished at the man's audacity in daring to dog me. i called to him, but received no answer. i felt an anxious throbbing at my heart, and to ascertain what i dreaded, i stood still and turned myself on the same spot successively to the four points of the compass. by heaven, edward, turn where i would, the figure was instantly before my eyes, at precisely the same distance! i was then convinced it was the bodach glas. my hair bristled and my knees shook. i manned myself, however, and determined to return to my quarters. my ghastly visitant glided before me (for i cannot say he walked) until he reached the footbridge; there he stopped and turned full round. i must either wade the river or pass him as close as i am to you. a desperate courage, founded on the belief that my death was near, made me resolve to make my way in despite of him. i made the sign of the cross, drew my sword, and uttered, "in the name of god, evil spirit, give place!" "vich ian vohr," it said, in a voice that made my very blood curdle, "beware of to-morrow!" it seemed at that moment not half a yard from my sword's point; but the words were no sooner spoken than it was gone, and nothing appeared further to obstruct my passage. i got home and threw myself on my bed, where i spent a few hours heavily enough; and this morning, as no enemy was reported to be near us, i took my horse and rode forward to make up matters with you. i would not willingly fall until i am in charity with a wronged friend.' edward had little doubt that this phantom was the operation of an exhausted frame and depressed spirits, working on the belief common to all highlanders in such superstitions. he did not the less pity fergus, for whom, in his present distress, he felt all his former regard revive. with the view of diverting his mind from these gloomy images, he offered, with the baron's permission, which he knew he could readily obtain, to remain in his quarters till fergus's corps should come up, and then to march with them as usual. the chief seemed much pleased, yet hesitated to accept the offer. 'we are, you know, in the rear, the post of danger in a retreat.' 'and therefore the post of honour.' 'well,' replied the chieftain, 'let alick have your horse in readiness, in case we should be overmatched, and i shall be delighted to have your company once more.' the rear-guard were late in making their appearance, having been delayed by various accidents and by the badness of the roads. at length they entered the hamlet. when waverley joined the clan mac-ivor, arm-in-arm with their chieftain, all the resentment they had entertained against him seemed blown off at once. evan dhu received him with a grin of congratulation; and even callum, who was running about as active as ever, pale indeed, and with a great patch on his head, appeared delighted to see him. 'that gallows-bird's skull,' said fergus, 'must be harder than marble; the lock of the pistol was actually broken.' 'how could you strike so young a lad so hard?' said waverley, with some interest. 'why, if i did not strike hard sometimes, the rascals would forget themselves.' they were now in full march, every caution being taken to prevent surprise. fergus's people, and a fine clan regiment from badenoch, commanded by cluny mac-pherson, had the rear. they had passed a large open moor, and were entering into the enclosures which surround a small village called clifton. the winter sun had set, and edward began to rally fergus upon the false predictions of the grey spirit. 'the ides of march are not past,' said mac-ivor, with a smile; when, suddenly casting his eyes back on the moor, a large body of cavalry was indistinctly seen to hover upon its brown and dark surface. to line the enclosures facing the open ground and the road by which the enemy must move from it upon the village was the work of a short time. while these manoeuvres were accomplishing, night sunk down, dark and gloomy, though the moon was at full. sometimes, however, she gleamed forth a dubious light upon the scene of action. the highlanders did not long remain undisturbed in the defensive position they had adopted. favoured by the night, one large body of dismounted dragoons attempted to force the enclosures, while another, equally strong, strove to penetrate by the highroad. both were received by such a heavy fire as disconcerted their ranks and effectually checked their progress. unsatisfied with the advantage thus gained, fergus, to whose ardent spirit the approach of danger seemed to restore all its elasticity, drawing his sword and calling out 'claymore!' encouraged his men, by voice and example, to break through the hedge which divided them and rush down upon the enemy. mingling with the dismounted dragoons, they forced them, at the sword-point, to fly to the open moor, where a considerable number were cut to pieces. but the moon, which suddenly shone out, showed to the english the small number of assailants, disordered by their own success. two squadrons of horse moving to the support of their companions, the highlanders endeavoured to recover the enclosures. but several of them, amongst others their brave chieftain, were cut off and surrounded before they could effect their purpose. waverley, looking eagerly for fergus, from whom, as well as from the retreating body of his followers, he had been separated in the darkness and tumult, saw him, with evan dhu and callum, defending themselves desperately against a dozen of horsemen, who were hewing at them with their long broadswords. the moon was again at that moment totally overclouded, and edward, in the obscurity, could neither bring aid to his friends nor discover which way lay his own road to rejoin the rear-guard. after once or twice narrowly escaping being slain or made prisoner by parties of the cavalry whom he encountered in the darkness, he at length reached an enclosure, and, clambering over it, concluded himself in safety and on the way to the highland forces, whose pipes he heard at some distance. for fergus hardly a hope remained, unless that he might be made prisoner revolving his fate with sorrow and anxiety, the superstition of the bodach glas recurred to edward's recollection, and he said to himself, with internal surprise 'what, can the devil speak truth?' [footnote: see note .] chapter lx chapter of accidents edward was in a most unpleasant and dangerous situation. he soon lost the sound of the bagpipes; and, what was yet more unpleasant, when, after searching long in vain and scrambling through many enclosures, he at length approached the highroad, he learned, from the unwelcome noise of kettledrums and trumpets, that the english cavalry now occupied it, and consequently were between him and the highlanders. precluded, therefore, from advancing in a straight direction, he resolved to avoid the english military and endeavour to join his friends by making a circuit to the left, for which a beaten path, deviating from the main road in that direction, seemed to afford facilities. the path was muddy and the night dark and cold; but even these inconveniences were hardly felt amidst the apprehensions which falling into the hands of the king's forces reasonably excited in his bosom. after walking about three miles, he at length reached a hamlet. conscious that the common people were in general unfavourable to the cause he had espoused, yet desirous, if possible, to procure a horse and guide to penrith, where he hoped to find the rear, if not the main body, of the chevalier's army, he approached the alehouse of the place. there was a great noise within; he paused to listen. a round english oath or two, and the burden of a campaign song, convinced him the hamlet also was occupied by the duke of cumberland's soldiers. endeavouring to retire from it as softly as possible, and blessing the obscurity which hitherto he had murmured against, waverley groped his way the best he could along a small paling, which seemed the boundary of some cottage garden. as he reached the gate of this little enclosure, his outstretched hand was grasped by that of a female, whose voice at the same time uttered, 'edward, is't thou, man?' 'here is some unlucky mistake,' thought edward, struggling, but gently, to disengage himself. 'naen o' thy foun, now, man, or the red cwoats will hear thee; they hae been houlerying and poulerying every ane that past alehouse door this noight to make them drive their waggons and sick loike. come into feyther's, or they'll do ho a mischief.' 'a good hint,' thought waverley, following the girl through the little garden into a brick-paved kitchen, where she set herself to kindle a match at an expiring fire, and with the match to light a candle. she had no sooner looked on edward than she dropped the light, with a shrill scream of 'o feyther, feyther!' the father, thus invoked, speedily appeared--a sturdy old farmer, in a pair of leather breeches, and boots pulled on without stockings, having just started from his bed; the rest of his dress was only a westmoreland statesman's robe-de-chambre--that is, his shirt. his figure was displayed to advantage by a candle which he bore in his left hand; in his right he brandished a poker. 'what hast ho here, wench?' 'o!' cried the poor girl, almost going off in hysterics, 'i thought it was ned williams, and it is one of the plaid-men.' 'and what was thee ganging to do wi' ned williams at this time o' noight?' to this, which was, perhaps, one of the numerous class of questions more easily asked than answered, the rosy-cheeked damsel made no reply, but continued sobbing and wringing her hands. 'and thee, lad, dost ho know that the dragoons be a town? dost ho know that, mon? ad, they'll sliver thee loike a turnip, mon.' 'i know my life is in great danger,' said waverley, 'but if you can assist me, i will reward you handsomely. i am no scotchman, but an unfortunate english gentleman.' 'be ho scot or no,' said the honest farmer, 'i wish thou hadst kept the other side of the hallan. but since thou art here, jacob jopson will betray no man's bluid; and the plaids were gay canny, and did not do so much mischief when they were here yesterday.' accordingly, he set seriously about sheltering and refreshing our hero for the night. the fire was speedily rekindled, but with precaution against its light being seen from without. the jolly yeoman cut a rasher of bacon, which cicely soon broiled, and her father added a swingeing tankard of his best ale. it was settled that edward should remain there till the troops marched in the morning, then hire or buy a horse from the farmer, and, with the best directions that could be obtained, endeavour to overtake his friends. a clean, though coarse, bed received him after the fatigues of this unhappy day. with the morning arrived the news that the highlanders had evacuated penrith, and marched off towards carlisle; that the duke of cumberland was in possession of penrith, and that detachments of his army covered the roads in every direction. to attempt to get through undiscovered would be an act of the most frantic temerity. ned williams (the right edward) was now called to council by cicely and her father. ned, who perhaps did not care that his handsome namesake should remain too long in the same house with his sweetheart, for fear of fresh mistakes, proposed that waverley, exchanging his uniform and plaid for the dress of the country, should go with him to his father's farm near ullswater, and remain in that undisturbed retirement until the military movements in the country should have ceased to render his departure hazardous. a price was also agreed upon, at which the stranger might board with farmer williams if he thought proper, till he could depart with safety. it was of moderate amount; the distress of his situation, among this honest and simple-hearted race, being considered as no reason for increasing their demand. the necessary articles of dress were accordingly procured, and, by following by-paths known to the young farmer, they hoped to escape any unpleasant rencontre. a recompense for their hospitality was refused peremptorily by old jopson and his cherry-cheeked daughter; a kiss paid the one and a hearty shake of the hand the other. both seemed anxious for their guest's safety, and took leave of him with kind wishes. in the course of their route edward, with his guide, traversed those fields which the night before had been the scene of action. a brief gleam of december's sun shone sadly on the broad heath, which, towards the spot where the great north-west road entered the enclosures of lord lonsdale's property, exhibited dead bodies of men and horses, and the usual companions of war, a number of carrion-crows, hawks, and ravens. 'and this, then, was thy last field,' said waverley to himself, his eye filling at the recollection of the many splendid points of fergus's character, and of their former intimacy, all his passions and imperfections forgotten--'here fell the last vich ian vohr, on a nameless heath; and in an obscure night-skirmish was quenched that ardent spirit, who thought it little to cut a way for his master to the british throne! ambition, policy, bravery, all far beyond their sphere, here learned the fate of mortals. the sole support, too, of a sister whose spirit, as proud and unbending, was even more exalted than thine own; here ended all thy hopes for flora, and the long and valued line which it was thy boast to raise yet more highly by thy adventurous valour!' as these ideas pressed on waverley's mind, he resolved to go upon the open heath and search if, among the slain, he could discover the body of his friend, with the pious intention of procuring for him the last rites of sepulture. the timorous young man who accompanied him remonstrated upon the danger of the attempt, but edward was determined. the followers of the camp had already stripped the dead of all they could carry away; but the country people, unused to scenes of blood, had not yet approached the field of action, though some stood fearfully gazing at a distance. about sixty or seventy dragoons lay slain within the first enclosure, upon the highroad, and on the open moor. of the highlanders, not above a dozen had fallen, chiefly those who, venturing too far on the moor, could not regain the strong ground. he could not find the body of fergus among the slain. on a little knoll, separated from the others, lay the carcasses of three english dragoons, two horses, and the page callum beg, whose hard skull a trooper's broadsword had, at length, effectually cloven. it was possible his clan had carried off the body of fergus; but it was also possible he had escaped, especially as evan dhu, who would never leave his chief, was not found among the dead; or he might be prisoner, and the less formidable denunciation inferred from the appearance of the bodach glas might have proved the true one. the approach of a party sent for the purpose of compelling the country people to bury the dead, and who had already assembled several peasants for that purpose, now obliged edward to rejoin his guide, who awaited him in great anxiety and fear under shade of the plantations. after leaving this field of death, the rest of their journey was happily accomplished. at the house of farmer williams, edward passed for a young kinsman, educated for the church, who was come to reside there till the civil tumults permitted him to pass through the country. this silenced suspicion among the kind and simple yeomanry of cumberland, and accounted sufficiently for the grave manners and retired habits of the new guest. the precaution became more necessary than waverley had anticipated, as a variety of incidents prolonged his stay at fasthwaite, as the farm was called. a tremendous fall of snow rendered his departure impossible for more than ten days. when the roads began to become a little practicable, they successively received news of the retreat of the chevalier into scotland; then, that he had abandoned the frontiers, retiring upon glasgow; and that the duke of cumberland had formed the siege of carlisle. his army, therefore, cut off all possibility of waverley's escaping into scotland in that direction. on the eastern border marshal wade, with a large force, was advancing upon edinburgh; and all along the frontier, parties of militia, volunteers, and partizans were in arms to suppress insurrection, and apprehend such stragglers from the highland army as had been left in england. the surrender of carlisle, and the severity with which the rebel garrison were threatened, soon formed an additional reason against venturing upon a solitary and hopeless journey through a hostile country and a large army, to carry the assistance of a single sword to a cause which seemed altogether desperate. in this lonely and secluded situation, without the advantage of company or conversation with men of cultivated minds, the arguments of colonel talbot often recurred to the mind of our hero. a still more anxious recollection haunted his slumbers--it was the dying look and gesture of colonel gardiner. most devoutly did he hope, as the rarely occurring post brought news of skirmishes with various success, that it might never again be his lot to draw his sword in civil conflict. then his mind turned to the supposed death of fergus, to the desolate situation of flora, and, with yet more tender recollection, to that of rose bradwardine, who was destitute of the devoted enthusiasm of loyalty, which to her friend hallowed and exalted misfortune. these reveries he was permitted to enjoy, undisturbed by queries or interruption; and it was in many a winter walk by the shores of ullswater that he acquired a more complete mastery of a spirit tamed by adversity than his former experience had given him; and that he felt himself entitled to say firmly, though perhaps with a sigh, that the romance of his life was ended, and that its real history had now commenced. he was soon called upon to justify his pretensions by reason and philosophy. chapter lxi a journey to london theamily at fasthwaite were soon attached to edward. he had, indeed, that gentleness and urbanity which almost universally attracts corresponding kindness; and to their simple ideas his learning gave him consequence, and his sorrows interest. the last he ascribed, evasively, to the loss of a brother in the skirmish near clifton; and in that primitive state of society, where the ties of affection were highly deemed of, his continued depression excited sympathy, but not surprise. in the end of january his more lively powers were called out by the happy union of edward williams, the son of his host, with cicely jopson. our hero would not cloud with sorrow the festivity attending the wedding of two persons to whom he was so highly obliged. he therefore exerted himself, danced, sung, played at the various games of the day, and was the blithest of the company. the next morning, however, he had more serious matters to think of. the clergyman who had married the young couple was so much pleased with the supposed student of divinity, that he came next day from penrith on purpose to pay him a visit. this might have been a puzzling chapter had he entered into any examination of our hero's supposed theological studies; but fortunately he loved better to hear and communicate the news of the day. he brought with him two or three old newspapers, in one of which edward found a piece of intelligence that soon rendered him deaf to every word which the reverend mr. twigtythe was saying upon the news from the north, and the prospect of the duke's speedily overtaking and crushing the rebels. this was an article in these, or nearly these words:-- 'died at his house, in hill street, berkeley square, upon the th inst., richard waverley, esq., second son of sir giles waverley of waverley-honour, etc. etc. he died of a lingering disorder, augmented by the unpleasant predicament of suspicion in which he stood, having been obliged to find bail to a high amount to meet an impending accusation of high-treason. an accusation of the same grave crime hangs over his elder brother, sir everard waverley, the representative of that ancient family; and we understand the day of his trial will be fixed early in the next month, unless edward waverley, son of the deceased richard, and heir to the baronet, shall surrender himself to justice. in that case we are assured it is his majesty's gracious purpose to drop further proceedings upon the charge against sir everard. this unfortunate young gentleman is ascertained to have been in arms in the pretender's service, and to have marched along with the highland troops into england. but he has not been heard of since the skirmish at clifton, on the th december last.' such was this distracting paragraph. 'good god!' exclaimed waverley, 'am i then a parricide? impossible! my father, who never showed the affection of a father while he lived, cannot have been so much affected by my supposed death as to hasten his own; no, i will not believe it, it were distraction to entertain for a moment such a horrible idea. but it were, if possible, worse than parricide to suffer any danger to hang over my noble and generous uncle, who has ever been more to me than a father, if such evil can be averted by any sacrifice on my part!' while these reflections passed like the stings of scorpions through waverley's sensorium, the worthy divine was startled in a long disquisition on the battle of falkirk by the ghastliness which they communicated to his looks, and asked him if he was ill? fortunately the bride, all smirk and blush, had just entered the room. mrs. williams was none of the brightest of women, but she was good-natured, and readily concluding that edward had been shocked by disagreeable news in the papers, interfered so judiciously, that, without exciting suspicion, she drew off mr. twigtythe's attention, and engaged it until he soon after took his leave. waverley then explained to his friends that he was under the necessity of going to london with as little delay as possible. one cause of delay, however, did occur, to which waverley had been very little accustomed. his purse, though well stocked when he first went to tully-veolan, had not been reinforced since that period; and although his life since had not been of a nature to exhaust it hastily, for he had lived chiefly with his friends or with the army, yet he found that, after settling with his kind landlord, he should be too poor to encounter the expense of travelling post. the best course, therefore, seemed to be to get into the great north road about boroughbridge, and there take a place in the northern diligence, a huge old-fashioned tub, drawn by three horses, which completed the journey from edinburgh to london (god willing, as the advertisement expressed it) in three weeks. our hero, therefore, took an affectionate farewell of his cumberland friends, whose kindness he promised never to forget, and tacitly hoped ene day to acknowledge by substantial proofs of gratitude. after some petty difficulties and vexatious delays, and after putting his dress into a shape better befitting his rank, though perfectly plain and simple, he accomplished crossing the country, and found himself in the desired vehicle vis-a-vis to mrs. nosebag, the lady of lieutenant nosebag, adjutant and riding-master of the--dragoons, a jolly woman of about fifty, wearing a blue habit, faced with scarlet, and grasping a silver-mounted horse-whip. this lady was one of those active members of society who take upon them faire lefrais de la conversation. she had just returned from the north, and informed edward how nearly her regiment had cut the petticoat people into ribands at falkirk, 'only somehow there was one of those nasty, awkward marshes, that they are never without in scotland, i think, and so our poor dear little regiment suffered something, as my nosebag says, in that unsatisfactory affair. you, sir, have served in the dragoons?' waverley was taken so much at unawares that he acquiesced. 'o, i knew it at once; i saw you were military from your air, and i was sure you could be none of the foot-wobblers, as my nosebag calls them. what regiment, pray?' here was a delightful question. waverley, however, justly concluded that this good lady had the whole army-list by heart; and, to avoid detection by adhering to truth, answered, 'gardiner's dragoons, ma'am; but i have retired some time.' 'o aye, those as won the race at the battle of preston, as my nosebag says. pray, sir, were you there?' 'i was so unfortunate, madam,' he replied, 'as to witness that engagement.' 'and that was a misfortune that few of gardiner's stood to witness, i believe, sir--ha! ha! ha! i beg your pardon; but a soldier's wife loves a joke.' 'devil confound you,' thought waverley: 'what infernal luck has penned me up with this inquisitive hag!' fortunately the good lady did not stick long to one subject. 'we are coming to ferrybridge now,' she said, 'where there was a party of ours left to support the beadles, and constables, and justices, and these sort of creatures that are examining papers and stopping rebels, and all that.' they were hardly in the inn before she dragged waverley to the window, exclaiming, 'yonder comes corporal bridoon, of our poor dear troop; he's coming with the constable man. bridoon's one of my lambs, as nosebag calls 'ern. come, mr.--a--a--pray, what's your name, sir?' 'butler, ma'am,' said waverley, resolved rather to make free with the name of a former fellow-officer than run the risk of detection by inventing one not to be found in the regiment. 'o, you got a troop lately, when that shabby fellow, waverley, went over to the rebels? lord, i wish our old cross captain crump would go over to the rebels, that nosebag might get the troop! lord, what can bridoon be standing swinging on the bridge for? i'll be hanged if he a'nt hazy, as nosebag says. come, sir, as you and i belong to the service, we'll go put the rascal in mind of his duty.' waverley, with feelings more easily conceived than described, saw himself obliged to follow this doughty female commander. the gallant trooper was as like a lamb as a drunk corporal of dragoons, about six feet high, with very broad shoulders, and very thin legs, not to mention a great scar across his nose, could well be. mrs. nosebag addressed him with something which, if not an oath, sounded very like one, and commanded him to attend to his duty. 'you be d--d for a ----,' commenced the gallant cavalier; but, looking up in order to suit the action to the words, and also to enforce the epithet which he meditated with an adjective applicable to the party, he recognised the speaker, made his military salaam, and altered his tone. 'lord love your handsome face, madam nosebag, is it you? why, if a poor fellow does happen to fire a slug of a morning, i am sure you were never the lady to bring him to harm.' 'well, you rascallion, go, mind your duty; this gentleman and i belong to the service; but be sure you look after that shy cock in the slouched hat that sits in the corner of the coach. i believe he's one of the rebels in disguise.' 'd--n her gooseberry wig,' said the corporal, when she was out of hearing, 'that gimlet-eyed jade--mother adjutant, as we call her--is a greater plague to the regiment than provost-marshal, sergeant-major, and old hubble-de-shuff, the colonel, into the bargain. come, master constable, let's see if this shy cock, as she calls him (who, by the way, was a quaker from leeds, with whom mrs. nosebag had had some tart argument on the legality of bearing arms), will stand godfather to a sup of brandy, for your yorkshire ale is cold on my stomach.' the vivacity of this good lady, as it helped edward out of this scrape, was like to have drawn him into one or two others. in every town where they stopped she wished to examine the corps de garde, if there was one, and once very narrowly missed introducing waverley to a recruiting-sergeant of his own regiment. then she captain'd and butler'd him till he was almost mad with vexation and anxiety; and never was he more rejoiced in his life at the termination of a journey than when the arrival of the coach in london freed him from the attentions of madam nosebag. chapter lxii what's to be done next? itwas twilight when they arrived in town; and having shaken off his companions, and walked through a good many streets to avoid the possibility of being traced by them, edward took a hackney-coach and drove to colonel talbot's house, in one of the principal squares at the west end of the town. that gentleman, by the death of relations, had succeeded since his marriage to a large fortune, possessed considerable political interest, and lived in what is called great style. when waverley knocked at his door he found it at first difficult to procure admittance, but at length was shown into an apartment where the colonel was at table. lady emily, whose very beautiful features were still pallid from indisposition, sate opposite to him. the instant he heard waverley's voice, he started up and embraced him. 'frank stanley, my dear boy, how d'ye do? emily, my love, this is young stanley.' the blood started to the lady's cheek as she gave waverley a reception in which courtesy was mingled with kindness, while her trembling hand and faltering voice showed how much she was startled and discomposed. dinner was hastily replaced, and while waverley was engaged in refreshing himself, the colonel proceeded--'i wonder you have come here, frank; the doctors tell me the air of london is very bad for your complaints. you should not have risked it. but i am delighted to see you, and so is emily, though i fear we must not reckon upon your staying long.' 'some particular business brought me up,' muttered waverley. 'i supposed so, but i shan't allow you to stay long. spontoon' (to an elderly military-looking servant out of livery),'take away these things, and answer the bell yourself, if i ring. don't let any of the other fellows disturb us. my nephew and i have business to talk of.' when the servants had retired, 'in the name of god, waverley, what has brought you here? it may be as much as your life is worth.' 'dear mr. waverley,' said lady emily, 'to whom i owe so much more than acknowledgments can ever pay, how could you be so rash?' 'my father--my uncle--this paragraph,'--he handed the paper to colonel talbot. 'i wish to heaven these scoundrels were condemned to be squeezed to death in their own presses,' said talbot. 'i am told there are not less than a dozen of their papers now published in town, and no wonder that they are obliged to invent lies to find sale for their journals. it is true, however, my dear edward, that you have lost your father; but as to this flourish of his unpleasant situation having grated upon his spirits and hurt his health--the truth is--for though it is harsh to say so now, yet it will relieve your mind from the idea of weighty responsibility--the truth then is, that mr. richard waverley, through this whole business, showed great want of sensibility, both to your situation and that of your uncle; and the last time i saw him, he told me, with great glee, that, as i was so good as to take charge of your interests, he had thought it best to patch up a separate negotiation for himself, and make his peace with government through some channels which former connexions left still open to him.' 'and my uncle, my dear uncle?' 'is in no danger whatever. it is true (looking at the date of the paper) there was a foolish report some time ago to the purport here quoted, but it is entirely false. sir everard is gone down to waverley-honour, freed from all uneasiness, unless upon your own account. but you are in peril yourself; your name is in every proclamation; warrants are out to apprehend you. how and when did you come here?' edward told his story at length, suppressing his quarrel with fergus; for, being himself partial to highlanders, he did not wish to give any advantage to the colonel's national prejudice against them. 'are you sure it was your friend glen's foot-boy you saw dead in clifton moor?' 'quite positive.' 'then that little limb of the devil has cheated the gallows, for cut-throat was written in his face; though (turning to lady emily) it was a very handsome face too. but for you, edward, i wish you would go down again to cumberland, or rather i wish you had never stirred from thence, for there is an embargo in all the seaports, and a strict search for the adherents of the pretender; and the tongue of that confounded woman will wag in her head like the clack of a mill, till somehow or other she will detect captain butler to be a feigned personage.' 'do you know anything,' asked waverley, 'of my fellow-traveller?' 'her husband was my sergeant-major for six years; she was a buxom widow, with a little money; he married her, was steady, and got on by being a good drill. i must send spontoon to see what she is about; he will find her out among the old regimental connections. to-morrow you must be indisposed, and keep your room from fatigue. lady emily is to be your nurse, and spontoon and i your attendants. you bear the name of a near relation of mine, whom none of my present people ever saw, except spontoon, so there will be no immediate danger. so pray feel your head ache and your eyes grow heavy as soon as possible, that you may be put upon the sick-list; and, emily, do you order an apartment for frank stanley, with all the attentions which an invalid may require.' in the morning the colonel visited his guest. 'now,' said he, 'i have some good news for you. your reputation as a gentleman and officer is effectually cleared of neglect of duty and accession to the mutiny in gardiner's regiment. i have had a correspondence on this subject with a very zealous friend of yours, your scottish parson, morton; his first letter was addressed to sir everard; but i relieved the good baronet of the trouble of answering it. you must know, that your free-booting acquaintance, donald of the cave, has at length fallen into the hands of the philistines. he was driving off the cattle of a certain proprietor, called killan--something or other--' 'killancureit?' 'the same. now the gentleman being, it seems, a great farmer, and having a special value for his breed of cattle, being, moreover, rather of a timid disposition, had got a party of soldiers to protect his property. so donald ran his head unawares into the lion's mouth, and was defeated and made prisoner. being ordered for execution, his conscience was assailed on the one hand by a catholic priest, on the other by your friend morton. he repulsed the catholic chiefly on account of the doctrine of extreme unction, which this economical gentleman considered as an excessive waste of oil. so his conversion from a state of impenitence fell to mr. morton's share, who, i daresay, acquitted himself excellently, though i suppose donald made but a queer kind of christian after all. he confessed, however, before a magistrate, one major melville, who seems to have been a correct, friendly sort of person, his full intrigue with houghton, explaining particularly how it was carried on, and fully acquitting you of the least accession to it. he also mentioned his rescuing you from the hands of the volunteer officer, and sending you, by orders of the pret--chevalier, i mean--as a prisoner to doune, from whence he understood you were carried prisoner to edinburgh. these are particulars which cannot but tell in your favour. he hinted that he had been employed to deliver and protect you, and rewarded for doing so; but he would not confess by whom, alleging that, though he would not have minded breaking any ordinary oath to satisfy the curiosity of mr. morton, to whose pious admonitions he owed so much, yet, in the present case he had been sworn to silence upon the edge of his dirk, [footnote: see note .] which, it seems, constituted, in his opinion, an inviolable obligation.' 'and what is become of him?' 'oh, he was hanged at stirling after the rebels raised the siege, with his lieutenant and four plaids besides; he having the advantage of a gallows more lofty than his friends.' 'well, i have little cause either to regret or rejoice at his death; and yet he has done me both good and harm to a very considerable extent.' 'his confession, at least, will serve you materially, since it wipes from your character all those suspicions which gave the accusation against you a complexion of a nature different from that with which so many unfortunate gentlemen, now or lately in arms against the government, may be justly charged. their treason--i must give it its name, though you participate in its guilt--is an action arising from mistaken virtue, and therefore cannot be classed as a disgrace, though it be doubtless highly criminal. where the guilty are so numerous, clemency must be extended to far the greater number; and i have little doubt of procuring a remission for you, providing we can keep you out of the claws of justice till she has selected and gorged upon her victims; for in this, as in other cases, it will be according to the vulgar proverb, "first come, first served." besides, government are desirous at present to intimidate the english jacobites, among whom they can find few examples for punishment. this is a vindictive and timid feeling which will soon wear off, for of all nations the english are least blood-thirsty by nature. but it exists at present, and you must therefore be kept out of the way in the mean-time.' now entered spontoon with an anxious countenance. by his regimental acquaintances he had traced out madam nosebag, and found her full of ire, fuss, and fidget at discovery of an impostor who had travelled from the north with her under the assumed name of captain butler of gardiner's dragoons. she was going to lodge an information on the subject, to have him sought for as an emissary of the pretender; but spontoon (an old soldier), while he pretended to approve, contrived to make her delay her intention. no time, however, was to be lost: the accuracy of this good dame's description might probably lead to the discovery that waverley was the pretended captain butler, an identification fraught with danger to edward, perhaps to his uncle, and even to colonel talbot. which way to direct his course was now, therefore, the question. 'to scotland,' said waverley. 'to scotland?' said the colonel; 'with what purpose? not to engage again with the rebels, i hope?' 'no; i considered my campaign ended when, after all my efforts, i could not rejoin them; and now, by all accounts, they are gone to make a winter campaign in the highlands, where such adherents as i am would rather be burdensome than useful. indeed, it seems likely that they only prolong the war to place the chevalier's person out of danger, and then to make some terms for themselves. to burden them with my presence would merely add another party, whom they would not give up and could not defend. i understand they left almost all their english adherents in garrison at carlisle, for that very reason. and on a more general view, colonel, to confess the truth, though it may lower me in your opinion, i am heartly tired of the trade of war, and am, as fletcher's humorous lieutenant says, "even as weary of this fighting-'" 'fighting! pooh, what have you seen but a skirmish or two? ah! if you saw war on the grand scale--sixty or a hundred thousand men in the field on each side!' 'i am not at all curious, colonel. "enough," says our homely proverb, "is as good as a feast." the plumed troops and the big war used to enchant me in poetry, but the night marches, vigils, couches under the wintry sky, and such accompaniments of the glorious trade, are not at all to my taste in practice; then for dry blows, i had my fill of fighting at clifton, where i escaped by a hair's-breadth half a dozen times; and you, i should think--' he stopped. 'had enough of it at preston? you mean to say,' answered the colonel, laughing; 'but 'tis my vocation, hal.' 'it is not mine, though,' said waverley; 'and having honourably got rid of the sword, which i drew only as a volunteer, i am quite satisfied with my military experience, and shall be in no hurry to take it up again.' 'i am very glad you are of that mind; but then what would you do in the north?' 'in the first place, there are some seaports on the eastern coast of scotland still in the hands of the chevalier's friends; should i gain any of them, i can easily embark for the continent.' 'good, your second reason?' 'why, to speak the very truth, there is a person in scotland upon whom i now find my happiness depends more than i was always aware, and about whose situation i am very anxious.' 'then emily was right, and there is a love affair in the case after all? and which of these two pretty scotchwomen, whom you insisted upon my admiring, is the distinguished fair? not miss glen--i hope.' 'no.' 'ah, pass for the other; simplicity may be improved, but pride and conceit never. well, i don't discourage you; i think it will please sir everard, from what he said when i jested with him about it; only i hope that intolerable papa, with his brogue, and his snuff, and his latin, and his insufferable long stories about the duke of berwick, will find it necessary hereafter to be an inhabitant of foreign parts. but as to the daughter, though i think you might find as fitting a match in england, yet if your heart be really set upon this scotch rosebud, why the baronet has a great opinion of her father and of his family, and he wishes much to see you married and settled, both for your own sake and for that of the three ermines passant, which may otherwise pass away altogether. but i will bring you his mind fully upon the subject, since you are debarred correspondence for the present, for i think you will not be long in scotland before me.' 'indeed! and what can induce you to think of returning to scotland? no relenting longings towards the land of mountains and floods, i am afraid.' 'none, on my word; but emily's health is now, thank god, reestablished, and, to tell you the truth, i have little hopes of concluding the business which i have at present most at heart until i can have a personal interview with his royal highness the commander-in-chief; for, as fluellen says, "the duke doth love me well, and i thank heaven i have deserved some love at his hands." i am now going out for an hour or two to arrange matters for your departure; your liberty extends to the next room, lady emily's parlour, where you will find her when you are disposed for music, reading, or conversation. we have taken measures to exclude all servants but spontoon, who is as true as steel.' in about two hours colonel talbot returned, and found his young friend conversing with his lady; she pleased with his manners and information, and he delighted at being restored, though but for a moment, to the society of his own rank, from which he had been for some time excluded. 'and now,' said the colonel, 'hear my arrangements, for there is little time to lose. this youngster, edward waverley, alias williams, alias captain butler, must continue to pass by his fourth alias of francis stanley, my nephew; he shall set out to-morrow for the north, and the chariot shall take him the first two stages. spontoon shall then attend him; and they shall ride post as far as huntingdon; and the presence of spontoon, well known on the road as my servant, will check all disposition to inquiry. at huntingdon you will meet the real frank stanley. he is studying at cambridge; but, a little while ago, doubtful if emily's health would permit me to go down to the north myself, i procured him a passport from the secretary of state's office to go in my stead. as he went chiefly to look after you, his journey is now unnecessary. he knows your story; you will dine together at huntingdon; and perhaps your wise heads may hit upon some plan for removing or diminishing the danger of your farther progress north-ward. and now (taking out a morocco case), let me put you in funds for the campaign.' 'i am ashamed, my dear colonel--' 'nay,' said colonel talbot, 'you should command my purse in any event; but this money is your own. your father, considering the chance of your being attainted, left me his trustee for your advantage. so that you are worth above l , , besides brere-wood lodge--a very independent person, i promise you. there are bills here for l ; any larger sum you may have, or credit abroad, as soon as your motions require it.' the first use which occurred to waverley of his newly acquired wealth was to write to honest farmer jopson, requesting his acceptance of a silver tankard on the part of his friend williams, who had not forgotten the night of the eighteenth december last. he begged him at the same time carefully to preserve for him his highland garb and accoutrements, particularly the arms, curious in themselves, and to which the friendship of the donors gave additional value. lady emily undertook to find some suitable token of remembrance likely to flatter the vanity and please the taste of mrs. williams; and the colonel, who was a kind of farmer, promised to send the ullswater patriarch an excellent team of horses for cart and plough. one happy day waverley spent in london; and, travelling in the manner projected, he met with frank stanley at huntingdon. the two young men were acquainted in a minute. 'i can read my uncle's riddle,' said stanley;'the cautious old soldier did not care to hint to me that i might hand over to you this passport, which i have no occasion for; but if it should afterwards come out as the rattle-pated trick of a young cantab, cela ne tire a rien. you are therefore to be francis stanley, with this passport.' this proposal appeared in effect to alleviate a great part of the difficulties which edward must otherwise have encountered at every turn; and accordingly he scrupled not to avail himself of it, the more especially as he had discarded all political purposes from his present journey, and could not be accused of furthering machinations against the government while travelling under protection of the secretary's passport. the day passed merrily away. the young student was inquisitive about waverley's campaigns, and the manners of the highlands, and edward was obliged to satisfy his curiosity by whistling a pibroch, dancing a strathspey, and singing a highland song. the next morning stanley rode a stage northward with his new friend, and parted from him with great reluctance, upon the remonstrances of spontoon, who, accustomed to submit to discipline, was rigid in enforcing it. chapter lxiii desolation waverley riding post, as was the usual fashion of the period, without any adventure save one or two queries, which the talisman of his passport sufficiently answered, reached the borders of scotland. here he heard the tidings of the decisive battle of culloden. it was no more than he had long expected, though the success at falkirk had thrown a faint and setting gleam over the arms of the chevalier. yet it came upon him like a shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned. the generous, the courteous, the noble-minded adventurer was then a fugitive, with a price upon his head; his adherents, so brave, so enthusiastic, so faithful, were dead, imprisoned, or exiled. where, now, was the exalted and high-souled fergus, if, indeed, he had survived the night at clifton? where the pure-hearted and primitive baron of bradwardine, whose foibles seemed foils to set off the disinterestedness of his disposition, the genuine goodness of his heart, and his unshaken courage? those who clung for support to these fallen columns, rose and flora, where were they to be sought, and in what distress must not the loss of their natural protectors have involved them? of flora he thought with the regard of a brother for a sister; of rose with a sensation yet more deep and tender. it might be still his fate to supply the want of those guardians they had lost. agitated by these thoughts he precipitated his journey. when he arrived in edinburgh, where his inquiries must necessarily commence, he felt the full difficulty of his situation. many inhabitants of that city had seen and known him as edward waverley; how, then, could he avail himself of a passport as francis stanley? he resolved, therefore, to avoid all company, and to move northward as soon as possible. he was, however, obliged to wait a day or two in expectation of a letter from colonel talbot, and he was also to leave his own address, under his feigned character, at a place agreed upon. with this latter purpose he sallied out in the dusk through the well-known streets, carefully shunning observation, but in vain: one of the first persons whom he met at once recognised him. it was mrs. flockhart, fergus mac-ivor's good-humoured landlady. 'gude guide us, mr. waverley, is this you? na, ye needna be feared for me. i wad betray nae gentleman in your circumstances. eh, lack-a-day! lack-a-day! here's a change o' markets; how merry colonel macivor and you used to be in our house!' and the good-natured widow shed a few natural tears. as there was no resisting her claim of acquaintance, waverley acknowledged it with a good grace, as well as the danger of his own situation. 'as it's near the darkening, sir, wad ye just step in by to our house and tak a dish o' tea? and i am sure if ye like to sleep in the little room, i wad tak care ye are no disturbed, and naebody wad ken ye; for kate and matty, the limmers, gaed aff wi' twa o' hawley's dragoons, and i hae twa new queans instead o' them.' waverley accepted her invitation, and engaged her lodging for a night or two, satisfied he should be safer in the house of this simple creature than anywhere else. when he entered the parlour his heart swelled to see fergus's bonnet, with the white cockade, hanging beside the little mirror. 'ay,' said mrs. flockhart, sighing, as she observed the direction of his eyes, 'the puir colonel bought a new ane just the day before they marched, and i winna let them tak that ane doun, but just to brush it ilka day mysell; and whiles i look at it till i just think i hear him cry to callum to bring him his bonnet, as he used to do when he was ganging out. it's unco silly--the neighbours ca' me a jacobite, but they may say their say--i am sure it's no for that--but he was as kind-hearted a gentleman as ever lived, and as weel-fa'rd too. oh, d'ye ken, sir, when he is to suffer?' 'suffer! good heaven! why, where is he?' 'eh, lord's sake! d'ye no ken? the poor hieland body, dugald mahony, cam here a while syne, wi' ane o' his arms cuttit off, and a sair clour in the head--ye'll mind dugald, he carried aye an axe on his shouther--and he cam here just begging, as i may say, for something to eat. aweel, he tauld us the chief, as they ca'd him (but i aye ca' him the colonel), and ensign maccombich, that ye mind weel, were ta'en somewhere beside the english border, when it was sae dark that his folk never missed him till it was ower late, and they were like to gang clean daft. and he said that little callum beg (he was a bauld mischievous callant that) and your honour were killed that same night in the tuilzie, and mony mae braw men. but he grat when he spak o' the colonel, ye never saw the like. and now the word gangs the colonel is to be tried, and to suffer wi' them that were ta'en at carlisle.' 'and his sister?' 'ay, that they ca'd the lady flora--weel, she's away up to carlisle to him, and lives wi' some grand papist lady thereabouts to be near him.' 'and,' said edward,'the other young lady?' 'whilk other? i ken only of ae sister the colonel had.' 'i mean miss bradwardine,' said edward. 'ou, ay; the laird's daughter' said his landlady. 'she was a very bonny lassie, poor thing, but far shyer than lady flora.' 'where is she, for god's sake?' 'ou, wha kens where ony o' them is now? puir things, they're sair ta'en doun for their white cockades and their white roses; but she gaed north to her father's in perthshire, when the government troops cam back to edinbro'. there was some prettymen amang them, and ane major whacker was quartered on me, a very ceevil gentleman,--but o, mr. waverley, he was naething sae weel fa'rd as the puir colonel.' 'do you know what is become of miss bradwardine's father?' 'the auld laird? na, naebody kens that. but they say he fought very hard in that bluidy battle at inverness; and deacon clank, the whit-iron smith, says that the government folk are sair agane him for having been out twice; and troth he might hae ta'en warning, but there's nae me like an auld fule. the puir colonel was only out ance.' such conversation contained almost all the good-natured widow knew of the fate of her late lodgers and acquaintances; but it was enough to determine edward, at all hazards, to proceed instantly to tully-veolan, where he concluded he should see, or at least hear, something of rose. he therefore left a letter for colonel talbot at the place agreed upon, signed by his assumed name, and giving for his address the post-town next to the baron's residence. from edinburgh to perth he took post-horses, resolving to make the rest of his journey on foot; a mode of travelling to which he was partial, and which had the advantage of permitting a deviation from the road when he saw parties of military at a distance. his campaign had considerably strengthened his constitution and improved his habits of enduring fatigue. his baggage he sent before him as opportunity occurred. as he advanced northward, the traces of war became visible. broken carriages, dead horses, unroofed cottages, trees felled for palisades, and bridges destroyed or only partially repaired--all indicated the movements of hostile armies. in those places where the gentry were attached to the stuart cause, their houses seemed dismantled or deserted, the usual course of what may be called ornamental labour was totally interrupted, and the inhabitants were seen gliding about, with fear, sorrow, and dejection on their faces. it was evening when he approached the village of tully-veolan, with feelings and sentiments--how different from those which attended his first entrance! then, life was so new to him that a dull or disagreeable day was one of the greatest misfortunes which his imagination anticipated, and it seemed to him that his time ought only to be consecrated to elegant or amusing study, and relieved by social or youthful frolic. now, how changed! how saddened, yet how elevated was his character, within the course of a very few months! danger and misfortune are rapid, though severe teachers. 'a sadder and a wiser man,' he felt in internal confidence and mental dignity a compensation for the gay dreams which in his case experience had so rapidly dissolved. as he approached the village he saw, with surprise and anxiety, that a party of soldiers were quartered near it, and, what was worse, that they seemed stationary there. this he conjectured from a few tents which he beheld glimmering upon what was called the common moor. to avoid the risk of being stopped and questioned in a place where he was so likely to be recognised, he made a large circuit, altogether avoiding the hamlet, and approaching the upper gate of the avenue by a by-path well known to him. a single glance announced that great changes had taken place. one half of the gate, entirely destroyed and split up for firewood, lay in piles, ready to be taken away; the other swung uselessly about upon its loosened hinges. the battlements above the gate were broken and thrown down, and the carved bears, which were said to have done sentinel's duty upon the top for centuries, now, hurled from their posts, lay among the rubbish. the avenue was cruelly wasted. several large trees were felled and left lying across the path; and the cattle of the villagers, and the more rude hoofs of dragoon horses, had poached into black mud the verdant turf which waverley had so much admired. upon entering the court-yard, edward saw the fears realised which these circumstances had excited. the place had been sacked by the king's troops, who, in wanton mischief, had even attempted to burn it; and though the thickness of the walls had resisted the fire, unless to a partial extent, the stables and out-houses were totally consumed. the towers and pinnacles of the main building were scorched and blackened; the pavement of the court broken and shattered, the doors torn down entirely, or hanging by a single hinge, the windows dashed in and demolished, and the court strewed with articles of furniture broken into fragments. the accessaries of ancient distinction, to which the baron, in the pride of his heart, had attached so much importance and veneration, were treated with peculiar contumely. the fountain was demolished, and the spring which had supplied it now flooded the court-yard. the stone basin seemed to be destined for a drinking-trough for cattle, from the manner in which it was arranged upon the ground. the whole tribe of bears, large and small, had experienced as little favour as those at the head of the avenue, and one or two of the family pictures, which seemed to have served as targets for the soldiers, lay on the ground in tatters. with an aching heart, as may well be imagined, edward viewed this wreck of a mansion so respected. but his anxiety to learn the fate of the proprietors, and his fears as to what that fate might be, increased with every step. when he entered upon the terrace new scenes of desolation were visible. the balustrade was broken down, the walls destroyed, the borders overgrown with weeds, and the fruit-trees cut down or grubbed up. in one compartment of this old-fashioned garden were two immense horse-chestnut trees, of whose size the baron was particularly vain; too lazy, perhaps, to cut them down, the spoilers, with malevolent ingenuity, had mined them and placed a quantity of gunpowder in the cavity. one had been shivered to pieces by the explosion, and the fragments lay scattered around, encumbering the ground it had so long shadowed. the other mine had been more partial in its effect. about one-fourth of the trunk of the tree was torn from the mass, which, mutilated and defaced on the one side, still spread on the other its ample and undiminished boughs. [footnote: a pair of chestnut trees, destroyed, the one entirely and the other in part, by such a mischievous and wanton act of revenge, grew at invergarry castle, the fastness of macdonald of glengarry.] amid these general marks of ravage, there were some which more particularly addressed the feelings of waverley. viewing the front of the building thus wasted and defaced, his eyes naturally sought the little balcony which more properly belonged to rose's apartment, her troisieme, or rather cinquieme, etage. it was easily discovered, for beneath it lay the stage-flowers and shrubs with which it was her pride to decorate it, and which had been hurled from the bartizan; several of her books were mingled with broken flower-pots and other remnants. among these waverley distinguished one of his own, a small copy of ariosto, and gathered it as a treasure, though wasted by the wind and rain. while, plunged in the sad reflections which the scene excited, he was looking around for some one who might explain the fate of the inhabitants, he heard a voice from the interior of the building singing, in well-remembered accents, an old scottish song:-- they came upon us in the night, and brake my bower and slew my knight; my servants a' for life did flee, and left us in extremitie. they slew my knight, to me sae dear; they slew my knight, and drave his gear; the moon may set, the sun may rise, but a deadly sleep has closed his eyes. [footnote: the first three couplets are from an old ballad, called the border widow's lament.] 'alas,' thought edward, 'is it thou? poor helpless being, art thou alone left, to gibber and moan, and fill with thy wild and unconnected scraps of minstrelsy the halls that protected thee?' he then called, first low, and then louder, 'davie--davie gellatley!' the poor simpleton showed himself from among the ruins of a sort of greenhouse, that once terminated what was called the terrace-walk, but at first sight of a stranger retreated, as if in terror. waverley, remembering his habits, began to whistle a tune to which he was partial, which davie had expressed great pleasure in listening to, and had picked up from him by the ear. our hero's minstrelsy no more equalled that of blondel than poor davie resembled coeur de lion; but the melody had the same effect of producing recognition. davie again stole from his lurking-place, but timidly, while waverley, afraid of frightening him, stood making the most encouraging signals he could devise. 'it's his ghaist,' muttered davie; yet, coming nearer, he seemed to acknowledge his living acquaintance. the poor fool himself appeared the ghost of what he had been. the peculiar dress in which he had been attired in better days showed only miserable rags of its whimsical finery, the lack of which was oddly supplied by the remnants of tapestried hangings, window-curtains, and shreds of pictures with which he had bedizened his tatters. his face, too, had lost its vacant and careless air, and the poor creature looked hollow-eyed, meagre, half-starved, and nervous to a pitiable degree. after long hesitation, he at length approached waverley with some confidence, stared him sadly in the face, and said, 'a' dead and gane--a' dead and gane.' 'who are dead?' said waverley, forgetting the incapacity of davie to hold any connected discourse. 'baron, and bailie, and saunders saunderson, and lady rose that sang sae sweet--a' dead and gane--dead and gane; but follow, follow me, while glowworms light the lea, i'll show ye where the dead should be-- each in his shroud, while winds pipe loud, and the red moon peeps dim through the cloud. follow, follow me; brave should he be that treads by night the dead man's lea.' with these words, chanted in a wild and earnest tone, he made a sign to waverley to follow him, and walked rapidly towards the bottom of the garden, tracing the bank of the stream which, it may be remembered, was its eastern boundary. edward, over whom an involuntary shuddering stole at the import of his words, followed him in some hope of an explanation. as the house was evidently deserted, he could not expect to find among the ruins any more rational informer. davie, walking very fast, soon reached the extremity of the garden, and scrambled over the ruins of the wall that once had divided it from the wooded glen in which the old tower of tully-veolan was situated. he then jumped down into the bed of the stream, and, followed by waverley, proceeded at a great pace, climbing over some fragments of rock and turning with difficulty round others. they passed beneath the ruins of the castle; waverley followed, keeping up with his guide with difficulty, for the twilight began to fall. following the descent of the stream a little lower, he totally lost him, but a twinkling light which he now discovered among the tangled copse-wood and bushes seemed a surer guide. he soon pursued a very uncouth path; and by its guidance at length reached the door of a wretched hut. a fierce barking of dogs was at first heard, but it stilled at his approach. a voice sounded from within, and he held it most prudent to listen before he advanced. 'wha hast thou brought here, thou unsonsy villain, thou?' said an old woman, apparently in great indignation. he heard davie gellatley in answer whistle a part of the tune by which he had recalled himself to the simpleton's memory, and had now no hesitation to knock at the door. there was a dead silence instantly within, except the deep growling of the dogs; and he next heard the mistress of the hut approach the door, not probably for the sake of undoing a latch, but of fastening a bolt. to prevent this waverley lifted the latch himself. in front was an old wretched-looking woman, exclaiming, 'wha comes into folk's houses in this gate, at this time o' the night?' on one side, two grim and half-starved deer greyhounds laid aside their ferocity at his appearance, and seemed to recognise him. on the other side, half concealed by the open door, yet apparently seeking that concealment reluctantly, with a cocked pistol in his right hand and his left in the act of drawing another from his belt, stood a tall bony gaunt figure in the remnants of a faded uniform and a beard of three weeks' growth. it was the baron of bradwardine. it is unnecessary to add, that he threw aside his weapon and greeted waverley with a hearty embrace. chapter lxiv comparing of notes thearon's story was short, when divested of the adages and commonplaces, latin, english, and scotch, with which his erudition garnished it. he insisted much upon his grief at the loss of edward and of glennaquoich, fought the fields of falkirk and culloden, and related how, after all was lost in the last battle, he had returned home, under the idea of more easily finding shelter among his own tenants and on his own estate than elsewhere. a party of soldiers had been sent to lay waste his property, for clemency was not the order of the day. their proceedings, however, were checked by an order from the civil court. the estate, it was found, might not be forfeited to the crown to the prejudice of malcolm bradwardine of inch-grabbit, the heir-male, whose claim could not be prejudiced by the baron's attainder, as deriving no right through him, and who, therefore, like other heirs of entail in the same situation, entered upon possession. but, unlike many in similar circumstances, the new laird speedily showed that he intended utterly to exclude his predecessor from all benefit or advantage in the estate, and that it was his purpose to avail himself of the old baron's evil fortune to the full extent. this was the more ungenerous, as it was generally known that, from a romantic idea of not prejudicing this young man's right as heir-male, the baron had refrained from settling his estate on his daughter. this selfish injustice was resented by the country people, who were partial to their old master, and irritated against his successor. in the baron's own words, 'the matter did not coincide with the feelings of the commons of bradwardine, mr. waverley; and the tenants were slack and repugnant in payment of their mails and duties; and when my kinsman came to the village wi' the new factor, mr. james howie, to lift the rents, some wanchancy person--i suspect john heatherblutter, the auld gamekeeper, that was out wi' me in the year fifteen--fired a shot at him in the gloaming, whereby he was so affrighted, that i may say with tullius in catilinam, "abiit, evasit, erupit, effugit." he fled, sir, as one may say, incontinent to stirling. and now he hath advertised the estate for sale, being himself the last substitute in the entail. and if i were to lament about sic matters, this would grieve me mair than its passing from my immediate possession, whilk, by the course of nature, must have happened in a few years; whereas now it passes from the lineage that should have possessed it in scecula saculorum. but god's will be done, humana perpessi sumus. sir john of bradwardine--black sir john, as he is called--who was the common ancestor of our house and the inch-grabbits, little thought such a person would have sprung from his loins. mean time, he has accused me to some of the primates, the rulers for the time, as if i were a cut-throat, and an abettor of bravoes and assassinates and coupe-jarrets. and they have sent soldiers here to abide on the estate, and hunt me like a partridge upon the mountains, as scripture says of good king david, or like our valiant sir william wallace--not that i bring myself into comparison with either. i thought, when i heard you at the door, they had driven the auld deer to his den at last; and so i e'en proposed to die at bay, like a buck of the first head. but now, janet, canna ye gie us something for supper?' 'ou ay, sir, i'll brander the moor-fowl that john heatherblutter brought in this morning; and ye see puir davie's roasting the black hen's eggs. i daur say, mr. wauverley, ye never kend that a' the eggs that were sae weel roasted at supper in the ha'-house were aye turned by our davie? there's no the like o' him ony gate for powtering wi' his fingers amang the het peat-ashes and roasting eggs.' davie all this while lay with his nose almost in the fire, nuzzling among the ashes, kicking his heels, mumbling to himself, turning the eggs as they lay in the hot embers, as if to confute the proverb, that 'there goes reason to roasting of eggs,' and justify the eulogium which poor janet poured out upon him whom she loved, her idiot boy. 'davie's no sae silly as folk tak him for, mr. wauverley; he wadna hae brought you here unless he had kend ye was a friend to his honour; indeed the very dogs kend ye, mr. wauverley, for ye was aye kind to beast and body. i can tell you a story o' davie, wi' his honour's leave. his honour, ye see, being under hiding in thae sair times--the mair's the pity--he lies a' day, and whiles a' night, in the cove in the dern hag; but though it's a bieldy eneugh bit, and the auld gudeman o' corse-cleugh has panged it wi' a kemple o' strae amaist, yet when the country's quiet, and the night very cauld, his honour whiles creeps doun here to get a warm at the ingle and a sleep amang the blankets, and gangs awa in the morning. and so, ae morning, siccan a fright as i got! twa unlucky red-coats were up for black-fishing, or some siccan ploy--for the neb o' them's never out o' mischief--and they just got a glisk o' his honour as he gaed into the wood, and banged aff a gun at him. i out like a jer-falcon, and cried--"wad they shoot an honest woman's poor innocent bairn?" and i fleyt at them, and threepit it was my son; and they damned and swuir at me that it was the auld rebel, as the villains ca'd his honour; and davie was in the wood, and heard the tuilzie, and he, just out o' his ain head, got up the auld grey mantle that his honour had flung off him to gang the faster, and he cam out o' the very same bit o' the wood, majoring and looking about sae like his honour, that they were clean beguiled, and thought they had letten aff their gun at crack-brained sawney, as they ca' him; and they gae me saxpence, and twa saumon fish, to say naething about it. na, na, davie's no just like other folk, puir fallow; but he's no sae silly as folk tak him for. but, to be sure, how can we do eneugh for his honour, when we and ours have lived on his ground this twa hundred years; and when he keepit my puir jamie at school and college, and even at the ha'-house, till he gaed to a better place; and when he saved me frae being ta'en to perth as a witch--lord forgi'e them that would touch sic a puir silly auld body!--and has maintained puir davie at heck and manger maist feck o' his life?' waverley at length found an opportunity to interrupt janet's narrative by an inquiry after miss bradwardine. 'she's weel and safe, thank god! at the duchran,' answered the baron; 'the laird's distantly related to us, and more nearly to my chaplain, mr. rubrick; and, though he be of whig principles, yet he's not forgetful of auld friendship at this time. the bailie's doing what he can to save something out of the wreck for puir rose; but i doubt, i doubt, i shall never see her again, for i maun lay my banes in some far country.' 'hout na, your honour,' said old janet, 'ye were just as ill aff in the feifteen, and got the bonnie baronie back, an' a'. and now the eggs is ready, and the muir-cock's brandered, and there's ilk ane a trencher and some saut, and the heel o' the white loaf that cam frae the bailie's, and there's plenty o' brandy in the greybeard that luckie maclearie sent doun, and winna ye be suppered like princes?' 'i wish one prince, at least, of our acquaintance may be no worse off,' said the baron to waverley, who joined him in cordial hopes for the safety of the unfortunate chevalier. they then began to talk of their future prospects. the baron's plan was very simple. it was, to escape to france, where, by the interest of his old friends, he hoped to get some military employment, of which he still conceived himself capable. he invited waverley to go with him, a proposal in which he acquiesced, providing the interest of colonel talbot should fail in procuring his pardon. tacitly he hoped the baron would sanction his addresses to rose, and give him a right to assist him in his exile; but he forbore to speak on this subject until his own fate should be decided. they then talked of glennaquoich, for whom the baron expressed great anxiety, although, he observed, he was 'the very achilles of horatius flaccus,-- impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer; which,' he continued, 'has been thus rendered (vernacularly) by struan robertson:-- a fiery etter-cap, a fractious chiel, as het as ginger, and as stieve as steel.' flora had a large and unqualified share of the good old man's sympathy. it was now wearing late. old janet got into some kind of kennel behind the hallan; davie had been long asleep and snoring between ban and buscar. these dogs had followed him to the hut after the mansion-house was deserted, and there constantly resided; and their ferocity, with the old woman's reputation of being a witch, contributed a good deal to keep visitors from the glen. with this view, bailie macwheeble provided janet underhand with meal for their maintenance, and also with little articles of luxury for his patron's use, in supplying which much precaution was necessarily used. after some compliments, the baron occupied his usual couch, and waverley reclined in an easy chair of tattered velvet, which had once garnished the state bed-room of tully-veolan (for the furniture of this mansion was now scattered through all the cottages in the vicinity), and went to sleep as comfortably as if he had been in a bed of down. chapter lxv more explanation with the first dawn of day, old janet was scuttling about the house to wake the baron, who usually slept sound and heavily. 'i must go back,' he said to waverley,'to my cove; will you walk down the glen wi' me?' they went out together, and followed a narrow and entangled foot-path, which the occasional passage of anglers or wood-cutters had traced by the side of the stream. on their way the baron explained to waverley that he would be under no danger in remaining a day or two at tully-veolan, and even in being seen walking about, if he used the precaution of pretending that he was looking at the estate as agent or surveyor for an english gentleman who designed to be purchaser. with this view he recommended to him to visit the bailie, who still lived at the factor's house, called little veolan, about a mile from the village, though he was to remove at next term. stanley's passport would be an answer to the officer who commanded the military; and as to any of the country people who might recognise waverley, the baron assured him he was in no danger of being betrayed by them. 'i believe,' said the old man, 'half the people of the barony know that their poor auld laird is somewhere hereabout; for i see they do not suffer a single bairn to come here a bird-nesting; a practice whilk, when i was in full possession of my power as baron, i was unable totally to inhibit. nay, i often find bits of things in my way, that the poor bodies, god help them! leave there, because they think they may be useful to me. i hope they will get a wiser master, and as kind a one as i was.' a natural sigh closed the sentence; but the quiet equanimity with which the baron endured his misfortunes had something in it venerable and even sublime. there was no fruitless repining, no turbid melancholy; he bore his lot, and the hardships which it involved, with a good-humored, though serious composure, and used no violent language against the prevailing party. 'i did what i thought my duty,' said the good old man, 'and questionless they are doing what they think theirs. it grieves me sometimes to look upon these blackened walls of the house of my ancestors; but doubtless officers cannot always keep the soldier's hand from depredation and spuilzie, and gustavus adolphus himself, as ye may read in colonel munro his "expedition with the worthy scotch regiment called mackay's regiment" did often permit it. indeed i have myself seen as sad sights as tully-veolan now is when i served with the marechal duke of berwick. to be sure we may say with virgilius maro, fuimus troes--and there's the end of an auld sang. but houses and families and men have a' stood lang eneugh when they have stood till they fall with honour; and now i hae gotten a house that is not unlike a domus ultima'--they were now standing below a steep rock. 'we poor jacobites,' continued the baron, looking up, 'are now like the conies in holy scripture (which the great traveller pococke calleth jerboa), a feeble people, that make our abode in the rocks. so, fare you well, my good lad, till we meet at janet's in the even; for i must get into my patmos, which is no easy matter for my auld stiff limbs.' with that he began to ascend the rock, striding, with the help of his hands, from one precarious footstep to another, till he got about half-way up, where two or three bushes concealed the mouth of a hole, resembling an oven, into which the baron insinuated, first his head and shoulders, and then, by slow gradation, the rest of his l ong body; his legs and feet finally disappearing, coiled up like a huge snake entering his retreat, or a long pedigree introduced with care and difficulty into the narrow pigeon-hole of an old cabinet. waverley had the curiosity to clamber up and look in upon him in his den, as the lurking-place might well be termed. upon the whole, he looked not unlike that ingenious puzzle called 'a reel in a bottle,' the marvel of children (and of some grown people too, myself for one), who can neither comprehend the mysteryhowit has got in or how it is to be taken out. the cave was very narrow, too low in the roof to admit of his standing, or almost of his sitting up, though he made some awkward attempts at the latter posture. his sole amusement was the perusal of his old friend titus livius, varied by occasionally scratching latin proverbs and texts of scripture with his knife on the roof and walls of his fortalice, which were of sandstone. as the cave was dry, and filled with clean straw and withered fern, 'it made,' as he said, coiling himself up with an air of snugness and comfort which contrasted strangely with his situation, 'unless when the wind was due north, a very passable gite for an old soldier.' neither, as he observed, was he without sentries for the purpose of reconnoitring. davie and his mother were constantly on the watch to discover and avert danger; and it was singular what instances of address seemed dictated by the instinctive attachment of the poor simpleton when his patron's safety was concerned. with janet, edward now sought an interview. he had recognised her at first sight as the old woman who had nursed him during his sickness after his delivery from gifted gilfillan. the hut also, although a little repaired and somewhat better furnished, was certainly the place of his confinement; and he now recollected on the common moor of tully-veolan the trunk of a large decayed tree, called the try sting-tree, which he had no doubt was the same at which the highlanders rendezvoused on that memorable night. all this he had combined in his imagination the night before; but reasons which may probably occur to the reader prevented him from catechising janet in the presence of the baron. he now commenced the task in good earnest; and the first question was, who was the young lady that visited the hut during his illness? janet paused for a little; and then observed, that to keep the secret now would neither do good nor ill to anybody. ' it was just a leddy that hasna her equal in the world--miss rose bradwardine!' 'then miss rose was probably also the author of my deliverance,' inferred waverley, delighted at the confirmation of an idea which local circumstances had already induced him to entertain. 'i wot weel, mr. wauverley, and that was she e'en; but sair, sair angry and affronted wad she hae been, puir thing, if she had thought ye had been ever to ken a word about the matter; for she gar'd me speak aye gaelic when ye was in hearing, to mak ye trow we were in the hielands. i can speak it weil eneugh, for my mother was a hieland woman.' a few more questions now brought out the whole mystery respecting waverley's deliverance from the bondage in which he left cairnvreckan. never did music sound sweeter to an amateur than the drowsy tautology with which old janet detailed every circumstance thrilled upon the ears of waverley. but my reader is not a lover and i must spare his patience, by attempting to condense within reasonable compass the narrative which old janet spread through a harangue of nearly two hours. when waverley communicated to fergus the letter he had received from rose bradwardine by davie gellatley, giving an account of tully-veolan being occupied by a small party of soldiers, that circumstance had struck upon the busy and active mind of the chieftain. eager to distress and narrow the posts of the enemy, desirous to prevent their establishing a garrison so near him, and willing also to oblige the baron--for he often had the idea of marriage with rose floating through his brain--he resolved to send some of his people to drive out the red-coats and to bring rose to glennaquoich. but just as he had ordered evan with a small party on this duty, the news of cope's having marched into the highlands, to meet and disperse the forces of the chevalier ere they came to a head, obliged him to join the standard with his whole forces. he sent to order donald bean to attend him; but that cautious freebooter, who well understood the value of a separate command, instead of joining, sent various apologies which the pressure of the times compelled fergus to admit as current, though not without the internal resolution of being revenged on him for his procrastination, time and place convenient. however, as he could not amend the matter, he issued orders to donald to descend into the low country, drive the soldiers from tully-veolan, and, paying all respect to the mansion of the baron, to take his abode somewhere near it, for protection of his daughter and family, and to harass and drive away any of the armed volunteers or small parties of military which he might find moving about the vicinity. as this charge formed a sort of roving commission, which donald proposed to interpret in the way most advantageous to himself, as he was relieved from the immediate terrors of fergus, and as he had, from former secret services, some interest in the councils of the chevalier, he resolved to make hay while the sun shone. he achieved without difficulty the task of driving the soldiers from tully-veolan; but, although he did not venture to encroach upon the interior of the family, or to disturb miss rose, being unwilling to make himself a powerful enemy in the chevalier's army, for well he knew the baron's wrath was deadly; yet he set about to raise contributions and exactions upon the tenantry, and otherwise to turn the war to his own advantage. meanwhile he mounted the white cockade, and waited upon rose with a pretext of great devotion for the service in which her father was engaged, and many apologies for the freedom he must necessarily use for the support of his people. it was at this moment that rose learned, by open-mouthed fame, with all sorts of exaggeration, that waverley had killed the smith at cairnvreckan, in an attempt to arrest him; had been cast into a dungeon by major melville of cairnvreckan, and was to be executed by martial law within three days. in the agony which these tidings excited she proposed to donald bean the rescue of the prisoner. it was the very sort of service which he was desirous to undertake, judging it might constitute a merit of such a nature as would make amends for any peccadilloes which he might be guilty of in the country. he had the art, however, pleading all the while duty and discipline, to hold off, until poor rose, in the extremity of her distress, offered to bribe him to the enterprise with some valuable jewels which had been her mother's. donald bean, who had served in france, knew, and perhaps over-estimated, the value of these trinkets. but he also perceived rose's apprehensions of its being discovered that she had parted with her jewels for waverley's liberation. resolved this scruple should not part him and the treasure, he voluntarily offered to take an oath that he would never mention miss rose's share in the transaction; and, foreseeing convenience in keeping the oath and no probable advantage in breaking it, he took the engagement--in order, as he told his lieutenant, to deal handsomely by the young lady--in the only mode and form which, by a mental paction with himself, he considered as binding: he swore secrecy upon his drawn dirk. he was the more especially moved to this act of good faith by some attentions that miss bradwardine showed to his daughter alice, which, while they gained the heart of the mountain damsel, highly gratified the pride of her father. alice, who could now speak a little english, was very communicative in return for rose's kindness, readily confided to her the whole papers respecting the intrigue with gardiner's regiment, of which she was the depositary, and as readily undertook, at her instance, to restore them to waverley without her father's knowledge. for 'they may oblige the bonnie young lady and the handsome young gentleman,' said alice, 'and what use has my father for a whin bits o' scarted paper?' the reader is aware that she took an opportunity of executing this purpose on the eve of waverley's leaving the glen. how donald executed his enterprise the reader is aware. but the expulsion of the military from tully-veolan had given alarm, and while he was lying in wait for gilfillan, a strong party, such as donald did not care to face, was sent to drive back the insurgents in their turn, to encamp there, and to protect the country. the officer, a gentleman and a disciplinarian, neither intruded himself on miss bradwardine, whose unprotected situation he respected, nor permitted his soldiers to commit any breach of discipline. he formed a little camp upon an eminence near the house of tully-veolan, and placed proper guards at the passes in the vicinity. this unwelcome news reached donald bean lean as he was returning to tully-veolan. determined, however, to obtain the guerdon of his labour, he resolved, since approach to tully-veolan was impossible, to deposit his prisoner in janet's cottage, a place the very existence of which could hardly have been suspected even by those who had long lived in the vicinity, unless they had been guided thither, and which was utterly unknown to waverley himself. this effected, he claimed and received his reward. waverley's illness was an event which deranged all their calculations. donald was obliged to leave the neighbourhood with his people, and to seek more free course for his adventures elsewhere. at rose's entreaty, he left an old man, a herbalist, who was supposed to understand a little of medicine, to attend waverley during his illness. in the meanwhile, new and fearful doubts started in rose's mind. they were suggested by old janet, who insisted that, a reward having been offered for the apprehension of waverley, and his own personal effects being so valuable, there was no saying to what breach of faith donald might be tempted. in an agony of grief and terror, rose took the daring resolution of explaining to the prince himself the danger in which mr. waverley stood, judging that, both as a politician and a man of honour and humanity, charles edward would interest himself to prevent his falling into the hands of the opposite party. this letter she at first thought of sending anonymously, but naturally feared it would not in that case be credited. she therefore subscribed her name, though with reluctance and terror, and consigned it in charge to a young man, who at leaving his farm to join the chevalier's army, made it his petition to her to have some sort of credentials to the adventurer, from whom he hoped to obtain a commission. the letter reached charles edward on his descent to the lowlands, and, aware of the political importance of having it supposed that he was in correspondence with the english jacobites, he caused the most positive orders to be transmitted to donald bean lean to transmit waverley, safe and uninjured, in person or effects, to the governor of doune castle. the freebooter durst not disobey, for the army of the prince was now so near him that punishment might have followed; besides, he was a politician as well as a robber, and was unwilling to cancel the interest created through former secret services by being refractory on this occasion. he therefore made a virtue of necessity, and transmitted orders to his lieutenant to convey edward to doune, which was safely accomplished in the mode mentioned in a former chapter. the governor of doune was directed to send him to edinburgh as a prisoner, because the prince was apprehensive that waverley, if set at liberty, might have resumed his purpose of returning to england, without affording him an opportunity of a personal interview. in this, indeed, he acted by the advice of the chieftain of glennaquoich, with whom it may be remembered the chevalier communicated upon the mode of disposing of edward, though without telling him how he came to learn the place of his confinement. this, indeed, charles edward considered as a lady's secret; for although rose's letter was couched in the most cautious and general terms, and professed to be written merely from motives of humanity and zeal for the prince's service, yet she expressed so anxious a wish that she should not be known to have interfered, that the chevalier was induced to suspect the deep interest which she took in waverley's safety. this conjecture, which was well founded, led, however, to false inferences. for the emotion which edward displayed on approaching flora and rose at the ball of holyrood was placed by the chevalier to the account of the latter; and he concluded that the baron's views about the settlement of his property, or some such obstacle, thwarted their mutual inclinations. common fame, it is true, frequently gave waverley to miss mac-ivor; but the prince knew that common fame is very prodigal in such gifts; and, watching attentively the behaviour of the ladies towards waverley, he had no doubt that the young englishman had no interest with flora, and was beloved by rose bradwardine. desirous to bind waverley to his service, and wishing also to do a kind and friendly action, the prince next assailed the baron on the subject of settling his estate upon his daughter. mr. bradwardine acquiesced; but the consequence was that fergus was immediately induced to prefer his double suit for a wife and an earldom, which the prince rejected in the manner we have seen. the chevalier, constantly engaged in his own multiplied affairs, had not hitherto sought any explanation with waverley, though often meaning to do so. but after fergus's declaration he saw the necessity of appearing neutral between the rivals, devoutly hoping that the matter, which now seemed fraught with the seeds of strife, might be permitted to lie over till the termination of the expedition. when, on the march to derby, fergus, being questioned concerning his quarrel with waverley, alleged as the cause that edward was desirous of retracting the suit he had made to his sister, the chevalier plainly told him that he had himself observed miss mac-ivor's behaviour to waverley, and that he was convinced fergus was under the influence of a mistake in judging of waverley's conduct, who, he had every reason to believe, was engaged to miss bradwardine. the quarrel which ensued between edward and the chieftain is, i hope, still in the remembrance of the reader. these circumstances will serve to explain such points of our narrative as, according to the custom of story-tellers, we deemed it fit to leave unexplained, for the purpose of exciting the reader's curiosity. when janet had once finished the leading facts of this narrative, waverley was easily enabled to apply the clue which they afforded to other mazes of the labyrinth in which he had been engaged. to rose bradwardine, then, he owed the life which he now thought he could willingly have laid down to serve her. a little reflection convinced him, however, that to live for her sake was more convenient and agreeable, and that, being possessed of independence, she might share it with him either in foreign countries or in his own. the pleasure of being allied to a man of the baron's high worth, and who was so much valued by his uncle sir everard, was also an agreeable consideration, had anything been wanting to recommend the match. his absurdities, which had appeared grotesquely ludicrous during his prosperity, seemed, in the sunset of his fortune, to be harmonised and assimilated with the noble features of his character, so as to add peculiarity without exciting ridicule. his mind occupied with such projects of future happiness, edward sought little veolan, the habitation of mr. duncan macwheeble. chapter lxvi now is cupid a child of conscience--he makes restitution. shakspeare mr. duncan macwheeble, no longer commissary or bailie, though still enjoying the empty name of the latter dignity, had escaped proscription by an early secession from the insurgent party and by his insignificance. edward found him in his office, immersed among papers and accounts. before him was a large bicker of oatmeal porridge, and at the side thereof a horn spoon and a bottle of two-penny. eagerly running his eye over a voluminous law-paper, he from time to time shovelled an immense spoonful of these nutritive viands into his capacious mouth. a pot-bellied dutch bottle of brandy which stood by intimated either that this honest limb of the law had taken his morning already, or that he meant to season his porridge with such digestive; or perhaps both circumstances might reasonably be inferred. his night-cap and morning-gown, had whilome been of tartan, but, equally cautious and frugal, the honest bailie had got them dyed black, lest their original ill-omened colour might remind his visitors of his unlucky excursion to derby. to sum up the picture, his face was daubed with snuff up to the eyes, and his fingers with ink up to the knuckles. he looked dubiously at waverley as he approached the little green rail which fenced his desk and stool from the approach of the vulgar. nothing could give the bailie more annoyance than the idea of his acquaintance being claimed by any of the unfortunate gentlemen who were now so much more likely to need assistance than to afford profit. but this was the rich young englishman; who knew what might be his situation? he was the baron's friend too; what was to be done? while these reflections gave an air of absurd perplexity to the poor man's visage, waverley, reflecting on the communication he was about to make to him, of a nature so ridiculously contrasted with the appearance of the individual, could not help bursting out a-laughing, as he checked the propensity to exclaim with syphax-- cato's a proper person to intrust a love-tale with. as mr. macwheeble had no idea of any person laughing heartily who was either encircled by peril or oppressed by poverty, the hilarity of edward's countenance greatly relieved the embarrassment of his own, and, giving him a tolerably hearty welcome to little veolan, he asked what he would choose for breakfast. his visitor had, in the first place, something for his private ear, and begged leave to bolt the door. duncan by no means liked this precaution, which savoured of danger to be apprehended; but he could not now draw back. convinced he might trust this man, as he could make it his interest to be faithful, edward communicated his present situation and future schemes to macwheeble. the wily agent listened with apprehension when he found waverley was still in a state of proscription; was somewhat comforted by learning that he had a passport; rubbed his hands with glee when he mentioned the amount of his present fortune; opened huge eyes when he heard the brilliancy of his future expectations; but when he expressed his intention to share them with miss rose bradwardine, ecstasy had almost deprived the honest man of his senses. the bailie started from his three-footed stool like the pythoness from her tripod; flung his best wig out of the window, because the block on which it was placed stood in the way of his career; chucked his cap to the ceiling, caught it as it fell; whistled 'tullochgorum'; danced a highland fling with inimitable grace and agility, and then threw himself exhausted into a chair, exclaiming, 'lady wauverley! ten thousand a year the least penny! lord preserve my poor understanding!' 'amen with all my heart,' said waverley; 'but now, mr. macwheeble, let us proceed to business.' this word had somewhat a sedative effect, but the bailie's head, as he expressed himself, was still 'in the bees.' he mended his pen, however, marked half a dozen sheets of paper with an ample marginal fold, whipped down dallas of st. martin's 'styles' from a shelf, where that venerable work roosted with stair's 'institutions,' dirleton's 'doubts,' balfour's 'practiques,' and a parcel of old account-books, opened the volume at the article contract of marriage, and prepared to make what he called a'sma' minute to prevent parties frae resiling.' with some difficulty waverley made him comprehend that he was going a little too fast. he explained to him that he should want his assistance, in the first place, to make his residence safe for the time, by writing to the officer at tully-veolan that mr. stanley, an english gentleman nearly related to colonel talbot, was upon a visit of business at mr. macwheeble's, and, knowing the state of the country, had sent his passport for captain foster's inspection. this produced a polite answer from the officer, with an invitation to mr. stanley to dine with him, which was declined (as may easily be supposed) under pretence of business. waverley's next request was, that mr. macwheeble would despatch a man and horse to ----, the post-town at which colonel talbot was to address him, with directions to wait there until the post should bring a letter for mr. stanley, and then to forward it to little veolan with all speed. in a moment the bailie was in search of his apprentice (or servitor, as he was called sixty years since), jock scriever, and in not much greater space of time jock was on the back of the white pony. 'tak care ye guide him weel, sir, for he's aye been short in the wind since--ahem--lord be gude to me! (in a low voice), i was gaun to come out wi'--since i rode whip and spur to fetch the chevalier to redd mr. wauverley and vich lan vohr; and an uncanny coup i gat for my pains. lord forgie your honour! i might hae broken my neck; but troth it was in a venture, mae ways nor ane; but this maks amends for a'. lady wauverley! ten thousand a year! lord be gude unto me!' 'but you forget, mr. macwheeble, we want the baron's consent--the lady's--' 'never fear, i'se be caution for them; i'se gie you my personal warrandice. ten thousand a year! it dings balmawhapple out and out--a year's rent's worth a' balmawhapple, fee and life-rent! lord make us thankful!' to turn the current of his feelings, edward inquired if he had heard anything lately of the chieftain of glennaquoich. 'not one word,' answered macwheeble, 'but that he was still in carlisle castle, and was soon to be panelled for his life. i dinna wish the young gentleman ill,' he said, 'but i hope that they that hae got him will keep him, and no let him back to this hieland border to plague us wi' black-mail and a' manner o' violent, wrongous, and masterfu' oppression and spoliation, both by himself and others of his causing, sending, and hounding out; and he couldna tak care o' the siller when he had gotten it neither, but flung it a' into yon idle quean's lap at edinburgh; but light come light gane. for my part, i never wish to see a kilt in the country again, nor a red-coat, nor a gun, for that matter, unless it were to shoot a paitrick; they're a' tarr'd wi' ae stick. and when they have done ye wrang, even when ye hae gotten decreet of spuilzie, oppression, and violent profits against them, what better are ye? they hae na a plack to pay ye; ye need never extract it.' with such discourse, and the intervening topics of business, the time passed until dinner, macwheeble meanwhile promising to devise some mode of introducing edward at the duchran, where rose at present resided, without risk of danger or suspicion; which seemed no very easy task, since the laird was a very zealous friend to government. the poultry-yard had been laid under requisition, and cockyleeky and scotch collops soon reeked in the bailie's little parlour. the landlord's cork-screw was just introduced into the muzzle of a pint bottle of claret (cribbed possibly from the cellars of tully-veolan), when the sight of the grey pony passing the window at full trot induced the bailie, but with due precaution, to place it aside for the moment. enter jock scriever with a packet for mr. stanley; it is colonel talbot's seal, and edward's ringers tremble as he undoes it. two official papers, folded, signed, and sealed in all formality, drop out. they were hastily picked up by the bailie, who had a natural respect for everything resembling a deed, and, glancing slily on their titles, his eyes, or rather spectacles, are greeted with 'protection by his royal highness to the person of cosmo comyne bradwardine, esq., of that ilk, commonly called baron of bradwardine, forfeited for his accession to the late rebellion.' the other proves to be a protection of the same tenor in favour of edward waverley, esq. colonel talbot's letter was in these words:-- 'my dear edward, 'i am just arrived here, and yet i have finished my business; it has cost me some trouble though, as you shall hear. i waited upon his royal highness immediately on my arrival, and found him in no very good humour for my purpose. three or four scotch gentlemen were just leaving his levee. after he had expressed himself to me very courteously; "would you think it," he said, "talbot, here have been half a dozen of the most respectable gentlemen and best friends to government north of the forth, major melville of cairnvreckan, rubrick of duchran, and others, who have fairly wrung from me, by their downright importunity, a present protection and the promise of a future pardon for that stubborn old rebel whom they call baron of bradwardine. they allege that his high personal character, and the clemency which he showed to such of our people as fell into the rebels' hands, should weigh in his favour, especially as the loss of his estate is likely to be a severe enough punishment. rubrick has undertaken to keep him at his own house till things are settled in the country; but it's a little hard to be forced in a manner to pardon such a mortal enemy to the house of brunswick." this was no favourable moment for opening my business; however, i said i was rejoiced to learn that his royal highness was in the course of granting such requests, as it emboldened me to present one of the like nature in my own name. he was very angry, but i persisted; i mentioned the uniform support of our three votes in, the house, touched modestly on services abroad, though valuable only in his royal highness's having been pleased kindly to accept them, and founded pretty strongly on his own expressions of friendship and good-will. he was embarrassed, but obstinate. i hinted the policy of detaching, on all future occasions, the heir of such a fortune as your uncle's from the machinations of the disaffected. but i made no impression. i mentioned the obligations which i lay under to sir everard and to you personally, and claimed, as the sole reward of my services, that he would be pleased to afford me the means of evincing my gratitude. i perceived that he still meditated a refusal, and, taking my commission from my pocket, i said (as a last resource) that, as his royal highness did not, under these pressing circumstances, think me worthy of a favour which he had not scrupled to grant to other gentlemen whose services i could hardly judge more important than my own, i must beg leave to deposit, with all humility, my commission in his royal highness's hands, and to retire from the service. he was not prepared for this; he told me to take up my commission, said some handsome things of my services, and granted my request. you are therefore once more a free man, and i have promised for you that you will be a good boy in future, and remember what you owe to the lenity of government. thus you see my prince can be as generous as yours. i do not pretend, indeed, that he confers a favour with all the foreign graces and compliments of your chevalier errant; but he has a plain english manner, and the evident reluctance with which he grants your request indicates the sacrifice which he makes of his own inclination to your wishes. my friend, the adjutant-general, has procured me a duplicate of the baron's protection (the original being in major melville's possession), which i send to you, as i know that if you can find him you will have pleasure in being the first to communicate the joyful intelligence. he will of course repair to the duchran without loss of time, there to ride quarantine for a few weeks. as for you, i give you leave to escort him thither, and to stay a week there, as i understand a certain fair lady is in that quarter. and i have the pleasure to tell you that whatever progress you can make in her good graces will be highly agreeable to sir everard and mrs. rachel, who will never believe your views and prospects settled, and the three ermines passant in actual safety, until you present them with a mrs. edward waverley. now, certain love-affairs of my own--a good many years since--interrupted some measures which were then proposed in favour of the three ermines passant; so i am bound in honour to make them amends. therefore make good use of your time, for, when your week is expired, it will be necessary that you go to london to plead your pardon in the law courts. 'ever, dear waverley, yours most truly, 'philip talbot.' chapter lxvii happy's the wooing that's not long a doing when the first rapturous sensation occasioned by these excellent tidings had somewhat subsided, edward proposed instantly to go down to the glen to acquaint the baron with their import. but the cautious bailie justly observed that, if the baron were to appear instantly in public, the tenantry and villagers might become riotous in expressing their joy, and give offence to 'the powers that be,' a sort of persons for whom the bailie always had unlimited respect. he therefore proposed that mr. waverley should go to janet gellatley's and bring the baron up under cloud of night to little veolan, where he might once more enjoy the luxury of a good bed. in the meanwhile, he said, he himself would go to captain foster and show him the baron's protection, and obtain his countenance for harbouring him that night, and he would have horses ready on the morrow to set him on his way to the duchran along with mr. stanley, 'whilk denomination, i apprehend, your honour will for the present retain,' said the bailie. 'certainly, mr. macwheeble; but will you not go down to the glen yourself in the evening to meet your patron?' 'that i wad wi' a' my heart; and mickle obliged to your honour for putting me in mind o' mybounden duty. but it will be past sunset afore i get back frae the captain's, and at these unsonsy hours the glen has a bad name; there's something no that canny about auld janet gellatley. the laird he'll no believe thae things, but he was aye ower rash and venturesome, and feared neither man nor deevil, an sae's seen o't. but right sure am i sir george mackenyie says, that no divine can doubt there are witches, since the bible says thou shalt not suffer them to live; and that no lawyer in scotland can doubt it, since it is punishable with death by our law. so there's baith law and gospel for it. an his honour winna believe the leviticus, he might aye believe the statute-book; but he may tak his ain way o't; it's a' ane to duncan macwheeble. however, i shall send to ask up auld janet this e'en; it's best no to lightly them that have that character; and we'll want davie to turn the spit, for i'll gar eppie put down a fat goose to the fire for your honours to your supper.' when it was near sunset waverley hastened to the hut; and he could not but allow that superstition had chosen no improper locality, or unfit object, for the foundation of her fantastic terrors. it resembled exactly the description of spenser:-- there, in a gloomy hollow glen, she found a little cottage built of sticks and reeds, in homely wise, and wall'd with sods around, in which a witch did dwell in loathly weeds, and wilful want, all careless of her needs, so choosing solitary to abide far from all neighbours, that her devilish deeds, and hellish arts, from people she might hide, and hurt far off, unknown, whomsoever she espied. he entered the cottage with these verses in his memory. poor old janet, bent double with age and bleared with peat-smoke, was tottering about the hut with a birch broom, muttering to herself as she endeavoured to make her hearth and floor a little clean for the reception of her expected guests. waverley's step made her start, look up, and fall a-trembling, so much had her nerves been on the rack for her patron's safety. with difficulty waverley made her comprehend that the baron was now safe from personal danger; and when her mind had admitted that joyful news, it was equally hard to make her believe that he was not to enter again upon possession of his estate. 'it behoved to be,' she said, 'he wad get it back again; naebody wad be sae gripple as to tak his gear after they had gi'en him a pardon: and for that inch-grabbit, i could whiles wish mysell a witch for his sake, if i werena feared the enemy wad tak me at my word.' waverley then gave her some money, and promised that her fidelity should be rewarded. 'how can i be rewarded, sir, sae weel as just to see my auld maister and miss rose come back and bruik their ain?' waverley now took leave of janet, and soon stood beneath the baron's patmos. at a low whistle he observed the veteran peeping out to reconnoitre, like an old badger with his head out of his hole. 'ye hae come rather early, my good lad,' said he, descending; 'i question if the red-coats hae beat the tattoo yet, and we're not safe till then.' 'good news cannot be told too soon,' said waverley; and with infinite joy communicated to him the happy tidings. the old man stood for a moment in silent devotion, then exclaimed, 'praise be to god! i shall see my bairn again.' 'and never, i hope, to part with her more,' said waverley. 'i trust in god not, unless it be to win the means of supporting her; for my things are but in a bruckle state;--but what signifies warld's gear?' 'and if,' said waverley modestly, 'there were a situation in life which would put miss bradwardine beyond the uncertainty of fortune, and in the rank to which she was born, would you object to it, my dear baron, because it would make one of your friends the happiest man in the world?' the baron turned and looked at him with great earnestness. 'yes,' continued edward, 'i shall not consider my sentence of banishment as repealed unless you will give me permission to accompany you to the duchran, and--' the baron seemed collecting all his dignity to make a suitable reply to what, at another time, he would have treated as the propounding a treaty of alliance between the houses of bradwardine and waverley. but his efforts were in vain; the father was too mighty for the baron; the pride of birth and rank were swept away; in the joyful surprise a slight convulsion passed rapidly over his features, as he gave way to the feelings of nature, threw his arms around waverley's neck, and sobbed out--'my son, my son! if i had been to search the world, i would have made my choice here.' edward returned the embrace with great sympathy of feeling, and for a little while they both kept silence. at length it was broken by edward. 'but miss bradwardine?' 'she had never a will but her old father's; besides, you are a likely youth, of honest principles and high birth; no, she never had any other will than mine, and in my proudest days i could not have wished a mair eligible espousal for her than the nephew of my excellent old friend, sir everard. but i hope, young man, ye deal na rashly in this matter? i hope ye hae secured the approbation of your ain friends and allies, particularly of your uncle, who is in loco parentis? ah! we maun tak heed o' that.' edward assured him that sir everard would think himself highly honoured in the flattering reception his proposal had met with, and that it had his entire approbation; in evidence of which he put colonel talbot's letter into the baron's hand. the baron read it with great attention. 'sir everard,' he said, 'always despised wealth in comparison of honour and birth; and indeed he hath no occasion to court the diva pecunia. yet i now wish, since this malcolm turns out such a parricide, for i can call him no better, as to think of alienating the family inheritance--i now wish (his eyes fixed on a part of the roof which was visible above the trees) that i could have left rose the auld hurley-house and the riggs belanging to it. and yet,' said he, resuming more cheerfully, 'it's maybe as weel as it is; for, as baron of bradwardine, i might have thought it my duty to insist upon certain compliances respecting name and bearings, whilk now, as a landless laird wi' a tocherless daughter, no one can blame me for departing from.' 'now, heaven be praised!' thought edward,'that sir everard does not hear these scruples! the three ermines passant and rampant bear would certainly have gone together by the ears.' he then, with all the ardour of a young lover, assured the baron that he sought for his happiness only in rose's heart and hand, and thought himself as happy in her father's simple approbation as if he had settled an earldom upon his daughter. they now reached little veolan. the goose was smoking on the table, and the bailie brandished his knife and fork. a joyous greeting took place between him and his patron. the kitchen, too, had its company. auld janet was established at the ingle-nook; davie had turned the spit to his immortal honour; and even ban and buscar, in the liberality of macwheeble's joy, had been stuffed to the throat with food, and now lay snoring on the floor. the next day conducted the baron and his young friend to the duchran, where the former was expected, in consequence of the success of the nearly unanimous application of the scottish friends of government in his favour. this had been so general and so powerful that it was almost thought his estate might have been saved, had it not passed into the rapacious hands of his unworthy kinsman, whose right, arising out of the baron's attainder, could not be affected by a pardon from the crown. the old gentleman, however, said, with his usual spirit, he was more gratified by the hold he possessed in the good opinion of his neighbours than he would have been in being rehabilitated and restored in integrum, had it been found practicable.' we shall not attempt to describe the meeting of the father and daughter, loving each other so affectionately, and separated under such perilous circumstances. still less shall we attempt to analyse the deep blush of rose at receiving the compliments of waverley, or stop to inquire whether she had any curiosity respecting the particular cause of his journey to scotland at that period. we shall not even trouble the reader with the humdrum details of a courtship sixty years since. it is enough to say that, under so strict a martinet as the baron, all things were conducted in due form. he took upon himself, the morning after their arrival, the task of announcing the proposal of waverley to rose, which she heard with a proper degree of maiden timidity. fame does, however, say that waverley had the evening before found five minutes to apprise her of what was coming, while the rest of the company were looking at three twisted serpents which formed a, jet d'eau in the garden. my fair readers will judge for themselves; but, for my part, i cannot conceive how so important an affair could be communicated in so short a space of time; at least, it certainly took a full hour in the baron's mode of conveying it. waverley was now considered as a received lover in all the forms. he was made, by dint of smirking and nodding on the part of the lady of the house, to sit next miss bradwardine at dinner, to be miss bradwardine's partner at cards. if he came into the room, she of the four miss rubricks who chanced to be next rose was sure to recollect that her thimble or her scissors were at the other end of the room, in order to leave the seat nearest to miss bradwardine vacant for his occupation. and sometimes, if papa and mamma were not in the way to keep them on their good behaviour, the misses would titter a little. the old laird of duchran would also have his occasional jest, and the old lady her remark. even the baron could not refrain; but here rose escaped every embarrassment but that of conjecture, for his wit was usually couched in a latin quotation. the very footmen sometimes grinned too broadly, the maidservants giggled mayhap too loud, and a provoking air of intelligence seemed to pervade the whole family. alice bean, the pretty maid of the cavern, who, after her father's misfortune, as she called it, had attended rose as fille-de-chambre, smiled and smirked with the best of them. rose and edward, however, endured all these little vexatious circumstances as other folks have done before and since, and probably contrived to obtain some indemnification, since they are not supposed, on the whole, to have been particularly unhappy during waverley's six days' stay at the duchran. it was finally arranged that edward should go to waverley-honour to make the necessary arrangements for his marriage, thence to london to take the proper measures for pleading his pardon, and return as soon as possible to claim the hand of his plighted bride. he also intended in his journey to visit colonel talbot; but, above all, it was his most important object to learn the fate of the unfortunate chief of glennaquoich; to visit him at carlisle, and to try whether anything could be done for procuring, if not a pardon, a commutation at least, or alleviation, of the punishment to which he was almost certain of being condemned; and, in case of the worst, to offer the miserable flora an asylum with rose, or otherwise to assist her views in any mode which might seem possible. the fate of fergus seemed hard to be averted. edward had already striven to interest his friend, colonel talbot, in his behalf; but had been given distinctly to understand by his reply that his credit in matters of that nature was totally exhausted. the colonel was still in edinburgh, and proposed to wait there for some months upon business confided to him by the duke of cumberland. he was to be joined by lady emily, to whom easy travelling and goat's whey were recommended, and who was to journey northward under the escort of francis stanley. edward, therefore, met the colonel at edinburgh, who wished him joy in the kindest manner on his approaching happiness, and cheerfully undertook many commissions which our hero was necessarily obliged to delegate to his charge. but on the subject of fergus he was inexorable. he satisfied edward, indeed, that his interference would be unavailing; but, besides, colonel talbot owned that he could not conscientiously use any influence in favour of that unfortunate gentleman. 'justice,' he said, 'which demanded some penalty of those who had wrapped the whole nation in fear and in mourning, could not perhaps have selected a fitter victim. he came to the field with the fullest light upon the nature of his attempt. he had studied and understood the subject. his father's fate could not intimidate him; the lenity of the laws which had restored to him his father's property and rights could not melt him. that he was brave, generous, and possessed many good qualities only rendered him the more dangerous; that he was enlightened and accomplished made his crime the less excusable; that he was an enthusiast in a wrong cause only made him the more fit to be its martyr. above all, he had been the means of bringing many hundreds of men into the field who, without him, would never have broken the peace of the country. 'i repeat it,' said the colonel,'though heaven knows with a heart distressed for him as an individual, that this young gentleman has studied and fully understood the desperate game which he has played. he threw for life or death, a coronet or a coffin; and he cannot now be permitted, with justice to the country, to draw stakes because the dice have gone against him.' such was the reasoning of those times, held even by brave and humane men towards a vanquished enemy. let us devoutly hope that, in this respect at least, we shall never see the scenes or hold the sentiments that were general in britain sixty years since. chapter lxviii to morrow? o that's sudden!--spare him, spare him' shakspeare edward, attended by his former servant alick polwarth, who had reentered his service at edinburgh, reached carlisle while the commission of oyer and terminer on his unfortunate associates was yet sitting. he had pushed forward in haste, not, alas! with the most distant hope of saving fergus, but to see him for the last time. i ought to have mentioned that he had furnished funds for the defence of the prisoners in the most liberal manner, as soon as he heard that the day of trial was fixed. a solicitor and the first counsel accordingly attended; but it was upon the same footing on which the first physicians are usually summoned to the bedside of some dying man of rank--the doctors to take the advantage of some incalculable chance of an exertion of nature, the lawyers to avail themselves of the barely possible occurrence of some legal flaw. edward pressed into the court, which was extremely crowded; but by his arriving from the north, and his extreme eagerness and agitation, it was supposed he was a relation of the prisoners, and people made way for him. it was the third sitting of the court, and there were two men at the bar. the verdict of guilty was already pronounced. edward just glanced at the bar during the momentous pause which ensued. there was no mistaking the stately form and noble features of fergus mac-ivor, although his dress was squalid and his countenance tinged with the sickly yellow hue of long and close imprisonment. by his side was evan maccombich. edward felt sick and dizzy as he gazed on them; but he was recalled to himself as the clerk of arraigns pronounced the solemn words: 'fergus mac-ivor of glennaquoich, otherwise called vich ian vohr, and evan mac-ivor, in the dhu of tarrascleugh, otherwise called evan dhu, otherwise called evan maccombich, or evan dhu maccombich--you, and each of you, stand attainted of high treason. what have you to say for yourselves why the court should not pronounce judgment against you, that you die according to law?' fergus, as the presiding judge was putting on the fatal cap of judgment, placed his own bonnet upon his head, regarded him with a steadfast and stern look, and replied in a firm voice, 'i cannot let this numerous audience suppose that to such an appeal i have no answer to make. but what i have to say you would not bear to hear, for my defence would be your condemnation. proceed, then, in the name of god, to do what is permitted to you. yesterday and the day before you have condemned loyal and honourable blood to be poured forth like water. spare not mine. were that of all my ancestors in my veins, i would have perilled it in this quarrel.' he resumed his seat and refused again to rise. evan maccombich looked at him with great earnestness, and, rising up, seemed anxious to speak; but the confusion of the court, and the perplexity arising from thinking in a language different from that in which he was to express himself, kept him silent. there was a murmur of compassion among the spectators, from the idea that the poor fellow intended to plead the influence of his superior as an excuse for his crime. the judge commanded silence, and encouraged evan to proceed. 'i was only ganging to say, my lord,' said evan, in what he meant to be an insinuating manner, 'that if your excellent honour and the honourable court would let vich ian vohr go free just this once, and let him gae back to france, and no to trouble king george's government again, that ony six o' the very best of his clan will be willing to be justified in his stead; and if you'll just let me gae down to glennaquoich, i'll fetch them up to ye mysell, to head or hang, and you may begin wi' me the very first man.' notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion, a sort of laugh was heard in the court at the extraordinary nature of the proposal. the judge checked this indecency, and evan, looking sternly around, when the murmur abated, 'if the saxon gentlemen are laughing,' he said, 'because a poor man, such as me, thinks my life, or the life of six of my degree, is worth that of vich ian vohr, it's like enough they may be very right; but if they laugh because they think i would not keep my word and come back to redeem him, i can tell them they ken neither the heart of a hielandman nor the honour of a gentleman.' there was no farther inclination to laugh among the audience, and a dead silence ensued. the judge then pronounced upon both prisoners the sentence of the law of high treason, with all its horrible accompaniments. the execution was appointed for the ensuing day. 'for you, fergus mac-ivor,' continued the judge, 'i can hold out no hope of mercy. you must prepare against to-morrow for your last sufferings here, and your great audit hereafter.' 'i desire nothing else, my lord,' answered fergus, in the same manly and firm tone. the hard eyes of evan, which had been perpetually bent on his chief, were moistened with a tear. 'for you, poor ignorant man,' continued the judge, 'who, following the ideas in which you have been educated, have this day given us a striking example how the loyalty due to the king and state alone is, from your unhappy ideas of clanship, transferred to some ambitious individual who ends by making you the tool of his crimes--for you, i say, i feel so much compassion that, if you can make up your mind to petition for grace, i will endeavour to procure it for you. otherwise--' 'grace me no grace,' said evan; 'since you are to shed vich ian vohr's blood, the only favour i would accept from you is to bid them loose my hands and gie me my claymore, and bide you just a minute sitting where you are!' 'remove the prisoners,' said the judge; 'his blood be upon his own head.' almost stupefied with his feelings, edward found that the rush of the crowd had conveyed him out into the street ere he knew what he was doing. his immediate wish was to see and speak with fergus once more. he applied at the castle where his unfortunate friend was confined, but was refused admittance. 'the high sheriff,' a non-commissioned officer said, 'had requested of the governor that none should be admitted to see the prisoner excepting his confessor and his sister.' 'and where was miss mac-ivor?' they gave him the direction. it was the house of a respectable catholic family near carlisle. repulsed from the gate of the castle, and not venturing to make application to the high sheriff or judges in his own unpopular name, he had recourse to the solicitor who came down in fergus's behalf. this gentleman told him that it was thought the public mind was in danger of being debauched by the account of the last moments of these persons, as given by the friends of the pretender; that there had been a resolution, therefore, to exclude all such persons as had not the plea of near kindred for attending upon them. yet he promised (to oblige the heir of waverley-honour) to get him an order for admittance to the prisoner the next morning, before his irons were knocked off for execution. 'is it of fergus mac-ivor they speak thus,' thought waverley, 'or do i dream? of fergus, the bold, the chivalrous, the free-minded, the lofty chieftain of a tribe devoted to him? is it he, that i have seen lead the chase and head the attack, the brave, the active, the young, the noble, the love of ladies, and the theme of song,--is it he who is ironed like a malefactor, who is to be dragged on a hurdle to the common gallows, to die a lingering and cruel death, and to be mangled by the hand of the most outcast of wretches? evil indeed was the spectre that boded such a fate as this to the brave chief of glennaquoich!' with a faltering voice he requested the solicitor to find means to warn fergus of his intended visit, should he obtain permission to make it. he then turned away from him, and, returning to the inn, wrote a scarcely intelligible note to flora mac-ivor, intimating his purpose to wait upon her that evening. the messenger brought back a letter in flora's beautiful italian hand, which seemed scarce to tremble even under this load of misery. 'miss flora mac-ivor,' the letter bore, 'could not refuse to see the dearest friend of her dear brother, even in her present circumstances of unparalleled distress.' when edward reached miss mac-ivor's present place of abode he was instantly admitted. in a large and gloomy tapestried apartment flora was seated by a latticed window, sewing what seemed to be a garment of white flannel. at a little distance sat an elderly woman, apparently a foreigner, and of a religious order. she was reading in a book of catholic devotion, but when waverley entered laid it on the table and left the room. flora rose to receive him, and stretched out her hand, but neither ventured to attempt speech. her fine complexion was totally gone; her person considerably emaciated; and her face and hands as white as the purest statuary marble, forming a strong contrast with her sable dress and jet-black hair. yet, amid these marks of distress there was nothing negligent or ill-arranged about her attire; even her hair, though totally without ornament, was disposed with her usual attention to neatness. the first words she uttered were, 'have you seen him?' 'alas, no,' answered waverley, 'i have been refused admittance.' 'it accords with the rest,' she said; 'but we must submit. shall you obtain leave, do you suppose?' 'for--for--tomorrow,' said waverley; but muttering the last word so faintly that it was almost unintelligible. 'ay, then or never,' said flora, 'until'--she added, looking upward--'the time when, i trust, we shall all meet. but i hope you will see him while earth yet bears him. he always loved you at his heart, though--but it is vain to talk of the past.' 'vain indeed!' echoed waverley. 'or even of the future, my good friend,' said flora,'so far as earthly events are concerned; for how often have i pictured to myself the strong possibility of this horrid issue, and tasked myself to consider how i could support my part; and yet how far has all my anticipation fallen short of the unimaginable bitterness of this hour!' 'dear flora, if your strength of mind--' 'ay, there it is,' she answered, somewhat wildly; 'there is, mr. waverley, there is a busy devil at my heart that whispers--but it were madness to listen to it--that the strength of mind on which flora prided herself has murdered her brother!' 'good god! how can you give utterance to a thought so shocking?' 'ay, is it not so? but yet it haunts me like a phantom; i know it is unsubstantial and vain; but it will be present; will intrude its horrors on my mind; will whisper that my brother, as volatile as ardent, would have divided his energies amid a hundred objects. it was i who taught him to concentrate them and to gage all on this dreadful and desperate cast. oh that i could recollect that i had but once said to him, "he that striketh with the sword shall die by the sword"; that i had but once said, "remain at home; reserve yourself, your vassals, your life, for enterprises within the reach of man." but o, mr. waverley, i spurred his fiery temper, and half of his ruin at least lies with his sister!' the horrid idea which she had intimated, edward endeavoured to combat by every incoherent argument that occurred to him. he recalled to her the principles on which both thought it their duty to act, and in which they had been educated. 'do not think i have forgotten them,' she said, looking up with eager quickness; 'i do not regret his attempt because it was wrong!--o no! on that point i am armed--but because it was impossible it could end otherwise than thus.' 'yet it did not always seem so desperate and hazardous as it was; and it would have been chosen by the bold spirit of fergus whether you had approved it or no; your counsels only served to give unity and consistence to his conduct; to dignify, but not to precipitate, his resolution.' flora had soon ceased to listen to edward, and was again intent upon her needlework. 'do you remember,' she said, looking up with a ghastly smile, 'you once found me making fergus's bride-favours, and now i am sewing his bridal garment. our friends here,' she continued, with suppressed emotion, 'are to give hallowed earth in their chapel to the bloody relics of the last vich ian vohr. but they will not all rest together; no--his head!--i shall not have the last miserable consolation of kissing the cold lips of my dear, dear fergus!' the unfortunate flora here, after one or two hysterical sobs, fainted in her chair. the lady, who had been attending in the ante-room, now entered hastily, and begged edward to leave the room, but not the house. when he was recalled, after the space of nearly half an hour, he found that, by a strong effort, miss mac-ivor had greatly composed herself. it was then he ventured to urge miss bradwardine's claim to be considered as an adopted sister, and empowered to assist her plans for the future. 'i have had a letter from my dear rose,' she replied, 'to the same purpose. sorrow is selfish and engrossing, or i would have written to express that, even in my own despair, i felt a gleam of pleasure at learning her happy prospects, and at hearing that the good old baron has escaped the general wreck. give this to my dearest rose; it is her poor flora's only ornament of value, and was the gift of a princess.' she put into his hands a case containing the chain of diamonds with which she used to decorate her hair. 'to me it is in future useless. the kindness of my friends has secured me a retreat in the convent of the scottish benedictine nuns in paris. tomorrow--if indeed i can survive tomorrow--i set forward on my journey with this venerable sister. and now, mr. waverley, adieu! may you be as happy with rose as your amiable dispositions deserve; and think sometimes on the friends you have lost. do not attempt to see me again; it would be mistaken kindness.' she gave him her hand, on which edward shed a torrent of tears, and with a faltering step withdrew from the apartment, and returned to the town of carlisle. at the inn he found a letter from his law friend intimating that he would be admitted to fergus next morning as soon as the castle gates were opened, and permitted to remain with him till the arrival of the sheriff gave signal for the fatal procession. chapter lxix a darker departure is near, the death drum is muffled, and sable the bier campbell after a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found waverley on the esplanade in front of the old gothic gate of carlisle castle. but he paced it long in every direction before the hour when, according to the rules of the garrison, the gates were opened and the draw-bridge lowered. he produced his order to the sergeant of the guard and was admitted. the place of fergus's confinement was a gloomy and vaulted apartment in the central part of the castle; a huge old tower, supposed to be of great antiquity, and surrounded by outworks, seemingly of henry viii's time, or somewhat later. the grating of the large old-fashioned bars and bolts, withdrawn for the purpose of admitting edward, was answered by the clash of chains, as the unfortunate chieftain, strongly and heavily fettered, shuffled along the stone floor of his prison to fling himself into his friend's arms. 'my dear edward,' he said, in a firm and even cheerful voice,'this is truly kind. i heard of your approaching happiness with the highest pleasure. and how does rose? and how is our old whimsical friend the baron? well, i trust, since i see you at freedom. and how will you settle precedence between the three ermines passant and the bear and boot-jack?' 'how, o how, my dear fergus, can you talk of such things at such a moment!' 'why, we have entered carlisle with happier auspices, to be sure; on the th of november last, for example, when we marched in side by side, and hoisted the white flag on these ancient towers. but i am no boy, to sit down and weep because the luck has gone against me. i knew the stake which i risked; we played the game boldly and the forfeit shall be paid manfully. and now, since my time is short, let me come to the questions that interest me most--the prince? has he escaped the bloodhounds?' 'he has, and is in safety.' 'praised be god for that! tell me the particulars of his escape.' waverley communicated that remarkable history, so far as it had then transpired, to which fergus listened with deep interest. he then asked after several other friends; and made many minute inquiries concerning the fate of his own clansmen. they had suffered less than other tribes who had been engaged in the affair; for, having in a great measure dispersed and returned home after the captivity of their chieftain, according to the universal custom of the highlanders, they were not in arms when the insurrection was finally suppressed, and consequently were treated with less rigour. this fergus heard with great satisfaction. 'you are rich,' he said, 'waverley, and you are generous. when you hear of these poor mac-ivors being distressed about their miserable possessions by some harsh overseer or agent of government, remember you have worn their tartan and are an adopted son of their race, the baron, who knows our manners and lives near our country, will apprise you of the time and means to be their protector. will you promise this to the last vich ian vohr?' edward, as may well be believed, pledged his word; which he afterwards so amply redeemed that his memory still lives in these glens by the name of the friend of the sons of ivor. 'would to god,' continued the chieftain, 'i could bequeath to you my rights to the love and obedience of this primitive and brave race; or at least, as i have striven to do, persuade poor evan to accept of his life upon their terms, and be to you what he has been to me, the kindest, the bravest, the most devoted--' the tears which his own fate could not draw forth fell fast for that of his foster-brother. 'but,' said he, drying them,'that cannot be. you cannot be to them vich ian vohr; and these three magic words,' said he, half smiling, 'are the only open sesame to their feelings and sympathies, and poor evan must attend his foster-brother in death, as he has done through his whole life.' 'and i am sure,' said maccombich, raising himself from the floor, on which, for fear of interrupting their conversation, he had lain so still that, in the obscurity of the apartment, edward was not aware of his presence--'i am sure evan never desired or deserved a better end than just to die with his chieftain.' 'and now,' said fergus, 'while we are upon the subject of clanship--what think you now of the prediction of the bodach glas?' then, before edward could answer, 'i saw him again last night: he stood in the slip of moonshine which fell from that high and narrow window towards my bed. "why should i fear him?" i thought; "to-morrow, long ere this time, i shall be as immaterial as he." "false spirit," i said, "art thou come to close thy walks on earth and to enjoy thy triumph in the fall of the last descendant of thine enemy?" the spectre seemed to beckon and to smile as he faded from my sight. what do you think of it? i asked the same question of the priest, who is a good and sensible man; he admitted that the church allowed that such apparitions were possible, but urged me not to permit my mind to dwell upon it, as imagination plays us such strange tricks. what do you think of it?' 'much as your confessor,' said waverley, willing to avoid dispute upon such a point at such a moment. a tap at the door now announced that good man, and edward retired while he administered to both prisoners the last rites of religion, in the mode which the church of rome prescribes. in about an hour he was re-admitted; soon after, a file of soldiers entered with a blacksmith, who struck the fetters from the legs of the prisoners. 'you see the compliment they pay to our highland strength and courage; we have lain chained here like wild beasts, till our legs are cramped into palsy, and when they free us they send six soldiers with loaded muskets to prevent our taking the castle by storm!' edward afterwards learned that these severe precautions had been taken in consequence of a desperate attempt of the prisoners to escape, in which they had very nearly succeeded. shortly afterwards the drums of the garrison beat to arms. 'this is the last turn-out,' said fergus, 'that i shall hear and obey. and now, my dear, dear edward, ere we part let us speak of flora--a subject which awakes the tenderest feeling that yet thrills within me' 'we part not here!' said waverley. 'o yes, we do; you must come no farther. not that i fear what is to follow for myself,' he said proudly. 'nature has her tortures as well as art, and how happy should we think the man who escapes from the throes of a mortal and painful disorder in the space of a short half hour? and this matter, spin it out as they will, cannot last longer. but what a dying man can suffer firmly may kill a living friend to look upon. this same law of high treason,' he continued, with astonishing firmness and composure, 'is one of the blessings, edward, with which your free country has accommodated poor old scotland; her own jurisprudence, as i have heard, was much milder. but i suppose one day or other--when there are no longer any wild highlanders to benefit by its tender mercies--they will blot it from their records as levelling them with a nation of cannibals. the mummery, too, of exposing the senseless head--they have not the wit to grace mine with a paper coronet; there would be some satire in that, edward. i hope they will set it on the scotch gate though, that i may look, even after death, to the blue hills of my own country, which i love so dearly. the baron would have added, moritur, et moriens dukes reminiscitur argos.' a bustle, and the sound of wheels and horses' feet, was now heard in the court-yard of the castle. 'as i have told you why you must not follow me, and these sounds admonish me that my time flies fast, tell me how you found poor flora.' waverley, with a voice interrupted by suffocating sensations, gave some account of the state of her mind. 'poor flora!' answered the chief, 'she could have borne her own sentence of death, but not mine. you, waverley, will soon know the happiness of mutual affection in the married state--long, long may rose and you enjoy it!--but you can never know the purity of feeling which combines two orphans like flora and me, left alone as it were in the world, and being all in all to each other from our very infancy. but her strong sense of duty and predominant feeling of loyalty will give new nerve to her mind after the immediate and acute sensation of this parting has passed away. she will then think of fergus as of the heroes of our race, upon whose deeds she loved to dwell.' 'shall she not see you then?' asked waverley. 'she seemed to expect it.' 'a necessary deceit will spare her the last dreadful parting. i could not part with her without tears, and i cannot bear that these men should think they have power to extort them. she was made to believe she would see me at a later hour, and this letter, which my confessor will deliver, will apprise her that all is over.' an officer now appeared and intimated that the high sheriff and his attendants waited before the gate of the castle to claim the bodies of fergus mac-ivor and evan maccombich. 'i come,' said fergus. accordingly, supporting edward by the arm and followed by evan dhu and the priest, he moved down the stairs of the tower, the soldiers bringing up the rear. the court was occupied by a squadron of dragoons and a battalion of infantry, drawn up in hollow square. within their ranks was the sledge or hurdle on which the prisoners were to be drawn to the place of execution, about a mile distant from carlisle. it was painted black, and drawn by a white horse. at one end of the vehicle sat the executioner, a horrid-looking fellow, as beseemed his trade, with the broad axe in his hand; at the other end, next the horse, was an empty seat for two persons. through the deep and dark gothic archway that opened on the drawbridge were seen on horseback the high sheriff and his attendants, whom the etiquette betwixt the civil and military powers did not permit to come farther. 'this is well got up for a closing scene,' said fergus, smiling disdainfully as he gazed around upon the apparatus of terror. evan dhu exclaimed with some eagerness, after looking at the dragoons,' these are the very chields that galloped off at gladsmuir, before we could kill a dozen o' them. they look bold enough now, however.' the priest entreated him to be silent. the sledge now approached, and fergus, turning round, embraced waverley, kissed him on each side of the face, and stepped nimbly into his place. evan sat down by his side. the priest was to follow in a carriage belonging to his patron, the catholic gentleman at whose house flora resided. as fergus waved his hand to edward the ranks closed around the sledge, and the whole procession began to move forward. there was a momentary stop at the gateway, while the governor of the castle and the high sheriff went through a short ceremony, the military officer there delivering over the persons of the criminals to the civil power. 'god save king george!' said the high sheriff. when the formality concluded, fergus stood erect in the sledge, and, with a firm and steady voice, replied,' god save king james!' these were the last words which waverley heard him speak. the procession resumed its march, and the sledge vanished from beneath the portal, under which it had stopped for an instant. the dead march was then heard, and its melancholy sounds were mingled with those of a muffled peal tolled from the neighbouring cathedral. the sound of military music died away as the procession moved on; the sullen clang of the bells was soon heard to sound alone. the last of the soldiers had now disappeared from under the vaulted archway through which they had been filing for several minutes; the court-yard was now totally empty, but waverley still stood there as if stupefied, his eyes fixed upon the dark pass where he had so lately seen the last glimpse of his friend. at length a female servant of the governor's, struck with compassion, at the stupefied misery which his countenance expressed, asked him if he would not walk into her master's house and sit down? she was obliged to repeat her question twice ere he comprehended her, but at length it recalled him to himself. declining the courtesy by a hasty gesture, he pulled his hat over his eyes, and, leaving the castle, walked as swiftly as he could through the empty streets till he regained his inn, then rushed into an apartment and bolted the door. in about an hour and a half, which seemed an age of unutterable suspense, the sound of the drums and fifes performing a lively air, and the confused murmur of the crowd which now filled the streets, so lately deserted, apprised him that all was finished, and that the military and populace were returning from the dreadful scene. i will not attempt to describe his sensations. in the evening the priest made him a visit, and informed him that he did so by directions of his deceased friend, to assure him that fergus mac-ivor had died as he lived, and remembered his friendship to the last. he added, he had also seen flora, whose state of mind seemed more composed since all was over. with her and sister theresa the priest proposed next day to leave carlisle for the nearest seaport from which they could embark for france. waverley forced on this good man a ring of some value and a sum of money to be employed (as he thought might gratify flora) in the services of the catholic church for the memory of his friend. 'fun-garque inani munere,' he repeated, as the ecclesiastic retired. 'yet why not class these acts of remembrance with other honours, with which affection in all sects pursues the memory of the dead?' the next morning ere daylight he took leave of the town of carlisle, promising to himself never again to enter its walls. he dared hardly look back towards the gothic battlements of the fortified gate under which he passed, for the place is surrounded with an old wall. 'they're no there,' said alick polwarth, who guessed the cause of the dubious look which waverley cast backward, and who, with the vulgar appetite for the horrible, was master of each detail of the butchery--'the heads are ower the scotch yate, as they ca' it. it's a great pity of evan dhu, who was a very weel-meaning, good-natured man, to be a hielandman; and indeed so was the laird o' glennaquoich too, for that matter, when he wasna in ane o' his tirrivies.' chapter lxx dulce domum the impression of horror with which waverley left carlisle softened by degrees into melancholy, a gradation which was accelerated by the painful yet soothing task of writing to rose; and, while he could not suppress his own feelings of the calamity, he endeavoured to place it in a light which might grieve her without shocking her imagination. the picture which he drew for her benefit he gradually familiarised to his own mind, and his next letters were more cheerful, and referred to the prospects of peace and happiness which lay before them. yet, though his first horrible sensations had sunk into melancholy, edward had reached his native country before he could, as usual on former occasions, look round for enjoyment upon the face of nature. he then, for the first time since leaving edinburgh, began to experience that pleasure which almost all feel who return to a verdant, populous, and highly cultivated country from scenes of waste desolation or of solitary and melancholy grandeur. but how were those feelings enhanced when he entered on the domain so long possessed by his forefathers; recognised the old oaks of waverley-chace; thought with what delight he should introduce rose to all his favourite haunts; beheld at length the towers of the venerable hall arise above the woods which embowered it, and finally threw himself into the arms of the venerable relations to whom he owed so much duty and affection! the happiness of their meeting was not tarnished by a single word of reproach. on the contrary, whatever pain sir everard and mrs. rachel had felt during waverley's perilous engagement with the young chevalier, it assorted too well with the principles in which they had been brought up to incur reprobation, or even censure. colonel talbot also had smoothed the way with great address for edward's favourable reception by dwelling upon his gallant behaviour in the military character, particularly his bravery and generosity at preston; until, warmed at the idea of their nephew's engaging in single combat, making prisoner, and saving from slaughter so distinguished an officer as the colonel himself, the imagination of the baronet and his sister ranked the exploits of edward with those of wilibert, hildebrand, and nigel, the vaunted heroes of their line. the appearance of waverley, embrowned by exercise and dignified by the habits of military discipline, had acquired an athletic and hardy character, which not only verified the colonel's narration, but surprised and delighted all the inhabitants of waverley-honour. they crowded to see, to hear him, and to sing his praises. mr. pembroke, who secretly extolled his spirit and courage in embracing the genuine cause of the church of england, censured his pupil gently, nevertheless, for being so careless of his manuscripts, which indeed, he said, had occasioned him some personal inconvenience, as, upon the baronet's being arrested by a king's messenger, he had deemed it prudent to retire to a concealment called 'the priest's hole,' from the use it had been put to in former days; where, he assured our hero, the butler had thought it safe to venture with food only once in the day, so that he had been repeatedly compelled to dine upon victuals either absolutely cold or, what was worse, only half warm, not to mention that sometimes his bed had not been arranged for two days together. waverley's mind involuntarily turned to the patmos of the baron of bradwardine, who was well pleased with janet's fare and a few bunches of straw stowed in a cleft in the front of a sand-cliff; but he made no remarks upon a contrast which could only mortify his worthy tutor. all was now in a bustle to prepare for the nuptials of edward, an event to which the good old baronet and mrs. rachel looked forward as if to the renewal of their own youth. the match, as colonel talbot had intimated, had seemed to them in the highest degree eligible, having every recommendation but wealth, of which they themselves had more than enough. mr. clippurse was therefore summoned to waverley-honour, under better auspices than at the commencement of our story. but mr. clippurse came not alone; for, being now stricken in years, he had associated with him a nephew, a younger vulture (as our english juvenal, who tells the tale of swallow the attorney, might have called him), and they now carried on business as messrs. clippurse and hookem. these worthy gentlemen had directions to make the necessary settlements on the most splendid scale of liberality, as if edward were to wed a peeress in her own right, with her paternal estate tacked to the fringe of her ermine. but before entering upon a subject of proverbial delay, i must remind my reader of the progress of a stone rolled downhill by an idle truant boy (a pastime at which i was myself expert in my more juvenile years), it moves at first slowly, avoiding by inflection every obstacle of the least importance; but when it has attained its full impulse, and draws near the conclusion of its career, it smokes and thunders down, taking a rood at every spring, clearing hedge and ditch like a yorkshire huntsman, and becoming most furiously rapid in its course when it is nearest to being consigned to rest for ever. even such is the course of a narrative like that which you are perusing. the earlier events are studiously dwelt upon, that you, kind reader, may be introduced to the character rather by narrative than by the duller medium of direct description; but when the story draws near its close, we hurry over the circumstances, however important, which your imagination must have forestalled, and leave you to suppose those things which it would be abusing your patience to relate at length. we are, therefore, so far from attempting to trace the dull progress of messrs. clippurse and hookem, or that of their worthy official brethren who had the charge of suing out the pardons of edward waverley and his intended father-in-law, that we can but touch upon matters more attractive. the mutual epistles, for example, which were exchanged between sir everard and the baron upon this occasion, though matchless specimens of eloquence in their way, must be consigned to merciless oblivion. nor can i tell you at length how worthy aunt rachel, not without a delicate and affectionate allusion to the circumstances which had transferred rose's maternal diamonds to the hands of donald bean lean, stocked her casket with a set of jewels that a duchess might have envied. moreover, the reader will have the goodness to imagine that job houghton and his dame were suitably provided for, although they could never be persuaded that their son fell otherwise than fighting by the young squire's side; so that alick, who, as a lover of truth, had made many needless attempts to expound the real circumstances to them, was finally ordered to say not a word more upon the subject. he indemnified himself, however, by the liberal allowance of desperate battles, grisly executions, and raw-head and bloody-bone stories with which he astonished the servants' hall. but although these important matters may be briefly told in narrative, like a newspaper report of a chancery suit, yet, with all the urgency which waverley could use, the real time which the law proceedings occupied, joined to the delay occasioned by the mode of travelling at that period, rendered it considerably more than two months ere waverley, having left england, alighted once more at the mansion of the laird of duchran to claim the hand of his plighted bride. the day of his marriage was fixed for the sixth after his arrival. the baron of bradwardine, with whom bridals, christenings, and funerals were festivals of high and solemn import, felt a little hurt that, including the family of the duchran and all the immediate vicinity who had title to be present on such an occasion, there could not be above thirty persons collected. 'when he was married,' he observed,'three hundred horse of gentlemen born, besides servants, and some score or two of highland lairds, who never got on horseback, were present on the occasion.' but his pride found some consolation in reflecting that, he and his son-in-law having been so lately in arms against government, it might give matter of reasonable fear and offence to the ruling powers if they were to collect together the kith, kin, and allies of their houses, arrayed in effeir of war, as was the ancient custom of scotland on these occasions--'and, without dubitation,' he concluded with a sigh, 'many of those who would have rejoiced most freely upon these joyful espousals are either gone to a better place or are now exiles from their native land.' the marriage took place on the appointed day. the reverend mr. rubrick, kinsman to the proprietor of the hospitable mansion where it was solemnised, and chaplain to the baron of bradwardine, had the satisfaction to unite their hands; and frank stanley acted as bridesman, having joined edward with that view soon after his arrival. lady emily and colonel talbot had proposed being present; but lady emily's health, when the day approached, was found inadequate to the journey. in amends it was arranged that edward waverley and his lady, who, with the baron, proposed an immediate journey to waverley-honour, should in their way spend a few days at an estate which colonel talbot had been tempted to purchase in scotland as a very great bargain, and at which he proposed to reside for some time. chapter lxxi this is no mine ain house, i ken by the bigging o't old song. the nuptial party travelled in great style. there was a coach and six after the newest pattern, which sir everard had presented to his nephew, that dazzled with its splendour the eyes of one half of scotland; there was the family coach of mr. rubrick;--both these were crowded with ladies,--and there were gentlemen on horseback, with their servants, to the number of a round score. nevertheless, without having the fear of famine before his eyes, bailie macwheeble met them in the road to entreat that they would pass by his house at little veolan. the baron stared, and said his son and he would certainly ride by little veolan and pay their compliments to the bailie, but could not think of bringing with them the 'haill comitatus nuptialis, or matrimonial procession.' he added, 'that, as he understood that the barony had been sold by its unworthy possessor, he was glad to see his old friend duncan had regained his situation under the new dominus, or proprietor.' the bailie ducked, bowed, and fidgeted, and then again insisted upon his invitation; until the baron, though rather piqued at the pertinacity of his instances, could not nevertheless refuse to consent without making evident sensations which he was anxious to conceal. he fell into a deep study as they approached the top of the avenue, and was only startled from it by observing that the battlements were replaced, the ruins cleared away, and (most wonderful of all) that the two great stone bears, those mutilated dagons of his idolatry, had resumed their posts over the gateway. 'now this new proprietor,' said he to edward, 'has shown mair gusto, as the italians call it, in the short time he has had this domain, than that hound malcolm, though i bred him here mysell, has acquired vita adhuc durante. and now i talk of hounds, is not yon ban and buscar who come scouping up the avenue with davie gellatley?' 'i vote we should go to meet them, sir,' said waverley, 'for i believe the present master of the house is colonel talbot, who will expect to see us. we hesitated to mention to you at first that he had purchased your ancient patrimonial property, and even yet, if you do not incline to visit him, we can pass on to the bailie's.' the baron had occasion for all his magnanimity. however, he drew a long breath, took a long snuff, and observed, since they had brought him so far, he could not pass the colonel's gate, and he would be happy to see the new master of his old tenants. he alighted accordingly, as did the other gentlemen and ladies; he gave his arm to his daughter, and as they descended the avenue pointed out to her how speedily the 'diva pecunia of the southron--their tutelary deity, he might call her--had removed the marks of spoliation.' in truth, not only had the felled trees been removed, but, their stumps being grubbed up and the earth round them levelled and sown with grass, every mark of devastation, unless to an eye intimately acquainted with the spot, was already totally obliterated. there was a similar reformation in the outward man of davie gellatley, who met them, every now and then stopping to admire the new suit which graced his person, in the same colours as formerly, but bedizened fine enough to have served touchstone himself. he danced up with his usual ungainly frolics, first to the baron and then to rose, passing his hands over his clothes, crying, 'bra', bra' davie,' and scarce able to sing a bar to an end of his thousand-and-one songs for the breathless extravagance of his joy. the dogs also acknowledged their old master with a thousand gambols. 'upon my conscience, rose,' ejaculated the baron, 'the gratitude o' thae dumb brutes and of that puir innocent brings the tears into my auld een, while that schellum malcolm--but i'm obliged to colonel talbot for putting my hounds into such good condition, and likewise for puir davie. but, rose, my dear, we must not permit them to be a life-rent burden upon the estate.' as he spoke, lady emily, leaning upon the arm of her husband, met the party at the lower gate with a thousand welcomes. after the ceremony of introduction had been gone through, much abridged by the ease and excellent breeding of lady emily, she apologised for having used a little art to wile them back to a place which might awaken some painful reflections--'but as it was to change masters, we were very desirous that the baron--' 'mr. bradwardine, madam, if you please,' said the old gentleman. '--mr. bradwardine, then, and mr. waverley should see what we have done towards restoring the mansion of your fathers to its former state.' the baron answered with a low bow. indeed, when he entered the court, excepting that the heavy stables, which had been burnt down, were replaced by buildings of a lighter and more picturesque appearance, all seemed as much as possible restored to the state in which he had left it when he assumed arms some months before. the pigeon-house was replenished; the fountain played with its usual activity, and not only the bear who predominated over its basin, but all the other bears whatsoever, were replaced on their several stations, and renewed or repaired with so much care that they bore no tokens of the violence which had so lately descended upon them. while these minutiae had been so needfully attended to, it is scarce necessary to add that the house itself had been thoroughly repaired, as well as the gardens, with the strictest attention to maintain the original character of both, and to remove as far as possible all appearance of the ravage they had sustained. the baron gazed in silent wonder; at length he addressed colonel talbot-- 'while i acknowledge my obligation to you, sir, for the restoration of the badge of our family, i cannot but marvel that you have nowhere established your own crest, whilk is, i believe, a mastiff, anciently called a talbot; as the poet has it, a talbot strong, a sturdy tyke. at least such a dog is the crest of the martial and renowned earls of shrewsbury, to whom your family are probably blood-relations.' 'i believe,' said the colonel, smiling, 'our dogs are whelps of the same litter; for my part, if crests were to dispute precedence, i should be apt to let them, as the proverb says, "fight dog, fight bear."' as he made this speech, at which the baron took another long pinch of snuff, they had entered the house, that is, the baron, rose, and lady emily, with young stanley and the bailie, for edward and the rest of the party remained on the terrace to examine a new greenhouse stocked with the finest plants. the baron resumed his favourite topic--'however it may please you to derogate from the honour of your burgonet, colonel talbot, which is doubtless your humour, as i have seen in other gentlemen of birth and honour in your country, i must again repeat it as a most ancient and distinguished bearing, as well as that of my young friend francis stanley, which is the eagle and child.' 'the bird and bantling they call it in derbyshire, sir,' said stanley. 'ye're a daft callant, sir,' said the baron, who had a great liking to this young man, perhaps because he sometimes teased him--'ye're a daft callant, and i must correct you some of these days,' shaking his great brown fist at him. 'but what i meant to say, colonel talbot, is, that yours is an ancient prosapia, or descent, and since you have lawfully and justly acquired the estate for you and yours which i have lost for me and mine, i wish it may remain in your name as many centuries as it has done in that of the late proprietor's.' 'that,' answered the colonel, 'is very handsome, mr. bradwardine, indeed.' 'and yet, sir, i cannot but marvel that you, colonel, whom i noted to have so much of the amor patritz when we met in edinburgh as even to vilipend other countries, should have chosen to establish your lares, or household gods, procul a patrice finibus, and in a manner to expatriate yourself.' 'why really, baron, i do not see why, to keep the secret of these foolish boys, waverley and stanley, and of my wife, who is no wiser, one old soldier should continue to impose upon another. you must know, then, that i have so much of that same prejudice in favour of my native country, that the sum of money which i advanced to the seller of this extensive barony has only purchased for me a box in ----shire, called brere-wood lodge, with about two hundred and fifty acres of land, the chief merit of which is, that it is within a very few miles of waverley-honour.' 'and who, then, in the name of heaven, has bought this property?' 'that,' said the colonel, 'it is this gentleman's profession to explain.' the bailie, whom this reference regarded, and who had all this while shifted from one foot to another with great impatience, 'like a hen,' as he afterwards said, 'upon a het girdle'; and chuckling, he might have added, like the said hen in all the glory of laying an egg, now pushed forward. 'that i can, that i can, your honour,' drawing from his pocket a budget of papers, and untying the red tape with a hand trembling with eagerness. 'here is the disposition and assignation by malcolm bradwardine of inch-grabbit, regularly signed and tested in terms of the statute, whereby, for a certain sum of sterling money presently contented and paid to him, he has disponed, alienated, and conveyed the whole estate and barony of bradwardine, tully-veolan, and others, with the fortalice and manor-place--' 'for god's sake, to the point, sir; i have all that by heart,' said the colonel. '--to cosmo comyne bradwardme, esq.,' pursued the bailie, 'his heirs and assignees, simply and irredeemably, to be held either a me vel de me--' 'pray read short, sir.' 'on the conscience of an honest man, colonel, i read as short as is consistent with style--under the burden and reservation always--' 'mr. macwheeble, this would outlast a russian winter; give me leave. in short, mr. bradwardine, your family estate is your own once more in full property, and at your absolute disposal, but only burdened with the sum advanced to re-purchase it, which i understand is utterly disproportioned to its value.' 'an auld sang--an auld sang, if it please your honours,' cried the bailie, rubbing his hands; 'look at the rental book.' '--which sum being advanced, by mr. edward waverley, chiefly from the price of his father's property which i bought from him, is secured to his lady your daughter and her family by this marriage.' 'it is a catholic security,' shouted the bailie,' to rose comyne bradwardine, alias wauverley, in life-rent, and the children of the said marriage in fee; and i made up a wee bit minute of an antenuptial contract, intuitu matrimonij, so it cannot be subject to reduction hereafter, as a donation inter virum et uxorem.' it is difficult to say whether the worthy baron was most delighted with the restitution of his family property or with the delicacy and generosity that left him unfettered to pursue his purpose in disposing of it after his death, and which avoided as much as possible even the appearance of laying him under pecuniary obligation. when his first pause of joy and astonishment was over, his thoughts turned to the unworthy heir-male, who, he pronounced, had sold his birthright, like esau, for a mess o' pottage. 'but wha cookit the parritch for him?' exclaimed the bailie; 'i wad like to ken that;--wha but your honour's to command, duncan macwheeble? his honour, young mr. wauverley, put it a' into my hand frae the beginning--frae the first calling o' the summons, as i may say. i circumvented them--i played at bogle about the bush wi' them--i cajolled them; and if i havena gien inch-grabbit and jamie howie a bonnie begunk, they ken themselves. him a writer! i didna gae slapdash to them wi' our young bra' bridegroom, to gar them baud up the market. na, na; i scared them wi' our wild tenantry, and the mac-ivors, that are but ill settled yet, till they durstna on ony errand whatsoever gang ower the doorstane after gloaming, for fear john heatherblutter, or some siccan dare-the-deil, should tak a baff at them; then, on the other hand, i beflummed them wi' colonel talbot; wad they offer to keep up the price again' the duke's friend? did they na ken wha was master? had they na seen eneugh, by the sad example of mony a puir misguided unhappy body--' 'who went to derby, for example, mr. macwheeble?' said the colonel to him aside. 'o whisht, colonel, for the love o' god! let that flee stick i' the wa'. there were mony good folk at derby; and it's ill speaking of halters'--with a sly cast of his eye toward the baron, who was in a deep reverie. starting out of it at once, he took macwheeble by the button and led him into one of the deep window recesses, whence only fragments of their conversation reached the rest of the party. it certainly related to stamp-paper and parchment; for no other subject, even from the mouth of his patron, and he once more an efficient one, could have arrested so deeply the bailie's reverent and absorbed attention. 'i understand your honour perfectly; it can be dune as easy as taking out a decreet in absence.' 'to her and him, after my demise, and to their heirs-male, but preferring the second son, if god shall bless them with two, who is to carry the name and arms of bradwardine of that ilk, without any other name or armorial bearings whatsoever.' 'tut, your honour!' whispered the bailie, 'i'll mak a slight jotting the morn; it will cost but a charter of resignation in favorem; and i'll hae it ready for the next term in exchequer.' their private conversation ended, the baron was now summoned to do the honours of tully-veolan to new guests. these were major melville of cairnvreckan and the reverend mr. morton, followed by two or three others of the baron's acquaintances, who had been made privy to his having again acquired the estate of his fathers. the shouts of the villagers were also heard beneath in the court-yard; for saunders saunderson, who had kept the secret for several days with laudable prudence, had unloosed his tongue upon beholding the arrival of the carriages. but, while edward received major melville with politeness and the clergyman with the most affectionate and grateful kindness, his father-in-law looked a little awkward, as uncertain how he should answer the necessary claims of hospitality to his guests, and forward the festivity of his tenants. lady emily relieved him by intimating that, though she must be an indifferent representative of mrs. edward waverley in many respects, she hoped the baron would approve of the entertainment she had ordered in expectation of so many guests; and that they would find such other accommodations provided as might in some degree support the ancient hospitality of tully-veolan. it is impossible to describe the pleasure which this assurance gave the baron, who, with an air of gallantry half appertaining to the stiff scottish laird and half to the officer in the french service, offered his arm to the fair speaker, and led the way, in something between a stride and a minuet step, into the large dining parlour, followed by all the rest of the good company. by dint of saunderson's directions and exertions, all here, as well as in the other apartments, had been disposed as much as possible according to the old arrangement; and where new movables had been necessary, they had been selected in the same character with the old furniture. there was one addition to this fine old apartment, however, which drew tears into the baron's eyes. it was a large and spirited painting, representing fergus mac-ivor and waverley in their highland dress, the scene a wild, rocky, and mountainous pass, down which the clan were descending in the background. it was taken from a spirited sketch, drawn while they were in edinburgh by a young man of high genius, and had been painted on a full-length scale by an eminent london artist. raeburn himself (whose 'highland chiefs' do all but walk out of the canvas) could not have done more justice to the subject; and the ardent, fiery, and impetuous character of the unfortunate chief of glennaquoich was finely contrasted with the contemplative, fanciful, and enthusiastic expression of his happier friend. beside this painting hung the arms which waverley had borne in the unfortunate civil war. the whole piece was beheld with admiration and deeper feelings. men must, however, eat, in spite both of sentiment and vertu; and the baron, while he assumed the lower end of the table, insisted that lady emily should do the honours of the head, that they might, he said, set a meet example to the young folk. after a pause of deliberation, employed in adjusting in his own brain the precedence between the presbyterian kirk and episcopal church of scotland, he requested mr. morton, as the stranger, would crave a blessing, observing that mr. rubrick, who was at home, would return thanks for the distinguished mercies it had been his lot to experience. the dinner was excellent. saunderson attended in full costume, with all the former domestics, who had been collected, excepting one or two, that had not been heard of since the affair of culloden. the cellars were stocked with wine which was pronounced to be superb, and it had been contrived that the bear of the fountain, in the courtyard, should (for that night only) play excellent brandy punch for the benefit of the lower orders. when the dinner was over the baron, about to propose a toast, cast a somewhat sorrowful look upon the sideboard, which, however, exhibited much of his plate, that had either been secreted or purchased by neighbouring gentlemen from the soldiery, and by them gladly restored to the original owner. "in the late times," he said, "those must be thankful who have saved life and land; yet when i am about to pronounce this toast, i cannot but regret an old heirloom, lady emily, a poculum potatorium, colonel talbot--" here the baron's elbow was gently touched by his major-domo, and, turning round, he beheld in the hands of alexander ab alexandro the celebrated cup of saint duthac, the blessed bear of bradwardine! i question if the recovery of his estate afforded him more rapture. "by my honour," he said, "one might almost believe in brownies and fairies, lady emily, when your ladyship is in presence!" "i am truly happy," said colonel talbot, "that, by the recovery of this piece of family antiquity, it has fallen within my power to give you some token of my deep interest in all that concerns my young friend edward. but that you may not suspect lady emily for a sorceress, or me for a conjuror, which is no joke in scotland, i must tell you that frank stanley, your friend, who has been seized with a tartan fever ever since he heard edward's tales of old scottish manners, happened to describe to us at second-hand this remarkable cup. my servant, spontoon, who, like a true old soldier, observes everything and says little, gave me afterwards to understand that he thought he had seen the piece of plate mr. stanley mentioned in the possession of a certain mrs. nosebag, who, having been originally the helpmate of a pawnbroker, had found opportunity during the late unpleasant scenes in scotland to trade a little in her old line, and so became the depositary of the more valuable part of the spoil of half the army. you may believe the cup was speedily recovered; and it will give me very great pleasure if you allow me to suppose that its value is not diminished by having been restored through my means." a tear mingled with the wine which the baron filled, as he proposed a cup of gratitude to colonel talbot, and 'the prosperity of the united houses of waverley-honour and bradwardine!' it only remains for me to say that, as no wish was ever uttered with more affectionate sincerity, there are few which, allowing for the necessary mutability of human events, have been upon the whole more happily fulfilled. chapter lxxii a postscript which should have been a preface our journey is now finished, gentle reader; and if your patience has accompanied me through these sheets, the contract is, on your part, strictly fulfilled. yet, like the driver who has received his full hire, i still linger near you, and make, with becoming diffidence, a trifling additional claim upon your bounty and good nature. you are as free, however, to shut the volume of the one petitioner as to close your door in the face of the other. this should have been a prefatory chapter, but for two reasons: first, that most novel readers, as my own conscience reminds me, are apt to be guilty of the sin of omission respecting that same matter of prefaces; secondly, that it is a general custom with that class of students to begin with the last chapter of a work; so that, after all, these remarks, being introduced last in order, have still the best chance to be read in their proper place. there is no european nation which, within the course of half a century or little more, has undergone so complete a change as this kingdom of scotland. the effects of the insurrection of ,--the destruction of the patriarchal power of the highland chiefs,--the abolition of the heritable jurisdictions of the lowland nobility and barons,--the total eradication of the jacobite party, which, averse to intermingle with the english, or adopt their customs, long continued to pride themselves upon maintaining ancient scottish manners and customs,--commenced this innovation. the gradual influx of wealth and extension of commerce have since united to render the present people of scotland a class of beings as different from their grandfathers as the existing english are from those of queen elizabeth's time. the political and economical effects of these changes have been traced by lord selkirk with great precision and accuracy. but the change, though steadily and rapidly progressive, has nevertheless been gradual; and, like those who drift down the stream of a deep and smooth river, we are not aware of the progress we have made until we fix our eye on the now distant point from which we have been drifted. such of the present generation as can recollect the last twenty or twenty-five years of the eighteenth century will be fully sensible of the truth of this statement; especially if their acquaintance and connexions lay among those who in my younger time were facetiously called 'folks of the old leaven,' who still cherished a lingering, though hopeless, attachment to the house of stuart. this race has now almost entirely vanished from the land, and with it, doubtless, much absurd political prejudice; but also many living examples of singular and disinterested attachment to the principles of loyalty which they received from their fathers, and of old scottish faith, hospitality, worth, and honour. it was my accidental lot, though not born a highlander (which may be an apology for much bad gaelic), to reside during my childhood and youth among persons of the above description; and now, for the purpose of preserving some idea of the ancient manners of which i have witnessed the almost total extinction, i have embodied in imaginary scenes, and ascribed to fictitious characters, a part of the incidents which i then received from those who were actors in them. indeed, the most romantic parts of this narrative are precisely those which have a foundation in fact. the exchange of mutual protection between a highland gentleman and an officer of rank in the king's service, together with the spirited manner in which the latter asserted his right to return the favour he had received, is literally true. the accident by a musket shot, and the heroic reply imputed to flora, relate to a lady of rank not long deceased. and scarce a gentleman who was 'in hiding' after the battle of culloden but could tell a tale of strange concealments and of wild and hair'sbreadth'scapes as extraordinary as any which i have ascribed to my heroes. of this, the escape of charles edward himself, as the most prominent, is the most striking example. the accounts of the battle of preston and skirmish at clifton are taken from the narrative of intelligent eye-witnesses, and corrected from the 'history of the rebellion' by the late venerable author of 'douglas.' the lowland scottish gentlemen and the subordinate characters are not given as individual portraits, but are drawn from the general habits of the period, of which i have witnessed some remnants in my younger days, and partly gathered from tradition. it has been my object to describe these persons, not by a caricatured and exaggerated use of the national dialect, but by their habits, manners, and feelings, so as in some distant degree to emulate the admirable irish portraits drawn by miss edgeworth, so different from the 'teagues' and 'dear joys' who so long, with the most perfect family resemblance to each other, occupied the drama and the novel. i feel no confidence, however, in the manner in which i have executed my purpose. indeed, so little was i satisfied with my production, that i laid it aside in an unfinished state, and only found it again by mere accident among other waste papers in an old cabinet, the drawers of which i was rummaging in order to accommodate a friend with some fishing-tackle, after it had been mislaid for several years. two works upon similar subjects, by female authors whose genius is highly creditable to their country, have appeared in the interval; i mean mrs. hamilton's 'glenburnie' and the late account of 'highland superstitions.' but the first is confined to the rural habits of scotland, of which it has given a picture with striking and impressive fidelity; and the traditional records of the respectable and ingenious mrs. grant of laggan are of a nature distinct from the fictitious narrative which i have here attempted. i would willingly persuade myself that the preceding work will not be found altogether uninteresting. to elder persons it will recall scenes and characters familiar to their youth; and to the rising generation the tale may present some idea of the manners of their forefathers. yet i heartily wish that the task of tracing the evanescent manners of his own country had employed the pen of the only man in scotland who could have done it justice--of him so eminently distinguished in elegant literature, and whose sketches of colonel caustic and umphraville are perfectly blended with the finer traits of national character. i should in that case have had more pleasure as a reader than i shall ever feel in the pride of a successful author, should these sheets confer upon me that envied distinction. and, as i have inverted the usual arrangement, placing these remarks at the end of the work to which they refer, i will venture on a second violation of form, by closing the whole with a dedication-- these volumes being respectfully inscribed to our scottish addison, henry mackenzie, by an unknown admirer of his genius. the end notes note i, p. the clan of mac-farlane, occupying the fastnesses of the western side of loch lomond, were great depredators on the low country, and as their excursions were made usually by night, the moon was proverbially called their lantern. their celebrated pibroch of hoggil nam bo, which is the name of their gathering tune, intimates similar practices, the sense being:-- we are bound to drive the bullocks, all by hollows, hirsts, and hillocks, through the sleet, and through the rain. when the moon is beaming low on frozen lake and hills of snow, bold and heartily we go; and all for little gain. note , p. this noble ruin is dear to my recollection, from associations which have been long and painfully broken. it holds a commanding station on the banks of the river teith, and has been one of the largest castles in scotland. murdoch, duke of albany, the founder of this stately pile, was beheaded on the castle-hill of stirling, from which he might see the towers of doune, the monument of his fallen greatness. in - , as stated in the text, a garrison on the part of the chevalier was put into the castle, then less ruinous than at present. it was commanded by mr. stewart of balloch, as governor for prince charles; he was a man of property near callander. this castle became at that time the actual scene of a romantic escape made by john home, the author of douglas, and some other prisoners, who, having been taken at the battle of falkirk, were confined there by the insurgents. the poet, who had in his own mind a large stock of that romantic and enthusiastic spirit of adventure which he has described as animating the youthful hero of his drama, devised and undertook the perilous enterprise of escaping from his prison. he inspired his companions with his sentiments, and when every attempt at open force was deemed hopeless, they resolved to twist their bed-clothes into ropes and thus to descend. four persons, with home himself, reached the ground in safety. but the rope broke with the fifth, who was a tall, lusty man. the sixth was thomas barrow, a brave young englishman, a particular friend of home's. determined to take the risk, even in such unfavourable circumstances, barrow committed himself to the broken rope, slid down on it as far as it could assist him, and then let himself drop. his friends beneath succeeded in breaking his fall. nevertheless, he dislocated his ankle and had several of his ribs broken. his companions, however, were able to bear him off in safety. the highlanders next morning sought for their prisoners with great activity. an old gentleman told the author he remembered seeing the commandant stewart bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste, riding furiously through the country in quest of the fugitives. note , p. to go out, or to have been out, in scotland was a conventional phrase similar to that of the irish respecting a man having been up, both having reference to an individual who had been engaged in insurrection. it was accounted ill-breeding in scotland about forty years since to use the phrase rebellion or rebel, which might be interpreted by some of the parties present as a personal insult. it was also esteemed more polite, even for stanch whigs, to denominate charles edward the chevalier than to speak of him as the pretender; and this kind of accommodating courtesy was usually observed in society where individuals of each party mixed on friendly terms. note , p. the jacobite sentiments were general among the western counties and in wales. but although the great families of the wynnes, the wyndhams, and others had come under an actual obligation to join prince charles if he should land, they had done so under the express stipulation that he should be assisted by an auxiliary army of french, without which they foresaw the enterprise would be desperate. wishing well to his cause, therefore, and watching an opportunity to join him, they did not, nevertheless, think themselves bound in honour to do so, as he was only supported by a body of wild mountaineers, speaking an uncouth dialect, and wearing a singular dress. the race up to derby struck them with more dread than admiration. but it is difficult to say what the effect might have been had either the battle of preston or falkirk been fought and won during the advance into england. note , p. divisions early showed themselves in the chevalier's little army, not only amongst the independent chieftains, who were far too proud to brook subjection to each other, but betwixt the scotch and charles's governor o'sullivan, an irishman by birth, who, with some of his countrymen bred in the irish brigade in the service of the king of france, had an influence with the adventurer much resented by the highlanders, who were sensible that their own clans made the chief or rather the only strength of his enterprise. there was a feud, also, between lord george murray and john murray of broughton, the prince's secretary, whose disunion greatly embarrassed the affairs of the adventurer. in general, a thousand different pretensions divided their little army, and finally contributed in no small degree to its overthrow. note , p. this circumstance, which is historical, as well as the description that precedes it, will remind the reader of the war of la vendee, in which the royalists, consisting chiefly of insurgent peasantry, attached a prodigious and even superstitious interest to the possession of a piece of brass ordnance, which they called marie jeanne. the highlanders of an early period were afraid of cannon, with the noise and effect of which they were totally unacquainted. it was by means of three or four small pieces of artillery that the earls of huntly and errol, in james vi's time, gained a great victory at glenlivat, over a numerous highland army, commanded by the earl of argyle. at the battle of the bridge of dee, general middleton obtained by his artillery a similar success, the highlanders not being able to stand the discharge of musket's mother, which was the name they bestowed on great guns. in an old ballad on the battle of the bridge of dee these verses occur:-- the highlandmen are pretty men for handling sword and shield, but yet they are but simple men to stand a stricken field. the highlandmen are pretty men for target and claymore, but yet they are but naked men to face the cannon's roar. for the cannons roar on a summer night like thunder in the air; was never man in highland garb would face the cannon fair but the highlanders of had got far beyond the simplicity of their forefathers, and showed throughout the whole war how little they dreaded artillery, although the common people still attached some consequence to the possession of the field-piece which led to this disquisition. note , p. the faithful friend who pointed out the pass by which the highlanders moved from tranent to seaton was robert anderson, junior, of whitburgh, a gentleman of property in east lothian. he had been interrogated by the lord george murray concerning the possibility of crossing the uncouth and marshy piece of ground which divided the armies, and which he described as impracticable. when dismissed, he recollected that there was a circuitous path leading eastward through the marsh into the plain, by which the highlanders might turn the flank of sir john cope's position without being exposed to the enemy's fire. having mentioned his opinion to mr. hepburn of keith, who instantly saw its importance, he was encouraged by that gentleman to awake lord george murray and communicate the idea to him. lord george received the information with grateful thanks, and instantly awakened prince charles, who was sleeping in the field with a bunch of pease under his head. the adventurer received with alacrity the news that there was a possibility of bringing an excellently provided army to a decisive battle with his own irregular forces. his joy on the occasion was not very consistent with the charge of cowardice brought against him by chevalier johnstone, a discontented follower, whose memoirs possess at least as much of a romantic as a historical character. even by the account of the chevalier himself, the prince was at the head of the second line of the highland army during the battle, of which he says, 'it was gained with such rapidity that in the second line, where i was still by the side of the prince, we saw no other enemy than those who were lying on the ground killed and wounded, though we were not more than fifty paces behind our first line, running always as fast as we could to overtake them.' this passage in the chevalier's memoirs places the prince within fifty paces of the heat of the battle, a position which would never have been the choice of one unwilling to take a share of its dangers. indeed, unless the chiefs had complied with the young adventurer's proposal to lead the van in person, it does not appear that he could have been deeper in the action. note , p. the death of this good christian and gallant man is thus given by his affectionate biographer, doctor doddridge, from the evidence of eye-witnesses:-- 'he continued all night under arms, wrapped up in his cloak, and generally sheltered under a rick of barley which happened to be in the field. about three in the morning he called his domestic servants to him, of which there were four in waiting. he dismissed three of them with most affectionate christian advice, and such solemn charges relating to the performance of their duty, and the care of their souls, as seemed plainly to intimate that he apprehended it was at least very probable he was taking his last farewell of them. there is great reason to believe that he spent the little remainder of the time, which could not be much above an hour, in those devout exercises of soul which had been so long habitual to him, and to which so many circumstances did then concur to call him. the army was alarmed by break of day by the noise of the rebels' approach, and the attack was made before sunrise, yet when it was light enough to discern what passed. as soon as the enemy came within gun-shot they made a furious fire; and it is said that the dragoons which constituted the left wing immediately fled. the colonel at the beginning of the onset, which in the whole lasted but a few minutes, received a wound by a bullet in his left breast, which made him give a sudden spring in his saddle; upon which his servant, who led the horse, would have persuaded him to retreat, but he said it was only a wound in the flesh, and fought on, though he presently after received a shot in his right thigh. in the mean time, it was discerned that some of the enemy fell by him, and particularly one man who had made him a treacherous visit but a few days before, with great professions of zeal for the present establishment. 'events of this kind pass in less time than the description of them can be written, or than it can be read. the colonel was for a few moments supported by his men, and particularly by that worthy person lieutenant-colonel whitney, who was shot through the arm here, and a few months after fell nobly at the battle of falkirk, and by lieutenant west, a man of distinguished bravery, as also by about fifteen dragoons, who stood by him to the last. but after a faint fire, the regiment in general was seized with a panic; and though their colonel and some other gallant officers did what they could to rally them once or twice, they at last took a precipitate flight. and just in the moment when colonel gardiner seemed to be making a pause to deliberate what duty required him to do in such circumstances, an accident happened, which must, i think, in the judgment of every worthy and generous man, be allowed a sufficient apology for exposing his life to so great hazard, when his regiment had left him. he saw a party of the foot, who were then bravely fighting near him, and whom he was ordered to support, had no officer to head them; upon which he said eagerly, in the hearing of the person from whom i had this account, "these brave fellows will be cut to pieces for want of a commander," or words to that effect; which while he was speaking he rode up to them and cried out, "fire on, my lads, and fear nothing." but just as the words were out of his mouth, a highlander advanced towards him with a scythe fastened to a long pole, with which he gave him so dreadful a wound on his right arm, that his sword dropped out of his hand; and at the same time several others coming about him while he was thus dreadfully entangled with that cruel weapon, he was dragged off from his horse. the moment he fell, another highlander, who, if the king's evidence at carlisle may be credited (as i know not why they should not, though the unhappy creature died denying it), was one mac-naught, who was executed about a year after, gave him a stroke either with a broadsword or a lochaber-axe (for my informant could not exactly distinguish) on the hinder part of his head, which was the mortal blow. all that his faithful attendant saw farther at this time was that, as his hat was fallen off, he took it in his left hand and waved it as a signal to him to retreat, and added, what were the last words he ever heard him speak, "take care of yourself"; upon which the servant retired.'--some remarkable passages in the life of colonel james gardiner. by p. doddridge, d.d. london, , p. . i may remark on this extract, that it confirms the account given in the text of the resistance offered by some of the english infantry. surprised by a force of a peculiar and unusual description, their opposition could not be long or formidable, especially as they were deserted by the cavalry, and those who undertook to manage the artillery. but, although the affair was soon decided, i have always understood that many of the infantry showed an inclination to do their duty. note , p. it is scarcely necessary to say that the character of this brutal young laird is entirely imaginary. a gentleman, however, who resembled balmawhapple in the article of courage only, fell at preston in the manner described. a perthshire gentleman of high honour and respectability, one of the handful of cavalry who followed the fortunes of charles edward, pursued the fugitive dragoons almost alone till near saint clement's wells, where the efforts of some of the officers had prevailed on a few of them to make a momentary stand. perceiving at this moment that they were pursued by only one man and a couple of servants, they turned upon him and cut him down with their swords. i remember when a child, sitting on his grave, where the grass long grew rank and green, distinguishing it from the rest of the field. a female of the family then residing at saint clement's wells used to tell me the tragedy, of which she had been an eye-witness, and showed me in evidence one of the silver clasps of the unfortunate gentleman's waistcoat. note , p. the name of andrea de ferrara is inscribed on all the scottish broadswords which are accounted of peculiar excellence. who this artist was, what were his fortunes, and when he flourished, have hitherto defied the research of antiquaries; only it is in general believed that andrea de ferrara was a spanish or italian artificer, brought over by james iv or v to instruct the scots in the manufacture of sword blades. most barbarous nations excel in the fabrication of arms; and the scots had attained great proficiency in forging swords so early as the field of pinkie; at which period the historian patten describes them as 'all notably broad and thin, universally made to slice, and of such exceeding good temper that, as i never saw any so good, so i think it hard to devise better.'--account of somerset's expedition. it may be observed that the best and most genuine andrea ferraras have a crown marked on the blade. note , p. the incident here said to have happened to flora mac-ivor actually befell miss nairne, a lady with whom the author had the pleasure of being acquainted. as the highland army rushed into edinburgh, miss nairne, like other ladies who approved of their cause, stood waving her handkerchief from a balcony, when a ball from a highlander's musket, which was discharged by accident, grazed her forehead. 'thank god,' said she, the instant she recovered,'that the accident happened to me, whose principles are known. had it befallen a whig, they would have said it was done on purpose.' note , p. the author of waverley has been charged with painting the young adventurer in colours more amiable than his character deserved. but having known many individuals who were near his person, he has been described according to the light in which those eye-witnesses saw his temper and qualifications. something must be allowed, no doubt, to the natural exaggerations of those who remembered him as the bold and adventurous prince in whose cause they had braved death and ruin; but is their evidence to give place entirely to that of a single malcontent? i have already noticed the imputations thrown by the chevalier johnstone on the prince's courage. but some part at least of that gentleman's tale is purely romantic. it would not, for instance, be supposed that at the time he is favouring us with the highly wrought account of his amour with the adorable peggie, the chevalier johnstone was a married man, whose grandchild is now alive; or that the whole circumstantial story concerning the outrageous vengeance taken by gordon of abbachie on a presbyterian clergyman is entirely apocryphal. at the same time it may be admitted that the prince, like others of his family, did not esteem the services done him by his adherents so highly as he ought. educated in high ideas of his hereditary right, he has been supposed to have held every exertion and sacrifice made in his cause as too much the duty of the person making it to merit extravagant gratitude on his part. dr. king's evidence (which his leaving the jacobite interest renders somewhat doubtful) goes to strengthen this opinion. the ingenious editor of johnstone's memoirs has quoted a story said to be told by helvetius, stating that prince charles edward, far from voluntarily embarking on his daring expedition, was, literally bound hand and foot, and to which he seems disposed to yield credit. now, it being a fact as well known as any in his history, and, so far as i know, entirely undisputed, that the prince's personal entreaties and urgency positively forced boisdale and lochiel into insurrection, when they were earnestly desirous that he would put off his attempt until he could obtain a sufficient force from france, it will be very difficult to reconcile his alleged reluctance to undertake the expedition with his desperately insisting upon carrying the rising into effect against the advice and entreaty of his most powerful and most sage partizans. surely a man who had been carried bound on board the vessel which brought him to so desperate an enterprise would have taken the opportunity afforded by the reluctance of his partizans to return to france in safety. it is averred in johnstone's memoirs that charles edward left the field of culloden without doing the utmost to dispute the victory; and, to give the evidence on both sides, there is in existence the more trustworthy testimony of lord elcho, who states that he himself earnestly exhorted the prince to charge at the head of the left wing, which was entire, and retrieve the day or die with honour. and on his counsel being declined, lord elcho took leave of him with a bitter execration, swearing he would never look on his face again, and kept his word. on the other hand, it seems to have been the opinion of almost all the other officers that the day was irretrievably lost, one wing of the highlanders being entirely routed, the rest of the army outnumbered, outflanked, and in a condition totally hopeless. in this situation of things the irish officers who surrounded charles's person interfered to force him off the field. a cornet who was close to the prince left a strong attestation that he had seen sir thomas sheridan seize the bridle of his horse and turn him round. there is some discrepancy of evidence; but the opinion of lord elcho, a man of fiery temper and desperate at the ruin which he beheld impending, cannot fairly be taken in prejudice of a character for courage which is intimated by the nature of the enterprise itself, by the prince's eagerness to fight on all occasions, by his determination to advance from derby to london, and by the presence of mind which he manifested during the romantic perils of his escape. the author is far from claiming for this unfortunate person the praise due to splendid talents; but he continues to be of opinion that at the period of his enterprise he had a mind capable of facing danger and aspiring to fame. that charles edward had the advantages of a graceful presence, courtesy, and an address and manner becoming his station, the author never heard disputed by any who approached his person, nor does he conceive that these qualities are overcharged in the present attempt to sketch his portrait. the following extracts corroborative of the general opinion respecting the prince's amiable disposition are taken from a manuscript account of his romantic expedition, by james maxwell of kirkconnell, of which i possess a copy, by the friendship of j. menzies, esq., of pitfoddells. the author, though partial to the prince, whom he faithfully followed, seems to have been a fair and candid man, and well acquainted with the intrigues among the adventurer's council:-- 'everybody was mightily taken with the prince's figure and personal behaviour. there was but one voice about them. those whom interest or prejudice made a runaway to his cause could not help acknowledging that they wished him well in all other respects, and could hardly blame him for his present undertaking. sundry things had concurred to raise his character to the highest pitch, besides the greatness of the enterprise and the conduct that had hitherto appeared in the execution of it. 'there were several instances of good nature and humanity that had made a great impression on people's minds. i shall confine myself to two or three. 'immediately after the battle, as the prince was riding along the ground that cope's army had occupied a few minutes before, one of the officers came up to congratulate him, and said, pointing to the killed, "sir, there are your enemies at your feet." the prince, far from exulting, expressed a great deal of compassion for his father's deluded subjects, whom he declared he was heartily sorry to see in that posture. 'next day, while the prince was at pinkie house, a citizen of edinburgh came to make some representation to secretary murray about the tents that city was ordered to furnish against a certain day. murray happened to be out of the way, which the prince hearing of called to have the gentleman brought to him, saying, he would rather despatch the business, whatever it was, himself than have the gentleman wait, which he did, by granting everything that was asked. so much affability in a young prince flushed with victory drew encomiums even from his enemies. 'but what gave the people the highest idea of him was the negative he gave to a thing that very nearly concerned his interest, and upon which the success of his enterprise perhaps depended. it was proposed to send one of the prisoners to london to demand of that court a cartel for the exchange of prisoners taken, and to be taken, during this war, and to intimate that a refusal would be looked upon as a resolution on their part to give no quarter. it was visible a cartel would be of great advantage to the prince's affairs; his friends would be more ready to declare for him if they had nothing to fear but the chance of war in the field; and if the court of london refused to settle a cartel, the prince was authorised to treat his prisoners in the same manner the elector of hanover was determined to treat such of the prince's friends as might fall into his hands; it was urged that a few examples would compel the court of london to comply. it was to be presumed that the officers of the english army would make a point of it. they had never engaged in the service but upon such terms as are in use among all civilised nations, and it could be no stain upon their honour to lay down their commissions if these terms were not observed, and that owing to the obstinacy of their own prince. though this scheme was plausible, and represented as very important, the prince could never be brought into it, it was below him, he said, to make empty threats, and he would never put such as those into execution; he would never in cold blood take away lives which he had saved in heat of action at the peril of his own. these were not the only proofs of good nature the prince gave about this time. every day produced something new of this kind. these things softened the rigour of a military government which was only imputed to the necessity of his affairs, and which he endeavoured to make as gentle and easy as possible.' it has been said that the prince sometimes exacted more state and ceremonial than seemed to suit his condition; but, on the other hand, some strictness of etiquette was altogether indispensable where he must otherwise have been exposed to general intrusion. he could also endure, with a good grace, the retorts which his affectation of ceremony sometimes exposed him to. it is said, for example, that grant of glenmoriston having made a hasty march to join charles, at the head of his clan, rushed into the prince's presence at holyrood with unceremonious haste, without having attended to the duties of the toilet. the prince received him kindly, but not without a hint that a previous interview with the barber might not have been wholly unnecessary. 'it is not beardless boys,' answered the displeased chief, 'who are to do your royal highness's turn.' the chevalier took the rebuke in good part. on the whole, if prince charles had concluded his life soon after his miraculous escape, his character in history must have stood very high. as it was, his station is amongst those a certain brilliant portion of whose life forms a remarkable contrast to all which precedes and all which follows it. note , p. the following account of the skirmish at clifton is extracted from the manuscript memoirs of evan macpherson of cluny, chief of the clan macpherson, who had the merit of supporting the principal brunt of that spirited affair. the memoirs appear to have been composed about , only ten years after the action had taken place. they were written in france, where that gallant chief resided in exile, which accounts for some gallicisms which occur in the narrative. 'in the prince's return from derby back towards scotland, my lord george murray, lieutenant-general, cheerfully charg'd himself with the command of the rear, a post which, altho' honourable, was attended with great danger, many difficulties, and no small fatigue; for the prince, being apprehensive that his retreat to scotland might be cut off by marischall wade, who lay to the northward of him with an armie much supperior to what h.r.h. had, while the duke of comberland with his whole cavalrie followed hard in the rear, was obliged to hasten his marches. it was not, therefore, possible for the artilirie to march so fast as the prince's army, in the depth of winter, extremely bad weather, and the worst roads in england; so lord george murray was obliged often to continue his marches long after it was dark almost every night, while at the same time he had frequent allarms and disturbances from the duke of comberland's advanc'd parties. 'towards the evening of the twentie-eight december the prince entered the town of penrith, in the province of comberland. but as lord george murray could not bring up the artilirie so fast as he wou'd have wish'd, he was oblig'd to pass the night six miles short of that town, together with the regiment of macdonel of glengarrie, which that day happened to have the arrear guard. the prince, in order to refresh his armie, and to give my lord george and the artilirie time to come up, resolved to sejour the th at penrith; so ordered his little army to appear in the morning under arms, in order to be reviewed, and to know in what manner the numbers stood from his haveing entered england. it did not at that time amount to foot in all, with about cavalrie, compos'd of the noblesse who serv'd as volunteers, part of whom form'd a first troop of guards for the prince, under the command of my lord elchoe, now comte de weems, who, being proscribed, is presently in france. another part formed a second troup of guards under the command of my lord balmirino, who was beheaded at the tower of london. a third part serv'd under my lord le comte de kilmarnock, who was likewise beheaded at the tower. a fourth part serv'd under my lord pitsligow, who is also proscribed; which cavalrie, tho' very few in numbers, being all noblesse, were very brave, and of infinite advantage to the foot, not only in the day of battle, but in serving as advanced guards on the several marches, and in patroling dureing the night on the different roads which led towards the towns where the army happened to quarter. 'while this small army was out in a body on the qth december, upon a riseing ground to the northward of penrith, passing review, mons. de cluny, with his tribe, was ordered to the bridge of clifton, about a mile to southward of penrith, after having pass'd in review before mons. pattullo, who was charged with the inspection of the troops, and was likeways quarter-master-general of the army, and is now in france. they remained under arms at the bridge, waiting the arrival of my lord george murray with the artilirie, whom mons. de cluny had orders to cover in passing the bridge. they arrived about sunsett closly pursued by the duke of comberland with the whole body of his cavalrie, reckoned upwards of strong, about a thousand of whom, as near as might be computed, dismounted, in order to cut off the passage of the artilirie towards the bridge, while the duke and the others remained on horseback in order to attack the rear. 'my lord george murray advanced, and although he found mons. de cluny and his tribe in good spirits under arms, yet the circumstance appear'd extremely delicate. the numbers were vastly unequall, and the attack seem'd very dangerous; so my lord george declin'd giving orders to such time as he ask'd mons. de cluny's oppinion. "i will attack them with all my heart," says mons. de cluny, "if you order me." "i do order it then," answered my lord george, and immediately went on himself along with mons. de cluny, and fought sword in hand on foot at the head of the single tribe of macphersons. they in a moment made their way through a strong hedge of thorns, under the cover whereof the cavalrie had taken their station, in the strugle of passing which hedge my lord george murray, being dressed en montagnard, as all the army were, lost his bonet and wig; so continued to fight bare-headed during the action. they at first made a brisk discharge of their firearms on the enemy, then attacked them with their sabres, and made a great slaughter a considerable time, which obliged comberland and his cavalrie to fly with precipitation and in great confusion; in so much that, if the prince had been provided in a sufficient number of cavalrie to have taken advantage of the disorder, it is beyond question that the duke of comberland and the bulk of his cavalrie had been taken prisoners. 'by this time it was so dark that it was not possible to view or number the slain who filled all the ditches which happened to be on the ground where they stood. but it was computed that, besides those who went off wounded, upwards of a hundred at least were left on the spot, among whom was colonel honywood, who commanded the dismounted cavalrie, whose sabre of considerable value mons. de cluny brought off and still preserves; and his tribe lykeways brought off many arms;--the colonel was afterwards taken up, and, his wounds being dress'd, with great difficultie recovered. mons. de cluny lost only in the action twelve men, of whom some haveing been only wounded, fell afterwards into the hands of the enemy, and were sent as slaves to america, whence several of them returned, and one of them is now in france, a sergeant in the regiment of royal scots. how soon the accounts of the enemies approach had reached the prince, h.r.h. had immediately ordered mi-lord le comte de nairne, brigadier, who, being proscribed, is now in france, with the three batalions of the duke of athol, the batalion of the duke of perth, and some other troups under his command, in order to support cluny, and to bring off the artilirie. but the action was entirely over before the comte de nairne, with his command, cou'd reach nigh to the place. they therefore return'd all to penrith, and the artilirie marched up in good order. 'nor did the duke of comberland ever afterwards dare to come within a day's march of the prince and his army dureing the course of all that retreat, which was conducted with great prudence and safety when in some manner surrounded by enemies.' note , p. as the heathen deities contracted an indelible obligation if they swore by styx, the scottish highlanders had usually some peculiar solemnity attached to an oath which they intended should be binding on them. very frequently it consisted in laying their hand, as they swore, on their own drawn dirk; which dagger, becoming a party to the transaction, was invoked to punish any breach of faith. but by whatever ritual the oath was sanctioned, the party was extremely desirous to keep secret what the especial oath was which he considered as irrevocable. this was a matter of great convenience, as he felt no scruple in breaking his asseveration when made in any other form than that which he accounted as peculiarly solemn; and therefore readily granted any engagement which bound him no longer than he inclined. whereas, if the oath which he accounted inviolable was once publicly known, no party with whom he might have occasion to contract would have rested satisfied with any other. louis xi of france practised the same sophistry, for he also had a peculiar species of oath, the only one which he was ever known to respect, and which, therefore, he was very unwilling to pledge. the only engagement which that wily tyrant accounted binding upon him was an oath by the holy cross of saint lo d'angers, which contained a portion of the true cross. if he prevaricated after taking this oath louis believed he should die within the year. the constable saint paul, being invited to a personal conference with louis, refused to meet the king unless he would agree to ensure him safe conduct under sanction of this oath. but, says comines, the king replied, he would never again pledge that engagement to mortal man, though he was willing to take any other oath which could be devised. the treaty broke oft, therefore, after much chaffering concerning the nature of the vow which louis was to take. such is the difference between the dictates of superstition and those of conscience. glossary a', all. aboon, abune, above. ae, one. aff, off. afore, before. ahint, behind. ain, own. aits, oats. amaist, almost. ambry, a cupboard, a pantry. an, if. ane, one. aneuch, enough. array, annoy, trouble. assoilzied, absolved, acquitted. assythment, satisfaction, auld, old. baff, a blow. bagganet, a bayonet. bailie, a city magistrate in scotland. bairn, a child. baith, both. banes, bones. bang-up, get up quickly, bounce. barley, a parley, a truce. bauld, bold. baulder, bolder. bawbee, a halfpenny. bawty, sly, cunning. bees, in the, bewildered, stupefied. beflumm'd, flattered, cajoled. begunk, a trick, a cheat. ben, within, inside. benempt, named. bicker, a wooden dish. bide, stay, endure. bieldy, affording shelter. bigging, building. birlieman, a peace officer. black-cock, the black grouse. black-fishing, ashing by torchlight, poaching. blude, bluid, blood. boddle, bodle, a copper coin, worth one third of an english penny. bogle about the bush, beat about the bush, a children's game. bonnie, beautiful, comely, fine, boune, prepared. bra', fine, handsome, showy. brander, broil. breeks, breeches. brent, smooth, unwrinkled. brogues, highland shoes. broo, brew, broth. bruckle, brittle, infirm. bruik, enjoy. brulzie, bruilzie, a broil, a fray. buckie, a perverse or refractory person. buttock-mail, a fine for fornication. bydand, awaiting. ca', call. cadger, a country carrier. cailliachs, old women on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead, which the irish call keening. callant, a stripling, a fine fellow. cannily, prudently. canny, cautious, lucky. carle, a churl, an old man. cateran, a freebooter. chiel, a young man. clachan, a village, a hamlet. clamyhewit, a blow, a drubbing. clash, chatter, gossip. clatter, tattle, noisy talk. close, a narrow passage. clour, a bump, a bruise. cocky-leeky, a soup made of a cock, seasoned with leeks. coghling and droghling, wheezing and blowing. coronach, a dirge. corrie, a mountain hollow. coup, fall. cow yer cracks, cut short your talk, hold your tongues. crack, boast. craig, the neck, the throat. crames, merchants' shops, booths. cut-lugged, crop-eared. daft, foolish, mad, crazy. daur, dare. deaving, deafening. decreet, an order of decree. deliver, light, agile. dern, hidden, concealed, secret. ding, knock, beat, surpass. dingle, dinnle, tingle, vibrate with sound. doer, an agent, a manager. dog-head, the hammer of a gun. doiled, crazed, silly. doited, having the faculties impaired. dorlach, a bundle. dow, a dove. dowf, dowff, dull, spiritless. drappie, a little drop, a small quantity of drink. effeir, what is becoming. eneugh, enough. etter-cap, a spider, an ill-natured person. evite, avoid, escape. ewest, ewast, contiguous. fallow, a fellow. fauld, fold. feared, afraid. feck, a quantity. fleyt, frightened, shy. frae, from. gad, a goad, a rod. gane, gone; gang, go. gar, make. gate, way. gaun, going. gear, goods. ghaist, a ghost. gin, if. gite, crazy, a noodle, gled, a kite. gleg, quick, clever. glisk, a glimpse. gowd, gold. graning, groaning. grat, wept. gree, agree. greybeard, a stone bottle or jug. grice, gryce, gris, a pig. gripple, griping, niggardly. gude, guid, good. gulpin, a simpleton. ha', hall. hag, a portion of copse marked off for cutting. haggis, a pudding peculiar to scotland, containing oatmeal, suet, minced sheep's liver, heart, etc., seasoned with onions, pepper, and salt, the whole mixture boiled in a sheep's stomach. hail, whole. heck, a hay rack; at heck and manger, in plenty. het, hot. hog, a young sheep before its first shearing. horse-couper, horse-cowper, a horse-dealer. hurdles, the buttocks. hurley-house, a large house fallen into disrepair. ilk, same; of that ilk, of the same name or place, ilka, every. ingle, a fire burning upon the hearth. in the bees, stupefied. keepit, kept. kemple, a scotch measure of straw or hay. ken, know. kippage, disorder, confusion. kirk, church. kittle, tickle, ticklish. laird, lord of the manor. landlouper, a wanderer, a vagabond. leddy, a lady. lightly, make light of, disparage. limmer, a hussy, a jade. loon, a worthless fellow, a lout. loup, leap, start. lug, an ear. lunzie, the loins, the waist. mae, more. mains, the chief farm of an estate. mair, more. maist, most, almost. mart, beef salted down for winter. mask, mash, infuse. maun, must. merk, an old silver coin worth / pence, english. mickle, large, much. morn, tomorrow. mousted, powdered. muckle, great, much. munt, mount. mutchkin, a measure equal to about three quarters of an imperial pint. na, nae, no, not. naigs, horses. nail, the sixteenth part of a yard. natheless, nevertheless. neb, nose, tip. ne'er be in me, devil be in me. old to do, great doings. ower, over. paitrick, a partridge. panged, crammed. parritch, oatmeal porridge. paunie, a peacock. peculium, private property. pinners, a headdress for women. plack, a copper coin worth one third of a penny. plaidy, an outer covering for the body. plenish, furnish. ploy, an entertainment, a pastime. pottinger, an apothecary. pownie, a pony. powtering, poking, stirring. pretty man, a stout, warlike fellow. quean, a young woman. redd, part, separate. reises, twigs, branches. resiling, retracting, withdrawing. riggs, ridges, ploughed ground. rintherout, a roving person, a vagabond. row, roll. rowed, rolled. rowt, cried out, bellowed, roynish, scurvy, coarse. sae, so. st. johnstone's tippet, a rope or halter for hanging. sair, sore, very. sall, shall. sark, a shirt. saumon, a salmon. saut, salt. scarted, scratched, scribbled over. schellum, a rascal. scroll, engross, copy. shanks, legs. sheers, shears. shouther, the shoulder. siccan, sic, such. siller, money. silly, weak. skig, the least quantity of anything. sma', small. smoky, suspicious. sneck, cut. sorted, put in proper order, adjusted. sowens, the seeds of oatmeal soured. speer, ask, investigate. spence, the place where provisions are kept. sprack, lively. sprechery, movables of an unimportant sort. spuilzie, spoil. spung, pick one's pocket. stieve, firm. stoor, rough, harsh. strae, straw. streeks, stretches, lies. swair, swore. syne, before, now, ago. taiglit, harassed, encumbered, loitered. tauld, told. thae, those. thir, these. thole, bear, suffer. thraw, twist, wrench. threepit, maintained obstinately. throstle, the thrush. till, to. tirrivies, hasty fits of passion, tocherless, without dowry. toun, a town, a hamlet, a farm. toy, an old-fashioned cap for women. trews, trousers. trindling, rolling. trow, believe. tuilzie, a quarrel tume, toom, empty. turnspit doggie, a kind of dog, long-bodied and short-legged, formerly used in turning a treadmill. tyke, a dog, a rough fellow. umquhile, formerly, late. unco, strange, very, unsonsy, unlucky. usquebaugh, whiskey. veny, venue, a bout. vivers, victuals. wa', wall wad, would. wadset, a deed conveying property to a creditor wain, a wagon; to remove. walise, a portmanteau, saddlebags. wan, won. wanchancy, unlucky. ware, spend. weel-fard, weel-faur'd, having a good appearance. weising, inclining, directing. wha, who. whar, where, what for, why. wheen, a few. while syne, a while ago. whiles, sometimes. whilk, which. whin, a few. whingeing, whining. winna, will not. wiske, whisk. yate, gate. waverley or 'tis sixty years since by sir walter scott bart. contents: introduction waverley or 'tis sixty years since notes glossary [note: characters that were in italics in the printed text have been written in capital letters in this etext. accents in quotations in french and other accented languages have been omitted. footnotes in the printed text that were at the bottom of the page have been placed in square brackets, as near as possible to the place where they were originally referred to by a suffix. numbered notes at the end of the book are referred to by the insertion of references to those notes in square brackets.] under which king, bezonian? speak, or die! henry iv, part ii. introduction--( ) the plan of this edition leads me to insert in this place some account of the incidents on which the novel of waverley is founded. they have been already given to the public, by my late lamented friend, william erskine, esq. (afterwards lord kinneder), when reviewing the 'tales of my landlord' for the quarterly review, in . the particulars were derived by the critic from the author's information. afterwards they were published in the preface to the chronicles of the canongate. they are now inserted in their proper place. the mutual protection afforded by waverley and talbot to each other, upon which the whole plot depends, is founded upon one of those anecdotes which soften the features even of civil war; and as it is equally honourable to the memory of both parties, we have no hesitation to give their names at length. when the highlanders, on the morning of the battle of preston, , made their memorable attack on sir john cope's army, a battery of four field-pieces was stormed and carried by the camerons and the stewarts of appine. the late alexander stewart of invernahyle was one of the foremost in the charge, and observing an officer of the king's forces, who, scorning to join the flight of all around, remained with his sword in his hand, as if determined to the very last to defend the post assigned to him, the highland gentleman commanded him to surrender, and received for reply a thrust, which he caught in his target. the officer was now defenceless, and the battle-axe of a gigantic highlander (the miller of invernahyle's mill) was uplifted to dash his brains out, when mr. stewart with difficulty prevailed on him to yield. he took charge of his enemy's property, protected his person, and finally obtained him liberty on his parole. the officer proved to be colonel whitefoord, an ayrshire gentleman of high character and influence, and warmly attached to the house of hanover; yet such was the confidence existing between these two honourable men, though of different political principles, that while the civil war was raging, and straggling officers from the highland army were executed without mercy, invernahyle hesitated not to pay his late captive a visit, as he returned to the highlands to raise fresh recruits, on which occasion he spent a day or two in ayrshire among colonel whitefoord's whig friends, as pleasantly and as good-humouredly as if all had been at peace around him. after the battle of culloden had ruined the hopes of charles edward, and dispersed his proscribed adherents, it was colonel whitefoord's turn to strain every nerve to obtain mr. stewart's pardon. he went to the lord justice-clerk, to the lord-advocate, and to all the officers of state, and each application was answered by the production of a list, in which invernahyle (as the good old gentleman was wont to express it) appeared 'marked with the sign of the beast!' as a subject unfit for favour or pardon. at length colonel whitefoord applied to the duke of cumberland in person. from him, also, he received a positive refusal. he then limited his request, for the present, to a protection for stewart's house, wife, children, and property. this was also refused by the duke; on which colonel whitefoord, taking his commission from his bosom, laid it on the table before his royal highness with much emotion, and asked permission to retire from the service of a sovereign who did not know how to spare a vanquished enemy. the duke was struck, and even affected. he bade the colonel take up his commission, and granted the protection he required. if was issued just in time to save the house, corn, and cattle at invernahyle, from the troops who were engaged in laying waste what it was the fashion to call 'the country of the enemy.' a small encampment of soldiers was formed on invernahyle's property, which they spared while plundering the country around, and searching in every direction for the leaders of the insurrection, and for stewart in particular. he was much nearer them than they suspected; for, hidden in a cave (like the baron of bradwardine), he lay for many days so near the english sentinels, that he could hear their muster-roll called, his food was brought to him by one of his daughters, a child of eight years old, whom mrs. stewart was under the necessity of entrusting with this commission; for her own motions, and those of all her elder inmates, were closely watched. with ingenuity beyond her years, the child used to stray about among the soldiers, who were rather kind to her, and thus seize the moment when she was unobserved, and steal into the thicket, when she deposited whatever small store of provisions she had in charge at some marked spot, where her father might find it. invernahyle supported life for several weeks by means of these precarious supplies; and as he had been wounded in the battle of culloden, the hardships which he endured were aggravated by great bodily pain. after the soldiers had removed their quarters, he had another remarkable escape. as he now ventured to his own house at night, and left it in the morning, he was espied during the dawn by a party of the enemy, who fired at and pursued him. the fugitive being fortunate enough to escape their search, they returned to the house, and charged the family with harbouring one of the proscribed traitors. an old woman had presence of mind enough to maintain that the man they had seen was the shepherd. 'why did he not stop when we called to him?' said the soldier.--'he is as deaf, poor man, as a peat-stack,' answered the ready-witted domestic.--'let him be sent for, directly.' the real shepherd accordingly was brought from the hill, and as there was time to tutor him by the way, he was as deaf when he made his appearance, as was necessary to sustain his character. invernahyle was afterwards pardoned under the act of indemnity. the author knew him well, and has often heard these circumstances from his own mouth. he was a noble specimen of the old highlander, far descended, gallant, courteous, and brave, even to chivalry. he had been out, i believe, in and ; was an active partaker in all the stirring scenes which passed in the highlands betwixt these memorable eras; and, i have heard, was remarkable, among other exploits, for having fought a duel with the broadsword with the celebrated rob roy macgregor, at the clachan of balquhidder. invernahyle chanced to be in edinburgh when paul jones came into the frith of forth, and though then an old man, i saw him in arms, and heard him exult (to use his own words) in the prospect of 'drawing his claymore once more before he died.' in fact, on that memorable occasion, when the capital of scotland was menaced by three trifling sloops or brigs, scarce fit to have sacked a fishing village, he was the only man who seemed to propose a plan of resistance. he offered to the magistrates, if broadswords and dirks could be obtained, to find as many highlanders among the lower classes, as would cut off any boat's-crew who might be sent into a town full of narrow and winding passages, in which they were like to disperse in quest of plunder. i know not if his plan was attended to; i rather think it seemed too hazardous to the constituted authorities, who might not, even at that time, desire to see arms in highland hands. a steady and powerful west wind settled the matter, by sweeping paul jones and his vessels out of the frith. if there is something degrading in this recollection, it is not unpleasant to compare it with those of the last war, when edinburgh, besides regular forces and militia, furnished a volunteer brigade of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, to the amount of six thousand men and upwards, which was in readiness to meet and repel a force of a far more formidable description than was commanded by the adventurous american. time and circumstances change the character of nations and the fate of cities; and it is some pride to a scotchman to reflect, that the independent and manly character of a country willing to entrust its own protection to the arms of its children, after having been obscured for half a century, has, during the course of his own lifetime, recovered its lustre. other illustrations of waverley will be found in the notes at the foot of the pages to which they belong. [in this etext they are embedded in the text in square brackets.] those which appeared too long to be so placed are given at the end of the volume. waverley or 'tis sixty years since chapter i introductory the title of this work has not been chosen without the grave and solid deliberation, which matters of importance demand from the prudent. even its first, or general denomination, was the result of no common research or selection, although, according to the example of my predecessors, i had only to seize upon the most sounding and euphonic surname that english history or topography affords, and elect it at once as the title of my work, and the name of my hero. but, alas! what could my readers have expected from the chivalrous epithets of howard, mordaunt, mortimer, or stanley, or from the softer and more sentimental sounds of belmour, belville, belfield, and belgrave, but pages of inanity, similar to those which have been so christened for half a century past? i must modestly admit i am too diffident of my own merit to place it in unnecessary opposition to preconceived associations; i have, therefore, like a maiden knight with his white shield, assumed for my hero, waverley, an uncontaminated name, bearing with its sound little of good or evil, excepting what the reader shall hereafter be pleased to affix to it. but my second or supplemental title was a matter of much more difficult election, since that, short as it is, may be held as pledging the author to some special mode of laying his scene, drawing his characters, and managing his adventures. had i, for example, announced in my frontispiece, 'waverley, a tale of other days,' must not every novel reader have anticipated a castle scarce less than that of udolpho, of which the eastern wing had long been uninhabited, and the keys either lost, or consigned to the care of some aged butler or housekeeper, whose trembling steps, about the middle of the second volume, were doomed to guide the hero, or heroine, to the ruinous precincts? would not the owl have shrieked and the cricket cried in my very title-page? and could it have been possible for me, with a moderate attention to decorum, to introduce any scene more lively than might be produced by the jocularity of a clownish but faithful valet, or the garrulous narrative of the heroine's fille-de-chambre, when rehearsing the stories of blood and horror which she had heard in the servants' hall? again, had my title borne 'waverley, a romance from the german,' what head so obtuse as not to image forth a profligate abbot, an oppressive duke, a secret and mysterious association of rosycrucians and illuminati, with all their properties of black cowls, caverns, daggers, electrical machines, trap-doors, and dark-lanterns? or if i had rather chosen to call my work a 'sentimental tale,' would it not have been a sufficient presage of a heroine with a profusion of auburn hair, and a harp, the soft solace of her solitary hours, which she fortunately finds always the means of transporting from castle to cottage, although she herself be sometimes obliged to jump out of a two-pair-of-stairs window, and is more than once bewildered on her journey, alone and on foot, without any guide but a blowzy peasant girl, whose jargon she hardly can understand? or again, if my waverley had been entitled 'a tale of the times,' wouldst thou not, gentle reader, have demanded from me a dashing sketch of the fashionable world, a few anecdotes of private scandal thinly veiled, and if lusciously painted, so much the better? a heroine from grosvenor square, and a hero from the barouche club or the four-in-hand, with a set of subordinate characters from the elegantes of queen anne street east, or the dashing heroes of the bow street office? i could proceed in proving the importance of a title-page, and displaying at the same time my own intimate knowledge of the particular ingredients necessary to the composition of romances and novels of various descriptions: but it is enough, and i scorn to tyrannize longer over the impatience of my reader, who is doubtless already anxious to know the choice made by an author so profoundly versed in the different branches of his art. by fixing, then, the date of my story sixty years before the present st november, , i would have my readers understand, that they will meet in the following pages neither a romance of chivalry, nor a tale of modern manners; that my hero will neither have iron on his shoulders, as of yore, nor on the heels of his boots, as is the present fashion of bond street; and that my damsels will neither be clothed 'in purple and in pall,' like the lady alice of an old ballad, nor reduced to the primitive nakedness of a modern fashionable at a rout. from this my choice of an era the understanding critic may further presage, that the object of my tale is more a description of men than manners. a tale of manners, to be interesting, must either refer to antiquity so great as to have become venerable, or it must bear a vivid reflection of those scenes which are passing daily before our eyes, and are interesting from their novelty. thus the coat-of-mail of our ancestors, and the triple-furred pelisse of our modern beaux, may, though for very different reasons, be equally fit for the array of a fictitious character; but who, meaning the costume of his hero to be impressive, would willingly attire him in the court dress of george the second's reign, with its no collar, large sleeves, and low pocket-holes? the same may be urged, with equal truth, of the gothic hall, which, with its darkened and tinted windows, its elevated and gloomy roof, and massive oaken table garnished with boar's-head and rosemary, pheasants and peacocks, cranes and cygnets, has an excellent effect in fictitious description. much may also be gained by a lively display of a modern fete, such as we have daily recorded in that part of a newspaper entitled the mirror of fashion, if we contrast these, or either of them, with the splendid formality of an entertainment given sixty years since; and thus it will be readily seen how much the painter of antique or of fashionable manners gains over him who delineates those of the last generation. considering the disadvantages inseparable from this part of my subject, i must be understood to have resolved to avoid them as much as possible, by throwing the force of my narrative upon the characters and passions of the actors;--those passions common to men in all stages of society, and which have alike agitated the human heart, whether it throbbed under the steel corselet of the fifteenth century, the brocaded coat of the eighteenth, or the blue frock and white dimity waistcoat of the present day. [alas! that attire, respectable and gentlemanlike in , or thereabouts, is now as antiquated as the author of waverley has himself become since that period! the reader of fashion will please to fill up the costume with an embroidered waistcoat of purple velvet or silk, and a coat of whatever colour he pleases.] upon these passions it is no doubt true that the state of manners and laws casts a necessary colouring; but the bearings, to use the language of heraldry, remain the same, though the tincture may be not only different, but opposed in strong contradistinction. the wrath of our ancestors, for example, was coloured gules; it broke forth in acts of open and sanguinary violence against the objects of its fury. our malignant feelings, which must seek gratification through more indirect channels, and undermine the obstacles which they cannot openly bear down, may be rather said to be tinctured sable. but the deep-ruling impulse is the same in both cases; and the proud peer who can now only ruin his neighbour according to law, by protracted suits, is the genuine descendant of the baron who wrapped the castle of his competitor in flames, and knocked him on the head as he endeavoured to escape from the conflagration. it is from the great book of nature, the same through a thousand editions, whether of black-letter, or wire-wove and hot-pressed, that i have venturously essayed to read a chapter to the public. some favourable opportunities of contrast have been afforded me, by the state of society in the northern part of the island at the period of my history, and may serve at once to vary and to illustrate the moral lessons, which i would willingly consider as the most important part of my plan; although i am sensible how short these will fall of their aim, if i shall be found unable to mix them with amusement,--a task not quite so easy in this critical generation as it was 'sixty years since.' chapter ii waverley-honour---a retrospect it is, then, sixty years since edward waverley, the hero of the following pages, took leave of his family, to join the regiment of dragoons in which he had lately obtained a commission. it was a melancholy day at waverley-honour when the young officer parted with sir everard, the affectionate old uncle to whose title and estate he was presumptive heir. a difference in political opinions had early separated the baronet from his younger brother, richard waverley, the father of our hero. sir everard had inherited from his sires the whole train of tory or high-church predilections and prejudices, which had distinguished the house of waverley since the great civil war. richard, on the contrary, who was ten years younger, beheld himself born to the fortune of a second brother, and anticipated neither dignity nor entertainment in sustaining the character of will wimble. he saw early, that, to succeed in the race of life, it was necessary he should carry as little weight as possible. painters talk of the difficulty of expressing the existence of compound passions in the same features at the same moment: it would be no less difficult for the moralist to analyse the mixed motives which unite to form the impulse of our actions. richard waverley read and satisfied himself, from history and sound argument, that, in the words of the old song, passive obedience was a jest, and pshaw! was non-resistance; yet reason would have probably been unable to combat and remove hereditary prejudice, could richard have anticipated that his elder brother, sir everard, taking to heart an early disappointment, would have remained a batchelor at seventy-two. the prospect of succession, however remote, might in that case have led him to endure dragging through the greater part of his life as 'master richard at the hall, the baronet's brother,' in the hope that ere its conclusion he should be distinguished as sir richard waverley of waverley-honour, successor to a princely estate, and to extended political connexions as head of the county interest in the shire where it lay. but this was a consummation of things not to be expected at richard's outset, when sir everard was in the prime of life, and certain to be an acceptable suitor in almost any family, whether wealth or beauty should be the object of his pursuit, and when, indeed, his speedy marriage was a report which regularly amused the neighbourhood once a year. his younger brother saw no practicable road to independence save that of relying upon his own exertions, and adopting a political creed more consonant both to reason and his own interest than the hereditary faith of sir everard in high church and in the house of stewart. he therefore read his recantation at the beginning of his career, and entered life as an avowed whig, and friend of the hanover succession. the ministry of george the first's time were prudently anxious to diminish the phalanx of opposition. the tory nobility, depending for their reflected lustre upon the sunshine of a court, had for some time been gradually reconciling themselves to the new dynasty. but the wealthy country gentlemen of england, a rank which retained, with much of ancient manners and primitive integrity, a great proportion of obstinate and unyielding prejudice, stood aloof in haughty and sullen opposition, and cast many a look of mingled regret and hope to bois de duc, avignon, and italy. [where the chevalier saint george, or, as he was termed, the old pretender, held his exiled court, as his situation compelled him to shift his place of residence.] the accession of the near relation of one of those steady and inflexible opponents was considered as a means of bringing over more converts, and therefore richard waverley met with a share of ministerial favour more than proportioned to his talents or his political importance. it was however, discovered that he had respectable talents for public business, and the first admittance to the minister's levee being negotiated, his success became rapid. sir everard learned from the public news-letter,--first, that richard waverley, esquire, was returned for the ministerial borough of barterfaith; next, that richard waverley, esquire, had taken a distinguished part in the debate upon the excise bill in the support of government; and, lastly, that richard waverley, esquire, had been honoured with a seat at one of those boards, where the pleasure of serving the country is combined with other important gratifications, which, to render them the more acceptable, occur regularly once a quarter. although these events followed each other so closely that the sagacity of the editor of a modern newspaper would have presaged the last two even while he announced the first, yet they came upon sir everard gradually, and drop by drop, as it were, distilled through the cool and procrastinating alembic of dyer's weekly letter. [long the oracle of the country gentlemen of the high tory party. the ancient news-letter was written in manuscript and copied by clerks, who addressed the copies to the subscribers. the politician by whom they were compiled picked up his intelligence at coffee-houses, and often pleaded for an additional gratuity, in consideration of the extra expense attached to frequenting such places of fashionable resort.] for it may be observed in passing, that instead of those mail-coaches, by means of which every mechanic at his sixpenny club may nightly learn from twenty contradictory channels the yesterday's news of the capital, a weekly post brought, in those days, to waverley-honour, a weekly intelligencer, which, after it had gratified sir everard's curiosity, his sister's, and that of his aged butler, was regularly transferred from the hall to the rectory, from the rectory to squire stubbs' at the grange, from the squire to the baronet's steward at his neat white house on the heath, from the steward to the bailiff, and from him through a huge circle of honest dames and gaffers, by whose hard and horny hands it was generally worn to pieces in about a month after its arrival. this slow succession of intelligence was of some advantage to richard waverley in the case before us; for, had the sum total of his enormities reached the ears of sir everard at once, there can be no doubt that the new commissioner would have had little reason to pique himself on the success of his politics. the baronet, although the mildest of human beings, was not without sensitive points in his character; his brother's conduct had wounded these deeply; the waverley estate was fettered by no entail (for it had never entered into the head of any of its former possessors that one of their progeny could be guilty of the atrocities laid by dyer's letter to the door of richard), and if it had, the marriage of the proprietor might have been fatal to a collateral heir. these various ideas floated through the brain of sir everard, without, however, producing any determined conclusion. he examined the tree of his genealogy, which, emblazoned with many an emblematic mark of honour and heroic achievement, hung upon the well-varnished wainscot of his hall. the nearest descendants of sir hildebrand waverley, failing those of his eldest son wilfred, of whom sir everard and his brother were the only representatives, were, as this honoured register informed him (and, indeed, as he himself well knew), the waverleys of highley park, com. hants; with whom the main branch, or rather stock, of the house had renounced all connexion, since the great lawsuit in . this degenerate scion had committed a further offence against the head and source of their gentility, by the intermarriage of their representative with judith, heiress of oliver bradshawe, of highley park, whose arms, the same with those of bradshawe the regicide, they had quartered with the ancient coat of waverley. these offences, however, had vanished from sir everard's recollection in the heat of his resentment; and had lawyer clippurse, for whom his groom was dispatched express, arrived but an hour earlier, he might have had the benefit of drawing a new settlement of the lordship and manor of waverley-honour, with all its dependencies. but an hour of cool reflection is a great matter, when employed in weighing the comparative evil of two measures, to neither of which we are internally partial. lawyer clippurse found his patron involved in a deep study, which he was too respectful to disturb, otherwise than by producing his paper and leathern ink-case, as prepared to minute his honour's commands. even this slight manoeuvre was embarrassing to sir everard, who felt it as a reproach to his indecision. he looked at the attorney with some desire to issue his fiat, when the sun, emerging from behind a cloud, poured at once its chequered light through the stained window of the gloomy cabinet in which they were seated. the baronet's eye, as he raised it to the splendour, fell right upon the central scutcheon, impressed with the same device which his ancestor was said to have borne in the field of hastings; three ermines passant, argent, in a field azure, with its appropriate motto, sans lache. 'may our name rather perish,' exclaimed sir everard, 'than that ancient and loyal symbol should be blended with the dishonoured insignia of a traitorous roundhead!' all this was the effect of the glimpse of a sunbeam, just sufficient to light lawyer clippurse to mend his pen. the pen was mended in vain. the attorney was dismissed, with directions to hold himself in readiness on the first summons. the apparition of lawyer clippurse at the hall occasioned much speculation in that portion of the world to which waverley-honour formed the centre: but the more judicious politicians of this microcosm augured yet worse consequences to richard waverley from a movement which shortly followed his apostasy. this was no less than an excursion of the baronet in his coach-and-six, with four attendants in rich liveries, to make a visit of some duration to a noble peer on the confines of the shire, of untainted descent, steady tory principles, and the happy father of six unmarried and accomplished daughters. sir everard's reception in this family was, as it may be easily conceived, sufficiently favourable; but of the six young ladies, his taste unfortunately determined him in favour of lady emily, the youngest, who received his attentions with an embarrassment which showed at once that she durst not decline them, and that they afforded her anything but pleasure. sir everard could not but perceive something uncommon in the restrained emotions which the young lady testified at the advances he hazarded; but, assured by the prudent countess that they were the natural effects of a retired education, the sacrifice might have been completed, as doubtless has happened in many similar instances, had it not been for the courage of an elder sister, who revealed to the wealthy suitor that lady emily's affections were fixed upon a young soldier of fortune, a near relation of her own. sir everard manifested great emotion on receiving this intelligence, which was confirmed to him, in a private interview, by the young lady herself, although under the most dreadful apprehensions of her father's indignation. honour and generosity were hereditary attributes of the house of waverley. with a grace and delicacy worthy the hero of a romance, sir everard withdrew his claim to the hand of lady emily. he had even, before leaving blandeville castle, the address to extort from her father a consent to her union with the object of her choice. what arguments he used on this point cannot exactly be known, for sir everard was never supposed strong in the powers of persuasion; but the young officer, immediately after this transaction, rose in the army with a rapidity far surpassing the usual pace of unpatronized professional merit, although, to outward appearance, that was all he had to depend upon. the shock which sir everard encountered upon this occasion, although diminished by the consciousness of having acted virtuously and generously, had its effect upon his future life. his resolution of marriage had been adopted in a fit of indignation; the labour of courtship did not quite suit the dignified indolence of his habits; he had but just escaped the risk of marrying a woman who could never love him; and his pride could not be greatly flattered by the termination of his amour, even if his heart had not suffered. the result of the whole matter was his return to waverley-honour without any transfer of his affections, notwithstanding the sighs and languishments of the fair tell-tale, who had revealed, in mere sisterly affection, the secret of lady emily's attachment, and in despite of the nods, winks, and innuendoes of the officious lady mother, and the grave eulogiums which the earl pronounced successively on the prudence, and good sense, and admirable dispositions, of his first, second, third, fourth, and fifth daughters. the memory of his unsuccessful amour was with sir everard, as with many more of his temper, at once shy, proud, sensitive, and indolent, a beacon against exposing himself to similar mortification, pain, and fruitless exertion for the time to come. he continued to live at waverley-honour in the style of an old english gentleman, of an ancient descent and opulent fortune. his sister, miss rachel waverley, presided at his table; and they became, by degrees, an old bachelor and an ancient maiden lady, the gentlest and kindest of the votaries of celibacy. the vehemence of sir everard's resentment against his brother was but short-lived; yet his dislike to the whig and the placeman, though unable to stimulate him to resume any active measures prejudicial to richard's interest in the succession to the family estate, continued to maintain the coldness between them. richard knew enough of the world, and of his brother's temper, to believe that by any ill-considered or precipitate advances on his part, he might turn passive dislike into a more active principle. it was accident, therefore, which at length occasioned a renewal of their intercourse. richard had married a young woman of rank, by whose family interest and private fortune he hoped to advance his career. in her right, he became possessor of a manor of some value, at the distance of a few miles from waverley-honour. little edward, the hero of our tale, then in his fifth year, was their only child. it chanced that the infant with his maid had strayed one morning to a mile's distance from the avenue of brere-wood lodge, his father's seat. their attention was attracted by a carriage drawn by six stately long-failed black horses, and with as much carving and gilding as would have done honour to my lord mayor's. it was waiting for the owner, who was at a little distance inspecting the progress of a half-built farm-house. i know not whether the boy's nurse had been a welsh or a scotch woman, or in what manner he associated a shield emblazoned with three ermines with the idea of personal property, but he no sooner beheld this family emblem, than he stoutly determined on vindicating his right to the splendid vehicle on which it was displayed. the baronet arrived while the boy's maid was in vain endeavouring to make him desist from his determination to appropriate the gilded coach and six. the rencontre was at a happy moment for edward, as his uncle had been just eyeing wistfully, with something of a feeling like envy, the chubby boys of the stout yeoman whose mansion was building by his direction. in the round-faced rosy cherub before him, bearing his eye and his name, and vindicating a hereditary title to his family affection and patronage, by means of a tie which sir everard held as sacred as either garter or blue mantle, providence seemed to have granted to him the very object best calculated to fill up the void in his hopes and affections. sir everard returned to waverley hall upon a led horse which was kept in readiness for him, while the child and his attendant were sent home in the carriage to brere-wood lodge, with such a message as opened to richard waverley a door of reconciliation with his elder brother. their intercourse, however, though thus renewed, continued to be rather formal and civil, than partaking of brotherly cordiality; yet it was sufficient to the wishes of both parties. sir everard obtained, in the frequent society of his little nephew, something on which his hereditary pride might found the anticipated pleasure of a continuation of his lineage, and where his kind and gentle affections could at the same time fully exercise themselves. for richard waverley, he beheld in the growing attachment between the uncle and nephew the means of securing his son's, if not his own, succession to the hereditary estate, which he felt would be rather endangered than promoted by any attempt on his own part towards a closer intimacy with a man of sir everard's habits and opinions. thus, by a sort of tacit compromise, little edward was permitted to pass the greater part of the year at the hall, and appeared to stand in the same intimate relation to both families, although their mutual intercourse was otherwise limited to formal messages, and more formal visits. the education of the youth was regulated alternately by the taste and opinions of his uncle and of his father. but more of this in a subsequent chapter. chapter iii education the education of our hero, edward waverley, was of a nature somewhat desultory. in infancy, his health suffered, or was supposed to suffer (which is quite the same thing), by the air of london. as soon, therefore, as official duties, attendance on parliament, or the prosecution of any of his plans of interest or ambition, called his father to town, which was his usual residence for eight months in the year, edward was transferred to waverley-honour, and experienced a total change of instructors and of lessons, as well as of residence. this might have been remedied, had his father placed him under the superintendence of a permanent tutor. but he considered that one of his choosing would probably have been unacceptable at waverley-honour, and that such a selection as sir everard might have made, were the matter left to him, would have burdened him with a disagreeable inmate, if not a political spy, in his family. he therefore prevailed upon his private secretary, a young man of taste and accomplishments, to bestow an hour or two on edward's education while at brere-wood lodge, and left his uncle answerable for his improvement in literature while an inmate at the hall. this was in some degree respectably provided for. sir everard's chaplain, an oxonian, who had lost his fellowship for declining to take the oaths at the accession of george i, was not only an excellent classical scholar, but reasonably skilled in science, and master of most modern languages. he was, however, old and indulgent, and the recurring interregnum, during which edward was entirely freed from his discipline, occasioned such a relaxation of authority, that the youth was permitted, in a great measure, to learn as he pleased, what he pleased, and when he pleased. this slackness of rule might have been ruinous to a boy of slow understanding, who, feeling labour in the acquisition of knowledge, would have altogether neglected it, save for the command of a task-master; and it might have proved equally dangerous to a youth whose animal spirits were more powerful than his imagination or his feelings, and whom the irresistible influence of alma would have engaged in field sports from morning till night. but the character of edward waverley was remote from either of these. his powers of apprehension were so uncommonly quick, as almost to resemble intuition, and the chief care of his preceptor was to prevent him, as a sportsman would phrase it, from overrunning his game, that is, from acquiring his knowledge in a slight, flimsy, and inadequate manner. and here the instructor had to combat another propensity too often united with brilliancy of fancy and vivacity of talent,--that indolence, namely, of disposition, which can only be stirred by some strong motive of gratification, and which renounces study as soon as curiosity is gratified, the pleasure of conquering the first difficulties exhausted, and the novelty of pursuit at an end. edward would throw himself with spirit upon any classical author of which his preceptor proposed the perusal, make himself master of the style so far as to understand the story, and if that pleased or interested him, he finished the volume. but it was in vain to attempt fixing his attention on critical distinctions of philology, upon the difference of idiom, the beauty of felicitous expression, or the artificial combinations of syntax. 'i can read and understand a latin author,' said young edward, with the self-confidence and rash reasoning of fifteen, 'and scaliger or bentley could not do much more.' alas! while he was thus permitted to read only for the gratification of his amusement, he foresaw not that he was losing for ever the opportunity of acquiring habits of firm and assiduous application, of gaining the art of controlling, directing, and concentrating the powers of his mind for earnest investigation,--an art far more essential than even that intimate acquaintance with classical learning, which is the primary object of study. i am aware i may be here reminded of the necessity of rendering instruction agreeable to youth, and of tasso's infusion of honey into the medicine prepared for a child; but an age in which children are taught the driest doctrines by the insinuating method of instructive games, has little reason to dread the consequences of study being rendered too serious or severe. the history of england is now reduced to a game at cards,--the problems of mathematics to puzzles and riddles,--and the doctrines of arithmetic may, we are assured, be sufficiently acquired, by spending a few hours a week at a new and complicated edition of the royal game of the goose. there wants but one step further, and the creed and ten commandments may be taught in the same manner, without the necessity of the grave face, deliberate tone of recital, and devout attention, hitherto exacted from the well governed childhood of this realm. it may, in the meantime, be subject of serious consideration, whether those who are accustomed only to acquire instruction through the medium of amusement, may not be brought to reject that which approaches under the aspect of study; whether those who learn history by the cards, may not be led to prefer the means to the end; and whether, were we to teach religion in the way of sport, our pupils may not thereby be gradually induced to make sport of their religion. to our young hero, who was permitted to seek his instruction only according to the bent of his own mind, and who, of consequence, only sought it so long as it afforded him amusement, the indulgence of his tutors was attended with evil consequences, which long continued to influence his character, happiness, and utility. edward's power of imagination and love of literature, although the former was vivid, and the latter ardent, were so far from affording a remedy to this peculiar evil, that they rather inflamed and increased its violence. the library at waverley-honour, a large gothic room, with double arches and a gallery, contained such a miscellaneous and extensive collection of volumes as had been assembled together, during the course of two hundred years, by a family which had been always wealthy, and inclined, of course, as a mark of splendour, to furnish their shelves with the current literature of the day, without much scrutiny, or nicety of discrimination. throughout this ample realm edward was permitted to roam at large. his tutor had his own studies; and church politics and controversial divinity, together with a love of learned ease, though they did not withdraw his attention at stated times from the progress of his patron's presumptive heir, induced him readily to grasp at any apology for not extending a strict and regulated survey towards his general studies. sir everard had never been himself a student, and, like his sister miss rachel waverley, he held the common doctrine, that idleness is incompatible with reading of any kind, and that the mere tracing the alphabetical characters with the eye is in itself a useful and meritorious task, without scrupulously considering what ideas or doctrines they may happen to convey. with a desire of amusement, therefore, which better discipline might soon have converted into a thirst for knowledge, young waverley drove through the sea of books, like a vessel without a pilot or a rudder. nothing perhaps increases by indulgence more than a desultory habit of reading, especially under such opportunities of gratifying it. i believe one reason why such numerous instances of erudition occur among the lower ranks is, that, with the same powers of mind, the poor student is limited to a narrow circle for indulging his passion for books, and must necessarily make himself master of the few he possesses ere he can acquire more. edward, on the contrary, like the epicure who only deigned to take a single morsel from the sunny side of a peach, read no volume a moment after it ceased to excite his curiosity or interest; and it necessarily happened, that the habit of seeking only this sort of gratification rendered it daily more difficult of attainment, till the passion for reading, like other strong appetites, produced by indulgence a sort of satiety. ere he attained this indifference, however, he had read, and stored in a memory of uncommon tenacity, much curious, though ill-arranged and miscellaneous information. in english literature he was master of shakespeare and milton, of our earlier dramatic authors; of many picturesque and interesting passages from our old historical chronicles; and was particularly well acquainted with spenser, drayton, and other poets who have exercised themselves on romantic fiction, of all themes the most fascinating to a youthful imagination, before the passions have roused themselves, and demand poetry of a more sentimental description. in this respect his acquaintance with italian opened him yet a wider range. he had perused the numerous romantic poems, which, from the days of pulci, have been a favourite exercise of the wits of italy; and had sought gratification in the numerous collections of novelle, which were brought forth by the genius of that elegant though luxurious nation, in emulation of the decameron. in classical literature, waverley had made the usual progress, and read the usual authors; and the french had afforded him an almost exhaustless collection of memoirs, scarcely more faithful than romances, and of romances so well written as hardly to be distinguished from memoirs. the splendid pages of froissart, with his heart-stirring and eye-dazzling descriptions of war and of tournaments, were among his chief favourites; and from those of brantome and de la noue he learned to compare the wild and loose yet superstitious character of the nobles of the league, with the stern, rigid, and sometimes turbulent disposition of the huguenot party. the spanish had contributed to his stock of chivalrous and romantic lore. the earlier literature of the northern nations did not escape the study of one who read rather to awaken the imagination than to benefit the understanding. and yet, knowing much that is known but to few, edward waverley might justly be considered as ignorant, since he knew little of what adds dignify to man, and qualifies him to support and adorn an elevated situation in society. the occasional attention of his parents might indeed have been of service, to prevent the dissipation of mind incidental to such a desultory course of reading. but his mother died in the seventh year after the reconciliation between the brothers, and richard waverley himself, who, after this event, resided more constantly in london, was too much interested in his own plans of wealth and ambition, to notice more respecting edward, than that he was of a very bookish turn, and probably destined to be a bishop. if he could have discovered and analysed his son's waking dreams, he would have formed a very different conclusion. chapter iv castle-building i have already hinted, that the dainty, squeamish, and fastidious taste acquired by a surfeit of idle reading, had not only rendered our hero unfit for serious and sober study, it had even disgusted him in some degree with that in which he had hitherto indulged. he was in his sixteenth year, when his habits of abstraction and love of solitude became so much marked, as to excite sir everard's affectionate apprehension. he tried to counterbalance these propensities, by engaging his nephew in field sports, which had been the chief pleasure of his own youthful days. but although edward eagerly carried the gun for one season, yet when practice had given him some dexterity, the pastime ceased to afford him amusement. in the succeeding spring, the perusal of old isaac walton's fascinating volume determined edward to become 'a brother of the angle.' but of all diversions which ingenuity ever devised for the relief of idleness, fishing is the worst qualified to amuse a man who is at once indolent and impatient; and our hero's rod was speedily flung aside. society and example, which, more than any other motives, master and sway the natural bent of our passions, might have had their usual effect upon the youthful visionary: but the neighbourhood was thinly inhabited, and the homebred young squires whom it afforded, were not of a class fit to form edward's usual companions, far less to excite him to emulation in the practice of those pastimes which composed the serious business of their lives. there were a few other youths of better education, and a more liberal character; but from their society also our hero was in some degree excluded. sir everard had, upon the death of queen anne, resigned his seat in parliament, and, as his age increased and the number of his contemporaries diminished, had gradually withdrawn himself from society; so that when, upon any particular occasion, edward mingled with accomplished and well-educated young men of his own rank and expectations, he felt an inferiority in their company, not so much from deficiency of information, as from the want of the skill to command and to arrange that which he possessed. a deep and increasing sensibility added to this dislike of society. the idea of having committed the slightest solecism in politeness, whether real or imaginary, was agony to him; for perhaps even guilt itself does not impose upon some minds so keen a sense of shame and remorse, as a modest, sensitive, and inexperienced youth feels from the consciousness of having neglected etiquette, or excited ridicule. where we are not at ease, we cannot be happy; and therefore it is not surprising, that edward waverley supposed that he disliked and was unfitted for society, merely because he had not yet acquired the habit of living in it with ease and comfort, and of reciprocally giving and receiving pleasure. the hours he spent with his uncle and aunt were exhausted in listening to the oft-repeated tale of narrative old age. yet even there his imagination, the predominant faculty of his mind, was frequently excited. family tradition and genealogical history, upon which much of sir everard's discourse turned, is the very reverse of amber, which, itself a valuable substance, usually includes flies, straws, and other trifles; whereas these studies, being themselves very insignificant and trifling, do nevertheless serve to perpetuate a great deal of what is rare and valuable in ancient manners, and to record many curious and minute facts, which could have been preserved and conveyed through no other medium. if, therefore, edward waverley yawned at times over the dry deduction of his line of ancestors, with their various intermarriages, and inwardly deprecated the remorseless and protracted accuracy with which the worthy sir everard rehearsed the various degrees of propinquity between the house of waverley-honour and the doughty barons, knights, and squires, to whom they stood allied; if (notwithstanding his obligations to the three ermines passant) he sometimes cursed in his heart the jargon of heraldry, its griffins, its moldwarps, its wyverns, and its dragons with all the bitterness of hotspur himself, there were moments when these communications interested his fancy and rewarded his attention. the deeds of wilibert of waverley in the holy land, his long absence and perilous adventures, his supposed death, and his return in the evening when the betrothed of his heart had wedded the hero who had protected her from insult and oppression during his absence; the generosity with which the crusader relinquished his claims, and sought in a neighbouring cloister that peace which passeth not away; [ ]--to these and similar tales he would hearken till his heart glowed and his eye glistened. nor was he less affected, when his aunt, mrs. rachel, narrated the sufferings and fortitude of lady alice waverley during the great civil war. the benevolent features of the venerable spinster kindled into more majestic expression, as she told how charles had, after the field of worcester, found a day's refuge at waverley-honour; and how, when a troop of cavalry were approaching to search the mansion, lady alice dismissed her youngest son with a handful of domestics, charging them to make good with their lives an hour's diversion, that the king might have that space for escape, 'and, god help her,' would mrs. rachel continue, fixing her eyes upon the heroine's portrait as she spoke, 'full dearly did she purchase the safety of her prince with the life of her darling child. they brought him here a prisoner, mortally wounded; and you may trace the drops of his blood from the great hall door along the little gallery, and up to the saloon, where they laid him down to die at his mother's feet. but there was comfort exchanged between them; for he knew from the glance of his mother's eye, that the purpose of his desperate defence was attained. ah! i remember,' she continued, 'i remember well to have seen one that knew and loved him. miss lucy st. aubin lived and died a maid for his sake, though one of the most beautiful and wealthy matches in this country; all the world ran after her, but she wore widow's mourning all her life for poor william, for they were betrothed though not married, and died in--i cannot think of the date; but i remember, in the november of that very year, when she found herself sinking, she desired to be brought to waverley-honour once more, and visited all the places where she had been with my grand-uncle, and caused the carpets to be raised that she might trace the impression of his blood, and if tears could have washed it out, it had not been there now; for there was not a dry eye in the house. you would have thought, edward, that the very trees mourned for her, for their leaves dropped around her without a gust of wind; and, indeed, she looked like one that would never see them green again.' from such legends our hero would steal away to indulge the fancies they excited. in the corner of the large and sombre library, with no other light than was afforded by the decaying brands on its ponderous and ample hearth, he would exercise for hours that internal sorcery, by which past or imaginary events are presented in action, as it were, to the eye of the muser. then arose in long and fair array the splendour of the bridal feast at waverley castle; the tall and emaciated form of its real lord, as he stood in his pilgrim's weeds, an unnoticed spectator of the festivities of his supposed heir and intended bride; the electrical shock occasioned by the discovery; the springing of the vassals to arms; the astonishment of the bridegroom; the terror and confusion of the bride; the agony with which wilibert observed that her heart as well as consent was in these nuptials; the air of dignity, yet of deep feeling, with which he flung down the half-drawn sword, and turned away for ever from the house of his ancestors. then would he change the scene, and fancy would at his wish represent aunt rachel's tragedy. he saw the lady waverley seated in her bower, her ear strained to every sound, her heart throbbing with double agony, now listening to the decaying echo of the hoofs of the king's horse, and when that had died away, hearing in every breeze that shook the trees of the park, the noise of the remote skirmish. a distant sound is heard like the rushing of a swollen stream; it comes nearer, and edward can plainly distinguish the galloping of horses, the cries and shouts of men, with straggling pistol-shots between, rolling forwards to the hall. the lady starts up--a terrified menial rushes in--but why pursue such a description? as living in this ideal world became daily more delectable to our hero, interruption was disagreeable in proportion. the extensive domain that surrounded the hall, which, far exceeding the dimensions of a park, was usually termed waverley-chase, had originally been forest ground, and still, though broken by extensive glades, in which the young deer were sporting, retained its pristine and savage character. it was traversed by broad avenues, in many places half grown up with brushwood, where the beauties of former days used to take their stand to see the stag course with greyhounds, or to gain an aim at him with the crossbow. in one spot, distinguished by a moss-grown gothic monument, which retained the name of queen's standing, elizabeth herself was said to have pierced seven bucks with her own arrows. this was a very favourite haunt of waverley. at other times, with his gun and his spaniel, which served as an apology to others, and with a book in his pocket, which perhaps served as an apology to himself, he used to pursue one of these long avenues, which, after an ascending sweep of four miles, gradually narrowed into a rude and contracted path through the cliffy and woody pass called mirkwood dingle, and opened suddenly upon a deep, dark, and small lake, named, from the same cause, mirkwood mere. there stood, in former times, a solitary tower upon a rock almost surrounded by the water, which had acquired the name of the strength of waverley, because, in perilous times, it had often been the refuge of the family. there, in the wars of york and lancaster, the last adherents of the red rose who dared to maintain her cause, carried on a harassing and predatory warfare, till the stronghold was reduced by the celebrated richard of gloucester. here, too, a party of cavaliers long maintained themselves under nigel waverley, elder brother of that william whose fate aunt rachel commemorated. through these scenes it was that edward loved to 'chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancy,' and, like a child among his toys, culled and arranged, from the splendid yet useless imagery and emblems with which his imagination was stored, visions as brilliant and as fading as those of an evening sky. the effect of this indulgence upon his temper and character will appear in the next chapter. chapter v choice of a profession from the minuteness with which i have traced waverley's pursuits, and the bias which these unavoidably communicated to his imagination, the reader may perhaps anticipate, in the following tale, an imitation of the romance of cervantes. but he will do my prudence injustice in the supposition. my intention is not to follow the steps of that inimitable author, in describing such total perversion of intellect as misconstrues the objects actually presented to the senses, but that more common aberration from sound judgement, which apprehends occurrences indeed in their reality, but communicates to them a tincture of its own romantic tone and colouring. so far was edward waverley from expecting general sympathy with his own feelings, or concluding that the present state of things was calculated to exhibit the reality of those visions in which he loved to indulge, that he dreaded nothing more than the detection of such sentiments as were dictated by his musings, he neither had nor wished to have a confidant, with whom to communicate his reveries; and so sensible was he of the ridicule attached to them, that, had he been to choose between any punishment short of ignominy, and the necessity of giving a cold and composed account of the ideal world in which he lived the better part of his days, i think he would not have hesitated to prefer the former infliction. this secrecy became doubly precious, as he felt in advancing life the influence of the awakening passions. female forms of exquisite grace and beauty began to mingle in his mental adventures; nor was he long without looking abroad to compare the creatures of his own imagination with the females of actual life. the list of the beauties who displayed their hebdomadal finery at the parish church of waverley was neither numerous nor select. by far the most passable was miss sissly, or, as she rather chose to be called, miss cecilia stubbs, daughter of squire stubbs at the grange. i know not whether it was by the 'merest accident in the world,' a phrase which, from female lips, does not always exclude malice prepense, or whether it was from a conformity of taste, that miss cecilia more than once crossed edward in his favourite walks through waverley-chase. he had not as yet assumed courage to accost her on these occasions; but the meeting was not without its effect. a romantic lover is a strange idolater, who sometimes cares not out of what log he frames the object of his adoration; at least, if nature has given that object any passable proportion of personal charms, he can easily play the jeweller and dervise in the oriental tale, [see hoppner's tale of the seven lovers.] and supply her richly, out of the stores of his own imagination, with supernatural beauty, and all the properties of intellectual wealth. but ere the charms of miss cecilia stubbs had erected her into a positive goddess, or elevated her at least to a level with the saint her namesake, mrs. rachel waverley gained some intimation which determined her to prevent the approaching apotheosis. even the most simple and unsuspicious of the female sex have (god bless them!) an instinctive sharpness of perception in such matters, which sometimes goes the length of observing partialities that never existed, but rarely misses to detect such as pass actually under their observation. mrs. rachel applied herself with great prudence, not to combat, but to elude, the approaching danger, and suggested to her brother the necessity that the heir of his house should see something more of the world than was consistent with constant residence at waverley-honour. sir everard would not at first listen to a proposal which went to separate his nephew from him. edward was a little bookish, he admitted; but youth, he had always heard, was the season for learning, and, no doubt, when his rage for letters was abated, and his head fully stocked with knowledge, his nephew would take to field sports and country business. he had often, he said, himself regretted that he had not spent some time in study during his youth: he would neither have shot nor hunted with less skill, and he might have made the roof of st. stephen's echo to longer orations than were comprised in those zealous noes, with which, when a member of the house during godolphin's administration, he encountered every measure of government. aunt rachel's anxiety, however, lent her address to carry her point. every representative of their house had visited foreign parts, or served his country in the army, before he settled for life at waverley-honour, and she appealed for the truth of her assertion to the genealogical pedigree, an authority which sir everard was never known to contradict. in short, a proposal was made to mr. richard waverley that his son should travel, under the direction of his present tutor, mr. pembroke, with a suitable allowance from the baronet's liberality. the father himself saw no objection to this overture; but upon mentioning it casually at the table of the minister, the great man looked grave. the reason was explained in private. the unhappy turn of sir everard's politics, the minister observed, was such as would render it highly improper that a young gentleman of such hopeful prospects should travel on the continent with a tutor doubtless of his uncle's choosing, and directing his course by his instructions. what might mr. edward waverley's society be at paris, what at rome, where all manner of snares were spread by the pretender and his sons--these were points for mr. waverley to consider. this he could himself say, that he knew his majesty had such a just sense of mr. richard waverley's merits, that if his son adopted the army for a few years, a troop, he believed, might be reckoned upon in one of the dragoon regiments lately returned from flanders. a hint thus conveyed and enforced was not to be neglected with impunity; and richard waverley, though with great dread of shocking his brother's prejudices, deemed he could not avoid accepting the commission thus offered him for his son. the truth is, he calculated much, and justly, upon sir everard's fondness for edward, which made him unlikely to resent any step that he might take in due submission to parental authority. two letters announced this determination to the baronet and his nephew. the latter barely communicated the fact, and pointed out the necessary preparation for joining his regiment. to his brother, richard was more diffuse and circuitous. he coincided with him in the most flattering manner, in the propriety of his son's seeing a little more of the world, and was even humble in expressions of gratitude for his proposed assistance; was, however, deeply concerned that it was now, unfortunately, not in edward's power exactly to comply with the plan which had been chalked out by his best friend and benefactor. he himself had thought with pain on the boy's inactivity, at an age when all his ancestors had borne arms; even royalty itself had deigned to inquire whether young waverley was not now in flanders, at an age when his grandfather was already bleeding for his king in the great civil war. this was accompanied by an offer of a troop of horse. what could he do? there was no time to consult his brother's inclinations, even if he could have conceived there might be objections on his part to his nephew's following the glorious career of his predecessors. and, in short, that edward was now (the intermediate steps of cornet and lieutenant being overleapt with great agility) captain waverley, of gardiner's regiment of dragoons, which he must join in their quarters at dundee in scotland, in the course of a month. sir everard waverley received this intimation with a mixture of feelings. at the period of the hanoverian succession he had withdrawn from parliament, and his conduct, in the memorable year , had not been altogether unsuspected. there were reports of private musters of tenants and horses in waverley-chase by moonlight, and of cases of carbines and pistols purchased in holland, and addressed to the baronet, but intercepted by the vigilance of a riding officer of the excise, who was afterwards tossed in a blanket on a moonless night, by an association of stout yeomen, for his officiousness. nay, it was even said, that at the arrest of sir william wyndham, the leader of the tory party, a letter from sir everard was found in the pocket of his night-gown. but there was no overt act which an attainder could be founded on; and government, contented with suppressing the insurrection of , felt it neither prudent nor safe to push their vengeance further than against those unfortunate gentlemen who actually took up arms. nor did sir everard's apprehensions of personal consequences seem to correspond with the reports spread among his whig neighbours. it was well known that he had supplied with money several of the distressed northumbrians and scotchmen, who, after being made prisoners at preston in lancashire, were imprisoned in newgate and the marshalsea; and it was his solicitor and ordinary counsel who conducted the defence of some of these unfortunate gentlemen at their trial. it was generally supposed, however, that, had ministers possessed any real proof of sir everard's accession to the rebellion, he either would not have ventured thus to brave the existing government, or at least would not have done so with impunity. the feelings which then dictated his proceedings, were those of a young man, and at an agitating period. since that time sir everard's jacobitism had been gradually decaying, like a fire which burns out for want of fuel. his tory and high church principles were kept up by some occasional exercise at elections and quarter-sessions: but those respecting hereditary right were fallen into a sort of abeyance. yet it jarred severely upon his feelings, that his nephew should go into the army under the brunswick dynasty; and the more so, as, independent of his high and conscientious ideas of paternal authority, it was impossible, or at least highly imprudent, to interfere authoritatively to prevent it. this suppressed vexation gave rise to many poohs and pshaws, which were placed to the account of an incipient fit of gout, until, having sent for the army list, the worthy baronet consoled himself with reckoning the descendants of the houses of genuine loyalty, mordaunts, granvilles, and stanleys, whose names were to be found in that military record; and, calling up all his feelings of family grandeur and warlike glory, he concluded, with logic something like falstaff's, that when war was at hand, although it were shame to be on any side but one, it were worse shame to be idle than to be on the worst side, though blacker than usurpation could make it. as for aunt rachel, her scheme had not exactly terminated according to her wishes, but she was under the necessity of submitting to circumstances; and her mortification was diverted by the employment she found in fitting out her nephew for the campaign, and greatly consoled by the prospect of beholding him blaze in complete uniform. edward waverley himself received with animated and undefined surprise this most unexpected intelligence. it was, as a fine old poem expresses it, 'like a fire to heather set,' that covers a solitary hill with smoke, and illumines it at the same time with dusky fire. his tutor, or, i should say, mr. pembroke, for he scarce assumed the name of tutor, picked up about edward's room some fragments of irregular verse, which he appeared to have composed under the influence of the agitating feelings occasioned by this sudden page being turned up to him in the book of life. the doctor, who was a believer in all poetry which was composed by his friends, and written out in fair straight lines, with a capital at the beginning of each, communicated this treasure to aunt rachel, who, with her spectacles dimmed with tears, transferred them to her commonplace book, among choice receipts for cookery and medicine, favourite texts, and portions from high church divines, and a few songs, amatory and jacobitical, which she had carolled in her younger days, from whence her nephew's poetical tentamina were extracted, when the volume itself, with other authentic records of the waverley family, were exposed to the inspection of the unworthy editor of this memorable history. if they afford the reader no higher amusement, they will serve, at least, better than narrative of any kind, to acquaint him with the wild and irregular spirit of our hero:-- late when the autumn evening fell on mirkwood-mere's romantic dell, the lake returned, in chastened gleam, the purple cloud, the golden beam: reflected in the crystal pool, headand and bank lay fair and cool; the weather-tinted rock and tower, each drooping tree, each fairy flower, so true, so soft, the mirror gave, as if there lay beneath the wave, secure from trouble, toil, and care, a world than earthly world more fair. but distant winds began to wake, and roused the genius of the lake! he heard the groaning of the oak, and donned at once his sable cloak, as warrior, at the battle-cry, invests him with his panoply: then as the whirlwind nearer pressed, he 'gan to shake his foamy crest o'er furrowed brow and blackened cheek, and bade his surge in thunder speak. in wild and broken eddies whirled, flitted that fond ideal world, and, to the shore in tumult tost, the realms of fairy bliss were lost. yet, with a stern delight and strange, i saw the spirit-stirring change, as warred the wind with wave and wood. upon the ruined tower i stood, and felt my heart more strongly bound, responsive to the lofty sound, while, joying in the mighty roar, i mourned that tranquil scene no more. so, on the idle dreams of youth, breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth, bids each fair vision pass away, like landscape on the lake that lay, as fair, as flitting, and as frail, as that which fled the autumn gale.-- for ever dead to fancy's eye be each gay form that glided by, while dreams of love and lady's charms give place to honour and to arms! in sober prose, as perhaps these verses intimate less decidedly, the transient idea of miss cecilia stubbs passed from captain waverley's heart amid the turmoil which his new destinies excited. she appeared, indeed, in full splendour in her father's pew upon the sunday when he attended service for the last time at the old parish church, upon which occasion, at the request of his uncle and aunt rachel, he was induced (nothing loth, if the truth must be told) to present himself in full uniform. there is no better antidote against entertaining too high an opinion of others, than having an excellent one of ourselves at the very same time. miss stubbs had indeed summoned up every assistance which art could afford to beauty; but, alas! hoop, patches, frizzled locks, and a new mantua of genuine french silk, were lost upon a young officer of dragoons, who wore, for the first time, his gold-laced hat, jack-boots, and broadsword. i know not whether, like the champion of an old ballad, his heart was all on honour bent, he could not stoop to love; no lady in the land had power his frozen heart to move; or whether the deep and flaming bars of embroidered gold, which now fenced his breast, defied the artillery of cecilia's eyes; but every arrow was launched at him in vain. yet did i mark where cupid's shaft did light; it lighted not on little western flower, but on bold yeoman, flower of all the west, hight jonas culbertfield, the steward's son. craving pardon for my heroics (which i am unable in certain cases to resist giving way to), it is a melancholy fact, that my history must here take leave of the fair cecilia, who, like many a daughter of eve, after the departure of edward, and the dissipation of certain idle visions which she had adopted, quietly contented herself with a pis-aller, and gave her hand, at the distance of six months, to the aforesaid jonas, son of the baronet's steward, and heir (no unfertile prospect) to a steward's fortune; besides the snug probability of succeeding to his father's office. all these advantages moved squire stubbs, as much as the ruddy brow and manly form of the suitor influenced his daughter, to abate somewhat in the article of their gentry; and so the match was concluded. none seemed more gratified than aunt rachel, who had hitherto looked rather askance upon the presumptuous damsel (as much so, peradventure, as her nature would permit), but who, on the first appearance of the new-married pair at church, honoured the bride with a smile and a profound curtsy, in presence of the rector, the curate, the clerk, and the whole congregation of the united parishes of waverley cum beverley. i beg pardon, once and for all, of those readers who take up novels merely for amusement, for plaguing them so long with old-fashioned politics, and whig and tory, and hanoverians and jacobites, the truth is, i cannot promise them that this story shall be intelligible, not to say probable, without it. my plan requires that i should explain the motives on which its action proceeded; and these motives necessarily arose from the feelings, prejudices, and parties of the times. i do not invite my fair readers, whose sex and impatience give them the greatest right to complain of these circumstances, into a flying chariot drawn by hippogriffs, or moved by enchantment. mine is a humble english post-chaise, drawn upon four wheels, and keeping his majesty's highway. such as dislike the vehicle may leave it at the next halt, and wait for the conveyance of prince hussein's tapestry, or malek the weaver's flying sentry-box. those who are contented to remain with me will be occasionally exposed to the dullness inseparable from heavy roads, steep hills, sloughs, and other terrestrial retardations; but, with tolerable horses and a civil driver (as the advertisements have it), i engage to get as soon as possible into a more picturesque and romantic country, if my passengers incline to have some patience with me during my first stages. [these introductory chapters have been a good deal censured as tedious and unnecessary. yet there are circumstances recorded in them which the author has not been able to persuade himself to retract or cancel.] chapter vi the adieus of waverley it was upon the evening of this memorable sunday that sir everard entered the library, where he narrowly missed surprising our young hero as he went through the guards of the broadsword with the ancient weapon of old sir hildebrand, which, being preserved as an heirloom, usually hung over the chimney in the library, beneath a picture of the knight and his horse, where the features were almost entirely hidden by the knight's profusion of curled hair, and the bucephalus which he bestrode concealed by the voluminous robes of the bath with which he was decorated. sir everard entered, and after a glance at the picture and another at his nephew, began a little speech, which, however, soon dropped into the natural simplicity of his common manner, agitated upon the present occasion by no common feeling. 'nephew,' he said; and then, as mending his phrase, 'my dear edward, it is god's will, and also the will of your father, whom, under god, it is your duty to obey, that you should leave us to take up the profession of arms, in which so many of your ancestors have been distinguished. i have made such arrangements as will enable you to take the field as their descendant, and as the probable heir of the house of waverley; and, sir, in the field of battle you will remember what name you bear. and, edward, my dear boy, remember also that you are the last of that race, and the only hope of its revival depends upon you; therefore, as far as duty and honour will permit, avoid danger--i mean unnecessary danger--and keep no company with rakes, gamblers, and whigs, of whom, it is to be feared, there are but too many in the service into which you are going. your colonel, as i am informed, is an excellent man--for a presbyterian; but you will remember your duty to god, the church of england, and the--' (this breach ought to have been supplied, according to the rubric, with the word king; but as, unfortunately, that word conveyed a double and embarrassing sense, one meaning de facto, and the other de jure, the knight filled up the blank otherwise)--'the church of england, and all constituted authorities.' then, not trusting himself with any further oratory, he carried his nephew to his stables to see the horses destined for his campaign. two were black (the regimental colour), superb chargers both; the other three were stout active hacks, designed for the road, or for his domestics, of whom two were to attend him from the hall: an additional groom, if necessary, might be picked up in scotland. 'you will depart with but a small retinue,' quoth the baronet, 'compared to sir hildebrand, when he mustered before the gate of the hall a larger body of horse than your whole regiment consists of. i could have wished that these twenty young fellows from my estate, who have enlisted in your troop, had been to march with you on your journey to scotland. it would have been something, at least; but i am told their attendance would be thought unusual in these days, when every new and foolish fashion is introduced to break the natural dependence of the people upon their landlords.' sir everard had done his best to correct this unnatural disposition of the times; for he had brightened the chain of attachment between the recruits and their young captain, not only by a copious repast of beef and ale, by way of parting feast, but by such a pecuniary donation to each individual, as tended rather to improve the conviviality than the discipline of their march. after inspecting the cavalry, sir everard again conducted his nephew to the library, where he produced a letter, carefully folded, surrounded by a little stripe of flox-silk, according to ancient form, and sealed with an accurate impression of the waverley coat-of-arms. it was addressed, with great formality, 'to cosmo comyne bradwardine, esq. of bradwardine, at his principal mansion of tully-veolan, in perthshire, north britain, these--by the hands of captain edward waverley, nephew of sir everard waverley, of waverley-honour, bart.' the gentleman to whom this enormous greeting was addressed, of whom we shall have more to say in the sequel, had been in arms for the exiled family of stuart in the year , and was made prisoner at preston in lancashire. he was of a very ancient family, and somewhat embarrassed fortune; a scholar, according to the scholarship of scotchmen, that is, his learning was more diffuse than accurate, and he was rather a reader than a grammarian. of his zeal for the classic authors he is said to have given an uncommon instance. on the road between preston and london he made his escape from his guards; but being afterwards found loitering near the place where they had lodged the former night, he was recognized, and again arrested. his companions, and even his escort, were surprised at his infatuation, and could not help inquiring, why, being once at liberty, he had not made the best of his way to a place of safety; to which he replied, that he had intended to do so, but, in good faith, he had returned to seek his titus livius, which he had forgot in the hurry of his escape. [ ] the simplicity of this anecdote struck the gentleman, who, as we before observed, had managed the defence of some of those unfortunate persons, at the expense of sir everard, and perhaps some others of the party. he was, besides, himself a special admirer of the old patavinian; and though probably his own zeal might not have carried him such extravagant lengths, even to recover the edition of sweynheim and pannartz (supposed to be the princeps), he did not the less estimate the devotion of the north briton, and in consequence exerted himself to so much purpose to remove and soften evidence, detect legal flaws, et cetera, that he accomplished the final discharge and deliverance of cosmo comyne bradwardine from certain very awkward consequences of a plea before our sovereign lord the king in westminster. the baron of bradwardine, for he was generally so called in scotland (although his intimates, from his place of residence, used to denominate him. tully-veolan, or more familiarly, tully), no sooner stood rectus in curia, than he posted down to pay his respects and make his acknowledgements at waverley-honour. a congenial passion for field sports, and a general coincidence in political opinions, cemented his friendship with sir everard, notwithstanding the difference of their habits and studies in other particulars; and, having spent several weeks at waverley-honour, the baron departed with many expressions of regard, warmly pressing the baronet to return his visit, and partake of the diversion of grouse-shooting upon his moors in perthshire next season. shortly after, mr. bradwardine remitted from scotland a sum in reimbursement of expenses incurred in the king's high court of westminster, which, although not quite so formidable when reduced to the english denomination, had, in its original form of scotch pounds, shillings, and pence, such a formidable effect upon the frame of duncan macwheeble, the laird's confidential factor, baron-bailie, and man of resource, that he had a fit of the colic which lasted for five days, occasioned, he said, solely and utterly by becoming the unhappy instrument of conveying such a serious sum of money out of his native country into the hands of the false english. but patriotism as it is the fairest, so it is often the most suspicious mask of other feelings; and many who knew bailie macwheeble, concluded that his professions of regret were not altogether disinterested, and that he would have grudged the moneys paid to the loons at westminster much less had they not come from bradwardine estate, a fund which he considered as more particularly his own. but the bailie protested he was absolutely disinterested-- woe, woe, for scotland, not a whit for me! the laird was only rejoiced that his worthy friend, sir everard waverley of waverley-honour, was reimbursed of the expenditure which he had outlaid on account of the house of bradwardine. it concerned, he said, the credit of his own family, and of the kingdom of scotland at large, that these disbursements should be repaid forthwith, and, if delayed, if would be a matter of national reproach. sir everard, accustomed to treat much larger sums with indifference, received the remittance of l. s. d., without being aware that the payment was an international concern, and, indeed, would probably have forgot the circumstance altogether, if bailie macwheeble had thought of comforting his colic by intercepting the subsidy. a yearly intercourse took place, of a short letter, and a hamper or a cask or two, between waverley-honour and tully-veolan, the english exports consisting of mighty cheeses and mightier ale, pheasants and venison, and the scottish returns being vested in grouse, white hares, pickled salmon, and usquebaugh. all which were meant, sent, and received, as pledges of constant friendship and amity between two important houses. it followed as a matter of course, that the heir-apparent of waverley-honour could not, with propriety, visit scotland without being furnished with credentials to the baron of bradwardine. when this matter was explained and settled, mr. pembroke expressed his wish to take a private and particular leave of his dear pupil. the good man's exhortations to edward to preserve an unblemished life and morals, to hold fast the principles of the christian religion, and to eschew the profane company of scoffers and latitudinarians, too much abounding in the army, were not unmingled with his political prejudices. it had pleased heaven, he said, to place scotland (doubtless for the sins of their ancestors in ) in a more deplorable state of darkness than even this unhappy kingdom of england. here, at least, although the candlestick of the church of england had been in some degree removed from its place, it yet afforded a glimmering light; there was a hierarchy, though schismatical, and fallen from the principles maintained by those great fathers of the church, sancroft and his brethren; there was a liturgy, though wofully perverted in some of the principal petitions. but in scotland it was utter darkness; and, excepting a sorrowful, scattered, and persecuted remnant, the pulpits were abandoned to presbyterians, and he feared, to sectaries of every description. it should be his duty to fortify his dear pupil to resist such unhallowed and pernicious doctrines in church and state, as must necessarily be forced at times upon his unwilling ears. here he produced two immense folded packets, which appeared each to contain a whole ream of closely-written manuscript. they had been the labour of the worthy man's whole life; and never were labour and zeal more absurdly wasted. he had at one time gone to london, with the intention of giving them to the world, by the medium of a bookseller in little britain, well known to deal in such commodities, and to whom he was instructed to address himself in a particular phrase, and with a certain sign, which, it seems, passed at that time current among the initiated jacobites. the moment mr. pembroke had uttered the shibboleth, with the appropriate gesture, the bibliopolist greeted him, notwithstanding every disclamation, by the title of doctor, and conveying him into his back shop, after inspecting every possible and impossible place of concealment, he commenced: 'eh, doctor! well--all under the rose--snug--i keep no holes here even for a hanoverian rat to hide in. and, what--eh! any good news from our friends over the water?--and how does the worthy king of france? or perhaps you are more lately from rome?--it must be rome will do it at last--the church must light its candle at the old lamp. eh! what, cautious? i like you the better; but no fear.' here mr. pembroke, with some difficulty, stopped a torrent of interrogations, eked out with signs, nods, and winks; and, having at length convinced the bookseller that he did him too much honour in supposing him an emissary of exiled royalty, he explained his actual business. the man of books, with a much more composed air, proceeded to examine the manuscripts. the title of the first was 'a dissent from dissenters, or the comprehension confuted; showing the impossibility of any composition between the church and puritans, presbyterians, or sectaries of any description; illustrated from the scriptures, the fathers of the church, and the soundest controversial divines.' to this work the bookseller positively demurred. 'well meant,' he said, 'and learned, doubtless; but the time had gone by. printed on small pica it would run to eight hundred pages, and could never pay. begged therefore to be excused. loved and honoured the true church from his soul; and, had it been a sermon on the martyrdom, or any twelve-penny touch--why i would venture something for the honour of the cloth. but come, let's see the other. 'right hereditary righted!' ah, there's some sense in this! hum--hum--hum--pages so many, paper so much, letterpress--ah! i'll tell you, though, doctor, you must knock out some of the latin and greek; heavy, doctor, damn'd heavy--(beg your pardon) and if you throw in a few grains more pepper--i am he that never peached my author--i have published for drake, and charlwood lawton, and poor amhurst. [ ]--ah, caleb! caleb! well, it was a shame to let poor caleb starve, and so many fat rectors and squires among us. i gave him a dinner once a week; but, lord love you, what's once a week, when a man does not know where to go the other six days?--well, but i must show the manuscript to little tom alibi the solicitor, who manages all my law affairs--must keep on the windy side--the mob were very uncivil the last time i mounted in old palace yard--all whigs and roundheads every man of them, williamites and hanover rats.' the next day mr. pembroke again called on the publisher, but found tom alibi's advice had determined him against undertaking the work. 'not but what i would go to--(what was i going to say?) to the plantations for the church with pleasure--but, dear doctor, i have a wife and family; but, to show my zeal, i'll recommend the job to my neighbour trimmel--he is a bachelor, and leaving off business, so a voyage in a western barge would not inconvenience him.' but mr. trimmel was also obdurate, and mr. pembroke, fortunately perchance for himself, was compelled to return to waverley-honour with his treatise in vindication of the real fundamental principles of church and state safely packed in his saddle-bags. as the public were thus likely to be deprived of the benefit arising from his lucubrations by the selfish cowardice of the trade, mr. pembroke resolved to make two copies of these tremendous manuscripts for the use of his pupil. he felt that he had been indolent as a tutor, and, besides, his conscience checked him for complying with the request of mr. richard waverley, that he would impress no sentiments upon edward's mind inconsistent with the present settlement in church and state. but now, thought he, i may, without breach of my word, since he is no longer under my tuition, afford the youth the means of judging for himself, and have only to dread his reproaches for so long concealing the light which the perusal will flash upon his mind. while he thus indulged the reveries of an author and a politician, his darling proselyte, seeing nothing very inviting in the title of the tracts, and appalled by the bulk and compact lines of the manuscript, quietly consigned them to a corner of his travelling trunk. aunt rachel's farewell was brief and affectionate. she only cautioned her dear edward, whom she probably deemed somewhat susceptible, against the fascination of scottish beauty. she allowed that the northern part of the island contained some ancient families, but they were all whigs and presbyterians except the highlanders; and respecting them she must needs say, there could be no great delicacy among the ladies, where the gentlemen's usual attire was, as she had been assured, to say the least, very singular, and not at all decorous. she concluded her farewell with a kind and moving benediction, and gave the young officer, as a pledge of her regard, a valuable diamond ring (often worn by the male sex at that time), and a purse of broad gold pieces, which also were more common sixty years since than they have been of late. chapter vii a horse-quarter in scotland the next morning, amid varied feelings, the chief of which was a predominant, anxious, and even solemn impression, that he was now in a great measure abandoned to his own guidance and direction, edward waverley departed from the hall amid the blessings and tears of all the old domestics and the inhabitants of the village, mingled with some sly petitions for sergeantcies and corporalships, and so forth, on the part of those who professed that 'they never thoft to ha' seen jacob, and giles, and jonathan, go off for soldiers, save to attend his honour, as in duty bound.' edward, as in duty bound, extricated himself from the supplicants with the pledge of fewer promises than might have been expected from a young man so little accustomed to the world. after a short visit to london, he proceeded on horseback, then the general mode of travelling, to edinburgh, and from thence to dundee, a seaport on the eastern coast of angus-shire, where his regiment was then quartered. he now entered upon a new world, where, for a time, all was beautiful because all was new. colonel gardiner, the commanding officer of the regiment, was himself a study for a romantic, and at the same time an inquisitive, youth. in person he was tall, handsome, and active, though somewhat advanced in life. in his early years, he had been what is called, by manner of palliative, a very gay young man, and strange stories were circulated about his sudden conversion from doubt, if not infidelity, to a serious and even enthusiastic turn of mind. it was whispered that a supernatural communication, of a nature obvious even to the exterior senses, had produced this wonderful change; and though some mentioned the proselyte as an enthusiast, none hinted at his being a hypocrite. this singular and mystical circumstance gave colonel gardiner a peculiar and solemn interest in the eyes of the young soldier. [ ] it may be easily imagined that the officers of a regiment, commanded by so respectable a person, composed a society more sedate and orderly than a military mess always exhibits; and that waverley escaped some temptations to which he might otherwise have been exposed. meanwhile his military education proceeded. already a good horseman, he was now initiated into the arts of the manege, which, when carried to perfection, almost realize the fable of the centaur, the guidance of the horse appearing to proceed from the rider's mere volition, rather than from the use of any external and apparent signal of motion. he received also instructions in his field duty; but, i must own, that when his first ardour was passed, his progress fell short in the latter particular of what he wished and expected. the duty of an officer, the most imposing of all others to the inexperienced mind, because accompanied with so much outward pomp and circumstance, is in its essence a very dry and abstract task, depending chiefly upon arithmetical combinations, requiring much attention, and a cool and reasoning head, to bring them into action. our hero was liable to fits of absence, in which his blunders excited some mirth, and called down some reproof. this circumstance impressed him with a painful sense of inferiority in those qualities which appeared most to deserve and obtain regard in his new profession. he asked himself in vain, why his eye could not judge of distance or space so well as those of his companions; why his head was not always successful in disentangling the various partial movements necessary to execute a particular evolution; and why his memory, so alert upon most occasions, did not correctly retain technical phrases, and minute points of etiquette or field discipline. waverley was naturally modest, and therefore did not fall into the egregious mistake of supposing such minuter rules of military duty beneath his notice, or conceiting himself to be born a general, because he made an indifferent subaltern. the truth was, that the vague and unsatisfactory course of reading which he had pursued, working upon a temper naturally retired and abstracted, had given him that wavering and unsettled habit of mind, which is most averse to study and riveted attention. time, in the meanwhile, hung heavy on his hands. the gentry of the neighbourhood were disaffected, and, showed little hospitality to the military guests; and the people of the town, chiefly engaged in mercantile pursuits, were not such as waverley chose to associate with. the arrival of summer, and a curiosity to know something more of scotland than he could see in a ride from his quarters, determined him to request leave of absence for a few weeks. he resolved first to visit his uncle's ancient friend and correspondent, with the purpose of extending or shortening the time of his residence according to circumstances. he travelled of course on horseback, and with a single attendant, and passed his first night at a miserable inn, where the landlady had neither shoes nor stockings, and the landlord, who called himself a gentleman, was disposed to be rude to his guest, because he had not bespoke the pleasure of his society to supper. [ ] the next day, traversing an open and unenclosed country, edward gradually approached the highlands of perthshire, which at first had appeared a blue outline in the horizon, but now swelled into huge gigantic masses, which frowned defiance over the more level country that lay beneath them. near the bottom of this stupendous barrier, but still in the lowland country, dwelt cosmo comyne bradwardine of bradwardine; and, if grey-haired eld can be in aught believed, there had dwelt his ancestors, with all their heritage, since the days of the gracious king duncan. chapter viii a scottish manor-house sixty years since it was about noon when captain waverley entered the straggling village, or rather hamlet, of tully-veolan, close to which was situated the mansion of the proprietor. the houses seemed miserable in the extreme, especially to an eye accustomed to the smiling neatness of english cottages. they stood, without any respect for regularity, on each side of & straggling kind of unpaved street, where children, almost in a primitive state of nakedness, lay sprawling, as if to be crushed by the hoofs of the first passing horse. occasionally, indeed, when such a consummation seemed inevitable, a watchful old grandam, with her close cap, distaff, and spindle, rushed like a sibyl in frenzy out of one of these miserable cells, dashed into the middle of the path, and snatching up her own charge from among the sunburnt loiterers, saluted him with a sound cuff, and transported him back to his dungeon, the little white-headed varlet screaming all the while, from the very top of his lungs, a shrilly treble to the growling remonstrances of the enraged matron. another part in this concert was sustained by the incessant yelping of a score of idle useless curs, which followed, snarling, barking, howling, and snapping at the horses' heels; a nuisance at that time so common in scotland, that a french tourist, who, like other travellers, longed to find a good and rational reason for everything he saw, has recorded, as one of the memorabilia of caledonia, that the state maintained in each village a relay of curs, called collies, whose duty it was to chase the chevaux de poste (too starved and exhausted to move without such a stimulus) from one hamlet to another, till their annoying convoy drove them to the end of their stage. the evil and remedy (such as it is) still exist: but this is remote from our present purpose, and is only thrown out for consideration of the collectors under mr. dent's dog bill. as waverley moved on, here and there an old man, bent as much by toil as years, his eyes bleared with age and smoke, tottered to the door of his hut, to gaze on the dress of the stranger, and the form and motions of the horses, and then assembled with his neighbours, in a little group at the smithy, to discuss the probabilities of whence the stranger came, and where he might be going. three or four village girls, returning from the well or brook with pitchers and pails upon their heads, formed more pleasing objects; and, with their thin, short gowns and single petticoats, bare arms, legs, and feet, uncovered heads, and braided hair, somewhat resembled italian forms of landscape. nor could a lover of the picturesque have challenged either the elegance of their costume, or the symmetry of their shape; although, to say the truth, a mere englishman, in search of the comfortable, a word peculiar to his native tongue, might have wished the clothes less scanty, the feet and legs somewhat protected from the weather, the head and complexion shrouded from the sun, or perhaps might even have thought the whole person and dress considerably improved, by a plentiful application of spring water, with a quantum sufficit of soap, the whole scene was depressing; for it argued, at the first glance, at least a stagnation of industry, and perhaps of intellect. even curiosity, the busiest passion of the idle, seemed of a listless cast in the village of tully-veolan: the curs aforesaid alone showed any part of its activity; with the villagers it was passive. they stood and gazed at the handsome young officer and his attendant, but without any of those quick motions, and eager looks, that indicate the earnestness with which those who live in monotonous ease at home, look out for amusement abroad. yet the physiognomy of the people, when more closely examined, was far from exhibiting the indifference of stupidity; their features were rough, but remarkably intelligent; grave, but the very reverse of stupid; and from among the young women, an artist might have chosen more than one model, whose features and form resembled those of minerva. the children, also, whose skins were burnt black, and whose hair was bleached white, by the influence of the sun, had a look and manner of life and interest. it seemed, upon the whole, as if poverty, and indolence, its too frequent companion, were combining to depress the natural genius and acquired information of a hardy, intelligent, and reflecting peasantry. some such thoughts crossed waverley's mind as he paced his horse slowly through the rugged and flinty street of tully-veolan, interrupted only in his meditations by the occasional caprioles which his charger exhibited at the reiterated assaults of those canine cossacks, the collies before mentioned. the village was more than half a mile long, the cottages being irregularly divided from each other by gardens, or yards, as the inhabitants called them, of different sizes, where (for it is sixty years since) the now universal potato was unknown, but which were stored with gigantic plants of kale or colewort, encircled with groves of nettles, and exhibited here and there a huge hemlock, or the national thistle, overshadowing a quarter of the petty enclosure. the broken ground on which the village was built had never been levelled; so that these enclosures presented declivities of every degree, here rising like terraces, there sinking like tan-pits. the dry-stone walls which fenced, or seemed to fence (for they were sorely breached), these hanging gardens of tully-veolan, were intersected by a narrow lane leading to the common field, where the joint labour of the villagers cultivated alternate ridges and patches of rye, oats, barley, and peas, each of such minute extent, that at a little distance the unprofitable variety of the surface resembled a tailor's book of patterns. in a few favoured instances, there appeared behind the cottages a miserable wigwam, compiled of earth, loose stones, and turf, where the wealthy might perhaps shelter a starved cow or sorely galled horse. but almost every hut was fenced in front by a huge black stack of turf on one side of the door, while on the other the family dung-hill ascended in noble emulation. about a bow-shot from the end of the village appeared the enclosures, proudly denominated the parks of tully-veolan, being certain square fields, surrounded and divided by stone walls five feet in height. in the centre of the exterior barrier was the upper gate of the avenue, opening under an archway, battlemented on the top, and adorned with two large weather-beaten mutilated masses of upright stone, which, if the tradition of the hamlet could be trusted, had once represented, at least had been once designed to represent, two rampant bears, the supporters of the family of bradwardine. this avenue was straight, and of moderate length, running between a double row of very ancient horse-chestnuts, planted alternately with sycamores, which rose to such huge height, and flourished so luxuriantly, that their boughs completely over-arched the broad road beneath. beyond these venerable ranks, and running parallel to them, were two high walls, of apparently the like antiquity, overgrown with ivy, honeysuckle, and other climbing plants. the avenue seemed very little trodden, and chiefly by foot-passengers; so that being very broad, and enjoying a constant shade, it was clothed with grass of a deep and rich verdure, excepting where a footpath, worn by occasional passengers, tracked with a natural sweep the way from the upper to the lower gate. this nether portal, like the former, opened in front of a wall ornamented with some rude sculpture, with battlements on the top, over which were seen, half-hidden by the trees of the avenue, the high steep roofs and narrow gables of the mansion, with lines indented into steps, and corners decorated with small turrets. one of the folding leaves of the lower gate was open, and as the sun shone full into the court behind, a long line of brilliancy was flung upon the aperture up the dark and gloomy avenue. it was one of those effects which a painter loves to represent, and mingled well with the struggling light which found its way between the boughs of the shady arch that vaulted the broad green alley. the solitude and repose of the whole scene seemed almost romantic; and waverley, who had given his horse to his servant on entering the first gate, walked slowly down the avenue, enjoying the grateful and cooling shade, and so much pleased with the placid ideas of rest and seclusion excited by this confined and quiet scene, that he forgot the misery and dirt of the hamlet he had left behind him. the opening into the paved courtyard corresponded with the rest of the scene. the house, which seemed to consist of two or three high, narrow, and steep-roofed buildings, projecting from each other at right angles, formed one side of the enclosure. it had been built at a period when castles were no longer necessary, and when the scottish architects had not yet acquired the art of designing a domestic residence. the windows were numberless, but very small; the roof had some nondescript kind of projections, called bartizans, and displayed at each frequent angle a small turret, rather resembling a pepper-box than a gothic watch-tower. neither did the front indicate absolute security from danger. there were loop-holes for musketry, and iron stanchions on the lower windows, probably to repel any roving band of gipsies, or resist a predatory visit from the caterans of the neighbouring highlands. stables and other offices occupied another side of the square. the former were low vaults, with narrow slits instead of windows, resembling, as edward's groom observed, 'rather a prison for murderers and larceners, and such like as are tried at 'sizes, than a place for any christian cattle.' above these dungeon-looking stables were granaries, called girnels, and other offices, to which there was access by outside stairs of heavy masonry. two battlemented walls, one of which faced the avenue, and the other divided the court from the garden, completed the enclosure. nor was the court without its ornaments. in one corner was a tun-bellied pigeon-house, of great size and rotundity, resembling in figure and proportion the curious edifice called arthur's oven, which would have turned the brains of all the antiquaries in england, had not the worthy proprietor pulled it down for the sake of mending a neighbouring dam-dyke. this dovecot, or columbarium, as the owner called it, was no small resource to a scottish laird of that period, whose scanty rents were eked out by the contributions levied upon the farms by these light foragers, and the conscriptions exacted from the latter for the benefit of the table. another corner of the court displayed a fountain, where a huge bear, carved in stone, predominated over a large stone basin, into which he disgorged the water. this work of art was the wonder of the country ten miles round. it must not be forgotten, that all sorts of bears, small and large, demi or in full proportion, were carved over the windows, upon the ends of the gables, terminated the spouts, and supported the turrets, with the ancient family motto 'bewar the bar,' cut under each hyperborean form. the court was spacious, well paved, and perfectly clean, there being probably another entrance behind the stables for removing the litter. everything around appeared solitary, and would have been silent, but for the continued plashing of the fountain; and the whole scene still maintained the monastic illusion which the fancy of waverley had conjured up.--and here we beg permission to close a chapter of still life. [there is no particular mansion described under the name of tully-veolan; but the peculiarities of the description occur in various old scottish seats. the house of warrender upon bruntsfield links, and that of old ravelston, belonging, the former to sir george warrender, the latter to sir alexander keith, have both contributed several hints to the description in the text. the house of dean, near edinburgh, has also some points of resemblance with tully-veolan. the author has, however, been informed, that the house of grandtully resembles that of the baron of bradwardine still more than any of the above.] chapter ix more of the manor-house and its environs after having satisfied his curiosity by gazing around him for a few minutes, waverley applied himself to the massive knocker of the hall-door, the architrave of which bore the date . but no answer was returned, though the peal resounded through a number of apartments, and was echoed from the courtyard walls without the house, startling the pigeons from the venerable rotunda which they occupied, and alarming anew even the distant village curs, which had retired to sleep upon their respective dung-hills. tired of the din which he created, and the unprofitable responses which it excited, waverley began to think that he had reached the castle of orgoglio, as entered by the victorious prince arthur, when 'gan he loudly through the house to call, but no man cared to answer to his cry; there reigned a solemn silence over all, nor voice was heard, nor wight was seen, in bower or hall. filled almost with expectation of beholding some 'old, old man, with beard as white as snow,' whom he might question concerning this deserted mansion, our hero turned to a little oaken wicket-door, well clenched with iron nails, which opened in the courtyard wall at its angle with the house. it was only latched, notwithstanding its fortified appearance, and, when opened, admitted him into the garden, which presented a pleasant scene. [at ravelston may be seen such a garden, which the taste of the proprietor, the author's friend and kinsman, sir alexander keith, knight mareschal, has judiciously preserved. that, as well as the house, is, however, of smaller dimensions than the baron of bradwardine's mansion and garden are presumed to have been.] the southern side of the house, clothed with fruit-trees, and having many evergreens trained upon its walls, extended its irregular yet venerable front along a terrace, partly paved, partly gravelled, partly bordered with flowers and choice shrubs. this elevation descended by three several flights of steps, placed in its centre and at the extremities, into what might be called the garden proper, and was fenced along the top by a stone parapet with a heavy balustrade, ornamented from space to space with huge grotesque figures of animals seated upon their haunches, among which the favourite bear was repeatedly introduced. placed in the middle of the terrace, between a sashed door opening from the house and the central flight of steps, a huge animal of the same species supported on his head and fore-paws a sundial of large circumference, inscribed with more diagrams than edward's mathematics enabled him to decipher. the garden, which seemed to be kept with great accuracy, abounded in fruit-trees, and exhibited a profusion of flowers and evergreens, cut into grotesque forms. it was laid out in terraces, which descended rank by rank from the western wall to a large brook, which had a tranquil and smooth appearance, where it served as a boundary to the garden; but, near the extremity, leapt in tumult over a strong dam, or weir-head, the cause of its temporary tranquillity, and there forming a cascade, was overlooked by an octangular summer-house, with a gilded bear on the top by way of vane. after this feat, the brook, assuming its natural rapid and fierce character, escaped from the eye down a deep and wooded dell, from the copse of which arose a massive, but ruinous tower, the former habitation of the barons of bradwardine, the margin of the brook, opposite to the garden, displayed a narrow meadow, or haugh, as it was called, which formed a small washing-green; the bank, which retired behind it, was covered by ancient trees. the scene, though pleasing, was not quite equal to the gardens of alcina; yet wanted not the 'due donzellette garrule' of that enchanted paradise, for upon the green aforesaid two bare-legged damsels, each standing in a spacious tub, performed with their feet the office of a patent washing-machine. these did not, however, like the maidens of armida, remain to greet with their harmony the approaching guest, but, alarmed at the appearance of a handsome stranger on the opposite side, dropped their garments (i should say garment, to be quite-correct) over their limbs, which their occupation exposed somewhat too freely, and, with a shrill exclamation of 'eh, sirs!' uttered with an accent between modesty and coquetry, sprang off like deer in different directions. waverley began to despair of gaining entrance into this solitary and seemingly enchanted mansion, when a man advanced up one of the garden alleys, where he still retained his station. trusting this might be a gardener, or some domestic belonging to the house, edward descended the steps in order to meet him; but as the figure approached, and long before he could descry its features, he was struck with the oddity of its appearance and gestures.--sometimes this mister wight held his hands clasped over his head, like an indian jogue in the attitude of penance; sometimes he swung them perpendicularly, like a pendulum, on each side; and anon he slapped them swiftly and repeatedly across his breast, like the substitute used by a hackney-coachman for his usual flogging exercise, when his cattle are idle upon the stand in a clear frosty day. his gait was as singular as his gestures, for at times he hopped with great perseverance on the right foot, then exchanged that supporter to advance in the same manner on the left, and then putting his feet close together, he hopped upon both at once. his attire, also, was antiquated and extravagant. it consisted in a sort of grey jerkin, with scarlet cuffs and slashed sleeves, showing a scarlet lining; the other parts of the dress corresponded in colour, not forgetting a pair of scarlet stockings, and a scarlet bonnet, proudly surmounted with a turkey's feather. edward, whom he did not seem to observe, now perceived confirmation in his features of what the mien and gestures had already announced. it was apparently neither idiocy nor insanity which gave that wild, unsettled, irregular expression to a face which naturally was rather handsome, but something that resembled a compound of both, where the simplicity of the fool was mixed with the extravagance of a crazed imagination. he sang with great earnestness, and not without some taste, a fragment of an old scottish ditty:-- false love, and hast thou played me thus in summer among the flowers? i will repay thee back again in winter among the showers. unless again, again, my love, unless you turn again; as you with other maidens rove, i'll smile on other men. [this is a genuine ancient fragment, with some alteration in the last two lines.] here lifting up his eyes, which had hither&o been fixed in observing how his feet kept time to the tune, he beheld waverley, and instantly doffed his cap, with many grotesque signals of surprise, respect, and salutation. edward, though with little hope of receiving an answer to any constant question, requested to know whether mr. bradwardine were at home, or where he could find any of the domestics. the questioned party replied,--and, like the witch of thalaba, 'still his speech was song,'-- the knight's to the mountain his bugle to wind; the lady's to greenwood her garland to bind. the bower of burd ellen has moss on the floor, that the step of lord william be silent and sure. this conveyed no information, and edward, repeating his queries, received a rapid answer, in which, from the haste and peculiarity of the dialect, the word 'butler' was alone intelligible. waverley then requested to see the butler; upon which the fellow, with a knowing look and nod of intelligence, made a signal to edward to follow, and began to dance and caper down the alley up which he had made his approaches.--a strange guide this, thought edward, and not much unlike one of shakespeare's roynish clowns. i am not over prudent to trust to his pilotage; but wiser men have been led by fools.--by this time he reached the bottom of the alley, where, turning short on a little parterre of flowers, shrouded from the east and north by a close yew hedge, he found an old man at work without his coat, whose appearance hovered between that of an upper servant and gardener; his red nose and ruffed shirt belonging to the former profession; his hale and sunburnt visage, with his green apron, appearing to indicate old adam's likeness, set to dress this garden. the major domo--for such he was, and indisputably the second officer of state in the barony (nay, as chief minister of the interior, superior even to bailie macwheeble, in his own department of the kitchen and cellar)--the major domo laid down his spade, slipped on his coat in haste, and with a wrathful look at edward's guide, probably excited by his having introduced a stranger while he was engaged in this laborious, and, as he might suppose it, degrading office, requested to know the gentleman's commands. being informed that he wished to pay his respects to his master, that his name was waverley, and so forth, the old man's countenance assumed a great deal of respectful importance. 'he could take it upon his conscience to say, his honour would have exceeding pleasure in seeing him. would not mr. waverley choose some refreshment after his journey? his honour was with the folk who were getting doon the dark hag; the twa gardener lads (an emphasis on the word twa) had been ordered to attend him; and he had been just amusing himself in the meantime with dressing miss rose's flower-bed, that he might be near to receive his honour's orders, if need were: he was very fond of a garden, but had little time for such divertisements.' 'he canna get it wrought in abune twa days in the week at no rate whatever,' said edward's fantastic conductor. a grim look from the butler chastised his interference, and he commanded him, by the name of davie gellatley, in a tone which admitted no discussion, to look for his honour at the dark hag, and tell him there was a gentleman from the south had arrived at the ha'. 'can this poor fellow deliver a letter?' asked edward. 'with all fidelity, sir, to any one whom he respects. i would hardly trust him with a long message by word of mouth--though he is more knave than fool.' waverley delivered his credentials to mr. gellatley, who seemed to confirm the butler's last observation, by twisting his features at him, when he was looking another way, into the resemblance of the grotesque face on the bowl of a german tobacco-pipe; after which, with an odd conge to waverley, he danced off to discharge his errand. 'he is an innocent, sir,' said the butler; 'there is one such in almost every town in the country, but ours is brought far ben. he used to work a day's turn weel eneugh; but he help'd miss rose when she was flemit with the laird of killancureit's new english bull, and since that time we ca' him davie do-little indeed we might ca' him davie do-naething, for since he got that gay clothing, to please his honour and my young mistress (great folks will have their fancies), he has done naething but dance up and down about the toun, without doing a single turn, unless trimming the laird's fishing-wand or busking his flies, or maybe catching a dish of trouts at an orra-time. but here comes miss rose, who, i take burden upon me for her, will be especially glad to see one of the house of waverley at her father's mansion at tully-veolan.' but rose bradwardine deserves better of her unworthy historian, than to be introduced at the end of a chapter. in the meanwhile it may be noticed, that waverley learned two things from this colloquy; that in scotland a single house was called a town, and a natural fool an innocent. [ ] chapter x rose bradwardine and her father miss bradwardine was but seventeen; yet, at the last races of the county town of--, upon her health being proposed among a round of beauties, the laird of bumperquaigh, permanent feast-master and croupier of the bautherwhillery club, not only said more to the pledge in a pint bumper of bourdeaux, but, ere pouring forth the libation, denominated the divinity to whom it was dedicated, 'the rose of tully-veolan;' upon which festive occasion, three cheers were given by all the sitting members of that respectable society, whose throats the wine had left capable of such exertion. nay, i am well assured, that the sleeping partners of the company snorted applause, and that although strong bumpers and weak brains had consigned two or three to the floor, yet even these, fallen as they were from their high estate, and weltering--i will carry the parody no further--uttered divers inarticulate sounds, intimating their assent to the motion. such unanimous applause could not be extorted but by acknowledged merit; and rose bradwardine not only deserved it, but also the approbation of much more rational persons than the bautherwhillery club could have mustered, even before discussion of the first magnum. she was indeed a very pretty girl of the scotch cast of beauty, that is, with a profusion of hair of paley gold, and a skin like the snow of her own mountains in whiteness. yet she had not a pallid or pensive cast of countenance; her features, as well as her temper, had a lively expression; her complexion, though not florid, was so pure as to seem transparent, and the slightest emotion sent her whole blood at once to her face and neck. her form, though under the common size, was remarkably elegant, and her motions light, easy, and unembarrassed. she came from another part of the garden to receive captain waverley, with a manner that hovered between bashfulness and courtesy. the first greetings past, edward learned from her that the dark hag, which had somewhat puzzled him in the butler's account of his master's avocations, had nothing to do either with a black cat or a broomstick, but was simply a portion of oak copse which was to be felled that day. she offered, with diffident civility, to show the stranger the way to the spot, which, it seems, was not far distant; but they were prevented by the appearance of the baron of bradwardine in person, who, summoned by david gellatley, now appeared, 'on hospitable thoughts intent,' clearing the ground at a prodigious rate with swift and long strides, which reminded waverley of the seven-league boots of the nursery fable. he was a tall, thin, athletic figure; old indeed, and grey-haired, but with every muscle rendered as tough as whip-cord by constant exercise. he was dressed carelessly, and more like a frenchman than an englishman of the period, while, from his hard features and perpendicular rigidity of stature, he bore some resemblance to a swiss officer of the guards, who had resided some time at paris, and caught the costume, but not the ease or manner of its inhabitants. the truth was, that his language and habits were as heterogeneous as his external appearance. owing to his natural disposition to study, or perhaps to a very general scottish fashion of giving young men of rank a legal education, he had been bred with a view to the bar. but the politics of his family precluding the hope of his rising in that profession, mr. bradwardine travelled with high reputation for several years, and made some campaigns in foreign service. after his demele with the law of high treason in , he had lived in retirement, conversing almost entirely with those of his own principles in the vicinage. the pedantry of the lawyer, superinduced upon the military pride of the soldier, might remind a modern of the days of the zealous volunteer service, when the bar-gown of our pleaders was often hung over a blazing uniform. to this must be added the prejudices of ancient birth and jacobite politics, greatly strengthened by habits of solitary and secluded authority, which, though exercised only within the bounds of his half-cultivated estate, was there indisputable and undisputed. for, as he used to observe, 'the lands of bradwardine, tully-veolan, and others, had been erected into a free barony by a charter from david the first, cum liberali potest. habendi curias et justicias, cum fossa et furca (lie pit and gallows) et saka et soka, et thol et theam, et infang-thief et outfang-thief, sive hand-habend. sive bak-barand.' the peculiar meaning of all these cabalistical words few or none could explain; but they implied, upon the whole, that the baron of bradwardine might, in case of delinquency, imprison, try, and execute his vassals at his pleasure. like james the first, however, the present possessor of this authority was more pleased in talking about prerogative than in exercising it; and, excepting that he imprisoned two poachers in the dungeon of the old tower of tully-veolan, where they were sorely frightened by ghosts, and almost eaten by rats, and that he set an old woman in the jougs (or scottish pillory) for saying 'there were mair fules in the laird's ha' house than davie gellatley,' i do not learn that he was accused of abusing his high powers. still, however, the conscious pride of possessing them gave additional importance to his language and deportment. at his first address to waverley, it would seem that the hearty pleasure he felt to behold the nephew of his friend had somewhat discomposed the stiff and upright dignity of the baron of bradwardine's demeanour, for the tears stood in the old gentleman's eyes, when, having first shaken edward heartily by the hand in the english fashion, he embraced him a la mode francaise, and kissed him on both sides of his face; while the hardness of his grip, and the quantity of scotch snuff which his accolade communicated, called corresponding drops of moisture to the eyes of his guest. 'upon the honour of a gentleman,' he said, 'but it makes me young again to see you here, mr. waverley!' a worthy scion of the old stock of waverley-honour--spes altera, as maro hath it--and you have the look of the old line, captain waverley, not so portly yet as my old friend sir everard--mais cela viendra avec le temps, as my dutch acquaintance, baron kikkitbroeck, said of the sagesse of madame son epouse.--and so ye have mounted the cockade? right, right; though i could have wished the colour different, and so i would ha' deemed might sir everard. but no more of that; i am old, and times are changed.--and how does the worthy knight baronet, and the fair mrs. rachel?--ah, ye laugh, young man! in troth she was the fair mrs. rachel in the year of grace seventeen hundred and sixteen; but time passes--et singula praedantur anni--that is most certain. but once again, ye are most heartily welcome to my poor house of tully-veolan!--hie to the house, rose, and see that alexander saunderson leaks out the old chateau margaux, which i sent from bourdeaux to dundee in the year .' rose tripped off demurely enough till she turned the first corner, and then ran with the speed of a fairy, that she might gain leisure, after discharging her father's commission, to put her own dress in order, and produce all her little finery, an occupation for which the approaching dinner hour left but limited time. 'we cannot rival the luxuries of your english table, captain waverley, or give you the epulae lautiores of wavery-honour--i say epulae rather than prandium, because the latter phrase is popular; epulae ad senatum, prandium vero ad populum attinet, says suetonius tranquillus. but i trust ye will applaud my bourdeaux; c'est d'une oreille, as captain vinsauf used to say--vinum primae notae, the principal of st. andrews denominated it. and, once more, captain waverley, right glad am i that ye are here to drink the best my cellar can make forthcoming.' this speech, with the necessary interjectional answers, continued from the lower alley where they met, up to the door of the house, where four or five servants in old-fashioned liveries, headed by alexander saunderson, the butler, who now bore no token of the sable stains of the garden, received them in grand costume, in an old hall hung round with pikes and with bows, with old bucklers and corselets that had borne many shrewd blows. with much ceremony, and still more real kindness, the baron, without stopping in any intermediate apartment, conducted his guest through several into the great dining parlour, wainscoted with black oak, and hung round with the pictures of his ancestry, where a table was set forth in form for six persons, and an old-fashioned beaufet displayed all the ancient and massive plate of the bradwardine family. a bell was now heard at the head of the avenue; for an old man, who acted as porter upon gala days, had caught the alarm given by waverley's arrival, and, repairing to his post, announced the arrival of other guests. these, as the baron assured his young friend, were very estimable persons. 'there was the young laird of balmawhapple, a falconer by surname, of the house of glenfarquhar, given right much to field sports--gaudat equis et canibus--but a very discreet young gentleman. then there was the laird of killancureit, who had devoted his leisure untill tillage and agriculture, and boasted himself to be possessed of a bull of matchless merit, brought from the county of devon (the damnonia, of the romans, if we can trust robert of cirencester). he is, as ye may well suppose from such a tendency, but of yeoman extraction--servabit odorem testa diu--and i believe, between ourselves, his grandsire was from the wrong side of the border--one bullsegg, who came hither as a steward, or bailiff, or ground-officer, or something in that department, to the last girnigo of killancureit, who died of an atrophy. after his master's death, sir,--ye would hardly believe such a scandal,--but this bullsegg, being portly and comely of aspect, intermarried with the lady dowager, who was young and amorous, and possessed himself of the estate, which devolved on this unhappy woman by a settlement of her umwhile husband, in direct contravention of an unrecorded taillie, and to the prejudice of the disponer's own flesh and blood, in the person of his natural heir and seventh cousin, girnigo of tipperhewit, whose family was so reduced by the ensuing lawsuit, that his representative is now serving as a private gentleman-sentinel in the highland black watch. but this gentleman, mr. bullsegg of killancureit that now is, has good blood in his veins by the mother and grandmother, who were both of the family of pickletillim, and he is well liked and looked upon, and knows his own place. and god forbid, captain waverley, that we of irreproachable lineage should exult over him, when it may be, that in the eighth, ninth, or tenth generation, his progeny may rank, in a manner, with the old gentry of the country. rank and ancestry, sir, should be the last words in the mouths of us of unblemished race--vix ea nostra voco, as naso saith.--there is, besides, a clergyman of the true (though suffering) episcopal church of scotland. he was a confessor in her cause after the year , when a whiggish mob destroyed his meeting-house, tore his surplice, and plundered his dwelling-house of four silver spoons, intromitting also with his mart and his meal-ark, and with two barrels, one of single, and one of double ale, besides three bottles of brandy. [ ] my baron-bailie and doer, mr. duncan macwheeble, is the fourth on our list. there is a question, owing to the incertitude of ancient orthography, whether he belongs to the clan of wheedle or of quibble, but both have produced persons eminent in the law.'-- as such he described them by person and name, they entered, and dinner was served as they came. chapter xi the banquet the entertainment was ample, and handsome, according to the scotch ideas of the period, and the guests did great honour to it. the baron ate like a famished soldier, the laird of balmawhapple like a sportsman, bullsegg of killancureit like a farmer, waverley himself like a traveller, and bailie macwheeble like all four together; though, either out of more respect, or in order to preserve that proper declination of person which showed a sense that he was in the presence of his patron, he sat upon the edge of his chair, placed at three feet distance from the table, and achieved a communication with his plate by projecting his person towards it in a line, which obliqued from the bottom of his spine, so that the person who sat opposite to him could only see the foretop of his riding periwig. this stooping position might have been inconvenient to another person; but long habit made it, whether seated or walking, perfectly easy to the worthy bailie. in the latter posture, it occasioned, no doubt, an unseemly projection of the person towards those who happened to walk behind; but those being at all times his inferiors (for mr. macwheeble was very scrupulous in giving place to all others), he cared very little what inference of contempt or slight regard they might derive from the circumstance. hence, when he waddled across the court to and from his old grey pony, he somewhat resembled a turnspit walking upon its hind legs. the nonjuring clergyman was a pensive and interesting old man, with much the air of a sufferer for conscience' sake. he was one of those, who, undeprived, their benefice forsook. for this whim, when the baron was out of hearing, the bailie used sometimes gently to rally mr. rubrick, upbraiding him with the nicety of his scruples. indeed it must be owned, that he himself, though at heart a keen partisan of the exiled family, had kept pretty fair with all the different turns of state in his time; so that davie gellatley once described him as a particularly good man, who had a very quiet and peaceful conscience, that never did him any harm. when the dinner was removed, the baron announced the health of the king, politely leaving to the consciences of his guests to drink to the sovereign de facto or de jure, as their politics inclined. the conversation now became general; and, shortly afterwards, miss bradwardine, who had done the honours with natural grace and simplicity, retired, and was soon followed by the clergyman. among the rest of the party, the wine, which fully justified the encomiums of the landlord, flowed freely round, although waverley, with some difficulty, obtained the privilege of sometimes neglecting the glass. at length, as the evening grew more late, the baron made a private signal to mr. saunders saunderson, or, as he facetiously denominated him, alexander ab alexandro, who left the room with a nod, and soon after returned, his grave countenance mantling with a solemn and mysterious smile, and placed before his master a small oaken casket, mounted with brass ornaments of curious form. the baron, drawing out a private key, unlocked the casket, raised the lid, and produced a golden goblet of a singular and antique appearance, moulded into the shape of a rampant bear, which the owner regarded with a look of mingled reverence, pride, and delight, that irresistibly reminded waverley of ben jonson's tom otter, with his bull, horse, and dog, as that wag wittily denominated his chief carousing cups. but mr. bradwardine, fuming towards him with complacency, requested him to observe this curious relic of the olden time. 'it represents,' he said, 'the chosen crest of our family, a bear, as ye observe, and rampant; because a good herald will depict every animal in its noblest posture; as a horse salient, a greyhound currant, and, as may be inferred, a ravenous animal in actu ferociori, or in a voracious, lacerating, and devouring posture. now, sir, we hold this most honourable achievement by the wappen-brief, or concession of arms, of frederick redbeard, emperor of germany, to my predecessor, godmund bradwardine, it being the crest of a gigantic dane, whom he slew in the lists in the holy land, on a quarrel touching the chastity of the emperor's spouse or daughter, tradition saith not precisely which, and thus, as virgilius hath it-- mutemus clypeos, danaumque insignia nobis aptemus. then for the cup, captain waverley, it was wrought by the command of st. duthac, abbot of aberbrothock, for behoof of another baron of the house of bradwardine, who had valiantly defended the patrimony of that monastery against certain encroaching nobles. it is properly termed the blessed bear of bradwardine (though old dr. doubleit used jocosely to call it ursa major), and was supposed, in old and catholic times, to be invested with certain properties of a mystical and supernatural quality. and though i give not in to such anilia, it is certain it has always been esteemed a solemn standard cup and heirloom of our house; nor is it ever used but upon seasons of high festival, and such i hold to be the arrival of the heir of sir everard under my roof; and i devote this draught to the health and prosperity of the ancient and highly-to-be-honoured house of waverley.' during this long harangue, he carefully decanted a cobwebbed bottle of claret into the goblet, which held nearly an english pint; and, at the conclusion, delivering the bottle to the butler, to be held carefully in the same angle with the horizon, he devoutly quaffed off the contents of the blessed bear of bradwardine. edward, with horror and alarm, beheld the animal making his rounds, and thought with great anxiety upon the appropriate motto, 'beware the bear;' but at the same time plainly foresaw, that as none of the guests scrupled to do him this extraordinary honour, a refusal on-his part to pledge their courtesy would be extremely ill received. resolving, therefore, to submit to this last piece of tyranny, and then to quit the table, if possible, and confiding in the strength of his constitution, he did justice to the company in the contents of the blessed bear, and felt less inconvenience from the draught than he could possibly have expected. the others, whose time had been more actively employed, began to show symptoms of innovation,--'the good wine did its good office.' [southey's madoc.] the frost of etiquette, and pride of birth, began to give way before the genial blessings of this benign constellation, and the formal appellatives with which the three dignitaries had hitherto addressed each other, were now familiarly abbreviated into tully, bally, and killie. when a few rounds had passed, the two latter, after whispering together, craved permission (a joyful hearing for edward) to ask the grace-cup. this, after some delay, was at length produced, and waverley concluded that the orgies of bacchus were terminated for the evening. he was never more mistaken in his life. as the guests had left their horses at the small inn, or change-house, as it was called, of the village, the baron could not, in politeness, avoid walking with them up the avenue, and waverley, from the same motive, and to enjoy, after this feverish revel, the cool summer evening, attended the party. but when they arrived at luckie macleary's, the lairds of balmawhapple and killancureit declared their determination to acknowledge their sense of the hospitality of tully-veolan, by partaking with their entertainer and his guest captain waverley, what they technically called deoch an doruis, a stirrup-cup, to the honour of the baron's roof-tree. [ ] it must be noticed, that the bailie, knowing by experience that the day's joviality, which had been hitherto sustained at the expense of his patron, might terminate partly at his own, had mounted his spavined grey pony, and, between gaiety of heart, and alarm for being hooked into a reckoning, spurred him into a hobbling canter (a trot was out of the question), and had already cleared the village. the others entered the change-house, leading edward in unresisting submission; for his landlord whispered him, that to demur to such an overture would be construed into a high misdemeanour against the leges conviviales, or regulations of genial compotation. widow macleary seemed to have expected this visit, as well she might, for it was the usual consummation of merry bouts, not only at tully-veolan, but at most other gentlemen's houses in scotland, sixty years since. the guests thereby at once acquitted themselves of their burden of gratitude for their entertainer's kindness, encouraged the trade of his change-house, did honour to the place which afforded harbour to their horses, and indemnified themselves for the previous restraints imposed by private hospitality, by spending, what falstaff calls the sweet of the night, in the genial license of a tavern. accordingly, in full expectation of these distinguished guests, luckie macleary had swept her house for the first time this fortnight, tempered her turf-fire to such a heat as the season required in her damp hovel even at midsummer, set forth her deal table newly washed, propped its lame foot with a fragment of turf, arranged four or five stools of huge and clumsy form, upon the sites which best suited the inequalities of her clay floor; and having, moreover, put on her clean toy, rokelay, and scarlet plaid, gravely awaited the arrival of the company, in full hope of custom and profit. when they were seated under the sooty rafters of luckie macleary's only apartment, thickly tapestried with cobwebs, their hostess, who had already taken her cue from the laird of balmawhapple, appeared with a huge pewter measuring-pot, containing at least three english quarts, familiarly denominated a tappit hen, and which, in the language of the hostess, reamed (i.e. mantled) with excellent claret, just drawn from the cask. it was soon plain that what crumbs of reason the bear had not devoured, were to be picked up by the hen; but the confusion which appeared to prevail favoured edward's resolution to evade the gaily circling glass. the others began to talk thick and at once, each performing his own part in the conversation, without the least respect to hist neighbour. the baron of bradwardine sang french chansons-a-boire, and spouted pieces of latin; killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key, of top-dressing and bottom-dressing, [this has been censured as an anachronism; and it must be confessed that agriculture of this kind was unknown to the scotch sixty years since.] and year-olds, and gimmers, and dinmonts, and stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a proposed turnpike-act; while balmawhapple, in notes exalted above both, extolled his horse, his hawks, and a greyhound called whistler. in the middle of this din, the baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed, that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened to beseech their attention 'unto a military ariette, which was a particular favourite of the marechal duc de berwick;' then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of a french mousquetaire, he immediately commenced,-- mon coeur volage, dit-elle, n'est pas pour vous, garcon; est pour un homme de guerre, qui a barbe au menton. lon, lon, laridon. qui ports chapeau a plume, soulier a rouge talon, qui joue de la flute, aussi du violon. lon, lon, laridon. balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he called a d--d good song, composed by gibby gaethroughwi't, the piper of cupar; and, without wasting more time, struck up,-- it's up glenbarchan's braes i gaed, and o'er the bent of killiebraid, and mony a weary cast i made, to cuittle the muirfowl's tail. [suum cuique. this snatch of a ballad was composed by andrew macdonald, the ingenious and unfortunate author of vimonda.] the baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more obstreperous strains of balmawhapple, now dropped the competition, but continued to hum, lon, lon, laridon, and to regard the successful candidate for the attention of the company, with an eye of disdain, while balmawhapple proceeded,-- if up a bonny black-cock should spring, to whistle him down wi' a slug in his wing, and strap him on to my lunzie string, right seldom would i fail. after an ineffectual attempt to recover the second verse, he sang the first over again; and, in prosecution of his triumph, declared there was 'more sense in that than in all the derry-dongs of france, and fifeshire to the boot of it.' the baron only answered with a long pinch of snuff, and a glance of infinite contempt. but those noble allies, the bear and the hen, had emancipated the young laird from the habitual reverence in which he held bradwardine at other times. he pronounced the claret shilpit, and demanded brandy with great vociferation. it was brought; and now the demon of politics envied even the harmony arising from this dutch concert, merely because there was not a wrathful note in the strange compound of sounds which it produced. inspired by her, the laird of balmawhapple, now superior to the nods and winks with which the baron of bradwardine, in delicacy to edward, had hitherto checked his entering upon political discussion, demanded a bumper, with the lungs of a stentor, 'to the little gentleman in black velvet who did such service in , and may the white horse break his neck over a mound of his making!' edward was not at that moment clear-headed enough to remember that king william's fall, which occasioned his death, was said to be owing to his horse stumbling at a mole-hill; yet felt inclined to take umbrage at a toast, which seemed, from the glance of balmawhapple's eye, to have a peculiar and uncivil reference to the government which he served. but, ere he could interfere, the baron of bradwardine had taken up the quarrel. 'sir,' he said, 'whatever my sentiments, tanquam privatus, may be in such matters, i shall not tamely endure your saying anything that may impinge upon the honourable feelings of a gentleman under my roof. sir, if you have no respect for the laws of urbanity, do ye not respect the military oath, the sacramentum militare, by which every officer is bound to the standards under which he is enrolled? look at titus livius, what he says of those roman soldiers who were so unhappy as exuere sacramentum,--to renounce their legionary oath; but you are ignorant, sir, alike of ancient history and modern courtesy.' 'not so ignorant as ye would pronounce me,' roared balmawhapple. 'i ken weel that you mean the solemn league and covenant; but if a' the whigs in hell had taken the--' here the baron and waverley both spoke at once, the former calling out, 'be silent, sir! ye not only show your ignorance, but disgrace your native country before a stranger and an englishman;' and waverley, at the same moment, entreating mr. bradwardine to permit him to reply to an affront which seemed levelled at him personally. but the baron was exalted by wine, wrath, and scorn, above all sublunary considerations. 'i crave you to be hushed, captain waverley; you are elsewhere, peradventure, sui juris,--foris-familiated, that is, and entitled, it may be, to think and resent for yourself; but in my domain, in this poor barony of bradwardine, and under this roof, which is quasi mine, being held by tacit relocation by a tenant at will, i am in loco parentis to you, and bound to see you scathless.--and for you, mr. falconer of balmawhapple, i warn ye, let me see no more aberrations from the paths of good manners.' 'and i tell you, mr. cosmo comyne bradwardine, of bradwardine and tully-veolan,' retorted the sportsman, in huge disdain, 'that i'll make a moor-cock of the man that refuses my toast, whether it be a crop-eared english whig wi' a black ribband at his lug, or ane wha deserts his ain friends to claw favour wi' the rats of hanover.' in an instant both rapiers were brandished, and some desperate passes exchanged. balmawhapple was young, stout, and active; but the baron, infinitely more master of his weapon, would, like sir toby belch, have tickled his opponent other gates than he did, had he not been under the influence of ursa major. edward rushed forward to interfere between the combatants, but the prostrate bulk of the laird of killancureit, over which he stumbled, intercepted his passage. how killancureit happened to be in this recumbent posture at so interesting a moment, was never accurately known. some thought he was about to ensconce himself under the table; he himself alleged that he stumbled in the act of lifting a joint-stool, to prevent mischief, by knocking down balmawhapple. be that as it may, if readier aid than either his or waverley's had not interposed, there would certainly have been bloodshed. but the well-known clash of swords, which was no stranger to her dwelling, aroused luckie macleary as she sat quietly beyond the hallan, or earthen partition of the cottage, with eyes employed on boston's crook of the lot, while her ideas were engaged in summing up the reckoning. she boldly rushed in, with the shrill expostulation, 'wad their honours slay ane another there, and bring discredit on an honest widow-woman's house, when there was a' the lee-land in the country to fight upon?' a remonstrance which she seconded by flinging her plaid with great dexterity over the weapons of the combatants. the servants by this time rushed in, and being, by great chance, tolerably sober, separated the incensed opponents, with the assistance of edward and killancureit. the latter led off balmawhapple, cursing, swearing, and vowing revenge against every whig, presbyterian, and fanatic in england and scotland, from john-o'-groat's to the land's end, and with difficulty got him to horse. our hero, with the assistance of saunders saunderson, escorted the baron of bradwardine to his own dwelling, but could not prevail upon him to retire to bed until he had made a long and learned apology for the events of the evening, of which, however, there was not a word intelligible, except something about the centaurs and the lapithae. chapter xii repentance and a reconciliation waverley was unaccustomed to the use of wine, excepting with great temperance. he slept, therefore, soundly till late in the succeeding morning, and then awakened to a painful recollection of the scene of the preceding evening. he had received a personal affront,--he, a gentleman, a soldier, and a waverley. true, the person who had offered it was not, at the time it was given, possessed of the moderate share of sense which nature had allotted him; true also, in resenting this insult, he would break the laws of heaven, as well as of his country; true, in doing so, he might take the life of a young man who perhaps respectably discharged the social duties, and render his family miserable; or he might lose his own;--no pleasant alternative even to the bravest, when it is debated coolly and in private. all this pressed on his mind; yet the original statement recurred with the same irresistible force. he had received a personal insult; he was of the house of waverley; and he bore a commission. there was no alternative; and he descended to the breakfast parlour with the intention of taking leave of the family, and writing to one of his brother officers to meet him at the inn mid-way between tully-veolan and the town where they were quartered, in order that he might convey such a message to the laird of balmawhapple as the circumstances seemed to demand. he found miss bradwardine presiding over the tea and coffee, the table loaded with warm bread, both of flour, oatmeal, and barley-meal, in the shape of leaves, cakes, biscuits, and other varieties, together with eggs, reindeer ham, mutton and beef, ditto, smoked salmon, marmalade, and all other delicacies which induced even johnson himself to extol the luxury of a scotch breakfast above that of all other countries. a mess of oatmeal porridge, flanked by a silver jug, which held an equal mixture of cream and butter-milk, was placed for the baron's share of this repast; but rose observed he had walked out early in the morning, after giving orders that his guest should not be disturbed. waverley sat down almost in silence, and with an air of absence and abstraction, which could not give miss bradwardine a favourable opinion of his talents for conversation. he answered at random one or two observations which she ventured to make upon ordinary topics; so that feeling herself almost repulsed in her efforts at entertaining him, and secretly wondering that a scarlet coat should cover no better breeding, she left him to his mental amusement of cursing dr. doubleit's favourite constellation of ursa major, as the cause of all the mischief which had already happened, and was likely to ensue. at once he started, and his colour heightened, as, looking toward the window, he beheld the baron and young balmawhapple pass arm in arm, apparently in deep conversation; and he hastily asked, 'did mr. falconer sleep here last night?' rose, not much pleased with the abruptness of the first question which the young stranger had addressed to her, answered drily in the negative, and the conversation again sank into silence. at this moment mr. saunderson appeared, with a message from his master, requesting to speak with captain waverley in another apartment. with a heart which beat; a little quicker, not indeed from fear, but from uncertainty and anxiety, edward obeyed the summons. he found the two gentlemen standing together, an air of complacent dignity on the brow of the baron, while something like sullenness, or shame, or both, blanked the bold visage of balmawhapple. the former slipped his arm through that of the latter, and thus seeming to walk with him, while in reality he led him, advanced to meet waverley, and, stopping in the midst of the apartment, made in great state the following oration: 'captain waverley,--my young and esteemed friend, mr. falconer of balmawhapple, has craved of my age and experience, as of one not wholly unskilled in the dependencies and punctilios of the duello or monomachia, to be his interlocutor in expressing to you the regret with which he calls to remembrance certain passages of our symposion last night, which could not but be highly displeasing to you, as serving for the time under this present existing government. he craves you, sir, to drown in oblivion the memory of such solecisms against the laws of politeness, as being what his better reason disavows, and to receive the hand which he offers you in amity; and i must needs assure you, that nothing less than a sense of being dans son tort, as a gallant french chevalier, mons, le bretailleur, once said to me on such an occasion, and an opinion also of your peculiar merit, could have extorted such concessions; for he and all his family are, and have been time out of mind, mavortia pectora, as buchanan saith, a bold and warlike sept, or people.' edward immediately, and with natural politeness, accepted the hand which balmawhapple, or rather the baron in his character of mediator, extended towards him. 'it was impossible,' he said, 'for him to remember what a gentleman expressed his wish he had not uttered; and he willingly imputed what had passed to the exuberant festivity of the day.' 'that is very handsomely said,' answered the baron; 'for undoubtedly, if a man be ebrius, or intoxicated--an incident which, on solemn and festive occasions, may and will take place in the life of a man of honour; and if the same gentleman, being fresh and sober, recants the contumelies which he hath spoken in his liquor, it must be held vinum locutum est; the words cease to be his own. yet would i not find this exculpation relevant in the case of one who was ebriosus, or an habitual drunkard; because, if such a person choose to pass the greater part of his time in the predicament of intoxication, he hath no title to be exeemed from the obligations of the code of politeness, but should learn to deport himself peaceably and courteously when under the influence of the vinous stimulus.--and now let us proceed to breakfast, and think no more of this daft business.' i must confess, whatever inference may be drawn from the circumstance, that edward, after so satisfactory an explanation, did much greater honour to the delicacies of miss bradwardine's breakfast-table than his commencement had promised. balmawhapple, on the contrary, seemed embarrassed and dejected; and waverley now, for the first time, observed that his arm was in a sling, which seemed to account for the awkward and embarrassed manner with which he had presented his hand. to a question from miss bradwardine, he muttered, in answer, something about his horse having fallen; and, seeming desirous to escape both from the subject and the company, he arose as soon as breakfast was over, made his bow to the party, and, declining the baron's invitation to tarry till after dinner, mounted his horse and returned to his own home. waverley now announced his purpose of leaving tully-veolan early enough after dinner to gain the stage at which he meant to sleep; but the unaffected and deep mortification with which the good-natured and affectionate old gentleman heard the proposal, quite deprived him of courage to persist in it. no sooner had he gained waverley's consent to lengthen his visit for a few days, than he laboured to remove the grounds upon which he conceived he had meditated a more early retreat. 'i would not have you opine, captain waverley, that i am by practice or precept an advocate of ebriety, though it may be that, in our festivity of last night, some of our friends, if not perchance altogether ebrii, or drunken, were, to say the least, ebrioli, by which the ancients designed those who were fuddled, or, as your english vernacular and metaphorical phrase goes, half-seas-over. not that i would so insinuate respecting you, captain waverley, who, like a prudent youth, did rather abstain from potation; nor can it be truly said of myself, who, having assisted at the tables of many great generals and marechals at their solemn carousals, have the art to carry my wine discreetly, and did not, during the whole evening, as ye must have doubtless observed, exceed the bounds of a modest hilarity.' there was no refusing assent to a proposition so decidedly laid down by him who undoubtedly was the best judge; although, had edward formed his opinion from his own recollections, he would have pronounced that the baron was not only ebriolus, but verging to become ebrius; or, in plain english, was incomparably the most drunk of the party, except perhaps his antagonist the laird of balmawhapple. however, having received the expected, or rather the required, compliment on his sobriety, the baron proceeded,--'no, sir, though i am myself of a strong temperament, i abhor ebriety, and detest those who swallow wine gulae causa, for the oblectation of the gullet; albeit i might deprecate the law of pittacus of mitylene, who punished doubly a crime committed under the influence of liber pater; nor would i utterly accede to the objurgation of the younger plinius, in the fourteenth book of his historia naturalis. no, sir; i distinguish, i discriminate, and approve of wine so far only as it maketh glad the face, or, in the language of flaccus, recepto amico.' thus terminated the apology which the baron of bradwardine thought it necessary to make for the super-abundance of his hospitality; and it may be easily believed that he was neither interrupted by dissent, nor any expression of incredulity. he then invited his guest to a morning ride, and ordered that davie gellatley should meet them at the dern path with ban and buscar. 'for, until the shooting season commenced, i would willingly show you some sport, and we may, god willing, meet with a roe. the roe, captain waverley, may be hunted at all times alike; for never being in what is called pride of grease, he is also never out of season, though it be a truth that his venison is not equal to that of either the red or fallow deer. [the learned in cookery dissent from the baron of bradwardine, and hold the roe-venison dry and indifferent food, unless when dressed in soup and scotch collops.] but he will serve to show how my dogs run; and therefore they shall attend us with davie gellatley.' waverley expressed his surprise that his friend davie was capable of such trust; but the baron gave him to understand that this poor simpleton was neither fatuous, nec naturaliter idiota, as is expressed in the brieves of furiosity, but simply a crack-brained knave, who could execute very well any commission which jumped with his own humour, and made his folly a plea for avoiding every other. 'he has made an interest with us,' continued the baron, 'by saving rose from a great danger with his own proper peril; and the roguish loon must therefore eat of our bread and drink of our cup, and do what he can, or what he will; which, if the suspicions of saunderson and the bailie are well founded, may perchance in his case be commensurate terms.' miss bradwardine then gave waverley to understand, that this poor simpleton was doatingly fond of music, deeply affected by that which was melancholy, and transported into extravagant gaiety by light and lively airs. he had in this respect a prodigious memory, stored with miscellaneous snatches and fragments of all tunes and songs, which he sometimes applied, with considerable address, as the vehicles of remonstrance, explanation, or satire. davie was much attached to the few who showed him kindness; and both aware of any slight or ill usage which he happened to receive, and sufficiently apt, where he saw opportunity, to revenge it. the common people, who often judge hardly of each other, as well as of their betters, although they had expressed great compassion for the poor innocent while suffered to wander in rags about the village, no sooner beheld him decently clothed, provided for, and even a sort of favourite, than they called up all the instances of sharpness and ingenuity, in action and repartee, which his annals afforded, and charitably bottomed thereupon a hypothesis, that davie gellatley was no further fool than was necessary to avoid hard labour. this opinion was not better founded than that of the negroes, who, from the acute and mischievous pranks of the monkeys, suppose that they have the gift of speech, and only suppress their powers of elocution to escape being set to work. but the hypothesis was entirely imaginary: davie gellatley was in good earnest the half-crazed simpleton which he appeared, and was incapable of any constant and steady exertion. he had just so much solidity as kept on the windy side of insanity; so much wild wit as saved him from the imputation of idiocy; some dexterity in field sports (in which we have known as great fools excel), great kindness and humanity in the treatment of animals entrusted to him, warm affections, a prodigious memory, and an ear for music. the stamping of horses was now heard in the court, and davie's voice singing to the two large deer greyhounds,-- hie away, hie away, over bank and over brae, where the copsewood is the greenest, where the fountains glisten sheenest, where the lady-fern grows strongest, where the morning dew lies longest, where the black-cock sweetest sips it, where the fairy latest trips it: hie to haunts right seldom seen, lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, over bank and over brae, hie away, hie away. 'do the verses he sings,' asked waverley, 'belong to old scottish poetry, miss bradwardine?' 'i believe not,' she replied. 'this poor creature had a brother, and heaven, as if to compensate to the family davie's deficiencies, had given him what the hamlet thought uncommon talents. an uncle contrived to educate him for the scottish kirk, but he could not get preferment because he came from our ground. he returned from college hopeless and broken-hearted, and fell into a decline. my father supported him till his death, which happened before he was nineteen. he played beautifully on the flute, and was supposed to have a great turn for poetry. he was affectionate and compassionate to his brother, who followed him like his shadow, and we think that from him davie gathered many fragments of songs and music unlike those of this country. but if we ask him where he got such a fragment as he is now singing, he either answers with wild and long fits of laughter, or else breaks into tears of lamentation; but was never heard to give any explanation, or to mention his brother's name since his death.' 'surely,' said edward, who was readily interested by a tale bordering on the romantic, 'surely more might be learned by more particular inquiry.' 'perhaps so,' answered rose, 'but my father will not permit any one to practise on his feelings on this subject.' by this time the baron, with the help of mr. saunderson, had indued a pair of jack-boots of large dimensions, and now invited our hero to follow him as he stalked clattering down the ample staircase, tapping each huge balustrade as he passed with the butt of his massive horsewhip, and humming, with the air of a chasseur of louis quatorze, pour la chasse ordonnee il faut preparer tout, hola ho! vite! vite debout. chapter xiii a more rational day than the last the baron of bradwardine, mounted on an active and well-managed horse, and seated on a demi-pique saddle, with deep housings to agree with his livery, was no bad representative of the old school. his light-coloured embroidered coat, and superbly barred waistcoat, his brigadier wig, surmounted by a small gold-laced cocked-hat, completed his personal costume; but he was attended by two well-mounted servants on horseback, armed with holster pistols. in this guise he ambled forth over hill and valley, the admiration of every farmyard which they passed in their progress, till, 'low down in a grassy vale,' they found davie gellatley leading two very tall deer greyhounds, and presiding over half a dozen curs, and about as many bare-legged and bare-headed boys, who, to procure the chosen distinction of attending on the chase, had not failed to tickle his ears with the dulcet appellation of maister gellatley, though probably all and each had booted him on former occasions in the character of daft davie. but this is no uncommon strain of flattery to persons in office, nor altogether confined to the bare-legged villagers of tully-veolan: it was in fashion sixty years since, is now, and will be six hundred years hence, if this admirable compound of folly and knavery, called the world, shall be then in existence. these gillie-wet-foots, [a bare-footed highland lad is called a gillie-wet-foot. gillie, in general, means servant or attendant.] as they were called, were destined to beat the bushes, which they performed with so much success, that, after half an hour's search, a roe was started, coursed, and killed; the baron following on his white horse, like earl percy of yore, and magnanimously flaying and embowelling the slain animal (which, he observed, was called by the french chasseurs faire la curee) with his own baronial couteau de chasse. after this ceremony he conducted his guest homeward by a pleasant and circuitous route, commanding an extensive prospect of different villages and houses, to each of which mr. bradwardine attached some anecdote of history or genealogy, told in language whimsical from prejudice and pedantry, but often respectable for the good sense and honourable feelings which his narrative displayed, and almost always curious, if not valuable, for the information they contained. the truth is, the ride seemed agreeable to both gentlemen, because they found amusement in each other's conversation, although their characters and habits of thinking were in many respects totally opposite. edward, we have informed the reader, was warm in his feelings, wild and romantic in his ideas and in his taste of reading, with a strong disposition towards poetry. mr. bradwardine was the reverse of all this, and piqued himself upon stalking through life with the same upright, starched, stoical gravity which distinguished his evening promenade upon the terrace of tully-veolan, where for hours together--the very model old hardyknute-- stately stepped he east the wa', and stately stepped he west. as for literature, he read the classic poets, to be sure, and the epithalamium of georgius buchanan, and arthur johnston's psalms, of a sunday; and the deliciae poetarum scotorum, and sir david lindsay's works, and barbour's bruce, and blind harry's wallace, and the gentle shepherd, and the cherry and the slae. but though he thus far sacrificed his time to the muses, he would if the truth must be spoken, have been much better pleased had the pious or sapient apothegms, as well as the historical narratives, which these various works contained, been presented to him in the form of simple prose. and he sometimes could not refrain from expressing contempt of the 'vain and unprofitable art of poem-making,' in which, he said, 'the only one who had excelled in his time was allan ramsay, the periwig-maker.' [the baron ought to have remembered that the joyous allan literally drew his blood from the house of the noble earl, whom he terms-- dalhousie of an old descent, my stoup, my pride, my ornament.] but although edward and he differed toto coelo, as the baron would have said, upon this subject, yet they met upon history as on a neutral ground, in which each claimed an interest. the baron, indeed, only cumbered his memory with matters of fact; the cold, dry, hard outlines which history delineates. edward, on the contrary, loved to fill up and round the sketch with the colouring of a warm and vivid imagination, which gives light and life to the actors and speakers in the drama of past ages. yet with tastes so opposite, they contributed greatly to each other's amusement. mr. bradwardine's minute narratives and powerful memory supplied to waverley fresh subjects of the kind upon which his fancy loved to labour, and opened to him a new mine of incident and of character. and he repaid the pleasure thus communicated, by an earnest attention, valuable to all story-tellers, more especially to the baron, who felt his habits of self-respect flattered by it; and sometimes also by reciprocal communications, which interested mr. bradwardine, as confirming or illustrating his own favourite anecdotes. besides, mr. bradwardine loved to talk of the scenes of his youth, which had been spent in camps and foreign lands, and had many interesting particulars to tell of the generals under whom he had served, and the actions he had witnessed. both parties returned to tully-veolan in great good humour with each other; waverley desirous of studying more attentively what he considered as a singular and interesting character, gifted with a memory containing a curious register of ancient and modern anecdotes; and bradwardine disposed to regard edward as puer (or rather juvenis) bonae spei et magnae indolis, a youth devoid of that petulant volatility, which is impatient of, or vilipends, the conversation and advice of his seniors, from which he predicted great things of his future success and deportment in life. there was no other guest except mr. rubrick, whose information and discourse, as a clergyman and a scholar, harmonized very well with that of the baron and his guest. shortly after dinner, the baron, as if to show that his temperance was not entirely theoretical, proposed a visit to rose's apartment, or, as he termed it, her troisieme etage. waverley was accordingly conducted through one or two of those long awkward passages with which ancient architects studied to puzzle the inhabitants of the houses which they planned, at the end of which mr. bradwardine began to ascend, by two steps at once, a very steep, narrow, and winding stair, leaving mr. rubrick and waverley to follow at more leisure, while he should announce their approach to his daughter. after having climbed this perpendicular corkscrew until their brains were almost giddy, they arrived in a little matted lobby, which served as an ante-room to rose's sanctum sanctorum, and through which they entered her parlour. it was a small but pleasant apartment, opening to the south, and hung with tapestry; adorned besides with two pictures, one of her mother, in the dress of a shepherdess, with a bell-hoop; the other of the baron, in his tenth year, in a blue coat, embroidered waistcoat, laced hat, and bag-wig, with a bow in his hand. edward could not help smiling at the costume, and at the odd resemblance between the round, smooth, red-checked, staring visage in the portrait, and the gaunt, bearded, hollow-eyed, swarthy features, which travelling, fatigues of war, and advanced age, had bestowed on the original. the baron joined in the laugh. 'truly,' he said, 'that picture was a woman's fantasy of my good mother's (a daughter of the laird of tulliellum, captain waverley; i indicated the house to you when we were on the top of the shinnyheuch; it was burnt by the dutch auxiliaries brought in by the government in ); i never sat for my pourtraicture but once since that was painted, and it was at the special and reiterated request of the marechal duke of berwick.' the good old gentleman did not mention what mr. rubrick afterwards told edward, that the duke had done him this honour on account of his being the first to mount the breach of a fort; in savoy during the memorable campaign of , and his having there defended himself with his half-pike for nearly ten minutes before any support reached him. to do the baron justice, although sufficiently prone to dwell upon, and even to exaggerate, his family dignity and consequence, he was too much a man of real courage ever to allude to such personal acts of merit as he had himself manifested. miss rose now appeared from the interior room of her apartment, to welcome her father and his friends. the little labours in which she had been employed obviously showed a natural taste, which required only cultivation. her father had taught her french and italian, and a few of the ordinary authors in those languages ornamented her shelves. he had endeavoured also to be her preceptor in music; but as he began with the more abstruse doctrines of the science, and was not perhaps master of them himself, she had made no proficiency further than to be able to accompany her voice with the harpsichord; but even this was not very common in scotland at that period. to make amends, she sang with great taste and feeling, and with a respect to the sense of what she uttered that might be proposed in example to ladies of much superior musical talent. her natural good sense taught her, that if, as we are assured by high authority, music be 'married to immortal verse,' they are very often divorced by the performer in a most shameful manner. it was perhaps owing to this sensibility to poetry, and power of combining its expression with those of the musical notes, that her singing gave more pleasure to all the unlearned in music, and even to many of the learned, than could have been communicated by a much finer voice and more brilliant execution, unguided by the same delicacy of feeling. a bartizan, or projecting gallery, before the windows of her parlour, served to illustrate another of rose's pursuits; for it was crowded with flowers of different kinds, which she had taken under her special protection. a projecting turret gave access to this gothic balcony, which commanded a most beautiful prospect. the formal garden, with its high bounding walls, lay below, contracted, as it seemed, to a mere parterre; while the view extended beyond them down a wooded glen, where the small river was sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in copse. the eye might be delayed by a desire to rest on the rocks, which here and there rose from the dell with massive or spiry fronts, or it might dwell on the noble, though ruined tower, which was here beheld in all its dignity, frowning from a promontory over the river. to the left were seen two or three cottages, a part of the village; the brow of the hill concealed the others. the glen, or dell, was terminated by a sheet of water, called loch-veolan, into which the brook discharged itself, and which now glistened in the western sun. the distant country seemed open and varied in surface, though not wooded; and there was nothing to interrupt the view until the scene was bounded by a ridge of distant and blue hills, which formed the southern boundary of the strath or valley. to this pleasant station miss bradwardine had ordered coffee. the view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some family anecdotes and tales of scottish chivalry, which the baron told with great enthusiasm. the projecting peak of an impending crag which rose near it, had acquired the name of st. swithin's chair. it was the scene of a peculiar superstition, of which mr. rubrick mentioned some curious particulars, which reminded waverley of a rhyme quoted by edgar in king lear; and rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in which they had been interwoven by some village poet, who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, saved others' names, but left his own unsung. the sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music, gave all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, and which his poetry so much wanted. i almost doubt if it can be read with patience, destitute of these advantages; although i conjecture the following copy to have been somewhat corrected by waverley, to suit the taste of those who might not relish pure antiquity:-- st. swithin's chair. on hallow-mass eve, ere ye boune ye to rest, ever beware that your couch be blessed; sign it with cross, and sain it with bead, sing the ave, and say the creed. for on hallow-mass eve the night-hag will ride, and all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side, whether the wind sing lowly or loud, sailing through moonshine or swathed in the cloud. the lady she sat in st. swithin's chair, the dew of the night has damped her hair: her cheek was pale--but resolved and high was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye. she muttered the spell of swithin bold, when his naked foot traced the midnight wold, when he stopped the hag as she rode the night, and bade her descend, and her promise plight. he that dare sit on st. swithin's chair, when the night-hag wings the troubled air, questions three, when he speaks the spell, he may ask, and she must tell. the baron has been with king robert his liege, these three long years in battle and siege; news are there none of his weal or his woe, and fain the lady his fate would know. she shudders and stops as the charm she speaks;-- is it the moody owl that shrieks? or is it that sound, betwixt laughter and scream, the voice of the demon who haunts the stream? the moan of the wind sunk silent and low, and the roaring torrent ceased to flow; the calm was more dreadful than raging storm, then the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form! . . . . . . 'i am sorry to disappoint the company, especially captain waverley, who listens with such laudable gravity; it is but a fragment, although i think there are other verses, describing the return of the baron from the wars, and how the lady was found "clay-cold upon the grounsill ledge."' 'it is one of those figments,' observed mr. bradwardine, 'with which the early history of distinguished families was deformed in the times of superstition; as that of rome, and other ancient nations, had their prodigies, sir, the which you may read in ancient histories, or in the little work compiled by julius obsequens, and inscribed by the learned scheffer, the editor, to his patron, benedictus skytte, baron of dudershoff.' 'my father has a strange defiance of the marvellous, captain waverley,' observed rose, 'and once stood firm when a whole synod of presbyterian divines were put to the rout by a sudden apparition of the foul fiend.' waverley looked as if desirous to hear more. must i tell my story as well as sing my song?--well.--once upon a time there lived an old woman, called janet gellatley, who was suspected to be a witch, on the infallible grounds that she was very old, very ugly, very poor, and had two sons, one of whom was a poet, and the other a fool, which visitation, all the neighbourhood agreed, had come upon her for the sin of witchcraft. and she was imprisoned for a week in the steeple of the parish church, and sparingly supplied with food, and not permitted to sleep, until she herself became as much persuaded of her being a witch as her accusers; and in this lucid and happy state of mind was brought forth to make a clean breast, that is, to make open confession of her sorceries, before all the whig gentry and ministers in the vicinity, who were no conjurers themselves. my father went to see fair play between the witch and the clergy; for the witch had been born on his estate. 'and while the witch was confessing that the enemy appeared, and made his addresses to her as a handsome black man,--which, if you could have seen poor old blear-eyed janet, reflected little honour on apollyon's taste,--and while the auditors listened with astonished ears, and the clerk recorded with a trembling hand, she, all of a sudden, changed the low mumbling tone with which she spoke into a shrill yell, and exclaimed, "look to yourselves! look to yourselves! i see the evil one sitting in the midst of ye." the surprise was general, and terror and flight its immediate consequences. happy were those who were next the door; and many were the disasters that befell hats, bands, cuffs, and wigs, before they could get out of the church, where they left the obstinate prelatist to settle matters with the witch and her admirer, at his own peril or pleasure.' 'risu solvuntur tabulae,' said the baron: 'when they recovered their panic trepidation, they were too much ashamed to bring any wakening of the process against janet gellatley.' [the story last told was said to have happened in the south of scotland; but--cedant arma togae--and let the gown have its dues. it was an old clergyman, who had wisdom and firmness enough to resist the panic which seized his brethren, who was the means of rescuing a poor insane creature from the cruel fate which would otherwise have overtaken her. the accounts of the trials for witchcraft form one of the most deplorable chapters in scottish story.] this anecdote led to a long discussion of all those idle thoughts and fantasies, devices, dreams, opinions unsound, shows, visions, soothsays, and prophecies, and all that feigned is, as leasings, tales, and lies. with such conversation, and the romantic legends which it produced, closed our hero's second evening in the house of tully-veolan. chapter xiv a discovery--waverley becomes domesticated at tully-veolan the next day edward arose betimes, and in a morning walk around the house and its vicinity, came suddenly upon a small court in front of the dog-kennel, where his friend davie was employed about his four-footed charge. one quick glance of his eye recognized waverley, when, instantly turning his back, as if he had not observed him, he began to sing part of an old ballad:-- young men will love thee more fair and more fast; heard ye so merry the little bird sing? old men's love the longest will last, and the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. the young man's wrath is like light straw on fire; heard ye so merry the little bird sing? but like red-hot steel is the old man's ire, and the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. the young man will brawl at the evening board; heard ye so merry the little bird sing? but the old man will draw at the dawning the sword, and the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. waverley could not avoid observing that davie laid something like a satirical emphasis on these lines. he therefore approached, and endeavoured, by sundry queries, to elicit from him what the innuendo might mean; but davie had no mind to explain, and had wit enough to make his folly cloak his knavery. edward could collect nothing from him, excepting that the laird of balmawhapple had gone home yesterday morning, 'wi' his boots fu' o' bluid.' in the garden, however, he met the old butler, who no longer attempted to conceal, that, having been bred in the nursery line with sumack & co., of newcastle, he sometimes wrought a turn in the flower-borders to oblige the laird and miss rose. by a series of queries, edward at length discovered, with a painful feeling of surprise and shame, that balmawhapple's submission and apology had been the consequence of a rencontre with the baron before his guest had quitted his pillow, in which the younger combatant had been disarmed and wounded in the sword-arm. greatly mortified at this information, edward sought out his friendly host, and anxiously expostulated with him upon the injustice he had done him in anticipating his meeting with mr. falconer, a circumstance which, considering his youth and the profession of arms which he had just adopted, was capable of being represented much to his prejudice. the baron justified himself at greater length than i choose to repeat. he urged that the quarrel was common to them, and that balmawhapple could not, by the code of honour, evite giving satisfaction to both, which he had done in his case by an honourable meeting, and in that of edward by such a palinode as rendered the use of the sword unnecessary, and which, being made and accepted, must necessarily sopite the whole affair. with this excuse or explanation, waverley was silenced, if not satisfied; but he could not help testifying some displeasure against the blessed bear, which had given rise to the quarrel, nor refrain from hinting, that the sanctified epithet was hardly appropriate. the baron observed, he could not deny that 'the bear, though allowed by heralds as a most honourable ordinary, had, nevertheless, somewhat fierce, churlish, and morose in his disposition (as might be read in archibald simson, pastor of dalkeith's hieroglyphica animalium), and had thus been the type of many quarrels and dissensions which had occurred in the house of bradwardine; of which,' he continued, 'i might commemorate mine own unfortunate dissension with my third cousin by the mother's side, sir hew halbert, who was so unthinking as to deride my family name, as if it had been quasi bearwarden; a most uncivil jest, since it not only insinuated that the founder of our house occupied such a mean situation as to be a custodier of wild beasts, a charge which, ye must have observed, is only entrusted to the very basest plebeians; but, moreover, seemed to infer that our coat-armour had not been achieved by honourable actions in war, but bestowed by way of paronomasia, or pun upon our family appellation,--a sort of bearing which the french call armoires parlantes; the latins arma cantantia; and your english authorities, canting heraldry; being indeed a species of emblazoning more befitting canters, gaberlunzies, and such-like mendicants, whose gibberish is formed upon playing upon the word, than the noble, honourable, and useful science of heraldry, which assigns armorial bearings as the reward of noble and generous actions, and not to tickle the ear with vain quodlibets, such as are found in jest-books.' [ ] of his quarrel with sir hew, he said nothing more, than that it was settled in a fitting manner. having been so minute with respect to the diversions of tully-veolan, on the first days of edward's arrival, for the purpose of introducing its inmates to the reader's acquaintance, it becomes less necessary to trace the progress of his intercourse with the same accuracy. it is probable that a young man, accustomed to more cheerful society, would have tired of the conversation of so violent an asserter of the 'boast of heraldry' as the baron; but edward found an agreeable variety in that of miss bradwardine, who listened with eagerness to his remarks upon literature, and showed great justness of taste in her answers. the sweetness of her disposition had made her submit with complacency, and even pleasure, to the course of reading prescribed by her father, although it not only comprehended several heavy folios of history, but certain gigantic tomes in high church polemics. in heraldry he was fortunately contented to give her only such a slight tincture as might be acquired by perusal of the two folio volumes of nisbet. rose was indeed the very apple of her father's eye. her constant liveliness, her attention to all those little observances most gratifying to those who would never think of exacting them, her beauty, in which he recalled the features of his beloved wife, her unfeigned piety, and the noble generosity of her disposition, would have justified the affection of the most doting father. his anxiety on her behalf did not, however, seem to extend itself in that quarter, where, according to the general opinion, it is most efficiently displayed; in labouring, namely, to establish her in life, either by a large dowry or a wealthy marriage. by an old settlement, almost all the landed estates of the baron went, after his death, to a distant relation; and it was supposed that miss bradwardine would remain but slenderly provided for, as the good gentleman's cash matters had been too long under the exclusive charge of bailie macwheeble, to admit of any great expectations from his personal succession. it is true, the said bailie loved his patron and his patron's daughter next (although at an incomparable distance) to himself. he thought it was possible to set aside the settlement on the male line, and had actually procured an opinion to that effect (and, as he boasted, without a fee) from an eminent scottish counsel, under whose notice he contrived to bring the point while consulting him regularly on some other business. but the baron would not listen to such a proposal for an instant. on the contrary, he used to have a perverse pleasure in boasting that the barony of bradwardine was a male fief, the first charter having been given at that early period when women were not deemed capable to hold a feudal grant; because, according to les coustusmes de normandie, c'est l'homme ki se bast et ki conseille; or, as is yet more ungallantly expressed by other authorities, all of whose barbarous names he delighted to quote at full length, because a woman could not serve the superior, or feudal lord, in war, on account of the decorum of her sex, nor assist him with advice, because of her limited intellect, nor keep his counsel, owing to the infirmity of her disposition. he would triumphantly ask, how it would become a female, and that female a bradwardine, to be seen employed in, servitio exuendi, seu detrahendi, caligas regis post battaliam? that is, in pulling off the king's boots after an engagement, which was the feudal service by which he held the barony of bradwardine. 'no,' he said, 'beyond hesitation, procul dubio, many females, as worthy as rose, had been excluded, in order to make way for my own succession, and heaven forbid that i should do aught that might contravene the destination of my forefathers, or impinge upon the right of my kinsman, malcolm bradwardine of inchgrabbit, an honourable though decayed branch of my own family.' the bailie, as prime minister, having received this decisive communication from his sovereign, durst not press his own opinion any further, but contented himself with deploring, on all suitable occasions, to saunderson, the minister of the interior, the laird's self-willedness, and with laying plans for uniting rose with the young laird of balmawhapple, who had a fine estate, only moderately burdened, and was a faultless young gentleman, being as sober as a saint--if you keep brandy from him, and him from brandy--and who, in brief, had no imperfection but that of keeping light company at a time; such as jinker, the horse-couper, and gibby gaethroughwi't, the piper o' cupar; o' whilk follies, mr. saunderson, he'll mend, he'll mend,'--pronounced the bailie. 'like sour ale in simmer,' added davie gellatley, who happened to be nearer the conclave than they were aware of. miss bradwardine, such as we have described her, with all the simplicity and curiosity of a recluse, attached herself to the opportunities of increasing her store of literature which edward's visit afforded her. he sent for some of his books from his quarters, and they opened to her sources of delight of which she had hitherto had no idea. the best english poets, of every description, and other works on belles lettres, made a part of this precious cargo. her music, even her flowers, were neglected, and saunders not only mourned over, but began to mutiny against the labour for which he now scarce received thanks. these new pleasures became gradually enhanced by sharing them with one of a kindred taste. edward's readiness to comment, to recite, to explain difficult passages, rendered his assistance invaluable; and the wild romance of his spirit delighted a character too young and inexperienced to observe its deficiencies. upon subjects which interested him, and when quite at ease, he possessed that flow of natural, and somewhat florid eloquence, which has been supposed as powerful even as figure, fashion, fame, or fortune, in winning the female heart. there was, therefore, an increasing danger in this constant intercourse, to poor rose's peace of mind, which was the more imminent, as her father was greatly too much abstracted in his studies, and wrapped up in his own dignity, to dream of his daughter's incurring it. the daughters of the house of bradwardine were, in his opinion, like those of the house of bourbon or austria, placed high above the clouds of passion which might obfuscate the intellects of meaner females; they moved in another sphere, were governed by other feelings, and amenable to other rules, than those of idle and fantastic affection. in short, he shut his eyes so resolutely to the natural consequences of edward's intimacy with miss bradwardine, that the whole neighbourhood concluded that he had opened them to the advantages of a match between his daughter and the wealthy young englishman, and pronounced him much less a fool than he had generally shown himself in cases where his own interest was concerned. if the baron, however, had really meditated such an alliance, the indifference of waverley would have been an insuperable bar to his project. our hero, since mixing more freely with the world, had learned to think with great shame and confusion upon his mental legend of saint cecilia, and the vexation of these reflections was likely, for some time at least, to counterbalance the natural susceptibility of his disposition. besides, rose bradwardine, beautiful and amiable as we have described her, had not precisely the sort of beauty or merit which captivates a romantic imagination in early youth. she was too frank, too confiding, too kind; amiable qualities, undoubtedly, but destructive of the marvellous, with which a youth of imagination delights to address the empress of his affections. was it possible to bow, to tremble, and to adore, before the timid, yet playful little girl, who now asked edward to mend her pen, now to construe a stanza in tasso, and now how to spell a very--very long word in her version of it? all these incidents have their fascination on the mind at a certain period of life, but not when a youth is entering it, and rather looking out for some object whose affection may dignify him in his own eyes, than stooping to one who looks up to him for such distinction. hence, though there can be no rule in so capricious a passion, early love is frequently ambitious in choosing its object; or, which comes to the same, selects her (as in the case of saint cecilia aforesaid) from a situation that gives fair scope for le beau ideal, which the reality of intimate and familiar life rather tends to limit and impair. i knew a very accomplished and sensible young man cured of a violent passion for a pretty woman, whose talents were not equal to her face and figure, by being permitted to bear her company for a whole afternoon. thus it is certain, that had edward enjoyed such an opportunity of conversing with miss stubbs, aunt rachel's precaution would have been unnecessary, for he would as soon have fallen in love with the dairymaid. and although miss bradwardine was a very different character, it seems probable that the very intimacy of their intercourse prevented his feeling for her other sentiments than those of a brother for an amiable and accomplished sister; while the sentiments of poor rose were gradually, and without her being conscious, assuming a shade of warmer affection. i ought to have said that edward, when he sent to dundee for the books before mentioned, had applied for, and received permission, extending his leave of absence. but the letter of his commanding-officer contained a friendly recommendation to him, not to spend his time exclusively with persons, who, estimable as they might be in a general sense, could not be supposed well affected to a government which they declined to acknowledge by taking the oath of allegiance. the letter further insinuated, though with great delicacy, that although some family connexions might be supposed to render it necessary for captain waverley to communicate with gentlemen who were in this unpleasant state of suspicion, yet his father's situation and wishes ought to prevent his prolonging those attentions into exclusive intimacy. and it was intimated, that; while his political principles were endangered by communicating with laymen of this description, he might also receive erroneous impressions in religion from the prelatic clergy, who so perversely laboured to set up the royal prerogative in things sacred. this last insinuation probably induced waverley to set both down to the prejudices of his commanding-officer. he was sensible that mr. bradwardine had acted with the most scrupulous delicacy, in never entering upon any discussion that had the most remote tendency to bias his mind in political opinions, although he was himself not only a decided partisan of the exiled family, but had been trusted at different times with important commissions for their service. sensible, therefore, that there was no risk of his being perverted from his allegiance, edward felt as if he should do his uncle's old friend injustice in removing from a house where he gave and received pleasure and amusement, merely to gratify a prejudiced and ill-judged suspicion, he therefore wrote a very general answer, assuring his commanding-officer that his loyalty was not in the most distant danger of contamination, and continued an honoured guest and inmate of the house of tully-veolan. chapter xv a creagh, and its consequences [a creagh was an incursion for plunder, termed on the borders a raid.] when edward had been a guest at tully-veolan nearly six weeks, he descried one morning, as he took his usual walk before the breakfast-hour, signs of uncommon perturbation in the family. four bare-legged dairymaids, with each an empty milk-pail in her hand, ran about with frantic gestures, and uttering loud exclamations of surprise, grief, and resentment. from their appearance, a pagan might have conceived them a detachment of the celebrated belides, just come from their baling penance. as nothing was to be got from this distracted chorus, excepting 'lord guide us!' and 'eh, sirs!' ejaculations which threw no light upon the cause of their dismay, waverley repaired to the forecourt, as it was called, where he beheld bailie macwheeble cantering his white pony down the avenue with all the speed it could muster. he had arrived, it would seem, upon a hasty summons and was followed by half a score of peasants from the village, who had no great difficulty in keeping pace with him. the bailie, greatly too busy, and too important, to enter into explanations with edward, summoned forth mr. saunderson, who appeared with a countenance in which dismay was mingled with solemnity, and they immediately entered into close conference. davie gellatley was also seen in the group, idle as diogenes at sinope, while his countrymen were preparing for a siege. his spirits always rose with anything, good or bad, which occasioned tumult, and he continued frisking, hopping, dancing, and singing the burden of an old ballad, our gear's a' gane, until, happening to pass too near the bailie, he received an admonitory hint from his horsewhip, which converted his songs into lamentation. passing from thence towards the garden, waverley beheld the baron in person, measuring and re-measuring, with swift and tremendous strides, the length of the terrace; his countenance clouded with offended pride and indignation, and the whole of his demeanour such as seemed to indicate, that any inquiry concerning the cause of his discomposure would give pain at least, if not offence. waverley therefore glided into the house, without addressing him, and took his way to the breakfast parlour, where he found his young friend rose, who, though she neither exhibited the resentment of her father, the turbid importance of bailie macwheeble, nor the despair of the hand-maidens, seemed vexed and thoughtful. a single word explained the mystery. 'your breakfast will be a disturbed one, captain waverley, a party of caterans have come down upon us, last night, and have driven off all our milch cows.' 'a party of caterans?' 'yes; robbers from the neighbouring highlands. we used to be quite free from them while we paid blackmail to fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr; but my father thought it unworthy of his rank and birth to pay it any longer, and so this disaster has happened. it is not the value of the cattle, captain waverley, that vexes me; but my father is so much hurt at the affront, and is so bold and hot, that i fear he will try to recover them by the strong hand; and if he is not hurt himself, he will hurt some of these wild people, and then there will be no peace between them and us perhaps for our lifetime; and we cannot defend ourselves as is old times, for the government have taken all our arms; and my dear father is so rash--oh, what will become of us!'--here poor rose lost heart altogether, and burst into a flood of tears. the baron entered at this moment, and rebuked her with more asperity than waverley had ever heard him use to any one. 'was it not a shame,' he said, 'that she should exhibit herself before any gentleman in such a light, as if she shed tears for a drove of horned nolt and milch kine, like the daughter of a cheshire yeoman! captain waverley, i must request your favourable construction of her grief, which may, or ought to proceed, solely from seeing her father's estate exposed to spulzie and depredation from common thieves and sornars, [sornars may be translated sturdy beggars, more especially indicating those unwelcome visitors who exact lodgings and victuals by force, or something approaching to it.] while we are not allowed to keep half a score of muskets, whether for defence or rescue.' bailie macwheeble entered immediately afterwards, and by his report of arms and ammunition confirmed this statement, informing the baron, in a melancholy voice, that though the people would certainly obey his honour's orders, yet there was no chance of their following the gear to ony guid purpose, in respect there were only his honour's body servants who had swords and pistols, and the depredators were twelve highlanders, completely armed after the manner of their country.--having delivered this doleful annunciation, he assumed a posture of silent dejection, shaking his head slowly with the motion of a pendulum when it is ceasing to vibrate, and then remained stationary, his body stooping at a more acute angle than usual, and the latter part of his person projecting in proportion. the baron, meanwhile, paced the room in silent indignation, and at length fixing his eye upon an old portrait, whose person was clad in armour, and whose features glared grimly out of a huge bush of hair, part of which descended from his head to his shoulders, and part from his chin and upper-lip to his breastplate,--'that gentleman, captain waverley, my grandsire,' he said, 'with two hundred horse, whom he levied within his own bounds, discomfited and put to the rout more than five hundred of these highland reivers, who have been ever lapis offensionis, et petra scandali, a stumbling-block and a rock of offence to the lowland vicinage--he discomfited them, i say, when they had the temerity to descend to harry this country, in the time of the civil dissensions, in the year of grace sixteen hundred forty and two. and now, sir, i, his grandson, am thus used at such unworthy hands!' here there was an awful pause; after which all the company, as is usual in cases of difficulty, began to give separate and inconsistent counsel. alexander ab alexandro proposed they should send some one to compound with the caterans, who would readily, he said, give up their prey for a dollar a head. the bailie opined that this transaction would amount to theft-boot, or composition of felony; and he recommended that some canny hand should be sent up to the glens to make the best bargain he could, as it were for himself, so that the laird might not be seen in such a transaction. edward proposed to send off to the nearest garrison for a party of soldiers and a magistrate's warrant; and rose, as far as she dared, endeavoured to insinuate the course of paying the arrears of tribute money to fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr, who, they all knew, could easily procure restoration of the cattle, if he were properly propitiated. none of these proposals met the baron's approbation. the idea of composition, direct or implied, was absolutely ignominious; that of waverley only showed that he did not understand the state of the country, and of the political parties which divided it; and, standing matters as they did with fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr, the baron would make no concession to him, were it, he said, to procure restitution in integrum of every stirk and stot that the chief, his forefathers, and his clan, had stolen since the days of malcolm canmore.' in fact, his voice was still for war, and he proposed to send expresses to balmawhapple, killancureit, tulliellum, and other lairds, who were exposed to similar depredations, inviting them to join in the pursuit; 'and then, sir, shall these nebulones nequissimi, as leslaeus calls them, be brought to the fate of their predecessor cacus, elisos oculos, et siccum sanguine guttur.' the bailie, who by no means relished these warlike counsels, here pulled forth an immense watch, of the colour, and nearly of the size, of a pewter warming-pan, and observed it was now past noon, and that the caterans had been seen in the pass of bally-brough soon after sunrise; so that before the allied forces could assemble, they and their prey would be far beyond the reach of the most active pursuit, and sheltered in those pathless deserts where it was neither advisable to follow, nor indeed possible to trace them. this proposition was undeniable. the council therefore broke up without coming to any conclusion, as has occurred to councils of more importance; only it was determined that the bailie should send his own three milk-cows down to the mains for the use of the baron's family, and brew small ale, as a substitute for milk, in his own. to this arrangement, which was suggested by saunderson, the bailie readily assented, both from habitual deference to the family, and an internal consciousness that his courtesy would, in some mode or other, be repaid tenfold. the baron having also retired to give some necessary directions, waverley seized the opportunity to ask, whether this fergus, with the unpronounceable name, was the chief thief-taker of the district. 'thief-taker!' answered rose, laughing; 'he is a gentleman of great honour and consequence; the chieftain of an independent branch of a powerful highland clan, and is much respected, both for his own power, and that of his kith, kin, and allies.' 'and what has he to do with the thieves, then? is he a magistrate, or in the commission of the peace?' asked waverley. the commission of war rather, if there be such a thing,' said rose; 'for he is a very unquiet neighbour to his un-friends, and keeps a greater following on foot than many that have thrice his estates. as to his connexion with the thieves, that i cannot well explain; but the boldest of them will never steal a hoof from any one that pays blackmail to vich ian vohr.' 'and what is blackmail?' 'a sort of protection-money that low-country gentlemen and heritors, lying near the highlands, pay to some highland chief, that he may neither do them harm himself, nor suffer it to be done to them by others; and then, if your cattle are stolen, you have only to send him word, and he will recover them; or it may be, he will drive away cows from some distant place, where he has a quarrel, and give them to you to make up your loss.' 'and is this sort of highland jonathan wild admitted into society, and called a gentleman?' 'so much so,' said rose, 'that the quarrel between my father and fergus mac-ivor began at a county meeting, where he wanted to take precedence of all the lowland gentlemen then present, only my father would not suffer it. and then he upbraided my father that he was under his banner, and paid him tribute; and my father was in a towering passion, for bailie macwheeble, who manages such things his own way, had contrived to keep this blackmail a secret from him, and passed it in his account for cess-money. and they would have fought; but fergus mac-ivor said, very gallantly, he would never raise his hand against a grey head that was so much respected as my father's. oh, i wish, i wish they had continued friends!' 'and did you ever see this mr. mac-ivor, if that be his name, miss bradwardine?' 'no, that is not his name; and he would consider master as a sort of affront, only that you are an englishman, and know no better. but the lowlanders call him, like other gentlemen, by the name of his estate, glennaquoich; and the highlanders call him vich ian vohr, that is, the son of john the great; and we upon the braes here call him by both names indifferently.' i am afraid i shall never bring my english tongue to call him by either one or other.' 'but he is a very polite, handsome man,' continued rose; 'and his sister flora is one of the most beautiful and accomplished young ladies in this country: she was bred in a convent in france, and was a great friend of mine before this unhappy dispute. dear captain waverley, try your influence with my father to make matters up. i am sure this is but the beginning of our troubles; for tully-veolan has never been a safe or quiet residence when we have been at feud with the highlanders. when i was a girl about ten, there was a skirmish fought between a party of twenty of them, and my father and his servants, behind the mains; and the bullets broke several panes in the north windows, they were so near. three of the highlanders were killed, and they brought them in, wrapped in their plaids, and laid them on the stone floor of the hall; and next morning, their wives and daughters came, clapping their hands, and crying the coronach, and shrieking, and carried away the dead bodies, with the pipes playing before them. i could not sleep for six weeks without starting, and thinking i heard these terrible cries, and saw the bodies lying on the steps, all stiff and swathed up in their bloody tartans. but since that time there came a party from the garrison at stirling, with a warrant from the lord justice-clerk, or some such great man, and took away all our arms; and now, how are we to protect ourselves if they come down in any strength?' waverley could not help starting at a story which bore so much resemblance to one of his own day-dreams. here was a girl scarce seventeen, the gentlest of her sex, both in temper and appearance, who had witnessed with her own eyes such a scene as he had used to conjure up in his imagination, as only occurring in ancient times, and spoke of it coolly, as one very likely to recur. he felt at once the impulse of curiosity, and that slight sense of danger which only serves to heighten its interest. he might have said with malvolio, '"i do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me!" i am actually in the land of military and romantic adventures, and it only remains to be seen what will be my own share in them.' the whole circumstances now detailed concerning the state of the country, seemed equally novel and extraordinary. he had indeed often heard of highland thieves, but had no idea of the systematic mode in which their depredations were conducted; and that the practice was connived at, and even encouraged, by many of the highland chieftains, who not only found the creaghs, or forays, useful for the purpose of training individuals of their clan to the practice of arms, but also of maintaining a wholesome terror among their lowland neighbours, and levying, as we have seen, a tribute from them, under colour of protection-money. bailie macwheeble, who soon afterwards entered, expatiated still more at length upon the same topic. this honest gentleman's conversation was so formed upon his professional practice, that davie gellatley once said his discourse was like 'a charge of horning.' he assured our hero, that 'from the maist ancient times of record, the lawless thieves, limmers, and broken men of the highlands, had been in fellowship together by reason of their surnames, for the committing of divers thefts, reifs, and herships upon the honest men of the low country, when they not only intromitted with their whole goods and gear, corn, cattle, horse, nolt, sheep, outsight and insight plenishing, at their wicked pleasure, but moreover made prisoners, ransomed them, or concussed them into giving borrows (pledges) to enter into captivity again: all which was directly prohibited in divers parts of the statute book, both by the act one thousand five hundred and sixty-seven, and various others; the whilk statutes, with all that had followed and might follow thereupon, were shamefully broken and vilipended by the said sornars, limmers, and broken men, associated into fellowships, for the aforesaid purposes of theft, stouthreef, fire-raising, murther, raptus mulierum, or forcible abduction of women, and such like as aforesaid.' it seemed like a dream to waverley that these deeds of violence should be familiar to men's minds, and currently talked of, as falling within the common order of things, and happening daily in the immediate vicinity, without his having crossed the seas, and while he was yet in the otherwise well-ordered island of great britain. [ ] chapter xvi an unexpected ally appears the baron returned at the dinner-hour, and had in a great measure recovered his composure and good humour. he not only confirmed the stories which edward had heard from rose and bailie macwheeble, but added many anecdotes from his own experience, concerning the state of the highlands and their inhabitants, the chiefs he pronounced to be, in general, gentlemen of great honour and high pedigree, whose word was accounted as a law by all those of their own sept, or clan. 'it did not, indeed,' he said, 'become them, as had occurred in late instances, to propone their prosapia, a lineage which rested for the most part on the vain and fond rhymes of their seannachies or barahs, as aequiponderate with the evidence of ancient charters and royal grants of antiquity, conferred upon distinguished houses in the low country by divers scottish monarchs; nevertheless, such was their outrecuidance and presumption, as to undervalue those who possessed such evidents, as if they held their lands in a sheep's skin.' this, by the way, pretty well explained the cause of quarrel between the baron and his highland ally. but he went on to state so many curious particulars concerning the manners, customs, and habits of this patriarchal race, that edward's curiosity became highly interested, and he inquired whether it was possible to make with safety an excursion into the neighbouring highlands, whose dusky barrier of mountains had already excited his wish to penetrate beyond them. the baron assured his guest that nothing would be more easy, providing this quarrel were first made up, since he could himself give him letters to many of the distinguished chiefs, who would receive him with the utmost courtesy and hospitality. while they were on this topic, the door suddenly opened, and, ushered by saunders saunderson, a highlander, fully armed and equipped, entered the apartment. had it not been that saunders acted the part of master of the ceremonies to this martial apparition, without appearing to deviate from his usual composure, and that neither mr. bradwardine nor rose exhibited any emotion, edward would certainly have thought the intrusion hostile, as it was, he started at the sight of what he had not yet happened to see, a mountaineer in his full national costume. the individual gael was a stout, dark, young man, of low stature, the ample folds of whose plaid added to the appearance of strength which his person exhibited. the short kilt, or petticoat, showed his sinewy and clean-made limbs; the goat-skin purse, flanked by the usual defences, a dirk and steel-wrought pistol, hung before him; his bonnet had a short feather, which indicated his claim to be treated as a duinhe-wassel, or sort of gentleman; a broadsword dangled by his side, a target hung upon his shoulder, and a long spanish fowling-piece occupied one of his hands. with the other hand he pulled off his bonnet, and the baron, who well knew their customs, and the proper mode of addressing them, immediately said, with an air of dignity, but without rising, and much, as edward thought, in the manner of a prince receiving an embassy, 'welcome, evan dhu maccombich! what news from fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr?' 'fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr,' said the ambassador, in good english, 'greets you well, baron of bradwardine and tully-veolan, and is sorry there has been a thick cloud interposed between you and him, which has kept you from seeing and considering the friendship and alliances that have been between your houses and forebears of old; and he prays you that the cloud may pass away, and that things may be as they have been heretofore between the clan ivor and the house of bradwardine, when there was an egg between them for a flint, and a knife for a sword. and he expects you will also say, you are sorry for the cloud, and no man shall hereafter ask whether it descended from the hill to the valley, or rose from the valley to the hill; for they never struck with the scabbard who did not receive with the sword; and woe to him who would lose his friend for the stormy cloud of a spring morning!' to this the baron of bradwardine answered, with suitable dignity, that he knew the chief of clan ivor to be a well-wisher to the king, and he was sorry there should have been a cloud between him and any gentleman of such sound principles, 'for when folks are banding together, feeble is he who hath no brother.' this appearing perfectly satisfactory, that the peace between these august persons might be duly solemnized, the baron ordered a stoup of usquebaugh, and, filling a glass, drank to the health and prosperity of mac-ivor of glennaquoich; upon which the celtic ambassador, to requite his politeness, turned down a mighty bumper of the same generous liquor, seasoned with his good wishes to the house of bradwardine. having thus ratified the preliminaries of the general treaty of pacification, the envoy retired to adjust with mr. macwheeble some subordinate articles with which it was not thought necessary to trouble the baron. these probably referred to the discontinuance of the subsidy, and apparently the bailie found means to satisfy their ally, without suffering his master to suppose that his dignity was compromised. at least, it is certain, that after the plenipotentiaries had drunk a bottle of brandy in single drams, which seemed to have no more effect upon such seasoned vessels, than if it had been poured upon the two bears at the top of the avenue, evan dhu maccombich, having possessed himself of all the information which he could procure respecting the robbery of the preceding night, declared his intention to set off immediately in pursuit of the cattle, which he pronounced to be 'not far off;--they have broken the bone,' he observed, 'but they have had no time to suck the marrow.' our hero, who had attended evan dhu during his perquisitions, was much struck with the ingenuity which he displayed in collecting information, and the precise and pointed conclusions which he drew from it. evan dhu, on his part, was obviously flattered with the attention of waverley, the interest he seemed to take in his inquiries, and his curiosity about the customs and scenery of the highlands. without much ceremony he invited edward to accompany him on a short walk of ten or fifteen miles into the mountains, and see the place where the cattle were conveyed to; adding, 'if it be as i suppose, you never saw such a place in your life, nor ever will, unless you go with me, or the like of me.' our hero, feeling his curiosity considerably excited by the idea of visiting the den of a highland cacus, took, however, the precaution to inquire if his guide might be trusted. he was assured, that the invitation would on no account have been given had there been the least danger, and that all he had to apprehend was a little fatigue; and as evan proposed he should pass a day at his chieftain's house in returning, where he would be sure of good accommodation and an excellent welcome, there seemed nothing very formidable in the task he undertook. rose, indeed, turned pale when she heard of it; but her father, who loved the spirited curiosity of his young friend, did not attempt to damp it by an alarm of danger which really did not exist; and a knapsack, with a few necessaries, being bound on the shoulders of a sort of deputy gamekeeper, our hero set forth with a fowling-piece in his hand, accompanied by his new friend evan dhu, and, followed by the gamekeeper aforesaid, and by two wild highlanders, the attendants of evan, one of whom had upon his shoulder a hatchet at the end of a pole, called a lochaber-axe, [the town-guard of edinburgh were, till a late period, armed with this weapon when on their police duty. there was a hook at the back of the axe, which the ancient highlanders used to assist them to climb over walls, fixing the hook upon it, and raising themselves by the handle. the axe, which was also much used by the natives of ireland, is supposed to have been introduced into both countries from scandinavia.] and the other a long ducking-gun. evan, upon edward's inquiry, gave him to understand that this martial escort was by no means necessary as a guard, but merely, as he said, drawing up and adjusting his plaid with an air of dignity, that he might appear decently at tully-veolan, and as vich ian vohr's foster-brother ought to do. 'ah!' said he, 'if you saxon duinhe-wassel (english gentlemen) saw but the chief with his tail on!' 'with his tail on!' echoed edward, in some surprise. 'yes--that is, with all his usual followers, when he visits those of the same rank. there is,' he continued, stopping and drawing himself proudly up, while he counted upon his fingers the several officers of his chief's retinue--'there is his hanch-man, or right-hand man; then his bardh, or poet; then his bladier, or orator, to make harangues to the great folks whom he visits; then his gilly-more, or armour-bearer, to carry his sword and target, and his gun; then his gilly casfliuch, who carries him on his back through the sikes and brooks; then his gilly-comstrian, to lead his horse by the bridle in steep and difficult paths; then his gilly-trushharnish, to carry his knapsack; and the piper and the piper's man, and it may be a dozen young lads besides, that have no business, but are just boys of the belt, to follow the laird, and do his honour's bidding.' and does your chief regularly maintain all these men?' demanded waverley. 'all these!' replied evan; 'aye, and many a fair head beside, that would not ken where to lay itself, but for the mickle barn at glennaquoich.' with similar tales of the grandeur of the chief in peace and war, evan dhu beguiled the way till they approached more closely those huge mountains which edward had hitherto only seen at a distance. it was towards evening as they entered one of the tremendous passes which afford communication between the high and low country; the path, which was extremely steep and rugged, winded up a chasm between two tremendous rocks, following the passage which a foaming stream, that brawled far below, appeared to have worn for itself in the course of ages. a few slanting beams of the sun, which was now setting, reached the water in its darksome bed, and showed it partially, chafed by a hundred rocks, and broken by a hundred falls. the descent from the path to the stream was a mere precipice, with here and there a projecting fragment of granite, or a scathed tree, which had warped its twisted roots into the fissures of the rock. on the right hand, the mountain rose above the path with almost equal inaccessibility; but the hill on the opposite side displayed a shroud of copsewood, with which some pines were intermingled. 'this,' said evan, 'is the pass of bally-brough, which was kept in former times by ten of the clan donnochie against a hundred of the low country carles. the graves of the slain are still to be seen in that little corri, or bottom, on the opposite side of the burn--if your eyes are good, you may see the green specks among the heather.--see, there is an earn, which you southrons call an eagle--you have no such birds as that in england--he is going to fetch his supper from the laird of bradwardine's braes, but i'll send a slug after him.' he fired his piece accordingly, but missed the superb monarch of the feathered tribes, who, without noticing the attempt to annoy him, continued his majestic flight to the southward. a thousand birds of prey, hawks, kites, carrion-crows, and ravens, disturbed from the lodgings which they had just taken up for the evening, rose at the report of the gun, and mingled their hoarse and discordant notes with the echoes which replied to it, and with the roar of the mountain cataracts. evan, a little disconcerted at having missed his mark, when he meant to have displayed peculiar dexterity, covered his confusion by whistling part of a pibroch as he reloaded his piece, and proceeded in silence up the pass. it issued in a narrow glen, between two mountains, both very lofty, and covered with heath. the brook continued to be their companion, and they advanced up its mazes, crossing them now and then, on which occasions even dhu uniformly offered the assistance of his attendants to carry over edward; but our hero, who had been always a tolerable pedestrian, declined the accommodation, and obviously rose in his guide's opinion by showing that he did not fear wetting his feet. indeed he was anxious, so far as he could without affectation, to remove the opinion which evan seemed to entertain of the effeminacy of the lowlanders, and particularly of the english. through the gorge of this glen they found access to a black bog, of tremendous extent, full of large pit-holes, which they traversed with great difficulty and some danger, by tracks which no one but a highlander could have followed. the path itself, or rather the portion of more solid ground on which the travellers half walked, half waded, was rough, broken, and in many places quaggy and unsound. sometimes the ground was so completely unsafe, that it was necessary to spring from one hillock to another, the space between being incapable of bearing the human weight. this was an easy matter to the highlanders, who wore thin-soled brogues fit for the purpose, and moved with a peculiar springing step; but edward began to find the exercise, to which he was unaccustomed, more fatiguing than he expected. the lingering twilight served to show them through this serbonian bog, but deserted them almost totally at the bottom of a steep and very stony hill, which it was the travellers' next toilsome task to ascend. the night, however, was pleasant, and not dark; and waverley, calling up mental energy to support personal fatigue, held on his march gallantly, though envying in his heart his highland attendants, who continued, without a symptom of abated vigour, the rapid and swinging pace, or rather trot, which, according to his computation, had already brought them fifteen miles upon their journey. after crossing this mountain, and descending on the other side towards a thick wood, evan dhu held some conference with his highland attendants, in consequence of which edward's baggage was shifted from the shoulders of the gamekeeper to those of one of the gillies, and the former was sent off with the other mountaineer in a direction different from that of the three remaining travellers. on asking the meaning of this separation, waverley was told that the lowlander must go to a hamlet about three miles off for the night; for unless it was some very particular friend, donald bean lean, the worthy person whom they supposed to be possessed of the cattle, did not much approve of strangers approaching his retreat. this seemed reasonable, and silenced a qualm of suspicion which came across edward's mind, when he saw himself, at such a place and such an hour, deprived of his only lowland companion. and evan immediately afterwards added, 'that indeed he himself had better get forward, and announce their approach to donald bean lean, as the arrival of a sidier roy (red soldier) might otherwise be a disagreeable surprise.' and without waiting for an answer, in jockey phrase, he trotted out, and putting himself to a very round pace, was out of sight in an instant. waverley was now left to his own meditations, for his attendant with the battle-axe spoke very little english. they were traversing a thick, and, as it seemed, an endless wood of pines, and consequently the path was altogether indiscernible in the murky darkness which surrounded them. the highlander, however, seemed to trace it by instinct, without the hesitation of a moment, and edward followed his footsteps as close as he could. after journeying a considerable time in silence, he could not help asking, 'was it far to the end of their journey?' 'ta cove was tree, four mile; but as duinhe-wassel was a wee taiglit, donald could, tat is, might--would--should send ta curragh.' this conveyed no information. the curragh which was promised might be a man, a horse, a cart, or chaise; and no more could be got from the man with the battle-axe, but a repetition of 'aich ay! ta curragh.' but in a short time edward began to conceive his meaning, when, issuing from the wood, he found himself on the banks of a large river or lake, where his conductor gave him to understand they must sit down for a little while. the moon, which now began to rise, showed obscurely the expanse of water which spread before them, and the shapeless and indistinct forms of mountains with which it seemed to be surrounded. the cool and yet mild air of the summer night refreshed waverley after his rapid and toilsome walk; and the perfume which it wafted from the birch-trees, bathed in the evening dew, was exquisitely fragrant. [it is not the weeping birch, the most common species in the highlands, but the woolly-leaved lowland birch, that is distinguished by this fragrance.] he had now time to give himself up to the full romance of his situation. here he saw on the banks of an unknown lake, under the guidance of a wild native, whose language was unknown to him, on a visit to the den of some renowned outlaw, a second robin hood, perhaps, or adam o' gordon, and that at deep midnight, through scenes of difficulty and toil, separated from his attendant, left by his guide.--what a variety of incidents for the exercise of a romantic imagination, and all enhanced by the solemn feeling of uncertainty, at least, if not of danger! the only circumstance which assorted ill with the rest, was the cause of his journey--the baron's milk-cows! this degrading incident he kept in the background. while wrapped in these dreams of imagination, his companion gently touched him, and pointing in a direction nearly straight across the lake, said 'yon's ta cove.' a small point of light was seen to twinkle in the direction in which he pointed, and gradually increasing in size and lustre, seemed to flicker like a meteor upon the verge of the horizon. while edward watched this phenomenon, the distant dash of oars was heard. the measured sound approached near and more near, and presently a loud whistle was heard in the same direction. his friend with the battle-axe immediately whistled clear and shrill, in reply to the signal, and a boat, manned with four or five highlanders, pushed for a little inlet, near which edward was sitting. he advanced to meet them with his attendant, was immediately assisted into the boat by the officious attention of two stout mountaineers, and had no sooner seated himself than they resumed their oars, and began to row across the lake with great rapidity. chapter xvii the hold of a highland robber the party preserved silence, interrupted only by the monotonous and murmured chant of a gaelic song, sung in a kind of low recitative by the steersman, and by the dash of the oars, which the notes seemed to regulate, as they dipped to them in cadence. the light, which they now approached more nearly, assumed a broader, redder, and more irregular splendour. it appeared plainly to be a large fire, but whether kindled upon an island or the main land, edward could not determine. as he saw it, the red glaring orb seemed to rest on the very surface of the lake itself, and resembled the fiery vehicle in which the evil genius of an oriental tale traverses land and sea. they approached nearer, and the light of the fire sufficed to show that it was kindled at the bottom of a huge dark crag or rock, rising abruptly from the very edge of the water; its front changed by the reflection to dusky red, formed a strange and even awful contrast to the banks around, which were from time to time faintly and partially illuminated by pallid moonlight. the boat now neared the shore, and edward could discover that this large fire, amply supplied with branches of pine-wood by two figures, who, in the red reflection of its light, appeared like demons, was kindled in the jaws of a lofty cavern, into which an inlet from the lake seemed to advance; and he conjectured, which was indeed true, that the fire had been lighted as a beacon to the boatmen on their return. they rowed right for the mouth of the cave, and then, shipping their oars, permitted the boat to enter in obedience to the impulse which it had received. the skiff passed the little point or platform of rock on which the fire was blazing, and running about two boats' length farther, stopped where the cavern (for it was already arched overhead) ascended from the water by five or six broad ledges of rocks, so easy and regular that they might be termed natural steps. at this moment a quantity of water was suddenly flung upon the fire, which sank with a hissing noise, and with it disappeared the light it had hitherto afforded. four or five active arms lifted waverley out of the boat, placed him on his feet, and almost carried him into the recesses of the cave. he made a few paces in darkness, guided in this manner; and advancing towards a hum of voices, which seemed to sound from the centre of the rock, at an acute turn donald bean lean and his whole establishment were before his eyes. the interior of the cave, which here rose very high, was illuminated by torches made of pine-tree, which emitted a bright and bickering light, attended by a strong though not unpleasant odour. their light was assisted by the red glare of a large charcoal fire, round which were seated five or six armed highlanders, while others were indistinctly seen couched on their plaids, in the more remote recesses of the cavern. in one large aperture, which the robber facetiously called his spence (or pantry), there hung by the heels the carcasses of a sheep, or ewe, and two cows lately slaughtered. the principal inhabitant of this singular mansion, attended by evan dhu as master of the ceremonies, came forward to meet his guest, totally different in appearance and manner from what his imagination had anticipated. the profession which he followed--the wilderness in which he dwelt--the wild warrior-forms that surrounded him, were all calculated to inspire terror. from such accompaniments, waverley prepared himself to meet a stern, gigantic, ferocious figure, such as salvator would have chosen to be the central object of a group of banditti. [ ] donald bean lean was the very reverse of all these. he was thin in person and low in stature, with light sandy-coloured hair, and small pale features, from which he derived his agnomen of bean, or white; and although his form was light, well-proportioned, and active, he appeared, on the whole, rather a diminutive and insignificant figure. he had served in some inferior capacity in the french army, and in order to receive his english visitor in great form, and probably meaning, in his way, to pay him a compliment, he had laid aside the highland dress for the time, to put on an old blue and red uniform, and a feathered hat, in which he was far from showing to advantage, and indeed looked so incongruous, compared with all around him, that waverley would have been tempted to laugh, had laughter been either civil or safe. the robber received captain waverley with a profusion of french politeness and scottish hospitality, seemed perfectly to know his name and connexions, and to be particularly acquainted with his uncle's political principles. on these he bestowed great applause, to which waverley judged it prudent to make a very general reply. being placed at a convenient distance from the charcoal fire, the heat of which the season rendered oppressive, a strapping highland damsel placed before waverley, evan, and donald bean, three cogues, or wooden vessels, composed of staves and hoops, containing eanaruich, [this was the regale presented by rob roy to the laird of tullibody.] a sort of strong soup, made out of a particular part of the inside of the beeves. after this refreshment, which, though coarse, fatigue and hunger rendered palatable, steaks, roasted on the coals, were supplied in liberal abundance, and disappeared before even dhu and their host with a promptitude that seemed like magic, and astonished waverley, who was much puzzled to reconcile their voracity with what he had heard of the abstemiousness of the highlanders. he was ignorant that this abstinence was with the lower ranks wholly compulsory, and that, like some animals of prey, those who practise it were usually gifted with the power of indemnifying themselves to good purpose, when chance threw plenty in their way. the whisky came forth in abundance to crown the cheer. the highlanders drank it copiously and undiluted; but edward, having mixed a little with water, did not find it so palatable as to invite him to repeat the draught. their host bewailed himself exceedingly that he could offer him no wine: 'had he but known four-and-twenty hours before, he would have had some, had it been within the circle of forty miles round him. but no gentleman could do more to show his sense of the honour of a visit from another, than to offer him the best cheer his house afforded. where there are no bushes there can be no nuts, and the way of those you live with is that you must follow.' he went on regretting to evan dhu the death of an aged man, donnacha an amrigh, or duncan with the cap, 'a gifted seer,' who foretold, through the second sight, visitors of every description who haunted their dwelling, whether as friends or foes. 'is not his son malcolm taishatr?' (a second-sighted person), asked evan. 'nothing equal to his father,' replied donald bean. he told us the other day we were to see a great gentleman riding on a horse, and there came nobody that whole day but shemus beg, the blind harper, with his dog. another time he advertised us of a wedding, and behold it proved a funeral; and on the creagh, when he foretold to us we should bring home a hundred head of horned cattle, we gripped nothing but a fat bailie of perth.' from this discourse he passed to the political and military state of the country; and waverley was astonished, and even alarmed, to find a person of this description so accurately acquainted with the strength of the various garrisons and regiments quartered north of the tay. he even mentioned the exact number of recruits who had joined waverley's troop from his uncle's estate, and observed they were pretty men, meaning, not handsome, but stout warlike fellows. he put waverley in mind of one or two minute circumstances which had happened at a general review of the regiment, which satisfied him that the robber had been an eye-witness of it; and evan dhu having by this time retired from the conversation, and wrapped himself up in his plaid to take some repose, donald asked edward, in a very significant manner, whether he had nothing particular to say to him. waverley, surprised and somewhat startled at this question from such a character, answered he had no motive in visiting him but curiosity to see his extraordinary place of residence. donald bean lean looked him steadily in the face for an instant, and then said, with a significant nod, 'you might as well have confided in me; i am as much worthy of trust as either the baron of bradwardine, or vich ian vohr:--but you are equally welcome to my house.' waverley felt an involuntary shudder creep over him at the mysterious language held by this outlawed and lawless bandit, which, in despite of his attempts to master it, deprived him of the proper to ask the meaning of his insinuations. a heath pallet, with the flowers stuck uppermost, had been prepared for him in a recess of the cave, and here, covered with such spare plaids as could be mustered, he lay for some time matching the motions of the other inhabitants of the cavern. small parties of two or three entered or left the place without any other ceremony than a few words in gaelic to the principal outlaw, and, when he fell asleep, to a tall highlander who acted as his lieutenant, and seemed to keep watch during his repose. those who entered, seemed to have returned from some excursion, of which they reported the success, and went without further ceremony to the larder, where, cutting with their dirks their rations from the carcasses which were there suspended, they proceeded to broil and eat them at their own pleasure and leisure. the liquor was under strict regulation, being served out either by donald himself, his lieutenant, or the strapping highland girl aforesaid, who was the only female that appeared. the allowance of whisky, however, would have appeared prodigal to any but highlanders, who, living entirely in the open air, and in a very moist climate, can consume great quantities of ardent spirits without the usual baneful effects either upon the brain or constitution. at length the fluctuating groups began to swim before the eyes of our hero as they gradually closed; nor did he re-open them till the morning sun was high on the lake without, though there was but a faint and glimmering twilight in the recesses of uaimh an ri, or the king's cavern, as the abode of donald bean lean was proudly denominated. chapter xviii waverley proceeds on his journey then edward had collected his scattered recollection, he was surprised to observe the cavern totally deserted. having arisen and put his dress in some order, he looked more accurately round him; but all was still solitary. if it had not been for the decayed brands of the fire, now sunk into grey ashes, and the remnants of the festival, consisting of bones half burnt and half gnawed, and an empty keg or two, there remained no traces of donald and his band. when waverley sallied forth to the entrance of the cave, he perceived that the point of rock, on which remained the marks of last night's beacon, was accessible by a small path, either natural, or roughly hewn in the rock, along the little inlet of water which ran a few yards up into the cavern, where, as in a wet-dock, the skiff which brought him there the night before was still lying moored. when he reached the small projecting platform on which the beacon had been established, he would have believed his further progress by land impossible, only that it was scarce probable but that the inhabitants of the cavern had some mode of issuing from it otherwise than by the lake. accordingly, he soon observed three or four shelving steps, or ledges of rock, at the very extremity of the little platform; and, making use of them as a staircase, he clambered by their means around the projecting shoulder of the crag on which the cavern opened, and, descending with some difficulty on the other side, he gained the wild and precipitous shores of a highland loch, about four miles in length, and a mile and a half across, surrounded by heathy and savage mountains, on the crests of which the morning mist was still sleeping. looking back to the place from which he came, he could not help admiring the address which had adopted a retreat of such seclusion and secrecy. the rock, round the shoulder of which he had turned by a few imperceptible notches, that barely afforded place for the foot, seemed, in looking back upon it, a huge precipice, which barred all further passage by the shores of the lake in that direction. there could be no possibility, the breadth of the lake considered, of descrying the entrance of the narrow and low-browed cave from the other side; so that, unless the retreat had been sought for with boats, or disclosed by treachery, it might be a safe and secret residence to its garrison as long as they were supplied with provisions. having satisfied his curiosity in these particulars, waverley looked around for evan dhu and his attendants, who, he rightly judged, would be at no great distance, whatever might have become of donald bean lean and his party, whose mode of life was, of course, liable to sudden migrations of abode. accordingly, at the distance of about half a mile, he beheld a highlander (evan apparently) angling in the lake, with another attending him, whom, from the weapon which he shouldered, he recognized for his friend with the battle-axe. much nearer to the mouth of the cave, he heard the notes of a lively gaelic song, guided by which, in a sunny recess, shaded by a glittering birch-tree, and carpeted with a bank of firm white sand, he found the damsel of the cavern, whose lay had already reached him, busy, to the best of her power, in arranging to advantage a morning repast of milk, eggs, barley-bread, fresh butter, and honeycomb. the poor girl had already made a circuit of four miles that morning in search of the eggs, of the meal which baked her cakes, and of the other materials of the breakfast, being all delicacies which she had to beg or borrow from distant cottagers. the followers of donald bean lean used little food except the flesh of the animals which they drove away from the lowlands; bread itself was a delicacy seldom thought of, because hard to be obtained, and all the domestic accommodations of milk, poultry, butter, &c., were out of the question in this scythian camp. yet it must not be omitted, that, although alice had occupied a part of the morning in providing those accommodations for her guest which the cavern did not afford, she had secured time also to arrange her own person in her best trim. her finery was very simple. a short russet-coloured jacket, and a petticoat, of scanty longitude, was her whole dress; but these were clean, and neatly arranged. a piece of scarlet embroidered cloth, called the snood, confined her hair, which fell over it in a profusion of rich dark curls. the scarlet plaid, which formed part of her dress, was laid aside, that it might not impede her activity in attending the stranger. i should forget alice's proudest ornament, were i to omit mentioning a pair of gold ear-rings, and a golden rosary, which her father (for she was the daughter of donald bean lean) had brought from france, the plunder, probably, of some battle or storm. her form, though rather large for her years, was very well proportioned, and her demeanour had a natural and rustic grace, with nothing of the sheepishness of an ordinary peasant. the smiles, displaying a row of teeth of exquisite whiteness, and the laughing eyes, with which, in dumb show, she gave waverley that morning greeting which she wanted english words to express, might have been interpreted by a coxcomb, or perhaps by a young soldier, who, without being such, was conscious of a handsome person, as meant to convey more than the courtesy of an hostess. nor do i take it upon me to say, that the little wild mountaineer would have welcomed any staid old gentleman advanced in life, the baron of bradwardine, for example, with the cheerful pains which she bestowed upon edward's accommodation. she seemed eager to place him by the meal which she had so sedulously arranged, and to which she now added a few bunches of cranberries, gathered in an adjacent morass. having had the satisfaction of seeing him seated at his breakfast, she placed herself demurely upon a stone at a few yards' distance, and appeared to watch with great complacency for some opportunity of serving him. evan and his attendant now returned slowly along the beach, the latter bearing a large salmon-trout, the produce of the morning's sport, together with the angling-rod, while evan strolled forward, with an easy, self-satisfied, and important gait, towards the spot where waverley was so agreeably employed at the breakfast-table. after morning greetings had passed on both sides, and evan, looking at waverley, had said something in gaelic to alice, which made her laugh, yet colour up to her eyes, through a complexion well embrowned by sun and wind, evan intimated his commands that the fish should be prepared for breakfast. a spark from the lock of his pistol produced a light, and a few withered fir branches were quickly in flame, and as speedily reduced to hot embers, on which the trout was broiled in large slices. to crown the repast, evan produced from the pocket of his short jerkin, a large scallop shell, and from under the folds of his plaid, a ram's horn full of whisky. of this he took a copious dram, observing he had already taken his morning with donald bean lean, before his departure; he offered the same cordial to alice and to edward, which they both declined. with the bounteous air of a lord, evan then proffered the scallop to dugald mahony, his attendant, who, without waiting to be asked a second time, drank it off with great gusto. evan then prepared to move towards the boat, inviting waverley to attend him. meanwhile, alice had made up in a small basket what she thought worth removing, and hinging her plaid around her, she advanced up to edward, and, with the utmost simplicity, taking hold of his hand, offered her cheek to his salute, dropping, at the same time, her little curtsy. evan, who was esteemed a wag among the mountain fair, advanced, as if to secure a similar favour; but alice, snatching up her basket, escaped up the rocky bank as fleetly as a roe, and, turning round and laughing, called something out to him in gaelic, which he answered in the same tone and language; then, waving her hand to edward, she resumed her road, and was soon lost among the thickets, though they continued for some time to hear her lively carol, as she proceeded gaily on her solitary journey. they now again entered the gorge of the cavern, and stepping into the boat, the highlander pushed off, and, taking advantage of the morning breeze, hoisted a clumsy sort of sail, while evan assumed the helm, directing their course, as it appeared to waverley, rather higher up the lake than towards the place of his embarkation on the preceding night. as they glided along the silver mirror, evan opened the conversation with a panegyric upon alice, who, he said, was both canny and fendy; and was, to the boot of all that, the best dancer of a strathspey in the whole strath. edward assented to her praises so far as he understood them, yet could not help regretting that she was condemned to such a perilous and dismal life. 'oich! for that,' said evan, 'there is nothing in perthshire that she need want, if she ask her father to fetch it, unless it be too hot or too heavy. 'but to be the daughter of a cattle-stealer--a common thief!' 'common thief!--no such thing: donald bean lean never lifted less than a drove in his life.' 'do you call him an uncommon thief, then?' 'no--he that steals a cow from a poor widow, or a stirk from a cottar, is a thief; he that lifts a drove from a sassenach laird, is a gentleman-drover. and, besides, to take a tree from the forest, a salmon from the river, a deer from the hill, or a cow from a lowland strath, is what no highlander need ever think shame upon.' 'but what can this end in, were he taken in such an appropriation?' 'to be sure he would die for the law, as many a pretty man has done before him.' 'die for the law!' 'aye; that is, with the law, or by the law; be strapped up on the kind gallows of crieff, [ ] where his father died, and his goodsire died, and where i hope he'll live to die himself, if he's not shot, or slashed, in a creagh.' 'you hope such a death for your friend, evan!' 'and that do i e'en; would you have me wish him to die on a bundle of wet straw in yon den of his, like a mangy tyke?' 'but what becomes of alice, then?' 'troth, if such an accident were to happen, as her father would not need her help ony langer, i ken naught to hinder me to marry her mysell.' 'gallantly resolved!' said edward;--'but, in the meanwhile, evan, what has your father-in-law (that shall be, if he have the good fortune to be hanged) done with the baron's cattle?' 'oich,' answered evan, 'they were all trudging before your lad and allan kennedy before the sun blinked ower ben-lawers this morning; and they'll be in the pass of bally-brough by this time, in their way back to the parks of tully-veolan, all but two, that were unhappily slaughtered before i got last night to uaimh an ri.' 'and where are we going, evan, if i may be so bold as to ask?' said waverley. 'where would you be ganging, but to the laird's ain house of glennaquoich? ye would not think to be in his country, without ganging to see him? it would be as much as a man's life's worth,' 'and are we far from glennaquoich?' but five bits of miles; and vich ian vohr will meet us.' in about half an hour they reached the upper end of the lake, where, after landing waverley, the two highlanders drew the boat into a little creek among thick flags and reeds, where it lay perfectly concealed. the oars they put in another place of concealment, both for the use of donald bean lean probably, when his occasions should next bring him to that place. the travellers followed for some time a delightful opening into the hills, down which a little brook found its way to the lake. when they had pursued their walk a short distance, waverley renewed his questions about their host of the cavern. 'does he always reside in that cave?' 'out, no! it's past the skill of man to tell where he's to be found at a' times; there's not a dern nook, or cove, or corri, in the whole country, that he's not acquainted with.' 'and do others beside your master shelter him?' 'my master?--my master is in heaven,' answered evan haughtily; and then immediately assuming his usual civility of manner--'but you mean my chief;--no, he does not shelter donald bean lean, nor any that are like him; he only allows him (with a smile) wood and water.' 'no great boon, i should think, evan, when both seem to be very plenty.' 'ah! but ye dinna see through it. when i say wood and water, i mean the loch and the land; and i fancy donald would be put till't if the laird were to look for him wi' threescore men in the wood of kailychat yonder; and if our boats, with a score or twa mair, were to come down the loch to uaimh an ri, headed by mysell, or ony other pretty man.' 'but suppose a strong party came against him from the low country, would not your chief defend him?' 'na, he would not ware the spark of a flint for him--if they came with the law.' 'and what must donald do, then?' 'he behoved to rid this country of himsell, and fall back, it may be, over the mount upon letter scriven.' 'and if he were pursued to that place?' 'i'se warrant he would go to his cousin's at rannoch.' 'well, but if they followed him to rannoch?' 'that,' quoth evan, 'is beyond all belief; and, indeed, to tell you the truth, there durst not a lowlander in all scotland follow the fray a gun-shot beyond bally-brough, unless he had the help of the sidier dhu.' 'whom do you call so?' 'the sidier dhu? the black soldier; that is what they call the independent companies that were raised to keep peace and law in the highlands. vich ian vohr commanded one of them for five years, and i was sergeant myself, i shall warrant ye. they call them sidier dhu, because they wear the tartans,--as they call your men, king george's men, sidier roy, or red soldiers.' 'well, but when you were in king george's pay, evan, you were surely king george's soldiers?' 'troth, and you must ask vich ian vohr about that; for we are for his king, and care not much which o' them it is. at any rate, nobody can say we are king george's men now, when we have not seen his pay this twelvemonth.' this last argument admitted of no reply, nor did edward attempt any; he rather chose to bring back the discourse to donald bean lean. 'does donald confine himself to cattle, or does he lift, as you call it, anything else that comes in his way?' 'troth, he's nae nice body, and he'll just tak ony thing, but most readily cattle, horse, or live christians; for sheep are slow of travel, and inside plenishing is cumbrous to carry, and not easy to put away for siller in this country.' 'but does he carry off men and women?' 'out, aye. did not ye hear him speak o' the perth bailie? it cost that body five hundred merks ere he got to the south of bally-brough.--and ance donald played a pretty sport. [ ] there was to be a blythe bridal between the lady cramfeezer, in the howe o' the mearns (she was the auld laird's widow, and no sae young as she had been hersell), and young gilliewhackit, who had spent his heirship and movables, like a gentleman, at cock-matches, bull-baitings, horse-races, and the like. now, donald bean lean, being aware that the bridegroom was in request, and wanting to cleik the cunzie (that is, to hook the siller), he cannily carried off gilliewhackit ae night when he was riding dovering hame (wi' the malt rather abune the meal), and with the help of his gillies he gat him into the hills with the speed of light, and the first place he wakened in was the cove of uaimh an ri. so there was old to do about ransoming the bridegroom; for donald would not lower a farthing of a thousand punds'-- the devil!' 'punds scottish, ya shall understand. and the lady had not the siller if she had pawned her gown; and they applied to the governor o' stirling castle, and to the major o' the black watch; and the governor said, it was ower far to the northward, and out of his district; and the major said, his men were gane hame to the shearing, and he would not call them out before the victual was got in for all the cramfeezers in christendom, let alane the mearns, for that it would prejudice the country. and in the meanwhile ye'll no hinder gilliewhackit to take the small-pox. there was not the doctor in perth or stirling would look near the poor lad; and i cannot blame them, for donald had been misguggled by ane of these doctors about paris, and he swore he would fling the first into the loch that he catched beyond the pass. however, some cailliachs (that is, old women) that were about donald's hand, nursed gilliewhackit sae weel, that between the free open air in the cove and the fresh whey, deil an' he did not recover maybe as weel as if he had been closed in a glazed chamber and a bed with curtains, and fed with red wine and white meat. and donald was sae vexed about it, that when he was stout and weel, he even sent him free home, and said he would be pleased with onything they would like to gie him for the plague and trouble which he had about gilliewhackit to an unkenn'd degree. and i cannot tell you precisely how they sorted; but they agreed sae right that donald was invited to dance at the wedding in his highland trews, and they said that there was never sae meikle siller clinked in his purse either before or since. and to the boot of all that, gilliewhackit said, that, be the evidence what it liked, if he had the luck to be on donald's inquest, he would bring him in guilty of nothing whatever, unless it were wilful arson, or murder under trust.' with such bald and disjointed chat evan went on, illustrating the existing state of the highlands, more perhaps to the amusement of waverley than that of our readers. at length, after having marched over bank and brae, moss and heather, edward, though not unacquainted with the scottish liberality in computing distance, began to think that evan's five miles were nearly doubled. his observation on the large measure which the scottish allowed of their land, in comparison to the computation of their money, was readily answered by evan, with the old jest, the deil take them wha have the least pint stoup.' ['the scotch are liberal in computing their land and liquor; the scottish pint corresponds to two english quarts. as for their coin, every one knows the couplet-- 'how can the rogues pretend to sense? their pound is only twenty pence.'] and now the report of a gun was heard, and a sportsman was seen, with his dogs and attendant, at the upper end of the glen. 'shough,' said dugald mahony, 'tat's ta chief.' 'it is not,' said evan imperiously. 'do you think he would come to meet a sassenach duinhe-wassel in such a way as that?' but as they approached a little nearer, he said, with an appearance of mortification, 'and it is even he, sure enough; and he has not his tail on after all;--there is no living creature with him but callum beg.' in fact, fergus mac-ivor, of whom a frenchman might have said, as truly as of any man in the highlands, 'qu'il connoit bien ses gens,' had no idea of raising himself in the eyes of an english young man of fortune, by appearing with a retinue of idle highlanders disproportioned to the occasion. he was well aware that such an unnecessary attendance would seem to edward rather ludicrous than respectable; and while few men were more attached to ideas of chieftainship and feudal power, he was, for that very reason, cautious of exhibiting external marks of dignity, unless at the time and in the manner when they were most likely to produce an imposing effect. therefore, although, had he been to receive a brother chieftain, he would probably have been attended by all that retinue which evan described with so much unction, he judged it more respectable to advance to meet waverley with a single attendant, a very handsome highland boy, who carried his master's shooting-pouch and his broadsword, without which he seldom went abroad. when fergus and waverley met, the latter was struck with the peculiar grace and dignity of the chieftain's figure, above the middle size, and finely proportioned, the highland dress, which he wore in its simplest mode, set off his person to great advantage. he wore the trews, or close trousers, made of tartan, chequed scarlet and white; in other particulars, his dress strictly resembled evan's, excepting that he had no weapon save a dirk, very richly mounted with silver. his page, as we have said, carried his claymore and the fowling-piece, which he held in his hand, seemed only designed for sport. he had shot in the course of his walk some young wild-ducks, as, though close time was then unknown, the broods of grouse were yet too young for the sportsman. his countenance was decidedly scottish, with all the peculiarities of the northern physiognomy, but yet had so little of ifs harshness and exaggeration, that it would have been pronounced in any country extremely handsome. the martial air of the bonnet, with a single eagle's feather as a distinction, added much to the manly appearance of his head, which was besides ornamented with a far more natural and graceful cluster of close black curls than ever were exposed to sale in bond street. an air of openness and affability increased the favourable impression derived from this handsome and dignified exterior. yet a skilful physiognomist would have been less satisfied with the countenance on the second than on the first view. the eyebrow and upper lip bespoke something of the habit of peremptory command and decisive superiority. even his courtesy, though open, frank, and unconstrained, seemed to indicate a sense of personal importance; and, upon any check or accidental excitation, a sudden, though transient lour of the eye, showed a hasty, haughty, and vindictive temper, not less to be dreaded because it seemed much under its owner's command. in short, the countenance of the chieftain resembled a smiling summer's day, in which, notwithstanding, we are made sensible by certain, though slight signs, that it may thunder and lighten before the close of evening. it was not, however, upon their first meeting that edward had an opportunity of making these less favourable remarks. the chief received him as a friend of the baron of bradwardine, with the utmost expression of kindness and obligation for the visit; upbraided him gently with choosing so rude an abode as he had done the night before; and entered into a lively conversation with him about donald bean's housekeeping, but without the least hint as to his predatory habits, or the immediate occasion of waverley's visit, a topic which, as the chief did not introduce it, our hero also avoided. while they walked merrily on towards the house of glennaquoich, evan, who now fell respectfully into the rear, followed with callum beg and dugald mahony. we shall take the opportunity to introduce the reader to some particulars of fergus mac-ivor's character and history, which were not completely known to waverley till after a connexion, which, though arising from a circumstance so casual, had for a length of time the deepest influence upon his character, actions, and prospects. but this, being an important subject, must form the commencement of a new chapter. chapter xix the chief and his mansion the ingenious licentiate, francisco de ubeda, when he commenced his history of la picara justina diez,--which, by the way, is one of the most rare books of spanish literature,--complained of his pen having caught up a hair, and forthwith begins, with more eloquence than common sense, an affectionate expostulation with that useful implement, upbraiding it with being the quill of a goose,--a bird inconstant by nature, as frequenting the three elements of water, earth, and air, indifferently, and being, of course, 'to one thing constant never.' now i protest to thee, gentle reader, that i entirely dissent from francisco de ubeda in this matter, and hold it the most useful quality of my pen, that it can speedily change from grave to gay, and from description and dialogue to narrative and character. so that, if my quill display no other properties of its mother-goose than her mutability, truly i shall be well pleased; and i conceive that you, my worthy friend, will have no occasion for discontent. from the jargon, therefore, of the highland gillies, i pass to the character of their chief. it is an important examination, and therefore, like dogberry, we must spare no wisdom. the ancestor of fergus mac-ivor, about three centuries before, had set up a claim to be recognized as chief of the numerous and powerful clan to which he belonged, the name of which it is unnecessary to mention. being defeated by an opponent who had more justice, or at least more force, on his side, he moved southwards, with those who adhered to him, in quest of new settlements, like a second aeneas. the state of the perthshire highlands favoured his purpose. a great baron in that country had lately become traitor to the crown; ian, which was the name of our adventurer, united himself with those who were commissioned by the king to chastise him, and did such good service, that he obtained a grant of the property, upon which he and his posterity afterwards resided. he followed the king also in war to the fertile regions of england, where he employed his leisure hours so actively in raising subsidies among the boors of northumberland and durham, that upon his return he was enabled to erect a stone tower, or fortalice, so much admired by his dependants and neighbours, that he, who had hitherto been called ian mac-ivor, or john the son of ivor, was thereafter distinguished, both in song and genealogy, by the high title of ian nan chaistel, or john of the tower. the descendants of this worthy were so proud of him, that the reigning chief always bore the patronymic title of vich ian vohr, i.e. the son of john the great; while the clan at large, to distinguish them from that from which they had seceded, were denominated sliochd nan ivor, the race of ivor. the father of fergus, the tenth in direct descent from john of the tower, engaged heart and hand in the insurrection of , and was forced to fly to france, after the attempt of that year in favour of the stuarts had proved unsuccessful. more fortunate than other fugitives, he obtained employment in the french service, and married a lady of rank in that kingdom, by whom he had two children, fergus and his sister flora. the scottish estate had been forfeited and exposed to sale, but was re-purchased for a small price in the name of the young proprietor, who in consequence came to reside upon his native domains. [ ] it was soon perceived that he possessed a character of uncommon acuteness, fire, and ambition, which, as he became acquainted with the state of the country, gradually assumed a mixed and peculiar tone, that could only have been acquired sixty years since. had fergus mac-ivor lived sixty years sooner than he did, he would, in all probability, have wanted the polished manner and knowledge of the world which he now possessed; and had he lived sixty years later, his ambition and love of rule would have lacked the fuel which his situation now afforded. he was indeed, within his little circle, as perfect a politician as castruccio castracani himself. he applied himself with great earnestness to appease all the feuds and dissensions which often arose among other clans in his neighbourhood, so that he became a frequent umpire in their quarrels. his own patriarchal power he strengthened at every expense which his fortune would permit, and indeed stretched his means to the uttermost, to maintain the rude and plentiful hospitality, which was the most valued attribute of a chieftain. for the same reason, he crowded his estate with a tenantry, hardy indeed, and fit for the purposes of war, but greatly outnumbering what the soil was calculated to maintain. these consisted chiefly of his own clan, not one of whom he suffered to quit his lands if he could possibly prevent it. but he maintained, besides, many adventurers from the mother sept, who deserted a less warlike, though more wealthy chief, to do homage to fergus mac-ivor. other individuals, too, who had not even that apology, were nevertheless received into his allegiance, which indeed was refused to none who were, like poins, proper men of their hands, and were willing to assume the name of mac-ivor. he was enabled to discipline these forces, from having obtained command of one of the independent companies raised by government to preserve the peace of the highlands. while in this capacity he acted with vigour and spirit, and preserved great order in the country under his charge. he caused his vassals to enter by rotation into his company, and serve for a certain space of time, which gave them all in turn a general notion of military discipline. in his campaigns against the banditti, it was observed that he assumed and exercised to the utmost the discretionary power, which, while the law had no free course in the highlands, was conceived to belong to the military parties who were called in to support it. he acted, for example, with great and suspicious lenity to those freebooters who made restitution on his summons, and offered personal submission to himself, while he rigorously pursued, apprehended, and sacrificed to justice, all such interlopers as dared to despise his admonitions or commands. on the other hand, if any officers of justice, military parties, or others, presumed to pursue thieves or marauders through his territories, and without applying for his consent and concurrence, nothing was more certain than that they would meet with some notable foil or defeat; upon which occasions fergus mac-ivor was the first to condole with them, and, after gently blaming their rashness, never failed deeply to lament the lawless state of the country. these lamentations did not exclude suspicion, and matters were so represented to government, that our chieftain was deprived of his military command. [ ] whatever fergus mac-ivor felt on this occasion, he had the art of entirely suppressing every appearance of discontent; but in a short time the neighbouring country began to feel bad effects from his disgrace. donald bean lean, and others of his class, whose depredations had hitherto been confined to other districts, appeared from thenceforward to have made a settlement on this devoted border; and their ravages were carried on with little opposition, as the lowland gentry were chiefly jacobites, and disarmed. this forced many of the inhabitants into contracts of blackmail with fergus mac-ivor, which not only established him their protector, and gave him great weight in all their consultations, but, moreover, supplied funds for the waste of his feudal hospitality, which the discontinuance of his pay might have otherwise essentially diminished. in following this course of conduct, fergus had a further object than merely being the great man of his neighbourhood, and ruling despotically over a small clan. from his infancy upward, he had devoted himself to the cause of the exiled family, and had persuaded himself, not only that their restoration to the crown of britain would be speedy, but that those who assisted them would be raised to honour and rank. it was with this view that he laboured to reconcile the highlanders among themselves, and augmented his own force to the utmost, to be prepared for the first favourable opportunity of rising. with this purpose also he conciliated the favour of such lowland gentlemen in the vicinity as were friends to the good cause; and for the same reason, having incautiously quarrelled with mr. bradwardine, who, notwithstanding his peculiarities, was much respected in the country, he took advantage of the foray of donald bean lean to solder up the dispute in the manner we have mentioned. some, indeed, surmised that he caused the enterprise to be suggested to donald, on purpose to pave the way to a reconciliation, which, supposing that to be the case, cost the laird of bradwardine two good milch-cows. this zeal in their behalf the house of stuart repaid with a considerable share of their confidence, an occasional supply of louis d'or, abundance of fair words, and a parchment, with a huge waxen seal appended, purporting to be an earl's patent, granted by no less a person than james the third king of england, and eighth king of scotland, to his right leal, trusty, and well-beloved fergus mac-ivor of glennaquoich, in the county of perth, and kingdom of scotland. with this future coronet glittering before his eyes, fergus plunged deeply into the correspondence and plots of that unhappy period; and, like all such active agents, easily reconciled his conscience to going certain lengths in the service of his party, from which honour and pride would have deterred him, had his sole object been the direct advancement of his own personal interest. with this insight into a bold, ambitious, and ardent, yet artful and politic character, we resume the broken thread of our narrative. the chief and his guest had by this time reached the house of glennaquoich, which consisted of ian nan chaistel's mansion, a high rude-looking square tower, with the addition of a lofted house, that is, a building of two stories, constructed by fergus's grandfather when he returned from that memorable expedition, well remembered by the western shires under the name of the highland host. upon occasion of this crusade against the ayrshire whigs and covenanters, the vich ian vohr of the time had probably been as successful as his predecessor was in harrying northumberland, and therefore left to his posterity a rival edifice, as a monument of his magnificence. around the house, which stood on an eminence in the midst of a narrow highland valley, there appeared none of that attention to convenience, far less to ornament and decoration, which usually surrounds a gentleman's habitation. an enclosure or two, divided by dry-stone walls, were the only part of the domain that was fenced; as to the rest, the narrow slips of level ground which lay by the side of the brook exhibited a scanty crop of barley, liable to constant depredations from the herds of wild ponies and black cattle that grazed upon the adjacent hills. these ever and anon made an incursion upon the arable ground, which was repelled by the loud, uncouth, and dissonant shouts of half a dozen highland swains, all running as if they had been mad, and every one hallooing a half-starved dog to the rescue of the forage. at a little distance up the glen was a small and stunted wood of birch; the hills were high and heathy, but without any variety of surface; so that the whole view was wild and desolate, rather than grand and solitary. yet, such as it was, no genuine descendant of ian nan chaistel would have changed the domain for stowe or blenheim. there was a sight, however, before the gate, which perhaps would have afforded the first owner of blenheim more pleasure than the finest view in the domain assigned to him by the gratitude of his country. this consisted of about a hundred highlanders in complete dress and arms; at sight of whom the chieftain apologized to waverley in a sort of negligent manner. 'he had forgot,' he said, 'that he had ordered a few of his clan out, for the purpose of seeing that they were in a fit condition to protect the country, and prevent such accidents as, he was sorry to learn, had befallen the baron of bradwardine. before they were dismissed, perhaps captain waverley might choose to see them go through a part of their exercise.' edward assented, and the men executed with agility and precision some of the ordinary military movements. they then practised individually at a mark, and showed extraordinary dexterity in the management of the pistol and firelock. they took aim, standing, sitting, leaning, or lying prostrate, as they were commanded, and always with effect upon the target. next, they paired off for the broadsword exercise; and, having manifested their individual skill and dexterity, united in two bodies, and exhibited a sort of mock encounter, in which the charge, the rally, the flight, the pursuit, and all the current of a heady fight, were exhibited to the sound of the great war-bagpipe. on a signal made by the chief, the skirmish was ended. marches were then made for running, wrestling, leaping, pitching the bar, and other sports, in which this feudal militia displayed incredible swiftness, strength, and agility; and accomplished the purpose which their chieftain had at heart, by impressing on waverley no light sense of their merit as soldiers, and of the power of him who commanded them by his nod. [ ] 'and what number of such gallant fellows have the happiness to call you leader?' asked waverley. 'in a good cause, and under a chieftain whom they loved, the race of ivor have seldom taken the field under five hundred claymores. but you are aware, captain waverley, that the disarming act, passed about twenty years ago, prevents their being in the complete state of preparation as in former times; and i keep no more of my clan under arms than may defend my own or my friends' property, when the country is troubled with such men as your last night's landlord; and government, which has removed other means of defence, must connive at our protecting ourselves.' 'but, with your force, you might soon destroy, or put down, such gangs as that of donald bean lean.' 'yes, doubtless; and my reward would be a summons to deliver up to general blakeney, at stirling, the few broadswords they have left us: there were little policy in that, methinks.--but come, captain, the sound of the pipes informs me that dinner is prepared. let me have the honour to show you into my rude mansion.' chapter xx a highland feast ere waverley entered the banqueting hall, he was offered the patriarchal refreshment of a bath for the feet, which the sultry weather, and the morasses he had traversed, rendered highly acceptable. he was not, indeed, so luxuriously attended upon this occasion as the heroic travellers in the odyssey; the task of ablution and abstersion being performed, not by a beautiful damsel, trained to chafe the limb, and pour the fragrant oil, but by a smoke-dried skinny old highland woman, who did not seem to think herself much honoured by the duty imposed upon her, but muttered between her teeth, 'our father's herds did not feed so near together, that i should do you this service.' a small donation, however, amply reconciled this ancient handmaiden to the supposed degradation; and, as edward proceeded to the hall, she gave him her blessing, in the gaelic proverb, 'may the open hand be filled the fullest.' the hall, in which the feast was prepared, occupied all the first storey of ian nan chaistel's original erection, and a huge oaken table extended through its whole length. the apparatus for dinner was simple, even to rudeness, and the company numerous, even to crowding. at the head of the table was the chief himself, with edward, and two or three highland visitors of neighbouring clans; the elders of his own tribe, wadsetters, and tacksmen, as they were called, who occupied portions of his estate as mortgagers or lessees, sat next in rank beneath them, their sons, and nephews, and foster-brethren; then the officers of the chief's household, according to their order; and, lowest of all, the tenants who actually cultivated the ground. even beyond this long perspective, edward might see upon the green, to which a huge pair of folding doors opened, a multitude of highlanders of a yet inferior description, who, nevertheless, were considered as guests, and had their share both of the countenance of the entertainer, and of the cheer of the day. in the distance, and fluctuating round this extreme verge of the banquet, was a changeful group of women, ragged boys and girls, beggars, young and old, large greyhounds, and terriers, and pointers, and curs of low degree; all of whom took some interest, more or less immediate, in the main action of the piece. this hospitality, apparently unbounded, had yet its line of economy. some pains had been bestowed in dressing the dishes of fish, game, &c., which were at the upper end of the table, and immediately under the eye of the english stranger. lower down stood immense clumsy joints of mutton and beef, which, but for the absence of pork, [ .] abhorred in the highlands, resembled the rude festivity of the banquet of penelope's suitors. but the central dish was a yearling lamb, called 'a hog in har'st,' roasted whole. it was set upon its legs, with a bunch of parsley in its mouth, and was probably exhibited in that form to gratify the pride of the cook, who piqued himself more on the plenty than the elegance of his master's table. the sides of this poor animal were fiercely attacked by the clansmen, some with dirks, others with the knives which were usually in the same sheath with the dagger, so that it was soon rendered a mangled and rueful spectacle. lower down still, the victuals seemed of yet coarser quality, though sufficiently abundant. broth, onions, cheese, and the fragments of the feast, regaled the sons of ivor who feasted in the open air. the liquor was supplied in the same proportion, and under similar regulations. excellent claret and champagne were liberally distributed among the chief's immediate neighbours; whisky, plain or diluted, and strong beer, refreshed those who sat near the lower end. nor did this inequality of distribution appear to give the least offence. every one present understood that his taste was to be formed according to the rank which he held at table; and, consequently, the tacksmen and their dependants always professed the wine was too cold for their stomachs, and called, apparently out of choice, for the liquor which was assigned to them from economy. [see note .] the bagpipers, three in number, screamed, during the whole time of dinner, a tremendous war-tune; and the echoing of the vaulted roof, and clang of the celtic tongue, produced such a babel of noises, that waverley dreaded his ears would never recover it. mac-ivor, indeed, apologized for the confusion occasioned by so large a party, and pleaded the necessity of his situation, on which unlimited hospitality was imposed as a paramount duty. 'these stout idle kinsmen of mine,' he said, 'account my estate as held in trust for their support; and i must find them beef and ale, while the rogues will do nothing for themselves but practise the broadsword, or wander about the hills, shooting, fishing, hunting, drinking, and making love to the lasses of the strath. but what can i do, captain waverley? everything will keep after its kind, whether it be a hawk or a highlander.' edward made the expected answer, in a compliment upon his possessing so many bold and attached followers. 'why, yes,' replied the chief,' were i disposed, like my father, to put myself in the way of getting one blow on the head, or two on the neck, i believe the loons would stand by me. but who thinks of that in the present day, when the maxim is,--"better an old woman with a purse in her hand, than three men with belted brands?"' then, turning to the company, he proposed the 'health of captain waverley, a worthy friend of his kind neighbour and ally, the baron of bradwardine.' 'he is welcome hither,' said one of the elders, 'if he come from cosmo comyne bradwardine.' 'i say nay to that,' said an old man, who apparently did not mean to pledge the toast: 'i say nay to that;--while there is a green leaf in the forest, there will be fraud in a comyne.' 'there is nothing but honour in the baron of bradwardine,' answered another ancient; 'and the guest that comes hither from him should be welcome, though he came with blood on his hand, unless it were blood of the race of ivor.' the old man, whose cup remained full, replied, 'there has been blood enough of the race of ivor on the hand of bradwardine.' 'ah! ballenkeiroch,' replied the first, 'you think rather of the flash of the carbine at the mains of tully-veolan, than the glance of the sword that fought for the cause at preston.' 'and well i may,' answered ballenkeiroch; 'the flash of the gun cost me a fair-haired son, and the glance of the sword has done but little for king james.' the chieftain, in two words of french, explained to waverley, that the baron had shot this old man's son in a fray near tully-veolan about seven years before; and then hastened to remove ballenkeiroch's prejudice, by informing him that waverley was an englishman, unconnected by birth or alliance with the family of bradwardine; upon which the old gentleman raised the hitherto-untasted cup, and courteously drank to his health. this ceremony being requited in kind, the chieftain made a signal for the pipes to cease, and said aloud, 'where is the song hidden, my friends, that mac-murrough cannot find it?' mac-murrough, the family bhairdh, an aged man, immediately took the hint, and began to chant, with low and rapid utterance, a profusion of celtic verses, which were received by the audience with all the applause of enthusiasm. as he advanced in his declamation, his ardour seemed to increase. he had at first spoken with his eyes fixed on the ground; he now cast them around as if beseeching, and anon as if commanding, attention, and his tones rose into wild and impassioned notes, accompanied with appropriate gestures. he seemed to edward, who attended to him with much interest, to recite many proper names, to lament the dead, to apostrophize the absent, to exhort, and entreat, and animate those who were present. waverley thought he even discerned his own name, and was convinced his conjecture was right, from the eyes of the company being at that moment turned towards him simultaneously. the ardour of the poet appeared to communicate itself to the audience. their wild and sunburnt countenances assumed a fiercer and more animated expression; all bent forward towards the reciter, many sprang up and waved their arms in ecstasy, and some laid their hands on their swords. when the song ceased, there was a deep pause, while the aroused feelings of the poet and of the hearers gradually subsided into their usual channel. the chieftain, who during this scene had appeared rather to watch the emotions which were excited, than to partake their high tone of enthusiasm, filled with claret a small silver cup which stood by him. 'give this,' he said to an attendant, 'to mac-murrough nan fonn (i.e. of the songs), and when he has drunk the juice, bid him keep, for the sake of vich ian vohr, the shell of the gourd which contained it.' the gift was received by mac-murrough with profound gratitude; he drank the wine, and, kissing the cup, shrouded it with reverence in the plaid which was folded on his bosom. he then burst forth into what edward justly supposed to be an extemporaneous effusion of thanks, and praises of his chief. it was received with applause, but did not produce the effect of his first poem. it was obvious, however, that the clan regarded the generosity of their chieftain with high approbation. many approved gaelic toasts were then proposed, of some of which the chieftain gave his guest the following versions:--'to him that will not turn his back on friend or foe.' 'to him that never forsook a comrade.' 'to him that never bought or sold justice.' 'hospitality to the exile, and broken bones to the tyrant.' 'the lads with the kilts.' 'highlanders, shoulder to shoulder,'--with many other pithy sentiments of the like nature. edward was particularly solicitous to know the meaning of that song which appeared to produce such effect upon the passions of the company, and hinted his curiosity to his host. 'as i observe,' said the chieftain, 'that you have passed the bottle during the last three rounds, i was about to propose to you to retire to my sister's tea-table, who can explain these things to you better than i can. although i cannot stint my clan in the usual current of their festivity, yet i neither am addicted myself to exceed in its amount, nor do i,' added he, smiling, 'keep a bear to devour the intellects of such as can make good use of them.' edward readily assented to this proposal, and the chieftain, saying a few words to those around him, left the table, followed by waverley. as the door closed behind them, edward heard vich ian vohr's health invoked with a wild and animated cheer, that expressed the satisfaction of the guests, and the depth of their devotion to his service. chapter xxi the chieftain's sister the drawing-room of flora mac-ivor was furnished in the plainest and most simple manner; for at glennaquoich every other sort of expenditure was retrenched as much as possible, for the purpose of maintaining, in its full dignity, the hospitality of the chieftain, and retaining and multiplying the number of his dependants and adherents. but there was no appearance of this parsimony in the dress of the lady herself, which was in texture elegant, and even rich, and arranged in a manner which partook partly of the parisian fashion, and partly of the more simple dress of the highlands, blended together with great taste. her hair was not disfigured by the art of the friseur, but fell in jetty ringlets on her neck, confined only by a circlet, richly set with diamonds. this peculiarity she adopted in compliance with the highland prejudices, which could not endure that a woman's head should be covered before wedlock. flora mac-ivor bore a most striking resemblance to her brother fergus; so much so, that they might have played viola and sebastian with the same exquisite effect produced by the appearance of mrs. henry siddons and her brother, mr. william murray, in these characters. they had, the same antique and regular correctness of profile; the same dark eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows; the same clearness of complexion, excepting that fergus's was embrowned by exercise, and flora's possessed the utmost feminine delicacy. but the haughty, and somewhat stern regularity of fergus's features was beautifully softened in those of flora. their voices were also similar in tone, though differing in the key. that of fergus, especially while issuing orders to his followers during their military exercise, reminded edward of a favourite passage in the description of emetrius: --whose voice was heard around, loud as a trumpet with a silver sound. that of flora, on the contrary, was soft and sweet,--'an excellent thing in woman;' yet, in urging any favourite topic, which she often pursued with natural eloquence, it possessed as well the tones which impress awe and conviction, as those of persuasive insinuation. the eager glance of the keen black eye, which in the chieftain seemed impatient even of the material obstacles it encountered, had, in his sister, acquired a gentle pensiveness. his looks seemed to seek glory, power, all that could exalt him above others in the race of humanity; while those of his sister, as if she were already conscious of mental superiority, seemed to pity, rather than envy, those who were struggling for any further distinction. her sentiments corresponded with the expression of her countenance. early education had impressed upon her mind, as well as on that of the chieftain, the most devoted attachment to the exiled family of stuart. she believed if the duty of her brother, of his clan, of every man in britain, at whatever personal hazard, to contribute to that restoration which the partisans of the chevalier de st. george had not ceased to hope for. for this she was prepared to do all, to suffer all, to sacrifice all. but her loyalty, as it exceeded her brother's in fanaticism, excelled it also in purity. accustomed to petty intrigue, and necessarily involved in a thousand paltry and selfish discussions, ambitious also by nature, his political faith was tinctured, at least, if not tainted, by the views of interest and advancement so easily combined with it; and at the moment he should unsheathe his claymore, it might be difficult to say whether it would be most with the view of making james stuart a king, or fergus mac-ivor an earl. this, indeed, was a mixture of feeling which he did not avow even to himself, but it existed, nevertheless, in a powerful degree. in flora's bosom, on the contrary, the zeal of loyalty burnt pure and unmixed with any selfish feeling; she would have as soon made religion the mask of ambitious and interested views, as have shrouded them under the opinions which she had been taught to think patriotism. such instances of devotion were not uncommon among the followers of the unhappy race of stuart, of which many memorable proofs will recur to the mind of most of my readers. but peculiar attention on the part of the chevalier de st. george and his princess to the parents of fergus and his sister, and to themselves when orphans, had riveted their faith. fergus, upon the death of his parents, had been for some time a page of honour in the train of the chevalier's lady, and, from his beauty and sprightly temper, was uniformly treated by her with the utmost distinction. this was also extended to flora, who was maintained for some time at a convent of the first order, at the princess's expense, and removed from thence into her own family, where she spent nearly two years. both brother and sister retained the deepest and most grateful sense of her kindness. having thus touched upon the leading principle of flora's character, i may dismiss the rest more slightly. she was highly accomplished, and had acquired those elegant manners to be expected from one who, in early youth, had been the companion of a princess; yet she had not learned to substitute the gloss of politeness for the reality of feeling. when settled in the lonely regions of glennaquoich, she found that her resources in french, english, and italian literature, were likely to be few and interrupted; and, in order to fill up the vacant time, she bestowed a part of it upon the music and poetical traditions of the highlanders, and began really to feel the pleasure in the pursuit, which her brother, whose perceptions of literary merit were more blunt, rather affected for the sake of popularity than actually experienced. her resolution was strengthened in these researches by the extreme delight which her inquiries seemed to afford those to whom she resorted for information. her love of her clan, an attachment which was almost hereditary in her bosom, was, like her loyalty, a more pure passion than that of her brother. he was too thorough a politician, regarded his patriarchal influence too much as the means of accomplishing his own aggrandizement, that we should term him the model of a highland chieftain. flora felt the same anxiety for cherishing and extending their patriarchal sway, but it was with the generous desire of vindicating from poverty, or at least from want and foreign oppression, those whom her brother was by birth, according to the notions of the time and country, entitled to govern. the savings of her income, for she had a small pension from the princess sobieski, were dedicated, not to add to the comforts of the peasantry, for that was a word which they neither knew nor apparently wished to know, but to relieve their absolute necessities, when in sickness or extreme old age. at every other period, they rather toiled to procure something which they might share with the chief as a proof of their attachment, than expected other assistance from him save what was afforded by the rude hospitality of his castle, and the general division and subdivision of his estate among them. flora was so much beloved by them, that when mac-murrough composed a song in which he enumerated all the principal beauties of the district, and intimated her superiority by concluding; that 'the fairest apple hung on the highest bough,' he received, in donatives from the individuals of the clan, more seed-barley than would have sowed his highland parnassus, the bard's croft as it was called, ten times over. from situation, as well as choice, miss mac-ivor's society was extremely limited. her most intimate friend had been rose bradwardine, to whom she was much attached; and when seen together, they would have afforded an artist two admirable subjects for the gay and the melancholy muse. indeed rose was so tenderly watched by her father, and her circle of wishes was so limited, that none arose but what he was willing to gratify, and scarce any which did not come within the compass of his power. with flora it was otherwise. while almost a girl, she had undergone the most complete change of scene, from gaiety and splendour to absolute solitude and comparative poverty; and the ideas and wishes which she chiefly fostered, respected great national events, and changes not to be brought round without both hazard and bloodshed, and therefore not to be thought of with levity. her manner, consequently, was grave, though she readily contributed her talents to the amusement of society, and stood very high in the opinion of the old baron, who used to sing along with her such french duets of lindor and cloris, &c., as were in fashion about the end of the reign of old louis le grand. it was generally believed, though no one durst have hinted it to the baron of bradwardine, that flora's entreaties had no small share in allaying the wrath of fergus upon occasion of their quarrel. she took her brother on the assailable side, by dwelling first upon the baron's age, and then representing the injury which the cause might sustain, and the damage which must arise to his own character in point of prudence, so necessary to a political agent, if he persisted in carrying it to extremity. otherwise it is probable it would have terminated in a duel, both because the baron had, on a former occasion, shed blood of the clan, though the matter had been timely accommodated, and on account of his high reputation for address at his weapon, which fergus almost condescended to envy. for the same reason she had urged their reconciliation, which the chieftain the more readily agreed to, as it favoured some ulterior projects of his own. to this young lady, now presiding at the female empire of the tea-table, fergus introduced captain waverley, whom she received with the usual forms of politeness. chapter xxii highland minstrelsy when the first salutations had passed, fergus said to his sister, 'my dear flora, before i return to the barbarous ritual of our forefathers, i must tell you that captain waverley is a worshipper of the celtic muse, not the less so perhaps that he does not understand a word of her language. i have told him you are eminent as a translator of highland poetry, and that mac-murrough admires your version of his songs upon the same principle that captain waverley admires the original,--because he does not comprehend them. will you have the goodness to read or recite to our guest in english, the extraordinary string of names which mac-murrough has tacked together in gaelic?--my life to a moorfowl's feather, you are provided with a version; for i know you are in all the bard's councils, and acquainted with his songs long before he rehearses them in the hall.' 'how can you say so, fergus? you know how little these verses can possibly interest an english stranger, even if i could translate them as you pretend.' 'not less than they interest me, lady fair. to-day your joint composition, for i insist you had a share in it, has cost me the last silver cup in the castle, and i suppose will cost me something else next time i hold cour pleniere, if the muse descends on mac-murrough; for you know our proverb,--when the hand of the chief ceases to bestow, the breath of the bard is frozen in the utterance.--well, i would it were even so: there are three things that are useless to a modern highlander, a sword which he must not draw,--a bard to sing of deeds which he dare not imitate,--and a large goatskin purse without a louis d'or to put into it.' 'well, brother, since you betray my secrets, you cannot expect me to keep yours.--i assure you, captain waverley, that fergus is too proud to exchange his broadsword for a marechal's baton; that he esteems mac-murrough a far greater poet than homer, and would not give up his goat skin purse for all the louis d'or which it could contain.' 'well pronounced, flora; blow for blow, as conan [see note .] said to the devil. now do you two talk of bards and poetry, if not of purses and claymores, while i return to do the final honours to the senators of the tribe of ivor.' so saying, he left the room. the conversation continued between flora, and waverley; for two well-dressed young women, whose character seemed to hover between that of companions and dependants, took no share in it. they were both pretty girls, but served only as foils to the grace and beauty of their patroness. the discourse followed the turn which the chieftain had given it, and waverley was equally amused and surprised with the account which the lady gave him of celtic poetry. 'the recitation,' she said, 'of poems, recording the feats of heroes, the complaints of lovers, and the wars of contending tribes, forms the chief amusement of a winter fireside in the highlands. some of these are said to be very ancient, and if they are ever translated into any of the languages of civilized europe, cannot fail to produce a deep and general sensation. others are more modern, the composition of those family bards whom the chieftains of more distinguished name and power retain as the poets and historians of their tribes. these, of course, possess various degrees of merit; but much of it must evaporate in translation, or be lost on those who do not sympathize with the feelings of the poet. 'and your bard, whose effusions seemed to produce such effect upon the company to-day,--is he reckoned among the favourite poets of the mountain?' 'that is a trying question. his reputation is high among his countrymen, and you must not expect me to depreciate it.' [the highland poet almost always was an improvisatore. captain burt met one of them at lovat's table.] 'but the song, miss mac-ivor, seemed to awaken all those warriors, both young and old.' 'the song is little more than a catalogue of names of the 'highland clans under their distinctive peculiarities, and an exhortation to them to remember and to emulate the actions of their forefathers.' 'and am i wrong in conjecturing, however extraordinary the guess appears, that there was some allusion to me in the verses which he recited?' 'you have a quick observation, captain waverley, which in this instance has not deceived you. the gaelic language, being uncommonly vocalic, is well adapted for sudden and extemporaneous poetry; and a bard seldom fails to augment the effects of a premeditated song, by throwing in any stanzas which may be suggested by the circumstances attending the recitation.' 'i would give my best horse to know what the highland bard could find to say of such an unworthy southron as myself.' 'it shall not even cost you a lock of his mane.--una, mavourneen! (she spoke a few words to one of the young girls in attendance, who instantly curtsied, and tripped out of the room.)--i have sent una to learn from the bard the expressions he used, and you shall command my skill as dragoman.' una returned in a few minutes, and repeated to her mistress a few lines in gaelic. flora seemed to think for a moment, and then, slightly colouring, she turned to waverley--'it is impossible to gratify your curiosity, captain waverley, without exposing my own presumption. if you will give me a few moments for consideration, i will endeavour to engraft the meaning of these lines upon a rude english translation, which i have attempted, of a part of the original. the duties of the tea-table seem to be concluded, and, as the evening is delightful, una will show you the way to one of my favourite haunts, and cathleen and i will join you there.' una, having received instructions in her native language, conducted waverley out by a passage different from that through which he had entered the apartment. at a distance he heard the hall of the chief still resounding with the clang of bagpipes and the high applause of his guests. having gained the open air by a postern door, they walked a little way up the wild, bleak, and narrow valley in which the house was situated, following the course of the stream that winded through it. in a spot, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, two brooks, which formed the little river, had their junction. the larger of the two came down the long bare valley, which extended, apparently without any change or elevation of character, as far as the hills which formed its boundary permitted the eye to reach. but the other stream, which had its source among the mountains on the left hand of the strath, seemed to issue from a very narrow and dark opening betwixt two large rocks. these streams were different also in character. the larger was placid, and even sullen in its course, wheeling in deep eddies, or sleeping in dark blue pools; but the motions of the lesser brook were rapid and furious, issuing from between precipices, like a maniac from his confinement, all foam and uproar. it was up the course of this last stream that waverley, like a knight of romance, was conducted by the fair highland damsel, his silent guide. a small path, which had been rendered easy in many places for flora's accommodation, led him through scenery of a very different description from that which he had just quitted. around the castle, all was cold, bare, and desolate, yet tame even in desolation; but this narrow glen, at so short a distance, seemed to open into the land of romance. the rocks assumed a thousand peculiar and varied forms. in one place, a crag of huge size presented its gigantic bulk, as if to forbid the passenger's farther progress; and it was not until he approached its very base, that waverley discerned the sudden and acute turn by which the pathway wheeled its course around this formidable obstacle. in another spot, the projecting rocks from the opposite sides of the chasm had approached so near to each other, that two pine-trees laid across, and covered with turf, formed a rustic bridge at the height of at least one hundred and fifty feet. it had no ledges, and was barely three feet in breadth. while gazing at this pass of peril, which crossed, like a single black line, the small portion of blue sky not intercepted by the projecting rocks on either side, it was with a sensation of horror that waverley beheld flora and her attendant appear, like inhabitants of another region, propped, as it were, in mid air, upon this trembling structure. she stopped upon observing him below, and, with an air of graceful ease, which made him shudder, waved her handkerchief to him by way of signal. he was unable, from the sense of dizziness which her situation conveyed, to return the salute; and was never more relieved than when the fair apparition passed on from the precarious eminence which she seemed to occupy with so much indifference, and disappeared on the other side. advancing a few yards, and passing under the bridge which he had viewed with so much terror, the path ascended rapidly from the edge of the brook, and the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheatre, waving with birch, young oaks, and hazels, with here and there a scattered yew-tree. the rocks now receded, but still showed their grey and shaggy crests rising among the copse-wood. still higher, rose eminences and peaks, some bare, some clothed with wood, some round and purple with heath, and others splintered into rocks and crags. at a short turning, the path, which had for some furlongs lost sight of the brook, suddenly placed waverley in front of a romantic waterfall. it was not so remarkable either for great height or quantity of water, as for the beautiful accompaniments which made the spot interesting. after a broken cataract of about twenty feet, the stream was received in a large natural basin filled to the brim with water, which, where the bubbles of the fall subsided, was so exquisitely clear, that, although it was of great depth, the eye could discern each pebble at the bottom. eddying round this reservoir, the brook found its way over a broken part of the ledge, and formed a second fall, which seemed to seek the very abyss; then, wheeling out beneath from among the smooth dark rocks, which it had polished for ages, it wandered murmuring down the glen, forming the stream up which waverley had just ascended. [see note .] the borders of this romantic reservoir corresponded in beauty; but it was beauty of a stern and commanding cast, as if in the act of expanding into grandeur. mossy banks of turf were broken and interrupted by huge fragments of rock, and decorated with trees and shrubs, some of which had been planted under the direction of flora, but so cautiously, that they added to the grace, without diminishing the romantic wildness of the scene. here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapes of poussin, waverley found flora, gazing on the waterfall. two paces further back stood cathleen, holding a small scottish harp, the use of which had been taught to flora by rory dall, one of the last harpers of the western highlands. the sun, now stooping in the west, gave a rich and varied tinge to all the objects which surrounded waverley, and seemed to add more than human brilliancy to the full expressive darkness of flora's eye, exalted the richness and purity of her complexion, and enhanced the dignity and grace of her beautiful form. edward thought he had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined a figure of such exquisite and interesting loveliness. the wild beauty of the retreat, bursting upon him as if by magic, augmented the mingled feeling of delight and awe with which he approached her, like a fair enchantress of boiardo or ariosto, by whose nod the scenery around seemed to have been created, an eden in the wilderness. flora, like every beautiful woman, was conscious of her own power, and pleased with its effects, which she could easily discern from the respectful, yet confused address of the young soldier. but, as she possessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the scene, and other accidental circumstances, full weight in appreciating the feelings with which waverley seemed obviously to be impressed; and, unacquainted with the fanciful and susceptible peculiarities of his character, considered his homage as the passing tribute which a woman of even inferior charms might have expected in such a situation. she therefore quietly led the way to a spot at such a distance from the cascade, that its sound should rather accompany than interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and, sitting down upon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp from cathleen. 'i have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, captain waverley, both because i thought the scenery would interest you, and because a highland song would suffer still more from my imperfect translation, were i to introduce it without its own wild and appropriate accompaniments. to speak in the poetical language of my country, the seat of the celtic muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill, and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream. he who wooes her must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.' few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with a voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that the muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriate representative. but waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind, found no courage to utter it. indeed, the wild feeling of romantic delight with which he heard the first few notes she drew from her instrument, amounted almost to a sense of pain. he would not for worlds have quitted his place by her side; yet he almost longed for solitude, that he might decipher and examine at leisure the complication of emotions which now agitated his bosom. flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard for a lofty and uncommon highland air, which had been a battle-song in former ages. a few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild and peculiar tone, which harmonized well with the distant waterfall, and the soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen which overhung the seat of the fair harpress. the following verses convey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and accompanied, they were heard by waverley:-- there is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, but more dark is the sleep of the sons of the gael. a stranger commanded--it sunk on the land; it has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand! the dirk and the target lie sordid with dust; the bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust; on the hill or the glen if a gun should appear, it is only to war with the heath-cock or deer. the deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! be mute every string, and be hushed every tone, that shall bid us remember the fame that is flown! but the dark hours of night and of slumber are past; the morn on our mountains is dawning at last; glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays, and the streams of glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze. [the young and daring adventurer, charles edward, landed at glenaladale, in moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley of glenfinnan, mustering around it the mac-donalds, the camerons, and other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him. there is a monument erected on the spot, with a latin inscription by the late dr. gregory.] o high-minded moray!--the exiled--the dear!-- in the blush of the dawning the standard uprear! wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly, like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh! [the marquis of tullibardine's elder brother, who, long exiled, returned to scotland with charles edward in ] ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? that dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye, but it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die. o! sprung from the kings who in islay kept state, proud chiefs of clan ranald, glengarry, and sleat! combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, and resistless in union rush down on the foe! true son of sir even, undaunted lochiel, place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! rough keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell, till far coryarrick resound to the knell! stern son of lord kenneth, high chief of kinntail, let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! may the race of clan gillean, the fearless and free, remember glenlivat, harlaw, and dundee! let the clan of grey fingon, whose offspring has given such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven, unite with the race of renowned rorri more, to launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar. how mac-shimei will joy when their chief shall display the ewe-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey! how the race of wronged alpine and murdered glencoe shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe! ye sons of brown dermid, who slew the wild boar, resume the pure faith of the great callum-more! mac-neil of the islands, and moy of the lake, for honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake! here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon flora, and interrupted her music by his importunate caresses. at a distant whistle, he turned, and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow. 'that is fergus's faithful attendant, captain waverley, and that was his signal. he likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good time to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucy english poets calls our bootless host of high-born beggars, mac-leans, mac-kenzies, and mac-gregors.' waverley expressed his regret at the interruption. 'oh, you cannot guess how much you have lost! the bard, as in duty bound, has addressed three long stanzas to vich ian vohr of the banners, enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a cheerer of the harper and bard,--"a giver of bounteous gifts." besides, you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son of the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green--the rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. this valiant horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors were distinguished by their loyalty, as well as by their courage.--all this you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, i judge, from the distant sound of my brother's whistle, i may have time to sing the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation.' awake on your hills, on your islands awake, brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'tis the bugle--but not for the chase is the call; 'tis the pibroch's shrill summons--but not to the hall. 'tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death, when the banners are blazing on mountain and heath: they call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, to the march and the muster, the line and the charge. be the brand of each chieftain like fin's in his ire! may the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire! burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore, or die like your sires, and endure it no more! chapter xxiii waverley continues at glennaquoich as flora concluded her song, fergus stood before them. 'i knew i should find you here, even without the assistance of my friend bran. a simple and unsublimed taste now, like my own, would prefer a jet d'eau at versailles to this cascade with all its accompaniments of rock and roar; but this is flora's parnassus, captain waverley, and that fountain her helicon. it would be greatly for the benefit of my cellar if she could teach her coadjutor, mac-murrough, the value of its influence: he has just drunk a pint of usquebaugh to correct, he said, the coldness of the claret.--let me try its virtues.' he sipped a little water in the hollow of his hand, and immediately commenced, with a theatrical air,-- 'o lady of the desert, hail! that lov'st the harping of the gael, through fair and fertile regions borne, where never yet grew grass or corn. but english poetry will never succeed under the influence of a highland helicon.--allons, courage!-- o vous, qui buvez, a tasse pleine, a cette heureuse fontaine, ou on ne voit, sur le rivage, que quelques vilains troupeaux, suivis de nymphes de village, qui les escortent sans sabots'-- 'a truce, dear fergus! spare us those most tedious and insipid persons of all arcadia. do not, for heaven's sake, bring down coridon and lindor upon us.' 'nay, if you cannot relish la houlette et le chalumeau, have with you in heroic strains.' 'dear fergus, you have certainly partaken of the inspiration of mac-murrough's cup, rather than of mine.' 'i disclaim it, ma belle demoiselle, although i protest it would be the more congenial of the two. which of your crackbrained italian romancers is it that says, io d'elicona niente mi curo, in fe de dio, che'il bere d'acque (bea chi ber ne vuol) sempre me spiacque! [good sooth, i reck not of your helicon; drink water whoso will, in faith i will drink none.] but if you prefer the gaelic, captain waverley, here is little cathleen shall sing you drimmindhu.--come, cathleen, astore (i.e. my dear), begin; no apologies to the ceankinne.' cathleen sang with much liveliness a little gaelic song, the burlesque elegy of a countryman on the loss of his cow, the comic tones of which, though he did not understand the language, made waverley laugh more than once. [this ancient gaelic ditty is still well known, both in the highlands and in ireland. it was translated into english, and published, if i mistake not, under the auspices of the facetious tom d'urfey, by the title of 'colley, my cow.'] 'admirable, cathleen!' cried the chieftain; 'i must find you a handsome husband among the clansmen one of these days.' cathleen laughed, blushed, and sheltered herself behind her companion. in the progress of their return to the castle, the chieftain warmly pressed waverley to remain for a week or two, in order to see a grand hunting party, in which he and some other highland gentlemen proposed to join. the charms of melody and beauty were too strongly impressed in edward's breast to permit his declining an invitation so pleasing. it was agreed, therefore, that he should write a note to the baron of bradwardine, expressing his intention to stay a fortnight at glennaquoich, and requesting him to forward by the bearer (a gilly of the chieftain's) any letters which might have arrived for him. this turned the discourse upon the baron, whom fergus highly extolled as a gentleman and soldier. his character was touched with yet more discrimination by flora, who observed that he was the very model of the old scottish cavalier, with all his excellences and peculiarities. 'it is a character, captain waverley, which is fast disappearing; for its best point was a self-respect, which was never lost sight of till now. but, in the present time, the gentlemen whose principles do not permit them to pay court to the existing government are neglected and degraded, and many conduct themselves accordingly; and, like some of the persons you have seen at tully-veolan, adopt habits and companions inconsistent with their birth and breeding. the ruthless proscription of party seems to degrade the victims whom it brands, however unjustly. but let us hope that a brighter day is approaching, when a scottish country-gentleman may be a scholar without the pedantry of our friend the baron; a sportsman, without the low habits of mr. falconer; and a judicious improver of his property, without becoming a boorish two-legged steer like killancureit.' thus did flora prophesy a revolution, which time indeed has produced, but in a manner very different from what she had in her mind. the amiable rose was next mentioned, with the warmest encomium on her person, manners, and mind, 'that man,' said flora, 'will find an inestimable treasure in the affections of rose bradwardine, who shall be so fortunate as to become their object. her very soul is in home, and in the discharge of all those quiet virtues of which home is the centre. her husband will be to her what her father now is--the object of all her care, solicitude, and affection. she will see nothing, and connect herself with nothing, but by him and through him. if he is a man of sense and virtue, she will sympathize in his sorrows, divert his fatigue, and share his pleasures. if she becomes the property of a churlish or negligent husband, she will suit his taste also, for she will not long survive his unkindness. and, alas, how great is the chance that some such unworthy lot may be that of my poor friend!--oh, that i were a queen this moment, and could command the most amiable and worthy youth of my kingdom to accept happiness with the hand of rose bradwardine!' 'i wish you would command her to accept mine en attendant,' said fergus, laughing. i don't know by what caprice it was that this wish, however jocularly expressed, rather jarred on edward's feelings, notwithstanding his growing inclination to flora, and his indifference to miss bradwardine. this is one of the inexplicabilities of human nature, which we leave without comment. 'yours, brother?' answered flora, regarding him steadily. 'no; you have another bride--honour; and the dangers you must run in pursuit of her rival would break poor rose's heart.' with this discourse they reached the castle, and waverley soon prepared his dispatches for tully-veolan. as he knew the baron was punctilious in such matters, he was about to impress his billet with a seal on which his armorial bearings were engraved, but he did not find it at his watch, and thought he must have left it at tully-veolan. he mentioned his loss, borrowing at the same time the family seal of the chieftain. 'surely,' said miss mac-ivor, 'donald bean lean would not--' 'my life for him, in such circumstances,' answered her brother;--'besides, he would never have left the watch behind.' 'after all, fergus,' said flora,' and with every allowance, i am surprised you can countenance that man.' 'i countenance him!--this kind sister of mine would persuade you, captain waverley, that i take what the people of old used to call "a steakraid," that is, a "collop of the foray," or, in plainer words, a portion of the robber's booty, paid by him to the laird, or chief, through whose grounds he drove his prey. oh, it is certain, that unless i can find some way to charm flora's tongue, general blakeney will send a sergeant's party from stirling (this he said with haughty and emphatic irony) to seize vich ian vohr, as they nickname me, in his own castle.' 'now, fergus, must not our guest be sensible that all this is folly and affectation? you have men enough to serve you without enlisting a banditti, and your own honour is above taint.--why don't you send this donald bean lean, whom i hate for his smoothness and duplicity, even more than for his rapine, out of your country at once? no cause should induce me to tolerate such a character.' 'no cause, flora?' said the chieftain, significantly. 'no cause, fergus! not even that which is nearest to my heart. spare it the omen of such evil supporters!' 'oh, but, sister,' rejoined the chief, gaily, 'you don't consider my respect for la belle passion. evan dhu maccombich is in love with donald's daughter, alice, and you cannot expect me to disturb him in his amours. why, the whole clan would cry shame on me. you know it is one of their wise sayings, that a kinsman is part of a man's body, but a foster-brother is a piece of his heart.' 'well, fergus, there is no disputing with you; but i would all this may end well.' 'devoutly prayed, my dear and prophetic sister, and the best way in the world to close a dubious argument.--but hear ye not the pipes, captain waverley? perhaps you will like better to dance to them in the hall, than to be deafened with their harmony without taking part in the exercise they invite us to.' waverley took flora's hand. the dance, song, and merry-making proceeded, and closed the day's entertainment at the castle of vich ian vohr. edward at length retired, his mind agitated by a variety of new and conflicting feelings, which detained him from rest for some time, in that not unpleasing state of mind in which fancy takes the helm, and the soul rather drifts passively along with the rapid and confused tide of reflections, than exerts itself to encounter, systematize, or examine them. at a late hour he fell asleep, and dreamed of flora mac-ivor. chapter xxiv a stag-hunt, and its consequences shall this be a long or a short chapter?--this is a question in which you, gentle reader, have no vote, however much you may be interested in the consequences; just as you may (like myself) probably have nothing to do with the imposing a new tax, excepting the trifling circumstance of being obliged to pay it. more happy surely in the present case, since, though it lies within my arbitrary power to extend my materials as i think proper, i cannot call you into exchequer if you do not think proper to read my narrative. let me therefore consider. it is true, that the annals and documents in my hands say but little of this highland chase; but then i can find copious materials for description elsewhere. there is old lindsay of pitscottie ready at my elbow, with his athole hunting, and his 'lofted and joisted palace of green timber; with all kind of drink to be had in burgh and land, as ale, beer, wine, muscadel, malvaise, hippocras, and aquavitae; with wheat-bread, main-bread, ginge-bread, beef, mutton, lamb, veal, venison, goose, grice, capon, coney, crane, swan, partridge, plover, duck, drake, brissel-cock, pawnies, black-cock, muir-fowl, and capercailzies;' not forgetting the 'costly bedding, vaiselle, and napry,' and least of all the 'excelling stewards, cunning barters, excellent cooks, and pottingars, with confections and drugs for the desserts.' besides the particulars which may be thence gleaned for this highland feast (the splendour of which induced the pope's legate to dissent from an opinion which he had hitherto held, that scotland, namely, was the--the--the latter end of the world)--besides these, might i not illuminate my pages with taylor the water poet's hunting in the braes of mar, where, through heather, mosse, 'mong frogs, and bogs, and fogs, 'mongst craggy cliffs and thunder-battered hills, hares, hinds, bucks, roes, are chased by men and dogs, where two hours' hunting fourscore fat deer kills. lowland, your sports are low as is your seat; the highland games and minds are high and great. but without further tyranny over my readers, or display of the extent of my own reading, i shall content myself with borrowing a single incident from the memorable hunting at lude, commemorated in the ingenious mr. gunn's essay on the caledonian harp, and so proceed in my story with all the brevity that my natural style of composition, partaking of what scholars call the periphrastic and ambagitory, and the vulgar the circumbendibus, will permit me. the solemn hunting was delayed, from various causes, for about three weeks. the interval was spent by waverley with great satisfaction at glennaquoich; for the impression which flora had made on his mind at their first meeting grew daily stronger. she was precisely the character to fascinate a youth of romantic imagination. her manners, her language, her talents for poetry and music, gave additional and varied influence to her eminent personal charms. even in her hours of gaiety, she was in his fancy exalted above the ordinary daughters of eve, and seemed only to stoop for an instant to those topics of amusement and gallantry which others appear to live for. in the neighbourhood of this enchantress, while sport consumed the morning, and music and the dance led on the hours of evening, waverley became daily more delighted with his hospitable landlord, and more enamoured of his bewitching sister. at length, the period fixed for the grand hunting arrived, and waverley and the chieftain departed for the place of rendezvous, which was a day's journey to the northward of glennaquoich. fergus was attended on this occasion by about three hundred of his clan, well armed, and accoutred in their best fashion. waverley complied so far with the custom of the country as to adopt the trews (he could not be reconciled to the kilt), brogues, and bonnet, as the fittest dress for the exercise in which he was to be engaged, and which least exposed him to be stared at as a stranger when they should reach the place of rendez-vous. they found, on the spot appointed, several powerful chiefs, to all of whom waverley was formally presented, and by all cordially received. their vassals and clansmen, a part of whose feudal duty it was to attend on these parties, appeared in such numbers as amounted to a small army. these active assistants spread through the country far and near, forming a circle, technically called the tinchel, which, gradually closing, drove the deer in herds together towards the glen where the chiefs and principal sportsmen lay in wait for them. in the meanwhile, these distinguished personages bivouacked among the flowery heath, wrapped up in their plaids; a mode of passing a summer's night which waverley found by no means unpleasant. for many hours after sunrise, the mountain ridges and passes retained their ordinary appearance of silence and solitude; and the chiefs, with their followers, amused themselves with various pastimes, in which the joys of the shell, as ossian has it, were not forgotten. 'others apart sat on a hill retired;' probably as deeply engaged in the discussion of politics and news, as milton's spirits in metaphysical disquisition. at length signals of the approach of the game were descried and heard. distant shouts resounded from valley to valley, as the various parties of highlanders, climbing rocks, struggling through copses, wading brooks, and traversing thickets, approached more and more near to each other, and compelled the astonished deer, with the other wild animals that fled before them, into a narrower circuit. every now and then the report of muskets was heard, repeated by a thousand echoes. the baying of the dogs was soon added to the chorus, which grew ever louder and more loud. at length the advanced parties of the deer began to show themselves; and as the stragglers came bounding down the pass by two or three at a time, the chiefs showed their skill by distinguishing the fattest deer, and their dexterity in bringing them down with their guns. fergus exhibited remarkable address, and edward was also so fortunate as to attract the notice and applause of the sportsmen. but now the main body of the deer appeared at the head of the glen, compelled into a very narrow compass, and presenting such a formidable phalanx, that their antlers appeared at a distance, over the ridge of the steep pass, like a leafless grove. their number was very great, and from a desperate stand which they made, with the tallest of the red-deer stags arranged in front, in a sort of battle array, gazing on the group which barred their passage down the glen, the more experienced sportsmen began to augur danger. the work of destruction, however, now commenced on all sides. dogs and hunters were at work, and muskets and fusees resounded from every quarter. the deer, driven to desperation, made at length a fearful charge right upon the spot where the more distinguished sportsmen had taken their stand. the word was given in gaelic to fling themselves upon their faces; but waverley, on whose english ears the signal was lost, had almost fallen a sacrifice to his ignorance of the ancient language in which it was communicated. fergus, observing his danger, sprang up and pulled him with violence to the ground, just as the whole herd broke down upon them. the tide being absolutely irresistible, and wounds from a stag's horn highly dangerous, the activity of the chieftain may be considered, on this occasion, as having saved his guest's life. [the thrust from the tynes, or branches, of the stag's horns, was accounted far more dangerous than those of the boar's tusk:-- if thou be hurt with horn of stag, it brings thee to thy bier, but barber's hand shall boar's hurt heal; thereof have thou no fear.] he detained him with a firm grasp until the whole herd of deer had fairly run over them. waverley then attempted to rise, but found that he had suffered several very severe contusions; and, upon a further examination, discovered that he had sprained his ankle violently. this checked the mirth of the meeting, although the highlanders, accustomed to such incidents, and prepared for them, had suffered no harm themselves. a wigwam was erected almost in an instant, where edward was deposited on a couch of heather. the surgeon, or he who assumed the office, appeared to unite the characters of a leech and a conjurer. he was an old smoke-dried highlander, wearing a venerable grey beard, and having for his sole garment a tartan frock, the skirts of which descended to the knee; and, being undivided in front, made the vestment serve at once for doublet and breeches. [this garb, which resembled the dress often put on children in scotland, called a polonie (i.e. polonaise), is a very ancient modification of the highland garb. it was, in fact, the hauberk or shirt of mail, only composed of cloth instead of rings of armour.] he observed great ceremony in approaching edward; and though our hero was writhing with pain, would not proceed to any operation which might assuage it until he had perambulated his couch three times, moving from east to west, according to the course of the sun. this, which was called making the deasil, [old highlanders will still make the deasil around those whom they wish well to. to go round a person in the opposite direction, or wither-shins (german wider-shins), is unlucky, and a sort of incantation.] both the leech and the assistants seemed to consider as a matter of the last importance to the accomplishment of a cure; and waverley, whom pain rendered incapable of expostulation, and who indeed saw no chance of its being attended to, submitted in silence. after this ceremony was duly performed, the old esculapius let his patient blood with a cupping-glass with great dexterity, and proceeded, muttering all the while to himself in gaelic, to boil on the fire certain herbs, with which he compounded an embrocation. he then fomented the parts which had sustained injury, never failing to murmur prayers or spells, which of the two waverley could not distinguish, as his ear only caught the words gasper-melchior-balthazar-max-prax-fax, and similar gibberish. the fomentation had a speedy effect in alleviating the pain and swelling, which our hero imputed to the virtue of the herbs, or the effect of the chafing, but which was by the bystanders unanimously ascribed to the spells with which the operation had been accompanied. edward was given to understand, that not one of the ingredients had been gathered except during the full moon, and that the herbalist had, while collecting them, uniformly recited a charm, which in english ran thus:-- hail to thee, thou holy herb, that sprung on holy ground! all in the mount olivet first wert thou found: thou art boot for many a bruise, and healest many a wound; in our lady's blessed name, i take thee from the ground.' [this metrical spell, or something very like it, is preserved by reginald scott, in his work on witchcraft.] edward observed, with some surprise, that even fergus, notwithstanding his knowledge and education, seemed to fall in with the superstitious ideas of his countrymen, either because he deemed it impolitic to affect scepticism on a matter of general belief, or more probably because, like most men who do not think deeply or accurately on such subjects, he had in his mind a reserve of superstition which balanced the freedom of his expressions and practice upon other occasions. waverley made no commentary, therefore, on the manner of the treatment, but rewarded the professor of medicine with a liberality beyond the utmost conception of his wildest hopes. he uttered, on the occasion, so many incoherent blessings in gaelic and english, that mac-ivor, rather scandalized at the excess of his acknowledgements, cut them short, by exclaiming, 'ceud mile mhalloich art ort!' i.e. 'a hundred thousand curses on you!' and so pushed the helper of men out of the cabin. after waverley was left alone, the exhaustion of pain and fatigue,--for the whole day's exercise had been severe,--threw him into a profound, but yet a feverish sleep, which he chiefly owed to an opiate draught administered by the old highlander from some decoction of herbs in his pharmacopoeia. early the next morning, the purpose of their meeting being over, and their sports damped by the untoward accident, in which fergus and all his friends expressed the greatest sympathy, it became a question how to dispose of the disabled sportsman. this was settled by mac-ivor, who had a litter prepared, of 'birch and hazel grey,' [on the morrow they made their biers, of birch and hazel grey.--chevy chase.] which was borne by his people with such caution and dexterity as renders it not improbable that they may have been the ancestors of some of those sturdy gael, who have now the happiness to transport the belles of edinburgh, in their sedan chairs, to ten routs in one evening. when edward was elevated upon their shoulders, he could not help being gratified with the romantic effect produced by the breaking up of this sylvan camp. [the author has been sometimes accused of confounding fiction with reality. he therefore thinks it necessary to state, that the circumstance of the hunting described in the text as preparatory to the insurrection of , is, so far as he knows, entirely imaginary. but it is well known such a great hunting was held in the forest of braemar, under the auspices of the earl of mar, as preparatory to the rebellion of ; and most of the highland chieftains who afterwards engaged in that civil commotion were present on this occasion.] the various tribes assembled, each at the pibroch of their native clan, and each headed by their patriarchal ruler. some, who had already begun to retire, were seen winding up the hills, or descending the passes which led to the scene of action, the sound of their bagpipes dying upon the ear. others made still a moving picture upon the narrow plain, forming various changeful groups, their feathers and loose plaids waving in the morning breeze, and their arms glittering in the rising sun. most of the chiefs came to take farewell of waverley, and to express their anxious hope they might again, and speedily, meet; but the care of fergus abridged the ceremony of taking leave. at length, his own men being completely assembled and mustered. mac-ivor commenced his march, but not towards the quarter from which they had come. he gave edward to understand, that the greater part of his followers, now on the field, were bound on a distant expedition, and that when he had deposited him in the house of a gentleman, who he was sure would pay him every attention, he himself should be under the necessity of accompanying them the greater part of the way, but would lose no time in rejoining his friend. waverley was rather surprised that fergus had not mentioned this ulterior destination when they set out upon the hunting-party; but his situation did not admit of many interrogatories. the greater part of the clansmen went forward under the guidance of old ballenkeiroch and evan dhu maccombich, apparently in high spirits. a few remained for the purpose of escorting the chieftain, who walked by the side of edward's litter, and attended him with the most affectionate assiduity. about noon, after a journey which the nature of the conveyance, the pain of his bruises, and the roughness of the way, rendered inexpressibly painful, waverley was hospitably received into the house of a gentleman related to fergus, who had prepared for him every accommodation which the simple habits of living, then universal in the highlands, put in his power. in this person, an old man about seventy, edward admired a relic of primitive simplicity. he wore no dress but what his estate afforded. the cloth was the fleece of his own sheep, woven by his own servants, and stained into tartan by the dyes produced from the herbs and lichens of the hills around him. his linen was spun by his daughters and maid-servants, from his own flax, nor did his table, though plentiful, and varied with game and fish, offer an article but what was of native produce. claiming himself no rights of clanship or vassalage, he was fortunate in the alliance and protection of vich ian vohr and other bold and enterprising chieftains, who protected him in the quiet unambitious life he loved. it is true, the youth born on his grounds were often enticed to leave him for the service of his more active friends; but a few old servants and tenants used to shake their grey locks when they heard their master censured for want of spirit, and observed, 'when the wind is still, the shower falls soft.' this good old man, whose charity and hospitality were unbounded, would have received waverley with kindness, had he been the meanest saxon peasant, since his situation required assistance. but his attention to a friend and guest of vich ian vohr was anxious and unremitted. other embrocations were applied to the injured limb, and new spells were put in practice. at length, after more solicitude than was perhaps for the advantage of his health, fergus took farewell of edward for a few days, when, he said, he would return to tomanrait, and hoped by that time waverley would be able to ride one of the highland ponies of his landlord, and in that manner return to glennaquoich. the next day, when his good old host appeared, edward learned that his friend had departed with the dawn, leaving none of his followers except callum beg, the sort of foot-page who used to attend his person, and who had it now in charge to wait upon waverley. on asking his host if he knew where the chieftain was gone, the old man looked fixedly at him, with something mysterious and sad in the smile which was his only reply. waverley repeated his question, to which his host answered in a proverb,-- what sent the messengers to hell, was asking what they knew full well.' [corresponding to the lowland saying, 'mony ane speirs the gate they ken fu' weel.] he was about to proceed, but callum beg said, rather pertly, as edward thought, that 'ta tighearnach (i.e. the chief) did not like ta sassenagh duinhe-wassel to be pingled wi' mickle speaking, as she was na tat weel.' from this waverley concluded he should disoblige his friend by inquiring of a stranger the object of a journey which he himself had not communicated. it is unnecessary to trace the progress of our hero's recovery. the sixth morning had arrived, and he was able to walk about with a staff, when fergus returned with about a score of his men. he seemed in the highest spirits, congratulated waverley on his progress towards recovery, and finding he was able to sit on horseback, proposed their immediate return to glennaquoich, waverley joyfully acceded, for the form of his fair mistress had lived in his dreams during all the time of his confinement. now he has ridden o'er moor and moss, o'er hill and many a glen. fergus, all the while, with his myrmidons, striding stoutly by his side, or diverging to get a shot at a roe or a heath-cock. waverley's bosom beat thick when they approached the old tower of ian nan chaistel, and could distinguish the fair form of its mistress advancing to meet them. fergus began immediately, with his usual high spirits, to exclaim, 'open your gates, incomparable princess, to the wounded moor abindarez, whom rodrigo de narvez, constable of antiquera, conveys to your castle; or open them, if you like it better, to the renowned marquis of mantua, the sad attendant of his half-slain friend, baldovinos of the mountain.--ah, long rest to thy soul, cervantes! without quoting thy remnants, how should i frame my language to befit romantic ears!' flora now advanced, and welcoming waverley with much kindness, expressed her regret for his accident, of which she had already heard the particulars, and her surprise that her brother should not have taken better care to put a stranger on his guard against the perils of the sport in which he engaged him. edward easily exculpated the chieftain, who, indeed, at his own personal risk, had probably saved his life. this greeting over, fergus said three or four words to his sister in gaelic. the tears instantly sprang to her eyes, but they seemed to be tears of devotion and joy, for she looked up to heaven, and folded her hands as in a solemn expression of prayer or gratitude. after the pause of a minute, she presented to edward some letters which had been forwarded from tully-veolan during his absence, and, at the same time, delivered some to her brother. to the latter she likewise gave three or four numbers of the caledonian mercury, the only newspaper which was then published to the north of the tweed. both gentlemen retired to examine their dispatches, and edward speedily found that those which he had received contained matters of very deep interest. chapter xxv news from england the letters which waverley had hitherto received from his relations in england, were not such as required any particular notice in this narrative. his father usually wrote to him with the pompous affectation of one who was too much oppressed by public affairs to find leisure to attend to those of his own family. now and then he mentioned persons of rank in scotland to whom he wished his son should pay some attention; but waverley, hitherto occupied by the amusements which he had found at tully-veolan and glennaquoich, dispensed with paying any attention to hints so coldly thrown out, especially as distance, shortness of leave of absence, and so forth, furnished a ready apology. but latterly the burden of mr. richard waverley's paternal epistles consisted in certain mysterious hints of greatness and influence which he was speedily to attain, and which would ensure his son's obtaining the most rapid promotion, should he remain in the military service. sir everard's letters were of a different tenor. they were short; for the good baronet was none of your illimitable correspondents, whose manuscript overflows the folds of their large post paper, and leaves no room for the seal; but they were kind and affectionate, and seldom concluded without some allusion to our hero's stud, some question about the state of his purse, and a special inquiry after such of his recruits as had preceded him from waverley-honour. aunt rachel charged him to remember his principles of religion, to take care of his health, to beware of scotch mists, which, she had heard, would wet an englishman through and through; never to go out at night without his great-coat; and, above all, to wear flannel next to his skin. mr. pembroke only wrote to our hero one letter, but it was of the bulk of six epistles of these degenerate days, containing, in the moderate compass of ten folio pages, closely written, a precis of a supplementary quarto manuscript of addenda, delenda, et corrigenda, in reference to the two tracts with which he had presented waverley. this he considered as a mere sop in the pan to stay the appetite of edward's curiosity, until he should find an opportunity of sending down the volume itself, which was much too heavy for the post, and which he proposed to accompany with certain interesting pamphlets, lately published by his friend in little britain, with whom he had kept up a sort of literary correspondence, in virtue of which the library shelves of waverley-honour were loaded with much trash, and a good round bill, seldom summed in fewer than three figures, was yearly transmitted, in which sir everard waverley, of waverley-honour, bart., was marked dr. to jonathan grubbet, bookseller and stationer, little britain. such had hitherto been the style of the letters which edward had received from england; but the packet delivered to him at glennaquoich was of a different and more interesting complexion. it would be impossible for the reader, even were i to insert the letters at full length, to comprehend the real cause of their being written, without a glance into the interior of the british cabinet at the period in question. the ministers of the day happened (no very singular event) to be divided into two parties; the weakest of which, making up by assiduity of intrigue their inferiority in real consequence, had of late acquired some new proselytes, and with them the hope of superseding their rivals in the favour of their sovereign, and overpowering them in the house of commons. amongst others, they had thought it worth while to practise upon richard waverley. this honest gentleman, by a grave mysterious demeanour, an attention to the etiquette of business, rather more than to its essence, a facility in making long dull speeches, consisting of truisms and commonplaces, hashed up with a technical jargon of office, which prevented the inanity of his orations from being discovered, had acquired a certain name and credit in public life, and even established, with many, the character of a profound politician; none of your shining orators, indeed, whose talents evaporate in tropes of rhetoric and dashes of wit, but one possessed of steady parts for business, which would wear well, as the ladies say in choosing their silks, and ought in all reason to be good for common and everyday use, since they were confessedly formed of no holiday texture. this faith had become so general, that the insurgent party in the cabinet of which we have made mention, after sounding mr. richard waverley, were so satisfied with his sentiments and abilities, as to propose, that, in case of a certain revolution in the ministry, he should take an ostensible place in the new order of things, not indeed of the very first rank, but greatly higher, in point both of emolument and influence, than that which he now enjoyed. there was no resisting so tempting a proposal, notwithstanding that the great man, under whose patronage he had enlisted and by whose banner he had hitherto stood firm, was the principal object of the proposed attack by the new allies. unfortunately this fair scheme of ambition was blighted in the very bud, by a premature movement. all the official gentlemen concerned in it, who hesitated to take the part of a voluntary resignation, were informed that the king had no further occasion for their services; and, in richard waverley's case, which the minister considered as aggravated by ingratitude; dismissal was accompanied by something like personal contempt and contumely. the public, and even the party of whom he shared the fall, sympathized little in the disappointment of this selfish and interested statesman; and he retired to the country under the comfortable reflection, that he had lost, at the same time, character, credit, and,--what he at least equally deplored,--emolument. richard waverley's letter to his son upon this occasion was a masterpiece of its kind. aristides himself could not have made out a harder case. an unjust monarch, and an ungrateful country, were the burden of each rounded paragraph. he spoke of long services, and unrequited sacrifices; though the former had been overpaid by his salary, and nobody could guess in what the latter consisted, unless it were in his deserting, not from conviction, but for the lucre of gain, the tory principles of his family. in the conclusion, his resentment was wrought to such an excess by the force of his own oratory, that he could not repress some threats of vengeance, however vague and impotent, and finally acquainted his son with his pleasure that he should testify his sense of the ill-treatment he had sustained, by throwing up his commission as soon as the letter reached him. this, he said, was also his uncle's desire, as he would himself intimate in due course. accordingly, the next letter which edward opened was from sir everard. his brother's disgrace seemed to have removed from his well-natured bosom all recollection of their differences, and, remote as he was from every means of learning that richard's disgrace was in reality only the just, as well as natural consequence, of his own unsuccessful intrigues, the good but credulous baronet at once set it down as a new and enormous instance of the injustice of the existing government. it was true, he said, and he must not disguise it even from edward, that his father could not have sustained such an insult as was now, for the first time, offered to one of his house, unless he had subjected himself to it by accepting of an employment under the present system. sir everard had no doubt that he now both saw and felt the magnitude of this error, and it should be his (sir everard's) business, to take care that the cause of his regret should not extend itself to pecuniary consequences. it was enough for a waverley to have sustained the public disgrace; the patrimonial injury could easily be obviated by the head of their family. but it was both the opinion of mr. richard waverley and his own, that edward, the representative of the family of waverley-honour, should not remain in a situation which subjected him also to such treatment as that with which his father had been stigmatized. he requested his nephew therefore to take the fittest, and, at the same time, the most speedy opportunity, of transmitting his resignation to the war-office, and hinted, moreover, that little ceremony was necessary where so little had been used to his father. he sent multitudinous greetings to the baron of bradwardine. a letter from aunt rachel spoke out even more plainly. she considered the disgrace of brother richard as the just reward of his forfeiting his allegiance to a lawful, though exiled sovereign, and taking the oaths to an alien; a concession which her grandfather, sir nigel waverley, refused to make, either to the roundhead parliament or to cromwell, when his life and fortune stood in the utmost extremity. she hoped her dear edward would follow the footsteps of his ancestors, and as speedily as possible get rid of the badge of servitude to the usurping family, and regard the wrongs sustained by his father as an admonition from heaven, that every desertion of the line of loyalty becomes its own punishment. she also concluded with her respects to mr. bradwardine, and begged waverley would inform her whether his daughter, miss rose, was old enough to wear a pair of very handsome ear-rings, which she proposed to send as a token of her affection. the good lady also desired to be informed whether mr. bradwardine took as much scotch snuff, and danced as unweariedly, as he did when he was at waverley-honour about thirty years ago. these letters, as might have been expected, highly excited waverley's indignation. from the desultory style of his studies, he had not any fixed political opinion to place in opposition to the movements of indignation which he felt at his father's supposed wrongs. of the real cause of his disgrace, edward was totally ignorant; nor had his habits at all led him to investigate the politics of the period in which he lived, or remark the intrigues in which his father had been so actively engaged. indeed, any impressions which he had accidentally adopted concerning the parties of the times, were (owing to the society in which he had lived at waverley-honour) of a nature rather unfavourable to the existing government and dynasty. he entered, therefore, without hesitation, into the resentful feeling of the relations who had the best title to dictate his conduct; and not perhaps the less willingly, when he remembered the tedium of his quarters, and the inferior figure which he had made among the officers of his regiment. if he could have had any doubt upon the subject, it would have been decided by the following letter from his commanding-officer, which, as it is very short, shall be inserted verbatim:-- 'sir, 'having carried somewhat beyond the line of my duty an indulgence which even the lights of nature, and much more those of christianity, direct towards errors which may arise from youth and inexperience, and that altogether without effect, i am reluctantly compelled, at the present crisis, to use the only remaining remedy which is in my power. you are therefore, hereby commanded to repair to--, the head-quarters of the regiment, within three days after the date of this letter. if you shall fail to do so, i must report you to the war-office as absent without leave, and also take other steps, which will be disagreeable to you, as well as to, sir, 'your obedient servant, 'j. gardiner, lieut.-col. 'commanding the--regt. dragoons.' edward's blood boiled within him as he read this letter. he had been accustomed from his very infancy to possess, in a great measure, the disposal of his own time, and thus acquired habits which rendered the rules of military discipline as unpleasing to him in this as they were in some other respects. an idea that in his own case they would not be enforced in a very rigid manner had also obtained full possession of his mind, and had hitherto been sanctioned by the indulgent conduct of his lieutenant-colonel. neither had anything occurred, to his knowledge, that should have induced his commanding-officer, without any other warning than the hints we noticed at the end of the fourteenth chapter, so suddenly to assume a harsh, and, as edward deemed it, so insolent a tone of dictatorial authority. connecting it with the letters he had just received from his family, he could not but suppose that it was designed to make him feel, in his present situation, the same pressure of authority which had been exercised in his father's case, and that the whole was a concerted scheme to depress and degrade every member of the waverley family. without a pause, therefore, edward wrote a few cold lines, thanking his lieutenant-colonel for past civilities, and expressing regret that he should have chosen to efface the remembrance of them, by assuming a different tone towards him. the strain of his letter, as well as what he (edward) conceived to be his duty, in the present crisis, called upon him to lay down his commission; and he therefore enclosed the formal resignation of a situation which subjected him to so unpleasant a correspondence, and requested colonel gardiner would have the goodness to forward it to the proper authorities. having finished this magnanimous epistle, he felt somewhat uncertain concerning the terms in which his resignation ought to be expressed, upon which subject he resolved to consult fergus mac-ivor. it may be observed in passing, that the bold and prompt habits of thinking, acting, and speaking, which distinguished this young chieftain, had given him a considerable ascendancy over the mind of waverley. endowed with at least equal powers of understanding, and with much finer genius, edward yet stooped to the bold and decisive activity of an intellect which was sharpened by the habit of acting on a preconceived and regular system, as well as by extensive knowledge of the world. when edward found his friend, the latter had still in his hand the newspaper which he had perused, and advanced to meet him with the embarrassment of one who has unpleasing news to communicate. 'do your letters, captain waverley, confirm the unpleasing information which i find in this paper?' he put the paper into his hand, where his father's disgrace was registered in the most bitter terms, transferred probably from some london journal. at the end of the paragraph was this remarkable innuendo:-- 'we understand, that "this same richard, who hath done all this," is not the only example of the wavering honour of w-v-rl-y h-n-r. see the gazette of this day.' with hurried and feverish apprehension our hero turned to the place referred to, and found therein recorded, 'edward waverley, captain in--regiment dragoons, superseded for absence without leave:' and in the list of military promotions, referring to the same regiment, he discovered this further article, 'lieut. julius butler, to be captain, vice edward waverley, superseded.' our hero's bosom glowed with the resentment which undeserved and apparently premeditated insult was calculated to excite in the bosom of one who had aspired after honour, and was thus wantonly held up to public scorn and disgrace. upon comparing the date of his colonel's letter with that of the article in the gazette, he perceived that his threat of making a report upon his absence had been literally fulfilled, and without inquiry, as it seemed, whether edward had either received his summons, or was disposed to comply with it. the whole, therefore, appeared a formed plan to degrade him in the eyes of the public; and the idea of its having succeeded filled him with such bitter emotions, that, after various attempts to conceal them, he at length threw himself into mac-ivor's arms, and gave vent to tears of shame and indignation. it was none of this chieftain's faults to be indifferent to the wrongs of his friends; and for edward, independent of certain plans with which he was connected, he felt a deep and sincere interest. the proceeding appeared as extraordinary to him as it had done to edward. he indeed knew of more motives than waverley was privy to, for the peremptory order that he should join his regiment. but that, without further inquiry into the circumstances of a necessary delay, the commanding officer, in contradiction to his known and established character, should have proceeded in so harsh and unusual a manner, was a mystery which he could not penetrate. he soothed our hero, however, to the best of his power, and began to turn his thoughts on revenge for his insulted honour. edward eagerly grasped at the idea. 'will you carry a message for me to colonel gardiner, my dear fergus, and oblige me for ever?' fergus paused. 'it is an act of friendship which you should command, could it be useful, or lead to the righting your honour; but in the present case, i doubt if your commanding-officer would give you the meeting on account of his having taken measures, which, however harsh and exasperating, were still within the strict bounds of his duty. besides, gardiner is a precise huguenot, and has adopted certain ideas about the sinfulness of such rencontres, from which it would be impossible to make him depart, especially as his courage is beyond all suspicion. and besides, i--i--to say the truth--i dare not at this moment, for some very weighty reasons, go near any of the military quarters or garrisons belonging to this government.' 'and am i,' said waverley, 'to sit down quiet and contented under the injury i have received?' 'that will i never advise, my friend,' replied mac-ivor. 'but i would have vengeance to fall on the head, not on the hand; on the tyrannical and oppressive government which designed and directed these premeditated and reiterated insults, not on the tools of office which they employed in the execution of the injuries they aimed at you.' 'on the government!' said waverley. 'yes,' replied the impetuous highlander, 'on the usurping house of hanover, whom your grandfather would no more have served than he would have taken wages of red-hot gold from the great fiend of hell!' 'but since the time of my grandfather, two generations of this dynasty have possessed the throne,' said edward, coolly. 'true,' replied the chieftain; 'and because we have passively given them so long the means of showing their native character,--because both you and i myself have lived in quiet submission, have even truckled to the times so far as to accept commissions under them, and thus have given them an opportunity of disgracing us publicly by resuming them,--are we not on that account to resent injuries which our fathers only apprehended, but which we have actually sustained? or is the cause of the unfortunate stuart family become less just, because their title has devolved upon an heir who is innocent of the charges of misgovernment brought against his father? do you remember the lines of your favourite poet?-- had richard unconstrained resigned the throne, a king can give no more than is his own; the title stood entailed had richard had a son. you see, my dear waverley, i can quote poetry as well as flora and you. but come, clear your moody brow, and trust to me to show you an honourable road to a speedy and glorious revenge. let us seek flora, who perhaps has more news to tell us of what has occurred during our absence. she will rejoice to hear that you are relieved of your servitude. but first add a postcript to your letter, marking the time when you received this calvinistical colonel's first summons, and express your regret that the hastiness of his proceedings prevented your anticipating them by sending your resignation. then let him blush for his injustice.' the letter was sealed accordingly, covering a formal resignation of the commission, and mac-ivor dispatched it with some letters of his own by a special messenger, with charge to put them into the nearest post office in the lowlands. chapter xxvi an eclaircissement the hint which the chieftain had thrown out respecting flora was not unpremeditated. he had observed with great satisfaction the growing attachment of waverley to his sister, nor did he see any bar to their union, excepting the situation which waverley's father held in the ministry, and edward's own commission in the army of george ii. these obstacles were now removed, and in a manner which apparently paved the way for the son's becoming reconciled to another allegiance. in every other respect the match would be most eligible. the safety, happiness, and honourable provision of his sister, whom he dearly loved, appeared to be ensured by the proposed union; and his heart swelled when he considered how his own interest would be exalted in the eyes of the ex-monarch to whom he had dedicated his service, by an alliance with one of those ancient, powerful, and wealthy english families of the steady cavalier faith, to awaken whose decayed attachment to the stuart family was now a matter of such vital importance to the stuart cause. nor could fergus perceive any obstacle to such a scheme. waverley's attachment was evident; and as his person was handsome, and his taste apparently coincided with her own, he anticipated no opposition on the part of flora. indeed, between his ideas of patriarchal power, and those which he had acquired in france respecting the disposal of females in marriage, any opposition from his sister, dear as she was to him, would have been the last obstacle on which he would have calculated, even had the union been less eligible. influenced by these feelings, the chief now led waverley in quest of miss mac-ivor, not without the hope that the present agitation of his guest's spirits might give him courage to cut short what fergus termed the romance of the courtship. they found flora, with her faithful attendants, una and cathleen, busied in preparing what appeared to waverley to be white bridal favours. disguising as well as he could the agitation of his mind, waverley asked for what joyful occasion miss mac-ivor made such ample preparation. 'it is for fergus's bridal,' she said, smiling. 'indeed!' said edward; 'he has kept his secret well. i hope he will allow me to be his bride's-man.' 'that is a man's office, but not yours, as beatrice says,' retorted flora. 'and who is the fair lady, may i be permitted to ask, miss mac-ivor?' 'did not i tell you long since, that fergus wooed no bride but honour?' answered flora. 'and am i then incapable of being his assistant and counsellor in the pursuit of honour?' said our hero, colouring deeply. 'do i rank so low in your opinion?' 'far from it, captain waverley. i would to god you were of our determination! and made use of the expression which displeased you, solely because you are not of our quality, but stand against us as an enemy.' 'that time is past, sister,' said fergus; 'and you may wish edward waverley (no longer captain) joy of being freed from the slavery to an usurper, implied in that sable and ill-omened emblem.' 'yes,' said waverley, undoing the cockade from his hat, 'it has pleased the king who bestowed this badge upon me, to resume it in a manner which leaves me little reason to regret his service.' 'thank god for that!' cried the enthusiast;--'and oh that they may be blind enough to treat every man of honour who serves them with the same indignity, that i may have less to sigh for when the struggle approaches! 'and now, sister,' said the chieftain, 'replace his cockade with one of a more lively colour, i think it was the fashion of the ladies of yore to arm and send forth their knights to high achievement.' 'not,' replied the lady, 'till the knight adventurer had well weighed the justice and the danger of the cause, fergus. mr. waverley is just now too much agitated by feelings of recent emotion, for me to press upon him a resolution of consequence.' waverley felt half alarmed at the thought of adopting the badge of what was by the majority of the kingdom esteemed rebellion, yet he could not disguise his chagrin at the coldness with which flora parried her brother's hint. 'miss mac-ivor, i perceive, thinks the knight unworthy of her encouragement and favour,' said he, somewhat bitterly. 'not so, mr. waverley,' she replied, with great sweetness. 'why should i refuse my brother's valued friend a boon which i am distributing to his whole clan? most willingly would i enlist every man of honour in the cause to which my brother has devoted himself. but fergus has taken his measures with his eyes open. his life has been devoted to this cause from his cradle; with him its call is sacred, were it even a summons to the tomb. but how can i wish you, mr. waverley, so new to the world, so far from every friend who might advise and ought to influence you,--in a moment too of sudden pique and indignation,--how can i wish you to plunge yourself at once into so desperate an enterprise?' fergus, who did not understand these delicacies, strode through the apartment biting his lip, and then, with a constrained smile, said, 'well, sister, i leave you to act your new character of mediator between the elector of hanover and the subjects of your lawful sovereign and benefactor,' and left the room. there was a painful pause, which was at length broken by miss mac-ivor. 'my brother is unjust,' she said, 'because he can bear no interruption that seems to thwart his loyal zeal.' 'and do you not share his ardour?' asked waverley. 'do i not?' answered flora--'god knows mine exceeds his, if that be possible. but i am not, like him, rapt by the bustle of military preparation, and the infinite detail necessary to the present undertaking, beyond consideration of the grand principles of justice and truth, on which our enterprise is grounded; and these, i am certain, can only be furthered by measures in themselves true and just. to operate upon your present feelings, my dear mr. waverley, to induce you to an irretrievable step, of which you have not considered either the justice or the danger, is, in my poor judgement, neither the one nor the other.' 'incomparable flora!' said edward, taking her hand, 'how much do i need such a monitor!' 'a better one by far,' said flora, gently withdrawing her hand, 'mr. waverley will always find in his own bosom, when he will give its small still voice leisure to be heard.' 'no, miss mac-ivor, i dare not hope it. a thousand circumstances of fatal self-indulgence have made me the creature rather of imagination than reason. durst i but hope--could i but think that you would deign to be to me that affectionate, that condescending friend, who would strengthen me to redeem my errors, my future life'-- 'hush, my dear sir! now you carry your joy at escaping the hands of a jacobite recruiting officer to an unparalleled excess of gratitude.' 'nay, dear flora, trifle with me no longer; you cannot mistake the meaning of those feelings which i have almost involuntarily expressed; and since i have broken the barrier of silence, let me profit by my audacity--or may i, with your permission, mention to your brother'-- 'not for the world, mr. waverley!' 'what am i to understand?' said edward. 'is there any fatal bar--has any prepossession'-- 'none, sir,' answered flora. 'i owe it to myself to say, that i never yet saw the person on whom i thought with reference to the present subject.' 'the shortness of our acquaintance, perhaps--if miss mac-ivor will deign to give me time--' 'i have not even that excuse. captain waverley's character is so open--is, in short, of that nature, that it cannot be misconstrued, either in its strength or its weakness.' 'and for that weakness you despise me?' said edward. 'forgive me, mr. waverley, and remember it is but within this half-hour that there existed between us a barrier of a nature to me insurmountable, since i never could think of an officer in the service of the elector of hanover in any other light than as a casual acquaintance. permit me then to arrange my ideas upon so unexpected a topic, and in less than an hour i will be ready to give you such reasons for the resolution i shall express, as may be satisfactory at least, if not pleasing to you.' so saying, flora withdrew, leaving waverley to meditate upon the manner in which she had received his addresses. ere he could make up his mind whether to believe his suit had been acceptable or no, fergus re-entered the apartment. 'what, a la mort, waverley?' he cried. 'come down with me to the court, and you shall see a sight worth all the tirades of your romances. an hundred firelocks, my friend, and as many broadswords, just arrived from good friends; and two or three hundred stout fellows almost fighting which shall first possess them.--but let me look at you closer--why, a true highlander would say you had been blighted by an evil eye.--or can it be this silly girl that has thus blanked your spirit?--never mind her, dear edward; the wisest of her sex are fools in what regards the business of life.' 'indeed, my good friend,' answered waverley, 'all that i can charge against your sister is, that she is too sensible, too reasonable.' 'if that be all, i ensure you for a louis d'or against the mood lasting four-and-twenty hours. no woman was ever steadily sensible for that period; and i will engage, if that will please you, flora shall be as unreasonable to-morrow as any of her sex. you must learn, my dear edward, to consider women en mousquetaire.' so saying, he seized waverley's arm, and dragged him off to review his military preparations. chapter xxvii upon the same subject fergus mac-ivor had too much tact and delicacy to renew the subject which he had interrupted. his head was, or appeared to be, so full of guns, broadswords, bonnets, canteens, and tartan hose, that waverley could not for some time draw his attention to any other topic. 'are you to take the field so soon, fergus,' he asked, 'that you are making all these martial preparations?' 'when we have settled that you go with me, you shall know all; but otherwise, the knowledge might rather be prejudicial to you.' 'but are you serious in your purpose, with such inferior forces, to rise against an established government? it is mere frenzy.' 'laissez faire a don antoine--i shall take good care of myself. we shall at least use the compliment of conan, who never got a stroke but he gave one. i would not, however,' continued the chieftain, 'have you think me mad enough to stir till a favourable opportunity: i will not slip my dog before the game's afoot. but once more, will you join with us, and you shall know all?' 'how can i?' said waverley; 'i who have so lately held that commission which is now posting back to those that gave it? my accepting it implied a promise of fidelity, and an acknowledgement of the legality of the government. 'a rash promise,' answered fergus, 'is not a steel handcuff; it may be shaken off, especially when it was given under deception, and has been repaid by insult. but if you cannot immediately make up your mind to a glorious revenge, go to england, and ere you cross the tweed, you will hear tidings that will make the world ring; and if sir everard be the gallant old cavalier i have heard him described by some of our honest gentlemen of the year one thousand seven hundred and fifteen, he will find you a better horse-troop and a better cause than you have lost.' 'but your sister, fergus?' 'out, hyperbolical fiend,' replied the chief, laughing; 'how vexest thou this man!--speak'st thou of nothing but of ladies?' 'nay, be serious, my dear friend,' said waverley; 'i feel that the happiness of my future life must depend upon the answer which miss mac-ivor shall make to what i ventured to tell her this morning.' 'and is this your very sober earnest,' said fergus, more gravely, 'or are we in the land of romance and fiction?' 'my earnest, undoubtedly. how could you suppose me jesting on such a subject?' 'then, in very sober earnest,' answered his friend, 'i am very glad to hear it; and so highly do i think of flora, that; you are the only man in england for whom i would say so much.--but before you shake my hand so warmly, there is more to be considered.--your own family--will they approve your connecting yourself with the sister of a highborn highland beggar?' 'my uncle's situation,' said waverley, 'his general opinions, and his uniform indulgence, entitle me to say, that birth and personal qualities are all he would look to in such a connexion. and where can i find both united in such excellence as in your sister?' 'oh, nowhere!--cela va sans dire,' replied fergus with a smile. 'but your father will expect a father's prerogative in being consulted.' 'surely; but his late breach with the ruling powers removes all apprehension of objection on his part, especially as i am convinced that my uncle will be warm in my cause.' 'religion, perhaps,' said fergus, 'may make obstacles, though we are not bigoted catholics.' 'my grandmother was of the church of rome, and her religion was never objected to by my family.--do not think of my friends, dear fergus; let me rather have your influence where it may be more necessary to remove obstacles--i mean with your lovely sister.' 'my lovely sister,' replied fergus, 'like her loving brother, is very apt to have a pretty decisive will of her own, by which, in this case, you must be ruled; but you shall not want my interest, nor my counsel. and, in the first place, i will give you one hint--loyalty is her ruling passion; and since she could spell an english book, she has been in love with the memory of the gallant captain wogan, who renounced the service of the usurper cromwell to join the standard of charles ii, marched a handful of cavalry from london to the highlands to join middleton, then in arms for the king, and at length died gloriously in the royal cause. ask her to show you some verses she made on his history and fate; they have been much admired, i assure you. the next point is--i think i saw flora go up towards the waterfall a short time since--follow, man, follow! don't allow the garrison time to strengthen its purposes of resistance--alerte a la muraille! seek flora out, and learn her decision as soon as you can--and cupid go with you, while i go to look over belts and cartouch-boxes.' waverley ascended the glen with an anxious and throbbing heart. love, with all its romantic train of hopes, fears, and wishes, was mingled with other feelings of a nature less easily defined. he could not but remember how much this morning had changed his fate, and into what a complication of perplexity it was likely to plunge him. sunrise had seen him possessed of an esteemed rank in the honourable profession of arms, his father to all appearance rapidly rising in the favour of his sovereign;--all this had passed away like a dream--he himself was dishonoured, his father disgraced, and he had become involuntarily the confidant at least, if not the accomplice, of plans dark, deep, and dangerous, which must infer either subversion of the government he had so lately served, or the destruction of all who had participated in them, should flora even listen to his suit favourably, what prospect was there of its being brought to a happy termination, amid the tumult of an impending insurrection? or how could he make the selfish request that she should leave fergus, to whom she was so much attached, and, retiring with him to england, wait, as a distant spectator, the success of her brother's undertaking, or the ruin of all his hopes and fortunes!--or, on the other hand, to engage himself, with no other aid than his single arm, in the dangerous and precipitate counsels of the chieftain,--to be whirled along by him, the partaker of all his desperate and impetuous motions, renouncing almost the power of judging, or deciding upon the rectitude or prudence of his actions,--this was no pleasing prospect for the secret pride of waverley to stoop to. and yet what other conclusion remained, saving the rejection of his addresses by flora, an alternative not to be thought of in the present high-wrought state of his feelings, with anything short of mental agony. pondering the doubtful and dangerous prospect before him, he at length arrived near the cascade, where, as fergus had augured, he found flora seated. she was quite alone; and, as soon as she observed his approach, she arose, and came to meet him. edward attempted to say something within the verge of ordinary compliment and conversation, but found himself unequal to the task. flora seemed at first equally embarrassed, but recovered herself more speedily, and (an unfavourable augury for waverley's suit) was the first to enter upon the subject of their last interview, 'it is too important, in every point of view, mr. waverley, to permit me to leave you in doubt on my sentiments.' 'do not speak them speedily,' said waverley, much agitated, 'unless they are such as, i fear from your manner, i must not dare to anticipate. let time--let my future conduct--let your brother's influence'-- 'forgive me, mr. waverley,' said flora, her complexion a little heightened, but her voice firm and composed. 'i should incur my own heavy censure, did i delay expressing my sincere conviction that i can never regard you otherwise than as a valued friend. i should do you the highest injustice did i conceal my sentiments for a moment. i see i distress you, and i grieve for it, but better now than later; and oh, better a thousand times, mr. waverley, that you should feel a present momentary disappointment, than the long and heart-sickening griefs which attend a rash and ill-assorted marriage!' 'good god!' exclaimed waverley, 'why should you anticipate such consequences from a union where birth is equal, where fortune is favourable, where, if i may venture to say so, the tastes are similar, where you allege no preference for another, where you even express a favourable opinion of him whom you reject?' 'mr. waverley, i have that favourable opinion,' answered flora; 'and so strongly, that though i would rather have been silent on the grounds of my resolution, you shall command them, if you exact such a mark of my esteem and confidence.' she sat down upon a fragment of rock, and waverley, placing himself near her, anxiously pressed for the explanation she offered. 'i dare hardly,' she said, 'tell you the situation of my feelings, they are so different from those usually ascribed to young women at my period of life; and i dare hardly touch upon what i conjecture to be the nature of yours, lest i should give offence where i would willingly administer consolation. for myself, from my infancy till this day, i have had but one wish--the restoration of my royal benefactors to their rightful throne. it is impossible to express to you the devotion of my feelings to this single subject; and i will frankly confess, that it has so occupied my mind as to exclude every thought respecting what is called my own settlement in life. let me but live to see the day of that happy restoration, and a highland cottage, a french convent, or an english palace, will be alike indifferent to me.' 'but, dearest flora, how is your enthusiastic zeal for the exiled family inconsistent with my happiness?' 'because you seek, or ought to seek in the object of your attachment, a heart whose principal delight should be in augmenting your domestic felicity, and returning your affection, even to the height of romance. to a man of less keen sensibility, and less enthusiastic tenderness of disposition, flora mac-ivor might give content, if not happiness; for were the irrevocable words spoken, never would she be deficient in the duties which she vowed.' 'and why--why, miss mac-ivor, should you think yourself a more valuable treasure to one who is less capable of loving, of admiring you, than to me?' 'simply because the tone of our affections would be more in unison, and because his more blunted sensibility would not require the return of enthusiasm which i have not to bestow. but you, mr. waverley, would for ever refer to the idea of domestic happiness which your imagination is capable of painting, and whatever fell short of that ideal representation would be construed into coolness and indifference, while you might consider the enthusiasm with which i regarded the success of the royal family as defrauding your affection of its due return.' 'in other words, miss mac-ivor, you cannot love me?' said her suitor, dejectedly. 'i could esteem you, mr. waverley, as much, perhaps more, than any man i have ever seen; but i cannot love you as you ought to be loved. oh! do not, for your own sake, desire so hazardous an experiment! the woman whom you marry ought to have affections and opinions moulded upon yours. her studies ought to be your studies;--her wishes, her feelings, her hopes, her fears, should all mingle with yours. she should enhance your pleasures, share your sorrows, and cheer your melancholy.' 'and, why will not you, miss mac-ivor, who can so well describe a happy union,--why will not you be yourself the person you describe?' 'is it possible you do not yet comprehend me?' answered flora. 'have i not told you, that every keener sensation of my mind is bent exclusively towards an event, upon which, indeed, i have no power but those of my earnest prayers?' 'and might not the granting the suit i solicit,' said waverley, too earnest on his purpose to consider what he was about to say, 'even advance the interest to which you have devoted yourself? my family is wealthy and powerful, inclined in principles to the stuart race, and should a favourable opportunity'-- 'a favourable opportunity!' said flora, somewhat scornfully,--'inclined in principles!--can such lukewarm adherence be honourable to yourselves, or gratifying to your lawful sovereign?--think, from my present feelings, what i should suffer when i held the place of member in a family where the rights which i hold most sacred are subjected to cold discussion, and only deemed worthy of support when they shall appear on the point of triumphing without it!' 'your doubts,' quickly replied waverley, 'are unjust as far as concerns myself. the cause that i shall assert, i dare support through every danger, as undauntedly as the boldest who draws sword in its behalf.' 'of that,' answered flora, 'i cannot doubt for a moment. but consult your own good sense and reason, rather than a prepossession hastily adopted, probably only because you have met a young woman possessed of the usual accomplishments, in a sequestered and romantic situation. let your part in this great and perilous drama rest upon conviction, and not on a hurried, and probably a temporary feeling.' waverley attempted to reply, but his words failed him. every sentiment that flora had uttered vindicated the strength of his attachment; for even her loyalty, although wildly enthusiastic, was generous and noble, and disdained to avail itself of any indirect means of supporting the cause to which she was devoted. after walking a little way in silence down the path, flora thus resumed the conversation.--'one word more, mr. waverley, ere we bid farewell to this topic for ever; and forgive my boldness if that word have the air of advice. my brother fergus is anxious that you should join him in his present enterprise. but do not consent to this: you could not, by your single exertions, further his success, and you would inevitably share his fall, if it be god's pleasure that fall he must. your character would also suffer irretrievably. let me beg you will return to your own country; and, having publicly freed yourself from every tie to the usurping government, i trust you will see cause, and find opportunity, to serve your injured sovereign with effect, and stand forth, as your loyal ancestors, at the head of your natural followers and adherents, a worthy representative of the house of waverley.' 'and should i be so happy as thus to distinguish myself, might i not hope'-- 'forgive my interruption,' said flora. 'the present time only is ours, and i can but explain to you with candour the feelings which i now entertain; how they might be altered by a train of events too favourable perhaps to be hoped for, it were in vain even to conjecture: only be assured, mr. waverley, that, after my brother's honour and happiness, there is none which i shall more sincerely pray for than for yours.' with these words she parted from him, for they were now arrived where two paths separated. waverley reached the castle amidst a medley of conflicting passions. he avoided any private interview with fergus, as he did not find himself able either to encounter his raillery, or reply to his solicitations. the wild revelry of the feast, for mac-ivor kept open table for his clan, served in some degree to stun reflection. when their festivity was ended, he began to consider how he should again meet miss mac-ivor after the painful and interesting explanation of the morning. but flora did not appear. fergus, whose eyes flashed when he was told by cathleen that her mistress designed to keep her apartment that evening, went himself in quest of her; but apparently his remonstrances were in vain, for he returned with a heightened complexion, and manifest symptoms of displeasure. the rest of the evening passed on without any allusion, on the part either of fergus or waverley, to the subject which engrossed the reflections of the latter, and perhaps of both. when retired to his own apartment, edward endeavoured to sum up the business of the day. that the repulse he had received from flora would be persisted in for the present, there was no doubt. but could he hope for ultimate success in case circumstances permitted the renewal of his suit? would the enthusiastic loyalty, which at this animating moment left no room for a softer passion, survive, at least in its engrossing force, the success or the failure of the present political machinations? and if so, could he hope that the interest which she had acknowledged him to possess in her favour, might be improved into a warmer attachment? he taxed his memory to recall every word she had used, with the appropriate looks and gestures which had enforced them, and ended by finding himself in the same state of uncertainty. it was very late before sleep brought relief to the tumult of his mind, after the most painful and agitating day which he had ever passed. chapter xxviii a letter from tully-veolan in the morning, when waverley's troubled reflections had for some time given way to repose, there came music to his dreams, but not the voice of selma. he imagined himself transported back to tully-veolan, and that he heard davie gellatley singing in the court those matins which used generally to be the first sounds that disturbed his repose while a guest of the baron of bradwardine. the notes which suggested this vision continued, and waxed louder, until edward awoke in earnest. the illusion, however, did not seem entirely dispelled. the apartment was in the fortress of ian nan chaistel, but it was still the voice of davie gellatley that made the following lines resound under the window:-- my heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here, my heart's in the highlands a-chasing the deer; a-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, my heart's in the highlands wherever i go. [these lines form the burden of an old song to which burns wrote additional verses.] curious to know what could have determined mr. gellatley on an excursion of such unwonted extent, edward began to dress himself in all haste, during which operation the minstrelsy of davie changed its tune more than once:-- there's naught in the highlands but syboes and leeks, and lang-leggit callants gaun wanting the breeks; wanting the breeks, and without hose and shoon, but we'll a' win the breeks when king jamie comes hame. [these lines are also ancient, and i believe to the tune of 'we'll never hae peace till jamie comes hame;' to which burns likewise wrote some verses.] by the time waverley was dressed and had issued forth, david had associated himself with two or three of the numerous highland loungers who always graced the gates of the castle with their presence, and was capering and dancing full merrily in the doubles and full career of a scotch foursome reel, to the music of his own whistling. in this double capacity of dancer and musician, he continued, until an idle piper, who observed his zeal, obeyed the unanimous call of seid suas (i.e. blow up), and relieved him from the latter part of his trouble. young and old then mingled in the dance as they could find partners. the appearance of waverley did not interrupt david's exercise, though he contrived, by grinning, nodding, and throwing one or two inclinations of the body into the graces with which he performed the highland fling, to convey to our hero symptoms of recognition. then, while busily employed in setting, whooping all the while, and snapping his fingers over his head, he of a sudden prolonged his side-step until it brought him to the place where edward was standing, and, still keeping time to the music like harlequin in a pantomime, he thrust a letter into our hero's hand, and continued his saltation without pause or intermission, edward, who perceived that the address was in rose's handwriting, retired to peruse it, leaving the faithful bearer to continue his exercise until the piper or he should be tired out. the contents of the letter greatly surprised him. it had originally commenced with dear sir; but these words had been carefully erased, and the monosyllable, sir, substituted in their place. the rest of the contents shall be given in rose's own language:-- 'i fear i am using an improper freedom by intruding upon you, yet i cannot trust to any one else to let you know some things which have happened here, with which it seems necessary you should be acquainted. forgive me if i am wrong in what i am doing; for, alas! mr. waverley, i have no better advice than that of my own feelings;--my dear father is gone from this place, and when he can return to my assistance and protection, god alone knows. you have probably heard, that in consequence of some troublesome news from the highlands, warrants were sent out for apprehending several gentlemen in these parts, and, among others, my dear father. in spite of all my tears and entreaties that he would surrender himself to the government, he joined with mr. falconer and some other gentlemen, and they have all gone northwards, with a body of about forty horsemen. so i am not so anxious concerning his immediate safety, as about what may follow afterwards, for these troubles are only beginning. but all this is nothing to you, mr. waverley, only i thought you would be glad to learn that my father has escaped, in case you happen to have heard that he was in danger. 'the day after my father went off, there came a party of soldiers to tully-veolan, and behaved very rudely to bailie macwheeble; but the officer was very civil to me, only said his duty obliged him to search for arms and papers. my father had provided against this by taking away all the arms except the old useless things which hung in the hall; and he had put all his papers out of the way. but oh! mr. waverley, how shall i tell you that they made strict inquiry after you, and asked when you had been at tully-veolan, and where you now were. the officer is gone back with his party, but a non-commissioned officer and four men remain as a sort of garrison in the house. they have hitherto behaved very well, as we are forced to keep them in good humour. but these soldiers have hinted as if on your falling into their hands you would be in great danger; i cannot prevail on myself to write what wicked falsehoods they said, for i am sure they are falsehoods; but you will best judge what you ought to do. the party that returned carried off your servant prisoner, with your two horses, and everything that you left at tully-veolan. i hope god will protect you, and that you will get safe home to england, where you used to tell me there was no military violence nor fighting among clans permitted, but everything was done according to an equal law that protected all who were harmless and innocent. i hope you will exert your indulgence as to my boldness in writing to you, where it seems to me, though perhaps erroneously, that your safety and honour are concerned. i am sure--at least i think, my father would approve of my writing; for mr. rubrick is fled to his cousin's at the duchran, to be out of danger from the soldiers and the whigs, and bailie macwheeble does not like to meddle (he says) in other men's concerns, though i hope what may serve my father's friend at such a time as this, cannot be termed improper interference. farewell, captain waverley! i shall probably never see you more; for it would be very improper to wish you to call at tully-veolan just now, even if these men were gone; but i will always remember with gratitude your kindness in assisting so poor a scholar as myself, and your attentions to my dear, dear father. 'i remain, your obliged servant, 'rose comyne bradwardine. 'ps.--i hope you will send me a line by david gellatley, just to say you have received this, and that you will take care of yourself; and forgive me if i entreat you, for your own sake, to join none of these unhappy cabals, but escape, as fast as possible, to your own fortunate country.--my compliments to my dear flora, and, to glennaquoich. is she not as handsome and accomplished as i have described her?' thus concluded the letter of rose bradwardine, the contents of which both surprised and affected waverley. that the baron should fall under the suspicions of government, in consequence of the present stir among the partisans of the house of stuart, seemed only the natural consequence of his political predilections; but how he himself should have been involved in such suspicions, conscious that until yesterday he had been free from harbouring a thought against the prosperity of the reigning family, seemed inexplicable. both at tully-veolan and glennaquoich, his hosts had respected his engagements with the existing government, and though enough passed by accidental innuendo that might induce him to reckon the baron and the chief among those disaffected gentlemen who were still numerous in scotland, yet until his own connexion with the army had been broken off by the resumption of his commission, he had no reason to suppose that they nourished any immediate or hostile attempts against the present establishment. still he was aware that unless he meant at once to embrace the proposal of fergus mac-ivor, it would deeply concern him to leave the suspicious neighbourhood without delay, and repair where his conduct might undergo a satisfactory examination. upon this he the rather determined, as flora's advice favoured his doing so, and because he felt inexpressible repugnance at the idea of being accessory to the plague of civil war. whatever were the original rights of the stuarts, calm reflection told him, that, omitting the question how far james the second could forfeit those of his posterity, he had, according to the united voice of the whole nation, justly forfeited his own. since that period, four monarchs had reigned in peace and glory over britain, sustaining and exalting the character of the nation abroad, and its liberties at home. reason asked, was it worth while to disturb a government so long settled and established, and to plunge a kingdom into all the miseries of civil war, for the purpose of replacing upon the throne the descendants of a monarch by whom it had been wilfully forfeited? if, on the other hand, his own final conviction of the goodness of their cause, or the commands of his father or uncle, should recommend to him allegiance to the stuarts, still it was necessary to clear his own character by showing that he had not, as seemed to be falsely insinuated, taken any step to this purpose, during his holding the commission of the reigning monarch. the affectionate simplicity of rose, and her anxiety for his safety,--his sense, too, of her unprotected state, and of the terror and actual dangers to which she might be exposed, made an impression upon his mind, and he instantly wrote to thank her in the kindest terms for her solicitude on his account, to express his earnest good wishes for her welfare and that of her father, and to assure her of his own safety. the feelings which this task excited were speedily lost in the necessity which he now saw of bidding farewell to flora mac-ivor, perhaps for ever. the pang attending this reflection were inexpressible; for her high-minded elevation of character, her self-devotion to the cause which she had embraced, united to her scrupulous rectitude as to the means of serving it, had vindicated to his judgement the choice adopted by his passions. but time pressed, calumny was busy with his fame, and every hour's delay increased the power to injure it. his departure must be instant. with this determination he sought out fergus, and communicated to him the contents of rose's letter, with his own resolution instantly to go to edinburgh, and put into the hands of some one or other of those persons of influence to whom he had letters from his father, his exculpation from any charge which might be preferred against him. 'you run your head into the lion's mouth,' answered mac-ivor. 'you do not know the severity of a government harassed by just apprehensions, and a consciousness of their own illegality and insecurity. i shall have to deliver you from some dungeon in stirling or edinburgh castle.' 'my innocence, my rank, my father's intimacy with lord m--, general g--, &c., will be a sufficient protection,' said waverley. 'you will find the contrary,' replied the chieftain;--'these gentlemen will have enough to do about their own matters. once more, will you take the plaid, and stay a little while with us among the mists and the crows, in the bravest cause ever sword was drawn in?' [a highland rhyme on glencairn's expedition, in , has these lines-- we'll hide a while among ta crows, 'we'll wiske ta sword and bend ta bows.] 'for many reasons, my dear fergus, you must hold me excused.' 'well, then,' said mac-ivor, 'i shall certainly find you exerting your poetical talents in elegies upon a prison, or your antiquarian researches in detecting the oggam [the oggam is a species of the old irish character. the idea of the correspondence betwixt the celtic and punic, founded on a scene in plautus, was not started till general vallancey set up his theory, long after the date of fergus mac-ivor.] character, or some punic hieroglyphic upon the key-stones of a vault, curiously arched. or what say you to un petit pendement bien joli? against which awkward ceremony i don't warrant you, should you meet a body of the armed west-country whigs.' 'and why should they use me so?' said waverley. 'for a hundred good reasons,' answered fergus: 'first, you are an englishman; secondly, a gentleman; thirdly, a prelatist abjured; and, fourthly, they have not had an opportunity to exercise their talents on such a subject this long while. but don't be cast down, beloved: all will be done in the fear of the lord.' 'well, i must run my hazard,' 'you are determined, then?' 'i am.' 'wilful will do 't,' said fergus;--'but you cannot go on foot and i shall want no horse, as i must march on foot at the head of the children of ivor; you shall have brown dermid.' 'if you will sell him, i shall certainly be much obliged.' 'if your proud english heart cannot be obliged by a gift or loan, i will not refuse money at the entrance of a campaign: his price is twenty guineas, [remember, reader, it was sixty years since.] and when do you propose to depart?' 'the sooner the better,' answered waverley. 'you are right, since go you must, or rather, since go you will: i will take flora's pony, and ride with you as far as bally-brough.--callum beg, see that our horses are ready, with a pony for yourself, to attend and carry mr. waverley's baggage as far as--(naming a small town), where he can have a horse and guide to edinburgh. put on a lowland dress, callum, and see you keep your tongue close, if you would not have me cut it out: mr. waverley rides dermid,' then turning to edward, 'you will take leave of my sister?' 'surely--that is, if miss mac-ivor will honour me so far.' 'cathleen, let my sister know that mr. waverley wishes to bid her farewell before he leaves us.--but rose bradwardine,--her situation must be thought of. i wish she were here. and why should she not? there are but four red-coats at tully-veolan, and their muskets would be very useful to us.' to these broken remarks edward made no answer; his ear indeed received them, but his soul was intent upon the expected entrance of flora. the door opened--it was but cathleen, with her lady's excuse, and wishes for captain waverley's health and happiness. chapter xxix waverley's reception in the lowlands after his highland tour it was noon when the two friends stood at the top of the pass of bally-brough. 'i must go no farther,' said fergus mac-ivor, who during the journey had in vain endeavoured to raise his friend's spirits, 'if my cross-grained sister has any share in your dejection, trust me she thinks highly of you, though her present anxiety about the public cause prevents her listening to any other subject. confide your interest to me; i will not betray it, providing you do not again assume that vile cockade.' 'no fear of that, considering the manner in which it has been recalled. adieu, fergus; do not permit your sister to forget me.' 'and adieu, waverley; you may soon hear of her with a prouder title. get home, write letters, and make friends as many and as fast as you can; there will speedily be unexpected guests on the coast of suffolk, or my news from france has deceived me.' [the sanguine jacobites, during the eventful years - , kept up the spirits of their party by the rumour of descents from france on behalf of the chevalier st. george.] thus parted the friends; fergus returning back to his castle, while edward, followed by callum beg, the latter transformed from point to point into a low-country groom, proceeded to the little town of--. edward paced on under the painful and yet not altogether embittered feelings which separation and uncertainty produce in the mind of a youthful lover. i am not sure if the ladies understand the full value of the influence of absence, nor do i think it wise to teach it them, lest, like the clelias and mandanes of yore, they should resume the humour of sending their lovers into banishment. distance, in truth, produces in idea the same effect as in real prospective. objects are softened, and rounded, and rendered doubly graceful; the harsher and more ordinary points of character are mellowed down, and those by which it is remembered are the more striking outlines that mark sublimity, grace, or beauty. there are mists, too, in the mental, as well as the natural horizon, to conceal what is less pleasing in distant objects, and there are happy lights, to stream in full glory upon those points which can profit by brilliant illumination. waverley forgot flora mac-ivor's prejudices in her magnanimity, and almost pardoned her indifference towards his affection, when he recollected the grand and decisive object which seemed to fill her whole soul. she, whose sense of duty so wholly engrossed her in the cause of a benefactor,--what would be her feelings in favour of the happy individual who should be so fortunate as to awaken them? then came the doubtful question, whether he might not be that happy man,--a question which fancy endeavoured to answer in the affirmative, by conjuring up all she had said in his praise, with the addition of a comment much more flattering than the text warranted. all that was commonplace--all that belonged to the everyday world--was melted away and obliterated in those dreams of imagination, which only remembered with advantage the points of grace and dignity that distinguished flora, from the generality of her sex, not the particulars which she held in common with them, edward was, in short, in the fair way of creating a goddess out of a high-spirited, accomplished, and beautiful young woman; and the time was wasted in castle-building, until, at the descent of a steep hill, he saw beneath him the market-town of--. the highland politeness of callum beg--there are few nations, by the way, who can boast of so much natural politeness as the highlanders [the highlander, in former times, had always a high idea, of his own gentility, and was anxious to impress the same upon those with whom he conversed. his language abounded in the phrases of courtesy and compliment; and the habit of carrying arms, and mixing with those who did so, made if particularly desirable they should use cautious politeness in their intercourse with each other.]--the highland civility of his attendant had not permitted him to disturb the reveries of our hero. but observing him rouse himself at the sight of the village, callum pressed closer to his side, and hoped 'when they cam to the public, his honour wad not say nothing about vich ian vohr, for ta people were bitter whigs, deil burst tem.' waverley assured the prudent page that he would be cautious; and as he now distinguished, not indeed the ringing of bells, but the tinkling of something like a hammer against the side of an old messy, green, inverted porridge-pot, that hung in an open booth, of the size and shape of a parrot's cage, erected to grace the east end of a building resembling an old barn, he asked callum beg if it were sunday. 'could na say just preceesely--sunday seldom cam aboon the pass of bally-brough.' on entering the town, however, and advancing towards the most apparent public house which presented itself, the numbers of old women, in tartan screens and red cloaks, who streamed from the barn-resembling building, debating, as they went, the comparative merits of the blessed youth jabesh rentowel, and that chosen vessel maister goukthrapple, induced callum to assure his temporary master, 'that it was either ta muckle sunday hersell, or ta little government sunday that they ca'd ta fast.' on alighting at the sign of the seven-branched golden candlestick, which, for the further delectation of the guests, was graced with a short hebrew motto, they were received by mine host, a tall, thin puritanical figure, who seemed to debate with himself whether he ought to give shelter to those who travelled on such a day. reflecting, however, in all probability, that he possessed the power of mulcting them for this irregularity, a penalty which they might escape by passing into gregor duncanson's, at the sign of the highlander and the hawick gill, mr. ebenezer cruickshanks condescended to admit them into his dwelling. to this sanctified person waverley addressed his request that he would procure him a guide, with a saddle-horse, to carry his portmanteau to edinburgh. 'and whar may ye be coming from?' demanded mine host of the candlestick. 'i have told you where i wish to go; i do not conceive any further information necessary either for the guide or his saddle-horse.' 'hem! ahem!' returned he of the candlestick, somewhat disconcerted at this rebuff. 'it's the general fast, sir, and i cannot enter into ony carnal transactions on sic a day, when the people should be humbled, and the back sliders should return, as worthy mr. goukthrapple said; and moreover when, as the precious mr. jabesh rentowel did weel observe, the land was mourning for covenants burnt, broken, and buried.' 'my good friend,' said waverley, 'if you cannot let me have a horse and guide, my servant shall seek them elsewhere.' 'aweel! your servant?--and what for gangs he not forward wi' you himsell?' waverley had but very little of a captain of horse's spirit within him--i mean of that sort of spirit which i have been obliged to when i happened, in a mail-coach, or diligence, to meet some military man who has kindly taken upon him the disciplining of the waiters, and the taxing of reckonings. some of this useful talent our hero had, however, acquired during his military service, and on this gross provocation it began seriously to arise. 'look ye, sir; i came here for my own accommodation, and not to answer impertinent questions. either say you can, or cannot, get me what i want; i shall pursue my course in either case.' mr. ebenezer cruickshanks left the room with some indistinct muttering; but whether negative or acquiescent, edward could not well distinguish. the hostess, a civil, quiet, laborious drudge, came to take his orders for dinner, but declined to make answer on the subject of the horse and guide; for the salique law, it seems, extended to the stables of the golden candlestick. from a window which overlooked the dark and narrow court in which callum beg rubbed down the horses after their journey, waverley heard the following dialogue betwixt the subtle foot-page of vich ian vohr and his landlord:-- 'ye'll be frae the north, young man?' began the latter. 'and ye may say that,' answered callum. 'and ye'll hae ridden a lang way the day, it may weel be?' 'sae lang, that i could weel tak a dram,' 'gudewife, bring the gill stoup.' here some compliments passed, fitting the occasion, when my host of the golden candlestick, having, as he thought, opened his guest's heart by this hospitable propitiation, resumed his scrutiny. 'ye'll no hae mickle better whisky than that aboon the pass?' 'i am nae frae aboon the pass.' 'ye're a highlandman by your tongue?' 'na; i am but just aberdeen-a-way.' 'and did your master come frae aberdeen wi' you?' 'aye--that's when i left it mysell,' answered the cool and impenetrable callum beg. 'and what kind of a gentleman is he?' 'i believe he is ane o' king george's state officers; at least he's aye for ganging on to the south; and he has a hantle siller, and never grudges ony thing till a poor body, or in the way of a lawing.' 'he wants a guide and a horse frae hence to edinburgh?' 'aye, and ye maun find it him forthwith.' 'ahem! it will be chargeable.' 'he cares na for that a bodle.' 'aweel, duncan--did ye say your name was duncan, or donald?' 'na, man--jamie--jamie steenson--i telt ye before.' this last undaunted parry altogether foiled mr. cruickshanks, who, though not quite satisfied either with the reserve of the master, or the extreme readiness of the man, was contented to lay a tax on the reckoning and horse-hire, that might compound for his ungratified curiosity. the circumstance of its being the fast-day was not forgotten in the charge, which, on the whole, did not, however, amount to much more than double what in fairness it should have been. callum beg soon after announced in person the ratification of this treaty, adding, 'ta auld deevil was ganging to ride wi' ta duinhe-wassel hersell.' 'that will not be very pleasant, callum, nor altogether safe, for our host seems a person of great curiosity; but a traveller must submit to these inconveniences. meanwhile, my good lad, here is a trifle for you to drink vich ian vohr's health.' the hawk's eye of callum flashed delight upon a golden guinea, with which these last words were accompanied. he hastened, not without a curse on the intricacies of a saxon breeches pocket, or spleuchan, as he called it, to deposit the treasure in his fob; and then, as if he conceived the benevolence called for some requital on his part, he gathered close up to edward, with an expression of countenance peculiarly knowing, and spoke in an undertone, 'if his honour thought ta auld deevil whig carle was a bit dangerous, she could easily provide for him, and tell ane ta wiser.' 'how, and in what manner?' 'her ain sell,' replied callum, 'could wait for him a wee bit frae the toun, and kittle his quarters wi' her skene-occle.' 'skene-occle! what's that?' callum unbuttoned his coat, raised his left arm, and, with an emphatic nod, pointed to the hilt of a small dirk, snugly deposited under it, in the lining of his jacket. waverley thought he had misunderstood his meaning; he gazed in his face, and discovered in callum's very handsome, though embrowned features, just the degree of roguish malice with which a lad of the same age in england would have brought forward a plan for robbing an orchard. 'good god, callum, would you take the man's life?' 'indeed,' answered the young desperado, 'and i think he has had just a lang enough lease o't, when he's for betraying honest folk, that come to spend siller at his public.' edward saw nothing was to be gained by argument, and therefore contented himself with enjoining callum to lay aside all practices against the person of mr. ebenezer cruickshanks; in which injunction the page seemed to acquiesce with an air of great indifference. 'ta duinhe-wassel might please himsell; ta auld rudas loon had never done callum nae ill. but here's a bit line frae ta tighearna, tat he bade me gie your honour ere i came back.' the letter from the chief contained flora's lines on the fate of captain wogan, whose enterprising character is so well drawn by clarendon. he had originally engaged in the service of the parliament, but had abjured that party upon the execution of charles i; and upon hearing that the royal standard was set up by the earl of glencairn and general middleton in the highlands of scotland, took leave of charles ii, who was then at paris, passed into england, assembled a body of cavaliers in the neighbourhood of london, and traversed the kingdom, which had been so long under domination of the usurper, by marches conducted with such skill, dexterity, and spirit, that he safely united his handful of horsemen with the body of highlanders then in arms. after several months of desultory warfare, in which wogan's skill and courage gained him the highest reputation, he had the misfortune to be wounded in a dangerous manner, and no surgical assistance being within reach, he terminated his short but glorious career. where were obvious reasons why the politic chieftain was desirous to place the example of this young hero under the eye of waverley, with whose romantic disposition it coincided so peculiarly. but his letter turned chiefly upon some trifling commissions which waverley had promised to execute for him in england, and it was only toward the conclusion that edward found these words: 'i owe flora a grudge for refusing us her company yesterday; and as i am giving you the trouble of reading these lines, in order to keep in your memory your promise to procure me the fishing-tackle and cross-bow from london, i will enclose her verses on the grave of wogan. this i know will tease her; for, to tell you the truth, i think her more in love with the memory of that dead hero, than she is likely to be with any living one, unless he shall tread a similar path. but english squires of our day keep their oak-trees to shelter their deer-parks, or repair the losses of an evening at white's, and neither invoke them to wreathe their brows nor shelter their graves. let me hope for one brilliant exception in a dear friend, to whom i would most gladly give a dearer title.' the verses were inscribed, to an oak tree in the churchyard of--, in the highlands of scotland, said to mark the grave of captain wogan, killed in . emblem of england's ancient faith, full proudly may thy branches wave, where loyalty lies low in death, and valour fills a timeless grave. and thou, brave tenant of the tomb! repine not if our clime deny, above thine honoured sod to bloom, the flowerets of a milder sky. these owe their birth to genial may; beneath a fiercer sun they pine, before the winter storm decay-- and can their worth be type of thine? no! for 'mid storms of fate opposing, still higher swelled thy dauntless heart, and, while despair the scene was closing, commenced thy brief but brilliant part. twas then thou sought'st on albyn's hill, (when england's sons the strife resigned), a rugged race, resisting still, and unsubdued though unrefined. thy death's hour heard no kindred wail, no holy knell thy requiem rung; thy mourners were the plaided gael; thy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung. yet who, in fortune's summer-shine, to waste life's longest term away, would change that glorious dawn of thine, though darkened ere its noontide day? be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs brave summer's drought and winter's gloom! rome bound with oak her patriots' brows, as albyn shadows wogan's tomb. whatever might be the real merit of flora mac-ivor's poetry, the enthusiasm which it intimated was well calculated to make a corresponding impression upon her lover. the lines were read--read again--then deposited in waverley's bosom--then again drawn out, and read line by line, in a low and smothered voice, and with frequent pauses which, prolonged the mental treat, as an epicure protracts, by sipping slowly the enjoyment of a delicious beverage. the entrance of mrs. cruickshanks, with the sublunary articles of dinner and wine, hardly interrupted this pantomime of affectionate enthusiasm. at length the tall, ungainly figure and ungracious visage of ebenezer presented themselves. the upper part of his form, notwithstanding the season required no such defence, was shrouded in a large great-coat, belted over his under habiliments, and crested with a huge cowl of the same stuff, which, when drawn over the head and hat, completely over-shadowed both, and being buttoned beneath the chin, was called a trot-cozy. his hand grasped a huge jockey-whip, garnished with brass mounting. his thin legs tenanted a pair of gambadoes, fastened at the sides with rusty clasps. thus accoutred, he stalked into the midst of the apartment, and announced his errand in brief phrase:-- 'yerhorses are ready.' 'you go with me yourself then, landlord?' 'i do, as far as perth; where you may be supplied with a guide to embro', as your occasions shall require.' thus saying, he placed under waverley's eye the bill which he held in his hand; and at the same time, self-invited, filled a glass of wine, and drank devoutly to a blessing on their journey. waverley stared at the man's impudence, but, as their connexion was to be short, and promised to be convenient, he made no observation upon it; and, having paid his reckoning, expressed his intention to depart immediately. he mounted dermid accordingly, and sallied forth from the golden candlestick, followed by the puritanical figure we have described, after he had, at the expense of some time and difficulty, and by the assistance of a 'louping-on-stane,' or structure of masonry erected for the traveller's convenience in front of the house, elevated his person to the back of a long-backed, raw-boned, thin-gutted phantom of a broken-down blood-horse, on which waverley's portmanteau was deposited. our hero, though not in a very gay humour, could hardly help laughing at the appearance of his new squire, and at imagining the astonishment which his person and equipage would have excited at waverley-honour. edward's tendency to mirth did not escape mine host of the candlestick, who, conscious of the cause, infused a double portion of souring into the pharisaical leaven of his countenance, and resolved internally that in one way or other the young englisher should pay dearly for the contempt with which he seemed to regard him. callum also stood at the gate, and enjoyed, with undissembled glee, the ridiculous figure of mr. cruickshanks. as waverley passed him, he pulled off his hat respectfully, and approaching his stirrup, bade him 'tak heed the auld whig deevil played him nae cantrip.' waverley once more thanked, and bade him farewell, and then rode briskly onward, not sorry to be out of hearing of the shouts of the children, as they beheld old ebenezer rise and sink in his stirrups, to avoid the concussions occasioned by a hard trot upon a half-paved street. the village of--was soon several miles behind him. chapter xxx shows that the loss of a horse's shoe may be a serious inconvenience the manner and air of waverley, but, above all, the glittering contents of his purse, and the indifference with which he seemed to regard them, somewhat overawed his companion, and deterred him from making any attempts to enter upon conversation. his own reflections were, moreover, agitated by various surmises, and by plans of self-interest, with which these were intimately connected. the travellers journeyed, therefore, in silence, until it was interrupted by the annunciation, on the part of the guide, that his 'naig had lost a fore-foot shoe, which, doubtless, his honour would consider it was his part to replace.' this was what lawyers call a fishing question, calculated to ascertain how far waverley was disposed to submit to petty imposition. 'my part to replace your horse's shoe, you rascal!' said waverley, mistaking the purport of the intimation. 'indubitably,' answered mr. cruickshanks; 'though there was no preceese clause to that effect, it canna be expected that i am to pay for the casualties whilk may befall the puir naig while in your honour's service.--nathless, if your honour--' 'oh, you mean i am to pay the farrier; but where shall we find one?' rejoiced at discerning there would be no objection made on the part of his temporary master, mr. cruickshanks assured him that cairnvreckan, a village which they were about to enter, was happy in an excellent blacksmith; 'but as he was a professor, he would drive a nail for no man on the sabbath, or kirk-fast, unless it were in a case of absolute necessity, for which he always charged sixpence each shoe.' the most important part of this communication, in the opinion of the speaker, made a very slight impression on the hearer, who only internally wondered what college this veterinary professor belonged to; not aware that the word was used to denote any person who pretended to uncommon sanctity of faith and manner. as they entered the village of cairnvreckan, they speedily distinguished the smith's house. being also a public, it was two stories high, and proudly reared its crest, covered with grey slate, above the thatched hovels by which it was surrounded. the adjoining smithy betokened none of the sabbatical silence and repose which ebenezer had augured from the sanctity of his friend. on the contrary, hammer clashed and anvil rang, the bellows groaned, and the whole apparatus of vulcan appeared to be in full activity. nor was the labour of a rural and pacific nature. the master smith, benempt, as his sign intimated, john mucklewrath, with two assistants, toiled busily in arranging, repairing, and furbishing old muskets, pistols, and swords, which lay scattered around his workshop in military confusion. the open shed, containing the forge, was crowded with persons who came and went as if receiving and communicating important news; and a single glance at the aspect of the people who traversed the street in haste, or stood assembled in groups, with eyes elevated, and hands uplifted, announced that some extraordinary intelligence was agitating the public mind of the municipality of cairnvreckan. 'there is some news,' said mine host of the candlestick, pushing his lantern-jawed visage and bare-boned nag rudely forward into the crowd--'there is some news; and if it please my creator, i will forthwith obtain speirings thereof.' waverley, with better regulated curiosity than his attendant's, dismounted, and gave his horse to a boy who stood idling near. it arose, perhaps, from the shyness of his character in early youth, that he felt dislike at applying to a stranger even for casual information, without previously glancing at his physiognomy and appearance. while he looked about in order to select the person with whom he would most willingly hold communication, the buzz around saved him in some degree the trouble of interrogatories. the names of lochiel, clanronald, glengarry, and other distinguished highland chiefs, among whom vich ian vohr was repeatedly mentioned, were as familiar in men's mouths as household words; and from the alarm generally expressed, he easily conceived that their descent into the lowlands, at the head of their armed tribes, had either already taken place, or was instantly apprehended. ere waverley could ask particulars, a strong, large-boned, hard-featured woman, about forty, dressed as if her clothes had been flung on with a pitchfork, her cheeks flushed with a scarlet red where they were not smutted with soot and lamp-black, jostled through the crowd, and, brandishing high a child of two years old, which she danced in her arms, without regard to its screams of terror, sang forth, with all her might,-- 'charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling, charlie is my darling, the young chevalier! 'd'ye hear what's come ower ye now,' continued the virago, 'ye whingeing whig carles? d'ye hear wha's coming to cow yer cracks? little wot ye wha's coming, little wot ye wha's coming, a' the wild macraws are coming.' the vulcan of cairnvreckan, who acknowledged his venus in this exulting bacchante, regarded her with a grim and ire-foreboding countenance, while some of the senators of the village hastened to interpose. 'whisht, gudewife; is this a time, or is this a day, to be singing your ranting fule sangs in?--a time when the wine of wrath is poured out without mixture in the cup of indignation, and a day when the land should give testimony against popery, and prelacy, and quakerism, and independency, and supremacy, and erastianism, and antinomianism, and a' the errors of the church?' 'and that's a' your whiggery,' re-echoed the jacobite heroine; 'that's a' your whiggery, and your presbytery, ye cut-lugged, graning carles! what! d'ye think the lads wi' the kilts will care for yer synods and yer presbyteries, and yer buttock-mail, and yer stool o' repentance? vengeance on the black face o't! mony an honester woman's been set upon it than streeks doon beside ony whig in the country. i mysell'-- here john mucklewrath, who dreaded her entering upon a detail of personal experience, interposed his matrimonial authority. 'gae hame, and be d-- (that i should say sae), and put on the sowens for supper.' 'and you, ye doil'd dotard,' replied his gentle helpmate, her wrath, which had hitherto wandered abroad over the whole assembly, being at once and violently impelled into its natural channel, 'ye stand there hammering dog-heads for fules that will never snap them at a highlandman, instead, of earning bread for your family, and shoeing this winsome young gentleman's horse that's just come frae the north! i'se warrant him nane of your whingeing king george folk, but a gallant gordon, at the least o' him.' the eyes of the assembly were now turned upon waverley, who took the opportunity to beg the smith to shoe his guide's horse with all speed, as he wished to proceed on his journey;--for he had heard enough to make him sensible that there would be danger in delaying long in this place. the smith's eye rested on him with a look of displeasure and suspicion, not lessened by the eagerness with which his wife enforced waverley's mandate. 'd'ye hear what the weel-favoured young gentleman says, ye drunken ne'er-do-good?' and what may your name be, sir?' quoth mucklewrath. 'it is of no consequence to you, my friend, provided i pay your labour.' 'but it may be of consequence to the state, sir,' replied an old farmer, smelling strongly of whisky and peat-smoke; 'and i doubt we maun delay your journey till you have seen the laird.' 'you certainly,' said waverley, haughtily, 'will find it both difficult and dangerous to detain me, unless you can produce some proper authority.' there was a pause and a whisper among the crowd--'secretary murray;' 'lord lewis gordon;' 'maybe the chevalier himsell!' such were the surmises that passed hurriedly among them, and there was obviously an increased disposition to resist waverley's departure. he attempted to argue mildly with them, but his voluntary ally, mrs. mucklewrath, broke in upon and drowned his expostulations, taking his part with an abusive violence, which was all set down to edward's account by those on whom it was bestowed. 'ye'll stop ony gentleman that's the prince's freend?' for she too, though with other feelings, had adopted the general opinion respecting waverley. 'i daur ye to touch him,' spreading abroad her long and muscular fingers, garnished with claws which a vulture might have envied. 'i'll set my ten commandments in the face o' the first loon that lays a finger on him.' 'gae hame, gudewife, quoth the farmer aforesaid; 'it wad better set you to be nursing the gudeman's bairns than to be deaving us here.' 'his bairns!' retorted the amazon, regarding her husband with a grin of ineffable contempt--'his bairns! o gin ye were dead, gudeman, and a green turf on your head, gudeman! then i would ware my widowhood upon a ranting highlandman.' this canticle, which excited a suppressed titter among the younger part of the audience, totally overcame the patience of the taunted man of the anvil. 'deil be in me but i'll put this het gad down her throat!' cried he, in an ecstasy of wrath, snatching a bar from the forge; and he might have executed his threat, had he not been withheld by a part of the mob; while the rest endeavoured to force the termagant out of his presence. waverley meditated a retreat in the confusion, but his horse was nowhere to be seen. at length he observed, at some distance, his faithful attendant, ebenezer, who, as soon as he had perceived the turn matters were likely to take, had withdrawn both horses from the press, and, mounted on the one, and holding the other, answered the loud and repeated calls of waverley for his horse--'na, na! if ye are nae friend to kirk and the king, and are detained as siccan a person, ye maun answer to honest men of the country for breach of contract; and i maun keep the naig and the walise for damage and expense, in respect my horse and mysell will lose to-morrow's day's-wark, besides the afternoon preaching.' edward, out of patience, hemmed in and hustled by the rabble on every side, and every moment expecting personal violence, resolved to try measures of intimidation, and at length drew a pocket-pistol, threatening, on the one hand, to shoot whomsoever dared to stop him, and, on the other, menacing ebenezer with a similar doom, if he stirred a foot with the horses. the sapient partridge says, that one man with a pistol is equal to a hundred unarmed, because, though he can shoot but one of the multitude, yet no one knows but that he himself may be that luckless individual. the levy en masse of cairnvreckan would therefore probably have given way, nor would ebenezer, whose natural paleness had waxed three shades more cadaverous, have ventured to dispute a mandate so enforced, had not the vulcan of the village, eager to discharge upon some more worthy object the fury which his helpmate had provoked, and not ill satisfied to find such an object in waverley, rushed at him with the red-hot bar of iron, with such determination as made the discharge of his pistol an act of self-defence. the unfortunate man fell; and while edward, thrilled with a natural horror at the incident, neither had presence of mind to unsheathe his sword nor to draw his remaining pistol, the populace threw themselves upon him, disarmed him, and were about to use him with great violence, when the appearance of a venerable clergyman, the pastor of the parish, put a curb on their fury. this worthy man (none of the goukthrapples or rentowels) maintained his character with the common people, although he preached the practical fruits of christian faith, as well as its abstract tenets, and was respected by the higher orders, notwithstanding he declined soothing their speculative errors by converting the pulpit of the gospel into a school of heathen morality. perhaps it is owing to this mixture of faith and practice in his doctrine, that, although his memory has formed a sort of era in the annals of cairnvreckan, so that the parishioners, to denote what befell sixty years since, still say it happened 'in good mr. morton's time,' i have never been able to discover which he belonged to, the evangelical, or the moderate party in the kirk. nor do i hold the circumstance of much moment, since, in my own remembrance, the one was headed by an erskine, the other by a robertson. [the rev. john erskine, d.d., an eminent scottish divine, and a most excellent man, headed the evangelical party in the church of scotland at the time when the celebrated dr. robertson, the historian, was the leader of the moderate party. these two distinguished persons were colleagues in the old grey friars' church, edinburgh; and, however much they differed in church politics, preserved the most perfect harmony as private friends, and as clergymen serving the same cure.] mr. morton had been alarmed by the discharge of the pistol, and the increasing hubbub around the smithy. his first attention, after he had directed the bystanders to detain waverley, but to abstain from injuring him, was turned to the body of mucklewrath, over which his wife, in a revulsion of feeling, was weeping, howling, and tearing her elf-locks, in a state little short of distraction. on raising up the smith, the first discovery was, that he was alive; and the next, that he was likely to live as long as if he had never heard the report of a pistol in his life. he had made a narrow escape, however; the bullet had grazed his head, and stunned him for a moment or two, which trance terror and confusion of spirit had prolonged, somewhat longer. he now arose to demand vengeance on the person of waverley, and with difficulty acquiesced in the proposal of mr. morton, that he should be carried before the laird, as a justice of peace, and placed at his disposal. the rest of the assistants unanimously agreed to the measure recommended; even mrs. mucklewrath, who had begun to recover from her hysterics, whimpered forth, 'she wadna say naething against what the minister proposed; he was e'en ower gude for his trade, and she hoped to see him wi' a dainty decent bishop's gown on his back; a comelier sight than your geneva cloaks and bands, i wis.' all controversy being thus laid aside, waverley, escorted by the whole inhabitants of the village who were not bed-ridden, was conducted to the house of cairnvreckan, which was about half a mile distant. chapter xxxi an examination major melville of cairnvreckan, an elderly gentleman, who had spent his youth in the military service, received mr. morton with great kindness, and our hero with civility, which the equivocal circumstances wherein edward was placed rendered constrained and distant. the nature of the smith's hurt was inquired into, and as the actual injury was likely to prove trifling, and the circumstances in which it was received rendered the infliction, on edward's part, a natural act of self-defence, the major conceived he might dismiss that matter, on waverley's depositing in his hands a small sum for the benefit of the wounded person. 'i could wish, sir,' continued the major, 'that my duty terminated here; but it is necessary that we should have some further inquiry into the cause of your journey through the country at this unfortunate and distracted time.' mr. ebenezer cruickshanks now stood forth, and communicated to the magistrate all he knew or suspected, from the reserve of waverley, and the evasions of callum beg. the horse upon which edward rode, he said he knew to belong to vich ian vohr, though he dared not tax edward's former attendant with the fact, lest he should have his house and stables burnt over his head some night by that godless gang, the mac-ivors. he concluded by exaggerating his own services to kirk and state, as having been the means, under god (as he modestly qualified the assertion), of attaching this suspicious and formidable delinquent. he intimated hopes of future reward, and of instant reimbursement for loss of time, and even of character, by travelling on the state business on the fast-day. to this major melville answered, with great composure, that so far from claiming any merit in this affair, mr. cruickshanks ought to deprecate the imposition of a very heavy fine for neglecting to lodge, in terms of the recent proclamation, an account with the nearest magistrate of any stranger who came to his inn; that as mr. cruickshanks boasted so much of religion and loyalty, he should not impute this conduct to disaffection, but only suppose that his zeal for kirk and state had been lulled asleep by the opportunity of charging a stranger with double horse-hire; that, however, feeling himself incompetent to decide singly upon the conduct of a person of such importance, he should reserve it for consideration of the next quarter-sessions. now our history for the present saith no more of him of the candlestick, who wended dolorous and malcontent back to his own dwelling. major melville then commanded the villagers to return to their homes, excepting two, who officiated as constables, and whom he directed to wait below. the apartment was thus cleared of every person but mr. morton, whom the major invited to remain; a sort of factor, who acted as clerk; and waverley himself. there ensued a painful and embarrassed pause, till major melville, looking upon waverley with much compassion, and often consulting a paper or memorandum which he held in his hand, requested to know his name.--'edward waverley.' 'i thought so; late of the--dragoons, and nephew of sir everard waverley of waverley-honour?' 'the same.' 'young gentleman, i am extremely sorry that this painful duty has fallen to my lot.' 'duty, major melville, renders apologies superfluous.' 'true, sir; permit me, therefore, to ask you how your time has been disposed of since you obtained leave of absence from your regiment, several weeks ago, until the present moment?' 'my reply,' said waverley, 'to so general a question must be guided by the nature of the charge which renders it necessary. i request to know what that charge is, and upon what authority i am forcibly detained to reply to it?' 'the charge, mr. waverley, i grieve to say, is of a very high nature, and affects your character both as a soldier and a subject. in the former capacity, you are charged with spreading mutiny and rebellion among the men you commanded, and setting them the example of desertion, by prolonging your own absence from the regiment, contrary to the express orders of your commanding-officer. the civil crime of which you stand accused is that of high treason, and levying war against the king, the highest delinquency of which a subject can be guilty.' 'and by what authority am i detained to reply to such heinous calumnies?' 'by one which you must not dispute, nor i disobey.' he handed to waverley a warrant from the supreme criminal court of scotland, in full form, for apprehending and securing the person of edward waverley, esq., suspected of treasonable practices and other high crimes and misdemeanours. the astonishment which waverley expressed at this communication was imputed by major melville to conscious guilt, while mr. morton was rather disposed to construe it into the surprise of innocence unjustly suspected. there was something true in both conjectures; for although edward's mind acquitted him of the crime with which he was charged, yet a hasty review of his own conduct convinced him he might have great difficulty in establishing his innocence to the satisfaction of others. 'it is a very painful part of this painful business,' said major melville, after a pause, 'that, under so grave a charge, i must necessarily request to see such papers as you have on your person.' 'you shall, sir, without reserve,' said edward, throwing his pocket-book and memorandums upon the table; 'there is but one with which i could wish you would dispense.' 'i am afraid, mr. waverley, i can indulge you with no reservation.' 'you shall see it then, sir; and as it can be of no service, i beg it may be returned.' he took from his bosom the lines he had that morning received, and presented them with the envelope. the major perused them in silence, and directed his clerk to make a copy of them. he then wrapped the copy in the envelope, and placing it on the table before him, returned the original to waverley, with an air of melancholy gravity. after indulging the prisoner, for such our hero must now be considered, with what he thought a reasonable time for reflection, major melville resumed his examination, premising, that as mr. waverley seemed to object to general questions, his interrogatories should be as specific as his information permitted. he then proceeded in his investigation, dictating, as he went on, the import of the questions and answers to the amanuensis, by whom it was written down. did mr. waverley know one humphry houghton, a non-commissioned officer in gardiner's dragoons?' 'certainly; he was sergeant of my troop, and son of a tenant of my uncle.' 'exactly--and had a considerable share of your confidence, and an influence among his comrades?' 'i had never occasion to repose confidence in a person of his description,' answered waverley. 'i favoured sergeant houghton as a clever, active young fellow, and i believe his fellow soldiers respected him accordingly.' 'but you used through this man,' answered major melville, 'to communicate with such of your troop as were recruited upon waverley-honour?' 'certainly; the poor fellows, finding themselves in a regiment chiefly composed of scotch or irish, looked up to me in any of their little distresses, and naturally made their countryman, and sergeant, their spokesman on such occasions.' 'sergeant houghton's influence,' continued the major, 'extended, then, particularly over those soldiers who followed you to the regiment from your uncle's estate?' 'surely;--but what is that to the present purpose?' 'to that i am just coming, and i beseech your candid reply. have you, since leaving the regiment, held any correspondence, direct or indirect, with this sergeant houghton?' 'i!--i hold correspondence with a man of his rank and situation!--how, or for what purpose?' 'that you are to explain;--but did you not, for example, send to him for some books?' 'you remind me of a trifling commission,' said waverley, 'which i gave sergeant houghton, because my servant could not read. i do recollect i bade him, by letter, select some books, of which i sent him a list, and send them to me at tully-veolan.' 'and of what description were those books?' 'they related almost entirely to elegant literature; they were designed for a lady's perusal.' 'were there not, mr. waverley, treasonable tracts and pamphlets among them?' 'there were some political treatises, into which i hardly looked. they had been sent to me by the officiousness of a kind friend, whose heart is more to be esteemed than his prudence or political sagacity; they seemed to be dull compositions.' 'that friend,' continued the persevering inquirer, 'was a mr. pembroke, a nonjuring clergyman, the author of two treasonable works, of which the manuscripts were found among your baggage?' 'but of which, i give you my honour as a gentleman,' replied waverley, 'i never read six pages.' 'i am not your judge, mr. waverley; your examination will be transmitted elsewhere. and now to proceed--do you know a person that passes by the name of wily will, or will ruthven?' 'i never heard of such a name till this moment.' 'did you never, through such a person, or any other person, communicate with sergeant humphry houghton, instigating him to desert, with as many of his comrades as he could seduce to join him, and unite with the highlanders and other rebels now in arms under the command of the young pretender?' 'i assure you i am not only entirely guiltless of the plot you have laid to my charge, but i detest it from the very bottom of my soul, nor would i be guilty of such treachery to gain a throne, either for myself or any other man alive.' 'yet when i consider this envelope, in the handwriting of one of those misguided gentlemen who are now in arms against their country, and the verses which it enclosed, i cannot but find some analogy between the enterprise i have mentioned and the exploit of wogan, which the writer seems to expect you should imitate.' waverley was struck with the coincidence, but denied that the wishes or expectations of the letter-writer were to be regarded as proofs of a charge otherwise chimerical. 'but, if i am rightly informed, your time was spent, during your absence from the regiment, between the house of this highland chieftain, and that of mr. bradwardine of bradwardine, also in arms for this unfortunate cause?' 'i do not mean to disguise it; but i do deny, most resolutely, being privy to any of their designs against the government.' 'you do not, however, i presume, intend to deny, that you attended your host glennaquoich to a rendezvous, where, under a pretence of a general hunting-match, most of the accomplices of his treason were assembled to concert measures for taking arms?' 'i acknowledge having been at such a meeting,' said waverley; 'but i neither heard nor saw anything which could give it the character you affix to it.' 'from thence you proceeded,' continued the magistrate, 'with glennaquoich and a part of his clan, to join the army of the young pretender, and returned, after having paid your homage to him, to discipline and arm the remainder, and unite them to his bands on their way southward?' 'i never went with glennaquoich on such an errand. i never so much as heard that the person whom you mention was in the country.' he then detailed the history of his misfortune at the hunting-match, and added, that on his return he found himself suddenly deprived of his commission and did not deny that he then, for the first time, observed symptoms which indicated a disposition in the highlanders to take arms; but added, that having no inclination to join their cause, and no longer any reason for remaining in scotland, he was now on his return to his native country, to which he had been summoned by those who had a right to direct his motions, as major melville would perceive from the letters on the table. major melville accordingly perused the letters of richard waverley, of sir everard, and of aunt rachel; but the inferences he drew from them were different from what waverley expected. they held the language of discontent with government, threw out no obscure hints of revenge; and that of poor aunt rachel, which plainly asserted the justice of the stuart cause, was held to contain the open avowal of what the others only ventured to insinuate. 'permit me another question, mr. waverley,' said major melville. 'did you not receive repeated letters from your commanding-officer, warning you and commanding you to return to your post, and acquainting you with the use made of your name to spread discontent among your soldiers?' 'i never did, major melville. one letter, indeed, i received from him, containing a civil intimation of his wish that i would employ my leave of absence otherwise than in constant residence at bradwardine, as to which, i own, i thought he was not called on to interfere; and, finally, i received, on the same day on which i observed myself superseded in the gazette, a second letter from colonel gardiner, commanding me to join the regiment,--an order which, owing to my absence, already mentioned and accounted for, i received too late to be obeyed. if there were any intermediate letters--and certainly, from the colonel's high character, i think it probable that there were--they have never reached me.' 'i have omitted, mr. waverley,' continued major melville, 'to inquire after a matter of less consequence, but which has nevertheless been publicly talked of to your disadvantage. it is said that a treasonable toast having been proposed in your hearing and presence, you, holding his majesty's commission, suffered the task of resenting it to devolve upon another gentleman of the company. this, sir, cannot be charged against you in a court of justice; but if, as i am informed, the officers of your regiment requested an explanation of such a rumour, as a gentleman and soldier, i cannot but be surprised that you did not afford it to them.' this was too much. beset and pressed on every hand by accusations, in which gross falsehoods were blended with such circumstances of truth as could not fail to procure them credit,--alone, unfriended, and in a strange land, waverley almost gave up his life and honour for lost, and, leaning his head upon his hand, resolutely refused to answer any further questions, since the fair and candid statement he had already made had only served to furnish arms against him. without expressing either surprise or displeasure at the change in waverley's manner, major melville proceeded composedly to put several other queries to him. 'what does it avail me to answer you?' said edward, sullenly. 'you appear convinced of my guilt, and wrest every reply i have made to support your own preconceived opinion. enjoy your supposed triumph, then, and torment me no further. if i am capable of the cowardice and treachery your charge burdens me with, i am not worthy to be believed in any reply i can make to you. if i am not deserving of your suspicion--and god and my own conscience bear evidence with me that it is so--then i do not see why i should, by my candour, lend my accusers arms against my innocence. there is no reason i should answer a word more, and i am determined to abide by this resolution.' and again he resumed his posture of sullen and determined silence. 'allow me,' said the magistrate, 'to remind you of one reason that may suggest the propriety of a candid and open confession. the inexperience of youth, mr. waverley, lays it open to the plans of the more designing and artful; and one of your friends at least--i mean mac-ivor of glennaquoich--ranks high in the latter class, as, from your apparent ingenuousness, youth, and unacquaintance with the manners of the highlands, i should be disposed to place you among the former. in such a case, a false step, or error like yours, which i shall be happy to consider as involuntary, may be atoned for, and i would willingly act as intercessor. but as you must necessarily be acquainted with the strength of the individuals in this country who have assumed arms, with their means, and with their plans, i must expect you will merit this mediation on my part by a frank and candid avowal of all that has come to your knowledge upon these heads. in which case, i think i can venture to promise that a very short personal restraint will be the only ill consequence that can arise from your accession to these unhappy intrigues.' waverley listened with great composure until the end of this exhortation, when, springing from his seat, with an energy he had not yet displayed, he replied, 'major melville, since that is your name, i have hitherto answered your questions with candour, or declined them with temper, because their import concerned myself alone; but as you presume to esteem me mean enough to commence informer against others, who received me, whatever may be their public misconduct, as a guest and friend,--i declare to you that i consider your questions as an insult infinitely more offensive than your calumnious suspicions; and that, since my hard fortune permits me no other mode of resenting them than by verbal defiance, you should sooner have my heart out of my bosom, than a single syllable of information on subjects which i could only become acquainted with in the full confidence of unsuspecting hospitality.' mr. morton and the major looked at each other; and the former, who, in the course of the examination, had been repeatedly troubled with a sorry rheum, had recourse to his snuff-box and his handkerchief. 'mr. waverley,' said the major, 'my present situation prohibits me alike from giving or receiving offence, and i will not protract a discussion which approaches to either. i am afraid i must sign a warrant for detaining you in custody, but this house shall for the present be your prison. i fear i cannot persuade you to accept a share of our supper?--(edward shook his head)--but i will order refreshments in your apartment. our hero bowed and withdrew, under guard of the officers of justice, to a small but handsome room, where, declining all offers of food or wine, he flung himself on the bed, and, stupefied by the harassing events and mental fatigue of this miserable day, he sank into a deep and heavy slumber. this was more than he himself could have expected; but it is mentioned of the north american indians, when at the stake of torture, that on the least intermission of agony, they will sleep until the fire is applied to awaken them. chapter xxxii a conference, and the consequence major melville had detained mr. morton during his examination of waverley, both because he thought he might derive assistance from his practical good sense and approved loyalty, and also because it was agreeable to have a witness of unimpeached candour and veracity to proceedings which touched the honour and safety of a young englishman of high rank and family, and the expectant heir of a large fortune. every step he knew would be rigorously canvassed, and it was his business to place the justice and integrity of his own conduct beyond the limits of question. when waverley retired, the laird and clergyman of cairnvreckan sat down in silence to their evening meal. while the servants were in attendance, neither chose to say anything on the circumstances which occupied their minds, and neither felt it easy to speak upon any other. the youth and apparent frankness of waverley stood in strong contrast to the shades of suspicion which darkened around him, and he had a sort of naivete and openness of demeanour, that seemed to belong to one unhackneyed in the ways of intrigue, and which pleaded highly in his favour. each mused over the particulars of the examination, and each viewed it through the medium of his own feelings. both were men of ready and acute talent, and both were equally competent to combine various parts of evidence, and to deduce from them the necessary conclusions. but the wide difference of their habits and education often occasioned a great discrepancy in their respective deductions from admitted premises. major melville had been versed in camps and cities; he was vigilant by profession, and cautious from experience; had met with much evil in the world, and therefore, though himself an upright magistrate and an honourable man, his opinions of others were always strict, and sometimes unjustly severe. mr. morton, on the contrary, had passed from the literary pursuits of a college, where he was beloved by his companions, and respected by his teachers, to the ease and simplicity of his present charge, where his opportunities of witnessing evil were few, and never dwelt upon but in order to encourage repentance and amendment; and where the love and respect of his parishioners repaid his affectionate zeal in their behalf, by endeavouring to disguise from him what they knew would give him the most acute pain, namely, their own occasional transgressions of the duties which it was the business of his life to recommend. thus it was a common saying in the neighbourhood (though both wore popular characters), that the laird knew only the ill in the parish, and the minister only the good. a love of letters, though kept in subordination to his clerical studies and duties, also distinguished the pastor of cairnvreckan, and had tinged his mind in earlier days with a slight feeling of romance, which no after incidents of real life had entirely dissipated. the early loss of an amiable young woman, whom he had married for love, and who was quickly followed to the grave by an only child, had also served, even after the lapse of many years, to soften a disposition naturally mild and contemplative. his feelings on the present occasion were therefore likely to differ from those of the severe disciplinarian, strict magistrate, and distrustful man of the world. when the servants had withdrawn, the silence of both parties continued, until major melville, filling his glass, and pushing the bottle to mr. morton, commenced. 'a distressing affair this, mr. morton. i fear this youngster has brought himself within the compass of a halter.' 'god forbid!' answered the clergyman. 'marry, and amen,' said the temporal magistrate; 'but i think even your merciful logic will hardly deny the conclusion.' 'surely, major,' answered the clergyman, 'i should hope it might be averted, for aught we have heard to-night?' 'indeed!' replied melville. 'but, my good parson, you are one of those who would communicate to every criminal the benefit of clergy.' 'unquestionably i would: mercy and long-suffering are the grounds of the doctrine i am called to teach.' 'true, religiously speaking; but mercy to a criminal may be gross injustice to the community. i don't speak of this young fellow in particular, who i heartily wish may be able to clear himself, for i like both his modesty and his spirit. but i fear he has rushed upon his fate.' 'and why? hundreds of misguided gentlemen are now in arms against the government; many, doubtless, upon principles which education and early prejudice have gilded with the names of patriotism and heroism;--justice, when she selects her victims from such a multitude (for surely all will not be destroyed), must regard the moral motive. he whom ambition, or hope of personal advantage, has led to disturb the peace of a well-ordered government, let him fall a victim to the laws; but surely youth, misled by the wild visions of chivalry and imaginary loyalty, may plead for pardon.' 'if visionary chivalry and imaginary loyalty come within the predicament of high treason,' replied the magistrate, 'i know no court in christendom, my dear mr. morton, where they can sue out their habeas corpus.' 'but i cannot see that this youth's guilt is at all established to my satisfaction,' said the clergyman. 'because your good nature blinds your good sense,' replied major melville. 'observe now: this young man, descended of a family of hereditary jacobites, his uncle the leader of the tory interest in the county of--, his father a disobliged and discontented courtier, his tutor a nonjuror, and the author of two treasonable volumes--this youth, i say, enters into gardiner's dragoons, bringing with him a body-of young fellows from his uncle's estate, who have not stickled at avowing, in their way, the high church principles they learned at waverley-honour, in their disputes with their comrades. to these young men waverley is unusually attentive; they are supplied with money beyond a soldier's wants, and inconsistent with his discipline; and are under the management of a favourite sergeant, through whom they hold an unusually close communication with their captain, and affect to consider themselves as independent of the other officers, and superior to their comrades.' 'all this, my dear major, is the natural consequence of their attachment to their young landlord, and of their finding themselves in a regiment levied chiefly in the north of ireland and the west of scotland, and of course among comrades disposed to quarrel with them, both as englishmen, and as members of the church of england.' 'well said, parson!' replied the magistrate.--'i would some of your synod heard you.--but let me go on. this young man obtains leave of absence, goes to tully-veolan--the principles of the baron of bradwardine are pretty well known, not to mention that this lad's uncle brought him off in the year fifteen; he engages there in a brawl, in which he is said to have disgraced the commission he bore; colonel gardiner writes to him, first mildly, then more sharply--i think you will not doubt his having done so, since he says so; the mess invite him to explain the quarrel in which he is said to have been involved; he neither replies to his commander nor his comrades. in the meanwhile, his soldiers become mutinous and disorderly, and at length, when the rumour of this unhappy rebellion becomes general, his favourite sergeant houghton, and another fellow, are detected in correspondence with a french emissary, accredited, as he says, by captain waverley, who urges him, according to the men's confession, to desert with the troop and join their captain, who was with prince charles. in the meanwhile this trusty captain is, by his own admission, residing at glennaquoich with the most active, subtle, and desperate jacobite in scotland; he goes with him at least as far as their famous hunting rendezvous, and i fear a little farther. meanwhile two other summonses are sent him; one warning him of the disturbances in his troop, another peremptorily ordering him to repair to the regiment, which, indeed, common sense might have dictated, when he observed rebellion thickening all round him. he returns an absolute refusal, and throws up his commission.' 'he had been already deprived of it,' said mr. morton. 'but he regrets,' replied melville, 'that the measure had anticipated his resignation. his baggage is seized at his quarters, and at tully-veolan, and is found to contain a stock of pestilent jacobitical pamphlets, enough to poison a whole country, besides the unprinted lucubrations of his worthy friend and tutor mr. pembroke. 'he says he never read them,' answered the minister. 'in an ordinary case i should believe him,' replied the magistrate, 'for they are as stupid and pedantic in composition, as mischievous in their tenets. but can you suppose anything but value for the principles they maintain would induce a young man of his age to lug such trash about with him? then, when news arrive of the approach of the rebels, he sets out in a sort of disguise, refusing to tell his name; and, if yon old fanatic tell truth, attended by a very suspicious character, and mounted on a horse known to have belonged to glennaquoich, and bearing on his person letters from his family expressing high rancour against the house of brunswick, and a copy of verses in praise of one wogan, who abjured the service of the parliament to join the highland insurgents, when in arms to restore the house of stuart, with a body of english cavalry the very counterpart of his own plot--and summed up with a "go thou and do likewise," from that loyal subject, and most safe and peaceable character, fergus mac-ivor of glennaquoich, vich ian vohr, and so forth. and, lastly,' continued major melville, warming in the detail of his arguments, 'where do we find this second edition of cavalier wogan? why, truly, in the very track most proper for execution of his design, and pistolling the first of the king's subjects who ventures to question his intentions.' mr. morton prudently abstained from argument, which he perceived would only harden the magistrate in his opinion, and merely asked how he intended to dispose of the prisoner? 'it is a question of some difficulty, considering the state of the country,' said major melville. 'could you not detain him (being such a gentleman-like young man) here in your own house, out of harm's way, till this storm blow over?' 'my good friend,' said major melville, 'neither your house nor mine will be long out of harm's way, even were it legal to confine him here. i have just learned that the commander-in-chief, who marched into the highlands to seek out and disperse the insurgents, has declined giving them battle at corryerick, and marched on northward with all the disposable force of government to inverness, john-o'-groat's house, or the devil, for what i know, leaving the road to the low country open and undefended to the highland army.' 'good god!' said the clergyman. 'is the man a coward, a traitor, or an idiot?' 'none of the three, i believe,' answered melville. 'sir john has the commonplace courage of a common soldier, is honest enough, does what he is commanded, and understands what is told him, but is as fit to act for himself in circumstances of importance, as i, my dear parson, to occupy your pulpit.' this important public intelligence naturally diverted the discourse from waverley for some time; at length, however, the subject was resumed. 'i believe,' said major melville, 'that i must give this young man in charge to some of the detached parties of armed volunteers, who were lately sent out to overawe the disaffected districts, they are now recalled towards stirling, and a small body comes this way to-morrow or next day, commanded by the westland man,--what's his name?--you saw him, and said he was the very model of one of cromwell's military saints,' gilfillan, the cameronian,' answered mr. morton. 'i wish the young gentleman may be safe with him. strange things are done in the heat and hurry of minds in so agitating a crisis, and i fear gilfillan is of a sect which has suffered persecution without learning mercy.' 'he has only to lodge mr. waverley in stirling castle,' said the major: 'i will give strict injunctions to treat him well. i really cannot devise any better mode for securing him, and i fancy you would hardly advise me to encounter the responsibility of setting him at liberty.' 'but you will have no objection to my seeing him tomorrow in private?' said the minister. 'none, certainly; your loyalty and character are my warrant. but with what view do you make the request?' 'simply,' replied mr. morton, 'to make the experiment whether he may not be brought to communicate to me some circumstances which may hereafter be useful to alleviate, if not to exculpate his conduct.' the friends now parted and retired to rest, each filled with the most anxious reflections on the state of the country. chapter xxxiii a confidant waverley awoke in the morning, from troubled dreams and unrefreshing slumbers, to a full consciousness of the horrors of his situation. how it might terminate he knew not. he might be delivered up to military law, which, in the midst of civil war, was not likely to be scrupulous in the choice of its victims, or the quality of the evidence. nor did he feel much more comfortable at the thoughts of a trial before a scottish court of justice, where he knew the laws and forms differed in many respects from those of england, and had been taught to believe, however erroneously, that the liberty and rights of the subject were less carefully protected. a sentiment of bitterness rose in his mind against the government, which he considered as the cause of his embarrassment and peril, and he cursed internally his scrupulous rejection of mac-ivor's invitation to accompany him to the field. 'why did not i,' he said to himself, 'like other men of honour, take the earliest opportunity to welcome to britain the descendant of her ancient kings, and lineal heir of her throne? why did not i unthread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith, seek out prince charles, and fall before his feet? all that has been recorded of excellence and worth in the house of waverley has been founded upon their loyal faith to the house of stuart. from the interpretation which this scotch magistrate has put upon the letters of my uncle and father, it is plain that i ought to have understood them as marshalling me to the course of my ancestors; and it has been my gross dullness, joined to the obscurity of expression which they adopted for the sake of security, that has confounded my judgement. had i yielded to the first generous impulse of indignation when i learned that my honour was practised upon, how different had been my present situation! i had then been free and in arms, fighting, like my forefathers, for love, for loyalty, and for fame. and now i am here, netted and in the toils, at the disposal of a suspicious, stern, and cold-hearted man, perhaps to be turned over to the solitude of a dungeon, or the infamy of a public execution. o fergus! how true has your prophecy proved; and how speedy, how very speedy, has been its accomplishment!' while edward was ruminating on these painful subjects of contemplation, and very naturally, though not quite so justly, bestowing upon the reigning dynasty that blame which was due to chance, or, in part at least, to his own unreflecting conduct, mr. morton availed himself of major melville's permission to pay him an early visit. waverley's first impulse was to intimate a desire that he might not be disturbed with questions or conversation; but he suppressed it upon observing the benevolent and reverend appearance of the clergyman who had rescued him from the immediate violence of the villagers. 'i believe, sir,' said the unfortunate young man, 'that in any other circumstances i should have had as much gratitude to express to you as the safety of my life may be worth; but such is the present tumult of my mind, and such is my anticipation of what i am yet likely to endure, that i can hardly offer you thanks for your interposition.' mr. morton replied, that, far from making any claim upon his good opinion, his only wish and the sole purpose of his visit was to find out the means of deserving it. 'my excellent friend, major melville,' he continued, 'has feelings and duties as a soldier and public functionary, by which i am not fettered; nor can i always coincide in opinions which he forms, perhaps with too little allowance for the imperfections of human nature. he paused, and then proceeded: 'i do not intrude myself on your confidence, mr. waverley, for the purpose of learning any circumstances, the knowledge of which can be prejudicial either to yourself or to others; but i own my earnest wish is, that you would entrust me with any particulars which could lead to your exculpation. i can solemnly assure you they will be deposited with a faithful, and, to the extent of his limited powers, a zealous agent.' 'you are, sir, i presume, a presbyterian clergyman?'--mr. morton bowed.--'were i to be guided by the prepossessions of education, i might distrust your friendly professions in my case; but i have observed that similar prejudices are nourished in this country against your professional brethren of the episcopal persuasion, and i am willing to believe them equally unfounded in both cases.' 'evil to him that thinks otherwise,' said mr. morton; 'or who holds church government and ceremonies as the exclusive gage of christian faith or moral virtue.' 'but,' continued waverley, 'i cannot perceive why i should trouble you with a detail of particulars, out of which, after revolving them as carefully as possible in my recollection, i find myself unable to explain much of what is charged against me. i know, indeed, that i am innocent, but i hardly see how i can hope to prove myself so.' 'it is for that very reason, mr. waverley,' said the clergyman, 'that i venture to solicit your confidence. my knowledge of individuals in this country is pretty general, and can upon occasion be extended. your situation will, i fear, preclude you taking those active steps for recovering intelligence, or tracing imposture, which i would willingly undertake in your behalf; and if you are not benefited by my exertions, at least they cannot be prejudicial to you.' waverley, after a few minutes' reflection, was convinced that his reposing confidence in mr. morton, so far as he himself was concerned, could hurt neither mr. bradwardine nor fergus mac-ivor, both of whom had openly assumed arms against the government, and that it might possibly, if the professions of his new friend corresponded in sincerity with the earnestness of his expression, be of some service to himself. he therefore ran briefly over most of the events with which the reader is already acquainted, suppressing his attachment to flora, and indeed neither mentioning her nor rose bradwardine in the course of his narrative. mr. morton seemed particularly struck with the account of waverley's visit to donald bean lean. 'i am glad,' he said, 'you did not mention this circumstance to the major. it is capable of great misconstruction on the part; of those who do not consider the power of curiosity and the influence of romance as motives of youthful conduct. when i was a young man like you, mr. waverley, any such hair-brained expedition (i beg your pardon for the expression) would have had inexpressible charms for me. but there are men in the world who will not believe that danger and fatigue are often incurred without any very adequate cause, and therefore who are sometimes led to assign motives of action entirely foreign to the truth. this man bean lean is renowned through the country as a sort of robin hood, and the stories which are told of his address and enterprise are the common tales of the winter fireside. he certainly possesses talents beyond the rude sphere in which he moves; and, being neither destitute of ambition nor encumbered with scruples, he will probably attempt, by every means, to distinguish himself during the period of these unhappy commotions.' mr. morton then made a careful memorandum of the various particulars of waverley's interview with donald bean lean, and the other circumstances which he had communicated. the interest which this good man seemed to take in his misfortunes,--above all, the full confidence he appeared to repose in his innocence,--had the natural effect of softening edward's heart, whom the coldness of major melville had taught to believe that the world was leagued to oppress him. he shook mr. morton warmly by the hand, and assuring him that his kindness and sympathy had relieved his mind of a heavy load, told him, that whatever might be his own fate, he belonged to a family who had both gratitude and the power of displaying it. the earnestness of his thanks called drops to the eyes of the worthy clergyman, who was doubly interested in the cause for which he had volunteered his services, by observing the genuine and undissembled feelings of his young friend. edward now inquired if mr. morton knew what was likely to be his destination. 'stirling castle,' replied his friend; 'and so far i am well pleased for your sake, for the governor is a man of honour and humanity. but i am more doubtful of your treatment upon the road; major melville is involuntarily obliged to entrust the custody of your person to another.' 'i am glad of it,' answered waverley. 'i detest that cold-blooded calculating scotch magistrate. i hope he and i shall never meet more: he had neither sympathy with my innocence nor my wretchedness; and the petrifying accuracy with which he attended to every form of civility, while he tortured me by his questions, his suspicions, and his inferences, was as tormenting as the racks of the inquisition. do not vindicate him, my dear sir, for that i cannot bear with patience; tell me rather who is to have the charge of so important a state prisoner as i am.' 'i believe a person called gilfillan, one of the sect who are termed cameronians.' 'i never heard of them before.' 'they claim,' said the clergyman, 'to represent the more strict and severe presbyterians, who in charles second's and james second's days, refused to profit by the toleration, or indulgence, as it was called, which was extended to others of that religion. they held conventicles in the open fields, and being treated, with great violence and cruelty by the scottish government, more than once took arms during those reigns. they take their name from their leader, richard cameron. 'i recollect,' said waverley; 'but did not the triumph of presbytery at the revolution extinguish that sect?' 'by no means,' replied morton; 'that great event fell yet far short of what they proposed, which was nothing less than the complete establishment of the presbyterian church, upon the grounds of the old solemn league and covenant. indeed, i believe they scarce knew what they wanted; but being a numerous body of men, and not unacquainted with the use of arms, they kept themselves together as a separate party in the state, and at the time of the union had nearly formed a most unnatural league with their old enemies, the jacobites, to oppose that important national measure. since that time their numbers have gradually diminished; but a good many are still to be found in the western counties, and several, with a better temper than in , have now taken arms for government, this person, whom they call gifted gilfillan, has been long a leader among them, and now heads a small party, which will pass here to-day, or to-morrow, on their march towards stirling, under whose escort major melville proposes you shall travel. i would willingly speak to gilfillan in your behalf; but, having deeply imbibed all the prejudices of his sect, and being of the same fierce disposition, he would pay little regard to the remonstrances of an erastian divine, as he would politely term me.--and now, farewell, my young friend; for the present, i must not weary out the major's indulgence, that i may obtain his permission to visit you again in the course of the day.' chapter xxxiv things mend a little about noon, mr. morton returned, and brought an invitation from major melville that mr. waverley would honour him with his company to dinner, notwithstanding the unpleasant affair which detained him at cairnvreckan, from which he should heartily rejoice to see mr. waverley completely extricated. the truth was, that mr. morton's favourable report and opinion had somewhat staggered the preconceptions of the old soldier concerning edward's supposed accession to the mutiny in the regiment; and in the unfortunate state of the country, the mere suspicion of disaffection, or an inclination to join the insurgent jacobites, might infer criminality indeed, but certainly not dishonour. besides, a person whom the major trusted had reported to him (though, as it proved, inaccurately) a contradiction of the agitating news of the preceding evening. according to this second edition of the intelligence, the highlanders had withdrawn from the lowland frontier with the purpose of following the army in their march to inverness. the major was at a loss, indeed, to reconcile his information with the well-known abilities of some of the gentlemen in the highland army, yet it was the course which was likely to be most agreeable to others. he remembered the same policy had detained them in the north in the year , and he anticipated a similar termination to the insurrection as upon that occasion. this news put him in such good humour, that he readily acquiesced in mr. morton's proposal to pay some hospitable attention to his unfortunate guest, and voluntarily added, he hoped the whole affair would prove a youthful escapade, which might be easily atoned by a short confinement. the kind mediator had some trouble to prevail on his young friend to accept the invitation. he dared not urge to him the real motive, which was a good-natured wish to secure a favourable report of waverley's case from major melville to governor blakeney. he remarked, from the flashes of our hero's spirit, that touching upon this topic would be sure to defeat his purpose. he therefore pleaded, that the invitation argued the major's disbelief of any part of the accusation which was inconsistent with waverley's conduct as a soldier and a man of honour, and that to decline his courtesy might be interpreted into a consciousness that it was unmerited. in short, he so far satisfied edward that the manly and proper course was to meet the major on easy terms, that, suppressing his strong dislike again to encounter his cold and punctilious civility, waverley agreed to be guided by his new friend. the meeting, at first, was stiff and formal enough. but edward, having accepted the invitation, and his mind being really soothed and relieved by the kindness of morton, held himself bound to behave with ease, though he could not affect cordiality. the major was somewhat of a bon vivant, and his wine was excellent. he told his old campaign stories, and displayed much knowledge of men and manners. mr. morton had an internal fund of placid and quiet gaiety, which seldom failed to enliven any small party in which he found himself pleasantly seated. waverley, whose life was a dream, gave ready way to the predominating impulse, and became the most lively of the party. he had at all times remarkable natural powers of conversation, though easily silenced by discouragement. on the present occasion, he piqued himself upon leaving on the minds of his companions a favourable impression of one who, under such disastrous circumstances, could sustain his misfortunes with ease and gaiety. his spirits, though not unyielding, were abundantly elastic, and soon seconded his efforts. the trio were engaged in very lively discourse, apparently delighted with each other, and the kind host was pressing a third bottle of burgundy, when the sound of a drum was heard at some distance. the major, who, in the glee of an old soldier, had forgot the duties of a magistrate, cursed, with a muttered military oath, the circumstances which recalled him to his official functions. he rose and went towards the window, which commanded a very near view of the high-road, and he was followed by his guests. the drum advanced, beating no measured martial tune, but a kind of rub-a-dub-dub, like that with which the fire-drum startles the slumbering artisans of a scotch burgh. it is the object of this history to do justice to all men; i must therefore record, in justice to the drummer, that he protested he could beat any known march or point of war known in the british army, and had accordingly commenced with 'dumbarton's drums,' when he was silenced by gifted gilfillan, the commander of the party, who refused to permit his followers to move to this profane, and even, as he said, persecuting tune, and commanded the drummer to beat the th psalm. as this was beyond the capacity of the drubber of sheepskin, he was fain to have recourse to the inoffensive row-de-dow, as a harmless substitute for the sacred music which his instrument or skill were unable to achieve. this may be held a trifling anecdote, but the drummer in question was no less than town-drummer of anderton. i remember his successor in office, a member of that enlightened body, the british convention: be his memory, therefore, treated with due respect. chapter xxxv a volunteer sixty years since on hearing the unwelcome sound of the drum, major melville hastily opened a sashed door, and stepped out upon a sort of terrace which divided his house from the high-road from which the martial music proceeded. waverley and his new friend followed him, though probably he would have dispensed with their attendance. they soon recognized in solemn march, first, the performer upon the drum; secondly, a large flag of four compartments, on which were inscribed the words covenants, religion, king, kingdomes. the person who was honoured with this charge was followed by the commander of the party, a thin, dark, rigid-looking man, about sixty years old. the spiritual pride, which in mine host of the candlestick mantled in a sort of supercilious hypocrisy, was, in this man's face, elevated and yet darkened by genuine and undoubting fanaticism. it was impossible to behold him without imagination placing him in some strange crisis, where religious zeal was the ruling principle. a martyr at the stake, a soldier in the field, a lonely and banished wanderer consoled by the intensity and supposed purity of his faith under every earthly privation; perhaps a persecuting inquisitor, as terrible in power as unyielding in adversity; any of these seemed congenial characters to this personage. with these high traits of energy, there was something in the affected precision and solemnity of his deportment and discourse, that bordered upon the ludicrous; so that, according to the mood of the spectator's mind, and the light under which mr. gilfillan presented himself, one might have feared; admired, or laughed at him. his dress was that of a west-country peasant, of better materials indeed than that of the lower rank, but in no respect affecting either the mode of the age, or of the scottish gentry at any period. his arms were a broadsword and pistols, which, from the antiquity of their appearance, might have seen the rout of pentland, or bothwell brigg. as he came up a few steps to meet major melville, and touched solemnly, but slightly, his huge and overbrimmed blue bonnet, in answer to the major, who had courteously raised a small triangular gold-laced hat, waverley was irresistibly impressed with the idea that he beheld a leader of the roundheads of yore in conference with one of marlborough's captains. the group of about thirty armed men who followed this gifted commander, was of a motley description. they were in ordinary lowland dresses, of different colours, which, contrasted with the arms they bore, gave them an irregular and mobbish appearance; so much is the eye accustomed to connect uniformity of dress with the military character. in front were a few who apparently partook of their leader's enthusiasm; men obviously to be feared in a combat where their natural courage was exalted by religious zeal. others puffed and strutted, filled with the importance of carrying arms, and all the novelty of their situation, while the rest, apparently fatigued with their march, dragged their limbs listlessly along, or straggled from their companions to procure such refreshments as the neighbouring cottages and ale-houses afforded.--six grenadiers of ligonier's, thought the major to himself, as his mind reverted to his own military experience, would have sent all these fellows to the right about. greeting, however, mr. gilfillan civilly, he requested to know if he had received the letter he had sent to him upon his march, and could undertake the charge of the state prisoner whom he there mentioned, as far as stirling castle. 'yea,' was the concise reply of the cameronian leader, in a voice which seemed to issue from the very penetralia of his person. 'but your escort, mr. gilfillan, is not so strong as i expected,' said major melville, 'some of the people,' replied gilfillan, 'hungered and were athirst by the way, and tarried until their poor souls were refreshed with the word.' 'i am sorry, sir,' replied the major, 'you did not trust to your refreshing your men at cairnvreckan; whatever my house contains is at the command of persons employed in the service.' 'it was not of creature comforts i spake,' answered the covenanter, regarding major melville with something like a smile of contempt; 'howbeit, i thank you; but the people remained waiting upon the precious mr. jabesh rentowel, for the outpouring of the afternoon exhortation.' 'and have you, sir,' said the major, 'when the rebels are about to spread themselves through this country, actually left a great part of your command at a field-preaching!' gilfillan again smiled scornfully as he made this indirect answer,--'even thus are the children of this world wiser in their generation than the children of light!' 'however, sir,' said the major, 'as you are to take charge of this gentleman to stirling, and deliver him, with these papers, into the hands of governor blakeney, i beseech you to observe some rules of military discipline upon your march. for example, i would advise you to keep your men more closely together, and that each, in his march, should cover his file-leader, instead of straggling like geese upon a common; and, for fear of surprise, i further recommend to you to form a small advance-party of your best men, with a single vidette in front of the whole march, so that when you approach a village or a wood'--(here the major interrupted himself)--'but as i don't observe you listen to me, mr. gilfillan, i suppose i need not give myself the trouble to say more upon the subject. you are a better judge, unquestionably, than i am, of the measures to be pursued; but one thing i would have you well aware of, that you are to treat this gentleman, your prisoner, with no rigour nor incivility, and are to subject him to no other restraint than is necessary for his security.' 'i have looked into my commission,' said mr. gilfillan, subscribed by a worthy and professing nobleman, william, earl of glencairn; nor do i find it therein set down that i am to receive any charges or commands anent my doings from major william melville of cairnvreckan.' major melville reddened even to the well-powdered ears which appeared beneath his neat military side-curls, the more so, as he observed mr. morton smile at the same moment. 'mr. gilfillan,' he answered with some asperity, 'i beg ten thousand pardons for interfering with a person of your importance. i thought, however, that as you have been bred a grazier, if i mistake not, there might be occasion to remind you of the difference between highlanders and highland cattle; and if you should happen to meet with any gentleman who has seen service; and is disposed to speak upon the subject, i should still imagine that listening to him would do you no sort of harm. but i have done, and have only once more to recommend this gentleman to your civility, as well as to your custody.--mr waverley, i am truly sorry we should part in this way; but i trust, when you are again in this country, i may have an opportunity to render cairnvreckan more agreeable than circumstances have permitted on this occasion.' so saying, he shook our hero by the hand. morton also took an affectionate farewell; and waverley, having mounted his horse, with a musketeer leading it by the bridle, and a file upon each side to prevent his escape, set forward upon the march with gilfillan and his party. through the little village they were accompanied with the shouts of the children, who cried out, 'eh! see to the southland gentleman, that's gaun to be hanged for shooting lang john mucklewrath the smith!' chapter xxxvi an incident the dinner-hour of scotland sixty years since was two o'clock. it was therefore about four o'clock of a delightful autumn afternoon that mr. gilfillan commenced his march, in hopes, although stirling was eighteen miles distant, he might be able, by becoming a borrower of the night for an hour or two, to reach it that evening. he therefore put forth his strength, and marched stoutly along at the head of his followers, eyeing our hero from time to time, as if he longed to enter into controversy with him. at length unable to resist the temptation, he slackened his pace till he was alongside of his prisoner's horse, and after marching a few steps in silence abreast of him, he suddenly asked,--'can ye say wha the carle was wi' the black coat; and the mousted head, that was wi' the laird of cairnvreckan?' 'a presbyterian clergyman,' answered waverley. 'presbyterian!' answered gilfillan contemptuously: 'a wretched erastian, or rather an obscured prelatist,--a favourer of the black indulgence; ane of thae dumb dogs that canna bark: they tell ower a clash o' terror and a clatter o' comfort in their sermons, without ony sense, or savour, or life.--ye've been fed in siccan a fauld, belike?' 'no; i am of the church of england,' said waverley. and they're just neighbour-like,' replied the covenanter; 'and nae wonder they gree sae weel. wha wad hae thought the goodly structure of the kirk of scotland, built up by our fathers in , wad hae been defaced by carnal ends and, the corruptions of the time;--aye, wha wad hae thought the carved work of the sanctuary would hae been sae soon cut down!' to this lamentation, which one or two of the assistants chorussed with a deep groan, our hero thought it unnecessary to make any reply. whereupon mr. gilfillan, resolving that he should be a hearer at least, if not a disputant, proceeded in his jeremiad. 'and now is it wonderful, when, for lack of exercise anent the call to the service of the altar and the duty of the day, ministers fall into sinful compliances with patronage, and indemnities, and oaths, and bonds, and, other corruptions,--is it wonderful, i say, that you, sir, and other sic-like unhappy persons, should labour to build up your auld babel of iniquity, as in the bluidy persecuting saint-killing times? i trow, gin ya werena blinded wi' the graces and favours, and services and enjoyments, and employments and inheritances, of this wicked world, i could prove to you, by the scripture, in what a filthy rag ye put your trust; and that your surplices, and your copes and vestments, are but cast-off-garments of the muckle harlot, that sitteth upon seven hills, and drinketh of the cup of abomination. but, i trow, ye are deaf as adders upon that side of the head; aye, ye are deceived with her enchantments, and ye traffic with her merchandise, and ye are drunk with the cup of her fornication!' how much longer this military theologist might have continued his invective, in which he spared nobody but the scattered remnant of hill-folk, as he called them, is absolutely uncertain. his matter was copious, his voice powerful, and his memory strong; so that there was little chance of his ending his exhortation till the party had reached stirling, had not his attention been attracted by a pedlar who had joined the march from a cross-road, and who sighed or groaned with great regularity at all fitting pauses of his homily. 'and what may ya be, friend?' said the gifted gilfillan. 'a puir pedler, that's bound for stirling, and craves the protection of your honour's party in these kittle times. ah! your honour has a notable faculty in searching and explaining the secret,--aye, the secret and obscure and incomprehensible causes of the backslidings of the land; aye, your honour touches the root o' the matter.' 'friend,' said gilfillan, with a more complacent voice than he had hitherto used, 'honour not me. i do not go out to park-dikes, and to steadings, and to market-towns, to have herds and cottars and burghers pull off their bonnets to me as they do to major melville o' cairnvreckan, and ca' me laird, or captain, or honour;--no; my sma' means, whilk are not aboon twenty thousand merk, have had the blessing of increase, but the pride of heart has not increased with them; nor do i delight to be called captain, though i have the subscribed commission of that gospel-searching nobleman, the earl of glencairn, in whilk i am so designated. while i live, i am and will be called habakkuk gilfillan, who will stand up for the standards of doctrine agreed on by the ance-famous kirk of scotland, before she trafficked with the accursed achan, while he has a plack in his purse, or a drap o' bluid in his body.' 'ah,' said the pedlar, 'i have seen your land about mauchlin--a fertile spot! your lines have fallen in pleasant places!--and siccan a breed o' cattle is not in ony laird's land in scotland.' 'ye say right,--ye say right, friend,' retorted gilfillan eagerly, for he was not inaccessible to flattery upon this subject,--'ye say right; they are the real lancashire, and there's no the like o' them even at the mains of kilmaurs;' and he then entered into a discussion of their excellences, to which our readers will probably be as indifferent as our hero. after this excursion, the leader returned to his theological discussions, while the pedlar, less profound upon those mystic points, contented himself with groaning, and expressing his edification at suitable intervals. 'what a blessing it would be to the puir blinded popish nations among whom i hae sojourned, to have siccan a light to their paths! i hae been as far as muscovia in my sma' trading way, as a travelling merchant; and i hae been through france, and the low countries, and a' poland, and maist feck o' germany; and oh! it would grieve your honour's soul to see the murmuring, and the singing, and massing, that's in the kirk, and the piping that's in the quire, and the heathenish dancing and dicing upon the sabbath!' this set gilfillan off upon the book of sports and the covenant, and the engagers, and the protesters, and the whiggamore's raid, and the assembly of divines at westminster, and the longer and shorter catechism, and the excommunication at torwood, and the slaughter of archbishop sharp. this last topic, again, led him into the lawfulness of defensive arms, on which subject he uttered much more sense than could have been expected from some other parts of his harangue, and attracted even waverley's attention, who had hitherto been lost in his own sad reflections. mr. gilfillan then considered the lawfulness of a private man's standing forth as the avenger of public oppression, and as he was labouring with great earnestness the cause of mas james mitchell, who fired at the archbishop of st. andrews some years before the prelate's assassination on magus muir, an incident occurred which interrupted his harangue. the rays of the sun were lingering on the very verge of the horizon, as the party ascended a hollow and somewhat steep path, which led to the summit of a rising ground. the country was unenclosed, being part of a very extensive heath or common; but it was far from level, exhibiting in many places hollows filled with furze and broom; in others little dingles of stunted brushwood. a thicket of the latter description crowned the hill up which the party ascended. the foremost of the band, being the stoutest and most active, had pushed on, and having surmounted the ascent, were out of ken for the present. gilfillan, with the pedlar, and the small party who were waverley's more immediate guard, were near the top of the ascent, and the remainder straggled after them at a considerable interval. such was the situation of matters, when the pedlar, missing, as he said, a little doggie which belonged to him, began to halt and whistle for the animal. this signal, repeated more than once, gave offence to the rigour of his companion, the rather because it appeared to indicate inattention to the treasures of theological and controversial knowledge which was pouring out for his edification. he therefore signified gruffly, that he could not waste his time in waiting for a useless cur. 'but if your honour wad consider the case of tobit'-- 'tobit!' exclaimed gilfillan, with great heat; 'tobit and his dog baith are altogether heathenish and apocryphal, and none but a prelatist or a papist would draw them into question. i doubt i hae been mista'en in you, friend.' 'very likely,' answered the pedlar, with great composure; 'but ne'ertheless, i shall take leave to whistle again upon puir bawty,' this last signal was answered in an unexpected manner; for six or eight stout highlanders, who lurked among the copse and brushwood, sprang into the hollow way, and began to lay about them with their claymores. gilfillan, un-appalled at this undesirable apparition, cried out manfully, 'the sword of the lord and of gideon!' and, drawing his broadsword, would probably have done as much credit to the good old cause as any of its doughty champions at drumclog, when, behold! the pedlar, snatching a musket from the person who was next him, bestowed the butt of it with such emphasis on the head of his late instructor in the cameronian creed, that he was forthwith levelled to the ground. in the confusion which ensued, the horse which bore our hero was shot by one of gilfillan's party, as he discharged his firelock at random. waverley fell with, and indeed under, the animal, and sustained some severe contusions. but he was almost instantly extricated from the fallen steed by two highlanders, who, each seizing him by the arm, hurried him away from the scuffle and from the high-road. they ran with great speed, half supporting and half dragging our hero, who could, however, distinguish a few dropping shots fired about the spat which he had left. this, as he afterwards learned, proceeded from gilfillan's party, who had now assembled, the stragglers in front and rear having joined the others. at their approach the highlanders drew off, but not before they had rifled gilfillan and two of his people, who remained on the spot grievously wounded. a few shots were exchanged betwixt them and the westlanders; but the latter, now without a commander, and apprehensive of a second ambush, did not make any serious effort to recover their prisoner, judging it more wise to proceed on their journey to stirling, carrying with them their wounded captain and comrades. chapter xxxvii waverley is still in distress the velocity, and indeed violence, with which waverley was hurried along, nearly deprived him of sensation; for the injury he had received from his fall prevented him from aiding himself so effectually as he might otherwise have done. when this was observed by his conductors, they called to their aid two or three others of the party, and swathing our hero's body in one of their plaids, divided his weight by that means among them, and transported him at the same rapid rate as before, without any exertion of his own. they spoke little, and that in gaelic; and did not slacken their pace till they had run nearly two miles, when they abated their extreme rapidity, but continued still to walk very fast, relieving each other occasionally, our hero now endeavoured to address them, but was only answered with 'cha n'eil beurl' agam,' i.e. 'i have no english,' being, as waverley well knew, the constant reply of a highlander, when he either does not understand, or does not choose to reply to, an englishman or lowlander. he then mentioned the name of vich ian vohr, concluding that he was indebted to his friendship for his rescue from the clutches of gifted gilfillan; but neither did this produce any mark of recognition from his escort. the twilight had given place to moonshine when the party halted upon the brink of a precipitous glen, which, as partly enlightened by the moonbeams, seemed full of trees and tangled brushwood. two of the highlanders dived into it by a small footpath, as if to explore its recesses, and one of them returning in a few minutes, said something to his companions, who instantly raised their burden, and bore him, with great attention and care, down the narrow and abrupt descent. notwithstanding their precautions, however, waverley's person came more than once into contact, rudely enough, with the projecting stumps and branches which overhung the pathway. at the bottom of the descent, and, as it seemed, by the side of a brook (for waverley heard the rushing of a considerable body of water, although its stream was invisible in the darkness), the party again stopped before a small and rudely-constructed hovel. the door was open, and the inside of the premises appeared as uncomfortable and rude as its situation and exterior foreboded. there was no appearance of a floor of any kind; the roof seemed rent in several places; the walls were composed of loose stones and turf, and the thatch of branches of trees. the fire was in the centre, and filled the whole wigwam with smoke, which escaped as much through the door as by means of a circular aperture in the roof. an old highland sibyl, the only inhabitant of this forlorn mansion, appeared busy in the preparation of some food. by the light which the fire afforded, waverley could discover that his attendants were not of the clan of ivor, for fergus was particularly strict in requiring from his followers that they should wear the tartan striped in the mode peculiar to their race; a mark of distinction anciently general through the highlands, and still maintained by those chiefs who were proud of their lineage, or jealous of their separate and exclusive authority. edward had lived at glennaquoich long enough to be aware of a distinction which he had repeatedly heard noticed; and now satisfied that he had no interest with his attendants, he glanced a disconsolate eye around the interior of the cabin. the only furniture, excepting a washing-tub, and a wooden press, called in scotland an ambry, sorely decayed, was a large wooden bed, planked, as is usual, all around, and opening by a sliding panel. in this recess the highlanders deposited waverley, after he had by signs declined any refreshment. his slumbers were broken and unrefreshing; strange visions passed before his eyes, and it required constant and reiterated efforts of mind to dispel them. shivering, violent headache, and shooting pains in his limbs, succeeded these symptoms; and in the morning it was evident to his highland attendants or guard, for he knew not in which light to consider them, that waverley was quite unfit to travel. after a long consultation among themselves, six of the party left the hut with their arms, leaving behind an old and a young man. the former addressed waverley, and bathed the contusions, which swelling and livid colour now made conspicuous. his own portmanteau, which the highlanders had not failed to bring off, supplied him with linen, and, to his great surprise, was, with all its undiminished contents, freely resigned to his use. the bedding of his couch seemed clean and comfortable, and his aged attendant closed the door of the bed, for it had no curtain, after a few words of gaelic, from which waverley gathered that he exhorted him to repose. so behold our hero for a second time the patient of a highland aesculapius, but in a situation much more uncomfortable than when he was the guest of the worthy tomanrait. the symptomatic fever which accompanied the injuries he had sustained did not abate till the third day, when it gave way to the care of his attendants and the strength of his constitution, and he could now raise himself in his bed, though not without pain. he observed, however, that there was a great disinclination, on the part of the old woman who acted as his nurse, as well as on that of the elderly highlander, to permit the door of the bed to be left open, so that he might amuse himself with observing their motions; and at length, after waverley had repeatedly drawn open, and they had as frequently shut, the hatchway of his cage, the old gentleman put an end to the contest, by securing it on the outside with a nail, so effectually that the door could not be drawn till this exterior impediment was removed. while musing upon the cause of this contradictory spirit in persons whose conduct intimated no purpose of plunder, and who, in all other points, appeared to consult his welfare and his wishes, it occurred to our hero, that, during the worst crisis of his illness, a female figure, younger than his old highland nurse, had appeared to flit around his couch. of this, indeed, he had but a very indistinct recollection, but his suspicions were confirmed when, attentively listening, he often heard, in the course of the day, the voice of another female conversing in whispers with his attendant. who could it be? and why should she apparently desire concealment? fancy immediately roused herself, and turned to flora mac-ivor. but after a short conflict between his eager desire to believe she was in his neighbourhood, guarding, like an angel of mercy, the couch of his sickness, waverley was compelled to conclude that his conjecture was altogether improbable; since, to suppose she had left the comparatively safe situation at glennaquoich to descend into the low country, now the seat of civil war, and to inhabit such a lurking-place as this, was a thing hardly to be imagined. yet his heart bounded as he sometimes could distinctly hear the trip of a light female step glide to or from the door of the hut, or the suppressed sounds of a female voice, of softness and delicacy, hold dialogue with the hoarse inward croak of old janet, for so he understood his antiquated attendant was denominated. having nothing else to amuse his solitude, he employed himself in contriving some plan to gratify his curiosity, in spite of the sedulous caution of janet and the old highland janizary, for he had never seen the young fellow since the first morning. at length, upon accurate examination, the infirm state of his wooden prison-house appeared to supply the means of gratifying his curiosity, for out of a spot which was somewhat decayed he was able to extract a nail. through this minute aperture he could perceive a female form, wrapped in a plaid, in the act of conversing with janet. but, since the days of our grandmother eve, the gratification of inordinate curiosity has generally borne its penalty in disappointment. the form was not that of flora, nor was the face visible; and, to crown his vexation, while he laboured with the nail to enlarge the hole, that he might obtain a more complete view, a slight noise betrayed his purpose, and the object of his curiosity instantly disappeared; nor, so far as he could observe, did she again revisit the cottage. all precautions to blockade his view were from that time abandoned, and he was not only permitted, but assisted to rise and quit what had been, in a literal sense, his couch of confinement. but he was not allowed to leave the hut; for the young highlander had now rejoined his senior, and one or other was constantly on the watch. whenever waverley approached the cottage door, the sentinel upon duty civilly, but resolutely, placed himself against it and opposed his exit, accompanying his action with signs which seemed to imply there was danger in the attempt, and an enemy in the neighbourhood. old janet appeared anxious and upon the watch; and waverley, who had not yet recovered strength enough to attempt to take his departure in spite of the opposition of his hosts, was under the necessity of remaining patient. his fare was, in every point of view, better than he could have conceived; for poultry, and even wine, were no strangers to his table. the highlanders never presumed to eat with him, and unless in the circumstance of watching him, treated him with great respect. his sole amusement was gazing from the window, or rather the shapeless aperture which was meant to answer the purpose of a window, upon large and rough brook, which raged and foamed through a rocky channel, closely canopied with trees and bushes, about ten feet beneath the site of his house of captivity. upon the sixth day of his confinement, waverley found himself so well, that he began to meditate his escape from this dull and miserable prison-house, thinking any risk which he might incur in the attempt preferable to the stupefying and intolerable uniformity of janet's retirement. the question indeed occurred, whither he was to direct his course when again at his own disposal. two schemes seemed practicable, yet both attended with danger and difficulty. one was to go back to glennaquoich, and join fergus mac-ivor, by whom he was sure to be kindly received; and in the present state of his mind, the rigour with which he had been treated fully absolved him, in his own eyes, from his allegiance to the existing government. the other project was to endeavour to attain a scottish seaport, and thence to take shipping for england. his mind wavered between these plans; and probably, if he had effected his escape in the manner he proposed, he would have been finally determined by the comparative facility by which either might have been executed. but his fortune had settled that he was not to be left to his option. upon the evening of the seventh day the door of the hut suddenly opened, and two highlanders entered, whom waverley recognized as having been a part of his original escort to this cottage. they conversed for a short time with the old man and his companion, and then made waverley understand, by very significant signs, that he was to prepare to accompany them. this was a joyful communication. what had already passed during his confinement made it evident that no personal injury was designed to him; and his romantic spirit, having recovered during his repose much of that elasticity which anxiety, resentment, disappointment, and the mixture of unpleasant feelings excited by his late adventures, had for a time subjugated, was now wearied with inaction. his passion for the wonderful, although it is the nature of such dispositions to be excited, by that degree of danger which merely gives dignity to the feeling of the individual exposed to it, had sunk under the extraordinary and apparently, insurmountable evils by which he appeared environed at cairnvreckan. in fact, this compound of intense curiosity and exalted imagination forms a peculiar species of courage, which somewhat resembles the light usually carried by a miner,--sufficiently competent, indeed, to afford him guidance and comfort during the ordinary perils of his labour, but certain to be extinguished should he encounter the more formidable hazard of earth-damps or pestiferous vapours. it was now, however, once more rekindled, and with a throbbing mixture of hope, awe, and anxiety, waverley watched the group before him, as those who had just arrived snatched a hasty meal, and the others assumed their arms, and made brief preparations for their departure. as he sat in the smoky hut, at some distance from the fire, around which the others were crowded, he felt a gentle pressure upon his arm. he looked round--it was alice, the daughter of donald bean lean. she showed him a packet of papers in such a manner that the motion was remarked by no one else, put her finger for a second to her lips, and passed on, as if to assist old janet in packing waverley's clothes in his portmanteau. it was obviously her wish that he should not seem to recognize her; yet she repeatedly looked back at him, as an opportunity occurred of doing so unobserved, and when she saw that he remarked what she did, she folded the packet with great address and speed in one of his shirts, which she deposited in the portmanteau. here then was fresh food for conjecture. was alice his unknown warden, and was this maiden of the cavern the tutelar genius that watched his bed during his sickness? was he in the hands of her father? and if so, what was his purpose? spoil, his usual object, seemed in this case neglected; for not only waverley's property was restored, but his purse, which might have tempted this professional plunderer, had been all along suffered to remain in his possession. all this perhaps the packet might explain; but it was plain from alice's manner that she desired he should consult it in secret. nor did she again seek his eye after she had satisfied herself that her manoeuvre was observed and understood. on the contrary, she shortly afterwards left the hut, and it was only as she tripped out from the door, that, favoured by the obscurity, she gave waverley a parting smile and nod of significance, ere she vanished in the dark glen. the young highlander was repeatedly dispatched by his comrades as if to collect intelligence. at length when he had returned for the third or fourth time, the whole party arose, and made signs to our hero to accompany them. before his departure, however, he shook hands with old janet, who had been so sedulous in his behalf, and added substantial marks of his gratitude for her attendance. 'god bless you! god prosper you, captain waverley!' said janet, in good lowland scotch, though he had never hitherto heard her utter a syllable, save in gaelic. but the impatience of his attendants prohibited his asking any explanation. chapter xxxviii a nocturnal adventure there was a moment's pause when the whole party had got out of the hut; and the highlander who assumed the command, and who, in waverley's awakened recollection, seemed to be the same tall figure who had acted as donald bean lean's lieutenant, by whispers and signs imposed the strictest silence. he delivered to edward a sword and steel pistol, and, pointing up the tract, laid his hand on the hilt of his own claymore, as if to make him sensible they might have occasion to use force to make good their passage. he then placed himself at the head of the party, who moved up the pathway in single or indian file, waverley being placed nearest to their leader. he moved with great precaution, as if to avoid giving any alarm, and halted as soon as he came to the verge of the ascent. waverley was soon sensible of the reason, for he heard at no great distance an english sentinel call out 'all's well.' the heavy sound sank on the night-wind down the woody glen, and was answered by the echoes of its banks. a second, third, and fourth time, the signal was repeated, fainter and fainter, as if at a greater and greater distance. it was obvious that a party of soldiers were near, and upon their guard, though not sufficiently so to detect men skilful in every art of predatory warfare, like those with whom he now watched their ineffectual precautions. when these sounds had died upon the silence of the night, the highlanders began their march swiftly, yet with the most cautious silence. waverley had little time, or indeed disposition, for observation, and could only discern that; they passed at some distance from a large building, in the windows of which a light or two yet seemed to twinkle. a little farther on, the leading highlander snuffed the wind like a setting spaniel, and then made a signal to his party again to halt. he stooped down upon all-fours, wrapped up in his plaid, so as to be scarce distinguishable from the heathy ground on which he moved, and advanced in this posture to reconnoitre. in a short time he returned, and dismissed his attendants excepting one; and, intimating to waverley that he must imitate his cautious mode of proceeding, all three crept forward on hands and knees. after proceeding a greater way in this inconvenient manner than was at all comfortable to his knees and shins, waverley perceived the smell of smoke, which probably had been much sooner distinguished by the more acute nasal organs of his guide. it proceeded from the corner of a low and ruinous sheepfold, the walls of which were made of loose stones, as is usual in scotland. close by this low wall the highlander guided waverley, and, in order probably to make him sensible of his danger, or perhaps to obtain the full credit of his own dexterity, he intimated to him, by sign and example, that he might raise his head so as to peep into the sheepfold. waverley did so, and beheld an outpost of four or five soldiers lying by their watch-fire. they were all asleep, except the sentinel, who paced backwards and forwards with his firelock on his shoulder, which glanced red in the light of the fire as he crossed and recrossed before it in his short walk, casting his eye frequently to that part of the heavens from which the moon, hitherto obscured by mist, seemed now about to make her appearance, in the course of a minute or two, by one of those sudden changes of atmosphere incident to a mountainous country, a breeze arose, and swept before it the clouds which had covered the horizon, and the night planet poured her full effulgence upon a wide and blighted heath, skirted indeed with copsewood and stunted trees in the quarter from which they had come, but open and bare to the observation of the sentinel in that to which their course tended. the wall of the sheepfold, indeed, concealed them as they lay, but any advance beyond its shelter seemed impossible without certain discovery. the highlander eyed the blue vault, but far from blessing the useful light with homer's, or rather pope's, benighted peasant, he muttered a gaelic curse upon the unseasonable splendour of mac-farlane's buat (i. e. lantern). [see note .] he looked anxiously around for a few minutes, and then apparently took his resolution. leaving his attendant with waverley, after motioning to edward to remain quiet, and giving his comrade directions in a brief whisper, he retreated, favoured by the irregularity of the ground, in the same direction and in the same manner as they had advanced. edward, turning his head after him, could perceive him crawling on all-fours with the dexterity of an indian, availing himself of every bush and inequality to escape observation, and never passing over the more exposed parts of his track until the sentinel's back was turned from him. at length he reached the thickets and underwood which partly covered the moor in that direction, and probably extended to the verge of the glen where waverley had been so long an inhabitant. the highlander disappeared, but it was only for a few minutes, for he suddenly issued forth from a different part of the thicket, and advancing boldly upon the open heath, as if to invite discovery, he levelled his piece, and fired at the sentinel. a wound in the arm proved a disagreeable interruption to the poor fellow's meteorological observations, as well as to the tune of 'nancy dawson,' which he was whistling. he returned the fire ineffectually, and his comrades, starting up at the alarm, advanced alertly towards the spot from which the first shot had issued. the highlander, after giving them a full view of his person, dived among the thickets, for his ruse de guerre had now perfectly succeeded. while the soldiers pursued the cause of their disturbance in one direction, waverley, adopting the hint of his remaining attendant, made the best of his speed in that which his guide originally intended to pursue, and which now (the attention of the soldiers being drawn to a different quarter) was unobserved and unguarded. when they had run about a quarter of a mile, the brow of a rising ground, which they had surmounted, concealed them from further risk of observation. they still heard, however, at a distance, the shouts of the soldiers as they hallooed to each other upon the heath, and they could also hear the distant roll of a drum beating to arms in the same direction. but these hostile sounds were now far in their rear, and died away upon the breeze as they rapidly proceeded. when they had walked about half an hour, still along open and waste ground of the same description, they came to the stump of an ancient oak, which, from its relics, appeared to have been at one time a tree of very large size. in an adjacent hollow they found several highlanders, with a horse or two. they had not joined them above a few minutes, which waverley's attendant employed, in all probability, in communicating the cause of their delay (for the words 'duncan duroch' were often repeated), when duncan himself appeared, out of breath indeed, and with all the symptoms of having run for his life, but laughing, and in high spirits at the success of the stratagem by which he had baffled his pursuers. this, indeed, waverley could easily conceive might be a matter of no great difficulty to the active mountaineer, who was perfectly acquainted with the ground, and traced his course with a firmness and confidence to which his pursuers must have been strangers. the alarm which he excited seemed still to continue, for a dropping shot or two were heard at a great distance, which seemed to serve as an addition to the mirth of duncan and his comrades. the mountaineer now resumed the arms with which he had entrusted our hero, giving him to understand that the dangers of the journey were happily surmounted. waverley was then mounted upon one of the horses, a change which the fatigue of the night and his recent illness rendered exceedingly acceptable. his portmanteau was placed on another pony, duncan mounted a third, and they set forward at a round pace, accompanied by their escort. no other incident marked the course of that night's journey, and at the dawn of morning they attained the banks of a rapid river. the country around was at once fertile and romantic. steep banks of wood were broken by cornfields, which this year presented an abundant harvest, already in a great measure cut down. on the opposite bank of the river, and partly surrounded by a winding of its stream, stood a large and massive castle, the half-ruined turrets of which were already glittering in the first rays of the sun. [see note .] it was in form an oblong square, of size sufficient to contain a large court in the centre. the towers at each angle of the square rose higher than the walls of the building, and were in their turn surmounted by turrets, differing in height, and irregular in shape. upon one of these a sentinel watched, whose bonnet and plaid, streaming in the wind, declared him to be a highlander, as a broad white ensign, which floated from another tower, announced that the garrison was held by the insurgent adherents of the house of stuart. passing hastily through a small and mean town, where their appearance excited neither surprise nor curiosity in the few peasants whom the labours of the harvest began to summon from their repose, the party crossed an ancient and narrow bridge of several arches, and turning to the left, up an avenue of huge old sycamores, waverley found himself in front of the gloomy yet picturesque structure which he had admired at a distance. a huge iron-grated door, which formed the exterior defence of the gateway, was already thrown back to receive them; and a second, heavily constructed of oak, and studded thickly with iron nails, being next opened, admitted them into the interior courtyard. a gentleman, dressed in the highland garb, and having a white cockade in his bonnet, assisted waverley to dismount from his horse, and with much courtesy bid him welcome to the castle. the governor for so we must term him, having conducted waverley to a half-ruinous apartment, where, however, there was a small camp-bed, and having offered him any refreshment which he desired, was then about to leave him. 'will you not add to your civilities,' said waverley, after having made the usual acknowledgement, 'by having the kindness to inform me where i am, and whether or not i am to consider myself as a prisoner?' 'i am not at liberty to be so explicit upon this subject as i could wish. briefly, however, you are in the castle of doune, in the district of menteith, and in no danger whatever.' 'and how am i assured of that?' 'by the honour of donald stewart, governor of the garrison, and lieutenant-colonel in the service of his royal highness prince charles edward.' so saying, he hastily left the apartment, as if to avoid further discussion. exhausted by the fatigues of the night, our hero now threw himself upon the bed, and was in a few minutes fast asleep. chapter xxxix the journey is continued before waverley awakened from his repose, the day was far advanced, and he began to feel that he had passed many hours without food. this was soon supplied in form of a copious breakfast, but colonel stewart, as if wishing to avoid the queries of his guest, did not again present himself. his compliments were, however, delivered by a servant, with an offer to provide anything in his power that could be useful to captain waverley on his journey, which he intimated would be continued that evening. to waverley's further inquiries, the servant opposed the impenetrable barrier of real or affected ignorance and stupidity. he removed the table and provisions, and waverley was again consigned to his own meditations. as he contemplated the strangeness of his fortune, which seemed to delight in placing him at the disposal of others, without the power of directing his own motions, edward's eye suddenly rested upon his portmanteau, which had been deposited in his apartment during his sleep. the mysterious appearance of alice, in the cottage of the glen, immediately rushed upon his mind, and he was about to secure and examine the packet which she had deposited among his clothes, when the servant of colonel stewart again made his appearance, and took up the portmanteau upon his shoulders. 'may i not take out a change of linen, my friend?' 'your honour sall get ane o' the colonel's ain ruffled sarks, but this maun gang in the baggage-cart.' and so saying, he very coolly carried off the portmanteau, without waiting further remonstrance, leaving our hero in a state where disappointment and indignation struggled for the mastery. in a few minutes he heard a cart rumble out of the rugged courtyard, and made no doubt that he was now dispossessed, for a space at least, if not for ever, of the only documents which seemed to promise some light upon the dubious events which had of late influenced his destiny. with such melancholy thoughts he had to beguile about four or five hours of solitude. when this space was elapsed, the trampling of horse was heard in the courtyard, and colonel stewart soon after made his appearance to request his guest to take some further refreshment before his departure. the offer was accepted, for a late breakfast had by no means left our hero incapable of doing honour to dinner, which was now presented. the conversation of his host was that of a plain country gentleman, mixed with some soldier-like sentiments and expressions. he cautiously avoided any reference to the military operations or civil politics of the time: and to waverley's direct inquiries concerning some of these points, replied, that he was not at liberty to speak upon such topics. when dinner was finished, the governor arose, and, wishing edward a good journey, said, that having been informed by waverley's servant that his baggage had been sent forward, he had taken the freedom to supply him with such changes of linen as he might find necessary, till he was again possessed of his own. with this compliment he disappeared. a servant acquainted waverley an instant afterwards, that his horse was ready. upon this hint he descended into the courtyard, and found a trooper holding a saddled horse, on which he mounted, and sallied from the portal of doune castle, attended by about a score of armed men on horseback. these had less the appearance of regular soldiers than of individuals who had suddenly assumed arms from some pressing motive of unexpected emergency. their uniform, which was blue and red, an affected imitation of that of french chasseurs, was in many respects incomplete, and sat awkwardly upon those who wore it. waverley's eye, accustomed to look at a well-disciplined regiment, could easily discover that the motions and habits of his escort were not those of trained soldiers, and that, although expert enough in the management of their horses, their skill was that of huntsmen or grooms, rather than of troopers. the horses were not trained to the regular pace so necessary to execute simultaneous and combined movements and formations; nor did they seem bitted (as it is technically expressed) for the use of the sword. the men, however, were stout, hardy-looking fellows, and might be individually formidable as irregular cavalry. the commander of this small party was mounted upon an excellent hunter, and although dressed in uniform, his change of apparel did not prevent waverley from recognizing his old acquaintance, mr. falconer of balmawhapple. now, although the terms upon which edward had parted with this gentleman were none of the most friendly, he would have sacrificed every recollection of their foolish quarrel for the pleasure of enjoying once more the social intercourse of question and answer, from which he had been so long secluded. but apparently the remembrance of his defeat by the baron of bradwardine, of which edward had been the unwilling cause, still rankled in the mind of the low-bred, and yet proud laird. he carefully avoided giving the least sign of recognition, riding doggedly at the head of his men, who, though scarce equal in numbers to a sergeant's party, were denominated captain falconer's troop, being preceded by a trumpet, which sounded from time to time, and a standard, borne by cornet falconer, the laird's young brother. the lieutenant, an elderly man, had much the air of a low sportsman and boon companion; an expression of dry humour predominated in his countenance over features of a vulgar cast, which indicated habitual intemperance. his cocked hat was set knowingly upon one side of his head, and while he whistled the 'bob of dumblain,' under the influence of half a mutchkin of brandy, he seemed to fret merrily forward, with a happy indifference to the state of the country, the conduct of the party, the end of the journey, and all other sublunary matters whatever. from this wight, who now and then dropped alongside of his horse, waverley hoped to acquire some information, or at least to beguile the way with talk. 'a fine evening, sir,' was edward's salutation. 'ow, aye, sir! a bra' night,' replied the lieutenant, in broad scotch of the most vulgar description. 'and a fine harvest, apparently,' continued waverley, following up his first attack. 'aye, the aits will be got bravely in: but the farmers, deil burst them, and the corn-mongers will make the auld price gude against them as has horses till keep.' 'you perhaps act as quarter-master, sir?' 'aye, quarter-master, riding-master, and lieutenant,' answered this officer of all work. 'and, to be sure, wha's fitter to look after the breaking and the keeping of the poor beasts than mysell, that bought and sold every ane o' them?' 'and pray, sir, if it be not too great a freedom, may i beg to know where we are going just now?' 'a fule's errand, i fear,' answered this communicative personage. 'in that case,' said waverley, determined not to spare civility, 'i should have thought a person of your appearance would not have been found on the road.' 'vera true, vera true, sir,' replied the officer, 'but every why has its wherefore. ye maun ken, the laird there bought a' thir beasts frae' me to munt his troop, and agreed to pay for them according to the necessities and prices of the time. but then he hadna the ready penny, and i hae been advised his bond will not be worth a boddle against the estate, and then i had a' my dealers to settle wi' at martinmas; and so as he very kindly offered me this commission, and as the auld fifteen [the judges of the supreme court of session in scotland are proverbially termed, among the country people, the fifteen.] wad never help me to my siller for sending out naigs against the government, why, conscience! sir, i thought my best chance for payment was e'en to gae out mysell; and ye may judge, sir, as i hae dealt a' my life in halters, i think na mickle o' putting my craig in peril of a st. johnstone's tippet.' [to go out, or to have been out, in scotland, was a conventional phrase similar to that of the irish respecting a man having been up, both having reference to an individual who had been engaged in insurrection. it was accounted ill-breeding in scotland, about forty years since, to use the phrase rebellion or rebel, which might be interpreted by some of the parties present as a personal insult. it was also esteemed more polite even for stanch whigs to denominate charles edward the chevalier, than to speak of him as the pretender; and this kind of accommodating courtesy was usually observed in society where individuals of each party mixed on friendly terms.] 'you are not, then, by profession a soldier?' said waverley. 'na, na; thank god,' answered this doughty partisan, 'i wasna bred at sae short a tether; i was brought up to hack and manger. i was bred a horse-couper, sir; and if i might live to see you at whitson-tryst, or at stagshawbank, or the winter fair at hawick, and ye wanted a spanker that would lead the field, i'se be caution i would serve ye easy; for jamie jinker was ne'er the lad to impose upon a gentleman. ye're a gentleman, sir, and should ken a horse's points; ye see that through-ganging thing that balmawhapple's on; i selled her till him. she was bred out of lick-the-ladle, that wan the king's plate at caverton-edge, by duke hamilton's white-foot,' &c. &c. &c. but as jinker was entered full sail upon the pedigree of balmawhapple's mare, having already got as far as great-grandsire and great-grand-dam, and while waverley was watching for an opportunity to obtain from him intelligence of more interest, the noble captain checked his horse until they came up, and then, without directly appearing to notice edward, said sternly to the genealogist, 'i thought, lieutenant', my orders were preceese, that no one should speak to the prisoner?' the metamorphosed horse-dealer was silenced of course, and slunk to the rear, where he consoled himself by entering into a vehement dispute upon the price of hay with a farmer, who had reluctantly followed his laird to the field, rather than give up his farm, whereof the lease had just expired. waverley was therefore once more consigned to silence, foreseeing that further attempts at conversation with any of the party would only give balmawhapple a wished-for opportunity to display the insolence of authority, and the sulky spite of a temper naturally dogged, and rendered more so by habits of low indulgence and the incense of servile adulation. in about two hours' time, the party were near the castle of stirling, over whose battlements the union flag was brightened as it waved in the evening sun. to shorten his journey or perhaps to display his importance and insult the english garrison, balmawhapple, inclining to the right, took his route through the royal park, which reaches to and surrounds the rock upon which the fortress is situated. with a mind more at ease, waverley could not have failed to admire the mixture of romance and beauty which renders interesting the scene through which he was now passing--the field which had been the scene of the tournaments of old--the rock from which the ladies beheld the contest, while each made vows for the success of some favourite knight--the towers of the gothic church, where these vows might be paid--and, surmounting all, the fortress itself, at once a castle and palace, where valour received the prize from royalty, and knights and dames closed the evening amid the revelry of the dance, the song, and the feast. all these were objects fitted to arouse and interest a romantic imagination. but waverley had other objects of meditation, and an incident soon occurred of a nature to disturb meditation of any kind. balmawhapple, in the pride of his heart, as he wheeled his little body of cavalry round the base of the castle, commanded his trumpet to sound a flourish, and his standard to be displayed. this insult produced apparently some sensation; for when the cavalcade was at such a distance from the southern battery as to admit of a gun being depressed so as to bear upon them, a flash of fire issued from one of the embrasures upon the rock; and ere the report with which it was attended could be heard, the rushing sound of a cannon-ball passed over balmawhapple's head, and the bullet, burying itself in the ground at a few yards' distance, covered him with the earth which it drove up. there was no need to bid the party trudge. in fact, every man, acting upon the impulse of the moment, soon brought mr. jinker's steeds to show their mettle, and the cavaliers, retreating with more speed than regularity, never took to a trot, as the lieutenant afterwards observed, until an intervening eminence had secured them from any repetition of so undesirable a compliment on the part of stirling castle. i must do balmawhapple, however, the justice to say, that he not only kept the rear of his troop, and laboured to maintain some order among them, but, in the height of his gallantry, answered the fire of the castle by discharging one of his horse-pistols at the battlements; although, the distance being nearly half a mile, i could never learn that this measure of retaliation was attended with any particular effect. the travellers now passed the memorable field of bannockburn, and reached the torwood,--a place glorious or terrible to the recollections of the scottish peasant, as the feats of wallace, or the cruelties of wude willie grime, predominate in his recollection. at falkirk, a town formerly famous in scottish history, and soon to be again distinguished as the scene of military events of importance, balmawhapple proposed to halt and repose for the evening. this was performed with very little regard to military discipline, his worthy quarter-master being chiefly solicitous to discover where the best brandy might be come at. sentinels were deemed unnecessary, and the only vigils performed were those of such of the party as could procure liquor. a few resolute men might easily have cut off the detachment; but of the inhabitants some were favourable, many indifferent, and the rest overawed. so nothing memorable occurred in the course of the evening, except that waverley's rest was sorely interrupted by the revellers hallooing forth their jacobite songs, without remorse or mitigation of voice. early in the morning they were again mounted, and on the road to edinburgh, though the pallid visages of some of the troop betrayed that they had spent a night of sleepless debauchery. they halted at linlithgow, distinguished by its ancient palace, which, sixty years since, was entire and habitable, and whose venerable ruins, not quite sixty years since, very narrowly escaped the unworthy fate of being converted into a barrack for french prisoners. may repose and blessings attend the ashes of the patriotic statesman, who, amongst his last services to scotland, interposed to prevent this profanation! as they approached the metropolis of scotland, through a champaign and cultivated country, the sounds of war began to be heard. the distant, yet distinct report of heavy cannon, fired at intervals, apprized waverley that the work of destruction was going forward. even balmawhapple seemed moved to take some precautions, by sending an advanced party in front of his troop, keeping the main body in tolerable order, and moving steadily forward. marching in this manner they speedily reached an eminence, from which they could view edinburgh stretching along the ridgy hill which slopes eastward from the castle. the latter, being in a state of siege, or rather of blockade, by the northern insurgents, who had already occupied the town for two or three days, fired at intervals upon such parties of highlanders as exposed themselves, either on the main street, or elsewhere in the vicinity of the fortress. the morning being calm and fair, the effect of this dropping fire was to invest the castle in wreaths of smoke, the edges of which dissipated slowly in the air, while the central veil was darkened ever and anon by fresh clouds poured forth from the battlements; the whole giving, by the partial concealment, an appearance of grandeur and gloom, rendered more terrific when waverley reflected on the cause by which it was produced, and that each explosion might ring some brave man's knell. ere they approached the city, the partial cannonade had wholly ceased. balmawhapple, however, having in his recollection the unfriendly greeting which his troop had received from the battery of stirling, had apparently no wish to tempt the forbearance of the artillery of the castle. he therefore left the direct road, and sweeping considerably to the southward, so as to keep out of the range of the cannon, approached the ancient palace of holyrood, without having entered the walls of the city. he then drew up his men in front of that venerable pile, and delivered waverley to the custody of a guard of highlanders, whose officer conducted him into the interior of the building. a long, low, and ill-proportioned gallery, hung with pictures, affirmed to be the portraits of kings, who, if they ever flourished at all, lived several hundred years before the invention of painting in oil colours, served as a sort of guard-chamber, or vestibule, to the apartments which the adventurous charles edward now occupied in the palace of his ancestors. officers, both in the highland and lowland garb, passed and repassed in haste, or loitered in the hall, as if waiting for orders. secretaries were engaged in making out passes, musters, and returns. all seemed busy, and earnestly intent upon something of importance; but waverley was suffered to remain seated in the recess of a window, unnoticed by any one, in anxious reflection upon the crisis of his fate, which seemed now rapidly approaching. chapter xl an old and a new acquaintance while he was deep sunk in his reverie, the rustle of tartans was heard behind him, a friendly arm clasped his shoulders, and a friendly voice exclaimed, 'said the highland prophet sooth?--or must second-sight go for nothing?' waverley turned, and was warmly embraced by fergus mac-ivor. 'a thousand welcomes to holyrood, once more possessed by her legitimate sovereign! did i not say we should prosper, and that you would fall into the hands of the philistines if you parted from us?' 'dear fergus!' said waverley, eagerly returning his greeting, 'it is long since i have heard a friend's voice. where is flora?' 'safe, and a triumphant spectator of our success.' 'in this place?' said waverley. 'aye, in this city at least,' answered his friend, 'and you shall see her; but first you must meet a friend whom you little think of, who has been frequent in his inquiries after you.' thus saying, he dragged waverley by the arm out of the guard-chamber, and, ere he knew where he was conducted, edward found himself in a presence-room, fitted up with some attempt at royal state. a young man, wearing his own fair hair, distinguished by the dignity of his mien and the noble expression of his well-formed and regular features, advanced out of a circle of military gentlemen and highland chiefs, by whom he was surrounded. in his easy and graceful manners waverley afterwards thought he could have discovered his high birth and rank, although the star on his breast, and the embroidered garter at his knee, had not appeared as its indications. 'let me present to your royal highness,' said fergus, bowing profoundly-- 'the descendant of one of the most ancient and loyal families in england,' said the young chevalier, interrupting him. 'i beg your pardon for interrupting you, my dear mac-ivor; but no master of ceremonies is necessary to present a waverley to a stuart.' thus saying, he extended his hand to edward with the utmost courtesy, who could not, had he desired it, have avoided rendering him the homage which seemed due to his rank, and was certainly the right of his birth. 'i am sorry to understand, mr. waverley, that, owing to circumstances which have been as yet but ill explained, you have suffered some restraint among my followers in perthshire, and on your march here; but we are in such a situation that we hardly know our friends, and i am even at this moment uncertain whether i can have the pleasure of considering mr. waverley as among mine.' he then paused for an instant; but before edward could adjust a suitable reply or even arrange his ideas as to its purport, the prince took out a paper, and then proceeded:--'i should indeed have no doubts upon this subject, if i could trust to this proclamation, set forth by the friends of the elector of hanover, in which they rank mr. waverley among the nobility and gentry who are menaced with the pains of high treason for loyalty to their legitimate sovereign. but i desire to gain no adherents save from affection and conviction; and if mr. waverley inclines to prosecute his journey to the south, or to join the forces of the elector, he shall have my passport and free permission to do so; and i can only regret, that my present power will not extend to protect him against the probable consequences of such a measure.--but,' continued charles edward, after another short pause, 'if mr. waverley should, like his ancestor, sir nigel, determine to embrace a cause which has little to recommend it but its justice, and follow a prince who throws himself upon the affections of his people to recover the throne of his ancestors, or perish in the attempt, i can only say, that among these nobles and gentlemen he will find worthy associates in a gallant enterprise, and will follow a master who may be unfortunate, but, i trust, will never be ungrateful.' the politic chieftain of the race of ivor knew his advantage in introducing waverley to this personal interview with the royal adventurer. unaccustomed to the address and manners of a polished court, in which charles was eminently skilful, his words and his kindness penetrated the heart of our hero, and easily outweighed all prudential motives. to be thus personally solicited for assistance by a prince, whose form and manners, as well as the spirit which he displayed in this singular enterprise, answered his ideas of a hero of romance; to be courted by him in the ancient halls of his paternal palace, recovered by the sword which he was already bending towards other conquests, gave edward, in his own eyes, the dignity and importance which he had ceased to consider as his attributes. rejected, slandered, and threatened upon the one side, he was irresistibly attracted to the cause which the prejudices of education, and the political principles of his family, had already recommended as the most just. these thoughts rushed through his mind like a torrent, sweeping before them every consideration of an opposite tendency,--the time, besides, admitted of no deliberation,--and waverley, kneeling to charles edward, devoted his heart and sword to the vindication of his rights! the prince (for, although unfortunate in the faults and follies of his forefathers, we shall here, and elsewhere, give him the title due to his birth) raised waverley from the ground, and embraced him with an expression of thanks too warm not to be genuine. he also thanked fergus mac-ivor repeatedly for having brought him such an adherent, and presented waverley to the various noblemen, chieftains, and officers who were about his person, as a young gentleman of the highest hopes and prospects, in whose bold and enthusiastic avowal of his cause they might see an evidence of the sentiments of the english families of rank at this important crisis. [see note .] indeed, this was a point much doubted among the adherents of the house of stuart; and as a well-founded disbelief in the co-operation of the english jacobites kept many scottish men of rank from his standard, and diminished the courage of those who had joined it, nothing could be more seasonable for the chevalier than the open declaration in his favour of the representative of the house of waverley-honour, so long known as cavaliers and royalists. this fergus had foreseen from the beginning. he really loved waverley, because their feelings and projects never thwarted each other; he hoped to see him united with flora, and he rejoiced that they were effectually engaged in the same cause. but, as we before hinted, he also exulted as a politician in beholding secured to his party a partisan of such consequence; and he was far from being insensible to the personal importance which he himself gained with the prince, from having so materially assisted in making the acquisition. charles edward, on his part, seemed eager to show his attendants the value which he attached to his new adherent, by entering immediately, as in confidence, upon the circumstances of his situation. 'you have been secluded so much from intelligence, mr. waverley, from causes of which i am but indistinctly informed, that i presume you are even yet unacquainted with the important particulars of my present situation. you have, however, heard of my landing in the remote district of moidart, with only seven attendants, and of the numerous chiefs and clans whose loyal enthusiasm at once placed a solitary adventurer at the head of a gallant army. you must also, i think, have learned, that the commander-in-chief of the hanoverian elector, sir john cope, marched into the highlands at the head of a numerous and well-appointed military force, with the intention of giving us battle, but that his courage failed him when we were within three hours' march of each other, so that he fairly gave us the slip, and marched northward to aberdeen, leaving the low country open and undefended. not to lose so favourable an opportunity, i marched on to this metropolis, driving before me two regiments of horse, gardiner's and hamilton's, who had threatened to cut to pieces every highlander that should venture to pass stirling; and while discussions were carrying forward among the magistracy and citizens of edinburgh, whether they should defend themselves or surrender, my good friend lochiel (laying his hand on the shoulder of that gallant and accomplished chieftain) saved them the trouble of further deliberation, by entering the gates with five hundred camerons. thus far, therefore, we have done well; but, in the meanwhile, this doughty general's nerves being braced by the keen air of aberdeen, he has taken shipping for dunbar, and i have just received certain information that he landed there yesterday. his purpose must unquestionably be to march towards us to recover possession of the capital. now, there are two opinions in my council of war: one, that being inferior probably in numbers, and certainly in discipline and military appointments, not to mention our total want of artillery, and the weakness of our cavalry, it will be safest to fall back towards the mountains, and there protract the war, until fresh succours arrive from france, and the whole body of the highland clans shall have taken arms in our favour. the opposite opinion maintains, that a retrograde movement, in our circumstances, is certain to throw utter discredit on our arms and undertaking; and, far from gaining us new partisans, will be the means of disheartening-those who have joined our standard. the officers who use these last arguments, among whom is your friend fergus mac-ivor, maintain, that if the highlanders are strangers to the usual military discipline of europe, the soldiers whom they are to encounter are no less strangers to their peculiar and formidable mode of attack; that the attachment and courage of the chiefs and gentlemen are not to be doubted; and that as they will be in the midst of the enemy, their clansmen will as surely follow them; in fine, that having drawn the sword, we should throw away the scabbard, and trust our cause to battle, and to the god of battles. will mr. waverley favour us with his opinion in these arduous circumstances?' waverley coloured high betwixt pleasure and modesty at the distinction implied in this question, and answered, with equal spirit-and readiness, that he could not venture to offer an opinion as derived from military skill, but that the counsel would be far the most acceptable to him which should first afford him an opportunity to evince his zeal in his royal highness's service. 'spoken like a waverley!' answered charles edward; and that you may hold a rank in some degree corresponding to your name, allow me, instead of the captain's commission which you have lost, to offer you the brevet rank of major in my service, with the advantage of acting as one of my aides de camp until you can be attached to a regiment, of which i hope several will be speedily embodied.' 'your royal highness will forgive me,' answered waverley (for his recollection turned to balmawhapple and his scanty troop), 'if i decline accepting any rank until the time and place where i may have interest enough to raise a sufficient body of men to make my command useful to your royal highness's service. in the meanwhile, i hope for your permission to serve as a volunteer under my friend fergus mac-ivor.' 'at least,' said the prince, who was obviously pleased with this proposal, 'allow me the pleasure of arming you after the highland fashion.' with these words, he unbuckled the broadsword which he wore, the belt of which was plated with silver, and the steel basket-hilt richly and curiously inlaid, 'the blade,' said the prince, 'is a genuine andrea ferrara; it has been a sort of heirloom in our family; but i am convinced i put it into better hands than my own, and will add to it pistols of the same workmanship.--colonel mac-ivor, you must have much to say to your friend; i will detain you no longer from your private conversation; but remember, we expect you both to attend us in the evening. it may be perhaps the last night we may enjoy in these halls, and as we go to the field with a clear conscience, we will spend the eve of battle merrily.' thus licensed, the chief and waverley left the presence-chamber. chapter xli the mystery begins to be cleared up 'how do you like him?' was fergus's first question, as they descended the large stone staircase. 'a prince to live and die under,' was waverley's enthusiastic answer. 'i knew you would think so when you saw him, and i intended you should have met earlier, but was prevented by your sprain. and yet he has his foibles, or rather he has difficult cards to play, and his irish officers, [see note .] who are much about him, are but sorry advisers,--they cannot discriminate among the numerous pretensions that are set up. would you think it--i have been obliged for the present to suppress an earl's patent, granted for services rendered ten years ago, for fear of exciting the jealousy, forsooth, of c-- and m--. but you were very right, edward, to refuse the situation of aide de camp. there are two vacant, indeed, but clanronald and lochiel, and almost all of us, have requested one for young aberchallader, and the lowlanders and the irish party are equally desirous to have the other for the master of f--. now, if either of these candidates were to be superseded in your favour, you would make enemies. and then i am surprised that the prince should have offered you a majority, when he knows very well that nothing short of lieutenant-colonel will satisfy others, who cannot bring one hundred and fifty men to the field. "but patience, cousin, and shuffle the cards!" it is all very well for the present, and we must have you regularly equipped for the evening in your new costume; for, to say truth, your outward man is scarce fit for a court.' 'why,' said waverley, looking at his soiled dress, 'my shooting-jacket has seen service since we parted; but that, probably, you, my friend, know as well or better than i.' 'you do my second-sight too much honour,' said fergus, 'we were so busy, first with the scheme of giving battle to cope, and afterwards with our operations in the lowlands, that i could only give general directions to such of our people as were left in perthshire to respect and protect you, should you come in their way. but let me hear the full story of your adventures, for they have reached us in a very partial and mutilated manner.' waverley then detailed at length the circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted, to which fergus listened with great attention. by this time they had reached the door of his quarters, which he had taken up in a small paved court, retiring from the street called the canongate, at the house of a buxom widow of forty, who seemed to smile very graciously upon the handsome young chief, she being a person with whom good looks and good humour were sure to secure an interest, whatever might be the party's political opinions. here callum beg received them with a smile of recognition. 'callum,' said the chief, 'call shemus an snachad' (james of the needle). this was the hereditary tailor of vich ian vohr. 'shemus, mr. waverley is to wear the cath dath (battle colour, or tartan); his trews must be ready in four hours. you know the measure of a well-made man: two double nails to the small of the leg'-- 'eleven from haunch to heel, seven round the waist--i give your honour leave to hang shemus, if there's a pair of sheers in the highlands that has a baulder sneck than her's ain at the cumadh an truais' (shape of the trews). 'get a plaid of mac-ivor tartan, and sash,' continued the chieftain, 'and a blue bonnet of the prince's pattern, at mr. mouat's in the crames. my short green coat, with silver lace and silver buttons, will fit him exactly, and i have never worn it. tell ensign maccombich to pick out a handsome target from among mine. the prince has given mr. waverley broadsword and pistols, i will furnish him with a dirk and purse; add but a pair of low-heeled shoes, and then, my dear edward (turning to him), you will be a complete son of ivor. these necessary directions given, the chieftain resumed the subject of waverley's adventures. 'it is plain,' he said, 'that you have been in the custody of donald bean lean. you must know, that when i marched away my clan to join the prince, i laid my injunctions on that worthy member of society to perform a certain piece of service, which done, he was to join me with all the force he could muster. but instead of doing so, the gentleman, finding the coast clear, thought it better to make war on his own account, and has scoured the country, plundering, i believe, both friend and foe, under pretence of levying blackmail, sometimes as if by my authority, and sometimes (and be cursed to his consummate impudence) in his own great name! upon my honour, if i live to see the cairn of benmore again, i shall be tempted to hang that fellow! i recognize his hand particularly in the mode of your rescue from that canting rascal gilfillan, and i have little doubt that donald himself played the part of the pedlar on that occasion; but how he should not have plundered you, or put you to ransom, or availed himself in some way or other of your captivity for his own advantage, passes my judgement.' 'when and how did you hear the intelligence of my confinement?' asked waverley. 'the prince himself told me,' said fergus,' and inquired very minutely into your history. he then mentioned your being at that moment in the power of one of our northern parties--you know i could not ask him to explain particulars--and requested my opinion about disposing of you. i recommended that you should be brought here as a prisoner, because i did not wish to prejudice you further with the english government, in case you pursued your purpose of going southward. i knew nothing, you must recollect, of the charge brought against you of aiding and abetting high treason, which, i presume, had some share in changing your original plan. that sullen, good-for-nothing brute, balmawhapple, was sent to escort you from doune, with what he calls his troop of horse. as to his behaviour, in addition to his natural antipathy to everything that resembles a gentleman, i presume his adventure with bradwardine rankles in his recollection, the rather that i dare say his mode of telling that story contributed to the evil reports which reached your quondam regiment.' 'very likely,' said waverley; 'but now surely, my dear fergus, you may find time to tell me something of flora.' 'why,' replied fergus, 'i can only tell you that she is well, and residing for the present with a relation in this city. i thought it better she should come here, as since our success a good many ladies of rank attend our military court; and i assure you, that there is a sort of consequence annexed to the near relative of such a person as flora mac-ivor; and where there is such a justling of claims and requests, a man must use every fair means to enhance his importance.' there was something in this last sentence which grated on waverley's feelings. he could not bear that flora should be considered as conducing to her brother's preferment, by the admiration which she must unquestionably attract; and although it was in strict correspondence with many points of fergus's character, it shocked him as selfish, and unworthy of his sister's high mind, and his own independent pride. fergus, to whom such manoeuvres were familiar, as to one brought up at the french court, did not observe the unfavourable impression which he had unwarily made upon his friend's mind, and concluded by saying, that they could hardly see flora before the evening, when she would be at the concert and ball, with which the prince's party were to be entertained. she and i had a quarrel about her not appearing to take leave of you. i am unwilling to renew it, by soliciting her to receive you this morning; and perhaps my doing so might not only be ineffectual, but prevent your meeting this evening.' while thus conversing, waverley heard in the court, before the windows of the parlour, a well-known voice. 'i aver to you, my worthy friend,' said the speaker, 'that it is a total dereliction of military discipline; and were you not as it were a tyro, your purpose would deserve strong reprobation. for a prisoner of war is on no account to be coerced with fetters, or detained in ergastulo, as would have been the case had you put this gentleman into the pit of the peel-house at balmawhapple. i grant, indeed, that such a prisoner may for security be coerced in carcere, that is, in a public prison.' the growling voice of balmawhapple was heard as taking leave in displeasure, but the word 'land-louper' alone was distinctly audible. he had disappeared before waverley reached the house, in order to greet the worthy baron of bradwardine. the uniform in which he was now attired, a blue coat, namely, with gold lace, a scarlet waistcoat and breeches, and immense jack-boots, seemed to have added fresh stiffness and rigidity to his tall, perpendicular figure; and the consciousness of military command and authority had increased, in the same proportion, the self-importance of his demeanour, and the dogmatism of his conversation. he received waverley with his usual kindness, and expressed immediate anxiety to hear an explanation of the circumstances attending the loss of his commission in gardiner's dragoons; 'not,' he said, 'that he had the least apprehension of his young friend having done aught which could merit such ungenerous treatment as he had received from government, but because it was right and seemly that the baron of bradwardine should be, in point of trust and in point of power, fully able to refute all calumnies against the heir of waverley-honour, whom he had so much right to regard as his own son.' fergus mac-ivor, who had now joined them, went hastily over the circumstances of waverley's story, and concluded with the flattering reception he had met from the young chevalier. the baron listened in silence, and at the conclusion shook waverley heartily by the hand, and congratulated him upon entering the service of his lawful prince. 'for,' continued he, 'although it has been justly held in all nations a matter of scandal and dishonour to infringe the sacramentum militare, and that whether it was taken by each soldier singly, whilk the romans denominated per conjurationem, or by one soldier in name of the rest, yet no one ever doubted that the allegiance so sworn was discharged by the dimissio, or discharging of a soldier, whose case would be as hard as that of colliers, salters, and other adscripti glebae, or slaves of the soil, were it to be accounted otherwise. this is something like the brocard expressed by the learned sanchez in his work de jure-jurando, which you have questionless consulted upon this occasion. as for those who have calumniated you by leasing-making, i protest to heaven i think they have justly incurred the penalty of the memnonia lex, also called lex rhemnia, which is prelected upon by tullius in his oration in verrem. i should have deemed, however, mr. waverley, that before destining yourself to any special service in the army of the prince, ye might have inquired what rank the old bradwardine held there, and whether he would not have been peculiarly happy to have had your services in the regiment of horse which he is now about to levy.' edward eluded this reproach by pleading the necessity of giving an immediate answer to the prince's proposal, and his uncertainty at the moment whether his friend the baron was with the army, or engaged upon service elsewhere. this punctilio being settled, waverley made inquiry after miss bradwardine, and was informed she had come to edinburgh with flora mac-ivor, under guard of a party of the chieftain's men. this step was indeed necessary, tully-veolan having become a very unpleasant, and even dangerous place of residence for an unprotected young lady, on account of its vicinity to the highlands, and also to one or two large villages, which, from aversion as much to the caterans as zeal for presbytery, had declared themselves on the side of government, and formed irregular bodies of partisans, who had frequent skirmishes with the mountaineers, and sometimes attacked the houses of the jacobite gentry in the braes, or frontier betwixt the mountain and plain. 'i would propose to you,' continued the baron, 'to walk as far as my quarters in the luckenbooths, and to admire in your passage the high street, whilk is, beyond a shadow of dubitation, finer than any street, whether in london or paris. but rose, poor thing, is sorely discomposed with the firing of the castle, though i have proved to her from blondel and coehorn, that it is impossible a bullet can reach these buildings; and, besides, i have it in charge from his royal highness to go to the camp, or leaguer of our army, to see that the men do conclamare vasa, that is, truss up their bag and baggage for to-morrow's march.' 'that will be easily done by most of us,' said mac-ivor, laughing. 'craving your pardon, colonel mac-ivor, not quite so easily as ye seem to opine. i grant most of your folk left the highlands, expedited as it were, and free from the incumbrance of baggage; but it is unspeakable the quantity of useless sprechery which they have collected on their march, i saw one fellow of yours (craving your pardon once more) with a pier-glass upon his back.' 'aye,' said fergus, still in good humour, 'he would have told you, if you had questioned him, a ganging foot is aye getting.--but come, my dear baron, you know as well as i, that a hundred uhlans, or a single troop of schmirschitz's pandours, would make more havoc in a country than the knight of the mirror and all the rest of our clans put together.' 'and that is very true likewise,' replied the baron; 'they are, as the heathen author says, ferociores in aspectu, mitiores in actu, of a horrid and grim visage, but more benign in demeanour than their physiognomy or aspect might infer.--but i stand here talking to you two youngsters when i should be in the king's park.' 'but you will dine with waverley and me on your return? i assure you, baron, though i can live like a highlander when needs must, i remember my paris education, and understand perfectly faire la meilleure chere.' 'and wha the deil doubts it,' quoth the baron, laughing, 'when ye bring only the cookery, and the gude toun must furnish the materials?--'weel, i have some business in the toun too: but i'll join you at three, if the vivers can tarry so long.' so saying, he took leave of his friends, and went to look after the charge which had been assigned him. chapter xlii a soldier's dinner james of the needle was a man of his word, when whisky was no party to the contract; and upon this occasion callum beg, who still thought himself in waverley's debt, since he had declined accepting compensation at the expense of mine host of the candlestick's person, took the opportunity of discharging the obligation, by mounting guard over the hereditary tailor of sliochd nan ivor; and, as he expressed himself, 'targed him tightly' till the finishing of the job. to rid himself of this restraint, shemus's needle flew through the tartan like lightning; and as the artist kept chanting some dreadful skirmish of fin macoul, he accomplished at least three stitches to the death of every hero. the dress was, therefore, soon ready, for the short coat fitted the wearer, and the rest of the apparel required little adjustment. our hero having now fairly assumed the 'garb of old gaul,' well calculated its it was to give an appearance of strength to a figure, which, though tall and well-made, was rather elegant than robust, i hope my fair readers will excuse him if he looked at himself in the mirror more than once, and could not help acknowledging that the reflection seemed that of a very handsome young fellow. in fact, there was no disguising it. his light-brown hair--for he wore no periwig, notwithstanding the universal fashion of the time--became the bonnet which surmounted it. his person promised firmness and agility, to which the ample folds of the tartan added an air of dignity. his blue eye seemed of that kind, which melted in love, and which kindled in war; and an air of bashfulness, which was in reality the effect of want of habitual intercourse with the world, gave interest to his features, without injuring their grace or intelligence. 'he's a pratty man--a very pratty man,' said evan dhu (now ensign maccombich) to fergus's buxom landlady. 'he's vera weel,' said the widow flockhart, 'but no naething sae weel-far'd as your colonel, ensign.' 'i wasna comparing them,' quoth evan, 'nor was i speaking about his being weel-favoured; but only that mr. waverley looks clean-made and deliver, and like a proper lad of his quarters, that will not cry barley in a brulzie, and, indeed, he's gleg aneuch at the broadsword and target, i hae played wi' him mysell at glennaquoich, and sae has vich ian vohr, often of a sunday afternoon,' 'lord forgie ye, ensign maccombich,' said the alarmed presbyterian; 'i'm sure the colonel wad never do the like o' that!' 'hout! hout! mrs. flockhart,' replied the ensign, 'we're young blude, ye ken; and young saints, auld deils.' 'but will ye fight wi' sir john cope the morn, ensign maccombich?' demanded mrs. flockhart of her guest. 'troth i'se ensure him, an' he'll bide us, mrs. flockhart,' replied the gael. 'and will ye face thae tearing chields, the dragoons, ensign maccombich?' again inquired the landlady. 'claw for claw, as conan said to satan, mrs. flockhart, and the deevil tak the shortest nails.' 'and will the colonel venture on the bagganets himsell?' 'ye may swear it, mrs. flockhart; the very first man will he be, by saint phedar.' 'merciful goodness! and if he's killed amang the red-coats!' exclaimed the soft-hearted widow. 'troth, if it should sae befall, mrs. flockhart, i ken ane that will no be living to weep for him. but we maun a' live the day, and have our dinner; and there's vich ian vohr has packed his dorlach, and mr. waverley's wearied wi' majoring yonder afore the muckle pier-glass; and that grey auld stoor carle, the baron o' bradwardine, that shot young ronald of ballenkeiroch, he's coming down the close wi' that droghling coghling bailie body they ca' macwhupple, just like the laird o' kittlegab's french cook, wi' his turn-spit doggie trindling ahint him, and i am as hungry as a gled, my bonny dow; sae bid kate set on the broo', and do ye put on your pinners, for ye ken vich ian vohr winna sit down till ye be at the head o' the table;--and dinna forget the pint bottle o' brandy, my woman.' this hint produced dinner. mrs. flockhart, smiling in her weeds like the sun through a mist; took the head of the table, thinking within herself, perhaps, that she cared not how long the rebellion lasted, that brought her into company so much above her usual associates. she was supported by waverley and the baron, with the advantage of the chieftain vis-a-vis. the men of peace and of war, that is, bailie macwheeble and ensign maccombich, after many profound conges to their superiors and each other, took their places on each side of the chieftain. their fare was excellent, time, place, and circumstances considered, and fergus's spirits were extravagantly high. regardless of danger, and sanguine from temper, youth, and ambition, he saw in imagination all his prospects crowned with success, and was totally indifferent to the probable alternative of a soldier's grave. the baron apologized slightly for bringing macwheeble. they had been providing, he said, for the expenses of the campaign. 'and, by my faith,' said the old man, 'as i think this will be my last, so i just end where i began--i hae evermore found the sinews of war, as a learned author calls the caisse militaire mair difficult to come by than either its flesh, blood, or bones.' 'what! have you raised our only efficient body of cavalry, and got ye none of the louis d'or out of the doutelle, to help you?' [the doutelle was an armed vessel, which brought a small supply of money and arms from france for the use of the insurgents.] 'no, glennaquoich; cleverer fellows have been before me.' 'that's a scandal,' said the young highlander; 'but you will share what is left of my subsidy: it will save you an anxious thought to-night, and will be all one to-morrow, for we shall all be provided for, one way or other, before the sun sets.' waverley, blushing deeply, but with great earnestness, pressed the same request. 'i thank ye baith, my good lads,' said the baron, 'but i will not infringe upon your peculium. bailie macwheeble has provided the sum which is necessary.' here the bailie shifted and fidgeted about in his seat, and appeared extremely uneasy. at length, after several preliminary hems, and much tautological expression of his devotion to his honour's service, by night or day, living or dead, he began to insinuate, 'that the banks had removed a' their ready cash into the castle; that, nae doubt, sandie goldie, the silversmith, would do mickle for his honour; but there was little time to get the wadset made out; and, doubtless, if his honour glennaquoich, or mr. waverley, could accommodate'-- 'let me hear of no such nonsense, sir,' said the baron, in a tone which rendered macwheeble mute, 'but proceed as we accorded before dinner, if it be your wish to remain in my service.' to this peremptory order the bailie, though he felt as if condemned to suffer a transfusion of blood from his own veins into those of the baron, did not presume to make any reply. after fidgeting a little while longer, however, he addressed himself to glennaquoich, and told him, if his honour had mair ready siller than was sufficient for his occasions in the field, he could put it out at use for his honour in safe hands, and at great profit, at this time. at this proposal fergus laughed heartily, and answered, when he had recovered his breath,--'many thanks, bailie; but you must know it is a general custom among us soldiers to make our landlady our banker.--here, mrs. flockhart,' said he, taking four or five broad pieces out of a well-filled purse, and tossing the purse itself, with its remaining contents, into her apron, 'these will serve my occasions; do you take the rest; be my banker if i live, and my executor if i die; but take care to give something to the highland cailliachs [old women, on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead, which the irish call keening.] that shall cry the coronach loudest for the last vich ian vohr.' 'it is the testamentum militare,' quoth the baron, 'whilk, amang the romans, was privilegiate to be nuncupative.' but the soft heart of mrs. flockhart was melted within her at the chieftain's speech; she set up a lamentable blubbering, and positively refused to touch the bequest, which fergus was therefore obliged to resume. 'well, then,' said the chief, 'if i fall, it will go to the grenadier that knocks my brains out, and i shall take care he works hard for it.' bailie macwheeble was again tempted to put in his oar; for where cash was concerned, he did not willingly remain silent. 'perhaps he had better carry the gowd to miss mac-ivor, in case of mortality, or accidents of war. it might tak the form of a mortis causa donation in the young leddie's favour, and wad cost but the scrape of a pen to mak it out.' 'the young lady,' said fergus, 'should such an event happen, will have other matters to think of than these wretched louis d'or.' 'true--undeniable--there 's nae doubt o' that; but your honour kens that a full sorrow'-- 'is endurable by most folk more easily than a hungry one?--true, bailie, very true; and i believe there may even be some who would be consoled by such a reflection for the loss of the whole existing generation. but there is a sorrow which knows neither hunger nor thirst; and poor flora'--he paused, and the whole company sympathized in his emotion. the baron's thoughts naturally reverted to the unprotected state of his daughter, and the big tear came to the veteran's eye. 'if i fall, macwheeble; you have all my papers, and know all my affairs; be just to rose.' the bailie was a man of earthly mould, after all; a good deal of dirt and dress about him, undoubtedly, but some kindly and just feelings he had, especially where the baron or his young mistress were concerned. he set up a lamentable howl. 'if that doleful day should come, while duncan macwheeble had a boddle, it should be miss rose's. he wald scroll for a plack the sheet, or she kenn'd what it was to want; if indeed a' the bonnie baronie o' bradwardine and tully-veolan, with the fortalice and manor-place thereof (he kept sobbing and whining at every pause), tofts, crofts, mosses, muirs--outfield, infield--buildings--orchards--dovecots--with the right of net and coble in the water and loch of veolan--teinds, parsonage and vicarage--annexis, connexis--rights of pasturage--fuel, feal, and divot--parts, pendicles, and pertinents whatsoever--(here he had recourse to the end of his long cravat to wipe his eyes, which overflowed in spite of him, at the ideas which this technical jargon conjured up)--all as more fully described in the proper evidents and titles thereof--and lying within the parish of bradwardine, and the shire of perth--if, as aforesaid, they must a' pass from my master's child to inch-grabbit, wha's a whig and a hanoverian, and be managed by his doer, jamie howie, wha's no fit to be a birlieman, let be a bailie'-- the beginning of this lamentation really had something affecting, but the conclusion rendered laughter irresistible. 'never mind, bailie,' said ensign maccombich, 'for the gude auld times of rugging and riving (pulling and tearing) are come back again, an' sneckus mac-snacbus (meaning, probably, annexis, connexis), and a' the rest of your friends, maun gie place to the langest claymore.' 'and that claymore shall be ours, bailie,' said the chieftain, who saw that macwheeble looked very blank at this intimation. we'll give them the metal our mountain affords, lillibulero, bullen a la, and in place of broad-pieces we'll pay with broadswords, lero, lero, &c. with duns and with debts we will soon clear our score, lillibulero, &c. for the man that's thus paid will crave payment no more, lero, lero, &c. [these lines, or something like them, occur in an old magazine of the period.] 'but come, bailie, be not cast down; drink your wine with a joyous heart; the baron shall return safe and victorious to tully-veolan, and unite killancureit's lairdship with his own, since the cowardly half-bred swine will not turn out for the prince like a gentleman.' 'to be sure, they lie maist ewest,' [i.e. contiguous] said the bairie, wiping his eyes, 'and should naturally fa' under the same factory.' 'and i,' proceeded the chieftain, 'shall take care of myself, too; 'for you must know, i have to complete a good work here, by bringing mrs. flockhart into the bosom of the catholic church, or at least half way, and that is to your episcopal meeting-house. oh, baron! if you heard her fine counter-tenor admonishing kate and matty in the morning, you, who understand music, would tremble at the idea of hearing her shriek in the psalmody of haddo's hole.' 'lord forgie you, colonel, how ye rin on! but i hope your honours will tak tea before ye gang to the palace, and i maun gang and mask it for you.' so saying, mrs. flockhart left the gentlemen to their own conversation, which, as might be supposed, turned chiefly upon the approaching events of the campaign. chapter xliii the ball ensign maccombich having gone to the highland camp upon duty, and bailie macwheeble having retired to digest his dinner and evan dhu's intimation of martial law in some blind change-house, waverley, with the baron and the chieftain, proceeded to holyrood house. the two last were in full tide of spirits, and the baron rallied in his way our hero upon the handsome figure which his new dress displayed to advantage. 'if you have any design upon the heart of a bonny scotch lassie, i would premonish you, when you address her, to remember and quote the words of virgilius:-- nunc insanus amor duri me martis in armis, tela inter media atque adversos detinet hostes: whilk verses robertson of struan, chief of the clan donnochy (unless the claims of lude ought to be preferred primo loco), has thus elegantly rendered; for cruel love has gartan'd low my leg, and clad my hurdies in a philabeg. although, indeed, ye wear the trews, a garment whilk i approve maist of the twa, as mair ancient and seemly.' 'or rather,' said fergus, 'hear my song: she wadna hae a lowland laird, nor be an english lady; but she's away with duncan graeme, and he's row'd her in his plaidy.' by this time they reached the palace of holyrood, and were announced respectively as they entered the apartments. it is but too well known how many gentlemen of rank, education, and fortune, took a concern in the ill-fated and desperate undertaking of . the ladies, also, of scotland very generally espoused the cause of the gallant and handsome young prince, who threw himself upon the mercy of his countrymen, rather like a hero of romance than a calculating politician. it is not, therefore, to be wondered that edward, who had spent the greater part of his life in the solemn seclusion of waverley-honour, should have been dazzled at the liveliness and elegance of the scene now exhibited in the long-deserted halls of the scottish palace. the accompaniments, indeed, fell short of splendour, being such as the confusion and hurry of the time admitted; still, however, the general effect was striking, and, the rank of the company considered, might well be called brilliant. it was not long before the lover's eye discovered the object of his attachment. flora mac-ivor was in the act; of returning to her seat, near the top of the room, with rose bradwardine by her side. among much elegance and beauty, they had attracted a great degree of the public attention, being certainly two of the handsomest women present. the prince took much notice of both, particularly of flora, with whom he danced; a preference which she probably owed to her foreign education, and command of the french and italian languages. when the bustle attending the conclusion of the dance permitted, edward, almost intuitively, followed fergus to the place where miss mac-ivor was seated. the sensation of hope, with which he had nursed his affection in absence of the beloved object, seemed to vanish in her presence, and, like one striving to recover the particulars of a forgotten dream, he would have given the world at that moment to have recollected the grounds on which he had founded expectations which now seemed so delusive. he accompanied fergus with downcast eyes, tingling ears, and the feelings of the criminal, who, while the melancholy cart moves slowly through the crowds that have assembled to behold his execution, receives no clear sensation either from the noise which fills his ears, or the tumult on which he casts his wandering look. flora seemed a little--a very little--affected and discomposed at his approach. 'i bring you an adopted son of ivor,' said fergus. 'and i receive him as a second brother,' replied flora. there was a slight emphasis on the word, which would have escaped every ear but one that was feverish with apprehension. it was, however, distinctly marked, and, combined with her whole tone and manner, plainly intimated, 'i will never think of mr. waverley as a more intimate connexion.' edward stopped, bowed, and looked at fergus, who bit his lip; a movement of anger, which proved that he also had put a sinister interpretation on the reception which his sister had given his friend. 'this, then, is an end of my day-dream!' such was waverley's first thought, and it was so exquisitely painful as to banish from his cheek every drop of blood. 'good god!' said rose bradwardine, 'he is not yet recovered!' these words, which she uttered with great emotion, were overheard by the chevalier himself, who stepped hastily forward, and, taking waverley by the hand, inquired kindly after his health, and added, that he wished to speak with him. by a strong and sudden effort, which the circumstances rendered indispensable, waverley recovered himself so far as to follow the chevalier in silence to a recess in the apartment. here the prince detained him some time, asking various questions about the great tory and catholic families of england, their connexions, their influence, and the state of their affections towards the house of stuart. to these queries edward could not at any time have given more than general answers, and it may be supposed that, in the present state of his feelings, his responses were indistinct even to confusion. the chevalier smiled once or twice at the incongruity of his replies, but continued the same style of conversation, although he found himself obliged to occupy the principal share of it, until he perceived that waverley had recovered his presence of mind. it is probable that this long audience was partly meant to further the idea which the prince desired should be entertained among his followers, that waverley was a character of political influence. but it appeared, from his concluding expressions, that he had a different and good-natured motive, personal to our hero, for prolonging the conference. 'i cannot resist the temptation,' he said, 'of boasting of my own discretion as a lady's confidant. you see, mr. waverley, that i know all, and i assure you i am deeply interested in the affair. but, my good young friend, you must put a more severe restraint upon your feelings. there are many here whose eyes can see as clearly as mine, but the prudence of whose tongues may not be equally trusted.' so saying, he turned easily away, and joined a circle of officers at a few paces' distance, leaving waverley to meditate upon his parting expression, which though not intelligible to him in its whole purport, was sufficiently so in the caution which the last word recommended. making, therefore, an effort to show himself worthy of the interest which his new master had expressed, by instant obedience to his recommendation, he walked up to the spot where flora and miss bradwardine were still seated, and having made his compliments to the latter, he succeeded, even beyond his own expectation, in entering into conversation upon general topics. if, my dear reader, thou hast ever happened to take post-horses at--, or at--(one at least of which blanks, or more probably both, you will be able to fill up from an inn near your own residence), you must have observed, and doubtless with sympathetic pain, the reluctant agony with which the poor jades at first apply their galled necks to the collars of the harness. but when the irresistible arguments of the postboy have prevailed upon them to proceed a mile or two, they will become callous to the first sensation; and being warm at the harness, as the said postboy may term it, proceed as if their withers were altogether unwrung. this simile so much corresponds with the state of waverley's feelings in the course of this memorable evening, that i prefer it (especially as being, i trust, wholly original) to any more splendid illustration with which byshe's art of poetry might supply me. exertion, like virtue, is its own reward; and our hero had, moreover, other stimulating motives for persevering in a display of affected composure and indifference to flora's obvious unkindness. pride, which supplies its caustic as a useful, though severe, remedy for the wounds of affection, came rapidly to his aid. distinguished by the favour of a prince; destined, he had room to hope, to play a conspicuous part in the revolution which awaited a mighty kingdom; excelling, probably, in mental acquirements, and equalling, at least, in personal accomplishments, most of the noble and distinguished persons with whom he was now ranked; young, wealthy, and high-born--could he, or ought he to droop beneath the frown of a capricious beauty? o nymph, unrelenting and cold as thou art, my bosom is proud as thine own. with the feeling expressed in these beautiful lines (which, however, were not then written) [they occur in miss seward's fine verses, beginning--to thy rocks, stormy lannow, adieu.], waverley determined upon convincing flora that he was not to be depressed by a rejection, in which his vanity whispered that perhaps she did her own prospects as much injustice as his. and, to aid this change of feeling, there lurked the secret and unacknowledged hope, that she might learn to prize his affection more highly when she did not conceive it to be altogether within her own choice to attract or repulse it. there was a mystic tone of encouragement, also, in the chevalier's words, though he feared they only referred to the wishes of fergus in favour of a union between him and his sister. but the whole circumstances of time, place, and incident, combined at once to awaken his imagination, and to call upon him for a manly and decisive tone of conduct, leaving to fate to dispose of the issue. should he appear to be the only one sad and disheartened on the eve of battle, how greedily would the tale be commented upon by the slander which had been already but too busy with his fame? never, never, he internally resolved, shall my unprovoked enemies possess such an advantage over my reputation. under the influence of these mixed sensations, and cheered at times by a smile of intelligence and approbation from the prince as he passed the group, waverley exerted his powers of fancy, animation, and eloquence, and attracted the general admiration of the company. the conversation gradually assumed the tone best qualified for the display of his talents and acquisitions. the gaiety of the evening was exalted in character, rather than checked, by the approaching dangers of the morrow. all nerves were strung for the future, and prepared to enjoy the present. this mood of mind is highly favourable for the exercise of the powers of imagination, for poetry, and for that eloquence which is allied to poetry. waverley, as we have elsewhere observed, possessed at times a wonderful flow of rhetoric; and, on the present occasion, he touched more than once the higher notes of feeling, and then again ran off in a wild voluntary of fanciful mirth. he was supported and excited by kindred spirits, who felt the same impulse of mood and time; and even those of more cold and calculating habits were hurried along by the torrent. many ladies declined the dance, which still went forward, and, under various pretences, joined the party to which the 'handsome young englishman' seemed to have attached himself. he was presented to several of the first rank, and his manners, which for the present were altogether free from the bashful restraint by which, in a moment of less excitation, they were usually clouded, gave universal delight. flora mac-ivor appeared to be the only female present who regarded him with a degree of coldness and reserve; yet even she could not suppress a sort of wonder at talents which, in the course of their acquaintance, she had never seen displayed with equal brilliancy and impressive effect. i do not know whether she might not feel a momentary regret at having taken so decisive a resolution upon the addresses of a lover, who seemed fitted so well to fill a high place in the highest stations of society. certainly she had hitherto accounted among the incurable deficiencies of edward's disposition, the mauvaise honte, which, as she had been educated in the first foreign circles, and was little acquainted with the shyness of english manners, was, in her opinion, too nearly related to timidity and imbecility of disposition. but if a passing wish occurred that waverley could have rendered himself uniformly thus amiable and attractive, its influence was momentary; for circumstances had arisen since they met, which rendered, in her eyes, the resolution she had formed respecting him final and irrevocable. with opposite feelings, rose bradwardine bent her whole soul to listen. she felt a secret triumph at the public tribute paid to one, whose merit she had learned to prize too early and too fondly. without a thought of jealousy, without a feeling of fear, pain, or doubt, and undisturbed by a single selfish consideration, she resigned herself to the pleasure of observing the general murmur of applause. when waverley spoke, her ear was exclusively filled with his voice; when others answered, her eye took its turn of observation, and seemed to watch his reply. perhaps the delight which she experienced in the course of that evening, though transient, and followed by much sorrow, was in its nature the most pure and disinterested which the human mind is capable of enjoying. 'baron,' said the chevalier, 'i would not trust my mistress in the company of your young friend. he is really, though perhaps somewhat romantic, one of the most fascinating young men whom i have ever seen.' 'and by my honour, sir,' replied the baron, 'the lad can sometimes be as dowff as a sexagenary like myself. if your royal highness had seen him dreaming and dozing about the banks of tully-veolan like an hypochondriac person, or, as burton's anatomia hath it, a phrenesiac or lethargic patient, you would wonder where he hath sae suddenly acquired all this fine sprack festivity and jocularity.' 'truly,' said fergus mac-ivor, 'i think it can only be the inspiration of the tartans; for, though waverley be always a young fellow of sense and honour, i have hitherto often found him a very absent and inattentive companion.' 'we are the more obliged to him,' said the prince, 'for having reserved for this evening qualities which even such intimate friends had not discovered.--but come, gentlemen, the night advances, and the business of to-morrow must be early thought upon. each take charge of his fair partner, and honour a small refreshment with your company.' he led the way to another suite of apartments, and assumed the seat and canopy at the head of a long range of tables, with an air of dignity mingled with courtesy, which well became his high birth and lofty pretensions. an hour had hardly flown away when the musicians played the signal for parting, so well known in scotland.' [which is, or was wont to be, the old air of 'good-night, and joy be with you a'!'] 'good-night, then, said the chevalier, rising; 'good-night, and joy be with you!--good-night, fair ladies, who have so highly honoured a proscribed and banished prince.--good-night, my brave friends;--may the happiness we have this evening experienced be an omen of our return to these our paternal halls, speedily and in triumph, and of many and many future meetings of mirth and pleasure in the palace of holyrood!' when the baron of bradwardine afterwards mentioned this adieu of the chevalier, he never failed to repeat, in a melancholy tone, audiit, et voti phoebus succedere partem mente dedit; partem volueres dispersit in auras, 'which,' as he added, 'is weel rendered into english metre by my friend bangour: ae half the prayer, wi' phoebus grace did find, the t'other half he whistled down the wind.' chapter xliv the march the conflicting passions and exhausted feelings of waverley had resigned him to late but sound repose. he was dreaming of glennaquoich, and had transferred to the halls of ian nan chaistel the festal train which so lately graced those of holyrood. the pibroch too was distinctly heard; and this at least was no delusion, for the 'proud step of the chief piper' of the 'chlain mac-ivor' was perambulating the court before the door of his chieftain's quarters, and, as mrs. flockhart, apparently no friend to his minstrelsy, was pleased to observe, 'garring the very stane-and-lime wa's dingle wi' his screeching.' of course, it soon became too powerful for waverley's dream, with which it had at first rather harmonized. the sound of callum's brogues in his apartment (for mac-ivor had again assigned waverley to his care) was the next note of parting. 'winna yere honour bang up? vich ian vohr and ta prince are awa to the lang green glen ahint the clachan, tat they ca' the king's park, and mony ane's on his ain shanks the day, that will be carried on ither folk's ere night.' [the main body of the highland army encamped, or rather bivouacked, in that part of the king's park which lies towards the village of duddingston.] waverley sprang up, and, with callum's assistance and instructions, adjusted his tartans in proper costume. callum told him also, 'tat his leather dorlach wi' the lock on her was come frae doune, and she was awa again in the wain wi' vich inn vohr's walise,' by this periphrasis waverley readily apprehended his portmanteau was intended. he thought upon the mysterious packet of the maid of the cavern, which seemed always to escape him when within his very grasp. but this was no time for indulgence of curiosity; and having declined mrs. flockhart's compliment of a morning, i.e. a matutinal dram, being probably the only man in the chevalier's army by whom such a courtesy would have been rejected, he made his adieus, and departed with callum. 'callum,' said he, as they proceeded down a dirty close to gain the southern skirts of the canongate, 'what shall i do for a horse?' 'ta deil ane ye maun think o',' said callum. 'vich ian vohr's marching on foot at the head o' his kin (not to say ta prince, wha does the like), wi' his target on his shoulder; and ye maun e'en be neighbour-like.' 'and so i will, callum--give me my target;--so, there we are fixed. how does it look?' 'like the bra' highlander tat's painted on the board afore the mickle change-house they ca' luckie middlemass's,' answered callum; meaning, i must observe, a high compliment, for, in his opinion, luckie middlemass's sign was an exquisite specimen of art. waverley, however, not feeling the full force of this polite simile, asked him no further questions. upon extricating themselves from the mean and dirty suburbs of the metropolis, and emerging into the open air, waverley felt a renewal both of health and spirits, and turned his recollection with firmness upon the events of the preceding evening, and with hope and resolution towards those of the approaching day. when he had surmounted a small craggy eminence, called st. leonard's hill, the king's park, or the hollow between the mountain of arthur's seat, and the rising grounds on which the southern part of edinburgh is now built, lay beneath him, and displayed a singular and animating prospect. it was occupied by the army of the highlanders, now in the act of preparing for their march. waverley had already seen something of the kind at the hunting-match which he attended with fergus mac-ivor; but this was on a scale of much greater magnitude, and incomparably deeper interest. the rocks, which formed the background of the scene, and the very sky itself, rang with the clang of the bagpipers, summoning forth, each with his appropriate pibroch, his chieftain and clan. the mountaineers, rousing themselves from their couch under the canopy of heaven, with the hum and bustle of a confused and irregular multitude, like bees alarmed and arming in their hives, seemed to possess all the pliability of movement fitted to execute military manoeuvres. their motions appeared spontaneous and confused, but the result was order and regularity; so that a general must have praised the conclusion, though a martinet might have ridiculed the method by which it was attained. the sort of complicated medley created by the hasty arrangements of the various clans under their respective banners, for the purpose of getting into the order of march, was in itself a gay and lively spectacle. they had no tents to strike, having generally, and by choice, slept upon the open field, although the autumn was now waning, and the nights began to be frosty. for a little space, while they were getting into order, there was exhibited a changing, fluctuating; and confused appearance of waving tartans and floating plumes, and of banners displaying the proud gathering word of clanronald, ganion coheriga (gainsay who dares); loch-sloy, the watchword of the mac-farlanes; forth fortune, and fill the fetters, the motto of the marquis of tuilibardine; bydand, that of lord lewis gordon; and the appropriate signal words and emblems of many other chieftains and clans. at length the mixed and wavering multitude arranged themselves into a narrow and dusky column of great length, stretching through the whole extent of the valley. in the front of the column the standard of the chevalier was displayed, bearing at red cross upon a white ground, with the motto tandem triumphans. the few cavalry being chiefly lowland gentry, with their domestic servants and retainers, formed the advanced guard of the army; and their standards, of which they had rather too many in respect of their numbers, were seen waving upon the extreme verge of the horizon. many horsemen of this body, among whom waverley accidentally remarked balmawhapple, and his lieutenant, jinker (which last, however, had been reduced, with several others, by the advice of the baron of bradwardine, to the situation of what he called reformed officers, or reformadoes), added to the liveliness, though by no means to the regularity, of the scene, by galloping their horses as fast forward as the press would permit, to join their proper station in the van. the fascinations of the circes of the high street, and the potations of strength with which they had been drenched over night, had probably detained these heroes within the walls of edinburgh somewhat later than was consistent with their morning duty. of such loiterers, the prudent took the longer and circuitous, but more open route, to attain their place in the march, by keeping at some distance from the infantry, and making their way through the enclosures to the right, at the expense of leaping over or pulling down the dry-stone fences. the irregular appearance and vanishing of these small parties of horsemen, as well as the confusion occasioned by those who endeavoured, though generally without effect, to press to the front through the crowd of highlanders, maugre their curses, oaths, and opposition, added to the picturesque wildness what it took from the military regularity of the scene. while waverley gazed upon this remarkable spectacle, rendered yet more impressive by the occasional discharge of cannon-shot from the castle at the highland guards as they were withdrawn from its vicinity to join their main body, callum, with his usual freedom of interference, reminded him that vich ian vohr's folk were nearly at the head of the column of march, which was still distant, and that 'they would gang very fast after the cannon fired.' thus admonished, waverley walked briskly forward, yet often easting a glance upon the darksome clouds of warriors who were collected before and beneath him. a nearer view, indeed, rather diminished the effect impressed on the mind by the more distant appearance of the army. the leading men of each clan were well armed with broadsword, target, and fusee, to which all added the dirk, and most the steel pistol. but these consisted of gentlemen, that is, relations of the chief, however distant, and who had an immediate title to his countenance and protection. finer and hardier men could not have been selected out of any army in christendom; while the free and independent habits which each possessed, and which each was yet so well taught to subject to the command of his chief, and the peculiar mode of discipline adopted in highland warfare, rendered them equally formidable by their individual courage and high spirit, and from their rational conviction of the necessity of acting in unison, and of giving their national mode of attack the fullest opportunity of success. but, in a lower rank to these, there were found individuals of an inferior description, the common peasantry of the highland country, who, although they did not allow themselves to be so called, and claimed often, with apparent truth, to be of more ancient descent than the masters whom they served, bore, nevertheless, the livery of extreme penury, being indifferently accoutred, and worse armed, half naked, stinted in growth, and miserable in aspect. each important clan had some of those helots attached to them;--thus, the mac-couls, though tracing their descent from comhal, the father of finn or fingal, were a sort of gibeonites, or hereditary servants to the stewarts of appin; the macbeths, descended from the unhappy monarch of that name, were subjects to the morays, and clan donnochy, or robertsons of athole; and many other examples might be given, were it not for the risk of hurting any pride of clanship which may yet be left, and thereby drawing a highland tempest into the shop of my publisher. now these same helots, though forced into the field by the arbitrary authority of the chieftains under whom they hewed wood and drew water, were, in general, very sparingly fed, ill dressed, and worse armed. the latter circumstance was indeed owing chiefly to the general disarming act, which had been carried into effect ostensibly through the whole highlands, although most of the chieftains contrived to elude-its influence, by retaining the weapons of their own immediate clansmen, and delivering up those of less value, which they collected from these inferior satellites. it followed, as a matter of course, that, as we have already hinted, many of these poor fellows were brought to the field in a very wretched condition. from this it happened, that, in bodies, the van of which were admirably well armed in their own fashion, the rear resembled actual banditti. here was a pole-axe, there a sword without a scabbard; here a gun without a lock, there a scythe set straight upon a pole; and some had only their dirks, and bludgeons or stakes pulled out of hedges. the grim, uncombed, and wild appearance of these men, most of whom gazed with all the admiration of ignorance upon the most ordinary production of domestic art, created surprise in the lowlands, but it also created terror. so little was the condition of the highlands known at that late period, that the character and appearance of their population, while thus sallying forth as military adventurers, conveyed to the south-country lowlanders as much surprise as if an invasion of african negroes or esquimaux indians had issued forth from the northern mountains of their own native country. it cannot therefore be wondered if waverley, who had hitherto judged of the highlanders generally from the samples which the policy of fergus had from time to time exhibited, should have felt damped and astonished at the daring attempt of a body not then exceeding four thousand men, and of whom not above half the number, at the utmost, were armed, to change the fate, and alter the dynasty, of the british kingdoms. as he moved along the column, which still remained stationary, an iron gun, the only piece of artillery possessed by the army which meditated so important a revolution, was fired as the signal of march. the chevalier had expressed a wish to leave this useless piece of ordnance behind him; but, to his surprise, the highland chiefs interposed to solicit that it might accompany their march, pleading the prejudices of their followers, who, little accustomed to artillery, attached a degree of absurd importance to this field-piece, and expected it would contribute essentially to a victory which they could only owe to their own muskets and broadswords. two or three french artillerymen were therefore appointed to the management of this military engine, which was drawn along by a string of highland ponies, and was, after all, only used for the purpose of firing signals. [see note .] no sooner was its voice heard upon the present occasion, than the whole line was in motion. a wild cry of joy from the advancing battalions rent the air, and was then lost in the shrill clangour of the bagpipes, as the sound of these, in their turn, was partially drowned by the heavy tread of so many men put at once into motion. the banners glittered and shook as they moved forward, and the horse hastened to occupy their station as the advanced guard, and to push on reconnoitring parties to ascertain and report the motions of the enemy. they vanished from waverley's eye as they wheeled round the base of arthur's seat, under the remarkable ridge of basaltic rocks which fronts the little lake of duddingston. the infantry followed in the same direction, regulating their pace by another body which occupied a road more to the southward. it cost edward some exertion of activity to attain the place which fergus's followers occupied in the line of march. chapter xlv an incident gives rise to unavailing reflections when waverley reached that part of the column which was filled by the clan of mac-ivor, they halted, formed, and received him with a triumphant flourish upon the bagpipes, and a loud shout of the men, most of whom knew him personally, and were delighted to see him in the dress of their country and of their sept. 'you shout,' said a highlander of a neighbouring clan to evan dhu, 'as if the chieftain were just come to your head.' mar e bran is e brathair, if it be not bran, it is bran's brother,' was the proverbial reply of maccombich. [bran, the well-known dog of fingal, is often the theme of highland proverb as well as song.] 'oh, then, it is the handsome sassenach duinhe-wassel, that is to be married to lady flora?' 'that may be, or it may not be; and it is neither your matter nor mine, gregor.' fergus advanced to embrace the volunteer, and afford him a warm and hearty welcome; but he thought it necessary to apologize for the diminished numbers of his battalion (which did not exceed three hundred men), by observing, he had sent a good many out upon parties. the real fact, however, was, that the defection of donald bean lean had deprived him of at least thirty hardy fellows, whose services he had fully reckoned upon, and that many of his occasional adherents had been recalled by their several chiefs to the standards to which they most properly owed their allegiance. the rival chief of the great northern branch also of his own clan, had mustered his people, although he had not yet declared either for the government or for the chevalier, and by his intrigues had in some degree diminished the force with which fergus took the field. to make amends for these disappointments, it was universally admitted that the followers of vich ian vohr, in point of appearance, equipment, arms, and dexterity in using them, equalled the most choice troops which followed the standard of charles edward. old ballenkeiroch acted as his major; and, with the other officers who had known waverley when at glennaquoich, gave our hero a cordial reception, as the sharer of their future dangers and expected honours. the route pursued by the highland army, after leaving the village of duddingston, was for some time the common post-road betwixt edinburgh and haddington, until they crossed the esk at musselburgh, when, instead of keeping the low grounds towards the sea, they turned more inland, and occupied the brow of the eminence called carberry hill, a place already distinguished in scottish history as the spot where the lovely mary surrendered herself to her insurgent subjects. this direction was chosen, because the chevalier had received notice that the army of the government, arriving by sea from aberdeen, had landed at dunbar, and quartered the night before to the west of haddington, with the intention of falling down towards the sea-side, and approaching edinburgh by the lower coast-road. by keeping the height, which overhung that road in many places, it was hoped the highlanders might find an opportunity of attacking them to advantage. the army therefore halted upon the ridge of carberry hill, both to refresh the soldiers, and as a central situation, from which their march could be directed to any point that the motions of the enemy might render most advisable. while they remained in this position, a messenger arrived in haste to desire mac-ivor to come to the prince, adding, that their advanced post had had a skirmish with some of the enemy's cavalry, and that the baron of bradwardine had sent in a few prisoners. waverley walked forward out of the line to satisfy his curiosity, and soon observed five or six of the troopers, who, covered with dust, had galloped in to announce that the enemy were in full march westward along the coast. passing still a little further on, he was struck with a groan which issued from a hovel. he approached the spot, and heard a voice, in the provincial english of his native county, which endeavoured, though frequently interrupted by pain, to repeat the lord's prayer. the voice of distress always found a ready answer in our hero's bosom. he entered the hovel, which seemed to be intended for what is called, in the pastoral counties of scotland, a smearing-house; and in its obscurity edward could only at first discern a sort of red bundle; for those who had stripped the wounded man of his arms, and part of his clothes, had left him the dragoon-cloak in which he was enveloped. 'for the love of god,' said the wounded man, as he heard waverley's step, 'give me a single drop of water!' 'you shall have it,' answered waverley, at the same time raising him in his arms, bearing him to the door of the hut, and giving him some drink from his flask. 'i should know that voice,' said the man; but, looking on waverley's dress with a bewildered look,--'no, this is not the young squire!' this was the common phrase by which edward was distinguished on the estate of waverley-honour, and the sound now thrilled to his heart with the thousand recollections which the well-known accents of his native country had already contributed to awaken. 'houghton!' he said, gazing on the ghastly features which death was fast disfiguring, 'can this be you?' 'i never thought to hear an english voice again,' said the wounded man; 'they left me to live or die here as i could, when they found i would say nothing about the strength of the regiment. but, oh, squire! how could you stay from us so long, and let us be tempted by that fiend of the pit, ruffin?--we should have followed you through flood and fire, to be sure.' 'ruffin! i assure you, houghton, you have been vilely imposed upon.' 'i often thought so,' said houghton, 'though they showed us your very seal; and so timms was shot, and i was reduced to the ranks.' 'do not exhaust your strength in speaking,' said edward; 'i will get you a surgeon presently.' he saw mac-ivor approaching, who was now returning from head-quarters, where he had attended a council of war, and hastened to meet him. 'brave news!' shouted the chief; 'we shall be at it in less than two hours. the prince has put himself at the head of the advance, and as he drew his sword, called out, "my friends, i have thrown away the scabbard." come, waverley, we move instantly.' 'a moment,--a moment; this poor prisoner is dying where shall i find a surgeon?' 'why, where should you? we have none, you know, but two or three french fellows, who, i believe, are little better than garcons apothicaires.' 'but the man will bleed to death.' 'poor fellow!' said fergus, in a momentary fit of compassion; then instantly added, 'but it will be a thousand men's fate before night; so come along.' 'i cannot; i tell you he is a son of a tenant of my uncle's.' 'oh, if he's a follower of yours, he must be looked to; 'i'll send callum to you. but diaoul!-caede millia molligheart!' continued the impatient chieftain,--'what made an old soldier, like bradwardine, send dying men here to cumber us?' callum came with his usual alertness; and, indeed, waverley rather gained than lost in the opinion of the highlanders, by his anxiety about the wounded man. they would not have understood the general philanthropy which rendered it almost impossible for waverley to have passed any person in such distress; but, as apprehending that the sufferer was one of his following, [scottice for followers.] they unanimously allowed that waverley's conduct was that of a kind and considerate chieftain, who merited the attachment of his people. in about a quarter of an hour poor humphry breathed his last, praying his young master, when he returned to waverley-honour, to be kind to old job houghton and his dame, and conjuring him not to fight with these wild petticoat-men against old england. when his last breath was drawn, waverley, who had beheld with sincere sorrow, and no slight tinge of remorse, the final agonies of mortality, now witnessed for the first time, commanded callum to remove the body into the hut. this the young highlander performed, not without examining the pockets of the defunct, which, however, he remarked, had been pretty well spung'd. he took the cloak, however, and proceeding with the provident caution of a spaniel hiding a bone, concealed it among some furze, and carefully marked the spot, observing that, if he chanced to return that way, it would be an excellent rokelay for his auld mother elspat. it was by a considerable exertion that they regained their place in the marching column, which was now moving rapidly forward to occupy the high grounds above the village of tranent, between which and the sea, lay the purposed march of the opposite army. this melancholy interview with his late sergeant forced many unavailing and painful reflections upon waverley's mind. it was clear, from the confession of the man, that colonel gardiner's proceedings had been strictly warranted, and even rendered indispensable, by the steps taken in edward's name to induce the soldiers of his troop to mutiny. the circumstance of the seal, he now, for the first time, recollected, and that he had lost it in the cavern of the robber, bean lean. that the artful villain had secured it, and used it as the means of carrying on an intrigue in the regiment, for his own purposes, was sufficiently evident, and edward had now little doubt that in the packet placed in his portmanteau by his daughter, he should find further light upon his proceedings. in the meanwhile, the repeated expostulation of houghton,--'ah, squire, why did you leave us?' rang like a knell in his ears. 'yes,' he said, 'i have indeed acted towards you with thoughtless cruelty. i brought you from your paternal fields, and the protection of a generous and kind landlord, and when i had subjected you to all the rigour of military discipline, i shunned to bear my own share of the burden, and wandered from the duties i had undertaken, leaving alike those whom it was my business to protect, and my own reputation, to suffer under the artifices of villany. o indolence and indecision of mind! if not in yourselves vices, to how much exquisite misery and mischief do you frequently prepare the way!' chapter xlvi the eve of battle although the highlanders marched on very fast, the sun was declining when they arrived upon the brow of those high grounds which command an open and extensive plain stretching northward to the sea, on which are situated, but at a considerable distance from each other, the small villages of seaton and cockenzie, and the larger one of preston. one of the low coast-roads to edinburgh passed through this plain, issuing upon it from the enclosures of seaton-house, and at the town or village of preston again entering the defiles of an enclosed country. by this way the english general had chosen to approach the metropolis, both as most commodious for his cavalry, and being probably of opinion that, by doing so, he would meet in front with the highlanders advancing from edinburgh in the opposite direction. in this he was mistaken; for the sound judgement of the chevalier, or of those to whose advice he listened, left the direct passage free, but occupied the strong ground by which it was overlooked and commanded. when the highlanders reached the heights above the plain described, they were immediately formed in army of battle along the brow of the hill. almost at the same instant the van of the english appeared issuing from among the trees and enclosures of seaton, with the purpose of occupying the level plain between the high ground and the sea; the space which divided the armies being only about half a mile in breadth. waverley could plainly see the squadrons of dragoons issue, one after another, from the defiles, with their videttes in front, and form upon the plain, with their front opposed to that of the prince's army. they were followed by a train of field-pieces, which, when they reached the flank of the dragoons, were also brought into line, and pointed against the heights. the march was continued by three or four regiments of infantry marching in open column, their fixed bayonets showing like successive hedges of steel, and their arms glancing like lightning, as, at a signal given, they also at once wheeled up, and were placed in direct opposition to the highlanders. a second train of artillery, with another regiment of horse, closed the long march, and formed on the left flank of the infantry, the whole line facing southward. while the english army went through these evolutions, the highlanders showed equal promptitude and zeal for battle. as fast as the clans came upon the ridge which fronted their enemy, they were formed into line, so that both armies got into complete order of battle at the same moment. when this was accomplished, the highlanders set up a tremendous yell, which was re-echoed by the heights behind them. the regulars, who were in high spirits, returned a loud shout of defiance, and fired one or two of their cannon upon an advanced post of the highlanders. the latter displayed great earnestness to proceed instantly to the attack, evan dhu urging to fergus, by way of argument, that 'the sidier roy was tottering like an egg upon a staff, and that they had a' the vantage of the onset, for even a haggis (god bless her!) could charge down hill.' but the ground through which the mountaineers must have descended, although not of great extent, was impracticable in its character, being not only marshy, but intersected with walls of dry-stone, and traversed in its whole length by a very broad and deep ditch, circumstances which must have given the musketry of the regulars dreadful advantages, before the mountaineers could have used their swords, on which they were taught to rely. the authority of the commanders was therefore interposed to curb the impetuosity of the highlanders, and only a few marksmen were sent down the descent to skirmish with the enemy's advanced posts, and to reconnoitre the ground. here, then, was a military spectacle of no ordinary interest, or usual occurrence. the two armies, so different in aspect and discipline, yet each admirably trained in its own peculiar mode of war, upon whose conflict the temporary fate at least of scotland appeared to depend, now faced each other like two gladiators in the arena, each meditating upon the mode of attacking their enemy. the leading officers, and the general's staff of each army, could be distinguished in front of their lines, busied with spy-glasses to watch each other's motions, and occupied in dispatching the orders and receiving the intelligence conveyed, by the aides-de-camp and orderly men, who gave life to the scene by galloping along in different directions as if the fate of the day depended upon the speed of their horses. the space between the armies was at times occupied by the partial and irregular contests of individual sharpshooters, and a hat or bonnet was occasionally seen to fall, as a wounded man was borne off by his comrades. these, however, were but trifling skirmishes, for it suited the views of neither party to advance in that direction. from the neighbouring hamlets, the peasantry cautiously showed themselves, as if watching the issue of the expected engagement; and at no great distance in the bay were two square-rigged vessels, bearing the english flag, whose tops and yards were crowded with less timid spectators. when this awful pause had lasted for a short time, fergus, with another chieftain, received orders to detach their clans towards the village of preston, in order to threaten the right flank of cope's army, and compel him to a change of position. to enable him to execute these orders, the chief of glennaquoich occupied the churchyard of tranent, a commanding situation, and a convenient place, as evan dhu remarked, 'for any gentleman who might have the misfortune to be killed, and chanced to be curious about christian burial.' to check or dislodge this party, the english general detached two guns escorted by a strong party of cavalry. they approached so near, that waverley could plainly recognize the standard of the troop he had formerly commanded, and hear the trumpets and kettledrums sound the signal of advance, which he had so often obeyed. he could hear, too, the well-known word given in the english dialect, by the equally well-distinguished voice of the commanding-officer, for whom he had once felt so much respect. it was at that instant, that, looking around him, he saw the wild dress and appearance of his highland associates, heard their whispers in an uncouth and unknown language, looked upon his own dress, so unlike that which he had worn from his infancy, and wished to awake from what seemed at the moment a dream, strange, horrible, and unnatural. 'good god!' he muttered, 'am i then a traitor to my country, a renegade to my standard, and a foe, as that poor dying wretch expressed himself, to my native england?' ere he could digest or smother the recollection, the tall military form of his late commander came full in view, for the purpose of reconnoitring. 'i can hit him now,' said callum, cautiously raising his fusee over the wall under which he lay couched, at scarce sixty yards' distance. edward felt as if he was about to see a parricide committed in his presence; for the venerable grey hair and striking countenance of the veteran recalled the almost paternal respect with which his officers universally regarded him. but ere he could say 'hold!' an aged highlander, who lay beside callum beg, stopped his arm. 'spare your shot,' said the seer, 'his hour is not yet come. but let him beware of to-morrow.--i see his winding-sheet high upon his breast.' callum, flint to other considerations, was penetrable to superstition. he turned pale at the words of the taishatr, and recovered his piece. colonel gardiner, unconscious of the danger he had escaped, turned his horse round, and rode slowly back to the front of his regiment. by this time the regular army had assumed a new line, with one flank inclined towards the sea, and the other resting upon the village of preston; and as similar difficulties occurred in attacking their new position, fergus and the rest of the detachment were recalled to their former post. this alteration created the necessity of a corresponding change in general cope's army, which was again brought into a line parallel with that of the highlanders. in these manoeuvres on both sides the daylight was nearly consumed, and both armies prepared to rest upon their arms for the night in the lines which they respectively occupied. 'there will be nothing done to-night,' said fergus to his friend waverley. 'ere we wrap ourselves in our plaids, let us go see what the baron is doing in the rear of the line.' when they approached his post, they found the good old careful officer, after having sent out his night patrols, and posted his sentinels, engaged in reading the evening service of the episcopal church to the remainder of his troop. his voice was loud and sonorous, and though his spectacles upon his nose, and the appearance of saunders saunderson, in military array, performing the functions of clerk, had something ludicrous, yet the circumstances of danger in which they stood, the military costume of the audience, and the appearance of their horses, saddled and picketed behind them, gave an impressive and solemn effect to the office of devotion. 'i have confessed to-day, ere you were awake,' whispered fergus to waverley; 'yet i am not so strict a catholic as to refuse to join in this good man's prayers.' edward assented, and they remained till the baron had concluded the service. as he shut the book, 'now, lads,' said he, 'have at them in the morning, with heavy hands and light consciences.' he then kindly greeted mac-ivor and waverley, who requested to know his opinion of their situation. 'why, you know, tacitus saith, "in rebus bellicis maxime dominatur fortuna," which is equiponderate with our vernacular adage, "luck can maist in the mellee." but credit me, gentlemen, yon man is not a deacon o' his craft. he damps the spirits of the poor lads he commands, by keeping them on the defensive, whilk of itself implies inferiority or fear. now will they lie on their arms yonder, as anxious and as ill at ease as a toad under a harrow, while our men will be quite fresh and blithe for action in the morning. well, goodnight.--one thing troubles me, but if to-morrow goes well off, i will consult you about it, glennaquoich.'-- 'i could almost apply to mr. bradwardine the character which henry gives of fluellen,' said waverley, as his friend and he walked towards their bivouac: though it appears a little out of fashion, there is much care and valour in this 'scotchman.' 'he has seen much service,' answered fergus, 'and one is sometimes astonished to find how much nonsense and reason are mingled in his composition, i wonder what can be troubling his mind--probably something about rose.--hark! the english are setting their watch.' the roll of the drum and shrill accompaniment of the fifes swelled up the hill-died away--resumed its thunder--and was at length hushed. the trumpets and kettledrums of the cavalry were next heard to perform the beautiful and wild point of war appropriated as a signal for that piece of nocturnal duty, and then finally sank upon the wind with a shrill and mournful cadence. the friends, who had now reached their post, stood and looked round them ere they lay down to rest. the western sky twinkled with stars, but a frost-mist, rising from the ocean, covered the eastern horizon, and rolled in white wreaths along the plain where the adverse army lay couched upon their arms. their advanced posts were pushed as far as the side of the great ditch at the bottom of the descent, and had kindled large fires at different intervals, gleaming with obscure and hazy lustre through the heavy fog which encircled them with a doubtful halo. the highlanders, 'thick as leaves in vallombrosa,' lay stretched upon the ridge of the hill, buried (excepting their sentinels) in the most profound repose. 'how many of these brave fellows will sleep more soundly before to-morrow night, fergus!' said waverley, with an involuntary sigh. 'you must not think of that,' answered fergus, whose ideas were entirely military. 'you must only think of your sword, and by whom it was given. all other reflections are now too late.' with the opiate contained in this undeniable remark, edward endeavoured to lull the tumult of his conflicting feelings. the chieftain and he, combining their plaids, made a comfortable and warm couch. callum, sitting down at their head (for it was his duty to watch upon the immediate person of the chief), began a long mournful song in gaelic, to a low and uniform tune, which, like the sound of the wind at a distance, soon lulled them to sleep. chapter xlvii the conflict when fergus mac-ivor and his friend had slept for a few hours, they were awakened, and summoned to attend the prince. the distant village-clock was heard to toll three as they hastened to the place where he lay. he was already surrounded by his principal officers and the chiefs of clans. a bundle of peas-straw, which had been lately his couch, now served for his seat. just as fergus reached the circle, the consultation had broken up. 'courage, my brave friends!' said the chevalier, 'and each one put himself instantly at the head of his command; a faithful friend [see note .] has offered to guide us by a practicable, though narrow and circuitous route, which, sweeping to our right, traverses the broken ground and morass, and enables us to gain the firm and open plain, upon which the enemy are lying. this difficulty surmounted, heaven and your good swords must do the rest.' the proposal spread unanimous joy, and each leader hastened to get his men into order with as little noise as possible. the army, moving by its right from off the ground on which they had rested, soon entered the path through the morass, conducting their march with astonishing silence and great rapidity. the mist had not risen to the higher grounds, so that for some time they had the advantage of starlight. but this was lost as the stars faded before approaching day, and the head of the marching column, continuing its descent, plunged as it were into the heavy ocean of fog, which rolled its white waves over the whole plain, and over the sea by which it was bounded. some difficulties were now to be encountered, inseparable from darkness,--a narrow, broken, and marshy path, and the necessity of preserving union in the march. these, however, were less inconvenient to highlanders, from their habits of life, than they would have been to any other troops, and they continued a steady and swift movement. as the clan of ivor approached the firm ground, following the track of those who preceded them, the challenge of a patrol was heard through the mist, though they could not see the dragoon by whom it was made--'who goes there?' 'hush!' cried fergus, 'hush!--let none answer, as he values his life.--press forward!' and they continued their march with silence and rapidity. the patrol fired his carabine upon the body, and the report was instantly followed by the clang of his horse's feet as he galloped off. 'hylax in limine latrat,' said the baron of bradwardine, who heard the shot; 'that loon will give the alarm.' the clan of fergus had now gained the firm plain, which had lately borne a large crop of corn. but the harvest was gathered in, and the expense was unbroken by tree, bush, or interruption of any kind. the rest of the army were following fast, when they heard the drums of the enemy beat the general. surprise, however, had made no part of their plan, so they were not disconcerted by this intimation that the foe was upon his guard and prepared to receive them. it only hastened their dispositions for the combat, which were very simple. the highland army, which now occupied the eastern end of the wide plain, or stubble field, so often referred to, was drawn up in two lines, extending from the morass towards the sea. the first was destined to charge the enemy, the second to act as a reserve. the few horse, whom the prince headed in person, remained between the two lines. the adventurer had intimated a resolution to charge in person at the head of his first line; but his purpose was deprecated by all around him, and he was with difficulty induced to abandon it. both lines were now moving forward, the first prepared for instant combat. the clans of which it was composed, formed each a sort of separate phalanx, narrow in front, and in depth ten, twelve, or fifteen files, according to the strength of the following. the best armed and best born, for the words were synonymous, were placed in front of each of these irregular subdivisions. the others in the rear shouldered forward the front, and by their pressure added both physical impulse, and additional ardour and confidence, to those who were first to encounter the danger. 'down with your plaid, waverley,' cried fergus, throwing off his own; 'we'll win silks for our tartans before the sun is above the sea.' the clansmen on every side stripped their plaids, prepared their arms, and there was an awful pause of about three minutes, during which the men, pulling off their bonnets, raised their faces to heaven, and uttered a short prayer; then pulled their bonnets over their brows, and began to move forward at first slowly. waverley felt his heart at that moment throb as it would have burst from his bosom. it was not fear, it was not ardour,--it was a compound of both, a new and deeply energetic impulse, that with its first emotion chilled and astounded, then fevered and maddened his mind, the sounds around him combined to exalt his enthusiasm; the pipes played, and the clans rushed forward, each in its own dark column. as they advanced they mended their pace, and the muttering sounds of the men to each other began to swell into a wild cry. at this moment, the sun, which was now risen above the horizon, dispelled the mist. the vapours rose like a curtain, and showed the two armies in the act of closing. the line of the regulars was formed directly fronting the attack of the highlanders; it glittered with the appointments of a complete army, and was flanked by cavalry and artillery. but the sight impressed no terror on the assailants. 'forward, sons of ivor,' cried their chief, 'or the camerons will draw the first blood!'--they rushed on with a tremendous yell. the rest is well known. the horse, who were commanded to charge the advancing highlanders in the flank, received an irregular fire from their fusees as they ran on, and, seized with a disgraceful panic, wavered, halted, disbanded, and galloped from the field. the artillerymen, deserted by the cavalry, fled after discharging their pieces, and the highlanders, who dropped their guns when fired, and drew their broadswords, rushed with headlong fury against the infantry. it was at this moment of confusion and terror, that waverley remarked an english officer, apparently of high rank, standing alone and unsupported by a field-piece, which, after the flight of the men by whom it was wrought, he had himself levelled and discharged against the clan of mac-ivor, the nearest group of highlanders within his aim. struck with his tall, martial figure, and eager to save him from inevitable destruction, waverley outstripped for an instant even the speediest of the warriors, and, reaching the spot first, called to him to surrender. the officer replied by a thrust with his sword, which waverley received in his target, and in turning it aside the englishman's weapon broke. at the same time the battle-axe of dugald mahony was in the act of descending upon the officer's head. waverley intercepted and prevented the blow, and the officer, perceiving further resistance unavailing, and struck with edward's generous anxiety for his safety, resigned the fragment of his sword, and was committed by waverley to dugald, with strict charge to use him well, and not to pillage his person, promising him, at the same time, full indemnification for the spoil. on edward's right, the battle for a few minutes raged fierce and thick. the english infantry, trained in the wars in flanders, stood their ground with great courage. but their extended files were pierced and broken in many places by the close masses of the clans; and in the personal struggle which ensued, the nature of the highlanders' weapons, and their extraordinary fierceness and activity, gave them a decided superiority over those who had been accustomed to trust much to their array and discipline, and felt that the one was broken and the other useless. waverley, as he cast his eyes towards this scene of smoke and slaughter, observed colonel gardiner, deserted by his own soldiers in spite of all his attempts to rally them, yet spurring his horse through the field to take the command of a small body of infantry, who, with their backs arranged against the wall of his own park (for his house was close by the field of battle), continued a desperate and unavailing resistance. waverley could perceive that he had already received many wounds, his clothes and saddle being marked with blood. to save this good and brave man, became the instant object of his most anxious exertions. but he could only witness his fall. ere edward could make his way among the highlanders, who, furious and eager for spoil, now thronged upon each other, he saw his former commander brought from his horse by the blow of a scythe, and beheld him receive, while on the ground, more wounds than would have let out twenty lives. when waverley came up, however, perception had not entirely fled. the dying warrior seemed to recognize edward, for he fixed his eye upon him with an upbraiding, yet sorrowful look, and appeared to struggle for utterance. but he felt that death was dealing closely with him, and resigning his purpose, and folding his hands as if in devotion, he gave up his soul to his creator. the look with which he regarded waverley in his dying moments did not strike him so deeply at that crisis of hurry and confusion, as when it recurred to his imagination at the distance of some time. [see note .] loud shouts of triumph now echoed over the whole field. the battle was fought and won, and the whole baggage, artillery, and military stores of the regular army remained in possession of the victors. never was a victory more complete. scarce any escaped from the battle, excepting the cavalry, who had left it at the very onset, and even these were broken into different parties and scattered all over the country. so far as our tale is concerned, we have only to relate the fate of balmawhapple, who, mounted on a horse as headstrong and stiff-necked as his rider, pursued the flight of the dragoons above four miles from the field of battle, when some dozen of the fugitives took heart of grace, turned round, and, cleaving his skull with their broadswords, satisfied the world that the unfortunate gentleman had actually brains, the end of his life thus giving proof of a fact greatly doubted during its progress. his death was lamented by few. most of those who knew him agreed in the pithy observation of ensign maccombich, that there 'was mair tint (lost) at sheriff-muir.' his friend, lieutenant jinker, bent his eloquence only to exculpate his favourite mare from any share in contributing to the catastrophe. 'he had tauld the laird a thousand times,' he said, 'that it was a burning shame to put a martingale upon the puir thing, when he would needs ride her wi' a curb of half a yard lang; and that he could na but bring himsell (not to say her) to some mischief, by flinging her down, or otherwise; whereas, if he had had a wee bit rinnin ring on the snaffle, she wad ha' rein'd as cannily as a cadger's pownie.' such was the elegy of the laird of balmawhapple. [see note .] chapter xlviii an unexpected embarrassment when the battle was over, and all things coming into order, the baron of bradwardine, returning from the duty of the day, and having disposed those under his command in their proper stations, sought the chieftain of glennaquoich and his friend edward waverley. he found the former busied in determining disputes among his clansmen about points of precedence and deeds of valour, besides sundry high and doubtful questions concerning plunder. the most important of the last respected the property of a gold watch, which had once belonged to some unfortunate english officer. the party against whom judgement was awarded consoled himself by observing, 'she (i.e. the watch, which he took for a living animal) died the very night vich ian vohr gave her to murdock;' the machine having, in fact, stopped for want of winding up. it was just when this important question was decided, that the baron of bradwardine, with a careful and yet important expression of countenance, joined the two young men. he descended from his reeking charger, the care of which he recommended to one of his grooms. 'i seldom ban, sir,' said he to the man; 'but if you play any of your hound's-foot tricks, and leave puir berwick before he's sorted, to rin after spuilzie, deil be wi' me if i do not; give your craig a thraw. he then stroked with great complacency the animal which had borne him through the fatigues of the day, and having taken a tender leave of him,--'weel, my good young friends, a glorious and decisive victory,' said he; 'but these loons of troopers fled ower soon. i should have liked to have shown you the true points of the praelium equestre, or equestrian combat, whilk their cowardice has postponed, and which i hold to be the pride and terror of warfare. weel, i have fought once more in this old quarrel, though i admit i could not be so far ben as you lads, being that it was my point of duty to keep together our handful of horse. and no cavalier ought in any wise to begrudge honour that befalls his companions, even though they are ordered upon thrice his danger, whilk, another time, by the blessing of god, may be his own case.--but, glennaquoich, and you, mr. waverley, i pray ye to give me your best advice on a matter of mickle weight, and which deeply affects the honour of the house of bradwardine.--i crave your pardon, ensign maccombich, and yours, inveraughlin, and yours, edderalshendrach, and yours, sir.' the last person he addressed was ballenkeiroch, who, remembering the death of his son, loured on him with a look of savage defiance. the baron, quick as lightning at taking umbrage, had already bent his brow, when glennaquoich dragged his major from the spot, and remonstrated with him, in the authoritative tone of a chieftain, on the madness of reviving a quarrel in such a moment. 'the ground is cumbered with carcases,' said the old mountaineer, turning sullenly away; 'one more would hardly have been kenn'd upon it; and if it wasna for yoursell, vich ian vohr, that one should be bradwardine's or mine.' the chief soothed while he hurried him away; and then returned to the baron. 'it is ballenkeiroch,' he said, in an under and confidential voice, 'father of the young man who fell eight years since in the unlucky affair at the mains.' 'ah!' said the baron, instantly relaxing the doubtful sternness of his features, 'i can take mickle frae a man to whom i have unhappily rendered sie a displeasure as that. ye were right to apprize me, glennaquoich; he may look as black as midnight at martinmas ere cosmo comyne bradwardine shall say he does him wrang. ah! i have nae male lineage, and i should bear with one i have made childless, though you are aware the blood-wit was made up to your ain satisfaction by assythment, and that i have since expedited letters of slains.--weel, as i have said, i have no male issue, and yet it is needful that i maintain the honour of my house; and it is on that score i prayed ye for your peculiar and private attention.' the two young men awaited to hear him in anxious curiosity. 'i doubt na, lads,' he proceeded, 'but your education has been sae seen to, that ye understand the true nature of the feudal tenures?' fergus, afraid of an endless dissertation, answered, 'intimately, baron,' and touched waverley, as a signal to express no ignorance. 'and ye are aware, i doubt not, that the holding of the barony of bradwardine is of a nature alike honourable and peculiar, being blanch (which craig opines ought to be latinated blancum, or rather francum, a free holding) pro servitio detrahendi, seu exuendi, caligas regis post battaliam.' here fergus turned his falcon eye upon edward, with an almost imperceptible rise of his eyebrow, to which his shoulders corresponded in the same degree of elevation. 'now, twa points of dubitation occur to me upon this topic. first, whether this service, or feudal homage, be at any event due to the person of the prince, the words being, per expressum, caligas regis, the boots of the king himself; and i pray your opinion anent that particular before we proceed further.' 'why, he is prince regent,' answered mac-ivor, with laudable composure of countenance; 'and in the court of france all the honours are rendered to the person of the regent which are due to that of the king. besides, were i to pull off either of their boots, i would render that service to the young chevalier ten times more willingly than to his father.' 'aye, but i talk not of personal predilections. however, your authority is of great weight as to the usages of the court of france: and doubtless the prince, as alter ego, may have a right to claim the homagium of the great tenants of the crown, since all faithful subjects are commanded, in the commission of regency, to respect him as the king's own person. far, therefore, be it from me to diminish the lustre of his authority, by withholding this act of homage, so peculiarly calculated to give it splendour; for i question if the emperor of germany hath his boots taken off by a free baron of the empire. but here lieth the second difficulty--the prince wears no boots, but simply brogues and trews.' this last dilemma had almost disturbed fergus's gravity. 'why,' said he, 'you know, baron, the proverb tells us, "it's ill taking the breeks off a highlandman,"--and the boots are here in the same predicament.' 'the word caligae, however,' continued the baron, 'though i admit, that, by family tradition, and even in our ancient evidents, it is explained lie boots, means, in its primitive sense, rather sandals; and caius caesar, the nephew and successor of caius tiberius, received the agnomen of caigula, a caligulis, sive caligis levioribus, quibus adolescentior usus fuerat in exercitu germanici patris sui. and the caligae were also proper to the monastic bodies; for we read in an ancient glossarium, upon the rule of st. benedict, in the abbey of st. amand, that caligae were tied with latchets.' 'that will apply to the brogues,' said fergus. 'it will so, my dear glennaquoich;--and the words are express: caligae dictae sunt quia ligantur; nam socci non ligantur, sed tantum intromittuntur; that is, caligae are denominated from the ligatures wherewith they are bound; whereas socci, which may be analogous to our mules, whilk the english denominate slippers, are only slipped upon the feet, the words of the charter are also alternative,--exuere, seu detrahere; that is, to undo, as in the case of sandals or brogues; and to pull of, as we say vernacularly, concerning boots. yet i would we had more light; but i fear there is little chance of finding hereabout any erudite author de re vestiaria.' 'i should doubt it very much,' said the chieftain, looking around on the straggling highlanders, who were returning loaded with spoils of the slain, 'though the res vestiaria itself seems to be in some request at present.' this remark coming within the baron's idea of jocularity, he honoured it with a smile, but immediately resumed what to him appeared very serious business. 'bailie macwheeble indeed holds an opinion, that this honorary service is due, from its very nature, si petatur tantum; only if his royal highness shall require of the great tenant of the crown to perform that personal duty; and indeed he pointed out the case in dirleton's doubts and queries, grippit versus spicer, anent the eviction of an estate ob non solutum canonem, that is, for non-payment of a feu-duty of three peppercorns a year, whilk were taxt to be worth seven-eighths of a penny scots, in whilk the defender was assoilzied. but i deem it safest, wi' your good favour, to place myself in the way of rendering the prince this service, and to proffer performance thereof; and i shall cause the bailie to attend with a schedule of a protest, whilk he has here prepared (taking out a paper), intimating, that if it shall be his royal highness's pleasure to accept of other assistance at pulling off his caligae (whether the same shall be rendered boots or brogues) save that of the said baron of bradwardine, who is in presence ready and willing to perform the same, it shall in no wise impinge upon or prejudice the right of the said cosmo comyne bradwardine to perform the said service in future; nor shall it give any esquire, valet of the chamber, squire, or page, whose assistance it may please his royal highness to employ, any right, title, or ground, for evicting from the said cosmo comyne bradwardine the estate and barony of bradwardine, and others held as aforesaid, by the due and faithful performance thereof.' fergus highly applauded this arrangement; and the baron took a friendly leave of them, with a smile of contented importance upon his visage. 'long live our dear friend the baron,' exclaimed the chief, as soon as he was out of hearing, 'for the most absurd original that exists north of the tweed! i wish to heaven i had recommended him to attend the circle this evening with a boot-ketch under his arm. i think he might have adopted the suggestion, if it had been made with suitable gravity.' 'and how can you take pleasure in making a man of his worth so ridiculous?' 'begging pardon, my dear waverley, you are as ridiculous as he. why, do you not see that the man's whole mind is wrapped up in this ceremony? he has heard and thought of it since infancy, as the most august privilege and ceremony in the world; and i doubt not but the expected pleasure of performing it was a principal motive with him for taking up arms. depend upon it, had i endeavoured to divert him from exposing himself, he would have treated me as an ignorant conceited coxcomb, or perhaps might have taken a fancy to cut my throat; a pleasure which he once proposed to himself upon some point of etiquette, not half so important, in his eyes, as this matter of boots or brogues, or whatever the caligae shall finally be pronounced by the learned. but i must go to head-quarters to prepare the prince for this extraordinary scene. my information will be well taken, for it will give him a hearty laugh at present, and put him on his guard against laughing, when it might be very mal-a-propos. so, au revoir, my dear waverley.' chapter xlix the english prisoner the first occupation of waverley, after he departed from the chieftain, was to go in quest of the officer whose life he had saved. he was guarded, along with his companions in misfortune, who were very numerous, in a gentleman's house near the field of battle. on entering the room where they stood crowded together, waverley easily recognized the object of his visit, not only by the peculiar dignity of his appearance, but by the appendage of dugald mahony, with his battle-axe, who had stuck to him from the moment of his captivity, as if he had been skewered to his side. this close attendance was, perhaps, for the purpose of securing his promised reward from edward, but it also operated to save the english gentleman from being plundered in the scene of general confusion; for dugald sagaciously argued, that the amount of the salvage which he might be allowed, would be regulated by the state of the prisoner, when he should deliver him over to waverley, he hastened to assure waverley, therefore, with more words than he usually employed, that he had 'keepit ta sidier roy haill, and that he wasna a plack the waur since the fery moment when his honour forbad her to gie him a bit clamhewit wi' her lochaber-axe.' waverley assured dugald of a liberal recompense, and, approaching the english officer, expressed his anxiety to do anything which might contribute to his convenience under his present unpleasant circumstances. 'i am not so inexperienced a soldier, sir,' answered the englishman, 'as to complain of the fortune of war. i am only grieved to see those scenes acted in our own island, which i have often witnessed elsewhere with comparative indifference.' 'another such day as this,' said waverley, 'and i trust the cause of your regrets will be removed, and all will again return to peace and order.' the officer smiled and shook his head. 'i must not forget my situation so far as to attempt a formal confutation of that opinion; but, notwithstanding your success, and the valour which achieved it, you have undertaken a task to which your strength appears wholly inadequate.' at this moment fergus pushed into the press. 'come, edward, come along; the prince has gone to pinkie-house for the night; and we must follow, or lose the whole ceremony of the caligae. your friend, the baron, has been guilty of a great piece of cruelty; he has insisted upon dragging bailie macwheeble out to the field of battle. now you must know the bailie's greatest horror is an armed highlander, or a loaded gun; and there he stands, listening to the baron's instructions concerning the protest; ducking his head like a sea-gull at the report of every gun and pistol that our idle boys are firing upon the fields; and undergoing, by way of penance, at every symptom of flinching, a severe rebuke from his patron, who would not admit the discharge of a whole battery of cannon, within point-blank distance, as an apology for neglecting a discourse, in which the honour of his family is interested. 'but how has mr. bradwardine got him to venture so far?' said edward. 'why, he had come as far as musselburgh, i fancy, in hopes of making some of our wills; and the peremptory commands of the baron dragged him forward to preston after the battle was over. he complains of one or two of our ragamuffins having put him in peril of his life, by presenting their pieces at him; but as they limited his ransom to an english penny, i don't think we need trouble the provost-marshal upon that subject. so, come along, waverley.' 'waverley!' said the english officer, with great emotion; 'the nephew of sir everard waverley, of --shire?' 'the same, sir,' replied our hero, somewhat surprised at the tone in which he was addressed. 'i am at once happy and grieved,' said the prisoner, 'to have met with you.' 'i am ignorant, sir,' answered waverley, 'how i have deserved so much interest.' 'did your uncle never mention a friend called talbot?' 'i have heard him talk with great regard of such a person,' replied edward; 'a colonel, i believe, in the army, and the husband of lady emily blandeville; but i thought colonel talbot had been abroad.' 'i am just returned,' answered the officer; 'and being in scotland, thought it my duty to act where my services promised to be useful. yes, mr. waverley, i am that colonel talbot, the husband of the lady you have named; and i am proud to acknowledge, that i owe alike my professional rank and my domestic happiness to your generous and noble-minded relative. good god! that i should find his nephew in such a dress, and engaged in such a cause!' 'sir,' said fergus, haughtily, 'the dress and cause are those of men of birth and honour.' 'my situation forbids me to dispute your assertion,' said colonel talbot; 'otherwise it were no difficult matter to show, that neither courage nor pride of lineage can gild a bad cause. but, with mr. waverley's permission, and yours, sir, if yours also must be asked, i would willingly speak a few words with him on affairs connected with his own family.' 'mr. waverley, sir, regulates his own motions. you will follow me, i suppose, to pinkie,' said fergus, turning to edward, 'when you have finished your discourse with this new acquaintance?' so saying, the chief of glennaquoich adjusted his plaid with rather more than his usual air of haughty assumption, and left the apartment. the interest of waverley readily procured for colonel talbot the freedom of adjourning to a large garden belonging to his place of confinement. they walked a few paces in silence, colonel talbot apparently studying how to open what he had to say; at length he addressed edward. 'mr. waverley, you have this day saved my life; and yet i would to god that i had lost it, ere i had found you wearing the uniform and cockade of these men.' 'i forgive your reproach, colonel talbot; it is well meant, and your education and prejudices render it natural. but there is nothing extraordinary in finding a man, whose honour has been publicly and unjustly assailed, in the situation which promised most fair to afford him satisfaction on his calumniators.' 'i should rather say, in the situation most likely to confirm the reports which they have circulated,' said colonel talbot, 'by following the very line of conduct ascribed to you. are you aware, mr. waverley, of the infinite distress, and even danger, which your present conduct has occasioned to your nearest relatives?' 'danger!' 'yes, sir, danger. when i left england, your uncle and father had been obliged to find bail to answer a charge of treason, to which they were only admitted by the exertion of the most powerful interest. i came down to scotland, with the sole purpose of rescuing you from the gulf into which you have precipitated yourself; nor can i estimate the consequences to your family, of your having openly joined the rebellion, since the very suspicion of your intention was so perilous to them. most deeply do i regret that i did not meet you before this last and fatal error.' 'i am really ignorant,' said waverley, in a tone of reserve, 'why colonel talbot should have taken so much trouble on my account.' 'mr. waverley,' answered talbot, 'i am dull at apprehending irony; and therefore i shall answer your words according to their plain meaning. i am indebted to your uncle for benefits greater than those which a son owes to a father. i acknowledge to him the duty of a son; and as i know there is no manner in which i can requite his kindness so well as by serving you, i will serve you, if possible, whether you will permit me or no. the personal obligation which you have this day laid me under (although in common estimation as great as one human being can bestow on another) adds nothing to my zeal on your behalf; nor can that zeal be abated by any coolness with which you may please to receive it.' 'your intentions may be kind, sir,' said waverley, drily; 'but your language is harsh, or at least peremptory.' 'on my return to england,' continued colonel talbot, 'after long absence, i found your uncle, sir everard waverley, in the custody of a king's messenger, in consequence of the suspicion brought upon him by your conduct. he is my oldest friend--how often shall i repeat it?--my best benefactor; he sacrificed his own views of happiness to mine--he never uttered a word, he never harboured a thought, that benevolence itself might not have thought or spoken. i found this man in confinement, rendered harsher to him by his habits of life, his natural dignity of feeling, and--forgive me, mr. waverley--by the cause through which this calamity had come upon him. i cannot disguise from you my feelings upon this occasion; they were most painfully unfavourable to you. having, by my family interest, which you probably know is not inconsiderable, succeeded in obtaining sir everard's release, i set out for scotland. i saw colonel gardiner, a man whose fate alone is sufficient to render this insurrection for ever execrable. in the course of conversation with him, i found, that, from late circumstances, from a re-examination of the persons engaged in the mutiny, and from his original good opinion of your character, he was much softened towards you; and i doubted not, that if i could be so fortunate as to discover you, all might yet be well. but this unnatural rebellion has ruined all. i have, for the first time in a long and active military life, seen britons disgrace themselves by a panic flight, and that before a foe without either arms or discipline: and now i find the heir of my dearest friend--the son, i may say, of his affections--sharing a triumph, for which he ought the first to have blushed. why should i lament gardiner? his lot was happy, compared to mine!' there was so much dignity in colonel talbot's manner, such a mixture of military pride and manly sorrow, and the news of sir everard's imprisonment was told in so deep a tone of feeling, that edward stood mortified, abashed, and distressed in presence of the prisoner, who owed to him his life not many hours before. he was not sorry when fergus interrupted their conference a second time. 'his royal highness commands mr. waverley's attendance.' colonel talbot threw upon edward a reproachful glance, which did not escape the quick eye of the highland chief. 'his immediate attendance,' he repeated, with considerable emphasis. waverley turned again towards the colonel. 'we shall meet again,' he said; 'in the meanwhile, every possible accommodation'-- 'i desire none,' said the colonel; 'let me fare like the meanest of those brave men, who, on this day of calamity, have preferred wounds and captivity to flight; i would, almost exchange places with one of those who have fallen, to know that my words have made a suitable impression on your mind.' 'let colonel talbot be carefully secured,' said fergus to the highland officer, who commanded the guard over the prisoners; 'it is the prince's particular command; he is a prisoner of the utmost importance.' 'but let him want no accommodation suitable to his rank,' said waverley. 'consistent always with secure custody,' reiterated fergus. the officer signified his acquiescence in both commands, and edward followed fergus to the garden-gate, where callum beg, with three saddle-horses, awaited them. turning his head, he saw colonel talbot reconducted to his place of confinement by a file of highlanders; he lingered on the threshold of the door, and made a signal with his hand towards waverley, as if enforcing the language he had held towards him. 'horses,' said fergus, as he mounted, 'are now as plenty as blackberries; every man may have them for the catching. come, let callum adjust your stirrups, and let us to pinkie-house [charles edward took up his quarters after the battle at pinkie-house, adjoining to musselburgh.] as fast as these ci-devant dragoon-horses choose to carry us.' chapter l rather unimportant 'i was turned back,' said fergus to edward, as they galloped from preston to pinkie-house, 'by a message from the prince. but, i suppose, you know the value of this most noble colonel talbot as a prisoner. he is held one of the best officers among the red-coats; a special friend and favourite of the elector himself, and of that dreadful hero, the duke of cumberland, who has been summoned from his triumphs at fontenoy, to come over and devour us poor highlanders alive. has he been telling you how the bells of st. james's ring? not "turn again, whittington," like those of bow, in the days of yore?' 'fergus!' said waverley, with a reproachful look. 'nay, i cannot tell what to make of you,' answered the chief of mac-ivor, 'you are blown about with every wind of doctrine. here have we gained a victory, unparalleled in history--and your behaviour is praised by every living mortal to the skies--and the prince is eager to thank you in person--and all our beauties of the white rose are pulling caps for you,--and you, the preux chevalier of the day, are stooping on your horse's neck like a butter-woman riding to market, and looking as black as a funeral!' 'i am sorry for poor colonel gardiner's death: he was once very kind to me.' 'why, then, be sorry for five minutes, and then be glad again; his chance to-day may be ours to-morrow. and what does it signify?--the next best thing to victory is honourable death; but it is a pis-aller, and one would rather a foe had it than one's self.' 'but colonel talbot has informed me that my father and uncle are both imprisoned by government on my account.' 'we'll put in bail, my boy; old andrew ferrara [see note .] shall lodge his security; and i should like to see him put to justify it in westminster hall!' 'nay, they are already at liberty, upon bail of a more civic disposition.' 'then why is thy noble spirit cast down, edward? dost think that the elector's ministers are such doves as to set their enemies at liberty at this critical moment, if they could or durst confine and punish them? assure thyself that either they have no charge against your relations on which they can continue their imprisonment, or else they are afraid of our friends, the jolly cavaliers of old england. at any rate, you need not be apprehensive upon their account; and we will find some means of conveying to them assurances of your safety.' edward was silenced, but not satisfied, with these reasons. he had now been more than once shocked at the small degree of sympathy which fergus exhibited for the feelings even of those whom he loved, if they did not correspond with his own mood at the time, and more especially if they thwarted him while earnest in a favourite pursuit. fergus sometimes indeed observed that he had offended waverley, but, always intent upon some favourite plan or project of his own, he was never sufficiently aware of the extent or duration of his displeasure, so that the reiteration of these petty offences somewhat cooled the volunteer's extreme attachment to his officer. the chevalier received waverley with his usual favour, and paid him many compliments on his distinguished bravery. he then took him apart, made many inquiries concerning colonel talbot, and when he had received all the information which edward was able to give concerning him and his connexions, he proceeded,--'i cannot but think, mr. waverley, that since this gentleman is so particularly connected with our worthy and excellent friend, sir everard waverley, and since his lady is of the house of blandeville, whose devotion to the true and loyal principles of the church of england is so generally known, the colonel's own private sentiments cannot be unfavourable to us, whatever mask he may have assumed to accommodate himself to the times.' 'if i am to judge from the language he this day held to me, i am under the necessity of differing widely from your royal highness.' 'well, it is worth making a trial at least. i therefore entrust you with the charge of colonel talbot, with power to act concerning him as you think most advisable;--and i hope you will find means of ascertaining what are his real dispositions towards our royal father's restoration.' 'i am convinced,' said waverley, bowing, 'that if colonel talbot chooses to grant his parole, it may be securely depended upon; but if he refuses it, i trust your royal highness will devolve on some other person than the nephew of his friend, the task of laying him under the necessary restraint.' 'i will trust him with no person but you,' said the prince, smiling, but peremptorily repeating his mandate: 'it is of importance to my service that there should appear to be a good intelligence between you, even if you are unable to gain his confidence in earnest. you will therefore receive him into your quarters, and in case he declines giving his parole, you must apply for a proper guard. i beg you will go about this directly. we return to edinburgh to-morrow.' being thus remanded to the vicinity of preston, waverley lost the baron of bradwardine's solemn act of homage. so little, however, was he at this time in love with vanity, that he had quite forgotten the ceremony in which fergus had laboured to engage his curiosity. but next day a formal gazette was circulated, containing a detailed account of the battle of gladsmuir, as the highlanders chose to denominate their victory. it concluded with an account of the court afterwards held by the chevalier at pinkie-house, which contained this among other high-flown descriptive paragraphs: 'since that fatal treaty which annihilates scotland as an independent nation, it has not been our happiness to see her princes receive, and her nobles discharge, those acts of feudal homage, which, founded upon the splendid actions of scottish valour, recall the memory of her early history, with the manly and chivalrous simplicity of the ties which united to the crown the homage of the warriors by whom it was repeatedly upheld and defended. but on the evening of the th, our memories were refreshed with one of those ceremonies which belong to the ancient days of scotland's glory. after the circle was formed, cosmo comyne bradwardine, of that ilk, colonel in the service, &c. &c. &c., came before the prince, attended by mr. d. macwheeble, the bailie of his ancient barony of bradwardine (who, we understand, has been-lately named a commissary), and, under form of instrument, claimed permission to perform, to the person of his royal highness, as representing his father, the service used and wont, for which, under a charter of robert bruce (of which the original was produced and inspected by the masters of his royal highness's chancery, for the time being), the claimant held the barony of bradwardine, and lands of tully-veolan. his claim being admitted and registered, his royal highness having placed his foot upon a cushion, the baron of bradwardine, kneeling upon his right knee, proceeded to undo the latchet of the brogue, or low-heeled highland shoe, which our gallant young hero wears in compliment to his brave followers. when this was performed, his royal highness declared the ceremony completed; and embracing the gallant veteran, protested that nothing but compliance with an ordinance of robert bruce could have induced him to receive even the symbolical performance of a menial office from hands which had fought so bravely to put the crown upon the head of his father. the baron of bradwardine then took instruments in the hands of mr. commissary macwheeble, bearing, that all points and circumstances of the act of homage had been rite et solenniter acta et peracta; and a corresponding entry was made in the protocol of the lord high chamberlain, and in the record of chancery. we understand that it is in contemplation of his royal highness, when his majesty's pleasure can be known, to raise colonel bradwardine to the peerage, by the title of viscount bradwardine, of bradwardine and tully-veolan, and that, in the meanwhile, his royal highness, in his father's name and authority, has been pleased to grant him an honourable augmentation to his paternal coat of arms, being a budget or boot-jack, disposed saltier-wise with a naked broadsword, to be borne in the dexter cantle of the shield; and, as an additional motto, on a scroll beneath, the words, "draw and draw off".' 'were it not for the recollection of fergus's raillery,' thought waverley to himself, when he had perused this long and grave document, 'how very tolerable would all this sound, and how little should i have thought of connecting it with any ludicrous idea! well, after all, everything has its fair, as well as its seamy side; and truly i do not see why the baron's boot-jack may not stand as fair in heraldry as the water-buckets, waggons, cart-wheels, plough-socks, shuttles, candlesticks, and other ordinaries, conveying ideas of anything save chivalry, which appear in the arms of some of our most ancient gentry.'--this, however, is an episode in respect to the principal story. when waverley returned to preston, and rejoined colonel talbot, he found him recovered from the strong and obvious emotions with which a concurrence of unpleasing events had affected him. he had regained his natural manner, which was that of an english gentleman and soldier, manly, open, and generous, but not unsusceptible of prejudice against those of a different country, or who opposed him in political tenets. when waverley acquainted colonel talbot with the chevalier's purpose to commit him to his charge, 'i did not think to have owed so much obligation to that young gentleman,' he said, 'as is implied in this destination. i can at least cheerfully join in the prayer of the honest presbyterian clergyman, that, as he has come among us seeking an earthly crown, his labours may be speedily rewarded with a heavenly one. [the clergyman's name was mac-vicar. protected by the cannon of the castle, he preached every sunday in the west kirk, while the highlanders were in possession of edinburgh; and it was in presence of some of the jacobites that he prayed for prince charles edward in the terms quoted in the text.] i shall willingly give my parole not to attempt an escape without your knowledge, since, in fact, it was to meet you that i came to scotland; and i am glad it has happened even under this predicament. but i suppose we shall be 'but a short time together. your chevalier (that is a name we may both give to him), with his plaids and blue-caps, will, i presume, be continuing his crusade southward?' 'not as i hear; i believe the army makes some stay, in edinburgh, to collect reinforcements.' 'and to besiege the castle?' said talbot, smiling sarcastically. 'well, unless my old commander, general preston, turn false metal, or the castle sink into the north loch, events which i deem equally probable, i think we shall have some time to make up our acquaintance. i have a guess that this gallant chevalier has a design that i should be your proselyte; and, as i wish you to be mine, there cannot be a more fair proposal than to afford us fair conference together. but as i spoke to-day under the influence of feelings i rarely give way to, i hope you will excuse my entering again upon controversy till we are somewhat better acquainted.' chapter li intrigues of love and politics it is not necessary to record in these pages the triumphant entrance of the chevalier into edinburgh after the decisive affair of preston. one circumstance, however, may be noticed, because it illustrates the high spirit of flora mac-ivor. the highlanders, by whom the prince was surrounded, in the licence and extravagance of this joyful moment, fired their pieces repeatedly, and one of these having been accidentally loaded with ball, the bullet grazed the young lady's temple as she waved her handkerchief from a balcony. [see note .] fergus, who beheld the accident, was at her side in an instant; and, on seeing that the wound was trifling, he drew his broadsword, with the purpose of rushing down upon the man by whose carelessness she had incurred so much danger, when, holding him by the plaid, 'do not harm the poor fellow,' she cried; 'for heaven's sake, do not harm him! but thank god with me that the accident happened to flora mac-ivor; for had it befallen a whig, they would have pretended that the shot was fired on purpose.' waverley escaped the alarm which this accident would have occasioned to him, as he was unavoidably delayed by the necessity of accompanying colonel talbot to edinburgh. they performed the journey together on horseback, and for some time, as if to sound each other's feelings and sentiments, they conversed upon general and ordinary topics. when waverley again entered upon the subject which he had most at heart, the situation, namely, of his father and his uncle, colonel talbot seemed now rather desirous to alleviate than to aggravate his anxiety. this appeared particularly to be the case when he heard waverley's history, which he did not scruple to confide to him. 'and so,' said the colonel, 'there has been no malice prepense, as lawyers, i think, term it, in this rash step of yours; and you have been trepanned into the service of this italian knight-errant by a few civil speeches from him, and one or two of his highland recruiting sergeants? it is sadly foolish, to be sure, but not nearly so bad as i was led to expect. however, you cannot desert, even from the pretender, at the present moment,--that seems impossible. but i have little doubt that, in the dissensions incident to this heterogeneous mass of wild and desperate men, some opportunity may arise, by availing yourself of which, you may extricate yourself honourably from your rash engagement before the bubble burst. if this can be managed, i would have you go to a place of safety in flanders, which i shall point out. and i think i can secure your pardon from government after a few months' residence abroad.' 'i cannot; permit you, colonel talbot,' answered waverley, 'to speak of any plan which turns on my deserting an enterprise in which i may have engaged hastily, but certainly voluntarily, and with the purpose of abiding the issue.' 'well,' said colonel talbot, smiling, 'leave me my thoughts and hopes at least at liberty, if not my speech. but have you never examined your mysterious packet?' 'it is in my baggage,' replied edward; 'we shall find it in edinburgh.' in edinburgh they soon arrived. waverley's quarters had been assigned to him, by the prince's express orders, in a handsome lodging, where there was accommodation, for colonel talbot. his first business was to examine his portmanteau, and, after a very short search, out tumbled the expected packet. waverley opened it eagerly. under a blank cover, simply addressed to e. waverley, esq., he found a number of open letters. the uppermost were two from colonel gardiner, addressed to himself. the earliest in date was a kind and gentle remonstrance for neglect of the writer's advice respecting the disposal of his time during his leave of absence, the renewal of which, he reminded captain waverley, would speedily expire. 'indeed,' the letter proceeded, 'had it been otherwise, the news from abroad, and my instructions from the war-office, must have compelled me to recall it, as there is great danger, since the disaster in flanders, both of foreign invasion and insurrection among the disaffected at home. i therefore entreat you will repair, as soon as possible, to the head-quarters of the regiment; and i am concerned to add, that this is still the more necessary, as there is some discontent in your troop, and i postpone inquiry into particulars until i can have the advantage of your assistance.' the second letter, dated eight days later, was in such a style as might have been expected from the colonel's receiving no answer to the first. it reminded waverley of his duty as a man of honour, an officer, and a briton; took notice of the increasing dissatisfaction of his men, and that some of them had been heard to hint that their captain encouraged and approved of their mutinous behaviour; and, finally, the writer expressed the utmost regret and surprise that he had not obeyed his commands by repairing to head-quarters, reminded him that his leave of absence had been recalled, and conjured him, in a style in which paternal remonstrance was mingled with military authority, to redeem his error by immediately joining his regiment. 'that i may be certain,' concluded the letter, 'that this actually reaches you, i dispatch it by corporal timms, of your troop, with orders to deliver it into your own hand.' upon reading these letters, waverley, with great bitterness of feeling, was compelled to make the amende honorable to the memory of the brave and excellent writer; for surely, as colonel gardiner must have had every reason to conclude they had come safely to hand, less could not follow, on their being neglected, than that third and final summons, which waverley actually received at glennaquoich, though too late to obey it. and his being superseded, in consequence of his apparent neglect of this last command, was so far from being a harsh or severe proceeding, that it was plainly inevitable. the next letter he unfolded was from the major of the regiment, acquainting him that a report, to the disadvantage of his reputation, was public in the country, stating, that one mr. falconer of ballihopple, or some such name, had proposed, in his presence, a treasonable toast, which he permitted to pass in silence, although it was so gross an affront to the royal family, that a gentleman in company, not remarkable for his zeal for government, had nevertheless taken the matter up; and that, supposing the account true, captain waverley had thus suffered another, comparatively unconcerned, to resent an affront directed against him personally as an officer, and to go out with the person by whom it was offered. the major concluded, that no one of captain waverley's brother officers could believe this scandalous story, but it was necessarily their joint opinion that his own honour, equally with that of the regiment, depended upon its being instantly contradicted by his authority, &c. &c. &c. 'what do you think of all this?' said colonel talbot, to whom waverley handed the letters after he had perused them. 'think! it renders thought impossible. it is enough to drive me mad.' 'be calm, my young friend; let us see what are these dirty scrawls that follow.' the first was addressed, 'for master w. ruffin these,'--'dear sur, sum of our yong gulpins will not bite, thof i tuold them you shoed me the squoire's own seel. but timms will deliver you the lettrs as desired, and tell ould addem he gave them to squoir's hond, as to be sure yours is the same, and shall be ready for signal, and hoy for hoy church and sachefrel, as fadur sings at harvest-whome. yours, deer sur, h.h. 'poscriff. do' e tell squoire we longs to heer from him, and has dootings about his not writing himself, and lieftenant bottler is smoky.' 'this ruffin, i suppose, then, is your donald of the cavern, who has intercepted your letters, and carried on a correspondence with the poor devil houghton, as if under your authority? 'it seems too true. but who can addem be?' 'possibly adam, for poor gardiner, a sort of pun on his name.' the other letters were to the same purpose, and they soon received yet more complete light upon donald bean's machinations. john hedges, one of waverley's servants, who had remained with the regiment, and had been taken at preston, now made his appearance. he had sought out his master, with the purpose of again entering his service. from this fellow they learned, that, some time after waverley had gone from the head-quarters of the regiment, a pedlar, called ruthven, ruffin, or rivane, known among the soldiers by the name of wily will, had made frequent visits to the town of dundee. he appeared to possess plenty of money, sold his commodities very cheap, seemed always willing to treat his friends at the ale-house, and easily ingratiated himself with many of waverley's troop, particularly sergeant houghton, and one timms, also a non-commissioned officer. to these he unfolded, in waverley's name, a plan for leaving the regiment, and joining him in the highlands, where report said the clans had already taken arms in great numbers. the men, who had been educated as jacobites, so far as they had any opinion at all, and who knew their landlord, sir everard, had always been supposed to hold such tenets, easily fell into the snare. that waverley was at a distance in the highlands, was received as a sufficient excuse for transmitting his letters through the medium of the pedlar; and the sight of his well-known seal seemed to authenticate the negotiations in his name, where writing might have been dangerous. the cabal, however, began to take air, from the premature mutinous language of those concerned. wily will justified his appellative; for, after suspicion arose, he was seen no more. when the gazette appeared, in which waverley was superseded, great part of his troop broke out into actual mutiny, but were surrounded and disarmed by the rest of the regiment. in consequence of the sentence of a court-martial, houghton and timms were condemned to be shot, but afterwards permitted to cast lots for life. houghton, the survivor, showed much penitence, being convinced from the rebukes and explanations of colonel gardiner, that he had really engaged in a very heinous crime. it is remarkable, that, as soon as the poor fellow was satisfied of this, he became also convinced that the instigator had acted without authority from edward, saying, 'if it was dishonourable and against old england, the squire could know naught about it; he never did, or thought to do, anything dishonourable,--no more didn't sir everard, nor none of them afore him, and in that belief he would live and die that ruffin had done it all of his own head.' the strength of conviction with which he expressed himself upon this subject, as well as his assurances that the letters intended for waverley had been delivered to ruthven, made that revolution in colonel gardiner's opinion which he expressed to talbot. the reader has long since understood that donald bean lean played the part of tempter on this occasion. his motives were shortly these. of an active and intriguing spirit, he had been long employed as a subaltern agent and spy by those in the confidence of the chevalier, to an extent beyond what was suspected even by fergus mac-ivor, whom, though obliged to him for protection, he regarded with fear and dislike. to success in this political department, he naturally looked for raising himself by some bold stroke above his present hazardous and precarious state of rapine. he was particularly employed in learning the strength of the regiments in scotland, the character of the officers, &c., and had long had his eye upon waverley's troop, as open to temptation. donald even believed that waverley himself was at bottom in the stuart interest, which seemed confirmed by his long visit to the jacobite baron of bradwardine. when, therefore, he came to his cave with one of glennaquoich's attendants, the robber, who could never appreciate his real motive, which was mere curiosity, was so sanguine as to hope that his own talents were to be employed in some intrigue of consequence, under the auspices of this wealthy young englishman. nor was he undeceived by waverley's neglecting all hints and openings for an explanation. his conduct passed for prudent reserve, and somewhat piqued donald bean, who, supposing himself left out of a secret where confidence promised to be advantageous, determined to have his share in the drama, whether a regular part were assigned him or not. for this purpose, during waverley's sleep, he possessed, himself of his seal, as a token to be used to any of the troopers whom he might discover to be possessed of the captain's confidence. his first journey to dundee, the town where the regiment was quartered, undeceived him in his original supposition, but opened to him a new field of action. he knew there would be no service so well rewarded by the friends of the chevalier, as seducing a part of the regular army to his standard. for this purpose, he opened the machinations with which the reader is already acquainted, and which form a clue to all the intricacies and obscurities of the narrative previous to waverley's leaving glennaquoich. by colonel talbot's advice, waverley declined detaining in his service the lad whose evidence had thrown additional light on these intrigues. he represented to him that it would be doing the man an injury to engage him in a desperate undertaking, and that, whatever should happen, his evidence would go some length, at least, in explaining the circumstances under which waverley himself had embarked in it. waverley therefore wrote a short statement of what had happened, to his uncle and his father, cautioning them, however, in the present circumstances, not to attempt to answer his letter. talbot then gave the young man a letter to the commander of one of the english vessels of war cruising in the frith, requesting him to put the bearer ashore at berwick, with a pass to proceed to --shire. he was then furnished with money to make an expeditious journey and directed to get on board the ship by means of bribing a fishing-boat, which, as they afterwards learned, he easily effected. tired of the attendance of callum beg, who, he thought, had some disposition to act as a spy on his motions, waverley hired as a servant a simple edinburgh swain, who had mounted the white cockade in a fit of spleen and jealousy, because jenny jop had danced a whole night with corporal bullock of the fusileers. chapter lii intrigues of society and love colonel talbot became more kindly in his demeanour towards waverley after the confidence he had reposed in him; and as they were necessarily much together, the character of the colonel rose in waverley's estimation. there seemed at first something harsh in his strong expressions of dislike and censure, although no one was in the general case more open to conviction. the habit of authority had also given his manners some peremptory hardness, notwithstanding the polish which they had received from his intimate acquaintance with the higher circles. as a specimen of the military character, he differed from all whom waverley had as yet seen. the soldiership of the baron of bradwardine was marked by pedantry; that of major melville by a sort of martinet attention to the minutiae and technicalities of discipline, rather suitable to one who was to manoeuvre a battalion, than to him who was to command an army; the military spirit of fergus was so much warped and blended with his plans and political views, that it was less that of a soldier than of a petty sovereign. but colonel talbot was in every point the english soldier. his whole soul was devoted to the service of his king and country, without feeling any pride in knowing the theory of his art with the baron, or its practical minutiae with the major, or in applying his science to his own particular plans of ambition, like the chieftain of glennaquoich. added to this, he was a man of extended knowledge and cultivated taste, although strongly tinged, as we have already observed, with those prejudices which are peculiarly english. the character of colonel talbot dawned upon edward by degrees; for the delay of the highlanders in the fruitless siege of edinburgh castle occupied several weeks, during which waverley had little to do, excepting to seek such amusement as society afforded. he would willingly have persuaded his new friend to become acquainted with some of his former intimates. but the colonel, after one or two visits, shook his head, and declined further experiment. indeed he went further, and characterized the baron as the most intolerable formal pedant he had ever had the misfortune to meet with, and the chief of glennaquoich as a frenchified scotchman, possessing all the cunning and plausibility of the nation where he was educated, with the proud, vindictive, and turbulent humour of that of his birth. 'if the devil,' he said, 'had sought out an agent expressly for the purpose of embroiling this miserable country, i do not think he could find a better than such a fellow as this, whose temper seems equally active, supple, and mischievous, and who is followed, and implicitly obeyed, by a gang of such cut-throats as those whom you are pleased to admire so much.' the ladies of the party did not escape his censure. he allowed that flora mac-ivor was a fine woman, and rose bradwardine a pretty girl. but he alleged that the former destroyed the effect of her beauty by an affectation of the grand airs which she had probably seen practised at the mock court of st. germains. as for rose bradwardine, he said it was impossible for any mortal to admire such a little uninformed thing, whose small portion of education was as ill adapted to her sex or youth, as if she had appeared with one of her father's old campaign-coats upon her person for her sole garment. now much of this was mere spleen and prejudice in the excellent colonel, with whom the white cockade on the breast, the white rose in the hair, and the mac at the beginning of a name, would have made a devil out of an angel; and indeed he himself jocularly allowed, that he could not have endured venus herself, if she had been announced in a drawing-room by the name of miss mac-jupiter. waverley, it may easily be believed, looked upon these young ladies with very different eyes. during the period of the siege, he paid them almost daily visits, although he observed with regret that his suit made as little progress in the affections of the former as the arms of the chevalier in subduing the fortress. she maintained with rigour the rule she had laid down of treating him with indifference, without either affecting to avoid him, or to shun intercourse with him. every word, every look, was strictly regulated to accord with her system, and neither the dejection of waverley, nor the anger which fergus scarcely suppressed, could extend flora's attention to edward beyond that which the most ordinary politeness demanded. on the other hand, rose bradwardine gradually rose in waverley's opinion. he had several opportunities of remarking, that, as her extreme timidity wore off, her manners received a higher character; that the agitating circumstances of the stormy time seemed to call forth a certain dignity of feeling and expression, which he had not formerly observed; and that she omitted no opportunity within her reach to extend her knowledge and refine her taste. flora mac-ivor called rose her pupil, and was attentive to assist her in her studies, and to fashion both her taste and understanding. it might have been remarked by a very close observer, that in the presence of waverley she was much more desirous to exhibit her friend's excellences than her own. but i must request of the reader to suppose, that this kind and disinterested purpose was concealed by the most cautious delicacy, studiously shunning the most distant approach to affectation. so that it was as unlike the usual exhibition of one pretty woman affecting to proner another, as the friendship of david and jonathan might be to the intimacy of two bond-street loungers. the fact is, that, though the effect was felt, the cause could hardly be observed. each of the ladies, like two excellent actresses, were perfect in their parts, and performed them to the delight of the audience; and such being the case, it was almost impossible to discover that the elder constantly ceded to her friend that which was most suitable to her talents. but to waverley, rose bradwardine possessed an attraction which few men can resist, from the marked interest which she took in everything that effected him. she was too young and too inexperienced to estimate the full force of the constant attention which she paid to him. her father was too abstractedly immersed in learned and military discussions to observe her partiality, and flora mac-ivor did not alarm her by remonstrance, because she saw in this line of conduct the most probable chance of her friend securing at length a return of affection. the truth is, that, in her first conversation after their meeting, rose had discovered the state of her mind to that acute and intelligent friend, although she was not herself aware of it. from that time, flora was not only determined upon the final rejection of waverley's addresses, but became anxious that they should, if possible, be transferred to her friend. nor was she less interested in this plan, though her brother had from time to time talked, as between jest and earnest, of paying his suit to miss bradwardine. she knew that fergus had the true continental latitude of opinion respecting the institution of marriage, and would not have given his hand to an angel, unless for the purpose of strengthening his alliances, and increasing his influence and wealth. the baron's whim of transferring his estate to the distant heir-male instead of his own daughter, was therefore likely to be an insurmountable obstacle to his entertaining any serious thoughts of rose bradwardine. indeed, fergus's brain was a perpetual workshop of scheme and intrigue of every possible kind and description; while, like many a mechanic of more ingenuity than steadiness, he would often unexpectedly and without any apparent motive, abandon one plan, and go earnestly to work upon another, which was either fresh from the forge of his imagination, or had at some former period been flung aside half finished. it was therefore often difficult to guess what line of conduct he might finally adopt upon any given occasion. although flora was sincerely attached to her brother, whose high energies might indeed have commanded her admiration even without the ties which bound them together, she was by no means blind to his faults, which she considered as dangerous to the hopes of any woman who should found her ideas of a happy marriage in the peaceful enjoyment of domestic society, and the exchange of mutual and engrossing affection. the real disposition of waverley, on the other hand, notwithstanding his dreams of tented fields and military honour, seemed exclusively domestic. he asked and received no share in the busy scenes which were constantly going on around him, and was rather annoyed than interested by the discussion of contending claims, rights, and interests, which often passed in his presence. all this pointed him out as the person formed to make happy a spirit like that of rose, which corresponded with his own. she remarked this point in waverley's character one day while she sat with miss bradwardine. 'his genius and elegant taste,' answered rose, 'cannot be interested in such trifling discussions. what is it to him, for example, whether the chief of the macindallaghers, who has brought out only fifty men, should be a colonel or a captain? and how could mr. waverley be supposed to interest himself in the violent altercation between your brother and young corrinaschian, whether the post of honour is due to the eldest cadet of a clan or the youngest?' 'my dear rose, if he were the hero you suppose him, he would interest himself in these matters, not indeed as important in themselves, but for the purpose of mediating between the ardent spirits who actually do make them the subject of discord. you saw when corrinaschian raised his voice in great passion, and laid his hand upon his sword, waverley lifted his head as if he had just awaked from a dream, and asked, with great composure, what the matter was.' 'well, and did not the laughter they fell into at his absence of mind, serve better to break off the dispute than anything he could have said to them?' 'true, my dear,' answered flora; 'but not quite so creditably for waverley as if he had brought them to their senses by force of reason.' 'would you have him peacemaker general between all the gunpowder highlanders in the army? i beg your pardon, flora--your brother, you know, is out of the question; he has more sense than half of them. but can you think the fierce, hot, furious spirits, of whose brawls we see much, and hear more, and who terrify me out of my life every day in the world, are at all to be compared to waverley?' 'i do not compare him with those uneducated men, my dear rose. i only lament, that, with his talents and genius, he does not assume that place in society for which they eminently fit him, and that he does not lend their full impulse to the noble cause in which he has enlisted. are there not lochiel, and p--, and m--, and g--, all men of the highest education, as well as the first talents?--why will he not stoop like them to be alive and useful?--i often believe his zeal is frozen by that proud cold-blooded englishman, whom he now lives with so much.' 'colonel talbot?--he is a very disagreeable person, to be sure. he looks as if he thought no scottish woman worth the trouble of handing her a cup of tea. but waverley is so gentle, so well informed'-- 'yes,' said flora, smiling; 'he can admire the moon, and quote a stanza from tasso.' 'besides, you know how he fought,' added miss bradwardine. 'for mere fighting,' answered flora, 'i believe all men (that is, who deserve the name) are pretty much alike; there is generally more courage required to run away. they have, besides, when confronted with each other, a certain instinct for strife, as we see in other male animals, such as dogs, bulls, and so forth. but high and perilous enterprise is not waverley's forte. he would never have been his celebrated ancestor sir nigel, but only sir nigel's eulogist and poet. i will tell you where he will be at home, my dear, and in his place,--in the quiet circle of domestic happiness, lettered indolence, and elegant enjoyments, of waverley-honour. and he will refit the old library in the most exquisite gothic taste, and garnish its shelves, with the rarest and most valuable volumes; and he will draw plans and landscapes, and write verses, and rear temples, and dig grottoes;--and he will stand in a clear summer night in the colonnade before the hall, and gaze on the deer as they stray in the moonlight, or lie shadowed by the boughs of the huge old fantastic oaks;--and he will repeat verses to his beautiful wife, who will hang upon his arm;--and he will be a happy man.' 'and she will be a happy woman,' thought poor rose. but she only sighed, and dropped the conversation. chapter liii fergus a suitor waverly had, indeed, as he looked closer into the state of the chevalier's court, less reason to be satisfied with it. it contained, as they say an acorn includes all the ramifications of the future oak, as many seeds of tracasserie and intrigue, as might have done honour to the court of a large empire. every person of consequence had some separate object, which he pursued with a fury that waverley considered as altogether disproportioned to its importance. almost all had their reasons for discontent, although the most legitimate was that of the worthy old baron, who was only distressed on account of the common cause. 'we shall hardly,' said he one morning to waverley, when they had been viewing the castle,--'we shall hardly gain the obsidional crown, which you wot well was made of the roots or grain which takes root within the place besieged, or it may be of the herb woodbind, paretaria, or pellitory; we shall not, i say, gain it by this same blockade or leaguer of edinburgh castle.' for this opinion, he gave most learned and satisfactory reasons, that the reader may not care to hear repeated. having escaped from the old gentleman, waverley went to fergus's lodgings by appointment, to await his return from holyrood house. 'i am to have a particular audience to-morrow,' said fergus to waverley, overnight, 'and you must meet me to wish me joy of the success which i securely anticipate.' the morrow came, and in the chief's apartment he found ensign maccombich waiting to make report of his turn of duty in a sort of ditch which they had dug across the castle-hill, and called a trench. in a short time the chief's voice was heard on the stair in a tone of impatient fury:--'callum,--why, callum beg,--diaoul!' he entered the room with all the marks of a man agitated by a towering passion; and there were few upon whose features rage produced a more violent effect. the veins of his forehead swelled when he was in such agitation; his nostril became dilated; his cheek and eye inflamed; and his look that of a demoniac. these appearances of half-suppressed rage were the more frightful, because they were obviously caused by a strong effort to temper with discretion an almost ungovernable paroxysm of passion, and resulted from an internal conflict of the most dreadful kind, which agitated his whole frame of mortality. as he entered the apartment, he unbuckled his broadsword, and throwing it down with such violence that the weapon rolled to the other end of the room, 'i know not what,' he exclaimed, 'withholds me from taking a solemn oath that i will never more draw it in his cause. load my pistols, callum, and bring them hither instantly;--instantly!' callum, whom nothing ever startled, dismayed, or disconcerted, obeyed very coolly. evan dhu, upon whose brow the suspicion that his chief had been insulted, called up a corresponding storm, swelled in sullen silence, awaiting to learn where or upon whom vengeance was to descend. 'so, waverley you are there,' said the chief, after a moment's recollection;--'yes, i remember i asked you to share my triumph, and you have come to witness my--disappointment we shall call it.' evan now presented the written report he had in his hand, which fergus threw from him with great passion. 'i wish to god,' he said, 'the old den would tumble down upon the heads of the fools who attack, and the knaves who defend it! i see, waverley, you think i am mad--leave us, evan, but be within call.' 'the colonel's in an unco kippage,' said mrs. flockhart to evan, as he descended; 'i wish he may be weel,--the very veins on his brent brow are swelled like whipcord: wad he no tak something?' 'he usually lets blood for these fits,' answered the highland ancient with great composure. when this officer left the room, the chieftain gradually reassumed some degree of composure.--'i know, waverley,' he said, 'that colonel talbot has persuaded you to curse ten times a day your engagement with us; nay, never deny it, for i am at this moment tempted to curse my own. would you believe it, i made this very morning two suits to the prince, and he has rejected them both: what do you think of it?' 'what can i think,' answered waverley, 'till i know what your requests were?' 'why, what signifies what they were, man? i tell you it was i that made them,--i, to whom he owes more than to any three who have joined the standard; for i negotiated the whole business, and brought in all the perthshire men when not one would have stirred. i am not likely, i think, to ask anything very unreasonable, and if i did they might have stretched a point.--well, but you shall know all, now that i can draw my breath again with some freedom.--you remember my earl's patent; it is dated some years back, for services then rendered; and certainly my merit has not been diminished, to say the least, by my subsequent behaviour. now, sir, i value this bauble of a coronet as little as you can, or any philosopher on earth; for i hold that the chief of such a clan as the sliochd nan ivor is superior in rank to any earl in scotland. but i had a particular reason for assuming this cursed title at this time. you must know, that i learned accidentally that the prince has been pressing that old foolish baron of bradwardine to disinherit his male heir, or nineteenth or twentieth cousin, who has taken a command in the elector of hanover's militia, and to settle his estate upon your pretty little friend rose; and this, as being the command of his king and overlord, who may alter the destination of a fief at pleasure, the old gentleman seems well reconciled to.' 'and what becomes of the homage?' 'curse the homage!--i believe rose is to pull off the queen's slipper on her coronation-day, or some such trash. well sir, as rose bradwardine would always have made a suitable match for me, but for this idiotical predilection of her father for the heir-male, it occurred to me there now remained no obstacle, unless that the baron might expect his daughter's husband to take the name of bradwardine (which you know would be impossible in my case), and that this might be evaded by my assuming the title to which i had so good a right, and which, of course, would supersede that difficulty. if she was to be also viscountess bradwardine in her own right, after her father's demise, so much the better; i could have no objection.' 'but, fergus,' said waverley, 'i had no idea that you had any affection for miss bradwardine, and you are always sneering at her father.' 'i have as much affection for miss bradwardine, my good friend, as i think it necessary to have for the future mistress of my family, and the mother of my children. she is a very pretty, intelligent girl, and is certainly of one of the very first lowland families; and, with a little of flora's instructions and forming, will make a very good figure. as to her father, he is an original, it is true, and an absurd one enough; but he has given such severe lessons to sir hew halbert, that dear defunct the laird of balmawhapple, and others, that nobody dare laugh at him, so his absurdity goes for nothing. i tell you there could have been no earthly objection--none. i had settled the thing entirely in my own mind.' 'but had you asked the baron's consent,' said waverley, 'or rose's?' 'to what purpose? to have spoke to the baron before i had assumed my title would have only provoked a premature and irritating discussion on the subject of the change of name, when, as earl of glennaquoich, i had only to propose to him to carry his d-d bear and bootjack party per pale, or in a scutcheon of pretence, or in a separate shield perhaps--any way that would not blemish my own coat of arms. and as to rose, i don't see what objection she could have made, if her father was satisfied.' 'perhaps the same that your sister makes to me, you being satisfied.' fergus gave a broad stare at the comparison which this supposition implied, but cautiously suppressed the answer which rose to his tongue. 'oh, we should easily have arranged all that.--so, sir, i craved a private interview, and this morning was assigned; and i asked you to meet me here, thinking, like a fool, that i should want your countenance as bride's-man. well--i state my pretensions--they are not denied; the promises so repeatedly made, and the patent granted--they are acknowledged. but i propose, as a natural consequence, to assume the rank which the patent bestowed--i have the old story of the jealousy of c--and m-- trumped up against me--i resist this pretext, and offer to procure their written acquiescence, in virtue of the date of my patent as prior to their silly claims--i assure you i would have had such a consent from them, if it had been at the point of the sword. and then, out comes the real truth; and he dares to tell me, to my face, that my patent must be suppressed for the present, for fear of disgusting that rascally coward and faineant--(naming the rival chief of his own clan)--who has no better title to be a chieftain than i to be emperor of china; and who is pleased to shelter his dastardly reluctance to come out, agreeable to his promise twenty times pledged, under a pretended jealousy of the prince's partiality to me. and, to leave this miserable driveller without a pretence for his cowardice, the prince asks if as a personal favour of me, forsooth, not to press my just and reasonable request at this moment. after this, put your faith in princes!' 'and did your audience end here?' 'end? oh, no! i was determined to leave him no pretence for his ingratitude, and i therefore stated, with all the composure i could muster,--for i promise you i trembled with passion,--the particular reasons i had for wishing that his royal highness would impose upon me any other mode of exhibiting my duty and devotion, as my views in life made, what at any other time would have been a mere trifle, at this crisis a severe sacrifice; and then i explained to him my full plan.' 'and what did the prince answer?' 'answer? why--it is well it is written, curse not the king; no, not in thy thought!--why, he answered, that truly he was glad i had made him my confidant, to prevent more grievous disappointment, for he could assure me, upon the word of a prince, that miss bradwardine's affections were engaged, and he was under a particular promise to favour them. "so, my dear fergus," said he, with his most gracious cast of smile, "as the marriage is utterly out of question, there need be no hurry, you know, about the earldom." and so he glided off, and left me plante la.' 'and what did you do?' 'i'll tell you what i could have done at that moment--sold myself to the devil or the elector, whichever offered the dearest revenge. however, i am now cool. i know he intends to marry her to some of his rascally frenchmen, or his irish officers: but i will watch them close; and let the man that would supplant me look well to himself.--bisogna coprirsi, signor.' after some further conversation, unnecessary to be detailed, waverley took leave of the chieftain, whose fury had now subsided into a deep and strong desire of vengeance, and returned home, scarce able to analyse the mixture of feelings which the narrative had awakened in his own bosom. chapter liv 'to one thing constant never' 'i am the very child of caprice,' said waverley to himself, as he bolted the door of his apartment, and paced it with hasty steps.--'what is it to me that fergus mac-ivor should wish to marry rose bradwardine?--i love her not.--i might have been loved by her, perhaps; but i rejected her simple, natural, and affecting attachment, instead of cherishing it into tenderness, and dedicated myself to one who will never love mortal man, unless old warwick, the king-maker, should arise from the dead. the baron, too--i would not have cared about his estate, and so the name would have been no stumbling-block, the devil might have taken the barren moors, and drawn off the royal caligae, for anything i would have minded. but, framed as she is for domestic affection and tenderness, for giving and receiving all those kind and quiet attentions which sweeten life to those who pass it together, she is sought by fergus mac-ivor. he will not use her ill, to be sure--of that he is incapable--but he will neglect her after the first month; he will be too intent on subduing some rival chieftain, or circumventing some favourite at court, on gaining some heathy hill and lake, or adding to his bands some new troop of caterans, to inquire what she does, or how she amuses herself. and then will canker sorrow eat her bud, and chase the native beauty from her cheek; and she will look as hollow as a ghost, and dim and meagre as an ague fit, and so she'll die. and such a catastrophe of the most gentle creature on earth might have been prevented, if mr. edward waverley had had his eyes! upon my word, i cannot understand how i thought flora so much--that is, so very much--handsomer than rose. she is taller, indeed, and her manner more formed; but many people think miss bradwardine's more natural; and she is certainly much younger. i should think flora is two years older than i am--i will look at them particularly this evening.' and with this resolution waverley went to drink tea (as the fashion was sixty years since) at the house of a lady of quality attached to the cause of the chevalier, where he found, as he expected, both the ladies. all rose as he entered, but flora immediately resumed her place, and the conversation in which she was engaged. rose, on the contrary, almost imperceptibly, made a little way in the crowded circle for his advancing the corner of a chair. 'her manner, upon the whole, is most engaging,' said waverley to himself. a dispute occurred whether the gaelic or italian language was most liquid, and best adapted for poetry; the opinion for the gaelic, which probably might not have found supporters elsewhere, was here fiercely defended by seven highland ladies, who talked at the top of their lungs, and screamed the company deaf, with examples of celtic euphonia. flora, observing the lowland ladies sneer at the comparison, produced some reasons to show that it was not altogether so absurd; but rose, when asked for her opinion, gave it with animation in praise of italian, which she had studied with waverley's assistance. 'she has a more correct ear than flora, though a less accomplished musician,' said waverley to himself. 'i suppose miss mac-ivor will next compare mac-murrough nan fonn to ariosto!' lastly, it so befell that the company differed whether fergus should be asked to perform on the flute, at which he was an adept, or waverley invited to read a play of shakespeare; and the lady of the house good-humouredly undertook to collect the votes of the company for poetry or music, under the condition, that the gentleman whose talents were not laid under contribution that evening, should contribute them to enliven the next. it chanced that rose had the casting vote. now flora, who seemed to impose it as a rule upon herself never to countenance any proposal which might seem to encourage waverley, had voted for music, providing the baron would take his violin to accompany fergus. 'i wish you joy of your taste, miss mac-ivor,' thought edward, as they sought for his book. 'i thought it better when we were at glennaquoich; but certainly the baron is no great performer, and shakespeare is worth listening to.' romeo and juliet was selected, and edward read with taste, feeling, and spirit, several scenes from that play. all the company applauded with their hands, and many with their tears. flora, to whom the drama was well known, was among the former; rose, to whom it was altogether new, belonged to the latter class of admirers. 'she has more feeling, too,' said waverley, internally. the conversation turning upon the incidents of the play, and upon the characters, fergus declared that the only one worth naming, as a man of fashion and spirit, was mercutio. 'i could not,' he said, 'quite follow all his old-fashioned wit, but he must have been a very pretty fellow, according to the ideas of his time.' 'and it was a shame,' said ensign maccombich, who usually followed his colonel everywhere, 'for that tibbert, or taggart, or whatever was his name, to stick him under the other gentleman's arm while he was redding the fray.' the ladies, of course, declared loudly in favour of romeo; but this opinion did not go undisputed. the mistress of the house, and several other ladies, severely reprobated the levity with which the hero transfers his affections from rosalind to juliet. flora remained silent until her opinion was repeatedly requested, and then answered, she thought the circumstance objected to not only reconcilable to nature, but such as in the highest degree evinced the art of the poet. 'romeo is described,' said she, 'as a young man, peculiarly susceptible of the softer passions; his love is at first fixed upon a woman who could afford it no return; this he repeatedly tells you,-- from love's weak childish bow she lives unharmed; and again,-- she hath forsworn to love. now, as it was impossible that romeo's love, supposing him a reasonable being, could continue to subsist without hope, the poet has, with great art, seized the moment when he was reduced actually to despair, to throw in his way an object more accomplished than her by whom he had been rejected, and who is disposed to repay his attachment. i can scarce conceive a situation more calculated to enhance the ardour of romeo's affection for juliet, than his being at once raised by her from the state of drooping melancholy in which he appears first upon the scene, to the ecstatic state in which he exclaims-- --come what sorrow can, it cannot countervail the exchange of joy that one short moment gives me in her sight.' 'good, now, miss mac-ivor,' said a young lady of quality, 'do you mean to cheat us out of our prerogative? will you persuade us love cannot subsist-without hope, or that the lover must become fickle if the lady is cruel? oh, fie! i did not expect such an unsentimental conclusion.' 'a lover, my dear lady betty,' said flora, 'may, i conceive, persevere in his suit under very discouraging circumstances. affection can (now and then) withstand very severe storms of rigour, but not a long polar frost of downright indifference. don't, even with your attractions, try the experiment upon any lover whose faith you value. love will subsist on wonderfully little hope, but not altogether without it.' 'it will be just like duncan mac-girdie's mare,' said evan, 'if your ladyships please; he wanted to use her by degrees to live without meat, and just as he had put her on a straw a day, the poor thing died!' evan's illustration set the company a-laughing, and the discourse took a different turn. shortly afterwards the party broke up, and edward returned home, musing on what flora had said. 'i will love my rosalind no more,' said he: 'she has given me a broad enough hint for that; and i will speak to her brother, and resign my suit. but for a juliet--would it be handsome to interfere with fergus's pretensions?--though it is impossible they can ever succeed: and should they miscarry, what then?--why then alors comme alors.' and with this resolution, of being guided by circumstances, did our hero commit himself to repose. chapter lv a brave man in sorrow if my fair readers should be of opinion that my hero's levity in love is altogether unpardonable, i must remind them that all his griefs and difficulties did not arise from that sentimental source. even the lyric poet, who complains so feelingly of the pains of love, could not forget, that, at the same time, he was 'in debt and in drink,' which, doubtless, were great aggravations of his distress. there were indeed whole days in which waverley thought neither of flora nor rose bradwardine, but which were spent in melancholy conjectures on the probable state of matters at waverley-honour, and the dubious issue of the civil contest in which he was pledged. colonel talbot often engaged him in discussions upon the justice of the cause he had espoused. 'not,' he said, 'that it is possible for you to quit it at this present moment, for, come what will, you must stand by your rash engagement. but i with you to be aware that the right is not with you; that you are fighting against the real interests of your country; and that you ought, as an englishman and a patriot, to take the first opportunity to leave this unhappy expedition before the snowball melts.' in such political disputes, waverley usually opposed the common arguments of his party, with which it is unnecessary to trouble the reader. but he had little to say when the colonel urged him to compare the strength by which they had undertaken to overthrow the government, with that which was now assembling very rapidly for its support. to this statement waverley had but one answer: 'if the cause i have undertaken be perilous, there would be the greater disgrace in abandoning it.' and in his turn he generally silenced colonel talbot, and succeeded in changing the subject. one night, when, after a long dispute of this nature, the friends had separated, and our hero had retired to bed, he was awakened about midnight by a suppressed groan. he started up and listened; it came from the apartment of colonel talbot, which was divided from his own by a wainscoted partition, with a door of communication. waverley approached this door, and distinctly heard one or two deep-drawn sighs. what could be the matter? the colonel had parted from him, apparently, in his usual state of spirits. he must have been taken suddenly ill. under this impression, he opened the door of communication very gently, and perceived the colonel, in his nightgown, seated by a table, on which lay a letter and a picture. he raised his head hastily, as edward stood uncertain whether to advance or retire, and waverley perceived that his cheeks were stained with tears. as if ashamed at being found giving way to such emotion, colonel talbot rose with apparent displeasure, and said, with some sternness, 'i think, mr. waverley, my own apartment, and the hour, might have secured even a prisoner against'-- 'do not say intrusion, colonel talbot; i heard you breathe hard, and feared you were ill; that alone could have induced me to break in upon you.' 'i am well,' said the colonel, 'perfectly well.' 'but you are distressed,' said edward: 'is there anything can be done?' 'nothing, mr. waverley: i was only thinking of home, and of some unpleasant occurrences there.' 'good god, my uncle!' exclaimed waverley. 'no,--it is a grief entirely my own. i am ashamed you should have seen it disarm me so much; but it must have its course at times, that it may be at others more decently supported. i would have kept it secret from you; for i think it will grieve you, and yet you can administer no consolation. but you have surprised me,--i see you are surprised yourself,--and i hate mystery. read that letter. the letter was from colonel talbot's sister, and in these words: 'i received yours, my dearest brother, by hodges. sir e. w. and mr. r. are still at large, but are not permitted to leave london. i wish to heaven i could give you as good an account of matters in the square. but the news of the unhappy affair at preston came upon us, with the dreadful addition that you were among the fallen. you know lady emily's state of health, when your friendship for sir e. induced you to leave her. she was much harassed with the sad accounts from scotland of the rebellion having broken out; but kept up her spirits as, she said, it became your wife, and for the sake of the future heir, so long hoped for in vain. alas, my dear brother, these hopes are now ended! notwithstanding all my watchful care, this unhappy rumour reached her without preparation. she was taken ill immediately; and the poor infant scarce survived its birth. would to god this were all! but although the contradiction of the horrible report by your own letter has greatly revived her spirits, yet dr--apprehends, i grieve to say, serious, and even dangerous, consequences to her health, especially from the uncertainty in which she must necessarily remain for some time, aggravated by the ideas she has formed of the ferocity of those with whom you are a prisoner. do therefore, my dear brother, as soon as this reaches you, endeavour to gain your release, by parole, by ransom, or any way that is practicable. i do not exaggerate lady emily's state of health; but i must not--dare not--suppress the truth.--ever, my dear philip, your most affectionate sister, 'lucy talbot.' edward stood motionless when he had perused this letter; for the conclusion was inevitable, that by the colonel's journey in quest of him, he had incurred this heavy calamity. it was severe enough, even in its irremediable part; for colonel talbot and lady emily, long without a family, had fondly exulted in the hopes which were now blasted. but this disappointment was nothing to the extent of the threatened evil; and edward, with horror, regarded himself as the original cause of both. ere he could collect himself sufficiently to speak, colonel talbot had recovered his usual composure of manner, though his troubled eye denoted his mental agony. 'she is a woman, my young friend, who may justify even a soldier's tears.' he reached him the miniature, exhibiting features which fully justified the eulogium; 'and yet, god knows, what you see of her there is the least of the charms she possesses--possessed, i should perhaps say--but god's will be done!' 'you must fly--you must fly instantly to her relief. it is not--it shall not be too late.' 'fly!--how is it possible? i am a prisoner--upon parole.' 'i am your keeper--i restore your parole-i am to answer for you.' 'you cannot do so consistently with your duty; nor can i accept a discharge from you with due regard to my own honour--you would be made responsible.' 'i will answer it with my head, if necessary,' said waverley, impetuously. 'i have been the unhappy cause of the loss of your child--make me not the murderer of your wife.' 'no, my dear edward,' said talbot, taking him kindly by the hand, 'you are in no respect to blame; and if i concealed this domestic distress for two days, it was lest your sensibility should view it in that light. you could not think of me, hardly knew of my existence, when i left england in quest of you. it is a responsibility, heaven knows, sufficiently heavy for mortality, that we must answer for the foreseen and direct result of our actions,--for their indirect and consequential operation, the great and good being, who alone can foresee the dependence of human events on each other, hath not pronounced his frail creatures liable.' but that you should have left lady emily,' said waverley, with much emotion, 'in the situation of all others the most interesting to a husband, to seek a--' 'i only did my duty,' answered colonel talbot, calmly, 'and i do not, ought not to regret it. if the path of gratitude and honour were always smooth and easy, there would be little merit in following it; but it moves often in contradiction to our interest and passions, and sometimes to our better affections. these are the trials of life, and this, though not the least bitter' (the tears came unbidden to his eyes), 'is not the first which it has been my fate to encounter. but we will talk of this to-morrow,' he said, wringing waverley's hands. 'good night; strive to forget it for a few hours. it will dawn, i think, by six, and it is now past two. good-night.' edward retired, without trusting his voice with a reply. chapter lvi exertion when colonel talbot entered the breakfast-parlour next morning, he learned from waverley's servant that our hero had been abroad at an early hour, and was not yet returned. the morning was well advanced before he again appeared, he arrived out of breath, but with an air of joy that astonished colonel talbot. 'there,' said he, throwing a paper on the table, 'there is my morning's work.--alick, pack up the colonel's clothes. make haste, make haste.' the colonel examined the paper with astonishment. it was a pass from the chevalier to colonel talbot, to repair to leith, or any other port in possession of his royal highness's troops, and there to embark for england or elsewhere, at his free pleasure; he only giving his parole of honour not to bear arms against the house of stuart for the space of a twelvemonth. 'in the name of god,' said the colonel, his eyes sparkling with eagerness, 'how did you obtain this?' 'i was at the chevalier's levee as soon as he usually rises. he was gone to the camp at duddingston. i pursued him thither; asked and obtained an audience--but i will tell you not a word more, unless i see you begin to pack.' 'before i know whether i can avail myself of this passport, or how it was obtained?' 'oh, you can take out the things again, you know.--now i see you busy, i will go on. when i first mentioned your name, his eyes sparkled almost as bright as yours did two minutes since. "had you," he earnestly asked, "shown any sentiments favourable to his cause?" "not in the least, nor was there any hope you would do so." his countenance fell. i requested your freedom. "impossible," he said;--"your importance, as a friend and confidant of such and such personages, made my request altogether extravagant." i told him my own story and yours and asked him to judge what my feelings must be by his own. he has a heart, and a kind one, colonel talbot, you may say what you please. he took a sheet of paper, and wrote the pass with his own hand. "i will not-trust myself with my council," he said "they will argue me out of what is right. i will not endure that a friend, valued as i value you, should be loaded with the painful reflections which must afflict you in ease of further misfortune in colonel talbot's family; nor will i keep a brave enemy a prisoner under such circumstances. besides," said he, "i think i can justify myself to my prudent advisers, by pleading the good effect such lenity will produce on the minds of the great english families with whom colonel talbot is connected."' 'there the politician peeped out,' said the colonel. 'well, at least he concluded like a king's son--"take the passport; i have added a condition for form's sake; but if the colonel objects to it, let him depart without giving any parole whatever. i come here to war with men, but not to distress or endanger women."' 'well, i never thought to have been so much indebted to the pretend--' 'to the prince,' said waverley, smiling. 'to the chevalier,' said the colonel; 'it is a good travelling name, and which we may both freely use. did he say anything more?' 'only asked if there was anything else he could oblige me in; and when i replied in the negative, he shook me by the hand, and wished all his followers were as considerate, since some friends of mine not only asked all he had to bestow, but many things which were entirely out of his power, or that of the greatest sovereign upon earth. indeed, he said, no prince seemed, in the eyes of his followers, so like the deity as himself, if you were to judge from the extravagant requests which they daily preferred to him.' 'poor young gentleman!' said the colonel 'i suppose he begins to feel the difficulties of his situation. well, dear waverley, this is more than kind, and shall not be forgotten while philip talbot can remember anything. my life--pshaw--let emily thank you for that--this is a favour worth fifty lives. i cannot hesitate on giving my parole in the circumstances: there it is--(he wrote it out in form)--and now, how am i to get off?' 'all that is settled: your baggage is packed, my horses wait, and a boat has been engaged, by the prince's permission, to put you on board the fox frigate. i sent a messenger down to leith on purpose.' 'that will do excellently well. captain beaver is my particular friend: he will put me ashore at berwick or shields, from whence i can ride post to london;--and you must entrust me with the packet of papers which you recovered by means of your miss bean lean. i may have an opportunity of using them to your advantage.--but i see your highland friend, glen--what do you call his barbarous name? and his orderly with him--i must not call him his orderly cut-throat any more, i suppose. see how he walks as if the world were his own, with the bonnet on one side of his head, and his plaid puffed out across his breast! i should like now to meet that youth where my hands were not tied: i would tame his pride, or he should tame mine,' 'for shame, colonel talbot! you swell at sight of tartan, as the bull is said to do at scarlet. you and mac-ivor have some points not much unlike, so far as national prejudice is concerned.' the latter part of this discourse took place in the street. they passed the chief, the colonel and he sternly and punctiliously greeting each other, like two duellists before they take their ground. it was evident the dislike was mutual. 'i never see that surly fellow that dogs his heels,' said the colonel, after he had mounted his horse, 'but he reminds me of lines i have somewhere heard--upon the stage, i think: --close behind him stalks sullen bertram, like a sorcerer's fiend, pressing to be employed.' 'i assure you, colonel,' said waverley,' that you judge too harshly of the highlanders.' 'not a whit, not a whit; i cannot spare them a jot--i cannot bate them an ace. let them stay in their own barren mountains, and puff and swell, and hang their bonnets on the horns of the moon, if they have a mind; but what business have they to come where people wear breeches, and speak an intelligible language? i mean intelligible in comparison with their gibberish, for even the lowlanders talk a kind of english little better than the negroes in jamaica. i could pity the pr--, i mean the chevalier himself, for having so many desperadoes about him. and they learn their trade so early. there is a kind of subaltern imp, for example, a sort of sucking devil, whom your friend glenna--glennamuck there, has sometimes in his train. to look at him, he is about fifteen years; but he is a century old in mischief and villany. he was playing at quoits the other day in the court; a gentleman--a decent-looking person enough--came past, and as a quoit hit his shin, he lifted his cane: but my young brave whips out his pistol, like beau clincher in the trip to the jubilee and had not a scream of gardez l'eau from an upper window set all parties a-scampering for fear of the inevitable consequences, the poor gentleman would have lost his life by the hands of that little cockatrice.' 'a fine character you'll give of scotland upon your return, colonel talbot.' 'oh, justice shallow,' said the colonel, 'will save me the trouble--"barren, barren--beggars all, beggars all. marry, good air,"--and that only when you are fairly out of edinburgh, and not yet come to leith, as is our case at present.' in a short time they arrived at the seaport: the boat rocked at the pier of leith, full loud the wind blew down the ferry; the ship rode at the berwick law-- 'farewell, colonel; may you find all as you would wish it! perhaps we may meet sooner than you expect: they talk of an immediate route to england.' tell me nothing of that,' said talbot 'i wish to carry no news of your motions.' 'simply then, adieu. say, with a thousand kind greetings, all that is dutiful and affectionate to sir everard and aunt rachel. think of me as kindly as you can--speak of me as indulgently as your conscience will permit, and once more adieu.' 'and adieu, my dear waverley!--many, many thanks for your kindness. unplaid yourself on the first opportunity. i shall ever think on you with gratitude, and the worst of my censure shall be, que diable alloit-il faire dans cette galere?' and thus they parted, colonel talbot going on board of the boat, and waverley returning to edinburgh. chapter lvii the march it is not our purpose to intrude upon the province of history. we shall therefore only remind our readers, that about the beginning of november the young chevalier, at the head of about six thousand men at the utmost, resolved to peril his cause on an attempt to penetrate into the centre of england, although aware of the mighty preparations which were made for his reception. they set forward on this crusade in weather which would have rendered any other troops incapable of marching, but which in reality gave these active mountaineers advantages over a less hardy enemy. in defiance of a superior army lying upon the borders, under field marshal wade, they besieged and took carlisle, and soon afterwards prosecuted their daring march to the southward. as colonel mac-ivor's regiment marched in the van of the clans, he and waverley, who now equalled any highlander in the endurance of fatigue, and was become somewhat acquainted with their language, were perpetually at its head. they marked the progress of the army, however, with very different eyes. fergus, all air and fire, and confident against the world in arms, measured nothing but that every step was a yard nearer london. he neither asked, expected, nor desired any aid, except that of the clans, to place the stuarts once more on the throne; and when by chance a few adherents joined the standard, he always considered them in the light of new claimants upon the favours of the future monarch, who, he concluded, must therefore subtract for their gratification so much of the bounty which ought to be shared among his highland followers. edward's views were very different. he could not but observe, that in those towns in which they proclaimed james the third, 'no man cried, god bless him.' the mob stared and listened, heartless, stupefied, and dull, but gave few signs even of that boisterous spirit which induces them to shout upon all occasions, for the mere exercise of their most sweet voices. the jacobites had been taught to believe that the north-western counties abounded with wealthy squires and hardy yeomen, devoted to the cause of the white rose. but of the wealthier tories they saw little. some fled from their houses, some feigned themselves sick, some surrendered themselves to the government as suspected persons. of such as remained, the ignorant gazed with astonishment, mixed with horror and aversion, at the wild appearance, unknown language, and singular garb, of the scottish clans. and to the more prudent, their scanty numbers, apparent deficiency in discipline; and poverty of equipment, seemed certain tokens of the calamitous termination of their rash undertaking. thus the few who joined them were such as bigotry of political principle blinded to consequences, or whose broken fortunes induced them to hazard all on a risk so desperate. the baron of bradwardine being asked what he thought of these recruits, took a long pinch of snuff, and answered drily, 'that he could not but have an excellent opinion of them, since they resembled precisely the followers who attached themselves to the good king david at the cave of adullam; videlicet, every one that was in distress, and every one that was in debt, and every one that was discontented, which the vulgate renders bitter of soul; and doubtless,' he said 'they will prove mighty men of their hands, and there is much need that they should, for i have seen many a sour look cast upon us.' but none of these considerations moved fergus. he admired the luxuriant beauty of the country, and the situation of many of the seats which they passed. 'is waverley-honour like that house, edward?' 'it is one half larger.' 'is your uncle's park as fine a one as that?' 'it is three times; as extensive, and rather resembles a forest than a mere park.' 'flora, will be a happy woman.' 'i hope miss mac-ivor will have much reason for happiness, unconnected with waverley-honour.' 'i hope so too; but, to be mistress of such a place, will be a pretty addition to the sum total.' 'an addition, the want of which, i trust, will be amply supplied by some other means.' 'how,' said fergus, stopping short, and turning upon waverley--'how am i to understand that, mr. waverley?--had i the pleasure to hear you aright?' 'perfectly right, fergus.' 'and i am to understand that you no longer desire my alliance, and my sister's hand?' 'your sister has refused mine,' said waverley, 'both directly, and by all the usual means by which ladies repress undesired attentions.' 'i have no idea,' answered the chieftain, 'of a lady dismissing or a gentleman withdrawing his suit, after it has been approved of by her legal guardian, without giving him an opportunity of talking the matter over with the lady. you did not, i suppose, expect my sister to drop into your mouth like a ripe plum, the first moment you chose to open it?' 'as to the lady's title to dismiss her lover, colonel replied edward, 'it is a point which you must argue with her, as i am ignorant of the customs of the highlands in that particular. but as to my title to acquiesce in a rejection from her without an appeal to your interest, i will tell you plainly, without meaning to undervalue miss mac-ivor's admitted beauty and accomplishments, that i would not take the hand of an angel, with an empire for her dowry, if her consent were extorted by the importunity of friends and guardians, and did not flow from her own free inclination.' 'an angel, with the dowry of an empire,' repeated fergus, in a tone of bitter irony, 'is not very likely to be pressed upon a--shire squire.--but sir,' changing his tone, 'if flora mac-ivor have not the dowry of an empire, she is my sister; and that is sufficient at least to secure her against being treated with anything approaching to levity.' she is flora mac-ivor, sir,' said waverley, with firmness, 'which to me, were i capable of treating any woman with levity, would be a more effectual protection.' the brow of the chieftain was now fully clouded, but edward felt too indignant at the unreasonable tone which he had adopted, to avert the storm by the least concession. they both stood still while this short dialogue passed, and fergus seemed half disposed to say something more violent, but, by a strong effort, suppressed his passion, and, turning his face forward, walked sullenly on. as they had always hitherto walked together, and almost constantly side by side; waverley pursued his course silently in the same direction, determined to let the chief take his own time in recovering the good humour which he had so unreasonably discarded, and firm in his resolution not to bate him an inch of dignity. after they had marched on in this sullen manner about a mile, fergus resumed the discourse in a different tone. 'i believe i was warm, my dear edward, but you provoke me with your want of knowledge of the world. you have taken pet at some of flora's prudery, or high-flying notions of loyalty, and now, like a child, you quarrel with the plaything you have been crying for, and beat me, your faithful keeper, because my arm cannot reach to edinburgh to hand it to you. i am sure, if i was passionate, the mortification of losing the alliance of such a friend, after your arrangement had been the talk of both highlands and lowlands, and that without so much as knowing why or wherefore, might well provoke calmer blood than mine. i shall write to edinburgh, and put all to rights; that is, if you desire i should do so,--as indeed i cannot suppose that your good opinion of flora, it being such as you have often expressed to me, can be at once laid aside.' 'colonel mac-ivor,' said edward, who had no mind to be hurried farther or faster than he chose, in a matter which he had already considered as broken off, 'i am fully sensible of the value of your good offices; and certainly, by your zeal on my behalf in such an affair, you do me no small honour. but as miss mac-ivor has made her election freely and voluntarily, and as all my attentions in edinburgh were received with more than coldness, i cannot, in justice either to her or myself, consent that she should again be harassed upon this topic. i would have mentioned this to you some time since;--but you saw the footing upon which we stood together, and must have understood it. had i thought otherwise, i would have earlier spoken; but i had a natural reluctance to enter upon a subject so painful to us both.' 'oh, very well, mr. waverley,' said fergus, haughtily, 'the thing is at an end. i have no occasion to press my sister upon any man.' 'nor have i any occasion to court repeated rejection from the same young lady,' answered edward, in the same tone. 'i shall make due inquiry, however,' said the chieftain, without noticing the interruption, 'and learn what my sister thinks of all this: we will then see whether it is to end here.' 'respecting such inquiries, you will of course be guided by your own judgement,' said waverley. 'it is, i am aware, impossible miss mac-ivor can change her mind; and were such an unsupposable case to happen, it is certain i will not change mine. i only mention this to prevent any possibility of future misconstruction.' gladly at this moment would mac-ivor have put their quarrel to a personal arbitrament;--his eye flashed fire, and he measured edward as if to choose where he might best plant a mortal wound. but although we do not now quarrel according to the modes and figures of caranza or vincent saviola, no one knew better than fergus that there must be some decent pretext for a mortal duel. for instance, you may challenge a man for treading on your corn in a crowd, or for pushing you up to the wall, or for taking your seat in the theatre; but the modern code of honour will not permit you to found a quarrel upon your right of compelling a man to continue addresses to a female relative, which the fair lady has already refused. so that fergus was compelled to stomach this supposed affront, until the whirligig of time, whose motion he promised himself he would watch most sedulously, should bring about an opportunity of revenge. waverley's servant always led a saddle-horse for him in the rear of the battalion to which he was attached, though his master seldom rode. but now, incensed at the domineering and unreasonable conduct of his late friend, he fell behind the column, and mounted his horse, resolving to seek the baron of bradwardine, and request permission to volunteer in his troop, instead of the mac-ivor regiment. 'a happy time of it i should have had,' thought he, after he was mounted, 'to have been so closely allied to this superb specimen of pride and self-opinion and passion. a colonel! why, he should have been a generalissimo. a petty chief of three or four hundred men!--his pride might suffice for the cham of tartary--the grand seignior--the great mogul! i am well free of him. were flora an angel, she would bring with her a second lucifer of ambition and wrath for a brother-in-law. the baron, whose learning (like sancho's jests while in the sierra morena) seemed to grow mouldy for want of exercise, joyfully embraced the opportunity of waverley's offering his service in his regiment, to bring it into some exertion. the good-natured old gentleman, however, laboured to effect a reconciliation between the two quondam friends. fergus turned a cold ear to his remonstrances, though he gave them a respectful hearing; and as for waverley, he saw no reason why he should be the first in courting a renewal of the intimacy which the chieftain had so unreasonably disturbed. the baron then mentioned the matter to the prince, who, anxious to prevent quarrels in his little army, declared he would himself remonstrate with colonel mac-ivor on the unreasonableness of his conduct. but, in the hurry of their march, it was a day or two before he had an opportunity to exert his influence in the manner proposed. in the meanwhile, waverley turned the instructions he had received while in gardiner's dragoons to some account, and assisted the baron in his command as a sort of adjutant. 'parmi les aveugles un borgne est roi,' says the french proverb; and the cavalry, which consisted chiefly of lowland gentlemen, their tenants and servants, formed a high opinion of waverley's skill, and a great attachment to his person. this was indeed partly owing to the satisfaction which they felt at the distinguished english volunteer's leaving the highlanders to rank among them; for there was a latent grudge between the horse and foot, not only owing to the difference of the services, but because most of the gentlemen, living near the highlands, had at one time or other had quarrels with the tribes in their vicinity, and all of them looked with a jealous eye on the highlanders' avowed pretensions to superior valour, and utility in the prince's service. chapter lviii the confusion of king agramant's camp it was waverley's custom sometimes to ride a little apart from the main body, to look at any object of curiosity which occurred on the march. they were now in lancashire, when, attracted by a castellated old hall, he left the squadron for half an hour, to take a survey and slight sketch of it. as he returned down the avenue, he was met by ensign maccombich. this man had contracted a sort of regard for edward since the day of his first seeing him at tully-veolan, and introducing him to the highlands. he seemed to loiter, as if on purpose to meet with our hero. yet, as he passed him, he only approached his stirrup, and pronounced the single word, 'beware!' and then walked swiftly on, shunning all further communication. edward, somewhat surprised at this hint, followed with his eyes the course of evan, who speedily disappeared among the trees. his servant, alick polwarth, who was in attendance, also looked after the highlander, and then riding up close to his master, said, 'the ne'er be in me, sir, if i think you're safe amang thae highland rintherouts.' 'what do you mean, alick?' said waverley. 'the mac-ivors, sir, hae gotten it into their heads, that ye hae affronted their young leddy, miss flora; and i hae heard mae than ane say, they wadna, tak muckle to make a black-cock o' ye; and ye ken weel eneugh there's mony o' them wadna mind a bawbee the weising a ball through the prince himsell, an the chief gae them the wink--or whether he did or no,--if they thought it a thing that would please him when it was dune.' waverley, though confident that fergus mac-ivor was incapable of such treachery, was by no means equally sure of the forbearance of his followers. he knew, that where the honour of the chief or his family was supposed to be touched, the happiest man would be he that could first avenge the stigma; and he had often heard them quote a proverb, 'that the best revenge was the most speedy and most safe.' coupling this with the hint of evan, he judged it most prudent to set spurs to his horse, and ride briskly back to the squadron. ere he reached the end of the long avenue, however, a ball whistled past him, and the report of a pistol was heard. 'it was that deevil's buckie, callum beg,' said alick; i saw him whisk away through amang the reises.' edward, justly incensed at this act of treachery, galloped out of the avenue, and observed the battalion of mac-ivor at some distance moving along the common, in which it terminated. he also saw an individual running very fast to join the party; this he concluded was the intended assassin, who, by leaping an enclosure, might easily make a much shorter path to the main body than he could find on horseback. unable to contain himself, he commanded alick to go to the baron of bradwardine, who was at the head of his regiment about half a mile in front, and acquaint him with what had happened. he himself immediately rode up to fergus's regiment. the chief himself was in the act of joining them. he was on horseback, having returned from waiting on the prince. on perceiving edward approaching, he put his horse in motion towards him. 'colonel mac-ivor,' said waverley, without any further salutation, 'i have to inform you that one of your people has this instant fired at me from a lurking-place. 'as that,' answered mac-ivor, 'excepting the circumstance of a lurking-place, is a pleasure which i presently propose to myself, i should be glad to know which of my clansmen dared to anticipate me.' 'i shall certainly be at your command whenever you please;--the gentleman who took your office upon himself is your page there, callum beg.' 'stand forth from the ranks, callum! did you fire at mr. waverley?' 'no,' answered the unblushing callum. 'you did,' said alick polwarth, who was already returned, having met a trooper by whom he dispatched an account of what was going forward to the baron of bradwardine, while he himself returned to his master at full gallop, neither sparing the rowels of his spurs, nor the sides of his horse. 'you did; i saw you as plainly as i ever saw the auld kirk at coudingham.' 'you lie,' replied callum, with his usual impenetrable obstinacy. the combat between the knights would certainly, as in the days of chivalry, have been preceded by an encounter between the squires (for alick was a stout-hearted merseman, and feared the bow of cupid far more than a highlander's dirk or claymore), but fergus, with his usual tone of decision, demanded callum's pistol. the cock was down, the pan and muzzle were black with the smoke; it had been that instant fired. 'take that,' said fergus, striking the boy upon the head with the heavy pistol-butt with his whole force, 'take that for acting without orders, and lying to disguise it.' callum received the blow without appearing to flinch from it, and fell without sign of life. 'stand still, upon your lives!' said fergus to the rest of the clan; 'i blow out the brains of the first man who interferes between mr. waverley and me.' they stood motionless; evan dhu alone showed symptoms of vexation and anxiety. callum lay on the ground bleeding copiously, but no one ventured to give him any assistance. it seemed as if he had gotten his death-blow. 'and now for you, mr. waverley; please to turn your horse twenty yards with me upon the common.' waverley complied; and fergus, confronting him when they were a little way from the line of march, said, with great affected coolness, 'i could not but wonder, sir, at the fickleness of taste which you were pleased to express the other day. but it was not an angel, as you justly observed, who had charms for you, unless she brought an empire for her fortune. i have now an excellent commentary upon that obscure text.' 'i am at a loss even to guess at your meaning, colonel mac-ivor, unless it seems plain that you intend to fasten a quarrel upon me.' 'your affected ignorance shall not serve you, sir. the prince,--the prince himself, has acquainted me with your manoeuvres, i little thought that your engagements with miss bradwardine were the reason of your breaking off your intended match with my sister. i suppose the information that the baron had altered the destination of his estate, was quite a sufficient reason for slighting your friend's sister, and carrying off your friend's mistress.' 'did the prince tell you i was engaged to miss bradwardine?' said waverley. 'impossible.' 'he did, sir,' answered mac-ivor; 'so, either draw and defend yourself, or resign your pretensions to the lady.' 'this is absolute madness,' exclaimed waverley, 'or some strange mistake!' 'oh! no evasion! draw your sword!' said the infuriated chieftain,--his own already unsheathed. 'must i fight in a madman's quarrel?' 'then give up now, and for ever, all pretensions to miss bradwardine's hand.' 'what title have you,' cried waverley, utterly losing command of himself,--'what title have you, or any man living, to dictate such terms to me?' and he also drew his sword. at this moment the baron of bradwardine, followed by several of his troop, came up on the spur, some from curiosity, others to take part in the quarrel, which they indistinctly understood had broken out between the mac-ivors and their corps. the clan, seeing them approach, put themselves in motion to support their chieftain, and a scene of confusion commenced, which seemed likely to terminate in bloodshed. a hundred tongues were in motion at once. the baron lectured, the chieftain stormed, the highlanders screamed in gaelic, the horsemen cursed and swore in lowland scotch. at length matters came to such a pass, that the baron threatened to charge the mac-ivors unless they resumed their ranks, and many of them, in return, presented their fire-arms at him and the other troopers. the confusion was privately fostered by old ballenkeiroch, who made no doubt that his own day of vengeance was arrived, when, behold! a cry arose of 'room! make way!--place a monseigneur! place a monseigneur!' this announced the approach of the prince, who came up with a party of fitz-james's foreign dragoons that acted as his bodyguard. his arrival produced some degree of order. the highlanders re-assumed their ranks, the cavalry fell in and formed squadron, and the baron and chieftain were silent. the prince called them and waverley before him. having heard the original cause of the quarrel through the villany of callum beg, he ordered him into custody of the provost-marshal for immediate execution, in the event of his surviving the chastisement inflicted by his chieftain. fergus, however, in a tone betwixt claiming a right and asking a favour, requested he might be left to his disposal, and promised his punishment should be exemplary. to deny this, might have seemed to encroach on the patriarchal authority of the chieftains, of which they were very jealous, and they were not persons to be disobliged. callum was therefore left to the justice of his own tribe. the prince next demanded to know the new cause of quarrel between colonel mac-ivor and waverley. there was a pause. both gentlemen found the presence of the baron of bradwardine (for by this time all three had approached the chevalier by his command) an insurmountable barrier against entering upon a subject where the name of his daughter must unavoidably be mentioned. they turned their eyes on the ground, with looks in which shame and embarrassment were mingled with displeasure. the prince, who had been educated amongst the discontented and mutinous spirits of the court of st. germains, where feuds of every kind were the daily subject of solicitude to the dethroned sovereign, had served his apprenticeship, as old frederick of prussia would have said, to the trade of royalty. to promote or restore concord among his followers was indispensable. accordingly he took his measures. 'monsieur de beaujeu!' 'monseigneur!' said a very handsome french cavalry officer, who was in attendance. 'ayez la bonte d'alligner ces montagnards la, ainsi que la cavalerie, s'il vous plait, et de les remettre a la marche. vous parlez si bien l'anglois, cela ne vous donneroit pas beaucoup de peine.' 'ah! pas de tout, monseigneur,' replied mons. le comte de beaujeu, his head bending down to the neck of his little prancing highly-managed charger. accordingly he piaffed away, in high spirits and confidence, to the head of fergus's regiment, although understanding not a word of gaelic, and very little english. 'messieurs les sauvages ecossois--dat is--gentilmans savages, have the goodness d'arranger vous.' the clan, comprehending the order more from the gesture than the words, and seeing the prince himself present, hastened to dress their ranks. 'ah! ver well! dat is fort bien!' said the count de beaujeu. 'gentilmans sauvages--mais tres bien--eh bien!--qu'est-ce que vous appellez visage, monsieur?' (to a lounging trooper who stood by him). 'ah, oui! face--je vous remercie, monsieur.--gentilshommes, have de goodness to make de face to de right par file, dat is, by files.--marsh!--mais tres bien--encore, messieurs; il faut vous mettre a la marche...marchez donc, au nom de dieu, parceque j'ai oublie le mot anglois--mais vous etes des braves gens, et me comprenez tres bien.' the count next hastened to put the cavalry in motion. 'gentilmans cavalry, you must fall in--ah! par ma foi, i did not say fall off! i am a fear de little gross fat gentilman is moche hurt. ah, mon dieu! c'est le commissaire qui nous a apporte les premieres nouvelles de ce maudit fracas. je suis trop fache, monsieur!' but poor macwheeble, who, with a sword stuck across him, and a white cockade as large as a pancake, now figured in the character of a commissary, being overturned in the bustle occasioned by the troopers hastening to get themselves in order in the prince's presence, before he could rally his galloway, slunk to the rear amid the unrestrained laughter of the spectators. 'eh bien, messieurs, wheel to de right--ah! dat is it!--eh, monsieur de bradwardine, ayez la bonte de vous mettre a la tete de votre regiment, car, par dieu, je n'en puis plus!' the baron of bradwardine was obliged to go to the assistance of monsieur de beaujeu, after he had fairly expended his few english military phrases. one purpose of the chevalier was thus answered. the other he proposed was, that in the eagerness to hear and comprehend commands issued through such an indistinct medium in his own presence, the thoughts of the soldiers in both corps might get a current different from the angry channel in which they were flowing at the time. charles edward was no sooner left with the chieftain and waverley, the rest of his attendants being at some distance, than he said, 'if i owed less to your disinterested friendship, i could be most seriously angry with both of you for this very extraordinary and causeless broil, at a moment when my father's service so decidedly demands the most perfect unanimity. but the worst of my situation is, that my very best friends hold they have liberty to ruin themselves, as well as the cause they are engaged in, upon the slightest caprice.' both the young men protested their resolution to submit every difference to his arbitration. 'indeed,' said edward, 'i hardly know of what i am accused. i sought colonel mac-ivor merely to mention to him that i had narrowly escaped assassination at the hand of his immediate dependent--a dastardly revenge, which i knew him to be incapable of authorizing. as to the cause for which he is disposed to fasten a quarrel upon me, i am ignorant of it, unless it be that he accuses me, most unjustly, of having engaged the affections of a young lady in prejudice of his pretensions.' 'if there is an error,' said the chieftain, 'it arises from a conversation which i held this morning with his royal highness himself.' 'with me?' said the chevalier; 'how can colonel mac-ivor have so far misunderstood me?' he then led fergus aside, and, after five minutes' earnest conversation, spurred his horse towards edward. 'is it possible--nay, ride up, colonel, for i desire no secrets--is it possible, mr. waverley, that i am mistaken in supposing that you are an accepted lover of miss bradwardine?--a fact of which i was by circumstances, though not by communication from you, so absolutely convinced, that i alleged it to vich ian vohr this morning as a reason why, without offence to him, you might not continue to be ambitious of an alliance, which to an unengaged person, even though once repulsed, holds out too many charms to be lightly laid aside.' 'your royal highness,' said waverley, 'must have founded on circumstances altogether unknown to me, when you did me the distinguished honour of supposing me an accepted lover of miss bradwardine. i feel the distinction implied in the supposition, but i have no title to it. for the rest, my confidence in my own merits is too justly slight to admit of my hoping for success in any quarter after positive rejection.' the chevalier was silent for a moment, looking steadily at them both, and then said, 'upon my word, mr. waverley, you are a less happy man than i conceived i had very good reason to believe you.--but now, gentlemen, allow me to be umpire in this matter, not as prince regent, but as charles stuart, a brother adventurer with you in the same gallant cause. lay my pretensions to be obeyed by you entirely out of view, and consider your own honour, and how far it is well, or becoming, to give our enemies the advantage, and our friends the scandal, of showing that, few as we are, we are not united. and forgive me if i add, that the names of the ladies who have been mentioned, crave more respect from us all than to be made themes of discord.' he took fergus a little apart, and spoke to him very earnestly for two or three minutes, and then returning to waverley, said--'i believe i have satisfied colonel mac-ivor that his resentment was founded upon a misconception, to which, indeed, i myself gave rise; and i trust mr. waverley is too generous to harbour any recollection of what is past, when i assure him that such is the case.--you must state this matter properly to your clan, vich iain vohr, to prevent a recurrence of their precipitate violence.' fergus bowed. 'and now, gentlemen, let me have the pleasure to see you shake hands.' they advanced coldly, and with measured steps, each apparently reluctant to appear most forward in concession. they did, however, shake hands, and parted, taking a respectful leave of the chevalier. charles edward [see note .] then rode to the head of the mac-ivors, threw himself from his horse, begged a drink out of old ballenkeiroch's canteen, and marched about half a mile along with them, inquiring into the history and connexions of sliochd nan ivor, adroitly using the few words of gaelic he possessed, and affecting a great desire to learn it more thoroughly. he then mounted his horse once more, and galloped to the baron's cavalry, which was in front; halted them, and examined their accoutrements and state of discipline; took notice of the principal gentlemen, and even of the cadets; inquired after their ladies, and commended their horses;--rode about an hour with the baron of bradwardine, and endured three long stories about field-marshal the duke of berwick. 'ah, beaujeu, mon cher ami,' said he as he returned to his usual place in the line of march, 'que mon metier de prince errant est ennuyant, par fois. mais, courage! c'est le grand jeu, apres tout.' chapter lix a skirmish the reader need hardly be reminded, that, after a council of war held at derby on the th of december, the highlanders relinquished their desperate attempt to penetrate farther into england, and, greatly to the dissatisfaction of their young and daring leader, positively determined to return northward. they commenced their retreat accordingly, and by the extreme celerity of their movements, outstripped the motions of the duke of cumberland, who now pursued them with a very large body of cavalry. this retreat was a virtual resignation of their towering hopes. none had been so sanguine as fergus mac-ivor; none, consequently, was so cruelly mortified at the change of measures. he argued, or rather remonstrated, with the utmost vehemence at the council of war; and, when his opinion was rejected, shed tears of grief and indignation. from that moment his whole manner was so much altered, that he could scarcely have been recognized for the same soaring and ardent spirit, for whom the whole earth seemed too narrow but a week before. the retreat had continued for several days, when edward, to his surprise, early on the th of december, received a visit from the chieftain in his quarters, in a hamlet about half way between shap and penrith. having had no intercourse with the chieftain since their rupture, edward waited with some anxiety an explanation of this unexpected visit; nor could he help being surprised, and somewhat shocked, with the change in his appearance. his eye had lost much of its fire; his cheek was hollow, his voice was languid; even his gait seemed less firm and elastic than it was wont; and his dress, to which he used to be particularly attentive, was now carelessly flung about him. he invited edward to walk out with him by the little river in the vicinity; and smiled in a melancholy manner when he observed him take down and buckle on his sword. as soon as they were in a wild sequestered path by the side of the stream, the chief broke out,--'our fine adventure is now totally ruined, waverley, and i wish to know what you intend to do:--nay, never stare at me, man. i tell you i received a packet from my sister yesterday, and, had i got the information it contains sooner, it would have prevented a quarrel, which i am always vexed when i think of. in a letter written after our dispute, i acquainted her with the cause of it; and she now replies to me, that she never had, nor could have, any purpose of giving you encouragement; so that it seems i have acted like a madman. poor flora! she writes in high spirits; what a change will the news of this unhappy retreat make in her state of mind!' waverley, who was really much affected by the deep tone of melancholy with which fergus spoke, affectionately entreated him to banish from his remembrance any unkindness which had arisen between them, and they once more shook hands, but now with sincere cordiality. fergus again inquired of waverley what he intended to do. 'had you not better leave this luckless army, and get down before us into scotland, and embark for the continent from some of the eastern ports that are still in our possession? when you are out of the kingdom, your friends will easily negotiate your pardon; and, to tell you the truth, i wish you would carry rose bradwardine with you as your wife, and take flora also under your joint protection.' edward looked surprised--'she loves you, and i believe you love her, though, perhaps, you have not found it out, for you are not celebrated for knowing your own mind very pointedly.' he said this with a sort of smile. 'how!' answered edward,' can you advise me to desert the expedition in which we are all embarked?' 'embarked?' said fergus; 'the vessel is going to pieces, and it is full time for all who can, to get into the long-boat and leave her.' 'why, what will other gentlemen do?' answered waverley, 'and why did the highland chiefs consent to this retreat, if it is so ruinous?' 'oh,' replied mac-ivor, 'they think that, as on former occasions, the heading, hanging, and forfeiting, will chiefly fall to the lot of the lowland gentry; that they will be left secure in their poverty and their fastnesses, there, according to their proverb, "to listen to the wind upon the hill till the waters abate." but they will be disappointed; they have been too often troublesome to be so repeatedly passed over, and this time john bull has been too heartily frightened to recover his good humour for some time. the hanoverian ministers always deserved to be hanged for rascals; but now, if they get the power in their hands,--as, sooner or later, they must, since there is neither rising in england nor assistance from france,--they will deserve the gallows as fools, if they leave a single clan in the highlands in a situation to be again troublesome to government. aye, they will make root-and-branch work, i warrant them.' 'and while you recommend flight to me,' said edward,--'a counsel which i would rather die than embrace,--what are your own views?' 'oh,' answered fergus, with a melancholy air, 'my fate is settled. dead or captive i must be before to-morrow.' 'what do you mean by that, my friend?' said edward. 'the enemy is still a day's march in our rear, and if he comes up, we are still strong enough to keep him in check. remember gladsmuir.' 'what i tell you is true notwithstanding, so far as i am individually concerned.' 'upon what authority can you found so melancholy a prediction?' asked waverley. 'on one which never failed a person of my house. i have seen,' he said, lowering his voice, 'i have seen the bodach glas.' 'bodach glas?' 'yes: have you been so long at glennaquoich, and never heard of the grey spectre? though indeed there is a certain reluctance among us to mention him.' 'no, never.' 'ah! it would have been a tale for poor flora to have told you. or, if that hill were benmore, and that long blue lake, which you see just winding towards yon mountainous country, were loch tay, or my own loch an ri, the tale would be better suited with scenery. however, let us sit down on this knell; even saddleback and ullswater will suit what i have to say better than the english hedgerows, enclosures, and farm-houses. you must know, then, that when my ancestor, ian nan chaistel, wasted northumberland, there was associated with him in the expedition a sort of southland chief, or captain of a band of low-landers, called halbert hall. in their return through the cheviots, they quarrelled about the division of the great booty they had acquired, and came from words to blows. the lowlanders were cut off to a man, and their chief fell the last, covered with wounds by the sword of my ancestor, since that time, his spirit has crossed the vich ian vohr of the day when any great disaster was impending, but especially before approaching death. my father saw him twice; once before he was made prisoner at sheriff-muir; another time, on the morning of the day on which he died.' 'how can you, my dear fergus, tell such nonsense with a grave face?' 'i do not ask you to believe it; but i tell you the truth, ascertained by three hundred years' experience at least, and last night by my own eyes.' 'the particulars, for heaven's sake!' said waverley, with eagerness. 'i will, on condition you will not attempt a jest on the subject.--since this unhappy retreat commenced, i have scarce ever been able to sleep for thinking of my clan, and of this poor prince, whom they are leading back like a dog in a string, whether he will or no, and of the downfall of my family. last night i felt so feverish that i left my quarters, and walked out, in hopes the keen frosty air would brace my nerves--i cannot tell how much i dislike going on, for i know you will hardly believe me. however--i crossed a small footbridge, and kept walking backwards and forwards, when i observed with surprise, by the clear moonlight, a tall figure in a grey plaid, such as shepherds wear in the south of scotland, which, move at what pace i would, kept regularly about four yards before me.' 'you saw a cumberland peasant in his ordinary dress, probably.' 'no: i thought so at first, and was astonished at the man's audacity in daring to dog me. i called to him but received no answer. i felt an anxious throbbing at my heart; and to ascertain what i dreaded, i stood still, and turned myself on the same spot successively to the four points of the compass--by heaven, edward, turn where i would, the figure was instantly before my eyes, at precisely the same distance! i was then convinced it was the bodach glas. my hair bristled, and my knees shook. i manned myself, however, and determined to return to my quarters. my ghastly visitant glided before me (for i cannot say he walked), until he reached the footbridge: there he stopped, and turned full round. i must either wade the river, or pass him as close as i am to you. a desperate courage, founded on the belief that my death was near, made me resolve to make my way in despite of him. i made the sign of the cross, drew my sword, and uttered, "in the name of god, evil spirit, give place!" "vich ian vohr," it said, in a voice that made my very blood curdle, "beware of to-morrow!" it seemed at that moment not half a yard from my sword's point; but the words were no sooner spoken than it was gone, and nothing appeared further to obstruct my passage. i got home, and threw myself on my bed, where i spent a few hours heavily enough; and this morning, as no enemy was reported to be near us, i took my horse, and rode forward to make up matters with you. i would not willingly fall until i am in charity with a wronged friend.' edward had little doubt that this phantom was the operation of an exhausted frame and depressed spirits, working on the belief common to all highlanders in such superstitions. he did not the less pity fergus, for whom, in his present distress, he felt all his former regard revive. with the view of diverting his mind from these gloomy images, he offered with the baron's permission, which he knew he could readily obtain, to remain in his quarters till fergus's corps should come up, and then to march with them as usual. the chief seemed much pleased, yet hesitated to accept the offer. 'we are, you know, in the rear,--the post of danger in a retreat.' 'and therefore the post of honour.' 'well,' replied the chieftain, 'let alick have your horse in readiness, in case we should be over-matched, and i shall be delighted to have your company once more.' the rearguard were late in making their appearance, having been delayed by various accidents and by the badness of the roads. at length they entered the hamlet. when waverley joined the clan mac-ivor, arm in arm with their chieftain, all the resentment they had entertained against him seemed blown off at once. evan dhu received him with a grin of congratulation; and even callum, who was running about as active as ever, pale indeed, and with a great patch on his head, appeared delighted to see him. 'that gallows-bird's skull,' said fergus, 'must be harder than marble: the lock of the pistol was actually broken.' 'how could you strike so young a lad so hard?' said waverley, with some interest. 'why, if i did not strike hard sometimes, the rascals would forget themselves.' they were now in full march, every caution being taken to prevent surprise. fergus's people, and a fine clan regiment from badenoch, commanded by cluny mac-pherson, had the rear. they had passed a large open moor, and were entering into the enclosures which surround a small village called clifton. the winter sun had set, and edward began to rally fergus upon the false predictions of the grey spirit. 'the ides of march are not past,' said mac-ivor, with a smile; when, suddenly casting his eyes back on the moor, a large body of cavalry was indistinctly seen to hover upon its brown and dark surface. to line the enclosures facing the open ground, and the road by which the enemy must move from it upon the village, was the work of a short time. while these manoeuvres were accomplishing, night sunk down, dark and gloomy, though the moon was at full. sometimes, however, she gleamed forth a dubious light upon the scene of action. the highlanders did not remain long undisturbed in the defensive position they had adopted. favoured by the night, one large body of dismounted dragoons attempted to force the enclosures, while another, equally strong, strove to penetrate by the high road. both were received by such a heavy fire as disconcerted their ranks, and effectually checked their progress. unsatisfied with the advantage thus gained, fergus, to whose ardent spirit the approach of danger seemed to restore all ifs elasticity, drawing his sword, and calling out 'claymore!' encouraged his men, by voice and example, to break through the hedge which divided them, and rush down upon the enemy. mingling with the dismounted dragoons, they forced them, at the sword-point, to fly to the open moor, where a considerable number were cut to pieces. but the moon, which suddenly shone out, showed to the english the small number of assailants, disordered by their own success. two squadrons of horse moving to the support of their companions, the highlanders endeavoured to recover the enclosures. but several of them, amongst others their brave chieftain, were cut off and surrounded before they could effect their purpose. waverley, looking eagerly for fergus, from whom, as well as from the retreating body of his followers, he had been separated in the darkness and tumult, saw him, with evan dhu and callum, defending themselves desperately against a dozen of horsemen, who were hewing at them with their long broadswords. the moon was again at that moment totally overclouded, and edward, in the obscurity, could neither bring aid to his friends, nor discover which way lay his own road to rejoin the rear-guard. after once or twice narrowly escaping being slain or made prisoner by parties of the cavalry whom he encountered in the darkness, he at length reached an enclosure, and clambering over it, concluded himself in safety, and on the way to the highland forces, whose pipes he heard at some distance. for fergus hardly a hope remained, unless that he might be made prisoner. revolving his fate with sorrow and anxiety, the superstition of the bodach glas recurred to edward's recollection, and he said to himself, with internal surprise, 'what, can the devil speak truth?' [see note .] chapter lx chapter of accidents edward was in a most unpleasant and dangerous situation. he soon lost the sound of the bagpipes; and, what was yet more unpleasant, when, after searching long in vain, and scrambling through many enclosures, he at length approached the high road, he learned, from the unwelcome noise of kettledrums and trumpets, that the english cavalry now occupied it, and consequently were between him and the highlanders. precluded, therefore, from advancing in a straight direction, he resolved to avoid the english military, and endeavour to join his friends by making a circuit to the left, for which a beaten path deviating from the main road in that direction seemed to afford facilities. the path was muddy, and the night dark and cold; but even these inconveniences were hardly felt amidst the apprehensions which falling into the hands of the king's forces reasonably excited in his bosom. after walking about three miles, he at length reached a hamlet. conscious that the common people were in general unfavourable to the cause he had espoused, yet desirous, if possible, to procure a horse and guide to penrith, where he hoped to find the rear, if not the main body, of the chevalier's army, he approached the ale-house of the place. there was a great noise within: he paused to listen. a round english oath or two, and the burden of a campaign song, convinced him the hamlet also was occupied by the duke of cumberland's soldiers. endeavouring to retire from it as softly as possible, and blessing the obscurity which hitherto he had murmured against, waverley groped his way the best he could along a small paling, which seemed the boundary of some cottage garden. as he reached the gate of this little enclosure, his outstretched hand was grasped by that of a female, whose voice at the same time uttered, 'edward, is't thou, man?' 'here is some unlucky mistake,' thought edward, struggling, but gently, to disengage himself. 'naen o' thy foun, now; man, or the red cwoats will hear thee; they hae been houlerying and poulerying every ane that past alehouse door this noight to make them drive their wagons and sick loike. come into feyther's, or they'll do ho a mischief.' 'a good hint,' thought waverley, following the girl through the little garden into a brick-paved kitchen, where she set herself to kindle a match at an expiring fire, and with the match to light a candle. she had no sooner looked on edward than she dropped the light, with a shrill scream of 'o feyther! feyther!' the father, thus invoked, speedily appeared, a sturdy old farmer, in a pair of leather breeches, and boots pulled on without stockings, having just started from his bed;--the rest of his dress was only a westmoreland statesman's robe-de-chambre,--that is, his shirt. his figure was displayed to advantage, by a candle which he bore in his left hand; in his right he brandished a poker. what hast ho here, wench?' 'oh!' cried the poor girl, almost going off in hysterics, i thought it was ned williams, and it is one of the plaid-men!' 'and what was thee ganging to do wi' ned williams at this time o' noight?' to this, which was, perhaps, one of the numerous class of questions more easily asked than answered, the rosy-cheeked damsel made no reply, but continued sobbing and wringing her hands. 'and thee, lad, dost ho know that the dragoons be a town? dost ho know that, mon?--ad, they'll sliver thee like a turnip, mon.' 'i know my life is in great danger,' said waverley, 'but if you can assist me, i will reward you handsomely, i am no scotchman, but an unfortunate english gentleman.' 'be ho scot or no,' said the honest farmer, 'i wish thou hadst kept the other side of the hallan. but since thou art here, jacob jopson will betray no man's bluid; and the plaids were gay canny, and did not so much mischief when they were here yesterday.' accordingly, he set seriously about sheltering and refreshing our hero for the night, the fire was speedily rekindled, but with precaution against its light being seen from without. the jolly yeoman cut a rasher of bacon, which cicely soon broiled, and her father added a swingeing tankard of his best ale. it was settled, that edward should remain there till the troops marched in the morning, then hire or buy a horse from the farmer, and, with the best directions that could be obtained, endeavour to overtake his friends. a clean, though coarse bed, received him after the fatigues of this unhappy day. with the morning arrived the news that the highlanders had evacuated penrith, and marched off towards carlisle; that the duke of cumberland was in possession of penrith, and that detachments of his army covered the roads in every direction. to attempt to get through undiscovered, would be an act of the most frantic temerity. ned williams (the right edward) was now called to council by cicely and her father, ned, who perhaps did not care that his handsome namesake should remain too long in the same house with his sweetheart, for fear of fresh mistakes, proposed that waverley, exchanging his uniform and plaid for the dress of the country, should go with him to his father's farm near ullswater, and remain in that undisturbed retirement until the military movements in the country should have ceased to render his departure hazardous. a price was also agreed upon, at which the stranger might board with farmer williams, if he thought proper, till he could depart with safety. it was of moderate amount; the distress of his situation, among this honest and simple-hearted race, being considered as no reason for increasing their demand. the necessary articles of dress were accordingly procured; and, by following by-paths, known to the young farmer, they hoped to escape any unpleasant rencontre, a recompense for their hospitality was refused peremptorily by old jopson and his cherry-cheeked daughter; a kiss paid the one, and a hearty shake of the hand the other. both seemed anxious for their guest's safety, and took leave of him with kind wishes, in the course of their route, edward, with his guide, traversed those fields which the night before had been the scene of action. a brief gleam of december's sun shone sadly on the broad heath, which, towards the spot where the great north-west road entered the enclosures of lord lonsdale's property, exhibited dead bodies of men and horses, and the usual companions of war--a number of carrion-crows, hawks, and ravens. 'and this, then, was thy last field,' said waverley to himself, his eye filling at the recollection of the many splendid points of fergus's character, and of their former intimacy, all his passions and imperfections forgotten.--'here fell the last vich ian vohr, on a nameless heath; and in an obscure night-skirmish was quenched that ardent spirit, who thought it little to cut a way for his master to the british throne! ambition, policy, bravery, all far beyond their sphere, here learned the fate of mortals, the sole support, too, of a sister, whose spirit, as proud and unbending, was even more exalted than thine own; here ended all thy hopes for flora, and the long and valued line which it was thy boast to raise yet more highly by thy adventurous valour!' as these ideas pressed on waverley's mind, he resolved to go upon the open heath, and search if, among the slain, he could discover the body of his friend, with the pious intention of procuring for him the last rites of sepulture. the timorous young man who accompanied him remonstrated upon the danger of the attempt, but edward was determined. the followers of the camp had already stripped the dead of all they could carry away; but the country people, unused to scenes of blood, had not yet approached the field of action, though some stood fearfully gazing at a distance. about sixty or seventy dragoons lay slain within the first enclosure, upon the high road, and on the open moor. of the highlanders, not above a dozen had fallen, chiefly those who, venturing too far on the moor, could not regain the strong ground. he could not find the body of fergus among the slain. on a little knell, separated from the others, lay the carcasses of three english dragoons, two horses, and the page callum beg, whose hard skull a trooper's broadsword had, at length, effectually cloven. it was possible his clan had carried off the body of fergus; but it was also possible he had escaped, especially as evan dhu, who would never leave his chief, was not found among the dead; or he might be prisoner, and the less formidable denunciation inferred from the appearance of the bodach glas might have proved the true one. the approach of a party, sent for the purpose of compelling the country people to bury the dead, and who had already assembled several peasants for that purpose, now obliged edward to rejoin his guide, who awaited him in great anxiety and fear under shade of the plantations. after leaving this field of death, the rest of their journey was happily accomplished. at the house of farmer williams, edward passed for a young kinsman, educated for the church, who was come to reside there till the civil tumults permitted him to pass through the country. this silenced suspicion among the kind and simple yeomanry of cumberland, and accounted sufficiently for the grave manners and retired habits of the new guest, the precaution became more necessary than waverley had anticipated, as a variety of incidents prolonged his stay at fasthwaite, as the farm was called. a tremendous fall of snow rendered his departure impossible for more than ten days. when the roads began to become a little practicable, they successively received news of the retreat of the chevalier into scotland; then, that he had abandoned the frontiers, retiring upon glasgow; and that the duke of cumberland had formed the siege of carlisle. his army, therefore, cut off all possibility of waverley's escaping into scotland in that direction. on the eastern border, marshal wade, with a large force, was advancing upon edinburgh; and all along the frontier, parties of militia, volunteers, and partisans, were in arms to suppress insurrection, and apprehend such stragglers from the highland army as had been left in england, the surrender of carlisle, and the severity with which the rebel garrison were threatened, soon formed an additional reason against venturing upon a solitary and hopeless journey through a hostile country and a large army, to carry the assistance of a single sword to a cause which seemed altogether desperate. in this lonely and secluded situation, without the advantage of company or conversation with men of cultivated minds, the arguments of colonel talbot often recurred to the mind of our hero. a still more anxious recollection haunted his slumbers--it was the dying look and gesture of colonel gardiner. most devoutly did he hope, as the rarely occurring post brought news of skirmishes with various success, that it might never again be his lot to draw his sword in civil conflict. then his mind turned to the supposed death of fergus, to the desolate situation of flora, and, with yet more tender recollection, to that of rose bradwardine, who was destitute of the devoted enthusiasm of loyalty, which, to her friend, hallowed and exalted misfortune. these reveries he was permitted to enjoy, undisturbed by queries or interruption;--and it was in many a winter walk by the shores of ullswater, that he acquired a more complete mastery of a spirit tamed by adversity than his former experience had given him; and that he felt himself entitled to say firmly, though perhaps with a sigh, that the romance of his life was ended, and that its real history had now commenced. he was soon called upon to justify his pretensions by reason and philosophy. chapter lxi a journey to london the family at fasthwaite were soon attached to edward. he had, indeed, that gentleness and urbanity which almost universally attracts corresponding kindness; and to their simple ideas his learning gave him consequence, and his sorrows interest. the last he ascribed, evasively, to the loss of a brother in the skirmish near clifton; and in that primitive state of society, where the ties of affection were highly deemed of, his continued depression excited sympathy, but not surprise. in the end of january, his more lively powers were called out by the happy union of edward williams, the son of his host, with cicely jopson. our hero would not cloud with sorrow the festivity attending the wedding of two persons to whom he was so highly obliged. he therefore exerted himself, danced, sang, played at the various games of the day, and was the blithest of the company. the next morning, however, he had more serious matters to think of. the clergyman who had married the young couple was so much pleased with the supposed student of divinity, that he came next day from penrith on purpose to pay him a visit. this might have been a puzzling chapter had he entered into any examination of our hero's supposed theological studies; but fortunately he loved better to hear and communicate the news of the day. he brought with him two or three old newspapers, in one of which edward found a piece of intelligence that soon rendered him deaf to every word which the reverend mr. twigtythe was saying upon the news from the north, and the prospect of the duke's speedily overtaking and crushing the rebels. this was an article in these, or nearly these words: 'died at his house, in hill street, berkeley square, upon the th inst., richard waverley, esq., second son of sir giles waverley of waverley-honour, &c. &c. he died of a lingering disorder, augmented by the unpleasant predicament of suspicion in which he stood, having been obliged to find bail to a high amount, to meet an impending accusation of high-treason. an accusation of the same grave crime hangs over his elder brother, sir everard waverley, the representative of that ancient family; and we understand the day of his trial will be fixed early in the next month, unless edward waverley, son of the deceased richard, and heir to the baronet, shall surrender himself to justice. in that case, we are assured it is his majesty's gracious purpose to drop further proceedings upon the charge against sir everard. this unfortunate young gentleman is ascertained to have been in arms in the pretender's service, and to have marched along with the highland troops into england. but he has not been heard of since the skirmish at clifton, on the th december last.' such was this distracting paragraph.--'good god!' exclaimed waverley, 'am i then a parricide?--impossible! my father, who never showed the affection of a father while he lived, cannot have been so much affected by my supposed death as to hasten his own. no, i will not believe it,--it were distraction to entertain for a moment such a horrible idea. but it were, if possible, worse than parricide to suffer any danger to hang over my noble and generous uncle, who has ever been more to me than a father, if such evil can be averted by any sacrifice on my part!' while these reflections passed like the stings of scorpions through waverley's sensorium, the worthy divine was startled in a long disquisition on the battle of falkirk by the ghastliness which they communicated to his looks, and asked him if he was ill. fortunately the bride, all smirk and blush, had just entered the room. mrs. williams was none of the brightest of women, but she was good-natured, and readily concluding that edward had been shocked by disagreeable news in the papers, interfered so judiciously, that, without exciting suspicion, she drew off mr. twigtythe's attention, and engaged it until he soon after took his leave. waverley then explained to his friends, that he was under the necessity of going to london with as little delay as possible. one cause of delay, however, did occur, to which waverley had been very little accustomed. his purse, though well stocked when he first went to tully-veolan, had not been reinforced since that period; and although his life since had not been of a nature to exhaust it hastily (for he had lived chiefly with his friends or with the army), yet he found, that, after settling with his kind landlord, he should be too poor to encounter the expense of travelling post. the best course, therefore, seemed to be, to get into the great north road about boroughbridge, and there take a place in the northern diligence,--a huge old-fashioned tub, drawn by three horses, which completed the journey from edinburgh to london (god willing, as the advertisement expressed it) in three weeks. our hero, therefore, took an affectionate farewell of his cumberland friends, whose kindness he promised never to forget, and tacitly hoped one day to acknowledge by substantial proofs of gratitude. after some petty difficulties and vexatious delays, and after putting his dress into a shape better befitting his rank, though perfectly plain and simple, he accomplished crossing the country, and found himself in the desired vehicle, vis-a-vis to mrs. nosebag, the lady of lieutenant nosebag, adjutant and riding-master of the--dragoons, a jolly woman of about fifty, wearing a blue habit, faced with scarlet, and grasping a silver-mounted horsewhip. this lady was one of those active members of society who take upon them faire le frais de conversation. she had just returned from the north, and informed edward how nearly her regiment had cut the petticoat people into ribands at falkirk, 'only somehow there was one of those nasty, awkward marshes, that they are never without in scotland, i think, and so our poor dear little regiment suffered something, as my nosebag says, in that unsatisfactory affair. you, sir, have served in the dragoons?' waverley was taken so much at unawares, that he acquiesced. 'oh, i knew it at once; i saw you were military from your air, and i was sure you could be none of the foot-wobblers, as my nosebag calls them. what regiment, pray?' here was a delightful question. waverley, however, justly concluded that this good lady had the whole army-list by heart; and, to avoid detection by adhering to truth, answered--'gardiner's dragoons, ma'am; but i have retired some time.' 'oh aye, those as won the race at the battle of preston, as my nosebag says. pray, sir, were you there?' 'i was so unfortunate, madam,' he replied, 'as to witness that engagement.' 'and that was a misfortune that few of gardiner's stood to witness, i believe, sir--ha! ha! ha!--i beg your pardon; but a soldier's wife loves a joke.' 'devil confound you!' thought waverley; 'what infernal luck has penned me up with this inquisitive bag!' fortunately the good lady did not stick long to one subject. 'we are coming to ferrybridge, now,' she said, 'where there was a party of ours left to support the beadles, and constables, and justices, and these sort of creatures that are examining papers and stopping rebels, and all that.' they were hardly in the inn before she dragged waverley to the window, exclaiming, 'yonder comes corporal bridoon, of our poor dear troop; he's coming with the constable man: bridoon's one of my lambs, as nosebag calls 'em. come, mr.--a--a--pray, what 's your name, sir?' 'butler, ma'am,' said waverley, resolved rather to make free with the name of a former fellow officer, than run the risk of detection by inventing one not to be found in the regiment. 'oh, you got a troop lately, when that shabby fellow, waverley, went over to the rebels. lord, i wish our old cross captain crump would go over to the rebels, that nosebag might get the troop!--lord, what can bridoon be standing swinging on the bridge for? i'll be hanged if he a'nt hazy, as nosebag says.--come, sir, as you and i belong to the service, we'll go put the rascal in mind of his duty.' waverley, with feelings more easily conceived than described, saw himself obliged to follow this doughty female commander. the gallant trooper was as like a lamb as a drunk corporal of dragoons, about six feet high, with very broad shoulders, and very thin legs, not to mention a great scar across his nose, could well be. mrs. nosebag addressed him with something which, if not an oath, sounded very like one, and commanded him to attend to his duty. 'you be d--d for a--,' commenced the gallant cavalier; but, looking up in order to suit the action to the words, and also to enforce the epithet which he meditated, with an adjective applicable to the party, he recognized the speaker, made his military salaam, and altered his tone.--'lord love your handsome face, madam nosebag, is it you? why, if a poor fellow does happen to fire a slug of a morning, i am sure you were never the lady to bring him to harm.' 'well, you rascallion, go, mind your duty; this gentleman and i belong to the service; but be sure you look after that shy cock in the slouched hat that sits in the corner of the coach. i believe he's one of the rebels in disguise.' 'd--n her gooseberry wig!' said the corporal, when she was out of hearing. 'that gimlet-eyed jade--mother adjutant, as we call her--is a greater plague to the regiment than prevot-marshal, sergeant-major, and old hubble-de-shuff the colonel into the bargain.--come, master constable, let's see if this shy cock, as she calls him' (who, by the way, was a quaker from leeds, with whom mrs. nosebag had had some tart argument on the legality of bearing arms), 'will stand godfather to a sup of brandy, for your yorkshire ale is cold on my stomach.' the vivacity of this good lady, as it helped edward out of this scrape, was like to have drawn him into one or two others. in every town where they stopped, she wished to examine the corps de garde, if there was one, and once very narrowly missed introducing waverley to a recruiting-sergeant of his own regiment. then she captain'd and butler'd him till he was almost mad with vexation and anxiety; and never was he more rejoiced in his life at the termination of a journey, than when the arrival of the coach in london freed him from the attentions of madam nosebag. chapter lxii what's to be done next? it was twilight when they arrived in town; and having shaken off his companions, and walked through a good many streets to avoid the possibility of being traced by them, edward took a hackney-coach and drove to colonel talbot's house, in one of the principal squares at the west end of the town. that gentleman, by the death of relations, had succeeded since his marriage to a large fortune, possessed considerable political interest, and lived in what is called great style. when waverley knocked at his door, he found it at first difficult to procure admittance, but at length was shown into an apartment where the colonel was at table. lady emily, whose very beautiful features were still pallid from indisposition, sat opposite to him. the instant he heard waverley's voice, he started up and embraced him. 'frank stanley, my dear boy, how d'ye do?--emily, my love, this is young stanley.' the blood started to the lady's cheek as she gave waverley a reception, in which courtesy was mingled with kindness, while her trembling hand and faltering voice showed how much she was startled and discomposed. dinner was hastily replaced, and while waverley was engaged in refreshing himself, the colonel proceeded--'i wonder you have come here, frank; the doctors tell me the air of london is very bad for your complaints. you should not have risked it. but i am delighted to see you, and so is emily, though i fear we must not reckon upon your staying long.' 'some particular business brought me up,' muttered waverley. 'i supposed so, but i sha'n't allow you to stay long.--spontoon' (to an elderly military-looking servant out of livery), 'take away these things, and answer the bell yourself, if i ring. don't let any of the other fellows disturb us.--my nephew and i have business to talk of.' when the servants had retired, 'in the name of god, waverley, what has brought you here? it may be as much as your life is worth.' 'dear mr. waverley,' said lady emily,' to whom i owe so much more than acknowledgements can ever pity, how could you be so rash?' 'my father--my uncle--this paragraph,'--he handed the paper to colonel talbot. 'i wish to heaven' these scoundrels were condemned to be squeezed to death in their own presses,' said talbot. 'i am told there are not less than a dozen of their papers now published in town, and no wonder that they are obliged to invent lies to find sale for their journals. it is true, however, my dear edward, that you have lost your father; but as to this flourish of his unpleasant situation having grated upon his spirits, and hurt his health--the truth is--for though it is harsh to say so now, yet it will relieve your mind from the idea of weighty responsibility--the truth then is, that mr. richard waverley, through this whole business, showed great want of sensibility, both to your situation and that of your uncle; and the last time i saw him, he told me, with great glee, that, as i was so good as to take charge of your interests, he had thought it best to patch up a separate negotiation for himself, and make his peace with government through some channels which former connexions left still open to him.' 'and my uncle--my dear uncle?' 'is in no danger whatever. it is true' (looking at the date of the paper) 'there was a foolish report some time ago to the purport here quoted, but it is entirely false. sir everard is gone down to waverley-honour, freed from all uneasiness, unless upon your own account. but you are in peril yourself--your name is in every proclamation--warrants are out to apprehend you. how and when did you come here?' edward told his story at length, suppressing his quarrel with fergus; for being himself partial to highlanders, he did not wish to give any advantage to the colonel's national prejudice against them. 'are you sure it was your friend glen's footboy you saw dead in clifton moor?' 'quite positive.' 'then that little limb of the devil has cheated the gallows, for cut-throat was written in his face; though' (turning to lady emily) 'it was a very handsome face too.--but for you, edward, i wish you would go down again to cumberland, or rather i wish you had never stirred from thence, for there is an embargo on all the seaports, and a strict search for the adherents of the pretender; and the tongue of that confounded woman will wag in her head like the clack of a mill, till somehow or other she will detect captain butler to be a feigned personage,' 'do you know anything,' asked waverley, 'of my fellow traveller?' 'her husband was my sergeant-major for six years; she was a buxom widow, with a little money--he married her--was steady, and got on by being a good drill. i must send spontoon to see what she is about; he will find her out among the old regimental connexions. to-morrow you must be indisposed, and keep your room from fatigue. lady emily is to be your nurse, and spontoon and i your attendants. you bear the name of a near relation of mine, whom none of my present people ever saw, except spontoon; so there will be no immediate danger. so pray feel your head ache and your eyes grow heavy as soon as possible, that you may be put upon the sick list; and, emily, do you order an apartment for frank stanley, with all the attention which an invalid may require.' in the morning the colonel visited his guest.--'now,' said he, 'i have some good news for you. your reputation as a gentleman and officer is effectually cleared of neglect of duty, and accession to the mutiny in gardiner's regiment. i have had a correspondence on this subject with a very zealous friend of yours, your scottish parson, morton; his first letter was addressed to sir everard; but i relieved the good baronet of the trouble of answering it. you must know, that your freebooting acquaintance; donald of the cave, has at length fallen into the hands of the philistines. he was driving off the cattle of a certain proprietor, called killan--something or other--' 'killancureit?' 'the same. now, the gentleman being, it seems, a great farmer, and having a special value for his breed of cattle--being, moreover, rather of a timid disposition, had got a party of soldiers to protect his property. so donald ran his head unawares into the lion's mouth, and was defeated and made prisoner. being ordered for execution, his conscience was assailed on the one hand by a catholic priest,--on the other by your friend morton. he repulsed the catholic chiefly on account of the doctrine of extreme unction, which this economical gentleman considered as an excessive waste of oil. so his conversion from a state of impenitence fell to mr. morton's share, who, i dare say, acquitted himself excellently, though, i suppose, donald made but a queer kind of christian after all. he confessed, however, before a magistrate--one major melville, who seems to have been a correct, friendly sort of person--his full intrigue with houghton, explaining particularly how it was carried on, and fully acquitting you of the least accession to it. he also mentioned his rescuing you from the hands of the volunteer officer, and sending you, by orders of the pret--chevalier, i mean as a prisoner to doune, from whence he understood you were carried prisoner to edinburgh. these are particulars which cannot but tell in your favour. he hinted that he had been employed to deliver and protect you, and rewarded for doing so; but he would not confess by whom, alleging, that, though he would not have minded breaking any ordinary oath to satisfy the curiosity of mr. morton, to whose pious admonitions he owed so much, yet in the present case he had been sworn to silence upon the edge of his dirk, [see note .] which, it seems, constituted, in his opinion, an inviolable obligation.' 'and what has become of him?' 'oh, he was hanged at stirling after the rebels raised the siege, with his lieutenant, and four plaids besides; he having the advantage of a gallows more lofty than his friends.' 'well, i have little cause either to regret or rejoice at his death; and yet he has done me both good and harm to a very considerable extent.' his confession, at least, will serve you materially, since it wipes from your character all those suspicions which gave the accusation against you a complexion of a nature different from that with which so many unfortunate gentlemen, now or lately in arms against the government, may be justly charged. their treason--i must give it its name, though you participate in its guilt--is an action arising from mistaken virtue, and therefore cannot be classed as a disgrace, though it be doubtless highly criminal. where the guilty are so numerous, clemency must be extended to far the greater number; and i have little doubt of procuring a remission for you, provided we can keep you out of the claws of justice till she has selected and gorged upon her victims; for in this, as in other cases, it will be according to the vulgar proverb, 'first come, first served.' besides, government are desirous at present to intimidate the english jacobites, among whom they can find few examples for punishment. this is a vindictive and timid feeling which will soon wear off, for, of all nations, the english are least bloodthirsty by nature. but it exists at present, and you must therefore be kept out of the way in the meantime.' now entered spontoon with an anxious countenance. by his regimental acquaintances he had traced out madam nosebag, and found her full of ire, fuss, and fidget, at discovery of an impostor, who had travelled from the north with her under the assumed name of captain butler of gardiner's dragoons. she was going to lodge an information on the subject, to have him sought for as an emissary of the pretender; but spontoon (an old soldier), while he pretended to approve, contrived to make her delay her intention. no time, however, was to be lost: the accuracy of this good dame's description might probably lead to the discovery that waverley was the pretended captain butler; an identification fraught with danger to edward, perhaps to his uncle, and even to colonel talbot. which way to direct his course was now, therefore, the question. 'to scotland,' said waverley. 'to scotland!' said the colonel; 'with what purpose?--not to engage again with the rebels, i hope?' 'no--i considered my campaign ended, when, after all my efforts, i could not rejoin them; and now, by all accounts, they are gone to make a winter campaign in the highlands, where such adherents as i am would rather be burdensome than useful. indeed, it seems likely that they only prolong the war to place the chevalier's person out of danger, and then to make some terms for themselves. to burden them with my presence would merely add another party, whom they would not give up, and could not defend. i understand they left almost all their english adherents in garrison at carlisle, for that very reason: and on a more general view, colonel, to confess the truth, though it may lower me in your opinion, i am heartily tired of the trade of war, and am, as fletcher's humorous lieutenant says, "even as weary of this fighting"--' 'fighting! pooh, what have you seen but a skirmish or two?-ah! if you saw war on the grand scale--sixty or a hundred thousand men in the field on each side!' 'i am not at all curious, colonel.--"enough," says our homely proverb, "is as good as a feast." the plumed troops and the big war used to enchant me in poetry; but the night marches, vigils, couched under the wintry sky, and such accompaniments of the glorious trade, are not at all to my taste in practice:--then for dry blows, i had my fill of fighting at clifton, where i escaped by a hair's-breadth half a dozen times; and you, i should think--' he stopped. 'had enough of it at preston? you mean to say,' answered the colonel, laughing; 'but, "'tis my vocation, hal."' 'it is not mine, though,' said waverley; 'and having honourably got rid of the sword, which i drew only as a volunteer, i am quite satisfied with my military experience, and shall be in no hurry to take it up again.' 'i am very glad you are of that mind--but then, what would you do in the north?' 'in the first place, there are some seaports on the eastern coast of scotland still in the hands of the chevalier's friends; should i gain any of them, i can easily embark for the continent.' 'good--your second reason?' 'why, to speak the very truth, there is a person in scotland upon whom i now find my happiness, depends more than i was always aware, and about whose situation i am very anxious.' 'then emily was right, and there is a love affair in the case after all?--and which of these two pretty scotchwomen, whom you insisted upon my admiring, is the distinguished fair?--not miss glen--i hope.' 'no.' 'ah, pass for the other: simplicity may be improved, but pride and conceit never. well, i don't discourage you; i think it will please sir everard, from what he said when i jested with him about it; only i hope that intolerable papa, with his brogue, and his snuff, and his latin, and his insufferable long stories about the duke of berwick, will find it necessary hereafter to be an inhabitant of foreign parts. but as to the daughter, though i think you might find as fitting a match in england, yet if your heart be really set upon this scotch rosebud, why, the baronet has a great opinion of her father and of his family, and he wishes much to see you married and settled, both for your own sake and for that of the three ermines passant, which may otherwise pass away altogether. but i will bring you his mind fully upon the subject, since you are debarred correspondence for the present, for i think you will not be long in scotland before me. indeed! and what can induce you to think of returning to scotland? no relenting longings towards the land of mountains and floods, i am afraid.' 'none, on my word; but emily's health is now, thank god, re-established, and, to tell you the truth, i have little hopes of concluding the business which i have at present most at heart, until i can have a personal interview with his royal highness the commander-in-chief; for, as fluellen says, "the duke doth love me well, and i thank heaven i have deserved some love at his hands." i am now going out for an hour or two to arrange matters for your departure; your liberty extends to the next room, lady emily's parlour, where you will find her when you are disposed for music, reading, or conversation. we have taken measures to exclude all servants but spontoon, who is as true as steel.' in about two hours colonel talbot returned, and found his young friend conversing with his lady; she pleased with his manners and information, and he delighted at being restored, though but for a moment, to the society of his own rank, from which he had been for some time excluded.' 'and now,' said the colonel, 'hear my arrangements, for there is little time to lose. this youngster, edward waverley, alias williams, alias captain butler, must continue to pass by his fourth alias of francis stanley, my nephew: he shall set out to-morrow for the north, and the chariot shall take him the first two stages.' spontoon shall then attend him; and they shall ride post as far as huntingdon; and the presence of spontoon, well known on the road as my servant, will check all disposition to inquiry. at huntingdon you will meet the real frank stanley. he is studying at cambridge; but, a little while ago, doubtful if emily's health would permit me to go down to the north myself, i procured him a passport from the secretary of state's office to go in my stead. as he went chiefly to look after you, his journey is now unnecessary. he knows your story; you will dine together at huntingdon; and perhaps your wise heads may hit upon some plan for removing or diminishing the danger of your further progress northward. and now' (taking out a morocco case), 'let me put you in funds for the campaign.' 'i am ashamed, my dear colonel,--' 'nay,' said colonel talbot, 'you should command my purse in any event; but this money is your own. your father, considering the chance of your being attainted, left me his trustee for your advantage. so that you are worth above l , , besides brerewood lodge--a very independent person, i promise you. there are bills here for l ; any larger sum you may have, or credit abroad, as soon as your motions require it.' the first use which occurred to waverley of his newly-acquired wealth, was to write to honest farmer jopson, requesting his acceptance of a silver tankard on the part of his friend williams, who had not forgotten the night of the eighteenth december last. he begged him at the same time carefully to preserve for him his highland garb and accoutrements, particularly the arms--curious in themselves, and to which the friendship of the donors gave additional value. lady emily undertook to find some suitable token of remembrance, likely to flatter the vanity and please the taste of mrs. williams; and the colonel, who was a kind of farmer, promised to send the ullswater patriarch an excellent team of horses for cart and plough. one happy day waverley spent in london; and, travelling in the manner projected, he met with frank stanley at huntingdon. the two young men were acquainted in a minute. 'i can read my uncle's riddle,' said stanley. 'the cautious old soldier did not care to hint to me that i might hand over to you this passport, which i have no occasion for; but if it should afterwards come out as the rattlepated trick of a young cantab, cela ne tire a rien. you are therefore to be francis stanley, with this passport.' this proposal appeared in effect to alleviate a great part of the difficulties which edward must otherwise have encountered at every turn; and accordingly he scrupled not to avail himself of it, the more especially as he had discarded all political purposes from his present journey, and could not be accused of furthering machinations against the government while travelling under protection of the secretary's passport. the day passed merrily away. the young student was inquisitive about waverley's campaigns, and the manners of the highlands; and edward was obliged to satisfy his curiosity by whistling a pibroch, dancing a strathspey, and singing a highland song. the next morning stanley rode a stage northward with his new friend, and parted from him with great reluctance, upon the remonstrances of spontoon, who, accustomed to submit to discipline, was rigid in enforcing it. chapter lxiii desolation waverly riding post, as was the usual fashion of the period, without any adventure save one or two queries, which the talisman of his passport sufficiently answered, reached the borders of scotland. here he heard the tidings of the decisive battle of culloden. it was no more than he had long expected, though the success at falkirk had thrown a faint and setting gleam over the arms of the chevalier. yet it came upon him like a shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned. the generous, the courteous, the noble-minded adventurer, was then a fugitive, with a price upon his head; his adherents, so brave, so enthusiastic, so faithful, were dead, imprisoned, or exiled. where, now, was the exalted and high-souled fergus, if, indeed, he had survived the night at clifton?--where the pure-hearted and primitive baron of bradwardine, whose foibles seemed foils to set off the disinterestedness of his disposition, the genuine goodness of his heart, and his unshaken courage? those who clung for support to these fallen columns, rose and flora,--where were they to be sought, and in what distress must not the loss of their natural protectors have involved them? of flora he thought with the regard of a brother for a sister--of rose, with a sensation yet more deep and tender. it might be still his fate to supply the want of those guardians they had lost. agitated by these thoughts, he precipitated his journey. when he arrived in edinburgh, where his inquiries must necessarily commence, he felt the full difficulty of his situation. many inhabitants of that city had seen and known him as edward waverley; how, then, could he avail himself of a passport as francis stanley? he resolved, there-fore, to avoid all company, and to move northward as soon as possible. he was, however, obliged to wait a day or two in expectation of a letter from colonel talbot, and he was also to leave his own address, under his feigned character, at a place agreed upon. with this latter purpose he sallied out in the dusk through the well-known streets, carefully shunning observation,--but in vain: one of the first persons whom he met at once recognized him, it was mrs. flockhart, fergus mac-ivor's good-humoured landlady. 'gude guide us, mr. waverley, is this you?--na, ye needna be feared for me--i wad betray nae gentleman in your circumstances. eh, lack-a-day! lack-a-day! here's a change o' markets! how merry colonel mac-ivor and you used to be in our house!' and the good-natured widow shed a few natural tears. as there was no resisting her claim of acquaintance, waverley acknowledged it with a good grace, as well as the danger of his own situation. 'as it's near the darkening, sir, wad ye just step in by to our house, and tak a dish o' tea? and i am sure, if ye like to sleep in the little room, i wad tak care ye are no disturbed, and naebody wad ken ye; for kate and matty, the limmers, gaed aff wi' twa o' hawley's dragoons, and i hae twa new queans instead o' them.' waverley accepted her invitation, and engaged her lodging for a night or two, satisfied he should be safer in the house of this simple creature than anywhere else. when he entered the parlour, his heart swelled to see fergus's bonnet, with the white cockade, hanging beside the little mirror. 'aye,' said mrs. flockhart, sighing, as she observed the direction of his eyes, 'the puir colonel bought a new ane just the day before they marched, and i winna let them tak that ane doun, but just to brush it ilka day mysell; and whiles i look at it till i just think i hear him cry to callum to bring him his bonnet, as he used to do when he was ganging out.--it's unco silly--the neighbours ca' me a jacobite--but they may say their say--i am sure it's no for that--but he was as kind-hearted a gentleman as ever lived, and as weel-fa'rd too. oh, d'ye ken, sir, when he is to suffer?' 'suffer! good heaven!--why, where is he?' 'eh, lord's sake! d'ye no ken? the poor hieland body, dugald mahoney, cam here a while syne, wi' ane o' his arms cuttit off, and a sair clour in the head--ye'll mind dugald? he carried aye an axe on his shouther--and he cam here just begging, as i may say, for something to eat. aweel, he tauld us the chief, as they ca'd him (but i aye ca' him the colonel), and ensign maccombich, that ye mind weel, were ta'en somewhere beside the english border, when it was sae dark that his folk never missed him till it was ower late, and they were like to gang clean daft. and he said that little callum beg (he was a bauld mischievous callant that), and your honour, were killed that same night in the tuilzie, and mony mae braw men. but he grat when he spak o' the colonel, ye never saw tie like. and now the word gangs, the colonel is to be tried, and to suffer wi' them that were ta'en at carlisle.' 'and his sister?' 'aye, that they ca'd the lady flora--weel, she's away up to carlisle to him, and lives wi' some grand papist lady thereabouts, to be near him.' 'and,' said edward, 'the other young lady?' 'whilk other? i ken only of ae sister the colonel had.' 'i mean miss bradwardine,' said edward. 'ou aye, the laird's daughter,' said his landlady. 'she was a very bonny lassie, poor thing, but far shyer than lady flora.' 'where is she, for god's sake?' 'ou, wha kens where ony o' them is now? puir things, they're sair ta'en doun for their white cockades and their white roses; but she gaed north to her father's in perthshire, when the government troops cam back to edinbro'. there was some pretty men amang them, and ane major whacker was quartered on me, a very ceevil gentleman,--but oh, mr. waverley, he was naething sae weel-fa'rd as the puir colonel.' 'do you know what is become of miss bradwardine's father?' 'the auld laird?--na, naebody kens that; but they say he fought very hard in that bluidy battle at inverness; and deacon clark, the white-iron smith, says, that the government folk are sair agane him for having been out twice; and troth he might hae ta'en warning,--but there's nae fule like an auld fule--the puir colonel was only out ance.' such conversation contained almost all the good-natured widow knew of the fate of her late lodgers and acquaintances; but it was enough to determine edward at all hazards to proceed instantly to tully-veolan, where he concluded he should see, or at least hear, something of rose. he therefore left a letter for colonel talbot at the place agreed upon, signed by his assumed name, and giving for his address the post-town next to the baron's residence. from edinburgh to perth he took post-horses, resolving to make the rest of his journey on foot--a mode of travelling to which he was partial, and which had the advantage of permitting a deviation from the road when he saw parties of military at a distance. his campaign had considerably strengthened his constitution, and improved his habits of enduring fatigue. his baggage he sent before him as opportunity occurred. as he advanced northward, the traces of war became visible. broken carriages, dead horses, unroofed cottages, trees felled for palisades, and bridges destroyed, or only partially repaired,--all indicated the movements of hostile armies. in those places where the gentry were attached to the stuart cause, their houses seemed dismantled or deserted, the usual course of what may be called ornamental labour was totally interrupted, and the inhabitants were seen gliding about, with fear, sorrow, and dejection on their faces. it was evening when he approached the village of tully-veolan, with feelings and sentiments--how different from those which attended his first entrance! then, life was so new to him, that a dull or disagreeable day was one of the greatest misfortunes which his imagination anticipated, and it seemed to him that his time ought only to be consecrated to elegant or amusing study, and relieved by social or youthful frolic. now, how changed! how saddened, yet how elevated was his character, within the course of a very few months! danger and misfortune are rapid, though severe teachers. 'a sadder and a wiser man,' he felt, in internal confidence and mental dignity, a compensation for the gay dreams which, in his case, experience had so rapidly dissolved. as he approached the village, he saw, with surprise and anxiety, that a party of soldiers were quartered near it, and, what was worse, that they seemed stationary there. this he conjectured from a few tents which he beheld glimmering upon what was called the common moor. to avoid the risk of being stopped and questioned in a place where he was so likely to be recognized, he made a large circuit, altogether avoiding the hamlet, and approaching the upper gate of the avenue by a by-path well known to him. a single glance announced that great changes had taken place. one half of the gate, entirely destroyed and split up for firewood, lay in piles, ready to be taken away; the other swung uselessly about upon its loosened hinges. the battlements above the gate were broken and thrown down, and the carved bears, which were said to have done sentinel's duty upon the top for centuries, now, hurled from their posts, lay among the rubbish. the avenue was cruelly wasted. several large trees were felled and left lying across the path; and the cattle of the villagers, and the more rude hoofs of dragoon horses, had poached into black mud the verdant turf which waverley had so much admired. upon entering the courtyard, edward saw the fears realized which these circumstances had excited. the place had been sacked by the king's troops, who, in wanton mischief, had even attempted to burn it; and though the thickness of the walls had resisted the fire, unless to a partial extent, the stables and out-houses were totally consumed. the towers and pinnacles of the main building were scorched and blackened; the pavement of the court broken and shattered; the doors torn down entirely, or hanging by a single hinge; the windows dashed in and demolished; and the court strewed with articles of furniture broken into fragments. the accessories of ancient distinction, to which the baron, in the pride of his heart, had attached so much importance and veneration, were treated with peculiar contumely. the fountain was demolished, and the spring which had supplied it now flooded the courtyard. the stone basin seemed to be destined for a drinking-trough for cattle, from the manner in which it was arranged upon the ground. the whole tribe of bears, large and small, had experienced as little favour as those at the head of the avenue; and one or two of the family pictures, which seemed to have served as targets for the soldiers, lay on the ground in tatters. with an aching heart, as may well be imagined, edward viewed this wreck of a mansion so respected. but his anxiety to learn the fate of the proprietors, and his fears as to what that fate might be, increased with every step. when he entered upon the terrace, new scenes of desolation were visible. the balustrade was broken down, the walls destroyed, the borders overgrown with weeds, and the fruit-trees cut down or grubbed up. in one compartment of this old-fashioned garden were two immense horse-chestnut trees, of whose size the baron was particularly vain: too lazy, perhaps, to cut them down, the spoilers, with malevolent ingenuity, had mined them, and placed a quantity of gunpowder in the cavity. one had been shivered to pieces by the explosion, and the fragments lay scattered around, encumbering the ground it had so long shadowed. the other mine had been more partial in its effect. about one-fourth of the trunk of the tree was torn from the mass, which, mutilated and defaced on the one side, still spread on the other its ample and undiminished boughs. [a pair of chestnut trees, destroyed, the one entirely, and the other in part, by such a mischievous and wanton act of revenge, grew at invergarry castle, the fastness of macdonald of glengarry.] amid these general marks of ravage, there were some which more particularly addressed the feelings of waverley. viewing the front of the building, thus wasted and defaced, his eyes naturally sought the little balcony which more properly belonged to rose's apartment--her troisieme, or rather cinquieme etage. it was easily discovered, for beneath it lay the stage-flowers and shrubs with which it was her pride to decorate it, and which had been hurled from the bartizan: several of her books were mingled with broken flower-pots and other remnants. among these, waverley distinguished one of his own, a small copy of ariosto, and gathered it as a treasure, though wasted by the wind and rain. while, plunged in the sad reflections which the scene excited, he was looking around for some one who might explain the fate of the inhabitants, he heard a voice from the interior of the building singing, in well-remembered accents, an old scottish song: they came upon us in the night, and brake my bower and slew my knight: my servants a' for life did flee, and left us in extremitie, they slew my knight, to me sae dear; they slew my knight, and drave his gear; the moon may set, the sun may rise, but a deadly sleep has closed his eyes. [the first three couplets are from an old ballad, called the border widow's lament.] 'alas!' thought edward, 'is it thou? poor helpless being, art thou alone left, to gibber and moan, and fill with thy wild and unconnected scraps of minstrelsy the halls that protected thee?'--he then called, first low, and then louder, 'davie--davie gellatley!' the poor simpleton showed himself from among the ruins of a sort of greenhouse, that once terminated what was called the terrace-walk, but at first sight of a stranger retreated, as if in terror. waverley, remembering his habits, began to whistle a tune to which he was partial, which davie had expressed great pleasure in listening to, and had picked up from him by the ear. our hero's minstrelsy no more equalled that of blondel, than poor davie resembled coeur de lion; but the melody had the same effect of producing recognition. davie again stole from his lurking-place, but timidly, while waverley, afraid of frightening him, stood making the most encouraging signals he could devise.--'it's his ghaist,' muttered davie; yet, coming nearer, he seemed to acknowledge his living acquaintance. the poor fool himself appeared the ghost of what he had been. the peculiar dress in which he had been attired in better days, showed only miserable rags of its whimsical finery, the lack of which was oddly supplied by the remnants of tapestried hangings, window-curtains, and shreds of pictures, with which he had bedizened his tatters. his face, too, had lost its vacant and careless air, and the poor creature looked hollow-eyed, meagre, half-starved, and nervous to a pitiable degree.--after long hesitation, he at length approached waverley with some confidence, stared him sadly in the face, and said, 'a' dead and gane--a' dead and gane!' 'who are dead?' said waverley, forgetting the incapacity of davie to hold any connected discourse. 'baron--and bailie and saunders saunderson and lady rose, that sang sae sweet--a' dead and gane--dead and gane! but follow, follow me, while glow-worms light the lea; i'll show you where the dead should be-- each in his shroud, while winds pipe loud, and the red moon peeps dim through the cloud. follow, follow me; brave should he be that treads by night the dead man's lea.' with these' words, chanted in a wild and earnest tone, he made a sign to waverley to follow him, and walked rapidly towards the bottom of the garden, tracing the bank of the stream, which, it may be remembered, was its eastern boundary. edward, over whom an involuntary shuddering stole at the import of his words, followed him in some hope of an explanation. as the house was evidently deserted, he could not expect to find among the ruins any more rational informer. davie, walking very fast, soon reached the extremity of the garden, and scrambled over the ruins of the wall that once had divided it from the wooded glen in which the old tower of tully-veolan was situated. he then jumped down into the bed of the stream, and, followed by waverley, proceeded at a great pace, climbing over some fragments of rock, and turning with difficulty round others. they passed beneath the ruins of the castle; waverley followed, keeping up with his guide with difficulty, for the twilight began to fall. following the descent of the stream a little lower, he totally lost him, but a twinkling light, which he now discovered among the tangled copse-wood and bushes, seemed a surer guide. he soon pursued a very uncouth path; and by its guidance at length reached the door of a wretched hut. a fierce barking of dogs was at first heard, but it stilled at his approach. a voice sounded from within, and he held it most prudent to listen before he advanced. 'wha hast thou brought here, thou unsonsy villain, thou?' said an old woman, apparently in great indignation. he heard davie gellatley, in answer, whistle a part of the tune by which he had recalled himself to the simpleton's memory, and had now no hesitation to knock at the door. there was a dead silence instantly within, except the deep growling of the dogs; and he next heard the mistress of the hut approach the door, not probably for the sake of undoing a latch, but of fastening a bolt. to prevent this, waverley lifted the latch himself. in front was an old wretched-looking woman, exclaiming, 'wha comes into folk's houses in this gate, at this time o' the night?' on one side, two grim and half-starved deer greyhounds laid aside their ferocity at his appearance, and seemed to recognize him. on the other side, half concealed by the open door, yet apparently seeking that concealment reluctantly, with a cocked pistol in his right hand, and his left in the act of drawing another from his belt, stood a tall bony gaunt figure in the remnants of a faded uniform, and a beard of three weeks' growth. it was the baron of bradwardine. it is unnecessary to add, that he threw aside his weapon, and greeted waverley with a hearty embrace. chapter lxiv comparing of notes the baron's story was short, when divested of the adages and commonplaces, latin, english, and scotch, with which his erudition garnished it. he insisted much upon his grief at the loss of edward and of glennaquoich, fought the fields of falkirk and culloden, and related how, after all was lost in the last battle, he had returned home, under the idea of more easily finding shelter among his own tenants, and on his own estate, than elsewhere. a party of soldiers had been sent to lay waste his property, for clemency was not the order of the day. their proceedings, however, were checked by an order from the civil court. the estate, it was found, might not be forfeited to the crown, to the prejudice of malcolm bradwardine of inch-grabbit, the heir-male, whose claim could not be prejudiced by the baron's attainder, as deriving no right through him, and who, therefore, like other heirs of entail in the same situation, entered upon possession. but, unlike many in similar circumstances, the new laird speedily showed that he intended utterly to exclude his predecessor from all benefit or advantage in the estate, and that it was his purpose to avail himself of the old baron's evil fortune to the full extent. this was the more ungenerous, as it was generally known, that, from a romantic idea of not prejudicing this young man's right as heir-male, the baron had refrained from settling his estate on his daughter. this selfish injustice was resented by the country people, who were partial to their old master, and irritated against his successor. in the baron's own words, 'the matter did not coincide with the feelings of the commons of bradwardine, mr. waverley; and the tenants were slack and repugnant in payment of their mails and duties; and when my kinsman came to the village wi' the new factor, mr. james howie, to lift the rents, some wanchancy person--i suspect john heatherblutter, the auld gamekeeper, that was out wi' me in the year fifteen--fired a shot at him in the gloaming, whereby he was so affrighted, that i may say with tullius in catilinam, abiit, evasit, erupit, effugit. he fled, sir, as one may say, incontinent to stirling. and now he hath advertised the estate for sale, being himself the last substitute in the entail. and if i were to lament about sic matters, this would grieve me mair than its passing from my immediate possession, whilk, by the course of nature, must have happened in a few years. whereas now it passes from the lineage that should have possessed it in saecula saeculorum. but god's will be done, humana perpessi sumus. sir john of bradwardine--black sir john, as he is called--who was the common ancestor of our house and the inch-grabbits, little thought such a person would have sprung from his loins. meantime, he has accused me to some of the primates, the rulers for the time, as if i were a cut-throat, and an abettor of bravoes and assassinates, and coupe-jarrets. and they have sent soldiers here to abide on the estate, and hunt me like a partridge upon the mountains, as scripture says of good king david, or like our valiant sir william wallace,--not that i bring myself into comparison with either.--i thought, when i heard you at the door, they had driven the auld deer to his den at last; and so i e'en proposed to die at bay, like a buck of the first head.--but now, janet, canna ye gie us something for supper?' 'ou aye, sir, i'll brander the moor-fowl that john heatherblutter brought in this morning; and ye see puir davie's roasting the black hen's eggs.--i daur say, mr. wauverley, ye never kend that a' the eggs that were sae weel roasted at supper in the ha'-house were aye turned by our davie?--there's no the like o' him ony gate for powtering wi' his fingers amang the het peat-ashes, and roasting eggs. davie all this while lay with his nose almost in the fire, nuzzling among the ashes, kicking his heels, mumbling to himself, turning the eggs as they lay in the hot embers, as if to confute the proverb, that 'there goes reason to roasting of eggs,' and justify the eulogium which poor janet poured out upon him whom she loved, her idiot boy. davie's no sae silly as folk tak him for, mr. wauverley; he wadna hae brought you here unless he had kend ye was a friend to his honour--indeed the very dogs kend ye, mr. wauverley, for ye was aye kind to beast and body.--i can tell you a story o' davie, wi' his honour's leave: his honour, ye see, being under hiding in thae sair times--the mair's the pity--he lies a' day, and whiles a' night, in the cove in the dern hag; but though it 's a bieldy eneugh bit, and the auld gudeman o' corse-cleugh has panged it wi' a kemple o' strae amaist, yet when the country's quiet, and the night very cauld, his honour whiles creeps doun here to get a warm at the ingle, and a sleep amang the blankets, and gangs awa in the morning. and so, ae morning, siccan a fright as i got! twa unlucky red-coats were up for black-fishing, or some siccan ploy--for the neb o' them's never out o' mischief--and they just got a glisk o' his honour as he gaed into the wood, and banged aff a gun at him, i out like a jer-falcon, and cried,--"wad they shoot an honest woman's poor innocent bairn?" and i fleyt at them, and threepit it was my son; and they damned and swuir at me that it was the auld rebel, as the villains ca'd his honour; and davie was in the wood, and heard the tuilzie, and he, just out o' his ain head, got up the auld grey mantle that his honour had flung off him to gang the faster, and he cam out o' the very same bit o' the wood, majoring and looking about sae like his honour, that they were clean beguiled, and thought they had letten aff their gun at crack-brained sawney, as they ca'd him; and they gae me saxpence, and twa saumon fish, to say naething about it.--na, na; davie's no just like other folk, puir fallow; but he's no sae silly as folk tak him for.--but, to be sure, how can we do eneugh for his honour, when we and ours have lived on his ground this twa hundred years; and when he keepit my puir jamie at school and college, and even at the ha'-house, till he gaed to a better place; and when he saved me frae being ta'en to perth as a witch--lord forgi'e them that would touch sic a puir silly auld body!--and has maintained puir davie at heck and manger maist feck o' his life?' waverley at length found an opportunity to interrupt janet's narrative, by an inquiry after miss bradwardine. 'she's weel and safe, thank god! at the duchran,' answered the baron. 'the laird's distantly related to us, and more nearly to my chaplain, mr. rubrick; and, though he be of whig principles, yet he's not forgetful of auld friendship at this time. the bailie's doing what he can to save something out of the wreck for puir rose; but i doubt, i doubt, i shall never see her again, for i maun lay my banes in some far country.' 'hout na, your honour,' said old janet; 'ye were just as ill aff in the feifteen, and got the bonnie baronie back, an' a'.--and now the eggs is ready, and the muir-cock's brandered, and there's ilk ane a trencher and some saut, and the heel o' the white loaf that cam frae the bailie's; and there's plenty o' brandy in the greybeard that luckie maclearie sent doun; and winna ye be suppered like princes?' 'i wish one prince, at least, of our acquaintance, may be no worse off,' said the baron to waverley, who joined him in cordial hopes for the safety of the unfortunate chevalier. they then began to talk of their future prospects. the baron's plan was very simple. it was, to escape to france, where, by the interest of his old friends, he hoped to get some military employment, of which he still conceived himself capable. he invited waverley to go with him, a proposal in which he acquiesced, providing the interest of colonel talbot should fail in procuring his pardon. tacitly he hoped the baron would sanction his addresses to rose, and give him a right to assist him in his exile; but he forbore to speak on this subject until his own fate should be decided. they then talked of glennaquoich, for whom the baron expressed great anxiety, although, he observed, he was 'the very achilles of horatius flaccus,-- impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer. which,' he continued, 'has been thus rendered (vernacularly) by struan robertson: a fiery etter-cap, a fractious chiel, as het as ginger, and as stieve as steel.' flora had a large and unqualified share of the good old man's sympathy. it was now wearing late. old janet got into some kind of kennel behind the hallan. davie had been long asleep and snoring between ban and buscar. these dogs had followed him to the hut after the mansion-house was deserted, and there constantly resided; and their ferocity, with the old woman's reputation of being a witch, contributed a good deal to keep visitors from the glen. with this view, bailie macwheeble provided janet underhand with meal for their maintenance, and also with little articles of luxury for their patron's use, in supplying which much precaution was necessarily used. after some compliments, the baron occupied his usual couch, and waverley reclined in an easy-chair of tattered velvet, which had once garnished the state bed-room of tully-veolan (for the furniture of this mansion was now scattered through all the cottages in the vicinity), and went to sleep as comfortably as if he had been in a bed of down. chapter lxv more explanation with the first dawn of the day, old janet was scuttling about the house to wake the baron, who usually slept sound and heavily. 'i must go back,' he said to waverley, to my cove: will you walk down the glen wi' me?' they went out together, and followed a narrow and entangled footpath, which the occasional passage of anglers, or wood-cutters, had traced by the side of the stream. on their way, the baron explained to waverley, that he would be under no danger in remaining a day or two at tully-veolan, and even in being seen walking about, if he used the precaution of pretending that he was looking at the estate as agent or surveyor for an english gentleman, who designed to be purchaser. with this view, he recommended to him to visit the bailie, who still lived at the factor's house, called little veolan, about a mile from the village, though he was to remove at next term. stanley's passport would be an answer to the officer who commanded the military; and as to any of the country people who might recognize waverley the baron assured him that he was in no danger of being betrayed by them. 'i believe,' said the old man, 'half the people of the barony know that their poor auld laird is somewhere hereabout; for i see they do not suffer a single bairn to come here a bird-nesting--a practice whilk, when i was in full possession of my power as baron, i was unable totally to inhibit. nay, i often find bits of things in my way, that the poor bodies, god help them! leave there, because they think they may be useful to me. i hope they will get a wiser master, and as kind a one as i was.' a natural sigh closed the sentence; but the quiet equanimity with which the baron endured his misfortunes, had something in it venerable, and even sublime. there was no fruitless repining, no turbid melancholy; he bore his lot, and the hardships which it involved, with a good-humoured, though serious composure, and used no violent language against the prevailing party. 'i did what i thought my duty,' said the good old man, 'and questionless they are doing what they think theirs. it grieves me sometimes to look upon these blackened walls of the house of my ancestors; but doubtless officers cannot always keep the soldier's hand from depredation and spuilzie; and gustavus adolphus himself, as ye may read in colonel munro his expedition with the worthy scotch regiment called mackay's regiment, did often permit it.--indeed i have myself seen as sad sights as tully-veolan now is, when i served with the mareschal duke of berwick. to be sure, we may say with virgilius maro, fuimus troes--and there's the end of an auld sang. but houses and families and men have a' stood lang eneugh when they have stood till they fall with honour; and now i hae gotten a house that is not unlike a domus ultima'--they were now standing below a steep rock. 'we poor jacobites,' continued the baron, looking up, 'are now like the conies in holy scripture (which the great traveller pococke calleth jerboa), a feeble people, that make our abode in the rocks. so, fare you well, my good lad, till we meet at janet's in the even; for i must get into my patmos, which is no easy matter for my auld still limbs.' with that he began to ascend the rock, striding, with the help of his hands, from one precarious footstep to another, till he got about half-way up, where two or three bushes concealed the mouth of a hole, resembling an oven, into which the baron insinuated, first his head and shoulders, and then, by slow gradation, the rest of his long body; his legs and feet finally disappearing, coiled up like a huge snake entering his retreat, or a long pedigree introduced with care and difficulty into the narrow pigeon-hole of an old cabinet. waverley had the curiosity to clamber up and look in upon him in his den, as the lurking-place might well be termed. upon the whole, he looked not unlike that ingenious puzzle, called a reel in a bottle, the marvel of children (and of some grown people too, myself for one), who can neither comprehend the mystery how it was got in, or how it is to be taken out. the cave was very narrow, too low in the roof to admit of his standing, or almost of his sitting up, though he made some awkward attempts at the latter posture. his sole amusement was the perusal of his old friend titus livius, varied by occasionally scratching latin proverbs and texts of scripture with his knife on the roof and walls of his fortalice, which were of sandstone. as the cave was dry, and filled with clean straw and withered fern, 'it made,' as he said, coiling himself up with an air of snugness and comfort which contrasted strangely with his situation, 'unless when the wind was due north, a very passable gite for an old soldier.' neither, as he observed, was he without sentries for the purpose of reconnoitring. davie and his mother were constantly on the watch, to discover and avert danger; and it was singular what instances of address seemed dictated by the instinctive attachment of the poor simpleton, when his patron's safety was concerned. with janet, edward now sought an interview. he had recognized her at first sight as the old woman who had nursed him during his sickness after his delivery from gifted gilfillan. the hut, also, though a little repaired, and somewhat better furnished, was certainly the place of his confinement; and he now recollected on the common moor of tully-veolan the trunk of a large decayed tree, called the trysting-tree, which he had no doubt was the same at which the highlanders rendezvoused on that memorable night. all this he had combined in his imagination the night before; but reasons, which may probably occur to the reader, prevented him from catechizing janet in the presence of the baron. he now commenced the task in good earnest; and the first question was, who was the young lady that visited the hut during his illness? janet paused for a little; and then observed, that to keep the secret now, would neither do good nor ill to anybody. 'it was just a leddy that hasna her equal in the world--miss rose bradwardine.' 'then miss rose was probably also the author of my deliverance,' inferred waverley, delighted at the confirmation of an idea which local circumstances had already induced him to entertain. 'i wot weel, mr. wauverley, and that was she e'en; but sair, sair angry and affronted wad she hae been, puir thing, if she had thought ye had been ever to ken a word about the matter; for she gar'd me speak aye gaelic when ye was in hearing, to mak ye trow we were in the hielands. i can speak it well eneugh, for my mother was a hieland woman.' a few more questions now brought out the whole mystery respecting waverley's deliverance from the bondage in which he left cairnvreckan. never did music sound sweeter to an amateur, than the drowsy tautology, with which old janet detailed every circumstance, thrilled upon the ears of waverley. but my reader is not a lover, and i must spare his patience, by attempting to condense within reasonable compass the narrative which old janet spread through a harangue of nearly two hours, when waverley communicated to fergus the letter he had received from rose bradwardine, by davie gellatley, giving an account of tully-veolan being occupied by a small party of soldiers, that circumstance had struck upon the busy and active mind of the chieftain. eager to distress and narrow the posts of the enemy, desirous to prevent their establishing a garrison so near him, and willing also to oblige the baron,--for he often had the idea of marriage with rose floating through his brain,--he resolved to send some of his people to drive out the red-coats, and to bring rose to glennaquoich. but just as he had ordered evan with a small party on this duty, the news of cope's having marched into the highlands to meet and disperse the forces of the chevalier, ere they came to a head, obliged him to join the standard with his whole forces. he sent to order donald bean to attend him; but that cautious freebooter, who well understood the value of a separate command, instead of joining, sent various apologies which the pressure of the times compelled fergus to admit as current, though not without the internal resolution of being revenged on him for his procrastination, time and place convenient. however, as he could not amend the matter, he issued orders to donald to descend into the low country, drive the soldiers from tully-veolan, and, paying all respect to the mansion of the baron, to take his abode somewhere near it, for protection of his daughter and family, and to harass and drive away any of the armed volunteers, or small parties of military, which he might find moving about the vicinity. as this charge formed a sort of roving commission, which donald proposed to interpret in the way most advantageous to himself, as he was relieved from the immediate terrors of fergus, and as he had, from former secret services, some interest in the councils of the chevalier, he resolved to make hay while the sun shone. he achieved, without difficulty, the task of driving the soldiers from tully-veolan; but although he did not venture to encroach upon the interior of the family, or to disturb miss rose, being unwilling to make himself a powerful enemy in the chevalier's army, for well he knew the baron's wrath was deadly; yet he set about to raise contributions and exactions upon the tenantry, and otherwise to turn the war to his own advantage. meanwhile he mounted the white cockade, and waited upon rose with a pretext of great devotion for the service in which her father was engaged, and many apologies for the freedom he must necessarily use for the support of his people. it was at this moment that rose learned, by open-mouthed fame, with all sorts of exaggeration, that waverley had killed the smith of cairnvreckan, in an attempt to arrest him; had been cast into a dungeon by major melville of cairnvreckan, and was to be executed by martial law within three days. in the agony which these tidings excited, she proposed to donald bean the rescue of the prisoner. it was the very sort of service which he was desirous to undertake, judging it might constitute a merit of such a nature as would make amends for any peccadilloes which he might be guilty of in the country. he had the art, however, pleading all the while duty and discipline, to hold off, until poor rose, in the extremity of her distress, offered to bribe him to the enterprise with some valuable jewels which had been her mother's. donald bean, who had served in france, knew, and perhaps over-estimated, the value of these trinkets. but he also perceived rose's apprehensions of its being discovered that she had parted with her jewels for waverley's liberation. resolved this scruple should not part him and the treasure, he voluntarily offered to take an oath that he would never mention miss rose's share in the transaction; and foreseeing convenience in keeping the oath, and no probable advantage in breaking it, he took the engagement--in order, as he told his lieutenant, to deal handsomely by the young lady--in the only form and mode which, by a mental paction with himself, he considered as binding--he swore secrecy upon his drawn dirk. he was the more especially moved to this act of good faith by some attentions that miss bradwardine showed to his daughter alice, which, while they gained the heart of the mountain damsel, highly gratified the pride of her father. alice, who could now speak a little english, was very communicative in return for rose's kindness, readily confided to her the whole papers respecting the intrigue with gardiner's regiment, of which she was the depositary, and as readily undertook, at her instance, to restore them to waverley without her father's knowledge. 'for they may oblige the bonnie young lady and the handsome young gentleman,' said alice, 'and what use has my father for a whin bits o' scarted paper?' the reader is aware that she took an opportunity of executing this purpose on the eve of waverley's leaving the glen. how donald executed his enterprise, the reader is aware. but the expulsion of the military from tully-veolan had given alarm, and, while he was lying in wait for gilfillan, a strong party, such as donald did not care to face, was sent to drive back the insurgents in their turn, to encamp there, and to protect the country. the officer, a gentleman and a disciplinarian, neither intruded himself on miss bradwardine, whose unprotected situation he respected, nor permitted his soldiers to commit any breach of discipline. he formed a little camp, upon an eminence near the house of tully-veolan, and placed proper guards at the passes in the vicinity. this unwelcome news reached donald bean lean as he was returning to tully-veolan. determined, however, to obtain the guerdon of his labour, he resolved, since approach to tully-veolan was impossible; to deposit his prisoner in janet's cottage--a place the very existence of which could hardly have been suspected even by those who had long lived in the vicinity, unless they had been guided thither, and which was utterly unknown to waverley himself. this effected, he claimed and received his reward. waverley's illness was an event which deranged all their calculations. donald was obliged to leave the neighbourhood with his people, and to seek more free course for his adventures elsewhere. at rose's earnest entreaty, he left an old man, a herbalist, who was supposed to understand a little of medicine, to attend waverley during his illness. in the meanwhile, new and fearful doubts started in rose's mind. they were suggested by old janet, who insisted, that a reward having been offered for the apprehension of waverley, and his own personal effects being so valuable, there was no saying to what breach of faith donald might be tempted. in an agony of grief and terror, rose took the daring resolution of explaining to the prince himself the danger in which mr. waverley stood, judging that, both as a politician, and a man of honour and humanity, charles edward would interest himself to prevent his falling into the hands of the opposite party. this letter she at first thought of sending anonymously, but naturally feared it would not, in that case, be credited. she therefore subscribed her name, though with reluctance and terror, and consigned it in charge to a young man, who, at leaving his farm to join the chevalier's army, made it his petition to her to have some sort of credentials to the adventurer, from whom he hoped to obtain a commission. the letter reached charles edward on his descent to the lowlands, and, aware of the political importance of having it supposed that he was in correspondence with the english jacobites, he caused the most positive orders to be transmitted to donald bean lean, to transmit waverley, safe and uninjured in person or effects, to the governor of doune castle. the freebooter durst not disobey, for the army of the prince was now so near him that punishment might have followed; besides, he was a politician as well as a robber, and was unwilling to cancel the interest created through former secret services, by being refractory on this occasion. he therefore made a virtue of necessity, and transmitted orders to his lieutenant to convey edward to doune, which was safely accomplished in the mode mentioned in a former chapter. the governor of doune was directed to send him to edinburgh as a prisoner, because the prince was apprehensive that waverley, if set at liberty, might have resumed his purpose of returning to england, without affording him an opportunity of a personal interview. in this, indeed, he acted by the advice of the chieftain of glennaquoich, with whom it may be remembered the chevalier communicated upon the mode of disposing of edward, though without telling him how he came to learn the place of his confinement. this, indeed, charles edward considered as a lady's secret; for although rose's letter was couched in the most cautious and general terms, and professed to be written merely from motives of humanity, and zeal for the prince's service, yet she expressed so anxious a wish that she should not be known to have interfered, that the chevalier was induced to suspect the deep interest which she took in waverley's safety. this conjecture, which was well founded, led, however, to false inferences. for the emotion which edward displayed on approaching flora and rose at the ball of holyrood, was placed by the chevalier to the account of the latter, and he concluded that the baron's views about the settlement of his property, or some such obstacle, thwarted their mutual inclinations. common fame, it is true, frequently gave waverley to miss mac-ivor; but the prince knew that common fame is very prodigal in such gifts; and, watching attentively the behaviour of the ladies towards waverley, he had no doubt that the young englishman had no interest with flora, and was beloved by rose bradwardine. desirous to bind waverley to his service, and wishing also to do a kind and friendly action, the prince next assailed the baron on the subject of settling his estate upon his daughter. mr. bradwardine acquiesced; but the consequence was, that fergus was immediately induced to prefer his double suit for a wife and an earldom, which the prince rejected in the manner we have seen. the chevalier, constantly engaged in his own multiplied affairs, had not hitherto sought any explanation with waverley, though often meaning to do so. but after fergus's declaration, he saw the necessity of appearing neutral between the rivals, devoutly hoping that the matter, which now seemed fraught with the seeds of strife, might be permitted to lie over till the termination of the expedition. when on the march to derby, fergus, being questioned concerning his quarrel with waverley, alleged as the cause, that edward was desirous of retracting the suit he made to his sister, the chevalier plainly told him, that he had himself observed miss mac-ivor's behaviour to waverley, and that he was convinced fergus was under the influence of a mistake in judging of waverley's conduct, who, he had every reason to believe, was engaged to miss bradwardine. the quarrel which ensued between edward and the chieftain is, i hope, still in the remembrance of the reader. these circumstances will serve to explain such points of our narrative as, according to the custom of story-tellers, we deemed it fit to leave unexplained, for the purpose of exciting the reader's curiosity. when janet had once finished the leading facts of this narrative, waverley was easily enabled to apply the clue which they afforded, to other mazes of the labyrinth in which he had been engaged. to rose bradwardine, then, he owed the life which he now thought he could willingly have laid down to serve her. a little reflection convinced him, however, that to live for her sake was more convenient and agreeable, and that, being possessed of independence, she might share it with him either in foreign countries or in his own. the pleasure of being allied to a man of the baron's high worth, and who was so much valued by his uncle sir everard, was also an agreeable consideration, had anything been wanting to recommend the match. his absurdities, which had appeared grotesquely ludicrous during his prosperity, seemed, in the sunset of his fortune, to be harmonized and assimilated with the noble features of his character, so as to add peculiarity without exciting ridicule. his mind occupied with such projects of future happiness, edward sought little veolan, the habitation of mr. duncan macwheeble. chapter lxvi now is cupid like a child of conscience--he makes restitution.--shakespeare. mr. duncan macwheeble, no longer commissary or bailie, though still enjoying the empty name of the latter dignity, had escaped proscription by an early secession from the insurgent party and by his insignificance. edward found him in his office, immersed among papers and accounts. before him was a large bicker of oatmeal-porridge, and at the side thereof, a horn-spoon and a bottle of two-penny. eagerly running his eye over a voluminous law-paper, he from time to time shovelled an immense spoonful of these nutritive viands into his capacious mouth. a pot-bellied dutch bottle of brandy which stood by, intimated either that this honest limb of the law had taken his morning already, or that he meant to season his porridge with such digestive; or perhaps both circumstances might reasonably be inferred. his night-cap and morning-gown had whilome been of tartan, but, equally cautious and frugal, the honest bailie had got them dyed black, lest their original ill-omened colour might remind his visitors of his unlucky excursion to derby. to sum up the picture, his face was daubed with snuff up to the eyes, and his fingers with ink up to the knuckles. he looked dubiously at waverley as he approached the little green rail which fenced his desk and stool from the approach of the vulgar. nothing could give the bailie more annoyance than the idea of his acquaintance being claimed by any of the unfortunate gentlemen who were now so much more likely to need assistance than to afford profit. but this was the rich young englishman--who knew what might be his situation?--he was the baron's friend too--what was to be done? while these reflections gave an air of absurd perplexity to the poor man's visage, waverley, reflecting on the communication he was about to make to him, of a nature so ridiculously contrasted with the appearance of the individual, could not help bursting out a-laughing, as he checked the propensity to exclaim with syphax-- cato's a proper person to entrust a love-tale with. as mr. macwheeble had no idea of any person laughing heartily who was either encircled by peril or oppressed by poverty, the hilarity of edward's countenance greatly relieved the embarrassment of his own, and, giving him a tolerably hearty welcome to little veolan, he asked what he would choose for breakfast. his visitor had, in the first place, something for his private ear, and begged leave to bolt the door. duncan by no means liked this precaution, which savoured of danger to be apprehended; but he could not now draw back. convinced he might trust this man, as he could make it his interest to be faithful, edward communicated his present situation and future schemes to macwheeble. the wily agent listened with apprehension when he found waverley was still in a state of proscription--was somewhat comforted by learning that he had a passport--rubbed his hands with glee when he mentioned the amount of his present fortune--opened huge eyes when he heard the brilliancy of his future expectations; but when he expressed his intention to share them with miss rose bradwardine, ecstasy had almost deprived the honest man of his senses. the bailie started from his three-footed stool like the pythoness from her tripod; flung his best wig out of the window, because the block on which it was placed stood in the way of his career; chucked his cap to the ceiling, caught it as it fell; whistled tullochgorum; danced a highland fling with inimitable grace and agility; and then threw himself exhausted into a chair, exclaiming, 'lady wauverley!--ten thousand a year, the least penny!--lord preserve my poor understanding!' 'amen, with all my heart,' said waverley;--'but now, mr. macwheeble, let us proceed to business.' this word had a somewhat sedative effect, but the bailie's head, as he expressed himself, was still 'in the bees.' he mended his pen, however, marked half a dozen sheets of paper with an ample marginal fold, whipped down dallas of st. martin's styles from a shelf, where that venerable work roosted with stair's institutions, dirleton's doubts, balfour's practiques, and a parcel of old account-books-opened the volume at the article contract of marriage, and prepared to make what he called a 'sma' minute, to prevent parties frae resiling. with some difficulty, waverley made him comprehend that he was going a little too fast. he explained to him that he should want his assistance, in the first place, to make his residence safe for the time, by writing to the officer at tully-veolan, that mr. stanley, an english gentleman, nearly related to colonel talbot, was upon a visit of business at mr. macwheeble's, and, knowing the state of the country, had sent his passport for captain foster's inspection. this produced a polite answer from the officer, with an invitation to mr. stanley to dine with him, which was declined (as may easily be supposed), under pretence of business. waverley's next request was, that mr. macwheeble would dispatch a man and horse to --, the post-town, at which colonel talbot was to address him, with directions to wait there until the post should bring a letter for mr. stanley, and then to forward it to little veolan with all speed. in a moment, the bailie was in search of his apprentice (or servitor, as he was called sixty years since), jock scriever, and in not much greater space of time, jock was on the back of the white pony. 'tak care ye guide him weel, sir, for he's aye been short in the wind since--ahem--lord be gude to me!' (in a low voice) 'i was gaun to come out wi'--since i rode whip and spur to fetch the chevalier to redd mr. wauverley and vich ian vohr; and an uncanny coup i gat for my pains.--lord forgie your honour! i might hae broken my neck--but troth it was in a venture, mae ways nor ane; but this maks amends for a'. lady wauverley!--ten thousand a year!--lord be gude unto me!' 'but you forget, mr. macwheeble, we want the baron's consent--the lady's--' 'never fear, i'se be caution for them--i'se gie you my personal warrandice--ten thousand a year! it dings balmawhapple out and out--a year's rent's worth a' balmawhapple, fee and life-rent! lord make us thankful!' to turn the current of his feelings, edward inquired if he had heard anything lately of the chieftain of glennaquoich? 'not one word,' answered macwheeble, 'but that he was still in carlisle castle, and was soon to be panelled for his life. i dinna wish the young gentleman ill,' he said, 'but i hope that they that hae got him will keep him, and no let him back to this hieland border to plague us wi' blackmail, and a' manner o' violent, wrongous, and masterfu' oppression and spoliation, both by himself and others of his causing, sending, and hounding out:--and he couldna tak care o' the siller when he had gotten it neither, but flung it a' into yon idle quean's lap at edinburgh--but light come light gane. for my part, i never wish to see a kilt in the country again, nor a red-coat, nor a gun, for that matter, unless it were to shoot a paitrick:--they're a' tarr'd wi' ae stick. and when they have done ye wrang, even when ya hae gotten decreet of spuilzie, oppression, and violent profits against them, what better are ye?--they hae na a plack to pay ye; ye need never extract it.' with such discourse, and the intervening topics of business, the time passed until dinner, macwheeble meanwhile promising to devise some mode of introducing edward at the duchran, where rose at present resided, without risk of danger or suspicion; which seemed no very easy task, since the laird was a very zealous friend to government.--the poultry-yard had been laid under requisition, and cockyleeky and scotch collops soon reeked in the bailie's little parlour. the landlord's corkscrew was just introduced into the muzzle of a pint-bottle of claret (cribbed possibly from the cellars of tully-veolan), when the sight of the grey pony, passing the window at full trot, induced the bailie, but with due precaution, to place it aside for the moment. enter jock scriever with a packet for mr. stanley: it is colonel talbot's seal; and edward's fingers tremble as he undoes it. two official papers, folded, signed, and sealed in all formality, drop out. they were hastily picked up by the bailie, who had a natural respect for everything resembling a deed, and, glancing slily on their titles, his eyes, or rather spectacles, are greeted with 'protection by his royal highness to the person of cosmo comyne bradwardine, esq. of that ilk, commonly called baron of bradwardine, forfeited for his accession to the late rebellion.' the other proves to be a protection of the same tenor in favour of edward waverley, esq. colonel talbot's letter was in these words:-- 'my dear edward, 'i am just arrived here, and yet i have finished my business; it has cost me some trouble though, as you shall hear. i waited upon his royal highness immediately on my arrival, and found him in no very good humour for my purpose. three or four scotch gentlemen were just leaving his levee. after he had expressed himself to me very courteously; "would you think it," he said, "talbot? here have been half a dozen of the most respectable gentlemen, and best friends to government north of the forth,--major melville of cairnvreckan, rubrick of duchran, and others,--who have fairly wrung from me, by their downright importunity, a present protection, and the promise of a future pardon, for that stubborn old rebel whom they call baron of bradwardine. they allege that his high personal character, and the clemency which he showed to such of our people as fell into the rebels' hands, should weigh in his favour; especially as the loss of his estate is likely to be a severe enough punishment. rubrick has undertaken to keep him at his own house till things are settled in the country; but it's a little hard to be forced in a manner to pardon such a mortal enemy to the house of brunswick." this was no favourable moment for opening my business:--however, i said i was rejoiced to learn that his royal highness was in the course of granting such requests, as it emboldened me to present one of the like nature in my own name. he was very angry, but i persisted;--i mentioned the uniform support of our three votes in the house, touched modestly on services abroad, though valuable only in his royal highness's having been pleased kindly to accept them, and founded pretty strongly on his own expressions of friendship and goodwill. he was embarrassed, but obstinate. i hinted the policy of detaching, on all future occasions, the heir of such a fortune as your uncle's from the machinations of the disaffected. but i made no impression. i mentioned the obligation which i lay under to sir everard, and to you personally, and claimed, as the sole reward of my services, that he would be pleased to afford me the means of evincing my gratitude. i perceived that he still meditated a refusal, and, taking my commission from my pocket, i said (as a last resource), that as his royal highness did not, under these pressing circumstances, think me worthy of a favour which he had not scrupled to grant to other gentlemen, whose services i could hardly judge more important than my own, i must beg leave to deposit, with all humility, my commission in his royal highness's hands, and to retire from the service. he was not prepared for this;--he told me to take up my commission; said some handsome things of my services, and granted my request. you are therefore once more a free man, and i have promised for you that you will be a good boy in future, and remember what you owe to the lenity of government. thus you see my prince can be as generous as yours. i do not pretend, indeed, that he confers a favour with all the foreign graces and compliments of your chevalier errant; but he has a plain english manner, and the evident reluctance with which he grants your request, indicates the sacrifice which he makes of his own inclination to your wishes. my friend, the adjutant-general, has procured me a duplicate of the baron's protection (the original being in major melville's possession), which i send to you, as i know that if you can find him you will have pleasure in being the first to communicate the joyful intelligence. he will of course repair to the duchran without loss of time, there to ride quarantine for a few weeks. as for you, i give you leave to escort him thither, and to stay a week there, as i understand a certain fair lady is in that quarter. and i have the pleasure to tell you, that whatever progress you can make in her good graces will be highly agreeable to sir everard and mrs. rachel, who will never believe your view and prospects settled, and the three ermines passant in actual safety, until you present them with a mrs. edward waverley. now, certain love-affairs of my own--a good many years since--interrupted some measures which were then proposed in favour of the three ermines passant; so i am bound in honour to make them amends. therefore make good use of your time, for when your week is expired, it will be necessary that you go to london to plead your pardon in the law courts. 'ever, dear waverley, yours most truly, 'philip talbot.' chapter lxvii happy 's the wooing that's not long a-doing. when the first rapturous sensation occasioned by these excellent tidings had somewhat subsided, edward proposed instantly to go down to the glen to acquaint the baron with their import. but the cautious bailie justly observed, that if the baron were to appear instantly in public, the tenantry and villagers might become riotous in expressing their joy, and give offence to 'the powers that be,' a sort of persons for whom the bailie always had unlimited respect. he therefore proposed that mr. waverley should go to janet gellatley's, and bring the baron up under cloud of night to little veolan, where he might once more enjoy the luxury of a good bed. in the meanwhile, he said, he himself would go to captain foster, and show him the baron's protection, and obtain his countenance for harbouring him that night,--and he would have horses ready on the morrow to set him on his way to the duchran along with mr. stanley, 'whilk denomination, i apprehend, your honour will for the present retain,' said the bailie. 'certainly, mr. macwheeble; but will you not go down to the glen yourself in the evening to meet your patron?' 'that i wad wi' a' my heart; and mickle obliged to your honour for putting me in mind o' my bounden duty. but it will be past sunset afore i get back frae the captain's, and at these unsonsy hours the glen has a bad name--there's something no that canny about auld janet gellatley. the laird he'll no believe thae things, but he was aye ower rash and venturesome--and feared neither man nor deevil--and sae's seen o't. but right sure am i sir george mackenyie says, that no divine can doubt there are witches, since the bible says thou shalt not suffer them to live; and that no lawyer in scotland can doubt it, since it is punishable with death by our law. so there's baith law and gospel for it. an his honour winna believe the leviticus, he might aye believe the statute-book; but he may tak his ain way o't--it's a' ane to duncan macwheeble. however, i shall send to ask up auld janet this e'en; it 's best no to lightly them that have that character--and we'll want davie to turn the spit, for i'll gar eppie put down a fat goose to the fire for your honours to your supper.' when it was near sunset, waverley hastened to the hut; and he could not but allow that superstition had chosen no improper locality, or unfit object, for the foundation of her fantastic terrors. it resembled exactly the description of spenser: there, in a gloomy hollow glen, she found. a little cottage built of sticks and reeds, in homely wise, and wall'd with sods around, in which a witch did dwell in loathly weeds, and wilful want, all careless of her needs; so choosing solitary to abide far from all neighbours, that her devilish deeds, and hellish arts, from people she might hide, and hurt far off, unknown, whomsoever she espied. he entered the cottage with these verses in his memory. poor old janet, bent double with age, and bleared with peat-smoke, was tottering about the hut with a birch broom, muttering to herself as she endeavoured to make her hearth and floor a little clean for the reception of her expected guests. waverley's step made her start, look up, and fall a-trembling, so much had her nerves been on the rack for her patron's safety. with difficulty waverley made her comprehend that the baron was now safe from personal danger; and when her mind had admitted that joyful news, it was equally hard to make her believe that he was not to enter again upon possession of his estate. 'it behoved to be,' she said, 'he wad get it back again; naebody wad be sae gripple as to tak his gear after they had gi'en him a pardon: and for that inch-grabbit, i could whiles wish mysell a witch for his sake, if i werena feared the enemy wad tak me at my word.' waverley then gave her some money, and promised that her fidelity should be rewarded. 'how can i be rewarded, sir, sae weel, as just to see my auld maister and miss rose come back and bruik their ain?' waverley now took leave of janet, and soon stood beneath the baron's patmos. at a low whistle, he observed the veteran peeping out to reconnoitre, like an old badger with his head out of his hole. 'ye hae come rather early, my good lad,' said he, descending; 'i question if the red-coats hae beat the tattoo yet, and we're not safe till then.' 'good news cannot be told too soon,' said waverley; and with infinite joy communicated to him the happy tidings. the old man stood for a moment in silent devotion, then exclaimed, 'praise be to god!--i shall see my bairn again.' 'and never, i hope, to part with her more,' said waverley. 'i trust in god, not, unless it be to win the means of supporting her; for my things are but in a bruckle state;--but what signifies warld's gear?' 'and if,' said waverley, modestly, 'there were a situation in life which would put miss bradwardine beyond the uncertainty of fortune, and in the rank to which she was born, would you object to it, my dear baron, because it would make one of your friends the happiest man in the world?' the baron turned, and looked at him with great earnestness. 'yes,' continued edward, 'i shall not consider my sentence of banishment as repealed, unless you will give me permission to accompany you to the duchran, and--' the baron seemed collecting all his dignity to make a suitable reply to what, at another time, he would have treated as the propounding a treaty of alliance between the houses of bradwardine and waverley. but his efforts were in vain; the father was too mighty for the baron; the pride of birth and rank were swept away: in the joyful surprise, a slight convulsion passed rapidly over his features as he gave way to the feelings of nature, threw his arms around waverley's neck, and sobbed out,--'my son! my son!--if i had been to search the world, i would have made my choice here.' edward returned the embrace with great sympathy of feeling, and for a little while they both kept silence. at length it was broken by edward. but miss bradwardine?' 'she had never a will but her old father's; besides, you are a likely youth, of honest principles and high birth; no, she never had any other will than mine, and in my proudest days i could not have wished a mair eligible espousal for her than the nephew of my excellent old friend, sir everard.--but i hope, young man, ye deal na rashly in this matter? i hope ye hae secured the approbation of your ain friends and allies, particularly of your uncle, who is in loco parentis? ah! we maun tak heed o' that.' edward assured him that sir everard would think himself highly honoured in the flattering reception his proposal had met with, and that it had his entire approbation; in evidence of which, he put colonel talbot's letter into the baron's hand. the baron read it with great attention. 'sir everard,' he said, 'always despised wealth in comparison of honour and birth; and indeed he had no occasion to court the diva pecunia. yet i now wish, since this malcolm turns out such a parricide, for i can call him no better, as to think of alienating the family inheritance-i now wish' (his eyes fixed on a part of the roof which was visible above the trees) 'that i could have left rose the auld hurley-house, and the riggs belanging to it.--and yet,' said he, resuming more cheerfully, 'it's maybe as weel as it is; for, as baron of bradwardine, i might have thought it my duty to insist upon certain compliances respecting name and bearings, whilk now, as a landless laird wi' a tocherless daughter, no one can blame me for departing from.' 'now, heaven be praised!' thought edward, 'that sir everard does not hear these scruples!--the three ermines passsat and rampant bear would certainly have gone together by the ears.' he then, with all the ardour of a young lover, assured the baron, that he sought for his happiness only in rose's heart and hand, and thought himself as happy in her father's simple approbation, as if he had settled an earldom upon his daughter. they now reached little veolan. the goose was smoking on the table, and the bailie brandished his knife and fork. a joyous greeting took place between him and his patron. the kitchen, too, had its company. auld janet was established at the ingle-nook; davie had turned the spit to his immortal honour; and even ban and buscar, in the liberality of macwheeble's joy, had been stuffed to the throat with food, and now lay snoring on the floor. the next day conducted the baron and his young friend to the duchran, where the former was expected, in consequence of the success of the nearly unanimous application of the scottish friends of government in his favour. this had been so general and so powerful, that it was almost thought his estate might have been saved, had it not passed into the rapacious hands-of his unworthy kinsman, whose right, arising out of the baron's attainder, could not be affected by a pardon from the crown. the old gentleman, however, said, with his usual spirit, he was more gratified by the hold he possessed in the good opinion of his neighbours, than he would have been in being 'rehabilitated and restored in integrum, had it been found practicable.' we shall not attempt to describe the meeting of the father and daughter,--loving each other so affectionately, and separated under such perilous circumstances. still less shall we attempt to analyse the deep blush of rose, at receiving the compliments of waverley, or stop to inquire whether she had any curiosity respecting the particular cause of his journey to scotland at that period. we shall not; even trouble the reader with the humdrum details of a courtship sixty years since. it is enough to say, that, under so strict a martinet as the baron, all things were conducted in due form. he took upon himself, the morning after their arrival, the task of announcing the proposal of waverley to rose, which she heard with a proper degree of maiden timidity. fame does, however, say, that waverley had, the evening before, found five minutes to apprize her of what was coming, while the rest of the company were looking at three twisted serpents which formed a jet d'eau in the garden. my fair readers will judge for themselves; but, for my part, i cannot conceive how so important an affair could be communicated in so short a space of time;--at least, it certainly took a full hour in the baron's mode of conveying it. waverley was now considered as a received lover in all the forms. he was made, by dint of smirking and nodding on the part of the lady of the house, to sit next to miss bradwardine at dinner, to be miss bradwardine's partner at cards. if he came into the room, she of the four miss rubricks who chanced to be next rose, was sure to recollect that her thimble, or her scissors, were at the other end of the room, in order to leave the seat nearest to miss bradwardine vacant for his occupation, and sometimes, if papa and mamma were not in the way to keep them on their good behaviour, the misses would titter a little. the old laird of duchran would also have his occasional jest, and the old lady her remark. even the baron could not refrain; but here rose escaped every embarrassment but that of conjecture, for his wit was usually couched in a latin quotation. the very footmen sometimes grinned too broadly, the maid-servants giggled mayhap too loud, and a provoking air of intelligence seemed to pervade the whole family. alice bean, the pretty maid of the cavern, who, after her father's misfortune, as she called it, had attended rose as fille-de-chambre, smiled and smirked with the best of them. rose and edward, however, endured all these little vexatious circumstances as other folks have done before and since, and probably contrived to obtain some indemnification, since they are not supposed, on the whole, to have been particularly unhappy during waverley's six days' stay at the duchran. it was finally arranged that edward should go to waverley-honour to make the necessary arrangements for his marriage, thence to london to take the proper measures for pleading his pardon, and return as soon as possible to claim the hand of his plighted bride. he also intended in his journey to visit colonel talbot; but, above all, it was his most important object to learn the fate of the unfortunate chief of glennaquoich; to visit him at carlisle, and to try whether anything could be done for procuring, if not a pardon, a commutation at least, or alleviation, of the punishment to which he was almost certain of being condemned;--and in case of the worst, to offer the miserable flora an asylum with rose, or otherwise to assist her views in any mode which might seem possible. the fate of fergus seemed hard to be averted. edward had already striven to interest his friend colonel talbot in his behalf; but had been given distinctly to understand, by his reply, that his credit in matters of that nature was totally exhausted. the colonel was still in edinburgh, and proposed to wait there for some months upon business confided to him by the duke of cumberland. he was to be joined by lady emily, to whom easy travelling and goat's whey were recommended, and who was to journey northward, under the escort of francis stanley. edward, therefore, met the colonel at edinburgh, who wished him joy in the kindest manner on his approaching happiness, and cheerfully undertook many commissions which our hero was necessarily obliged to delegate to his charge. but on the subject of fergus he was inexorable. he satisfied edward, indeed, that his interference would be unavailing; but besides, colonel talbot owned that he could not conscientiously use any influence in favour of that unfortunate gentleman. 'justice,' he said, 'which demanded some penalty of those who had wrapped the whole nation in fear and in mourning, could not perhaps have selected a fitter victim, he came to the field with the fullest light upon the nature of his attempt. he had studied and understood the subject. his father's fate could not intimidate him; the lenity of the laws which had restored to him his father's property and rights could not melt him. that he was brave, generous, and possessed many good qualities, only rendered him the more dangerous; that he was enlightened and accomplished, made his crime the less excusable; that he was an enthusiast in a wrong cause, only made him the more fit to be its martyr. above all, he had been the means of bringing many hundreds of men into the field, who, without him, would never have broken the peace of the country. 'i repeat it,' said the colonel, 'though heaven knows with a heart distressed for him as an individual, that this young gentleman has studied and fully understood the desperate game which he has played. he threw for life or death, a coronet or a coffin; and he cannot now be permitted, with justice to the country, to draw stakes because the dice have gone against him.' such was the reasoning of those times, held even by brave and humane men towards a vanquished enemy. let us devoutly hope, that, in this respect at least, we shall never see the scenes, or hold the sentiments, that were general in britain sixty years since. chapter lxviii: to-morrow? oh that's sudden! spare him! spare him! shakespeare. edward, attended by his former servant alick polwarth, who had re-entered his service at edinburgh, reached carlisle while the commission of oyer and terminer on his unfortunate associates was yet sitting. he had pushed forward in haste,--not, alas! with the most distant hope of saving fergus, but to see him for the last time. i ought to have mentioned, that he had furnished funds for the defence of the prisoners in the most liberal manner, as soon as he heard that the day of trial was fixed. a solicitor, and the first counsel, accordingly attended; but it was upon the same footing on which the first physicians are usually summoned to the bedside of some dying man of rank;--the doctors to take the advantage of some incalculable chance of an exertion of nature--the lawyers to avail themselves of the barely possible occurrence of some legal flaw. edward pressed into the court, which was extremely crowded; but by his arriving from the north, and his extreme eagerness and agitation, it was supposed he was a relation of the prisoners, and people made way for him. it was the third sitting of the court, and there were two men at the bar. the verdict of guilty was already pronounced. edward just glanced at the bar during the momentous pause which ensued. there was no mistaking the stately form and noble features of fergus mac-ivor, although his dress was squalid, and his countenance tinged with the sickly yellow hue of long and close imprisonment. by his side was evan maccombich. edward felt sick and dizzy as he gazed on them; but he was recalled to himself as the clerk of the arraigns pronounced the solemn words: 'fergus mac-ivor of glennaquoich, otherwise called vich ian vohr, and evan mac-ivor, in the dhu of tarrascleugh, otherwise called evan dhu, otherwise called evan maccombich, or evan dhu maccombich--you, and each of you, stand attainted of high treason. what have you to say for yourselves why the court should not pronounce judgement against you, that you die according to law?' fergus, as the presiding judge was putting on the fatal cap of judgement, placed his own bonnet upon his head, regarded him with a steadfast and stern look, and replied in a firm voice, 'i cannot let this numerous audience suppose that to such an appeal i have no answer to make. but what i have to say, you would not bear to hear, for my defence would be your condemnation. proceed, then, in the name of god, to do what is permitted to you. yesterday, and the day before, you have condemned loyal and honourable blood to be poured forth like water. spare not mine. were that of all my ancestors in my veins, i would have peril'd it in this quarrel.' he resumed his seat, and refused again to rise. evan maccombich looked at him with great earnestness, and, rising up, seemed anxious to speak; but the confusion of the court, and the perplexity arising from thinking in a language different from that in which he was to express himself, kept him silent. there was a murmur of compassion among the spectators, from an idea that the poor fellow intended to plead the influence of his superior as an excuse for his crime. the judge commanded silence, and encouraged evan to proceed. 'i was only ganging to say, my lord,' said evan, in what he meant to be in an insinuating manner, 'that if your excellent honour, and the honourable court, would let vich ian vohr go free just this once, and let him gae back to france, and no to trouble king george's government again, that ony six o' the very best of his clan will be willing to be justified in his stead; and if you'll just let me gae down to glennaquoich, i'll fetch them up to ye mysel, to head or hang, and you may begin wi' me the very first man.' notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion, a sort of laugh was heard in the court at the extraordinary nature of the proposal. the judge checked this indecency, and evan, looking sternly around, when the murmur abated, 'if the saxon gentlemen are laughing,' he said, 'because a poor man, such as me, thinks my life, or the life of six of my degree, is worth that of vich ian vohr, it's like enough they may be very right; but if they laugh because they think i would not keep my word, and come back to redeem him, i can tell them they ken neither the heart of a hielandman, nor the honour of a gentleman.' there was no further inclination to laugh among the audience, and a dead silence ensued. the judge then pronounced upon both prisoners the sentence of the law of high treason, with all its horrible accompaniments. the execution was appointed for the ensuing day. 'for you, fergus mac-ivor,' continued the judge, 'i can hold out no hope of mercy. you must prepare against to-morrow for your last sufferings here, and your great audit hereafter.' 'i desire nothing else, my lord,' answered fergus, in the same manly and firm tone. the hard eyes of evan, which had been perpetually bent on his chief, were moistened with a tear. 'for you, poor ignorant man,' continued the judge, 'who, following the ideas in which you have been educated, have this day given us a striking example how the loyalty due to the king and state alone, is, from your unhappy ideas of clanship, transferred to some ambitious individual, who ends by making you the tool of his crimes--for you, i say, i feel so much compassion, that if you can make up your mind to petition for grace, i will endeavour to procure if for you. otherwise--' 'grace me no grace,' said evan; 'since you are to shed vich ian vohr's blood, the only favour i would accept from you, is--to bid them loose my hands and gie me my claymore, and bide you just a minute sitting where you are!' 'remove the prisoners,' said the judge; 'his blood be upon his own head.' almost stupefied with his feelings, edward found that the rush of the crowd had conveyed him out into the street, ere he knew what he was doing.--his immediate wish was to see and speak with fergus once more. he applied at the castle where his unfortunate friend was confined, but was refused admittance. 'the high sheriff,' a non-commissioned officer said, 'had requested of the governor that none should be admitted to see the prisoner excepting his confessor and his sister.' 'and where was miss mac-ivor?' they gave him the direction, it was the house of a respectable catholic family near carlisle. repulsed from the gate of the castle, and not venturing to make application to the high sheriff or judges in his own unpopular name, he had recourse to the solicitor who came down in fergus's behalf. this gentleman told him, that it was thought the public mind was in danger of being debauched by the account of the last moments of these persons, as given by the friends of the pretender; that there had been a resolution, therefore, to exclude all such persons as had not the plea of near kindred for attending upon them. yet he promised (to oblige the heir of waverley-honour) to get him an order for admittance to the prisoner the next morning, before his irons were knocked off for execution. 'is it of fergus mac-ivor they speak thus,' thought waverley 'or do i dream? of fergus, the bold, the chivalrous, the free-minded,--the lofty chieftain of a tribe devoted to him? is it he, that i have seen lead the chase and head the attack,--the brave, the active, the young, the noble, the love of ladies, and the theme of song,--is it he who is ironed like a malefactor--who is to be dragged on a hurdle to the common gallows--to die a lingering and cruel death, and to be mangled by the hand of the most outcast of wretches? evil indeed was the spectre that boded such a fate as this to the brave chief of glennaquoich!' with a faltering voice he requested the solicitor to find means to warn fergus of his intended visit, should he obtain permission to make it. he then turned away from him, and, returning to the inn, wrote a scarcely intelligible note to flora mac-ivor, intimating his purpose to wait upon her that evening. the messenger brought back a letter in flora's beautiful italian hand, which seemed scarce to tremble even under this load of misery. 'miss flora mac-ivor,' the letter bore, 'could not refuse to see the dearest friend of her dear brother, even in her present circumstances of unparalleled distress.' when edward reached miss mac-ivor's present place of abode, he was instantly admitted. in a large and gloomy tapestried apartment, flora was seated by a latticed window, sewing what seemed to be a garment of white flannel. at a little distance sat an elderly woman, apparently a foreigner, and of a religious order. she was reading in a book of catholic devotion; but when waverley entered, laid it on the table and left the room. flora rose to receive him, and stretched out her hand, but neither ventured to attempt speech. her fine complexion was totally gone; her person considerably emaciated; and her face and hands as white as the purest statuary marble, forming a strong contrast with her sable dress and jet-black hair. yet, amid these marks of distress, there was nothing negligent or ill-arranged about her attire; even her hair, though totally without ornament, was disposed with her usual attention to neatness. the first words she uttered were, 'have you seen him?' 'alas, no,' answered waverley; 'i have been refused admittance.' 'it accords with the rest,' she said; 'but we must submit. shall you obtain leave, do you suppose?' 'for--for--to-morrow,' said waverley; but muttering the last word so faintly that it was almost unintelligible. 'aye, then or never,' said flora, 'until'--she added, looking upward, 'the time when, i trust, we shall all meet. but i hope you will see him while earth yet bears him. he always loved you at his heart, though--but it is vain to talk of the past.' 'vain indeed!' echoed waverley. 'or even of the future, my good friend,' said flora, 'so far as earthly events are concerned; for how often have i pictured to myself the strong possibility of this horrid issue, and tasked myself to consider how i could support my part; and yet how far has all my anticipation fallen short of the unimaginable bitterness of this hour!' 'dear flora, if your strength of mind'-- 'aye, there it is,' she answered, somewhat wildly; 'there is, mr. waverley, there is a busy devil at my heart, that whispers--but it were madness to listen to it--that the strength of mind on which flora prided herself has murdered her brother!' 'good god! how can you give utterance to a thought so shocking?' 'aye, is it not so?--but yet it haunts me like a phantom: i know it is unsubstantial and vain; but it will be present--will intrude its horrors on my mind--will whisper that my brother, as volatile as ardent, would have divided his energies amid a hundred objects. it was i who taught him to concentrate them, and to gage all on this dreadful and desperate cast. oh that i could recollect that i had but once said to him, "he that striketh with the sword shall die by the sword"; that i had but once said, remain at home; reserve yourself, your vassals, your life, for enterprises within the reach of man. but oh, mr. waverley, i spurred his fiery temper, and half of his ruin at least lies with his sister.' the horrid idea which she had intimated, edward endeavoured to combat by every incoherent argument that occurred to him. he recalled to her the principles on which both thought it their duty to act, and in which they had been educated. 'do not think i have forgotten them,' she said, looking up, with eager quickness; 'i do not regret his attempt, because it was wrong--oh no! on that point i am armed--but because it was impossible it could end otherwise than thus.' 'yet it did not always seem so desperate and hazardous as it was; and it would have been chosen by the bold spirit of fergus, whether you had approved it or no; your counsels only served to give unity and consistence to his conduct; to dignify, but not to precipitate his resolution.' flora had soon ceased to listen to edward, and was again intent upon her needlework. 'do you remember,' she said, looking up with a ghastly smile, 'you once found me making fergus's bride-favours, and now i am sewing his bridal-garment. our friends here,' she continued, with suppressed emotion, 'are to give hallowed earth in their chapel to the bloody relies of the last vich ian vohr. but they will not all rest together; no--his head!---i shall not have the last miserable consolation of kissing the cold lips of my dear, dear fergus!' the unfortunate flora here, after one or two hysterical sobs, fainted in her chair. the lady, who had been attending in the ante-room, now entered hastily, and begged edward to leave the room, but not the house. when he was recalled, after the space of nearly half an hour, he found that, by a strong effort, miss mac-ivor had greatly composed herself. it was then he ventured to urge miss bradwardine's claim to be considered as an adopted sister, and empowered to assist her plans for the future. 'i have had a letter from my dear rose,' she replied, 'to the same purpose. sorrow is selfish and engrossing, or i would have written to express that, even in my own despair, i felt a gleam of pleasure at learning her happy prospects, and at hearing that the good old baron has escaped the general wreck. give this to my dearest rose; it is her poor flora's only ornament of value, and was the gift of a princess.' she put into his hands a case containing the chain of diamonds with which she used to decorate her hair. 'to me it is in future useless. the kindness of my friends has secured me a retreat in the convent of the scottish benedictine nuns in paris. to-morrow--if indeed i can survive to-morrow--i set forward on my journey with this venerable sister. and now, mr. waverley, adieu! may you be as happy with rose as your amiable dispositions deserve!--and think sometimes on the friends you have lost. do not attempt to see me again; it would be mistaken kindness.' she gave him her hand, on which edward shed a torrent of tears, and, with a faltering step, withdrew from the apartment, and returned to the town of carlisle. at the inn he found a letter from his law friend, intimating that he would be admitted to fergus next morning as soon as the castle gates were opened, and permitted to remain with him till the arrival of the sheriff gave signal for the fatal procession. chapter lxix --a darker departure is near, the death-drum is muffled, and sable the bier. campbell. after a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found waverley on the esplanade in front of the old gothic gate of carlisle castle. but he paced it long in every direction, before the hour when, according to the rules of the garrison, the gates were opened and the drawbridge lowered. he produced his order to the sergeant of the guard, and was admitted. the place of fergus's confinement was a gloomy and vaulted apartment in the central part of the castle--a huge old tower, supposed to be of great antiquity, and surrounded by outworks, seemingly of henry viii's time, or somewhat later. the grating of the large old-fashioned bars and bolts, withdrawn for the purpose of admitting edward, was answered by the clash of chains, as the unfortunate chieftain, strongly and heavily fettered, shuffled along the stone floor of his prison, to fling himself into his friend's arms. 'my dear edward,' he said, in a firm, and even cheerful voice, 'this is truly kind. i heard of your approaching happiness with the highest pleasure. and how does rose? and how is our old whimsical friend the baron? well, i trust, since i see you at freedom--and how will you settle precedence between the three ermines passant and the bear and bootjack?' 'how, oh how, my dear fergus, can you talk of such things at such a moment!' 'why, we have entered carlisle with happier auspices, to be sure--on the th of november last, for example, when we marched in, side by side, and hoisted the white flag on these ancient towers. but i am no boy, to sit down and weep because the luck has gone against me. i knew the stake which i risked; we played the game boldly, and the forfeit shall be paid manfully. and now, since my time is short, let me come to the questions that interest me most--the prince? has he escaped the bloodhounds?' 'he has, and is in safety.' 'praised be god for that! tell me the particulars of his escape.' waverley communicated that remarkable history, so far as it had then transpired, to which fergus listened with deep interest. he then asked after several other friends; and made many minute inquiries concerning the fate of his own clansmen. they had suffered less than other tribes who had been engaged in the affair; for, having in a great measure dispersed and returned home after the captivity of their chieftain, according to the universal custom of the highlanders, they were not in arms when the insurrection was finally suppressed, and consequently were treated with less rigour. this fergus heard with great satisfaction. 'you are rich,' he said, 'waverley, and you are generous. when you hear of these poor mac-ivors being distressed about their miserable possessions by some harsh overseer or agent of government, remember you have worn their tartan, and are an adopted son of their race. the baron, who knows our manners, and lives near our country, will apprize you of the time and means to be their protector. will you promise this to the last vich ian vohr?' edward, as may well be believed, pledged his word; which he afterwards so amply redeemed, that his memory still lives in these glens by the name of the friend of the sons of ivor. 'would to god,' continued the chieftain, 'i could bequeath to you my rights to the love and obedience of this primitive and brave race:--or at least, as i have striven to do, persuade poor evan to accept of his life upon their terms, and be to you what he has been to me, the kindest,--the bravest,--the most devoted--' the tears which his own fate could not draw forth, fell fast for that of his foster-brother. 'but,' said he, drying them, 'that cannot be. you cannot be to them vich ian vohr; and these three magic words,' said he, half smiling, 'are the only open sesame to their feelings and sympathies, and poor evan must attend his foster-brother in death, as he has done through his whole life.' 'and i am sure,' said maccombich, raising himself from the floor, on which, for fear of interrupting their conversation, he had lain so still, that, in the obscurity of the apartment, edward was not aware of his presence,--'i am sure evan never desired or deserved a better end than just to die with his chieftain.' 'and now,' said fergus, 'while we are upon the subject of clanship--what think you now of the prediction of the bodach glas?'--then, before edward could answer, 'i saw him again last night--he stood in the slip of moonshine, which fell from that high and narrow window towards my bed. why should i fear him, i thought--to-morrow, long ere this time, i shall be as immaterial as he. "false spirit!" i said, "art thou come to close thy walks on earth, and to enjoy thy triumph in the fall of the last descendant of thine enemy?" the spectre seemed to beckon and to smile as he faded from my sight. what do you think of it?--i asked the same question of the priest, who is a good and sensible man; he admitted that the church allowed that such apparitions were possible, but urged me not to permit my mind to dwell upon it, as imagination plays us such strange tricks. what do you think of it?' 'much as your confessor,' said waverley, willing to avoid dispute upon such a point at such a moment. a tap at the door now announced that good man, and edward retired while he administered to both prisoners the last rites of religion, in the mode which the church of rome prescribes. in about an hour he was re-admitted; soon after, a file of soldiers entered with a blacksmith, who struck the fetters from the legs of the prisoners. 'you see the compliment they pay to our highland strength and courage--we have lain chained here like wild beasts, till our legs are cramped into palsy, and when they free us, they send six soldiers with loaded muskets to prevent our taking the castle by storm!' edward afterwards learned that these severe precautions had been taken in consequence of a desperate attempt of the prisoners to escape, in which they had very nearly succeeded. shortly afterwards the drums of the garrison beat to arms. 'this is the last turn-out,' said fergus, 'that i shall hear and obey. and now, my dear, dear edward, ere we part let us speak of flora--a subject which awakes the tenderest feeling that yet thrills within me.' 'we part not here!' said waverley. 'oh yes, we do; you must come no farther. not that i fear what is to follow for myself,' he said proudly: 'nature has her tortures as well as art; and how happy should we think the man who escapes from the throes of a mortal and painful disorder, in the space of a short half hour? and this matter, spin it out as they will, cannot last longer, but what a dying man can suffer firmly, may kill a living friend to look upon.--this same law of high treason,' he continued, with astonishing firmness and composure, 'is one of the blessings, edward, with which your free country has accommodated poor old scotland: her own jurisprudence, as i have heard, was much milder. but i suppose one day or other--when there are no longer any wild highlanders to benefit by its tender mercies--they will blot it from their records, as levelling them with a nation of cannibals. the mummery, too, of exposing the senseless head--they have not the wit to grace mine with a paper coronet; there would be some satire in that, edward. i hope they will set it on the scotch gate though, that i may look, even after death, to the blue hills of my own country, which i love so dearly. the baron would have added, moritur, et moriens dulces reminiscitur argos.' a bustle, and the sound of wheels and horses' feet, was now heard in the courtyard of the castle. 'as i have told you why you must not follow me, and these sounds admonish me that my time flies fast, tell me how you found poor flora?' waverley, with a voice interrupted by suffocating sensations, gave some account of the state of her mind. 'poor flora!' answered the chief, 'she could have borne her own sentence of death, but not mine. you, waverley, will soon know the happiness of mutual affection in the married state--long, long may rose and you enjoy it!--but you can never know the purity of feeling which combines two orphans, like flora and me, left alone as it were in the world, and being all in all to each other from our very infancy. but her strong sense of duty, and predominant feeling of loyalty, will give new nerve to her mind after the immediate and acute sensation of this parting has passed away. she will then think of fergus as of the heroes of our race, upon whose deeds she loved to dwell.' 'shall she not see you, then?' asked waverley. 'she seemed to expect it.' 'a necessary deceit will spare her the last dreadful parting. i could not part with her without tears, and i cannot bear that these men should think they have power to extort them. she was made to believe she would see me at a later hour, and this letter, which my confessor will deliver, will apprize her that all is over.' an officer now appeared, and intimated that the high sheriff and his attendants waited before the gate of the castle, to claim the bodies of fergus mac-ivor and evan maccombich. 'i come,' said fergus. accordingly, supporting edward by the arm, and followed by evan dhu and the priest, he moved down the stairs of the tower, the soldiers bringing up the rear. the court was occupied by a squadron of dragoons and a battalion of infantry, drawn up in hollow square. within their ranks was the sledge, or hurdle, on which the prisoners were to be drawn to the place of execution, about a mile distant from carlisle. it was painted black, and drawn by a white horse. at one end of the vehicle sat the executioner, a horrid-looking fellow, as beseemed his trade, with the broad axe in his hand; at the other end, next the horse, was an empty seat for two persons. through the deep and dark gothic archway that opened on the drawbridge, were seen on horseback the high sheriff and his attendants, whom the etiquette betwixt the civil and military powers did not permit to come farther. 'this is well got up for a closing scene,' said fergus, smiling disdainfully as he gazed around upon the apparatus of terror. evan dhu exclaimed with some eagerness, after looking at the dragoons, 'these are the very chields that galloped off at gladsmuir, before we could kill a dozen o' them. they look bold enough now, however.' the priest entreated him to be silent. the sledge now approached, and fergus, turning round, embraced waverley, kissed him on each side of the face, and stepped nimbly into his place. evan sat down by his side. the priest was to follow in a carriage belonging to his patron, the catholic gentleman at whose house flora resided. as fergus waved his hand to edward, the ranks closed around the sledge, and the whole procession began to move forward. there was a momentary stop at the gateway, while the governor of the castle and the high sheriff went through a short ceremony, the military officer there delivering over the persons of the criminals to the civil power. 'god save king george!' said the high sheriff. when the formality concluded, fergus stood erect in the sledge, and with a firm and steady voice, replied, 'god save king james!' these were the last words which waverley heard him speak. the procession resumed its march, and the sledge vanished from beneath the portal, under which it had stopped for an instant. the dead-march was then heard, and its melancholy sounds were mingled with those of a muffled peal, tolled from the neighbouring cathedral. the sound of the military music died away as the procession moved on--the sullen clang of the bells was soon heard to sound alone. the last of the soldiers had now disappeared from under the vaulted archway through which they had been filing for several minutes; the courtyard was now totally empty, but waverley still stood there as if stupefied, his eyes fixed upon the dark pass where he had so lately seen the last glimpse of his friend. at length, a female servant of the governor's, struck with compassion at the stupefied misery which his countenance expressed, asked him if he would not walk into her master's house and sit down? she was obliged to repeat her question twice ere he comprehended her, but at length it recalled him to himself. declining the courtesy by a hasty gesture, he pulled his hat over his eyes, and, leaving the castle, walked as swiftly as he could through the empty streets, till he regained his inn, then rushed into an apartment, and bolted the door. in about an hour and a half, which seemed an age of unutterable suspense, the sound of the drums and fifes, performing a lively air, and the confused murmur of the crowd which now filled the streets, so lately deserted, apprized him that all was finished, and that the military and populace were returning from the dreadful scene. i will not attempt to describe his sensations. in the evening the priest made him a visit, and informed him that he did so by directions of his deceased friend, to assure him that fergus mac-ivor had died as he lived, and remembered his friendship to the last. he added, he had also seen flora, whose state of mind seemed more composed since all was over. with her and sister theresa, the priest proposed next day to leave carlisle, for the nearest seaport from which they could embark for france. waverley forced on this good man a ring of some value, and a sum of money to be employed (as he thought might gratify flora) in the services of the catholic church, for the memory of his friend. 'fungarque inani munere,' he repeated, as the ecclesiastic retired. 'yet why not class these acts of remembrance with other honours, with which affection, in all sects, pursues the memory of the dead?' the next morning, ere daylight, he took leave of the town of carlisle, promising to himself never again to enter its walls. he dared hardly look back towards the gothic battlements of the fortified gate under which he passed (for the place is surrounded with an old wall). 'they're no there,' said alick polwarth, who guessed the cause of the dubious look which waverley cast backward, and who, with the vulgar appetite for the horrible, was master of each detail of the butchery--'the heads are ower the scotch yate, as they ca' it. it's a great pity of evan dhu, who was a very weel-meaning, good-natured man, to be a hielandman; and indeed so was the laird o' glennaquoich too, for that matter, when he wasna in ane o' his tirrivies. chapter lxx dolce domum the impression of horror with which waverley left carlisle softened by degrees into melancholy--a gradation which was accelerated by the painful, yet soothing, task of writing to rose; and, while he could not suppress his own feelings of the calamity, he endeavoured to place it in a light which might grieve her without shocking her imagination. the picture which he drew for her benefit he gradually familiarized to his own mind; and his next letters were more cheerful, and referred to the prospects of peace and happiness which lay before them. yet, though his first horrible sensations had sunk into melancholy, edward had reached his native county before he could, as usual on former occasions, look round for enjoyment upon the face of nature. he then, for the first time since leaving edinburgh, began to experience that pleasure which almost all feel who return to a verdant, populous, and highly cultivated country, from scenes of waste desolation, or of solitary and melancholy grandeur. but how were those feelings enhanced when he entered on the domain so long possessed by his forefathers; recognized the old oaks of waverley-chase; thought with what delight he should introduce rose to all his favourite haunts; beheld at length the towers of the venerable hall arise above the woods which embowered it, and finally threw himself into the arms of the venerable relations to whom he owed so much duty and affection! the happiness of their meeting was not tarnished by a single word of reproach. on the contrary, whatever pain sir everard and mrs. rachel had felt during waverley's perilous engagement with the young chevalier, it assorted too well with the principles in which they had been brought up, to incur reprobation, or even censure. colonel talbot also had smoothed the way, with great address, for edward's favourable reception, by dwelling upon his gallant behaviour in the military character, particularly his bravery and generosity at preston; until, warmed at the idea of their nephew's engaging in single combat, making prisoner, and saving from slaughter, so distinguished an officer as the colonel himself, the imagination of the baronet and his sister ranked the exploits of edward with those of wilibert, hildebrand, and nigel, the vaunted heroes of their line. the appearance of waverley, embrowned by exercise, and dignified by the habits of military discipline, had acquired an athletic and hardy character, which not only verified the colonel's narration, but surprised and delighted all the inhabitants of waverley-honour. they crowded to see, to hear him, and to sing his praises. mr. pembroke, who secretly extolled his spirit and courage in embracing the genuine cause of the church of england, censured his pupil gently, nevertheless, for being so careless of his manuscripts, which indeed, he said, had occasioned him some personal inconvenience, as, upon the baronet's being arrested by a king's messenger, he had deemed it prudent to retire to a concealment called 'the priest's hole,' from the use it had been put to in former days; where, he assured our hero, the butler had thought it safe to venture with food only once in the day, so that he had been repeatedly compelled to dine upon victuals either absolutely cold, or, what was worse, only half warm, not to mention that sometimes his bed had not been arranged for two days together. waverley's mind involuntarily turned to the patmos of the baron of bradwardine, who was well pleased with janet's fare, and a few bunches of straw stowed in a cleft in the front of a sand-cliff: but he made no remarks upon a contrast which could only mortify his worthy tutor. all was now in a bustle to prepare for the nuptials of edward, an event to which the good old baronet and mrs. rachel looked forward as if to the renewal of their own youth. the match, as colonel talbot had intimated, had seemed to them in the highest degree eligible, having every recommendation but wealth, of which they themselves had more than enough. mr. clippurse was therefore summoned to waverley-honour, under better auspices than at the commencement of our story. but mr. clippurse came not alone; for, being now stricken in years, he had associated with him a nephew, a younger vulture (as our english juvenal, who tells the tale of swallow the attorney, might have called him), and they now carried on business as messrs. clippurse and hookem. these worthy gentlemen had directions to make the necessary settlements on the most splendid scale of liberality, as if edward were to wed a peeress in her own right, with her paternal estate tacked to the fringe of her ermine. but before entering upon a subject of proverbial delay, i must remind my reader of the progress of a stone rolled down hill by an idle truant boy (a pastime at which i was myself expert in my more juvenile years): it moves at first slowly, avoiding by inflection every obstacle of the least importance; but when it has attained its full impulse, and draws near the conclusion of its career, it smokes and thunders down, taking a rood at every spring, clearing hedge and ditch like a yorkshire huntsman, and becoming most furiously rapid in its course when it is nearest to being consigned to rest for ever. even such is the course of a narrative like that which you are perusing. the earlier events are studiously dwelt upon, that you, kind reader, may be introduced to the character rather by narrative, than by the duller medium of direct description; but when the story draws near its close, we hurry over the circumstances, however important, which your imagination must have forestalled, and leave you to suppose those things which it would be abusing your patience to relate at length. we are, therefore, so far from attempting to trace the dull progress of messrs. clippurse and hookem, or that of their worthy official brethren, who had the charge of suing out the pardons of edward waverley and his intended father-in-law, that we can but touch upon matters more attractive. the mutual epistles, for example, which were exchanged between sir everard and the baron upon this occasion, though matchless specimens of eloquence in their way, must be consigned to merciless oblivion. nor can i tell you at length, how worthy aunt rachel, not without a delicate and affectionate allusion to the circumstances which had transferred rose's maternal diamonds to the hands of donald bean lean, stocked her casket with a set of jewels that a duchess might have envied. moreover, the reader will have the goodness to imagine that job houghton and his dame were suitably provided for, although they could never be persuaded that their son fell otherwise than fighting by the young squire's side; so that alick, who, as a lover of truth, had made many needless attempts to expound the real circumstances to them, was finally ordered to say not a word more upon the subject. he indemnified himself, however, by the liberal allowance of desperate battles, grisly executions, and rawhead and bloody-bone stories, with which he astonished the servants' hall. but although these important matters may be briefly told in narrative, like a newspaper report of a chancery suit, yet, with all the urgency which waverley could use, the real time which the law proceedings occupied, joined to the delay occasioned by the mode of travelling at that period, rendered it considerably more than two months ere waverley, having left england, alighted once more at the mansion of the laird of duchran to claim the hand of his plighted bride. the day of his marriage was fixed for the sixth after his arrival. the baron of bradwardine, with whom bridals, christenings, and funerals, were festivals of high and solemn import, felt a little hurt, that, including the family of the duchran, and all the immediate vicinity who had title to be present on such an occasion, there could not be above thirty persons collected. 'when he was married,' he observed, 'three hundred horse of gentlemen born, besides servants, and some score or two of highland lairds, who never got on horseback, were present on the occasion.' but his pride found some consolation in reflecting, that he and his son-in-law having been so lately in arms against government, it, might give matter of reasonable fear and offence to the ruling powers, if they were to collect together the kith, kin, and allies of their houses, arrayed in effeir of war, as was the ancient custom of scotland on these occasions--'and, without dubitation,' he concluded with a sigh, 'many of those who would have rejoiced most freely upon these joyful espousals, are either gone to a better place, or are now exiles from their native land.' the marriage took place on the appointed day. the reverend mr. rubrick, kinsman to the proprietor of the hospitable mansion where it was solemnized, and chaplain to the baron of bradwardine, had the satisfaction to unite their hands; and frank stanley acted as bridesman, having joined edward with that view soon after his arrival. lady emily and colonel talbot had proposed being present; but lady emily's health, when the day approached, was found inadequate to the journey. in amends, it was arranged that edward waverley and his lady, who, with the baron, proposed an immediate journey to waverley-honour, should, in their way, spend a few days at an estate which colonel talbot had been tempted to purchase in scotland as a very great bargain, and at which he proposed to reside for some time. chapter lxxi this is no mine ain house, i ken by the bigging o't'. --old song. the nuptial party travelled in great style. there was a coach and six after the newest pattern, which sir everard had presented to his nephew, that dazzled with its splendour the eyes of one half of scotland; there was the family coach of mr. rubrick;--both these were crowded with ladies, and there were gentlemen on horseback, with their servants, to the number of a round score. nevertheless, without having the fear of famine before his eyes, bailie macwheeble met them in the road, to entreat that they would pass by his house at little veolan. the baron stared, and said his son and he would certainly ride by little veolan, and pay their compliments to the bailie, but could not think of bringing with them the 'haill comitatus nuptialis, or matrimonial procession.' he added, 'that, as he understood that the barony had been sold by its unworthy possessor, he was glad to see his old friend duncan had regained his situation under the new dominus, or proprietor.' the bailie ducked, bowed, and fidgeted, and then again insisted upon his invitation; until the baron, though rather piqued at the pertinacity of his instances, could not nevertheless refuse to consent, without making evident sensations which he was anxious to conceal. he fell into a deep study as they approached the top of the avenue, and was only startled from it by observing that the battlements were replaced, the ruins cleared sway, and (most wonderful of all) that the two great stone bears, those mutilated dagons of his idolatry, had resumed their posts over the gateway. 'now this new proprietor,' said he to edward, 'has shown mair gusto, as the italians call it, in the short time he has had this domain, than that hound malcolm, though i bred him here mysell, has acquired vita adhuc durante.--and now i talk of hounds, is not yon ban and buscar, who come scouping up the avenue with davie gallatley?' 'i vote we should go to meet them, sir,' said waverley, 'for i believe the present master of the house is colonel talbot, who will expect to see us. we hesitated to mention to you at first that he had purchased your ancient patrimonial property, and even yet, if you do not incline to visit him, we can pass on to the bailie's.' the baron had occasion for all his magnanimity. however, he drew a long breath, took a long snuff, and observed, since they had brought him so far, he could not pass the colonel's gate, and he would be happy to see the new master of his old tenants. he alighted accordingly, as did the other gentlemen and ladies;--he gave his arm to his daughter, and as they descended the avenue, pointed out to her how speedily the 'diva pecunia of the southron--their tutelary deity, he might call her--had removed the marks of spoliation.' in truth, not only had the felled trees been removed, but, their stumps being grubbed up, and the earth round them levelled and sown with grass, every mark of devastation, unless to an eye intimately acquainted with the spot, was already totally obliterated. there was a similar reformation in the outward man of davie gellatley, who met them, every now and then stopping to admire the new suit which graced his person, in the same colours as formerly, but bedizened fine enough to have served touchstone himself. he danced up with his usual ungainly frolics, first to the baron, and then to rose, passing his hands over his clothes, crying, 'bra', bra' davie,' and scarce able to sing a bar to an end of his thousand-and-one songs, for the breathless extravagance of his joy. the dogs also acknowledged their old master with a thousand gambols. 'upon my conscience, rose,' ejaculated the baron, 'the gratitude o' thae dumb brutes, and of that puir innocent, brings the tears into my auld een, while that schellum malcolm--but i'm obliged to colonel talbot for putting my hounds into such good condition, and likewise for puir davie. but, rose, my dear, we must not permit them to be a liferent burden upon the estate.' as he spoke, lady emily, leaning upon the arm of her husband, met the party at the lower gate, with a thousand welcomes. after the ceremony of introduction had been gone through, much abridged by the ease and excellent breeding of lady emily, she apologized for having used a little art to wile them back to a place which might awaken some painful reflections--'but as it was to change masters, we were very desirous that the baron'-- 'mr. bradwardine, madam, if you please,' said the old gentleman. '--mr. bradwardine, then, and mr. waverley, should see what we have done towards restoring the mansion of your fathers to its former state.' the baron answered with a low bow. indeed, when he entered the court, excepting that the heavy stables, which had been burnt down, were replaced by buildings of a lighter and more picturesque appearance, all seemed as much as possible restored to the state in which he had left it when he assumed arms some months before. the pigeon-house was replenished; the fountain played with its usual activity; and not only the bear who predominated over its basin, but all the other bears whatsoever, were replaced on their several stations, and renewed or repaired with so much care, that they bore no tokens of the violence which had so lately descended upon them. while these minutiae had been so heedfully attended to, it is scarce necessary to add, that the house itself had been thoroughly repaired, as well as the gardens, with the strictest attention to maintain the original character of both, and to remove, as far as possible, all appearance of the ravage they had sustained. the baron gazed in silent wonder; at length he addressed colonel talbot: 'while i acknowledge my obligation to you, sir, for the restoration of the badge of our family, i cannot but marvel that you have nowhere established your own crest, whilk is, i believe, a mastiff, anciently called a talbot; as the poet has it, a talbot strong--a sturdy tyke. at least such a dog is the crest of the martial and renowned earls of shrewsbury, to whom your family are probably blood relations.' 'i believe,' said the colonel, smiling, 'our dogs are whelps of the same litter: for my part, if crests were to dispute precedence, i should be apt to let them, as the proverb says, "fight dog, fight bear."' as he made this speech, at which the baron took another long pinch of snuff, they had entered the house--that is, the baron, rose, and lady emily, with young stanley and the bailie, for edward and the rest of the party remained on the terrace, to examine a new greenhouse stocked with the finest plants. the baron resumed his favourite topic: 'however it may please you to derogate from the honour of your burgonet, colonel talbot, which is doubtless your humour, as i have seen in other gentlemen of birth and honour in your country, i must again repeat it as a most ancient and distinguished bearing, as well as that of my young friend francis stanley, which is the eagle and child.' 'the bird and bantling they call it in derbyshire, sir,' said stanley. 'ye're a daft callant, sir,' said the baron, who had a great liking to this young man, perhaps because he sometimes teased him--'ye're a daft callant, and i must correct you some of these days,' shaking his great brown fist at him. 'but what i meant to say, colonel talbot, is, that yours is an ancient prosapia, or descent, and since you have lawfully and justly acquired the estate for you and yours, which i have lost for me and mine, i wish it may remain in your name as many centuries as it has done in that of the late proprietor's.' 'that,' answered the colonel, 'is very handsome, mr. bradwardine, indeed.' 'and yet, sir, i cannot but marvel that you, colonel, whom i noted to have so much of the amor patriae, when we met in edinburgh, as even to vilipend other countries, should have chosen to establish your lares, or household gods, procul a patriea finibus, and in a manner to expatriate yourself.' 'why really, baron, i do not see why, to keep the secret of these foolish boys, waverley and stanley, and of my wife, who is no wiser, one old soldier should continue to impose upon another. you must know, then, that i have so much of that same prejudice in favour of my native country, that the sum of money which i advanced to the seller of this extensive barony has only purchased for me a box in --shire, called brerewood lodge, with about two hundred and fifty acres of land, the chief merit of which is, that it is within a very few miles of waverley-honour.' 'and who, then, in the name of haven, has bought this property?' 'that,' said the colonel,' it is this gentleman's profession to explain.' the bailie, whom this reference regarded, and who had all this while shifted from one foot to another with great impatience, 'like a hen,' as he afterwards said, 'upon a het girdle'; and chuckling, he might have added, like the said hen in all the glory of laying an egg--now pushed forward: 'that i can, that i can, your honour,' drawing from his pocket a budget of papers, and untying the red tape with a hand trembling with eagerness. 'here is the disposition and assignation, by malcolm bradwardine of inch-grabbit, regularly signed and tested in terms of the statute, whereby, for a certain sum of sterling money presently contented and paid to him, he has disponed, alienated, and conveyed the whole estate and barony of bradwardine, tully-veolan, and others, with the fortalice and manor-place--' 'for god's sake, to the point, sir--i have all that by heart,' said the colonel. 'to cosmo comyne bradwardine, esq.' pursued the bailie, 'his heirs and assignees, simply and irredeemably--to be held either a me vel de me--' 'pray read short, sir.' 'on the conscience of an honest man, colonel, i read as short as is consistent with style.--under the burden and reservation always-- 'mr. macwheeble, this would outlast a russian winter--give me leave. in short, mr. bradwardine, your family estate is your own once more in full property, and at your absolute disposal, but only burdened with the sum advanced to repurchase it, which i understand is utterly disproportioned to its value. 'an auld sang--an auld sang, if it please your honours,' cried the bailie, rubbing his hands; 'look at the rental book.' 'which sum being advanced by mr. edward waverley, chiefly from the price of his father's property which i bought from him, is secured to his lady your daughter, and her family by this marriage.' 'it is a catholic security,' shouted the bailie, 'to rose comyne bradwardine, alias wauverley, in liferent, and the children of the said marriage in fee; and i made up a wee bit minute of an ante-nuptial contract, intuitu matrimonii, so it cannot be subject to reduction hereafter, as a donation inter virum et uxorem.' it is difficult to say whether the worthy baron was most delighted with the restitution of his family property, or with the delicacy and generosity that left him unfettered to pursue his purpose in disposing of it after his death, and which avoided, as much as possible, even the appearance of laying him under pecuniary obligation. when his first pause of joy and astonishment was over, his thoughts turned to the unworthy heir-male, who, he pronounced, 'had sold his birthright, like esau, for a mess o' pottage.' 'but wha cookit the parritch for him?' exclaimed the bailie; 'i wad like to ken that--wha but your honour's to command, duncan macwheeble? his honour, young mr. wauverley, put it a' into my hand frae the beginning--frae the first calling o' the summons, as i may say. i circumvented them--i played at bogle about the bush wi' them--i cajoled them; and if i havena gien inch-grabbit and jamie howie a bonnie begunk, they ken themselves. him a writer! i didna gea slapdash to them wi' our young bra' bridegroom, to gar them haud up the market; na, na; i scared them wi' our wild tenantry, and the mac-ivors, that are but ill settled yet, till they durstna on ony errand whatsoever gang ower the doorstane after gloaming, for fear john heatherblutter, or some siccan dare-the-deil, should tak a baff at them: then, on the other hand, i beflumm'd them wi' colonel talbot--wad they offer to keep up the price again' the duke's friend? did they na ken wha was master? had they na seen eneugh, by the sad example of mony a puir misguided unhappy body--' 'who went to derby, for example, mr. macwheeble?' said the colonel to him, aside. 'oh' whisht, colonel, for the love o' god! let that flee stick i' the wa'. there were mony good folk at derby; and it's ill speaking of halters,'--with a sly cast of his eye toward the baron, who was in a deep reverie. starting out of it at once, he took macwheeble by the button, and led him into one of the deep window recesses, whence only fragments of their conversation reached the rest of the party. it certainly related to stamp-paper and parchment; for no other subject, even from the mouth of his patron, and he, once more an efficient one, could have arrested so deeply the bailie's reverent and absorbed attention. 'i understand your honour perfectly; it can be dune as easy as taking out a decreet in absence.' 'to her and him, after my demise, and to their heirs-male,--but preferring the second son, if god shall bless them with two, who is to carry the name and arms of bradwardine of that ilk, without any other name or armorial bearings whatsoever.' 'tut, your honour!' whispered the bailie, 'i'll mak a slight jotting the morn; it will cost but a charter of resignation in favorem; and i'll hae it ready for the next term in exchequer. their private conversation ended, the baron was now summoned to do the honours of tully-veolan to new guests. these were, major melville of cairnvreckan, and the reverend mr. morton, followed by two or three others of the baron's acquaintances, who had been made privy to his having again acquired the estate of his fathers. the shouts of the villagers were also heard beneath in the courtyard; for saunders saunderson, who had kept the secret for several days with laudable prudence, had unloosed his tongue upon beholding the arrival of the carriages. but, while edward received major melville with politeness, and the clergyman with the most affectionate and grateful kindness, his father-in-law looked a little awkward, as uncertain how he should answer the necessary claims of hospitality to his guests, and forward the festivity of his tenants. lady emily relieved him, by intimating, that, though she must be an indifferent representative of mrs. edward waverley in many respects, she hoped the baron would approve of the entertainment she had ordered, in expectation of so many guests; and that they would find such other accommodations provided, as might in some degree support the ancient hospitality of tully-veolan. it is impossible to describe the pleasure which this assurance gave the baron, who, with an air of gallantry half appertaining to the stiff scottish laird, and half to the officer in the french service, offered his arm to the fair speaker, and led the way, in something between a stride and a minuet step, into the large dining parlour, followed by all the rest of the good company. by dint of saunderson's directions and exertions, all here, as well as in the other apartments, had been disposed as much as possible according to the old arrangement; and where new movables had been necessary, they had been selected in the same character with the old furniture, there was one addition to this fine old apartment, however, which drew tears into the baron's eyes. it was a large and spirited painting, representing fergus mac-ivor and waverley in their highland dress; the scene a wild, rocky, and mountainous pass, down which the clan were descending in the background. it was taken from a spirited sketch, drawn while they were in edinburgh by a young man of high genius, and had been painted on a full-length scale by an eminent london artist. raeburn himself (whose highland chiefs do all but walk out of the canvas) could not have done more justice to the subject; and the ardent, fiery, and impetuous character of the unfortunate chief of glennaquoich was finely contrasted with the contemplative, fanciful, and enthusiastic expression of his happier friend. beside this painting hung the arms which waverley had borne in the unfortunate civil war; the whole piece was beheld with admiration, and deeper feelings. men must, however, eat, in spite both of sentiment and vertu; and the baron, while he assumed the lower end of the table, insisted that lady emily should do the honours of the head, that they might, he said, set a meet example to the young folk. after a pause of deliberation, employed in adjusting in his own brain the precedence between the presbyterian kirk and episcopal church of scotland, he requested mr. morton, as the stranger, would crave a blessing,--observing, that mr. rubrick, who was at home, would return thanks for the distinguished mercies it had been his lot to experience. the dinner was excellent. saunderson attended in full costume, with all the former domestics, who had been collected, excepting one or two, that had not been heard of since the affair of culloden. the cellars were stocked with wine which was pronounced to be superb, and it had been contrived that the bear of the fountain, in the courtyard, should (for that night only) play excellent brandy punch for the benefit of the lower orders. when the dinner was over, the baron, about to propose a toast, cast a somewhat sorrowful look upon the sideboard,--which, however, exhibited much of his plate, that had either been secreted or purchased by neighbouring gentlemen from the soldiery, and by them gladly restored to the original owner. 'in the late times,' he said, 'those must be thankful who have saved life and land; yet, when i am about to pronounce this toast, i cannot but regret an old heirloom, lady emily--a poculum potatorium, colonel talbot'-- here the baron's elbow was gently touched by his major-demo, and, turning round, he beheld, in the hands of alexander ab alexandro, the celebrated cup of saint duthac, the blessed bear of bradwardine! i question if the recovery of his estate afforded him more rapture. 'by my honour,' he said, 'one might almost believe in brownies and fairies, lady emily, when your ladyship is in presence!' 'i am truly happy,' said colonel talbot, 'that by the recovery of this piece of family antiquity, it has fallen within my power to give you some token of my deep interest in all that concerns my young friend edward. but that you may not suspect lady emily for a sorceress, or me for a conjurer, which is no joke in scotland, i must tell you that frank stanley, your friend, who has been seized with a tartan fever ever since he heard edward's tales of old scottish manners, happened to describe to us at second hand this remarkable cup. my servant, spontoon, who, like a true old soldier, observes everything and says little, gave me afterwards to understand that he thought he had seen the piece of plate mr. stanley mentioned, in the possession of a certain mrs. nosebag, who, having been originally the helpmate of a pawnbroker, had found opportunity, during the late unpleasant scenes in scotland, to trade a little in her old line, and so became the depositary of the more valuable part of the spoil of half the army. you may believe the cup was speedily recovered; and it will give me very great pleasure if you allow me to suppose that its value is not diminished by having been restored through my means.' a tear mingled with the wine which the baron filled, as he proposed a cup of gratitude to colonel talbot, and 'the prosperity of the united houses of waverley-honour and bradwardine!'-- it only remains for me to say, that as no wish was ever uttered with more affectionate sincerity, there are few which, allowing for the necessary mutability of human events, have been, upon the whole, more happily fulfilled. chapter lxxii a postscript, which should have been a preface our journey is now finished, gentle reader; and if your patience has accompanied me through these sheets, the contract is, on your part, strictly fulfilled. yet, like the driver who has received his full hire, i still linger near you, and make, with becoming diffidence, a trifling additional claim upon your bounty and good nature. you are as free, however, to shut the volume of the one petitioner, as to close your door in the face of the other. this should have been a prefatory chapter, but for two reasons:--first, that most novel readers, as my own conscience reminds me, are apt to be guilty of the sin of omission respecting that same matter of prefaces;--secondly, that it is a general custom with that class of students, to begin with the last chapter of a work; so that, after all, these remarks, being introduced last in order, have still the best chance to be read in their proper place. there is no european nation, which, within the course of half a century, or little more, has undergone so complete a change as this kingdom of scotland. the effects of the insurrection of ,--the destruction of the patriarchal power of the highland chiefs,--the abolition of the heritable jurisdictions of the lowland nobility and barons,--the total eradication of the jacobite party, which, averse to intermingle with the english, or adopt their customs, long continued to pride themselves upon maintaining ancient scottish manners and customs,--commenced this innovation. the gradual influx of wealth, and extension of commerce, have since united to render the present people of scotland a class of beings as different from their grandfathers as the existing english are from those of queen elizabeth's time, the political and economical effects of these changes have been traced by lord selkirk with great precision and accuracy. but the change, though steadily and rapidly progressive, has, nevertheless, been gradual; and, like those who drift down the stream of a deep and smooth river, we are not aware of the progress we have made until we fix our eye on the now distant point from which we have been drifted.--such of the present generation as can recollect the last twenty or twenty-five years of the eighteenth century, will be fully sensible of the truth of this statement;--especially if their acquaintance and connexions lay among those, who, in my younger time, were facetiously called 'folks of the old leaven,' who still cherished a lingering, though hopeless, attachment, to the house of stuart. this race has now almost entirely vanished from the land, and with it, doubtless, much absurd political prejudice--but also, many living examples of singular and disinterested attachment to the principles of loyalty which they received from their fathers, and of old scottish faith, hospitality, worth, and honour. it was my accidental lot, though not born a highlander (which may be an apology for much bad gaelic), to reside, during my childhood and youth, among persons of the above description;--and now, for the purpose of preserving some idea of the ancient manners of which i have witnessed the almost total extinction, i have embodied in imaginary scenes, and ascribed to fictitious characters, a part of the incidents which i then received from those who were actors in them. indeed, the most romantic parts of this narrative are precisely those which have a foundation in fact. the exchange of mutual protection between a highland gentleman and an officer of rank in the king's service, together with the spirited manner in which the latter asserted his right to return the favour he had received, is literally true. the accident by a musket-shot, and the heroic reply imputed to flora, relate to a lady of rank not long deceased. and scarce a gentleman who was 'in hiding' after the battle of culloden but could tell a tale of strange concealments, and of wild and hair's-breadth 'scapes, as extraordinary as any which i have ascribed to my heroes. of this, the escape of charles edward himself, as the most prominent, is the most striking example. the accounts of the battle of preston and skirmish at clifton are taken from the narrative of intelligent eye-witnesses, and corrected from the history of the rebellion by the late venerable author of douglas. the lowland scottish gentlemen, and the subordinate characters, are not given as individual portraits, but are drawn from the general habits of the period (of which i have witnessed some remnants in my younger days), and partly gathered from tradition. it has been my object to describe these persons, not by a caricatured and exaggerated use of the national dialect, but by their habits, manners, and feelings; so as in some distant degree to emulate the admirable irish portraits drawn by miss edgeworth, so different from the 'teagues' and 'dear joys,' who so long, with the most perfect family resemblance to each other, occupied the drama and the novel. i feel no confidence, however, in the manner in which i have executed my purpose. indeed, so little was i satisfied with my production, that i laid it aside in an unfinished state, and only found it again by mere accident among other waste papers in an old cabinet, the drawers of which i was rummaging, in order to accommodate a friend with some fishing tackle, after it had been mislaid for several years. two works upon similar subjects, by female authors, whose genius is highly creditable to their country, have appeared in the interval; i mean mrs. hamilton's glenburnie, and the late account of highland superstitions. but the first is confined to the rural habits of scotland, of which it has given a picture with striking and impressive fidelity; and the traditional records of the respectable and ingenious mrs. grant of laggan, are of a nature distinct from the fictitious narrative which i have here attempted. i would willingly persuade myself, that the preceding work will not be found altogether uninteresting. to elder persons it will recall scenes and characters familiar to their youth; and to the rising generation the tale may present some idea of the manners of their forefathers. yet i heartily wish that the task of tracing the evanescent manners of his own country had employed the pen of the only man in scotland who could have done it justice,--of him so eminently distinguished in elegant literature,--and whose sketches of colonel caustic and umphraville are perfectly blended with the finer traits of national character. i should in that case have had more pleasure as a reader than i shall ever feel in the pride of a successful author, should these sheets confer upon me that envied distinction. and as i have inverted the usual arrangement, placing these remarks at the end of the work to which they refer, i will venture on a second violation of form, by closing the whole with a dedication:-- these volumes being respectfully inscribed to our scottish addison, henry mackenzie, by an unknown admirer of his genius. ***** notes note .--the bradshaigh legend there is a family legend to this purpose, belonging to the knightly family of bradshaigh, the proprietors of haighhall, in lancashire, where, i have been told, the event is recorded on a painted glass window. the german ballad of the 'noble moringer' turns upon a similar topic. but undoubtedly many such incidents may have taken place, where, the distance being great, and the intercourse infrequent, false reports concerning the fate of the absent crusaders must have been commonly circulated, and sometimes perhaps rather hastily credited at home. note .--titus livius the attachment to this classic was, it is said, actually displayed, in the manner mentioned in the text, by an unfortunate jacobite in that unhappy period. he escaped from the jail in which he was confined for a hasty trial and certain condemnation, and was retaken as he hovered around the place in which he had been imprisoned, for which he could give no better reason than the hope of recovering his favourite titus livius. i am sorry to add, that the simplicity of such a character was found to form no apology for his guilt as a rebel, and that he was condemned and executed. note .--nicholas amhurst nicholas amhurst, a noted political writer, who conducted for many years a paper called the craftsman, under the assumed name of caleb d'anvers. he was devoted to the tory interest, and seconded with much ability the attacks of pulteney on sir robert walpole. he died in , neglected by his great patrons, and in the most miserable circumstances. amhurst survived the downfall of walpole's power, and had reason to expect a reward for his labours. if we excuse bolingbroke, who had only saved the shipwreck of his fortunes, we shall be at a loss to justify pulteney, who could with ease have given this man a considerable income. the utmost of his generosity to amhurst, that i ever heard of, was a hogshead of claret! he died, it is supposed, of a broken heart; and was buried at the charge of his honest printer, richard franklin.'--lord chesterfield's characters reviewed, p. . note .--colonel gardiner i have now given in the text the full name of this gallant and excellent man, and proceed to copy the account of his remarkable conversion, as related by dr. doddridge. 'this memorable event,' says the pious writer, 'happened towards the middle of july, . the major had spent the evening (and, if i mistake not, it was the sabbath) in some gay company, and had an unhappy assignation with a married woman, whom he was to attend exactly at twelve. the company broke up about eleven; and not judging it convenient to anticipate the time appointed, he went into his chamber to kill the tedious hour, perhaps with some amusing book, or some other way. but it very accidentally happened that he took up a religious book, which his good mother or aunt had, without his knowledge, slipped into his portmanteau. it was called, if i remember the title exactly, the christian soldier, or heaven taken by storm; and it was written by mr. thomas watson. guessing by the title of it that he would find some phrases of his own profession spiritualized in a manner which he thought might afford him some diversion, he resolved to dip into it; but he took no serious notice of anything it had in it; and yet, while this book was in his hand an impression was made upon his mind (perhaps god only knows how) which drew after it a train of the most important and happy consequences. he thought he saw an unusual blaze of light fall upon the book which he was reading, which he at first imagined might happen by some accident in the candle: but lifting up his eyes, he apprehended, to his extreme amazement, that there was before him, as it were suspended in the air, a visible representation of the lord jesus christ upon the cross, surrounded on all sides with a glory; and was impressed, as if a voice, or something equivalent to a voice, had come to him, to this effect (for he was not confident as to the words)--"oh, sinner! did i suffer this for thee? and are these thy returns?" struck with so amazing a phenomenon as this, there remained hardly any life in him, so that he sunk down in the arm-chair in which he sat, and continued, he knew not how long, insensible.' 'with regard to this vision,' says the ingenious dr. hibbert, 'the appearance of our saviour on the cross, and the awful words repeated, can be considered in no other light than as so many recollected images of the mind, which, probably, had their origin in the language of some urgent appeal to repentance, that the colonel might have casually read or heard delivered. from what cause, however, such ideas were rendered as vivid as actual impressions, we have no information to be depended upon. this vision was certainly attended with one of the most important of consequences connected with the christian dispensation--the conversion of a sinner; and hence no single narrative has, perhaps, done more to confirm the superstitious opinion that apparitions of this awful kind cannot arise without a divine fiat.' dr. hibbert adds, in a note--'a short time before the vision, colonel gardiner had received a severe fall from his horse. did the brain receive some slight degree of injury from the accident, so as to predispose him to this spiritual illusion?'--hibbert's philosophy of apparitions, edinburgh, , p. . note .--scottish inns the courtesy of an invitation to partake a traveller's meal, or at least that of being invited to share whatever liquor the guest called for, was expected by certain old landlords in scotland, even in the youth of the author. in requital, mine host was always furnished with the news of the country, and was probably a little of a humorist to boot. the devolution of the whole actual business and drudgery of the inn upon the poor gudewife, was very common among the scottish bonifaces. there was in ancient times, in the city of edinburgh, a gentleman of good family, who condescended, in order to gain a livelihood, to become the nominal keeper of a coffee house, one of the first places of the kind which had been opened in the scottish metropolis. as usual, it was entirely managed by the careful and industrious mrs. b--; while her husband amused himself with field sports, without troubling his head about the matter. once upon a time the premises having taken fire, the husband was met, walking up the high street loaded with his guns and fishing-rods, and replied calmly to some one who inquired after his wife, 'that the poor woman was trying to save a parcel of crockery, and some trumpery books'; the last being those which served her to conduct the business of the house. there were many elderly gentlemen in the author's younger days, who still held it part of the amusement of a journey 'to parley with mine host,' who often resembled, in his quaint humour, mine host of the garter in the merry wives of windsor; or blague of the george in the merry devil of edmonton. sometimes the landlady took her share of entertaining the company. in either case, the omitting to pay them due attention gave displeasure, and perhaps brought down a smart jest, as on the following occasion:-- a jolly dame, who, not 'sixty years since,' kept the principal caravansary at greenlaw in berwickshire, had the honour to receive under her roof a very worthy clergyman, with three sons of the same profession, each having a cure of souls: be it said in passing, none of the reverend party were reckoned powerful in the pulpit. after dinner was over, the worthy senior, in the pride of his heart, asked mrs. buchan whether she ever had had such a party in her house before. 'here sit i,' he said, 'a placed minister of the kirk of scotland, and here sit my three sons, each a placed minister of the same kirk.--confess, luckie buchan, you never had such a party in your house before.' the question was not premised by any invitation to sit down and take a glass of wine or the like, so mrs. b. answered dryly, 'indeed, sir, i cannot just say that ever i had such a party in my house before, except once in the forty-five, when i had a highland piper here, with his three sons, all highland pipers; and deil a spring they could play amang them.' note .--the custom of keeping fools i am ignorant how long the ancient and established custom of keeping fools has been disused in england. swift writes an epitaph on the earl of suffolk's fool,-- 'whose name was dickie pearce.' in scotland the custom subsisted till late in the last century. at glamis castle, is preserved the dress of one of the jesters, very handsome, and ornamented with many bells. it is not above thirty years since such a character stood by the sideboard of a nobleman of the first rank in scotland, and occasionally mixed in the conversation, till he carried the joke rather too far, in making proposals to one of the young ladies of the family, and publishing the banns betwixt her and himself in the public church. note .--persecution of episcopal clergymen after the revolution of , and on some occasions when the spirit of the presbyterians had been unusually animated against their opponents, the episcopal clergymen, who were chiefly non-jurors, were exposed to be mobbed, as we should now say, or rabbled, as the phrase then went, to expiate their political heresies. but notwithstanding that the presbyterians had the persecution in charles ii and his brother's time to exasperate them, there was little mischief done beyond the kind of petty violence mentioned in the text. note .--stirrup-cup i may here mention, that the fashion of compotation described in the text, was still occasionally practised in scotland in the author's youth. a company, after having taken leave of their host, often went to finish the evening at the clachan or village, in 'womb of tavern.' their entertainer always accompanied them to take the stirrup-cup, which often occasioned a long and late revel. the poculum potatorium of the valiant baron, his blessed bear, has a prototype at the fine old castle of glamis, so rich in memorials of ancient times; it is a massive beaker of silver, double gilt, moulded into the shape of a lion, and holding about an english pint of wine. the form alludes to the family name of strathmore, which is lyon, and, when exhibited, the cup must necessarily be emptied to the earl's health. the author ought perhaps to be ashamed of recording that he has had the honour of swallowing the contents of the lion; and the recollection of the feat served to suggest the story of the bear of bradwardine. in the family of scott of thirlestane (not thirlestane in the forest, but the place of the same name in roxburghshire) was long preserved a cup of the same kind, in the form of a jack-boot. each guest was obliged to empty this at his departure. if the guest's name was scott, the necessity was doubly imperative. when the landlord of an inn presented his guests with deoch an doruis, that is, the drink at the door, or the stirrup-cup, the draught was not charged in the reckoning. on this point a learned bailie of the town of forfar pronounced a very sound judgement. a., an ale-wife in forfar, had brewed her 'peck of malt,' and set the liquor out of doors to cool; the cow of b., a neighbour of a. chanced to come by, and seeing the good beverage, was allured to taste it, and finally to drink it up. when a. came to take in her liquor, she found the tub empty, and from the cow's staggering and staring, so as to betray her intemperance, she easily divined the mode in which her 'brewst' had disappeared. to take vengeance on crummie's ribs with a stick, was her first effort. the roaring of the cow brought b., her master, who remonstrated with his angry neighbour, and received in reply a demand for the value of the ale which crummie had drunk up. b. refused payment, and was conveyed before c., the bailie, or sitting magistrate. he heard the case patiently; and then demanded of the plaintiff a., whether the cow had sat down to her potation, or taken it standing. the plaintiff answered she had not seen the deed committed, but she supposed the cow drank the ale standing on her feet; adding, that had she been near, she would have made her use them to some purpose. the bailie, on this admission, solemnly adjudged the cow's drink to be deoch an doruis--a stirrup-cup, for which no charge could be made without violating the ancient hospitality of scotland. note .--canting heraldry although canting heraldry is generally reprobated, it seems nevertheless to have been adopted in the arms and mottoes of many honourable families. thus the motto of the vernons, ver non semper viret, is a perfect pun, and so is that of the onslows, festina lente. the periissem ni per-iissem of the anstruthers is liable to a similar objection. one of that ancient race, finding that an antagonist, with whom he had fixed a friendly meeting, was determined to take the opportunity of assassinating him, prevented the hazard by dashing out his brains with a battle-axe. two sturdy arms brandishing such a weapon, form the usual crest of the family, with the above motto--periissem ni per-iissem--i had died, unless i had gone through with it. note .--the levying of blackmail mac-donald of barrisdale, one of the very last highland gentlemen who carried on the plundering system to any great extent, was a scholar and a well-bred gentleman. he engraved on his broadswords the well-known lines-- hae tibi erunt artes--pacisque imponere morem, parcere subiectis, et debellare superbos. indeed, the levying of blackmail was, before , practised by several chiefs of very high rank, who, in doing so, contended that they were lending the laws the assistance of their arms and swords, and affording a protection which could not be obtained from the magistracy in the disturbed state of the country. the author has seen a memoir of mac-pherson of cluny, chief of that ancient clan, from which it appears that he levied protection-money to a very large amount, which was willingly paid even by some of his most powerful neighbours. a gentleman of this clan hearing a clergyman hold forth to his congregation on the crime of theft, interrupted the preacher to assure him, he might leave the enforcement of such doctrines to cluny mac-pherson, whose broadsword would put a stop to theft sooner than all the sermons of all the ministers of the synod. note .--rob roy an adventure, very similar to what is here stated, actually befell the late mr. abercromby of tullibody, grandfather of the present lord abercromby, and father of the celebrated sir ralph. when this gentlemen, who lived to a very advanced period of life, first settled in stirlingshire, his cattle were repeatedly driven off by the celebrated rob roy, or some of his gang; and at length he was obliged, after obtaining a proper safe-conduct, to make the cateran such a visit as that of waverley to bean lean in the text. rob received him with much courtesy, and made many apologies for the accident, which must have happened, he said, through some mistake. mr. abercromby was regaled with collops from two of his own cattle, which were hung up by the heels in the cavern, and was dismissed in perfect safety, after having agreed to pay in future a small sum of blackmail, in consideration of which rob roy not only undertook to forbear his herds in future, but to replace any that should be stolen from him by other freebooters. mr. abercromby said, rob roy affected to consider him as a friend to the jacobite interest, and a sincere enemy to the union. neither of these circumstances were true; but the laird thought it quite unnecessary to undeceive his highland host at the risk of bringing on a political dispute in such a situation. this anecdote i received many years since (about ) from the mouth of the venerable gentleman who was concerned in it. note .--kind gallows of crieff this celebrated gibbet was, in the memory of the last generation, still standing at the western end of the town of crieff, in perthshire. why it was called the kind gallows, we are unable to inform the reader with certainty; but it is alleged that the highlanders used to touch their bonnets as they passed a place which had been fatal to many of their countrymen, with the ejaculation--'god bless her nain sell, and the teil tamn you!' it may therefore have been called kind, as being a sort of native or kindred place of doom to those who suffered there, as in fulfilment of a natural destiny. note .--caterans the story of the bridegroom carried off by caterans on his bridal-day is taken from one which was told to the author by the late laird of mac-nab, many years since. to carry off persons from the lowlands, and to put them to ransom, was a common practice with the wild highlanders, as it is said to be at the present day with the banditti in the south of italy. upon the occasion alluded to, a party of caterans carried off the bridegroom, and secreted him in some cave near the mountain of schehallion. the young man caught the small-pox before his ransom could be agreed on; and whether it was the fine cool air of the place, or the want of medical attendance, mac-nab did not pretend to be positive; but so it was, that the prisoner recovered, his ransom was paid, and he was restored to his friends and bride, but always considered the highland robbers as having saved his life by their treatment of his malady. note .--re-purchase of forfeited estates this happened on many occasions. indeed, it was not till after the total destruction of the clan influence, after , that purchasers could be found who offered a fair price for the estates forfeited in , which were then brought to sale by the creditors of the york-buildings company, who had purchased the whole, or greater part, from government at a very small price. even so late as the period first mentioned, the prejudices of the public in favour of the heirs of the forfeited families threw various impediments in the way of intending purchasers of such property. note .--highland policy this sort of political game ascribed to mac-ivor was in reality played by several highland chiefs, the celebrated lord lovat in particular, who used that kind of finesse to the uttermost. the laird of mac-- was also captain of an independent company, but valued the sweets of present pay too well to incur the risk of losing them in the jacobite cause. his martial consort raised his clan, and headed it in . but the chief himself would have nothing to do with king-making, declaring himself for that monarch, and no other, who gave the laird of mac-- 'half a guinea the day, and half a guinea the morn.' note .--highland discipline in explanation of the military exercise observed at the castle of glennaquoich, the author begs to remark, that the highlanders were not only well practised in the use of the broadsword, firelock, and most of the manly sports and trials of strength common throughout scotland, but also used a peculiar sort of drill, suited to their own dress and mode of warfare. there were, for instance, different modes of disposing the plaid,--one when on a peaceful journey, another when danger was apprehended; one way of enveloping themselves in it when expecting undisturbed repose, and another which enabled them to start up with sword and pistol in hand on the slightest alarm. previous to , or thereabouts, the belted plaid was universally worn, in which the portion which surrounded the middle of the wearer, and that which was flung around his shoulders, were all of the same piece of tartan. in a desperate onset, all was thrown away, and the clan charged bare beneath the doublet, save for an artificial arrangement of the shirt, which, like that of the irish, was always ample, and for the sporran-mollach, or goat's-skin purse. the manner of handling the pistol and dirk was also part of the highland manual exercise, which the author has seen gone through by men who had learned it in their youth. note .--highland abhorrence of pork pork, or swine's flesh, in any shape, was, till of late years, much abominated by the scotch, nor is it yet a favourite food amongst them. king jamie carried this prejudice to england, and is known to have abhorred pork almost as much as he did tobacco. ben jonson has recorded this peculiarity, where the gipsy in a masque, examining the king's hand, says,-- --'you should, by this line, love a horse, and a hound, but no part of a swine.'--the gypsies metamorphosed. james's own proposed banquet for the devil was a loin of pork and a poll of ling, with a pipe of tobacco for digestion. note .--a highland chief's dinner-table in the number of persons of all ranks who assembled at the same table, though by no means to discuss the same fare, the highland chiefs only retained a custom which had been formerly universally observed throughout scotland. 'i myself,' says the traveller fynes morrison, in the end of queen elizabeth's reign, the scene being the lowlands of scotland, 'was at a knight's house, who had many servants to attend him, that brought in his meat with their heads covered with blue caps, the table being more than half furnished with great platters of porridge each having a little piece of sodden meat. and when the table was served, the servants did sit down with us; but the upper mess, instead of porridge, had a pullet, with some prunes in the broth.'--travels, p. . till within this last century, the farmers, even of a respectable condition, dined with their work-people. the difference betwixt those of high degree was ascertained by the place of the party above or below the salt, or, sometimes, by a line drawn with chalk on the dining-table. lord lovat, who knew well how to feed the vanity and restrain the appetites of his clansmen, allowed each sturdy fraser, who had the slightest pretension to be a duinhe-wassel, the full honour of the sitting, but, at the same time, took care that his young kinsmen did not acquire at his table any taste for outlandish luxuries. his lordship was always ready with some honourable apology, why foreign wines and french brandy--delicacies which he conceived might sap the hardy habits of his cousins--should not circulate past an assigned point on the table. note .--conan the jester in the irish ballads relating to fion (the fingal of mac-pherson), there occurs, as in the primitive poetry of most nations, a cycle of heroes, each of whom has some distinguishing attribute: upon these qualities, and the adventures of those possessing them, many proverbs are formed which are still current in the highlands. among other characters, conan is distinguished as in some respects a kind of thersites, but brave and daring even to rashness. he had made a vow that he would never take a blow without returning it; and having, like other heroes of antiquity, descended to the infernal regions, he received a cuff from the arch-fiend; who presided there, which he instantly returned, using the expression in the text. sometimes the proverb is worded thus:--'claw for claw, and the devil take the shortest nails, as conan said to the devil.' note .--waterfall the description of the waterfall mentioned in this chapter is taken from that of ledeard, at the farm so called on the northern side of lochard, and near the head of the lake, four or five miles from aberfoyle. it is upon a small scale, but otherwise one of the most exquisite cascades it is possible to behold. the appearance of flora with the harp, as described, has been justly censured as too theatrical and affected for the ladylike simplicity of her character. but something may be allowed to her french education, in which point and striking effect always make a considerable object. note .--mac-farlane's lantern the clan of mac-farlane, occupying the fastnesses of the western side of loch lomond, were great depredators on the low country; and as their excursions were made usually by night, the moon was proverbially called their lantern. their celebrated pibroch of hoggil nam bo, which is the name of their gathering tune, intimates similar practices,--the sense being-- we are bound to drive the bullocks, all by hollows, hirsts, and hillocks, through the sleet and through the rain; when the moon is beaming low on frozen lake and hills of snow, bold and heartily we go; and all for little gain. note .--castle of doune this noble ruin is dear to my recollection, from associations which have been long and painfully broken. it holds a commanding station on the banks of the river teith, and has been one of the largest castles in scotland. murdock, duke of albany, the founder of this stately pile, was beheaded on the castle-hill of stirling, from which he might see the towers of doune, the monument of his fallen greatness. in - , as stated in the text, a garrison on the part of the chevalier was put into the castle, then less ruinous than at present. it was commanded by mr. stewart of balloch, as governor for prince charles he was a man of property near callander. this castle became at that time the actual scene of a romantic escape made by john home, the author of douglas, and some other prisoners, who, having been taken at the battle of falkirk, were confined there by the insurgents. the poet, who had in his own mind a large stock of that romantic and enthusiastic spirit of adventure, which he has described as animating the youthful hero of his drama, devised and undertook the perilous enterprise of escaping from his prison. he inspired his companions with his sentiments and when every attempt at open force was deemed hopeless, they resolved to twist their bed-clothes into ropes, and thus to descend. four persons, with home himself, reached the ground in safety. but the rope broke with the fifth, who was a tall lusty man. the sixth was thomas barrow, a brave young englishman, a particular friend of home's. determined to take the risk, even in such unfavourable circumstances, barrow committed himself to the broken rope, slid down on it as far as it could assist him, and then let himself drop. his friends beneath succeeded in breaking his fall. nevertheless, he dislocated his ankle, and had several of his ribs broken. his companions, however, were able to bear him off in safety. the highlanders next morning sought for their prisoners with great activity. an old gentleman told the author he remembered seeing the commander stewart, bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste, riding furiously through the country in quest of the fugitives. note .--jacobite sentiments the jacobite sentiments were general among the western counties, and in wales. but although the great families of the wynnes, the wyndhams, and others, had come under an actual obligation to join prince charles if he should land, they had done so under the express stipulation, that he should be assisted by an auxiliary army of french, without which they foresaw the enterprise would be desperate. wishing well to his cause, therefore, and watching an opportunity to join him, they did not, nevertheless, think themselves bound in honour to do so, as he was only supported by a body of wild mountaineers, speaking an uncouth dialect, and wearing a singular dress. the race up to derby struck them with more dread than admiration. but it was difficult to say what the effect might have been, had either the battle of preston or falkirk been fought and won during the advance into england. note .--the chevalier's irish officers divisions early showed themselves in the chevalier's little army, not only amongst the independent chieftains, who were far too proud to brook subjection to each other, but betwixt the scotch and charles's governor o'sullivan, an irishman by birth, who, with some of his countrymen bred in the irish brigade in the service of the king of france, had an influence with the adventurer much resented by the highlanders, who were sensible that their own clans made the chief, or rather the only strength of his enterprise. there was a feud, also, between lord george murray, and james murray of broughton, the prince's secretary, whose disunion greatly embarrassed the affairs of the adventurer. in general, a thousand different pretensions divided their little army, and finally contributed in no small degree to its overthrow. note .--field-piece in the highland army this circumstance, which is historical, as well as the description that precedes it, will remind the reader of the war of la vendee, in which the royalists, consisting chiefly of insurgent peasantry, attached a prodigious and even superstitious interest to the possession of a piece of brass ordnance, which they called marie jeanne. the highlanders of an early period were afraid of cannon, with the noise and effect of which they were totally unacquainted. it was by means of three or four small pieces of artillery that the earl of huntly and errol, in james vi's time, gained a great victory at glenlivat, over a numerous highland army, commanded by the earl of argyle. at the battle of the bridge of dee, general middleton obtained by his artillery a similar success, the highlanders not being able to stand the discharge of musket's-mother, which was the name they bestowed on great guns. in an old ballad on the battle of the bridge of dee, these verses occur:-- the highlandmen are pretty men for handling sword and shield, but yet they are but simple men to stand a stricken field. the highlandmen are pretty men for target and claymore, but yet they are but naked men to face the cannon's roar. for the cannons roar on a summer night like thunder in the air; was never man in highland garb would face the cannon fair. but the highlanders of had got far beyond the simplicity of their forefathers, and showed throughout the whole war how little they dreaded artillery, although the common people still attached some consequence to the possession of the field-piece which led to this disquisition. note .--anderson of whitburgh the faithful friend who pointed out the pass by which the highlanders moved from tranent to seaton, was robert anderson, junior, of whitburgh, a gentleman of property in east lothian. he had been interrogated by the lord george murray concerning the possibility of crossing the uncouth and marshy piece of ground which divided the armies, and which he described as impracticable. when dismissed, he recollected that there was a circuitous path leading eastward through the marsh into the plain, by which the highlanders might turn the flank of sir john cope's position, without being exposed to the enemy's fire. having mentioned his opinion to mr. hepburn of keith, who instantly saw its importance, he was encouraged by that gentleman to awake lord george murray, and communicate the idea to him. lord george received the information with grateful thanks, and instantly awakened prince charles, who was sleeping in the field with a bunch of peas under his head. the adventurer received with alacrity the news that there was a possibility of bringing an excellently provided army to a decisive battle with his own irregular forces. his joy on the occasion was not very consistent with the charge of cowardice brought against him by chevalier johnstone, a discontented follower, whose memoirs possess at least as much of a romantic as a historical character. even by the account of the chevalier himself, the prince was at the head of the second line of the highland army during the battle, of which he says, 'it was gained with such rapidity, that in the second line, where i was still by the side of the prince, we saw no other enemy than those who were lying on the ground killed and wounded, though we were not more than fifty paces behind our first line, running always as fast as we could to overtake them.' this passage in the chevalier's memoirs places the prince within fifty paces of the best of the battle, a position which would never have been the choice of one unwilling to take a share of its dangers. indeed, unless the chiefs had complied with the young adventurer's proposal to lead the van in person, it does not appear that he could have been deeper in the action. note .--death of colonel gardiner the death of this good christian and gallant man is thus given by his affectionate biographer dr. doddridge, from the evidence of eye-witnesses:-- 'he continued all night under arms, wrapped up in his cloak, and generally sheltered under a rick of barley, which happened to be in the field. about three in the morning he called-his domestic servants to him, of which there were four in waiting. he dismissed three of them with most affectionate christian advice, and such solemn charges relating to the performance of their duty and the care of their souls, as seemed plainly to intimate that he apprehended it was at least very probable he was taking his last farewell of them. there is great reason to believe that he spent the little remainder of the time, which could not be much above an hour, in those devout exercises of soul which had been so long habitual to him and to which so many circumstances did then concur to call him. the army was alarmed, by break of day, by the noise of the rebels' approach, and the attack was made before sunrise, yet when it was light enough to discern what passed. as soon as the enemy came within gunshot they made a furious fire; and it is said that the dragoons which constituted the left wing immediately fled. the colonel, at the beginning of the onset, which in the whole lasted but a few minutes, received a wound by a bullet in his left breast, which made him give a sudden spring in his saddle upon which his servant, who led the horse, would have persuaded him to retreat, but he said it was only a wound in the flesh, and fought on, though he presently after received a shot in his right thigh. in the meantime, it was discerned that some of the enemy fell by him, and particularly one man, who had made him a treacherous visit but a few days before, with great profession of zeal for the present establishment. 'events of this kind pass in less time than the description of them can be written, or than it can be read. the colonel was for a few moments supported by his men, and particularly by that worthy person lieutenant-colonel whitney, who was shot through the arm here, and a few months after fell nobly at the battle of falkirk, and by lieutenant west, a man of distinguished bravery, as also by about fifteen dragoons, who stood by him to the last. but after a faint fire, the regiment in general was seized with a panic; and though their colonel and some other gallant officers did what they could to rally them once or twice, they at last took a precipitate flight. and just in the moment when colonel gardiner seemed to be making a pause to deliberate what duty required him to do in such circumstances, an accident happened, which must, i think, in the judgement of every worthy and generous man, be allowed a sufficient apology for exposing his life to so great hazard, when his regiment had left him. he saw a party of the foot, who were then bravely fighting near him, and whom he was ordered to support, had no officer to head them; upon which he said eagerly, in the hearing of the person from whom i had this account, "these brave fellows will be cut to pieces for want of a commander," or words to that effect; which while he was speaking, he rode up to them and cried out, "fire on, my lads, and fear nothing." but just as the words were out of his mouth, a highlander advanced towards him with a scythe fastened to a long pole, with which he gave him so dreadful a wound on his right arm, that his sword dropped out of his hand; and at the same time several others coming about him while he was thus dreadfully entangled with that cruel weapon, he was dragged off from his horse. the moment he fell, another highlander, who, if the king's evidence at carlisle may be credited (as i know not why they should not, though the unhappy creature died denying it), was one mac-naught, who was executed about a year after, gave him a stroke either with a broadsword or a lochaber-axe (for my informant could not exactly distinguish) on the hinder part of his head, which was the mortal blow. all that his faithful attendant saw further at this time was, that, as his hat was falling off, he took it in his left hand, and waved it as a signal to him to retreat, and added what were the last words he ever heard him speak, "take care of yourself," upon which the servant retired.'--some remarkable passages in the life of colonel james gardiner, by p. doddridge, d.d., london, , p. . i may remark on this extract, that it confirms the account given in the text of the resistance offered by some of the english infantry. surprised by a force of a peculiar and unusual description, their opposition could not be long or formidable, especially as they were deserted by the cavalry, and those who undertook to manage the artillery. but although the affair was soon decided, i have always understood that many of the infantry showed an inclination to do their duty. note .-the laird of balmawhapple it is scarcely necessary to say that the character of this brutal young laird is entirely imaginary. a gentleman, however, who resembled balmawhapple in the article of courage only, fell at preston in the manner described. a perthshire gentleman of high honour and respectability, one of the handful of cavalry who followed the fortunes of charles edward, pursued the fugitive dragoons almost alone till near st. clement's wells, where the efforts of some of the officers had prevailed on a few of them to make a momentary stand. perceiving at this moment that they were pursued by only one man and a couple of servants, they turned upon him and cut him down with their swords. i remember, when a child, sitting on his grave, where the grass long grew rank and green, distinguishing it from the rest of the field. a female of the family then residing at st. clement's wells used to tell me the tragedy, of which she had been an eye-witness, and showed me in evidence one of the silver clasps of the unfortunate gentleman's waistcoat. note .--andrea de ferrara the name of andrea de ferrara is inscribed on all the scottish broadswords which are accounted of peculiar excellence. who this artist was, what were his fortunes, and when he flourished, have hitherto defied the research of antiquaries; only it is in general believed that andrea de ferrara was a spanish or italian artificer, brought over by james iv or v to instruct the scots in the manufacture of sword blades. most barbarous nations excel in the fabrication of arms; and the scots had attained great proficiency in forging swords, so early as the field of pinkie; at which period the historian patten describes them as 'all notably broad and thin, universally made to slice, and of such exceeding good temper, that as i never saw any so good, so i think it hard to devise better.' account of somerset's expedition. it may be observed, that the best and most genuine andrea ferraras have a crown marked on the blades. note .--miss nairne the incident here said to have happened to flora, mac-ivor, actually befell miss nairne, a lady with whom the author had the pleasure of being acquainted. as the highland army rushed into edinburgh, miss nairne, like other ladies who approved of their cause, stood waving her handkerchief from a balcony, when a ball from a highlander's musket, which was discharged by accident, grazed her forehead. 'thank god' said she, the instant she recovered, 'that the accident happened to me, whose principles are known. had it befallen a whig, they would have said it was done on purpose.' note .--prince charles edward the author of waverley has been charged with painting the young adventurer in colours more amiable than his character deserved. but having known many individuals who were near his person, he has been described according to the light in which those eye-witnesses saw his temper and qualifications. something must be allowed, no doubt, to the natural exaggerations of those who remembered him as the bold and adventurous prince, in whose cause they had braved death and ruin; but is their evidence to give place entirely to that of a single malcontent? i have already noticed the imputations thrown by the chevalier johnstone on the prince's courage. but some part at least of that gentleman's tale is purely romantic. it would not, for instance, be supposed, that at the time he is favouring us with the highly-wrought account of his amour with the adorable peggie, the chevalier johnstone was a married man, whose grandchild is now alive, or that the whole circumstantial story concerning the outrageous vengeance taken by gordon of abbachie on a presbyterian clergyman, is entirely apocryphal. at the same time it may be admitted, that the prince, like others of his family, did not esteem the services done him by his adherents so highly as he ought. educated in high ideas of his hereditary right, he has been supposed to have held every exertion and sacrifice made in his cause as too much the duty of the person making it, to merit extravagant gratitude on his part. dr. king's evidence (which his leaving the jacobite interest renders somewhat doubtful) goes to strengthen this opinion. the ingenious editor of johnstone's memoirs has quoted a story said to be told by helvetius, stating that prince charles edward, far from voluntarily embarking on his daring expedition, was literally bound hand and foot, and to which he seems disposed to yield credit. now, it being a fact as well known as any in his history, and, so far as i know, entirely undisputed, that the prince's personal entreaties and urgency positively forced boisdale and lochiel into insurrection, when they were earnestly desirous that he would put off his attempt until he could obtain a sufficient force from france, it will be very difficult to reconcile his alleged reluctance to undertake the expedition, with his desperately insisting on carrying the rising into effect, against the advice and entreaty of his most powerful and most sage partisans. surely a man who had been carried bound on board the vessel which brought him to so desperate an enterprise, would have taken the opportunity afforded by the reluctance of his partisans, to return to france in safety. it is averred in johnstone's memoirs, that charles edward left the field of culloden without doing the utmost to dispute the victory; and, to give the evidence on both sides, there is in existence the more trustworthy testimony of lord elcho, who states, that he himself earnestly exhorted the prince to charge at the head of the left wing, which was entire, and retrieve the day, or die with honour. and on his counsel being declined, lord elcho took leave of him with a bitter execration, swearing he would never look on his face again, and kept his word. on the other hand, it seems to have been the opinion of almost all the other officers, that the day was irretrievably lost, one wing of the highlanders being entirely routed, the rest of the army out-numbered, out-flanked, and in a condition totally hopeless. in this situation of things, the irish officers who surrounded charles's person interfered to force him off the field. a cornet who was close to the prince, left a strong attestation, that he had seen sir thomas sheridan seize the bridle of his horse, and turn him round. there is some discrepancy of evidence; but the opinion of lord elcho, a man of fiery temper, and desperate at the ruin which he beheld impending, cannot fairly be taken in prejudice of a character for courage which is intimated by the nature of the enterprise itself, by the prince's eagerness to fight on all occasions, by his determination to advance from derby to london, and by the presence of mind which he manifested during the romantic perils of his escape. the author is far from claiming for this unfortunate person the praise due to splendid talents; but he continues to be of opinion, that at the period of his enterprise, he had a mind capable of facing danger and aspiring to fame. that charles edward had the advantages of a graceful presence, courtesy, and an address and manner becoming his station, the author never heard disputed by any who approached his person, nor does he conceive that these qualities are overcharged in the present attempt to sketch his portrait. the following extracts, corroborative of the general opinion respecting the prince's amiable disposition, are taken from a manuscript account of his romantic expedition, by james maxwell of kirkconnel, of which i possess a copy, by the friendship of j. menzies, esq., of pitfoddells. the author, though partial to the prince, whom he faithfully followed, seems to have been a fair and candid man, and well acquainted with the intrigues among the adventurer's council:-- 'everybody was mightily taken with the prince's figure and personal behaviour. there was but one voice about them. those whom interest or prejudice made a runaway to his cause, could not help acknowledging that they wished him well in all other respects, and could hardly blame him for his present undertaking. sundry things had concurred to raise his character to the highest pitch, besides the greatness of the enterprise, and the conduct that had hitherto appeared in the execution of it. there were several instances of good nature and humanity that had made a great impression on people's minds, i shall confine myself to two or three. immediately after the battle, as the prince was riding along the ground that cope's army had occupied a few minutes before, one of the officers came up to congratulate him, and said, pointing to the killed, "sir, there are your enemies at your feet." the prince, far from exulting, expressed a great deal of compassion for his father's deluded subjects, whom he declared he was heartily sorry to see in that posture. next day, while the prince was at pinkie-house, a citizen of edinburgh came to make some representation to secretary murray about the tents that city was ordered to furnish against a certain day. murray happened to be out of the way, which the prince hearing of, called to have the gentleman brought to him, saying, he would rather dispatch the business, whatever it was, himself, than have the gentleman wait, which he did, by granting everything that was asked. so much affability in a young prince, flushed with victory, drew encomiums even from his enemies. but what gave the people the highest idea of him, was the negative he gave to a thing that very nearly concerned his interest, and upon which the success of his enterprise perhaps depended. it was proposed to send one of the prisoners to london, to demand of that court a cartel for the exchange of prisoners taken, and to be taken, during this war, and to intimate that a refusal would be looked upon as a resolution on their part to give no quarter. it was visible a cartel would be of great advantage to the prince's affairs; his friends would be more ready to declare for him if they had nothing to fear but the chance of war in the field; and if the court of london refused to settle a cartel, the prince was authorized to treat his prisoners in the same manner the elector of hanover was determined to treat such of the prince's friends as might fall into his hands: it was urged that a few examples would compel the court of london to comply. it was to be presumed that the officers of the english army would make a point of it. they had never engaged in the service but upon such terms as are in use among all civilized nations, and it could be no stain upon their honour to lay down their commissions if these terms were not observed, and that owing to the obstinacy of their own prince. though this scheme was plausible, and represented as very important, the prince could never be brought into it: it was below him, he said, to make empty threats, and he would never put such as those into execution; he would never in cold blood take away lives which he had saved in heat of action, at the peril of his own. these were not the only proofs of good nature the prince gave about this time. every day produced something new of this kind. these things softened the rigour of a military government, which was only imputed to the necessity of his affairs, and which he endeavoured to make as gentle and easy as possible.' it has been said, that the prince sometimes exacted more state and ceremonial than seemed to suit his condition; but, on the other hand some strictness of etiquette was altogether indispensable where he must otherwise have been exposed to general intrusion. he could also endure, with a good grace, the retorts which his affectation of ceremony sometimes exposed him to. it is said, for example, that grant of glenmoriston having made a hasty march to join charles, at the head of his clan, rushed into the prince's presence at holyrood with unceremonious haste, without having attended to the duties of the toilet. the prince received him kindly, but not without a hint that a previous interview with the barber might not have been wholly unnecessary. 'it is not beardless boys,' answered the displeased chief, 'who are to do your royal highness's turn.' the chevalier took the rebuke in good part. on the whole, if prince charles had concluded his life soon after his miraculous escape, his character in history must have stood very high. as it was, his station is amongst those, a certain brilliant portion of whose life forms a remarkable contrast to all which precedes, and all which follows it. note .--the skirmish at clifton the following account of the skirmish at clifton is extracted from the manuscript memoirs of evan macpherson of cluny, chief of the clan macpherson who had the merit of supporting the principal brunt of that spirited affair. the memoirs appear to have been composed about , only ten years after the action had taken place. they were written in france, where that gallant chief resided in exile, which accounts for some gallicisms which occur in the narrative. 'in the prince's return from derby back towards scotland, my lord george murray, lieutenant-general, cheerfully charg'd himself with the command of the rear; a post, which, altho' honourable, was attended with great danger, many difficulties, and no small fatigue; for the prince being apprehensive that his retreat to scotland might be cut off by marischall wade, who lay to the northward of him with an armie much superior to what h. r. h. had, while the duke of comberland with his whole cavalrie followed hard in the rear, was obliged to hasten his marches. it was not, therefore, possible for the artilirie to march so fast as the prince's armie, in the depth of winter, extremely bad weather, and the worst roads in england; so lord george murray was obliged often to continue his marches long after it was dark almost every night, while at the same time, he had frequent allarms and disturbances from the duke of comberland's advanc'd parties. towards the evening of the twentie-eight december , the prince entered the town of penrith, in the province of comberland. but as lord george murray could not bring up the artilirie so fast as he wou'd have wish'd, he was obliged to pass the night six miles short of that town, together with the regiment of mac-donel of glengarrie, which that day happened to have the arrear guard. the prince, in order to refresh his armie, and to give my lord george and the artilirie time to come up, resolved to sejour the th at penrith; so ordered his little army to appear in the morning under arms, in order to be reviewed, and to know in what manner the numbers stood from his haveing entered england. it did not at that time amount to foot in all, with about cavalrie, composed of the noblesse who serv'd as volunteers, part of whom form'd a first troop of guards for the prince, under the command of my lord elchoe, now comte de weems, who, being proscribed, is presently in france. another part formed a second troup of guards under the command of my lord balmirino, who was beheaded at the tower of london. a third part serv'd under my lord le comte de kilmarnock, who was likewise beheaded at the tower. a fourth part serv'd under my lord pitsligow, who is also proscribed; which cavalrie, tho' very few in numbers, being all noblesse, were very brave, and of infinite advantage to the foot, not only in the day of battle, but in serving as advanced guards on the several marches, and in patroling dureing the night on the different roads which led towards the towns where the army happened to quarter. 'while this small army was out in a body on the th december, upon a rising ground to the northward of penrith, passing review, mons. de cluny with his tribe, was ordered to the bridge of clifton, about a mile to southward of penrith, after having pass'd in review before mons. patullo, who was charged with the inspection of the troops, and was likewise quarter master general of the army, and is now in france. they remained under arms at the bridge, waiting the arrival of my lord george murray with the artilirie, whom mons. de cluny had orders to cover in passing the bridge. they arrived about sunsett closely pursued by the duke of comberland with the whole body of his cavalrie, reckoned upwards of strong, about a thousand of whom, as near as might be computed, dismounted, in order to cut off the passage of the artilirie towards the bridge, while the duke and the others remained on horseback in order to attack the arrear. my lord george murray advanced, and although he found mons. de cluny and his tribe in good spirits under arms, yet the circumstance appear'd extremely delicate. the numbers were vastly unequall, and the attack seem'd very dangerous; so my lord george declin'd giving orders to such time as he ask'd mons. de cluny's oppinion. "i will attack them with all my heart," says mons. de cluny, "if you order me." "i do order it then," answered my lord george, and immediately went on himself along with mons. de cluny, and fought sword in hand on foot, at the head of the single tribe of macphersons. they in a moment made their way through a strong hedge of thorns, under the cover whereof the cavalrie had taken their station, in the struggle of passing which hedge my lord george murray, being dressed en montagnard, as all the army were, lost his bonnet and wig; so continued to fight bare-headed during the action, they at first made a brisk discharge of their firearms on the enemy, then attacked them with their sabres, and made a great slaughter a considerable time, which obliged comberland and his cavalrie to fly with precipitation and in great confusion; in so much, that if the prince had been provided in a sufficient number of cavalrie to have taken advantage of the disorder, it is beyond question that the duke of comberland and the bulk of his cavalrie had been taken prisoners. by this time it was so dark that it was not possible to view or number the slain, who filled all the ditches which happened to be on the ground where they stood. but it was computed that, besides those who went off wounded upwards of a hundred at least were left on the spot, among whom was colonel honeywood, who commanded the dismounted cavalrie, whose sabre, of considerable value, mons. de cluny brought off and still preserves; and his tribe lykeways brought off many arms;--the colonel was afterwards taken up, and, his wounds being dress'd, with great difficultie recovered. mons. de cluny lost only in the action twelve men, of whom some haveing been only wounded, fell afterwards into the hands of the enemy, and were sent as slaves to america, whence several of them returned, and one of them is now in france, a serjeant in the regiment of royal scots. how soon the accounts of the enemie's approach had reached the prince, h. r. h. had immediately ordered mi-lord le comte de nairne, brigadier, who, being proscribed, is now in france, with the three batalions of the duke of athol, the batalion of the duke of perth, and some other troups under his command, in order to support cluny, and to bring off the artilirie. but the action was intirely over before the comte de nairne, with his command, cou'd reach nigh to the place. they therefore return'd all to penrith, and the artilirie marched up in good order. nor did the duke of comberland ever afterwards dare to come within a day's march of the prince and his army dureing the course of all that retreat, which was conducted with great prudence and safety, when in some manner surrounded by enemies.' note .--the oath upon the dirk as the heathen deities contracted an indelible obligation if they swore by styx, the scottish highlanders had usually some peculiar solemnity attached to an oath which they intended should be binding on them. very frequently it consisted in laying their hand, as they swore, on their own drawn dirk; which dagger, becoming a party to the transaction, was invoked to punish any breach of faith. but, by whatever ritual the oath was sanctioned, the party was extremely desirous to keep secret what the especial oath was, which he considered as irrevocable. this was a matter of great convenience, as he felt no scruple in breaking his asseveration when made in any other form than that which he accounted as peculiarly solemn; and therefore readily granted any engagement which bound him no longer than he inclined. whereas, if the oath which he accounted inviolable was once publicly known, no party with whom he might have occasion to contract, would have rested satisfied with any other. louis xi of france practised the same sophistry, for he also had a peculiar species of oath, the only one which he was ever known to respect, and which, therefore, he was very unwilling to pledge. the only engagement which that wily tyrant accounted binding upon him, was an oath by the holy cross of saint lo d'angers, which contained a portion of the true cross. if he prevaricated after taking this oath, louis believed he should die within the year. the constable saint paul, being invited to a personal conference with louis, refused to meet the king unless he would agree to ensure him safe conduct under sanction of this oath. but, says comines, the king replied, he would never again pledge that engagement to mortal man, though he was willing to take any other oath which could be devised. the treaty broke off, therefore, after much chaffering concerning the nature of the vow which louis was to take. such is the difference between the dictates of superstition and those of conscience. ***** glossary abiit, evasit, erupit, effugit, more correctly the quotation is, 'abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit': varying terms to express the haste, secrecy, and energy of the flight. aboon or abune, above. accolade, embrace. adscripti glebae, slaves, transferred with the land to which they are bound, from one possessor to another. ahint, behind. aits, oats. alerte a la muraille, 'quick to the wall!' alexander ab alexandro, alexander the son of alexander. alma = 'alma mater terra', the land, the bounteous mother. alter ego, his other self. ambry, awmry, chest. anent, concerning. anilia, old women's tales. apotheosis, deification. ariette, air. assoilzied, acquitted, or absolved. assythment, satisfaction. baff, slap. bagganets, bayonets. barley, parley; cry barley in a bruilzie, call a truce during a scrimmage. baron-bailie, steward of the estate. bawbee, halfpenny. baxter, baker. beaufet, buffet, sideboard. beflummed, befooled. begunk, trick. ben, within (by, in). benempt, named. bent, open country. bhaird, bard. bibliopolist, seller of books. bieldy, sheltered. birlieman, a parish official. blind, hidden, out of the way. blood-wit, blood-money, compensation for homicide. bodach, spectre. bodle, farthing. bogle, bogey. bon vivant, a lover of good fare. boune, make ready. brander, broil. braw, fine. brogues, shoes. broo', broth. bruckle, brittle, frail. bruik, possess. bruilzie, broil, scrimmage. burgonet, helmet. busk, get ready. cailliach, crone, old woman. caisse militaire, military chest. callant, lad. canny, shrewd; uncanny or no canny, eerie. canter, beggar; from the whining or 'canting' tone. cantrips, tricks. cath-dath, tartan. c'est des deux oreilles, properly, 'c'est d'une oreille,' an expression appreciative of good wine. c'est l'homme ki se bast et ki conseille, it is the man who fights and gives counsel. cean-kinne, head of the clan. cedant arma togae, let weapons give place to the citizen's robe. cela ne tire a rien, that counts for nothing. cela va sans dire, that goes without saying. cess-money, land-tax. change-house, public house. chevaux-de-poste, post-horses. chiel, person. clachan, village. clamhewit, slash, clout. claw favour, curry favour. clour, bump. coghling, blowing. com., short for comitatus = county. conclamare vasa, to give the signal for baggage, i.e. for packing the baggage. conges, bowing and scraping. coronach, lament. corri, hill-side. coup, upset. coupe-jarret, cut-throat (literally, leg-chopper). cour pleniere, full court, state-reception. couteau de chasse, hunting-knife. cow yer cracks, stop your chatter. craig, neck. creagh, foray, raid. cuittle, fickle. curragh, boat, currant, running. cut-lugged, crop-eared. dans son tort, in the wrong. de facto, in actual fact. de jure, by legal right. deaving, deafening. deliver, active. demelee, extrication from a hobble. deoch an doruis, stirrup-cup. dern, dark. diaoul, devil. diaoul!--ceade millia molligheart, o the devil! a hundred thousand curses. dinmonts, year-old wethers. dispone, assign. divertisements, diversions. doer, factor, agent. doited, witless. doon, down. dorlach, valise, portmanteau. dovering, half-asleep. dow, dove. dowff, dull. due donzellette garrule, two garrulous damsels. duinhe-wassel, gentleman. earn, eagle. eld, age. elisos oculos, et siccum sanguine guttur, eyes squeezed out of his head, and throat drained of blood. en attendant, meanwhile. en mousquetaire, from a soldier's point of view. epulae ad senatum, prandium vero ad populum attinet, for the senate feasts are befitting, but for the people a simple meal. epulae lautiores, splendid feasts. equiponderate, equivalent. et singula praedantur anni, the passing years rob us of every thing we possess, one by one. etter-cap, a venomous person. evite, evade. ewest, nearest. exeemed, exempt. faire la curee, to give the shin, &c., of a killed stag to the hounds. faire la meilleure chere, to make good cheer. feal, loyal. feck, part. fendy, handy. ferociores in aspectu, mitiores in actu, fierce in appearance, in behaviour mild. fille de chambre, lady's maid. flemit, frightened. fleyt, scold. foris-familiated, excluded from the family, out of the jurisdiction of the head of the family. fungarque inani munere, i shall render a fruitless service. gaberlunzie, beggar. gad, bar. gane, gone. gar, make. garcons apothicaires, chemists' assistants. gardez l'eau, beware of the water. gartaned, gartered. gaudet equis et canibus, he finds his pleasure in horses and dogs. gaun, going. gear, goods. gimmers, ewes of two years. gin, if. gled, hawk. gleg, quick. glisk, glimpse. graning, groaning. grat, cried; greet, cry, weep. grey-beard, jug. grice, young pig. griffin, a four-legged dragon. gripple, greedy. gusto, taste. haec tibi erunt artes, &c. 'these be your acts; to impose the rule of peace; to spare the humbled, crush the arrogant foe.' hag, copse. haggis, a dish composed of the pluck, &c., of a sheep, with oatmeal, suet, onions, &c., boiled inside the animal's maw. haill, whole. hallan, inner wall. hantle, a lot. heck, cattle rack. her nain sell, me, myself. hership, plunder. het, hot. hippogriff, a cross between a horse and a dragon. hog, lamb. homagium, the act of homage. horning, outlawry. horse-couper, horse-dealer. howe, hollow. humana perpessi sumus, we have borne all that man can inflict on us. hurdles, buttocks. ilk, each; of that ilk, having the same title as the surname. impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, untiring, swift to wrath, unyielding, keen. in carcere, in prison. in ergastulo, in a dungeon (a private prison, as opposed to incarcere). in integnum, in full. in loco parentis, in the place of a parent. in rebus bellicis maxime dominatur fortuna, in matters of war, luck has most to say. in servitio exuendi, seu detrahendi. caligas regis post batalliam, for the service of undoing or pulling off the king's boots after a battle. intromitted, interfered with. jogue, jogee, ascetic or conjurer. kemple, a load of hay (forty 'bottles'). kippage, rage. kittle, tricky, difficult. kyloes, highland cattle. la belle passion, the gentle passion. la houlette et le challumeau, the shepherd's crook and pipe. laird, (equivalent to) squire. laissez faire a don antoine, leave that to don antonio. lang-leggit, long-legged. lapis offensionis et petra scandali, a stone of stumbling and a rock of offence. lawing, reckoning. le beau ideal, the perfect conception. leges conviviales, the rules of the table. les coustusmes de normandie, c'est l'homme ki se bast et ki conseille, [according to] the norman custom, it is the man who fights and gives counsel. levy en masse, full muster. liber pater, father liber; an old italian deity, afterwards identified with bacchus. lightly, make light of. limmer, hussy, good-for-nothing. loon, fellow. louping-on stane, mounting-stone. lour, to frown. luckie, widow. lug, ear. lunzie, wallet. ma belle demoiselle, my fair damsel. madame son epouse, madam his wife. mails, rent, dues. mais cela viendra avec le temps, but that will come with time. maist, most. major domo, butler, mayor of the house, steward. manege, the art of training and managing horses. mart, fatted beasts, slaughtered at martinmas for winter provision. mask, infuse. maugre, in spite of. maun, must. mauvaise honte, false shame. mavortia pectora, warlike breasts. meal-ark, meal-tub. misguggle, mishandle. moldwarp, mole. mon coeur, &c. 'my heart so light, quo' she, my lad, is not for you; 'tis for a soldier bold, with beard of martial hue. down, down, derrydown. 'a feather in his hat, a red heel on his shoe; who plays upon the flute, and on the fiddle too. down, down, derrydown.' morning, morning drink. mortis causa, the cause of death. mousted, powdered. mutemus clypeos, &c. 'change we our shields, and for ourselves assume the trappings of the greeks.' neb, nose. nebulones nequissimi, worthless scamps. nec naturaliter idiota, not a born idiot. nolt, cattle. nunc insanus amor, &c. 'love's frenzy keeps me still in war's array where bolts fly thick, and foemen compass me.' nuncupative, legally valid nomination of an heir. obsidional crown, the reward of a commander who delivered a town from siege; here used erroneously for the reward of the soldier who first entered a besieged city. orra, odd; orra man, the man who does the odd jobs. outrecuidance, presumption. o vous qui buvez, &c. 'o you, who drink from flagons full, from out this happy fountain cool, here where, upon the banks, you see only the flocks of silly sheep, with rustic maids for company, who bare of foot their wardship keep.' oyer and terminer, to hear and determine (legal, from norman terminology). paitrick, partridge. palinode, recantation. panged, crammed. paunie, peacock. peached, informed against, betrayed. peculium, property. penetralia, interior. per conjurationem, on oath. philabeg, kilt. phrenesiac, frenzied. pinners, cap with lappets. pis-aller, an inferior article which will do to go on with. plack, halfpenny. pleader, barrister. ploy, employment, or fuss. poculum potatorium, drinking-cup. powtering, rummaging. prandium, a meal. pretty, athletic. primae notae, of the first quality. princeps, chieftain. procul a patriae finibus, far from the borders of your own land. procul dubio, without doubt. proner, praise up. propone, propose. prosapia, ancestry. puer (juvenis) bonae spei et magnae indolis, a youth of promising future and of high character. quantum sufficit, as much as is needed, enough. quasi bearwarden, in the capacity of bearwarden. qu'il connoit bien ses gens, that he knows well with whom he has to deal. quean, girl. quodlibets, subtleties. rampant, erect on the hind legs. recepto amico, when a friend is present. rectus in curia, cleared before the law, redd, put in order. reifs, robberies. reises, brushwood. resiling, drawing back. rintherout, rapscallion. risu solvuntur tabulae, the prosecution is laughed out of court. rokelay, short cloak. roynish, scurvy. runt, an old cow. ruse de guerre, military stratagem. sacramentum militare, soldiers' oath of allegiance. sagesse, discretion. salient, in the act of leaping. sanctum sanctorum, lit. 'holy of holies'; a specially private retreat or study. sans tache, without stain. sarks, shirts. scarted, scratched, schellum, scamp. scouping, scampering. sennachies, highland genealogists. servabit odorem testa diu, the pot will keep the smell for a long time. shemus beg, little james. shibboleth, a pass-word (judges xii, ). shilpit, thin. siccan, such. sidier roy, red-coated soldiers. siller, silver. skene, small dirk or dagger. smoky, suspicious. sonsie, sensible. sopite, allay. sorner, a person who lives on his neighbours. sowens, porridge or gruel. speirings, askings, = information. spence, best room. spes altera, another hope. spleuchan, pocket. sprack, spruce. sprechery, cattle-lifting. spuilzie, spoil (cf. bruilzie = broil). steadings, farms. stieve, stiff. stirk, a year-old heifer or bullock. stoor, austere. stot, bull. stoup, mug, flagon. stouthreif, robbery with violence. strae, straw. strath, a valley. strathspey, a scottish dance. streek, lie down. sui juris, of his own right. suum cuique, to each his due. syboes, onions or radishes. tacksman, tenant. taiglit, slow, tired. taillie, covenant, bond. taishatr, a person who has second-sight. tandem triumphans, triumphant in the end. tanquam privatus, in my private capacity. tappit-hen, a pewter-pot, holding nearly a gallon. tentamina, experiments. testamentum militare, will made on the field of battle. thir, those. thraw, twist. threepit, declared. tighearna, chief. til, to; intil, into; until, unto. tinchel, circle of beaters for driving game. tocher, dowry; tocherless, dowerless. toto coelo, as widely as may be. toun, collection of houses, tracasserie, annoyance. trews, tartan trousers. trindling, trundling. troisieme etage, third floor. trot-cozy, riding-hood. tuilzie, scrimmage. umwhile, sometime, late. un petit pendement bien joli, a very pretty little hanging. unco, very. unsonsy, senseless, or uncanny. until, unto. usquebaugh, whiskey. vilipended, slandered. vinum locutum est, it was the wine that spoke. vinum primae notae, wine of the first quality. vita adhuc durante, as long as life lasts. vivers, victuals. vix ea nostra voco, i scarcely call these things my own. wadset, pledge. wanchancy, unchancy unlucky. ill-omened. wappen, brief. ware, spend, bestow. wa's, walls. weel-far'd, well-favoured. weising, aiming. wheen, whin, few. whilk, which. whingeing, whining. wyvern, two-legged dragon. [transcriber's note: i feel that it is important to note that this book is part of the caledonian series. the caledonian series is a group of books comprising all of sir walter scott's works.] waverley or 't is sixty years since by sir walter scott volume i publishers' note it has long been the ambition of the present publishers to offer to the public an ideal edition of the writings of sir walter scott, the great poet and novelist of whom william hazlitt said, 'his works are almost like a new edition of human nature.' secure in the belief not only that his writings have achieved a permanent place in the literature of the world, but that succeeding generations will prize them still more highly, we have, after the most careful planning and study, undertaken the publication of this edition of the waverley novels and the complete poetical writings. it is evident that the ideal edition of a great classic must be distinguished in typography, must present the best available text, and must be illustrated in such a way as at once to be beautiful in itself and to add to the reader's pleasure and his understanding of the book. as to the typography and text, little need be said here. the format of the edition has been most carefully studied, and represents the use of the best resources of the riverside press. the text has been carefully edited in the light of scott's own revisions; all of his own latest notes have been included, glossaries have been added, and full descriptive notes to the illustrations have been prepared which will, we hope, add greatly to the reader's interest and instruction in the reading of the novels and poems. of the illustrations, which make the special feature of this edition, something more may be said. in the case of an author like sir walter scott, the ideal edition requires that the beautiful and romantic scenery amid which he lived and of which he wrote shall be adequately presented to the reader. no other author ever used more charming backgrounds or employed them to better advantage. to see scotland, and to visit in person all the scenes of the novels and poems, would enable the reader fully to understand these backgrounds and thereby add materially to his appreciation of the author. before beginning the preparation of this edition, the head of the department having it in charge made a visit in person to the scenes of the novels and poems, determined to explore all the localities referred to by the author, so far as they could be identified. the field proved even more productive than had been at first supposed, and photographs were obtained in sufficient quantity to illustrate all the volumes. these pictures represent the scenes very much as scott saw them. the natural scenery-- mountains, woods, lakes, rivers, seashore, and the like--is nearly the same as in his day. the ruins of ancient castles and abbeys were found to correspond very closely with his descriptions, though in many instances he had in imagination rebuilt these ruins and filled them with the children of his fancy. the scenes of the stories extend into nearly every county in scotland and through a large part of england and wales. all of these were thoroughly investigated, and photographs were made of everything of interest. one of the novels has to do with france and belgium, one with switzerland, one with the holy land, one with constantinople, and one with india. for all of these lands, which scott did not visit in person, and therefore did not describe with the same attention to detail as in the case of his own country, interesting pictures of characteristic scenery were secured. by this method the publishers have hoped to bring before the reader a series of photographs which will not only please the eye and give a satisfactory artistic effect to the volumes, but also increase the reader's knowledge of the country described and add a new charm to the delightful work of the author. in addition to the photographs, old engravings and paintings have been reproduced for the illustration of novels having to do with old buildings, streets, etc., which have long since disappeared. for this material a careful search was made in the british museum, the advocates' library and city museum, edinburgh, the library at abbotsford, the bibliotheque nationale, paris, and other collections. it has been thought, too, that the ideal edition of scott's works would not be complete without an adequate portrayal of his more memorable characters. this has been accomplished in a series of frontispieces specially painted for this edition by twenty of the most distinguished illustrators of england. park street, boston. advertisement to the waverley novels it has been the occasional occupation of the author of waverley, for several years past, to revise and correct the voluminous series of novels which pass under that name, in order that, if they should ever appear as his avowed productions, he might render them in some degree deserving of a continuance of the public favour with which they have been honoured ever since their first appearance. for a long period, however, it seemed likely that the improved and illustrated edition which he meditated would be a posthumous publication. but the course of the events which occasioned the disclosure of the author's name having, in a great measure, restored to him a sort of parental control over these works, he is naturally induced to give them to the press in a corrected, and, he hopes, an improved form, while life and health permit the task of revising and illustrating them. such being his purpose, it is necessary to say a few words on the plan of the proposed edition. in stating it to be revised and corrected, it is not to be inferred that any attempt is made to alter the tenor of the stories, the character of the actors, or the spirit of the dialogue. there is no doubt ample room for emendation in all these points,--but where the tree falls it must lie. any attempt to obviate criticism, however just, by altering a work already in the hands of the public is generally unsuccessful. in the most improbable fiction, the reader still desires some air of vraisemblance, and does not relish that the incidents of a tale familiar to him should be altered to suit the taste of critics, or the caprice of the author himself. this process of feeling is so natural, that it may be observed even in children, who cannot endure that a nursery story should be repeated to them differently from the manner in which it was first told. but without altering, in the slightest degree, either the story or the mode of telling it, the author has taken this opportunity to correct errors of the press and slips of the pen. that such should exist cannot be wondered at, when it is considered that the publishers found it their interest to hurry through the press a succession of the early editions of the various novels, and that the author had not the usual opportunity of revision. it is hoped that the present edition will be found free from errors of that accidental kind. the author has also ventured to make some emendations of a different character, which, without being such apparent deviations from the original stories as to disturb the reader's old associations, will, he thinks, add something to the spirit of the dialogue, narrative, or description. these consist in occasional pruning where the language is redundant, compression where the style is loose, infusion of vigour where it is languid, the exchange of less forcible for more appropriate epithets--slight alterations in short, like the last touches of an artist, which contribute to heighten and finish the picture, though an inexperienced eye can hardly detect in what they consist. the general preface to the new edition, and the introductory notices to each separate work, will contain an account of such circumstances attending the first publication of the novels and tales as may appear interesting in themselves, or proper to be communicated to the public. the author also proposes to publish, on this occasion, the various legends, family traditions, or obscure historical facts which have formed the ground-work of these novels, and to give some account of the places where the scenes are laid, when these are altogether, or in part, real; as well as a statement of particular incidents founded on fact; together with a more copious glossary, and notes explanatory of the ancient customs and popular superstitions referred to in the romances. upon the whole, it is hoped that the waverley novels, in their new dress, will not be found to have lost any part of their attractions in consequence of receiving illustrations by the author, and undergoing his careful revision. abbotsford, january, . general preface to the waverley novels ---and must i ravel out my weaved-up follies? richard ii, act iv. having undertaken to give an introductory account of the compositions which are here offered to the public, with notes and illustrations, the author, under whose name they are now for the first time collected, feels that he has the delicate task of speaking more of himself and his personal concerns than may perhaps be either graceful or prudent. in this particular he runs the risk of presenting himself to the public in the relation that the dumb wife in the jest-book held to her husband, when, having spent half of his fortune to obtain the cure of her imperfection, he was willing to have bestowed the other half to restore her to her former condition. but this is a risk inseparable from the task which the author has undertaken, and he can only promise to be as little of an egotist as the situation will permit. it is perhaps an indifferent sign of a disposition to keep his word, that, having introduced himself in the third person singular, he proceeds in the second paragraph to make use of the first. but it appears to him that the seeming modesty connected with the former mode of writing is overbalanced by the inconvenience of stiffness and affectation which attends it during a narrative of some length, and which may be observed less or more in every work in which the third person is used, from the commentaries of caesar to the autobiography of alexander the corrector. i must refer to a very early period of my life, were i to point out my first achievements as a tale-teller; but i believe some of my old schoolfellows can still bear witness that i had a distinguished character for that talent, at a time when the applause of my companions was my recompense for the disgraces and punishments which the future romance-writer incurred for being idle himself, and keeping others idle, during hours that should have been employed on our tasks. the chief enjoyment of my holidays was to escape with a chosen friend, who had the same taste with myself, and alternately to recite to each other such wild adventures as we were able to devise. we told, each in turn, interminable tales of knight-errantry and battles and enchantments, which were continued from one day to another as opportunity offered, without our ever thinking of bringing them to a conclusion. as we observed a strict secrecy on the subject of this intercourse, it acquired all the character of a concealed pleasure, and we used to select for the scenes of our indulgence long walks through the solitary and romantic environs of arthur's seat, salisbury crags, braid hills, and similar places in the vicinity of edinburgh; and the recollection of those holidays still forms an oasis in the pilgrimage which i have to look back upon. i have only to add, that my friend still lives, a prosperous gentleman, but too much occupied with graver business to thank me for indicating him more plainly as a confidant of my childish mystery. when boyhood advancing into youth required more serious studies and graver cares, a long illness threw me back on the kingdom of fiction, as if it were by a species of fatality. my indisposition arose, in part at least, from my having broken a blood-vessel; and motion and speech were for a long time pronounced positively dangerous. for several weeks i was confined strictly to my bed, during which time i was not allowed to speak above a whisper, to eat more than a spoonful or two of boiled rice, or to have more covering than one thin counterpane. when the reader is informed that i was at this time a growing youth, with the spirits, appetite, and impatience of fifteen, and suffered, of course, greatly under this severe regimen, which the repeated return of my disorder rendered indispensable, he will not be surprised that i was abandoned to my own discretion, so far as reading (my almost sole amusement) was concerned, and still less so, that i abused the indulgence which left my time so much at my own disposal. there was at this time a circulating library in edinburgh, founded, i believe, by the celebrated allan ramsay, which, besides containing a most respectable collection of books of every description, was, as might have been expected, peculiarly rich in works of fiction. it exhibited specimens of every kind, from the romances of chivalry and the ponderous folios of cyrus and cassandra, down to the most approved works of later times. i was plunged into this great ocean of reading without compass or pilot; and, unless when some one had the charity to play at chess with me, i was allowed to do nothing save read from morning to night. i was, in kindness and pity, which was perhaps erroneous, however natural, permitted to select my subjects of study at my own pleasure, upon the same principle that the humours of children are indulged to keep them out of mischief. as my taste and appetite were gratified in nothing else, i indemnified myself by becoming a glutton of books. accordingly, i believe i read almost all the romances, old plays, and epic poetry in that formidable collection, and no doubt was unconsciously amassing materials for the task in which it has been my lot to be so much employed. at the same time i did not in all respects abuse the license permitted me. familiar acquaintance with the specious miracles of fiction brought with it some degree of satiety, and i began by degrees to seek in histories, memoirs, voyages and travels, and the like, events nearly as wonderful as those which were the work of imagination, with the additional advantage that they were at least in a great measure true. the lapse of nearly two years, during which i was left to the exercise of my own free will, was followed by a temporary residence in the country, where i was again very lonely but for the amusement which i derived from a good though old-fashioned library. the vague and wild use which i made of this advantage i cannot describe better than by referring my reader to the desultory studies of waverley in a similar situation, the passages concerning whose course of reading were imitated from recollections of my own. it must be understood that the resemblance extends no farther. time, as it glided on, brought the blessings of confirmed health and personal strength, to a degree which had never been expected or hoped for. the severe studies necessary to render me fit for my profession occupied the greater part of my time; and the society of my friends and companions, who were about to enter life along with, me, filled up the interval with the usual amusements of young men. i was in a situation which rendered serious labour indispensable; for, neither possessing, on the one hand, any of those peculiar advantages which are supposed to favour a hasty advance in the profession of the law, nor being, on the other hand, exposed to unusual obstacles to interrupt my progress, i might reasonably expect to succeed according to the greater or less degree of trouble which i should take to qualify myself as a pleader. it makes no part of the present story to detail how the success of a few ballads had the effect of changing all the purpose and tenor of my life, and of converting a painstaking lawyer of some years' standing into a follower of literature. it is enough to say, that i had assumed the latter character for several years before i seriously thought of attempting a work of imagination in prose, although one or two of my poetical attempts did not differ from romances otherwise than by being written in verse. but yet i may observe, that about this time (now, alas! thirty years since) i had nourished the ambitious desire of composing a tale of chivalry, which was to be in the style of the castle of otranto, with plenty of border characters and supernatural incident. having found unexpectedly a chapter of this intended work among some old papers, i have subjoined it to this introductory essay, thinking some readers may account as curious the first attempts at romantic composition by an author who has since written so much in that department. [footnote: see appendix no i.] and those who complain, not unreasonably, of the profusion of the tales which have followed waverley, may bless their stars at the narrow escape they have made, by the commencement of the inundation, which had so nearly taken place in the first year of the century, being postponed for fifteen years later. this particular subject was never resumed, but i did not abandon the idea of fictitious composition in prose, though i determined to give another turn to the style of the work. my early recollections of the highland scenery and customs made so favourable an impression in the poem called the lady of the lake, that i was induced to think of attempting something of the same kind in prose. i had been a good deal in the highlands at a time when they were much less accessible and much less visited than they have been of late years, and was acquainted with many of the old warriors of , who were, like most veterans, easily induced to fight their battles over again for the benefit of a willing listener like myself. it naturally occurred to me that the ancient traditions and high spirit of a people who, living in a civilised age and country, retained so strong a tincture of manners belonging to an early period of society, must afford a subject favourable for romance, if it should not prove a curious tale marred in the telling. it was with some idea of this kind that, about the year , i threw together about one-third part of the first volume of waverley. it was advertised to be published by the late mr. john ballantyne, bookseller in edinburgh, under the name of waverley; or, 'tis fifty years since--a title afterwards altered to 'tis sixty years since, that the actual date of publication might be made to correspond with the period in which the scene was laid. having proceeded as far, i think, as the seventh chapter, i showed my work to a critical friend, whose opinion was unfavourable; and having then some poetical reputation, i was unwilling to risk the loss of it by attempting a new style of composition. i therefore threw aside the work i had commenced, without either reluctance or remonstrance. i ought to add that, though my ingenious friend's sentence was afterwards reversed on an appeal to the public, it cannot be considered as any imputation on his good taste; for the specimen subjected to his criticism did not extend beyond the departure of the hero for scotland, and consequently had not entered upon the part of the story which was finally found most interesting. be that as it may, this portion of the manuscript was laid aside in the drawers of an old writing-desk, which, on my first coming to reside at abbotsford in , was placed in a lumber garret and entirely forgotten. thus, though i sometimes, among other literary avocations, turned my thoughts to the continuation of the romance which i had commenced, yet, as i could not find what i had already written, after searching such repositories as were within my reach, and was too indolent to attempt to write it anew from memory, i as often laid aside all thoughts of that nature. two circumstances in particular recalled my recollection of the mislaid manuscript. the first was the extended and well-merited fame of miss edgeworth, whose irish characters have gone so far to make the english familiar with the character of their gay and kind-hearted neighbours of ireland, that she may be truly said to have done more towards completing the union than perhaps all the legislative enactments by which it has been followed up. without being so presumptuous as to hope to emulate the rich humour, pathetic tenderness, and admirable tact which pervade the works of my accomplished friend, i felt that something might be attempted for my own country, of the same kind with that which miss edgeworth so fortunately achieved for ireland--something which might introduce her natives to those of the sister kingdom in a more favourable light than they had been placed hitherto, and tend to procure sympathy for their virtues and indulgence for their foibles. i thought also, that much of what i wanted in talent might be made up by the intimate acquaintance with the subject which i could lay claim to possess, as having travelled through most parts of scotland, both highland and lowland, having been familiar with the elder as well as more modern race, and having had from my infancy free and unrestrained communication with all ranks of my countrymen, from the scottish peer to the scottish plough-man. such ideas often occurred to me, and constituted an ambitious branch of my theory, however far short i may have fallen of it in practice. but it was not only the triumphs of miss edgeworth which worked in me emulation, and disturbed my indolence. i chanced actually to engage in a work which formed a sort of essay piece, and gave me hope that i might in time become free of the craft of romance- writing, and be esteemed a tolerable workman. in the year - i undertook, at the request of john murray, esq., of albemarle street, to arrange for publication some posthumous productions of the late mr. joseph strutt, distinguished as an artist and an antiquary, amongst which was an unfinished romance, entitled queenhoo hall. the scene of the tale was laid in the reign of henry vi, and the work was written to illustrate the manners, customs, and language of the people of england during that period. the extensive acquaintance which mr. strutt had acquired with such subjects in compiling his laborious horda angel-cynnan, his regal and ecclesiastical antiquities, and his essay on the sports and pastimes of the people of england had rendered him familiar with all the antiquarian lore necessary for the purpose of composing the projected romance; and although the manuscript bore the marks of hurry and incoherence natural to the first rough draught of the author, it evinced (in my opinion) considerable powers of imagination. as the work was unfinished, i deemed it my duty, as editor, to supply such a hasty and inartificial conclusion as could be shaped out from the story, of which mr. strutt had laid the foundation. this concluding chapter [footnote: see appendix no. ii.] is also added to the present introduction, for the reason already mentioned regarding the preceding fragment. it was a step in my advance towards romantic composition; and to preserve the traces of these is in a great measure the object of this essay. queenhoo hall was not, however, very successful. i thought i was aware of the reason, and supposed that, by rendering his language too ancient, and displaying his antiquarian knowledge too liberally, the ingenious author had raised up an obstacle to his own success. every work designed for mere amusement must be expressed in language easily comprehended; and when, as is sometimes the case in queenhoo hall, the author addresses himself exclusively to the antiquary, he must be content to be dismissed by the general reader with the criticism of mungo, in the padlock, on the mauritanian music, 'what signifies me hear, if me no understand?' i conceived it possible to avoid this error; and, by rendering a similar work more light and obvious to general comprehension, to escape the rock on which my predecessor was shipwrecked. but i was, on the other hand, so far discouraged by the indifferent reception of mr. strutt's romance as to become satisfied that the manners of the middle ages did not possess the interest which i had conceived; and was led to form the opinion that a romance founded on a highland story and more modern events would have a better chance of popularity than a tale of chivalry. my thoughts, therefore, returned more than once to the tale which i had actually commenced, and accident at length threw the lost sheets in my way. i happened to want some fishing-tackle for the use of a guest, when it occurred to me to search the old writing-desk already mentioned, in which i used to keep articles of that nature. i got access to it with some difficulty; and, in looking for lines and flies, the long-lost manuscript presented itself. i immediately set to work to complete it according to my original purpose. and here i must frankly confess that the mode in which i conducted the story scarcely deserved the success which the romance afterwards attained. the tale of waverley was put together with so little care that i cannot boast of having sketched any distinct plan of the work. the whole adventures of waverley, in his movements up and down the country with the highland cateran bean lean, are managed without much skill. it suited best, however, the road i wanted to travel, and permitted me to introduce some descriptions of scenery and manners, to which the reality gave an interest which the powers of the author might have otherwise failed to attain for them. and though i have been in other instances a sinner in this sort, i do not recollect any of these novels in which i have transgressed so widely as in the first of the series. among other unfounded reports, it has been said that the copyright of waverley was, during the book's progress through the press, offered for sale to various book-sellers in london at a very inconsiderable price. this was not the case. messrs. constable and cadell, who published the work, were the only persons acquainted with the contents of the publication, and they offered a large sum for it while in the course of printing, which, however, was declined, the author not choosing to part with the copyright. the origin of the story of waverley, and the particular facts on which it is founded, are given in the separate introduction prefixed to that romance in this edition, and require no notice in this place. waverley was published in , and, as the title-page was without the name of the author, the work was left to win its way in the world without any of the usual recommendations. its progress was for some time slow; but after the first two or three months its popularity had increased in a degree which must have satisfied the expectations of the author, had these been far more sanguine than he ever entertained. great anxiety was expressed to learn the name of the author, but on this no authentic information could be attained. my original motive for publishing the work anonymously was the consciousness that it was an experiment on the public taste which might very probably fail, and therefore there was no occasion to take on myself the personal risk of discomfiture. for this purpose considerable precautions were used to preserve secrecy. my old friend and schoolfellow, mr. james ballantyne, who printed these novels, had the exclusive task of corresponding with the author, who thus had not only the advantage of his professional talents, but also of his critical abilities. the original manuscript, or, as it is technically called, copy, was transcribed under mr. ballantyne's eye by confidential persons; nor was there an instance of treachery during the many years in which these precautions were resorted to, although various individuals were employed at different times. double proof-sheets were regularly printed off. one was forwarded to the author by mr. ballantyne, and the alterations which it received were, by his own hand, copied upon the other proof-sheet for the use of the printers, so that even the corrected proofs of the author were never seen in the printing office; and thus the curiosity of such eager inquirers as made the most minute investigation was entirely at fault. but although the cause of concealing the author's name in the first instance, when the reception of waverley was doubtful, was natural enough, it is more difficult, it may be thought, to account for the same desire for secrecy during the subsequent editions, to the amount of betwixt eleven and twelve thousand copies, which followed each other close, and proved the success of the work. i am sorry i can give little satisfaction to queries on this subject. i have already stated elsewhere that i can render little better reason for choosing to remain anonymous than by saying with shylock, that such was my humour. it will be observed that i had not the usual stimulus for desiring personal reputation, the desire, namely, to float amidst the conversation of men. of literary fame, whether merited or undeserved, i had already as much as might have contented a mind more ambitious than mine; and in entering into this new contest for reputation i might be said rather to endanger what i had than to have any considerable chance of acquiring more. i was affected, too, by none of those motives which, at an earlier period of life, would doubtless have operated upon me. my friendships were formed, my place in society fixed, my life had attained its middle course. my condition in society was higher perhaps than i deserved, certainly as high as i wished, and there was scarce any degree of literary success which could have greatly altered or improved my personal condition. i was not, therefore, touched by the spur of ambition, usually stimulating on such occasions; and yet i ought to stand exculpated from the charge of ungracious or unbecoming indifference to public applause. i did not the less feel gratitude for the public favour, although i did not proclaim it; as the lover who wears his mistress's favour in his bosom is as proud, though not so vain, of possessing it as another who displays the token of her grace upon his bonnet. far from such an ungracious state of mind, i have seldom felt more satisfaction than when, returning from a pleasure voyage, i found waverley in the zenith of popularity, and public curiosity in full cry after the name of the author. the knowledge that i had the public approbation was like having the property of a hidden treasure, not less gratifying to the owner than if all the world knew that it was his own. another advantage was connected with the secrecy which i observed. i could appear or retreat from the stage at pleasure, without attracting any personal notice or attention, other than what might be founded on suspicion only. in my own person also, as a successful author in another department of literature, i might have been charged with too frequent intrusions on the public patience; but the author of waverley was in this respect as impassible to the critic as the ghost of hamlet to the partisan of marcellus. perhaps the curiosity of the public, irritated by the existence of a secret, and kept afloat by the discussions which took place on the subject from time to time, went a good way to maintain an unabated interest in these frequent publications. there was a mystery concerning the author which each new novel was expected to assist in unravelling, although it might in other respects rank lower than its predecessors. i may perhaps be thought guilty of affectation, should i allege as one reason of my silence a secret dislike to enter on personal discussions concerning my own literary labours. it is in every case a dangerous intercourse for an author to be dwelling continually among those who make his writings a frequent and familiar subject of conversation, but who must necessarily be partial judges of works composed in their own society. the habits of self-importance which are thus acquired by authors are highly injurious to a well-regulated mind; for the cup of flattery, if it does not, like that of circe, reduce men to the level of beasts, is sure, if eagerly drained, to bring the best and the ablest down to that of fools. this risk was in some degree prevented by the mask which i wore; and my own stores of self-conceit were left to their natural course, without being enhanced by the partiality of friends or adulation of flatterers. if i am asked further reasons for the conduct i have long observed, i can only resort to the explanation supplied by a critic as friendly as he is intelligent; namely, that the mental organisation of the novelist must be characterised, to speak craniologically, by an extraordinary development of the passion for delitescency! i the rather suspect some natural disposition of this kind; for, from the instant i perceived the extreme curiosity manifested on the subject, i felt a secret satisfaction in baffling it, for which, when its unimportance is considered, i do not well know how to account. my desire to remain concealed, in the character of the author of these novels, subjected me occasionally to awkward embarrassments, as it sometimes happened that those who were sufficiently intimate with me would put the question in direct terms. in this case, only one of three courses could be followed. either i must have surrendered my secret, or have returned an equivocating answer, or, finally, must have stoutly and boldly denied the fact. the first was a sacrifice which i conceive no one had a right to force from me, since i alone was concerned in the matter. the alternative of rendering a doubtful answer must have left me open to the degrading suspicion that i was not unwilling to assume the merit (if there was any) which i dared not absolutely lay claim to; or those who might think more justly of me must have received such an equivocal answer as an indirect avowal. i therefore considered myself entitled, like an accused person put upon trial, to refuse giving my own evidence to my own conviction, and flatly to deny all that could not be proved against me. at the same time i usually qualified my denial by stating that, had i been the author of these works, i would have felt myself quite entitled to protect my secret by refusing my own evidence, when it was asked for to accomplish a discovery of what i desired to conceal. the real truth is, that i never expected or hoped to disguise my connection with these novels from any one who lived on terms of intimacy with me. the number of coincidences which necessarily existed between narratives recounted, modes of expression, and opinions broached in these tales and such as were used by their author in the intercourse of private life must have been far too great to permit any of my familiar acquaintances to doubt the identity betwixt their friend and the author of waverley; and i believe they were all morally convinced of it. but while i was myself silent, their belief could not weigh much more with the world than that of others; their opinions and reasoning were liable to be taxed with partiality, or confronted with opposing arguments and opinions; and the question was not so much whether i should be generally acknowledged to be the author, in spite of my own denial, as whether even my own avowal of the works, if such should be made, would be sufficient to put me in undisputed possession of that character. i have been often asked concerning supposed cases, in which i was said to have been placed on the verge of discovery; but, as i maintained my point with the composure of a lawyer of thirty years' standing, i never recollect being in pain or confusion on the subject. in captain medwyn's conversations of lord byron the reporter states himself to have asked my noble and highly gifted friend,' if he was certain about these novels being sir walter scott's?' to which lord byron replied, 'scott as much as owned himself the author of waverley to me in murray's shop. i was talking to him about that novel, and lamented that its author had not carried back the story nearer to the time of the revolution. scott, entirely off his guard, replied, "ay, i might have done so; but--" there he stopped. it was in vain to attempt to correct himself; he looked confused, and relieved his embarrassment by a precipitate retreat.' i have no recollection whatever of this scene taking place, and i should have thought that i was more likely to have laughed than to appear confused, for i certainly never hoped to impose upon lord byron in a case of the kind; and from the manner in which he uniformly expressed himself, i knew his opinion was entirely formed, and that any disclamations of mine would only have savoured of affectation. i do not mean to insinuate that the incident did not happen, but only that it could hardly have occurred exactly under the circumstances narrated, without my recollecting something positive on the subject. in another part of the same volume lord byron is reported to have expressed a supposition that the cause of my not avowing myself the author of waverley may have been some surmise that the reigning family would have been displeased with the work. i can only say, it is the last apprehension i should have entertained, as indeed the inscription to these volumes sufficiently proves. the sufferers of that melancholy period have, during the last and present reign, been honoured both with the sympathy and protection of the reigning family, whose magnanimity can well pardon a sigh from others, and bestow one themselves, to the memory of brave opponents, who did nothing in hate, but all in honour. while those who were in habitual intercourse with the real author had little hesitation in assigning the literary property to him, others, and those critics of no mean rank, employed themselves in investigating with persevering patience any characteristic features which might seem to betray the origin of these novels. amongst these, one gentleman, equally remarkable for the kind and liberal tone of his criticism, the acuteness of his reasoning, and the very gentlemanlike manner in which he conducted his inquiries, displayed not only powers of accurate investigation, but a temper of mind deserving to be employed on a subject of much greater importance; and i have no doubt made converts to his opinion of almost all who thought the point worthy of consideration. [footnote: letters on the author of waverly; rodwell and martin, london, .] of those letters, and other attempts of the same kind, the author could not complain, though his incognito was endangered. he had challenged the public to a game at bo-peep, and if he was discovered in his 'hiding-hole,' he must submit to the shame of detection. various reports were of course circulated in various ways; some founded on an inaccurate rehearsal of what may have been partly real, some on circumstances having no concern whatever with the subject, and others on the invention of some importunate persons, who might perhaps imagine that the readiest mode of forcing the author to disclose himself was to assign some dishonourable and discreditable cause for his silence. it may be easily supposed that this sort of inquisition was treated with contempt by the person whom it principally regarded; as, among all the rumours that were current, there was only one, and that as unfounded as the others, which had nevertheless some alliance to probability, and indeed might have proved in some degree true. i allude to a report which ascribed a great part, or the whole, of these novels to the late thomas scott, esq., of the th regiment, then stationed in canada. those who remember that gentleman will readily grant that, with general talents at least equal to those of his elder brother, he added a power of social humour and a deep insight into human character which rendered him an universally delightful member of society, and that the habit of composition alone was wanting to render him equally successful as a writer. the author of waverley was so persuaded of the truth of this, that he warmly pressed his brother to make such an experiment, and willingly undertook all the trouble of correcting and superintending the press. mr. thomas scott seemed at first very well disposed to embrace the proposal, and had even fixed on a subject and a hero. the latter was a person well known to both of us in our boyish years, from having displayed some strong traits of character. mr. t. scott had determined to represent his youthful acquaintance as emigrating to america, and encountering the dangers and hardships of the new world, with the same dauntless spirit which he had displayed when a boy in his native country. mr. scott would probably have been highly successful, being familiarly acquainted with the manners of the native indians, of the old french settlers in canada, and of the brules or woodsmen, and having the power of observing with accuracy what i have no doubt he could have sketched with force and expression. in short, the author believes his brother would have made himself distinguished in that striking field in which, since that period, mr. cooper has achieved so many triumphs. but mr. t. scott was already affected by bad health, which wholly unfitted him for literary labour, even if he could have reconciled his patience to the task. he never, i believe, wrote a single line of the projected work; and i only have the melancholy pleasure of preserving in the appendix [footnote: see appendix no. iii.] the simple anecdote on which he proposed to found it. to this i may add, i can easily conceive that there may have been circumstances which gave a colour to the general report of my brother being interested in these works; and in particular that it might derive strength from my having occasion to remit to him, in consequence of certain family transactions, some considerable sums of money about that period. to which it is to be added that if any person chanced to evince particular curiosity on such a subject, my brother was likely enough to divert himself with practising on their credulity. it may be mentioned that, while the paternity of these novels was from time to time warmly disputed in britain, the foreign booksellers expressed no hesitation on the matter, but affixed my name to the whole of the novels, and to some besides to which i had no claim. the volumes, therefore, to which the present pages form a preface are entirely the composition of the author by whom they are now acknowledged, with the exception, always, of avowed quotations, and such unpremeditated and involuntary plagiarisms as can scarce be guarded against by any one who has read and written a great deal. the original manuscripts are all in existence, and entirely written (horresco referens) in the author's own hand, excepting during the years and , when, being affected with severe illness, he was obliged to employ the assistance of a friendly amanuensis. the number of persons to whom the secret was necessarily entrusted, or communicated by chance, amounted, i should think, to twenty at least, to whom i am greatly obliged for the fidelity with which they observed their trust, until the derangement of the affairs of my publishers, messrs. constable and co., and the exposure of their account books, which was the necessary consequence, rendered secrecy no longer possible. the particulars attending the avowal have been laid before the public in the introduction to the chronicles of the canongate. the preliminary advertisement has given a sketch of the purpose of this edition. i have some reason to fear that the notes which accompany the tales, as now published, may be thought too miscellaneous and too egotistical. it maybe some apology for this, that the publication was intended to be posthumous, and still more, that old men may be permitted to speak long, because they cannot in the course of nature have long time to speak. in preparing the present edition, i have done all that i can do to explain the nature of my materials, and the use i have made of them; nor is it probable that i shall again revise or even read these tales. i was therefore desirous rather to exceed in the portion of new and explanatory matter which is added to this edition than that the reader should have reason to complain that the information communicated was of a general and merely nominal character. it remains to be tried whether the public (like a child to whom a watch is shown) will, after having been satiated with looking at the outside, acquire some new interest in the object when it is opened and the internal machinery displayed to them. that waverly and its successors have had their day of favour and popularity must be admitted with sincere gratitude; and the author has studied (with the prudence of a beauty whose reign has been rather long) to supply, by the assistance of art, the charms which novelty no longer affords. the publishers have endeavoured to gratify the honourable partiality of the public for the encouragement of british art, by illustrating this edition with designs by the most eminent living artists. [footnote: the illustrations here referred to were made for the edition of ] to my distinguished countryman, david wilkie, to edwin landseer, who has exercised his talents so much on scottish subjects and scenery, to messrs. leslie and newton, my thanks are due, from a friend as well as an author. nor am i less obliged to messrs. cooper, kidd, and other artists of distinction to whom i am less personally known, for the ready zeal with which they have devoted their talents to the same purpose. farther explanation respecting the edition is the business of the publishers, not of the author; and here, therefore, the latter has accomplished his task of introduction and explanation. if, like a spoiled child, he has sometimes abused or trifled with the indulgence of the public, he feels himself entitled to full belief when he exculpates himself from the charge of having been at any time insensible of their kindness. abbotsford, st january, . waverley or 't is sixty years since under which king, bezonian? speak, or die! henry iv, part ii. introduction the plan of this edition leads me to insert in this place some account of the incidents on which the novel of waverley is founded. they have been already given to the public by my late lamented friend, william erskine, esq. (afterwards lord kinneder), when reviewing the tales of my landlord for the quarterly review in . the particulars were derived by the critic from the author's information. afterwards they were published in the preface to the chronicles of the canongate. they are now inserted in their proper place. the mutual protection afforded by waverley and talbot to each other, upon which the whole plot depends, is founded upon one of those anecdotes which soften the features even of civil war; and, as it is equally honourable to the memory of both parties, we have no hesitation to give their names at length. when the highlanders, on the morning of the battle of preston, , made their memorable attack on sir john cope's army, a battery of four field- pieces was stormed and carried by the camerons and the stewarts of appine. the late alexander stewart of invernahylewas one of the foremost in the charge, and observing an officer of the king's forces, who, scorning to join the flight of all around, remained with his sword in his hand, as if determined to the very last to defend the post assigned to him, the highland gentleman commanded him to surrender, and received for reply a thrust, which he caught in his target. the officer was now defenceless, and the battle-axe of a gigantic highlander (the miller of invernahyle's mill) was uplifted to dash his brains out, when mr. stewart with difficulty prevailed on him to yield. he took charge of his enemy's property, protected his person, and finally obtained him liberty on his parole. the officer proved to be colonel whitefoord, an ayrshire gentleman of high character and influence, and warmly attached to the house of hanover; yet such was the confidence existing between these two honourable men, though of different political principles, that, while the civil war was raging, and straggling officers from the highland army were executed without mercy, invernahyle hesitated not to pay his late captive a visit, as he returned to the highlands to raise fresh recruits, on which occasion he spent a day or two in ayrshire among colonel whitefoord's whig friends, as pleasantly and as good-humouredly as if all had been at peace around him. after the battle of culloden had ruined the hopes of charles edward and dispersed his proscribed adherents, it was colonel whitefoord's turn to strain every nerve to obtain mr. stewart's pardon. he went to the lord justice clerk to the lord advocate, and to all the officers of state, and each application was answered by the production of a list in which invernahyle (as the good old gentleman was wont to express it) appeared 'marked with the sign of the beast!' as a subject unfit for favour or pardon. at length colonel whitefoord applied to the duke of cumberland in person. from him, also, he received a positive refusal. he then limited his request, for the present, to a protection for stewart's house, wife, children, and property. this was also refused by the duke; on which colonel whitefoord, taking his commission from his bosom, laid it on the table before his royal highness with much emotion, and asked permission to retire from the service of a sovereign who did not know how to spare a vanquished enemy. the duke was struck, and even affected. he bade the colonel take up his commission, and granted the protection he required. it was issued just in time to save the house, corn, and cattle at invernahyle from the troops, who were engaged in laying waste what it was the fashion to call 'the country of the enemy.' a small encampment of soldiers was formed on invernahyle's property, which they spared while plundering the country around, and searching in every direction for the leaders of the insurrection, and for stewart in particular. he was much nearer them than they suspected; for, hidden in a cave (like the baron of bradwardine), he lay for many days so near the english sentinels that he could hear their muster-roll called. his food was brought to him by one of his daughters, a child of eight years old, whom mrs. stewart was under the necessity of entrusting with this commission; for her own motions, and those of all her elder inmates, were closely watched. with ingenuity beyond her years, the child used to stray about among the soldiers, who were rather kind to her, and thus seize the moment when she was unobserved and steal into the thicket, when she deposited whatever small store of provisions she had in charge at some marked spot, where her father might find it. invernahyle supported life for several weeks by means of these precarious supplies; and, as he had been wounded in the battle of culloden, the hardships which he endured were aggravated by great bodily pain. after the soldiers had removed their quarters he had another remarkable escape. as he now ventured to his own house at night and left it in the morning, he was espied during the dawn by a party of the enemy, who fired at and pursued him. the fugitive being fortunate enough to escape their search, they returned to the house and charged the family with harbouring one of the proscribed traitors. an old woman had presence of mind enough to maintain that the man they had seen was the shepherd. 'why did he not stop when we called to him?' said the soldier. 'he is as deaf, poor man, as a peat- stack,' answered the ready-witted domestic. 'let him be sent for directly.' the real shepherd accordingly was brought from the hill, and, as there was time to tutor him by the way, he was as deaf when he made his appearance as was necessary to sustain his character. invernahyle was afterwards pardoned under the act of indemnity. the author knew him well, and has often heard these circumstances from his own mouth. he was a noble specimen of the old highlander, far descended, gallant, courteous, and brave, even to chivalry. he had been out, i believe, in and , was an active partaker in all the stirring scenes which passed in the highlands betwixt these memorable eras; and, i have heard, was remarkable, among other exploits, for having fought a duel with the broadsword with the celebrated rob roy macgregor at the clachan of balquidder. invernahyle chanced to be in edinburgh when paul jones came into the firth of forth, and though then an old man, i saw him in arms, and heard him exult (to use his own words) in the prospect of drawing his claymore once more before he died.' in fact, on that memorable occasion, when the capital of scotland was menaced by three trifling sloops or brigs, scarce fit to have sacked a fishing village, he was the only man who seemed to propose a plan of resistance. he offered to the magistrates, if broadswords and dirks could be obtained, to find as many highlanders among the lower classes as would cut off any boat's crew who might be sent into a town full of narrow and winding passages, in which they were like to disperse in quest of plunder. i know not if his plan was attended to, i rather think it seemed too hazardous to the constituted authorities, who might not, even at that time, desire to see arms in highland hands. a steady and powerful west wind settled the matter by sweeping paul jones and his vessels out of the firth. if there is something degrading in this recollection, it is not unpleasant to compare it with those of the last war, when edinburgh, besides regular forces and militia, furnished a volunteer brigade of cavalry, infantry, and artillery to the amount of six thousand men and upwards, which was in readiness to meet and repel a force of a far more formidable description than was commanded by the adventurous american. time and circumstances change the character of nations and the fate of cities; and it is some pride to a scotchman to reflect that the independent and manly character of a country, willing to entrust its own protection to the arms of its children, after having been obscured for half a century, has, during the course of his own lifetime, recovered its lustre. other illustrations of waverley will be found in the notes at the foot of the pages to which they belong. those which appeared too long to be so placed are given at the end of the chapters to which they severally relate. [footnote: in this edition at the end of the several volumes.] preface to the third edition to this slight attempt at a sketch of ancient scottish manners the public have been more favourable than the author durst have hoped or expected. he has heard, with a mixture of satisfaction and humility, his work ascribed to more than one respectable name. considerations, which seem weighty in his particular situation, prevent his releasing those gentlemen from suspicion by placing his own name in the title-page; so that, for the present at least, it must remain uncertain whether waverley be the work of a poet or a critic, a lawyer or a clergyman, or whether the writer, to use mrs. malaprop's phrase, be, 'like cerberus, three gentlemen at once.' the author, as he is unconscious of anything in the work itself (except perhaps its frivolity) which prevents its finding an acknowledged father, leaves it to the candour of the public to choose among the many circumstances peculiar to different situations in life such as may induce him to suppress his name on the present occasion. he may be a writer new to publication, and unwilling to avow a character to which he is unaccustomed; or he may be a hackneyed author, who is ashamed of too frequent appearance, and employs this mystery, as the heroine of the old comedy used her mask, to attract the attention of those to whom her face had become too familiar. he may be a man of a grave profession, to whom the reputation of being a novel-writer might be prejudicial; or he may be a man of fashion, to whom writing of any kind might appear pedantic. he may be too young to assume the character of an author, or so old as to make it advisable to lay it aside. the author of waverley has heard it objected to this novel, that, in the character of callum beg and in the account given by the baron of bradwardine of the petty trespasses of the highlanders upon trifling articles of property, he has borne hard, and unjustly so, upon their national character. nothing could be farther from his wish or intention. the character of callum beg is that of a spirit naturally turned to daring evil, and determined, by the circumstances of his situation, to a particular species of mischief. those who have perused the curious letters from the highlands, published about , will find instances of such atrocious characters which fell under the writer's own observation, though it would be most unjust to consider such villains as representatives of the highlanders of that period, any more than the murderers of marr and williamson can be supposed to represent the english of the present day. as for the plunder supposed to have been picked up by some of the insurgents in , it must be remembered that, although the way of that unfortunate little army was neither marked by devastation nor bloodshed, but, on the contrary, was orderly and quiet in a most wonderful degree, yet no army marches through a country in a hostile manner without committing some depredations; and several, to the extent and of the nature jocularly imputed to them by the baron, were really laid to the charge of the highland insurgents; for which many traditions, and particularly one respecting the knight of the mirror, may be quoted as good evidence. [footnote: a homely metrical narrative of the events of the period, which contains some striking particulars, and is still a great favourite with the lower classes, gives a very correct statement of the behaviour of the mountaineers respecting this same military license; and, as the verses are little known, and contain some good sense, we venture to insert them.] the author's address to all in general now, gentle readers, i have let you ken my very thoughts, from heart and pen, 'tis needless for to conten' or yet controule, for there's not a word o't i can men'; so ye must thole. for on both sides some were not good; i saw them murd'ring in cold blood, not the gentlemen, but wild and rude, the baser sort, who to the wounded had no mood but murd'ring sport! ev'n both at preston and falkirk, that fatal night ere it grew mirk, piercing the wounded with their durk, caused many cry! such pity's shown from savage and turk as peace to die. a woe be to such hot zeal, to smite the wounded on the fiell! it's just they got such groats in kail, who do the same. it only teaches crueltys real to them again. i've seen the men call'd highland rogues, with lowland men make shangs a brogs, sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs out at the door, take cocks, hens, sheep, and hogs, and pay nought for. i saw a highlander,'t was right drole, with a string of puddings hung on a pole, whip'd o'er his shoulder, skipped like a fole, caus'd maggy bann, lap o'er the midden and midden-hole, and aff he ran. when check'd for this, they'd often tell ye, 'indeed her nainsell's a tume belly; you'll no gie't wanting bought, nor sell me; hersell will hae't; go tell king shorge, and shordy's willie, i'll hae a meat.' i saw the soldiers at linton-brig, because the man was not a whig, of meat and drink leave not a skig, within his door; they burnt his very hat and wig, and thump'd him sore. and through the highlands they were so rude, as leave them neither clothes nor food, then burnt their houses to conclude; 't was tit for tat. how can her nainsell e'er be good, to think on that? and after all, o, shame and grief! to use some worse than murd'ring thief, their very gentleman and chief, unhumanly! like popish tortures, i believe, such cruelty. ev'n what was act on open stage at carlisle, in the hottest rage, when mercy was clapt in a cage, and pity dead, such cruelty approv'd by every age, i shook my head. so many to curse, so few to pray, and some aloud huzza did cry; they cursed the rebel scots that day, as they'd been nowt brought up for slaughter, as that way too many rowt. therefore, alas! dear countrymen, o never do the like again, to thirst for vengeance, never ben' your gun nor pa', but with the english e'en borrow and len', let anger fa'. their boasts and bullying, not worth a louse, as our king's the best about the house. 't is ay good to be sober and douce, to live in peace; for many, i see, for being o'er crouse, gets broken face. waverley or 'tis sixty years since chapter i introductory the title of this work has not been chosen without the grave and solid deliberation which matters of importance demand from the prudent. even its first, or general denomination, was the result of no common research or selection, although, according to the example of my predecessors, i had only to seize upon the most sounding and euphonic surname that english history or topography affords, and elect it at once as the title of my work and the name of my hero. but, alas! what could my readers have expected from the chivalrous epithets of howard, mordaunt, mortimer, or stanley, or from the softer and more sentimental sounds of belmour, belville, belfield, and belgrave, but pages of inanity, similar to those which have been so christened for half a century past? i must modestly admit i am too diffident of my own merit to place it in unnecessary opposition to preconceived associations; i have, therefore, like a maiden knight with his white shield, assumed for my hero, waverley, an uncontaminated name, bearing with its sound little of good or evil, excepting what the reader shall hereafter be pleased to affix to it. but my second or supplemental title was a matter of much more difficult election, since that, short as it is, may be held as pledging the author to some special mode of laying his scene, drawing his characters, and managing his adventures. had i, for example, announced in my frontispiece, 'waverley, a tale of other days,' must not every novel-reader have anticipated a castle scarce less than that of udolpho, of which the eastern wing had long been uninhabited, and the keys either lost, or consigned to the care of some aged butler or housekeeper, whose trembling steps, about the middle of the second volume, were doomed to guide the hero, or heroine, to the ruinous precincts? would not the owl have shrieked and the cricket cried in my very title-page? and could it have been possible for me, with a moderate attention to decorum, to introduce any scene more lively than might be produced by the jocularity of a clownish but faithful valet, or the garrulous narrative of the heroine's fille- de-chambre, when rehearsing the stories of blood and horror which she had heard in the servants' hall? again, had my title borne, 'waverley, a romance from the german,' what head so obtuse as not to image forth a profligate abbot, an oppressive duke, a secret and mysterious association of rosycrucians and illuminati, with all their properties of black cowls, caverns, daggers, electrical machines, trap-doors, and dark-lanterns? or if i had rather chosen to call my work a 'sentimental tale,' would it not have been a sufficient presage of a heroine with a profusion of auburn hair, and a harp, the soft solace of her solitary hours, which she fortunately finds always the means of transporting from castle to cottage, although she herself be sometimes obliged to jump out of a two-pair-of-stairs window, and is more than once bewildered on her journey, alone and on foot, without any guide but a blowzy peasant girl, whose jargon she hardly can understand? or, again, if my waverley had been entitled 'a tale of the times,' wouldst thou not, gentle reader, have demanded from me a dashing sketch of the fashionable world, a few anecdotes of private scandal thinly veiled, and if lusciously painted, so much the better? a heroine from grosvenor square, and a hero from the barouche club or the four-in-hand, with a set of subordinate characters from the elegantes of queen anne street east, or the dashing heroes of the bow-street office? i could proceed in proving the importance of a title-page, and displaying at the same time my own intimate knowledge of the particular ingredients necessary to the composition of romances and novels of various descriptions;--but it is enough, and i scorn to tyrannise longer over the impatience of my reader, who is doubtless already anxious to know the choice made by an author so profoundly versed in the different branches of his art. by fixing, then, the date of my story sixty years before this present st november, , i would have my readers understand, that they will meet in the following pages neither a romance of chivalry nor a tale of modern manners; that my hero will neither have iron on his. shoulders, as of yore, nor on the heels of his boots, as is the present fashion of bond street; and that my damsels will neither be clothed 'in purple and in pall,' like the lady alice of an old ballad, nor reduced to the primitive nakedness of a modern fashionable at a rout. from this my choice of an era the understanding critic may farther presage that the object of my tale is more a description of men than manners. a tale of manners, to be interesting, must either refer to antiquity so great as to have become venerable, or it must bear a vivid reflection of those scenes which are passing daily before our eyes, and are interesting from their novelty. thus the coat-of- mail of our ancestors, and the triple-furred pelisse of our modern beaux, may, though for very different reasons, be equally fit for the array of a fictitious character; but who, meaning the costume of his hero to be impressive, would willingly attire him in the court dress of george the second's reign, with its no collar, large sleeves, and low pocket-holes? the same may be urged, with equal truth, of the gothic hall, which, with its darkened and tinted windows, its elevated and gloomy roof, and massive oaken table garnished with boar's-head and rosemary, pheasants and peacocks, cranes and cygnets, has an excellent effect in fictitious description. much may also be gained by a lively display of a modern fete, such as we have daily recorded in that part of a newspaper entitled the mirror of fashion, if we contrast these, or either of them, with the splendid formality of an entertainment given sixty years since; and thus it will be readily seen how much the painter of antique or of fashionable manners gains over him who delineates those of the last generation. considering the disadvantages inseparable from this part of my subject, i must be understood to have resolved to avoid them as much as possible, by throwing the force of my narrative upon the characters and passions of the actors;--those passions common to men in all stages of society, and which have alike agitated the human heart, whether it throbbed under the steel corslet of the fifteenth century, the brocaded coat of the eighteenth, or the blue frock and white dimity waistcoat of the present day. [footnote: alas' that attire, respectable and gentlemanlike in , or thereabouts, is now as antiquated as the author of waverley has himself become since that period! the reader of fashion will please to fill up the costume with an embroidered waistcoat of purple velvet or silk, and a coat of whatever colour he pleases.] upon these passions it is no doubt true that the state of manners and laws casts a necessary colouring; but the bearings, to use the language of heraldry, remain the same, though the tincture may be not only different, but opposed in strong contradistinction. the wrath of our ancestors, for example, was coloured gules; it broke forth in acts of open and sanguinary violence against the objects of its fury. our malignant feelings, which must seek gratification through more indirect channels, and undermine the obstacles which they cannot openly bear down, may be rather said to be tinctured sable. but the deep-ruling impulse is the same in both cases; and the proud peer, who can now only ruin his neighbour according to law, by protracted suits, is the genuine descendant of the baron who wrapped the castle of his competitor in flames, and knocked him on the head as he endeavoured to escape from the conflagration. it is from the great book of nature, the same through a thousand editions, whether of black-letter, or wire-wove and hot-pressed, that i have venturously essayed to read a chapter to the public. some favourable opportunities of contrast have been afforded me by the state of society in the northern part of the island at the period of my history, and may serve at once to vary and to illustrate the moral lessons, which i would willingly consider as the most important part of my plan; although i am sensible how short these will fall of their aim if i shall be found unable to mix them with amusement--a task not quite so easy in this critical generation as it was 'sixty years since.' chapter ii waverley-honour--a retrospect it is, then, sixty years since edward waverley, the hero of the following pages, took leave of his family, to join the regiment of dragoons in which he had lately obtained a commission. it was a melancholy day at waverley-honour when the young officer parted with sir everard, the affectionate old uncle to whose title and estate he was presumptive heir. a difference in political opinions had early separated the baronet from his younger brother richard waverley, the father of our hero. sir everard had inherited from his sires the whole train of tory or high-church predilections and prejudices which had distinguished the house of waverley since the great civil war. richard, on the contrary, who was ten years younger, beheld himself born to the fortune of a second brother, and anticipated neither dignity nor entertainment in sustaining the character of will wimble. he saw early that, to succeed in the race of life, it was necessary he should carry as little weight as possible. painters talk of the difficulty of expressing the existence of compound passions in the same features at the same moment; it would be no less difficult for the moralist to analyse the mixed motives which unite to form the impulse of our actions. richard waverley read and satisfied himself from history and sound argument that, in the words of the old song, passive obedience was a jest, and pshaw! was non-resistance; yet reason would have probably been unable to combat and remove hereditary prejudice could richard have anticipated that his elder brother, sir everard, taking to heart an early disappointment, would have remained a bachelor at seventy-two. the prospect of succession, however remote, might in that case have led him to endure dragging through the greater part of his life as 'master richard at the hall, the baronet's brother,' in the hope that ere its conclusion he should be distinguished as sir richard waverley of waverley-honour, successor to a princely estate, and to extended political connections as head of the county interest in the shire where it lay. but this was a consummation of things not to be expected at richard's outset, when sir everard was in the prime of life, and certain to be an acceptable suitor in almost any family, whether wealth or beauty should be the object of his pursuit, and when, indeed, his speedy marriage was a report which regularly amused the neighbourhood once a year. his younger brother saw no practicable road to independence save that of relying upon his own exertions, and adopting a political creed more consonant both to reason and his own interest than the hereditary faith of sir everard in high-church and in the house of stuart. he therefore read his recantation at the beginning of his career, and entered life as an avowed whig and friend of the hanover succession. the ministry of george the first's time were prudently anxious to diminish the phalanx of opposition. the tory nobility, depending for their reflected lustre upon the sunshine of a court, had for some time been gradually reconciling themselves to the new dynasty. but the wealthy country gentlemen of england, a rank which retained, with much of ancient manners and primitive integrity, a great proportion of obstinate and unyielding prejudice, stood aloof in haughty and sullen opposition, and cast many a look of mingled regret and hope to bois le due, avignon, and italy. [footnote: where the chevalier st. george, or, as he was termed, the old pretender, held his exiled court, as his situation compelled him to shift his place of residence.] the accession of the near relation of one of those steady and inflexible opponents was considered as a means of bringing over more converts, and therefore richard waverley met with a share of ministerial favour more than proportioned to his talents or his political importance. it was, however, discovered that he had respectable talents for public business, and the first admittance to the minister's levee being negotiated, his success became rapid. sir everard learned from the public 'news-letter,' first, that richard waverley, esquire, was returned for the ministerial borough of barterfaith; next, that richard waverley, esquire, had taken a distinguished part in the debate upon the excise bill in the support of government; and, lastly, that richard waverley, esquire, had been honoured with a seat at one of those boards where the pleasure of serving the country is combined with other important gratifications, which, to render them the more acceptable, occur regularly once a quarter. although these events followed each other so closely that the sagacity of the editor of a modern newspaper would have presaged the two last even while he announced the first, yet they came upon sir everard gradually, and drop by drop, as it were, distilled through the cool and procrastinating alembic of dyer's 'weekly letter.' [footnote: see note i. ] for it may be observed in passing, that instead of those mail-coaches, by means of which every mechanic at his six-penny club, may nightly learn from twenty contradictory channels the yesterday's news of the capital, a weekly post brought, in those days, to waverley-honour, a weekly intelligencer, which, after it had gratified sir everard's curiosity, his sister's, and that of his aged butler, was regularly transferred from the hall to the rectory, from the rectory to squire stubbs's at the grange, from the squire to the baronet's steward at his neat white house on the heath, from the steward to the bailiff, and from him through a huge circle of honest dames and gaffers, by whose hard and horny hands it was generally worn to pieces in about a month after its arrival. this slow succession of intelligence was of some advantage to richard waverley in the case before us; for, had the sum total of his enormities reached the ears of sir everard at once, there can be no doubt that the new commissioner would have had little reason to pique himself on the success of his politics. the baronet, although the mildest of human beings, was not without sensitive points in his character; his brother's conduct had wounded these deeply; the waverley estate was fettered by no entail (for it had never entered into the head of any of its former possessors that one of their progeny could be guilty of the atrocities laid by dyer's 'letter' to the door of richard), and if it had, the marriage of the proprietor might have been fatal to a collateral heir. these various ideas floated through the brain of sir everard without, however, producing any determined conclusion. he examined the tree of his genealogy, which, emblazoned with many an emblematic mark of honour and heroic achievement, hung upon the well-varnished wainscot of his hall. the nearest descendants of sir hildebrand waverley, failing those of his eldest son wilfred, of whom sir everard and his brother were the only representatives, were, as this honoured register informed him (and, indeed, as he himself well knew), the waverleys of highley park, com. hants; with whom the main branch, or rather stock, of the house had renounced all connection since the great law-suit in . this degenerate scion had committed a farther offence against the head and source of their gentility, by the intermarriage of their representative with judith, heiress of oliver bradshawe, of highley park, whose arms, the same with those of bradshawe the regicide, they had quartered with the ancient coat of waverley. these offences, however, had vanished from sir everard's recollection in the heat of his resentment; and had lawyer clippurse, for whom his groom was despatched express, arrived but an hour earlier, he might have had the benefit of drawing a new settlement of the lordship and manor of waverley-honour, with all its dependencies. but an hour of cool reflection is a great matter when employed in weighing the comparative evil of two measures to neither of which we are internally partial. lawyer clippurse found his patron involved in a deep study, which he was too respectful to disturb, otherwise than by producing his paper and leathern ink-case, as prepared to minute his honour's commands. even this slight manoeuvre was embarrassing to sir everard, who felt it as a reproach to his indecision. he looked at the attorney with some desire to issue his fiat, when the sun, emerging from behind a cloud, poured at once its chequered light through the stained window of the gloomy cabinet in which they were seated. the baronet's eye, as he raised it to the splendour, fell right upon the central scutcheon, inpressed with the same device which his ancestor was said to have borne in the field of hastings,--three ermines passant, argent, in a field azure, with its appropriate motto, sans tache. 'may our name rather perish,' exclaimed sir everard, 'than that ancient and loyal symbol should be blended with the dishonoured insignia of a traitorous roundhead!' all this was the effect of the glimpse of a sunbeam, just sufficient to light lawyer clippurse to mend his pen. the pen was mended in vain. the attorney was dismissed, with directions to hold himself in readiness on the first summons. the apparition of lawyer clippurse at the hall occasioned much speculation in that portion of the world to which waverley-honour formed the centre. but the more judicious politicians of this microcosm augured yet worse consequences to richard waverley from a movement which shortly followed his apostasy. this was no less than an excursion of the baronet in his coach-and-six, with four attendants in rich liveries, to make a visit of some duration to a noble peer on the confines of the shire, of untainted descent, steady tory principles, and the happy father of six unmarried and accomplished daughters. sir everard's reception in this family was, as it may be easily conceived, sufficiently favourable; but of the six young ladies, his taste unfortunately determined him in favour of lady emily, the youngest, who received his attentions with an embarrassment which showed at once that she durst not decline them, and that they afforded her anything but pleasure. sir everard could not but perceive something uncommon in the restrained emotions which the young lady testified at the advances he hazarded; but, assured by the prudent countess that they were the natural effects of a retired education, the sacrifice might have been completed, as doubtless has happened in many similar instances, had it not been for the courage of an elder sister, who revealed to the wealthy suitor that lady emily's affections were fixed upon a young soldier of fortune, a near relation of her own. sir everard manifested great emotion on receiving this intelligence, which was confirmed to him, in a private interview, by the young lady herself, although under the most dreadful apprehensions of her father's indignation. honour and generosity were hereditary attributes of the house of waverley. with a grace and delicacy worthy the hero of a romance, sir everard withdrew his claim to the hand of lady emily. he had even, before leaving blandeville castle, the address to extort from her father a consent to her union with the object of her choice. what arguments he used on this point cannot exactly be known, for sir everard was never supposed strong in the powers of persuasion; but the young officer, immediately after this transaction, rose in the army with a rapidity far surpassing the usual pace of unpatronised professional merit, although, to outward appearance, that was all he had to depend upon. the shock which sir everard encountered upon this occasion, although diminished by the consciousness of having acted virtuously and generously had its effect upon his future life. his resolution of marriage had been adopted in a fit of indignation; the labour of courtship did not quite suit the dignified indolence of his habits; he had but just escaped the risk of marrying a woman who could never love him, and his pride could not be greatly flattered by the termination of his amour, even if his heart had not suffered. the result of the whole matter was his return to waverley-honour without any transfer of his affections, notwithstanding the sighs and languishments of the fair tell-tale, who had revealed, in mere sisterly affection, the secret of lady emily's attachment, and in despite of the nods, winks, and innuendos of the officious lady mother, and the grave eulogiums which the earl pronounced successively on the prudence, and good sense, and admirable dispositions, of his first, second, third, fourth, and fifth daughters. the memory of his unsuccessful amour was with sir everard, as with many more of his temper, at once shy, proud, sensitive, and indolent, a beacon against exposing himself to similar mortification, pain, and fruitless exertion for the time to come. he continued to live at waverley-honour in the style of an old english gentleman, of an ancient descent and opulent fortune. his sister, miss rachel waverley, presided at his table; and they became, by degrees, an old bachelor and an ancient maiden lady, the gentlest and kindest of the votaries of celibacy. the vehemence of sir everard's resentment against his brother was but short-lived; yet his dislike to the whig and the placeman, though unable to stimulate him to resume any active measures prejudicial to richard's interest, in the succession to the family estate, continued to maintain the coldness between them. richard knew enough of the world, and of his brother's temper, to believe that by any ill-considered or precipitate advances on his part, he might turn passive dislike into a more active principle. it was accident, therefore, which at length occasioned a renewal of their intercourse. richard had married a young woman of rank, by whose family interest and private fortune he hoped to advance his career. in her right he became possessor of a manor of some value, at the distance of a few miles from waverley-honour. little edward, the hero of our tale, then in his fifth year, was their only child. it chanced that the infant with his maid had strayed one morning to a mile's distance from the avenue of brerewood lodge, his father's seat. their attention was attracted by a carriage drawn by six stately long-tailed black horses, and with as much carving and gilding as would have done honour to my lord mayor's. it was waiting for the owner, who was at a little distance inspecting the progress of a half-built farm-house. i know not whether the boy's nurse had been a welsh--or a scotch- woman, or in what manner he associated a shield emblazoned with three ermines with the idea of personal property, but he no sooner beheld this family emblem than he stoutly determined on vindicating his right to the splendid vehicle on which it was displayed. the baronet arrived while the boy's maid was in vain endeavouring to make him desist from his determination to appropriate the gilded coach-and-six. the rencontre was at a happy moment for edward, as his uncle had been just eyeing wistfully, with something of a feeling like envy, the chubby boys of the stout yeoman whose mansion was building by his direction. in the round-faced rosy cherub before him, bearing his eye and his name, and vindicating a hereditary title to his family, affection, and patronage, by means of a tie which sir everard held as sacred as either garter or blue-mantle, providence seemed to have granted to him the very object best calculated to fill up the void in his hopes and affections. sir everard returned to waverley-hall upon a led horse, which was kept in readiness for him, while the child and his attendant were sent home in the carriage to brerewood lodge, with such a message as opened to richard waverley a door of reconciliation with his elder brother. their intercourse, however, though thus renewed, continued to be rather formal and civil than partaking of brotherly cordiality; yet it was sufficient to the wishes of both parties. sir everard obtained, in the frequent society of his little nephew, something on which his hereditary pride might found the anticipated pleasure of a continuation of his lineage, and where his kind and gentle affections could at the same time fully exercise themselves. for richard waverley, he beheld in the growing attachment between the uncle and nephew the means of securing his son's, if not his own, succession to the hereditary estate, which he felt would be rather endangered than promoted by any attempt on his own part towards a closer intimacy with a man of sir everard's habits and opinions. thus, by a sort of tacit compromise, little edward was permitted to pass the greater part of the year at the hall, and appeared to stand in the same intimate relation to both families, although their mutual intercourse was otherwise limited to formal messages and more formal visits. the education of the youth was regulated alternately by the taste and opinions of his uncle and of his father. but more of this in a subsequent chapter. chapter iii education the education of our hero, edward waverley, was of a nature somewhat desultory. in infancy his health suffered, or was supposed to suffer (which is quite the same thing), by the air of london. as soon, therefore, as official duties, attendance on parliament, or the prosecution of any of his plans of interest or ambition, called his father to town, which was his usual residence for eight months in the year, edward was transferred to waverley- honour, and experienced a total change of instructors and of lessons, as well as of residence. this might have been remedied had his father placed him under the superintendence of a permanent tutor. but he considered that one of his choosing would probably have been unacceptable at waverley-honour, and that such a selection as sir everard might have made, were the matter left to him, would have burdened him with a disagreeable inmate, if not a political spy, in his family. he therefore prevailed upon his private secretary, a young man of taste and accomplishments, to bestow an hour or two on edward's education while at brerewood lodge, and left his uncle answerable for his improvement in literature while an inmate at the hall. this was in some degree respectably provided for. sir everard's chaplain, an oxonian, who had lost his fellowship for declining to take the oaths at the accession of george i, was not only an excellent classical scholar, but reasonably skilled in science, and master of most modern languages. he was, however, old and indulgent, and the recurring interregnum, during which edward was entirely freed from his discipline, occasioned such a relaxation of authority, that the youth was permitted, in a great measure, to learn as he pleased, what he pleased, and when he pleased. this slackness of rule might have been ruinous to a boy of slow understanding, who, feeling labour in the acquisition of knowledge, would have altogether neglected it, save for the command of a taskmaster; and it might have proved equally dangerous to a youth whose animal spirits were more powerful than his imagination or his feelings, and whom the irresistible influence of alma would have engaged in field-sports from morning till night. but the character of edward waverley was remote from either of these. his powers of apprehension were so uncommonly quick as almost to resemble intuition, and the chief care of his preceptor was to prevent him, as a sportsman would phrase it, from over-running his game--that is, from acquiring his knowledge in a slight, flimsy, and inadequate manner. and here the instructor had to combat another propensity too often united with brilliancy of fancy and vivacity of talent--that indolence, namely, of disposition, which can only be stirred by some strong motive of gratification, and which renounces study as soon as curiosity is gratified, the pleasure of conquering the first difficulties exhausted, and the novelty of pursuit at an end. edward would throw himself with spirit upon any classical author of which his preceptor proposed the perusal, make himself master of the style so far as to understand the story, and, if that pleased or interested him, he finished the volume. but it was in vain to attempt fixing his attention on critical distinctions of philology, upon the difference of idiom, the beauty of felicitous expression, or the artificial combinations of syntax. 'i can read and understand a latin author,' said young edward, with the self-confidence and rash reasoning of fifteen, 'and scaliger or bentley could not do much more.' alas! while he was thus permitted to read only for the gratification of his amusement, he foresaw not that he was losing for ever the opportunity of acquiring habits of firm and assiduous application, of gaining the art of controlling, directing, and concentrating the powers of his mind for earnest investigation--an art far more essential than even that intimate acquaintance with classical learning which is the primary object of study. i am aware i may be here reminded of the necessity of rendering instruction agreeable to youth, and of tasso's infusion of honey into the medicine prepared for a child; but an age in which children are taught the driest doctrines by the insinuating method of instructive games, has little reason to dread the consequences of study being rendered too serious or severe. the history of england is now reduced to a game at cards, the problems of mathematics to puzzles and riddles, and the doctrines of arithmetic may, we are assured, be sufficiently acquired by spending a few hours a week at a new and complicated edition of the royal game of the goose. there wants but one step further, and the creed and ten commandments may be taught in the same manner, without the necessity of the grave face, deliberate tone of recital, and devout attention, hitherto exacted from the well- governed childhood of this realm. it may, in the meantime, be subject of serious consideration, whether those who are accustomed only to acquire instruction through the medium of amusement may not be brought to reject that which approaches under the aspect of study; whether those who learn history by the cards may not be led to prefer the means to the end; and whether, were we to teach religion in the way of sport, our pupils may not thereby be gradually induced to make sport of their religion. to our young hero, who was permitted to seek his instruction only according to the bent of his own mind, and who, of consequence, only sought it so long as it afforded him amusement, the indulgence of his tutors was attended with evil consequences, which long continued to influence his character, happiness, and utility. edward's power of imagination and love of literature, although the former was vivid and the latter ardent, were so far from affording a remedy to this peculiar evil, that they rather inflamed and increased its violence. the library at waverley-honour, a large gothic room, with double arches and a gallery, contained such a miscellaneous and extensive collection of volumes as had been assembled together, during the course of two hundred years, by a family which had been always wealthy, and inclined, of course, as a mark of splendour, to furnish their shelves with the current literature of the day, without much scrutiny or nicety of discrimination. throughout this ample realm edward was permitted to roam at large. his tutor had his own studies; and church politics and controversial divinity, together with a love of learned ease, though they did not withdraw his attention at stated times from the progress of his patron's presumptive heir, induced him readily to grasp at any apology for not extending a strict and regulated survey towards his general studies. sir everard had never been himself a student, and, like his sister, miss rachel waverley, he held the common doctrine, that idleness is incompatible with reading of any kind, and that the mere tracing the alphabetical characters with the eye is in itself a useful and meritorious task, without scrupulously considering what ideas or doctrines they may happen to convey. with a desire of amusement, therefore, which better discipline might soon have converted into a thirst for knowledge, young waverley drove through the sea of books like a vessel without a pilot or a rudder. nothing perhaps increases by indulgence more than a desultory habit of reading, especially under such opportunities of gratifying it. i believe one reason why such numerous instances of erudition occur among the lower ranks is, that, with the same powers of mind, the poor student is limited to a narrow circle for indulging his passion for books, and must necessarily make himself master of the few he possesses ere he can acquire more. edward, on the contrary, like the epicure who only deigned to take a single morsel from the sunny side of a peach, read no volume a moment after it ceased to excite his curiosity or interest; and it necessarily happened, that the habit of seeking only this sort of gratification rendered it daily more difficult of attainment, till the passion for reading, like other strong appetites, produced by indulgence a sort of satiety. ere he attained this indifference, however, he had read, and stored in a memory of uncommon tenacity, much curious, though ill- arranged and miscellaneous information. in english literature he was master of shakespeare and milton, of our earlier dramatic authors, of many picturesque and interesting passages from our old historical chronicles, and was particularly well acquainted with spenser, drayton, and other poets who have exercised themselves on romantic fiction, of all themes the most fascinating to a youthful imagination, before the passions have roused themselves and demand poetry of a more sentimental description. in this respect his acquaintance with italian opened him yet a wider range. he had perused the numerous romantic poems, which, from the days of pulci, have been a favourite exercise of the wits of italy, and had sought gratification in the numerous collections of novelle, which were brought forth by the genius of that elegant though luxurious nation, in emulation of the 'decameron.' in classical literature, waverley had made the usual progress, and read the usual authors; and the french had afforded him an almost exhaustless collection of memoirs, scarcely more faithful than romances, and of romances so well written as hardly to be distinguished from memoirs. the splendid pages of froissart, with his heart-stirring and eye-dazzling descriptions of war and of tournaments, were among his chief favourites; and from those of brantome and de la noue he learned to compare the wild and loose, yet superstitious, character of the nobles of the league with the stern, rigid, and sometimes turbulent disposition of the huguenot party. the spanish had contributed to his stock of chivalrous and romantic lore. the earlier literature of the northern nations did not escape the study of one who read rather to awaken the imagination than to benefit the understanding. and yet, knowing much that is known but to few, edward waverley might justly be considered as ignorant, since he knew little of what adds dignity to man, and qualifies him to support and adorn an elevated situation in society. the occasional attention of his parents might indeed have been of service to prevent the dissipation of mind incidental to such a desultory course of reading. but his mother died in the seventh year after the reconciliation between the brothers, and richard waverley himself, who, after this event, resided more constantly in london, was too much interested in his own plans of wealth and ambition to notice more respecting edward than that he was of a very bookish turn, and probably destined to be a bishop. if he could have discovered and analysed his son's waking dreams, he would have formed a very different conclusion. chapter iv castle-building i have already hinted that the dainty, squeamish, and fastidious taste acquired by a surfeit of idle reading had not only rendered our hero unfit for serious and sober study, but had even disgusted him in some degree with that in which he had hitherto indulged. he was in his sixteenth year when his habits of abstraction and love of solitude became so much marked as to excite sir everard's affectionate apprehension. he tried to counterbalance these propensities by engaging his nephew in field-sports, which had been the chief pleasure of his own youthful days. but although edward eagerly carried the gun for one season, yet when practice had given him some dexterity, the pastime ceased to afford him amusement. in the succeeding spring, the perusal of old isaac walton's fascinating volume determined edward to become 'a brother of the angle.' but of all diversions which ingenuity ever devised for the relief of idleness, fishing is the worst qualified to amuse a man who is at once indolent and impatient; and our hero's rod was speedily flung aside. society and example, which, more than any other motives, master and sway the natural bent of our passions, might have had their usual effect upon the youthful visionary. but the neighbourhood was thinly inhabited, and the home-bred young squires whom it afforded were not of a class fit to form edward's usual companions, far less to excite him to emulation in the practice of those pastimes which composed the serious business of their lives. there were a few other youths of better education and a more liberal character, but from their society also our hero was in some degree excluded. sir everard had, upon the death of queen anne, resigned his seat in parliament, and, as his age increased and the number of his contemporaries diminished, had gradually withdrawn himself from society; so that when, upon any particular occasion, edward mingled with accomplished and well-educated young men of his own rank and expectations, he felt an inferiority in their company, not so much from deficiency of information, as from the want of the skill to command and to arrange that which he possessed. a deep and increasing sensibility added to this dislike of society. the idea of having committed the slightest solecism in politeness, whether real or imaginary, was agony to him; for perhaps even guilt itself does not impose upon some minds so keen a sense of shame and remorse, as a modest, sensitive, and inexperienced youth feels from the consciousness of having neglected etiquette or excited ridicule. where we are not at ease, we cannot be happy; and therefore it is not surprising that edward waverley supposed that he disliked and was unfitted for society, merely because he had not yet acquired the habit of living in it with ease and comfort, and of reciprocally giving and receiving pleasure. the hours he spent with his uncle and aunt were exhausted in listening to the oft-repeated tale of narrative old age. yet even there his imagination, the predominant faculty of his mind, was frequently excited. family tradition and genealogical history, upon which much of sir everard's discourse turned, is the very reverse of amber, which, itself a valuable substance, usually includes flies, straws, and other trifles; whereas these studies, being themselves very insignificant and trifling, do nevertheless serve to perpetuate a great deal of what is rare and valuable in ancient manners, and to record many curious and minute facts which could have been preserved and conveyed through no other medium. if, therefore, edward waverley yawned at times over the dry deduction of his line of ancestors, with their various intermarriages, and inwardly deprecated the remorseless and protracted accuracy with which the worthy sir everard rehearsed the various degrees of propinquity between the house of waverley- honour and the doughty barons, knights, and squires to whom they stood allied; if (notwithstanding his obligations to the three ermines passant) he sometimes cursed in his heart the jargon of heraldry, its griffins, its moldwarps, its wyverns, and its dragons, with all the bitterness of hotspur himself, there were moments when these communications interested his fancy and rewarded his attention. the deeds of wilibert of waverley in the holy land, his long absence and perilous adventures, his supposed death, and his return on the evening when the betrothed of his heart had wedded the hero who had protected her from insult and oppression during his absence; the generosity with which the crusader relinquished his claims, and sought in a neighbouring cloister that peace which passeth not away; [footnote: see note .]--to these and similar tales he would hearken till his heart glowed and his eye glistened. nor was he less affected when his aunt, mrs. rachel, narrated the sufferings and fortitude of lady alice waverley during the great civil war. the benevolent features of the venerable spinster kindled into more majestic expression as she told how charles had, after the field of worcester, found a day's refuge at waverley-honour, and how, when a troop of cavalry were approaching to search the mansion, lady alice dismissed her youngest son with a handful of domestics, charging them to make good with their lives an hour's diversion, that the king might have that space for escape. 'and, god help her,' would mrs. rachel continue, fixing her eyes upon the heroine's portrait as she spoke, 'full dearly did she purchase the safety of her prince with the life of her darling child. they brought him here a prisoner, mortally wounded; and you may trace the drops of his blood from the great hall door along the little gallery, and up to the saloon, where they laid him down to die at his mother's feet. but there was comfort exchanged between them; for he knew, from the glance of his mother's eye, that the purpose of his desperate defence was attained. ah! i remember,' she continued, 'i remember well to have seen one that knew and loved him. miss lucy saint aubin lived and died a maid for his sake, though one of the most beautiful and wealthy matches in this country; all the world ran after her, but she wore widow's mourning all her life for poor william, for they were betrothed though not married, and died in-- i cannot think of the date; but i remember, in the november of that very year, when she found herself sinking, she desired to be brought to waverley-honour once more, and visited all the places where she had been with my grand-uncle, and caused the carpets to be raised that she might trace the impression of his blood, and if tears could have washed it out, it had not been there now; for there was not a dry eye in the house. you would have thought, edward, that the very trees mourned for her, for their leaves dropt around her without a gust of wind, and, indeed, she looked like one that would never see them green again.' from such legends our hero would steal away to indulge the fancies they excited. in the corner of the large and sombre library, with no other light than was afforded by the decaying brands on its ponderous and ample hearth, he would exercise for hours that internal sorcery by which past or imaginary events are presented in action, as it were, to the eye of the muser. then arose in long and fair array the splendour of the bridal feast at waverley- castle; the tall and emaciated form of its real lord, as he stood in his pilgrim's weeds, an unnoticed spectator of the festivities of his supposed heir and intended bride; the electrical shock occasioned by the discovery; the springing of the vassals to arms; the astonishment of the bridegroom; the terror and confusion of the bride; the agony with which wilibert observed that her heart as well as consent was in these nuptials; the air of dignity, yet of deep feeling, with which he flung down the half-drawn sword, and turned away for ever from the house of his ancestors. then would he change the scene, and fancy would at his wish represent aunt rachel's tragedy. he saw the lady waverley seated in her bower, her ear strained to every sound, her heart throbbing with double agony, now listening to the decaying echo of the hoofs of the king's horse, and when that had died away, hearing in every breeze that shook the trees of the park, the noise of the remote skirmish. a distant sound is heard like the rushing of a swoln stream; it comes nearer, and edward can plainly distinguish the galloping of horses, the cries and shouts of men, with straggling pistol-shots between, rolling forwards to the hall. the lady starts up--a terrified menial rushes in--but why pursue such a description? as living in this ideal world became daily more delectable to our hero, interruption was disagreeable in proportion. the extensive domain that surrounded the hall, which, far exceeding the dimensions of a park, was usually termed waverley-chase, had originally been forest ground, and still, though broken by extensive glades, in which the young deer were sporting, retained its pristine and savage character. it was traversed by broad avenues, in many places half grown up with brush-wood, where the beauties of former days used to take their stand to see the stag coursed with greyhounds, or to gain an aim at him with the crossbow. in one spot, distinguished by a moss-grown gothic monument, which retained the name of queen's standing, elizabeth herself was said to have pierced seven bucks with her own arrows. this was a very favourite haunt of waverley. at other times, with his gun and his spaniel, which served as an apology to others, and with a book in his pocket, which perhaps served as an apology to himself, he used to pursue one of these long avenues, which, after an ascending sweep of four miles, gradually narrowed into a rude and contracted path through the cliffy and woody pass called mirkwood dingle, and opened suddenly upon a deep, dark, and small lake, named, from the same cause, mirkwood-mere. there stood, in former times, a solitary tower upon a rock almost surrounded by the water, which had acquired the name of the strength of waverley, because in perilous times it had often been the refuge of the family. there, in the wars of york and lancaster, the last adherents of the red rose who dared to maintain her cause carried on a harassing and predatory warfare, till the stronghold was reduced by the celebrated richard of gloucester. here, too, a party of cavaliers long maintained themselves under nigel waverley, elder brother of that william whose fate aunt rachel commemorated. through these scenes it was that edward loved to 'chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancy,' and, like a child among his toys, culled and arranged, from the splendid yet useless imagery and emblems with which his imagination was stored, visions as brilliant and as fading as those of an evening sky. the effect of this indulgence upon his temper and character will appear in the next chapter. chapter v choice of a profession from the minuteness with which i have traced waverley's pursuits, and the bias which these unavoidably communicated to his imagination, the reader may perhaps anticipate, in the following tale, an imitation of the romance of cervantes. but he will do my prudence injustice in the supposition. my intention is not to follow the steps of that inimitable author, in describing such total perversion of intellect as misconstrues the objects actually presented to the senses, but that more common aberration from sound judgment, which apprehends occurrences indeed in their reality, but communicates to them a tincture of its own romantic tone and colouring. so far was edward waverley from expecting general sympathy with his own feelings, or concluding that the present state of things was calculated to exhibit the reality of those visions in which he loved to indulge, that he dreaded nothing more than the detection of such sentiments as were dictated by his musings. he neither had nor wished to have a confidant, with whom to communicate his reveries; and so sensible was he of the ridicule attached to them, that, had he been to choose between any punishment short of ignominy, and the necessity of giving a cold and composed account of the ideal world in which he lived the better part of his days, i think he would not have hesitated to prefer the former infliction. this secrecy became doubly precious as he felt in advancing life the influence of the awakening passions. female forms of exquisite grace and beauty began to mingle in his mental adventures; nor was he long without looking abroad to compare the creatures of his own imagination with the females of actual life. the list of the beauties who displayed their hebdomadal finery at the parish church of waverley was neither numerous nor select. by far the most passable was miss sissly, or, as she rather chose to be called, miss cecilia stubbs, daughter of squire stubbs at the grange. i know not whether it was by the 'merest accident in the world,' a phrase which, from female lips, does not always exclude malice prepense, or whether it was from a conformity of taste, that miss cecilia more than once crossed edward in his favourite walks through waverley-chase. he had not as yet assumed courage to accost her on these occasions; but the meeting was not without its effect. a romantic lover is a strange idolater, who sometimes cares not out of what log he frames the object of his adoration; at least, if nature has given that object any passable proportion of personal charms, he can easily play the jeweller and dervise in the oriental tale, [footnote: see hoppner's tale of the seven lovers.] and supply her richly, out of the stores of his own imagination, with supernatural beauty, and all the properties of intellectual wealth. but ere the charms of miss cecilia stubbs had erected her into a positive goddess, or elevated her at least to a level with the saint her namesake, mrs. rachel waverley gained some intimation which determined her to prevent the approaching apotheosis. even the most simple and unsuspicious of the female sex have (god bless them!) an instinctive sharpness of perception in such matters, which sometimes goes the length of observing partialities that never existed, but rarely misses to detect such as pass actually under their observation. mrs. rachel applied herself with great prudence, not to combat, but to elude, the approaching danger, and suggested to her brother the necessity that the heir of his house should see something more of the world than was consistent with constant residence at waverley-honour. sir everard would not at first listen to a proposal which went to separate his nephew from him. edward was a little bookish, he admitted, but youth, he had always heard, was the season for learning, and, no doubt, when his rage for letters was abated, and his head fully stocked with knowledge, his nephew would take to field-sports and country business. he had often, he said, himself regretted that he had not spent some time in study during his youth: he would neither have shot nor hunted with less skill, and he might have made the roof of saint stephen's echo to longer orations than were comprised in those zealous noes, with which, when a member of the house during godolphin's administration, he encountered every measure of government. aunt rachel's anxiety, however, lent her address to carry her point. every representative of their house had visited foreign parts, or served his country in the army, before he settled for life at waverley-honour, and she appealed for the truth of her assertion to the genealogical pedigree, an authority which sir everard was never known to contradict. in short, a proposal was made to mr. richard waverley, that his son should travel, under the direction of his present tutor mr. pembroke, with a suitable allowance from the baronet's liberality. the father himself saw no objection to this overture; but upon mentioning it casually at the table of the minister, the great man looked grave. the reason was explained in private. the unhappy turn of sir everard's politics, the minister observed, was such as would render it highly improper that a young gentleman of such hopeful prospects should travel on the continent with a tutor doubtless of his uncle's choosing, and directing his course by his instructions. what might mr. edward waverley's society be at paris, what at rome, where all manner of snares were spread by the pretender and his sons--these were points for mr. waverley to consider. this he could himself say, that he knew his majesty had such a just sense of mr. richard waverley's merits, that, if his son adopted the army for a few years, a troop, he believed, might be reckoned upon in one of the dragoon regiments lately returned from flanders. a hint thus conveyed and enforced was not to be neglected with impunity; and richard waverley, though with great dread of shocking his brother's prejudices, deemed he could not avoid accepting the commission thus offered him for his son. the truth is, he calculated much, and justly, upon sir everard's fondness for edward, which made him unlikely to resent any step that he might take in due submission to parental authority. two letters announced this determination to the baronet and his nephew. the latter barely communicated the fact, and pointed out the necessary preparations for joining his regiment. to his brother, richard was more diffuse and circuitous. he coincided with him, in the most flattering manner, in the propriety of his son's seeing a little more of the world, and was even humble in expressions of gratitude for his proposed assistance; was, however, deeply concerned that it was now, unfortunately, not in edward's power exactly to comply with the plan which had been chalked out by his best friend and benefactor. he himself had thought with pain on the boy's inactivity, at an age when all his ancestors had borne arms; even royalty itself had deigned to inquire whether young waverley was not now in flanders, at an age when his grandfather was already bleeding for his king in the great civil war. this was accompanied by an offer of a troop of horse. what could he do? there was no time to consult his brother's inclinations, even if he could have conceived there might be objections on his part to his nephew's following the glorious career of his predecessors. and, in short, that edward was now (the intermediate steps of cornet and lieutenant being overleapt with great agility) captain waverley, of gardiner's regiment of dragoons, which he must join in their quarters at dundee in scotland, in the course of a month. sir everard waverley received this intimation with a mixture of feelings. at the period of the hanoverian succession he had withdrawn from parliament, and his conduct in the memorable year had not been altogether unsuspected. there were reports of private musters of tenants and horses in waverley-chase by moonlight, and of cases of carbines and pistols purchased in holland, and addressed to the baronet, but intercepted by the vigilance of a riding officer of the excise, who was afterwards tossed in a blanket on a moonless night, by an association of stout yeomen, for his officiousness. nay, it was even said, that at the arrest of sir william wyndham, the leader of the tory party, a letter from sir everard was found in the pocket of his night-gown. but there was no overt act which an attainder could be founded on, and government, contented with suppressing the insurrection of , felt it neither prudent nor safe to push their vengeance farther than against those unfortunate gentlemen who actually took up arms. nor did sir everard's apprehensions of personal consequences seem to correspond with the reports spread among his whig neighbours. it was well known that he had supplied with money several of the distressed northumbrians and scotchmen, who, after being made prisoners at preston in lancashire, were imprisoned in newgate and the marshalsea, and it was his solicitor and ordinary counsel who conducted the defence of some of these unfortunate gentlemen at their trial. it was generally supposed, however, that, had ministers possessed any real proof of sir everard's accession to the rebellion, he either would not have ventured thus to brave the existing government, or at least would not have done so with impunity. the feelings which then dictated his proceedings were those of a young man, and at an agitating period. since that time sir everard's jacobitism had been gradually decaying, like a fire which burns out for want of fuel. his tory and high-church principles were kept up by some occasional exercise at elections and quarter-sessions; but those respecting hereditary right were fallen into a sort of abeyance. yet it jarred severely upon his feelings, that his nephew should go into the army under the brunswick dynasty; and the more so, as, independent of his high and conscientious ideas of paternal authority, it was impossible, or at least highly imprudent, to interfere authoritatively to prevent it. this suppressed vexation gave rise to many poohs and pshaws which were placed to the account of an incipient fit of gout, until, having sent for the army list, the worthy baronet consoled himself with reckoning the descendants of the houses of genuine loyalty, mordaunts, granvilles, and stanleys, whose names were to be found in that military record; and, calling up all his feelings of family grandeur and warlike glory, he concluded, with logic something like falstaff's, that when war was at hand, although it were shame to be on any side but one, it were worse shame to be idle than to be on the worst side, though blacker than usurpation could make it. as for aunt rachel, her scheme had not exactly terminated according to her wishes, but she was under the necessity of submitting to circumstances; and her mortification was diverted by the employment she found in fitting out her nephew for the campaign, and greatly consoled by the prospect of beholding him blaze in complete uniform. edward waverley himself received with animated and undefined surprise this most unexpected intelligence. it was, as a fine old poem expresses it, 'like a fire to heather set,' that covers a solitary hill with smoke, and illumines it at the same time with dusky fire. his tutor, or, i should say, mr. pembroke, for he scarce assumed the name of tutor, picked up about edward's room some fragments of irregular verse, which he appeared to have composed under the influence of the agitating feelings occasioned by this sudden page being turned up to him in the book of life. the doctor, who was a believer in all poetry which was composed by his friends, and written out in fair straight lines, with a capital at the beginning of each, communicated this treasure to aunt rachel, who, with her spectacles dimmed with tears, transferred them to her commonplace book, among choice receipts for cookery and medicine, favourite texts, and portions from high-church divines, and a few songs, amatory and jacobitical, which she had carolled in her younger days, from whence her nephew's poetical tentamina were extracted when the volume itself, with other authentic records of the waverley family, were exposed to the inspection of the unworthy editor of this memorable history. if they afford the reader no higher amusement, they will serve, at least, better than narrative of any kind, to acquaint him with the wild and irregular spirit of our hero:-- late, when the autumn evening fell on mirkwood-mere's romantic dell, the lake return'd, in chasten'd gleam, the purple cloud, the golden beam: reflected in the crystal pool, headland and bank lay fair and cool; the weather-tinted rock and tower, each drooping tree, each fairy flower, so true, so soft, the mirror gave, as if there lay beneath the wave, secure from trouble, toil, and care, a world than earthly world more fair. but distant winds began to wake, and roused the genius of the lake! he heard the groaning of the oak, and donn'd at once his sable cloak, as warrior, at the battle-cry, invests him with his panoply: then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd he 'gan to shake his foamy crest o'er furrow'd brow and blacken'd cheek, and bade his surge in thunder speak. in wild and broken eddies whirl'd. flitted that fond ideal world, and to the shore in tumult tost the realms of fairy bliss were lost. yet, with a stern delight and strange, i saw the spirit-stirring change, as warr'd the wind with wave and wood, upon the ruin'd tower i stood, and felt my heart more strongly bound, responsive to the lofty sound, while, joying in the mighty roar, i mourn'd that tranquil scene no more. so, on the idle dreams of youth, breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth, bids each fair vision pass away, like landscape on the lake that lay, as fair, as flitting, and as frail, as that which fled the autumn gale.-- for ever dead to fancy's eye be each gay form that glided by, while dreams of love and lady's charms give place to honour and to arms! in sober prose, as perhaps these verses intimate less decidedly, the transient idea of miss cecilia stubbs passed from captain waverley's heart amid the turmoil which his new destinies excited. she appeared, indeed, in full splendour in her father's pew upon the sunday when he attended service for the last time at the old parish church, upon which occasion, at the request of his uncle and aunt rachel, he was induced (nothing both, if the truth must be told) to present himself in full uniform. there is no better antidote against entertaining too high an opinion of others than having an excellent one of ourselves at the very same time. miss stubbs had indeed summoned up every assistance which art could afford to beauty; but, alas! hoop, patches, frizzled locks, and a new mantua of genuine french silk, were lost upon a young officer of dragoons who wore for the first time his gold-laced hat, jack-boots, and broadsword. i know not whether, like the champion of an old ballad,-- his heart was all on honour bent, he could not stoop to love; no lady in the land had power his frozen heart to move; or whether the deep and flaming bars of embroidered gold, which now fenced his breast, defied the artillery of cecilia's eyes; but every arrow was launched at him in vain. yet did i mark where cupid's shaft did light; it lighted not on little western flower, but on bold yeoman, flower of all the west, hight jonas culbertfield, the steward's son. craving pardon for my heroics (which i am unable in certain cases to resist giving way to), it is a melancholy fact, that my history must here take leave of the fair cecilia, who, like many a daughter of eve, after the departure of edward, and the dissipation of certain idle visions which she had adopted, quietly contented herself with a pisaller, and gave her hand, at the distance of six months, to the aforesaid jonas, son of the baronet's steward, and heir (no unfertile prospect) to a steward's fortune, besides the snug probability of succeeding to his father's office. all these advantages moved squire stubbs, as much as the ruddy brown and manly form of the suitor influenced his daughter, to abate somewhat in the article of their gentry; and so the match was concluded. none seemed more gratified than aunt rachel, who had hitherto looked rather askance upon the presumptuous damsel (as much so, peradventure, as her nature would permit), but who, on the first appearance of the new-married pair at church, honoured the bride with a smile and a profound curtsy, in presence of the rector, the curate, the clerk, and the whole congregation of the united parishes of waverley cum beverley. i beg pardon, once and for all, of those readers who take up novels merely for amusement, for plaguing them so long with old- fashioned politics, and whig and tory, and hanoverians and jacobites. the truth is, i cannot promise them that this story shall be intelligible, not to say probable, without it. my plan requires that i should explain the motives on which its action proceeded; and these motives necessarily arose from the feelings, prejudices, and parties of the times. i do not invite my fair readers, whose sex and impatience give them the greatest right to complain of these circumstances, into a flying chariot drawn by hippogriffs, or moved by enchantment. mine is a humble english post-chaise, drawn upon four wheels, and keeping his majesty's highway. such as dislike the vehicle may leave it at the next halt, and wait for the conveyance of prince hussein's tapestry, or malek the weaver's flying sentrybox. those who are contented to remain with me will be occasionally exposed to the dulness inseparable from heavy roads, steep hills, sloughs, and other terrestrial retardations; but with tolerable horses and a civil driver (as the advertisements have it), i engage to get as soon as possible into a more picturesque and romantic country, if my passengers incline to have some patience with me during my first stages. [footnote: these introductory chapters have been a good deal censured as tedious and unnecessary. yet there are circumstances recorded in them which the author has not been able to persuade himself to retrench or cancel.] chapter vi the adieus of waverley it was upon the evening of this memorable sunday that sir everard entered the library, where he narrowly missed surprising our young hero as he went through the guards of the broadsword with the ancient weapon of old sir hildebrand, which, being preserved as an heirloom, usually hung over the chimney in the library, beneath a picture of the knight and his horse, where the features were almost entirely hidden by the knight's profusion of curled hair, and the bucephalus which he bestrode concealed by the voluminous robes of the bath with which he was decorated. sir everard entered, and after a glance at the picture and another at his nephew, began a little speech, which, however, soon dropt into the natural simplicity of his common manner, agitated upon the present occasion by no common feeling. 'nephew,' he said; and then, as mending his phrase, 'my dear edward, it is god's will, and also the will of your father, whom, under god, it is your duty to obey, that you should leave us to take up the profession of arms, in which so many of your ancestors have been distinguished. i have made such arrangements as will enable you to take the field as their descendant, and as the probable heir of the house of waverley; and, sir, in the field of battle you will remember what name you bear. and, edward, my dear boy, remember also that you are the last of that race, and the only hope of its revival depends upon you; therefore, as far as duty and honour will permit, avoid danger--i mean unnecessary danger--and keep no company with rakes, gamblers, and whigs, of whom, it is to be feared, there are but too many in the service into which you are going. your colonel, as i am informed, is an excellent man--for a presbyterian; but you will remember your duty to god, the church of england, and the--' (this breach ought to have been supplied, according to the rubric, with the word king; but as, unfortunately, that word conveyed a double and embarrassing sense, one meaning de facto and the other de jure, the knight filled up the blank otherwise)--'the church of england, and all constituted authorities.' then, not trusting himself with any further oratory, he carried his nephew to his stables to see the horses destined for his campaign. two were black (the regimental colour), superb chargers both; the other three were stout active hacks, designed for the road, or for his domestics, of whom two were to attend him from the hall; an additional groom, if necessary, might be picked up in scotland. 'you will depart with but a small retinue,' quoth the baronet, 'compared to sir hildebrand, when he mustered before the gate of the hall a larger body of horse than your whole regiment consists of. i could have wished that these twenty young fellows from my estate, who have enlisted in your troop, had been to march with you on your journey to scotland. it would have been something, at least; but i am told their attendance would be thought unusual in these days, when every new and foolish fashion is introduced to break the natural dependence of the people upon their landlords.' sir everard had done his best to correct this unnatural disposition of the times; for he had brightened the chain of attachment between the recruits and their young captain, not only by a copious repast of beef and ale, by way of parting feast, but by such a pecuniary donation to each individual as tended rather to improve the conviviality than the discipline of their march. after inspecting the cavalry, sir everard again conducted his nephew to the library, where he produced a letter, carefully folded, surrounded by a little stripe of flox-silk, according to ancient form, and sealed with an accurate impression of the waverley coat-of-arms. it was addressed, with great formality, 'to cosmo comyne bradwardine, esq., of bradwardine, at his principal mansion of tully-veolan, in perthshire, north britain. these--by the hands of captain edward waverley, nephew of sir everard waverley, of waverley-honour, bart.' the gentleman to whom this enormous greeting was addressed, of whom we shall have more to say in the sequel, had been in arms for the exiled family of stuart in the year , and was made prisoner at preston in lancashire. he was of a very ancient family, and somewhat embarrassed fortune; a scholar, according to the scholarship of scotchmen, that is, his learning was more diffuse than accurate, and he was rather a reader than a grammarian. of his zeal for the classic authors he is said to have given an uncommon instance. on the road between preston and london, he made his escape from his guards; but being afterwards found loitering near the place where they had lodged the former night, he was recognised, and again arrested. his companions, and even his escort, were surprised at his infatuation, and could not help inquiring, why, being once at liberty, he had not made the best of his way to a place of safety; to which he replied, that he had intended to do so, but, in good faith, he had returned to seek his titus livius, which he had forgot in the hurry of his escape. [footnote: see note .] the simplicity of this anecdote struck the gentleman, who, as we before observed, had managed the defence of some of those unfortunate persons, at the expense of sir everard, and perhaps some others of the party. he was, besides, himself a special admirer of the old patavinian, and though probably his own zeal might not have carried him such extravagant lengths, even to recover the edition of sweynheim and pannartz (supposed to be the princeps), he did not the less estimate the devotion of the north briton, and in consequence exerted himself to so much purpose to remove and soften evidence, detect legal flaws, et cetera, that he accomplished the final discharge and deliverance of cosmo comyne bradwardine from certain very awkward consequences of a plea before our sovereign lord the king in westminster. the baron of bradwardine, for he was generally so called in scotland (although his intimates, from his place of residence, used to denominate him tully-veolan, or more familiarly, tully), no sooner stood rectus in curia than he posted down to pay his respects and make his acknowledgments at waverley-honour. a congenial passion for field-sports, and a general coincidence in political opinions, cemented his friendship with sir everard, notwithstanding the difference of their habits and studies in other particulars; and, having spent several weeks at waverley- honour, the baron departed with many expressions of regard, warmly pressing the baronet to return his visit, and partake of the diversion of grouse-shooting, upon his moors in perthshire next season. shortly after, mr. bradwardine remitted from scotland a sum in reimbursement of expenses incurred in the king's high court of westminster, which, although not quite so formidable when reduced to the english denomination, had, in its original form of scotch pounds, shillings, and pence, such a formidable effect upon the frame of duncan macwheeble, the laird's confidential factor, baron-bailie, and man of resource, that he had a fit of the cholic, which lasted for five days, occasioned, he said, solely and utterly by becoming the unhappy instrument of conveying such a serious sum of money out of his native country into the hands of the false english. but patriotism, as it is the fairest, so it is often the most suspicious mask of other feelings; and many who knew bailie macwheeble concluded that his professions of regret were not altogether disinterested, and that he would have grudged the moneys paid to the loons at westminster much less had they not come from bradwardine estate, a fund which he considered as more particularly his own. but the bailie protested he was absolutely disinterested-- 'woe, woe, for scotland, not a whit for me!' the laird was only rejoiced that his worthy friend, sir everard waverley of waverley-honour, was reimbursed of the expenditure which he had outlaid on account of the house of bradwardine. it concerned, he said, the credit of his own family, and of the kingdom of scotland at large, that these disbursements should be repaid forthwith, and, if delayed, it would be a matter of national reproach. sir everard, accustomed to treat much larger sums with indifference, received the remittance of l , s. d. without being aware that the payment was an international concern, and, indeed, would probably have forgot the circumstance altogether, if bailie macwheeble had thought of comforting his cholic by intercepting the subsidy. a yearly intercourse took place, of a short letter and a hamper or a cask or two, between waverley-honour and tully-veolan, the english exports consisting of mighty cheeses and mightier ale, pheasants, and venison, and the scottish returns being vested in grouse, white hares, pickled salmon, and usquebaugh; all which were meant, sent, and received as pledges of constant friendship and amity between two important houses. it followed as a matter of course, that the heir-apparent of waverley-honour could not with propriety visit scotland without being furnished with credentials to the baron of bradwardine. when this matter was explained and settled, mr. pembroke expressed his wish to take a private and particular leave of his dear pupil. the good man's ex hortations to edward to preserve an unblemished life and morals, to hold fast the principles of the christian religion, and to eschew the profane company of scoffers and latitudinarians, too much abounding in the army, were not unmingled with his political prejudices. it had pleased heaven, he said, to place scotland (doubtless for the sins of their ancestors in ) in a more deplorable state of darkness than even this unhappy kingdom of england. here, at least, although the candlestick of the church of england had been in some degree removed from its place, it yet afforded a glimmering light; there was a hierarchy, though schismatical, and fallen from the principles maintained by those great fathers of the church, sancroft and his brethren; there was a liturgy, though woefully perverted in some of the principal petitions. but in scotland it was utter darkness; and, excepting a sorrowful, scattered, and persecuted remnant, the pulpits were abandoned to presbyterians, and, he feared, to sectaries of every description. it should be his duty to fortify his dear pupil to resist such unhallowed and pernicious doctrines in church and state as must necessarily be forced at times upon his unwilling ears. here he produced two immense folded packets, which appeared each to contain a whole ream of closely written manuscript. they had been the labour of the worthy man's whole life; and never were labour and zeal more absurdly wasted. he had at one time gone to london, with the intention of giving them to the world, by the medium of a bookseller in little britain, well known to deal in such commodities, and to whom he was instructed to address himself in a particular phrase and with a certain sign, which, it seems, passed at that time current among the initiated jacobites. the moment mr. pembroke had uttered the shibboleth, with the appropriate gesture, the bibliopolist greeted him, notwithstanding every disclamation, by the title of doctor, and conveying him into his back shop, after inspecting every possible and impossible place of concealment, he commenced: 'eh, doctor!--well--all under the rose--snug--i keep no holes here even for a hanoverian rat to hide in. and, what--eh! any good news from our friends over the water?--and how does the worthy king of france?--or perhaps you are more lately from rome? it must be rome will do it at last--the church must light its candle at the old lamp.--eh--what, cautious? i like you the better; but no fear.' here mr. pembroke with some difficulty stopt a torrent of interrogations, eked out with signs, nods, and winks; and, having at length convinced the bookseller that he did him too much honour in supposing him an emissary of exiled royalty, he explained his actual business. the man of books with a much more composed air proceeded to examine the manuscripts. the title of the first was 'a dissent from dissenters, or the comprehension confuted; showing the impossibility of any composition between the church and puritans, presbyterians, or sectaries of any description; illustrated from the scriptures, the fathers of the church, and the soundest controversial divines.' to this work the bookseller positively demurred. 'well meant,' he said, 'and learned, doubtless; but the time had gone by. printed on small-pica it would run to eight hundred pages, and could never pay. begged therefore to be excused. loved and honoured the true church from his soul, and, had it been a sermon on the martyrdom, or any twelve-penny touch-- why, i would venture something for the honour of the cloth. but come, let's see the other. "right hereditary righted!"--ah! there's some sense in this. hum--hum--hum--pages so many, paper so much, letter-press--ah--i'll tell you, though, doctor, you must knock out some of the latin and greek; heavy, doctor, damn'd heavy--(beg your pardon) and if you throw in a few grains more pepper--i am he that never preached my author. i have published for drake and charlwood lawton, and poor amhurst [footnote: see note .]--ah, caleb! caleb! well, it was a shame to let poor caleb starve, and so many fat rectors and squires among us. i gave him a dinner once a week; but, lord love you, what's once a week, when a man does not know where to go the other six days? well, but i must show the manuscript to little tom alibi the solicitor, who manages all my law affairs--must keep on the windy side; the mob were very uncivil the last time i mounted in old palace yard--all whigs and roundheads every man of them, williamites and hanover rats.' the next day mr. pembroke again called on the publisher, but found tom alibi's advice had determined him against undertaking the work. 'not but what i would go to--(what was i going to say?) to the plantations for the church with pleasure--but, dear doctor, i have a wife and family; but, to show my zeal, i'll recommend the job to my neighbour trimmel--he is a bachelor, and leaving off business, so a voyage in a western barge would not inconvenience him.' but mr. trimmel was also obdurate, and mr. pembroke, fortunately perchance for himself, was compelled to return to waverley-honour with his treatise in vindication of the real fundamental principles of church and state safely packed in his saddle-bags. as the public were thus likely to be deprived of the benefit arising from his lucubrations by the selfish cowardice of the trade, mr. pembroke resolved to make two copies of these tremendous manuscripts for the use of his pupil. he felt that he had been indolent as a tutor, and, besides, his conscience checked him for complying with the request of mr. richard waverley, that he would impress no sentiments upon edward's mind inconsistent with the present settlement in church and state. but now, thought he, i may, without breach of my word, since he is no longer under my tuition, afford the youth the means of judging for himself, and have only to dread his reproaches for so long concealing the light which the perusal will flash upon his mind. while he thus indulged the reveries of an author and a politician, his darling proselyte, seeing nothing very inviting in the title of the tracts, and appalled by the bulk and compact lines of the manuscript, quietly consigned them to a corner of his travelling trunk. aunt rachel's farewell was brief and affectionate. she only cautioned her dear edward, whom she probably deemed somewhat susceptible, against the fascination of scottish beauty. she allowed that the northern part of the island contained some ancient families, but they were all whigs and presbyterians except the highlanders; and respecting them she must needs say, there could be no great delicacy among the ladies, where the gentlemen's usual attire was, as she had been assured, to say the least, very singular, and not at all decorous. she concluded her farewell with a kind and moving benediction, and gave the young officer, as a pledge of her regard, a valuable diamond ring (often worn by the male sex at that time), and a purse of broad gold-pieces, which also were more common sixty years since than they have been of late. chapter vii a horse-quarter in scotland the next morning, amid varied feelings, the chief of which was a predominant, anxious, and even solemn impression, that he was now in a great measure abandoned to his own guidance and direction, edward waverley departed from the hall amid the blessings and tears of all the old domestics and the inhabitants of the village, mingled with some sly petitions for sergeantcies and corporalships, and so forth, on the part of those who professed that 'they never thoft to ha' seen jacob, and giles, and jonathan go off for soldiers, save to attend his honour, as in duty bound.' edward, as in duty bound, extricated himself from the supplicants with the pledge of fewer promises than might have been expected from a young man so little accustomed to the world. after a short visit to london, he proceeded on horseback, then the general mode of travelling, to edinburgh, and from thence to dundee, a seaport on the eastern coast of angus-shire, where his regiment was then quartered. he now entered upon a new world, where, for a time, all was beautiful because all was new. colonel gardiner, the commanding officer of the regiment, was himself a study for a romantic, and at the same time an inquisitive youth. in person he was tall, handsome, and active, though somewhat advanced in life. in his early years he had been what is called, by manner of palliative, a very gay young man, and strange stories were circulated about his sudden conversion from doubt, if not infidelity, to a serious and even enthusiastic turn of mind. it was whispered that a supernatural communication, of a nature obvious even to the exterior senses, had produced this wonderful change; and though some mentioned the proselyte as an enthusiast, none hinted at his being a hypocrite. this singular and mystical circumstance gave colonel gardiner a peculiar and solemn interest in the eyes of the young soldier. [footnote: see note .] it may be easily imagined that the officers, of a regiment commanded by so respectable a person composed a society more sedate and orderly than a military mess always exhibits; and that waverley escaped some temptations to which he might otherwise have been exposed. meanwhile his military education proceeded. already a good horseman, he was now initiated into the arts of the manege, which, when carried to perfection, almost realise the fable of the centaur, the guidance of the horse appearing to proceed from the rider's mere volition, rather than from the use of any external and apparent signal of motion. he received also instructions in his field duty; but i must own, that when his first ardour was past, his progress fell short in the latter particular of what he wished and expected. the duty of an officer, the most imposing of all others to the inexperienced mind, because accompanied with so much outward pomp and circumstance, is in its essence a very dry and abstract task, depending chiefly upon arithmetical combinations, requiring much attention, and a cool and reasoning head to bring them into action. our hero was liable to fits of absence, in which his blunders excited some mirth, and called down some reproof. this circumstance impressed him with a painful sense of inferiority in those qualities which appeared most to deserve and obtain regard in his new profession. he asked himself in vain, why his eye could not judge of distance or space so well as those of his companions; why his head was not always successful in disentangling the various partial movements necessary to execute a particular evolution; and why his memory, so alert upon most occasions, did not correctly retain technical phrases and minute points of etiquette or field discipline. waverley was naturally modest, and therefore did not fall into the egregious mistake of supposing such minuter rules of military duty beneath his notice, or conceiting himself to be born a general, because he made an indifferent subaltern. the truth was, that the vague and unsatisfactory course of reading which he had pursued, working upon a temper naturally retired and abstracted, had given him that wavering and unsettled habit of mind which is most averse to study and riveted attention. time, in the mean while, hung heavy on his hands. the gentry of the neighbourhood were disaffected, and showed little hospitality to the military guests; and the people of the town, chiefly engaged in mercantile pursuits, were not such as waverley chose to associate with. the arrival of summer, and a curiosity to know something more of scotland than he could see in a ride from his quarters, determined him to request leave of absence for a few weeks. he resolved first to visit his uncle's ancient friend and correspondent, with the purpose of extending or shortening the time of his residence according to circumstances. he travelled of course on horse-back, and with a single attendant, and passed his first night at a miserable inn, where the landlady had neither shoes nor stockings, and the landlord, who called himself a gentleman, was disposed to be rude to his guest, because he had not bespoke the pleasure of his society to supper. [footnote: see note .] the next day, traversing an open and uninclosed country, edward gradually approached the highlands of perthshire, which at first had appeared a blue outline in the horizon, but now swelled into huge gigantic masses, which frowned defiance over the more level country that lay beneath them. near the bottom of this stupendous barrier, but still in the lowland country, dwelt cosmo comyne bradwardine of bradwardine; and, if grey-haired eld can be in aught believed, there had dwelt his ancestors, with all their heritage, since the days of the gracious king duncan. chapter viii a scottish manor-house sixty years since it was about noon when captain waverley entered the straggling village, or rather hamlet, of tully-veolan, close to which was situated the mansion of the proprietor. the houses seemed miserable in the extreme, especially to an eye accustomed to the smiling neatness of english cottages. they stood, without any respect for regularity, on each side of a straggling kind of unpaved street, where children, almost in a primitive state of nakedness, lay sprawling, as if to be crushed by the hoofs of the first passing horse. occasionally, indeed, when such a consummation seemed inevitable, a watchful old grandam, with her close cap, distaff, and spindle, rushed like a sibyl in frenzy out of one of these miserable cells, dashed into the middle of the path, and snatching up her own charge from among the sunburnt loiterers, saluted him with a sound cuff, and transported him back to his dungeon, the little white-headed varlet screaming all the while, from the very top of his lungs, a shrilly treble to the growling remonstrances of the enraged matron. another part in this concert was sustained by the incessant yelping of a score of idle useless curs, which followed, snarling, barking, howling, and snapping at the horses' heels; a nuisance at that time so common in scotland, that a french tourist, who, like other travellers, longed to find a good and rational reason for everything he saw, has recorded, as one of the memorabilia of caledonia, that the state maintained, in each village a relay of curs, called collies, whose duty it was to chase the chevaux de poste (too starved and exhausted to move without such a stimulus) from one hamlet to another, till their annoying convoy drove them to the end of their stage. the evil and remedy (such as it is) still exist.--but this is remote from our present purpose, and is only thrown out for consideration of the collectors under mr. dent's dog bill. as waverley moved on, here and there an old man, bent as much by toil as years, his eyes bleared with age and smoke, tottered to the door of his hut, to gaze on the dress of the stranger and the form and motions of the horses, and then assembled, with his neighbours, in a little group at the smithy, to discuss the probabilities of whence the stranger came and where he might be going. three or four village girls, returning from the well or brook with pitchers and pails upon their heads, formed more pleasing objects, and, with their thin short-gowns and single petticoats, bare arms, legs, and feet, uncovered heads and braided hair, somewhat resembled italian forms of landscape. nor could a lover of the picturesque have challenged either the elegance of their costume or the symmetry of their shape; although, to say the truth, a mere englishman in search of the comfortable, a word peculiar to his native tongue, might have wished the clothes less scanty, the feet and legs somewhat protected from the weather, the head and complexion shrouded from the sun, or perhaps might even have thought the whole person and dress considerably improved by a plentiful application of spring water, with a quantum sufficit of soap. the whole scene was depressing; for it argued, at the first glance, at least a stagnation of industry, and perhaps of intellect. even curiosity, the busiest passion of the idle, seemed of a listless cast in the village of tully-veolan: the curs aforesaid alone showed any part of its activity; with the villagers it was passive. they stood, and gazed at the handsome young officer and his attendant, but without any of those quick motions and eager looks that indicate the earnestness with which those who live in monotonous ease at home look out for amusement abroad. yet the physiognomy of the people, when more closely examined, was far from exhibiting the indifference of stupidity; their features were rough, but remarkably intelligent; grave, but the very reverse of stupid; and from among the young women an artist might have chosen more than one model whose features and form resembled those of minerva. the children also, whose skins were burnt black, and whose hair was bleached white, by the influence of the sun, had a look and manner of life and interest. it seemed, upon the whole, as if poverty, and indolence, its too frequent companion, were combining to depress the natural genius and acquired information of a hardy, intelligent, and reflecting peasantry. some such thoughts crossed waverley's mind as he paced his horse slowly through the rugged and flinty street of tully-veolan, interrupted only in his meditations by the occasional caprioles which his charger exhibited at the reiterated assaults of those canine cossacks, the collies before mentioned. the village was more than half a mile long, the cottages being irregularly divided from each other by gardens, or yards, as the inhabitants called them, of different sizes, where (for it is sixty years since) the now universal potato was unknown, but which were stored with gigantic plants of kale or colewort, encircled with groves of nettles, and exhibited here and there a huge hemlock, or the national thistle, overshadowing a quarter of the petty inclosure. the broken ground on which the village was built had never been levelled; so that these inclosures presented declivities of every degree, here rising like terraces, there sinking like tan-pits. the dry-stone walls which fenced, or seemed to fence (for they were sorely breached), these hanging gardens of tully-veolan were intersected by a narrow lane leading to the common field, where the joint labour of the villagers cultivated alternate ridges and patches of rye, oats, barley, and pease, each of such minute extent that at a little distance the unprofitable variety of the surface resembled a tailor's book of patterns. in a few favoured instances, there appeared behind the cottages a miserable wigwam, compiled of earth, loose stones, and turf, where the wealthy might perhaps shelter a starved cow or sorely galled horse. but almost every hut was fenced in front by a huge black stack of turf on one side of the door, while on the other the family dunghill ascended in noble emulation. about a bowshot from the end of the village appeared the inclosures proudly denominated the parks of tully-veolan, being certain square fields, surrounded and divided by stone walls five feet in height. in the centre of the exterior barrier was the upper gate of the avenue, opening under an archway, battlemented on the top, and adorned with two large weather-beaten mutilated masses of upright stone, which, if the tradition of the hamlet could be trusted, had once represented, at least had been once designed to represent, two rampant bears, the supporters of the family of bradwardine. this avenue was straight and of moderate length, running between a double row of very ancient horse- chestnuts, planted alternately with sycamores, which rose to such huge height, and nourished so luxuriantly, that their boughs completely over-arched the broad road beneath. beyond these venerable ranks, and running parallel to them, were two high walls, of apparently the like antiquity, overgrown with ivy, honeysuckle, and other climbing plants. the avenue seemed very little trodden, and chiefly by foot-passengers; so that being very broad, and enjoying a constant shade, it was clothed with grass of a deep and rich verdure, excepting where a foot-path, worn by occasional passengers, tracked with a natural sweep the way from the upper to the lower gate. this nether portal, like the former, opened in front of a wall ornamented with some rude sculpture, with battlements on the top, over which were seen, half-hidden by the trees of the avenue, the high steep roofs and narrow gables of the mansion, with lines indented into steps, and corners decorated with small turrets. one of the folding leaves of the lower gate was open, and as the sun shone full into the court behind, a long line of brilliancy was flung upon the aperture up the dark and gloomy avenue. it was one of those effects which a painter loves to represent, and mingled well with the struggling light which found its way between the boughs of the shady arch that vaulted the broad green alley. the solitude and repose of the whole scene seemed almost monastic; and waverley, who had given his horse to his servant on entering the first gate, walked slowly down the avenue, enjoying the grateful and cooling shade, and so much pleased with the placid ideas of rest and seclusion excited by this confined and quiet scene, that he forgot the misery and dirt of the hamlet he had left behind him. the opening into the paved court-yard corresponded with the rest of the scene. the house, which seemed to consist of two or three high, narrow, and steep-roofed buildings, projecting from each other at right angles, formed one side of the inclosure. it had been built at a period when castles were no longer necessary, and when the scottish architects had not yet acquired the art of designing a domestic residence. the windows were numberless, but very small; the roof had some nondescript kind of projections, called bartizans, and displayed at each frequent angle a small turret, rather resembling a pepper- box than a gothic watchtower. neither did the front indicate absolute security from danger. there were loop-holes for musketry, and iron stanchions on the lower windows, probably to repel any roving band of gypsies, or resist a predatory visit from the caterans of the neighbouring highlands. stables and other offices occupied another side of the square. the former were low vaults, with narrow slits instead of windows, resembling, as edward's groom observed, 'rather a prison for murderers, and larceners, and such like as are tried at 'sizes, than a place for any christian cattle.' above these dungeon-looking stables were granaries, called girnels, and other offices, to which there was access by outside stairs of heavy masonry. two battlemented walls, one of which faced the avenue, and the other divided the court from the garden, completed the inclosure. nor was the court without its ornaments. in one corner was a tun- bellied pigeon-house, of great size and rotundity, resembling in figure and proportion the curious edifice called arthur's oven, which would have turned the brains of all the antiquaries in england, had not the worthy proprietor pulled it down for the sake of mending a neighbouring dam-dyke. this dove-cot, or columbarium, as the owner called it, was no small resource to a scottish laird of that period, whose scanty rents were eked out by the contributions levied upon the farms by these light foragers, and the conscriptions exacted from the latter for the benefit of the table. another corner of the court displayed a fountain, where a huge bear, carved in stone, predominated over a large stone-basin, into which he disgorged the water. this work of art was the wonder of the country ten miles round. it must not be forgotten, that all sorts of bears, small and large, demi or in full proportion, were carved over the windows, upon the ends of the gables, terminated the spouts, and supported the turrets, with the ancient family motto, 'beware the bear', cut under each hyperborean form. the court was spacious, well paved, and perfectly clean, there being probably another entrance behind the stables for removing the litter. everything around appeared solitary, and would have been silent, but for the continued plashing of the fountain; and the whole scene still maintained the monastic illusion which the fancy of waverley had conjured up. and here we beg permission to close a chapter of still life. [footnote: see note .] chapter ix more of the manor-house and its environs after having satisfied his curiosity by gazing around him for a few minutes, waverley applied himself to the massive knocker of the hall-door, the architrave of which bore the date . but no answer was returned, though the peal resounded through a number of apartments, and was echoed from the court-yard walls without the house, startling the pigeons from the venerable rotunda which they occupied, and alarming anew even the distant village curs, which had retired to sleep upon their respective dunghills. tired of the din which he created, and the unprofitable responses which it excited, waverley began to think that he had reached the castle of orgoglio as entered by the victorious prince arthur,-- when 'gan he loudly through the house to call, but no man cared to answer to his cry; there reign'd a solemn silence over all, nor voice was heard, nor wight was seen in bower or hall. filled almost with expectation of beholding some 'old, old man, with beard as white as snow,' whom he might question concerning this deserted mansion, our hero turned to a little oaken wicket- door, well clenched with iron-nails, which opened in the court- yard wall at its angle with the house. it was only latched, notwithstanding its fortified appearance, and, when opened, admitted him into the garden, which presented a pleasant scene. [footnote: footnote: at ravelston may be seen such a garden, which the taste of the proprietor, the author's friend and kinsman, sir alexander keith, knight mareschal, has judiciously preserved. that, as well as the house is, however, of smaller dimensions than the baron of bradwardine's mansion and garden are presumed to have been.] the southern side of the house, clothed with fruit-trees, and having many evergreens trained upon its walls, extended its irregular yet venerable front along a terrace, partly paved, partly gravelled, partly bordered with flowers and choice shrubs. this elevation descended by three several flights of steps, placed in its centre and at the extremities, into what might be called the garden proper, and was fenced along the top by a stone parapet with a heavy balustrade, ornamented from space to space with huge grotesque figures of animals seated upon their haunches, among which the favourite bear was repeatedly introduced. placed in the middle of the terrace between a sashed- door opening from the house and the central flight of steps, a huge animal of the same species supported on his head and fore- paws a sun-dial of large circumference, inscribed with more diagrams than edward's mathematics enabled him to decipher. the garden, which seemed to be kept with great accuracy, abounded in fruit-trees, and exhibited a profusion of flowers and evergreens, cut into grotesque forms. it was laid out in terraces, which descended rank by rank from the western wall to a large brook, which had a tranquil and smooth appearance, where it served as a boundary to the garden; but, near the extremity, leapt in tumult over a strong dam, or wear-head, the cause of its temporary tranquillity, and there forming a cascade, was overlooked by an octangular summer-house, with a gilded bear on the top by way of vane. after this feat, the brook, assuming its natural rapid and fierce character, escaped from the eye down a deep and wooded dell, from the copse of which arose a massive, but ruinous tower, the former habitation of the barons of bradwardine. the margin of the brook, opposite to the garden, displayed a narrow meadow, or haugh, as it was called, which formed a small washing-green; the bank, which retired behind it, was covered by ancient trees. the scene, though pleasing, was not quite equal to the gardens of alcina; yet wanted not the 'due donzellette garrule' of that enchanted paradise, for upon the green aforesaid two bare-legged damsels, each standing in a spacious tub, performed with their feet the office of a patent washing-machine. these did not, however, like the maidens of armida, remain to greet with their harmony the approaching guest, but, alarmed at the appearance of a handsome stranger on the opposite side, dropped their garments (i should say garment, to be quite correct) over their limbs, which their occupation exposed somewhat too freely, and, with a shrill exclamation of 'eh, sirs!' uttered with an accent between modesty and coquetry, sprung off like deer in different directions. waverley began to despair of gaining entrance into this solitary and seemingly enchanted mansion, when a man advanced up one of the garden alleys, where he still retained his station. trusting this might be a gardener, or some domestic belonging to the house, edward descended the steps in order to meet him; but as the figure approached, and long before he could descry its features, he was struck with the oddity of its appearance and gestures. sometimes this mister wight held his hands clasped over his head, like an indian jogue in the attitude of penance; sometimes he swung them perpendicularly, like a pendulum, on each side; and anon he slapped them swiftly and repeatedly across his breast, like the substitute used by a hackney-coachman for his usual flogging exercise, when his cattle are idle upon the stand, in a clear frosty day. his gait was as singular as his gestures, for at times he hopped with great perseverance on the right foot, then exchanged that supporter to advance in the same manner on the left, and then putting his feet close together he hopped upon both at once. his attire also was antiquated and extravagant. it consisted in a sort of grey jerkin, with scarlet cuffs and slashed sleeves, showing a scarlet lining; the other parts of the dress corresponded in colour, not forgetting a pair of scarlet stockings, and a scarlet bonnet, proudly surmounted with a turkey's feather. edward, whom he did not seem to observe, now perceived confirmation in his features of what the mien and gestures had already announced. it was apparently neither idiocy nor insanity which gave that wild, unsettled, irregular expression to a face which naturally was rather handsome, but something that resembled a compound of both, where the simplicity of the fool was mixed with the extravagance of a crazed imagination. he sung with great earnestness, and not without some taste, a fragment of an old scottish ditty:-- false love, and hast thou play'd me this in summer among the flowers? i will repay thee back again in winter among the showers. unless again, again, my love, unless you turn again; as you with other maidens rove, i'll smile on other men. [footnote: this is a genuine ancient fragment, with some alteration in the two last lines.] here lifting up his eyes, which had hitherto been fixed in observing how his feet kept time to the tune, he beheld waverley, and instantly doffed his cap, with many grotesque signals of surprise, respect, and salutation. edward, though with little hope of receiving an answer to any constant question, requested to know whether mr. bradwardine were at home, or where he could find any of the domestics. the questioned party replied, and, like the witch of thalaba, 'still his speech was song,'-- the knight's to the mountain his bugle to wind; the lady's to greenwood her garland to bind. the bower of burd ellen has moss on the floor, that the step of lord william be silent and sure. this conveyed no information, and edward, repeating his queries, received a rapid answer, in which, from the haste and peculiarity of the dialect, the word 'butler' was alone intelligible. waverley then requested to see the butler; upon which the fellow, with a knowing look and nod of intelligence, made a signal to edward to follow, and began to dance and caper down the alley up which he had made his approaches. a strange guide this, thought edward, and not much unlike one of shakespeare's roynish clowns. i am not over prudent to trust to his pilotage; but wiser men have been led by fools. by this time he reached the bottom of the alley, where, turning short on a little parterre of flowers, shrouded from the east and north by a close yew hedge, he found an old man at work without his coat, whose appearance hovered between that of an upper servant and gardener; his red nose and ruffled shirt belonging to the former profession; his hale and sunburnt visage, with his green apron, appearing to indicate old adam's likeness, set to dress this garden. the major domo, for such he was, and indisputably the second officer of state in the barony (nay, as chief minister of the interior, superior even to bailie macwheeble in his own department of the kitchen and cellar)--the major domo laid down his spade, slipped on his coat in haste, and with a wrathful look at edward's guide, probably excited by his having introduced a stranger while he was engaged in this laborious, and, as he might suppose it, degrading office, requested to know the gentleman's commands. being informed that he wished to pay his respects to his master, that his name was waverley, and so forth, the old man's countenance assumed a great deal of respectful importance. 'he could take it upon his conscience to say, his honour would have exceeding pleasure in seeing him. would not mr. waverley choose some refreshment after his journey? his honour was with the folk who were getting doon the dark hag; the twa gardener lads (an emphasis on the word twa) had been ordered to attend him; and he had been just amusing himself in the mean time with dressing miss rose's flower-bed, that he might be near to receive his honour's orders, if need were; he was very fond of a garden, but had little time for such divertisements.' 'he canna get it wrought in abune twa days in the week at no rate whatever,' said edward's fantastic conductor. a grim look from the butler chastised his interference, and he commanded him, by the name of davie gellatley, in a tone which admitted no discussion, to look for his honour at the dark hag, and tell him there was a gentleman from the south had arrived at the ha'. 'can this poor fellow deliver a letter?' asked edward. 'with all fidelity, sir, to any one whom he respects. i would hardly trust him with a long message by word of mouth--though he is more knave than fool.' waverley delivered his credentials to mr. gellatley, who seemed to confirm the butler's last observation, by twisting his features at him, when he was looking another way, into the resemblance of the grotesque face on the bole of a german tobacco pipe; after which, with an odd conge to waverley, he danced off to discharge his errand. 'he is an innocent, sir,' said the butler; 'there is one such in almost every town in the country, but ours is brought far ben. [footnote: see note .] he used to work a day's turn weel enough; but he helped miss rose when she was flemit with the laird of killancureit's new english bull, and since that time we ca' him davie do-little; indeed we might ca' him davie do-naething, for since he got that gay clothing, to please his honour and my young mistress (great folks will have their fancies), he has done naething but dance up and down about the toun, without doing a single turn, unless trimming the laird's fishing-wand or busking his flies, or may be catching a dish of trouts at an orra time. but here comes miss rose, who, i take burden upon me for her, will be especial glad to see one of the house of waverley at her father's mansion of tully-veolan.' but rose bradwardine deserves better of her unworthy historian than to be introduced at the end of a chapter. in the mean while it may be noticed, that waverley learned two things from this colloquy: that in scotland a single house was called a town, and a natural fool an innocent. chapter x rose bradwardine and her father miss bradwardine was but seventeen; yet, at the last races of the county town of----, upon her health being proposed among a round of beauties, the laird of bumperquaigh, permanent toast-master and croupier of the bautherwhillery club, not only said more to the pledge in a pint bumper of bourdeaux, but, ere pouring forth the libation, denominated the divinity to whom it was dedicated, 'the rose of tully-veolan'; upon which festive occasion three cheers were given by all the sitting members of that respectable society, whose throats the wine had left capable of such exertion. nay, i am well assured, that the sleeping partners of the company snorted applause, and that although strong bumpers and weak brains had consigned two or three to the floor, yet even these, fallen as they were from their high estate, and weltering--i will carry the parody no farther--uttered divers inarticulate sounds, intimating their assent to the motion. such unanimous applause could not be extorted but by acknowledged merit; and rose bradwardine not only deserved it, but also the approbation of much more rational persons than the bautherwhillery club could have mustered, even before discussion of the first magnum. she was indeed a very pretty girl of the scotch cast of beauty, that is, with a profusion of hair of paley gold, and a skin like the snow of her own mountains in whiteness. yet she had not a pallid or pensive cast of countenance; her features, as well as her temper, had a lively expression; her complexion, though not florid, was so pure as to seem transparent, and the slightest emotion sent her whole blood at once to her face and neck. her form, though under the common size, was remarkably elegant, and her motions light, easy, and unembarrassed. she came from another part of the garden to receive captain waverley, with a manner that hovered between bashfulness and courtesy. the first greetings past, edward learned from her that the dark hag, which had somewhat puzzled him in the butler's account of his master's avocations, had nothing to do either with a black cat or a broomstick, but was simply a portion of oak copse which was to be felled that day. she offered, with diffident civility, to show the stranger the way to the spot, which, it seems, was not far distant; but they were prevented by the appearance of the baron of bradwardine in person, who, summoned by david gellatley, now appeared, 'on hospitable thoughts intent,' clearing the ground at a prodigious rate with swift and long strides, which reminded waverley of the seven-league boots of the nursery fable. he was a tall, thin, athletic figure, old indeed and grey-haired, but with every muscle rendered as tough as whip-cord by constant exercise. he was dressed carelessly, and more like a frenchman than an englishman of the period, while, from his hard features and perpendicular rigidity of stature, he bore some resemblance to a swiss officer of the guards, who had resided some time at paris, and caught the costume, but not the ease or manner, of its inhabitants. the truth was, that his language and habits were as heterogeneous as his external appearance. owing to his natural disposition to study, or perhaps to a very general scottish fashion of giving young men of rank a legal education, he had been bred with a view to the bar. but the politics of his family precluding the hope of his rising in that profession, mr. bradwardine travelled with high reputation for several years, and made some campaigns in foreign service. after his demele with the law of high treason in , he had lived in retirement, conversing almost entirely with those of his own principles in the vicinage. the pedantry of the lawyer, superinduced upon the military pride of the soldier, might remind a modern of the days of the zealous volunteer service, when the bar-gown of our pleaders was often flung over a blazing uniform. to this must be added the prejudices of ancient birth and jacobite politics, greatly strengthened by habits of solitary and secluded authority, which, though exercised only within the bounds of his half-cultivated estate, was there indisputable and undisputed. for, as he used to observe, 'the lands of bradwardine, tully- veolan, and others, had been erected into a free barony by a charter from david the first, cum liberali potest. habendi curias et justicias, cum fossa et furca (lie, pit and gallows) et saka et soka, et thol et theam, et infang-thief et outfang-thief, sive hand-habend. sive bak-barand.' the peculiar meaning of all these cabalistical words few or none could explain; but they implied, upon the whole, that the baron of bradwardine might, in case of delinquency, imprison, try, and execute his vassals at his pleasure. like james the first, however, the present possessor of this authority was more pleased in talking about prerogative than in exercising it; and excepting that he imprisoned two poachers in the dungeon of the old tower of tully-veolan, where they were sorely frightened by ghosts, and almost eaten by rats, and that he set an old woman in the jougs (or scottish pillory) for saying' there were mair fules in the laird's ha' house than davie gellatley,' i do not learn that he was accused of abusing his high powers. still, however, the conscious pride of possessing them gave additional importance to his language and deportment. at his first address to waverley, it would seem that the hearty pleasure he felt to behold the nephew of his friend had somewhat discomposed the stiff and upright dignity of the baron of bradwardine's demeanour, for the tears stood in the old gentleman's eyes, when, having first shaken edward heartily by the hand in the english fashion, he embraced him a la mode francoise, and kissed him on both sides of his face; while the hardness of his gripe, and the quantity of scotch snuff which his accolade communicated, called corresponding drops of moisture to the eyes of his guest. 'upon the honour of a gentleman,' he said, 'but it makes me young again to see you here, mr. waverley! a worthy scion of the old stock of waverley-honour--spes altera, as maro hath it--and you have the look of the old line, captain waverley; not so portly yet as my old friend sir everard--mais cela viendra avec le tems, as my dutch acquaintance, baron kikkitbroeck, said of the sagesse of madame son epouse. and so ye have mounted the cockade? right, right; though i could have wished the colour different, and so i would ha' deemed might sir everard. but no more of that; i am old, and times are changed. and how does the worthy knight baronet, and the fair mrs. rachel?--ah, ye laugh, young man! in troth she was the fair mrs. rachel in the year of grace seventeen hundred and sixteen; but time passes--et singula praedantur anni--that is most certain. but once again ye are most heartily welcome to my poor house of tully-veolan! hie to the house, rose, and see that alexander saunderson looks out the old chateau margaux, which i sent from bourdeaux to dundee in the year .' rose tripped off demurely enough till she turned the first corner, and then ran with the speed of a fairy, that she might gain leisure, after discharging her father's commission, to put her own dress in order, and produce all her little finery, an occupation for which the approaching dinner-hour left but limited time. 'we cannot rival the luxuries of your english table, captain waverley, or give you the epulae lautiores of waverley-honour. i say epulae rather than prandium, because the latter phrase is popular: epulae ad senatum, prandium vero ad populum attinet, says suetonius tranquillus. but i trust ye will applaud my bourdeaux; c'est des deux oreilles, as captain vinsauf used to say; vinum primae notae, the principal of saint andrews denominated it. and, once more, captain waverley, right glad am i that ye are here to drink the best my cellar can make forthcoming.' this speech, with the necessary interjectional answers, continued from the lower alley where they met up to the door of the house, where four or five servants in old-fashioned liveries, headed by alexander saunderson, the butler, who now bore no token of the sable stains of the garden, received them in grand costume, in an old hall hung round with pikes and with bows, with old bucklers and corslets that had borne many shrewd blows. with much ceremony, and still more real kindness, the baron, without stopping in any intermediate apartment, conducted his guest through several into the great dining parlour, wainscotted with black oak, and hung round with the pictures of his ancestry, where a table was set forth in form for six persons, and an old- fashioned beaufet displayed all the ancient and massive plate of the bradwardine family. a bell was now heard at the head of the avenue; for an old man, who acted as porter upon gala days, had caught the alarm given by waverley's arrival, and, repairing to his post, announced the arrival of other guests. these, as the baron assured his young friend, were very estimable persons. 'there was the young laird of balmawhapple, a falconer by surname, of the house of glenfarquhar, given right much to field- sports--gaudet equis et canibus--but a very discreet young gentleman. then there was the laird of killancureit, who had devoted his leisure untill tillage and agriculture, and boasted himself to be possessed of a bull of matchless merit, brought from the county of devon (the damnonia of the romans, if we can trust robert of cirencester). he is, as ye may well suppose from such a tendency, but of yeoman extraction--servabit odorem testa diu--and i believe, between ourselves, his grandsire was from the wrong side of the border--one bullsegg, who came hither as a steward, or bailiff, or ground-officer, or something in that department, to the last girnigo of killancureit, who died of an atrophy. after his master's death, sir,--ye would hardly believe such a scandal, --but this bullsegg, being portly and comely of aspect, intermarried with the lady dowager, who was young and amorous, and possessed himself of the estate, which devolved on this unhappy woman by a settlement of her umwhile husband, in direct contravention of an unrecorded taillie, and to the prejudice of the disponer's own flesh and blood, in the person of his natural heir and seventh cousin, girnigo of tipperhewit, whose family was so reduced by the ensuing law-suit, that his representative is now serving as a private gentleman-sentinel in the highland black watch. but this gentleman, mr. bullsegg of killancureit that now is, has good blood in his veins by the mother and grandmother, who were both of the family of pickletillim, and he is well liked and looked upon, and knows his own place. and god forbid, captain waverley, that we of irreproachable lineage should exult over him, when it may be, that in the eighth, ninth, or tenth generation, his progeny may rank, in a manner, with the old gentry of the country. rank and ancestry, sir, should be the last words in the mouths of us of unblemished race--vix ea nostra voco, as naso saith. there is, besides, a clergyman of the true (though suffering) episcopal church of scotland. [footnote: see note .] he was a confessor in her cause after the year , when a whiggish mob destroyed his meeting-house, tore his surplice, and plundered his dwelling-house of four silver spoons, intromitting also with his mart and his mealark, and with two barrels, one of single and one of double ale, besides three bottles of brandy. my baron-bailie and doer, mr. duncan macwheeble, is the fourth on our list. there is a question, owing to the incertitude of ancient orthography, whether he belongs to the clan of wheedle or of quibble, but both have produced persons eminent in the law.'-- as such he described them by person and name, they enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. chapter xi the banquet the entertainment was ample and handsome, according to the scotch ideas of the period, and the guests did great honour to it. the baron eat like a famished soldier, the laird of balmawhapple like a sportsman, bullsegg of killancureit like a farmer, waverley himself like a traveller, and bailie macwheeble like all four together; though, either out of more respect, or in order to preserve that proper declination of person which showed a sense that he was in the presence of his patron, he sat upon the edge of his chair, placed at three feet distance from the table, and achieved a communication with his plate by projecting his person towards it in a line which obliqued from the bottom of his spine, so that the person who sat opposite to him could only see the foretop of his riding periwig. this stooping position might have been inconvenient to another person; but long habit made it, whether seated or walking, perfectly easy to the worthy bailie. in the latter posture it occasioned, no doubt, an unseemly projection of the person towards those who happened to walk behind; but those being at all times his inferiors (for mr. macwheeble was very scrupulous in giving place to all others), he cared very little what inference of contempt or slight regard they might derive from the circumstance. hence, when he waddled across the court to and from his old grey pony, he somewhat resembled a turnspit walking upon its hind legs. the nonjuring clergyman was a pensive and interesting old man, with much of the air of a sufferer for conscience' sake. he was one of those who, undeprived, their benefice forsook. for this whim, when the baron was out of hearing, the bailie used sometimes gently to rally mr. rubrick, upbraiding him with the nicety of his scruples. indeed, it must be owned, that he himself, though at heart a keen partisan of the exiled family, had kept pretty fair with all the different turns of state in his time; so that davie gellatley once described him as a particularly good man, who had a very quiet and peaceful conscience, that never did him any harm. when the dinner was removed, the baron announced the health of the king, politely leaving to the consciences of his guests to drink to the sovereign de facto or de jure, as their politics inclined. the conversation now became general; and, shortly afterwards, miss bradwardine, who had done the honours with natural grace and simplicity, retired, and was soon followed by the clergyman. among the rest of the party, the wine, which fully justified the encomiums of the landlord, flowed freely round, although waverley, with some difficulty, obtained the privilege of sometimes neglecting the glass. at length, as the evening grew more late, the baron made a private signal to mr. saunders saunderson, or, as he facetiously denominated him, alexander ab alexandro, who left the room with a nod, and soon after returned, his grave countenance mantling with a solemn and mysterious smile, and placed before his master a small oaken casket, mounted with brass ornaments of curious form. the baron, drawing out a private key, unlocked the casket, raised the lid, and produced a golden goblet of a singular and antique appearance, moulded into the shape of a rampant bear, which the owner regarded with a look of mingled reverence, pride, and delight, that irresistibly reminded waverley of ben jonson's tom otter, with his bull, horse, and dog, as that wag wittily denominated his chief carousing cups. but mr. bradwardine, turning towards him with complacency, requested him to observe this curious relic of the olden time. 'it represents,' he said, 'the chosen crest of our family, a bear, as ye observe, and rampant; because a good herald will depict every animal in its noblest posture, as a horse salient, a greyhound currant, and, as may be inferred, a ravenous animal in actu ferociori, or in a voracious, lacerating, and devouring posture. now, sir, we hold this most honourable achievement by the wappen-brief, or concession of arms, of frederick red-beard, emperor of germany, to my predecessor, godmund bradwardine, it being the crest of a gigantic dane, whom he slew in the lists in the holy land, on a quarrel touching the chastity of the emperor's spouse or daughter, tradition saith not precisely which, and thus, as virgilius hath it-- mutemus clypeos, danaumque insignia nobis aptemus. then for the cup, captain waverley, it was wrought by the command of saint duthac, abbot of aberbrothock, for behoof of another baron of the house of bradwardine, who had valiantly defended the patrimony of that monastery against certain encroaching nobles. it is properly termed the blessed bear of bradwardine (though old doctor doubleit used jocosely to call it ursa major), and was supposed, in old and catholic times, to be invested with certain properties of a mystical and supernatural quality. and though i give not in to such anilia, it is certain it has always been esteemed a solemn standard cup and heirloom of our house; nor is it ever used but upon seasons of high festival, and such i hold to be the arrival of the heir of sir everard under my roof; and i devote this draught to the health and prosperity of the ancient and highly-to-be-honoured house of waverley.' during this long harangue, he carefully decanted a cob-webbed bottle of claret into the goblet, which held nearly an english pint; and, at the conclusion, delivering the bottle to the butler, to be held carefully in the same angle with the horizon, he devoutly quaffed off the contents of the blessed bear of bradwardine. edward, with horror and alarm, beheld the animal making his rounds, and thought with great anxiety upon the appropriate motto, 'beware the bear'; but, at the same time, plainly foresaw that, as none of the guests scrupled to do him this extraordinary honour, a refusal on his part to pledge their courtesy would be extremely ill received. resolving, therefore, to submit to this last piece of tyranny, and then to quit the table, if possible, and confiding in the strength of his constitution, he did justice to the company in the contents of the blessed bear, and felt less inconvenience from the draught than he could possibly have expected. the others, whose time had been more actively employed, began to show symptoms of innovation--'the good wine did its good office.' [footnote: southey's madoc.] the frost of etiquette and pride of birth began to give way before the genial blessings of this benign constellation, and the formal appellatives with which the three dignitaries had hitherto addressed each other were now familiarly abbreviated into tully, bally, and killie. when a few rounds had passed, the two latter, after whispering together, craved permission (a joyful hearing for edward) to ask the grace-cup. this, after some delay, was at length produced, and waverley concluded the orgies of bacchus were terminated for the evening. he was never more mistaken in his life. as the guests had left their horses at the small inn, or change- house, as it was called, of the village, the baron could not, in politeness, avoid walking with them up the avenue, and waverley from the same motive, and to enjoy after this feverish revel the cool summer evening, attended the party. but when they arrived at luckie macleary's the lairds of balmawhapple and killancureit declared their determination to acknowledge their sense of the hospitality of tully-veolan by partaking, with their entertainer and his guest captain waverley, what they technically called deoch an doruis, a stirrup-cup, [footnote : see note ] to the honour of the baron's roof-tree. it must be noticed that the bailie, knowing by experience that the day's jovialty, which had been hitherto sustained at the expense of his patron, might terminate partly at his own, had mounted his spavined grey pony, and, between gaiety of heart and alarm for being hooked into a reckoning, spurred him into a hobbling canter (a trot was out of the question), and had already cleared the village. the others entered the change-house, leading edward in unresisting submission; for his landlord whispered him, that to demur to such an overture would be construed into a high misdemeanour against the leges conviviales, or regulations of genial compotation. widow macleary seemed to have expected this visit, as well she might, for it was the usual consummation of merry bouts, not only at tully-veolan, but at most other gentlemen's houses in scotland, sixty years since. the guests thereby at once acquitted themselves of their burden of gratitude for their entertainer's kindness, encouraged the trade of his change-house, did honour to the place which afforded harbour to their horses, and indemnified themselves for the previous restraints imposed by private hospitality, by spending what falstaff calls the sweet of the night in the genial license of a tavern. accordingly, in full expectation of these distinguished guests, luckie macleary had swept her house for the first time this fortnight, tempered her turf-fire to such a heat as the season required in her damp hovel even at midsummer, set forth her deal table newly washed, propped its lame foot with a fragment of turf, arranged four or five stools of huge and clumsy form upon the sites which best suited the inequalities of her clay floor; and having, moreover, put on her clean toy, rokelay, and scarlet plaid, gravely awaited the arrival of the company, in full hope of custom and profit. when they were seated under the sooty rafters of luckie macleary's only apartment, thickly tapestried with cobwebs, their hostess, who had already taken her cue from the laird of balmawhapple, appeared with a huge pewter measuring-pot, containing at least three english quarts, familiarly denominated a tappit hen, and which, in the language of the hostess, reamed (i.e., mantled) with excellent claret just drawn from the cask. it was soon plain that what crumbs of reason the bear had not devoured were to be picked up by the hen; but the confusion which appeared to prevail favoured edward's resolution to evade the gaily circling glass. the others began to talk thick and at once, each performing his own part in the conversation without the least respect to his neighbour. the baron of bradwardine sung french chansons-a-boire, and spouted pieces of latin; killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key, of top-dressing and bottom-dressing, [footnote: this has been censured as an anachronism; and it must be confessed that agriculture of this kind was unknown to the scotch sixty years since.] and year-olds, and gimmers, and dinmonts, and stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a proposed turnpike-act; while balmawhapple, in notes exalted above both, extolled his horse, his hawks, and a greyhound called whistler. in the middle of this din, the baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened to beseech their attention 'unto a military ariette, which was a particular favourite of the marechal duc de berwick'; then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of a french musquetaire, he immediately commenced,-- mon coeur volage, dit elle, n'est pas pour vous, garcon; est pour un homme de guerre, qui a barbe au menton. lon, lon, laridon. qui port chapeau a plume, soulier a rouge talon, qui joue de la flute, aussi du violon. lon, lon, laridon. balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he called a d--d good song, composed by gibby gaethroughwi't, the piper of cupar; and, without wasting more time, struck up,-- it's up glenbarchan's braes i gaed, and o'er the bent of killiebraid, and mony a weary cast i made, to cuittle the moor-fowl's tail. [footnote: suum cuique. this snatch of a ballad was composed by andrew macdonald, the ingenious and unfortunate author of vimonda.] the baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more obstreperous strains of balmawhapple, now dropped the competition, but continued to hum 'lon, lon, laridon,' and to regard the successful candidate for the attention of the company with an eye of disdain, while balmawhapple proceeded,-- if up a bonny black-cock should spring, to whistle him down wi' a slug in his wing, and strap him on to my lunzie string, right seldom would i fail. after an ineffectual attempt to recover the second verse, he sung the first over again; and, in prosecution of his triumph, declared there was 'more sense in that than in all the derry-dongs of france, and fifeshire to the boot of it.' the baron only answered with a long pinch of snuff and a glance of infinite contempt. but those noble allies, the bear and the hen, had emancipated the young laird from the habitual reverence in which he held bradwardine at other times. he pronounced the claret shilpit, and demanded brandy with great vociferation. it was brought; and now the demon of politics envied even the harmony arising from this dutch concert, merely because there was not a wrathful note in the strange compound of sounds which it produced. inspired by her, the laird of balmawhapple, now superior to the nods and winks with which the baron of bradwardine, in delicacy to edward, had hitherto checked his entering upon political discussion, demanded a bumper, with the lungs of a stentor, 'to the little gentleman in black velvet who did such service in , and may the white horse break his neck over a mound of his making!' edward was not at that moment clear-headed enough to remember that king william's fall, which occasioned his death, was said to be owing to his horse stumbling at a mole-hill; yet felt inclined to take umbrage at a toast which seemed, from the glance of balmawhapple's eye, to have a peculiar and uncivil reference to the government which he served. but, ere he could interfere, the baron of bradwardine had taken up the quarrel. 'sir,' he said, 'whatever my sentiments tanquam privatus may be in such matters, i shall not tamely endure your saying anything that may impinge upon the honourable feelings of a gentleman under my roof. sir, if you have no respect for the laws of urbanity, do ye not respect the military oath, the sacramentum militare, by which every officer is bound to the standards under which he is enrolled? look at titus livius, what he says of those roman soldiers who were so unhappy as exuere sacramentum, to renounce their legionary oath; but you are ignorant, sir, alike of ancient history and modern courtesy.' 'not so ignorant as ye would pronounce me,' roared balmawhapple. 'i ken weel that you mean the solemn league and covenant; but if a' the whigs in hell had taken the--' here the baron and waverley both spoke at once, the former calling out, 'be silent, sir! ye not only show your ignorance, but disgrace your native country before a stranger and an englishman'; and waverley, at the same moment, entreating mr. bradwardine to permit him to reply to an affront which seemed levelled at him personally. but the baron was exalted by wine, wrath, and scorn above all sublunary considerations. 'i crave you to be hushed, captain waverley; you are elsewhere, peradventure, sui juris,--foris-familiated, that is, and entitled, it may be, to think and resent for yourself; but in my domain, in this poor barony of bradwardine, and under this roof, which is quasi mine, being held by tacit relocation by a tenant at will, i am in loco parentis to you, and bound to see you scathless. and for you, mr. falconer of balmawhapple, i warn ye, let me see no more aberrations from the paths of good manners.' 'and i tell you, mr. cosmo comyne bradwardine of bradwardine and tully-veolan,' retorted the sportsman in huge disdain, 'that i'll make a moor-cock of the man that refuses my toast, whether it be a crop-eared english whig wi' a black ribband at his lug, or ane wha deserts his ain friends to claw favour wi' the rats of hanover.' in an instant both rapiers were brandished, and some desperate passes exchanged. balmawhapple was young, stout, and active; but the baron, infinitely more master of his weapon, would, like sir toby belch, have tickled his opponent other gates than he did had he not been under the influence of ursa major. edward rushed forward to interfere between the combatants, but the prostrate bulk of the laird of killancureit, over which he stumbled, intercepted his passage. how killancureit happened to be in this recumbent posture at so interesting a moment was never accurately known. some thought he was about to insconce himself under the table; he himself alleged that he stumbled in the act of lifting a joint-stool, to prevent mischief, by knocking down balmawhapple. be that as it may, if readier aid than either his or waverley's had not interposed, there would certainly have been bloodshed. but the well-known clash of swords, which was no stranger to her dwelling, aroused luckie macleary as she sat quietly beyond the hallan, or earthen partition of the cottage, with eyes employed on boston's 'crook the lot,' while her ideas were engaged in summing up the reckoning. she boldly rushed in, with the shrill expostulation, 'wad their honours slay ane another there, and bring discredit on an honest widow-woman's house, when there was a' the lee-land in the country to fight upon?' a remonstrance which she seconded by flinging her plaid with great dexterity over the weapons of the combatants. the servants by this time rushed in, and being, by great chance, tolerably sober, separated the incensed opponents, with the assistance of edward and killancureit. the latter led off balmawhapple, cursing, swearing, and vowing revenge against every whig, presbyterian, and fanatic in england and scotland, from john-o'-groat's to the land's end, and with difficulty got him to horse. our hero, with the assistance of saunders saunderson, escorted the baron of bradwardine to his own dwelling, but could not prevail upon him to retire to bed until he had made a long and learned apology for the events of the evening, of which, however, there was not a word intelligible, except something about the centaurs and the lapithae. chapter xii repentance and a reconciliation waverley was unaccustomed to the use of wine, excepting with great temperance. he slept therefore soundly till late in the succeeding morning, and then awakened to a painful recollection of the scene of the preceding evening. he had received a personal affront--he, a gentleman, a soldier, and a waverley. true, the person who offered it was not, at the time it was given, possessed of the moderate share of sense which nature had allotted him; true also, in resenting this insult, he would break the laws of heaven as well as of his country; true, in doing so, he might take the life of a young man who perhaps respectably discharged the social duties, and render his family miserable, or he might lose his own --no pleasant alternative even to the bravest, when it is debated coolly and in private. all this pressed on his mind; yet the original statement recurred with the same irresistible force. he had received a personal insult; he was of the house of waverley; and he bore a commission. there was no alternative; and he descended to the breakfast parlour with the intention of taking leave of the family, and writing to one of his brother officers to meet him at the inn midway between tully-veolan and the town where they were quartered, in order that he might convey such a message to the laird of balmawhapple as the circumstances seemed to demand. he found miss bradwardine presiding over the tea and coffee, the table loaded with warm bread, both of flour, oatmeal, and barleymeal, in the shape of loaves, cakes, biscuits, and other varieties, together with eggs, reindeer ham, mutton and beef ditto, smoked salmon, marmalade, and all the other delicacies which induced even johnson himself to extol the luxury of a scotch breakfast above that of all other countries. a mess of oatmeal porridge, flanked by a silver jug, which held an equal mixture of cream and butter-milk, was placed for the baron's share of this repast; but rose observed, he had walked out early in the morning, after giving orders that his guest should not be disturbed. waverley sat down almost in silence, and with an air of absence and abstraction which could not give miss bradwardine a favourable opinion of his talents for conversation. he answered at random one or two observations which she ventured to make upon ordinary topics; so that, feeling herself almost repulsed in her efforts at entertaining him, and secretly wondering that a scarlet coat should cover no better breeding, she left him to his mental amusement of cursing doctor doubleit's favourite constellation of ursa major as the cause of all the mischief which had already happened and was likely to ensue. at once he started, and his colour heightened, as, looking toward the window, he beheld the baron and young balmawhapple pass arm in arm, apparently in deep conversation; and he hastily asked, 'did mr. falconer sleep here last night?' rose, not much pleased with the abruptness of the first question which the young stranger had addressed to her, answered drily in the negative, and the conversation again sunk into silence. at this moment mr. saunderson appeared, with a message from his master, requesting to speak with captain waverley in another apartment. with a heart which beat a little quicker, not indeed from fear, but from uncertainty and anxiety, edward obeyed the summons. he found the two gentlemen standing together, an air of complacent dignity on the brow of the baron, while something like sullenness or shame, or both, blanked the bold visage of balmawhapple. the former slipped his arm through that of the latter, and thus seeming to walk with him, while in reality he led him, advanced to meet waverley, and, stopping in the midst of the apartment, made in great state the following oration: 'captain waverley--my young and esteemed friend, mr. falconer of balmawhapple, has craved of my age and experience, as of one not wholly unskilled in the dependencies and punctilios of the duello or monomachia, to be his interlocutor in expressing to you the regret with which he calls to remembrance certain passages of our symposion last night, which could not but be highly displeasing to you, as serving for the time under this present existing government. he craves you, sir, to drown in oblivion the memory of such solecisms against the laws of politeness, as being what his better reason disavows, and to receive the hand which he offers you in amity; and i must needs assure you that nothing less than a sense of being dans son tort, as a gallant french chevalier, mons. le bretailleur, once said to me on such an occasion, and an opinion also of your peculiar merit, could have extorted such concessions; for he and all his family are, and have been, time out of mind, mavortia pectora, as buchanan saith, a bold and warlike sept, or people.' edward immediately, and with natural politeness, accepted the hand which balmawhapple, or rather the baron in his character of mediator, extended towards him. 'it was impossible,' he said, 'for him to remember what a gentleman expressed his wish he had not uttered; and he willingly imputed what had passed to the exuberant festivity of the day.' 'that is very handsomely said,' answered the baron; 'for undoubtedly, if a man be ebrius, or intoxicated, an incident which on solemn and festive occasions may and will take place in the life of a man of honour; and if the same gentleman, being fresh and sober, recants the contumelies which he hath spoken in his liquor, it must be held vinum locutum est; the words cease to be his own. yet would i not find this exculpation relevant in the case of one who was ebriosus, or an habitual drunkard; because, if such a person choose to pass the greater part of his time in the predicament of intoxication, he hath no title to be exeemed from the obligations of the code of politeness, but should learn to deport himself peaceably and courteously when under influence of the vinous stimulus. and now let us proceed to breakfast, and think no more of this daft business.' i must confess, whatever inference may be drawn from the circumstance, that edward, after so satisfactory an explanation, did much greater honour to the delicacies of miss bradwardine's breakfast-table than his commencement had promised. balmawhapple, on the contrary, seemed embarrassed and dejected; and waverley now, for the first time, observed that his arm was in a sling, which seemed to account for the awkward and embarrassed manner with which he had presented his hand. to a question from miss bradwardine, he muttered in answer something about his horse having fallen; and seeming desirous to escape both from the subject and the company, he arose as soon as breakfast was over, made his bow to the party, and, declining the baron's invitation to tarry till after dinner, mounted his horse and returned to his own home. waverley now announced his purpose of leaving tully-veolan early enough after dinner to gain the stage at which he meant to sleep; but the unaffected and deep mortification with which the good- natured and affectionate old gentleman heard the proposal quite deprived him of courage to persist in it. no sooner had he gained waverley's consent to lengthen his visit for a few days than he laboured to remove the grounds upon which he conceived he had meditated a more early retreat. 'i would not have you opine, captain waverley, that i am by practice or precept an advocate of ebriety, though it may be that, in our festivity of last night, some of our friends, if not perchance altogether ebrii, or drunken, were, to say the least, ebrioli, by which the ancients designed those who were fuddled, or, as your english vernacular and metaphorical phrase goes, half-seas-over. not that i would so insinuate respecting you, captain waverley, who, like a prudent youth, did rather abstain from potation; nor can it be truly said of myself, who, having assisted at the tables of many great generals and marechals at their solemn carousals, have the art to carry my wine discreetly, and did not, during the whole evening, as ye must have doubtless observed, exceed the bounds of a modest hilarity.' there was no refusing assent to a proposition so decidedly laid down by him, who undoubtedly was the best judge; although, had edward formed his opinion from his own recollections, he would have pronounced that the baron was not only ebriolus, but verging to become ebrius; or, in plain english, was incomparably the most drunk of the party, except perhaps his antagonist the laird of balmawhapple. however, having received the expected, or rather the required, compliment on his sobriety, the baron proceeded--'no, sir, though i am myself of a strong temperament, i abhor ebriety, and detest those who swallow wine gulce causa, for the oblectation of the gullet; albeit i might deprecate the law of pittacus of mitylene, who punished doubly a crime committed under the influence of 'liber pater'; nor would i utterly accede to the objurgation of the younger plinius, in the fourteenth book of his 'historia naturalis.' no, sir, i distinguish, i discriminate, and approve of wine so far only as it maketh glad the face, or, in the language of flaccus, recepto amico.' thus terminated the apology which the baron of bradwardine thought it necessary to make for the superabundance of his hospitality; and it may be easily believed that he was neither interrupted by dissent nor any expression of incredulity. he then invited his guest to a morning ride, and ordered that davie gellatley should meet them at the dern path with ban and buscar. 'for, until the shooting season commence, i would willingly show you some sport, and we may, god willing, meet with a roe. the roe, captain waverley, may be hunted at all times alike; for never being in what is called pride of grease, he is also never out of season, though it be a truth that his venison is not equal to that of either the red or fallow deer. [footnote: the learned in cookery dissent from the baron of bradwardine, and hold the roe venison dry and indifferent food, unless when dressed in soup and scotch collops.] but he will serve to show how my dogs run; and therefore they shall attend us with david gellatley.' waverley expressed his surprise that his friend davie was capable of such trust; but the baron gave him to understand that this poor simpleton was neither fatuous, nec naturaliter idiota, as is expressed in the brieves of furiosity, but simply a crack-brained knave, who could execute very well any commission which jumped with his own humour, and made his folly a plea for avoiding every other. 'he has made an interest with us,' continued the baron, 'by saving rose from a great danger with his own proper peril; and the roguish loon must therefore eat of our bread and drink of our cup, and do what he can, or what he will, which, if the suspicions of saunderson and the bailie are well founded, may perchance in his case be commensurate terms.' miss bradwardine then gave waverley to understand that this poor simpleton was dotingly fond of music, deeply affected by that which was melancholy, and transported into extravagant gaiety by light and lively airs. he had in this respect a prodigious memory, stored with miscellaneous snatches and fragments of all tunes and songs, which he sometimes applied, with considerable address, as the vehicles of remonstrance, explanation, or satire. davie was much attached to the few who showed him kindness; and both aware of any slight or ill usage which he happened to receive, and sufficiently apt, where he saw opportunity, to revenge it. the common people, who often judge hardly of each other as well as of their betters, although they had expressed great compassion for the poor innocent while suffered to wander in rags about the village, no sooner beheld him decently clothed, provided for, and even a sort of favourite, than they called up all the instances of sharpness and ingenuity, in action and repartee, which his annals afforded, and charitably bottomed thereupon a hypothesis that david gellatley was no farther fool than was necessary to avoid hard labour. this opinion was not better founded than that of the negroes, who, from the acute and mischievous pranks of the monkeys, suppose that they have the gift of speech, and only suppress their powers of elocution to escape being set to work. but the hypothesis was entirely imaginary; david gellatley was in good earnest the half-crazed simpleton which he appeared, and was incapable of any constant and steady exertion. he had just so much solidity as kept on the windy side of insanity, so much wild wit as saved him from the imputation of idiocy, some dexterity in field-sports (in which we have known as great fools excel), great kindness and humanity in the treatment of animals entrusted to him, warm affections, a prodigious memory, and an ear for music. the stamping of horses was now heard in the court, and davie's voice singing to the two large deer greyhounds, hie away, hie away, over bank and over brae, where the copsewood is the greenest, where the fountains glisten sheenest, where the lady-fern grows strongest, where the morning dew lies longest, where the black-cock sweetest sips it, where the fairy latest trips it. hie to haunts right seldom seen, lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, over bank and over brae, hie away, hie away. 'do the verses he sings,' asked waverley, 'belong to old scottish poetry, miss bradwardine?' 'i believe not,' she replied. 'this poor creature had a brother, and heaven, as if to compensate to the family davie's deficiencies, had given him what the hamlet thought uncommon talents. an uncle contrived to educate him for the scottish kirk, but he could not get preferment because he came from our ground. he returned from college hopeless and brokenhearted, and fell into a decline. my father supported him till his death, which happened before he was nineteen. he played beautifully on the flute, and was supposed to have a great turn for poetry. he was affectionate and compassionate to his brother, who followed him like his shadow, and we think that from him davie gathered many fragments of songs and music unlike those of this country. but if we ask him where he got such a fragment as he is now singing, he either answers with wild and long fits of laughter, or else breaks into tears of lamentation; but was never heard to give any explanation, or to mention his brother's name since his death.' 'surely,' said edward, who was readily interested by a tale bordering on the romantic, 'surely more might be learned by more particular inquiry.' 'perhaps so,' answered rose; 'but my father will not permit any one to practise on his feelings on this subject.' by this time the baron, with the help of mr. saunderson, had indued a pair of jack-boots of large dimensions, and now invited our hero to follow him as he stalked clattering down the ample stair-case, tapping each huge balustrade as he passed with the butt of his massive horse-whip, and humming, with the air of a chasseur of louis quatorze,-- pour la chasse ordonnee il faut preparer tout. ho la ho! vite! vite debout! chapter xiii a more rational day than the last the baron of bradwardine, mounted on an active and well-managed horse, and seated on a demi-pique saddle, with deep housings to agree with his livery, was no bad representative of the old school. his light-coloured embroidered coat, and superbly barred waistcoat, his brigadier wig, surmounted by a small gold-laced cocked-hat, completed his personal costume; but he was attended by two well-mounted servants on horseback, armed with holster- pistols. in this guise he ambled forth over hill and valley, the admiration of every farm-yard which they passed in their progress, till, 'low down in a grassy vale,' they found david gellatley leading two very tall deer greyhounds, and presiding over half a dozen curs, and about as many bare-legged and bare-headed boys, who, to procure the chosen distinction of attending on the chase, had not failed to tickle his ears with the dulcet appellation of maister gellatley, though probably all and each had hooted him on former occasions in the character of daft davie. but this is no uncommon strain of flattery to persons in office, nor altogether confined to the barelegged villagers of tully-veolan; it was in fashion sixty years since, is now, and will be six hundred years hence, if this admirable compound of folly and knavery, called the world, shall be then in existence. these gillie-wet-foots, as they were called, were destined to beat the bushes, which they performed with so much success, that, after half an hour's search, a roe was started, coursed, and killed; the baron following on his white horse, like earl percy of yore, and magnanimously flaying and embowelling the slain animal (which, he observed, was called by the french chasseurs, faire la curee) with his own baronial couteau de chasse. after this ceremony, he conducted his guest homeward by a pleasant and circuitous route, commanding an extensive prospect of different villages and houses, to each of which mr. bradwardine attached some anecdote of history or genealogy, told in language whimsical from prejudice and pedantry, but often respectable for the good sense and honourable feelings which his narrative displayed, and almost always curious, if not valuable, for the information they contained. the truth is, the ride seemed agreeable to both gentlemen, because they found amusement in each other's conversation, although their characters and habits of thinking were in many respects totally opposite. edward, we have informed the reader, was warm in his feelings, wild and romantic in his ideas and in his taste of reading, with a strong disposition towards poetry. mr bradwardine was the reverse of all this, and piqued himself upon stalking through life with the same upright, starched, stoical gravity which distinguished his evening promenade upon the terrace of tully-veolan, where for hours together--the very model of old hardyknute-- stately stepp'd he east the wa', and stately stepp'd he west as for literature, he read the classic poets, to be sure, and the 'epithalamium' of georgius buchanan and arthur johnston's psalms, of a sunday; and the 'deliciae poetarum scotorum,' and sir david lindsay's 'works', and barbour's 'brace', and blind harry's 'wallace', and 'the gentle shepherd', and 'the cherry and the slae.' but though he thus far sacrificed his time to the muses, he would, if the truth must be spoken, have been much better pleased had the pious or sapient apothegms, as well as the historical narratives, which these various works contained, been presented to him in the form of simple prose. and he sometimes could not refrain from expressing contempt of the 'vain and unprofitable art of poem- making', in which, he said,'the only one who had excelled in his time was allan ramsay, the periwigmaker.' [footnote: the baron ought to have remembered that the joyous allan literally drew his blood from the house of the noble earl whom he terms-- dalhousie of an old descent my stoup, my pride, my ornament.] but although edward and he differed toto coelo, as the baron would have said, upon this subject, yet they met upon history as on a neutral ground, in which each claimed an interest. the baron, indeed, only cumbered his memory with matters of fact, the cold, dry, hard outlines which history delineates. edward, on the contrary, loved to fill up and round the sketch with the colouring of a warm and vivid imagination, which gives light and life to the actors and speakers in the drama of past ages. yet with tastes so opposite, they contributed greatly to each other's amusement. mr. bradwardine's minute narratives and powerful memory supplied to waverley fresh subjects of the kind upon which his fancy loved to labour, and opened to him a new mine of incident and of character. and he repaid the pleasure thus communicated by an earnest attention, valuable to all story-tellers, more especially to the baron, who felt his habits of self-respect flattered by it; and sometimes also by reciprocal communications, which interested mr. bradwardine, as confirming or illustrating his own favourite anecdotes. besides, mr. bradwardine loved to talk of the scenes of his youth, whichl had been spent in camps and foreign lands, and had many interesting particulars to tell of the generals under whom he had served and the actions he had witnessed. both parties returned to tully-veolan in great good-humour with each other; waverley desirous of studying more attentively what he considered as a singular and interesting character, gifted with a memory containing a curious register of ancient and modern anecdotes; and bradwardine disposed to regard edward as puer (or rather juvenis) bonae spei et magnae indolis, a youth devoid of that petulant volatility which is impatient of, or vilipends, the conversation and advice of his seniors, from which he predicted great things of his future success and deportment in life. there was no other guest except mr. rubrick, whose information and discourse, as a clergyman and a scholar, harmonised very well with that of the baron and his guest. shortly after dinner, the baron, as if to show that his temperance was not entirely theoretical, proposed a visit to rose's apartment, or, as he termed it, her troisieme etage. waverley was accordingly conducted through one or two of those long awkward passages with which ancient architects studied to puzzle the inhabitants of the houses which they planned, at the end of which mr. bradwardine began to ascend, by two steps at once, a very steep, narrow, and winding stair, leaving mr. rubrick and waverley to follow at more leisure, while he should announce their approach to his daughter. after having climbed this perpendicular corkscrew until their brains were almost giddy, they arrived in a little matted lobby, which served as an anteroom to rose's sanctum sanctorum, and through which they entered her parlour. it was a small, but pleasant apartment, opening to the south, and hung with tapestry; adorned besides with two pictures, one of her mother, in the dress of a shepherdess, with a bell-hoop; the other of the baron, in his tenth year, in a blue coat, embroidered waistcoat, laced hat, and bag-wig, with a bow in his hand. edward could not help smiling at the costume, and at the odd resemblance between the round, smooth, red-cheeked, staring visage in the portrait, and the gaunt, bearded, hollow-eyed, swarthy features, which travelling, fatigues of war, and advanced age, had bestowed on the original. the baron joined in the laugh. 'truly,' he said,'that picture was a woman's fantasy of my good mother's (a daughter of the laird of tulliellum, captain waverley; i indicated the house to you when we were on the top of the shinnyheuch; it was burnt by the dutch auxiliaries brought in by the government in ); i never sate for my pourtraicture but once since that was painted, and it was at the special and reiterated request of the marechal duke of berwick.' the good old gentleman did not mention what mr. rubrick afterwards told edward, that the duke had done him this honour on account of his being the first to mount the breach of a fort in savoy during the memorable campaign of , and his having there defended himself with his half-pike for nearly ten minutes before any support reached him. to do the baron justice, although sufficiently prone to dwell upon, and even to exaggerate, his family dignity and consequence, he was too much a man of real courage ever to allude to such personal acts of merit as he had himself manifested. miss rose now appeared from the interior room of her apartment, to welcome her father and his friends. the little labours in which she had been employed obviously showed a natural taste, which required only cultivation. her father had taught her french and italian, and a few of the ordinary authors in those languages ornamented her shelves. he had endeavoured also to be her preceptor in music; but as he began with the more abstruse doctrines of the science, and was not perhaps master of them himself, she had made no proficiency farther than to be able to accompany her voice with the harpsichord; but even this was not very common in scotland at that period. to make amends, she sung with great taste and feeling, and with a respect to the sense of what she uttered that might be proposed in example to ladies of much superior musical talent. her natural good sense taught her that, if, as we are assured by high authority, music be 'married to immortal verse,' they are very often divorced by the performer in a most shameful manner. it was perhaps owing to this sensibility to poetry, and power of combining its expression with those of the musical notes, that her singing gave more pleasure to all the unlearned in music, and even to many of the learned, than could have been communicated by a much finer voice and more brilliant execution unguided by the same delicacy of feeling. a bartizan, or projecting gallery, before the windows of her parlour, served to illustrate another of rose's pursuits; for it was crowded with flowers of different kinds, which she had taken under her special protection. a projecting turret gave access to this gothic balcony, which commanded a most beautiful prospect. the formal garden, with its high bounding walls, lay below, contracted, as it seemed, to a mere parterre; while the view extended beyond them down a wooded glen, where the small river was sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in copse. the eye might be delayed by a desire to rest on the rocks, which here and there rose from the dell with massive or spiry fronts, or it might dwell on the noble, though ruined tower, which was here beheld in all its dignity, frowning from a promontory over the river. to the left were seen two or three cottages, a part of the village, the brow of the hill concealed the others. the glen, or dell, was terminated by a sheet of water, called loch veolan, into which the brook discharged itself, and which now glistened in the western sun. the distant country seemed open and varied in surface, though not wooded; and there was nothing to interrupt the view until the scene was bounded by a ridge of distant and blue hills, which formed the southern boundary of the strath or valley. to this pleasant station miss bradwardine had ordered coffee. the view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some family anecdotes and tales of scottish chivalry, which the baron told with great enthusiasm. the projecting peak of an impending crag which rose near it had acquired the name of saint swithin's chair. it was the scene of a peculiar superstition, of which mr. rubrick mentioned some curious particulars, which reminded waverley of a rhyme quoted by edgar in king lear; and rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in which they had been interwoven by some village poet, who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, saved others' names, but left his own unsung. the sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music, gave all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, and which his poetry so much wanted. i almost doubt if it can be read with patience, destitute of these advantages, although i conjecture the following copy to have been somewhat corrected by waverley, to suit the taste of those who might not relish pure antiquity. saint swithin's chair on hallow-mass eve, ere ye boune ye to rest, ever beware that your couch be bless'd; sign it with cross, and sain it with bead, sing the ave, and say the creed. for on hallow-mass eve the night-hag will ride, and all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side, whether the wind sing lowly or loud, sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud. the lady she sat in saint swithin's chair, the dew of the night has damp'd her hair: her cheek was pale; but resolved and high was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye. she mutter'd the spell of swithin bold, when his naked foot traced the midnight wold, when he stopp'd the hag as she rode the night, and bade her descend, and her promise plight. he that dare sit on saint swithin's chair, when the night-hag wings the troubled air, questions three, when he speaks the spell, he may ask, and she must tell. the baron has been with king robert his liege these three long years in battle and siege; news are there none of his weal or his woe, and fain the lady his fate would know. she shudders and stops as the charm she speaks;-- is it the moody owl that shrieks? or is it that sound, betwixt laughter and scream, the voice of the demon who haunts the stream? the moan of the wind sunk silent and low, and the roaring torrent had ceased to flow; the calm was more dreadful than raging storm, when the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form! 'i am sorry to disappoint the company, especially captain waverley, who listens with such laudable gravity; it is but a fragment, although i think there are other verses, describing the return of the baron from the wars, and how the lady was found "clay-cold upon the grounsill ledge.'" 'it is one of those figments,' observed mr. bradwardine, 'with which the early history of distinguished families was deformed in the times of superstition; as that of rome, and other ancient nations, had their prodigies, sir, the which you may read in ancient histories, or in the little work compiled by julius obsequens, and inscribed by the learned scheffer, the editor, to his patron, benedictus skytte, baron of dudershoff.' 'my father has a strange defiance of the marvellous, captain waverley,' observed rose, 'and once stood firm when a whole synod of presbyterian divines were put to the rout by a sudden apparition of the foul fiend.' waverley looked as if desirous to hear more. 'must i tell my story as well as sing my song? well--once upon a time there lived an old woman, called janet gellatley, who was suspected to be a witch, on the infallible grounds that she was very old, very ugly, very poor, and had two sons, one of whom was a poet and the other a fool, which visitation, all the neighbourhood agreed, had come upon her for the sin of witchcraft. and she was imprisoned for a week in the steeple of the parish church, and sparely supplied with food, and not permitted to sleep until she herself became as much persuaded of her being a witch as her accusers; and in this lucid and happy state of mind was brought forth to make a clean breast, that is, to make open confession of her sorceries, before all the whig gentry and ministers in the vicinity, who were no conjurors themselves. my father went to see fair play between the witch and the clergy; for the witch had been born on his estate. and while the witch was confessing that the enemy appeared, and made his addresses to her as a handsome black man,--which, if you could have seen poor old blear-eyed janet, reflected little honour on apollyon's taste,-- and while the auditors listened with astonished ears, and the clerk recorded with a trembling hand, she, all of a sudden, changed the low mumbling tone with which she spoke into a shrill yell, and exclaimed, "look to yourselves! look to yourselves! i see the evil one sitting in the midst of ye." the surprise was general, and terror and flight its immediate consequences. happy were those who were next the door; and many were the disasters that befell hats, bands, cuffs, and wigs, before they could get out of the church, where they left the obstinate prelatist to settle matters with the witch and her admirer at his own peril or pleasure.' 'risu solvuntur tabulae,' said the baron; 'when they recovered their panic trepidation they were too much ashamed to bring any wakening of the process against janet gellatley.' [footnote: see note ] this anecdote led to a long discussion of all those idle thoughts and fantasies, devices, dreams, opinions unsound, shows, visions, soothsays, and prophecies, and all that feigned is, as leasings, tales, and lies. with such conversation, and the romantic legends which it introduced, closed our hero's second evening in the house of tully-veolan. chapter xiv a discovery--waverley becomes domesticated at tully-veolan the next day edward arose betimes, and in a morning walk around the house and its vicinity came suddenly upon a small court in front of the dog-kennel, where his friend davie was employed about his four-footed charge. one quick glance of his eye recognised waverley, when, instantly turning his back, as if he had not observed him, he began to sing part of an old ballad:-- young men will love thee more fair and more fast; heard ye so merry the little bird sing? old men's love the longest will last, and the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. the young man's wrath is like light straw on fire; heard ye so merry the little bird sing? but like red-hot steel is the old man's ire, and the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. the young man will brawl at the evening board; heard ye so merry the little bird sing? but the old man will draw at the dawning the sword, and the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. waverley could not avoid observing that davie laid something like a satirical emphasis on these lines. he therefore approached, and endeavoured, by sundry queries, to elicit from him what the innuendo might mean; but davie had no mind to explain, and had wit enough to make his folly cloak his knavery. edward could collect nothing from him, excepting that the laird of balmawhapple had gone home yesterday morning 'wi' his boots fu' o' bluid.' in the garden, however, he met the old butler, who no longer attempted to conceal that, having been bred in the nursery line with sumack and co. of newcastle, he sometimes wrought a turn in the flower- borders to oblige the laird and miss rose. by a series of queries, edward at length discovered, with a painful feeling of surprise and shame, that balmawhapple's submission and apology had been the consequence of a rencontre with the baron before his guest had quitted his pillow, in which the younger combatant had been disarmed and wounded in the sword arm. greatly mortified at this information, edward sought out his friendly host, and anxiously expostulated with him upon the injustice he had done him in anticipating his meeting with mr. falconer, a circumstance which, considering his youth and the profession of arms which he had just adopted, was capable of being represented much to his prejudice. the baron justified himself at greater length than i choose to repeat. he urged that the quarrel was common to them, and that balmawhapple could not, by the code of honour, evite giving satisfaction to both, which he had done in his case by an honourable meeting, and in that of edward by such a palinode as rendered the use of the sword unnecessary, and which, being made and accepted, must necessarily sopite the whole affair. with this excuse, or explanation, waverley was silenced, if not satisfied; but he could not help testifying some displeasure against the blessed bear, which had given rise to the quarrel, nor refrain from hinting that the sanctified epithet was hardly appropriate. the baron observed, he could not deny that 'the bear, though allowed by heralds as a most honourable ordinary, had, nevertheless, somewhat fierce, churlish, and morose in his disposition (as might be read in archibald simson, pastor of dalkeith's 'hieroglyphica animalium') and had thus been the type of many quarrels and dissensions which had occurred in the house of bradwardine; of which,' he continued, 'i might commemorate mine own unfortunate dissension with my third cousin by the mother's side, sir hew halbert, who was so unthinking as to deride my family name, as if it had been quasi bear-warden; a most uncivil jest, since it not only insinuated that the founder of our house occupied such a mean situation as to be a custodier of wild beasts, a charge which, ye must have observed, is only entrusted to the very basest plebeians; but, moreover, seemed to infer that our coat-armour had not been achieved by honourable actions in war, but bestowed by way of paranomasia, or pun, upon our family appellation,--a sort of bearing which the french call armoires parlantes, the latins arma cantantia, and your english authorities canting heraldry, [footnote: see note ] being indeed a species of emblazoning more befitting canters, gaberlunzies, and such like mendicants, whose gibberish is formed upon playing upon the word, than the noble, honourable, and useful science of heraldry, which assigns armorial bearings as the reward of noble and generous actions, and not to tickle the ear with vain quodlibets, such as are found in jestbooks.' of his quarrel with sir hew he said nothing more than that it was settled in a fitting manner. having been so minute with respect to the diversions of tully- veolan on the first days of edward's arrival, for the purpose of introducing its inmates to the reader's acquaintance, it becomes less necessary to trace the progress of his intercourse with the same accuracy. it is probable that a young man, accustomed to more cheerful society, would have tired of the conversation of so violent an assertor of the 'boast of heraldry' as the baron; but edward found an agreeable variety in that of miss bradwardine, who listened with eagerness to his remarks upon literature, and showed great justness of taste in her answers. the sweetness of her disposition had made her submit with complacency, and even pleasure, to the course of reading prescribed by her father, although it not only comprehended several heavy folios of history, but certain gigantic tomes in high-church polemics. in heraldry he was fortunately contented to give her only such a slight tincture as might be acquired by perusal of the two folio volumes of nisbet. rose was indeed the very apple of her father's eye. her constant liveliness, her attention to all those little observances most gratifying to those who would never think of exacting them, her beauty, in which he recalled the features of his beloved wife, her unfeigned piety, and the noble generosity of her disposition, would have justified the affection of the most doting father. his anxiety on her behalf did not, however, seem to extend itself in that quarter where, according to the general opinion, it is most efficiently displayed, in labouring, namely, to establish her in life, either by a large dowry or a wealthy marriage. by an old settlement, almost all the landed estates of the baron went, after his death, to a distant relation; and it was supposed that miss bradwardine would remain but slenderly provided for, as the good gentleman's cash matters had been too long under the exclusive charge of bailie macwheeble to admit of any great expectations from his personal succession. it is true, the said bailie loved his patron and his patron's daughter next (though at an incomparable distance) to himself. he thought it was possible to set aside the settlement on the male line, and had actually procured an opinion to that effect (and, as he boasted, without a fee) from an eminent scottish counsel, under whose notice he contrived to bring the point while consulting him regularly on some other business. but the baron would not listen to such a proposal for an instant. on the contrary, he used to have a perverse pleasure in boasting that the barony of bradwardine was a male fief, the first charter having been given at that early period when women were not deemed capable to hold a feudal grant; because, according to les coustusmes de normandie, c'est l'homme ki se bast et ki conseille; or, as is yet more ungallantly expressed by other authorities, all of whose barbarous names he delighted to quote at full length, because a woman could not serve the superior, or feudal lord, in war, on account of the decorum of her sex, nor assist him with advice, because of her limited intellect, nor keep his counsel, owing to the infirmity of her disposition. he would triumphantly ask, how it would become a female, and that female a bradwardine, to be seen employed in servitio exuendi, seu detrahendi, caligas regis post battaliam? that is, in pulling off the king's boots after an engagement, which was the feudal service by which he held the barony of bradwardine. 'no,' he said, 'beyond hesitation, procul dubio, many females, as worthy as rose, had been excluded, in order to make way for my own succession, and heaven forbid that i should do aught that might contravene the destination of my forefathers, or impinge upon the right of my kinsman, malcolm bradwardine of inchgrabbit, an honourable, though decayed branch of my own family.' the bailie, as prime minister, having received this decisive communication from his sovereign, durst not press his own opinion any farther, but contented himself with deploring, on all suitable occasions, to saunderson, the minister of the interior, the laird's self-willedness, and with laying plans for uniting rose with the young laird of balmawhapple, who had a fine estate, only moderately burdened, and was a faultless young gentleman, being as sober as a saint--if you keep brandy from him and him from brandy --and who, in brief, had no imperfection but that of keeping light company at a time; such as jinker, the horse-couper, and gibby gaethroughwi't, the piper o' cupar; 'o' whilk follies, mr. saunderson, he'll mend, he'll mend,' pronounced the bailie. 'like sour ale in simmer,' added davie gellatley, who happened to be nearer the conclave than they were aware of. miss bradwardine, such as we have described her, with all the simplicity and curiosity of a recluse, attached herself to the opportunities of increasing her store of literature which edward's visit afforded her. he sent for some of his books from his quarters, and they opened to her sources of delight of which she had hitherto had no idea. the best english poets, of every description, and other works on belles-lettres, made a part of this precious cargo. her music, even her flowers, were neglected, and saunders not only mourned over, but began to mutiny against, the labour for which he now scarce received thanks. these new pleasures became gradually enhanced by sharing them with one of a kindred taste. edward's readiness to comment, to recite, to explain difficult passages, rendered his assistance invaluable; and the wild romance of his spirit delighted a character too young and inexperienced to observe its deficiencies. upon subjects which interested him, and when quite at ease, he possessed that flow of natural, and somewhat florid eloquence, which has been supposed as powerful even as figure, fashion, fame, or fortune, in winning the female heart. there was, therefore, an increasing danger in this constant intercourse to poor rose's peace of mind, which was the more imminent as her father was greatly too much abstracted in his studies, and wrapped up in his own dignity, to dream of his daughter's incurring it. the daughters of the house of bradwardine were, in his opinion, like those of the house of bourbon or austria, placed high above the clouds of passion which might obfuscate the intellects of meaner females; they moved in another sphere, were governed by other feelings, and amenable to other rules than those of idle and fantastic affection. in short, he shut his eyes so resolutely to the natural consequences of edward's intimacy with miss bradwardine, that the whole neighbourhood concluded that he had opened them to the advantages of a match between his daughter and the wealthy young englishman, and pronounced him much less a fool than he had generally shown himself in cases where his own interest was concerned. if the baron, however, had really meditated such an alliance, the indifference of waverley would have been an insuperable bar to his project. our hero, since mixing more freely with the world, had learned to think with great shame and confusion upon his mental legend of saint cecilia, and the vexation of these reflections was likely, for some time at least, to counterbalance the natural susceptibility of his disposition. besides, rose bradwardine, beautiful and amiable as we have described her, had not precisely the sort of beauty or merit which captivates a romantic imagination in early youth. she was too frank, too confiding, too kind; amiable qualities, undoubtedly, but destructive of the marvellous, with which a youth of imagination delights to dress the empress of his affections. was it possible to bow, to tremble, and to adore, before the timid, yet playful little girl, who now asked edward to mend her pen, now to construe a stanza in tasso, and now how to spell a very--very long word in her version of it? all these incidents have their fascination on the mind at a certain period of life, but not when a youth is entering it, and rather looking out for some object whose affection may dignify him in his own eyes than stooping to one who looks up to him for such distinction. hence, though there can be no rule in so capricious a passion, early love is frequently ambitious in choosing its object; or, which comes to the same, selects her (as in the case of saint cecilia aforesaid) from a situation that gives fair scope for le beau ideal, which the reality of intimate and familiar life rather tends to limit and impair. i knew a very accomplished and sensible young man cured of a violent passion for a pretty woman, whose talents were not equal to her face and figure, by being permitted to bear her company for a whole afternoon. thus, it is certain, that had edward enjoyed such an opportunity of conversing with miss stubbs, aunt rachel's precaution would have been unnecessary, for he would as soon have fallen in love with the dairy-maid. and although miss bradwardine was a very different character, it seems probable that the very intimacy of their intercourse prevented his feeling for her other sentiments than those of a brother for an amiable and accomplished sister; while the sentiments of poor rose were gradually, and without her being conscious, assuming a shade of warmer affection. i ought to have said that edward, when he sent to dundee for the books before mentioned, had applied for, and received permission, extending his leave of absence. but the letter of his commanding officer contained a friendly recommendation to him not to spend his time exclusively with persons who, estimable as they might be in a general sense, could not be supposed well affected to a government which they declined to acknowledge by taking the oath of allegiance. the letter further insinuated, though with great delicacy, that although some family connections might be supposed to render it necessary for captain waverley to communicate with gentlemen who were in this unpleasant state of suspicion, yet his father's situation and wishes ought to prevent his prolonging those attentions into exclusive intimacy. and it was intimated, that, while his political principles were endangered by communicating with laymen of this description, he might also receive erroneous impressions in religion from the prelatic clergy, who so perversely laboured to set up the royal prerogative in things sacred. this last insinuation probably induced waverley to set both down to the prejudices of his commanding officer. he was sensible that mr. bradwardine had acted with the most scrupulous delicacy, in never entering upon any discussion that had the most remote tendency to bias his mind in political opinions, although he was himself not only a decided partisan of the exiled family, but had been trusted at different times with important commissions for their service. sensible, therefore, that there was no risk of his being perverted from his allegiance, edward felt as if he should do his uncle's old friend injustice in removing from a house where he gave and received pleasure and amusement, merely to gratify a prejudiced and ill-judged suspicion. he therefore wrote a very general answer, assuring his commanding officer that his loyalty was not in the most distant danger of contamination, and continued an honoured guest and inmate of the house of tully-veolan. chapter xv a creagh, and its consequences when edward had been a guest at tully-veolan nearly six weeks, he descried, one morning, as he took his usual walk before the breakfast hour, signs of uncommon perturbation in the family. four bare-legged dairy-maids, with each an empty milk-pail in her hand, ran about with frantic gestures, and uttering loud exclamations of surprise, grief, and resentment. from their appearance, a pagan might have conceived them a detachment of the celebrated belides, just come from their baling penance. as nothing was to be got from this distracted chorus, excepting 'lord guide us!' and 'eh sirs!' ejaculations which threw no light upon the cause of their dismay, waverley repaired to the fore-court, as it was called, where he beheld bailie macwheeble cantering his white pony down the avenue with all the speed it could muster. he had arrived, it would seem, upon a hasty summons, and was followed by half a score of peasants from the village who had no great difficulty in keeping pace with him. the bailie, greatly too busy and too important to enter into explanations with edward, summoned forth mr. saunderson, who appeared with a countenance in which dismay was mingled with solemnity, and they immediately entered into close conference. davie gellatley was also seen in the group, idle as diogenes at sinope while his countrymen were preparing for a siege. his spirits always rose with anything, good or bad, which occasioned tumult, and he continued frisking, hopping, dancing, and singing the burden of an old ballad-- 'our gear's a' gane,' until, happening to pass too near the bailie, he received an admonitory hint from his horse-whip, which converted his songs into lamentation. passing from thence towards the garden, waverley beheld the baron in person, measuring and re-measuring, with swift and tremendous strides, the length of the terrace; his countenance clouded with offended pride and indignation, and the whole of his demeanour such as seemed to indicate, that any inquiry concerning the cause of his discomposure would give pain at least, if not offence. waverley therefore glided into the house, without addressing him, and took his way to the breakfast-parlour, where he found his young friend rose, who, though she neither exhibited the resentment of her father, the turbid importance of bailie macwheeble, nor the despair of the handmaidens, seemed vexed and thoughtful. a single word explained the mystery. 'your breakfast will be a disturbed one, captain waverley. a party of caterans have come down upon us last night, and have driven off all our milch cows.' 'a party of caterans?' 'yes; robbers from the neighbouring highlands. we used to be quite free from them while we paid blackmail to fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr; but my father thought it unworthy of his rank and birth to pay it any longer, and so this disaster has happened. it is not the value of the cattle, captain waverley, that vexes me; but my father is so much hurt at the affront, and is so bold and hot, that i fear he will try to recover them by the strong hand; and if he is not hurt himself, he will hurt some of these wild people, and then there will be no peace between them and us perhaps for our life-time; and we cannot defend ourselves as in old times, for the government have taken all our arms; and my dear father is so rash--o what will become of us!'--here poor rose lost heart altogether, and burst into a flood of tears. the baron entered at this moment, and rebuked her with more asperity than waverley had ever heard him use to any one. 'was it not a shame,' he said, 'that she should exhibit herself before any gentleman in such a light, as if she shed tears for a drove of horned nolt and milch kine, like the daughter of a cheshire yeoman!--captain waverley, i must request your favourable construction of her grief, which may, or ought to proceed, solely from seeing her father's estate exposed to spulzie and depredation from common thieves and sorners, while we are not allowed to keep half a score of muskets, whether for defence or rescue.' bailie macwheeble entered immediately afterwards, and by his report of arms and ammunition confirmed this statement, informing the baron, in a melancholy voice, that though the people would certainly obey his honour's orders, yet there was no chance of their following the gear to ony guid purpose, in respect there were only his honour's body servants who had swords and pistols, and the depredators were twelve highlanders, completely armed after the manner of their country. having delivered this doleful annunciation, he assumed a posture of silent dejection, shaking his head slowly with the motion of a pendulum when it is ceasing to vibrate, and then remained stationary, his body stooping at a more acute angle than usual, and the latter part of his person projecting in proportion. the baron, meanwhile, paced the room in silent indignation, and at length fixing his eye upon an old portrait, whose person was clad in armour, and whose features glared grimly out of a huge bush of hair, part of which descended from his head to his shoulders, and part from his chin and upper-lip to his breast-plate,--'that gentleman, captain waverley, my grandsire,' he said, 'with two hundred horse,--whom he levied within his own bounds, discomfited and put to the rout more than five hundred of these highland reivers, who have been ever lapis offensionis et petra scandali, a stumbling-block and a rock of offence, to the lowland vicinage--he discomfited them, i say, when they had the temerity to descend to harry this country, in the time of the civil dissensions, in the year of grace sixteen hundred forty and two. and now, sir, i, his grandson, am thus used at such unworthy hands.' here there was an awful pause; after which all the company, as is usual in cases of difficulty, began to give separate and inconsistent counsel. alexander ab alexandro proposed they should send some one to compound with the caterans, who would readily, he said, give up their prey for a dollar a head. the bailie opined that this transaction would amount to theft-boot, or composition of felony; and he recommended that some canny hand should be sent up to the glens to make the best bargain he could, as it were for himself, so that the laird might not be seen in such a transaction. edward proposed to send off to the nearest garrison for a party of soldiers and a magistrate's warrant; and rose, as far as she dared, endeavoured to insinuate the course of paying the arrears of tribute money to fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr, who, they all knew, could easily procure restoration of the cattle, if he were properly propitiated. none of these proposals met the baron's approbation. the idea of composition, direct or implied, was absolutely ignominious; that of waverley only showed that he did not understand the state of the country, and of the political parties which divided it; and, standing matters as they did with fergus mac-ivor vich ian vohr, the baron would make no concession to him, were it, he said, 'to procure restitution in integrum of every stirk and stot that the chief, his forefathers, and his clan, had stolen since the days of malcolm canmore.' in fact his voice was still for war, and he proposed to send expresses to balmawhapple, killancureit, tulliellum, and other lairds, who were exposed to similar depredations, inviting them to join in the pursuit; 'and then, sir, shall these nebulones nequissimi, as leslaeus calls them, be brought to the fate of their predecessor cacus, "elisos oculos, et siccum sanguine guttur."' the bailie, who by no means relished these warlike counsels, here pulled forth an immense watch, of the colour, and nearly of the size, of a pewter warming-pan, and observed it was now past noon, and that the caterans had been seen in the pass of ballybrough soon after sunrise; so that, before the allied forces could assemble, they and their prey would be far beyond the reach of the most active pursuit, and sheltered in those pathless deserts, where it was neither advisable to follow, nor indeed possible to trace them. this proposition was undeniable. the council therefore broke up without coming to any conclusion, as has occurred to councils of more importance; only it was determined that the bailie should send his own three milkcows down to the mains for the use of the baron's family, and brew small ale, as a substitute for milk, in his own. to this arrangement, which was suggested by saunderson, the bailie readily assented, both from habitual deference to the family, and an internal consciousness that his courtesy would, in some mode or other, be repaid tenfold. the baron having also retired to give some necessary directions, waverley seized the opportunity to ask, whether this fergus, with the unpronounceable name, was the chief thief-taker of the district? 'thief-taker!' answered rose, laughing; 'he is a gentleman of great honour and consequence, the chieftain of an independent branch of a powerful highland clan, and is much respected, both for his own power and that of his kith, kin, and allies.' 'and what has he to do with the thieves, then? is he a magistrate, or in the commission of the peace?' asked waverley. 'the commission of war rather, if there be such a thing,' said rose; 'for he is a very unquiet neighbour to his unfriends, and keeps a greater following on foot than many that have thrice his estate. as to his connection with the thieves, that i cannot well explain; but the boldest of them will never steal a hoof from any one that pays black-mail to vich lan vohr.' 'and what is black-mail?' 'a sort of protection-money that low-country gentlemen and heritors, lying near the highlands, pay to some highland chief, that he may neither do them harm himself, nor suffer it to be done to them by others; and then if your cattle are stolen, you have only to send him word, and he will recover them; or it may be, he will drive away cows from some distant place, where he has a quarrel, and give them to you to make up your loss.' [footnote: see note .] 'and is this sort of highland jonathan wild admitted into society, and called a gentleman?' 'so much so,' said rose, 'that the quarrel between my father and fergus mac-ivor began at a county meeting, where he wanted to take precedence of all the lowland gentlemen then present, only my father would not suffer it. and then he upbraided my father that he was under his banner, and paid him tribute; and my father was in a towering passion, for bailie macwheeble, who manages such things his own way, had contrived to keep this black-mail a secret from him, and passed it in his account for cess-money. and they would have fought; but fergus mac-ivor said, very gallantly, he would never raise his hand against a grey head that was so much respected as my father's.--o i wish, i wish they had continued friends!' 'and did you ever see this mr. mac-ivor, if that be his name, miss bradwardine?' 'no, that is not his name; and he would consider master as a sort of affront, only that you are an englishman, and know no better. but the lowlanders call him, like other gentlemen, by the name of his estate, glennaquoich; and the highlanders call him vich ian vohr, that is, the son of john the great; and we upon the braes here call him by both names indifferently.' 'i am afraid i shall never bring my english tongue to call him by either one or other.' 'but he is a very polite, handsome man,' continued rose; 'and his sister flora is one of the most beautiful and accomplished young ladies in this country; she was bred in a convent in france, and was a great friend of mine before this unhappy dispute. dear captain waverley, try your influence with my father to make matters up. i am sure this is but the beginning of our troubles; for tully-veolan has never been a safe or quiet residence when we have been at feud with the highlanders. when i was a girl about ten, there was a skirmish fought between a party of twenty of them and my father and his servants behind the mains; and the bullets broke several panes in the north windows, they were so near. three of the highlanders were killed, and they brought them in wrapped in their plaids, and laid them on the stone floor of the hall; and next morning, their wives and daughters came, clapping their hands, and crying the coronach, and shrieking, and carried away the dead bodies, with the pipes playing before them. i could not sleep for six weeks without starting and thinking i heard these terrible cries, and saw the bodies lying on the steps, all stiff and swathed up in their bloody tartans. but since that time there came a party from the garrison at stirling, with a warrant from the lord justice clerk, or some such great man, and took away all our arms; and now, how are we to protect ourselves if they come down in any strength?' waverley could not help starting at a story which bore so much resemblance to one of his own day-dreams. here was a girl scarce seventeen, the gentlest of her sex, both in temper and appearance, who had witnessed with her own eyes such a scene as he had used to conjure up in his imagination, as only occurring in ancient times, and spoke of it coolly, as one very likely to recur. he felt at once the impulse of curiosity, and that slight sense of danger which only serves to heighten its interest. he might have said with malvolio, '"i do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me!" i am actually in the land of military and romantic adventures, and it only remains to be seen what will be my own share in them.' the whole circumstances now detailed concerning the state of the country seemed equally novel and extraordinary. he had indeed often heard of highland thieves, but had no idea of the systematic mode in which their depredations were conducted; and that the practice was connived at, and even encouraged, by many of the highland chieftains, who not only found the creaghs, or forays, useful for the purpose of training individuals of their clan to the practice of arms, but also of maintaining a wholesome terror among their lowland neighbours, and levying, as we have seen, a tribute from them, under colour of protection-money. bailie macwheeble, who soon afterwards entered, expatiated still more at length upon the same topic. this honest gentleman's conversation was so formed upon his professional practice, that davie gellatley once said his discourse was like a 'charge of horning.' he assured our hero, that 'from the maist ancient times of record, the lawless thieves, limmers, and broken men of the highlands, had been in fellowship together by reason of their surnames, for the committing of divers thefts, reifs, and herships upon the honest men of the low country, when they not only intromitted with their whole goods and gear, corn, cattle, horse, nolt, sheep, outsight and insight plenishing, at their wicked pleasure, but moreover made prisoners, ransomed them, or concussed them into giving borrows (pledges) to enter into captivity again; --all which was directly prohibited in divers parts of the statute book, both by the act one thousand five hundred and sixty-seven, and various others; the whilk statutes, with all that had followed and might follow thereupon, were shamefully broken and vilipended by the said sorners, limmers, and broken men, associated into fellowships, for the aforesaid purposes of theft, stouthreef, fire-raising, murther, raptus mulierum, or forcible abduction of women, and such like as aforesaid.' it seemed like a dream to waverley that these deeds of violence should be familiar to men's minds, and currently talked of as falling within the common order of things, and happening daily in the immediate vicinity, without his having crossed the seas, and while he was yet in the otherwise well-ordered island of great britain. chapter xvi an unexpected ally appears the baron returned at the dinner-hour, and had in a great measure recovered his composure and good-humour. he not only confirmed the stories which edward had heard from rose and bailie macwheeble, but added many anecdotes from his own experience, concerning the state of the highlands and their inhabitants. the chiefs he pronounced to be, in general, gentlemen of great honour and high pedigree, whose word was accounted as a law by all those of their own sept, or clan. 'it did not indeed,' he said, 'become them, as had occurred in late instances, to propone their prosapia, a lineage which rested for the most part on the vain and fond rhymes of their seannachies or bhairds, as aequiponderate with the evidence of ancient charters and royal grants of antiquity, conferred upon distinguished houses in the low country by divers scottish monarchs; nevertheless, such was their outrecuidance and presumption, as to undervalue those who possessed such evidents, as if they held their lands in a sheep's skin.' this, by the way, pretty well explained the cause of quarrel between the baron and his highland ally. but he went on to state so many curious particulars concerning the manners, customs, and habits of this patriarchal race that edward's curiosity became highly interested, and he inquired whether it was possible to make with safety an excursion into the neighbouring highlands, whose dusky barrier of mountains had already excited his wish to penetrate beyond them. the baron assured his guest that nothing would be more easy, providing this quarrel were first made up, since he could himself give him letters to many of the distinguished chiefs, who would receive him with the utmost courtesy and hospitality. while they were on this topic, the door suddenly opened, and, ushered by saunders saunderson, a highlander, fully armed and equipped, entered the apartment. had it not been that saunders acted the part of master of the ceremonies to this martial apparition, without appearing to deviate from his usual composure, and that neither mr. bradwardine nor rose exhibited any emotion, edward would certainly have thought the intrusion hostile. as it was, he started at the sight of what he had not yet happened to see, a mountaineer in his full national costume. the individual gael was a stout, dark, young man, of low stature, the ample folds of whose plaid added to the appearance of strength which his person exhibited. the short kilt, or petticoat, showed his sinewy and clean-made limbs; the goatskin purse, flanked by the usual defences, a dirk and steel-wrought pistol, hung before him; his bonnet had a short feather, which indicated his claim to be treated as a duinhe-wassel, or sort of gentleman; a broadsword dangled by his side, a target hung upon his shoulder, and a long spanish fowling-piece occupied one of his hands. with the other hand he pulled off his bonnet, and the baron, who well knew their customs, and the proper mode of addressing them, immediately said, with an air of dignity, but without rising, and much, as edward thought, in the manner of a prince receiving an embassy, 'welcome, evan dhu maccombich; what news from fergus mac-ivor vich lan vohr?' 'fergus mac-ivor vich lan vohr,' said the ambassador, in good english, 'greets you well, baron of bradwardine and tully-veolan, and is sorry there has been a thick cloud interposed between you and him, which has kept you from seeing and considering the friendship and alliances that have been between your houses and forebears of old; and he prays you that the cloud may pass away, and that things may be as they have been heretofore between the clan ivor and the house of bradwardine, when there was an egg between them for a flint and a knife for a sword. and he expects you will also say, you are sorry for the cloud, and no man shall hereafter ask whether it descended from the bill to the valley, or rose from the valley to the hill; for they never struck with the scabbard who did not receive with the sword, and woe to him who would lose his friend for the stormy cloud of a spring morning.' to this the baron of bradwardine answered with suitable dignity, that he knew the chief of clan ivor to be a well-wisher to the king, and he was sorry there should have been a cloud between him and any gentleman of such sound principles, 'for when folks are banding together, feeble is he who hath no brother.' this appearing perfectly satisfactory, that the peace between these august persons might be duly solemnised, the baron ordered a stoup of usquebaugh, and, filling a glass, drank to the health and prosperity of mac-ivor of glennaquoich; upon which the celtic ambassador, to requite his politeness, turned down a mighty bumper of the same generous liquor, seasoned with his good wishes to the house of bradwardine. having thus ratified the preliminaries of the general treaty of pacification, the envoy retired to adjust with mr. macwheeble some subordinate articles with which it was not thought necessary to trouble the baron. these probably referred to the discontinuance of the subsidy, and apparently the bailie found means to satisfy their ally, without suffering his master to suppose that his dignity was compromised. at least, it is certain, that after the plenipotentiaries had drunk a bottle of brandy in single drams, which seemed to have no more effect upon such seasoned vessels than if it had been poured upon the two bears at the top of the avenue, evan dhu maccombich, having possessed himself of all the information which he could procure respecting the robbery of the preceding night, declared his intention to set off immediately in pursuit of the cattle, which he pronounced to be 'no that far off; they have broken the bone,' he observed, 'but they have had no time to suck the marrow.' our hero, who had attended evan dhu during his perquisitions, was much struck with the ingenuity which he displayed in collecting information, and the precise and pointed conclusions which he drew from it. evan dhu, on his part, was obviously flattered with the attention of waverley, the interest he seemed to take in his inquiries, and his curiosity about the customs and scenery of the highlands. without much ceremony he invited edward to accompany him on a short walk of ten or fifteen miles into the mountains, and see the place where the cattle were conveyed to; adding, 'if it be as i suppose, you never saw such a place in your life, nor ever will, unless you go with me or the like of me.' our hero, feeling his curiosity considerably excited by the idea of visiting the den of a highland cacus, took, however, the precaution to inquire if his guide might be trusted. he was assured that the invitation would on no account have been given had there been the least danger, and that all he had to apprehend was a little fatigue; and, as evan proposed he should pass a day at his chieftain's house in returning, where he would be sure of good accommodation and an excellent welcome, there seemed nothing very formidable in the task he undertook. rose, indeed, turned pale when she heard of it; but her father, who loved the spirited curiosity of his young friend, did not attempt to damp it by an alarm of danger which really did not exist, and a knapsack, with a few necessaries, being bound on the shoulders of a sort of deputy gamekeeper, our hero set forth with a fowling-piece in his hand, accompanied by his new friend evan dhu, and followed by the gamekeeper aforesaid, and by two wild highlanders, the attendants of evan, one of whom had upon his shoulder a hatchet at the end of a pole, called a lochaber-axe, [footnote: see note ] and the other a long ducking-gun. evan, upon edward's inquiry, gave him to understand that this martial escort was by no means necessary as a guard, but merely, as he said, drawing up and adjusting his plaid with an air of dignity, that he might appear decently at tully- veolan, and as vich ian vohr's foster-brother ought to do. 'ah!' said he, 'if you saxon duinhe-wassel (english gentleman) saw but the chief with his tail on!' 'with his tail on?' echoed edward in some surprise. 'yes--that is, with all his usual followers, when he visits those of the same rank. there is,' he continued, stopping and drawing himself proudly up, while he counted upon his fingers the several officers of his chief's retinue; 'there is his hanchman, or right- hand man; then his bard, or poet; then his bladier, or orator, to make harangues to the great folks whom he visits; then his gilly- more, or armour-bearer, to carry his sword and target, and his gun; then his gilly-casfliuch, who carries him on his back through the sikes and brooks; then his gilly-comstrian, to lead his horse by the bridle in steep and difficult paths; then his gilly- trushharnish, to carry his knapsack; and the piper and the piper's man, and it may be a dozen young lads beside, that have no business, but are just boys of the belt, to follow the laird and do his honour's bidding.' 'and does your chief regularly maintain all these men?' demanded waverley. 'all these?' replied evan; 'ay, and many a fair head beside, that would not ken where to lay itself, but for the mickle barn at glennaquoich.' with similar tales of the grandeur of the chief in peace and war, evan dhu beguiled the way till they approached more closely those huge mountains which edward had hitherto only seen at a distance. it was towards evening as they entered one of the tremendous passes which afford communication between the high and low country; the path, which was extremely steep and rugged, winded up a chasm between two tremendous rocks, following the passage which a foaming stream, that brawled far below, appeared to have worn for itself in the course of ages. a few slanting beams of the sun, which was now setting, reached the water in its darksome bed, and showed it partially, chafed by a hundred rocks and broken by a hundred falls. the descent from the path to the stream was a mere precipice, with here and there a projecting fragment of granite, or a scathed tree, which had warped its twisted roots into the fissures of the rock. on the right hand, the mountain rose above the path with almost equal inaccessibility; but the hill on the opposite side displayed a shroud of copsewood, with which some pines were intermingled. 'this,' said evan, 'is the pass of bally-brough, which was kept in former times by ten of the clan donnochie against a hundred of the low-country carles. the graves of the slain are still to be seen in that little corrie, or bottom, on the opposite side of the burn; if your eyes are good, you may see the green specks among the heather. see, there is an earn, which you southrons call an eagle. you have no such birds as that in england. he is going to fetch his supper from the laird of bradwardine's braes, but i 'll send a slug after him.' he fired his piece accordingly, but missed the superb monarch of the feathered tribes, who, without noticing the attempt to annoy him, continued his majestic flight to the southward. a thousand birds of prey, hawks, kites, carrion-crows, and ravens, disturbed from the lodgings which they had just taken up for the evening, rose at the report of the gun, and mingled their hoarse and discordant notes with the echoes which replied to it, and with the roar of the mountain cataracts. evan, a little disconcerted at having missed his mark, when he meant to have displayed peculiar dexterity, covered his confusion by whistling part of a pibroch as he reloaded his piece, and proceeded in silence up the pass. it issued in a narrow glen, between two mountains, both very lofty and covered with heath. the brook continued to be their companion, and they advanced up its mazes, crossing them now and then, on which occasions evan dhu uniformly offered the assistance of his attendants to carry over edward; but our hero, who had been always a tolerable pedestrian, declined the accommodation, and obviously rose in his guide's opinion, by showing that he did not fear wetting his feet. indeed he was anxious, so far as he could without affectation, to remove the opinion which evan seemed to entertain of the effeminacy of the lowlanders, and particularly of the english. through the gorge of this glen they found access to a black bog, of tremendous extent, full of large pit-holes, which they traversed with great difficulty and some danger, by tracks which no one but a highlander could have followed. the path itself, or rather the portion of more solid ground on which the travellers half walked, half waded, was rough, broken, and in many places quaggy and unsound. sometimes the ground was so completely unsafe that it was necessary to spring from one hillock to another, the space between being incapable of bearing the human weight. this was an easy matter to the highlanders, who wore thin-soled brogues fit for the purpose, and moved with a peculiar springing step; but edward began to find the exercise, to which he was unaccustomed, more fatiguing than he expected. the lingering twilight served to show them through this serbonian bog, but deserted them almost totally at the bottom of a steep and very stony hill, which it was the travellers' next toilsome task to ascend. the night, however, was pleasant, and not dark; and waverley, calling up mental energy to support personal fatigue, held on his march gallantly, though envying in his heart his highland attendants, who continued, without a symptom of abated vigour, the rapid and swinging pace, or rather trot, which, according to his computation, had already brought them fifteen miles upon their journey. after crossing this mountain and descending on the other side towards a thick wood, evan dhu held some conference with his highland attendants, in consequence of which edward's baggage was shifted from the shoulders of the gamekeeper to those of one of the gillies, and the former was sent off with the other mountaineer in a direction different from that of the three remaining travellers. on asking the meaning of this separation, waverley was told that the lowlander must go to a hamlet about three miles off for the night; for unless it was some very particular friend, donald bean lean, the worthy person whom they supposed to be possessed of the cattle, did not much approve of strangers approaching his retreat. this seemed reasonable, and silenced a qualm of suspicion which came across edward's mind when he saw himself, at such a place and such an hour, deprived of his only lowland companion. and evan immediately afterwards added,'that indeed he himself had better get forward, and announce their approach to donald bean lean, as the arrival of a sidier roy (red soldier) might otherwise be a disagreeable surprise.' and without waiting for an answer, in jockey phrase, he trotted out, and putting himself to a very round pace, was out of sight in an instant. waverley was now left to his own meditations, for his attendant with the battle-axe spoke very little english. they were traversing a thick, and, as it seemed, an endless wood of pines, and consequently the path was altogether indiscernible in the murky darkness which surrounded them. the highlander, however, seemed to trace it by instinct, without the hesitation of a moment, and edward followed his footsteps as close as he could. after journeying a considerable time in silence, he could not help asking, 'was it far to the end of their journey?' 'ta cove was tree, four mile; but as duinhe-wassel was a wee taiglit, donald could, tat is, might--would--should send ta curragh.' this conveyed no information. the curragh which was promised might be a man, a horse, a cart, or chaise; and no more could be got from the man with the battle-axe but a repetition of 'aich ay! ta curragh.' but in a short time edward began to conceive his meaning, when, issuing from the wood, he found himself on the banks of a large river or lake, where his conductor gave him to understand they must sit down for a little while. the moon, which now began to rise, showed obscurely the expanse of water which spread before them, and the shapeless and indistinct forms of mountains with which it seemed to be surrounded. the cool and yet mild air of the summer night refreshed waverley after his rapid and toilsome walk; and the perfume which it wafted from the birch trees, [footnote: it is not the weeping birch, the most common species in the highlands, but the woolly-leaved lowland birch, that is distinguished by this fragrance.] bathed in the evening dew, was exquisitely fragrant. he had now time to give himself up to the full romance of his situation. here he sate on the banks of an unknown lake, under the guidance of a wild native, whose language was unknown to him, on a visit to the den of some renowned outlaw, a second robin hood, perhaps, or adam o' gordon, and that at deep midnight, through scenes of difficulty and toil, separated from his attendant, left by his guide. what a variety of incidents for the exercise of a romantic imagination, and all enhanced by the solemn feeling of uncertainty at least, if not of danger! the only circumstance which assorted ill with the rest was the cause of his journey--the baron's milk-cows! this degrading incident he kept in the background. while wrapt in these dreams of imagination, his companion gently touched him, and, pointing in a direction nearly straight across the lake, said, 'yon's ta cove.' a small point of light was seen to twinkle in the direction in which he pointed, and, gradually increasing in size and lustre, seemed to flicker like a meteor upon the verge of the horizon. while edward watched this phenomenon, the distant dash of oars was heard. the measured sound approached near and more near, and presently a loud whistle was heard in the same direction. his friend with the battle-axe immediately whistled clear and shrill, in reply to the signal, and a boat, manned with four or five highlanders, pushed for a little inlet, near which edward was sitting. he advanced to meet them with his attendant, was immediately assisted into the boat by the officious attention of two stout mountaineers, and had no sooner seated himself than they resumed their oars, and began to row across the lake with great rapidity. chapter xvii the hold of a highland robber the party preserved silence, interrupted only by the monotonous and murmured chant of a gaelic song, sung in a kind of low recitative by the steersman, and by the dash of the oars, which the notes seemed to regulate, as they dipped to them in cadence. the light, which they now approached more nearly, assumed a broader, redder and more irregular splendour. it appeared plainly to be a large fire, but whether kindled upon an island or the mainland edward could not determine. as he saw it, the red glaring orb seemed to rest on the very surface of the lake itself, and resembled the fiery vehicle in which the evil genius of an oriental tale traverses land and sea. they approached nearer, and the light of the fire sufficed to show that it was kindled at the bottom of a huge dark crag or rock, rising abruptly from the very edge of the water; its front, changed by the reflection to dusky red, formed a strange and even awful contrast to the banks around, which were from time to time faintly and partially illuminated by pallid moonlight. the boat now neared the shore, and edward could discover that this large fire, amply supplied with branches of pine-wood by two figures, who, in the red reflection of its light, appeared like demons, was kindled in the jaws of a lofty cavern, into which an inlet from the lake seemed to advance; and he conjectured, which was indeed true, that the fire had been lighted as a beacon to the boatmen on their return. they rowed right for the mouth of the cave, and then, shifting their oars, permitted the boat to enter in obedience to the impulse which it had received. the skiff passed the little point or platform of rock on which the fire was blazing, and running about two boats' lengths farther, stopped where the cavern (for it was already arched overhead) ascended from the water by five or six broad ledges of rock, so easy and regular that they might be termed natural steps. at this moment a quantity of water was suddenly flung upon the fire, which sunk with a hissing noise, and with it disappeared the light it had hitherto afforded. four or five active arms lifted waverley out of the boat, placed him on his feet, and almost carried him into the recesses of the cave. he made a few paces in darkness, guided in this manner; and advancing towards a hum of voices, which seemed to sound from the centre of the rock, at an acute turn donald bean lean and his whole establishment were before his eyes. the interior of the cave, which here rose very high, was illuminated by torches made of pine-tree, which emitted a bright and bickering light, attended by a strong though not unpleasant odour. their light was assisted by the red glare of a large charcoal fire, round which were seated five or six armed highlanders, while others were indistinctly seen couched on their plaids in the more remote recesses of the cavern. in one large aperture, which the robber facetiously called his spence (or pantry), there hung by the heels the carcasses of a sheep, or ewe, and two cows lately slaughtered. the principal inhabitant of this singular mansion, attended by evan dhu as master of the ceremonies, came forward to meet his guest, totally different in appearance and manner from what his imagination had anticipated. the profession which he followed, the wilderness in which he dwelt, the wild warrior forms that surrounded him, were all calculated to inspire terror. from such accompaniments, waverley prepared himself to meet a stern, gigantic, ferocious figure, such as salvator would have chosen to be the central object of a group of banditti. [footnote: see note .] donald bean lean was the very reverse of all these. he was thin in person and low in stature, with light sandy-coloured hair, and small pale features, from which he derived his agnomen of bean or white; and although his form was light, well proportioned and active, he appeared, on the whole, rather a diminutive and insignificant figure. he had served in some inferior capacity in the french army, and in order to receive his english visitor in great form, and probably meaning, in his way, to pay him a compliment, he had laid aside the highland dress for the time, to put on an old blue and red uniform and a feathered hat, in which he was far from showing to advantage, and indeed looked so incongruous, compared with all around him, that waverley would have been tempted to laugh, had laughter been either civil or safe. the robber received captain waverley with a profusion of french politeness and scottish hospitality, seemed perfectly to know his name and connections, and to be particularly acquainted with his uncle's political principles. on these he bestowed great applause, to which waverley judged it prudent to make a very general reply. being placed at a convenient distance from the charcoal fire, the heat of which the season rendered oppressive, a strapping highland damsel placed before waverley, evan, and donald bean three cogues, or wooden vessels composed of staves and hoops, containing eanaruich, [footnote: this was the regale presented by rob roy to the laird of tullibody.] a sort of strong soup, made out of a particular part of the inside of the beeves. after this refreshment, which, though coarse, fatigue and hunger rendered palatable, steaks, roasted on the coals, were supplied in liberal abundance, and disappeared before evan dhu and their host with a promptitude that seemed like magic, and astonished waverley, who was much puzzled to reconcile their voracity with what he had heard of the abstemiousness of the highlanders. he was ignorant that this abstinence was with the lower ranks wholly compulsory, and that, like some animals of prey, those who practise it were usually gifted with the power of indemnifying themselves to good purpose when chance threw plenty in their way. the whisky came forth in abundance to crown the cheer. the highlanders drank it copiously and undiluted; but edward, having mixed a little with water, did not find it so palatable as to invite him to repeat the draught. their host bewailed himself exceedingly that he could offer him no wine: 'had he but known four-and-twenty hours before, he would have had some, had it been within the circle of forty miles round him. but no gentleman could do more to show his sense of the honour of a visit from another than to offer him the best cheer his house afforded. where there are no bushes there can be no nuts, and the way of those you live with is that you must follow,' he went on regretting to evan dhu the death of an aged man, donnacha an amrigh, or duncan with the cap, 'a gifted seer,' who foretold, through the second sight, visitors of every description who haunted their dwelling, whether as friends or foes. 'is not his son malcolm taishatr (a second-sighted person)?' asked evan. 'nothing equal to his father,' replied donald bean. 'he told us the other day, we were to see a great gentleman riding on a horse, and there came nobody that whole day but shemus beg, the blind harper, with his dog. another time he advertised us of a wedding, and behold it proved a funeral; and on the creagh, when he foretold to us we should bring home a hundred head of horned cattle, we gripped nothing but a fat bailie of perth.' from this discourse he passed to the political and military state of the country; and waverley was astonished, and even alarmed, to find a person of this description so accurately acquainted with the strength of the various garrisons and regiments quartered north of the tay. he even mentioned the exact number of recruits who had joined waverley's troop from his uncle's estate, and observed they were pretty men, meaning, not handsome, but stout warlike fellows. he put waverley in mind of one or two minute circumstances which had happened at a general review of the regiment, which satisfied him that the robber had been an eye- witness of it; and evan dhu having by this time retired from the conversation, and wrapped himself up in his plaid to take some repose, donald asked edward, in a very significant manner, whether he had nothing particular to say to him. waverley, surprised and somewhat startled at this question from such a character, answered, he had no motive in visiting him but curiosity to see his extraordinary place of residence. donald bean lean looked him steadily in the face for an instant, and then said, with a significant nod, 'you might as well have confided in me; i am as much worthy of trust as either the baron of bradwardine or vich ian vohr. but you are equally welcome to my house.' waverley felt an involuntary shudder creep over him at the mysterious language held by this outlawed and lawless bandit, which, in despite of his attempts to master it, deprived him of the power to ask the meaning of his insinuations. a heath pallet, with the flowers stuck uppermost, had been prepared for him in a recess of the cave, and here, covered with such spare plaids as could be mustered, he lay for some time watching the motions of the other inhabitants of the cavern. small parties of two or three entered or left the place, without any other ceremony than a few words in gaelic to the principal outlaw, and, when he fell asleep, to a tall highlander who acted as his lieutenant, and seemed to keep watch during his repose. those who entered seemed to have returned from some excursion, of which they reported the success, and went without farther ceremony to the larder, where, cutting with their dirks their rations from the carcasses which were there suspended, they proceeded to broil and eat them at their own pleasure and leisure. the liquor was under strict regulation, being served out either by donald himself, his lieutenant, or the strapping highland girl aforesaid, who was the only female that appeared. the allowance of whisky, however, would have appeared prodigal to any but highlanders, who, living entirely in the open air and in a very moist climate, can consume great quantities of ardent spirits without the usual baneful effects either upon the brain or constitution. at length the fluctuating groups began to swim before the eyes of our hero as they gradually closed; nor did he re-open them till the morning sun was high on the lake without, though there was but a faint and glimmering twilight in the recesses of uaimh an ri, or the king's cavern, as the abode of donald bean lean was proudly denominated. chapter xviii waverley proceeds on his journey when edward had collected his scattered recollection, he was surprised to observe the cavern totally deserted. having arisen and put his dress in some order, he looked more accurately round him; but all was still solitary. if it had not been for the decayed brands of the fire, now sunk into grey ashes, and the remnants of the festival, consisting of bones half burnt and half gnawed, and an empty keg or two, there remained no traces of donald and his band. when waverley sallied forth to the entrance of the cave, he perceived that the point of rock, on which remained the marks of last night's beacon, was accessible by a small path, either natural or roughly hewn in the rock, along the little inlet of water which ran a few yards up into the cavern, where, as in a wetdock, the skiff which brought him there the night before was still lying moored. when he reached the small projecting platform on which the beacon had been established, he would have believed his further progress by land impossible, only that it was scarce probable but what the inhabitants of the cavern had some mode of issuing from it otherwise than by the lake. accordingly, he soon observed three or four shelving steps, or ledges of rock, at the very extremity of the little platform; and, making use of them as a staircase, he clambered by their means around the projecting shoulder of the crag on which the cavern opened, and, descending with some difficulty on the other side, he gained the wild and precipitous shores of a highland loch, about four miles in length and a mile and a half across, surrounded by heathy and savage mountains, on the crests of which the morning mist was still sleeping. looking back to the place from which he came, he could not help admiring the address which had adopted a retreat of such seclusion and secrecy. the rock, round the shoulder of which he had turned by a few imperceptible notches, that barely afforded place for the foot, seemed, in looking back upon it, a huge precipice, which barred all further passage by the shores of the lake in that direction. there could be no possibility, the breadth of the lake considered, of descrying the entrance of the narrow and low-browed cave from the other side; so that, unless the retreat had been sought for with boats, or disclosed by treachery, it might be a safe and secret residence to its garrison as long as they were supplied with provisions. having satisfied his curiosity in these particulars, waverley looked around for evan dhu and his attendants, who, he rightly judged, would be at no great distance, whatever might have become of donald bean lean and his party, whose mode of life was, of course, liable to sudden migrations of abode. accordingly, at the distance of about half a mile, he beheld a highlander (evan apparently) angling in the lake, with another attending him, whom, from the weapon which he shouldered, he recognised for his friend with the battle-axe. much nearer to the mouth of the cave he heard the notes of a lively gaelic song, guided by which, in a sunny recess, shaded by a glittering birch-tree, and carpeted with a bank of firm white sand, he found the damsel of the cavern, whose lay had already reached him, busy, to the best of her power, in arranging to advantage a morning repast of milk, eggs, barley-bread, fresh butter, and honey-comb. the poor girl had already made a circuit of four miles that morning in search of the eggs, of the meal which baked her cakes, and of the other materials of the breakfast, being all delicacies which she had to beg or borrow from distant cottagers. the followers of donald bean lean used little food except the flesh of the animals which they drove away from the lowlands; bread itself was a delicacy seldom thought of, because hard to be obtained, and all the domestic accommodations of milk, poultry, butter, etc., were out of the question in this scythian camp. yet it must not be omitted that, although alice had occupied a part of the morning in providing those accommodations for her guest which the cavern did not afford, she had secured time also to arrange her own person in her best trim. her finery was very simple. a short russet-coloured jacket and a petticoat of scanty longitude was her whole dress; but these were clean, and neatly arranged. a piece of scarlet embroidered cloth, called the snood, confined her hair, which fell over it in a profusion of rich dark curls. the scarlet plaid, which formed part of her dress, was laid aside, that it might not impede her activity in attending the stranger. i should forget alice's proudest ornament were i to omit mentioning a pair of gold ear-rings and a, golden rosary, which her father (for she was the daughter of donald bean lean) had brought from france, the plunder, probably, of some battle or storm. her form, though rather large for her years, was very well proportioned, and her demeanour had a natural and rustic grace, with nothing of the sheepishness of an ordinary peasant. the smiles, displaying a row of teeth of exquisite whiteness, and the laughing eyes, with which, in dumb show, she gave waverley that morning greeting which she wanted english words to express, might have been interpreted by a coxcomb, or perhaps by a young soldier who, without being such, was conscious of a handsome person, as meant to convey more than the courtesy of an hostess. nor do i take it upon me to say that the little wild mountaineer would have welcomed any staid old gentleman advanced in life, the baron of bradwardine, for example, with the cheerful pains which she bestowed upon edward's accommodation. she seemed eager to place him by the meal which she had so sedulously arranged, and to which she now added a few bunches of cranberries, gathered in an adjacent morass. having had the satisfaction of seeing him seated at his breakfast, she placed herself demurely upon a stone at a few yards' distance, and appeared to watch with great complacency for some opportunity of serving him. evan and his attendant now returned slowly along the beach, the latter bearing a large salmon-trout, the produce of the morning's sport, together with the angling-rod, while evan strolled forward, with an easy, self-satisfied, and important gait, towards the spot where waverley was so agreeably employed at the breakfast-table. after morning greetings had passed on both sides, and evan, looking at waverley, had said something in gaelic to alice, which made her laugh, yet colour up to her eyes, through a complexion well en-browned by sun and wind, evan intimated his commands that the fish should be prepared for breakfast. a spark from the lock of his pistol produced a light, and a few withered fir branches were quickly in flame, and as speedily reduced to hot embers, on which the trout was broiled in large slices. to crown the repast, evan produced from the pocket of his short jerkin a large scallop shell, and from under the folds of his plaid a ram's horn full of whisky. of this he took a copious dram, observing he had already taken his morning with donald bean lean before his departure; he offered the same cordial to alice and to edward, which they both declined. with the bounteous air of a lord, evan then proffered the scallop to dugald mahony, his attendant, who, without waiting to be asked a second time, drank it off with great gusto. evan then prepared to move towards the boat, inviting waverley to attend him. meanwhile, alice had made up in a small basket what she thought worth removing, and flinging her plaid around her, she advanced up to edward, and with the utmost simplicity, taking hold of his hand, offered her cheek to his salute, dropping at the same time her little curtsy. evan, who was esteemed a wag among the mountain fair, advanced as if to secure a similar favour; but alice, snatching up her basket, escaped up the rocky bank as fleetly as a roe, and, turning round and laughing, called something out to him in gaelic, which he answered in the same tone and language; then, waving her hand to edward, she resumed her road, and was soon lost among the thickets, though they continued for some time to hear her lively carol, as she proceeded gaily on her solitary journey. they now again entered the gorge of the cavern, and stepping into the boat, the highlander pushed off, and, taking advantage of the morning breeze, hoisted a clumsy sort of sail, while evan assumed the helm, directing their course, as it appeared to waverley, rather higher up the lake than towards the place of his embarkation on the preceding night. as they glided along the silver mirror, evan opened the conversation with a panegyric upon alice, who, he said, was both canny and fendy; and was, to the boot of all that, the best dancer of a strathspey in the whole strath. edward assented to her praises so far as he understood them, yet could not help regretting that she was condemned to such a perilous and dismal life. 'oich! for that,' said evan, 'there is nothing in perthshire that she need want, if she ask her father to fetch it, unless it be too hot or too heavy.' 'but to be the daughter of a cattle-stealer--a common thief!' 'common thief!--no such thing: donald bean lean never lifted less than a drove in his life.' 'do you call him an uncommon thief, then?' 'no; he that steals a cow from a poor widow, or a stirk from a cotter, is a thief; he that lifts a drove from a sassenach laird is a gentleman-drover. and, besides, to take a tree from the forest, a salmon from the river, a deer from the hill, or a cow from a lowland strath, is what no highlander need ever think shame upon.' 'but what can this end in, were he taken in such an appropriation?' 'to be sure he would die for the law, as many a pretty man has done before him.' 'die for the law!' 'ay; that is, with the law, or by the law; be strapped up on the kind gallows of crieff, [footnote: see note .] where his father died, and his goodsire died, and where i hope he'll live to die himsell, if he's not shot, or slashed, in a creagh.' 'you hope such a death for your friend, evan?' 'and that do i e'en; would you have me wish him to die on a bundle of wet straw in yon den of his, like a mangy tyke?' 'but what becomes of alice, then?' 'troth, if such an accident were to happen, as her father would not need her help ony langer, i ken nought to hinder me to marry her mysell.' 'gallantly resolved,' said edward; 'but, in the meanwhile, evan, what has your father-in-law (that shall be, if he have the good fortune to be hanged) done with the baron's cattle?' 'oich,' answered evan,'they were all trudging before your lad and allan kennedy before the sun blinked ower ben lawers this morning; and they'll be in the pass of bally-brough by this time, in their way back to the parks of tully-veolan, all but two, that were unhappily slaughtered before i got last night to uaimh an ri.' 'and where are we going, evan, if i may be so bold as to ask?' said waverley. 'where would you be ganging, but to the laird's ain house of glennaquoich? ye would not think to be in his country, without ganging to see him? it would be as much as a man's life's worth.' 'and are we far from glennaquoich?' 'but five bits of miles; and vich ian vohr will meet us.' in about half an hour they reached the upper end of the lake, where, after landing waverley, the two highanders drew the boat into a little creek among thick flags and reeds, where it lay perfectly concealed. the oars they put in another place of concealment, both for the use of donald bean lean probably, when his occasions should next bring him to that place. the travellers followed for some time a delightful opening into the hills, down which a little brook found its way to the lake. when they had pursued their walk a short distance, waverley renewed his questions about their host of the cavern. 'does he always reside in that cave?' 'out, no! it's past the skill of man to tell where he's to be found at a' times; there's not a dern nook, or cove, or corrie, in the whole country that he's not acquainted with.' 'and do others beside your master shelter him?' 'my master? my master is in heaven,' answered evan, haughtily; and then immediately assuming his usual civility of manner, 'but you mean my chief;--no, he does not shelter donald bean lean, nor any that are like him; he only allows him (with a smile) wood and water.' 'no great boon, i should think, evan, when both seem to be very plenty.' 'ah! but ye dinna see through it. when i say wood and water, i mean the loch and the land; and i fancy donald would be put till 't if the laird were to look for him wi' threescore men in the wood of kailychat yonder; and if our boats, with a score or twa mair, were to come down the loch to uaimh an ri, headed by mysell, or ony other pretty man.' 'but suppose a strong party came against him from the low country, would not your chief defend him?' 'na, he would not ware the spark of a flint for him--if they came with the law.' 'and what must donald do, then?' 'he behoved to rid this country of himsell, and fall back, it may be, over the mount upon letter scriven.' 'and if he were pursued to that place?' 'i'se warrant he would go to his cousin's at rannoch.' 'well, but if they followed him to rannoch?' 'that,' quoth evan, 'is beyond all belief; and, indeed, to tell you the truth, there durst not a lowlander in all scotland follow the fray a gun-shot beyond bally-brough, unless he had the help of the sidier dhu.' 'whom do you call so?' 'the sidier dhu? the black soldier; that is what they call the independent companies that were raised to keep peace and law in the highlands. vich ian vohr commanded one of them for five years, and i was sergeant mysell, i shall warrant ye. they call them sidier dhu because they wear the tartans, as they call your men-- king george's men--sidier roy, or red soldiers.' 'well, but when you were in king george's pay, evan, you were surely king george's soldiers?' 'troth, and you must ask vich ian vohr about that; for we are for his king, and care not much which o' them it is. at ony rate, nobody can say we are king george's men now, when we have not seen his pay this twelve-month.' this last argument admitted of no reply, nor did edward attempt any; he rather chose to bring back the discourse to donald bean lean. 'does donald confine himself to cattle, or does he lift, as you call it, anything else that comes in his way?' 'troth, he's nae nice body, and he'll just tak onything, but most readily cattle, horse, or live christians; for sheep are slow of travel, and inside plenishing is cumbrous to carry, and not easy to put away for siller in this country.' 'but does he carry off men and women?' 'out, ay. did not ye hear him speak o' the perth bailie? it cost that body five hundred merks ere he got to the south of bally- brough. and ance donald played a pretty sport. [footnote: see note .] there was to be a blythe bridal between the lady cramfeezer, in the howe o' the mearns (she was the auld laird's widow, and no sae young as she had been hersell), and young gilliewhackit, who had spent his heirship and movables, like a gentleman, at cock- matches, bull-baitings, horse-races, and the like. now, donald bean lean, being aware that the bridegroom was in request, and wanting to cleik the cunzie (that is, to hook the siller), he cannily carried off gilliewhackit ae night when he was riding dovering hame (wi' the malt rather abune the meal), and with the help of his gillies he gat him into the hills with the speed of light, and the first place he wakened in was the cove of uaimh an ri. so there was old to do about ransoming the bridegroom; for donald would not lower a farthing of a thousand punds--' 'the devil!' 'punds scottish, ye shall understand. and the lady had not the siller if she had pawned her gown; and they applied to the governor o' stirling castle, and to the major o' the black watch; and the governor said it was ower far to the northward, and out of his district; and the major said his men were gane hame to the shearing, and he would not call them out before the victual was got in for all the cramfeezers in christendom, let alane the mearns, for that it would prejudice the country. and in the meanwhile ye'll no hinder gilliewhackit to take the small-pox. there was not the doctor in perth or stirling would look near the poor lad; and i cannot blame them, for donald had been misguggled by ane of these doctors about paris, and he swore he would fling the first into the loch that he catched beyond the pass. however some cailliachs (that is, old women) that were about donald's hand nursed gilliewhackit sae weel that, between the free open air in the cove and the fresh whey, deil an he did not recover maybe as weel as if he had been closed in a glazed chamber and a bed with curtains, and fed with red wine and white meat. and donald was sae vexed about it that, when he was stout and weel, he even sent him free home, and said he would be pleased with onything they would like to gie him for the plague and trouble which he had about gilliewhackit to an unkenn'd degree. and i cannot tell you precisely how they sorted; but they agreed sae right that donald was invited to dance at the wedding in his highland trews, and they said that there was never sae meikle siller clinked in his purse either before or since. and to the boot of all that, gilliewhackit said that, be the evidence what it liked, if he had the luck to be on donald's inquest, he would bring him in guilty of nothing whatever, unless it were wilful arson or murder under trust.' with such bald and disjointed chat evan went on illustrating the existing state of the highlands, more perhaps to the amusement of waverley than that of our readers. at length, after having marched over bank and brae, moss and heather, edward, though not unacquainted with the scottish liberality in computing distance, began to think that evan's five miles were nearly doubled. his observation on the large measure which the scottish allowed of their land, in comparison to the computation of their money, was readily answered by evan with the old jest, 'the deil take them wha have the least pint stoup.' [footnote: the scotch are liberal in computing their land and liquor; the scottish pint corresponds to two english quarts. as for their coin, every one knows the couplet-- how can the rogues pretend to sense? their pound is only twenty pence.] and now the report of a gun was heard, and a sportsman was seen, with his dogs and attendant, at the upper end of the glen. 'shough,' said dugald mahony, 'tat's ta chief.' 'it is not,' said evan, imperiously. 'do you think he would come to meet a sassenach duinhe-wassel in such a way as that?' but as they approached a little nearer, he said, with an appearance of mortification, 'and it is even he, sure enough; and he has not his tail on after all; there is no living creature with him but callum beg.' in fact, fergus mac-ivor, of whom a frenchman might have said as truly as of any man in the highlands, 'qu'il connoit bien ses gens' had no idea of raising himself in the eyes of an english young man of fortune by appearing with a retinue of idle highlanders disproportioned to the occasion. he was well aware that such an unnecessary attendance would seem to edward rather ludicrous than respectable; and, while few men were more attached to ideas of chieftainship and feudal power, he was, for that very reason, cautious of exhibiting external marks of dignity, unless at the time and in the manner when they were most likely to produce an imposing effect. therefore, although, had he been to receive a brother chieftain, he would probably have been attended by all that retinue which evan described with so much unction, he judged it more respectable to advance to meet waverley with a single attendant, a very handsome highland boy, who carried his master's shooting-pouch and his broadsword, without which he seldom went abroad. when fergus and waverley met, the latter was struck with the peculiar grace and dignity of the chieftain's figure. above the middle size and finely proportioned, the highland dress, which he wore in its simplest mode, set off his person to great advantage. he wore the trews, or close trowsers, made of tartan, chequed scarlet and white; in other particulars his dress strictly resembled evan's, excepting that he had no weapon save a dirk, very richly mounted with silver. his page, as we have said, carried his claymore; and the fowling-piece, which he held in his hand, seemed only designed for sport. he had shot in the course of his walk some young wild-ducks, as, though close time was then unknown, the broods of grouse were yet too young for the sportsman. his countenance was decidedly scottish, with all the peculiarities of the northern physiognomy, but yet had so little of its harshness and exaggeration that it would have been pronounced in any country extremely handsome. the martial air of the bonnet, with a single eagle's feather as a distinction, added much to the manly appearance of his head, which was besides ornamented with a far more natural and graceful cluster of close black curls than ever were exposed to sale in bond street. an air of openness and affability increased the favorable impression derived from this handsome and dignified exterior. yet a skilful physiognomist would have been less satisfied with the countenance on the second than on the first view. the eyebrow and upper lip bespoke something of the habit of peremptory command and decisive superiority. even his courtesy, though open, frank, and unconstrained, seemed to indicate a sense of personal importance; and, upon any check or accidental excitation, a sudden, though transient lour of the eye showed a hasty, haughty, and vindictive temper, not less to be dreaded because it seemed much under its owner's command. in short, the countenance of the chieftain resembled a smiling summer's day, in which, notwithstanding, we are made sensible by certain, though slight signs that it may thunder and lighten before the close of evening. it was not, however, upon their first meeting that edward had an opportunity of making these less favourable remarks. the chief received him as a friend of the baron of bradwardine, with the utmost expression of kindness and obligation for the visit; upbraided him gently with choosing so rude an abode as he had done the night before; and entered into a lively conversation with him about donald bean's housekeeping, but without the least hint as to his predatory habits, or the immediate occasion of waverley's visit, a topic which, as the chief did not introduce it, our hero also avoided. while they walked merrily on towards the house of glennaquoich, evan, who now fell respectfully into the rear, followed with callum beg and dugald mahony. we shall take the opportunity to introduce the reader to some particulars of fergus mac-ivor's character and history, which were not completely known to waverley till after a connection which, though arising from a circumstance so casual, had for a length of time the deepest influence upon his character, actions, and prospects. but this, being an important subject, must form the commencement of a new chapter. chapter xix the chief and his mansion the ingenious licentiate francisco de ubeda, when he commenced his history of 'la picara justina diez,'--which, by the way, is one of the most rare books of spanish literature,--complained of his pen having caught up a hair, and forthwith begins, with more eloquence than common sense, an affectionate expostulation with that useful implement, upbraiding it with being the quill of a goose,--a bird inconstant by nature, as frequenting the three elements of water, earth, and air indifferently, and being, of course, 'to one thing constant never.' now i protest to thee, gentle reader, that i entirely dissent from francisco de ubeda in this matter, and hold it the most useful quality of my pen, that it can speedily change from grave to gay, and from description and dialogue to narrative and character. so that if my quill display no other properties of its mother-goose than her mutability, truly i shall be well pleased; and i conceive that you, my worthy friend, will have no occasion for discontent. from the jargon, therefore, of the highland gillies i pass to the character of their chief. it is an important examination, and therefore, like dogberry, we must spare no wisdom. the ancestor of fergus mac-ivor, about three centuries before, had set up a claim to be recognised as chief of the numerous and powerful clan to which he belonged, the name of which it is unnecessary to mention. being defeated by an opponent who had more justice, or at least more force, on his side, he moved southwards, with those who adhered to him, in quest of new settlements, like a second aeneas. the state of the perthshire highlands favoured his purpose. a great baron in that country had lately become traitor to the crown; ian, which was the name of our adventurer, united himself with those who were commissioned by the king to chastise him, and did such good service that he obtained a grant of the property, upon which he and his posterity afterwards resided. he followed the king also in war to the fertile regions of england, where he employed his leisure hours so actively in raising subsidies among the boors of northumberland and durham, that upon his return he was enabled to erect a stone tower, or fortalice, so much admired by his dependants and neighbours that he, who had hitherto been called ian mac-ivor, or john the son of ivor, was thereafter distinguished, both in song and genealogy, by the high title of ian nan chaistel, or john of the tower. the descendants of this worthy were so proud of him that the reigning chief always bore the patronymic title of vich ian vohr, i.e. the son of john the great; while the clan at large, to distinguish them from that from which they had seceded, were denominated sliochd nan ivor, the race of ivor. the father of fergus, the tenth in direct descent from john of the tower, engaged heart and hand in the insurrection of , and was forced to fly to france, after the attempt of that year in favour of the stuarts had proved unsuccessful. more fortunate than other fugitives, he obtained employment in the french service, and married a lady of rank in that kingdom, by whom he had two children, fergus and his sister flora. the scottish estate had been forfeited and exposed to sale, but was repurchased for a small price in the name of the young proprietor, who in consequence came to reside upon his native domains. [footnote: see note .] it was soon perceived that he possessed a character of uncommon acuteness, fire, and ambition, which, as he became acquainted with the state of the country, gradually assumed a mixed and peculiar tone, that could only have been acquired sixty years since. had fergus mac-ivor lived sixty years sooner than he did, he would in all probability have wanted the polished manner and knowledge of the world which he now possessed; and had he lived sixty years later, his ambition and love of rule would have lacked the fuel which his situation now afforded. he was indeed, within his little circle, as perfect a politician as castruccio castracani himself. he applied himself with great earnestness to appease all the feuds and dissensions which often arose among other clans in his neighbourhood, so that he became a frequent umpire in their quarrels. his own patriarchal power he strengthened at every expense which his fortune would permit, and indeed stretched his means to the uttermost to maintain the rude and plentiful hospitality which was the most valued attribute of a chieftain. for the same reason he crowded his estate with a tenantry, hardy indeed, and fit for the purposes of war, but greatly outnumbering what the soil was calculated to maintain. these consisted chiefly of his own clan, not one of whom he suffered to quit his lands if he could possibly prevent it. but he maintained, besides, many adventurers from the mother sept, who deserted a less warlike, though more wealthy chief to do homage to fergus mac-ivor. other individuals, too, who had not even that apology, were nevertheless received into his allegiance, which indeed was refused to none who were, like poins, proper men of their hands, and were willing to assume the name of mac-ivor. he was enabled to discipline these forces, from having obtained command of one of the independent companies raised by government to preserve the peace of the highlands. while in this capacity he acted with vigour and spirit, and preserved great order in the country under his charge. he caused his vassals to enter by rotation into his company, and serve for a certain space of time, which gave them all in turn a general notion of military discipline. in his campaigns against the banditti, it was observed that he assumed and exercised to the utmost the discretionary power which, while the law had no free course in the highlands, was conceived to belong to the military parties who were called in to support it. he acted, for example, with great and suspicious lenity to those freebooters who made restitution on his summons and offered personal submission to himself, while he rigorously pursued, apprehended, and sacrificed to justice all such interlopers as dared to despise his admonitions or commands. on the other hand, if any officers of justice, military parties, or others, presumed to pursue thieves or marauders through his territories, and without applying for his consent and concurrence, nothing was more certain than that they would meet with some notable foil or defeat; upon which occasions fergus mac-ivor was the first to condole with them, and after gently blaming their rashness, never failed deeply to lament the lawless state of the country. these lamentations did not exclude suspicion, and matters were so represented to government that our chieftain was deprived of his military command. [footnote: see note .] whatever fergus mac-ivor felt on this occasion, he had the art of entirely suppressing every appearance of discontent; but in a short time the neighbouring country began to feel bad effects from his disgrace. donald bean lean, and others of his class, whose depredations had hitherto been confined to other districts, appeared from thenceforward to have made a settlement on this devoted border; and their ravages were carried on with little opposition, as the lowland gentry were chiefly jacobites, and disarmed. this forced many of the inhabitants into contracts of black-mail with fergus mac-ivor, which not only established him their protector, and gave him great weight in all their consultations, but, moreover, supplied funds for the waste of his feudal hospitality, which the discontinuance of his pay might have otherwise essentially diminished. in following this course of conduct, fergus had a further object than merely being the great man of his neighbourhood, and ruling despotically over a small clan. from his infancy upward he had devoted himself to the cause of the exiled family, and had persuaded himself, not only that their restoration to the crown of britain would be speedy, but that those who assisted them would be raised to honour and rank. it was with this view that he laboured to reconcile the highlanders among themselves, and augmented his own force to the utmost, to be prepared for the first favourable opportunity of rising. with this purpose also he conciliated the favour of such lowland gentlemen in the vicinity as were friends to the good cause; and for the same reason, having incautiously quarrelled with mr. bradwardine, who, notwithstanding his peculiarities, was much respected in the country, he took advantage of the foray of donald bean lean to solder up the dispute in the manner we have mentioned. some, indeed, surmised that he caused the enterprise to be suggested to donald, on purpose to pave the way to a reconciliation, which, supposing that to be the case, cost the laird of bradwardine two good milch cows. this zeal in their behalf the house of stuart repaid with a considerable share of their confidence, an occasional supply of louis-d'or, abundance of fair words, and a parchment, with a huge waxen seal appended, purporting to be an earl's patent, granted by no less a person than james the third king of england, and eighth king of scotland, to his right feal, trusty, and well-beloved fergus mac-ivor of glennaquoich, in the county of perth, and kingdom of scotland. with this future coronet glittering before his eyes, fergus plunged deeply into the correspondence and plots of that unhappy period; and, like all such active agents, easily reconciled his conscience to going certain lengths in the service of his party, from which honour and pride would have deterred him had his sole object been the direct advancement of his own personal interest. with this insight into a bold, ambitious, and ardent, yet artful and politic character, we resume the broken thread of our narrative. the chief and his guest had by this time reached the house of glennaquoich, which consisted of ian nan chaistel's mansion, a high rude-looking square tower, with the addition of a lofted house, that is, a building of two stories, constructed by fergus's grandfather when he returned from that memorable expedition, well remembered by the western shires under the name of the highland host. upon occasion of this crusade against the ayrshire whigs and covenanters, the vich ian vohr of the time had probably been as successful as his predecessor was in harrying northumberland, and therefore left to his posterity a rival edifice as a monument of his magnificence. around the house, which stood on an eminence in the midst of a narrow highland valley, there appeared none of that attention to convenience, far less to ornament and decoration, which usually surrounds a gentleman's habitation. an inclosure or two, divided by dry-stone walls, were the only part of the domain that was fenced; as to the rest, the narrow slips of level ground which lay by the side of the brook exhibited a scanty crop of barley, liable to constant depredations from the herds of wild ponies and black cattle that grazed upon the adjacent hills. these ever and anon made an incursion upon the arable ground, which was repelled by the loud, uncouth, and dissonant shouts of half a dozen highland swains, all running as if they had been mad, and every one hallooing a half-starved dog to the rescue of the forage. at a little distance up the glen was a small and stunted wood of birch; the hills were high and heathy, but without any variety of surface; so that the whole view was wild and desolate rather than grand and solitary. yet, such as it was, no genuine descendant of ian nan chaistel would have changed the domain for stow or blenheim. there was a sight, however, before the gate, which perhaps would have afforded the first owner of blenheim more pleasure than the finest view in the domain assigned to him by the gratitude of his country. this consisted of about a hundred highlanders, in complete dress and arms; at sight of whom the chieftain apologised to waverley in a sort of negligent manner. 'he had forgot,' he said, 'that he had ordered a few of his clan out, for the purpose of seeing that they were in a fit condition to protect the country, and prevent such accidents as, he was sorry to learn, had befallen the baron of bradwardine. before they were dismissed, perhaps captain waverley might choose to see them go through a part of their exercise.' edward assented, and the men executed with agility and precision some of the ordinary military movements. they then practised individually at a mark, and showed extraordinary dexterity in the management of the pistol and firelock. they took aim, standing, sitting, leaning, or lying prostrate, as they were commanded, and always with effect upon the target. next, they paired off for the broadsword exercise; and, having manifested their individual skill and dexterity, united in two bodies, and exhibited a sort of mock encounter, in which the charge, the rally, the flight, the pursuit, and all the current of a heady fight, were exhibited to the sound of the great war bagpipe. on a signal made by the chief, the skirmish was ended. matches were then made for running, wrestling, leaping, pitching the bar, and other sports, in which this feudal militia displayed incredible swiftness, strength, and agility; and accomplished the purpose which their chieftain had at heart, by impressing on waverley no light sense of their merit as soldiers, and of the power of him who commanded them by his nod. [footnote: see note .] 'and what number of such gallant fellows have the happiness to call you leader?' asked waverley. 'in a good cause, and under a chieftain whom they loved, the race of ivor have seldom taken the field under five hundred claymores. but you are aware, captain waverley, that the disarming act, passed about twenty years ago, prevents their being in the complete state of preparation as in former times; and i keep no more of my clan under arms than may defend my own or my friends' property, when the country is troubled with such men as your last night's landlord; and government, which has removed other means of defence, must connive at our protecting ourselves.' 'but, with your force, you might soon destroy or put down such gangs as that of donald bean lean.' 'yes, doubtless; and my reward would be a summons to deliver up to general blakeney, at stirling, the few broadswords they have left us; there were little policy in that, methinks. but come, captain, the sound of the pipes informs me that dinner is prepared. let me have the honour to show you into my rude mansion.' chapter xx a highland feast ere waverley entered the banqueting hall, he was offered the patriarchal refreshment of a bath for the feet, which the sultry weather, and the morasses he had traversed, rendered highly acceptable. he was not, indeed, so luxuriously attended upon this occasion as the heroic travellers in the odyssey; the task of ablution and abstersion being performed, not by a beautiful damsel, trained to chafe the limb, and pour the fragrant oil, but by a smoke-dried skinny old highland woman, who did not seem to think herself much honoured by the duty imposed upon her, but muttered between her teeth, 'our fathers' herds did not feed so near together that i should do you this service.' a small donation, however, amply reconciled this ancient handmaiden to the supposed degradation; and, as edward proceeded to the hall, she gave him her blessing in the gaelic proverb, 'may the open hand be filled the fullest.' the hall, in which the feast was prepared, occupied all the first story of lan nan chaistel's original erection, and a huge oaken table extended through its whole length. the apparatus for dinner was simple, even to rudeness, and the company numerous, even to crowding. at the head of the table was the chief himself, with edward, and two or three highland visitors of neighbouring clans; the elders of his own tribe, wadsetters and tacksmen, as they were called, who occupied portions of his estate as mortgagers or lessees, sat next in rank; beneath them, their sons and nephews and foster-brethren; then the officers of the chief's household, according to their order; and lowest of all, the tenants who actually cultivated the ground. even beyond this long perspective, edward might see upon the green, to which a huge pair of folding doors opened, a multitude of highlanders of a yet inferior description, who, nevertheless, were considered as guests, and had their share both of the countenance of the entertainer and of the cheer of the day. in the distance, and fluctuating round this extreme verge of the banquet, was a changeful group of women, ragged boys and girls, beggars, young and old, large greyhounds, and terriers, and pointers, and curs of low degree; all of whom took some interest, more or less immediate, in the main action of the piece. this hospitality, apparently unbounded, had yet its line of economy. some pains had been bestowed in dressing the dishes of fish, game, etc., which were at the upper end of the table, and immediately under the eye of the english stranger. lower down stood immense clumsy joints of mutton and beef, which, but for the absence of pork, [footnote: see note .] abhorred in the highlands, resembled the rude festivity of the banquet of penelope's suitors. but the central dish was a yearling lamb, called 'a hog in har'st,' roasted whole. it was set upon its legs, with a bunch of parsley in its mouth, and was probably exhibited in that form to gratify the pride of the cook, who piqued himself more on the plenty than the elegance of his master's table. the sides of this poor animal were fiercely attacked by the clansmen, some with dirks, others with the knives which were usually in the same sheath with the dagger, so that it was soon rendered a mangled and rueful spectacle. lower down still, the victuals seemed of yet coarser quality, though sufficiently abundant. broth, onions, cheese, and the fragments of the feast regaled the sons of ivor who feasted in the open air. the liquor was supplied in the same proportion, and under similar regulations. excellent claret and champagne were liberally distributed among the chief's immediate neighbours; whisky, plain or diluted, and strong beer refreshed those who sat near the lower end. nor did this inequality of distribution appear to give the least offence. every one present understood that his taste was to be formed according to the rank which he held at table; and, consequently, the tacksmen and their dependants always professed the wine was too cold for their stomachs, and called, apparently out of choice, for the liquor which was assigned to them from economy. [footnote: see note .] the bag-pipers, three in number, screamed, during the whole time of dinner, a tremendous war-tune; and the echoing of the vaulted roof, and clang of the celtic tongue, produced such a babel of noises that waverley dreaded his ears would never recover it. mac-ivor, indeed, apologised for the confusion occasioned by so large a party, and pleaded the necessity of his situation, on which unlimited hospitality was imposed as a paramount duty. 'these stout idle kinsmen of mine,' he said, 'account my estate as held in trust for their support; and i must find them beef and ale, while the rogues will do nothing for themselves but practise the broadsword, or wander about the hills, shooting, fishing, hunting, drinking, and making love to the lasses of the strath. but what can i do, captain waverley? everything will keep after its kind, whether it be a hawk or a highlander.' edward made the expected answer, in a compliment upon his possessing so many bold and attached followers. 'why, yes,' replied the chief, 'were i disposed, like my father, to put myself in the way of getting one blow on the head, or two on the neck, i believe the loons would stand by me. but who thinks of that in the present day, when the maxim is, "better an old woman with a purse in her hand than three men with belted brands"?' then, turning to the company, he proposed the 'health of captain waverley, a worthy friend of his kind neighbour and ally, the baron of bradwardine.' 'he is welcome hither,' said one of the elders, 'if he come from cosmo comyne bradwardine.' 'i say nay to that,' said an old man, who apparently did not mean to pledge the toast; 'i say nay to that. while there is a green leaf in the forest, there will be fraud in a comyne. 'there is nothing but honour in the baron of bradwardine,' answered another ancient; 'and the guest that comes hither from him should be welcome, though he came with blood on his hand, unless it were blood of the race of ivor.' the old man whose cup remained full replied, 'there has been blood enough of the race of ivor on the hand of bradwardine.' 'ah! ballenkeiroch,' replied the first, 'you think rather of the flash of the carbine at the mains of tully-veolan than the glance of the sword that fought for the cause at preston.' 'and well i may,' answered ballenkeiroch; 'the flash of the gun cost me a fair-haired son, and the glance of the sword has done but little for king james.' the chieftain, in two words of french, explained to waverley that the baron had shot this old man's son in a fray near tully-veolan, about seven years before; and then hastened to remove ballenkeiroch's prejudice, by informing him that waverley was an englishman, unconnected by birth or alliance with the family of bradwardine; upon which the old gentleman raised the hitherto- untasted cup and courteously drank to his health. this ceremony being requited in kind, the chieftain made a signal for the pipes to cease, and said aloud, 'where is the song hidden, my friends, that mac-murrough cannot find it?' mac-murrough, the family bhairdh, an aged man, immediately took the hint, and began to chant, with low and rapid utterance, a profusion of celtic verses, which were received by the audience with all the applause of enthusiasm. as he advanced in his declamation, his ardour seemed to increase. he had at first spoken with his eyes fixed on the ground; he now cast them around as if beseeching, and anon as if commanding, attention, and his tones rose into wild and impassioned notes, accompanied with appropriate gestures. he seemed to edward, who attended to him with much interest, to recite many proper names, to lament the dead, to apostrophise the absent, to exhort, and entreat, and animate those who were present. waverley thought he even discerned his own name, and was convinced his conjecture was right from the eyes of the company being at that moment turned towards him simultaneously. the ardour of the poet appeared to communicate itself to the audience. their wild and sun-burnt countenances assumed a fiercer and more animated expression; all bent forward towards the reciter, many sprung up and waved their arms in ecstasy, and some laid their hands on their swords. when the song ceased, there was a deep pause, while the aroused feelings of the poet and of the hearers gradually subsided into their usual channel. the chieftain, who, during this scene had appeared rather to watch the emotions which were excited than to partake their high tone of enthusiasm, filled with claret a small silver cup which stood by him. 'give this,' he said to an attendant, 'to mac-murrough nan fonn (i.e. of the songs), and when he has drank the juice, bid him keep, for the sake of vich ian vohr, the shell of the gourd which contained it.' the gift was received by mac-murrough with profound gratitude; he drank the wine, and, kissing the cup, shrouded it with reverence in the plaid which was folded on his bosom. he then burst forth into what edward justly supposed to be an extemporaneous effusion of thanks and praises of his chief. it was received with applause, but did not produce the effect of his first poem. it was obvious, however, that the clan regarded the generosity of their chieftain with high approbation. many approved gaelic toasts were then proposed, of some of which the chieftain gave his guest the following versions:-- 'to him that will not turn his back on friend or foe.' 'to him that never forsook a comrade.' 'to him that never bought or sold justice.' 'hospitality to the exile, and broken bones to the tyrant.' 'the lads with the kilts.' 'highlanders, shoulder to shoulder,'--with many other pithy sentiments of the like nature. edward was particularly solicitous to know the meaning of that song which appeared to produce such effect upon the passions of the company, and hinted his curiosity to his host. 'as i observe,' said the chieftain, 'that you have passed the bottle during the last three rounds, i was about to propose to you to retire to my sister's tea-table, who can explain these things to you better than i can. although i cannot stint my clan in the usual current of their festivity, yet i neither am addicted myself to exceed in its amount, nor do i,' added he, smiling, 'keep a bear to devour the intellects of such as can make good use of them.' edward readily assented to this proposal, and the chieftain, saying a few words to those around him, left the table, followed by waverley. as the door closed behind them, edward heard vich ian vohr's health invoked with a wild and animated cheer, that expressed the satisfaction of the guests and the depth of their devotion to his service. chapter xxi the chieftain's sister the drawing-room of flora mac-ivor was furnished in the plainest and most simple manner; for at glennaquoich every other sort of expenditure was retrenched as much as possible, for the purpose of maintaining, in its full dignity, the hospitality of the chieftain, and retaining and multiplying the number of his dependants and adherents. but there was no appearance of this parsimony in the dress of the lady herself, which was in texture elegant, and even rich, and arranged in a manner which partook partly of the parisian fashion and partly of the more simple dress of the highlands, blended together with great taste. her hair was not disfigured by the art of the friseur, but fell in jetty ringlets on her neck, confined only by a circlet, richly set with diamonds. this peculiarity she adopted in compliance with the highland prejudices, which could not endure that a woman's head should be covered before wedlock. flora mac-ivor bore a most striking resemblance to her brother fergus; so much so that they might have played viola and sebastian with the same exquisite effect produced by the appearance of mrs. henry siddons and her brother, mr. william murray, in these characters. they had the same antique and regular correctness of profile; the same dark eyes, eye-lashes, and eye-brows; the same clearness of complexion, excepting that fergus's was embrowned by exercise and flora's possessed the utmost feminine delicacy. but the haughty and somewhat stern regularity of fergus's features was beautifully softened in those of flora. their voices were also similar in tone, though differing in the key. that of fergus, especially while issuing orders to his followers during their military exercise, reminded edward of a favourite passage in the description of emetrius: --whose voice was heard around, loud as a trumpet with a silver sound. that of flora, on the contrary, was soft and sweet--'an excellent thing in woman'; yet, in urging any favourite topic, which she often pursued with natural eloquence, it possessed as well the tones which impress awe and conviction as those of persuasive insinuation. the eager glance of the keen black eye, which, in the chieftain, seemed impatient even of the material obstacles it encountered, had in his sister acquired a gentle pensiveness. his looks seemed to seek glory, power, all that could exalt him above others in the race of humanity; while those of his sister, as if she were already conscious of mental superiority, seemed to pity, rather than envy, those who were struggling for any farther distinction. her sentiments corresponded with the expression of her countenance. early education had impressed upon her mind, as well as on that of the chieftain, the most devoted attachment to the exiled family of stuart. she believed it the duty of her brother, of his clan, of every man in britain, at whatever personal hazard, to contribute to that restoration which the partisans of the chevalier st. george had not ceased to hope for. for this she was prepared to do all, to suffer all, to sacrifice all. but her loyalty, as it exceeded her brother's in fanaticism, excelled it also in purity. accustomed to petty intrigue, and necessarily involved in a thousand paltry and selfish discussions, ambitious also by nature, his political faith was tinctured, at least, if not tainted, by the views of interest and advancement so easily combined with it; and at the moment he should unsheathe his claymore, it might be difficult to say whether it would be most with the view of making james stuart a king or fergus mac-ivor an earl. this, indeed, was a mixture of feeling which he did not avow even to himself, but it existed, nevertheless, in a powerful degree. in flora's bosom, on the contrary, the zeal of loyalty burnt pure and unmixed with any selfish feeling; she would have as soon made religion the mask of ambitious and interested views as have shrouded them under the opinions which she had been taught to think patriotism. such instances of devotion were not uncommon among the followers of the unhappy race of stuart, of which many memorable proofs will recur to the minds of most of my readers. but peculiar attention on the part of the chevalier de st. george and his princess to the parents of fergus and his sister, and to themselves when orphans, had riveted their faith. fergus, upon the death of his parents, had been for some time a page of honour in the train of the chevalier's lady, and, from his beauty and sprightly temper, was uniformly treated by her with the utmost distinction. this was also extended to flora, who was maintained for some time at a convent of the first order at the princess's expense, and removed from thence into her own family, where she spent nearly two years. both brother and sister retained the deepest and most grateful sense of her kindness. having thus touched upon the leading principle of flora's character, i may dismiss the rest more slightly. she was highly accomplished, and had acquired those elegant manners to be expected from one who, in early youth, had been the companion of a princess; yet she had not learned to substitute the gloss of politeness for the reality of feeling. when settled in the lonely regions of glennaquoich, she found that her resources in french, english, and italian literature were likely to be few and interrupted; and, in order to fill up the vacant time, she bestowed a part of it upon the music and poetical traditions of the highlanders, and began really to feel the pleasure in the pursuit which her brother, whose perceptions of literary merit were more blunt, rather affected for the sake of popularity than actually experienced. her resolution was strengthened in these researches by the extreme delight which her inquiries seemed to afford those to whom she resorted for information. her love of her clan, an attachment which was almost hereditary in her bosom, was, like her loyalty, a more pure passion than that of her brother. he was too thorough a politician, regarded his patriarchal influence too much as the means of accomplishing his own aggrandisement, that we should term him the model of a highland chieftain. flora felt the same anxiety for cherishing and extending their patriarchal sway, but it was with the generous desire of vindicating from poverty, or at least from want and foreign oppression, those whom her brother was by birth, according to the notions of the time and country, entitled to govern. the savings of her income, for she had a small pension from the princess sobieski, were dedicated, not to add to the comforts of the peasantry, for that was a word which they neither knew nor apparently wished to know, but to relieve their absolute necessities when in sickness or extreme old age. at every other period they rather toiled to procure something which they might share with the chief, as a proof of their attachment, than expected other assistance from him save what was afforded by the rude hospitality of his castle, and the general division and subdivision of his estate among them. flora was so much beloved by them that, when mac-murrough composed a song in which he enumerated all the principal beauties of the district, and intimated her superiority by concluding, that 'the fairest apple hung on the highest bough,' he received, in donatives from the individuals of the clan, more seed-barley than would have sowed his highland parnassus, the bard's croft, as it was called, ten times over. from situation as well as choice, miss mac-ivor's society was extremely limited. her most intimate friend had been rose bradwardine, to whom she was much attached; and when seen together, they would have afforded an artist two admirable subjects for the gay and the melancholy muse. indeed rose was so tenderly watched by her father, and her circle of wishes was so limited, that none arose but what he was willing to gratify, and scarce any which did not come within the compass of his power. with flora it was otherwise. while almost a girl she had undergone the most complete change of scene, from gaiety and splendour to absolute solitude and comparative poverty; and the ideas and wishes which she chiefly fostered respected great national events, and changes not to be brought round without both hazard and bloodshed, and therefore not to be thought of with levity. her manner, consequently, was grave, though she readily contributed her talents to the amusement of society, and stood very high in the opinion of the old baron, who used to sing along with her such french duets of lindor and cloris, etc., as were in fashion about the end of the reign of old louis le grand. it was generally believed, though no one durst have hinted it to the baron of bradwardine, that flora's entreaties had no small share in allaying the wrath of fergus upon occasion of their quarrel. she took her brother on the assailable side, by dwelling first upon the baron's age, and then representing the injury which the cause might sustain, and the damage which must arise to his own character in point of prudence--so necessary to a political agent, if he persisted in carrying it to extremity. otherwise it is probable it would have terminated in a duel, both because the baron had, on a former occasion, shed blood of the clan, though the matter had been timely accommodated, and on account of his high reputation for address at his weapon, which fergus almost condescended to envy. for the same reason she had urged their reconciliation, which the chieftain the more readily agreed to as it favoured some ulterior projects of his own. to this young lady, now presiding at the female empire of the tea- table, fergus introduced captain waverley, whom she received with the usual forms of politeness. chapter xxii highland minstrelsy when the first salutations had passed, fergus said to his sister, 'my dear flora, before i return to the barbarous ritual of our forefathers, i must tell you that captain waverley is a worshipper of the celtic muse, not the less so perhaps that he does not understand a word of her language. i have told him you are eminent as a translator of highland poetry, and that mac-murrough admires your version of his songs upon the same principle that captain waverley admires the original,--because he does not comprehend them. will you have the goodness to read or recite to our guest in english the extraordinary string of names which mac-murrough has tacked together in gaelic? my life to a moor-fowl's feather, you are provided with a version; for i know you are in all the bard's councils, and acquainted with his songs long before he rehearses them in the hall.' 'how can you say so, fergus? you know how little these verses can possibly interest an english stranger, even if i could translate them as you pretend.' 'not less than they interest me, lady fair. to-day your joint composition, for i insist you had a share in it, has cost me the last silver cup in the castle, and i suppose will cost me something else next time i hold cour pleniere, if the muse descends on mac-murrough; for you know our proverb,--"when the hand of the chief ceases to bestow, the breath of the bard is frozen in the utterance."--well, i would it were even so: there are three things that are useless to a modern highlander,--a sword which he must not draw, a bard to sing of deeds which he dare not imitate, and a large goat-skin purse without a louis-d'or to put into it.' 'well, brother, since you betray my secrets, you cannot expect me to keep yours. i assure you, captain waverley, that fergus is too proud to exchange his broadsword for a marechal's baton, that he esteems mac-murrough a far greater poet than homer, and would not give up his goat-skin purse for all the louis-d'or which it could contain.' 'well pronounced, flora; blow for blow, as conan [footnote: see note .] said to the devil. now do you two talk of bards and poetry, if not of purses and claymores, while i return to do the final honours to the senators of the tribe of ivor.' so saying, he left the room. the conversation continued between flora and waverley; for two well-dressed young women, whose character seemed to hover between that of companions and dependants, took no share in it. they were both pretty girls, but served only as foils to the grace and beauty of their patroness. the discourse followed the turn which the chieftain had given it, and waverley was equally amused and surprised with the account which the lady gave him of celtic poetry. 'the recitation,' she said, 'of poems recording the feats of heroes, the complaints of lovers, and the wars of contending tribes, forms the chief amusement of a winter fire-side in the highlands. some of these are said to be very ancient, and if they are ever translated into any of the languages of civilised europe, cannot fail to produce a deep and general sensation. others are more modern, the composition of those family bards whom the chieftains of more distinguished name and power retain as the poets and historians of their tribes. these, of course, possess various degrees of merit; but much of it must evaporate in translation, or be lost on those who do not sympathise with the feelings of the poet.' 'and your bard, whose effusions seemed to produce such effect upon the company to-day, is he reckoned among the favourite poets of the mountains?' 'that is a trying question. his reputation is high among his countrymen, and you must not expect me to depreciate it. [footnote: the highland poet almost always was an improvisatore. captain burt met one of them at lovat's table.] 'but the song, miss mac-ivor, seemed to awaken all those warriors, both young and old.' 'the song is little more than a catalogue of names of the highland clans under their distinctive peculiarities, and an exhortation to them to remember and to emulate the actions of their forefathers.' 'and am i wrong in conjecturing, however extraordinary the guess appears, that there was some allusion to me in the verses which he recited?' 'you have a quick observation, captain waverley, which in this instance has not deceived you. the gaelic language, being uncommonly vocalic, is well adapted for sudden and extemporaneous poetry; and a bard seldom fails to augment the effects of a premeditated song by throwing in any stanzas which may be suggested by the circumstances attending the recitation.' 'i would give my best horse to know what the highland bard could find to say of such an unworthy southron as myself.' 'it shall not even cost you a lock of his mane. una, mavourneen! (she spoke a few words to one of the young girls in attendance, who instantly curtsied and tripped out of the room.) i have sent una to learn from the bard the expressions he used, and you shall command my skill as dragoman.' una returned in a few minutes, and repeated to her mistress a few lines in gaelic. flora seemed to think for a moment, and then, slightly colouring, she turned to waverley--'it is impossible to gratify your curiosity, captain waverley, without exposing my own presumption. if you will give me a few moments for consideration, i will endeavour to engraft the meaning of these lines upon a rude english translation which i have attempted of a part of the original. the duties of the tea-table seem to be concluded, and, as the evening is delightful, una will show you the way to one of my favourite haunts, and cathleen and i will join you there.' una, having received instructions in her native language, conducted waverley out by a passage different from that through which he had entered the apartment. at a distance he heard the hall of the chief still resounding with the clang of bagpipes and the high applause of his guests. having gained the open air by a postern door, they walked a little way up the wild, bleak, and narrow valley in which the house was situated, following the course of the stream that winded through it. in a spot, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, two brooks, which formed the little river, had their junction. the larger of the two came down the long bare valley, which extended, apparently without any change or elevation of character, as far as the hills which formed its boundary permitted the eye to reach. but the other stream, which had its source among the mountains on the left hand of the strath, seemed to issue from a very narrow and dark opening betwixt two large rocks. these streams were different also in character. the larger was placid, and even sullen in its course, wheeling in deep eddies, or sleeping in dark blue pools; but the motions of the lesser brook were rapid and furious, issuing from between precipices, like a maniac from his confinement, all foam and uproar. it was up the course of this last stream that waverley, like a knight of romance, was conducted by the fair highland damsel, his silent guide. a small path, which had been rendered easy in many places for flora's accommodation, led him through scenery of a very different description from that which he had just quitted. around the castle all was cold, bare, and desolate, yet tame even in desolation; but this narrow glen, at so short a distance, seemed to open into the land of romance. the rocks assumed a thousand peculiar and varied forms. in one place a crag of huge size presented its gigantic bulk, as if to forbid the passenger's farther progress; and it was not until he approached its very base that waverley discerned the sudden and acute turn by which the pathway wheeled its course around this formidable obstacle. in another spot the projecting rocks from the opposite sides of the chasm had approached so near to each other that two pine-trees laid across, and covered with turf, formed a rustic bridge at the height of at least one hundred and fifty feet. it had no ledges, and was barely three feet in breadth. while gazing at this pass of peril, which crossed, like a single black line, the small portion of blue sky not intercepted by the projecting rocks on either side, it was with a sensation of horror that waverley beheld flora and her attendant appear, like inhabitants of another region, propped, as it were, in mid air, upon this trembling structure. she stopped upon observing him below, and, with an air of graceful ease which made him shudder, waved her handkerchief to him by way of signal. he was unable, from the sense of dizziness which her situation conveyed, to return the salute; and was never more relieved than when the fair apparition passed on from the precarious eminence which she seemed to occupy with so much indifference, and disappeared on the other side. advancing a few yards, and passing under the bridge which he had viewed with so much terror, the path ascended rapidly from the edge of the brook, and the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheatre, waving with birch, young oaks, and hazels, with here and there a scattered yew-tree. the rocks now receded, but still showed their grey and shaggy crests rising among the copse-wood. still higher rose eminences and peaks, some bare, some clothed with wood, some round and purple with heath, and others splintered into rocks and crags. at a short turning the path, which had for some furlongs lost sight of the brook, suddenly placed waverley in front of a romantic waterfall. it was not so remarkable either for great height or quantity of water as for the beautiful accompaniments which made the spot interesting. after a broken cataract of about twenty feet, the stream was received in a large natural basin filled to the brim with water, which, where the bubbles of the fall subsided, was so exquisitely clear that, although it was of great depth, the eye could discern each pebble at the bottom. eddying round this reservoir, the brook found its way as if over a broken part of the ledge, and formed a second fall, which seemed to seek the very abyss; then, wheeling out beneath from among the smooth dark rocks which it had polished for ages, it wandered murmuring down the glen, forming the stream up which waverley had just ascended. [footnote: see note .] the borders of this romantic reservoir corresponded in beauty; but it was beauty of a stern and commanding cast, as if in the act of expanding into grandeur. mossy banks of turf were broken and interrupted by huge fragments of rock, and decorated with trees and shrubs, some of which had been planted under the direction of flora, but so cautiously that they added to the grace without diminishing the romantic wildness of the scene. here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapes of poussin, waverley found flora gazing on the waterfall. two paces further back stood cathleen, holding a small scottish harp, the use of which had been taught to flora by rory dall, one of the last harpers of the western highlands. the sun, now stooping in the west, gave a rich and varied tinge to all the objects which surrounded waverley, and seemed to add more than human brilliancy to the full expressive darkness of flora's eye, exalted the richness and purity of her complexion, and enhanced the dignity and grace of her beautiful form. edward thought he had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined a figure of such exquisite and interesting loveliness. the wild beauty of the retreat, bursting upon him as if by magic, augmented the mingled feeling of delight and awe with which he approached her, like a fair enchantress of boiardo or ariosto, by whose nod the scenery around seemed to have been created an eden in the wilderness. flora, like every beautiful woman, was conscious of her own power, and pleased with its effects, which she could easily discern from the respectful yet confused address of the young soldier. but, as she possessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the scene and other accidental circumstances full weight in appreciating the feelings with which waverley seemed obviously to be impressed; and, unacquainted with the fanciful and susceptible peculiarities of his character, considered his homage as the passing tribute which a woman of even inferior charms might have expected in such a situation. she therefore quietly led the way to a spot at such a distance from the cascade that its sound should rather accompany than interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and, sitting down upon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp from cathleen. 'i have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, captain waverley, both because i thought the scenery would interest you, and because a highland song would suffer still more from my imperfect translation were i to introduce it without its own wild and appropriate accompaniments. to speak in the poetical language of my country, the seat of the celtic muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill, and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream. he who woos her must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.' few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with a voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that the muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriate representative. but waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind, found no courage to utter it. indeed, the wild feeling of romantic delight with which he heard the few first notes she drew from her instrument amounted almost to a sense of pain. he would not for worlds have quitted his place by her side; yet he almost longed for solitude, that he might decipher and examine at leisure the complication of emotions which now agitated his bosom. flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard for a lofty and uncommon highland air, which had been a battle-song in former ages. a few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild and peculiar tone, which harmonised well with the distant waterfall, and the soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen, which overhung the seat of the fair harpress. the following verses convey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and accompanied, they were heard by waverley:-- there is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, but more dark is the sleep of the sons of the gael. a stranger commanded--it sunk on the land, it has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand! the dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, the bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust; on the hill or the glen if a gun should appear, it is only to war with the heath-cock or deer. the deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone, that shall bid us remember the fame that is flown. but the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, the morn on our mountains is dawning at last; glenaladale's peaks are illumined with the rays, and the streams of glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze. [footnote: the young and daring adventurer, charles edward, landed at glenaladale, in moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley of glenfinnan, mustering around it the mac-donalds, the camerons, and other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him. there is a monument erected on the spot, with a latin inscription by the late doctor gregory.] o high-minded moray! the exiled! the dear! in the blush of the dawning the standard uprear! wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly, like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh! [footnote: the marquis of tullibardine's elder brother, who, long exiled, returned to scotland with charles edward in .] ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? that dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye, but it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die. o, sprung from the kings who in islay kept state, proud chiefs of clan ranald, glengarry, and sleat! combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, and resistless in union rush down on the foe! true son of sir evan, undaunted lochiel, place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! rough keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell, till far coryarrick resound to the knell! stern son of lord kenneth, high chief of kintail, let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! may the race of clan gillean, the fearless and free, remember glenlivat, harlaw, and dundee! let the clan of grey fingon, whose offspring has given such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven, unite with the race of renown'd rorri more, to launch the long galley and stretch to the oar. how mac-shimei will joy when their chief shall display the yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey! how the race of wrong'd alpine and murder'd glencoe shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe! ye sons of brown dermid, who slew the wild boar, resume the pure faith of the great callum-more! mac-neil of the islands, and moy of the lake, for honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake! here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon flora and interrupted her music by his importunate caresses. at a distant whistle he turned and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow. 'that is fergus's faithful attendant, captain waverley, and that was his signal. he likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good time to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucy english poets calls our bootless host of high-born beggars, mac-leans, mac-kenzies, and mac-gregors.' waverley expressed his regret at the interruption. 'o you cannot guess how much you have lost! the bard, as in duty bound, has addressed three long stanzas to vich ian vohr of the banners, enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a cheerer of the harper and bard--"a giver of bounteous gifts." besides, you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son of the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green--the rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. this valiant horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors were distinguished by their loyalty as well as by their courage. all this you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, i judge, from the distant sound of my brother's whistle, i may have time to sing the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation.' awake on your hills, on your islands awake, brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 't is the bugle--but not for the chase is the call; 't is the pibroch's shrill summons--but not to the hall. 't is the summons of heroes for conquest or death, when the banners are blazing on mountain and heath: they call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, to the march and the muster, the line and the charge. be the brand of each chieftain like fin's in his ire! may the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire! burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore, or die like your sires, and endure it no more! chapter xxiii waveeley continues at glennaquoich as flora concluded her song, fergus stood before them. 'i knew i should find you here, even without the assistance of my friend bran. a simple and unsublimed taste now, like my own, would prefer a jet d'eau at versailles to this cascade, with all its accompaniments of rock and roar; but this is flora's parnassus, captain waverley, and that fountain her helicon. it would be greatly for the benefit of my cellar if she could teach her coadjutor, mac-murrough, the value of its influence: he has just drunk a pint of usquebaugh to correct, he said, the coldness of the claret. let me try its virtues.' he sipped a little water in the hollow of his hand, and immediately commenced, with a theatrical air,-- 'o lady of the desert, hail! that lovest the harping of the gael, through fair and fertile regions borne, where never yet grew grass or corn. but english poetry will never succeed under the influence of a highland helicon. allons, courage! o vous, qui buvez, a tasse pleine, a cette heureuse fontaine, ou on ne voit, sur le rivage, que quelques vilains troupeaux, suivis de nymphes de village, qui les escortent sans sabots--' 'a truce, dear fergus! spare us those most tedious and insipid persons of all arcadia. do not, for heaven's sake, bring down coridon and lindor upon us.' 'nay, if you cannot relish la houlette et le chalumeau, have with you in heroic strains.' 'dear fergus, you have certainly partaken of the inspiration of mac-murrough's cup rather than of mine.' 'i disclaim it, ma belle demoiselle, although i protest it would be the more congenial of the two. which of your crack-brained italian romancers is it that says, io d'elicona niente mi curo, in fe de dio; che'l bere d'acque (bea chi ber ne vuol) sempre mi spiacque! [footnote: good sooth, i reck nought of your helicon; drink water whoso will, in faith i will drink none.] but if you prefer the gaelic, captain waverley, here is little cathleen shall sing you drimmindhu. come, cathleen, astore (i.e. my dear), begin; no apologies to the cean-kinne.' cathleen sung with much liveliness a little gaelic song, the burlesque elegy of a countryman on the loss of his cow, the comic tones of which, though he did not understand the language, made waverley laugh more than once. [footnote: this ancient gaelic ditty is still well known, both in the highlands and in ireland it was translated into english, and published, if i mistake not, under the auspices of the facetious tom d'urfey, by the title of 'colley, my cow.'] 'admirable, cathleen!' cried the chieftain; 'i must find you a handsome husband among the clansmen one of these days.' cathleen laughed, blushed, and sheltered herself behind her companion. in the progress of their return to the castle, the chieftain warmly pressed waverley to remain for a week or two, in order to see a grand hunting party, in which he and some other highland gentlemen proposed to join. the charms of melody and beauty were too strongly impressed in edward's breast to permit his declining an invitation so pleasing. it was agreed, therefore, that he should write a note to the baron of bradwardine, expressing his intention to stay a fortnight at glennaquoich, and requesting him to forward by the bearer (a gilly of the chieftain's) any letters which might have arrived for him. this turned the discourse upon the baron, whom fergus highly extolled as a gentleman and soldier. his character was touched with yet more discrimination by flora, who observed he was the very model of the old scottish cavalier, with all his excellencies and peculiarities. 'it is a character, captain waverley, which is fast disappearing; for its best point was a self-respect which was never lost sight of till now. but in the present time the gentlemen whose principles do not permit them to pay court to the existing government are neglected and degraded, and many conduct themselves accordingly; and, like some of the persons you have seen at tully-veolan, adopt habits and companions inconsistent with their birth and breeding. the ruthless proscription of party seems to degrade the victims whom it brands, however unjustly. but let us hope a brighter day is approaching, when a scottish country gentleman may be a scholar without the pedantry of our friend the baron, a sportsman without the low habits of mr. falconer, and a judicious improver of his property without becoming a boorish two- legged steer like killancureit.' thus did flora prophesy a revolution, which time indeed has produced, but in a manner very different from what she had in her mind. the amiable rose was next mentioned, with the warmest encomium on her person, manners, and mind. 'that man,' said flora, 'will find an inestimable treasure in the affections of rose bradwardine who shall be so fortunate as to become their object. her very soul is in home, and in the discharge of all those quiet virtues of which home is the centre. her husband will be to her what her father now is, the object of all her care, solicitude, and affection. she will see nothing, and connect herself with nothing, but by him and through him. if he is a man of sense and virtue, she will sympathise in his sorrows, divert his fatigue, and share his pleasures. if she becomes the property of a churlish or negligent husband, she will suit his taste also, for she will not long survive his unkindness. and, alas! how great is the chance that some such unworthy lot may be that of my poor friend! o that i were a queen this moment, and could command the most amiable and worthy youth of my kingdom to accept happiness with the hand of rose bradwardine!' 'i wish you would command her to accept mine en attendant,' said fergus, laughing. i don't know by what caprice it was that this wish, however jocularly expressed, rather jarred on edward's feelings, notwithstanding his growing inclination to flora and his indifference to miss bradwardine. this is one of the inexplicabilities of human nature, which we leave without comment. 'yours, brother?' answered flora, regarding him steadily. 'no; you have another bride--honour; and the dangers you must run in pursuit of her rival would break poor rose's heart.' with this discourse they reached the castle, and waverley soon prepared his despatches for tully-veolan. as he knew the baron was punctilious in such matters, he was about to impress his billet with a seal on which his armorial bearings were engraved, but he did not find it at his watch, and thought he must have left it at tully-veolan. he mentioned his loss, borrowing at the same time the family seal of the chieftain. 'surely,' said miss mac-ivor, 'donald bean lean would not--' 'my life for him in such circumstances,' answered her brother; 'besides, he would never have left the watch behind.' 'after all, fergus,' said flora, 'and with every allowance, i am surprised you can countenance that man.' 'i countenance him? this kind sister of mine would persuade you, captain waverley, that i take what the people of old used to call "a steakraid," that is, a "collop of the foray," or, in plainer words, a portion of the robber's booty, paid by him to the laird, or chief, through whose grounds he drove his prey. o, it is certain that, unless i can find some way to charm flora's tongue, general blakeney will send a sergeant's party from stirling (this he said with haughty and emphatic irony) to seize vich lan vohr, as they nickname me, in his own castle.' 'now, fergus, must not our guest be sensible that all this is folly and affectation? you have men enough to serve you without enlisting banditti, and your own honour is above taint. why don't you send this donald bean lean, whom i hate for his smoothness and duplicity even more than for his rapine, out of your country at once? no cause should induce me to tolerate such a character.' 'no cause, flora?' said the chieftain significantly. 'no cause, fergus! not even that which is nearest to my heart. spare it the omen of such evil supporters!' 'o but, sister,' rejoined the chief gaily, 'you don't consider my respect for la belle passion. evan dhu maccombich is in love with donald's daughter, alice, and you cannot expect me to disturb him in his amours. why, the whole clan would cry shame on me. you know it is one of their wise sayings, that a kinsman is part of a man's body, but a foster-brother is a piece of his heart.' 'well, fergus, there is no disputing with you; but i would all this may end well.' 'devoutly prayed, my dear and prophetic sister, and the best way in the world to close a dubious argument. but hear ye not the pipes, captain waverley? perhaps you will like better to dance to them in the hall than to be deafened with their harmony without taking part in the exercise they invite us to.' waverley took flora's hand. the dance, song, and merry-making proceeded, and closed the day's entertainment at the castle of vich ian vohr. edward at length retired, his mind agitated by a variety of new and conflicting feelings, which detained him from rest for some time, in that not unpleasing state of mind in which fancy takes the helm, and the soul rather drifts passively along with the rapid and confused tide of reflections than exerts itself to encounter, systematise, or examine them. at a late hour he fell asleep, and dreamed of flora mac-ivor. chapter xxiv a stag-hunt and its consequences shall this be a long or a short chapter? this is a question in which you, gentle reader, have no vote, however much you may be interested in the consequences; just as you may (like myself) probably have nothing to do with the imposing a new tax, excepting the trifling circumstance of being obliged to pay it. more happy surely in the present case, since, though it lies within my arbitrary power to extend my materials as i think proper, i cannot call you into exchequer if you do not think proper to read my narrative. let me therefore consider. it is true that the annals and documents in my hands say but little of this highland chase; but then i can find copious materials for description elsewhere. there is old lindsay of pitscottie ready at my elbow, with his athole hunting, and his 'lofted and joisted palace of green timber; with all kind of drink to be had in burgh and land, as ale, beer, wine, muscadel, malvaise, hippocras, and aquavitae; with wheat-bread, main-bread, ginge-bread, beef, mutton, lamb, veal, venison, goose, grice, capon, coney, crane, swan, partridge, plover, duck, drake, brisselcock, pawnies, black-cock, muir-fowl, and capercailzies'; not forgetting the 'costly bedding, vaiselle, and napry,' and least of all the 'excelling stewards, cunning baxters, excellent cooks, and pottingars, with confections and drugs for the desserts.' besides the particulars which may be thence gleaned for this highland feast (the splendour of which induced the pope's legate to dissent from an opinion which he had hitherto held, that scotland, namely, was the--the--the latter end of the world)--besides these, might i not illuminate my pages with taylor the water poet's hunting in the braes of mar, where,-- through heather, mosse,'mong frogs, and bogs, and fogs, 'mongst craggy cliffs and thunder-batter'd hills, hares, hinds, bucks, roes, are chased by men and dogs, where two hours' hunting fourscore fat deer kills. lowland, your sports are low as is your seat; the highland games and minds are high and great? but without further tyranny over my readers, or display of the extent of my own reading, i shall content myself with borrowing a single incident from the memorable hunting at lude, commemorated in the ingenious mr. gunn's essay on the caledonian harp, and so proceed in my story with all the brevity that my natural style of composition, partaking of what scholars call the periphrastic and ambagitory, and the vulgar the circumbendibus, will permit me. the solemn hunting was delayed, from various causes, for about three weeks. the interval was spent by waverley with great satisfaction at glennaquoich; for the impression which flora had made on his mind at their first meeting grew daily stronger. she was precisely the character to fascinate a youth of romantic imagination. her manners, her language, her talents for poetry and music, gave additional and varied influence to her eminent personal charms. even in her hours of gaiety she was in his fancy exalted above the ordinary daughters of eve, and seemed only to stoop for an instant to those topics of amusement and gallantry which others appear to live for. in the neighbourhood of this enchantress, while sport consumed the morning and music and the dance led on the hours of evening, waverley became daily more delighted with his hospitable landlord, and more enamoured of his bewitching sister. at length the period fixed for the grand hunting arrived, and waverley and the chieftain departed for the place of rendezvous, which was a day's journey to the northward of glennaquoich. fergus was attended on this occasion by about three hundred of his clan, well armed and accoutred in their best fashion. waverley complied so far with the custom of the country as to adopt the trews (he could not be reconciled to the kilt), brogues, and bonnet, as the fittest dress for the exercise in which he was to be engaged, and which least exposed him to be stared at as a stranger when they should reach the place of rendezvous. they found on the spot appointed several powerful chiefs, to all of whom waverley was formally presented, and by all cordially received. their vassals and clansmen, a part of whose feudal duty it was to attend on these parties, appeared in such numbers as amounted to a small army. these active assistants spread through the country far and near, forming a circle, technically called the tinchel, which, gradually closing, drove the deer in herds together towards the glen where the chiefs and principal sportsmen lay in wait for them. in the meanwhile these distinguished personages bivouacked among the flowery heath, wrapped up in their plaids, a mode of passing a summer's night which waverley found by no means unpleasant. for many hours after sunrise the mountain ridges and passes retained their ordinary appearance of silence and solitude, and the chiefs, with their followers, amused themselves with various pastimes, in which the joys of the shell, as ossian has it, were not forgotten. 'others apart sate on a hill retired,' probably as deeply engaged in the discussion of politics and news as milton's spirits in metaphysical disquisition. at length signals of the approach of the game were descried and heard. distant shouts resounded from valley to valley, as the various parties of highlanders, climbing rocks, struggling through copses, wading brooks, and traversing thickets, approached more and more near to each other, and compelled the astonished deer, with the other wild animals that fled before them, into a narrower circuit. every now and then the report of muskets was heard, repeated by a thousand echoes. the baying of the dogs was soon added to the chorus, which grew ever louder and more loud. at length the advanced parties of the deer began to show themselves; and as the stragglers came bounding down the pass by two or three at a time, the chiefs showed their skill by distinguishing the fattest deer, and their dexterity in bringing them down with their guns. fergus exhibited remarkable address, and edward was also so fortunate as to attract the notice and applause of the sportsmen. but now the main body of the deer appeared at the head of the glen, compelled into a very narrow compass, and presenting such a formidable phalanx that their antlers appeared at a distance, over the ridge of the steep pass, like a leafless grove. their number was very great, and from a desperate stand which they made, with the tallest of the red-deer stags arranged in front, in a sort of battle-array, gazing on the group which barred their passage down the glen, the more experienced sportsmen began to augur danger. the work of destruction, however, now commenced on all sides. dogs and hunters were at work, and muskets and fusees resounded from every quarter. the deer, driven to desperation, made at length a fearful charge right upon the spot where the more distinguished sportsmen had taken their stand. the word was given in gaelic to fling themselves upon their faces; but waverley, on whose english ears the signal was lost, had almost fallen a sacrifice to his ignorance of the ancient language in which it was communicated. fergus, observing his danger, sprung up and pulled him with violence to the ground, just as the whole herd broke down upon them. the tide being absolutely irresistible, and wounds from a stag's horn highly dangerous, the activity of the chieftain may be considered, on this occasion, as having saved his guest's life. he detained him with a firm grasp until the whole herd of deer had fairly run over them. waverley then attempted to rise, but found that he had suffered several very severe contusions, and, upon a further examination, discovered that he had sprained his ankle violently. [footnote: the thrust from the tynes, or branches, of the stag's horns was accounted far more dangerous than those of the boar's tusk:-- if thou be hurt with horn of stag, it brings thee to thy bier, but barber's hand shall boar's hurt heal, thereof have thou no fear.] this checked the mirth of the meeting, although the highlanders, accustomed to such incidents, and prepared for them, had suffered no harm themselves. a wigwam was erected almost in an instant, where edward was deposited on a couch of heather. the surgeon, or he who assumed the office, appeared to unite the characters of a leech and a conjuror. he was an old smoke-dried highlander, wearing a venerable grey beard, and having for his sole garment a tartan frock, the skirts of which descended to the knee, and, being undivided in front, made the vestment serve at once for doublet and breeches. [footnote: this garb, which resembled the dress often put on children in scotland, called a polonie (i. e. polonaise), is a very ancient modification of the highland garb. it was, in fact, the hauberk or shirt of mail, only composed of cloth instead of rings of armour.] he observed great ceremony in approaching edward; and though our hero was writhing with pain, would not proceed to any operation which might assuage it until he had perambulated his couch three times, moving from east to west, according to the course of the sun. this, which was called making the deasil, [footnote: old highlanders will still make the deasil around those whom they wish well to. to go round a person in the opposite direction, or withershins (german wider-shins), is unlucky, and a sort of incantation.] both the leech and the assistants seemed to consider as a matter of the last importance to the accomplishment of a cure; and waverley, whom pain rendered incapable of expostulation, and who indeed saw no chance of its being attended to, submitted in silence. after this ceremony was duly performed, the old esculapius let his patient's blood with a cupping-glass with great dexterity, and proceeded, muttering all the while to himself in gaelic, to boil on the fire certain herbs, with which he compounded an embrocation. he then fomented the parts which had sustained injury, never failing to murmur prayers or spells, which of the two waverley could not distinguish, as his ear only caught the words gaspar-melchior-balthazar-max-prax-fax, and similar gibberish. the fomentation had a speedy effect in alleviating the pain and swelling, which our hero imputed to the virtue of the herbs or the effect of the chafing, but which was by the bystanders unanimously ascribed to the spells with which the operation had been accompanied. edward was given to understand that not one of the ingredients had been gathered except during the full moon, and that the herbalist had, while collecting them, uniformly recited a charm, which in english ran thus:-- hail to thee, thou holy herb, that sprung on holy ground! all in the mount olivet first wert thou found. thou art boot for many a bruise, and healest many a wound; in our lady's blessed name, i take thee from the ground. [footnote: this metrical spell, or something very like it, is preserved by reginald scott in his work on witchcraft.] edward observed with some surprise that even fergus, notwithstanding his knowledge and education, seemed to fall in with the superstitious ideas of his countrymen, either because he deemed it impolitic to affect scepticism on a matter of general belief, or more probably because, like most men who do not think deeply or accurately on such subjects, he had in his mind a reserve of superstition which balanced the freedom of his expressions and practice upon other occasions. waverley made no commentary, therefore, on the manner of the treatment, but rewarded the professor of medicine with a liberality beyond the utmost conception of his wildest hopes. he uttered on the occasion so many incoherent blessings in gaelic and english that mac-ivor, rather scandalised at the excess of his acknowledgments, cut them short by exclaiming, ceud mile mhalloich ort! i.e. 'a hundred thousand curses on you!' and so pushed the helper of men out of the cabin. after waverley was left alone, the exhaustion of pain and fatigue --for the whole day's exercise had been severe--threw him into a profound, but yet a feverish sleep, which he chiefly owed to an opiate draught administered by the old highlander from some decoction of herbs in his pharmacopoeia. early the next morning, the purpose of their meeting being over, and their sports damped by the untoward accident, in which fergus and all his friends expressed the greatest sympathy, it became a question how to dispose of the disabled sportsman. this was settled by mac-ivor, who had a litter prepared, of 'birch and hazel-grey,' [footnote: on the morrow they made their biers of birch and hazel grey. chevy chase.] which was borne by his people with such caution and dexterity as renders it not improbable that they may have been the ancestors of some of those sturdy gael who have now the happiness to transport the belles of edinburgh in their sedan-chairs to ten routs in one evening. when edward was elevated upon their shoulders he could not help being gratified with the romantic effect produced by the breaking up of this sylvan camp. [footnote: see note .] the various tribes assembled, each at the pibroch of their native clan, and each headed by their patriarchal ruler. some, who had already begun to retire, were seen winding up the hills, or descending the passes which led to the scene of action, the sound of their bagpipes dying upon the ear. others made still a moving picture upon the narrow plain, forming various changeful groups, their feathers and loose plaids waving in the morning breeze, and their arms glittering in the rising sun. most of the chiefs came to take farewell of waverley, and to express their anxious hope they might again, and speedily, meet; but the care of fergus abridged the ceremony of taking leave. at length, his own men being completely assembled and mustered, mac-ivor commenced his march, but not towards the quarter from which they had come. he gave edward to understand that the greater part of his followers now on the field were bound on a distant expedition, and that when he had deposited him in the house of a gentleman, who he was sure would pay him every attention, he himself should be under the necessity of accompanying them the greater part of the way, but would lose no time in rejoining his friend. waverley was rather surprised that fergus had not mentioned this ulterior destination when they set out upon the hunting-party; but his situation did not admit of many interrogatories. the greater part of the clansmen went forward under the guidance of old ballenkeiroch and evan dhu maccombich, apparently in high spirits. a few remained for the purpose of escorting the chieftain, who walked by the side of edward's litter, and attended him with the most affectionate assiduity. about noon, after a journey which the nature of the conveyance, the pain of his bruises, and the roughness of the way rendered inexpressibly painful, waverley was hospitably received into the house of a gentleman related to fergus, who had prepared for him every accommodation which the simple habits of living then universal in the highlands put in his power. in this person, an old man about seventy, edward admired a relic of primitive simplicity. he wore no dress but what his estate afforded; the cloth was the fleece of his own sheep, woven by his own servants, and stained into tartan by the dyes produced from the herbs and lichens of the hills around him. his linen was spun by his daughters and maidservants, from his own flax; nor did his table, though plentiful, and varied with game and fish, offer an article but what was of native produce. claiming himself no rights of clanship or vassalage, he was fortunate in the alliance and protection of vich ian vohr and other bold and enterprising chieftains, who protected him in the quiet unambitious life he loved. it is true, the youth born on his grounds were often enticed to leave him for the service of his more active friends; but a few old servants and tenants used to shake their grey locks when they heard their master censured for want of spirit, and observed, 'when the wind is still, the shower falls soft.' this good old man, whose charity and hospitality were unbounded, would have received waverley with kindness had he been the meanest saxon peasant, since his situation required assistance. but his attention to a friend and guest of vich ian vohr was anxious and unremitted. other embrocations were applied to the injured limb, and new spells were put in practice. at length, after more solicitude than was perhaps for the advantage of his health, fergus took farewell of edward for a few days, when, he said, he would return to tomanrait, and hoped by that time waverley would be able to ride one of the highland ponies of his landlord, and in that manner return to glennaquoich. the next day, when his good old host appeared, edward learned that his friend had departed with the dawn, leaving none of his followers except callum beg, the sort of foot-page who used to attend his person, and who had now in charge to wait upon waverley. on asking his host if he knew where the chieftain was gone, the old man looked fixedly at him, with something mysterious and sad in the smile which was his only reply. waverley repeated his question, to which his host answered in a proverb,-- what sent the messengers to hell, was asking what they knew full well. [footnote: corresponding to the lowland saying, 'mony ane speirs the gate they ken fu' weel.'] he was about to proceed, but callum beg said, rather pertly, as edward thought, that 'ta tighearnach (i.e. the chief) did not like ta sassenagh duinhe-wassel to be pingled wi' mickle speaking, as she was na tat weel.' from this waverley concluded he should disoblige his friend by inquiring of a stranger the object of a journey which he himself had not communicated. it is unnecessary to trace the progress of our hero's recovery. the sixth morning had arrived, and he was able to walk about with a staff, when fergus returned with about a score of his men. he seemed in the highest spirits, congratulated waverley on his progress towards recovery, and finding he was able to sit on horseback, proposed their immediate return to glennaquoich. waverley joyfully acceded, for the form of its fair mistress had lived in his dreams during all the time of his confinement. now he has ridden o'er moor and moss, o'er hill and many a glen, fergus, all the while, with his myrmidons, striding stoutly by his side, or diverging to get a shot at a roe or a heath-cock. waverley's bosom beat thick when they approached the old tower of ian nan chaistel, and could distinguish the fair form of its mistress advancing to meet them. fergus began immediately, with his usual high spirits, to exclaim, 'open your gates, incomparable princess, to the wounded moor abindarez, whom rodrigo de narvez, constable of antiquera, conveys to your castle; or open them, if you like it better, to the renowned marquis of mantua, the sad attendant of his half-slain friend baldovinos of the mountain. ah, long rest to thy soul, cervantes! without quoting thy remnants, how should i frame my language to befit romantic ears!' flora now advanced, and welcoming waverley with much kindness, expressed her regret for his accident, of which she had already heard particulars, and her surprise that her brother should not have taken better care to put a stranger on his guard against the perils of the sport in which he engaged him. edward easily exculpated the chieftain, who, indeed, at his own personal risk, had probably saved his life. this greeting over, fergus said three or four words to his sister in gaelic. the tears instantly sprung to her eyes, but they seemed to be tears of devotion and joy, for she looked up to heaven and folded her hands as in a solemn expression of prayer or gratitude. after the pause of a minute, she presented to edward some letters which had been forwarded from tully-veolan during his absence, and at the same time delivered some to her brother. to the latter she likewise gave three or four numbers of the caledonian mercury, the only newspaper which was then published to the north of the tweed. both gentlemen retired to examine their despatches, and edward speedily found that those which he had received contained matters of very deep interest. chapter xxv news from england the letters which waverley had hitherto received from his relations in england were not such as required any particular notice in this narrative. his father usually wrote to him with the pompous affectation of one who was too much oppressed by public affairs to find leisure to attend to those of his own family. now and then he mentioned persons of rank in scotland to whom he wished his son should pay some attention; but waverley, hitherto occupied by the amusements which he had found at tully-veolan and glennaquoich, dispensed with paying any attention to hints so coldly thrown out, especially as distance, shortness of leave of absence, and so forth furnished a ready apology. but latterly the burden of mr. richard waverley's paternal epistles consisted in certain mysterious hints of greatness and influence which he was speedily to attain, and which would ensure his son's obtaining the most rapid promotion, should he remain in the military service. sir everard's letters were of a different tenor. they were short; for the good baronet was none of your illimitable correspondents, whose manuscript overflows the folds of their large post paper, and leaves no room for the seal; but they were kind and affectionate, and seldom concluded without some allusion to our hero's stud, some question about the state of his purse, and a special inquiry after such of his recruits as had preceded him from waverley-honour. aunt rachel charged him to remember his principles of religion, to take care of his health, to beware of scotch mists, which, she had heard, would wet an englishman through and through, never to go out at night without his great- coat, and, above all, to wear flannel next to his skin. mr. pembroke only wrote to our hero one letter, but it was of the bulk of six epistles of these degenerate days, containing, in the moderate compass of ten folio pages, closely written, a precis of a supplementary quarto manuscript of addenda, delenda, et corrigenda in reference to the two tracts with which he had presented waverley. this he considered as a mere sop in the pan to stay the appetite of edward's curiosity until he should find an opportunity of sending down the volume itself, which was much too heavy for the post, and which he proposed to accompany with certain interesting pamphlets, lately published by his friend in little britain, with whom he had kept up a sort of literary correspondence, in virtue of which the library shelves of waverley-honour were loaded with much trash, and a good round bill, seldom summed in fewer than three figures, was yearly transmitted, in which sir everard waverley of waverley-honour, bart., was marked dr. to jonathan grubbet, bookseller and stationer, little britain. such had hitherto been the style of the letters which edward had received from england; but the packet delivered to him at glennaquoich was of a different and more interesting complexion. it would be impossible for the reader, even were i to insert the letters at full length, to comprehend the real cause of their being written, without a glance into the interior of the british cabinet at the period in question. the ministers of the day happened (no very singular event) to be divided into two parties; the weakest of which, making up by assiduity of intrigue their inferiority in real consequence, had of late acquired some new proselytes, and with them the hope of superseding their rivals in the favour of their sovereign, and overpowering them in the house of commons. amongst others, they had thought it worth while to practise upon richard waverley. this honest gentleman, by a grave mysterious demeanour, an attention to the etiquette of business rather more than to its essence, a facility in making long dull speeches, consisting of truisms and commonplaces, hashed up with a technical jargon of office, which prevented the inanity of his orations from being discovered, had acquired a certain name and credit in public life, and even established, with many, the character of a profound politician; none of your shining orators, indeed, whose talents evaporate in tropes of rhetoric and flashes of wit, but one possessed of steady parts for business, which would wear well, as the ladies say in choosing their silks, and ought in all reason to be good for common and every-day use, since they were confessedly formed of no holiday texture. this faith had become so general that the insurgent party in the cabinet, of which we have made mention, after sounding mr. richard waverley, were so satisfied with his sentiments and abilities as to propose that, in case of a certain revolution in the ministry, he should take an ostensible place in the new order of things, not indeed of the very first rank, but greatly higher, in point both of emolument and influence, than that which he now enjoyed. there was no resisting so tempting a proposal, notwithstanding that the great man under whose patronage he had enlisted, and by whose banner he had hitherto stood firm, was the principal object of the proposed attack by the new allies. unfortunately this fair scheme of ambition was blighted in the very bud by a premature movement. all the official gentlemen concerned in it who hesitated to take the part of a voluntary resignation were informed that the king had no further occasion for their services; and in richard waverley's case, which the minister considered as aggravated by ingratitude, dismissal was accompanied by something like personal contempt and contumely. the public, and even the party of whom he shared the fall, sympathised little in the disappointment of this selfish and interested statesman; and he retired to the country under the comfortable reflection that he had lost, at the same time, character, credit, and,--what he at least equally deplored, --emolument. richard waverley's letter to his son upon this occasion was a masterpiece of its kind. aristides himself could not have made out a harder case. an unjust monarch and an ungrateful country were the burden of each rounded paragraph. he spoke of long services and unrequited sacrifices; though the former had been overpaid by his salary, and nobody could guess in what the latter consisted, unless it were in his deserting, not from conviction, but for the lucre of gain, the tory principles of his family. in the conclusion, his resentment was wrought to such an excess by the force of his own oratory, that he could not repress some threats of vengeance, however vague and impotent, and finally acquainted his son with his pleasure that he should testify his sense of the ill-treatment he had sustained by throwing up his commission as soon as the letter reached him. this, he said, was also his uncle's desire, as he would himself intimate in due course. accordingly, the next letter which edward opened was from sir everard. his brother's disgrace seemed to have removed from his well-natured bosom all recollection of their differences, and, remote as he was from every means of learning that richard's disgrace was in reality only the just as well as natural consequence of his own unsuccessful intrigues, the good but credulous baronet at once set it down as a new and enormous instance of the injustice of the existing government. it was true, he said, and he must not disguise it even from edward, that his father could not have sustained such an insult as was now, for the first time, offered to one of his house, unless he had subjected himself to it by accepting of an employment under the present system. sir everard had no doubt that he now both saw and felt the magnitude of this error, and it should be his (sir everard's) business to take care that the cause of his regret should not extend itself to pecuniary consequences. it was enough for a waverley to have sustained the public disgrace; the patrimonial injury could easily be obviated by the head of their family. but it was both the opinion of mr. richard waverley and his own that edward, the representative of the family of waverley-honour, should not remain in a situation which subjected him also to such treatment as that with which his father had been stigmatised. he requested his nephew therefore to take the fittest, and at the same time the most speedy, opportunity of transmitting his resignation to the war office, and hinted, moreover, that little ceremony was necessary where so little had been used to his father. he sent multitudinous greetings to the baron of bradwardine. a letter from aunt rachel spoke out even more plainly. she considered the disgrace of brother richard as the just reward of his forfeiting his allegiance to a lawful though exiled sovereign, and taking the oaths to an alien; a concession which her grandfather, sir nigel waverley, refused to make, either to the roundhead parliament or to cromwell, when his life and fortune stood in the utmost extremity. she hoped her dear edward would follow the footsteps of his ancestors, and as speedily as possible get rid of the badge of servitude to the usurping family, and regard the wrongs sustained by his father as an admonition from heaven that every desertion of the line of loyalty becomes its own punishment. she also concluded with her respects to mr. bradwardine, and begged waverley would inform her whether his daughter, miss rose, was old enough to wear a pair of very handsome ear-rings, which she proposed to send as a token of her affection. the good lady also desired to be informed whether mr. bradwardine took as much scotch snuff and danced as unweariedly as he did when he was at waverley-honour about thirty years ago. these letters, as might have been expected, highly excited waverley's indignation. from the desultory style of his studies, he had not any fixed political opinion to place in opposition to the movements of indignation which he felt at his father's supposed wrongs. of the real cause of his disgrace edward was totally ignorant; nor had his habits at all led him to investigate the politics of the period in which he lived, or remark the intrigues in which his father had been so actively engaged. indeed, any impressions which he had accidentally adopted concerning the parties of the times were (owing to the society in which he had lived at waverley-honour) of a nature rather unfavourable to the existing government and dynasty. he entered, therefore, without hesitation into the resentful feeling of the relations who had the best title to dictate his conduct, and not perhaps the less willingly when he remembered the tedium of his quarters, and the inferior figure which he had made among the officers of his regiment. if he could have had any doubt upon the subject it would have been decided by the following letter from his commanding officer, which, as it is very short, shall be inserted verbatim:-- sir,-- having carried somewhat beyond the line of my duty an indulgence which even the lights of nature, and much more those of christianity, direct towards errors which may arise from youth and inexperience, and that altogether without effect, i am reluctantly compelled, at the present crisis, to use the only remaining remedy which is in my power. you are, therefore, hereby commanded to repair to--, the headquarters of the regiment, within three days after the date of this letter. if you shall fail to do so, i must report you to the war office as absent without leave, and also take other steps, which will be disagreeable to you as well as to, sir, your obedient servant, j. gardiner, lieut.-col. commanding the----regt. dragoons. edward's blood boiled within him as he read this letter. he had been accustomed from his very infancy to possess in a great measure the disposal of his own time, and thus acquired habits which rendered the rules of military discipline as unpleasing to him in this as they were in some other respects. an idea that in his own case they would not be enforced in a very rigid manner had also obtained full possession of his mind, and had hitherto been sanctioned by the indulgent conduct of his lieutenant-colonel. neither had anything occurred, to his knowledge, that should have induced his commanding officer, without any other warning than the hints we noticed at the end of the fourteenth chapter, so suddenly to assume a harsh and, as edward deemed it, so insolent a tone of dictatorial authority. connecting it with the letters he had just received from his family, he could not but suppose that it was designed to make him feel, in his present situation, the same pressure of authority which had been exercised in his father's case, and that the whole was a concerted scheme to depress and degrade every member of the waverley family. without a pause, therefore, edward wrote a few cold lines, thanking his lieutenant-colonel for past civilities, and expressing regret that he should have chosen to efface the remembrance of them by assuming a different tone towards him. the strain of his letter, as well as what he (edward) conceived to be his duty in the present crisis, called upon him to lay down his commission; and he therefore inclosed the formal resignation of a situation which subjected him to so unpleasant a correspondence, and requested colonel gardiner would have the goodness to forward it to the proper authorities. having finished this magnanimous epistle, he felt somewhat uncertain concerning the terms in which his resignation ought to be expressed, upon which subject he resolved to consult fergus mac-ivor. it may be observed in passing that the bold and prompt habits of thinking, acting, and speaking which distinguished this young chieftain had given him a considerable ascendency over the mind of waverley. endowed with at least equal powers of understanding, and with much finer genius, edward yet stooped to the bold and decisive activity of an intellect which was sharpened by the habit of acting on a preconceived and regular system, as well as by extensive knowledge of the world. when edward found his friend, the latter had still in his hand the newspaper which he had perused, and advanced to meet him with the embarrassment of one who has unpleasing news to communicate. 'do your letters, captain waverley, confirm the unpleasing information which i find in this paper?' he put the paper into his hand, where his father's disgrace was registered in the most bitter terms, transferred probably from some london journal. at the end of the paragraph was this remarkable innuendo:-- 'we understand that "this same richard who hath done all this" is not the only example of the wavering honour of w-v-r-ly h-n-r. see the gazette of this day.' with hurried and feverish apprehension our hero turned to the place referred to, and found therein recorded, 'edward waverley, captain in----regiment dragoons, superseded for absence without leave'; and in the list of military promotions, referring to the same regiment, he discovered this farther article, 'lieut. julius butler, to be captain, vice edward waverley, superseded.' our hero's bosom glowed with the resentment which undeserved and apparently premeditated insult was calculated to excite in the bosom of one who had aspired after honour, and was thus wantonly held up to public scorn and disgrace. upon comparing the date of his colonel's letter with that of the article in the gazette, he perceived that his threat of making a report upon his absence had been literally fulfilled, and without inquiry, as it seemed, whether edward had either received his summons or was disposed to comply with it. the whole, therefore, appeared a formed plan to degrade him in the eyes of the public; and the idea of its having succeeded filled him with such bitter emotions that, after various attempts to conceal them, he at length threw himself into mac- ivor's arms, and gave vent to tears of shame and indignation. it was none of this chieftain's faults to be indifferent to the wrongs of his friends; and for edward, independent of certain plans with which he was connected, he felt a deep and sincere interest. the proceeding appeared as extraordinary to him as it had done to edward. he indeed knew of more motives than waverley was privy to for the peremptory order that he should join his regiment. but that, without further inquiry into the circumstances of a necessary delay, the commanding officer, in contradiction to his known and established character, should have proceeded in so harsh and unusual a manner was a mystery which he could not penetrate. he soothed our hero, however, to the best of his power, and began to turn his thoughts on revenge for his insulted honour. edward eagerly grasped at the idea. 'will you carry a message for me to colonel gardiner, my dear fergus, and oblige me for ever?' fergus paused. 'it is an act of friendship which you should command, could it be useful, or lead to the righting your honour; but in the present case i doubt if your commanding officer would give you the meeting on account of his having taken measures which, however harsh and exasperating, were still within the strict bounds of his duty. besides, gardiner is a precise huguenot, and has adopted certain ideas about the sinfulness of such rencontres, from which it would be impossible to make him depart, especially as his courage is beyond all suspicion. and besides, i--i, to say the truth--i dare not at this moment, for some very weighty reasons, go near any of the military quarters or garrisons belonging to this government.' 'and am i,' said waverley, 'to sit down quiet and contented under the injury i have received?' 'that will i never advise my friend,' replied mac-ivor. 'but i would have vengeance to fall on the head, not on the hand, on the tyrannical and oppressive government which designed and directed these premeditated and reiterated insults, not on the tools of office which they employed in the execution of the injuries they aimed at you.' 'on the government!' said waverley. 'yes,' replied the impetuous highlander, 'on the usurping house of hanover, whom your grandfather would no more have served than he would have taken wages of red-hot gold from the great fiend of hell!' 'but since the time of my grandfather two generations of this dynasty have possessed the throne,' said edward coolly. 'true,' replied the chieftain; 'and because we have passively given them so long the means of showing their native character,-- because both you and i myself have lived in quiet submission, have even truckled to the times so far as to accept commissions under them, and thus have given them an opportunity of disgracing us publicly by resuming them, are we not on that account to resent injuries which our fathers only apprehended, but which we have actually sustained? or is the cause of the unfortunate stuart family become less just, because their title has devolved upon an heir who is innocent of the charges of misgovernment brought against his father? do you remember the lines of your favourite poet? had richard unconstrain'd resign'd the throne, a king can give no more than is his own; the title stood entail'd had richard had a son. you see, my dear waverley, i can quote poetry as well as flora and you. but come, clear your moody brow, and trust to me to show you an honourable road to a speedy and glorious revenge. let us seek flora, who perhaps has more news to tell us of what has occurred during our absence. she will rejoice to hear that you are relieved of your servitude. but first add a postscript to your letter, marking the time when you received this calvinistical colonel's first summons, and express your regret that the hastiness of his proceedings prevented your anticipating them by sending your resignation. then let him blush for his injustice.' the letter was sealed accordingly, covering a formal resignation of the commission, and mac-ivor despatched it with some letters of his own by a special messenger, with charge to put them into the nearest post-office in the lowlands. chapter xxvi an eclaircissement the hint which the chieftain had thrown out respecting flora was not unpremeditated. he had observed with great satisfaction the growing attachment of waverley to his sister, nor did he see any bar to their union, excepting the situation which waverley's father held in the ministry, and edward's own commission in the army of george ii. these obstacles were now removed, and in a manner which apparently paved the way for the son's becoming reconciled to another allegiance. in every other respect the match would be most eligible. the safety, happiness, and honourable provision of his sister, whom he dearly loved, appeared to be ensured by the proposed union; and his heart swelled when he considered how his own interest would be exalted in the eyes of the ex-monarch to whom he had dedicated his service, by an alliance with one of those ancient, powerful, and wealthy english families of the steady cavalier faith, to awaken whose decayed attachment to the stuart family was now a matter of such vital importance to the stuart cause. nor could fergus perceive any obstacle to such a scheme. waverley's attachment was evident; and as his person was handsome, and his taste apparently coincided with her own, he anticipated no opposition on the part of flora. indeed, between his ideas of patriarchal power and those which he had acquired in france respecting the disposal of females in marriage, any opposition from his sister, dear as she was to him, would have been the last obstacle on which he would have calculated, even had the union been less eligible. influenced by these feelings, the chief now led waverley in quest of miss mac-ivor, not without the hope that the present agitation of his guest's spirits might give him courage to cut short what fergus termed the romance of the courtship. they found flora, with her faithful attendants, una and cathleen, busied in preparing what appeared to waverley to be white bridal favours. disguising as well as he could the agitation of his mind, waverley asked for what joyful occasion miss mac-ivor made such ample preparation. 'it is for fergus's bridal,' she said, smiling. 'indeed!' said edward; 'he has kept his secret well. i hope he will allow me to be his bride's-man.' 'that is a man's office, but not yours, as beatrice says,' retorted flora. 'and who is the fair lady, may i be permitted to ask, miss mac- ivor?' 'did not i tell you long since that fergus wooed no bride but honour?' answered flora. 'and am i then incapable of being his assistant and counsellor in the pursuit of honour?' said our hero, colouring deeply. 'do i rank so low in your opinion?' 'far from it, captain waverley. i would to god you were of our determination! and made use of the expression which displeased you, solely because you are not of our quality, but stand against us as an enemy.' 'that time is past, sister,' said fergus; 'and you may wish edward waverley (no longer captain) joy of being freed from the slavery to an usurper, implied in that sable and ill-omened emblem.' 'yes,' said waverley, undoing the cockade from his hat, 'it has pleased the king who bestowed this badge upon me to resume it in a manner which leaves me little reason to regret his service.' 'thank god for that!' cried the enthusiast; 'and o that they may be blind enough to treat every man of honour who serves them with the same indignity, that i may have less to sigh for when the struggle approaches!' 'and now, sister,' said the chieftain, 'replace his cockade with one of a more lively colour. i think it was the fashion of the ladies of yore to arm and send forth their knights to high achievement.' 'not,' replied the lady, 'till the knight adventurer had well weighed the justice and the danger of the cause, fergus. mr. waverley is just now too much agitated by feelings of recent emotion for me to press upon him a resolution of consequence.' waverley felt half alarmed at the thought of adopting the badge of what was by the majority of the kingdom esteemed rebellion, yet he could not disguise his chagrin at the coldness with which flora parried her brother's hint. 'miss mac-ivor, i perceive, thinks the knight unworthy of her encouragement and favour,' said he, somewhat bitterly. 'not so, mr. waverley,' she replied, with great sweetness. 'why should i refuse my brother's valued friend a boon which i am distributing to his whole clan? most willingly would i enlist every man of honour in the cause to which my brother has devoted himself. but fergus has taken his measures with his eyes open. his life has been devoted to this cause from his cradle; with him its call is sacred, were it even a summons to the tomb. but how can i wish you, mr. waverley, so new to the world, so far from every friend who might advise and ought to influence you,--in a moment, too, of sudden pique and indignation,--how can i wish you to plunge yourself at once into so desperate an enterprise?' fergus, who did not understand these delicacies, strode through the apartment biting his lip, and then, with a constrained smile, said, 'well, sister, i leave you to act your new character of mediator between the elector of hanover and the subjects of your lawful sovereign and benefactor,' and left the room. there was a painful pause, which was at length broken by miss mac- ivor. 'my brother is unjust,' she said, 'because he can bear no interruption that seems to thwart his loyal zeal.' 'and do you not share his ardour?' asked waverley, 'do i not?' answered flora. 'god knows mine exceeds his, if that be possible. but i am not, like him, rapt by the bustle of military preparation, and the infinite detail necessary to the present undertaking, beyond consideration of the grand principles of justice and truth, on which our enterprise is grounded; and these, i am certain, can only be furthered by measures in themselves true and just. to operate upon your present feelings, my dear mr. waverley, to induce you to an irretrievable step, of which you have not considered either the justice or the danger, is, in my poor judgment, neither the one nor the other.' 'incomparable flora!' said edward, taking her hand, 'how much do i need such a monitor!' 'a better one by far,' said flora, gently withdrawing her hand, 'mr. waverley will always find in his own bosom, when he will give its small still voice leisure to be heard.' 'no, miss mac-ivor, i dare not hope it; a thousand circumstances of fatal self-indulgence have made me the creature rather of imagination than reason. durst i but hope--could i but think--that you would deign to be to me that affectionate, that condescending friend, who would strengthen me to redeem my errors, my future life--' 'hush, my dear sir! now you carry your joy at escaping the hands of a jacobite recruiting officer to an unparalleled excess of gratitude.' 'nay, dear flora, trifle with me no longer; you cannot mistake the meaning of those feelings which i have almost involuntarily expressed; and since i have broken the barrier of silence, let me profit by my audacity. or may i, with your permission, mention to your brother--' 'not for the world, mr. waverley!' 'what am i to understand?' said edward. 'is there any fatal bar-- has any prepossession--' 'none, sir,' answered flora. 'i owe it to myself to say that i never yet saw the person on whom i thought with reference to the present subject.' 'the shortness of our acquaintance, perhaps--if miss mac-ivor will deign to give me time--' 'i have not even that excuse. captain waverley's character is so open--is, in short, of that nature that it cannot be misconstrued, either in its strength or its weakness.' 'and for that weakness you despise me?' said edward. 'forgive me, mr. waverley--and remember it is but within this half hour that there existed between us a barrier of a nature to me insurmountable, since i never could think of an officer in the service of the elector of hanover in any other light than as a casual acquaintance. permit me then to arrange my ideas upon so unexpected a topic, and in less than an hour i will be ready to give you such reasons for the resolution i shall express as may be satisfactory at least, if not pleasing to you.' so saying flora withdrew, leaving waverley to meditate upon the manner in which she had received his addresses. ere he could make up his mind whether to believe his suit had been acceptable or no, fergus re-entered the apartment. 'what, a la mort, waverley?' he cried. 'come down with me to the court, and you shall see a sight worth all the tirades of your romances. an hundred firelocks, my friend, and as many broadswords, just arrived from good friends; and two or three hundred stout fellows almost fighting which shall first possess them. but let me look at you closer. why, a true highlander would say you had been blighted by an evil eye. or can it be this silly girl that has thus blanked your spirit. never mind her, dear edward; the wisest of her sex are fools in what regards the business of life.' 'indeed, my good friend,' answered waverley, 'all that i can charge against your sister is, that she is too sensible, too reasonable.' 'if that be all, i ensure you for a louis-d'or against the mood lasting four-and-twenty hours. no woman was ever steadily sensible for that period; and i will engage, if that will please you, flora shall be as unreasonable to-morrow as any of her sex. you must learn, my dear edward, to consider women en mousquetaire.' so saying, he seized waverley's arm and dragged him off to review his military preparations. chapter xxvii upon the same subject fergus mac-ivor had too much tact and delicacy to renew the subject which he had interrupted. his head was, or appeared to be, so full of guns, broadswords, bonnets, canteens, and tartan hose that waverley could not for some time draw his attention to any other topic. 'are you to take the field so soon, fergus,' he asked, 'that you are making all these martial preparations?' 'when we have settled that you go with me, you shall know all; but otherwise, the knowledge might rather be prejudicial to you.' 'but are you serious in your purpose, with such inferior forces, to rise against an established government? it is mere frenzy.' 'laissez faire a don antoine; i shall take good care of myself. we shall at least use the compliment of conan, who never got a stroke but he gave one. i would not, however,' continued the chieftain, 'have you think me mad enough to stir till a favourable opportunity: i will not slip my dog before the game's afoot. but, once more, will you join with us, and you shall know all?' 'how can i?' said waverley; 'i, who have so lately held that commission which is now posting back to those that gave it? my accepting it implied a promise of fidelity, and an acknowledgment of the legality of the government.' 'a rash promise,' answered fergus, 'is not a steel handcuff, it may be shaken off, especially when it was given under deception, and has been repaid by insult. but if you cannot immediately make up your mind to a glorious revenge, go to england, and ere you cross the tweed you will hear tidings that will make the world ring; and if sir everard be the gallant old cavalier i have heard him described by some of our honest gentlemen of the year one thousand seven hundred and fifteen, he will find you a better horse-troop and a better cause than you have lost.' 'but your sister, fergus?' 'out, hyperbolical fiend!' replied the chief, laughing; 'how vexest thou this man! speak'st thou of nothing but of ladies?' 'nay, be serious, my dear friend,' said waverley; 'i feel that the happiness of my future life must depend upon the answer which miss mac-ivor shall make to what i ventured to tell her this morning.' 'and is this your very sober earnest,' said fergus, more gravely, 'or are we in the land of romance and fiction?' 'my earnest, undoubtedly. how could you suppose me jesting on such a subject?' 'then, in very sober earnest,' answered his friend, 'i am very glad to hear it; and so highly do i think of flora, that you are the only man in england for whom i would say so much. but before you shake my hand so warmly, there is more to be considered. your own family--will they approve your connecting yourself with the sister of a high-born highland beggar?' 'my uncle's situation,' said waverley, 'his general opinions, and his uniform indulgence, entitle me to say, that birth and personal qualities are all he would look to in such a connection. and where can i find both united in such excellence as in your sister?' 'o nowhere! cela va sans dire,' replied fergus, with a smile. 'but your father will expect a father's prerogative in being consulted.' 'surely; but his late breach with the ruling powers removes all apprehension of objection on his part, especially as i am convinced that my uncle will be warm in my cause.' 'religion perhaps,' said fergus, 'may make obstacles, though we are not bigotted catholics.' 'my grandmother was of the church of rome, and her religion was never objected to by my family. do not think of my friends, dear fergus; let me rather have your influence where it may be more necessary to remove obstacles--i mean with your lovely sister.' 'my lovely sister,' replied fergus, 'like her loving brother, is very apt to have a pretty decisive will of her own, by which, in this case, you must be ruled; but you shall not want my interest, nor my counsel. and, in the first place, i will give you one hint --loyalty is her ruling passion; and since she could spell an english book she has been in love with the memory of the gallant captain wogan, who renounced the service of the usurper cromwell to join the standard of charles ii, marched a handful of cavalry from london to the highlands to join middleton, then in arms for the king, and at length died gloriously in the royal cause. ask her to show you some verses she made on his history and fate; they have been much admired, i assure you. the next point is--i think i saw flora go up towards the waterfall a short time since; follow, man, follow! don't allow the garrison time to strengthen its purposes of resistance. alerte a la muraille! seek flora out, and learn her decision as soon as you can, and cupid go with you, while i go to look over belts and cartouch-boxes.' waverley ascended the glen with an anxious and throbbing heart. love, with all its romantic train of hopes, fears, and wishes, was mingled with other feelings of a nature less easily defined. he could not but remember how much this morning had changed his fate, and into what a complication of perplexity it was likely to plunge him. sunrise had seen him possessed of an esteemed rank in the honourable profession of arms, his father to all appearance rapidly rising in the favour of his sovereign. all this had passed away like a dream: he himself was dishonoured, his father disgraced, and he had become involuntarily the confidant at least, if not the accomplice, of plans, dark, deep, and dangerous, which must infer either the subversion of the government he had so lately served or the destruction of all who had participated in them. should flora even listen to his suit favourably, what prospect was there of its being brought to a happy termination amid the tumult of an impending insurrection? or how could he make the selfish request that she should leave fergus, to whom she was so much attached, and, retiring with him to england, wait, as a distant spectator, the success of her brother's undertaking, or the ruin of all his hopes and fortunes? or, on the other hand, to engage himself, with no other aid than his single arm, in the dangerous and precipitate counsels of the chieftain, to be whirled along by him, the partaker of all his desperate and impetuous motions, renouncing almost the power of judging, or deciding upon the rectitude or prudence of his actions, this was no pleasing prospect for the secret pride of waverley to stoop to. and yet what other conclusion remained, saving the rejection of his addresses by flora, an alternative not to be thought of in the present high-wrought state of his feelings with anything short of mental agony. pondering the doubtful and dangerous prospect before him, he at length arrived near the cascade, where, as fergus had augured, he found flora seated. she was quite alone, and as soon as she observed his approach she rose and came to meet him. edward attempted to say something within the verge of ordinary compliment and conversation, but found himself unequal to the task. flora seemed at first equally embarrassed, but recovered herself more speedily, and (an unfavourable augury for waverley's suit) was the first to enter upon the subject of their last interview. 'it is too important, in every point of view, mr. waverley, to permit me to leave you in doubt on my sentiments.' 'do not speak them speedily,' said waverley, much agitated, 'unless they are such as i fear, from your manner, i must not dare to anticipate. let time--let my future conduct--let your brother's influence--' 'forgive me, mr. waverley,' said flora, her complexion a little heightened, but her voice firm and composed. 'i should incur my own heavy censure did i delay expressing my sincere conviction that i can never regard you otherwise than as a valued friend. i should do you the highest injustice did i conceal my sentiments for a moment. i see i distress you, and i grieve for it, but better now than later; and o, better a thousand times, mr. waverley, that you should feel a present momentary disappointment than the long and heart-sickening griefs which attend a rash and ill-assorted marriage!' 'good god!' exclaimed waverley, 'why should you anticipate such consequences from a union where birth is equal, where fortune is favourable, where, if i may venture to say so, the tastes are similar, where you allege no preference for another, where you even express a favourable opinion of him whom you reject?' 'mr. waverley, i have that favourable opinion,' answered flora; 'and so strongly that, though i would rather have been silent on the grounds of my resolution, you shall command them, if you exact such a mark of my esteem and confidence.' she sat down upon a fragment of rock, and waverley, placing himself near her, anxiously pressed for the explanation she offered. 'i dare hardly,' she said, 'tell you the situation of my feelings, they are so different from those usually ascribed to young women at my period of life; and i dare hardly touch upon what i conjecture to be the nature of yours, lest i should give offence where i would willingly administer consolation. for myself, from my infancy till this day i have had but one wish--the restoration of my royal benefactors to their rightful throne. it is impossible to express to you the devotion of my feelings to this single subject; and i will frankly confess that it has so occupied my mind as to exclude every thought respecting what is called my own settlement in life. let me but live to see the day of that happy restoration, and a highland cottage, a french convent, or an english palace will be alike indifferent to me.' 'but, dearest flora, how is your enthusiastic zeal for the exiled family inconsistent with my happiness?' 'because you seek, or ought to seek, in the object of your attachment a heart whose principal delight should be in augmenting your domestic felicity and returning your affection, even to the height of romance. to a man of less keen sensibility, and less enthusiastic tenderness of disposition, flora mac-ivor might give content, if not happiness; for, were the irrevocable words spoken, never would she be deficient in the duties which she vowed.' 'and why,--why, miss mac-ivor, should you think yourself a more valuable treasure to one who is less capable of loving, of admiring you, than to me?' 'simply because the tone of our affections would be more in unison, and because his more blunted sensibility would not require the return of enthusiasm which i have not to bestow. but you, mr. waverley, would for ever refer to the idea of domestic happiness which your imagination is capable of painting, and whatever fell short of that ideal representation would be construed into coolness and indifference, while you might consider the enthusiasm with which i regarded the success of the royal family as defrauding your affection of its due return.' 'in other words, miss mac-ivor, you cannot love me?' said her suitor dejectedly. 'i could esteem you, mr. waverley, as much, perhaps more, than any man i have ever seen; but i cannot love you as you ought to be loved. o! do not, for your own sake, desire so hazardous an experiment! the woman whom you marry ought to have affections and opinions moulded upon yours. her studies ought to be your studies; her wishes, her feelings, her hopes, her fears, should all mingle with yours. she should enhance your pleasures, share your sorrows, and cheer your melancholy.' 'and why will not you, miss mac-ivor, who can so well describe a happy union, why will not you be yourself the person you describe?' 'is it possible you do not yet comprehend me?' answered flora. 'have i not told you that every keener sensation of my mind is bent exclusively towards an event upon which, indeed, i have no power but those of my earnest prayers?' 'and might not the granting the suit i solicit,' said waverley, too earnest on his purpose to consider what he was about to say, 'even advance the interest to which you have devoted yourself? my family is wealthy and powerful, inclined in principles to the stuart race, and should a favourable opportunity--' 'a favourable opportunity!' said flora--somewhat scornfully. 'inclined in principles! can such lukewarm adherence be honourable to yourselves, or gratifying to your lawful sovereign? think, from my present feelings, what i should suffer when i held the place of member in a family where the rights which i hold most sacred are subjected to cold discussion, and only deemed worthy of support when they shall appear on the point of triumphing without it!' 'your doubts,' quickly replied waverley, 'are unjust as far as concerns myself. the cause that i shall assert, i dare support through every danger, as undauntedly as the boldest who draws sword in its behalf.' 'of that,' answered flora, 'i cannot doubt for a moment. but consult your own good sense and reason rather than a prepossession hastily adopted, probably only because you have met a young woman possessed of the usual accomplishments in a sequestered and romantic situation. let your part in this great and perilous drama rest upon conviction, and not on a hurried and probably a temporary feeling.' waverley attempted to reply, but his words failed him. every sentiment that flora had uttered vindicated the strength of his attachment; for even her loyalty, although wildly enthusiastic, was generous and noble, and disdained to avail itself of any indirect means of supporting the cause to which she was devoted. after walking a little way in silence down the path, flora thus resumed the conversation.--'one word more, mr. waverley, ere we bid farewell to this topic for ever; and forgive my boldness if that word have the air of advice. my brother fergus is anxious that you should join him in his present enterprise. but do not consent to this; you could not, by your single exertions, further his success, and you would inevitably share his fall, if it be god's pleasure that fall he must. your character would also suffer irretrievably. let me beg you will return to your own country; and, having publicly freed yourself from every tie to the usurping government, i trust you will see cause, and find opportunity, to serve your injured sovereign with effect, and stand forth, as your loyal ancestors, at the head of your natural followers and adherents, a worthy representative of the house of waverley.' 'and should i be so happy as thus to distinguish myself, might i not hope--' 'forgive my interruption,' said flora. 'the present time only is ours, and i can but explain to you with candour the feelings which i now entertain; how they might be altered by a train of events too favourable perhaps to be hoped for, it were in vain even to conjecture. only be assured, mr. waverley, that, after my brother's honour and happiness, there is none which i shall more sincerely pray for than for yours.' with these words she parted from him, for they were now arrived where two paths separated. waverley reached the castle amidst a medley of conflicting passions. he avoided any private interview with fergus, as he did not find himself able either to encounter his raillery or reply to his solicitations. the wild revelry of the feast, for mac-ivor kept open table for his clan, served in some degree to stun reflection. when their festivity was ended, he began to consider how he should again meet miss mac-ivor after the painful and interesting explanation of the morning. but flora did not appear. fergus, whose eyes flashed when he was told by cathleen that her mistress designed to keep her apartment that evening, went himself in quest of her; but apparently his remonstrances were in vain, for he returned with a heightened complexion and manifest symptoms of displeasure. the rest of the evening passed on without any allusion, on the part either of fergus or waverley, to the subject which engrossed the reflections of the latter, and perhaps of both. when retired to his own apartment, edward endeavoured to sum up the business of the day. that the repulse he had received from flora would be persisted in for the present, there was no doubt. but could he hope for ultimate success in case circumstances permitted the renewal of his suit? would the enthusiastic loyalty, which at this animating moment left no room for a softer passion, survive, at least in its engrossing force, the success or the failure of the present political machinations? and if so, could he hope that the interest which she had acknowledged him to possess in her favour might be improved into a warmer attachment? he taxed his memory to recall every word she had used, with the appropriate looks and gestures which had enforced them, and ended by finding himself in the same state of uncertainty. it was very late before sleep brought relief to the tumult of his mind, after the most painful and agitating day which he had ever passed. chapter xxviii a letter from tully-veolan in the morning, when waverley's troubled reflections had for some time given way to repose, there came music to his dreams, but not the voice of selma. he imagined himself transported back to tully- veolan, and that he heard davie gellatley singing in the court those matins which used generally to be the first sounds that disturbed his repose while a guest of the baron of bradwardine. the notes which suggested this vision continued, and waxed louder, until edward awoke in earnest. the illusion, however, did not seem entirely dispelled. the apartment was in the fortress of lan nan chaistel, but it was still the voice of davie gellatley that made the following lines resound under the window:-- my heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here, my heart's in the highlands a-chasing the deer; a-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, my heart's in the highlands wherever i go. [footnote: these lines form the burden of an old song to which burns wrote additional verses.] curious to know what could have determined mr. gellatley on an excursion of such unwonted extent, edward began to dress himself in all haste, during which operation the minstrelsy of davie changed its tune more than once:-- there's nought in the highlands but syboes and leeks, and lang-leggit callants gaun wanting the breeks, wanting the breeks, and without hose and shoon, but we'll a'win the breeks when king jamie comes hame. [footnote: these lines are also ancient, and i believe to the tune of we'll never hae peace till jamie comes hame, to which burns likewise wrote some verses.] by the time waverley was dressed and had issued forth, david had associated himself with two or three of the numerous highland loungers who always graced the gates of the castle with their presence, and was capering and dancing full merrily in the doubles and full career of a scotch foursome reel, to the music of his own whistling. in this double capacity of dancer and musician he continued, until an idle piper, who observed his zeal, obeyed the unanimous call of seid suas (i.e. blow up), and relieved him from the latter part of his trouble. young and old then mingled in the dance as they could find partners. the appearance of waverley did not interrupt david's exercise, though he contrived, by grinning, nodding, and throwing one or two inclinations of the body into the graces with which he performed the highland fling, to convey to our hero symptoms of recognition. then, while busily employed in setting, whooping all the while, and snapping his fingers over his head, he of a sudden prolonged his side-step until it brought him to the place where edward was standing, and, still keeping time to the music like harlequin in a pantomime, he thrust a letter into our hero's hand, and continued his saltation without pause or intermission. edward, who perceived that the address was in rose's hand-writing, retired to peruse it, leaving the faithful bearer to continue his exercise until the piper or he should be tired out. the contents of the letter greatly surprised him. it had originally commenced with 'dear sir'; but these words had been carefully erased, and the monosyllable 'sir' substituted in their place. the rest of the contents shall be given in rose's own language. i fear i am using an improper freedom by intruding upon you, yet i cannot trust to any one else to let you know some things which have happened here, with which it seems necessary you should be acquainted. forgive me, if i am wrong in what i am doing; for, alas! mr. waverley, i have no better advice than that of my own feelings; my dear father is gone from this place, and when he can return to my assistance and protection, god alone knows. you have probably heard that, in consequence of some troublesome news from the highlands, warrants were sent out for apprehending several gentlemen in these parts, and, among others, my dear father. in spite of all my tears and entreaties that he would surrender himself to the government, he joined with mr. falconer and some other gentlemen, and they have all gone northwards, with a body of about forty horsemen. so i am not so anxious concerning his immediate safety as about what may follow afterwards, for these troubles are only beginning. but all this is nothing to you, mr. waverley, only i thought you would be glad to learn that my father has escaped, in case you happen to have heard that he was in danger. the day after my father went off there came a party of soldiers to tully-veolan, and behaved very rudely to bailie macwheeble; but the officer was very civil to me, only said his duty obliged him to search for arms and papers. my father had provided against this by taking away all the arms except the old useless things which hung in the hall, and he had put all his papers out of the way. but o! mr. waverley, how shall i tell you, that they made strict inquiry after you, and asked when you had been at tully-veolan, and where you now were. the officer is gone back with his party, but a non-commissioned officer and four men remain as a sort of garrison in the house. they have hitherto behaved very well, as we are forced to keep them in good-humour. but these soldiers have hinted as if, on your falling into their hands, you would be in great danger; i cannot prevail on myself to write what wicked falsehoods they said, for i am sure they are falsehoods; but you will best judge what you ought to do. the party that returned carried off your servant prisoner, with your two horses, and everything that you left at tully-veolan. i hope god will protect you, and that you will get safe home to england, where you used to tell me there was no military violence nor fighting among clans permitted, but everything was done according to an equal law that protected all who were harmless and innocent. i hope you will exert your indulgence as to my boldness in writing to you, where it seems to me, though perhaps erroneously, that your safety and honour are concerned. i am sure--at least i think, my father would approve of my writing; for mr. rubrick is fled to his cousin's at the duchran, to to be out of danger from the soldiers and the whigs, and bailie macwheeble does not like to meddle (he says) in other men's concerns, though i hope what may serve my father's friend at such a time as this cannot be termed improper interference. farewell, captain waverley! i shall probaby never see you more; for it would be very improper to wish you to call at tully-veolan just now, even if these men were gone; but i will always remember with gratitude your kindness in assisting so poor a scholar as myself, and your attentions to my dear, dear father. i remain, your obliged servant, rose comyne bradwardine. p.s.--i hope you will send me a line by david gellatley, just to say you have received this and that you will take care of yourself; and forgive me if i entreat you, for your own sake, to join none of these unhappy cabals, but escape, as fast as possible, to your own fortunate country. my compliments to my dear flora and to glennaquoich. is she not as handsome and accomplished as i have described her? thus concluded the letter of rose bradwardine, the contents of which both surprised and affected waverley. that the baron should fall under the suspicions of government, in consequence of the present stir among the partisans of the house of stuart, seemed only the natural consequence of his political predilections; but how he himself should have been involved in such suspicions, conscious that until yesterday he had been free from harbouring a thought against the prosperity of the reigning family, seemed inexplicable. both at tully-veolan and glennaquoich his hosts had respected his engagements with the existing government, and though enough passed by accidental innuendo that might induce him to reckon the baron and the chief among those disaffected gentlemen who were still numerous in scotland, yet until his own connection with the army had been broken off by the resumption of his commission, he had no reason to suppose that they nourished any immediate or hostile attempts against the present establishment. still he was aware that, unless he meant at once to embrace the proposal of fergus mac-ivor, it would deeply concern him to leave the suspicious neighbourhood without delay, and repair where his conduct might undergo a satisfactory examination. upon this he the rather determined, as flora's advice favoured his doing so, and because he felt inexpressible repugnance at the idea of being accessary to the plague of civil war. whatever were the original rights of the stuarts, calm reflection told him that, omitting the question how far james the second could forfeit those of his posterity, he had, according to the united voice of the whole nation, justly forfeited his own. since that period four monarchs had reigned in peace and glory over britain, sustaining and exalting the character of the nation abroad and its liberties at home. reason asked, was it worth while to disturb a government so long settled and established, and to plunge a kingdom into all the miseries of civil war, for the purpose of replacing upon the throne the descendants of a monarch by whom it had been wilfully forfeited? if, on the other hand, his own final conviction of the goodness of their cause, or the commands of his father or uncle, should recommend to him allegiance to the stuarts, still it was necessary to clear his own character by showing that he had not, as seemed to be falsely insinuated, taken any step to this purpose during his holding the commission of the reigning monarch, the affectionate simplicity of rose and her anxiety for his safety, his sense too of her unprotected state, and of the terror and actual dangers to which she might be exposed, made an impression upon his mind, and he instantly wrote to thank her in the kindest terms for her solicitude on his account, to express his earnest good wishes for her welfare and that of her father, and to assure her of his own safety. the feelings which this task excited were speedily lost in the necessity which he now saw of bidding farewell to flora mac-ivor, perhaps for ever. the pang attending this reflection was inexpressible; for her high-minded elevation of character, her self-devotion to the cause which she had embraced, united to her scrupulous rectitude as to the means of serving it, had vindicated to his judgment the choice adopted by his passions. but time pressed, calumny was busy with his fame, and every hour's delay increased the power to injure it. his departure must be instant. with this determination he sought out fergus, and communicated to him the contents of rose's letter, with his own resolution instantly to go to edinburgh, and put into the hands of some one or other of those persons of influence to whom he had letters from his father his exculpation from any charge which might be preferred against him. 'you run your head into the lion's mouth,' answered mac-ivor. 'you do not know the severity of a government harassed by just apprehensions, and a consciousness of their own illegality and insecurity. i shall have to deliver you from some dungeon in stirling or edinburgh castle.' 'my innocence, my rank, my father's intimacy with lord m--, general g--, etc., will be a sufficient protection,' said waverley. 'you will find the contrary,' replied the chieftain, 'these gentlemen will have enough to do about their own matters. once more, will you take the plaid, and stay a little while with us among the mists and the crows, in the bravest cause ever sword was drawn in?' [footnote: a highland rhyme on glencairn's expedition, in , has these lines-- we'll bide a while amang ta crows, we'll wiske ta sword and bend ta bows] 'for many reasons, my dear fergus, you must hold me excused.' 'well then,' said mac-ivor, 'i shall certainly find you exerting your poetical talents in elegies upon a prison, or your antiquarian researches in detecting the oggam [footnote: the oggam is a species of the old irish character. the idea of the correspondence betwixt the celtic and punic, founded on a scene in plautus, was not started till general vallancey set up his theory, long after the date of fergus mac-ivor] character or some punic hieroglyphic upon the keystones of a vault, curiously arched. or what say you to un petit pendement bien joli? against which awkward ceremony i don't warrant you, should you meet a body of the armed west-country whigs.' 'and why should they use me so?' said waverley. 'for a hundred good reasons,' answered fergus. 'first, you are an englishman; secondly, a gentleman; thirdly, a prelatist abjured; and, fourthly, they have not had an opportunity to exercise their talents on such a subject this long while. but don't be cast down, beloved; all will be done in the fear of the lord.' 'well, i must run my hazard.' 'you are determined, then?' 'i am.' 'wilful will do't' said fergus. 'but you cannot go on foot, and i shall want no horse, as i must march on foot at the head of the children of ivor; you shall have brown dermid.' 'if you will sell him, i shall certainly be much obliged.' 'if your proud english heart cannot be obliged by a gift or loan, i will not refuse money at the entrance of a campaign: his price is twenty guineas. [remember, reader, it was sixty years since.] and when do you propose to depart?' 'the sooner the better,' answered waverley. 'you are right, since go you must, or rather, since go you will. i will take flora's pony and ride with you as far as bally-brough. callum beg, see that our horses are ready, with a pony for yourself, to attend and carry mr. waverley's baggage as far as-- (naming a small town), where he can have a horse and guide to edinburgh. put on a lowland dress, callum, and see you keep your tongue close, if you would not have me cut it out. mr. waverley rides dermid.' then turning to edward, 'you will take leave of my sister?' 'surely--that is, if miss mac-ivor will honour me so far.' 'cathleen, let my sister know mr. waverley wishes to bid her farewell before he leaves us. but rose bradwardine, her situation must be thought of; i wish she were here. and why should she not? there are but four red-coats at tully-veolan, and their muskets would be very useful to us.' to these broken remarks edward made no answer; his ear indeed received them, but his soul was intent upon the expected entrance of flora. the door opened. it was but cathleen, with her lady's excuse, and wishes for captain waverley's health and happiness. chapter xxix waverley's reception in the lowlands after his highland tour it was noon when the two friends stood at the top of the pass of bally-brough. 'i must go no farther,' said fergus mac-ivor, who during the journey had in vain endeavoured to raise his friend's spirits. 'if my cross-grained sister has any share in your dejection, trust me she thinks highly of you, though her present anxiety about the public cause prevents her listening to any other subject. confide your interest to me; i will not betray it, providing you do not again assume that vile cockade.' 'no fear of that, considering the manner in which it has been recalled. adieu, fergus; do not permit your sister to forget me.' 'and adieu, waverley; you may soon hear of her with a prouder title. get home, write letters, and make friends as many and as fast as you can; there will speedily be unexpected guests on the coast of suffolk, or my news from france has deceived me.' [footnote: the sanguine jacobites, during the eventful years - , kept up the spirits of their party by the rumour of descents from france on behalf of the chevalier st. george.] thus parted the friends; fergus returning back to his castle, while edward, followed by callum beg, the latter transformed from point to point into a low-country groom, proceeded to the little town of--. edward paced on under the painful and yet not altogether embittered feelings which separation and uncertainty produce in the mind of a youthful lover. i am not sure if the ladies understand the full value of the influence of absence, nor do i think it wise to teach it them, lest, like the clelias and mandanes of yore, they should resume the humour of sending their lovers into banishment. distance, in truth, produces in idea the same effect as in real perspective. objects are softened, and rounded, and rendered doubly graceful; the harsher and more ordinary points of character are mellowed down, and those by which it is remembered are the more striking outlines that mark sublimity, grace, or beauty. there are mists too in the mental as well as the natural horizon, to conceal what is less pleasing in distant objects, and there are happy lights, to stream in full glory upon those points which can profit by brilliant illumination. waverley forgot flora mac-ivor's prejudices in her magnanimity, and almost pardoned her indifference towards his affection when he recollected the grand and decisive object which seemed to fill her whole soul. she, whose sense of duty so wholly engrossed her in the cause of a benefactor, what would be her feelings in favour of the happy individual who should be so fortunate as to awaken them? then came the doubtful question, whether he might not be that happy man,--a question which fancy endeavoured to answer in the affirmative, by conjuring up all she had said in his praise, with the addition of a comment much more flattering than the text warranted. all that was commonplace, all that belonged to the every-day world, was melted away and obliterated in those dreams of imagination, which only remembered with advantage the points of grace and dignity that distinguished flora from the generality of her sex, not the particulars which she held in common with them. edward was, in short, in the fair way of creating a goddess out of a high-spirited, accomplished, and beautiful young woman; and the time was wasted in castle-building until, at the descent of a steep hill, he saw beneath him the market-town of ----. the highland politeness of callum beg--there are few nations, by the way, who can boast of so much natural politeness as the highlanders [footnote: the highlander, in former times, had always a high idea of his own gentility, and was anxious to impress the same upon those with whom he conversed. his language abounded in the phrases of courtesy and compliment; and the habit of carrying arms, and mixing with those who did so, made it particularly desirable they should use cautious politeness in their intercourse with each other.]--the highland civility of his attendant had not permitted him to disturb the reveries of our hero. but observing him rouse himself at the sight of the village, callum pressed closer to his side, and hoped 'when they cam to the public, his honour wad not say nothing about vich ian vohr, for ta people were bitter whigs, deil burst tem.' waverley assured the prudent page that he would be cautious; and as he now distinguished, not indeed the ringing of bells, but the tinkling of something like a hammer against the side of an old mossy, green, inverted porridge-pot that hung in an open booth, of the size and shape of a parrot's cage, erected to grace the east end of a building resembling an old barn, he asked callum beg if it were sunday. 'could na say just preceesely; sunday seldom cam aboon the pass of bally-brough.' on entering the town, however, and advancing towards the most apparent public-house which presented itself, the numbers of old women, in tartan screens and red cloaks, who streamed from the barn-resembling building, debating as they went the comparative merits of the blessed youth jabesh rentowel and that chosen vessel maister goukthrapple, induced callum to assure his temporary master 'that it was either ta muckle sunday hersell, or ta little government sunday that they ca'd ta fast.' on alighting at the sign of the seven-branched golden candlestick, which, for the further delectation of the guests, was graced with a short hebrew motto, they were received by mine host, a tall thin puritanical figure, who seemed to debate with himself whether he ought to give shelter to those who travelled on such a day. reflecting, however, in all probability, that he possessed the power of mulcting them for this irregularity, a penalty which they might escape by passing into gregor duncanson's, at the sign of the highlander and the hawick gill, mr. ebenezer cruickshanks condescended to admit them into his dwelling. to this sanctified person waverley addressed his request that he would procure him a guide, with a saddle-horse, to carry his portmanteau to edinburgh. 'and whar may ye be coming from?' demanded mine host of the candlestick. 'i have told you where i wish to go; i do not conceive any further information necessary either for the guide or his saddle-horse.' 'hem! ahem!' returned he of the candlestick, somewhat disconcerted at this rebuff. 'it's the general fast, sir, and i cannot enter into ony carnal transactions on sic a day, when the people should be humbled and the backsliders should return, as worthy mr. goukthrapple said; and moreover when, as the precious mr. jabesh rentowel did weel observe, the land was mourning for covenants burnt, broken, and buried.' 'my good friend,' said waverley, 'if you cannot let me have a horse and guide, my servant shall seek them elsewhere.' 'aweel! your servant? and what for gangs he not forward wi' you himsell?' waverley had but very little of a captain of horse's spirit within him--i mean of that sort of spirit which i have been obliged to when i happened, in a mail coach or diligence, to meet some military man who has kindly taken upon him the disciplining of the waiters and the taxing of reckonings. some of this useful talent our hero had, however, acquired during his military service, and on this gross provocation it began seriously to arise. 'look ye, sir; i came here for my own accommodation, and not to answer impertinent questions. either say you can, or cannot, get me what i want; i shall pursue my course in either case.' mr. ebenezer cruickshanks left the room with some indistinct mutterings; but whether negative or acquiescent, edward could not well distinguish. the hostess, a civil, quiet, laborious drudge, came to take his orders for dinner, but declined to make answer on the subject of the horse and guide; for the salique law, it seems, extended to the stables of the golden candlestick. from a window which overlooked the dark and narrow court in which callum beg rubbed down the horses after their journey, waverley heard the following dialogue betwixt the subtle foot-page of vich ian vohr and his landlord:-- 'ye'll be frae the north, young man?' began the latter. 'and ye may say that,' answered callum. 'and ye'll hae ridden a lang way the day, it may weel be?' 'sae lang, that i could weel tak a dram.' 'gudewife, bring the gill stoup.' here some compliments passed fitting the occasion, when my host of the golden candlestick, having, as he thought, opened his guest's heart by this hospitable propitiation, resumed his scrutiny. 'ye'll no hae mickle better whisky than that aboon the pass?' 'i am nae frae aboon the pass.' 'ye're a highlandman by your tongue?' 'na; i am but just aberdeen-a-way.' 'and did your master come frae aberdeen wi' you?' 'ay; that's when i left it mysell,' answered the cool and impenetrable callum beg. 'and what kind of a gentleman is he?' 'i believe he is ane o' king george's state officers; at least he's aye for ganging on to the south, and he has a hantle siller, and never grudges onything till a poor body, or in the way of a lawing.' 'he wants a guide and a horse frae hence to edinburgh?' 'ay, and ye maun find it him forthwith.' 'ahem! it will be chargeable.' 'he cares na for that a bodle.' 'aweel, duncan--did ye say your name was duncan, or donald?' 'na, man--jamie--jamie steenson--i telt ye before.' this last undaunted parry altogether foiled mr. cruickshanks, who, though not quite satisfied either with the reserve of the master or the extreme readiness of the man, was contented to lay a tax on the reckoning and horse-hire that might compound for his ungratified curiosity. the circumstance of its being the fast day was not forgotten in the charge, which, on the whole, did not, however, amount to much more than double what in fairness it should have been. callum beg soon after announced in person the ratification of this treaty, adding, 'ta auld deevil was ganging to ride wi' ta duinhe- wassel hersell.' 'that will not be very pleasant, callum, nor altogether safe, for our host seems a person of great curiosity; but a traveller must submit to these inconveniences. meanwhile, my good lad, here is a trifle for you to drink vich ian vohr's health.' the hawk's eye of callum flashed delight upon a golden guinea, with which these last words were accompanied. he hastened, not without a curse on the intricacies of a saxon breeches pocket, or spleuchan, as he called it, to deposit the treasure in his fob; and then, as if he conceived the benevolence called for some requital on his part, he gathered close up to edward, with an expression of countenance peculiarly knowing, and spoke in an undertone, 'if his honour thought ta auld deevil whig carle was a bit dangerous, she could easily provide for him, and teil ane ta wiser.' 'how, and in what manner?' 'her ain sell,' replied callum, 'could wait for him a wee bit frae the toun, and kittle his quarters wi'her skene-occle.' 'skene-occle! what's that?' callum unbuttoned his coat, raised his left arm, and, with an emphatic nod, pointed to the hilt of a small dirk, snugly deposited under it, in the lining of his jacket. waverley thought he had misunderstood his meaning; he gazed in his face, and discovered in callum's very handsome though embrowned features just the degree of roguish malice with which a lad of the same age in england would have brought forward a plan for robbing an orchard. 'good god, callum, would you take the man's life?' 'indeed,' answered the young desperado, 'and i think he has had just a lang enough lease o 't, when he's for betraying honest folk that come to spend siller at his public.' edward saw nothing was to be gained by argument, and therefore contented himself with enjoining callum to lay aside all practices against the person of mr. ebenezer cruickshanks; in which injunction the page seemed to acquiesce with an air of great indifference. 'ta duinhe-wassel might please himsell; ta auld rudas loon had never done callum nae ill. but here's a bit line frae ta tighearna, tat he bade me gie your honour ere i came back.' the letter from the chief contained flora's lines on the fate of captain wogan, whose enterprising character is so well drawn by clarendon. he had originally engaged in the service of the parliament, but had abjured that party upon the execution of charles i; and upon hearing that the royal standard was set up by the earl of glencairn and general middleton in the highlands of scotland, took leave of charles ii, who was then at paris, passed into england, assembled a body of cavaliers in the neighbourhood of london, and traversed the kingdom, which had been so long under domination of the usurper, by marches conducted with such skill, dexterity, and spirit that he safely united his handful of horsemen with the body of highlanders then in arms. after several months of desultory warfare, in which wogan's skill and courage gained him the highest reputation, he had the misfortune to be wounded in a dangerous manner, and no surgical assistance being within reach he terminated his short but glorious career. there were obvious reasons why the politic chieftain was desirous to place the example of this young hero under the eye of waverley, with whose romantic disposition it coincided so peculiarly. but his letter turned chiefly upon some trifling commissions which waverley had promised to execute for him in england, and it was only toward the conclusion that edward found these words: 'i owe flora a grudge for refusing us her company yesterday; and, as i am giving you the trouble of reading these lines, in order to keep in your memory your promise to procure me the fishing-tackle and cross-bow from london, i will enclose her verses on the grave of wogan. this i know will tease her; for, to tell you the truth, i think her more in love with the memory of that dead hero than she is likely to be with any living one, unless he shall tread a similar path. but english squires of our day keep their oak-trees to shelter their deer parks, or repair the losses of an evening at white's, and neither invoke them to wreathe their brows nor shelter their graves. let me hope for one brilliant exception in a dear friend, to whom i would most gladly give a dearer title.' the verses were inscribed, to an oak tree in the church-yard of ----, in the highlands of scotland, said to mark the grave of captain wogan, killed in . emblem of england's ancient faith, full proudly may thy branches wave, where loyalty lies low in death, and valour fills a timeless grave. and thou, brave tenant of the tomb! repine not if our clime deny, above thine honour'd sod to bloom the flowerets of a milder sky. these owe their birth to genial may; beneath a fiercer sun they pine, before the winter storm decay; and can their worth be type of thine? no! for, 'mid storms of fate opposing, still higher swell'd thy dauntless heart, and, while despair the scene was closing, commenced thy brief but brilliant part. 't was then thou sought'st on albyn's hill, (when england's sons the strife resign'd) a rugged race resisting still, and unsubdued though unrefined. thy death's hour heard no kindred wail, no holy knell thy requiem rung; thy mourners were the plaided gael, thy dirge the clamourous pibroch sung. yet who, in fortune's summer-shine to waste life's longest term away, would change that glorious dawn of thine, though darken'd ere its noontide day! be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs brave summer's drought and winter's gloom. rome bound with oak her patriots' brows, as albyn shadows wogan's tomb. whatever might be the real merit of flora mac-ivor's poetry, the enthusiasm which it intimated was well calculated to make a corresponding impression upon her lover. the lines were read--read again, then deposited in waverley's bosom, then again drawn out, and read line by line, in a low and smothered voice, and with frequent pauses which prolonged the mental treat, as an epicure protracts, by sipping slowly, the enjoyment of a delicious beverage. the entrance of mrs. cruickshanks with the sublunary articles of dinner and wine hardly interrupted this pantomime of affectionate enthusiasm. at length the tall ungainly figure and ungracious visage of ebenezer presented themselves. the upper part of his form, notwithstanding the season required no such defence, was shrouded in a large great-coat, belted over his under habiliments, and crested with a huge cowl of the same stuff, which, when drawn over the head and hat, completely overshadowed both, and, being buttoned beneath the chin, was called a trot-cozy. his hand grasped a huge jockey-whip, garnished with brassmounting. his thin legs tenanted a pair of gambadoes, fastened at the sides with rusty clasps. thus accoutred, he stalked into the midst of the apartment, and announced his errand in brief phrase: 'yer horses are ready.' 'you go with me yourself then, landlord?' 'i do, as far as perth; where ye may be supplied with a guide to embro', as your occasions shall require.' thus saying, he placed under waverley's eye the bill which he held in his hand; and at the same time, self-invited, filled a glass of wine and drank devoutly to a blessing on their journey. waverley stared at the man's impudence, but, as their connection was to be short and promised to be convenient, he made no observation upon it; and, having paid his reckoning, expressed his intention to depart immediately. he mounted dermid accordingly and sallied forth from the golden candlestick, followed by the puritanical figure we have described, after he had, at the expense of some time and difficulty, and by the assistance of a 'louping- on-stane,' or structure of masonry erected for the traveller's convenience in front of the house, elevated his person to the back of a long-backed, raw-boned, thin-gutted phantom of a broken-down blood-horse, on which waverley's portmanteau was deposited. our hero, though not in a very gay humour, could hardly help laughing at the appearance of his new squire, and at imagining the astonishment which his person and equipage would have excited at waverley-honour. edward's tendency to mirth did not escape mine host of the candlestick, who, conscious of the cause, infused a double portion of souring into the pharisaical leaven of his countenance, and resolved internally that, in one way or other, the young 'englisher' should pay dearly for the contempt with which he seemed to regard him. callum also stood at the gate and enjoyed, with undissembled glee, the ridiculous figure of mr. cruickshanks. as waverley passed him he pulled off his hat respectfully, and, approaching his stirrup, bade him 'tak heed the auld whig deevil played him nae cantrip.' waverley once more thanked and bade him farewell, and then rode briskly onward, not sorry to be out of hearing of the shouts of the children, as they beheld old ebenezer rise and sink in his stirrups to avoid the concussions occasioned by a hard trot upon a half-paved street. the village of--was soon several miles behind him. chapter xxx shows that the loss of a horse's shoe may be a serious inconvenience the manner and air of waverley, but, above all, the glittering contents of his purse, and the indifference with which he seemed to regard them, somewhat overawed his companion, and deterred him from making any attempts to enter upon conversation. his own reflections were moreover agitated by various surmises, and by plans of self-interest with which these were intimately connected. the travellers journeyed, therefore, in silence, until it was interrupted by the annunciation, on the part of the guide, that his 'naig had lost a fore-foot shoe, which, doubtless, his honour would consider it was his part to replace.' this was what lawyers call a fishing question, calculated to ascertain how far waverley was disposed to submit to petty imposition. 'my part to replace your horse's shoe, you rascal!' said waverley, mistaking the purport of the intimation. 'indubitably,' answered mr. cruickshanks; 'though there was no preceese clause to that effect, it canna be expected that i am to pay for the casualties whilk may befall the puir naig while in your honour's service. nathless, if your honour--' 'o, you mean i am to pay the farrier; but where shall we find one?' rejoiced at discerning there would be no objection made on the part of his temporary master, mr. cruickshanks assured him that cairnvreckan, a village which they were about to enter, was happy in an excellent blacksmith; 'but as he was a professor, he would drive a nail for no man on the sabbath or kirk-fast, unless it were in a case of absolute necessity, for which he always charged sixpence each shoe.' the most important part of this communication, in the opinion of the speaker, made a very slight impression on the hearer, who only internally wondered what college this veterinary professor belonged to, not aware that the word was used to denote any person who pretended to uncommon sanctity of faith and manner. as they entered the village of cairnvreckan, they speedily distinguished the smith's house. being also a public, it was two stories high, and proudly reared its crest, covered with grey slate, above the thatched hovels by which it was surrounded. the adjoining smithy betokened none of the sabbatical silence and repose which ebenezer had augured from the sanctity of his friend. on the contrary, hammer clashed and anvil rang, the bellows groaned, and the whole apparatus of vulcan appeared to be in full activity. nor was the labour of a rural and pacific nature. the master smith, benempt, as his sign intimated, john mucklewrath, with two assistants, toiled busily in arranging, repairing, and furbishing old muskets, pistols, and swords, which lay scattered around his workshop in military confusion. the open shed, containing the forge, was crowded with persons who came and went as if receiving and communicating important news, and a single glance at the aspect of the people who traversed the street in haste, or stood assembled in groups, with eyes elevated and hands uplifted, announced that some extraordinary intelligence was agitating the public mind of the municipality of cairnvreckan. 'there is some news,' said mine host of the candlestick, pushing his lantern-jawed visage and bare-boned nag rudely forward into the crowd--'there is some news; and, if it please my creator, i will forthwith obtain speirings thereof.' waverley, with better regulated curiosity than his attendant's, dismounted and gave his horse to a boy who stood idling near. it arose, perhaps, from the shyness of his character in early youth, that he felt dislike at applying to a stranger even for casual information, without previously glancing at his physiognomy and appearance. while he looked about in order to select the person with whom he would most willingly hold communication, the buzz around saved him in some degree the trouble of interrogatories. the names of lochiel, clanronald, glengarry, and other distinguished highland chiefs, among whom vich ian vohr was repeatedly mentioned, were as familiar in men's mouths as household words; and from the alarm generally expressed, he easily conceived that their descent into the lowlands, at the head of their armed tribes, had either already taken place or was instantly apprehended. ere waverley could ask particulars, a strong, large-boned, hard- featured woman, about forty, dressed as if her clothes had been flung on with a pitchfork, her cheeks flushed with a scarlet red where they were not smutted with soot and lamp-black, jostled through the crowd, and, brandishing high a child of two years old, which she danced in her arms without regard to its screams of terror, sang forth with all her might,-- charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling, charlie is my darling, the young chevalier! 'd' ye hear what's come ower ye now,' continued the virago, 'ye whingeing whig carles? d'ye hear wha's coming to cow yer cracks? little wot ye wha's coming, little wot ye wha's coming, a' the wild macraws are coming.' the vulcan of cairnvreckan, who acknowledged his venus in this exulting bacchante, regarded her with a grim and ire-foreboding countenance, while some of the senators of the village hastened to interpose. 'whisht, gudewife; is this a time or is this a day to be singing your ranting fule sangs in?--a time when the wine of wrath is poured out without mixture in the cup of indignation, and a day when the land should give testimony against popery, and prelacy, and quakerism, and independency, and supremacy, and erastianism, and antinomianism, and a' the errors of the church?' 'and that's a' your whiggery,' reechoed the jacobite heroine; 'that's a' your whiggery, and your presbytery, ye cut-lugged, graning carles! what! d' ye think the lads wi' the kilts will care for yer synods and yer presbyteries, and yer buttock-mail, and yer stool o' repentance? vengeance on the black face o't! mony an honester woman's been set upon it than streeks doon beside ony whig in the country. i mysell--' here john mucklewrath, who dreaded her entering upon a detail of personal experience, interposed his matrimonial authority. 'gae hame, and be d--(that i should say sae), and put on the sowens for supper.' 'and you, ye doil'd dotard,' replied his gentle helpmate, her wrath, which had hitherto wandered abroad over the whole assembly, being at once and violently impelled into its natural channel, 'ye stand there hammering dog-heads for fules that will never snap them at a highlandman, instead of earning bread for your family and shoeing this winsome young gentleman's horse that's just come frae the north! i'se warrant him nane of your whingeing king george folk, but a gallant gordon, at the least o' him.' the eyes of the assembly were now turned upon waverley, who took the opportunity to beg the smith to shoe his guide's horse with all speed, as he wished to proceed on his journey; for he had heard enough to make him sensible that there would be danger in delaying long in this place. the smith's eyes rested on him with a look of displeasure and suspicion, not lessened by the eagerness with which his wife enforced waverley's mandate. 'd'ye hear what the weel-favoured young gentleman says, ye drunken ne'er-do-good?' 'and what may your name be, sir?' quoth mucklewrath. 'it is of no consequence to you, my friend, provided i pay your labour.' 'but it may be of consequence to the state, sir,' replied an old farmer, smelling strongly of whisky and peat-smoke; 'and i doubt we maun delay your journey till you have seen the laird.' 'you certainly,' said waverley, haughtily, 'will find it both difficult and dangerous to detain me, unless you can produce some proper authority.' there was a pause and a whisper among the crowd--'secretary murray'--'lord lewis gordon'--'maybe the chevalier himsell!' such were the surmises that passed hurriedly among them, and there was obviously an increased disposition to resist waverley's departure. he attempted to argue mildly with them, but his voluntary ally, mrs. mucklewrath, broke in upon and drowned his expostulations, taking his part with an abusive violence which was all set down to edward's account by those on whom it was bestowed. 'ye'll stop ony gentleman that's the prince's freend?' for she too, though with other feelings, had adopted the general opinion respecting waverley. 'i daur ye to touch him,' spreading abroad her long and muscular fingers, garnished with claws which a vulture might have envied. 'i'll set my ten commandments in the face o' the first loon that lays a finger on him.' 'gae hame, gudewife,' quoth the farmer aforesaid; 'it wad better set you to be nursing the gudeman's bairns than to be deaving us here.' 'his bairns?' retorted the amazon, regarding her husband with a grin of ineffable contempt--'his bairns! o gin ye were dead, gudeman, and a green turf on your head, gudeman! then i wad ware my widowhood upon a ranting highlandman' this canticle, which excited a suppressed titter among the younger part of the audience, totally overcame the patience of the taunted man of the anvil. 'deil be in me but i'll put this het gad down her throat!' cried he in an ecstasy of wrath, snatching a bar from the forge; and he might have executed his threat, had he not been withheld by a part of the mob, while the rest endeavoured to force the termagant out of his presence. waverley meditated a retreat in the confusion, but his horse was nowhere to be seen. at length he observed at some distance his faithful attendant, ebenezer, who, as soon as he had perceived the turn matters were likely to take, had withdrawn both horses from the press, and, mounted on the one and holding the other, answered the loud and repeated calls of waverley for his horse. 'na, na! if ye are nae friend to kirk and the king, and are detained as siccan a person, ye maun answer to honest men of the country for breach of contract; and i maun keep the naig and the walise for damage and expense, in respect my horse and mysell will lose to-morrow's day's wark, besides the afternoon preaching.' edward, out of patience, hemmed in and hustled by the rabble on every side, and every moment expecting personal violence, resolved to try measures of intimidation, and at length drew a pocket- pistol, threatening, on the one hand, to shoot whomsoever dared to stop him, and, on the other, menacing ebenezer with a similar doom if he stirred a foot with the horses. the sapient partridge says that one man with a pistol is equal to a hundred unarmed, because, though he can shoot but one of the multitude, yet no one knows but that he himself may be that luckless individual. the levy en masse of cairnvreckan would therefore probably have given way, nor would ebenezer, whose natural paleness had waxed three shades more cadaverous, have ventured to dispute a mandate so enforced, had not the vulcan of the village, eager to discharge upon some more worthy object the fury which his helpmate had provoked, and not ill satisfied to find such an object in waverley, rushed at him with the red-hot bar of iron with such determination as made the discharge of his pistol an act of self-defence. the unfortunate man fell; and while edward, thrilled with a natural horror at the incident, neither had presence of mind to unsheathe his sword nor to draw his remaining pistol, the populace threw themselves upon him, disarmed him, and were about to use him with great violence, when the appearance of a venerable clergyman, the pastor of the parish, put a curb on their fury. this worthy man (none of the goukthrapples or rentowels) maintained his character with the common people, although he preached the practical fruits of christian faith as well as its abstract tenets, and was respected by the higher orders, notwithstanding he declined soothing their speculative errors by converting the pulpit of the gospel into a school of heathen morality. perhaps it is owing to this mixture of faith and practice in his doctrine that, although his memory has formed a sort of era in the annals of cairnvreckan, so that the parishioners, to denote what befell sixty years since, still say it happened 'in good mr. morton's time,' i have never been able to discover which he belonged to, the evangelical or the moderate party in the kirk. nor do i hold the circumstance of much moment, since, in my own remembrance, the one was headed by an erskine, the other by a robertson. [footnote: the reverend john erskine, d. d, an eminent scottish divine and a most excellent man, headed the evangelical party in the church of scotland at the time when the celebrated doctor robertson, the historian, was the leader of the moderate party. these two distinguished persons were colleagues in the old grey friars' church, edinburgh; and, however much they differed in church politics, preserved the most perfect harmony as private friends and as clergymen serving the same cure] mr. morton had been alarmed by the discharge of the pistol and the increasing hubbub around the smithy. his first attention, after he had directed the bystanders to detain waverley, but to abstain from injuring him, was turned to the body of mucklewrath, over which his wife, in a revulsion of feeling, was weeping, howling, and tearing her elf-locks in a state little short of distraction. on raising up the smith, the first discovery was that he was alive; and the next that he was likely to live as long as if he had never heard the report of a pistol in his life. he had made a narrow escape, however; the bullet had grazed his head and stunned him for a moment or two, which trance terror and confusion of spirit had prolonged somewhat longer. he now arose to demand vengeance on the person of waverley, and with difficulty acquiesced in the proposal of mr. morton that he should be carried before the laird, as a justice of peace, and placed at his disposal. the rest of the assistants unanimously agreed to the measure recommended; even mrs. mucklewrath, who had begun to recover from her hysterics, whimpered forth, 'she wadna say naething against what the minister proposed; he was e'en ower gude for his trade, and she hoped to see him wi' a dainty decent bishop's gown on his back; a comelier sight than your geneva cloaks and bands, i wis.' all controversy being thus laid aside, waverley, escorted by the whole inhabitants of the village who were not bed-ridden, was conducted to the house of cairnvreckan, which was about half a mile distant. chapter xxxi an examination major melville of cairnvreckan, an elderly gentleman, who had spent his youth in the military service, received mr. morton with great kindness, and our hero with civility, which the equivocal circumstances wherein edward was placed rendered constrained and distant. the nature of the smith's hurt was inquired into, and, as the actual injury was likely to prove trifling, and the circumstances in which it was received rendered the infliction on edward's part a natural act of self-defence, the major conceived he might dismiss that matter on waverley's depositing in his hands a small sum for the benefit of the wounded person. 'i could wish, sir,' continued the major, 'that my duty terminated here; but it is necessary that we should have some further inquiry into the cause of your journey through the country at this unfortunate and distracted time.' mr. ebenezer cruickshanks now stood forth, and communicated to the magistrate all he knew or suspected from the reserve of waverley and the evasions of callum beg. the horse upon which edward rode, he said, he knew to belong to vich ian vohr, though he dared not tax edward's former attendant with the fact, lest he should have his house and stables burnt over his head some night by that godless gang, the mac-ivors. he concluded by exaggerating his own services to kirk and state, as having been the means, under god (as he modestly qualified the assertion), of attaching this suspicious and formidable delinquent. he intimated hopes of future reward, and of instant reimbursement for loss of time, and even of character, by travelling on the state business on the fast-day. to this major melville answered, with great composure, that so far from claiming any merit in this affair, mr. cruickshanks ought to deprecate the imposition of a very heavy fine for neglecting to lodge, in terms of the recent proclamation, an account with the nearest magistrate of any stranger who came to his inn; that, as mr. cruickshanks boasted so much of religion and loyalty, he should not impute this conduct to disaffection, but only suppose that his zeal for kirk and state had been lulled asleep by the opportunity of charging a stranger with double horse-hire; that, however, feeling himself incompetent to decide singly upon the conduct of a person of such importance, he should reserve it for consideration of the next quarter-sessions. now our history for the present saith no more of him of the candlestick, who wended dolorous and malcontent back to his own dwelling. major melville then commanded the villagers to return to their homes, excepting two, who officiated as constables, and whom he directed to wait below. the apartment was thus cleared of every person but mr. morton, whom the major invited to remain; a sort of factor, who acted as clerk; and waverley himself. there ensued a painful and embarrassed pause, till major melville, looking upon waverley with much compassion, and often consulting a paper or memorandum which he held in his hand, requested to know his name. 'edward waverley.' 'i thought so; late of the--dragoons, and nephew of sir everard waverley of waverley-honour?' 'the same.' 'young gentleman, i am extremely sorry that this painful duty has fallen to my lot.' 'duty, major melville, renders apologies superfluous.' 'true, sir; permit me, therefore, to ask you how your time has been disposed of since you obtained leave of absence from your regiment, several weeks ago, until the present moment?' 'my reply,' said waverley, 'to so general a question must be guided by the nature of the charge which renders it necessary. i request to know what that charge is, and upon what authority i am forcibly detained to reply to it?' 'the charge, mr. waverley, i grieve to say, is of a very high nature, and affects your character both as a soldier and a subject. in the former capacity you are charged with spreading mutiny and rebellion among the men you commanded, and setting them the example of desertion, by prolonging your own absence from the regiment, contrary to the express orders of your commanding officer. the civil crime of which you stand accused is that of high treason and levying war against the king, the highest delinquency of which a subject can be guilty.' 'and by what authority am i detained to reply to such heinous calumnies?' 'by one which you must not dispute, nor i disobey.' he handed to waverley a warrant from the supreme criminal court of scotland, in full form, for apprehending and securing the person of edward waverley, esq., suspected of treasonable practices and other high crimes and misdemeanours. the astonishment which waverley expressed at this communication was imputed by major melville to conscious guilt, while mr. morton was rather disposed to construe it into the surprise of innocence unjustly suspected. there was something true in both conjectures; for although edward's mind acquitted him of the crime with which he was charged, yet a hasty review of his own conduct convinced him he might have great difficulty in establishing his innocence to the satisfaction of others. 'it is a very painful part of this painful business,' said major melville, after a pause, 'that, under so grave a charge, i must necessarily request to see such papers as you have on your person.' 'you shall, sir, without reserve,' said edward, throwing his pocket-book and memorandums upon the table; 'there is but one with which i could wish you would dispense.' 'i am afraid, mr. waverley, i can indulge you with no reservation,' 'you shall see it then, sir; and as it can be of no service, i beg it may be returned.' he took from his bosom the lines he had that morning received, and presented them with the envelope. the major perused them in silence, and directed his clerk to make a copy of them. he then wrapped the copy in the envelope, and placing it on the table before him, returned the original to waverley, with an air of melancholy gravity. after indulging the prisoner, for such our hero must now be considered, with what he thought a reasonable time for reflection, major melville resumed his examination, premising that, as mr. waverley seemed to object to general questions, his interrogatories should be as specific as his information permitted. he then proceeded in his investigation, dictating, as he went on, the import of the questions and answers to the amanuensis, by whom it was written down. 'did mr. waverley know one humphry houghton, a non-commissioned officer in gardiner's dragoons?' 'certainly; he was sergeant of my troop, and son of a tenant of my uncle.' 'exactly--and had a considerable share of your confidence, and an influence among his comrades?' 'i had never occasion to repose confidence in a person of his description,' answered waverley. 'i favoured sergeant houghton as a clever, active young fellow, and i believe his fellow-soldiers respected him accordingly.' 'but you used through this man,' answered major melville, 'to communicate with such of your troop as were recruited upon waverley-honour?' 'certainly; the poor fellows, finding themselves in a regiment chiefly composed of scotch or irish, looked up to me in any of their little distresses, and naturally made their countryman and sergeant their spokesman on such occasions.' 'sergeant houghton's influence,' continued the major, 'extended, then, particularly over those soldiers who followed you to the regiment from your uncle's estate?' 'surely; but what is that to the present purpose?' 'to that i am just coming, and i beseech your candid reply. have you, since leaving the regiment, held any correspondence, direct or indirect, with this sergeant houghton?' 'i!--i hold correspondence with a man of his rank and situation! how, or for what purpose?' 'that you are to explain. but did you not, for example, send to him for some books?' 'you remind me of a trifling commission,' said waverley, 'which i gave sergeant houghton, because my servant could not read. i do recollect i bade him, by letter, select some books, of which i sent him a list, and send them to me at tully-veolan.' 'and of what description were those books?' 'they related almost entirely to elegant literature; they were designed for a lady's perusal.' 'were there not, mr. waverley, treasonable tracts and pamphlets among them?' 'there were some political treatises, into which i hardly looked. they had been sent to me by the officiousness of a kind friend, whose heart is more to be esteemed than his prudence or political sagacity; they seemed to be dull compositions.' 'that friend,' continued the persevering inquirer, 'was a mr. pembroke, a nonjuring clergyman, the author of two treasonable works, of which the manuscripts were found among your baggage?' 'but of which, i give you my honour as a gentleman,' replied waverley, 'i never read six pages.' 'i am not your judge, mr. waverley; your examination will be transmitted elsewhere. and now to proceed. do you know a person that passes by the name of wily will, or will ruthven?' 'i never heard of such a name till this moment.' 'did you never through such a person, or any other person, communicate with sergeant humphry houghton, instigating him to desert, with as many of his comrades as he could seduce to join him, and unite with the highlanders and other rebels now in arms under the command of the young pretender?' 'i assure you i am not only entirely guiltless of the plot you have laid to my charge, but i detest it from the very bottom of my soul, nor would i be guilty of such treachery to gain a throne, either for myself or any other man alive.' 'yet when i consider this envelope in the handwriting of one of those misguided gentlemen who are now in arms against their country, and the verses which it enclosed, i cannot but find some analogy between the enterprise i have mentioned and the exploit of wogan, which the writer seems to expect you should imitate.' waverley was struck with the coincidence, but denied that the wishes or expectations of the letter-writer were to be regarded as proofs of a charge otherwise chimerical. 'but, if i am rightly informed, your time was spent, during your absence from the regiment, between the house of this highland chieftain and that of mr. bradwardine of bradwardine, also in arms for this unfortunate cause?' 'i do not mean to disguise it; but i do deny, most resolutely, being privy to any of their designs against the government.' 'you do not, however, i presume, intend to deny that you attended your host glennaquoich to a rendezvous, where, under a pretence of a general hunting match, most of the accomplices of his treason were assembled to concert measures for taking arms?' 'i acknowledge having been at such a meeting,' said waverley; 'but i neither heard nor saw anything which could give it the character you affix to it.' 'from thence you proceeded,' continued the magistrate, 'with glennaquoich and a part of his clan to join the army of the young pretender, and returned, after having paid your homage to him, to discipline and arm the remainder, and unite them to his bands on their way southward?' 'i never went with glennaquoich on such an errand. i never so much as heard that the person whom you mention was in the country.' he then detailed the history of his misfortune at the hunting match, and added, that on his return he found himself suddenly deprived of his commission, and did not deny that he then, for the first time, observed symptoms which indicated a disposition in the highlanders to take arms; but added that, having no inclination to join their cause, and no longer any reason for remaining in scotland, he was now on his return to his native country, to which he had been summoned by those who had a right to direct his motions, as major melville would perceive from the letters on the table. major melville accordingly perused the letters of richard waverley, of sir everard, and of aunt rachel; but the inferences he drew from them were different from what waverley expected. they held the language of discontent with government, threw out no obscure hints of revenge, and that of poor aunt rachel, which plainly asserted the justice of the stuart cause, was held to contain the open avowal of what the others only ventured to insinuate. 'permit me another question, mr. waverley,' said major melville. 'did you not receive repeated letters from your commanding officer, warning you and commanding you to return to your post, and acquainting you with the use made of your name to spread discontent among your soldiers?' 'i never did, major melville. one letter, indeed, i received from him, containing a civil intimation of his wish that i would employ my leave of absence otherwise than in constant residence at bradwardine, as to which, i own, i thought he was not called on to interfere; and, finally, i received, on the same day on which i observed myself superseded in the "gazette," a second letter from colonel gardiner, commanding me to join the regiment, an order which, owing to my absence, already mentioned and accounted for, i received too late to be obeyed. if there were any intermediate letters, and certainly from the colonel's high character i think it probable that there were, they have never reached me.' 'i have omitted, mr. waverley,' continued major melville, 'to inquire after a matter of less consequence, but which has nevertheless been publicly talked of to your disadvantage. it is said that a treasonable toast having been proposed in your hearing and presence, you, holding his majesty's commission, suffered the task of resenting it to devolve upon another gentleman of the company. this, sir, cannot be charged against you in a court of justice; but if, as i am informed, the officers of your regiment requested an explanation of such a rumour, as a gentleman and soldier i cannot but be surprised that you did not afford it to them.' this was too much. beset and pressed on every hand by accusations, in which gross falsehoods were blended with such circumstances of truth as could not fail to procure them credit,--alone, unfriended, and in a strange land, waverley almost gave up his life and honour for lost, and, leaning his head upon his hand, resolutely refused to answer any further questions, since the fair and candid statement he had already made had only served to furnish arms against him. without expressing either surprise or displeasure at the change in waverley's manner, major melville proceeded composedly to put several other queries to him. 'what does it avail me to answer you?' said edward sullenly. 'you appear convinced of my guilt, and wrest every reply i have made to support your own preconceived opinion. enjoy your supposed triumph, then, and torment me no further. if i am capable of the cowardice and treachery your charge burdens me with, i am not worthy to be believed in any reply i can make to you. if i am not deserving of your suspicion--and god and my own conscience bear evidence with me that it is so--then i do not see why i should, by my candour, lend my accusers arms against my innocence. there is no reason i should answer a word more, and i am determined to abide by this resolution.' and again he resumed his posture of sullen and determined silence. 'allow me,' said the magistrate, 'to remind you of one reason that may suggest the propriety of a candid and open confession. the inexperience of youth, mr. waverley, lays it open to the plans of the more designing and artful; and one of your friends at least--i mean mac-ivor of glennaquoich--ranks high in the latter class, as, from your apparent ingenuousness, youth, and unacquaintance with the manners of the highlands, i should be disposed to place you among the former. in such a case, a false step or error like yours, which i shall be happy to consider as involuntary, may be atoned for, and i would willingly act as intercessor. but, as you must necessarily be acquainted with the strength of the individuals in this country who have assumed arms, with their means and with their plans, i must expect you will merit this mediation on my part by a frank and candid avowal of all that has come to your knowledge upon these heads; in which case, i think i can venture to promise that a very short personal restraint will be the only ill consequence that can arise from your accession to these unhappy intrigues.' waverley listened with great composure until the end of this exhortation, when, springing from his seat with an energy he had not yet displayed, he replied, 'major melville, since that is your name, i have hitherto answered your questions with candour, or declined them with temper, because their import concerned myself alone; but, as you presume to esteem me mean enough to commence informer against others, who received me, whatever may be their public misconduct, as a guest and friend, i declare to you that i consider your questions as an insult infinitely more offensive than your calumnious suspicions; and that, since my hard fortune permits me no other mode of resenting them than by verbal defiance, you should sooner have my heart out of my bosom than a single syllable of information on subjects which i could only become acquainted with in the full confidence of unsuspecting hospitality.' mr. morton and the major looked at each other; and the former, who, in the course of the examination, had been repeatedly troubled with a sorry rheum, had recourse to his snuff-box and his handkerchief. 'mr. waverley,' said the major, 'my present situation prohibits me alike from giving or receiving offence, and i will not protract a discussion which approaches to either. i am afraid i must sign a warrant for detaining you in custody, but this house shall for the present be your prison. i fear i cannot persuade you to accept a share of our supper?--(edward shook his head)--but i will order refreshments in your apartment.' our hero bowed and withdrew, under guard of the officers of justice, to a small but handsome room, where, declining all offers of food or wine, he flung himself on the bed, and, stupified by the harassing events and mental fatigue of this miserable day, he sunk into a deep and heavy slumber. this was more than he himself could have expected; but it is mentioned of the north-american indians, when at the stake of torture, that on the least intermission of agony they will sleep until the fire is applied to awaken them. chapter xxxii a conference and the consequence major melville had detained mr. morton during his examination of waverley, both because he thought he might derive assistance from his practical good sense and approved loyalty, and also because it was agreeable to have a witness of unimpeached candour and veracity to proceedings which touched the honour and safety of a young englishman of high rank and family, and the expectant heir of a large fortune. every step he knew would be rigorously canvassed, and it was his business to place the justice and integrity of his own conduct beyond the limits of question. when waverley retired, the laird and clergyman of cairnvreckan sat down in silence to their evening meal. while the servants were in attendance neither chose to say anything on the circumstances which occupied their minds, and neither felt it easy to speak upon any other. the youth and apparent frankness of waverley stood in strong contrast to the shades of suspicion which darkened around him, and he had a sort of naivete and openness of demeanour that seemed to belong to one unhackneyed in the ways of intrigue, and which pleaded highly in his favour. each mused over the particulars of the examination, and each viewed it through the medium of his own feelings. both were men of ready and acute talent, and both were equally competent to combine various parts of evidence, and to deduce from them the necessary conclusions. but the wide difference of their habits and education often occasioned a great discrepancy in their respective deductions from admitted premises. major melville had been versed in camps and cities; he was vigilant by profession and cautious from experience, had met with much evil in the world, and therefore, though himself an upright magistrate and an honourable man, his opinions of others were always strict, and sometimes unjustly severe. mr. morton, on the contrary, had passed from the literary pursuits of a college, where he was beloved by his companions and respected by his teachers, to the ease and simplicity of his present charge, where his opportunities of witnessing evil were few, and never dwelt upon but in order to encourage repentance and amendment; and where the love and respect of his parishioners repaid his affectionate zeal in their behalf by endeavouring to disguise from him what they knew would give him the most acute pain, namely, their own occasional transgressions of the duties which it was the business of his life to recommend. thus it was a common saying in the neighbourhood (though both were popular characters), that the laird knew only the ill in the parish and the minister only the good. a love of letters, though kept in subordination to his clerical studies and duties, also distinguished the pastor of cairnvreckan, and had tinged his mind in earlier days with a slight feeling of romance, which no after incidents of real life had entirely dissipated. the early loss of an amiable young woman whom he had married for love, and who was quickly followed to the grave by an only child, had also served, even after the lapse of many years, to soften a disposition naturally mild and contemplative. his feelings on the present occasion were therefore likely to differ from those of the severe disciplinarian, strict magistrate, and distrustful man of the world. when the servants had withdrawn, the silence of both parties continued, until major melville, filling his glass and pushing the bottle to mr. morton, commenced-- 'a distressing affair this, mr. morton. i fear this youngster has brought himself within the compass of a halter.' 'god forbid!' answered the clergyman. 'marry, and amen,' said the temporal magistrate; 'but i think even your merciful logic will hardly deny the conclusion.' 'surely, major,' answered the clergyman, 'i should hope it might be averted, for aught we have heard tonight?' 'indeed!' replied melville. 'but, my good parson, you are one of those who would communicate to every criminal the benefit of clergy.' 'unquestionably i would. mercy and long-suffering are the grounds of the doctrine i am called to teach.' 'true, religiously speaking; but mercy to a criminal may be gross injustice to the community. i don't speak of this young fellow in particular, who i heartily wish may be able to clear himself, for i like both his modesty and his spirit. but i fear he has rushed upon his fate.' 'and why? hundreds of misguided gentlemen are now in arms against the government, many, doubtless, upon principles which education and early prejudice have gilded with the names of patriotism and heroism; justice, when she selects her victims from such a multitude (for surely all will not be destroyed), must regard the moral motive. he whom ambition or hope of personal advantage has led to disturb the peace of a well-ordered government, let him fall a victim to the laws; but surely youth, misled by the wild visions of chivalry and imaginary loyalty, may plead for pardon.' 'if visionary chivalry and imaginary loyalty come within the predicament of high treason,' replied the magistrate, 'i know no court in christendom, my dear mr. morton, where they can sue out their habeas corpus.' 'but i cannot see that this youth's guilt is at all established to my satisfaction,' said the clergyman. 'because your good-nature blinds your good sense,' replied major melville. 'observe now: this young man, descended of a family of hereditary jacobites, his uncle the leader of the tory interest in the county of ----, his father a disobliged and discontented courtier, his tutor a nonjuror and the author of two treasonable volumes--this youth, i say, enters into gardiner's dragoons, bringing with him a body of young fellows from his uncle's estate, who have not stickled at avowing in their way the high-church principles they learned at waverley-honour, in their disputes with their comrades. to these young men waverley is unusually attentive; they are supplied with money beyond a soldier's wants and inconsistent with his discipline; and are under the management of a favourite sergeant, through whom they hold an unusually close communication with their captain, and affect to consider themselves as independent of the other officers, and superior to their comrades.' 'all this, my dear major, is the natural consequence of their attachment to their young landlord, and of their finding themselves in a regiment levied chiefly in the north of ireland and the west of scotland, and of course among comrades disposed to quarrel with them, both as englishmen and as members of the church of england.' 'well said, parson!' replied the magistrate. 'i would some of your synod heard you. but let me go on. this young man obtains leave of absence, goes to tully-veolan--the principles of the baron of bradwardine are pretty well known, not to mention that this lad's uncle brought him off in the year fifteen; he engages there in a brawl, in which he is said to have disgraced the commission he bore; colonel gardiner writes to him, first mildly, then more sharply--i think you will not doubt his having done so, since he says so; the mess invite him to explain the quarrel in which he is said to have been involved; he neither replies to his commander nor his comrades. in the meanwhile his soldiers become mutinous and disorderly, and at length, when the rumour of this unhappy rebellion becomes general, his favourite sergeant houghton and another fellow are detected in correspondence with a french emissary, accredited, as he says, by captain waverley, who urges him, according to the men's confession, to desert with the troop and join their captain, who was with prince charles. in the meanwhile this trusty captain is, by his own admission, residing at glennaquoich with the most active, subtle, and desperate jacobite in scotland; he goes with him at least as far as their famous hunting rendezvous, and i fear a little farther. meanwhile two other summonses are sent him; one warning him of the disturbances in his troop, another peremptorily ordering him to repair to the regiment, which, indeed, common sense might have dictated, when he observed rebellion thickening all round him. he returns an absolute refusal, and throws up his commission.' 'he had been already deprived of it,' said mr. morton. 'but he regrets,' replied melville, 'that the measure had anticipated his resignation. his baggage is seized at his quarters and at tully-veolan, and is found to contain a stock of pestilent jacobitical pamphlets, enough to poison a whole country, besides the unprinted lucubrations of his worthy friend and tutor mr. pembroke.' 'he says he never read them,' answered the minister. 'in an ordinary case i should believe him,' replied the magistrate, 'for they are as stupid and pedantic in composition as mischievous in their tenets. but can you suppose anything but value for the principles they maintain would induce a young man of his age to lug such trash about with him? then, when news arrive of the approach of the rebels, he sets out in a sort of disguise, refusing to tell his name; and, if yon old fanatic tell truth, attended by a very suspicious character, and mounted on a horse known to have belonged to glennaquoich, and bearing on his person letters from his family expressing high rancour against the house of brunswick, and a copy of verses in praise of one wogan, who abjured the service of the parliament to join the highland insurgents, when in arms to restore the house of stuart, with a body of english cavalry--the very counterpart of his own plot--and summed up with a "go thou and do likewise" from that loyal subject, and most safe and peaceable character, fergus mac-ivor of glennaquoich, vich ian vohr, and so forth. and, lastly,' continued major melville, warming in the detail of his arguments, 'where do we find this second edition of cavalier wogan? why, truly, in the very track most proper for execution of his design, and pistolling the first of the king's subjects who ventures to question his intentions.' mr. morton prudently abstained from argument, which he perceived would only harden the magistrate in his opinion, and merely asked how he intended to dispose of the prisoner? 'it is a question of some difficulty, considering the state of the country,' said major melville. 'could you not detain him (being such a gentleman-like young man) here in your own house, out of harm's way, till this storm blow over?' 'my good friend,' said major melville, 'neither your house nor mine will be long out of harm's way, even were it legal to confine him here. i have just learned that the commander-in-chief, who marched into the highlands to seek out and disperse the insurgents, has declined giving them battle at coryarrick, and marched on northward with all the disposable force of government to inverness, john-o'-groat's house, or the devil, for what i know, leaving the road to the low country open and undefended to the highland army.' 'good god!' said the clergyman. 'is the man a coward, a traitor, or an idiot?' 'none of the three, i believe,' answered melville. 'sir john has the commonplace courage of a common soldier, is honest enough, does what he is commanded, and understands what is told him, but is as fit to act for himself in circumstances of importance as i, my dear parson, to occupy your pulpit.' this important public intelligence naturally diverted the discourse from waverley for some time; at length, however, the subject was resumed. 'i believe,' said major melville, 'that i must give this young man in charge to some of the detached parties of armed volunteers who were lately sent out to overawe the disaffected districts. they are now recalled towards stirling, and a small body comes this way to-morrow or next day, commanded by the westland man--what's his name? you saw him, and said he was the very model of one of cromwell's military saints.' 'gilfillan, the cameronian,' answered mr. morton. 'i wish the young gentleman may be safe with him. strange things are done in the heat and hurry of minds in so agitating a crisis, and i fear gilfillan is of a sect which has suffered persecution without learning mercy.' 'he has only to lodge mr. waverley in stirling castle,' said the major; 'i will give strict injunctions to treat him well. i really cannot devise any better mode for securing him, and i fancy you would hardly advise me to encounter the responsibility of setting him at liberty.' 'but you will have no objection to my seeing him tomorrow in private?' said the minister. 'none, certainly; your loyalty and character are my warrant. but with what view do you make the request?' 'simply,' replied mr. morton, 'to make the experiment whether he may not be brought to communicate to me some circumstances which may hereafter be useful to alleviate, if not to exculpate, his conduct.' the friends now parted and retired to rest, each filled with the most anxious reflections on the state of the country. chapter xxxiii a confidant waverley awoke in the morning from troubled dreams and unrefreshing slumbers to a full consciousness of the horrors of his situation. how it might terminate he knew not. he might be delivered up to military law, which, in the midst of civil war, was not likely to be scrupulous in the choice of its victims or the quality of the evidence. nor did he feel much more comfortable at the thoughts of a trial before a scottish court of justice, where he knew the laws and forms differed in many respects from those of england, and had been taught to believe, however erroneously, that the liberty and rights of the subject were less carefully protected. a sentiment of bitterness rose in his mind against the government, which he considered as the cause of his embarrassment and peril, and he cursed internally his scrupulous rejection of mac-ivor's invitation to accompany him to the field. 'why did not i,' he said to himself, 'like other men of honour, take the earliest opportunity to welcome to britain the descendant of her ancient kings and lineal heir of her throne? why did not i-- unthread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith, seek out prince charles, and fall before his feet? all that has been recorded of excellence and worth in the house of waverley has been founded upon their loyal faith to the house of stuart. from the interpretation which this scotch magistrate has put upon the letters of my uncle and father, it is plain that i ought to have understood them as marshalling me to the course of my ancestors; and it has been my gross dulness, joined to the obscurity of expression which they adopted for the sake of security, that has confounded my judgment. had i yielded to the first generous impulse of indignation when i learned that my honour was practised upon, how different had been my present situation! i had then been free and in arms fighting, like my forefathers, for love, for loyalty, and for fame. and now i am here, netted and in the toils, at the disposal of a suspicious, stern, and cold-hearted man, perhaps to be turned over to the solitude of a dungeon or the infamy of a public execution. o, fergus! how true has your prophecy proved; and how speedy, how very speedy, has been its accomplishment!' while edward was ruminating on these painful subjects of contemplation, and very naturally, though not quite so justly, bestowing upon the reigning dynasty that blame which was due to chance, or, in part at least, to his own unreflecting conduct, mr. morton availed himself of major melville's permission to pay him an early visit. waverley's first impulse was to intimate a desire that he might not be disturbed with questions or conversation; but he suppressed it upon observing the benevolent and reverend appearance of the clergyman who had rescued him from the immediate violence of the villagers. 'i believe, sir,' said the unfortunate young man,'that in any other circumstances i should have had as much gratitude to express to you as the safety of my life may be worth; but such is the present tumult of my mind, and such is my anticipation of what i am yet likely to endure, that i can hardly offer you thanks for your interposition.' mr. morton replied, that, far from making any claim upon his good opinion, his only wish and the sole purpose of his visit was to find out the means of deserving it. 'my excellent friend, major melville,' he continued, 'has feelings and duties as a soldier and public functionary by which i am not fettered; nor can i always coincide in opinions which he forms, perhaps with too little allowance for the imperfections of human nature.' he paused and then proceeded: 'i do not intrude myself on your confidence, mr. waverley, for the purpose of learning any circumstances the knowledge of which can be prejudicial either to yourself or to others; but i own my earnest wish is that you would intrust me with any particulars which could lead to your exculpation. i can solemnly assure you they will be deposited with a faithful and, to the extent of his limited powers, a zealous agent.' 'you are, sir, i presume, a presbyterian clergyman?' mr. morton bowed. 'were i to be guided by the prepossessions of education, i might distrust your friendly professions in my case; but i have observed that similar prejudices are nourished in this country against your professional brethren of the episcopal persuasion, and i am willing to believe them equally unfounded in both cases.' 'evil to him that thinks otherwise,' said mr. morton; 'or who holds church government and ceremonies as the exclusive gage of christian faith or moral virtue.' 'but,' continued waverley, 'i cannot perceive why i should trouble you with a detail of particulars, out of which, after revolving them as carefully as possible in my recollection, i find myself unable to explain much of what is charged against me. i know, indeed, that i am innocent, but i hardly see how i can hope to prove myself so.' 'it is for that very reason, mr. waverley,' said the clergyman, 'that i venture to solicit your confidence. my knowledge of individuals in this country is pretty general, and can upon occasion be extended. your situation will, i fear, preclude your taking those active steps for recovering intelligence or tracing imposture which i would willingly undertake in your behalf; and if you are not benefited by my exertions, at least they cannot be prejudicial to you.' waverley, after a few minutes' reflection, was convinced that his reposing confidence in mr. morton, so far as he himself was concerned, could hurt neither mr. bradwardine nor fergus mac-ivor, both of whom had openly assumed arms against the government, and that it might possibly, if the professions of his new friend corresponded in sincerity with the earnestness of his expression, be of some service to himself. he therefore ran briefly over most of the events with which the reader is already acquainted, suppressing his attachment to flora, and indeed neither mentioning her nor rose bradwardine in the course of his narrative. mr. morton seemed particularly struck with the account of waverley's visit to donald bean lean. 'i am glad,' he said, 'you did not mention this circumstance to the major. it is capable of great misconstruction on the part of those who do not consider the power of curiosity and the influence of romance as motives of youthful conduct. when i was a young man like you, mr. waverley, any such hair-brained expedition (i beg your pardon for the expression) would have had inexpressible charms for me. but there are men in the world who will not believe that danger and fatigue are often incurred without any very adequate cause, and therefore who are sometimes led to assign motives of action entirely foreign to the truth. this man bean lean is renowned through the country as a sort of robin hood, and the stories which are told of his address and enterprise are the common tales of the winter fireside. he certainly possesses talents beyond the rude sphere in which he moves; and, being neither destitute of ambition nor encumbered with scruples, he will probably attempt, by every means, to distinguish himself during the period of these unhappy commotions.' mr. morton then made a careful memorandum of the various particulars of waverley's interview with donald bean lean and the other circumstances which he had communicated. the interest which this good man seemed to take in his misfortunes, above all, the full confidence he appeared to repose in his innocence, had the natural effect of softening edward's heart, whom the coldness of major melville had taught to believe that the world was leagued to oppress him. he shook mr. morton warmly by the hand, and, assuring him that his kindness and sympathy had relieved his mind of a heavy load, told him that, whatever might be his own fate, he belonged to a family who had both gratitude and the power of displaying it. the earnestness of his thanks called drops to the eyes of the worthy clergyman, who was doubly interested in the cause for which he had volunteered his services, by observing the genuine and undissembled feelings of his young friend. edward now inquired if mr. morton knew what was likely to be his destination. 'stirling castle,' replied his friend; 'and so far i am well pleased for your sake, for the governor is a man of honour and humanity. but i am more doubtful of your treatment upon the road; major melville is involuntarily obliged to intrust the custody of your person to another.' 'i am glad of it,' answered waverley. 'i detest that cold-blooded calculating scotch magistrate. i hope he and i shall never meet more. he had neither sympathy with my innocence nor with my wretchedness; and the petrifying accuracy with which he attended to every form of civility, while he tortured me by his questions, his suspicions, and his inferences, was as tormenting as the racks of the inquisition. do not vindicate him, my dear sir, for that i cannot bear with patience; tell me rather who is to have the charge of so important a state prisoner as i am.' 'i believe a person called gilfillan, one of the sect who are termed cameronians.' 'i never heard of them before.' 'they claim,' said the clergyman, 'to represent the more strict and severe presbyterians, who, in charles second's and james second's days, refused to profit by the toleration, or indulgence, as it was called, which was extended to others of that religion. they held conventicles in the open fields, and, being treated with great violence and cruelty by the scottish government, more than once took arms during those reigns. they take their name from their leader, richard cameron.' 'i recollect,' said waverley; 'but did not the triumph of presbytery at the revolution extinguish that sect?' 'by no means,' replied morton; 'that great event fell yet far short of what they proposed, which was nothing less than the complete establishment of the presbyterian church upon the grounds of the old solemn league and covenant. indeed, i believe they scarce knew what they wanted; but being a numerous body of men, and not unacquainted with the use of arms, they kept themselves together as a separate party in the state, and at the time of the union had nearly formed a most unnatural league with their old enemies the jacobites to oppose that important national measure. since that time their numbers have gradually diminished; but a good many are still to be found in the western counties, and several, with a better temper than in , have now taken arms for government. this person, whom they call gifted gilfillan, has been long a leader among them, and now heads a small party, which will pass here to-day or to-morrow on their march towards stirling, under whose escort major melville proposes you shall travel. i would willingly speak to gilfillan in your behalf; but, having deeply imbibed all the prejudices of his sect, and being of the same fierce disposition, he would pay little regard to the remonstrances of an erastian divine, as he would politely term me. and now, farewell, my young friend; for the present i must not weary out the major's indulgence, that i may obtain his permission to visit you again in the course of the day.' chapter xxxiv things mend a little about noon mr. morton returned and brought an invitation from major melville that mr. waverley would honour him with his company to dinner, notwithstanding the unpleasant affair which detained him at cairnvreckan, from which he should heartily rejoice to see mr. waverley completely extricated. the truth was that mr. morton's favourable report and opinion had somewhat staggered the preconceptions of the old soldier concerning edward's supposed accession to the mutiny in the regiment; and in the unfortunate state of the country the mere suspicion of disaffection or an inclination to join the insurgent jacobites might infer criminality indeed, but certainly not dishonour. besides, a person whom the major trusted had reported to him (though, as it proved, inaccurately) a contradiction of the agitating news of the preceding evening. according to this second edition of the intelligence, the highlanders had withdrawn from the lowland frontier with the purpose of following the army in their march to inverness. the major was at a loss, indeed, to reconcile his information with the well-known abilities of some of the gentlemen in the highland army, yet it was the course which was likely to be most agreeable to others. he remembered the same policy had detained them in the north in the year , and he anticipated a similar termination to the insurrection as upon that occasion. this news put him in such good-humour that he readily acquiesced in mr. morton's proposal to pay some hospitable attention to his unfortunate guest, and voluntarily added, he hoped the whole affair would prove a youthful escapade, which might be easily atoned by a short confinement. the kind mediator had some trouble to prevail on his young friend to accept the invitation. he dared not urge to him the real motive, which was a good-natured wish to secure a favourable report of waverley's case from major melville to governor blakeney. he remarked, from the flashes of our hero's spirit, that touching upon this topic would be sure to defeat his purpose. he therefore pleaded that the invitation argued the major's disbelief of any part of the accusation which was inconsistent with waverley's conduct as a soldier and a man of honour, and that to decline his courtesy might be interpreted into a consciousness that it was unmerited. in short, he so far satisfied edward that the manly and proper course was to meet the major on easy terms that, suppressing his strong dislike again to encounter his cold and punctilious civility, waverley agreed to be guided by his new friend. the meeting at first was stiff and formal enough. but edward, having accepted the invitation, and his mind being really soothed and relieved by the kindness of morton, held himself bound to behave with ease, though he could not affect cordiality. the major was somewhat of a bon vivant, and his wine was excellent. he told his old campaign stories, and displayed much knowledge of men and manners. mr. morton had an internal fund of placid and quiet gaiety, which seldom failed to enliven any small party in which he found himself pleasantly seated. waverley, whose life was a dream, gave ready way to the predominating impulse and became the most lively of the party. he had at all times remarkable natural powers of conversation, though easily silenced by discouragement. on the present occasion he piqued himself upon leaving on the minds of his companions a favourable impression of one who, under such disastrous circumstances, could sustain his misfortunes with ease and gaiety. his spirits, though not unyielding, were abundantly elastic, and soon seconded his efforts. the trio were engaged in very lively discourse, apparently delighted with each other, and the kind host was pressing a third bottle of burgundy, when the sound of a drum was heard at some distance. the major, who, in the glee of an old soldier, had forgot the duties of a magistrate, cursed, with a muttered military oath, the circumstances which recalled him to his official functions. he rose and went towards the window, which commanded a very near view of the highroad, and he was followed by his guests. the drum advanced, beating no measured martial tune, but a kind of rub-a-dub-dub, like that with which the fire-drum startles the slumbering artizans of a scotch burgh. it is the object of this history to do justice to all men; i must therefore record, in justice to the drummer, that he protested he could beat any known march or point of war known in the british army, and had accordingly commenced with 'dumbarton's drums,' when he was silenced by gifted gilfillan, the commander of the party, who refused to permit his followers to move to this profane, and even, as he said, persecutive tune, and commanded the drummer to beat the th psalm. as this was beyond the capacity of the drubber of sheepskin, he was fain to have recourse to the inoffensive row-de- dow as a harmless substitute for the sacred music which his instrument or skill were unable to achieve. this may be held a trifling anecdote, but the drummer in question was no less than town-drummer of anderton. i remember his successor in office, a member of that enlightened body, the british convention. be his memory, therefore, treated with due respect. chapter xxxv a volunteer sixty years since on hearing the unwelcome sound of the drum, major melville hastily opened a sashed door and stepped out upon a sort of terrace which divided his house from the highroad from which the martial music proceeded. waverley and his new friend followed him, though probably he would have dispensed with their attendance. they soon recognised in solemn march, first, the performer upon the drum; secondly, a large flag of four compartments, on which were inscribed the words, covenant, kirk, king, kingdoms. the person who was honoured with this charge was followed by the commander of the party, a thin, dark, rigid-looking man, about sixty years old. the spiritual pride, which in mine host of the candlestick mantled in a sort of supercilious hypocrisy, was in this man's face elevated and yet darkened by genuine and undoubting fanaticism. it was impossible to behold him without imagination placing him in some strange crisis, where religious zeal was the ruling principle. a martyr at the stake, a soldier in the field, a lonely and banished wanderer consoled by the intensity and supposed purity of his faith under every earthly privation, perhaps a persecuting inquisitor, as terrific in power as unyielding in adversity; any of these seemed congenial characters to this personage. with these high traits of energy, there was something in the affected precision and solemnity of his deportment and discourse that bordered upon the ludicrous; so that, according to the mood of the spectator's mind and the light under which mr. gilfillan presented himself, one might have feared, admired, or laughed at him. his dress was that of a west-country peasant, of better materials indeed than that of the lower rank, but in no respect affecting either the mode of the age or of the scottish gentry at any period. his arms were a broadsword and pistols, which, from the antiquity of their appearance, might have seen the rout of pentland or bothwell brigg. as he came up a few steps to meet major melville, and touched solemnly, but slightly, his huge and over-brimmed blue bonnet, in answer to the major, who had courteously raised a small triangular gold-laced hat, waverley was irresistibly impressed with the idea that he beheld a leader of the roundheads of yore in conference with one of marlborough's captains. the group of about thirty armed men who followed this gifted commander was of a motley description. they were in ordinary lowland dresses, of different colours, which, contrasted with the arms they bore, gave them an irregular and mobbish appearance; so much is the eye accustomed to connect uniformity of dress with the military character. in front were a few who apparently partook of their leader's enthusiasm, men obviously to be feared in a combat, where their natural courage was exalted by religious zeal. others puffed and strutted, filled with the importance of carrying arms and all the novelty of their situation, while the rest, apparently fatigued with their march, dragged their limbs listlessly along, or straggled from their companions to procure such refreshments as the neighbouring cottages and alehouses afforded. six grenadiers of ligonier's, thought the major to himself, as his mind reverted to his own military experience, would have sent all these fellows to the right about. greeting, however, mr. gilfillan civilly, he requested to know if he had received the letter he had sent to him upon his march, and could undertake the charge of the state prisoner whom he there mentioned as far as stirling castle. 'yea,' was the concise reply of the cameronian leader, in a voice which seemed to issue from the very penetralia of his person. 'but your escort, mr. gilfillan, is not so strong as i expected,' said major melville. 'some of the people,' replied gilfillan, 'hungered and were athirst by the way, and tarried until their poor souls were refreshed with the word.' 'i am sorry, sir,' replied the major, 'you did not trust to your refreshing your men at cairnvreckan; whatever my house contains is at the command of persons employed in the service.' 'it was not of creature-comforts i spake,' answered the covenanter, regarding major melville with something like a smile of contempt; 'howbeit, i thank you; but the people remained waiting upon the precious mr. jabesh rentowel for the out-pouring of the afternoon exhortation.' 'and have you, sir,' said the major, 'when the rebels are about to spread themselves through this country, actually left a great part of your command at a fieldpreaching?' gilfillan again smiled scornfully as he made this indirect answer --'even thus are the children of this world wiser in their generation than the children of light!' 'however, sir,' said the major, 'as you are to take charge of this gentleman to stirling, and deliver him, with these papers, into the hands of governor blakeney, i beseech you to observe some rules of military discipline upon your march. for example, i would advise you to keep your men more closely together, and that each in his march should cover his file-leader, instead of straggling like geese upon a common; and, for fear of surprise, i further recommend to you to form a small advance-party of your best men, with a single vidette in front of the whole march, so that when you approach a village or a wood'--(here the major interrupted himself)--'but as i don't observe you listen to me, mr. gilfillan, i suppose i need not give myself the trouble to say more upon the subject. you are a better judge, unquestionably, than i am of the measures to be pursued; but one thing i would have you well aware of, that you are to treat this gentleman, your prisoner, with no rigour nor incivility, and are to subject him to no other restraint than is necessary for his security.' 'i have looked into my commission,' said mr. gilfillan,' subscribed by a worthy and professing nobleman, william, earl of glencairn; nor do i find it therein set down that i am to receive any charges or commands anent my doings from major william melville of cairnvreckan.' major melville reddened even to the well-powdered ears which appeared beneath his neat military sidecurls, the more so as he observed mr. morton smile at the same moment. 'mr. gilfillan,' he answered, with some asperity, 'i beg ten thousand pardons for interfering with a person of your importance. i thought, however, that as you have been bred a grazier, if i mistake not, there might be occasion to remind you of the difference between highlanders and highland cattle; and if you should happen to meet with any gentleman who has seen service, and is disposed to speak upon the subject, i should still imagine that listening to him would do you no sort of harm. but i have done, and have only once more to recommend this gentleman to your civility as well as to your custody. mr. waverley, i am truly sorry we should part in this way; but i trust, when you are again in this country, i may have an opportunity to render cairnvreckan more agreeable than circumstances have permitted on this occasion.' so saying, he shook our hero by the hand. morton also took an affectionate farewell, and waverley, having mounted his horse, with a musketeer leading it by the bridle and a file upon each side to prevent his escape, set forward upon the march with gilfillan and his party. through the little village they were accompanied with the shouts of the children, who cried out, 'eh! see to the southland gentleman that's gaun to be hanged for shooting lang john mucklewrath, the smith! appendices to the general preface no. i fragment [footnote: it is not to be supposed that these fragments are given in possessing any intrinsic value of themselves; but there may be some curiosity attached to them, as to the first etchings of a plate, which are accounted interesting by those who have, in any degree, been interested in the more finished works of the artist.] of a romance which was to have been entitled thomas the rhymer chapter i the sun was nearly set behind the distant mountains of liddesdale, when a few of the scattered and terrified inhabitants of the village of hersildoune, which had four days before been burned by a predatory band of english borderers, were now busied in repairing their ruined dwellings. one high tower in the centre of the village alone exhibited no appearance of devastation. it was surrounded with court walls, and the outer gate was barred and bolted. the bushes and brambles which grew around, and had even insinuated their branches beneath the gate, plainly showed that it must have been many years since it had been opened. while the cottages around lay in smoking ruins, this pile, deserted and desolate as it seemed to be, had suffered nothing from the violence of the invaders; and the wretched beings who were endeavouring to repair their miserable huts against nightfall seemed to neglect the preferable shelter which it might have afforded them without the necessity of labour. before the day had quite gone down, a knight, richly armed and mounted upon an ambling hackney, rode slowly into the village. his attendants were a lady, apparently young and beautiful, who rode by his side upon a dappled palfrey; his squire, who carried his helmet and lance, and led his battlehorse, a noble steed, richly caparisoned. a page and four yeomen bearing bows and quivers, short swords, and targets of a span breadth, completed his equipage, which, though small, denoted him to be a man of high rank. he stopped and addressed several of the inhabitants whom curiosity had withdrawn from their labour to gaze at him; but at the sound of his voice, and still more on perceiving the st. george's cross in the caps of his followers, they fled, with a loud cry, 'that the southrons were returned.' the knight endeavoured to expostulate with the fugitives, who were chiefly aged men, women, and children; but their dread of the english name accelerated their flight, and in a few minutes, excepting the knight and his attendants, the place was deserted by all. he paced through the village to seek a shelter for the night, and, despairing to find one either in the inaccessible tower or the plundered huts of the peasantry, he directed his course to the left hand, where he spied a small decent habitation, apparently the abode of a man considerably above the common rank. after much knocking, the proprietor at length showed himself at the window, and speaking in the english dialect, with great signs of apprehension, demanded their business. the warrior replied that his quality was an english knight and baron, and that he was travelling to the court of the king of scotland on affairs of consequence to both kingdoms. 'pardon my hesitation, noble sir knight,' said the old man, as he unbolted and unbarred his doors--'pardon my hesitation, but we are here exposed to too many intrusions to admit of our exercising unlimited and unsuspicious hospitality. what i have is yours; and god send your mission may bring back peace and the good days of our old queen margaret!' 'amen, worthy franklin,' quoth the knight--'did you know her?' 'i came to this country in her train,' said the franklin; 'and the care of some of her jointure lands which she devolved on me occasioned my settling here.' 'and how do you, being an englishman,' said the knight, 'protect your life and property here, when one of your nation cannot obtain a single night's lodging, or a draught of water were he thirsty?' 'marry, noble sir,' answered the franklin, 'use, as they say, will make a man live in a lion's den; and as i settled here in a quiet time, and have never given cause of offence, i am respected by my neighbours, and even, as you see, by our forayers from england.' 'i rejoice to hear it, and accept your hospitality. isabella, my love, our worthy host will provide you a bed. my daughter, good franklin, is ill at ease. we will occupy your house till the scottish king shall return from his northern expedition; meanwhile call me lord lacy of chester.' the attendants of the baron, assisted by the franklin, were now busied in disposing of the horses, and arranging the table for some refreshment for lord lacy and his fair companion. while they sat down to it, they were attended by their host and his daughter, whom custom did not permit to eat in their presence, and who afterwards withdrew to an outer chamber, where the squire and page (both young men of noble birth) partook of supper, and were accommodated with beds. the yeomen, after doing honour to the rustic cheer of queen margaret's bailiff, withdrew to the stable, and each, beside his favourite horse, snored away the fatigues of their journey. early on the following morning the travellers were roused by a thundering knocking at the door of the house, accompanied with many demands for instant admission in the roughest tone. the squire and page of lord lacy, after buckling on their arms, were about to sally out to chastise these intruders, when the old host, after looking out at a private casement, contrived for reconnoitring his visitors, entreated them, with great signs of terror, to be quiet, if they did not mean that all in the house should be murdered. he then hastened to the apartment of lord lacy, whom he met dressed in a long furred gown and the knightly cap called a mortier, irritated at the noise, and demanding to know the cause which had disturbed the repose of the household. 'noble sir,' said the franklin, 'one of the most formidable and bloody of the scottish border riders is at hand; he is never seen,' added he, faltering with terror, 'so far from the hills but with some bad purpose, and the power of accomplishing it; so hold yourself to your guard, for--' a loud crash here announced that the door was broken down, and the knight just descended the stair in time to prevent bloodshed betwixt his attendants and the intruders. they were three in number; their chief was tall, bony, and athletic, his spare and muscular frame, as well as the hardness of his features, marked the course of his life to have been fatiguing and perilous. the effect of his appearance was aggravated by his dress, which consisted of a jack or jacket, composed of thick buff leather, on which small plates of iron of a lozenge form were stitched in such a manner as to overlap each other and form a coat of mail, which swayed with every motion of the wearer's body. this defensive armour covered a doublet of coarse grey cloth, and the borderer had a few half-rusted plates of steel on his shoulders, a two- edged sword, with a dagger hanging beside it, in a buff belt; a helmet, with a few iron bars, to cover the face instead of a visor, and a lance of tremendous and uncommon length, completed his appointments. the looks of the man were as wild and rude as his attire: his keen black eyes never rested one moment fixed upon a single object, but constantly traversed all around, as if they ever sought some danger to oppose, some plunder to seize, or some insult to revenge. the latter seemed to be his present object, for, regardless of the dignified presence of lord lacy, he uttered the most incoherent threats against the owner of the house and his guests. 'we shall see--ay, marry shall we--if an english hound is to harbour and reset the southrons here. thank the abbot of melrose and the good knight of coldingnow that have so long kept me from your skirts. but those days are gone, by saint mary, and you shall find it!' it is probable the enraged borderer would not have long continued to vent his rage in empty menaces, had not the entrance of the four yeomen with their bows bent convinced him that the force was not at this moment on his own side. lord lacy now advanced towards him. 'you intrude upon my privacy, soldier; withdraw yourself and your followers. there is peace betwixt our nations, or my servants should chastise thy presumption.' 'such peace as ye give such shall ye have,' answered the moss- trooper, first pointing with his lance towards the burned village and then almost instantly levelling it against lord lacy. the squire drew his sword and severed at one blow the steel head from the truncheon of the spear. 'arthur fitzherbert,' said the baron, 'that stroke has deferred thy knighthood for one year; never must that squire wear the spurs whose unbridled impetuosity can draw unbidden his sword in the presence of his master. go hence and think on what i have said.' the squire left the chamber abashed. 'it were vain,' continued lord lacy, 'to expect that courtesy from a mountain churl which even my own followers can forget. yet, before thou drawest thy brand (for the intruder laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword), thou wilt do well to reflect that i came with a safe-conduct from thy king, and have no time to waste in brawls with such as thou.' 'from my king--from my king!' re-echoed the mountaineer. 'i care not that rotten truncheon (striking the shattered spear furiously on the ground) for the king of fife and lothian. but habby of cessford will be here belive; and we shall soon know if he will permit an english churl to occupy his hostelrie.' having uttered these words, accompanied with a lowering glance from under his shaggy black eyebrows, he turned on his heel and left the house with his two followers. they mounted their horses, which they had tied to an outer fence, and vanished in an instant. 'who is this discourteous ruffian?' said lord lacy to the franklin, who had stood in the most violent agitation during this whole scene. 'his name, noble lord, is adam kerr of the moat, but he is commonly called by his companions the black rider of cheviot. i fear, i fear, he comes hither for no good; but if the lord of cessford be near, he will not dare offer any unprovoked outrage.' 'i have heard of that chief,' said the baron. 'let me know when he approaches, and do thou, rodulph (to the eldest yeoman), keep a strict watch. adelbert (to the page), attend to arm me.' the page bowed, and the baron withdrew to the chamber of the lady isabella to explain the cause of the disturbance. no more of the proposed tale was ever written; but the author's purpose was that it should turn upon a fine legend of superstition which is current in the part of the borders where he had his residence, where, in the reign of alexander iii of scotland, that renowned person thomas of hersildoune, called the rhymer, actually flourished. this personage, the merlin of scotland, and to whom some of the adventures which the british bards assigned to merlin caledonius, or the wild, have been transferred by tradition, was, as is well known, a magician, as well as a poet and prophet. he is alleged still to live in the land of faery, and is expected to return at some great convulsion of society, in which he is to act a distinguished part, a tradition common to all nations, as the belief of the mahomedans respecting their twelfth imaum demonstrates. now, it chanced many years since that there lived on the borders a jolly, rattling horse-cowper, who was remarkable for a reckless and fearless temper, which made him much admired and a little dreaded amongst his neighbours. one moonlight night, as he rode over bowden moor, on the west side of the eildon hills, the scene of thomas the rhymer's prophecies, and often mentioned in his story, having a brace of horses along with him which he had not been able to dispose of, he met a man of venerable appearance and singularly antique dress, who, to his great surprise, asked the price of his horses, and began to chaffer with him on the subject. to canobie dick, for so shall we call our border dealer, a chap was a chap, and he would have sold a horse to the devil himself, without minding his cloven hoof, and would have probably cheated old nick into the bargain. the stranger paid the price they agreed on, and all that puzzled dick in the transaction was, that the gold which he received was in unicorns, bonnet-pieces, and other ancient coins, which would have been invaluable to collectors, but were rather troublesome in modern currency. it was gold, however, and therefore dick contrived to get better value for the coin than he perhaps gave to his customer. by the command of so good a merchant, he brought horses to the same spot more than once, the purchaser only stipulating that he should always come, by night, and alone. i do not know whether it was from mere curiosity, or whether some hope of gain mixed with it, but after dick had sold several horses in this way, he began to complain that dry bargains were unlucky, and to hint that, since his chap must live in the neighbourhood, he ought, in the courtesy of dealing, to treat him to half a mutchkin. 'you may see my dwelling if you will,' said the stranger; 'but if you lose courage at what you see there, you will rue it all your life.' dicken, however, laughed the warning to scorn, and, having alighted to secure his horse, he followed the stranger up a narrow foot-path, which led them up the hills to the singular eminence stuck betwixt the most southern and the centre peaks, and called from its resemblance to such an animal in its form the lucken hare. at the foot of this eminence, which is almost as famous for witch meetings as the neighbouring wind-mill of kippilaw, dick was somewhat startled to observe that his conductor entered the hillside by a passage or cavern, of which he himself, though well acquainted with the spot, had never seen or heard. 'you may still return,' said his guide, looking ominously back upon him; but dick scorned to show the white feather, and on they went. they entered a very long range of stables; in every stall stood a coal-black horse; by every horse lay a knight in coal- black armour, with a drawn sword in his hand; but all were as silent, hoof and limb, as if they had been cut out of marble. a great number of torches lent a gloomy lustre to the hall, which, like those of the caliph vathek, was of large dimensions. at the upper end, however, they at length arrived, where a sword and horn lay on an antique table. 'he that shall sound that horn and draw that sword,' said the stranger, who now intimated that he was the famous thomas of hersildoune, 'shall, if his heart fail him not, be king over all broad britain. so speaks the tongue that cannot lie. but all depends on courage, and much on your taking the sword or the horn first.' dick was much disposed to take the sword, but his bold spirit was quailed by the supernatural terrors of the hall, and he thought to unsheath the sword first might be construed into defiance, and give offence to the powers of the mountain. he took the bugle with a trembling hand, and [sounded] a feeble note, but loud enough to produce a terrible answer. thunder rolled in stunning peals through the immense hall; horses and men started to life; the steeds snorted, stamped, grinded their bits, and tossed on high their heads; the warriors sprung to their feet, clashed their armour, and brandished their swords. dick's terror was extreme at seeing the whole army, which had been so lately silent as the grave, in uproar, and about to rush on him. he dropped the horn, and made a feeble attempt to seize the enchanted sword; but at the same moment a voice pronounced aloud the mysterious words: 'woe to the coward, that ever he was born, who did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!' at the same time a whirlwind of irresistible fury howled through the long hall, bore the unfortunate horse-jockey clear out of the mouth of the cavern, and precipitated him over a steep bank of loose stones, where the shepherds found him the next morning, with just breath sufficient to tell his fearful tale, after concluding which he expired. this legend, with several variations, is found in many parts of scotland and england; the scene is sometimes laid in some favourite glen of the highlands, sometimes in the deep coal-mines of northumberland and cumberland, which run so far beneath the ocean. it is also to be found in reginald scott's book on "witchcraft," which was written in the sixteenth century. it would be in vain to ask what was the original of the tradition. the choice between the horn and sword, may perhaps, include as a moral that it is foolhardy to awaken danger before we have arms in our hands to resist it. although admitting of much poetical ornament, it is clear that this legend would have formed but an unhappy foundation for a prose story, and must have degenerated into a mere fairy tale. doctor john leyden has beautifully introduced the tradition in his scenes of infancy:-- mysterious rhymer, doom'd by fate's decree, still to revisit eildon's fated tree; where oft the swain, at dawn of hallow-day, hears thy fleet barb with wild impatience neigh; say who is he, with summons long and high. shall bid the charmed sleep of ages fly, roll the long sound through eildon's caverns vast, while each dark warrior kindles at the blast: the horn, the falchion grasp with mighty hand, and peal proud arthur's march from fairy-land? scenes of infancy, part i. in the same cabinet with the preceding fragment, the following occurred among other disjecta membra. it seems to be an attempt at a tale of a different description from the last, but was almost instantly abandoned. the introduction points out the time of the composition to have been about the end of the eighteenth century. the lord of ennerdale a fragment of a letter from john b----, esq., of that ilk, to william g----, f.r.s.e. 'fill a bumper,' said the knight; 'the ladies may spare us a little longer. fill a bumper to the archduke charles.' the company did due honour to the toast of their landlord. 'the success of the archduke,' said the muddy vicar, 'will tend to further our negotiation at paris; and if--' 'pardon the interruption, doctor,' quoth a thin emaciated figure, with somewhat of a foreign accent; 'but why should you connect those events, unless to hope that the bravery and victories of our allies may supersede the necessity of a degrading treaty?' 'we begin to feel, monsieur l'abbe,' answered the vicar, with some asperity, 'that a continental war entered into for the defence of an ally who was unwilling to defend himself, and for the restoration of a royal family, nobility, and priesthood who tamely abandoned their own rights, is a burden too much even for the resources of this country.' 'and was the war then on the part of great britain,' rejoined the abbe, 'a gratuitous exertion of generosity? was there no fear of the wide-wasting spirit of innovation which had gone abroad? did not the laity tremble for their property, the clergy for their religion, and every loyal heart for the constitution? was it not thought necessary to destroy the building which was on fire, ere the conflagration spread around the vicinity?' 'yet, if upon trial,' said the doctor,' the walls were found to resist our utmost efforts, i see no great prudence in persevering in our labour amid the smouldering ruins.' 'what, doctor,' said the baronet,'must i call to your recollection your own sermon on the late general fast? did you not encourage us to hope that the lord of hosts would go forth with our armies, and that our enemies, who blasphemed him, should be put to shame?' 'it may please a kind father to chasten even his beloved children,' answered the vicar. 'i think,' said a gentleman near the foot of the table,'that the covenanters made some apology of the same kind for the failure of their prophecies at the battle of dunbar, when their mutinous preachers compelled the prudent lesley to go down against the philistines in gilgal.' the vicar fixed a scrutinizing and not a very complacent eye upon this intruder. he was a young man, of mean stature, and rather a reserved appearance. early and severe study had quenched in his features the gaiety peculiar to his age, and impressed upon them a premature cast of thoughtfulness. his eye had, however, retained its fire, and his gesture its animation. had he remained silent, he would have been long unnoticed; but when he spoke there was something in his manner which arrested attention. 'who is this young man?' said the vicar in a low voice to his neighbour. 'a scotchman called maxwell, on a visit to sir henry,' was the answer. 'i thought so, from his accent and his manners,' said the vicar. it may be here observed that the northern english retain rather more of the ancient hereditary aversion to their neighbours than their countrymen of the south. the interference of other disputants, each of whom urged his opinion with all the vehemence of wine and politics, rendered the summons to the drawing-room agreeable to the more sober part of the company. the company dispersed by degrees, and at length the vicar and the young scotchman alone remained, besides the baronet, his lady, daughters, and myself. the clergyman had not, it would seem, forgot the observation which ranked him with the false prophets of dunbar, for he addressed mr. maxwell upon the first opportunity. 'hem! i think, sir, you mentioned something about the civil wars of last century? you must be deeply skilled in them, indeed, if you can draw any parallel betwixt those and the present evil days --days which i am ready to maintain are the most gloomy that ever darkened the prospects of britain.' 'god forbid, doctor, that i should draw a comparison between the present times and those you mention. i am too sensible of the advantages we enjoy over our ancestors. faction and ambition have introduced division among us; but we are still free from the guilt of civil bloodshed, and from all the evils which flow from it. our foes, sir, are not those of our own household; and while we continue united and firm, from the attacks of a foreign enemy, however artful, or however inveterate, we have, i hope, little to dread.' 'have you found anything curious, mr. maxwell, among the dusty papers?' said sir henry, who seemed to dread a revival of political discussion. 'my investigation amongst them led to reflections at which i have just now hinted,' said maxwell; 'and i think they are pretty strongly exemplified by a story which i have been endeavouring to arrange from some of your family manuscripts.' 'you are welcome to make what use of them you please,' said sir henry;' they have been undisturbed for many a day, and i have often wished for some person as well skilled as you in these old pot-hooks to tell me their meaning.' 'those i just mentioned,' answered maxwell, 'relate to a piece of private history, savouring not a little of the marvellous, and intimately connected with your family; if it is agreeable, i can read to you the anecdotes in the modern shape into which i have been endeavouring to throw them, and you can then judge of the value of the originals.' there was something in this proposal agreeable to all parties. sir henry had family pride, which prepared him to take an interest in whatever related to his ancestors. the ladies had dipped deeply into the fashionable reading of the present day. lady ratcliff and her fair daughters had climbed every pass, viewed every pine- shrouded ruin, heard every groan, and lifted every trap-door in company with the noted heroine of udolpho. they had been heard, however, to observe that the famous incident of the black veil singularly resembled the ancient apologue of the mountain in labour, so that they were unquestionably critics as well as admirers. besides all this, they had valorously mounted en croupe behind the ghostly horseman of prague, through all his seven translators, and followed the footsteps of moor through the forest of bohemia. moreover, it was even hinted (but this was a greater mystery than all the rest) that a certain performance called the 'monk,' in three neat volumes, had been seen by a prying eye in the right hand drawer of the indian cabinet of lady ratcliff's dressing-room. thus predisposed for wonders and signs, lady ratcliff and her nymphs drew their chairs round a large blazing wood-fire and arranged themselves to listen to the tale. to that fire i also approached, moved thereunto partly by the inclemency of the season, and partly that my deafness, which you know, cousin, i acquired during my campaign under prince charles edward, might be no obstacle to the gratification of my curiosity, which was awakened by what had any reference to the fate of such faithful followers of royalty as you well know the house of ratcliff have ever been. to this wood-fire the vicar likewise drew near, and reclined himself conveniently in his chair, seemingly disposed to testify his disrespect for the narration and narrator by falling asleep as soon as he conveniently could. by the side of maxwell (by the way, i cannot learn that he is in the least related to the nithsdale family) was placed a small table and a couple of lights, by the assistance of which he read as follows:-- 'journal of jan van eulen 'on the th november , i, jan van eulen, merchant in rotterdam, embarked with my only daughter on board of the good vessel vryheid of amsterdam, in order to pass into the unhappy and disturbed kingdom of england. th november--a brisk gale-- daughter sea-sick--myself unable to complete the calculation which i have begun of the inheritance left by jane lansache of carlisle, my late dear wife's sister, the collection of which is the object of my voyage. th november--wind still stormy and adverse--a horrid disaster nearly happened--my dear child washed overboard as the vessel lurched to leeward. memorandum--to reward the young sailor who saved her out of the first moneys which i can recover from the inheritance of her aunt lansache. th november--calm-- p.m. light breezes from n. n. w. i talked with the captain about the inheritance of my sister-in-law, jane lansache. he says he knows the principal subject, which will not exceed l in value. n. b. he is a cousin to a family of petersons, which was the name of the husband of my sister-in-law; so there is room to hope it may be worth more than he reports. th november, a.m. may god pardon all our sins!--an english frigate, bearing the parliament flag, has appeared in the offing, and gives chase.-- a.m. she nears us every moment, and the captain of our vessel prepares to clear for action.--may god again have mercy upon us!' 'here,' said maxwell, 'the journal with which i have opened the narration ends somewhat abruptly.' 'i am glad of it,' said lady ratcliff. 'but, mr. maxwell,' said young frank, sir henry's grandchild, 'shall we not hear how the battle ended?' i do not know, cousin, whether i have not formerly made you acquainted with the abilities of frank ratcliff. there is not a battle fought between the troops of the prince and of the government during the years - , of which he is not able to give an account. it is true, i have taken particular pains to fix the events of this important period upon his memory by frequent repetition. 'no, my dear,' said maxwell, in answer to young frank ratcliff-- 'no, my dear, i cannot tell you the exact particulars of the engagement, but its consequences appear from the following letter, despatched by garbonete von eulen, daughter of our journalist, to a relation in england, from whom she implored assistance. after some general account of the purpose of the voyage and of the engagement her narrative proceeds thus:-- 'the noise of the cannon had hardly ceased before the sounds of a language to me but half known, and the confusion on board our vessel, informed me that the captors had boarded us and taken possession of our vessel. i went on deck, where the first spectacle that met my eyes was a young man, mate of our vessel, who, though disfigured and covered with blood, was loaded with irons, and whom they were forcing over the side of the vessel into a boat. the two principal persons among our enemies appeared to be a man of a tall thin figure, with a high-crowned hat and long neckband, and short-cropped head of hair, accompanied by a bluff, open-looking elderly man in a naval uniform. "yarely! yarely! pull away, my hearts," said the latter, and the boat bearing the unlucky young man soon carried him on board the frigate. perhaps you will blame me for mentioning this circumstance; but consider, my dear cousin, this man saved my life, and his fate, even when my own and my father's were in the balance, could not but affect me nearly. '"in the name of him who is jealous, even to slaying," said the first--' cetera desunt no. ii conclusion of mr. strutt's romance of queenhoo-hall by the author of waverley chapter iv a hunting party--an adventure--a deliverance the next morning the bugles were sounded by daybreak in the court of lord boteler's mansion, to call the inhabitants from their slumbers to assist in a splendid chase with which the baron had resolved to entertain his neighbour fitzallen and his noble visitor st. clare. peter lanaret, the falconer, was in attendance, with falcons for the knights and teircelets for the ladies, if they should choose to vary their sport from hunting to hawking. five stout yeomen keepers, with their attendants, called ragged robins, all meetly arrayed in kendal green, with bugles and short hangers by their sides, and quarter-staffs in their hands, led the slow-hounds or brachets by which the deer were to be put up. ten brace of gallant greyhounds, each of which was fit to pluck down, singly, the tallest red deer, were led in leashes, by as many of lord boteler's foresters. the pages, squires, and other attendants of feudal splendour well attired, in their best hunting-gear, upon horseback or foot, according to their rank, with their boar- spears, long bows, and cross-bows, were in seemly waiting. a numerous train of yeomen, called in the language of the times retainers, who yearly received a livery coat and a small pension for their attendance on such solemn occasions, appeared in cassocks of blue, bearing upon their arms the cognisance of the house of boteler, as a badge of their adherence. they were the tallest men of their hands that the neighbouring villages could supply, with every man his good buckler on his shoulder, and a bright burnished broadsword dangling from his leathern belt. on this occasion they acted as rangers for beating up the thickets and rousing the game. these attendants filled up the court of the castle, spacious as it was. on the green without you might have seen the motley assemblage of peasantry convened by report of the splendid hunting, including most of our old acquaintances from tewin, as well as the jolly partakers of good cheer at hob filcher's. gregory the jester, it may well be guessed, had no great mind to exhibit himself in public after his recent disaster; but oswald the steward, a great formalist in whatever concerned the public exhibition of his master's household state, had positively enjoined his attendance. 'what,' quoth he,'shall the house of the brave lord boteler, on such a brave day as this, be without a fool? certes, the good lord saint clere and his fair lady sister might think our housekeeping as niggardly as that of their churlish kinsman at gay bowers, who sent his father's jester to the hospital, sold the poor sot's bells for hawk-jesses, and made a nightcap of his long-eared bonnet. and, sirrah, let me see thee fool handsomely--speak squibs and crackers, instead of that dry, barren, musty gibing which thou hast used of late; or, by the bones! the porter shall have thee to his lodge, and cob thee with thine own wooden sword till thy skin is as motley as thy doublet.' to this stern injunction gregory made no reply, any more than to the courteous offer of old albert drawslot, the chief parkkeeper, who proposed to blow vinegar in his nose to sharpen his wit, as he had done that blessed morning to bragger, the old hound, whose scent was failing. there was, indeed, little time for reply, for the bugles, after a lively flourish, were now silent, and peretto, with his two attendant minstrels, stepping beneath the windows of the strangers' apartments, joined in the following roundelay, the deep voices of the rangers and falconers making up a chorus that caused the very battlements to ring again:-- waken, lords and ladies gay, on the mountain dawns the day; all the jolly chase is here, with hawk and horse, and hunting spear; hounds are in their couples yelling, hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, merrily, merrily, mingle they, 'waken, lords and ladies gay.' waken, lords and ladies gay, the mist has left the mountain grey; springlets in the dawn are streaming, diamonds on the brake are gleaming, and foresters have busy been, to track the buck in thicket green; now we come to chant our lay, 'waken, lords and ladies gay.' waken, lords and ladies gay, to the green-wood haste away; we can show you where he lies, fleet of foot and tall of size; we can show the marks he made, when 'gamst the oak his antlers frayed; you shall see him brought to bay, 'waken, lords and ladies gay.' louder, louder chant the lay, waken, lords and ladies gay; tell them youth, and mirth, and glee run a course as well as we; time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, stanch as hound and fleet as hawk? think of this and rise with day, gentle lords and ladies gay. by the time this lay was finished, lord boteler, with his daughter and kinsman, fitzallen of harden, and other noble guests, had mounted their palfreys, and the hunt set forward in due order. the huntsmen, having carefully observed the traces of a large stag on the preceding evening, were able, without loss of time, to conduct the company, by the marks which they had made upon the trees, to the side of the thicket in which, by the report of drawslot, he had harboured all night. the horsemen, spreading themselves along the side of the cover, waited until the keeper entered, leading his ban-dog, a large blood-hound tied in a learn or band, from which he takes his name. but it befell thus. a hart of the second year, which was in the same cover with the proper object of their pursuit, chanced to be unharboured first, and broke cover very near where the lady emma and her brother were stationed. an inexperienced varlet, who was nearer to them, instantly unloosed two tall greyhounds, who sprung after the fugitive with all the fleetness of the north wind. gregory, restored a little to spirits by the enlivening scene around him, followed, encouraging the hounds with a loud layout, for which he had the hearty curses of the huntsman, as well as of the baron, who entered into the spirit of the chase with all the juvenile ardour of twenty. 'may the foul fiend, booted and spurred, ride down his bawling throat with a scythe at his girdle,' quoth albert drawslot; 'here have i been telling him that all the marks were those of a buck of the first head, and he has hallooed the hounds upon a velvet-headed knobbler! by saint hubert, if i break not his pate with my cross-bow, may i never cast off hound more! but to it, my lords and masters! the noble beast is here yet, and, thank the saints, we have enough of hounds.' the cover being now thoroughly beat by the attendants, the stag was compelled to abandon it and trust to his speed for his safety. three greyhounds were slipped upon him, whom he threw out, after running a couple of miles, by entering an extensive furzy brake, which extended along the side of a hill. the horsemen soon came up, and casting off a sufficient number of slow-hounds, sent them with the prickers into the cover, in order to drive the game from his strength. this object being accomplished, afforded another severe chase of several miles, in a direction almost circular, during which the poor animal tried every wile to get rid of his persecutors. he crossed and traversed all such dusty paths as were likely to retain the least scent of his footsteps; he laid himself close to the ground, drawing his feet under his belly, and clapping his nose close to the earth, lest he should be betrayed to the hounds by his breath and hoofs. when all was in vain, and he found the hounds coming fast in upon him, his own strength failing, his mouth embossed with foam, and the tears dropping from his eyes, he turned in despair upon his pursuers, who then stood at gaze, making an hideous clamour, and awaiting their two-footed auxiliaries. of these, it chanced that the lady eleanor, taking more pleasure in the sport than matilda, and being a less burden to her palfrey than the lord boteler, was the first who arrived at the spot, and taking a cross-bow from an attendant, discharged a bolt at the stag. when the infuriated animal felt himself wounded, he pushed frantically towards her from whom he had received the shaft, and lady eleanor might have had occasion to repent of her enterprise, had not young fitzallen, who had kept near her during the whole day, at that instant galloped briskly in, and, ere the stag could change his object of assault, despatched him with his short hunting-sword. albert drawslot, who had just come up in terror for the young lady's safety, broke out into loud encomiums upon fitzallen's strength and gallantry. 'by 'r lady,' said he, taking off his cap and wiping his sun-burnt face with his sleeve, 'well struck, and in good time! but now, boys, doff your bonnets and sound the mort.' the sportsmen then sounded a treble mort, and set up a general whoop, which, mingled with the yelping of the dogs, made the welkin ring again. the huntsman then offered his knife to lord boteler, that he might take the say of the deer, but the baron courteously insisted upon fitzallen going through that ceremony. the lady matilda was now come up, with most of the attendants; and the interest of the chase being ended, it excited some surprise that neither saint clere nor his sister made their appearance. the lord boteler commanded the horns again to sound the recheat, in hopes to call in the stragglers, and said to fitzallen, 'methinks saint clere so distinguished for service in war, should have been more forward in the chase.' 'i trow,' said peter lanaret, 'i know the reason of the noble lord's absence; for, when that mooncalf gregory hallooed the dogs upon the knobbler, and galloped like a green hilding, as he is, after them, i saw the lady emma's palfrey follow apace after that varlet, who should be thrashed for overrunning, and i think her noble brother has followed her, lest she should come to harm. but here, by the rood, is gregory to answer for himself.' at this moment gregory entered the circle which had been formed round the deer, out of breath, and his face covered with blood. he kept for some time uttering inarticulate cries of 'harrow!' and 'wellaway!' and other exclamations of distress and terror, pointing all the while to a thicket at some distance from the spot where the deer had been killed. 'by my honour,' said the baron, 'i would gladly know who has dared to array the poor knave thus; and i trust he should dearly abye his outrecuidance, were he the best, save one, in england.' gregory, who had now found more breath, cried, 'help, an ye be men! save lady emma and her brother, whom they are murdering in brokenhurst thicket.' this put all in motion. lord boteler hastily commanded a small party of his men to abide for the defence of the ladies, while he himself, fitzallen, and the rest made what speed they could towards the thicket, guided by gregory, who for that purpose was mounted behind fabian. pushing through a narrow path, the first object they encountered was a man of small stature lying on the ground, mastered and almost strangled by two dogs, which were instantly recognised to be those that had accompanied gregory. a little farther was an open space, where lay three bodies of dead or wounded men; beside these was lady emma, apparently lifeless, her brother and a young forester bending over and endeavouring to recover her. by employing the usual remedies, this was soon accomplished; while lord boteler, astonished at such a scene, anxiously inquired at saint clere the meaning of what he saw, and whether more danger was to be expected. 'for the present i trust not,' said the young warrior, who they now observed was slightly wounded; 'but i pray you, of your nobleness, let the woods here be searched; for we were assaulted by four of these base assassins, and i see three only on the sward.' the attendants now brought forwaid the person whom they had rescued from the dogs, and henry, with disgust, shame, and astonishment, recognised his kinsman, gaston saint clere. this discovery he communicated in a whisper to lord boteler, who commanded the prisoner to be conveyed to queenhoo-hall, and closely guarded; meanwhile he anxiously inquired of young saint clere about his wound. 'a scratch, a trifle!' cried henry. 'i am in less haste to bind it than to introduce to you one without whose aid that of the leech would have come too late. where is he? where is my brave deliverer?' 'here, most noble lord,' said gregory, sliding from his palfrey and stepping forward, 'ready to receive the guerdon which your bounty would heap on him.' 'truly, friend gregory,' answered the young warrior,'thou shalt not be forgotten, for thou didst run speedily, and roar manfully for aid, without which, i think verily, we had not received it. but the brave forester, who came to my rescue when these three ruffians had nigh overpowered me, where is he?' every one looked around, but though all had seen him on entering the thicket, he was not now to be found. they could only conjecture that he had retired during the confusion occasioned by the detention of gaston. 'seek not for him,' said the lady emma, who had now in some degree recovered her composure, 'he will not be found of mortal, unless at his own season.' the baron, convinced from this answer that her terror had for the time somewhat disturbed her reason, forbore to question her; and matilda and eleanor, to whom a message had been despatched with the result of this strange adventure, arriving, they took the lady emma between them, and all in a body returned to the castle. the distance was, however, considerable, and before reaching it they had another alarm. the prickers, who rode foremost in the troop, halted and announced to the lord boteler, that they perceived advancing towards them a body of armed men. the followers of the baron were numerous, but they were arrayed for the chase, not for battle, and it was with great pleasure that he discerned, on the pennon of the advancing body of men-at-arms, instead of the cognisance of gaston, as he had some reason to expect, the friendly bearings of fitzosborne of diggswell, the same young lord who was present at the may-games with fitzallen of harden. the knight himself advanced, sheathed in armour, and, without raising his visor, informed lord boteler that, having heard of a base attempt made upon a part of his train by ruffianly assassins, he had mounted and armed a small party of his retainers to escort them to queenhoo-hall. having received and accepted an invitation to attend them thither, they prosecuted their journey in confidence and security, and arrived safe at home without any further accident. chapter v investigation of the adventure of the hunting--a discovery-- gregory's manhood--pate of gaston saint clere--conclusion so soon as they arrived at the princely mansion of boteler, the lady emma craved permission to retire to her chamber, that she might compose her spirits after the terror she had undergone. henry saint clere, in a few words, proceeded to explain the adventure to the curious audience. 'i had no sooner seen my sister's palfrey, in spite of her endeavours to the contrary, entering with spirit into the chase set on foot by the worshipful gregory, than i rode after to give her assistance. so long was the chase that, when the greyhounds pulled down the knobbler, we were out of hearing of your bugles; and having rewarded and coupled the dogs, i gave them to be led by the jester, and we wandered in quest of our company, whom it would seem the sport had led in a different direction. at length, passing through the thicket where you found us, i was surprised by a cross-bow bolt whizzing past mine head. i drew my sword and rushed into the thicket, but was instantly assailed by two ruffians, while other two made towards my sister and gregory. the poor knave fled, crying for help, pursued by my false kinsman, now your prisoner; and the designs of the other on my poor emma (murderous no doubt) were prevented by the sudden apparition of a brave woodsman, who, after a short encounter, stretched the miscreant at his feet and came to my assistance. i was already slightly wounded, and nearly overlaid with odds. the combat lasted some time, for the caitiffs were both well armed, strong, and desperate; at length, however, we had each mastered our antagonist, when your retinue, my lord boteler, arrived to my relief. so ends my story; but, by my knighthood, i would give an earl's ransom for an opportunity of thanking the gallant forester by whose aid i live to tell it.' 'fear not,' said lord boteler, 'he shall be found, if this or the four adjacent counties hold him. and now lord fitzosborne will be pleased to doff the armour he has so kindly assumed for our sakes, and we will all bowne ourselves for the banquet.' when the hour of dinner approached, the lady matilda and her cousin visited the chamber of the fair darcy. they found her in a composed but melancholy postmire. she turned the discourse upon the misfortunes of her life, and hinted, that having recovered her brother, and seeing him look forward to the society of one who would amply repay to him the loss of hers, she had thoughts of dedicating her remaining life to heaven, by whose providential interference it had been so often preserved. matilda coloured deeply at something in this speech, and her cousin inveighed loudly against emma's resolution. 'ah, my dear lady eleanor,' replied she, 'i have to-day witnessed what i cannot but judge a supernatural visitation, and to what end can it call me but to give myself to the altar? that peasant who guided me to baddow through the park of danbury, the same who appeared before me at different times and in different forms during that eventful journey--that youth, whose features are imprinted on my memory, is the very individual forester who this day rescued us in the forest. i cannot be mistaken; and, connecting these marvellous appearances with the spectre which i saw while at gay bowers, i cannot resist the conviction that heaven has permitted my guardian angel to assume mortal shape for my relief and protection.' the fair cousins, after exchanging looks which implied a fear that her mind was wandering, answered her in soothing terms, and finally prevailed upon her to accompany them to the banqueting- hall. here the first person they encountered was the baron fitzosborne of diggswell, now divested of his armour, at the sight of whom the lady emma changed colour, and exclaiming, 'it is the same!' sunk senseless into the arms of matilda. 'she is bewildered by the terrors of the day,' said eleanor;' and we have done ill in obliging her to descend.' 'and i,'said fitzosborne, 'have done madly in presenting before her one whose presence must recall moments the most alarming in her life.' while the ladies supported emma from the hall, lord boteler and saint clere requested an explanation from fitzosborne of the words he had used. 'trust me, gentle lords,' said the baron of diggswell, 'ye shall have what ye demand when i learn that lady emma darcy has not suffered from my imprudence.' at this moment lady matilda, returning, said that her fair friend, on her recovery, had calmly and deliberately insisted that she had seen fitzosborne before, in the most dangerous crisis of her life. 'i dread,' said she, 'her disordered mind connects all that her eye beholds with the terrible passages that she has witnessed.' 'nay,' said fitzosborne, 'if noble saint clere can pardon the unauthorized interest which, with the purest and most honourable intentions, i have taken in his sister's fate, it is easy for me to explain this mysterious impression.' he proceeded to say that, happening to be in the hostelry called the griffin, near baddow, while upon a journey in that country, he had met with the old nurse of the lady emma darcy, who, being just expelled from gay bowers, was in the height of her grief and indignation, and made loud and public proclamation of lady emma's wrongs. from the description she gave of the beauty of her foster- child, as well as from the spirit of chivalry, fitzosborne became interested in her fate. this interest was deeply enhanced when, by a bribe to old gaunt the reve, he procured a view of the lady emma as she walked near the castle of gay bowers. the aged churl refused to give him access to the castle; yet dropped some hints as if he thought the lady in danger, and wished she were well out of it. his master, he said, had heard she had a brother in life, and since that deprived him of all chance of gaining her domains by purchase, he--in short, gaunt wished they were safely separated. 'if any injury,' quoth he, 'should happen to the damsel here, it were ill for us all. i tried by an innocent stratagem to frighten her from the castle, by introducing a figure through a trap-door, and warning her, as if by a voice from the dead, to retreat from thence; but the giglet is wilful, and is running upon her fate.' finding gaunt, although covetous and communicative, too faithful a servant to his wicked master to take any active steps against his commands, fitzosborne applied himself to old ursely, whom he found more tractable. through her he learned the dreadful plot gaston had laid to rid himself of his kinswoman, and resolved to effect her deliverance. but aware of the delicacy of emma's situation, he charged ursely to conceal from her the interest he took in her distress, resolving to watch over her in disguise until he saw her in a place of safety. hence the appearance he made before her in various dresses during her journey, in the course of which he was never far distant; and he had always four stout yeomen within hearing of his bugle, had assistance been necessary. when she was placed in safety at the lodge, it was fitzosborne's intention to have prevailed upon his sisters to visit and take her under their protection; but he found them absent from diggswell, having gone to attend an aged relation who lay dangerously ill in a distant county. they did not return until the day before the may-games; and the other events followed too rapidly to permit fitzosborne to lay any plan for introducing them to lady emma darcy. on the day of the chase he resolved to preserve his romantic disguise, and attend the lady emma as a forester, partly to have the pleasure of being near her and partly to judge whether, according to an idle report in the country, she favoured his friend and comrade fitzallen of marden. this last motive, it may easily be believed, he did not declare to the company. after the skirmish with the ruffians, he waited till the baron and the hunters arrived, and then, still doubting the farther designs of gaston, hastened to his castle to arm the band which had escorted them to queenhoo- hall. fitzosborne's story being finished, he received the thanks of all the company, particularly of saint clere, who felt deeply the respectful delicacy with which he had conducted himself towards his sister. the lady was carefully informed of her obligations to him; and it is left to the well-judging reader whether even the raillery of lady eleanor made her regret that heaven had only employed natural means for her security, and that the guardian angel was converted into a handsome, gallant, and enamoured knight. the joy of the company in the hall extended itself to the buttery, where gregory the jester narrated such feats of arms done by himself in the fray of the morning as might have shamed bevis and guy of warwick. he was, according to his narrative, singled out for destruction by the gigantic baron himself, while he abandoned to meaner hands the destruction of saint clere and fitzosborne. 'but certes,' said he, 'the foul paynim met his match; for, ever as he foined at me with his brand, i parried his blows with my bauble, and, closing with him upon the third veny, threw him to the ground, and made him cry recreant to an unarmed man.' 'tush, man,' said drawslot, 'thou forgettest thy best auxiliaries, the good greyhounds, help and holdfast! i warrant thee, that when the hump-backed baron caught thee by the cowl, which he hath almost torn off, thou hadst been in a fair plight had they not remembered an old friend, and come in to the rescue. why, man, i found them fastened on him myself; and there was odd staving and stickling to make them "ware haunch!" their mouths were full of the flex, for i pulled a piece of the garment from their jaws. i warrant thee, that when they brought him to ground thou fledst like a frighted pricket.' 'and as for gregory's gigantic paynim,' said fabian, 'why, he lies yonder in the guard-room, the very size, shape, and colour of a spider in a yew-hedge.' 'it is false!' said gregory. 'colbrand the dane was a dwarf to him.' 'it is as true,' returned fabian, 'as that the tasker is to be married on tuesday to pretty margery. gregory, thy sheet hath brought them between a pair of blankets.' 'i care no more for such a gillflirt,' said the jester,' than i do for thy leasings. marry, thou hop-o'-my-thumb, happy wouldst thou be could thy head reach the captive baron's girdle.' 'by the mass,' said peter lanaret, 'i will have one peep at this burly gallant'; and, leaving the buttery, he went to the guard- room where gaston saint clere was confined. a man-at-arms, who kept sentinel on the strong studded door of the apartment, said he believed he slept; for that, after raging, stamping, and uttering the most horrid imprecations, he had been of late perfectly still. the falconer gently drew back a sliding board of a foot square towards the top of the door, which covered a hole of the same size, strongly latticed, through which the warder, without opening the door, could look in upon his prisoner. from this aperture he beheld the wretched gaston suspended by the neck by his own girdle to an iron ring in the side of his prison. he had clambered to it by means of the table on which his food had been placed; and, in the agonies of shame and disappointed malice, had adopted this mode of ridding himself of a wretched life. he was found yet warm, but totally lifeless. a proper account of the manner of his death was drawn up and certified. he was buried that evening in the chapel of the castle, out of respect to his high birth; and the chaplain of fitzallen of marden, who said the service upon the occasion, preached the next sunday an excellent sermon upon the text, 'radix malorum est cupiditas,' which we have here transcribed. here the manuscript, from which we have painfully transcribed, and frequently, as it were, translated, this tale for the reader's edification, is so indistinct and defaced, that, excepting certain howbeits, nathlesses, lo ye's! etc., we can pick out little that is intelligible, saving that avarice is defined 'a likourishness of heart after earthly things.' a little farther there seems to have been a gay account of margery's wedding with ralph the tasker, the running at the quintain, and other rural games practised on the occasion. there are also fragments of a mock sermon preached by gregory upon that occasion, as for example:-- 'my dear cursed caitiffs, there was once a king, and he wedded a young old queen, and she had a child; and this child was sent to solomon the sage, praying he would give it the same blessing which he got from the witch of endor when she bit him by the heel. hereof speaks the worthy doctor radigundus potator; why should not mass be said for all the roasted shoe souls served up in the king's dish on saturday; for true it is, that saint peter asked father adam, as they journeyed to camelot, an high, great, and doubtful question, "adam, adam, why eated'st thou the apple without paring?" [footnote: this tirade of gibberish is literally taken or selected from a mock discourse pronounced by a professed jester, which occurs in an ancient manuscript in the advocates' library, the same from which the late ingenious mr. weber published the curious comic romance of the hunting of the hare. it was introduced in compliance with mr strutt's plan of rendering his tale an illustration of ancient manners a similar burlesque sermon is pronounced by the fool in sir david lindesay's satire of the three estates. the nonsense and vulgar burlesque of that composition illustrate the ground of sir andrew aguecheek's eulogy on the exploits of the jester in twelfth night, who, reserving his sharper jests for sir toby, had doubtless enough of the jargon of his calling to captivate the imbecility of his brother knight, who is made to exclaim--'in sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of pigrogremitus, and of the vapours passing the equinoctials of quenbus; 't was very good, i' faith!' it is entertaining to find commentators seeking to discover some meaning in the professional jargon of such a passage as this.] with much goodly gibberish to the same effect; which display of gregory's ready wit not only threw the whole company into convulsions of laughter, but made such an impression on rose, the potter's daughter, that it was thought it would be the jester's own fault if jack was long without his jill. much pithy matter, concerning the bringing the bride to bed, the loosing the bridegroom's points, the scramble which ensued for them, and the casting of the stocking, is also omitted from its obscurity. the following song which has been since borrowed by the worshipful author of the famous history of fryar bacon, has been with difficulty deciphered. it seems to have been sung on occasion of carrying home the bride bridal song to the tune of--'i have been a fiddler,' etc, and did you not hear of a mirth befell the morrow after a wedding day, and carrying a bride at home to dwell? and away to tewin, away, away! the quintain was set, and the garlands were made, 't is pity old customs should ever decay; and woe be to him that was horsed on a jade, for he carried no credit away, away. we met a consort of fiddle-de-dees; we set them a cockhorse, and made them play the winning of bullen and upsey-frees, and away to tewin, away, away! there was ne'er a lad in all the parish that would go to the plough that day; but on his fore-horse his wench he carries. and away to tewin, away, away! the butler was quick, and the ale he did tap, the maidens did make the chamber full gay; the servants did give me a fuddling cup, and i did carry't away, away. the smith of the town his liquor so took, that he was persuaded that the ground look'd blue; and i dare boldly be sworn on a book, such smiths as he there's but a few. a posset was made, and the women did sip, and simpering said, they could eat no more; full many a maiden was laid on the lip,-- i'll say no more, but give o'er (give o'er). but what our fair readers will chiefly regret is the loss of three declarations of love; the first by saint clere to matilda; which, with the lady's answer, occupies fifteen closely written pages of manuscript. that of fitzosborne to emma is not much shorter; but the amours of fitzallen and eleanor, being of a less romantic cast, are closed in three pages only. the three noble couples were married in queenhoo-hall upon the same day, being the twentieth sunday after easter. there is a prolix account of the marriage- feast, of which we can pick out the names of a few dishes, such as peterel, crane, sturgeon, swan, etc. etc., with a profusion of wild-fowl and venison. we also see that a suitable song was produced by peretto on the occasion; and that the bishop who blessed the bridal beds which received the happy couples was no niggard of his holy water, bestowing half a gallon upon each of the couches. we regret we cannot give these curiosities to the reader in detail, but we hope to expose the manuscript to abler antiquaries so soon as it shall be framed and glazed by the ingenious artist who rendered that service to mr. ireland's shakspeare mss. and so (being unable to lay aside the style to which our pen is habituated), gentle reader, we bid thee heartily farewell. no. iii anecdote of school days upon which mr. thomas scott proposed to found a tale of fiction it is well known in the south that there is little or no boxing at the scottish schools. about forty or fifty years ago, however, a far more dangerous mode of fighting, in parties or factions, was permitted in the streets of edinburgh, to the great disgrace of the police and danger of the parties concerned. these parties were generally formed from the quarters of the town in which the combatants resided, those of a particular square or district fighting against those of an adjoining one. hence it happened that the children of the higher classes were often pitted against those of the lower, each taking their side according to the residence of their friends. so far as i recollect, however, it was unmingled either with feelings of democracy or aristocracy, or indeed with malice or ill-will of any kind towards the opposite party. in fact, it was only a rough mode of play. such contests were, however, maintained with great vigour with stones and sticks and fisticuffs, when one party dared to charge and the other stood their ground. of course mischief sometimes happened; boys are said to have been killed at these bickers, as they were called, and serious accidents certainly took place, as many contemporaries can bear witness. the author's father residing in george square, in the southern side of edinburgh, the boys belonging to that family, with others in the square, were arranged into a sort of company, to which a lady of distinction presented a handsome set of colours. now this company or regiment, as a matter of course, was engaged in weekly warfare with the boys inhabiting the crosscauseway, bristo street, the potterrow--in short, the neighbouring suburbs. these last were chiefly of the lower rank, but hardy loons, who threw stones to a hair's-breadth and were very rugged antagonists at close quarters. the skirmish sometimes lasted for a whole evening, until one party or the other was victorious, when, if ours were successful, we drove the enemy to their quarters, and were usually chased back by the reinforcement of bigger lads who came to their assistance. if, on the contrary, we were pursued, as was often the case, into the precincts of our square, we were in our turn supported by our elder brothers, domestic servants, and similar auxiliaries. it followed, from our frequent opposition to each other, that, though not knowing the names of our enemies, we were yet well acquainted with their appearance, and had nicknames for the most remarkable of them. one very active and spirited boy might be considered as the principal leader in the cohort of the suburbs. he was, i suppose, thirteen or fourteen years old, finely made, tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair, the very picture of a youthful goth. this lad was always first in the charge and last in the retreat--the achilles, at once, and ajax of the crosscauseway. he was too formidable to us not to have a cognomen, and, like that of a knight of old, it was taken from the most remarkable part of his dress, being a pair of old green livery breeches, which was the principal part of his clothing; for, like pentapolin, according to don quixote's account, green-breeks, as we called him, always entered the battle with bare arms, legs, and feet. it fell, that once upon a time, when the combat was at the thickest, this plebeian champion headed a sudden charge, so rapid and furious that all fled before him. he was several paces before his comrades, and had actually laid his hands on the patrician standard, when one of our party, whom some misjudging friend had entrusted with a couleau de chasse, or hanger, inspired with a zeal for the honour of the corps worthy of major sturgeon himself, struck poor green-breeks over the head with strength sufficient to cut him down. when this was seen, the casualty was so far beyond what had ever taken place before, that both parties fled different ways, leaving poor green-breeks, with his bright hair plentifully dabbled in blood, to the care of the watchman, who (honest man) took care not to know who had done the mischief. the bloody hanger was flung into one of the meadow ditches, and solemn secrecy was sworn on all hands; but the remorse and terror of the actor were beyond all bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadful character. the wounded hero was for a few days in the infirmary, the case being only a trifling one. but, though inquiry was strongly pressed on him, no argument could make him indicate the person from whom he had received the wound, though he must have been perfectly well known to him. when he recovered and was dismissed, the author and his brothers opened a communication with him, through the medium of a popular ginger-bread baker, of whom both parties were customers, in order to tender a subsidy in name of smart-money. the sum would excite ridicule were i to name it; but sure i am that the pockets of the noted green-breeks never held as much money of his own. he declined the remittance, saying that he would not sell his blood; but at the same time reprobated the idea of being an informer, which he said was clam, i.e. base or mean. with much urgency he accepted a pound of snuff for the use of some old woman--aunt, grandmother, or the like--with whom he lived. we did not become friends, for the bickers were more agreeable to both parties than any more pacific amusement; but we conducted them ever after under mutual assurances of the highest consideration for each other. such was the hero whom mr. thomas scott proposed to carry to canada, and involve in adventures with the natives and colonists of that country. perhaps the youthful generosity of the lad will not seem so great in the eyes of others as to those whom it was the means of screening from severe rebuke and punishment. but it seemed to those concerned to argue a nobleness of sentiment far beyond the pitch of most minds; and however obscurely the lad who showed such a frame of noble spirit may have lived or died, i cannot help being of opinion that, if fortune had placed him in circumstances calling for gallantry or generosity, the man would have fulfilled the promise of the boy. long afterwards, when the story was told to my father, he censured us severely for not telling the truth at the time, that he might have attempted to be of use to the young man in entering on life. but our alarms for the consequences of the drawn sword, and the wound inflicted with such a weapon, were far too predominant at the time for such a pitch of generosity. perhaps i ought not to have inserted this schoolboy tale; but, besides the strong impression made by the incident at the time, the whole accompaniments of the story are matters to me of solemn and sad recollection. of all the little band who were concerned in those juvenile sports or brawls, i can scarce recollect a single survivor. some left the ranks of mimic war to die in the active service of their country. many sought distant lands to return no more. others, dispersed in different paths of life,'my dim eyes now seek for in vain.' of five brothers, all healthy and promising in a degree far beyond one whose infancy was visited by personal infirmity, and whose health after this period seemed long very precarious, i am, nevertheless, the only survivor. the best loved, and the best deserving to be loved, who had destined this incident to be the foundation of literary composition, died 'before his day' in a distant and foreign land; and trifles assume an importance not their own when connected with those who have been loved and lost. notes note i long the oracle of the country gentlemen of the high tory party. the ancient news-letter was written in manuscript and copied by clerks, who addressed the copies to the subscribers. the politician by whom they were compiled picked up his intelligence at coffee-houses, and often pleaded for an additional gratuity in consideration of the extra expense attached to frequenting such places of fashionable resort. note there is a family legend to this purpose, belonging to the knightly family of bradshaigh, the proprietors of haigh hall, in lancashire, where, i have been told, the event is recorded on a painted glass window. the german ballad of the noble moringer turns upon a similar topic. but undoubtedly many such incidents may have taken place, where, the distance being great and the intercourse infrequent, false reports concerning the fate of the absent crusaders must have been commonly circulated, and sometimes perhaps rather hastily credited at home. note the attachment to this classic was, it is said, actually displayed in the manner mentioned in the text by an unfortunate jacobite in that unhappy period. he escaped from the jail in which he was confined for a hasty trial and certain condemnation, and was retaken as he hovered around the place in which he had been imprisoned, for which he could give no better reason than the hope of recovering his favourite titus livius. i am sorry to add that the simplicity of such a character was found to form no apology for his guilt as a rebel, and that he was condemned and executed. note nicholas amhurst, a noted political writer, who conducted for many years a paper called the craftsman, under the assumed name of caleb d'anvers. he was devoted to the tory interest, and seconded with much ability the attacks of pulteney on sir robert walpole. he died in , neglected by his great patrons and in the most miserable circumstances. 'amhurst survived the downfall of walpole's power, and had reason to expect a reward for his labours. if we excuse bolingbroke, who had only saved the shipwreck of his fortunes, we shall be at a loss to justify pulteney, who could with ease have given this man a considerable income. the utmost of his generosity to amhurst that i ever heard of was a hogshead of claret! he died, it is supposed, of a broken heart; and was buried at the charge of his honest printer, richard francklin.'--lord chesterfield's characters reviewed, p. . note i have now given in the text the full name of this gallant and excellent man, and proceed to copy the account of his remarkable conversion, as related by doctor doddridge. 'this memorable event,' says the pious writer, 'happened towards the middle of july . the major had spent the evening (and, if i mistake not, it was the sabbath) in some gay company, and had an unhappy assignation with a married woman, whom he was to attend exactly at twelve. the company broke up about eleven, and, not judging it convenient to anticipate the time appointed, he went into his chamber to kill the tedious hour, perhaps with some amusing book, or some other way. but it very accidentally happened that he took up a religious book, which his good mother or aunt had, without his knowledge, slipped into his portmanteau. it was called, if i remember the title exactly, the christian soldier, or heaven taken by storm, and it was written by mr. thomas watson. guessing by the title of it that he would find some phrases of his own profession spiritualised in a manner which he thought might afford him some diversion, he resolved to dip into it, but he took no serious notice of anything it had in it; and yet, while this book was in his hand, an impression was made upon his mind (perhaps god only knows how) which drew after it a train of the most important and happy consequences. he thought he saw an unusual blaze of light fall upon the book which he was reading, which he at first imagined might happen by some accident in the candle, but, lifting up his eyes, he apprehended to his extreme amazement that there was before him, as it were suspended in the air, a visible representation of the lord jesus christ upon the cross, surrounded on all sides with a glory; and was impressed as if a voice, or something equivalent to a voice, had come to him, to this effect (for he was not confident as to the words), "oh, sinner! did i suffer this for thee, and are these thy returns?" struck with so amazing a phenomenon as this, there remained hardly any life in him, so that he sunk down in the arm-chair in which he sat, and continued, he knew not how long, insensible.' 'with regard to this vision,' says the ingenious dr. hibbert, 'the appearance of our saviour on the cross, and the awful words repeated, can be considered in no other light than as so many recollected images of the mind, which probably had their origin in the language of some urgent appeal to repentance that the colonel might have casually read or heard delivered. from what cause, however, such ideas were rendered as vivid as actual impressions, we have no information to be depended upon. this vision was certainly attended with one of the most important of consequences connected with the christian dispensation--the conversion of a sinner. and hence no single narrative has, perhaps, done more to confirm the superstitious opinion that apparitions of this awful kind cannot arise without a divine fiat.' doctor hibbert adds in a note--'a short time before the vision, colonel gardiner had received a severe fall from his horse. did the brain receive some slight degree of injury from the accident, so as to predispose him to this spiritual illusion?'--hibbert's philosophy of apparitions, edinburgh, , p. . note the courtesy of an invitation to partake a traveller's meal, or at least that of being invited to share whatever liquor the guest called for, was expected by certain old landlords in scotland even in the youth of the author. in requital mine host was always furnished with the news of the country, and was probably a little of a humorist to boot. the devolution of the whole actual business and drudgery of the inn upon the poor gudewife was very common among the scottish bonifaces. there was in ancient times, in the city of edinburgh, a gentleman of good family who condescended, in order to gain a livelihood, to become the nominal keeper of a coffee-house, one of the first places of the kind which had been opened in the scottish metropolis. as usual, it was entirely managed by the careful and industrious mrs. b--; while her husband amused himself with field sports, without troubling his head about the matter. once upon a time, the premises having taken fire, the husband was met walking up the high street loaded with his guns and fishing-rods, and replied calmly to someone who inquired after his wife, 'that the poor woman was trying to save a parcel of crockery and some trumpery books'; the last being those which served her to conduct the business of the house. there were many elderly gentlemen in the author's younger days who still held it part of the amusement of a journey 'to parley with mine host,' who often resembled, in his quaint humour, mine host of the garter in the merry wives of windsor; or blague of the george in the merry devil of edmonton. sometimes the landlady took her share of entertaining the company. in either case the omitting to pay them due attention gave displeasure, and perhaps brought down a smart jest, as on the following occasion: a jolly dame who, not 'sixty years since,' kept the principal caravansary at greenlaw, in berwickshire, had the honour to receive under her roof a very worthy clergyman, with three sons of the same profession, each having a cure of souls; be it said in passing, none of the reverend party were reckoned powerful in the pulpit. after dinner was over, the worthy senior, in the pride of his heart, asked mrs. buchan whether she ever had had such a party in her house before. 'here sit i,' he said, 'a placed minister of the kirk of scotland, and here sit my three sons, each a placed minister of the same kirk. confess, luckie buchan, you never had such a party in your house before.' the question was not premised by any invitation to sit down and take a glass of wine or the like, so mrs. b. answered drily, 'indeed, sir, i cannot just say that ever i had such a party in my house before, except once in the forty-five, when i had a highland piper here, with his three sons, all highland pipers; and deil a spring they could play amang them.' note there is no particular mansion described under the name of tully- veolan; but the peculiarities of the description occur in various old scottish seats. the house of warrender upon bruntsfield links and that of old ravelston, belonging, the former to sir george warrender, the latter to sir alexander keith, have both contributed several hints to the description in the text. the house of dean, near edinburgh, has also some points of resemblance with tully-veolan. the author has, however, been informed that the house of grandtully resembles that of the baron of bradwardine still more than any of the above. note i am ignorant how long the ancient and established custom of keeping fools has been disused in england. swift writes an epitaph on the earl of suffolk's fool-- whose name was dickie pearce in scotland, the custom subsisted till late in the last century; at glamis castle is preserved the dress of one of the jesters, very handsome, and ornamented with many bells. it is not above thirty years since such a character stood by the sideboard of a nobleman of the first rank in scotland, and occasionally mixed in the conversation, till he carried the joke rather too far, in making proposals to one of the young ladies of the family, and publishing the bans betwixt her and himself in the public church. note after the revolution of , and on some occasions when the spirit of the presbyterians had been unusually animated against their opponents, the episcopal clergymen, who were chiefly nonjurors, were exposed to be mobbed, as we should now say, or rabbled, as the phrase then went, to expiate their political heresies. but notwithstanding that the presbyterians had the persecution in charles ii and his brother's time to exasperate them, there was little mischief done beyond the kind of petty violence mentioned in the text. note i may here mention that the fashion of compotation described in the text was still occasionally practised in scotland in the author's youth. a company, after having taken leave of their host, often went to finish the evening at the clachan or village, in 'womb of tavern.' their entertainer always accompanied them to take the stirrup-cup, which often occasioned a long and late revel. the poculum potatorium of the valiant baron, his blessed bear, has a prototype at the fine old castle of glamis, so rich in memorials of ancient times; it is a massive beaker of silver, double gilt, moulded into the shape of a lion, and holding about an english pint of wine. the form alludes to the family name of strathmore, which is lyon, and, when exhibited, the cup must necessarily be emptied to the earl's health. the author ought perhaps to be ashamed of recording that he has had the honour of swallowing the contents of the lion; and the recollection of the feat served to suggest the story of the bear of bradwardine. in the family of scott of thirlestane (not thirlestane in the forest, but the place of the same name in roxburghshire) was long preserved a cup of the same kind, in the form of a jack-boot. each guest was obliged to empty this at his departure. if the guest's name was scott, the necessity was doubly imperative. when the landlord of an inn presented his guests with deoch an doruis, that is, the drink at the door, or the stirrup-cup, the draught was not charged in the reckoning. on this point a learned bailie of the town of forfar pronounced a very sound judgment. a., an ale-wife in forfar, had brewed her 'peck of malt' and set the liquor out of doors to cool; the cow of b., a neighbour of a., chanced to come by, and seeing the good beverage, was allured to taste it, and finally to drink it up. when a. came to take in her liquor, she found her tub empty, and from the cow's staggering and staring, so as to betray her intemperance, she easily divined the mode in which her 'browst' had disappeared. to take vengeance on crummie's ribs with a stick was her first effort. the roaring of the cow brought b., her master, who remonstrated with his angry neighbour, and received in reply a demand for the value of the ale which crummie had drunk up. b. refused payment, and was conveyed before c., the bailie, or sitting magistrate. he heard the case patiently; and then demanded of the plaintiff a. whether the cow had sat down to her potation or taken it standing. the plaintiff answered, she had not seen the deed committed, but she supposed the cow drank the ale while standing on her feet, adding, that had she been near she would have made her use them to some purpose. the bailie, on this admission, solemnly adjudged the cow's drink to be deoch an doruis, a stirrup-cup, for which no charge could be made without violating the ancient hospitality of scotland. note the story last told was said to have happened in the south of scotland; but cedant arma togae and let the gown have its dues. it was an old clergyman, who had wisdom and firmness enough to resist the panic which seized his brethren, who was the means of rescuing a poor insane creature from the cruel fate which would otherwise have overtaken her. the accounts of the trials for witchcraft form one of the most deplorable chapters in scottish story. note although canting heraldry is generally reprobated, it seems nevertheless to have been adopted in the arms and mottos of many honourable families. thus the motto of the vernons, ver non semper viret, is a perfect pun, and so is that of the onslows, festina lente. the periissem ni per-iissem of the anstruthers is liable to a similar objection. one of that ancient race, finding that an antagonist, with whom he had fixed a friendly meeting, was determined to take the opportunity of assassinating him, prevented the hazard by dashing out his brains with a battle-axe. two sturdy arms, brandishing such a weapon, form the usual crest of the family, with the above motto, periissem ni per-iissem--i had died, unless i had gone through with it. note mac-donald of barrisdale, one of the very last highland gentlemen who carried on the plundering system to any great extent, was a scholar and a well-bred gentleman. he engraved on his broad- swords the well-known lines-- hae tibi erunt artes pacisque imponere morem, parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos. indeed, the levying of black-mail was, before , practised by several chiefs of very high rank, who, in doing so, contended that they were lending the laws the assistance of their arms and swords, and affording a protection which could not be obtained from the magistracy in the disturbed state of the country. the author has seen a memoir of mac-pherson of cluny, chief of that ancient clan, from which it appears that he levied protection- money to a very large amount, which was willingly paid even by some of his most powerful neighbours. a gentleman of this clan, hearing a clergyman hold forth to his congregation on the crime of theft, interrupted the preacher to assure him, he might leave the enforcement of such doctrines to cluny mac-pherson, whose broadsword would put a stop to theft sooner than all the sermons of all the ministers of the synod. note the town-guard of edinburgh were, till a late period, armed with this weapon when on their police-duty. there was a hook at the back of the axe, which the ancient highlanders used to assist them to climb over walls, fixing the hook upon it and raising themselves by the handle. the axe, which was also much used by the natives of ireland, is supposed to have been introduced into both countries from scandinavia. note an adventure very similar to what is here stated actually befell the late mr. abercromby of tullibody, grandfather of the present lord abercromby, and father of the celebrated sir ralph. when this gentleman, who lived to a very advanced period of life, first settled in stirlingshire, his cattle were repeatedly driven off by the celebrated rob roy, or some of his gang; and at length he was obliged, after obtaining a proper safe-conduct, to make the cateran such a visit as that of waverley to bean lean in the text. rob received him with much courtesy, and made many apologies for the accident, which must have happened, he said, through some mistake. mr. abercromby was regaled with collops from two of his own cattle, which were hung up by the heels in the cavern, and was dismissed in perfect safety, after having agreed to pay in future a small sum of black-mail, in consideration of which rob roy not only undertook to forbear his herds in future, but to replace any that should be stolen from him by other freebooters. mr. abercromby said rob roy affected to consider him as a friend to the jacobite interest and a sincere enemy to the union. neither of these circumstances were true; but the laird thought it quite unnecessary to undeceive his highland host at the risk of bringing on a political dispute in such a situation. this anecdote i received many years since (about ) from the mouth of the venerable gentleman who was concerned in it. note this celebrated gibbet was, in the memory of the last generation, still standing at the western end of the town of crieff, in perthshire. why it was called the kind gallows we are unable to inform the reader with certainty; but it is alleged that the highlanders used to touch their bonnets as they passed a place which had been fatal to many of their countrymen, with the ejaculation 'god bless her nain sell, and the teil tamn you!' it may therefore have been called kind, as being a sort of native or kindred place of doom to those who suffered there, as in fulfilment of a natural destiny. note the story of the bridegroom carried off by caterans on his bridal- day is taken from one which was told to the author by the late laird of mac-nab many years since. to carry off persons from the lowlands, and to put them to ransom, was a common practice with the wild highlanders, as it is said to be at the present day with the banditti in the south of italy. upon the occasion alluded to, a party of caterans carried off the bridegroom and secreted him in some cave near the mountain of schiehallion. the young man caught the small-pox before his ransom could be agreed on; and whether it was the fine cool air of the place, or the want of medical attendance, mac-nab did not pretend to be positive; but so it was, that the prisoner recovered, his ransom was paid, and he was restored to his friends and bride, but always considered the highland robbers as having saved his life by their treatment of his malady. note this happened on many occasions. indeed, it was not till after the total destruction of the clan influence, after , that purchasers could be found who offered a fair price for the estates forfeited in , which were then brought to sale by the creditors of the york buildings company, who had purchased the whole, or greater part, from government at a very small price. even so late as the period first mentioned, the prejudices of the public in favour of the heirs of the forfeited families threw various impediments in the way of intending purchasers of such property. note this sort of political game ascribed to mac-ivor was in reality played by several highland chiefs, the celebrated lord lovat in particular, who used that kind of finesse to the uttermost. the laird of mac---was also captain of an independent company, but valued the sweets of present pay too well to incur the risk of losing them in the jacobite cause. his martial consort raised his clan and headed it in . but the chief himself would have nothing to do with king-making, declaring himself for that monarch, and no other, who gave the laird of mac ---- 'half-a-guinea the day and half-a-guinea the morn.' note in explanation of the military exercise observed at the castle of glennaquoich, the author begs to remark that the highlanders were not only well practised in the use of the broadsword, firelock, and most of the manly sports and trials of strength common throughout scotland, but also used a peculiar sort of drill, suited to their own dress and mode of warfare. there were, for instance, different modes of disposing the plaid, one when on a peaceful journey, another when danger was apprehended; one way of enveloping themselves in it when expecting undisturbed repose, and another which enabled them to start up with sword and pistol in hand on the slightest alarm. previous to or thereabouts, the belted plaid was universally worn, in which the portion which surrounded the middle of the wearer and that which was flung around his shoulders were all of the same piece of tartan. in a desperate onset all was thrown away, and the clan charged bare beneath the doublet, save for an artificial arrangement of the shirt, which, like that of the irish, was always ample, and for the sporran-mollach, or goat's- skin purse. the manner of handling the pistol and dirk was also part of the highland manual exercise, which the author has seen gone through by men who had learned it in their youth. note pork or swine's flesh, in any shape, was, till of late years, much abominated by the scotch, nor is it yet a favourite food amongst them. king jamie carried this prejudice to england, and is known to have abhorred pork almost as much as he did tobacco. ben jonson has recorded this peculiarity, where the gipsy in a masque, examining the king's hand, says-- you should, by this line, love a horse and a hound, but no part of a swine. the gipsies metamorphosed. james's own proposed banquet for the devil was a loin of pork and a poll of ling, with a pipe of tobacco for digestion. note in the number of persons of all ranks who assembled at the same table, though by no means to discuss the same fare, the highland chiefs only retained a custom which had been formerly universally observed throughout scotland. 'i myself,' says the traveller, fynes morrison, in the end of queen elizabeth's reign, the scene being the lowlands of scotland, 'was at a knight's house, who had many servants to attend him, that brought in his meat with their heads covered with blue caps, the table being more than half furnished with great platters of porridge, each having a little piece of sodden meat. and when the table was served, the servants did sit down with us; but the upper mess, instead of porridge, had a pullet, with some prunes in the broth.'--travels, p. . till within this last century the farmers, even of a respectable condition, dined with their work-people. the difference betwixt those of high degree was ascertained by the place of the party above or below the salt, or sometimes by a line drawn with chalk on the dining-table. lord lovat, who knew well how to feed the vanity and restrain the appetites of his clansmen, allowed each sturdy fraser who had the slightest pretensions to be a duinhewassel the full honour of the sitting, but at the same time took care that his young kinsmen did not acquire at his table any taste for outlandish luxuries. his lordship was always ready with some honourable apology why foreign wines and french brandy, delicacies which he conceived might sap the hardy habits of his cousins, should not circulate past an assigned point on the table. note in the irish ballads relating to fion (the fingal of mac-pherson) there occurs, as in the primitive poetry of most nations, a cycle of heroes, each of whom has some distinguishing attribute; upon these qualities, and the adventures of those possessing them, many proverbs are formed, which are still current in the highlands. among other characters, conan is distinguished as in some respects a kind of thersites, but brave and daring even to rashness. he had made a vow that he would never take a blow without returning it; and having, like other heroes of antiquity, descended to the infernal regions, he received a cuff from the arch-fiend who presided there, which he instantly returned, using the expression in the text. sometimes the proverb is worded thus--'claw for claw, and the devil take the shortest nails, as conan said to the devil.' note the description of the waterfall mentioned in this chapter is taken from that of ledeard, at the farm so called, on the northern side of lochard, and near the head of the lake, four or five miles from aberfoyle. it is upon a small scale, but otherwise one of the most exquisite cascades it is possible to behold. the appearance of flora with the harp, as described, has been justly censured as too theatrical and affected for the lady-like simplicity of her character. but something may be allowed to her french education, in which point and striking effect always make a considerable object. note the author has been sometimes accused of confounding fiction with reality. he therefore thinks it necessary to state that the circumstance of the hunting described in the text as preparatory to the insurrection of is, so far as he knows, entirely imaginary. but it is well known such a great hunting was held in the forest of brae-mar, under the auspices of the earl of mar, as preparatory to the rebellion of ; and most of the highland chieftains who afterwards engaged in that civil commotion were present on this occasion. glossary a', all. aboon, abune, above. aby, abye, endure, suffer. accolade, the salutation marking the bestowal of knighthood. ain, own. alane, alone. an, if. ane, one. array, annoy, trouble. auld, old. aweel, well. aye, always. bailie, a city magistrate in scotland. ban, curse. bawty, sly, cunning. baxter, a baker. bees, in the, stupefied, bewildered. belive, belyve, by and by. ben, in, inside. bent, an open field. bhaird, a bard. black-fishing, fishing by torchlight poaching. blinked, glanced. blude, braid, blood. blythe, gay, glad. bodle, a copper coin worth a third of an english penny. bole, a bowl. boot-ketch, a boot-jack. brae, the side of a hill. brissel-cock, a turkey cock. breeks, breeches. brogues, highland shoes. broken men, outlaws. brought far ben, held in special favor browst, a brewing. bruik, enjoy. buckie, a perverse or refractory person. bullsegg, a gelded bull. burd, bird, a term of familiarity. burn, a brook. busking, dress, decoration. buttock-mail, a fine for fornication. bydand, awaiting. cailliachs, old women on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead, which the irish call keening. callant, a young lad, a fine fellow. canny, prudent, skillful, lucky. canter, a canting, whining beggar. cantrip, a trick. carle, a churl, an old man. cateran, a highland irregular soldier, a freebooter. chap, a customer. clachan, a hamlet. claw favour, curry favour. claymore, a broad sword. cleek, a hook. cleik the cunzie, steal the silver. cob, beat. coble, a small fishing boat. cogs, wooden vessels. cogue, a round wooden vessel. concussed, violently shaken, disturbed, forced. coronach, a dirge. corrie, a mountain hollow. cove, a cave. crame, a booth, a merchant's shop. creagh, an incursion for plunder, termed on the borders a raid. crouse, bold, courageous. crummy, a cow with crooked horns. cuittle, tickle. curragh, a highland boat. daft, mad, foolish. debinded, bound down. decreet, an order of decree. deoch an doruis, the stirrup-cup or parting drink. dern, concealed, secret. dinmonts, wethers in the second year. doer, an agent, a manager. doon, doun, down. dovering, dozing. duinhe-wassel, dunniewassal, a highland gentleman, usually the cadet of a family of rank. eanaruich, the regalia presented by rob roy to the laird of tullibody. eneugh, eneuch, enough. ergastulo, in a penitentiary. exeemed, exempt. factory, stewardship. feal and divot, turf and thatch. feck, a quantity. feifteen, the jacobite rebellion of . fendy, good at making a shift. fire-raising, setting an incendiary fire. flemit, frightened, frae, from. fu, full. fule, fool. gaberlunzie, a kind of professional beggar. gane, gone. gang, go. gar, make. gate, gait, way. gaun, going. gay, gey, very. gear, goods, property. gillflirt, a flirty girl. gillie, a servant, an attendant. gillie-wet-foot, a barefooted highland lad. gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. glisked, glimpsed. gripple, rapacious, niggardly. gulpin, a simpleton. ha', hall. hag, a portion of copse marked off for cutting. hail, whole. hallan, a partition, a screen. hame, home. hantle, a great deal. harst, harvest. herships, plunder. hilding, a coward. hirsts, knolls. horning, charge of, a summons to pay a debt, on pain of being pronounced a rebel, to the sound of a horn. howe, a hollow. houlerying and poulerying, hustling and pulling. hurley-house, a brokendown manor house. ilk, same; of that ilk, of the same name or place. ilka, each, every. in the bees, stupefied. intromit, meddle with. ken, know. kittle, tickle, ticklish. knobbler, a male deer in its second year. kyloe, a small highland cow. laird, squire, lord of the manor. lang-leggit, long-legged. lawing, a tavern reckoning. lee land, pasture land. lie, a word used in old scottish legal documents to call attention to the following word or phrase. lift, capture, carry off by theft. limmer, a jade. loch, a lake. loon, an idle fellow, a lout, a rogue. luckie, an elderly woman. lug, an ear, a handle. lunzie, the loins, the waist. mae, mair, more. mains, the chief farm of an estate. malt abune the meal, the drink above the food, half-seas over. maun, must. meal ark, a meal chest. merk, / pence in english money. mickle, much, great. misguggled, mangled, rumpled. mony, many. morn, the morn, tomorrow. morning, a morning dram. muckle, much, great. muir, moor. na, nae, no, not. nainsell, own self. nice, simple. nolt, black cattle. ony, any. orra, odd, unemployed. orra-time, occasionally. ower, over. peel-house, a fortified tower. pendicle, a small piece of ground. pingle, a fuss, trouble. plenishing, furnishings. ploy, sport, entertainment. pretty men, stout, warlike fellows. reifs, robberies. reivers, robbers. riggs, ridges, ploughed ground. rokelay, a short cloak. rudas, coarse, hag-like. sain, mark with the sign of the cross, bless. sair, sore, very. saumon, salmon. saut, salt. say, a sample. schellum, a rascal. scouping, scowping, skipping, leaping, running. seannachie, a highland antiquary. shearing, reaping, harvest. shilpit, weak, sickly. shoon, shoes. sic, siccan, such. sidier dhu, black soldiers, independent companies raised to keep peace in the highlands; named from the tartans they wore. sidier roy, red soldiers, king george's men. sikes, small brooks. siller, silver, money. simmer, summer. sliver, slice, slit. smoky, suspicious. sneck, cut. snood, a fillet worn by young women. sopite, quiet a brawl. sorners, sornars, sojourners, sturdy beggars, especially those unwelcome visitors who exact lodgings and victuals by force. sorted, arranged, adjusted. speir, ask, investigate. sporran-mollach, a highland purse of goatskin. sprack, animated, lively. spring, a cheerful tune. spurrzie, spoil. stieve, stiff, firm. stirk, a young steer or heifer. stot, a bullock. stoup, a jug, a pitcher. stouthreef, robbery. strae, straw. strath, a valley through which a river runs. syboes, onions. ta, the. taiglit, harassed, loitered. tailzie, taillie, a deed of entail. tappit-hen, a pewter pot that holds three english quarts. tayout, tailliers-hors; in modern phrase, tally-ho! teil, the devil. teinds, tithes. telt, told. till, to. toun, a hamlet, a farm. trews, trousers. trow, believe, suppose. twa, two. tyke, a dog, a snarling fellow. unco, strange, very. unkenn'd, unknown. usquebaugh, whiskey. wa', wall. ware, spend. weel, well. wha, who. whar, where. what for, why. whilk, which. wiske, whisk, brandish. end of volume i the life of col. james gardiner, who was slain at the battle of prestonpans, september , . by p. doddridge, d.d. 'justior alter nec pietate fuit, nec bello major et armis.'--virgil chapter i parentage and early days. ii battle of ramillies. iii military preferments. iv checks of conscience. v his conversion. vi letters. vii domestic relations. viii conduct as an officer. ix intimacy with the author. x devotion and charity. xi embarks for flanders. xii return to england. xiii revival of religion. xiv apprehensions of death. xv battle of prestonpans. the colonel's personal appearance. appendix i appendix ii [*transcriber's note: at the time of this book, england still followed the julian calendar (after julius caesar, b.c.), and celebrated new year's day on march th (annunciation day). most catholic countries accepted the gregorian calendar (after pope gregory xiii) from some time after (the catholic countries of france, spain, portugal, and italy in , belgium, the netherlands, and switzerland within a year or two, hungary in , and scotland in ), and celebrated new year's day on january st. england finally changed to the gregorian calendar in . this is the reason for the double dates in the early months of the years in this narrative. january in england would have been january in scotland. only after march th was the year the same in the two countries. the julian calendar was known as 'old style', and the gregorian calendar as 'new style' (n.s.). (thus a letter written from france on e.g. august th, would be dated august , n.s.)] life of col. james gardiner. chapter i. parentage and early days. when i promised the public some larger account of the life and character of this illustrious person, than i could conveniently insert in my sermon on the sad occasion of his death, i was secure, that if providence continued my capacity of writing, i should not wholly disappoint the expectation; for i was furnished with a variety of particulars which appeared to me worthy of general notice, in consequence of that intimate friendship with which he had honoured me during the last six years of his life--a friendship which led him to open his heart to me, in repeated conversations, with an unbounded confidence, (as he then assured me, beyond what he had used with any other man living,) so far as religious experiences were concerned; and i had also received several very valuable letters from him during the time of our absence from each other, which contained most genuine and edifying traces of his christian character. but i hoped further to learn many valuable particulars from the papers of his own closet, and from his letters to other friends, as well as from what they more circumstantially knew concerning him. i therefore determined to delay the execution of my promise till i could enjoy these advantages for performing it in the most satisfactory manner; nor have i, on the whole, reason to regret that determination. i shall not trouble the reader with all the causes which concurred to retard these expected assistances for almost a whole year. the chief of them was the tedious languishing illness of his afflicted lady, through whose hands it was proper the papers should pass; together with the confusion into which the rebels had thrown them when they ransacked his seat at bankton, where most of them were deposited. but having now received such of them as have escaped their rapacious hands, and could conveniently be collected and transmitted, i set myself with the greatest pleasure to perform what i esteem not merely a tribute of gratitude to the memory of my invaluable friend, (though never was the memory of any mortal man more precious and sacred to me,) but of duty to god, and to my fellow-creatures; for i have a most cheerful hope that the narrative i am now to write will, under the divine blessing, be a means of spreading, what of all things in the world, every benevolent heart will most desire to spread, a warm and lively sense of religion. my own heart has been so much edified and animated by what i have read in the memoirs of persons who have been eminent for wisdom and piety, that i cannot but wish the treasure may be more and more increased; and i would hope the world may gather the like valuable fruits from the life i am now attempting, not only as it will contain very singular circumstances, which may excite general curiosity, but as it comes attended with some other particular advantages. the reader is here to survey a character of such eminent and various goodness as might demand veneration, and inspire him with a desire of imitating it too, had it appeared in the obscurest rank; but it will surely command some peculiar regard, when viewed in so elevated and important a station, especially as it shone, not in ecclesiastical, but _military_ life, where the temptations are so many, and the prevalence of the contrary character so great, that it may seem no inconsiderable praise and felicity to be free from dissolute vice, and to retain what in most other professions might be esteemed only _a mediocrity of virtue_. it may surely, with the highest justice, be expected that the title and bravery of colonel gardiner will invite many of our officers and soldiers, to whom his name has been long honourable and dear, to peruse this account of him with some peculiar attention; in consequence of which it may be a means of increasing the number, and brightening the character of those who are already adorning their office, their country, and their religion; and of reclaiming those who will see what they ought to be, rather than what they are. on the whole, to the gentlemen of the sword i would particularly offer these memoirs, as theirs by so distinguished a title; yet i am firmly persuaded there are _none_ whose office is so sacred, or whose proficiency in the religious life is so advanced, but they may find something to demand their thankfulness, and to awaken their emulation. colonel james gardiner was the son of capt. patrick gardiner of the family of torwoodhead, by mrs.[*] mary hodge of the family of gladsmuir. the captain, who was master of a handsome estate, served many years in the army of king william and queen anne, and died abroad with the british forces in germany, soon after the battle of hochstett, through the fatigues he underwent in the duties of that celebrated campaign. he had a company in the regiment of foot once commanded by colonel hodge, his valiant brother-in-law, who was slain at the head of that regiment (my memorial from scotland says) at the battle of steenkirk, which was fought in the year . [*transcriber's note: mrs. (mistress), in that age, was the normal style of address for an unmarried daughter from a prominent family, as well as for a married lady.] mrs. gardiner, our colonel's mother, was a lady of very respectable character; but it pleased god to exercise her with very uncommon trials; for she not only lost her husband and her brother in the service of their country, as before related, but also her eldest son, mr. robert gardiner, on the day which completed the th year of his age, at the siege of namur, in . but there is great reason to believe that god blessed these various and heavy afflictions, as the means of forming her to that eminent degree of piety which will render her memory honourable as long as it continues. her second son, the worthy person of whom i am now to give a more particular account, was born at carriden, in linlithgowshire, on the th of january, a.d. - ,--the memorable year of that glorious revolution which he justly esteemed among the happiest of all events; so that when he was slain in defence of those liberties which god then, by so gracious a providence, rescued from utter destruction, i.e. on the st of september , he was aged years, months, and days. the annual return of his birth-day was observed by him in the latter and better years of his life, in a manner very different from what is commonly practised; for, instead of making it a day of festivity, i am told he rather distinguished it as a season of more than ordinary humiliation before god--both in commemoration of those mercies which he received in the first opening of life, and under an affectionate sense, as well of his long alienation from the great author and support of his being, as of the many imperfections which he lamented in the best of his days and services. i have not met with many things remarkable concerning the early days of his life, only that his mother took care to instruct him, with great tenderness and affection, in the principles of true christianity. he was also trained up in humane literature, at the school at linlithgow, where he made a very considerable progress in the languages. i remember to have heard him quote some passages of the latin classics very pertinently; though his employment in life, and the various turns which his mind took under different impulses in succeeding years, prevented him from cultivating such studies. the good effects of his mother's prudent and exemplary care were not so conspicuous as she wished and hoped, in the earlier part of her son's life; yet there is great reason to believe they were not entirely lost. as they were probably the occasion of many convictions which in his younger years were overborne, so i doubt not, that when religious impressions took that strong hold of his heart which they afterwards did, that stock of knowledge which had been so early laid up in his mind, was found of considerable service. and i have heard them make the observation, as an encouragement to parents, and other pious friends, to do their duty, and to hope for those good consequences of it which may not immediately appear. could his mother, or a very religious aunt, (of whose good instructions and exhortations i have often heard him speak with pleasure,) have prevailed, he would not have thought of a military life, from which it is no wonder these ladies endeavoured to dissuade him, considering the mournful experience they had of the dangers attending it, and the dear relatives they had lost already by it. but it suited his taste; and the ardour of his spirit, animated by the persuasions of a friend who greatly urged it,[*] was not to be restrained. nor will the reader wonder that, thus excited and supported, it easily overbore their tender remonstrances, when he knows that this lively youth fought three duels before he attained to the stature of a man; in one of which, when he was but eight years old, he received from a boy much older than himself, a wound in his right cheek, the scar of which was always very apparent. the false sense of honour which instigated him to it, might seem indeed something excusable in those unripened years, and considering the profession of his father, brother, and uncle; but i have often heard him mention this rashness with that regret which the reflection would naturally give to so wise and good a man in the maturity of life. and i have been informed that, after his remarkable conversion, he declined accepting a challenge, with this calm and truly great reply, which, in a man of his experienced bravery, was exceedingly graceful: "i fear sinning, though you know i do not fear fighting." [*note: i suppose this to have been brigadier-general rue, who had from his childhood a peculiar affection for him.] chapter ii. battle of ramillies. he served first as a cadet, which must have been very early; and then, at fourteen years old, he bore an ensign's commission in a scotch regiment in the dutch service, in which he continued till the year , when (if my information be right) he received an ensign's commission from queen anne, which he bore in the battle of ramillies, being then in the nineteenth year of his age. in this ever-memorable action he received a wound in his mouth by a musket-ball, which has often been reported to be the occasion of his conversion. that report was a mistaken one; but as some very remarkable circumstances attended this affair, which i have had the pleasure of hearing more than once from his own mouth, i hope my readers will excuse me, if i give him so uncommon a story at large. our young officer was of a party in the forlorn hope, and was commanded on what seemed almost a desperate service, to dispossess the french of the church-yard at ramillies, where a considerable number of them were posted to remarkable advantage. they succeeded much better than was expected; and it may well be supposed that mr. gardiner, who had before been in several encounters, and had the view of making his fortune to animate the natural intrepidity of his spirit, was glad of such an opportunity of signalizing himself. accordingly he had planted his colours on an advanced ground; and while he was calling to his men, (probably in that horrid language which is so peculiar a disgrace to our soldiery, and so absurdly common on such occasions of extreme danger,) he received into his mouth a shot, which, without beating out of any of his teeth, or touching the fore part of his tongue, went through his neck, and came out about an inch and a half on the left side of the _vertebræ_. not feeling at first the pain of the stroke, he wondered what was become of the ball, and in the wildness of his surprise began to suspect he had swallowed it; but falling soon after, he traced the passage of it by his finger, when he could discover it in no other way; which i mention as one circumstance, among many which occur, to make it probable that the greater part of those who fall in battle by these instruments of death, feel very little anguish from the most mortal wounds. this accident happened about five or six in the evening, on the d of may, ; and the army, pursuing its advantages against the french, without ever regarding the wounded, (which was, it seems, the duke of marlborough's constant method,) our young officer lay all night on the field, agitated, as may well be supposed, with a great variety of thoughts. he assured me, that when he reflected upon the circumstance of his wound, that a ball should, as he then conceived it, go through his head without killing him, he thought god had preserved him by a miracle; and therefore assuredly concluded that he should live, abandoned and desperate as his state seemed to be. yet (which to me appeared very astonishing) he had little thoughts of humbling himself before god, and returning to him after the wanderings of a life so licentiously begun. but, expecting to recover, his mind was taken up with contrivances to secure his gold, of which he had a good deal about him; and he had recourse to a very odd expedient, which proved successful. expecting to be stripped, he first took out a handful of that clotted gore of which he was frequently obliged to clear his mouth, or he would have been choked; and putting it into his left hand, he took out his money, which i think was about pistoles, and shutting his hand, and besmearing the back part of it with blood, he kept in this position till the blood dried in such a manner that his hand could not easily fall open, though any sudden surprise should happen, in which he might lose the presence of mind which that concealment otherwise would have required. in the morning the french, who were masters of that spot, though their forces were defeated at some distance, came to plunder the slain; and seeing him to appearance almost expiring, one of them was just applying a sword to his breast, to destroy the little remainder of life, when, in the critical moment, upon which all the extraordinary events of such a life as his afterwards proved, were suspended, a cordelier who attended the plunderers interposed, (taking him by his dress for a frenchman) and said, "do not kill that poor child." our young soldier heard all that passed, though he was not able to speak one word; and, opening his eyes, made a sign for something to drink. they gave him a sup of some spirituous liquor which happened to be at hand, by which he said he found a more sensible refreshment than he could remember from anything he had tasted either before or since. then signifying to the friar to lean down his ear to his mouth, he employed the first efforts of his feeble breath in telling him (what, alas! was a contrived falsehood) that he was a nephew to the governor of huy, a neutral town in the neighbourhood; and that if he could take any method of conveying him thither, he did not doubt but his uncle would liberally reward him. he had indeed a friend at huy, who i think was governor, and, if i mistake not, had been acquainted with the captain, his father, from whom he expected a kind reception; but the relation was only pretended. on hearing this, they laid him on a sort of hand-barrow, and sent him by a file of musqueteers towards the place; but the men lost their way, and, towards the evening, got into a wood in which they were obliged to continue all night. the poor patient's wound being still undressed, it is not to be wondered at that by this time it raged violently. the anguish of it engaged him earnestly to beg that they would either kill him outright, or leave him there to die without the torture of any further motion; and indeed they were obliged to rest for a considerable time, on account of their own weariness. thus he spent the second night in the open air, without any thing more than a common bandage to staunch the blood. he has often mentioned it as a most astonishing providence that he did not bleed to death, which, under god, he ascribed to the remarkable coldness of these two nights. judging it quite unsafe to attempt carrying him to huy, from whence they were now several miles distant, his convoy took him early in the morning to a convent in the neighbourhood, where he was hospitably received, and treated with great kindness and tenderness. but the cure of his wound was committed to an ignorant barber-surgeon who lived near the house, the best shift that could then be made, at a time when it may easily be supposed persons of ability in their profession had their hands full of employment. the tent which this artist applied, was almost like a peg driven into the wound; and gentlemen of skill and experience, when they came to hear of the manner in which he was treated, wondered how he could possibly survive such management. but by the blessing of god on these applications, rough as they were, he recovered in a few months. the lady abbess, who called him her son, treated him with the affection and care of a mother; and he always declared that every thing which he saw within these walls, was conducted with the strictest decency and decorum. he received a great many devout admonitions from the ladies there, and they would fain have persuaded him to acknowledge what they thought so miraculous a deliverance, by embracing the _catholic faith_, as they were pleased to call it. but they could not succeed; for though no religion lay near his heart, yet he had too much of the spirit of a gentleman lightly to change that form of religion which he wore, as it were loose about him; as well as too much good sense to swallow those monstrous absurdities of popery which immediately presented themselves to him, unacquainted as he was with the niceties of the controversy. chapter iii. military preferments. when his liberty was regained by an exchange of prisoners, and his health thoroughly established, he was far from rendering unto the lord according to that wonderful display of divine mercy which he had experienced. i know very little of the particulars of those wild, thoughtless and wretched years which lay between the th and th of his life; except that he frequently experienced the divine goodness in renewed instances, particularly in preserving him in several hot military actions, in all which he never received so much as a wound after this, forward as he was in tempting danger; and yet that all these years were spent in an entire alienation from god, and in an eager pursuit of animal pleasure as his supreme good. the series of criminal amours in which he was almost incessantly engaged during this time, must probably have afforded some remarkable adventures and occurrences; but the memory of them has perished. nor do i think it unworthy of notice here, that amidst all the intimacy of our friendship, and the many hours of cheerful as well as serious converse which we spent together, i never remember to have heard him speak of any of these intrigues, otherwise than in the general with deep and solemn abhorrence. this i the rather mention, as it seemed a most genuine proof of his unfeigned repentance, which i think there is great reason to suspect, when people seem to take a pleasure in relating and describing scenes of vicious indulgence, which they yet profess to have disapproved and forsaken. amidst all these pernicious wanderings from the paths of religion, virtue, and happiness, he approved himself so well in his military character, that he was made a lieutenant in that year, viz. ; and i am told he was very quickly after promoted to a cornet's commission in lord stair's regiment of the scots greys, and, on the st of january, - , was made captain-lieutenant in colonel ker's regiment of dragoons. he had the honour of being known to the earl of stair some time before, and was made his aid-de-camp; and when, upon his lordship's being appointed ambassador from his late majesty to the court of france, he made so splendid an entrance into paris, captain gardiner was his master of the horse; and i have been told that a great deal of the care of that admirably well-adjusted ceremony fell upon him; so that he gained great credit by the manner in which he conducted it. under the benign influence of his lordship's favour, which to the last day of his life he retained, a captain's commission was procured for him, dated july , , in the regiment of dragoons commanded by colonel stanhope, now earl of harrington; and in he was advanced to the majority of that regiment, in which office he continued till it was reduced on november , , when he was put out of commission. but when his majesty, king george i., was thoroughly apprised of his faithful and important services, he gave him his sign-manual, entitling him to the first majority that should become vacant in any regiment of horse or dragoons, which happened, about five years after, to be in croft's regiment of dragoons, in which he received a commission, dated st june, ; and on the th of july the same year, he was made major of an older regiment, commanded by the earl of stair. as i am now speaking of so many of his military preferments, i will dispatch the account of them by observing, that, on the th january - , he was advanced to the rank of lieutenant-colonel in the same regiment, long under the command of lord cadogan, with whose friendship this brave and vigilant officer was also honoured for many years. and he continued in this rank and regiment till the th of april, , when he received a colonel's commission over a regiment of dragoons lately commanded by brigadier bland, at the head of which he valiantly fell, in the defence of his sovereign and his country, about two years and a half after he received it. we will now return to that period of his life which was passed at paris, the scene of such remarkable and important events. he continued (if i remember right) several years under the roof of the brave and generous earl of stair, to whom he endeavoured to approve himself by every instance of diligent and faithful service. and his lordship gave no inconsiderable proof of the dependence which he had upon him, when, in the beginning of , he entrusted him with the important dispatches relating to a discovery which, by a series of admirable policy, he had made of a design which the french king was then forming for invading great britain in favour of the pretender; in which the french apprehended they were so sure of success, that it seemed a point of friendship in one of the chief counsellors of that court to dissuade a dependent of his from accepting some employment under his britannic majesty, when proposed by his envoy there, because it was said that in less than six weeks there would be a revolution in favour of what they called the family of the stuarts. the captain dispatched his journey with the utmost speed; a variety of circumstances happily concurred to accelerate it; and they who remember how soon the regiments which that emergency required, were raised and armed, will, i doubt not, esteem it a memorable instance, both of the most cordial zeal in the friends of the government, and of the gracious care of divine providence over the house of hanover and the british liberties, so inseparably connected with its interest. while captain gardiner was at london, in one of the journeys he made upon this occasion, he, with that frankness which was natural to him, and which in those days was not always under the most prudent restraint, ventured to predict, from what he knew of the bad state of the french king's health, that he would not live six weeks. this was made known by some spies who were at st. james's, and came to be reported at the court of versailles; for he received letters from some friends at paris, advising him not to return thither, unless he could reconcile himself to a lodging in the bastile. but he was soon free from that apprehension; for, if i mistake not, before half that time was accomplished, louis xiv. died, (sept. , ,) and it is generally thought his death was hastened by a very accidental circumstance, which had some reference to the captain's prophecy; for the last time he ever dined in public, which was a very little while after the report of it had been made there, he happened to discover our british envoy among the spectators. the penetration of this illustrious person was too great, and his attachment to the interest of his royal master too well known, not to render him very disagreeable to that crafty and tyrannical prince, whom god had so long suffered to be the disgrace of monarchy, and the scourge of europe. he at first appeared very languid, as indeed he was; but on casting his eye upon the earl of stair, he affected to appear before him in a much better state of health than he really was; and therefore, as if he had been awakened on a sudden from some deep reverie, he immediately put himself into an erect posture, called up a laboured vivacity into his countenance, and ate much more heartily than was by any means advisable, repeating two or three times to a nobleman, (i think the duke of bourbon) then in waiting, "_il me semble que je ne mange pas mal pour un homme qui devoit mourir si tot._" "methinks i eat very well for a man who is to die so soon." but this inroad upon that regularity of living which he had for some time observed, agreed so ill with him that he never recovered this meal, but died in less than a fortnight. this gave occasion for some humorous people to say, that old louis, after all, was killed by a briton. but if this story be true, (which i think there can be no room to doubt, as the colonel, from whom i have often heard it, though absent, could scarce be misinformed,) it might more properly be said that he fell by his own vanity; in which view i thought it so remarkable, as not to be unworthy of a place in these memoirs. the captain quickly returned, and continued, with small interruptions, at paris, at least till , and how much longer i do not certainly know. the earl's favour and generosity made him easy in his affairs, though he was, (as has been observed before,) part of the time, out of commission, by breaking the regiment to which he belonged, of which before he was major. this was in all probability the gayest part of his life, and the most criminal. whatever wise and good examples he might find in the family where he had the honour to reside, it is certain that the french court, during the regency of the duke of orleans, was one of the most dissolute under heaven. what, by a wretched abuse of language, have been called intrigues of love and gallantry, were so entirely to the major's then degenerate taste, that if not the whole business, at least the whole happiness of his life, consisted in them; and he had now too much leisure for one who was so prone to abuse it. his fine constitution, than which perhaps there was hardly ever a better, gave him great opportunities of indulging himself in these excesses; and his good spirits enabled him to pursue his pleasures of every kind in so alert and sprightly a manner, that multitudes envied him, and called him, by a dreadful kind of compliment, "the happy rake." chapter iv. checks of conscience. yet still the checks of conscience, and some remaining principles of so good an education, would break in upon his most licentious hours; and i particularly remember he told me, that when some of his dissolute companions were once congratulating him on his distinguished felicity, a dog happening at that time to come into the room, he could not forbear groaning inwardly, and saying to himself, 'oh that i were that dog!' such then was his happiness; and such perhaps is that of hundreds more who bear themselves highest in the contempt of religion, and glory in that infamous servitude which they affect to call liberty. but these remonstrances of reason and conscience were in vain; and, in short, he carried things so far in this wretched part of his life, that i am well assured some sober english gentlemen, who made no great pretences to religion, how agreeable soever he might have been to them on other accounts, rather declined than sought his company, as fearing they might have been ensnared and corrupted by it. yet i cannot find that in these most abandoned days he was fond of drinking. indeed, he never had any natural relish for that kind of intemperance, from which he used to think a manly pride might be sufficient to preserve persons of sense and spirit; as by it they give up every thing that distinguishes them from the meanest of their species, or indeed from animals the most below it. so that if ever he fell into any excesses of this kind, it was merely out of complaisance to his company, and that he might not appear stiff and singular. his frank, obliging, and generous temper procured him many friends; and these principles, which rendered him amiable to others, not being under the direction of true wisdom and piety, sometimes made him, in the ways of living he pursued, more uneasy to himself than he might, perhaps, have been, if he could have entirely overcome them; especially as he never was a sceptic in his principles, but still retained a secret apprehension that natural and revealed religion, though he did not much care to think of either, were founded in truth. and, with this conviction, his notorious violations of the most essential precepts of both could not but occasion some secret misgivings of heart. his continual neglect of the great author of his being, of whose perfections he could not doubt, and to whom he knew himself to be under daily and perpetual obligations, gave him, in some moments of involuntary reflection, inexpressible remorse; and this at times wrought upon him to such a degree, that he resolved he would attempt to pay him some acknowledgments. accordingly, for a few mornings he did it, repeating in retirement some passages out of the psalms, and perhaps other scriptures which he still retained in his memory; and owning, in a few strong words, the many mercies and deliverances he had received, and the ill returns he had made for them. i find, among the other papers transmitted to me, the following verses, which i have heard him repeat, as what had impressed him a good deal in his unconverted state; and as i suppose they did something towards setting him on this effort towards devotion, and might probably furnish a part of these orisons, i hope i need make no apology to my reader for inserting them, especially as i do not recollect that i have seen them any where else. attend, my soul! the early birds inspire my grovelling thoughts with pure celestial fire; they from their temperate sleep awake, and pay their thankful anthems for the new-born day. see how the tuneful lark is mounted high, and, poet-like, salutes the eastern sky! he warbles through the fragrant air his lays, and seems the beauties of the morn to praise. but man, more void of gratitude awakes, and gives no thanks for the sweet rest he takes; looks on the glorious sun's new kindled flame, without one thought of him from whom it came. the wretch unhallowed does the day begin, shakes off his sleep, but shakes not off his sin. but these strains were too devout to continue long in a heart as yet quite unsanctified; for how readily soever he could repeat such acknowledgments of the divine power, presence, and goodness, and own his own follies and faults, he was stopped short by the remonstrances of conscience as to the flagrant absurdity of confessing sins he did not desire to forsake, and of pretending to praise god for his mercies, when he did not endeavour to live to his service, and to behave in such a manner as gratitude, if sincere, would plainly dictate. a model of devotion where such sentiments made no part, his good sense could not digest; and the use of such language before a heart-searching god, merely as an hypocritical form, while the sentiments of his soul were contrary to it, justly appeared to him such daring profaneness, that, irregular as the state of his mind was, the thought of it struck him with horror. he therefore determined to make no more attempts of this sort, and was perhaps one of the first who deliberately laid aside prayer from some sense of god's omniscience, and some natural principle of honour and conscience. these secret debates with himself and ineffectual efforts would sometimes return; but they were overborne again and again by the force of temptation, and it is no wonder that in consequence of them his heart grew yet harder. nor was it softened or awakened by some very memorable deliverances which at this time he received. he was in extreme danger by a fall from his horse, as he was riding post i think in the streets of calais. when going down a hill, the horse threw him over his head, and pitched over him; so that when he rose, the beast lay beyond him, and almost dead. yet, though he received not the least harm, it made no serious impression on his mind. on his return from england in the packet-boat, if i remember right, but a few weeks after the former accident, a violent storm, that drove them up to harwich, tossed them from thence for several hours in a dark night on the coast of holland, and brought them into such extremity, that the captain of the vessel urged him to go to prayers immediately, if he ever intended to do it at all; for he concluded they would in a few minutes be at the bottom of the sea. in this circumstance he did pray, and that very fervently too; and it was very remarkable, that while he was crying to god for deliverance, the wind fell, and quickly after they arrived at calais. but the major was so little affected with what had befallen him, that when some of his gay friends, on hearing the story, rallied him upon the efficacy of his prayers, he excused himself from the scandal of being thought much in earnest, by saying "that it was at midnight, an hour when his good mother and aunt were asleep, or else he should have left that part of the business to them;"--a speech which i should not have mentioned, but as it shows in so lively a view the wretched situation of his mind at that time, though his great deliverance from the power of darkness was then nearly approaching. he recounted these things to me with the greatest humility, as showing how utterly unworthy he was of that miracle of divine grace by which he was quickly after brought to so true and so permanent a sense of religion. chapter v. his conversion. and now i am come to that astonishing part of his story, the account of his conversion, which i cannot enter upon without assuring the reader that i have sometimes been tempted to suppress many circumstances of it; not only as they may seem incredible to some, and enthusiastical to others, but i am very sensible they are liable to great abuses; which was the reason that he gave me for concealing the most extraordinary from many persons to whom he mentioned some of the rest. and i believe it was this, together with the desire of avoiding every thing that might look like ostentation on this head, that prevented his leaving a written account of it, though i have often entreated him to do it, as i particularly remember i did in the very last letter i ever wrote him, and pleaded the possibility of his falling amidst those dangers to which i knew his valour might, in such circumstances, naturally expose him. i was not so happy as to receive any answer to this letter, which reached him but a few days before his death; nor can i certainly say whether he had or had not complied with my request, as it is very possible a paper of this kind, if it were written, might be lost amidst the ravages which the rebels made when they plundered bankton. the story, however, was so remarkable, that i had little reason to apprehend i should ever forget it; and yet, to guard against all contingencies of that kind, i wrote it down that very evening, as i heard it from his own mouth; and i have now before me the memoirs of that conversation, dated aug. , , which conclude with these words, (which i added that if we should both have died that night, the world might not have lost this edifying and affecting history, or have wanted any attestation of it i was capable of giving): "n.b. i have written down this account with all the exactness i am capable of, and could safely take an oath of it as to the truth of every circumstance, to the best of my remembrance, as the colonel related it to me a few hours ago." i do not know that i had reviewed this paper since i wrote it, till i set myself thus publicly to record this extraordinary fact; but i find it punctually to agree with what i have often related from my memory, which i charged carefully with so wonderful and important a fact. it is with all solemnity that i now deliver it down to posterity as in the sight and presence of god; and i choose deliberately to expose myself to those severe censures which the haughty but empty scorn of infidelity, or principles nearly approaching it, and effectually doing its pernicious work, may very probably dictate upon the occasion, rather than to smother a relation, which may, in the judgment of my conscience, be like to conduce so much to the glory of god, the honour of the gospel, and the good of mankind. one thing more i will only premise, that i hope none who have heard the colonel himself speak something of this wonderful scene, will be surprised if they find some new circumstances here; because he assured me, at the time he first gave me the whole narration, (which was in the very room in which i now write,) that he had never imparted it so fully to any living before; yet, at the same time, he gave me full liberty to communicate it to whomsoever i should in my conscience judge it might be useful to do it, whether before or after his death. accordingly i did, while he was alive, recount almost every circumstance i am now going to write, to several pious friends; referring them at the same time to the colonel himself, whenever they might have an opportunity of seeing or writing to him, for a further confirmation of what i told them, if they judged it requisite. they _glorified god in him_; and i humbly hope many of my readers will also do it. they will soon perceive the reason of so much caution in my introduction to this story, for which, therefore, i shall make no further apology.[*] [*note: it is no small satisfaction to me, since i wrote this, to have received a letter from the rev. mr. spears, minister of the gospel at burntisland, dated jan , - in which he relates to me this whole story, as he had it from the colonel's own mouth about four years after he gave me the narration. there is not a single circumstance in which either of our narrations disagrees, and every one of the particulars in mine, which seems most astonishing, is attested by this, and sometimes in stronger words, one only excepted, on which i shall add a short remark when i come to it. as this letter was written near lady frances gardiner at her desire, and attended with a postscript from her own hand, this is, in effect, a sufficient attestation how agreeable it was to those accounts which she must often have heard the colonel give of this matter.] this memorable event happened towards the middle of july, ; but i cannot be exact as to the day. the major had spent the evening (and if i mistake not, it was the sabbath) in some gay company, and had an unhappy assignation with a married woman, of what rank or quality i did not particularly inquire, whom he was to attend exactly at twelve. the company broke up about eleven; and not judging it convenient to anticipate the time appointed, he went into his chamber to kill the tedious hour, perhaps with some amusing book, or in some other way. but it very accidentally happened that he took up a religious book which his good mother or aunt had, without his knowledge, slipped into his portmanteau. it was called, if i remember the title exactly, _the christian soldier, or heaven taken by storm_, and was written by mr. thomas watson. guessing by the title of it that he should find some phrases of his own profession spiritualized in a manner which he thought might afford him some diversion, he resolved to dip into it; but he took no serious notice of any thing he read in it; and yet, while this book was in his hand, an impression was made upon his mind, (perhaps god only knows how,) which drew after it a train of the most important and happy consequences. there is indeed a possibility, that while he was sitting in this solitude, and reading in this careless and profane manner, he might suddenly fall asleep, and only dream of what he apprehended he saw. but nothing can be more certain than that, when he gave me this relation, he judged himself to have been as broad awake during the whole time as he ever was in any part of his life; and he mentioned it to me several times afterwards as what undoubtedly passed, not only in his imagination, but before his eyes.[*] [*note: mr. spears, in the letter mentioned above, where he introduces the colonel telling his own story, has these words "all of a sudden there was presented in a very lively manner to my view, or to my mind, a representation of my glorious redeemer," &c. and this gentleman adds, in a parenthesis, "it was so lively and striking, that he could not tell whether it was to his bodily eyes, or to those of his mind." this makes me think that what i had said to him on the phenomena of visions, apparitions, &c., (as being, when most real, supernatural impressions on the imagination, rather than attended with any external object,) had some influence upon him. yet still it is evident he looked upon this as a vision, whether it was before the eyes or in the mind, and not as a dream.] he thought he saw an unusual blaze of light fall on the book while he was reading, which he at first imagined might happen by some accident in the candle. but, lifting up his eyes, he apprehended, to his extreme amazement, that there was before him, as it were suspended in the air, a visible representation of the lord jesus christ upon the cross, surrounded on all sides with a glory; and was impressed as if a voice, or something equivalent to a voice, had come to him to this effect, (for he was not confident as to the very words). "oh, sinner! did i suffer this for thee, and are these the returns?" but whether this were an audible voice, or only a strong impression on his mind equally striking, he did not seem very confident, though, to the best of my remembrance, he rather judged it to be the former. struck with so amazing a phenomenon as this, there remained hardly any life in him, so that he sunk down in the arm chair in which he sat, and continued, he knew not exactly how long, insensible, (which was one circumstance that made me several times take the liberty to suggest that he might possibly be all this while asleep,) but however that were, he quickly after opened his eyes, and saw nothing more than usual. it may easily be supposed he was in no condition to make any observations upon the time in which he had remained in an insensible state, nor did he, throughout all the remainder of the night, once recollect that criminal and detestable assignation which had before engrossed all his thoughts. he rose in a tumult of passions not to be conceived, and walked to and fro in his chamber till he was ready to drop down in unutterable astonishment and agony of heart, appearing to himself the vilest monster in the creation of god, who had all his lifetime been crucifying christ afresh by his sins, and now saw, as he assuredly believed, by a miraculous vision, the horror of what he had done. with this was connected such a view of both the majesty and goodness of god, as caused him to loathe and abhor himself, and to repent as in dust and ashes. he immediately gave judgment against himself, that he was most justly worthy of eternal damnation, he was astonished that he had not been immediately struck dead in the midst of his wickedness, and (which i think deserves particular remark) though he assuredly believed that he should ere long be in hell, and settled it as a point with himself for several months that the wisdom and justice of god did almost necessarily require that such an enormous sinner should be made an example of everlasting vengeance, and a spectacle as such both to angels and men, so that he hardly durst presume to pray for pardon; yet what he then suffered was not so much from the fear of hell, though he concluded it would soon be his portion, as from a sense of that horrible ingratitude he had shown to the god of his life, and to that blessed redeemer who had been in so affecting a manner set forth as crucified before him. to this he refers in a letter dated from douglas, the st of april , communicated to me by his lady,[*] but i know not to whom it was addressed. his words are these: "one thing relating to my conversion, and a remarkable instance of the goodness of god to me, _the chief of sinners_, i do not remember that i ever told to any other person. it was this, that after the astonishing sight i had of my blessed lord, the terrible condition in which i was proceeded not so much from the terrors of the law, as from a sense of having been so ungrateful a monster to him whom i thought i saw pierced for my transgressions." i the rather insert these words, as they evidently attest the circumstance which may seem most amazing in this affair, and contain so express a declaration of his own apprehension concerning it. [*note: where i make any extracts as from colonel gardiner's letters, they are either from originals, which i have in my own hands, or from copies which were transmitted to me from persons of undoubted credit, chiefly by the right honourable the lady frances gardiner, through the hands of the rev. mr. webster, one of the ministers of edinburgh. this i the rather mention, because some letters have been brought to me as colonel gardiner's, concerning which i have not only been very dubious, but morally certain that they could not have been written by him. i have also heard of many who have been fond of assuring the world that they were well acquainted with him, and were near him when he fell, whose reports have been most inconsistent with each other, as well as contrary to that testimony relating to the circumstances of his death, which, on the whole, appeared to me beyond controversy the most natural and authentic, from whence, therefore, i shall take my account of that affecting scene.] in this view it may naturally be supposed that he passed the remainder of the night waking, and he could get but little rest in several that followed. his mind was continually taken up in reflecting on the divine purity and goodness; the grace which had been proposed to him in the gospel, and which he had rejected; the singular advantages he had enjoyed and abused; and the many favours of providence which he had received, particularly in rescuing him from so many imminent dangers of death, which he now saw must have been attended with such dreadful and hopeless destruction. the privileges of his education, which he had so much despised, now lay with an almost insupportable weight on his mind; and the folly of that career of sinful pleasure which he had so many years been running with desperate eagerness and unworthy delight, now filled him with indignation against himself, and against the great deceiver, by whom (to use his own phrase) he had been "so wretchedly and scandalously befooled." this he used often to express in the strongest terms, which i shall not repeat so particularly, as i cannot recollect some of them. but on the whole it is certain that, by what passed before he left his chamber the next day, the whole frame and disposition of his soul was new-modelled and changed; so that he became, and continued to the last day of his exemplary and truly christian life, the very reverse of what he had been before. a variety of particulars, which i am afterwards to mention, will illustrate this in the most convincing manner. but i cannot proceed to them without pausing to adore so illustrious an instance of the power and freedom of divine grace, and entreating my reader seriously to reflect upon it, that his own heart may be suitably affected. for surely, if the truth of the fact be admitted in the lowest views in which it can be placed, (that is, supposing the first impression to have passed in a dream,) it must be allowed to have been little, if anything less than miraculous. it cannot in the course of nature be imagined how such a dream should arise in a mind full of the most impure ideas and affections, and (as he himself often pleaded) more alienated from the thoughts of a crucified saviour, than from any other object that can be conceived; nor can we surely suppose it should, without a mighty energy of the divine power, be effectual to produce not only some transient flow of passion, but so entire and permanent a change in character and conduct. on the whole, therefore, i must beg leave to express my own sentiments of the matter, by repeating on this occasion what i wrote several years ago, in my eighth sermon on regeneration, in a passage dictated chiefly by the circumstantial knowledge which i had of this amazing story, and methinks sufficiently vindicated by it, if it stood entirely alone, which yet, i must take the liberty to say, it does not; for i hope the world will be particularly informed, that there is at least a second that very nearly approaches it, whenever the established church of england shall lose one of its brightest living ornaments, and one of the most useful members which that, or perhaps any other christian communion, can boast. in the mean time, may his exemplary life be long continued, and his zealous ministry abundantly prospered! i beg my reader's pardon for this digression. the passage i referred to above is remarkably, though not equally, applicable to both the cases, under that head where i am showing that god sometimes accomplishes the great work of which we speak, by secret and immediate impressions on the mind. after preceding illustrations, there are the following words, on which the colonel's conversion will throw the justest light. "yea, i have known those of distinguished genius, polite manners, and great experience in human affairs, who, after having out-grown all the impressions of a religious education--after having been hardened, rather than subdued by the most singular mercies, even various, repeated, and astonishing deliverances, which have appeared to themselves as no less than miraculous--after having lived for years without god in the world, notoriously corrupt themselves, and labouring to the utmost to corrupt others, have been stopped on a sudden in the full career of their sin, and have felt such rays of the divine presence, and of redeeming love, darting in upon their minds, almost like lightning from heaven, as have at once roused, overpowered, and transformed them; so that they have come out of their secret chambers with an irreconcilable enmity to those vices to which, when they entered them, they were the tamest and most abandoned slaves; and have appeared from that very hour the votaries, the patrons, the champions of religion; and after a course of the most resolute attachment to it, in spite of all the reasonings or the railleries, the importunities or the reproaches of its enemies, they have continued to this day some of its brightest ornaments; a change which i behold with equal wonder and delight, and which, if a nation should join in deriding it, i would adore as the finger of god." the mind of major gardiner continued from this remarkable time, till towards the end of october, (that is rather more than three months, but especially the first two of them,) in as extraordinary a situation as one can well imagine. he knew nothing of the joys arising from a sense of pardon; but, on the contrary, for the greater part of that time, and with very short intervals of hope towards the end of it, took it for granted that he must in all probability quickly perish. nevertheless, he had such a sense of the evil of sin, of the goodness of the divine being, and of the admirable tendency of the christian revelation, that he resolved to spend the remainder of his life, while god continued him out of hell, in as rational and as useful a manner as he could; and to continue casting himself at the foot of divine mercy every day, and often in a day, if peradventure there might be hope of pardon, of which all that he could say was, that he did not absolutely despair. he had at that time such a sense of the degeneracy of his own heart, that he hardly durst form any determinate resolution against sin, or pretend to engage himself by any vow in the presence of god; but he was continually crying to him, that he would deliver him from the bondage of corruption. he perceived in himself a most surprising alteration with regard to the dispositions of his heart; so that, though he felt little of the delight of religious duties, he extremely desired opportunities of being engaged in them; and those licentious pleasures which had before been his heaven, were now absolutely his aversion. and indeed, when i consider how habitual all those criminal indulgences were grown to him, and that he was now in the prime of life, and all this while in high health too, i cannot but be astonished to reflect upon it, that he should be so wonderfully sanctified in body, as well as in soul and spirit, as that, for all the future years of his life, he from that hour should find so constant a disinclination to, and abhorrence of, those criminal sensualities to which he fancied he was before so invincibly impelled by his very constitution, that he was used strangely to think, and to say; that omnipotence itself could not reform him, without destroying that body, and giving him another.[*] [*note: mr. spears expresses this wonderful circumstance in these remarkable words "i was (said the colonel to me) effectually cured of all inclination to that sin i was so strongly addicted to, that i thought nothing but shooting me through the head could have cured me of it, and all desire and inclination to it was removed, as entirely as if i had been a sucking child, nor did the temptation return to this day." mr. webster's words on the same subject are these "one thing i have heard the colonel frequently say, that he was much addicted to impurity before his acquaintance with religion, but that, so soon as he was enlightened from above, he _felt the power of the holy ghost_ changing his nature so wonderfully, that his sanctification in this respect seemed more remarkable than in any other." on which that worthy person makes this very reasonable reflection "so thorough a change of such a polluted nature, evidenced by the most unblemished walk and conversation for a long course of years, demonstrates indeed the power of the highest, and leaves no room to doubt of its reality." mr. spears says, this happened in three days' time, but from what i can recollect, all that the colonel could mean by that expression, if he used it, (as i conclude he did,) was that he began to make the observation in the space of three days whereas, during that time, his thoughts were so taken up with the wonderful views presented to his mind, that he did not immediately attend to it. if he had, within the first three days, any temptation to seek some ease from the anguish of his mind, in returning to former sensualities, it is a circumstance he did not mention to me, and by what i can recollect of the strain of his discourse, he intimated if he did not express the contrary.] nor was he only delivered from that bondage of corruption which had been habitual to him for many years, but felt in his breast so contrary a disposition, that he was grieved to see human nature, in those to whom he was most entirely a stranger, prostituted to such low and contemptible pursuits. he therefore exerted his natural courage in a very new kind of combat, and became an open advocate for religion in all its principles, so far as he was acquainted with them, and all its precepts, relating to sobriety, righteousness, and godliness. yet he was very desirous and cautious that he might not run into extremes, and made it one of his first petitions to god, the very day after these amazing impressions had been wrought in his mind, that he might not be suffered to behave with such an affected strictness and preciseness as would lead others about him into mistaken notions of religion, and expose it to reproach or suspicion, as if it were an unlovely or uncomfortable thing. for this reason, he endeavoured to appear as cheerful in conversation as he conscientiously could; though, in spite of all his precautions, some traces of that deep inward sense which he had of his guilt and misery would at times appear. he made no secret of it, however, that his views were entirely changed, though he concealed the particular circumstances attending that change. he told his most intimate companions freely that he had reflected on the course of life in which he had so long joined them, and found it to be folly and madness, unworthy a rational creature, and much more unworthy persons calling themselves christians. and he set up his standard, upon all occasions, against principles of infidelity and practices of vice, as determinately and as boldly as ever he displayed or planted his colours, when he bore them with so much honour in the field. i cannot forbear mentioning one struggle of this kind which he described to me, with a large detail of circumstances, the first day of our acquaintance. there was at that time in paris a certain lady (whose name, then well known in the grand and gay world, i must beg leave to conceal) who had imbibed the principles of deism, and valued herself much upon being an avowed advocate for them. the major, with his usual frankness, (though i doubt not with that politeness of manners which was so habitual to him, and which he retained throughout his whole life,) answered her like a man who perfectly saw through the fallacy of her arguments, and was grieved to the heart for her delusions. on this she briskly challenged him to debate the matter at large, and to fix upon a day for that purpose, when he should dine with her, attended by any clergyman he might choose, whether of the protestant or catholic communion. a sense of duty would not allow him to decline this challenge; and yet he had no sooner accepted it, but he was thrown into great perplexity and distress lest, being, as i remember he expressed it when he told me the story, only a christian of six weeks old, he should prejudice so good a cause by his unskilful manner of defending it. however, he sought his refuge in earnest and repeated prayers to god, that he who can ordain strength, and perfect praise, out of the mouth of babes and sucklings, would graciously enable him on this occasion to vindicate his truths in a manner which might carry conviction along with it. he then endeavoured to marshal the arguments in his own mind as well as he could; and apprehending that he could not speak with so much freedom before a number of persons, especially before such whose province he might seem in that case to invade, if he had not devolved the principal part of the discourse upon them, he easily admitted the apology of a clergyman or two, to whom he mentioned the affair, and waited on the lady alone upon the day appointed. but his heart was so set upon the business, that he came earlier than he was expected, and time enough to have two hours' discourse before dinner; nor did he at all decline having two persons, nearly related to the lady, present during the conference. the major opened it, with a view of such arguments for the christian religion as he had digested in his own mind, to prove that the apostles were not mistaken themselves, and that they could not have intended to impose upon us, in the accounts they give of the grand facts they attest; with the truth of which facts, that of the christian religion is most apparently connected. and it was a great encouragement to him to find, that unaccustomed as he was to discourses of this nature, he had an unusual command both of thought and expression, so that he recollected and uttered every thing as he could have wished. the lady heard with attention; and though he paused between every branch of the argument, she did not interrupt the course of it till he told her he had finished his design, and waited for her reply. she then, produced some of her objections, which he took up and canvassed in such a manner that at length she burst into tears, allowed the force of his arguments and replies, and appeared for some time after so deeply impressed with the conversation, that it was observed by several of her friends; and there is reason to believe that the impression continued, at least so far as to prevent her from ever appearing under the character of an unbeliever or a sceptic. this is only one specimen among many of the battles he was almost daily called out to fight in the cause of religion and virtue; with relation to which i find him expressing himself thus in a letter to mrs. gardiner, his good mother, dated from paris the th of january following, that is - , in answer to one in which she had warned him to expect such trials: "i have (says he) already met with them, and am obliged to fight, and to dispute every inch of ground. but all thanks and praise to the great captain of my salvation. he fights for me, and then it is no wonder that i come off more than conqueror:" by which last expression i suppose he meant to insinuate that he was strengthened and established, rather than overborne, by this opposition. yet it was not immediately that he gained such fortitude. he has often told me how much he felt in those days of the emphasis of those well-chosen words of the apostle, in which he ranks the trial of cruel mockings, with scourgings, and bonds, and imprisonments. the continual railleries with which he was received, in almost all companies where he had been most familiar before, did often distress him beyond measure; so that he several times declared he would much rather have marched up to a battery of the enemy's cannon, than have been obliged, so continually as he was, to face such artillery as this. but, like a brave soldier in the first action wherein he is engaged, he continued resolute, though shuddering at the terror of the assault; and quickly overcame those impressions which it is not perhaps in nature wholly to avoid; and therefore i find him, in the letter above referred to, which was written about half a year after his conversion, "quite ashamed to think of the uneasiness which these things once gave him." in a word, he went on, as every resolute christian by divine grace may do, till he turned ridicule and opposition into respect and veneration. but this sensible triumph over these difficulties was not till his christian experience had been abundantly advanced by the blessing of god on the sermons he heard, (particularly in the swiss chapel,) and on the many hours which he spent in devout retirement, pouring out his whole soul before god in prayer. he began, within about two months after his first memorable change, to perceive some secret dawnings of more cheerful hope, that vile as he saw himself to be, (and i believe no words can express how vile that was,) he might nevertheless obtain mercy through the redeemer. at length (if i remember right, about the end of october, ) he found all the burthen of his mind taken off at once by the powerful impression of that memorable scripture on his mind, romans iii. , , "whom god hath set forth for a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness in the remission of sins,--that he might be just, and the justifier of him that believeth in jesus." he had used to imagine that the justice of god required the damnation of so enormous a sinner as he saw himself to be; but now he was made deeply sensible that the divine justice might be not only vindicated, but glorified, in saving him by the blood of jesus, even that blood which cleanseth us from all sin. then did he see and feel the riches of redeeming love and grace in such a manner as not only engaged him with the utmost pleasure and confidence to venture his soul upon it, but even swallowed up, as it were, his whole heart in the returns of love, which from that blessed time became this genuine and delightful principle of his obedience, and animated him, with an enlarged heart, to run the way of god's commandments. thus god was pleased (as he himself used to speak) in an hour to turn his captivity. all the terrors of his former state were changed into unutterable joy, which kept him almost continually waking for three nights together, and yet refreshed him as the noblest of cordials. his expressions, though naturally very strong, always seemed to be swallowed up when he would describe the series of thought through which he now passed, under the rapturous experience of that joy unspeakable and full of glory, which then seemed to overflow his very soul, as indeed there was nothing he seemed to speak of with greater relish. and though the first ecstasies of it afterwards subsided into a more calm and composed delight, yet were the impressions so deep and so permanent, that he assured me, on the word of a christian and a friend, wonderful as it might seem, that, for about seven years after this, he enjoyed almost heaven upon earth. his soul was so continually filled with a sense of the love of god in christ, that it knew little interruption, but when necessary converse, and the duties of his station, called off his thoughts for a little time. and when they did so, as soon as he was alone, the torrent returned into its natural channel again; so that, from the minute of awakening in the morning, his heart was raised to god, and triumphing in him; and these thoughts attended him through all the scenes of life, till he lay down on his bed again, and a short parenthesis of sleep (for it was but a very short one that he allowed himself) invigorated his animal powers, for renewing them with greater intenseness and sensibility. i shall have an opportunity of illustrating this in the most convincing manner below, by extracts from several letters which he wrote to intimate friends during this happy period of time--letters which breathe a spirit of such sublime and fervent piety as i have seldom met with any where else. in these circumstances, it is no wonder that he was greatly delighted with dr. watts's imitation of the th psalm, since it may be questioned whether there ever was a person to whom the following stanzas of it were more suitable:-- when god revealed his gracious name, and changed my mournful state, my rapture seemed a pleasing dream, thy grace appeared so great. the world beheld the glorious change, and did thine hand confess; my tongue broke out in unknown strains, and sung surprising grace. "great is the work," my neighbours cried, and owned the power divine: "great is the work," my heart replied, "and be the glory thine." the lord can change the darkest skies, can give us day for night, make drops of sacred sorrow rise, to rivers of delight. let those that sow in sadness, wait till the fair harvest come! they shall confess their sheaves are great, and shout the blessings home. i have been so happy as to get the sight of five original letters which he wrote to his mother about this time, which do, in a lively manner, illustrate the surprising change made in the whole current of his thoughts and temper of his mind. many of them were written in the most hasty manner, just as the courier who brought them was perhaps unexpectedly setting out, and they relate chiefly to affairs in which the public is not at all concerned; yet there is not one of them in which he has not inserted some warm and genuine sentiment of religion. indeed it is very remarkable, that though he was pleased to honour me with a great many letters, and i have seen several more which he wrote to others, some of them on journeys, where he could have but a few minutes at command, yet i cannot recollect that i ever saw any one in which there was not some trace of piety; and the rev. mr. webster, who was employed to review great numbers of them, that he might select such extracts as he should think proper to communicate to me, has made the same observation.[*] [*note: his words are these: "i have read over a vast number of the colonel's letters, and have not found any one of them, however short, and writ in the most passing manner, even when posting, but what is expressive of the most passionate breathings towards his god and saviour. if the letter consists but of two sentences, religion is not forgot, which doubtless deserves to be carefully remarked, as the most uncontested evidence of a pious mind, ever under the warmest impressions of divine things."] the major, with great justice, tells the good lady his mother, "that when she saw him again she would find the person indeed the same, but every thing else entirely changed." and she might easily have perceived it of herself by the whole tenor of these letters, which every where breathe the unaffected spirit of a true christian. they are taken up sometimes with giving advice and directions concerning some pious and charitable contributions, one of which, i remember, amounted to ten guineas, though as he was then out of commission, and had not formerly been very frugal, it cannot be supposed he had much to spare; sometimes in speaking of the pleasure with which he attended sermons, and expected sacramental opportunities; and at other times in exhorting her, established as she was in religion, to labour after a yet more exemplary character and conduct, or in recommending her to the divine presence and blessing, as well as himself to her prayers. what satisfaction such letters as these must give to a lady of her distinguished piety, who had so long wept over this dear and amiable son as quite lost to god, and on the verge of final destruction, it is not for me to describe, nor indeed to conceive. but hastily as these letters were written, only for private view, i will give a few specimens from them in his own words, which will serve to illustrate as well as confirm what i have hinted above. "i must take the liberty," says he, in a letter dated on the first day of the new year, or, according to the old style, dec. , , "to entreat you that you would receive no company on the lord's day. i know you have a great many good acquaintance, with whose discourses one might be very well edified; but as you cannot keep out and let in whom you please, the best way, in my humble opinion, will be to see none." in another, of jan. , "i am happier than any one can imagine, except i could put him exactly in the same situation with myself; which is what the world cannot give, and no man ever attained it, unless it were from above." in another, dated march , which was just before a sacrament day, "to-morrow, if it please god, i shall be happy, my soul being to be fed with the bread of life which came down from heaven. i shall be mindful of you all there." in another of jan. , he thus expresses that indifference for worldly possessions which he so remarkably carried through the remainder of his life: "i know the rich are only stewards for the poor, and must give an account of every penny; therefore, the less i have, the more easy will it be to give an account of it." and to add no more from these letters at present, in the conclusion of one of them he has these comprehensive and solemn words: "now that he, who is the ease of the afflicted, the support of the weak, the wealth of the poor, the teacher of the ignorant, the anchor of the fearful, and the infinite reward of all faithful souls, may pour out upon you all his richest blessings, shall always be the prayer of him who is entirely yours," &c. to this account of his correspondence with his excellent mother, i should be glad to add a large view of another, to which she introduced him, with that reverend and valuable person under whose pastoral care she was placed--i mean the justly celebrated doctor edmund calamy, to whom she could not but early communicate the joyful news of her son's conversion. i am not so happy as to be possessed of the letters which passed between them, which i have reason to believe would make a curious and valuable collection; but i have had the pleasure of receiving from my worthy and amiable friend, the rev. mr. edmund calamy, one of the letters the doctor, his father, wrote to the major on this wonderful occasion. i perceive by the contents of it that it was the first, and, indeed, it is dated as early as the d of august, , which must be but a few days after his own account, dated august , n.s., could reach england. there is so much true religion and good sense in this paper, and the counsel it suggests may be so reasonable to other persons in circumstances which bear any resemblance to his, that i make no apology to my reader for inserting a large extract from it. "dear sir,--i conceive it will not much surprise you to understand that your good mother communicated to me your letter to her, dated august , n.s., which brought her the news you conceive would be so acceptable to her. i, who have often been a witness to her concern for you on a spiritual account, can attest with what joy this news was received by her, and imparted to me as a special friend, who she knew would bear a part with her on such an occasion. and, indeed, if (as our saviour intimates, luke xv. , ,) there is, is such cases, joy in heaven and among the angels of god, it may be well supposed that of a pious mother who has spent so many prayers and tears upon you, and has, as it were, travailed in birth with you again till christ was formed in you, could not be small. you may believe me if i add, that i also, as a common friend of hers and yours, and which is much more, of the prince of light, whom you now declare you heartily fall in with in opposition to that of the dark kingdom, could not but be tenderly affected with an account of it under your own hand. my joy on this account was the greater, considering the importance of your capacity, interests, and prospects, which, in such an age as this, may promise most happy consequences, on your heartily appearing on god's side, and embarking in the interest of our redeemer. if i have hitherto at all remembered you at the throne of grace, at your good mother's desire, (which you are pleased to take notice of with so much respect,) i can assure you i shall henceforth be led to do it, with more concern and particularity both by duty and inclination; and if i were capable of giving you any little assistance in the noble design you are engaging in, by corresponding with you by letter while you are at such a distance, i should do it most cheerfully. and perhaps such a motion may not, be altogether unacceptable; for i am inclinable to believe, that when some whom you are obliged to converse with, observe your behaviour so different from what it formerly was, and banter you upon it as mad and fanciful, it may be some little relief to correspond with one who will take a pleasure in heartening and encouraging you. and when a great many things frequently offer, in which conscience may be concerned where duty may not always be plain, nor suitable persons to advise with at hand, it may be some satisfaction to you to correspond with one with whom you may use a friendly freedom in all such matters, and on whose fidelity you may depend. you may, therefore, command me in any of these respects, and i shall take a pleasure in serving you. one piece of advice i shall venture to give you, though your own good sense will make my enlarging upon it less needful--i mean, that you would, from your first setting out, carefully distinguish between the essentials of real religion, and those things which are commonly reckoned by its professors to belong to it. the want of this distinction has had very unhappy consequences from one age to another, and perhaps in none more than the present. but your daily converse with your bible, which you mention, may herein give you great assistance. i move also, that since infidelity so much abounds, you would not only, by close and serious consideration, endeavour to settle yourself well in the fundamental principles of religion; but also that, as opportunity offers, you would converse with those books which treat most judiciously on the divine original of christianity, such as grotins, abbadie, baxter, bates, du plessis, &c., which may establish you against the cavils that occur in almost all conversations, and furnish you with arguments which, when properly offered, may be of use to make some impression on others. but being too much straitened to enlarge at present, i can only add, that if your hearty falling in with serious religion should prove any hinderance to your advancement in the world, (which i pray god it may not, unless such advancement would be a real snare to you,) i hope you will trust our saviour's word, that it shall be no disadvantage to you in the final issue: he has given you his word for it, matt. xix. , upon which you may safely depend; and i am satisfied none that ever did so at last repented of it. may you go on and prosper, and the god of all grace and peace be with you!" i think it very evident from the contents of this letter, that the major had not imparted to his mother the most singular circumstances attending his conversion; and indeed there was something so peculiar in them, that i do not wonder he was always cautious in speaking of them, and especially that he was at first much on the reserve. we may also naturally reflect that there seems to have been something very providential in this letter, considering the debate in which our illustrious convert was so soon engaged; for it was written but about three weeks before his conference with the lady above mentioned in the defence of christianity, or at least before the appointment of it. and as some of the books recommended by dr. calamy, particularly abbadie and du plessis, were undoubtedly within his reach, (if our english advocates were not,) this might, by the divine blessing, contribute considerably towards arming him for that combat in which he came off with such happy success. as in this instance, so in many others, they who will observe the coincidence and concurrence of things, may be engaged to adore the wise conduct of providence in events which, when taken singly and by themselves, have nothing very remarkable in them. i think it was about this time that this resolute and exemplary christian entered upon that methodical manner of living which he pursued through so many succeeding years of life, and i believe generally, so far as the broken state of his health would allow it in his latter days, to the very end of it. he used constantly to rise at four in the morning, and to spend his time till six in the secret exercises of devotion, reading, meditation, and prayer, in which last he contracted such a fervency of spirit as i believe few men living ever obtained. this certainly tended very much to strengthen that firm faith in god, and reverent animating sense of his presence, for which he was so eminently remarkable, and which carried him through the trials and services of life with such steadiness and with such activity; for he indeed endured and acted as always seeing him who is invisible. if at any time he was obliged to go out before six in the morning, he rose proportionably sooner; so that when a journey or a march has required him to be on horseback by four, he would be at his devotions at furthest by two. he likewise secured time for retirement in an evening; and that he might have it the more at command, and be the more fit to use it properly, as well as be better able to rise early the next morning, he generally went to bed about ten; and, during the time i was acquainted with him, he seldom ate any supper but a mouthful of bread, with one glass of wine. in consequence of this, as well as of his admirably good constitution, and the long habit he had formed, he required less sleep than most persons i have known; and i doubt not but his uncommon progress in piety was in a great measure owing to these resolute habits of self-denial. a life anything like this could not, to be sure, be entered upon in the midst of such company as he had been accustomed to keep, without great opposition, especially as he did not entirely withdraw himself from all the circle of cheerful conversation; but, on the contrary, gave several hours every day to it, lest religion should be reproached as having made him morose. he however, early began a practice, which to the last day of his life he retained, of reproving vice and profaneness; and was never afraid to debate the matter with any one, under the consciousness of great superiority in the goodness of his cause. a remarkable instance of this happened, if i mistake not, about the middle of , though i cannot be very exact as to the date of the story. it was, however, on his first return to make any considerable abode in england after this remarkable change. he had heard, on the other side of the water, that it was currently reported among his companions at home that he was stark mad--a report at which no reader who knows the wisdom of the world in these matters, will be much surprised, any more than himself. he concluded, therefore, that he should have many battles to fight, and was willing to dispatch the business as fast as he could. and therefore, being to spend a few days at the country-house of a person of distinguished rank, with whom he had been very intimate, (whose name i do not remember that he told me, nor did i think it proper to inquire after it,) he begged the favour of him that he would contrive matters so, that, a day or two after he came down, several of their former gay companions might meet at his lordship's table, that he might have an opportunity of making his apology to them, and acquainting them with the nature and reasons of his change. it was accordingly agreed to; and a pretty large company met on the day appointed, with previous notice that major gardiner would be there. a good deal of raillery passed at dinner, to which the major made very little answer. but when the cloth was taken away, and the servants retired, he begged their patience for a few minutes, and then plainly and seriously told them what notions he entertained of virtue and religion, and on what considerations he had absolutely determined that by the grace of god he would make it the care and business of life, whatever he might lose by it, and whatever censure and contempt he might incur. he well knew how improper it was in such company to relate the extraordinary manner in which he was awakened, which they would probably have interpreted as a demonstration of lunacy, against all the gravity and solidity of his discourse; but he contented himself with such a rational defence of a righteous, sober, and godly life, as he knew none of them could with any shadow of reason contest. he then challenged them to propose any thing they could urge, to prove that a life of irreligion and debauchery was preferable to the fear, love and worship of the eternal god, and a conduct agreeable to the precepts of his gospel. and he failed not to bear his testimony, from his own experience, (to one part of which many of them had been witnesses) that after having run the widest round of sensual pleasure, with all the advantages the best constitution and spirits could give him, he had never tasted any thing that deserved to be called happiness, till he had made religion his refuge and his delight. he testified calmly and boldly the habitual serenity and peace which he now felt in his own breast, (for the most elevated delights he did not think fit to plead, lest they should be esteemed enthusiasm,) and the composure and pleasure with which he looked forward to objects which the gayest sinner must acknowledge to be equally unavoidable and dreadful. i know not what might be attempted by some of the company in answer to this; but i well remember that he told me that the master of the table, a person of a very frank and candid disposition, cut short the debate, and said, "come, let us call another cause. we thought this man mad, and he is in good earnest proving that we are so." on the whole, this well-judged circumstance saved him a great deal of future trouble. when his former acquaintances observed that he was still conversible and innocently cheerful, and that he was immovable in his resolutions, they desisted from further importunity; and he has assured me, that instead of losing any one valuable friend by the change in his character, he found himself much more esteemed and regarded by many who could not persuade themselves to imitate his example. i have not any memoirs of colonel gardiner's life, or of any other remarkable event befalling him in it, from the time of his return to england till his marriage in the year , except the extracts which have been sent me from some letters, which he wrote to his religious friends during this interval, and which i cannot pass by without a more particular notice. it may be recollected, that in consequence of the reduction of that regiment of which he was major, he was out of commission from nov. , , till june , ; and, after he returned from paris, i find all his letters during this period dated from london, where he continued in communion with the christian society under the pastoral care of dr. calamy. as his good mother also belonged to the same, it is easy to imagine it must have been an unspeakable pleasure to her to have such frequent opportunities of conversing with such a son, of observing in his daily conduct and discourses the blessed effects of that change which divine grace had made in his heart, and of sitting down with him monthly at that sacred feast where christians so frequently enjoy the divinest entertainments which they expect on this side heaven. i the rather mention this ordinance, because, as this excellent lady had a very high esteem for it, so she had an opportunity of attending it but the very lord's day immediately preceding her death, which happened on thursday, october , , after her son had been removed from her almost a year. he had maintained her handsomely out of that very moderate income on which he subsisted since his regiment had been disbanded; and when she expressed her gratitude to him for it, he assured her (in one of the last letters she ever received from him) "that he esteemed it a great honour that god put it into his power to make what he called a very small acknowledgment of all her care for him, and especially of the many prayers she had offered on his account, which had already been remarkably answered, and the benefit of which he hoped ever to enjoy." i apprehend that the earl of stair's regiment, to the majority of which he was promoted on the th of july, , was then quartered in scotland; for all the letters in my hand, from that time to the th of february, , are dated from thence, and particularly from douglas, stranraer, hamilton, and ayr. but i have the pleasure to find, from comparing these with others of an earlier date from london and the neighbouring parts, that neither the detriment which he must suffer by being so long out of commission, nor the hurry of affairs while charged with it, could prevent or interrupt that intercourse with heaven, which was his daily feast, and his daily strength. these were most eminently the happy years of his life; for he had learned to estimate his happiness, not by the increase of honour, or the possession of wealth, or by what was much dearer to his generous heart than either, the converse of the dearest and worthiest human friends; but by nearness to god, and by opportunities of humble converse with him, in the lively exercise of contemplation, praise, and prayer. now there was no period of his life in which he was more eminently favoured with these, nor do i find any of his letters so overflowing with transports of holy joy, as those which were dated during this time. there are indeed in some of them such very sublime passages, that i have been dubious whether i should communicate them to the public or not, lest i should administer matter of profane ridicule to some, who look upon all the elevations of devotion as contemptible enthusiasm. and it has also given me some apprehensions lest it should discourage some pious christians, who, after having spent several years in the service of god, and in humble obedience to the precepts of his gospel, may not have attained to any such heights as these. but, on the whole, i cannot satisfy myself to suppress them; not only as i number some of them, considered in a devotional view, among the most extraordinary pieces of the kind i have ever met with; but as some of the most excellent and judicious persons i any where know, to whom i have read them, have assured me that they felt their hearts in an unusual manner impressed, quickened, and edified by them. chapter vi. letters. i will therefore draw back the veil, and show my much honoured friend in his most secret recesses, that the world may see what those springs were, from whence issued that clear, permanent and living stream of wisdom, piety, and virtue, which so evidently ran through all that part of his life which was open to public observation. it is not to be imagined that letters written in the intimacy of christian friendship, some of them with the most evident marks of haste, and amidst a variety of important public cares, should be adorned with any studied elegance of expression, about which the greatness of his soul would not allow him to be at any time very solicitous, for he generally (as far as i could observe) wrote as fast as his pen could move, which, happily both for him and his many friends, was very freely. yet here the grandeur of his subject has sometimes clothed his ideas with a language more elevated than is ordinarily to be expected in an epistolary correspondence. the proud scorners who may deride sentiments and enjoyments like those which this truly great man so experimentally and pathetically describes, i pity from my heart, and grieve to think how unfit they must be for the hallelujahs of heaven, who pour contempt upon the nearest approaches to them; nor shall i think it any misfortune to share with so excellent a person their profane derision. it will be infinitely more than an equivalent for all that such ignorance and petulancy can think and say, if i may convince some, who are as yet strangers to religion, how real and how noble its delights are--if i may engage my pious readers to glorify god for so illustrious an instance of his grace--and finally, if i may quicken them, and, above all, may rouse my own too indolent spirit to follow with less unequal steps an example, to the sublimity of which, i fear, few of us shall, after all, be able fully to attain. and that we may not be too much discouraged under the deficiency, let it be recollected that few have the advantage of a temper naturally so warm; few have an equal command of retirement; and perhaps hardly any one who thinks himself most indebted to the riches and freedom of divine grace, can trace interpositions of it in all respects equally astonishing. the first of these extraordinary letters which have fallen into my hand, is dated near three years after his conversion, and addressed to a lady of quality. i believe it is the first the major ever wrote, so immediately on the subject of his religious consolations and converse with god in devout retirement; for i well remember that he once told me he was so much afraid that something of spiritual pride should mingle itself with the relation of such kind of experiences, that he concealed them a long time; but observing with how much freedom the sacred writers open all the most secret recesses of their hearts, especially in the psalms; his conscience began to be burdened, under an apprehension that, for the honour of god, and in order to engage the concurrent praises of some of his people, he ought to disclose them. on this he set himself to reflect who among all his numerous acquaintance seemed at once the most experienced christians, (to whom, therefore, such things as he had to communicate might appear solid and credible,) and who the humblest. he quickly thought of the lady marchioness of douglas in this view; and the reader may well imagine that it struck my mind very strongly, to think that now, more than twenty-four years after it was written, providence should bring to my hands (as it has done within these few days) what i assuredly believe to be a genuine copy of that very letter, which i had not the least reason to expect i should ever have seen, when i learned from his own mouth, amidst the freedom of an accidental conversation, the occasion and circumstances of it. it is dated from london, july , , and the very first lines of it relate to a remarkable circumstance which, from others of his letters, i find happened several times; i mean, that when he had received from any of his christian friends a few lines which particularly affected his heart, he could not stay till the stated return of his devotional hour, but immediately retired to pray for them, and to give vent to those religious emotions of mind which such a correspondence raised. how invaluable was such a friend! and what great reason have those of us who once possessed a large share in his heart, and in those retired and sacred moments, to bless god for so singular a felicity; and to comfort ourselves in a pleasing hope that we may yet reap future blessings, as the harvest of those petitions which he can no more repeat. his words are these: "i was so happy as to receive yours just as i arrived, and had no sooner read it but i shut my door, and sought him whom my soul loveth. i sought him, and found him; and would not let him go till he had blessed us all. it is impossible to find words to express what i obtained; but i suppose it was something like that which the disciples got, as they were going to emmaus, when they said, 'did not our hearts burn within us,' &c.; or rather like what paul felt, when he could not tell whether he was in the body, or out of it." he then mentions his dread of spiritual pride, from whence he earnestly prays that god may deliver and preserve him. "this," says he, "would have hindered me from communicating these things, if i had not such an example before me as the man after god's own heart, saying, 'i will declare what god hath done for my soul;' and elsewhere, 'the humble shall hear thereof, and be glad.' now i am well satisfied that your ladyship is of that number." he then adds: "i had no sooner finished this exercise," that is of prayer above mentioned, "but i sat down to admire the goodness of my god, that he would vouchsafe to influence by his free spirit so undeserving a wretch as i, and to make me thus to mount up with eagles' wings. and here i was lost again, and got into an ocean, where i could find neither bound nor bottom; but was obliged to cry out with the apostle, 'o the breadth, the length, the depth, the height of the love of christ, which passeth knowledge!' but if i gave way to this strain i shall never have done. that the god of hope may fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope through the power of the holy ghost, shall always be the prayer of him who is, with the greatest sincerity and respect, your ladyship's," &c. another passage to the same purpose i find in a memorandum, which he seems to have written for his own use, dated monday, march , which i perceive, from many concurrent circumstances, must have been in the year - . "this day," says he, "having been to visit mrs. g. at hampstead, i came home about two, and read a sermon on these words, psalm cxxx. , 'but there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared;' about the latter end of which, there is a description of the miserable condition of those that are slighters of pardoning grace. from a sense of the great obligations i lie under to the almighty god, who hath made me to differ from such, from what i was, and from the rest of my companions, i knelt down to praise his holy name; and i know not in my lifetime i ever lay lower in the dust, never having had a fuller view of my own unworthiness. i never pleaded more strongly the merits and intercession of him who i know is worthy--never vowed more sincerely to be the lord's, and to accept of christ, as he is offered in the gospel, as my king, priest, and prophet--never had so strong a desire to depart, that i might sin no more; but 'my grace is sufficient,' curbed that desire. i never pleaded with greater fervency for the comforter, which our blessed lord hath promised shall abide with us for ever. for all which, i desire to ascribe glory &c. to him that sitteth on the throne, and to the lamb." there are several others of his papers, speaking much the same language, which, had he kept a diary, would, i doubt not, have filled many sheets. i believe my devout readers would not soon be weary of reading extracts of this kind; but that i may not exceed in this part of my narrative, i shall mention only two more, each of them dated some years after; that is, one from douglas, april , ; and the other from stranraer, th may following. the former of these relates to the frame of his spirit on a journey; on the mention of which, i cannot but recollect how often i have heard him say that some of the most delightful days of his life were days in which he travelled alone, (that is, with only a servant at a distance,) when he could, especially in roads not much frequented, indulge himself in the pleasures of prayer and praise. in the exercise of this last, he was greatly assisted by several psalms and hymns which he had treasured up in his memory, and which he used not only to repeat aloud, but sometimes to sing. in reference to this, i remember the following passage, in a letter which he wrote to me many years after, when, on mentioning my ever dear and honoured friend the rev. dr. watts, he says, "how often, in singing some of his psalms, hymns, or lyrics, on horseback and elsewhere, has the evil spirit been made to flee: "'whene'er my heart in tune was found, 'like david's harp of solemn sound!'" such was the first of april above mentioned. in the evening of that day he writes thus to an intimate friend:-- "what would i have given this day, upon the road, for paper, pen, and ink, when the spirit of the most high rested upon me! oh for the pen of a ready writer, and the tongue of an angel, to declare what god hath done this day for my soul! but, in short, it is in vain to attempt it. all that i am able to say, is this, that my soul has been for some hours joining with the blessed spirits above in giving glory, and honour, and praise unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and to the lamb, for ever and ever. my praises began from a renewed view of him whom i saw pierced for my transgressions. i summoned the whole hierarchy of heaven to join with me, and i am persuaded they all echoed back praise to the most high. yon, one would have thought the very larks joined me with emulation. sure, then, i need not make use of many words to persuade you, that are his saints, to join me in blessing and praising his holy name." he concludes, "may the blessing of the god of jacob rest upon you all! adieu. written in great haste, late and weary." scarcely can i here refrain from breaking out into more copious reflections on the exquisite pleasures of true religion, when risen to such eminent degrees, which can thus feast the soul in its solitude, and refresh it on journeys, and bring down so much of heaven to earth as this delightful letter expresses. but the remark is so obvious, that i will not enlarge upon it; but proceed to the other letter above mentioned, which was written the next month, on the tuesday after a sacrament day. he mentions the pleasure with which he had attended a preparation sermon the saturday before; and then he adds: "i took a walk upon the mountains that are over against ireland; and, i persuade myself, that were i capable of giving you a description of what passed there, you would agree that i had much better reason to remember my god from the hills of port patrick than david from the land of jordan, and of the hermonites, from the hill of mizar." i suppose he refers to the clearer discoveries of the gospel with which we are favoured. "in short," says he immediately afterwards, in that scripture phrase which had become so familiar to him, "i wrestled some hours with the angel of the covenant, and made supplications to him with floods of tears, and cries--until i had almost expired; but he strengthened me so, that, like jacob, i had power with god, and prevailed. this," adds he, "is but a very faint description; you will be more able to judge of it by what you have felt yourself upon the like occasions. after such preparatory work, i need not tell you how blessed the solemn ordinance of the lord's supper proved to me; i hope it was so to many. you may believe i should have been exceeding glad, if my gracious lord had ordered it so, that i might have made you a visit, as i proposed; but i am now glad it was ordered otherwise, since he hath caused so much of his goodness to pass before me. were i to give you an account of the many favours my god hath loaded me with, since i parted from you, i must have taken up many days in nothing but writing. i hope you will join with me in praises for all the goodness he has shown to your unworthy brother in the lord." such were the ardours and elevation of his soul. but while i record these memorials of them, i am very sensible that there are many who will be inclined to censure them as the flights of enthusiasm; for which reason, i must beg leave to add a remark or two on the occasion, which will be illustrated by several other extracts, which i shall introduce into the sequel of these memoirs. the one is, that he never pretends, in any of the passages cited above, or elsewhere, to have received from god any immediate revelations which should raise him above the ordinary methods of instruction, or discover any thing to him, whether of doctrines or facts. no man was further from pretending to predict future events, except from the moral prognostications of causes naturally tending to produce them, in tracing of which he had indeed an admirable sagacity, as i have seen in some very remarkable instances. neither was he at all inclinable to govern himself by secret impulses upon his mind, leading him to things for which he could assign no reason but the impulse itself. had he ventured, in a presumption on such secret agitations of mind, to teach or to do any thing not warranted by the dictates of sound sense and the word of god, i should readily have acknowledged him an enthusiast, unless he could have produced some other evidence than his own persuasion to have supported the authority of them. but these ardent expressions, which some may call enthusiasm, seem only to evince a heart deeply affected with a sense of the divine presence and perfections, and of that love which passeth knowledge, especially as manifested in our redemption by the son of god, which did indeed inflame his whole soul. and he thought he might reasonably ascribe these strong impressions, to which men are generally such strangers, and of which he had long been entirely destitute, to the agency or influences of the spirit of god upon his heart; and that, in proportion to the degree in which he felt them, he might properly say, god was present with him, and he conversed with god.[*] now, when we consider the scriptural phrases of "walking with god," of "having communion with the father and his son jesus christ," of "christ's coming to them that open the door of their hearts to him, and supping with them," of "god's shedding abroad his love in the heart of the spirit," of "his coming with jesus christ, and making his abode with any man that loves him," of "his meeting him that worketh righteousness," of "his making us glad by the light of his countenance," and a variety of other equivalent expressions,--i believe we shall see reason to judge much more favourably of such expressions as those now in question, than persons who, themselves strangers to elevated devotion, perhaps converse but little with their bible, are inclined to do; especially, if they have, as many such persons have, a temper that inclines them to cavil and find fault. and i must further observe, that amidst all those freedoms with which this eminent christian opens his devout heart to the most intimate of his friends, he still speaks with profound awe and reverence of his heavenly father and his saviour, and maintains (after the example of the sacred writers themselves,) a kind of dignity in his expressions, suitable to such a subject, without any of that fond familiarity of language, and degrading meanness of phrase, by which it is, especially of late, grown fashionable among some (who nevertheless i believe mean well,) to express their love and their humility. [*note: the ingenious and pious mr. grove (who, i think, was as little suspected of running into enthusiastical extremes as most divines i could name,) has a noble passage to this purpose in the sixth volume of his posthumous works, p. , , which, respect to the memory of both these excellent persons, inclines me to insert here, "how often are the good thoughts suggested," (viz. to the pure in heart) "heavenly affection kindled and inflamed! how often is the christian prompted to holy actions, drawn to his duty, restored, quickened, persuaded, in such a manner, that he would be unjust to the spirit of god to question his agency in the whole! yes, on my soul! there is a supreme being, who governs the world, and is present with it, who takes up his more special habitation in good men, and is nigh to all who call upon him, to sanctify and assist them! hast thou not felt him, oh my soul! like another soul, [transcriber's note: illegible] thy faculties, exalting thy views, purifying thy passions, exalting thy graces, and begetting in thee an abhorrence of sin, and a love of holiness? is not all this an argument of his presence, as truly as if thou didst see."] on the whole, if habitual love to god, firm faith in the lord jesus christ, a steady dependence on the divine promises, a full persuasion of the wisdom and goodness of all the dispensations of providence, a high esteem for the blessings of the heavenly world, and a sincere contempt for the vanities of this, can properly be called enthusiasm, then was colonel gardiner indeed one of the greatest enthusiasts which our age has produced; and in proportion to the degree in which he was so, i must esteem him one of the wisest and happiest of mankind. nor do i fear to tell the world that it is the design of my writing these memoirs, and of every thing else that i undertake in life, to spread this glorious and blessed enthusiasm, which i know to be the anticipation of heaven, as well as the most certain way to it. but lest any should possibly imagine, that allowing the experiences which have been described above to have been ever so solid and important, yet there may be some appearances of boasting in so free a communication of them, i must add to what i have hinted in reference to this above, that i find in many of the papers before me very genuine expressions of the deepest humility and self-abasement, which indeed such holy converse with god in prayer and praise does, above all things in the world, tend to inspire and promote. thus, in one of his letters he says, "i am but as a beast before him." in another he calls himself "a miserable hell-deserving sinner." and in another he cries out, "oh, how good a master do i serve! but, alas, how ungrateful am i! what can be so astonishing as the love of christ to us, unless it be the coldness of our sinful hearts towards such a saviour?" there were many other clauses of the like nature, which i shall not set myself more particularly to trace through the variety of letters in which they occur. it is a further instance of this unfeigned humility, that when (as his lady with her usual propriety of language expresses it in one of her letters to me concerning him,) "these divine joys and consolations were not his daily allowance," he, with equal freedom, in the confidence of christian fellowship, acknowledges and laments it. thus, in the first letter i had the honour of receiving from him, dated from leicester, july , , after mentioning the blessing with which it had pleased god to attend my last address to him, and the influence it had upon his mind, he adds, "much do i stand in need of every help to awaken me out of that spiritual deadness which seizes me so often. once, indeed, it was quite otherwise with me, and that for many years: "'firm was my health, my day was bright, and i presumed 't would ne'er be night, fondly i said within my heart, pleasure and peace shall ne'er depart, but i forgot, thine arm was strong, which made my mountain stand so long; soon as thy face began to hide, my health was gone, my comforts died.' and here," adds he, "lies my sin and my folly." i mention this, that the whole matter may be seen just as it was, and that other christians may not be discouraged if they feel some abatement of that fervour, and of those holy joys which they may have experienced during some of the first months or years of their spiritual life. but, with relation to the colonel, i have great reason to believe that those which he laments as his days of spiritual deadness were not unanimated; and that quickly after the date of this letter, and especially nearer the close of his life, he had further revivings, as the joyful anticipation in reserve of those better things which were then nearly approaching. and thus mr. spears, in the letter i mentioned above, tells us he related the matter to him, (for he studies as much as possible to retain the colonel's own words): "however," says he, "after that happy period of sensible communion, though my joys and enlargements were not so overflowing and sensible, yet i have had habitual real communion with god from that day to this"--the latter end of the year --"and i know myself, and all that know me see, that through the grace of god, to which i ascribe all, my conversation has been becoming the gospel; and let me die whenever it shall please god, or wherever it shall be, i am sure i shall go to the mansions of eternal glory," &c. this is perfectly agreeable to the manner in which he used to speak to me on this head, which we have talked over frequently and largely. in this connection i hope my reader will forgive my inserting a little story which i received from a very worthy minister in scotland, and which i shall give in his own words: "in this period," meaning that which followed the first seven years after his conversion, "when his complaint of comparative deadness and languor in religion began, he had a dream, which, though he had no turn at all for taking notice of dreams, yet made a very strong impression upon his mind. he imagined he saw his blessed redeemer on earth, and that he was following him through a large field, following him whom his soul loved, but much troubled, because he thought his blessed lord did not speak to him, till he came up to the gate of a burying-place, when, turning about, he smiled upon him in such a manner as filled his soul with the most ravishing joy, and on after reflection animated his faith in believing that whatever storms and darkness he might meet with in the way, at the hour of death his glorious redeemer would lift up upon him the light of his life-giving countenance." my correspondent adds a circumstance for which he makes some apology, as what may seem whimsical, and yet made some impression on the colonel,--"that there was a remarkable resemblance in the field in which this brave man met his death, and that he had represented to him in the dream." i did not fully understand this at first; but a passage in that letter from mr. spears, which i have mentioned more than once, has cleared it: "now observe, sir, this seems to be a literal description of the place where this christian hero ended his sorrows and conflicts, and from which he entered triumphantly into the joy of his lord; for, after he fell in the battle, fighting gloriously for his king, and the cause of his god, his wounded body, while life was yet remaining, was carried from the field of battle by the east side of his own enclosure, till he came to the church-yard of tranent, and was brought to the minister's house, where, about an hour after, he breathed out his soul into the hands of his lord, and was conducted to his presence, where there is fulness of joy, without any cloud or interruption, for ever." i well know that in dreams there are diverse vanities, and readily acknowledge that nothing certain could be inferred from this; yet it seems at least to show which way the imagination was working even in sleep; and i cannot think it unworthy of a wise and good man sometimes to reflect with complacency on any images which, passing through his mind even in that state, may tend either to express or to quicken his love to the great saviour. those eminently pious divines of the church of england, bishop bull and bishop konn, do both intimate it as their opinion that it may be a part of the service of ministering angels to suggest devout dreams[ ] and i know that the worthy person of whom i speak was well acquainted with that evening hymn of the latter of those excellent writers which has these lines: "lord lest the tempter me surprise, watch over thine own sacrifice! all loose, all idle thoughts cast out; and make my very _dreams_ devout!" nor would it be difficult to produce other passages much to the same purpose,[ ] if it would not be deemed too great a digression from our subject, and too laboured a vindication of a little incident of very small importance when compared with most of those which make up this narrative.[ ] [footnote : bishop bull has these remarkable words: "although i am no doater on dreams, yet i verily believe that some dreams are monitory, above the power of fancy, and impressed upon us by some superior intelligence. for of such dreams we have plain and undeniable instances in history, both sacred and profane, and in our own age and observation. nor shall i so value the laughter of sceptics, and the scoffs of epicureans, as to be ashamed to profess that i myself have had some convincing experiments of such impressions." _bishop bull's sermons and discourses_, vol. ii, pp. , .] [footnote : if i mistake not, the same bishop konn is the author of a _midnight hymn_ coinciding with these words: "may my ethereal guardian kindly spread his wings, and from the tempter screen my head; grant of celestial light some passing beams, to bless my sleep, and sanctify my dreams!" as he certainly was of these exactly parallel lines: "oh may my guardian, while i sleep, close to my bed his vigils keep; his love angelical distil, stop all the avenues of ill! may he celestial joys rehearse, and thought to thought with me converse!"] [footnote : see appendix i.] chapter vii. domestic relations. i meet not with any other remarkable event relating to major gardiner, which can properly be introduced here, till , when, on the th of july, he was married to the right hon. lady frances erskine, daughter to the late earl of buchan, by whom he had thirteen children, five only of which survived their father, two sons and three daughters, whom i cannot mention without the most fervent prayers to god for them, that they may always behave worthy the honour of being descended from such parents, and that the god of their father and of their mother may make them perpetually the care of his providence, and yet more eminently happy in the constant and abundant influences of his grace. as her ladyship is still living,[*] (and for the sake of her dear offspring, and numerous friends, may she long be spared,) i shall not here indulge myself in saying any thing of her, except it be that the colonel assured me, when he had been happy in this intimate relation to her more than fourteen years, that the greatest imperfection he knew in her character was, "that she valued and loved him much more than he deserved." little did he think, in the simplicity of heart with which he spoke this, how high an encomium he was making upon her, and how lasting an honour such a testimony must leave upon her name, long as the memory of it shall continue. [*note: in the year ] as i do not intend in these memoirs a laboured essay on the character of colonel gardiner, digested under the various virtues and graces which christianity requires, (which would, i think, be a little too formal for a work of this kind, and would give it such an air of panegyric as would neither suit my design, nor be at all likely to render it more useful,) i shall now mention what i have either observed in him, or heard concerning him, with regard to those domestic relations which commenced about this time, or very soon after. and here my reader will easily conclude that the resolution of joshua was from the first adopted and declared, "as for me and my house, we will serve the lord." it will naturally be supposed, that as soon as he had a house, he erected an altar in it; that the word of god was read there, and prayers and praises were constantly offered. these were not to be omitted on account of any guest; for he esteemed it a part of due respect to those that remained under his roof to take it for granted they would look upon it as a very bad compliment to imagine they would have been obliged by neglecting the duties of religion on their account. as his family increased, he had a minister statedly resident in his house, who discharged both the office of a tutor to his children, and of a chaplain, and who was always treated with a becoming kindness and respect. but, in his absence, the colonel himself led the devotions of the family; and they were happy who had an opportunity of knowing with how much solemnity, fervour, and propriety he did it. he was constant in attendance upon public worship, in which an exemplary care was taken that the children and servants might accompany the heads of the family. and how he would have resented the non-attendance of any member of it may easily be conjectured from a free but lively passage in a letter to one of his intimate friends, on an occasion which it is not material to mention. "oh, sir, had a child of yours under my roof but once neglected the public worship of god when he was able to attend it, i should have been ready to conclude he had been distracted, and should have thought of shaving his head, and confining him in a dark room." he always treated his lady with a manly tenderness, giving her the most natural evidences of a cordial, habitual esteem, and expressing a most affectionate sympathy with her under the infirmities of a very delicate constitution, much broken, at least towards the latter years of their marriage. he had at all times a most faithful care of all her interests, and especially those relating to the state of religion in her mind. his conversation and his letters concurred to cherish those sublime ideas which christianity suggests, to promote our submission to the will of god, to teach us to centre our happiness in the great author of our being, and to live by faith in the invisible world. these, no doubt, were frequently the subjects of mutual discourse; and many letters, which her ladyship has had the goodness to communicate to me, are most convincing evidences of the degree in which this noble and most friendly care filled his mind in the days of their separation--days which so entire a mutual affection must have rendered exceedingly painful, had they not been supported by such exalted sentiments of piety, and sweetened by daily communion with an ever-present and ever-gracious god. the necessity of being so many months together distant from his family hindered him from many of those condescending labours in cultivating the minds of his children in early life, which, to a soul so benevolent, so wise, and so zealous, would undoubtedly have afforded a very exquisite pleasure. the care of his worthy consort, who well knew that it is one of the brightest parts of a mother's character, and one of the most important views in which the sex can be considered, made him the easier under such a circumstance; but when he was with them, he failed not to instruct and admonish them; and the constant deep sense with which he spoke of divine things, and the real unaffected indifference which he always showed for what this vain world is most ready to admire, were excellent lessons of daily wisdom, which i hope they will recollect with advantage in every future scene of life. and i have seen such hints in his letters relating to them, as plainly show with how great a weight they lay on his mind, and how highly he desired, above all things, that they might be the faithful disciples of christ, and acquainted betimes with the unequalled pleasures and blessings of religion. he thought an excess of delicacy and of indulgence one of the most dangerous faults in education, by which he everywhere saw great numbers of young people undone; yet he was solicitous to guard against a severity which might terrify or discourage; and though he endeavoured to take all prudent precautions to prevent the commission of faults, yet, when they had been committed, and there seemed to be a sense of them, he was always ready to make the most candid allowances for the thoughtlessness of unripened years, and tenderly to cherish every purpose of a more proper conduct for the time to come. it was to perceive that the openings of genius in the young branches of his family gave him great delight, and that he had a secret ambition to see them excel in what they undertook. yet he was greatly cautious over his heart, lest it should be too fondly attached to them; and as he was one of the most eminent proficients i ever knew in the blessed science of resignation to the divine will, so there was no effect of that resignation which appeared to me more admirable than what related to the life of his children. an experience, which no length of time will ever efface out of my memory, has so sensibly taught me how difficult it is fully to support the christian character here, that i hope my reader will pardon me (i am sure, at least, the heart of wounded parents will,) if i dwell a little longer upon so interesting a subject.[*] [*note: see appendix ii.] when he was in herefordshire in july, , it pleased god to visit his little family with the small pox. five days before the date of the letter i am just going to mention, he had received the agreeable news that there was a prospect of the recovery of his son, then under that awful visitation; and he had been expressing his thankfulness for it in a letter which he had sent away but a few hours before he was informed of his death, the surprise of which, in this connection, must naturally be very great. but behold (says the reverend and worthy person from whom i received the copy) his truly filial submission to the will of his heavenly father, in the following lines addressed to the dear partner of his affliction: "your resignation to the will of god under this dispensation gives me more joy than the death of the child has given me sorrow. he, to be sure, is happy; and we shall go to him, though he shall not return to us. oh that we had our latter end always in view! we shall soon follow; and oh, what reason have we to long for that glorious day when we shall get quit of this body of sin and death under which we now groan, and which renders this life so wretched! i desire to bless god that ---- (another of his children) is in so good a way; but i have resigned her. we must not choose for ourselves; and it is well we must not, for we should often make a very bad choice, and therefore it is our wisdom, as well as our duty, to leave all with a gracious god, who hath promised that all things shall work together for good to them that love him; and he is faithful that hath promised, who will infallibly perform it, if our unbelief does not stand in the way." the greatest trial of this kind that he ever bore, was in the removal of his second son, who was one of the most amiable and promising children that has been known. the dear little creature was the darling of all that knew him; and promised very fair, so far as a child could be known by its doings, to have been a great ornament to the family, and blessing to the public. the suddenness of the stroke must, no doubt, render it the more painful; for this beloved child was snatched away by an illness which seized him but about fifteen hours before it carried him off. he died in the month of october , at near six years old. their friends were ready to fear that his affectionate parents would be almost overwhelmed at such a loss; but the happy father had so firm a persuasion that god had received the dear little one to the felicities of the celestial world, and at the same time had so strong a sense of the divine goodness in taking one of his children, and that, too, one who lay so near his heart, so early to himself, that the sorrows of nature were quite swallowed up in the sublime joy which these considerations administered. when he reflected what human life is--how many its snares and temptations are--and how frequently children who once promised very well are insensibly corrupted, and at length undone, with solomon he blessed the dead already dead, more than the living who were yet alive, and felt unspeakable pleasure in looking after the lovely infant, as safely and delightfully lodged in the house of its heavenly father. yea, he assured me that his heart was at this time so entirely taken up with these views, that he was afraid they who did not thoroughly know him might suspect that he was deficient in the natural affections of a parent, while thus borne above the anguish of them by the views which faith administered to him, and which divine grace supported in his soul. so much did he, on one of the most trying occasions of life, manifest of the temper of a glorified saint, and to such happy purposes did he retain those lessons of submission to god, and acquiescence in him, which i remember he once inculcated in a letter he wrote to a lady of quality under the apprehension of a breach in her family with which providence seemed to threaten her, which i am willing to insert here, though a little out of what might seem its most proper place rather than entirely to omit it. it is dated from london, june , , when, speaking of the dangerous illness of a dear relative, he has these words: "when my mind runs hither," that is, to god, as its refuge and strong defence, (as the connection plainly determines it,) "i think i can bear any thing, the loss of all, the loss of health, of relations, on whom i depend, and whom i love, all that is dear to me, without repining or murmuring. when i think that god orders, disposes, and manages all things according to the counsel of his own will; when i think of the extent of his providence, that it reaches to the minutest things; then, though a useful friend or dear relative be snatched away by death, i recall myself, and check my thoughts with these considerations: is he not god from everlasting, and to everlasting? and has he not promised to be a god to me?--a god in all his attributes, a god in all his persons, a god in all his creatures and providences? and shall i dare to say, what shall i do? was not he the infinite cause of all i met with in the creatures? and were not they the finite effects of his infinite love and kindness? i have daily experienced that the instrument was, and is, what god makes it to be; and i know that this 'god hath the hearts of all men in his hands, and the earth is the lord's, and the fulness thereof.' if this earth be good for me, i shall have it; for my father hath it all in possession. if favour in the eyes of men be good for me, i shall have it; for the spring of every motion in the heart of man is in god's hand. my dear ---- seems now to be dying; but god is all-wise, and every thing is done by him for the best. shall i hold back any thing that is his own, when he requires it? no, god forbid! when i consider the excellency of his glorious attributes, i am satisfied with all his dealings." i perceive by the introduction, and by what follows, that most, if not all of this, is a quotation from something written by a lady; but whether from some manuscript or printed book, whether exactly transcribed or quoted from memory, i cannot determine; and therefore i thought proper to insert it, as the major (for that was the office he bore then,) by thus interweaving it with his letter, makes it his own, and as it seems to express in a very lively manner the principles which bore him on to a conduct so truly great and heroic, in circumstances that have overwhelmed many a heart that could have faced danger and death with the greatest intrepidity. i return now to consider his character in the domestic relation of a master, on which i shall not enlarge. it is, however, proper to remark, that as his habitual meekness and command of his passions prevented indecent sallies of ungoverned anger towards those in the lowest state of subjection to him, by which some in high life do strangely debase themselves, and lose much of their authority, so the natural greatness of his mind made him solicitous to render their inferior stations as easy as he could: and so much the rather, because he considered all the children of adam as standing upon a level before their great creator, and had also a deeper sense of the dignity and worth of every immortal soul, how meanly soever it might chance to be lodged, than most persons i have known. this engaged him to give his servants frequent religious exhortations and instructions, as i have been assured by several who were so happy as to live with him under that character. one of his first letters, after he entered on his christian course, expresses the same disposition; in which, with great tenderness, he recommends a servant, who was in a bad state of health, to his mother's care, as he was well acquainted with her condescending temper; mentioning at the same time, the endeavours he had used to promote his preparations for a better world, under an apprehension that he would not continue long in this. we shall have an affecting instance of the prevalence of the same disposition in the closing scene of his life, and indeed in the last words he ever spoke, which expressed his generous solicitude for the safety of a faithful servant who was then near him. chapter viii. conduct as an officer. as it was a few years after his marriage that he was promoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, in which he continued till he had a regiment of his own, i shall, for the future, speak of him by that title; and i may not, perhaps, find any more proper place in which to mention what it is proper for me to say of his behaviour and conduct as an officer. i shall not here enlarge upon his bravery in the field, though, as i have heard from others, that was very remarkable--i say from others, for i never heard any thing of the kind from himself, nor knew, till after his death, that he was present at almost every battle that was fought in flanders while the illustrious duke of marlborough commanded the allied army there. i have also been assured from several very credible persons, some of whom were eye-witnesses, that at the skirmish with the rebels at preston in lancashire, (thirty years before that engagement at the other preston which deprived us of this gallant guardian of his country,) he signalized himself very particularly; for he headed a small body of men, i think about twelve, and set fire to the barricado of the rebels, in the face of their whole army, while they were pouring in their shot, by which eight of the twelve that attended him fell. this was the last action of the kind in which he was engaged before the long peace which ensued; and who can express how happy it was for him, and indeed for his country, of which he was ever so mindful, and in his latter years so important a friend, that he did not then fall, when the profaneness which mingled itself with this martial rage seemed to rend the heavens, and shocked some other military gentlemen who were not very remarkable for their caution in this respect. but i insist not on things of this nature, which the true greatness of his soul would hardly ever permit him to mention, unless when it tended to illustrate the divine care over him in these extremities of danger, and the grace of god in calling him from so abandoned a state. it is well known that the character of an officer is not to be approved in the day of combat only. colonel gardiner was truly sensible that every day brought its duties along with it, and he was constantly careful that no pretence of amusement, friendship, or even devotion itself, might prevent their being properly discharged. i doubt not that the noble persons in whose regiments he was lieutenant-colonel, will always be ready to bear an honourable and grateful testimony to his exemplary diligence and fidelity in all that related to the care of the troops over which he was set, whether in regard to the men or the horses. he knew that it is incumbent on those who have the honour of presiding over others, whether in civil, ecclesiastical, or military offices, not to content themselves with doing only so much as may preserve them from the reproach of gross and visible neglect; but seriously to consider how much they can possibly do without going out of their proper sphere, to serve the public, by the due inspection of those committed to their care. the duties of the closet and of the sanctuary were so adjusted as not to interfere with those of the parade, or any other place where the welfare of the regiment called him. on the other hand, he was solicitous not to suffer these things to interfere with religion, a due attendance on which he apprehended to be the surest method of attaining all desirable success in every other interest and concern in life. he therefore abhorred every thing that looked like a contrivance to keep his soldiers employed with their horses and their arms at the seasons of public worship--an indecency which i wish there were no room to mention. far from that, he used to have them drawn up just before it began, and from the parade they went off to the house of god. he understood the rights of conscience too well to impose his own particular profession in religion on others, or to treat those who differed from him in the choice of its modes, the less kindly or respectfully on that account. but as most of his own company, and many of the rest, chose (when in england) to attend him to the dissenting chapel, he used to march them up thither in due time, so as to be there before the worship began. and i must do them the justice to say, that so far as i could ever discern, when i have seen them in large numbers before me, they behaved with as much reverence, gravity, and decorum, during the time of divine service, as any of the worshippers. that his remarkable care to maintain good discipline among them (of which we shall afterwards speak) might be the more effectual, he made himself on all proper occasions accessible to them, and expressed a great concern for their interests, which, being genuine and sincere, naturally discovered itself in a variety of instances. i remember i had once occasion to visit one of his dragoons in his last illness at harborough, and i found the man upon the borders of eternity--a circumstance which, as he apprehended himself, must add some peculiar weight and credibility to his discourse. he then told me, in his colonel's absence, that he questioned not that he should have everlasting reason to bless god on colonel gardiner's account, for he had been a father to him in all his interests, both temporal and spiritual. he added, that he had visited him, almost every day during his illness, with religious advice and instruction, and had also taken care that he should want for nothing that might conduct to the recovery of his health. he did not speak of this as the result of any particular attachment to him, but as the manner in which he was accustomed to treat those under his command. it is no wonder that this engaged their affection to a very great degree; and i doubt not that if he had fought the fatal battle of prestonpans at the head of that gallant regiment of which he had the care for so many years, and which is allowed by most unexceptionable judges to be one of the finest in the british service, and consequently in the world, he had been supported in a much different manner, and had found a much greater number who would have rejoiced in an opportunity of making their own breasts a barrier in the defence of his. it could not but greatly endear him to his soldiers, that so far as preferments lay in his power, or were under his influence, they were distributed according to merit. this he knew to be as much the dictate of prudence as equity. i find from one of his letters before me, dated but a few months after his conversion, that he was solicited to use his interest with the earl of stair in favour of one whom he judged a very worthy person; and that it had been suggested by another, who recommended him, that if he so succeeded, he might expect some handsome acknowledgment. but he answers with some degree of indignation, "do you imagine i am to be bribed to do justice?" for such it seems he esteemed it, to confer the favour which was asked from him on one so deserving. nothing can more effectually tend to humble the enemies of a state, than that such maxims should universally prevail in it; and if they do not prevail, the worthiest men in an army or a fleet may sink under repeated discouragements, and the basest exalted, to the infamy of the public, and perhaps to its ruin. in the midst of all the gentleness which colonel gardiner exercised towards his soldiers, he made it very apparent that he knew how to reconcile the tenderness of a really faithful and condescending friend with the authority of a commander. perhaps hardly any thing conduced more generally to the maintaining of this authority, than the strict decorum and good manners with which he treated even the private gentlemen of his regiment; which has always a great efficacy in keeping inferiors at a proper distance, and forbids, in the least offensive manner, familiarities which degrade the superior, and enervate his influence. the calmness and steadiness of his behaviour on all occasions also greatly tended to the same purpose. he knew how mean a man looks in the transports of passion, and would not use so much freedom with many of his men as to fall into such transports before them, well knowing that persons in the lowest rank of life are aware how unfit _they_ are to govern others, who cannot govern themselves. he was also sensible how necessary it is in all who preside over others, and especially in military officers, to check irregularities when they first begin to appear; and, that he might be able to do so, he kept a strict inspection over his soldiers; in which it was observed, that as he generally chose to reside among them as much as he could, (though in circumstances which sometimes occasioned him to deny himself in some interests which were very dear to him,) so, when they were around him, he seldom staid long in a place; but was frequently walking the streets, and looking into their quarters and stables, as well as reviewing and exercising them himself. it has often been observed that the regiment to which he was so many years lieutenant-colonel, was one of the most regular and orderly regiments in the public service, so that perhaps none of our dragoons were more welcome to the towns where their character was known. yet no such bodies of men are so blameless in their conduct but something will be found, especially among such considerable numbers, worthy of censure, and sometimes of punishment. this colonel gardiner knew how to inflict with a becoming resolution, and with all the severity which he judged necessary--a severity the more awful and impressive, as it was already attended with meekness; for he well knew that when things are done in a passion, it seems only an accidental circumstance that they are acts of justice, and that such indecencies greatly obstruct the ends of punishment, both as to reforming offenders, and to deterring others from an imitation of their faults. one instance of his conduct, which happened at leicester, and which was related by the person chiefly concerned to a worthy friend from whom i had it, i cannot forbear inserting. while part of the regiment was encamped in the neighbourhood of that place, the colonel went incognito to the camp in the middle of the night; for he sometimes lodged at his quarters in the town. one of the sentinels then on duty had abandoned his post, and, on being seized, broke out into some oaths and profane execrations against those that discovered him--a crime of which the colonel had the greatest abhorrence, and on which he never failed to animadvert. the man afterwards appeared much ashamed and concerned for what he had done. but the colonel ordered him to be brought early the next morning to his own quarters, where he had prepared a picket, on which he appointed him a private sort of penance; and while he was put upon it, he discoursed with him seriously and tenderly upon the evils and aggravations of his fault, admonished him of the divine displeasure which he had incurred, and urged him to argue, from the pain which he then felt, how infinitely more dreadful it must be to "fall into the hands of the living god," and, indeed, to meet the terrors of that damnation which he had been accustomed impiously to call for on himself and his companions. the result of this proceeding was, that the offender accepted his punishment, not only with submission, but with thankfulness. he went away with a more cordial affection for his colonel than he ever had before, and spoke of the circumstance some years after to my friend, in such a manner that there seemed reason to hope it had been instrumental in producing a change not only in his life, but in his heart. there cannot, i think, be a more proper place for mentioning the great reverence this excellent officer always expressed for the name of the blessed god, and the zeal with which he endeavoured to suppress, and if possible to extirpate, that detestable sin of swearing and cursing which is every where so common, and especially among our military men. he often declared, at the head of his regiment, his sentiments with respect to this enormity, and urged his captains and their subalterns to take the greatest care that they did not give the sanction of their example to that which by their office they were obliged to punish in others. indeed his zeal on these occasions wrought in a very active, and sometimes in a remarkably successful manner, not only among his equals, but sometimes among his superiors too. an instance of this in flanders i shall have an opportunity hereafter to produce; at present i shall only mention his conduct in scotland a little before his death, as i have it from a very valuable young minister of that country, on whose testimony i can thoroughly depend; and i wish it may excite many to imitation. 'the commanding officer of the king's forces then about edinburgh, with the other colonels, and several other gentlemen of rank in their respective regiments, favoured him with their company at bankton, and took dinner with him. he too well foresaw what might happen amid such a variety of tempers and characters; and fearing lest his conscience might have been ensnared by a sinful silence, or that, on the other hand, he might seem to pass the bounds of decency, and infringe upon the laws of hospitality by animadverting on guests so justly entitled to his regard, he happily determined on the following method of avoiding each of these difficulties. as soon as they were come together, he addressed them with a great deal of respect, and at the same time with a very frank and determined air, telling them that he had the honour in that district to be a justice of the peace, and consequently that he was sworn to put the law in execution, and, among the rest, those against swearing; that he could not execute them upon others with any confidence, or by any means approve himself a man of impartiality and integrity to his own heart, if he suffered them to be broken in his presence by persons of any rank whatsoever; and that therefore he entreated all the gentlemen who then honoured him with their company that they would please to be upon their guard, and that if any oath or curse should escape them, he hoped they would consider his legal animadversion upon it as a regard to the duties of his office and the dictates of his conscience, and not as owing to any want of deference to them. the commanding officer immediately supported him in this declaration, as entirely becoming the station in which he was, assuring him that he would be ready to pay the penalty, if he inadvertently transgressed; and when colonel gardiner on any occasion stepped out of the room, he himself undertook to be the guardian of the law in his absence; and as one of the inferior officers offended during this time, he informed the colonel, so that the fine was exacted and given to the poor,[*] with the universal approbation of the company. the story spread in the neighbourhood, and was perhaps applauded highly by many who wanted the courage to "go and do likewise." but it may be said, with the utmost propriety, of the worthy person of whom i write, that he feared the face of no man living where the honour of god was concerned. in all such cases he might be justly said, in scripture phrase, "to set his face like a flint;" and i assuredly believe, that had he been in the presence of a sovereign prince who had been guilty of this fault, his looks at least would have testified his grief and surprise, if he had apprehended it unfit to have borne his testimony in any other way. [*note: it is observable that the money which was forfeited on this account by his own officers, whom he never spared, or by any others of his soldiers who rather chose to pay than submit to corporal punishment, was, by the colonel's order, laid by in a bank till some of the private men fell sick, and then it was laid out in providing them with proper help and accommodations in their distress.] lord cadogan's regiment of dragoons, during the time he was lieutenant-colonel of it, was quartered in a variety of places, both in england and scotland, from many of which i have letters before me; particularly from hamilton, ayr, carlisle, hereford, maidenhead, leicester, warwick, coventry, stamford, harborough, northampton, and several other places, especially in our inland parts. the natural consequence was, that the colonel, whose character was on many accounts so very remarkable, had a very extensive acquaintance; and i believe i may certainly say, that wherever he was known by persons of wisdom and worth, he was proportionably respected, and left behind him traces of unaffected devotion, humility, benevolence, and zeal for the support and advancement of religion and virtue. the equable tenor of his mind in these respects is illustrated by his letters from several of these places; and though i have but comparatively a small number of them now in my hands, yet they will afford some valuable extracts; which i shall therefore here lay before my reader, that he may the better judge as to the colonel's real character in particulars which i have already mentioned, or which may hereafter occur. in a letter to his lady, dated from carlisle, november , , when he was on his journey to herefordshire, he breathes out his grateful, cheerful soul in these words: "i bless god i was never better in my lifetime, and i wish i could be so happy as to hear the same of you: or rather, in other words, to hear that you have obtained an entire trust in god. that would infallibly keep you in perfect peace, for the god of truth has promised it. oh, how ought we to be longing 'to be with christ,' which is infinitely better than any thing we can propose here! to be there, where no mountains shall separate between god and our souls. and i hope it will be some addition to our happiness, that, you and i shall be separated no more; but that as we have joined in singing the praises of our glorious redeemer here, we shall sing them in a much higher key through an endless eternity. oh eternity, eternity! what a wonderful thought, is eternity!" from leicester, august , , he writes thus to his lady: "yesterday i was at the lord's table, where you and the children were not forgotten. but how wonderfully was i assisted when i came home, to plead for you all with many tears." and then, speaking of some intimate friends who were impatient, (as i suppose by the connection) for his return to them, he takes occasion to observe the necessity of endeavouring to compose our minds, and say with the psalmist, "my soul, wait thou only upon god." afterwards, speaking of one of his children, who he heard had made a commendable progress in learning, he expresses his satisfaction, and adds; "but, how much greater joy would it give me to hear that he was greatly advanced in the school of christ! oh that our children may but be wise unto salvation, and may grow in grace as they do in stature!" these letters, which to so familiar a friend evidently lay open the heart, and show the ideas and affections which were lodged deepest there, are sometimes taken up with an account of sermons he had attended, and the impression they had made upon his mind. i shall mention only one, as a specimen of many more, which was dated from a place called cohorn, april : "we had here a minister from wales, who gave us two excellent discourses on the love of christ to us, as an argument to engage our love to him. and indeed, next to the greatness of his love to us, methinks there is nothing so astonishing as the coldness of our love to him. oh that he would shed abroad his love upon our hearts by his holy spirit, that ours might be kindled into a flame! may god enable you to trust in him, and then you will be kept in perfect peace!" we have met with many traces of that habitual gratitude to the blessed god, as his heavenly father and constant friend, which made his life probably one of the happiest that ever was spent on earth. i cannot omit one more, which appears to me the more worthy of notice, as being a short turn in as hasty a letter as any i remember to have seen of his, which he wrote from leicester in june, . "i am now under the deepest sense of the many favours the almighty has bestowed upon me. surely you will help me to celebrate the praises of our gracious god and kind benefactor." this exuberance of grateful affection, which, while it was almost every hour pouring itself forth before god in the most genuine and emphatical language, felt itself still as it were straitened for want of a sufficient vent, and therefore called on others to help him with their concurrent praises, appears to me the most glorious and happy state in which a human soul can find itself on this side heaven. such was the temper which this excellent man appears to have carried along with him through such a variety of places and circumstances; and the whole of his deportment was suitable to these impressions. strangers were agreeably struck with his first appearance, there being much of the christian, the well-bred man, and the universal friend in it; and as they came more intimately to know him, they discovered more and more the uniformity and consistency of his whole temper and behaviour; so that whether he made only a visit for a few days to any place, or continued there for many weeks or months, he was always beloved and esteemed, and spoken of with that honourable testimony, from persons of the most different denominations and parties, which nothing but true sterling worth, (if i may be allowed the expression,) and that in an eminent degree, can secure. chapter ix. intimacy with the author. of the justice of this testimony, which i had so often heard from a variety of persons, i myself began to be a witness about the time when the last mentioned letter was dated. in this view, i believe i shall never forget that happy day, june , , when i first met him at leicester. i remember i happened that day to preach a lecture from psalm cxix, , "i beheld the transgressions, and was grieved because they kept not thy law." i was large in describing that mixture of indignation and grief (strongly expressed by the original words there) with which a good man looks on the daring transgressors of the divine law; and in tracing the causes of that grief, as arising from a regard to the divine honour, and the interest of a redeemer, and a compassionate concern for the misery which such offenders bring on themselves, and for the mischief they do to the world about them, i little thought, how exactly i was drawing colonel gardiner's character under each of those heads; and i have often reflected upon it as a happy providence which opened a much speedier way than i could have expected to the breast of one of the most amiable and useful friends whom i ever expect to find upon earth. we afterwards sang a hymn which brought over again some of the leading thoughts in the sermon and struck him so strongly, that on obtaining a copy of it, he committed it to memory, and used to repeat it, with so forcible an accent as showed how much every line expressed his very soul. in this view the reader will pardon my inserting it, especially as i know not when i may get time to publish a volume of these serious though artless compositions, which i sent him in manuscript some years ago, and to which i have since made very large additions: arise, my tenderest thoughts arise, to torrents melt my streaming eyes! and thou, my heart, with anguish feel those evils which thou canst not heal! see human nature sunk in shame! see scandal poured on jesus' name! the father wounded through the son! the world abused--the soul undone! see the short course of vain delight closing in everlasting night! in flames that no abatement know, the briny tears for ever flow. my god, i feel the mournful scene; my bowels yearn o'er dying men: and fain my pity would reclaim, and snatch the firebrands from the flame. but feeble my compassion proves, and can but weep where most it loves; thine own all-saving arm employ, and turn these drops of grief to joy! the colonel, immediately after the conclusion of the service, met me in the vestry and embraced me in the most obliging and affectionate manner, as if there had been a long friendship between us, assured me that he had for some years been intimately acquainted with my writings, and desired that we might concert measures for spending some hours together before i left the town. i was so happy as to be able to secure an opportunity of doing it; and i must leave upon record, that i cannot recollect i was ever equally edified by any conversation i remember to have enjoyed. we passed that evening and the next morning together, and it is impossible for me to describe the impression which the interview left upon my heart. i rode alone all the remainder of the day; and it was my unspeakable happiness that i was alone, since i could no longer be with him; for i can hardly conceive what other company would not then have been an encumbrance. the views which he gave me even then, (for he began to repose a most obliging confidence in me, though he concealed some of the most extraordinary circumstances of the methods by which he had been recovered to god and happiness,) with those cordial sentiments of evangelical piety and extensive goodness which he poured out into my bosom with so endearing a freedom, fired my very soul; and i hope i may truly say (which i wish and pray that many of my readers may also adopt for themselves) that i glorified god in him. our epistolatory correspondence immediately commenced upon my return; and though, through the multiplicity of business on both sides, it suffered many interruptions, it was in some degree the blessing of all the following years of my life, till he fell by those unreasonable and wicked men who had it in their hearts with him to have destroyed all our glory, defence, and happiness. the first letter i received from him was so remarkable, that some persons of eminent piety, to whom i communicated it, would not be content without copying it out, or making some extracts from it. i persuade myself that my devout reader will not be displeased that i insert the greater part of it here, especially as it serves to illustrate the affectionate sense which he had of the divine goodness in his conversion, though more than twenty years had passed since that memorable event happened. having already mentioned my ever dear and honoured friend dr. isaac watts, he adds: "i have been in pain these several years lest that excellent person, that sweet singer in our israel, should have been called to heaven before i had an opportunity of letting him know how much his works have been blessed to me, and, of course, returning him my hearty thanks; for though it is owing to the operation of the blessed spirit, that any thing works effectually upon our hearts, yet if we are not thankful to the instrument which god is pleased to make use of, whom we do see, how shall we be thankful to the almighty, whom we have not seen? i desire to bless god for the good news of his recovery, and entreat you to tell him, that although i cannot keep pace with him here in celebrating the high praises of our glorious redeemer, which is the greatest grief of my heart, yet i am persuaded, that, when i join the glorious company above, where there will be no drawbacks, none will outsing me there, because i shall not find any that will be more indebted to the wonderful riches of divine grace than i. "give me a place at thy saints' feet, on some fallen angel's vacant seat; i'll strive to sing as loud as they who sit above in brighter day. "i know it is natural for every one who has felt the almighty power which raised our glorious redeemer from the grave, to believe his case singular; but i have made every one in this respect submit as soon as he has heard my story. and if you seemed so surprised at the account which i gave you, what will you be when you hear it all? "oh, if i had an angel's voice, and could be heard from pole to pole; i would to all the listening world proclaim thy goodness to my soul." he then concludes, after some expressions of endearment, (which, with whatever pleasure i review them, i must not here insert)-- "if you knew what a natural aversion i have to writing, you would be astonished at the length of this letter, which is, i believe, the longest i ever wrote. but my heart warms when i write to you, which makes my pen move the easier. i hope it will please our gracious god long to preserve you, a blessed instrument in his hand, of doing great good in the church of christ; and that you may always enjoy a thriving soul in a healthful body, shall be the continual prayer of," &c. as our intimacy grew, our mutual affection increased; and "my dearest friend" was the form of address with which most of his epistles of the last years were begun and ended. many of them are filled up with his sentiments of those writings which i published during these years, which he read with great attention, and of which he speaks in terms which it becomes me to suppress, and to impute, in a considerable degree, to the kind prejudices of so endeared a friendship. he gives me repeated assurances "that he was daily mindful of me in his prayers", a circumstance which i cannot recollect without the greatest thankfulness; and the loss of which i should more deeply lament, did i not hope that the happy effect of these prayers might still continue, and might run into all my remaining days. it might be a pleasure to me to make several extracts from many others of his letters; but it is a pleasure which i ought to suppress, and rather to reflect, with unfeigned humility, how unworthy i was of such regards from such a person, and of that divine goodness which gave me such a friend in him. i shall, therefore, only add two general remarks, which offer themselves from several of his letters. the one is, that there is in some of them, as our freedom increased, an agreeable vein of humour and pleasantry, which shows how easy religion sat upon him, and how far he was from placing any part of it in a gloomy melancholy, or stiff formality. the other is, that he frequently refers to domestic circumstances, such as the illness or recovery of my children, &c., which i am surprised how a man of his extensive and important business could so distinctly bear upon his mind. but his memory was good, and his heart was yet better; and his friendship was such, that nothing which sensibly affected the heart of one whom he honoured with it, left his own but slightly touched. i have all imaginable reason to believe that in many instances his prayers were not only offered for us in general terms, but varied as our particular situation required. many quotations might verify this; but i decline troubling the reader with an enumeration of passages in which it was only the abundance of friendly sympathy that gave this truly great as well as good man so cordial a concern. after this correspondence, carried on for the space of about three years, and some interviews which we had enjoyed at different places, he came to spend some time with us at northampton, and brought with him his lady and his two eldest children. i had here an opportunity of taking a much nearer view of his character, and surveying it in a much greater variety of lights than before; and my esteem for him increased in proportion to these opportunities. what i have written with respect to his conduct in relative life, was in a great measure drawn from what i now saw; and i shall mention here some other points in his behaviour which particularly struck my mind, and likewise shall touch on his sentiments on some topics of importance which he freely communicated to me, and which i have remarked on account of that wisdom and propriety which pervaded them. chapter x. devotion and charity. there was nothing more observable in colonel gardiner than the exemplary gravity, composure, and reverence with which he attended public worship. copious as he was in his secret devotions before he engaged in it, he always began them early, so as not to be retarded by them when he should resort to the house of god. he, and all his soldiers who chose to worship with him, were generally there (as i have already hinted) before the service began, that the entrance of so many of them at once might not disturb the congregation already engaged in devotion, and that there might be a better opportunity of bringing the mind to a becoming attention, and preparing it for converse with the divine being. while acts of worship were going on, whether of prayer or singing, he always stood up; and whatever regard he might have for persons who passed by him at that time, though it were to come into the same pew, he never paid any compliment to them; and often has he expressed his wonder at the indecorum of breaking off our addresses to god to bow to a fellow-creature, which he thought a much greater indecency that it would be, on a little occasion and circumstance, to interrupt an address to our prince. during the time of preaching, his eye was commonly fixed upon the minister, though sometimes turned round upon the auditory, against whom, if he observed any to trifle, he was filled with just indignation. i have known instances in which, upon making the remark, he has communicated it to some friend of the persons who were guilty of it, that proper application might be made to prevent it for the time to come. a more devout communicant at the table of the lord has perhaps seldom been any where known. often have i had the pleasure to see that manly countenance softened to all the marks of humiliation and contrition on this occasion; and to discern, in spite of all his efforts to conceal them, streams of tears flowing down from his eyes, while he has been directing them to those memorials of his redeemer's love. some who have conversed intimately with him after he came from that ordinance, have observed a visible abstraction from surrounding objects, by which there seemed reason to imagine that his soul was wrapped up in holy contemplation. i particularly remember, that when we had once spent a great part of the following monday in riding together, he made an apology to me for being so absent as he seemed, by telling me "that his heart was flown upwards, before he was aware, to him 'whom, not having seen, he loved;'[*] and that he was rejoicing in him with such unspeakable joy, that he could not hold it down to creature converse." [*note: this alluded to the subject of the sermon the day before, which was pet, . .] in all the offices of friendship he was remarkably ready, and had a most sweet and engaging manner of performing them, which greatly heightened the obligations he conferred. he seemed not to set any high value upon any benefit he bestowed, but did it without the least parade, as a thing which in those circumstances came of course, where he had professed love and respect; which he was not over forward to do, though he treated strangers, and those who were most his inferiors, very courteously, and always seemed, because he in truth always was, glad of any opportunity of doing them good. he was particularly zealous in vindicating the reputation of his friends in their absence; and though i cannot recollect that i had ever an opportunity of immediately observing this, as i do not know that i ever was present with him when any ill was spoken of others at all; yet, by what i have heard him say with relation to attempts to injure the character of worthy and useful men, i have reason to believe that no man living was more sensible of the baseness and infamy, as well as the cruelty, of such conduct. he knew and despised the low principles of resentment for unreasonable expectations disappointed, of personal attachment to men of some crossing interests, of envy, and of party zeal, from whence such a conduct often proceeds; and he was particularly offended when he found it (as he frequently did) in persons that set up for the greatest patrons of liberty, virtue, and candour. he looked upon the murderers of reputation and usefulness as some of the vilest pests of society, and plainly showed on every proper occasion that he thought it the part of a generous, benevolent and courageous man to exert himself in tracing and hunting down the slander, that the authors or abettors of it might be less capable of mischief for the future. the most plausible objection that i ever heard to colonel gardiner's character is, that he was too much attached to some religious principles, established indeed in the churches both of england and scotland, but which have of late years been much disputed, and from which, it is at least generally supposed, not a few in both have thought proper to depart--whatever expedients they may have found to quiet their consciences, in subscribing those formularies in which they are plainly taught. his zeal was especially apparent in opposition to those doctrines which seemed to derogate from the divine honours of the son and spirit of god, and from the freedom of divine grace, of the reality and necessity of its operations in the conversion and salvation of sinners. with relation to these i must observe, that it was his most steadfast persuasion that all those notions which represent our blessed redeemer and the holy spirit as mere creatures, or which set aside the atonement of the former, or the influence of the latter, sap the very foundation of christianity by rejecting the most glorious doctrines peculiar to it. he had attentively observed (what indeed is too obvious) the unhappy influence which the denial of these principles often has on the character of ministers, and on their success, and was persuaded that an attempt to substitute that mutilated form of christianity which remains, when these essentials of it are taken away, has proved one of the most successful methods which the great enemy of souls has ever taken, in these latter days, to lead men by insensible degrees into deism, vice, and perdition. he also sagaciously observed the artful manner in which obnoxious tenets are often maintained or insinuated, with all that mixture of zeal and address with which they are propagated in the world, even by those who had most solemnly professed to believe, and engaged to teach the contrary; and as he really apprehended that the glory of god and the salvation of souls were concerned, his piety and charity made him eager and strenuous in opposing what he judged to be errors of so pernicious a nature. yet i must declare, that, according to what i have known of him, (and i believe he opened his heart on these topics to me with as much freedom as to any man living,) he was not ready, upon light suspicions, to charge tenets which he thought so pernicious on any, especially where he saw the appearances of a good temper and life, which he always reverenced and loved in persons of all sentiments and professions. he severely condemned causeless jealousies and evil surmisings of every kind, and extended that charity, in this respect, both to clergy and laity, which good bishop burnet was so ready, according to his own account, to limit to the latter, "of believing every man good till he knew him to be bad, and his notions right till he knew them wrong." he could not but be very sensible of the unhappy consequences which may follow on attacking the characters of men, especially of those who are ministers of the gospel; and if, through a mixture of human frailty, from which the best of men, in the best of their meanings and intentions, are not entirely free, he had ever, in the warmth of his heart, dropped a word which might be injurious to any on that account, (which i believe very seldom happened,) he would gladly retract it on better information; and this was perfectly agreeable to that honest and generous frankness of temper in which i never knew any man who excelled him. on the whole, it was indeed his deliberate judgment that the arian, socinian, and pelagian doctrines were highly dishonourable to god, and dangerous to the souls of men; and that it was the duty of private christians to be greatly on their guard against those ministers by whom they are entertained, lest their minds should be corrupted from the simplicity that is in christ. yet he sincerely abhorred the thought of persecution for conscience sake; of the absurdity and iniquity of which, in all its kinds and degrees, he had as deep and rational a conviction as any man. indeed the generosity of his heroic heart could hardly bear to think that those glorious truths which he so cordially loved, and which he assuredly believed to be capable of such fair support both from reason and the word of god, should be disgraced by methods of defence and propagation common to the most impious and ridiculous falsehoods. nor did he by any means approve of passionate and furious ways of vindicating the most vital and important doctrines of the gospel; for he knew that to maintain the most benevolent religion in the world by such malevolent and infernal methods was destroying the end to accomplish the means; and that it was as impossible that true christianity should be supported thus, as it is that a man should long be nourished by eating his own flesh. to display the genuine fruits of christianity in a good life--to be ready to plead with meekness for the doctrines it teaches, and to labour, by every office of humanity and goodness, to gain upon those who oppose it, were the weapons with which this good soldier of jesus christ faithfully fought the battles of the lord. these weapons will always be victorious in his cause; and they who have recourse to others of a different temper, how strong soever they may seem, and how sharp soever they may really be, will find them break in their hands when they exert them most furiously, and are much more likely to wound themselves than to conquer the enemies whom they oppose. but while i am speaking of colonel gardiner's charity in this respect, i must not omit that of another kind, which has indeed engrossed the name of charity, excellent as it is, much more than it ought--i mean alms-giving for which he was very remarkable. i have often wondered how he was able to do so many generous things in this way. but his frugality fed the spring. he made no pleasurable expense on himself, and was contented with a very decent appearance in his family, without affecting such an air of grandeur as could not have been supported without sacrificing to it satisfactions far nobler, and, to a temper like his, far more delightful. the lively and tender feelings of his heart in favour of the distressed and afflicted made it a self-indulgence to relieve them; and the deep conviction he had of the vain and transitory nature of the enjoyments of this world, together with the sublime view he had of another, engaged him to dispense his bounties with a very liberal hand, and even to seek out proper objects of them. above all, his sincere and ardent love to the lord jesus christ engaged him to feel, with a true sympathy, the concerns of his poor members. in consequence of this, he honoured several of his friends with commissions for the relief of the poor; and particularly, with relation to some under my pastoral care, he referred it to my discretion to supply them with what i should judge expedient, and frequently pressed me, in his letters, "to be sure not to let them want." and where persons standing in need of his charity happened, as they often did, to be persons of remarkably religious dispositions, it was easy to perceive that he not only loved but honoured them, and really esteemed it an honour which providence conferred upon him, that he should be made, as it were, the almoner of god for their relief. i cannot forbear relating a little story here, which, when the colonel himself heard it, gave him such exquisite pleasure, that i hope it will be acceptable to several of my readers. there was in a village about nine miles from northampton, and in a family which, of all others near me, was afterwards most indebted to him, (though he had never then seen any member of it,) an aged and poor, but eminently good woman, who had, with great difficulty, in the exercise of much faith and patience, diligence and humility, made shift to educate a large family of children after the death of her husband, without being chargeable to the parish; which, as it was quite beyond her hope, she often spoke of with great delight. at length, when worn out with age and infirmities, she lay upon her death-bed, she, in a most lively and affecting manner, expressed her hope and joy in the views of approaching glory. yet, amidst all the triumphs of such a prospect, there was one remaining care and distress which lay heavy on her mind; this was, that as her journey and her stock of provisions were both ended together, she feared that she must either be buried at the parish expense, or leave to her most dutiful and affectionate daughters the house stripped of some of the few movables which remained in it, in order to perform the last office of duty to her, which she had reason to believe they would do. while she was combatting with this only remaining anxiety, i happened, though i knew not the extremity of her illness, to come in, and to bring with me a guinea which the generous colonel had sent by a special message, on hearing the character of the family, for its relief. a present like this, (probably the most considerable they had ever received in their lives,) coming in this manner from an entire stranger at such a crisis of time, threw my dying friend (for such, amidst all her poverty, i rejoiced to call her) into a perfect transport of joy. she esteemed it a singular favour of providence sent to her in her last moments as a token for good, and greeted it as a special mark of that loving kindness of god which should attend her for ever. she insisted, therefore, to be raised up in her bed, that she might bless god for it upon her knees, and with her last breath pray for her kind and generous benefactor, and for him who had been the instrument of directing his bounty into this channel. after this she soon expired, and with such tranquillity and sweetness as could not but most sensibly delight all who beheld her, and occasioned many who knew the circumstance to glorify god on her behalf. the colonel's last residence at northampton was in june and july , when lord cadogan's regiment of dragoons was quartered here. here i cannot but observe, that wherever that regiment came, it was remarkable not only for the fine appearance it made, and for the exactness with which it performed its various exercises, (of which it had about this time the honour to receive the most illustrious testimonials,) but also for the great sobriety and regularity of the soldiers. many of the officers copied after the excellent pattern which they had daily before their eyes; and a considerable number of the private men seemed to be persons not only of strict virtue, but of serious piety. i doubt not but they found their abundant account in it, not only in the serenity and happiness of their own minds, which is beyond comparison the most important consideration; but also, in some degree, in the obliging and respectful treatment which they generally met with in their quarters. i mention this, because i am persuaded that if gentlemen of their profession knew, and would reflect, how much more comfortable they make their own quarters by a sober, orderly, and obliging conduct, they would be regular out of mere self love, if they were not influenced, as i heartily wish they may always be, by a nobler principle. chapter xi. embarks for flanders. towards the latter end of this year he embarked for flanders, and spent some considerable time with the regiment at ghent, where he much regretted the want of those religious ordinances and opportunities which had made his other abodes delightful. but as he had made so eminent a progress in that divine life which they are all intended to promote, he could not be inactive in the cause of god. i have now before me a letter, dated from thence october , , in which he writes: "as for me, i am indeed in a dry and barren land, where no water is. rivers of waters run down mine eyes, because nothing is to be heard in our sodom but blaspheming the name of my god, and i not honoured as the instrument of doing any great service. it is true, i have reformed six or seven field-officers of swearing. i dine every day with them, and have entered them into a voluntary contract to pay a shilling to the poor for every oath, and it is wonderful to observe the effect it has had already. one of them told me this day at dinner that it had really such an influence upon him, that being at cards last night when another officer fell a swearing, he was not able to bear it, but rose up and left the company. so you see, restraints at first arising from a low principle may improve into something better." during his abode here, he had a great deal of business upon his hands, and had also, in some marches, the care of more regiments than his own; and it has been very delightful to me to observe what a degree of converse with heaven, and the god of it, he maintained amidst these scenes of hurry and fatigue, of which the reader may find a remarkable specimen in the following letter, dated from lichwick in the beginning of april , which was one of the last i received from him while abroad. it begins with these words:-- "yesterday being the lord's day, at six in the morning i had the pleasure of receiving yours at nortonick; and it proved a sabbath day's blessing to me. some time before it reached me," (from whence, by the way, it may be observed that his former custom of rising so early in his devotions was still retained,) "i had been wrestling with god with many tears; and when i had read it, i returned to my knees again to give hearty thanks to him for all his goodness to you and yours, and also to myself, in that he hath been pleased to stir up so many who are dear to him, to be mindful of me at the throne of grace." then, after the mention of some other particulars, he adds:-- "blessed and adored for ever be the holy name of my heavenly father, who holds my soul in life, and my body in perfect health! were i to recount his mercy and goodness to me even in the midst of all these hurries, i should never have done. i hope your master will still encourage you in his work, and make you a blessing to many. my dearest friend, i am much more yours than i can express, and shall remain so while i am j.g." in this correspondence i had a further opportunity of discovering that humble resignation to the will of god which made so amiable a part of his character, and of which i had before seen so many instances. he speaks, in the letter from which i have just been giving an extract, of the hope he had expressed in a former of seeing us again that winter; and he adds:-- "to be sure, it would have been a great pleasure to me; but we poor mortals form projects, and the almighty ruler of the universe disposes of all as he pleases. a great many of us were getting ready for our return to england, when we received an order to march towards frankfort, to the great surprise of the whole army, neither can any of us comprehend what we are to do there; for there is no enemy in that country, the french army being marched into bavaria, where i am sure we cannot follow them. but it is the will of the lord, and his will be done! i desire to bless and praise my heavenly father that i am entirely resigned to it. it is no matter where i go, or what becomes of me, so that god may be glorified in my life, or my death, i should rejoice much to hear that all my friends were equally resigned." the mention of this article reminds me of another relating to the views which he had of obtaining a regiment for himself. he endeavoured to deserve it by the most faithful services; some of them, indeed beyond what the strength of his constitution could well bear--for the weather in some of these marches proved exceedingly bad, and yet he would be always at the head of his people, that he might look, with the exactest care, to every thing that concerned them. this obliged him to neglect the beginnings of a feverish illness, the natural consequence of which was that it grew very formidable, forced a long confinement upon him, and gave animal nature a shock which it never recovered. in the mean time, as he had the promise of a regiment before he quitted england, his friends were continually expecting an occasion of congratulating him on having received the command of one. still they were disappointed, and on some of them the disappointment seemed to sit heavy. as for the colonel himself, he seemed quite easy about it, and appeared much greater in that easy situation of mind than the highest military honours and preferments could have made him. with great pleasure do i at this moment recollect the unaffected serenity, and even indifference, with which he expresses himself upon this occasion, in a letter to me, dated about the beginning of april, . "the disappointment of a regiment is nothing to me, for i am satisfied that, had it been for god's glory, i should have had it, and i should have been sorry to have had it on any other terms. my heavenly father has bestowed upon me infinitely more than if he had made me emperor of the whole world." i find several parallel expressions in other letters, and those to his lady about the same time were just in the same strain. in an extract from one which was written from aix-la-chapelle, april , the same year, i meet with these words: "people here imagine i must be sadly troubled that i have not got a regiment, (for six out of seven vacant are now disposed of): but they are strangely mistaken, for it has given me no sort of trouble. my heavenly father knows what is best for me; and blessed and ever adored be his name, he has given me an entire resignation to his will. besides, i do not know that i met with any disappointment, since i was a christian, but it pleased god to discover to me that it was plainly for my advantage, by bestowing something better upon me afterwards, many instances of which i am able to produce; and therefore i should be the greatest of monsters, if i did not trust in him." i should be guilty of a great omission, if i were not to add how remarkably the event corresponded with his faith on this occasion; for whereas he had no intimation or expectation of any thing more than a regiment of foot, his majesty was pleased, out of his great goodness, to give him a regiment of dragoons which was then quartered in his own neighborhood. it is properly remarked by the reverend and worthy person through whose hand this letter was transmitted to me, that when the colonel thus expressed himself, he could have no prospect of what he afterwards so soon obtained, as general bland's regiment, to which he was advanced, was only vacant on the th of april--that is, two days before the date of this letter, when it was impossible he should have any notice of that vacancy. it also deserves observation, that some few days after the colonel was thus unexpectedly promoted to the command of these dragoons, lord cornwallis's regiment of foot, then in flanders, became vacant. now, had this happened before his promotion to general bland's, colonel gardiner, in all probability, would only have had that regiment of foot, and so would have continued in flanders. when the affair was settled, he informs lady frances of it in a letter dated from a village near frankfort, d may, in which he refers to his former of the st of april, observing how remarkably it was verified "in god's having given him" (for so he expressed it, agreeably to the views which he continually maintained of the universal agency of divine providence) "what he had no expectation of, and what was so much better than that which he had missed--a regiment of dragoons quartered at his own door." chapter xii. return to england. it appeared to him that by this remarkable event providence called him home. accordingly, though he had other preferments offered him in the army, he chose to return, and i believe the more willingly, as he did not expect there would have been an action. just at this time it pleased god to give him an awful instance of the uncertainty of human prospects and enjoyments, by that violent fever which seized him at ghent on his way to england, and perhaps the more severely for the efforts he made to push on his journey, though he had for some days been much indisposed. it was, i think, one of the first fits of severe illness he had ever met with, and he was ready to look upon it as a sudden call into eternity; but it gave him no painful alarm in that view. he committed himself to the god of his life, and in a few weeks he was so well recovered as to be capable of pursuing his journey, though not without difficulty. i cannot but think it might have conduced much to a more perfect recovery than he ever attained, to have allowed himself a longer repose, in order to recruit his exhausted strength and spirits. but there was an activity in his temper not easy to be restrained, and it was now stimulated, not only with a desire to see his friends, but of being with his regiment, that he might omit nothing in his power to regulate their morals and their discipline, and to form them for public service. accordingly, about the middle of june, , he passed through london, where he had the honour of waiting on their royal highnesses, the prince and princess of wales, and of receiving from both the most obliging token of favour and esteem. he arrived at northampton on monday the st of june, and spent part of three days there. but the great pleasure which his return and preferment gave us, was much abated by observing his countenance so sadly altered, and the many marks of languor and remaining disorder which evidently appeared, so that he really looked ten years older than he had done ten months before. i had, however, a satisfaction sufficient to counterbalance much of the concern which this alteration gave me, in a renewed opportunity of observing, indeed more sensibly than ever, in how remarkable a degree he was dead to the enjoyments and views of this mortal life. when i congratulated him on the favourable appearances of providence for him in the late event, he briefly told me the remarkable circumstances that attended it, with the most genuine expressions of gratitude to god for them; but added, "that as his account was increased with his income, power, influence, and his cares were proportionably increased too, it was, as to his own personal concern, much the same to him whether he had remained in his former station, or been elevated to this; but that if god should by this means honour him as an instrument of doing more good than he could otherwise have done, he should rejoice in it." i perceived that the near views he had taken of eternity, in the illness from which he was then so imperfectly recovered, had not in the least alarmed him; but that he would have been entirely willing, had such been the determination of god, to have been cut short in a foreign land, without any earthly friend near him, and in the midst of a journey undertaken with hopes and prospects so pleasing to nature, which appeared to me no inconsiderable evidence of the strength of his faith. but we shall wonder the less at this extraordinary resignation, if we consider the joyful and assured prospect which he had of a happiness infinitely superior beyond the grave; of which that worthy minister of the church of scotland, who had an opportunity of conversing with him quickly after his return, and having the memorable story of his conversion from his own mouth, (as i have hinted above,) writes thus in his letter to me, dated jan. , - : "when he came to review his regiment at linlithgow, in summer , after having given me the wonderful story as above, he concluded in words to this purpose: let me die whenever it shall please god, or wherever it shall be, i am sure i shall go to the mansions of eternal glory, and enjoy my god and my redeemer in heaven for ever." while he was with us at this time he appeared deeply affected with the sad state of things as to religion and morals, and seemed to apprehend that the rod of god was hanging over so sinful a nation. he observed a great deal of disaffection which the enemies of the government had, by a variety of artifices, been raising in scotland for some years; and the number of jacobites there, together with the defenceless state in which our island then was, with respect to the number of its forces at home, (of which he spoke at once with great concern and astonishment,) led him to expect an invasion from france, and an attempt in favour of the pretender, much sooner than it happened. i have heard him often say, many years before it came so near being accomplished, "that a few thousands might have a fair chance for marching from edinburgh to london uncontrolled, and throw the whole kingdom into an astonishment." and i have great reason to believe that this was one main consideration which engaged him to make such haste to his regiment, then quartered in those parts, as he imagined there was not a spot of ground where he might be more likely to have a call to expose his life in the service of his country, and perhaps, by appealing on a proper call early in its defences, be instrumental in suppressing the beginnings of most formidable mischief. how rightly he judged in these things, the event too evidently showed. the evening before our last separation, as i knew i could not more agreeably entertain the valuable friend who was then my guest, i preached a sermon in my own house, with some peculiar reference to his case and circumstances, from those ever-memorable words, than which i have never felt any more powerful and more comfortable: psalm xci. , , , "because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will i deliver him: i will set him on high, because he hath known my name. he shall call upon me, and i will answer him; i will be with him in trouble, i will deliver him, and honour him: with long life (or length of days) will i satisfy him, and show him my salvation." this scripture could not but lend our meditations to survey the character of the good man, as one who so knows the name of the blessed god--has such a deep apprehension of the glories and perfections of his nature--as determinately to set his love upon him, to make him the supreme object of his most ardent and constant affection. and it suggested the most sublime and animating hopes to persons of such a character, that their prayers shall be always acceptable to god; that though they may, and must, be called to their share in the troubles and calamities of life, yet they may assure themselves of the divine presence in all, which will issue in their deliverance, in their exaltation, sometimes in distinguished honour and esteem among men, and, it may be, in a long course of useful and happy years on earth; at least, which shall undoubtedly end in seeing, to their perpetual delight, the complete salvation of god, in a world where they shall enjoy length of days for ever and ever, and employ them all in adoring the great author of their salvation and felicity. it is evident that these natural thoughts on such a scripture were matters of universal concern. yet had i, as a minister of the gospel, known that this was the last time i should address colonel gardiner, and had i foreseen the scenes through which god was about to lead him, i hardly know what considerations i could have suggested with more peculiar propriety. the attention, elevation, and delight with which he heard them, were very apparent, and the pleasure which the observation of it gave me, continues to this moment. let me be permitted to digress so far as to add, that this is indeed the great support of a christian minister under the many discouragements and disappointments which he meets with in his attempts to fix upon the profligate or the thoughtless part of mankind a deep sense of religious truth; that there is another important part of his work in which he may hope to be more generally successful; as, by plain, artless, but serious discourses, the great principles of christian duty and hope may be nourished and invigorated in good men, their graces watered as at the root, and their souls animated, both to persevere and improve in holiness. when we are effectually performing such benevolent offices, so well suiting our immortal natures, to persons whose hearts are cemented with ours in the hands of the most endearing and sacred friendship, it is too little to say that it overpays the fatigue of our labours; it even swallows up all sense of it in the most rational and sublime pleasure. an incident occurred that evening, which, at least for the oddness of it, may deserve a place in these memoirs. i had then with me one thomas porter, a poor but very honest and religious man, (now living at hatfield broad-oak in essex,) who is quite unacquainted with letters, so as not to be able to distinguish one from another, yet is master of the contents of the bible in so extraordinary a degree, that he has not only fixed an immense number of texts in his memory, but, merely by hearing them quoted in sermons, has registered there the chapter and verse in which these passages are to be found. this is attended with a marvellous facility in directing readers to turn to them, and a most unaccountable talent of fixing on such as suit almost every imaginable variety of circumstances in common life. there are in this case two considerations that make it the more wonderful; the one, that he is a person of very low genius, having, besides a stammering which makes his speech almost unintelligible to strangers, so wild and awkward a manner of behaviour, that he is frequently taken for an idiot, and seems in many things to be indeed so;--the other, that he grew up to manhood in a very licentious course of living, and an entire ignorance of divine things, so that all these exact impressions on his memory have been made in his riper years. i thought it would not be disagreeable to the colonel to introduce to him this odd phenomenon, which many hundreds of people have had a curiosity to examine; and, among all the strange things i have seen in him, i never remember any that equalled what passed on this occasion. on hearing the colonel's profession, and receiving some hints of his religious character, he ran through a vast variety of scriptures, beginning at the pentateuch and going on to the revelation, relating either to the dependence to be fixed on god for the success of military preparations, or to the instances and promises occurring there for his care of good men in the most imminent dangers, or to the encouragement to despise perils and death, while engaged in a good cause, and supported by the views of a happy immortality. i believe he quoted more than twenty of these passages, and i must freely own that i know not who could have chosen them with greater propriety. if my memory deceive me not, the last of this catalogue was that from which i afterwards preached, on the lamented occasion of this great man's fall: "be thou faithful unto death, and i will give thee a crown of life." we were all astonished at so remarkable a feat, and i question not but many of my readers will think the memory of it worthy of being thus preserved. but to return to my main subject: the day after the sermon and conversation of which i have been speaking, i took my best leave of my inestimable friend, after attending him some part of his way northward. the first stage of our journey was to the cottage of that poor but religious family which i had before occasion to mention as relieved, and indeed in a great measure subsisted by his charity. nothing could be more delightful than to observe the condescension with which he conversed with these his humble pensioners. we there put up our last united prayers together; and he afterwards expressed, in the strongest terms i have ever heard him use on such an occasion, the singular pleasure with which he had joined in them. indeed it was no small satisfaction to me to have an opportunity of recommending such a valuable friend to the divine protection and blessing, with that particular freedom and enlargement on what was peculiar in his circumstances, which hardly any other situation, unless we had been quite alone, could so conveniently have admitted. we went from thence to the table of a person of distinction in the neighborhood, where he had an opportunity of showing in how decent and graceful a manner he could unite the christian and the gentleman, and give conversation an improving and religious turn, without violating any of the rules of polite behaviour, or saying or doing any thing, which looked at all constrained or affected. here we took our last embrace, committing each other to the care of the god of heaven; and the colonel pursued his journey to the north, where he spent the remainder of his days. the more i reflect upon this appointment of providence, the more i discern the beauty and wisdom of it--not only as it led directly to that glorious period of life with which god had determined to honour him, and in which, i think, it becomes all his friends to rejoice, but also as the retirement on which he entered could not but have a happy tendency to favour his more immediate and complete preparation for so speedy a remove. to this we may add, that it must probably have a very powerful influence to promote the interests of religion (incomparably the greatest of all interests) among the members of his own family, who must surely be edified by such daily lessons as they received from his lips, when they saw them illustrated and enforced by so admirable an example, and for two complete years. it is the more remarkable, as i cannot find from the memoirs of his life in my hands that he had ever been so long at home since he had a family, or indeed, from his childhood, ever so long at a time in any one place. with how clear a lustre his lamp shone, and with what holy vigour his loins were girded up in the service of his god in these his latter days, i learn in part from the letters of several excellent persons in the ministry, or in secular life, with whom i have since conversed or corresponded. in his many letters dated from bankton during this period, i have still further evidence how happy he was amidst those infirmities of body, which his tenderness for me would seldom allow him to mention; for it appears from them what a daily intercourse he kept up with heaven, and what delightful communion with god crowned his attendance on public ordinances, and his sweet hours of devout retirement. he mentions his sacramental opportunities with peculiar relish, crying out, as in a holy rapture, in reference to one and another of them, "oh how gracious a master do we serve! how pleasant is his service; how rich the entertainments of his love! yet how poor and cold are our services!" but i will not multiply quotations of this sort after those i have given above, which may be a sufficient specimen of many more in the same strain. this hint may suffice to show that the same ardour of soul held out in a great measure to the last; and indeed it seems that towards the close of life, like the flame of a lamp almost expiring, it sometimes exerted an unusual blaze. he spent much of his time at bankton in religious solitude; and one most intimately conversant with him assures me that the traces of that delightful converse with god which he enjoyed in it might easily be discerned in the solemn yet cheerful countenance with which he often came out of his closet. yet his exercises there must sometimes have been very mournful, considering the melancholy views which he had of the state of our public affairs. "i should be glad," says he, (in a letter which he sent me about the close of the year ,) "to hear what wise and good people among you think of the present circumstances of things. for my own part, though i thank god i fear nothing for myself, my apprehensions for the public are very gloomy, considering the deplorable prevalency of almost all kinds of wickedness amongst us--the natural consequence of the contempt of the gospel. i am daily offering my prayers to god for this sinful land of ours, over which his judgments seem to be gathering; and my strength is sometimes so exhausted with those strong cries and tears, which i pour out before god on this occasion, that i am hardly able to stand when i arise from my knees." if we have many remaining to stand in the breach with equal fervency, i hope, crying as our provocations are, that god will still be entreated for us, and save us. most of the other letters i had the pleasure of receiving from him after our last separation, are either filled, like those of former years, with tender expressions of affectionate solicitude for my domestic comfort and public usefulness, or relate to the writings i published during this time, or to the affairs of his eldest son, then under my care. but these are things which are by no means of a nature to be communicated here. it is enough to remark, in general, that the christian was still mingled with all the care of the friend and the parent. chapter xiii. revival of religion. but i think it incumbent upon me to observe, that during this time, and for some preceding years, his attention, ever wakeful to such concerns, was much engaged by some religious appearances which happened about this time both in england and scotland, and with regard to which some may be curious to know the colonel's sentiments. he communicated them to me with the most unreserved freedom; and i cannot apprehend myself under any engagement to conceal them, as i am persuaded that it will be no prejudice to his memory that they should be publicly known. it was from colonel gardiner's pen that i received the first notice of that ever memorable scene which was opened at kilsyth, under the ministry of the rev. mr. m'culloch in the month of february, - . he communicated to me the copy of two letters from that eminently-favoured servant of god, giving an account of that extraordinary success which had within a few days accompanied his preaching, when, as i remember, in a little more than a fortnight, one hundred and thirty souls, who had before continued in long insensibility under the faithful preaching of the gospel, were awakened on a sudden to attend to it, as if it had been a new revelation brought down from heaven, and attested by as astonishing miracles as ever were wrought by peter or paul, though they only heard it from a person under whose ministry they had sat for several years. struck with a power and majesty in the word of god which they had never felt before, they crowded his house night and day, making their applications to him for spiritual direction and assistance, with an earnestness and solicitude which floods of tears and cries, that swallowed up their own words and his, could not sufficiently express. the colonel mentioned this at first to me "as matter of eternal praise, which he knew would rejoice my very soul;" and when he saw it spread in the neighbouring parts, and observed the glorious reformation which it produced in the lives of great multitudes, and the abiding fruits of it, for succeeding months and years, it increased and confirmed his joy. but the facts relating to this matter have been laid before the world in so authentic a manner, and the agency of divine grace in them has been so rationally vindicated, and so pathetically represented, in what the reverend and judicious mr. webster has written upon that subject, that it is altogether superfluous for me to add any thing further than my hearty prayers that the work may be as extensive as it was glorious and divine.[*] [*note: see "revivals in scotland," published by the board of publication.] it was with great pleasure that he received any intelligence of a like kind from england, whether the clergy of the established church or dissenting ministers, whether our own countrymen or foreigners, were the instruments of it. whatever weaknesses or errors might mingle themselves with valuable qualities in such as were active in such a work, he appeared to love and honour them in proportion to the degree he saw reason to believe that their hearts were devoted to the service of christ, and their attempts owned and succeeded by him. i remember, that mentioning one of these gentlemen who had been remarkably successful in his ministry, and who seemed to have met with some very unkind usage, he says, "i had rather be that despised, persecuted man, to be an instrument in the hand of the spirit in converting so many souls, and building up so many in their holy faith, than i would be emperor of the whole world." yet this steady and judicious christian, (for such he most assuredly was,) at the same time that he esteemed a man for his good intentions, and his worthy qualities, did not suffer himself to be hurried away into all the singularity of his sentiments, or to admire his imprudences or excesses. on the contrary, he saw and lamented that artifice which the great father of fraud has so long and so successfully been practising, and who, like the enemies of israel, when he cannot entirely prevent the building of god's temple, does, as it were, offer his assistance to carry on the work, that he may thereby get the most effectual opportunities of obstructing it. the colonel often expressed his astonishment at the wide extremes into which some whom on the whole he thought very worthy men, were permitted to run in many doctrinal and speculative points, and discerned how evidently it appeared from hence that we cannot argue the truth of any doctrine from the success of the preacher, since this would be a kind of demonstration which might equally prove both parts of a contradiction. yet when he observed that a high regard to the atonement and righteousness of christ, and to the free grace of god in him, exerted by the operation of the divine spirit, was generally common to all who had been peculiarly successful in the conversion and reformation of men, (how widely soever their judgments might differ in other points, and how warmly soever their judgments might oppose each other in consequence of that diversity,) it tended greatly to confirm his faith in these principles, as well as to open his heart in love to all, of every denomination, who maintained an affectionate regard to them. although what he remarked as to the conduct and success of ministers of the most opposite strains of preaching confirmed him in these sentiments, yet he always esteemed and loved virtuous and benevolent men, even where he thought them the most mistaken in the notions they formed of religion, or in the methods by which they attempted to serve it. while i thus represent what all who knew him must soon have observed of colonel gardiner's affectionate regard to these peculiar doctrines of our holy religion, it is necessary that i should also inform my reader that it was not his opinion that the attention of ministers or their hearers should be wholly engrossed by these, excellent as they are; but that all the parts of the scheme of truth and duty should be regarded in their due connection and proportion. far from that distempered taste which can bear nothing but cordials, it was his deliberate judgment that the law as well as the gospel should be preached; and hardly any thing gave him greater offence than the irreverent manner in which some who have been ignorantly extolled as the most zealous evangelical preachers, have sometimes been tempted to speak of the former, much indeed to the scandal of all consistent and judicious christians. he delighted to be instructed in his duty, and to hear much of the inward exercises of the spiritual and divine life. he always wished, so far as i could observe, to have these topics treated in a rational as well as spiritual manner, with solidity and order of thought, with perspicuity and weight of expression, well knowing that religion is a most reasonable service--that god has not chosen idiots or lunatics as the instruments, or nonsense as the means of building up his church--and that though the charge of enthusiasm is often fixed on christianity and its ministers in a wild, undeserved, and, indeed, on the whole, enthusiastical manner, by some of the loudest or most solemn pretenders to reason, yet there is really such a thing as enthusiasm, against which it becomes the true friends of revelation to be diligently on their guard, lest christianity, instead of being exalted, should be greatly corrupted and debased, and all manner of absurdity, both in doctrine and practice, introduced by methods which, like persecution, throw truth and falsehood on a level, and render the grossest errors at once more plausible and more incurable. he had too much candour and equity to fix general charges of this nature; but he was really (and i think not vainly,) apprehensive that the emissaries and agents of the most corrupt church that ever dishonoured the christian name, (by which, it will easily be understood, i mean that of rome,) might very possibly insinuate themselves into societies to which they could not otherwise have access, and make their advantage of that total resignation of the understanding, and contempt of reason and learning, which nothing but ignorance, delirium, or knavery can dictate, to lead men blindfolded whither it pleased, till it set them down at the foot of an altar where transubstantiation itself was consecrated. i know not where i can more properly introduce another part of the colonel's character, which, obvious as it was, i have not yet touched upon; i mean his tenderness to those who were under any spiritual distress, wherein he was indeed an example to ministers in a duty more peculiarly theirs. i have seen many amiable instances of this myself, and i have been informed of many others. one of these happened about the time of that awakening in the western parts of scotland, which i touched upon above, when the rev. mr. m'laurin, of glasgow, found occasion to witness to the great propriety, judgment, and felicity of manner, with which he addressed spiritual consolation to an afflicted soul who applied to the professor at a time when he had not an opportunity immediately to give audience to the case. indeed so long ago as the year , i find him writing in this regard to a friend in a strain of tenderness which might well have become the most affectionate and experienced pastor. he there congratulates him on some religious enjoyments, lately received, (in part, it seems, by his means) when, among others, he has this modest expression: "if i have been made any way the means of doing you good, give the whole glory to god; for he has been willing to show that the power was entirely of himself, since he has been pleased to make use of so very weak an instrument." in the same letter he admonishes his friend that he should not be too much surprised, if after having been (as he expressed it) upon the mount, he should be brought into this valley again, reminding him that "we live by faith, and not by sensible assurance," and representing that there are some such full communications from god as seem almost to swallow up the actings of faith, from whence they take their rise: "whereas, when a christian who walks in darkness, and sees no light, will yet hang, as it were, on the report of an absent jesus, and" (as one expresses it in allusion to the story of jacob and joseph) "can put himself as on the chariot of the promises, to be borne on to him whom he sees not; there may be sublimer and more acceptable actings of a pure and strong faith than in moments which afford the soul a much more rapturous delight." this is the substance of what he says in this excellent letter. some of the phrases made use of might not perhaps be intelligible to several of my readers, for which reason i do not exactly transcribe them all; but this is plainly and fully his meaning, and most of the words are his own. the sentiment is surly very just and important; and happy would it be for many excellent persons, who, through wrong notions of the nature of faith, (which was never more misrepresented than now among some,) are perplexing themselves with the most groundless doubts and scruples, if it were more generally understood, admitted, and considered. chapter xiv. apprehensions of death. an endeared friend, who was most intimately conversant with the colonel during the last two years of his life, has favoured me with an account of some little circumstances relating to him, which i esteem as precious fragments, by which the consistent tenor of his character may be further illustrated. i shall therefore insert them here, without being very solicitous as to the order in which they are introduced. he perceived himself evidently in a very declining state from his first arrival in britain, and seemed to entertain a fixed apprehension that he should continue but a little while longer in life. "he expected death," says my good correspondent, "and was delighted with the prospect," which did not grow less amiable by the nearer approach. the word of god, with which he had as intimate an acquaintance as most men i ever knew, and on which (especially on the new testament) i have heard him make many very judicious and accurate remarks, was still his daily study; and it furnished him with matter of frequent conversation, much to the edification and comfort of those that were about him. it was recollected that, among other passages, he had lately spoken of the following as having made a deep impression on his mind: "my soul, wait thou only upon god." he would repeat it again and again, _only, only, only_! so plainly did he see, and so deeply did he feel, the vanity of creature confidence and expectations. with the strongest attestation would he often mention those words in isaiah, as verified by long experience: "thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee." and with peculiar satisfaction would he utter those heroic words in habakkuk, which he found armour of proof against every fear and every contingency: "though the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meal; the flocks shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls; yet i will rejoice in the lord, i will joy in the god of my salvation." the th psalm was also spoken of by him with great delight, and dr. watts's version of it, as well as several others of that excellent person's poetical compositions. my friend who transmits to me this account, adds the following words, which i desire to insert with the deepest sentiments of unfeigned humility and self-abasement before god, as most unworthy the honour of contributing in the least degree to the joys and graces of one so much my superior in every part of the christian character. "as the joy with which good men see the happy fruits of their labours, makes a part of the present reward of the servants of god and the friends of jesus, it must not be omitted, even in a letter to you, that your spiritual hymns were among his most delightful and soul-improving repasts; particularly those on beholding transgressors with grief, and christ's message." what is added concerning my book of the rise and progress of religion, and the terms in which he expressed his esteem of it, i cannot suffer to pass my pen; only i desire most sincerely to bless god, that, especially by the last chapters of that treatise, i had an opportunity, at so great a distance, of exhibiting some offices of christian friendship to this excellent person in the closing scenes of life, which it would have been my greatest joy to have performed in person, had providence permitted me then to have been near him. the former of these hymns, which my correspondent mentions as having been so agreeable to colonel gardiner, i have given the reader already. the latter, which is called christ's message, took its rise from luke iv. , , and is as follows: hark! the glad sound! the saviour comes, the saviour promised long; let every heart prepare a throne, and every voice a song. on him the spirit largely poured, exerts its sacred fire; wisdom and might, and zeal and love, his holy breast inspire. he comes the prisoners to release, in satan's bondage held; the gates of brass before him burst, the iron fetters yield. he comes, from thickest films of vice to clear the mental ray, and on the eye-balls of the blind to pour celestial day.[*] he comes the broken heart to bind, the bleeding soul to cure; and with the treasures of his grace to enrich the humble poor. his silver trumpets publish loud the jubilee of the lord; our debts are all remitted now, our heritage restored. our glad hosannas, prince of peace! thy welcome shall proclaim; and heaven's eternal arches ring with thy beloved name. [*note: this stanza is mostly borrowed from mr. pope.] there is one hymn more i shall beg leave to add, plain as it is, which colonel gardiner has been heard to mention with particular regard, as expressing the inmost sentiments of his soul, and they were undoubtedly so in the last rational moments of his expiring life. it is called 'christ precious to the believer,' and was composed to be sung after a sermon on pet. ii . jesus! i love thy charming name, 'tis music to my ear: fain would i sound it out so loud, that earth and heaven should hear. yea! thou art precious to my soul, my transport and my trust; jewels to thee are gaudy toys, and gold is sordid dust. all my capacious powers can wish, in thee most richly meet; nor to mine eyes is life so dear, nor friendship half so sweet. thy grace still dwells upon my heart, and sheds its fragrance there; the noblest balm of all its wounds, the cordial of its care. i'll speak the honours of thy name with my last labouring breath; then speechless clasp thee in my arms, the antidote of death. those who were intimate with colonel gardiner, must have observed how ready he was to give a devotional turn to any subject that occurred. in particular, the spiritual and heavenly disposition of his soul discovered itself in the reflections and improvements which he made when reading history, in which he took a great deal of pleasure, as persons remarkable for their knowledge of mankind, and observation of providence, generally do. i have an instance of this before me, which, though too natural to be at all surprising, will, i dare say, be pleasing to the devout mind. he had just been reading, in rollin's extracts from xenophon, the answer which the lady of tigranes made when all the company were extolling cyrus, and expressing the admiration with which his appearance and behaviour struck them. the question being asked her, what she thought of him? she answered, "i do not know; i did not observe him." on what, then, said one of the company did you fix your attention? "on him," replied she, (referring to the generous speech which her husband had just made,) "who said he would give a thousand lives to ransom my liberty." "oh," cried the colonel, when reading it, "how ought we to fix our eyes and hearts on him who, not in offer, but in reality, gave his own precious life to ransom us from the most dreadful slavery, and from eternal destruction!" but this is only one instance among a thousand. his heart was so habitually set upon divine things, and he had such a permanent and overflowing sense of the love of christ, that he could not forbear connecting such reflections with a multitude of more distant occasions occurring in daily life, on which less advanced christians would not have thought of them; and thus, like our great master, he made every little incident a source of devotion, and an instrument of holy zeal. enfeebled as his constitution was, he was still intent on improving his time to some valuable purpose; and when his friends expostulated with him that he gave his body so little rest, he used to answer, "it will rest long enough in the grave." the july before his death, he was persuaded to take a journey to scarborough for the recovery of his health, from which he was at least encouraged to expect some little revival. after this he had thoughts of going to london, and intended to have spent part of september at northampton. the expectation of this was mutually agreeable; but providence saw fit to disconcert the scheme. his love for his friends in these parts occasioned him to express some regret on his being commanded back; and i am pretty confident, from the manner in which he expressed himself in one of his last letters to me, that he had some more important reasons for wishing an opportunity of making a london journey just at that crisis, which, the reader will remember, was before the rebellion broke out. but, as providence determined it otherwise, he acquiesced; and i am well satisfied, that could he have distinctly foreseen the approaching event, so far as it concerned his own person, he would have esteemed it the happiest summons he ever received. while he was at scarborough, i find by a letter dated from thence, july , , that he had been informed of the gaiety which so unseasonably prevailed at edinburgh, where great multitudes were then spending their time in balls, assemblies, and other gay amusements, little mindful of the rod of god which was then hanging over them; on which occasion he hath this expression: "i am greatly surprised that the people of edinburgh should be employed in such foolish diversions, when our situation is at present more melancholy than ever i saw it in my life. but there is one thing which i am very sure of, and that comforts me, viz., that it shall go well with the righteous, come what will." chapter xv. battle of prestonpans. quickly after his return home, the flame burst out, and his regiment was ordered to stirling. it was in that castle that his lady and eldest daughter enjoyed the last happy hours of his company, and i think it was about ten or twelve days before his death that he parted from them there. a remarkable circumstance attended that parting, which has been touched upon by surviving friends in more than one of their letters to me. his lady was so affected when she took her last leave of him, that she could not forbear bursting out into a flood of tears, with other marks of unusual emotion; and when he asked her the reason, she urged as a sufficient apology, the apprehension she had of losing such an invaluable friend, amidst the dangers to which he was then called out. on this she took particular notice, that whereas he had generally comforted her on such occasions by pleading with her that remarkable hand of providence which had so frequently in former instances been exerted for his preservation, and that in the greatest extremity, he said nothing of it now; but only replied in his sententious manner, "we have an eternity to spend together." that heroic contempt of death which had often discovered itself in the midst of former dangers, was manifested now in his discourse with several of his most intimate friends. i have reserved for this place one genuine expression of it many years before, which i thought might be mentioned with some advantage here. in july, , he had been sent to some place not far from hamilton to quell a mutiny among some of our troops. i know not the particular occasion; but i remember to have heard him mention it as so fierce a one, that he scarcely ever apprehended himself in more hazardous circumstances. yet he quelled it by his presence alone, and the expostulations he used--evidently putting his life into his hand to do it. the particulars of the story struck me much; but i do not so exactly remember them as to venture to relate them here. i only observe, that in a letter dated july , that year, which i have now before me, and which evidently refers to this event, he writes thus: "i have been very busy, hurried about from place to place; but, blessed be god, all is over without bloodshed. and pray let me ask what made you show so much concern for me in your last? were you afraid i should get to heaven before you? or can any evil befall those who are followers of that which is good?"[*] [*note: i doubt not but this will remind some of my readers of that noble speech of zwinglius, when (according to the usage of that country,) attending his flock to a battle in which their religion and liberties were all at stake, on his receiving a mortal wound by a bullet, of which he was expired, while his friends were in all the first astonishment of grief, he bravely said, as he was dying, "_ecquid hoc infortunii_? is this to be reckoned a misfortune?" how many of our deists would have celebrated such a sentence, if it had come from the lips of an ancient roman! strange that the name of christ should be so odious, that the brightest virtues of his followers should be despised for his sake! but so it is, and so our master told us it would be; and our faith is, in this connection, confirmed by those who strive most to overthrow it.] as these were his sentiments in the vigour of his days, so neither did declining years and the infirmities of a broken constitution on the one hand, nor any desire of enjoying the honours and profits of so high a station, or (what was much more to him,) the converse of the most affectionate of wives and so many amiable children and friends on the other, in the least enervate his spirits; but as he had in former years often expressed it, to me and several others, as his desire, "that if it were the will of god, he might have some honourable call to sacrifice his life in defence of religion and the liberties of his country;" so, when it appeared to him most probable that he might be called to it immediately, he met the summons with the greatest readiness. this appears in part from a letter which he wrote to the rev. mr. adams, of falkirk, just as he was marching from stirling, which was only eight days before his death:--"the rebels," says he, "are advancing to cross the frith; but i trust in the almighty god, who doth whatsoever he please in the armies of heaven, and among the inhabitants of the earth." the same gentleman tells me, that, a few days after the date of this, he marched through falkirk with his regiment; and though he was then in so languishing a state, that he needed his assistance as secretary to write for some reinforcements, which might put it in his power to make a stand, (as he was very desirous to have done,) he expressed a most genuine and noble contempt of life, when about to be exposed in the defence of a worth cause. these sentiments wrought in him to the last in the most effectual manner, and he seemed for a while to have infused them into the regiment which he commanded; for they expressed such a spirit in their march from stirling, that i am assured the colonel was obliged to exert all his authority to prevent their making incursions on the rebel army, which then lay very near him; and had it been thought proper to send him the reinforcements he requested, none can say what the consequence might have been; but he was ordered to march as fast as possible to meet sir john cope's forces at dunbar, which he did; and that hasty retreat, in concurrence with the news which they soon after received of the surrender of edinburgh to the rebels, (either by the treachery or weakness of a few, in opposition to the judgment of by far the greater and better part of the inhabitants,) struck a panic into both the regiments of dragoons, which became visible in some very apparent and remarkable circumstances in their behaviour, which i forbear to relate. this affected colonel gardiner so much that, on the thursday before the fatal action of prestonpans, he intimated to an officer of considerable rank and note, from whom i had it by a very sure channel of conveyance, that he expected the event would be as in fact it was. in this view, there is all imaginable reason to believe that he had formed his resolution as to his own personal conduct, which was, "that he would not, in cases of the flight of those under his command, retreat with them;" by which, as it seemed, he was reasonably apprehensive that he might have stained the honour of his former services, and have given some occasion for the enemy to have spoken reproachfully. he much rather chose, if providence gave him the call, to leave in his death an example of fidelity and bravery which might very probably be (as in fact it seems to have been) of much greater importance to his country than any other service which, in the few days of remaining life, he could expect to render it. i conclude these to have been his views, not only from what i knew of his general character and temper, but likewise from some intimations which he gave to a very worthy person from edinburgh, who visited him the day before the action, and to whom he said, "i cannot influence the conduct of others as i could wish, but i have one life to sacrifice to my country's safety, and i shall not spare it,"--or words to that effect. i have heard such a multitude of inconsistent reports of the circumstances of colonel gardiner's death, that i had almost despaired of being able to give my reader any particular satisfaction concerning so interesting a scene. but, by a happy accident, i have very lately had an opportunity of being exactly informed of the whole by that brave man, mr. john foster, his faithful servant, (and worthy of the honour of serving such a master,) whom i had seen with him at my house some years before. he attended him in his last hours, and gave me at large the narration, which he would be ready, if requisite, to attest upon oath. from his mouth i wrote it down with the utmost exactness, and could easily believe, from the genuine and affectionate manner in which he related the particulars, that according to his own striking expression, "his eye and his heart were always upon his honoured master during the whole time."[*] [*note: just as i am putting the last hand to these memoirs, march , - , i have met with a corporal in colonel lascelles' regiment, who was an eye-witness to what happened at prestonpans on the day of the battle, and the day before; and the account he has given me of some memorable particulars is so exactly agreeable to that which i received from mr. foster, that it would much corroborate his testimony, if there were not so many other considerations to render it convincing.] on friday, th september, (the day before the battle which transmitted him to his immortal crown,) the colonel drew up his regiment in the afternoon, and rode through all their ranks, addressing them at once in the most respectful and animating manner, both as soldiers and as christians, to exert themselves courageously in the service of their country, and to neglect nothing that might have a tendency to prepare them for whatever might happen. they seemed much affected with the address, and expressed a very ardent desire of attacking the enemy immediately--a desire in which he and another very gallant officer of distinguished rank, dignity, and character, both for bravery and conduct, would gladly have gratified them, if it had been in their power. he earnestly pressed it on the commanding officer, as the soldiers were then in better spirits than it could be supposed they would be after having passed the night under arms, and as the circumstance of making an attack would be some encouragement to them, and probably some terror to the enemy, who would have had the disadvantage of standing on the defence--a disadvantage with which those wild barbarians, (for such most of them were) perhaps would have been more struck than better disciplined troops--especially, too, when they fought against the laws of their country. he also apprehended that, by marching to meet them, some advantage might have been secured with regard to the ground, with which, it is natural to imagine, he must have been perfectly acquainted, as it lay just at his own door, and he had rode over it many hundred times. when i mention these things, i do not pretend to be capable of judging how far this advice was right. a variety of circumstances to me unknown might make it otherwise. it is certain, however, that it was brave. but it was overruled in this respect, as it also was in the disposition of the cannon, which he would have planted in the centre of our small army, rather than just before his regiment, which was in the right wing, where he was apprehensive that the horses, which had not been in any previous engagement, might be thrown into some disorder by the discharge so very near them. he urged this the more as he thought the attack of the rebels might probably be made on the centre of the foot, where he knew there were some brave men, on whose standing he thought, under god, the success of the day depended. when he found that he could not carry either of these points, nor some others which, out of regard to the common safety, he insisted upon with unusual earnestness, he dropped some intimations of the consequences he apprehended, and which did in fact follow; and submitting to providence, spent the remainder of the day in making as good a disposition as circumstances would allow.[*] [*note: several of these circumstances have since been confirmed by the concurrent testimony of another very credible person, mr. robert douglas, (now a surgeon in the navy,) who was a volunteer at edinburgh just before the rebels entered the place, and who saw colonel gardiner come from haddington to the field of battle the day before the action in a chaise, being (as from that circumstances he supposed) in so weak a state that he could not well endure the fatigue of sitting on horseback. he observed colonel gardiner in discourse with several officers on the evening before the engagement, at which time, it was afterwards reported, he gave his advice to attack the rebels; and when it was overruled, he afterwards saw the colonel walk by himself in a very pensive manner.] he continued all night under arms, wrapt up in his cloak, and generally sheltered under a rick of barley which happened to be in the field. about three in the morning he called his domestic servants to him, of which there were four in waiting. he dismissed three of them with most affectionate christian advice, and such solemn charges relating to the performance of their duty and the care of their souls, as plainly seemed to intimate that he at least apprehended it very probable he was taking his last farewell of them. there is great reason to believe that he spent the little remainder of the time, which could not be much above an hour, in those devout exercises of soul which had so long been habitual to him, and to which so many circumstances then concurred to call him. the army was alarmed at break of day by the noise of the rebels' approach, and the attack was made before sunrise; yet it was light enough to discern what passed. as soon as the enemy came within gunshot, they made a furious fire; and it is said that the dragoons, which constituted the left wing, immediately fled. the colonel, at the beginning of the onset, which lasted but a few minutes, received a wound by a bullet in his left breast, which made him give a sudden spring in his saddle; upon which his servant, who had led the horse, would have persuaded him to retreat; but he said it was only a wound in the flesh, and fought on, though soon after he received a shot in his right thigh. in the meantime it was discovered that some of the enemies fell by him, particularly one man, who had made him a treacherous visit but a few days before, with great professions of zeal for the present establishment. events of this kind pass in less time than the description of them can be written, or than it can be read. the colonel was for a few moments supported by his men, and particularly by that worthy person, lieutenant-colonel whitney, who was shot through the arm, and who, a few months after, fell nobly in the battle of falkirk; by lieutenant west, a man of distinguished bravery; also by about fifteen dragoons, who stood by him to the last. but, after a faint fire, the regiment was seized with a panic; and though their colonel and some other gallant officers did what they could to rally them once or twice, they took to precipitate flight. just at the moment when colonel gardiner seemed to be making a pause, to deliberate what duty required him to do in such a circumstance, an accident happened, which must, i think, in the judgment of every worthy and generous man, be deemed a sufficient apology for exposing his life to so great a hazard, when his regiment had left him.[*] he saw that a party of foot, who were then bravely fighting near him, and whom he was ordered to support, had no officer to head them; upon which he said eagerly, in the hearing of the person from whom i had this account, "those brave fellows will be cut to pieces for want of a commander,"--or words to that effect. so saying, he rode up to them, and cried out aloud, "fire on, my lads, and fear nothing." but, just as the words were out of his mouth, a highlander advanced towards him with a scythe, fastened on a long pole, with which he gave him such a deep wound on his right arm, that his sword dropped out of his hand; and at the same time several others coming about him while he was thus dreadfully entangled with that cruel weapon, he was dragged off his horse. the moment he fell another highlander, who, if the crown witness at carlisle may be credited, (as i know not why he should not, though the unhappy creature died denying it,) was one m'naught, who was executed about a year after, gave him a stroke either with a broadsword or a lochaber axe, (for my informant could not exactly distinguish,) on the hinder part of his head, which was the mortal blow. all that his faithful attendant saw further at this time was, that as his hat had fallen off, he took it in his left hand, and waved it as a signal to him to retreat; and added, (the last words he ever heard him speak,) "take care of yourself;" upon which the servant retired. [*note: the colonel, who was well acquainted with military history, might possibly remember that in the battle at blenheim, the illustrious prince eugene, when the horse of the wing which he commanded had run away thrice, charged at the head of the foot, and thereby greatly contributed to the glorious success of the day. at least such an example may conduce to vindicate that noble ardour which, amidst all the applauses of his country, some have been so cool and so critical as to blame. for my part, i thank god that i am not called to apologize for his following his troops in their flight, which i fear would have been a much harder task; and which, dear as he was to me, would have grieved me much more than his death, with these heroic circumstances attending it.] it was reported at edinburgh, on the day of the battle, by what seemed a considerable authority, that as the colonel lay in his wounds, he said to a chief of the opposite side, "you are fighting for an earthly crown, i am going to receive a heavenly one,"--or something to that purpose. when i preached the sermon, long since printed, on occasion of his death, i had great reason to believe this report was true, though, before the publication of it, i began to be in doubt; and, on the whole, after the most accurate inquiry i could possibly make at this distance, i cannot get any convincing evidence of it. yet i must here observe that it does not appear impossible that something of this kind might indeed be uttered by him, as his servant testifies that he spoke to him after receiving that fatal blow, which would seem most likely to have taken away the power of speech, and as it is certain he lived several hours after he fell. if, therefore, any thing of this kind did happen, it must have been just before this instant. but as to the story of his being taken prisoner and carried to the pretended prince, (who, by the way, afterwards rode his horse, and entered into derby upon it,) with several other circumstances which were grafted upon that interview, there is the most undoubted evidence of its falsehood; for his attendant above mentioned assures me that he himself immediately fled to a mill, at the distance of about two miles from the spot on which the colonel fell, where he changed his dress, and, disguised like a miller's servant, returned with a cart as soon as possible, which yet was not till nearly two hours after the engagement. the hurry of the action was then pretty well over, and he found his much-honoured master not only plundered of his watch and other things of value, but also stripped of his upper garments and boots, yet still breathing; and adds, that though he was not capable of speech, yet, on taking him up, he opened his eyes; which makes it something questionable whether he was altogether insensible. in this condition, and in this manner, he conveyed him to the church of tranent, from whence he was immediately taken into the minister's house, and laid in bed, where he continued breathing and frequently groaning till about eleven in the forenoon, when he took his final leave of pain and sorrow, and undoubtedly rose to those distinguished glories which are reserved for those who have been eminently and remarkably faithful unto death. from the moment he fell, it was no longer a battle, but a rout and carnage. the cruelties which the rebels (as it is generally said under the command of lord elcho,) inflicted on some of the king's troops after they had asked quarter, are dreadfully legible on the countenances of many who survived it. they entered colonel gardiner's house before he was carried off from the field, and notwithstanding the strict orders which the unhappy duke of perth (whose conduct is said to have been very humane in many instances,) gave to the contrary, every thing of value was plundered, to the very curtains of the beds, and hangings of the rooms. his papers were all thrown into the wildest disorder, and his house made an hospital for the reception of those who were wounded in the action. such was the close of a life which had been zealously devoted to god, and filled up with many honourable services. such was the death of him who had been so highly favoured by god in the method by which he was brought back to him after so long and so great an estrangement, and in the progress of so many years, during which (in the expressive phrase of the most ancient of writers,) "he had walked with him;"--to fall, as god threatened the people of his wrath that they should do, "with tumult, with shouting, and with the sound of the trumpet." amos ii. . several other very worthy, and some of them very eminent persons, shared the same fate, either now at the battle of prestonpans, or quickly after at that of falkirk;[*] providence, no doubt, permitting it, to establish our faith in the rewards of an invisible world, as well as to teach us to cease from man, and fix our dependence on an almighty arm. [*note: of these, none were more memorable than those illustrious brothers, mr. robert munro and dr. munro, whose tragical but glorious fate was also shared quietly after by a third hero of the family, captain munro, of culcairn, brother to sir robert and the doctor.] the remains of this christian hero (as i believe every reader is now convinced he may justly be called,) were interred the tuesday following, september , in the parish church at tranent, where he had usually attended divine service, with great solemnity. his obsequies were honoured with the presence of some persons of distinction, who were not afraid of paying that mark of respect to his memory, though the country was then in the hands of the enemy. but, indeed, there was no great hazard in this; for his character was so well known, that even they themselves spoke honourably of him, and seemed to join with his friends in lamenting the fall of so brave and so worthy a man. the remotest posterity will remember for whom the honour of subduing this unnatural and pernicious rebellion was reserved; and it will endear the duke of cumberland to all but the open or secret abettors of it in the present age, and consecrate his name to immortal honours among all the friends of religion and liberty who shall arise after us. and, i dare say, it will not be imagined that i at all derogate from his glory in suggesting, that the memory of that valiant and excellent person whose memoirs i am now concluding may in some measure have contributed to that signal and complete victory with which god was pleased to crown the arms of his royal highness; for the force of such an example is very animating, and a painful consciousness of having deserted such a commander in such extremity, must at least awaken, where there was any spark of generosity, an earnest desire to avenge his death on those who had sacrificed his blood, and that of so many other excellent persons, to the views of their ambition, rapine or bigotry. the reflections which i have made in my funeral sermon on my honoured friend, and in the dedication of it to his worthy and most afflicted lady, supersede many things which might otherwise have properly been added here. i conclude, therefore, with humbly acknowledging the wisdom and goodness of that awful providence which drew so thick a gloom around him in the last hours of his life, that the lustre of his virtues might dart through it with a more vivid and observable ray. it is abundant matter of thankfulness that so signal a monument of grace, and ornament of the christian profession, was raised in our age and country, and spared for so many honourable and useful years. nor can all the tenderness of the most affectionate friendship, while its sorrows bleed afresh in the view of so tragical a scene, prevent my adoring the gracious appointment of the great lord of all events, that when the day in which he must have expired without an enemy appeared so very near, the last ebb of his generous blood should be poured out, as a kind of sacred libation, to the liberties of his country, and the honour of his god! that all the other virtues of his character, embalmed as it were by that precious stream, might diffuse around a more extensive fragrance, and be transmitted to the most remote posterity with that peculiar charm which they cannot but derive from their connection with so gallant a fall--an event (as that blessed apostle, of whose spirit he so deeply drank, has expressed it) "according to his earnest expectation, and his hope that in him christ might be glorified in all things, whether by his life or by his death." the colonel's personal appearance. in the midst of so many more important articles, i had really forgotten to say any thing of the person of colonel gardiner, of which, nevertheless, it may be proper here to add a word or two. he was, as i was informed, in younger life remarkably graceful and amiable; and i can easily believe it, from what i knew him to be when our acquaintance began, though he was then turned of fifty, and had gone through so many fatigues as well as dangers, which could not but leave some traces on his countenance. he was tall, (i suppose something more than six feet,) well proportioned, and strongly built; his eyes of a dark gray, and not very large; his forehead pretty high; his nose of a length and height no way remarkable, but very well suited to his other features; his cheeks not very prominent; his mouth moderately large, and his chin rather a little inclining (when i knew him) to be peaked. he had a strong voice and lively accent, with an air very intrepid, yet attempered with much gentleness. there was something in his manner of address most perfectly easy and obliging, which was in great measure the result of the great candour and benevolence of his natural temper, and which, no doubt, was much improved by the deep humility which divine grace had wrought in his heart, as well as his having been accustomed from his early youth to the company of persons of distinguished rank and polite behaviour. the picture of him, which is given at the beginning of these memoirs, was taken from an original done by van deest (a dutchman brought into scotland by general wade,) in the year , which was the th of his age, and is said to have been very like him then, though far from being an exact resemblance of what he was when i had the happiness of being acquainted with him.[*] perhaps he would have appeared to the greatest advantage of all, could he have been exactly drawn on horseback; as many very good judges, and among the rest the celebrated mons. faubert himself, have spoken of him as one of the completest horsemen that has ever been known; and there was indeed something so singularly graceful in his appearance in that attitude, that it was sufficient (as what is very eminent in its kind generally is,) to strike an eye not formed on any critical rules. [*note: in presenting this likeness for the first time in an american edition of this work, the artist has taken the liberty to change the costume, by substituting the ordinary military dress for the court dress of the original.--_editor of the pres. board of publication_.] [transcriber's note: the portrait is not available.] appendix i. (referred to at the end of chapter vi, letters.) it may not be amiss, in illustration of dr. doddridge's remarks on the subject of dreams, to present to the reader the following account of a remarkable dream which occurred to the doctor himself, and had a beneficial influence on his own mind.--ed. pres. bd. pub. dr. doddridge's dream. dr. doddridge and dr. samuel clark, of st. alban's, having been conversing in the evening upon the nature of the separate state, and the probability that the scenes on which the soul would enter, at its first leaving the body, would have some resemblance to those things it had been conversant with while on earth, that it might by degrees be prepared for the more sublime happiness of the heavenly state, this and other conversation of the same kind probably occasioned the following dream. the doctor imagined himself dangerously ill at a friend's house in london, and after remaining in this state for some hours, he thought his soul left his body, and took its flight in some kind of a fine vehicle, though very different from the gross body it had just quitted, but still material. he pursued his course through the air, expecting some celestial messenger to meet him, till he was at some distance from the city, when turning back and viewing the town, he could not forbear saying to himself, "how vain do those affairs in which the inhabitants of this place are so eagerly employed, seem to me a separate spirit!" at length, as he was continuing his progress, though without any certain directions, yet easy and happy in the thoughts of the universal providence and government of god, which extends alike to all states and worlds, he was now met by one who told him he was sent to conduct him to this destined state of abode, from which he concluded it was an angel, though he appeared in the form of an elderly man. they accordingly advanced together, till they came within sight of a large spacious building, which had the air of a palace. upon his inquiring what it was, his guide replied, it was the place assigned for him at present; upon which the doctor wondered that he had read on earth, "that eye had not seen, nor ear had heard, the glory laid up for them that love god," when he could easily have formed an idea of such a building, from others he had seen, though he acknowledged they were greatly inferior to this in elegance and magnificence. the answer, his guide told him, was plainly suggested by the conversation of the evening before, and that the scenes presented to him were purposely contrived to bear a near resemblance to those he had been accustomed to on earth, that his mind might be more easily and gradually prepared for those glories which would open upon him hereafter, and which would at first have quite dazzled and overpowered him. by this time they came to the palace, and his guide led him through a kind of saloon into an inner parlour. the first object that struck him was a great golden cup which stood upon a table, on which was embossed the figure of a vine and clusters of grapes. he asked his guide the meaning of it; who told him that it was the cup in which his saviour drank new wine with his disciples in his kingdom; and that the figures carved on it denoted the union between christ and his church, implying, that as the grapes derived all their beauty and flavour from the vine, so the saints, even in a state of glory, were indebted for their establishment in holiness and happiness, to their union with their common head, in whom they are all complete. while they were conversing, he heard a tap at the door, and was informed by the angel that it was a signal of his lord's approach, and was intended to prepare him for an interview. accordingly, in a short time our saviour entered the room, and upon his casting himself at his feet, he graciously raised him up, and with a smile of inexpressible complacency, assured him of his favour, and kind acceptance of his faithful services, and as a token of his peculiar regard, and the intimate friendship with which he intended to honour him, he took the cup, and after drinking of it himself, gave it into the doctor's hand. the doctor would have declined it at first, as too great an honour; but our lord replied, as to peter in washing his feet, "if thou drinkest not with me, thou hast no part with me." this he observed filled him with such a transport of gratitude, love and admiration, that he was ready to sink under it. his master seemed sensible of this, and told him he must leave him for the present, but would not be long before he repeated his visit. as soon as our lord was retired, and the doctor's mind more composed, he observed that the room was hung with pictures, and upon examining them, he found to his great surprise, that they contained all the history of his life; and most remarkable scenes he had passed through, being there represented in a very lively manner--the many temptations and trials he had been exposed to, and the signal instances of the divine goodness in the different periods of his life. it may not be easily imagined how this would strike and affect his mind. it excited in him the strongest emotions of gratitude, especially when he reflected that he was now out of the reach of any future danger, and that all the purposes of divine love towards him were so amply accomplished. the exstacy of joy and gratitude, into which these reflections threw him, was so great that he awoke; but for some time after he awoke the impression continued so lively that tears of joy flowed down his cheeks, and he said that he never, on any occasion, remembered to have had sentiments of devotion and love equal to it. appendix ii. (referred to in chapter vii, domestic relations.) the following extract from dr. doddridge's "thoughts on sacramental occasions," gives a beautiful and edifying picture of the exercises of his affectionate and pious heart under a painful bereavement. the seventy-eighth sacrament, october , . dear betsey dead.[ ] i had preached in the bitterness of my heart from these words: "is it well with thy husband? is it well with the child? and she answered, it is well." kings iv. . i endeavoured to show the reason there was to say this; but surely there was never any dispensation of providence in which i found it so hard, for my very soul had been overwhelmed within me. indeed, some hard thoughts of the mercy of god were ready to arise; and the apprehension of his heavy displeasure, and the fear of my child's future state, added fuel to the fire. upon the whole, my mind was in the most painful agitation; but it pleased god, that, in composing the sermon, my soul became quieted, and i was brought into a more silent and cordial submission to the divine will. at the table i discoursed on these words, "although my house be not so with god." samuel xxiii. . i observed, that domestic calamities may befall good men in their journey through life, and particularly in relation to their children; but that they have a refuge in god's covenant; it is everlasting; it is sure; it is well ordered--every provision is made according to our necessities; and shall be our salvation, as it is the object of our most affectionate regard. one further circumstance i must record; and that is, that i here solemnly recollected that i had, in a former sacrament taken the cup with these words, "lord, i take this cup as a public and solemn token that i will refuse no other cup which thou shalt put into my hand." i mentioned this recollection, and charged it publicly on myself and my christian friends. god has taken me at my word, but i do not retract it; i repeat it again with regard to every future cup. i am just come from the coffin of my dear child, who seemes to be sweetly asleep there, with a serene, composed, delightful countenance, once how animated with double life! there--lo! o my soul! lo there! is thine idol laid still in death--the creature which stood next to god in thine heart; to whom it was opened with a fond and flattering delight. methinks i would learn to be dead with her--dead to the world. oh that i could be dead with her, not any further than that her dear memory may promote my living to god.[*] [*note: the following note was written in the margin of the manuscript by the late rev. thomas stedman: "i think i have heard that the doctor wrote his funeral sermon for his daughter, or a part of it, upon her coffin."] i had a great deal of very edifying, conversation last night and his morning with my wife, whose wisdom does indeed make her face to shine under this affliction. she is supported and armoured with a courage which seems not at all natural to her; talks with the utmost freedom, and has really said many of the most useful things that ever were said to me by any person upon the earth, both as to consolation and admonition. had the best things i have read on the subject been collected together, they could hardly have been better conceived or better expressed. this is to me very surprising when i consider her usual reserve. i have all imaginable reason to believe that god will make this affliction a great blessing to her, and i hope it may prove so to me. there was a fond delight and complacence which i took in betsey beyond any thing living. although she had not a tenth part of that rational, manly love, which i pay to her mourning and many surviving friends; yet it leaves a peculiar pain upon my heart, and it is almost as if my very gall were poured out upon the earth. yet much sweetness mingles itself with this bitter potion, chiefly in the view and hope of my speedy removal to the eternal world. may it not be the bounty of this providence, that instead of her living many years upon the earth, god may have taken away my child that i might be fitted for and reconciled to my own dissolution, perhaps nearly approaching? i verily believe that i shall meet her there, and enjoy much more of her in heaven than i should have done had she survived me on earth. lord, thy will be done; may my life be used for the service while continued, and then put thou a period to it whenever thou pleasest. [footnote : the following extract from the diary of dr. doddridge is here subjoined, as affording an explanation of some particulars alluded to in the text. reflections on the death of my dear child, and the many mournful providences attending it. i have a great deal of reason to condemn my own negligence and folly, that for so many months i have suffered no memorandums of what has passed between god and my soul, although some of the transactions were very remarkable, as well as some things which i have heard concerning others; but the subject of this article is the most melancholy of any. we lost my dear and reverend brother and friend, mr. sanders, on the st of july last; on the st of september, lady russell--that invaluable friend, died at reading on her road from bath; and on friday, the st of october, god was pleased, by a most awful stroke, to take away my eldest, dearest child, my lovely betsey. she was formed to strike my affections in the most powerful manner; such a person, genius, and temper, as i admired even beyond their real importance, so that indeed i doted upon her, and was for many months before her death in a great degree of bondage upon her account. she was taken ill at newport about the middle of june, and from thence to the day of her death, she was my continual thought, and almost uninterrupted care. god only knows with what earnestness and importunity i prostrated myself before him to beg her life, which i would have been willing almost to have purchased with my own. when reduced to the lowest degree of languishment by a consumption, i could not forbear looking upon her almost every hour. i saw her with the strongest mixture of anguish and delight; no chemist ever watched his crucible with greater care, when he expected the production of the philosopher's stone, than i watched her in all the various turns of her distemper, which at last grew utterly hopeless, and then no language can express the agony into which it threw me. one remarkable circumstance i cannot but recollect: in praying most affectionately, perhaps too earnestly, for her life, these words came into my mind with great power, "speak no more to me of this matter." i was unwilling to take them, and went into the chamber to see my dear lamb, when, instead of receiving me with her usual tenderness, she looked upon me with a stern air, and said, with a very remarkable determination of voice, "i have no more to say to you;" and i think that from that time, although she lived at least ten days, she seldom looked upon me with pleasure, or cared to suffer me to come near her. but that i might feel all the bitterness of the affliction, providence so ordered it, that i came in when her sharpest agonies were upon her, and those words, "o dear, o dear, what shall i do?" rung in my ears for succeeding hours and days. but god delivered her,--and she, without any violent pang in the article of her dissolution, quietly and sweetly fell asleep, as i hope, in jesus, about ten at night, i being then at maidwell. when i came home my mind was under a dark cloud relating to the eternal state; but god was pleased graciously to remove it, and gave me comfortable hopes, after having felt the most heart-rending sorrow. my dear wife bore the affliction in the most glorious manner, and discovered more wisdom, and piety, and steadiness of temper in a few days, than i had ever in six years an opportunity of observing before. o my soul, god has blasted thy gourd; thy greatest earthly delight is gone: seek it in heaven, where i hope this dear babe is; where i am sure that my saviour is; and where i trust, through grace, notwithstanding all this irregularity of temper and of heart, that i shall shortly be. sunday, october , further reflections after the funeral of my dear betsey. i have now been laying the delight of my eyes in the dust, and it is for ever hidden from them. my heart was too full to weep much. we had a suitable sermon from these words: "doest thou well to be angry?" jonah iv. ; because of the gourd. i hope god knows that i am not angry; but sorrowful he surely allows me to be. i could have wished that more had been said concerning the hope we may have of our child; and it was a great disappointment to me that nothing of that kind should have been said by one that loved her so well as my brother hunt did. yet, i bless god, i have my hopes that she is lodged in the arms of christ. and there was an occurrence that i took much notice of; i was most earnestly praying that god would be pleased to give me some further encouragement on this head, by letting some new light, or by directing me to some further thoughts upon the subject. soon after, as i came into my wife's chamber, she told me that our maid betty, who had indeed the affection of a parent for my dear girl, had just before assured her, that, on the sabbath day evening, betsey would be repeating to herself some things of what she had heard in my prayers and in my preachings, but did not care to talk of it to others; and my wife assured me that she solemnly recommended herself to god in the words that i had taught her a little before she died. blessed god, hast thou not received her? i trust that thou hast, and pardoned the infirmities of her poor, short, childish, afflicted life. i hope, in some measure out of love to me, as thy servant, thou hast done it, for christ's sake; and i would consider the very hope, as an engagement to thy future service. lord, i love those who were kind to my child, and wept with me for her; shall i not much more love thee, who, i hope, art at this moment taking care of her, and opening her infant faculties for the duties and blessedness of heaven. lord, i would consider myself as a dying creature. my first born is gone;--my beloved child is laid in bed before me. i have often followed her to her bed in a literal sense; and shortly i shall follow her to that, where we shall lie down together, and our rest shall be together in the dust. in a literal sense the grave is ready for me. my grave is made--i have looked into it--a dear part of myself is already there; and when i stood at the lord's table i stood directly over it. it is some pleasure to me to think that my dust will be lodged near that of my dear lamb, how much more to hope that my soul will rest with hers, and rejoice in her forever! but, o, let me not centre my thoughts even here; it is at rest with, and in god, that is my ultimate hope. lord, may thy grace secure it to me! and in the mean time give me some holy acquiescence of soul in thee; and although my gourd be withered, yet shelter me under the shadow of thy wings. october , .] team the yeoman adventurer by george gough to a. d. steel-maitland, m.p. in gratitude and admiration contents i. the great jack ii. the sergeant of dragoons iii. mistress margaret waynflete iv. our journey commences v. the ancient high house vi. my lord brocton vii. the results of losing my virgil viii. the conjurer's cap ix. my career as a highwayman x. sultan xi. in which i slip xii. the guest-room of the "rising sun" xiii. pharaoh's kine xiv. "war has its risks" xv. in the moorlands xvi. bonnie prince charlie xvii. my new hat xviii. the double six xix. what came of foppery xx. the council at derby xxi. master freake knows at last xxii. a brother of the lamp xxiii. donald xxiv. my lord brocton piles up his account xxv. i settle my account with my lord brocton xxvi. the way of a maid with a man epilogue: the little jack chapter i the great jack our kate, joe braggs, and i all had a hand in the beginning, and as great results grew in the end out of the small events of that december morning, i will set them down in order. it began by my refusing point-blank to take kate to the vicar's to watch the soldiers march by. i loved the vicar, the grave, sweet, childless old man who had been a second father to me since the sad day which made my mother a widow, and but for the soldiers nothing would have been more agreeable than to spend the afternoon with the old man and his books. but my heart would surely have broken had i gone. a caged linnet is a sorry enough sight in a withdrawing-room, but hang the cage on a tree in a sunlit garden, with free birds twittering and flitting about it, and you turn dull pain into shattering agony. the vicar's little study, with the rows of books he had made me know and love with some small measure of his own learning and passion, was the perch and seed-bowl of my cage, the things in it, after my sweet mother and saucy kate, that made life possible, but still part of the cage, and it would have maddened me to hop and twitter there in sight of free men with arms in their hands and careers in front of them. jack dobson would march by, the sweetness of life for kate--little dreamed she that i knew it--but for me the bitterness of death. jack dobson! i liked jack, but not clinquant in crimson and gold, with spurs and sword clanking on the hard, frost-bitten road. i laughed at the idea; jack dobson, whom i had fought time and time again at school until i could lick him as easily as i could look at him; jack dobson, a jolly enough lad, who fought cheerily even when he knew a sound thrashing was in store for him, but all his brains were good for was to stumble through _arma virumque cano_, and then whisper, "noll, you can fire a gun and shoot a man, but how can you sing 'em?" and because his thin, shadowy, grasping father was a man of much outward substance and burgess for the ancient borough, jack was cornet in my lord brocton's newly raised regiment of dragoons, this day marching with other of the duke of cumberland's troops from lichfield to stafford. and for me, the pride of old bloggs for latin and of all the lads for fighting, the most stirring deed of arms available was shooting rabbits. so, consuming inwardly with thoughts of my hard fate, i refused to go to the vicar's. mother should go. for her it would be a real treat, and kate would be the better under her quiet, seeing eyes. "well then," said kate, "grump at home over your beastly virgil." mother, who understood as only mothers can, said nothing, and prepared my favourite dishes for dinner. the meal over, and the house-place 'tidied,' which seldom meant more than the harassing of a few stray specks of dust, kate in her best fripperies and mother in her churchgoing gown started for the vicar's. i stood in the porch and watched them across the cobbled yard and along the road till they dropped out of sight beyond the bridge. then kate's share of these introductory events became manifest. search high, search low, there was no sign of my dear, dumpy virgil, in yellowing parchment with red edges. i found kate's cookery-book, and would have flung it through the window, but my eye caught the quaint inscription on the fly-leaf, in her big, pot-hooky handwriting: "katherine wheatman, her book, god give her grease to larn to cook. at the hanyards. jul. ." the simple words stung me like angry hornets. our red-headed kate was no scholar, but at any rate her reading was more useful in our little world than mine; for this was where she learned the artistry of the dainties and devices jack dobson and i were so fond of. and if i did not soon learn to do something well, even were it only how to farm my five hundred acres to a profit, kate's cooking would really require the miraculous aid suggested in her unintentional and, to me, biting epigram. i put the book down, and gave over the hunt for my virgil. it would probably be useless in any case, since kate had a cunning all her own, and had surely bestowed it far beyond any searching of mine. i contented myself with a fair reprisal, stowing a stray ribbon of hers in my breeches' pocket, and sat down to smoke. my pipe would not draw, and i smashed it in trying to make it. the tall oak clock tick-tocked on in the house-place, and jane sang on at her churning in the dairy across the yard. i sat gazing at the fire, where i could see nothing but jack dobson in his martial grandeur, and i hated him for his greatness, and despised myself for my pettiness. all the same it was unendurable, and it was a relief to see joe braggs tiptoeing carefully across the yard dairywards. the rascal should have been patching a gap in the hedge of ten-acres, and here he was, foraging for a jug of ale. he could wheedle jane as easily as he could snare a rabbit, but i would scarify him out of his five senses, the hulk. the singing stopped, and then the churning, and five minutes later i crept up to the kitchen door, which was ajar. there was my lord joe, a jug of ale in hand, his free arm round jane's neck. how endurable these two found life at the hanyards! i caught a fragment of their gossip. "be there such things as rale quanes, jin?" "of course," she replied. "there's pictures of 'em in one of master noll's books. crowns on their yeds, too." "there's one on 'em down 'tour house, jin, but she ain't got no crown. but bless thee, wench, i'd sooner kiss thee than look at fifty quanes." jane yelped as i murdered an incipient kiss by knocking the jug out of his hand across the kitchen, but in kicking him out of doors i tripped over a bucket of water, and about half a score fine dace flopped miserably on the wet floor. "dunna carry on a' that'n, master noll," said joe. "i only com' up t'ouse to bring you them daceys." "and what the devil do i want with them?" said i angrily. joe knew me. he said, "there's a jack as big as a gate-post in that 'ole between the reeds along th' 'igh bonk." he saw the cock of my eye, and went on: "i saw 'im this mornin', an' 'eard 'im. 'e made a splosh like a sack o' taters droppin' off the bridge. so i just copped 'e a few daceys, thinkin' as you'd be sure to go after 'im." "put them in some fresh water, joe, and you, jane, fill him another jug. i'll own up to mistress kate for smashing the other." i fetched my rod and tackle, picked up the bucket of dace, and set off across the fields to the river. the bank nearer the house, and about three hundred yards from it, stood from two to six feet above the water, being lowest where a brick bridge carried the road to the village. the opposite bank was very low, and was fringed in summer with great masses of reeds and bulrushes, now withered down nearly to nothing, but still showing the pocket of deep water where the jack had "sploshed like a sack o' taters." it was opposite the highest part of our bank--the hanyards was bounded by the river in this direction--and the bridge was about one hundred yards down-stream to my left. in a few minutes a fine dace was swimming in the gap as merrily as the tackle would let him. for an hour or more i took short turns up and down the bank, just far enough from the edge to keep my cork in view. if the jack was there, he made no sign, and at length my sportsman's eagerness began to flag, and my eye roamed across the meadows to the church spire, under the shadow of which life as i could never know it was lilting merrily northwards. here i was and here i should remain, like a cabbage, till death pulled me up by the roots. worthy master walton says that angling is the contemplative man's recreation, and, having had in these later years much to con over in my mind, i know that he is right. but it is no occupation for a fuming man, and as i marched up and down i forgot all about my cork, till, with a short laugh that had the tail of a curse in it, i noted that a real gaff was a silly weapon with which to cut down an imaginary highlander, and turned again to my angling. and at that very moment a thing happened the like of which i had never seen before, and have not since seen in another ten years of fishing. my rod was jerked clean off the bank, and careered away down-stream so fast that i had to run hard to get level with it. here was work indeed, and at that joyous moment i would not have changed places with jack dobson. without ado, i jumped into the river, waded out, recovered the butt of my rod, and struck. "as big as a gate-post." joe was right. as i struck, the jack came to the surface. the great stretch of yellow belly and the monstrous length of vicious snout made my heart leap for joy. i would rather land him than command a regiment. my rod bent to a sickle as i fought him, giving him line and pulling in, again, again, and again. a dozen times i saw the black bars on his shimmering back as he came at me, evil in his red-rimmed eyes and danger in his cruel teeth, but the stout tackle stood it out. sweat poured off my forehead though i was up to the waist in ice-cold water. inch by inch i fought my way to the bank, and then fought on again to get close to the bridge, where i could scramble out. probably i was half an hour in getting him there, but at last, by giving him suddenly a dozen yards of loose line to go at, i was able to climb on to the bank and check him before he got across to the stumps of the reeds. but here i met with disaster, for in climbing up i jerked the hook of my gaff out of my collar, where i had put it for safety, and it fell into the stream. "stick to the fish," said some one behind me, "and leave the hook to me." "thanks," said i briefly, for i was scant of breath, and continued the struggle. a woman knelt on the bank, pulled the gaff in with a riding whip, plunged down a shapely hand and recovered it. then she stood behind me, watching the fight. the jack, big and strong as he was, began to tire, and soon i had him making short, sharp spurts in the shallow water at our feet. my new ally stood quietly on the bank, holding the gaff ready for the right moment. it came: a deft movement, a good pull together, and the great jack curled and bounced on the bank. "over thirty pounds if he's an ounce!" i cried gleefully. "well done, fisherman!" she said. "it was a splendid sight. i've watched you all along. when you jumped into the river, i thought you were going to drown yourself. you had been walking up and down in a most desperate and dejected fashion." the raillery gave me courage to look into her eyes. i wondered if they were black, but decided that they were not, since her hair was the colour of wheat when it is ripening for the sickle and the summer sun falls on it at eve. and i, who am six feet in my socks, had hardly to lower my eyes to look into hers. her face was beautiful beyond all imagining of mine. i had conjured up visions of dido enthralled of aeneas, of cleopatra bending antony to her whim. but the conscious art of my day-dreams had wrought no such marvel as here i saw in very flesh before me. i felt as one who drinks deep of some rich and rare vintage, and wonders why the gods have blessed him so. and further, as small things jostle big things in the mind, i knew that this was the real queen that had dazzled joe braggs. "what do you call it?" she said, looking down at the fish. "a jack, or pike, madam." "'the tyrant of the watery plains,' as mr. pope calls him. you've heard of mr. pope, the poet?" she spoke as if 'no' was the inevitable answer. "strictly speaking, no, madam," said i gravely, "but i have read his so-called poems." she frowned. "horace calls the jack," i continued, "_lupus_, the wolf-fish, as one may say, and a very good name too. doubtless madam has heard of horace." my quip brought a glint into her eyes and a richer colour to her cheek. "yes, heard of him," she said, with a trace of chagrin in her voice. "and now, o nimrod of the watery plains, how far is it to the village smithy?" "just under a mile, madam." "and how long does it take to shoe a horse?" "how many shoes, madam?" again the glint in her eyes, and this time i saw some of the blue in them. "one, sir," she said shortly. "ten to fifteen minutes, madam." "he's a very long time," she said under her breath. "the smith is probably very busy to-day." "busy! why so?" "the dragoons may have found him much work," said i, merely my way of explaining the delay. but the words stabbed her. she laid a hand on my arm and cried gaspingly, "dragoons! what do you mean? quick!" "the duke of cumberland is marching north from lichfield against the stuart, and lord brocton's dragoons are in the village." "brocton! o god! brocton! my father is taken! and by brocton!" she spoke aloud in her agitation, and i saw that she was cut to the quick. and i rejoiced, so strange is the human heart, that it was lord brocton's name that came in anguish off her tongue. oh for one blow at the man whose father had harried mine into an untimely grave! in sharp, frosty air sound travels far across the meadows of the hanyards. the hills that hem the valley to the west perhaps act as a sounding board. anyhow, further inquiry as to her trouble was stopped by the rattle of distant hoofs. we were standing now less than a dozen paces from the bridge. a straggling hedge, on a low bank, crossed flush up to the bridge by a stile, cut the field off from the road. i rushed to the stile, and cautiously pushed my head through near the ground. half a mile of level road stretched to my right towards the village, and along it, and now less than six hundred yards away, a squad of dragoons was galloping towards us. the hedge was thin and leafless, and there was not cover enough for a rabbit. i ran back. "dragoons," said i. "after me," she replied carelessly, and i saw that danger for herself left her cold. i kicked the great jack motionless, flung him to the foot of the bank under the hedge, and the rod after him, hurried her up to the stile, leaped into the water, took her in my arms, and carried her under the bridge. in less than a minute after i stopped wading, the dragoons clattered overhead. not an hour ago i had been aching for life and adventures, and here i was, up to the loins in water, with a goddess in my arms. her right arm was round my neck, and her cheek so near that i felt her sweet, warm breath fanning my own. as the sounds died away, i turned and looked at her face, and i had my reward. her eyes told me that she thanked and trusted me. "well done, fisherman!" she said for the second time. "you're heavier than the jack," replied i, hitching her as far from the water as possible before wading back. a minute later i put her down on the bank with tumbled, yellow hair and face flaming red. i examined her critically, and cried triumphantly, "not a stitch wet!" chapter ii the sergeant of dragoons i threw the jack across my shoulder and we started for the hanyards. madam offered no explanations, and i made no inquiries. it was obvious to me that the dragoons had gone on to the little hedge ale-house, a good, long mile away, where the road from the village struck into a roundabout road to stafford. here, in the "bull and mouth," mother braggs ruled by day and master joe by night, and here beyond a doubt the stranger lady had tarried while her father had gone on with the horses to the nearest smithy at milford. there was ample time to get to the hanyards, but still, for safety's sake, we kept behind hedges as far as possible. she walked ahead, and i followed behind, water oozing out of my boots and breeches at every step, and the jack's tail flopping against my legs. never had i gone home from fishing with such prizes. what pleased me most was her silence. it matched the trust in her eyes. except for brief instructions as to the direction, no word passed until we gained the hanyards from the rear, and i led her into the house-place unobserved by anyone. "there is little time to talk," i began. "the dragoons are certain to come here, as this is the only house between the inn and the village. your father is, you fear, a prisoner, and indeed it seems the only explanation of his absence. i do not ask why. i gather that there is no purpose to be served by your sharing his fate." "free, i may be able to help him. a prisoner, i should...." she stopped, hesitating. "my lord brocton?" said i interrogatively. for the second time her face burned, and i saw in it shame and distress and fear. my lord was piling up a second account with me, and for humbling this proud beauty he should one day pay the price in full. but it was time to act. i ran to the porch and roared out, "jane! jane! where are you? come here quick!" jane came running in from the kitchen. she stopped dead with surprise when she saw my companion, and could not even cackle on about the jack. "now, jane, do exactly what i say. take this lady upstairs and dress her as nearly like yourself as you can. it's good you are much of a height. pack her own clothes carefully out of sight. off, quick!" they disappeared upstairs, and i watched the yard gate with eager eyes. no dragoons appeared, and in a short time madam and jane were back in the house-place. jane had done her work well. the great lady was now a fine country serving-wench, her shapeliness obscured in a homespun gown that fitted only where it touched, her feet in huge, rough boots, her yellow hair plastered back off her forehead and bunched into one of jane's 'granny caps,' and indeed totally hidden by the large flap thereof, which in jane's case served the purpose of "keepin' the draf out'n 'er neck-hole" when she was at work in the dairy. for my share of disguising, i now rubbed together some ruddle and dry soil, and the mixture gave a necessary touch of coarseness to her hands. altogether she was changed out of recognition, even if, which was not the case, any of her pursuers had seen her previously. "jane," said i, "her name is molly brown. she has served here two years. her mother lives at colwich. have you both got that?" "molly brown--two years--mother at colwich," said madam with a smile, and jane repeated it after her. "now, molly," said i, with an answering smile, "jane will start you churning. it's an easy job. you just turn a handle till the butter comes. do not flatter yourself that you'll get any butter, but i'll forgive you that. and, having learned from jane how to pretend to do it, you need not churn in earnest till the dragoons ride into the yard. listen to jane, and you, jane, for the next ten minutes, teach the lady how to talk staffordshire fashion." "rate y'are, master noll," said jane, who was plainly bursting with the importance of her task. "first lesson, madam," said i. "'rate y'are,' not 'right you are!' it was not mr. pope's manner of speech, but it will suit your circumstances better. off to the dairy, and leave the dragoons to me!" "rate y'are, master noll," said madam, and, our anxieties notwithstanding, we both joined in jane's rattle of laughter. they went off to the dairy, and i began my own preparations. i displayed the great jack in full view on the table, forestalling kate's housewifely objections by disposing him on an old coat of mine, so that he should not mess the table. in the house-place he looked much finer and longer than in the open air, and i gloated over him as he lay there. i longed to change my clothes, not so much for comfort's sake as to cut a better figure in her eyes; but i dared not run the risk of not being at hand when the dragoons arrived. i drew a quart jug of ale, threw most of it away, got down a horn drinking-cup, drank a little, spilled some down my clothes, slopped some on the table, made up the fire, and sat down to wait. it was now about half-past three, the straw-coloured sun was perching on the hill-tops, and darkness would soon be drawing on apace. for perhaps a quarter of an hour i sat there, living over again the precious minutes under the bridge, when the clatter of hoofs awakened me to the realities of the situation. peeping cautiously past the edge of the blind, i saw the dragoons--there were six of them--ride up to the gate. sharp orders rang out, and three of the men dismounted, including him who had given the orders, and came up the yard. one stayed at the gate to mind the horses, and the other two trotted off on the scout round the fields near the farm. i slipped back to my chair, and let my chin drop on my chest, as if i were dozing in drink. some one said at the porch door, "in the king's name!" i took no notice, and they crowded, jingling and noisy, into the porch. again sharp commands were given; the two men grounded their arms with a clang on the stone floor of the porch, and waited there. the man in command stepped forward into the firelight and said crisply, "in the king's name!" it was idle to pretend any longer. i raised my head and blinked drunkenly at him. then i filled the horn, sang thickly and with beery gusto, "here's a health unto his majesty," and said, "fill up and drink, whoever you are, and shut the door. it's damned cold." he had little, red, ferrety eyes, and they looked fiercely at me--fiercely but not suspiciously, i thought. he waved my hospitality aside, and said, "you are oliver wheatman?" "oliver wheatman of the hanyards, esquire, at his majesty's service to command," i replied with great gravity, and filled another horn of ale. i might pretend to be drunk, but i could not, unfortunately, pretend to drink, and it was strongish ale. he made a motion to stop me--welcome proof that he believed me tipsy in fact--and said, "master wheatman, the less drunken you are, the better you will answer my questions." "sir," said i, draining off the horn, "i can drink and talk with any man living, and, drunk or sober, i only answer the questions of my friends. so get a horn off the dresser--i'm a bit tired--fill up, and tell me what you want. d'you happen to be of my lord brocton's regiment?" "i am." "then you'll be as drunk as me before you've finished with the hanyards. our ale goes to the head most damnably quick, let me tell you. you tell my dear old butty, the worshipful master jack dobson, that i've caught a jack half as thick and more than half as long as himself. here it be. fetch a horn, i tell you, and drink to me and the two jacks--jack dobson and this jack beauty here." he was getting no nearer to the object of his visit, and, perhaps thinking it would be well to humour me, he fetched a horn and tried our hanyards ale. this gave me a chance of taking stock of him. he was a thin, wiry man of middle height and middle age. such a face i had never seen. the first sight of it made me suck in my breath as if i had touched the edge of a razor. the bridge half of his nose had gone, or he had never had it, and the lower half was stuck like a dab of putty midway between mouth and eyebrows. his little, beady eyes were set in large, shallow sockets, giving him an owl-like appearance. a mouth originally large enough, and thickly lipped like a negro's, had been extended, as it seemed, to his left ear by a savage sword slash which had healed very badly. he had an air of mean, perky intelligence, as of one of low rank and no breeding who had for many years been accustomed to cringe to the great and domineer over smaller fry than himself. some sort of military rank he had, judging by his stained and frayed but once gaudy jacket. he carried a tuck of unusual length, stretching along his left side from heel to armpit, and a couple of pistols were stuck in his belt. he put down the horn, smacked his lips, and began: "master wheatman, i am searching for a jacobite spy--a woman. we took her father up at the 'barley mow,' and i learned from a man of yours that the daughter was at his mother's ale-house down the road. she is not there, and left to walk to meet her father, she said. she has certainly not done that, and i have called to see if she is hiding here or hereabouts." "by gad, we'll nab her if she is," said i heartily. "she's not been through that gate in the last half-hour, for it takes me that to drink yon jug dry, and i started with it full. but i'll ask the maids. mother and our kate are at the parson's yonder, gaping at you chaps. i dare say you saw them." "no," said he doubtingly. one of the men stepped out of the porch, saluted, and, being bidden to speak, informed his officer that he had seen lord brocton and mr. cornet dobson talking to two ladies. "that'd be they," i said, and going with unsteady steps to the door, i vigorously shouted, "jin, moll, jin, moll, come here! they're in the dairy," i added by way of explanation. the crucial moment came. jane and 'moll' scurried across the yard like rabbits, but stopped at the porch door with well-simulated surprise at the sight of the dragoons. "gom, i thawt 'e'd set the house a-fire," said jane thankfully, addressing the company at large, and she bravely bustled through and shrilled at me, "at it again, when your mother's out; y'd better get off to bed afore she comes in. she'll drunk yer." jane's acting was so much better than mine that i nearly lost my head at being thus crudely accused before 'moll,' but she went on remorselessly, addressing the dragoon, "dunna upset him for god's sake, master squaddy. 'e'm a hell-hound when 'e'm gotten a sup of beer in'im." "don't trouble, my good girl. i'm used to his sort. leave him to me and answer my questions. the truth or the jail, my girl." "yow," sniffed jane, "he'd snap yow in two like a carrot. bed's best place for 'im. he's as wet as thatch with his silly jacking." "jane," said i, "never mind me. i'm neither dry enough nor drunk enough to go to bed yet. captain here wants to ask you and moll some questions. stop clacking at me like a hen at a weasel and listen to him." jane went through the ordeal easily, appealing to 'moll' for verification at every turn, and so cleverly that the latter appeared to be as much under examination as herself. moreover, jane stood square in the firelight, but so as to keep 'moll' shouldered behind the chimney in comparative gloom. they'd been churning all afternoon, the butter was there to be seen, stacks of it; nobody had been in or near the yard; the gate had never clicked once, and nobody could open it without being heard in the dairy. she overwhelmed the dragoon with her demonstrations of the impossibility of anybody coming up the yard without her or 'moll' knowing it. "that's all right, jane," said i, at length. "but she could easily have got into the house or into the stables without you or moll seeing her. let's all have a look for her. unless she's small enough to creep into a rat-hole, we'll soon find her." sergeant radford--to give him his name and rank, which i learned later from jack dobson--agreed to this, and in my joy at knowing that the ordeal was over, i was on the point of forgetting that i was drunk till i caught the clear eyes of madam fixed in warning on me. jane acted as leader to the two dragoons in overhauling the barns and stabling, while 'moll,' the sergeant, and i searched the house as closely as if we were looking for a lost guinea. of course our efforts were futile, slow as we were so as not to outpace my drunken footsteps, and careful as we were so as to satisfy the keen eyes of the sergeant, who was very evidently on no new job so far as he was concerned. 'moll' too seemed jealous of jane's laurels, and went thoroughly into the business. she and the serjeant peeped together under beds and into closets, and she laughed brazenly at certain not very obscure hints of his as to the great services i should render to the search-party if i kept my eye on the house-place. she even said, "master noll, don't 'e think as 'ow th' ale be gettin' flat downstairs? it wunna be wuth drinkin' if y'ain't sharp." the result was, that in about half an hour a thoroughly satisfied and rather tired assembly filled the house-place, for the two scouts rode up to the porch with the news that they, too, had found no trace of the fugitive. with the sergeant's leave i sent the five dragoons into the kitchen with the two maids to have a jug of ale apiece, while he stayed with me in the house-place, to crack a bottle of wine. i hoped, but in vain, that he would tell me news of the stranger's father, but he was too wary for that, and i did not dare to ask him. he made close inquiries as to the lie of the land hereabouts, and i pointed out that there was a field-path leading plainly to the village from the other side of the bridge and coming out at an obscure stile at the back of the "barley mow." the spy might have taken that and become alarmed. she could then avoid the village by another plain path, and so get ahead of the troops on the stafford road. "but what for? who's to help her there, master wheatman?" "ask me another, captain," said i. "but a wise woman would know where to find friends, and stafford's full of papishes, burn 'em!" "ah!" "there's bulbrook and pippin pat and ducky bellows; there's old sack-face, the parson there, as good as a papist, very near. you keep your eyes on those big houses in the east gate. as for me, look at that back and breast and good broad-sword there. damn me if i don't rub 'em up and come and have a ding with 'em at these rebels. on naseby field they were, captain, long before your time and mine, but they did good work against these same bloody stuarts. crack t'other bottle, there's a good fellow. i'm dry with talking and wet with fishing, and it'll do me good." i pressed him to stay and 'have a good set to,' but he refused, and after drinking enough to keep me dizzy for a week, he nipped out and ordered his men to horse. i walked to the gate with him. he thanked me for my help and good cheer, and said it was quite clear that the spy was nowhere in or near the hanyards. i renewed my greetings to cornet dobson and even sent my respects to his lordship. off they rode, and it was with a thankful heart that, remembering my happy condition in time, i stumbled back up the yard to the house-place, where madam and beaming jane were awaiting me. chapter iii mistress margaret waynflete jane had taken the lady back to the house-place and was hovering around her, with little of the grace of a maid-of-honour to be sure, but with a heartiness and zeal that more than atoned for any lack of style. from mother's withdrawing-room i fetched our chief household god, a small ancient silver goblet, and, filling it with wine, offered it to the stranger with what i supposed, no doubt wrongly, to be a modish bow. she drank a little, and then, at my urging, a little more. "madam," i said, "i think you do not need to be 'molly brown' any longer. yon dragooner is quite certain that you are not here, and we can safely take advantage of his opinion. as for you, jane, you've done splendidly, and i heartily thank you." i re-filled the goblet and handed it to jane, saying, "drink, jane, to madam's good luck." the honest girl blushed with joy at my words, and as for drinking wine out of the famous silver goblet of the hanyards--such a distinction, as she conceived it, was reward enough for anything. "thanks are payment all too poor for what you have done, sir," said madam, "and any words of mine would make them poorer still. but, sir, i do thank you most heartily. and you, too, jane, have done me splendid service. you are as brave and clever as you are bonny and pretty." "madam," said i, bowing low, "you are too kind to my services, which have, indeed, been rather crudely performed." "not so," she replied, "but with shrewd, ready wit and certain judgment. i cannot imagine myself in a tighter corner than at the bridge, and your device had the effective simplicity of genius. your plan here was, to be sure, commonplace, but it, too, required caution and good acting, and you and jane supplied both. it was nicer than popping me into some musty priest's hole, though i expect this ancient building has one." i looked at the wall as half expecting the sword of captain smite-and-spare-not wheatman to rattle to the ground under this awful insinuation. "the only use our family has found for priests, madam," i said, "has been, i fear, to hunt them like vermin. as a wheatman of the hanyards, i'm afraid i'm a degenerate." "you'll not even be that much longer if i keep you from getting into some dry clothes. and, if jane is willing, i will make myself myself. i would fain be on." with a sweet smile and a gracious curtsy, she followed the ready jane upstairs. i removed all traces of what had taken place, and carried my precious jack into the pantry, where i hung him in safety. he should be set up by master whatcot of stafford as a trophy and memento in honour of this great day. i then hurried off to my room to attend to my own appearance, and indeed i needed it, for i was caked with mud up to my knees and soaking wet up to my waist. for the first time in my life i was grieved to the bone at the inadequacy of my wardrobe, and even when i had donned my sunday best my appearance was undoubtedly villainous from the london point of view. i feathered myself as finely as my resources permitted, but it was a homely, uncouth yeoman that raced downstairs and awaited her coming. i drew the curtains, lit the candles, kicked the fire into a blaze, and built it up with fresh logs. it would be impossible for me to set down the hubbub of thoughts and ideas that filled my mind. i had been plunged into a new world, and floundered about in it pretty hopelessly, i can tell you. the days of knight-errantry had come over again, and chance, mightier even than king arthur, had commanded me to serve a sweet lady in distress. but i had had no training, no preliminary squireship, in which i could learn how things were done by watching brave and accomplished knights do them. i had lived among the parts of speech, not among the facts of life. i could hit a bird on the wing, snare a rabbit, ride like a saddle, angle for jack and trout, strike like a sledge-hammer, swim like a fish--and that was all. i knew, too, every turn and track and tree for miles round; and that might be something now, and indeed, as will be seen, turned out my most precious accomplishment. some people said i was as proud as lucifer, others that i was as meek as a mouse, and i once overheard our kate tell priscilla dobson, jack's vinegary sister, that both were right--which confounded me, for our 'copper nob,' as i used to call her, was a shrewd little woman. still, such as i was, the stranger lady should have me, an she would, as her squire, to the last breath in my body. only let me get out of my cabbage-bed, only give me a man's work to do, and i would ask for no more. neither for love nor for liking would i crave, but just for the work and the joy of it. the yard gate clicked, and a moment later mother and kate came in. "oh, noll, it's been grand!" burst out kate. "i wish you'd been there. there were hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers, horse and foot, and guns and wagons without end. lord brocton was there, and sir ralph sneyd, who is just a duck, and a nasty-looking major with his face all over blotches. and they saw us, and crowded into the vicar's to talk to us." "and what about jack dobson?" "oh, oliver, what have you got your best clothes on for?" "because i got wet through catching a great jack. but never mind my best clothes. how did jack look in his uniform?" "a lot better than lord brocton, or anyone else there, if you must know," she said, jerking the words at me, with her cheeks near the colour of her hair. "can he talk sense yet?" "he talked like the modest gentleman he is," said my mother, "and looked nearly as handsome as my own boy. he sent his loving greetings to you, and would fain have come to see you but his duties would not allow of it." of course my gibes at jack were all purely foolish and jealous, and, moreover, i could now afford to be truthful; so i said, "if jack doesn't do better, as well as look better, than my lord brocton, i'll thrash him soundly when he gets back. but he will. he's a rare one is master jack, and by a long chalk the pluckiest soul, boy or man, i've ever come across. and he'll learn sense, of the sort he wants, as fast as anybody when the time comes." "of course the lad will," said mother, taking off her long cloak, and kate, when mother turned to hang it on its accustomed hook, gave a swift peck at my cheek with her lips, and whispered, "you dear old noll!" all this time i had been listening with strained ears for footsteps on the stairs. now i heard them, and waited anxiously. the door opened, and jane came in, upright and important. she curtsyed to my mother, announced, "mistress margaret waynflete," and my goddess came into the room. straight up to my mother she walked,--a poor word to describe her sweet and stately motion, _et vera incessu patuit dea_, as the master has it,--curtsied low and nobly to her and said, "mistress wheatman, i am a stranger in distress, and should have been in danger but for your son, who has served me and saved me as only a brave and courteous gentleman could." i had ever loved my mother dearly, but i loved her proudly now, for the greatest dame in the land could not have done better than this sweet, simple mother of mine. without surprise or hesitation, she took mistress waynflete's hands in her own, and said, "dear lady, anyone in distress is welcome here, and oliver has done just as i would have him do. and this is my daughter, kate, who will share our anxiety to help you." and then i was proud of our kate, kate with the red hair and the milk-white face, the saucy eye and the shrewd tongue, kate with the tradesman's head and the heart of gold. she shook madam warmly by the hand, and led her to my great arm-chair in the ingle-nook as to a throne that was hers of right. thus was mistress waynflete made welcome to the hanyards. mother and kate took their accustomed seats on the cosy settle beside the hearth. i sat on a three-legged stool in front of the fire, and jane flitted about as quietly as a bat, laying the table for our evening meal. never had the house-place at the hanyards looked so fair. the firelight danced on the black oak wainscot which age and polishing had made like unto ebony, and the row of pewter plates on the top shelf of the dresser glimmered in their obscurity like a row of moons. our special pride, a spice-cupboard of solid mahogany, ages old, glowed red across the room, and from the neighbouring wall the great sword and back-and-breast with which smite-and-spare-not wheatman, captain of horse, had done service at naseby, seemed to twinkle congratulations to me as one not unworthy of my name. not an unsuitable frame, perhaps, this ancient, goodly house-place, for the beautiful picture now in it, on which i looked as often as i dared with furtive eyes of admiration. she told her story with simple directness. her father's name was christopher waynflete, a soldier by profession, who had seen service in many parts of the continent and had attained the rank of colonel in the swedish army. her mother she had never known, for she had died when mistress margaret was but a few months old, and her father had maintained an unbroken reticence on the subject. some six months ago, colonel waynflete had returned to england to settle, desiring to obtain some military employment, a plan which his long service and professional knowledge seemed to make feasible. in london he made the acquaintance of the earl of ridgeley, to whom, indeed, he bore a letter of introduction from a swedish diplomat in paris. through the earl he had met lord brocton, the earl's only son and heir. the colonel's hope of employment in the army had not been realized, and this and certain other reasons, which she did not specify, had embittered him against the government. not having any real allegiance to king george, whom he had never served, and who now refused his services, he easily entered into the plans of certain influential jacobites in london whose acquaintance he had made. three days previously he had set out from london to join prince charles. for certain reasons (again she did not give details) she was unwilling to be separated from her father, at any rate not until circumstances made it necessary for them to part, and then the plan was that she should go to chester, with which city she was inclined to think her father had some old connexion, and stay there with the wife of a certain cathedral dignitary of secret but strong jacobite inclinations. colonel waynflete's connexion with the jacobite cause had, naturally, been kept secret, but she was almost certain that lord brocton had discovered it through a certain spy and toady of his, one major tixall. "pimples all over his face?" broke in kate. "yes," said mistress waynflete, with a little shudder. "he was in the village this afternoon with lord brocton," returned kate. "peace, dear one," said mother, "our turn is coming. be as quiet as oliver." "oliver, mother dear, hasn't seen major tixall, whose face is enough to make an owl talk, let alone a magpie like me." her right ear was near enough to me, the stool being big and i bigger, so i pinched the pretty little pink shell, and whispered in it, "shut up, kit, and think of jack," which effectually silenced her. mistress waynflete had little more to tell. they had travelled rapidly, avoiding coventry and lichfield, where the royal forces had assembled, but bending west so as to get by unfrequented roads to stafford, and so on to the main north road along which the prince was now reported to be marching. just outride the "bull and mouth" her horse had cast a shoe. leaving her to rest in the ale-house, the colonel had gone on with the horses to the nearest smithy at milford. he was quite unaware of the northward movement of troops from lichfield, and was under the impression that he was now well beyond the danger zone. we had heard from the serjeant of his capture. kate, at mother's request, took up the tale here. the road past the hanyards to the village enters the main road abruptly, and clumps of elms prevent anyone travelling along it from seeing what is happening in the village. the vicarage is opposite the smithy and the inn, and when mother and kate got there, only a few dragoons were about. they watched the colonel ride up, leading his daughter's horse, and saw him turn round at once and attempt to go back as soon as he caught sight of the dragoons; but a larger body, under the command of major tixall, cantered in at the moment and, trapped between the two bodies, the colonel had been compelled to surrender. he was kept until my lord brocton's arrival nearly an hour later, and had then been sent on to stafford under a strong guard. this was the only fresh piece of information that was of any importance. there is a jail at stafford, and no doubt the colonel was by now lodged in it. "i fear that my views, or at any rate my father's views, make me a dangerous guest," said mistress waynflete, "though your kindness has made me a welcome one." "madam," i said coldly, "the only politics i know is that my lord brocton is fighting against the stuart, and if by fighting for the stuart i can get in a fair blow at my lord brocton, i fight for the stuart." "oliver," said mother, "it is wrong--i say nothing about its wisdom--to choose sides in such matters on grounds of personal enmity." "lord brocton's a beast," said kate shortly. mistress waynflete had turned a richer colour at the mention of brocton's name, but at kate's words she became scarlet, and for that i vowed i would knock him on the head as ruthlessly as if he were a buck rabbit as soon as i got the chance. she recovered and continued her story, but as it only concerned my share in the day's doings, it is unnecessary to repeat it here. she told it, however, in such kind terms, that i made an end to my discomfort by going to fetch the great jack for mother and kate to look at. when returning, however, i could not help hearing kate say to mistress waynflete, "without a 'by your leave'?" "as indifferently as if i had been a bag of flour," was the cool reply. and i had dithered like an aspen leaf! "i suppose he half drowned you?" "on the contrary, there was not a wet stitch on me." "oliver," added my mother, "has not many things to do that are worth his doing, but what he finds he does well." "such as catching jack," said i, staggering in with my heavy load. it was admired unstintingly, and was indeed worthy of all praise. "supper is ready, mam," said jane; "and joe says he knowed it wor as big as a gate-post." "and where is joe?" "in the kitchen, master noll." "give him a good supper, not much ale, and that small, and tell him to stop there. i shall want him." then, turning to mistress waynflete, i went on: "there's one way, and only one, into stafford that's perfectly safe to-night. joe and i will row you there. now, mother, i'm hungrier than the great jack ever was." chapter iv our journey commences i have already said that the river was the boundary of the hanyards on the side towards the village. about a hundred yards above the pocket of deep water where the jack had lain, i had built a little covered dock, and here i kept a craft, half boat and half punt, which i used for my fishing, and in which mother and kate could lie on cushions while i rowed them on the river on warm summer nights. it was heavy and ungainly, but very comfortable, and as safe as the ark. joe received the information that he was to row to stafford as cheerfully as an invitation to a jug of beer, and went off whistling to get the boat ready. everything that care could suggest was done for mistress waynflete's comfort. jane carried down to the boat two huge stone beer bottles, filled with boiling water. mother insisted on madam taking her thick hooded cloak, shaped like a fashionable domino, and covering her from head to ankles. kate slipped into my pocket a pint flask of her extra special concoction of peppermint cordial, the best possible companion on a night like this. jane came back and returned again laden with rugs and cushions, and soon reported that the boat was ready. mother and kate, with jane behind them, came to the garden gate to bid us farewell. little was said, for mistress waynflete was too moved by their kindness to say much, and i was too preoccupied. madam kissed them all in turn and murmured a good-bye. i kissed mother and kate, and they wished me a good voyage and a safe return. we turned our faces riverward and started. it was now nearly eight o'clock. the night was pitch-dark, the sky star-studded and moonless. it was freezing hard, the keen air stung our faces, the tiniest twig was finger-thick with hoar-frost, and the grass crunched under our feet at every step. i went ahead as guide, and in five minutes we arrived at the dock, where joe, the boat out, cushioned and trim for the voyage, was vigorously slapping his hands crosswise round his waist to keep them warm. he held the boat up to the bank, i stepped in, handed in mistress waynflete, bestowed her with all possible comfort, settled by her side, and took the ropes. then joe, clambering in, pushed off and the voyage began. it was up-stream, but fortunately the current was gentle, though there was a fair amount of water coming down. there was, or rather would have been on an ordinary night, no danger of discovery, since the river was half a mile from the main road at our starting-place, and ran still farther away from it for nearly two miles. then came the one possible danger-spot on such a night as this, with the road occupied by troops on the march. a long bend in the river took it so close to the road that the yard of a wayside inn ran right down to the water. if we got safely past this, all danger would be over till we ran sheer up to the ruined wall of the town. the moon would not rise for two hours, so there was ample time for our row of about five miles. "i trust you are comfortable, madam?" i said. "comfortable and warm and cosy," she replied. "but for my fears for my father i should even be happy, for it has never before been my lot, and i have wandered far and wide over half europe, to experience such and so much kindness in one day from perfect strangers." "i am, indeed, happy in my mother and sister. they are pearls of great price." "none better in all staffordsheer," said joe. "you have rendered me a greater service than you know of, and i must not let you leave yourself out." to hide a note of wistfulness in her voice, she added mischievously, "must i, joe?" "yow could find wus'n' wheatman o' th' 'anyards," said joe, with sturdy precision of praise. "is he really a hell-hound, joe, when he's got a sup of beer in him? i've no clear notion what a hell-hound is, but clearly it means something as bad, say, as a janissary--the worst animal i ever came across." "sup o' beer in 'im," snorted joe contemptuously. "he dunna really know what beer is, my lady. it's a grand thing is beer, if y'll only tak' enough of it to do y' good, but there's no vartue in half a pint of it. i've told 'im that lots of times. but it's god's truth, my lady, 'e dunna want no beer, dunna master noll, to mak 'im 'it like the kick of a 'oss. i on'y brought 'im a few daceys up t'ouse this mawnin', an'--" "you row harder, joe, and yawp less," said i, interrupting him. "between you and jane i shan't have a rag of character left." "sup o' beer in him," he growled, and spat loudly on his hands. joe looked at all men as potential customers of the "bull and mouth," and judged them accordingly. "i know the worst about you now, master wheatman, and by way of providing you with a less embarrassing topic of conversation, you might tell me what we shall do when we get to stafford." "we are going to marry-me-quick's." she started so abruptly that i laughed outright, and joe rumbled like an overloaded wagon. i explained. "we shall approach the town on the south side where the wall comes down to the river. 'marry-me-quick' is not, as you seem to suppose, a disagreeable process, but an agreeable old woman who lives in a cottage which backs on to the river. every schoolboy in the town knows her by that name, which is also the name of a kind of toffee she makes, and by the sale of which she earns a modest living. i cannot tell you how the name originated, but there it is. i went to the grammar school in the town, and in my time i must have bought and consumed some hundredweights of her 'marry-me-quick.' in her tiny cottage you may rest in safety while i hunt up jack dobson and learn what has been done with your father." "an' if i'd got a shilling," said the irrepressible joe, "for every pat of butter i've taken owd marry-me-quick, i'd--i'd--" he seemed lost for words, so i assisted him, and paid him back at the same time, by saying, "pluck up courage enough to speak to jane." "that's rate, master noll." "is jane so very fond of money, joe?" asked mistress waynflete curiously. "no," said joe. "she ain't grasping, ain't jin. she told me t'nate, she c'd 'ave 'ad a mint of money if she'd liked, but she wouldna tak' it. said it would 'a' burnt 'er fingers. 'more fool yow,' says i; 'it'd 'a' soon gotten cowd weather like this'n.' but jin's all rate. er'll never bre'k 'er arm at church door, wunna jin." i explained to mistress waynflete that a woman who broke her arm at the church door was a housewifely maiden who became a slatternly housewife after marriage. "there's no fear of jane doing that," she replied; "she's as good as the guineas she would not take." for a space silence fell on us. all my attention was required to keep the boat clear of the banks, for the little river turned and twisted through its meadows like a hunted hare. there was only the starlight to steer by, but i had fished every yard of the river, and knew it so well that i gave joe a clear channel to row in. not a sound jarred on the rhythmic purr of the oars in the rowlocks and the gentle lapping of the stream against the bow. this day had god been very good to me. this was life as i would have it; work to do for brain and brawn, and a woman to do it for who was worth the uttermost that was in me. romance had flushed the drab night of my life with a rosy dawn, and my heart was lifted up within me. if it faded away, there would at least be the memory of it. but it might not fade. i was under no illusions as to the stiffness of my task. i was matched against the powers that be, against my lord brocton, whose ability to work this maiden ill was increased a thousandfold by his military authority. i saw my way into stafford, and i saw no more, not even my way out of it, and least of all my way out of it with the colonel rescued and restored to his daughter. mistress waynflete had been so determined in her decision to follow her father that perhaps she had some plan in mind. she said nothing if she had, and if she had, it would, i supposed, depend on her woman's power of influencing brocton. the future was as black as the outlook along the river, but i faced it eagerly. she broke the silence: "the last boat i was in was a gondola. it was on a perfect night in a venetian june, the sky a sapphire sprinkled with diamonds, the warm, scent-laden air filled with murmurings and snatches of song. and there was no danger." "romance, perchance," said i. "you cannot have a one-sided romance. romance is an atmosphere breathed by two, not an emotion felt by one. to be sure, he was the most appallingly in earnest lover woman ever had. he wept for a kiss with his fingers twiddling on the hilt of his stiletto. dear heart, these italians!" "i should like to meet his countship," said i energetically. "yes, he was a count, with a pedigree as long as the rialto, and he had not two silver piastres to rub against each other. he was the handsomest man i have even seen. fortunately, we left venice before he had quite decided that it was time to dig his knife into me." "you speak lightly of your danger, madam," i said coldly. "a hot-blooded italian with a stiletto in his hand is a much more desirable creature, let me tell you, than a cold-blooded englishman with the devil in his heart. that fiery little count, conceited and poverty-stricken, did at any rate pay me the compliment of thinking for at least a fortnight that i was a patch of heaven fallen in his way, whereas to your cold-livered english lord i am no more than an appetizing dish." she was not speaking lightly now, but with cold, concentrated anger. i remembered the reticencies of her statement at the hanyards, and began to see dimly some of the connecting links in her story. my lord brocton's character was well enough known to be the subject of common talk at our market ordinaries. my very manhood shamed me in the presence of this queenly woman, marked down by a titled blackguard as his quarry, and i sat still, fists tightly clenched on the tiller-ropes, and said nothing, waiting for her to speak again. "i have seen to-day, master wheatman," she said, "a sight i have never seen before--a beautiful english maiden growing up to womanhood in the calm and safety of an english country home. you will be tempted, i know, to envy me my wanderings, my experiences, my freedom, but, believe me, i would rather be your sweet kate in the quiet of the hanyards." "it isn't as quiet as it might be when jack's about," said i, seeking to change the current of her thoughts. then i had to tell her all about jack, and our boyish escapades and fightings and friendings, and because i had earlier in the day though evil of dear jack, i now could say nothing good enough about him. it was time to relieve joe at the oars. at first he would not agree, for, he said, he'd been "lagging a bit during the day 'long o' them squaddies," and wanted to put in a day's work. "you will, before you've done, joe, for you've got to pull the boat back. so have a swig of beer and we'll change over. and madam shall acknowledge the virtues of our kate's peppermint cordial." joe shipped his oars and reached out for his bottle of beer. i got out the flask and said in a sing-song voice: "take two gallons of the best hollands money can buy, and add thereto, first, four pounds of choice barbados sugar, and, secondly, two bushels of freshly gathered leaves of the plant peppermint. steep together for a whole moon, stirring the concoction every four hours during the daytime, and as often as you wake o' nights. strain through a piece of linen, if you've got one; if not, do what our kate did this year, use a fair maiden's silk stocking. the result is a drink fit for the gods, and, indeed, one which may even be offered to goddesses. drink, madam!" she was laughing merrily before i had finished. "kate's stocking sounds the most innocent ingredient in it, master wheatman, but i must try her skill in brewing." she did so, and pronounced it excellent but strong. i tried it too, rather more copiously, i confess. indeed, it was good, but to me, i know, the charm of the cordial this time lay in the thought of the rich red lips that had touched the flask before mine. joe and i then changed places, and i kept hard at the oars until we came to the reach which ran close up to the "why not." here joe resumed the oars and i the ropes. "this is the only danger-spot," i said. "yonder are the lights of the ale-house. on an ordinary night there would be no one about, even if it mattered if there were, but to-night, when it does matter, there are thousands of soldiers on the march, and there is some risk of our being observed." in another five minutes or so we heard faint snatches of song and bursts of applause, and shouting and laughing. the "why not" was now about a hundred yards ahead on our left. on the right the bank was lined with willows which, not having been pollarded for many years, stretched their long, thin branches well over the river. i ran the boat as far under them as i could. joe pulled with short, soft strokes, and we crept slowly along. for a minute the lighted windows were obscured by the outhouses, and just as i caught sight of them again, a door was flung open, and the jumble of noises swelled into a roar of jeering laughter. a young woman flew out, heedlessly and noisily as a flustered hen, and a burly soldier lurched after her down the yard. at a whisper, joe shipped his oars, and i ran the boat right into the bank. i grabbed in the dark for a hold-to, and luckily seized the roots of a willow. at his end joe did the same. we hardly dared to breathe as we watched the doings on the other bank. lust, of blood or worse, and the fear of it, were there. the lighted windows and the open door made every movement of the man and the girl clearly visible. no one followed them. it was so ordinary an event to the company, perhaps that it was not worth while leaving mirth and beer to see the issue. but all serious elements in their affair changed abruptly and to our instant jeopardy. on the very edge of the water the girl, knowing her whereabouts to an inch, turned cleverly. the man, a stranger obviously, ran on and pitched clean and far into the river, while she, laughing and triumphant, scuttled back to the house. her tale brought out at once a spurt of men, yelling with joy, to watch the fun. some of them had snatched up lanterns and lighted candles, and they were followed later by a fresh, older, shrieking woman who carried a huge, burning brand plucked from the hearth. happily for us the river was shallow, for a couple of strokes would have brought the man clean into us. the shock of the icy water sobered him. he splashed and spluttered to his feet, climbed up the bank like a giant water-rat, and would have slunk towards the house; but the rabble were on him before he had taken a dozen paces, and tormented him till he roared like a wounded bull. the woman with the brand cried out on him with vile words that made my face burn in the dark, and belaboured him about the head with her blazing cudgel. at every blow a shower of sparks flew out that drove his rollicking mates into a ring around them at a safe distance away. the man must have been set afire had he not been soused in the river beforehand. none of his fellows tried to help him, just as before none had tried to hinder him. it was his look out either way, and they enjoyed his discomfiture with all the gusto of children. at last the breathless woman and the cowed man came to a parley, the result of which was that, with a whoop of "pots round," they all crowded back into the ale-house, and we were once more alone on the river. "the ordeal by water and by fire," i said. "push out, joe." "gom! owd bess give 'im sock," he replied, and levered the nose of the boat into midstream again. although there was no real need for it, the escape kept us all quiet. i persuaded mistress waynflete to lie down, so as to avoid the biting wind that was sweeping across the river, and joe and i by turns made such progress that in less than an hour we drew up to the town meadow. the greatest caution was now necessary, since we saw that the bridge leading into the town was thronged with people, many carrying lanterns or torches. the town wall ran parallel to the river, on our right, with a narrow fringe of meadow between them. here the wall was for the most part tumbled into ruins, and in the gaps stood little cottages, built in part of the stones that had once formed the wall. in one of these lived little old marry-me-quick, mistress martha tonks, to give her her christening name, and we ran up to the bank level with her place without being observed from the bridge, although it was only a few boat-lengths distant. i stepped cautiously out and tiptoed to her back window. there the ancient maiden was, busily engaged in the manufacture of her staple, no doubt in anticipation of a greater demand for it in these stirring days, when much extra money would be passing around in the town, and many pennies thereof would dribble into the pockets of the youngsters. i lifted the latch and stepped in. she squeaked with affright till she saw who it was, and then turned her note into a gurgle of astonishment. "are you alone?" i asked. she nodded. "just a minute then, and i'll be back again, with a visitor. keep quiet!" i returned to the boat, and as i was obliged to move as stealthily as a cat, i could not help, as i approached, hearing joe say emphatically, "i wunna." i cursed him silent, without troubling to ask what he was objecting to, and handed mistress waynflete out. "now, joe," i whispered, "off you go back! the moon will be up in a few minutes, and you ought to do it in an hour. you can sit in the kitchen all to-morrow to make up for this." "jin said 'er'd sit up for me," he said, and i was glad he had such a good motive to keep him up to his hard task. "good-bye, joe," said mistress waynflete, shaking the good fellow warmly by the hand. "give my loving remembrances to your mistresses and to jane. say how grateful i am." "good-bye, my lady," he said simply, "and god bless you." so that only i could hear him, he added, "tak' good keer on 'er, master noll. jin's awful sot on 'er, and wunna luk at me if any 'arm 'appens 'er." i gripped his hard hand, gave him my parting message home, and then crouched and pushed the boat into and down the stream. as i lifted my hand from her and she glided into the blackness, i felt in my heart that the last link with the old life was broken. then, as i rose to my feet, a hand was placed on my arm, and i tingled in every fibre at this sweet link with the new life. chapter v the ancient high house i had found mistress tonks in her little back room, where she manufactured marry-me-quick by day and slept by night. her cottage contained only one other room, serving as shop and living room, and fronting on a narrow lane which turned abruptly from the main street at the bridge-end to follow the curve of the walls. by the time i returned with mistress waynflete she had shuttered the window of the shop, snuffed the candles, and stirred the fire into a blaze. marry-me-quick was an ancient, wizened, little woman, so small that she hardly escaped being a dwarf, humpbacked, and inexpressibly ugly. in times not so long gone by she would assuredly have burned as a witch, and many supposed her to be in league with the evil one. but in actual fact she was a cheery, voluble, and warm-hearted little body, and one on whom i could rely to serve us in this pinch. "mistress tonks," i said, "i want you to shelter this lady for the night." "to be sure," chirped the little woman. "luckily i've kept the sojers off. every house in the town is full of 'em, and the mayor's at his wits' end to know how to stuff 'em all in. i should think a score of 'em have come here, in ones, and twos, and threes; and when i stood bold up to them and said, 'do you want any marry-me-quick?' they were off like scared rabbits. a great, sweet lady like you wouldn't think it, of course, but it's a godsend at times for a lone woman when she's ugly enough to turn cream sour, and somedeal crooked o' the body into the bargain." "i shall certainly desire some marry-me-quick," said mistress waynflete, deftly evading the awkward conclusion of this speech, "for master wheatman has described it in terms that make my mouth water. and though you do not want to billet soldiers, you will, i know, befriend a soldier's daughter." "i should befriend the devil's dam, asking your ladyship's pardon, if master wheatman brought her here. i'm a little, lone, ugly woman, but master noll always stood by me. the lads, drat 'em, were for ever pinching master dobson's bull's-eyes and gingerbread, and him mayor of the town, though he's got lots grander than that since, but they never pinched any marry-me-quick, not in master noll's time. but he's gone now, and i'm not as nimble as i used to be. jesus help me, how he had used to fight! he used to put my heart in my mouth, coming in here all blood and muck to wash himself afore he went home. but take your things off and make yourself at home." "i'm afraid you'll hear a too full and too true account of me, madam, while i am away," said i. "soldiers are likely to call, but you can leave mistress tonks to deal with them. still, please discard your own jacket and hat, and wear mother's domino. it's homely and country-like, and you must pull the hood over your head, since, if your hair has been described, and any soldier who calls has heard of it, he will have to be blind not to notice it." "yes, it's dreadful stuff," she said, with amusing meekness. "so dreadful, madam," said i soberly, "that all england cannot match it. therefore you must hide it, lest it should shock some poor soldier who comes seeking a billet and finds it." she took off her hat, preparing to do what i asked, and the wondrous yellow hair, coils upon coils of it, was revealed. "jesus help me," said little marry-me-quick in a hushed voice, "the back of her head looks like a harvest moon. if the same god that made her ladyship made me, we shall begin life in heaven with a row, that's all i've got to say." i smiled at the quaint conceit of the little woman, which lost its irreverence towards god in its reverence for his handiwork. "now mother tonks," said i, "i leave this lady in your charge for a time while i go into the town to see master dobson. i may be away some time, and you'll get us some supper. anything you have will do." "anything i have?" she echoed scornfully. "i've got one of them rabbits you sent me last market day by that lozzicking joe braggs, but he's a good gorby is joe"--here her voice softened, and madam smiled agreement--"and this frost has kept it as sweet as a nut. if you're not too hungry to wait, i'll make you some rabbit-stew." "rabbit-stew? i'll wait for that, and i'm sure mistress waynflete will," said i. "i'll live on marry-me-quick in the meantime," she replied, laughing. "i leave you then in good hands, and hope to come back with cheerful news," i said, bowing low, and stepped forth on my errand. i turned to the left and fifty paces brought me into the main street. a gun and a train of wagons were rumbling over the bridge, convoyed by a handful of dragoons and a riff-raff of noisy lads and lasses. late and cold as it was, the main street was thronged as on a fair day at noon. most of the shops, especially those that dealt in provisions, were open and full of vociferous customers, while every alehouse was a pandemonium. the street was choked with townspeople and soldiery; lanterns flickered and torches flamed; oath and jest, bravado and buffoonery, filled the air. i pushed my way to the market-place. here about a dozen guns were parked, and at least a hundred horses tethered. at each corner a huge fire cracked and roared. the town hall was a blaze of light, and i heard from passersby that the mayor and council had been in session since noon. the current rumour was that the stuart, with fifty thousand highlanders, savages who disembowelled women for sport and roasted children for food, had sacked manchester and was now marching south, with hell in his heart and desolation in his train. if one-hundredth of it were true, the worthy mayor had his work cut out, for the town was so ill-found that it would have fallen to a bombardment of turnips. i took my stand on the town-hall steps to scan the scene and collect my thoughts. and here i had the best of luck, for who should come clanking down the steps but jack dobson. i had no need to envy him now, having better work on hand than his, but even if the mood of the midday had been prevailing, it would have disappeared before his hearty greeting. "noll, by gad, noll," he cried, wringing my hand joyously. "i am glad to see you, bully-boy; i thought you were sulking in your tent like--like, you know his name, the fellow old bloggs was always yarning about." "iphigenia," said i. "was that the chap?" he said cheerily. "and now i've got you, come along to the house. i've more to tell you than there is in all your silly old virgil, and it's alive, man, alive, alive. that's why it suits me. come along, noll. lord brocton's supping and staying with dad, so's sneyd, and a lot more, and you'll hear all the news. brocton's a beast, and i'm glad i'm an officer, if it's only a cornet in his rotten dragoons. there'll be one beast less in the world, i'm thinking, before long." "what's he done to upset you?" "i say, noll," was his reply, "kate did look sweet this afternoon. i was glad to have her come and see me off to the wars. i only had a few snatches of talk with her. brocton was for ever finding me something to do, rot him, but she did look sweet." "all right, if she did. never mind our kate." "never mind your kate, you barbarian, you one-eyed anthropathingamy! oh, noll, old friend"--there was a catch in his voice as he dragged me into the entry at the side of old comfit's shop,--"she's your kate now, but if i come back, i want her to be my kate. don't breathe a word to her, noll, unless i never come back,--war has its risks, noll, and i'm going to take 'em all,--but if i never come back, noll, just tell kate that i loved her." a plump of townspeople yelled their way past the entry, and their torches lit up his fresh, boyish face, all alight with the enthusiasms of war and love. i clasped his hand, and we looked into each other's eyes. "i'm glad to tell you, noll." "i'm glad to hear it, jack. come back, for kate's sake." the good fellow bubbled with joy at the meaning in my words, and we continued our way up the entry, intending a detour where we could talk in quiet, but before we had got out of the glare of the torches, he stopped me, looked searchingly at me and said, "old noll, there's more in your head now than virgil." this confirmed my suspicion that master jack dobson was learning in his way more than i had learned in mine. "farming," said i. "tell me why brocton is a beast." "he thinks every pretty woman a butterfly for his filthy fingers to crush the beauty out of. but if he rolls his beast's tongue round one name, either he or i will want that ferryman chap. what's his name?" "charon," said i, forgetting to tease him. "that's him, charon, i'm sure you're right this time. i wasn't sure about the sulky old boy in the tent. i always thought iphi-something was the one that got his throat--abram and isaac sort of tale without any ram and thicket at the end of it--but of course you'll be right." "and what sort of dragoons are you cornet of?" i asked. "they give me the bats, noll. there's about two hundred town-sweepings, not worth powder and shot, who want tying on their horses, and hardly know butt from bayonet, and there's another two hundred better men, got together coming along, or in the country around lichfield. sneyd, a rattling good fellow, and i have tossed for stations, and when it comes to a battle he's to lead the yokels and i'm to follow behind, kicking the scum of london into the firing-line. damn 'em. but i'll kick 'em right enough. then there's major tixall--major, by gad--a slinking cut-throat, with a face the colour of pigs' liver. what he's majoring it for, brocton and the devil alone know. the only good thing is we've got a first-rate drill sergeant. he's brocton's toady, and for that i don't like him, but he does know his business, i must say that for him." "big-headed man, with a mouth slit up to his left ear?" said i, seizing the welcome opportunity. "how the deuce do you know?" asked jack, astonished. "he came searching the hanyards this afternoon for a jacobite spy, a woman. but he didn't find her. she slipped through his fingers somehow. i understood from big-mouth that you'd caught her father. what have you done with him? is he crow's meat yet?" "no, for some reason or other, which is a mystery to me, brocton sent him on with the van." "here?" "no, farther on. their orders are to push into stone to-day, and newcastle to-morrow. they ought to be in touch with the enemy there. of course it's not certain which way they'll come, and if they come this way, noll, mark you, we've made a mistake. we ought to have waited for 'em at milford. we could have blown 'em to bits from the top of the hills, long before they could have got at us." our talk had brought us to an alley containing a side entrance to master dobson's fine, old, timbered house, the pride of the town and known there as the "ancient high house." it stood on the main street of the town, which led from the bridge to the market-place. for a moment i was undecided, since i had obtained the news that mattered most, but i had only been out a short time, the rabbit-stew would not be ready, mistress waynflete was safe and comfortable, and might prefer to be alone, it was possible that i might learn something further--and on these grounds i decided that it would be well worth while to accept jack's invitation. i therefore followed him into the withdrawing-room. here i paid due courtesies to buxom mistress dobson and mistress priscilla dobson, jack's oldest sister, a wasp-waisted bundle of formalities, for ever curtsying and coquetting, after the london mode as she fondly imagined. my back fairly ached with answering bobs and bows before we had drunk our part of a dish of tea, which mistress dobson had brewed wherewith to refresh herself after the toils of hospitality, but at last i jerked my way out at jack's heels, and we climbed to the stately barrel-roofed room where the great ones were assembled. horseshoe-wise round a mighty fire of logs, with a small table covered with decanters and glasses between each pair, some dozen men sat at their wine. there was, of course, master dobson, his meagre body all a twitter with importance, sitting in the centre of the bend, opposite the fire, whence he could survey all his guests at once, and urge them on with their carousing. "my son returneth, my lord," he said, "with news from the worshipful the mayor, and he hath brought with him a worthy yeoman, one master wheatman, who--" "of the hanyards, esquire," said i in a testy whisper. "ha, yes," he corrected and compromised, "master wheatman of the hanyards, a loyal subject of his gracious majesty." "the best friend and hardest hitter in broad staffordshire," added jack heartily. i stepped into the horseshoe and made a bow general to the company, and a lower one for the benefit of my lord brocton, who sat next to the hearth in pride of place and comfort. some years older than i, but not yet thirty, handsome as a god carved by phidias, but with drink and devilment already marking him out for a damned soul, he sat there, the idol of that lord-worshipping company. the only vacant chair was on his left. it was jack's place, earned by his father's guineas, which had remained vacant during his absence. the good lad, i record it with pride, notwithstanding a forbidding glance from his father, motioned me towards it, and fetched a glass and poured out wine for me. as i was stepping forward his lordship was good enough to address me. "ha, master wheatman of the hanyards,"--there was a sneer in his voice,--"it is well i see thee on the right side, or, by gad and his gracious majesty, we'd have that other five hundred acres of yours." he tossed off a bumper of wine and added, "or a solatium, master wheatman, a solatium." i caught jack's eye as i stepped right into the middle of the group. to my astonishment it was glowing with anger. did he not think i could take care of myself? really jack was becoming mysterious, but i supposed that as i was kate's brother he was feeling unusually interested in my welfare. for my own part i was quite comfortable, and i replied easily, "as a matter of fact, my lord, i have chosen my side expressly on account of the well-known propensities of your lordship's family." for a full minute nothing was heard in the room but the cracking and sputtering of the fire. this was not because of what i had said, though no one present, and he least of all, could be fool enough to misunderstand it, but because of its effect on him. then, as now, blood flowed like water on far lighter occasions than this, and brocton, with all his faults, was a ready fighter. for once, however, his fingers did not seek his sword hilt, but fumbled with his empty glass, and his face went white as the ashes at his feet. at length he recovered himself somewhat. "the loyal propensities of my family are well known to all men," he said. "and its determination to profit by them," i retorted coldly, and plumped me down at his side. right opposite me was the rector, a gross, sack-faced, ignorant jolt-head, jowled like a pig and dew-lapped like an ox. nature had meant him for a butcher, but, being a by-blow of a great house, a discerning patron had diverted him bishopward. in a voice husky with feeling and wine, he said, "surely it is the part of a gracious king to reward such faithful service as that of the noble earl of ridgeley and my lord brocton." "decidedly, your reverence," i answered briskly, "and of others too, and if, as seems likely, the highlanders have left a vacant deanery or two behind them, i hope your loyal services and pastoral life will be suitably rewarded with one." here jack drew up another chair and i moved to make more room, so that he could sit next to brocton, to whom he was soon detailing in eager whispers the result of his visit to the town hall. the others took up the broken links of talk, and this gave me an opportunity of inspecting the company. there could be no doubt about the man on my left. his vicious, pimply face manifested him major tixall, and mistress margaret's shudder was easily accounted for. he turned his shoulder to me and talked to another officer, who, so far, was only in his apprenticeship at the same game. beyond were two other officers of a wholly different stamp, and the one who smiled at me with his eyes i took to be sir ralph sneyd, a young staffordshire baronet of high repute. then came master dobson, separating the military sheep from the civilian goats. there was the friday-faced clothier and mercer, master allwood, strange company here since he was the elder of a dissenting congregation in the town, and therefore well separated from his reverence. the worthy mercer's dissent did not extend, so rumour had it, to the making of hard bargains, and doubtless he was for once hob-nobbing with the great in respect of his long purse rather than of his long prayers. other townsmen, whose names i did not know or cannot recall, separated deacon from rector. the last man in the company, sitting opposite to his lordship, was a stranger, and by far the man best worth looking at in the room. he had drawn back a little, either out of the heat of the fire or to avoid his reverence's vinous gossip as much as possible. except that he was certainly neither soldier nor parson, and probably not a lawyer, i could make nothing of him. he had a massive head and a resolute and intelligent face. he wore no wig and his hair was grey and closely cropped. i judged him to be a man nearing sixty, but he appeared strong and vigorous. he was dressed with rich unostentation, in grey jacket and breeches, with a lighter grey, silver-buttoned waistcoat, and stockings to match. there was only one thing to be talked about in any company in stafford that night. what was going to happen? what of truth and substance was there in the rumours that filled all mouths? at master dobson's two currents of opinion ran violently in opposite directions. the soldiers on my left were of course certain that the stuart prince and his highland rabble would be driven back. the towns-people opposite were equally impressed with the fact that so far he had not been driven back but had carried all before him. sir ralph had been stoutly maintaining that the rebellion was hopeless. "there's no getting away from it, sir ralph," squeaked master dobson, summing up for the doubtful townsmen; "between the rebels and us this night there's not thirty miles nor three hundred men, and you've so far only got about two thousand men in stafford. i'm as loyal a man as any in england, but there's no getting away from that." "nobody wants to get away from it, master dobson," replied sir ralph. "any body of men with arms in their hands and the knack of using them, can march much farther than the highlanders have come, if no other body of armed men stands in their way. the stuart prince's march will come to an end just as soon as he is opposed, and we're here to oppose him." master dobson was still gloomy. "what sort of men have you got? raw militia lads, young recruits, and newly raised dragoons form at least half of your force in stafford." "agreed," said sir ralph, "but we're rapidly licking 'em into shape, and the duke will be after us to-morrow with the regulars." "my good sir ralph," put in the mercer, "fifty thousand savage highlanders will cut through stafford as easily as if it were a cheshire cheese. i fear the worst." "my worthy sir," said his lordship, and in his dulcet tones i heard the tinkle of the mercer's guineas, "you need fear nothing. neither stick nor stone in stafford will be disturbed. we are at least strong enough to make good terms." "and mistress allwood," said the rector with a leer, "will be spared the wastage of her charms on a ragged highlander." the mercer's wife had all the charms of a withered apple, but here was opening for discord, and our twittering host staved it off by appealing to the stranger: "what do you think, master freake, of the way things are going?" "i have not formed an opinion as to what is likely to happen here, good master dobson," he replied, "but, speaking generally, i should feel much easier in mind if the duke's horses were not so utterly worn out." there was a distinct note of patronage in the tone in which this shrewd and sensible remark was uttered, nor was this affected, i thought, but rather the natural manner of a strong man speaking to a weak one. "egad, you're right there, sir," cried jack. "nineteen out of twenty of them couldn't be flayed into doing another five miles. i was over an hour getting them from milford, under five miles." "the highlanders would march it in less," replied master freake, "and this is not a campaign, but a race." "where to?" it was brocton who spoke. "london," was the prompt reply. "that's the heart of england, my lord, and if prince charles gets into the heart he need not be concerned over wade marking time in the heels or the duke sprawling about in its belly." "your speech is light, master freake," said the rector with drunken sense and gravity. "i trust it savoureth not of treasonable hopes." i turned during this absurd remark to glance at brocton to see what effect this excellent summary of the situation had had on him. to my surprise i caught him looking so meaningly at the pimple-faced major, that i felt sure something was going to happen, and i was right. "god rot the man," said the major thickly. "does he say that i'm sprawling about in somebody's belly?" he staggered to his feet, hand on sword, and made to cross to the stranger, shouting, "damnation to you, i'll thrust something into your belly!" brocton, not in the least to my surprise, made no attempt to interfere. jack couldn't, for i was in the way. his father began to splutter helplessly. i shot out my foot, and swept the major heavily to the floor. i plucked him up by his collar as if he were a rabbit, and choked him till his face was nearly black. then i put him back in his chair, where he sat huddled up and gasping. "sir," said i to him, with much politeness, "you are tired by the exertions of the evening. but i like a man who sticks up for his commander, and desire to have the honour of drinking your health." and i toasted him complacently, smiling the while into his little pig's eyes. this terminated the trouble, which master freake had watched with quiet amusement. for my own part i was now anxious to go, for i was learning nothing. accident favoured me, for a servant came in and whispered something to brocton which took him out of the room. i seized the opportunity to follow, declining to allow jack to accompany me, and wishing him good-bye and good luck. "remember about kate," were his last words, whispered eagerly as he loosed my hand and opened me the door. several rooms opened on the landing, and i noticed that one door was ajar. as i passed the slit of light i caught sight of the sergeant of dragoons, and stopped beyond the door to listen. i heard brocton's voice, and caught the words, "egad, i'll e'en try her. take the best horse available. there's no danger, but speed is everything." he dropped his voice to a whisper and for a moment or two i caught nothing. then, raising his voice again, he said, "and now for your prize." i heard him move to go, and darted ahead, silent as a bat in a barn, and a moment later was in the noisy street. there was nothing to keep me now, and a few minutes later i quietly lifted marry-me-quick's latch, stepped into the room, and observed at once that mistress waynflete's look imported news. "now, little mother," said i to mistress tonks, "supper's the blessedest word i know." "and the rabbit-stew's as good as done by now," she said, and went into the back room to dish it up. "the man with the slit face has been," said mistress waynflete composedly. "he came hunting for quarters, but mistress tonks frightened him off. at any rate, he soon left." "did he recognize you as 'moll' of the hanyards?" "i'm quite sure that he did not. i turned my back the moment he entered, and my hood was up. moreover, i did not speak a word. mother tonks said that i was staying here for the night because my father's house was full of soldiers. she couldn't and wouldn't, she said, have a soldier here for all the worshipful mayors in england. i was quite amused at the way she talked him back to the door and through it." the little woman bustled in to lay the supper things. she was bubbling over with elation. "it'll be another ten or fifteen minutes, will the rabbit-stew. the lady will have told you about ugly mug, master oliver. i got him out in no time. his head was all mouth like a cod-fish. i'll soon be back. i expect you're both hungry." off she bustled again, and we again settled down to our talk. i was anxious to see if she could throw any light on brocton's dealing with her father. his conduct was to me wholly inexplicable. then, too, there was his obvious understanding with major tixall in the matter of the latter's attack on master freake. who was this stranger and why had he incurred brocton's enmity? here was a whole string of puzzles awaiting solution. but before i could start the conversation we were again interrupted. the latch clicked, the door opened, and in walked my lord brocton. chapter vi my lord brocton i was as new to a life of action as an hour-old duckling is to water, and this ironical upset of all my plans left me helpless. the very last man whom i wanted to see mistress waynflete was here, his plumed hat sweeping to the floor, triumph on his handsome face and in his easy, languid tones. indeed, more astonishing than his being here, was his manner and bearing. at master dobson's, a natural remark of mine had beaten all his wits out of him. here his assurance was such that it puzzled me out of action. "my sergeant, madam," he began, "no mean judge, since he has seen the reigning beauties of half the capitals of europe, told me to expect a prize, but it is the prize. master wheatman, you are not, i am told, as good a judge of cattle as turnip townshend, but you are, let me tell you, a better one of women. i understand you know. both acres and solatium shall be mine in any event. and, dear margaret, though i do not understand what your haughtiness is doing here alone with my farmer friend, i need hardly say that your devoted servant greets you with all humility." again his hat curved in mockery through the air. he replaced it on his head, drew his rapier, with quick turns of his wrist swished the supple blade through the air till it sang, then flashed it out at me like the tongue of an adder, and said, "sit you still, farmer wheatman, sit you still. move but your hand and i spit you like a lark on a skewer. so, little man, so!" the contempt in his words stirred the gall in my liver, but i neither spoke nor shifted, and he continued, addressing her, but with cold, amused eyes fixed on me, "you see, sweet margaret, how yokel blood means yokel mood. your turnip-knight freezes at the sight of steel." in part at least he spoke truth. i had rarely seen a naked sword, other than our time-worn and useless relic of the doughty smite-and-spare-not, and had never sat thus at the point of one drawn in earnest on myself. it is easy to blame me, and at the back of my own mind i was blaming and cursing myself, as i sat helpless there. i was keen as the blade he bore to help her, for here was her hour of uttermost need, but i did not see that i should be capable of much service with a hole in my heart, and he had me at his mercy beyond a doubt, so long as he had me in his eye. no, galling as it was, there was nothing to do but to wait the turn of events. something might divert his attention. one second was all i wanted, and i sat there praying for it and ready for it. meanwhile the scene, the talk, and she were full of interest. marry-me-quick's cottage was no hovel, either for size or appointments. brocton was standing with his back to a dresser. on his left was the outer door, and on his right, between him and mistress waynflete, the door in the party wall leading to the back room where the rabbit-stew was now being dished up. madam and i sat on opposite sides of the large hearth, a small round table, drawn close to the fire for comfort and covered with the supper things, occupied part of the space between us, but there was plenty of room for action. when brocton had stretched out his rapier towards me in threat and command, the point was perhaps three feet from my breast, and he could master my slightest movement. and mistress waynflete. at the bridge in the afternoon i had noticed that while danger for her father had stirred her heart to its dearest depth, danger for herself troubled her not one whit. when i looked at her now there was no fear in her face, which was calm as the face of a pictured saint, but i saw questionings there and knew they were of me. plainly as if she spoke the words, her great blue eyes were saying, "am i leaning on a broken reed?" as she caught my look she turned to brocton, and i gritted my teeth and listened. "so your lordship has found me!" she spoke easily and lightly. "how small the world must be since it cannot find room for me to avoid you!" "say rather, dear mistress, that my love draws me unerringly towards you." "i thought i gathered that there was another motive for your coming here to-night." "margaret, believe me, i am distraught," he said, not wholly in mockery it seemed to me. "so distraught, it seems, that you neglect your plainest duty as an officer in order to corrupt, if you can, a supposed country maiden, of whom you have heard by chance. his grace of cumberland will be glad to hear of such devotion." "won't you listen to me, margaret? you know i love you." "if you were offering me, my lord, the only kind of love which an honourable man can offer, i should still refuse it. your reputation, character, and person are all equally disagreeable to me, and that you should imagine that there is even the smallest chance of your succeeding, is an insult for which, were i a man, you should pay dearly." "on the contrary, dear margaret," he replied, in his most silken tones, plainly shifting to more favourable ground, "i fancy that the chance is by no means small." "your fancy does not interest me," was the cold reply. "every woman has her price, if i may adapt a phrase of the late sir robert's, and i can pay yours. excuse my frankness, margaret. it would be unpardonable if we were not alone. yon cattle-drover hardly counts as audience, i fancy, for he is already as good as strung up as a rebel." after a long silence, so long that i tried to find an explanation of it, she said, "you refer to my father?" there was a quaver in her voice which all her bravery could not suppress. "exactly, margaret, to your dear father." "in times like this, no doubt, your conduct in arresting him will pass for legal, but fortunately some evidence will be required, and you have none. the fact is that in your loyal zeal you have acted too soon." "i thought your daughterly instincts would be aroused," he answered, scoffing openly as he saw his advantage. "they have lain dormant longer than i expected. believe me, margaret, for my own purposes i have acted in the very nick of time, and you will do well to drop your unfounded hopes of the future. your father's fate is certain if i act, for i can call a witness--you remember major tixall, a beery but insinuating person--whose evidence is enough to hang him fifty times over. whether or not i produce it depends, as i say, on the depth of your affection for him." "i shall know how to save my father, my lord, when the time comes. now, perhaps, having played your last card, you will leave me." "my dear margaret," was the cool reply, "your innocence amazes me. my last card! not at all, sweet queen. you are my last card." "i? how so?" "you, too, are a rebel, if i choose to say the word, and a dangerous one to boot. so here's your choice: come where love awaits you or go where the gallows awaits you." "and if i could so far forget my nature as to come where love of your sort, the love of a mere brute beast, awaits me, you would forget everything?" "everything, margaret." "your duty to your king included?" "certainly. there's nothing i will not do, or leave undone, at your behest for your fair sake." "you flatter me, my lord, far above my poor deserts. and now, if your lordship will excuse me,"--she arose at the words, pale and determined as death,--"i will e'en go and give myself up to some responsible officer and acquaint him with your conduct." "he would not believe you, my sweet margaret." "you forget i have a witness, my lord." for the first time during the conversation she looked across at me. "he would not be there to witness, margaret. surely you suppose that i am wise enough to prevent that move. keep on sitting still, farmer oliver. i'm glad, believe me, to see you so interested. a difficult piece of virtue she is, to be sure, and if you could only escape a hanging, which you will not, you might have learned to-night a useful lesson in the art of managing a woman. it's an art, sir, a great, a curious art, and i flatter myself i am somewhat of a master therein." all this time he had kept me in his eye, and the point of his rapier was ready for my slightest move. it had grieved me to the heart to hear him shame this noble woman so, bargaining for her honour as lightly as a marketing housewife chaffers for a pullet. how she had felt it, i could judge in part by the deathly paleness of her face, and the tight hold she was keeping on herself. she dropped into her chair again and buried her face in her hands. he only smiled as one who presages a welcome triumph. i kept still and silent, never moving my eyes from his, praying and waiting for my second. she raised her head and spoke again: "if i did not know you, my lord, i would plead with you. two men's lives are in my hands, you say, and there is"--she paused--"but one way"--another terrible pause--"of saving them." "you want me to throw in the cattle-drover?" he asked gaily. "yes," she replied, in a scarcely audible whisper. "it's throwing in five hundred acres of land each of which my father values at a jew's eye, let me tell you, but, egad, margaret, you're not dear even at that. run away home, farmer wheatman, and don't be fool enough to play the rebel again." i sat still and silent. speech was useless, and action not yet possible. that keen swordsman's eye must be diverted somehow. there was a god in heaven, and the rabbit-stew would be ready soon. it was useless to attempt to force matters. and as for his taunts, well, he was but feathering my arrows. so i sat on like a stone. "go, master wheatman," she urged faintly, but i did not even turn to look at her. my heart was thumping on my ribs, my nerves tingling, my muscles involuntarily tightening for a spring. "these yokels are so dull and lifeless, margaret. he cannot understand our impatience." out of the corner of my eye i saw her crimson to the roots of her hair at this vicious insult. "off, my man," he added to me, "or i'll prick your bull's hide." he thrust out his rapier to give point to the threat. nothing moved me. my eyes were glued to his. and now the door on his right hand opened, and little mistress marry-me-quick appeared with our supper. she saw the sword directed at the breast of the one man on earth she loved with all the fervour of her honest, womanly heart. the sight scattered her senses. with a nerve-racking shriek she flopped heavily to the floor, and the rabbit-stew flew from her hands and crashed loudly at his feet. it was too much for his wine-sodden nerves. his eyes turned, his body slackened, the point of his rapier flagged floorward. god had given me my second. i bounded at him, not straight, but somewhat to his left. he recovered, but, anticipating a straight rush, thrust clean out on the expected line of my leap. his blade ran through between my coat and waistcoat, and the guard thumped sore on my ribs. then he was mine. i struck hard on heart and belt and knocked the wind out of his body. he sucked for breath like a drowning man. now he could not call for help, and i finished him off, quickly, gladly, and smilingly. his twitching fingers fumbled at his belt as if seeking a pistol. finding none, he made no further attempt to defend himself, and covered his face with his arms to keep off my blows, but i struck him with such fierce strength on his unprotected temples that he weakened and dropped them. his ghastly, bleeding face turned upwards, his dazed eyes pleading for the mercy he had denied her a moment ago. it was brute appealing to brute in vain, and with one last blow on the chin that drove his teeth together like the crack of a pistol and nearly tore his head off his shoulders, i knocked him senseless to the floor. his rapier hung in the skirt of my coat, so close had i been to sure and sudden death. i drew it out and tossed it to the floor at his side. "i wish, madam," said i, reaching out for mother's domino, "that we could have saved the rabbit-stew." "is he dead?" she whispered, with white lips, coming forward and looking shudderingly down on him with troubled eyes. "no such luck," said i. "he may be round in five minutes, but that's enough, though poor little marry-me-quick will have to be left to fend for herself." i helped her into the domino, pulled the hood over the wonderful hair, and seized my own hat. "now, mistress waynflete," said i, "the northern halt of staffordshire is before us, and the sooner some of it is behind us the better." with these words i led her to the door, which i closed carefully behind me, and into the street. a little explanation will make our subsequent movements clearer. the eastern side of stafford is roughly bow-shaped. the main street is the straight string and the wood is the curve of the wall, now mostly fallen down and in ruins, the line of which was followed by the street we were in, and only some fifty yards from the southern end of the string. the marksman's thumb represents the market square, and the arrow the line of the east gate street. no cat in the town knew it better than i did, or could travel it better in the dark. indeed, our only danger now came from the moon, but, fortunately, she had not yet climbed very high. mistress waynflete placed her arm in mine and we turned to the right, away from the still noisy and crowded main street. we passed an ale-house bursting with customers, the central figure among whom, plainly visible from the street, was pippin pat, an irishman with so huge a head that he had become a celebrity under this name for miles around. he had made himself rolling drunk and, suitably to the occasion, had been made into a highlander by the simple process of robbing him of his breeches and rubbing his head with ruddle. he was a sorry sight enough, but, the main thing, he had attracted an enormous company. i rejoiced to see him, for it meant that the wicket of his master's tanyard, half a stone's throw ahead, would be unbolted. this would save us a longish detour and lessen the danger of being observed. arrived at the tanyard gate, i tried the wicket. it was unbolted, as i had anticipated, and we were soon in the quiet and obscurity of the tanyard. the far side of the yard was separated by a low stone wall from the end of a blind alley leading into eastgate street. i guided my companion safely by the edges of the tan-pits, and on arriving at the wall, i made no apology but lifted her on to it. as she sat there a shaft of moonlight lit up her fine, brave face. i feasted my eyes upon it for a moment, and then made to leap over to assist her to the other side, but she stayed me with a hand on each shoulder. "i will go no farther, master wheatman," she said in a low, troubled voice, "till you forgive me." "forgive you?" i cried, astounded. "forgive you? what for?" "for thinking meanly of you. i thought you were afraid of brocton. not until that lion leap of yours did i realize how cleverly and nobly you had sat there through his insults, foreseeing the exact moment when you could master him. my only explanation, i do not offer it as an excuse, is that the utter beast in brocton makes it hard for me to think well of any man. oh, believe me, i am ashamed, confounded, and miserable. say you forgive me!" "madam," i said laughingly, "the next time i play the knight-errant, may god send me a less observant damsel. there's nothing to forgive. the plain truth is that i was frightened, a little bit. but i'm new to this sort of thing, and i hope to improve." then, after a pause, i met her eyes full with mine and added, "as we go on." "frightened," she said scornfully, "you frightened, you who leaped unarmed on the best swordsman in london? no, don't mock me, master wheatman, forgive me." "of course i do, and thank you for your kind words. and we've both got some one to forgive." she smiled radiantly--"whom? and what for?" i leaped over the wall, and put my arms around her to lift her down. "marry-me-quick, for dropping the rabbit-stew." chapter vii the results of losing my virgil we slipped down the blind alley and came out in the street leading to the east gate. there was still great plenty of people strolling up and down, for night had not yet killed off the novelty and excitement caused by the arrival of the army. the smaller houses were crowded with soldiery, hob-nobbing with the folk on whom they were billeted, and all were yelling out, "let the cannakin clink!" and other rowdy ditties in the intervals of drinking. at the east gate itself, a fire blazed, and pickets warmed themselves round it, while along the street late-coming baggage and ammunition wagons were trailing wearily. it was idle to expect to pass unseen, so we plunged into the throng, threaded through the wagons, and skirted leftward till we arrived at a quieter street running down to the line of the wall. here every brick and stone was as a familiar friend, for the little grammar school backed on to the wall at the very spot where the main street led through the old north gate of the town. old master bloggs lived in a tiny house on the side of the school away from the gate. there were the candles flickering in the untidy den in which the old man passed all his waking hours out of school-time, and there, i doubted not, they would be guttering away if the highlanders sacked the town. i led the way across the little fore-court, paled off from the street by wooden railings, gently opened the door, and walked in to the dark passage. the study door was ajar, and we peeped in. there the old, familiar figure was, eyesight feebler, shoulders rounder, hair whiter, and clothing shabbier than of yore, crumpled over a massive folio. he was reading aloud, in a monotonous, squeaky half-pitch. latin hexameters they were, for even his voice could not hide all the music in them, and as i listened it became clear that the old man had that night been moved to select something appropriate to the occasion, for he was going through the account of the fall of troy in the second aeneid. i put my fingers on my lips and crept on, followed by mistress waynflete. in the little back room i whispered, "my old school and schoolmaster. we will not disturb the old man. poor little marry-me-quick may have to suffer on our account, and old bloggs shall at any rate have the excuse of knowing nothing about us. he's happy enough over the fall of troy. nothing that he can do can help us. let him be." she nodded assent and i looked round. opening a cupboard, i found half a loaf of bread, a nipperkin of milk, and a rind of cheese. "eat," said i, "and think it's rabbit-stew." i made her take all the milk, but shared the bread and cheese. troy went on falling steadily meanwhile, and when we had finished our scanty nuncheon i once more led the way, and we passed out into the little yard behind the schoolhouse, and gained the playground, the outer boundary of which was the town wall, here some twelve feet high and in a fair state of preservation. many generations of schoolboys had cut and worn a series of big notches on each side of the wall, and by long practice i could run up and down in a trice to fetch ball or tipcat which had been knocked over. from the bridge at the hanyards onwards, mistress waynflete had always acted promptly and exactly to my wish. i felt a boor, and was in truth a boor, in comparison with her. brocton's 'yokel blood' gibe had put murder into my blows, but it had truth enough in it to make it rankle like a poisoned arrow. yet here was this wonder-woman, trustful as a child and meeker than a milkmaid. my work was new, but at any rate i had sometimes dreamed that i could do a man's work when i got my chance, and i had limbs of leather and steel to do it with. my thoughts, however, were newer still, and had no background of daydreams to stand against. moreover, things had gone with such a rush that i had had no time to shake and sift them into order. at the foot of that wall all i knew, and that but dimly, was that there were thoughts that made a man's work the one thing worth living for. "get your breath, madam," said i. "you want it all now, and there's no need to hurry." she leaned easily against the wall, and peered round to make out her surroundings. the only result could be to give her the impression that she was cooped up like a rat in a trap, but with characteristic indifference for herself, she only said: "and this was your school?" "for many years, seven or more." she was silent for a time and then went on. "you have led a quiet life, master wheatman?" "ha," thought i, "she's gauging my capacity to help her," and added aloud, bitterly reminiscent, "the life of a yokel, madam." "you have read much?" "yes, i'm fond of reading. it passes the long winter nights." "and no doubt you know by heart the merry gests of robin hood and the admirable exploits of claude duval?" i felt her eyes on me in the dark, and longed for the sun so that i could see the blue glint in them. "no such rubbish, indeed," said i hotly. it was a slight on master bloggs, droning away yonder at the fall of troy, not to say the sweet old vicar. "what then?" "livy and caesar, and stuff like that, but mainly virgil." "then it's very, very curious," she whispered emphatically. no doubt yokel blood ought not to run like wine under the mighty pulse of virgil, and i sourly asked, "what's curious, madam? old bloggs has nothing to teach except latin, and i happened to take to it. why curious?" "really, master wheatman, not curious? here we are in a narrow yard at the foot of a high wall. i'm perfectly certain that within five minutes i shall be whisked over to the other side. and you got that out of virgil?" "straight out of virgil, madam. stafford was our troy, and this the wall thereof. i've got in and out thousands of times." she peered comically around the dark playground and said gaily, "i see no wooden horse. there should be one, i know. master dryden says so, and he knows all about virgil." "poof," said i. "if old bloggs heard you, he'd tingle to thrash you black and blue." "he couldn't now i've got my breath again," she laughed. "i'm glad of that. let me explain. here is a ladder of notches in the wall, left and right alternately. feel for them." she did so, and i went on: "they are roughly three feet apart on each side. i'll climb up first and assist you up the last few. your skirts will trouble you, i fear." "not much, for i'll turn them up." she promptly did so, and fastened the edges round her waist. she also discarded the long, cumbrous domino, and i took it from her. "watch me," said i, "and follow when i give the word. i'll have a look round first." up i went, hand over hand, as easily as ever i had done it. i crouched down on the top of the wall, which, fortunately, lay in the shadow of the schoolhouse. i saw in the sky the reflected glare of a fire at the north gate, another picket i supposed, but there were houses without the gate, and these were dark and silent. there was no fear of our being observed. "come!" i whispered. she started boldly and came up with cheering swiftness. i spread the domino in readiness, then stretched down to help her, and in another moment she was sitting the wall as a saddle. "splendid, for a novice," i said. "and a novice in skirts, short ones." she went first down the other side, and i nearly pitched headlong in assisting her as far down as possible. she lowered her skirts while i followed and then i helped her into the domino, rejoicing in the silken caress of her hair on my hands as i arranged the hood, a pleasant piece of officiousness for which i got thanks i did not deserve, and off we started. again she asked nothing as to what we were going to do and whither we were bound. the blazing windows of a comfortable inn might have been in sight for aught she cared to all outward seeming. yet here she was, close on midnight, in bitterly cold weather, stepping out into rough and unknown country in company with a man she had only known a few hours. i went ahead and thought it over. for ten minutes we picked our way in the deep shadow along the foot of the wall, _per opaca locorum_, as the great weaver of words puts it, and then i turned outwards into the open field and the clear moonlight. of her own accord she placed her arm in mine, and we stepped it out bravely together. "we are in unenclosed land here," i explained. "on our right is a patch which varies between bog and marsh and pool, according to the rains. the townsmen call it the king's pool, whatever state it is in. just ahead, you can see the line of it, is a little stream, the pearl brook. if it isn't frozen over yet, i can easily carry you across, as it's not more than six inches deep. the freemen of the ancient borough--yon little town has slumbered there nearly eight hundred years--have, by immemorial custom, the right of fishing in the pearl brook with line and bent pin." "they do not catch many thirty-pound jack, i suppose?" "dear me, no. but it was here i learned to like fishing, and i went on from minnows and jacksharps to pike." "and wandering damsels," she interrupted, with a laugh that sounded to me like the music of silver bells. a minute later, on the edge of the brook, she said vexedly, "and it's not frozen over." but i had already noticed that fact with great elation. "not more than six inches, you say," she muttered, and made to step in. "and if it were not so much as six barley-corns," i said, "i would not suffer you to wade it. what am i for, pray you, madam?" without more ado, i lifted her once more in my arms--the fourth time that day--and started. i cursed the narrowness of the pearl brook. i could almost have hopped across it, but by dawdling aslant the stream i had her sweet face near mine in the moonlight, and my arms round her proud body, for a couple of minutes. "yokel blood or not," i thought, "this is something my lord brocton will never do." a quarter of an hour later, after helping her up a short, steep scarp, we stood and looked back on the little town. its roofs were bathed in moonlight, and the great church tower stood out in grey against the blue-black sky. patches of dull, ruddy glow in the sky marked the sites of the picket-fires, and there came to us, like the gibbering of ghosts in the wind, the dying notes of the day's excitement. to our left, bits of silver ribbon marked the twistings of the river, and that darker line in the distant darkness was the hills of my home and boyhood. at their feet was the hanyards, and kate and mother. there was a little mist in my eyes, and the eyes i turned and looked into were brimming with tears. "and now, mistress waynflete," said i, "let us on to our inn." "our inn!" she echoed, and there was dismay in her voice. "our inn, and i haven't a pennypiece. for safety, i put my hat, my riding jacket, and my purse under the bed at marry-me-quick's, and the fight and hurry drove them out of my mind completely." "and i'm in the same case exactly," said i, and laughed outright. i had little use for money at the hanyards, least of all in the pockets of my sunday best, and not until she told me her plight did i realize the fact that in the elation of starting from home, i had forgotten that money might be necessary. though i laughed, i watched her closely. now she would break down. no woman's heart could stand the shock. "my possessions," she said, "are precisely two handkerchiefs, one of madame du pont's washballs, and most of a piece of the famous marry-me-quick." i had been mistaken. she made no ado about our serious situation, but spoke with a grave humour that fetched me greatly. "quite a lengthy inventory," i replied. "my contributions to the common stock are--" and i fumbled in my pockets--"item, one handkerchief; item, a pocket-knife; item, one pipe and half a paper of tobacco; item, one flask, two-thirds full of mistress kate wheatman's priceless peppermint cordial, the sovereign remedy against fatigue, cold, care, and the humours; item, something unknown which has been flopping against my hip and is, by the outward feel of it, a thing to rejoice over, to wit, one of kate's pasties." i pushed my hand down for it, and then laughed louder than ever, as i drew forth my dumpy little virgil. "item," i concluded, "the works of the divine master, p. vergilius maro, hidden in my pocket by that mischievous minx and monkey, kate wheatman of the hanyards." and i told the story. "then if kate had not hidden your beloved virgil, you would not have gone fishing?" "i'm sure i shouldn't." "life turns on trifles, master wheatman, and to a pretty girl's sisterly jest i owe everything that has happened since i first saw you on the river bank." "we owe it, madam," i corrected gently, and i turned to go on, for i saw that she was moved and troubled at the evil she thought she had brought on me. evil! i was enjoying every breath i drew and every step i took, and my heart was like a live coal in the midst of my bosom. "have no fear, mistress margaret," said i cheerfully, sweeping my hand out. "there's broad staffordshire before us, a goodly land full of meat and malt and money, and we'll have our share of it." "but you'll have to steal it for me." "'convey the wise it call," "i quoted. "that's better," and she smiled up at me in the moonlight. "virgil puts you right above my poor wits, but say you love shakespeare too, and we shall have one of the great things of life in common." "i do, madam, but you must learn to rate things at their true value. you speak french?" "oh yes." "and italian?" "yes." "and play the harpsichord?" "yes." "then, madam, i am a half-educated boor compared with you, for i know none of these things. but though i do not know the french or italian for marry-me-quick, if you will get it out of your pocket, i'll show you the staffordshire for half of it." we marched on gaily for another quarter of an hour, eating the sweet morsel. then i said, "even an old traveller and campaigner like you will be glad to learn that our inn is at hand." "very glad, but i see no signs of it." "well, no," said i, "it's not exactly an inn, but just a plain barn. you shall sleep soft and safe and warm, though, and even if we had money and an inn was at hand, it would be foolish to go there. your case is hard, madam, and i wish i could offer you better quarters." under the shelter of a round knoll clumped with pines, lay an ancient farmhouse. we were approaching it from the front, and its sheds and barns were at the rear. we therefore turned into the field and fetched a circuit, and soon stood at the gate leading into the farmyard. no one stirred, not even a dog barked, as i softly opened the gate and crept, followed by mistress waynflete, to the nearest building. i pushed open the door, we entered a barn, and were safe for the night. the moon shone through the open door, and i saw that the barn was empty, probably because the year's crops, as i knew to my sorrow, had been poor indeed in our district. the fact that the barn was bare told in our favour, as no farm hand would be likely to come near it should one be stirring before us next morning. a rick stood handy in the yard, and on going to it i found that three or four dasses of hay had been carved out ready for removal to the stalls. i carried them to the shed, one by one, and mighty hot i was by the time i dumped the last on the barn floor. starting off again, i poached around in another shed, and was lucky enough to find a pile of empty corn sacks. spreading these three or four deep in the far corner of the barn, i covered them thickly with hay, and having reserved a sack on purpose, i stuffed it loosely with hay to serve for a pillow. all this busy time mistress waynflete stood on the moonlit door-sill, silent as a mouse, and when i stole quietly up to tell her all was ready, i saw that her hands were clasped in front and her lips moved. i bared my head and waited, for she had transformed this poor barn into a maiden's sanctuary. she turned her face towards me. "madam," said i, very quietly, "your bed is ready, and you are tired out and dead for sleep. pray come!" still silent, she stepped up and examined my rude handiwork. then she curled herself up on the hay, and i covered her with more hay till she lay snug enough to keep out another great frost. "good night, madam, and sweet sleep befall you," and i was turning away. "ho!" she said, "and pray where do you propose to sleep?" "i shall nest under the rick-straddle." "sir," and her tone was almost unpleasant, "for the modesty you attribute unto me, i thank you. for the gratitude you decline to attribute unto me, i dislike you. but pray give me credit for a little common sense. i shall desire your services in the morning, and i do not want to find you under a rick, frozen to a fossil." "no, madam." she sprang out of bed, tumbling the hay in all directions. "master wheatman, i will not pretend to misunderstand you, and indeed, i thank you, but you are going to put your bed here," stamping her foot, "so that we can talk without raising our voices. i am much more willing to sleep in the same barn with you than in the same town with my lord brocton. where's your share of the sacks?" i did without sacks, but i fetched more chunks of hay, and she helped me strew a bed for myself close up to her own. i tucked her up once more, and then made myself cosy. i was miserable lest i should snore. yokels so often do. joe braggs, for instance, would snore till the barn door rattled. i remembered the cordial, and we each had a good pull at the flask. i felt for days the touch of her smooth, soft fingers on mine as she took it. "it certainly does warm you up," she said. "i feel all aglow without and within." "then i may take it that you are comfortable?" "if it were not for two things, i should say this was a boy-and-girl escapade of ours, every moment of which was just pure enjoyment." "naturally you are uneasy about your father, but i cannot think he will come to any immediate harm. why brocton should send him north instead of south is, i confess, a mystery, but to-morrow will solve it. and what else makes you uneasy?" "you," she replied, very low and brief. "i? and pray, madam, what have i done to make you uneasy?" "met me." still the same tone. "i am not able to talk to you in the modish manner, nor do i think you would wish me to try to ape my betters, so i say plainly that our meeting has not made me uneasy. why then you?" "had you not met me, you would now be asleep at the hanyards, a free and happy country gentleman. instead you are here, a suspect, a refugee, an outlaw, one tainted with rebellion, the jail for certain if you are caught, and then--" she broke off abruptly, and i think i heard a low sob. "and then?" "perhaps the gibbet." "it's true that the thieving craft is a curst craft for the gallows, but to-morrow's trouble is like yesterday's dinner, not worth thinking on. we are here, safe and comfortable. let that suffice. and to-day, so far from doing harm at which you must needs be uneasy, you have wrought a miracle." "wrought a miracle? what do you mean?" "you have found a cabbage, and made a man. good night, mistress waynflete." "good night, master wheatman." i imitated the regular breathing of a tired, sleeping man. in a few minutes it became clear that she was really asleep, and i pretended no longer, but stretched out comfortably in the fragrant hay and soon slept like a log. chapter viii the conjurer's cap i awoke between darkness and daylight. mistress waynflete still slept peacefully and there was as yet no need to rouse her. i had slept in my shoes, but now, i drew them off, lifted the bar of the door, and stole out to look around. not a soul was stirring about the farm, and the only living creature in sight was a sleepy cock, which scuttled off noisily at my approach. i entered a cowshed, where a fine, patient cow turned a reproachful eye on me, as if rebuking me for my too early visit. i cheerily clucked and slapped her on to her hoofs, and then, failing to find any sort of cup or can, punched my hat inside out and filled it with warm foaming milk. with this spoil i hurried back to our quarters. i had to leave the door open, and this gave me light enough to look more closely at my companion. she was still sleeping, her face calmly content, and so had she slept through the night, for the coverlet of hay was rising and falling undisturbed on her breast. it was now time to wake her, and, having no free hand, i knelt down to nudge her with my elbow. as i did so, her face changed. a look of concern came over it, then one of hesitation, then a sweet smile, chasing each other as gleam chases gloom across the meadows on an april day. she was dreaming, dreaming pleasantly, and it was to a hard world that i awakened her. at my second nudge she half-opened her eyes and murmured, "it's very wide." then my greeting aroused her fully, and she blushed wondrous red and beautiful. "good morrow, mistress waynflete," said i. "i grieve to disturb you, and, pray you, do not move too abruptly or over goes the breakfast." "good morrow, master oliver," she replied. "i have slept well. i feel as if i've quite enjoyed it. we do enjoy sleep, i think, sometimes." "or the dreams it brings, madam." she glanced quickly at me, as if afraid that i had the power of reading dream-thoughts, and gaily said, "and breakfast ready! this is even better than the paris fashion. what is it? more of dear kate's cordial?" i did not know what the paris fashion of breakfast was, and she did not enlighten me. anyhow, i, the yokel, had improved on it, and that was something. "a far better brewage, madam," i said, "but you must pardon the staffordshire fashion of serving it." she sat up, took the cap, and drank heartily, the dawn still in her eyes and cheeks, and masses of yellow hair tumbling down from under her hood on throat and bosom. when she handed back the cap, i could not forbear from saying, "you look charming after your night's rest, and i profess that tear of milk on the tip of your nose becomes you admirably." with the rim of my cap at my lips, i added with mock concern, "have a care, mistress waynflete, or you'll rub off tip as well as tear." "i suppose you thought 'as a jewel of gold' and the rest of it," she said, squinting comically down to examine her nose. "really, no, madam; i thought of nothing so scandalous, from the bible though it be. i thought of--of...." "i'm all ears," she said archly. "i'm a poor hand at turning compliments to ladies," said i. "on the contrary, you turn them admirably. see!" she held up my sopping cap, and laughed merrily. "it's ruined for best," said i, "but it will do for market days. and now, madam, it's cold enough to freeze askers, as joe braggs says, and for toilet you must e'en be content with first a shiver and then a shake. i will await you at the yard gate, and pray close the door behind you. the quicker the better." she rejoined me in two or three minutes. i closed the gate cautiously behind me, and we started our journey. from the farm we got away quite unobserved, but i looked behind me at every other step to make surer, till we turned the top of the knoll, and it was with great relief that i saw the chimney-pots sink out of sight. for a time we walked along briskly and in silence. so far i had carried everything with a high hand and successfully, but the cold grey of the morning began to creep into my thoughts as i looked ahead over miles and miles of dreariness and danger. houses were few and far between; every village was a source of danger; the high roads were closed to us by our fear of the troops. further, the object we had in view was vague and unformed, if not impossible of achievement, for even if we arrived at the very place where colonel waynflete was held prisoner, what could we do to help him? we should be safe from immediate need and danger if we could reach the prince's army, but where that was, and which way it was travelling, were unknown to us. certain it was that between us and any real help ranged some thirty miles of cold, bleak country packed with enemies for miles ahead. and here we were, on foot, penniless and hungry. i had longed for a man's work; this was a regiment's. a sidelong look at my companion drove all the mist and frost out of my heart. something about her made me feel a sneak and a traitor even for harbouring such thoughts. from the first she had asked for no help of mine. i had forced it on her, or circumstances had forced me to help her in helping myself, as when i cut our way from marry-me-quick's cottage. the more i was with her, the better i began to understand brocton's madness. it was the madness of the mere brute in him to be sure, and a man should kick the brute in him into its kennel, though he cannot at times help hearing it whine. her majestic beauty had dazzled him as a flame dazzles a moth, but at this stage, at any rate, it was not her beauty that made me her thrall. that i could have withstood. because she was so beautiful, so stately, so compelling, she made no appeal to me. what i mean is, that i did not fall in love with her at first sight, simply because the mere stupidity of such a thing kept me from doing it. glow-worms do not fall in love with stars or thistles with sycamores. she was something to be worshipped, served at any cost, saved at any sacrifice, but not loved. no, that was for some lucky one of her own class and state, not for a simple squireling like me. her comradeship, her graciousness, her sweet equalizing of our positions, were, i felt, just the simple, natural adornments of the commanding modesty which was her spiritual garment. manlike, however, i had an evil streak in me, and thence, later, came madness. in any company i must be top dog. i had been head of the school, not because of any special cleverness, but because i would burst rather than be second to anybody in anything. i had fought and fought, at all hazards, until not a boy in school or town dare come near me. so now, since my lord brocton--and many a lord beside, i doubted not--had failed, i must needs step in and say, "i will please her, whether she like it or not." and so, plain countryman as i was, i had done my work ungrudgingly but not, i feared, too modestly, and since i could not speak court-like, i had been over-masterful, and given her mood for mood, and turned no cheek for her sweet smiting. and as i had of old time licked every lad in stafford, so now neither staffordshire nor all the king's men in it should turn me back. through she should go, and in safety and comfort, so that when the time came for me to hand over my precious charge to a worthier, she should say that the yokel had done a man's work and done it gentlemanly. therefore, when mistress waynflete looked up to me from the bleak uplands with serious, questioning eyes, i said, as calmly as if we were pacing the garden at the hanyards, with kate and jane active in the kitchen behind us, "ham and eggs for breakfast!" "i don't see any," she said, in answering mood, scanning the fields around us. "not that that matters. i didn't see the steps, but they were there. you make me think, master wheatman, of a turk i saw in a booth at vienna, who drew rabbits and rose-bushes out of an empty hat. staffordshire is your conjurer's hat. and i do like ham and eggs." my assurance and her comfortable belief in it made us both brighter, and we stepped out merrily. she gave me an entertaining account of vienna, where she had spent some months, and which was then the great outpost of christendom against the turk. when this talk had brought us on to the field of hopton heath, i gave her the best account i could of the battle there in the civil war time, and of the slaying of the marquis of northampton. and this led me on to my pride of ancestry, and i told her of captain smite-and-spare-not wheatman, a tower of strength to the parliament in these parts, who fought here and later on naseby field itself. many tales i told of him that had been handed down from one generation of us to another, and how so greatly was he taken with his incomparable lord-general that he had named his first-born son oliver, and ever since there had been an oliver wheatman of the hanyards. then i told how one of these later olivers, which one a matter of no consequence, had written verses and put them into the mouth of the doughty smite-and-spare-not, sitting his horse, stark and strong, at the head of his men on naseby field, and gazing with grim, grey eyes on the opening movements of the fight. and, nothing loth, i trolled them out roundly across the meadows, till the peewits screamed and a distant dog began to bay: "princelet and king, and mitre and ring, earl and baron and squire, oliver worries 'em, harries and flurries 'em, with siege and slaughter and fire. with the arm of the flesh and the sword of the spirit, push of pike and the word, smiting and praying, and praising and slaying, oliver fights for the lord. with the sword he brought the work is wrought, we finish here to-day. when yon rags and remnants of babylon are blown and battered away. hurrah for the groans of 'em, soon shall the bones of 'em, _steady!_ hell-rakers at large, rot under the sod. _pass the word: 'god_ _is our strength?'_ there goes oliver. _charge!_" when i had done she applauded so that my face burned until i was discommoded and fell into her trap. "i wish you'd written them, master wheatman." "well, i did," said i grumpily, not liking to be bereft of any little glory in her eyes. "what, you?" her eyebrows arched and her lips curled. "you, oh, never. 'smiting and praying'? 'the arm of the flesh and the sword of the spirit.'" she mouthed the words deliciously. "but, doubtless, when you see my lord brocton again, you'll put in the word and the praying." here her sweet voice trailed off into a dainty snuffle: "'my dear lord, since out of the mouths of babes and sucklings proceedeth wisdom, hearken, i pray you, unto me, oliver wheatman, to wit of the hanyards, and amend ye your ways lest i hit you over your cockscomb again, and very much harder than before. repent ye, my lord, for the hour is at hand, and if you don't, i'll thump you into one of our kate's blackberry jellies.' and here endeth the goodly discourse of that saintly rib-roaster, master hit-him-first-and-then-pray-for-him wheatman of the hanyards." it was simply glorious to be so tormented by this witch with the dancing blue eyes. "for this scandalous contempt of the muses," said i soberly, "i shall punish you by frizzling your share of the ham to a cinder." during my schoolboy days i had roamed the countryside till i knew it as an open book, and this minute knowledge was our salvation now. the immediate need was food, and food obtained without price and without our being observed by anyone. at seven o'clock on a hard winter morning in open country, this seemed to require a miracle. as a matter of fact, it was as easy as shelling peas. since crossing the heath we had been travelling nearer to one of the main roads, that leading out of the east gate to the town, and now we got our first glimpse of it lying like a broad, brown ribbon half-way down the slope of a very steep hill. in the upper half, this hill was pretty well wooded and the road cut clean through the wood, but between us and the wood there lay the level crest of the hill, cut by hedges into several fields, and crossed by a rough cart-track leading past a roomy, one-storied cottage, grey-walled and brown-thatched, and on through the wood into the main road. the cottage, with its outbuildings, made a little farmstead, and here lived dick doley and his wife sal, who did a little farming, but mainly lived by huckstering. today was market-day at stafford, and unless they had broken the routine of half a lifetime, they would now be packing their little cart with marketables and soon be off for the town. they had neither chick nor child, lad-servant nor lassie, and they would leave the cottage empty and at our disposal. at this time of the day i could, of course, have trusted both, but they were very human bodies of a sort to rejoice the business side of the heart of joe braggs, and it was best not to give them the chance of blabbing later in the day when, for a moral certainty, they would both be market fresh. besides, it was unfair to thrust myself on the kindness of anyone. i had more than once wondered what had happened to poor little marry-me-quick. i scrambled through the hedge and peeped down the road. i was right. dick and his wife were busy loading up. so we waited behind the hedge till they had cleared off, and indeed did not move till i saw them and their cart pass along the road at the foot of the hill. time has not blurred the memory of a single detail of our stay in this welcome house of refuge, but the telling of what was moving and charming to me would, i fear, bore others. there was a ham, two indeed, and flitches beside, in the rack hanging from the ceiling, and there were eggs--three, to be precise--in the larder, to which, by equal good luck considering the time of the year, i added two more by a raid into the hen-house. it was all natural and simple enough, but mistress waynflete hailed their production almost as amazedly as if i had indeed drawn them out of my hat. but how i fetched and carried, chopped wood and drew water, swept the floor and laid the table, fried ham and boiled eggs, doing all these things with music in my heart and a noisy song on my lips--is everything to me and nothing to my tale. mistress waynflete had disappeared into one of the three or four rooms of which the house consisted, to make herself presentable, as she absurdly put it. when the table was laid and the ham cooked, i halloed the news to her, and rushed off to the shed to attend to my outward appearance. i did want it, being indeed not far short of filthy. perhaps i hurried unexpectedly. at any rate, on returning i found mistress waynflete bending over something on the hearth. straightening herself hastily, and with a pretty confusion, at my approach, she cried, "oh, master oliver, the ham was burning, and you threatened my share of it, you know!" i could not reply. down to her hips her rich amber hair flowed like a bridal veil, and from amid a wealth of snowy lace, fluttering on the orbed glory of perfect womanhood, her neck rose smooth and stately as a shaft of alabaster. her cheeks crimsoned with maiden shamefastness, but the blue eyes met mine without a hint of maiden fear, and for that thanks as well as reverence filled my heart as i bowed to her. maidenlike, she drew her golden veil more closely over her bosom, and tripped back to finish her toilet, leaving me amated and abashed by the vision i had beheld. i think it was from that moment that my joy in my work began to be mingled with the despair of my love. certainly it was a chastened oliver wheatman who placed a chair for her when she came in again for breakfast, and helped her to the good things a kindly fortune had provided. it is my belief that each of us was secretly amused at the steady zeal with which the other attacked the meal. we wrangled over the odd egg, each insisting on the other having it, she because i was strong, and needed it, i because i was strong and could do without it, and finally adopted the usual compromise. we had more than gone round the clock with barely a mouthful, and we ate as those who know not where the next meal's meat is to come from. frankly, i, at any rate, gave myself a fair margin before the pinch should come again, and mistress waynflete averred that she had never in her life before eaten so much or so toothsomely. our meal over, i stacked the fire with fresh logs, asked and obtained permission to smoke a pipe, and made my sweet mistress cosy in the chimney-corner. then we began to take stock of our position. "there's no good to come of hurrying," said i. "here we are both snug and safe, and your night's rest was but short. let us see where we stand." i did not really believe that any amount of talking would help much, but repose would do her good, and i had a big idea running in and out of my mind. our first difficulty, food and rest, had been overcome, and i was bent on mastering the next. no amount of discussion gave us any key to the one great mystery. when brocton had captured colonel waynflete at milford, the obvious thing to do with him was to send him prisoner to the duke at lichfield. though the colonel carried no papers which made his purpose clear, brocton knew well what the object of his journey was, and the suspension of the habeas corpus act put the colonel in his power. or, he might have carried him before a justice of the peace, his friend master dobson for choice, and had him committed to the town jail. the course actually taken, that of sending him ahead, under guard, in the very van of the royal army, was to us utterly inexplicable. his mad lust for mistress margaret explained the separation of father and daughter. the thought did occur to me, though i took great care not to hint at it, that he intended to make away with the colonel, and looked to finding tools among his blackguardly dragoons and an opportunity when in actual conflict with the highlanders. i hesitated, however, to believe that brocton was such a villain as to commit an unnecessary murder. the plan he had adopted had, anyhow, this advantage to us that, when we did come into touch with the prisoner, our chances of assisting him were far greater than if he were in jail in stafford or lichfield. whatever my lord's motives were, it was clear that he was not acting in the plain, straight-dealing manner to be expected of one in his position. there were other signs of crookedness, slight but not without weight. i could understand his joy on finding me at marry-me-quick's. it meant that i was a rebel, and as a loyal man, who had gone to expenses to prove his loyalty, he might easily get the hanyards as a reward, and thus round off the family property in our neighbourhood. his reference to a "solatium" puzzled me, but it did not seem anything of consequence. what had i but the hanyards to solace him with? a more important puzzle had been his behaviour at master dobson's. to find me on the royal side, as he then supposed, and to hear my reason for it, had clean dazed him. then there was the look, a signal-look beyond a doubt, which i had surprised him giving his bully, major pimple-face, and which was followed by the latter's attempt to embroil the stranger from london in a row. "it is useless, master wheatman, to speculate further on what lord brocton is doing," said my mistress at last. "he has his ends. i am one of them. another is, no doubt, to fill his pockets, somehow or other. it was common talk in town that he was head over ears in debt." while we had talked and had rested, i had not been idle. dick doley's roomy kitchen had two windows, one overlooking the cart-track, and another the slope of the hill. the hill was so made and the house so placed that from this second window we could see the strip of road at the bottom of the hill where it curved on to the level again. i had kept a sharp look out on that bit, but had seen no one pass along it either way as yet. in one corner of the room dick kept an ancient fowling-piece, more of a tool of husbandry than a weapon, since his only use for it was to scare birds. it was a heavy, unhandy thing, with a brass barrel down which i could have dropped a sizable duck egg, and round its thick-rimmed nozzle some one had rudely graven, "happy is he that escapeth me." i fetched it out of its corner, and cleaned and oiled it. i now loaded it, for powder-horn and shot-bag hung near it on the wall, putting in a handful of the biggest sort of shot, swan-shot as i should call them. during this task, mistress waynflete watched me narrowly, but made no reference to it. "now," said i, "our main requisite is the stuff, the ready, the rhino, the swag--call it what you will. how do you fancy me as a knight of the road? the first copper-faced farmer i come across shall surely stand and deliver. here's an argument he cannot resist." at last my scrutiny of the road was rewarded. a solitary horseman came in sight from the direction of the town. "mistress waynflete," said i, picking up the fowling-piece, "there's a traveller yonder coming from stafford. it will be well if i go and ask him a few questions." she almost leaped at me, red anger flashing in her eyes but her face white as milk. "sir," she said, "you shall not turn thief for me. i will not have it." "pray, madam," replied i huffily, "expound the moral difference between stealing ham and stealing guineas. i'm all for morality." "i cannot, master wheatman, but you must not, shall not go." she caught hold of my sleeve. "say you won't! if you are found out it means--" "i shall not be found out. you may take that for sure. think you that i cannot pluck yon chough without being pinched? it's no more robbery than our eating dick's ham and eggs. we are soldiers in enemy's country, and we plunder by right of the known rules of war. as a concession to your prejudices in favour of the jog-trot morality of peace, i will e'en ask him whether he be for james or george, and borrow or command his guineas in accordance with his reply. loose my sleeve, madam!" i loosened the grip of her fingers, and led her back to her chair. "you overrate my danger, sweet mistress, and under rate our need. without money, we might as well lie under the nearest hedge and leave jack frost to settle matters his way, and a cold, nasty way it would be. your guinea is a good fighter, and we need his help. it must be done, and, never fear, i'll carry it through safely." so i left her, white hands grappling the arms of her chair, and white face turned away from me. chapter ix my career as a highwayman i left the cottage from the rear and struck slantwise across the fields to reach the shelter of the trees and undergrowth that covered the slope down to the road. i ran hard so as to shake irresolution out of my mind, for i found myself half wishing that mistress waynflete had pleaded with me at first instead of trying to thrust me out of my plan. after all the highwayman's was hardly my calling in life. so i ran hard, saying to myself that it must be done, and the sooner it was over the better. then i laughed. with my rusty old birding-piece i was as ill-equipped for highwaymanship as i was for farming with my georgics. "stand and deliver," quoth i to myself, "or i'll double your weight with swan-shot." were the unknown horseman a resolute man armed with a hair-trigger, i was as good as done for. arrived in the shelter of the wood, i began picking my way through the thick undergrowth towards the road. fallen branchlets snapped beneath my heedless feet and the sounds rang in my ears like pistol-shots. a saucy robin cocked his care-free eye on me from the top of a crab-tree, and i could have envied him as i stumbled by. it was perhaps fourscore yards through, and half-way i stopped to listen. yes, there came to my ear the slow trot-ot-ot of hoofs on the hard road. i went on again until, through the leafless tangle, i began to get glimpses of the highway. my fate was dragging me on. in a month's time my shrivelling carcase might be swinging in chains on the top of wes'on bank, an ensample to evil-doers. the thought made me shiver, and i jerked out a broken prayer that my intended victim might turn out some fat, unarmed farmer, as easy a prey as an over-fed gander. then i cursed myself for a fool. no man can mortgage past piety for present sin. who was i that i should be allowed to steal on good security? trot-ot-ot. trot-ot-ot. he was within easy shot now, and i stopped to make sure of my rickety old weapon. a dragoon's musket would not have needed such constant care. "life turns on trifles," said mistress waynflete. in lifting my eyes from the priming to move on again, something in the line of vision made me start. on my left, less than a dozen paces from me, there lay on the ground, on a clean patch beneath a conspicuously-forked hawthorn, a man's jacket and plumed hat. a lion playing with a lamb would not have given me pause more abruptly. i stole silently up to them. they were fine but somewhat faded garments, modish and even foppish, and, so far as i could distinguish any peculiarity, military in appearance, and evidently belonged to a person of some quality. nor had they been flung there in haste, for the coat was neatly folded and the hat disposed carefully on top of it. how long had they been there? i picked up the hat, and there was still the gloss of recent sweat on its inside brim. this, however, was no time for idle problems, a very urgent one being on hand. forward i crept to the side of the road, and, lying flat down on the ground, pushed the stock of my gun on to the short grass, and peeped cautiously to my right down the hill. i was about thirty or forty yards from a bend in the road, and had intended to be much less, but my discovery and my confused, half-conscious thinking about it, had deflected me a little from my course. trot-ot-ot. he would be in sight in a few seconds. trot-ot-ot, plainer than ever, and there he was. the moment that he was in full view i made an astonishing discovery, and saw an astonishing sight. the discovery was that the solitary horseman, walking his powerful grey with a slack rein, and lost in thought, was master freake. the sight was the rush of three men from their lurking-places in the brushwood. two of them were soldiers, and brocton's dragoons at that, a sample of the town-sweepings jack had complained of. one seized the reins, the other held a carbine point-blank at the horseman's head. these were plainly deserters or freebooters, acting after their kind, and they had picked up a strange partner during their foray. he wore a yokel's smock much too big for him, and yet not big enough to hide his bespurred riding-boots. on his head he had a dirty tapster's bonnet, and his face was completely hidden by a rudely-cut crape vizard. this singular person was evidently the leader of the gang. he threatened master freake with a glittering, long-barrelled pistol, and in gruff, curt tones ordered him to dismount on pain of instant death. here was a strange overturn to be sure. here again fate had rudely upset my plans, and no fat purse would there be for me in this coil. however, though i would have robbed master freake willingly enough, my blood being up and he a manifest hanoverian, i was not going to see brocton's ruffians rob him, much less kill him. the purse must wait, and when i took it--for take it i must--god would perchance balance one thing against the other. all that i had seen and thought took place in a mere fraction of time, and even before master freake had pulled up, i was creeping like a ferret from bush to bush to get nearer. then, just as in his quiet, measured tones he was asking what they wanted, i burst out into the wood, shouting, "forward, my men, here the villains are!" with the words, i fired my handful of swan-shot clean into the group, and then charged at them yelling, in boyish imitation of a knight of old, "happy is he that escapeth me." the two dragoons instantly fled with yelps of pain and terror, and the horse, squealing with fright, began to rear and plunge madly about the road. black vizard turned on me, his pistol rang out, and the bullet hissed by my ear. i sprang at him with clubbed gun, and struck hard for his head, but caught him on the neck as he too turned to flee. he went down, spinning and sprawling, in the road, right under the plunging horse. with a squeal that curdled my blood, she rose in the air, kicking viciously. her hoofs came down with sickening thuds on the squirming man's skull, cracking it like an egg-shell. his body twitched once or twice, and then settled into the stillness of death. i seized the horse's rein and soothed her. she let me pat her neck and rub her nose, and soon stood quiet, her neck flecked with foam, her flanks reeking with sweat. master freake, who had not spoken a word, dismounted, and i led the mare into the wood and hitched her reins over a bough. then i returned to the man i had saved, and found him looking calmly down on the man i had killed. the black vizard was now soaking in a horrid pool of blood and brains. i stooped, and with trembling fingers moved it aside and revealed the features of the dead man. it was the pimple-faced major. i turned to my intended victim, and found him looking calmly and impassively at me. "master wheatman of the hanyards, unless i am mistaken," he said. "your servant, sir," said i, rather sourly. but for that dead rascal at our feet i could beyond a doubt have plucked him like a chough, and here i was, still penniless. "master wheatman, i am not a man of many words, but what i say i stand by. i am your very grateful debtor for a very fine and courageous action. three to one is long odds, but you won with your brains, sir, as much as by your bravery. your shout was an excellent device, happily thought on." he held out his hand. i shook it heartily and then burst out laughing, and laughed on till tears stood in my eyes. and this was the end of my highwaymanship! "since the danger is, thanks to you, over, master wheatman," he said, "i would e'en like to share your mirth--if i may." "sir," i replied, "i am laughing because i have saved you from robbers." "but why laugh?" "because i set out ten minutes ago to rob you myself." master freake gazed casually up and down the hill, and then, fixing his quiet grey eyes on me, said whimsically, "i am a man of peace, and unarmed; the road is of a truth very lonely, and i have considerable sums of money on me." "yes, i'm quite vexed. this fire-faced scoundrel has upset my plans finely. i may not get as good a chance for hours." now it was his turn to laugh. "master wheatman," he said, "you are not the stuff highwaymen are made of. as you are in need of money, you need it for some good purpose, and i shall--" he stopped short. as we stood, he was facing the wood from which the robbers had burst on him, while i had my back on it. as he stopped, his strong, calm face changed, and his eyes were fixed on something in the wood. wonder, amazement, delight, awe--not one, but all of these emotions were visible in his face. he looked as one who sees a blessed spirit. i turned. it was margaret, leaning, pale and spent and breathless, against the trunk of a tree, looking and shuddering at the dread object in the road. i bounded up to her and touched her on the arm. "all's well, mistress waynflete," said i. "i am as yet no gallows-bird." "but--" her eyes were still staring wide on the road, and she trembled violently, so i stepped between her and the ghastly sight, and said, "courage, dear lady. the dead man is your father's worst enemy, major tixall, and yon horse killed him, not i." by this, master freake had come nearer to us, and i turned to greet him. "madam," said i, "this is my friend, master freake, whom i set out to rob." to him i added, "this is mistress waynflete, whom i have the honour to serve." he bared his head and bowed. "and whom i hope to have the honour of serving too." i looked at him curiously. all other emotions had faded from his face now, but it was clear that her peerless and now so helpless beauty had appealed home to him. "sir," she said, recovering herself with a great effort, "i am pleased to make your acquaintance. and now,"--speaking to me,--"since you have given me a great fright and made me behave like a milkmaid rather than a soldier's daughter, perhaps you will tell me what has happened, and how it"--she looked over my shoulder--"comes to be lying there. i heard shots and shrieks that turned me to stone. what has happened?" "master wheatman," said our new acquaintance, taking my words out of my mouth, "is hardly likely to give you a reasonably correct account. allow me to be the historian of his fine conduct." he told the story with overmuch kindness to me, and as he told it the colour came back to her face, and she was herself again. while he was telling it, i noticed for the first time, or rather for the first time gathered its meaning, that she had run out after me without the domino, and in the biting air she might easily catch a chill. so while master freake was making a fine sprose about me, much more applicable to achilles or the chevalier bayard, i slipped off and fetched the hat and coat. he was just concluding his story on my return, and without interrupting him, i clumsily thrust the hat on her head and flung the coat over her shoulders. "master freake," she said, in her sweetest bantering tones, "my servant, as he absurdly calls himself, is really an artist in helping people. i told him this morning that his native shire was his conjurer's hat, when he fetched ham and eggs out of it for poor hungry me. now he observes that i am coatless and a-cold, and lo, a hat is on my head and a coat on my shoulders. it is marvellous and nothing short of it. nay, i shall shun him as one in league with the powers of darkness if there's much more of it. if i be saved, you remember master slender,"--this in a sly aside to me,--"i'll be saved by them that have the fear of god." "ingrate!" i cried, half angry and yet wholly delighted; "what of marvel or devilment is there in picking up a hat and coat one has found lying under a tree?" "major tixall's," said master freake. "ass that i am, of course they are. steady, mistress margaret, while i go through the pockets. the odds are we shall find something useful in checkmating my lord brocton." in this i was wrong, for there was not a single scrap of writing in any of them. i did, however, fish out two small but heavy packets, wrapped in paper. they were easily examined, and each contained a roll of ten guineas. "the hire of the two rascals," explained master freake. "really, mistress margaret," said i, "there's something in what you said just now. i do have his nether highness's own luck. i came out for guineas, prepared to rob for them, and here's twenty of the darlings lying ready for me to pick up. now we can go ahead in comfort." through all this talk i was turning over in my mind what account, if any, we were to give master freake of our being here. if i had had only myself to consider i should have trusted him without hesitation. he was the sort of man that inspires confidence, his grave, serene, intelligent face having strength and steadfastness written in every line of it. but i had mistress waynflete to consider, and if any appeal was to be made for his assistance, she must make it. i'm afraid that i hoped she wouldn't, since i was jealous of any interference in my temporary responsibility for her welfare. "master freake," i said, "some account will, i suppose, have to be given of yon ruffian's death. the two runaways are scarcely likely to appear as witnesses, so, for mistress waynflete's sake, i must ask you, should an explanation become necessary, to conceal my share in the matter." "the manner of his death is fortunately quite obvious, and if it were not, any account i choose to give of it will pass unquestioned." "then it will be easy for you, i hope, to forget me when giving it. and now, madam, i think we must be moving." "before you go," said master freake, "let me say again that if i can help you, you have only to ask. you, master wheatman, because your twofold signal service is something it would shame me for ever not to be allowed to return, and you, madam, because," he paused, and the curious rapt expression came over his face again, "because you are very beautiful and need help. your father's politics will make no difficulty, so far as i am concerned." "you know my father?" she asked, surprised. "know of him. my lord brocton was boasting last night of his capture--and of other things," he lamely concluded. "is he boasting this morning?" i asked. "i have not seen him," he said, "but mistress dobson told me she thought he'd been rooks'-nesting and had fallen off the poplar." "i met him again," said i, "and did not like his conversation." "master wheatman means," explained mistress waynflete, "that he saved me from my lord brocton's clutches at the imminent risk of his own life." she stretched out her hands and touched the holes in my coat with her white, slender fingers. "my lord's rapier made these," she said. "an inch to the left, my friend," quoth master freake, "and you'd have been as dead as mutton. his lordship, it seems, is busily piling up a big account with both of us. well, in my own way, i'll make the rascal pay as dearly as you have in yours. if you will be pleased to accept my help, madam, i will do all i can for you. there are, fortunately, other means than carnal weapons of influencing such persons as lord brocton." "like master wheatman, sir, you are too good to a poor girl." she said it gratefully and humbly, and indeed so she felt, but no man could listen to her meek words without pride. "i'm glad i turned footpad, in spite of you," said i to my dear mistress. "i can never thank you enough," was the simple reply. "it was wicked in me to accept the sacrifice, but in god's good providence it was not made in vain." "then i come into the firm," said master freake smilingly, and when, catching the meaning of his metaphor, she smiled brightly back at him, and held out her hand, he bowed over it formally, but very kindly, and kissed it. she blushed prettily, and then, after a moment's hesitation, stretching it out to me, said, "but i must not forget the original partner." i took the splendid prize in my rough, red, farmer's hand, and kissed it reverently. the touch of my lips on her sweet, smooth flesh made me tremble, and i knew the madness was creeping over me, but i gritted my teeth, and our eyes met again. the blush had gone, but not the smile. it was not now, however, the smile of a frank maiden but of an inscrutable and dominating woman. i knew the difference, for instinct is more than experience, and i chilled into the yokel again and wondered. "in one sense, at any rate," said master freake, "i am the senior partner, and as such may, without presumption, speak first. i must go on to stone, but that will, i think, be best for our purpose. as i view the situation, two things are requisite, first that you, master wheatman, should get mistress waynflete in advance of all the royal troops, and so out of danger, and secondly that we should learn precisely what has become of colonel waynflete." "exactly," i agreed. "the action of lord brocton in sending the colonel north instead of south, or at least of lodging him in jail at stafford, is inexplicable. true, his plan separates father and daughter, which is what he wants, but either of the other methods would have served equally well for that." of course i said nothing of the other idea that was haunting my thoughts, the idea that brocton was scheming to get rid of the colonel altogether. in his lust and anger he might not stick at that, and any kind of encounter with the enemy would serve his turn. the rascals under him were worthy of their commander, a fact of which we had already ample proof. "it looks crooked, i confess," was his reply, "but there is this to be said for it, that the duke is following north along with the bulk of his army, and, i hear, intends to make stone his head-quarters." "that seems absurd," said i, "but of course he knows best." "the movements of the prince's army are uncertain. the plan of their leaders is never to say where the next halt will be. they will be to-day, i know, in or near macclesfield, and i learn that it is possible they may turn off for wales, where they believe they will find many recruits. the farther north the duke can safely go, the better placed he will be for checking them if they do that, and his advance guard is posted at newcastle. the question is, how are you to get there first and without being taken?" "by travelling the by-roads," said i. "we'll go through eccleshall." "how long will it take you to get there?" he asked. "about three hours," said i, "if mistress waynflete can stand the pace." "very good," he replied. "i will join you there, and do my best to get horses for you in the meantime, and bring them along with me." "that's splendid," said i, "but i'd rather we met outside the village. not more than a mile and a half beyond it on the newcastle road there's a little wayside ale-house called the 'ring of bells,' at the foot of a steep hill, with a large pool ringed with pines, known as cop mere, in front of it. it's a lonely place and will serve better. small place as eccleshall is, i shall skirt round it, and so get to the 'ring of bells.' you cannot miss it if you ride through the village on the newcastle road. whoever's there first will await the other." "then in about three hours we'll meet at the 'ring of bells,' and i hope i shall bring good news of the colonel. believe me, dear lady, short of foul play on brocton's part, and we have no reason to suspect that, your father will be all right. plain john freake is not without influence. as for the ruffian lying dead in the road, think no more of him." so saying he unhitched his horse, led her into the road, and mounted. he bowed and smiled, said cheerily, "a pleasant walk to the 'ring of bells,'" and cantered off. i stepped between madam and the dead man. "we've found a good friend there, mistress waynflete. now we'll put the hat and coat as we found them, save for the guineas, and go back to the cottage for your domino." she gave them to me, and stepped out briskly towards the cottage. i folded up the coat, put the hat on it, looked again at the still, stiff horror in the road, soaking in its own blood, and silently followed her. chapter x sultan the lie of the land was as follows: to get to the "ring of bells," master freake would have to ride over the hill to the main road at weston, thence some six miles north-west to stone, thence another six or seven miles south-west to the inn. mistress waynflete and i had a stiff walk of about nine miles in front of us. for the first three miles our way ran east by north, and then bent almost due east to the ale-house. our difficulty would come at the bending point, for there we should have to cross the main road from stafford along which the troops would be filtering north to get into touch with the prince and his highlanders. if the duke had heard of the supposed intention of the jacobites to turn off for wales, he would, i imagined, send a scouting party through eccleshall to look out for them, and we should, for the second time in our journey, be on dangerous ground in the neighbourhood of that village. the "ring of bells," however, lay north of that village, off his obvious line of march in that direction, so that we stood a good chance of passing unchecked to our goal, provided that we got across the main road north in safety. fortunately, at the place where i intended to cross, it climbed over a fairly steep hill, and we could, if need were, lie and watch the road till it was safe to venture out. it was ticklish work at the best and any break in our run of luck might ruin us. how ticklish was vividly brought home to me within a few minutes of our getting safe under cover in the cottage. i had, of course, brought back the birding-piece and, after once more helping in the blissful task of getting mistress waynflete into the domino, bungling as usual over arranging the hood because my fingers lost control of themselves at the touch of her hair, i sat down to reload it, intending to carry it with me. i had settled matters with the absent gaffer, doley, by putting one of my guineas conspicuously on the table, and was just finishing my task when mistress waynflete, who had stepped to the rear window and was looking back on the scene of my recent exploit, suddenly called out, "oliver! come here!" my heart leaped within me at that 'oliver.' true, it was the familiarity of one born to command, one who had last night icily desired my services in the morning, and, womanlike, knew that she could queen it over me as she listed, but still, and this was the main thing, it was familiar and friendly, and seemed to lift me a shade nearer to her. "what is it, madam?" i asked respectfully, and ran toward her, but not so swiftly that i had not time to see the blue eyes fixed hard on mine. for answer, she turned and pointed down the hill, and there i saw the patch of brown road covered with wagons and soldiers. in five minutes they would come across the dead body of the major. "good," said i indifferently, "they save me a guinea," and i put the coin back in my pocket. the soldiers didn't matter, but that look in her eyes did. "isn't that rather mean?" for some reason she spoke quite snappily. the soldiers clearly didn't matter to her, and something else did. "which of the soldiers provided our breakfast, madam? we might as well leave a note asking them to pick us up at the 'ring of bells.' and, madam, you can trust me to make dick doley content enough some day." she smiled, with her characteristic touch of chagrin. i liked her best so, for she never looked daintier. "with a bit of luck, master wheatman," she said whimsically, "there will surely come a time when you'll be wrong and i right. then, sir, look out for crowing. i've never been so unlucky with a man in my life. but you'll slip some day!" "surely, madam," i said, and smiled, "and then i'll abide your gloating. now, pray you, let us be off. we've hardly a minute to spare." without losing another second we started on our long walk. it was now about ten of the clock. the sun was shining cheerily, with power enough to melt the white rime off every blackened twig it lit upon, and it was still so cold that sharp walking was a keen delight. "eight miles and more of it, mistress waynflete. i hope you can stand the pace and the distance." "i'm a soldier's daughter, not an alderman's," she replied curtly. the vicar was right. "oliver," he said to me one day, "what is the difference between the hebrew bible and a woman?" "sir," said i, gaping with astonishment, "i know not, but of a truth it seems considerable." "it is, oliver," replied the sweet old scholar. "man can understand the one in a dozen years, if he try, but the other not in a lifetime, strive he as earnestly as he may." this fragment of my dear friend's talk came back to me now as we walked in silence side by side. out of the corner of my eye i could see her sweet face set in earnest thinking, her rich lips compressed, her speaking eyes fixed resolutely ahead. not having to trouble about finding the road, and there being no sign of anyone, either enemy or neutral, stirring on the countryside, i let her go on thinking, and set myself the pleasant but impossible task of accounting to myself for her mood. i went over all we had said and done together that day, and at last, after perhaps half an hour of unbroken silence, fell back on what seemed the only possible explanation. she was thinking of her father. but why that suspicion of asperity on her face? was this explanation correct? the vicar was right. she suddenly slipped her hand round my arm, looking at me with laughing lips and dancing eyes, and said, "isn't it splendid to be alive on a day like this?" "yes, indeed it is," i replied, "but from your looks and your long silence, i should hardly have judged that you were thinking so." "you have been taking stock of me, sir!" "certainly i have been wondering why you were so silent, and looked so ... grave." "be honest and fear not, master wheatman. you were not going to say 'grave.'" "at the expense of many whippings from old bloggs, i learned to be precise in the use of words." "i know, hence you were not going to say 'grave.'" "you will allow me to choose my own words, madam." "certainly, so long as you choose the right ones." she unhooked her hand, and we walked a minute or two without another word, she frowning, and i fuming. then she said wistfully, "why did you think i was cross?" "i feared i had offended you," said i hastily and innocently. she laughed long and merrily. "old bloggs taught you the silly rigmarole you men call logic, but he didn't teach you woman's logic, that's plain. don't you see what i've made you do, master wheatman?" "not yet, mistress waynflete." "poof, slow-coach! i've made you admit that you were going to say 'cross' but altered it, too late, to 'grave.'" "you outrun me with your nimble and practised wit," said i, smiling. "and when did you offend me, think you?" "i answered you rather roughly when you took me up about the guinea." "oh, then? not at all. you snibbed me, but i richly deserved it." another silence. "well?" she said. "go on! i say i richly deserved it. go on!" "go on where?" i asked testily. "you're not expecting me to say you didn't, are you?" "no, i'm not," she said, "but it was good practice trying to make you." so saying, she slipped her hand under my arm again, and we stepped it out together. the current of her thoughts now ran and glittered in the opposite direction. she made me for the moment her intimate, lifting up the veil over her past life, and giving me peeps and vistas of her wanderings and experiences. she jested and gibed. she sang little snatches of song in some foreign tongue. "you're sure you don't understand italian?" she demanded, stopping short half-way through a bar, and quizzing me with her eyes, now blue as sapphires in the bright sunshine. "not a word of it," said i. "a grave disadvantage," she said airily. "it's the only language one can love in." and off she struck again. now she sang something soothing and sad, with a wistful lilt in it that died into a low wail. it needed no italian to be understood, for it was written in the language of human experience. a woman's heart throbbed in the lilt and broke in the wail. this sweet interval of intimacy verging on friendship was ended by our close approach to the main road. we had been travelling, heedless of roads and tracks, across a champaign country, and the slope up to the top of yarlet bank now lay before us. i led the way, skulking behind such poor cover as the gaunt hedgerows provided, and, when only a hundred paces from the top, i asked her to crouch down, awaiting my signal to advance, while i crept forward on my hands and knees to the edge of the road which here climbed the brow of the hill through a deep cutting, along either margin of which ran a straggling hedge. to my relief, the road down the hill, both to right and left, was completely deserted. i joyfully waved my arm to mistress waynflete, who was soon by my side, looking down the road. to the right we could see for nearly a mile. on the left our view was cut short by a bend, and i walked a score of yards in that direction and shinned up a stout sapling. our luck was absolute. not a soldier, not a living soul, was in sight. "we might have had to skulk here for hours, waiting for an opportunity to cross unseen," said i, on rejoining her, "but our gods above are victorious, and we share their victory. so now for the 'ring of bells.' there's a gate at the bottom of the hill. come along, mistress waynflete!" she followed me down the hedge-side. i turned once or twice to look at her, carefully pretending that it was only to see how she was getting on. the last time i thus stole another memory of her splendid presence we were only a few paces from the gate, and when my reluctant eyes turned again to their rightful work, they looked straight into a pair of fishy eyes set in a face as blank and ugly as a bladder of lard. face and eyes belonged to a big, sleek, sly man, perched on the top bar of the gate. he had a notebook in his hand in which he had been entering some jottings. he suspended his writing to examine us, picking his nasty, yellow teeth meanwhile with the point of his pencil. his horse was hitched to the post on the stoneward side of the gate, where the stile was. he was well enough dressed, and, as far as i could see, unarmed. it was a most exasperating thing to have pitched into him, whoever and whatever he was, and indeed i much disliked the look of him, and would gladly have knocked him on the head. true, travellers were not rare on this road, since it was part of the great highway from london to chester, and the little thoroughfare town of stone, some three miles ahead, had a noted posthouse. however, i kept, or tried to keep, my feelings out of my face and voice, and accosted him cheerily. "good day, friend! what may be the price of fat beeves in stafford market to-day?" "dearer than men's heads will be at the town gates after the next assizes," he replied, stroking his notebook and grinning evilly. "you'll never light on a scotsman, dead or alive, that's worth as much as a staffordshire heifer," said i, leading the way past him to the stile, over which i handed mistress margaret into the road. "they won't all be scotsmen, my friend," he replied, still stroking his notebook. "no?" said i, eager at heart to knock him off his perch. "nor men," he added, leering at margaret. "come along, sal," said i to her laughingly, "before the good gentleman jots you down a jacobite." so we left him, and when, fifty paces down the road, i looked back at him, he was jotting in his notebook again. "i think he knows something about us," said i. "very likely," she replied calmly. "i've seen him once before in london, talking to major tixall. who could forget a face like that?" "he's uglier than the big-mouthed dragoon." "the dragoon was at any rate a soldier." "and the worst of soldiers has, no doubt, some savour of grace in him." "quite so," she retorted. "his calling makes it necessary." "and, so reasoning, you would say, i suppose, that the best of farmers was to seek in the higher reaches of manliness." "have i not told you, master oliver, that between man's logic and woman's logic there's a great gulf fixed?" "minds are minds," said i. "and hearts are hearts," replied she, and so shut me up to my thinking again. we turned into a cart-track on our left leading in the direction of eccleshall. as we turned i saw that bladder-face had mounted his horse and was coming on toward stone. there was no doubt that we should be pursued from that quarter before long, and i grew heavy with anxiety as i saw how hardly we were being pressed. the encounter had not, however, disturbed mistress waynflete. on the contrary, she became gayer than ever, so gay that, fool-like, i got quite vexed at it, for it was clear that something had relieved her anxiety, and i knew it was nothing that i had done. i worried over it, and at last hit on the explanation. she was rejoicing in the help of the new partner. "what do you make of master freake?" said i boorishly, cutting short a lightsome trill, more italian maybe. "make of what?" said she lightly. "master freake." "forgive me, master wheatman," she replied, "but i didn't take you as quickly as i ought to have done. i like the look of him. how pretty, pluck them for me." i stopped to gather the spray of brilliant vermilion berries she fancied, saying meanwhile, "i wonder what he is? tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, or what?" she seemed much more concerned with her berries, which she praised rapturously, and placed carefully in the bosom of her riding-dress before replying. "he's no doubt a grave and prosperous citizen of london. i've seen many such, and he looks sworn brother to worthy alderman heathcoat. moreover, he talks merchantlike." it seemed pretty certain that she had hit the right nail on the head. her explanation fitted his account of the large sums he was carrying and his stay with and hold over jack's father. true, staffordshire seemed the wrong place for such a man. both he and his money would have been far safer in change alley. if her explanation was acute and probable, her manner of making it had convinced me that my explanation of her gaiety was wrong. of him she certainly had not been thinking. then there was only one thing left to account for it. what makes a maid as merry as a grig? didn't our kate sing all morning when jack was coming in the afternoon? it was no concern of mine, and as a man sometimes makes his right hand play his left hand at chess, so i now made stern oliver lecture paltering wheatman, but without doing him much good. naturally all this made me a poor companion on the road, and for a long time mistress waynflete bore with me patiently. then she turned from her tra-la-la-ing to waken me up, roundly declaring that i was bored with her company; and i had no defence, ridiculous as the charge was. "i've sung every song i know, and sung them my best, too, and you've never once praised me. you'll have to learn, you know, master oliver, to smile at a lady even when you really want to smack her. what do you do? you just write on your face as plainly as this"--and here her dainty finger toured her face, ending up where the tear of milk had trembled--"s-m-a-c-k." i roared aloud, she did it so frankly and mirthfully. what a treasury of moods she was! she had stepped across our house-place like a queen, she had fronted that devil, brocton, like a goddess, and now she was larking like a schoolmaid. long as the way was, we seemed to me to be getting over the ground too rapidly. mistress waynflete did not tire, and did full credit to her father's soldiership. we circled round the red-tiled roofs of eccleshall, and at length took shelter in the pines that ringed the great pool. across the mere lay the road, and on the far side of the road from us was the "ring of bells," standing well back, with a little green in front, in the centre of which a huge post carried a board bearing the rudely painted sign of the ale-house. i scouted ahead, dodging from tree to tree along the edge of the mere, in order to keep out of view of anyone moving on the road. over against the ale-house i crept still more warily through the wood to the edge of the road. there was no one moving in or about the ramshackle little place, but there was one unexpected thing in sight which gave me pause. hitched by the reins to a staple in the signpost was the finest horse i had ever set eyes on, a slender, sinewy stallion, champing on his bit and pawing nervously on the stone-hard ground. here was the shadow of a new trouble, though, indeed, there was nothing to be surprised at, seeing that the countryside far and near was buzzing with enemy activities. a rat in a barn might as justly complain of being tickled by straws as i of jostling into difficulties. the horse without betokened a rider within, and probably some one in the duke's horse. i beckoned mistress waynflete, and by signs indicated that extreme caution was necessary. during the moments i was awaiting her i examined the birding-piece to make sure it was in order. caution, however, she flung to the winds, for the moment she set eyes on the horse she joyously shouted 'sultan' and made a wild, happy dash to cross the road. i stopped her sternly, and in a brief whisper asked, "who's sultan?" "father's horse." "we do not know for sure that your father is in the inn because his horse is outside, and by your leave, madam, we'll make sure first. keep right behind yon thick tree, and await my return." she looked calmly at me, but even before she could glide off, there came from the ale-house an appalling volley of oaths and curses. it was a man's voice, yelling in agonized blasphemy, and a woman's shrill treble floated on the surface of the stream of virulence. i caught mistress waynflete's wrist and steadied her. "not your father, apparently?" i said in a cool voice, though my head was whirling a bit under the strain. "here," i went on, fetching a fistful out of my pocket, "are some guineas. follow me, unhitch the horse, and if i shout to you to be off, mount him from yon horse-trough, and away like lightning. that's the road to eccleshall, along which master freake is bound to come." i thrust the guineas into her hand, gripped my weapon, slipped out of the pines and across the road, circled the horse, and made to peep round the jamb of the open door into the guest-room of the ale-house. as i did so, the man yelled, "god damn, i'm on fire!" and the woman shrieked back, "burn, you foul devil, burn, and be damned!" this was enough, and i burst in on a spectacle, strange, serious, on the point of becoming terrible, and yet almost laughable. in the middle of the room, a stout, shock-headed, red-elbowed woman stood, a pikel in her strong outstretched hands. the sergeant of dragoons, with his back to a roaring fire, was pinned against the hearthstead by the pitchfork, the tines of which were stuck in the oak lintel of the chimney-piece, so that a ring of steel encircled his throat like the neckhole of a pillory, and held him there helpless and roasting. when i first caught sight of him he was making a frenzied attempt to wrench the prongs out, but, finding it hopeless, drew his tuck, and lashed out at the woman. she calmly shifted out of reach along the handle of the fork. he then hacked fiercely but without much effect on the wooden handle, and finally, in his despair and agony, poised the tuck and cast it at her javelin-fashion. the woman, cooler than he in both senses of the term, dodged it easily. how she had contrived to pin him in such a helpless manner, i could not imagine. the motive was obvious. a little girl lay writhing and sobbing on the floor amid the fragments of a broken mug and a scattering of copper and silver coins. "you've got him safe enough, mother," said i, "and it's no good cooking him since you can't eat him." "be yow another stinking robber, like this'n?" she demanded. the epithet was as apt as it was vigorous, for the stink of singeing cloth made me sniff. "if y'be," she went on, "i'll shove' im in the fire and set about yow." "not a bit of it, mother. i've come to help you, but shift him along a bit out of the heat, and then we'll settle what to do with him." to him i added, "understand, sergeant, any attempt to fight or fly, and your neck will be wrung like a cockerel's." then laying down my gun i pulled out the tines and shifted him along the lintel till he was out of danger. the woman, whose fierce determination never faltered, jammed the pikel in again and kept him trapped. i went to the door and saw mistress waynflete standing by sultan's head, and the proud beauty arching his neck in his joy at finding his mistress near him. i beckoned her. "an old acquaintance, in a fix. come in!" said i, and introduced her to the strange scene. "the sergeant, madam," i went on, "and he has been plucked like a brand from the burning." she took in the scene, judged what had happened, and then gathered up the child, who had ceased crying out of curiosity, and mothered the little one so sweetly that the red-elbowed woman cried out hearty thanks. in brief the story, as collected later from the mother and child, was that the sergeant had ridden up and asked for a meal. after he had had some bread and cheese and ale, he had taken advantage of the alewife's absence to ask the child where mother kept her money, and, receiving no answer, had twisted the poor little one's arm until in her terror and agony she had told him of the secret hole in the chimney where the money was kept in a coarse brown mug. the child's cry had brought the mother running back with the pikel, snatched up on the way, and she, taking him at unawares with the mug in his hand, had darted at him and luckily caught him round the neck, and pinned him against the fireplace as i had found him. let him go she dared not, for she was alone except for the child, and but for my arrival he would have roasted right enough till he was helpless. as it was the skirts of his coat were smouldering, and he had only just escaped serious injury. in fact, although smarting sore, he was so little damaged that after tearing away the burnt tails, he collected himself and tried to bam me. "master wheatman," he began, "i call upon you in the king's name to aid and assist me. this woman's tale is all a lie. the mug was on the chimney-top for anyone to see, and i only took it down to examine it, being struck with its appearance." "also in the king's name, master sergeant," was my reply, "i propose to have you handed over to the nearest justice as a rogue and vagabond." "and you shall explain why you are here with your--" i should have strangled him if his foul tongue had wagged one word of insult, and he saw it in my eyes. he stopped, and his face showed that he had discovered the secret. "the sergeant recognizes you again, molly," said i lightly. "bammed and beaten by a damned yokel?" he burst out. "ten thousand devils! where were my eyes yesterday?" in his anger he began to strain at his steel cravat. "virgil for ever! the first town we come to i'll buy me a latin grammar," said margaret to me, with a low ripple of laughter. "how'd on, fool," said the alewife to the sergeant. "yow wunna be wuth hangin' if y' carry on a this'n." "if you don't loose me, you old bitch," he shouted, "i'll see you hanged! loose me, for your neck's sake! these people are jacobites!" "gom, i dunna know what that be, but i wish stafford-sheer was full on 'em. 'tinna any good chokin' y'rsen, i shanna let go." this method of keeping him, however, rendered the alewife useless, so i took her place, and bade her fetch the longest and toughest rope she'd got. she brought me a beauty and with it i trussed the sergeant, tying him securely into a heavy, clumsy chair, and leaving him as helpless as a fowl ready for roasting. then a thought struck me and i went through his pockets. his very stillness made me careful in my search, but i found only some old bills for fodder and other military papers, and a heavily sealed letter addressed "to his royal highness." i was not quite jacobite enough to make me willing to steal a dispatch addressed to the royal duke, and i should have thrust it and the oddments of paper back again but for the rattle of hoofs outside. it was probably master freake, and i was particularly anxious that the sergeant should not see him, so i rushed out with all the papers in my hand to forestall him. hurrying outside i saw master freake hitching his horse to the signpost, and mistress waynflete already talking to him eagerly. when i got up he delivered his news briefly and to the point, and bad news it was. he had learned in stone that the colonel had again been taken on ahead towards newcastle in charge of a troop of brocton's dragoons under the command of captain rigby, "last night's table companion of the dead major," he explained. "whatever for?" asked mistress waynflete. master freake said nothing, but his eyes were troubled, and i knew there was something he would fain conceal. "whatever for?" she repeated. "could you learn of no reason?" "i was told," he answered slowly, "that colonel waynflete's knowledge and assistance would be invaluable to the royal troops." "told that my father had turned traitor! is that what you mean, sir?" scorn too great for anger covered her face, veiling its sweetness as with a fiery cloud. "that is the plain english of what i was told, i must admit." here was the grave, businesslike nature of the man, plainly posing awkward questions that had to be answered. "it's a wicked lie!" she burst out. she turned her face proudly to look into mine, and i saw that her eyes were filled with tears. "naturally, madam," said i. "my father's honour is mine, master wheatman, and i am your debtor for another splendid courtesy." "i argue from the flower to the tree. man's logic, and therefore necessarily imperfect, you would say, but for once i stick to it." i spoke lightly and reminiscently, so as to chase the gloom from her mind, and she was immediately herself again. master freake continued his story, which went from bad to worse. as i had expected, bladderface had ridden into stone, and the result of his communication to captain rigby had been that orders were issued for our pursuit, and master freake had left the town not very far in advance of the squad of horse sent on our track. he had thus been unable to procure horses for us, but at eccleshall he had managed to obtain a pillion for margaret's use behind him. this was awkward indeed, for though master freake had ridden hard, the pursuit could not be very far behind, and if, as was almost certain, the dragoons turned up at the "ring of bells," the sergeant would be set free, and be after us like a mad bull. there was, however, a margin of time available, and therefore i put this problem out of my mind, and attended only to the urgent one of the colonel's position. to me there was only one explanation possible. this continual shifting of the colonel, ever under the charge of those rascally dragoons, commanded now by a man whose familiarity with tixall was an evil augury, meant one thing only. soon, perhaps within an hour or two, there would be fighting, and under cover of that a stab in the back or a bullet in the head would clear the colonel out of brocton's path for ever. "take these papers, master freake," said i. "mistress waynflete will tell you what has happened here, and you can give them back to their owner if you choose. but do not, i beg you, on any account let the rascal inside see or hear you." i raced indoors, seized the sergeant's tuck and took his baldrick from him, heedless of his vile threats. i left him there, choking with foulness, unhitched sultan, sprang into the saddle, and cantered up to my friends. "now, mistress margaret," i said, "describe your father so that i shall know him when i see him." she sketched his portrait in broad, clear outlines, and i fixed the description point by point in my memory. "that's the road to newcastle," said i, pointing along the edge of the mere, "and it's fairly straight and good. follow me there as quickly as you can, and inquire for me at the 'rising sun.' i'll have news of the colonel, if not the colonel himself, when we meet again." i bowed to margaret, dug my heels into sultan, and was off like a flash. chapter xi in which i slip sultan was a horse for a man, long and regular in his stride, perfect in action, quick to obey, cat-like at need. i might have ridden him from the day on which the blacksmith drank his colt-ale, for we understood each other exactly, and i was as comfortable on his back as in my bed at the hanyards. in the open road at the mere-end, he settled down into a steady, loping trot, and i was free to think matters out to the music of his hoof-beats on the road. it was only eight or nine miles into newcastle, and as the dragoons would travel slowly and warily there was just a chance that i should be there first. further, it was wholly unlikely that i should be interfered with, since the only two enemies who knew i was aiding mistress margaret were helpless in my rear--brocton at stafford, and the sergeant in the "ring of bells." i was unknown in the town, not having been there since my schooldays, and then only on rare occasions, as a visit to the town meant a thirty-mile walk in one day. plan-making was futile. everything would depend upon chance, but if chance threw me into touch with the colonel, it should go hard if i did not free him somehow or other. the most splendid thing would be if i could free him before margaret overtook me at the "rising sun." true, i had only an hour or so to spare, but now strange things happened in an hour of my life, and this great luck might be mine. then would come my rich and rare reward--the light in her deep, blue eyes and the tremulous thanks on her ripe, red lips. and then a thought smote me like a blow between the eyes, so that i dizzied a moment, and the day grew grey and the outlook blank. the finding of the colonel meant the losing of margaret. father and daughter reunited, my work would be done; the day of the hireling would be accomplished. need for me there would be none. the old life would again claim me, justly claim me too, for was i not, though all unworthily and unprofitably, the only son of my sweet mother, and she a widow. i could see her in the house-place at the hanyards, her calm eyes fixed in sorrow on my empty chair. _a man shall leave father and mother_, yes, for one particular cause, but the only son of a widowed mother for no cause whatsoever. christ, i said to myself, would not have raised the young man of nain merely to get married. still there was the work, and i spurned my gloomy thoughts and turned to think of it. and first i took stock of my means of offence. there were loaded pistols in the holsters, fine long weapons with polished walnut stocks inlaid with silver lacery and the initials 'c.w.', the colonel's without a doubt. at the saddle-bow there hung a sizeable leathern pouch, and this i found to contain a good supply of charges. i was a sure shot, and i tried my skill on a gate as sultan flew by, splintering the latch at which i aimed to a nicety, the well-trained horse taking no more notice of the shot than of a wink at a passing market-wench. so far so good. then there was the sergeant's tuck, and i shouted with a schoolboy's glee at having for the first time in my life a sword at my side. of how to use it i knew nothing, unless many bouts at single-stick with jack should be some sort of apprenticeship in swordcraft. i practised pulling it out, and then, imitating brocton, made the forty-inch blade twist and tang in the air, which pleased me greatly. i felt quite a cavalier now, and said within myself that old smite-and-spare-not's bones should soon be rustling in their grave with envy. and so into meece, wondering if the fat host of the "black bull" would recognize in the splendidly mounted horseman the dusty schoolboy of ten years ago. there he was in the porch, grown intolerably fatter, talking to my ancient gossip, rupert toms, the sexton, now heavily laden with years and infirmities. i pricked on, having no time to spare for either prayer or provender, since every moment was precious, though a tankard of double october, mulled with spice and laced with brandy, would have been precious too, for the matter of that. at the tail of the village, where the curve of the road runs into the straight again to climb the long hill, i came for a moment into touch with my affair. a horseman was in sight, rattling down the slope, and i saw that he was an officer, a keen-featured, middle-aged man, with the set face of one who rides on urgent business. yet he checked his horse when near me, and cried curtly, "what news from stafford?" a word with him might be worth while, so i too pulled up and answered very politely, "it's market-day." "damn the market! what news of the troops, sir? is my lord brocton still there?" "i believe he is." "then damn my lord brocton! did you chance to see him?" "i had that honour late last night." "anything the matter with him?" "he'd had enough," said i simply. "that's what comes of shoving sprigs of your bottle-sucking nobility into the service. damn his nobility! there's another of them back yonder, as much use as an old tup." "if i detain you much longer," said i, with exaggerated sweetness, "you'll be damning me." "nothing likelier. i damn everything and everybody that don't suit me. that's why i'm captain at fifty instead of colonel at thirty. what of it?" "lord brocton's nine miles off, and i'm not." "think i care? damn you, too, and i'll fight you when we meet again. like a lark! wish i'd time now. good day, sir!" he dug the rowels into his horse and was off. an earnest, choleric man with his heart in his work, for which i liked him, even to his persistent damning. i put sultan to the slope and he kept bravely at it till i eased him off where the rise was steepest. my late encounter clearly meant that affairs were ripening fast farther north, and it might also mean danger behind me sooner than i had looked for. the blood danced in my veins at the prospect of the adventures that awaited me. ho, for life and work! would it be long before the blue eyes lanced me through and through again, as when i kissed her hand among the trees by the roadside? i looked at the frosty sun and judged that it was nigh on twenty-four hours since i had stood in the porch and watched mother and kate across the cobbles into the road--twenty-four hours that had done more for me than the twenty-four years that had gone before them, for they had given me a man's task, a man's thoughts, the stirrings of a man's being, the beginning of a man's agony. we were at the top now with the open country stretching for miles around us. but the dale beneath, through which the main road ran a mile away to the east, was thick with trees, and i could get no inkling of how things were going. i strained my ears to listen, but no warning sound could i hear. the countryside was still and calm as a frozen sea, and war and its terrors seemed so impossible that for a moment i felt as if it was only a dream-life that i was living and that i must wake soon and hear joe braggs trolling out his morning song in honour of jane. but sultan craned round his shapely head as if to ask me why i was loitering in the cold, bleak air; so with a cheery slap on his glossy neck, i gave him the reins and away he went, with me spitting ghostly broctons on the sergeant's tuck. through the skirts of the woodland he carried me, and then up again till on the top of clayton bank i pulled him up a second time for another survey of the situation. the little town was now in full view a mile ahead, lying on the slope and top of some rising ground. across the meadows to my right, and now plainly to be seen less than half a mile away, was the main road from stone. again i was disappointed. a long, rude post-wagon, pulled by eight horses and driven by a man on an active little nag, was groaning its way south; a solitary horseman was ambling north--and that was all i could see. what had happened to the colonel? were the dragoons in the town or not? i dug my heels into sultan's flanks and put him to it at his best, and in a few minutes was on the outskirts of the town. the town consists in the main of two streets. the high street is simply the town part of the main road from the south and stone to congleton and the north--the line along which the stuart prince was marching. it deserves its name, for it lies along the edge of the slope on which the town lies. parallel to it in the dip lies lower street, and the road i was on curls past the end of this street and climbs gently to join the upper road. i could thus get into the heart of the town through the poorer quarter of it, and soon the kidney-stones of lower street rang under sultan's hoofs. the stir and noise of stafford was completely absent. the townspeople, mainly hatters by trade, were plying their craft indoors as if no enemy were at their gate. in fact, as i learned afterwards, there was no fuss and much fun and good business when the highlanders actually came on the scene. the farther a town was from them the more it funked them, which was, as everybody knows now, truest of all of london. as i turned up the lane by st. giles', the church bells chimed two. past the church in the corner between the lane and the high street was the "rising sun." once sultan was safe in its stables i could set about getting news of the colonel before margaret and master freake arrived. it was stiff work up the last thirty yards, and sultan shook himself together after it when he drew out on the level high street. here were throngs of people and some signs of trouble toward. in particular i noticed the town fathers in their black gowns of office, and, most conspicuous of all, the crimson and fur of his worship. i judged they were coming from a council meeting in the town hall, which stood in the middle of the wide high street. there was much high debate, wagging of fingers and smiting of fist in palm, but no approach to the tumult and terror of yesternight. the mayor stood for a moment confabbing at the door of a grocery, and then shot into it. i saw him struggling out of his gown as he disappeared, and thence inferred that the chief burgess was a grocer in private life. so much i saw before pulling sultan round to pass under the archway leading into the yard of the "rising sun." i dismounted and called for an ostler. no man appearing, i was about to lead sultan farther down the yard towards the stables when there was a scurry of feet behind me as if the whole ostler-tribe of the "rising sun" was hastening to my assistance. i turned round rattily to find myself looking into the barrel of a pistol, while three or four men pounced on me and pinned me against the wall. "damn ye, horse-thief, for the black of a bean i'd blow your brains out," said colonel waynflete. "stick tight, lads; and you, good host, fetch along master mayor and the constable, and have me the scoundrel laid by the heels. if this were only my commandery on the rhine! i'd strappado you and then hang you within the next half-hour. my bonny sultan! how are you, my precious?" when a raw youth leaves farming for knight-erranting he must expect sharp turns and rough tumbles, but surely fate and fortune were overdoing it now. it was the colonel beyond doubt, and margaret had limned him to the life. the hawk-eyes, the hook nose, the leathery skin, the orange-tawny campaign-wig with the grizzled hair peeping under the rim of it, the tall, thin, supple figure, all were there. and if i had been in any doubt of it, sultan would have settled the matter, for his pleasure at finding his master was delightful to witness. in hot blood i did not mind a pistol, and in the coldest blood i could easily have kicked loose from the men who had got hold of me. but margaret kept my limbs idle and my mouth shut. there was no real danger, for that matter, unless margaret and master freake failed to turn up at the "rising sun," and there was no reason to suppose they would fail. the colonel gave me no chance to speak to him privately, and to speak to him publicly might upset his plans. how he had got here a free man, what strange turn things had taken in his favour, i could not imagine. margaret would be here in an hour and put matters right, so for her sake it would be best and easiest to say nothing. i simply made up my mind that the varlet on my right, whose dirty claws and beery breath were sickening me, should have the direst of drubbings before the day was out. mine host bustled off for the mayor, and, the news having gone around, the yard was filled with people watching the fun and making a mocking-stock of me. the colonel saw sultan off to be groomed and baited, and then, without so much as a look at me, went into the inn and sat down to his interrupted meal. i could see him plainly through the window, and hugely admired his coolness. the maids clustered around to have a peep at me. such as were old and ugly declared off-hand that i was indisputably ripe for the gallows, but a younger one with saucy eyes and cherry-red cheeks blew a kiss, and called out to beery breath to deal gentlier with me. he moved a little in turning to grin at her, and i shot my knee into his wind and doubled him up on the ground. a stouter lad took his place, but his breath was sweet and i gained much in comfort by the change. the situation had the saving grace of humour. for twenty-four hours i had been on the stretch to save colonel waynflete from his enemies. to do it i had left mother and sister, and home and lands. to do it i had come out openly on the side of rebellion and treason. the sword had been at my breast, and the wind of a bullet had stirred the hair of my head. i might have spared my pains. all this pother of mine was over the man sitting yonder, heartily enjoying his dinner. all my heroics had ended in my being arrested as a horse-thief. i closed my eyes. picture after picture came before me of margaret in her changing moods and her unchanging beauty. gad! how cheaply i had bought this gallery of precious memories! a throng of lads crowding noisily under the archway heralded the approach of the dignitaries. first came the town beadle, a pompous little fellow who wore a laced brown greatcoat many sizes too large for him, and carried a cudgel of office thick as his own arm, and surmounted by a brass crown the size of a baby's head. his office enabled him to be brave on the cheap, so by dint of digging his weapon into the ribs of all and sundry, they being, as he expressed it, too thick on the clod, he cleared a path for the grocer-mayor, who had gotten himself again into his scarlet gown. his worship was gawky, flustered, and uncertain, and listened like a scared rabbit to mine host, a man of much talk, who explained proudly what was to be done. "this is 'im, y'r worship," he said. "a dirty 'oss-thief as badly wants 'anging. copped in the act, y'r worship, of riding into this 'ere yard o' mine, as big as bull-beef, sitting on the very 'oss 'e'd stolen from his lordship 'ere." his lordship was the colonel, who had leisurely left his meal again to settle my hash. i can see him now as he stood on the step of the inn-door, carefully flicking a stray crumb or two from his waistcoat, and taking the measure of the man he had to bamboozle, with clear, amused, grey eyes. "the mayor of the town, i think," he said softly. "yes, your honour," said the good man surreptitiously wiping something, probably sugar, off his hands on the lining of his gown. "and his beadle, your lordship," added the host, and the under-strapper inside the greatcoat saluted the colonel with a flourish of his tipstaff. "i am colonel waynflete," he answered in level measured tones, "riding on important business of his majesty's, and my horse was stolen at an inn, some miles back, beyond stafford. but for the kindness of my lord brocton in providing me with another, his gracious majesty's affairs would have been badly disarranged. this fellow came riding in on my horse, sultan, a few minutes ago and i ordered his arrest. he is now in your worship's hands. i leave him there with confidence, merely remarking, on the warrant of many years' observation in such matters, that he will require a stout rope." he nodded to his dithering worship, and marched back slowly and calmly to his dinner. "this beats cock-fighting," said mine host admiringly. he spread himself, happy and conspicuous as a tom-tit on a round of beef, and the crowd, pleasantly anticipating mugs of beer later on, urged the mayor to be up and doing. "what have you to say for yourself?" said his grocer-ship to me, with a dim and belated idea, perhaps, that i might be interested in the proceedings. "the beadle's coat is much too large for him," said i. "yes, yes," he replied hurriedly. "samson salt was a big man and had only had the coat three years when he died, and we couldn't afford a new one for timothy. dear me, but this isn't a council meeting, and what's the beadle's coat got to do with horse-stealing?" "as much as i have," i replied gravely. "yow've 'ad enough, my lad," said the host, "to last y'r the rest of y'r life. the next 'oss you rides'll be foaled of an acorn. let timothy put him in clink, master mayor, and come and have a noggin of the real thing. gom, i'm that dry my belly'll be thinking my throat's cut." "arrest this man, timothy tomkins, and put him in jail till i can take due order for his trial." timothy turned up the sleeves of his coat, and arrested me by placing his hand on my arm, and flourishing the brass crown in my face. "don't hurt me, timothy," i said. "i'll come like a lamb, and i'll go slow lest you should tumble over the tail of your coat." "if you say another word about the blasted coat i'll split your head open," was his angry reply. it was evidently a sore topic with him and a familiar one with his frugal townsmen, for some man in the crowd cried out, "'tinna big enough for the missis, be it, timothy?" and while the peppery little beadle's eyes were searching the japer out, another added, "more's the pity, for 'er's a bit of a light-skirt." at this there was a roar of laughter, so i saved the frenzied officer further trouble by saying, "come along, timothy. let's go to jail." on the mayor's orders, mine host despoiled me of the sergeant's tuck, and timothy marched me off to the jail, the rabble following, as full of chatter as a nest of magpies. the jail was a small stone building, standing, like the town hall, in the middle of the street. arrived there, timothy thrust me into an ill-lit dirty hole below the level of the street, locked the door behind me, and left me to my reflections. the only furniture of the den was a rude bench. a nap would do me good, so, after a good pull at kate's precious cordial, i curled up on the bench and in a few minutes was sound asleep. and in my sleep i dreamed that two blue stars were twinkling at me through a golden cloud. chapter xii the guest-room of the "rising sun" a wisp of cloud, a long trail of shimmering gold, broke loose, swept with the touch of softest silk across my cheek, and half awakened me. i was lazily and sleepily regretting that such caresses only came in dreams, when i was brought sharply back to full life by a ripple of hearty laughter. "gloat on!" said i complacently. "i knew you'd slip some time or other. gloat! of course i shall gloat." and she laughed again. i should have borne it easily enough, coming from her, under any circumstances, but there was one circumstance which made it a pure joy. the white hands were busy with her unruly yellow hair, and i was so far gone foolward that i was in some sort hopeful that they were imprisoning the wisp of golden cloud that had awakened me. i bitterly regretted that i was not as nimble at waking as jack. he would be sleeping like a leg of mutton one second and, at the touch of a feather, as wide awake as a weasel the next. i took time--it was the latin rubbish cumbering my brain, he used to say--or i might have made sure. mistress margaret was perched on the edge of my bench. she seemed in no hurry to move, and i could not get up till she did, so i lay still, cradling my head in my hands, and looked contentedly at her. it was now so gloomy that i had evidently been asleep some time. "i knew you'd slip," she repeated with great zest. "all men do. and i'm glad you slipped, for it proved you human. i was getting quite overawed by the terrible precision with which you did exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. it made me feel so very small and inferior, and no woman likes that. it's not nice." "or natural," said i. "i see you're unmistakably awake, sir!" was the tart reply. she rose and took short turns up and down the cell and went on: "but why slip into jail, master wheatman? why did you not tell father who you were and what you had done for me?" "and so prove at once to the authorities in the town that he was not what he pretended to be!" "ho!" she said, and stopped short. "our idea was, i think, to free the colonel, if we could." "yes." she was not gloating now, but wondering. "well, madam, i found him free, and the only advantage i can see in your plan is, that i should have had him as a companion in jail. whereas now i've mended my night's sleep with a refreshing nap, and master freake has so lucidly explained things to the mayor that timothy of the long coat is kicking his heels at the top of the stairs, and wondering how much longer you're going to be. shall we once more breathe the upper air, as virgil would put it? this hole is as bad as a corner in his under-world." "and i laughed at you for slipping, master wheatman! i shall never dare to look you in the face again." "don't you believe it, madam," said i airily, leading the way to the steps. "i've heard copper nob say the same thing scores of times." "who's copper nob?" the question came like the crack of a whip, and i was glad the familiar phrase had slipped out unawares and diverted her. "our kate," i explained. "oh indeed, sir! a more beautiful head of hair no woman in this land possesses, and you glibly call her 'copper nob.' doubtless you have selected some nice expressive name for me!" "i shouldn't dare!" i protested hotly. "why not? you do it for her, brazenly and wantonly." "yes, madam, but she's my sister." "how does that assure me?" "a man's sister isn't a woman," said i, and went ahead and pushed open the door. there, sure enough, was timothy, looking very uncertain and rueful. the little man's complaisance had given me the greatest wonder of my life--margaret's silent watching over me as i lay asleep, and i gave him a guinea with much gladness. "the coat's too big for you, timothy, and it's no good denying it. i'll speak to his worship about a new one of the right length." "thank yer, sir," he said, grinning oafishly as he pouched the guinea. "i'd rather have a new coat than a new missus, and, swelp me bob, i want both." margaret joined me, and we at once made our way to the "rising sun." work for the day was over, and the street was now getting thronged and noisy. many curious looks were bent on us, but no one dared to interfere with a man of my evil reputation, a horse-thief being the last thing in desperadoes. we had only a few yards to go, but my mistress apprised me in sweet whisperings that master freake's explanation was that sultan had been innocently obtained from the real thief, that i was his servant, and, not knowing of the horse deal, had loyally kept silent lest i should make mischief--a happy and reasonably truthful rendering of the real facts. "after his private talk with master mayor," she added, "that worthy man's knees were as hard worked as the hinges of an ale-house door." "the poor cringeling is but a grocer," said i, as we turned in under the archway of the "rising sun." the host saw us through the kitchen window, and ran out to usher us in with the assurance of a brass weathercock. "sommat like a jail delivery, eh, y'r 'onour? gom, if i wudna pinch fifty 'osses to be fetched out o' clink by such a bonny lady, begging your ladyship's pardon." "she shall fetch you out," said i sourly, "when you're jailed for not stealing." "his honour's commands are a law unto his handmaiden," said margaret demurely and icily, addressing him, but aiming point-blank at me. her shot blew me clean out of the water, and i stood there guggling like a born idiot. "curse you, will you never get out of your yokel's ways?" said i to myself. it was as if i had said to the sergeant, speaking of jane, "she shall draw you a mug of beer." i was clean nonplussed, and felt as uncomfortable as a boiling crawfish, but fortunately rattle-pate came to my aid and drowned my confusion in a flood of words. "and all he said, y'r ladyship, was that timothy's coat was too big for 'im. gom, it beat cock-fighting, it did. swelp me bob it did. i never saw a man so staggered as the mayor, but he's got over it fine, and gone 'ome, good man, with a crick in his back and near on a pint of my best brandy in his belly. when these 'ere wild highland rappers and renders come, he's just primed up to make 'em a grand speech at bridge yonder, and if that dunna frighten 'em off, nuthin' wull, and my cellars will be as ill filled with beer as timothy's coat is with brawn. i'm getting the best supper on the chester road for yer, y'r honour, and that'll mike you feel as bold as sixpence among sixpenn'orth o' coppers. but come along, y'r ladyship. the colonel's upstairs. follow me!" words ran out of him like ale out of a stunned barrel. he clacked on incessantly on the way upstairs, and clacked as boldly as ever as he ushered us into the room, where the colonel was awaiting us alone. "'ere 'e is, y'r lordship," he said gustily. "'ere's the nobby gentleman as didna steal yer 'oss. but yow'd best keep yer eye on 'im, on my say so. he'll pinch sommat o' yow'n yet afore 'e's done." the colonel, who was toasting his toes at a roaring fire, rose as i followed margaret towards him. he made me a precise and formal bow, which i imitated farmer fashion. "this is master oliver wheatman of the hanyards, father," said margaret, in so low a tone that the host, lingering, hand on door-knob, nearly a dozen paces behind us, could not have heard her. "pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," he said, repeating his bow. "the honour is mine, sir," i replied, repeating mine, and wondering the while if i ever should learn to bend like a willow instead of a jointed doll. "nay, i protest, sir." this suavely to me; then, stepping sharply towards the host, he stormed, "damn ye, man, get on the landlord's side of the door, or i'll rout it down around your lazy ears. slids! i've shot an innkepeer for less in the rhineland." "them 'ere furriners--" began the host, but the colonel swamped him with something of which i could make out nothing except that it was a fairly successful attempt to talk and sneeze at the same time. it finished off the host, who retired, beaten with his own weapon. the victor, waiting till the door was closed, tiptoed up to it and listened carefully. "a rather interesting feature about dad," whispered margaret with mischief in her eyes, "is that when he's angry he curses in french, and when he's mad he execrates in german." "neatly rounding off his daughter's accomplishments," said i. "and how, sir?" "who gibes in english and loves in italian." she stabbed me with her eyes, and said, "your services give you no privileges, sir." "i know that, madam, but my yokelship does." i spoke lightly, keeping the bitterness of my heart out of my voice, though it had surged up into my speech. i may have been mistaken, misled by the flickering fire-light, but the anger seemed to melt out of her eyes. the return of the colonel ended our cut-and-thrust. "soldiering," he said, "is nine-tenths caution and one-tenth devilment. yon glavering idiot has long ears to match his long tongue. and now, sir, let me greet you as i should." he seized my hand, shook it warmly, and continued, "a father's thanks, master wheatman, for your kindness to my margaret. anon she shall tell me the whole story, but i know already that you are a gallant gentleman whom i shall have the honour of turning into a fine soldier, and neither angel, man, nor devil could make you fairer requital." praise and promise were far beyond any desert or hope of mine, but i said boldly, "i am no gentleman, but just a plain, few-acred yeoman, who has tried to serve your daughter--" "tried?" he snorted. "tried, indeed! i've been soldiering man and boy these forty odd years, and, slids, i've never known better work." he ran me up and down with his eyes and, turning to margaret, continued, "by the beard of the prophet, madge, master oliver wheatman of the hanyards is a vast improvement on the baron." margaret blushed daintily and hastily covered his mouth with her fingers. "you dare, dad, and i won't kiss you good night." "damme," he said, freeing himself and grinning at me with delight. "this is rank mutiny. prithee note, master wheatman, the prepare-to-receive-cavalry look in her eye! the last time i lost her was at hanover, and she rejoined me, if you please, at dresden." "magdeburg, you libellous old father," said margaret, pouting. "so it was," he said heartily, conceding the point. "escorted by, or escorting, i was never clear which, a fat german baron nearly five feet high, who begged me to horsewhip her into marrying him." "you shot him?" said i, so very energetically that margaret's pout turned into a smile. "dear me, no," he said, pretending to yawn. "i left him to madge, poor fellow! i hope you've given her every satisfaction, master wheatman." "that he hasn't," said margaret briskly. "he's spent far too much time putting me in what he considers my proper place." "my friend," said he to me gravely, "you're in for a dog's life." "you're right about the life, dad, but wrong about the dog. good-bye till supper, you nasty ripper-up of your daughter's character!" so saying, she kissed him on each cheek, smiled at me, and left us. "i'd like to sluice the jail feeling off myself," said i to the colonel. "right," he replied, looking at his watch. "you've just half an hour. i find england irksomely restful and law-abiding after the continent, but i'm glad of it for once. i should be damnably vexed if i'd hanged you, and madge wouldn't have liked it either." he had a grave voice, like a judge's, and a quick, pert eye, like a jackdaw's. outwardly he was as unlike margaret as the haft of a pike is unlike a lily, but i already saw her spirit in him. "sir," said i, "when i am fortified by a good supper, i will venture to indicate my preferences on the subject." he took out his snuff-box, tapped it carefully, opened it, and held it out to me. "you have begun well, sir. i hear you are a great scholar, latin and all that, quite pat. damme, sir, those ancients understood things. they knew how to honour the gods, for they made soldiers of 'em and set 'em fighting in the clouds. there's divinity for you! you've got twenty-eight minutes." i laughed and left him. the room in which my introduction to the colonel had taken place was immediately over the archway. its window opened on to a balcony which, supported on thick oak balks, stood over the causeway of the street; its door was in a passage leading from one wing of the house to the other, and in the passage were three leaded lattice-windows of greenish glass, plentifully sprinkled with blobs and nodes, giving on the long inn-yard. the room was thus admirably situated for people in our precarious position, having a look-out back and front, and a way of escape right and left. the cherry-cheeked lass who had thrown me the kiss was tripping past the door as i opened it. she told me that she had been attending on ''er ladyship,' and willingly led me to a bedroom and brought me thither the things i needed for my sluicing, among them a passable razor and a huckaback fit to fetch the hide off a horse. "give me now the kiss you threw me," said i, as she was turning to leave. "nay, sir," she said. "you're not in trouble now, and dunna need it." "lassie," said i, "that's a right womanly reply, and here's something to buy a ribbon with that shall be worthy of you." and i gave her one of the dead major's guineas. "thank yer, sir," she said. "and besides there's no need for you to be kissing the likes of me." "you're a sweetly pretty lassie," said i. "y' dunna want to be gawpin' around after pennies when there's guineas to be picked up," she replied, with a toss of her head. "struth, i wish at times i wasna quite so pretty. there's some men, bless you, i know one myself, such fools that they think a pretty wench doesna want kissin'. but, sartin sure, there's never been the like of 'er ladyship in newcastle in my time. i'll 'ave a ribbon on sunday as near the colour and shine of 'er ladyship's hair as money can buy, and sail'll wish 'er'd never been born. i'll sim 'er." with this terrible threat she flounced out of the room, and i laughed and wondered who and what 'sim' was. a decent fellow and a good tradesman, i hoped, and wished him pluck and luck. while i was tidying myself up, my mind was busy with the strange tangle things were got into. the mysterious master freake, after turning the mayor into his pliant tool, had apparently disappeared. the colonel had not breathed a word of explanation, and seemed to feel so secure that he was dawdling in the town as if no enemy were at hand. of the state of affairs in the town itself i knew nothing. the one clear thing was that i had got my neck right into the noose, and brocton could, and would, pull tight at the first opportunity. what did all this matter? what did any untoward event or result matter? i was going to be a soldier, and, after the fashion of love-lorn cherry-cheeks, i said to myself, "i'll jack him!" i was going to be near margaret, and, so rejoicing, bethought me of the hapless roman's "_infelix, properas ultima nosse mala._" and what did that matter either? i rubbed myself the colour of a love-apple, humming the while old-time ditties long since driven out of my head by the latin rubbish. jack was right. of course it was rubbish. "latin be damned," said i gleefully. "nothing counts but life and love." there was more than a pinch of swagger in me as i made my way back to the passage overlooking the yard. arrived there, i cautiously opened the nearest lattice and peered out. the inn-yard was dark and silent, and i was on the point of closing the window when i heard the clatter of hoofs on the stone-paving under the archway. a moment later a man on foot came in sight, and was followed into the yard by two men on horseback, one of them in charge of a led horse. at once all was bustle. ostlers ran up with lanterns, and the host came forward, candle in hand and a multitude of words on his tongue, to order things aright. the man afoot was master freake, and it was clear that the riders were men of his, for i heard him ask them if they were quite clear as to their instructions, and both answered respectfully that they were. i could see they wore swords and that their horses were splendid, powerful animals, not much inferior to sultan himself. who and what was this man--"plain john freake," as he called himself,--who carried large sums of money, domineered over self-important burgesses and mayors, who was served by such well-appointed horsemen, whom master dobson, a parliament man, feared, and my lord brocton had thought it worth while to attempt to put out of the way? it was a riddle i could not read, but as i stood there, peering round the half-open lattice at the scene below, i was happier than ever i had been in my life. "poor old jack," said i to myself, "sweating and swearing over your riff-raff dragooners, and here am i, who envied you yester-morn, on the top rung of life." "we shall get it if we're late," said mistress margaret playfully in my ear. "not because dad worries whether he eats or not, but because he's so strong on mil-it-ary dis-cip-line." i write the words so, as a poor, paper imitation of the mincing gait she could put into her speech, which was ever one of her delightfulnesses. "you'd have been the better," she went on, "for a bringing-up on a troop-sergeant's switch. see what it's done for me!" so she challenged me to admire her, and indeed i think that the witch was verily bent on casting a spell over me. no words can paint her as she stood in the dim-lit passage, the infinite sum of womanhood, peerless in every grace and gift; not now the tense, proud margaret of the quick rebuke and the shattering sarcasm, but the mirthful, trustful, grateful companion of our boy-and-girl escapade. "i think you're right, madam," said i. "bloggs, dear old chap, flogged the meaning of virgil into me, but i wish he had flogged in some of the meaning of life along with it. i feel as helpless as saul would have felt with david's sling and stones." "are you as one fighting a goliath?" "i am," said i, not able now to speak lightly, and not daring to look at her. could any enterprise be more hopeless than the one my heart, against all the strivings of sense and reason, was beginning to set me? through the open lattice i watched the flicker of lanterns in the yard, where the horses were being upped and whoaed stablewards. "you will favour me, sir, with your escort into supper," said margaret. this brought me to myself with a jerk. i closed the lattice, offered her my arm, and we walked towards the guest-room where the colonel was awaiting us. "i think you'd better revise your knowledge of the scriptures, master oliver," said she very quietly as i led her into the room. "in what respect, mistress margaret?" "you seem to have an imperfect recollection of the way in which goliath met his death. it's idle to say we're late, dad, when supper's not yet served." he exploded into words i did not understand. "it's all right, only french," whispered margaret mischievously. "it means 'name of a dog.' i could swear better myself." "that's right," stormed the colonel. "as fast as i curse soldiering into one ear of him, you coax it out of the other! i'll be thankful when you're under mother patterson's wing in chester." the coming of cherry-cheeks and one of the hard-favoured maids with the supper, followed by our host with the wine, followed in turn by master freake, put an end to my first lesson in soldiering and the imprecatory wealth of continental languages, and straightway the host slopped over with apologies for the delay in serving the supper. "things are a bit upset in the town, y' mun know," he said, "and every wench in the 'rising sun' 'as been a devil unknobbed all day. this red-faced hussy here, when 'er was wanted to set the table, was off to see if that spindle-shanked sim across at the mayor's was safe and sound. and besides, my lady and y'r 'onours, the famous steak-and-kidney puddin' o' the 'rising sun' must be boiled to a bubble or it's dummacked. if one got spiled, the news 'ud run down to chester and up to london in no time, and the 'red lion' 'ud get all my customers. his grace of kingston put up at the 'red lion' in all innocence until his worship, for old friendship's sake and a bottle of brandy, 'ticed 'im over 'ere to one of my puddin's. 'e started an inch off the table and ate till 'e touched, as we say in staffordsheer, and then sent for 'is baggage, and 'as lain 'ere ever since in the great bedchamber over y'r yeds, an' i'm thinking to call it the duke's room an' charge sixpence extra for it. it's worth another sixpence to sleep in the same bed as a duke's slep' in. if it ain't, by gom, i'd like to know what he is for. damn if y'r can tell by lukkin' at 'im." what i have for convenience' sake set down here as a continuous speech addressed to us all, was really a series of remarks addressed to whichever of us appeared for the moment to be listening, and broken by commands, scoldings, and threats addressed to the women. the tail-end of his remarks made me cock my ear, for it indicated that we were at the centre of the danger zone. "if i were you," interposed master freake at last, "i'd coax prince charlie to sleep in it and then charge a shilling extra. a prince, and my dislike of his ways doesn't unprince him, is surely worth twice as much as a duke." "swelp me bob," cried the delighted host, slapping his thigh in high glee, "that 'ud be better than a murder. it's wunnerful how a murder 'elps a 'ouse. tek the 'quiet woman' o' madeley. there was a murder there, and a damn poor thing of a murder it was, nothing but a fudge-mounter cuttin' a besom-filer's throat; poor wench, 'er lived up on th' higherland yonder, and i'll bet it was wuth two-and-twenty barrel of beer to owd wat. a murder's clean providential to a pub--" "damn, get out," vociferated the colonel, "or i'll provide the murder and you the corpse." the meal, be it said, was thoroughly good in every way. i'm not the man to despise my belly, and i don't hold with those that do. there are better things in life than steak-and-kidney puddings, but my experience is they want a lot of finding. the colonel would not hear of any talk about our affairs till supper was over. "i dare say you're all agog to know what i've been doing and what we are going to do," he said to me. "that's because you're a youngster at everything and a mere infant-in-arms at soldiering. when you've had a month's campaigning you'll know that the only things really worth bothering about are supper and bed." to my great content he immediately fell head over heels into argument with master freake, something about bounties on herring busses, if i remember aright, and margaret and i were left to each other, and a rare treat i had in hearing her lively talk and watching her glowing beauty. at last, with almost a sigh of satisfaction, and then with a mischief-glint in her eyes, she said, "the pudding has been very good, but i prefer ham and eggs, provided that the right person cooks them." "i should agree," i replied, "with one other proviso." "to wit," said she, with a glass of wine half-way to her lips. "that the right person saves them from frizzling to a cinder." she sipped her wine steadily, and then, leaning forward till the radiance of her yellow hair made me quiver, she whispered calmly, "oliver, you're a brute." "nay, madam," said i, "only a yokel." she looked at me again as she had looked at me when i had kissed her hand beneath the hawthorns. "hello, there," broke in the colonel, addressing himself to me, "who was right about the dog's life?" "i was, of course," said margaret promptly. the host was rung for, his supper praised to his heart's content, the table cleared, and a dish of tea ordered for margaret. bethinking me of the sergeant's tuck, which might be useful, i asked the host to bring it up, and he did so. when we were again left to ourselves, the colonel took the sword, and examined it with his skilful eyes and practised hands. "somewhat heavy," said he, "but well balanced and well made, and of the truest steel. are you a swordsman, master wheatman?" "i never had one in my hand in my life till to-day," was my reply. "gird him for the wars, margaret," said he. "so much of the ancient rules and customs of chivalry as can be observed in these mechanic days shall, by us at any rate, be observed. in strict law you ought to have spent a night in prayer and fasting, but your loyal service to margaret is a good equivalent. to labour is to pray, say the parsons, and, my lad, always remember in your soldiering that a so-minded man can offer up a powerful prayer between pull of trigger and flash of priming. kneel, oliver, and in god's sight you shall be more truly knighted than any capering and chattering of german geordie's can contrive." and so, in the guest-room of the "rising sun," i knelt to my sweet mistress, and, before god and in the presence of christopher waynflete, colonel of horse in the service of the king of sweden, and john freake, citizen of london, margaret, gravely and serenely beautiful, touched my shoulder with the sword and then girded it upon me. "sirs," she said, addressing her father and master freake, "the accolade has never been given to a worthier." then, bending swiftly as a swallow dips in its flight over the meadows, she whispered emphatically in my ears, "yokel it no more!" chapter xiii pharaoh's kine "and now to business," said master freake. "to pleasure, sir," said the colonel. "business is over." he was leisurely filling his pipe, an example which margaret, with a smile and a nod, gave me permission to follow. "tell us how you escaped," said margaret. "master wheatman cannot too soon begin to learn the tricks of the trade. sorry, dad," bending to kiss his hand; "you needn't look at me in german. i mean rudiments of the profession." "a woman who calls soldiering a trade ought to be forcibly married to a parson," said the colonel passionately. "there'll be a reasonable quantity of parsons to choose from at chester," she retorted, laughing up in his face. "chester? why chester?" demanded master freake, suddenly tense and vigilant. "i need name no name, but a certain dignitary's lady there, one of our supporters, undertook to take her in charge while this affair was on," explained the colonel. master freake, it seemed to me, was disappointed with the explanation, and, knowing that what margaret wanted was to have the rumour of her father's intended treachery blown to pieces by his own account, i said, "there's only one parson in england fit to look at mistress margaret, and he's sixty and married. let me learn, i pray you, sir, the art of slipping out of the hands of a squad of dragoons on a road crowded with soldiery." "if you think you are to hear a tale that will make you grip the arms of your chairs, you're in for a sad disappointment. yesterday and through the night, they stuck to me as if geordie had offered thirty thousand pounds for me, dead or alive, but this morning their hold on me slackened. they might have intended me to escape. i was put on a fresh horse, about the best they'd got; the dragoon in charge of me was three parts drunk when we started; we got mixed up in a crowd of foot retreating south, and separated from our main body, and finding myself alone on the road with one man, and him drunk, i just knocked him off his horse, and cleared off across the fields. "i rode on until i got a sight of this town, and the main road into it, from a hill-top, and watched for an hour or so to see what was happening. i knew by my pace that i was well ahead of my late escort, and seeing no signs of them, came on to this inn, and was enjoying a good dinner when i saw sultan and oliver on him. the rest you know. not much of a tale. madge has done better many a time." "do you really think the captain intended you to escape?" it was margaret who asked the question, looking intently at me as she spoke. i looked from her to master freake and back again, meaning to remind her that i wanted no convincing, but she still kept her eyes on mine, her chin cupped in her long white hands, and i was glad of her insistence for i could look at her without offence. i thought the mellow fire-light made her look more beautiful than ever. the lustrous yellow hair shone like molten gold, and the dark blue eyes became a queenly purple. "if it were done on purpose it was done cleverly," continued the colonel, "for the chance which set me free came quite naturally. the horse i rode yesterday was wanted in the usual way by a trooper to whom it belonged, and where so many men were more or less drunk, the choice of my particular drunkard was certainly accidental. and, besides, what possible motive could there be in letting me escape? brocton knows i'm an experienced soldier of great repute--i state plain facts--and am eagerly expected by the prince and by my old companion-in-arms, geordie murray. they couldn't have planned it better if they had wished it, but it's absurd to say they wished it. there ought to be a cashiered captain and a half-flayed dragoon somewhere south of us. damme, i merit that at least." he bent over the hearth to relight his pipe. master freake smiled and rubbed his hands gently. margaret's eyes blazed with triumph, and challenged me, still me, to share it. woman-logic was clean beyond my poor wits. i was sick for action. these glorious interludes with margaret gave me no chance. it was like setting me afire and asking me not to burn. thinking of the poor, half-flayed devil behind us, made me think of the sergeant, and i asked master freake, "did you give the sergeant his papers and letter?" "no," was the ready reply. "the papers dealt rather frankly with certain regimental accounts, and, since the sergeant is now very bitterly set against us, may be useful in my hands. i had a shrewd notion that the letter concerned the title to certain lands as to which lord brocton and i are at odds, and on opening it i found to my satisfaction that i was right. with your permission, oliver, i will keep it." "by all means do so," said i, anxious to burn again, and turning back to margaret. if this silent, capacious man, so great a stranger yet so clear a friend, had said that the letter was about a new edition of virgil, i should have believed him, and also, i fear me, have been equally uninterested. latin be damned! "something for you in oliver's magic-hat," said margaret smilingly to master freake. "he really must fetch something out for himself soon. staffordshire is by far the most delightful country i have ever been in. only one little day has gone by, and in that day staffordshire has given me more and truer friends than europe gave me in ten years. i shall cross its borders with regret. shall we make the most of it while we have it and sleep here, dad?" "unless we're routed out," was his reply, "and i do not think we shall be, for the enemy have all cleared out of the town. cumberland is, of course, doing the right thing. he had few men north of stafford, and fewer still worth powder and shot. where the prince is i've no idea." "resting for the day at macclesfield," said master freake, "and his plans are not certain, or, at least, not known. the duke of kingston has a small body of horse at congleton and is watching his movements." "damme," the colonel broke in, "i did not know we had enemies north of us. are you sure?" "certain. one of my men reported the facts to me just before supper." "it's awkward, or rather will be awkward if anyone who knows me turns up. that rascally landlord of ours must have known where kingston was, but amid all his talk he never told me that. damme, somebody's got hold of him. still, you can't take the bull by the horns till his nose is slobbering your waistcoat, so pass the wine, oliver." he refilled his glass and then, leisurely and with his eyes dreamily fixed on the fire, loaded his pipe with a new charge of tobacco, and went on smoking. "are you a jacobite?" suddenly asked margaret, looking inquiringly at master freake. "dear me, no, mistress margaret," was the frank reply. "but you need not curl those sweet lips of yours, for neither am i a hanoverian." "then what are you?" she asked again, with the same uncompromising directness. "a freakeiteian," said he with a smile. "it puzzles me," was her brief comment. "let me explain," said he simply. "a jacobite wants charles to win; a hanoverian wants george to win; a freakeiteian wants to know who is going to win." by this time margaret was no more puzzled than i was. yesterday when i stood on the river-bank watching my cork, i cared not a rap whether george or charles won, and that was an understandable position; but why a man should be spending money in handfuls, and roughing it in the wilds of staffordshire, merely in order to know who was going to win, was beyond my poor wits. "you do not understand?" he said. "no," said margaret and i together. the colonel took no notice. he was puffing away at his pipe, long-drawn-out, solemn puffs, and gazing at the fire in a brown study. "well, margaret and oliver," said master freake, "this is no time to be giving you lessons in the way the great world wags that neither knows nor cares of outs and ins and party shufflings, but is busy with rents and crops, and incomings and outgoings, and debts and credits, and wivings and thrivings. but, believe me, in being anxious to know who is going to win, i am as plainly and simply doing my duty as is the colonel who is going to do his best to help his prince to win. i am one, and, i thank god, not the least, of that great race of men who are destined to mould a mightier england than the sword could ever carve--the merchant of london whose nod is his bond." he spoke with simple dignity and his word was established. i had trusted him on sight. "his nod was his bond." you saw it in the man's clear, steady eyes and knew it by the set of his firm, square chin. after a warning glance at the silent colonel, he leaned forward, and margaret bent to meet him. "if charles loses," he murmured, "many heads will be smitten from their shoulders." the colour left her cheeks instantly and tears welled forth from her eyes. "but not the colonel's," he whispered. i was watching her with the eye of a hawk. a smile dawned on the white face, the sad eyes began to lose their gloom, and my fool of a heart began to flutter. yet once more he whispered, "and not oliver's." she leaned farther forward still and kissed him. and it was just at that moment that the door opened smartly and cherry-cheeks put her sweet head round it and swiftly and peremptorily beckoned me outside. margaret laughed. in the dim passage, cherry-cheeks caught my hand affrightedly and babbled, "oh, sir, there's the ugliest beast you ever saw spying on her ladyship. take your boots off, sir, and creep after me!" i tugged them off and we started. along the passage she flew and upstairs into the corresponding passage above. here, outside the duke's room, she stopped and whispered, "he'll think i'm that bitch sal. hide behind me!" she opened the door and stole into the room with me in tow, holding her skirt and crouching down nearly to the floor. she was somewhat broad in the beam, like a dutch hoy, and all i could see was a dull glimmer somewhere ahead in the darkness. "ssss-h, damn ye," said the beast fiercely. "stand still!" cherry-cheeks took care not to stop till near the light, and then, with wonderful ready wit, put her right hand on her hip and i peeped through between arm and waist. full length on his belly lay the man from yarlet bank. there was a small spy-hole in the floor, on the edge of the hearth, and he had his right ear against it, which was lucky, for it kept his face turned from me. the notebook lay open on the floor near a guttering tallow candle in an iron candlestick, and the stump of pencil was clenched in his dirty yellow teeth. i threw my handkerchief on the floor, took my fat little virgil in my left hand, and crept out to him. when near on top of him, i gripped him round the nape of the neck, digging my fingers in his flabby throat, and he went slimy with fright like a great, fat lob-worm. i swooped down on him with my full weight, and pinned him to the floor. his big mouth opened as he fought for breath, and i clapped the virgil hard and far into it, tying it tight in with my handkerchief, and gagging him effectually. i looked up and found, to my relief, that cherry-cheeks, like a sensible girl, had crept out of the room, and her share in the affair was never even suspected. drawing my tuck, i touched the back of his neck with the point. he flinched and squirmed, great drops of sweat larded his nasty face, and i knew the fear of death and hell was in his marrow. "do exactly what i say," i whispered, "or through it goes. understand?" he could hardly nod his ugly head for the trembling of his body, and i fairly dithered as i knelt on him. i made him rise, and then caught hold of the skirt of his coat. holding him by it at arm's length, i stuck my point to his neck again, and said, "forward." i marched him downstairs and along the passage. there was great risk of being met by some one, and it was the most anxious time i had had since the affair with the sergeant in the house-place at the hanyards. oddly enough, as i drove him along, the thought came to me of the bygone days when jack and i had played horses just like this at the hanyards, and when my prisoner stuck a trifle at the door of the guest-room, i growled at him, "come up!" it was a strange trick of the mind. to me he was just play-horse jack dawdling to look at ten-year-old kate feeding her chickens. i got him in unseen without and unnoticed within, for the colonel and master freake were again at their arguments of state, hammer and tongs, and they minded the click of the door behind them no more than the crack of a spark at their feet. indeed the colonel said "pish!" with great vehemence, and master freake's "my dear sir!" had a shake of pepper in it. as for me, i like a man who, when he gets into a thing, gets into it up to the neck. margaret added to my amusement, for as i pricked my prisoner on into the fire-light, and peeped over his shoulder, he being a good six inches shorter than i, madam leaned forward and became absorbed in the high debate. "i beg to report, sir," said i, as indifferently as i could manage to speak, "the capture of a spy." "hang him at daybreak," said the colonel, without so much as looking at him. "pish, man, the trade in salted herrings is no more a nursery of seamen than i'm--damme, what's this, oliver? damme, it's weir. your servant, mister weir, and i shall vastly relish seeing you strung up." i gave a brief account of where and how i had found him, making no mention of our helpful girl friend, but pointing out that he had co-scoundrels at work for him in the inn. "another good piece of work, oliver," said the colonel. "i like the way you use your available material. i've seen many things used as gags, but not a book before; yet it makes a very good one. keeps him quiet as a stone and withal leaves him free to lick up a few crumbs of learning." margaret had not looked at me yet, and indeed seemed bent on keeping her face, heightened in colour by the warmth and glow of the fire, turned away from me. now a rather big matter had come into my mind, so i said urgently, "name of a dog," and thus shook her into looking at me. whereupon, i pointed first to mr. freake, then to the spy, and wagged my head sagely. her quick mind saw at once that i was afraid that our friend would be compromised if we were not careful. she promptly said something to her father in an unknown tongue, and by the cock of his eye i knew he'd taken the point. "my good friend," he said, "pray step over to his worship the mayor and ask him to come over and commit this rascally spy to the town jail. say, i beg, that i am grieved to have to disturb him, but his majesty's servants must ever be at the disposal of his majesty's affairs." i grinned behind the spy's back at this masterly way of getting george's servant to do james's work. master freake started at once, and, stepping with him to the door, i whispered, "give us fifteen minutes." "right!" he whispered back again. "look in your holsters!" as soon as he had gone, the colonel ordered me to guard the door, and this gave me the chance of putting on my boots again. the colonel, cutting off with his sword a good length of bell rope, made a swift and most workmanlike job of tying the spy into a knot. he then opened the window, and, margaret taking my place meanwhile, he and i cautiously bundled weir on to the balcony, shut down the window, and left him safe and silent. "be in the porch in ten minutes, margaret, ready to start. oliver, get the horses there ready in that time. you ride the troop-horse, and freake has provided a mare for margaret. quick's the work and sharp's the motion!" margaret and i started together to carry out our orders. once in the passage we had to go different ways, and i bowed and was going mine without a word, when she put her hand on my arm and stayed me. "i'm sorry you've lost your virgil," she said. i wondered, as already so many times i had wondered, at the somersaults of feeling she was capable of. where was now the margaret of the short, disdainful laugh? not here, in the twilight between the bright room and the black yard. here was a subtle, mysterious margaret, half regret and half caprice, with one thought in her eyes and another on her lips. "so am i, madam. i wish it had been kate's cookery-book." she would have mastered me had i stayed another second. i bowed again and left her. and this is, perhaps, the best place to say that i did not lose my virgil after all. here it is on the table as i write, still the dearest of all my books. on each side of the healing an irregular curve of teeth-marks cuts into the yellowing parchment. dear, brave cherry-cheeks sent it home by the hands of a vagrom pedlar, laboriously and exactly writing on the package the inscription she found on the fly leaf: oliver wheatman, esquire, of the hanyards, staffordshire, _aetatis anno_ i routed out ostlers, and by dint of a judicious blend of cursings and bribings had the horses ready under the archway in time. margaret was there waiting, with our pretty maid fluttering around her. the colonel was within, settling with the word-warrior host. i helped margaret into the saddle and led her horse into the street, turning its head northward. in a moment, her father clattered after her on sultan. i went back to smile farewell to cherry-cheeks and deal out my bribes, but was after them before they had trotted a stone's throw. they were cantering towards the bridge by which the high street of the town crosses a tiny streamlet and again becomes the high road to the north-west. it was only a pistol-shot from the portico of the "rising sun" to the hither side of the bridge, where a group of townsmen were collected round a man with a lantern. we had ridden forth into a strangely quiet town, but before i was half-way to the bridge, and not yet settled down to my saddle, loud shrieks rang out behind me. looking back, i saw a woman leaning forth, candle in hand, from the duke's bedroom window. she waved her light and yelled as one distraught. there was no mistaking what had happened. sal, the sour-faced hussy who wanted me hanged, had learned the fate of the spy. folks rushed from all quarters to see what was the matter. the sooner we were well out of it the better, and i pricked on to overtake the colonel and margaret. i was near on them at the bridge, where the gossips had lined up to watch them pass. timothy was there, thankful for once, i thought, of his long coat, while the man who held the lantern was the man to whom i owed a drubbing. i wondered what he was doing there with a lantern, for it was a brilliant moonlight night, and, since he made to run townwards as soon as he saw who was passing, i felt in my bones that he meant mischief and was probably in league with the spy. i turned my horse at him before he was clear of the bridge and tumbled him back headlong on timothy, who yelled the most astonishing yell i ever heard, snatched the lantern out of beery breath's unresisting fingers, and with it smashed into him with such a fury that he beat him to his knees. i laughed, for the man had got his drubbing after all, through me if not by me. as for the other townies, they enjoyed it like a play. "gom!" said one. "he's trod on tim's gammy toe." "damn if he don't turn on 'is missus when 'er does that," said another. the colonel and margaret were looking back when i drew level. "anything the matter?" he asked. "the spy is discovered, sir," i said. "does that mean harm to master freake?" inquired margaret. "not it," replied the colonel. "he's got the mayor in his pocket. do you know this country, oliver?" "no, sir," was my answer. "only in broad outline. this is the main road to chester, and away on our right is an open country running up into roughish moorland and hills. leek lies that way on the derby road to london. the country to our left i know nothing about." "then we'll stick to the main road as long as possible and stop at the first inn after all danger-spots are behind us. sorry to turn you out, madge, but it was impossible to stop once weir found us out, since kingston and his men might have turned up at any moment, and then we should have been done for. all we have to do is to get north of him. from the south we have nothing to fear now. brocton's dragoons would have turned up hours ago if there was any intention of trying to recapture me. freake had sent one of his men down the road to give us time to clear off if brocton did pursue. that was why i was content to stay on at the inn." "weir knows who you are, sir, i take it?" said i. "exactly. he's a notorious government spy, and is busy here worming into our local plans. there are plenty of the honest party hereabouts, and especially over to the west there in wales." "are we still in staffordshire, master wheatman?" asked margaret. "oh yes, for quite a distance ahead," i replied. "the spirit of prophecy is upon me, gentlemen," she said merrily. "our staffordshire luck is not yet out, and this time it's master wheatman's turn." "well, then, master wheatman shall ride ahead and scout for it. about thirty yards, oliver. keep your horse well in hand, and be all eyes and ears. damn this moon! it picks us out like three crows on a field of snow, and this infernal road's as straight and level as a plank. ride in any available shadow!" i went ahead and set them an easy pace. work had begun again, the work of my heart's desire, and all along the chester road there was no blither spirit than mine that night. i was astride a flaming sorrel, no match for sultan, but still a good sound horse. he knew i was his master and so i made him a friend, patting his neck, crooning to him, and giving him a lick of sugar out of my hand. the danger we were in was like wine to my heart. enemies ahead and enemies behind, and this bare, bleak, moon-smitten road between. now and again, for remembrance' sake and the joy of it, i cocked my ear to pick out the patter of margaret's mare from the heavier, longer strides of sultan. yes, there she was, doubtless murmuring italian love-ditties to her happy inmost self and thinking of--pshaw! this was romancing, and another's romance at that, and it deadened me against my will, while here was a man's work to do. so i turned to it and lived. i examined the holsters, according to master freake's orders. i found a pair of pistols which, even in the pale moonlight, looked what they indeed were--handsome, accurate weapons, the best work of the best gunsmith in london. i was the equal of most men with the pistol, and usually had, indeed, a capital pair at the hanyards, but jack had taken them off with him on his dragooning. over and above the pistols and their ammunition i found a sizeable leathern bag, and the feel of it to my fingers showed that it was chock-full of money. when i did turn it out next day, i found near on sixty pounds, mostly in guineas and half-guineas, and a note: "dear lad, this town is very bare of guineas and many of them are lighter than the law alloweth, but you shall have more as occasion offers.--your friend, j. f." i turned to the road again with a merrier heart than ever, for i thought, as smite-and-spare-not would have thought before me, that the very handiwork of god himself was here displayed, in that the seemingly most untoward events of our journey had been turned into means of strength and assurance. had i, as i ought to have done, brought money of my own from the hanyards, i should never have started highwayman, and so never have met master freake on wes'on bank. three miles or more we made in this manner, and i had heard nothing more alarming than the hoot of an owl from an ivy-crusted elm. some distance back the road had climbed slightly for a space, then fallen into the level again, and now ran, open and unhedged, across the bleaky top of a barren upland. i chirruped to the sorrel and gave him another lick of sugar to comfort him. a moment later, i knew by the forward cock of his ears and the swift up-shake of his head that something was in the wind, and strained my own ears to listen, for there was nothing of note visible ahead or around. from far ahead came the faint rattle of hoofs on the hard road. i pulled up, and, a moment later, margaret and the colonel stopped beside me. "what is it?" asked the latter. "horse coming this way, sir," was my reply. the sounds were already plainer. for a full minute he listened carefully. "a good number of them, and making a smart pace," he said. "it can only be kingston's advance guard falling back. most likely the van of the highlanders has beaten up their quarters. once past them we shall be--hello! slids! what's that? reinforcements! egad. oliver, we're between the hammer and the anvil." he turned his head round sharply and so did margaret and i. from behind us came again the unmistakable rattle of a body of horse. we were trapped completely. "this is damned annoying," said the colonel. he looked casually around, as indifferently as he would have looked round the guest-room of the "rising sun," and added, "follow me, and ride as if the devil were at your tail." he turned off into the bare, flat country, and we after him. how we rode! he was making for a little group of trees, some dozen wind-sown pines, stuck like a forlorn picket in enemy country a stone's-throw from the road. we got there in a bunch, for there was no time for sultan's pace to count. "damn the moon!" he said, and dismounted. "but this is better than nothing. take off margaret's saddle, oliver." i got down, and assisted margaret to dismount. she thanked me, briefly and smilingly, as unperturbed as the gaunt pine beneath which she stood. the colonel and i changed the saddles, and in a few seconds margaret was on sultan. i asked him in vain to take the sorrel and leave the mare to me, for she was getting restive, and the colonel was not quite so able as i was with a strange horse. i insisted, however, in taking off my coat and wrapping it about the mare's head, and, being thus blanketed, she gave us no further trouble. by the colonel's orders, margaret, on sultan, took her place between us, heading for the open country, while he and i turned to the road. the thin, straggling pine-branches cast but little shadow, and i knew it was next to impossible for us to pass unnoticed. "now, madge," said the colonel, "it's bound to come to a fight. as soon as the fun begins, off you go like the wind into this bog-hole in front of you, and in five minutes you'll be out of danger. make a detour round to the road again, keep the moon behind your back, and push on to the nearest inn. oliver and i will join you there, if so god wills. if we don't, you're on the chester road. have you your money still?" "yes, dad." "you understand, madge?" "quite clearly." "then kiss me, sweetheart." she kissed him without a word, and turned to look goodbye to me. for a moment i went all aquiver with emotion. this wonderful new life of mine had at times to be lived in the outskirts and suburbs of death. fortunately, a thought came into my head, and i tugged out the leathern bag and thrust it into her hand. "don't leave that under the bed," said i, and, being very bold, as one may be with death at one's door, i drew her gloved hand, with the bag in it, towards me, and kissed it. she said nothing to me, but the light in her eyes was like moonlight on the dancing surface of a mountain spring. "look to your pistols, oliver," ordered the colonel briefly and crisply. "see your tuck slips easy in the scabbard. another minute will decide. you and i can easily give madge all the start sultan requires." "easily, sir," i answered stoutly. "good lad!" said the colonel. and margaret, leaning across until her lips were near my cheek as i bent to see what she wanted, said, for the third time, "well done, fisherman!" i laughed lightly and was glad, for was not this calm, brave, splendid woman thinking of how we two had met? from the first cock of the sorrel's ears to this so characteristic remark of margaret's could not have been five minutes, and now, although owing to the downward slope to our left i have mentioned, and its corresponding slope to the right, neither body was yet in sight, they were so nearly on us that differences between them became obvious. the southern troup was small, was not travelling beyond a smart trot, and was, so far as the men were concerned, absolutely quiet. the body from the north was large, was forcing a hot gallop, and much noise and shouting came from the troopers. it was plain that we were in for it. the men from newcastle were no doubt coming north as a reinforcement, but it was absurd to suppose that they had not been told of our doings and of our escape northwards. they had not overtaken us, and we must be on the road somewhere. the men from the north had not met us. never since the world began had two and two been easier to put together. there was only one place for us to be in and this was it. a short parley, a glance our way, and an overwhelming force would dash at the picket of pines. the bare road lay there in the moonlight, half a mile of it in clear view on either hand. the two bodies came in sight within a few seconds of each other, and the colonel snapped his fingers and chuckled. from the north a wild rush of spurring, flogging, shouting, cursing horsemen, about a hundred of them. no order, no discipline, no soldiership--nothing but mad haste and madder fear. the mare began to plunge, and the colonel, leaping off, nearly strangled her in the coat. the sorrel got uneasy but gave me no real trouble. sultan took not the slightest notice of the din behind him, and leisurely cropped the tough bussocks of grass at his feet. i looked to the road again. the southern body was small, not more than a score, compact, riding smartly but with military order and precision. the man at their head, the officer in command, no doubt, spurred on and began to shout at the oncoming northerners. he might as well have spoken fair words to an avalanche, and the men behind him began to waver and most of them pulled up. it was useless. the torrent swept into them and bore them backward, tumbling some of them over, men and horses together, but incorporating most of them in its own madness. in less than five minutes the last batch of dragooners had cursed and spurred themselves out of sight, and the bright moon shone down on a road once more bare and white save for a few scattered patches of black. the colonel uncovered the mare's head and nuzzled her. all he said was, but that very gleefully, "geordie, my boy, i'll be routing you out of st. james's within the fortnight. i'll learn you to neglect the king of sweden's colonels! damme, oliver, it made me think of pharaoh's kine--one lot eating the other up. now, sweetheart my madge, we'll have your pretty eyes a-bye-bye in no time." "i never saw anything so funny in my life," said margaret. "on with your coat, oliver, before you take cold." from all of which i learned to take, as they did, the fat with the lean in soldiering, and not to care a brass farthing which it was. still, i was as yet so young at the game, that, though i was careful to swagger it out and say nothing, i did wonder why the body from the south was so small. and i wonder as i write whether it was or was not the mistake of my life merely to wonder then. chapter xiv "war has its risks" i slept unsoundly and in snatches. margaret was in the room beneath me, "dreaming in italian," thought i, in unhappy imitation of her dainty gibe at her father. a problem was on my mind, and that was ever with me an enemy to sleep. i meant being the best of soldiers, and this that worried me was a military problem. to be short, i could not help asking myself, "were the dragoons from the south intended as a reinforcement to the horse from the north?" and somehow i could not think they were. as the top-dog spirit in me put it: "it was like sending jack to reinforce me. _quod est absurdum_." time the explainer permits me to be frank. there was this other side to my problem that i could not bring myself to be sure the colonel's escape had come merely by happy chance. he was no party to contriving it, of that i never doubted, but it did look like a contrivance. we had been at the "rising sun" for six hours or more. stone, the nearest head-quarters of cumberland's forces, was only nine miles south of it, yet no attempt had been made to follow the fugitive. no, thought i again, that's wrong. weir was sent on his track and actually found him. but this was as useless, so it seemed, as sending twenty dragoons, hundreds being available, to reinforce a thousand stout horse. there was no proportion between the ends proposed and the means adopted. if the handful of dragoons were not a reinforcement, it was a pursuit of us, and this posed another problem. why had the pursuit been allowed to flag all the afternoon and evening, to be taken up again far on in the night? what fresh fact, if any, had determined it? i could think of none, nor, on reflection, was one wanted, since both master freake and jack had last night witnessed to the worn-out state of brocton's horses. consequently his dragoons would have been sent after the colonel earlier had they been fit. their coming, when fit, proved their anxiety to retake him. therefore he was not allowed to escape, and the conclusion of my argument hit its major premise clean in the teeth. "oliver, my boy," said i to myself, "say a bit of virgil and go to sleep. these matters are beyond you." i picked on a passage and started mumbling it to myself. it was a lucky hit, for when i had in solemn whispers rolled off the great lines in the sixth aeneid which foretell the work and glory of rome, i thought of my lord ridgeley, thiever by cunning process of law of most of my ancient patrimony, and his blackguard son, my lord brocton, lustfully hunting the proud, gracious woman beneath, and i said grandiosely to myself, "rome's destiny is thine too, oliver wheatman of the hanyards, and these betitled scullions are the proud ones you shall war down." the notion was so soothing that i fell asleep again. i have leaped over uninteresting but by no means unimportant events. we were staying the night at a wayside hostel, called the "red bull," situated at the point where a cross-road cut the main road. we were still in staffordshire, a matter on which margaret had laughingly placed the utmost importance, though an urchin, standing by the rude signpost, could have flung a pebble into cheshire. houseroom was of the narrowest, and i was tucked away in the attics, in a room i had to crawl about in two-double, walking upright being out of the question. it was the grown-up daughter's room, and she had been bundled out to make place for me, a fact i did not learn till it was beyond need of remedy. the lass had a good pleasant woman to mother, but her father, the host, was an ill-conditioned, surly runt, whose only good point was a still tongue. margaret was in the room below, and her father next to her along a narrow gangway. from my attic i got down to this gangway by means of a staircase hardly to be told from a ladder. the gangway, just past the colonel's door, became a little landing whence three or four steps led down to a larger landing, from which one could mount up to the other and corresponding half of the house or descend to the entrance hall with which the various rooms of the ground floor connected. i awoke again in a dim dull dawn. tired of these bouts of wakefulness i got off the bed--for i was lying full-dressed even to my boots--and crept softly to the window. i would keep watch and ward for margaret, as a true knight oweth to do. then, if my obscure misgivings were unfounded, i should at any rate have done my duty. there had been a slight fall of snow, enough to cover the ground and bring everything up into sharp relief. my window was a dormant-window, its sill being about four feet from the eaves. i flung it open, careful not to make a sound, pushed out head and shoulders, and took stock. i dipped my fingers in the snow and found there was near an inch of it. the "red bull" stood back from the road, and on each side of the inn proper, outhouses and stables jutted out to the wayside. drawn up under a hovel on the left was a huge wagon piled with sacks, probably of barley bound for leek, a town renowned for its ale. without was silence and stillness, as of the grave, and it was nipping cold, but my mind was happily busy, having so many delicious moments to live over again. if by some unhappy chance i never saw her again and lived to be a hundred, i should never tire of my memories. she had as many facets as mr. pitt's diamond, as many tones as the great organ in lichfield cathedral. to know her had enriched my life and opened my mind. what propertius had said of his cynthia, i repeated to myself of my margaret, _ingenium nobis ipsa puella est_. 'my' margaret! well, it did her no harm for me to think it, and, after all, the sly, silly babblings of my under-self could be shouted down by the stern voice of common sense. here, under the stress of a new force, my thoughts flew off at a tangent, and i said to myself, "bravo, romeo! you shall find me a rare juliet." i had, indeed, much ado to keep from laughing aloud, as my situation was delicious, not to say delicate. for, on a sudden, noiselessly as the beat of a bat's wing, two feet of ladder had shot up above the eaves, and even now an ardent lover was hasting aloft, dreaming of lispings and kissings to come. i mustn't frighten him too soon or too much or he'd drop off, but as soon as he was fairly on the slope he should sip the sweetness of lips of steel. so i crept back, got a pistol, and stood to the left of the window. i waited till his body darkened the room and then took a furtive look at him. it was no village lover climbing up at peep of dawn to greet his lass. it was one of brocton's dragoons, one of the five who had been at the hanyards. in a twink i shot him. without a word, he slithered down the tiles, leaving a mush of blood-red snow. his right leg slipped aslant between two rungs of the ladder, and his body, checked in its fall, swung round and dangled over the eaves. in the room was a large oaken clothes chest. i dragged it to the light, tilted it on end, and jammed it into the gable of the window, which, luckily, it fitted completely, and so blocked any further attack from the roof. snatching up my weapons, i tumbled down the ladder, only to hear the heavy tramping of feet upstairs. standing by margaret's door, i waited until the head and shoulders of the first man came in sight. he carried a lantern, and its yellow rays lit up for me the ugly face of the sergeant of dragoons. i fired my second pistol at him, crashing the lantern to pieces. down he went, whether hit or not i did not know. in the darkness i heard the rush of a second man who came on so fearlessly and fast that he was far into the passage before i met him with a fierce thrust of my rapier. i thrilled with the zeal of old smite-and-spare-not as, for the first time, i felt the point of my rapier in a man's body, and drove it home with a yell. down he went too, with a gurgle of blood in his throat, and margaret, coming out of her room, stumbled over his body as she raced after me along the passage. the colonel was at the stair-head before me, but there was, for the moment, no work for him. the enemy had tumbled noisily downstairs into the hall, and were collecting their scattered wits after their first rout. to my regret, the raucous cursings of the sergeant showed that he had not been killed and apparently not even hit. "god damn ye!" he yelled. "ten of you driven back like sheep by a raw youth. i'll settle with ye for it. think i picked ye out of the stews and stink-holes of london to stand this? there isn't one of ye with the guts of a louse. i'll take the skin off the ribs of you for this, damn ye, and most of your pimp's flesh along with it!" "what sort of guts was it brought yow tumblin' down so quick?" put in the surly voice of the landlord. "yow cudna 'a come any faster if yer blasted yed 'ad been blown to bits instead of my lantern." some of the men laughed at this, whereon the sergeant blasphemed enough to make a devil from hell shiver. he cowed the dragoons, but the innkeeper only growled, "a three-bob lantern blown to bits! fork out three bob!" "i'll have him if i have to blow the house to bits!" vociferated the sergeant. "fork out three bob!" repeated the host. not a word had passed between us on the stair-head, and now, at the sound of preparations for a fresh assault, the colonel took each of us by the arm and led us into his room. "the stair-head cannot be held against fire from the opposite landing," he whispered. when inside, he locked the door, and i helped him pile the bed on end behind it, heaping all the other furniture against the bed-frame to hold the mattress and bedding up against the door. margaret, at a brief word of command, had meanwhile kept watch through the window. "that's a fair defence," he said contentedly. "what are these devils?" "brocton's dragoons," said i. "i've settled two of them, one on the roof and one in the passage." "good lad! ten of 'em would be long odds in the open; here we ought to have the laugh of them. load your pistols! damme, it's a bit chilly. fortunately there's some warm work ahead." he stamped up and down the room, swishing his arms round his body, and stopping every now and again to make some trifling change in our hurriedly contrived barricade. margaret stood by quietly at the window, and when i had reloaded my pistols, i joined her there. the ladder had been shifted and now lay along in the snow. there, too, lay the body of the dragoon i had shot, crumpled up in his death-agony. a brood of owls were clucking and cluttering about under the hovel, and there, too, leaning against the rear wheel of the wain, were a lumpish wagoner and our surly host. the one was stolidly smoking, the other was holding the battered lantern out at arm's length, and i could, as it were, see him growling to the lout at his side, "'ew's to fork out for this'n?" a girl went towards them from the house, circling, with averted head, far round the dead dragoon, bearing them from the kitchen a smoking jug of ale. "in england," said margaret, "snow adds the charm of peace and purity to the countryside. there's never, i should think, enough of it to give the sense of utter desolation and deadness that it gives one in russia." "it's so uncertain with us," was my reply. "i've known a whole winter without a snowflake, and i've walked knee-deep in it in may." the colonel stopped his marching and swishing and came to the window. "don't bother, madge," said he. "we'll pull through. hallo, i didn't see yon wagon last night." he took out his snuff-box and, hearing the noise of the enemy in the corridor, walked with it in his hand across to the door. he tapped his box with accustomed preciseness, but i, a step behind, having lingered for a last look into margaret's eyes, heard him mutter, "damn the wagon!" "ho, there within, in the king's name," shouted the sergeant. "ho, there without, in the devil's name," mimicked the colonel. "i want speech with colonel waynflete," shouted the sergeant. "then, seeing that colonel waynflete cannot at the moment give himself the pleasure of slitting your ruffian's throat, you may speak on," was the reply. "you and your daughter may proceed on your way unharmed if you surrender. it's only wheatman the farmer, now with you, that i want." he could be heard all over the room to the last syllable, and margaret quickly left her place at the window and came towards us, but the colonel in a stern whisper ordered her back. "how dare you leave your post! watch that wagon!" she crimsoned and returned. "if master freake were here, oliver, i think he would remark that there was no market for colonels to-day," said her father to me with a wry smile. he gave the lid of his snuff-box a final tap, opened it, and held it out to me. in the sense of the term known to fashionable london, he was not a good-looking man, but as he stood there, waiting gravely while i took my pinch, he had the irresistible charm of the highest manliness. "do you agree, colonel?" bawled the sergeant. "i do not," he shouted, and took his snuff with great relish. "by god," and now the sergeant roared like a wounded bull, "i'll have you all in ten minutes." then, as an afterthought, he added, "here, i say, you wheatman, do you agree?" "certainly," said i, "i'll come at once." and i should have gone, there and then, but for the colonel, who, as i laid a hand on the nearest piece of our barricade, promptly said, "i've only one way with deserters," and levelled a pistol at my head. "for margaret's sake, sir," i pleaded in low tones. "let me go!" she had flown like a bird across to us, and so heard me. "i had hoped you thought better of me, master wheatman," she said coldly, and went back to her watching. the sergeant heard, or at least understood, what had been said in the room. we heard him say, "you know your job. fifty guineas for wheatman, dead or alive. any man who touches the girl will be flogged bare to the bones." then we heard him walk off along the corridor. the dragoons without made no attempt on the door, and we joined margaret at the window. hardly had we got there when half a dozen dragoons dashed out of the porch and ran for the road. the colonel flung the window open and emptied both his pistols at them, but they zigzagged like hares and the shots appeared to be thrown away. in the road they halted, formed a line in open order, and levelled their carbines at the window. all three of us moved aside, the colonel tugging margaret with him to the right while i hopped to the left. "take it easy, oliver," he said very good-humouredly. "until they think of the wagon we're safe enough on this side. these walls would almost stand up to a carronade." with a clash the first bullet came through the window and knocked a huge splinter off a bedpost. there were six shots without, and six bullets spattered in a small area opposite. "that's quite good shooting," said the colonel. "much better than i expected from such poor stuff." i told him what jack had said about the mixed quality of brocton's dragoons. these good shots, i explained, were picked men off the ridgeley estates, probably gamekeepers and bailiffs. "very like," he said. "they're used to shooting but not to fighting. rabbits are more in their line." there was no stir in the passage, and i wondered what the job was these men had in hand. the fusillade at the window was kept up unceasingly, generally in single shots, sometimes in twos and threes. the barricade took on a ragged appearance. i occupied my mind in thoughts of margaret. she was in the corner, beyond her father. the bullets had by now nearly cleared the window of glass, fragments of which covered the floor of the room. through the cracking and spluttering we at last heard the noise of a wagon moving. the colonel and i leaped up and peered round the edge of the window. it was being pulled by two horses, and was shifted till it was exactly opposite the window, and to my surprise some twelve feet distant. the sacks made a firm platform level with the window-sill. flush with the window it would have made an admirable means of attack, but why the space between? while the wagon was being put in position, there was a cessation of firing. we saw the six dragoons from the road climbing on to the wagon, while as many again joined them from the inn. the colonel said, "now's our chance!" and fired carefully. one man, who was poised on the rear wheel, fell into the road and hopped round to the back of the wagon holding his right foot in his hand; another, already mounted, sprawled full length on the sacks. "that's the way," he said, with much satisfaction, and stepped aside to reload. "see if you can improve on it." by this, under orders from the sergeant, two or three dragoons were creeping under the wagon to fire from behind the wheels. i dropped a man standing at the horses' heads and then, in the nick of time and on second thoughts, made sure of the mare and hit her in the neck. she squealed, kicked, and plunged, and the other horse sharing her fears, they began to drag the wagon off. the sergeant and two or three men leaped at them and managed to quiet them, and then took them out of the traces to save further trouble of the sort. the colonel, meanwhile, having reloaded, brought down another dragoon with one shot, and ripped open a sack with another. it was barley. for perhaps a minute the window had been as safe as her corner, and margaret had been quietly watching the scene. now, with seven or eight men lying on the top of the sacks, with a stout row of them piled in front as a bulwark, it was time for us to run to cover again. this time, of her own accord, she came my side, and nestled beyond me in the nook between the wall and my body. the men in the passage still made no sign. "slids, oliver," said the colonel, "i can't see this ugly devil's game yet, but, whatever it is, you came near to spoiling it. damme, it was a good idea to pepper the horse. curse me! where were my fifty years of soldiering that i couldn't think of it?" "i suppose it comes from my being--" the sweetest and whitest fingers in the world closed my mouth, and margaret, thinking that i was on the verge of backsliding, whispered in my ear, "the readiest-witted gentleman in england." i tingled with the joy of her touch, and turned to her so that i might go on into the coming fight with her last shade of emotion burnt into my memory. a stream of lead poured through the window, but the spluttering of bullets on the walls of the room had no more effect on me than the pattering of hailstones. "may i finish my sentence, madam?" "not as you intended, sir." "i can't go back on old bloggs' teaching, madam." she pouted and frowned, both at once, and the colonel bawled through the noise of the fusillade, "being what?" "fond of virgil," roared i back again. margaret laughed. could a nightingale laugh, it would laugh as margaret laughed then. before the music of it died away the sergeant showed his hand, and death at its grizzliest grinned through the window. a great mass of damp, smouldering straw, lifted on pikels, was thrust into the window-frame, filling it completely, and thick wreaths of dense, foul smoke eddied into the room, while through the straw the rain of bullets poured on, smashing and splintering on walls and ceiling, door and barricade. the colonel slashed and poked at the straw with his rapier. telling margaret to crouch on the floor, i crawled on my belly and fetched the bed-staff, which stood in its accustomed corner of the chimney-piece. it made a much more serviceable tool for the job, and i flung it across to the colonel, who seized it and worked it like a blackamoor till he was almost the colour of one, and had, to judge by his voice and demeanour, got almost beyond his german in his rage. asking for margaret's handkerchief, i tied it loosely round her mouth, my heart near to bursting as i looked into her calm and patient face. then i lay down flat and wormed out into the room and, after a hard struggle, wrenched off one of the rods which carried the rings of the bed-curtains. i remember that, as i lay there, writhing and struggling, i counted the bullets, eleven of them, as they spattered about me. however, i got back to margaret's side untouched, and poked and thrust and slashed to make a hole near her face between straw and window-frame. our efforts were practically useless. the straw was cunningly fed from below, and the pall of smoke was now so heavy and dense that the fringe of it was settling down on margaret's tower of yellow hair, and as i watched the rate at which it was falling, i knew the end was coming. the colonel had worked with the energy of despair to tear down the vile enemy that was killing us by inches, and now suddenly collapsed and fell like a log to the floor. margaret would have crawled to him, but i kept her by main force against the wall while i wriggled out of my coat. "we have one chance left, margaret," said i. "your father is only overcome by the smoke--see, there's no sign of a wound about him--and his fall is a godsend. give me your other handkerchief and lie down flat, face to the floor and close to the window, and listen for my next instructions." she did so without a word. i wrapped my coat loosely about her head, and before i could close it in the smoke cloud was settling down on her, even as she lay. i was nearly done for, but she was safe for a few minutes. lying full length on the floor, under the window, i tied her handkerchief to the end of the curtain-rod, thrust it through the straw, and waved it about as vigorously as i could. the sergeant's voice rang out. the firing ceased. the foul masses of straw were removed. then the scoundrel came forward and leered up at me. "do your terms hold good?" i shouted. "yes," he said. "colonel waynflete and his daughter will be left at liberty to go their way, if i surrender?" "yes," he said. "then in one minute i'll be with you," said i. stepping inside the room, i first of all pulled the colonel to the window, tore loose the clothes round his neck, and laid his head on the window-sill, in the good sweet air. then crawling to margaret, i unwrapped the jacket, and said briefly, "force some of kate's cordial down your father's throat. goodbye!" i returned to the window, clambered out, hung at arm's length, and dropped to the ground. striding up to the sergeant, i said carelessly, "your turn this time, sergeant. to-day to thee, to-morrow to me--it's neater in the latin but you wouldn't understand it--and all brocton's dragoons shan't save your ugly neck." "where the hell's your coat?" he demand fiercely. a cool question, indeed, after trying to suffocate me, but it was never answered. the air was on a sudden filled with the weirdest row i had ever heard. it was as if all the ghosts in hades had suddenly piped up at their shrillest and ghostliest. this was followed by a splutter of musketry, and this again by loud yells. looking round i saw a swarm of strange figures sweep into the yard, half women as to their dress, for they wore little petticoats that barely reached their knees, but matchless fighting men as to their behaviour. on they came, with the pace of hounds, the courage of bucks, and the force of the tide. it was the highlanders. the sergeant fled into and through the inn and, with the men from the corridor, got clean away. not a man else escaped. half the dragoons on the wagon were picked off like crows on a branch. the rest, and those in or about the yard, got their lives and nothing else barring their breeches, and that not for comeliness' sake but because they were useless. every man jack of them, in less than five minutes, looked like a half-plucked cockerel, and their captors were wrangling like jackdaws about the plunder. i glanced at the window. to my relief, the colonel was already sitting up, pumping the sweet air into his befouled lungs, and margaret smiled joyously and waved her hand to me. i was waving victoriously back to her when my attention was forcibly diverted by two highlanders, who collared me, intent on reducing me to a state of nature plus my breeches. there was no time to explain, neither would they have understood my explanation. one of them, a son of anak for height and bulk, already had his hands to my pockets. him i hit, as hard-won experience had taught me, and he fell all of a heap. his fellow was struck with amazement at seeing such a great beef of a man put out of action so easily, and stood gaping over him for a while. recovering himself, he snatched a long knife out of his sock and made for me murderously, but i had meantime fished out a guinea and now held it out to him. he took it with the eager curiosity of a child, looked at it wonderingly, made out what it was, and then ran leaping and frisking up and down the yard, holding it high over his head, and shouting, "ta ginny, ta ginny, ta bonny, gowd ginny!" i was saved further trouble by the approach of one of the officers, or, to speak with later knowledge, chiefs, of these wild warriors. he informed me in excellent english that he had heard the firing, seen my parleying at the window and my subsequent surrender, and desired to know the meaning of it all. "the gentleman at the window," i explained, "is colonel waynflete, travelling to join prince charles. the lady is his daughter, and i am their servant, by name oliver wheatman of the hanyards. these king's men, belonging to my lord brocton's regiment of dragoons, attacked us; we refused to surrender, and the rascally sergeant in command smoked us out. i pray you, sir, to run the wagon up to the window that i may hand them down, since the door is heavily barricaded." it was done immediately, and he and i ran up to the window together. "you young dog," said the colonel. "you surrendered after all." "in strict accordance, sir, with military usage, i used my discretion as commander of the party." "slids!" his grey eyes had the old laugh lurking in them already. "commander of the party?" "there were only mistress margaret and i left," said i. "and the peppermint cordial," put in margaret. so in sheer wantonness of joy we sought relief in bantering one another. then i introduced the chieftain, who had stood there silent and graceful, a fine figure of a man, finely and naturally posed, and mutual compliments and thanks passed between us. yet in that first minute, with margaret and the colonel perched on the sill, and the highlander and i standing on the sacks of barley, i saw another thing happen, for the big things of life come into it with the swiftness of light and the inevitability of death. a chieftain proudly climbed the wagon; a bond-servant humbly handed margaret down. as was fair and courteous, and suitable to my real position, i let him do it, and aided the colonel, who was as yet somewhat shaky. after seeing him safe down, i rushed up again and recovered our weapons and my coat. down once more, i was getting into my coat when margaret, who was talking to the highlander, looked at me and said quietly, "pray, master wheatman, fetch me the domino from my room!" she said it simply and mistress-like, and of course i shot off to do her bidding. i supposed, as i went, that it was the white snow all around that had brought out the blue in her eyes so vividly. in the inn i found the host, the lantern still dangling from his finger, notwithstanding his greater woe, and his pleasant, placid wife weeping bitterly. of the original twenty guineas of the major's, i now had only four left, and these i thrust into her hand as i passed, and told her to be comforted. from my shooting the dragoon on the roof to my running upstairs for the domino was in all not more than twenty minutes. i skipped over the man who had fallen to my maiden sword. he was lying between the door of the colonel's room and that of margaret's, and opposite one of the doors on the other side of the passage. darting into margaret's room, i recovered the domino. i was only a moment, but in that moment some one opened the door in the passage against which the man lay and so brought him into the light, and i could not help taking a look at him. my heart stopped with the horror of it; my whole being fell to pieces at the agony of it. i remember running from it as from the gates of hell. i remember reeling on the stairs. i remember a headlong fall. i remember no more. it was jack. chapter xv in the moorlands i was in bed, there was no doubt about that, and a strange sort of bed too, for it moved lightly and deliciously through the keen, open air like the magic carpet of the eastern tale. the bedposts at my feet were most curiously carved into life-like images of warriors, so life-like, indeed, that when the one on the right turned its shaggy head and spoke to the one on the left, i was not shocked and scarcely surprised. bed it was, however, for mother's soft, smooth hand was on my cheek, and under the balm of its touch i went off to sleep again. when my eyes opened again, the mists had cleared out of them and i was no longer in the land of shadows. the carven bedposts were highlanders; the bed was a litter slung between four of them; the touch was hers. somebody spoke, the highlanders came to a halt, and margaret bent over me. her face was pale, grave, and anxious. "are you better, oliver?" she whispered. "as right as rain," i answered, pushing my new trouble behind me and speaking stoutly because of the whiteness of her face. "try to sleep again. you've had a bad fall, and there's an ugly cut in your skull." "indeed, i'll do no such thing," was my reply. "i don't want carrying like a great baby, and i do want my breakfast. i'm as empty as a drum." "can you stand?" "sure of it, and also hop, skip, jump, and, above all, eat and drink with any man alive. so, if you can make these men-women understand you, tell them i'm very grateful, but i've had enough." the four tousled warriors were easily made to understand what i wanted, and, stout and strong as they were, welcomed the end of their labours with broad grins of satisfaction. they lowered me to the ground, and immediately margaret's hands were outstretched to help me to my feet. but for the black death between us, it would have been new life indeed to see the colour and sunshine creeping back to her face, and to hear her whispered "thank god!" my head was bumming and throbbing, but nothing to speak of. the gash was behind and above my right ear, so i must have somersaulted down the stairs. margaret, as i learned later, had bathed and bandaged the wound, and after my recovery of consciousness, it only gave me the happy trouble of persuading margaret that it gave me no trouble. i stamped and shook myself experimentally, took a few strides, and jumped once or twice, margaret watching me as curiously and carefully as a hen watches her first chicken. "do mind, oliver!" she said. "it bled horribly, and you'll start it again." "i believe i needed a blood-letting," said i. "should you ever need another," she said crisply, "i hope you'll take it in the usual way. how did it happen?" i had steeled myself for the inevitable question, and so answered ruefully, "i must have tripped over the domino." "if it were not your mother's i would never wear it again," she said, plucking the skirt of it into her hand and shaking it as if it were a naughty child. "i thought you would never come round. for nearly an hour, i should think, you looked stone-dead. then you just opened your eyes, but closed them before i dared speak, and lay so at least another hour. you have given me such a fright, sir, that, now you are up and about again, i'm beginning to feel i have a grievance against you." "i'm sorry, madam," said i, very soberly. "now you're laughing at me, sir," was the brisk reply. the word made me shiver. "laughing"--over jack's body! margaret was in her stride back to her mistress-ship again yet her eye changed instantly with her mood when she saw me wince. indeed, her mind flashed after my mind like a hawk after a pigeon, but i dodged the trouble by looking casually around to examine our whereabouts. we were following a track down a dip in an open moorland. across the shallow valley, and climbing the slope ahead of us, was another small body of highlanders, whom i took to be our scouting party. the sun was a dim blob in the sky, and i saw from its position that our direction was easterly. a joyous hail from behind made me spin round, whereupon i saw the colonel on sultan and the young chief on the sorrel turning the brow behind us. it took them a few minutes to trot down to us, and before they reached us four more wild warriors, our rear-guard apparently, came in view. one of them was my son of anak, astride margaret's mare, and so looking more gigantesque than ever. "good morning, commander!" was the colonel's greeting. "slids! but i'm glad to see you on your feet again. how's the head?" "it still bumbles a bit," said i, "but, truth to tell, i'm thinking more of my breakfast than my head. i'm as empty as a drum." "it's a guid prognostick to feel hungry after sic a crack o' the head," said the chieftain, smiling, and i thought with a twinge what a handsome, wholesome sight he made. "i'm another drum," said the colonel, "but deuce take me, oliver, if i know how we're to be filled. madge would have us start off with you at once, quite rightly too, and we'd neither bite nor sup before we took the road." "and where were you taking me?" cried i. "to the doctor's," explained the colonel. "there's one in a village tucked away somewhere among these hills, and we've a lad on ahead to guide us. colonel ker, who commands the highlanders who rescued us, gave us our friend here, captain maclachlan in the prince's army, and a great chieftain among his own people"--here the chief and i bowed to one another--"and a dozen or so of his stout men as an escort. two plaids were knitted into a litter, a log of a man named wheatman was bundled into it, and off we started breakfastless, as i said before." "i'm very grateful to you, mistress margaret," said i. "don't be silly!" she answered very sharply. "it is no praise to tell me i acted with common decency. and you weren't bundled in!" "i was not praising you, madam," i retorted, quick as ever to return like for like. "i was thanking you, and i venture, with respect, to thank you again." "bother old bloggs!" she said, suddenly all of a glow. "bloggs? who's bloggs?" asked the colonel, plainly enjoying the fun. "a rascally schoolmaster," she explained, "who flogged oliver into a precision of speech which i find most trying. but i must not miscall the dear old man, for i stole his supper." "i wish he'd flogged him into precision on a staircase," said the colonel. "damme, i am hungry." "i'm thinking there'll be a dub of water in the bottom yonder," said the chieftain, "and mistress waynflete shall, if she will, take her first meal highland fashion." as i firmly declined to be carried another yard, the highlanders unmade my litter and resumed their plaids. in the trough of the valley we found a streamlet of clear sweet water, and our repast consisted of a handful of oatmeal, of which every clansman carried a supply in a linen bag, stirred in a horn of water. it was not our staffordshire notion of a breakfast, but it was better than nothing. "water-brose is a guid enough thing at a pinch," said maclachlan to margaret, "guid enough to take a big loon like yon donald to london and back." donald, it appeared, liked an addition to it, notwithstanding his chief's praise of it, for he was taking a long pull from a leather bottle. this, he explained, was usquebaugh, "ta watter of life," and the spice of poetry in the description tempted the colonel and me to try a dram. the colonel probably had had worse drink in his time, but even he made no comment. i would almost as lief have had a blank charge fired into my mouth. while we all took our brose, and maclachlan squired margaret, the colonel told me how it had happened that the highlanders chanced to come to our rescue in the very nick of time. my own trouble is to get my tale straight and simple, and i have no intention of making a hard task harder by trying to interweave with the threads of my own story a poor history of these important days. mr. volunteer ray saw much more of these things than ever i did, and the curious reader may turn to his fat, little, brown volume for particulars. he was on the other side, and is too partial for a perfect historiographer, but the account of things is there, and reasonably well done too. but as what happened to margaret, the colonel, and me, happened because of the campaign of the rival armies, i must boil down what the colonel told me if i am to make my tale clear. the colonel, to his credit, as i think, was so enthusiastic over all matters military that he was rather long-winded in his account, and, in like fashion with our housewifely kate, it behoves me, so to speak, to make a jar of jelly out of a pan of fruit, which is easier done with crab-apples than words. according to the colonel, one of the master maxims of the military art is, "find out what the enemy thinks you are going to do, and then don't do it." my lord george murray, the prince's chief adviser in military matters, had acted on this plan, and had given the go-by to the duke of cumberland in grand style. at macclesfield, the traveller to london had choice of two high roads, one through leek and derby, and the other through congleton and stafford. leaving the prince at macclesfield with the bulk of his men, murray had pushed with a big force as far as congleton on the stafford road, and the news of his advance had made cumberland withdraw all his northerly outposts to his head-quarters at stone. it was the last body of horse, routed out of congleton, which we had watched from the pines last night, racing in fear and disorder back to the main of their army. before daybreak murray had sent on a force of highlanders under colonel ker towards newcastle, to maintain the illusion that the stafford road was the one the prince would take, and the vanguard of this force, under maclachlan, had saved us at the "red bull." murray himself was marching from congleton across country to leek, while the prince was marching thither also from macclesfield. murray would be there first, and did not mean to wait for the prince, but to push on as far as possible towards derby. we, too, were bound for leek, where we should be safe at last, and the end of the colonel's explanation came, not because he had said all he could have said, but because donald was yelling to the clansmen in preparation for our retaking the road. maclachlan accepted with alacrity an offer i made to go ahead and join our advance. he ordered donald to accompany me, giving as his reason: "for he kens the english fine when the spirit of understanding is on him, and ye'll easy get it on him by raxing him a crack in the wame, same as ye did back yonder at the yill-house." the highlander maintained the expression of a wooden doll throughout this explanation, but, as i leaped hard after him across the brook, i overtook a grin on his face that promised well for my future entertainment. "she pe recovert," he said. "tat was a foine shump." before i could reply margaret was upon us. "the mare is quite frisky. she thinks me a mere _fardello_ after donald. you're sure you're all right, oliver?" "so near right, madam, that i beg you not to worry about me further," said i. "worry about you or worry you?" it hurt me to have her go so chilly all of a sudden, but i replied frankly, "both. it does indeed worry me to have you breakfastless in these wilds through my doings." "yes," she said, smiling down on me, "i ken fine the distinction between water-brose and ham and eggs." "we are still in staffordshire," i said cheerily, "and i'll go ahead and see what i can do for you. now, donald, your best foot first!" he and i started ahead again, leaving her waiting for the rest of the party, detained by some explanation on the colonel's part of the military aspects of the lie of the land. "there's a wheen foine leddies wi' ta prince, got bless him," said donald, "but when yon carline gets amangst 'em she'll pe like a muircock amangst a thrang o' craws. she'll ding 'em a'." i expected that donald would cherish ill will to me for my blow, but in this i was wrong. so far from bearing me a grudge, he quite obviously liked me for it. he had a fist, or nief, as he called it, nearly as big as a leg of lamb, and almost the first thing he did when we were alone was to hold it out, huge, dirty, and hairy, and put it alongside mine. he scratched his rough head in his perplexity. "at gladsmuir," he said, "'er nainsell did take ten southron loons wi' 'er own hant, wi' nobody to help 'er, an' now one callant had dinged 'er clean senseless wi' nothin' but a bairn's nief." "it wasn't clean fighting, donald," said i. "nothing but a sort of trick. if you were to hit me fair and square i should snap in two like a carrot. tell me how you captured the ten men!" it was a longish story, at any rate as he told it, in quaint uncertain english, intermixed with spates of his own gaelic as he got excited over the account of his prowess. one of them was an officer, and donald finished up by ferreting out of his meal-bag a magnificent gold watch, lawful prize from his point of view, taken out of the officer's fob. "ta tam t'ing was alife when i raxed 'er out of 'is poke," he said, "but 'er went dead sune after. she can 'ave 'er for a shillin'." he had no idea, nor could i make him understand, what it was and what purpose it served. when it had run down for want of winding, to his simple mind it had 'died.' he pushed it into my hand as indifferently as if it had been a turnip, and i promised to pay him at leek, for my pockets were empty again and margaret had the bag. "'er nainsell wad rather 'ave a new pair o' progues," said he. "and what for does anybody want a thing tat goes dead to tell ta time wi'? t'ere's ta sun and ta stars, tat never go dead." as we walked rapidly we overtook our party soon after settling the matter of the watch. the plough-lad who had been pressed as guide told me we were near the road to leek, and i let him return. we dropped down to a rough road running our way, and a mile or so along it the roofs of a village came in sight, and we halted till the main body came up. "what is it, oliver?" asked the colonel. "breakfast, sir," said i. we marched into the village in military array. at our head strode donald, stout of heart and mighty of hand, with two pipers skirling away at his heels, and the clansmen stepping it out bravely two abreast behind them. margaret came next, with me at her mare's head, and the colonel and maclachlan brought up the rear. our arrival created as much stir as an earthquake. the highlanders, in twos and threes, swarmed into the houses and ordered their unwilling hosts to prepare them a meal. that it was war i was engaged in was, for the first time, brought clearly home to me when i saw a fearsome highlander, with claymore, dirk, and loaded musket, posted at each end of the village. a touch of ordinary human nature was, however, added, when the children, fearless and happy in their ignorance, sidled up to the sentries and stared at them as eagerly as if they had been war-painted indians in a travelling show. at first, we, the gentry for short, intended to seek accommodation in the inn, poor and shabby though it looked, and donald was ordered thither to give instructions. the colonel and the chieftain rode along the village to observe how things were going, and this left margaret and me together, and spectators of a delightful little passage. for as donald approached the inn-door, the hostess, a sharp-nosed, vixenish woman, charged at him with a very dirty besom and routed him completely. truth to tell, donald, who had the sound, sweet nature of a child, had all the natural child's indifference to dirt, but even he, long-suffering in such matters as he was, had to stop to scrape the filth out of his eyes. this gave me the chance of making peace, and i went up and explained that we should pay for everything like ordinary travellers, good money for good fare. "oh aye!" she said. "jonnock!" said i. "you're a stafford chap," she asserted. "i am," i agreed, "and i'll see you done well by." that settled her, and donald was settled too, for his immediate wants were satisfied by a large glass of brandy, and those more remote by a bucket of water and a towel. "gom!" said the virile little woman to me, "a wesh'll do him no harm. i've got the biggest gorby of a mon," she went on, "between mow cop and the cocklow o' leek. he's gone trapesing off, with our young ted on his shoulders, to see yow chaps march into leek. there's about a dozen on 'em gone, as brisk as if they were goin' to stoke wakes. fine fools they'll lukken when they comes whom to-nate." as it happened, the "dun cow" was after all left to donald and the pipers. when i rejoined margaret, she said, "pray help me down, oliver, and we'll find the doctor, and have him dress your head. and, once out of donald's sight, i'll have the laugh that's nearly killing me to keep under." i helped her down, and said, "never mind doctor! that fine old church yonder must be well worth looking into." "you will mind, sir," she flashed. she beckoned to donald to take charge of her mare, and then waylaid a passing girl, running from one sentry to the other, and got her to show us the doctor's. so we started thither, and as we went she said, "really, oliver, you are inconsiderate at times." "nonsense," said i. "it's my head." i was angry, not at her words, for i knew she did not mean them, but at my inability to see what the fascinating jade was driving at. "inconsiderate," she repeated firmly. "you'd be content to be introduced to the prince with a great swathe of dirty, blood-stained linen round your head, regardless of how it reflected on me." "reflected on you?" i echoed blankly. "yes. we shouldn't match. i suppose dear old bloggs was a bachelor?" "he was," said i, resigning the contest in despair. the doctor lived in a fair-sized stick-and-wattle house. he was a dapper little man, with a cleverish, weakling cast of face, and was all on the jump with the turn things had taken. he had just opened the door to us, and was eyeing us uncertainly, when the colonel and the chief, returning on foot from their inspection, having left their horses to be baited under the watchful eye of a highlander, stopped beside us. "are you the doctor?" asked margaret promptly, as if to forestall any backing out on my part. if i could have joyed at anything, i should have been overjoyed at her keenness in having me seen to. "yes," he said, but very softly. "then please attend to this gentleman's wound," she said. "is he a rebel?" he asked, so loudly that he might have been talking to some one across the street, and instinctively i turned round there, sure enough, was the parson, a pasty, pursy, mean-looking rogue, coming across to see what was doing. "it's his head i want you to attend to," retorted margaret, "not his politics." "i doctor no rebels," said he, louder than ever. "man," intervened maclachlan, taking a pistol from his belt, and emphasizing his words by gently tapping its barrel on the palm of his hand, "if in ten minutes yon head isn't doctored to pairfection, it's your own sel' will be beyond all the doctoring in england." "it's against all law," said the doctor. "i'm the law in this clachan to-day," said maclachlan simply, still tapping away with his pistol. hearing the parson behind, he turned round and added drily, "and the gospel." hereupon the parson's face took on the appearance of ill-made, ill-risen dough, and he turned and slipped off with creeping, noiseless steps, like a cat. "come in," whispered the doctor. "ye're a man o' sense," said maclachlan, and pushed his pistol back into his belt. we all passed into the hall, and the doctor made the door carefully. "that damned pudding-face is a whig," said he, "and so, of course, he's a justice. the squire's a whig, and he's a justice. here am i, well-reputed in the faculty, and my wife coming of the parker putwells, one of the rare old county stocks--none of your newfangled button-men and turnip-growers--and i'm no justice, because i'm a church-and-king man of the old school." "they went out of fashion with flaxen bobs," said i. "come on, my tousled macaroni!" said he. "there's nothing the matter with the inside of your head at any rate, though the outside looks as if you'd been arguing with the parish bull." "this is a verra fine house," said maclachlan slowly and slily. "a mere dog-kennel," said the doctor, "considering she's a parker putwell." "and i'm thinking," said maclachlan, very thoughtfully "that there'll be some guid victuals in the pantry and, mayhap, a gay wheen bottles of right liquor in the cellar." "oh aye!" said he, taken aback. "then i'm thinking we'll e'en have breakfast here and try their merits. and if it's a guid ane, i'll see you a justice, whatever that may be, when the king enjoys his own again. a maclachlan has spoken it." the doctor went to an inner door and bawled, "euphemia," and a discontented wisp of a woman answered his call. "madam and gentlemen, my wife, mistress snooks, born a parker putwell. mistress snooks, like me, will bow to your will with pleasure, nor will you mislike her table, i assure you. now, my buck, let's see to this crack in your head." he took me into his druggery, unwrapped the bandage, and examined my wound. "so ho!" said he, "a right good sock on the head. how did it happen?" i told him. "it's lucky for you, my buck," he said, "that you've got a baby's flesh and a tup's skull, and some one had the sense to wash the cut clean as soon as it was done." he set to work and made a good job of it, with a pledget of lint and strips of plaister, and meanwhile i speculated as to why, in all these bottles and jars and gallipots, neither nature nor art could contrive to store a drug magistral for the blow that had riven my heart asunder. "that's better than two yards stripped off a wench's smock," he said at last. "and a damnably fine smock too, you lucky rascal." he twittered a snatch of ribaldry that made my foot twitch in my boot. behind his back, i pocketed the priceless relic, dank and red with my unworthy blood, and followed him back to the company. we made a longish stay, and fared well at his table. the doctor was a good enough fellow in himself, but his wife, a salt, domineering woman, lived in the light of the parker putwells, and he, poor devil, in the shadow they cast. he was playing a double game too, for whenever the red-elbowed serving-wench came into the room, he roared his dissent from our lawlessness, and drank to the king with his glass over the water-bottle as soon as she went out. once when she brought us a rare dish of calvered roach and, with wenchlike curiosity, lingered to pick up a crumb or two of gossip, we had a snap of comedy, for, in his play-acting, he would take none till maclachlan, to keep up the farce, thrust a pistol at his head and forced him. whereupon the maid, in plucky fashion, threw a cottage loaf at maclachlan and took him fairly in the chest. the doctor, to his credit, rose to protect her, but she braved it out. she would, she averred, lend the thingamyjig a better petticoat than the one he'd got on. "if he mun wear 'em," she added, "he mought wear 'em long enough to be dacent." the doctor bustled her out at last, palpitating but triumphant. maclachlan had sprung up like a wild cat when the missile hit him. luckily he was flustered by the bouncing of the loaf on the table and off again clean into margaret's lap, or the ready trigger would surely have been drawn in earnest. then margaret promptly took the edge off his anger by saying with menacing sweetness, "i'm sorry the fun has gone further than was desirable, but i will not have the girl blamed for what was in her a brave deed, nor suffer any unpleasantness here on account of it. pray be seated." this ended the matter, and maclachlan, with a wry smile, settled down again to his fish. "it was a verra guid thing after a' said," he explained, "that it wasna my mouth, for it was an unco' ding. i'm half hungry yet, and, to be sure, breakfast and broillerie gang ill together." it was well said, and margaret rewarded him with a smile and engaged him in merry conversation. the colonel, who had kept silent during the trouble, now plied the doctor with questions about the surrounding country. "it's a poor biding-place for a parker putwell," he replied. "if there's a drearier or lonelier stretch in england than the moorlands of leek, i would not care to see it. i go miles on end about it to visit my sick folk, and mostly in a day's riding i see nobody but a stray shepherd, a flash pedlar twanning his way across country with his gewgaws, and now and then a weaver scouring the outlying cottages for yarn." when the meal was over maclachlan insisted on paying for it, and bestowed a shilling on the loaf-thrower. in theory, i found, the clansmen paid for what they had, and donald, being quartermaster to the party, was very busy discharging his obligations up and down the village. the only cause of dissatisfaction, but that not a slight one, was his scots mode of reckoning, in which a pint was near on half a gallon, while his shilling was a beggarly penny. it always took a whirl of his dirk and a storm of gaelic to convince a cottager of his accuracy, but he got through at last, and we reformed our order of march and started for leek. this time i took the sorrel and maclachlan marched beside margaret on her mare, for the colonel wanted to give me an account, derived from the young chief, of the prince's marchings and victories. the highlanders being astonishing foot-folk, and the colonel being full of analogies and digressions, the tower of leek church came in sight before we had got the prince out of edinburgh. a halt was called to discuss what was to be done. the colonel dismounted, and we followed his example. margaret, i noticed, coloured slightly as maclachlan lifted her down. she had been as cool and unfluttered as a marble image when she lay in my arms. maclachlan was for marching on into the town, and the doubt on the colonel's face rather nettled him. "the considerable town of manchester," he said, "was entered, and in part seized, by one scots sergeant and his drummer. of a certainty near a score of maclachlans can intake yon little clachan." "of a certainty," retorted the colonel, "margaret and one of your pipers would be enough if we only had the townspeople to consider. there's no game much easier than walking into a lion's den when the lion isn't there, but it's pure foolishness to play the game till you're sure he's not at home." "lion! what's to do here wi' lions?" asked maclachlan. "as i'm only a volunteer," answered the colonel, "and not yet a man of authority under the prince's commission, which you are, i must ask your leave to explain that our getting into leek is a military problem. i grant ye it's a little problem, since it wouldn't matter a pinch of snuff if we marched in and every one of us was promptly hanged in the market-place. but i undertook to make oliver here a soldier, and, damme, what you want to do isn't soldiership, and he'll only learn soldiership by mastering the little problems first." "like sums at school," said i, whereat margaret laughed aloud. "damme, you young rascal," stormed the colonel, "if i'd got my commission in my pocket, i'd put you under arrest for impertinence." "with great respect, sir," i answered, "i beg to say that i understand that, at a council of war, the youngest officer gives his opinion first." "that's bowled you over, dad," said margaret cheerfully. "damme, i'll bowl you off to chester to-night," he retorted. "as sure as a gun's a gun, you'll ruin oliver. stop grinning like an ape, sir, at that jade's tricks, and listen to me." "i'm thinking, sir," said maclachlan, "that in my present responsible position i would greatly value your observations on the matter in hand." this was a clever remark so far as the colonel was concerned, for he would have talked to a viper about soldiering, but maclachlan did not see, and i did, the delicate little mouth that margaret made. "my observations are simply these," said the colonel: "we do not know where murray is, we do not know where the prince is, and we do not know where the duke of devonshire is. any one of them may be in leek." "and who may be the duke of devonshire?" asked the chief. "i've never heard of him." "one of geordie's dandiprats, who has got together a big force of militia at derby, and who, if he's any pluck, may have forestalled us all by marching to leek." "it's sair awkward," said maclachlan, completely taken aback by the news. "it is so," said the colonel, "and seeing that oliver knows the rules and procedures of courts martial, he shall deliver his judgment first." "sir," said i, bowing low, "i would, with respect, suggest...." i got no further, for donald, who was within a yard of my elbow, suddenly bounded into the air and let off a most astonishing yell. then he ran up and down, like a foxhound after a lost scent, gabbling away in gaelic. the clansmen put their hands to their ears, and their ears to the wind, listening intently, whereon donald ceased his capering and chattering, and called out to us, "ta pipes! ta prunce! ta pipes! ta prunce!" "whist, ye auld fule," said the chief. "ye're enough to deafen a clap of thunder." "i'm telling it ye, ta pipes! ta prunce!" he babbled, and then fell still, and we all listened. the clansmen must have had ears like the bucks of their own mountains. i could hear nothing but the soft sough of the breeze as it swept o'er the rank grass of the moorlands, but they, maclachlan as madly as any of them, yelled their slogan, and the pipers filled their bags and blew fit to burst. like was calling to like across the wilds. margaret glowed with enthusiasm, and the colonel's eyes sparkled as he handed me the box for the customary pinch--a courtesy, i found by later experience, he conferred on very few. indeed, in my new trouble, the kindness and affection of the colonel were becoming my best stand-by. "the great game's afoot, oliver," he said. "and we'll play it to the end, sir." "good lad," said he. "donald, ye auld skaicher," said maclachlan, "get your bairns agait. the maclachlans are going to be last, where they should be first, at the intaking of a town, but the prince, god bless him, will think me balm in gilead when he sees the reinforcements i bring." he was in high feather, and it interested me to watch in another the tonic effect of margaret's presence. i took no advantage of my capacity as her body-servant, but leaped into my saddle and sat the sorrel like a wooden image as he dodged about to get her horsed again and ready for the road. he was, indeed, fit to serve a queen; the highland fashion marvellously well set off the clean, strong lines of his body, and the single eagle's feather in his bonnet was the right sign to be waving over him. the top-dog spirit was fast oozing out of me, and i sat there sourly dusting the skirts of my poor country-tailor-made coat. the men were lined up on the rough moorland track, donald at their head, and the two pipers filling their bags and fingering their chanters behind him. maclachlan took margaret's rein and began to lead her mare up the slope of the path, but the colonel called to him and diverted his attention, and she stopped beside me. "oliver," she said, "you must let me have your coat for half an hour when we are settled in the town, so that i can mend it. the holes in it make me shiver every time i see them." "you are very kind, madam," said i, still dusting away, lest she should see how my hand trembled. "oliver!" she forced me to look at her now, she spoke so peremptorily, and when the blue eyes met mine they were so clear and intent that i feared she might read my secret. "smile!" smile! i was to smile, was i? and when our kate got the news at the hanyards, the smile would die out of her eyes for ever, for jack, dear, splendid jack, was the weft that had been woven into the warp of her being. "i do not smile to order, madam," said i. she flicked the mare sharply and cantered up to the level, whither maclachlan raced after her with the speed of a hound. chapter xvi bonnie prince charlie on our way into the town a thing happened which greatly shook me, being, as i was, nothing in the world but a small farmer who had never seen the wars. at a point where the rough road cut across a fold in the moorlands we saw, half a mile to our right, a herd of cattle being lashed and chivvied away to the remoter crannies among the hills by a throng of sweating hinds and fanners. had it happened our way, thought i broodily, joe and i would be there among the like, saving our own stock from the marauders. donald looked at them longingly, but our haste brooked no delay, and besides, as he put it to me later, "it's a puir town, but, after a' said, better than a wheen lousy cattle, for i've come by a fine pair o' progues for a twa-three bawbees." leek was as full of highlanders as a wasp-cake is of maggots, and still they were swarming in. donald and the clansmen, indifferent to the crush and hubbub, clave a way for us to the market-place, where, on the colonel's advice, they were dismissed to beat for billets. i then took charge and led my companions across to the "angel," where the throng was so dense that they might have been giving the ale away. to get the horses stabled and baited was easy enough, for few of the highlanders rode south, although it was different going north again. then, leading my companions into the yard, i pushed into the inn and, by good hap, lighted on the host, nearly out of his five wits with trying to understand one word of english in a score of gaelic. "hello, surry!" said i. "gom!" said he, "staffordsheer at last." "i've heard a lot about leek ale," said i. "draw me a mug of it!" he brought it in a trice, and his face beamed with honest pride as he said, holding it up between my eyes and the light, "what do you think o' that for colour and nap? damn my bones! none of your london rot-gut, master, but honest staffordsheer ale. damme, you can fairly chew the malt in it." "i'll bet you a guinea i've drunk better," said i, with the aleyard at my lips. "i'd bet on my own ale," said he, "if the 'angel' was full of devils let alone petticoats. an', as between friends, y'r 'onour, win or lose, dunna tell my missus you've 'ad better ale than ourn." i drank off his ale and said judiciously, "no, i haven't. that's the best ale i've ever drunk," and handed him his guinea. "this'n's a bit of fat along with the lean," said he, spinning the guinea up in the air, and, countrywise, spitting on it for luck. "be there owt i can do for y'r, sir? a gentleman as knows good ale when he drinks it shudna be neglected for a lot of bare-legged savages that 'anna as much judgment in beer as a sow 'as in draff." he leaned towards me and added in a whisper, "i'm giving 'em bouse i wudna wesh my mare's fetlocks in, an' they're neckin' it as if it was my rale october." "it was thundery in the summer," said i gravely, whereat he grinned intelligently. "y'r 'onour's up to snuff," said he. "be there owt i can do for y'r, sir?" "fetch the missus," said i, "and we'll talk." the hostess came. her cheeks were brown as her own ale, and we talked, nineteen to the dozen, for at least ten minutes. in the end i snapped up the best parlour overlooking the square for margaret's use, and bedrooms for each of us, paying a substantial bargain-penny, for mistress waynflete had handed me back the bag of gold master freake had given me. it would be necessary, i found, to oust two or three bare-knees who had marked them for their own, but that could easily be done, if, as was unlikely to be the case, they were sober enough at night to crawl bedwards. these arrangements made, i pushed out and fetched in margaret, who was very grateful for what i had done, and went off to her room, while we three men took our stand on the bricked causeway and watched the doings in the square. we saw two or three battalions swing into the square from the macclesfield road, and the colonel scanned them keenly, and, as i thought, anxiously. even to my untrained eye they were a mixed lot; the bulk of them, to be sure, were stout, active, well-armed fighting men, who marched in fair order, six or eight abreast; but there were numbers of oldish men and boys among them, and many were but indifferently armed. "what do you number all told?" asked the colonel. maclachlan answered in french. there was now no mistaking the gravity in the colonel's face, and he took snuff so thoughtfully that, for the first time, he forgot me. "excuse me, my dear lad," said he, recovering himself and thrusting out the box towards me. "i hope there's a tobacco-man in the town who sells right strasburg. i'm running out, and rappee and brazil are mere rubbish to the cultivated palate." then, looking around the square, he added cheerily, "quite a show for the townsmen!" just in front of us, standing on the edge of the gutter, was a little, ancient, distinguished dame, who had been watching the scene with quick, avid eyes. she turned her fierce, scornful face up to the colonel, and said, "yes, sir! you are right. it's a show, just a show, for the townsmen. yet i remember that, thirty years ago, the fathers of these spiritless curs were as eager for the cause as is the eagle for his quarry." "so, madam," said the colonel very gently. "so, indeed," she returned. "but now, in their accursed grubbing for money, they have rooted up every finer instinct, and they think only of their tradings in silks with the court ladies of london. better a fine gown sold to godless caroline than a stout blow struck for god-anointed james." she was beyond doubt a lady of quality, but fallen on poverty and now, worst of all to her, on evil, faithless days. as she stopped, short of breath with her sharp speaking, for she was very ancient, a mean lout of a man edged himself up against her to get a better position for watching the arrival of another body of clansmen. in a fierce access of rage she struck him with the ebony stick on which she leaned and, almost hissing the words at him, said, "back to your buttons and your tassels, thomas ashley, and get grace by thinking on your worthy father!" the man sidled off, and she continued, addressing the colonel, "in the fifteen his father was one of us, and suffered worthily." "for what, madam?" i asked. "for the cause," she replied. "for what particular service to the cause, madam?" i persisted. "he was zealous against the schismatics, sir," she said boldly. "madam," was my reply, "if the zeal of any one of us, townsman or clansman, takes the same form this day, i shall certainly wring his neck. we can fight for charles without burning chapels." "smite-and-spare-not would subscribe to that doctrine," said margaret, thrusting her way gently between the colonel and me, and hooking a hand round an arm of each of us. putting her lips to my ear, she whispered merrily, "_push of pike and the word_," and then looked so winningly at me that the black shadow lifted, and i smiled back at her. and now the craning of necks at the angle where the great road curved into the square, betokened something out of the ordinary, which turned out to be the arrival of the prince's life-guards. they were splendid, well-mounted fellows, clothed in blue, faced with red, and scarlet waistcoats heavy with gold. with them were the leading chiefs of the army, and i heard maclachlan reeling off their names and qualities in the colonel's ear. the guard, in number some sixscore, formed three sides of a square and sat their horses, while one of the leaders proclaimed james and took possession of the town. the cheers of the clansmen died away, only to be renewed more loudly and proudly when another column swept into the square. here, indeed, were men apt for war and the battle, six abreast and a hundred files deep, with a dozen pipers piping their mightiest, and a great standard flinging to the breeze its proud _tandem triumphans_. at their head strode a tall young man, very comely and proper, with a frank, resolute, intelligent face. he was dressed in the highland fashion, with a blue bonnet topped with a white rosette, a broad, blue ribbon over his right shoulder, and a star upon his breast. the thronging thousands of clansmen burst into thundering volleys of gaelic yells, the waiting leaders bared their heads and bowed, and i knew it was the prince. after a short consultation with his intimate counsellors, charles walked almost directly towards us, making, as it seemed, for the fine house that neighboured the "angel." even the townsmen, as he approached, raised their hats and cheered a little, for he was on sight a man to be liked. when i hear sad tales of him now, i think of him as i saw him then, and as i knew him in those few stirring days when hope spurred him on, and the star of his destiny had not yet climbed to its zenith. i come of a stock that sets no value on princes, and i would not now lift a hand to snatch the stuarts out of the grave they have dug for themselves, but it is due to him, and, above all, due to the chiefs and clansmen who followed and fought and died for him, to say that the bonnie charlie i knew was every inch of him a man and a prince to his finger-tips. maclachlan darted out and dropped on his knee before charles, who, with kindly impatience, seized the shoulder-knot of his plaid, haled him to his feet, and plied him with a throng of questions. at some reply made by the young chief, charles turned his eyes on us, and, easily picking out the colonel, made for him with eager outstretched hands. for his part, the colonel stepped clear of the crowd on the causeway and stood at the salute. he was, i thought, the most self-possessed person in the square, and, indeed, was taking a pinch of snuff as soon as the formality was over, while margaret was red and white by turns, and i shook at the knees as if expecting the prince, in the manner of old bloggs, to call me out and thrash me soundly. the joy of the prince at being joined by colonel waynflete was overflowing. "my lord murray has talked of you," i heard him say, "until i felt that you were the one man in england that mattered, and now here you are. i must tell sheridan and all of them the good news." he turned off and called to a group of men near him, and several of them came up and were made known to the colonel. after more handshaking and chatting, the eager prince caught the colonel by the arm and was for dragging him off into the house destined for his lodging, but the colonel in his turn resisted and led him towards margaret. "my daughter, sir," he said, briefly and proudly. off came the bonnet, and charles bowed low and greeted her with very marked courtesy. "your prince, madam," he said, "but also your very humble servant. my court is a small one, and you are as important and welcome an addition to it as is your distinguished father to my army. swounds, colonel," turning to him with a merry smile, "i shall put a flea in his lordship's ear when i see him at derby. he never so much as mentioned your daughter. man, one might as well talk of stars and forget venus!" "there is this excuse for him, sir," said the colonel, very sedately, "that on the only occasion on which my lord murray saw her, which was at turin in , she was a whirlwind of arms and legs, long plaits and short petticoats." "whereas now she--but i will reserve my opinion for the shelter of a fan in a secluded corner at my next little court." then, very abruptly, fixing his eyes on me, all of a swither, with my milk-stained cap in my hand, "and whom have we here?" whereupon, strangely enough, forgetting all courtliness, margaret, the colonel, and maclachlan fell over one another, so to speak, in telling the prince who i was. for a few seconds there was a gabble of introductions, which made me feel hot and foolish. "one at a time," laughed the prince, "and, of course, mistress waynflete first." "your royal highness," said margaret, "this is my splendid friend and gallant comrade, oliver wheatman." "enough, and more than enough, for a poor prince adventurer. give me but the leavings of your friendship and comradeship, master wheatman, and i shall be beholden to you. and now, excuse us, madam, i have much to say to your father." "sir," said i, "i crave a little boon." "you begin well," he said, and added, after a little laugh, "with all my heart." "here at hand," said i, "is an ancient lady who has faced this rough crowd and this bitter weather to see the prince of her heart's desire. she is brave as a lion for you, but too modest to do more than stand and pray for you." and then he did one of those princely things that made rough men willing to be cut down in swathes for him. he strode up to her and seized her trembling hands. "nay, kneel not, dear lady," he said, putting an arm around her to restrain her. "god bless your royal highness, and give you victory," she said brokenly. "this is the hour i have prayed for daily these thirty years, and i thank god for giving us a prince so worthy of an earthly throne. the lord shall yet have mercy upon jacob." "i thank god," said charles, "for giving me a friend like you." his green plaid was looped up at his shoulder by a fine brooch, a cairngorm set in a silver rim. this he took off, and pinned it on the trembling woman's breast. "wear this from me and for me," he said, speaking with great feeling. tears were standing in margaret's eyes, there was a big lump in my throat, and the colonel was wasting precious strasburg on the cobbles in the square. when the prince had pinned it there, he doffed his bonnet, bent gracefully down, kissed her on the lips, and so left her. the standers-by now cheered in earnest, and the ancient dame fell on her knees in prayer. when she rose she plucked her robe around her, safeguarding her royal gift in her withered hands, and was for timidly stealing away. "madam," said i, "i think you are alone." "yes, sir," she whispered. i offered her my arm, saying, "allow me to escort you to your home?" the sharp eyes swept over me from my belt upward, and then, without a word, she placed her arm in mine. i looked around to bow to margaret before starting, but she had disappeared. we soon reached her house or, rather, cottage, which was in a street behind the west side of the square. she was too tottery, too dazzled, too afflated to speak on the way thither, but, at the door, when with a bow i was intending to leave her, she bade me, in a madam-like way that cut off debate or refusal, to enter with her. plain to the casual eye, it was the home of decayed gentility. here would be refined eating of a dinner of herbs, solaced by talk of prideful yesterdays. you saw it in the few things that still kept their grip on the past: on the wall an old, black painting of a knight in ruff and quilted doubtlet; a pounce-box and a hawking-glove on the chimney-piece, and above it an oval scutcheon, with a golden eagle _naissant_ from a _fesse vert_. and hope was ever new-born here, but it was the hope centred in the virgin-mother, posed in ivory over a wooden _prie-dieu_. nor did i feel that i had shifted from my familiar moorings as i bowed my head when she knelt in prayer. "madam," said i, when, with a happy face, she rose and turned and thanked me, "it is in your power to do me a great kindness." "i shall, then, most surely do it." "i ask you to pray for the soul of john dobson." "he was your friend?" she said gently. "my friend from boyhood, madam, and this morning i slew him." there was silence for a space. then she said, "i will pray daily for the soul of your friend, and for you that god will have mercy upon you and give you peace. we women, who can only pray, do not, i fear, realize how, for our men, the facts of life seem to make havoc of our creeds." "you are right, madam," i said sombrely. "for me to-day there is no god in heaven." "yet the morrow cometh," she replied confidently. "it has come for me. my mind goes back to the time when the evil began that our glorious prince is now uprooting. in eighty-eight, when i was a maid of some twenty junes, not uncomely as i remember myself in my mirror, though not comparable with your sweet and splendid mistress, we, then the ancient hardys of hardywick, gave our all and lost our all for the cause. yon scutcheon then hung in a noble hall. i have looked at it with pride and, god be thanked, without regret, during nearly sixty years of loneliness and poverty, but i shall die rich and friended in the possession of this." she lifted the brooch to her lips and kissed it, and then, poor soul, broke into a fit of coughing that racked her thin frame. a comely serving-woman rushed in to her aid, and together we seated her near the fire and wrapped a shawl around her. she seemed as one who slept with half-shut eyes and dreamed. "she's of'n tuk like this'n," whispered her woman. "as lively as a lass at a wedding for an hour maybe, and then dreamy and dead-like for hours at a stretch. she's seventy-six come june, but i dunna think she'll live to see it, and to be sure, god bless her, i shall be glad to see her broken heart at rest." she put a smelling-bottle to her mistress's nose, and bathed the white lips with eau-de-luce. "i love her no end," she said simply. it was time to go. i dropped on my knee and kissed the fair, thin, wrinkled hand. at the touch of my lips she spoke again: "good-bye, harold, my beloved! the god of all good causes go with thee!" she was back in the long-ago with her lover at her knee, sending him off to fight for the cause, and the ringless finger showed that he had never come back. i stole out of the room with a mist in my eyes. when i got on the corner by the prince's lodging, the first thing that caught my eye was a calash drawn up in the middle of the square, with two very elegant ladies in it, and a sprig of a blackamoor in green breeches and yellow doublet at the horse's head. margaret and maclachlan were standing by, and a merry rattle of conversation was going on between them and the new-comers, though margaret, her quick mind interested in the vivid scenes around, kept turning her head to sweep the square with her eyes. i had always felt and, for the most part i trust, observed the difference between us, but it struck me now like a blow between the eyes. it was easy to see that margaret, for all her grey domino, was the mistress of the gay, courtly group; easy, too, to catch the meaning of the eyes the stranger ladies made at one another as they noted with amusement the young chief's infatuation. well, he was there, and i was here, by right. i said so to myself very savagely, that there should be no mistake about it, but i must admit to a sour taste in my mouth as i pushed into a passing group of clansmen, and then dodged behind a clump of ammunition wagons, and so got into a side-alley unseen by those searching eyes. i came to an ale-house where i managed very well, for all that it had its full share of clansmen stuffed into it, making a square meal of bread and cheese and cold bacon, washed down with excellent ale. i made a point of marking myself off as an englishman by paying for my meal in the english fashion. sallying forth, and still avoiding the square, i roamed round the little town, distracting my mind by forcing an interest in what was going on. the highlanders were happy, noisy, and full of confidence--not unjustly, for so far they had played ninepins with the royal troops. everywhere they were hard at it, sharpening dirks and claymores and furbishing muskets, and such of their talk as i could understand was all of battle imminent. in the churchyard i found a number of them practising shooting, with a grand old cross as a target. they had chipped it somewhat already. i cursed them roundly and then bargained it off at the price of a few shillings. they turned their attention, with hopeful grins, to the brass weathercock on the church tower, which i did not deem worth saving. moreover, it was a better mark, and good shooting was to be encouraged. i mooned around for an hour or so, very miserable. if my mind was idle a moment, i saw jack's body lying in the dim-lit passage and the calash in the market-square. tired of watching the highlanders, i suddenly struck out for the "angel," intending to see how the horses were doing, a necessary task which i was to blame for neglecting so long. i was going at a great pace along by the shops on one side of the square and, in heedlessly passing a mercer's, had to skip aside to avoid a finely dressed lady coming out of the door, with the shopmaster, his nose nearly at his knees, bowing behind her. she was a stranger to me and, moreover, i had my eye on the spot where the calash had stood, so that, having clean avoided her, i was for striding on, but she said sharply, "what do you mean by such conduct, sir?" i cannot remember any other occasion in my life when i have been so completely taken aback. the elegant lady who stood there, a quizzing smile on her face and a roguish twinkle in her eyes, was margaret. "i've waited and waited your honour's convenience till i could wait no longer," she said. there was still the delightful mock anger in her voice, but the smile and twinkle changed their meaning, so to speak. at least i, who delighted to watch the varying shades of expression sweep over her exquisite face, thought so as i stood there, twizzling my cap in my hand, and feeling an utter fool. "you cannot expect a perfect match in this light," she went on, plainly enjoying my discomfiture, "especially as i have had to carry the colour in my eye." "no, madam," said i desperately, having to say something, but not having the faintest idea of what she was driving at. "i disclaim all responsibility if it's a bungle. it will be your fault entirely. your arm, sir!" i offered her my arm, into which she slipped hers, jammed on my wretched hat, and together we made for the "angel." of course we must meet maclachlan, to complete my misery i suppose, and he was keen on joining us, but margaret disposed of him in a way that reminded me of kate shooing a turkey off from her feeding chickens. arrived at the "angel," she led the way to her parlour overlooking the square, dragged me hurriedly to the window, and undid the packet. from it she took a patch of cloth and a hank of silk thread. these she first dabbed on my sleeve, and then flourished before my eyes. "quite a good match after all! do they suit me, oliver?" she was dressed in a cinnamon-brown joseph, buttoned at the waist, and showing, above and below, an under-dress of supple woven material, creamy in colour and flowered in golden silk. a hat of a military cast, made of some short-napped fur and set off with a great white panache, half hid and half revealed her masses of yellow hair. "you look perfect," i said emphatically. "for my prince," she replied softly. "off with your coat, and let me show you what sort of a housewife i am." i did as she bade me, and she doffed hat and joseph. she set me comfortably before the fire in an elbow-chair, and handed me a new pipe and a fresh paper of tobacco, and insisted on my smoking. then, sitting almost at my feet in a squat rush-bottomed chair, with quaint bow legs and a back like a yard of ladder, she set to work on the holes brocton's rapier had made in my coat. i felt very cubbish as i sat feeding my soul on the picture she made as she bent over her stitchery. a rare hobbledehoy i was in my villainous coat, but what i looked like in my shirt-sleeves, good linen enough but home-made and with never a shred of cuff or ruff to them, was past imagining. she was quite silent too, and though talk of any sort would have been distasteful to me then, for the picture was enough, i could not help remembering how she had rattled on with maclachlan. here was another cursed deficiency. my conversation was as country-like and poverty-stricken as my clothes. i had always ruled the roast at our market ordinaries, where i was looked upon as a bit of a fop and a miracle of learning, and even my farming was solemnly respected because i was so hard and ready a hitter. here, in a parlour and with her, so beautiful that even her beautiful dress scarce attracted a passing glance, i was dull and ill at ease. the only thing i did, except to look at her, was to let my pipe out and light it again, time after time. "the man in the shop told me," margaret said, "that was the best tobacco that comes from the americas." "i should think it is," said i; "i've never smoked better." "it gives you a lot of trouble," she answered, and stayed her stitching for a moment to look at me. "did you get some right strasburg for the colonel?" i asked. "no. is he running short?" "yes," said i. "and no marvel, either. he puts his snuff-box under his pillow, and when i take him his chocolate of a morning, he takes a long, affectionate pinch, and then says, 'good morrow, sweetheart!'" i laughed, and then fell silent and wondered. while i had been loafing about the town, she had been attending to my small whims and needs. and now, after a smart rap at the door, in flounced a sprightly, elegant lady, very gay and very certain of herself. "what a charming, domestic picture!" she broke out. "i fear i intrude, margaret dear, but i'm going to stay. the girl is bringing up the tea, and i'm positively dying for a cup and a sit-down. of course this"--turning gaily round on me, standing there like a great gawk, volubly cursing my shirt-sleeves under my breath--"is the incomparable oliver! charmed to meet you, sir!" i bowed, and margaret said staidly, "yes, my lady. this is master oliver wheatman of the hanyards. oliver, i have the privilege of introducing you to the lady ogilvie." i bent in the middle again and gabbled something. it was suitable to the occasion, i hope. lady ogilvie eyed me up and down carefully, much as i should overlook a bullock i had a mind to buy. "when davie left me at macclesfield i told him i'd be guid, and i will be guid, but i wish he hadn't asked me," she said. "never mind! at derby, when we meet again, my promise will be lapsed, and i shall flirt with you, sir, most furiously." "really, my lady," i replied, "my knowledge of the art of flirtation is merely rudimentary, but i always understood that it required two." "naturally," she retorted, "that's its great charm." "i see my mistake now," said i, as if thoughtfully. margaret sat with her needle poised for a stitch, and waited. "you're learning already, you see! what is it?" said lady ogilvie. "one and a bit would suffice when your ladyship was the one," i said boldly. margaret laughed and resumed the swift play of her needle. "indeed so, and i've struck sparks out of turnips in my time," she replied, with much complaisance. "there's a glisk of intelligence about ye now that was sair to seek when i came into the room. men are like diamonds, you must know, margaret darling, all the better for being cut and rubbed. i'll teach ye things, sir, at and after derby, that is. till then i'm to be verra guid." the bringing in of the tea interrupted us. over the cups, though margaret stuck to her work, there was gay talk about the main business of the day--the supper and ball to come. "the men will simply rave over you, dear," she said to margaret. "there's only six of us, seven with you added, you see, for no town ladies wait on his royal highness nowadays, and i'm danced off my feet. maclachlan will want you every time, and you'll be wise to have him as often as possible, for he dances like a fairy. davie's none so bad, but maclachlan is just grand. and the incomparable one," grimacing prettily at me, "will foot it trippingly by the look of him." "i dance like a three-legged bear," said i, grim enough at having my defects brought home to me. "is it that you're telling me?" she replied. "legs like yours and no music in them! well, well, i'll take you in hand, that's flat. at derby, of course." "now, oliver, pray attend to the simpler matters that i deal with," said margaret, cutting off the last needle of silk. "i've done the best i can for you. come and appraise my work!" she held the coat up by the collar, and i stepped forward and examined it. "marvellous!" said i. "it's as good as new." her ladyship screeched with laughter. "oh, you courtier!" she said. "i never saw anything better done at the tuileries. look a foot higher, you rogue!" still even there the job was neatly and thoroughly done, and i thanked margaret for it heartily. with my coat on, i brightened up, and indeed i had need to, for most of their talk was in and about a world of which i knew nothing. thanks to margaret's hints and half-lights, i did well enough. there came a gentle rap at the door and then, without further ceremony, the colonel bowed in a visitor. in the twilight at the door there was no seeing who the new-comer was, but as he stepped forward the full light revealed him. it was prince charles. "stir not, ladies, on your allegiance!" he said gaily. i rose, bowed him into my chair, and stood behind him. "oddsfish, as my great uncle used to say, i've come to save your life, master wheatman!" "you need not trouble, sir," said i, "to save what is freely yours to throw away." "very well said, sir," he answered, "and i shall not forget it." "good lad, oliver!" said the colonel, dipping for his snuff-box. "still, i must prove my point!" said charles, smiling merrily. "my court consists of precisely seven ladies and an unlimited number of gentlemen, the latter, for the most part, fiery chiefs who slash off men's heads as if they were tops of thistles. yet here are you, sir, keeping two of them all to yourself. and such a two! lady ogilvie, whose charms are without blemish--" "nay, sir," said i. "may i pull his ears, your highness?" asked her ladyship tartly. "you may," said charles, "unless he proves his point. a prince must be just, you know!" "that's fair," said margaret. "of course," retorted lady ogilvie. "he'll be right if he says i've an eye like an ox and a mouth like a frog." "save your ears, master wheatman!" said charles, grinning at me. "what's the blemish?" "davie!" said i. the prince rocked with laughter, and her ladyship enjoyed it quite as fully. "it's the smartest hit i've heard since i left paris," said the prince. "sir," said i, "be good enough to explain. who is davie?" "her ladyship's husband," he replied. "damme!" i ejaculated. "i thought he was only an ordinary scotchman." whereat everybody laughed. "a most delightful interlude in a heavy day's work," said the prince. "i am unfeignedly vexed, ladies, at having to rob you of so agreeable a cavalier, but i need master wheatman myself." * * * * * half an hour later the colonel stood with me at the town's end to give me my final instructions. i was on sultan, with urgent letters in my pocket and important work on hand. we took a pinch of snuff together very solemnly. then he snapped his box, rubbed sultan's velvet nose, shook my hand, said good-bye gruffly, and strode back townward. i cantered on into the open road and the night. chapter xvii my new hat here was what i had dreamed of. here was the dearest wish of my heart gratified. i was twenty-three, and i had three-and-twenty's darling equipment--a magnificent horse, a pair of unerring pistols, a fine rapier, a pocket full of guineas, the memory of a woman's grace and beauty, and a tough job in hand. the only material thing i really wanted was a new hat, for yester morning's milk and subsequent bashings and bruisings had ruined my old one. i had not bothered about it as long as it had bobbed alongside the grey woollen hood of margaret's domino, but, cheek by jowl with her new hat, it had become an offence, and must be remedied. the black shadow flitted in and out of my mind. i was clean and clear of all blood-guiltiness. i had struck for margaret as he would have struck for kate. fate had been too strong for us, but whatever penance life should lay upon me should be paid to the uttermost farthing. i had this comfort that, could jack ride up to me now, there would be no change in him. there would be for me the old hearty hand-grip and the boyish, affectionate smile, just as when he had run in to me on the town-hall steps. i had been commissioned by the prince to do three things: first, to deliver a dispatch to my lord george murray, wherever i should find him, which would probably be at ashbourne, twelve miles ahead along a good road; second, to carry a letter to sir james blount at his house called ellerton grange, somewhere near uttoxeter; third, to make a wide circuit west and south of derby, picking up all the information i could as to the feeling of the populace and the disposition of the enemy's forces, and to report on this to the prince in person at derby at six o'clock the following night. on this third commission the prince and colonel waynflete had laid great stress. an independent and trustworthy report was, it appeared, of the utmost importance. finally, as a dependent commission arising out of the first of the duties imposed on me by the prince, i bore a letter to my lord ogilvie from her ladyship. she had summoned me willy-nilly to her room privily. "tell davie yonder that i'm very well and very, very guid," she said, as she handed me the letter. "with infinite pleasure, my lady," i replied. "it will be true, ye ken," she asserted, as if there was a corner for dubiety in her own mind regarding the matter. "solemnly and obviously true, my lady," i agreed. "oh, thou incomparable oliver, i wish you were a lass," she said, lifting her merry, girlish face level with mine, and putting a hand on each of my shoulders. "why, my lady?" i said, straightening at her touch. "then you could give davie this as well!" which said, she pecked lightly at me with her sweet lips and kissed me. it had flustered me greatly, but she only laughed ringingly and delightsomely as i backed out of the room. and when, door-knob in hand, i made my last bow, she had wagged her finger at me for emphasis and said, "dinna forget to tell davie i'm very guid." good she was, as beaten gold, and she kept her spirits up to this high pitch to the very end. you can read in mr. volunteer ray's history of the whole affair of the 'forty-five' how, after culloden, she was taken prisoner while dressing for the ball which was to crown the expected victory. i smiled a young man's smile as i thought of it. experience was writing some items on the credit side of my new account with life. i had met a winsome lady of title and she had kissed me. margaret, behind my back and to a third party, had called me an "incomparable" something. what, i knew not,--"servant" probably, but i cared not what. mile after mile passed without incident of any kind until, at a second's notice, i rode into a ring of muskets which closed round me out of vacancy as if by magic. it was the outermost picket of the army at ashbourne. i gave the parole, "henry and newcastle," and demanded a guide to my lord george murray's quarters. there came a gaelic grunt out of the gloom; men and muskets disappeared, with the exception of a single clansman, who seized sultan's bridle and led me into the town. the general was quartered at the "swan with two necks," a very respectable hostelry, where my first care was to have a cloth thrown over sultan, and to order for him a bucket of warm small beer with three or four handfuls of oatmeal stirred into it. while this was adoing, and i was awaiting a summons to his lordship's presence, i took a nip of brandy in the public room of the inn, and over it amused myself by reading a crude fly-sheet nailed on the wall, offering a reward of fifty guineas to anyone giving information leading to the arrest of one samuel nixon, commonly called 'swift nicks,' a notorious highwayman, six feet high, of very genteel appearance, well-spoken, but a cruel, bloody ruffian with it all. the highlander interrupted my reading by beckoning me to follow him. upstairs we went, and he ushered me into a room where were two gentlemen seated on opposite sides of a table on which were a small map and two large glasses containing a yellowish liquid. the younger of them was of much the same general appearance as maclachlan, though by the look of him a simpler and sweeter man. the other, a middle-aged, domineering man with a powerful face, looked angrily at me as i handed him my dispatch. he read it impatiently, threw it down beside the map, and said, "they're coming on to-night, davie." then, curtly to me, "your name, sir?" "wheatman of the hanyards." "hanyards? humph! are you an irishman?" "no, my lord. not even a scotchman!" he glared at me, but his companion laughed, and said, "that's one under your short ribs, geordie!" "damn the irish!" cried murray. "they're the ruination of the whole business, davie, and ye know it." "of course they are," he replied, "but that's no reason for telling it to an english loon who thinks less of a scotchman than he does of a pickelt herring." "that may be, my lord," said i to him, "but i think so well of one scottish lady that i'm proud to be her humble courier." and i handed him his letter. "man! man!" he said ecstatically, as he ripped it open, "ye're welcome as sunshine in december. it's from ishbel. god bless her pretty face!" he read the letter eagerly and then thrust it into his bosom. "i am, further," i went on, "entrusted with a message from her ladyship." "god bless her! out with it, man, out with it!" "i was to inform you that she was very, very good," said i, soberly as a judge passing sentence. "what do you think of that, geordie murray? very, very guid! eh, man, isn't she a monkey? god bless her!" "i'll send the whole lot of 'em packing off back to edinburgh," said murray. "women are a nuisance on a campaign. your ishbel, be hanged to her, wants a carriage all her own and another for her fineries." "ye ken a lot about soldiering, geordie," retorted ogilvie, "no man more, but ye ken less about soldiers than a lad of ten. at gladsmuir i said to macintosh, 'let's get the damn thing over, sandy, and be back to breakfast wi' the leddies!' and we did." "you did so," acknowledged murray. "now, davie, take our courier out and feed him. i thank you, sir! you have ridden speedily. your pace is faster than your tongue." "my lord," said i, "although i am doing his royal highness such poor service as lies in me, i am not yet duly acting under his commission and authority." "what of it?" he asked. "hence i am not an officer under your command, my lord!" "excellent logic! and the therefore, my beef-eating friend, is....?" "that i would as lief knock your head off as look at you!" "when you are an officer," cried he, "by gad, sir, i'll teach ye the manners of an officer. till then, my birkie," rising and holding out his hand, "guid luck to ye!" we shook hands heartily and so parted. "he's a grand man is geordie murray," said ogilvie, as he led me to another room across the landing. "just a wee bit birsy, maybe, but these damned irish have got his kail through the reek. they're o'ermuch on his spirits of late." all his other talk was of his lady, though he looked well enough after me, and i made a good meal of the better half of a cold chicken, a cottage loaf, and a tankard of poor ale. ashbourne is noted, say the wise in such matters, for the best malt and the poorest ale in england. i am overmuch english, as is often the case with us who live in the very heart of england. the famous mr. johnson is a shire-fellow of mine, and very proud i am of it, and reckon it among the greatest events of my life that he has bullyragged me soundly for differing from him, and being right, about a line of virgil he had misquoted in my hearing. like mr. johnson, i love men and loathe dancing-masters, and these scotsmen were men indeed, my lord ogilvie, as i came to know later, one of the choicest. he was a spare-built man, in years thirty or thereabouts, with a face all lines and angles, and dotted with pock-marks. for a lord, his purse was very bare of guineas, and nature had made up for it by giving him a belly full of pride. for him, the highland line had been the boundary of the known world, so that his mind was a chequer-work of curious ignorance and knowledge. from the first i liked him for his joy in his dainty lady. she was the daughter of a cadet of a distant branch of the famous bobbing john's family, and had spent nearly all her life in france till, on a chance visit to scotland, she had been snapped up by ogilvie. they were a strangely matched pair, she from the gay _salons_ of paris, he from the misty mountains of the north; but mutual love had assorted them to admiration, for the heart of each was sound as a bell. between bites i answered questions as to how she had looked, what she'd said, done, and so forth. "was she wearing her brown riding-coat with the pretty wee shoulder capes?" he asked. "no," said i, becoming more interested. "or her creamy dress with the gold flowers all over it?" "no," said i again, smiling at my discoveries. "she's keeping 'em for london," he explained. "gosh, man! she will look divine in 'em." "she won't," said i, clipping away at the sweet bits still hanging on the carcass of my chicken. "it'll take your logic all its time to keep six inches o' cauld steel out of your brisket," he said very fiercely. "never had better chicken in my life," said i, watching him out of one eye--quite enough for any scotsman. "damn the chicken!" he roared. "why won't she?" "because she's given 'em away," i explained in my airiest tones. "the blue blazes of hell!" gasped his lordship. "given 'em away, and they cost me twenty pounds english! given 'em away!" he whined, utterly lost for words, "given 'em away! the callack's clean dawpit. twenty pounds good english money!" "nothing like enough!" said i. "you'll be sorry it wasn't two hundred." two hundred pounds english was, however, something too stupendous for his mind to grasp, and the gibe had no effect on him. while i finished my ale he chuntered away in his own gaelic. "i'll mak' it up in london," he said at length, "but it'll be the deil's own job." "it will indeed," i agreed, and drained my tankard dry. a look at my watch told me it was time to set about my second commission. sultan was brought from the stable, fit as a fiddle and eager to be going. i examined my pistols, ran the tuck up and down in its scabbard, leaped on sultan, and asked for the uttoxeter road. my lord ogilvie parted from me on the fairest terms, bringing me with his own hands a great stirrup-cup, or "dock-an-torus," as he called it. "man," said he, "i'm right glad to be acquent wi' ye. i was thinking i'd gang all the way to london without coming across a man worth fighting, much less friending, but i was in the wrang of it. here's to ye!" "my lord," said i, "you match your sweet lady. both of you have been wondrous kind to a hard-hit man." we gripped hands, saluted, and parted. it was all but pitch-dark, and the moon was not due to rise for more than an hour, but the sky was clear and the stars were out in masses for company and guidance. ellerton grange was near uttoxeter, and uttoxeter was a sizeable townlet just inside my own county, and some fifteen miles from ashbourne. the road was the usual cross-road, all of it bad and most of it vile. i left the going to sultan, who did the best he could, like the gallant and experienced creature he was. there was nothing for me to do except to keep a good look out and the north star just behind my right hand. my mind was busy going over all the memories of the last three days. i tried hard, but in vain, to skip the black part, the thought of which made me flinch as if the branding-iron was white-hot against my cheek. mentally i saw double--jack's red blood with one eye and margaret's amber hair with the other. as i rode i fought memory with memory, mingling gall and honey, now mumbling broken prayers and now singing snatches of country love-songs, and so got on as best i could. in the journey of life a man pays for what he calls for. life had given me what i wanted, and the price thereof had been death. not only was the night dark but the countryside was empty. i rode past dim outlines of houses and through vague, dreamlike villages without seeing a soul or hearing a sound. once i saw a light ahead by the roadside, but out it went as the rattle of sultan's hoofs told of my coming. it was no wonder, for these poor folk were living between two armies and wanted neither, friend nor foe. for them it was only a choice between the upper and the nether millstone. at last i came to a wayside ale-house where lights were showing. i rode up, dismounted, ran the reins over the catch of the shutter, and went in. in the low, untidy room i found a man and a woman, bent over a miserable fire, with their backs to a table whereon were set out mug and platter and other things useful for a meal. they rose to greet me, and their faces told me that they were expecting some one and supposed that i was he. when they saw their mistake, the woman stepped smartly in front of the man and said, "lord, sir, how you frighted us! what can i get for your worship?" "a mug of good mulled ale," said i. "give me good mulled ale and a little information, and you shall have a crown for your pains." i spoke pleasantly, having no need, as a mere passer-by, to do otherwise, but if i had been obliged to have dealings with them, i should have begun by distrusting them outright. the man was of the common sort of ale-house keeper, ugly, beery, and stupid, and old enough to be the father of his wife, as i call her on account of the wedding ring on her finger. she was, for the place and post, a complete surprise, being a jaunty, townish, garish woman, dressed in decayed finery. he would have slit my throat for a groat, she for a grudge. they looked that sort. the woman went into another room, beyond the little bar where the drinkables were stored, to get the spices for the mulling, and the man shuffled grumpily after her. hanging on the wall behind the bar was a fly-sheet, the very same i had read in the "swan with two necks" at ashbourne. "swift nicks" was a much-wanted gentleman, and evidently a tobie-man with a wide range of activities. out of mere vacancy of mind i walked near to read the fly-sheet again, and, by a curious chance, among the drone of words from the other room, the only one my quick ear could pick out distinctly was "nicks." this made me wary, and when the woman came out and busied herself at the fire, and called me to see what a prime mull she was brewing, i stood over her, to all intent watching the process but ready for anything. and not without need, for her dirty husband crept softly out after her, thinking to catch me unawares. i flashed at him like a jack at a minnow, wrenched a wretched old blunderbuss out of his hands, and with the butt of it knocked him sprawling back into the other room. the prime muller merely cackled with false laughter and went on with her mulling. i fetched him in by the scruff of the neck, stood him up against the bar, and said, "i think you're in for the soundest thrashing you've ever had in your life." "sarves yer right, sawney," said the woman. "plase let him off, sir. he thought yow was swift nicks." "yow bitch!" he growled. "yow set me on!" "yow'm a ligger!" she retorted. "i towd yow the gen'leman was nowt like swift nicks." "how do you know that?" i asked. "by the print," was the quick reply. "it tells yow all about him." i fetched the fly-sheet down, held it out to her, and said sharply, "read it to me!" i thought this would clean beat her, but she said, simply enough, "i canna rade it mysen, but i've heard it read lots o' times." "have you heard it read?" i asked the man. "lots o' times," he echoed surlily, and i saw the woman's fingers twitch as if she longed to furrow his ugly face with her nails. "then why didn't you know?" i spoke to him but turned sharp on the woman, and saw hell in her face. she was almost too quick for me, and answered fawningly, "the thought o' the money made a fool on 'im, sir. plase let him off. i've mulled th' ale prime for her honour." this was true and i enjoyed it greatly. i sent the man out to rub sultan down while she prepared for him under my eyes a warm drench of ale and meal. "be y'r honour going far?" she asked. "that depends how far it is to ellerton grange. do you know it?" "oh aye, y'r honour. sir james blount lives there. it's three miles out'n tutcheter on the burton road." "is it a straight road to uttoxeter?" "half a mile on yow'll come to a fork. tek the road on the right and just ride after y'r nose. fetch the drench, bob!" she carried it off well, but i felt there was a deep strain of roguery in her. still, willing to part on a lighter note, i gave her the crown, saying, "you deserve a better trade." "it's none so bad," she said. "and a better husband." "oddones! d'ye think...." she stopped abruptly, plainly caught out for the first time. a minute later i was off again. at the fork sultan made for the left, and i had to pull him sharply to the right. the road got steadily worse, but orion was clear in view ahead of me, dropping down behind uttoxeter, and i pushed on. if a man is to turn back because of a bad road, he'll not travel far in the shires. soon, however, there was no road at all, and i was plump in open country. sultan stopped and sniffed, and then turned his head round as if to tell me, what i already felt was the truth, that i had been an ass for not leaving it to him. "so ho! sultan!" said i, patting his warm neck. "i deserve all you say, my beauty! i've put you in for a nice job." the right road must lie somewhere to my left. i turned him that way and he walked on suspicious and sniffing. fortunately the moon had risen, and the jezebel's lie would only cost me a trifling delay. she would have lied with a purpose, and i puzzled myself in trying to reason it out. in a few minutes we came to the side of a spinney with a low wall of rough stones cutting it off from the field. i was intently looking ahead, when on a sudden sultan swerved so powerfully that i rocked in the saddle. i wouldn't have touched him with the spur, short of utter necessity, for a fistful of guineas, and i soothed him, and then turned to look for what had upset him. to be candid i swerved myself. most of us in these days are pleased to laugh at superstitions, provided we are in good company round a roaring fire. i was here alone in a lonely field, at nine of the clock on a winter night, and there, flittering and gliding through the spinney was a something in white. virgil believed in ghosts, and so did joe braggs, and i, by oft reading the one and listening to the other, had preserved an open mind. apparently sultan had his doubts, for he shivered and whinnied. i pulled his head round away from the ghost, drew out a pistol, and watched the unchancy thing's movements. it was evidently meant for me, for it made a slight turn and came straight towards me. then my man's logic, as margaret twittingly called it, came to my aid. gloomy as it was, i saw the outlines of some steps by which the low wall could be crossed, and ghosts, both my authorities being in agreement on this, were independent of such purely human contrivances. so, waiting till the ghost was climbing down on my side, i said sternly, "stop, or i fire!" whereon it heaved a great sob and tumbled full length to the ground. i jumped down, slipped the reins over sultan's head, and pulled him up to the spot. the ghost was a well-grown girl, dressed in nothing but a white night-gown, for i could see her bare feet beyond the hem of it. "don't be afraid, dear," said i soothingly, for she was dumb and half dead with fright. "what can i do for you? say it, and it's done. come now, be brave!" she sat up, leaning on her right hand, and turned her pallid, quivering face up to mine. "robbers, sir!" she gasped. "they're murdering father and mother. for god's sake, sir, go and stop them." "of course," i replied cheerfully, slipping off my jacket. "come on, my brave lass!" i helped the lass to her feet, put her into my jacket, jumped into the saddle, and lifted her astride behind me. "clip me tight! which way?" "round the spinney first, sir!" off we went, and this time i touched sultan with the spur and he flew along. round the spinney; slantways across a field; up and over a gate, the girl clinging to me like a leech; down a lane; up and over another gate; and then the girl's shaking right arm was thrust over my shoulder. "there's th' ouse! ', god, if we anna in time!" "how many are there?" "two, sir." i pulled sultan up at the farmyard gate, helped her down, and jumped after her. hitching the horse, we started across the yard. luckily the low-down moon was on the far side of the house, and we could run softly up in the pitch dark. as i write i feel that brave girl's hard grip of my hand as we raced on. at a half-open door we halted; she loosed hold of me, and i tiptoed on alone. from within i heard the crash of one pot and then another on the brick floor of the kitchen, as the villain, searching for hidden money, smashed them to the ground. bitten to the vitals by his want of success, he yelled, "i'll burn the sow's eye out! that'll open her mouth." with wrath flaming in my heart i stepped into the doorway leading to the kitchen. my eyes lit on a poor woman bound hard and fast in a chair, and a masked beast, his big white teeth showing through lips thrust wide apart in a grin of hellish rage, approaching a red-hot poker towards her face. i shot him, and he tumbled into a squirming heap. the other villain raced for dear life through the open front door. my second bullet got him on the very threshold, for he yelped and sprang into the air like a stricken buck, but he held on. i e'en let him go, not daring to leave the unkilled scoundrel on the floor, for he had a regular battery of pistols in his belt. the girl was already untying her mother, and her father, bound and gagged in his chair in the ingle-nook, could bide a while. so i plucked the pistols out, there were six of them, and rattled them down on the table. the man was bleeding like a stuck pig, and his purpling face and heaving throat showed that he was choking. as i destined him for the gallows, i picked him up, flung him face down on the table, and thumped him violently in the back, whereupon he coughed up a tooth. my bullet had stripped out all his grinning front teeth clean and clear, just as our kate's dainty thumb strips the row of peas out of a peascod. once the tooth was up he was not greatly hurt, and, holding one of his own pistols to his head, i bade him unstrap the farmer. as soon as the latter was free, i ordered him to strap the robber to a kitchen chair, which he did very thoroughly. the instant this job was done, he leaped to fondle and hearten his wife. she kissed him back and, without a word, feebly pointed to me, whereupon he turned and thanked me. "thank your brave daughter," said i, and then he jumped at her and hugged her in his big arms, blubbing out, "my bonny, bonny nance!" at my wish he lit a lantern, and we went out and stabled sultan. we went back through the kitchen to make a search of the front of the house. a pretty sight awaited me within doors. the good wife was sipping at a cup of parsnip wine, and the girl was again wearing nothing but her nightdress. with crimson face and downcast eyes, she stood there holding my coat out. "hallo, ghostie!" said i, smiling at her. "you want to frighten me again, do you?" too confused to say a word, she lackeyed me into my coat and then ran upstairs. to cut short her mother's tearful thanks, i led the way to the door, and we started our examination. some two yards from the door-sill the feeble rays of the lantern were reflected from something on the ground. to my great satisfaction it was fair booty to me, nothing less than my closest need, a rare good hat made of the finest beaver. the band was buckled with gold, and there was a taking and surely very fashionable cock to the brim. i sent my old one spinning into the blackness and clapped my new treasure on my head. now i could walk side by side with margaret and not be ashamed, at any rate not of my hat. "the rogue jerked it off when i winged him," said i. "gom! he did jump, that's sartin," said the farmer, whose name, i ought to say, i had learned was job lousely. it was quite a step down to the road, and we made no further discovery till we got to the gate. here it was his turn to be lucky, for there was an excellent nag hitched to a rail. it was on job's ground and he gave it a home in his stable. "it'll mak up for the crockery," he said, with great delight. back in the kitchen we found nance fully dressed and busy laying a meal on the table. she was so taken aback when i declared i was not hungry and couldn't stay if i had been, that, to save her distress, i had a bite and a sup of ale, while job fetched sultan round to the door. she was a sweet, comely maiden, and it did my heart good to see her put a horn of ale to the bleeding lips of the robber. he drank ravenously, like a dog after a hard run. he was where he deserved to be, with his feet in the short, straight path to the gallows, and i pitied him not. nance did, and it's good for the world that women are made that way. "how far is it to ellerton grange?" i asked job, who came in to tell me sultan was ready. "a matter of six miles, sir. three from here to tutcheter, and three more on to the grange." "how funny, father," interposed nance. "this is the second time tonight a gentleman has asked the road to ellerton grange." it would hardly have struck job as funny if it had been the twenty-second, but nance was quick and shrewd. "ho! ho!" said i. "tell me about it, little woman!" "i was wishing my jim good night at the gate, just before father came home, when a man riding by pulled up and asked the road to ellerton grange." "did you make him out, nance?" i asked. "not much of him, sir, but the moon shone on his face when he took his hat off to wipe his forehead, and it looked for all the world like an addled duck-egg." "well put, nance," said i, laughing. "first time i saw that face i thought it was like a bladder of lard." "you know him, sir?" "i think i do, nance, and i must be after him." out of the robber's string of pistols i selected a pair for myself. they were lawful prize, and equal in quality to those master freake had given me, so that the rascal had probably stolen them. i saw that all the others were loaded, and advised job to watch him all night and to lift him, chair and all, into a cart the next morning and drive him off to the nearest justice. job and his wife renewed their thanks when i was in the saddle. nance insisted on coming to open the gate, and on the way there she gave me full and careful directions as to the way to tutcheter and thence to the grange. she swung the gate open and let me through. then she came to my sword side and held up her face to be kissed. "good-bye, ghostie!" "good-bye, sir! god bless you!" kissing and blessing were reward enough for my service, and i rode on lighter at heart for them. chapter xviii the double six the time had not been wasted. i had had a stirring experience and got a hint of dangers and uncertainties ahead. moreover, and on this i plumed myself most, i had acquired a handsome hat. it was a trifle roomy, but a wisp of paper tucked within the inside rim would remedy that defect. the moon was getting higher and brighter, and i pulled my new treasure off again and again to admire it. it had belonged to a rascal with an excellent taste in hats. i was very content with it, and looked forward eagerly to catching the glint in margaret's eyes when she saw it. after all it behoved me to look well in her presence, and i regretted that the rogue had not shed his coat and breeches as well. no doubt they were equally modish and becoming, and would have set me up finely, though all the tailors in london town couldn't make me a match for maclachlan. a man has to be born to fine clothes, like a bird to fine feathers, before he looks well in them. the thought made me rueful. i jammed my hat on fiercely, and slapped sultan into a longer stride. the man ahead of me was, out of question, the government spy, weir. it was now a full day and more since i had crammed my virgil into his maw, and he had had time to get into these parts. thirty years before there had been much feeling for the honest party hereabouts, and among the gentry along the border of the shires there would be some in whose hearts the old flame still flickered. indeed, my own errand proved so much, and a noser-out like weir would be well employed in rooting up fragments of gossip over the bottle and memories of beery confidences at market ordinaries--sunken straws which showed the back-washes of opinion beneath the placid surface flow of our rural life. i dug my fingers into my thigh and imagined i was wringing the rascal's greasy neck, and the feeling did me good. i began to ride past scattered houses and then between rows of cottages. sultan was tiring a little, but, being an experienced horse, pricked up at the sight and cantered down the dead main street of the town. the shadows of the houses on my left ended in an irregular line on the cobbled causeway on my right. near the town end i came on an exception to the black-and-white stillness of the houses--an inn on my right ablaze with light and full of noise. a merry liquorish company it held, some quarrelling, some rowdily disputatious, and a few stentors trying to drown the rest by roaring a tipsy catch. i pulled sultan towards the verge of the shadows to see if i could make anything out, and he, supposing, no doubt, that i was guiding him towards bait and stable, made a half-turn towards the portico that ran on pillars along the face of the inn. i checked him at once, but, in that trice of time, a man leaped from behind a pillar, laid one hand on the pommel of my saddle, and raised the other in warning. he was a little man, and in his eagerness he stood on tiptoe and whispered, "ride on, master wheatman! one second may cost you dear!" even as he spoke, some movement within startled him, and he leaped back into the shadow before i could question him. i urged sultan onward, and once out of footfall of the inn, pricked him into a gallop. out of the town he fled, past the end of the stafford road, along which two hours of sultan's best would bring me to the hanyards and mother and kate, and i kept him at it for a full two miles before i gave him a breather and settled down to think out what it meant. i did not know the man from adam, but he had me and my name quite pat. he was obviously a friend, for his bearing and his warning alike bespoke his goodwill towards me. he must be waiting there for some purpose, and he must have seen me somewhere and learned enough about me to know from what source danger to me was certain to come. in this case it was plain that the danger was within the inn. the carousers might be, nay, almost certainly were, soldiers, though there had been none in the town when job lousely had left it less than two hours ago. the news of my escapade might well have leaked into stafford by now; i was very well known in the town, and the stranger might be some stafford chap benighted at uttoxeter after his business at the market. as i say, i did not know the man, but he might very well know me; he was, perhaps, some old schoolfellow, grown out of recollection by moonlight, and still willing to serve an old butty. this seemed the likeliest solution of the difficulty, and it made me very sad. the news about jack would be whispered round by now, and i could never walk the old streets again without seeing nods and shudders everywhere. _see him? that's him! killed his best friend! wheatman of the hanyards! never held his head up since! and hadn't ought to!_ the chatter of the townsfolk crept into my ears between the hoof-beats, and made me sick and dizzy. it would not have happened but for the bladder-faced scoundrel ahead of me, now creeping around like a loathsome insect to sting a man of ancient name and fame, and i was eager to be at him again. sultan, without more urging, had made the furlongs fly in gallant style, and it was time to be looking out for my landmarks. nance had made me letter-perfect in them. here, on the right, was the woodward's cottage where the road began to run downhill into a bottom dark with ancient elms: there, on my left, in an open space among the boles, the moon showed up a worn, grey column which marked the spot where, in the wild days of the roses, a parker putwell had slain a blount in unfair fight for a light of love not worth the blood of a rabbit. nance had very earnestly told me the old, sad tale, to impress the spot on my mind, for the long lane up to ellerton grange began in the shadows just beyond the monument, and wound away up the slope to the right. the road carried us up where the moon-light fell on meadows that were almost lawns, and across them to a maze of buildings. a minute later, i leaped off sultan and hammered away at the studded oaken door of ellerton grange. no man came to my summons, and i sent a second volley of rat-tats echoing through the house before i heard a shuffling of feet within and a drawing of big bolts. the door crept open for a foot or so, and an old man's head, with a lantern trembling over it, appeared in the gap. "who's there?" he quavered. "wheatman of the hanyards," i answered; "but my name is nothing to the purpose and my business is. i must see sir james blount." "he's abed," said he, "hours ago!" "then fetch him out!" the old man pushed his lantern close to my face and straightened himself to take a fair look at me. he had sunken cheeks and toothless gums, and hairless eyes with raw, red lids, and out of all question was some ancient, rusty serving-man, tottery and slow, but quick-minded enough, and of a dog-like faithfulness to the hand that fed him. "young and masterly," he muttered, "and o'er young to be so o'er masterly. but i mind the day when i would 'a' raddled his bones with my quarterstaff." "i won't naysay it, grandad," i answered, seeking to humour him. "in your time you've been a two-inch taller lad than i am. not so big o' the chest, though, grandad." "who're you grandadding? i was big enough o' the chest when i could neck meat and drink enough to fill me out. now!" as he spoke he gripped a handful of the waistcoat that hung loosely about him, and added, "once it was a fair fit, my master. it's cold and late for my old bones to be creaking about, but trusty's the dog for the tail-end of the hunt, and a blount's a blount and mun be served." "fetch him out!" i repeated. "i've ridden hard and far to serve him." the ancient took another look at me and said to himself in a loud whisper, after the manner of old and favoured serving-men, "a farmering body all but his hat, and none o' your ride-by-nights." "fetch him out!" said i again, not for want of fresh words to say to the candid old dodderer but to keep him to the point. "oh-aye," said he, and shuffled off. he left me fuming, for his last mutteration, as he shook his lantern to stir the flame up a bit, was, "knows a true man when he sees one. more used to a carving-knife than a sword, i'll be bound. what did he say? wheatman o' sommat! reg'lar farmering name!" i kicked the door wide open and watched the lantern bobbing along the hall. the light made pale shimmerings on complete suits of mail hanging so life-like on the high, bare, stone walls, that it seemed for all the world as if the knights had been crucified there and, little by little, age after age, had dropped to dust, leaving their warrior panoplies behind--empty shells on the shore of time from which the life had dripped and rotted. the old man toiled up the grand staircase at the far end of the hall and turned to the right along a gallery. the friendly light disappeared, leaving me darkling and alone. sultan sniffed his way to the door, pushed in his head and neck, and rubbed his nose against my breast in all friendliness. i flung my arms round his neck and caressed him, and in those anxious minutes in the doorway of ellerton grange he was comrade and sweetheart to me, and comforted my spirit greatly. footsteps and a voice within made me turn my head. a man came at a run down the stairs and along the hall. after him the old serving-man hastened, lantern in hand, as best he could. "sir james blount?" said i. "the same," said he curtly and confusedly. "i bring you a letter from a very exalted person, sir james," i explained. he took it from me much as he would have taken a bowl of poison. "the light! the light! you slow old fool! the light!" he said, jerking the words out as if his soul was in distress, and the ancient, barely half-way down the hall, quickened his poor pace up to his master. he, tearing the lantern out of the feeble hands, and rattling it down on a table, ripped open the letter and devoured its contents. the light of the lantern revealed the face of a man still young, but at least a half-score years my elder. he had a thin-lipped, sensitive mouth, a great arched nose, and quick, eager eyes. his mind was running like a mill-race, and his fine face twitched and wreathed and wrinkled under the stress of the flow. another thing plain enough was that the old man had lied when he said his master was abed, for he was fully and carefully dressed and his wig had not in it a single displaced or unravelled curl. this was no half-awakened dreamer, but a man with the issues of his life at stake. he crushed the letter in his hand and paced up and down the hall, muttering to himself. i turned and rubbed sultan's nose to keep him quiet and happy. the old servant took charge of the lantern again, and followed his master up and down with his eyes. "a year ago, yes! a year ago, yes!" i heard sir james say. he quickened his steps and the words came in jerks, mere nouns with verbs too big with meaning for him to utter them. "a word! a dream! a dead faith! yes, father! the devil! sweetheart!" there is a great line in the aeneid which i had tried in vain a hundred times to translate. three days agone i would have tilted at it once more with all the untutored zeal of a verbalist. i should never need to try again. there are some lines in the master that life alone can translate. _sunt lachrymae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt._ after a turn or two in silence, sir james broke off his pacing and came to me. "sir," he said, "you will know enough to excuse my inattention to a guest. i must make it up if i can. give me the lantern and wait for us here, inskip. come with me, sir, and stable your horse. gad so, sir," holding up the lantern, "you ride the noblest animal i have ever seen. woa, ho, my beauty! all my men are abed, so we must do it ourselves, but, by heaven, it will be a pleasure, master--what may i call you, sir?" "just the plain name of my fathers--oliver wheatman of the hanyards." "a good strong name, sir, though my fathers liked it not." "and you, sir james?" "frankly, it is a name which to me has ceased to be a symbol. a good fellow can call himself 'oliver' without setting my teeth on edge. i had a grand foxhound once, and called him 'noll,' just because he was grand. my dear old father consulted a london doctor as to the state of my mind. it made him anxious, you see! the great man said, gruffly enough, that i was as sane as a jackdaw. thereupon my dear dad, one of the best men that ever lived, had the dog shot!" he laughed, reminiscently rather than merrily, and was to my mind bent on getting a grip on himself again. we made sultan comfortable for the night, and then sir james courteously said it was high time to be attending to me. he made no further indirect reference to the situation, until, as he was leading me along the hall, he stopped opposite a great dim picture, hanging between two sets of mail, and held the lantern high over his head to give me a view of it. with a strange mixture of resentment and pathos, he said, "a man's ancestors are sometimes a damned nuisance, sir!" "they are indeed!" i replied. "there's one of mine shaking his fist at me over the battlements of the new jerusalem." he laughed heartily, and, with inskip trailing patiently behind us, led me upstairs, and through the gallery into a long corridor, lit by lanterns fixed in sconces on the walls. we stopped opposite a door, and he was about to lead me in when another door farther along the corridor opened and a lady came out. she was all in white with dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders, and there was a something in her arms. down went the lantern with a bang, and sir james flew like a hunted buck along the corridor. he whipped his arms around the lady and kissed her passionately, and then flung on his knees and held out his arms. she put the something in white into them and there was a little puling cry. "married a year come christmas," whispered old inskip, "and the babby's five weeks old to-morrow." a serving-woman bustled out of another room, and the lady and child were affectionately driven off to bed under her escort. sir james came slowly back. "my wife and son, mr. wheatman," he said. "you must meet them to-morrow. the young rascal cries out whenever i desecrate him with my touch. it would have served him right to have christened him 'oliver.'" i laughed heartily, for he was fighting himself again by gibing at me. he sent off the old man to scour the pantry for a supper for me, and then pushed open the door and led me into the room. for size and dignity, it was a room to take away the breath of a poor yeoman. it seemed to me a sabbath day's journey to the great blazing hearth, where two men were sitting; the high white ceiling was moulded into a wondrous design, with great carved pendants hanging from it like icicles from the eaves of the hanyards. many bookcases ran half-way up the walls round the greater part of the room, filled with stores of books such as my heart had never dreamed of, great leather-bound folios by platoons, and quartos by regiments. if i could get permission i would steal an hour or two from sleep to eye them over, and as we walked towards the hearth i got behind my host in my slowness and had to step up smartly to get level with him to make my bow of introduction. i gasped with the shock as i stepped into the arms of master john freake. "my dear lad," he cried, "what luck! what luck! how are you? how are they?" he made me sit down beside him, for here as elsewhere he was easily the most important man present, though his bearing was ever quiet and modest. he spoke of me to sir james in warm and kindly phrases, and it soon became manifest that his good word was a passport into my host's confidence and regard. the three gentlemen filled their glasses and toasted me with grave courtesy, and i easily slid out of the uneasy mood into which inskip's candour and my unaccustomed surroundings had driven me. the third man present was a welsh baronet, sir griffith williams, a far-away cousin and close friend of sir watkin wynne, whose name i remembered to have heard on the colonel's lips at leek. sir griffith was a brisk, apple-cheeked man of forty or thereabouts, very fluent of speech in somewhat uncertain english, with fewer ideas in his head than there are pips in a codlin, but what there were of them singularly clear and precise. he reminded me of joe braggs, who could only whistle three tunes, but whistled them like a lark. inskip brought me a rare dish of venison-pie and various other good things, and laid out the table for me. i left master freake's side to eat my supper and listen to their talk. they made various false starts, followed by dead silences. it was clean useless for sir james to talk about his baby. sir griffith had had a long family and so had exhausted the topic years ago, whilst master freake, a bachelor, knew nothing about it. there had been a great flood in the welshman's valley in the autumn and he harangued upon it in style, and not without gleams of native poetry, but sir james had never seen a flood and master freake had never been to wales, so the flood soon dried up. there was a silence for some minutes, busy minutes for me with an apple tart that was sublime with some cream to it, and i was settling down to the sweet content of the well-fed when sir james broke out. "mr. wheatman has brought me an invitation, hardly to be distinguished from a command, to meet his royal highness at the poles' place tomorrow." the eager welshman bounced on to his feet, raised his glass and said, "to the prince, god bless him." sir james had to follow his example, though he was in no mood for it, and it would have looked ill had i not joined in, and moreover the wine was excellent. "you will excuse me, gentlemen," said master freake. "i am not clear which royal highness is referred to, and besides i have no politics." "god bless him," bubbled the welshman. "i shall join him when he has crossed the trent." again there was silence for a space. "so the question is put, and i must give my answer," said sir james, breaking the stillness. "i must put my hand to the plough or draw back. i must keep my word or break it. can i be loyal to my father's creed and also to my child's interests? i've got to be both if i can. if i can't be both, which is to have the go-by? fate has put me in a cleft stick, master wheatman. on his death-bed my father handed on to me his place in the old faith. he was a devoted adherent of the exiled house, the close friend and associate of honest shippen, and even more intimately concerned than he in the underground network of intrigue and preparation which was constantly being woven, ruined, and re-woven up to his death ten years ago. he left me poor and encumbered with debt, for he had been prodigal in his sacrifices for the cause. it is a wonder that he died in his bed rather than on the block, but he was as wary as he was zealous. for nine years i lived here the life of a hermit, alone with my debts and my books. then i met a young girl"--his voice broke badly--"who became to me the all-in-all of my life. by good fortune i also met master freake, who took my affairs in hand for me and has helped me wisely and generously." "for ten per cent, oliver," interrupted master freake. "nonsense! wisely and generously, i repeat," said sir james warmly. "for ten per cent on good security, i repeat," answered master freake gravely. "damn your ten per cent!" "looks like it, and the security into the bargain!" said master freake very quickly. "swounds! that's just it!" said sir james. he rose and paced backwards and forwards between me and the hearth. "a year ago, sir,"--he addressed me in particular--"i should have shouted with joy at the summons to take the place among the adherents of the cause which my father would have held had he lived, and which it was his heart's wish on his death-bed that i should take for him. the cause and the creed are nothing to me as such, for i place no value on either. your talk about the right divine of old mr. melancholy, mumming and mimicking away there at rome, makes me smile. he's an old fool, that's the long and short of it. but a blount's a blount after all. i owe something to my ancestors. my word to my father ought not to be an empty breath. yet here i am, with all the interests of life pulling one way--wait till you've a boy five weeks old by a wife you'd be cut in little pieces for, and you'll know, sir,--and a dead father and a dead creed pulling the other. i knew what was coming, and i've talked about it and thought about it till my head's like a bee-hive. now, sir, give me your advice!" "i have joined the standard of your prince," i said. "damme, sir, you mock me. that's not advice. that's torture." "i have turned my back on the creed of my life and on every sound instinct in me," i continued. he stopped his walk and looked intently at me. "i have ancestors whose memory i cherish, and i have torn up their work as if it were a scrap of paper covered with a child's meaningless scribble." sir james stepped up to the table, his fine face alive with emotion. "for what?" he asked. i rose and looked straight into his eyes. "for a woman," i whispered, very low but very proudly. our hands met across the table in a hard grip. "you have done well, sir!" he said. "i asked you to give me advice. you have set me an example." he sat down again, and looked hopefully at the fire and then moodily at master freake. "there is this unfortunate difference between mr. wheatman's case and mine. i have, and he has not, given my plain word to a father." "i admit that is a striking difference," said master freake. "i am no jesuit, however, and cannot decide cases of conscience. i deal with business problems only, which are all cut and dry, legal and formal. when i make a promise in the way of business i always keep it precisely and punctually, for the penalty of failure to do so is a business man's death--bankruptcy." "there's such a thing as moral bankruptcy," said sir james gloomily. "very likely," replied master freake. "this is all nothing whatefer but words, words, words," said the welshman. "and words, my goot sirs, are indeed no goot whatefer. sir james's head is wrapped up in a mist of words, words, words, and indeed he cannot see anything whatefer. i am not a man of words, and what you call 'em--broblems." "very good," said i. "indeed it is goot," said he. "to hell with your words and your broblems. they are of no use whatefer, whatefer. our good friend, sir james, is up to his neck in broblems like a man in a bog, and he cannot move. now i have not your broblems. to hell with your broblems. my cousin wynne is full of 'em, and he's still gaping up at the cloud on snowdon, while i'm here, ready. i say plain: if the prince cross south of the trent i will join him." "why the trent?" said i. "it is my mark. it is my way of knowing what i will do. it is all so simple. indeed i am a simple man, not a broblem in my brain, none whatefer, i tell you plain. it is as this--so. if the prince cross the trent, say i to myself, well and goot. he do his share. it is time for me to do mine. it is better indeed, i tell you plain, to have it settled by a simple thing like the trent than to have it all muddled up by your broblems. i can sing you off my ancestors by dozens, right back to the standard-bearer of the great llewellyn, but they're all dead, and indeed i'm not going to poke about among their bones to find out what to do. i look at your pretty river, and i wait." sir james had looked at him during this harangue with unconcealed impatience. "i sent a letter to chartley of chartley towers," he said, "one of us, and a strong one by all accounts. at any rate, my father always reckoned him as such. so i asked him guardedly what he thought, and his reply was, 'the chestnut is on the hob. i am waiting to see whether it jumps into the fire or into the fender.' i cannot decide by appealing to rivers or nuts. there's much more in it than that." fate snatched the problem out of his hands. without a tap, without a word, the door of the room was flung open, and a dozen troopers filed swiftly and silently in, and covered us with their carbines. an officer, sword in hand, pushed through a gap in their line and stepped half a dozen paces towards us. he saluted us ceremoniously with his sword and said, "in the king's name!" behind the line a man in citizen clothes hovered uncertainly, and dim as the light was i made him out only too plainly. it was the government spy, weir. my goose was cooked. i had played for life's highest stake, and thrown amb's ace. it was good-bye to margaret. the welshman stuck to his chair, stolid as his native hills. master freake, whose back was to the new-comers, made a swift half turn, and then he, too, settled down again as indifferently as if the interruption had only been old inskip with the bedward candles. blount leaped to his feet, livid with rage, and strode up to the officer. "my lord tiverton, what does this intrusion mean?" he demanded. "it means," was the composed reply, "that if any one of you makes the slightest attempt to resist, he will be shot out of hand. close up, lads, and cover your men!" the order was obeyed briskly and exactly. the three on the left of the line attended to me, and i sat there, toying with a wine-glass for appearance sake, though the three brown barrels levelled straight and steady at my head made my heart rattle like a stone in a can. these were none of brocton's untrained grey-coats, but precise, disciplined veterans in blue tunics and mitre-shaped hats, white breeches and high boots, belted, buttoned, and bepouched. it was almost a compliment to be shot by such tall fellows. seeing we were all harmless, the officer dropped his military preciseness as if it were an ill-fitting garment. he was the daintiest, handsomest wisp of a man i had ever set eyes on, and looked for all the world like an exquisite figure in dresden china come to life. he could not have had much soldiering--the air and aroma of the london _salon_ still hung closely around him--and he was so very self-possessed that he was play-acting half his time, doing everything with a grace and relish that were highly diverting. it took all my pride in my new hat out of me to see this desirable little picture of a man. "i assure you, my dear sir james," he said, "that it's a damned annoying thing to me to have to act so unhandsomely. stap me! i shouldn't like it myself, but law's law and duty's duty, and so on, you know the old tale, and i'm obleeged to do it." he opened his snuff-box and offered it to sir james, who brusquely waved it aside, saying, "your explanation, if you please, my lord!" "damme, don't be peevish! smoke the venus in the lid? isn't she a sparkler? wish i'd lived in the times when ladies lay about on seashores like it! i hate these damned crinolines. saw somerset in 'em in the pantiles. could have pushed her over and trundled her like a barrel." "my lord," reiterated blount, "i await your explanation." "boot's on the other leg," he chirped. "a'nt i pouched you all cleverly, stap me, seeing the ink on my commission's hardly dry? didn't think it was in me!" "i will take the authority of your commission as sufficient, my lord, the times being what they are. but will you be good enough to tell me why you come?" "gadso! certainly! there's a dirty rascal in pewter buttons behind there--come here, sir, and let sir james see your ugly face!--who says you're a disloyal person, a traitor, and so forth. i don't believe him. i wouldn't crack a flea on his unsupported testimony, but he's in the know of things, and showed me a commission from mr. secretary, calling on his majesty's liege subjects, etc., you know the run of it, and i was bound to look into it. charges are charges, stap me if they a'nt. don't come too near, pig's eyes! out with your tale!" his lordship plainly disliked the whole business, and it was a very awkward thing for sir james that i was here, a circumstantial piece of evidence against him. i looked straight into weir's eyes as he came forward, ungainly and uncertainly, smiling half his dirty teeth bare, and mopping his yellowy face with a dirty handkerchief. to my astonishment he made not a single sign of recognition. i was his trump card, and he left me unplayed. "sir james is a known jacobite, my lord!" he quavered. "quite right, mr. weir, and if you propose to keep me out of bed these cold nights calling on known jacobites, stap my vitals, mr. weir, if i don't have you flung into a pond with a brick tied round your sweaty neck like an unwanted pup. anything else?" "this is a jacobite plot, my lord. there's scheming and plotting against our gracious lord the king agoing on here, my lord." "i'll e'en have a closer look at 'em. plots are damned interesting things, stap me if they a'nt, and i'm glad to see one. here's a likely young fellow," striding up and examining me. "his is a plot in a meat-pie, it seems. there was one in a meal-tub once, i remember, so the meat-pie does look mighty suspicious, mr. weir. we're getting on. and here's a plotter toasting his toes. not an intelligent member of the cabal. stap me, if he a'nt asleep! i must circumambulate and have a quiz at him." he walked gaily in his play-acting way round master freake's chair on to the hearth and then turned and took a peep at him. as soon as he had done so he gave a great shout, and then, recovering himself, burst into a roar of laughter. he clapped his hands on his knees and fairly swayed with merriment. master freake looked at him with a sedate half-smile, and said, "how d'ye do, my lord?" "very well, thankee!" cried his lordship gaily, too gaily. "damme! it's the funniest thing that's happened since noah came out of the ark. come here, spy! mean to tell me this is a jacobite?" as the spy crept near, master freake stood up, wheeled round on him smartly, and said, "how d'ye do, turnditch?" "stap me!" cried his lordship. "his name's weir!" "he will know me better if i call him turnditch," said master freake icily. he spoke unmistakable truth. i could see the shadow of the gallows fall across the man's face. what stiffening there was in him oozed out, and he stood there wriggling in an agony of apprehension, like a worm in a chicken's beak. master freake knew him to the bottom of his muddy soul. my lord tiverton was a man of another mould, but he too was in the hands of his master. plain john freake, citizen of london, had taken a hand in this game of fate, and had thrown double six. this noble room had seen the agonizings and rejoicings of a dozen generations of the sons of men, but nothing to surpass this scene in living interest. they come back to me now--the line of blue-and-white troopers, still with levelled carbines; the stolid welshman, as indifferent as snowdon; the dapper nobleman, still polished and lightsome, no longer play-acting but rather vaguely anxious; the high-minded troubled jacobite, fear for his wife and babe gnawing at his heart; the spy, weir or turnditch, with the noose he had made for another drawn round his own neck; master john freake, the quiet, quakerlike merchant, whose power was rooted deep in those far haunts of the world's trade, so that we were here shadowed and protected by the uttermost branches thereof. last of all i remember myself, with my heart thrumming good-morrow to margaret. "come now, houndsditch, or turndish, or whatever it is," said his lordship. "precisely what have you to say?" the poor devil had nothing to say. he was aflame to be off and out of master freake's eyesight. he choked up something about mistakes, and zeal, and forgiveness. "that's enough! out you go, the whole damn lot of you!" cried my lord. these not being familiar military words of command, the men stuck there like skittles. "ground arms, or whatever it is!" he continued. "about turn! quick march!" their sergeant took charge of them and they filed out. sir james followed them and became their host, routing out servants to wait on them. as soon as the door was closed on sir james, his lordship hastened to master freake's side, and entered into low and earnest conversation with him. i walked across to the folios, hoping to find amongst them an _editio princeps_ of virgil, but was recalled by a loud "oliver" from master freake. "oliver," he said, when i reached his chair, "i should like you to know the most noble the marquess of tiverton!" i bowed, and his lordship bowed in reply, and said light and pleasant things about our meeting. then, vowing he was monstrous hungry, he tackled the venison pasty, summoning me to sit opposite him. "gadso! i am sharp-set," he said, and indeed he ate with the zeal of a plough-lad. he pushed me over his snuff-box, which nearly made me sneeze before i took the snuff. "it really is a masterpiece," he said, in a pause between pasty and pie. "i shall never hear the last of it at the 'cocoa tree' and white's. stap me, i shan't want to! it's too good. the tale will keep my memory green when that old mummy, newcastle, is dust at last." "what tale?" said i. "d'ye know why, a month ago, i badgered newcastle into getting me a company in the blues?" "not the faintest idea!" he leaned across the table and, from under cover of me, nodded towards master freake, now talking with the welsh-man. "to get out of his way!" he whispered. i looked incredulous, whereupon his lordship tapped his pocket significantly. "he's a damned good fellow. he gave me another six months without a murmur. wish i'd known! there'd have been no campaigning for me. i prefer the mall!" so he said now, yet he was as steady as a wall and as bold as a lion at culloden. he came of a great stock, and greatness was natural to him. the play-acting and gaming was only the fringe that society had tacked on to him. it lessoned me finely to see him when sir james came back into the room. tiverton knew the position by instinct. "sir james," he said, "i crave a word with you." "at your service, my lord." "i will be frank," continued his lordship. "i ask no questions. i make no inferences. i simply point out that the spy fell to pieces because he found mr. freake here." "i observed so much, my lord!" "i don't know why," said the marquess dubiously. "i could hang him at the next assizes," interrupted master freake. "i see. he doesn't want to be hanged, of course. no one does. it's a perfectly natural feeling. so he crumpled up at the prospect." "yes, my lord," said sir james. "i allowed him to crumple up, and i took full advantage of the fact. you saw so much?" "i did." "now, sir james, you, as a blount, that is, as a man bearing an honoured name, are under the strictest obligation to me to see that i can say, if my conduct is challenged, that i saw nothing here because there was nothing to see. i have put myself absolutely in your power, sir james. whoever else joins the prince, you must not, or you take my head along with you." it was well and truly said, and there was no posing about it. sir james blount's problem was settled. he taught me something too, for all he did was to put out his hand. "there's an end of tundish!" said tiverton, grasping it firmly. "and it's the best end too, for the highland army hasn't a snowball's chance in hell." he turned at once to banter me on my indifference to art, seeing that i had sniffed at a miniature by one of the most famous artists at the french court. i let him rattle on, for my eye was on sir james, who was rolling something in his hands. a moment later the prince's letter went up in a tongue of flame and burnt along with it the jacobitism of the blounts. a knock at the door interrupted his lordship's valuation of art and artists of the french school, and his sergeant entered to say that his men were in the saddle. "campaigning be damned!" said his captain wearily. "beg pardon, my lord," added the sergeant, "but mr. what's-his-name has cut off." "good riddance. he's gone back to his crony at the 'black swan.'" "yes, my lord. t'other's a sergeant in my lord brocton's dragoons." "ah, i saw they were hob-and-nob together. a fellow with a ditch in his face you could lay a finger in!" fortunately for me, the marquess was busy with a last glass of wine. here was ill news with a vengeance. i had got out of the smoke into the smother. "my lord," said master freake, "there is a man of mine, one dot gibson, at the 'black swan,' and i shall be greatly beholden to you if you will let your sergeant carry him a note of instructions from me." "stap me! i'll take it myself," cried his lordship heartily. master freake went to a table to write the note. i knew now who it was that had given me the warning. my lord pocketed the note and we all crept quietly down to the main door to see him off. the guards made a gallant show in the brilliant moonlight, and master freake, taking my arm, dragged me out to watch them canter across the stretch of meadow, and drop out of sight down the hill. "sleep in peace, oliver," he said. "dot gibson will give us early news of the movements of the enemy." then we strolled back, talking of the colonel and margaret. chapter xix what came of foppery it was eight by the clock next morning before i set about my third commission. to begin with, the bed pulled, and small wonder, since i had not slept in a bed since leaving home. then i took my fill of the books, finding among them no less a prize than the _editio princeps_ of virgil, printed at rome in , which it was hard to let go. next there was baby blount to be waited upon, and his mother, a pretty, appealing lady, with the glory of motherhood about her like a fairy garment. part of the ceremonial was the putting of master blount into my arms, which was done very gingerly, with abundant cautions and precautions against my crushing or dropping him. he had a skin like white satin and a silvery down on his charming little head. altogether i thought him a most desirable possession for a man to have, and wished he was mine, particularly when, to his father's outspoken chagrin, instead of puling he stared steadily at me with big blue eyes and smiled. "precious ikkle ducksy-wucksy," said his mother. "ugly ikkle monkey-wonkey," cried his father. "why the deuce can't he smile at me?" "try him!" said i, handing him over to sir james, glad to be free of the responsibility. baby blount looked at his father and smiled again, and it was a revelation to me of the deepest and finest feelings of a man's heart to see how ravished sir james was with this first smile of his baby boy's. "it's you that's changed, james, not our little darling," said his wife. "he'll always smile at a face as happy as yours is this morning." i lingered through these delightful moments over an old book and a new baby with an easy conscience, for master freake had brought me news which made my third task much easier. i had not told him what i had in hand to do, thinking it unfair to force the knowledge on him, but he must have made a good guess at it, for he came to tell me that the latest news from stone was that the duke was moving south again at top speed, with the intention of getting between the prince and london if he could. he told me further that charles had joined murray at ashbourne in the small hours, and that their reunited forces had started out for derby. in all these important matters he was, as is obvious enough now, fully and exactly informed, and i expressed my admiration of his thoroughness. "business, my dear oliver, nothing but business. some great man of old time has said 'knowledge is power.' i'm expanding that a little to fit these modern days. that's all." "how does the maxim run now, sir?" "knowledge is money and money is power," said he, with a dry smile. then, as to matters small in themselves but of more immediate concern to me, he told me that his man, dot gibson, had reported that the spy, weir, had at an early hour ridden off towards stafford, while the sergeant of dragoons was still lurking at the "black swan." there had been long consultations between them as if they were acting in concert. this was likely to be the case. it was a noteworthy fact that the spy had seen me, and had had an opportunity of denouncing me, before master freake had bowled him over. there was, therefore, reason to suppose that he would in any case have remained silent about me--the one man against whom his evidence was overwhelming. the sergeant of dragoons would, of course, be only too glad to see me out of action, dead for choice, but in jail as a useful alternative, yet the opportunity of putting me there had been let slip. i could not, try how i would, work out any reasonable explanation of their conduct. i bade good-bye to the grange, going off with a pressing invitation in my ears to return as soon as possible. master freake walked at my saddle till we were out of earshot of the group in the open doorway. "we meet again at derby, oliver," he said, holding out his hand. "that's good news, sir. i shall be there by six o'clock to-night." "keep a good look out for the sergeant. he and his precious master mean to have you if they can. they've a heavy score against you, lad." "it will be heavier before the account's settled, sir." "you shall have your tilt at 'em, oliver. you'll enjoy it, and i've no fear as to the result. but take care! ride in the middle of the road, and keep your eye on every bush. brocton has half a regiment of thorough-paced blackguards at his service and will compass hell itself to fetch you down. what about money?" "i've plenty and to spare," i answered, "thanks to your generous loan." "no loan, lad, but my first contribution to the expenses of--what shall we say for safety? your tour. how will that do?" "nay, sir--" "yea. oliver, and no more said. my favourite rate is ten per cent. you've let me off with a paltry two." "i do not like joking in money matters, sir." "john freake joking in money matters?" said he, smiling. "tell it not when you get to town, oliver, or you'll be the ruin of a hard-won reputation. i sent you sixty guineas odd." "yes, sir." "which is, to be precise, slightly less than two per cent of what you saved me when you snatched me out of the dirty grip of brocton's rascals. i had a good thick slice of his lordship's patrimony in my pocket. off you go, lad! sultan is impatient at my trifling. so ho! you beauty! good-bye!" "good-bye, sir!" i cried heartily, swinging my new hat in a grand bow. * * * * * at three o'clock in the afternoon, having ridden hard and far without bite or sup, i came out in a little hamlet huddled about the great london road where it ran along the hem of a forest, and drew rein before the "seven stars." i was to be in presence with my report at six o'clock, and, as derby was only fifteen miles off and the road one of the best, there was ample time for sultan and me to take the rest and refreshment we both stood in need of. i was, too, in need of quiet and leisure to get my report straightened out in my mind ready for delivery. the largeness and looseness of my commission left everything to my discretion, with the vexatious result that i had discovered nothing. i had, indeed, carried out my orders. i had been so far west of derby that i had seen the famous spires of lichfield cutting into the sky like three lance-heads, and had learned on abundant and trustworthy evidence that the duke's forces there were leaving for the south, under orders to march with all speed to their original camp at merriden heath. this squared exactly with master freake's news, and was all the stock of positive information i had got together. of the kind of news the prince would best like to hear there was none. of preparations to join him, none. of open well-wishers to his cause, none. the time when the stuart banner could rally a host around it had gone beyond recall. there was no violent feeling the other way. people simply did not care. the old watchwords were powerless. the old quarrel had been revived in a world that had forgotten it, and would not be reminded of it. it was charles and his highlanders against george and his regiments, and as the latter were sure to win, nobody bothered. it is the strange but exact truth that the only sign i discovered of the great event in progress, was to come across a group of four respectable men of the middle station in life bargaining with an innkeeper for the hire of a chaise, in which they meant to drive to watch the highlanders march by. they were very keen to bate him a shilling, and as indifferent as four oysters to the issues at stake. riding into the inn-yard, i shouted to the host to get me his best dinner, and, while it was preparing, i overlooked the grooming and baiting of sultan. i left him comfortable and content, and strolled indoors to look after my own needs. though on the london road, and only fifteen miles from the scene of action, the inn was quiet. i learned from the host that a courier had galloped through an hour before, spurring southwards, and cried out from the saddle that the bare-legs were only five miles from derby when he left. earlier in the day a cart had driven through loaded up with the gowns of the town dignitaries, "going to leicester to be done up," explained the host, delighted with his own shrewdness. a hunger-bitten traveller with a good dinner in front of him commonly pays no attention for the time being to anything else. i found two men in the guest-room, and, after a civil greeting, which made one of them open his eyes and mouth very uncivilly, i sat down to eat, very content with the fare set before me. as my hunger steadily abated before a steady attack on a cold roast sirloin of most commendable quality, i began to take more interest in the two men. in fact, more interest in them was forced on me by the beginnings of a pretty quarrel between them, and by the time i had got to the cheese, they, utterly regardless of my presence, were at it hammer and tongs. the row was about a horse-deal lately passed between them, and there are few things men can quarrel about more easily or more vigorously. the yokel who had gaped at me, had been cheated by his companion, and was accordingly resentful. two men more at odds in outward appearance could not easily have been found. the gaper was plain country, a big, bulky man, with a paunch that, as he sat, sagged nearly to his knees, a triple chin, and a nose with a knobly end, in shape and colour like an overripe strawberry. his companion was a little fellow, lean and sharp-cut, with a head like a ferret's. we country-siders know your londoner. many an hour i had sat under the clump of elms at the lane-end and watched the travellers. hence, doubtless, my taste in fashionable head-gear, like this of mine, lately belonging to swift nicks, now disposed carefully on the table at my side. i would have wagered it against joe braggs' frowsy old milking-cap that the little man was a londoner. little as he was, his cold, calculating anger overbore his antagonist, who was no great hand at stating his case, good as it was. "the landlord knows me and knows the gelding," said the little man. "you know less about horses than a mile end tapster. fetch him in, and let him decide. i suppose you rode him!" "what a god's name, d'ye think i bought him for, mr. wicks? to look at?" "by the look of you i should think you bought him as a present for a baby. sixteen stone six if you're an ounce, and riding a two-year-old! damme, no wonder he throws out curbs! fetch the landlord, i tell ye!" out burst the fat man in a great fury, and in a minute or two came back with the landlord and an ostler. then the wrangle became hotter and more amusing than ever. finally, the little man, losing all patience, drew a pistol, whereon the big man ran backwards, shrieking "murder!" not heeding where he was going, he tumbled up against my table, and jammed it hard against my midriff. i attempted to rise but was too late. the fat man seized my wrists, the landlord and the ostler ran round, and pinned me to the chair, and the little man held the barrel of the pistol to my forehead. "good afternoon, mr. swift nicks!" said he. i dare say my liver was turning the colour of chalk, but, though i'm too easily frightened, i'm always too proud to show it, which has unjustly got me the character of being a brave man. "good afternoon, mr. too-swift wicks!" i retorted. "what d'ye mean?" he asked, plainly disconcerted. "i mean," said i, "that the zeal of your office hath eaten you up." "what the hell does he mean?" he asked, appealing to the company. "damn my bones if i know," answered the host. "i've 'eerd parson say sommat like it in church a sundays. he's one of these 'ere silly scholards." "they do say as how swift nicks is a scholard," put in the ostler wisely. "there's no time for chattering," said i. "take me at once before a justice. that's the law, and you know it. i warn you that any delay will be dangerous. my cocksure friend here is already in for actions for assault, battery, slander, false imprisonment, and the lord knows what. my gad, sir, i'll give you a roasting at the assizes. take me off at once to the nearest magistrate. i'll have the law on you before another hour's out." my energy flustered the londoner, who had sense enough to know the peril of his being wrong, but the fat man, dull as an ox, cheered him on. "he's swift nicks right enough, master wicks," he said. "pocket full of pistols, four on 'em; a chap of the right size, a matter of six feet odd; hereabouts, where he is known to be; speaks like a gentleman; and, damme, i saw swift nicks myself with my own eyes not two yards off, and that's swift nicks' hat or i'm a dutchman; i know'd it again the minute he walked into the room." "damn the hat!" cried i heartily enough, but feeling very crestfallen at this telling piece of evidence against me. the little man snatched it up and looked carefully at the inside of it, a thing i had never done, being wrapped up in its outside. "there y'are!" he cried triumphantly. "'s. n. his hat.' what more d'ye want?" "i want the nearest magistrate," cried i. "well, mr. wicks," said the fat man, "he can easily have what he wants. it's only a matter o' two mile to the squire's." "squire'll welly go off 'is yed," remarked the host. "he's that sot on seeing swift nicks swing." "then he'll very likely go bail for mr. wicks," said i. "will he?" said mr. wicks sourly. "if he don't," i retorted, "you'll spend the night in leicester jail." "they do say as 'ow swift nicks is a rare plucked 'un," said the ostler. "then they're liars," said i. i was handcuffed and put on sultan, with my feet roped together under his belly. then we started off, and the whole village, which had dozed in peace with the highlanders only five hours off, turned out gaily and joyously to see swift nicks. the landlord left his guests, and the ostler his horses, to go with us, and at least a score of villagers, mostly women, joined in and made a regular pomp of it. once or twice we met a man who cried, "what's up?" and at the response, "swift nicks," he added himself to the procession and was regaled, as he trudged along, with an account of the affray at the inn. my capture was exceedingly popular, and they gloated to my face over the doom in store for me, wrangling like rooks as to the likeliest spot for my gibbet. the majority fixed it at the copt oak, where, as they reminded me with shrill curses, i had murdered poor old bet o' th' brew'us for a shilling and sixpence. it was a relief to hear the host shout to master wicks, "yon's th' squire's!" we trooped up to a fair stone house of ancient date with a turret at the tip of each wing. my luck was clean out. the squire was not yet back home from hunting, for he went out with the hounds every day the scent would lie. he had ridden far, or was belated, or his horse had foundered, and there was no telling, said his ruddy old butler, when he would be back. so the villagers were driven off like cattle, sultan was stabled, and we five were accommodated in the great hall, for the host and the ostler stayed on the ground that so dangerous a villain as swift nicks wanted a strong guard. they put me under the great chimney and sat round me, in a half circle, each man with a loaded pistol in one hand and a jug of ale in the other. the squire's lady came in and stood afar off examining me, and i saw that she was in deadly fear of me, handcuffed and guarded as i was. over an hour crawled by, taking with it my last chance of getting into derby, with my task accomplished, by six o'clock. what would margaret think of me? her obvious pride in the honour the prince had conferred upon me by selecting me as his personal helper, had been a great delight to me, and now i had failed him and disquieted her. the thought made me rage, and i gave my captors black looks worthy of any tobie-man on the king's highway. at last relief came in the shape of the squire's youngest son, a stout lad of some twelve years old, who raced in, rod in hand, and made up to me without a trace of fear. he was in trouble about his rod, having snapped the top joint in unhandily dealing with a fine chub. after some wrangling, i got my hands freed, and set about splicing the joint. "they do say," said i mockingly, "as how swift nicks is a good hand at splicing fishing-rods." "i never 'eerd tell of that'n," said the stolid ostler. "are you really swift nicks, sir?" asked the lad, looking steadily at me with frank, innocent eyes. "no more than you are jonathan wild or prester john, my son," i answered. "then who are you?" he persisted. "i'm a poor splicer of fishing-rods. i get my living by riding about the country on a fine horse, with one pair of pistols in my holsters and another pair in my pocket, looking for nice little boys with broken fishing-rods, and mending 'em--the rods, not the boys--so that father never finds it out and the rod's better than ever it was. how big was the chub?" "that big!" said he, holding his hands about two feet apart. "the great advantage, my son, of having your rod mended by me is that ever afterwards you'll be able to tell a chub from a whale." "sir," said he proudly, "a chartley never lies." "of course," said i, "it's hard to say exactly how big a fish is when you've missed him. so your name's chartley. is this chartley towers?" "it is," said he, with a taking boyish pride ringing in his voice. "we are the chartleys of chartley towers. we go back to edward the third." did ever man enjoy such fat luck as mine? i had been as hard beset as a nut in the nutcrackers. to prove that i was not swift nicks i should have to prove that i was oliver wheatman. the bow street runner would see to that, for, as swift nicks, i was worth fifty guineas to him, a sum of money for which he would have hanged half the parish without a twinge. cross or pile, i should lose the toss. drive away the cart! such had been my thoughts, and now a lad's young pride had snatched me out of danger. i grew quite merry over the splicing, and told young chartley all about my fight with the great jack. the job was near on finished when there was a rattle of hoofs without, and, a minute later, the door was flung open and in swept a torrent of yapping foxhounds, followed by a big, hearty, noisy man in jack-boots and a brown scratch bob-wig. "dinner! dinner!" he shouted to his wife, who came in to meet him. "the best run o' the year, lass! thirty miles before he earthed, the dogs running breast-high every yard of it, and the very devil of a dig-out! there was only me and parson and young bob eld o' seighford in at the death. dinner, dinner, my lass! i could eat the side of a house. hallo, damme! what art doing here, jack grattidge?" the question was put to the host, who was shuffling down the hall to meet him. the squire slashed the dogs silent with his half-hunter to catch the reply. "please, y'r honour," said the host, "we've copped swift nicks." "by g--! you a'nt!" "we 'an," declared the host. "hurrah!" roared the squire. "that's news! i owe you a guinea for it, jack." he clumped up to the hearth, crying out as he came, "show me the black, bloody scoundrel! i'd crawl to london on my hands and knees to watch him turned off." seeing me engaged in the innocent task of mending his lad's fishing-rod, with the lad himself at my knees intent on the work, he took mr. wicks for the highwayman, and cursed and swore at him hard enough to rive an oak-tree. he was, indeed, so hot and heady that it was some minutes before his mistake could be brought home to him. by the time he realized that the man mending the rod was swift nicks, he had fired off all his powder, and only stared at me with wide-open eyes. "i suppose," said i, very politely, "that, as you've been hunting, the chestnut is still on the hob." "i'm damned!" says he, and flops down into his elbow-chair. * * * * * in the end we made a treaty, to mr. wicks' great disgust, who saw the guineas slipping through his fingers. nor was the squire less aggrieved at first, for clearly it was to him a matter of high concern to nail swift nicks. "what's it matter to us here who's got a crown on his head in london?" he said. "london-folk care nothing for us, and we care nothing for them. but swift nicks does matter. we want him hung. no man about here with any sense bothers about your politics except at election-times, when politics means a belly full of beer and a fist full of guineas for every damned tinker and tallow-chandler in leicester. but you, or that bloody villain swift nicks, if you a'nt him, keep us sweating-cold o' nights. to hell with your politics! hang me swift nicks!" the terms of our treaty were that i was to remain peaceably and make a night of it, giving my word to make no attempt to escape or harm anyone. in the meantime, and at my proper charges, a post was to be sent to fetch nance lousely and her father to give evidence on my behalf. "dear ghostie,"--i wrote to her,--"i am in great danger because a red-nosed man vows i am swift nicks. i want you and your father to come and prove he's an ass. if you don't i am to be hung on a gibbet at a place called the copt oak, and i can't abide gibbets, for they are cold and draughty. so come at once, my brave nance!--your friend, "o. w." a groom was fetched and i told him how to get to job lousely's. he was well mounted from the squire's stables and set off. however quickly he did his business, it would be many hours before he could be back. so i settled down to make a night of it. there was nothing original in the squire's way of making a night of it. the parson who had been in at the death and who, during the settlement of my affair, had been busy in the stables, now joined us at dinner. he was but lately come from cambridge, at which seat of learning the chief books appeared to be bracken's _farriery_ and gibson on the _diseases of horses_, with hoyle's _whist_ as lighter reading for leisured hours. he was a hard rider, a hard swearer, and a hard drinker, and, after being double japanned, as he called it, by a friendly bishop, had been pitchforked by the squire into a neighbouring parish of three hundred a year in order that the squire's dogs and hounds, and the game and poachers on the estate, might have the benefit of his ministrations. he had, however, sense enough to buy good sermons. "at any rate the women tell me they're good," explained the squire. "i can't say for myself, for joe's a reasonable cock, and always shuts up as soon as i wake up." the bow street runner, mr. wicks, and the red-nosed petty constable of the hundred, who answered to the name of pinkie yates, were of the party. i ate little and drank less, but the others emptied the bottles at a great pace and were soon hot with drink. one brew, which the huntsmen quaffed with much zest, i insisted, out of regard for my stomach, on passing round untouched, though the men of law took their share like heroes, and, i doubt not, thought they were for once hob-nobbing with the gods. the manner of it was thus. the parson drew from his pocket a leg of the fox they had killed that day, and, stinking, filthy, and bloody as it was, squeezed and stirred it in a four-handled tyg of claret. in this evil compound the squire solemnly gave us the huntsman's toast: "_horses sound. dogs hearty, earth's stopped, and foxes plenty_." the parson then hiccoughed a song for which he should have been put in the stocks, after which mr. wicks, with three empty bottles and three knives to stand for the gallows, gave us a vivid account of the turning-off of the famous captain suck ensor, who kicked and twitched for ten minutes before his own claimed him. it was five o'clock next morning before my courier returned with nance lousely and her father. i had gone to sleep in the squire's elbow-chair before the hall fire, with the zealous thief-takers in attendance, turn and turn about, as sentries over me, fifty guineas being well worth guarding. the butler watched at the door, wakefully anxious to earn the crown i had promised him. the noise he made in unchaining and unbolting the door awakened me, and it warmed my heart to see nance standing timidly just inside the hall, her hand in her father's, till she spied me, when she broke away and ran up to me. "you knew i'd come, sir, didn't you?" she said, appealing to me more with her pretty anxious face than by her words. "of course, ghostie!" i replied promptly. "thank you, sir!" she said, with evident relief. at a trace of doubt in my words or face, she would have broken down. "don't be a goose, ghostie," said i. "sit down and get warm! and how are you. job? much obliged to you both." "we'n ridden main hard to get here, sir. your mon didna get t'our 'ouse afore one o'clock, an' we wor on the way afore ha'f-past. gom! we wor that'n. our nance nearly bust. gom, she did that'n." "your nance is a darling," said i, stroking her disordered hair. at my request backed by a promise to turn the crown into half a guinea, the butler got them some breakfast. fortunately the squire and the parson were due at a duck-shooting ten miles off by seven o'clock, and so were stirring early. my matter was soon settled. the squire sat magisterially in his elbow-chair, and nance and her father told their tale, precisely as i had told it before them. it cleared me and made the thief-catchers look mightily confused and sheepish, and very relieved they were when, as a politic way of staving off awkward questions, i grandly accepted their apologies. "i knew you weren't swift nicks," said the squire, "when i saw you mending my lad's fishing-rod. damme, we'll get him though, before we've done." he invited me to join him at breakfast, where we were alone for the first time. "is it into the fire or into the fender?" he asked meaningly. i was ready for him and, stopping with the carving knife half-way through a fine ham i was slicing, said, as if amazed, "is what into the fire or into the fender?" "the chestnut," said he. "the chestnut!" i retorted. "well, well! i don't blame you for your caution, sir. sir james blount sounded me and i know you know my reply. whether fire or fender will make no difference to me, and i wouldn't miss to-day's duck-shoot to make it either." "i hope there'll be plenty of birds, and strong on the wing," said i. this ended all the talk that passed between us on the great event that had so strangely brought us together. he, the squire of half a dozen villages, went duck-shooting while the destiny of england was being settled just outside his own door. for the second time nance walked a space by my side to wish me good-bye. "nance, my sweet lass," said i, pulling sultan up, "do you know that dirty little ale-house near your home?" "where the painted woman lives, sir?" "that very place! now swift nicks is hiding there. go back and tell the squire you can find swift nicks for him, and they'll fill your pinner with guineas. you'll kiss me for a pinnerfull of guineas, won't you?" "no, sir," said she very decidedly. "then kiss me, nance, because, though we shall never meet again, we've helped one another when we did meet." she put her foot on mine, and i lifted her up in my arms and kissed her red young lips and tear-stained cheeks. "good-bye, nance!" "good-bye, sir. god bless you!" at a bend in the road i turned to look at her again. she was standing there, looking after me, and waved her bonnet in farewell. i took off my hat and waved back, and then she was gone from sight. "she's a good girl is nance," said i aloud, "and you, curse you, are the cause of all my troubles"--this to my new hat. my foppery had cost me dear. what would the prince say to my failure? what would margaret say? there would once more be questionings in her eyes, and the shadow of doubt on her face. "curse you!" i said again to the hat, and then, with a swift, strong sweep of my arm, sent it spinning into a brook. sultan showed his points. he did ten miles in fifty minutes by my watch, accurate timing and counting from one milestone to another. at last the broad trent came in sight and i rattled over swarkston bridge, only to be pulled up on the other side by a strong post of highlanders. my luck still held, however, for donald was amongst them, and, on his explaining who i was, the chief in command let me pass. donald trotted by my side for half a mile to give me all the news. the prince had lain all night at derby in the earl of exeter's house. there had been many rumours and wranglings among the chiefs at night, a council of war was fixed for this morning, and no one knew what it was all about. there had been great doings overnight in the town, and he, donald, had stood guard at the prince's lodging. "she dinged 'em a', as i tell't ye she would," he said. "losh, man, it was a grand sight to see her an' the bonny maclachlan gliding ower ta flure in ta dancin'. they were like twa gowden eagles gliding in the air ower a ben wi' ta sun shinin' on it. losh, man, i tell it ye, they're a bonny, bonny pair. got pless 'em." "good-bye, donald! i'll push on. damn swift nicks!" i cried, and gave sultan such a dig in the flanks that he shot ahead like an arrow from a bow. i was sorry immediately, but it was more than i could stand. chapter xx the council at derby it was a relief to get into the chock-full streets of the town, where thinking was impossible and good round cursing indispensable. even with its aid in clearing a course for him, sultan tumbled over a brace of highlanders, two of a swarm of maclachlans and macdonalds who were disputing possession of a cutler's shop on the corner of bag street. after their native fashion, they immediately suspended their quarrel to unite against a common foe, but on a maclachlan recognizing me as a friend, went at one another again with infinite zest, and i saw them hard at it as i turned into the market-square. our meagre collection of cannon had been packed here with their appendancies, and i was threading my way through them to the far side of the square, where stands exeter house, and was within a flick of a pebble of it, when the colonel ran out, bareheaded and eager, and came up to me. "you young dog! what's happened?" said he. "i've lost my hat, sir," i replied. "lost your--damme! i'll have you court-martialled yet before i've done with you. off you come! hello, my precious. hitch him to the tail of yon wagon and come along. the prince saw you from the window. steady, my beauty! come along, noll! fancy a town the size of this and not a damned pinch of strasburg in it!" i hurried after him through the hall and up the stairs. something big was in hand beyond a doubt, for hall and stairs were thronged with groups of highland leaders, and in one set, somewhat apart, i saw murray and ogilvie. the colonel took no notice of the curious looks that were cast upon us, particularly me, but, after a word with the chief on duty, ushered me unceremoniously into the presence. charles was taking short turns up and down near the hearth, but stopped as i bowed before him. "you've failed me!" he said bitterly. "i have carried out your royal highness's commands exactly, though, to my deep regret, not punctually, but every hour i am late has been spent under arrest. in riding on your business, sir, i have ridden up to the foot of the gallows." i spoke quietly but crisply, for i would not be girded at unjustly, no, not by a prince. he took my meaning, and answered generously, "as i knew you would, master wheatman, if need were." the noble panelled room in which we were was set out with a long table and many chairs. at the head of the table a mean-looking man was busily writing. at the window two other men stood in earnest conversation, and these, as i learned later, were the irishmen, sir thomas sheridan and colonel o'sullivan. "leave your dispatch, mr. secretary, and come hither. and you, too, gentlemen!" said charles. so, with the prince sitting near the fire and the four leaders ranged behind him, i stood and told my tale, cutting out all that was meaningless from their point of view. as i had expected, there was no mistaking its effect on him. i had indeed, come back empty-handed. yet he pulled himself together and said lightly, "well, gentlemen, if the men of the midlands are not for me, they are certainly not against me." "that is a strong point in your favour, sir," said o'sullivan. "when i've thrashed the duke and got into london," said charles, buoyed up at once by any straw of comfort, "they'll be round me like wasps round a honey-pot. i wasn't clear last night, but master wheatman has decided me. i ride into london in highland dress." "i applaud the decision of your royal highness," said the foxy secretary. "it is a merited compliment to your brave clansmen." he afterwards ratted and so helped to hang some of the best of them. "now for your dispatch to the marquis," said charles, going towards the secretary's papers. "there's time to look at it before murray and his supports arrive." o'sullivan walked softly to one of the windows overlooking the square, and we followed him. "faith, colonel," said he. "the game's up if we go on." "it is," said the colonel, tapping at his box. "damn this rappee, oliver. i'd as lief sniff at sawdust." "but if the prince wants to go on, i back him up," added o'sullivan. "so do i," said sir thomas. "so do i," echoed the colonel, "but, damme, i shall tell him the precise truth about the military aspect of the situation. one's my duty as a soldier just as much as the other. i haven't the least objection to dying, but be damned if i want my reputation to die with me. the most you can say of rappee, oliver, is that it's better than nothing." "that's just what i've been thinking, sir," said i, with equal gravity, "about my old hat." "you're keeping that story for margaret, you young dog, but she's bound to tell me. i was out of bed till two o'clock this morning, listening to her clatter about getting married quick, and walls of troy, and ham and eggs. she nearly prated the top of my head off, and did not kiss me good-night till i'd told her for the seventeenth time that there was no need to worry about you. seventeen times"--a vigorous sniff and a merry twinkle--"i counted 'em." it was obvious nonsense, but it pained me. "it was very kind of her, sir," i said at last. "humph!" said he, and turned to talk with the irishmen. i kept a sharp look out on the square below, hoping for a glimpse of margaret, paying no heed to the earnest conversation buzzing in my ear. princes and dominions, and marches and battles, were nothing to me as i stood there fighting for mastery over myself. i was pulled back from these slippery tracks of thought by the colonel, who gripped my arm and whispered, "here they come, oliver." i looked to the door and saw the chiefs filing into the room, led by murray, with the greater ones immediately behind him and the others in due degree, till the room was fairly crowded. charles continued his colloguing with mr. secretary while they disposed themselves according to their rank in council, though the duke of perth was pleased to take his stand on the hearth among some of the smaller sort. sir thomas sheridan and colonel o'sullivan left us and seated themselves nearer the prince, and when they had done so, and while there was still some noisy settling down to be done, i whispered to the colonel, "oughtn't i to go out now, sir?" "i'm for going on to london," said he, grinning at me with his eyes, though he kept the face of a wooden image. "and first thing we do, oliver, we'll lead a desperate attack, you and i, on a tobacco-man's. damme! there's wagon-loads of strasburg in london!" "suppose i start off now, sir, and mark down one or two of the primest." "suppose you stay where you are, lad," he replied. "you're here by rights: first, because the prince asked ye here and has not dismissed you, and you never leave the presence of royalty till royalty kicks you out; secondly"--pausing to take a pinch of rappee that would have lifted the roof of my head off--"because you can't have less sense than some of these chatterers. council of war! mob of parliament-men!" thus it came about that, thanks to swift nicks, i was present at the great council which was to decide the fate of the stuarts. i pushed behind the colonel, so that i could now and again steal a peep for margaret. just at the last minute, with charles lifting his eyes up to begin, the door opened again to admit maclachlan, red with the haste he had been making. it made me grit my teeth to see him, for i knew why he was so hot. he had been fluttering around margaret, and so had lost count of time. then i stopped my gritting and started grinning. much margaret would think of a man who neglected his soldiering to dangle at her apron-strings! his royal highness, after his usual habit, opened the council by stating his own opinion. "i have called you together, gentlemen," he said, "to consider our next step. the question is: shall we march west, cut the duke's forces in two, and so beat him, or, shall we take advantage of the fact that we are nearer london than he is, press on, and take possession of the capital? i am strongly for the second plan." "damme, sir! well put!" said the colonel under his breath. and indeed it was so well put that the chiefs looked rather hopelessly at one another, for this was by no means the alternative that they had in mind. it was to them, as soon appeared, no choice between south and west that they had come to discuss, but the much more important choice between south and north. for a minute or two there was a muttering of gaelic, which the prince did not understand, at any rate, so far as the words were concerned. then lord george murray rose, bowed profoundly to the prince, and began the case for the chiefs. "the duke of cumberland," he said, "was that night at stafford with an army of ten thousand foot and two thousand horse. mr. wade was coming by hard marches down the east road and could easily get between his royal highness's army and scotland. they had authentic news that an army was being encamped on the north of london. if, then, they marched to london they would have two armies in their rear and one in front of them, and, high as he rated the valour and prowess of the army he had the honour, under his royal highness, of commanding, it was vain to suppose that they could defeat three armies each at least twice as numerous as they. none of the advantages on which they had relied when they agreed to enter england had been realized. they had received no accession of strength worth considering from the english jacobites; the population were not friendly but at all times surly and neutral, and on all possible occasions openly hostile; the promised french invasion had not even been attempted. scotland they had won for his majesty and could and should keep it for him. to do this required them to return with all speed and with undiminished forces. on all these grounds he, and those for whom he spoke, implored his royal highness to return thither and consolidate his forces for a fresh attempt under more favourable conditions." his lordship had spoken calmly and with no outward sign of feeling except that, as he got toward the end of his speech and his drift became open and manifest, his voice gained more and more emphasis as he saw the undisguised impatience and growing anger of charles. the prince paid no courteous attention to the arguments of his chief military adviser, but shot eager glances round the ring of faces, and particularly at his grace of perth, who was visibly flattered by this mute appeal. the colonel, who noted all this by-play, was nettled by the prince's indifference to military authority, and whispered, "well done, geordie murray! right as a trivet!" the speech done, the prince struck his clenched fist on the table and said, "i am for marching on london." it was plain, however, that the chiefs were against him almost to a man. murray was clearly in the right, and his military skill and experience gave him great authority. as yet there was no open murmuring against the prince; nothing but manifest determination not to be won over by his cajoleries or threats. "why should we not go on?" demanded the prince passionately. "here we are, masters of the heart of england. a quick, bold stroke, and london is ours. the game is in our hands." "game?" cried a rugged, headstrong chief, macdonald of glencoe. "the game's up, sir, thanks to these beer-swilling english friends of your house, who are jacobites only round a cosy fire with mugs in their hands." "they are only awaiting an earnest of victory," said charles. "waiting for us to do the work," said glencoe bitterly, "and then blithe they'll be to hansel the profits. we can gang back to scotland as quick as we like when we've ance got london for 'em!" there was a growl of assent from the chiefs, but silence fell again when the venerable tullibardine, too racked with gout to stand, took up the word. he spoke as one who had grown old and weary and poor in the service of the exiled house. the conditions of success, he said, had always been the same: the highland adherents of his majesty could never hope to be more than the centre around which the real sources of strength, english support and french aid, might gather; and these had failed now as they had failed in ' . "i dare not," he concluded, "lift my voice to urge men to take risks which i am too feeble to share." charles put up a stout fight, but it was no use. chief after chief had his say, and then said it again and again. maclachlan shifted from his place near the door to the corner of the hearth and, after whispering a while with the duke of perth, confusedly gave his opinion in favour of going back. he was no sort of a speaker, being ill at ease, and plainly occupied in rummaging about in his mind. having wits, however, he stumbled on a new line of argument. "then, sir," he said, "there is the great port of glasgow to be taken in. there's more ready wealth there than in any other town in scotland, and its moneys, public and peculiar, will give you the means of raising a great army for the spring." "any port in a storm," said the prince, scowling at him. being a stuart, charles did not realize that every one of these chiefs was a king-in-little, accustomed to unfettered independence of action. there were curious contrasts in him, for he was as blundering and incapable in dealing with an assembly as he was sure and brilliant in dealing with a man by himself. feeling began to run high. one of the chiefs jerked himself on to his feet and harangued the prince like a master rating an apprentice. he was almost as long and thin as one of jane's line-props, and had high, jutting cheek-bones and jaws that snapped on the ends of his sentences like a rat-trap. "i'm for gaein' back while the road's open behint us," he said. "if we dinna, and i get back at a', which is dootfu', i shall gae back wi' barely a dozen loons to my tail, an' the cawmbells, be damned to every man o' the name, will ride on my back for the rest of my days." "ye're in the right of it, strowan," said my lord ogilvie. "there's too few of us for this work, but a little peat will boil a little pot. let us gang back and raddle the glasgow bodies. ye hae my advice, sir!" here the prince, to my mind, made a fatal mistake. he had begun by trying to carry matters merely by the weight of his royal authority. this was ever his plan in council, and as long as things went well it served, since the chiefs, looking forward as they then did to ultimate triumph, were not willing to risk his displeasure by standing out against him. now that they were in a tight corner this cock would fight no longer, and he made matters worse by appealing to the irishman, o'sullivan, for his opinion. he briefly gave it in favour of going on. one tale will hold till another's told. o'sullivan had a great reputation as a master of the irregular mode of fighting, which must be adopted by an army composed, like ours, of untrained men not equipped according to the rules and requirements of soldiership. but my lord george murray was ready for him. "great as colonel o'sullivan's reputation is, sir," he said sweetly, "we have with us in colonel waynflete another soldier of great distinction. his views would be welcome, sir." "yes, indeed," said the prince eagerly. "for myself, sir," said the colonel, snuff-box open in hand, for he had been surprised with the rappee between his fingers, "i am ready to go on. i came to serve your royal highness, and i serve my commander as he chooses, not as i would choose myself. but when you ask me as to the military result of going on, i tell you frankly, as becomes a soldier of experience asked in council to deliver his opinion, that it is idle to expect this present force to get to london. as you get nearer london, sir, the country becomes of a kind which your army could not successfully operate in. it would be confined to roads lined with hedges and passing through many defendable towns and villages. your short, powerful charges would be out of the question. the english as a whole fight well, no men better; we can't rationally expect all of them to run off at a highland yell, and with the country in their favour and london behind them, a source of constant fresh supplies to them, we should be wiped out in detail. your royal highness wishes to go on, and therefore i am willing to go on, but your royal highness cannot capture london with the force at your disposal." he finished and took his snuff with zest, seeing that it was still rappee, and handed me the box with great composure. in all they talked and wrangled for three hours, and i got very tired of it all and spent my time looking through the window for margaret. there would be no profit in setting down more of what was said. indeed, no fresh point was raised until the prince argued vehemently in favour of turning off for wales, where his adherents were supposed to be very strong. this produced a fresh crop of speeches, all on one note--the necessity of starting back for scotland. the duke of perth had been silent so far. he had stood on the hearth, near the fire, the warmth of which he stood greatly in need of, being slight and weakly. he had turned his eyes from one speaker to another as the debate went on, and had gently rubbed the back of his head against the panelling, as if to stimulate thought. the speech of colonel waynflete plainly had a great effect on him, and i could see that he was making up his mind, for he continued the gentle rubbing of his head but took no note of the wrangling and jangling about the welsh project. the storm lulled, for it had blown itself out. everything sayable had been said times out of number. "i am for marching back at once," he declared in a loud voice. i was heartily sorry for the prince. in his mind's eye he had seen himself in the palace of his fathers with a nation repentant at his feet. he did not know england,--no stuart ever did,--or he would have known that the wave of chivalry that had carried him so far was bound to spend itself on the indifferent english as a wave spends itself on the indifferent sands. yet it was hard to go back, hard to know that he had done so much more than his grandfather in ' or his father in ' , and done it in vain. his standard was proudly flaunting in the heart of england over the grave of his cause. but he died well. "rather than go back," he cried, "i would wish to be twenty feet under ground!" with a wave of his hand he dismissed the council. "slip out and look after sultan," whispered the colonel. "i am aide-de-camp to the prince and cannot come. take him to the 'bald-faced stag' in the irongate, to your right across the square. you should find margaret there, and mr. freake." i was edging out in the tail of the procession when mr. secretary, moved thereto by the prince, sidled up to me, his sly eyes overrunning the outgoing chiefs as he came. he laid his hand on my arm, which gave me the creeps, and said, "his royal highness would speak with you, sir." he sidled back again with me behind him, wondering how far one fair kick would lift him. i stood stiff and awkward before the prince, who, however, addressed the colonel. "your speech was a shrewd blow to me, colonel. nay, don't protest! you did a soldier's duty by me in council as you will do it in battle. i ask no more." "and i shall do no less, sir," said the colonel. "well, give me a pinch of snuff, and i'll ask your advice on another military point." this was the straight way to the colonel's heart, taking snuff and talking soldiership being to him the twin boons of life. charles took his rappee thoughtfully and then said, "what is the best way of dealing with a solid body of the enemy with inferior forces?" "split 'em up and smash 'em in detail, sir." "what d'ye say to that, tom sheridan?" asked charles. "the oracle of delphi could not have spoken better, sir," replied sir thomas. "damn your oracle of delphi, you old rascal," cried the prince, with great good-humour. "that's a crumb of the mouldy bread of learning you used to cram down my throat in the old days. it makes master wheatman writhe to hear it. the only advantage i ever got out of being a prince was that old tom here never dared thrash me for gulping up his rubbish." "master wheatman knows latin enough to stock a couple of bishops, sir," said the colonel. "the devil he does!" said charles admiringly. "he'll come in handy for writing me a letter to his holiness." "it's not such bad stuff as all that, sir," said i, glad of a chance of saying something, for i had been hurt to the quick by talk that reminded me of how i had quizzed jack's classics in old comfit's entry. "to come back to the colonel's advice," said charles. "i've split 'em up and now i'm going to smash 'em in detail. we're not going back, sirs, if i can help it. master wheatman,"--and here he naturally and unaffectedly took on a princely tone--"we appoint you our assistant aide-de-camp, and desire your attendance on our person during the day, under the more immediate authority of our excellent friend, colonel waynflete." at a sign from the colonel, which i was lucky enough to see the meaning of, i dropped on my knee before the prince. "thank you, master wheatman," said charles, in his ordinary frank way, when i rose. "you're worth a hundred rats like young maclachlan." i coloured, partly with the praise and partly because i was wondering how many smite-and-spare-nots i was worth. i was then closely questioned about the lie of the land to the south of stafford and derby. after a long consultation, the prince dismissed me, with a gracious invitation to be one of the royal party at dinner, promising me, with a sly smile, that the company should be to my liking. the colonel and i withdrew. in the corridor he put me in charge of an upper servant of the household, and went to see to sultan. my new acquaintance was an elderly man of a solemn, soapy aspect, set off by a sober black livery and a neat wig. he took me up to a bedroom, and saw to my comfort. "william, or whatever it is," i began. "william it is, sir," said he. "do i look like an assistant aide-de-camp to a prince?" he took stock of me, from my dirty boots to my bare head, and then said solemnly, "no, sir!" "william," said i, "but that's precisely what i am." "yes, sir," he replied. "therefore this is precisely your opportunity, william." "yes, sir," said he. "william," i went on insinuatingly, "i think you could, knowing this house so intimately as you do, make me look something like an assistant aide-de-camp to a prince. it's a tough job, william, but you'll do it. i can see it in your eye. by virtue of the power adherent to the assistant aide-de-camp of a prince, we hereby authorize you to do all things that may be necessary for the accomplishment of our purpose, and, when your task is over, you will, by a curious coincidence, find five guineas under yon candlestick. life, william, is full of coincidences." "yes, sir." "but not as full of guineas, william, as it should be. set to work!" instead of going he stood there, gently washing his hands with imaginary soap and water, and finally said, "you will of course, sir, be very angry if i do not do as you bid me." "i shall, william," said i, lathering away at my chin. "i may take it, sir, that you'll blow my brains out if i don't." "blow your--oh, i see! certainly!" said i, tailing off from astonishment into understanding. the quiet humour of the man was delightful. i fetched a pistol out of my pocket and added gravely, "william, unless i am, in appearance as well as in fact, a prince's assistant aide-de-camp in half an hour, i'll blow your brains out. now clear out, while i have a bath!" "thankee, sir. it'll be all right now. my lord is, i should say, just of a size with your honour." william was an artist and fitted me out with the nothing-too-much of exact taste. there were garments by the score that would have made a popinjay of me, but he knew better, and turned a sober young yeoman into a sober young gentlemen, and there's no harder task, as i have frequently observed since. "sir," said he at length, stepping back a few paces to con me over, "in any other man i should deplore the obstinacy-excuse my plainness, sir--which declines to wear a wig, but the general result, the _tout ensemble_, as my lord would put it, is agreeable." "william," i replied, "you err through ignorance--excuse my plainness, william. the best wheatman of the hanyards that ever lived would have burned at the stake rather than wear a wig. i've done most of the other things he would have burned for, but i'll stick by him to this extent that i'll be damned if i'll wear a wig." i never have, and it is no small measure due to me that the wearing of wigs is being left to lawyers and doctors, who, i understand, find it pays to look old and old-fashioned. "quite so, sir! a very proper sentiment," said william, with his eye on the candlestick. "it's family pride that keeps the great families agoing, sir, and they're the backbone of the constitution, sir!" after this high sentence, as i was ready to go, he gravely escorted me to the door and bowed me out. i dropped my ear to the keyhole and heard the chink of the guineas. william clearly had a very pretty appreciation of the best means of keeping himself agoing. a suaver, defter rascal i have never set eyes on. i had already so much of soldiership as to know that it is well to master the ins and cuts and roundabouts of a strange house. if an emergency comes it may be the best guide to action. "know your ground and win your fight," the colonel used to say, and it's as true of a house as of a province. so i walked softly and watchfully about, and in doing so had turned sharp to the right to gain a view of the river and the gardens, when i came on the lady ogilvie. she was kneeling on a cushioned settle, resting her chin in her hands, and her elbows on the high back of the seat. she turned to see who it was. her face was clouded over, but the sun of her smile broke through in a flash, and she darted joyously at me. "it's the incomparable one!" she cried, bubbling over with merriment. "nay, i vow, it's the still more incomparable one. losh, man, and ye look bonny! i'm telling it ye, and i've seen more bonny men than you've seen bullocks. sit down and tell me where you've been and what you've done. davie says you tell't him i was very, very guid. and so i am," she ended complacently, "and if any man says the differ...." "he'll do well to keep out of davie's road and mine," i cut in, as i was building up the cushions into a soft corner for her. "you're an unco' guid lad," she said, wriggling into her nest, "an' if it werena for some one i ken i'd gie ye anither kiss." i willingly admit that i wished davie far enough, for she was a very dainty lady, with a mouth like an open rose-bud. we had a long talk, for i told her all about my doings with ghost, thieves, thief-catchers, and baby blount. she enjoyed it to the top of her bent. then, when i had come to the end of my tale, she sobered all of a sudden, and said, "oliver, what's going to happen to us?" "i don't know," said i. "there's something in the wind i dinna like. davie's a' for ganging back. we women ought never to have come. davie can think o' naething but me. as if i mattered a tup's head, the silly gomeril, bless him! now there's your maclachlan. he'd go to london if it was full o' deevils to fetch a stay-lace for margaret, but he's a' for the homeward gait too!" "the best military opinion is that it is hopeless to go on," said i. "and i dinna think it's much better to gae back, laddie. it's a retreat. ca' it what you like, you can mak' nae ither thing of it, and these highland bodies, ance they retreat, will break to bits. naething will keep the main of 'em taegither, ance they cross the highland line again. sae it's a black look out, oliver, but i dinna mind ane wee bit. if i'd no been a jacobite, i'd never hae met my davie yonder. he's worth it a', is davie." "it's a hard task for any man to be worthy of your ladyship," said i, "but davie's worthy if any man is." "and davie reckons you're fine," she replied, smiling. "margaret pit him doon for three dances, and sat in a corner with him through 'em a'. i wonder the incomparable one's lugs"--i knew what she meant because she pinched one--"arena burnt off his head. you should hae seen maclachlan ranting and raving like an auld doited tup!" "it is pleasant to learn that mistress waynflete is so interested in my doings," said i, with as much coolness and aloofness as i could muster. i would at least keep my foolishness on my own side of my teeth. "unco pleasant, i hae nae doot," was her dry comment. and she set her red lips aslant as if she were swallowing vinegar. i remembered my new function, and looked at my watch. i had long overrun the hour the colonel had given me. "your ladyship will pardon me," said i, springing up, "but i'm overdue for duty." "duty?" "yes. his royal highness has appointed me assistant aide-de-camp to himself." i spoke with much impressiveness but, to my chagrin, instead of the congratulations that were my due on such an occasion, she looked concerned and almost angry, and cried, "the very deil's in it!" "i am sorry your ladyship is displeased," i said coldly. scot clings to scot, and she did not like it. "displeased, ye daft gomeril!" she retorted. "and i suppose you'll be pleased, and margaret will shout for joy, if ye get a dirk in your assistant aide-de-camp's ribs ane o' these fine nights. just understand ance for a', my friend, that a highlander kills a man wi' as little compunction as an englishman squashes a beetle. there's nane o' your law-and-order bodies beyont the highland line." "nothing but common murderers!" said i hotly. "i have heard much of the virtues of the highlanders of late, but this surprises me." "hoots! murderers?" she cried. "no such silly saxon whimsies. they've got as many virtues as any englisher that ever snivelled prayer and shortened yardstick. murderers! hoots, my mannie! just removers of difficulties!" so she turned it off with a jest in her pretty way, and got up and jigged along the corridor with me after her, longing to jig it with her, but hobbled by my new dignity. i had no clear notion of an assistant aide-de-camp's duties, but felt that they required a certain solemnity of manner inconsistent with her ladyship's grasshopper ways. in the end, she dancing and i lumbering along, we came on a cheerful group collected in the corridor below. there was the prince, the duke of perth, the lord ogilvie, the two irishmen, mr. secretary, the colonel, a strange lady or two, and margaret. "i thought your ladyship was lost," said charles, smiling. "on the contrary, sir," she retorted, "i was found." "the usual explanation," he commented lightly. "a most unusual explanation, sir," she countered deftly, "for mr. wheatman has been explaining how it came to pass that he kissed a ghost." "i never said any such thing," cried i, vexed to the bone. "it wasna necessary," she said airily. "was it the ghost of a lady?" asked the duke, who had been greatly amused by the dialogue. "the question could only be asked," said charles, "by one who has not the advantage of knowing master wheatman." he laid a hand on my arm and drew me nearer. "my lord duke," he went on, "i present to you the latest addition to my army, mr. oliver wheatman of the hanyards, the first-fruit, i am convinced, of a rich harvest from the gentry of his shire." it was no plan of mine to cry stinking fish to a prince who had engentried me in such distinguished company. "i'll have two blue stars and a jack in my coat-armour," thought i, as i bowed to the duke, who made himself singularly graceful. there was now a general movement down the corridor, headed by the prince with one of the unknown ladies on his arm. there was no other formal pairing though lady ogilvie deftly snapped up the duke as he was coming for margaret, and thus left her to me. she let the last pair get a yard or two ahead of us, and then looked at me, her eyes full of laughter, curtsied, and said, "good morrow, sir kiss-the-ghost!" "good morrow, madam," said i stoutly. she put her arm in mine and, as we moved off, whispered mockingly, "sensible ghost!" chapter xxi master freake knows at last dinner was a success from the prince's point of view. the duke was completely won over to the idea of our going on, and even the lord ogilvie at one time wavered before the prince's onslaught. the irishmen were strongly in favour of it, and mr. secretary, when thawed by wine, grew expansive over its advantages. i incline to think that the rascal had ratted already, and was anxious to get all he could out of the government by leading the prince into a trap. trap it would have been, as culloden plainly showed. against english regular soldiers, resolutely led, the highlanders would work no more miracles. so for a space the chatter and laughter went on. charles was already in st. james's, and the ladies were already queening it in the new court over the renegade beauties of the old one. even margaret caught some of the enthusiasm, so that i whispered to her, "you beat our kate at counting your unhatched chickens." whereat she sobered all of a sudden, and whispered, "maybe you are right, oliver!" "i hope for your sake they are true prophets," i said. "i should dearly like to see you a marchioness before i go back to my farming." "that's one of the chickens i've not counted," she said. she looked at me very steadily, and then turned and plunged into the stream of conversation flowing around her. her father had steered clear of all awkward topics, taking for granted that we were going on. charles got less cautious as he got surer, and moreover, as i could not but observe, he was mellowing somewhat under the brandy he was drinking. princes commonly have no judgment of men, having never the need of noting their humours in order to mould them to their will. so now charles bluntly attacked the colonel again on the military aspect of the situation, which was merely butting against a stone wall. "you must remember, colonel," he said, "that my highlanders have driven the english soldiery before them like sheep. they wiped out an army of them at gladsmuir in less than fifteen minutes, and only lost thirty men killed in doing it." "sir," said the colonel, "give me one thousand english soldiers for a week and i'll pit them against any thousand highlanders you like to bring against 'em." "then it's a good job you're on my side," said charles. "it is indeed, sir," said the colonel, very quietly, "and under favour, sir, you will be well advised to have your troops exercised in the best ways of charging men who don't mean to run from them. there's no military science wanted to beat men who run away from you as soon as you attack. as i understand it, your highlander fires his piece from a good distance, throws it away, and then rushes to the attack. if the enemy stands, he catches the bayonet of the man in front of him in his leather shield, where it sticks, and so has him at mercy, and through you go like a knife through a cheese." "that's just how it's done, colonel," said charles merrily. "well, sir, that's just how it wouldn't be done if i was in command against you." there was neither eating nor drinking going on now, except that the prince poured out his third glass of brandy. everybody was intent on the dialogue. ogilvie, his hand clasping his wife's under the skirt of the napery, looked so intently at the colonel that his face was like a figure in a euclid book. "how would you stop it, sir?" it was mr. secretary who spoke, for charles was sipping at his brandy. "we're all friends here?" said the colonel brusquely. "all loyal to the last drop of our blood," replied mr. secretary fervently. "i dare say," was the colonel's dry comment, "but it's much more important at times to be loyal to the last wag of your tongue." "then i only answer, as in the presence of god, for myself," said he piously. "leaving god to look after mr. secretary," said charles, banging his empty glass on the table. "i'll answer for the rest. so get on with your plan, colonel." "his royal highness has selected the easier task," whispered margaret in my ear. "well, sir," began the colonel, "i should say to my men: 'when the highlanders charge, take no notice of the man who is coming straight at you. keep your eye on his left-hand man, who is coming at your right-hand man. don't fire at him till you can see the whites of his eyes, and if you don't bring him down with the bullet, have at him and thrust your bayonet into his right ribs. there's no buckler there, and his right arm will be up to strike. the man coming at you will be attended to in the same way by your left-hand man.' after a week's practice in that little trick, sir, i should face any charge your highlanders liked to make, and would bet a thousand guineas to this pinch of rappee--poor stuff as it is--on stopping 'em dead in their tracks." "by gad! and so you would, sir!" said my lord ogilvie explosively. "it sounds feasible," said old sir thomas, "but fortunately colonel waynflete is with us, and can teach us new tricks." "of course he can," said charles. "what do you say, master wheatman? you know him." "that old poachers make the best gamekeepers, sir," i answered. "_nom de chien_," cried the colonel, twirling fiercely round on me. margaret, who sat between us, laughingly pretended to protect me from him, and he thrust his snuff-box across at me. the prince rose, and, followed by murray, left the room. we all stood gossiping together. ogilvie and o'sullivan talked very earnestly about the colonel's trick. his grace of perth ogled margaret off towards the window on pretence of showing her some sight of interest in the square. "did they leave him in the lurch?" twittered a voice mockingly in my ear. it was my lady ogilvie. "it must be nice to be with a duke," said i, very glum and miserable again all of a sudden. "it's a great deal nicer to be with a man," she answered. "come and help me throw crumbs to the pretty wee birdies in the garden." in his attempt to 'smash 'em in detail' the prince was acute enough to use the colonel, and condescending enough to use me, as supporters. the unrivalled military skill which the colonel would devote to the winning of london was dwelt upon until even the colonel, in no wise inclined to under-estimate it, got restive, and snuffed and pshawed with great vigour. i, of course, was the early, strong-winged swallow that announced the flights of laggards behind. there were some dozen chiefs of considerable position in the prince's army, and he tackled them one by one, and tried to argue them into his way of thinking. some he sent for to his lodging; others he visited in theirs--a special but wasted mark of distinction. on the whole they would not budge. they were courteous and respectful, for they were gentlemen, and he was their prince, but their minds were made up and they would not surrender their wills to his. mostly, in their talk, they simply chewed over again the morning's cud. mr. secretary went off as envoy to fetch the chiefs to exeter house, where the prince received them in his little private chamber overlooking the gardens. he would stand, silent and moody, glowering out of the window, with the colonel and me standing silent and thoughtful behind him. i felt keenly for him, for he was indeed a gracious, likeable young fellow, born to purple poverty and a shadowy princedom, and now, as he thought, with the reality of wealth and power snatched out of his grasp. "if we go back," said he, turning his eyes on me, so that i saw how life and light had quite gone out of them, "it's all over with my house." "i hope not, sir," said i. "i know it is," he cried bitterly, almost rudely. "all over with us--and all over with me. if we go on, i shall at the worst go to my grave strong and sweet. if we go back--" he paused and looked moodily out of the window. i think now, as i picture him to myself standing there, that he knew himself well enough to know what was coming. for another picture of him comes to my mind, as i saw him in rome many years later, and shuddered as i saw him. he turned and smiled at me, as one smiles who sips sour wine. "if we go back, friend wheatman, i shall just rot into it." he spoke truth. i saw him rotting. and then, because he had more stuff in him than any other royal stuart that ever lived, he turned round, proud and princely, as the door opened and in came mr. secretary with macdonald of glencoe, a short-horned bull of a man. "and when was it," said he, rapping the words out like hammer-strokes on an anvil, "that the macdonalds got feart?" the chief pulled up short, hit clean and hard between the eyes. "ye'll never see a feart macdonald," he said, "if ye live to be as auld as ben nevis." "ye're in the wrong, glencoe," said charles. "i saw one this morning, and he was frightened of the english." "i'll gie ye the lie o' that," roared glencoe, "if i hae to scrat my way into london wi' ma nails." "i'll be glad of the lie from you on those terms," replied charles calmly, "and you shall ride into london at my right hand while i take my words back." the prince went to a table and filled a silver-gilt tass with brandy. he sipped it and then, handing it to the chief, said, "we'll share the same glass to-day, glencoe, as a pledge that we'll share the same victory to-morrow." i did not like his brandy-drinking, but he did it well this time. as i have said, he was at his best in dealing with a single man face to face. it is only the rarest and finest spirits that can dominate a crowd. at a sign from the prince the colonel and i escorted the chief to the door, bestowing on him, as was due and politic, every courtesy. he looked like a man who, after days of doubt, had newly found himself. "we've got him!" cried charles gleefully as the door closed behind him. "now, gentlemen, i crave your attendance on a progress round the town. mr. wheatman, bear our compliments to my lord elcho, and bid him call out some score or so of our guards to escort us." we made a gallant show as we walked the streets of derby in the early grey of that december evening. ahead of us went a dozen dismounted life-guards to clear the causeways. then followed mr. secretary with a brace or two of town notables unwillingly yoked to the task of giving an appearance of local support; then followed the prince, between o'sullivan and the colonel, with young clanranald and me at their heels; and another dozen life-guards in the rear. as we passed along the causeways, a score or so of mounted guards, with lord elcho at their head, kept level with us in the roadways. volleys of slogans greeted us wherever we went, for the town was full to bursting of the clansmen. the townsmen crowded to doors and windows to watch us pass. the prince doffed to them every other yard, but he and all of us were mere curiosities to most of them. the progress was stayed at the "white horse" in sadler-gate, and the prince, with us, his immediate attendants, turned into the inn-yard, with its long uneven lines of stables and coach-houses, all packed with camerons. at the news of the prince's coming they trooped out, yelling lustily. some sort of order was formed, and the prince walked up and down among the swaying, uncouth masses, with a cheery smile on his face, and with now and again a phrase of their own gaelic on his lips. "the men are keen enough," he said to the colonel apart. "let us go within and see what mood young lochiel is in now." lochiel, 'young' only by way of distinction from a lochiel still older, wanted no digging out, for, the news having been carried to him, he ran out bareheaded and breathless. he was, in fact, a middle-aged gentleman, broody and melancholy at times, as these men of the mountains are apt to be when they've got brains. at the council he had been silently set on going back. "your men are in fine fettle, lochiel," said charles, "and as keen as their claymores to be at it." "they dinnae see the hoodie-craws gathering for the feast," said lochiel sombrely. "they see the battle won and the spoils of victory, after the usual way with the camerons," replied the prince. "they havenae the gift of far-seeing," said the chief, gloomily proud of his own prophetic powers. charles started impatiently, and there would have been a wrangle but for the colonel. "sir," said he, addressing the prince, "you will forgive an old campaigner for being a stickler for the rules and procedures of military operations. an inn-yard, with soldiery around and townsfolk gaping through doors and windows, is no place for a council of war. the gentleman is pleased to dream, of birds, as i gather. let him back to the fireside and dream of them in peace." without another word the prince turned on his heel and strode out of the yard. i attended him at first, but missed the colonel, and turned back to him, for lochiel was all a highlander, seer one minute and savage the next. indeed, i found him, all his moodiness gone, as mad as a hatter. "i'll hae the heart's blood o' ye for this, prince or no prince," he bawled at the colonel, who, precisely as i expected, was seizing the welcome opportunity of having a pinch of snuff. "good lad!" said he, holding out the box, as indifferent to the crowding camerons as if they were sheep. "make it pigeons next time, mr. lochiel. damme, oliver, this rappee gets unendurable." his coolness took lochiel off the boil, and he and i passed out without another word into sadler-gate and hurried after the prince. we found the progress somewhat ragged, and, as we were only a few yards from the corner of rotten row, which forms the side of the square opposite exeter house, it was, i suppose, hardly worth while to trim it into shape again. in those few yards, however, an incident much more to my liking occurred, for just as we turned round the leading file of the rear of guards, we found that the prince had again halted, in the light of a shop-window, and this time it was to talk to margaret, who was standing there with master freake. it was a large shop with two well-stocked bow-windows. the doorway between them, and half the inwards of the shop, were filled with the shop master, his apprentices, and customers, crowding and craning to get a sight of the prince. over the door was a shield-shaped sign, bearing the derby ram for cognizance, and the legend, "martin moyle, grocer and italian warehouseman." i noted it then, because the word 'italian' carried me back to margaret's tirra-lirring, and i note it down now because, having looked at it, my eyes ranged over the heads of the gapers in the doorway to where maclachlan, on the fringe of the group, was dodging about to find a place where he could see margaret without being seen by the prince. master freake was talking with the prince as composedly as if they had been friends of old standing. we had missed the beginning of their talk, but it was plain that charles had expected a recruit and was disappointed. "and why do you stand aside from us both?" he asked. "sir," said the sedate merchant, "i am not interested in making kings." "what then?" "kingdoms, sir." "kingdoms!" cried the prince. "kingdoms!" reiterated master freake, with pride and emphasis. "but for me, and men like me, this country would be a waste not worth fighting for." the prince looked with astonishment at the calm, solid man who made this strange announcement. after a minute's reflection, he said, "mr. freake, i would talk with you in private, if you will." "with pleasure, sir," replied master freake. "and, naturally, mistress waynflete will not be cruel," continued the prince, offering his arm. margaret took it, and the procession moved on again. master freake linked his arm in mine, and we walked on together. "you've had adventures, i hear, since we parted, oliver." "i fell into the claws of poetic justice," i answered, "and, having failed as a real highwayman, nearly hanged as an imaginary one." he laughed. "well, keep out of the sergeant's claws. he's only five miles off with a brace of his dragoons, but little dot is watching him. the time to deal with him is not yet. wait till his lordship of brocton joins him. what do you think of the prince?" "i would not have believed a prince could be so likeable, sir." "i am, and shall remain, a mere observer," he said, "a mere tracker-down of ten per cent on good security, but i don't mind admitting that, prince for prince, i prefer this young gentleman to the fat, snuffy, waddling, little drill-sergeant he's trying to displace." "you know the king, sir!" "well, and i know his weak spot, too, which is more important for our purposes. if his gracious majesty went to bed to-night with as many guineas in his pocket as that"--he jingled his loose coin vigorously--"he'd sleep in his breeches." on the way to exeter house the prince recovered his high spirits, and even kept us waiting in the hall while he continued some lightsome argument margaret had led him into. at last he broke it off, laughing. "mr. freake will think me an idle princeling for this, madam," he said. "for your offence in thus hindering our matters of state we commit you to ward, and straightly charge our loyal subject, master wheatman, to hold you safe in keeping till after supper, when we will undertake to show you that our highland reel can be as graceful as your italian fandango." so, in great good humour, he went off with the colonel and master freake. "your aide-de-camp's commission runs so far, i trust," said margaret demurely, "as to permit me to choose my own cell." "i think that might be allowed, madam," i replied, with answerable gravity, "but of course i must sit outside the door and keep strict watch over you." "you would, i suppose, feel surer of me if you sat inside the door?" "naturally, madam." "then come along! i must know all that's knowable about that ghost. 'i never said any such thing,' quoth he! you're the cleverest man with your tongue i ever met, oliver. and with what a pretty heat he said it! just as, beyond a doubt, he did it with that pretty way he has." if words were tones, and smiles, and eye-flashes, and lip-curlings, i could tell you not only what margaret said but how she said it, and how, in saying it, she made mad sweet music ring within me. we were out in the square again now, threading our way among people i hardly saw for being so wrapt up in her. "was she a pretty ghost?" "very," said i decidedly. "how old was she?" "eighteen, or thereabouts." "eighteen! oh, dear! i never dreamed it was as bad as that. i think kiss-giving and kissable ghosts over thirteen ought not to be allowed. eighteen! it's a clear incitement to suicide!" i was laughing at her whimsical sally when one particular item in the crowd demanded attention, for it obtrusively barred our way. it was maclachlan, once again hot and red with haste, waving a small package he had in his hand. "ye left me, mistress margaret," he said. "i've been searching high and low for ye." "and i'm glad you've found me, for i see you've got me the olives. you are indeed kind, mr. maclachlan." "ye left me!" he repeated passionately. "that's true," she said lightly. "i forgot all about you till i saw a hand with an obvious bottle of olives dangling from it." now this was not margaret, or at least it was another strange side of her. with me she had been almost absurdly grateful for such little services as i had rendered. i had got her eggs, as he had got her olives, but i and my eggs had not been received like this. i looked from one to the other curiously. she was cool and smiling, as befitted some small social occasion. he was just as clearly throbbing with passion. he, the maclachlan, had been neglected, and neglected for me! i wondered why margaret did not tell him that the prince had commanded her company. that should have satisfied even him; but no, she left him in his error, and merely took the olives out of his hand, saying, "i hope they'll be fresh, though it's hardly to be expected in a little town in the middle of england." maclachlan had paid not the slightest attention to me and, while ready enough to deal with him, i paid none to him, and began to think him somewhat of an ass to be standing in the market-place of derby airing his passions. fortunately, perhaps, lord george murray, striding by towards exeter house, caught sight of us and stopped abruptly. "ha' ye made a' right at the bridge yonder, maclachlan?" the young chief's face supplied the answer. "ye havenae!" stormed murray. "by gad, sir," lugging out his watch, "if you don't, in two hours from now, report all arrangements made, i'll hae ye shot by a squad of the manchester ragabushes. aff wi' ye, ye jawthering young fule!" maclachlan went off without so much as a bow to margaret. "have you taken out your commission, sir?" said murray to me, snapping the words out as though he would have them shear my head off. "i have, my lord," i answered, forestalling the words with a correct military salute. "then what the blazes are you doing here?" "my lord," i answered firmly, "by the direct commission of his royal highness, given to me personally, i am escorting this lady to jail." "then i'll forgive ye!" he retorted, and his strong face lost all its anger and found the wraith of a smile. "dinnae be too hard on the lassie! she's ane of the right sort." he returned my salute, bowed courteously to margaret, and strode on "good lad!" said margaret, happily mimicking her father. "you shall have some of the olives in a minute or two." "olives seem to me precisely the right thing for us," said i. "and why, sir?" it was very curious to me to see how, in her speech to me, she whipped about from the familiar "oliver" to the stately "sir." there was always a reason for it, and i would have given much to know it. "your olives come from italy, and i have been thinking of your italian count." "so have i," she said very soberly, and never said another word till we were safe and quiet in her day-room at the "bald-faced stag." for over two hours i had margaret to myself, and we were as happy and companionable as we had been in dick doley's cottage. and at this i marvelled. our kate was the only woman i had to judge by, and when our kate got into her very best sunday gown she got into her tantrums along with it, and poor jack, what with awe of her finery and anxiety lest he should anger the minx, commonly had a thorny time of it. with margaret it was just the opposite. when we got in, she excused herself and went off to her own room, coming back, after a weary time, in such a glory of silks and satins that i blinked my eyes before her dazzlements. what made it worse was that there was a comb--as she called it, though i should in my ignorance have thought it some rich and rare work in filigree belonging to an empress--which, owing to the smallness of her mirror and the poor light, she could not get to sit perfectly in its golden cushion, and i was bidden to put it where and as it ought to be. i was a long time over the task, in part because i was really clumsy, but mainly because i was in no hurry. i got it right at last, and even ventured, very craftily and lightly, to kiss it as it lay there. "it's quite right now," said i. "at last! i'm afraid it's been a trouble to you. now, oliver, open the bottle of olives, and, while we eat them, tell me all about the ghost." many a time in the hard days that came to me later, i refreshed my soul by thinking those happy hours over again. they are part of me, but no part of my story, and i make no record of them here. we had long talks, with long silences between them, as can only happen with very real friends who are company for one another without a clatter of words. at last this golden time came to an end, for in walked the colonel and master freake to supper. "i am thankful," said the colonel to margaret. "murray told me you'd been taken to jail." "you heard the news with great content, i suppose," said margaret. "i did, because--" he stopped to frown into the snuff-box. "because of what? pray observe, gentlemen, what an affectionate father i have!" "because he also told me the name of your jailer!" "you don't deserve to have a daughter," declared margaret, with such a pretence of vehemence that her cheeks, between and beneath her coils of yellow hair, blazed like two poppies in a wheat-shook. "i've made up for it by deserving something even better, and that's a good supper. pull the bell, oliver!" * * * * * arrived in the great chamber at exeter house, we found charles making his last stand. feeling ran riot; there was little regard for the regentship of the prince; true to itself to the end, the stuart cause was dying in a babel of broken counsels. the ladies of the party were collected, uncertain and disquieted, on the hearth, where margaret joined them, while the colonel and i made our way and stood behind the prince. "his grace of perth desires to go on," said charles. "so does glencoe. so do my faithful irish friends. your men, as you well know, expect to go on. to get them to go back, you must start in the dead of night and lie to them, telling them they are going on. only you, their chiefs and fathers, want to go back." "to hell with the irish!" cried one from the background. "they're no' worth the dad of a bonnet." "it's no matter to them," said another man by him. "they've neither haid nor maid to lose." this fetched o'sullivan to his feet in a tearing rage. "we've got lives to lose," he cried, "and, by g--, we're not afraid to lose 'em!" at this the yelling must have been heard in the square, and the gesticulating and grimacing would have been amusing on a less serious occasion. at last, in a lull in the gale, the colonel, addressing the prince, curtly demanded, "who is the chief military commander of your army, sir?" "my lord george murray," answered charles bitterly. "then it's time your commander commanded. this spells disaster whether we go on or go back." "it's the plain truth you're telling, colonel waynflete," said lord ogilvie loudly. in an undertone i heard him say, "oot wi' it, geordie!" when murray arose, everybody knew the finishing touch was to be put to the business, and a strained silence fell on the assembly. "i have advised ye to go back, sir," he said, "because, in the complete absence of the support we were led to expect, it is foolish to go on. your royal highness wants to go on, and there's not a man here who does not honour you for your courage. now, sir, i will go on, and so shall every man here i can command or influence, if those who hae tell't ye behind my back that they think we ought to go on will put their opinion down in writing and subscribe their names to it, here and now. one condition more, sir. that writing, so subscribed, shall be sent by a sure hand direct from this town to his majesty in rome, so that he may judge each man justly." "i agree," said charles eagerly. "pen and paper, mr. secretary!" it at once became clear, however, that murray had taken the measure of the men he had to deal with. "why make flesh of one and fish of another?" asked o'sullivan, and old sir thomas nodded approval of the question. "the decision should be the decision of the council," said the duke of perth. "will ye write your names to it, or will ye not?" demanded murray. no one spoke. "that settles it, sir," said murray. "but i desire you, mr. secretary, to make a note of my offer and its reception." "have your way!" said charles, in sullen anger. "but it settles another thing for ye. i call no more councils." he turned and strode out of the room. the stuart cause was in its coffin, and it only remained for us to give it a fair burial. when the door closed behind the prince, the colonel whispered in my ear, "slip off and tell freake!" i did the journey at a run, and found master freake sitting, quietly meditative, but booted and spurred for his journey. "well, oliver?" "we go back to-night." in five minutes i was standing in the ironmarket at his grey mare's head. "i'm not deserting you, lad," said he, gripping my hand heartily. "of course not, sir. good-bye, and good luck!" "my love to margaret. look out for the sergeant. good-bye!" chapter xxii a brother of the lamp two days afterwards, towards six o'clock on a bitter evening, i rode wearily into leek. i was having a hard apprenticeship in soldiering under a master who had no idea of sparing either me or himself. for the colonel had accepted the post of second, under murray, in command of our rear-guard, and had made it a condition of acceptance that i should be with him. some thirty highlanders, mostly macdonalds, picked dare-devils, had been mounted and turned into dragooners, and i, thanks to the colonel, had been made captain over them. "the lad's no experience, but he's got sense," he said to my lord george murray. "i ken him weel aneugh," said his lordship. "he threatened to knock my head off. d'ye ca' that sense, kit waynflete?" "since your head's still on your shoulders," said the colonel, fumbling for his snuff, "i do. he knocked maclachlan's donald into a log of timber, and, damme, i hardly saw his hand move." "that's only a trick, sir," i protested. "weel, captain wheatman," said murray, "keep your ugly english tricks to y'rsel. mind ye, colonel or no colonel, i'll break ye first chance ye gie me." maclachan was, i must say, very obliging and complimentary over my promotion. he gave me donald to be my sergeant and personal servant, finding him, how i knew not, a horse strong enough to carry him easily. "it is ferra guid," said donald to his chief. "er shall pe lookit to as if her were ma mither's own son." to me, captain wheatman, clinking about in the corridor waiting for the colonel, comes william, suave and confidential as ever. "well, william," said i. "any more coincidences?" "yes, sir," said he, and began his hand-washing. "you'll die a rich man, william." "no, sir. this particular coincidence made me the poorer by, i should say," suspending his washing to calculate, "some five shillings." "the devil it did! how was that?" "your honour's clothes that you left behind, sir, when you were transmuted, as my lord would say, were stolen." "and you value them at five shillings! i ought to crack your head for you." "yes, sir. cast-offs sells very cheap, sir. but the coincidence, sir! i've not really come to that yet." "go on, william! you interest me deeply." "i found them, sir, at the bottom of the garden, torn to rags, sir!" "and sold 'em for fivepence! eh, thrifty william?" "sixpence, to be exact, sir!" the colonel rushed me off, but i found time to give the rascal a crown, which put him sixpence in pocket. a servant ought to have his vails, and, besides, william's concern amused me a good crown's worth. this was late on in the night after the final decision to go back, and since then i had been scouting miles behind the main body of our rear-guard, so as to make sure that the duke's horse were not on our track. i had slept by driblets as opportunity offered. now, my purpose accomplished, i was looking forward to supper and bed, having left a patrol of fresh men some six miles back to watch the southern road. there was one thing in my mind, however, that must be attended to first. i must see mistress hardy of hardiwick. my heart ached for her, for i knew how sorely she would feel the retreat of the prince. moreover, the clansmen were not likely to discriminate between her and other townsfolk, and i would save her from disturbance. so, jumping off the sorrel, and giving him in charge to one of my men, i started for the little cottage. i was turning the corner out of the square when some one, running lightly behind me, placed a hand on my arm and detained me. it was margaret. "you've no need to trouble, oliver," she said. "i've kept a room for you at the 'angel.'" "thank you," i replied. "you are very kind, madam." "poof! come along! you're so tired that you can hardly keep your eyes open to look at me. come along, sir!" she was merrily pulling at my arm as she spoke. "i don't want to be obliged to return you every service, you know, sir!" "no, madam! certainly not." "no, indeed, sir! i'm not going to put you to bed, except as the very last resource." "fortunately, madam, i'm a long way from needing that. in a few minutes i shall gladly take advantage of your care for me. first, however, i must see to our old friend to whom the prince gave the brooch." "we'll go together!" said margaret, putting her arm in mine. the cottage was dark and silent, welcome proof that she was undisturbed. i knocked gently, and, after a short delay, the door opened, and her woman appeared, candle in hand. "i knew you'd come, sir," she said simply. "and this is your lady! come in!" candle in hand, she paced ahead of us to the door of the room, and then stood aside, erect and solemn, to let us pass in. i looked at her closely. the worried, anxious look on her comely face had gone, and she was subdued, calm, and happy. "thank god!" she whispered. "she's at peace!" i stepped ahead of margaret into the fine old room, with its pleasant memorials of ancientry. there they were, just as i had seen them--scutcheon, portrait, glove, and pounce-box. there was no change in them; they were the abiding elements on which a strong soul had kept itself strong. but change there was. at the _prie-dieu_, kneeling in a rapture before the virgin mother, was a solemn, black-robed priest. a narrow white bed was in the room. two large candles burned steadily at its head, two at the foot; and on the bed, the linen turned down to reveal the thin, frail hands crossed below the prince's brooch, lay the still, white form of our lady of the square. god had taken her to himself. death had caught her with a welcoming smile on her face, and, in pity and ruth, had left it there. the hardys of hardiwick had given their last gift to the cause. tears were streaming down margaret's cheeks. with shaking hands she removed her hat and, kneeling down at the bedside, clasped her hands in prayer. "she talked no end about you, sir," whispered the serving-woman, "and about the beautiful lady with you. that standing in the cold square to see the prince was the death of her. she would have her bed put down here, sir. she wanted to die here, with the old shield in her eyes, for she was proud of her blood, as well she might be." "yes," i whispered back. "she was the last of a great race." "aye, sir. she was that. she was a bit moithered in her mind, dear heart, just afore she went. the last words she said were a prayer for his soul,--her sweetheart you know, sir, that she lost sixty years ago,--just as i'd heard her pray thousands of times. but, poor thing, she got his name wrong. she called him 'john.'" choking, i threw myself on my knees beside margaret, and prayed and fought, and fought and prayed again. here, before me, i saw death in the only shape in which it can give no sorrow--sinless age that had gently glided into immortality; and, with equal vision, i saw the black passage ... and the still twisted thing lying there in a patch of gloom ... my friend, gone in the pride of his youth ... his life spilt out in anger and agony ... and by me. then the innocent hand of her for whom, though all unwittingly, i had done this thing, crept on to my shoulder, and i turned to look at her. "thank god we came, oliver!" she whispered. before we could rise, the black-robed priest lifted his tall, gaunt frame slowly from the _prie-dieu_. standing on the opposite side of the bed he raised his hands in blessing. "our sister is with god," he said, his deep voice vibrant with emotion. "my children, you are, as i think, those who were much in her prayers at the last. i know not who you are, but, in her memory and in god's name, i give you in this life his peace, and in the life to come the assurance of his everlasting blessedness. amen." he ceased. gravely, and in a solemn silence, he knelt again at the _prie-dieu_. we rose. first margaret, and then i, kissed the prince's brooch and the folded hands, and then stole out of the room. we were too awe-stricken to speak, or even to look at each other, but, as we went, she placed her hand in mine. weary days, full of hard riding and scouting, passed before i saw margaret again. i was always in the rear, generally far in the rear, while she and the other ladies were, very properly, kept well ahead. she now rode in the calash with lady ogilvie,--the two being inseparable,--and maclachlan was with them. my work was hard and anxious but it kept me from thinking overmuch. i put all my soul into it so that it should. "the lad does very well, as i told you he would," said the colonel to murray one night when i rode in to make my report. "i see no signs of my chance of breaking him," said his lordship grimly, but he would have me sup with him that night, and was very unbending and helpful. there is nothing i need say about this stage of the retreat. it was well managed, and is, i am told, a very creditable piece of soldiership. it does not belong to my story but to history, to which i leave it. things did happen, however, that do concern me. the first was laughable though vexatious. this was the manner of it. while the prince was making the stage from macclesfield to manchester, and murray and the colonel were in force a few miles in his rear, i had to keep the country behind them well observed. i had one patrol within sight of macclesfield, and others stretching out along an edge of upland country running westward to the next main road. i spent the night in a little wayside ale-house, and was having my breakfast next morning when i was disturbed by a succession of yells from without. i ran into the yard and there was donald, the rough head of one of my dragoons in each hand, banging them together, varying his bangs with kicks at any accessible spot, and shrieking at them in gaelic, while they shrieked back and wriggled to escape. he stopped when he saw me, but still held them by the pow. "what's it all about, donald?" i asked. "the loons! it's glencoe 'erself sail hang 'em," he said breathlessly. "what for? out with it, donald!" "yes, you gomeril"--shoving one of the men sprawling into the stable--"oot wi' it! bring your tarn rogues wark 'ere!" the man came sheepishly out with my saddle, cut and ripped and gutted till it wasn't worth a sou. strict and stern inquiry threw little light on the matter. i had my own suspicions, namely, of two licorous raffatags in the so-called manchester regiment, whom i had handsomely kicked out of a roadside cottage where they were for behaving after their kind. they had been seen prowling about the curtilage of the ale-house the night before. i went back to my breakfast. for a few hours i had to make shift with the saddle of one of my dragoons, but, after a short halt later on, donald brought out the sorrel with a fine, and nearly new, saddle. "tat's petter," said he. "'er sail ride foine now." "this cost you a twa-three bawbees, i'll be bound," i remarked. donald grinned intelligently and i made no closer inquiry. the good fellow made me uncomfortable, for he would have slit the throat of the greatest squire along the road to get me a shoe-lace. early next morning his lordship sent me ahead into manchester with a dispatch for the prince, who had spent the night there. it was a welcome task, for it would, i hoped, give me at least a sight of margaret. instead of this sweet meat, however, i got sour sauce. when i got there our army was beginning its onward march, and there were thousands of people about to watch the clansmen fall in, and little disguise they made of their feelings. as it happened, when i rode into the square, ogilvie's large regiment was lining up, and he left it in charge of his major to come and talk to me. "i'm wishing you'd come half an hour ago," he began. "ishbel would ha' given much to see you, and so wad some one else, i'm thinking." "have the ladies started already?" i asked, with painful carelessness. "losh, man, maclachlan has 'em up and away the morn in fine style. he's getting a very attentive chiel is maclachlan, and i wonder ma ishbel disna like him better than she does. there's too damn few of us to be spitting and sparring among ourselves." "this is so, my lord," i said. "i'm just plain davie to ma friends," he said simply. "i'm no exactly a man after god's ain heart, like my bible namesake, but i hae no speeritual pride where a guid man's concernit, and it ill becomes men who are in the same boat, and that only a cockle-shell thing, to be swapping off court terms wi' ane anither. they're aff, an' we mun step it out. an' i'm no really a lord." "i want the prince's lodging, davie," i explained, as we walked on the causeway level with the head of his column. "we march past it, an' i'll drop ye there. the young man takes it verra ill. the heart's clean melted oot of him. an' sma' wonder! see the sour, mum bodies in this town! when we came down there were bonfires an' bell-ringings, an' cheerings, an' mostly every windie wi' a lit candle, maybe twa-three, in it. the leddies, an' they're nae bad-lookin' lassies either, had bunches o' plaid ribbons in their bosoms an'--this i hae from maclachlan--plaid gairters to their stockings." in such talk we spent the way to the prince's lodging, where i charged him to carry my greetings to the ladies. he wrung my hand in parting and, his major having halted the regiment, stepped proudly to the head of his men. i stood on the edge of the causeway, drew my sword, and stood at the salute, according to the courtesy of the wars. he returned the honour in like soldierly fashion, rapped out a command, and so passed on into the hungry north. it was the last i was to see of davie, commonly called the lord ogilvie. to my astonishment the prince was not yet risen, and it was some time before he came to me in his day-room, where i was awaiting him. i rose and bowed as he entered, and gave him the dispatch. "curse your foul english weather, captain wheatman. it's getting into my bones." this was, i fancy, only his way of excusing to me the nip of brandy he was pouring out. "that's better!" he said, putting down the empty glass. "i have something to thank france for after all." he laughed at his own poor joke, but there was no ring of merriment in his laughter, and added, "now for what my runaway general has to say." he read the letter impatiently and sneeringly. "i suppose mr. secretary must write something back," was his comment. "it doesn't matter much what, since we're running away as fast as our legs can carry us. any fool, or rogue, or murray can run away." he paced up and down the room with long angry strides, muttering words i did not understand. suddenly he stopped, and turned on me with the smiling, princely face of the greater charles i knew and liked. "curse me for an ingrate! i am heartily obliged to you, captain wheatman, for your pains. my lord speaks of you in high terms of praise. and i must not keep you. murray must have his answer. come with me, and mr. secretary shall take it down while i have my breakfast." i followed him out and along a passage with doors on either side, outside one of which stood a servant or sentry, who had eyed me furtively on my coming inward. when he saw the prince, he opened the door and thrust in his head, to announce our visit. he was clumsy, too, and, keeping his head round the edge of the door too long, bumped into the prince, who rapped out an oath and flung him aside. as i followed charles in, i caught a glimpse of the back of a man in a heavy mulberry wrap-rascal, guarded with tarnished silver braid at the cuffs and pockets, who was hastily leaving the secretary's room by an inner door. "ha!" said charles sneeringly. "more plots and politics! if i could be schemed into a crown, you'd be the man to do it." "i must be acquent wi' what gaes on in the toun, your royal highness, an' ma man yonder's a rare ferret, but i didna think him worthy to be in the presence, sae i just bundled him oot." "all your plotting and contrivings will not do you as much good as a glass of brandy. the climate's getting at you." indeed mr. secretary was all of a shake, and looked in a scared manner from the prince to me and back again. "it's naething but a little queasiness, such as we elder, bookish men are apt to get by ower-much application. your royal highness is gracious to note my little ailments," said he smoothly. he had recovered already. "try brandy!" said charles. "it settles the stomach fine. well, come and take down a reply to this while i have some breakfast!" the queasiness seemed to return, for mr. secretary was slow, captious, and argumentative, though the matter of the dispatch was only as to where the army should halt for a day's rest. at last preston was decided on, and the dispatch written accordingly. i bowed myself out, jumped on the sorrel, and started for the stockport road. our rear was closer up than usual this morning. manchester, being a considerable town, was not to be cleared of our main of troops until the first column of the rear was in the southern skirts of the town. outside the prince's lodging, his escort of life-guards was now drawn up. as i rode along the edge of the market-square the camerons were massing, and the streets adjacent were seething with clansmen. i put the sorrel to it and was soon out in the low open country. after cantering a mile or so, i caught sight of two horsemen, well ahead of me, riding south at a round gallop. one of them wore a big mulberry wrap-rascal. it is no uncommon garment to see along a turnpike on a biting december day, but, ten minutes later, after they dropped to a walk to ease their horses up a slope, i saw the silver guarding round the pockets. if this were the man i had seen hurrying out of mr. secretary's room, a look at him would be worth while, so i spurred after them. the clatter i made had the desired effect. at the top of the slope, wrap-rascal turned round. it was weir, the government spy. he squealed to his companion, who looked back in turn. my heart leaped fiercely at the sight of his seamed leathery face and dab-of-putty nose. it was the sergeant of dragoons. down the slope they raced, with me after them full tilt, proud as a peacock to be driving two men headlong before me, and one of them an old campaigner. it was my undoing. the road was lined with straggling hedges, and a long pistol shot ahead, a cross-track cut it. the sergeant was giving orders to the spy as they rode, and at the crossway the sergeant, shouting, "shoot low!" turned sharp to the left while the spy made for the right. it was a pretty trick, for it put me between two fires. i was on the spy's pistol hand as he turned, and he let fly at me, not out of calculated bravery, as his face plainly showed, but in a flurry of despair. the motive behind a shot, however, does not matter. it's the bullet that counts, and his got me just above the left elbow. i was up in my stirrups, aiming at the sergeant, who was pulling his horse round to be at me. i saw splinters fly from a bough to his right. i had not looked to the spy. now a shot rang out down the lane on his side. it was followed by a piercing shriek, and this by another shot. in between the shots, the serjeant wheeled round, and raced off down the lane for dear life, spurring and flogging like a maniac. it was useless to follow. my rein hand had lost its grip, my arm felt aflame, and blood was already dripping fast from my helpless fingers. looking down the lane, i saw weir lying in the road, and a strange horseman climbing down from his saddle. i rode up to him. "how d'ye do?" he said affably. "sorry i could not get the other chap for you, but i meant having turnditch. the dirty rascal has sent his last lad to the gallows. faugh! i could spit on his carrion." a glance to the road showed that he was right. the spy's blank, yellow face was turned upwards; his eyes, with the horror of hell still in them, stared wide-open at the sky. just above his right eyebrow there was a hole i could have put my finger in. "damn my silly eyes!" cried the stranger. "you're winged, sir, and badly. it must be seen to at once." he helped me down, took off my coat and waistcoat, and turned up my shirt-sleeve, doing all this deftly and almost womanly. "hurrah! missed the bone and gone clear through! put you right in no time! plug down your finger there, sir, while i cut a stick. that's excellent. you won't mind if i keep you while i reload my barkers? the safe side, you know!" with his handkerchief and my own, and a length of hazel for a tourniquet, he bound up the wound, and with much skill, for he at once reduced the flow of blood to a mere trickle. while he was busy over me, i took stock of him. he was a man of about my own age and height, but slimmer and wirier. his features were rather irregular, but an intelligent, humorous look atoned for this defect, and his bright grey eyes were the quickest i have ever seen. though an utter stranger, there was a puzzling familiarity about him, and i tried hard to recall which of my acquaintance featured him. his horse, now cropping at the roadside, was a splendid brown blood mare, the best horse, barring sultan, i had seen for many a day. the last thing i noted was that the man was singularly well dressed. "that's patched you up till you can get to a regular doctor. there's a first-class man at stockport, opposite the west door of the church, bamford by name. you can't miss his place, and he'll pocket his fee like a wise man ind ask no questions." "you've done very well, sir," said i. "the blood has almost ceased to flow. i'm greatly beholden to you." "say no more!" he cried earnestly. "it's a boon you've conferred on me, if you only knew it. _nemo repente turpissimus_, as we say." "_video proboque_, as we also say," i countered, smiling. "oddones! a brother of the lamp!" he cried, laughing shortly, and suddenly sobering. "i must be on. sorry to leave you, sir, but i think you're all right. take care, however. i was touched myself t'other day, and the damned hole in my ribs still bleeds if i exert myself too much." "you should surely be in bed, if there's a hole in your ribs." "in bed!" he sniffed. "i took to bed, egad, and nearly got pinched. now i've no need for exertion. in this gap between the highlanders, i'm as snug as a flea in a blanket." after helping me into my clothes and on to my horse, he strolled up to the dead man. "well, turnditch," he said, "you know everything now, or nothing." then, dropping lightly on his knee, he turned gaily to me, and said, "always plunder the egyptian, dead or alive." he rifled the spy's pockets with the easy indifference of an expert, singing as he turned them out: "the priest calls the lawyer a cheat; the lawyer beknaves the divine; and the statesman because he's so great, thinks his trade is as honest as mine." he stopped his singing and, tossing a well-stuffed leather bag up and down in his hand, said, "there's really no objection to virtue when the jade is not her own reward. chunk! chunk! there's alchemy for you! half an ounce of lead into half a pound of gold!" he stowed the bag in his pocket, jumped on his mare, and together we walked our horses to the turnpike, where we halted side by side, our horses' heads to their respective destinations. "sir," said i, holding out my hand, "i am greatly in your debt. my name is oliver wheatman, of the hanyards, staffordshire. may i have the pleasure of learning yours?" he took my hand, looked at me intently, with his grey eyes very thoughtful and steady, and then said quietly, "samuel nixon, bachelor of arts, sometime demy of magdalen college, oxford." "commonly called 'swift nicks,'" i added, smiling. "right first time," he cried gleefully, and shot off like an arrow towards manchester. so nance lousely had not got her pinnerfull of guineas after all. chapter xxiii donald i got my wound in the early forenoon of december the th. about eight o'clock on the night of the th i sat down in a deserted shepherd's hut to the meal donald had got ready for me. the week had been in one respect a blank, for i had not seen margaret. in every other respect it had been laborious, strenuous, and exciting, and we had just seen the end of the toughest job so far. we, meaning my dragoons and myself, were on the top of shap. some ammunition wagons had broken down on the upward climb, bunging up the road at its stiffest bit and delaying us for hours. his lordship and the colonel, with the infantry of the rear-guard, were in shap village a mile or two ahead. the prince was still farther on, probably in penrith. the delay was dangerous. our army had rested one full day at preston and another at lancaster. even at preston the colonel and i, with my dragoons, had barely ridden out of the town when a strong body of enemy horse rode in from the east, sent by wade to reinforce the duke. our margin of safety was being cut down daily. we should have to fight before long, and i was posted here, on the top of shap, to see that no surprise was sprung upon us. the shieling, as donald called it, was about a hundred yards past the highest point of the road, where a picket was on the watch. across the road was a bit of a dip, and here my dragoons were making themselves comfortable round a roaring fire, fuel for which was provided by the smashed-up carcass of a derelict wagon. the country was as bare as a bird's tail, but by a slice of great good luck one of them had shot a stray sheep on the way up, and the air was thick with the smell of singed mutton. here i must say of my dragoons that they were men i loved to command. after twelve days' work of a sort to knock up an elephant they were as fresh as daisies. donald they all feared, and as donald, for my behoof, made no bones about telling them how the laddie's nief, sma' as it lookit, 'ad dinged 'im, donald, oot o' his seven senses, they feared me. i think they even liked me. anyhow, i never had an ugly look or a glum word from one of them. some people express surprise at the splendid highland regiments now, thanks to mr. pitt's politic genius, serving in our army. it is no surprise to me who have commanded a body of clansmen for a fortnight in the back-end of a retreat. donald was a very jewel of a man. he was servant, sergeant, nurse, and companion, and unbeatable in all capacities. my wound had given me more trouble than i expected, even though mr. bamford had told me that one of the larger arteries was injured. once or twice since, as occasion served, a doctor had dressed it, but it was donald's incessant care that did most for it. i still wore my left arm in a sling. he had made me a fire of wood and turfs; given me roast mutton, a slice of cheese sprinkled with oatmeal, and good bread to eat, and a pint of milk laced with whisky to drink. refinements which he would have scouted for himself in any place, he had taken thought to provide for me in these wilds--a pewter plate and a silver beaker, both stolen. the only furnishing in the hut was a squat log, almost the size of a butcher's block, which served as a table. for seat, donald rigged up half the tail-board of the wagon across two heaps of turfs. he completed his work by producing a tallow candle stuck in a dab of clay by way of candlestick. donald had left me to my food and gone over to the camp to get his own. i made a nourishable meal and then sat down before the fire to smoke and think. i had not seen margaret since leek, and had not been alone with her since, her hand in mine, we had crept out of the gracious presence of the dead. and i had got into a mood in which i felt that it was well i did not see her. some day i should have to do without her altogether, and this was a chance of learning how to do it. though i had not seen her, i had heard of her. while our army stayed the day in lancaster i had been watching the road within sight of the spires of preston, wondering why the duke's horse, after their accession of strength, did not come after us. the marquess of tiverton has since told me that the duke had been kept a day at preston by rumours of a french landing on the south coast. being far behind, i had ridden through lancaster without drawing rein, but in the main street a stranger--one of us, however, as his white cockade showed--had stepped up to my saddle and handed me a letter. it was plainly of a woman's writing, and i burned to think that it was margaret's hand that had penned the direction to "oliver wheatman, esquire, captain of dragoons in the army of his royal highness the prince regent." i tore it open, and found it was from the lady ogilvie. she would understand and forgive if she could ever know how disappointed i was. it had been written that morning before leaving the town, and bore traces of hasty composition. it ran as follows:-- "sir,--this is to let ye know, dear oliver, that i'm sure m. has got a bee in his bonnet. i'm thinking that some one we know has tell't him she will hae no trokings with him in the way he wants. i dinna ken for certain, mark ye, but they were taegither last night, and this morning he's not hanging round to pit us in ye carriage, as he ordinarily does, and she is pale and quiet, and says she wishes her father was at hand, and i like it not, dear oliver. i call you dear oliver because y'are such a guid laddie, just as i'm a guid girl. davie tell't me how you stood up and saluted him, and i was glad i'd kissed ye ance upon a time, though it was only to plague ye. remember what i tell't ye about these highland boddys. m. is like all the rest of 'em, and moreover the prince made ye his aide-de-camp, and it was to have been him, tho' he didna mind at the first because it left him free to be courting his leddy, but noo he'll hae it rankling in his heart like poison. and keep your eye on that chiel, donald. he's foster-brother to m., and wad stick his dirk in the prince himself if m. tell't him to. they're not bad boddys, but that's how they are. she says naething about ye, and that's a guid sign, i'm thinking. i wish ye knew the french instead of that silly lattin, for then i cud write ye a propper letter wi' nice words in it, but she says yell hae to learn italian first to suit her, but that's only her daffery. excuse this ill-writ note, for the paper is bad and i'm no sure o' my english when it's guid.--your obedient servant and loving guid friend, "ishbel ogilvie" i pulled the dab of mud close to my elbow and read it again. in part it was plain enough. that maclachlan was madly in love with margaret had become almost a matter of common gossip. my lord george murray had hinted at it more than once, as he had at my displacing the young chief in the prince's favour. maclachlan was son and heir to a chief of considerable power and reputation. that he should fall in love with margaret was natural, and had she fallen in love with him i should not have been surprised. even after the event, i still say that he was a fine, upstanding man, delightful to look on, and, so far as i knew, worthy of any woman, even of such a one as margaret. but the heart is master not servant, and cannot be commanded. she loved him not and there was an end of it. next, lady ogilvie hinted at danger to me from him. well, if he wanted a fight, a fight he should have. there's no englishman living thinks more of scotsmen than i do, but i have never thought enough of the best scot breathing to run away from him. as for donald, unless i was an idiot and he a better actor than mr. garrick, he would far sooner have driven his dirk into himself than into me. that matter could rest. there would be no fighting that night, and i never put on my breeches till it's time to get up. where her ladyship was wrong was in supposing, as clearly she did, that margaret's love affairs interested me otherwise than as being margaret's. i loved her, loved her dearly, all the more dearly because hopelessly. i had no qualifications which would enable me to speak my love. at my best nothing but a poor yeoman, i was now not even that, i was a declared rebel in a rebellion that had failed. and if i had had every qualification that rank and wealth could give me, it would still have been the same. between her and me was the dead body of my friend and the widowed heart of my sister. i was meditatively refilling my pipe when i heard donald's voice without, raised in earnest explanation. "an' if i didna think it wass auld nick comin' for me afore ma reetfu' time, may i never drink anither drap whisky as lang as i live." some one laughed at the explanation, and donald, still explaining, pushed open the door and made way for margaret, who, before i could rise, was glowering over me, in the delightful way she had, girlish pretence just dashed with womanly earnest. "i shall never forgive you, nor father, nor donald, nor anybody else. and you're not to move, sir!" "i'm sorry, madam," said i. "you always are. it's your favourite mood. you live on sorrow," she said, pelting me with the terse, sharp sentences. then, for i twitched at her telling me i lived on sorrow, she melted at once, and said, "oh, oliver, i'm so sorry. why did you not send for me and let me nurse it better? surely that was my right as well as my duty." there was no contenting her till she had seen and dressed my wound. she had brought lint and linen with her, some kind of balsam which nearly made me glad she had not had the daily dressing of my arm, and even a basin and a huge bottle of clear spring water, which were brought in from the calash by bimbo, lady ogilvie's little black coachman. the hut looked like a surgery, and donald and bimbo got mixed up in the most laughable way in dodging about to wait on her. "com' oot of it!" said donald desperately, unwinding the little black out of his plaid for the second time. "you one big elephant in pekkaloats!" he retorted, grinning bare his big white teeth. "you tread on bimbo, bimbo go squash." "how does it feel now?" asked margaret, when her task was over. "i shall be able to clout donald with it in the morning," i answered. "tat's petter," said he, grinning with delight. "i'm thinkin' i'd suner be dinged wi' 'er again than see 'er hinging there daein' naethin'." he took bimbo off to the camp-fire and left us alone. we wrangled about the seating accommodation of the hut, for the cart-tail was but short, and i wanted her to have it to herself. she flouted the idea, and in the end we shared it, and i minded its shortness no longer. she would fill my pipe for me, and held a burning splinter to the bowl while i got it going. over her doctoring she had been very pale and quiet. now she got her colour back in the light and warmth of the fire, but she quietened down again as soon as i was smoking in comfort. she told me briefly that she had stayed in shap to see her father. lady ogilvie had insisted on her keeping the calash, so that she could come on in comfort in the morning. from her father she had learned of my wound, and had come on at once to see for herself how i was. she would start back for shap shortly, where she was to stay the night with her father. she told me this and then leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hands, and went quiet again. i was glad of her silence, glad that she was hiding her face from me, for i needed to pull myself together. that something had happened was clear, and, whatever it was, it had struck home. in some way of deep concernment there was a new margaret by my side, but in another way it was the old familiar margaret as well, for she was wearing mother's long grey domino. she had unclasped it so that it now hung loosely on her, and flung back the hood so that the firelight made lambent flickerings in her hair. "i have not seen you for twelve days," she said at last. "no, madam." "have you been neglecting me, sir?" just a touch of vigour was in her voice, but she still gazed at the fire. "you are a soldier's daughter, not an alderman's," i said quietly, and the retort brought her head round with a jerk. "and how does that excuse your neglect?" "by giving you the chance of ascertaining from your father whether my military duties have left me any opportunity of neglecting you," i answered steadily. as usual with me, since i could not woo, i would be master where i could. it was a source of mean delight to me. "more logic," she said briefly, and turned to the fire again. apparently she tested the logic in her mind and came to the conclusion that it was sound. she got up, threw some wood on the fire, thrusting me back playfully when i tried to forestall her, and then said merrily, "what do you think dad said to-night?" "it would take hours to guess, i expect, so tell me at once, since i see it hipped you." "it did," she said, with playful emphasis. "i fear i've not trained him up as fathers should be trained, for he coolly told me that if i had not had the misfortune to be a girl, i might perhaps have turned out as good a lad as you." "misfortune!" i echoed almost angrily. "the exact word," she replied. "misfortune! to be the most beautiful woman in england, with the world at your feet--he calls that a misfortune?" i spoke energetically as the occasion demanded, being, moreover, glad of an outlet. before i had finished, however, she was back in her old position, with her face hidden from me by her hands. she puzzled me more than ever, for, after a long silence, she burst out, "not my world, oliver!" the phrase shot up like a spout of lava from some deep centre of molten thought. i pitied and loved her, but i was helpless. to make a diversion i looked at my watch and luckily it was the time when the picket at the top should be changed, so i went to the door and opened it. a splendid blare of piping came in from the camp-fire as i did so, and margaret tripped to the door to listen. "who is it?" she asked. "donald," said i. "he's one of the great masters of the pipes. i believe in the tale of amphion and the walls of thebes now, for this afternoon i saw donald pipe some broken-down wagons out of the road." i went across to see to the change of picket, and when i got back into the hut i saw that the tension was over. i relit my pipe, sat down again at her side, and started a rapid series of questions as to what she had seen and heard during the retreat. try how i would, nay, try as we would, we did not get back to our old footing. we were afraid of silences, and skipped from topic to topic at breakneck speed. we two who had sauntered together in the sunlight, now stumbled along in a mist. at last she said she must be going, and i went out and shouted to donald to get bimbo and the calash ready, and four men as an escort. when i got back to her, she arose, somewhat wearily, and i put the domino on fully and fitted the hood round her head. "you see i've gone back to the domino, oliver," she said. "it's the very thing for a cold night and a dirty road," i replied cheerfully, stepping in front of her, a couple of paces off, to take my last look at her in the light. "i have never met a man who understands so much about women as you do," she said. "thank you, madam," i cried boisterously, and bowed so as to avoid her eyes. but when i was upright again, they caught mine once more, and something in them made me tremble. "or so little," she whispered, and she was pitifully white and miserable. if it had not been for what i saw between us--there, on the floor of crazed and trampled mud, i should have flung my arms around her. but i could not step over _that_. "ta carrish iss ready," cried donald from the door-sill. i packed her snugly in the calash and started two dragoons ahead. bimbo clucked to his horse and was off. i walked a hundred yards by the side of the carriage till it was time to whistle for the other dragoons to start. then i made bimbo pull up. the young moon was battling with great stacks of clouds, but just at that moment won a brief victory, and gave me a clear view of margaret. she put out her hand, which she had not yet gloved, and i took it in mine, bowed my head over it, and kissed it. "good night, oliver," she whispered. "good night, margaret," i replied, and whistled shrilly to hide my emotions. something sent her away with her eyes ashine and her face glorious with a smile. the dragoons clattered by, and i stood for a few minutes staring downhill. _and so little. not my world. and so little. not my world_. the words rang in my ears like a peal of bells. then, by one of the odd tricks the mind plays us, i remembered that i had left the hanyards for the work's sake, and that my love for margaret could only be justified to myself--the only one who could ever know it--by my work. over the black top there, down in the blacker valley, was the enemy, her enemy, nibbling up the space between us as a rabbit nibbles up a lettuce leaf. i closed my mind to the maddening chime, and started forthright to visit my picket. the road was flush with the bare windswept summit. the crumpled ground was matted with coarse grass, almost too poor for sheep-feed. the camp-fire still blazed; near it a bagpipe crooned; now and again a horse shook in its harness. the moon whipped out for a moment, and then it was pitch dark again. as i stepped it out there was a rush at me from the grass, behind and to my left. down i dropped full length, and a man shot over me and sprawled in the road, but he was quick and lithe as a cat, and was up before me, for my slung arm disadvantaged me. i could just see his sword poised for a cut as he fairly pounced on me. i dived outward as he jumped, and he missed me, but before i could get behind him he was round and at me again like a fury. i was weaponless and crippled, but if i could once get past his sword, it would be all over with him. the pace was so hot, and my mind was so bent on the work, that i did not call for aid. at last i tricked him, for in jumping aside i flung my hat hard in his face, and in a flash had my right hand at his throat. he jabbed at me with his left, and i twisted round to his right side, pressing his sword-arm against his body, and digging my fingers into his windpipe. i heard his sword drop, and felt him feeling for a pistol. he was as hard as a nail, and i began to dream that he would get me before i had choked him. donald ended the matter. he, doglike in his fidelity, came striding down the road after me. the moon outpaced the clouds again. he saw us at our death-grips, and came on with a rush and a yell. he drove his dirk into the nape of the man's neck and twisted the blade in its ghastly socket. a sharp, sickening click--and the man dropped out of my fingers like a stone. the moon went in again, and hid the evil thing from us. "pe she hurtit?" asked donald anxiously. "not a scratch!" i replied. "tat's goot! carry 'er up to the fire," he added to three or four men who had run up on hearing his yell. "she's english and, maybe, she sall hae fine pickins on 'er." he stooped down, careless of a dead man as of a dead buck, and stropped his dirk clean and dry on the man's breeches. then the men, equally indifferent, picked up the body and started off. "d'ye ken wha the chiel is?" asked donald, as we walked after them. "a certain sergeant of dragoons, or one of his men," i answered. "he winna fash ye ony more," said he. "tat's a fine way of mine, when i can get behint a mon. i've killt mony a stot like it, shoost t' keep in the way of it." and he stabbed the air, twisted his wrist, and clicked delightedly. the men dumped the body near the fire. one of them stooped down and was for putting his hand in the man's pocket, but drew it back as if he had thrust it by mischance into the flames. then i knew. i have heard a mare squeal in a burning stable, but i have never heard agony in sound as i heard it there, on the top of shap, when donald flung himself across the dead body of his chief and foster-brother. there is one tender memory of this distressing scene. neither by look, word, nor tone did donald attach blame or responsibility to me. he recovered himself in a few minutes, and then stood up, and gave a brief command in gaelic. four awe-struck men spread a plaid on the ground, placed the dead body on it, and carried it into the hut. donald, gravely silent, took the pipes from the man who had been playing, and followed them. i bared my head and went after him miserably. maclachlan's body lay on the floor of the hut. the eyes were wide open, but on his fine composed face there was no trace of the agony and passion in which he had gone before his god. it was as if, in that last terrible second, some vision of beauty had swept his soul clean. i knelt down and reverently closed the staring eyes. "donald," said i, when i arose, "i would to god that you had killed me instead." "it's weird," said he solemnly, "and weird mun hae way." i looked at him closely. that he was struck to the heart was plain to see, but, the first uprush of grief over, he had become sober, steadfast, almost business-like, as if he had something great in hand to do, and would be doing it. he took the candle, now only the length of my ring-finger, and stuck it on the narrow window-ledge. again he spoke to the men in gaelic, and they moved out of the hut. turning to me, he said, "com in when ta licht gaes oot!" he had the right to be alone with his dead. i wrung his hand and left him. when i looked back from the doorway, he was filling his bag with wind, but stopped to say, "weird mun hae way." and as he said it he smiled. i crossed the road to the edge of the dip. more wood had been piled on the fire, which now blazed cheerfully. most of the men lay asleep in their plaids, but a few stood guard over the horses, and the men who had carried the body into the hut were squatting on the grass by the roadside. i took my stand near them, and looked and listened. the terrible similarity of donald's case to mine appalled me. each of us, in saving another, had struck down in the darkness a man near and dear to him. two good men and true had gone when the lust of life is sweetest and the will to live strongest. i, who three weeks ago had never seen human life taken, had taken it, and seen it taken, as if men were of no more account than cattle. between the house-place of the hanyards and the top of shap, death had become my familiar. for maclachlan i had nothing but pity. he had thought that i stood between him and margaret. clearly he had learned of her coming back to me, and the thought had maddened him. he had disguised himself as an englishman and come after me, and this was the end of it. these were my thoughts as i watched the flickering flame dropping nearer and nearer to the window-ledge, and listened to the pipes. donald was inspired. he and the pipes were one. in his hands they became a living thing. what he felt, they felt. they wept as he wept, they gloried as he gloried, they triumphed as he triumphed. he began with a murmur of grief that grew into a wail, became a passionate tempest, and died into a prolonged sob. then he changed his note as memory wandered backward. the music became tenderly reminiscent, subduedly cheerful. they were again boys together at their play, youthful hunters swinging over the mountains after the red deer; young men with the maidens; warriors on their first foray. the threads of life ran in and out through the pattern of sounds he was weaving, and the older days of fighting and victories followed as i listened. there was hurrying, marching, charging; the groan of defeat; the mad slogan of final victory. "he's fechtin' the macleans noo," cried out one of the men, who had some english, and the others chattered vigorously for a minute in their own gaelic. the candle was now guttering on the window-ledge. these glories over, donald came hard up against the end of them all--the chief dead at his feet, slain by his own hand. for a time he faltered, playing only in little, melancholy snatches. then he got surer, and the music began to come in blasts. he was seeing his way, learning what it all meant to him and the maclachlans. weird mun hae way. destiny must work itself out. we children of a day are helpless before it. the flame fell to a golden bead as the music grew in strength and purpose. there was a burst of light, a peal of triumph, and the music and the flame went out together. across the road i raced, threw open the door, and rushed in. everything was dark and still. "donald!" i called passionately. there was no reply. i crept on tip-toe to the fire and kicked the embers into a flame. donald was lying dead across the dead body of his chief, his dirk buried to the hilt in his own heart. * * * * * at daybreak we buried them side by side in one grave on the top of shap, their feet pointing northward to their own mountains. when the last clod had been replaced, and a great boulder reverently carried up to mark the spot, i turned, covered my head, and prepared to go, but the men stood on. i looked back. they were loath to go. something that should be done, had been left undone. i divined what they had in mind, turned back, bared my head as they uncovered, and repeated the lord's prayer aloud. i am thankful to this day to those men whom fools and bigots call savages. they taught me to pray again. "man captain," said the one who had english, as we walked away in a body, "ye wad mak' a gran' meenister." i could not withhold a smile, but before i could reply there was a scattered rattle of shots from the dip. looking around, i saw a body of enemy horse on the lower hill across the valley to my left. we were overtaken. we should have to fight. chapter xxiv my lord brocton piles up his account on the tenth day of my captivity, hope glimmered for the first time. when a man has been penned up in a dull room for ten days, with half-a-hundred-weight of rusty iron shackling his wrists and ankles, with poor food, and little of it at that, to eat, he can extract comfort out of a trifle. in my case the trifle was a smile, her first smile in ten days. so far she had been as sulky as she was shapeless, bringing me my poor meals either without saying a word or, at best, snapping me up and saying that i got far better treatment than a rebel deserved. she never told me her name, and i never learned it from any other source, so 'she' she must remain for me and my tale. she was perhaps thirty, perhaps five feet high, the shape of a black pudding, with stony, rather than ugly, features, and cruel, cat-like eyes. i hated her handsomely till she smiled at me. she was, i suppose, my jailer's daughter, or servant, or something of the sort. i never knew, and my ignorance does not matter. she brought me my food, spake or spake not, according to the degree of vileness in her prevailing humour, and went off, leaving me to my thoughts and my painful shamblings round my prison-chamber. my ignorance was limitless. i was a prisoner, and my prison was a room in a sizable farm-house with thick stone walls. where the house was i had no idea other than that it could not be far from the place where i was taken, which, again, could not be far from the town of penrith. there was one window in my cell, the sill of which was as high from the ground as my chin when standing upright. but i never stood upright, being jammed into a cross made of good, solid iron, foul with rust, and having bracelets at the tips for my ankles and wrists. it kept me a foot short of my full stretch. i could get my eye to the edge of the window and no farther, and then i saw much sky and a little desolate moorland running up into a gauntly-wooded hill country. i spent my waking hours thinking of margaret and the others dreaming of her. now was my chance to learn to do without her altogether. it would not be for long. i was in the duke's clutches, and he would not let me go till my head rolled off my shoulders. had i been free and with her, we should have been farther apart than before--by the width of donald's grave. but here, parted for ever, with the block or the gallows just ahead of me, there was no bar to my lonely love. time and time again she was so near to me, so vividly present to my imagination, that i stretched out my arms to grasp her. the shackles clanked, and i cursed myself for a fool, but i never cured myself of the habit. because this is the dreariest time of my life, i have plumped right into the middle of it to get it over. and, indeed, there is little worth the telling between the top of shap and her smile. i was in jail because i was no soldier. that, apparently, should go without saying, and if i had come to grief over some piece of important soldier-craft, no one would have been surprised and i should not have been to blame. it galls me, however, to have to confess that i was very properly caught, jailed, and ironed for not knowing what a dragoon was. a man ought to know that after being captain of a troop of the best for a fortnight, but i didn't. being all for logic, the least useful thing in life, i had arrived at the conclusion that a soldier on horseback is a horse-soldier. so he is, except when he's a dragoon, as i found to my cost. if the bold turnus or mr. pink-of-propriety aeneas had hit upon the dragoon idea, i should have known all about it, because it would have been in virgil. even the master has his deficiencies. my lord george murray elected to fight at clifton, a defendable place between shap and penrith. just south of the bridge the road ran off the moor into the outskirts of the village, with a stone wall on one side and a high edge on the other. the enclosures on either side were packed with clansmen, and our wings stretched beyond on to the moor, here dissected into poor fields by straggling hedges. the colonel, the happiest man in england that day, had posted me across the road, right out on the moor, ready to gallop back at once with news of the enemy's approach. it was now quite dark, except when the moon rode free of the dense blotches of clouds that filled the sky. in one such glimpse of light, i caught sight of several bodies of horse on the moor to the east of the road. the regiment nearest to me wheeled to the left, and trotted obliquely across the road. its direction made its purpose clear. it was feeling its way across our front to our flank on the west of the village. i rode back at once to report. "good lad!" said the colonel, offering me his snuff-box. "it's just what we want 'em to do. go where there's a bellyful for you! fine soldiering that! the fool duke ought to pound us out into the open with his guns. hope you'll enjoy your first fight, oliver! it's a glorious game. pity of it is the counters are so costly. good luck, my dear lad!" i went back to my men whom i had left in the covered way between the wall and the hedge. it being clear that the exact whereabouts of the regiment i had particularly observed was of great consequence, i rode out again with a couple of men, at the request of one of the chiefs, to see if i could make out what was happening. there was no trace of it. it should by now have been visible on my right, the moon being out again, but there was not a single trace of it. i could see the line of one hedge and beyond that another. the other regiments had not advanced and this one had disappeared. perplexed, i halted my men, pulled the sorrel's head round and cantered slowly towards the nearer hedge. then i learned that dragoons are horse-soldiers who fight on foot, behind hedges for choice. half a dozen carbines rang out, the sorrel rolled over, and though i escaped the bullets and jumped clear of my horse, i was pounced on by a body of men and pulled ignobly through the hedge. i did everything doable, but they swarmed over me like ants, bore me down by weight of numbers, and sat on me. "it's him right enough," i heard one of them say. "fetch the sergeant! there's a bit of fat in this, lads!" a minute later, i was hauled on to my feet. a seared face, with a dab-of-putty nose on it, leered delightedly into mine. "got you, by g--!" he said. i had been captured by brocton's dragoons. now we should come to points. without another word to me, and after a savage injunction to the men to see i did not escape on peril of their lives, he went off and fetched his lordship. they came running back together as if the greatest event imaginable had happened. "ha! master wheatman," cried my lord very happily, "this is indeed a sight for sore eyes." "to be sure," said i, "your lordship's were pretty bad the last time i saw them." he made no retort, being indeed too excited to notice pin-pricks, but ordered the sergeant to take me to the rear under a strong guard. "make sure of him!" he cried, and added in a lower tone, as i moved off under the combined pull and push of my captors, "make sure of it." he then went off to his own place in the line. the sergeant did not come with us, and i had been tugged nearly to the second hedge before he overtook us. to my astonishment he was carrying my saddle on his head, where, in the dim light, it looked like a gigantic bonnet. he swore at the men for loitering, and on we went to the second hedge. we struck it at a point where there was neither gate nor gap, but the dragoons bashed it down with their carbines and trampled it down with their boots, and so made a way. two of the men were through, and i was being hauled through, when there was a spattering of shots from behind. over the noise a stentorian voice called out "claymores!" it was the highland warcry, and, with reverberating yells, the clansmen poured out of the nearer enclosure to attack the dragoons lining the hedge. the sergeant drew his sword, and, as we raced on again, struck viciously with the flat of it at his men to make them run faster. a queer figure he cut in the moonlight as he raced along, swearing and slashing, with the skirts of the saddle flapping against his lean ribs. at last we got out on a poor road lined with trees and turned south along it. there was urgent need for him to haste now, for brocton's dragoons had been cut out of their cover and were being pushed back to the hedge we had just left. the sergeant halted a moment to take stock of the situation, and then we hurried on again. every time he struck a man for lazy running, the man in his turn paid me with punch or kick. after a mile or so, the avenue made an abrupt turn to the east and brought us out on the main road in the rear of the duke's army. the moon showed us a little cottage, standing off from the road in a poor plot of ground. the sergeant led the way up to it, turned the cottager and his family out of it into a shed, and set two men without as sentries. he then made the others strip me to the skin and examined every shred of clothing, ripping out the linings and even cutting my boots to pieces. finding nothing, he flung me the rags to put on again, and then cut the saddle to pieces and searched that. i knew now why william had so nearly lost his vail and donald had been obliged to steal me another saddle. the sergeant wanted, the letter and papers i had taken from him at the "ring of bells." he was so keen that he omitted to pouch any of my belongings, and i retained my money, donald's watch, and the priceless strip of bloodstained linen. my tuck and pistols were naturally taken from me on my capture. "any luck?" i asked quizzingly, when he at last gave over the search. too furious or too cautious to reply, he brutally kicked a dragoon whom he caught smiling. after a miserable drag of some two hours, a fresh dragoon came with a message, whereon the sergeant conducted me to the presence of the duke, who was quartered in a large house in the village. the lord brocton, the lord mark kerr, and other officers were with him, and also several ladies who would have been more at home in vauxhall. for a minute or two i was unheeded, and the sergeant could hardly keep himself sufficiently stiff and awkward. his grace was in the sourest of humours for, as the talk showed, he had been beaten. the claymores had taken the conceit out of him finely. he finished the subject with a string of oaths and then made an unprintable inquiry of brocton concerning me. the ladies tittered profusely, and the most powdery one vowed that his grace was a great wag. in further proof of this he snatched a feather near a yard long out of her pompom, and fanned himself with it while he examined me. this ducal waggishness gave me time to observe that the sergeant's uneasiness was icy coldness in comparison with his lordship's. he was uncertain of speech; his face was the colour of pea-soup; he looked anxiously, almost affrightedly, at me. he grew plainly more comfortable as the duke failed to get any information out of me beyond the fact that the weather was cold. finally, when the sergeant was ordered to keep me at his peril till such time as i could be lodged in carlisle jail, brocton greedily tossed off a bumper of wine and laughed aloud at some vulgar sally from a lady in a green paduasoy. on leaving i bowed to the duke. he was a vigorous, able man with the manners and morals of a bull. brocton followed the sergeant out. there was a consultation between them of which i heard nothing, but the result was that the sergeant picked up a man as guide who was waiting at the front door, obviously for the purpose, and took me through and beyond the village to a house on the roadside. the place was of fair size, built of rough slabs of stone, and evidently a farm-house. the owner was a lumpish, ungainly fellow, astonishingly bow-legged. he had a little yapping dog, which jumped backwards and forwards between his knees like a trick-dog through a hoop. preparations had been made for my coming, "by his lordship," as the farmer blabbed out. i was taken upstairs to a back room, ironed, in the way i have described, by the parish constable, who had been prayed in aid for the job, and locked in in the dark. i heard a sentry posted without the door and another beneath the window. it was some consolation, and i needed all i could get, to know i was so prized. there was a rough bed in the room. i tumbled on it, wondered for a few minutes what margaret would be thinking of it all, and then went to sleep. next morning i made her acquaintance to this extent that she brought me a jug of thin ale, a lump of horse-bread and a slab of cheese. her looks froze my affability, but she does not become important till she smiled, and i need say no more about her at present. i saw no other person till nightfall of the third day, when the door opened and the little dog hopped through his accustomed gap into the room, and was followed by his master carrying a lighted tallow candle in a rusty iron candlestick. this imported something unusual, as i was not allowed a light, and it turned out to be a visit from my lord brocton. he ordered the sentry to follow the farmer downstairs, and examined the door carefully to see if it was closed thoroughly. i sat on the edge of the bed and hummed a brisk air with a fine pretence of indifference. he sat down on the one chair there was, placed his hat on the table, and said, "i am sorry to see you in this place and condition, mr. wheatman." "thank you," said i. "of course you know there's only one end of it." "yes," i replied, and hummed a stave of "lillibullero." he leaned forward and said impressively, "the gibbet, mr. wheatman!" "draughty places!" said i, smiling, as i thought of nance lousely. "i can feel the wind whistling through my bones." "you are pleased to be facetious, sir. it does credit, i must say, to your nerves." "you are pleased to be sympathetic, my lord," i riposted, "whereby you do no credit to my common sense." he took short breaths and then reflected a minute or two, during which i clinked a soft tattoo with my iron wristlets, and eyed him joyously. he was there--a free lordling, i was here--a chained rebel, but i had him set. "i have a proposal to make to you, mr. wheatman," he said at length. "i am indeed honoured, but be careful, my lord! it's not in the least likely, i fear, to be a proposal which you would like the sentry beneath the window to overhear." "you are plain and blunt," he said, leaning forward and speaking in a low tone, "and i will be the same. return me all the papers you took from my sergeant at the 'ring of bells,' and i will see that you escape and get clear of the country." "the different personal ends for which you are anxious to turn traitor seem innumerable, my lord!" he met the taunt as if it had been a flip with a straw, and only said, "is it a bargain?" "it is not," i replied emphatically. if his life rather than his lands had depended on the recovery of the letter he could not have been more eager. for a long time he pleaded and wrestled with me; arguing, bullying, imploring, threatening, turn and turn about, but to no result. i would not go back on my casual word to master freake. the letter was important to him, and he would save margaret and the colonel, and me too, when the inevitable hour of need should come at last. money was power, and lands were more than money. acres meant votes, and with votes at your command you had ministers at your beck. i was sure of master freake. why bother about my lord brocton? at last he played his last card. "you shall have the upper hanyards back again, master wheatman," he quavered. the rascal earl, his father, had juggled more than a thousand acres of the hanyards away from my father by some musty process of law and a venal bench. the reference angered me, and i cried loudly, "you shall not have it back at any price!" he looked at the window, and paled as he thought of the sentinel ears without. then he went off, vomiting curses. that day week, she brought me a shepherd's pie for dinner, very well made too, and a mug of ale not wholly unworthy of the name. she put them down, looked at me in a measure womanly, and smiled. it was a root of promise and fruit would follow. any change would be welcome. i was ragged, dirty, galled, cramped, and bearded with a red stubble. she called me 'carrots' in derision. i was right. at evening she brought me up a dish of tea, and when i lifted it off the table to take a drink of it, there was beneath it a paper folded letter-fashion. i steadied myself, drank my tea with only moderate haste, and then cautiously palmed my treasure and walked to the window. standing with my back to the door, so that the sentry, who was given to popping his head in to have a look at me, could not catch me unawares, i opened the paper. it was a letter. it was written by a woman. the woman was margaret. "you will be taken to-morrow to carlisle. on the way friends will rescue you and bring you to me. fear nothing, say nothing, and all will be well. till to-morrow, dear oliver. destroy this. marg. w." it went hard against the grain to destroy this precious missive. i hid in the corner, and kissed it ravenously a hundred times. how straight and true the pen had ploughed its way across the paper! it was just such writing as i had expected of her, the resolute escription of her sweet, resolute self. nor was the problem of destroying it easy to solve, since i had no fire, and there was no sure hiding-place accessible to my manacled hands. i mastered the difficulty heroically by eating the letter with my bread and butter. it was even harder to pretend to be dull and sluggish with such a whirl of happy thoughts in my mind. i was her "dear oliver," dear enough to make her risk her own life in saving mine. that she would plan wisely and execute swiftly, there was no shadow of doubt. this time tomorrow we should be together again. the night dragged through at last, and the first glimmer of dawn found me alert and hopeful. she brought my usual breakfast at the usual time, and smiled again, but put her finger on her lips to warn me to be silent and careful. she went downstairs, and left to myself again, i grew furious to think that margaret would see me so, a regular wild man of the woods--_quantum mutatus ab illo hectare_. but my ravings ceased at the sound of preparations without. my room was at the back of the house, but i heard the noise of wheels, and hoof-beats, and the harsh swearing of the sergeant. by and by he came noisily upstairs, burst into my room, and curtly ordered me downstairs. blithely i followed him. try how i would i could not hide my joy, and, seeing that he noted it, i said in explanation, "anything for a change, sergeant!" "you'll wish yourself back here soon enough, blast ye!" he growled. "we'll stretch your neck for you till your eyes drop out, you swine!" "you dear, good, christian soul!" i simpered. for answer, he kicked me savagely, and then bundled me downstairs, out of the house, and into the road. here a two-horsed coach was in waiting, with two dragoons and a corporal in front and two more behind. one of the rear men was holding a horse, and to my annoyance the sergeant got into the coach after me, bawled out a command, and off our party started. i stumbled into a corner and sat huddled up, straining my eyes ahead to catch what was to come. margaret's information was clearly correct. we took the road north, passed through penrith without a halt, and out again, still on the turnpike, proof that carlisle was to be our destination. the city was obviously now in the duke's power. mile after mile we covered apace, and at every curve and cross-road i peered ahead and around with my heart in my mouth. one point in my favour was the desolate nature of the country, exactly fitted for such a stratagem as was in hand. on the right the gloomy sky was blotted out by jagged masses of gloomier hills. on the left the country varied between flat and upland, but was hardly less uninviting. "where d'ye think y're going?" asked the sergeant, joggling me with his spurred heel to make me look at him. "no idea," said i. "blast ye. i wish y'had," he growled viciously, and i turned away to smile. we passed through a village littered with the duke's baggage wagons and pretty full of soldiery. this chilled my spirit somewhat, for it looked as if we were about to run into the rear of the royal army. outside the village, however, we again had the road to ourselves, and a mile farther on dropped to a walk to climb a long slant of road. whenever the road curved my way i had seen the corporal and his two men riding from fifty to a hundred yards ahead of us. not very far up the slope we came on a farmstead lying flush on the roadside. in the yard were some thirty head of shaggy black cattle, of the northern kind seldom seen in our parts and therefore attractive to a farmer's eye. a farm-hand leaning over the gate had some noisy gossip with the dragoons as they passed, and bawled his news to a group of men sitting at meat under a hovel. it was a poor enough place to support so many men, for the farm-wife, who came to her kitchen door to see what the clatter was about, was of no better seeming than a yokel's wife with us. my eyes were on her curiously when the man on the gate skipped off and flung it open right across the muzzles of our horses. in the tick of a clock the whole scene changed. the men under the hovel rushed out, fell on the cattle, thrashed them mercilessly with great battoons, yelled at them like maniacs, and drove them in a shoving, bellowing, maddened mass into the road, which here had a stone wall on the side opposite the farm. when the torrent was fairly going, two of the supposed yokels snatched up carbines, climbed on to the hovel, and opened fire on the dragoons in our rear. the master hand of the colonel was in this beyond a doubt. with a loud curse, the sergeant, who was on the side away from the farm, opened the door and was for leaping out. he bethought himself and half turned, one hand on the door and one foot on the step, to look an evil inquiry at me. that half-turn was his undoing. part of the living, struggling torrent of cattle was shoved round our way and came sweeping by. one beast brushed the door open even as he glared at me and tumbled him outwards. as he twisted in his fall another drove her sharp horns clean into him, and shook and twirled him off again like a terrier playing with a rat. the rearguard turned tail and fled. the vanguard had simply been swept off the scene, and i saw them spurring up the slope with the cattle surging after them. the plan had been thought out to a nicety and had worked to perfection. i was free, free for margaret. i sat down again dizzied and happy. my rescuers took no notice of me but ran down the road in a body and stood round the sergeant. after some excited talk they carried him back, called on me to aid, and rammed him into the coach, where he lay huddled on the seat in front of me. without so much as a word to me, the commander pulled our driver off the box, ordered a man up in his place, climbed after him, and said briefly, "go like the devil!" the carriage turned up a rough lane which ran eastward out of the high road opposite the farm, leaving most of my rescuers standing uncertain in a group. the driver cut his horses savagely with his whip, and we went at a hard gallop. the jolting tumbled me about in the coach, and i had hard work, shackled as i was, to keep the sergeant on the seat. he was still alive, though so hideously injured that death could only be a question of minutes. where we were going and why they were carrying him along with us, were questions it was useless to bother about. margaret would explain everything when we met. i could make little of the men who had rescued me. they were clearly not farm-hands, for they were well armed, the guns i had seen looked to me to be military carbines, and they had carried through their business briskly and intelligently. i heard the men on the box talking, but their speech was only about the road and the speed. the country got rougher and wilder; the distant hills were losing their clear-cut, rolling outlines, and becoming neighbours and obstacles. the horses were thrashed unmercifully, but at times even the well-plied whip could get no more than a crawl out of them. the sergeant's end was at hand. he rallied, as men commonly do before they put foot in the black river, and looked at me unrecognizingly. he closed his eyes again, and began to writhe and mutter strange words. suddenly he cried plainly, "curse the swine! another wedge, ye damned chicken-heart!" he looked at me again, and this time made out who i was, and cursed loathsomely in his disappointment. "d'ye know where y're going?" he ended, leering wickedly. "no," said i. "blast ye! i wish ye did!" he gurgled this almost jocosely, as if it were a pet bit of humour. "do you know where you are going?" i asked solemnly. "to hell," he cried, and, after a spout of blood that spattered me as i leaned over him, went. the carriage stopped and, before i could rise to see why, the door was opened and some one without said politely, "this is indeed a pleasure, master wheatman!" it was my lord brocton. * * * * * it would be foolish to pretend that i was not bitten to the bone, and i can only hope that i did not give outward expression to a tithe of the chagrin and dismay that possessed me. being commanded to do so, i got out of the coach without a word and looked around. the rough road along which we had been travelling ran on through a slit in the hills. where we stood a bridle-path parted from it at a sharp angle and made its way over the lower skirts of the hill country. it was a desolate, dreary spot where, as i suspected, the king's writ ran not and where, therefore, a man might be done to death with all conveniency. master freake would be useless to me now, and my chiefest enemy had me at his will. there was no delay. a long cloak was put over me, so disposed as to hide my fetters, and i was lifted on a spare horse led by one of the new-comers. the skill with which the affair had been planned was shown by the fact that this horse, to accommodate my shackled legs, had been saddled as for a lady. "you know exactly what to do?" asked his lordship of the men on the coach. "yes, my lord," said one of them, "but what about--" he finished the sentence by a jerk of his thumb towards the dead sergeant. "leave him there! egad, master wheatman, is not that a touch of the real artist?" "the key of these things is in his breeches' pocket," said i, speaking for the first time, and waggling my fetters as i did so. "get it out, tomlins!" the man who had asked the question climbed down and obeyed the order with the callousness of a dog nosing a dead rabbit. then our parties separated. the coach continued along the main road, if so it may be called, and we took to the track. i looked curiously after the coach, wondering where it was bound, and with what object. "more art," said his lordship. "a coach is a seeable, trackable thing, and it will throw everybody off the scent. i'm glad the ruffian's dead. he was overmuch wise in my affairs." as we rode on into the interminable wastes, he rallied me gleefully, but soon tired of my moroseness. "his arrival will make an affecting picture," he said mockingly to his men. he was feverishly excited, and must boast to some one. "no pliant damsel to rush into his longing arms! he is to be embraced though, my masters, if need be." what this obscure threat might portend, i could not see, but it chimed in with the delirious cruelty of the dead sergeant. threats for the future mattered not, the present being so unendurable. a man in brocton's position must be hard put to it to turn traitor in this strange fashion. he had "rescued" me with his own men, and, lord or no lord, he would hang for it were it once known to a lover of the gibbet like the duke's grace of cumberland. what on earth was the letter about? master freake had definitely said lands, and therefore lands it must be, though nothing less than the whole ridgeley estates could be in question. the thousand and more acres of the upper hanyards, sweet meadows stretching a mile along the river and a snatch of the chase at its wildest and loveliest, the prize that had fallen to the rascal earl in the great lawsuit, had been promised me as readily as a pinch of snuff. i gloated over the revenge i was winning for my race, a race rooted in those darling hanyards a century before the ridgeleys were heard of, for the first earl, the grandfather of the old rogue, started as an obscure pimp to charles the second, and was enriched and ennobled for his assiduity. but no familiary pride could cheer me for long. the dead landscape around chilled me. the chiefest misery was to remember the hope with which i had started that morning. margaret was the fancied end of my journey, and the real end was this! i had to bite my lips till i felt the trickle of blood in the stubble on my chin to keep back unmanly revilings. at last we came out on what was by comparison a made road, and now his lordship grew plainly anxious and haggard. we rode madly along it, so that, riding shackled and woman-fashion, i had hard work to keep my seat. brocton's head was incessantly on the turn to see if we were observed, but his luck was absolute. we saw no one on the road, and, after a hard stretch, we turned up a gully to our left and were once more buried among the hills. after much turning and twisting we came in sight of a small house of grey stone which, from its appearance and situation, i judged to be some gentleman's shooting lodge. we cut across the valley, on one slope of which it stood, and i caught a glimpse of cottage roofs beyond it. we worked round to the rear of the house, and, in a favouring clump of trees, his lordship called a halt. the horses were tethered, and i was lifted down, and the rings round my ankles were unlocked. the men took one each, and carried their carbines in their free hands. brocton drew his rapier, and said, "forward! make a sound, show the slightest sign of resistance, and i run you through." there was no sense in disobeying, and i accommodated myself to his design, which was clearly to get into the house unobserved from without. in this he was successful, or at any rate i saw no one during our crawl from one point of vantage to another up to the back entrance. now his lordship skipped gaily from behind me and opened the door. he stepped softly in, and i was pushed after him by his dragoons. "'friends will rescue you and bring you to me,'" he quoted, jeering me. "there's no margaret for you, farmer wheatman. i shall have her yet!" then, beast as he was, while the men kept me back, nearly tearing my arms out of their sockets, he stuck the point of his rapier over my heart and babbled half-delirious beastliness. we were in a big, bare kitchen, the other door of which was closed. there was no sign of anyone about, and brocton, still with his sword ready for me, bawled out, "where are you, you old hag?" the door opened at once. brocton dropped his sword in his fright and i clapped my foot on it. the two men fled like rabbits. familiar as the picture is to my mind, it is hard to find words to fit this crowning moment of my adventures. margaret walked into the room. for a second she was minded to rush at me, but thought better of it, and walked up to his lordship. she towered over his limp, cringing figure, and said coldly, "you are too poor a cur to be struck by a woman or i would strike you." she was not alone. master freake was now wringing my shackled hands delightedly, and a little, deft man, whom i knew on sight to be dot gibson, was searching his unresisting lordship's pockets for the key of the irons. a minute later he banged them on the floor and said, "and how do you find yourself, sir?" there's no more to be said about brocton. he was as good as dead for the remainder of the business, and no one heeded him any more than if he had been a loathsome insect that a man's foot had trodden on. and what killed him was the presence of a third man, a perfect stranger to me. he was an old-looking rather than an old man, with rheumy eyes that looked through narrow slits, and a big unshapely nose; the skin of his face was brown and crinkled like a dried-up bladder; his whole appearance as a man was mean and paltry. what distinction he had was given him by gorgeous clothing and the attendance of a pompous ass in a flaming livery. yet brocton dared not look at him again, as he shuffled forward on his man's arm to speak to master freake. "mr. freake," he piped, laying an imploring hand on the merchant's arm, "you will not be too hard on my foolish son?" it was the old rascal earl of ridgeley. i had not seen him since the trial, when i was but a lad. in the meantime vice had eaten out of him such manliness as had ever been in him. rascaldom was still stamped on him, but he was now in a state of abject terror. he and his son were indeed, as jane puts it to this day, two to a pair. "your lordships will be pleased to wait on me in the room yonder," said master freake, in his grave, decisive way, "and i will tell you my will on the matter." he bowed ironically towards the door. their unlordly lordships went off together, and he followed and closed the door behind him. dot sensibly hustled off the lackey, and so we were alone together. as ever, i had my full reward. she turned to me, took my hands in hers, and whispered, "my splendid oliver!" "what, madam?" said i, laughing lest i should do otherwise and most unbecomingly. "in a red beard?" "you look like a cossack!" she declared, laughing in her turn. so, in the way we had, we kept ourselves at arm's length from each other and dropped at once into our old footing. then, bit by bit, and unwillingly, and mainly in answers to my questions, she told a tale that made my heart bound within me. this is the mere skeleton of it, for i have no skill to give body and soul to such devotion. the colonel brought the news of my capture by brocton, pieced together from the stories of my men, who got back unhurt, and of one of brocton's dragoons who was luckily taken prisoner in order to be questioned. margaret had immediately started on horseback for london, with one english servant in attendance, going by appleby to evade the duke's army, and across the mountains to darlington. there she had travelled flying post down the great north road, getting to london in five days thirteen hours after her start from penrith. master freake had started back with her within five hours of her arrival. they travelled post through leicester and derby, and then on over ground that was familiar. no wonder i had thought her near, since she had passed within fifty paces of me as i shambled about dreaming of her. part of the five hours' delay in london was taken up by a visit paid by master freake to the earl of ridgeley. he had gone forth stern and resolute. what had happened she did not know, but as they sped north the earl sped north a mile behind them, as if they were dragging him along by his heart-strings. at carlisle, now in the hands of the duke, they drew blank, for brocton was unaccountably absent from military duty. fortunately margaret, from the window of her room, saw the sergeant ride by. dot was sent on his track and learned that brocton was here, the house being a hunting-lodge belonging to a crony of his who was an officer in the cumberland militia. they had ridden out that morning to see him, at which point her tale linked up with mine and ended. "i am greatly indebted to you, margaret," said i, very lamely, slipping out her name at unawares. "nonsense!" she cried. "may i not do as much as your pet ghostie did for you without being a miracle? do not you dare, sir, to offer me a pinnerfull of guineas!" she looked at me with a merry twinkle in her eyes, and i feel sure i knew what she was thinking of. but nance lousely was a simple country maiden, such as i was born and bred amongst, and at that time i had no vile red stubble, rough as a horse-comb, on my chin. we were interrupted by the lackey, who came with mr. dot gibson's respects to his honour, and would his honour like the refreshment of a shave and a bath as both were at his service? like master, like man. this resplendent person was for the nonce humility's self. i went with him and was made clean and comfortable, and my rags trimmed a little. this was preliminary to being summoned by master freake to a discussion with their lordships, with whom was margaret, aloof and icy. "at the 'ring o' bells,'" began master freake, addressing me, "you took from my lord brocton's sergeant, now dead, a bundle of papers?" "yes, sir." "among them a letter addressed simply, 'to his royal highness'?" "that is so, sir." "you gave that letter to me, unopened, in the presence of mistress waynflete?" "i did," said i, and margaret nodded agreement. "several attempts have been made to recover the letter from you?" "at least three such attempts were made by the late sergeant, and two by my lord brocton," i replied. "their lordships' urgent need of recovering the letter is thus proven, and the court will attach due weight to the facts," said master freake. brocton turned white as a sheet, and the old rogue shook as a dead leaf shakes on its twig before the wind strips it off. there was in them none of the family pride which keeps the great families agoing. "i opened the letter. i mastered its contents. i still have it," continued master freake, every sentence, like the crash of a sledge-hammer, making these craven bystanders shake at the knees. "it is deposited, sealed up again, with a sure friend, who has instructions, unless i claim it in person on or before the last day of this year, to deliver it in person to the king. at present no one knows its contents except my lord brocton who wrote it, and i who read it." "thank god!" ejaculated the rascal old earl fervently. "egad," thought i to myself. "it's the ridgeley estates no less." "we will call it, for the purposes of our discussion," said master freake soothingly, "a letter about certain lands." "yes! yes! certainly! a letter about lands! so it was!" cried the earl eagerly, and brocton began to look less like a coward on the scaffold. "would you prefer any other designation or description, my lords?" inquired master freake. "i'm quite satisfied, my good master freake," babbled the earl. "what lands?" i burst out, unable to hold in my curiosity any longer. "the lands known as the upper hanyards in the county of staffordshire," replied master freake. "well i'm ----," cried i, in amazement, but pulling up in time, and margaret's blue eyes were as wide open as mine. "you are, master oliver wheatman," said master freake, "the future, rightful owner of the ancient estate of your family in all its former amplitude; and all arrearages of rents and incomings as from the thirteenth of april, one thousand seven hundred and thirty-two, with compound interest at the rate of ten per cent per annum, together with a compensation for disturbance and vexation caused to you and yours, provisionally fixed in the sum of two thousand pounds. the earl of ridgeley, smitten to the heart by the remembrance of his roguery and knavery, has agreed to make this full restitution. am i right, my lord?" "absolutely, master freake, if you please," whined the rascal old earl. "my god, i'm a ruined man!" "well, my lord," said master freake, "if you lose your lands and moneys, and i will not bate an acre or a guinea of the full tale, you and your son will at least retain what, as i see, you both value more highly. the restitution is to be made by you to me personally, so that we can avoid quibbles about oliver's legal position, he being a rebel confessed, and the day after he is inlawed i will in my turn convey the property in both kinds to him. when the restitution has been fully and legally made, without speck or flaw in title, and passed as such by my lawyers, the letter will be returned to you sealed as now, and of course i shall be rigidly silent on the matter. your lordships," he ended coldly, "may start for london at once to see to the matter." the old earl started for the door eagerly, calling down on his son dire and foul curses. brocton looked poisonously at me before following, and i knew i had not done with him yet. "i've got you your lands, oliver, but there has been no time to get you pardoned. the king was at windsor; every moment was precious; and there was no use, in the temper of the town, in dealing with underlings. it will not do to run any risk of your being retaken, for cumberland loves blood-letting, and is no friend of mine. we shall take you to a little fishing village on the solway and get you a cast over to dublin, whither my good ship, 'merchant of london,' jonadab kilroot, master, outward bound for the americas, will pick you up. when we all meet again in london, in a few months, you will be pardoned. margaret and i must now follow her father. the stuart cause is smashed to pieces." * * * * * late that night i stood with margaret on the end of a jetty in a little fishing village on the cumberland coast. master freake was giving final instructions to the owner of a herring-buss that was creaking noisily against the side of the jetty under the swell of the tide. dot was busily handing to one of her crew of two certain packages for my use. we stood together, and she had linked her arm in mine. we who had been so close together for a month were now to have an ocean put between us. not that that mattered to me, already separated from her by something wider than the atlantic, a lonely unnamed grave away there in staffordshire. suddenly she called to dot, and he, as knowing just what she wanted, brought her a box. she loosed her arm from mine and took it from him, and when i would in turn have relieved her of it, she gently refused. "oliver," she said, in quiet, firm tones, "you met me when i was in grave danger and immediately, like the gallant gentleman you are, left mother and home to do me service." "it was the privilege of my life, madam," i said earnestly. "you have sweetened your service by so regarding it, giving greatly when you gave. and, sir, that service put me in your debt. you see that?" "it is like you to say so. what of it?" "the time came when you were in danger, and i, in my turn, left my father and rode hard to save you. i am not boasting, you understand, sir. i am merely stating a fact. i rendered service for service, like for like, did i not, sir?" "you did, madam, and did it splendidly," said i. "then, sir, when we meet again," she said, and she was now speaking very clearly and sweetly, looking me full in the eyes, potent in all her beauty and queenliness, "when we meet again, we meet on level terms." "are you ready, lad?" called master freake. "coming, sir!" i cried, almost glad at heart of the escape. "one moment, oliver!" said margaret. "so anxious to be rid of me? nay, i jest of course! i've a little present for you here, oliver. it will, i hope, make you think of me at times." "it will not," i replied, smiling. "it will make me think oftener of you, that's all." she handed me the box, and we walked up to the boat. the half-moon was bright in an unclouded sky, and it showed me tears on margaret's cheeks, as i bent to clasp and kiss her hand. then i said good-bye to master freake and dot, and was helped into the boat. so we parted, and i set my face toward the new world. for ten weary months there is nothing to be said that belongs of right and necessity to my story. except this: the first thing i did when i was alone in my cabin on the good ship, the "merchant of london," was to open margaret's box. it contained a full supply of books wherefrom to learn "the only language one can love in," and on the fly-leaf of a sumptuous "dante" she had written, "from margaret to oliver." chapter xxv i settle my account with my lord brocton of how i fared the seas with jonadab kilroot, master of the stolid barque, "merchant of london," i say nothing, or as good as nothing. master kilroot was a noisy, bulky man, with a whiff of the tar-barrel ever about him and a heart as stout as a ship's biscuit. he feared god always, and drubbed his men whenever it was necessary; in his estimation the office of sea-captain was the most important under heaven, and master john freake the greatest man on earth. the ship remained at anchor in dublin harbour while tailors and tradesmen of all sorts fitted me out, for master freake had given me guineas enough for a horse-load. i did very well, for dublin is a vice-regal city, with a parliament of its own and reasonable society, so that the modes and fashions are not more than a year or so behind london, which did not matter to a man going to the americas. from dublin i wrote home. i had laid one strict injunction on margaret. she was not to go to the hanyards, or write there, or allow anyone else to do either. i would not suffer her to know, or to run any chance of knowing, about jack. she was greatly troubled over the matter, but i was so decided that she consented to my demand. it cost me a world of pains to write. i wrote, rewrote, and tore up scores of letters. finally i merely sent them word that i was going to america to wait till the trouble was blown over, and that i should be with them again as soon as possible. i gave them no address. it was cowardly, but i could not bring myself to it. the nightmare that haunted me was my going home, home to our kate, the sweetest sister man ever had, with her young heart wrapped for ever in widow's weeds. i used to dream that i rode up to the yard-gate on sultan, and every time, in my dream, the hanyards looked so desolate and woebegone, as if the very barns and byres were mourning for the dear dead lad who had played amongst them, that i pulled sultan round and spurred him away till he flew like the wind, and i woke up in a cold sweat. on a wednesday morning in the middle of february the "merchant of london" swung into boston harbour on a full tide and was moored fast by the long wharf. master kilroot hurried me ashore to the house of the great boston merchant, mr. peter faneuil, to whom i carried a letter from master freake. it was enough. my friend's protecting arm reached across the atlantic, and if it were part of my plan to tell at length of my doings in the new world, i should have much to say about this worthy merchant of boston. he was earnest and assiduous in his kindness, and so far as my exile was pleasant he made it so. mr. faneuil was urgent that i should take up my abode with him, but this i gratefully declined, and he thereon recommended me to lodge with the widow of a ship-captain who had been drowned in his service. so i took lodging with her at her house in brattles street, and she made me very comfortable. she had a daughter, a pretty frolic lass of nine, who promoted me uncle the first day, and one negro slave, who was the autocrat of the establishment till my coming put his nose out of joint, as we say in staffordshire. master kilroot unshipped most of his inward cargo and sailed away for carolina and virginia to get rice and tobacco. then he would come back here to make up his return cargo with dried fish, to be exchanged at lisbon for wine for england. this was his ordinary round of trade, and a very profitable traffic it was. when he had left, i settled down to make my exile profitable. by a great slice of luck there was at this time in boston an italian, one signor zandra, who gave lessons in his native tongue openly and in the art of dancing secretly. the wealth of the town was growing apace; there was a leisured class, and, speaking generally, the bostonians were alert of mind and desirous of knowledge above any other set of men i have ever lived among. in the near-by town of cambridge there was a vigorous little university with more than a hundred students. moreover, there was a rising political spirit which gave me a keen interest in the men who breathed the quick vital air of this vigorous new england. in many respects i found myself back in the times of smite-and-spare-not wheatman, captain of horse in the army of the lord-general. the genuine, if somewhat narrow, piety of the bostoneers reminded me of him, and still more their healthy critical attitude towards rulers in general and kings in particular. they had the old puritan stuff in them too, for some eight months before they had captured louisberg from the french, a famous military exploit which the great lord-general would have gloried in. my days were all twins to each other. every morning, after breakfast, i went abroad and always the same way: past the quaint town house, down king street, and so on to the long wharf to see if a ship had come in from england, and to ask the captain thereof if he had brought a letter for one oliver wheatman at mr. peter faneuil's. i got no letter and no news. then, always a little sad in heart, i strolled back, and looked in at wilkins' book-shop, where some of the town notables were always to be found, and where, one may morning, as i was higgling over the purchase of a fine virgil, i made the acquaintance of a remarkable young gentleman, mr. sam adams, a genius by birth, a maltster by trade, and a politician by choice. we would discuss books together in master wilkins', or slip out to a retired inn called "the two palaverers" and discuss politics over a glass of wine and a pipe of tobacco. i liked him so much that i was afraid to tell him i had been fighting for the stuarts, and was content to pass in the role mr. faneuil had assigned to me of an ingenuous young english gentleman who had come out to study colonial matters on the spot before entering parliament. our talk over, i went on to signor zandra's and worked at italian for two hours. most days i took him back to my lodging for dinner and read and talked italian with him for another hour or two. the rest of the day i gave to reading, exercising, and, thanks to the good merchant, to the best society in boston. occasionally, when i knew for certain that no ship would clear for home for two or three days, i made little shooting journeys inland, but in the main this is how i spent my days, filling them with work and distraction so as not to have idle hours for idler thinking. spring passed, summer came and went, and the leaves were turning from gold to brown when one morning, as i was at breakfast, mr. faneuil's man came in with a letter. it was from master freake, summoning me home as all was put right. it contained a few lines from margaret, written in italian. a ship was sailing for london that day, and i went on her. * * * * * jonadab kilroot had found his way across the atlantic into boston harbour much more easily than i was finding mine across london to master freake's house in queen anne's gate. it was after nine at night, at which late hour, of course, i did not intend to arouse the inmates, but i meant to find the place so that i could stand outside and imagine margaret within, perchance dreaming of me. at last i observed that men with torches were clearly being used as guides through this black maze of streets, and i stopped one such and offered him a guinea to do his office for me. he was a lean, shabby, hungry-looking man, who might be forty by the look of him. he stared vacantly at me for a few seconds, and then hurriedly led the way, holding his link high over his head. this trouble over, another began, which put me in a towering rage. a gaudy young gentleman bumped into me and, though it was clearly his fault, i apologized and passed on, leaving him hopping about on one foot and nursing the other, which i had trodden on. he swore at me worse than a boatswain at a lubber, and but for the exquisite pain i had caused him i should have gone into the matter with him. i found my linkman leaning against a post and laughing heartily. "never you mind, sir. he'll not take the wall of you again in a hurry." "take the wall?" i said. "done on purpose, sir, to pick a quarrel with you. the young sparks do it for a game." not much farther on, we met a sedan, with an elegant young lady in it, and an elegant gentleman walking along by her close up to the chains, she being in the roadway. there was ample room for me to pass between him and the wall, which was also the courteous thing to do; but as soon as my linkman had passed him, he shot clean in my way. i gave him all the wall he wanted and more, bumping his head against it till he apologized humbly through his rattling teeth. the lady shrieked viciously at me, and one of her chairmen, my back being turned, pulled out his pole and came to attack me. my man, however, very dexterously pushed the link in his face as he was straddling over the chains, and he dropped the pole and spat and spluttered tremendously. i stepped across to the lady and apologized for detaining her, and then my man and i went on, easy victors. arrived at queen anne's gate, another surprise awaited me. master freake's windows were ablaze with light, and the door was being held open by a man in handsome livery to admit an exquisite gentleman and a more exquisite lady who had just arrived there in chairs. i gave my man his guinea, and after dousing his link in a great iron extinguisher at the side of the door, he sped happily away. after watching the arrival of three or four more chairs and one carriage, i summoned up all my resolution and gave a feeble rat-tat with the massive iron lion's-head which served as knocker. the man in livery opened to me, and i was inside before he could observe that i was an intruder. true, i was in my best clothes--my sunday clothes, as i should have called them at home--and they were none so bad; but they had been made in boston, where fashions ranged on the sober side. here i looked like a sparrow in a flight of bull-finches. "can i see master freake?" said i. "no," said he, with uncompromising promptness. "is he at home?" "no," he retorted. "this is his house, i think?" "it is," he assented. "then i suppose all these people are coming to see you--and cook," said i gravely. the sarcasm might have got through his thick skin perhaps but for the intervention of another liveried gentleman, who briefly asserted that i was "off my head," and proposed a muster of forces to throw me out. my own feeling distinctly was that i was on my head, not off it; but his suggestion interested me, as i do not take readily to being thrown out of anything or anywhere. luckily, a fresh arrival took their attention off me for a minute or two, and while i was standing aside to admire the lady, who should come statelily down the grand staircase into the hall but dot gibson. he too was in livery, but of a grave, genteel sort. "hello, dot," said i, accosting him quietly. it bounced all the gravity out of him. he shook my outstretched hand vigorously, and then apologized for doing so, saying he was so glad to see me. "jorkins, you great ass," cried he to the first servant, "what do you mean by keeping his honour waiting?" jorkins looked apprehensively at dot and the suggester of violence looked apprehensively at jorkins; but dot was too full to bother with them, and went on: "mr. freake will be delighted, sir, and so will miss waynflete. they're always talking of you. come along, sir! allow me to precede you." he took me upstairs into the library, and left me there alone. in a few seconds master freake burst in on me. "my dear lad," he cried, wringing my hand heartily, "welcome--a thousand times welcome!" "thank you, sir. i'm glad to be back," was all i could say. he put a hand on each shoulder and stood at arm's length to examine me. "and we're glad to have you back, looking as fit and brown as a bronze gladiator. come along to your room! it's been ready for you this three months, for that silly margaret set to work on it the very day we sent off your letter." "how is mistress waynflete, sir?" "you'll see in five minutes if you'll only bestir yourself. the wits say that there's no need for george to furnish the town with a new queen as i have provided it with an empress." he hurried me off to my room, as he called it, and it was so grand that i crept about it on tiptoe for fear of damaging something. there was everything a young man could want except clothes, and master freake laughingly assured me that they (meaning margaret and himself) had puzzled for hours to see if they could manage them, but had given it up in despair. "i declared you'd pine and get thin," he said, "and she vowed you'd get lazy and fat." i felt very doltish and unready as i followed him to the drawing-room. it was very clear to me that no meeting on level terms was in front of me, and when i got into a large, brilliant room where some dozen splendid ladies and as many elegant, easy-mannered gentlemen were assembled, i felt inclined to turn tail. "empress." it was the exact word. master freake put his arm in mine and led me towards her. she was sitting throned in one corner of a roomy, cushioned sofa, with half a dozen young men--the least of them an earl, i thought bitterly--bending round her as the brethren's sheaves bent round joseph's. and, as if she were not overpowering enough of herself, everything that consummate skill and the nicest artistry could do to enhance her beauty had been done. juno banqueting with the gods had not looked more superb. "on level terms," i whispered to myself mockingly, as master freake led me on, for one of the circling sheaves, with whom she was exchanging easy, lightsome banter, was my finely chiselled acquaintance, the marquess of tiverton. except that she cut a quip in two when she saw who it was that master freake was bringing, margaret gave no sign of surprise. she neither paled nor reddened, nor gushed nor faltered. empress-like she simply added me to her train. "i bring you an old friend, margaret," said master freake, for whom, as i saw, the worshippers round the idol made way respectfully. "and my old friend is very welcome, sir," she answered, holding out her hand. i bowed over it and kissed it. i thought that it trembled a little as it lay in mine, but it is at least probable that i was the source of what fluttering there was. "i trust you have had a good voyage, mr. wheatman?" she questioned easily. "excellent, madam," i replied, with imitative lightness of tone. "it was like rowing on a river." for a moment her eyes steadied and darkened, then she said with a smile, "that being so, even i, who am no sailor, should have enjoyed it along with you." this was how we met. whether on level terms or not, who shall decide? "i say, mr. wheatman," broke in the pleasant voice of the marquess, "you don't happen to have any venison-pasty on you, i suppose? i've got some rattling good snuff, and i'll give you a pinch for a plateful, as i did up in staffordshire. i vow, miss waynflete, it makes me hungry to see him." this speech caused much laughter, and margaret said it was fortunate supper was ready. she then introduced me to the company around, and when this was done, master freake fetched me to renew the acquaintance of sir james blount and his lady, so that i was soon full of talk and merriment. supper and talk, wine and talk, basset and talk--so the time went by till long after midnight. then one by one the guests dropped off. the marquess lingered longest, and on going, pledged me to call on him next morning. "at last," said margaret. "beauty sleep is out of the question to-night, oliver, so tell us everything about everything. it's glorious to have you back." it is not my purpose to dwell on my life in london. after a few days it became one long agony because of, but not by means of, margaret. she did her best for me, and was all patience, kindness, and graciousness, and was plainly bent on living on level terms with me according to her promise and prophecy. it only required a day or two to show me that she had many a man of rank and wealth in thrall. as wealth went then, the marquess of tiverton was, by his own fault and foolishness, a poorish man, but he was lost in love of her, and he was only one of the many exquisites who were for ever in and out of master freake's fine mansion. it did not become a wheatman of the hanyards to cringe or be abashed in any company, and with the best of them i kept on terms of ease and intimacy. i dressed as well, and perchance looked as well, as they did, and if my accomplishments differed from theirs they differed for the better in margaret's eyes, which were the only eyes that mattered. brief as i intend to be, i must set down a few jottings on things that belong to the texture of my story. to begin with, the colonel, though pardoned, was still in france, looking after his affairs there, for before starting to join the prince he had wisely shifted all his fortune over to paris. davie ogilvie had got clear away after culloden, and his sweet ishbel, though taken after the battle, had been permitted to join him there. it was a great comfort to know they were safe, for there were sad relics of my escapade in london--the row of ghastly, grinning heads over temple bar. soon after my arrival, master freake had sent for his lawyers and delivered to me in full possession the upper hanyards and the huge tale of guineas which the rascal old earl had disgorged as the price of the letter. master freake kept a rigid silence over the contents of that famous document "about lands," and i had no wish to know. it was worth a thousand acres and near ten thousand guineas to the earl. i was satisfied if he was. i put my guineas in a bank of master freake's choosing. what a dowry i could have given kate if-- my lord brocton was in town. i saw him several times, in the street or at the play, but took no notice of him. he was said to be eagerly hunting after a lady of meagre attractions but enormous fortune. twice when i saw him he had with him the fellow i had bumped against the wall, a notorious shark and swashbuckler, by name and rank sir patrick gee. tiverton, who had his own reasons for being interested in brocton, told me they were hand and glove together. in a little while a month may be, a change came over the relation in which margaret and i stood to each other. we both fought against it but in vain. we could not travel on parallel lines, we two. we must either converge or diverge, and fate had given me no choice. i used to pretend i was going out, to ride or lounge with the marquess or some other acquaintance, and then slip upstairs to the quiet old library, bury myself in a windowed recess cut off by curtains, and try to forget it all in a book. fool-like i thought i could solve my problem so. the hanyards was calling me and i dared not go. i should leave margaret, and i could not leave her. why, i asked myself a thousand times, was i so poor a cur compared with donald? he had done what i had done, and he had seen his way at once and followed it. he would not live, having, in all innocence and with the most urgent of all reasons, killed his friend. not that i felt that his solution was my solution. my duty was to leave margaret and to go to kate, to help her, to the best of my ability, to live down her sorrow, and to show by my life and conduct that i would pay the price. and here i was, hovering moth-like round the flame. then again i would say that i would wait till the inevitable had happened, and margaret was married to tiverton. anything to put it off, that was really all i was capable of. to me, in my recess, margaret came one morning. "i thought you'd gone out, oliver," she began. "no," said i. "i altered my mind, and thought i'd like reading better." "you puzzle me. are you quite well?" "as fit as a fiddle," said i cheerily, and rose to give her my seat, for the recess would only hold one. "you're not to move, sir." she fetched a couple of cushions, flung them by the window, and curled up on them. i wished she wouldn't, for she made a glorious picture. "now, sir, i am going to have it out with you," she said severely and smilingly. i smiled back, and pulled myself together. "i hope 'it' is not a very serious 'it,' madam," i replied. "it may be. does your head ever trouble you?" "my head ever trouble me?" i gasped, taken aback. "yes, your head, sir. when you fell down those stairs you received a very serious wound on the head. it gaped open so that i could have laid a finger in the hole. are you sure it doesn't trouble you, oliver? blows on the head are dreadful things, you know." "look at it," said i, popping my head down, and very glad of the chance. her beautiful fingers parted my thick, short, bristly hair and found the spot. "there's nothing wrong with the skull, is there?" i asked. "no," very doubtfully. "it's healed splendidly." "now, madam," said i, "talk to me in italian!" it was the first time, by chance, that i had thought of it. for ten minutes she questioned and cross-questioned me in italian on all sorts of subjects, and i came out of the ordeal pretty well--thanks to signor zandra. "point one," said i in english. "the outside of my head is all right. point two: are you satisfied with the inside?" for a full minute she gazed in silence at her feet, twisting them about swiftly and somewhat forgetfully. it was trying, almost merciless, for she was very beautiful. "yes," she said at length, but without looking at me. "you've done marvellously well." "in the only language one can love in," i said bitterly. the words had no apparent effect. she still stared at her twinkling feet. suddenly she lifted her eyes up to mine and said, almost sharply, "then what did happen to you between the hanyards and leek to change you?" it was clean, swift hitting, and made me gasp, but i managed to escape. "madam," said i, "i set out with you from the hanyards to serve you and for no other purpose whatsoever. in my opinion, speaking in all modesty, i served you as well after leek as before it. at least, i tried to." she leaped up, and, with great sweeps of her arm, flung the cushions into the library. she said briefly, "and you succeeded, sir!" then she left me. swiftly and passionately, without another word or look. after this, the gap between us became obvious. meanwhile the marquess of tiverton was doing his best to give me a competent knowledge of the court-end of the town. he had a spacious mansion in bloomsbury square, but this was now let to a great nabob, and he himself lived in close-shorn splendour in a small house in st. james's. here i saw much of him, for commonly i would stroll round late in the forenoon and rout him out of bed. by an odd turn we took to each other greatly, and while he drank chocolate in bed or trifled with his breakfast we had many talks on the few subjects that mattered to him. our favourite theme was margaret, whom he outspokenly worshipped. he rhapsodized over her in great stretches, calling me to testify with him to her divineness, and rating me soundly if, in the bitterness of my heart, i was a little laggard in my devotions. and, at irregular intervals, like selah in the psalms, he would intone dolefully, "and i can't marry her!" it was no use my protesting that an unmarried man could marry any woman he liked if she would have him. "a man can," he would reply, "but a bankrupt marquess can't. i've got to marry that jade. pah! she's as lank as a hop-pole and as yellow as a guinea. but what's a marquess to do, noll? they say she could tie up the neck and armholes of her shift and fill it with diamonds. damn her! i wish brocton would snap her up, but he can't. he'll never be more than an earl and i'm a marquess. curse my luck! fancy me a marquess! i'm a disgrace to my order and as poor as a crow." the 'jade' referred to was the nabob's only daughter and heiress, who was, as all the town knew, to make a great match. my lord brocton was keenly in pursuit of her, but she inclined to the marquess, who could have had her and her vast fortune any day for the asking. she was certainly not overdone with charms, but tiverton in his anger had made her out worse than she was. the morning after my encounter with margaret in the recess, tiverton was more than usually talkative, the fact being not unconnected, i imagine, with an unsuccessful bout at white's the night previous. we got through our usual talk about margaret and the nabobess, and then he struck out a new line. "now if the divine margaret," he said, "rightly so named as the pearl of great price among women, were only freake's daughter and heiress, i'd be on my knees before her in a jiffy. they say he made cartfuls of money over that jacobite business. everybody here was selling at any price the stocks would fetch, and he was buying right and left on his own terms. he was back here, knowing of the retreat from derby, over twenty-four hours before the courier came, and the old fox kept the news to himself. he's the first man out of the city to set up house in the court-end. old borrowdell shifted his tabernacle as far west as hatton gardens in my father's time, and that was thought pretty big and bold, but here's freake right in the thick of it, and holds his own like a lion among jackals. fact is, he's a right-down good fellow. being a marquess, i ought to despise him, 'stead of which i feel like a worm whenever he comes near me, and that, mark ye, noll, not because i owe him close on ten thousand. i used to owe a rascal named blayton quite as much, and every time he came whining round here i either wanted to kick him out or did it. heigh-ho! i'm in the very devil of a mess but i'll cheat scraggy-neck yet. i'll reform outright, noll. i'll never touch a card again as long as i live." "that's the talk!" said i heartily. "eat something and let's have the horses out for a gallop across putney heath." next evening, early, being very miserable, i went round to the blounts, with whom i was very friendly. i forgot myself for a time, it being impossible to think of anything while lying on my back on the hearth, with baby blount trying to pull my hair out by the roots and cutting a stubborn tooth on my nose. he was a delightful, pitiless, young rascal and would leave anything and anybody to maul me about. i had, however, for once mistaken my billet, for while thus engaged who should come in with his mother but margaret? "aren't you afraid to trust baby with such an inexperienced nurse?" asked margaret, smiling at my discomfiture, for i had to lie there till i was rescued from the young dog's clutches. "not at all. when he's with a baby, he becomes a baby, which is what they want. he'll make an ideal father, don't you think?" said her ladyship happily. "i think he will," said margaret in a very judicial tone, but she coloured as she said it. while lady blount disposed of baby, margaret beckoned me aside. "oliver, you'll do me a favour, won't you?" she asked. "certainly," said i. "as i came here in a chair, i saw the marquess going into white's. i fear he may be gambling again. he easily yields to the temptation, and soon becomes reckless. will you call in, as if by chance, and coax him out? i would have him saved from himself, and you have great influence over him." "if he won't come out," said i, smiling, "i'll lug him out!" i excused myself to lady blount and set forth on my errand, willingly enough, since she desired it and i liked him, but all the way i thought of her anxious face as she asked me. at white's i found tiverton playing piquet with brocton. a heap of guineas was by his side, and he was flushed and excited with success. the bout had attracted some attention, for the stakes were running high, and eight or nine men were gathered round the players, among them sir patrick gee. i waited while the hand was played out. tiverton repiqued his opponent, and joyously raked over to his side of the table four tall piles of guineas. it was my first meeting with brocton. chance and margaret had brought us together again. "egad, tiverton," said i to the marquess, who now first observed me, "you had the cards that time with a vengeance. are you playing on? what about your engagement with me?" the marquess coloured slightly at my veiled rebuke. he looked doubtfully at his watch, then at me, and finally at brocton. "have you had enough?" he asked. "enough?" cried brocton. "since you took up with farmers you've got chicken-hearted at cards. play on, my lord!" "i have told you," said i quietly to brocton, "that his lordship has an engagement with me. that should be enough. if you want your revenge, which is natural, there are other nights available." "i want my revenge now, and will have it," he said meaningly, "and this is how i serve men who come between me and my revenge." he was shuffling a pack of cards as he spoke, and, with the words, he flung them in my face. at most of the tables play stopped, and the players there became silently intent on this new game where the stakes ran highest of all. it meant a fight, a fight between an expert swordsman and a man who knew nothing of the craft. to such a fight there could be but one end. tiverton was beside himself. "she'll never forgive me!" he muttered, and i looked amusedly at him and whispered, "who? the nabobess?" he was the highest in rank there, and as such a court of appeal and a sort of master of the ceremonies. "my lord tiverton," said i aloud, "i am, as you know, a recent arrival in town from the americas and other outlandish places, and, naturally enough under these circumstances, i am not clear on some points." "it's clear you've been swiped across the face," broke in sir patrick gee. "hold your tongue, sir!" said tiverton, looking quietly at him. "proceed, mr. wheatman!" it made me smile again, tight as the corner was, to see the play-acting spirit creeping over him. he was beginning to enjoy himself. "therefore, my lord, i should like to ask you a few questions," i continued. "certainly, sir," he replied, with great impressiveness, taking snuff in great style while he awaited my questioning. "is there any doubt that i am the insulted person?" "none whatever," he replied. "my lord brocton insulted you wantonly and deliberately." "then, my lord marquess, i may be wrong, but i think i have the right of choosing the place, the time, and the weapons." "certainly, mr. wheatman," he answered. "then if i choose to say, 'on the banks of the susquehanna, ten years hence, with tomahawks,' so it must be?" a wave of scornful laughter went round the room as the question passed from mouth to mouth. even the most ardent gamblers left their play to join the circle around us. english even in their vices, they took a fight for granted, but were up in a moment to see some fun. the marquess was disconcerted. he obviously felt that i was about to reflect on him in the gravest way; that, in short, i was backing out. he would be tarnished by the dishonour that had driven me out of the world of gentlemen. "i think," said he, "that would be overstraining the privileges of an insulted gentleman." "run away, farmer!" bellowed sir patrick raucously. tiverton looked disdainfully at him. "you may like to know, my lords and gentlemen," he said, as grandly as if he were reciting a set piece from the stage, "that on the night of his arrival from boston my friend was rudely insulted in the strand by a certain person." here he stopped, whirled round on the hulking scoundrel, and added grimly to him, "i shall finish the story unless you leave the room at once." gee thought better of it and slipped off like a disturbed night-prowler. "thank you, my lord," said i very humbly, "for your decision. i hope my unavoidable ignorance entitles me to try again." "certainly," said he, but with unmistakable uncertainty. i looked round the intent curious circle of faces and then at brocton. on his face and in his cruel eyes there were the same gloating anticipations that were there when, in marry-me-quick's cottage, he thought he was bending margaret to his foul will. you could have heard a card drop in that crowded room. my time had come to the tick. stretching myself taut, i said slowly and distinctly, "here. now. fists." brocton went limp and ghastly. i strode up to him, took him, unresisted, by the scruff of the neck, and then said curtly, "open the door, tiverton." the willing little marquess ran delightedly to do my bidding, and i kicked my lord brocton into the kennel and out of my life. next morning i went round to tiverton's as usual, and while he was at breakfast, and we were starting our usual round of talk, in came sir james blount, a stranger at such an hour. "have you heard the news?" he asked abruptly. "what news?" asked tiverton, rather sour at being cheated out of his morning's consolatory grumble with me. "mr. freake has declared that miss waynflete is to be his sole heiress," he replied. i had to thump tiverton to prevent him being choked by something that went the wrong way. we had an excited talk about the news, which sir james had received direct from master freake, which settled it as a fact beyond dispute or change. margaret was now the most desirable match in london from every point of view. blount went away quite pleased with the stir he had made. "henry! henry!" yelled tiverton as soon as we were alone, and in came his man hastily. "henry! what the devil do you mean by putting me into these old rags? damme! i look like a chairman. go and get some decent things out, you old rascal! i'm to call on the greatest lady in london town." he hurried off after his servant, and i heard him singing and shouting over his second toilet. i crept miserably out of the house and made my way to the mews. the ostler saddled my horse, a beautiful chestnut mare which master freake had given me, and i rode out of town, deep in thought. mechanically, i went the way we had intended to go, and found myself at last on the heights that overlook london from the north. then i pulled up. the towers of the abbey stood out nobly against the steel-blue sky. within their shadow was master freake's house where, by now, tiverton would not have pleaded his love in vain. i saw her there, in the splendid room she always dimmed with her greater splendour, the exquisite marquess at her feet, happy in possession of the pearl of great price. over this vision a shadow came, and i saw the house-place at the hanyards, with our widowed kate alone in her sorrow. her flame-red hair was white as snow and tears of blood were on her cheeks. donald's farewell, _weird mun hae way_, boomed in my ears like a dirge. with a sigh that was near of kin to a sob, i pulled the mare round and urged her northwards, northwards and homewards. in my fear and trembling i shirked everything, doing childishly and more than childishly. i was not on sultan, and when i rode out of lichfield i hugged that simple fact to my heart. so much of my dream had at least not come true, and i gave the lie to more of it by leaving the high road and wandering devious ways till, within four or five miles of home, i left even the by-ways and kept to the fields. so keen was i on my little stratagems that i rode over the upper hanyards without once recalling the fact that it was now mine as it had been my father's before me. about four o'clock on a december day, just over a year since leaving home, i leaped the mare over a hedge and was at the old gate. more of the dream was untrue. the winter sun was dropping down to the hill-tops like a great carbuncle set in gold, and the hanyards was all aglow in its flaming rays. the gate was open, so that i could at least begin by pitching into joe braggs for his negligence, and the windows of the house-place shimmered a welcome because of the cheerful blaze within. not a soul stirred. i jumped down, threw the reins over the gate-post, and walked stealthily into the yard and up to the window. still not a soul stirred. i peeped in. there was our kate, leaning lovingly over my chair, pillowed as she had never pillowed it for me, and in the chair was clearly a man, for i could see his stockings and breeches stretching comfortably past her skirts. she laughed merrily at something said, and then stooped and kissed the person in the chair. this was woman's faith! with a great clatter, i strode into the porch, thrust open the door, and stepped in. there was a shout of delight, a babble of, "it's our noll! it's our noll!" and kate leaped into my arms and rained kisses on me. the man followed her, slowly and feebly, leaning heavily on a stick. when he turned his face so that the firelight showed him up, my legs sank beneath me and my knees knocked together. it was jack, dear old jack, nothing but the shadow of himself, but still jack right enough, and his hand was in mine. "run, kit!" he cried. "get some wine! the lad's overcome. god bless you, old noll, how are you?" kate ran off into the parlour, where our wine was stored. "jack!" "hello, noll!" "i thought i'd killed you." "was it you?" he asked, all amazed at my self-accusation. "yes," i faltered. "by gom, noll, you did give me a sock!" he heard kate tripping back with the wine, and put his finger on his lips for a warning. and that was the first and last remark jack dobson made on the subject. chapter xxvi the way of a maid with a man it took me to cure jack. i administered one dose of medicine and he at once began to fill out and get strong and chesty in a manner almost absurd, whereon there was much twitting of our kate who, in her old way, rated me soundly in public and crept up to me in private, and kissed me and wept gladly in the most approved maiden-like style. this was the way of it. i sent joe braggs into stafford the day after i got home to fetch out master dobson, and had him alone in my room. true he was as near and grasping as ever, but i saw even this side of him in a new light now, for he had been near and grasping for jack. he was rather uncertain when we met; glad enough, of course, to see an old friend back again safe and sound, but dubious on the main point. "master dobson," said i, "your jack desires to wed our kate." "so he tells me," said he dolefully, rubbing his thin finger under the edge of his bob-wig to scratch his perplexed head. "she is an excellent young woman, and a comely," said i, grinning at him. "undoubtedly," he conceded. "but, as the head of the family, master dobson, i offer no objection to the proposal." much it would have mattered if i had, but i always take credit when and while i can. "it's very kind of you, ol ... mr. wheatman," said he, "but...." "yes," said i encouragingly. "but there's what i may call the material side of the matter to be considered. my son's bride should be suitable from the business point of view." "i've been considering that point, master dobson. it is undoubtedly important. jack's a careless young dog, and i'm sure our kate is just the woman he wants from a business point of view. she'll keep an eye on every meg in his pockets." "tut, tut!" said he, stirred to action, as i knew he would be. "you mistake me completely. my son will not be wanting in this world's gear and he must have a wife to match." "i see," said i. "one with something substantial in her pocket." "precisely," said he. "well, master dobson, if our kate is willing to marry your jack, a point on which i can offer only a conjecture, she will marry him with five thousand pound in her pocket." he sat bolt upright and stared at me with his mouth wide open. we fetched them in, mother coming with them, and the old man there and then gave them his blessing. kate ran into mother's arms, while jack wrung my hand and danced for joy. afterwards he ate the most astonishing dinner imaginable, loudly asseverating that he was as right as nine-pence and sick of slops. my coming back made a great noise all over our countryside. of what i had actually done there was no knowledge whatsoever. the tale went that i had been to america and found a goldmine, and come home and bought back the lost hanyards. acute sceptics in barbers' shops and market ordinaries advanced the opinion that it must have been a very little goldmine, but they were unable to substitute any other explanation and so fell into contempt. the tale suited me and i never contradicted it. in a world where a man who has travelled to london is a person of consideration and renown, i, who had been to america, was as a god. my first visit to stafford put the sleepy old town into commotion. every night around the fire in the house-place i told them of my adventures. jack, the sly fox, sat among his cushions, which he had not been fool enough to discard along with his slops, with kate on a low stool at his knees. the vicar sat by mother's side on the settle. i drew a chair close to her, so that her hand could clasp mine as i talked, and very helpful i found it, for she understood in silence and in silence comforted me. jane laid supper, taking a long time over it, for between journeys to and from the kitchen she would stand behind the settle and listen wide-eyed to a spell of my talk. every night the vicar said grace, adding, in his simple, apostolic way, a special thanksgiving to the good god who had brought the young lad safe home again, through perils by sea and perils by land, and out of the very hands of evil men who had compassed him about to destroy him. then, after supper, i escorted the good man home and came back through the moonlit lanes; and every night, without fail, i went and stood on the very spot where the gaff had slipped out of my collar, and i had turned round to see margaret. the only discontented person in our little circle was joe braggs, who had caught the dace that caught the jack, and so started me out of my jog-trot yeoman's round into the great world of life and adventure. joe had done well while i had been away; our fields had yielded fruitfully under his care as bailiff; and, having had a favourable harvest, we were much money in hand on the year's working. i had thanked him heartily, confirmed him as my bailiff now that i was back, and given him fifty guineas, a sum which to him was wealth untold. still the rascal was not satisfied, and went about with a bear on his back, as jane had it, so that i was greatly tempted to clip his ear for him. the day before christmas, he was busy all morning under jane's garrulous command, getting in bunches of holly and other evergreens from the hedgerows. his last journey had been to one of the farms on the upper hanyards in quest of mistletoe, which grew abundantly there in an ancient orchard. on getting back he had held a sprig over jane's head for a certain familiar and laudable purpose, and had been rewarded with a smack that sounded like the dropping of an empty milk-pail. a little later i found him glowering in a cowhouse, and had it out with him. "look here, joe, my lad," said i, "tell me straight what's the matter with you or i'll break your head." "what d'ye want to come back 'ere for, upsettin' jin like this'n?" he blurted. "what the blazes have i done to upset jin?" i asked. "why didna y' bring 'er back wi' ye, then?" "who's her, you jolt-head?" i demanded angrily. "that leddy o' yourn. jin's that upset 'er wunna luk at me, an' we wor gettin' on fine." it was no use talking to joe. i explained that she was a great lady and was to marry a marquess, that is a much more important person than an earl. he knew what an earl was, for of course he had heard of the 'yurl,' meaning that old rascal ridgeley. a marquess, however, was outside his ken, and the information was wasted. "why didna y' marry 'er y'rsel', master noll, and bring 'er back 'ere, then jin wud 'a' bin all rate?" "i couldn't," said i. "did y' ask 'er?" "no." "more fule yow," said he bitterly. "she'd 'a' 'ad y', rate enough. jin says so, an' 'er knows." what could be done with such a silly fellow? i left off discussing and took him indoors with me. in front of jane i pledged him in a mug of ale and told him he was one of the best lads breathing, and i was greatly beholden to him. in front of him i kissed jane under the mistletoe and told her that, bonny lass as she was, she was lucky to have the best lad in staffordshire. i left them in the kitchen, and heard no more crashes. later on, joe whistled his three tunes with admirable skill and intolerable persistency while, under jane's orders, he took in charge the boiling of the christmas puddings in a vast iron pot hung over the kitchen fire. it was growing dark. everybody was happy. mother was out and round the village with her christmas gifts, attended by one of our men and a cart packed with good things. nothing could have made her happier. jack and kate were in the house-place busy with all sorts of housewiferies, in which he was as interested as she. joe and jane were in the kitchen, as merry as grigs. i went into my own room, across the passage from the parlour, sacrosanct to me, my books and my belongings. there, too, was the great jack, set up to the very life by the skilful hand of master whatcot. he appeared to be cleaving a bunch of reeds to pounce on a dace, just as he had done once too often on that memorable day. brothers of the angle had made pilgrimages to see him from thirty miles round, and it was an added charm to fancy that the monster had been caught in a spot where izaak walton had fished as a boy, he having been born and bred in these parts. my jack is a famous jack, for the curious reader will find an account of him, with his dimensions and catching weight exactly given, in master joshua spindler's folio volume entitled "rudimenta piscatoria, or the whole art of angling set forth in a series of letters from a nobleman to his son," london, . no one who has yet seen him has seen a bigger, though most of them have heard of one. i lit my candles, got my pipe going, and drew my chair near the fire to read and smoke. it was, however, early days yet for me to read for long. moreover, by habit i had picked up my virgil, and it was as yet impossible for me to feel the tips of my fingers in the teeth-marks without thinking of the poor wretch who had made them. i could see in exactest detail his dead body lying in the road and swift nicks beside it, pitching the bag of guineas up and down in the air, and smiling gleefully and yet wistfully at me. from that grim event, whether my mind travelled backwards or forwards, it traversed scenes such as few men are privileged, or fated, to pass through. it was, again, too soon for me to realize the full effect of my experiences on myself. i was not moody, as in the days aforetime. i neither loathed my lot nor cursed my destiny. i had seen warfare and bloodshed, i had had my heart wrung and my nerves racked, and now the peaceful meadows winding along the river and stretching up to the purple hills were dear to eyes from which the scales had fallen. this was the life and labour on which the world was based, and it was worthy of any man. i had seen death the harvester at work, and he was a less alluring figure than joe braggs with a flashing sickle in his hand and a swathe of golden grain under his arm. i should never be really alone again. i had company of which i should never tire as i sat here with my memories. margaret was rarely absent from my mind, and every memory of her was a blessing and an inspiration. i did not regret my love, foolish and vain as it had been. the thing that really mattered was that jack was alive. i could now look back on everything without bitterness. if margaret came for me now, to call me forth to another hard round of struggle and adventure, i should be off with her like a shot. she had made a splendid companion. she would make a splendid marchioness. some day, when the pain would not be unendurable, i would go to london and steal another peep at those matchless eyes and that tower of golden, gleaming hair. i did not hear the door open, but i heard mother's calm voice, gently reproving jane for an unseemly giggle. a pair of arms crept round my neck, and slim white fingers cupped my chin. kate did not know that it was i who had so nearly sent her sweetheart to an untimely grave, for jack had sternly forbidden me to mention the subject to anyone, and, as i have said, it might never have happened so far as he was concerned. therefore kate, always a loving and attentive sister, was now more loving and attentive than ever because she knew in her heart that, though i had gained much in my wanderings, i had lost the one thing she had found in the quiet sickroom where, during long weary months, she had lured jack back to life. it was always her task to fetch me from my books and my thoughts to the beloved circle in the house-place, when, as now, she had prepared a dish of tea for us. the soft resolute hands raised my chin, and i gasped as i looked into margaret's eyes. she lightly held me down, and, as if we had only parted five minutes before in the house-place, began to speak, quietly but rapidly. "oliver, do you remember waking me in the barn?" i nodded. i was too amazed to speak, and there was that in her eyes which made me tremble. "i was dreaming," she said, and i nodded again and remembered how she had flushed like the dawn. "because you are the greatest goose of a man that ever lived, i am going to tell you my dream. i dreamed that you were carrying me across the pearl brook, and as you carried me the brook got wider and wider--you had made it as wide as you could, you know--until it seemed as if we should never get across it. and you would not put me down, though i begged you to do so, but carried me on and on. you grew tired and weary, and your face went white and drawn, as i find it now, but you would not let me go. was it not a curious dream, oliver?" again i nodded. "why can't you speak, oliver? anything would make it less hard. then, because you were so weary, and so good to me, and so faithful, and long-enduring, i did in my dream ... in my dream, you mark ... something very un-maidenly ... and immediately we were both on the other side; and i awoke as you put me down at last and found you by my side, having, in your knightly unselfishness, ruined your hat to give me a drink of milk. and because you are the best man on earth, and also a blind silly goose, oliver, and i must take some risk or lose my all, i am going ... to do the unmaidenly thing i did in my dream ... and ... you ... must not misjudge me, oliver." she stopped, smiled as only margaret can, and bent her head until a loose coil of amber hair fell on my face then she brushed it aside and, after a little gasping cry, kissed me on the lips. epilogue the little jack at the hanyards staffordshire _august th, _ margaret and i had a hot dispute this morning. true she went away, singing happily, to rebuild the masses of yellow hair that had fallen all over her shoulders and mine, for the dreadful stuff seems to tumble down if i look at it, but still we had disputed, and vigorously, too. the plain fact is she had sniffed at aristotle. the trouble arose out of this story of mine which i have been busy writing for the last twenty months. it has been hard work, for i was new to the business, and had to learn how to do it, but it has been a pleasant task and a labour of love. now we disputed about it. i said it was finished. she said it wasn't. i said i ought to know. she replied not necessarily, since i was such a great goose. then i loaded my big gun and thought to blow her clean out of the water. "my dear margaret," said i, "aristotle lays it down that every work of art has a beginning, a middle, and an end. the beginning of our story was the catching of the great jack, the middle of it was the fight at the 'red bull,' and the end of it was the kiss you gave me. you see, dear, how exactly i have done what aristotle says i ought to do." "bother aristotle! what does he know about us?" it was here that she sniffed, not figuratively but actually. that is to say she held up her nose, on pretence of looking at me, and audibly ... well, sniffed. there's no other word for it. then she cried triumphantly, "what is the use, noll, of telling our story and not saying a single word about the most important people in it?" to this question i made no reply. i was beaten. aristotle, had he been in my place, would have been beaten too. if we had been in town i would have run round to mr. johnson's and asked him to assist me, but i feel sure he would have been as helpless as i was. there was no reply, so i contented myself with playing with her gorgeous hair till it was all a-tumble to the floor. bother aristotle! i must do as margaret bids. * * * * * the colonel and master freake were in the house-place when, at last, that memorable christmas eve, i proudly took my margaret there. "sir," said i to the former, before he had ceased his hearty handshake, "i love margaret dearly and margaret loves me. may we be married?" "you young dog! what d'ye say to that, john?" he said. "nothing is nearer to my heart," said the great merchant of london, giving me his hand in turn. "nor to mine, so that settles it," cried the colonel, fishing out his snuff-box, while i led margaret up to mother. we spent a happy christmas as lovers, and were married on new year's day by the vicar. jack and kate were married in the spring, by which time he was as well and strong as ever. for years i feared lest his severe wound should have left some permanent source of weakness, but happily my fears were ill-founded. jack, having had enough of soldiering, took to business at master freake's suggestion. he has developed all his father's shrewdness while retaining all his own boyish charm. he is now master freake's right hand, in the great london house of freake & dobson. kate is kate still, ardent, busy, level-headed, and loving, and the happy mother of three girls and a boy. jack and i are as twins to one another. in the summer after our wedding, margaret and i went our journey over again. we saw cherry-cheeks, and made sure that sim should have not only a good wife but a good business of his own to keep her on. we found out sweet nance lousely, and filled her pinner full of guineas after all, and left her tearful and happy. we knelt together by a simple grave in the catholic burial-ground at leek, and on the top of shap we stood, with tears in our eyes, beside the great stone that marked the resting-place of donald and his chief. i did become a parliament man, as master faneuil had said i should, and am a strong supporter of mr. pitt. we spend part of each year in london, where the marquess is our great friend. he married the nabobess after all, and she loved him well enough to make it her business to reform him. he vows she is the finest woman in england, with a head on her shoulders as good as mr. freake's. she makes a good marchioness, too, for she always had sense, and has developed dignity. but most of our time we spend at the hanyards, which i have made into a fine house by careful changes. master joe braggs and mistress jane braggs are our loyal, willing servants and our friends, and are as happy as sandboys together. they have now quite a large family. to-day we are all together again for a long stay at the hanyards. the archdeacon of lichfield, once our beloved vicar, is with us, simple, fatherly, and learned as of old. i can see his white head when i lift mine up from my writing. he is sunning himself in the garden and talking with mother, who turns her eyes now and again to look at the road, for kate and jack are coming in from stafford with their children. all these are familiar names, but it is fit that the record should be given before i go back to margaret's sniff at aristotle. for while i was busying myself with her hair, who should come in sight, walking through the orchard from the river, but the colonel and master freake. they stopped to join mother and the archdeacon in their talk, and we, looking at them, were proud and happy in the knowledge of their love for us. then there was a great clatter and chattering and excited shouting without. margaret had left the door of my study open, and in raced the most important people in our story. they had a tale too big for coherent talk, and they gabbled away, one after the other or both together, to tell us all about it. it was oliver who had done it. he held up with a pride that made him splutter a little jack about fourteen inches long, which he had just caught. they say he is his father over again. at any rate, he will fish morning, noon, and night, if he can coax one of us elders to go with him to take care of him. there he stood, the fish dangling at arm's length, telling his mother exactly how he had done it. i do not pretend to be impartial, but a finer boy than mine is not to be found. he drops the fish to the floor to rush into his mother's arms to be kissed and praised. i am busy, too; busy as i love best of all to be. for on my knee, her arms round my neck and her great mane of glorious wheat-coloured hair tickling my face, is the dearest little creature on god's earth, my other margaret. if you want to see me when i am intensely proud and happy, you must see me with her at my side walking in the park or down the green gate at stafford, with all eyes turning on her because of her surpassing childish beauty. "i helped him catch it, daddy," she says, lifting up her face to be kissed. so does history repeat itself, and it is settled at once that noll's jack is to be put by master whatcot in the same case as dad's, for all the world to know that he is as good a fisherman as his father before him. joe is to send it to stafford at once, and the two rush off eagerly to give it to him, leaving us alone. to the glowing beauty of her maidenhood margaret has added the serene beauty of motherhood. that is all the change i can see in her, as i put my arms round her and draw her to me. when she could speak she said happily, "well done fisherman!" [illustration: cover art] spanish john [frontispiece: "i knelt and kissed his hand with my heart on my lips" (see p. .)] spanish john _being a memoir, now first published in complete form, of the early life and adventures of colonel john mcdonell, known as "spanish john," when a lieutenant in the company of st. james of the regiment irlandia, in the service of the king of spain operating in italy_ by william mclennan illustrated by f. de myrbach new york and london harper & brothers publishers toronto: the copp, clark company, limited copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ entered according to the act of the parliament of canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven, by harper & brothers, in the office of the minister of agriculture, at ottawa. to my father this result of long talks over old days old manners, and old memories preface "spanish john" was the _nom de guerre_ of john, son of john, son of Æneas, son of ranald mcdonell of scottos, or scothouse, who was also head of the glengarry family. he was born at "crowlin," knoidart, in . he left home to study in the scots college in rome in , but in we find him serving as ensign in the "regiment irlandia" for king carlo of naples, and in he was on his way to scotland carrying money and despatches for prince charles. after his release and the pacification of the highlands he married and remained in scotland until , when he emigrated to america and settled in scoharie county, in the then province of new york. three years later he held a commission as captain in the king's royal regiment of new york, the "royal greens," under the command of colonel sir john johnson, bart., and served until the regiment was disbanded about . he then settled in canada, where he died at cornwall in , and was buried at st. andrews, p.q. his sons, particularly john and miles, were famous men in the days of the rival factions engaged in the struggle for the northwest fur trade, and his name is still widely and honorably represented in canada. at the request of his friend bishop strachan, then the reverend mr. strachan and school-master at cornwall, colonel mcdonell wrote a short account of his early life and adventures, which was published in _the canadian magazine_, montreal, may and june, , and forms the basis of the following story. while i have amplified the old and introduced such new characters, incidents, and situations as were necessary to create a work of fiction out of material which is but a recital of those incidental and generally disconnected happenings that go to make up a man's experience, i have taken every pains to preserve what i conceive to be the character of the narrator and the essential value of his narrative. from le père labat and le président debrosses i learned of the conditions of italy; from o'callaghan, the particulars of the irish brigade; from professor cavan, of charlottetown, p.e.i., who was a student in the scots college in the early forties, when the conditions were still unchanged--when the abbé macpherson, their rector, could well remember prince charlie in his last days: "he used to visit us and say we were the only subjects he had left"--information that brought me into touch with the life there; from the rev. mr. mcnish, of cornwall, the gaelic toasts; and from "ascanius," much of the detail of the end of "the forty-five." william mclennan. montreal. contents i how angus mcdonald of clanranald and i set out for the scots college in rome; how we fell in with mr. o'rourke and manuel, the jew, and with the latter saw strange company in leghorn; how we were presented to captain creach, "of the regiment irlandia," at the inn of aquapendente, and what befel thereafter ii how, out of a school-boy's quarrel, it came that i kissed the hands of his majesty, james iii.; that i met with h.r.h. the prince of wales and other company, both high and low, until, from one thing to another, i took leave of my books to follow the drum iii of the soldiering father o'rourke and i did in the regiment irlandia together; how we fared at the battle of velletri, and until the army divided under the walls of rome, during which time i won more than one promotion iv how we met old friends and an older enemy in rome with whom i was forced to subscribe to a truce, having passed my word to the duke of york; how it came that i resigned from the company of st. james v how father o'rourke and i met with the duke of york, who charged me with a secret mission towards prince charles; of our voyage to scotland, and the dismal tidings that there met us vi how we supped with a thief, and the outcome thereof. vii how father o'rourke and i fell in with broken men and saw the end of a lost cause viii how i fared in my attempt to recover the stolen money; and how father o'rourke and i came face to face with unlooked-for company in the inn at portree ix how father o'rourke kept the black pass; of the escape of the prince and my own mischance that followed; but of how the day of reckoning between me and creach came at last illustrations "i knelt and kissed his hand with my heart on my lips" . . . _frontispiece._ "in burst mr. o'rourke" "i gave him a boy's punishment" "'tell me, sir, what did you come here for?' he stormed" "i could not help strutting as we passed the fashionables" "'the day we beat the germans at cremona!'" "there we stood, with our pale faces" "there the good man sate, holding me in his arms" "i saw creach advance towards me" "'gentlemen! glasses all!'" "then father o'rourke spake" "'will never return to say they saw me go to my death alone'" "'fine words! brave words!' he sneered" "the last stand for prince charles was at an end" "there! that is crowlin" "many was the pleasant talk he had with my father" "she stood on her way towards france and safety" "'give up your sword like a gentleman!'" "he was fighting for time" spanish john i how angus mcdonald of clanranald and i set out for the scots college in rome; how we fell in with mr. o'rourke and manuel the jew, and with the latter saw strange company in leghorn; how we were presented to captain creach, "of the regiment irlandia," at the inn of aquapendente, and what befel thereafter. "hoot!" snorted my uncle scottos, with much contempt, "make a lad like that into a priest! look at the stuff there is in him for a soldier!" without waiting for a reply, he roared: "here, mogh radhan dubh! (my little black darling), shew your father how you can say your pater-noster with a single-stick!" at which he caught up a stout rod for himself, and, throwing me a lighter one, we saluted, and at it we went hammer and tongs. i suppose my uncle was a bit discomposed with his argument, for he was one ill to bear contradiction, even in thought, and so forgot i was but a lad, for he pushed me hard, making me fairly wince under his shrewd cuts, and ruffling me with his half-angry shouts of "mind your guard!" each time he got in at me, until before long the punishment was so severe i was out of breath, my wrist half broken, and i was forced to cry "pax!" indeed, i was so ruffled i made but a poor shewing, and my father laughed heartily at my discomfiture. "well, well, donald," he said, in reply to my uncle's argument, "i'll at least promise you his schooling will not be any harder than that you would put him at." "perhaps not," answered my uncle, still in some little heat, "but mine is at least the schooling of a gentleman! however, thank god, they cannot take that out of him in rome, whatever else they may stuff into him. man! man!" he broke out again, after a moment's pause, "but you're wasting the making of a pretty soldier!" and he looked so gallant as he stood there before the big fireplace, full of scorn for the ignoble fate he dreaded might be in store for me, that my heart swelled with a great pity for myself, and for my father too, who should be so bent on sending me to rome, so far away from my uncle, who knew so many pretty turns with the sword i might learn from no other, and so many songs i might never sing now. for i worshipped my uncle, donald mcdonell of scottos, but always known as "scottos," as is our custom; he was called the younger, not to belittle him, but because my grandfather, old Æneas of scottos, was still alive. he had been in france and spain and italy, first as a cadet and afterwards as ensign in colonel walter burke's regiment of foot, one of the regiments of the irish brigade serving under the duke of berwick, and many a night have i been kept awake with his stories of their engagements at cremona, alicant, barcelona, and other places--how they beat, and sometimes how they were beaten--till i knew the different dillons and butlers and mcdonells and o'rourkes, and other gentlemen of the regiment, not only by name, but as though i had met with them face to face. he had no great love for the church, for he hated the sight of a priest, and was continually railing against my being sent to rome lest they should make a "black petticoat" of me. "that 'a mcdonell must be either a soldier or a priest' may be a very good saying in its way," he went on to my father, for there was no interruption in their talk, "but mark you which comes first! if all our forebears had bred but little shavelings, and no soldiers, where would the mcdonell family be now, think you? 'tis not in reason you should give up your one son for the sake of an old saw, like enough made by some priest himself. if one of mine chooses to take to it, he will not be missed out of the flock; but depend upon it, brother, god never gave you this one to waste in this way. let me train him until he is ready to go abroad into the service, and i'll answer for it to stand him in better stead than all the tingle-fangle whimseys they'll teach him in rome!" but my father only smiled in his quiet way, and said in his low, soft voice, so different from my uncle's: "donald, donald, you witch the lad! you have my word that when the time comes he shall be free in his choice; but, priest or soldier, he'll be no worse the gentleman for a little of the book-learning you make so light of. now, say good-bye to your uncle, lad, and we'll be off." as we rode homewards, i on the saddle before him, my father talked all the way of what my going to rome would really mean. he told me of the scots college there, what it looked like, where his room was--"and there, if they have not whitewashed the wall, shonaidh, which may well be the case, you'll find written near the head of my bed: "'half ower, half ower to aberdour, 'tis fifty fathoms deep; and there lies gude sir patrick spens, with the scots lords at his feet.' that i wrote one afternoon at the siesta when my heart was big and i was wearying for home, as you may do, and i thought i heard my mother singing, and wrote down the old words for my comfort. perhaps you'll find them there still," he added, slowly, as if he were back in the old days rather than talking to me. "and, shonaidh," he went on, after a little, "just when your heart fails you is the time to play the soldier as truly as if you had a broadsword in your hand. homesick you'll be--i'd be sorry for you if you were not--but remember, i went through it all before you, and, though i have done nothing for it, my time in the old scots college was the best gift my father ever gave me. if god wills it, you will be a priest, but neither i nor yet the rector will force you. you are going under the care of one of the best of men, a nobleman and one whose slightest word you should be proud to treasure; and, remember, the first duty of a gentleman who would some day command is to learn to obey." and so on as we rode; he told me much, much more than i had ever known, of all he had done and all he had hoped to do as a boy, but he had given up his own plans that his brother scottos might go to serve under the duke of berwick in spain; how, though he had borne himself therein as a brave and gallant gentleman, the fighting abroad had brought nothing to those at home, and, after the disappointment of , how he had no longer heart for foreign service, for he was committed to the royal cause beyond everything, and so remained at home in spite of danger, hoping for the day when the king would come again. he warned me that i must not make too much of my uncle's railings against the church, for he had seen many things in spain that were in a measure hard to see, and, whatever were his words, he was a good son of the church, and in his heart did not believe his own sayings--which made me wonder, i remember, why my father should so punish me for lying--and so on until we reached crowlin, as our house was known. it was in the month of august when i left home, i being just twelve years of age, and angus mcdonald of clanranald, who was to be my comrade, fourteen. he was a much bigger lad than i, and at home could handle me readily enough, but from being so much with my uncle scottos, who was never done talking of what he had seen in foreign parts, i was in a measure travelled, and no sooner were we out of the country than angus gave the lead to me, which i kept in all the years we were together. my grandfather, Æneas of scottos, gave me his blessing and a bright new guinea and much good advice; my father kissed me fondly, and, with many a direction for the road, gave me a letter to father urbani, the rector in rome; my sister margaret hung about my neck and refused to be comforted; but at last, with a cousin of clanranald's and a party of their people, we started for edinburgh. my uncle scottos rode with us as far as inchlaggan, and when we said good-bye he commanded me, sternly, "don't let them make a little priest of you, shonaidh, or i'll baste you with a wooden sword when you come home!" then he swore somewhat in spanish and kissed me on both cheeks, and rode off with his head down, waving his hand at the top of the hill, though he never looked back. our stay in edinburgh with bishop hay, and our journey to boulogne and thence to father innes, of the scots college in paris, with whom we lodged for three weeks, produced nothing of interest; indeed, we did not fall in with much i can now recall until we drove into marseilles and were there lodged in the house of the benedictins. here we saw much to wonder at--soldiers in uniforms, sailors in petticoats, galley-slaves in chains, jews in gabardines, and others dressed in such outlandish habits we could not help staring at them, though had we worn our own highland clothes i do not believe any would have remarked on us; and we heard, i doubt not, every language on earth save the gaelic, which is but little spread beyond the highlands. a more lively people than the marseilles would be hard to meet. on the quay one evening we marked a fellow carrying something like a long, narrow drum, which he tapped with his fingers as he strolled. presently he stopped at a clear space, and, drawing a little pipe from under his arm, began to play both instruments at once cleverly enough. hardly had he begun before the crowd gathered round, and on some lusty fellow setting up a shout and leaping into the middle of the space and holding forth his hand, it was caught by one, who in turn invited another, and then another, while from the tavern opposite rushed men and women fairly tumbling over one another in their haste, laughing and shouting as they came, till all were at it, footing it merrily as they swung in and out and twisted and turned in a long tail. round the posts, jumping over the ropes that held the vessels fast, then across the street and into the tavern by one door and out at another into the street again, with such mad laughing and singing and holding forth of hands that angus and i could stand it no longer, and so caught hold; and, though we could speak no word of their language, we could laugh as hard in english and give as wild skreighs in gaelic and foot it as lightly as any of them. it was a grand ploy, and only ended when we were all out of breath. provided with money sufficient to carry us to rome, we took passage for leghorn, or livorno, as they call it, in a fair-sized barque, but the dirt and the evil smells on board disgusted us beyond measure, and we almost longed for the bone-breaking coaches again. however, we were not long aboard before we fell in with a tall, decent man, a mr. o'rourke by name, who was an irishman, on his way to finish his studies as a priest at the propaganda in rome, but the merriest and best-natured man i had ever seen. he was bigger and broader and had a greater hand and foot than any one else on board. he laughed at our touchiness at what he called "a few smells." "a few smells, sir?" said i--"it seems to me they are fairly crowding one another so close there's but little room for any more." "oh, isn't there? it strikes me you have never put your nose inside a roman osteria on a wet day in july! until then, my lad, you are not qualified to speak of smells in the plural. and let me tell both of you," he went on, after he had finished laughing, "you had best get your noses into training at once, for if they are going to cock up at every stink that comes under them you'll be blowing them over the backs of your heads before long, unless you do like the elephant and carry them in your trunk." which we took to be an excellent jest, the more so as we found by evening he had two hammocks swung for us on deck near the round-house. the weather was so mild and the cabins so unbearable that most of the passengers followed our example, and even in the bow was one solitary old man, who now and then had to put up with a douse of salt water when the barque clipped deeper than ordinary. the next day we made a closer acquaintance with our fellow-passengers, most of whom were but fearful sailors with but little stomach for anything off an even keel. in the cabin with us and mr. o'rourke were an italian count and his lady, some priests, and a spaniard named don diego, with whom we soon made friends, though he was ignorant of both english and french, and had no gaelic; but we could get in a latin word or two, and we laughed much and made signs for the rest. mr. o'rourke we found to be of the same family as the gallant major o'rourke who was killed at alcoy, in spain, under the count o'mahony, which i knew of through my uncle scottos, who was an ensign there at the time; this made us fast friends, and i told him much of the regiment irlandia and the irish brigade of which he was ignorant. but we came near to falling out at the very beginning of our friendship, which happened in this way. being that day with angus up in the bow of the barque to mark the play of the waves, i was trying some little french on the old man, who was still crouched there miserable enough, when up comes mr. o'rourke and, without preface or apology, breaks in upon us, taking no more notice of the poor old man than if he had been a dog. "do you know who you are talking to?" says he, in a loud, hectoring style of voice, and raps out before i can answer: "this man's a jew! a jew!" he says, and spits on the deck as if he had a bad smell by him. "i don't care if he's a camel!" says i, much nettled at his tone. "no more would i," says he, "for then he'd be where he deserves, wandering about in the desert." "mr. o'rourke, when i get to rome i'll be under a master, but until then i am answerable to no one save myself, and i'll thank you to leave me in peace to such company as i may choose," i returned, making a mighty strong inflection on my words. he moved away, laughing. i was only a foolish boy, so his laughing hurt me more than his anger, and had he taken no notice i dare say i would have thought little more of the jew than of any other on board; but now, part from curiosity--perhaps, too, part from mulishness, of which i had my share when a boy--but afterwards from a personal feeling, i was kept nearer the old man than would otherwise have happened. true, my uncle scottos had no great softness for the jews while in spain--no more had he for the priests, for that matter--but this was the first i had ever fallen in with, and the old man was so uncomplaining and gentle i felt i was taking his side, and that ended it. his name was manuel, and he was a portugal by nation, but lived in leghorn, about which he told me much. as to his business, i cared but little--as he could not be a gentleman in the nature of things, his occupation was a matter of indifference to me. so, in spite of the laughter of many, and mr. o'rourke's gibes about my visits to the "ghetto," as he called the bow of the barque where the poor old man was, i never missed a day without a visit to him, and learned much that was useful to me afterwards. we now met with some heavy weather, and were so knocked about on the third day that, as these coasters are not very venturesome, our captain thought it prudent to put back into toulon, where we anchored in the midst of the fleet of the king of france there lying. the next day we were eager to get on shore, though it was blowing hard, but were dissuaded by mr. o'rourke. however, the jew and a cordelier friar resolved to risk it with a crew of six sailors, who ballasted the ship's boat with some spare guns; but hardly had they got up sail before the boat was overset and all were thrown into the water. the first to lay hold of the boat was the cordelier, who scrambled up on the keel, followed by the sailors, who pulled their fellows up one after another. all this time i was in an agony of fear for the jew, who, though he laid hold of the boat, was so old and feeble he could not draw himself up, and no one so much as stretched out a hand to his aid. worse than this, the ship's company and crew screamed with laughter at each new struggle he made, as if it were the merriest game in the world. meantime the unfortunates were fast drifting into the offing, and would infallibly have been borne out to sea had not a spanish zebec made sail and succeeded in overhauling and picking them up. then, though i was shaking with fright, i turned to and thrashed angus mcdonald for his laughing with the others until he cried mercy. "a pretty christian you are to be going to rome and laughing at a man as old as my grandfather!" i admonished him, when i had finished. "pough!" snorted he, still angry. "mr. o'rourke says jews have no souls!" "indeed?" said i. "mr. o'rourke had better be looking after his own, and make certain of it, before he is so sure about other people." and off i stalked, mighty indignant and mighty hot against mr. o'rourke, who but laughed merrily at my saying. however, the next day we made it all up again on his asking me and angus to accompany him and don diego on shore at his expense; and the jew now being out of sight, i could not hold my anger long, while mr. o'rourke mended my pride by telling me i had surprised him in the handsome outcome of my attack on angus. of course angus and i needed no making up whatever, for he could generally thrash me twice to my once. so, with mr. o'rourke and don diego, we went on shore and rambled about merrily enough. in the afternoon we were strolling about in the place d'armes waiting for mr. o'rourke and don diego off on some affairs of their own, when a gentleman passed having on the greatest wig imaginable, most generously powdered. he carried his hat under his arm and minced in his walk like any madam, holding his long cane as gingerly as a dancing-master. without a word, angus pulled a handful of nuts from his pocket and flung them with all his might at the great wig, which gave out a burst of powder like a gun going off. round wheeled its owner and was after us with a roar; but we separated and ran in different ways, making for the lime-trees along the edge of the parade. we dodged round the trees, and the one of us pursued him as he made after the other; but he would not be dissuaded by this, and kept after me until, at last, i began to lose my wind, and shouted to angus for help, who, however, could do nothing against an angry man armed with a great cane; and i began to grow anxious in my mind, when who should come up but our spaniard, who, seizing the situation, at once turned the tables completely by a flank attack, and our frenchman was soon left lamenting, with his wig up a tree, his cane broken, and more spanish oaths ringing in his ears than i dare say he had ever heard before. it was like my uncle scottos swearing. off we went post-haste to the port, where, on entering a tavern, being mindful of my obligations as a gentleman, i ordered and paid for a bottle of wine for our rescuer, at which he was greatly pleased, though, like most of his countrymen, he was modest enough in the use he made of it. the little he did take, however, was sufficient to warm him up, when, forgetting we did not know a word of what he was saying, he poured out a long rigmarole to us in spanish, which he wound up by whipping out a stiletto--a long, thin dirk much used in those countries--and gave us to understand he would have killed the frenchman with much pleasure. not content with this show of friendship, he pulled out a purse, very comfortably filled, and offered me a part; but i refused with my best manner, and with the help of my latin made him know i was sufficiently supplied. in the midst of all this friendship and wild talk who should discover us but mr. o'rourke, who, on hearing of our adventure, broke out, "'pon my soul, but this is a pretty jerrymahoo you two young barbarians have started up! you're likely to have the peace-officers down on you before you can say peter donovan's prayer; and 'tis proud your people will be of you, no doubt, to have you beginning your education under the whip in a french prison, instead of under the holy fathers in rome!" and with that he hurried us off in all speed to a boat, in a white fear of the officers, making us lie down in the bottom until we reached the ship's side, when we lost no time in scrambling on board. we found we were the last passengers ashore, and on mr. o'rourke's relating to the captain our adventure, and the possibility of our being followed, he had up the anchor even before the moon rose, and we were on our way towards leghorn again. the rest of our time on board went fast enough, for we had nearly as many friends as there were passengers. finding i had begun my education in fencing, don diego gave me lessons in the spanish method, of which i was not entirely ignorant, and in turn i shewed him something of the single-stick, wherein he was altogether lacking. to our surprise, mr. o'rourke turned out to have no small skill with both single-stick and the small-sword--a great waste of education, as my uncle scottos would have said, for a priest. mr. o'rourke now left me to my own devices with manuel the jew, for whom i was more full of pity than ever, as he, poor man! had not got over the effect of his fright and long exposure in the sea. not a soul on board, save myself and angus, ever gave him a word, unless when a sailor might curse at him for being in the way. i was much exercised in my mind that he never seemed to eat anything--he certainly never went to a meal with the other passengers--and the only reason i could conceive being poverty, i proposed to angus we should help him out of our store, to which he at once agreed, provided i would do the talking. so one day, when we were quite alone, after a hard fight with my shamefacedness, i lugged out my purse and offered him what i thought needed by his occasions. "put up your purse, my dear child! put up your purse! you must never shew your money to people like that," he said, anxiously; and then seeing, i suppose, my disappointment, he added, speaking very slowly, that i might understand: "my child, do not be offended that i do not take your gold; your gift to me is already made without that, and in my heart i repeat the words of the moabitess and ask, 'why have i found grace in thine eyes, seeing i am a stranger?'" as he said this his voice became so broken i looked at him in surprise, and to my great distress saw the old man was crying. why, i did not clearly understand, and he added to my discomposure by catching up my hand, kissing it, and pressing it to his bosom, repeating something in the jews' tongue, and saying much i did not deserve, in french. so we continued friends, and every day angus and i sate with him under the shade of the foresail and listened to his stories of foreign countries, for he had travelled far and took a pleasure in telling of the wonders he had seen. at last we sighted the port of leghorn (we were not in reality so many days on board as i may have led you to suppose in my telling, but the impression left on me is of a long time)--we sighted leghorn, i say, with marvellous fine quays filled with much shipping, and the first craft that passed us was one of the galleys of the grand duke, with its crew of horrid wretches of slaves pulling the long oars with an even sweep, like one great machine, under the eye and whip of their captain. sorry enough were we to put foot on shore, for we realized every day was bringing us nearer to rome and the end of the pleasant life we had been leading. in company with mr. o'rourke we found a respectable lodging near the place where the statue of the grand duke with the four turks stands, and here everything was surprisingly fresh and clean after the ship. indeed, the whole town is wonderfully clean and bright, and in that part called "little venice" we loved to stroll, admiring the barges in the canals, which are there in the middle of the streets, and the loading and unloading of the great bales of goods. on the second day after our arrival, while in that street which serves as an exchange for the merchants, to our great surprise we saw our friend manuel the jew. but how changed from the sickly, poor old man we had known on board the barque! he was decently dressed in sober black, with a long cloak and a well-cared-for periwig, and spake to one who looked like a person of standing, as a man speaking to his equal. on seeing us he came forward, and, after shaking hands with me and angus, he saluted mr. o'rourke, who returned his bow, but not overwarmly. after a few words he excused himself and spake for a little with a gentleman of good appearance, indicating us the while. evidently at his invitation, the gentleman came up to us and addressed mr. o'rourke: "sir, i am signor antonio arnaldi, one of the merchants of this place, and not ill-connected. my friend manuel tells me he is under some obligation to your young gentlemen for kindness received, and begs your permission to allow their attendance at some festivity among his people to-night. the son of the grand duke, i am told, intends to honour it with his presence, so you may judge it is an occasion of unusual importance. he assures me he will take every care of the young gentlemen, and asks my word for his trustworthiness, which i can give from the bottom of my heart, as can any honourable merchant in livorno." so saying he bowed most graciously, and, after some further words and compliments, mr. o'rourke as handsomely gave his full consent, when there was more bowing and compliments on all sides, and the merchant betook himself to his affairs. though we were in no way bound to mr. o'rourke's consent to our comings and going, we did not hold it necessary to protest when others took it for granted he stood in this relation towards us. manuel then led us through the exchange, and though mr. o'rourke was somewhat stiff at first, this soon wore off when he saw what people saluted our guide and their manner of so doing. manuel knew every one; he pointed out to us the most considerable merchants, shewed us the harbour and the duke's galleys, making plain much we would not have understood, and left us at the dinner-hour, promising to call for us at our lodging in the evening. that afternoon we went to the great baths, which were managed after the manner of turkey, as manuel had explained to us, and though somewhat alarmed at first by so much steam and heat and water, and the slappings and punchings and rubbings of the naked turks who waited on us, we soon got used to it and came out after some hours feeling like different persons, cleaner i suppose than we had ever been in our lives before. we then walked on the mole and admired the fine ladies taking the air in their chairs borne by footmen all well liveried and appointed. towards evening manuel came for us, and though he most civilly invited mr. o'rourke to make one of us, he pretexed another engagement. "you see," he explained to us, when we withdrew to make our preparation, "you have no characters at all, and can consort with the grand turk, if you choose, but i am respectable and cannot afford to take liberties with myself." "indeed, mr. o'rourke," said i, "we have a great deal of character." "so i have perceived; but it is more to the quality i am referring," he returned. "well, and did you ever hear anything against my family?" i asked, somewhat heated. "nothing but what filled me with terror, being a peaceable man in my quiet hours," he said, with a laugh. but now i began to suspect him of rallying me, and said i believed he was jealous that he would not share the good things with us. "not i, faith!" he answered; "i'd be too much afraid of finding a christian child done up in a ragout, or their trapanning me to turn me into a little jew; and 'tis hard lines it would be for me if i couldn't have a taste of bacon with my potato!" at which we all laughed heartily, none the worse for his nonsense. so angus and i left in company with manuel and took our way towards the jews' quarter. unlike avignon and marseilles, we did not find the ghetto locked and barred; indeed, we saw no great difference between the jews and christians here, nor in their quarter either, except that it is not so clean and there are more people than in other parts of the town; and, i confess, we met many of those smells by which mr. o'rourke says one may always tell a jew; but, for that matter, i have met as bad in the sacred city of rome itself. every one knew manuel, and he was greeted with respect even by the children in the street. we stopped at the door of a high building, and, after climbing some flights of stairs, all open on a great court, he unlocked a door and we entered his rooms. here everything was very clean, but too bare, as i thought, for a man held in such esteem. on a table was spread a collation of fruits and sweetmeats, of which we all three partook in great merriment by the light of a tall silver lamp. when our hunger was satisfied, our host led us into another room, where from a high press he took down two rich cloaks, and, telling us we were going to a wedding, where we must not shame our host, he put them over our plain clothes, and bade us see ourselves in a mirror. i never was so fine before; for not only was the cloak of the finest camlet, of a rich blue colour, but was lined with a cherry-coloured silk and had good lace about the neck, while that of angus was quite as handsome, only more of a mulberry. for himself, he kept to his black, but his doublet was of velvet, as was the cloak which he now took down, to which he added a heavy gold chain, which so became his gentle face and venerable beard that in my eyes he looked as if he should be always dressed in this fashion. and in the midst of it all i remembered that this was the man to whom i had offered money for a meal, and i was overcome with shame. i suppose he perceived my thought, for he engaged us in talk at once about the festa until my confusion passed off. it seemed mighty strange to us, who had seen jews so contemned in other places, and heard such stories of their wickedness and cruelty, to listen to one whom we had lately seen so despised and put upon talking as if a festa were his every-day affair, and our appearance the most particular concern he had on hand. at length everything was adjusted to his satisfaction, and forth we went in our bravery to win the envy and outspoken admiration of the people as we made our way through the crowded streets towards the house where the festa was held. the stairways up which we went were laid with carpets and the bareness of the walls hidden under rich stuffs, and when once in-doors we were dazzled with the lights in hanging silver lamps and massive candelabra on every hand. there seemed to be hundreds of people in the rooms, which were hung with the finest of damask; and, more wonderful still, the very floor on which we trod was covered in silver tiles--the father of the bride having removed those of earthenware and replaced them by silver, to do honour to his daughter and to the grand duke, a great patron of the jews, whose eldest son was to be a guest. as we went bowing our way through the crowd we were dumb with amazement at the beautiful dresses, the pearls, and precious stones and jewels worn by both men and women. the bride was simply covered with them but seemed to me a poor enough little creature in spite of her finery, and we were surprised to find she was little more than a child. to her every one made his compliment in italian or portuguese or in the jews' tongue, but not knowing any of the three, i ventured on the best wish i knew in good gaelic--"soaghal fada slainte's sonas pailt do bhean na bainnse!"--which means, in english, "may the bride have long life and abundant health and happiness"; at which the wee thing laughed very merrily, though she could not have known a word; from which i gathered a higher opinion of her intelligence than her looks. on tables and buffets were confections and fruits, wines and sweet drinks in vessels of every form and colour and of inconceivable richness. to music unceasing the dancers advanced and retired, bowed and turned until we could see but a changing maze of silks and velvets, of flashing gold and jewels under the lights that seemed to wave and dance before our dazzled eyes; and when, at last, the hour came to leave, the music kept ringing and the lights flashing about us through the still, dark streets until we dropped asleep in our lodging. on our awakening the next morning the first thing that met our eyes was our finery of the night before, which, in our excitement, we had forgotten to return to manuel, and on his appearance later, to our surprise, he would not hear of such a thing, though we pressed him hard. "when you offered me money to fill an empty stomach, was i ungrateful?" he asked; and part for this, and part that he should not think that we scorned to accept from a jew, we desisted and made such return as we could. mr. o'rourke now came for us with an invitation to breakfast with two scottish gentlemen making the grand tour, who had sent their servant to our lodging with their compliments and the message. but i cannot recall anything further than one was a mr. ramsay, over whose lap mr. o'rourke upset a dish of tea, and great was the outcry and many the apologies thereat. we joined our friend manuel again, who had undertaken to engage for us a reliable interpreter with whom to journey to rome, for, much to our disgust, we found the little french we had been at such pains to acquire during our stay at paris was as useless as our english in these parts, and we were now to lose mr. o'rourke, though he gave us a hope of joining us at some point before we reached our journey's end. after consulting with angus, i took the precaution to buy two good french folding-knives, one for each, which would serve both for the table and defence, if need be. in order to avoid the dangers of a bad road across an unsettled country, where many lawless characters abounded, it was decided we should go to pisa by way of the canal, and thence hire a caleche and take the main highway to rome by way of bolsena and viterbo. in the early morning, accompanied by mr. o'rourke, we made our way to the canal, where we found manuel awaiting us by the boat, somewhat similar to the coche d'eau by which we had travelled to auxerre, with a basket filled with fruit and the sweatmeats we most admired. he begged us not to forget him, and seemed so down at parting that we could not refrain from embracing him, though in mr. o'rourke's presence, who behaved very handsomely himself in thanking manuel, which i thought the more of than our own action, as we were drawn to him and he was not. at last we moved slowly off, waving our adieux to the two best friends we had so far met in our travels. it must have been manuel who made the difference, for i remember but little of pisa or the first part of our journey, save that the open caleche was pleasant, and that we were much taken with luigi, our interpreter, who allowed neither postilions nor innkeepers to get the upper hand of him or us, and who was always in good-humour. the inns were mostly bad, and we suffered cruelly from fleas, which were nearly as many and as hard to get rid of as the beggars. about noon, one day in december, we drove into a small town most strongly placed, called aquapendente, and there, before the door of the tre corone, we caught sight of mr. o'rourke, standing head and shoulders above the crowd. we were so overjoyed to see him once more that we flew into his arms, and there was great laughing and outcry for a few moments. at length he shook himself free and pretended to rate us. "here! here! you young ruffians! where are your manners? don't you see i am talking to a gentleman, or was, until you two highland caterans fell on me! "--now let me see what you have learned by your foreign travel," he continued. "captain creach," said he, turning to the gentleman who was looking on and laughing, but who, on being addressed, at once took an air of attention, "this is ian--or, in english, john--mcdonell of scottos, of the mature age of twelve, the scion of an illustrious family, whose ancestors have ruled in knoidart and parts adjacent from the days of noah downwards. "and this," he said, waving his hand towards angus, "is mr. angus mcdonald of clanranald, who confesses to fourteen years, whose name is known with distinction in the highlands, and with fear through the countries towards the south. "they are travelling to rome, there to complete their studies in the scots college, and may afterwards enter into competition for the higher offices in the gift of his holiness, provided secular callings have not a greater charm. i have enjoyed the honour of travelling in their company, and can answer for their principles, if not always for their discretion...." and so on, with much more of his irish balderdash, without sense or meaning, until captain creach, who was a small, genteel-appearing man, with a very white face, dressed in a habit, half civil, half military, cut him short and shook hands with us, saying he was sure we would prove a credit to our names wherever we might go, though he would be sorry to see two such fine lads hiding their figures in black petticoats--a sentiment which warmed me to him at once; and when i learned he had actually been in the regiment irlandia, my delight knew no bounds. i questioned him at once, but found he did not remember my uncle scottos--he was too young for that--though he knew his name well, which did not astonish me. we spent the morning merrily, i paying for a bottle of wine for him and mr. o'rourke, and angus and i readily agreed to wait over the day that we might enjoy their company, as the captain was on his way north and mr. o'rourke was not yet ready for rome. luigi we sent off to enjoy himself after his own fashion. whilst the dinner was preparing, angus and mr. o'rourke set off to see the fall of water near by, but i remained in the upper room with my new friend, as i had much yet to inquire concerning the regiment. but after a little he seemed to grow weary of my questioning, and suddenly, without any introduction, asked me if i had any money by me. "yes," i answered, honestly enough. "well, then, i'll have to accept a loan from you," he said, carelessly, as if we had been long discussing the matter. "i'm sorry i cannot oblige you, sir," said i. rising from my place and beginning to walk up and down, feeling mighty uncomfortable. "come, come, my lad," said he, in a voice he tried to make very friendly, "we soldiers have our ups and downs, and always help each other. your uncle scottos would be proud to help a brother officer." "that may be, sir, but, according to your own shewing, you never had the honour to know my uncle scottos, who is not here to answer for himself." "you little puppy!" he roared. "do you know nothing of what should be between gentlemen?" he saw by my face he had made a mistake, and at once went on a new tack. "but there, there!--you must pardon my heat. i am only a rough soldier and slow to take a jest. believe me, i had no intent to frighten you." i was the angry one now. "i know nothing of your intents, captain creach," said i; "i am only sure of one thing, and that is, you did not and cannot frighten me. i have just enough money for us to get to rome, and could not make a loan to you or to any other were i ever so willing. so there the matter rests." the words were barely out of my mouth before he rushed at me. i was on my guard, and, throwing a chair in his way, nearly upset him; but he recovered before i could get at him, and in a minute more had me by the collar, shaking the life out of me. i did my best to butt him with my head, but could not get room; so i was kicking and striking and biting like an otter, making noise enough to bring the house down, when the door flew open, and in rushed angus. he never waited a moment, but attacked the captain behind, catching his legs very cleverly; whereupon i, giving a sudden shove, down we went, all three together, rolling over and over among the chairs and under the table. angus and i were both as strong as ponies, and such a fight had no terrors for us; and the captain, being a small man, we were not so very unequal: thus it was in a trice we had him flat on his back, angus on his two legs and i straddling on his chest, with my knees on his arms, doing my best to get at my french knife, so i might cut his wicked throat, when in burst mr. o'rourke, who, catching my hand just as i had my knife free, upset us both and dragged the captain to his feet. "what's all this jerrymahoo about, you young savages?" he shouted; but i could not answer, as i was wild to get at the captain again, now i had recovered my wind; and a good day's work it would have been for me and others had i done so. however, mr. o'rourke held me at arm's-length until i quieted down, and, after sending away the inn people who were crowding through the door, now they saw all danger over, i panted out the story. "you damned scoundrel!" said mr. o'rourke, though he was a most religious man and almost as good as a priest. "you scoundrel; faith i'm sorry i didn't let this baby finish you! but we'll tan your cowardly hide for this or my name's not o'rourke! "but look at the creature's ears!" he broke out of a sudden; "he has them as big as the prophet's ass! and to think of me being taken in by the animal!" thereupon he turned him round and bade us mark the way in which his ears stuck out from his shaven pate, now his wig was knocked off, while he roared with laughter. but this all went sadly against my grain, as i was all for punishing the rogue then and there, and i knew mr. o'rourke would soon make this impossible if he went on with his jesting. however, he pointed out that to such a man the disgrace would mean as much as his punishment, and he would hand him over to the magistrate himself. "the creature sets up to be a gentleman, but if we can get one of his shoulders stamped with a hot iron, as is their fashion hereabouts, 'twill take a mighty fine coat to cover that same," he explained, much to our satisfaction. so the innkeeper was called and bidden to lock him up securely; and off marched the captain with his white face, looking half dazed, but offering no words or apology whatever. [illustration: "in burst mr. o'rourke"] when we were alone, mr. o'rourke burst out, blaming himself for leaving me alone with such a man, calling himself every name he could lay his tongue to for being taken in with the first scoundrel he picked up. "'tis a pretty ass i have made of myself, turning up my nose at your consorting with a poor, harmless jew, and then to take up myself with a picaroon of a captain, and perhaps play second fiddle to the hangman! job no doubt had me in his eye when he said that 'multitude of years should teach wisdom' (et annorum multitudo doceret sapientiam), but my wisdom was a fool to your folly." however, after awhile we all cooled down, and by the time dinner was on the table were in our sober senses again. then in comes luigi, who must hear the whole story over, and sets us all laughing merrily with his antics, feigning to weep when we told how mr. o'rourke would not let me slit the captain's throat; but when he heard what we had done with the scamp, he was off in a trice and back as soon, dragging the innkeeper with him and bursting with anger. it was soon explained. the captain had escaped, and luigi was for haling the innkeeper before the judge; but the poor man cried so piteously, and so besought us not to undo him, that we took compassion, and contented ourselves with ordering our caleche and starting again on our journey, mr. o'rourke promising to see us in rome. we arrived at viterbo through a fine stretch of country, more especially about the lake of bolsena, but passed through no towns of importance. we had heard such tales of robbers that we here determined to better provide for our personal safety; so we set out from the inn, and, with the help of luigi, found an armourer, with whom we bargained for a pair of pistols, and had them at a fair price. he had some good blades as well, and, now we had begun to have a hankering for weapons, i desired one greatly, but was dissuaded by luigi, who pointed out they were much too long for me to carry, and, further, that for young gentlemen going to college we had weapons enough and to spare. about a mile from the town we came on a hill so steep we were forced to dismount and climb on foot. "at the top we will find a guard of archers," said luigi, "who have been there ever since the days of innocent the eleventh." "not the same ones, surely?" said i, quizzing him, after the manner of mr. o'rourke. "i don't doubt it," he returned, gravely; "most of them are old and useless enough to have been there since the days of nero. but that is not my point; that is in the story, if you can find it." "go on with your tale, luigi; he knows nothing of history," said angus. "history, indeed, you dunderhead!" said i, much disgusted. "can't you see a joke when 'tis under your nose?" "i've been carrying my nose in my pocket, according to mr. o'rourke's direction, ever since i came into the country, and i don't find your joke so fine that i need take it out," he returned, with a silly air of conceit which angered me mightily. "see here, my fine fellow!" said i, stopping short; "if you have a mind to try any of your prester john airs with me, you had best put your head where your nose is, or the one will soon be as little use to you as the other." "oh, gentlemen, gentlemen!" cried luigi at this, much distressed; "i have not even yet begun my story!" "don't mind us, luigi," said angus, quite cool; "go on with your story. we are only getting the laugh in at the wrong end. i did not mean to ruff you, shonaidh," he added, very handsomely, for angus could be quite the gentleman when he desired. "i know you didn't," i returned, without offence; "but you shouldn't laugh at me when i am trying a joke. my temper is short." on this we made up without further words, and both turned to luigi, begging him to continue with his tale. "well, as i was saying, 'twas in the days of innocent the eleventh, when a young polish friar, on his way towards rome, was here arrested by two robbers, who, after relieving him of his purse, which they found much too light for one of his comfortable appearance, threatened him with torture unless he revealed where the rest of his money was hid. he thereupon owned to having some gold pieces in the soles of his shoes, on which they bade him sit down and started to strip his feet. now, he being very powerful, and marking the favourable position of his tormentors, seized his opportunity and the robbers at the same moment, and brought their heads together with so happy a crack that he rendered them senseless. seeing their state, he repeated his experiment with such success that he soon put an end to their rogueries forever. rejoicing at his good fortune, he took all their effects, piled them on one of his horses, and, mounted on the other, made his way into rome with all the honours of war. the pope, hearing of his adventure, desired to see so remarkable a man, and the young friar was accordingly brought into his presence. when asked how he, a single man. accomplished so extraordinary a feat, he folded his hands and replied modestly in latin: "may it please your holiness, i seized each of them softly by the hair of his head and softly knocked the head of the one against the head of the other until they both were dead!" and his holiness, who was a man of a merry humour, laughed heartily at the simplicity of the answer, and not only gave the stout friar both the goods of the robbers and his blessing, but posted a guard here as well, that no other student might be put to a like proof of his courage." however, we saw no robbers, great or small, perhaps because we were so well prepared, though we went through a country full of woods and wild places, well fitted for this class of gentry. we continued our journey without further matter worth mention until, as we drove out of a little village called baccano, luigi jumped up in great excitement, and, crying to the postilion to stop, fairly shouted in his joy, "ecco roma!" and far away in the distance, over the rising mists of the morning, we saw the cross of st. peter twinkling like a star of gold. we were all impatience now and longed for no more adventures, but, despite our longing, it was nearly evening before we drove in by the porto del popolo, and black night before we passed our baggages at the dogana, and luigi deposited us in safety at the scots college, in the via delle quattro fontane. ii - how, out of a school-boy's quarrel, it came that i kissed the hands of his majesty, james iii.; that i met with h.r.h. the prince of wales and other company, both high and low, until, from one thing to another, i took leave of my books to follow the drum. no sooner was our arrival announced than we were ushered into the reception-room, where, in a moment, the rector, father urbani, came to meet us, giving us such a welcome that our hearts warmed to him at once. he knew all about our people, and, indeed, had a knowledge of the families as if he had been brought up in the highlands; he enquired after each one in turn, asking for news of good father innes of paris, and bishop hay of edinburgh, both old friends of his. nor did he forget even luigi, but thanked him handsomely and paid him well for his care, bidding him return the next day to take his farewell of us. when he bade us good-night he said to me: "you will be the youngest boy in the college, and you have a face worthy of your holy name, john; but i shall call you little john, giovannini." and by that name it was that i went all the time i was in rome. we were given a room together, and i, remembering my father's word, looked at the wall near the beds, but could find no "sir patrick spens," and so knew it was not his room, but resolved to ask the rector the next day. then began our regular round of work. the rector engaged a private tutor to instruct us in latin and italian, and before the winter was over we were deemed ready to go to the schools taught by the jesuits in the collegio romano; for there was no teaching in the scots college, only the learning of our tasks and submission to the discipline imposed. it was not long before we welcomed mr. o'rourke again, for he was now at the propaganda, and there and elsewhere he gained much credit for us by publishing the story of our adventure with the captain, which lost nothing, i can answer, in the telling. at the roman college we met with lads from all parts of the world, and i made such progress before the year was out that i was put into a higher class, and there, unfortunately, fell foul of a fellow in a way that nearly put an end to my studies. this was a swarthy maronite, from near mount libanis, who attempted to palm off a dirty trick on me in school hours. not being allowed to speak then, i bided my time until the bell rang, when i made for the door, and the moment he came out gave him a boy's punishment, swelling his upper lip and sending him off holding his nose, which was bleeding. all my fellows were rejoiced at the outcome, and promised me their support. now there were two punishments in vogue in the collegio romano, styled, respectively, the mule and the horse--the first of which was to be put into the stocks, hands and feet, and receive as many lashes on the bare back with a cat as might be thought proper; the horse was for less atrocious crimes, for which the offender was made to stand on a bucket-stool and was flogged on the small of the legs. soon after our return from school a message was sent to father urbani, giving an account of the crime committed by giovannini mcdonell. i was in due course called for by the superior, in presence of all my fellow-collegioners, and accused. without hesitation i avowed my guilt, and was thereupon told by the superior i must undergo the punishment of the mule. there was a dead silence at this, and all looked at me and waited. i write this as an old man who has lived through a life of action, not without its reverses, but as i write i can distinctly recall the wretched misery that chilled my blood and turned my heart to water as the superior gave his sentence. no distress i have ever gone through since has equalled the helpless despair that wrung my lonely, miserable little heart as i stood there trembling in every limb before my judge. i was sick with the shame and humiliation; i was indignant at the injustice; i was overcome by my powerlessness, but i do not think i was afraid. [illustration: "i gave him a boy's punishment"] "sir," said i, when i could speak, "i was falsely accused by a coward and a liar for his own dirty trick, and i did the only thing in my power to right myself. if my way was wrong, i am sorry, but i will not be tied up and punished like a soldier or a thief. i am a gentleman born, sir, and i would rather die first!" but here i had to stop, for i could trust my voice no longer. "well, well, my lad, we won't talk of any such heroics as dying yet," said the superior, smiling; whereupon my fellows, taking heart, joined in, vowing they would rather leave the collegio romano and go to the propaganda than submit to such punishments. but the only result of their protest was that they were packed off to school, as usual, and i was kept at home. after the others were gone, and i alone in my room, i had begun to wonder what was in store for me, when word was, brought that the rector, father urbani, waited for me. i entered his presence with a heavy heart, for a boy in disgrace sees a possible enemy in every one; but that kind old man beckoned me to his side, and, instead of questions or reproaches, patted my cheek, and, calling me his "caro giovannini," asked me if i would not like to accompany him in his coach and see some of the sights of rome. i was so overcome i could not help bursting into tears, through which i sobbed: "dear, dear father urbani. i will go with you anywhere, but i will never take a mule or a horse!" "my dear giovannini," said he, "the only horses we will think about are those for the shafts of our coach. be ready after the siesta, and let me see a more smiling face when next you meet me." so take me he did, and was so sumptuously received at all the great houses he visited--and i as well--that i soon forgot my terrors. father urbani was a gentleman of birth, connected with many of the highest families, and whatever his real name was, he well deserved that of his profession, for no one could be more urbane than he, and his softness of voice always brought my dear father before me. he was full of drolleries, too, for, when we visited st. peter's, he told me of the german in rome who had never seen the church, though he had started several times with that in view, but always found the sun too hot and the taverns too cool for the long walk, and so kept out of the one and in, the other until his day was done before his pilgrimage was accomplished. at length, on being rallied by his friends, he made a great effort and passed safely by his dangers, saw the great church, and returned full of satisfaction. "but," says he, "i think it strange that they should put st. peter on horseback before the high altar!"--a speech which mightily piqued the curiosity of his friends, until they discovered he had been no farther than the loggia, and had taken the statue of the roman emperor constantino for that of the saint. on the third day of our travels we went into the church of the santi apostoli, and there father urbani drew my attention to a man kneeling in prayer before a tomb near the high altar. though i saw nothing more than a dark velvet coat, the soles of his shoes, and part of his powdered head, i asked, with a sudden curiosity, who it might be. "his enemies call him the pretender, his friends, the chevalier de st. george, but many hold he is properly styled his majesty, james the third of england," said father urbani, quietly, but very dryly; at which my heart broke into a rapid tattoo of loyalty in honour of the house whose fortunes my family had always followed, and for whose sake my uncle scottos had sacrificed himself. we were for withdrawing quietly, and had almost reached the door, when the king finished his devotions and came slowly down the church--a thin, dark-visaged man, very grave and sad-looking, i thought, but his carriage was noble, and the broad riband on his breast looked in keeping. he stopped when he reached us and spoke to father urbani, who, to my surprise, did not seem at all put out, and made no greater reverence to the king than he would to any noble of high rank, answering him in his soft, quiet voice, as though speaking to an ordinary man. i only remembered this afterwards, when telling angus of the meeting. at the time i stood like one enchanted, devouring the king with my eyes. at last he noticed my absorption, and said, still in italian, "ah! an english lad, i see?" "no, your majesty," i made bold to answer, "a highlander." at which he smiled, gravely, and held out his hand, which i knelt and kissed with my heart on my lips. we waited until the king had left the church, making his way on foot and alone to his palace alongside, when we took coach again and drove towards the college. i could see that father urbani did not wish to be disturbed, for there was a troubled look on his face, so i said nothing, but leaned back with my head full of the glorious vision i had just seen. had any one dared say there was nothing in meeting with a sad-faced, elderly man alone in an empty church--a man who claimed to be a king and had no throne, who claimed to be a king and had no country--i would have held it little short of blasphemy. to me he was a martyr for honour's sake, the true head of my nation and the hope of all loyal hearts. so i leaned back, i say, with these things running riot through my head, jumbled with old stories of killicrankie and , with old songs i had heard from a child, and with thoughts of my uncle scottos, until i was suddenly brought back to earth again by one of father urbani's thin old hands quietly closing over mine. "and now, giovannini, do you not think you can go back to school again?" he asked. "i will, father, i will; for you i will do anything i am able. but you will not ask me to take either the mule or the horse?" i asked, my old trouble coming back on me again. "have no more fear, my dear child," he said, quietly; "they will never be put to your offer. you have been punished enough by attending on an old man like me for three days." and as he embraced me tenderly at parting in our hall, he bade me, pointedly, not to attach too much to anything we had seen. so i went back to my tasks quite content, and continued to make good progress and give satisfaction, though i could not altogether obey our good rector's bidding and forget that lonely figure of the santi apostoli. and angus and i whispered our secret to each other as we lay in the quiet of our room at night. now, there was a privilege which our students had above those of all other colleges in rome, which was that any two of us might, at certain hours, go wherever our business called us. and angus and i found that the shortest way for all our business, as well as between the collegio romano and the via quattro fontane, was by the little street of the santi apostoli, whence we could feast our eyes on the palace, and were more than once rewarded by a sight of his majesty and one of the princes, whom we afterwards discovered to be the duke of york, going forth to take the air with a modest following. our scheming might have ended here had it not been for mr. o'rourke. one day, when we went to visit him at the college of the propaganda, he said: "i hear you take a great many walks in the santi apostoli, young gentlemen"; at which we were much put out, and begged he would say nothing of it, for, although we had not been forbidden, we felt there were good reasons against its being mentioned. but he relieved us with his merry laugh. "faith, not i! i would not dream of interfering with the leanings of two gentlemen such as you, the more so that they have a bias in what i conceive to be the right direction. perhaps you do not know i am a descendant of kings myself," he went on, in his lively fashion, "and, having royal blood flowing freely in me, can enter into your feelings better than the best nobleman who ever ruled over your honourable college." this was a hit at father urbani--and i suspect there may have been a certain jealousy between the propaganda and the jesuits, for the army is not the only fighting body in the world--so i broke in with, "none of your innuendoes, if you please, mr. o'rourke. we have never asked father urbani to enter into our feelings, but i hold him qualified to enter into the best thoughts of the best man in rome!" "soft and easy, signor giovannini mcdonellini," says he, always laughing; "your stomach is high, even for a highlander! i was only about to propose, on my first free day, a visit to your lode-star, the palace of the santi apostoli, where, thanks to my royal ancestry, i have some small right of entry." and with the words he took the anger out of me at once. it seemed an eternity until his first congé, or day of liberty, came round, and we were in waiting long before the appointed hour. we lost no time in setting out, but, to our surprise, did not take our way to the palace direct, but went instead round by a little lane leading off the piazza pilotta, and so to a small wicket, whereon mr. o'rourke knocked in a private manner, while we held our breath in expectation. the door was opened presently by an old man, to whom mr. o'rourke gave some pass-word, and we were admitted, not to the palace itself, but into the bare and mean hallway of a very ordinary house. before we had time to betray our disappointment, however, we passed through this hall, and by means of a hidden door--hidden, that is, by a seeming closet or wardrobe--we stepped out into the sunlight again, and, to our great delight, found ourselves in what we did not doubt were the gardens of the palace. as we walked up a path, i pulled mr. o'rourke by the sleeve. "what is it?" he said. "oh, mr. o'rourke," i whispered, "i wish we had our leghorn cloaks." at which he stopped, and, to my horror, laughed aloud, until the high, empty court seemed filled with the roar of his burly voice. "don't, mr. o'rourke--pray don't! some one will hear you!" i cried, much distressed. "hear me? lord bless you, they wouldn't give a rotten fig to hear me; but you are worth a whole garden of figs, with the vines to boot! for a mixture of a bare-legged highlander and a half-feathered priestlet, you are the most prodigious bird-o'-paradise i have yet met with, mr. john mcdonell, of scottos!" "i am neither a priest nor a peacock yet, mr. o'rourke," i said, indignantly, "and i was not thinking of myself at all, but only of what was fitting towards his majesty." but he only laughed at me the more. "your consideration does honour to your heart, but his majesty has not as yet appointed me his master of ceremonies, though i have the privilege of the back stairs. no, no, giovannini, we'll see no majesties to-day, and the cloak must serve for when you are in better company than that of a poor irish student, whose only riches is the same loyalty that warrants yourself." and that last touch melted me, and so, hand in hand, we went on together. then mr. o'rourke explained that the king and the princes were to attend an audience given by the pope that afternoon, and we were free to go over the palace under the guidance of mr. sheridan, tutor to the princes. we entered the palace with awe and almost worship, and were made welcome by mr. sheridan, who most kindly entreated us to satisfy our curiosity about his royal charges, telling us much that seemed almost incredible, for i believe we had an idea that a prince must have some divine right of learning by which he was excused both table and syllabus. in the prince's waiting-room we found mr. murray, son of sir david murray of broughton, a young man of pleasing address, afterwards so widely known as mr. secretary murray, and then in some position about the prince. he made much of us, asking us about our people, but had not that knowledge of our families i would have looked for in one in his position. however, we did not attach overmuch to this, as his welcome was hearty, and he lifted us to the height of expectation by saying: "well, young gentlemen, you fall on a lucky day, for his royal highness has not left, and i doubt not will see you"; and, before we could make any reply, he withdrew, leaving us in a state beyond my poor powers to describe. before we had recovered, the door opened, and his royal highness, the prince of wales, stood before us. he was dressed in full court costume, with all his orders, his handsome face bright with a smile of welcome; and as he came forward and then paused, mr. o'rourke gathered his composure first and knelt and kissed his hand. we were about to follow, but the prince would have it otherwise, restraining us as he said, laughingly: "no, no; a hand-grasp is ceremony enough between us. in meeting with highlanders i feel i am among comrades with whom i may stand back-to-back some day, and that, perhaps, not so far distant. but tell me of clanranald," he said, quickly, to angus; "his son is a gallant gentleman, i hear, and you, i understand, are his cousin." angus gave him such information as he had received of late, whereupon the prince questioned us on both our families, calling them all properly by name--scottos, glengarry, barisdale, and others--without a single mistake. "do not be surprised i should know you all," he said, smiling; "his majesty and i are never tired hearing of the names that are dear to us." then he questioned us somewhat--but not too closely--of ourselves, and we were able to answer without confusion, so gracious was his manner and so friendly his dark-brown eyes. "do you ever think," he said, changing suddenly, "what it means never to have known your own country? you are happier far than i, for some day you will return home to the land you love, and i, when i put my foot upon it, must do so as a stranger and an outcast, taking my life in my hand." "your royal highness," i said, "every loyal heart in the highlands beats for you. and every true arm will draw for you whenever you come!" and the tears stood in my eyes so that i could hardly see him before me. "god grant it," he answered, fervidly. then, laying a hand on my shoulder, he said: "and now let me hear the gaelic. i love the very sound of it!" my uncle scottos' constant toast sprang at once to my lips: "'soraidh do'n bhata 'tha âir saille 'y d'on t-soirbheas a tha' scideadh agus do na cridheachan a tha' feitheamh teachd a' phrionnsa!'" "what is it?" he asked, eagerly. "'good luck to the boat that is at sea and to the breeze that is blowing, and to the hearts that are waiting for the coming of the prince!'" i answered, turning it into such english as i might. "'the coming of the prince--the coming of the prince,'" he repeated over to himself. but here mr. murray ventured to cough, meaningly, and the prince said, as if in answer, "yes, yes; i must go," and, with the words that we would meet again, he shook hands with us all and withdrew. i am an old man now, and have seen every hope of the cause i once held dearer than life blasted beyond recovery; but no personal knowledge of the pitiable failure, no evil report of the heart-breaking degradation, the selfishness, and self-destruction of all that was noble and kinglike in that beautiful young life--god pity me i should write such words of one so dear!--have availed even to dim the godlike presence that revealed itself before us so graciously on that november afternoon in the palace of the santi apostoli. probably no one to-day can know what such a meeting meant to a lad brought up as i had been. all my life long had i heard stories of devotion for the sake of the exiled family. i knew of no time when life and fortune was not regarded as their rightful due from their adherents. i had been brought up to believe in them and to hope for them until hope had grown into faith and faith into worship. my heart was full and my head ringing with excitement, so i can recall little or nothing of the remainder of that memorable afternoon save my wonder, when we stepped out into the street again, to find men and women going about their business just as if nothing had happened. it did not seem possible, when my whole life was changed. i was so bewildered i could scarce believe it was the same world again. i could not talk or even listen to mr. o'rourke; as for angus, i paid no heed to his chatter at all, and it was only when we paused in the piazza di spagna to bid good-bye to our friend that i found some words to thank him, and promised to see him again on the following thursday. was there ever so long a week? my lessons were poorly committed; not that i was dull, but my head was so full of other thoughts i had no room for anything else, while ever between me and my books there came that glorious figure, brave in silks and velvet, with jewelled sword by its side and flashing orders on its breast, till i could no longer see my task, and in my ears rang that clear, pleasant voice forever calling, calling. surely, if any one was bewitched in rome that week, it was giovannini mcdonell, of the scots college. my former record alone kept me from losing my holiday, and as soon as i was free i was off to the college of the propaganda, though angus was not altogether set on passing another holiday within doors. i was dreaming of another visit, though i hardly dared hope for it; but mr. o'rourke put an end to such thoughts by his first words. "welcome, my highland gentlemen! can you put up with the poor hospitality of this withered sprig of royalty instead of talking real treason face to face with exiled princes? were i king george i'd make it a crime to send little highland bantams to rome to turn them into rebel game-cocks." but i saw he was for drawing me on--an exercise at which he was expert, and which gave him great pleasure--and so, refusing to be angered, i answered with much good-nature: "indeed, mr. o'rourke, i believe you to be as great a rebel yourself as any in the three kingdoms." "why should i not be, boy?" he asked, sternly. "if i and mine had remained at home, no matter what souls god gave us, we would be forced to herd with the swine and die with the foxes. abroad we can at least wear with some honour the names our fathers bequeathed to us, and when death comes we can die like gentlemen in the faith into which our mothers bore us. but as to your politics," he said, changing to his usual manner, "i would not give a fig for the whole box and dice. i neither whistle for 'blackbirds' nor run after 'white horses.' if i had my rights, 'tis an independent kingdom i'd have in my own family. 'tis duke or crown prince of brefni i'd be myself, or perhaps a kind of a pope of my own, and when i'd speak to the likes of you, 'tis weeping so hard for joy you'd be that you'd take the shine out of all my jewels!" and so on, with a brogue as broad as if tipperary was in the next room, and macaroni and italian had never replaced the potatoes and the speech he had left behind. finding i would take no offence, he was somewhat dashed and gave over his attempt; so we went off for a stroll and were all merry together. when we parted he told us with much emphasis that mr. murray had sent particular word that we would be admitted by the same door on the following thursday, shewing me the knock and bidding me give the word "gaeta" to the porter. it proved a quieter week for me, and thursday found us in the little lane, whence we made our way into the palace gardens, as before, where we found mr. sheridan awaiting us, who led us to mr. murray's chamber. he was wonderfully busy with his writing, but turned from it to entertain us, and shewed us such attention it was no wonder our heads were nearly turned. he questioned us much about our plans, and, when he found i had no leaning towards the church, made no scruple to belittle the calling of a priest, and seemed much pleased when i told him of my mind to take up arms as my profession. that same day he made us known to a lieutenant butler, a younger man than himself, who was in what was once known as "burke's foot," now serving king carlo borbone in naples and styled there the "regiment irlandia," after the old brigade in spain. the very name of my uncle's old regiment was an intoxication to me, and any man who had to do with it had a claim to my worship; so when lieutenant butler very obligingly told me i might wait upon him at his lodging in the via bocca di leone, my heart beat with gratitude and delight; and so off we went to wait through another week. at lieutenant butler's another and a greater surprise awaited us, for there we were introduced to colonel donald macdonnell, in command of the company st. james, of the regiment irlandia--a very tall and handsome man, but so swarthy that he looked more like to a spaniard than an irishman. but irishman he was in spite of his foreign looks, for his father, the lieutenant-general commanding the regiment, was direct in his descent from the mayo macdonnells, and as pure a jacobite as ever drew sword for the rightful succession. here, too, we also met a mr. o'reilly, ensign in the same service, whom i looked upon with much envy, as he was not greatly my superior in years. colonel macdonnell at once began to question me touching my uncle scottos, and very willingly did i tell the story of his campaigns, especially those of italy, where, at the defence of cremona, he was thanked before the regiment and received his first promotion. i told also of alicaut, in spain, where he was joined to the dragoons under the count o'mahony, and where, battered and starved beyond belief after twenty-seven days' active siege and storming, thirty-six dragoons, with as many french and sixty-eight neapolitans, surrendered, and marched out with all the honours of war--drums and fifes playing, colours flying, and matches lighted--dragging their four cannon and two mortars after them. they let me talk on, like the boastful boy i was, until i ended with the attempt of , when my uncle scottos left the service until such time came as he might take up the quarrel once more. "'tis a good song, well sung," said the colonel, smiling at my heat; "but how comes it a lad with such a backing behind him is content with a long robe and a book, instead of dancing in blue coat and gaiters to the rat-tat-tat of the drum?" "oh, sir, 'tis what i long for more than all else in the world! let me follow you, and see if i am not a soldier born! i know something of fence now, and as for the rest, i will study at it night and day." "you would prove an apt pupil, no doubt," said the colonel; "and what says angus?" but to my shame angus said nothing save "that he would see," and i knew well what that meant--it just meant no, in the most unsatisfactory and weary a manner a man can put it; but he proffered nothing further, and i was withheld by the presence of the company from expressing my thoughts. but the colonel only laughed with great good-nature, and said: "well, well, when you make up your mind, let me know if it is favourable to me. as for you, you young fire-eater," he added, turning to me, "i won't have any runaways about me!" at which i was much abashed, as i could not protest that such a thought was foreign to me, for i was plotting at it even as he spoke. "if you join," he went on, "you must do so in such manner as will not shame your uncle scottos. i will see father urbani myself and find what he says about you; and if he gives you a good rating, and his permission, then you shall join like a gentleman." so with this i was forced to be content. "well, angus," i began, the moment we were in the street, "a pretty shewing you have made for yourself with your 'we will sees' before gentlemen! i hope you are well satisfied?" "i'm not exactly put out," says he, very dry. "indeed? and you call yourself clanranald!" i snorted, full of scorn. "my father always told me i had every right to!" says he, provoking me to the utmost with his pretended quiet. "and what is more, i never yet heard that any of my name must needs take up with the first recruiting-officer he comes across." "angus mcdonald!" i cried, "if we weren't in the open street i'd thrash you within an inch of your life!" "oh no, you wouldn't, nor yet within a mile of it! i'm no more afraid of you than i am of the irish officers you're so hot after." fortunate it was for the good name of the college that we caught sight of the superior at that moment, for i do not believe human patience could have held out longer than mine had done. indeed, so much was i exercised that the superior saw at once something was wrong, and it was with the greatest difficulty we contrived to keep our cause of difference from him. i was burning for father urbani to send for me, but one day after another passed without word, and when next i saw lieutenant butler he could give me no hint of when colonel macdonnell was likely to speak, for he had already left rome and his return was uncertain. had i not been so busy the waiting would have been weary work indeed, but every day i was making new acquaintance--for in a measure i was made free of the palace, being readily admitted by the little door and made welcome by mr. murray, mr. sheridan, and other gentlemen. every day i saw new faces, and soon lost my backwardness, learning to bear myself without blushing or stammering, or any such school-boy tricks. angus was seldom with me now, and, indeed, i was not sorry, for he seemed to have but small stomach for the business and preferred to stick to his books. at length, one cold day in winter, as i was hurrying across the corso, hugging my soprano close about me, on my way to the santi apostoli, i caught sight of colonel macdonnell and eagerly accosted him. "well met, my little church mouse!" he said, passing his arm around my shoulder in such a manner as took the sting out of his jest. "where are you scurrying to on such a cold day as this?" "to the santi apostoli, sir," i answered. "to the church, or the palace?" "to the palace, sir," i said, with some pride. he stopped short, and putting his two hands on my shoulders, said, very gravely: "i am sorry to hear that, my lad. how did this come about?" i told him all without hesitation. when i had made an end, he heaved a great sigh and then moved on again. when he spoke it was in a slow, thoughtful manner, as if to himself. "at it already! well, well, i suppose it could not be helped. but, upon my soul, lad," he said, suddenly, as if waking up, "i would nearly as soon see you a priest as in with these gentry!" "how so, sir?" i said, in surprise. "you would not understand," he said, more gently. "when the day comes, out with your sword, if you must, and strike--i would be the last to say you nay--but this chamber-plotting and convert-making, i despise it all! whom have you met there?" i told him, and of how kind many of the gentlemen had been to me, in particular mr. murray and mr. sheridan. "i know nothing bad of either of them," he said, in a disdainful way. "but you have no call to be in such company at your age. i shall speak to father urbani before i leave rome this time, and, if he permits, you shall have a training that will fit you for something better than any one of this secret-whispering pack will ever come to. i will make a soldier of you, mcdonell, which is the best use god ever made of man, and the best use you can make of yourself for your king. but come, i am going to the palace myself, only you must go through the piazza and not by any back door, like a lackey or a priest." so we went on together across the place and through the main entrance, where the guards saluted the colonel as we passed hand-in-hand, and i could not but feel i had shared in the honour. i was left in a waiting-room while the colonel was closeted with the king, and when he joined us again we went through to a large room where quite a company of gentlemen were gathered. after greeting some of them, and bowing somewhat haughtily to the room at large, the colonel seated himself at a table, while i remained standing near him looking round the company with some curiosity, for there were many new faces, and the colonel's words had set me to wondering why he should hold so lightly these men whom i had believed most devoted of all to the king. i was thus engaged in my survey and speculation, when i caught sight of a face hat struck me like a blow and sent the blood tingling through every vein in my body. there, only separated from me by the width of the room, modishly dressed and smiling, stood captain creach conversing with two gentlemen. he saw me at the same moment, but his white face gave no more sign than a face of stone, and he went on with his talk as quietly as if i had been at aquapendente and he alone in rome. i did not hesitate a moment--indeed, hesitation has seldom been one of my faults--but making my way across the room, i stepped close to him and said, in as calm a tone as i could command: "captain creach, i am surprised to see you in rome!" the three gentlemen all faced me at my speech, and creach, without a change in his wicked face, said: "young sir, is your address intended for me?" "i spoke to you by name, sir," i said, with distinctness. "then am i famous, indeed," said he, laughing lightly. "you may laugh, captain creach," said i, and was going on, but he interrupted me, speaking very civilly, but angering me all the more for it: "i see by your dress you are of the scots college, young gentleman"--for, as usual, i had on my purple soutane with its crimson sash, and over it my black, sleeveless soprano, with my three-cornered hat under my arm--"but there is one lesson you have not as yet learned, and that is, how to address a gentleman. i am not captain creach, as you imagine, but captain graeme, late of the hungarian service, and, to the best of my belief, this is the first time i have ever had the honour of addressing you." he was so quiet and cool that i was dumfounded; but i knew he was lying, though i had never heard a gentleman lie before. "not captain creach? not captain creach?" i stammered. "no, sir, 'not captain creach,'" he repeated, mocking me, whereat some of the gentlemen laughed, but one of them broke in with: "damn it! this comes of bringing brats where they have no business. creach! you little fool! this is no more creach than you are. this is captain graeme, late of the imperial service. there, beg his pardon now, and don't put your foot in it again, like a wise lad," and his tone was kind, though his words were rough. "your pardon, sir," i said, "but this is captain creach, of the regiment irlandia; i have reason to know him only too well." "here, macdonnell," called out my new acquaintance, "this bantling of yours is doing you no credit; come here and smooth him down." the colonel rose, frowning, and came over to where we formed a centre, creach standing on one foot and tapping the other with his long, fashionable cane. "what's the matter?" he said, severely. "colonel macdonnell," i cried, "may i say a word to you in private?" and seeing i was in deadly earnest, he took me into an anteroom and bade me speak. then i told him the whole story of our adventure at aquapendente, and that i was as sure this man was creach as i was i had a soul. "i don't care what he says, sir, that is captain creach, of the regiment irlandia." "my dear lad," he said, firmly, "get that notion out of your head at once. we have not, and never had in my day, any captain creach, or any man of the name, even in our ranks. there is a captain creach in lord clare's regiment, whom i know for a gallant gentleman, but he has not seen italy for many a long year. now, wait a moment--will you apologize to this gentleman?" "no, sir, saving your presence, i will not." "very well; that is settled. will you give me a promise?" "yes, sir, i will promise you anything i may with honour." "that is right. you cannot be too careful of that last," he said, smiling, and then went on gravely: "my boy, i hope some day to have you under my own eye in my own company, and till then i want you to do what is best to bear yourself with credit, now promise me again you will do as i ask, on your honour." "i will, sir, on my honour." "then you will never come within these doors again unless the king sends for you, and as soon as you go home you will tell father urbani where you have been this winter. do you understand?" "i do, sir." "very well. now, honour for honour. i will take up your affair with this man creach, or graeme, or whatever else he may call himself, and you may rest satisfied that your quarrel will not suffer. and now, god bless you, my lad, and when you are older you will thank me for this day's work. good-bye!" and he shook my hand warmly, and stood watching me until i passed out into the hall. i may as well admit here, that at times i am slow at displacing any idea which has once taken root in my mind, and it was not until some years after i conceived the explanation that creach was never this fellow's name at all, but for some reason best known to himself he had chosen to fare under it when we met with him at aquapendente, otherwise honourable men would never have answered for him as they did. but this is by the way. i went forth from the palace with my head in a whirl; for, though i was satisfied with the part i had played towards creach, there was my promise to the colonel, and, despite every effort i might make, my visits did not appear to me so defensible as before. i tried to argue to myself that i had not been forbidden; but, somehow, that did not seem sufficient, and i was the more uncomfortable when i called to mind the colonel's dislike of the company i had been in the habit of keeping. however, it must be faced, and so, after the evening meal, i asked to be allowed to see the rector and was admitted to his room. when i entered he was sitting at his table alone, and somehow, when i saw his kind old face, i knew suddenly why none of my excuses would answer; i had been deceiving this old man who had been like a father to me, who had never treated me save with kindness, and had trusted me without questioning. i was so overcome that i could not speak--overwhelmed with an utter sense of wretchedness--until he stretched out his hand and said, gently, "come." "oh, father," i cried, "let me leave the college! let me go away!" too miserable to think of anything else. "no, no, giovannini. that would be a coward's way of meeting trouble. come, tell me what the matter is, and we'll see if there is not some better way out than turning your back on it," and he patted me on the cheek as if i were still a child. indeed, i felt like one then, and for the matter of that always did when talking with him. so i blundered out the story of my doings, to all of which he listened in his quiet, gentle way, helping me out when i found it hard to go on, until the whole story was told, whereupon i felt a mighty relief, for the worst was now over and i had quite made up my mind as to what part i would take from now on. after all, he did not say very much in the way of blame, except that should i ever meet with colonel macdonnell again the first duty i had before me was to request his pardon for mixing him up in my affairs, as if the colonel of a regiment had nothing else to do than look after a school-boy's quarrels. "among plotters and schemers," he said, with some touch of scorn, "you must meet with strange company, and, if you will take up with such, you may have to welcome 'captain creachs' and worse. now i am not going to talk with you to-night, and i want you to think the matter well over until i have seen colonel macdonnell and have determined what is best to be done. i am only sorry, giovannini, that you have not trusted in your best friend." and with a heavy heart i said good-night, and took my way to my room alone. in the morning word was brought to me that i was to remain in my room, which i did all the more gladly as it promised well for the gravity of my case, for above all things what i most feared was its being taken as merely a boy's whim. however, i was speedily assured of its importance by the visit of one of our jesuit fathers, who very soon introduced his mission and began to urge his arguments why i should continue my studies and some day prepare for the priesthood. but this i resented at once, saying, "sir, i was left here for reflection by the order of the rector, and i have no wish to be disturbed." a hint he was wise enough to take; and, grumbling something about "like father, like son," he left me once more alone. my next interruption was an order to wait on father urbani, which i did with great readiness, and to my joy saw that his reflections had not rendered him any less kindly to me or my hopes. "well, my dear giovannini," he said, "so you did not wish to discuss your future with father paolo. he tells me that you have caught somewhat of the brusqueness of the camp already." but his smiling reassured me. "no, father," i said, "i held, in the absence of my own father, you are the only one to whom i am bound in such matters; but i had no intent to be rude." so, with this introduction, we began our argument, and to all he said i assented, but assured him i should make but a sorry priest if my heart were always in another calling. "my father promised that neither he nor you would force me to become a priest against my will, and i can never be happy unless i have a right to wear a sword by my side," i ended. thereupon, seeing my mind so firmly resolved, he bade me prepare for a visit to the cardinal protector, and in all haste i made myself ready. the truth is, now that i saw father urbani had yielded, i would have faced his holiness the pope with the whole college behind him, without a second thought. so we took our way in a coach to the palace, and were ushered into the presence of the cardinal with the usual ceremonies. he was a thin old man, with a long, dark face and a grumbling voice. we partook of chocolate and sugar biscuits, and made polite conversation until the object of our visit was broached; thereupon, a mighty storm began--that is, a storm from his eminence, for we stood side by side in the middle of the great room, silent before the torrent of his wrath. after thundering hotly at father urbani, as if he, dear man, were to blame, he turned on me. "what were you ever sent here to the college for? and since when has it been turned from a house of god into a training-school for every worthless cockatrice that would follow the drum? tell me, sir, what did you come here for?" he stormed. [illustration: "'tell me, sir, what did you come here for?' he stormed"] "indeed, your eminence, i cannot tell," i answered, coolly. "cannot tell! no, and no one else, i dare say, will answer for it. what in the world do the bishops mean by sending such good-for-naughts here without finding out something about them?" i was much tempted to say that my family was well known, but father urbani's hand was on my arm, and i knew i was to hold my tongue, which i did, although many things were said that, had any other man uttered, i would have held to be insulting. at length, to our great relief, he made an end, and bidding father urbani get rid of me as soon as possible, he dismissed us. we bowed ourselves out, and i was free to enter the service for which i longed. when we were at home again, father urbani said, "my dear giovannini, now this is ended, i will say no more than i will see myself you are fittingly supplied with clothes and money, and if you desire first to return to scotland, i will see you are sent thither." but i told him i would rather join at once, for there was no one to dispute my resolution at home, as my only sister, margaret, was with lady jane drummond in france, and my father had promised my choice should be free when the time came. "well, then," he continued, "i say nothing of the rights of the quarrel the king of naples has on his hands now, but if you will enter the queen of hungary's service, i will see you are strongly recommended to persons of the greatest interest, and a recommendation will mean advancement." "oh, father," i said, "i could not do that! the regiment irlandia was my uncle scottos' regiment, and i could not join any other." "you scots are a famous people for hanging together!" he said, smiling; "and i suppose you wouldn't care if the regiment were fighting for the grand turk himself?" and he smiled again. "no, father," i said, seeing nothing to laugh at, "it could make no difference to me; i would be only a cadet." "well, well," he said, quietly, "such questions are perhaps as well left to older heads. now to bed, and sleep if you can, for your days will be full until you leave." true to his word, the rector sent to me a tailor, by whom i was measured for two full suits of regimentals; a broker, with side-arms and equipment; and, to my great satisfaction, a periwig-maker, who took my size for my first wig, until my hair should grow long enough to be dressed in a queue. at last all was ready, and i swaggered about in my finery, and bade farewell to my comrades, all of whom greatly envied me--even angus, though he would not confess to it. however, he had the satisfaction of walking through the streets with me to pay our respects to mr. o'rourke, who had just completed his course, and was to take orders immediately. he at once pretended great astonishment, and begged angus to introduce him to "the general," and then broke into an old ranting irish air: "wid your gold an' lace an' your warlike face in a terrible fright ye threw me-- giovanni, me dear, you looked so queer! oh, johnny, i hardly knew ye!" and away he marched up and down the room to his doddering old song, and then drew up before me, making passes as if he were saluting, and bowed almost to his knees, bringing his hands up to his forehead and performed a low salute, which he informed angus was only given to the grand turk on great occasions. "well, well," he said, at last, with a great sigh of relief, "my heart is easy now i see they wouldn't trust you with a sword; though i might set you up with the cook's skewer, if they won't do anything better for you!" and here, at last, he succeeded in angering me, for it was a point i was somewhat uncertain about, and only my delicacy had prevented my speaking of it to father urbani. "'tis lucky for you, mr. o'rourke, that i haven't it," i said, "or i would truss you so that the heathen you are going to feed would have nothing more to do than baste you!" for i supposed he would be off as a missionary like most of those from the propaganda. [illustration: "i could not help strutting as we passed the fashionables"] "i don't know about the eating, giovannini, my son, but you are quite right about the heathen, for i am going to follow the drum like yourself, and if you ever come properly accredited to the chaplain of the company of st. james, in the regiment irlandia, you may have a surprise." "oh, mr. o'rourke!" i shouted, embracing him at the same time, "surely this isn't only another bit of your funning." "funning? 'tis genuine brimstone and piety combined, that's what it is, and within a week after i take orders i'll be off. so 'tis only 'good-bye' till 'tis 'good-day' again." the next morning, when i went to take leave of father urbani, i saw before him on the table a silver-mounted sword, at the sight of which my heart gave a great leap, for i could not doubt it was for me. he did not keep me in suspense, but handed it to me at once. "see what you think of that, giovannini?" i drew out the beautiful blade, found it balanced to a nicety, and could not forbear making a pass or two, even in his presence, at which he smiled and said, "carry it bravely, little one, carry it bravely, and sometimes remember the old man who gave it to you will nightly pray that you may be kept in safety in the path of honour. come, i will see you somewhat on your way," he added, and we passed out into the street together. conscious of my brave appearance, i could not help strutting as we passed the fashionables then abroad in the piazza di spagna, until i was recalled to a more fitting frame of mind by his gentle voice: "here i must leave you, mio caro giovannini. surely, sometimes, in a quiet hour, you will turn your heart to me, lonely here within these walls, for i love you like a son, giovannini, my little one. may god and all his saints have you in their holy keeping this day and forever," and he embraced me tenderly. and so ended my life in the old scots college in rome. iii - of the soldiering father o'rourke and i did in the regiment irlandia together; how we fared at the battle of velletri, and until the army divided under the walls of rome, during which time i won more than one promotion. "'there's a whirring noise across the night, the "wild-geese" are a-wing, wide over seas they take their flight, nor will they come with spring. blow high, blow low, come fair, come foul, no danger will they shirk, till they doff their grey for the blue and the buff of the regiment of burke! "'all spain and france and italy have echoed to our name! the burning suns of africa have set our arms aflame! but to-night we toast the morn that broke and wakened us to fame! the day we beat the germans at cremona! "'would you read our name on honour's roll? look not for royal grant; it is written in cassano, alcoy, and alicant, saragossa, barcelona-- wherever dangers lurk, you will find in the van the blue and the buff of the regiment of burke! "'all spain and france and italy have echoed to our name! the burning suns of africa have set our arms aflame! but to-night we toast the morn that broke and wakened us to fame! the day we beat the germans at cremona! "'here's a health to every gentleman who follows in our train! here's a health to every lass who waits till we return again! here's confusion to the german horde, until their knavish work is stopped by the sight of the blue and the buff of the regiment of burke! "'all spain and france and italy have echoed to our name! the burning suns of africa have set our arms aflame! but to-night we toast the morn that broke and wakened us to fame! the day we beat the germans at cremona! [illustration: "'the day we beat the germans at cremona!'"] in the little inn at narni, in company with six young gentlemen volunteers who had been enjoying a furlough in rome, i sate and roared out the chorus as i picked up the words. to me they were glorious, and the air divine. at all events, the song was an improvement on many that went before and followed after. i was prepared, in a measure, to meet with much looseness among military gentlemen, whose many vicissitudes and harassing calls on their temper and endurance may excuse a heat and vivacity of language that would not be fitting in an ordinary man. indeed, my uncle scottos swore whenever his fancy pleased him. and no one ever thought the worse of him for that. but here were boys, none of them much older than myself, using oaths that fairly made my blood curdle, with all the assurance of a field-marshal at the least; and besides this, they did their best to make out they were practised in the blackest vices. indeed, so ribald did they grow, that i felt it did not become me to sit quiet and listen to such wickedness. "gentlemen," i said, "my uncle scottos served in this regiment when it was part of the irish brigade, led by colonel walter burke himself, and it was then held that no officer under the rank of lieutenant had the privilege of swearing or using loose language; and i make bold to say it was a wise regulation, and one which i would like to see in force now." these very fitting observations were greeted with a roar of laughter, at the end of which mr. fitzgerald, an ensign, said, with a mighty air of gravity: "your reverence is perfectly right; the same rule is still in force, and most strictly observed; but the truth is, that, like his sacred majesty, james iii., our rightful positions are not fully recognized--de facto, as you collegioners say, we are only ensigns and cadets, but de jure, we are captains and lieutenants in all the different degrees--just as your reverence is in the company of coarse, common soldiers, instead of hobnobbing with the heads of the sacred college and other holy men." and his ribaldry was rewarded with a burst of laughter. "mr. fitzgerald," i retorted, "you can spare your gibes on me. i neither understand nor like them. but if any of you think you can better me in a bout at single-stick, i'll shew you i can take a drubbing without grumbling from any of you who can give it me." but mr. fitzgerald excused himself, as he had no skill except with the rapier; however, he was replaced by mr. o'reilly, who would have had no mean play had he been schooled by such a tutor as my uncle scottos. then they challenged me to the small sword, thinking it my weak point, but i held my own as easily as at the other; and after this, if any one attempted to draw me on with "your reverence," i had only to answer "single-stick" to turn the conversation. let a lad but take advantage of his early opportunities, and he need not make a poor shewing in any company. on our arrival at faro, i was presented to his excellency general macdonnell, in command of the irish troops in the neapolitan service, which then consisted of the regiments hibernia and irlandia, the latter including the remnant of "burkes," in which i was entered as a cadet in the company of st. james, under colonel donald macdonnell, his brother ranald being captain en second. the first injunction laid on me by the general was to dine every day at his table. this, of itself, was forwarding me at once into public notice, as he was constantly surrounded by spanish noblemen and officers of note in the army, to whom he always introduced me as a young scotch highlander from the college in rome, strongly recommended, come to acquire some knowledge of military affairs. here i met his brother, major-general macdonnell, who was allowed to be the best foot officer and engineer in spain, sir balthasar nihel, our general of brigade, and many others. colonel macdonnell most handsomely fulfilled his promise of fitting me for a soldier, for i was allowed to go out on active service whenever a company or battalion was given its orders, my duty being to report faithfully to the general every transaction that happened to the command i was in. i made many and pleasant acquaintances, not only in our own troops, but also among the neapolitans and spaniards, who formed the bulk of our army, and was rapidly getting on with my education, a much easier task than any put to me at college. mr. o'rourke, now father o'rourke, probably through the high favor he held in the santi apostoli, had joined us as chaplain--although, i believe, such a course was unusual from the propaganda--and was soon friends with every one from the general downwards. though he had lost nothing of his old lively disposition, he was a different man from what i had ever seen him when he stood up in his robes before us at the holy office of the mass. no one who has not seen it performed in the open field, for men who, by their very calling, should have a more lively sense of the uncertainties of this life, can have any idea how grand it is in its simple surroundings. the altar is raised beneath an awning, and the service goes on before the kneeling men, without any of those distractions which meet one in a church; the host is elevated to the roll of drums, the celebrant is half a soldier, and his acolytes cadets. surely no more grateful service is ever offered to the god of battles. i shall not attempt to go into the detail of my experience in the army; it was that of a lad well introduced and handsomely befriended, and hundreds have gone through as much, and more too; but perhaps it would be hardly honest to pass over my first trial under fire. in the spring of ' our army marched along the adriatic, by way of ancona and loretto, to cover the kingdom of naples on that side. the austrian vanguard came to an action with our rear before we reached loretto, and pressed them hard. father o'rourke and i were marching side by side with o'reilly, fitzgerald, and some other young gentlemen near the colonel. "this strikes me much like a good imitation of running away, general mcdonell of scottos," said he, at which we only groaned, for the day was hot and we could not understand why the enemy should be allowed to annoy us in this fashion; indeed, we were too strongly impressed by the same thought to answer his challenge as it deserved. but the answer soon came in an order for a reinforcement, and we all besieged the colonel--who was good-nature itself and treated us like his own children--for permission to join. "run off, then, the lot of you, and let the germans see what your faces look like," he cried, laughing; and off we went, overjoyed at our good-fortune. the required troops were halted and formed, and at once marched to the rear; the moment we saw the confusion and terror there and heard the groans of the wounded as they were roughly borne on with the hurrying mass, things took on a different look. what added to it was that, for some time, we had to stop and allow our people passage in a narrow way, and, by the balls that went whistling over our heads and the cheering of the enemy, we knew they were coming on with a rush. suddenly a man near me gave a sickening kind of grunt and tumbled down in a heap, like a pile of empty clothes. my heart thumped as if it would burst through my ribs and my head swam so i could hardly see. o'reilly, who was beside me, and, i suppose, moved by the same feeling as myself, put out his hand, which i grasped tightly, and there we stood with our pale faces, when, to our great relief, some old hand just behind us began to sing in a low voice, "the day we beat the germans at cremona"; then, at the same critical moment, came the sharp command, "advance, quick!" and we were saved from a disgrace that would have been worse than death. [illustration: "there we stood, with our pale faces"] out we rushed in some kind of order, i suppose, but i do not remember anything but the great blue back of the grenadier in front of me, and how he worked his shoulders as he ran. then came the word "halt!" and almost as quickly "fire!" my piece went off with the others, and when the smoke cleared i had my senses again about me and could see the enemy about one hundred paces ahead of us checked by our fire. we kept at it until dark came on and the enemy retired, whereon we rejoined our own army and encamped for the night. that night in the general's tent after dinner he called me to him and asked, "well, my lad, have you smelt powder to-day?" "yes, sir," i said, "and plentifully." "what, sir," said he, "are you wounded?" "no, please your excellency," i answered, feeling somewhat ashamed i had not attained his full approbation in bringing back a whole skin. "sir," he said, sternly, "you will never smell powder until you are wounded. but in order to give you a better chance, and as a reward for not running away, you will be rated as ensign to-morrow in the place of poor jamieson, killed this afternoon." so i won my first promotion for not being brave enough to take to my heels, where my heart was during the first part of the engagement at least; i never had the courage either to ask o'reilly what his feelings had been when he held out his hand to me. "well, well," said father o'rourke, when i told him of my good-fortune, "jeremiah was far-sighted when he prophesied 'the wild asses shall stand in the high places' (et onagri steterunt in rupibus). 'tis drum-major they'll be making you next, and never a step for me, though i've the hardest and most dangerous work in the world trying to keep your heathen souls out of the clutch of a bigger enemy than prince lobkowitz himself. but 'tis a family party you are, anyway--here's a major-general macdonnell, and a lieutenant-general macdonnell, and a colonel, and a captain and a lieutenant, and that poor little orphan, angus, you left behind in rome, and now they must needs make an ensign of you. faith, you're so plentiful hereabouts, i begin to believe the story that you had a boat of your own in the time of noah." "indeed we had not, father o'rourke," i returned, indignantly, "that was the mcleans." "oh, well, mcleans or mcdonells, 'tis all one. and noah shewed his wisdom there, too, for had he let any more highlanders into the ark, they'd have been sailing it themselves inside of a month, for they've a rare scent for all the high places," he went on, with a roar of his irish laughing. and i went off angry, but thinking how strange it was that so sensible a man in many things should find a pleasure in this childish way of jesting on any subject, and should so often choose me for his funning, who didn't relish it at all. colonel macdonnell confirmed my rank as ensign on the morrow, and for days we were hard at it marching across italy to cover the northern frontier of naples, next the ecclesiastical states on the mediterranean, where we got news that the austrians were advancing in force under prince lobkowitz and the famous general browne. they had an army of forty-five thousand men, austrians, hungarians, and croats, while we were joined by thirty thousand neapolitan troops, under king carlo, so our forces were fairly equal. we took possession of the town of velletri, within the pope's dominions, the king making his headquarters in the casa ginetti, a handsome modern palace fronting on the principal square, while our army occupied the level country and the heights above. the count di gages was at the head of the spanish, and the duke of castropignano of the neapolitan troops, each taking command day about. by some oversight the enemy were allowed to gain possession of the heights monte artemisio and monte spina, which occasioned great inconvenience to us, as by this means they commanded the high-road to rome, and cut off our supply of water by the conduit which fed the great fountain in the principal square, so that we were obliged to search for water every evening at the cisterns and fountains about the country, or at the river, which ran in the great ravine between the two main armies, which lay about four miles asunder. to add to this, there was constant and severe enough fighting almost daily, but without any result proportionate. about an hour before daybreak one morning, being on sentry, i was alarmed by the tramping of horses and the stir of men advancing towards my post. i challenged, and was answered by lieutenant-general macdonnell, whose voice i knew, and he knowing mine, called out: "is that you, mcdonell?" "yes, your excellency," i answered. "get yourself relieved then, and come with me." while the relief was coming, i asked, "where is your excellency going?" "to beat these rascals from their post," and nothing more was said until i got relieved and joined. off we went in the darkness, the general bidding me lay hold of his stirrup-leather; and as we went, he explained our object was to carry a battery of four eighteen-pounders nearest our camp. this we did with a rush, receiving only one discharge, and capturing near three hundred men, who had hardly time to strike a blow. then, seeing that the battery could not be maintained for a moment, being completely exposed to the heights, he acted without waiting for orders, formed his force into three columns, and instantly led them against monte artemisio. hot work we had of it for two hours, but at it we kept until we had cleared the heights of the enemy, whose force on monte spina, seeing our success, retreated to their camp, of which we had a full view, and which seemed to be in great confusion. the general formed us up without hesitation. "your work is only half done, my lads! here's for another touch of cremona!" and down the hill we swept on the enemy, shouting the song of the old regiment; but they never waited for us, deserting their camp and taking post in a wood hard by. it was a disappointment, but another was quick on its heels, for now who should ride up but an aide-de-camp with the most positive orders from the general-in-command to retreat. then i heard a general officer swear for the first time! however, there was nothing to be done; the camp was fired in as many places as possible, and we reclimbed monte artemisio and held it until relieved by the engineers under major-general macdonnell, who at once set about fortifying it with strong batteries, whereon we returned to camp, and the general to headquarters. there was some talk, we afterwards heard, of his exceeding orders, which were to take the first battery only, and in a mixed army like ours it will be readily understood there was always a certain jealousy of any personal success; one would have thought it was an error to have beaten the enemy. "how far would you have gone, general, had you not been recalled?" asked the young duke of alba, anxious to settle the matter. "to the devil, your highness, if necessary:" the old soldier answered. thereat the king laughed heartily and said he believed him capable of it, and put an end to all further discussion by saying the general had acted under his orders, which was a very handsome way out of the difficulty, and highly approved of by our force when spread about. we now settled down to continual skirmishing and manoeuvring and constant harassing of each other, with daily loss and daily distress on each side. it was like living in a great city in this camp nearly four miles in length, resting its left on the town and its right on monte artemisio. across on the other side of the valley lay our enemy, and if we suffered somewhat for lack of water, we knew they suffered still more from scarcity of provisions, as most of the prisoners we took were always eager for a meal; but our greatest suffering was from the incessant heat, for there we lay all the summer months amid the dirt and other discomforts of a great crowd cut off from all water save for the most absolute needs. the peasants gave us of their stores readily enough, not because of their loyalty, but that any resistance to our foraging parties would have been useless, and have served only to aggravate their distress; so there was little opposition beyond outcries and black looks. the part of the peasant is a poor one in the time of war; but, after all, there must always be some to feed the soldiers, and if there were no peasants, doubtless we would have lived on some one else. i never would have fallen into this train of thought had it not been for father o'rourke, who gave himself much concern for them and their affairs, and went so far as to preach one sunday that all men are equal in the sight of god, a holding i have never been able to make head or tail of, as it is clear against the common sense of any man who goes through the world with his eyes open. in the beginning of august it was evident some great move was on foot by the enemy; there was constant marching and counter-marching, and we learnt from our spies that the sick, of whom there were many, had been moved to a great distance from the camp. our brigade in its encampment lay a little in rear of our left wing and faced the town. it was then the th of august, and i was to go on guard before daybreak on the outposts. the night was a sweltering one, rendering sleep wellnigh impossible; so, in company with a young fellow, come piping hot from ireland to enter himself as a cadet in our regiment, i threw myself down fully dressed under an awning prepared for divine service on the morrow. for some cause unknown to me i was not called for guard at the proper time, but was awakened before daybreak by a couple of shots; then came half a dozen, next a couple of volleys, when, on starting up, i told my guest we certainly were attacked. "whatever shall i do?" he exclaimed; "i have no arms!" "never mind, fall into the ranks; if you are killed at the first discharge, you won't need any; if not, you will find as many as you want." "but i have not yet been reviewed," he objected. "no, and ten chances to one you never will be," i called back, as i rushed to order the générale sounded, which was soon repeated by all the drums in the army. and then began such a confusion as i hope never to see again. our men and officers turned out as they were, trying to slip into their clothes and find their arms. it was impossible to make out anything clearly, but we did our utmost to carry out the orders we heard screamed in the darkness. from the sounds which came to us, it was evident the enemy were attempting to force our front, and so cut through our line. we had not half formed before we were nearly crushed by the rush of riderless horses of the two dragoon regiments in our rear, many of which broke away before the men could saddle them; and these were immediately followed by a regiment of petits walloons and a great body of cowardly neapolitans who gave way before the enemy. in spite of it all we formed again, wheeled about, and faced the enemy, to find our army was cut in two, our left was on an impassable ravine, and general browne with his successful troops in our front. there was nothing to do but retire towards the town, which we did, leaving a number of our officers and men on the field. for my own share i was one of the last to give way, but when i turned my back i imagined the enemy all fired at me alone, and ran with all my might, feeling as though a weight were tied to each of my legs, till i out-distanced every one, when on looking back i saw the whole coming up. i halted, and every one as he came up did the same, and we soon formed a regular line. we were now joined by our senior officers, who restored order and resolved us to revenge our dead comrades and fight to the last. our situation we found to be as bad as before. we wheeled to the right and endeavored to enter the town by the nearest gate, in order to defend ourselves by the help of an old roman wall which surrounded the town; but the guard at the gate and those on the wall fired at us, mistaking us for the enemy in the uncertain light, and just then a column of browne's men coming up gave us another fire. to extricate ourselves from this very critical situation, we made another wheel to the left to recover our former ground, which with great loss we accomplished, only to find ourselves in a worse chance than before, for now a body of the enemy was between us and the ravine, by which means we were attacked on both flanks and in front. the slaughter was terrible, and, being reduced to extremity, we offered to capitulate on honourable terms; at this there was a lull in the action and time to look about. we were so encumbered by our dead and wounded that a regular formation was almost impossible, but this we set about righting with all possible haste. our colonel sat straight and erect in the midst of us, in earnest talk with the french major-general, who was in command. lieutenant butler was near me, and o'reilly i saw attending to the removal of some of the wounded. the men, half-dressed, and many of them covered with blood, were resting as if the affair were entirely over, and already were talking and joking with each other in their usual way as if our lives did not hang on the answer to our terms. at length word was brought that our offer was refused, and we must surrender at discretion. our chiefs whispered a moment, then colonel macdonnell rose to his full height in his stirrups and called in a voice deep with feeling, "officers and gentlemen of the company of st. james! they refuse us the only terms which honourable men can accept without disgrace. officers, gentlemen, all! i call on you to fight while a charge of powder and ball is left to living or to dead!" and the cheer we gave him carried our answer back to our ungenerous foe. there was no shirking, as every man stepped firmly to his place; but matters grew worse from the beginning. our french general was shot down, then colonel macdonnell, crying, "i'll open a way for you, my lads! come on!" spurred his horse straight at the enemy, only to go down torn with bullets, while on every side our officers and men were falling fast. so far i had not a scratch, but now a ball went through my thigh which prevented my standing. i crossed my firelock under my leg and shook it to see if the bone were whole, which, finding to be the case, i raised myself on one knee and continued firing. i received another shot, which threw me down, but i still made an attempt to support my surviving comrades until a third wound quite disabled me. loss of blood, and no way to stop it, soon reduced my strength. i, however, gripped my sword, ready to run through the first who should insult me. all our ammunition now being spent, and not a single cartridge to be found even among the dead, quarter was called by the few who remained alive. many of the wounded were knocked on the head, and i did not escape; for, observing one approaching, i made ready to run him through, but seeing that five more were close to him, i dropped my sword, only to be saluted with "hundsfott!" and a rattle of blows on my head, whereupon i fainted. on coming to myself, i found i was lying with my clothes stripped off, weltering in my blood, twisting and turning with pain in the dust under a blistering sun, and no one alive near me to speak to. the first who came up to me was a croat, who, spying my gold-laced hat near by, clapped it on his head, and then had the impudence to ask me how i liked it. not pleased with my answer, which was short, he turned me over on my face and, cutting off my queue with his sabre, marched away, saying he would remember me by it. shortly after this i was visited by another with cocked pistol in hand, who demanded my purse in very bad italian. "where do you think i have hidden it?" i asked, angrily, for i hadn't on me what would have covered a sixpence. "if you can find it about me you can take it." "is that an answer for me, you ----," and here he called me a name, bad enough for a living man, but to the last degree insulting to one in my condition, and with this he pointed his pistol straight between my eyes. i thought no one near, but the word "quarter" was scarce spoken by me when i saw his pistol arm seized by a genteel young man, dressed only in his waistcoat, who cried, "you rascal, let the man die as he pleases; you see he has enough. go and kill some one able to resist," and the fellow made off. "pray sir," said i to the young man, "what do you intend to make of this town if you take it!" "keep it if we can; if not, burn it." "then, sir, if you will have me borne to your camp, and my wounds dressed, i will reward you with fifty crowns." off he went, and in a few minutes came back with four stout german soldiers, to whom he said something in their language. they seized me by the arms and legs, but no sooner had they raised me from the ground than i fainted with the pain, and on recovering i found myself where i formerly was. the young man was still near, who told me shortly that i could not be removed. "but, sir," said i, "if you set the town on fire i shall infallibly be burned here," for in our struggle we had been driven back on the walls. "if i am alive," he returned, "i will prevent that; but i must attend to my duty, as the firing in the streets continues very hot," and with that he left me, and i saw no more of him. i now observed a regiment of horse drawn up about half a gun-shot from where i lay. they faced the town, and if they advanced a few paces more i was afraid they would crush me under foot. but they faced to the rear, retired a little, and then faced the town again. this manoeuvring surprised me; i listened attentively and heard the cannon and platoons approach, and, raising my head on my hand, looked towards the gate nearest me, which was quite full of our men running out trailing their arms, to form a line between me and the horse; they were followed by another sortie of our people, who formed yet another line, but in this case between me and the town wall. i looked upon myself then as certain of death, but used every precaution in my power to preserve what little life was left to me as long as possible. i seized two of my dead comrades, for they were thick around me, and with great difficulty dragged myself between them, so as to have some shelter from straggling balls. i did not remain long in this danger, however, as the enemy, at the second fire from our people, left their ground and galloped out of sight. i now began to suffer the torments of thirst in addition to my other pains, and called to every one who passed near me for a drink; but from the heat of the day, and the length of the action, their canteens and calabashes were all empty. at last i saw a grenadier of the swiss guards, whose uniform was very much like ours, with a large calabash, and asked him if he had anything in it. "yes, brother," he said, mistaking me, i suppose, for a swiss. i took a hearty draught of excellent wine and offered it back to him. "no, no, brother," he said, "i am unhurt and you cannot help yourself," and thereupon he left me. i was greatly refreshed, and on looking about me saw poor lieutenant butler, whom i had not before observed, lying near me on all fours. he was sadly wounded, and begged me in the name of god to let him have a drink. i drew myself a little nearer him, for he could not move, and handed him the calabash. he seized it eagerly and would have certainly finished it, had not i, observing from the horrid nature of his wound it was only a question of minutes till the end, pulled it from him, saying, "it is easy to see, my poor fellow, that your bread is baked. i cannot let you waste this when i may perish for the want of it." it is not that war makes men unfeeling, as many have urged, but in it they attain a judgment in the value of life not so readily acquired elsewhere. it was now getting towards evening, and i must have fainted or slept somewhat, for the next i remember was feeling what i took to be rain falling, and, on opening my eyes, there was the big face of father o'rourke over me. he was crying like a child, and the first words i made out were: "oh, giovannini, darling! my poor boy! you're not dead--you're not dead, after all!" "who's beaten, father?" i asked, as soon as i could speak. "faith, we're all beaten! first we were smashed into tatters, the king all but taken, and would have been had it not been for sir balthasar nihel. we were beaten at every point of the compass, only we didn't know it! but now we've the town again, and sent general browne off with a flea in his ear, and all the croats and hungarians, pandours and talpathians, hot foot after him. but oh, the poor souls that have gone to glory this night! faith, promotion will be the order of the day now." and all this and much more he gave out, half crying, half laughing. and there the good man sate, talking his nonsense to keep me up, holding me in his arms covered with his cassock, which he had stripped off when first he found me, in no little danger from the rascally camp-followers and the miserable peasants, who were prowling about ready to put a knife into any one who offered the least resistance. indeed, the peasants killed, resistance or not; for each soldier dead, no matter what side, they looked on as one enemy the less. [illustration: "there the good man sate, holding me in his arms"] i was too weak to think of such things, but he told me afterwards his heart gave a te deum of rejoicing when he saw lieutenant miles macdonnell, of the regiment hibernia, looking over the bodies for any chance of saving friends. he at once hailed him, and i was soon, lying on the leaf of a door on my way to the hospital. some idea may be gathered of the importance of this engagement when i say that there were near two hundred officers alone in the hospital, which was one of the largest convents in the town. as father o'rourke foretold, promotion was rapid and easy, and captain ranald macdonnell was named as colonel, commanding the regiment in the place of his brother, killed, as already related. he went through the hospital twice a day and never failed to visit me, inquiring particularly of my condition by order of his father, the general, and also brought me news of my own promotion as lieutenant, with many kindly wishes for my speedy recovery--and i know no more grateful cataplasm for a mending wound than promotion. it was wonderful how we all improved in spite of the heat, our crowded condition, and the scanty fare. my greatest suffering was from dreaming; for weeks i could not get the awful experiences of that day out of my poor head, and no sooner was i asleep than i was at some part of it again, only to be awakened with a scream and a start which often opened my wounds afresh and left me almost fainting with pain. my experience was only that of others, many of whom afterwards said they too dreaded the coming of sleep, which only increased their torments. many a story we had of the day, and gradually we gathered something like a fair idea of the whole. general novati had carried out his attack on the town successfully, but had been prevented from seizing the person of the king through the obstinate defence of the irish troops; indeed, we came in for no small share of compliments. even general browne, who cut our own detachment to pieces, said he was sorry for our loss, though he admired our gallant behaviour. this was the word brought by mr. o'reilly, who saved his life by a stratagem; for being down like the rest of us in our last stand, and fearing lest he should be trampled under foot by a squadron of horse just preparing to charge, he called out to the germans, "would you leave the duke of alba to perish?" and so was picked up and carried out of danger. when brought before general browne and his staff, he confessed he was only mr. o'reilly, a lieutenant in the irish brigade, and had borrowed the duke's name when he thought it would do him most good. he was abandoned by the enemy in their retreat and carried in, and afterwards made his apologies to his highness for the liberty he had taken, who graciously assured him he was glad it served so good an end. the day had ended by a loss to the enemy of near three thousand men, and general novati a prisoner, besides many other officers of high rank; our own loss was near as heavy, but, then, we were victorious, and the enemy foiled in every point he attempted. father o'rourke was untiring in his care of us all. indeed, for weeks he hardly seemed to have any rest, but whether he was up all night with some poor fellow whose time was short, or comforting another in pain, or letter-writing, or listening to complaints, he had always the same lively humour that brought many a laugh from the long rows of beds within hearing. in about six weeks i was on crutches, but sadly incommoded by want of clothes, for i had not even a shirt i could call my own. "faith, don't be so mighty put out on account of a few rags and tatters," was father o'rourke's comfort; "'tis a blessed state of innocence i found you in! not even adam in the garden of eden could have had less on him, or been less put out by it. you may thank providence you are here in this blessed sunshine, instead of skiting about barelegged in your native land, where i'm told on good authority the men wear petticoats even in winter." but i was superior to his gibes a day or so later, for the general, hearing of my straits, most obligingly sent me a suit of clothes and half a dozen of shirts. and to add to his many kindnesses, in a letter he wrote to king james giving an account of the late battle, he mentioned my condition to his majesty, setting forth my services in terms of such commendation that the king was pleased to order a pretty good sum of money for my immediate occasions. weary as i was of the hospital, i dreaded leaving it, as ordinary courtesy, let alone my heavy obligations, necessitated an immediate visit to the general, which i much dreaded, as i had not seen him since the day before the battle, when his son rode at our head, as gallant an officer as there was in the service. but when i stood before that fine old soldier there was only welcome in his look, and he said, jocosely: "are you still alive?" "i hope your excellency has sent no one to kill me," i answered, falling in with his humour. "no, by gad! i thought you had enough. but i know what has brought you here to-day; you have come for a good meal after being starved in the hospital. but be careful, i have seen many who have been carried off by overeating in like case." dinner was served, and i sate down nearly opposite the general, who eyed me anxiously from time to time; at last he got up, took my knife and fork from me, and, ordering away what was before me, said, "you young devil, you'll kill yourself!" and his roughness meant more to me than soft words from any other man. from this out i recovered rapidly, and soon was myself again and back in my company with full rank as lieutenant. there was no fighting now of any importance, and we wondered what the next move would be. but our spies and the deserters brought us in no news of value, and on the last day of september we lay down while our out-posts watched those of the enemy, their fires burning as usual across the valley; but in the morning we thought it strange we heard no drums and saw no movement, and then it dawned upon us that their whole army had withdrawn during the night, and now were in full retreat by way of rome. all the available force started in pursuit, with the hope of bringing them to an action at torre metia, about half-way between albano and rome, but they outmarched us. both armies had engaged with his holiness not to enter rome, so the enemy passed under its walls, where, our advanced guard coming up with their rear, there was warm skirmishing until they crossed the tiber at the ponte mole and encamped on the far side until the next morning, when they continued their retreat. our army now divided, one division going forward under the count di gages to harass the enemy, while the remainder followed king carlo back to naples. iv - how we met old friends and an older enemy in rome with whom i was forced to subscribe to a truce, having passed my word to the duke of york; how it came that i resigned from the company of st. james. through general macdonnell's kindness i was allowed to spend a few days in rome as being on his staff, and at my first freedom took my way to the street of the quattro fontane and my old college. what a welcome i received! good father urbani held me in his arms as if i bad been his own son, and would not hear of my sleeping outside the college, although 'twas a downright breach of their rules; and the old porter, of whom i once stood in such awe, waited up for me, no matter what the hour for returning might be, and nodded and winked knowingly, as if he too had once been young. not that i would insinuate there was anything of levity in my conduct, for i have always had a too just regard for my position as a gentleman and an officer to indulge in anything unbecoming, more especially where i was so carefully observed. angus i found the same as ever, quiet and contented with his lot, as seemed most of the others, though i could see my appearance caused something of a ruffle among them. i seemed to have grown so many years older, and was surprised to find how small and almost mean many of the old surroundings looked; even the fathers did not appear as formidable as before. all, that is, save dear old father urbani, of whom i never stood in awe, and who had only grown older and more frail; to him i told all that was in my heart, not even hiding my first fright from him, which i would not have then confessed to any other living man. on the second day of our stay, the general and i took our way by the corso and through to the piazza santi apostoli to pay our respects to his majesty king james. as we ascended the staircase i thought of the two poor awe-struck collegioners who in soutane and soprano had climbed the same stairs two years before, and the amazement that had filled their hearts when they saw and talked with royalty for the first time. now i was a man, though but sixteen, for i had carried a sword honourably in company with some of the bravest men in italy, and had been personally presented to king carlo as worthy of his gracious notice. the general was in full dress, with his spanish and neapolitan orders, and i wore the full uniform of a lieutenant of our brigade, which was genteel enough even for a presentation. in the anteroom the general was welcomed on all hands, and i met many i knew, including mr. secretary murray, mr. sheridan, and the abbé ramsay, and was much made of, though without flattery, save by those at whose hands i could fittingly receive it. what was my disgust, though, to see the white face of creach again in the crowd; he, however, did not come near me, and, out of consideration for the general, i refrained from speaking of him, as it might lead to mention of my former meeting when with his son, the colonel. i may say here that i never knew the result of the meeting between creach and the colonel, as the latter never saw fit to refer to it and i could not well question him. the sight of the man was so distasteful that it fairly took away all the pleasure of my presentation, and even the gracious presence and words of his majesty, and of the duke of york, who accompanied him, did not altogether dissipate my uneasiness. in words as fitting as i could choose, i thanked his majesty for his generous and unexpected succour, whereupon a smile passed over his grave, dark face, and he said, "but hold! are you not my little highlander of the santi apostoli?" "i am, please your majesty," i answered, reddening at my childish adventure. then the king smiled again, and, much to my discomfiture, told the story which all seemed to find mighty amusing, save myself, who could see nothing therein but a very natural and exact distinction. in telling a story, however, a king has this advantage over others, in that all must laugh whether they find it to their liking or not. i had hoped we would have seen the prince of wales as well, for in my heart he was the member of the royal family i most longed to see again, but we were informed he was engaged in a tour of northern italy. when the king and the duke withdrew, they signified to general macdonnell that he was to follow, and when we bowed them out, and the doors closed upon them, conversation at once became general. i withdrew to a window, for i was in no frame of mind for talk, when, to my astonishment, i saw creach advance towards me, holding out his hand with an assured air. i drew myself up at once and looked him over slowly, seeing everything but the outstretched hand. "this is a place for friendship and not for boyish quarrels, mr. mcdonell," he began. "i wish to congratulate you on your promotion. "no place, mr. creach, can be for friendship between us, and as for congratulations, they are not only out of place but insulting from you," i said, quietly, and in a low voice, so no one might overhear. "in the first place, my name is not creach," he said, trying hard to keep his temper, "and in the second, you may find it not only foolish but even dangerous to try any of your airs with me. remember, you can't always have a man at your back to fight your battles for you." [illustration: "i saw creach advance towards me"] "you clay-faced hound!" i said, "don't dare to take the name of the dead into your mouth, or i will strike you where you stand. what your object is in thus seeking me i do not know nor care, but as sure as the sun is above if you dare speak to me again i will forget the roof we stand under and treat you like the dog you are." his face turned greyer than ever, and he stood hesitating a moment, but presently bowed ceremoniously, and moved off before my anger got the better of me. i stood staring out of the window trying to recover myself, when who should come up but father o'rourke. "well, well, my little highlander, who has been ruffling your feathers?" said he. "look there! father o'rourke," i said, paying no attention to his nonsense; "do you see that man?" "i'm not hard of hearing yet, my son, thank god! and you needn't make a sign-post of yourself. do you mean the claret-coloured coat and the bag-wig?" "yes," i said, more quietly. "that is creach!" "the devil it is!" he said, and then he became confused, and glanced at me to see if i had observed his slip; but i have always held that an honest statement of opinion may excuse the expression. he was silent for a moment, looking hard at the man, and then went on in his old lively manner. "well, giovannini, we are not responsible for the company; they cannot be all lieutenants and priests. let us wander about and get a mouthful of air." so, taking my arm, he led me off, nor would he speak on the subject until we were alone on the terrace. there he changed his tone, and said, shortly: "are you sure of the man?" "as sure as if i had seen his ears." "faith! they were big enough to swear by," and to my impatience he began to laugh at the thought. "do you remember how they stuck out? the handles of a jug would be flat beside them," and he laughed again. "now i suppose you promptly insulted him?" "indeed i did not. i only told him he was a dog, and if he spoke to me again i would not answer for myself." "humph! i have frequently noticed a highlander's conception of an insult is materially altered by the fact whether it proceeds from himself or from another; but i don't suppose you ever got as far in metaphysics as this. now comes the question, what you intend to do? remember the gentleman seems fairly well established here. will you fight with him?" "fight with him? a thief? indeed i will not! i will simply keep my word." "you're a rare hand at that, and i'm not saying 'tis a bad habit. but here comes the general. to-morrow i'll be at the college about eleven," and so we parted. the general was in great spirits. "hark you, mcdonell, something touching 'the north' is on foot. i'll not say more now, and this is in strict confidence, but you'll know what it means some day when i signify to you that you may apply for leave of absence. to-morrow, at four, you will attend again at the palace; the duke desires to see you. you will enter by the door you know of, and the word is 'velletri'--but you know nothing," he added, with emphasis. the next morning father o'rourke came as promised, and was introduced by me to the rector with some little pride. indeed, he was no mean figure of a man, this chaplain of ours, with his broad shoulders and great head, that looked fitter for a soldier's tricorne than a priest's calotte. after the usual compliments we fell to talking, father o'rourke as much at home as if he had known the rector all his life, and it was easy to see the old man warmed to him as he told him of his work as chaplain in a marching regiment, though making light of it, as was his manner. "ah, father," said the rector, smiling, "i am afraid it is somewhat to you that the college owes the loss of this scholar; he would have been a credit to the schools some day." "i doubt it, most reverend," answered father o'rourke, dryly, "as he is lacking in one of the senses." "in what, pray?" asked the rector, a little stirred. "i have never observed any lack; sight, sound, taste, touch, and speech, he has them all." "your pardon, you have omitted humour," returned father o'rourke, quietly; "and he has no more of that than a crocodile has of mathematics. a deplorable lack in a scholar, and useful any where--though for the banging of guns and the cracking of skulls there's less required than in almost any other profession"; and at this he burst into one of his foolish roars of laughter, much to my dislike, for i wished him to make a good figure before my protector. but, to my surprise, the rector did not seem half as much put out as myself, and said, smiling: "well, well; this killing is a serious business in any case." "but not so serious it could not be tempered by a little cheerfulness. 'suaviter in modo' goes a long way towards making your enemy's end comfortable," ranted on father o'rourke, with much more that i have not the patience to put down. indeed, i hold him wrong throughout, as i have quite as keen a sense of humour as is fitting for any gentleman in my position. but to go on. when we were alone he listened quietly enough to my remonstrances to his late conduct, merely saying he understood that the rector had not been born north of the tweed, which was no answer whatever. he then recurred to our matter of the day before, saying: "i have been making some inquiries about this man creach." "yes, and what do you find?" "i find, mr. mcdonell, that if you are going to have the run of the santi apostoli you must number him amongst the elect, for his saintship is in high favour. he not only is there day in day out, but is a bosom friend of the prince of wales to boot." "that i cannot credit," i returned. "his highness could not be so mistaken." "faith, i'm not so sure of that," he returned, bitterly; "he has some sorry cattle about him, and, to say the least, he is easily pleased in the way of company." "father o'rourke, it is not for the likes of you or me to discuss the doings of princes, and i'll thank you to say no more on the subject." "very well, your highness. i merely thought a word in season might save you from a like error, and that, coming from a descendant of kings, like myself, it would not give offence. but to leave that aside, you'll have to humble your stomach and swallow this captain, claret-coat, chalk face, big ears, and all, or i will prophesy that you'll cut but a small figure with your betters." this was as unpleasant a piece of news as i could well receive, and though i could not quarrel with it, i at least could resent the manner of its conveyance, so i turned upon my informant at once: "perhaps this is an example of your 'suaviter in modo,' father o'rourke; if so, i'll be obliged if you'll put things in plain, sensible english, as between gentlemen." "oh, very well, mr. john mcdonell of scottos--do you think it sounds better to say that his royal highness has not ordinary common taste in choosing his companions, and if you follow him, you must be hail-fellow-well-met with a blackguard like creach, who happens just now to be in his favour?" "'pon my soul, father o'rourke, you are the most provoking man i ever met! if you wore a sword, i'd make you answer for this!" i roared, beside myself with anger. "oh, i can waggle a sword, if need be," he answered, very cool, "but i was thankful it wasn't a sword but a calabash of good chianti i had strapped on me the night i fell in with you after velletri. there, there, giovannini; 'tis nothing to make such a pother about, only you and i are too old friends to quarrel over such gentry as mr. creach." "but it wasn't mr. creach, father. i never would have lost my temper over him; i thought you were poking fun at me." "ah, mr. lieutenant, in humour, like in file-firing, a sense of direction is a great thing." and so we made it all up again, and with angus we had the chanti and fruit which the rector had thoughtfully provided in my chamber. at four o'clock i took my way to the secret entrance of the santi apostoli, found the familiar passage and a lackey awaiting me in the garden to conduct me to the duke. he was then about nineteen, though i did not think he appeared much my elder save in his manner, which was that of a prince, though most lively and engaging. he soon opened the reason of the visit. "mr. mcdonell," he said, "i am sure you are faithful and can be trusted." "your royal highness," i answered, "my people have been true to you and yours for generations, and it would ill become me to have any principles other than those we have always held. you can count on me to the very end." "i was sure of it," he answered, smiling, holding out both his hands, which i grasped with emotion. "now to business," and he civilly invited me to be seated in an embrasure of a window. "my brother, the prince of wales, is travelling, it is true, but not in italy; he left here secretly in january last, and since then has been in france, and at any day an expedition may be formed for scotland, for we have the surest hope of the hearty co-operation of the french court. "now i and his majesty must have messengers at hand on whom we can absolutely rely; and my request to you is that you will not volunteer for service when the news comes, but will remain with your company here in italy; we have positive assurances you will be permitted to leave at any moment we may signify. i know that i am asking you a hard service, but it is an important one, for there are but few men whom we can trust for such a mission. "it is impossible to say when you may be needed, but your reward will be such when the time comes that others will envy your choice, and i and the king, my father, will ever remember the man who was ready to sacrifice the empty glory of the parade of war for the trust laid on him. "you must keep yourself free of all entanglements, for your absolute freedom to move at once will be of the utmost importance to the prince and to your country. surely i may count on you for this?" and i swore faithfulness from the bottom of my heart. then changing his tone, he began more lightly: "there is another small favour, a personal one, i would ask of you yet. there is a gentleman here in our court named mr. graeme--" "mr. creach, your highness," i could not help interrupting. "mr. graeme, i said," he returned, with something of hauteur. "you will be required to meet him, possibly to have business with him, and i desire as a personal favour to me," and he laid much stress on the words, "that you will lay aside all previous difficulties or misunderstandings between you until your engagement with me is at an end. surely i am not asking too much in urging a favour at this beginning of your service," and i was so overcome with the graciousness of his manner that i promised, although sore against my will. we then had a private audience with the king, who was pleased to recall the services of my grandfather, old Æneas of scottos, and his brothers glengarry, lochgarry, and barisdale, whom he knew personally in , and flattered me by saying he congratulated the duke of york on having a messenger of such approved fidelity; "for, mr. mcdonell, your general tells me he would trust you with his own honour." "his excellency has been like a father to me, sire," i answered; and shortly afterwards our interview closed, the duke paying me the honour of accompanying me to the door and insisted on shaking hands, nor would he admit of any ceremony at leave-taking. the next morning some one knocked at my door, and, on opening it, there, to my surprise and disgust, i saw creach, dressed in the most foppish manner. however, i dissembled my feelings, and to his greeting said, with civility: "i wish you good-morning, mr. creach." "by god! sir, if you repeat that name to me, i will run you through!" and he laid his hand to his sword. i glanced quickly to see my own was within easy reach on the table, and then, "mr. creach," i said, "i promised his royal highness the duke that i would not quarrel with you, and nothing will make me break my word, so don't go on pretending to find insults in my conversation, mr. creach, or it will become one-sided. i am a man of very few ideas, and one of them is that 'mr. creach'--no, 'captain creach'--was the name by which you were introduced to me, and so creach you must remain till the end of the chapter, mr. creach." but he had recovered himself with great address, and said, with an air of much openness: "mr. mcdonell, what is the sense of keeping up this farce of quarrelling? we must meet, therefore let us do it with decency, as befits the cause to which our honour is pledged." "mr. creach, if i were not a man moderate in all things, and were not my word pledged to the duke, nothing in the world would prevent me throwing you down these stairs, and i could have no greater pleasure than to see you break your neck at the bottom; but since i am forced to treat you as a gentleman, kindly deliver yourself of your business and leave me to mine." "i am doubly fortunate then, mr. mcdonell, first to the duke and second to your high sense of honour. but i will not bandy compliments. his highness bade me deliver this letter and his regrets that he will not see you again, as he hears general macdonnell leaves for the army at spoletto to-day." "my humble duty to his highness, sir," and i bowed to him mighty stiff, and he withdrew, leaving me very thankful that i had not been betrayed into any heat nor broken my word to the duke. on hurrying to the general's quarters i found the news was true, and that he had already sent for me; so, after short farewells, we rode through the porta del popolo and took the highway towards spoletto. i will not follow our campaign through the winter, except to say we were fairly successful and saw some brilliant service, particularly at la bochetta and during the investment of tortona. during this winter i lost my best of friends, general macdonnell, who died of a fever occasioned by the fatigue of our forced marching on genoa; and a few days afterwards he was followed by his brother, the major-general, of a fever also, resulting from the breaking out of an old wound he had received in the shoulder some fifteen years before. all this time i had been anxiously expecting orders from the duke, but the only word which came was a letter containing the disheartening tidings of the failure of the expedition under marshal saxe, and then we were all startled at the news of the prince's embarkation in the _doutelle_ and the _elizabeth_. [illustration: "'gentlemen! glasses all!'"] "it is simple madness," said father o'rourke, when the tidings were announced in the general's tent at dinner--indeed, one of the last occasions when he had us all at his table, as he loved. "'tis the kind of madness that heroes are made of," said the general, heartily. "here, gentlemen! glasses all! here's to royal charles, and may he never stop till he sleeps in st. james'!" and, warmed by his enthusiasm, he broke into the old irish jacobite song: "'he's all my heart's treasure, my joy and my pleasure, so justly, my love, my heart follows thee; and i am resolved, in foul or fair weather, to seek out my blackbird, wherever he be.'" such was the enthusiasm that we were all ready to volunteer, but as the general said, dryly enough, "what is to become of the austrians if you all leave? you might as well desert to the enemy at once and have done with it." while we awaited with impatience an answer to our application, word came to me from the duke that i was on no account to apply for leave until such time as he sent me certain word himself. it was a bitter disappointment, but i was not alone, as the military authorities saw fit to refuse all applications until the matter was further advanced. at last, in the month of january, letters came saying the duke was about starting, that leave was granted me as well as certain others, with instructions to report to mr. sempil, the king's agent at paris, who would direct us further. conceiving my future duties called for freedom from immediate service, i sent in my formal resignation, and received from our colonel, ranald macdonnell, a certificate testifying in flattering terms to the services i had performed, to my honour as a gentleman and my conduct as an officer while under his command in the company of st. james: "nous, colonel du régiment d'infanterie d'irlande de st. jacques, certifions que le sieur jean mcdonell de glengarry, sous-lieutenant au dit régiment, s'est toujours comporté pendant tout le temps qu'il y a servi en gentilhomme d'honneur, brave officier, et avec une conduite irréprochable à tout égard; en foy de quoy nous lui avons donné le présent. fait à plaisance le douzième janvier, mil sept cent quarante six. "macdonnell." to my surprise i found the name of father o'rourke amongst those allowed to volunteer, and when we were alone i said, rallying him: "i was not aware you were so strong a jacobite, father." "well, to tell the truth i am not, except in the way of sentiment; but sentiment, my dear giovannini, as you are aware, will induce a sensible man to do more foolish things than any other power in the world. still, i regard myself as in the path of duty, for i conceive there may be some jacobites who will be none the worse for a little extra morality dispensed by even my unworthy hands." i did not question him further, as i dreaded one of his usual rodomontades. we left at once with the good wishes of all, took barge at genoa as far as antibes, and thence by post to lyons, where we put up at the hôtel du parc. here we met a number of french officers, who brought news of the battle of falkirk, wherein prince charles had beaten the english cavalry and infantry off the field; and though, at the same time, we knew he had retreated from england, it did not serve to dash bur spirits, and we supped merrily together, drinking toast after toast to the success of the cause. all the old songs were sung lustily, and the french officers were much amused at our enthusiasm; but it was father o'rourke who carried off the honours of the evening by singing the following, to an air that was new to me: oh the water, the water, the dun and eerie water, which long has parted loving hearts that wearied for their home! o'er the water, the water, the dark, dividing water, our bonnie prince has come at last, at last--to claim his own. he has come to hearts that waited, he has come to hearts that welcome, he has come though friends have wavered, with the foe upon his track. but what loyal heart will falter when our bonnie prince is standing with his banner blue above his head and his claymore at his back? then gather ye, appin, clanranald, glengarry! cross has gone round! will a single man tarry when we march with our prince against geordie's dutch carles? we are out for the king! we will conquer or swing! but the bonnie brown broadswords will klink and will kling from the tweed to the thames for our bonnie prince charles! oh! the waiting, the waiting, the cruel night of waiting, when we brake the bread of sorrow and drank our bitter tears, it has broken at his coming like the mist on corryvechan, in the sunlight of his presence we have lost our midnight fears. when the prince unfurled his standard in the green vale of glenfinnan, beneath a sky as bright and blue, blown clear of storm and wrack, the loyal chiefs came thronging to where their prince was standing with his banner blue above his head and his claymore at his back. then gather ye, appin, clanranald, glengarry! the cross has gone round! will a single man tarry when we march with our prince against geordie's dutch carles? we are out for the king! we will conquer or swing! but the bonnie brown broadswords will klink and will kling from the tweed to the thames for our bonnie prince charles! oh! the heather, the heather, our modest hill-side heather, hath donned her royal robe again to welcome back her own. the roses bloom once more in hearts that hope deferred was wasting that will march with bonnie charlie, to halt only at his throne! we have suffered, we have sorrowed, but our joy has come with morning, and all is shining gloriously that late was drear and black. then up and out, ye gallant hearts, to where your prince is standing, with his banner blue above his head and his claymore at his back! then gather ye, appin, clanranald, glengarry! the cross has gone round! will a single man tarry when we march with our prince against geordie's dutch carles? we are out for the king! we will conquer or swing! but the bonnie brown broadswords will klink and will kling from the tweed to the thames for our bonnie prince charles! when he ended we cheered and cheered, breaking our glasses, half crying, half laughing, until we made the room ring again; and the people in the square listening to us began to cheer in sympathy, and, unable to control myself, i jumped up, and, catching the big form of the priest to my bosom, fairly hugged him in my arms, "oh, father o'rourke! how could you ever do it and you not a highlander at all?" i cried, in my wonder. "faith, i could do the same for a hottentot if i could only manage his irregular verbs," he shouted, struggling out of my embrace. "and now, gentlemen! if you don't stop this hullabaloo, you'll be arrested for disturbing the peace of this good town of lyons, and if you don't stop cracking those bottles your heads will be as easy cracking for the english when it comes to hard knocks!" and off he went with a storm of cheers after him. v how father o'rourke and i met with the duke of york, who charged me with a secret mission towards prince charles; of our voyage to scotland, and the dismal tidings that there met us. the next morning father o'rourke's words came true, for there were many aching heads amongst us, of which my own was one, and the jolting of the paris diligence did not in any way improve their condition nor their owners' tempers. it is surprising how mightily the hot enthusiasms of overnight will cool down by daylight--and here was an example. last night there was not one of us but would have embarked to the prince's support without a second thought of the chances, and not one would have admitted that the chances, if any, were aught but rose-coloured; but with the morning everything took on a different complexion, and the whole of our way to paris was filled with nothing but the most dismal forebodings. i addressed myself to mr. sempil, and found that the duke would expect me in about a week at boulogne; and in the mean time i did what i could to raise the spirits and determination of my companions. at length we had a general consultation, and, much to my disgust, they one and all began to plan, not for our joining the prince, but for offering the most excellent reasons why they should then and there return: "the prince had retreated from england; the passage was dangerous on account of the english fleet; the french could not be relied upon for any material aid; and, lastly, spring was approaching, and they would lose their chances of promotion in the ensuing campaign," and so on. "in short, gentlemen," i said, out of patience at last, "you all came here prepared to sing the same song, and you do it to perfection. your arguments do more credit to your heads than to your hearts. if the prince were safe in london you would be the first to flock after him; but now, when he most needs your assistance, you are like a pack of old women inventing terrors to excuse your cowardice." there were some of them who pretended to take exception to my words; but as i assured them i would be only too pleased to make any or all of them good, and the sooner the better, they did not go beyond their protest. but if they found my words unpalatable, father o'rourke gave them something more difficult to digest. "i object to the gentleman's manner of putting it myself," he began; "he is altogether too mealy-mouthed, which comes no doubt from his diet in boyhood. if he were only a blathering irishman like the rest of you, he would be shouting jacobite songs, and guzzling jacobite toasts, and whispering jacobite treasons, and never venture an inch of his precious carcass, until the moon turned into a jacobite cheese and was ready to drop into his mouth. i'm ashamed of you all! go back to your macaroni and polenta, and brag about cremona and other battles _you_ never fought, and see if you cannot breed some mongrel mixture that will make you ashamed of the way you have behaved this day. there! that's what i say to you; and if any of you don't like it, get down on your marrow-bones and thank heaven that the rules of his church prevent father o'rourke, late chaplain of the company of st. james, wearing a sword, or, by the powers! you would go back like so many pinked bladders!" and to my surprise, these men, who were wont to smell an insult afar off, and whose courage in the field was unquestioned, received this intolerable tirade as quietly as school-boys after a whipping--and so the matter rested, and they went their way and we ours. i wrote to mr. constable, then secretary to the duke of york, of the resolution of my comrades, and, by return of post, i received orders from his royal highness to repair to boulogne, which i immediately complied with, accompanied by father o'rourke. on reaching boulogne, we enquired our way to mr. constable's lodgings, and upon knocking at his chamber-door it was opened by the duke himself. "welcome, mr. mcdonell, welcome; and you, too, father o'rourke. you see we are so few we have dispensed with ceremony here in boulogne." he said, giving a hand to each of us. "we ourselves dispensed with it, and most of our following as well, in paris, your highness," said father o'rourke, laughing, "though i don't know that we'd have been any more had we used all the ceremony of the court of spain;" and then, without waiting to be introduced to the other gentlemen present, he began the story of his farewell speech to the volunteers from italy, and set them all a-laughing heartily with his impudence. i was somewhat taken aback, but thought it best to offer no remonstrance; indeed, i could not imagine any company which would have put father o'rourke out of countenance. i felt ill at ease, not having shifted myself, as i had not expected to see any one save mr. constable; but father o'rourke talked and moved among them all in his rusty cassock without an apology for his condition. however, i soon forgot such trifles in my interest in the company gathered. besides his highness, there were the duke of fitz-james, son of the great duke of berwick, and many noblemen of distinction and general officers, among whom i was introduced to the count lally-tollendal, whose unjust execution at the hands of his enemies some years later aroused the sympathies of all europe. the plans of the prince and hopes of aid from king louis were discussed with the utmost freedom and with much hope, for it was confidently expected an expedition for scotland would be equipped immediately, which the duke was to command, as it was on this promise he had come from italy. but one week went by, and then another, and yet we had no satisfaction from the court, not even excuses, and i could not but observe that, though others still had implicit faith in some action by king louis, the duke began to lose heart. "ah, the poor young man," said father o'rourke, "my heart is sore for him. he has more sense than the rest of them, and faith, i think, has more heart, too, and so takes it harder. do you know, giovannini, 'tis a great misfortune to be born in the ranks of princes; they're the only class of men i know of that are untrustworthy as a whole. king david knew the breed well, and did not he write 'put not your trust in princes' (nollite confidere in principibus)? and here is the duke eating his heart out because he is learning the bitter text king david preached thousands of years ago." we were seated in a lonely place outside the town, overlooking the sea, and watched the lights below us gently rising and falling on the fishing-vessels and other craft at anchor, and marked among them the bright lanthorns of a man-of-war which topped all the others. presently we heard footsteps, and the duke came up alone; it was not so dark but he could recognize us, which he did very quietly, and, advancing, seated himself between us, saying, "do not move, gentlemen, and forget i am the duke for an hour. my heart is sick of empty forms which mean nothing," and he sate in silence for a long time with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands gazing out over the sea. at length he said, slowly, as if to himself, "i would give ten years of my life to be on board that frigate with the men i would choose and a fair wind for scotland. to think of my poor brother longing and wondering why some support does not come, and i idle here with empty hands," and something like a sob ended his words. then father o'rourke spake in a voice as gentle as if he comforted a woman. "your highness, when we were children, the story we loved best to hear was the one our mother never told us--about 'the little red hen.' who 'the little red hen' was, or where she came from, or what she did, we never could learn. she was just 'the little red hen,' and had no story at all. but her story which no one ever heard was better than that of 'brian boru,' or 'malachi of the collar of gold,' or 'rookey the water witch,' any of whom would come out without much coaxing and parade up and down until we knew them through and through, while the very name of 'the little red hen' would quiet the biggest trouble that ever broke our hearts. my own belief is that she stayed at home and kept the breath of life in the family by laying her eggs and scratching up food for the chickens; but wherever she was, there was no cackling to lead us to her. she was just doing her work, helping the tired hearts and healing the sore ones, and all these years no one ever set eyes on her, more than on the dew that falls at night on the thirsty land." and that was all; no beginning, no end, and i wondered what he was at, with his silly stories of red hens, fit only for a lot of bare-legged children; but the duke must have seen something else, for after a little he broke into a more lively humour and said, half laughing, "upon my word, father o'rourke, you irish are a wonderful people!" "we are all that, your highness," he returned, with great complacence. "we are a terrible convenient people to have about when everything is going right, and, for the matter of that, when everything is going wrong as well, if we only have some one with a strong hand to lead us; but make us all equal and we are no more use than a lot of chickens with their heads cut off." [illustration: "then father o'rourke spake"] "father o'rourke," said the duke, suddenly, "sing me that song i heard of your singing at lyons." "i will with all my heart, your highness," and, making his big voice as soft as a girl's, he began without any further words: "oh the water, the water." when he had finished, the duke sate silent a little, then he rose and said, "gentlemen, i thank you for the first hour of quiet i have had for weeks. come, let us go back." and at the door of his lodgings he bade us good-night, saying to father o'rourke, "don't be surprised if i should come to you some day to hear the rest of the story of 'the little red hen.'" the forebodings of the duke came true; no expedition was forthcoming, and he was obliged to send in single vessels such aid as could be procured. one left dunkirk in the beginning of april with three hundred men and many officers, but i was still bidden to remain. shortly afterwards the duke commanded me to repair to dunkirk and there await him. he there sent me the grateful assurance that i was to start almost at once charged with considerable monies, which he was about raising, and also letters for the prince, and at the same time confided to me that he had almost transmitted a large sum by the hands of creach, or "mr. graeme," as he styled him--news i was sadly disappointed to hear, for i could not bring myself to trust the man in any particular. in a few days the duke arrived, and the next day was invited to dinner by my lord clare, then in command of the french troops in and about the place. as father o'rourke and i were considered to be in the duke's retinue, we were also asked. lord clare, observing my uniform, enquired of the duke who i was, and was informed i was a highland gentleman named mcdonell, a lieutenant in the spanish army in italy. after some further conversation with the duke, he addressed himself to me, saying, without any introduction: "mr. mcdonell, i have a company now vacant in my regiment, and if you will accept, it is this moment at your service." i rose, and, commanding myself as well as possible under this surprise, said: "your excellency has my most humble thanks for your handsome offer, but i only left my late service, wherein i had gained some recognition, in order to devote myself to my protectors and benefactors, the royal family, to whom i am bound by the strongest ties of gratitude." the duke looked at me with a real pleasure in his eyes, and i was proud that i could afford him even a passing gratification. presently the duke requested his lordship to grant him a favour. "i am sure your highness will not ask anything beyond my poor powers," he answered. "there are no political complications in this," laughed the duke. "i would only ask that my friend, father o'rourke, be requested to sing for us a song which has been running through my head since i first heard it from him the other night." whereupon lord clare requested him to sing, and straightway he began, for the fiftieth time that i had heard him, at the same old song. and herein lies the poverty of these rhymers, for if by any chance they hit something that tickles the ear, they must be harping on it until the patience of their intimates is wearied beyond words. but i could afford to let him win his reward, for i considered i had cut no inconsiderable figure before the company myself. two or three days later we left dunkirk for st. omer, where i at last received my orders. i was to return secretly to dunkirk and there take passage in a swift sailing cutter, lately captured from the english, and carry a sum of three thousand guineas, together with important despatches and letters for the prince. the duke was very down the last night we spent together, and once or twice repeated: "oh the waiting, the waiting, the cruel night of waiting, when we brake the bread of sorrow and drank our bitter tears." "mr. mcdonell," he said, "it is impossible to tell how things may turn, but should they prove against us, give me your word not to desert the prince." "your royal highness," i answered, "i swear by my mother's soul i will not leave scotland while he is in any danger, and neither threat nor peril will tempt me to be unfaithful to him in word or thought." "it is enough," he said; "i can trust you without the oath." the next morning we parted from him, embracing him like any private gentleman, as he wished to keep his incognito absolute; so he took his way into flanders, and we to dunkirk, there to join some twenty-five officers, all volunteers for prince charles. we found our vessel ready for sea, and before sunset were safely on board, meeting old friends and making new ones. it was night by the time we ran out of the harbour, and many an anxious hour we had of it, for it was no easy matter to make the run from france to scotland in the year ' , when every sail was looked upon with suspicion. i need make no apologies for our anxiety when we were signalled to lay to by the first english ship we met; and the invitation was quickly followed by a puff of smoke and the boom of a gun. a sense of danger is largely quickened by unfamiliarity, and though any of us would have made little of attacking a battery on shore, this sea fighting was a new and uncomfortable outlook. but when we saw what a pair of heels our privateer, fitly named the _swallow_, could show, we soon recovered our confidence, and after this it was a mere matter of speculation how long anything we met could stand up to us at all. our crew of about fifty was a mixed lot, french and scotch, but they were thorough at their business, and it was curious to see how true the captain could judge of the exact room he must give to any suspicious sail--it was a game of hare and hounds all the time, for no sooner were we rid of one than we would fall in with another to take up the running; but none of them served to do more than raise our spirits and take our minds off the discomfort most landsmen find at sea. we encountered various weather, but the worst only brought out the sailing qualities of the _swallow_, until at length we made the coast of scotland, and all eagerly looked to the end of our voyage, which was to be at inverness; indeed, the captain counted on making cromarty head before night, and to lay there till the morning. that day at dinner father o'rourke gave us another taste of his song-making, which was greatly appreciated on account of the reference to the "white cockade," always a favorite quickstep with the jacobite regiments: merrily, merrily blows the wind from off the coasts of france; the channel open wide before, god send us now good chance! give us the green seas rolling free and but way enough to steer, and we'll leave the swiftest foe in the wake of the _swallow_ privateer! then here's to the _swallow_, flying true! and here's to the prince and his bonnets blue! and here's to the heart of each wife and maid that is beating for the laddie with the white cockade! drearily, drearily sets the wind down from the northern seas, but she dips to the rollers big and black, and her bonnie breast she frees, from her tapering mast she flies on the blast her signals fluttering clear to the friends that pray for the coming home of the _swallow_ privateer! then here's to the _swallow_, flying true! and here's to the prince and his bonnets blue! and here's to the heart of each wife and maid that is beating for the laddie with the white cockade! mightily, mightily booms the wind out of the setting sun; we will double the great ships like a hare, we will fight where we cannot run, till we win to land, and with sword in hand we will follow the chevalier who will bless the winds that filled the wings of the _swallow_ privateer! then here's to the _swallow_, flying true! and here's to the prince and his bonnets blue! and here's to the heart of each wife and maid that is beating for the laddie with the white cockade! it was with the highest expectations that we looked forward to landing on the morrow and joining the prince, of whose movements we were in ignorance, except that we were to rendezvous at inverness. in the latter part of the night i was awakened by an ugly scream from captain lynch, one of the officers of our company. "what is the matter?" i asked, in some alarm. "i dreamed the devil had hold of me by the heels, and about to dash my brains out." "perhaps the devil is not so very far off," i returned; and then, being somewhat restless, part from the heat and part from our being so near our landing, i thought i would take a turn on the deck. no sooner had my eyes got accustomed to the light than, to my alarm, i made out the dim outline of a great ship, which must have come up during the night, unseen and unheard by our sentinels, and was lying-to between us and the entrance to the bay. i at once made my discovery known to the captain, who, coming hurriedly on deck, swore with a great oath i had saved their lives, for she was no other than an english man-of-war on the outlook for such as we. then, without more ado, he slipped his anchor, got up sail as quietly as possible, and, in a fever of anxiety, we waited to see whether the tide which was setting on shore or the light winds which were moving would prove the stronger. at length our sails gently filled and began to draw, so we crept round under the shadow of the land until we got the full wind, and stood out to sea with thankful hearts for the danger we had so narrowly escaped. great was the surprise of my comrades when aroused to find we were again making for the open instead of ending our voyage; but, as father o'rourke said: "captain lynch, your patron saint evidently thinks that even a little extra salt water is better for you than the inside of an english prison. the truth is that irishmen are such favourites that even the devil himself will do them a good turn at times." though i thought to myself there were others fully as deserving as the irish, i said nothing. as our intended landing was now impossible, our captain determined to stand round the orkneys for loch broom, in cromarty, on the west coast. we had an easy run, and as soon as we were signalled from the shore, and on lying-to, a boat was put out. in the stern there were seated two gentlemen, one of whom, the captain informed me, was a mckenzie, and in the other father o'rourke and i only too soon recognized creach. "this means trouble of some sort," i remarked; "we would never find him so far afield if things were going right." "i fear it, too," he answered, and before long our worst apprehensions were realized. we withdrew at once to the cabin where i met creach, or graeme, as he still called himself, without remark, for i recalled my word to the duke and felt there was something too weighty on hand for even the remembrance of a personal quarrel. in a few moments we heard, to our dismay, that culloden had been fought and lost the very day we had sailed from dunkirk; that the clans were scattered and no one knew what had become of the prince. after the dreadful news had been given time to sink into our benumbed senses, i asked for personal friends, and heard, to my sorrow, from mckenzie, that my uncle scottos, who had been among the very first to join the prince, and was much esteemed by him, had died like a soldier and a gentleman in his service in the first charge at culloden. when the body of his clan refused to answer the signal to charge, and stood still and dumb under the insult which had been put upon them in placing them in the left instead of the right wing, he cursed and swore like one possessed, as did others. but finding it of no avail, he changed of a sudden, and, turning to his own men, threw his bonnet on the ground, crying to them, with tears in his words: "let them go! but my own children will never return to say they saw me go to my death alone!" and with that he charged, every one of his own following him. it was fine, but of no effect, for the english swept them off the face of the earth by a point-blank fire before ever steel met steel. he was picked up and carried off by two of his men; but finding the pursuit grow too hot, he called a halt. [illustration: "'will never return to say they saw me go to my death alone'"] "put me down here!" he said, and quickly taking off his dirk, sporran, and watch, he sent them to his son with the message that his end had come as he had always wished, "sword in hand and face to the foe," and bade them leave him. and so died one of the gallantest gentlemen, and probably the best swordsman in all scotland. besides, i lost many other of my friends and kinsmen, as i afterwards learned; but this was no time for private mournings, and i turned at once to the business in hand. my comrades decided there was nothing to do but return, and proposed our action should be unanimous. "gentlemen," said i, "in the face of such tidings as we have received, no one can doubt but your resolve is justified, and had i simply volunteered for military service, as you have done, i would not hesitate to give my voice to your decision, which i hold to be honourable in every way. but i am charged with private despatches and other matters for the prince by the duke of york, and i am not free until i have at least attempted to carry out my mission, for which i know i have your good wishes, and so must go on alone." "not alone, my son," broke out father o'rourke, and stretched out his big hand to me across the table. "i am curious, gentlemen, to see scotland, and am sure i cannot do so better than in company with our friend here." "but, sir, how can you expect to travel about here in your cassock? you would only have to meet the first loyal man to be arrested," objected creach, the first time he had spoken to either of us. "thank you for your suggestion, sir, though doubtless the word 'loyal' was a bit of a slip on your part. i am too well accustomed to meeting blackguards of every description to fear even a 'loyal' man!" whereupon every one looked at him in surprise to hear him so address creach, who, however, thought well to make no reply; and shortly after our conference broke up, creach returning to shore, whilst mr. mckenzie remained with us until we had formed some plan. father o'rourke arranged with captain lynch, who had volunteered from the hungarian service, and was near as big a man as himself, that he should provide him with a spare uniform, and, when once arrayed, he presented so fine an appearance that we, one and all, made him our compliments upon it. "captain lynch," said he, at dinner, "i have another favour to ask before we part, and that is for the loan of your name while i am playing at this masquerade. i know it is a ticklish thing to ask, this loaning of names, but as i have always been particular of my own, i can promise you i know how to care for yours." "faith, you can have it, and welcome, provided you are careful not to mislay it, for 'tis the only bit of property my poor father ever left me," replied the captain, with great good-nature. "never fear, you'll have it back safe and sound. i'll make good kitchen of it, so it won't be worn out, and if they hang me, i'll take care they'll do so under all my true name and title." seeing that father o'rourke approved, i determined that half the sum i carried was quite enough to risk, so i did up one thousand guineas in one bag, five hundred in another, and confided the remaining fifteen hundred to captain lynch to return to the duke, together with a letter explaining our intentions, and with farewells all around, followed by many a good wish from our comrades, father o'rourke and i clambered down the side, followed by mr. mckenzie, and were rowed ashore. we gave the boat's crew something, and waving a farewell to those on ship-board, picked up our portmanteaus and struck inland. vi how we supped with a thief, and the outcome thereof. there were one or two ragged creatures near by watching us as we landed, but though we shouted to them and made signs, they not only refused to come to our aid, but made off amongst the rocks as we advanced. "well, giovannini, is your heart bursting with pride over your country and countrymen?" asked father o'rourke, in italian, as we struggled and panted with our loads over the rough track up the hillside under the hot spring sun. "indeed, this is none of my country, thank god! this only belongs to the mckenzies," said i, ashamed somewhat of the reception we had met. "oh, indeed! and to what particular tribe of cattle do they belong?" he asked. i stopped short in my way and dropped my portmanteau, determined to put an end to his nonsense at once. "now, father o'rourke--" i began, but he interrupted me with: "captain lynch, if you please, mr. mcdonell, and your superior, remember, as regards rank!" drawing himself up to his full height. he looked so droll standing there in his fine uniform, with his sword and cocked hat and bag wig quite à la mode de paris, that i could not help bursting out laughing. he waited until i was done, and then said, very gravely, "well, 'pon my word! but i'm rejoiced that i've found my way to your funny-bone at last. but if the sight of a fist like this and a foot like that are the only approaches to a highlander's sense of humour--and i am bound to apply the back of the one and the toe of the other whenever i am forced to a jest--i take it, my better part is to make poor captain lynch a sad dog like yourself." "mr. mckenzie," he ran on, addressing our guide, who, it was plain to see, was much puzzled at our behaviour, "are you much given to humour in these parts?" "no sir," he answered, "none that i ever heard of." "then why in the name of the isle of man did you take up with that creature you brought on board ship?" seeing the poor man was bewildered, i explained that his companion, mr. graeme, was meant. "och, him---he would just be coming to colin dearg with the others after the battle." "is that old colin dearg, laggy?" i asked. "none other," he answered; "and it is to him, very probable, that ardloch will be sending you." ardloch, i explained to father o'rourke, was a mr. mckenzie, to whose place we were bound, and colin dearg, or red colin, another, both staunch jacobites. "well, well, 'tis a puzzlesome country this, where the men not only do without breeches, but throw off as well the names their fathers gave them; had i known more, i needn't have used such punctilio in borrowing the captain's. would not o'rourke of brefni, or just brefni, tout court, have a grand sound; seeing it wouldn't be decent for me to go in petticoats, and i am anxious to make a good impression?" but i would not answer him, for i could see he was in one of his most provoking humours; so i shouldered my portmanteau and trudged on, and he was forced to follow. he was not abashed, however, and tried to draw out mckenzie; but the latter was shame-faced and could hardly answer to his follies, so i had to beg him to desist, as the poor man could not understand his funning. "i don't find him different from the rest of his countrymen," he returned; but i would not answer. ardloch received us warmly, and gave us a hearty meal, with good whiskey to follow, and then proposed we should hire a boat--leaving mckenzie behind, as it was better father o'rourke's transformation should not be talked over--and go up little loch broom to laggy, where we would find a number of officers, fresh from the prince, who might give us some directions where to look. "do you look upon everything as lost?" i asked him, at parting. "that depends on what you mean by 'everything,'" he answered, slowly. "if you mean any attempt to bring the rebellion to life again now, i would say yes. but if you mean to keep the fire alive, then no. the clans cannot all be scattered as yet, for nothing goes to pieces in that way, and i doubt not but there will be some for making a stand in spite of all. but money must be had to keep them together. they have been out since august last, and no highlander will stay away from home long, even for fighting. 'tis against all custom. what plunder they got is long since gone, and they will be wearying for home. for home! god help them, many will never see it again! but money, mr. mcdonell--if money can be had, men can be had too, and the prince can, at the worst, be safely covered until the time opens for escape." then my heart rose within me for the first time, for in my hands lay the possible means of safety for the hope of all loyal hearts. we at once proceeded, and before nightfall reached laggy, where we were met by old colin dearg, a burly, bearded ruffian with a great shock of red hair, big william mckenzie of killcoy, a major, and murdock mckenzie, a lieutenant in the earl of cromarty's regiment, with about sixty men, and thought ourselves as safe as in the heart of france. we learned that some were still in arms for prince charles, especially the regiment of glengarry, in which were my kinsmen and friends, and that of cameron of lochiel. so we begged for an early supper, and engaged guides and a horse that we might set out at once to join them. our baggage and little stores we had carried up from the beach, but i was much annoyed at hearing one of the men, on lifting my portmanteau, remark it was "damned heavy." "do you think we are such fools as to travel without powder and ball in time of war?" said i, and hoped it had passed unnoticed; but the fellow threw it down outside the house door, saying lead would not suffer for a little fresh air, at which old colin dearg laughed, and said: "no doubt such gentlemen will have their ruffles there. i will carry it in myself." "don't think of it," said i, much put out, and, raising it, i placed it in a corner of the room where i could easily keep my eye on it, and wished from the bottom of my heart we could set off. old colin dearg was most offensive, although pretending to an extreme courtesy. he disclaimed having seen creach, or graeme, since the day before, but we were certain this was a blind, as we could see he knew who the supposed captain lynch was, and kept pushing him with questions about the imperial service, until i feared for the latter's temper. but nothing could move father o'rourke when he had not a mind to it, and he rattled on as though he noticed nothing. the old man pretended to rate the women who were preparing our supper, but i knew well it was all a pretext, though why he was anxious to keep us i could not make out. at length, when he could delay no longer, we sate down in a great room, but, to my dislike, in total darkness, save for the little blaze on the hearth and what light could reach us through the open door. this was bad enough; but on sitting down with the officers, and a mr. gordon, who was to be of our company, the room was speedily filled with the riff-raff of men idling about, who took their places behind us. colin dearg would not sit down with us, but pretended to busy himself bustling about and shouting out orders to the women and encouragements to us to eat heartily of his fare, which he called by all the wretched names in the world, though it was good enough. i was most uneasy, but father o'rourke held the company with his talk, while i quietly assured myself that my portmanteau was safe, though i chafed sadly at the precious time we were wasting. at length i put ceremony aside and insisted we must be off; whereupon we drank a single glass from our store to prince charles's health and better fortunes, and i rose from the table and went to the corner where i had left my portmanteau, and my heart almost leaped into my mouth when i saw it was gone; but at the same time, old colin said, behind me, "never fear, mcdonell! you'll lose nothing here; i have fastened your things on the pony myself." so out we went into the starlight, and there found the pony loaded with our belongings, and with short farewells set off with mr. gordon and our guides on our night march. we could not speak of our feelings before mr. gordon, but i knew father o'rourke had enjoyed our entertainment as little as myself; so all night long we tramped, gathering such news as we might from our companions of the battle, which was vague but disheartening enough. at daybreak we arrived at a very considerable house--indeed, a gentleman's seat--which mr. gordon informed us was that of mckenzie of dundonald, to whom we were recommended by old colin dearg, who was his uncle. dundonald was at inverness, whither he had gone that he might not be suspected of favoring the prince's cause, but his lady was at home. we led our pony into the court-yard, and there unloaded him, where mr. gordon declared he could accompany us no farther, his shoes being worn out. "very well," said i, "after we have a nap i will provide you with a second pair i have in my portmanteau." but no; he would have them now, so he might try them on, and, accordingly, to humour him, i undid the upper straps of my portmanteau. scarcely had i done so than i saw the leather had been slit. my cry of dismay brought father o'rourke and mr. gordon over me at once, and with shaking hands i undid the straps and threw it open. the larger canvas-bag, which held the thousand guineas, was gone! "o god in heaven," i groaned, sinking on the ground, "that there are such damned scoundrels in this world!" and for the first time since a child i could not restrain myself, and burst into tears. father o'rourke turned over the things, but i knew it was useless, and then said, in the strangest, dryest kind of voice: "well, i call on you to witness this happened in scotland, and in the highlands." "stop, sir," i cried; "this is intolerable! none of your insulting reflections on countries. there are more rogues hanged in ireland than ever existed in scotland." "yes, we find the quickest end to put them to is a rope's end." "look you here, sir, you have done nothing but insult me from the day you met me, and had you any right to the sword you carry, i would read you a lesson that would last you to the end of your life!" "thankful am i," he returned, as cool as ever, "that i never was under such a school-master. but let us spare our iron for those scoundrels, and especially for that smooth-tongued, red-headed, black-hearted colin dearg. if i could only have my left hand comfortable on his dirty throttle. i wouldn't need the other to feel his pulse with. cheer up, giovannini! if we've any luck we'll have it safely back, and you'll hand it to the prince yet. courage, my lad! surely old campaigners like you and me are not to be outfaced by a lot of sneaking blackguards like these!" "i'll lay my soul," i said, slowly, having forgotten all my rage--and i believe now father o'rourke only provoked me to distract my attention from my trouble--"i'll lay my soul that scoundrel creach is at the bottom of this!" "like enough," he answered, for he had been back, though that smooth tongued fox denied it. "and what's more, giovannini, i'd be curious to know if the prince ever received the money he carried. i doubt it." "so do i; but let us get back. first, though, i must put the rest of our money in safety. i must see lady dundonald." "faith, i don't suppose her ladyship is thinking of stirring for hours yet." "never mind, she must stir this time, for i cannot stand on ceremony." so i sent a message to her chamber, with captain mcdonell's compliments--my rank as lieutenant commanding my late company entitled me to claim the title--and saying that he must instantly have speech with her. she very civilly returned that i might use the freedom i asked; upon which i went to her bedroom, where i found her maid in attendance. "madam, only the distressing circumstances in which i am placed will excuse my intrusion, for which i offer my apologies." thereupon i told the circumstances of the robbery. "i return at once with my comrade, captain lynch, and, please god, will recover the money; but i am quite aware, if circumstances so fall out, these rascals will not hesitate to add murder to robbery. therefore, madam, i place these five hundred guineas in your honourable keeping. if i am killed, i bequeath them to you to be handed on to one you know of"--not caring to be more particular, for in such times "least said is soonest mended"--"if not, i will return to claim them. the only satisfaction i have is that we discovered the theft on arriving at your house, for i must certainly have blamed your people and not those passing under the denomination of officers and gentlemen. madam, may god be with you, and i wish you a good-morning." so i bowed myself out of the room, handing the gold to the maid. i found our guides refused to return, and evidently mr. gordon had no stomach for the business, though he was clearly innocent. however, we offered so high a figure that at length one volunteered, and, wearied though we were, we set out. we wasted neither time nor words by the way, until we came in sight of laggy, when we called a council of war. "my advice is to send the man in, call out the officers--particularly colin dearg, whom i would shoot on sight--and then make inquiries," said father o'rourke. "you're learning the ways of the country quickly," i said, with some raillery. "no; we'll tax colin dearg with the theft, and pretend we do not suspect the others in the least, and so can urge them to use their influence with him to return the money. much may be done by an appeal to their honour, if they think we don't suspect them." "then they've the finest sense of honour for a lot of truculent cowards i ever met with," he answered. "now there you are mistaken, father o'rourke; a highlander may be truculent, but he is not of necessity a coward, and it is rarely that his sense of honour entirely deserts him." "not even when he is a thief?" "no, not even then--if you know how to take him. and besides this, remember, if my people are still in arms, we will have that money wherever they have stored it, and a vengeance on every mckenzie in the country. as it is, no one knows of my return as yet, and if we are killed these scoundrels have only to produce the letters which they will find on me from the duke of york, and not only escape all punishment, but probably claim a reward as well." "well, well, i agree. you know the breed better than i," he said; and so we came out in front of the house and sent our man in with word to colin dearg and the officers that we would speak with them. with a little delay they appeared, and after them trooped out about thirty men, all armed. "the top of the morning to you, gentlemen! what service can i and my poor house render you?" sneered that old scoundrel, colin dearg. we saluted the officers, but took no notice of him or his words, and i addressed myself to them. "gentlemen, i have been robbed of one thousand guineas as we supped with you in this house. were it a trifle of money of my own, i would rather lose it than bring any honourable man under so vile an imputation, but i was entrusted with the money for prince charles, god bless him! and i know i can rely on your aid in its recovery." [illustration: "'fine words! brave words!' he sneered"] there was not a move, and i looked at each face in vain for some response, but they only glowered at me as if i had never spoken. then throwing all pretence aside, i went on: "do i need to urge that with this money men can be kept together, who will otherwise scatter, if not for safety, at least to provide for families helpless and alone? that this money will keep them at their posts? that each guinea of it may mean a drop of the prince's blood? and that the man who has robbed me of it to-day may be as guilty of murder before his god as if he had pistolled the prince with his very hand? gentlemen! gentlemen! i would not plead for myself! i plead for one who has the highest claims over us all that one man can have over another. i ask your help in the name of god's anointed king, and in the name of the prince, his son!" and there i stopped, for i had no other words in my heart. old colin dearg immediately broke into loud lamentations: his house was disgraced forever; he would never lift up his head again; never had such a thing happened to a mckenzie; and it was a black day that ever brought such a tale to his old ears, and so on. he would search the house till not a stone remained standing; he would strip his people of their skin, if need be, rather than such an imputation should lie against his honour, and that of his name; and forthwith disappeared among his people, pretending to search and question them. we allowed this empty work to go on, until he saw fit to return with word that the money could not be found. "no, it cannot be found, you lying, red-headed, old scoundrel," said i, "because you think yourself safe now! but you keep it at your peril! for a day will come when you will wish your thieving fingers were burned to the bone before they touched the prince's gold, you double-dyed traitor!" "fine words! brave words!" he sneered, planting himself well in front of his following, with arms a-kimbo. "a likely story that the likes of you, two broken men, skulking over here from france with baggages loaded with stones, trying your foreign thieves' tricks with quiet gentlemen, should have a thousand guineas! i don't believe a word of it!" and thereon he turned off into the house with a good show of carelessness, no doubt thinking it unwise to trust our patience any further. "now, gentlemen," said big william killcoy, "the country is unsafe, and you are far from home, but your road is open before you!" "the game is up," i said to father o'rourke, in italian, "we had better beat a retreat," which we did with sore hearts but in good order; and they said not a word further, nor did they attempt to molest us as we once more plodded the bitter miles that lay between us and dundonald. vii how father o'rourke and i fell in with broken men and saw the end of a lost cause. the morning broke into as fine and merry a day as ever smiled on two miserable hearts; my own seemed dead in its utter brokenness. besides this, we were so wearied with our long exertions that walking had become a pain. "what will the duke think? what will the duke think?" ran through my head without ceasing, for i could find no answer. but the worst of things must end at length, and we arrived at dundonald. here we were welcomed by a hearty breakfast, and after asking for men who could be trusted, we posted two of them as sentries under mr. gordon, for we could not feel our lives were safe while in the mckenzie country; then throwing ourselves on a bed, dressed and armed as we were, we slept for some hours without moving. when we awoke somewhat refreshed, we were able, through the kindness of lady dundonald, to procure guides on whose faithfulness she assured us we might rely. she further advised us to make our way to loch airkaig, in lochiel's country, "for there you will find those you seek, though i am not supposed to know such things, and still less to be harbouring the prince's men in dundonald's absence," she said, smiling. "madam," said father o'rourke, "you have only done an act of christian charity of which your own good heart must approve, and which has done much to comfort us in our own hard case. we have a right to look for kindness in woman, but we do not always look for sensibility such as you have evinced." "captain lynch, you make me ashamed of my poor efforts, and i pray you and captain mcdonell to receive them as some token of my regret this thing should have happened among my own people." "madam," said i, "you cannot be held responsible for being a mckenzie." "no more than you for being a dundering blockhead," said father o'rourke, rudely. "that is merely his way of saying, madam," he continued, with a bow, "that your kindness to us will place you in our minds above all other women, whatever name they may ornament." so thereupon i left the compliments to him, as i never made any pretence to skill in the art, and proceeded to get our baggage in order. i received the bag of guineas again into my charge, and taking a respectful leave of this most amiable lady, we set forth. we had no cause to complain of our guides, who were faithful and intelligent, and led us almost due south over wild and almost inaccessible mountains, for all the roads and even open places had to be avoided on account of parties of the english who were scouring the country in all directions; and, to our impatience, we wasted many days lying close when the danger was too pressing, so that we were nearly three weeks in making the journey. at last we drew near to loch airkaig, and from where we looked down i saw a body of highland troops. we came forward without hesitation, and, on answering their sentries in gaelic, which had come back to me readily enough after a little practice, i satisfied them of our intents and they allowed us to approach. "whose command are you?" i asked. "young coll barisdale," was the answer. "we are in luck; come on," i cried, "these are my own people, and are commanded by my cousin, coll mcdonell of barisdale." "i suppose you'll be related to nearly every man of note we'll meet in the country now," father o'rourke said, with a laugh. "very near," said i; "but come on." as we approached my cousin came out to meet us, and i remembered his face though i had not seen him since i was a lad. "well, barisdale, and how are you?" said i, not making myself known, but willing to put a joke on him. "sir, you have the advantage of me," says he, drawing himself up mighty stiff; "i do not remember that i ever had the honour of seeing you before." "man, man!" i said, "and is that the way you will be disowning your kith and kin--this comes of consorting with princes," i said, aside, with a droll look to father o'rourke. "things have come to a pretty pass when barisdale does not know scottos because he wears a foreign uniform." at this he saw my end and received us most courteously. "come away, come away, you and captain lynch, too! well! well! to think of my meeting with little john, grown up into a man. 'tis enough to make me feel like a grandfather!" and we all sate down under some pines and heartily discussed the meat and drink his people set before us. his news was bad enough, but i was greatly relieved to hear mr. secretary murray was with lochiel at his seat of auchnacarrie, and that though lochiel had been badly wounded through both legs, he was recovering, after having made the narrowest of escapes as he was borne thither. that a meeting of lord lovat, lochiel, glengarry, glenbucket, and others had taken place at murlagan, near the head of the lake, on the fifteenth of may--we were now at the twentieth--that it was decided to gather what men could be found, and either make a stand or obtain terms from the duke of cumberland, now at fort augustus. lochgarry, colonel donald mcdonald, would be here to-morrow with the rest of glengarry's regiment, and he, coll, had just gathered these men in our own country, knoidart, and was on his way slowly to the rendezvous at glenmallie, but he could not count even on his own men with any certainty, as there had been no pay, and the want at home was heart-breaking. it was the same story that drove the loss of the money deeper and deeper into my heart like a crying that would not be stilled. he did not know what had become of the prince, but assuredly he had not been killed in the battle, as he had passed by loch-na-nuagh, in arisoig, on the twenty-first of last month, and that doubtless, ere this, lochiel would have had tidings of him. i told barisdale we would proceed on the morrow to auchnacarrie and see mr. secretary murray, and would then determine on our future movements. after a long night, we took a guide and men to carry our baggage and set out--the first comfortable marching we had yet done, for the weather was fine and there was no more danger of meeting an english soldier here than in the corso. we recovered our old spirits; indeed, we had done so the moment we fell in with our own people. that same evening we arrived at auchnacarrie, and were most kindly received by lochiel, a perfect figure of a highland gentleman; indeed, he reminded us much of our own gallant colonel macdonnell, who fell at velletri. there he was, lying in a state most men would have found evil enough, with most likely a reward out for his capture, dead or alive, his fortunes broken and his house falling about his ears. but he banished all thought of his personal loss and suffering in his anxiety to fittingly provide for the entertainment of his guests, who were constantly arriving; to soothe those who were finding fault with everything from the beginning, and they were many; to hold together his men, who were desperate and almost at the point of mutiny for arrears of the pay so sadly needed; and, above all, to inspire somewhat of his own great spirit into the downhearted. truly, a man one might worship! i had almost a hesitation in meeting him, for it was my uncle scottos whom the prince had sent to induce him to join his cause, and i could not but reflect on what the outcome had been. but at his first words my apprehensions vanished. "welcome, mcdonell!" he said, "we have a common loss, and that is enough for friendship. donald mcdonell was as good a gentleman as ever drew sword, and i am proud to welcome his nephew." mr. secretary murray we found very different from the gentleman we had seen in the santi apostoli; he had lost all his fine airs, and, as father o'rourke said, had as much rattle to him as a wet bladder. from the bottom of my heart i wished that my business had been with his host instead of him. indeed, i remember the curious feeling came over me that i would with as much confidence hand over the money to creach as to him. not that i then had any doubt of his honesty--for i will not pretend to be a prophet now that everything is over--but i had rather pin my faith to a stout scamp provided he have some sense of honour--and i have met few men without it in my time--than to an indifferent honest man who is badly frightened. however, as i had my orders, and it was not for me to question them, i handed over the five hundred guineas with the duke's letters and took his receipt for them, at the same time promising to give him a statement in writing of the robbery at loch broom, signed by father o'rourke and myself, in the morning. "and now, mr. secretary, i would like to ask a private question," i said. "did creach--or graeme, if you like--ever deliver the money he was entrusted with?" "i do not know; i never received any," he answered, hurriedly, and then asked, anxiously, "have you heard anything of him?" "heard of him? damn his smooth, white face! we have heard of him, and seen him, and had a taste of his quality, too! he was at the bottom of this robbery, or my name is not mcdonell! and hark you, mr. secretary. your head, and better heads too, i will add without offence, are not worth a tallow dip while that scoundrel is above ground. think you vermin of his kind will run any risk while safety is to be bought by a little more of his dirty work? he will sell you and lochiel, and, god help him, the prince too, if he has opportunity, and you only have yourselves to thank for it." his own face was as white as creach's by this time, and, seeing nothing was to be gained by going farther, now that i had relieved my mind, i left him to sleep on the pillow i had furnished and returned to lochiel's, where i found him and father o'rourke in as lively a conversation as if there were not a trouble within or without the four walls. "well, mcdonell," he said, "i have to thank you for the day you joined forces with father o'rourke and marched on my poor house of auchnacarrie. 'tis the best reinforcement i have had for many a long day." "faith, 'tis a long day since we began campaigning together," laughed the priest. "it all began in the inn at aquapendente," and thereupon he must tell the story of our adventure with creach, at which lochiel laughed heartily; indeed, father o'rourke's stories seemed to jump with his humour, and he was never tired of his company during the time we spent with him. a day or so afterwards, it was proposed that i should cross the lake with mr. secretary murray to hold a consultation with lord lovat, at glendesherrie, bearing messages from lochiel. thither we went and found an old man bent with illness and his own weight, and of a temper most uncertain. indeed, he did nothing but grumble and swear most of the time we were there, and at first would return no sensible answer to the projects we laid before him. "why in the name of all that is evil do you come to me with your fiddle-faddle plans when i am ready to step into my grave?" he grumbled. "whom am i to believe? where in the devil are the sixteen thousand men that were coming from france? where are the ships with supplies and money that were only waiting for a fair wind? has no wind blown off the coast of france since it blew the prince here last july with a beggarly following not fit for a private gentleman? had he come absolutely alone it might have been better, for then he would have been without some of his rattle-brained councillors, not even excepting yourself, mr. murray of broughton," the old man said, with a sneer and a low bow that brought the blood in a rush to mr. secretary's face. "if even money had been sent, something might have been done--might be done even yet; but here are these men clamouring for return to their homes, where their wives and little ones have been starving and dying for want of support, and this, too, when no man can say how long his head will be above his shoulders. pay the men who are here! let them send something to their homes in the hills, and i'll answer for it they will stand even yet. but, my god! how can you ask human creatures to do more than they have done, with starvation at home as well as in their own bellies? "and what has your prince done? pranced and prinked at balls, and chucked silly wenches under the chin. listened to the blatherings of irish adventurers, greedy only for themselves. estranged, if not insulted, every man of weight and sensibility. made paper proclamations and scattered paper titles that will rob the men who receive them of life and lands and everything else." "not everything, my lord," i objected, for i was tired of this long tirade; "honour is left." "honour!" he snorted, "and who are you to talk of honour? a fine specimen you have given us of it, not to carry a sum of money that i would have entrusted to one of my drovers." "i know nothing of your drovers, my lord, and i beg leave to withdraw, as i cannot stay and listen to insults, which your age and infirmities prevent my answering as they deserve." "you can answer them till you're black in the face, if that's any satisfaction to you! and, what's more, if you will but provide me with a new backbone and another pair of legs, nothing would give me a greater pleasure than to see some of your new-fangled tricks at the fence. tell me now," he went on, in an entirely new tone, "did you ever learn anything abroad better than your uncle scottos taught you at home?" "never," i answered, somewhat softened. and the strange part is that before i parted from his lordship i was only full of admiration for his courage and address; for, now that he had blown off all his black vapours, no one could be more engaging, and he discussed each plan with a keen insight that was admirable. he questioned me much on rome and my experiences, and was very apt with his bits of latinity, which i made no effort to cap, i think a little to his disappointment, until i saw that he began to weary, for his infirmity was visible upon him. so we took leave, and i shook hands for the first and last time with simon fraser, lord lovat. we returned to auchnacarrie that same evening, and the next day one donald mcleod came and was closeted for a long while with lochiel and mr. secretary murray. when he left, i was told he was from the prince, who was in a safe place, and that my letters were confided to his care. i never dreamed at the time of enquiring about the money i had handed murray, supposing it had gone too, but long afterwards was told by mcleod himself that mr. secretary had informed him that he had only sixty louis d'ors, which was barely sufficient for himself, so he went back to the prince without a shilling of the money that the duke had raised with so much pains, and which i had so hardly delivered. [illustration: "the last stand for prince charles was at an end"] at the time i discovered this, i put mr. secretary down as low as creach; but feeling then ran high against him, and nothing was too black to lay at his door; but since then i have considered it like enough that old fox, lovat, may have wheedled it out of him, for he was in such miserable fear that he was easy to work upon; and, at all events, the man had quite enough on his weary shoulders without this addition to carry about through the rest of his miserable life. and if i am right that lovat got it, it was a rare turn of justice that mr. secretary should be the one who swore away his life. at daybreak--it was the th of may--we were expecting to be awakened by the general gathering on the pipes, but instead we were awakened by the warning notes of the "cogadh no sith" (war or peace) and rushed out to hear the news that lord london was advancing upon us, hardly a quarter of a mile distant. our eight hundred men were gathered at once, and lochiel, being borne by four stout highlanders, made his escape in a boat which was kept for such an emergency, while we set out in all haste for the west end of loch airkaig, which we reached just in time to escape another body of soldiers sent to intercept us. at dusk we separated with sad farewells but brave wishes, and by bodies, which quickly dwindled smaller and smaller, every man took his own way, and the last stand for prince charles was at an end. viii how i fared in my attempt to recover the stolen money, and how father o'rourke and i came face to face with unlooked-for company in the inn at portree. we, in company with my kinsmen, pushed our way rapidly towards knoidart. although it had been perfectly plain to us both--for father o'rourke had picked up no mean bit of soldiering in his campaigning--that any successful stand was out of the question--for the cordon was every day tightening round lochiel, and, worse than this, some of the principals, like lovat, were disheartened, and only anxious to make their peace on any terms--murray, who was to some extent the representative of the prince, was badly frightened, and most of the highlanders were wearying to return home. this was all patent to us, and yet we could not help feeling a sense of dejection with the others, most of whom knew no reason whatever for anything they did, beyond that they were ordered to it by their chiefs. but nothing like a spice of danger will cheer a lagging spirit, and for the first twelve hours we had enough of it and to spare. but though at times nearly surrounded, being able to scatter on any approach, we had an advantage over what troops we met, and were not slow to avail ourselves of our opportunities. "faith, i've not done so much running away since i was at school!" father o'rourke declared; and, indeed, to see him one would swear he had the heart of a school-boy in him still. however, we were soon beyond actual danger, and now made our way openly enough, until one evening we stood on the highway, and before us i pointed out to father o'rourke the chimnies of crowlin, my father's house, which i had left as a boy of twelve, six years before. [illustration: "there! that is crowlin"] eighteen may not seem a great age to my reader, and does not to me to-day, when i can cap it with fifty years and more, but on that june day in the year ' , when i stood and knocked the dust of the road off my shoes, i felt like a man who had spent a lifetime away from all he had known as a boy, and my heart grew so big within me that i could hardly say the words, "there! that is crowlin." "aye, giovannini, and the man is blessed that has a crowlin to come back to," father o'rourke said, laying his hand on my shoulder. "oh, i don't mean that, father; 'tis a poor place enough," i answered, for fear he should think i was vaunting it. "and i didn't mean that either, giovannini," he said, smiling. "but let us be going." so on we went, each familiar object breaking down the first feeling of separation until the years between vanished before a voice within, saying, "i saw you yesterday! i saw you yesterday!" as we passed the big rock by the bend of the road, and followed the little path with the same turns across the fields and over the brook, with the same brown water slipping between the same stepping-stones. "you crossed o'er yesterday! you crossed o'er yesterday!" it seemed to say; and so on, until the dogs rushed out barking at us from the house itself. "go in first, lad--go in. i'll stay and make friends with the collies," said father o'rourke, seating himself, and i left him. i found my father sadly changed; much more so than i had gathered from the news i had received; indeed, it was easy to see that his disease was fast nearing its end. he was greatly brightened by my return, and heartily welcomed father o'rourke, the more so when he learned his true character, and they took to each other at once. when i saw the great, bare house--all the more forlorn for the lot of rantipole boys and girls, children of my poor uncle scottos--wanting the feeling of a home, that somehow seems absent without a woman about--for my sister margaret was the same as adopted by lady jane drummond--and my poor father waiting his end among his books, alone, year in year out, i first realized something of what my absence had meant to him, and of the effort it had cost him to send me away. it was decided we should remain where we were for the present, until something definite was heard from the prince, which might lead to further action. as it would only have courted danger, which i hold a man has no right to do, we put off our uniforms and soon were transformed by the highland dress. to me it was nothing, this change to a kilt and my own short hair, replacing the bag wig with a blue bonnet, but father o'rourke would fain have returned to the cassock he had left behind him on board the _swallow_, and was most uncomfortable for many days until he learned to manage the kilt "with decency, if not with grace," as he said himself. "oh, isaiah, isaiah!" he groaned; "little did i dream you were preaching at me when you commanded, 'uncover thy locks, make bare the leg' (discooperi humerum, revela crura)," and he would pretend to cover up his great knees with his short kilt, to the delight of the children, who were hail-fellow-well-met with him from the hour of his arrival. many was the pleasant talk he had with my father, who was full of his remembrances of rome and the college he so loved in the via delle quattro fontane. with him he stopped all his tomfooleries, and i was surprised to see what excellent reason he would discourse, and take a pleasure in it too. but it must not be taken he only amused himself and my father, for more than one weary journey did he make into the hills to minister to some wounded unfortunate there in hiding, sore needing the spiritual consolation he alone could carry. as the "sagairt an t-saighdeir" (the soldier priest) he was soon known and demanded far and near, and no request ever met with a refusal, no matter what danger might offer. i may mention it was now the common people began to speak of me as "spanish john," a name that has stuck fast to the present; indeed, such names serve a purpose useful enough where a whole country-side may have but one family name, and i can assure you, the mcdonells never wanted for johns. there were red johns, and black johns, and fair johns, and big johns, and johns of every size and colour and deformity. had they known a little more geographically, they might have come nearer the mark; but it is not for me to quarrel with the name they saw fit to fasten upon me, as most of them knew as little difference between spain and italy as between mesopotamia and timbuctoo. the english were about at times, and more than once we had to take to the heather, and lie skulking for days together in the hills; but no harm came to crowlin. indeed, i thought but little of the ravages committed, though they have been made much of since, for waste many a mile of country had i helped to lay, and that a country like to the garden of eden compared with this tangle of heath and hill. it was only the fortune of war; and, after all, there was many a one who lived on without being disturbed, always ready to lend a hand to those less fortunate. [illustration: "many was the pleasant talk he had with my father"] early in june we heard the news of the capture of old lord lovat, in loch morar, and before the end of the month that mr. secretary murray had also fallen into the hands of the government, about this time too we heard some ugly reports of one allan mcdonald knock, of sleat, in the isle of skye, and, though a cousin of our own, it was said he was the head of the informers and spies, and from the description we suspected that creach was his coadjutor. as soon as our country began to get more settled, i resolved to go north and see if i could come on any chance of recovering the stolen money; for now the prince would need it more than ever, as the last news we had of him was in south uist, in great straits for every necessity. accordingly, i set out alone, and, on arriving in the mckenzie country, i put up for a night with a mr. mckenzie, of torridon, who had been out as a lieutenant-colonel in my cousin coll barisdale's regiment. i made some inquiries, and found old colin dearg was still in the country, but was careful not to disclose the object of my visit, which was an easy enough matter, as our talk ran on the troubles of our friends and the prince. the next morning, while the lady of the house was ordering breakfast, i went for a solitary stroll, to turn over my plans and decide how i might best approach the matter. i had not gone far before i met a well-dressed man, also in highland clothes, taking the morning air, and with him, after civil salutations, i fell into discourse about former happenings in the country. what was my astonishment to hear him of his own accord begin the story of the french officers who came to loch broom, and how the thousand guineas had been cut out of their portmanteau by colin dearg and the others, major william mckenzie of killcoy, and lieutenant murdock mckenzie, from dingwall, both officers of lord cromarty's regiment. "a pretty mess they made of the matter," he said, "and were well despised through all the country for their behaviour; but had they only taken my advice there would never have been a word about it." "indeed!" said i, astonished beyond measure. "and pray, sir, what did you advise?" "och, i would have cut off both their heads and made a sure thing of it, and there never would have been another word about the matter." i looked at him with a good deal of curiosity, for i can assure you it gives a man a strange feeling to hear his taking off talked over to his face as a matter of course. "who were they," i asked, "and from what country?" "the oldest, and a stout-like man, was irish. the youngest, and very strong-like, was a mcdonell, of the family of glengarry," he answered. "how did they know the money was there? did these officers speak of it?" i asked, thinking i might as well get at the whole story. "no," said he, "but another officer, who had been with old colin since the battle, went on board their ship when they landed and told him the youngest one was sure to have money." "was his name creach or graeme," i went on. "i don't just remember, but his face was as white as a sick woman's," was the answer, which fixed my man for me beyond a doubt. "and what was done with the money?" "colin dearg got three hundred guineas, william killcoy three hundred, and lieutenant murdock mckenzie three hundred." "and what of the other hundred?" "two men who stood behind the irish captain with drawn dirks, ready to kill him had he observed colin dearg cutting open the portmanteau, got twenty-five guineas each, and i and another man, prepared to do the like to the young captain mcdonell, got the same," he answered, very cool, as if it were a piece of business he did every day. "now, are you telling the truth?" i asked, sternly. "as sure as i shall answer for it on the last day," he said, warmly. "and do you know to whom you are speaking?" "to a friend, i suppose, and one of my own name." "no, you damned rascal!" i roared, and caught him by the throat with my left hand, twitching out my dirk in my right, and throwing him on his back. "i am that very mcdowell you stood ready to murder!" and i was within an ace of running him through the heart, when i suddenly reflected that i was quite alone, in a place where i was in a manner a stranger, and among people whom i had every reason to distrust. i got up, thrust my dirk into its sheath, and walked off without a word, leaving the fellow lying where i had thrown him. i met mr. mckenzie in the entry, who asked me where i had been. "taking a turn," said i. "have you met with anything to vex you?" "no," said i, smiling. "sir," said he, "i ask your pardon, but you went out with an innocent and harmless countenance, and you come in with a complexion fierce beyond description." "come, come, mr. mckenzie," said i, laughing, "none of your scrutinizing remarks; let us have our morning." "with all my heart," said he, pouring out the whiskey. i made some cautious inquiries about the man of my morning adventure, to which torridon replied he was a stranger to the place, but he believed him to be probably a soldier in lord cromarty's regiment. as soon as i could decently do so, i took leave of my host and hastened to put into execution a plan i had formed. my cousin john, glengarry, was the head of our family and my chief, and to him i determined to apply. i therefore set out at once for invergarry, where i found the castle entirely dismantled and abandoned, so that when the duke of cumberland appeared somewhat later he found only bare walls to destroy; but destroy them he did, so completely that he did not even leave a foundation. i found glengarry easily enough, living in retirement in a safe place among his own people, and paid my respects to him with great good will; indeed, few chiefs had greater claims than he. his father, alastair dubh, was one of the best warriors of his day, and had performed feats at killiecrankie that a man might well be proud of. there, too, the chief's elder brother, donald gorm, fell gloriously, having killed eighteen of the enemy with his own sword. his eldest son, alastair, was now in the tower of london, a prisoner, and Æneas, his second, had been accidentally shot at falkirk six months before, whilst in arms for the prince. he, himself, had not been out, but no more had clanranald; indeed, in many cases it was thought best the heads of the families should not be involved, in the event of the rising not proving favourable; but this turned out to be a sorry defence in more cases than one, amongst which was glengarry's own. after hearing my story, he said, laughing, "man! but this would make a pretty quarrel with the mckenzies if we only had these troubles off our hands. i would send with you men enough to turn their whole country upside down, and you might consider the money as safe as if you had it in your own sporran. but what can i do? you dare not take any body of men across the country, and, more than that, i haven't them to send, even if you could. but let us sleep over it, and we will see what can be done in the morning." i told him my plan was to go straight to dundonald, who was an honourable man, and through him try and work on his uncle, old colin dearg; and could he but provide me with five or six men, by way of a life-guard, it was all i would ask. when we parted on the morrow, glengarry said: "there are your men! but promise me there will be no lives wasted unless something can be gained. i have given you five picked men, and they must not be thrown away; but if the money can be got, and fighting is wanted, you have five better swords at your back than ever were dreamed of among the mckenzies; and whether you send them all back or not, i'll be satisfied so long as you make good use of them." we made our way with all possible speed and precaution until we arrived at dundonald's, and with him i was well pleased, more particularly at his reception of my plans, and his promise to send for old colin and have him meet us at a place appointed. thither we all repaired, and after inquiring from dundonald the particulars of the house, which i found simple enough, for it was all one floor without partitions and but a single door, i laid out my plan of action to my men. should old colin keep the appointment, it would most probably be after dark, and he was sure to come with a strong following, more particularly if he suspected i was in the matter, which well might be the case after my meeting of the previous week. so i determined as follows: my men should seat themselves just within the door, not allowing any one to separate them, and see they kept their arms clear that they might be drawn the moment i made the signal. at this, the two i named were to keep the door, and the other three pass out and at once fire the house at both ends, and then return to back up the others at the door, where they could easily cut down the mckenzies as they attempted to make their way out. as for me, i would seat myself between dundonald and old colin dearg, and at the first serious offensive motion i would do for both of them at once with my dirk and pistol, knock out the light, and try to make for the door. if i chanced to get there alive, they would know my voice, as i would shout our rallying cry, "fraoch eilean!" but if i failed, to see that every soul within perished along with me. there was a good chance of escaping, as i held the start of the fight in my own hands, and i counted that between the surprise and the dark i ran no risk beyond the ordinary. i regretted that my plan should include dundonald, but as he was a mckenzie that could not be helped. i was right in every particular, for it was dark when old colin appeared, and he was followed by forty or fifty men, carrying, apparently, only short sticks, but under their coats i perceived they had their dirks ready. they entered the house, and, without giving them a moment to settle or to disconcert our plan, i entered boldly and seated myself as i proposed, my men keeping together near the door. after a short pause, every one eying me and mine, and we returning it, though without offence, dundonald mentioned the cause of our visit in as becoming a manner as the subject would admit of, speaking in english, so that what was offensive might not be understood by the men. "and why, dundonald, should you come inquiring of me about a matter of which i know nothing?" asked colin dearg, in a silky voice, like the old fox he was. "now, colin dearg mckenzie," said i, shortly, "i have neither time nor stomach for smooth words. you cut that gold out of my portmanteau with your own hands and kept three hundred guineas of it, while the other six went to your fellow-thieves. i have it from the wretch you bribed with twenty-five more to murder me if i saw you at your dirty work. so none of your lies, but make what restitution you can, and prove you have some honesty left in you by handing over the prince's money." the old man never made an attempt to defend himself, but after a minute said, sulkily, "och, well! there's no use making such a pother about the matter now; the money is gone, and i cannot give it back if i would, so there is an end of it all." "no," i said, in gaelic, so all might understand; "because the thief has spent the money that does not end the matter." "what more would you have?" asked the old man, still sulky. "the gallows!" i said, firmly; and with a growl the crowd caught at their dirks; but at the same moment i whipped out my dirk and pistol, and, covering both old colin and dundonald, swore i would kill them both if the first step was made towards me, and, as i spoke, my men took possession of the door. "for the love of god, my children, stand you still--stand you still!" screamed old colin, and not a man moved. every man in the room was on his feet, crowding towards the table where we stood, i facing them all, holding both dundonald and old colin as my sureties at the point of my weapons, my men keeping the door as i knew, though i dared not so much as glance towards them, and every one strained up to the point of outburst, only waiting for the next move. i chose to keep the lead in my own hands. "now, then! what have you got to say for yourself?" i demanded from old colin. "i might say i have only taken my own," he returned, with amazing quiet. "but 'tis ill talking with a dirk against one's ribs. move it a little from me and let me talk as a gentleman should," he went on, with a coolness that brought forth a murmur of admiration from his people. "your own?" i cried, amazed at his audacity. "my own, certainly; and not only mine, but my children's as well! think you a few paltry gold pieces will pay the debt of the prince towards me and mine? we have given what your gold is as dirt beside! we have given lives that all the gold under heaven cannot buy back. we have broken hearts for his sake that all the louis d'ors in france cannot mend. i and mine have ruined ourselves beyond redemption for his cause, and, when we have winter and starvation before us, why should i not take what comes to my hand for those nearest to me, when it can be of no use elsewhere?" there came answering groans and sighs of approval from his following at this fine-sounding bombast, and i was at a loss how to cut it short or see my way to an end, when, taking advantage of my distraction, he suddenly gave some signal, and, quick as thought, a blade flashed out beside him, and i only saved myself by a chance parry with my dirk. then i lost control of myself. "take that, you red fox!" i shouted, and, raising myself, i struck colin dearg mckenzie above the breastbone, so that he went down under my hand like an ox that is felled. with my pistol-hand i knocked over the only light, and jumped for the door, shouting "fraoch eilean!" and before they could recover, i had passed out under the swords of my men. "fire the thatch now! fire the thatch!" i shouted; but even as i spoke the red flame began running up the roof, and our men joined us again. every heart was beating and every arm tingling to begin, for we knew we could hold the door against any number, but, to our surprise, no man attempted to make his way out, though the dry thatch was beginning to crackle and discommode us with its glare. there was a silence like the dead within. i approached the door. "dundonald! what is the matter with you, within? come out yourself alone, and i give you my word of honour you shall go unharmed. then let the others come as they can." "mcdonell!" he called back. "colin is dead. they have no heart for fighting." "then let them burn! but come you out!" for i could not bear that he, a gentleman, should perish with cattle such as these. "that i will never do! we either go out together, or my blood will be on your hands with theirs!" he answered. "my god, dundonald! what folly is this?" i cried, much distressed at his obstinacy. but there came no sound save the crackling of the thatch. my men said never a word; it was my private quarrel, and though i knew they would be satisfied with whatever i might decide, i was in a sore quandary what to do, and in my perplexity i leaned towards mercy. "dundonald! if they will say together, 'he was a thief and came to his death by my hand honestly,' and if you will come out to us, we will stand by and let them depart unharmed. there is no time to lose; the roof is wellnigh gone!" at this there was a babel of tongues within, while my men grunted their approval behind me. then came a cry from the house: "red colin was wrong, and came to his end fairly and honestly at the hand of little john mcdonell!" "that will do!" i cried. "come you out first, and the others may follow!" we stood off to one side, prepared against any sudden rush; but dundonald stepped out of the door alone, sheathing his sword as he did so, and placed himself in our midst. then appeared four men bearing the stalwart body of old colin dearg between them in a plaid, and after trooped the others. they passed us without a word or look, and kept on their way in silence up towards the hills, not even turning when the roof crashed in, sending a shower of sparks and flame into the darkness overhead. "dundonald," i said, when the night had shut them out from us, "i trust you bear me no ill-will for this business? my hand could not reason when it baulked his last treachery." "no, mcdonell," he answered, with much openness, "he was my kinsman and i owed him my support, but, now that he is gone, i will never lay his going against you." and thereupon we shook hands and parted very good friends. on my return to glengarry, i was supported by his approval of my action. and, after giving suitable acknowledgments to the men, dismissed them and made my way back to crowlin, where i found them much disturbed at my long absence, and fearful i had fallen into the hands of the english. it was now about the beginning of july, and hearing that the prince would most likely be in skye, father o'rourke and i determined we should take our way thither to volunteer our services, and accordingly took leave of my father. he was most willing we should go, and never complained of our leaving, although we could see that he was daily drawing nearer to his end. but he was anxious about our apprehension, as many had been taken of late. major ferguson had laid waste the lands of lansdale, and, among others, my cousin coll barisdale's fine house, traigh, was burned to the ground. this my father felt keenly, and felt too that the next blow might fall even nearer home. so we crossed over, intending to make for trotternish, on lord mcdonald's estate, but heard news soon after landing that the prince had gone on, probably to the main-land. however, we kept on, and after spending the first night with rory mcdonald of fortymenruck, pushed as far as portree, as i thought father o'rourke might as well see the principal place in the island. when we reached portree, we went into a tavern to obtain refreshment after our march of twenty miles, and desired the landlord to fetch us something to drink. upon this he informed us there were gentlemen in the next room who would like to have the pleasure of our company if we thought proper to indulge them. i inquired their names, and, on hearing them, desired him to present our compliments and we would join their party. in the next room we found nine or ten gentlemen, some of whom i knew and others i had heard of, and, after partaking of what they had, i called for more liquor to our account. while the landlord was preparing this the door opened, and who should appear on the threshold but captain creach. at the sight of us his white face turned even a shade paler; however, i could not but admire the address with which he recovered himself and entered with perfect assurance, greeting the company, all of whom evidently knew him, calling him graeme, as usual. my first impulse was to seize and denounce him before them all, but father o'rourke's hand was on me under the table, and i reflected that my mission from the duke not being yet at an end, i was still bound in my word; so i managed to conceal my feelings, and when he was introduced i bowed as if i had never seen him before, which he returned as collected as a tax-gatherer. what i had called for now came in, but i noticed that creach did no more than touch his lips to his glass, upon which one of the company rallied him, and i heard him say he did not choose to drink more. "why is that, sir?" i said, pretending to be somewhat gone in liquor. "i try to avoid giving offence," he said, very pointedly, "and sometimes if i am warmed with liquor i am apt to blunder out something which might not please." "oh, i am not particular as to my company, mr. creach," i said, hoping he might take me up on the name, but he made no move. "i am a peaceable man myself, and promise you not to take offence at anything, provided you apologize immediately afterwards. now, here's a health i cannot let pass--to my host of last night, rory mcdonald fortymenruck!" he drank with the rest. i began again at once. "here's to the prince and his better fortunes, and a curse on any one who plays him false!" he drank this too. i was thinking out something, more pointed, when he stopped me by asking why i did not propose the health of my cousin, allan mcdonald knock. here was an opening as good as another, and i took it. "is he a friend of yours?" "he is, sir." "then, sir, i do not drink to him, because he lies under grave imputations." "and pray, sir, what may they be?" he asked. "oh, i only have them on hearsay," i said, drawing him on. "and what do you hear?" "only that he is a coward and an informer, and, of course, a scoundrel, whose health any gentleman would refuse to drink," i answered, mighty cool. "what!" said he; "do you really believe him a coward?" "that is his general character." "then, sir," said he, "if you will send him a challenge i will bear it, and if he will not fight you, i will." "oh, do not trouble yourself. if you are anxious for fighting, you have a sword by your side, and so have i. why lose any time? out with you at once, and i will give you all the fighting you can stomach between this and doomsday," and i made as if i would rise. as a matter of fact, i would not then have fought with the reptile for worlds, but since i could not lay hands on him, it was some little satisfaction to outface him before his company, and i made no objections when the others interfered, but only thought that mr. creach had added a long bit to his reckoning when he asked me to drink to the health of allan knock in the inn at portree. ix how father o'rourke kept the black pass; of the escape of the prince and my own mischance that followed, but of how the day of reckoning between me and creach came at last. we felt that skye was not the safest place for us after my brush with creach, for, with such a creature in leash with allan knock, no decent man's liberty was worth a rush in days when a whisper was sufficient to secure his arrest, so we made our trip a short one and returned to the main-land. we and all felt relieved that the prince had returned from the islands, whither he had gone much against the wishes of his best friends, and his escape might have been effected long since had he not taken wrong advice from those who knew nothing of the country. and if i may criticize, without blame however, his royal highness, perhaps from too great an openness in his own temper, was not a discerning judge of those about him, many of whom were men of no character whatever, and to-day i can see the truth of father o'rourke's words which i had resented so heartily in rome. but such advantage as he now gained from being amongst his friends was in a measure balanced by the nearness of his enemies, and he was obliged to lie exceeding close, and at times ran narrow chances of capture. this was the more evident as but few now knew his whereabouts, and while on the islands his movements were known so wide that at times i have been tempted to think it was possible the english were not in truth over anxious for his capture. indeed, i cannot think what they would have done with him had he fallen into their hands. to execute him would be an impossibility, for we felt such a murder as that of king charles was something the civilized world would never see again, and the horrid crimes of the french in these last days were as then undreamed of; and to imprison him would have been to place him on the highest possible pinnacle of martyrdom, the last thing his enemies could desire. be this as it may, we found the activity of the troops had been greatly increased, and it was only with the greatest caution we could visit crowlin; so we kept moving about the country, seldom passing two nights in the same place, keeping as near the coast as possible to be on the outlook for friendly ships. we soon had evidence, too, that creach was at work, for even before we left skye it was clear we were spied upon, and now it was only the scarcity of troops that prevented him and allan knock from carrying out their private revenge. we were dogged night and day, and knew an attempt would be made upon us the moment the necessary men could be spared for such service. it was on the first of september that we got news of a vessel off the coast, near loch carron, where we were then hiding on a property which belonged to our family, and we forthwith sent word to glenaladale--alexander mcdonald--who had just left the prince in charge of cluny macpherson among the hills, that all was ready. we made a night visit to crowlin and bade good-bye to my father, whom i never expected to see again on earth, while over the sleeping children father o'rourke said a prayer in irish, and left his blessing on the house. we slipped out into the night again and made our way to the coast to find that the vessel had gone out to sea, but had signalled she would stand in again after dark the next day. this we spent most anxiously among the hills. we knew we were watched in every movement and an attempt would be made to prevent our embarking, if possible; and, to add to our anxiety, word was brought from glenaladale saying he had no knowledge of where the prince was, as cluny had moved away from the hiding-place he last knew, but that we were all to be aboard and lie to until the last possible hour in the morning, and then, if he did not appear with the prince, to sail without him, instructing any other vessel spoken, to stand in farther to the south near arisoig, so he might prepare and get word into the hills in time. shortly before midnight we saw the signal of a red light low on the water shewn twice for a moment, and made our way to the beach, where the boats met us, and we embarked without molestation. we found her to be the _alerte_ privateer, and her captain fully prepared to run any reasonable risk to bring off the prince. we met with a numerous company of gentlemen and some ladies on board, who had been picked up at different points along the coast, and together we watched in the greatest anxiety for some signal from the shore; but our hopes vanished as the dawn grew stronger in the east, until we could not justify a longer delay, and made ready to return in our boat, which we had kept alongside. such was their devotion that some, when they heard of our resolution, were only deterred from joining us by my assurance that i was charged with a special commission by the duke, and their presence would only endanger the safety of the prince as well as our own; on this they allowed us to depart, with many a prayer both in gaelic and english. with dull anger in our hearts we climbed the hills, eying all the cover whence we knew false eyes were following us; but not a bush moved, nor was there a sound, as we lay on the open hill-top and from our old hiding-place saw the sun redden the sails of the privateer as she stood on her way towards france and safety. our first thought was to get back to crowlin, for, now the prince had failed to appear, we held our duty was to my father until another opportunity offered. we were quite unable to approach the house in daylight, as it lay in the hollow well open to observation; and when we at last made our way down and entered, we were shocked at the change that had taken place in my father's condition. "it was a kind providence that led us back, giovannini," said father o'rourke, as we knelt beside the plainly dying man, "for these hours will mean much to him and to you afterwards." when my father recovered from the shock of seeing us, it was with the greatest thankfulness i saw father o'rourke go into him alone, and when he appeared again his face was that of the holy man he was. [illustration: "she stood on her way towards france and safety"] "now, giovannini," he said, "i am going to your cousin"--this was dr. mcdonald, of kylles--"for i have done all that is in my power for your father. he wants you now, my son, and he wants such relief as the doctor may perhaps give him." "but, father," i said, "that is impossible; you do not know the road over the hills well enough, and the country is alive with troops you can never pass." "nonsense," he said, with a short laugh, "i can pass anything on a night such as this. let me take neil with me, and we will be back before daybreak." knowing that argument was useless, i sent for neil, as good and safe a man as there was in the country, and who spoke english perfectly, gave him his directions to go by the ghlach dubh--the black pass--saw they both were well armed and supplied with cakes and whiskey, bade them god-speed, and then turned back into the dark house. the poor little ones, soon to be fatherless for a second time, were sleeping quietly, knowing nothing of the great sorrow creeping over them, and i passed on into the chamber of death, sending old christie, the servant, to keep her lonely watch in the kitchen. that last night alone with my father is as distinct to me to-day as if it were but just passed; it is full of things that are sacred--too sacred to be written about--and at the change of the night into day, i closed his eyes and prayed over his remains in peace. when i could, i rose, and, calling christie, opened the door softly and stole out into the cool, clearing morning air. it was so still that a great peace seemed over everything, and only the cheep of distant birds came to me; but soon i made out a moving figure on the hill-side, and, remembering father o'rourke with a start, i set off and hurried to meet him. but as i drew nearer i could make out that it was neil alone, and hurried forward much alarmed, and, as i saw him better, my fears grew. he was running at his best, without plaid or bonnet, and when we met all he could gasp out was, "oh! the soldier priest! the soldier priest!" "stop, man!" i said, sternly. "neil, neil! what new trouble do you bring?" "he is dead!" he cried, with a groan. "no, not dead, god forgive me! but dying there alone, and him the finest swordsman i ever stood beside." "come!" i said, and he turned with me, and as we went he gave out his story in gasps: "the doctor was not at home. skulking in the hills again. we left our message and started back. just at the top of the black pass they met us, and he never thinking of them at all! an officer and six men. we were too quick for them, though, and had our swords out and our backs to the hill-side before they could stop us. "they called to him to surrender, taking him to be you. "'come, come, mr. mcdonell!' says the officer. 'give up your sword like a gentleman!' "and oh! master john! with his death before him he laughed. and what do you think were the words he said? 'sir,' says he, 'i never knew a mcdonell yet who could give up his sword like a gentleman!' "and then he warned the officer to be off and leave such work to the likes of allan knock and creach, and the hot words flew back and forth between them till we were all at it together. "he ran the officer through as cool as if he was at practice; he put two others down, and we were making grand play, when there was a flash, and down he went, shot like a dog! "'neil! neil!' he shouted, 'go, for the love of god!' and i broke through and rolled over the side of the cliff; but by god's help i caught and held myself just when i thought i was lost. and i held there while they crawled to the edge and threw a torch down--making sure i had gone with the stones that rolled till they struck the black water below--and until i heard them gather up their wounded and tramp. then i climbed to the top again, and left him only when i found he was still breathing, and remembered he meant i was to carry his message to you. "oh, master john! never, never did man fight better, and you may comfort your heart with the name he made for you this night." [illustration: "'give up your sword like a gentleman'"] i could see it all clearly: that scoundrel, allan knock, set on by creach, had been on our track ever since we left skye, and knowing of our return from the ship through his spies, had thought to have taken me, or both of us, at crowlin; the rest was plain from neil's story, and it was only through the mistake of the english captain that my father had closed his eyes in my arms. by the goodness of god, when i knelt beside the man so dear to me, i found him still alive, though wounded so that at the first sight, i saw even to raise him meant a quicker death. the moment i spoke he opened his eyes. "ah, giovannini, my son," he said, in a voice surprisingly strong, "it was a grand fight!" and then, after a moment, "it was a pretty fight until they put an end to it with their shooting. but, poor creatures, i drove them to it. they couldn't get in at me in any other way." "oh, father," i cried, "why didn't you tell them who you were?" "i've been borrowing names all along," he said, drowsily; "tell lynch i kept his. i didn't make a bad use of yours either," he said, very slowly, and seemed to doze. we raised his head more and covered him with the plaids. in a little while he woke up quite clear. "giovannini, lad, what of things at home?" i told him, and he muttered a short prayer to himself, and then went on: "i am thankful i have neither kith nor kin, and not a soul to give a thought to my going to-night save yourself. but that is much--is dear to me. what claim has a wandering priest save on his god, and your being with me is the excess of his goodness. "now don't be fretting about the way my end has come; it was as much god's work to bar the door by my sword, and keep the father in peace with the son, as to stand beside his altar." and then the drowsiness began to steal on him again, but he roused himself to say, as if in answer to my sorrow, "courage, lad, courage; the sun has not gone because a rushlight is snuffed out." it was a long time before he spoke again, and then it was in the same quiet voice. "'tis a strange pass to come to a man who a few years ago thought of nothing more dangerous than the sunny side of a street! but, do you know, i always believed i had a bit of the soldier in me. many a time have my fingers itched for a sword-hilt when i thought i might have done more than praying, and now it has been given to me, and i have done it well. i can say with st. paul, 'i have fought a good fight' (bonum certamen certavi)"--and these were the last words that brave heart said on earth. we bore him home to crowlin on our shoulders, and laid him and my father side by side in the one grave, where my tears and those of the children fell on both alike. broken as i was in every way, i had to think and act, for the same necessities were before me. so after seeing my uncles, allan and alexander, the nearest relations left to the children, and making some provision for their safety, i returned again to the coast near loch carron, for i could now move with greater freedom until such time as the real facts of my supposed death at the black pass might be discovered. not more than ten days went by before i had news of two ships hanging off the land, and i arranged to board them should they come close enough to signal. this they did, and i found them to be the _princesse de conti_ and _l'hereux_, from st. maloes, under command of colonel warren, of dillon's regiment, expressly come and determined to carry the prince back with him at all hazards. i told him of our disappointment of the _alerte_, and, in accordance with the instructions from glenaladale, we stood south for arisoig, and i was put on shore near loch-na-neugh. i found glenaladale without difficulty, but to our uneasiness there was still the same uncertainty about the prince; and at first the search brought no result, but by chance he got the information necessary, and the joyful news of the vessels' arrival was carried in all haste to the "wanderer." it was late at night--the night of the nineteenth of september--when we came to borodale, where a numerous company had gathered awaiting him. he was accompanied by lochiel, now nearly recovered, his brother the doctor, and others; but my heart was sore when i heard of the condition he was in, although far better than what he had known for months. however, glenaladale said he was in grand health and spirits, and clean linen, a tailor, and a barber, would soon change him into as gallant a looking gentleman as ever stepped in the three kingdoms. i could not go near the house, and begged glenaladale not to mention my name to the prince until they sailed, and then only that the duke might know i had at least kept my promise not to leave scotland while the prince was in danger. my trouble was too heavy upon me for the drinking of healths, and i had no heart for the framing of encouragements. from where i sate i could see the lighted windows in the house darken as figures crossed them. i could even catch faint snatches of song, and with some envy in my heart for those who could so rejoice, when behind them was ruin and before only the uncertain safety of the two ships i could faintly make out against the dark waters of the loch. as for me, the whole world seemed closing down in the darkness, and i could see no cheer and no light beyond. my thoughts were the formless thoughts of a hopeless man, and they were my only companions till the dawn broke and the embarkation began. then my broken thoughts took shape. what place had i among these men? they had fought, and, if they had lost, had lost gallantly, without reproach, and were still about their leader, while i had never even drawn my sword for the cause i loved as truly as any of them all, and my efforts had only ended in failure in every particular. i was a broken man, and the best friend i had in the world was lying, murdered for my sake, in his unconsecrated grave at crowlin. those were the blackest hours that ever had come to me, and i would not wish my worst enemy to pass through the like. i counted over one hundred who passed to the ships until the prince, lochiel, and their immediate following appeared. then i rose and stood bareheaded, and i remember it was in the gaelic my mother had taught me that the words came when i prayed aloud for his safety. poor, ill-fated, bonnie, bonnie prince charlie! all the gallantry, all the fortitude, all the sensibility with which god almighty ever dowered human creature had been shewn forth by him from the hour his misfortune came upon him, in a measure that redeemed his former faults, and should blot out all that followed the day he sailed from loch-na-neugh. bareheaded i stood and watched _l'hereux_ and the _princesse de conti_ get under weigh, until i could not bear to look at them longer and threw myself face downwards amid the heather. at length sleep came to me, and when i awoke the quiet of the night was again about me, and i rose and took my way alone. i now settled myself at loch carron, and was visited by such as knew of my whereabouts, who did what they could to raise my spirits, and, amongst others, by dr. mcdonald, of kylles. one afternoon, when out fishing with him at the entrance of the loch, we were surprised by the appearance round a headland of a sloop of war, which we at once recognized as the _porcupine_, captain ferguson, well known on the coast for his activity in the apprehension of suspected jacobites. to attempt to escape was only to invite pursuit and ensure certain capture, so we put a bold face on the matter, and the doctor, without hesitation, stood up and signalled to her with his hat. "ferguson will not molest me, if he has any bowels at all, for i did him a good turn this summer when i set his arm for him in knoidart," said the doctor. "that is all very well, but what of me?" i asked. "i am in no state to go on board. i am dressed like a ploughman." "well! what better would you wish? you have nothing to do but hold your tongue, for you don't know a word of english. i'll tell ferguson i am short of lemons and sugar, and appeal to him not to drive me to drinking my whiskey pure. i know the idea of a rebel coming on board a king's ship on such an errand will tickle his fancy, for he is not such a monster as they report. in any case, we can do nothing else." there was nothing for it but to go on, and in truth the matter did not appear in any way serious, so i rowed on towards the sloop, which was coming up smartly, and before many minutes we were alongside, the doctor shouting out his instructions to me in gaelic. it turned out much as he had said, for captain ferguson laughed heartily when he whispered his message, and invited him into his cabin to have a glass together, whilst i waited on deck. now, unfortunately, the doctor had a strong taste for conviviality, which was part reason why his story of the lemons was so easily swallowed, and one glass followed another, until i could see that he was getting well into his cups. i was anxious to be away, and so ventured to speak to him at the door, saying, by way of excuse, that the weather looked threatening; but he only pooh-poohed the matter, and i saw he was further gone than i supposed, and so spoke with more sharpness than i intended. "that's a pretty kind of servant, 'pon my word!" said the captain. "servant, indeed!" snorted the doctor, to my dismay. "servant, indeed! he's as good a gentleman as i am!" and then, sobered at once, as it flashed across his fuddled brain what his words might mean, he went on, earnestly: "you know, captain, in the highlands service does not necessarily mean that a man is not a gentleman. why i have known--" but the captain cut him short with: "come, come, doctor, you can't throw dust in my eyes. 'tis bad enough to have you here imposing on me on your own account, but i will have no tricks with unknown gentlemen who choose to run their necks into the noose." the poor doctor was completely overwhelmed with his blunder, and only made matters worse with every word he uttered; but i refused to open my mouth, and was not sorry when they put him over the side of the ship and we saw him drifting fast astern, still lamenting. the captain then turned to me. "now, sir," said he, "'tis an unpleasant duty to detain you, but i will make your detention as easy as may be. of course, if you care to explain who you are, and can prove to me that you are innocent and your representations correct, i will put you on shore; if not, you will go with us to skye, where i will certainly obtain information, so you will gain little by your silence." however, i did not see fit to answer him, and only stared as if i did not understand a word. "very well," said he, "if you will play the servant you will live forward; when you choose to declare yourself a gentleman, i will treat you as leniently as i may." so forward i went, and gained but little by my obstinacy except uncomfortable quarters and rough company, for we made for sleat, and there were boarded by allan knock. the captain was convinced he had secured barisdale in my person, but knock was forced to declare that he was wrong in this, though he could not name me; but the next day he returned with creach, before whom i was paraded like a beast on market-day. the game was up now, but i did not care to speak; indeed, i had nothing to say before such a scoundrel. words were not what i counted on to settle my reckoning with him. after they left, ferguson came up to where i was sitting on deck. "you are my prisoner, mr. mcdonell," said he. "on what authority, sir?" said i. "oh, ho! you can talk english, i find," he laughed. "yes, and perhaps more than you may relish, captain ferguson," i replied; "and if english be not sufficient, i have one or two other tongues beside. now, there is no use in trying to frighten me; i have gone through too much for that. i am an officer in the spanish service, and have not drawn sword in this quarrel, and if you detain me without any authority or warrant beyond the words of this creature who has just left, i warn you your action is unjustifiable and will be most strictly inquired into." "now, now, mr. mcdonell, don't try any of your hectoring with me," he returned. "you can make your complaints when you see london." "well, then, london let it be. i have always had a mind to visit it," i answered, shortly, and thereupon our talk ended. i will do him justice to say he treated me with much civility during the four weeks i was on board the _porcupine_--very different treatment from what i received at the hands of captain gardner, to whom he handed me over in the sound of mull. but this he apologized for before i left him, saying he had only acted under orders, as otherwise, could he have followed his inclination, i would have been of his mess. however, i will not dwell on these personal inconveniences, and only record a kindness received from mr. maitland, a midshipman on board. when orders were received from edinburgh to land me at fort william, i took leave of captain gardner without any hard feeling on either side, and placed myself in the boat ordered to convey me on shore. the sailors, who were irish, pitying my situation, said, in that language, if i broke away when i was landed, they would take good care no balls would reach me. but i thanked them, in the same tongue, and assured them i was in no danger. on taking leave of mr. maitland he said, in french, "i suppose you know, mr. mcdonell, to whom you are indebted for this? to allan mcdonald knock." "thank you a thousand times for your interest," i returned, "but i know that already." i was accordingly imprisoned in fort william, but suffered little, save from the confinement, which lasted over four months, when, by the exertions of my sister margaret and her protector, lady jane drummond, i was released. i then returned to knoidart, but shortly after, hearing that allan knock was at glenelg, i took neil and duncan, his half-brother, and started for that place. things fell out better than i had expected, for, by what i have always held to be a direct providence, no less an enemy than creach himself was delivered into my hands when i least looked for it. i was on my way to glenelg, as i say, to meet with knock, and never thought to meet with the greater villain, creach, in the country, as i knew he must be aware of my release, and that he would not be safe within my reach. but, by what i am not impious enough to name a chance, when in the house of one of our own people i heard of him being in the neighborhood, and so laid wait in a place by which i knew he must pass, safe from interruption or observation. when he and his three men came up, we rose, and, planting ourselves in the way, called a halt. i have spoken before of his address, and even now it did not fail him, for i could mark no sign of surprise on his white face; he might have come to a rendezvous for all he shewed. i spoke at once to his men in gaelic, who held themselves ready for attack the moment we appeared. "skye men! i am a mcdonell, of glengarry. i and mine have no quarrel with you, but this gentleman and i have a matter of blood between us. take no part in it, then, for it is no affair of yours, and it will not be stayed in any case." then, either because they had small stomach for useless fighting, or, what is the more likely, that they saw it was a private matter and did not touch their honour, they drew to one side in silence with neil and duncan. creach understood what i was at, and as i threw off my coat and vest he did the like. a fierce joy was rising in me. "come, sir!" i said, and he fell into position. he was a good swordsman enough, but my wrist was of iron and my heart of fire, and the tinkle and grate of the steel was like music to my ear. he was fighting for time, waiting to see my play, and parried with great judgment, but at last i reached in at him and touched him above the right breast. "that is for aquapendente!" i cried, in satisfaction, as i saw the stain grow and redden on his shirt. in a little i touched him again, on the opposite side. "that is for rome!" and i was completely master of myself, for i held his life in my hands, like a ball, to throw away when i pleased. he said not a word, but fought on with the same courage, but it was hopeless. again i got in at him just where i had planned, and shouted in my joy, "that is for loch broom!" [illustration: "he was fighting for time"] up to this time he had not shewn the slightest sign of faltering, but now in a sudden move backwards he struck his heel sharply and staggered wide. i could have run him through with the greatest ease, but i was not ready for that as yet. he regained his feet, but to my dismay and surprise the shock had broken his courage, like a glass that is shattered, and he fenced so wildly that i withheld from attack, hoping he would recover. instead of this he only grew worse, until, losing hope of any betterment, i locked his sword, and with a sudden turn broke it short off. with a groan, the first sound he had uttered, he fell, and covered his face with his hands. i stood over him, and had he screamed or made a move i would have ended it then and there. but i could not kill the creature lying, waiting his fate in mute terror at my feet, though for months i had longed for this moment above all things else in the world. "get up, you coward!" i said, but he made no move. suddenly i threw my sword down, and, stepping towards him, drew my dirk, at which he screamed and prayed for mercy with shrieks of terror. "have no fear, you dog! i am not going to put murder on my soul for a wretch such as you! but i will mark you so that you will be a by-word amongst men for the rest of your days!" whereupon i seized him, and, despite his screams and struggles, with two clean sweeps i cut off his ears close to his head. leaving him rolling on the ground, i called neil and bade him bind up his wounds. then, placing his ears in my silver snuff-box, i threw it to him. "take these to your fellow-spy, and tell him whose hand did this! tell him, too, that his own run much danger of a like fate if they hear aught he may ever be tempted to repeat to the harm of me or mine!" my story is told. i did meet with allan knock, and i did not cut off his ears; but i poured into them words that made him wish he had been born without. because i have lived on into a time that has changed much from what i knew in those days, i have sometimes felt i should have killed creach, instead of taking a revenge which may now be looked on as barbarous. but those who know will understand, and those who do not, i must leave to their prejudice. i have tried to tell things as they were, without excuse. finis transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. words printed in italics are marked with underlines: _italics_. the cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. the manchester rebels of the fatal ' . [illustration: faithful unto death page .] the manchester rebels of the fatal ' by william harrison ainsworth with faltering voice, she weeping said, "o, dawson, monarch of my heart! think not thy death shall end our loves, for thou and i will never part!" shenstone. with illustrations by frederick gilbert london george routledge and sons broadway, ludgate hill new york: broome street by w. harrison ainsworth. _uniform with this volume, each with six illustrations._ the tower of london. windsor castle. rookwood. the lancashire witches. guy fawkes. saint james's; or, the court of queen anne. old saint paul's; a tale of the plague and the fire. crichton. the flitch of bacon; or, the custom of dunmow. mervyn clitheroe. the miser's daughter. jack sheppard. boscobel; or, the royal oak. ovingdean grange; a tale of the south downs. the spendthrift; a tale. the star-chamber. preston fight; or, the insurrection of . inscribed to the rt. hon. the earl of beaconsfield, k. g., with every sentiment of respect and admiration. preface. all my early life being spent in manchester, where i was born, bred, and schooled, i am naturally familiar with the scenes i have attempted to depict in this tale. little of the old town, however, is now left. the lover of antiquity--if any such should visit manchester--will search in vain for those picturesque black and white timber habitations, with pointed gables and latticed windows, that were common enough sixty years ago. entire streets, embellished by such houses, have been swept away in the course of modern improvement. but i recollect them well. no great effort of imagination was therefore needed to reconstruct the old town as it existed in the middle of the last century; but i was saved from the possibility of error by an excellent plan, almost of the precise date, designed by john a. berry, to which i made constant reference during my task. views are given in this plan of the principal houses then recently erected, and as all these houses were occupied by prince charles and the highland chiefs during their stay in manchester, i could conduct the rebel leaders to their quarters without difficulty. one of the houses, situated in deansgate, belonged to my mother's uncle, mr. touchet. this is gone, as is mr. dickenson's fine house in market street lane, where the prince was lodged. indeed, there is scarcely a house left in the town that has the slightest historical association belonging to it. when i was a boy, some elderly personages with whom i was acquainted were kind enough to describe to me events connected with prince charles's visit to manchester, and the stories i then heard made a lasting impression upon me. the jacobite feeling must have been still strong among my old friends, since they expressed much sympathy with the principal personages mentioned in this tale--for the gallant colonel townley, doctor deacon and his unfortunate sons, jemmy dawson, whose hapless fate has been so tenderly sung by shenstone, and, above all, for poor tom syddall. the latter, i know not why, unless it be that his head was affixed on the old exchange, has always been a sort of hero in manchester. the historical materials of the story are derived from the chevalier de johnstone's _memoirs of the rebellion_, and dr. hibbert ware's excellent account of prince charles's sojourn in the town, appended to the _history of the manchester foundations_. but to neither of these authorities do i owe half so much as to beppy byrom's delightful journal, so fortunately discovered among her father's papers at kersal cell, and given by dr. parkinson in the _remains of john byrom_, published some twenty years ago, by the chetham society. apart from the vivid picture it affords of the state of manchester at the period, of the consternation into which the inhabitants were thrown by the presence of the rebel army, and the striking description given in it of the young chevalier and his staff, the journal is exceedingly interesting, and it is impossible to read it without feeling as if one were listening to the pleasant chat of the fair writer. pretty beppy is before us, as sprightly and as loveable as she was in life. in no diary that i have read is the character of the writer more completely revealed than in this. of beppy, the bewitching, and her admirable father, i have endeavoured to give some faint idea in these pages. while speaking of the chetham society, which has brought out so many important publications, edited with singular ability by the learned president mr. james crossley, dr. hibbert ware, mr. william beamont, canon raines, and others, i desire to express the great satisfaction i feel at learning that a very large collection of the letters of humphrey chetham, and some of his friends and contemporaries, have been placed, for publication, in the hands--and in no better hands could they have been placed--of canon raines. unquestionably, this will be the crowning work of the chetham society, and at last, from the able editor of _the journal of nicholas assbeton, of downham_, we shall no doubt receive an adequate biography of the great lancashire worthy. to return to my tale. i must not omit to mention that the tragic incident i have connected with rawcliffe hall really occurred--though at a much more remote date than is here assigned to it--at bewsey house, an old moated mansion, near warrington, still, i believe, in existence. at one circumstance i must needs rejoice. since the publication of this tale, and incited, i am told, by its perusal, mr. samuel brierley, of rochdale, has put together a very interesting collection of anecdotes relating to the visit of lochiel, with a small portion of the highland army, to rochdale, in .[ ] [ ] "rochdale in and ." by an old inhabitant. rochdale, john turner, drake street, . these stories, i understand, were narrated to mr. brierley by his great grandmother, who died in , aged ninety-three. that they were well worth preserving will be apparent from some extracts which i propose to make from the little work. here is a well-told incident which might be entitled "lochiel and the lancashire lad." "on the th november, , the rebel army, supposed to be , or , strong, and composed of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, arrived at lancaster, under the personal command of prince charles, who gave instructions that the greater portion of this force should, on its arrival at preston, proceed to manchester by way of wigan, and the smaller part through blackburn and rochdale, and thus concentrate the main body at manchester. the latter portion was seen marching over ashworth moor, under the command of lochiel of glengarry, where they halted to have refreshment, which consisted of oatmeal steeped in water. most of the country people fled on their approach, but there was one who stood looking on, and that was james lomax, of woolstenholme; he was asked to join the army but feigned not to understand the question, but said he would jump agen the measter (pointing to glengarry) o'er that big stone fence, for a gallon of ale. the bet was accepted, and lomax had the first jump. being a lithe and supple fellow, he cleared it at a bound, ran down the back of the fence wall, and was no more seen. the officers and men laughed at this incident; and lochiel, on turning round, perceived a streak of smoke rising from the top of knowle hill. this and lomax disappearing so suddenly, caused great perplexity to those in command; and suspecting that there might be a surprise before they got to the town, the troops were ordered to fall in and make ready, and the advanced scouts to keep a watchful eye both right and left of the road." another very amusing story relates to a highlander who was billeted at the union hotel. "one of the privates, a kilted man, went into the kitchen and spoke to betty the cook, told her she was a bonnie lassie, and said, 'wull ye let me put a piece of bread in the drippin?' pointing to the beef on the spit; she replied, 'naw, haw winnut,' but at the same time he threw a piece of black bannock into the dripping pan, and cook said in a loud voice, 'hom noan gooin to hav ony o thaw impidunce,' at the same time throwing out the bread with her basting spoon, into the ashes. this so exasperated the scot that he placed his hand on his sword, but betty, as quick as thought, got the basting spoon full of hot dripping, and threw it at him, covering his face, hands, and bare knees with it, thereby causing him to scream with the burning pain; at the same moment mally garlick, who had been paring potatoes, said, 'do go away, for this dog is breakin out of his cage,'--she had privately opened the door, and the dog rushed at the scot, and chased him out of the house, tore a large piece out of the back part of his kilt, which he had to get repaired before he could decently attend another parade. but the scalds or burns inflicted upon him proved more serious than was anticipated, and he was placed under the medical skill of doctor moult. the doctor recommended a short rest from his laborious duties; this rest, with the unremitting attentions bestowed upon him by the relenting cook, led to mutual affection, and when he recovered he never rejoined the invading force, but married her who had caused his injuries, settled in the town, became a thriving tradesman, and has descendants here who are highly respectable and wealthy." our last extract describes the interview of valentine holt, a young volunteer in the stuart cause, with prince charles. "after a little conversation, lochiel wrote him a note and told him to go to manchester forthwith, and present it at the house of mr. dickenson, at the top of market street lane, which is now called the palace inn, and wait for an answer--the interview lasted only a few minutes. clegg and holt then went into the churchyard, and the latter looked upon his native town and the hills surrounding, and said with a sigh, 'i feel a presentiment that i shall never see my native town again. ah, my dear mother, do forgive the many faults of an erring son. i confess i have caused thee many pangs of sorrow, and i leave the town with an idea that if i get weaned from my wild companions, i may become a wiser and a better man.' these and other sorrowful thoughts came crowding upon his mind, and clegg observing that he was in deep thought, proposed to have a parting glass in the neighbouring tavern; after which he departed for manchester, along what are now called the back lanes of castleton, as at this time there was no road by pinfold. he arrived at manchester late in the evening, and was stirring early on the morrow; being at the house aforementioned at a.m., he presented the letter given to him by lochiel (which was directed in such a way that holt was unable to imagine who it was for) to the orderly standing at the door; the latter appeared astonished, looking at holt with a scrutinising eye, and told him he must wait at the door until he delivered the letter. he returned in a few minutes and ushered holt into a room in which was seated a young man, tall, well-built, with a handsome face, auburn hair, and good eyes; the latter speaking to holt, said, 'you are the young man from rochdale (this was no less a person than the prince himself) who has offered to join our cause?' holt replied 'i am.' 'i hear you use the rifle with unerring aim.' the prince taking up a loaded rifle that was in the corner, said, 'you see that jackdaw on the ridge of the house opposite, try to bring it down!' holt fired, and it rolled down the roof. 'ah! very good,' exclaimed the prince, and calling in the orderly, said, 'tell dickson that he must enrol this man as sergeant in the manchester contingent.'" contents. chap. page book i.--atherton legh. i. how the infant heir was stolen ii. manchester in iii. introduces dr. deacon, dr. byrom, and colonel townley iv. sir richard rawcliffe v. introduces our hero vi. advice vii. rencounter near the old town cross viii. beppy byrom ix. the two curates of st. ann's x. constance rawcliffe xi. the boroughreeve of manchester xii. the rescue xiii. constance makes a discovery xiv. st. ann's-square xv. how salford bridge was saved from destruction xvi. tom syddall xvii. how tom syddall was carried home in triumph xviii. the meeting in the garden xix. mrs. butler xx. the jacobite meeting in tom syddall's back room xxi. ben birch, the bellman of manchester book ii.--prince charles edward in manchester. i. how manchester was taken by a serjeant, a drummer, and a scottish lassie ii. the proclamation at the cross iii. father jerome iv. general sir john macdonald v. helen carnegie's story vi. captain lindsay vii. a residence is chosen for the prince viii. interview between secretary murray and the magistrates ix. arrival of the first division of the highland army. lord george murray x. the duke of perth xi. arrival of the second division xii. the young chevalier xiii. the prince's interview with mrs. butler and the two damsels xiv. the prince's march to head-quarters xv. the prince's levee xvi. the illuminations xvii. a quarrel at supper xviii. captain weir xix. captain weir is interrogated by the prince xx. the duel xxi. castle field xxii. father jerome counsels sir richard xxiii. the prince attends service at the collegiate church xxiv. the prince inspects the manchester regiment xxv. an unsatisfactory explanation xxvi. the ride to rawcliffe hall xxvii. rawcliffe hall xxviii. a startling disclosure xxix. the mysterious chamber xxx. a terrible catastrophe xxxi. sir richard rawcliffe's confession xxxii. atherton's decision is made book iii.--the march to derby, and the retreat. i. an old jacobite dame ii. atherton's gift to constance iii. a retreat resolved upon iv. how the manchester regiment was welcomed on its return v. a fresh subsidy demanded vi. a false message brought to helen vii. a court-martial viii. helen pleads in vain ix. together to the last x. mr. james bayley xi. the vision xii. the retreat from manchester to carlisle book iv.--carlisle. i. colonel townley appointed commandant of the carlisle garrison ii. atherton taken prisoner iii. the duke of cumberland iv. surrender of carlisle to the duke of cumberland book v.--jemmy dawson. i. the escape at wigan ii. the meeting at warrington iii. atherton takes refuge at rawcliffe hall iv. an enemy in the house v. a point of faith vi. a letter from beppy byrom vii. atherton questions the priest viii. the search ix. who was found in the dismantled rooms x. a successful stratagem xi. atherton meets with dr. deacon at rosthern xii. a sad communication is made to dr. deacon xiii. a journey to london proposed xiv. jemmy dawson's letter xv. the parting between monica and her mother xvi. the journey book vi.--kennington common. i. monica visits jemmy in newgate ii. colonel conway iii. cumberland house iv. the trial of the manchester rebels v. the night before the executions vi. the fatal day vii. five years later the manchester rebels of the fatal ' . book i. atherton legh. chapter i. how the infant heir was stolen. about midnight, in the autumn of , two persons cautiously approached an old moated mansion, situated in cheshire, though close to the borders of lancashire. the night being almost pitch-dark, very little of the ancient fabric could be distinguished; but the irregular outline of its numerous gables showed that it was of considerable size. it was, in fact, a large picturesque hall, built in the early days of elizabeth, and was completely surrounded by an unusually broad, deep moat. the moat was crossed by a drawbridge, but this being now raised, access to the mansion could only be obtained by rousing the porter, who slept over the gateway. all the inmates of the house seemed buried in repose. not a sound was heard. no mastiff barked to give the alarm. a melancholy air had the old hall, even when viewed by daylight. of late years it had been much neglected, and portions were allowed to go to decay. several rooms were shut up. its owner, who died rather more than a year before the date of our story, preferred a town residence, and rarely inhabited the hall. extravagant, and fond of play, he had cut down the fine timber that ornamented his park to pay his debts. death, however, put an end to his career before he had quite run through his fortune. he left behind him a wife and an infant son--the latter being heir to the property. as there would be a long minority, the estates, by prudent management, might be completely retrieved. on the demise of her husband, the widow quitted her town house, and took up her abode with her child at the old hall. with a greatly reduced establishment, she lived in perfect seclusion. as she was young, very beautiful, and much admired, people wondered that she could thus tear herself from the world. but her resolution remained unchanged. her affections seemed centred in her infant son. she had few visitors, declined all invitations, and rarely strayed beyond the limits of the park. she had got it into her head that her child would be taken from her, and would not, therefore, let him out of her sight. the infant was as carefully watched as if he had been heir to a dukedom; and at night, for fear of a surprise, the drawbridge was always raised. in the event of the young heir dying under age, the estates passed to the brother of her late husband, and of him she entertained dark suspicions that did not seem altogether unwarranted. having offered this brief explanation, we shall return to the mysterious pair whom we left making their way to the hall. as their design was to enter the house secretly, they did not go near the drawbridge, being provided with other means of crossing the moat. one of them carried a coracle--a light boat formed of a wicker framework covered with leather. though they had now reached the margin of the moat, which was fringed with reeds and bulrushes, they did not put their plan into immediate execution, but marched on in silence, till a light was observed glimmering from one of the windows. a taper had been thus placed to guide them, proving that they had a confederate in the house. on perceiving this light, which streamed from the partly-opened casement on the dusky water beneath it, the foremost of the twain immediately halted. he was a tall man wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad-leaved hat pulled over his brows, and was well-armed. as soon as the coracle was launched, he stepped into it, and was followed by his attendant, who pushed the frail bark noiselessly across the moat. on reaching the opposite side, the chief personage sprang ashore, leaving his follower in the boat, and made his way to a postern, which he found open, as he expected. before entering the house, he put on a mask. the postern communicated with a back staircase, up which the midnight visitor quickly mounted, making as little noise as possible. the staircase conducted him to a gallery, and he had not advanced far when a door was softly opened, and a young woman, who had hastily slipped on a dressing-gown, came forth, bearing a light. it was the nurse. she almost recoiled with terror on beholding the masked figure standing before her. "what's the matter with you, bertha? don't you know me?" asked the mysterious personage in a low voice. "yes, i know you now, sir," she rejoined in the same tone. "but you look like--i won't say what." "a truce to this folly. where is the child?" "in his mother's bed. i offered to take him, but she would not part with him to-night." "she will be obliged to part with him. i must have him." "oh, sir! i beseech you to abandon this wicked design. i am certain it will bring destruction upon all concerned in it. do not rob her of her child." "these misgivings are idle, bertha. bring me the child without more ado, or i will snatch it from its mother's arms." "i cannot do it. the poor soul will go distracted when she finds she has lost her darling." "what means this sudden change, bertha?" he said, surprised and angry. "you had no such commiseration for her when we last talked over the matter. you were willing enough to aid me then." "you tempted me by your offer; but i now repent. i understand the enormity of the offence, and will not burden my soul with so much guilt." "you have gone too far to retreat. having made a bargain you must fulfil it." "swear to me that you will not injure the child, or i will not bring it to you." "i have already told you i do not mean to harm it." "but swear by all you hold sacred that you have no design upon the child's life. do this, or i will give the alarm." "attempt to utter a cry and i will kill you," he said, sternly. "i have not come here to be thwarted in my purpose. go in at once." terrified by the menacing tone in which the order was given, bertha obeyed, and returned to the room from which she had issued. perhaps she might have fastened the door if time had been allowed, but the man in the mask followed her too quickly. it was an antechamber which she occupied as nurse. a door communicating with the inner apartment stood partly open, and in obedience to an imperious gesture from the terrible intruder, she passed through it. she was now in a large antique bed-chamber, imperfectly lighted up by a lamp placed on a small table near the bed, in which lay one of the fairest creatures imaginable. the contour of the sleeper's countenance was exquisite, and her raven tresses, which had not been confined, flowed over her neck, contrasting strongly with its dazzling whiteness. close beside her, with its little head resting upon a rounded arm that might have served a sculptor as a model, slept her babe. a smile seemed to play upon the slumbering mother's lips, as if her dreams were pleasant. the sight of this picture smote bertha to the heart. only a fiend, it seemed to her at that moment, could mar such happiness. could she turn that smile to tears and misery? could she requite the constant kindness shown her, and the trust placed in her, by the basest ingratitude and treachery? she could not do it. she would rather die. she would return to the terrible man who was waiting for her, and brave his fury. but she found herself quite unequal to the effort, and while she remained in this state of irresolution he entered the room with his drawn sword in his hand. he signed to her to go to the bed and take the child, but she did not obey. half paralysed with terror, she could neither move nor utter a cry. at once comprehending the state of the case, he determined to act alone, and stepping softly forward he extinguished the lamp that was burning on a small table beside the bed, and seizing the child enveloped it in his cloak. the daring deed was so rapidly executed that the poor lady did not wake till she was robbed of her treasure. but becoming instantly aware that her child was gone, and hearing footsteps in the room, she raised herself, and called out in accents of alarm, "is it you, bertha?" "make no answer, but follow me quickly," whispered the terrible intruder to the nurse. but she had now burst the spell that had hitherto bound her, and seizing him before he could reach the door held him fast. finding his departure effectually prevented, the remorseless villain unhesitatingly liberated himself by plunging his sword into bertha's breast. the wound was mortal. the unfortunate woman fell speechless, dying, just as her mistress, who had sprung from the couch, came up; while the assassin escaped with his prize. the poor lady understood what had happened, but fright almost deprived her of her senses. she uttered scream after scream, but before any of the household came to her assistance all was silent. when they ventured into the room a shocking spectacle greeted them. their young mistress was lying in a state of insensibility by the side of the slaughtered nurse. the child could not be found. how the perpetrator of this dark and daring deed entered the house remained a mystery. no one supposed that poor murdered bertha, who had paid the penalty of her crime with life, had been his accomplice. on the contrary, it was believed that she had flown to her mistress's assistance, and had perished in the attempt to save the child. how the murderer had crossed the moat was likewise a mystery, for the coracle was carried away when its purpose had been fulfilled. on examination, the postern-door was found to be locked and the key taken out. nothing had been seen of the terrible visitor, the gloom of night shrouding his arrival and departure. thus he remained wholly undiscovered. when the poor lady recovered from the fainting fit into which she had fallen, her senses were gone. nor did she long survive the dreadful shock she had sustained. chapter ii. manchester in . when dr. stukeley visited manchester in , he described the town, from personal observation, as "the largest, most rich, populous, and busy village in england." in twenty years from that date, it could no longer be called a village. its population had doubled, and the number of houses had greatly increased. many new streets had been completed, an exchange built, and a fine new square laid out. but though the town had thus grown in size and wealth, it had not yet lost its provincial air. the streets had a cheerful, bustling look, denoting that plenty of business was going on, but they were not crowded either with carts or people. the country was close at hand, and pleasant fields could be reached in a few minutes' walk from the market-place. seen from the ancient stone bridge spanning the irwell, the town still presented a picturesque appearance. the view comprehended the old collegiate church (which wore a much more venerable air than it does now, inasmuch as it had not been renovated), the old houses on hunt's bank, chetham hospital crowning the red sandstone banks of the irk, just beyond its junction with the larger river, the old water-mill, and the collection of black and white plaster habitations in the neighbourhood of the church. this was the oldest part of the town, and its original features had not been destroyed. in all the narrow streets surrounding the collegiate church the houses bore the impress of antiquity, having served as dwelling-places for several generations. in mill-gate, in toad-lane, in hanging ditch, and cateaton-street, scarcely a modern habitation could be descried. all the houses, with their carved gables, projecting upper stories, and bay-windows, dated back a couple of centuries. in deansgate similar picturesque old structures predominated. two new churches formed part of the picture--trinity church in salford, and st. ann's in the square we have already mentioned--and of course many other modern buildings were discernible, but from the point of view selected the general air of the place was ancient. from this glance at manchester in , it will be seen that it formed an agreeable mixture of an old and new town. the rivers that washed its walls were clear, and abounded in fish. above all, the atmosphere was pure and wholesome, unpolluted by the smoke of a thousand factory chimneys. in some respects, therefore, the old town was preferable to the mighty modern city. the inhabitants are described by a writer of the period "as very industrious, always contriving or inventing something new to improve and set off their goods, and not much following the extravagance that prevails in other places, by which means many of them have acquired very handsome fortunes, and live thereupon in a plain, useful, and regular manner, after the custom of their forefathers." their manners, in fact, were somewhat primitive. the manufacturers kept early hours, and by ten o'clock at night the whole town might be said to be at rest. there were two political clubs, whig and tory, or jacobite, the latter being by far the most numerous and important. the members met at their favourite taverns to drink punch, and toast king or pretender, according to their predilections. only four carriages were kept in the town, and these belonged to ladies. there were no lamps in the streets, lanterns being carried by all decent folks on dark nights. in regard to the amusements of the place it may be mentioned that the annual horse-races, established at kersal moor in , had latterly been discontinued, but they were soon afterwards revived. under the patronage of lady bland--a person of great spirit--public assemblies were given at a ball-room in king-street--then, as now, the most fashionable street. a famous pack of hounds, of the old british breed, was kept near the town, and regularly hunted in the season. the leading merchants lived in a very unostentatious manner, but were exceedingly hospitable. many of them were far more refined and much more highly educated than might have been expected; but this is easily accounted for when we state that they belonged to good county families. it had been the custom for a long period with the lancashire and cheshire gentry, who could not otherwise provide for their younger sons, to bring them up to mercantile pursuits, and with that object they apprenticed them to the manchester merchants. thenceforward a marked improvement took place in the manners and habits of the class. chapter iii. introduces dr. deacon, dr. byrom, and colonel townley. descended from cavaliers, it was certain that the manchester merchants would embrace the political opinions of their fathers, and support the hereditary claims of the house of stuart. they did so enthusiastically. all were staunch jacobites, and more or less concerned in a plot which had long been forming for the restoration of james the third to the throne. constant meetings were held at a small inn at didsbury, near the ferry, where the conspirators drank "the king over the water." a secret correspondence was kept up with the exiled court, and assurances were given to the chevalier de st. george that the whole population of the town would rise in his favour whenever the expected invasion took place. the great spread of jacobite opinions throughout the town could be traced to two or three influential individuals. chief among these was dr. deacon--a very remarkable man, whose zeal and earnestness were calculated to extend his opinions, and make converts of those opposed to him. dr. deacon had been concerned in the former rebellion, and in his quality of a nonjuring priest had assisted at the dying moments of the reverend william paul and justice hall, who were executed in . the declaration delivered by them to the sheriff was written by dr. deacon, and produced an immense effect from its force and eloquence. having incurred the suspicion of the government, dr. deacon deemed it expedient to change his profession. repairing to manchester, he began to practise as a physician, and with considerable success. but this did not prevent him from carrying on his spiritual labours. he founded a nonjuring church, of which he was regarded as the bishop. his fervour and enthusiasm gained him many disciples, and he unquestionably produced an effect upon the clergy of the collegiate church, all of whom, except the warden, dr. peploe, adopted his opinions, and inculcated jacobitism from the pulpit. though a visionary and mystic, dr. deacon was a man of great erudition, and a profound theologian. he had three sons, all of whom shared his political and religious opinions. another person quite as zealous as dr. deacon in promoting the cause of the pretender, though he observed much greater caution in his proceedings, was dr. john byrom, whose name is still held in the greatest respect in manchester. a native of the town, and well connected, dr. byrom occupied an excellent social position. he was a man of great versatility of talent--a wit, a scholar, a linguist, and a charming poet. but his witty sayings were playful, and, though smart, entirely divested of ill-nature. clever at most things, he invented a new system of short-hand, which he taught, so long as it was necessary for him to improve his income; but on the death of his elder brother he succeeded to the family property, kersal cell, situated in the neighbourhood of the town. his diary and correspondence, published by the chetham society, give a complete insight into his truly amiable character, and not only display him in the most pleasing colours, but place him in the first rank as a letter-writer. dr. byrom contributed two papers to the _spectator_, and wrote many delightful songs and humorous poems, but he will be best remembered by his admirable letters. he was fortunate in his wife, and equally fortunate in his children--a son and daughter--and it is to these members of his family, to whom he was tenderly attached, that most of his letters are addressed. at the time of our story, dr. byrom was between fifty and sixty--a striking-looking person, tall, thin, erect. without being handsome, his features were pleasing and benevolent in expression. his manner was singularly courteous, and his temper so even that it could scarcely be ruffled. a third person, who made his appearance in manchester immediately after the outbreak of the rebellion in scotland, was colonel francis townley. he belonged to an old lancashire roman catholic family, the head of which, richard townley, of townley hall, took part in the rebellion of , and was tried before judge powis, but acquitted. born at his father's house near wigan, frank townley, at the period of our story, was just thirty-eight. some seventeen years previously he went over to france, and being remarkably handsome, made a figure at the court of versailles. befriended by the duke of berwick, he received a commission from louis the fifteenth, served at the siege of philipsburg, and was close beside the duke when the latter was killed by a cannon-shot. subsequently he served under marshal de broglie in the campaign against austria, and was present at several sieges and actions, in all of which he displayed great spirit and intrepidity, and acquired a very brilliant military reputation. frank townley continued in the french service for fifteen years, and then returned to england, living for some little time in retirement. when the young chevalier landed in scotland, and an invasion was meditated by france, louis sent him a colonel's commission to enable him to raise forces for the prince. with this design he came to manchester, thinking he should have no difficulty in raising a regiment, but he was not so successful as he anticipated. a simultaneous rising of the jacobites in the northern counties and in some of the larger towns had been confidently looked for by the partisans of the house of stuart, but as this did not take place, the excitement in the prince's behalf, which had been roused in manchester, began quickly to subside. the intelligence that the victor of preston pans was marching southward at the head of an army of five thousand highlanders, though it raised the hopes of some of the bolder spirits, carried consternation among the bulk of the towns-people--not only among those who were loyal, but among the disaffected. the jacobites wished well to the pretender, but declined to fight for him. numbers left the town, and the shopkeepers began to remove their goods and valuables. the presbyterians were especially alarmed, and sent away their wives and families. news that the prince had reached carlisle increased the excitement. the militia was quartered in the town for its defence; but the men were disbanded before the insurgent army appeared. the bridge at warrington was destroyed to impede the march of the rebels; other bridges were blown up; and salford bridge was threatened, but escaped destruction. in the midst of the general alarm and confusion now prevailing in the place, colonel townley found it impossible to enrol a sufficient number of men to form a regiment. all those who had been lavish in promises made excuses, or got out of the way. by this time carlisle had surrendered, and the prince, whose army moved in two divisions, was marching southward. greatly disappointed by his ill success, colonel townley resolved to set out and meet him at lancaster, in order to prepare him for his probable reception at manchester. on the night before his departure on this errand, the colonel had a conference with dr. deacon and dr. byrom at the bull's head in the market-place--a tavern frequented mainly by the high church tories and jacobites; just as the angel inn in market street lane was resorted to by whigs and presbyterians. the party met in a private room at the back of the house. a cheerful fire blazed on the hearth--it must be borne in mind that it was then in november--and a flask of claret stood on the table; but the serious looks of the three gentlemen betokened that they had not met merely for convivial purposes. with the tall, thin figure, benevolent countenance, and courteous manner of dr. byrom, we have endeavoured to familiarise the reader. the doctor was attired in a murrey-coloured coat with long skirts, and wore a full-bottomed tie-wig, and a laced cravat, but had laid aside his three-cornered hat. dr. deacon was somewhat advanced in years, but seemed full of vigour, both of mind and body. he had a highly intellectual physiognomy, and a look about the eyes that bespoke him an enthusiast and a visionary. he was dressed in black, but his costume was that of a physician, not a divine. still, the nonjuring priest could not be wholly disguised. colonel townley had a very fine presence. his figure was tall, well-proportioned, and commanding. he might easily have been taken for a french officer; nor was this to be wondered at, considering his fifteen years' service in france. a grey cloth riding-dress faced with purple displayed his lofty figure to advantage. an aile-de-pigeon wig, surmounted by a small cocked hat edged with silver lace and jack-boots, completed his costume. "now, gentlemen," said the colonel, drawing his chair closer to them, "before i join the prince at lancaster, i desire to have your candid opinion as to the chance of a rising in his favour in this town. latterly i have met with nothing but disappointment. the conduct of your leading merchants fills me with rage and disgust, and how they can reconcile it with the pledges they have given his royal highness of support, i cannot conceive. still, i hope they will act up to their professions, and maintain the honourable character they have hitherto borne. how say you, gentlemen? can the prince calculate on a general declaration in his favour? you shake your heads. at least he may count on a thousand recruits? five hundred? surely five hundred manchester men will join his standard?" "a few weeks ago i firmly believed half the town would rise," replied dr. deacon. "but now i know not what to say. i will not delude the prince with any more false promises." "'twill be an eternal disgrace to manchester if its inhabitants desert him at this critical juncture," cried the colonel, warmly. "is this to be the miserable conclusion of all your plots and secret meetings? you have invited him, and now that he has complied with the invitation, and is coming hither with an army, you get out of the way, and leave him to his own resources. 'tis infamous!" "i still hope my fellow-townsmen may redeem their character for loyalty," said dr. deacon. "perchance, when his royal highness appears, he may recall them to their duty." "i doubt it," observed the colonel. "i will not attempt to defend the conduct of the manchester jacobites," observed dr. byrom; "but they are not quite so culpable as they appear. they ought not to have invited the prince, unless they were resolved to support him at all hazards. but they have become alarmed, and shrink from the consequences of their own rashness. they wish him every success in his daring enterprise, but will not risk their lives and fortunes for him, as their fathers did in the ill-starred insurrection of ." "in a word, they consider the prince's cause hopeless," said the colonel. "that is so," replied dr. byrom. "you will do well to dissuade his royal highness from advancing beyond preston, unless he is certain of receiving large reinforcements from france." "dissuade him from advancing! i will never give him such dastardly counsel. were i indiscreet enough to do so, he would reject it. his royal highness is marching on london." "so i conclude. but i fear the duke of cumberland will never allow him to get there." "bah! he will beat the duke as he beat johnnie cope at preston pans. but he need not hazard a battle. he can easily elude the duke if he thinks proper." "not so easily, i think; but, should he do so, he will find the elector of hanover prepared for him. the guards and some other regiments are encamped at finchley, as we learn by the last express, for the defence of the capital." "you are just as timorous as the rest of your fellow-townsmen, sir. but no representations of danger will deter the heroic prince from his projected march on london. ere long, i trust he will drive out the usurper, and cause his royal father to be proclaimed at westminster." "heaven grant it may be so!" exclaimed dr. deacon, fervently. "'twill be a wondrous achievement if it succeeds." "i do not think it can succeed," said dr. byrom. "you think me a prophet of ill, colonel, but i am solely anxious for the prince's safety. i would not have him fall into the hands of his enemies. even retreat is fraught with peril, for field-marshal wade, with a strong force, is in his rear." "better go on, then, by your own showing, sir. but retreat is out of the question. i am at a loss to understand how you can reconcile your conduct with the principles you profess. the prince has need of zealous adherents, who will sacrifice their lives for him if required. yet you and your friends, who are pledged to him, keep aloof." "i am too old to draw the sword for the prince," said dr. deacon; "but i shall identify myself with his cause, and i have enjoined my three sons to enrol themselves in the manchester regiment." "you have done well, sir, but only what might have been expected from you," said colonel townley. "your conduct contrasts favourably with that of many of his self-styled adherents." "i can bear the taunt, colonel," said dr. byrom, calmly. "whatever opinion you may entertain to the contrary, my friends and myself are loyal to the house of stuart, but we are also discreet. we have had our lesson, and mean to profit by it. to be plain with you, colonel townley, we don't like the highlanders." "why not, sir? they are brave fellows, and have done no mischief. they will do none here--on that you may depend." "maybe not, but the people are desperately afraid of them, and think they will plunder the town. "mere idle fears," exclaimed colonel townley. "have you a list of recruits, colonel?" inquired dr. deacon. colonel townley replied in the affirmative, and produced a memorandum-book. "the list is so brief, and the names it comprises are so unimportant, that i shall feel ashamed to present it to the prince," he said. "the first person i have set down is james dawson." "jemmy dawson is a young man of very respectable family--in fact, a connexion of my own," observed dr. byrom. "he belongs to st. john's college, cambridge." "next on the list is mr. peter moss, a gentleman of this county," pursued the colonel. "then come mr. thomas morgan, a welshman, and mr. john saunderson, a northumberland gentleman. all those i have enumerated will be officers, and with them i shall couple the names of your sons, dr. deacon--thomas theodorus, charles, and robert." "all three are prepared to lay down their lives in asserting the rights of their only lawful sovereign, king james the third," said the doctor. "they have constantly prayed that heaven may strengthen him so that he may vanquish and overcome all his enemies, that he may be brought to his kingdom, and the crown be set upon his head." "in that prayer we all join," said the colonel. "i shall not fail to mention your sons to the prince. then we have a young parson named coppock, who desires to be chaplain of the regiment. from his discourse he seems to be a good specimen of the church militant." "he will give up a good benefice if he joins you," remarked dr. byrom. "he will be rewarded with a bishopric if we succeed. with a few exceptions, the rest are not persons of much rank--andrew blood, george fletcher, john berwick, thomas chadwick, and thomas syddall. the last is a member of the nonjuring church, i believe, dr. deacon?" "i am proud of him, though he is only a barber," replied the doctor. "he has never sworn allegiance to the usurper, and never will. he is the son of that thomas syddall who was put to an ignominious death in , and his head fixed on the market-cross of this town. thomas syddall, the younger, inherits his father's loyalty and courage." "he shall be an ensign," said the colonel. "next, there is a young man, whom i have put down, though i don't feel quite sure of him. he is the handsomest young fellow i have seen in manchester, and evidently full of spirit." "i think i can guess whom you mean," said dr. byrom. "'tis atherton legh." "right! that is the youngster's name. he was introduced to me by theodore deacon. who is he? he looks as if he belonged to a good family." "atherton legh is atherton legh--that is all i know of his family history, and i believe it is all he knows himself," replied dr. deacon. "i can tell you something more about him," said dr. byrom. "he was brought up by a small tradesman, named heywood, dwelling in deansgate, educated at our grammar-school under mr. brooke, and afterwards apprenticed to mr. hibbert, a highly respectable merchant; but as to his parentage, there is a mystery. beyond doubt, he has some wealthy relative, but he has prudently abstained from making inquiries, since it has been intimated to him that, if he does so, the present liberal allowance, which is regularly paid by some person who styles himself his guardian, will cease." "a very good reason for remaining quiet," observed the colonel. "but i suppose heywood is acquainted with the guardian?" "he has not even heard his name. atherton's allowance is paid through a banker, who is bound to secrecy. but you shall hear all i know about the matter. some eighteen years ago, an elderly dame, who described herself as madame legh, having the appearance of a decayed gentlewoman, and attired in mourning, arrived in manchester, and put up at this very inn. she had travelled by post, it appeared, from london, and brought with her a very pretty little boy, about three years old, whom she called her grandson, stating that his name was atherton legh. from this, it would seem, there was no disguise about the old dame, but there is every reason to believe that the names given by her were fictitious. having made some preliminary inquiries respecting the heywoods, and ascertained that they had no family, madame legh paid them a visit, taking her little grandson with her, and after some talk with mrs. heywood, who was a very kind-hearted woman, easily prevailed upon her to take charge of the child. all the arrangements were very satisfactorily made. mrs. heywood received a purse of fifty guineas, which she was told came from the boy's guardian--not his father. she was also assured that a liberal allowance would be made by the guardian for the child's maintenance and education, and the promise was most honourably fulfilled. all being settled, madame legh kissed her little grandson and departed, and was never seen again. the child quickly attached himself to the worthy pair, who became as fond of him as if he had been their own son. in due time, atherton grew into a fine spirited lad, and, as i have just intimated, was sent to the grammar-school. when his education was completed, in compliance with the injunctions of his mysterious guardian, conveyed through the banker who paid the allowance, the youth was apprenticed to mr. hibbert--the fee being five hundred pounds, which, of course, was paid. thenceforth, atherton resided with mr. hibbert. "such is the young man's history, so far as it is known, and it is certainly curious. no wonder you have been struck by his appearance, colonel. he has decidedly a fine physiognomy, and his look and manner proclaim him the son of a gentleman. whether he will venture to enrol himself in your regiment without his guardian's consent, which it is next to impossible for him to obtain, is more than i can say. "it does not seem to me that he is bound to consult his guardian on the point," remarked dr. deacon. "i have told him so; but he has some scruples of conscience, which i hope to remove." "if his guardian is a hanoverian, he ought to have no authority over him," said the colonel. "you must win him over to the good cause, doctor. but let us have a glass of claret," he added, helping himself, and pushing the bottle towards dr. byrom, who was nearest him. chapter iv. sir richard rawcliffe. "by-the-bye," continued colonel townley, looking at his watch. "i forgot to mention that i expect sir richard rawcliffe, of rawcliffe hall, to-night. he will be here anon. 'tis about the hour he named. you know him, i think?" "i knew him slightly some years ago," replied dr. byrom. "but i dare say he has quite forgotten me. he rarely, if ever, comes to manchester. indeed, he leads a very secluded life at rawcliffe, and, as i understand, keeps no company. he has the character of being morose and gloomy, but i daresay it is undeserved, for men are generally misrepresented." "sir richard rawcliffe is certainly misrepresented, if he is so described," said colonel townley. "he is haughty and reserved, but not moody. when i left for france he had only just succeeded to the title and the property, and i knew little of him then, though he was an intimate friend of my uncle, richard townley of townley." "he was not, i think, engaged in the insurrection of ?" remarked dr. deacon. "not directly," replied the colonel. "his father, sir randolph, who was friendly to the hanoverian succession, was alive then, and he did not dare to offend him." "i thought the rawcliffes were a roman catholic family?" remarked dr. deacon. "sir randolph abjured the faith of his fathers," said colonel townley; "and his elder son, oswald, was likewise a renegade. sir richard, of whom we are now speaking, succeeded his brother sir oswald on the failure of the heir." "it has never been positively proved that the heir is dead," observed dr. byrom. "sir oswald rawcliffe married the beautiful henrietta conway, and had a son by her, who was carried off while an infant in a most mysterious manner, and has never been heard of since. this happened in ' , but i cannot help thinking the true heir to rawcliffe hall may yet be found." "meantime, sir richard is in possession of the title and property," said colonel townley. as he spoke, the door was opened by the landlord, who ushered in a tall personage, whom he announced as sir richard rawcliffe. bowing to the company, all of whom rose on his entrance, sir richard sprang forward to meet colonel townley, and a hearty greeting passed between them. it would have been difficult to determine the new-comer's age, but he was not fifty, though he looked much older. his features were handsome, but strongly marked, and had a sombre expression, which, however, disappeared when he was animated by converse. his eyes were dark and penetrating, and overhung by thick black brows. his pallid complexion and care-worn looks seemed to denote that he was out of health. altogether, it was a face that could not be regarded without interest. he wore a dark riding-dress, with boots drawn above the knee. a black peruke descended over his shoulders, and a sword hung by his side. habitually, sir richard rawcliffe's manner was haughty, but he was extremely affable towards the present company, expressing himself delighted to meet dr. byrom again. towards dr. deacon he was almost deferential. while they were exchanging civilities, diggles, the landlord, re-appeared with a fresh bottle of claret and clean glasses; and bumpers being filled, colonel townley called out, "here's to our master's health!" the toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, diggles, preparatory to his departure, inquired whether the gentlemen desired to be private. "no," replied colonel townley. "i will see my _friends_. i don't think you will introduce a hanoverian, diggles." "you may trust me, colonel," said the landlord. "no whig shall enter here." after another glass of wine, colonel townley said to the baronet-- "now, sir richard, let us to business. i hope you bring us some recruits. we are terribly in want of them." "i am surprised to hear that," replied sir richard; "and i regret that i cannot supply your need. all my tenants refuse to go out. 'tis to explain this difficulty that i have come to manchester. money i can promise his royal highness, but not men." "well, money will be extremely useful to him. how much may i venture to tell him you will furnish?" "a thousand pounds," replied sir richard. "i have brought it with me. here 'tis," he added, giving him a pocket-book. "by my faith, this is very handsome, sir richard, and i am sure the prince will be much beholden to you. i am about to join him at lancaster, and i will place the money in the hands of his treasurer, mr. murray. if every jacobite gentleman in cheshire would contribute a like sum his royal highness would not lack funds." both dr. byrom and dr. deacon expressed their sense of the baronet's liberality. "i am amazed by what you just stated about your want of recruits," said sir richard. "i understood that some thousands had been enrolled in manchester." significant looks passed between the others, and colonel townley shrugged his shoulders. "i am sorry to be obliged to undeceive you, sir richard," he said. "the enrolment has proceeded very badly." "but you have the leading merchants with you. they are all pledged to the house of stuart." "they are indifferent to their pledges." "zounds!" exclaimed sir richard. "i was wholly unprepared for this. at all the jacobite meetings i have attended, the boldest talkers were your manchester merchants. how many campaigns have they fought over the bottle! but are there no young men in the town who will rally round the prince's standard?" "plenty, i am sure, sir richard," replied dr. deacon. "when the drum is beaten, numbers will answer to the call." "better they should enrol themselves beforehand, so that we might know on whom we can count. you have so much influence, dr. deacon, that you ought to be able to raise a regiment yourself. your sons might lend you aid. they must have many friends." "theodore deacon has already found me a fine young fellow, whom i should like to make an officer," observed colonel townley. "ah! who may that be?" "you will be little the wiser when i mention his name, sir richard. 'tis atherton legh." "atherton legh. is he of a lancashire family?" "i am unable to answer that question, sir richard. in fact, there is a mystery about him. but he is a gentleman born, i'm certain. you would say so yourself were you to see him. ah! the opportunity offers--here he is." as he spoke the door was opened, and the young man in question was ushered in by the landlord. chapter v. introduces our hero. atherton legh had a fine, open, intelligent countenance, clear grey eyes, classically moulded features, a fresh complexion, and a tall graceful figure. his manner was frank and prepossessing. his habiliments were plain, but became him well, and in lieu of a peruke, he wore his own long, flowing, brown locks. his age might be about one-and-twenty. such was the tall, handsome young man who stood before the company, and it may be added that he displayed no embarrassment, though he felt that a scrutinising look was fixed upon him by the baronet. "was i not right, sir richard?" whispered colonel townley. "has he not the air of a gentleman?" the baronet assented; adding in an undertone, "tell me, in a word, who and what he is?" "i have already stated that a mystery attaches to his birth, and so carefully is the secret kept, that, although he has a guardian who supplies him with funds, he is not even acquainted with his guardian's name." "strange!" exclaimed the baronet. "shall i present him to you, sir richard?" "by all means," was the reply. colonel townley then went up to the young man, shook hands with him, and after a little talk, brought him to sir richard, who rose on his approach, and received him very graciously. but though the baronet's manner was exceedingly courteous, atherton felt unaccountably repelled. sir richard's features seemed familiar to him, but he could not call to mind where he had seen him. "i hope you have come to signify to colonel townley your adhesion to the cause of king james the third?" remarked sir richard. "yes, yes, he means to join us," cried colonel townley, hastily. "i am enchanted to see him. say that you will belong to the manchester regiment, mr. atherton legh--say the word before these gentlemen--and i engage that you shall have a commission." "you are too good, sir," said the young man. "not at all," cried the colonel. "i could not do his royal highness a greater service than to bring him such a fine young fellow." "i shall seem but ill to repay your kindness, colonel," said atherton, "when i decline the honourable post you offer me. i would serve in the ranks were i a free agent. you are aware that i have a guardian, whom i feel bound to obey as a father. since you spoke to me this morning i have received a letter from him, peremptorily forbidding me to join the prince. after this interdiction, which i dare not disobey, i am compelled to withdraw the half promise i gave you." "were i in colonel townley's place i should claim fulfilment of the promise," observed sir richard. "as a man of honour you cannot retract." "nay, i must say mr. atherton legh did not absolutely pledge himself," said colonel townley; "and he is perfectly at liberty, therefore, to withdraw if he deems proper. but i hope he will reconsider his decision. i shall be truly sorry to lose him. what is your opinion of the matter, sir?" he added, appealing to dr. deacon. "is mr. atherton legh bound to obey his guardian's injunctions?" "assuredly not," replied the doctor, emphatically. "duty to a sovereign is paramount to every other consideration. a guardian has no right to impose such restraint upon a ward. his authority does not extend so far." "but he may have the power to stop his ward's allowance, if his authority be set at defiance," remarked dr. byrom. "therefore, i think mr. atherton legh is acting very prudently." "my opinion is not asked, but i will venture to offer it," observed sir richard. "were i in mr. atherton legh's place, i would run the risk of offending my guardian, and join the prince." "i am inclined to follow your counsel, sir richard," cried the young man. "no, no--you shall not, my dear fellow," interposed colonel townley. "much as i desire to have you with me, you shall not be incited to take a step you may hereafter repent. weigh the matter over. when i return to manchester you can decide. something may happen in the interim." atherton bowed, and was about to retire, when sir richard stopped him. "i should like to have a little talk to you, mr. atherton legh," he said, "and shall be glad if you will call upon me to-morrow at noon. i am staying at this inn." "i will do myself the honour of waiting upon you, sir richard," replied the young man. "i ought to mention that my daughter is with me, and she is an ardent jacobite," remarked sir richard. "if i have miss rawcliffe's assistance, i foresee what will happen," remarked colonel townley, with a laugh. "her arguments are sure to prove irresistible. i consider you already enrolled. au revoir!" chapter vi. advice. atherton legh had quitted the inn, and was lingering in the market-place, not altogether satisfied with himself, when dr. byrom came forth and joined him. "our road lies in the same direction," said the doctor. "shall we walk together?" "by all means, sir," replied the young man. it was a beautiful night, calm and clear, and the moon shone brightly on the tower of the collegiate church, in the vicinity of which dr. byrom resided. "how peaceful the town looks to-night," observed byrom. "but in a few days all will be tumult and confusion." "i do not think any resistance will be offered to the insurgents, sir," replied atherton; "and luckily the militia is disbanded, though i believe a few shots would have dispersed them had they attempted to show fight." "no, there will be no serious fighting," said byrom. "manchester will surrender at discretion. i don't think the prince will remain here long. he will raise as many recruits as he can, and then march on. i have no right to give you advice, young sir, but i speak to you as i would to my own son. you have promised to call upon sir richard rawcliffe to-morrow, and i suppose you will be as good as your word." "of course." "then take care you are not persuaded to disobey your guardian. there is a danger you do not apprehend, and i must guard you against it. miss rawcliffe is exceedingly beautiful, and very captivating--at least, so i have been informed, for i have never seen her. her father has told you she is an ardent jacobite. as such she will deem it her duty to win you over to the good cause, and she will infallibly succeed. very few of us are proof against the fascinations of a young and lovely woman. though sir richard might not prevail, his daughter will." "i must go prepared to resist her," replied atherton, laughing. "you miscalculate your strength, young man," said byrom, gravely. "better not expose yourself to temptation." "nay, i must go," said atherton. "but i should like to know something about sir richard rawcliffe. has he a son?" "only one child--a daughter. besides being very beautiful, as i have just described her, constance rawcliffe will be a great heiress." "and after saying all this, you expect me to throw away the chance of meeting so charming a person. but don't imagine i am presumptuous enough to aspire to a wealthy heiress. i shall come away heart-whole, and bound by no pledges stronger than those i have already given." "we shall see," replied dr. byrom, in a tone that implied considerable doubt. they had now arrived at the door of the doctor's residence--a tolerably large, comfortable-looking house, built of red brick, in the plain, formal style of the period. before parting with his young companion, dr. byrom thought it necessary to give him a few more words of counsel. "it may appear impertinent in me to meddle in your affairs," he said; "but believe that i am influenced by the best feelings. you are peculiarly circumstanced. you have no father--no near relative to guide you. an error now may be irretrievable. pray consult me before you make any pledge to sir richard rawcliffe, or to dr. deacon." there was so much paternal kindness in his manner that atherton could not fail to be touched by it. "i will consult you, sir," he said, in a grateful tone; "and i thank you deeply for the interest you take in me." "enough," replied dr. byrom. "i shall hope to see you soon again. give me your impressions of constance rawcliffe." he then bade the young man good-night, rang the door bell, and entered the house. chapter vii. rencounter near the old town cross. a path led across the south side of the large churchyard surrounding the collegiate church, and on quitting dr. byrom, atherton took his way along it, marching past the old gravestones, and ever and anon glancing at the venerable pile, which, being completely lighted up by the moonbeams, presented a very striking appearance. so bright was the moonlight that the crocketed pinnacles and grotesque gargoyles could have been counted. the young man was filled with admiration of the picture. on reaching the western boundary of the churchyard, he paused to gaze at the massive tower, and having contemplated its beauties for a few minutes, he proceeded towards salford bridge. it has already been stated that this was the oldest and most picturesque part of the town. all the habitations were of timber and plaster, painted black and white, and those immediately adjoining the collegiate church on the west were built on a precipitous rock overlooking the irwell. wherever a view could be obtained of the river, through any opening among these ancient houses--many of which were detached--a very charming scene was presented to the beholder. the river here made a wide bend, and as it swept past the high rocky bank, and flowed on towards the narrow pointed arches of the old bridge, its course was followed with delight, glittering as it then did in the moonbeams. the old bridge itself was a singular structure, and some of the old houses on the opposite side of the river vied in picturesque beauty with those near the church. atherton was enraptured with the scene. he had made his way to the very edge of the steep rocky bank, so that nothing interfered with the prospect. though the hour was by no means late--the old church clock had only just struck ten--the inhabitants of that quarter of the town seemed to have retired to rest. all was so tranquil that the rushing of the water through the arches of the bridge could be distinctly heard. soothed by the calmness which acted as a balm upon his somewhat over-excited feelings, the young man fell into a reverie, during which a very charming vision flitted before him. the description given him of the lovely constance rawcliffe had powerfully affected his imagination. she seemed to be the ideal of feminine beauty which he had sought, but never found. he painted her even in brighter colours than she had been described by dr. byrom, and with all the romantic folly of a young man was prepared to fall madly in love with her--provided only she deigned to cast the slightest smile upon him. having conjured up this exquisite phantom, and invested it with charms that very likely had no existence, he was soon compelled to dismiss it, and return to actual life. it was time to go home, and good widow heywood, with whom he lodged, would wonder why he stopped out so late. heaving a sigh, with which such idle dreams as he had indulged generally end, he left the post of vantage he had occupied, and, with the design of proceeding to deansgate, tracked a narrow alley that quickly brought him to smithy bank. the latter thoroughfare led to the bridge. lower down, but not far from the point of junction with deansgate, stood the old town cross. hitherto the young man had not seen a single individual in the streets since he left the bull's head, and it therefore rather surprised him to perceive a small group of persons standing near the cross, to which allusion has just been made. two damsels, evidently from their attire of the higher rank, attended by a young gentleman and a man-servant--the latter being stationed at a respectful distance from the others--were talking to a well-mounted horseman, in whom atherton had no difficulty in recognising colonel townley. no doubt the colonel had started on his journey to lancaster. with him was a groom, who, like his master, was well mounted and well armed. even at that distance, atherton remarked that colonel townley's manner was extremely deferential to the young ladies--especially towards the one with whom he was conversing. he bent low in the saddle, and appeared to be listening with deep interest and attention to what she said. both this damsel and her fair companion were so muffled up that atherton could not discern their features, but he persuaded himself they must be good-looking. a fine shape cannot easily be disguised, and both had symmetrical figures, while the sound of their voices was musical and pleasant. atherton was slowly passing on his way, which brought him somewhat nearer the group, when colonel townley caught sight of him, and immediately hailed him. by no means sorry to have a nearer view of the mysterious fair ones, the young man readily responded to the summons, but if he expected an introduction to the damsels he was disappointed. before he came up, it was evident that the colonel had been told that this was not to be, and he carefully obeyed orders. the young lady who had especially attracted atherton's attention proved to be very handsome, for, though he could not obtain a full view of her face, he saw enough to satisfy him she had delicately formed features, magnificent black eyes, and black tresses. these splendid black eyes were steadily fixed upon him for a few moments, as if she was reading his character; and after the rapid inspection, she turned to colonel townley, and made some remark to him in a whisper. without tarrying any longer, she then signed to her companions, and they all three moved off, followed by the manservant, leaving atherton quite bewildered. the party walked so rapidly that they were almost instantly out of sight. "if it is not impertinent on my part, may i ask who those young ladies are?" inquired atherton. "i am not allowed to tell you, my dear fellow," replied the colonel, slightly laughing. "but i dare say you will meet them again." "i must not even ask if they live in manchester, i suppose?" "i cannot satisfy your curiosity in any particular. i meant to present you to them, but i was forbidden. i may, however, tell you that the young lady nearest me made a flattering observation respecting you." "that is something, from so charming a girl." "then you discovered that she is beautiful!" "i never beheld such fine eyes." colonel townley laughed heartily. "take care of yourself, my dear boy--take care of yourself," he said. "those eyes have already done wonderful execution." "one question more, colonel, and i have done. are they sisters?" "well, i may answer that. they are not. i thought you must have known the young man who was with them." "i fancied he was jemmy dawson. but i own i did not pay much attention to him." "you were engrossed by one object. it was jemmy dawson. he is to be one of my officers, and i feel very proud of him, as i shall be of another gallant youth whom i count upon. but i must loiter no longer here. i shall ride to preston to-night, and proceed to-morrow to lancaster. fail not to keep your appointment with sir richard rawcliffe. you will see his daughter, who will put this fair unknown out of your head." "i scarcely think so," replied atherton. "well, i shall learn all about it on my return. adieu!" with this, the colonel struck spurs into his horse and rode quickly across the bridge, followed by his groom, while atherton, whose thoughts had been entirely changed within the last ten minutes, proceeded towards his lodgings in deansgate. chapter viii. beppy byrom. next morning, in the drawing-room of a comfortable house, situated near the collegiate church, and commanding from its windows a view of that venerable fabric, a family party, consisting of four persons--two ladies and two gentlemen--had assembled after breakfast. elegantly furnished in the taste of the time, the room was fitted up with japanned cabinets and numerous small brackets, on which china ware and other ornaments were placed. a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a large folding indian screen was partly drawn round the work-table, beside which the two ladies sat. the gentlemen were standing near the fireplace. the mistress of the house, though no longer young, as will be guessed when we mention that her daughter was turned twenty-one, while her son was some two or three years older, still retained considerable personal attractions, and had a most agreeable expression of countenance. we may as well state at once, that this lady, who had made the best helpmate possible to the best of husbands, was the wife of our worthy friend dr. byrom, who had every reason to congratulate himself, as he constantly did, on the possession of such a treasure. very pretty, and very lively, was the younger lady--elizabeth byrom--beppy as she was familiarly called. we despair of giving an idea of her features, but her eyes were bright and blue, her complexion like a damask rose, her nose slightly retroussé, and her teeth like pearls. when she laughed, her cheek displayed the prettiest dimple imaginable. her light-brown locks were taken from the brow, and raised to a considerable height, but there were no artificial tresses among them. her costume suited her extremely well--her gown being of grey silk, looped round the body; and she wore a hoop petticoat--as every other girl did at the time who had any pretension to fashion. beppy was not a coquette--far from it--but she tried to please; nor was she vain of her figure, yet she liked to dress becomingly. accomplished she was, undoubtedly; sang well, and played on the spinet; but she was useful as well as ornamental, and did a great many things in the house, which no girl of our own period would condescend to undertake. with much gaiety of manner, a keen sense of the ridiculous, and a turn for satire, beppy never said an ill-natured thing. in short, she was a very charming girl, and the wonder was, with so many agreeable qualities, that she should have remained single. our description would be incomplete if we omitted to state that she was an ardent jacobite. her brother, edward, resembled his father, and was gentleman-like in appearance and manner. he wore a suit of light blue, with silver buttons, and a flaxen-coloured peruke, which gave him a gay look, but in reality he was very sedate. there was nothing of the coxcomb about edward byrom. nor was he of an enthusiastic temperament. like all the members of his family, he was well inclined towards the house of stuart, but he was not disposed to make any sacrifice, or incur any personal risk for its restoration to the throne. edward byrom was tall, well-made, and passably good-looking. mrs. byrom was dressed in green flowered silk, which suited her: wore powder in her hair, which also suited her, and a hoop petticoat, but we will not say whether the latter suited her or not. her husband thought it did, and he was the best judge. "well, papa," cried beppy, looking up at him from her work, "what do you mean to do to-day?" "i have a good deal to do," replied dr. byrom. "in the first place i shall pay a visit to tom syddall, the barber." "i like tom syddall because he is a jacobite, and because his father suffered for the good cause," said beppy. "though a barber is the least heroic of mortals, tom syddall always appears to me a sort of hero, with a pair of scissors and a powder-puff for weapons." "he has thrown dust in your eyes, beppy," said the doctor. "he has vowed to avenge his father. is not that creditable to him, papa?" "yes, he is a brave fellow, no doubt. i only hope he mayn't share his father's fate. i shall endeavour to persuade him to keep quiet." "is it quite certain the prince will come to manchester?" asked mrs. byrom, anxiously. "he will be here in two or three days at the latest with his army. but don't alarm yourself, my love." "oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "i think we had better leave the town." "you are needlessly afraid, mamma," cried beppy. "i am not frightened in the least. it may be prudent in some people to get out of the way; but depend upon it _we_ shan't be molested. papa's opinions are too well known. i wouldn't for the world miss seeing the prince. i dare say we shall all be presented to him." "you talk of the prince as if he had already arrived, beppy," observed edward byrom, gravely. "after all, he may never reach manchester." "you hope he won't come," cried his sister. "you are a hanoverian, teddy, and don't belong to us." "'tis because i wish the prince well that i hope he mayn't come," said teddy. "the wisest thing he could do would be to retreat." "i disown you, sir," cried the young lady. "the prince will never retreat, unless compelled, and success has hitherto attended him." "are you aware that the townspeople of liverpool have raised a regiment seven hundred strong?" "for the prince?" "for king george. chester, also, has been put into a state of defence against the insurgents, though there are many roman catholic families in the city." "i won't be discouraged," said beppy. "i am certain the right will triumph. what do you think, papa?" dr. byrom made no response to this appeal. "your papa has great misgivings, my dear," observed mrs. byrom; "and so have i. i should most heartily rejoice if the danger that threatens us could be averted. rebellion is a dreadful thing. we must take no part in this contest. how miserable i should have been if your brother had joined the insurgents!" "happily, teddy has more discretion," said dr. byrom, casting an approving look at his son. "some of our friends, i fear, will rue the consequences of their folly. jemmy dawson has joined the manchester regiment, and of course dr. deacon's three sons are to be enrolled in it." "were i a man i would join likewise," cried beppy. "my dear!" exclaimed her mother, half reproachfully. "forgive me if i have hurt your feelings, dearest mamma," said beppy, getting up and kissing her. "you know i would do nothing to displease you." "jemmy dawson will incur his father's anger by the step he has taken," remarked edward byrom. "but powerful influence has been brought to bear upon him. a young lady, quite as enthusiastic a jacobite as you are, beppy, to whom he is attached, has done the mischief." "indeed! i should like to know who she is?" said his sister. "nay, you must not question me. you will learn the secret in due time, i make no doubt." "i have guessed it already," said beppy. "'tis monica butler. i have seen jemmy with her. she is just the girl who could induce him to join the insurrection, for she is heart and soul in the cause." "you are right. monica butler is jemmy's fair enslaver. his assent was to be the price of her hand. i believe they are affianced." "i hope the engagement will end well, but it does not commence auspiciously," said dr. byrom. "their creeds are different. monica is a roman catholic--at least, i conclude so, since her mother belongs to that religion." "mrs. butler is a widow, i believe?" remarked mrs. byrom. "she is widow of captain butler, and sister of sir richard rawcliffe. consequently, monica is cousin to the beautiful constance rawcliffe. though so well connected, mrs. butler is far from rich, and lives in great privacy, as you know, in salford. she is very proud of her ancient descent, and i almost wonder she consented to monica's engagement to young dawson. by-the-bye, sir richard rawcliffe and his daughter are now in manchester, and are staying at the bull's head. i met sir richard last night. he is very anxious to obtain recruits for the prince, and tried hard to enlist atherton legh. the young man resisted, but he will have to go through a different ordeal to-day, for he will be exposed to the fascinations of the fair constance. i shall be curious to learn the result." "so shall i," said beppy, with some vivacity. "do you take any interest in the young man?" asked her father. "i think him very handsome," she replied, blushing. "and i think he would be a very great acquisition to the prince. but it would certainly be a pity----" "that so handsome a young fellow should be executed as a rebel," supplied the father. "i quite agree with you, beppy, and i therefore hope he will remain firm." chapter ix. the two curates of st. ann's. just then a female servant ushered in two young divines, both of them assistant curates of st. ann's--the rev. thomas lewthwaite and the rev. benjamin nichols. mr. hoole, the rector of st. ann's, was inclined to nonjuring principles, which he had imbibed from dr. deacon, and was very popular with the high church party, but his curates were whigs, and belonged to the low church, and had both preached against rebellion. mr. lewthwaite was a suitor to beppy, but she did not give him much encouragement, and, indeed, rather laughed at him. both the reverend gentlemen looked rather grave, and gave a description of the state of the town that brought back all mrs. byrom's alarms. "an express has just come in," said mr. lewthwaite, "bringing word that the rebels have reached lancaster, and that marshal wade has turned back to newcastle. the rebel force is estimated at seven thousand men, but other accounts affirm that it now amounts to thirty thousand and upwards." "i hope the latter accounts are correct," observed beppy. "we shall certainly have the pretender here in a couple of days," pursued the curate. "pray don't call him the pretender, sir," cried beppy. "speak of him with proper respect as prince charles edward." "i can't do that," said mr. lewthwaite, "being a loyal subject of king george." "whom some people regard as a usurper," muttered beppy. "the news has thrown the whole town into consternation," said mr. nichols. "everybody is preparing for flight. almost all the warehouses are closed. half the shops are shut, and as mr. lewthwaite and myself passed through the square just now, we didn't see half a dozen persons. before night the place will be empty. "well, we shan't go," said beppy. "the earl of warrington has sent away all his plate," pursued mr. nichols. "i have very little plate to send away," observed dr. byrom. "besides, i am not afraid of being plundered." "you may not feel quite so secure, sir, when i tell you that the magistrates have thrown open the doors of the house of correction," said mr. nichols. "very considerate of them, indeed," said dr. byrom. "the townspeople will appreciate their attention. have you any more agreeable intelligence?" "yes; the postmaster has started for london this morning to stop any further remittances from the bankers, lest the money should fall into the hands of the rebels." "that looks as if the authorities were becoming really alarmed," observed edward byrom. "they are rather late in bestirring themselves," said mr. nichols. "the boroughreeve and constables have learnt that a good deal of unlawful recruiting for the pretender has been going on under their very noses, and are determined to put an end to it. colonel townley would have been arrested last night if he had not saved himself by a hasty departure. but i understand that an important arrest will be made this morning." "an arrest!--of whom?" inquired dr. byrom, uneasily. "i can't tell you precisely, sir," replied mr. nichols. "but the person is a jacobite gentleman of some consequence, who has only just arrived in manchester." "it must be sir richard rawcliffe," mentally ejaculated dr. byrom. "i must warn him of his danger without delay. excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "i have just recollected an appointment. i fear i shall be rather late." and he was hurrying out of the room, but before he could reach the door, it was opened by the servant, and atherton legh came in. under the circumstances the interruption was vexatious, but quickly recovering from the confusion into which he was thrown, the doctor exclaimed, "you are the person i wanted to see." seizing the young man's arm, he led him to a small adjoining room that served as a study. "you will think my conduct strange," he said, "but there is no time for explanation. will you take a message from me to sir richard rawcliffe?" "willingly," replied atherton, "i was going to him after i had said a few words to you." "our conference must be postponed," said the doctor. he then sat down and tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper, directed and sealed the note, and gave it to atherton. "take this to sir richard, without loss of time," he said. "you will render him an important service." "i shall be very glad to serve him," replied the young man. "but may i not know the nature of my mission?" "be satisfied that it is important," said the doctor. "i shall see you again later on. perhaps sir richard may have a message to send to me." dr. byrom then conducted the young man to the hall-door, and let him out himself; after which he returned to the study, not caring to go back to the drawing-room. great was beppy's disappointment that atherton was carried off so suddenly by her father; but she had some suspicion of the truth. as to the two curates, they thought the doctor's conduct rather singular, but forebore to make any remarks. chapter x. constance rawcliffe. on quitting dr. byrom's house, atherton proceeded quickly along old mill gate towards the market-place. this street, one of the oldest and busiest in the town, presented a very unwonted appearance--several of the shops being shut, while carts half-filled with goods were standing at the doors, showing that the owners were removing their property. very little business seemed to be going on, and there were some symptoms of a disturbance, for a band of rough-looking fellows, armed with bludgeons, was marching along the street, and pushing decent people from the narrow footway. in the market-place several groups were collected, eagerly discussing the news; and at the doors of the exchange, then newly erected, a few merchants were assembled, but they all had an anxious look, and did not seem to be engaged on business. except the exchange, to which we have just adverted, there was not a modern building near the market-place. all the habitations were old, and constructed of timber and plaster. in the midst of these, on the left, stood the bull's head. the old inn ran back to a considerable distance, and possessed a court-yard large enough to hold three or four post-chaises and an occasional stage-coach. entering the court-yard, atherton sought out diggles, the landlord, and inquired for sir richard rawcliffe, but, to his great disappointment, learnt that the baronet had just gone out. "that is unlucky," cried the young man. "i have an important communication for him." "he will be back presently," said the landlord. "but perhaps miss rawcliffe will see you. she is within. her cousin, miss butler, is with her." atherton assented to this proposition, and was conducted by the host to a room on the first floor, and evidently situated in the front part of the house. tapping at the door diggles went in, and almost immediately returned to say that miss rawcliffe would be happy to receive mr. atherton legh. atherton was then ushered into the presence of two young ladies--one of whom rose on his appearance and received him very courteously. could he believe his eyes? yes! it must be the fair creature he had seen on the previous night, who had made such a powerful impression upon him. but if he had thought her beautiful then, how much more exquisite did she appear now that her charming features could be fully distinguished. while bowing to the other young lady, whose name he had learnt from the landlord, he felt equally sure that she had been miss rawcliffe's companion on the previous night. monica butler offered a strong contrast to her cousin--the one being a brunette and the other a blonde. but each was charming in her way--each set off the other. constance's eyes were dark as night, and her tresses of corresponding hue; while monica's eyes were tender and blue as a summer sky, and her locks fleecy as a summer cloud. "i see you recognise us, mr. atherton legh," said miss rawcliffe, smiling. "it would be useless, therefore, to attempt any disguise. my cousin, monica butler, and myself were talking to colonel townley when you came up last night. he would fain have presented you to us, but i would not allow him, for i did not think it quite proper that an introduction should take place under such peculiar circumstances. as you may naturally wonder why two young damsels should be abroad so late, i will explain. wishing to have monica's company during my stay at this inn, i went to fetch her, escorted by your friend jemmy dawson. as we were coming back, we accidentally encountered colonel townley near the cross. all the rest you know." "i am very agreeably surprised," said atherton. "i have been dying to know who you both were, for colonel townley refused to gratify my curiosity." "i am glad to find he obeyed my orders," observed miss rawcliffe, smiling. "at that time i did not imagine i should ever see you again. but this morning papa told me he had made an appointment with you at noon. i ought to apologise for his absence--but you are rather before your time." "'tis i who ought to apologise," said atherton. "but i am the bearer of a note to sir richard," he added, handing it to her. "'tis from dr. byrom, and i believe it contains matter of urgent importance. at all events, dr. byrom requested me to deliver it without delay." "i hope it contains good news," said constance. "pray take a seat. you must please to await papa's return. he much wishes to see you; and i may tell you he hopes to induce you to join the prince's army. we are all ardent jacobites, as you know, and anxious to obtain recruits. if i had any influence with you i would urge you to enrol yourself in colonel townley's regiment. jemmy dawson has just joined. why not follow his example?" "i have already explained to colonel townley why it is impossible for me to comply with his request." "your reasons have been mentioned to me, but i confess i do not see their force. jemmy dawson has not been swayed by such feelings, but has risked his father's displeasure to serve the prince. he did not hesitate when told that a young lady's hand would be the reward of his compliance with her request." "till this moment i did not know why jemmy had joined, having heard him express indifference to the cause. may i venture to ask the name of the fair temptress?" "excuse me. you will learn the secret in due time." "he shall learn it now," interposed monica. "i do not blush to own that i am the temptress. i am proud of my jemmy's devotion--proud, also, of having gained the prince so important a recruit." "you may well be proud of jemmy, monica," said constance. "he has many noble qualities and cannot fail to distinguish himself." "he is as brave as he is gentle," said monica--"a veritable preux et hardi chevalier, and will live or die like a hero." "you are an enthusiastic girl," said constance. "in my place you would be just as enthusiastic, constance," rejoined the other. atherton listened with a beating heart to this discourse, which was well calculated to stir his feelings. just then, however, an interruption was offered by the entrance of sir richard rawcliffe. "very glad to see you, sir," cried the baronet, shaking hands with atherton. "i perceive you have already made the acquaintance of my daughter and her cousin, miss butler, so i needn't introduce you. are you aware that my niece is engaged to your friend, jemmy dawson?" "yes, mr. atherton legh knows all about it, papa," said constance. "he has brought you a letter from dr. byrom," she added, giving it to him. "excuse me," said sir richard, opening the note. as he hastily scanned its contents, his countenance fell. "has something gone wrong, papa?" cried constance, uneasily. "i am threatened with arrest for treasonable practices," replied sir richard. "dr. byrom counsels immediate flight, or concealment. but where am i to fly?--where conceal myself?" he added, looking quite bewildered. "you had better leave the inn at once, papa," said constance, who, though greatly alarmed, had not lost her presence of mind. at this moment, a noise was heard outside that increased the uneasiness of the party. chapter xi. the boroughreeve of manchester. situated in the front of the house, the room commanded the market-place. atherton rushed to the window to ascertain what was taking place, and was followed by the baronet. "do not show yourself, sir richard," cried the young man, motioning him to keep back. "the chief magistrates are outside--mr. fielden, the boroughreeve, and mr. walley and mr. fowden, the constables. they have a posse of peace-officers with them." "they are come to arrest me!" exclaimed sir richard. "save yourself, papa!--save yourself!" cried constance. "not a moment is to be lost." her exhortations were seconded by monica and atherton, but sir richard did not move, and looked quite stupefied. "'tis too late!" cried atherton. "i hear them on the stairs." as he spoke the door burst open, and diggles rushed in--his looks betokening great alarm. "the magistrates are here, sir richard, and their purpose is to arrest you. flight is impossible. every exit from the house is guarded. i could not warn you before." "if you have any letters or papers that might compromise you, papa, give them to me," said constance. sir richard hesitated for a moment, and then produced a packet, saying, as he gave it to her, "i confide this to you. take every care of it." she had just concealed the packet when the magistrates entered the room. the officers who followed them stationed themselves outside the door. mr. john fielden, the boroughreeve, who preceded the two constables, was a man of very gentleman-like appearance and deportment. after saluting the baronet, who advanced a few steps to meet him, he said, in accents that were not devoid of sympathy-- "i have a very unpleasant duty to discharge, sir richard, but i must fulfil it. in the king's name i arrest you for treasonable practices." "of what treasonable practices am i accused, sir?" demanded the baronet, who had now gained his composure. "you are charged with wickedly and traitorously conspiring to change and subvert the rule and government of this kingdom; with seeking to depose our sovereign lord the king of his title, honour, and royal state; and with seeking to raise and exalt the person pretending to be, and taking upon himself the style and title of king of england, by the name of james the third, to the imperial rule and government of this kingdom." "what more, sir?" said sir richard. "you are charged with falsely and traitorously inciting certain of his majesty's faithful subjects to rebellion; and with striving to raise recruits for the son of the popish pretender to the throne, who is now waging war against his majesty king george the second." "i deny the charges," rejoined the baronet, sternly. "i trust you can disprove them, sir richard," said the boroughreeve. "to-morrow your examination will take place, and, in the meantime, you will be lodged in the old bailey." "lodged in a prison!" exclaimed constance, indignantly. "it must be," said the boroughreeve. "i have no option. but i promise you sir richard shall undergo no hardship. his imprisonment, i hope, may be brief." "i thank you for your consideration, sir," said the baronet. "may i be allowed a few minutes to prepare?" "i am sorry i cannot grant the request, sir richard." "then farewell, my dear child!--farewell, monica!" cried the baronet, tenderly embracing them. "my captivity will not be long," he added, in a low voice to his daughter. "i shall be set at liberty on the prince's arrival--if not before." constance maintained a show of firmness which she did not feel, but monica was much moved, and could not repress her tears. after bidding adieu to atherton, sir richard signified to the boroughreeve that he was ready to attend him, and passed out. as he did so, the officers took charge of him, and the door was shut. constance's courage then entirely forsook her, and uttering a cry, she sank into a chair. monica strove to comfort her--but in vain. "i shall go distracted," she cried. "i cannot bear the thought that papa should be imprisoned." "make yourself easy on that score, miss rawcliffe," said atherton. "imprisoned he shall not be. i will undertake to rescue him." "you!" she exclaimed, gazing at him through her streaming eyes. "if you could save him this indignity, i should be for ever beholden to you. but no!--you must not attempt it. the risk is too great." "i care not for the risk," cried atherton. "i will do it. you shall soon learn that your father is free." and he rushed out of the room. "a brave young man," cried monica. "he has all my jemmy's spirit. i feel sure he will accomplish what he has undertaken." "i hope no harm will befall him," said constance. shortly afterwards a great disturbance was heard in the market-place, and flying to the windows, they witnessed a very exciting scene. chapter xii. the rescue. the visit of the boroughreeve and constables to the bull's head attracted a considerable crowd to the market-place--it being rumoured that the magistrates were about to arrest an important jacobite gentleman. a political arrest at this juncture, when the town was in such an inflamed state, seemed to most persons, whatever their opinions might be, an exceedingly ill-advised step, and the magistrates were much blamed for taking it. murmurs were heard, and some manifestations of sympathy with the luckless jacobite would undoubtedly have been made by the assemblage had they not been kept in awe by the strong body of constables drawn up in front of the inn. as might be expected, the lower orders predominated in the concourse, but there were some persons of a superior class present, who had been brought thither by curiosity. the crowd momently increased, until the market-place, which was not very spacious, was more than half full, while the disposition to tumult became more apparent as the numbers grew. at length a large old-fashioned coach was seen to issue from the entrance of the court-yard, and it was at once conjectured that the prisoner was inside the vehicle, from the fact that a constable was seated on the box beside the coachman, while half a dozen officers marched in front, to clear a passage through the throng. but this could not be accomplished without the liberal use of staves, and the progress of the coach was necessarily slow. groans, hootings, and angry exclamations arose from the crowd, but these were directed against the constables and not at the prisoner, who could be seen through the windows of the coach. sir richard was recognised by some of the nearest spectators, and his name being called out to those further off, it speedily became known to the whole assemblage, and the noise increased. at this moment atherton legh rushed from the door of the inn and shouted in a loud voice, "a rescue!--a rescue!" the cry thus raised was echoed by a hundred voices, and in another minute all was confusion. "a rescue!--a rescue!" resounded on all sides. the coachman tried to extricate himself from the throng, but the heads of the horses being seized, he could not move on. the constables endeavoured to get near the coach, as well to guard the prisoner as to protect the magistrates, who were inside the roomy vehicle with him. but atherton, who was remarkably athletic, snatched a truncheon from one of them, and laying about him vigorously with this weapon, and being supported by the crowd, soon forced his way to the door, and was about to pull it open, when the boroughreeve thrust his head through the window, and called out to him to forbear. "beware how you violate the law, young man," cried mr. fielden, in a firm and authoritative voice, that showed he was not daunted. "you must be aware that in constituting yourself the leader of a riotous mob, and attempting to rescue a prisoner, you are committing a very grave offence. desist, while there is yet time. you are known to me and my brother magistrates." "we do not intend you any personal injury, mr. fielden--nor do we mean to injure your brother magistrates," rejoined atherton, resolutely. "but we are determined to liberate sir richard rawcliffe. set him free, and there will be an end to the disturbance. you must plainly perceive, sir, that resistance would be useless." while this was going on, the band of desperadoes, already alluded to, had hurried back to the market-place, and now came up flourishing their bludgeons, and shouting, "down with the presbyterians!" "down with the hanoverians!" and some of them even went so far as to add "down with king george!" these shouts were echoed by the greater part of the concourse, which had now become very turbulent and excited. mr. fielden called to the constables to keep back the mob, and move on, but the officers were utterly powerless to obey him. if a riot commenced, there was no saying where it would end; so, addressing a final remonstrance to atherton, which proved as ineffectual as all he had said before, the boroughreeve withdrew from the window. atherton then opened the coach door, and told sir richard, who had been anxiously watching the course of events, that he was free. on this the baronet arose, and bade a polite adieu to the magistrates, who made no attempt to prevent his departure. as sir richard came forth and stood for a short space on the step of the carriage, so that he could be seen by all the assemblage, a deafening and triumphant shout arose. "i thank you, my good friends, for delivering me," vociferated the baronet. "i have been illegally arrested. i am guilty of no crime. god bless the king!" "which king?" cried several voices, amid loud laughter and applause. "choose for yourselves!" responded sir richard. "you have rendered me a great service; but if you would serve me still more, and also serve the good cause which i represent, you will retire quietly. bide your time. 'twill soon come." this short harangue was greeted by a loud cheer, amid which the baronet descended, and shook hands heartily with atherton, who was standing near him. "i owe my deliverance to you," he said; "and be sure i shall ever feel grateful." just then a rush was made towards them by the constables, who were, however, kept back by the crowd. "meddle not with us, and we won't meddle with you," cried atherton. prudently acting upon the advice, the constables kept quiet. every facility for escape was afforded sir richard by the concourse. a narrow lane was opened for him, through which he passed, accompanied by atherton. without pausing to consider whither they were going, they hurried on, till they reached smithy doer--a narrow street, so designated, and leading from the bottom of the market-place, in the direction of salford bridge. feeling secure, they then stopped to hold a brief consultation. "it won't do for me to return to the inn," observed sir richard. "nor is it necessary i should return thither. my daughter and her cousin are in no danger, and i shall easily find some means of communicating with them. they will know i am safe." "were i able to do so, i would gladly take a message from you to miss rawcliffe, sir richard," said atherton. "but i am now in as much danger as yourself. i am known to the magistrates, and they will certainly send the officers in search of me." "you shall run no more risk on my account," said sir richard. "my daughter is so courageous that she will feel no alarm when she learns i have escaped. you must find a hiding-place till the prince arrives in manchester, and then all will be right. if i could procure a horse, i would ride on to preston. i have a couple of hunters in the stables at the bull's head, but they are useless to me now." as he spoke, a young man was seen approaching them, mounted on a strong roadster. both recognised the horseman, who was no other than jemmy dawson, of whom mention has already been made. a very handsome young fellow was jemmy dawson--tall, rather slightly built, but extremely well made, and looking to advantage in the saddle. on this occasion jemmy wore a green cloth riding-dress, made in the fashion of the time, with immense cuffs and ample skirts; the coat being laced with silver, and having silver buttons. his cocked hat surmounted a light bob peruke. he had a sword by his side, and carried a riding-whip in his hand. on descrying sir richard, he instantly accelerated his pace, and no sooner learnt how the baronet was circumstanced than he jumped down, and offered him his horse. sir richard unhesitatingly sprang into the saddle which the other had just quitted. "here is the whip," said jemmy, handing it to him. "but the horse needs neither whip nor spur, as you will find, sir richard. he will soon take you to preston." "i hope to bring him back safe and sound, jemmy," said the baronet. "but if aught happens, you shall have my favourite hunter in exchange. as soon as the crowd in the market-place has dispersed, go to the bull's head, and let the girls know how well you have mounted me, and whither i am gone." addressing a few parting words to atherton, he then dashed off, clattering over the stones as he shaped his course towards salford bridge. "i envy you your good fortune, atherton," said jemmy, as they were left together. "the part you have played belonged of right to me, but i should not have performed it half so well. i wish you could go back with me to receive constance rawcliffe's thanks for the service you have rendered her father; but that must not be. where shall i find you?" "i know not, for i cannot return to my lodgings. you will hear of me at tom syddall's. he will help me to a hiding-place." "ay, that he will. our jacobite barber is the trustiest fellow in manchester. you will be perfectly safe with him. but take care how you enter his shop. 'tis not unlikely you may be watched. we must not have another arrest." they then separated--atherton proceeding quickly towards the bridge, not far from which the barber's shop was situated, while jemmy dawson mingled with the crowd in the market-place. the magistrates were gone, but the constables blocked up the approaches to the bull's head. however, they readily allowed him to enter the inn. chapter xiii. constance makes a discovery. from the deep bay-windows of the old inn constance and monica witnessed all that had occurred, and were both filled with admiration at the gallantry and spirit displayed by atherton. miss rawcliffe especially was struck by the young man's courageous deportment as he confronted the boroughreeve, and without reflecting that he was violating the law, saw in him only her father's deliverer. "look, monica!" she cried. "has he not a noble expression of countenance? he is taller than any of those around him, and seems able to cope with half a dozen such varlets as have beset him." "he has certainly shown himself more than a match for the constables, if you mean to describe them as 'varlets,'" rejoined monica. "they did not dare to lay hands upon him," cried constance. "but see, papa is coming out of the coach, and is about to address the assemblage. let us open the window to hear what he says." this was done, and they both waved their handkerchiefs to sir richard when he concluded his harangue. atherton looked up at the moment, and received a similar greeting. constance's eloquent glances and approving smiles more than repaid him for what he had done. from their position the two damsels could discern all that subsequently took place. they beheld sir richard and the gallant youth who had rescued him pass safely through the crowd, and disappear at the lower end of the market-place. then feeling satisfied that the fugitives were safe, they retired from the window, nor did they look out again, though the shouting and tumult still continued, till jemmy dawson made his appearance. both were delighted to see him. "oh, i am so glad you are come, jemmy!" cried monica. "what is going on? i hope there won't be a riot?" "have you seen papa and mr. atherton legh?" asked constance. "yes, i have seen them both; and i am happy to be able to relieve your anxiety respecting sir richard. he is out of all danger. by this time i trust he is a mile or two on the road to preston. i have provided him with a horse." "heaven be thanked!" she exclaimed. "but what of young atherton legh? i hope there is no chance of his falling into the hands of the enemy. i should never forgive myself if anything were to happen to him, for i feel that i incited him to this hazardous attempt." "no doubt you did, constance," observed monica. "you need not make yourself uneasy about him," said jemmy. "he will easily find a secure retreat till the prince appears." there was a moment's pause, during which the lovers exchanged tender glances, and constance appeared preoccupied. "who is atherton legh?" she inquired, at length. "i begin to feel interested about him." "i would rather you didn't ask me the question," replied jemmy. "i can't answer it very readily. however, i will tell you all i know about him." and he proceeded to relate such particulars of the young man's history as the reader is already acquainted with. constance listened with great interest. "it appears, then, from what you say, that he is dependent upon a guardian whom he has never seen, and of whose very name he is ignorant." "that is so," replied jemmy. "but i am convinced he is a gentleman born." "the mystery attaching to his birth does not lessen my interest in him," said constance. "i should be surprised if it did," observed monica. "you can give him any rank you please. i am sorry to disturb your romantic ideas respecting him, but you must recollect he has been an apprentice to a manchester merchant, and has only just served his time." "his career now may be wholly changed, and he may never embark in trade," said constance. "but if he were to do so i cannot see that he would be degraded, any more than he is degraded by having been an apprentice." "cadets of our best lancashire and cheshire families are constantly apprenticed, so there is nothing in that," remarked jemmy. "i repeat my conviction that atherton is a gentleman born. dr. byrom is of the same opinion." "dr. byrom may be influenced by partiality. i fancy he would like the young man as a son-in-law," said monica. "beppy byrom certainly would not object to the arrangement," she added, with a significant smile that conveyed a good deal. "is beppy byrom pretty?" asked constance. "decidedly so--one of the prettiest girls in manchester," rejoined monica. "and is mr. atherton legh insensible to her attractions?" inquired constance, as carelessly as she could. "that i can't pretend to say," returned her cousin. "but i should scarcely think he can be so." "at all events, he pays her very little attention," remarked jemmy. constance cast down her magnificent eyes, and her countenance assumed a thoughtful expression that seemed to heighten its beauty. while she remained thus preoccupied, monica and her lover moved towards the window and looked out, or appeared to be looking out, for it is highly probable they only saw each other. presently constance arose, and saying she desired to be alone for a few minutes, left them together. proceeding to her own chamber, she sat down and began to review as calmly as she could the strange and hurried events of the morning, in which atherton legh had played a conspicuous part, and though the rest of the picture presented to her mental gaze appeared somewhat confused, his image rose distinctly before her. the young man's singular story, as related by jemmy dawson, had greatly stimulated her curiosity, and she indulged in many idle fancies respecting him--such as will flash through a young girl's brain--sometimes endeavouring to account for the mystery of his birth in one way, sometimes in another, but always feeling sure he was well-born. "if any one ever proclaimed himself a gentleman by look and manner, it is atherton legh," she thought. "and as to his courage it is indisputable. but i have been thinking only of this young man all the time," she reflected, with a feeling of self-reproach, "when i ought to have been thinking of papa. i ought to have locked up the packet of important papers that he confided to me before his arrest. i will repair my neglect at once." with this resolve she arose, and taking out the packet was about to place it in her writing-case, when a letter fell to the ground. the letter was partly open, and a name caught her eye that made her start. the impulse to glance at the contents of the letter was irresistible, and she found, to her infinite surprise, that the communication related to atherton legh, and was addressed by a manchester banker to sir richard rawcliffe, leaving no doubt whatever on her mind that her father was the young man's mysterious guardian. in fact, mr. marriott, the banker in question, stated that, in compliance with sir richard's order, he had paid a certain sum to mr. atherton legh, and had also delivered the letter enclosed by the baronet to the young man. astonishment at the discovery almost took away her breath, and she remained gazing at the letter as if doubting whether she had read it aright, till it dropped from her hands. "my father atherton's guardian!" she exclaimed. "how comes it he has never made the slightest allusion to his ward? why have i been kept so completely in the dark? till i came to manchester last night i had never heard there was such a person as atherton legh. chance seems to have revealed the secret to me. yet it must have been something more than chance. otherwise, the letter could never have fallen into my hands at this particular juncture. but what have i discovered? only that my father is atherton's mysterious guardian--nothing respecting the young man's parentage. that is the real secret which i fear will never be cleared up by my father--even if i venture to question him. let me reflect. the reason why this young man has been brought up thus must be that he belongs to some old jacobite family, the chief members of which have been banished. that would account for all. my father corresponds with several important persons who were engaged in the last rebellion, and are now abroad. i need not seek further for an explanation--yet i am not altogether satisfied. i must not breathe a word to monica of the singular discovery i have made, for the secret, i feel, would not be safe with her. but methinks my father might have trusted me. till i see him again, my lips shall be sealed--even to atherton, should i happen to meet him. doubtless these letters," she continued, taking up the packet, and examining it, "would afford me full information respecting the young man, but, though strongly tempted, i will read nothing more, without my father's sanction." she then replaced the letter she had dropped with the others, and had just locked up the packet in a small valise, when her cousin came in quest of her. chapter xiv. st. ann's square. "the crowd in the market-place has dispersed, and all seems quiet," said monica. "shall we take an airing in st. ann's square? jemmy will escort us. 'tis a fine day--as fine a day, at least, as one can expect in november." constance assented, and they forthwith prepared for a walk--each arraying herself in a black hood and scarf, and each taking a large fan with her, though the necessity for such an article at that late season of the year did not seem very obvious. but at the period of which we treat, a woman, with any pretension to mode, had always a fan dangling from her wrist. attended by jemmy dawson, who was looked upon as one of the beaux of the town, they sallied forth, and passing the exchange, where a couple of porters standing in the doorway were the only persons to be seen, they took their way through a narrow alley, called acres court, filled with small shops, and leading from the back of the exchange to the square. usually, acres court was crowded, but no one was to be seen there now, and the shops were shut. not many years previous to the date of our history, st. ann's square was an open field--acres field being its designation. the area was tolerably spacious--the houses surrounding it being some three or four stories high, plain and formal in appearance, with small windows, large doorways, and heavy wooden balustrades, meant to be ornamental, at the top. most of them were private residences. on either side of the square was a row of young plane trees. at the further end stood the church, of the architectural beauty of which we cannot say much; but it had its admirers in those days, and perhaps may have admirers in our own, for it still stands where it did. in fact, the square retains a good deal of its original appearance. here the beau monde of the town was wont to congregate in the middle of the last century--the ladies in their hoop petticoats, balloon-like sacques, and high-heeled shoes, with powder in their locks, and patches on their cheeks; and the gentlemen in laced coats of divers colours, cocked hats, and periwigs, ruffles at the wrist, and solitaires round the throat, sword by the side, and clouded cane in hand. here they met to criticise each other and talk scandal, in imitation of the fine folks to be seen on the mall at st. james's. but none of these triflers appeared in st. ann's square when miss rawcliffe and her companions entered it. only one young lady, attended by a couple of clergymen, could be descried pacing to and fro on the broad pavement. in this damsel monica at once recognised beppy byrom, but she made no remark on the subject to constance, and stopped jemmy, who was about to blab. presently, beppy turned and advanced towards them, and then constance could not fail to be struck by her good looks, and inquired who she was? "can't you guess?" cried monica. "is it beppy byrom?" said constance, colouring. monica nodded. "what do you think of her?" before a reply could be made, beppy came up, and an introduction took place. beppy and constance scrutinised each other with a rapid glance. but no fault could be detected on either side. "allow me to congratulate you on sir richard's escape, miss rawcliffe," said beppy. "papa sent a warning letter to him, as no doubt you know, but sir richard did not receive it in time to avoid the arrest. how courageously mr. atherton legh seems to have behaved on the occasion." "yes, papa owes his deliverance entirely to mr. legh," rejoined constance. "we have good reason to feel grateful to him." "'tis perhaps a superfluous offer," said beppy. "but since sir richard has been compelled to fly, can we be of any service to you? our house is roomy, and we can accommodate you without the slightest inconvenience." "you are extremely kind," said constance. "i shall probably remain at the inn; but if i do move, it will be to my aunt butler's." "yes, mamma would be hurt if my cousin constance did not come to her," interposed monica. "we are going to her presently. she is out of the way of these disturbances, and has probably never heard of them." "your mamma, i believe, is a great invalid, miss butler?" remarked beppy. "i have heard dr. deacon speak of her." "yes, she rarely leaves the house. but she has a most capital nurse--so that i can leave her without the slightest apprehension." "that is fortunate," said beppy. "i hope you will soon have good tidings of sir richard, miss rawcliffe?" "i don't expect to hear anything of him till he re-appears with the prince," replied constance, in a low tone. "i am under no alarm about him." "well, perhaps, the person in greatest jeopardy is atherton legh," said beppy. "i should like to feel quite sure he is safe." "then take the assurance from me, miss byrom," observed jemmy. "do tell me where he is?" she asked. "he has taken refuge with tom syddall," was the reply, in an undertone. "she takes a deep interest in him," thought constance. the two clergymen, who were no other than mr. nichols and mr. lewthwaite, and who had stood aside during this discourse, now came forward, and were presented to miss rawcliffe. the conversation then became general, and was proceeding pleasantly enough, when a very alarming sound put a sudden stop to it. it was a fire-bell. and the clangour evidently came from the tower of the collegiate church. the conversation instantly ceased, as we have said, and those who had been engaged in it glanced at each other uneasily. "heaven preserve us!" ejaculated mr. lewthwaite. "with how many plagues is this unfortunate town to be visited? are we to have a conflagration in addition to the other calamities by which we are menaced?" meantime, the clangour increased in violence, and shouts of "fire! fire!" resounded in all directions. but the alarm of the party was considerably heightened when another fire-bell began to ring--this time close to them. from the tower of st. ann's church the warning sounds now came--stunning and terrifying those who listened to them; and bringing forth many of the occupants of the houses in the square. "it must be a great fire!--perhaps the work of an incendiary!" cried mr. nichols. "i will not attribute the mischief to jacobite plotters, but i fear it will turn out that they are the instigators of it." "it looks suspicious, i must own," remarked mr. lewthwaite. "you have no warrant for these observations, gentlemen," said jemmy, indignantly. still the fire-bells rang on with undiminished fury, and numbers of people were seen running across the square--shouting loudly as they hurried along. "where is the fire?" cried beppy. "it must be in the neighbourhood of the collegiate church," replied mr. lewthwaite. "all the houses are old in that quarter, and built of timber. half the town will be consumed. that will be lamentable, but it will not be surprising, since the inhabitants have assuredly called down a judgment upon their heads from their propensity to rebellion." jemmy dawson, who had great difficulty in controlling his anger, was about to make a sharp rejoinder to this speech, when a look from monica checked him. just then several men ran past, and he hailed one of them, who stopped. "can you tell me where the fire is?" he asked. "there be no fire, sir," replied the man, with a grin. "no fire!" exclaimed jemmy, astounded. "why, then, are the fire-bells being rung thus loudly?" "to collect a mob, if yo mun know," rejoined the man. "for what purpose?" demanded jemmy. "rebellion! rebellion! can you doubt it?" said mr. lewthwaite. "ay, yo may ca' it rebellion an yo like, but this be the plain truth," said the man. "t' magistrates ha' just gi'en orders that salford bridge shan be blowed up to hinder t' pretender, as yo ca' him, or t' prince, as we ca' him, fro' comin' into t' town, wi' his army. now we jacobites won't let the bridge be meddled with, so we han had the fire-bells rung to rouse the townsfolk." "and you mean to resist the authorities?" cried mr. lewthwaite. "ay, that we do," rejoined the man, defiantly. "they shan't move a stone of the bridge." "beware what you do! you are rebelling against your lawful sovereign as represented by the magistrates. forget not that rebellion provokes the lord's anger, and will bring down his vengeance upon you." "i canna bide to listen to a sarmon just now," rejoined the man, hurrying off. "can't we obtain a sight of what is going on at the bridge from the banks of the river?" said constance. "yes, i will take you to a spot that commands a complete view of the bridge," rejoined jemmy; "where you can see all that is to be seen, and yet not run the slightest risk." "shall we go, monica?" said constance. "by all means," cried the other. "i should like to make one of the party," said beppy, who had just recollected that tom syddall's shop, where she knew atherton had taken refuge, adjoined the bridge, and she thought it almost certain the young man would take part in this new disturbance. "i advise you not to go, miss byrom," said mr. lewthwaite. "neither mr. nichols nor myself can sanction such a lawless proceeding by our presence." "as you please," said beppy. "pray come with us, miss byrom," cried jemmy. "i will engage that no harm shall befall you." so they set off, leaving the two curates behind, both looking very much disconcerted. chapter xv. how salford house was saved from destruction. by this time the fire-bells had ceased to ring, but the effect had been produced, and a great crowd, much more excited than that which had previously assembled in the market-place, was collected in the immediate neighbourhood of the bridge. salford bridge, which must have been a couple of centuries old at the least, was strongly built of stone, and had several narrow-pointed arches, strengthened by enormous piers. these arches almost choked up the course of the river. only a single carriage could cross the bridge at a time, but there were deep angular recesses in which foot-passengers could take refuge. it will be seen at once that such a structure could be stoutly defended against a force approaching from salford, though it was commanded by the precipitous banks on the manchester side. moreover, the irwell was here of considerable depth. before commencing operations, the magistrates, who were not without apprehension of a tumult, stopped all traffic across the bridge, and placed a strong guard at either extremity, to protect the workmen and engineers from any hindrance on the part of the populace. a couple of large caissons, containing, it was supposed, a sufficient quantity of powder to overthrow the solid pier, had been sunk under the central arch of the bridge. above the spot, in a boat, sat two engineers ready to fire the powder-chests when the signal should be given. but the preparations had been watched by two daring individuals, who were determined to prevent them. one of these persons, who was no other than tom syddall, the jacobite barber--a very active, resolute little fellow--ran up to the collegiate church, which was at no great distance from his shop, and soon found the man of whom he was in search--isaac clegg, the beadle. now isaac being a jacobite, like himself, was easily persuaded to ring the fire-bell; and the alarm being thus given, a mob was quickly raised. but no effectual opposition could be offered--the approach to the bridge from smithy bank being strongly barricaded. behind the barricades stood the constables, who laughed at the mob, and set them at defiance. "the boroughreeve will blow up the bridge in spite of you," they cried. "if he does, he'll repent it," answered several angry voices from the crowd, which rapidly increased in number, and presented a very formidable appearance. already it had been joined by the desperadoes armed with bludgeons, who had figured in the previous disturbance in the market-place, and were quite ready for more mischief. the usual jacobite cries were heard, but these were now varied by "down with the boroughreeve!" "down with the constables!" mr. fielden himself was on the bridge, with his brother magistrates, superintending the operations, and irritated by the insolent shouts of the mob, he came forward to address them. for a few minutes they would not listen to him, but at last he obtained a hearing. "go home quietly," he cried, in a loud voice. "go home like loyal and peaceful subjects of the king. we mean to destroy the bridge to prevent the entrance of the rebels." on this there was a terrific shout, accompanied by groans, yells, and hootings. "down with fielden!--down with fielden!" cried a hundred voices. "he shan't do it!" "mark my words," vociferated the boroughreeve, who remained perfectly unmoved amid the storm, "in five minutes from this time the central arch will be blown up." "we will prevent it," roared the mob, shaking their hands at him. "you can't prevent it," rejoined the boroughreeve, contemptuously. "two large boxes filled with gunpowder are sunk beneath the arch, and on a signal from me will be fired." surprise kept the mob quiet for a moment, and before another outburst could take place, the boroughreeve had turned on his heel, and marched off. meantime, the three young damsels, under the careful guidance of jemmy dawson, had made their way, without experiencing any annoyance, to the precipitous rock on which atherton legh had stood, while contemplating the same scene on the previous night. from this lofty position, as the reader is aware, the bridge was completely commanded. another person was on the rock when they reached it. this was isaac clegg, the beadle, who was well known to beppy. he instantly made way for her and her friends, and proved useful in giving them some necessary information. he told them exactly what was going on on the bridge--explained how the angry mob was kept back by the barricade--pointed out the boroughreeve--and finally drew their attention to the engineers in the boat beneath the arch ready to fire the caissons. as will readily be supposed, it was this part of the singular scene that excited the greatest interest among the spectators assembled on the rock. but, shortly afterwards, their interest was intensified to the highest degree. a boat was suddenly seen on the river, about a bow-shot above the bridge. it must have been concealed somewhere, for its appearance took all the beholders by surprise. the boat was rowed by two men, who seemed to have disguised themselves, for they were strangely muffled up. plying their oars vigorously, they came down the stream with great swiftness. from the course taken it would almost seem as if they were making for the central arch, beneath which the engineers were posted. evidently the engineers thought so, for they stood up in their boat and shouted lustily to the others to keep off. but the two oarsmen held on their course, and even increased their speed. though the two men had disguised themselves, they did not altogether escape detection, for as they dashed past the rock on which constance and the others were stationed, the foremost oarsman momentarily turned his head in that direction, and disclosed the features of atherton legh; while isaac clegg declared his conviction that the second oarsman was no other than tom syddall. "'tis tom, i be sartin," said isaac. "he has put on a different sort of wig from that he usually wears, and has tied a handkerchief over his keven-huller, but i'd swear to his nose. what can have induced him to make this mad attempt?" it was a moment of breathless suspense, for the purpose of the daring oarsmen could no longer be doubted. not only were they anxiously watched by the spectators on the rock, but the gaze of hundreds was fixed upon them. mingled and contradictory shouts were raised--"keep off!" "go on!" but the latter predominated. the engineers prepared to receive the shock they could not avert. in another instant, the boat propelled by all the force the rowers could exert, dashed into them, and staved in the side of their bark. no longer any question of blowing up the arch. the engineers were both precipitated into the river by the collision, and had to swim ashore. leaving them, however, to shift for themselves, the two daring oarsmen continued their rapid course down the stream, amid the deafening shouts of the crowd on smithy bank. such excitement was caused by this bold exploit that the mob could no longer be kept back. breaking through the barricade, and driving off the guard, after a short struggle, they took possession of the bridge--declaring their fixed determination not to allow it to be damaged. compelled to beat a hasty retreat into salford, the magistrates were glad to escape without injury. chapter xvi. tom syddall. for some time the two oarsmen rowed on as swiftly as they could, fancying they should be pursued, but finding this was not the case, they began to relax their efforts, and liberated themselves from their disguises. when divested of the handkerchief tied round his head, and of some other coverings concealing the lower part of his visage, tom syddall was fully revealed. 'twas a physiognomy not easily to be mistaken, owing to the size of the nose, which, besides being enormous, was singularly formed. moreover, tom's face was hatchet-shaped. he had a great soul in a small body. though a little fellow, he was extremely active, and full of spirit--capable, in his own opinion, of great things. a slight boaster, perhaps, but good-tempered, rarely taking offence if laughed at. tom despised his vocation, and declared he was cut out for a soldier, but he also declared he would never serve king george--so a barber he remained. though there was something ludicrous in his assumption, no one who knew him doubted that he would fight--and fight manfully, too--for the stuarts, should the opportunity ever be offered him. ordinarily, tom syddall's manner was comic, but he put on a sombre and tragic expression, when alluding to his father, who was executed for taking part in the rebellion of --his head being fixed upon a spike in the market-place. tom had vowed to avenge his father, and frequently referred to the oath. such was tom syddall, whose personal appearance and peculiarities rendered him a noticeable character in manchester at the time. his companion, it is scarcely necessary to say, was atherton legh. as they rested for a moment upon their oars they both laughed heartily. "we may be proud of the exploit we have performed," cried tom. "we have served the prince, and saved the bridge. three minutes later and the arch would have been blown up. the scheme was well-designed, and well-executed." "you deserve entire credit both for plan and execution, tom," rejoined atherton. "nay, sir," said syddall with affected modesty. "'twas a bold and well-conceived scheme i admit, but i could not have carried it out without your aid. i trust we may always be successful in our joint undertakings. with you for a leader i would not shrink from any enterprise, however hazardous it might appear. i was struck with your coolness. 'tis a good sign in a young man." "well, i think we are both taking it easily enough, tom," said atherton. "we are loitering here as calmly as if nothing had happened. however, i don't think any pursuit need be apprehended. the boroughreeve will have enough to do to look after the mob." "ay, that he will," said syddall. "he has but a very short tenure of office left. the prince will soon be here, and then all will be changed. did you notice those ladies on the rock near the bridge? they seemed greatly excited, and cheered us." "yes, i saw them, and i am glad they saw us, tom. one of them was sir richard rawcliffe's daughter. i felt my arm strengthened when i found she was watching us. i think i could have done twice as much as i did." "you did quite enough, sir," observed syddall, smiling. "but shall we land, or drop quietly down the river for a mile or two, and then return by some roundabout road?" "let us go on," said atherton. "i don't think it will be safe to return just yet." by this time, though they had not left the bridge much more than half-a-mile behind, they were completely in the country. on the right the banks were still high and rocky, narrowing the stream, and shutting out the view. but though the modern part of the town extended in this direction, two or three fields intervened between the houses and the river. on the left, the banks being low, the eye could range over pleasant meadows around which the irwell meandered, forming a charming prospect from the heights overlooking the wide valley through which it pursued its winding course. so nearly complete was the circle described by the river, that the upper part of the stream was here not very far distant from the lower. but our object in depicting this locality is to show how wonderfully it is changed. the meadows just alluded to, intersected by hedgerows, and with only two or three farm-houses to be seen amidst them, are now covered with buildings of all kinds--warehouses, mills, and other vast structures. bridges now span the river; innumerable houses are reared upon its banks; and scarce a foot of ground remains unoccupied. in a word, an immense and populous town has sprung up, covering the whole area encircled by the irwell, and the pleasing country scene we have endeavoured to describe has for ever vanished. few persons would imagine that the polluted river was once bright and clear, and its banks picturesque, and fringed with trees. yet such was the case little more than a century ago. salford at that time was comprised within very narrow limits, and only possessed a single street, which communicated with the old bridge. in manchester, between the upper part of deansgate and the river, there were fields entirely unbuilt upon, and a lane bordered by hedges ran down through these fields to the quay. the quay itself was very small, and consisted of a wharf with a house and warehouse attached to it. it seems astonishing that a town so important as was manchester in , should not have had a larger storehouse for goods, but apparently the merchants were content with it. barges were then towed up the river as far as the quay, but not beyond. as atherton and his companion rowed slowly down the river, they did not encounter a single boat till they came in sight of the wharf, where a barge and a few small craft were moored. they now debated with themselves whether to land here or go lower down: and at length decided upon halting, thinking there could be no danger. but they were mistaken. as they drew near the wharf, three men armed with muskets suddenly appeared on the deck of the barge, and commanded them to stop. "you are prisoners," cried one of these persons. "we have just received information by a mounted messenger of the occurrence at salford bridge, and we know you to be the men who ran down the engineers. you are prisoners, i repeat. attempt to move off and we will fire upon you." as the muskets were levelled at their heads from so short a distance, atherton and his companion felt that resistance would be useless, so they surrendered at discretion, and prepared to disembark. some other men, who were standing by, took charge of them as they stepped ashore. chapter xvii. how tom syddall was carried home in triumph. in another minute the person who had addressed them from the barge came up, and tom syddall, who now recognised him as matthew sharrocks, the wharf-master, inquired what he meant to do with them. "detain you till i learn the magistrates' intentions respecting you," replied sharrocks. "the boroughreeve will be forthwith acquainted with the capture. the messenger is waiting. do you deny the offence?" "no, i glory in the deed," rejoined syddall."'tis an action of which we may be justly proud. we have saved the bridge from destruction at the risk of our own lives." "you will be clapped into prison and punished for what you have done," said sharrocks. "if we should be imprisoned, sharrocks, which i doubt," rejoined syddall, confidently, "the people will deliver us. know you who i am?" "well enough; you are tom syddall, the barber," said the other. "i am the son of that tom syddall who approved his devotion to the royal house of stuart with his blood." "ay, i recollect seeing your father's head stuck up in the market-place," said sharrocks. "take care your own is not set up in the same spot." he then marched off to despatch the messenger to the boroughreeve, and on his return caused the prisoners to be taken to the great storehouse, from an upper window of which was suspended a flag, emblazoned with the royal arms. "i tell you what, sharrocks," said syddall, "before two days that flag will be hauled down." "i rather think not," rejoined the wharf-master dryly. atherton legh took no part in this discourse, but maintained a dignified silence. the prisoners were then shut up in a small room near the entrance of the storehouse, and a porter armed with a loaded musket was placed as a sentinel at the door. however, except for the restraint, they had no reason to complain of their treatment. a pint of wine was brought them, with which they regaled themselves, and after drinking a couple of glasses, tom, who had become rather downcast, felt his spirits considerably revive. knocking at the door, he called out to the porter, "i say, friend, if not against rules, i should very much like a pipe." the porter being a good-natured fellow said he would see about it, and presently returned with a pipe and a paper of tobacco. his wants being thus supplied, tom sat down and smoked away very comfortably. atherton paid very little attention to him. truth to say, he was thinking of constance rawcliffe. rather more than an hour had elapsed, and mr. sharrocks was expecting an answer from the boroughreeve, when he heard a tumultuous sound in the lane, already described as leading from the top of deansgate to the quay. alarmed by this noise, he hurried to the great gate, which he had previously ordered to be closed, and looking out, perceived a mob, consisting of some three or four hundred persons, hurrying towards the spot. if he had any doubt as to their intentions it would have been dispelled by hearing that their cry was "tom syddall!" evidently they were coming to liberate the brave barber. hastily shutting and barring the gate, and ordering the porters to guard it, he flew to the room in which tom and his companion were confined, and found the one tranquilly smoking his pipe, as we have related, and the other seated in a chair opposite him, and plunged in a reverie. "well, sharrocks," said tom, blowing a whiff from his mouth, and looking up quietly at him, "have you come to say that the boroughreeve has ordered us to be clapped in prison? ha!" "i have come to set you free, gentlemen," said the wharf-master, blandly. "you are quite at liberty to depart." "ho! ho!" cried tom. "you have altered your tone, methinks, sharrocks." "i am in no hurry," said atherton. "i am quite comfortable here." "but you _must_, and _shall_ go," cried sharrocks. "must! and shall!" echoed atherton. "suppose we refuse to stir!--what then?" "yes, what then, sharrocks?" said tom, replacing the pipe in his mouth. the wharf-master was about to make an angry rejoinder, when a loud noise outside convinced him that the porters had yielded to the mob, and thrown open the gates. "zounds! they have got into the yard!" he exclaimed. "who have got in?" cried atherton, springing to his feet. "your friends, the mob," replied sharrocks. "hurrah!" exclaimed syddall, jumping up likewise, and waving his pipe over his head. "i knew the people would come to release us. hurrah! hurrah!" almost frantic with delight, he ran out into the yard, followed by atherton--sharrocks bringing up the rear. already the yard was half-full of people, most of whom were gathered thickly in front of the storehouse, and the moment they perceived tom syddall and atherton, they set up a tremendous shout. but tom was their especial favourite. those nearest placed him on the top of an empty cask, so that he could be seen by the whole assemblage, and in reply to their prolonged cheers, he thanked them heartily for coming to deliver him and his companion, telling them they would soon see the prince in manchester, and bidding them, in conclusion, shout for king james the third and charles, prince regent--setting them the example himself. while the yard was ringing with treasonable shouts and outcries, tom quitted his post, but he soon reappeared. he had made his way to the upper room of the building, from the window of which the obnoxious flag was displayed. hauling it down, he tore off the silken banner in sight of the crowd, and replacing it with a white handkerchief, brought down the rebel flag he had thus improvised, and gave it to one of the spectators, who carried it about in triumph. hitherto the mob had behaved peaceably enough, but they now grew rather disorderly, and some of them declared they would not go away empty-handed. fearing they might plunder the store-house, which was full of goods of various kinds, sharrocks came up to tom syddall and besought him to use his influence with them to depart peaceably. "i'll try what i can do, sharrocks," replied tom. "though you made some uncalled-for observations upon me just now, i don't bear any malice." "i'm very sorry for what i said, mr. syddall," rejoined the wharf-master, apologetically--"very sorry, indeed." "enough. i can afford to be magnanimous, sharrocks. i forgive the remarks. but you will find you were wrong, sir--you will find that i _shall_ avenge my father." "i have no doubt of it, mr. syddall," rejoined sharrocks. "but in the meantime, save the storehouse from plunder, and you shall have my good word with the boroughreeve." "i don't want your good word, sharrocks," said tom, disdainfully. with atherton's assistance he then once more mounted the cask, and the crowd seeing he was about to address them became silent. "i have a few words to say to you, my friends," he cried, in a voice that all could hear. "don't spoil the good work you have done by committing any excesses. don't let the hanoverians and presbyterians have the power of casting reproach upon us. don't disgrace the good cause. our royal prince shoots every highlander who pillages. he won't shoot any of you, but he'll think better of you if you abstain from plunder." the commencement of this address was received with some murmurs, but these ceased as the speaker went on, and at the close he was loudly cheered, and it was evident from their altered demeanour that the crowd intended to follow his advice. "i am glad to find you mean to behave like good jacobites and honest men. now let us go home quietly, and unless we're assaulted we won't break the peace." "we'll carry you home safely," shouted several of the bystanders. "a chair! a chair! give us a chair!" these demands were promptly complied with by sharrocks, who brought out a large arm-chair, in which tom being installed, was immediately hoisted aloft by four sturdy individuals. thus placed, he bowed right and left, in acknowledgement of the cheers of the assemblage. not wishing to take a prominent part in these proceedings, atherton had kept aloof, but he now came up to syddall, and shaking hands with him, told him in a whisper that he might expect to see him at night. the brave little jacobite barber was then borne off in triumph, surrounded by his friends--a tall man marching before him carrying the white flag. the procession took its way up the lane to deansgate, along which thoroughfare it slowly moved, its numbers continually increasing as it went on, while the windows of the houses were thronged with spectators. thus triumphantly was tom conveyed to his dwelling. throughout the whole route no molestation was offered him--the magistrates prudently abstaining from further interference. before quitting him, the crowd promised to come to his succour should any attempt be made to arrest him. atherton did not join the procession, but took a totally different route. leaving the boat with the wharf-master, who volunteered to take care of it, he caused himself to be ferried across the river, and soon afterwards entered a path leading across the fields in the direction of salford. he walked along very slowly, being anxious to hold a little self-communion; and stopped now and then to give free scope to his reflections. chapter xviii. the meeting in the garden. from these fields, the town, which was scarcely a mile distant, could be seen in its full extent. in saying "town," we include salford, for no break in the continuity of the houses was distinguishable. the buildings on either side of the irwell seemed massed together; and the bridge was entirely hidden. it was not a very bright day--we must recollect it was november--but the lights chanced to be favourable, and brought out certain objects in a striking manner. for instance, the collegiate church, which formed almost the central part of the picture, stood out in bold relief, with its massive tower against a clear sky. a gleam of sunshine fell upon st. ann's church and upon the modern buildings near it, and trinity church in salford was equally favoured. other charming effects were produced, which excited the young man's admiration, and he remained gazing for some time at the prospect. he then accelerated his pace, and soon reached the outskirts of salford. at the entrance of the main street stood trinity church, to which we have just alluded--a modern pile of no great beauty, but possessing a lofty tower ornamented with pinnacles, and surmounted by a short spire. the row of houses on the right side of the street formed pleasant residences, for they had extensive gardens running down to the banks of the river. opposite the church, but withdrawn from the street, stood an old-fashioned mansion with a garden in front, surrounded by high walls. the place had a neglected air. large gates of wrought iron, fashioned in various devices, opened upon the garden. recollecting to have heard that this old mansion was occupied by mrs. butler--monica's mother and constance's aunt--atherton stopped to look at it, and while peering through the iron gates, he beheld miss rawcliffe herself in the garden. she was alone, and the impulse that prompted him to say a few words to her being too strong to be resisted, he opened the gates and went in. she had disappeared, but he found her seated in an arbour. on beholding him she uttered a cry of surprise, and started up. for a moment the colour deserted her cheek, but the next instant a blush succeeded. "i am glad to see you, mr. atherton legh," she said. "but how did you learn i was here?" "accident has brought me hither," he replied. "while passing the garden gates i chanced to see you, and ventured in. if i have been too bold, i will retire at once." "oh, no--pray stay! i am delighted to see you. but you are very incautious to venture forth. you ought to keep in some place of concealment. however, let me offer you my meed of admiration. i was wonderstruck by your last gallant exploit." "you helped me to accomplish it." "_i_ helped you--how? i was merely a spectator." "that was quite sufficient. i felt your eyes were upon me. i fancied i had your approval." "i most heartily wished you success," she rejoined, again blushing deeply. "but i think you are excessively rash. suppose the caissons had been fired, you would have been destroyed by the explosion." "in that case i might have had your sympathy." "yes, but my sympathy would have been worth very little. it would not have brought you to life." "it would have made death easy." "with such exalted sentiments, 'tis a pity you did not live in the days of chivalry." "if i had i would have maintained the peerless beauty of the dame i worshipped against all comers." "now you are beginning to talk high-flown nonsense, so i must stop you." but she did not look offended. presently she added, "do you desire to win distinction? do you wish to please me?" "i desire to please you more than any one on earth, miss rawcliffe," he rejoined, earnestly. "i will do whatever you ask me." "then join the prince. but no! i ought not to extort this pledge from you. reflect! reflect!" "no need of reflection. my decision is made. i will join the manchester regiment." "then i will place the sash on your shoulder, and gird on your sword," she said. a fire seemed kindled in the young man's breast by these words. casting an impassioned glance at the fair maiden, he prostrated himself at her feet, and taking her hand, which she did not withhold, pressed it to his lips. "i devote myself to you," he said, in a fervent tone. "and to the good cause?" she cried. "to the good cause," he rejoined. "but chiefly to you." before he could rise from his kneeling posture, monica and jemmy dawson, who had come forth from the house, approached the arbour, but seeing how matters stood, they would have retired; but constance, who did not exhibit the slightest embarrassment, advanced to meet them. [illustration: constance rawcliffe gains a recruit page .] "i have gained another recruit for the prince," she said. "so i see," replied monica. "his royal highness could not have a better officer." "i am sure not," said jemmy dawson. and embracing his friend, he cried, "i longed for you as a companion-in-arms, and my desire is gratified. we shall serve together--conquer together--or die together. whatever it may be, apparently our destiny will be the same." "you are certain of a rich reward," said atherton. "but i----" "live in hope," murmured constance. "not till i have discovered the secret of my birth will i presume to ask your hand," said the young man. constance thought of the packet confided to her by her father--of the letter she had read--and felt certain the mystery would be soon unravelled. just then monica interposed. "pray come into the house, mr. atherton legh," she said. "mamma will be much pleased to see you. we have been extolling you to the skies. she is a great invalid, and rarely leaves her room, but to-day, for a wonder, she is downstairs." atherton did not require a second bidding, but went with them into the house. chapter xix. mrs. butler. in a large, gloomy-looking, plainly-furnished room might be seen a middle-aged dame, who looked like the superior of a religious house--inasmuch as she wore a conventual robe of dark stuff, with a close hood that fell over her shoulders, and a frontlet beneath it that concealed her locks--blanched by sorrow more than age. from her girdle hung a rosary. her figure was thin almost to emaciation, but it was hidden by her dress; her cheeks were pallid; her eyes deep sunk in their sockets; but her profile still retained its delicacy and regularity of outline, and showed she must once have possessed rare beauty. her countenance wore a sweet, sad, resigned expression. mrs. butler--for she it was--suffered from great debility, brought on, not merely by ill-health, but by frequent vigils and fasting. so feeble was she that she seldom moved beyond a small room, adjoining her bed-chamber, which she used as an oratory; but on that day she had been induced by her daughter to come down-stairs. she was seated in a strong, oaken chair, destitute of a cushion, and propped up by a pillow, which she deemed too great an indulgence, but which was absolutely requisite for her support. her small feet--of which she had once been vain--rested on a fauteuil. on a little table beside her lay a book of devotion. on the opposite side of the fireplace sat a thin, dark-complexioned man, in age between fifty and sixty, whose black habiliments and full powdered wig did not indicate that he was a romish priest. such, however, was the case. he was sir richard rawcliffe's confessor, father jerome. at the time when we discover them, the priest was addressing words of ghostly counsel to the lady, who was listening attentively to his exhortations. they were interrupted by the entrance of the party. as atherton was conducted towards her, mrs. butler essayed to rise, but being unequal to the effort, would have immediately sunk back if her daughter had not supported her. she seemed very much struck by the young man, and could not remove her gaze from him. "who is this, monica?" she murmured. "he is the young gentleman, mamma, of whose courage constance has been speaking to you in such glowing terms--who so gallantly liberated sir richard from arrest this morning, and subsequently preserved salford bridge from destruction. it is mr. atherton legh. i felt sure you would like to see him." "you judged quite right, my dear," mrs. butler replied, in her soft, sweet accents. "i am very glad to see you, sir. pardon my gazing at you so fixedly. you bear a strong resemblance to one long since dead--a near relation of my own. do you not remark the likeness, father?" she added to the priest. "indeed, madam, i am much struck by it," replied father jerome. "i am sure you mean my uncle, sir oswald," observed constance. "true. but as mr. legh has probably never heard of him, i did not mention his name." "i think you have a miniature of my uncle?" said constance. "i had one," returned mrs. butler. "but i know not what has become of it." "strange! i never saw a portrait of him," remarked constance. "there is not one at rawcliffe. nor is there a portrait of his beautiful wife, who did not long survive him." "there you are mistaken, miss rawcliffe," observed father jerome. "portraits of both are in existence, for i myself have seen them. but they are locked up in a closet." "why should they be locked up?" cried monica. "probably sir richard does not care to see them," said her mother, sighing deeply. "but let us change the subject. we are talking on family matters that can have no interest to mr. atherton legh." atherton would have been pleased if more had been said on the subject, but he made no remark. constance was lost in reflection. many strange thoughts crossed her mind. at this juncture jemmy dawson interposed. "you will be glad to learn, madam," he said to mrs. butler, "that my friend atherton legh has decided on joining the manchester regiment. constance has the credit of gaining him as a recruit." "that a young man of so much spirit as your friend should support the cause of the stuarts cannot fail to be highly satisfactory to me, in common with every zealous jacobite," said mrs. butler. "may success attend you both! but it is for you, father, to bless them--not for me." thus enjoined, the two young men bent reverently before the priest, who, extending his hands over them, ejaculated fervently: "may the lord of hosts be with you on the day of battle, and grant you victory! may you both return in safety and claim your reward!" to this mrs. butler added, with great earnestness and emotion: "should heaven permit them to be vanquished--should they be taken captive--may they be spared the cruel fate that befel so many, who, in by-gone days, fought in the same righteous cause, and suffered death for their loyalty and devotion." this supplication, uttered in sorrowful tones, produced a powerful impression upon all the hearers. "why have you drawn this sad picture, mamma?" said monica, half reproachfully. "i could not repress my feelings, my child. a terrible scene perpetually rises before me, and i feel it will haunt me to the last." "have you witnessed such a scene, mamma?" cried her daughter, trembling. "you have never spoken of it to me?" "i have often wished to do so, but i felt the description would give you pain. are you equal to it now, do you think?" "yes," she replied, with attempted firmness, but quivering lip. "and you, constance?" said mrs. butler. "i can listen to you, aunt," rejoined constance, in tones that did not falter. before commencing, mrs. butler consulted father jerome by a glance, and his counsel to her was conveyed in these words, "better relieve your mind, madam." "i was very young," she said, "younger than you, monica, when the greatest sorrow of my life occurred. at the time of the former rising in , my faith was plighted to one who held a command in the insurgent army. i will not breathe his name, but he belonged to a noble family that had made great sacrifices for king james the second, and was prepared to make equal sacrifices for the chevalier de st. george. the brave and noble youth to whom i was betrothed was sanguine of success, and i had no misgivings. i was with him at preston during the battle, and when the capitulation took place, he confided me to a friend whom he loved as a brother, saying to him, 'should my life be taken by our bloodthirsty foes, as i have reason to fear it will, be to her what i would have been. regard her as my widow--wed her.' his friend gave the promise he required, and he kept his word." here she paused for a short time, while monica and constance--neither of whom had ever heard of this singular promise, or of the betrothal that preceded it--looked at each other. meanwhile, a change came over mrs. butler's countenance--the expression being that of horror. her lips were slightly opened, her large dark eyes dilated, and though they were fixed on vacancy, it was easy to perceive that a fearful vision was rising before her. "ay, there it is," she cried, in tones and with a look that froze the blood of her hearers--"there is the scaffold!" stretching out her hand, as if pointing to some object. "'tis there, as i beheld it on that fatal morn on tower hill. 'tis draped in black. the block is there, the axe, the coffin, the executioner. a vast concourse is assembled--and what an expression is in their faces! but where is he? i see him not. ah! now he steps upon the scaffold. how young, how handsome he looks! how undaunted is his bearing! every eye is fixed upon him, and a murmur of pity bursts from the multitude. he looks calmly round. he has discovered me. he smiles, and encourages me by his looks. some ceremonies have to be performed, but these are quickly over. he examines the block--the coffin--with unshaken firmness--and feels the edge of the axe. then he prays with the priest who attends him. all his preparations made, he bows an eternal farewell to me, and turns---- ha! i can see no more--'tis gone!" and she sank back half fainting in the chair, while her daughter and niece sought to revive her. so vivid had been the effect produced, that those present almost fancied they had witnessed the terrible scene described. for a brief space not a word was spoken. at the end of that time, mrs. butler opened her eyes, and fixing them upon the young men, exclaimed: "again, i pray heaven to avert such a fate from you both!" monica burst into tears. her lover flew towards her, and as she seemed about to swoon, he caught her in his arms. "ah! jemmy," she exclaimed, looking up at him tenderly, "how could i live if i lost you! you must not join this perilous expedition." "nay, i cannot honourably withdraw," he replied. "my promise is given to the prince. were i to retire now i should be termed a coward. and all my love for you would not enable me to bear that dreadful reproach." "'tis i who induced you to join," she cried. "if you perish, i shall be guilty of your death. you must not--shall not go." "how is this?" he cried. "i cannot believe you are the brave jacobite girl who urged me to take arms for the good cause." "my love, i find, is stronger than my loyalty," she replied. "do not leave me, jemmy. a sad presentiment has come over me, and i dread lest you should perish by the hand of the executioner." "this idle foreboding of ill is solely caused by your mother's fancied vision. shake it off, and be yourself." "ay, be yourself, monica," said constance, stepping towards them. "this weakness is unworthy of you. 'tis quite impossible for jemmy to retreat with honour from his plighted word. those who have embarked in this hazardous enterprise must go through it at whatever risk." and she glanced at atherton, who maintained a firm countenance. but monica fixed a supplicating look on her lover, and sought to move him. fearing he might yield to her entreaties, constance seized his hand. "for your sake i am bound to interpose, jemmy," she said. "you will for ever repent it, if you make a false step now. what is life without honour?" "heed her not!" exclaimed monica. "listen to me! till now i never knew how dear you are to me. i cannot--will not part with you." both mrs. butler and father jerome heard what was passing, but did not deem it necessary to interfere--leaving the task to constance. "take him hence!" said constance, in a low tone to atherton. "she may shake his determination. ere long she will recover her energies, and think quite differently." after bidding adieu to mrs. butler and the priest, atherton tried to lead jemmy gently away. but monica still clung to him. "come with me," said atherton. "i want to say a few words to you in private." "say what you have to tell him here," observed monica. "this is mere childishness, monica," observed constance. "let him go with his friend." monica offered no further resistance, and the two young men quitted the room together. no sooner were they gone than monica flew towards mrs. butler, and throwing herself at her feet, exclaimed: "oh, mother! let us pray that jemmy may not share the tragical fate of him you have mourned so long. let us pray that he may not die the death of a traitor!" "a traitor!" exclaimed mrs. butler. "he whom i mourn was no traitor." "listen to me, daughter," said father jerome, in a tone of solemn rebuke. "should he to whom you are betrothed fall a sacrifice to tyranny, oppression, and usurpation--should he suffer in the cause of truth and justice--should he lay down his life in asserting the right of his only lawful sovereign, king james the third--then be assured that he will not die a traitor, but a martyr." monica bore this reproof well. looking up at her mother and the priest, she said, in penitential tones: "forgive me. i see my error. i will no longer try to dissuade him, but will pray that he may have grace to fulfil the task he has undertaken." chapter xx. the jacobite meeting in tom syddall's back room. tom syddall's shop was situated on smithy bank, in the immediate neighbourhood both of the cross and of salford bridge. the house was a diminutive specimen of the numerous timber and plaster habitations, chequered black and white, that abounded on the spot; but it was quite large enough for tom. the gables were terminated by grotesquely-carved faces, that seemed perpetually grinning and thrusting out their tongues at the passers-by; and a bay-window projected over the porch, the latter being ornamented with a large barber's pole and a brass basin, as indications of tom's calling, though his shop was sufficiently well-known without them. the door usually stood invitingly open, even at an early hour in the morning, and the barber himself could be seen in the low-roofed room, covering some broad-visaged customer's cheeks with lather, or plying the keen razor over his chin, while half-a-dozen others could be descried seated on benches patiently waiting their turn. at a somewhat later hour the more important business of wig-dressing began, and then tom retired to a back room, where the highest mysteries of his art were screened from the vulgar gaze--and from which sacred retreat, when a customer emerged, he appeared in all the dignity of a well-powdered peruke, a full-bottomed tie-wig, a bob, a bob-major, or an apothecary's bust, as the case might be. tom did a great deal of business, and dressed some of the best "heads" in manchester--not only ladies' heads, but gentlemen's--but, of course, he attended the ladies at their own houses. but tom syddall, as we have seen, was not only a perruquier, but an ardent politician. frequent jacobite meetings were held in his back room, and plots were frequently hatched when it was thought that perukes alone were being dressed. perfectly loyal and trustworthy was tom. many secrets were confided to him, but none were ever betrayed. every opportunity was afforded him for playing the spy, had he been so minded, but he would have scorned the office. however, he had his special objects of dislike, and would neither dress the wig of a whig, nor shave a presbyterian if he knew it. equally decided was tom on his religious opinions, being a zealous member of dr. deacon's true british catholic church. after his great exploit at the bridge, and his subsequent deliverance by the mob, several jacobites came in the evening--when his shop was closed--to offer him their congratulations, and were introduced--as they arrived singly, or two or three at a time--to the back room, of which we have just made mention. by-and-by a tolerably large party assembled, all of whom being very decided jacobites, a good deal of treason was naturally talked. as there were not chairs for all, several of the company sat where they could, and a droll effect was produced in consequence of their being mixed up with the wig-blocks, one of which, from its elevated position, seemed to preside over the assemblage, and caused much laughter. among the persons present were dr. byrom and dr. deacon, the latter of them having with him his three sons, all of whom were fine-looking young men. besides these there was the rev. thomas coppock, who, it may be remembered, had been promised the appointment of chaplain to the manchester regiment by colonel townley. though the young jacobite divine wore his cassock and bands, he looked as if martial accoutrements would have suited him better. his big looks and blustering manner did not harmonise with his clerical habit. vain and ambitious, parson coppock fully believed--if the expedition proved successful--he should be created bishop of chester, or, at least, be made warden of the collegiate church. with those we have particularised were four other young men who had been promised commissions--thomas chadwick, john berwick, george fletcher, and samuel maddocks. when we have added the names of jemmy dawson and atherton legh, the list of the party will be complete. an important communication had been made to the meeting by dr. deacon, who had just received an express informing him that the prince had arrived at preston with the first division of his army, so that lord pitsligo's regiment of horse might be expected to reach manchester on the morrow. "of this information, gentlemen," pursued dr. deacon, "you alone are in possession, for precautions have been taken to prevent any other express from being sent from preston to the authorities of manchester. the magistrates, therefore, will be in complete ignorance of the prince's approach till he is close at hand. it will now be apparent to you how great has been the service rendered by mr. atherton legh and our brave tom syddall. had salford bridge been destroyed--according to the boroughreeve's plan--the prince could not have entered manchester, without making a lengthened and troublesome détour, that might have exposed him to some unforeseen attack, whereas he will now march into the town at the head of his army without encountering any obstacle." expressions of approval were heard on all sides, and syddall appeared quite elated by the commendations bestowed upon him. "since the prince will be here so soon it behoves us to prepare for him," he said. "care must be taken that he does not want food for his men and forage for his horses. as you are all no doubt aware, a great quantity of provisions has been sent out of the town. this must be stopped." "you are right, tom," cried dr. byrom. "but how stop it?" "very easily," replied syddall. "we must engage ben birch, the bellman, to go round to-night, and warn the townsfolk not to remove any more provisions." "a good plan," cried dr. byrom. "but will ben birch obey the order?" "if he won't i'll seize his bell and go round myself," rejoined syddall. "but never fear, doctor; ben will do it if he's well paid." "but where is he to be found?" cried dr. byrom. "'tis getting late." "i know where to find him," replied tom. "before going home to bed he always takes his pot of ale and smokes his pipe at the half moon in hanging ditch. he's there now i'll warrant you." everybody agreed that the plan was excellent, and ought to be carried out without delay, and syddall, who undertook the entire management of the affair, was just preparing to set off to hanging ditch, which was at no great distance from his dwelling, when a knock was heard at the outer door. the company looked at each other. so many strange things occurred at this juncture that they could not help feeling some little uneasiness. "don't be alarmed, gentlemen," said tom. "i'll go and reconnoitre." so saying, he hurried up a staircase that quickly brought him to an upper room overlooking the street. chapter xxi. ben birch, the bellman of manchester. it was a fine moonlight night, almost as bright as day, and when tom looked out he saw that the person who had just knocked was no other than ben birch. now the bellman was a very important functionary at the time, and it seemed as if the town could not get on without him. whenever anything was to be done the bellman was sent round. the magistrates constantly employed him, and he paced about the streets ringing his bell, and giving public notices of one kind or other, all day long. tall and stout, with a very red face, ben birch looked like a beadle, for he wore a laced cocked hat and a laced great-coat. fully aware of the importance of his office, he was consequential in manner, and his voice, when he chose to exert it, was perfectly stentorian. ben birch, we ought to add, was suspected of being a jacobite. "why, ben, is that you?" cried tom, looking at him from the window. "ay, mester syddall, it's me, sure enough," replied the bellman. "i've got summat to tell you. some mischievous chaps has been making free with your pow, and what dun yo think they've stuck on it?" "i can't tell, ben." "why, your feyther's skull. yo can see it if yo look down. i noticed it as i were passing, and thought i'd stop and tell you." "i should like to hang the rascal, whoever he may be, that has dared to profane that precious relic," cried tom, furiously. "it must have been stolen, for i kept it carefully in a box." "well, it's a woundy bad joke, to say the least of it," rejoined ben, with difficulty repressing a laugh. "luckily, there's no harm done." so saying, he took the pole and handed up the skull to the barber, who received it very reverently. "much obliged to you, ben," he said, in a voice husky with emotion. "if i can only find out the rascal who has played me this trick he shall bitterly repent it." "a presbyterian, no doubt," cried the bellman. "ay, those prick-eared curs are all my enemies," said syddall. "but we shall soon have a change. wait a moment, ben, i've got a job for you." he then restored the relic to the box from which it had been abstracted, and went down-stairs. on returning to the room where the company was assembled, he explained to them that the bellman was without, but said nothing about the indignity he himself had undergone. "shall i settle matters with him, or bring him in?" he asked. "bring him in," cried the assemblage. in another moment ben was introduced. greatly surprised to find the room thus crowded, he stared at the party. "what is your pleasure, gentlemen?" he said, removing his cocked hat and bowing. "we have heard with great concern, ben," said mr. coppock, gravely, "that provisions are beginning to run short in the town. we, therefore, desire that you will go round this very night, and give notice to the inhabitants that no victuals or stores of any kind must be removed on any pretext whatsoever." "i am very willing to obey you, gentlemen, particularly as such a notice can do no harm," said ben; "but i ought to have an order from the magistrates." "this will do as well, i fancy," said coppock, giving him a guinea. "i'll do the job," rejoined the bellman, pocketing the fee. "i shan't fail to end my proclamation with 'god save the king!' but i shall leave those who hear me to guess which king i mean." wishing the company good-night he then went out, and shortly afterwards the loud ringing of his bell was heard in the street. his first proclamation was made at the corner of deansgate, and by this time--though the street had previously appeared quite empty--he had got a small crowd round him, while several persons appeared at the doors and windows. "no more provisions to be taken away!" cried one of the bystanders; "that means the town is about to be besieged." "that's not it," cried another. "it means that the young pretender and his army will soon be here." "whatever it means you must obey the order," said the bellman. "and so, god save the king!" "god save king james the third!" "down with the elector of hanover!" shouted several persons. and as these were violently opposed by the supporters of the reigning monarch, and a fight seemed likely to ensue, the bellman marched off to repeat his proclamation elsewhere. meanwhile, the party assembled in tom syddall's back room had separated, but not before they had agreed upon another meeting at an early hour on the morrow. end of the first book. book ii. prince charles edward in manchester. chapter i. how manchester was taken by a sergeant, a drummer, and a scottish lassie. manchester arose next day in a state of great ferment. no one exactly knew what was about to occur, but everybody felt something was at hand. the proclamation made overnight by the bellman, and the studiously guarded answers given by that discreet functionary to the questions put to him, had caused considerable anxiety. no news had been received from preston--except the secret express sent to the heads of the jacobite party--but a notion prevailed that the prince would make his appearance in the course of the day. any real defence of the town was out of the question, since the militia was disbanded, but some staunch whigs and zealous presbyterians declared they would certainly make a stand. this, however, was looked upon as mere idle bravado. most of those who had delayed their departure to the last moment now took flight. at an early hour on that very morning all the justices and lawyers had quitted the town. the boroughreeve had gone, but the constables remained at their post. as on the previous day, no business whatever was transacted, and the majority of the shops continued closed. as the day went on the total want of news increased the public anxiety, for the few who were in possession of authentic information took care to keep it to themselves. the excitement, therefore, was increased by a variety of contradictory rumours, none of which had any foundation in truth, the hanoverians doggedly maintaining that the young pretender had turned back at preston, and was now in full retreat to scotland; while the jacobites declared with equal warmth that the prince was within half a day's march of manchester, and would soon present himself before the town. whatever might be the feelings of others, it is quite certain that all the prettiest damsels were impatiently expecting the handsome prince, and would have been sadly disappointed if he had turned back. as the weather chanced to be fine, and no business was going on, a great many persons were in the streets, and the town had quite a holiday air. towards the afternoon, the crowds that had been rambling about during the morning had returned to their mid-day meal, when a cry arose from salford that the advanced guard of the rebel army was in sight. the report proved incorrect; yet it was not entirely without foundation. three persons in highland dresses, and no doubt belonging to the insurgent army, had actually entered the town by the preston road, and were riding slowly along, looking about them in a very easy and unconcerned manner. all the beholders stared in astonishment, but nobody meddled with them, for it was naturally concluded that the regiment they belonged to must be close behind. from its singularity, the little party was sufficient in itself to attract general attention. it consisted of a sergeant, a drummer, and an exceedingly pretty scottish lassie. all three were well mounted, though the state of their horses showed they had ridden many miles. both the men were in full highland dress, wore plumed caps, and were armed with claymore, dirk, and target. moreover, the sergeant had a blunderbuss at his saddle-bow, but his comrade was content with the drum. sergeant erick dickson, a young highlander, and bold as a lion, was handsome, well-proportioned, and possessed of great strength and activity. sandy rollo, the drummer, was likewise a very daring young fellow. helen carnegie, the scottish damsel, deserves a few more words. her beauty and virtue were constant themes of praise among officers and men in the highland army. having given her heart to erick dickson, helen carnegie had accompanied him in the march from edinburgh, after the victory at preston pans--or gladsmuir, as the highlanders called it--but her character was without reproach. any man who had breathed a word against her fair fame would have had a quick reckoning with erick. helen carnegie was not yet nineteen, and perhaps her charms were not fully developed, but she was very beautiful notwithstanding. her golden locks had first set the sergeant's heart on fire, and her bright blue eyes had kept up the flame ever since. yet, after all, her exquisite figure was her greatest beauty. no nymph was ever more gracefully proportioned than helen, and no costume could have suited her better than the one she adopted--the kilt being as long as a petticoat, while a plaid shawl was thrown over her knee when she was on horseback. the blue bonnet that crowned her golden locks was adorned with a white cockade. such was the little party that had entered salford, and they all seemed much amused by the curiosity they excited. leaving them on their way to the bridge, it may now be proper to inquire what had brought them thither. at preston, on the previous evening, sergeant dickson came up to the chevalier de johnstone, his commanding officer, and aide-de-camp to lord george murray, lieutenant-general of the highland army, and saluting him, said: "may i have a word with you, colonel? i have been beating about preston for recruits all day without getting one, and i am the more vexed, because the other sergeants have been very lucky." "you ought to have taken helen carnegie with you, erick," said colonel johnstone, laughing. "that's exactly what i propose to do, colonel," said dickson. "i've come to ask your honour's permission to set out an hour before dawn to-morrow for manchester, and so get a day's march ahead of the army. i shall then be able to secure some recruits." "i cannot grant your request," rejoined colonel johnstone. "what would you do alone in a strange town? you will be instantly taken prisoner--if you are not killed." "your honour needn't alarm yourself about me," replied erick, in a wheedling voice, which, however, did not produce the desired effect. "i know how to take care of myself. if i get leave to go i'll take helen carnegie with me, and rollo, the drummer." again the colonel shook his head. "no, no, you mustn't think of it, erick," he cried. "go to your quarters, and don't stir out again to-night." sergeant dickson retired, resolved to disobey orders, feeling certain the offence would be overlooked if he proved successful. he therefore set out from preston in good time next morning, accompanied by helen and rollo. we left them riding towards salford bridge, and when they were within fifty yards of it, they came to a halt, and rollo began to beat the drum vigorously. the din soon brought a great number of persons round them, who began to shout lustily, when the sergeant, judging the fitting moment had arrived to commence operations, silenced the drum, and doffing his plumed cap--his example being followed by his companions--called out in a loud voice, "god save king james the third!" some cheers followed, but they were overpowered by angry outcries, and several voices exclaimed, "down with the rebels!" judging from these menacing expressions that he was likely to be assailed, erick, whose masculine visage had begun to assume a very formidable expression, placed himself in front of helen so as to shield her from attack, and then hastily putting on his target, and getting his blunderbuss ready for immediate use, he glared fiercely round at the assemblage, roaring out: "keep off!--if ye wadna ha' the contents of this among ye." alarmed by his looks and gestures, the concourse held back; but only for a few moments. some of them tried to lay hands on helen, but they were baffled by the rapidity with which the sergeant wheeled round, dashing them back, and upsetting half-a-dozen of them. but he had instantly to defend himself from another attack, and this he did with equal vigour and address, receiving all blows aimed at him on his target, and pointing the blunderbuss at those who attempted to seize him. however, he was careful not to fire, and shortly afterwards gave the blunderbuss to helen and drew his claymore. meantime, rollo, who was a very courageous fellow, though he had not the sergeant's activity, rendered what aid he could; but he was now beginning to be sorely pressed on all sides. the conflict had lasted two or three minutes without any disadvantage to the sergeant, when several persons called upon him to yield. to this summons he answered disdainfully that he had never yet yielded, and never would, while his hand could grasp a sword. "i have come to raise recruits for the yellow-haired laddie," he cried. "will none of you join me? will none of you serve the prince?" some voices answered in the affirmative, but those who called out were at a distance. "here, friends, here!" shouted dickson, waving his claymore to them. "i want recruits for the yellow-haired laddie. ye ken weel whom i mean." "ay, ay. we'll join!--we'll join!" cried twenty voices. and the speakers tried to force their way toward erick, but were prevented by the presbyterians in the crowd. the tumult that ensued operated in the sergeant's favour, and enabled him to keep his assailants at bay till assistance really arrived in the shape of a band of some fifty or sixty jacobites, mustered on the instant, and headed by tom syddall. [illustration: erick, with helen and rollo, proclaim king james at manchester page .] it was now a scene of triumph and rejoicing. since his opponents had taken to flight, and he was so numerously supported, sergeant dickson declared he would take possession of the town in the name of his sovereign, king james the third, and the proposition was received with loud shouts. these shouts, with the continuous beating of the drum by rollo, soon brought large additions to the numbers friendly to the jacobite cause; and dickson, with helen by his side, and attended by syddall on foot, crossed the bridge at the head of a victorious host, who made the air ring with their acclamations. chapter ii. the proclamation at the cross. on reaching the cross, the sergeant placed himself in front of it, and waiting for a few minutes till the concourse had gathered round him, in a loud voice he proclaimed king james the third. a tremendous shout followed, accompanied by the waving of hats. among the spectators of this singular scene were dr. byrom and beppy. being stationed at an open window, they were free from any annoyance from the crowd. both were much struck by the sergeant's fine athletic figure and manly features, but they were chiefly interested by helen, whom beppy thought the prettiest creature she had ever beheld. "do look at her lovely golden locks, papa!" she said. "don't you think they would be completely spoiled by powder? and then her eyes!--how bright they are! and her teeth!--how brilliantly white! i declare i never saw an english beauty to compare with her." "she certainly is exceedingly pretty," replied dr. byrom. "and there is an air of freshness and innocence about her scarcely to be expected in a girl circumstanced as she is, that heightens her beauty." "she is as good as she is pretty, i am quite sure," said beppy. "i hope so," returned dr. byrom, rather gravely. "i will make some inquiries about her." "never will i place faith in a physiognomy again, if hers proves deceptive," cried beppy. beppy, however, was not the only person bewitched by helen. when beheld at the cross, the fair scottish lassie electrified the crowd, and many a youth lost his heart to her. as soon as the proclamation had been made, sergeant dickson addressed himself to the business on which he had come. causing the drum to be beaten, he made a brief speech, in which he urged all brave young men who heard him to take up arms for their lawful sovereign, and help to restore him to the throne. "all who have a mind to serve his royal highness, prince charles, are invited to come forward," he cried. "five guineas in advance." many young men promptly responded to the call, and pressed towards the sergeant, who still remained on horseback near the cross, with helen beside him. rollo, likewise, was close at hand, and kept constantly drubbing away at the drum. helen gained as many recruits as the sergeant himself--perhaps more. her smile proved irresistible. when an applicant hesitated, a few words from her decided him. each name was entered in a book by the sergeant, but the payment of the five guineas was necessarily deferred until the arrival of mr. murray, the prince's secretary. altogether, a great deal of enthusiasm prevailed, and the sergeant had good reason to be satisfied with the result of his advance-march from preston. he remained nearly half an hour at the cross, and then proceeded to the market-place, accompanied by all the new recruits, and followed by an immense crowd. as they passed the house at the windows of which beppy byrom and her father were stationed, a momentary halt took place, during which beppy came forward, and waved her handkerchief to the scottish damsel. helen bowed in acknowledgment with a grace peculiarly her own, and taking off her bonnet, pointed significantly to the white cockade that decked it. "will ye wear this, my bonnie young leddy, an i gie it ye?" she cried. "ay, that i will," replied beppy. helen immediately rode up to the window, which she saw was quite within reach, and detaching the ribbon from her bonnet gave it to her admirer, who received it with every expression of delight, and instantly proceeded to fix it upon her own breast. "ye are now bound to find a recruit for prince charlie, my bonnie young leddy," said helen, as she moved away amid the laughter and cheers of the beholders. previously to this little occurrence, dr. byrom and his daughter had been made acquainted with helen's history by tom syddall, and had learnt that her character was irreproachable. "i hope i shall see her again," said beppy. "i should like so much to converse with her." "well, i make no doubt your wish can be gratified," said her father. "i'll speak to syddall, and he will bid her call upon you. but why do you take so much interest in her?" "i can't exactly tell," replied beppy. "she seems to me to possess a great many good qualities, and, at all events, i admire her romantic attachment to her lover. still, i don't think i should have been so very much charmed with her if she hadn't been so exceedingly pretty. and now you have the truth, papa." "good looks evidently go a long way with you, beppy," said her father, laughing. "indeed they do, papa. but now that the street has become clear, let us go and speak to tom syddall." the room from which they had viewed the proceedings at the cross formed the upper part of a draper's shop. thanking the owner, they now took their departure, and sought out tom syddall, whom they found at his door. he readily undertook to send helen carnegie to miss byrom as soon as the recruiting was over. but the sergeant had a great deal to do, and did not care to part with either of his companions. he continued to parade the town for some hours, enlisting all who offered themselves; and the number of the recruits soon exceeded a hundred. the authorities did not interfere with him--probably deeming it useless to do so. had they really surrendered the town they could not have proved more submissive. chapter iii. father jerome. nothing had been heard of sir richard rawcliffe since his sudden flight, but constance had no fears for his safety, for all danger was over as soon as he got fairly out of manchester. but she looked forward to his return with an uneasiness such as she had never before experienced. her father loved her dearly--better than any one else--for she was his only child. but he was of a violent temper--easily offended, and by no means easily appeased, as she herself had found, for she had more than once incurred his displeasure, though for matters of very trifling import. from her knowledge of his character, she could not doubt he would be exceedingly angry that she had read the letter relating to atherton legh, and though it would be easy to say nothing about it, she could not reconcile herself to such a disingenuous course. after some reflection, she determined to consult father jerome, and be guided by his advice. accordingly she sought a private conference with him, and told him all that had occurred. the priest listened to her recital with great attention, and then said: "i am glad you have spoken to me, daughter. if the matter is mentioned to sir richard it must be by me--not by you. it would trouble him exceedingly to think you are acquainted with this secret. he would blame himself for committing the papers to your care, and he would blame you for reading them." "i have only read a single letter, father, as i have explained to you." "that i quite understand; but i fear sir richard will suspect you have indulged your curiosity to a greater extent." "my father will believe what i tell him," said constance, proudly. "'tis better not to give him so much annoyance if it can be helped," rejoined the priest; "and though frankness is generally desirable, there are occasions when reticence is necessary. this is one of them. have you the packet with you?" "yes, 'tis here," she replied, producing it. "give it me," he cried, taking it from her. "i will restore it to sir richard. he will then say nothing more to you. but mark me!" he added, gravely, "the secret you have thus accidentally obtained must be strictly kept. breathe it to no one. and now i must not neglect to caution you on another point. yesterday i saw this young man--this atherton legh--of whom we have just been speaking. he is very handsome, and well calculated to inspire regard in the female breast. i trust you have no such feeling for him." "father," she replied, blushing deeply, "i will hide nothing from you. i love him." "i grieve to hear the avowal," he said. "but you must conquer the passion--'twill be easy to do so in the commencement. sir richard would never consent to your union with an obscure adventurer. i therefore forbid you in your father's name to think further of the young man. any hopes you may have indulged must be crushed at once." "but i cannot--will not treat him in this way, father." "i charge you to dismiss him. recollect you are the daughter and heiress of sir richard rawcliffe. you have committed a great imprudence: but the error must be at once repaired. disobedience to my injunctions would be as culpable as disobedience to your father, whom i represent. again i say the young man must be dismissed." before she could make any answer, the door opened, and the very person in question entered, accompanied by monica. "he has come to receive his sentence," said the priest, in a low, unpitying tone. "not now," she cried, with a supplicating look. "yes, now," he rejoined, coldly. on this he went up to monica, and telling her he had something to say, led her out of the room, leaving atherton and constance alone together. "i fear i have come at a most inopportune moment," said the young man, who could not fail to be struck by her embarrassment. "you have come at the close of a very severe lecture which i have just received from father jerome," she replied. "he blames me for the encouragement i have given you, and forbids me, in my father's name, to see you again." "but you do not mean to obey him?" cried atherton. "surely you will not allow him to exercise this control over you? he is acting without authority." "not entirely without authority, for my father is guided by his advice in many things. this must be our last interview." "oh! say not so. you drive me to despair. give me some hope--however slight. may i speak to sir richard?" "'twould be useless," she replied, sadly. "father jerome has convinced me that he never would consent to our union. no, we must part--part for ever!" "you have pronounced my doom, and i must submit. oh! constance--for i will venture to call you so for one moment--i did not think you could have so quickly changed!" "my feelings towards you are unaltered," she rejoined. "but i am obliged to put a constraint upon them. we must forget what has passed." "the attempt would be vain on my part," cried atherton, bitterly. "oh! constance, if you knew the anguish i now endure you would pity me. but i will not seek to move your compassion--neither will i reproach you--though you have raised up my hopes only to crush them. farewell!" "stay--one moment!" she cried. "i may never have an explanation with you----" "i do not want an explanation," he rejoined. "i can easily understand why father jerome has given you this counsel. so long as a mystery attaches to my birth, he holds that i have no right to pretend to your hand. that is his opinion. that would be sir richard's opinion." "no, it could not be my father's opinion," she cried. "why do you think so?" he exclaimed, eagerly. she was hesitating as to the answer she should give him, when the priest reappeared. he was alone. "you are impatient for my departure, sir," said atherton. "but you need not be uneasy. miss rawcliffe has followed your advice. all is at an end between us." with a farewell look at constance, he then passed out. chapter iv. general sir john macdonald. towards evening, on the same day, lord pitsligo's regiment of horse, commanded by general sir john macdonald--lord pitsligo, owing to his age and infirmities, being compelled to occupy the prince's carriage--entered the town. the two divisions of the highland army were left respectively at wigan and leigh. lord pitsligo's regiment, though its numbers were small, scarcely exceeding a hundred and fifty, made a very good show, being composed chiefly of gentlemen--all wearing their national costume, and all being tolerably well mounted. general macdonald had ordered the official authorities to meet him at the cross, and he found the two constables waiting for him there; but an excuse was made for the boroughreeve. the general demanded quarters for ten thousand men to be ready on the morrow, when the prince would arrive with the army, and immediate accommodation for himself, his officers, and men; intimating that his followers must not be treated like common troopers. declaring that they acted on compulsion, the constables, who were very much awed by sir john's manner, promised compliance with his injunctions. they recommended him to take up his quarters for the night at the bull's head, and undertook that the highland gentlemen composing the troop should be well lodged. satisfied with this promise, general macdonald rode on to the market-place, attended by his officers, while the troopers were billeted without delay under the direction of the constables and their deputies. it may be thought that the arrival of this regiment--one of the best in the highland army--would have created a much greater sensation than the trivial affair of the morning. but such was not the case. sergeant dickson, being first in the field, gained all the glory. the popular excitement was over. no shouting crowds followed general macdonald to the black bull, and the streets were almost empty, as the troopers were billeted. later on, the all-important bellman was sent round to give notice that quarters for ten thousand men would be required next day. at the same time a fresh prohibition was issued against the removal of provisions. among the few whose curiosity took them to the neighbourhood of the cross to witness the new arrival, were beppy and her father. they were joined by atherton legh, who had been wandering about in a very disconsolate state ever since his parting with constance. remarking that he looked very much dejected, beppy inquired the cause, and easily ascertained the truth; and as she regarded constance in the light of a rival, she was not sorry that a misunderstanding had occurred between them. naturally, she did her best to cheer the young man, and though she could not entirely cure his wounded feelings, she partially succeeded. from the cross the little party proceeded to the marketplace, and as they drew near the bull's head they were surprised to see sir richard rawcliffe, who had evidently just alighted, and was conversing with general macdonald at the entrance to the inn. no sooner did the baronet descry dr. byrom than he called to him, and presented him to the general, who shook hands with him very cordially. but sir richard's conduct towards atherton was marked by great rudeness, and he returned the young man's salutation in a very distant and haughty fashion, and as if he scarcely recognised him. "apparently sir richard has quite forgotten the important service you rendered him," remarked beppy, who could not help noticing the slight. deeply mortified, atherton would have turned away, but she induced him to remain, and shortly afterwards he was brought forward unexpectedly. general macdonald being much struck by his appearance, inquired his name, and on hearing it exclaimed: "why this is the young man who delivered you from arrest, sir richard. have you nothing to say to him?" "i have already thanked him," replied the baronet, coldly. "and he shall not find me ungrateful." "zounds! you have a strange way of showing your gratitude." atherton could not help hearing these observations, and he immediately stepped up and said with great haughtiness: "i have asked no favour from you, sir richard, and will accept none." the baronet was so confounded that he could make no reply. bowing to general macdonald, atherton was about to retire, but the other stopped him. "there is one thing you will accept from sir richard, i am sure," he said, "and that is an apology, and i hope he will make you a handsome one for the rudeness with which he has treated you." "i cannot discuss private matters in public, sir john," said rawcliffe. "but from what i have heard since my return--and i have called at my sister's house and seen father jerome--i think i have good reason to complain of mr. atherton legh's conduct." "i must bear what you have said in silence, sir richard, and with such patience as i can," rejoined atherton. "but you have no reason to complain of my conduct." "i am certainly of that opinion, and i happen to know something of the matter," observed dr. byrom. "i think mr. atherton legh has behaved remarkably well." "cannot the matter be adjusted?" asked general macdonald. "impossible," replied sir richard. "and i am sure you will agree with me, sir john, when i give you an explanation in private." "but you are bound to state, sir richard," said dr. byrom, "that mr. atherton legh's conduct has been in no respect unbecoming a gentleman." "that i am quite willing to admit," rejoined the baronet. "and with that admission i am satisfied," observed atherton. "'tis a thousand pities the difference, whatever it may be, cannot be amicably arranged," said the general; "but since that appears impracticable, 'twill be best to let the matter drop." then turning to dr. byrom, he added, "am i wrong, doctor, in supposing that the young lady standing near us is your daughter. if so, pray present me to her." dr. byrom readily complied, and sir john seemed delighted by the zeal which the fair damsel displayed in the jacobite cause. "i see you already wear the white rose," he said, glancing at the favour which she had pinned on her breast. "it was given me by helen carnegie," replied beppy. "and you needn't scruple to wear it, for she is as honest and true-hearted a lassie as ever breathed," said sir john. "i know all about her. though she has been exposed to many temptations, her character is quite irreproachable." "you hear what general macdonald says, papa?" cried beppy. "it confirms the good opinion i had formed of her. she seems to me to possess a great many good qualities, and at all events i admire her romantic attachment to her lover. still, i don't think i should have been so very much charmed with her if she hadn't been so exceedingly pretty." "ay, there's her danger," cried sir john. "but i trust she will come to no harm. i hear sergeant dickson has brought her with him in his advance-march. 'tis a bold step." "but it has proved successful," said beppy. "they have gained more than a hundred recruits." at this moment the beating of a drum was heard, followed by a shout that seemed to proceed from the direction of market street lane, a thoroughfare which turned out of the market-place on the left near the exchange. immediately afterwards sergeant dickson and his companions made their appearance, followed by a great number of young men, all of whom turned out to be volunteers. as soon as dickson became aware of the arrival of sir john macdonald, he led his large company of recruits towards the inn, and drawing them up in front of the house, dismounted and presented himself to the general. helen alighted at the same time, but did not come forward. while this movement took place, all the officers had issued from the court-yard, and collected near their leader. "well, dickson," cried macdonald, glancing at the band of young men drawn up before him. "are these your recruits?" "they are, general," replied the sergeant, proudly. "and i trust colonel johnstone will be satisfied with me." "you have done well, that's certain," said sir john. "but, to speak truth, how many of these fine young fellows do you owe to helen?" "i can't tell, general. 'tis enough for me that they've agreed to serve king james." "nay, then, i must question her." at a sign from the sergeant, helen left her horse with rollo, and stepping forward, made sir john a military salute. she had now thrown off the plaid shawl which she had worn while on horseback, so that the exquisite symmetry of her lower limbs, set off by the tartan hose, was revealed. her tiny feet were almost hidden by the buckles in her shoes. beppy gazed at her with admiration, and thought she looked even better than she had done on horseback. but she had other and more ardent admirers than miss byrom. among the officers was a captain lindsay, a very handsome young man, who had long been desperately enamoured of her, but had managed to constrain his passion. he now kept his eyes constantly fixed upon her, and strove--though vainly--to attract her attention. whenever helen met his ardent glances, she turned aside her gaze. "aweel, helen," cried macdonald; "i have been congratulating the sergeant on his success. but i think he mainly owes it to you, lassie. a blink o' your bonnie blue een has done more than all his fair speeches." "you are mista'en, general," replied helen. "i may have gained a dizen, but not mair." "you do yourself an injustice, lassie. half those brave lads belong to you." "i could tell you how many she enlisted at the cross, for i was present at the time," remarked beppy. "then you must needs tell the general that i enlisted yerself, fair leddy, and that ye promised to find me a recruit," said helen. "and so i will," said beppy. "can i do aught more for you?" "give me a few yards of blue and white ribbon to make cockades, and i will thank you heartily," rejoined helen. "come home with me, and you shall have as much ribbon as you require, and i will help you to make the cockades," said beppy. "you cannot refuse that offer, helen," remarked general macdonald. "i am na like to refuse it," was the rejoinder. "the young leddy is ower gude." helen then consulted the sergeant, who signified his assent, upon which she told beppy she was ready to go with her. excusing herself to the general, beppy then took her father's arm, and they set off for the doctor's residence, accompanied by the scottish damsel. chapter v. helen carnegie's story. after helen carnegie had partaken of some refreshment, and drunk a glass of mead, with which she was mightily pleased, she went with beppy to the young lady's boudoir, where a basket full of blue and white ribbons was found upon the work-table, and they sat down together to make cockades--chatting merrily as they proceeded with their task. by this time the frank scottish lassie had become quite confidential with her new friend, and had told her simple story--explaining that she was merely a husbandman's daughter, and had passed eighteen summers and winters among the hills near ruthven. she had first seen sergeant erick dickson at perth, when the highland army came there. he had wooed her and won her heart, but she refused to wed him till the fighting was over. she afterwards saw him at edinburgh, after the battle of gladsmuir, and he pressed her so strongly to accompany him on the march to england that she consented. she had suffered far less than might have been expected from the fatigues of the long march, and thought she was now quite as strong and as able to endure hardship as erick himself. "you may blame me for the bold step i have taken, dear young leddy," she said, "and i ken fu' weel it was imprudent, but as yet i have had no cause to repent it. i loo'd erick dearly, an' didna like to pairt wi' him. sae i ha' ridden by his side a' the way frae edinburgh to this toon, and shall gae on wi' him to lunnon, if the prince should gang sae far, as heaven grant he may! to a young leddy like yersel, siccan a life as i hae led wadna be possible, but to a mountain lassie there's nae hardship in it, but great enjoyment. everywhere on the march, sin we crossed the border, the southrons hae shown me kindness. 'twas only to ask and have. never have i wanted a night's lodging. as to erick, you will readily guess how carefully he has tented me. but he has never neglected his duty, and i have helped him to discharge it as far as i could. our love has been tried, and has stood the test, and is now stronger than ever. loosome as ye are, young leddy, ye must needs hae a lover, and i trust he may prove as fond and faithful as erick. then you'll never regret your choice." "i thank you for the good wish, helen," said beppy, smiling. "but i have no lover." "i canna believe it. i'm much mista'en if i didna see a weel-faur'd callant cast lovin' een upon ye in the marketplace just now. he wasna far off when the general spoke to me. "mr. atherton legh, i suppose you mean?" observed beppy, blushing. "ay, that's his name. i heard the general ca' him sae." "and so you have no fault to find with your lover?" said beppy, anxious to change the subject. "fawt!--nane!" exclaimed helen. "erick hasna a fawt." "is he never jealous?" "aweel, i canna deny that he is a wee bit jealous, if ye ca' that a fawt; but his jealousy only proves his love. i should be jealous mysel if he talked to the lasses." "but do you talk to the lads, helen?" "my certie, na! but ther win talk to me, and that makes erick angry sometimes. but i soon laugh it off." "well, if it's nothing more serious than that it doesn't signify," said beppy. "you can't prevent the young men from paying you compliments, you know." "and i maun be ceevil to them in return. but there's one person that troubles me, and troubles erick too--captain lindsay. he's an officer in lord pitsligo's regiment. maybe you noticed him?--a fine-looking young man, taller than the rest; but weel-faur'd as he is, he's not to compare with erick." "you always keep captain lindsay at a distance, i hope, helen?" "i do my best. i never listen to his saft nonsense. i never accept any of the trinkets he offers me--but he winna be said." "continue to treat him coldly, and his assiduities will soon cease," observed beppy. "i'm not so sure of that. if he persists i fear there'll be mischief, for he drives erick furious." "i hope it mayn't come to that, helen," said beppy, rather gravely. "but much will depend on your discretion." they then went on with their task in silence. by this time they had made two or three dozen cockades, and when nearly as many more were finished, helen expressed surprise that erick had not come to fetch her. "he promised to come for me in an hour," she said, "and it's now gettin' late." "don't make yourself uneasy," replied beppy. "he'll be here soon. where do you lodge to-night?" "at the angel in market street lane. why, there's a clock has just struck nine. i must go. you'll please to excuse me, miss. i'll come betimes to-morrow and help you to finish the cockades." "well, if you won't stay any longer, i'll send some one with you to the angel." helen declined the offer, saying she was not afraid to walk there by herself. "but are you sure you can find the way?" "quite sure," replied helen. and thanking the young lady for her kindness, she bade her good-night, and took her departure. chapter vi. captain lindsay. the moon shone brightly as helen was crossing the churchyard, but she had not gone far when she heard quick footsteps behind her, and thinking it must be erick she stopped. it was not her lover, but a tall highland officer, whom she instantly recognised. surprised and alarmed at the sight, she would have fled, but captain lindsay, for it was he, sprang forward, and seized her arm. "let me go, i insist, sir," she cried indignantly. "not till i have had a few words with you, helen," replied the captain. "i have been waiting an hour for you here. i found out that miss byrom had taken you home with her, so i kept watch near the door of the house for your coming forth. erick, i knew, couldn't interrupt us, for i had contrived to get him out of the way." "he shall hear of your base design, sir," she cried, looking round for help. but she could see no one in the churchyard. "listen to me, helen," said captain lindsay. "i am so passionately in love that i would make any sacrifice for you. you must and shall be mine!" "never!" she cried, struggling vainly to get free. "i am plighted to erick, as ye ken fu' weel, and think you i wad break my vow to him? and for you, whom i hate!" "hate me or not, you shall be mine!" he cried. "listen to reason, you foolish girl. erick cannot love you as i love you." "he loves me far better--but i dinna mind that." "if you wed him, you will only be a poor soldier's wife. with me you will have wealth and luxury." "ye are merely wastin' yer breath, sir," she cried. "a' your arguments have no effect on me. were you to fill my lap with gowd, i wad fling it from me wi' scorn. i care na for wealth and luxury--i care only for erick." "to the devil with him!" cried captain lindsay, fiercely. "you are enough to drive one mad. if you won't yield to persuasion, you shall yield to force. mine you shall be, whether you will or not." "and he would have clasped her in his arms, but she seized the dirk which hung from his girdle and held it to his breast. "release me instantly, or i will plunge this to your heart," she cried. the energy with which she spoke left no doubt that she would execute her threat, and the baffled captain set her free. at this moment assistance came. erick could be seen hurrying towards them from the further side of the churchyard. as soon as helen perceived him she flung the dirk at captain lindsay's feet, and flew to meet her lover. "what's the matter, lass?" cried the sergeant. "has the villain insulted you? if he has, he shall pay for it wi' his life." "na! na!" cried helen, stopping him. "ye shall na gae near him. there'll be mischief. you should ha' come sooner, erick, and then this wadna ha' happened." "i could na come afore, lassie," replied the sergeant. "i now see the trick that has been played me by this cunning villain; but he shall rue it." "ye shall na stay anither minute in this unchancy kirkyard," cried helen, forcing him away with her. just as they went out at the gate, helen cast a look back at captain lindsay, and saw him still standing, as if stupefied, on the spot where she had left him. he had not even picked up the dirk, for she could distinguish it glittering in the moonlight at his feet. chapter vii. a residence is chosen for the prince. at an early hour on the following morning, a carriage drawn by four strong horses, and attended by a mounted guard, entered the town. it contained four persons, all of a certain importance. chief among them was lord pitsligo, than whom no one in the highland army was more beloved and respected. the venerable scottish nobleman was in full military costume, and would have ridden at the head of his regiment, had not his infirm state of health prevented him. the next person whom we shall mention was mr. john murray of broughton, a gentleman of great ability, who acted as the prince's secretary and treasurer, and managed all his royal highness's affairs extremely well. mr. murray had a sharp intelligent countenance, and wore a suit of brown velvet with a tie-wig. opposite to him sat the prince's tutor and adviser, sir thomas sheridan, one of the numerous irish gentlemen who had attached themselves to the cause of the stuarts. sir thomas, who was a strict roman catholic, exercised almost as much influence over the prince as father petre once did over the prince's grandsire, james the second. next to sir thomas sat a very brilliant personage, wearing a rich suit of sky-blue cloth trimmed with silver, laced ruffles, a laced cravat, and a three-cornered hat, likewise laced with silver. this was the marquis d'eguilles, an envoy from louis the fifteenth, who had brought over a large sum of money and nearly three thousand stand of arms from his royal master. the marquis had the refined and graceful manner of a french courtier of the period, and carried a diamond snuff-box, which was always at the service of his companions. as the persons we have described crossed the bridge, they looked with some interest at the town they were just entering, and bowed in return for the shouts of the crowd, who had rushed out to greet them. seeing such a large and handsome equipage attended by an escort, the townspeople naturally supposed it must be the prince himself, and when they found out their mistake, they did not shout quite so loudly. the carriage drove to the market-place, where lord pitsligo and the others descended at the bull's head. a substantial repast had been prepared for them by order of sir john macdonald, to which they at once sat down. before breakfast was over, colonel townley arrived, and at once joined the party. several jacobites likewise repaired to the inn and volunteered their services to mr. secretary murray, who received them very affably, and introduced them to lord pitsligo. amongst the new-comers were dr. deacon and dr. byrom. mr. murray's first business was to find a suitable residence for the prince during his stay in the town, and after consulting the two gentlemen we have named, he went out attended by colonel townley, the marquis d'eguilles, sir thomas sheridan, and dr. byrom, to inspect the principal mansions in the place. half a dozen soldiers went with them to keep back the crowd. they first proceeded to deansgate, where they examined a large house belonging to mr. touchet, one of the chief merchants of the place; but this was deemed unsuitable, being partly used as a warehouse, and was therefore assigned to lord elcho. mr. floyd's house, near st. ann's square, was next visited; a handsome mansion, ornamented with pilasters, having a belvidere on the summit, and approached by a noble flight of steps, but it did not entirely satisfy mr. murray, so he allotted it to lord pitsligo and lord george murray. the next mansion inspected was mr. croxton's, in king street, a large building converted at a later period into the town-hall. here quarters were found for lord balmerino, lord kilmarnock, and lord strathallan. mr. marriott's house, in brown-street, was assigned to the earl of kelly and lord ogilvy; mr. gartside's mansion was appropriated to the duke of perth; and a fine house in market street lane, occupied by mr. marsden, was allotted to the marquis of tullibardine and lord nairne. good quarters having thus been provided for all the principal personages in the highland army, there remained only the prince; and at length mr. dickenson's house, in market street lane, was fixed upon as affording fitting head-quarters for his royal highness. the mansion, one of the best in the town, was built of red brick, in the formal taste of the period. still, it was large and commodious, and contained some handsome apartments. standing back from the street, it had a paved court in front surrounded by iron railings, and a lofty flight of steps led to the doorway. a glance at the internal arrangements decided mr. murray in his choice, and he gave orders that the house should be immediately prepared for the prince. some of the houses selected for the jacobite leaders, we believe, are still in existence, but mr. dickenson's mansion has been pulled down. after its occupation by the prince at the memorable period in question, it was always known as "the palace." perfectly satisfied with the arrangements he had made, mr. murray left his companions behind, and took his way down market street lane, then a narrow, but extremely picturesque thoroughfare, and abounding in ancient habitations. chapter viii. interview between secretary murray and the magistrates. in front of the angel inn, over the doorway of which hung a flag, a number of young men were assembled, each being distinguished by a white cockade. on horseback in the midst of these recruits were sergeant dickson, helen carnegie, and rollo. halting for a moment to give some instructions to the sergeant and congratulate him on his success, mr. murray passed on to the market-place, where a large concourse was collected. cheers greeted the party, and attended them to the bull's head, at the door of which two sentries were now stationed. on entering the inn, mr. murray was informed by diggles that the magistrates were waiting to see him; and he was then conducted to a room on the ground floor, in which he found mr. walley and mr. fowden. courteously saluting them, he begged them to be seated at a table placed in the centre of the room, furnished them with a list of the houses he had selected, and, after they had examined it, he proceeded to give them some further directions as to the arrangements necessary to be made for the prince. "his royal highness will not dine till a late hour," he said. "only the duke of perth, lord george murray, the marquis of tullibardine, lord pitsligo, the marquis d'eguilles, sir thomas sheridan, and myself will have the honour of dining with him. the repast must be served in private." the magistrates bowed. "another sumptuous repast, with the choicest wines you can procure, must be prepared at seven o'clock for forty of the principal officers." again the magistrates bowed. "we will do our best to content the prince," said mr. fowden. "as regards the houses mentioned in this list, those for whom they have been chosen will find them ready for their reception. for how many men, may we ask, will quarters be required?" "for five thousand; and rations for the like number. but the commanding officer, on his arrival, will give you precise orders, in obedience to which you will furnish the quarter-masters and adjutants with the necessary warrants. another important matter must be attended to. as the prince's treasurer, i require that all persons connected with the excise, and all innkeepers, shall forthwith bring me the full amount of their imposts, and all moneys in their hands belonging to the government--on pain of military execution." "public notice to that effect shall immediately be given," said mr. fowden; "but should the innkeepers or any others prove remiss we must not be blamed for their negligence." "all defaulters will be shot to-morrow. make that known," said mr. murray. "i trust, gentlemen," he added, rising, "that due honour will be done to the prince on his arrival." "it would be inconsistent with the office we hold, and might expose us to serious consequences, were we to give orders for public rejoicings," said mr. fowden; "but we will take care the town shall be illuminated and bonfires lighted." "that is all i could require from you, gentlemen. on the arrival of the prince, if you will attend at head-quarters, i shall have the honour of presenting you to his royal highness." "we are fully sensible of the great honour intended us," said the magistrates, hesitating; "but----" "i see, gentlemen. you are afraid of compromising yourselves," remarked mr. murray, smiling. "make yourselves quite easy. i have a device that will obviate all difficulty. a silk curtain shall be hung across the audience-chamber. of course you won't know who may be behind the curtain--though you may guess." "an excellent plan," cried the magistrates. bowing ceremoniously to the secretary, they then withdrew. chapter ix. arrival of the first division of the highland army. lord george murray. shortly after the departure of the magistrates, the bells of all the churches in the town began to ring joyously, and were soon answered by loud and merry peals from the only church on the other side of the irwell. summoned by this exhilarating clamour, multitudes flocked into the streets, decked in holiday attire, and most of them crossed the bridge into salford in expectation of witnessing the entrance of the highland army. the weather was most propitious. never was finer day seen in november, and the bright sunshine diffused general gaiety and good-humour among the concourse. good-looking damsels predominated in the crowd--manchester has always been noted for female beauty--and they were all exceedingly curious to behold the handsome young prince and the scottish chiefs. there was a great deal of talk about the insurrection of ' , but this was chiefly among the older people, for as the first rising took place before the young folks were born, they could not be expected to feel much interest in it. it may seem strange that the approach of the much-dreaded highlanders should not have caused alarm, but by this time the inhabitants generally had got over their fears, and were disposed to welcome the insurgents as friends, and not treat them as enemies. among the fair sex, as we have said, the youth, courage, romantic character, and good looks of the prince excited the greatest interest and sympathy. whatever the men might be, the women were all jacobites. meanwhile, the bells continued to peal joyfully, and multitudes crossed into salford, and stationed themselves on either side of the main street, through which it was expected the prince and the army would pass. everything looked bright and gay, and everybody--except a few moody presbyterians--appeared happy. on the summit of the lofty tower of the collegiate church floated a large standard fashioned of white, red, and blue silk. this broad banner, which attracted great attention from the concourse, had been placed in its present conspicuous position by the management of tom syddall. the patience of the large crowd assembled in salford was somewhat sorely tried. those who had secured good places for the spectacle did not like to leave them, and they had nothing to do but talk and jest with each other; but at length the shrill notes of the bagpipes proclaimed that the highlanders were at hand, and the trampling of horse was heard. first to appear was a troop of horse commanded by lord strathallan. this was quickly followed by a regiment of highlanders, with their pipers marching in front. the sight of these fine, stalwart men, in their picturesque garb, each armed with firelock, claymore, and dirk, and bearing a target on his shoulder, caused the greatest excitement among the beholders, who cheered them lustily as they marched on. the regiment was commanded by lord george murray, one of the most distinguished and important persons in the prince's service, who had been created a lieutenant-general of the highland army. he was a younger brother of the marquis of tullibardine. lord george was not young, as will be understood, when it is mentioned that he was concerned in the outbreak of ; but he was still in the prime of life, undoubtedly the boldest and ablest leader in the rebel forces, and the one best able to direct the movements of the present campaign; but though he was a prominent member of the council, his advice was rarely taken, owing to the bluntness of his manner, which was highly displeasing to the prince, as well as to several of his royal highness's advisers. in this respect lord george offered a marked contrast to his rival the courtly duke of perth, of whom we shall have occasion to speak anon. lord george murray was tall, powerfully built, and possessed great personal strength. a thorough soldier, of undaunted courage, and capable of undergoing any amount of fatigue, he was unpopular from his rough and somewhat contemptuous manner. his character could be easily read in his haughty demeanour and strongly marked countenance. lord george was attended by his aide-de-camp, the chevalier de johnstone. as he rode along and eyed the crowd on either side, his stern glance struck terror into many a breast. chapter x. the duke of perth. nairne's athole men came next, and were followed by other fine highland regiments, respectively commanded by general gordon of glenbucket, lord ogilvy of strathmore, and roy stuart. each regiment had two captains, two lieutenants, and two ensigns. next came a troop of light cavalry, under the command of lord balmerino; and then followed lord kilmarnock's hussars with the baggage and artillery. the train of artillery consisted of sixteen field-pieces, two waggons laden with powder, and a great number of sumpter-horses. this division of the highland army was commanded by the duke of perth, whose presence excited general admiration. both the duke and his aide-de-camp, who rode beside him, were remarkably well mounted, and both perfect horsemen. among the many scottish nobles who had determined to share the fortunes of prince charles edward, none could compare in personal appearance and deportment with james lord drummond, third titular duke of perth. the duke's courtesy, refined manners, and unfailing good temper, rendered him popular with all. though not so thorough a soldier as lord george murray, he was equally brave, and in brilliant qualities far surpassed him. between these two distinguished personages a great rivalry existed. no member of the council possessed so much influence with the prince as the duke of perth, and the favour shown his rival often caused great umbrage to lord george murray, who did not care to conceal his resentment. the duke had warm friends in secretary murray and sir thomas sheridan, so that his position as first favourite was unassailable, certainly by lord george. the duke, who was in the very prime of manhood, being only just turned thirty, was grandson of the earl of perth, created duke by james the second on his retirement to france. nothing could be more striking than the effect produced by these clan regiments as they marched through salford on that morning, the different hues of the plaids worn by each corps giving variety and colour to the picture, while the sinewy frames, fierce countenances, and active movements of the men inspired a certain feeling akin to fear among the beholders, which the war-like notes of the bagpipe did not tend to diminish. the front ranks of each regiment were composed of gentlemen, whose arms and equipments were superior to those of the others, causing them to look like officers; but they had no rank. all the men were in good spirits, and seemed as if victory lay before them. regiment after regiment marched over the bridge, with the sun shining brightly on their picturesque dresses, and glittering on their firelocks and arms--with their colours and pipes playing--bells pealing, and spectators shouting loudly, producing a most extraordinarily animating effect. scarcely less striking was it as the highlanders marched through the town and drew up in st. ann's square. completely filled by these clan regiments, the large area presented a picture such as it has never since exhibited. but a scene of a very different kind was being enacted at the same time. while these armed men were gathering in front of the church, a sad ceremonial took place in the churchyard. a grave had been opened to receive the remains of a respected inhabitant of the town, and the last rites were then being performed by mr. lewthwaite, who proceeded as calmly as circumstances would permit. but other mourners than those expected gathered round the grave as the coffin was lowered into it--highland officers bare-headed, and noticeable for their respectful demeanour. the highland regiments did not remain long in st. ann's square. having received their billets, the men were taken to their lodgings by the quarter-masters. the artillery and baggage-waggons proceeded to castle field, where a park was formed, and strongly guarded. chapter xi. arrival of the second division. multitudes of people still remained in salford, patiently awaiting the arrival of the prince with the second division of the highland army. all the inmates of mrs. butler's dwelling, which, it will be remembered, was situated at the upper end of the main street, had witnessed the march past of the first division. even the invalid lady herself, who had not quitted the house for a lengthened period, and could not do so now without considerable risk, came forth to see the young prince. not being able to walk so far, she was carried out into the garden, and placed near the gate, which was thrown open. from this position she commanded the road, and could see all that was to be seen. near her stood monica and constance, both of whom were attired in white dresses, with blue scarves, while in close attendance upon her were her brother, sir richard rawcliffe, father jerome, and jemmy dawson. notwithstanding the excitement of the occasion, constance looked pensive and absent--her thoughts being occupied with atherton legh. very little conversation had taken place between her and her father, since sir richard's return from preston, and then only in the presence of father jerome. all allusion to the young man had been studiously avoided. by this time monica had quite shaken off her fears, and when the stirring spectacle commenced, and the clan regiments marched past the gate, her breast glowed with enthusiasm, and all her former ardour returned. she thought no more of her lover's danger, but of the glory he would win; and if he had held back, she would now have urged him on. but jemmy required no spurring; he was eager to be an actor in such a scene, and was anxiously expecting his promised commission. as to mrs. butler, she looked on with mingled feelings. what memories were awakened by the sight of those highland regiments! the men looked the same, wore the same garb, and bore the same arms as those she had seen in former days. yet the chiefs who had fought in the civil war of , and their faithful clansmen, were all swept away. were those who had now taken their places destined to victory or defeat? she trembled as she asked herself the question. many a glance was thrown at the fair damsels in the garden as the young officers marched past, and frequent salutes were offered to sir richard by those in command of the regiment, but no one halted except the duke of perth, who paused to say a few words to him, and was presented to the ladies--delighting them with his courteous manner. before the duke rode off, he told them that more than an hour would elapse before the second division came up, and so it turned out. during this interval, mrs. butler remained in the garden, and of course the others did not leave her. some slight refreshments, with wine, were brought her by a man-servant from the house, and of these she partook in order to support her strength, which she feared might fail her. she listened anxiously for any sounds that might announce the prince's approach, but it was long before he came. at length the loud notes of the bagpipes were heard in the distance, and soon afterwards a regiment of cavalry came up, commanded by lord elcho, who carried his sword in his hand, as did the men. these were the life-guards. blue coats with red facings formed the uniform of the troop. and the men wore gold-laced hats with white cockades in them. indeed, we may remark that all the officers and soldiers of the highland army wore white cockades in hat or bonnet. the life-guards were soon gone, and then a personage appeared, upon whom all eyes were fixed. chapter xii. the young chevalier. attended by a dozen or more nobles and officers of high rank, all dressed in blue coats faced with red, and wearing gold-laced hats, marched with a light elastic step, that showed he was not in the slightest degree fatigued, a tall, well-proportioned, fair-complexioned, handsome young man, of some five-and-twenty, dressed in a highland garb, armed with a broadsword, and carrying a target on his shoulder. he wore no star upon his breast--no ornament of any kind--merely a white rose in his bonnet, and a blue silk scarf, yet his dignified and graceful deportment proclaimed at once that it was prince charles edward. the prince's frame was slight, but full of vigour. his features were regular and delicately moulded, his complexion fair, and his eyes bright and blue. his natural blonde locks would no doubt have become him better than the flaxen-coloured peruke which he wore, though that suited him. his expression was extremely amiable and engaging, and his youth, grace, and good looks produced a most favourable impression upon the beholders. charles edward was preceded by a hundred highland pipers, and as all were playing vigorously, the din caused by them was astounding. this handsome young prince, who, at the period of his introduction to the reader, was full of romantic ardour and courage, and confident of recovering the throne of his ancestors, was the eldest son of james stuart, known as the chevalier de saint george, and the princess maria sobieski. perfect in all manly exercises, prince charles edward possessed powers of endurance that admirably fitted him for the enterprize he had undertaken. his early years had been passed in obscurity in rome, but he had always cherished the thought of invading england, and at last the opportunity presented itself. great efforts had been made by the jacobite party in paris to induce the french monarch to aid in the restoration of the stuart dynasty, but without effect. however, when the celebrated cardinal de tencin became first minister of state, he judged that a civil war in england would be highly beneficial to france, and therefore invited charles edward to repair to paris. preparations, meanwhile, had been made to land an army of fifteen thousand men in england under field-marshal saxe, and it was arranged that the prince should accompany the expedition as commander-in-chief. the fleet set sail, but being dispersed by a violent tempest, suffered so much loss that the project was abandoned. but the hopes of the young prince were encouraged by the cardinal minister, who said to him, "the king is averse to another expedition after the disastrous result of the first. but why should you not go alone, or with a few attendants, and land on the north of scotland? your presence alone would revive your party, and create an army." this advice was too much in accordance with the aspirations of the brave and adventurous young prince not to be eagerly adopted. provided with money and arms by the cardinal, he set sail from dunquerque in july, , in the dentelle sloop of war, and after some hazardous escapes, landed on the north-west coast of scotland, where he was met by mr. murray, who became his secretary and treasurer. his standard having been reared, he was speedily joined by the macdonalds, the camerons, and other highland chiefs, the duke of perth, the marquis of tullibardine, lord elcho, and lord george murray. having mustered an army of four thousand men, he marched on perth, and arrived there on the rd of september. after a short stay at perth, he proceeded at the head of his army to edinburgh, and the scottish capital opened its gates to the grandson of james the second. here he took possession of the palace of his ancestors; caused his father to be proclaimed at the cross by the title of king james the eighth of scotland, and himself as regent; and after the ceremonial gave a splendid ball at holyrood. at edinburgh he was joined by lord nairne with a thousand men. on the st of september occurred the battle of preston pans, in which sir john cope was completely routed. the news of the young chevalier's unlooked-for and decisive victory animated the jacobites in every quarter, greatly alarmed the english government, and brought back george the second from hanover. having received considerable reinforcements, the prince gave a troop of horse to lord balmerino, and another to lord kilmarnock. money and arms also arrived most opportunely from france, and in one of the vessels that brought these supplies came the marquis d'eguilles. the court continued to be held at holyrood, and the receptions were now most brilliantly attended, especially by the fair sex. meanwhile, marshal wade having assembled an army at newcastle, the prince determined to cross the border and give him battle. several of his council, among whom was lord george murray, sought to dissuade him from his design, urging him to await the arrival of the expected reinforcements from france; but no representations either of difficulty or danger could induce the chivalrous prince to give up his scheme, or even defer it. he told his councillors that he saw they were determined to stay in scotland, and defend their own country; but he added, in a tone that showed his resolution was taken, "i am not less determined to try my fate in england, even though i should go alone." on the last day of october he marched out of edinburgh at the head of an army of five thousand five hundred men. his first object was to attack carlisle, and as marshal wade had not advanced from newcastle, he did not anticipate an engagement with him. carlisle surrendered to the duke of perth, and on the th november, charles edward made a triumphal entry into the city. at a council held there, the prince, flushed by success, proposed to continue his march to the metropolis, expressing a firm conviction that he should be joined by a large party in lancashire and cheshire, while the marquis d'eguilles felt equally confident that reinforcements would arrive from france. some opposition to the plan was offered by lord george murray, who affirmed that the duke of cumberland had assembled an army nearly doubling in number that of his royal highness, which must be encountered, and that marshal wade had made a demonstration for the relief of carlisle, but the advice was overruled. resuming his march, the prince passed through lancaster, and arrived with his whole army at preston on the th. from preston the highland army marched to manchester, in two divisions, as related. rash as the young chevalier's enterprise may appear, it is more than probable that it would have been accomplished if he had received the support he expected. before quitting scotland he had received invitations and promises of aid from many important jacobite families in the northern counties; and he had been led to believe that a general rising in his favour would be made in lancashire, cheshire, and north wales. but he soon found these promises fallacious. very few persons of importance joined his standard, and no risings took place. he had expected powerful reinforcements from france, but none arrived. yet he had advanced boldly and successfully, and though unaided, it appeared not unlikely that he would achieve the daring project he had conceived. hopes were still entertained by some of his counsellors that a large number of volunteers would join at manchester, and the warm reception given him by the inhabitants as he approached the town, seemed to warrant these expectations. as the prince marched a few paces in front of his attendants, he was at once distinguishable; but even if he had been mixed up with them, his dignified deportment would have rendered him conspicuous. amongst the nobles and highland chiefs who attended him were the marquis of tullibardine, glengarry, ardshiel, colonel ker of gradon, and colonel o'sullivan. behind them came a body-guard of highlanders. the second division of the army consisted of regiments belonging to the chiefs previously mentioned, but these regiments were now left to the command of the officers, their leaders preferring to march on foot with the prince. a troop of hussars under the command of lord balmerino brought up the rear. chapter xiii. the prince's interview with mrs. butler and the two damsels. as the young chevalier approached mrs. butler's residence, he chanced to cast his eye into the garden--the gate of which, as we have said, was standing wide open--and the charming group formed by the two beautiful girls and the invalid lady attracted his attention. standing close beside them, he perceived sir richard rawcliffe, whom he had seen at preston the day before. on beholding the young chevalier, mrs. butler rose from her chair, and stepping forward, made him a profound obeisance. something in the earnest look fixed upon him by the invalid lady interested the prince, and he could not resist the impulse that prompted him to speak to her. accordingly he signified his intention to the marquis of tullibardine; a halt was immediately called, the pipers ceased playing, while the prince stepped out of the line, followed by that nobleman, and entered the garden. nothing could exceed the surprise and delight caused by this gracious act, not only to the object of it, but to the two fair damsels who stood beside her. it may be thought that these lovely girls would have attracted the prince to the garden rather than an elderly dame, but he seemed scarcely aware of their presence till he was close beside them. instantly divining the prince's intention, sir richard rawcliffe presented his sister. charles could not prevent her from kneeling, but he immediately raised her, and remarking that she looked very faint, conducted her, with much solicitude, to a seat. he then turned to the two fair damsels, who were likewise presented to him by sir richard, and received them with much grace and dignity. not till this moment did he become aware of constance's surpassing beauty, and he then remarked to her father: "i was told that you had a lovely daughter, sir richard, but i did not imagine she was so beautiful as i find her." "such praise coming from your royal highness will make her vain," said the baronet. "nay, i meant not to call blushes to her cheek, though they do not spoil it," said charles. "but miss rawcliffe has another great merit in my eyes besides her personal attractions. if i am not misinformed, she is devoted to the royal cause." "heart and soul!" cried constance, enthusiastically. "your royal highness has not a more zealous adherent than myself." "i cannot doubt it. but i hoped you have proved your zeal by bringing me a hundred swords." "i have brought you one," she replied--"but it is worth a hundred." "ah! to whom does it belong?" inquired the prince, smiling. "to a brave young man, whose name must be utterly unknown to your royal highness--mr. atherton legh." "there you are mistaken. his name has been mentioned to me by colonel townley, who described him--i have no doubt quite correctly--as the finest young man in manchester. mr. atherton legh shall have a commission on your recommendation, miss rawcliffe. you will present him to me, sir richard." "it will be better, perhaps, that colonel townley should present him to your royal highness," said sir richard. the reluctance displayed by the baronet did not escape the prince, whose perceptions were very acute, but a glance at constance served partly to explain matters to him, and he remarked with apparent indifference: "be it so;" adding significantly, "i shall not forget that i am indebted to you, miss rawcliffe, for this brave young recruit." it was now jemmy dawson's turn to be presented, and he had no cause to complain of his reception. the few words said to him by the prince were calculated to rouse his zeal, while they highly gratified monica. "i can claim as much credit as my cousin constance," she said. "each of us has brought a recruit; and we both feel equally sure your royal highness will be well served." by this time mrs. butler had recovered from her faintness, and perceiving that her gaze was anxiously fixed upon him, the prince went to speak to her. "you have something to say to me, madam, methinks?" he observed. "i only desire to tell you, prince, that i have prayed daily for the restoration of your royal house. you will therefore understand what my feelings must be when i behold you at the head of an army determined to wrest the crown of this kingdom from the usurper who now wears it. may heaven strengthen your arm, and fight for you, so that you may regain your own, and the rights and liberties of your faithful subjects may be preserved, and the old religion be restored!" "i have come to win a kingdom for my royal father, or to perish in the attempt," said charles edward, energetically. "victory awaits you, prince," she cried. "i feel assured of it. the tidings of your triumph will efface my sad recollections of the former ill-starred attempt, and i shall die content." "my sister lost one who was very dear to her, in the fatal affair of ' ," remarked sir richard. "i cannot wonder then that she should have sad memories connected with that unfortunate struggle," said the prince, in a tone of profound sympathy. "farewell, madam. i hope you will have no more to mourn--but many to greet as victors." he then addressed the two fair damsels, expressing a hope that he might see them again during his brief stay in manchester; after which, with a graceful inclination of his person towards the party, he stepped back, and resumed his place in the line of march. before, however, the troops could be put in motion, another slight interruption occurred. it was caused by the rev. mr. clayton, the chaplain of the collegiate church. mr. clayton, as will be conjectured from what we are about to narrate, was a jacobite and a nonjuror. taking advantage of the halt, he threw himself at the prince's feet, and in most fervent tones implored the divine blessing on his head--praying that the enterprise on which he was engaged might prove successful. as the chaplain was in full canonicals the incident caused a great sensation, and was particularly gratifying to the prince. when the benediction was concluded, and mr. clayton had retired, the word was given, the pipers began to play as loudly as before, and the march was resumed. shortly afterwards, prince charles edward crossed the bridge, and, amid loud acclamations, entered manchester. chapter xiv. the prince's march to head-quarters. no sooner did the vast assemblage collected near the approaches to the bridge distinguish the tall graceful figure of the young chevalier amid the throng of scottish nobles and chiefs, than all heads were instantly uncovered, and a loud cry arose of "long live king james the third, and prince charles edward!" at the same time a band of musicians, stationed at tom syddall's door, and directed by the jacobite barber in person, struck up the old air of "the king shall have his own again." but this could scarcely be heard amid the din caused by the pipers. most of the open windows on either side of the street were adorned by damsels dressed in white, and these fair adherents to the royal house of stuart now leaned forward and waved their handkerchiefs to the prince. such a demonstration could not be otherwise than highly gratifying to the young chevalier, and he bowed and smiled in acknowledgment of the salutations offered him, the grace of his manner eliciting fresh cheers. so greatly was the crowd excited, that it was with difficulty the foremost ranks could be prevented from pressing on the prince, who, however, would not allow his body-guard of highlanders to interfere. no untoward circumstance marred the general satisfaction. bells were pealing blithely, drums beating, pipes playing, colours flying, men shouting, kerchiefs waving all the way from the bridge to the market-place, where a brief halt was made. having been joined by his secretary, mr. murray, who explained where his head-quarters were situated, the prince resumed his march, still preceded by the pipers, and attended by his body-guard of highlanders. on reaching the house designed for him, he entered it with his suite, and disappeared from the view of the shouting crowd who had followed him. the pipers and the highland guard drew up in the court-yard. a sumptuous repast had been prepared in the dining-room, and to this charles and his attendants at once sat down. little repose, however, was allowed the indefatigable prince. the chief magistrates, mr. fowden and mr. walley, were waiting to confer with him in the audience-chamber, across which, in accordance with mr. murray's suggestion, a green silk curtain had been drawn--the stuff, however, being slight in texture, the persons on either side the hanging could be easily distinguished. the magistrates, therefore, seeing the prince enter the room, attended by mr. murray and sir thomas sheridan, bowed profoundly, and their obeisances were graciously returned. charles edward then seated himself, and the conference was opened by his secretary. "his royal highness thanks you, gentlemen," said mr. murray, "for the excellent arrangements made for him, and desires to express his gratification at the enthusiastic reception given him on his entrance into your loyal town. he will now have to put the zeal and devotion of your fellow-townsmen to the test." "in what way, sir?" demanded mr. walley, uneasily. "we have given orders that the whole of the prince's forces shall be billeted, and have directed the excise-money to be sent to you as treasurer. what further proof can we give of our desire to serve his royal highness?" "i will explain, gentlemen, in a word," replied the secretary. "the prince requires a subsidy from the town of five thousand pounds. war cannot be carried on without money, and our coffers are well-nigh emptied." "i fear it will be impossible to raise that amount," said mr. fowden. "we should grieve to have to levy the money by force, but we must have it. consult together, gentlemen, and give us your answer." after a moment's deliberation with his brother magistrate, mr. fowden asked if half the amount would not suffice; whereupon charles remarked, in a loud peremptory tone, "bid them furnish three thousand pounds--not less." "you hear, gentlemen. three thousand pounds must be furnished to the treasury without delay. you know the penalty of neglect." "we will do our best," said mr. fowden. "but pray give us till to-morrow." "be it so," replied the secretary. the magistrates then asked if the prince had any further commands. "his majesty king james the third will be proclaimed at the cross," said mr. murray; "and it is necessary that both of you should be present at the ceremony. it is also necessary that one of you should repeat the proclamation." the magistrates tried to excuse themselves, but the secretary cut them short, saying, "you have nothing to fear, gentlemen. we will make it appear you are acting on compulsion. but take care that the prince's manifesto and declaration, copies of which will be delivered to you, are distributed to the crowd. and now, gentlemen, we will not detain you longer. his royal highness expects to see you to-morrow--with the money." the audience then terminated, and the magistrates, who were full of perplexity, quitted the chamber. the prince and his companions laughed very heartily when they were gone. several other persons were admitted to a private interview, after which the prince adjourned to a much larger room which had been prepared for his receptions. chapter xv. the prince's levee. the room had a very brilliant appearance, being crowded with officers of high rank. in the antechamber all who desired the honour of a presentation were assembled. on the entrance of the prince, who proceeded towards the upper end of the room, and took up a station there, all the nobles and heads of clans formed a semicircle around him--those nearest his royal highness, on the right and left, being the duke of perth, the marquis of tullibardine, the marquis d'eguilles, lords george murray, pitsligo, nairne, kilmarnock, and balmerino. the first persons to approach the prince were colonel townley and the chevalier de johnstone, the latter of whom, as already stated, being aide-de-camp to lord george gordon. colonel townley, who was in full uniform, wore a plaid waistcoat, and a plaid sash lined with white silk. he came to inform the prince that the manchester regiment was now embodied, and would be paraded on the morrow. "the deficiency in men, of which i complained to your royal highness, has been made good by colonel johnstone, who has delivered over to me all the recruits raised for him in this town by sergeant dickson." "you have done well, colonel," remarked the prince, approvingly, to johnstone. "how many men has sergeant dickson enlisted?" "nearly two hundred," was the reply. "they are all fine fellows, and will make excellent soldiers." "i esteem myself singularly fortunate in obtaining them," observed colonel townley. "i was almost in despair, not being able to find fifty volunteers myself." "sergeant dickson deserves promotion," said the prince. "i am told that he entered the town, attended only by helen carnegie and a drummer." "it is perfectly true," replied johnstone. "i would not detract from the brave fellow's merit; but without helen he would have done nothing." "between them they have raised the manchester regiment," remarked colonel townley, "and saved me a vast deal of trouble." "have all the officers joined?" asked the prince. "all," replied townley. "two of them are in the ante-chamber. captains james dawson and atherton legh. may i have the honour of presenting them to your royal highness?" charles edward having graciously signified his assent, colonel townley bowed and retired, reappearing in another moment with the two young officers in question. they now wore the uniform of the regiment--red faced with white--and looked so well that colonel townley felt very proud of them as he led them towards the prince, by whom they were received with the utmost condescension. atherton legh's appearance seemed particularly to please him, and at the close of the brief interview, he desired him to remain in the house, as he had some orders to give him. much gratified by the command, atherton bowed and retired with his friend. several other presentations then took place, which need not be recorded, the two persons chiefly distinguished by the prince's notice being dr. deacon and dr. byrom. to the latter he said many flattering things well calculated to gratify him; towards the other he adopted a more serious tone, and thanked him earnestly for the zealous attachment he had always shown to the royal cause. "you have proved your devotion in many ways, doctor," he said, "but never more than in causing your three sons to enrol themselves in the manchester regiment. i thank you in the king my father's name, and in my own." "heaven grant that my sons may serve your royal father well, most gracious prince!" said dr. deacon. "i can only aid you with my prayers." overcome by his emotion, he then bowed deeply and retired. at this juncture the doors of the ante-chamber were thrown open, and a bevy of ladies, all attired in white, and wearing plaid sashes, came forth, imparting a much more lively character to the scene. most of these fair jacobites were young, and many of them being exceedingly pretty, it is not wonderful that their appearance should produce an effect upon the excitable highlanders, who did not care to conceal their admiration of the southron beauties. their assiduities, however, did not seem disagreeable to the manchester damsels. meantime the ladies were conducted in succession to the prince, and each had the honour of kissing his hand. some of them received a pretty compliment into the bargain. so well turned were these compliments, and so captivating the smiles that accompanied them, that the younger damsels were quite bewitched, and declared that so charming a prince had never been seen. by far the prettiest of those presented was beppy byrom, who was quite as much influenced as any of the others by the witchery of the prince's manner. as she drew near, she scarcely dared to raise her eyes towards him, but a few pleasant words soon set her at her ease, and the smile that lighted up her fair features so improved their expression that charles was as much charmed with her as she was with him. after their presentation the ladies were taken to an adjoining parlour. it fell to atherton's lot to conduct beppy to this room, which was crowded with fair damsels and highland officers, laughing, chattering, and quaffing champagne. large glasses of the same wine were offered them on their entrance, and having drunk the appointed toast with enthusiasm, they seated themselves on a sofa. whether the excitement of the occasion gave unwonted lustre to beppy's eyes, we know not, but it is certain that atherton felt their force more than he had ever done before. "i wonder whether you will return to manchester when the campaign is over, captain legh?" she inquired, looking rather languishingly at him as she spoke. "does miss byrom care to see me again?" he asked. "if so, i shall make a point of coming back, supposing i am able to do so." "you pay me a great compliment," she remarked. "but surely, i am not the only person you desire to see again? you must have many dear friends?" "i have none," he replied, rather gloomily. "you know i am quite alone in the world. if i fall in this expedition, not a tear will be shed for me." "there you are mistaken," she rejoined, in a sympathetic tone. "but you speak rather bitterly. i fear you have been badly treated." "no, i have no right to complain. i am only paying the penalty of my folly. i have been deluded by false hopes; but i shall try to act more sensibly in future." "an excellent resolution, and i trust you will keep to it. never fall in love again--if you can help it. that's my advice." "but you don't expect me to follow it?" "i have no influence over you, and cannot therefore expect you to be guided by my counsels. but i repeat--don't fall in love again." "the warning comes too late," he said. "i must make a desperate effort, or i shall be caught in fresh toils." "well, the effort can be easily made, since you are going away." "but i shall carry the remembrance with me. i shall not forget our present conversation, and if i return i will remind you of it." "i have very little faith in the promise. by that time you will probably have changed your mind." "you must entertain a very poor opinion of me, miss byrom, if you really think so." "i don't imagine you differ from the rest of your sex. men are proverbially inconstant. 'out of sight, out of mind,' you know." "on my return you will find me unchanged," he said. so engrossed was atherton by the young lady near him, that he had not noticed the entrance of constance, with jemmy dawson and monica. but chancing to look up at the moment, he perceived her standing at a little distance, with her large eyes fixed upon him. the expression of her countenance showed that she had overheard what had passed between him and miss byrom. with a disdainful glance, she moved away with her father. atherton was quite confounded, and for a moment could not speak, but at length he stammered: "do you see who is in the room?" "miss rawcliffe you mean," replied beppy. "yes, i saw her come in. i did not tell you, because i fancied you had no longer any interest in her. but i begin to think you have not so completely shaken off your fetters as you imagined. if all is at an end, why should her presence trouble you?" "i am not quite master of my feelings," he rejoined. "so i perceive," said beppy. she then added, in a good-natured tone: "well, we have stayed here long enough. let us go." much relieved by the proposal, the young man instantly arose, and offering her his arm, prepared to quit the room. but, in making their way through the crowd, they were soon brought to a stand-still, and found themselves face to face with constance. by this time atherton had recovered his self-possession, and bowed coldly, and his salutation was as distantly returned. beppy, however, who had some little malice in her composition, rather enjoyed the situation, and not feeling inclined to put an end to it, immediately engaged miss rawcliffe in conversation, and left atherton to monica and jemmy dawson. fain would he have escaped, but he could not leave beppy, who, indeed, did not relinquish her hold of his arm. luckily, champagne was brought by the attendants, and everybody took a glass, as in duty bound. again the prince's health was drunk, and with as much enthusiasm as before, though beppy only placed the glass to her lips. "you have not done justice to the toast, miss byrom," cried a voice near her. and turning, she perceived colonel townley, who had just entered the room with her father. "i have already drunk it," she replied. "but i have wine enough left to drink 'success to the manchester regiment,' and i do so." and she again raised the glass to her lips. colonel townley bowed, and expressed his thanks. "more champagne," he cried to the attendants. "gentlemen," he added, to his officers, "let us drink to miss rawcliffe and the ladies who have helped to raise the regiment." due honour was done to the toast. as atherton bowed to constance, she regarded him coldly, and scarcely acknowledged the attention. "something is wrong," thought colonel townley. "i must endeavour to set it right. you will be pleased to hear, miss rawcliffe," he said, "that his royal highness fully appreciates the service you have rendered him. i took care to tell him the manchester regiment owed captain legh to you." "the circumstance was scarcely worth mentioning," she rejoined, with affected indifference. "the prince thought otherwise," remarked colonel townley. "i will not repeat the flattering things he said----" "oh, pray do not!" she interrupted. "i would rather not hear them." "but they relate chiefly to captain legh." "then keep them for his private ear," she rejoined. the colonel shrugged his shoulders and said no more. just then the pipers stationed in the court began to play, and as the hall-door stood open, the lively strains resounded through the house, and made the highland officers eager for a dance. they began to talk about scotch reels and other national dances, of which the young ladies had never heard, but they did not venture to propose any such agreeable exercise, as it would have been contrary to etiquette. the pipers, in fact, had been ordered to play as an intimation to the assemblage that the prince's levée was over, and as soon as this was understood the company began to depart. colonel townley offered his arm to constance, and conducted her to the entrance-hall, where they found sir richard rawcliffe, dr. byrom, and several other gentlemen who were waiting for their wives and daughters. as soon as the young ladies had been consigned to their natural protectors, colonel townley turned to atherton, and said: "you will return at eight o'clock to-night, captain legh. you are bidden to the supper by the prince. i was specially commanded to bring you. his royal highness seems to have taken a fancy to you. but tell me!--what is the cause of the misunderstanding between you and miss rawcliffe?" "i know not," replied atherton. "but she looks coldly upon me--and her father has treated me with great rudeness." "indeed!" exclaimed colonel townley. "i will have an explanation from him. remember that the regiment will be paraded in st. ann's square at ten o'clock to-morrow." they then separated, and atherton quitted the house. the court was filled by the highland body-guard and the pipers. the latter, drawn up in two lines, through which the company passed, were making a prodigious din, greatly to the delight of the crowd collected in the street. chapter xvi. the illuminations. the town now presented a most extraordinary appearance, and looked as if occupied by a hostile army--the streets being filled with highland soldiers, who were wandering about, staring at the houses and shops, and besieging the taverns. the townspeople seemed on very good terms with their visitors, and the occupants of the houses at which the soldiers were billeted received them as well as could be expected. by this time all the principal personages connected with the highland army had taken possession of the quarters assigned them, and sentries were placed at the doorways or at the gates. large bonfires were lighted in various parts of the town--in the market-place, in spring fields, on shude hill, on hunt's bank, and at the foot of the bridge, and preparations were made for a general illumination at night. nothing was neglected by the magistrates. in obedience to the injunctions they had received from mr. murray, they attended at the town cross to assist at the proclamation of his majesty king james the third. a large concourse assembled to witness the ceremony, and shouted lustily at its conclusion. as yet, no disturbance whatever had occurred--for the whigs and presbyterians consulted their own safety by remaining quiet, well knowing if they made a demonstration they would be quickly overpowered. consequently, the town continued tranquil. as soon as it became dusk, the illuminations commenced. they were general, for no one dared to disobey the order, and the obnoxious whigs and presbyterians burnt more candles than their jacobite neighbours. but the display did not save their windows. a large mob armed with bludgeons went about the town shouting, "long live king james the third, and charles, prince regent!" and when they came to a house the owner of which was offensive to them, a great smashing of glass took place. no efforts were made to check these lawless proceedings. every license was allowed the mob, so long as they confined their playful attentions to the opposite party. for the sufferers there was no redress, since the streets swarmed with highland soldiers who enjoyed the sport. additional excitement was given by the pipers, who marched about playing loudly upon their shrill instruments. what with the bonfires, the illuminations, the uproarious crowd, the highlanders, and the pipers, the ordinary aspect of the town seemed entirely changed. the spectacle was so novel and curious, that many of the gentler sex came forth to witness it, and it must be said, to the credit of the crowd, that the ladies experienced no sort of annoyance. luckily the night was fine, though sufficiently dark to give full effect to the illuminations. beppy and her father, accompanied by atherton, walked about for nearly two hours, and miss byrom declared it was the prettiest sight she ever beheld. she had seen an illumination before, but never on so grand a scale, while the strange accompaniments greatly amused her. oddly enough, the illuminations in the old parts of the town were more effective than in the modern streets. with their lattice windows lighted up, the ancient habitations looked exceedingly picturesque. but by far the most striking object in the town was the collegiate church. partly buried in gloom--partly revealed by the bonfires kindled in its vicinity, the flames of which were reflected upon its massive tower, battlements, and buttresses--the venerable pile was seen to the greatest advantage. very few, however, except the persons we have mentioned, cared to gaze at it. those who crossed the churchyard made the best of their way to the streets, to see the illuminations and mingle with the crowd. after bidding good-night to his friends, atherton repaired to the only house in manchester which was not illuminated. but though the prince's residence was not lighted up, abundant evidence was furnished that a grand entertainment was about to take place inside it. the highland guard was drawn up in two lines, extending from the gate to the doorway, and through this avenue all the nobles, chiefs of clans, and officers who were invited to sup with the prince, made their way into the house. some of them arrived in sedan-chairs, but the majority came on foot, since no coaches could be procured. but however they came, their appearance was greeted with cheers by the concourse collected in front of the mansion, and many an eye followed them as the door was flung open to give them admittance. naturally, atherton felt elated on finding himself among so important an assemblage; but a great distinction was reserved for him. it chanced that the prince was in the hall as he entered, and on seeing him, his royal highness addressed him with the most gracious familiarity, and taking him apart, said: "captain legh, i am going round the town after supper, and i mean to take you with me." atherton bowed. "i am told the illuminations are very good, and i want to see them. but i do not desire to be recognised, and i shall therefore take no other attendant except yourself." again atherton bowed deeply--his looks expressing his gratification. "do not mention my purpose," continued the prince, "as i would not have it known. some of my immediate attendants would insist on accompanying me, and i would rather be without them. in a word, i wish to be incognito, like the caliph haroun al raschid." "your royal highness may rely on my discretion," said atherton. "after supper," pursued the prince, "when the company has begun to disperse, come to this hall, and wait till i appear." atherton bowed profoundly, and the prince passed on. chapter xvii. a quarrel at supper. shortly afterwards, supper was served in the dining-room. the repast was profuse, but no great ceremony was observed, for the prince supped in private with the duke of perth, the marquis of tullibardine, lord george murray, and some other nobles. atherton sat next to colonel townley, who took the opportunity of giving him some instructions as to the duties he would have to discharge. "the men will be drilled previous to the muster to-morrow," said the colonel, "and i hope we shall get through it tolerably well. every allowance will be made for raw recruits. in a few days they will have learnt their duties, and all will be right." on the opposite side of the table sat sir richard rawcliffe, and atherton remarked that the baronet's eye was often fixed suspiciously upon him. colonel townley also made the same remark. "sir richard is far from pleased to see you here," he observed. "from some cause or other he seems to have taken a strong aversion to you." "you are acquainted with my history, i know, colonel," said atherton. "i cannot help thinking that sir richard, if he chose, could clear up the mystery that hangs over my birth." this observation, which was not made in a very low tone, reached the quick ears of the baronet, who darted an angry look at the speaker. "colonel townley," he said, "pray tell your neighbour that i am totally ignorant of his parentage." "that does not satisfy me," cried atherton, addressing the baronet. "i am determined to have an explanation." sir richard laughed contemptuously, but made no reply. "this discussion cannot be prolonged," said colonel townley, who perceived that the attention of those near them was attracted to what was passing. "but some explanation must be given." no more was said at the time, but when supper was over, and the company had risen from the table, colonel townley followed the baronet, and taking him apart, said to him, in a grave tone: "you have publicly insulted captain legh, sir richard. he demands an apology." "i have none to make," rejoined the baronet, haughtily. "in that case, captain legh will require satisfaction, and an early meeting must be appointed." "i decline to meet captain legh," said the baronet. "on what ground?" demanded colonel townley. "i do not consider myself bound to give any reason for my refusal. enough that i will not meet him." "your pardon, sir richard. 'tis not enough for me. since you decline to apologise to captain legh, or to give him satisfaction, you will have to fight me." "if you think proper to espouse his quarrel, i will not balk you. the chevalier de johnstone, i am sure, will act for me, and your second can make all necessary arrangements with him." "the affair must not be delayed. will an early hour to-morrow morning suit you?" "perfectly," replied sir richard. "as early as you please." "swords, of course?" said the colonel. "swords, by all means." bowing stiffly towards each other, they then separated, and colonel townley repaired to the entrance-hall, where he expected to find atherton. as he was looking round, he noticed the chevalier de johnstone, and going up to him, inquired if he had seen captain legh. "yes," replied johnstone; "he was here not a minute or two ago. but he has gone upon a nocturnal ramble with the prince. you look incredulous--but 'tis even so. his royal highness has just gone forth to see the illuminations, or in quest of some adventure, and has taken captain legh with him. as he passed quickly through this hall the prince did not stop to speak to any one, but signed to captain legh, who instantly followed him. this is all i have to relate; but it proves that the young man is in high favour. his royal highness was muffled in a plaid shawl, different from the one he usually wears, and otherwise disguised; but i knew him." "'tis strange he did not take his aide-de-camp, colonel ker, with him, in preference to captain legh," remarked colonel townley. "but i have something to say to you in reference to an affair in which this highly-favoured young man is concerned. sir richard rawcliffe refuses to offer satisfaction to legh for the rudeness he offered him at supper. i have taken up the quarrel, for i will not allow an officer in my regiment to be insulted. you won't refuse, i presume, to act as rawcliffe's second?" "certainly not," replied johnstone. "but i wish the duel could be prevented. it seems a very trifling matter to fight about." "i think sir richard has behaved very badly to the young man, and i will have an apology from him." "well, since it must be so, there is no help. send your second to me." "colonel ker will be my second. i will send him to you as soon as he makes his appearance." "meantime, i will consult sir richard--though i don't fancy he will apologise." he then went in quest of the baronet, whom he soon found, while colonel townley seated himself in the hall with the intention of awaiting atherton's return. chapter xviii. captain weir. muffled in a plaid shawl, and otherwise disguised, as we have said, the prince passed unrecognised through the guard, and taking his way down market street lane, proceeded to a short distance, and then halted to allow atherton to overtake him. in uncovering the lower part of his face to speak to the young man, charles betrayed himself to an individual who had seen him come forth from the mansion, and suspecting his condition, had followed him cautiously. this person, whose name was weir, and who acted as a spy to the duke of cumberland, had conceived the daring idea of capturing the prince, and sending him prisoner to the duke, whose head-quarters were at lichfield. he had been stimulated by the hope of a large reward to undertake this desperate project. a price of thirty thousand pounds had been set upon charles edward's head, and though weir shrank from assassination, he had no scruples as to capturing the prince, neither was he deterred by the extraordinary danger of the attempt. all he wanted was an opportunity to execute his design. captain weir, as he was styled, though he had no real military rank, usually acted alone, but on this occasion he had three subordinate officers with him, on whose courage and fidelity he could perfectly rely. they were now close at hand, watching his movements, and waiting for orders. like himself, they were all well armed. signing to these personages to follow him, captain weir continued to track the prince's course down market street lane. meanwhile, the young chevalier was marching along quietly, with atherton by his side, never for a moment imagining he was in danger, or even that his disguise had been detected. scores of highland soldiers were in the street, but none of them knew their commander-in-chief. had they done so, they would have formed a guard round his person. but this was precisely what charles objected to. wherever there was a crowd he strove to avoid it; but the obstructions were frequent. he was rejoiced, however, to perceive that the white cockade everywhere prevailed, while such observations as reached him indicated that the populace was decidedly favourable to his cause. it was such honest expressions of opinion as these that he desired to hear, and where a group of persons were talking loudly, he stopped to listen to their discourse. as may well be supposed, he cared little for the illuminations except as evidencing the goodwill of the townsfolk, but he was struck by the picturesque appearance of the old houses when thus lighted up. after several halts from one cause or other, he and atherton at last reached the market-place. here, in the centre of the area, was a large bonfire, with a great crowd collected round it. moreover, a barrel of ale, provided by the magistrates, had just been broached, enabling the crowd to drink the prince's health, coupled with that of his august sire, james the third, in flowing cups. much amused by the scene, charles stopped to look at it, as well as to examine the curious picture presented by the illuminated market-place. while he was thus occupied, a sudden movement in the throng separated him from his attendant, and he was endeavouring to free himself from the press when a strong grasp was laid upon his arm. the person who had thus seized him was no other than sergeant dickson. "unmuffle, and show your face, if you be not ashamed of it," cried the sergeant. "i suspect you are a hanoverian spy. i have heard there are some in the town, and you don't look like a highland officer." "hands off, fellow," said the prince, authoritatively. "help me out of the crowd." "help you to escape! not i!" cried dickson. "unmuffle, i say, and let us see your face." several of the bystanders now called out, "a spy! a spy!" and charles would have been unpleasantly circumstanced, if helen carnegie, who was near the sergeant, had not interposed. "you are wrong, erick," she cried. "this is no spy. release him." but the sergeant was not inclined to part with his prisoner, and was only prevented from plucking the covering from his face by atherton, who by this time had forced his way up. a word breathed in the ear of the sergeant instantly changed the complexion of affairs, and he was now just as anxious to get the prince off as he had before been to detain him. "all right," he shouted. "his royal highness has not a better friend than this noble gentleman. i'll answer for him. stand back! stand back! my masters, and let the gentleman pass." vigorously seconding these injunctions with his strong arm, he cleared a way for the prince, who was soon out of the crowd; and this being accomplished, the sergeant humbly besought pardon for his maladroit proceeding. "you ought to have known me under any disguise, sergeant," was the prince's good-natured reply. "you are not half so sharp-witted as helen. she knew me at once." "i canna take upon mysel to declare that, your highness," replied the scottish lassie, who had followed in their wake; "but i ken'd fu' weel ye were na a fawse spy, but a leal gentleman." "well, sergeant, i am willing to overlook your fault for helen's sake," said charles. "i shall na sae readily forgive mysel," replied the sergeant. "but in truth my thoughts were runnin' on spies. may i be permitted to attend your highness?" "no, i forbid you to follow me," said charles. so saying, he marched off with atherton, leaving the sergeant greatly chagrined by the interdiction. "this'll be a gude lesson t' ye, erick," observed helen. "in future, ye'll ken the prince when you see him, whether he be muffled in a shawl or na." "come wi' me, lassie. i'm resolved to follow his highness at a respectful distance. the night's not ower yet, and something tells me i may be useful to him." "ye ought na to disobey orders, erick; but sin ye win gang yer ain gate, i'll e'en gae wi' ye." with this they followed in the direction taken by charles and his companion, but before reaching the bottom of old mill grate, they lost sight of them. the sergeant questioned a person whom he saw standing at the corner of the street, and was told that two officers had gone towards the bridge. the information was not altogether correct, but the person who gave it was captain weir. scarcely was the sergeant gone, when a man on a powerful steed came up, and dismounting, delivered the horse to weir, who was evidently waiting for him. accompanied by this man, who marched by his side, weir rode along hanging ditch, and soon overtook his two myrmidons, who were following the prince. they pointed out their intended captive about fifty yards in advance. "i need not repeat my instructions," said weir, bending down as he addressed them, and speaking in a low voice. "but i again enjoin you to use the utmost despatch. success mainly depends upon the celerity with which the work is done. if i can secure him, i will answer for the rest. now go on, and draw a little nearer to him." with this, he dropped slightly behind, got ready a belt, which he meant to use, and examined the holsters to see that the pistols within them were all right. had charles edward been playing into their hands he could not have taken a course more favourable to the designs of these desperate men. his intention had been to return by the collegiate church; but he was deterred by the uproarious crowds collected round the two large bonfires burning at the back of the venerable fabric, and proceeded up withy grove, by the advice of atherton, who being well acquainted with the locality, explained to him that he could easily and expeditiously regain his head-quarters by crossing an open field on the right at the top of this thoroughfare. when weir and his accomplices found that the prince had elected this course they felt sure he was delivered into their hands. at the rear of the small and scattered tenements, then constituting withy grove, were extensive gardens, and beyond these, as already stated, there were two or three fields, as yet entirely unbuilt upon. into these fields the prince and his attendant now turned, but the place looked so gloomy, from its contrast with the lights blazing in the distance, that atherton thought it would be prudent to turn back. charles, however, having no fear, determined to go on. shortly afterwards, a real alarm occurred. a horseman, accompanied by three men on foot, suddenly entered the field. at first, neither the prince nor atherton imagined that their design was hostile, but they were quickly undeceived. before he could offer any effectual resistance, charles was seized by two strong men, who bound his arms behind his back, and twisting the shawl over his mouth, prevented him from uttering an outcry. at the same time, the horseman dealt a blow at atherton with a hanger, which the young man avoided, but he had next to defend himself against the attack of the third ruffian on foot, so that he could render no immediate assistance to the prince. while he was thus engaged, the two desperadoes who had seized charles lifted him from the ground, and despite his struggles, set him on the horse behind their leader, with his face towards the crupper, while weir passed a broad leather belt round his waist, so as to secure him, and was in the act of buckling it in front, when the bridle was seized by atherton, who, by a lucky thrust, had delivered himself from his assailant. just in time. in another minute rescue would have been impossible. hitherto, not a shot had been fired; but weir now drew a pistol, and levelling it at atherton, bade him instantly retire on peril of his life. the gallant young man, however, still held on, but was unable to use his sword, owing to the rearing of the steed. weir then fired, but missed his mark, the shot taking effect in his horse's head. with a cry of pain the mortally-wounded animal broke away, but almost instantly sank to the ground and rolled over. unbuckling the belt, weir disengaged himself as quickly as he could from the prostrate steed, and full of rage that his attempt should be thus foiled, the miscreant might have raised his hand against the defenceless prince, if loud shouts had not warned him that assistance was at hand. he then sought safety in flight, and was speeding towards the back of the field, followed by his men, two of whom had been severely wounded by atherton. the shout that had alarmed weir proceeded from sergeant dickson and tom syddall. when he was on his way to the bridge, the sergeant encountered the barber, and the latter satisfied him that the prince had not gone in that direction. his suspicions being excited, dickson turned back instantly, and syddall accompanied him--helen, of course, continuing with her lover. some information picked up caused them to turn into withy grove, and they had just tracked that thoroughfare, and were debating whether they should go on to shude hill, when the noise of a conflict was heard in the field on the right. "my forebodings have come true," cried the sergeant, "some villains are attacking the prince." as the words were uttered, the report of a pistol increased their alarm. shouting lustily, erick drew his claymore, and dashed into the field, followed by helen and syddall. though too late to render assistance, the sergeant was in time to help atherton to liberate the prince. by their united efforts charles was soon on his feet, and freed from his bonds. "i trust in heaven that your highness has sustained no harm?" cried atherton, anxiously. "no, i am entirely uninjured," said charles, in a cheerful voice. "i have to thank you most heartily, captain legh, for freeing me from villains whose design was evidently to carry me off as a prisoner to the duke of cumberland." "i think i have sufficiently punished two of the villains," said atherton, "but it enrages me that their leader, and doubtless the contriver of this atrocious scheme, has escaped." "he may yet be captured," cried the sergeant. "tom syddall was with me when i entered the field, and has gone in pursuit. he will give the alarm." "then i must hasten to head-quarters, and show myself," said the prince, moving on. but after walking quickly for some forty or fifty yards, he was compelled to halt. "i am more shaken than i thought," he said. "give me your arm, helen, i must have some support." proceeding in this manner, he had nearly reached the limits of the field, and was approaching an unfinished street that communicated with market street lane, when a sudden light revealed a picket of highland soldiers. at the head of the party, several of whom carried torches, was colonel ker, accompanied by colonel townley and the chevalier de johnstone. in another moment, a wild and joyful shout announced that the highlanders had discovered their beloved prince. they rushed forward in a body, and the foremost flung themselves at his feet, while those behind gave vent to their delight in another ringing shout. colonel ker did not choose to interrupt this demonstration; but, as soon as it was over, he advanced with the two distinguished officers just mentioned, and all three offered their congratulations to his royal highness on his escape. after warmly thanking them, charles called atherton forward, and told them that he owed his deliverance entirely to the young man's gallant conduct, explaining what had been done, and concluding emphatically with these words, "but for captain legh, i should at this moment be a prisoner." naturally, the young man was much gratified by these observations, as well as by the praises bestowed on him by colonel ker and the others, but he received their commendations with great modesty. the prince then asked colonel townley how he had heard of the attack made upon him, and learnt that the alarming news had been brought by tom syddall. "syddall came to me," said colonel townley, "and i immediately took him to colonel ker, as his statement might not have been credited." "where is he?" demanded charles. "i must thank him for what he has done." "after explaining where your highness would be found, syddall begged to be allowed to go in quest of the villains who had assailed you," said colonel ker, "being fully persuaded that he could accomplish the capture of their daring leader, and as colonel townley knew the spot where your royal highness would be found, i did not refuse the request." "if the villain should be captured to-night," said charles, "which i think scarce likely, let him be brought before me at once. i will interrogate him myself." "your commands shall be obeyed," rejoined ker. "shall we now return to head-quarters?" "by all means," replied charles. "but march slowly." colonel ker was about to give orders, when another party of soldiers, having a prisoner in their midst, was seen advancing along the unfinished street. the party was guided by tom syddall, who carried a torch. chapter xix. captain weir is interrogated by the prince. as soon as the prince was descried, the advancing party halted, and syddall giving the torch to one of the men, pressed forward towards charles, and making a profound obeisance, said: "the villain who attacked your royal highness has been captured. he had taken refuge in a stable at the back of the angel inn. he is here, if you desire to question him." in obedience to the prince's command the prisoner then stepped forward between two soldiers. he did not appear intimidated by the position in which he was placed, but bore himself very boldly. charles looked at him for a few moments, and calling to atherton, asked him if he recognised the man. "i recognise him as the leader of the attack," was the reply. "such is my own opinion," observed the prince. "how say you?" he added to the prisoner. "do you deny the charge?" "no," replied the prisoner. "i am the man." "you avow your guilt," said charles, surprised by his boldness. "how are you named?" "i am known as captain weir," replied the other. "have you aught to allege why you should not be delivered to the provost-marshal for immediate execution?" observed charles, sternly. "my life is justly forfeited," replied the prisoner, "yet your royal highness will do well to spare me." "wherefore?" demanded the prince, whose curiosity was excited. "my reasons are only for your private ear," replied the prisoner. after a moment's reflection, during which he kept his eye fixed on weir, charles ordered the guard to retire. "leave the prisoner with me," he said. "but if he attempts to fly--shoot him." as soon as the command was obeyed, he said: "you can speak freely now. why should i spare your life?" "firstly, because it will prove to the world that you are a magnanimous prince, and in that respect superior to your enemies, who are notorious for their severity," replied weir. "next, because i can tell much that it behoves your royal highness to know, as will be evident when i declare that i am employed by the duke of cumberland as a spy, and am, therefore, necessarily in his royal highness's confidence. if my life be spared, and i am allowed to go back to lichfield, where the duke is quartered, i can mislead him by erroneous information, while i shall be able to acquaint you with his plans--exact knowledge of which i need not say will be eminently serviceable." "there is much in what you say, i must own," replied the prince. "but what guarantee have i that you will not prove a double traitor?" "my gratitude," replied weir. "i could never prove faithless to a prince so generous." "i can make no promise," replied charles; but in a tone that held out some encouragement to the prisoner. at a sign from the prince the guard then advanced, and again took charge of weir. shortly afterwards, the prisoner was removed, it being understood that his execution was deferred--much to the disappointment of the highland guard, who would willingly have shot him. charles then addressed a few kindly observations to syddall, who had been mainly instrumental in the capture of the spy, telling him that the service should not pass unrequited. nor did the prince neglect to offer his renewed thanks to sergeant dickson and helen for the zeal and devotion they had both displayed. for atherton a signal manifestation of favour was reserved. during the march back to head-quarters, which were not far distant, the prince kept the young man near him, and occasionally took his arm. when the party arrived at the mansion in market street lane they found it completely invested by an anxious crowd, who shouted joyfully on beholding the prince. but this was nothing to the scene that took place when his royal highness entered the house. almost all the nobles and highland chiefs were assembled in the hall, and as charles entered they pressed around him to offer their warmest congratulations on his escape. after thanking them in accents that bespoke the deepest emotion, the prince presented atherton to them, saying, "it is to captain legh that i owe my preservation." the young man was quite overwhelmed by the plaudits that followed this gracious speech. thus ended the most important day that had hitherto occurred in atherton's career. it found him an unknown, and undistinguished; but it left him apparently on the road to honour and preferment. chapter xx. the duel. next morning, at an early hour, colonel townley and colonel ker issued from the prince's head-quarters, and, rather to the surprise of the guard drawn up in the court-yard, proceeded at a quick pace along the road leading to stockport. in a very few minutes they had left the town behind, for beyond market street lane it was then open country. not many persons were on the road, and these were chiefly country folk bringing poultry, butter, and milk to market. some hundred yards in advance, however, were an officer of rank in the highland army, and a tall middle-aged gentleman wrapped in a cloak. these persons were evidently bent on the same errand as themselves, and marched on quickly for about a quarter of a mile, when they stopped at the gate of a large meadow. the ground appeared suitable to their purpose, inasmuch as it sank at the further end, and formed a hollow which was screened from view. sir richard rawcliffe and the chevalier de johnstone, for they were the individuals who had thus halted, punctiliously saluted the others when they came up, and johnstone asked colonel ker if he thought the ground would suit. after consulting his principal, ker replied in the affirmative, upon which they all passed through the gate, and made their way to the hollow. before the preliminaries of the duel were entered upon an ineffectual effort was made by the seconds to adjust the difference. nothing less than an apology would satisfy colonel townley, but this sir richard haughtily refused. finding their efforts fruitless, the seconds then retired--swords were drawn--hats taken off--and instantly after the salute, the combatants engaged--the attack being made by a thrust in carte delivered by sir richard, which was well warded by his adversary. several passes were then exchanged, and it was evident to the lookers-on that colonel townley meant to disarm his antagonist, and he soon succeeded in the design by skilfully parrying another thrust, seizing the shell of sir richard's sword, and compelling him to surrender the weapon. the seconds then interfered to prevent a renewal of the conflict, but the baronet, who had received his sword from his adversary, insisted on going on, when the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard rapidly approaching the spot, and the next moment the prince appeared, mounted on a splendid bay charger, and attended by an orderly. without waiting a moment, charles rode down into the hollow, and pushing between the combatants, ordered them to sheathe their swords. of course the command was instantly obeyed. "a word with you, gentlemen," said the prince, sternly. "you must have been aware that a hostile meeting between persons of your rank would be highly displeasing to me, as well as prejudicial to our cause, and i ought to mark my disapproval of your conduct by something more than a reprimand, but i am willing to overlook it, provided a reconciliation takes place between you." both bowed, and colonel townley signified his assent, but the baronet maintained a sullen silence. "i am aware of the grounds of your quarrel," pursued the prince, "and i hold that you, sir richard rawcliffe, are in the wrong. i trust you will offer a sufficient apology--not merely to colonel townley, but to captain legh, whom you have insulted." "your royal highness's injunctions must needs be obeyed," rejoined the baronet, haughtily. "to colonel townley i am quite willing to apologise; but to captain legh----" "i will accept no apology from you, sir richard, in which my friend is not included," interrupted colonel townley. "i have now a right to demand the cause of the insolent treatment captain legh has received, and an explanation of your reason for refusing him the satisfaction to which he was entitled." "come with me for a moment, sir richard," said charles, taking him aside. then bending down towards him, and lowering his voice, he added, "certain circumstances have just come to my knowledge, showing that you must have some knowledge of atherton legh's history, and accounting in some measure for your otherwise incomprehensible conduct towards him." sir richard endeavoured to hide the confusion into which he was thrown, but could not conceal it from the searching glance fixed upon him by the prince. "answer me one question?" pursued charles. "answer it explicitly? are you not atherton legh's mysterious guardian?" the baronet's confusion perceptibly increased. charles seemed to read his thoughts. "i am wholly at a loss to conceive whence your royal highness has obtained this information respecting me," he said, at length. "no matter how it has been obtained," remarked charles, sternly. "is it true?" "it is correct in the main," replied the baronet. "although i would gladly be excused from giving any further explanation, i shall be willing to do so at some more convenient opportunity." "the explanation cannot be deferred," said the prince, authoritatively. "after the levée this morning you shall have a private audience." "i will not fail to attend upon your royal highness," replied sir richard, evidently much relieved. but his brow again clouded, when the prince said: "you will be pleased to bring your daughter with you." "my daughter!" exclaimed the baronet. "she has nothing whatever to do with the explanation i have to offer." "you have heard my injunction, sir richard. both miss rawcliffe and captain legh must be present at the audience." "i make no objection," replied the baronet; "but it pains me to find that i am viewed with suspicion by your royal highness, to whom i have given unquestionable proofs of my zeal and devotion." "justice must be done, sir richard," rejoined the prince, sternly. "if there has been a wrong it must be righted. the mystery attaching to this young man's birth must be cleared up, and since you are able to give the information required, you are bound to furnish it. i shall expect you and miss rawcliffe after the levée." then turning to colonel townley, he added: "all obstacles to a perfect reconciliation between you and sir richard are now removed. i hope, therefore, to have the pleasure of seeing you shake hands, and trust you will become as good friends as ever." the injunction having been complied with, the prince prepared to take his departure, saying: "after a morning duel in france, all those engaged in it--if the principals are fortunately unhurt, or but slightly wounded--make a point of breakfasting together, and i don't see why the custom should not be adopted in this country." "nor i," cried colonel townley. "i have gained an excellent appetite." "then i shall expect you all at breakfast an hour hence," said the prince. "i have much to do to-day. among other important matters i have to attend the muster of your manchester regiment," he added to colonel townley. "i was afraid your royal highness might be prevented," said the colonel. "and that would have been a great disappointment to us. i trust you do not feel any ill effects from the rough shake you got last night." "a little stiffness--that is all," replied charles. "have you come to any determination in regard to weir?" inquired colonel ker. "is he to be shot?" "no," replied the prince. "i shall send him to the duke of cumberland. now for a ride round the town. i shall be back in time for breakfast. au revoir!" with this he bounded up the side of the hollow and rode off in the direction of the town, followed by the orderly. chapter xxi. castle field. it was a fine november morning, and as the surrounding hills were clearly distinguishable, the prince enjoyed the prospect as he cantered along. the atmosphere being free from smoke as well as fog, the town had a bright, clean, and cheerful look, which it seldom wears now-a-days. what would charles have thought if he could have conjured up in imagination the smoky factories and huge warehouses now covering the pleasant orchards and gardens near which he rode? manchester in ' , as we have already stated, resembled a country town, and on no side was the resemblance more complete than on this, since not more than half a dozen scattered habitations could be descried, the upper end of market street being then really a lane. but though the outskirts of the town were quiet enough, it was evident from the tumultuous sounds that reached the ear, not only that the inhabitants generally were astir, but that the numerous companies billeted upon them were likewise moving about. the call of the bugle resounded from various quarters, and the beating of the drum was heard in almost every street. charles listened delightedly to sounds that proclaimed the presence of his army. he thought of the advance he had already made--how another week's march would bring him to london; his breast beat high with hope and ardour; and he fully believed at that moment that his romantic expedition would be crowned with success. just then the bells of all the churches began to ring, and their joyful peals heightened his enthusiasm. not wishing to enter the town, he commanded the orderly to guide him to castle field; upon which the man rode on in front, and describing a wide circuit then entirely unbuilt upon, but now converted into densely-populated districts and large streets, brought him at last to a large open piece of ground, almost encircled by the river medlock, and partly surrounded by the crumbling walls of an old roman-british castle, in the centre of which the artillery was parked. not far from the field-pieces were the powder carriages; while a large portion of the area was occupied by baggage-waggons; the remainder of the space being filled by artillerymen and their horses. no better place in the town or neighbourhood could have been found for the purpose. castle field would have accommodated double the number of cannon, and thrice the men, it now held. it was a very pleasant spot, and a favourite resort of the townsfolk. sports of various kinds took place within the ring, and an annual fair was held there. but it had never looked more picturesque than it did now, filled as it was with cannon, ammunition, baggage-waggons, sumpter-horses, and men. early as was the hour, there were numerous spectators on the spot--women as well as men, for the artillery was a great attraction--and some dozens had climbed the old walls, and planted themselves on the top, to obtain a better view of the novel scene. as soon as the crowd collected on castle field became aware of the prince's arrival, they gathered around him, cheering and expressing heartfelt satisfaction that he had escaped the treacherous attack made upon him overnight. there could be no doubt from the enthusiasm displayed that the prince's escape had greatly increased his popularity, all those who got near him declaring they were ready to defend him to the death. warmly thanking them for their zeal, charles extricated himself from the press, and was joined by the duke of perth, and some officers of artillery, with whom he rode over the field, examining different matters as he went along. while making this inspection he encountered many ladies, from all of whom he received congratulations, and to whom he had something agreeable to say. amongst others, whose curiosity had induced them to pay an early visit to castle field, was beppy. she had come thither, attended by helen carnegie. charles stopped to speak to the young lady, and noticing that she was decked in white, and wore a st. andrew's cross, he said, "you have not forgotten, i perceive, miss byrom, that this is the fête-day of our scottish patron saint." "i was reminded of it by helen carnegie, your highness," replied beppy. "she came to tell me of your most fortunate escape, for which i cannot be sufficiently grateful, and offered to make me a cross." "no one has done me a like good turn," laughed charles. "here is a braw st. andrew's cross, if your royal highness will deign to wear it," cried helen, offering him one. charles smiled his thanks, and fastened the cross to his jacket. "are you staying with miss byrom, helen?" he inquired. "'deed i am, your royal highness," she replied. "she will have a lodging at my father's house so long as the army remains in the town," added beppy. "i am glad to hear it," replied the prince. "i am certain she will be well cared for." he then bowed graciously to the young lady, and bestowing a parting smile on helen, rode on. but he soon came to another halt. a little further off he discovered constance rawcliffe and monica. they were attended by father jerome. graciously saluting the two damsels, and bowing to the priest, he said to miss rawcliffe: "you are the very person i desired to see. i have some news for you--but it is for your private ear." on this intimation monica and the priest drew back. charles then continued in a low voice: "you will be surprised to learn that your father has just fought a duel." seeing her change colour, he hastened to add: "you need have no sort of uneasiness. he is unhurt. i left the ground only a short time ago, and can therefore speak positively." "with whom was the duel fought?" inquired constance, unable to repress her emotion. "not with----" "not with atherton legh," supplied the prince; "though the quarrel was on his account. sir richard's adversary was colonel townley. luckily, your father was disarmed, and so the affair was brought to an end. the duel appears to have been unavoidable, since sir richard refused to apologise to captain legh for rudeness offered him, and would not even give him satisfaction. colonel townley, therefore, took up the quarrel, and you know the result." "is the affair ended?" she asked, eagerly. "not quite. a full explanation seems to me to be due from sir richard rawcliffe to captain legh; and to insure it, i have laid my commands upon sir richard to meet captain legh in my presence after the levée, in order that he may answer certain questions which i shall then put to him. i fear this will not be agreeable to your father; but he might have avoided it. a few words would set all right, but these he refuses to utter. i had, therefore, no alternative but to compel him to speak out." "it is right that captain legh should know the truth," remarked constance. "i felt sure you would think so, and i therefore enjoined sir richard to bring you with him; but if you see any objections, i will excuse your attendance." "perhaps my presence may be necessary," she rejoined. "i will come." "that is well," said the prince. "i owe captain legh a large debt of gratitude, and am anxious to pay it. i shall begin by setting him right. that done, i shall use all my influence to effect a reconciliation between---- you understand my meaning, i am quite sure." "no more on that subject, i implore your highness," she rejoined, blushing deeply. "i hope i have said enough to prove how much interested i am in the young man, and how anxious i am to promote his happiness," he said. "why, here he is!" he exclaimed, as atherton was seen riding towards the spot. "if i had summoned him, he could not have appeared more à propos. i hope miss rawcliffe will not continue to look coldly upon him." "i am bound to obey," she rejoined, demurely. "i wonder what message he brings me?" remarked the prince. "i dare say your royal highness could give a shrewd guess," she rejoined, with an almost imperceptible smile. at this moment atherton came up, and, removing his hat, delivered a letter to the prince. "from lord george murray," he said, still remaining uncovered. "'tis not very important," observed charles, opening it, and glancing at its contents. "but i am glad you have brought it, since it gives me the opportunity of placing you in attendance upon miss rawcliffe, who may want an escort when she quits the ground." "i shall be charmed with the office," rejoined atherton; "but i am not sure that miss rawcliffe will be equally well pleased." "have no misgiving," replied charles, with a significant look, which implied that all was arranged. "i have some further orders to give you, but it will be time enough when you return to head-quarters. meanwhile, i charge you to take especial care of these young ladies." with this he rode off, and almost immediately afterwards quitted the ground, accompanied by the duke of perth. how much surprised monica and father jerome had been by the earnest discourse that took place between the prince and constance, we need scarcely state; but they were still more surprised when atherton came up, and was placed in attendance upon the young lady. it was quite clear to the lookers-on that the prince had generously taken atherton's cause in hand, and meant to carry it through to a successful issue. monica, who had been much pained at the misunderstanding between the lovers, was rejoiced; but the priest felt differently. meantime, atherton, by no means certain that he was welcome, endeavoured to excuse himself to constance. "i trust miss rawcliffe will not blame me for this intrusion," he said. "she can dismiss me as soon as she thinks proper." "that would be impossible, since you have been left with me by the prince," she rejoined. "but i have no desire to dismiss you. on the contrary, i am glad to have an opportunity of congratulating you on your good fortune. you have gained the prince's favour, and are therefore on the high road to distinction." "if i am restored to your good opinion i shall be satisfied," he rejoined. "my good opinion is worth little," she said. "'tis everything to me," he cried. she made no direct reply, but after a moment's pause remarked: "to-day may prove as eventful to you as yesterday. has not the prince acquainted you with his intentions?" "he has told me nothing. i am ordered to attend him after the levée--that is all." "'tis to meet my father, who, by his highness's command, will disclose certain matters to you. but pray ask me no more questions. i ought not to have told you so much. you will learn all in good time. and now i must relieve you from this irksome attendance." "you know very well it is not irksome," he replied, with a look of reproach. "at all events, you must have other duties to attend to. you have to prepare for the muster of your regiment. jemmy dawson is fully occupied, or he would be here with monica. i really must set you at liberty." "pray let me see you safely from the ground?" entreated atherton. "well, i cannot object to that." then turning to monica, she said: "are you ready to depart?" "quite," replied the other. atherton cleared the way, and having brought them to the long unfinished street that led from castle field to the centre of the town, he bowed, and rode off, fondly persuading himself he should soon meet constance again. chapter xxii. father jerome counsels sir richard. "you must see your father without delay, miss rawcliffe," said the priest in an authoritative tone to constance, as soon as atherton was gone. "we are almost certain to find sir richard at the bull's head, and if he should not be within, he will have left a message for you, or a letter." constance quite agreed that it would be proper to call at the bull's head, though she felt quite sure her father would make all needful arrangements for the meeting appointed by the prince, and they accordingly proceeded to the inn. so crowded was the market-place with troops, that they had considerable difficulty in crossing, and when at length they reached their destination, sir richard was absent. "he had gone out at a very early hour," said diggles, "and had not yet returned." "he cannot be long," observed father jerome. "we must wait for him." "i vote that we order breakfast," said monica. "i am frightfully hungry." as constance and the priest both sympathised with her, breakfast was ordered, and it was lucky the precaution was taken, for nearly an hour elapsed before sir richard made his appearance. long ere this, they had finished their meal, and when the baronet entered the room, were watching the troops from the windows that commanded the market-place, and listening to the shrill notes of the pipes. sir richard did not seem surprised, and perhaps expected to find them there. constance sprang forward to meet him, and bidding him good morrow, said eagerly: "i know all about the arrangements, papa. i have seen the prince at castle field." "i am aware of it," he said, sternly. "i have just left his royal highness." "of course you will attend the meeting he has appointed?" she said, alarmed by his manner. he made no reply, and scarcely noticing monica, signed to the priest, who understood the gesture, and followed him into the adjoining room. "what does this mean?" said monica, uneasily. "i cannot tell," replied constance. "but i hope papa will not disobey the prince." "surely he will not," cried the other. "all will depend upon the counsel given him," said constance. "unluckily, father jerome is no friend to atherton legh." "but your influence will prevail." "you are quite mistaken, monica. papa won't listen to me. you saw how sternly he regarded me just now. he is displeased with me, as if i were to blame, because things have gone contrary to his wishes." "i cannot conceive why he dislikes atherton so much," said monica, "but i am sure his aversion is most unreasonable." "i hoped it might be overcome," sighed constance, "but i now begin to despair. even the prince, i fear, will not be successful." "do you think sir richard has an ill-adviser?" remarked monica, significantly. "i hope not," rejoined constance. let us now see what passed between sir richard and the priest when they were closeted together. for a few moments the baronet seemed indisposed to commence the conversation; but as father jerome remained silent, he forced himself to speak. "i am placed in a very awkward dilemma, as you are doubtless aware," he said, "and scarcely know how to act. having consented to meet atherton legh in the prince's presence i am unable to retreat with honour, and yet i cannot answer certain questions that will inevitably be put to me." "can you not brave it out?" rejoined father jerome. "the prince cannot be acquainted with any secret matters connected with this young man." "he knows more than is desirable," rejoined the baronet. "some one has evidently informed him that i have acted as the young man's guardian." "mr. marriott cannot have betrayed your confidence?" remarked father jerome. "i do not think so," rejoined the other. "who else can have given the information?" observed the priest. "have you no suspicion?" "ha! a light flashes upon me. should it be so!--though i would fain hope not--the meeting would be doubly dangerous--for she is to be present." "i can set your mind at rest. she knows nothing more than this one fact." "but that may lead to a discovery of all the rest," cried sir richard. "not since you are prepared. 'tis a pity the packet was left with her?" "'twas a great error, i admit. but i will not commit another imprudent act. i will not be interrogated by the prince." "again i say you had better brave it out than fly--and fly you must if you neglect to obey the prince's commands. your disappearance will give rise to unpleasant suspicions." "but some excuse may be framed. you can help me. you have a ready wit." "well, the invention must be plausible, or it won't pass. suppose you go to rawcliffe hall to fetch some documents, which are necessary to a full explanation of this matter. you intend to come back to-morrow--but are unavoidably detained--and do not return till the prince has left manchester." "that will do admirably!" cried sir richard eagerly. "you have saved me. you must take my excuse to the prince. he will then believe it." "but to give a colour to the excuse you must really go to rawcliffe hall." "i require no urging," rejoined sir richard. "i am most anxious to get away, and heartily regret that i ever joined the insurrection. i wish i could make terms with the government." "perhaps you may be able to do so--but of that hereafter," rejoined the priest. "first effect a secure retreat. i will do all i can to cover it." "i will set off at once," said sir richard. "but i must take leave of my daughter." "better not," said the priest. "i will bid her adieu for you." sir richard suffered himself to be persuaded, and presently left the room. ordering his horse, on the pretext of attending the muster of the manchester regiment, he rode out of the town. not till some quarter of an hour after the baronet's departure did father jerome present himself to the two damsels, who were alarmed at seeing him appear alone. "where is papa?" exclaimed constance eagerly. "he has started for rawcliffe," replied the priest. "gone!--without a word to me! impossible!" she cried. "'tis nevertheless true," replied father jerome, gravely. "he wished to avoid any discussion. he has gone to fetch certain documents, without which he declines to appear before the prince." "his highness will regard it as an act of disobedience, and will be justly offended," cried constance. "i do not think so, when i have explained matters to him," rejoined the priest. "i am not to be duped," said constance, bitterly. "atherton will learn nothing more." chapter xxiii. the prince attends service at the collegiate church. this being the festival of st. andrew, as already intimated, the scottish nobles and chiefs desired that a special morning service should be performed for them at the collegiate church, and arrangements were accordingly made for compliance with their request. prayers were to be read by the rev. william shrigley, one of the chaplains, and an avowed nonjuror, and the sermon was to be preached by the rev. mr. coppock, chaplain to the manchester regiment, who was chosen for the occasion by the prince. a certain number of men from each regiment being permitted to attend the service, the whole of the nave, except the mid aisle, which was reserved for the officers, was entirely filled by highland soldiers, and as the men were in their full accoutrements, and armed with targets, claymores, and firelocks, the effect was exceedingly striking. yet more imposing was the scene when the long central aisle was crowded with officers--when the side aisles were thronged with the townspeople, and the transepts were full of ladies. those present on that memorable occasion, and whose gaze ranged over the picturesque crowd of armed mountaineers, could not fail to be struck by the tall, graceful pillars on either side the nave, with their beautiful pointed arches, above which rose the clerestory windows--with the exquisitely moulded roof enriched with sculptures and other appropriate ornaments--with the chantries--and with the splendidly carved screen separating the choir from the nave. the choir itself, with its fine panelled roof and its thirty elaborately carved stalls--fifteen on each side--was reserved for the prince, and the nobles and chiefs with him. these stalls, with their florid tabernacle work, gloriously carved canopies, and pendent pinnacles of extraordinary richness and beauty, were admirably adapted to the occasion. in front of the sedilia were book-desks, encircled with armorial bearings, cognisances, and monograms. around the chancel were several exquisite chantries, most of them possessing screens of rare workmanship; and in these chapels many important personages connected with the town, or belonging to the jacobite party, were now assembled. in the lady chapel were some of the fellows of the church, who did not care to make themselves too conspicuous. in the jesus chantry were dr. byrom and his family, with mr. walley and mr. fowden; and in st. john's chapel were dr. deacon, mr. cattell, mr. clayton, and several others. but not merely was the interior of the sacred fabric thronged, hundreds of persons who had failed to obtain admittance were collected outside. precisely at eleven o'clock, prince charles edward, mounted on a richly caparisoned charger, preceded by a guard of honour, and attended by all the nobles and chieftains belonging to his army, rode up to the gates of the churchyard, where he alighted. a lane was formed for him by the spectators, through which he passed, and on entering the church by the south porch, he was ceremoniously conducted to the choir, where he took his seat in the warden's stall. next to him sat the duke of perth, and on the same side were ranged the duke of athole, lord george murray, lord kilmarnock, lord elcho, lord ogilvy, lord balmerino, and the marquis d'eguilles. in the opposite stalls were lord pitsligo, lord nairne, lord strathallan, general gordon of glenbucket, colonel ker, secretary murray, and sir thomas sheridan. from the stall occupied by the prince, which was the first on the right of the choir, and commanded the whole interior of the edifice, the coup-d'oeil of the nave, with its compact mass of highlanders, was splendid, and as charles gazed at it, he was filled with stirring thoughts, that were softened down, however, by the solemn sounds of the organ pealing along the roof. of course the protestant form of worship was adopted; but strict romanist as he was, charles allowed no symptom of disapproval to escape him, but listened devoutly to mr. shrigley, who performed the service admirably, being excited by the presence of the prince. the reverend gentleman prayed for the king, but without naming the sovereign. all his hearers, however, knew that james the third was meant. mr. coppock was not so guarded. he prayed for james the third, for charles prince of wales, regent of england, and for the duke of york. taking for his text the words "_render unto cæsar the things that are cæsar's_," he preached a most fiery sermon, in which he announced the speedy restoration of the stuart dynasty, and the downfall of the house of hanover. whatever might have been thought of this treasonable discourse by a certain portion of the congregation, no voice was raised against it. that it pleased the prince and his attendants was sufficient for the ambitious young divine. chapter xxiv. the prince inspects the manchester regiment. on coming forth from the church, charles and his attendants found the newly-formed manchester regiment drawn up in the churchyard. the corps numbered about three hundred men; most of them being fine stalwart young fellows, averaging six feet in height. till that morning none of them had donned their uniforms, or even shouldered a musket, but by the exertions of colonel townley, the chevalier de johnstone, and sergeant dickson, they had been got into something like order, and now presented a very creditable appearance. the officers looked exceedingly well in their handsome uniforms--red faced with blue. on this occasion each wore a plaid waistcoat with laced loops, a plaid sash lined with white silk, and had a white cockade in his hat. in addition to the broadsword by his side, each officer had a brace of pistols attached to his girdle. though all, from the colonel downwards, were fine, handsome men, unquestionably the handsomest young man in the corps was captain legh. the flag of the regiment was borne by ensign syddall. on one side was the motto--liberty and property; on the other church and country. the standard-bearer looked proud of his office. nothing now of the barber about ensign syddall. so changed was his aspect, so upright his thin figure, that he could scarcely be recognised. to look at him, no one would believe that he could ever smile. he seemed to have grown two or three inches taller. his deportment might be somewhat too stiff, but he had a true military air; and his acquaintances, of whom there were many in the crowd, regarded him with wonder and admiration. the ensign, however, took no notice of any familiar observations addressed to him, having become suddenly haughty and distant. with the regiment were four field-pieces. their chargers having been brought round, charles and his suite rode slowly past the front of the line--the prince halting occasionally to make a commendatory remark to the men, who responded to these gratifying observations by enthusiastic shouts. "i am glad the flag of the regiment has been entrusted to you, syddall," said charles to the new ensign. "no one, i am sure, could take better care of it." "i will defend it with my life," replied syddall, earnestly. this hasty inspection finished, charles quitted the churchyard with his suite, and rode back to his head-quarters. the manchester regiment soon followed. elated by the commendations of the prince, which they flattered themselves were merited, the men marched through the market-place, and past the exchange to st. ann's square, in tolerably good order, and in high good humour, which was not diminished by the cheers of the spectators. colonel townley then gave them some necessary orders, after which they dispersed, and repaired to their various quarters. chapter xxv. an unsatisfactory explanation. having partaken of a slight repast, the prince again mounted his charger and rode out of the town in a different direction from any he had previously taken, being desirous to see the country. he was only attended by colonel ker and the chevalier de johnstone, having dismissed his guard of honour. at that time the environs of manchester were exceedingly pretty, and the prospects spread out before him had a wild character of which little can now be discerned. smedley hall formed the limit of his ride, and having gazed at this picturesque old structure, which was situated in a valley, with a clear stream flowing past it, and a range of bleak-looking hills in the distance, he turned off on the left, and made his way through a heathy and uncultivated district to kersal moor. from these uplands he obtained a charming view of the valley of the irwell, bounded by the collegiate church, and the old buildings around it, and after contemplating the prospect for a short time, he descended from the heights and returned to the town. not being expected at the time, he passed very quietly through the streets, and reached his head-quarters without hindrance, having greatly enjoyed his ride. immediately after his return a levée was held, which being more numerously attended than that on the preceding day, occupied nearly two hours. after this he had a conference with the magistrates in the audience chamber, and he then repaired to his private cabinet, where he expected to find sir richard rawcliffe and the others, whose attendance he had commanded. constance was there and atherton, but in place of the baronet appeared father jerome. repressing his displeasure, charles graciously saluted the party, and then addressing constance said: "why is not sir richard here, miss rawcliffe?" "father jerome will explain the cause of his absence," she replied. "i had no conversation with him before his departure." "then he is gone!" cried charles, frowning. "i trust your explanation of his strange conduct may prove satisfactory," he added to the priest. "the step i own appears strange," replied father jerome, in a deprecatory tone; "but i trust it may be excused. sir richard has gone to rawcliffe hall to procure certain documents which he desires to lay before your royal highness." "but why did he not ask my permission before setting out?" observed charles, sternly. "unquestionably, that would have been the proper course," rejoined the priest. "but i presume he hoped to be back in time." "he could not have thought so," cried charles, sharply. "the distance is too great. he shrinks from the interrogations which he knows would be addressed to him. but i will not be trifled with. i will learn the truth. if he does not come i will send a guard for him. i will not detain you longer now, miss rawcliffe," he added to constance. "possibly, i may require your attendance again, and yours, also, father." on this intimation constance made a profound obeisance, and retired with the priest. as soon as they were gone, the prince's countenance assumed a very singular expression, and he said to atherton, "what think you of all this?" "my opinion is that sir richard rawcliffe does not mean to return, and has sent father jerome to make these excuses for him," replied atherton. "i have come to the same conclusion," replied charles. "he has set my authority at defiance, but he shall find that i can reach him. you must set out at once for rawcliffe hall, and bring him hither." "i am ready to obey your highness's orders," replied atherton. "i have never seen sir richard's residence; but i know it is situated near warrington, about eighteen miles from manchester. i can get there in a couple of hours--perhaps in less." "provided you bring back the unruly baronet before night i shall be satisfied," said charles. he then sat down at the table, on which writing materials were placed, wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper, and, after attaching the sign manual to the order, gave it to atherton. "sir richard will not dare to resist that mandate," he said. "i do not think a guard will be necessary. but you shall take sergeant dickson with you. you will find him with the chevalier de johnstone at lord george murray's quarters. show this order to colonel johnstone, and he will provide you with a good horse, and give all necessary directions to the sergeant. he will also explain the cause of your absence to colonel townley. understand that you are to bring back sir richard with you at all hazards." "i will not fail," replied atherton. bowing deeply, he then quitted the prince's presence, and proceeded at once to lord george murray's quarters in deansgate, where he found the chevalier de johnstone and sergeant dickson. the chevalier de johnstone understood the matter at once, and immediately ordered the sergeant to provide two strong horses for captain legh and himself, bidding him go well armed. although the sergeant was told by his colonel to lose no time, he easily prevailed upon atherton to let him bid adieu to helen, who, as the reader is aware, had found a lodging with beppy byrom. very little delay, however, occurred, for as the sergeant rode up to the doctor's dwelling, helen, who seemed to be on the watch, rushed out to greet him, and learnt his errand, receiving a kiss at the same time. chapter xxvi. the ride to rawcliffe hall. crossing the bridge, and passing through salford, atherton and his attendant proceeded at a rapid pace towards the pretty little village of pendleton. skirting the wide green, in the midst of which stood the renowned may-pole, they hastened on through a pleasant country to eccles--proceeding thence, without drawing bridle, to barton-on-irwell. the road they were now pursuing formed a sort of causeway, bounded on the left by the deeply-flowing river, and on the right by the dark and dreary waste which could be seen stretching out for miles, almost as far as the town towards which they were speeding. this dangerous morass was then wholly impassable, except by those familiar with it; and, as atherton's eye wandered over its treacherous surface, he pointed out to his attendant a distant spot on the extreme verge of the marsh, observing, with a singular smile: "yonder is warrington." "indeed!" exclaimed dickson. "then we might shorten our distance materially by crossing the morass." "no doubt, if we _could_ cross it," rejoined atherton. "but we should be swallowed up, horse and man, before we had proceeded far. many an incautious traveller has met his death in chat moss." "it looks an unchancy place, i must say," observed the sergeant, shuddering, as he gazed at it. beyond boysnape the causeway narrowed, bringing them in dangerous proximity both with the river and the morass; but they rode on past irlam, until they reached the point of junction between the irwell and the mersey--the last-named river dividing cheshire from lancashire. they had now ridden full ten miles; but, as their steeds showed no signs of fatigue, they went without slackening their pace to glazebrook and rixton. chat moss had been left behind, and for the last two miles they had been passing through a well-wooded district, and had now reached another dangerous morass, called risley moss, which compelled them to keep close to the mersey. little, however, could be seen of the river, its banks being thickly fringed with willows and other trees. passing martinscroft and woolston, they held on till they came within half-a-mile of warrington, even then a considerable town. though the bridge at warrington had been destroyed, a ford was pointed out to them, and they were soon on the other side of the mersey, and in cheshire. from inquiries which they now made at a small roadside inn, where they halted for a few minutes to refresh themselves and their horses, they ascertained they were within a mile of rawcliffe park, and after a short colloquy with the host, who was very curious to learn what was doing at manchester, and who told them he had seen sir richard rawcliffe ride past some three or four hours ago, they resumed their journey, and soon arrived at the gates of the park. chapter xxvii. rawcliffe hall. the domain was extensive, but had a neglected appearance, and did not possess any old timber, all the well-grown trees having been cut down in the time of the former proprietor, sir oswald rawcliffe. neither was the park picturesque, being flat, and in some places marshy. on one side it was bounded by the mersey, and its melancholy look impressed atherton as he gazed around. still he felt a singular interest in the place for which he could not account, unless it were that constance was connected with it. at length, they came in sight of the old mansion, near which grew some of the finest trees they had yet seen. the house had a gloomy look that harmonised with the melancholy appearance of the park. atherton had never beheld the place before, yet he seemed somehow familiar with it. the wide moat by which it was surrounded, the drawbridge, the gate-tower, the numerous gables, the bay-windows, all seemed like an imperfectly recollected picture. so struck was he with the notion that he drew in the rein for a few minutes, and gazed steadfastly at the antique mansion, endeavouring to recall the circumstances under which he could have beheld it, but it vanished like a dream. before riding up to the house, he held a brief consultation with the sergeant, as to how it would be best to proceed. hitherto they had seen no one in the park, which, as already stated, had a thoroughly neglected air; nor, as far as they could judge, had their approach been remarked by any of the inmates of the house. gloom seemed to brood over the place. so silent was it that it might have been uninhabited. "if i had not been assured that sir richard is at home, i should not have thought so," remarked atherton. "the house has not a very cheerful or hospitable air." "luckily, the drawbridge is down, or we might have been kept on the wrong side of the moat," remarked the sergeant. "my advice is that we enter the fort before we are discovered, or we may never get in at all." acting upon the counsel, atherton put spurs to his horse and rode up to the house, which did not look a whit more cheerful as he approached it, and without halting to ring the bell, dashed across the drawbridge, passed through the open gateway and entered the court-yard, which to the young man's great surprise did not look so neglected as the exterior of the mansion had led him to anticipate. the noise they made on entering the court-yard seemed to have roused the inmates from the sleep into which they had apparently been plunged. an old butler, followed by a couple of footmen, came out of the house, and with evident alarm depicted in his countenance, requested to know their business. "our business is with sir richard rawcliffe," replied atherton. "we must see him immediately." "i do not think sir richard will see you, gentlemen," replied the butler. "he is much fatigued. i will deliver any message to him with which you may charge me." "we must see him," cried the sergeant, authoritatively. "we come from the prince." the butler no longer hesitated, but assuming a deferential air, said he would at once conduct the gentlemen to his master. as they had already dismounted, he bade one of the servants take their horses to the stable, and ushered the unwelcome visitors into a large entrance-hall, in which a wood fire was burning. remarking that the butler stared at him very hard, atherton said: "you look at me as if you had seen me before. is it so? i have no recollection of you." "i don't think i have seen you before, sir," replied the man, gravely. "but i have seen some one very like you." whom shall i announce to sir richard?" "i am captain legh," said atherton. "but there is no necessity to announce me. conduct me to your master at once." the butler, though evidently uneasy, did not venture to disobey, but led him to a room that opened out of the hall. the sergeant followed close behind atherton. they had been ushered into the library. sir richard was writing at a table, but raising his eyes on their entrance, he started up, and exclaimed in an angry voice: "why have you brought these persons here, markland. i told you i would not be disturbed." "your servant is not to blame, sir richard," interposed atherton. "i insisted upon seeing you. i am sent to bring you to the prince." "it is my intention to return to manchester to-night," replied the baronet, haughtily. "but i have some affairs to arrange." "i shall be sorry to inconvenience you, sir richard," observed atherton. "but my orders are precise. you must present yourself at the prince's head-quarters before midnight." "i engage to do so," replied the baronet. "but you must be content to accompany me, sir richard. such are my orders from his royal highness." "and mine," added sergeant dickson. controlling his anger by a powerful effort, sir richard said with forced calmness: "since such are the prince's orders i shall not dispute them. i will return with you to manchester. we will set out in two hours' time. in the interim i shall be able to arrange some papers which i came for, and which i desire to take with me. by that time you will have rested, and your horses will be ready for the journey." then turning to markland, he added: "conduct captain legh and sergeant dickson to the dining-room, and set some refreshment before them without delay." "take me to the servants' hall, mr. markland," said dickson. "i cannot sit down with my officer." just as atherton was about to leave the room, sir richard stepped up to him and said in a low tone: "before we start, i should like to have a little conversation with you in private, captain legh." "i am quite at your service now, sir richard," replied the young man. he then glanced significantly at dickson, who went out with the butler, leaving him alone with the baronet. chapter xxviii. a startling disclosure. when the door was closed, sir richard's manner somewhat changed towards the young man, and with less haughtiness than he had hitherto manifested, he said to him: "pray be seated. i have much to say to you." atherton complied, but for some minutes sir richard continued to pace rapidly to and fro within the room, as if unwilling to commence the conversation he had proposed. at last, he seated himself opposite the young man, who had watched him with surprise. "are you acquainted with the history of my family?" he inquired, looking steadfastly at his auditor. "i have some slight acquaintance with it," replied atherton. "you are aware, i presume, that the rawcliffes have occupied this old mansion for upwards of two centuries?" atherton bowed, but made no remark. sir richard went on: "my ancestors have all been high and honourable men, and have handed a proud name from one generation to another. would it not be grievous if a stain were affixed on a name, hitherto unsullied, like ours? yet if this inquiry which the prince has instituted be pursued, such must infallibly be the case. a dark secret connected with our family may be brought to light. now listen to me, and you shall judge: "some twenty years ago, sir oswald rawcliffe, my elder brother, died, leaving a widow and an infant son. lady rawcliffe came to reside here with her child--do you note what i say?" "i think i have heard that the child was stolen under mysterious circumstances," said atherton, "and that the lady subsequently died of grief." "you have heard the truth," said sir richard, with a strange look. "as the child could not be found, i succeeded to the title and the estates." a pause ensued, during which such fearful suspicions crossed atherton that he averted his gaze from the baronet. suddenly, sir richard rose in his chair, leaned forward, and gazing fixedly at atherton, exclaimed: "what will you say if i tell you that the child who was carried off, and supposed to be dead, is still living? what will you say if i tell you that you are conway rawcliffe, the son of sir oswald, and rightful heir to the property?" "amazement!" cried the listener. "for many years i have deprived you of your inheritance and your title--have appropriated your estates, and have dwelt in your house. but i have been haunted by remorse, and have known no happiness. sleep has been scared from my eyelids by the pale lady who died of grief in this very house, and i have known no rest. but i shall sleep soundly soon," he added, with terrible significance. "i will make reparation for the wrongs i have done. i will restore all i have taken from you--house, lands, name, title." again there was a pause. the young man was struck dumb by astonishment, and it was sir richard who broke silence. "what think you i was engaged on when you entered this room? i will tell you. i was writing out a full confession of the crime i have committed, in the hope of atoning for my guilt. already i have narrated part of the dark story. i have told how you were carried off and whither you were conveyed; but i have yet to relate how you were brought up in manchester in complete ignorance of the secret of your birth, and how i acted as your guardian. full details shall be given so that your identity can easily be established. when my confession is finished, i will deliver it to you, and you can show it to the prince." "however you may have acted previously, you are acting well now," remarked atherton. "but i will no longer interrupt you in your task." "stay!" cried the baronet. "i will show you a room which i myself have not seen for years. i have not dared to enter it, but i can enter it now. follow me!" chapter xxix. the mysterious chamber. opening a movable shelf in the bookcase, he disclosed a narrow passage, along which they proceeded till they came to a small back staircase, evidently communicating by a small outlet with the moat. mounting this staircase, sir richard unfastened a door, which admitted them to a dark corridor. from its appearance it was evident that this part of the mansion was shut up. a stifling sensation, caused by the close, oppressive atmosphere, affected atherton, and vague terrors assailed him. two doors faced them. sir richard opened one of the doors, and led his companion into an antechamber, the furniture of which was mouldering and covered with dust. a door communicating with an inner room stood ajar. after a moment's hesitation sir richard passed through it, and was followed by atherton. the chamber was buried in gloom, but on a window-shutter being opened a strange scene was disclosed. at the further end of the apartment stood an old bedstead, which seemed fully prepared for some occupant, though it could not have been slept in for many years. quilt and pillow were mildewed and mouldering, and the sheets yellow with age. the hangings were covered with dust. altogether, the room had a ghostly look. for some moments atherton could not remove his gaze from that old bed, which seemed to exercise a sort of fascination, but when he looked at sir richard, he was appalled by the terrible change that had come over him. he looked the picture of horror and despair. his pallid countenance was writhen with anguish, and his limbs shook. a deep groan burst from his labouring breast. "the hour is near at hand," he muttered, in tones scarcely human. "but i am not yet ready. spare me till my task is finished!" with a ghastly look he then added to atherton: "the whole scene rises before me as it occurred on that dreadful night. the room is hushed and quiet, and within that bed a child is peacefully slumbering on his mother's breast. a masked intruder comes in--admitted by the nurse, who has betrayed her mistress. unmoved by a picture of innocence that might have touched any heart less savage than his own, he snatches up the child, and is bearing it off when the mother awakes. her piercing shriek still rings through my ears. i cannot describe what follows--but 'tis soon over--and when the worse than robber departs with his prize, he leaves the wretched mother lying senseless on the floor, and the nurse dead--slain by his ruthless hand!" "horror!" exclaimed atherton, unable to control his feelings. "let us hence, or i shall become mad," cried sir richard, hurrying him away. so bewildered was atherton, that he could scarcely tell how he regained the library, but when he got there, he sank into a chair, and covered his eyes with his hands, as if to exclude the terrible vision by which he had been beset. on rousing himself from the stupor into which he had fallen, he perceived sir richard seated at the table, writing his confession, and feeling that his presence might disturb him, he rose to depart. sir richard rose likewise, and while conducting him to the door, said: "i will send for you when i have done. i shall be best alone for a short time. but let me give you a word of counsel, and do not distrust it because it comes from me. 'tis my wish, as you know, to repair the wrong i have done. i would not have you forfeit the lofty position you have just obtained." "i hope i shall not forfeit it," said atherton, proudly. "you will not long hold it," rejoined sir richard, in a solemn tone, "unless you withdraw from this ill-fated expedition. it will end in your destruction. attend to my warning!" "i cannot honourably retreat," said atherton. "you must," cried sir richard, sternly. "why throw away your life from a fancied sense of honour, when such fair prospects are opening upon you? 'twill be madness to persist." atherton made no reply, and sir richard said no more. but as he opened the door he gave the young man a look so full of strange significance that he almost guessed its import. sir richard paused for a moment as he went back to the table. "what is the use of this?" he exclaimed aloud. "no remonstrance will deter him. he will go on to destruction. the estates will pass away from us. perchance a few words, written at the last moment, may change him! heaven grant it. i will try. but now to complete my task. all will soon be over!" with this he sat down at the table, and with a strange composure resumed his writing. chapter xxx. a terrible catastrophe. on returning to the entrance-hall atherton found markland, the butler. the old man looked at him very wistfully, and said: "excuse me, sir, if i venture to say a few words to you. has an important communication been made to you by sir richard?" "a very important communication, indeed," replied atherton. "and when i tell you what it is, i think i shall surprise you?" "no, you won't surprise me in the least, sir," replied markland. "the moment i set eyes upon you i felt certain that you were the rightful heir of this property. you are the very image of my former master, sir oswald. i hope sir richard intends to do you justice and acknowledge you?" "be satisfied, my good friend, he does," replied atherton. "i am truly glad to hear it," said markland. "this will take off a weight that has lain on his breast for years, and make him a happy man once more. strange! i always felt sure the infant heir would turn up. i never believed he was dead. but i didn't expect to behold so fine a young gentleman. i hope you are not going to leave us again now you have come back." "i must leave you for a time, markland, however inclined i may be to stay. i have joined the prince's army, and am a captain in the manchester regiment." "so i heard from the gallant highlander who came with you. but things have changed now. since you have become sir conway rawcliffe----" "what mean you, markland?" "conway was the name of the infant heir who was stolen--he was so called after his mother, the beautiful henrietta conway." "for the present i must remain captain legh," interrupted the young man. "nor would i have a word breathed on the subject to your fellow-servants till i have spoken with sir richard. you understand?" "perfectly," replied the old butler. "you may rely on my discretion." but though markland was forbidden to give the young baronet his proper title, he could not be prevented from showing him the profoundest respect, and it was with great reverence that he conducted him to the dining-room, where they found sergeant dickson seated at a table with a cold sirloin of beef before him, flanked by a tankard of strong ale. atherton--as we shall still continue to call our hero--desired the sergeant not to disturb himself, but declined to follow his example, though urged by markland to try a little cold beef. the butler, however, would not be denied, but disappearing for a minute or two returned with a cobwebbed flask, which he uncorked, and then filling a big glass to the brim, handed it to the young gentleman with these words: "this madeira was bottled some five-and-twenty years ago in the time of the former owner of this mansion, sir oswald rawcliffe. i pray you taste it, sir---- i beg pardon," he added, hastily correcting himself--"i mean captain legh." as atherton placed the goblet to his lips, but did not half empty it, the butler whispered in his ear, while handing him a biscuit, "'tis your father's wine." atherton gave him a look and emptied the glass. another bumper was then filled for sergeant dickson, who smacked his lips, but declared that for his part he preferred usquebaugh. "usquebaugh!" exclaimed markland, contemptuously. "good wine is thrown away upon you, i perceive, sergeant. nothing better was ever drunk than this madeira. let me prevail upon you to try it again, sir--captain, i mean." but as atherton declined, he set down the bottle beside him, and left the room. full half an hour elapsed before he reappeared, and then his looks so alarmed those who beheld him, that they both started to their feet. "what is the matter?" cried atherton, struck by a foreboding of ill. "nothing, i trust, has happened to sir richard?" "i don't know--i hope not," cried the terrified butler. "i went into the library just now to see if his honour wanted anything. to my surprise he was not there, though i had been in the entrance-hall, and hadn't seem him go out. on the writing-table was a packet, that somehow attracted my attention, and i stepped forward to look at it. it was sealed with black wax, and addressed to sir conway rawcliffe, baronet." atherton uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and his forebodings of ill grew stronger. "the sight of this mysterious packet filled me with uneasiness," pursued the butler. "i laid it down, and was considering what had become of sir richard, when i remarked that a secret door in one of the bookcases, of which i was previously ignorant, was standing open. impelled by a feeling stronger than curiosity, i passed through it, and had reached the foot of a small staircase, when i heard the report of a pistol, almost immediately succeeded by a heavy fall. i guessed what had happened; but not liking to go up-stairs alone, i hurried back as fast as i could, and came to you." "however disinclined you may feel, you must go with me, markland," said atherton. "i know where we shall find sir richard. you must also come with us, sergeant. not a moment must be lost." full of the direst apprehensions they set off. as they entered the library atherton perceived the packet, which he knew contained the unhappy man's confession, lying on the writing-table, but he did not stop to take it up. dashing through the secret door he threaded the passage, and ascended the narrow staircase, three steps at a time, followed by the others. the door of the antechamber was shut, and he feared it might be locked, but it yielded instantly to his touch. the room was empty; but it was evident that the dreadful catastrophe he anticipated had taken place in the inner room, since a dark stream of blood could be seen trickling beneath the door, which was standing ajar. atherton endeavoured to push it open, but encountering some resistance, was obliged to use a slight degree of force to accomplish his object, and he then went in, closely followed by the others. a dreadful spectacle met their gaze. stretched upon the floor amid a pool of blood, with a pistol grasped in his hand, showing how the deed had been done, lay sir richard. [illustration: death of sir richard rawcliffe page .] he had shot himself through the heart, so that his death must have been almost instantaneous. the sight would have been ghastly enough under any circumstances; but beheld in that chamber, so full of fearful associations, it acquired additional horror. the group gathered round the body--the young baronet in his military attire--the highlander in his accoutrements--and the old butler--formed a striking picture. that the guilty man should die there seemed like the work of retribution. as the nephew he had so deeply injured, and deprived of his inheritance, looked down upon his dark and stern visage, now stilled in death, he could not but pity him. "may heaven forgive him, as i forgive him!" he ejaculated. "if he has sinned deeply his penitence has been sincere," said markland, sorrowfully. "half his time has been spent in fasting and prayer. heaven have mercy on his sinful soul!" "it seems to me as if he had something clutched in his left hand," remarked the sergeant. "i think so, too," said atherton. "see what it is." thereupon, erick knelt down beside the body, and opening the fingers, which were not yet stiffened, took from them a small slip of paper, and gave it to atherton. it had been crushed in the death gripe, but on being unfolded, these warning words appeared: "'tis given to those on the point of death to see into the future, and i read danger and destruction in the expedition you have joined. be warned by your unhappy uncle, and abandon it." "whatever may be the consequence, i cannot abandon the expedition," thought atherton. while forming this resolution, he gazed at his lifeless monitor, and it seemed to him as if a frown passed over the dead man's countenance. chapter xxxi. sir richard rawcliffe's confession. after considering what ought to be done under circumstances so painful and extraordinary, atherton left sergeant dickson with the body, and then descending with markland to the hall, ordered him to assemble the whole house without delay, and acquaint them with the dreadful catastrophe that had occurred. thereupon, markland rang the alarm bell, and the summons was immediately answered by all the male part of the household, and several women, who hurried to the entrance-hall to see what was the matter. in reply to their anxious inquiries, the butler told them what had happened, and the appalling intelligence was received with expressions of horror by the men, and by shrieks from the women--some of the latter seeming ready to faint. bidding all follow him who chose, markland then led three or four stout-hearted men to the room where the dire event had occurred. they found sergeant dickson watching beside the body, and, after regarding it for a few moments with fearful curiosity, they raised it from the floor, and placed it upon the bed. this done, they all quitted the chamber of death, and the door was locked. markland, however, deemed it necessary to leave a man in the ante-room, and, having taken this precaution, he descended with the others to the lower part of the house. the sergeant then proceeded to the library to ascertain whether captain legh had made any change in his plans. "no," replied atherton, "i must return to manchester to-night, in order to explain matters to the prince. if his royal highness can dispense with my services, i shall retire from the manchester regiment. if not, i must go on. that is my fixed determination." "'tis the resolve of a man of honour," replied the sergeant. "i have to read through this paper, and besides, i have some directions to give," said atherton. "but i shall start in an hour." "good," replied erick. "i shall be quite ready." and fancying captain legh desired to be alone, he left the room. shortly afterwards markland appeared with lights, which he placed on the writing-table. "i am very sorry to find you are resolved to go, sir," he remarked. "if the prince can spare me i shall return at once." "our chance of seeing you again is but slight, sir," rejoined the butler, shaking his head. "the prince is not likely to part with you. shall sir richard's groom, holden, attend you? should you have any message to send to me, he will bring it back." "yes, i will take him with me," replied atherton. "perhaps miss rawcliffe may require him." "you have eaten nothing, sir." "i have no appetite. but let a slight repast be prepared for me in half an hour." the butler bowed and left the room. as yet atherton had only read certain portions of his unhappy uncle's confession; but he now unfolded the manuscript with the intention of carefully perusing it. the narration, written in a firm, bold hand, ran as follows. * * * * * in the name of the almighty power whom i have so deeply offended, and before whose throne i shall presently appear to answer for my manifold offences, i hereby solemnly declare that the young man now known as atherton legh is no other than my nephew conway, only son of my brother sir oswald rawcliffe, whom i have wickedly kept out of his inheritance for twenty years, by carrying him off when an infant, as i shall proceed to relate. all possible reparation for the great wrong done him shall be made to my nephew. i hereby restore him all the estates and property of which he has so long been deprived, and i implore his forgiveness. let it not be imagined that the possession of the property and title has brought me happiness! since i have committed this terrible crime, peace has been a stranger to my breast. my slumbers have been disturbed by fearful dreams, and when sleep has fled from my pillow my brother's angry shade has appeared before me, menacing me with eternal bale for the wrong done to his son. sometimes another phantom has appeared--the shade of the sweet lady who died of grief for the loss of her infant. though i was thus wretched, and life had become a burden to me, my heart was hardened, and i still clung tenaciously to the lands and title i had so wickedly acquired. though they brought me nothing but misery i could not give them up. i recoiled with terror from the scaffold that awaited me if i avowed myself a robber and a murderer, for my hands were red with the blood of bertha, the wretched nurse. but my conduct was not altogether ill, and i trust that the little good i have done may tell in my favour. i had consigned my nephew to the care of strangers, but i watched over him. i supplied all his wants--educated him as a gentleman--and made him a liberal allowance. it was my intention to have greatly increased the allowance, so as in part to restore my ill-gotten gains. but this was not to be. heaven had other designs, and mine were thwarted. for reasons that seemed good to me, though interested in the cause, i forbade my nephew to join the rising in favour of the house of stuart; but he heeded not my counsel. suddenly, when i least expected it, discovery of my crime seemed imminent. from some information he had privily received, the prince's suspicions were awakened, and he commanded me to appear before him, and answer certain questions he meant to put to me in the presence of my nephew and my daughter. from such a terrible ordeal as this i naturally shrank. death appeared preferable. but before putting an end to an existence that had long been a burden to me, i resolved to make all the atonement in my power for my evil deeds. with that intent have i come here. in the ebony cabinet standing in the library, which contains all my private papers and letters, will be found incontestable evidences that my nephew is entitled to the estates, and that he is, in fact, the long-lost conway rawcliffe. 'tis meet i should die at rawcliffe, and in the very room where the crime was committed. that i should thus rush unbidden into the presence of my maker may seem to be adding to the weight of my offences, and to preclude all hope of salvation, but i trust in his mercy and forgiveness. he will judge me rightfully. he knows the torments i endure, and that they drive me to madness and despair. i must end them. whether there will be rest in the grave for my perturbed spirit remains to be seen. of the world i have already taken leave. to the sole being to whom my heart clings with affection--to my daughter--i must now bid an eternal farewell! i cannot write to her, and she will understand why i cannot. i implore her prayers. when i am gone she will have no protector, and i trust that her cousin, conway, will watch over her. my private property will be hers. though small in comparison with rawcliffe, 'twill be enough. i have still much to say, for thick-coming thoughts press upon me; but i must not give them way. were i to delay longer, my resolution might waver. adieu, conway! adieu, constance! forgive me!--pray for me! richard rawcliffe. enclosed within the packet was the key of the cabinet. there was likewise another manuscript written by the unhappy baronet and signed by him, giving full particulars of the terrible occurrence alluded to; but since the reader is already acquainted with the details it is not necessary to reproduce them. atherton was profoundly moved by the perusal of this letter, and remained for some time buried in reflection. rousing himself at length from the reverie into which he had fallen, he looked round for the ebony cabinet, and easily discovered it. unlocking it, he found that it contained a large bundle of letters and papers labelled in the late baronet's hand, "documents relating to conway rawcliffe, with proofs of his title to the rawcliffe estate." he searched no further. he did not even untie the bundle, feeling certain it contained all the necessary evidences; but having carefully secured sir richard's last letter and confession, he locked the cabinet, and put the key in his pocket. he then rang the bell, and when markland made his appearance, he said to him: "before my departure from manchester, markland, it is necessary that i should give you some instructions, in case i should not be able to return, for the prince may be unwilling to release me from my engagements. i am sure you have faithfully served your late unfortunate master, and i am equally sure of your attachment to his daughter, and i have therefore every confidence in you. my great anxiety is respecting miss rawcliffe," he continued, in accents that bespoke the deepest feeling. "intelligence of this dreadful event will be communicated to her to-morrow. how she will bear it i know not." "if i may venture to give an opinion, sir, and i have known the dear young lady from childhood, and am therefore well acquainted with her temperament and disposition--when the first shock is over, she will bear the bereavement with resignation and firmness. she was familiar with sir richard's wayward moods, and has often feared that something dreadful would happen to him. no doubt the shock will be a terrible one to her, and i can only hope she will be equal to it." "all precautions shall be taken to break the sad tidings to her," said atherton. "when she comes here it is my wish that she should be treated precisely as heretofore--you understand, markland." the butler bowed. "i hope she will bring her cousin--_my_ cousin, miss butler, with her. mrs. butler, i fear, may not be equal to the journey, but you will prepare for her, and for father jerome." "your orders shall be strictly attended to, sir," said the butler. "and now with regard to my unfortunate uncle," paused the young baronet. "in case i am unable to return, i must leave the care of everything to you. certain formalities of justice, rendered necessary by the case, must be observed, and you will take care that nothing is neglected. on all other points miss rawcliffe must be consulted." "i will not fail to consult her, sir. but i am sure she would desire that her father's remains should be laid in the vault beneath the chapel where his ancestors repose, and that the funeral rites should be performed with the utmost privacy." this conference ended, atherton proceeded to the dining-room, and partook of a slight repast, after which he prepared for his departure. the horses had already been brought round by holden, the groom, and the night being extremely dark, the court-yard was illumined by torches, their yellow glare revealing the picturesque architecture of the old mansion. before mounting his steed, atherton gave his hand to markland, who pressed it respectfully, earnestly assuring the young gentleman that all his directions should be followed out. the old butler then took leave of the sergeant, who had been in readiness for some minutes. in consequence of the darkness, it was deemed advisable that holden should lead the way. accordingly, he was the first to cross the drawbridge, but the others kept close behind him. chapter xxxii. atherton's decision is made. it was with strange sensations that atherton looked back at the darkling outline of the old mansion, and when it became undistinguishable in the gloom, he felt as if he had been indulging in an idle dream. but no! the broad domains that spread around him on either side were his own. all he could discern belonged to him. his meditations were not disturbed by either of his attendants, for the sergeant was a short distance behind him, and the groom about twenty or thirty yards in advance. as they trotted on quickly they were soon out of the park, and were now making their way somewhat more slowly along the road leading to warrington. presently they turned off on the right, in order to reach the ford, and were skirting the banks of the mersey, when holden came back and said that he perceived some men armed with muskets guarding the ford. a brief consultation was then held. as the groom declared that the river was only fordable at this point, atherton resolved to go on at all hazards. as they drew near the ford they found it guarded--as holden had stated--by half a dozen armed militia-men, who were evidently determined to dispute their passage. "stand! in the king's name!" cried the leader of the party in an authoritative voice. "we can discern that one of you is a highlander, and we believe you are all rebels and traitors. stand! i say!" "rebels and traitors yourselves!" thundered the sergeant in reply. "we own no sovereign but king james the third." "out of our way, fellows!" cried atherton. "we mean to pass the ford!" drawing his sword as he spoke, he struck spurs into his steed, and dashed down the bank, followed closely by the sergeant and holden--the former having likewise drawn his claymore. the militia-men drew back, but fired at them as they were crossing the river, though without doing them any harm. having escaped this danger, they proceeded at the same rapid pace as before, and in the same order, the groom riding about twenty yards in advance. the few travellers they met with got out of their way. by the time they reached chat moss the moon had risen, and her beams illumined the dreary swamp. the scene looked far more striking than it did by daylight, but atherton gazed at it with a different eye. other thoughts now occupied his breast, and he seemed changed even to himself. when he tracked that road, a few hours ago, he was a mere adventurer--without name--without fortune--now he had a title and large estates. reflections on this sudden and extraordinary change in his position now completely engrossed him, and he fell into a reverie which lasted till he reached pendleton, and then waking up, as if from a dream, he was astonished to find he had got so far. from this elevation the town of manchester could be descried, and as the houses were again illuminated, and bonfires were lighted in different quarters, it presented a very striking appearance. just as atherton crossed salford bridge, the clock of the collegiate church told forth eleven; and so crowded were the streets, owing to the illuminations, that nearly another quarter of an hour was required to reach the prince's head-quarters. atherton was attended only by the groom, the sergeant having gone to report himself on his return to the chevalier de johnstone. dismounting at the gate, he entered the mansion, and orders having been given to that effect he was at once admitted to the prince, who was alone in his private cabinet. charles instantly inquired if he had brought sir richard rawcliffe with him. "he is unable to obey your royal highness's summons," replied the other. "how?" exclaimed the prince, frowning. "he is lying dead at rawcliffe, having perished by his own hand. but he has left a written confession, wherein he acknowledges that he has wrongfully deprived me of my inheritance." "this is strange indeed!" exclaimed the prince. "his extraordinary conduct to you is now explained, and the mystery that hung over your birth is solved. you are the lost son of the former baronet. i suspected as much, and meant to force the truth from sir richard. however, he has spared me the trouble. pray let me know all that has occurred?" atherton then commenced his relation, to which the prince listened with the greatest interest, and when the story was brought to a conclusion he said: "i will not affect to pity your unhappy uncle. he has escaped earthly punishment, and perhaps the deep remorse he appears to have felt may obtain him mercy on high. let us hope so--since he has striven at the last to make some amends for his heavy offences. but to turn to yourself. your position is now materially changed. you entered my service as an unknown adventurer, and not as a wealthy baronet. considering this, and feeling, also, that i am under great personal obligation to you, i will not wait for any solicitation on your part, but at once release you from your engagement to me." atherton was much moved. "your royal highness overwhelms me by your kindness," he said. "but though rawcliffe hall and its domains may be mine by right, i do not intend to deprive constance of the property. furthermore, i shall not assume my real name and title till the close of the campaign. for the present i shall remain atherton legh. i trust your highness will approve of the course i intend to pursue?" "i do approve of it," replied charles, earnestly. "the resolution you have taken does you honour. since you are determined to join me, it shall not be as a mere officer in the manchester regiment, but as one of my aides-de-camp. all needful explanation shall be given to colonel townley. i shall march at an early hour in the morning. but no matter. you can follow. you must see constance before you leave, and if you are detained by any unforeseen cause, i will excuse you. nay, no thanks. good-night." end of the second book. book iii. the march to derby, and the retreat. chapter i. an old jacobite dame. next morning the prince quitted manchester, marching on foot at the head of two regiments of infantry which formed the advanced guard. the main body of the army, with the cavalry and artillery, was to follow at a later hour. as the two regiments in question, which were composed of remarkably fine men, marched up market street lane, preceded by a dozen pipers, they were accompanied by a vast concourse of people, who came to witness the prince's departure, and shouted lustily as he came forth from his head-quarters, attended by sir thomas sheridan and colonel ker. designing to make macclesfield the limit of his first day's march, charles took the road to cheadle, and several hundred persons walked, or rather ran, by the side of the highlanders for a mile or two, when they dropped off and returned, being unable to keep up with the active mountaineers. parties of men had been sent on previously to make a temporary bridge across the mersey by felling trees; but the bridge not being completed on his arrival, the prince forded the river at the head of his troops. on the opposite bank of the mersey, several cheshire gentlemen of good family were waiting to greet him, and wish him success in his enterprise. among them was an aged dame, mrs. skyring, who, being very infirm, was led forward by a roman catholic priest. kneeling before the prince, she pressed his hand to her lips. much impressed by her venerable looks, charles immediately raised her, and on learning her name, told her he had often heard of her as a devoted adherent of his house. "give ear to me for a few moments, i pray you, most gracious prince," she said, in faltering accents. "eighty-five years ago, when an infant, i was lifted up in my mother's arms to see the happy landing at dover of your great uncle, king charles the second. my father was a staunch cavalier, served in the civil wars, and fought at worcester. my mother was equally attached to the house of stuart. i inherited their loyalty and devotion. when your grandsire, king james the second, was driven from the throne, i prayed daily for his restoration." "you did more than pray, madam," said the prince. "i am quite aware that you remitted half your income to our family; and this you have done for more than fifty years. i thank you in my grandsire's name--in my father's name--and in my own." sobs checked the old lady's utterance for a moment, but at length she went on: "when i learnt that you were marching on england at the head of an army, determined to drive out the hanoverian usurper, and regain your crown, i was filled with despair that i could not assist you; but i sold my plate, my jewels, and every trinket i possessed. they did not produce much--not half so much as i hoped--but all they produced is in this purse. i pray your royal highness to accept it as an earnest of my devotion." while uttering these words, which greatly touched charles, she again bent before him, and placed the purse in his hands. "pain me not by a refusal, i implore you, most gracious prince," she said. "and think not you are depriving me of aught. i cannot live long, and i have no children. 'tis the last assistance i shall be able to render your royal house--for which i have lived, and for which i would die." "i accept the gift, madam," replied charles, with unaffected emotion, "with as much gratitude as if you had placed a large sum at my disposal. you are, indeed, a noble dame; and our family may well be proud of a servant so loyal! if i succeed in my enterprise, i will recompense you a hundred fold." "i am fully recompensed by these gracious words, prince," she rejoined. "nay, madam," he cried, pressing her hand to his lips; "mere thanks are not enough. you have not confined yourself to words." "my eyes are very dim, prince," said the old dame; "and what you say to me will not make me see more clearly. yet let me look upon your face, and i will tell you what i think of you. i am too old to flatter." "you will not offend me by plain speaking," said charles, smiling. "you are a true stuart," she continued, trying to peruse his features. "but there are some lines in your comely countenance that bode----" "not misfortune, i trust?" said charles, finding she hesitated. she regarded him anxiously, and made an effort to reply, but could not. "what ails you, madam?" cried the prince, greatly alarmed by the deathly hue that overspread her features. her strength was gone, and she would have fallen, if he had not caught her in his arms. her friends, who were standing near, rushed forward to her assistance. "alas, all is over!" exclaimed charles, mournfully, as he consigned her inanimate frame to them. "she is scarcely to be pitied, prince," said the romish priest. "'tis thus she desired to die. may the angels receive her soul, and present it before the lord!" "the sum she has bestowed upon me shall buy masses for the repose of her soul," said charles. "nay, prince," rejoined the priest. "her soul is already at rest. employ the money, i beseech you, as she requested." much affected by this incident, charles continued his march through a fine champaign country, well-timbered and richly cultivated, containing numerous homesteads, and here and there an old hall of the true cheshire type, and comprehending views of bowden downs and dunham park on the left, with norbury and lyme park on the right. at headforth hall he halted with his body-guard, and claimed the hospitality of its owner; while his troops marched on to wilmslow, and forced the inhabitants of that pretty little village to supply their wants. from wilmslow the prince's march was continued to macclesfield, where he fixed his quarters at an old mansion near the chester gate. chapter ii. atherton's gift to constance. the prince's departure from manchester took place on sunday, december the st; but as the main body of the army did not leave till the middle of the day, and great confusion prevailed in the town, no service took place in the churches. the cavalry was drawn up in st. ann's square; the different regiments of infantry collected at various points in the town; and the manchester regiment assembled in the collegiate churchyard. while the troops were thus getting into order, preparatory to setting out for macclesfield, a great number of the inhabitants of the town came forth to look at them--very much increasing the tumult and confusion. the manchester regiment got into marching order about noon, and was one of the first to quit the town. officers and men were in high spirits, and looked very well. as the regiment passed up market street lane, with colonel townley riding at its head, the colours borne by ensign syddall, and the band playing, it was loudly cheered. the regularity of the march was considerably interfered with by the number of persons who accompanied their friends as far as didsbury, and supplied them rather too liberally with usquebaugh, ratifia, and other spirituous drinks. the courage of the men being raised to a high pitch by these stimulants, they expressed a strong anxiety for an early engagement with the duke of cumberland's forces, feeling sure they should beat them. after a short halt at didsbury, their friends left them, and their courage was somewhat cooled by fording the river below stockport. they were likewise obliged to wade through the little river bollin, before reaching wilmslow, where they halted for the night. atherton had not yet left manchester. he had some business to transact which obliged him to employ a lawyer, and he was engaged with this gentleman for two or three hours in the morning. he had previously written to constance to say that it was necessary he should see her before his departure, and as soon as his affairs were arranged he rode to mrs. butler's house in salford. leaving his horse with holden, by whom he was attended, he entered the garden, and was crossing the lawn, when he encountered jemmy dawson, who, having just parted with monica, looked greatly depressed. in reply to his anxious inquiries, jemmy informed him that constance had borne the shock better than might have been expected, and had passed the night in prayer. "i have not seen her," he said, "but monica tells me she is now perfectly composed, and however much she may suffer, she represses all outward manifestation of grief. in this respect she is very different from monica herself, who, poor girl! has not her emotions under control, and i left her in a state almost of distraction." without a word more he hurried away, while atherton entered the house, and was shown into a parlour on the ground floor. no one was in the room at the time, and his first step was to lay a packet on the table. presently constance made her appearance. her features were excessively pale, and bore evident traces of grief, but she was perfectly composed, and atherton thought he had never seen her look so beautiful. she saluted him gravely, but more distantly than before. "i cannot condole with you on the terrible event that has occurred," he said; "but i can offer you my profound sympathy. and let me say at once that i freely and fully forgive your unfortunate father for all the wrong he has done me." "i thank you for the assurance," she rejoined. "'tis an infinite relief to me, and proves the goodness of your heart." "do not dwell upon this, constance," he said. "hereafter we will talk over the matter--not now. should you feel equal to the journey, i hope you will immediately return to rawcliffe." "i will return thither, with your kind permission, to see my poor father laid in the family vault. that sad duty performed, i shall quit the house for ever." "no, constance--that must not be," he rejoined. "my object in coming hither this morning is to tell you that i do not design to dispossess you of the house and property. on the contrary, you will be as much the mistress of rawcliffe hall as ever--more so, perhaps. nay, do not interrupt me--i have not finished. many things may happen. i may meet a soldier's fate. the hazardous enterprise i am bent upon may fail--i may be captured--may die as a rebel on the scaffold. if i should not return, the house and all within it--all the domains attached to it--are yours. by that deed i have made them over to you." and he pointed to the packet which he had laid upon the table. constance was greatly moved. tears rushed to her eyes, and for a few minutes she was so overpowered that she could not speak. atherton took her hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw. "i am profoundly touched by your generosity," she said. "but i cannot accept your gift." "nay you must accept it, dearest constance," he said. "you well know you have my heart's love, and i think you will not refuse to be mine." "'twould be too great happiness to be yours," she rejoined. "but no--no--i ought not to consent." by way of reply, he pressed her to his heart, and kissed her passionately. "now will you refuse?" he cried. "how can i, since you have wrested my consent from me?" she rejoined. "but how am i to address you?" "you must still call me atherton legh," he replied. "well, then, dearest atherton, my heart misgives me. in urging you to join this expedition i fear i have done wrong. should any misfortune happen to you i shall deem myself the cause of it. i tremble to think of the consequences of my folly. must you go?" she added, looking imploringly at him. "yes," he replied. "not even you, dearest constance, can turn me from my purpose. the prince has relieved me from my engagement, but i cannot honourably retire. come what may, i shall go on." "i will not attempt to dissuade you from your purpose," she rejoined. "but i find it doubly hard to part now. and your danger seems greater." "mere fancy," he said. "you love me better than you did--that is the cause of your increased apprehension." for some moments they remained gazing at each other in silence. at last atherton spoke. "'tis with difficulty that i can tear myself away from you, dearest constance. but i hope soon to behold you again. meantime, you will remain at rawcliffe hall as i have suggested." "i will do whatever you desire," she rejoined. "i hope you will induce mrs. butler and monica to stay with you, and that i shall find them at rawcliffe on my return. i would not anticipate disaster--but 'tis desirable to be prepared for the worst. should ill success attend our enterprise, and i should be compelled to seek safety in flight, i might find a hiding-place in rawcliffe hall." "no doubt," she rejoined. "you could easily be concealed there--even should strict search be made. all necessary preparations shall be taken. whenever you arrive at rawcliffe you will find all ready for you. i will go there to-morrow, and i trust mrs. butler and monica will be able to follow immediately. will you not see them?" "not now," he replied. "bid them farewell for me. if i stay longer, my resolution might give way. remember what i have said to you. in any event you are mistress of rawcliffe. adieu!" pressing her again to his breast, he rushed out of the room. chapter iii. a retreat resolved upon. mounting his horse, which he had left at the gate of mrs. butler's residence, and followed by holden, atherton rode towards the bridge--being obliged to pass through the town in order to gain the stockport road. the place was still in a state of great confusion--none of the cavalry having as yet departed; but he contrived to make his way through the crowded thoroughfares, and was soon in the open country. at didsbury he overtook the manchester regiment and had a long conversation with colonel townley, who explained to him that he meant to pass the night at wilmslow. atherton then pursued his journey, crossed the mersey at cheadle, and came up with the prince and the advanced guard about four miles from macclesfield. he was then sent on to make preparations for his royal highness, and executed his task very satisfactorily. on the following day, while the prince, with the infantry, continued his march to leek, lord george gordon, with his regiment of horse, proceeded to congleton, and captain legh received orders from his royal highness to accompany him. at congleton information being obtained that the duke of cumberland was posted at newcastle-under-lyne, with ten thousand men, lord george went thither to reconnoitre, and found that the duke, on hearing of the onward march of the insurgent forces, had retired with his army on lichfield. with marvellous despatch atherton rode across the country and brought the intelligence to charles, who had arrived at leek. no change, however, was made in the prince's plans. he did not desire an engagement with the duke, but rather to elude him. accordingly, he pressed on, and on the fourth day after leaving manchester, arrived with his entire forces at derby. charles was still full of confidence, and as he was now a day's march nearer london than the enemy, he persuaded himself that he should be able to reach the capital without hazarding a battle. though he had been coldly received at all places since he left manchester, and had not obtained any more recruits, he was not discouraged. he fixed his head-quarters at a large mansion in full street, which has since been demolished. on the morning after his arrival at derby, he rode round the town, attended only by colonel ker and captain legh, and was very coldly received by the inhabitants--no cheers attending his progress through the streets, and many of the houses being shut up. much dispirited by this unfavourable reception, he returned to his head-quarters, where a council of war was held, which was attended by all the leaders of his army. the general aspect of the assemblage was gloomy, and far from calculated to raise his spirits. sir thomas sheridan alone seemed to retain his former confidence. graciously saluting them all, charles said: "i have summoned you, my lords and gentlemen, simply to inform you that after halting for another day in derby to refresh my troops, i shall proceed with all possible despatch, and without another halt, if i can avoid it--to london--there to give battle to the usurper. from the feeling evinced towards me, i doubt not i shall obtain many recruits during the hurried march, and perhaps some important reinforcements--but be this as it may, i shall persevere in my design." he then looked round, but as he encountered only gloomy looks, and all continued silent, he exclaimed sharply: "how is this? do you hesitate to follow me further?" "since your royal highness puts the question to us," replied lord george gordon, gravely, "i am bound to answer it distinctly. we think we have already done enough to prove our devotion. feeling certain we have no chance whatever of success, we decline to throw away our lives. we have now reached the very heart of england, and our march has been unopposed, but we have obtained none of the large reinforcements promised us, and only a single regiment at manchester. scarcely any person of distinction has joined us--and very few have sent us funds. since we left manchester we have been everywhere coldly received--and here, at derby, we are regarded with unmistakable aversion. the populace are only held in check by our numbers. further south, the disposition would probably be still more unfavourable, and retreat would be out of the question. if your royal highness can show us letters from any persons of distinction promising aid, or can assure us that a descent upon the english shores will be made from france, we are willing to go on. if not, we must consult our own safety." "what do i hear?" cried the prince, who had listened in the utmost consternation. "would you abandon me--now that we have advanced so far--now that victory is assured?" "our position is critical," replied lord george. "if we advance further, our retreat will be cut off by marshal wade, who is close in our rear, and by the duke of cumberland, who has an army doubling our own in number, only a few leagues from us. if we hazard a battle, and obtain a victory, the losses we should necessarily sustain would so weaken our forces, that without reinforcements, we could not hope to vanquish the large army which we know is encamped at finchley to secure the capital. retreat is, therefore, unavoidable." "is this the unanimous opinion?" demanded charles, looking anxiously round at the assemblage. with the exception of mr. murray, the secretary, sir thomas sheridan, and the marquis d'eguilles, every voice answered: "it is." "then leave me," cried the prince, fiercely and scornfully. "leave me to my fate. i will go on alone." "if your royal highness will view the matter calmly, you will perceive that we are not wanting in fidelity and attachment to your person in making this proposition," said lord kilmarnock. "the cause here is hopeless. let us return to scotland, where we shall find reinforcements and obtain aid and supplies from france." "no; i will not return to scotland ingloriously," cried charles. "listen to me, prince," said the duke of perth. "there is every inducement to return to scotland, where a large force awaits you. i have just received intelligence that my brother, lord john drummond, has landed at montrose with his regiment newly raised in france. with the highlanders whom we left behind, this will make a large force--probably three thousand men." "and no doubt there will be large additions," said sir thomas sheridan. "by this time the irish brigade must have embarked from france, with the promised french regiments." "there is nothing for it but a retreat to scotland," said lord pitsligo. "it would be madness to face an army of thirty thousand men." "you are a traitor like the rest, pitsligo," cried the prince, fiercely. the old scottish noble flushed deeply, and with difficulty mastered his indignation. "i never thought to hear that opprobrious term applied to me by one of your royal house, prince," he said. "but since you have stigmatised all these loyal gentlemen in the same manner, i must bear the reproach as best i can." "forgive me, my dear old friend," cried charles, seizing his hand, and pressing it warmly. "i meant not what i said. no one could possess stauncher friends than i do--no one could appreciate their devotion more profoundly than myself. but my heart is crushed by this bitter and unexpected disappointment. it has come upon me like a clap of thunder--at the very moment when i anticipated success. since it must be so, we will retreat, though it will half kill me to give the word. leave me now, i pray of you. i will strive to reconcile myself to the alternative." thus enjoined, they all quitted the chamber, and charles was left alone. flinging himself into a chair he remained for some time with his face buried in his hands. when he raised his eyes, he saw atherton standing beside him. "i knew not you were here," said the prince. "i came to learn your royal highness's commands," replied the other. "something, i fear, has greatly disturbed you." "disturbed me! ay!" cried charles. "i am forced to retreat." "by the enemy?" exclaimed atherton. "by my generals," replied charles. "we shall advance no further. you may prepare to return to manchester." chapter iv. how the manchester regiment was welcomed on its return. charles could not shake off the bitter disappointment he experienced at this sudden and unlooked-for extinction of his hopes. he had made up his mind to march on london, and he thought his highland army would follow him. but he now discovered his mistake. he did not go forth again during the day, but shut himself up in his room, and left lord george gordon and the duke of perth to make all arrangements necessary for the retreat. they decided to pass through manchester on the way to carlisle. the men were kept in profound ignorance of the change of plan, but when they discovered that they were retreating their rage and disappointment found vent in the wildest lamentations. "had they been beaten," says the chevalier de johnstone, "their grief could not have been greater." it was almost feared they would mutiny. on the manchester regiment the retreat had a most dispiriting effect. officers and men had joined on the understanding that they were to march to london, and they were deeply mortified when they found they were to retreat to scotland. the men looked sullen and downcast, and so many desertions took place that the ranks were perceptibly thinned. it was certain that two or three of the officers only waited a favourable opportunity to escape. on the third day the manchester regiment, which formed part of the advanced guard, arrived at macclesfield. next morning, at an early hour, they proceeded to manchester. alarming reports had been spread that the duke of cumberland was in hot pursuit with his whole army; but the rumour turned out to be false. if the officers and men composing the insurgent army expected a reception like that they had previously experienced in manchester, they were greatly mistaken. no sooner was the town cleared of the invading army, than the whigs and presbyterians resumed their influence, and the fickle mob changed with them. tumultuous crowds now went about the town shouting "down with the pretender! down with the jacobites!" nor did the authorities interfere, but let them have their own way. in consequence of this license great mischief was done. the mob threatened to pull down dr. deacon's house in fennel-street, broke his windows, and might have proceeded to frightful extremities if they had laid hands upon him. two days afterwards a rumour was designedly spread by the presbyterians that marshal wade had arrived at rochdale with his army, and would shortly enter manchester; and this had the effect intended of exciting the mob to further violence. the rumour, however, had no foundation, and the tumult began to subside. meantime, the magistrates and many of the important personages who had quitted the town, began to return, thinking the danger was past, and something like order was restored. the position, however, of the jacobites was by no means secure, since disturbances might at any time occur, and they were afforded very little protection. after the lapse of a week, during which reliable intelligence had been received that the highland army had arrived at derby without encountering any opposition, and even staunch whigs had began to think that the intrepid young prince would actually succeed in reaching london, news came that the rebels were retreating without a battle, and were then at leek on their way back. at first this news, which appeared improbable, was received with incredulity, but it was speedily confirmed by other messengers. a consultation was then held by the boroughreeve, constables, and other magistrates, as to the possibility of offering any resistance; but as the militia had been disbanded, and it was doubtful whether marshal wade would come to their assistance, the idea was given up. but after some discussion dr. mainwaring and justice bradshaw sent the bellman round to give notice that, as the rebels might be speedily expected, all the loyal inhabitants were enjoined to rise and arm themselves with guns, swords, halberts, pickaxes, shovels, or any other weapons, to resist the rebels, and prevent them from entering the town until the arrival of the king's forces. in consequence of this notice several thousand persons, armed in the manner suggested, assembled in the open fields beyond market street lane, where they were harangued by dr. mainwaring, who urged them to spoil the roads by breaking them up, and throwing trees across them, and promised to send the country folk to their aid. having uttered this he left the defence of the town to the inhabitants, and rode off; but he fulfilled his promise, and sent a number of country folk armed with scythes and sickles, but these rough fellows caused such a tumult that another notice had to be given by the bellman commanding the mob to lay down their arms and disperse, and the country folk to return to their domiciles. these contradictory orders produced considerable dissatisfaction, and were not obeyed. one party more valiant than the rest marched to cheadle ford, under the leadership of mr. hilton, with the intention of destroying the temporary bridge contrived by the insurgents, but before they could accomplish their task, they were disturbed and ignominiously put to flight by colonel townley and the manchester regiment. on arriving at manchester, colonel townley and his men were welcomed by a shower of stones and other missiles from the mob assembled at the top of market street lane. upon this the colonel called out that if another stone was thrown, and the mob did not quietly disperse, he would fire upon them. alarmed by the menacing looks of the soldiers, who were greatly incensed by this treatment on the part of their fellow-townsmen, the mob took to their heels. during a subsequent disturbance ensign syddall was taken prisoner, but was rescued by his comrades. chapter v. a fresh subsidy demanded. on the arrival of the prince with the main body of the army, comparative tranquillity was restored. but it was evident that the feeling of the inhabitants was totally changed. there were no joyful demonstrations--no bonfires--no illuminations. charles returned to his former residence at the top of market street lane; the duke of perth, lord tullibardine, lord george murray, lord pitsligo, and the other scottish nobles and chiefs repaired to the houses they had previously occupied; and the men billeted themselves in their old quarters. but so unfriendly were the inhabitants to the manchester regiment that it was with difficulty that the officers and men could find quarters. as night drew on, and a tendency to riot was again manifested, the bellman was sent round to warn the inhabitants that not more than two persons would be allowed to walk together in the streets after dark, unless guarded by the prince's troops, and that any attempt at tumult or disturbance would be severely punished. in addition to this, pickets of men patrolled the streets throughout the night, so that the town was kept tolerably quiet. on the same evening about eight o'clock a meeting of the principal inhabitants took place at the bull's head--a warrant having been sent to the magistrates by the prince's secretary, mr. murray, commanding them, on pain of military execution, to raise a subsidy of five thousand pounds from the town by four o'clock on the following day. "what is to be done?" demanded mr. walley. "i fear it will be impossible to raise the large sum required by the appointed time--and if we fail we are to be held responsible with our lives. you must help us, gentlemen." and he looked round at the assemblage, but no offer was made. "surely you won't allow us to be shot?" cried mr. fowden. "this is a mere threat," said old mr. james bayley, an eminent merchant of the town. "the prince cannot be in earnest." "you are mistaken, mr. bayley," rejoined mr. fowden. "it is no idle threat. the prince is so highly offended by the reception given him that he has laid this heavy tax upon the town--and he will have it paid." "the contributions must be levied by force," observed mr. walley. "we shall never get the money in any other way." "such a course will render you extremely unpopular," observed mr. bayley. "better be unpopular than be shot, mr. bayley," rejoined mr. fowden. "try to place yourselves in our position, gentlemen. will you help us to pay the money in case we should be driven to extremity?" but no answer was made to the appeal, and the magistrates were in despair. at this moment the door opened, and colonel townley, attended by captain dawson, captain deacon, and ensign syddall, entered the room. the magistrates rose in consternation, wondering what was the meaning of the visit. "pardon my intrusion, gentlemen," said the colonel, saluting them. "but i think i can help you out of a difficulty. i am aware that five thousand pounds must be raised from the town by to-morrow afternoon. feeling certain you will never be able to accomplish this task unassisted, i beg to offer you my aid. you shall have a party of men, under the command of these officers, to go round with you, and help you to make the collection." "we gladly accept your offer, colonel," cried both magistrates eagerly. "the plan will relieve you from all personal responsibility," said colonel townley, "and will secure the contributions." the magistrates were profuse in their thanks, and it was then arranged that the party should commence their rounds at an early hour next morning. chapter vi. a false message brought to helen. helen carnegie had not accompanied her lover in the march to derby, but had been persuaded by beppy byrom to remain with her at manchester. thinking that an immediate engagement with the duke of cumberland was inevitable, the sergeant consented to the arrangement; but he missed his faithful companion sadly. he had become so accustomed to having her by his side that it seemed as if he had lost his right hand. he tried to occupy his thoughts by strict attention to his duty--but it would not do. so miserable did he feel at the separation, that he was half reconciled to the retreat from derby by the thought that he should soon see her again. helen suffered quite as much--perhaps more. independently of being constantly near her lover, it had been her pride and pleasure to be with the highland army, and when the troops moved off without her, she felt as if her heart would break; and she would certainly have followed, if she had not been restrained by beppy. familiar as she was with all the various incidents of a march, she pictured them to herself with the greatest distinctness, and spoke of all that the sergeant was doing. "oh! he win miss me sairly," she cried. "he win want me to cheer him up, when his spirits are low. i ought not to have left him. and what if he shouldna come back!" "don't make yourself uneasy, helen," said beppy. "he is certain to return. papa says the prince's army will be forced to retreat." "na! na! that win never be!" cried helen. "the prince win never turn back! the highlanders may be all kilt, but turn back!--never!" the rumour, however, at length reached manchester that the prince was actually retreating, and helen's delight at the thought of seeing her lover again quite overcame her vexation at what she looked upon as a disgrace. but the regiment to which the sergeant belonged, and which was commanded by the chevalier de johnstone, did not reach manchester till late in the day, and erick having a great deal to do on his arrival, could not present himself to helen. she had been in quest of him, but had encountered captain lindsay, who addressed her more boldly than ever, and to escape his persecutions she was compelled to return. as evening came her anxiety increased, and she was in all the agony of expectation, when a message came from her lover. it was brought by rollo, who informed her that the sergeant had just arrived with his regiment, and wished to see her immediately. "where is he?" asked helen. "why does he not come to me, himself?" "he would come, if he could," replied rollo; "but he is busy with the men in st. ann's square. come with me and i will take you to him." wholly unsuspicious of ill, helen instantly prepared to accompany the messenger, and they quitted the house together. the night was dark but clear, and, as they crossed the churchyard, she perceived a tall highland officer advancing towards her, and guessing who it was, she stopped, and said to rollo, "what is captain lindsay doing here?" "how should i know?" rejoined the other. "he won't meddle with us. come on. i'll take care of you." "i don't feel sure of that," she cried. "i shall go back." "no, you won't," said rollo, seizing her arm, and detaining her. "ah! you have basely betrayed me," she cried. "but sergeant dickson will punish you." rollo replied by a coarse laugh, and the next moment captain lindsay came up. "free me from this man," she cried. "he is acting by my orders, helen," said lindsay. "this time i have taken such precautions that you cannot escape me." "you cannot mean to carry me off against my will, captain lindsay," she cried. "i winna believe it of ye." "i hope you will come quietly, helen," he said, "and not compel me to resort to force. but come you shall." "never!" she rejoined. "ye ken fu' weel that i am erick dickson's affianced wife. 'twad be an infamy if ye were to tae me frae him." "i care not," replied lindsay. "i am determined to make you mine. fleet horses and trusty men are waiting outside the churchyard to bear you off. in half-an-hour you will be far from manchester, and out of erick's reach." "if ye hae the heart o' a man, rollo, ye will not aid in this wicked deed," cried helen. but rollo shook his head, and she made another appeal to captain lindsay. "let me gae for pity's sake," she cried. "i wad kneel to you, if i could." "no, no, helen," he rejoined. "i don't mean to part with you. but we waste time. bring her along." finding all entreaties unavailing, and that she could not extricate herself from rollo, who was a very powerful man, the unfortunate girl uttered a loud shriek; but her cries were instantly stifled by captain lindsay, who took off his scarf, and threw it over her head. but her cry had reached other ears than they expected. as they were hurrying her towards the spot where the horses were waiting for them, a well-known voice was heard, exclaiming: "haud there, ye waur than rievers. when i saw the horses outside the kirkyard, and noticed that one on 'em had a pillion, i suspected something wrang; but when i heard the cry, i felt sure. set her down, ye villains!" cried sergeant dickson, rushing towards them. "heed him not, rollo," said captain lindsay. "place her on the pillion and ride off with her. leave me to deal with the noisy fool." and, as he spoke, he drew his sword, planted himself in dickson's way, while rollo moved off with his burden. "ye had better not hinder me, captain," cried the half-maddened sergeant, drawing a pistol. "bid that dastardly ruffian set her down at once, or i'll send a bullet through your head." "you dare not," said lindsay, contemptuously. "i will not see her stolen from me," cried the sergeant, furiously. "set her down, i say." but finding his cries disregarded, he fired, and captain lindsay fell dead at his feet. on hearing the report of the pistol, rollo looked round, and seeing what had happened, instantly set down helen and fled. extricating herself from the scarf, helen rushed towards the spot where the unfortunate officer was lying. her lover was kneeling beside the body. "wae's me, helen!" he exclaimed. "wae's me, i hae kilt the captain." "ye canna be blamed for his death, erick," she rejoined. "he brought his punishment on himsel." "i shall die for it, nevertheless, lassie," he rejoined. "die! you die, erick, for savin' me frae dishonour!" she cried. "ay, ay, lass. he was my superior officer, and by the rules of war i shall die. no escape for me." "oh! if you think sae, erick, let us flee before ye can be taken," she cried. "come wi' me." "na! na!" he rejoined, gently resisting her. "i maun answer for what i hae done. leave me, lassie; gae back to the young leddy. tell her what has happened, and she will take care of you." "na, erick, i winna leave you," she rejoined. "if ye are to dee, i'se e'en dee wi' ye. och!" she exclaimed, "here they come to tak ye! get up, lad, and flee!" as a file of soldiers could be seen approaching, the sergeant rose to his feet, but did not attempt to fly. immediately afterwards the soldiers came up. with them were two or three men bearing torches, and as these were held down, the unfortunate officer could be seen lying on his back, with his skull shattered by the bullet. the sergeant averted his gaze from the ghastly spectacle. the soldiers belonged to the manchester regiment, and at their head was captain dawson. "how did this sad event occur, sergeant?" demanded jemmy, after he had examined the body. "captain lindsay fell by my hand," replied dickson. "i surrender myself your prisoner, and am ready to answer for the deed." "you must have done it in self-defence," said jemmy. "i know you too well to suppose you could have committed such a crime without some strong motive." "the deed was done in my rescue," cried helen. "captain lindsay was carrying me off when he was shot." "i trust that will save him from the consequences of the act," replied jemmy, sadly. "my duty is to deliver him to the provost-marshal." "that is all that i could desire," said the sergeant. "i ask no greater favour from you." "oh! let me gae wi' him--let me gae wi' him," cried helen, distractedly. "i am the sad cause of it a'." "ye canna gang wi' me, lassie, unless you compose yersel," said the sergeant, somewhat sternly. "dinna fear me--dinna fear me--i winna greet mair," she cried, controlling her emotion by a powerful effort. "may she walk by my side to the guard-room, captain dawson?" asked the sergeant. "she may," replied the other, adding to the men, "conduct the prisoner to the guard-room near the prince's quarters." the sergeant was then deprived of his arms, and the pistol with which he had fired the fatal shot was picked up, and preserved as evidence against him. as erick and helen were marched off in the midst of the guard, another file of men entered the churchyard, took up the body of the unfortunate captain lindsay, and conveyed it to the quarters of the commanding officer. chapter vii. a court-martial. delivered over to the custody of the provost, the unfortunate sergeant dickson was placed in the guard-room near the prince's head-quarters, and a sentinel was stationed at the door. helen was allowed to remain with him. the greatest sympathy was felt for the sergeant, for he was a universal favourite. full of anxiety, captain dawson sought an interview with the prince, who, though engaged on business, immediately received him. charles looked very grave. "i am greatly distressed by what has happened," he said. "there is not a man in my whole army for whom i have a greater regard than erick dickson, but i fear his sentence will be death. however, i will do what i can for him. a court-martial shall be held immediately, and i have sent for lord george murray to preside over it, and we must wait the result of the investigation. as yet i cannot interfere." as the prince had ordered that the examination should take place without delay, a court-martial was held in a room on the ground floor of the mansion occupied by his royal highness. lord george murray presided, and with him were lord elcho, lord pitsligo, colonel townley, and the chevalier de johnstone; captain legh, captain deacon, captain dawson, and several other officers were likewise present. the president occupied a raised chair at the head of the table, round which the others were seated. the room was only imperfectly lighted. after a short deliberation, the prisoner was brought in by two soldiers, who stood on either side of him. bowing respectfully to the court, he drew himself up to his full height, and maintained a firm deportment throughout his examination. "sergeant dickson," said lord george murray, in a stern and solemn voice, "you are charged with the dreadful crime of murder--aggravated in your instance, because your hand has been raised against your superior officer. if you have aught to state in mitigation of your offence, the court will listen to you." "my lord," replied dickson, firmly, "i confess myself guilty of the crime with which i am charged. i did shoot captain lindsay, but perhaps the provocation i received, which roused me beyond all endurance, may be held as some extenuation of the offence. nothing, i am well aware, can justify the act. my lord, i could not see the girl i love carried off before my eyes, and not demand her release. captain lindsay refused--mocked me--and i shot him. that is all i have to say." brief as was this address, it produced a most powerful effect. after a short deliberation by the court, lord george thus addressed the prisoner: "sergeant dickson, since you acknowledge your guilt, it is not necessary to pursue the examination, but before pronouncing sentence, the court desires to interrogate helen carnegie." "she is without, my lord," replied the sergeant. on the order of lord george, helen was then introduced, and as she was well known to the president, and to every member of the council, the greatest sympathy was manifested for her. she was very pale, and did not venture to look at the sergeant, lest her composure should be shaken, but made a simple reverence to the president and the council. "sergeant dickson has confessed his guilt, helen," observed lord george. "but we desire to have some information from your lips. how came you to meet captain lindsay in the churchyard?" "i did na meet him, my lord," she replied, with indignation. "it was a base and dishonourable trick on his part. little did i ken that he was lyin' in wait for me. rollo forbes brought me word that erick wished me to come to him, and when i went forth into the kirkyard, captain lindsay seized me, and wad have carried me aff. he has long persecuted me wi' his addresses, but i ha' gi'en him nae encouragement, and wad ha' shunned him if i could. a scarf was thrown over my head by the captain to stifle my cries, and had not erick came to my rescue i should ha' been carried off. captain lindsay deserved his fate, and so all men will feel who prize their sweethearts. erick was bound to defend me." "his first duty was to observe the rules of war," remarked lord george sternly. "we are willing to believe your story, helen, but we have no proof that you did not voluntarily meet captain lindsay." "that fawse villain, rollo, has fled, but there is a young leddy without, my lord--miss byrom--who will testify to the truth of my statement, if you will hear her." "let her come in," said the president. beppy byrom was then introduced. she was accompanied by her father, who remained near her during her brief examination. though looking very pale, beppy was perfectly self-possessed, and quite confirmed helen's statement that she had been lured from the house by a supposed message from the sergeant; adding emphatically: "i am sure she would never have gone forth to meet captain lindsay, for i know she detested him." "ay, that i did!" exclaimed helen, unable to control her feelings, and wholly unconscious that she was guilty of disrespect. lord george then ordered the court to be cleared, and beppy and dr. byrom went out, but helen, scarcely comprehending the order, did not move, till her arm was touched by the officer. she then cast an agonised look at erick, and would have flung herself into his arms if she had not been prevented. as she went out, she turned to the judges and said: "be merciful to him, i pray you, my lords." the court then deliberated for a short time, during which lord george was earnestly addressed in a low tone both by colonel townley and the chevalier de johnstone, but his countenance remained very grave. at last, amid profound silence, he addressed the prisoner in the following terms: "sergeant dickson, the court has taken into consideration your excellent character, and the strong provocation that impelled you to commit this desperate act, and which certainly mitigates the offence; and such is our pity for you, that, were it in our power; we would pardon your offence, or at all events would visit it with a slight punishment; but we have no option--leniency on our part would be culpable. you have murdered an officer, and must die. sentence of death is therefore passed upon you by the court." "i expected this, my lord," observed the sergeant firmly, "and am prepared to meet my fate. but i would not die as a murderer." "the crime you have committed is murder," said lord george; "and i can hold out no hope whatever of pardon. you are too good a soldier not to know that if your life were spared it would be an ill example to the army, besides being a violation of the law." an awful pause ensued. the profound silence was then broken by the prisoner, who said, in a low, firm voice: "all the grace i will ask from your lordship and the court is, that execution of the sentence you have passed upon me, the justice of which i do not deny, may not be delayed." "we willingly grant your request," replied lord george. "the execution shall take place at an early hour in the morning." "i humbly thank your lordship," said dickson. "but i would further pray that my affianced wife, who has been unwittingly the cause of this disaster, be permitted to bear me company during the few hours i have left; and that she also be permitted to attend my execution." "to the former part of the request there can be no objection," said lord george. "helen shall remain with you during the night, but she can scarcely desire to be present at your execution." "she will never leave me to the last," said the sergeant. "be it as you will," replied lord george. the sergeant was then removed by the guard, and given in charge of the provost, and the court broke up. chapter viii. helen pleads in vain. immediately after the breaking up of the court, lord george murray and the other members of the council waited upon the prince to acquaint him with their decision. though greatly pained, he thought they were right, and after some discussion they retired and left him alone. but the prince was so much troubled, that though excessively fatigued he could not retire to rest, but continued to pace his chamber till past midnight, when captain dawson entered and informed him that miss byrom earnestly craved an audience of him. "she is not alone," added jemmy. "helen carnegie is with her." charles hesitated for a short time, and said, "i would have avoided this, if possible. but let them come in." beppy was then ushered in by jemmy, and made a profound obeisance to the prince. behind her stood helen, who seemed quite overwhelmed with grief. "i trust your highness will pardon me," said beppy. "i have consented to accompany this poor heart-broken girl, and i am sure you will listen to her, and if possible grant her prayer." "i will readily listen to what she has to say," replied the prince, in a compassionate tone; "but i can hold out little hope." "oh, do not say so, most gracious prince!" cried helen, springing forward, and catching his hand, while he averted his face. "for the love of heaven have pity upon him! his death win be my death, for i canna survive him. ye haven a mair leal subject nor a better sodger than erick dickson. willingly wad he shed his heart's bluid for ye! were he to dee, claymore in hand, for you, i should not lament him--but to dee the death o' a red-handed murtherer, is not fit for a brave man like erick." "i feel the force of all you say, helen," replied charles, sadly. "erick is brave and loyal, and has served me well." "then show him mercy, sweet prince," she rejoined. "he is no murtherer--not he! pit the case to yersel, prince. wad ye hae seen the mistress o' yer heart carried off, and not hae slain the base villain who took her? i ken not." "'tis hard to tell what i might do, helen," observed charles. "but the rules of war cannot be broken. a court-martial has been held, and has pronounced its sentence. i must not reverse it." "but you are above the court-martial, prince," she cried. "you can change its decree. if any one is guilty--'tis i! had i not come wi' erick this wad never have happened. he has committed no other fawt." "on the contrary, he has always done his duty--done it well," said the prince. "both colonel johnstone and colonel townley have testified strongly in his favour. but i required no testimony, for i well know what he has done." "and yet ye winna pardon him?" she cried, reproachfully. "i cannot, helen--i cannot," replied charles. "my heart bleeds for you, but i must be firm." "think not you will set an ill example by showing mercy in this instance, prince," she said. "erick's worth and valour are known. sae beloved is he, that were there time, hundreds of his comrades wad beg his life. if he be put to death for nae fawt, men win think he has been cruelly dealt with." "you go too far, helen," said the prince, compassionately, "but i do not blame your zeal." "pardon me, sweet prince--pardon me if i have said mair than i ought. my heart overflows, and i must gie vent to my feelings, or it will break! oh, that i were able to touch your heart, prince!" "you do touch it, helen. never did i feel greater difficulty in acting firmly than i do at this moment." "then yield to your feelings, prince--yield to them, i implore you," she cried, passionately. "oh, madam!" she added to beppy, "join your prayers to mine, and perchance his highness may listen to us!" thus urged, beppy knelt by helen's side, and said, in an earnest voice: "i would plead earnestly with you, prince, to spare erick. by putting him to death you will deprive yourself of an excellent soldier, whose place you can ill supply." "very true," murmured charles. "very true." "then listen to the promptings of your own heart, which counsels you to spare him," she continued. for a moment it seemed as if charles was about to yield, but he remained firm, and raising her from her kneeling posture, said: "this interview must not be prolonged." helen, however, would not rise, but clung to his knees, exclaiming, distractedly: "ye winna kill him! ye winna kill him!" jemmy removed her gently, and with beppy's aid she was taken from the room. chapter ix. together to the last. for a few minutes after her removal from the cabinet, helen was in a state of distraction, but at length she listened to beppy's consolations and grew calmer. she then besought captain dawson to take her to the guard-chamber, where erick was confined. before going thither she bade adieu to beppy. it was a sad parting, and drew tears from those who witnessed it. "fare ye weel, dear young leddy!" she said. "may every blessing leet upon your bonnie head, and on that ov yer dear, gude feyther! most like i shan never see you again on this airth, but i hope you win sometimes think o' the puir scottish lassie that loo'd ye weel!" "heaven strengthen you and support you, helen!" cried beppy, kissing her. "i trust we shall meet again." "dinna think it," replied the other, sadly. "i hope and trust we may meet again in a better world." beppy could make no reply--her heart was too full. embracing the poor girl affectionately, she hurried to her father, who was waiting for her, and hastily quitted the house. helen was then conducted to the guard-room in which the sergeant was confined. erick was seated on a wooden stool near a small table, on which a light was placed, and was reading the bible. he rose on her entrance, and looked inquiringly at her. "na hope, erick," she said, mournfully. "i had nane, lassie," he replied. they passed several hours of the night in calm converse, talking of the past, and of the happy hours they had spent together; but at last helen yielded to fatigue, and when the guard entered the chamber he found her asleep with her head resting on erick's shoulder. the man retired gently without disturbing her. meanwhile, the warrant, signed by lord george gordon, appointing the execution to take place at seven o'clock in the morning, had been delivered to the chevalier de johnstone, as commander of the corps to which the unfortunate sergeant belonged, and all the necessary preparations had been made. there was some difficulty in arranging the execution party, for the sergeant was so much beloved that none of his comrades would undertake the dreadful task, alleging that their aim would not be steady. no highlander, indeed, could be found to shoot him. recourse was then had to the manchester regiment, and from this corps a dozen men were selected. the place of execution was fixed in an open field at the back of market street lane, and at no great distance from the prince's residence. the rev. mr. coppock, chaplain of the regiment, volunteered to attend the prisoner. helen slept on peacefully till near six o'clock, when a noise, caused by the entrance of colonel johnstone and mr. coppock, aroused her, and she started up. "oh! i have had such a pleasant dream, erick," she said. "i thought we were in the highlands together. but i woke, and find mysel here," she added, with a shudder. "well, you will soon be in the highlands again, dear lassie," he said. she looked at him wistfully, but made no answer. "are you prepared, sergeant?" asked colonel johnstone, after bidding him good morrow. "i am, sir," replied dickson. "'tis well," said the colonel. "in half an hour you will set forth. employ the interval in prayer." colonel johnstone then retired, and the chaplain began to perform the sacred rites, in which both erick and helen took part. just as mr. coppock had finished, the sound of martial footsteps was heard outside, and immediately afterwards the door was opened and the provost entered the chamber, attended by a couple of men. behind them came colonel johnstone. "bind him," said the provost to his aids. "must this be?" cried dickson. "'tis part of the regulation," rejoined the provost. "it need not be observed on the present occasion," said colonel johnstone. "i will answer for the prisoner's quiet deportment." "you need fear nothing from me, sir," said dickson. "i will take your word," rejoined the provost. "let his arms remain free," he added to the men. the order to march being given, the door was thrown open, and all passed out. outside was a detachment from the corps to which sergeant dickson had belonged. with them was the execution party, consisting of a dozen picked men from the manchester regiment, commanded by ensign syddall, who looked very sad. the detachment of highlanders likewise looked very sorrowful. with them were a piper and a drummer. the pipes were draped in black, and the drum muffled. though the morning was dull and dark, a good many persons were looking on, apparently much impressed by the scene. having placed himself at the head of the detachment, colonel johnstone gave the word to march, and the men moved slowly on. the muffled drum was beaten, and the pipes uttered a low wailing sound very doleful to hear. then came erick, with helen by his side, and attended by the chaplain. the sergeant's deportment was resolute, and he held his head erect. he was in full highland costume, and wore his bonnet and scarf. all the spectators were struck by his tall fine figure, and grieved that such a splendid man should be put to death. but helen excited the greatest sympathy. though her features were excessively pale, they had lost none of their beauty. the occasional quivering of her lip was the only external sign of emotion, her step being light and firm. her eyes were constantly fixed upon her lover. prayers were read by the chaplain as they marched along. the execution party brought up the rear of the melancholy procession. as it moved slowly through a side street towards the field, the number of spectators increased, but the greatest decorum was observed. at length the place of execution was reached. it was the spot where the attempt had been made to capture the prince; and on that dull and dismal morning had a very gloomy appearance, quite in harmony with the tragical event about to take place. on reaching the centre of the field, the detachment of highlanders formed a semicircle, and a general halt took place--the prisoner and those with him standing in the midst, and the execution party remaining at the back. some short prayers were then recited by mr. coppock, in which both the sergeant and helen joined very earnestly. these prayers over, the sergeant took leave of helen, and strained her to his breast. at this moment, her firmness seemed to desert her, and her head fell upon his shoulder. colonel johnstone stepped forward, and took her gently away. the provost then ordered a handkerchief to be bound over the sergeant's eyes, but at the prisoner's earnest request this formality was omitted. the fatal moment had now arrived. the detachment of highlanders drew back, and erick knelt down. the execution party made ready, and moved up within six or seven yards of the kneeling man. "fire!" exclaimed syddall, and the fatal discharge took place--doubly fatal as it turned out. at the very instant when the word was given by syddall, helen rushed up to her lover, and kneeling by his side, died with him. her faithful breast was pierced by the same shower of bullets that stopped the beating of his valiant heart. chapter x. mr. james bayley. in spite of the exertions of the magistrates, only a very small sum could be obtained from the inhabitants of the town, upon which another meeting took place at the bull's head, and a deputation was formed to wait upon the prince. accordingly, a large body of gentlemen proceeded to the prince's head-quarters, and some half-dozen of them, including the two magistrates and mr. james bayley, were ushered into the council-chamber, where they found charles and his secretary. mr. fowden, who acted as spokesman, represented to the prince the utter impossibility of raising the money, and besought that the payment might be excused. charles, however, answered sternly: "your fellow-townsmen have behaved so badly that they deserve no consideration from me. the subsidy must be paid." "i do not see how it can be accomplished," said mr. fowden. "if it is not paid by one o'clock, you will incur the penalty," rejoined mr. murray. "meantime, stringent measures must be adopted. i am aware, mr. bayley, that you are one of the wealthiest merchants of the town, and i shall therefore detain you as a hostage for the payment. if the money is not forthcoming at the appointed time, we shall carry you along with us." "surely your royal highness will not countenance this severity," said mr. bayley, appealing to the prince. "i have not slept out of my own house for the last two years, and am quite unable to travel. if i am forced off in this manner i shall have a dangerous illness." "i cannot part with you, mr. bayley," said the prince. "but i will put you to as little personal inconvenience as possible. you shall have my carriage." "i humbly thank your royal highness for your consideration, but i still hope i may be excused on the score of my age and infirmities." "you cannot expect it, mr. bayley," interposed mr. murray. "your case is not so bad as that of the two magistrates, who will certainly be shot if the money is not forthcoming." "we have done our best to raise it, but we find it quite impossible," said mr. fowden. "the amount is too large. i do not think there is five thousand pounds in the whole town." "i am sure there is not," added mr. walley, with a groan. "since you give me this positive assurance, gentlemen," said charles, "i consent to reduce the amount to half. but i will make no further concession. meantime, mr. bayley must remain a prisoner." "i pray your royal highness to listen to me," said the old gentleman. "by detaining me you will defeat your object. if i am kept here i can do nothing, but if you will allow me to go free i may be able to borrow the money." apparently convinced by this reasoning, charles spoke to his secretary, who said: "mr. bayley, if you will give the prince your word of honour that you will bring him the sum of two thousand five hundred pounds in two hours, or return and surrender yourself a prisoner, his royal highness is willing to set you at liberty." "i agree to the conditions," replied the old gentleman. with a profound obeisance to the prince, he then withdrew with the magistrates. accompanied by the rest of the deputation, who had waited outside in the hall, mr. bayley returned to the bull's head, where a conference was held. after some discussion, mr. bayley thus addressed the assemblage: "you see, gentlemen, the very serious position in which i am placed--and our worthy magistrates are still worse off. the money must be raised--that is certain. let us regard it as a business transaction. you shall lend me the sum required. i and my friend mr. dickenson will give you our promissory notes at three months for the amount." the proposition was immediately agreed to. the meeting broke up, and in less than an hour the money was brought to mr. bayley. promissory notes were given in exchange, and the sum required was taken to mr. murray by the two magistrates, who were thus freed from further responsibility. chapter xi. the vision. nearly a fortnight had passed since constance's return to rawcliffe hall, and during that interval much had happened. sir richard had been laid in the family vault. the interment took place at night, and was witnessed only by the household, the last rites being performed by father jerome. mrs. butler and her daughter were now inmates of the hall, but the old lady seldom left her chamber. gloom seemed to have settled upon the mansion. the two young damsels never strayed beyond the park, and rarely beyond the garden. as yet, they had received no tidings of the highland army, except that it had arrived at derby. they knew nothing of the retreat, and fancied that the prince was on his way to london. the next news they received might be of a glorious victory--or of a signal defeat. rumours there were of all kinds, but to these they attached no importance. it was a dark dull december afternoon, and the principal inmates of the hall were assembled in the library. a cheerful fire blazed on the hearth, and lighted up the sombre apartment. father jerome was reading near the window. mrs. butler was reciting her prayers, and the two girls were conversing together, when the door opened, and an unexpected visitor entered the room. it was atherton. uttering a cry of delight, constance sprang to her feet, and was instantly folded to his breast. before he could answer any questions, monica rushed up to him, and said: "oh! relieve my anxiety. is jemmy safe?" "safe and well," replied atherton. "he is in manchester with the regiment, but colonel townley would not allow him to accompany me." "what am i to understand by all this?" cried constance. "all chance of our gaining london is over," replied atherton. "the prince has retreated from derby, and is now returning to scotland." "without a battle?" cried constance. "ay, without a battle," he replied, sadly. "i can scarcely believe what i hear," cried monica. "i would rather a sanguinary engagement had taken place than this should have happened." "the prince was forced to retreat," rejoined atherton. "the highland chiefs would proceed no further." "will jemmy retire from the regiment?" cried monica. "no, he will proceed with it to carlisle. i shall go there likewise. i have obtained leave from the prince to pay this hasty visit. i must return in the morning. we may yet have to fight a battle, for it is reported that the duke of cumberland is in hot pursuit, and marshal wade may cut off our retreat." "i will not say that all is lost," observed constance. "but it seems to me that the prince has lost all chance of recovering the throne. his army and his friends will be alike discouraged, and the attempt cannot be renewed." "such is my own opinion, i confess," replied atherton. "nevertheless, i cannot leave him." he then addressed himself to mrs. butler and father jerome, who had been looking anxiously towards him, and acquainted them with the cause of his unexpected return. they were both deeply grieved to hear of the prince's retreat. tears were shed by all the ladies when they were told of the execution of poor erick dickson, and they deplored the fate of the faithful helen carnegie. atherton had a long conversation with constance, but they could not arrange any plans for the future. at last the hour came for separation for the night, and it was in a very depressed state of mind that he sought his chamber. it was a large apartment, panelled with oak, and contained a massive oak bedstead with huge twisted columns, and a large canopy. though a wood fire blazed on the hearth, and cast a glow on the panels, the appearance of the room was exceedingly gloomy. "'tis the best bedroom in the house, and i have therefore prepared it for you," observed old markland, who had conducted him to the room. "you will easily recognise the portrait over the mantelpiece. i have not removed it, as i have not received orders to do so." atherton looked up at the picture indicated by the old butler, and could not repress a shudder as he perceived it was a portrait of his uncle, sir richard. however, he made no remark, and shortly afterwards markland quitted the room. seating himself in an easy-chair by the fire, atherton began to reflect upon the many strange events that had occurred to him, and he almost began to regret that he had ever joined the unlucky expedition. while indulging these meditations, he fell into a sort of doze, and fancied that a figure slowly approached him. how the person had entered the room he could not tell, for he had not heard the door open, nor any sound of footsteps. the figure seemed to glide towards him, rather than walk, and, as it drew nearer, he recognised the ghastly and cadaverous countenance. transfixed with horror, he could neither stir nor speak. for some time the phantom stood there, with its melancholy gaze fixed upon him. at last a lugubrious voice, that sounded as if it came from the grave, reached his ear. "i have come to warn you," said the phantom. "you have neglected my counsel. be warned now, or you will lose all!" for a few moments the phantom continued to gaze earnestly at him and then disappeared. at the same time the strange oppression that had benumbed his faculties left him, and he was able to move. as he rose from his chair, he found that the fire was almost extinct, and that his taper had burnt low. on consulting his watch he perceived that it was long past midnight. he could not be quite sure whether he had been dreaming, or had beheld a vision; but he felt the necessity of rest, and hastily disrobing himself, he sought the couch, and slept soundly till morning. he was awake when old markland entered his room, but he said nothing to him about the mysterious occurrence of the night. determined to abide by his plans, and fearing his resolution might be shaken, he ordered his horses to be got ready in half an hour. he did not see constance before his departure, but left kind messages for her, and for mrs. butler and monica, by markland. the old butler looked very sad, and when atherton told him he should soon be back again, he did not seem very hopeful. a fog hung over the moat as he crossed the drawbridge, followed by his groom. on gaining the park, he cast a look back at the old mansion, and fancying he descried constance at one of the windows, he waved an adieu to her. as it was not his intention to return to manchester, but to rejoin the retreating army at preston, he forded the mersey at a spot known to holden, and avoiding warrington, rode on through a series of lanes to newton--proceeding thence to wigan, where he halted for an hour to refresh his horse, and breakfast, after which he continued his course to preston. on arriving there he found the town in a state of great confusion. the highland army was expected, but it was also thought that marshal wade would intercept the retreat. to the latter rumour atherton attached very little credence, but put up at an inn to await the arrival of the prince. chapter xii. the retreat from manchester to carlisle. on the evening when atherton visited rawcliffe hall, intelligence was received that the duke of cumberland was advancing by forced marches to manchester, and as it was not the prince's intention to give the duke battle, he prepared for an immediate retreat. early on the following morning, therefore, the main body of the army, with charles at its head, quitted the town, and crossed salford bridge on the way to wigan. very different was the departure from the arrival. those who witnessed it did not attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and but few cheers were given to the prince. at a later hour the manchester regiment commenced its march. its numbers had again been reduced, several desertions having taken place. some of the officers went on very reluctantly, and one of them, captain fletcher, who had refused to proceed further, was dragged off by a party of soldiers. shortly after colonel townley's departure an express from the duke of cumberland was received by the magistrates, enjoining them to seize all stragglers from the rebel army, and detain them until his arrival. the duke also promised to send on a party of dragoons, but as they had not yet come up, and several regiments had not yet quitted the town, the magistrates did not dare to act. however, as the rear-guard of the army was passing down smithy bank to the bridge, a shot was fired from a garret-window, by which a dragoon was killed, upon which the regiment immediately faced about, and the colonel commanding it was so enraged that he gave orders to fire the town. in an instant all was confusion and dismay. the men, who were quite as infuriated as their leader, were preparing to execute the order, when they were pacified by the capture of the author of the outrage, and summary justice having been inflicted upon him, the regiment quitted manchester, very much to the relief of the inhabitants. on that night the prince slept at wigan; on the following day he marched with his whole forces to preston, and here atherton joined him. next day, charles pursued his march to lancaster, where he remained for a couple of days to recruit his men before entering upon the fells of westmoreland. after quitting lancaster, the army moved on in two divisions, one of which rested at burton, and the other at kirkby lonsdale, but they joined again at kendal, and then continued their march over shap fells. the weather was exceedingly unpropitious, and the fine views from the hills were totally obscured by mist. the prince's deportment seemed entirely changed. he had quite lost the spirit and ardour that characterised him on the onward march, and he seemed perpetually to regret that he had turned back. he thought he had thrown away his chance, and should never recover it. one day he unburdened his breast to captain legh, for whom he had conceived a great regard, and said: "i ought to have gone on at all hazards. the army would not have abandoned me--even if their leaders had turned back. by this time i should have been master of london--or nothing." in vain atherton tried to cheer him. for a few minutes he roused himself, but speedily relapsed into the same state of dejection. heretofore, as we have stated, the prince had marched on foot at the head of one column of the army, but he now left the command of this division to the duke of perth, and rode in the rear, attended by the marquis d'eguilles, sir thomas sheridan, secretary murray, and captain legh. lord george gordon commanded the rear-guard, and was more than a day's march behind the van--great fears being entertained lest the retreating army should be overtaken by the duke of cumberland, who was in full pursuit. at length, these apprehensions were realised. the duke came up with the rear-guard at clifton, near penrith, and immediately attacked it, but was most vigorously and successfully repulsed by lord george; and little doubt can be entertained that if charles, who was at penrith, had sent reinforcements, the duke would have been defeated, and perhaps might have been taken prisoner. be this as it may, the pursuit was checked, and charles reached carlisle without further interruption. end of the third book. book iv. carlisle. chapter i. colonel townley appointed commandant of the carlisle garrison. on the prince's march south, three companies of highlanders had been left at carlisle under the command of colonel hamilton, but it was now proposed to strengthen the garrison by the addition of the manchester regiment, in case the town should be besieged by the duke of cumberland. to this plan colonel townley raised no objection, as his men were disinclined to proceed further, and he doubted whether they could be induced to cross the border. he was therefore appointed commander of the town garrison, while colonel hamilton retained the governorship of the citadel. the scottish army did not remain more than a day in carlisle, and none of the men wished to be left behind. on the contrary, it was sorely against their inclination that the three companies of the duke of perth's regiment remained with colonel hamilton. on the morning of the prince's departure from carlisle, the manchester regiment, now reduced to a hundred and twenty men, was drawn up on the esplanade of the old castle. with it was colonel townley, now commandant of the garrison. on the glacis, also, were ranged the three companies of highlanders who were to be left with colonel hamilton. already the greater portion of the scottish army had quitted the town, but charles remained behind to bid adieu to his devoted adherents. apparently he was much moved as he thus addressed the officers and men of the manchester regiment: "i am loth to leave you here, but since it is your wish not to cross the border, i do not urge you to accompany me to scotland." then addressing the highland companies, he added: "scotsmen, you must remain here for a short time longer. should the town be besieged, you need have no fear. the castle can hold out for a month, and long before that time i will come to your assistance with a strong force." this address was received with loud cheers, both by englishmen and scots. colonel townley then stepped forward and said: "your royal highness may rely upon it that we will hold the place till your return. we will never surrender." "i will answer for my men," added colonel hamilton. "the duke of cumberland and marshal wade shall batter the castle about our ears before we will give it up." "i am quite satisfied with this assurance," rejoined the prince. then turning to captain legh, he said to him: "will you remain, or accompany me to scotland?" "since your royal highness allows me the choice, i will remain with the regiment," replied atherton. "i think i can best serve you here." charles looked hard at him, but did not attempt to dissuade him from his purpose. "i leave you in a perilous post," he said; "but i am well aware of your bravery. i hope we shall soon meet again. adieu!" he then mounted his steed, and waving his hand to the two colonels, rode off. chapter ii. atherton taken prisoner. surrounded by walls built in the time of henry the eighth, carlisle, at the period of our history, boasted a fortress that had successfully resisted many an attack made upon it by the scots. situated on an eminence, and partly surrounded by a broad, deep moat, fed by the river eden, the citadel, strongly garrisoned and well provided with guns and ammunition, would seem to be almost impregnable. at the foot of the western walls flowed the river caldew, while the castle overlooked the beautiful river eden. on the summit of the keep floated the prince's standard, and from this lofty station remarkably fine views could be obtained. on one side could be noted the junction of the caldew and the eden that takes place below the castle, and adds to the strength of its position. the course of the eden could likewise be traced as it flowed through fertile meadows, to pour its waters, augmented by those of the caldew, into the solway firth. from the same point of observation could likewise be descried the borders of dumfries, with the cheviot hills on the right, while on the other side the view extended to the stern grey hills of northumberland. looking south, the eye ranged over a sweeping tract in the direction of penrith. of course the keep looked down upon the ancient cathedral which closely adjoined the castle, and upon the town with its old gates and bulwarks. though the walls had become dilapidated, and were of no great strength, yet, from its position and from its castle, it would seem that carlisle was able to stand a lengthened siege; and such was the opinion of colonel townley, who considered it tenable against any force that could be brought against it by the duke of cumberland. one important matter, however, could not be overlooked. the inhabitants were hostile, and were only controlled by the garrison. in carlisle, as in all border towns, there was an hereditary dislike of the scots, and this feeling had been heightened by the recent events. immediately after the prince's departure, colonel townley examined the walls, and caused certain repairs to be made. guns were mounted by his direction, and chevaux de frise fixed at all the gates and entrances. a house from which the prince's army had been fired upon was likewise burnt, to intimidate the inhabitants; and notice was given that any violation of the commandant's orders would be severely punished. a sallying party was sent out under the command of captain legh to procure forage and provisions, and returned well supplied. amongst the most active and efficient of the officers was tom syddall, who had now been raised to the post of adjutant, and rendered the colonel great service. as the number of men ran short, parson coppock, whose military ardour equalled his religious zeal, abandoned his gown and cassock, and putting on military accoutrements, acted as quarter-master to the regiment. the greatest zeal and activity were displayed both by the officers and men of the corps, and colonel townley seemed almost ubiquitous. colonel hamilton lacked the spirit and energy displayed by the commandant of the town, and was content to remain quietly shut up within the walls of the castle, leaving the more arduous duties to colonel townley, who discharged them, as we have shown, most efficiently. moreover, though he kept the opinion to himself, colonel hamilton felt that the garrison would be compelled to capitulate, unless it should be reinforced. by the end of the third day all possible preparations for the siege had been made by colonel townley, and he now deemed himself secure. on the following day captain legh was sent with a message to the governor, and found the castle in a good state of defence. the court-yard was full of highland soldiers; a few cannon were planted on the battlements, and sentinels were pacing to and fro on the walls. colonel hamilton was on the esplanade at the time, conversing with captain abernethy and some other scottish officers, and atherton waited till he was disengaged to deliver his message to him; but before the governor could send a reply, a small party of horse, with an officer at their head, could be seen approaching the city from the penrith road. evidently they were english dragoons. after reconnoitring for a few moments, colonel hamilton gave his glass to atherton, who thought they must be coming to summon the city to surrender. "no doubt of it," replied the governor. "i wonder what colonel townley's answer will be?" "a scornful refusal," rejoined captain legh, surprised. "that is all very well now," remarked the governor, shrugging his shoulders; "but we shall have to capitulate in the end." "does your excellency really think so?" "i do," replied hamilton. the answer returned by colonel townley was such as atherton had anticipated. he positively refused to surrender the city, and declared he would hold it to the last extremity. on the following day the duke of cumberland appeared before the town with his whole army, and immediately began to invest it on all sides. he continued his siege operations for nearly a week, during which a constant fire was kept up from the walls and from the larger guns of the castle, and frequent sallies were made by the garrison. one of these, headed by captain legh, was attended with some little success. he drove the enemy from their trenches, and nearly captured the duke of richmond. hitherto, the besieged party had sustained very little damage, and had only lost a few men. the duke had not indeed opened fire upon them, because he had not received some artillery which he expected from whitehaven. colonel townley, therefore, continued in high spirits, and even colonel hamilton acquired greater confidence. one morning, however, they were startled by perceiving a six-gun battery, which had been erected during the night. colonel townley did not lose courage even at this sight; but the governor was seriously alarmed. "we shall be compelled to submit," he said; "and must make the best terms we can." "submit! never!" cried colonel townley. "we had better die by the sword than fall into the hands of those cursed hanoverians. the duke will show us no mercy. oh that we could but get possession of those guns!" "give me twenty well-mounted men and a dozen led horses, and i will bring off a couple of the guns," cried atherton. "the attempt were madness," cried colonel townley. "madness or not, i am ready to make it," rejoined captain legh. half-an-hour afterwards the north gate, which was nearest the battery, was suddenly thrown open, and captain legh, mounted on a strong horse, and followed by twenty well-mounted men, half of whom had spare horses furnished with stout pieces of rope, dashed at a headlong pace towards the battery. the attack was so sudden and unexpected that the enemy was quite taken by surprise. only an officer of artillery and half-a-dozen artillerymen were near the battery at the time, and before they could fly to their guns, captain legh and his party were upon them, and drove them off. a desperate effort was made to carry off two of the guns, but it was found impossible to move the heavy carriages. the duke of cumberland, who was at a short distance with his aide-de-camp, colonel conway, planning and directing the operations, witnessed the attack, and instantly ordered conway with a troop of horse to seize the daring assailants. but the latter dashed off as hard as they could to the gate, and gained it just in time. all got in safely with the exception of their leader, who was captured by colonel conway and led back to the duke. chapter iii. the duke of cumberland. william, duke of cumberland, second surviving son of the reigning sovereign, was at this time a handsome young man of twenty-four. strongly built, but well proportioned, he had bluff and rather coarse but striking features. young as he was, the duke had gained considerable military experience. he had fought with his father, george the second, at the battle of dettingen, in , and in may, , he engaged marshal saxe at fontenoy, and sustained a most crushing defeat--highly prejudicial to english renown. though thus defeated by the superior military skill of marshal saxe, the duke displayed so much gallantry and personal courage during the action, that he did not lose his popularity in england, but was very well received on his return; and on the outbreak of the rebellion in the same year, followed by the defeat of general cope at preston pans, the attack on edinburgh, and the march of the young chevalier at the head of the highland army into england, he assumed the command of the royal forces, and prepared to drive the rebels out of the kingdom. but instead of doing this, to the general surprise, he allowed the scots to continue their advance as far as derby, and it will always remain doubtful whether, if the prince had marched on to london, his daring attempt would not have been crowned by success. a contemporary historian unquestionably thought so, and emphatically declares: "had the adventurer proceeded in his career with the expedition which he had hitherto used, he might have made himself master of the metropolis, where he would have been certainly joined by a considerable number of his well-wishers, who waited impatiently for his approach."[ ] but when the prince commenced his retreat the duke immediately started in pursuit, though he made no real efforts to overtake him; and, as we have seen, he was repulsed by lord george gordon at clifton, near penrith. again, instead of pursuing the rebels into scotland, he sat down to besiege carlisle. the duke was surrounded by his staff when captain legh was brought before him by colonel conway. [ ] smollett's history of england. reign of george the second. "who is this rash fellow, who seems anxious to throw away his life?" demanded the duke. "i thought i knew him, for his features seem strangely familiar to me," replied colonel conway. "but i must be mistaken. he gives his name as atherton legh, captain of the manchester regiment." "atherton legh! ha!" cried the duke. then fixing a stern look upon the young man, he said: "you had better have remained faithful to the government, sir. now you will die as a traitor and a rebel." "i am prepared to meet my fate, whatever it may be," replied atherton, firmly. "i might order you for instant execution," pursued the duke. "but you shall have a fair trial with the rest of the garrison. it must surrender to-morrow." "your royal highness is mistaken--the garrison can hold out for a week." "'tis you who are mistaken, captain legh," rejoined the duke, haughtily. "i have just received a letter from colonel hamilton, offering me terms of submission." "i am indeed surprised to hear it," said atherton. "your royal highness may credit me when i affirm that the citadel is in a very good state of defence, has plenty of arms and ammunition, and ought to hold out for a month." "that may be," rejoined the duke. "but i tell you i have received a letter from the governor, asking for terms. however, i will only accept an unconditional surrender." "colonel townley, the commander of the city garrison, will hold out to the last," said atherton. "colonel townley is a brave man, and may die sword in hand; but hold the town he cannot. his regiment does not number a hundred men. you see i am well informed, captain legh. to-morrow you will see your colonel again." "i shall be glad to see him again--but not here," replied atherton. "take the prisoner hence," said the duke to colonel conway. "let him be well treated--but carefully watched." colonel conway bowed, and atherton was removed by the guard. chapter iv. surrender of carlisle to the duke of cumberland. shortly after the incident just related, fire was opened from the battery, but not much damage was done; it being the duke's intention to alarm the garrison, rather than injure the town. a few shots were directed against the castle, and struck the massive walls of the keep. the fire was answered by the besieged--but without any effect. at this juncture it was with great difficulty that the inhabitants could be kept in check, and, with the small force at his command, it became evident to colonel townley that he must surrender. calling his officers together, he thus addressed them: "our position is most critical. outside the walls we are completely blockaded, and inside the inhabitants are against us. one means of escape has occurred to me; but it is so hazardous, that it ought scarcely to be adopted. a sortie might be made by a small party of horse, and these might succeed in cutting their way through the enemy. if a couple of barges could be found, the rest might manage to float down the eden." "that plan has occurred to me, colonel," said captain dawson. "but it is impracticable, since all the barges and boats have been destroyed. possibly a few men might escape by swimming down the river--but in no other way." "no," said colonel townley; "we are so completely environed that escape is impossible, unless we could cut our way through the enemy, and this cannot be done, since there are no horses for the men. i will never abandon my gallant regiment. since colonel hamilton has resolved to surrender, it is impossible for me to hold out longer--though i would a thousand times rather die with arms in my hand than submit to the mercy of the duke of cumberland." several plans were then proposed, but were rejected, as none seemed feasible; and at last a muster was made of the regiment, and colonel townley's resolution being communicated to the men, was received by them with the greatest sorrow. later on in the day, colonel townley repaired to the citadel, where he had a conference with the governor, and endeavoured to induce him to change his purpose, but in vain. on the following morning the besieged town of carlisle presented a singular spectacle. the inhabitants, who had hitherto been kept in awe by the garrison, assembled in the streets, and did not attempt to hide their exultation; while the highlanders in the castle, and the officers and men of the manchester regiment, looked deeply dejected, and stood listlessly at their posts. the cause of all these mingled feelings of ill-concealed satisfaction on one side, and deep dejection on the other, was, that the garrison had declared its intention to surrender by hanging out the white flag. the men still stood to their arms--the engineers and artillerymen remained upon the walls--the gates of the city were still guarded--but not a gun had been fired. all was terrible expectation. colonel hamilton, captain abernethy, colonel townley, and some of the officers of the manchester regiment, were assembled on the esplanade of the castle, when captain vere, an officer of the english army, attended by an orderly, rode towards them. as the bearer of a despatch for the governor, he had been allowed to enter the city. dismounting, captain vere marched up to the governor, and, with a formal salute, delivered a missive to him, saying, "this from his royal highness." the governor took the letter, and, walking aside with colonel townley, read as follows: "'all the terms his royal highness will or can grant to the rebel garrison of carlisle are, that they shall not be put to the sword, but be reserved for the king's pleasure.'" "the king's pleasure!" exclaimed colonel townley. "we have nothing but death to expect from the usurper. but go on." "'if they consent to these conditions, the governor and the principal officers are to deliver themselves up immediately; and the castle, citadel, and all the gates of the town are to be taken possession of forthwith by the king's troops." "i cannot make up my mind to this," cried colonel townley. "unfortunately there is no help for it," observed colonel hamilton. "but hear what follows: 'all the small arms are to be lodged in the town guard-room, and the rest of the garrison are to retire to the cathedral, where a guard is to be placed over them. no damage is to be done to the artillery, arms, or ammunition.' that is all." "and enough too," rejoined colonel townley. "the conditions are sufficiently hard and humiliating." "gentlemen," said the governor, addressing the officers, "'tis proper you should hear the terms offered by the duke." and he proceeded to read the letter to them. murmurs arose when he had done, and a voice--it was that of adjutant syddall--called out: "reject them!" "impossible," exclaimed hamilton. thinking he had been kept waiting long enough, captain vere then stepped forward and enquired, "what answer shall i take to his royal highness?" colonel townley and his officers were all eagerness to send a refusal; but the governor cried out, "tell the duke that his terms are accepted." "in that case, gentlemen," said captain vere, "you will all prepare to deliver yourselves up. his royal highness will at once take possession of the town." with this, he mounted his horse, and rode off, attended by his orderly. about an hour afterwards, the gates being thrown open, brigadier bligh entered the town with a troop of horse, and rode to the market-place, where, in front of the guard-room, he found colonel hamilton, captain abernethy, colonel townley, and the officers of the manchester regiment, a french officer, and half a dozen irish officers. they all yielded themselves up as prisoners, and the brigadier desired them to enter the guard-room, and when they had complied with the order, placed a guard at the door. the highlanders, the non-commissioned officers and privates of the manchester regiment, with a few french and irish soldiers, who were drawn up in the market-place, then piled their arms, and retired to the cathedral, where a strong guard was set over them. crowded with these prisoners, the interior of the sacred building presented a very singular picture. most of the men looked sullen and angry, and their rage was increased when the sound of martial music proclaimed the entrance of the duke of cumberland with his whole army into the town. attended by general hawley, colonel conway, colonel york, and a large staff of officers, the duke was received with acclamations by the townspeople who had come forth to meet him. riding on to the citadel, he dismounted with his staff, and, entering a large room recently occupied by the governor, ordered the prisoners to be brought before him. after charging them with rebellion and treason, he told them they would be sent under a strong guard to london, there to take their trial. when he had finished, colonel townley stepped forward, and said: "i claim to be treated as a prisoner of war. for sixteen years i have been in the service of the king of france, and i now hold a commission from his majesty, which i can lay before your royal highness if you will deign to look at it." "but you have received another commission from the son of the pretender, and have acted as colonel of the rebel regiment raised by yourself in manchester," interposed general hawley. "your plea is therefore inadmissible." "i have as much right to the cartel as any french officer taken by his royal highness at the battle of fontenoy," rejoined townley. "as a liege subject of his majesty, you are not justified in serving a prince at war with him," said the duke of cumberland, sternly. "i cannot entertain your plea. you will be tried for rebellion and treason with the rest of the prisoners." seeing it would be useless to urge anything further, colonel townley stepped back. the only person allowed the cartel was the french officer. the prisoners were then removed, and ordered to be kept in strict confinement in the castle until they could be conveyed to london. some deserters from the king's army were then brought before the duke, who ordered them to be hanged, and the sentence was forthwith carried out on a piece of ground at the back of the castle. the prisoners passed the night in strict confinement in the castle, their gloom being heightened by the sound of the rejoicings that took place in the town at the duke of cumberland's success. on the following morning, at an early hour, three large waggons, each having a team of strong horses, were drawn up near the gates of the castle. these were destined to convey the prisoners to london. the foremost waggon was assigned to colonel townley, captain dawson, captain deacon, and captain legh. the rest of the officers of the manchester regiment were similarly bestowed. a strong mounted guard accompanied the conveyances, having orders to shoot any prisoner who might attempt to escape. as the waggons moved slowly through the streets towards the south gate, groans and execrations arose from the spectators, and missiles were hurled at the prisoners, who no doubt would have fared ill if they had not been protected. the duke of cumberland remained for two days longer at carlisle, when having received a despatch from the king enjoining his immediate return, as an invasion from france was apprehended, he posted back to london, taking colonel conway with him, and leaving the command of the army to general hawley, who started in pursuit of prince charles. end of the fourth book. book v. jemmy dawson. chapter i. the escape at wigan. the prisoners were treated very considerately on their journey to london. whenever the waggons stopped at an inn, their occupants were allowed to alight and order what they pleased, and as they had plenty of money, they were served with the best the house could afford. at night they sometimes slept in the waggons, sometimes at an inn, if sufficient accommodation could be found. in the latter case, of course, a guard was placed at the doors. passed in this way, the journey might not have been disagreeable, if it had not been for the indignities to which they were occasionally exposed. none of the officers felt any great uneasiness as to their fate. despite what the duke of cumberland had said to colonel townley, they were led to expect that they would be treated as prisoners of war, and regularly exchanged. entertaining this conviction, they managed to keep up their spirits, and some of them led a very jovial life. a great change, however, had taken place in colonel townley's deportment. he had become extremely reserved, and associated only with captain deacon, captain dawson, and atherton. the two latter would have been far more cheerful if they had obtained any tidings of those to whom they were tenderly attached. on the third day after leaving carlisle, the prisoners arrived at lancaster, and on the following day they were taken to preston. here the feeling of the inhabitants was so strong against them that they had to be protected by the guard. at wigan, where the next halt was made for the night, atherton remarked that john holgate, the host of the bear's paw, the inn at which they stopped, looked very hard at him. he thought he knew the man's face, and subsequently remembered him as a tradesman in manchester. in the course of the evening holgate found an opportunity of speaking to him privately, and told him not to go to bed, but to leave his window slightly open--as something might happen. having given him these directions, holgate hastily left him. on entering his room, which was at the back of the house, atherton found it looked into the inn-yard, where the waggons were drawn up, and as some men were going in and out of the stables with lanterns, he perceived that several of the troopers were preparing to take their night's rest in the waggons. immediately beneath the window, which was at some height from the ground, a sentinel was posted. having made the observations, atherton withdrew, leaving the window slightly open, as he had been enjoined, and put out the light. in about an hour all became quiet in the yard--the troopers had got into the waggons, and no doubt were fast asleep, but he could hear the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro. another hour elapsed, and the sentinel being still at his post, atherton began to fear that holgate might fail in his design. but his hopes revived when the footsteps could no longer be heard, and softly approaching the window he looked out. the sentinel was gone. but in his place stood another person, whom atherton had no doubt was the friendly landlord. having intimated his presence by a slight signal, holgate retreated, and atherton instantly prepared to join him. emerging from the window as noiselessly as he could, he let himself drop to the ground, and achieved the feat so cleverly, that he was only heard by holgate, who immediately took him to the back of the yard, where they clambered over a low wall, and gained a narrow lane, along which they hastened. "i think you are now safe," said holgate. "at any rate, you will be so when we reach our destination. i have brought you this way because it would have been impossible to elude the vigilance of the sentinel placed in front of the house. i have given the man who was stationed in the yard a pot of ale, and he has retired to the stable to drink it." "you have proved yourself a good friend to me, holgate," said atherton; "but i fear you are running great risk on my account." "i don't mind that," replied the other. "the moment i saw you, i determined to liberate you. i dare say you've forgotten the circumstance, but i haven't. you saved me from being drowned in the irwell--now we're quits. i'm going to take you to the old manor house in bishopsgate street. it belongs to captain hulton, who is in the king's army, but he is away, and my aunt, mrs. scholes, who is his housekeeper, has charge of the house. she is a staunch jacobite. i have seen her and told her all about you. you may trust her perfectly." proceeding with the utmost caution, they soon came to bishopsgate street, in which the old manor house was situated. taking his companion to the back of the premises, holgate tapped at a door, which was immediately opened by a very respectable-looking middle-aged woman, who curtsied to atherton as she admitted him. holgate did not enter the house, but with a hasty "good-night," departed, and the door was closed and bolted. mrs. scholes then took atherton to the kitchen, and explained that she meant to put him in the "secret room" in case the house should be searched. "you will be indifferently lodged, sir," she said; "but you will be safe, and that's the chief thing." atherton entirely concurred with her, and without wasting any further time in talk, she led him up a back staircase to a bedroom, from which there was a secret entrance through a closet, to a small inner chamber. the latter was destined for atherton, and scantily furnished as it was, he was very well content with it, and slept soundly in the little couch prepared for him. next morning, when the prisoners were mustered, the greatest consternation was caused by the discovery that captain legh was missing. it was quite clear that he had got out of the window, and it was equally clear that the sentinel must have neglected his duty, or the prisoner could not have escaped; but no suspicion attached to the landlord. of course the departure of the waggons was delayed, and strict search was made for the fugitive throughout the town. a proclamation was likewise issued, announcing that any one harbouring him would be liable to severe penalties. but the notice had no effect. in consequence of some information received by the officer in command of the escort that two persons had been seen to enter the manor house in bishopsgate street late at night, the house was strictly searched, but the secret chamber was not discovered, nor was anything found to indicate that the fugitive was concealed there. chapter ii. the meeting at warrington. at warrington, where the visitors were conveyed next day, a meeting took place between jemmy and monica, who had come over from rawcliffe hall to see her unfortunate lover. she was accompanied by father jerome. jemmy was alone in a little parlour of the inn at which the waggons had stopped, when monica was admitted by the guard, who immediately withdrew, and left them together. springing forward, jemmy clasped her to his heart. so overpowered were they both, that for some minutes they could not give utterance to their feelings, but gazed at each other through eyes streaming with tears. "alas! alas!" cried monica, at length. "is it come to this? do i find my dearest jemmy a prisoner?" "a prisoner of war," he replied, in as cheerful a tone as he could assume. "i am sure to be exchanged. we shall be separated for a time, but shall meet again in another country. you imagine we shall all be put to death, but believe me the elector of hanover has no such intention. he dare not execute us." "hush! jemmy--not so loud. i have been wretched ever since the retreat from derby took place, for i foresaw what it would come to. i have never ceased to reproach myself with being the cause of your destruction." "you have nothing to reproach yourself with, dearest girl," he rejoined, tenderly. "'tis a pity the prince did not march to london. 'tis a still greater pity the regiment was left at carlisle." "yes, you have been sacrificed, jemmy--cruelly sacrificed. i shall never think otherwise." "such imputations, i am aware, are laid to the prince's charge, but he doesn't deserve them--indeed he doesn't. he is the soul of honour. no one believed the duke of cumberland would stop to besiege the town; and those best informed thought it could hold out for a month. however, fortune has declared against us. but i won't allow myself to be cast down." then lowering his tone, he added, "you know that atherton has escaped?" "yes, i know it," she rejoined. "and so does constance. oh, that you had been with him, jemmy!" "i shall find means to follow--never doubt it," he rejoined. "but it won't do to make the attempt just yet, for we shall be much more strictly watched than before. but i have a plan, which i mean to put in practice when an opportunity offers, and i hope it will succeed." "can i aid you, jemmy?" she asked, anxiously. "no," he replied. "but don't be surprised if you see me some night at rawcliffe hall." "now, indeed, you give me fresh spirits," she cried. "heaven grant i may see you soon! but there may be danger in your coming to rawcliffe, and you mustn't run any needless risk on my account." "the first use i shall make of my liberty will be to fly to you, dearest girl. of that you may be quite sure. but we are talking only of ourselves. you have scarcely mentioned constance or your mother. how are they both?" "they have been full of anxiety, as you may easily imagine. but constance has somewhat revived since she heard of atherton's escape, and the tidings i shall be able to give her of you will make her feel more easy. as to my mother, whatever she may suffer--and i am sure she suffers much--she is perfectly resigned. father jerome is without. will you see him?" "no. i will devote each moment to you. ah! we are interrupted!" he exclaimed, as the guard came in to say that the time allowed them had expired. again they were locked in each other's arms, and when they were forced to separate, it seemed as if their hearts were torn asunder. even the guard was moved by their distress. nevertheless, monica returned to rawcliffe hall in far better spirits than she had quitted it in the morning. she had now some hopes that her lover would escape. shortly after her departure jemmy was obliged to take his place in the waggon, and for some time felt very wretched; but at length he consoled himself by thinking that his separation from the object of his affections would not be long. the waggons proceeded so slowly on their journey to london, that before they reached dunstable news was received of the defeat of general hawley, at falkirk, by the prince. these tidings caused great alarm throughout the country, as the opinion generally prevailed that after the siege of carlisle the rebellion had been completely suppressed. though the prisoners rejoiced at the prince's success, they felt that their own peril was considerably increased by the event, and that in all probability the severest measures would now be adopted against them. hitherto, such strict watch had been kept that jemmy dawson had found no means of executing his plan of escape. chapter iii. atherton takes refuge at rawcliffe hall. on the third day after atherton's escape at wigan, as constance and monica, who had been tempted forth by the fineness of the weather, were walking in the park, a young man, in a plain country dress that gave him the appearance of a farmer, made his way towards them. from the first moment when they beheld this personage their suspicions were excited, but as he drew nearer they perceived it was atherton. constance would have hurried forward to meet him, but feeling the necessity of caution she restrained herself. presently, he came up, and thinking he might be noticed by some observer, he adopted a very respectful and distant manner, consistent with the character he had assumed, and took off his hat while addressing them. "of course you have heard of my escape," he said. "i did not attempt to communicate with you, for i had no one whom i could trust to convey a message, and i did not dare to write lest my letter should fall into wrong hands. for two days i was concealed in the old manor house at wigan, and most carefully attended to by the housekeeper, who provided for all my wants. i had some difficulty in getting away, for the house was watched, but on the second night i ventured out, and soon got clear of the town. before i left, mrs. scholes procured me this disguise, without which i should infallibly have been captured, for my uniform must have betrayed me. even thus attired, i have had more than one narrow escape. if i can only get into the house unobserved i shall be perfectly safe." "you must wait till night and all shall be ready for you," rejoined constance. "as soon as it grows dark markland shall come out into the park." "he will find me near this spot," replied atherton. "but what will you do in the interim?" asked constance, anxiously. "give yourself no concern about me," he rejoined. "you may be sure i will not expose myself to any needless risk. adieu!" with a rustic bow he then moved off, and the two damsels returned to the hall. constance's first business was to summon markland and tell him what had occurred. the old butler did not manifest much surprise at the intelligence, for when he had first heard of atherton's escape he felt certain the young gentleman would seek refuge at the hall, and he had already made some quiet preparations for his concealment. he therefore expressed the utmost readiness to carry out his young mistress's instructions, and declared that he could easily manage matters so that none of the servants should be aware that captain legh was hidden in the house. "even if he should remain here for a month," he said, "with common caution i will engage he shall not be discovered." "i am very glad to hear you speak so confidently, markland," she rejoined; "for i feared it would be impossible to conceal him for more than a day or two." having made all needful arrangements, markland stole out quietly as soon as it became dark, and found atherton at the spot indicated. "you are so well disguised, sir," he said, "that if i hadn't been prepared i should certainly not have known you. but don't let us waste time in talking here. i must get you into the house." the night being very dark their approach to the hall could not be perceived. on reaching the drawbridge markland told his companion to slip past while he went into the gate-house to speak to the porter, and by observing these instructions, atherton gained the court-yard unperceived. the butler then gave orders that the drawbridge should be raised, and while the porter was thus employed, he opened the postern and admitted captain legh into the house. having first satisfied himself that no one was in the way, markland then led the young man along a passage to his own room on the ground floor. all danger was now over. the small room into which atherton had been ushered looked exceedingly snug and comfortable. thick curtains drawn over the narrow window facing the moat prevented any inquisitive eye from peering into the chamber. a bright fire burnt on the hearth, and near it stood a table on which a cold pasty was placed, with a bottle of claret. "i have prepared a little supper for you, sir," said markland. "pray sit down to it. i'll take care you shan't be disturbed. you will please to excuse me. i have some other matters to attend to." he then went out, taking the precaution to lock the door, and atherton partook of the first quiet meal he had enjoyed for some time. old markland did not return for nearly three hours, and when he unlocked the door, he found atherton fast asleep in the chair. great havoc had been made with the pasty, and the flask of claret was nearly emptied. "i have got a bed ready for you, sir," he said. "it isn't quite so comfortable as i could wish, but you will make allowances." "no need of apologies, markland. i could sleep very well in this chair." "that's just what i mean to do myself, sir," replied the butler, laughing. with this, he took captain legh up a back staircase to a disused suite of apartments, in one of which a bed had been prepared, while a wood fire blazing on the hearth gave a cheerful air to the otherwise gloomy-looking room. "i have had this room got ready as if for myself, sir," observed markland; "but as i have just told you, i mean to sleep in a chair below stairs. i wish you a good-night, sir. i'll come to you in the morning." so saying, he quitted the room, and atherton shortly afterwards sought his couch, and slept very soundly. next morning, the old butler visited him before he had begun to dress, and opening the drawers of a wardrobe that stood in the room, took out two or three handsome suits of clothes--somewhat old-fashioned, inasmuch as they belonged to the period of george the first, but still attire that could be worn. "these habiliments belonged to your father, sir oswald," said markland; "and as you are about his size, i am sure they will fit you." "but are they not out of fashion, markland?" cried atherton. "people will stare at me if i appear in a costume of five-and-twenty years ago." "well, perhaps they might," rejoined the butler; "but there can be no objection to this dark riding-dress." "no, that will do very well," said atherton, in an approving tone, after he had examined it. "you will find plenty of linen in this drawer--laced shirts, solitaires, cravats, silk stockings," continued the butler; "and in that cupboard there are three or four pairs of jack-boots, with as many cocked-hats." "bravo!" exclaimed atherton. "you have quite set me up, markland. but now leave me for a short time, that i may try the effect of this riding-dress." the butler then withdrew, but returned in about half an hour with a pot of chocolate and some slices of toast on a tray. by this time atherton was fully attired, and everything fitted him--even to the boots, which he had got out of the cupboard. "why, i declare, you are the very image of your father!" exclaimed markland, as he gazed at him in astonishment. "if i had not known who you are, i should have thought sir oswald had come to life again. if any of the old servants should see you, you will certainly be taken for a ghost." "that's exactly what i should desire," replied atherton; "and should it be necessary, i shall endeavour to keep up the character. however, i don't mean to qualify myself for the part by eating nothing, so pour me out a cup of chocolate." the butler obeyed, and atherton sat down and made a very good breakfast. before he had quite finished his repast, the butler left him, and did not reappear. chapter iv. an enemy in the house. not having anything better to do, atherton began to wander about the deserted suite of apartments, with which his own chamber communicated by a side door. as the windows were closed, the rooms looked very dark, and he could see but little, and what he did see, impressed him with a melancholy feeling; but the furthest room in the suite looked lighter and more cheerful than the others, simply because the shutters had been opened. it was a parlour, but most of the furniture had been removed, and only a few chairs and a table were left. atherton sat down, and was ruminating upon his position, when a door behind was softly opened--so very softly that he heard no sound. but he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, and, looking up, beheld constance standing beside him. when he met her in the park with monica, he had not noticed any material alteration in her appearance; but now that he gazed into her face, he was very much struck by the change which a week or two had wrought in her looks. dressed in deep mourning, she looked much thinner than heretofore, and the roses had entirely flown from her cheeks; but the extreme paleness of her complexion heightened the lustre of her magnificent black eyes, and contrasted forcibly with her dark locks, while the traces of sadness lent fresh interest to her features. not without anxiety did atherton gaze at her, and at last he said: "you have been ill, constance?" "not very ill," she replied, with a faint smile. "i am better--and shall soon be quite well. my illness has been rather mental than bodily. i have never quite recovered from the terrible shock which i had to undergo--and, besides, i have been very uneasy about you. now that you are safe i shall soon recover my health and spirits. at one time i feared i should never behold you again, and then i began to droop." "i thought you possessed great firmness, constance," he remarked. "so i fancied, but i found myself unequal to the trial," she rejoined. "i had no one to cheer me. monica's distress was even greater than my own, and her mother did not offer us much consolation, for she seemed convinced that both you and jemmy were doomed to die as traitors." "well, your apprehensions are now at an end, so far as i am concerned," said atherton; "and i see no cause for uneasiness in regard to jemmy, for he is certain to escape in one way or other. i hope to meet him a month hence in paris. but i shall not leave england till i learn he is free, as if he fails to escape, i must try to accomplish his deliverance." "do not run any further risk," she cried. "i have promised to help him, and i must keep my word," he rejoined. "i ought not to attempt to dissuade you, for i love jemmy dearly, but i love you still better, and i therefore implore you for my sake--if not for your own--not to expose yourself to further danger. i will now tell you frankly that i could not go through such another week as i have just passed." "but you must now feel that your apprehensions were groundless; and if i should be placed in any fresh danger you must take courage from the past." "perhaps you will say that i am grown very timorous, and i can scarcely account for my misgivings--but i will not conceal them. i don't think you are quite safe in this house." "why not? old markland is devoted to me, i am quite sure, and no one else among the household is aware of my arrival." "but i am sadly afraid they may discover you." "you are indeed timorous. even if i should be discovered, i don't think any of them would be base enough to betray me." "i have another ground for uneasiness, more serious than this, but i scarcely like to allude to it, because i may be doing an injustice to the person who causes my alarm. i fear you have an enemy in the house." atherton looked at her inquiringly, and then said: "i can only have one enemy--father jerome." she made no answer, but he perceived from her looks that he had guessed aright. "'tis unlucky he is established in the house. why did you bring him here?" "i could not help it. and he has been most useful to me. but i know he does not like you; and i also know that his nature is malicious and vindictive. i hope he may not find out that you are concealed in the house. i have cautioned markland, and monica does not require to be cautioned. ah! what was that?" she added, listening anxiously. "i thought i heard a noise in the adjoining chamber." "it may be markland," said atherton. "but i will go and see." with this, he stepped quickly into the next room, the door of which stood ajar. as we have mentioned, the shutters were closed, and the room was dark, but still, if any listener had been there, he must have been detected. the room, however, seemed quite empty. not satisfied with this inspection, atherton went on through the whole suite of apartments, and with a like result. "you must have been mistaken," he said on his return to constance. "i could find no eaves-dropper." "i am glad to hear it, for i feared that a certain person might be there. but i must now leave you. i hope you will not find your confinement intolerably wearisome. you will be able to get out at night--but during the daytime you must not quit these rooms." "come frequently to see me, and the time will pass pleasantly enough," he rejoined. "i must not come too often or my visits will excite suspicion," she replied. "but i will send you some books by markland." "there is a private communication between this part of the house and the library. may i not venture to make use of it?" "not without great caution," she rejoined. "father jerome is constantly in the library. but i will try to get him away in the evening, and markland shall bring you word when you can descend with safety." "surely some plan might be devised by which father jerome could be got rid of for a time?" said atherton. "i have thought the matter over, but no such plan occurs to me," replied constance. "he rarely quits the house, and were i to propose to him to take a journey, or pay a visit, he would immediately suspect i had an object in doing so. but even if he were willing to go, my aunt butler i am sure would object." "is she not aware that i am in the house?" "no, monica and i thought it better not to trust her. she could not keep the secret from father jerome." "then since the evil cannot be remedied it must be endured," said atherton. "that is the right way to view it," rejoined constance. "not till the moment of your departure must father jerome learn that you have taken refuge here. and now, adieu!" chapter v. a point of faith. left alone, atherton endeavoured to reconcile himself to his imprisonment, but with very indifferent success. how he longed to join the party downstairs--to go forth into the garden or the park--to do anything, in short, rather than remain shut up in those gloomy rooms! but stay there he must!--so he amused himself as well as he could by looking into the cupboards with which the rooms abounded. in the course of his examination he found some books, and with these he contrived to beguile the time till old markland made his appearance. the old butler brought with him a well-filled basket, from which he produced the materials of a very good cold dinner, including a flask of wine; and a cloth being spread upon a small table in the room we have described as less gloomy than the other apartments, the young man sat down to the repast. "i have had some difficulty in bringing you these provisions, sir," observed markland. "father jerome has been playing the spy upon me all the morning--hovering about my room, so that i couldn't stir without running against him. whether he heard anything last night i can't say, but i'm sure he suspects you are hidden in the house." "what if he does suspect, markland?" observed atherton. "do you think he would betray me? if you believe so, you must have a very bad opinion of him." "i can tell you one thing, sir; he was far from pleased when he heard of your escape, and wished it had been captain dawson instead. i told him i thought you might seek refuge here, and he said he hoped not; adding, 'if you were foolish enough to do so you would certainly be discovered.' i repeated these observations to miss rawcliffe, and she agreed with me that they argued an ill-feeling towards you." "what can i have done to offend him?" exclaimed atherton. "i don't know, sir, except that you are heir to the property. but give yourself no uneasiness. i will take care he shan't harm you. don't on any account leave these rooms till you see me again." "has father jerome access to this part of the house, markland?" "no; i keep the door of the gallery constantly locked; and he is not aware of the secret entrance to the library." "are you sure of that?" "quite sure, sir. i never heard him allude to it." "he is frequently in the library, i understand?" "yes, he sits there for hours; but he generally keeps in his own room in the evening, and you might then come down with safety. have you everything you require at present?" "everything. you have taken excellent care of me, markland." "i am sorry i can't do better. i'll return by-and-by to take away the things." with this he departed, and atherton soon made an end of his meal. time seemed to pass very slowly, but at length evening arrived, and the butler reappeared. "you will find miss rawcliffe in the library," he said, "and need fear no interruption, for father jerome is with mrs. butler. i shall be on the watch, and will give timely notice should any danger arise." instantly shaking off the gloom that had oppressed him, atherton set off. the butler accompanied him to the head of the private staircase, but went no further. though all was buried in darkness, the young man easily found his way to the secret door, and cautiously stepped into the library. lights placed upon the table showed him that constance was in the room, and so noiselessly had he entered, that she was not aware of his presence till he moved towards her. she then rose from the sofa to meet him, and was clasped to his breast. need we detail their converse? it was like all lovers' talk--deeply interesting to the parties concerned, but of little interest to any one else. however, we must refer to one part of it. they had been speaking of their prospects of future happiness, when he might be able to procure a pardon from the government and return to rawcliffe--or she might join him in france. "but why should our union be delayed?" he cried. "why should we not be united before my departure?" "'tis too soon after my unhappy father's death," she replied. "i could not show such disrespect to his memory." "but the marriage would be strictly private, and consequently there could be no indecorum. you can remain here for awhile, and then rejoin me. i shall be better able to endure the separation when i feel certain you are mine." "i am yours already--linked to you as indissolubly as if our hands had been joined at the altar. but the ceremony cannot be performed at present. our faiths are different. without a dispensation from a bishop of the church of rome, which could not be obtained here, no romish priest would unite us. but were father jerome willing to disobey the canons of the church, i should have scruples." "you never alluded to such scruples before." "i knew not of the prohibition. i dare not break the rules of the church i belong to." "but you say that a license can be procured," he cried eagerly. "not here," she rejoined; "and this would be a sufficient reason for the delay, if none other existed. let us look upon this as a trial to which we must submit, and patiently wait for happier days, when all difficulties may be removed." "you do not love me as much as i thought you did, constance," he said, in a reproachful tone. "'tis plain you are under the influence of this malicious and designing priest." "do not disquiet yourself," she rejoined, calmly. "father jerome has no undue influence over me, and could never change my sentiments towards you. i admit that he is not favourably disposed towards our union, and would prevent it if he could, but he is powerless." "i shall be miserable if i leave him with you, constance. he ought to be driven from the house." "i cannot do that," she rejoined. "but depend upon it he shall never prejudice me against you." little more passed between them, for constance did not dare to prolong the interview. chapter vi. a letter from beppy byrom. another day of imprisonment--for such atherton deemed it. markland brought him his meals as before, and strove to cheer him, for the young man looked very dull and dispirited. "i can't remain here much longer, markland," he said. "something in the atmosphere of these deserted rooms strangely oppresses me. i seem to be surrounded by beings of another world, who, though invisible to mortal eye, make their presence felt. i know this is mere imagination, and i am ashamed of myself for indulging such idle fancies, but i cannot help it. tell me, markland," he added, "are these rooms supposed to be haunted?" "since you ask me the question, sir, i must answer it truthfully. they are. it was reported long ago that apparitions had been seen in them; and since nobody liked to occupy the rooms, they were shut up. but you needn't be frightened, sir. the ghosts will do you no harm." "i am not frightened, markland. but i confess i prefer the society of the living to that of the dead. last night--whether i was sleeping or waking at the time i can't exactly tell--but i thought sir richard appeared to me; and this is the second time i have seen him, for he warned me before i went to carlisle. and now he has warned me again of some approaching danger. the spirit--if spirit it was--had a grieved and angry look, and seemed to reproach me with neglect." the latter was deeply interested in what was told him, and, after a moment's reflection, said: "this is very strange. have you disregarded sir richard's dying injunctions? bethink you, sir!" "i would not abandon the expedition as he counselled me, and i went on to carlisle--but since my return i cannot charge myself with any neglect. ah! one thing occurs to me. i ought to see that certain documents which he left me are safe." "where did you place them, sir, may i ask?" said the butler. "in the ebony cabinet in the library. i have the key." "then, no doubt, they are perfectly safe, sir. but it may be well to satisfy yourself on the point when you go down to the library." "i will do so. shall i find miss rawcliffe there this evening?" "you will, sir, at the same hour as last night. she bade me tell you so." shortly afterwards, the butler took his departure, and atherton was again left to himself for several hours. when evening came, markland had not reappeared; but doubtless something had detained him, and concluding all was right, atherton descended the private staircase, and passed through the secret door into the library. constance was there and alone. lights were placed upon the table beside which she was seated. she was reading a letter at the moment, and seemed deeply interested in its contents; but on hearing his footsteps, she rose to welcome him. "this letter relates entirely to you," she said. "and judging from your looks it does not bring good news," he remarked. "it does not," she rejoined. "it is from beppy byrom, and was brought by a special messenger from manchester. she informs me that a warrant for your arrest has just been received by the authorities of the town, who are enjoined to offer a reward for your capture. strict search will, consequently, be made for you, she says; and as rawcliffe hall may be visited, she sends this notice. she also states that it will be impossible to escape to france from any english port, as an embargo is now laid on all vessels. the letter thus concludes: 'if you have any communication with captain legh, pray tell him, if he should be driven to extremity, he will find an asylum in my father's house.'" "have you returned any answer to this kind letter?" inquired atherton. "no--it would not have been prudent to detain the messenger. during his brief stay, markland took care he should not have any conversation with the servants. father jerome was curious to ascertain the nature of his errand, and learnt that he came from manchester--but nothing more. i know not what you may resolve upon; but if you decide on flight, you will need funds. in this pocket-book are bank-notes to a considerable amount. nay, do not hesitate to take it," she added, "you are under no obligation to me. the money is your own." thus urged, atherton took the pocket-book, and said: "before i decide upon the steps i ought to take in this dangerous emergency, let me mention a matter to you that has weighed upon my mind. in yonder cabinet are certain papers which i desire to confide to your care. they contain proofs that i am the rightful heir to this property--the most important of the documents being a statement drawn up by your father, and signed by him, immediately before his death. now listen to me, constance. should i fall into the hands of the enemy--should i die the death of a traitor--it is my wish that those documents should never be produced." constance could not repress an exclamation. "all will be over then," he proceeded, calmly. "and why should a dark story, which can only bring dishonour on our family, be revealed? let the secret be buried in my grave. if i am remembered at all, let it be as atherton legh, and not as oswald rawcliffe." "your wishes shall be fulfilled," she replied, deeply moved. "but i trust the dire necessity may never arise." "we must prepare for the worst," he said. "here is the key. see that the papers are safe." she unlocked the cabinet, and opened all the drawers. they were empty. "the papers are gone," she cried. "impossible!" exclaimed atherton, springing towards her. 'twas perfectly true, nevertheless. further investigation showed that the documents must have been abstracted. "there is but one person who can have taken them," said atherton. "to that person the importance of the papers would be known--nor would he hesitate to deprive me of the proofs of my birth." "i think you wrong him by these suspicions," said constance--though her looks showed that she herself shared them. "what motive could he have for such an infamous act?" "i cannot penetrate his motive, unless it is that he seeks to prevent my claim to the title and property. but malignant as he is, i could scarcely have imagined he would proceed to such a length as this." "granting you are right in your surmise, how can father jerome have discovered the existence of the papers? you placed them in the cabinet yourself i presume, and the key has been in your own possession ever since." "true. but from him a lock would be no safeguard. if he knew the papers were there, their removal would be easy. but he will not destroy them, because their possession will give him the power he covets, and no doubt he persuades himself he will be able to obtain his own price for them. but i will force him to give them up." at this juncture the door was opened, and monica, entering hastily, called out to atherton: "away at once, or you will be discovered. father jerome is coming hither. he has just left my mother's room." but the young man did not move. "i have something to say to him." "do not say it now!" implored constance. "no better opportunity could offer," rejoined atherton. "i will tax him with his villainy." "what does all this mean?" cried monica, astonished and alarmed. but before any explanation could be given, the door again opened, and father jerome stood before them. chapter vii. atherton questions the priest. the priest did not manifest any surprise on beholding atherton, but saluting him formally, said: "i did not expect to find you here, sir, or i should not have intruded. but i will retire." "stay!" cried atherton. "i have a few questions to put to you. first let me ask if you knew i was in the house?" "i fancied so," replied the priest--"though no one has told me yon were here. i suppose it was thought best not to trust me," he added, glancing at constance. "it was my wish that you should be kept in ignorance of the matter," observed atherton. "i am to understand, then, that you doubt me, sir," observed the priest. "i am sorry for it. you do me a great injustice. i am most anxious to serve you. had i been consulted i should have deemed it my duty to represent to you the great risk you would run in taking refuge here--but i would have aided in your concealment, as i will do now; and my services may be called in question sooner, perhaps, than you imagine, for the house is likely to be searched." "how know you that?" demanded atherton. "there has been a messenger here from manchester----" "i thought you did not see him, father?" interrupted constance. "i saw him and conversed with him," rejoined the priest; "and i learnt that a warrant is out for the arrest of captain atherton legh, and a large reward offered for his apprehension. at the same time i learnt that this house would be strictly searched. whether you will remain here, or fly, is for your own consideration." "i shall remain here at all hazards," replied atherton, fixing a keen look upon him. "i think you have decided rightly, sir," observed the priest. "should they come, i will do my best to baffle the officers." "i will take good care you shall not betray me," said atherton. "betray you, sir!" exclaimed the priest, indignantly. "i have no such intention." "you shall not have the opportunity," was the rejoinder. at a sign from atherton, constance and monica withdrew to the further end of the room. "now, sir, you will guess what is coming," said atherton, addressing the priest in a stern tone. "i desire you will instantly restore the papers you have taken from yonder cabinet." "what papers?" asked father jerome. "nay, never feign surprise. you know well what i mean. i want sir richard rawcliffe's confession, and the other documents accompanying it." "has any person but yourself seen sir richard's written confession?" "no one." "then if it is lost you cannot prove that such a document ever existed." "it is not lost," said atherton, "you know where to find it, and find it you shall." "calm yourself, or you will alarm the ladies. i have not got the papers you require, but you ought to have taken better care of them, since without them you will be unable to establish your claim to the rawcliffe estates and title." "no more of this trifling," said atherton. "i am not in the humour for it. i must have the papers without further delay." "i know nothing about them," said the priest, doggedly. "you tell me there were such documents, and i am willing to believe you, but sceptical persons may doubt whether they ever existed." "will you produce them?" "how can i, since i have them not." "their destruction would be an execrable act." "it would--but it is not likely they will be destroyed. on the contrary, i should think they will be carefully preserved." very significantly uttered, these words left atherton in no doubt as to their import. while he was meditating a reply, markland hurriedly entered the room--alarm depicted in his countenance. startled by his looks, constance and monica immediately came forward. "you must instantly return to your hiding-place, sir," said the butler to atherton. "the officers are here, and mean to search the house. fortunately, the drawbridge is raised, and i would not allow it to be lowered till i had warned you." "are you sure they are the officers?" exclaimed constance. "quite sure. i have seen them and spoken with them. they have a warrant." "then it will be impossible to refuse them admittance." "impossible," cried the butler. while this conversation took place, atherton had opened the secret door in the bookcase, but he now came back, and said to the priest: "you must bear me company, father. i shall feel safer if i have you with me." "but i may be of use in misleading the officers," said father jerome. "markland will take care of them. he can be trusted. come along!" and seizing the priest's arm, he dragged him through the secret door. as soon as this was accomplished, markland rushed out of the room, and hurried to the porter's lodge. chapter viii. the search. no sooner was the drawbridge lowered than several persons on horseback rode into the court-yard. by this time, some of the servants had come forth with lights, so that the unwelcome visitors could be distinguished. the party consisted of half a dozen mounted constables, at the head of whom was mr. fowden, the manchester magistrate. ordering two of the officers to station themselves near the drawbridge, and enjoining the others to keep strict watch over the house, mr. fowden dismounted, and addressing markland, who was standing near, desired to be conducted to miss rawcliffe. "inform her that i am mr. fowden, one of the manchester magistrates," he said. "i will explain my errand myself." "pray step this way, sir," rejoined markland, bowing respectfully. ushering the magistrate into the entrance hall, markland helped to disencumber him of his heavy cloak, which he laid with the magistrate's cocked-hat and whip upon a side-table, and then led him to the library--announcing him, as he had been desired, to constance, who with her cousin received him in a very stately manner, and requested him to be seated. "i am sorry to intrude upon you at this hour, miss rawcliffe," said mr. fowden; "but i have no option, as you will understand, when i explain my errand. i hold a warrant for the arrest of captain atherton legh, late of the manchester regiment, who has been guilty of levying war against our sovereign lord the king; and having received information that he is concealed here, i must require that he may be immediately delivered up to me. in the event of your refusal to comply with my order, i shall be compelled to search the house, while you will render yourself liable to a heavy penalty, and perhaps imprisonment, for harbouring him after this notice." "you are at liberty to search the house, mr. fowden," replied constance, with as much firmness as she could command; "and if you find captain legh i must bear the penalties with which you threaten me." "'tis a disagreeable duty that i have to perform, i can assure you, miss rawcliffe," said mr. fowden. "i knew captain legh before he joined the rebellion, and i regret that by his folly--for i will call it by no harsher name--he should have cut short his career. i also knew captain dawson very well, and am equally sorry for him--poor misguided youth! he is certain to suffer for his rash and criminal act." here a sob burst from monica, and drew the magistrate's attention to her. "i was not aware of your presence, miss butler," he said, "or i would not have hurt your feelings by the remark. i know you are engaged to poor jemmy dawson. i sincerely hope that clemency may be shown him--and all those who have acted from a mistaken sense of loyalty. i will frankly confess that i myself was much captivated by the manner of the young chevalier when i saw him as he passed through manchester. but you will think i am a jacobite, if i talk thus--whereas, i am a staunch whig. i must again express my regret at the steps i am obliged to take, miss rawcliffe," he continued, addressing constance; "and if i seem to discredit your assurance that captain legh is not concealed here, it is because it is at variance with information i have received, and which i have reason to believe must be correct. as a catholic, you have a priest resident in the house--father jerome. pray send for him!" scarcely able to hide her embarrassment, constance rang the bell, and when markland answered the summons, she told him mr. fowden desired to see father jerome. "his reverence has gone to newton, and won't return to-night," replied the butler. the magistrate looked very hard at him, but markland bore the scrutiny well. "i think you could find him if you chose," remarked mr. fowden. "i must go to newton, then, to do it, sir. i'll take you to his room, if you please." "nay, i don't doubt what you tell me, but 'tis strange he should have gone out. however, i must make a perquisition of the house." "markland will attend you, mr. fowden, and show you into the rooms," said constance, who had become far less uneasy since her conversation with the good-natured magistrate. "before you commence your investigations, perhaps you will satisfy yourself that no one is concealed in this room. there is a screen--pray look behind it!" "i will take your word, miss rawcliffe, that no one is here," replied the magistrate, bowing. "i won't bid you good-night, mr. fowden," said constance, "because i hope when you have completed your search you will take supper with us." the magistrate again bowed and quitted the room. attended by markland, bearing a light, mr. fowden then began his survey, but it soon became evident to the butler that he did not mean the search to be very strict. ascending the great oak staircase, he looked into the different rooms in the corridor, as they passed them. on being told that one of these rooms belonged to miss rawcliffe, the magistrate declined to enter it, and so in the case of another, which he learnt was occupied by monica. in the adjoining chamber they found mrs. butler kneeling before a crucifix, and mr. fowden immediately retired without disturbing her. chapter ix. who was found in the dismantled rooms. after opening the doors of several other rooms, and casting a hasty glance inside, the magistrate said: "i understand there is a portion of the house which for some time has been shut up. take me to it." markland obeyed rather reluctantly, and when he came to a door at the end of the corridor, communicating, as he said, with the dismantled apartments, it took him some time to unlock it. "i ought to tell you, sir," he said, assuming a very mysterious manner, calculated to impress his hearer, "that these rooms are said to be haunted, and none of the servants like to enter them, even in the daytime. i don't share their superstitious fears, but i certainly have heard strange noises----" "there! what was that?" exclaimed mr. fowden. "i thought i saw a dark figure glide past, but i could not detect the sound of footsteps." "turn back, if you're at all afraid, sir," suggested markland. "i'm not afraid of ghosts," rejoined the magistrate; "and as to human beings i don't fear them, because i have pistols in my pockets. go on." markland said nothing more, but opened the first door on the left, and led his companion into a room which was almost destitute of furniture, and had a most melancholy air; but it did not look so dreary as the next room they entered. here the atmosphere was so damp that the butler was seized with a fit of coughing which lasted for more than a minute, and mr. fowden declared there must be echoes in the rooms, for he had certainly heard sounds at a distance. "no doubt there are echoes, sir," said the butler. "but these must be peculiar to the place," observed the magistrate; "for they sounded uncommonly like footsteps. give me the light." and taking the candle from the butler, and drawing a pistol from his pocket, he marched quickly into the next room. no one was there, but as he hastened on he caught sight of a retreating figure, and called out: "stand! or i fire." heedless of the injunction, the person made a rapid exit through the side door, but was prevented from fastening it by the magistrate, who followed him so quickly that he had no time to hide himself, and stood revealed to his pursuer. "what do i see?" exclaimed mr. fowden, in astonishment, "father jerome here! why i was told you were in newton." "his reverence ought to be there," said markland, who had now come up. "i must have an explanation of your strange conduct, sir," said the magistrate. "his reverence had better be careful what he says," observed markland. "answer one question, and answer it truly, as you value your own safety," pursued mr. fowden. "are you alone in these rooms?" the priest looked greatly embarrassed. markland made a gesture to him behind the magistrate's back. "are you alone here, i repeat?" demanded mr. fowden. "i have no one with me now, sir, if that is what you would learn," replied the priest. "then you have had a companion. where is he? he cannot have left the house. the drawbridge is guarded." "he is not in this part of the house," replied the priest. "i will give you further explanation anon," he added, in a lower tone. "all i need now say is, that i am here on compulsion." mr. fowden forbore to interrogate him further, and after examining the room, which was that wherein atherton had passed the two previous nights as related, and discovering nothing to reward his scrutiny, he expressed his intention of going down-stairs. "i don't think i shall make any capture here," he remarked. "i am sure you won't," replied the priest. very much to markland's relief, the magistrate then quitted the disused rooms, and taking father jerome with him, descended to the hall. after a little private conversation with the priest, he made a fresh investigation of the lower apartments, but with no better success than heretofore, and he was by no means sorry when miss rawcliffe sent a message to him begging his company at supper. the servant who brought the message likewise informed him that the constables in the court-yard had been well supplied with ale. "i hope they haven't drunk too much," said the magistrate. "don't let them have any more, and tell them i shall come out presently." chapter x. a successful stratagem. accompanied by the priest, he then proceeded to the dining-room, where he found constance and monica. a very nice supper had been prepared, and he did ample justice to the good things set before him. markland, who had been absent for a short time, appeared with a bottle of old madeira, and a look passed between him and the young ladies, which did not escape the quick eyes of the priest. the magistrate could not fail to be struck by the splendid wine brought him, and the butler took care to replenish his glass whenever it chanced to be empty. altogether the supper passed off more agreeably than could have been expected under such circumstances, for the young ladies had recovered their spirits, and the only person who seemed ill at ease was father jerome. towards the close of the repast, mr. fowden said: "i fear i shall be obliged to trespass a little further on your hospitality, miss rawcliffe. i hope i shall not put you to inconvenience if i take up my quarters here to-night. i care not how you lodge me--put me in a haunted room if you think proper." "you are quite welcome to remain here as long as you please, mr. fowden," said constance--"the rather that i feel certain you will make no discovery. markland will find you a chamber, where i hope you may rest comfortably." "i will order a room to be got ready at once for his honour," said markland. "in the locked-up corridor?" observed the magistrate, with a laugh. "no, not there, sir," said the butler. "with your permission, miss rawcliffe, my men must also be quartered in the house," said mr. fowden. "you hear, markland," observed constance. "i will give directions accordingly," replied the butler. and he quitted the room. "i shall be blamed for neglect of duty if i do not make a thorough search," said the magistrate. "but i fancy the bird has flown," he added, with a glance at the priest. father jerome made no reply, but constance remarked, with apparent indifference: "no one can have left the house without crossing the drawbridge, and that has been guarded. you will be able to state that you took all necessary precautions to prevent an escape." "yes, i shall be able to state that--and something besides," replied the magistrate, again glancing at the priest. just then, a noise was heard like the trampling of horses. mr. fowden uttered an exclamation of surprise, and a smile passed over the countenances of the two young ladies. "i should have thought the men were crossing the drawbridge if i had not felt quite sure they would not depart without me," said mr. fowden. "they have crossed the drawbridge--that's quite certain," observed the priest. at this moment markland entered the room. "what have you been about?" cried the magistrate, angrily. "have you dared to send my men away?" "no, sir," replied the butler, vainly endeavouring to maintain a grave countenance; "but it seems that a trick has been played upon them." "a trick!" exclaimed the magistrate. "yes, and it has proved highly successful. some one has taken your honour's hat and cloak from the hall, and thus disguised, has ridden off with the men, who didn't find out their mistake in the darkness." the two girls could not control their laughter. "this may appear a good joke to you, sir," cried the magistrate, who was highly incensed, addressing the butler; "but you'll pay dearly for it, i can promise you. you have aided and abetted the escape of a rebel and a traitor, and will be transported, if not hanged." "i have aided no escape, sir," replied the butler. "all i know is, that some one wrapped in a cloak, whom i took to be you, came out of the house, sprang on a horse, and bidding the men follow him, rode off." "he has prevented pursuit by taking my horse," cried mr. fowden; "and the worst of it is he is so much better mounted than the men that he can ride away from them at any moment. no chance now of his capture. well, i shall be laughed at as an egregious dupe, but i must own i have been very cleverly outwitted." "you are too kind-hearted, i am sure, mr. fowden," said constance, "not to be better pleased that things have turned out thus, than if you had carried back a prisoner. and pray don't trouble yourself about the loss of your horse. you shall have the best in the stable. but you won't think of returning to manchester to-night." "well--no," he replied, after a few moments' deliberation. "i am very comfortable here, and don't feel inclined to stir. i shouldn't be surprised if we had some intelligence before morning." "very likely," replied constance; "and i think you have decided wisely to remain. it's a long ride at this time of night." mr. fowden, as we have shown, was very good-tempered, and disposed to take things easily. he was secretly not sorry that atherton had eluded him, though he would rather the escape had been managed differently. however it was quite clear it could not have been accomplished by his connivance. that was something. consoled by this reflection, he finished his supper as quietly as if nothing had occurred to interrupt it. immediately after supper constance and her cousin retired, and left him to enjoy a bottle of claret with the priest. they were still discussing it when a great bustle in the court-yard announced that the constables had come back. "here they are!" cried the magistrate, springing to his feet. "i must go and see what has happened." and he hurried out of the room, followed by father jerome. by the time they reached the court-yard the constables had dismounted, and were talking to markland and the gate-porter. two other men-servants were standing by, bearing torches. no sooner did mr. fowden make his appearance than one of the constables came up. "here's a pretty business, sir," said the man in an apologetic tone. "we've been nicely taken in. we thought we had you with us, and never suspected anything wrong till we got out of the park, when the gentleman at our head suddenly dashed off at full speed, and disappeared in the darkness. we were so confounded at first that we didn't know what to do, but the truth soon flashed upon us, and we galloped after him as hard as we could. though we could see nothing of him, the clatter of his horse's hoofs guided us for a time, but by-and-by this ceased, and we fancied he must have quitted the road and taken to the open. we were quite certain he hadn't forded the mersey, or we must have heard him." "no--no--he wouldn't do that, glossop," remarked the magistrate. "well, we rode on till we got to a lane," pursued the constable, "and two of our party went down it, while the rest kept to the high road. about a mile further we encountered a waggon, and questioned the driver, but no one had passed him; so we turned back, and were soon afterwards joined by our mates, who had been equally unsuccessful. feeling now quite nonplussed, we deemed it best to return to the hall--and here we are, ready to attend to your honour's orders." "'twould be useless to attempt further pursuit to-night, glossop," rejoined the magistrate. "captain legh has got off by a very clever stratagem, and will take good care you don't come near him. by this time, he's far enough off, you may depend upon it." "exactly my opinion, sir," observed glossop. "we've lost him for the present, that's quite certain." "well, we'll consider what is best to be done in the morning," said mr. fowden. "meantime you can take up your quarters here for the night. stable your horses, and then go to bed." "not without supper, your honour," pleaded glossop. "we're desperately hungry." "why you're never satisfied," cried the magistrate. "but perhaps mr. markland will find something for you." leaving the constables to shift for themselves, which he knew they were very well able to do, mr. fowden then returned to the dining-room, and finished the bottle of claret with the priest. though his plans had been frustrated, and he had lost both his horse and his expected prisoner, he could not help laughing very heartily at the occurrence of the evening. later on, he was conducted to a comfortable bed-chamber by the butler. chapter xi. atherton meets with dr. deacon at rosthern. having distanced his pursuers as related, atherton speeded across the country till he reached bucklow hill, where a solitary roadside inn was then to be found, and thinking he should be safe there, he resolved to stop at the house for the night. accordingly, he roused up the host and soon procured accommodation for himself and his steed. the chamber in which he was lodged was small, with a low ceiling, encumbered by a large rafter, but it was scrupulously clean and tidy, and the bed-linen was white as snow, and smelt of lavender. next morning, he was up betimes, and his first business was to hire a man to take back mr. fowden's horse. the ostler readily undertook the job, and set out for manchester, charged with a letter of explanation, while atherton, having breakfasted and paid his score, proceeded on foot along the road to knutsford. before leaving the inn he informed the landlord that he was going to northwich, and thence to chester; but, in reality, he had no fixed plan, and meant to be guided by circumstances. if the risk had not been so great, he would gladly have availed himself of dr. byrom's offer, conveyed by beppy to constance, of a temporary asylum in the doctor's house at manchester--but he did not dare to venture thither. after revolving several plans, all of which were fraught with difficulties and dangers, he came to the conclusion that it would be best to proceed to london, where he would be safer than elsewhere, and might possibly find an opportunity of embarking for flanders or holland. moreover, he might be able to render some assistance to his unfortunate friends. but, as we have said, he had no decided plans; and it is quite certain that nothing but the apprehension of further treachery on the part of father jerome prevented him from secretly returning to rawcliffe hall. he walked on briskly for about a mile, and then struck into a path on the left, which he thought would lead him through the fields to tatton park, but it brought him to a height from which he obtained a charming view of rosthern mere--the whole expanse of this lovely lake being spread out before him. on the summit of a high bank, at the southern extremity of the mere, stood the ancient church, embosomed in trees, and near it were the few scattered farm-houses and cottages that constituted the village. the morning being very bright and clear, the prospect was seen to the greatest advantage, and, after contemplating it for a few minutes, he descended the woody slopes, and on reaching the valley shaped his course along the margin of the lake towards the village, which was not very far distant. as he proceeded fresh beauties were disclosed, and he more than once stopped to gaze at them. presently he drew near a delightful spot, where a babbling brook, issuing from the mere, crossed the road, and disappeared amid an adjoining grove. leaning against the rail of a little wooden bridge, and listening to the murmuring brooklet, stood an elderly personage. his features were stamped with melancholy, and his general appearance seemed much changed, but atherton at once recognised dr. deacon. surprised at seeing him there, the young man hastened on, and as he advanced the doctor raised his head and looked at him. after a moment's scrutiny, he exclaimed: "do my eyes deceive me, or is it atherton legh?" and when the other replied in the affirmative, he said: "what are you doing here? are you aware that a reward has been offered for your apprehension? you are running into danger." "i have just had a very narrow escape of arrest," replied atherton; "and am in search of a place of concealment. if i could be safe anywhere, i should think it must be in this secluded village." "i will give you temporary shelter," said the doctor. "i have been so persecuted in manchester since the prince's retreat, and the surrender of carlisle, that i have been compelled to retire to this quiet place. come with me to my cottage--but i cannot answer for your safety." "i would willingly accept the offer if i did not fear i should endanger you," replied atherton. "let not that consideration deter you," said dr. deacon. "it matters little what happens to me now that i have lost my sons." "you need not despair about them, sir," rejoined atherton. "they will be allowed the cartel." "no--no--no," cried the doctor. "they will be put to death. i ought to be resigned to their cruel fate, since they have done their duty, but i have not the fortitude i deemed i had." and he groaned aloud. "better and braver young men never lived," said atherton, in accents of deep commiseration. "and if they must die, they will perish in a noble cause. but i still hope they may be spared." "they would not ask or accept a pardon from the usurper," said dr. deacon. "no, they are doomed--unless they can escape as you have done." "have you heard of your second son, robert, whom we were obliged to leave at kendal, owing to an attack of fever?" inquired atherton. "yes--he is better. he will do well if he has not a relapse," replied the doctor. "he wrote to me, begging me not to go to him, or i should have set off to kendal at once. but do not let us stand talking here. my cottage is close by." so saying, he led atherton to a pretty little tenement, situated near the lake. a garden ran down to the water's edge, where was a landing-place with wooden steps, beside which a boat was moored. the cottage, which was more roomy and convenient than it looked, belonged to an old couple named brereton, who were devoted to dr. deacon; and he had strong claims to their gratitude, as he had cured dame brereton of a disorder, pronounced fatal by other medical men. on entering the cottage, the doctor deemed it necessary to caution mrs. brereton in regard to atherton, and then ushered his guest into a small parlour, the windows of which commanded a lovely view of the lake. had the doctor been free from anxiety he must have been happy in such a tranquil abode. but he was well-nigh heart-broken, and ever dwelling upon the sad position of his sons. a simple breakfast, consisting of a bowl of milk and a brown loaf, awaited him, and he invited atherton to partake of the rustic fare, offering him some cold meat and new-laid eggs in addition, but the young man declined, having already breakfasted. very little satisfied the doctor, and having quickly finished his meal, he resumed his conversation with atherton. "i know not what your opinion may be," he said; "but i think the grand error committed by the prince was in avoiding an engagement. he ought to have attacked the duke of cumberland at lichfield. a battle would have been decisive, and if the prince had been victorious his ultimate success must have been assured. but the retreat without an engagement was fatal to the cause. the scottish chiefs, i know, refused to march further than derby, but if they had been forced to fight, their conduct would have been totally different. even if the prince had been worsted--had he fallen--he would have left a glorious name behind him! had my own brave sons died sword in hand, i should have been reconciled to their loss, but to think that they have been compelled to retreat ingloriously, without striking a blow, because their leaders lost heart, enrages me, and sharpens my affliction. then i consider that the manchester regiment has been wantonly sacrificed. it ought never to have been left at carlisle. that the prince thought the place tenable, and meant to reinforce the scanty garrison, i nothing doubt--but he lacked the means. surrender was therefore unavoidable. i shall always think that the regiment has been sacrificed--but i blame colonel townley, and not the prince." "disastrous as the result has been, i must take up colonel townley's defence," said atherton. "he felt certain he could hold out till he was relieved by the prince, and all the officers shared his opinion--none being more confident than your gallant son theodore." "alas!" exclaimed the doctor, bitterly. "of what avail is bravery against such engines of destruction as were brought to bear against the town by the duke of cumberland. but could not a desperate sortie have been made? could you not have cut your way through the enemy? death would have been preferable to such terms of surrender as were exacted by the duke." "such an attempt as you describe was made, sir," replied atherton, "but it failed; i, myself, was engaged in it, and was captured." "true, i now remember. forgive me. grief has made me oblivious. but i must not allow my own private sorrows to engross me to the neglect of others. can i assist you in any way?" atherton then informed him of his design to proceed to london, and the doctor approved of the plan, though he thought the journey would be attended by considerable risk. "still, if you get to london you will be comparatively secure, and may perhaps be able to negotiate a pardon. dr. byrom has promised to come over to me to-day, and may perhaps bring his daughter with him. he has considerable influence with several persons of importance in london, and may be able to serve you. we shall hear what he says." "but why think of me?" cried atherton. "why do you not urge him to use his influence in behalf of your sons?" "he requires no urging," replied dr. deacon. "but i have told you that i will not ask a pardon for them--nor would they accept it if clogged with certain conditions." atherton said no more, for he felt that the doctor was immovable. shortly afterwards dr. deacon arose and begged atherton to excuse him, as he usually devoted an hour in each day to a religious work on which he was engaged. before leaving the room, he placed a book on the table near atherton, and on opening it the young man found it was a prayer-book published some years previously by the doctor, entitled, "_a complete collection of devotions, both public and private, taken from the apostolic constitution, liturgies, and common prayers of the catholic church_." atherton was familiar with the volume, as he had occasionally attended dr. deacon's church, but being now in a serious frame of mind, some of the prayers to which he turned and recited aloud produced a deeper effect upon him than heretofore. when dr. deacon returned and found him thus occupied he expressed great satisfaction, and joined him in his devotions. before concluding, the doctor dropped on his knees, and offered up an earnest supplication for the restoration to health of his son robert, and for the deliverance of his two other sons. chapter xii. a sad communication is made to dr. deacon. half an hour later dr. byrom and his daughter arrived. they came on horseback--one steed sufficing for both--beppy being seated behind her father on a pillion, as was then the pleasant custom. dr. byrom put up his horse at the little village inn, and then walked with his daughter to the cottage. dr. deacon met them at the door, and while greeting them kindly, informed them in a whisper whom they would find within. both were rejoiced to see atherton, and congratulated him on his escape from arrest. "i saw mr. fowden this morning at manchester," said dr. byrom. "he had just returned from rawcliffe hall. i laughed very heartily when he told me how cleverly you had tricked him; but i really believe he had no desire to arrest you, and was glad when you got off. the horse you appropriated for the nonce was brought back from bucklow hill, and is now in its owner's possession, but i think you carried your scruples to the extreme, as you have given him a clue to the route you have taken, and the constables have been sent on both to northwich and macclesfield." "i don't think they will look for me here," observed atherton. "no, mr. fowden's notion is that you will make for london, and i should have thought so too, had you not sent back the horse; but now you had better keep quiet for a few days." "why not come to us?" cried beppy. "you will be in the very midst of your enemies, it is true, but no search will be made for you. no one would think you could be there." "but some one would be sure to discover me. no; i am infinitely obliged, but i could not do it--i should only involve dr. byrom in trouble." "don't heed my risk," said dr. byrom. "i will give you shelter, if you require it." "i'm quite sure we could conceal you," cried beppy; "and only think how exciting it would be if the boroughreeve should call, and you had to be shut up in a closet! or, better still, if you were carefully disguised, you might be presented to him without fear of detection. as to mr. fowden, i shouldn't mind him, even if he came on purpose to search for you. i'm sure i could contrive some little plot that would effectually delude him. 'twould only be like a game at hide-and-seek." "but if i lost the game, the penalty would be rather serious," replied atherton. "i have no doubt of your cleverness, miss byrom; but i must not expose myself to needless risk." while this conversation was going on, dr. byrom observed to his old friend, "i have something to say to you in private. can we go into another room?" struck by the gravity of his manner, dr. deacon took him into an adjoining apartment. "i am afraid you have some bad news for me," he remarked. "i have," replied dr. byrom, still more gravely. "your son robert----" "what of him?" interrupted dr. deacon. "has he had a relapse of the fever? if so, i must go to him at once." "'twill not be necessary, my good friend," replied dr. byrom, mournfully. "he does not require your attendance." dr. deacon looked at him fixedly for a moment, and reading the truth in his countenance, murmured, "he is gone!" "yes, he has escaped the malice of his enemies," said dr. byrom. "heaven's will be done!" ejaculated dr. deacon, with a look of profound resignation. "truly i have need of fortitude to bear the weight of affliction laid upon me. robert!--my dear, brave son!--gone!--gone!" "be comforted, my good friend," said dr. byrom, in accents of profound sympathy. "his troubles are over." "true," replied the other. "but the blow has well-nigh stunned me. give me a chair, i pray you." as dr. byrom complied, he remarked: "i ought to have broken this sad news to you with greater care--and, indeed, i hesitated to mention it." "you have acted most kindly--most judiciously--like the friend you have ever shown yourself," rejoined dr. deacon. "all is for the best, i doubt not. but when i think of my dear boy robert, my heart is like to burst. he was so kind, so gallant, so loyal, so true." "he has been removed from a world of misery," said dr. byrom. "reflection, i am sure, will reconcile you to his fate, sad as it now may seem." "i have misjudged myself," said dr. deacon. "when i sent forth my three sons on this expedition, i thought i was prepared for any eventuality, but i now find i was wrong. one i have already lost--the other two will follow quickly." chapter xiii. a journey to london proposed. "you will be much grieved to hear that poor robert deacon is dead," observed beppy, when she was left alone with atherton. "papa had just received the sad intelligence before we left manchester, and he is now about to communicate it to the doctor. i pity dr. deacon from my heart, for i fear the loss of his sons will kill him. but i have other news for you, which papa has not had time to relate. jemmy dawson has made an attempt to escape; but has failed. at dunstable he contrived to elude the guard, and got out upon the downs, but his flight being discovered, he was pursued and captured. he is now lodged in newgate. papa has just received a letter from him. it was confided to a manchester friend who visited him in prison. the same gentleman brought another letter for monica, which papa undertook to send to her privately--for the post is no longer safe--all suspected letters being opened and examined. poor jemmy seems very despondent. papa is going to london shortly, and no doubt will see him." "if dr. byrom goes to london, would he take charge of monica and constance, think you?" cried atherton. "i am sure he would," she replied. "but here he comes," she continued, as dr. byrom entered the room. "i will put the question to him. papa," she went on, "i have been talking matters over to captain legh, and have mentioned to him that you are likely to go to london before long. should you do so, he hopes you will take charge of monica and miss rawcliffe." "they will require an escort," added atherton; "and there is no one whom they would prefer to you--especially under present circumstances." thus appealed to, dr. byrom very readily assented, and inquired when the young ladies would be disposed to undertake the journey. "no arrangement has been made as yet," said atherton; "but i am sure when monica receives the letter from jemmy dawson, which i understand you are about to forward to her, she will be all anxiety to be near him; and i am equally sure that constance will desire to accompany her." "i will ascertain their wishes without delay," said dr. byrom. "before returning to manchester, i will ride over to rawcliffe hall, and deliver poor jemmy's letter in person. i shall then hear what miss butler says. my visit will answer a double purpose, for i shall be able to give them some intelligence of you, and convey any message you may desire to send them." "i cannot thank you sufficiently for your kindness, sir," said atherton. "pray tell constance that i shall make my way to london in such manner as may best consist with safety, and i hope she will feel no uneasiness on my account. i sincerely trust she will go to london, as in that case i shall see her again before i embark for flanders." "i will deliver your message," replied dr. byrom, "and i hope we shall all meet in london. immediately on my arrival there i shall endeavour to procure a pardon for you. do not raise your expectations too high, for i may not be able to accomplish my purpose. but you may rely upon it i will do my best." atherton could scarcely find words to express his thanks. "say no more," cried the doctor, grasping his hand warmly. "i shall be amply rewarded if i am successful." "you have not said anything about it, papa," interposed beppy. "but i hope you mean to take me with you to london. i must form one of the party." "you would only be in the way," observed the doctor. "nothing of the sort. i should be of the greatest use, as you will find. you are the best and most good-natured papa in the world, and never refuse your daughter anything," she added, in a coaxing tone, which the doctor could not resist. "i ought not to consent, but i suppose i must," he said. "yes, yes--it's quite settled," cried beppy, with a glance of satisfaction at atherton. "where are we to meet in london?" inquired the young man. "possibly i may not see you again till i arrive there." "you will hear of me at the st. james's hotel, in jermyn street," replied the doctor. "and now i think we ought to start," he added to his daughter, "since we have to go to rawcliffe hall." "but you have not taken leave of dr. deacon," cried beppy. "i shall not interrupt the prayers he is offering up for his son," replied her father. "bid him adieu for us," he added to atherton. "and now farewell, my dear young friend! heaven guard you from all perils! may we meet again safely in london!" atherton attended his friends to the garden gate, but went no further. he watched them till they disappeared, and then returned sadly to the cottage. chapter xiv. jemmy dawson's letter. the unexpected arrival of dr. byrom and beppy at rawcliffe hall caused considerable perturbation to constance and her cousin; but this was relieved as soon as the doctor explained that he brought good news of atherton. before entering into any particulars, however, he delivered jemmy dawson's letter to monica, telling her in what manner he had received it. murmuring a few grateful words, she withdrew to her own room, and we shall follow her thither, leaving the others to talk over matters with which the reader is already acquainted. the letter filled several sheets of paper, and had evidently been written at intervals. thus it ran. st. albans. for a short time i have been free, and fondly persuaded myself i should soon behold you again. alas! no such bliss was reserved for me. my fate is ever perverse. i had not long regained my liberty, when i was captured and taken back, and i am now so strictly watched that i shall have no second chance of escape. enraged at my attempt at flight, the officer in command of the guard threatened to fetter me, like a common felon, but as yet i have been spared that indignity. you will easily imagine the state of grief and despair into which i was plunged by my ill success. i had buoyed myself up with false hopes. i felt quite sure that in a few days i should again clasp you to my heart. deprived by a cruel fate of such unspeakable happiness, can you wonder at my distraction? while thus frenzied, had i possessed a weapon, i should certainly have put an end to my wretched existence. but i am somewhat calmer now, though still deeply depressed. oh! dearest monica--the one being whom i love best!--i cannot longer endure this enforced separation from you. never till now did i know how necessary you are to my existence. pity me! pity me! i am sore afflicted. your presence would restore the serenity of mind i once enjoyed, and which i have now utterly lost. come to me, and shed a gleam of happiness over the residue of my life. in a few days i shall be lodged in a prison, but i shall not heed my confinement if you will visit me daily. should the worst fate befall me--as i have sad presentiments that it will--i shall be prepared to meet it, if you are with me at the last. without you to strengthen me, my courage may fail. i need you, dearest monica--need you more than ever. come to me, i implore you! i am ashamed of what i have written, but you will not despise me for my weakness. 'tis not imprisonment i dread, but the torture of prolonged separation from you. did i not love you so passionately i should be as careless as my companions in misfortune. they have little sympathy for me, for they cannot understand my grief. they would laugh at me if i told them i was ever thinking of you. most of them live jovially enough, and appear entirely unconcerned as to the future. whether they are really as indifferent as they seem, i much doubt. but they drink hard to drown care. the two deacons, however, keep aloof from the rest. colonel townley, also, is greatly changed. he does not look downcast, but he has become exceedingly serious, and passes his time in long discourses with father saunderson, his priest and confessor, who is allowed to attend him. he often talks to me of you and constance, and hopes that atherton has been able to embark for france. we have heard nothing of the latter, of course; and in his case no news is good news. the inhabitants of the different towns and villages through which we have passed on our way to the metropolis have displayed great animosity towards us, chiefly owing to the mischievous placards which have been everywhere spread about by the government. in these placards the most monstrous charges are brought against us. it is gravely asserted that if we had defeated the duke of cumberland we meant to spit him alive and roast him. the bishops were to be burnt at the stake like ridley and latimer, and all the protestant clergy massacred. that such absurd statements should have obtained credence seems impossible; but it is certain they have produced the effect designed, and that the minds of the common folk have been violently inflamed, as we have learnt to our cost, and as we may experience to a still greater extent when we reach london. newgate. you will tremble, dearest monica, when you learn that i am now immured in that dismal dungeon, the very name of which inspires terror; and yet the prison is not so formidable as it has been represented. i have a small cell on the master's side, as it is termed, and though the walls are of stone, the little window grated, and the door barred, i have no right to complain. i am far from harshly treated--indeed, every comfort i choose to pay for is allowed me. nor am i locked up in my cell, except at night. a great stone hall is our place of resort during the day. there my brother officers assemble, and there we are served--not with prison fare, as you may imagine--but with as good provisions and as good wine as we could obtain at a tavern. for breakfast we have tea, coffee, or chocolate, according to choice--roast beef or mutton for dinner--claret or canary to wash it down--and some of my companions regale themselves after supper with a bowl of punch. smoking, also, is allowed, and indeed several of the prisoners have pipes in their mouths all day long. from the stone hall a passage communicates with a tap-room, where different beverages are sold. here the common malefactors repair, but happily they are prevented from coming further. from what i have just stated you will infer that we are not in that part of the gaol appropriated to felons--though we are stigmatised as the worst of criminals; but with a certain leniency, for which we ought to feel grateful, we have been placed among the debtors. colonel townley, captain moss, and captain holker, have each a commodious room. tom deacon and his brother charles have the next cell to mine--but poor adjutant syddall is lodged in an infamous hole, owing to lack of money. all the officials, high and low, within the prison, seem anxious to lessen the rigour of our confinement as much as they can--especially, since most of us are able to live like gentlemen, and fee them handsomely. for a prison, newgate is comfortable enough, and, as far as my own experience goes, its ill reputation seems undeserved. no doubt the wards devoted to common felons are horrible, and i should die if i were shut up with the dreadful miscreants of whom i have caught a glimpse--but fortunately they are kept completely apart from us. we can hear their voices, and that is enough. that i am melancholy in my prison does not proceed from any hardship i have to undergo--or from solitude, for i have too much society--but i pine and languish because i am separated from her i love. think not, if you come, in response to my entreaties, that you will be prevented from visiting me. you will be admitted without difficulty, and no prying eye will disturb us. and now, since i have spoken of the good treatment we have experienced in prison, i must describe the indignities to which we were subjected on our way hither. i have already mentioned that every effort has been made by the government to inflame the minds of the populace against us. on our arrival at islington, we learnt to our dismay that tumultuous crowds were collected in the streets through which we should have to pass; and to afford them a gratifying spectacle, it was arranged that we should be led to prison in mock triumph. accordingly, the waggons in which we were placed were uncovered, so that we had no protection from the numerous missiles hurled at us as we were borne slowly along through the howling multitude, and i verily believe we should have been torn in pieces if the mob could have got at us. rebels and traitors were the mildest terms applied to us. on the foremost waggon the rent and discoloured standard of our regiment was displayed, and a wretched creature, dressed up for the occasion as a bagpiper, sat behind the horses, playing a coronach. but he was soon silenced, for a well-aimed brickbat knocked him from his seat. but though the crowd hooted us, pelted us, and shook their sticks at us, we met with some compassion from the female spectators. many ladies were stationed at the windows, and their looks betokened pity and sympathy. our progress through the streets was slow, owing to the vast crowd, and frequent hindrances occurred, but at the entrance to newgate street we were brought to a complete standstill, and had to endure all the terrible ribaldry of the mob, mingled with yells and groans, and followed up by showers of missiles, such as are hurled at poor wretches in the pillory, till the thoroughfare could be cleared. at this juncture, a chance of escape was offered to colonel townley. half a dozen sturdy fellows, who looked like professional pugilists, forced their way to the waggon, and one of the stoutest of the party called to him to jump out and trust to them. the colonel thanked them, but refused, and they were immediately afterwards thrust back by the guard. had the chance been mine i would have availed myself of it unhesitatingly. but colonel townley feels certain of obtaining the cartel, and would therefore run no risk. another tremendous scene occurred at the gates of the prison, and we were glad to find refuge in its walls. here, at least, we were free from the insults of the rabble, and though we were all in a sorry plight, none of us, except poor tom syddall, had sustained any personal injury. nor was he much hurt. our deplorable condition seemed to recommend us to the governor, and he showed us much kindness. through his attention we were soon enabled to put on fresh habiliments, and make a decent appearance. thus i have discovered, as you see, that there may be worse places than newgate. my confinement may be irksome, but i could bear it were i certain as to the future; but i am not so sanguine as my companions, and dare not indulge hopes that may never be realised. not a single person has visited me till to-day, when a manchester gentleman, with whom i am acquainted, has come to see me in prison--and he offers to take charge of a letter, and will cause it to be safely delivered to you. he is a friend of dr. byrom. a private hand is better than the post, for they tell me all our letters are opened and read, and in some cases not even forwarded. i therefore add these few hasty lines to what i have already written. i am less wretched than i have been, but am still greatly dejected, and by no mental effort can i conquer the melancholy that oppresses me. come to me, then, dearest monica! by all the love you bear me, i implore you come! * * * * * "i see how wretched thou art without me, dearest jemmy," exclaimed monica, as she finished the letter; "and i should be the cruellest of my sex if i did not instantly obey thy summons. comfort thee, my beloved! comfort thee! i fly to thee at once!" chapter xv. the parting between monica and her mother. by this time, dr. byrom had not only delivered atherton's message to constance, but explained his own intentions, and she had at once decided upon accompanying him to london. when monica, therefore, appeared and announced her design, she learnt that her wishes had been anticipated. after some little discussion it was settled--at monica's urgent entreaty--that they should start on the following day. constance and monica were to post in the family coach to macclesfield, where they would be joined by dr. byrom and his daughter; and from this point they were all to travel to town together in the same roomy conveyance. the plan gave general satisfaction, and was particularly agreeable to beppy. all being settled, the party repaired to the dining-room, where luncheon had been set out for the visitors. scarcely had they sat down, when father jerome made his appearance, and though the ordinary courtesies were exchanged between him and dr. byrom, it was evident there was mutual distrust. as they rose from table, the doctor took constance aside, and said to her in a low tone: "what do you mean to do in regard to father jerome? will you leave him here?" "i must," she replied. "he is necessary to my aunt butler. during my absence i shall commit the entire control of the house to my father's faithful old servant, markland, on whom i can entirely rely." "you could not do better," remarked dr. byrom, approvingly. and he added, with a certain significance, "i was about to give you a caution, but i find it is not needed." shortly afterwards the doctor and beppy took their departure, and proceeded to manchester. constance and monica spent the rest of the day in making preparations for the journey. as may be supposed, constance had many directions to give to old markland, who seemed much gratified by the trust reposed in him, and promised the utmost attention to his young mistress's injunctions. clearly father jerome felt himself aggrieved that the old butler was preferred to him, for he intimated that he should have been very happy to undertake the management of the house, if miss rawcliffe desired it; but she declared she would not give him the trouble. "i should not deem it a trouble," he said. "is markland to have all the keys?" "yes, your reverence," interposed the butler. "since i am made responsible for everything, it is necessary that i should have the keys. miss rawcliffe can depend on me. "that i can, markland," she rejoined. "i have had abundant proofs of your trustiness. my return is uncertain. i may be away for two or three months--perhaps for a longer period. during my absence you have full power to act for me; but in any emergency you will of course consult father jerome." "i shall always be ready to advise him, and i trust he will be guided by my counsel," said the priest. "i will act for the best," observed markland. "nothing shall go wrong if i can help it. but you must please excuse me, miss. i have much to do, and not too much time to do it in. i must get the old coach put in order for the journey. as you know, it has not been out for this many a day." "daughter," said the priest, as soon as markland was gone, "you place too much confidence in that man. i hope you may not be deceived in him. he ought not to have access to the strong room. better leave the key of that room with me." "i would not hurt his feelings by withholding that key from him," replied constance. "but i have no fear of markland. he is honesty itself." later on in the day, constance had some further conversation in private with the old butler, and, notwithstanding father jerome's disparaging observations, she showed no diminution in her confidence in him; but gave him particular instructions as to how he was to act under certain circumstances, and concluded by desiring him on no account to allow the priest to enter the strong room. "he has no business there, markland," she observed, significantly. "and i will take good care he doesn't get in," rejoined the old butler. "i think i shall prove a match for father jerome, with all his cunning. but oh! my dear young lady," he added, "how it would gladden my heart if you should be able to bring back sir conway with you. oh! if i should see him restored to his own, and made happy with her he loves best, i shall die content!" "well, markland, dr. byrom holds out a hope of pardon. should i have any good news to communicate, you shall be among the first to hear it." "thank you! thank you, miss!" he cried, hastening out of the room to hide his emotion. the parting between monica and her mother took place in the invalid lady's room. no one was present at the time, for constance had just bade adieu to her aunt. as monica knelt on a footstool beside her mother, the latter gazed long and earnestly into her face, as if regarding her for the last time. "we shall never meet again in this world, my dear child," she said. "i shall be gone before you return. but do not heed me. you cannot disobey the summons you have received. go!--attend your affianced husband in his prison. lighten his captivity. solace him--pray with him--and should his judges condemn him, prepare him to meet his fate!" "i will--i will," cried monica. "but do not utterly dishearten me." "i would not pain you, my dear child," said her mother, in accents of deepest sympathy. "but the words rise unbidden to my lips, and i must give utterance to them. your case has been my case. agony, such as i once endured, you will have to endure. but your trial will not be prolonged like mine. i had a terrible dream last night. i cannot recount it to you, but it has left a profound impression on my mind. i fear what i beheld may come to pass." "what was it?" exclaimed monica, shuddering. "let me know the worst. i can bear it." "no--i have said too much already. and now embrace me, dearest child. we shall not be long separated." monica flung her arms round her mother's neck, and kissed her again and again--sobbing a tender farewell. she then moved slowly towards the door, but on reaching it, she rushed back, and once more embraced her. thus they parted. mrs. butler's presentiments were justified. they never met again. chapter xvi. the journey. the old family coach, with four horses attached to it, was drawn up in the court-yard. the luggage was packed. the servants were assembled in the hall to bid their young mistress good-bye, when constance and monica came downstairs fully attired for the journey. they were followed by miss rawcliffe's pretty maid, lettice, who, with the man-servant, gregory, had been chosen to accompany them to london. lettice carried a great bundle of cloaks, and looked full of delight, forming a strong contrast to the young ladies. monica, indeed, was dissolved in tears, and hurried on to bury herself in the furthest corner of the carriage. constance, though wearing a sad expression, was far more composed, and replied kindly to the valedictions of the household. she also bade adieu to father jerome, who attended her to the door, and gave her his benediction. to markland she had a few words to say, and she then stepped into the carriage, followed by lettice. after putting up the steps, and fastening the door, gregory mounted to the box. all being now ready, markland bowed respectfully, and ordered the postillions to drive on. next moment the large coach rolled over the drawbridge, and the old butler and the gate-keeper watched it as it took its way through the park. the drive was not very cheerful, but before they reached macclesfield, constance had recovered her spirits. at the old angel they found dr. byrom and his daughter, who had posted from manchester, waiting for them. the doctor's trunks were quickly transferred to the carriage, while he and beppy took their seats inside. no inconvenience whatever was caused by this addition to the party, for the coach was capacious enough to hold half-a-dozen persons comfortably. that night they stopped at ashbourne, and next day proceeded to leicester. it is not our intention to describe the journey to london, unmarked as it was by any incident worthy of note, but we must mention that, owing to the unfailing good humour of dr. byrom and his daughter, the three days spent on the road passed away very pleasantly. no more agreeable companion could be found than the doctor, and if beppy did not possess the remarkable conversational powers of her father, she was extremely lively and entertaining. she made every effort to cheer monica, and to a certain extent succeeded. dr. byrom had far less difficulty in dissipating constance's gloom, and leading her to take a brighter view of the future. so confident did he seem that a pardon could be obtained for atherton, that her uneasiness on that score, if not removed, was materially lightened. with the exception of dr. byrom, not one of the travellers had previously visited london, and when they first caught sight of the vast city from highgate hill, and noted its numerous towers and spires, with the dome of st. paul's rising in the midst of them, they were struck with admiration. they were still gazing at the prospect, and dr. byrom was pointing out the tower and other celebrated structures, when the clatter of hoofs reached their ears, and in another minute a well-mounted horseman presented himself at the carriage window. at first the young ladies thought it was a highwayman, and even dr. byrom shared the opinion, but a second glance showed them that the formidable equestrian was no other than atherton legh. "my sudden appearance seems to alarm you," he cried smiling, as he bowed to the party. "i have been nearer to you than you imagined, and could at any time have overtaken you had i thought proper. but before you enter yonder mighty city i should like to know where i shall find you. "we shall put up at the st. james's hotel in jermyn street," replied dr. byrom, "but you had better not come there at first. i will give you a place of rendezvous. be in the mall in st. james's park to-morrow afternoon, about four o'clock, and look out for me." "i will not fail," replied atherton. again bowing round and glancing tenderly at constance, he galloped off. gregory, the man-servant on the box, and the postillions, had seen his approach with dismay, being under the same impression as the gentlefolks inside, and fully expected the carriage would be stopped. gregory, however, speedily recognised the young gentleman, and called to the postillions that it was all right. brief as it was, the unexpected rencounter was highly satisfactory to constance, as it relieved her mind of any anxiety she had felt as to atherton's safety. within half an hour after this little incident, which furnished them with abundant materials for conversation, they reached the outskirts of london, and were soon making their way through a variety of streets towards the west end of the town. prepared as they were for something extraordinary, our young country ladies were fairly bewildered by all they beheld. oxford street they thought wonderful, but it was quite eclipsed by hanover square, bond street, and piccadilly. at length they reached jermyn-street, where they found very charming apartments at the st. james's hotel. end of the fifth book. book vi. kennington common. chapter i. monica visits jemmy in newgate. on the morning after the arrival of the party in town, monica being all anxiety to see her lover, dr. byrom accompanied her in a hackney-coach to the prison in which poor jemmy was confined. during the drive she supported herself tolerably well, but on reaching newgate she well-nigh fainted. the necessary arrangements for her admittance to the prisoner having been made by the doctor, he assisted her out of the coach. on entering the lodge she was obliged to remove her hood. a gaoler then conducted them along a passage that skirted the refection-hall, after which they ascended a short stone staircase which brought them to a gallery containing several chambers. unlocking the door of one of these cells the gaoler disclosed jemmy. he was seated at a small table reading, and on raising his head, and beholding monica, he sprang to his feet, and with a cry of delight clasped her to his breast. so tender was their meeting that even the hardened gaoler was touched by it. for a minute or two jemmy did not notice dr. byrom, but on becoming sensible of his presence he wrung his hand, and thanked him in heartfelt tones for bringing his mistress to him. the doctor then told monica that he would wait for her in the hall below, and quitted the cell. "and so this is your prison-chamber, dearest jemmy!" said monica, glancing round it. "'tis just the room i pictured from your description." "i thought it dismal at first," he rejoined; "but i have become quite content with it. i shall feel no longer miserable since you are come. you must never leave me more." "i never will," she replied. they then lapsed into silence. words seemed unnecessary to express their thoughts, and it was quite happiness enough to them to be together. leaving them we shall follow dr. byrom to the hall ward, where he found several prisoners assembled. amongst them were theodore deacon and tom syddall. taking the former aside he acquainted him with the death of his brother robert, of which the young man had not heard. though deeply affected by the intelligence, captain deacon bore it firmly. shortly afterwards colonel townley entered the hall, and on seeing dr. byrom immediately came up to him, and shook hands with him very cordially. "we meet again under rather melancholy circumstances, my dear doctor," he said. "but i am extremely glad to see you. fortune has played me false, but i hope she has nothing worse in store for me. the government must deliver me up. they cannot deny that i hold a commission from the king of france, and that i have been fifteen years in the french service. still i know the hazard i run," he added, shrugging his shoulders. "but come with me to my room. i want to say a word to you in private." with this, he led the doctor to a cell situated near the hall. it was somewhat larger than the chamber allotted to captain dawson, and better furnished. "pray take a seat," said the colonel, doing the honours of his room. "i want to learn something about atherton legh." "he is safe and in london," replied dr. byrom. "i expect to see him to-day. i hope to procure him a pardon, and i will tell you how. you are aware that his mother was miss conway. she was sister to colonel conway, who is now aide-de-camp to the duke of cumberland, and a great favourite of his royal highness. if colonel conway will intercede for his nephew with the duke, no doubt he will be successful." "i should think so," replied townley. "but is colonel conway aware of his nephew's existence?" "no," replied dr. byrom. "if he has heard of him at all, it must be as captain legh. he may have seen him at carlisle." "yes, when the young man was captured during a sally," said townley; "but he knew nothing of the relationship. however, unless the colonel should be deeply offended with his nephew for joining the prince, he can obtain his pardon, that is certain. was there any intercourse between sir richard rawcliffe and the conway family?" "not since the death of sir oswald's widow. they did not like him--and no wonder. but all this is favourable to our young friend. they will be glad to recognise him as sir conway." "i don't doubt it," replied townley. "i hope he may regain rawcliffe hall, and marry his fair cousin." they then began to discuss political matters, and were talking together in a low tone when the gaoler entered the cell, and informed dr. byrom that the young lady he had brought to the prison was waiting for him. the doctor then took leave of his friend, promising to visit him again very shortly, and accompanied the gaoler to the lodge, where he found monica. a coach was then called and took them to jermyn street. chapter ii. colonel conway. they found constance and beppy prepared for a walk. beppy had taken particular pains with her toilette, and being rather gaily attired, formed a contrast to constance, who was still in deep mourning. they tried to persuade monica to accompany them, but she declined, so they went out with dr. byrom, and walked down st. james's street to the park. the day was fine, and they were quite enchanted with the novelty and brilliancy of the scene. both young ladies looked so well that they attracted considerable attention among the gaily-attired company. after walking about for some time they perceived atherton, who immediately joined them. he was plainly but handsomely dressed, and looked exceedingly well. "i have arranged matters for you," said dr. byrom. "a room is secured for you at the st. james's hotel. you must pass as my son edward. that will remove all suspicion." "i shall be quite content to do so," replied the young man. they then continued their walk, and had quitted the crowded part of the mall, when an officer in full uniform, and followed by an orderly, was seen riding slowly down the avenue in the direction of the horse guards. he was a fine handsome man in the prime of life, and of very distinguished appearance. atherton immediately recognised him as colonel conway, and, acting upon a sudden impulse, stepped forward to address him. colonel conway reined in his steed, and returned the young man's salute. "i forget your name," said the colonel. "but unless my eyes deceive me, i have seen you before." "you saw me at carlisle, colonel." "why, then, you were in colonel townley's manchester regiment--you are the rebel officer whom i myself captured. how is it that you act in this foolhardy manner? i shall be compelled to order your immediate arrest!" "not so, colonel. i am perfectly safe with you." "how, sir!" cried colonel conway, sharply. "dare you presume?" "you will not arrest your sister's son," replied atherton. "did i hear aright?" exclaimed the colonel, scanning him narrowly. "yes, i am your nephew, the son of sir oswald rawcliffe," replied the young man. colonel conway uttered an exclamation of surprise. "i don't doubt what you say," he cried. "you certainly bear a remarkable resemblance to your father. am i to conclude you are the missing heir?" "even so," replied atherton. "i have sufficient proofs to support my claim whenever i choose to make it. but it is a long story, and cannot be told now. dr. byrom of manchester will vouch for the truth of the statement." and at a sign from the young man the doctor stepped forward. "i did not expect to be called up at this moment, colonel," said the doctor. "but you may rest satisfied that this young gentleman is your nephew. he is the lost sir conway rawcliffe." "but you did not serve under that name at carlisle?" cried the colonel, eagerly. "if i remember right, you were known as atherton legh?" "exactly," replied the young man. "i have not yet assumed my rightful name and title." "i am glad of it," cried the colonel. "by heaven! i am fairly perplexed how to act." "you will not act precipitately, colonel," said dr. byrom. "it was my intention to communicate with you on your nephew's behalf this very day." "i wish i had not seen him," cried the colonel. "why did he put himself in my way?" "i had no such design, sir, i assure you," said atherton. "will you allow us to wait on you, colonel?" asked dr. byrom. "wait on me! no! unless you want the young man to be arrested. where are you staying?" he added to atherton. "you will find me at the st. james's hotel at any hour you may please to appoint, colonel." "i am staying there, colonel," said dr. byrom; "and so is miss rawcliffe--the late sir richard rawcliffe's daughter." colonel conway reflected for a moment. then addressing atherton, he said: "on consideration, i will see you. be with me at cumberland house to-morrow morning at ten o'clock." "i will be there," was the reply. "mind, i make no promises, but i will see what can be done. i should wish you to accompany the young man, dr. byrom." the doctor bowed. "you say miss rawcliffe is staying at the st. james's hotel?" "she is staying there with my daughter and myself, colonel. they are both yonder. may i present you to them?" "not now," replied the colonel. "bring them with you to cumberland house to-morrow. they may be of use." then turning to atherton, he added, "i shall expect you." with a military salute, he then rode off towards the horse guards, followed by his orderly, leaving both his nephew and the doctor full of hope, which was shared by constance and beppy when they learnt what had occurred. chapter iii. cumberland house. next morning, at the hour appointed, constance and beppy, accompanied by dr. byrom and atherton, repaired to cumberland house in arlington street. sentinels were stationed at the gates, and in the court half-a-dozen officers were standing, who glanced at the party as they passed by. in the spacious vestibule stood a stout hall-porter and a couple of tall and consequential-looking footmen in royal liveries. one of the latter seemed to expect them, for, bowing deferentially, he conducted them into a handsome apartment looking towards the park. here they remained for a few minutes, when a side door opened and an usher in plain attire came in, and addressing the two young ladies, begged them to follow him. after consulting dr. byrom by a look they complied, and the usher led them into an adjoining apartment, which appeared to be a cabinet, and where they found a tall, well-proportioned man in military undress, whom they took to be colonel conway, though they thought he looked younger than they expected to find him. this personage received them rather haughtily and distantly, and in a manner far from calculated to set them at their ease. he did not even beg them to be seated, but addressing constance, said: "miss rawcliffe, i presume?" constance answered in the affirmative, and presented beppy, to whom the supposed colonel bowed. "i have heard of your father," he said. "a clever man, but a jacobite." then turning to constance, he remarked, "before you say anything to me understand that every word will reach the ears of the duke of cumberland. now what have you to allege in behalf of your cousin? on what grounds does he merit clemency?" "i am bound to intercede for him, sir," she replied; "since it was by my persuasion that he was induced to join the insurrection." "you avow yourself a jacobite, then?" said the colonel, gruffly. "but no wonder. your father, sir richard, belonged to the disaffected party, and you naturally share his opinions." "i have changed my opinions since then," said constance; "but i was undoubtedly the cause of this rash young man joining the insurgent army. pray use the influence you possess over the duke to obtain him a pardon." "what am i to say to the duke?" "say to his royal highness that my cousin deeply regrets the rash step he has taken, and is sensible of the crime he has committed in rising in rebellion against the king. he is at large, as you know, but is ready to give himself up, and submit to his majesty's mercy." "if grace be extended to him i am certain he will serve the king faithfully," said beppy. "i will tell you one thing, miss rawcliffe, and you too, miss byrom; the duke of cumberland feels that a severe example ought to be made of the officers of the manchester regiment. they are double-dyed rebels and traitors." "but we trust his royal highness will make an exception in this case," said beppy. "we would plead his youth and inexperience, and the influence brought to bear upon him." "but all this might be urged in behalf of the other officers--notably in the case of captain james dawson." "true," said beppy. "but as i understand, they are not willing to submit themselves, whereas sir conway rawcliffe has come to throw himself upon the king's mercy." "but how can we be certain he will not take up arms again?" "such a thing would be impossible," cried constance, earnestly. "i will answer for him with my life." "and so will i," cried beppy, with equal fervour. "once more i implore you to intercede for him with the duke," cried constance. "do not allow him to be sacrificed." "sacrificed! his life is justly forfeited. when he took this step he knew perfectly well what the consequences would be if he failed." "i cannot deny it," replied constance. "but he now bitterly repents." "surely, sir, you will answer for him," cried beppy. "i answer for him!" exclaimed the supposed colonel. "yes, for your nephew," said beppy. "had you been with him he would never have taken this false step." "well, i will hear what he has to say. but i must first make a memorandum." he then sat down at a table on which writing materials were placed, and traced a few lines on a sheet of paper, attaching a seal to what he had written. this done he struck a small silver bell, and, in answer to the summons, the usher immediately appeared. having received his instructions, which were delivered in a low tone, the usher bowed profoundly, and quitted the cabinet. scarcely was he gone when an officer entered--a fine commanding-looking person, but several years older than the other. on the entrance of this individual a strange suspicion crossed the minds of both the young ladies. but they were left in no doubt when the new-comer said: "i trust miss rawcliffe has prevailed?" "i must talk with your nephew, colonel conway, before i can say more." "colonel conway!" exclaimed constance. "have i been all this time in the presence of----" "you have been conversing with the duke of cumberland," supplied colonel conway. "oh, i implore your royal highness to forgive me!" exclaimed constance. "had i known----" "i shall die with shame!" cried beppy. at this moment dr. byrom and atherton were ushered into the cabinet. on beholding the duke of cumberland, whom both the new-comers recognised, they knew not what to think, but each made a profound obeisance. "this is my nephew, sir conway rawcliffe, your royal highness," said the colonel. "hitherto, i have only known him as captain legh, the rebel," observed the duke, rather sternly. "rebel no longer," said colonel conway. "he has come to deliver himself up to your royal highness, and to solicit your gracious forgiveness for his misdeeds." "does he acknowledge his errors?" demanded the duke. "he heartily and sincerely abjures them. if a pardon be extended to him, your august sire will ever find him a loyal subject." "is this so?" demanded the duke. "it is," replied the young man, bending lowly before the duke. "i here vow allegiance to the king, your father." "well, sir conway," replied the duke, "since you are sensible of your errors, i will promise you a pardon from his majesty. but you will understand that a point has been strained in your favour, and that you owe your life partly to the intercession of your uncle, whose great services i desire to reward, and partly to the solicitations of these your friends. it has been said of me, i know, that i am of a savage and inflexible disposition; but i should be savage, indeed, if i could resist such prayers as have been addressed to me--especially by your fair cousin," he added, glancing at constance. "those who have termed your royal highness savage have done you a great injustice," she said. "i must bear the remarks of my enemies," pursued the duke, "satisfied that i act for the best. here is your protection," he continued, giving sir conway the document he had just drawn up and signed. "you will receive your pardon hereafter." "i thank your royal highness from the bottom of my heart," said sir conway. "you will have no reason to regret your clemency." "serve the king as well as you have served his enemies, and i shall be content," said the duke. "'tis lucky for you that your estates will not be forfeited. but i hope your fair cousin may still continue mistress of rawcliffe." "i would never deprive her of the property," said sir conway. "nay, you must share it with her. and take heed, my dear young lady, if you are united to sir conway, as i hope you may be, that you do not shake his loyalty. you must forswear all your jacobite principles." "they are forsworn already," she said. "may i venture to put in a word?" observed dr. byrom. "such faith had i in your royal highness's clemency, and in your known friendship for colonel conway, that i urged his nephew to take this step which has had so happy a result." "you then are the author of the plot?" cried the duke. "perhaps i was at the bottom of it all," cried beppy. "i don't like to lose my share of the credit. i had the most perfect confidence in your royal highness's good-nature." "'tis the first time i have been complimented on my good-nature," observed the duke, smiling--"especially by a jacobite, as i believe you are, miss byrom." "after what has just occurred i could not possibly remain a jacobite," she said. "i shall trumpet forth your royal highness's magnanimity to all." "and so shall i," said her father. "when next i see sir conway rawcliffe," said the duke, "i trust it will be at st. james's palace, and i also hope he will bring lady rawcliffe to town with him. meantime, i advise him to retire to his country seat till this storm has blown over. it may possibly fall on some heads." "i shall not fail to profit by your royal highness's advice," replied sir conway, bowing deeply. profound obeisances were then made by all the party, and they were about to depart, when the duke said in a low tone to constance: "i depend upon you to maintain your cousin in his present disposition. go back to rawcliffe hall." "alas!" she rejoined, "i would obey your royal highness, but i cannot leave just now. my cousin, miss butler, is betrothed to captain dawson, of the manchester regiment. i must remain with her." "better not," rejoined the duke, in an altered tone. "but as you will. 'twill be vain to plead to me again. i can do nothing more." colonel conway here interposed, and, taking her hand, led her towards the door. "say not a word more," he whispered; "or you will undo all the good that has been done." the party then quitted cumberland house, and returned to the st. james's hotel. needless to say, they all felt happy--the happiest of all being sir conway. the duke of cumberland's injunctions were strictly obeyed. next day, the family coach was on its way back, containing the whole party, with the exception of poor monica, who would not return, but was left behind with lettice. three days afterwards the duke of cumberland, attended by colonel conway, proceeded to scotland, where the decisive battle of culloden was fought. chapter iv. the trial of the manchester rebels. an interval of some months being allowed to elapse, we come to a very melancholy period of our story. the unfortunate prisoners, who had languished during the whole time in newgate, were ordered to prepare for their trial, which was intended to take place in the court house at st. margaret's hill, southwark, before lord chief justice lee, lord chief justice willes, justice wright, justice dennison, justice foster, baron reynolds, baron clive, and other commissioners specially appointed for the purpose. previously to the trial the prisoners were ordered to be removed to the new gaol at southwark. 'twas a sad blow both to monica and her unfortunate lover. so much kindness and consideration had been shown to jemmy during his long confinement in newgate by all the officials, that he was quite grieved to leave the prison. familiar with every little object in his cell, he was unwilling to exchange it for another prison-chamber. in this narrow room he and monica had passed several hours of each day. their converse had been chiefly of another world, for jemmy had given up all hopes of a pardon, or an exchange, and they had prayed fervently together, or with the ordinary. monica, as we know, was a papist, but jemmy still adhered to the protestant faith. before her departure from london, constance had taken leave of him; but sir conway could not consistently visit the prison after the pardon he had received from the duke of cumberland. dr. byrom and his daughter had likewise visited him before they left town. about a week after constance's return to rawcliffe hall, mrs. butler died, and the sad tidings were communicated with as much care as possible to monica. prepared for the event, the poor girl bore it with pious resignation. "my mother was right," she said. "she foresaw that we should never meet again." at length the hour for departure came, and jemmy was forced to quit his cell. as he stepped forth, his heart died within him. in the lodge he took leave of the gaoler who had attended him, and of the other officials, and they all expressed an earnest hope that he might be exchanged. all had been interested in the tender attachment between him and monica, which had formed a little romance in the prison. the removal took place at night. jemmy was permitted to take a hackney-coach, and, as a special favour, monica was allowed to accompany him--a guard being placed on the box. to prevent any attempt at escape he was fettered, and this grieved him sorely, for he had not been placed in irons during his confinement in newgate. on london bridge, a stoppage occurred, during which the coaches were examined. on their arrival at the prison at southwark, the lovers were separated. immured in a fresh cell, jemmy felt completely wretched, and monica, more dead than alive, was driven back to jermyn-street. next day, however, she was allowed to see her lover, but only for a few minutes, and under greater restrictions than had been enforced in newgate. jemmy, however, had in some degree recovered his spirits, and strove to reassure her. three days afterwards the trials commenced. they took place, as appointed, at the court house, in st. margaret's hill. colonel townley was first arraigned, and maintained an undaunted demeanour. when he appeared in the dock a murmur ran through the crowded court, which was immediately checked. the counsel for the king were the attorney-general, sir john strange, the solicitor-general, sir richard lloyd, and the honourable mr. york--those for the prisoner were mr. serjeant wynne and mr. clayton. the prisoner was charged with procuring arms, ammunition, and other instruments, and composing a regiment for the service of the pretender to wage war against his most sacred majesty; with marching through and invading several parts of the kingdom, and unlawfully seizing his majesty's treasure in many places for the service of his villainous cause, and taking away the horses and other goods of his majesty's peaceful subjects. the prisoner was furthermore charged, in open defiance of his majesty's undoubted right and title to the crown of these realms, with frequently causing the pretender's son to be proclaimed in a public and solemn manner as regent, and himself marching at the head of a pretended regiment, which he called the manchester regiment. to this indictment the prisoner pleaded not guilty. the chief witness against the prisoner was ensign maddox, an officer of the regiment, who had consented to turn evidence for the crown. maddox declared that he had marched out with the prisoner as an ensign, but never had any commission, though he carried the colours; that the prisoner gave command as colonel of the manchester regiment; and that he ordered the regiment to be drawn up in the churchyard in manchester, where the pretender's son reviewed them, and that he marched at the head of the regiment to derby. that the prisoner marched as colonel of the manchester regiment in their retreat from derby to carlisle; that he was made by the pretender's son commandant of carlisle, and that he took on him the command of the whole rebel forces left there; that he had heard the prisoner have some words with colonel hamilton, who was governor of the citadel, for surrendering the place, and not holding out to the last; and that he had particularly seen the prisoner encourage the rebel officers and soldiers to make sallies out on the king's forces. after maddox's cross examination evidence was produced that colonel townley was many years in the french service under a commission from the french king; and since he was taken at carlisle had been constantly supplied with money from france. other witnesses were called to invalidate the evidence of maddox by showing that he was unworthy of credit. but the court ruled that no man who is a liege subject of his majesty can justify taking up arms, and acting in the service of a prince who is actually at war with his majesty. after the prisoner's evidence had been gone through, the solicitor-general declared, "that he felt certain the jury would consider that the overt acts of high treason charged against the prisoner in compassing and imagining the death of the king, and in levying war against his majesty's person and government, had been sufficiently proved." while the jury withdrew to consider their verdict, colonel townley looked more indifferent than any other person in court. on their return, in about ten minutes, the clerk of arraigns said: "how say you, gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? do you find francis townley guilty of the high treason whereof he stands indicted, or not guilty?" "guilty," replied the foreman. sentence of death was then pronounced upon him by lord chief justice lee, and during that awful moment he did not betray the slightest discomposure. he was then delivered to the care of mr. jones, keeper of the county gaol of surrey. captain dawson's trial next took place. his youth and good looks excited general sympathy. the indictment was similar to that of colonel townley--the treason being alleged to be committed at the same time. the attorney-general set forth that the prisoner, contrary to his allegiance, accepted a commission in the manchester regiment raised by colonel townley for the service of the pretender, and acted as captain; that he marched to derby in a hostile manner; that he retreated with the rebel army from derby to manchester, and thence to clifton moor, where in a skirmish he headed his men against the duke of cumberland's troops; and that he had surrendered at the same time as colonel townley and the other officers. evidence to the above effect was given by maddox and other witnesses. no defence was made by the prisoner, and the jury, without going out of court, brought him in guilty. as their verdict was delivered, a convulsive sob was heard, and attention being directed to the spot whence the sound proceeded, it was found that a young lady had fainted. as she was carried out the prisoner's eyes anxiously followed her, and it was soon known that she was his betrothed. the rest of the rebel officers were subsequently tried and found guilty, and sentence of death was passed upon them all. the order for the execution was couched in the following terms: "let the several prisoners herein named return to the gaol of the county of surrey whence they came. thence they must be drawn to the place of execution, on kennington common, and when brought there must be hanged by the neck--but not till they are dead, for they must be cut down alive. then their hearts must be taken out and burnt before their faces. their heads must be severed from their bodies, and their bodies divided into quarters, and these must be at the king's disposal." chapter v. the night before the executions. on the night preceding the day appointed for carrying out the terrible sentence, poor jemmy and his betrothed were allowed by mr. jones, the keeper of the prison, to pass an hour together. while clasping her lover's fettered hands, monica looked tenderly into his face, and said: "i shall not long survive you, jemmy." "banish these thoughts," he rejoined. "you are young, and i hope may have many years of happiness. be constant to my memory, that is all i ask. if disembodied spirits can watch over the living i will watch over you." with a sad smile he then added: "for a few minutes let us live in the past. let me look back to the time when i first beheld you, and when your beauty made an impression on me that has never been effaced. let me recall those happy hours when smiles only lighted up that lovely countenance, and no tear was ever shed. oh! those were blissful days!" "let me also recall the past, dearest jemmy," she cried. "how well do i recollect our first meeting! i thought i had seen no one like you, and i think so still. i could not be insensible to the devotion of a youth so gallant, and my heart was quickly yours. alas! alas! i took advantage of your love to induce you to join this fatal expedition." "do not reproach yourself, dearest monica. 'twas my destiny. i am a true adherent of the stuarts. had i ten thousand lives i would give them all to king james and my country! i shall die with those sentiments on my lips." as he spoke his pale cheek flushed, and his eye kindled with its former fire. she gazed at him with admiration. but after a few moments a change came over his countenance, and with a look of ill-concealed anguish, he said: "we must part to-night, dearest monica. 'tis better you should not come to me to-morrow." "nay, dearest jemmy, i will attend you to the last." "impossible! it cannot be. my execution will be accompanied by barbarities worthy of savages, and not of civilised beings. you must not--shall not witness such a frightful spectacle." "if the sight kills me i will be present." "since you are resolved, i will say no more. at least, you will see how firmly i can die." just then mr. jones came in to remind them that it was time to part, and with a tender embrace, jemmy consigned her to his care. on learning that she meant to attend the execution, mr. jones endeavoured to dissuade her, but she continued unshaken in her purpose. chapter vi. the fatal day. next morning all those condemned to die breakfasted together in a large room on the ground floor of the prison. their fetters had been previously removed. there was no bravado, no undue levity in their manner or discourse, but they looked surprisingly cheerful, in spite of the near approach of death under the most dreadful form. all had passed the greater part of the night in prayer. and as they hoped they had settled their account on high, there was nothing to disturb their serenity. "our time draws very near," observed syddall to captain dawson, who sat next him. "but for my part i feel as hearty as ever i did in my life. indeed, i think we all look remarkably well considering our position." "death does not terrify me in the least," said jemmy. "its bitterness is past with me. may heaven have mercy on us all!" "we die in a good cause," observed captain deacon. "i heartily forgive all my enemies--even the chief of them, the elector of hanover and the duke of cumberland. it has been falsely said that i was induced by my revered father to take up arms for the prince. the assertion i shall contradict in the manifesto i have prepared. for the rest i care not what my enemies say of me." "the duke of cumberland has not kept faith with us," exclaimed captain fletcher. "when we surrendered at carlisle, he declared that the garrison should not be put to the sword, but reserved for his father's pleasure--the elector's pleasure being that we should be hung, drawn, and quartered. gracious heaven! deliver all englishmen from this hanoverian clemency!" "my sole regret is that we ever surrendered," cried colonel townley. "would we all had died sword in hand! however, since we are brought to this pass, we must meet our fate like brave men. as we have been allowed wine with our last repast, let us drink to king james the third!" every glass was raised in response, after which they all rose from the table. several friends of the prisoners were now permitted to enter the room. among them were mr. saunderson, colonel townley's confessor, and captain deacon's youngest brother, charles. charles deacon had been reprieved; but, while embracing his brother for the last time, he expressed deep regret that he could not share his fate. poor monica was there--dressed in deep mourning. she and her lover were somewhat removed from the rest; but they were so engrossed by each other, that they seemed to be quite alone. their parting attracted the attention of tom syddall, and moved him to tears--though he had shed none for his own misfortunes. "how did you pass the night, dearest jemmy?" inquired monica. "chiefly in prayer," he replied. "but towards morn i fell asleep, and dreamed that you and i were children, and playing together in the fields. it was a pleasant dream, and i was sorry when i awoke." "i, too, had a pleasant dream, dearest jemmy," she rejoined. "i thought i saw my mother. she had a seraphic aspect, and seemed to smile upon me. that smile has comforted me greatly. ha! what sound is that?" "'tis the guard assembling in the court-yard," he replied. "we must part. do not give way." "fear me not," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. at this juncture, the sheriffs entered the room, attended by the keeper of the prison. the sheriffs wore black gowns, and were without their chains. while the sheriffs were exchanging a few words with colonel townley and the other prisoners, mr. jones conducted monica to the mourning-coach which was waiting for her at the gates of the prison. meanwhile, a guard of grenadiers had been drawn up in the court-yard, and the ignominious conveyances, destined to take the prisoners to the place of execution, had been got ready. by-and-by, the unfortunate men were brought down, and in the presence of the sheriffs and the keeper of the prison were bound to the hurdles with cords. this done, the dismal procession set forth. at the head of the train marched a party of grenadiers. then followed the sheriffs in their carriages, with their tipstaves walking beside them. those about to suffer came next. on the foremost hurdle were stretched colonel townley, captain deacon, and jemmy dawson. the remaining prisoners were bound in like manner. another party of grenadiers followed. next came several hearses, containing coffins, destined for the mangled bodies of the victims. after the hearses followed a number of mourning-coaches, drawn by horses decked with trappings of woe. in the foremost of these coaches sat monica, with her attendant, lettice. in this order the gloomy procession shaped its course slowly towards the place of execution. the streets were crowded with spectators anxious to obtain a sight of the unfortunate men who were dragged in this ignominious manner along the rough pavement. but no groans were uttered--no missiles thrown. on the contrary, much commiseration was manifested by the crowd, especially when the mourning-coaches were seen, and great curiosity was exhibited to obtain a sight of their occupants. for monica, whose story had become known, unwonted sympathy was displayed. at length, the train drew near kennington common, where a large assemblage was collected to witness the dreadful scene. hitherto, the crowd had been noisy, but it now became suddenly quiet. in the centre of the common, which of late years has been enclosed, and laid out as a park, a lofty gibbet was reared. near it was placed a huge block, and close to the latter was a great pile of faggots. on the block were laid an executioner's knife and one or two other butcherly instruments. at the foot of the fatal tree stood the executioner--a villainous-looking catiff--with two assistants quite as repulsive in appearance as himself. the two latter wore leather vests, and their arms were bared to the shoulder. on the arrival of the train at the place of execution, the sheriffs alighted, and the grenadiers formed a large circle round the gibbet. the prisoners were then released from the hurdles, but their limbs were so stiffened by the bonds that they could scarcely move. at the same time the faggots were lighted, and a flame quickly arose, giving a yet more terrible character to the scene. some little time was allowed the prisoners for preparation, and such of them as had papers and manifestoes delivered them to the sheriffs, by whom they were handed to the tipstaves to be distributed among the crowd. at this juncture a fair pale face was seen at the window of the foremost mourning coach, and a hand was waved to one of the prisoners, who returned the farewell salute. this was the lovers' last adieu. the dreadful business then began. colonel townley was first called upon to mount the ladder. his arms were bound by the executioner, but he was not blindfolded. his deportment was firm--his countenance being lighted up by a scornful smile. after being suspended for a couple of minutes, he was cut down, and laid, still breathing, upon the block, when the terrible sentence was carried out--his heart being flung into the flames and consumed, and his head severed from the body and placed with the quarters in the coffin, which had been brought round to receive the mangled remains. colonel townley's head, we may mention, with that of poor jemmy dawson, was afterwards set on temple bar. many of the spectators of this tragic scene were greatly affected--but those about to suffer a like fate witnessed it with stern and stoical indifference. amid a deep and awful hush, broken by an occasional sob, jemmy dawson stepped quickly up the ladder, as if anxious to meet his doom; and when his light graceful figure and handsome countenance could be distinguished by the crowd, a murmur of compassion arose. again the fair face--now death-like in hue--was seen at the window of the mourning coach, and jemmy's dying gaze was fixed upon it. as his lifeless body was cut down and placed upon the block to be mutilated, and the executioner flung his faithful heart, which happily had ceased beating, into the flames, a cry was heard, and those nearest the mourning coach we have alluded to pressed towards it, and beheld the inanimate form of a beautiful girl lying in the arms of an attendant. all was over. the story spread from lip to lip among the deeply-sympathising crowd, and many a tear was shed, and many a prayer breathed that lovers so fond and true might be united above. before allowing the curtain to drop on this ghastly spectacle, which lasted upwards of an hour, we feel bound to state that all the sufferers died bravely. not one quailed. with his last breath, and in a loud voice, captain deacon called out "god save king james the third!" when the halter was placed round poor tom syddall's neck, the executioner remarked that he trembled. "tremble!" exclaimed tom, indignantly. "i recoil from thy hateful touch--that is all." and to prove that his courage was unshaken, he took a pinch of snuff. the heads of these two brave men were sent to manchester, and fixed upon spikes on the top of the exchange. when he heard that this had been done, dr. deacon came forth, and gazed steadfastly at the relics, but without manifesting any sign of grief. to the bystanders, who were astounded at his seeming unconcern, he said: "why should i mourn for my son? he has died the death of a martyr." he then took off his hat, and bowing reverently to the two heads, departed. but he never came near the exchange without repeating the ceremony, and many other inhabitants of the town followed his example. chapter vii. five years later. once more, and at a somewhat later date, we shall revisit rawcliffe hall. it still wears an antique aspect, but has a far more cheerful look than of yore. internally many alterations have been made, which may be safely described as improvements. all the disused apartments have been thrown open, and re-furnished. that part of the mansion in which the tragic event we have recounted took place has been pulled down and rebuilt, and the secret entry to the library no longer exists. everything gloomy and ghostly has disappeared. father jerome no longer darkens the place with his presence, but before his departure he was compelled to give up all the documents he had abstracted. a large establishment is kept up, at the head of which is worthy old markland. sir conway rawcliffe has long been in possession of the estates and title. moreover, he is wedded to the loveliest woman in cheshire, and their union has been blessed by a son. it is pleasant to see the young baronet in his own house. he has become quite a country gentleman--is fond of all country sports, hunts, shoots, and occupies himself with planting trees in his park, and generally improving his property. so enamoured is he of a country life, so happy at rawcliffe, that his wife cannot induce him to take a house in town for the spring. his uncle, colonel conway, wished him to join the army, but he declined. he avoids all dangerous politics, and is well affected towards the government. lady rawcliffe is likewise fond of the country, though she would willingly spend a few months in town, now and then, as we have intimated. she looks lovelier than ever. five years have improved her. her figure is fuller, bloom has returned to her cheeks, and the melancholy that hung upon her brow has wholly disappeared. need we say that her husband adores her, and deems himself--and with good reason--the happiest and luckiest of men? they often talk of monica and jemmy dawson. time has assuaged their grief, but constance never thinks of the ill-fated lovers without a sigh. poor monica sleeps peacefully beside her mother in the family vault. sir conway and lady rawcliffe frequently pass a day at manchester with the byroms. the closest friendship subsists between them and that amiable family. wonderful to relate, beppy is still unmarried. that she continues single is clearly her own fault, for she has had plenty of offers, not merely from young churchmen, but from persons of wealth and good position. but she would have none of them. possibly, she may have had some disappointment, but if so it has not soured her singularly sweet temper, or affected her spirits, for she is just as lively and bewitching as ever. she is a frequent visitor at rawcliffe hall. dr. deacon is much changed, but if he mourns for his sons it is in private. after a long imprisonment, his youngest son charles has been sent into exile. a word in reference to the unfortunate parson coppock. he was imprisoned in carlisle castle with the other non-commissioned officers of the manchester regiment, and brought to the scaffold. for many months after the suppression of the rebellion the magistrates of manchester held constant meetings at a room in the little street, most appropriately called dangerous corner, to compel all suspected persons to take oaths to the government, and abjure popery and the pretender. denounced by some of his brother magistrates, and charged by them with aiding and abetting the cause of the rebels, mr. fowden, the constable, was tried for high treason at lancaster, but honourably acquitted. on his return the worthy gentleman was met by a large party of friends on horseback, and triumphantly escorted to his own house. after being exposed for some time on the exchange, the heads of poor theodore deacon and tom syddall were carried away one night--perhaps by the contrivance of the doctor--and secretly buried. though disheartened by recent events, the jacobites still continued in force in manchester. they greatly rejoiced at the escape of the young chevalier to france, after his wanderings in the highlands, and the more hopeful of the party predicted that another invasion would soon be made, and frequently discussed it at the meetings of their club at the bull's head. at length, a general amnesty was proclaimed, and several noted jacobites, compromised by the part they had taken in the rebellion, reappeared in the town. amongst them was the rev. mr. clayton, who was reinstated as chaplain of the collegiate church. long afterwards, whenever allusion was made at a jacobite meeting to the eventful year of our story, it was designated the "fatal 'forty-five." a sad period no doubt. yet some ancient chroniclers of the town, who have long disappeared from the scene, but to whom we listened delightedly in boyhood, were wont to speak of the prince's visit to manchester as occurring in the good old times. the good old times!--all times are good when old! the end. london: whiting and company, limited, sardinia street, lincoln's-inn-fields. a daughter of raasay a tale of the ' by william macleod raine illustrated by stuart travis new york frederick a. stokes company publishers ------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright, , by frank leslie publishing house copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company all rights reserved published in october, ------------------------------------------------------------------------- [illustration: aileen] ------------------------------------------------------------------------- to mr. ellery sedgwick ------------------------------------------------------------------------- contents chapter page i. the sport of chance ii a cry in the night iii deoch slaint an righ! iv of love and war v the hue and cry vi in the matter of a kiss vii my lady rages viii charles edward stuart ix blue bonnets are over the border x culloden xi the red heather hills xii volney pays a debt xiii the little god has an innings xiv the aftermath xv a reprieve! xvi volney's guest xvii the valley of the shadow xviii the shadow falls the afterword ------------------------------------------------------------------------- the ladies of st. james's the ladies of st. james's go swinging to the play; their footmen run before them with a "stand by! clear the way!" but phyllida, my phyllida! she takes her buckled shoon. when we go out a-courting beneath the harvest moon. the ladies of st. james's! they are so fine and fair, you'd think a box of essences was broken in the air: but phyllida, my phyllida! the breath of heath and furze when breezes blow at morning, is not so fresh as hers. the ladies of st. james's! they're painted to the eyes; their white it stays forever, their red it never dies: but phyllida, my phyllida! her colour comes and goes; it trembles to a lily,-- it wavers like a rose. the ladies of st. james's! you scarce can understand the half of all their speeches, their phrases are so grand: but phyllida, my phyllida! her shy and simple words are clear as after raindrops the music of the birds. the ladies of st. james's! they have their fits and freaks; they smile on you--for seconds; they frown on you--for weeks: but phyllida, my phyllida! come either storm or shine, from shrovetide unto shrovetide is always true--and mine. _austin dobson._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------- foreword when this romance touches history the author believes that it is, in every respect, with one possible exception, in accord with the accepted facts. in detailing the history of "the ' '" and the sufferings of the misguided gentlemen who flung away the scabbard out of loyalty to a worthless cause, care has been taken to make the story agree with history. the writer does not of course indorse the view of prince charles' character herein set forth by kenneth montagu, but there is abundant evidence to show that the young chevalier had in a very large degree those qualities which were lacking to none of the stuarts: a charming personality and a gallant bearing. if his later life did not fulfil the promise of his youth, the unhappy circumstances which hampered him should be kept in mind as an extenuation. the thanks of the writer are due for pertinent criticism to miss chase, to mr. arthur chapman and to mr. james rain, and especially to mr. ellery sedgwick, whose friendly interest and kindly encouragement have been unfailing. acknowledgment must also be made of a copious use of horace walpole's letters, the chevalier johnstone's history of the rebellion, and other eighteenth century sources of information concerning the incidents of the times. the author has taken the liberty of using several anecdotes and _bon mots_ mentioned in the "letters"; but he has in each case put the story in the mouth of its historical originator. w. m. r. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- a daughter of raasay chapter i the sport of chance "deep play!" i heard major wolfe whisper to lord balmerino. "can montagu's estate stand such a drain?" "no. he will be dipped to the last pound before midnight. 'tis volney's doing. he has angled for montagu a se'nnight, and now he has hooked him. i have warned the lad, but----" he shrugged his shoulders. the scotchman was right. i was past all caution now, past all restraint. the fever of play had gripped me, and i would listen to nothing but the rattle of that little box which makes the most seductive music ever sung by siren. my lord balmerino might stand behind me in silent protest till all was grey, and though he had been twenty times my father's friend he would not move me a jot. volney's smoldering eyes looked across the table at me. "your cast, kenn. shall we say doubles? you'll nick this time for sure." "done! nine's the main," i cried, and threw deuces. with that throw down crashed fifty ancestral oaks that had weathered the storms of three hundred winters. i had crabbed, not nicked. "the fickle goddess is not with you to-day, kenn. the jade jilts us all at times," drawled volney, as he raked in his winnings carelessly. "yet i have noted that there are those whom she forsakes not often, and i have wondered by what charmed talisman they hold her true," flashed out balmerino. the steel flickered into volney's eyes. he understood it for no chance remark, but as an innuendo tossed forth as a challenge. of all men sir robert volney rode on the crest of fortune's wave, and there were not lacking those who whispered that his invariable luck was due to something more than chance and honest skill. for me, i never believed the charge. with all his faults volney had the sportsman's love of fair play. the son of a plain country gentleman, he had come to be by reason of his handsome face, his reckless courage, his unfailing impudence, and his gift of _savoir-vivre_, the most notorious and fortunate of the adventurers who swarmed at the court of st. james. by dint of these and kindred qualities he had become an intimate companion of the prince of wales. the man had a wide observation of life; indeed, he was an interested and whimsical observer rather than an actor, and a scoffer always. a libertine from the head to the heel of him, yet gossip marked him as the future husband of the beautiful young heiress antoinette westerleigh. for the rest, he carried an itching sword and the smoothest tongue that ever graced a villain. i had been proud that such a man had picked me for his friend, entirely won by the charm of manner that made his more evil faults sit gracefully on him. volney declined for the present the quarrel that balmerino's impulsive loyalty to me would have fixed on him. he feared no living man, but he was no hothead to be drawn from his purpose. if lord balmerino wanted to measure swords with him he would accommodate the old scotch peer with the greatest pleasure on earth, but not till the time fitted him. he answered easily: "i know no talisman but this, my lord; in luck and out of luck to bear a smiling front, content with the goods the gods may send." it was a fair hit, for balmerino was well known as an open malcontent and suspected of being a jacobite. "ah! the goods sent by the gods! a pigeon for the plucking--the lad you have called friend!" retorted the other. "take care, my lord," warningly. "but there are birds it is not safe to pluck," continued balmerino, heedless of his growing anger. "indeed!" "as even sir robert volney may find out. an eaglet is not wisely chosen for such purpose." it irritated me that they should thrust and parry over my shoulder, as if i had been but a boy instead of full three months past my legal majority. besides, i had no mind to have them letting each other's blood on my account. "rat it, 'tis your play, volney. you keep us waiting," i cried. "you're in a devilish hurry to be quit of your shekels," laughed the irishman o'sullivan, who sat across the table from me. "isn't there a proverb, mr. montagu, about a--a careless gentleman and his money going different ways, begad? don't keep him waiting any longer than need be, volney." there is this to be said for the macaronis, that they plucked their pigeon with the most graceful negligence in the world. they might live by their wits, but they knew how to wear always the jauntiest indifference of manner. out came the feathers with a sure hand, the while they exchanged choice _bon mots_ and racy scandal. hazard was the game we played and i, kenneth montagu, was cast for the rôle of the pigeon. against these old gamesters i had no chance even if the play had been fair, and my head on it more than one of them rooked me from start to finish. i was with a vast deal of good company, half of whom were rogues and blacklegs. "heard george selwyn's latest?"[ ] inquired lord chesterfield languidly. "not i. threes, devil take it!" cried o'sullivan in a pet. "tell it, horry. it's your story," drawled the fourth earl of chesterfield. "faith, and that's soon done," answered walpole. "george and i were taking the air down the mall arm in arm yesterday just after the fellow fox was hanged for cutting purses, and up comes our fox to quiz george. says he, knowing selwyn's penchant for horrors, 'george, were you at the execution of my namesake?' selwyn looks him over in his droll way from head to foot and says, 'lard, no! i never attend rehearsals, fox.'" "'tis the first he has missed for years then. selwyn is as regular as jack ketch himself. your throw, montagu," put in o'sullivan. "seven's the main, and by the glove of helen i crab. saw ever man such cursed luck?" i cried. "'tis vile. luck's mauling you fearfully to-night," agreed volney languidly. then, apropos of the hanging, "ketch turned off that fellow dr. dodd too. there was a shower, and the prison chaplain held an umbrella over dodd's head. gilly williams said it wasn't necessary, as the doctor was going to a place where he might be easily dried." "egad, 'tis his greatest interest in life," chuckled walpole, harking back to selwyn. "when george has a tooth pulled he drops his kerchief as a signal for the dentist to begin the execution." old lord pam's toothless gums grinned appreciation of the jest as he tottered from the room to take a chair for a rout at which he was due. "faith, and it's a wonder how that old methuselah hangs on year after year," said o'sullivan bluntly, before the door had even closed on the octogenarian. "he must be a thousand if he's a day." "the fact is," explained chesterfield confidentially, "that old pam has been dead for several years, but he doesn't choose to have it known. pardon me, am i delaying the game?" he was not, and he knew it; but my lord chesterfield was far too polite to more than hint to topham beauclerc that he had fallen asleep over his throw. selwyn and lord march lounged into the coffee house arm in arm. on their heels came sir james craven, the choicest blackleg in england. "how d'ye do, everybody? whom are you and o'sully rooking to-night, volney? oh, i see--montagu. beg pardon," said craven coolly. volney looked past the man with a wooden face that did not even recognize the fellow as a blot on the landscape. there was bad blood between the two men, destined to end in a tragedy. sir james had been in the high graces of frederick prince of wales until the younger and more polished volney had ousted him. on the part of the coarse and burly craven, there was enduring hatred toward his easy and elegant rival, who paid back his malice with a serene contempt. noted duellist as craven was, sir robert did not give a pinch of snuff for his rage. the talk veered to the new fashion of spangled skirts, and walpole vowed that lady coventry's new dress was covered with spangles big as a shilling. "'twill be convenient for coventry. she'll be change for a guinea," suggested selwyn gloomily, his solemn face unlighted by the vestige of a smile. so they jested, even when the play was deepest and while long-inherited family manors passed out of the hands of their owners. the recent french victory at _fontenoy_ still rankled in the heart of every englishman. within, the country seethed with an undercurrent of unrest and dissatisfaction. it was said that there were those who boasted quietly among themselves over their wine that the sun would yet rise some day on a stuart england, that there were desperate men still willing to risk their lives in blind loyalty or in the gambler's spirit for the race of kings that had been discarded for its unworthiness. but the cut of his mechlin lace ruffles was more to the macaroni than his country's future. he made his jest with the same aplomb at births and weddings and deaths. each fresh minute of play found me parted from some heirloom treasured by montagus long since dust. in another half hour montagu grange was stripped of timber bare as the row itself. once, between games, i strolled uneasily down the room, and passing the long looking glass scarce recognized the haggard face that looked out at me. still i played on, dogged and wretched, not knowing how to withdraw myself from these elegant dandies who were used to win or lose a fortune at a sitting with imperturbable face. lord balmerino gave me a chance. he clapped a hand on my shoulder and said in his brusque kindly way-- "enough, lad! you have dropped eight thou' to-night. let the old family pictures still hang on the walls." i looked up, flushed and excited, yet still sane enough to know his advice was good. in the strong sallow face of major james wolfe i read the same word. i knew the young soldier slightly and liked him with a great respect, though i could not know that this grave brilliant-eyed young man was later to become england's greatest soldier and hero. i had even pushed back my chair to rise from the table when the cool gibing voice of volney cut in. "the eighth wonder of the world; lord balmerino in a new rôle--adviser to young men of fashion who incline to enjoy life. are you by any chance thinking of becoming a ranting preacher, my lord?" "i bid him do as i say and not as i have done. to point my case i cite myself as an evil example of too deep play." "indeed, my lord! faith, i fancied you had in mind even deeper play for the future. a vastly interesting game, this of politics. you stake your head that you can turn a king and zounds! you play the deuce instead." balmerino looked at him blackly out of a face cut in frowning marble, but volney leaned back carelessly in his chair and his insolent eyes never flickered. as i say, i sat swithering 'twixt will and will-not. "better come, kenneth! the luck is against you to-night," urged balmerino, his face relaxing as he turned to me. major wolfe said nothing, but his face too invited me. "yes, better go back to school and be birched," sneered volney. and at that i flung back into my seat with a curse, resolute to show him i was as good a man as he. my grim-faced guardian angel washed his hands of me with a scotch proverb. "he that will to cupar maun to cupar. the lad will have to gang his ain gate," i heard him tell wolfe as they strolled away. still the luck held against me. before i rose from the table two hours later i wrote out notes for a total so large that i knew the grange must be mortgaged to the roof to satisfy it. volney lolled in his chair and hid a yawn behind tapering pink finger-nails. "'slife, you had a cursed run of the ivories to-night, kenn! when are you for your revenge? shall we say to-morrow? egad, i'm ready to sleep round the clock. who'll take a seat in my coach? i'm for home." i pushed into the night with a burning fever in my blood, and the waves of damp mist which enveloped london and beat upon me, gathering great drops of moisture on my cloak, did not suffice to cool the fire that burnt me up. the black dog care hung heavy on my shoulders. i knew now what i had done. fool that i was, i had mortgaged not only my own heritage but also the lives of my young brother charles and my sister cloe. our father had died of apoplexy without a will, and a large part of his personal property had come to me with the entailed estate. the provision for the other two had been of the slightest, and now by this one wild night of play i had put it out of my power to take care of them. i had better clap a pistol to my head and be done with it. even while the thought was in my mind a hand out of the night fell on my shoulder from behind. i turned with a start, and found myself face to face with the scotchman balmerino. "whither away, kenneth?" he asked. i laughed bitterly. "what does it matter? a broken gambler--a ruined dicer-- what is there left for him?" the scotch lord linked an arm through mine. i had liefer have been alone, but i could scarce tell him so. he had been a friend of my father and had done his best to save me from my folly. "there is much left. all is not lost. i have a word to say to your father's son." "what use!" i cried rudely. "you would lock the stable after the horse is stolen." "say rather that i would put you in the way of getting another horse," he answered gravely. so gravely that i looked at him twice before i answered: "and i would be blithe to find a way, for split me! as things look now i must either pistol myself or take to the road and pistol others," i told him gloomily. "there are worse things than to lose one's wealth----" "i hear you say it, but begad! i do not know them," i answered with a touch of anger at his calmness. "----when the way is open to regain all one has lost and more," he finished, unheeding my interruption. "well, this way you speak of," i cried impatiently. "where is it?" he looked at me searchingly, as one who would know the inmost secrets of my soul. under a guttering street light he stopped me and read my face line by line. i dare swear he found there a recklessness to match his own and perhaps some trace of the loyalty for which he looked. presently he said, as the paving stones echoed to our tread:-- "you have your father's face, kenn. i mind him a lad just like you when we went out together in the ' for the king. those were great days--great days. i wonder----" his unfinished sentence tailed out into a meditative silence. his voice and eyes told of a mind reminiscent of the past and perhaps dreamful of the future. yet awhile, and he snatched himself back into the present. "six hours ago i should not have proposed this desperate remedy for your ills. you had a stake in the country then, but now you are as poor in this world's gear as arthur elphinstone himself. when one has naught but life at stake he will take greater risks. i have a man's game to play. are you for it, lad?" i hesitated, a prophetic divination in my mind that i stood in a mist at the parting of life's ways. "you have thrown all to-night--and lost. i offer you another cut at fortune's cards. you might even turn a king." he said it with a quiet steadfastness in which i seemed to detect an undercurrent of strenuous meaning. i stopped, and in my turn looked long at him. what did he mean? volney's words came to my mind. i began to piece together rumours i had heard but never credited. i knew that even now men dreamed of a stuart restoration. if arthur elphinstone of balmerino were one of these i knew him to be of a reckless daring mad enough to attempt it. "my lord, you say i might turn a king," i repeated slowly. "'tis more like that i would play the knave. you speak in riddles. i am no guesser of them. you must be plain." still he hung back from a direct answer. "you are dull to-night, kenn. i have known you more gleg at the uptake, but if you will call on me to-morrow night i shall make all plain to you." we were arrived at the door of his lodgings, a mean house in a shabby neighbourhood, for my lord was as poor as a church mouse despite his title. i left him here, and the last words i called over my shoulder to him were, "remember, i promise nothing." it may be surmised that as i turned my steps back toward my rooms in arlington street i found much matter for thought. i cursed the folly that had led me to offer myself a dupe to these hawks of the gaming table. i raged in a stress of heady passion against that fair false friend sir robert volney. and always in the end my mind jumped back to dally with balmerino's temptation to recoup my fallen fortunes with one desperate throw. "fraoch! dh 'aindeoin co theireadh e!" (the heath! gainsay who dare!) the slogan echoed and reechoed through the silent streets, and snatched me in an instant out of the abstraction into which i had fallen. hard upon the cry there came to me the sound of steel ringing upon steel. i legged it through the empty road, flung myself round a corner, and came plump upon the combatants. the defendant was a lusty young fellow apparently about my own age, of extraordinary agility and no mean skill with the sword. he was giving a good account of himself against the four assailants who hemmed him against the wall, his point flashing here and there with swift irregularity to daunt their valiancy. at the moment when i appeared to create a diversion one of the four had flung himself down and forward to cling about the knees of their victim with intent to knife him at close quarters. the young man dared not shorten his sword length to meet this new danger. he tried to shake off the man, caught at his white throat and attempted to force him back, what time his sword still opposed the rest of the villains. then i played my small part in the entertainment. one of the rascals screamed out an oath at sight of me and turned to run. i pinked him in the shoulder, and at the same time the young swordsman fleshed another of them. the man with the knife scrambled to his feet, a ludicrous picture of ghastly terror. to make short, in another minute there was nothing to be seen of the cutpurses but flying feet scampering through the night. the young gentleman turned to me with a bow that was never invented out of france. i saw now that he was something older than myself, tall, well-made, and with a fine stride to him that set off the easy grace of his splendid shoulders. his light steady blue eyes and his dark ruddy hair proclaimed him the highlander. his face was not what would be called handsome: the chin was over-square and a white scar zigzagged across his cheek, but i liked the look of him none the less for that. his frank manly countenance wore the self-reliance of one who has lived among the hills and slept among the heather under countless stars. for dress he wore the english costume with the extra splash of colour that betokened the vanity of his race. "'fore god, sir, you came none too soon," he cried in his impetuous gaelic way. "this riff-raff of your london town had knifed me in another gliff. i will be thinking that it would have gone ill with me but for your opportune arrival. i am much beholden to you, and if ever i can pay the debt do not fail to call on don--er--james brown." at the last words he fell to earth most precipitately, all the fervent ring dropping out of his voice. now james brown is a common name enough, but he happened to be the first of the name i had ever heard crying a highland slogan in the streets of london, and i looked at him with something more than curiosity. i am a scotchman myself on the mother's side, so that i did not need to have a name put to his nationality. there was the touch of a smile on my face when i asked him if he were hurt. he gave me the benefit of his full seventy three inches and told me no, that he would think shame of himself if he could not keep his head with his hands from a streetful of such scum. and might he know the name of the unknown friend who had come running out of the night to lend him an arm? "kenneth montagu," i told him, laughing at his enthusiasm. "well then, mr. kenneth montagu, it's the good friend you've been to me this night, and i'll not be forgetting it." "when i find myself attacked by footpads i'll just look up mr. james brown," i told him dryly with intent to plague. he took the name sourly, no doubt in an itching to blurt out that he was a mac-something or other. to a gaelic gentleman like him the sassenach name he used for a convenience was gall and wormwood. we walked down the street together, and where our ways parted near arlington street he gave me his hand. "the lucky man am i at meeting you, mr. montagu, while we were having the bit splore down the street. i was just weanying for a lad handy with his blade, and the one i would be choosing out of all england came hot-foot round the corner." i made nothing of what i had done, but yet his highland friendliness and flatteries were balm to a sick heart and we parted at my door with a great deal of good-will. ----- [ ] the author takes an early opportunity to express his obligations to the letters of horace walpole who was himself so infinitely indebted to the conversation of his cronies. chapter ii a cry in the night "past ten o'clock, and a clear starry night!" the watch was bawling as i set out from my rooms to keep my appointment with lord balmerino. i had little doubt that a stuart restoration was the cause for which he was recruiting, and all day i had balanced in my mind the pros and cons of such an attempt. i will never deny that the exiled race held for me a strong fascination. the stuarts may have been weak, headstrong kings in their prosperity, but they had the royal virtue of drawing men to them in their misfortune. they were never so well loved, nor so worthy of it, as when they lived in exile at st. germains. besides, though i had never mixed with politics, i was a jacobite by inheritance. my father had fought for a restoration, and my uncle had died for it. there were no fast bound ties to hold me back. loyalty to the hanoverians had no weight with me. i was a broken man, and save for my head could lose nothing by the venture. the danger of the enterprise was a merit in my eyes, for i was in the mood when a man will risk his all on an impulse. and yet i hung back. after all an englishman, be he never so desperate, does not fling away the scabbard without counting the cost. young as i was i grued at the thought of the many lives that would be cut off ere their time, and in my heart i distrusted the stuarts and doubted whether the game were worth the candle. i walked slowly, for i was not yet due at the lodgings of balmerino for an hour, and as i stood hesitating at a street corner a chaise sheered past me at a gallop. through the coach window by the shine of the moon i caught one fleeting glimpse of a white frightened girl-face, and over the mouth was clapped a rough hand to stifle any cry she might give. i am no don quixote, but there never was a montagu who waited for the cool second thought to crowd out the strong impulse of the moment. i made a dash at the step, missed my footing, and rolled over into the mud. when i got to my feet again the coach had stopped at the far end of the street. two men were getting out of the carriage holding between them a slight struggling figure. for one instant the clear shrill cry of a woman was lifted into the night, then it was cut short abruptly by the clutch of a hand at the throat. i scudded toward them, lugging at my sword as i ran, but while i was yet fifty yards away the door of the house opened and closed behind them. an instant, and the door reopened to let out one of the men, who slammed it behind him and entered the chaise. the postilion whipped up his horses and drove off. the door yielded nothing to my hand. evidently it was locked and bolted. i cried out to open, and beat wildly upon the door with the hilt of my sword. indeed, i quite lost my head, threatening, storming, and abusing. i might as well have called upon the marble busts at the abbey to come forth, for inside there was the silence of the dead. presently lights began to glimmer in windows along the dark street, and nightcapped heads were thrust out to learn what was ado. i called on them to join me in a rescue, but i found them not at all keen for the adventure. they took me for a drunken mohawk or some madman escaped from custody. "here come the watch to take him away," i heard one call across the street to another. i began to realize that an attempt to force an entrance was futile. it would only end in an altercation with the approaching watch. staid citizens were already pointing me out to them as a cause of the disturbance. for the moment i elected discretion and fled incontinent down the street from the guard. but i was back before ten minutes were up, lurking in the shadows of opposite doorways, examining the house from front and rear, searching for some means of ingress to this mysterious dwelling. i do not know why the thing stuck in my mind. perhaps some appealing quality of youth in the face and voice stirred in me the instinct for the championship of dames that is to be found in every man. at any rate i was grimly resolved not to depart without an explanation of the strange affair. what no skill of mine could accomplish chance did for me. while i was inviting a crick in my neck from staring up at the row of unlighted windows above me, a man came out of the front door and stood looking up and down the street. presently he spied me and beckoned. i was all dishevelled and one stain of mud from head to foot. "d' ye want to earn a shilling, fellow?" he called. i grumbled that i was out of work and money. was it likely i would refuse such a chance? and what was it he would have me do? he led the way through the big, dimly-lighted hall to an up-stairs room near the back of the house. two heavy boxes were lying there, packed and corded, to be taken down-stairs. i tossed aside my cloak and stooped to help him. he straightened with a jerk. i had been standing in the shadow with my soiled cloak wrapped about me, but now i stood revealed in silken hose, satin breeches, and laced doublet. if that were not enough to proclaim my rank a rapier dangled by my side. "rot me, you're a gentleman," he cried. i affected to carry off my shame with bluster. "what if i am!" i cried fiercely. "may not a gentleman be hungry, man? i am a ruined dicer, as poor as a church mouse. do you grudge me my shilling?" he shrugged his shoulders. doubtless he had seen more than one broken gentleman cover poverty with a brave front of fine lawn and gilded splendour of array. "all one to me, your royal 'ighness. take 'old 'ere," he said facetiously. we carried the boxes into the hall. when we had finished i stood mopping my face with a handkerchief, but my eyes were glued to the label tacked on one of the boxes. _john armitage, the oaks, epsom, surrey._ "wot yer waitin' for?" asked the fellow sharply. "the shilling," i told him. i left when he gave it me, and as i reached the door he bawled to be sure to shut it tight. an idea jumped to my mind on the instant, and though i slammed the door i took care to have my foot an inch or two within the portal. next moment i was walking noisily down the steps and along the pavement. three minutes later i tiptoed back up the steps and tried the door. i opened it slowly and without noise till i could thrust in my head. the fellow was nowhere to be seen in the hall. i whipped in, and closed the door after me. every board seemed to creak as i trod gingerly toward the stairway. in the empty house the least noise echoed greatly. the polished stairs cried out hollowly my presence. i was half way up when i came to a full stop. some one was coming down round the bend of the stairway. softly i slid down the balustrade and crouched behind the post at the bottom. the man--it was my friend of the shilling--passed within a foot of me, his hand almost brushing the hair of my head, and crossed the hall to a room opposite. again i went up the stairs, still cautiously, but with a confidence born of the knowledge of his whereabouts. the house was large, and i might have wandered long without guessing where lay the room i wanted had it not been for a slight sound that came to me--the low, soft sobbing of a woman. i groped my way along the dark passage, turned to the left, and presently came to the door from behind which issued the sound. the door was locked on the outside, and the key was in the lock. i knocked, and at once silence fell. to my second knock i got no answer. then i turned the key and entered. a girl was sitting at a table with her back to me, her averted head leaning wearily on her hand. dejection spoke in every line of her figure. she did not even turn at my entrance, thinking me no doubt to be her guard. i stood waiting awkwardly, scarce knowing what to say. "madam," i began, "may i-- is there----?" so far i got, then i came to an embarrassed pause, for i might as well have talked to the dead for all the answer i got. she did not honour me with the faintest sign of attention. i hemmed and hawed and bowed to her back with a growing confusion. at last she asked over her shoulder in a strained, even voice, "what is it you're wanting now? you said i was to be left by my lane to-night." i murmured like a gawk that i was at her service, and presently as i shifted from one foot to the other she turned slowly. her face was a dumb cry for help, though it was a proud face too--one not lacking in fire and courage. i have seen fairer faces, but never one more to my liking. it was her eyes that held me. the blue of her own highland lochs, with all their changing and indescribably pathetic beauty, lurked deeply in them. unconsciously they appealed to me, and the world was not wide enough to keep me from her when they called. faith, my secret is out already, and i had resolved that it should keep till near the end of my story! i had dropped my muddy cloak before i entered, and as she looked at me a change came over her. despair gave way to a startled surprise. her eyes dilated. "who are you, sir? and--what are you doing here?" she demanded. i think some fear or presage of evil was knocking at her heart, for though she fronted me very steadily her eyes were full of alarm. what should a man of rank be doing in her room on the night she had been abducted from her lodgings unless his purpose were evil? she wore a long cloak stretching to the ground, and from under it slippered feet peeped out. the cloak was of the latest mode, very wide and open at the neck and shoulders, and beneath the mantle i caught more than a glimpse of the laced white nightrail and the fine sloping neck. 'twas plain that her abductors had given her only time to fling the wrap about her before they snatched her from her bedchamber. some wild instinct of defense stirred within her, and with one hand she clutched the cloak tightly to her throat. my heart went out to the child with a great rush of pity. the mad follies of my london life slipped from me like the muddy garment outside, and i swore by all i held most dear not to see her wronged. "madam," i said, "for all the world i would not harm you. i have come to offer you my sword as a defense against those who would injure you. my name is montagu, and i know none of the name that are liars," i cried. "are you the gentleman that was for stopping the carriage as we came?" she asked. "i am that same unlucky gentleman that was sent speldering in the glaur.[ ] i won an entrance to the house by a trick, and i am here at your service," i said, throwing in my tag of scotch to reassure her. "you will be english, but you speak the kindly scots," she cried. "my mother was from the highlands," i told her. "what! you have the highland blood in you? oh then, it is the good heart you will have too. will you ever have been on the braes of raasay?" i told her no; that i had always lived in england, though my mother was a campbell. her joy was the least thing in the world daunted, and in her voice there was a dash of starch. "oh! a campbell!" i smiled. 'twas plain her clan was no friend to the sons of _diarmaid_. "my father was out in the ' , and when he wass a wounded fugitive with the campbell bloodhounds on his trail mary campbell hid him till the chase was past. then she guided him across the mountains and put him in the way of reaching the macdonald country. my father married her after the amnesty," i explained. the approving light flashed back into her eyes. "at all events then i am not doubting she wass a good lassie, campbell or no campbell; and i am liking it that your father went back and married her." "but we are wasting time," i urged. "what can i do for you? where do you live? to whom shall i take you?" she fell to earth at once. "my grief! i do not know. malcolm has gone to france. he left me with hamish gorm in lodgings, but they will not be safe since----" she stopped, and at the memory of what had happened there the wine crept into her cheeks. "and who is malcolm?" i asked gently. "my brother. he iss an agent for king james in london, and he brought me with him. but he was called away, and he left me with the gillie. to-night they broke into my room while hamish was away, weary fa' the day! and now where shall i go?" "my sister is a girl about your age. cloe would be delighted to welcome you. i am sure you would like each other." "you are the good friend to a poor lass that will never be forgetting, and i will be blithe to burden the hospitality of your sister till my brother returns." the sharp tread of footsteps on the stairs reached us. a man was coming up, and he was singing languidly a love ditty. "what is love? 'tis not hereafter, present mirth has present laughter, what's to come is still unsure; in delay there lies no plenty, then come kiss me sweet and twenty. youth's a stuff will not endure." something in the voice struck a familiar chord in my memory, but i could not put a name to its owner. the girl looked at me with eyes grown suddenly horror-stricken. i noticed that her face had taken on the hue of snow. "we are too late," she cried softly. we heard a key fumbling in the lock, and then the door opened--to let in volney. his hat was sweeping to the floor in a bow when he saw me. he stopped and looked at me in surprise, his lips framing themselves for a whistle. i could see the starch run through and take a grip of him. for just a gliff he stood puzzled and angry. then he came in wearing his ready dare-devil smile and sat down easily on the bed. "hope i'm not interrupting, montagu," he said jauntily. "i dare say though that's past hoping for. you'll have to pardon my cursedly malapropos appearance. faith, my only excuse is that i did not know the lady was entertaining other visitors this evening." he looked at her with careless insolence out of his beautiful dark eyes, and for that moment i hated him with the hate a man will go to hell to satisfy. "you will spare this lady your insults," i told him in a low voice. "at least so far as you can. your presence itself is an insult." "egad, and that's where the wind sits, eh? well, well, 'tis the manner of the world. when the cat's away!" a flame of fire ran through me. i took a step toward him, hand on sword hilt. with a sweep of his jewelled hand he waved me back. "fie, fie, kenn! in a lady's presence?" volney smiled at the girl in mock gallantry and my eyes followed his. i never saw a greater change. she was transformed. her lithe young figure stood out tall and strong, every line of weariness gone. hate, loathing, scorn, one might read plainly there, but no trace of fear or despair. she might have been a lioness defending her young. her splendour of dark auburn hair, escaped and fallen free to her waist, fascinated me with the luxuriance of its disorder. volney's lazy admiration quickened to a deeper interest. for an instant his breath came faster. his face lighted with the joy of the huntsman after worthy game. but almost immediately he recovered his aplomb. turning to me, he asked with his odd light smile, "staying long, may i ask?" my passion was gone. i was possessed by a slow fire as steady and as enduring as a burning peat. "i have not quite made up my mind how long to stay," i answered coldly. "when i leave the lady goes with me, but i haven't decided yet what to do with you." he began to laugh. "you grow amusing. 'slife, you are not all country boor after all! may it please you, what are the alternatives regarding my humble self?" he drawled, leaning back with an elbow on the pillow. "well, i might kill you." "yes, you might. and--er-- what would i be doing?" he asked negligently. "or, since there is a lady present, i might leave you till another time." his handsome, cynical face, with its curious shifting lights and shadows, looked up at me for once suffused with genuine amusement. "stap me, you'd make a fortune as a play actor. garrick is a tyro beside you. some one was telling me that your financial affairs had been going wrong. an it comes to the worst, take my advice and out-garrick garrick." "you are very good. your interest in my affairs charms me, sir robert. 'tis true they are not promising. a friend duped me. he held the montagu estates higher than honour." he appeared to reflect. "friend? don't think i'm acquainted with any of the kind, unless a friend is one who eats your dinners, drinks your wines, rides your horses, and"--with a swift sidelong look at the girl--"makes love to your charming adored." into the girl's face the colour flared, but she looked at him with a contempt so steady that any man but volney must have winced. "friendship!" she cried with infinite disdain. "what can such as you know of it? you are false as judas. did you not begowk my honest brother with fine words till he and i believed you one of god's noblemen, and when his back was fairly turned----?" "i had the best excuse in london for my madness, aileen," he said with the wistful little laugh that had gone straight to many a woman's heart. her eye flashed and her bosom heaved. the pure girl-heart read him like an open book. "and are you thinking me so mean a thing as still to care for your honeyed words? believe me, there iss no viper on the braes of raasay more detestable to me than you." i looked to see him show anger, but he nursed his silk-clad ankle with the same insolent languor. he might have been a priest after the confessional for all the expression his face wore. "i like you angry, aileen. faith, 'tis worth being the object of your rage to see you stamp that pretty foot and clench those little hands i love to kiss. but ecod! montagu, the hour grows late. the lady will lose her beauty sleep. shall you and i go down-stairs and arrange for a conveyance?" he bowed low and kissed his fingers to the girl. then he led the way out of the room, fine and gallant and debonair, a villain every inch of him. "will you be leaving me?" the girl cried with parted lips. "not for long," i told her. "do not fear. i shall have you out of here in a jiff," and with that i followed at his heels. sir robert volney led the way down the corridor to a small room in the west wing, where flaring, half-burnt candles guttering in their sconces drove back the darkness. he leaned against the mantel and looked long at me out of half-closed eyes. "may i ask to what is due the honour of your presence to-night?" he drawled at last. "certainly." "well?" "i have said you may ask," i fleered rudely. "but for me-- gad's life! i am not in the witness box." he took his snuff mull from his waistcoat pocket and offered it me, then took a pinch and brushed from his satin coat imaginary grains with prodigious care. "you are perhaps not aware that i have the right to ask. it chances that this is my house." "indeed! and the lady we have just left----?" "----is, pardon me, none of your concern." "ah! i'm not so sure of that." "faith then, you'll do well to make sure." "and--er--mistress antoinette westerleigh?" "quite another matter! you're out of court again, mr. montagu." "egad, i enter an exception. the lady we have just left is of another mind in the affair. she is the court of last resort, and, i believe, not complaisant to your suit." "she will change her mind," he said coolly. "i trust so renowned a gallant as sir robert would not use force." "lard, no! she is a woman and therefore to be won. but i would advise you to dismiss the lady from your mind. 'ware women, mr. montagu! you will sleep easier." "in faith, a curious coincidence! i was about to tender you the same advice, sir robert," i told him lightly. "you will forget the existence of such a lady if you are wise?" "wisdom comes with age. i am for none of it." "yet you will do well to remember your business and forget mine." "i have no business of my own, sir robert. last night you generously lifted all sordid business cares from my mind, and now i am quite free to attend those of my neighbours." he shrugged his shoulders in the french way. "very well. a wilful man! you've had your warning, and-- i am not a man to be thwarted." "i might answer that i am not a man to be frightened." "you'll not be the first that has answered that. the others have 'hic jacet' engraved on their door plates. well, it's an unsatisfactory world at best, and lard! they're well quit of it. still, you're young." "and have yet to learn discretion." "that's a pity too," he retorted lightly. "the door is waiting for you. better take it, mr. montagu." "with the lady?" "i fear the lady is tired. besides, man, think of her reputation. zounds! can she gad about the city at night alone with so gay a spark as you? 'tis a censorious world, and tongues will clack. no, no! i will save you from any chance of such a scandal, mr. montagu." "faith, one good turn deserves another. i'll stay here to save your reputation, sir robert." "i fear that mine is fly-blown already and something the worse for wear. it can take care of itself." "yet i'll stay." "gad's life! stay then." volney had been standing just within the door, and at the word he stepped out and flung it to. i sprang forward, but before i reached it the click sounded. i was a prisoner, caught like a fly in a spider's web, and much it helped me to beat on the iron-studded door till my hand bled, to call on him to come in and fight it out like a man, to storm up and down the room in a stress of passion. presently my rage abated, and i took stock of my surroundings. the windows were barred with irons set in stone sockets by masonry. i set my knee against the window frame and tugged at them till i was moist with perspiration. as well i might have pulled at the pillars of st. paul's. i tried my small sword as a lever, but it snapped in my hand. again i examined the bars. there was no way but to pick them from their sockets by making a groove in the masonry. with the point of my sword i chipped industriously at the cement. at the end of ten minutes i had made perceptible progress. yet it took me another hour of labour to accomplish my task. i undid the blind fastenings, clambered out, and lowered myself foot by foot to the ground by clinging to the ivy that grew thick along the wall. the vine gave to my hand, and the last three yards i took in a rush, but i picked myself up none the worse save for a torn face and bruised hands. the first fall was volney's, and i grudged it him; but as i took my way to balmerino's lodgings my heart was far from heavy. the girl was safe for the present. i knew volney well enough for that. that his plan was to take her to the oaks and in seclusion lay a long siege to the heart of the girl, i could have sworn. but from london to epsom is a far cry, and between them much might happen through chance and fate and--kenneth montagu. ----- [ ] speldering in the glaur--sprawling in the mud. chapter iii deoch slaint an righ! "you're late, kenn," was balmerino's greeting to me. "faith, my lord, i'm earlier than i might have been. i found it hard to part from a dear friend who was loathe to let me out of his sight," i laughed. the scotchman buckled on his sword and disappeared into the next room. when he returned a pair of huge cavalry pistols peeped from under his cloak. "going to the wars, my lord?" i quizzed gaily. "perhaps. will you join me?" "maybe yes and maybe no. is the cause good?" "the best in the world." "and the chances of success?" "fortune beckons with both hands." "hm! has she by any chance a halter in her hands for kenn montagu and an axe for balmerino since he is a peer?" "better the sharp edge of an axe than the dull edge of hunger for those we love," he answered with a touch of bitterness. his rooms supplied the sermon to his text. gaunt poverty stared at me on every hand. the floor was bare and the two ragged chairs were rickety. i knew now why the white-haired peer was so keen to try a hazard of new fortunes for the sake of the wife in the north. "where may you be taking me?" i asked presently, as we hurried through piccadilly. "if you ask no questions----" he began dryly. "----you'll tell me no lies. very good. odd's my life, i'm not caring! any direction is good enough for me--unless it leads to tyburn. but i warn you that i hold myself unpledged." "i shall remember." i was in the gayest spirits imaginable. the task i had set myself of thwarting volney and the present uncertainty of my position had combined to lend a new zest to life. i felt the wine of youth bubble in my veins, and i was ready for whatever fortune had in store. shortly we arrived at one of those streets of unimpeachable respectability that may be duplicated a hundred times in london. its characteristics are monotony and dull mediocrity; a dead sameness makes all the houses appear alike. before one of these we stopped. lord balmerino knocked, a man came to the door and thrust out a head suspiciously. there was a short whispered colloquy between him and the scotch lord, after which he beckoned me to enter. for an instant i hung back. "what are you afraid of, man?" asked balmerino roughly. i answered to the spur and pressed forward at once. he led the way along a dark passage and down a flight of stone steps into a cellar fitted up as a drinking room. there was another low-toned consultation before we were admitted. i surmised that balmerino stood sponsor for me, and though i was a little disturbed at my equivocal position, yet i was strangely glad to be where i was. for here was a promise of adventure to stimulate a jaded appetite. i assured myself that at least i should not suffer dulness. there were in the room a scant dozen of men, and as i ran them over with my eye the best i could say for their quality in life was that they had not troubled the tailor of late. most of them were threadbare at elbow and would have looked the better of a good dinner. there were two or three exceptions, but for the most part these broken gentlemen bore the marks of recklessness and dissipation. two i knew: the o'sullivan that had assisted at the plucking of a certain pigeon on the previous night, and mr. james brown, alias mac-something or other, of the supple sword and the highland slogan. along with another irishman named anthony creagh the fellow o'sullivan rushed up to my lord, eyes snapping with excitement. he gave me a nod and a "how d'ye do, montagu? didn't know you were of the honest party," then broke out with-- "great news, balmerino! the french fleet has sailed with transports for fifteen thousand men. i have advices direct from the prince. marshal saxe commands, and the prince himself is with them. london will be ours within the week. sure the good day is coming at last. the king--god bless him!--will have his own again; and a certain dutch beer tub that we know of will go scuttling back to his beloved hanover, glory be the day!" balmerino's eyes flashed. "they have sailed then at last. i have been expecting it a week. if they once reach the thames there is no force in england that can stop them," he said quietly. "surely the small fleet of norris will prove no barrier?" asked another dubiously. "poof! they weel eat heem up jus' like one leetle mouse, my frien'," boasted a rat-faced frenchman with a snap of his fingers. "haf they not two sheeps to his one?" "egad, i hope they don't eat the mutton then and let norris go," laughed creagh. he was a devil-may-care irishman, brimful of the virtues and the vices of his race. i had stumbled into a hornet's nest with a vengeance. they were mad as march hares, most of them. for five minutes i sat amazed, listening to the wildest talk it had ever been my lot to hear. the guelphs would be driven out. the good old days would be restored; there would be no more whiggery and walpolism; with much more of the same kind of talk. there was drinking of wine and pledging of toasts to the king across the water, and all the while i sat by the side of balmerino with a face like whey. for i was simmering with anger. i foresaw the moment when discovery was inevitable, and in those few minutes while i hung back in the shadow and wished myself a thousand miles away hard things were thought of arthur elphinstone lord balmerino. he had hoped to fling me out of my depths and sweep me away with the current, but i resolved to show him another ending to it. presently mr. james brown came up and offered me a frank hand of welcome. balmerino introduced him as captain donald roy macdonald. i let my countenance express surprise. "surely you are mistaken, my lord. this gentleman and i have met before, and i think his name is brown." macdonald laughed a little sheepishly. "the air of london is not just exactly healthy for highland jacobite gentlemen at present. i wouldna wonder but one might catch the scarlet fever gin he werena carefu', so i just took a change of names for a bit while." "you did not disguise the highland slogan you flung out last night," i laughed. "did i cry it?" he asked. "it would be just from habit then. i didna ken that i opened my mouth." then he turned to my affairs. "and i suppose you will be for striking a blow for the cause like the rest of us. well then, the sooner the better. i am fair wearying for a certain day that is near at hand." with which he began to hum "the king shall have his own again." i flushed, and boggled at the "no!" that stuck in my throat. creagh, standing near, slewed round his head at the word. "eh, what's that? say that again, montagu!" i took the bull by the horns and answered bluntly, "there has been a mistake made. george is a good enough king for me." i saw macdonald stiffen, and angry amazement leap to the eyes of the two irishmen. "'sblood! what the devil! why are you here then?" cried creagh. his words, and the excitement in his raised voice, rang the bell for a hush over the noisy room. men dropped their talk and turned to us. a score of fierce suspicious eyes burnt into me. my heart thumped against my ribs like a thing alive, but i answered--steadily and quietly enough, i dare say--"you will have to ask lord balmerino that. i did not know where he was bringing me." "damnation!" cried one leath. "what cock and bull tale is this? not know where he was bringing you! 'slife, i do not like it!" i sat on the table negligently dangling one foot in air. for that matter i didn't like it myself, but i was not going to tell him so. brushing a speck of mud from my coat i answered carelessly, "like it or mislike it, devil a bit i care!" "ha, ha! i theenk you will find a leetle reason for caring," said the frenchman ominously. "stab me, if i understand," cried creagh. "balmerino did not kidnap you here, did he? devil take me if it's at all clear to me!" o'sullivan pushed to the front with an evil laugh. "'t is clear enough to me," he said bluntly. "it's the old story of one too many trusted. he hears our plans and then the smug-faced villain peaches. next week he sees us all scragged at tyburn. but he's made a little mistake this time, sink me! he won't live to see the chevalier o'sullivan walk off the cart. if you'll give me leave, i'll put a name to the gentleman. he's what they call a spy, and stap my vitals! he doesn't leave this room alive." at his words a fierce cry leaped from tense throats. a circle of white furious faces girdled me about. rapiers hung balanced at my throat and death looked itchingly at me from many an eye. as for me, i lazed against the table with a strange odd contraction of the heart, a sudden standing still and then a fierce pounding of the blood. yet i was quite master of myself. indeed i smiled at them, carelessly, as one that deprecated so much ado about nothing. and while i smiled, the wonder was passing through my mind whether the smile would still be there after they had carved the life out of me. i looked death in the face, and i found myself copying unconsciously the smirking manners of the macaronis. faith, 't was a leaf from volney's life i was rehearsing for them. this but while one might blink an eye, then lord balmerino interrupted. "god's my life! here's a feery-farry about nothing. put up your toasting fork, de vallery! the lad will not bite." "warranted to be of gentle manners," i murmured, brushing again at the mechlin lace of my coat. "gentlemen are requested not to tease the animals," laughed creagh. he was as full of heat as a pepper castor, but he had the redeeming humour of his race. macdonald beat down the swords. "are you a' daft, gentlemen? the lad came with balmerino. he is no spy. put up, put up, chevalier! don't glower at me like that, man! hap-weel rap-weel, the lad shall have his chance to explain. i will see no man's cattle hurried." "peste! let him explain then, and not summer and winter over the story," retorted o'sullivan sourly. lord balmerino slipped an arm through mine. "if you are quite through with your play acting, gentlemen, we will back to reason and common sense again. mr. montagu may not be precisely a pronounced jack, but then he doesn't give a pinch of snuff for the whigs either. i think we shall find him open to argument." "he'd better be--if he knows what's good for him," growled o'sullivan. at once i grew obstinate. "i do not take my politics under compulsion, mr. o'sullivan," i flung out. "then you shouldn't have come here. you've drawn the wine, and by god! you shall drink it." "shall i? we'll see." "no, no, kenn! i promise you there shall be no compulsion," cried the old lord. then to o'sullivan in a stern whisper, "let be, you blundering irish man! you're setting him against us." balmerino was right. every moment i grew colder and stiffer. if they wanted me for a recruit they were going about it the wrong way. i would not be frightened into joining them. "like the rest of us y' are a ruined man. come, better your fortune. duty and pleasure jump together. james montagu's son is not afraid to take a chance," urged the scotch lord. donald roy's eyes had fastened on me from the first like the grip-of steel. he had neither moved nor spoken, but i knew that he was weighing me in the balance. "i suppose you will not be exactly in love with the wamey dutchmen, mr. montagu?" he asked now. i smiled. "if you put it that way i don't care one jack straw for the whole clamjamfry of them." "i was thinking so. they are a different race from the stuarts." "they are indeed," i acquiesced dryly. then the devil of mischief stirred in me to plague him. "there's all the difference of bad and a vast deal worse between them. it's a matter of comparisons," i concluded easily. "you are pleased to be facetious," returned o'sullivan sourly. "but i would ask you to remember that you are not yet out of the woods, mr. montagu. my lord seems satisfied, but here are some more of us waiting a plain answer to this riddle." "and what may the riddle be?" i asked. "just this. what are you doing here?" "faith, that's easy answered," i told him jauntily. "i'm here by invitation of lord balmerino, and it seems i'm not overwelcome." elphinstone interrupted impatiently. "gentlemen, we're at cross purposes. you're trying to drive mr. montagu, and i'm all for leading him. i warn you he's not to be driven. let us talk it over reasonably." "very well," returned o'sullivan sulkily. "talk as long as you please, but he doesn't get out of this room till i'm satisfied." "we are engaged on a glorious enterprise to restore to these islands their ancient line of sovereigns. you say you do not care for the hanoverians. why not then strike a blow for the right cause?" asked leath. "right and wrong are not to be divided by so clean a cut," i told him. "i am no believer in the divine inheritance of kings. in the last analysis the people shall be the judge." "of course; and we are going to put it to the test." "you want to set the clock back sixty years. it will not do." "we think it will. we are resolved at least to try," said balmerino. i shrugged my shoulders. "the times are against you. the stuarts have dropped out of the race. the mill cannot grind with the water that is past." "and if the water be not past?" asked leath fiercely. "mar found it so in the ' , and many honest gentlemen paid for his mistake with their heads. my father's brother for one." "mar bungled it from start to finish. he had the game in his own hands and dribbled away his chances like a coward and a fool." "perhaps, but even so, much water has passed under london bridge since then. it is sixty years since the stuarts were driven out. two generations have slept on it." "then the third generation of sleepers shall be wakened. the stream is coming down in spate," said balmerino. "i hear you say it," i answered dryly. "and you shall live to see us do it, mr. montagu. the heather's in a blaze already. the fiery cross will be speeding from badenoch to the braes of balwhidder. the clans will all rise whatever," cried donald roy. "i'm not so sure about mr. montagu living to see it. my friends o'sullivan and de vallery seem to think not," said creagh, giving me his odd smile. "now, i'll wager a crown that----" "whose crown did you say?" i asked politely, handing him back his smile. "the government cannot stand out against us," argued balmerino. "the duke of newcastle is almost an imbecile. the dutch usurper himself is over in hanover courting a new mistress. his troops are all engaged in foreign war. there are not ten thousand soldiers on the island. at this very moment the king of france is sending fifteen thousand across in transports. he will have no difficulty in landing them and london cannot hold out." "faith, he might get his army here. i'm not denying that. but i'll promise him trouble in getting it away again." "the highlands are ready to fling away the scabbard for king james iii," said donald roy simply. "it is in my mind that you have done that more than once before and that because of it misguided heads louped from sturdy shoulders," i answered. "wales too is full of loyal gentlemen. what can the hanoverians do if they march across the border to join the highlanders rolling down from the north and marshal saxe with his french army?" "my imagination halts," i answered dryly. "you will be telling me next that england is wearying for a change back to the race of kings she has twice driven out." "i do say it," cried leath. "bolingbroke is already negotiating with the royal family. newcastle is a broken reed. hervey will not stand out. walpole is a dying man. in whom can the dutchman trust? the nation is tired of them, their mistresses and their german brood." "when we had them we found these same stuarts a dangerous and troublesome race. we could not in any manner get along with them. we drove them out, and then nothing would satisfy us but we must have them back again. well, they had their second chance, and we found them worse than before. they had not learnt the lesson of the age. they----" "split me, y'are not here to lecture us, mr. montagu," cried leath with angry eye. "damme, we don't care a rap for your opinions, but you have heard too much. to be short, the question is, will you join us or won't you?" "to be short then, mr. leath, not on compulsion." "there's no compulsion about it, kenn. if you join it is of your own free will," said balmerino. "i think not. mr. montagu has no option in the matter," cried o'sullivan. "he forfeited his right to decide for himself when he blundered in and heard our plans. willy nilly, he must join us!" "and if i don't?" his smile was like curdled milk. "have you made your will, mr. montagu?" "i made it at the gaming table last night, and the chevalier o'sullivan was one of the legatees," i answered like a flash. "touché, sully," laughed creagh. "ecod, i like our young cockerel's spirit." "and i don't," returned o'sullivan. "he shall join us, or damme----" he stopped, but his meaning was plain to be read. i answered dourly. "you may blow the coals, but i will not be het." "faith, you're full of epigrams to-night, mr. montagu," anthony creagh was good enough to say. "you'll make a fine stage exit--granting that sully has his way. i wouldn't miss it for a good deal." "if the house is crowded you may have my seat for nothing," was my reply. strange to say my spirits were rising. this was the first perilous adventure of my life, and my heart sang. besides, i had confidence enough in balmerino to know that he would never stand aside and let me suffer for his indiscretion if he could help it. the old lord's troubled eyes looked into mine. i think he was beginning to regret this impulsive experiment of his. he tried a new tack with me. "of course there is a risk. we may not win. perhaps you do well to think of the consequences. as you say, heads may fall because of the rising." the dye flooded my cheeks. "you might have spared me that, my lord. i am thinking of the blood of innocent people that must be spilled." "your joining us will neither help nor hinder that." "and your not joining us will have deucedly unpleasant effects for you," suggested o'sullivan pleasantly. lord balmerino flung round on him angrily, his hand on sword hilt. "i think you have forgotten one thing, mr. o'sullivan." "and that is----?" "that mr. montagu came here as my guest. if he does not care to join us he shall be free as air to depart." o'sullivan laughed hardily. "shall he? gadzooks! the chevalier o'sullivan will have a word to say with him first. he did not come as any guest of mine. what the devil! if you were not sure of him, why did you bring him?" balmerino fumed, but he had no answer for that. he could only say,-- "i thought him sure to join, but i can answer for his silence with my life." "'t will be more to the point that we do not answer for his speech with our lives," grumbled leath. the frenchman leaned forward eagerly. "you thought heem to be at heart of us, and you were meestaken; you theenk heem sure to keep our secret, but how are we to know you are not again meestaken?" "sure, that's easy," broke out o'sullivan scornfully. "we'll know when the rope is round our gullets." "oh, he won't peach, sully. he isn't that kind. stap me, you never know a gentleman when you see one," put in creagh carelessly. the young highlander macdonald spoke up. "gentlemen, i'm all for making an end to this collieshangie. by your leave, lord balmerino, mr. creagh and myself will step up-stairs with this gentleman and come to some composition on the matter. mr. montagu saved my life last night, but i give you the word of donald roy macdonald that if i am not satisfied in the end i will plant six inches of steel in his wame for him to digest, and there's gumption for you at all events." he said it as composedly as if he had been proposing a stroll down the row with me, and i knew him to be just the man who would keep his word. the others knew it too, and presently we four found ourselves alone together in a room above. "is your mind so set against joining us, kenn? i have got myself into a pickle, and i wish you would just get me out," balmerino began. "if they had asked me civilly i dare say i should have said 'yes!' an hour ago, but i'll not be forced in." "quite right, too. you're a broth of a boy. i wouldn't in your place, montagu, and i take off my hat to your spirit," said creagh. "now let's begin again."--he went to the door and threw it open.--"the way is clear for you to leave if you want to go, but i would be most happy to have you stay with us. it's men like you we're looking for, and-- won't you strike a blow for the king o'er the sea, montagu?" "he is of the line of our ancient monarchs. he and his race have ruled us a thousand years," urged balmerino. "they have had their faults perhaps----" "perhaps," i smiled. "well, and if they have," cried donald roy hotly in the impetuous highland way. "is this a time to be remembering them? for my part, i will be forgetting their past faults and minding only their present distresses." "it appears as easy for a highlander to forget the faults of the stuarts as it is for them to forget his services," i told him. "oh, you harp on their faults. have you none of your own?" cried elphinstone impatiently. "i have seen and talked with the young prince. he is one to follow to the death. i have never met the marrow of him." "i think of the thousands who will lose their lives for him." "well, and that's a driech subject, too, but donald roy would a hantle rather die with claymore in hand and the whiddering steel aboot his head than be always fearing to pay the piper," said the young highlander blithely. "your father was out for the king in the ' ," said balmerino gently. oh, arthur elphinstone had the guile for all his rough ways. i was moved more than i cared to own. many a time i had sat at my father's knee and listened to the tale of "the ' ." the highland blood in me raced the quicker through my veins. all the music of the heather hills and the wimpling burns wooed me to join my kinsmen in the north. my father's example, his brother's blood, loyalty to the traditions of my family, my empty purse, the friendship of balmerino and captain macdonald, all tugged at my will; but none of them were so potent as the light that shone in the eyes of a highland lassie i had never met till one short hour before. i tossed aside all my scruples and took the leap. "come!" i cried. "lend yourselves to me on a mission of some danger for one night and i will pledge myself a partner in your enterprise. i can promise you that the help i ask of you may be honourably given. a fair exchange is no robbery. what say you?" "gad's life, i cry agreed. you're cheap at the price, mr. montagu. i'm yours, rip me, if you want me to help rum-pad a bishop's coach," exclaimed the irishman. "mr. creagh has just taken the words out of my mouth," cried donald roy. "if you're wanting to lift a lassie or to carry the war to a foe i'll be blithe to stand at your back. you may trust red donald for that whatever." "you put your finger on my ambitions, captain macdonald. i'm wanting to do just those two things. you come to scratch so readily that i hope you have had some practice of your own," i laughed. there was wine on the table and i filled the glasses. "if no other sword leaves scabbard mine shall," i cried in a flame of new-born enthusiasm. "gentlemen, i give you the king over the water." "king james! god bless him," echoed balmerino and creagh. "deoch slaint an righ! (the king's drink). and win or lose, we shall have a beautiful time of it whatever," cried donald gaily. an hour later kenneth montagu, jacobite, walked home arm in arm with anthony creagh and donald roy macdonald. he was setting forth to them a tale of an imprisoned maid and a plan for the rescue of that same lady. chapter iv of love and war all day the rain had splashed down with an unusual persistence, but now there was a rising wind and a dash of clear sky over to the south which promised fairer weather. i was blithe to see it, for we had our night's work cut out for us and a driving storm would not add to our comfort. from my hat, from the elbows of my riding-coat, and from my boot-heels constant rivulets ran; but i took pains to keep the pistols under my doublet dry as toast. at the courtyard of the inn i flung myself from my horse and strode to the taproom where my companions awaited me. in truth they were making the best of their circumstances. a hot water jug steamed in front of the hearth where creagh lolled in a big armchair. at the table captain macdonald was compounding a brew by the aid of lemons, spices, and brandy. they looked the picture of content, and i stood streaming in the doorway a moment to admire the scene. "what luck, montagu?" asked creagh. "they're at 'the jolly soldier' all right _en route_ for epsom," i told him. "arrived a half hour before i left. hamish gorm is hanging about there to let us know when they start. volney has given orders for a fresh relay of horses, so they are to continue their journey to-night." "and the lady?" "the child looks like an angel of grief. she is quite out of hope. faith, her despair took me by the heart." "my certes! i dare swear it," returned donald roy dryly. "and did you make yourself known to her?" "no, she went straight to her room. volney has given it out that the lady is his wife and is demented. his man watkins spreads the report broadcast to forestall any appeal she may make for help. i talked with the valet in the stables. he had much to say about how dearly his master and his mistress loved each other, and what a pity 'twas that the lady has lately fallen out of her mind by reason of illness. 'twas the one thing that spoilt the life of mr. armitage, who fairly dotes on his sweet lady. lud, yes! and one of her worst delusions is that he is not really her husband and that he wishes to harm her. oh, they have contrived well their precious story to avoid outside interference." i found more than one cause to doubt the fortunate issue of the enterprise upon which we were engaged. volney might take the other road; or he might postpone his journey on account of the foul weather. still other contingencies rose to my mind, but donald roy and creagh made light of them. "havers! if he is the man you have drawn for me he will never be letting a smirr of rain interfere with his plans; and as for the other road, it will be a river in spate by this time," the highlander reassured me. "sure, i'll give you four to one in ponies the thing does not miscarry," cried creagh in his rollicking way. "after the king comes home i'll dance at your wedding, me boy; and here's to mrs. montagu that is to be, bedad!" my wildest dreams had never carried me so far as this yet, and i flushed to my wig at his words; but the wild irishman only laughed at my remonstrance. "faith man, 'tis you or i! 'twould never do for three jolly blades like us to steal the lady from her lover and not offer another in exchange. no, no! castle creagh is crying for a mistress, and if you don't spunk up to the lady tony creagh will." to his humour of daffing i succumbed, and fell into an extraordinary ease with the world. here i sat in a snug little tavern with the two most taking comrades in the world drinking a hot punch brewed to a nicety, while outside the devil of a storm roared and screamed. as for my companions, they were old campaigners, not to be ruffled by the slings of envious fortune. captain donald roy was wont to bear with composure good luck and ill, content to sit him down whistling on the sodden heath to eat his mouthful of sour brose with the same good humour he would have displayed at a gathering of his clan gentlemen where the table groaned with usquebaugh, mountain trout, and highland venison. creagh's philosophy too was all for taking what the gods sent and leaving uncrossed bridges till the morrow. was the weather foul? sure, the sun would soon shine, and what was a cloak for but to keep out the rain? i never knew him lose his light gay spirits, and i have seen him at many an evil pass. the clatter of a horse's hoofs in the courtyard put a period to our festivities. presently rug-headed hamish gorm entered, a splash of mud from brogues to bonnet. "what news, hamish? has volney started?" i cried. "she would be leaving directly. ta sassenach iss in ta carriage with ta daughter of macleod, and he will be a fery goot man to stick a dirk in whatefer," fumed the gillie. i caught him roughly by the shoulder. "there will be no dirk play this night, hamish gorm. do you hear that? it will be left for your betters to settle with this man, and if you cannot remember that you will just stay here." he muttered sullenly that he would remember, but it was a great pity if hamish gorm could not avenge the wrongs of the daughter of his chief. we rode for some miles along a cross country path where the mud was so deep that the horses sank to their fetlocks. the wind had driven away the rain and the night had cleared overhead. there were still scudding clouds scouring across the face of the moon, but the promise was for a clear night. we reached the surrey road and followed it along the heath till we came to the shadow of three great oaks. many a dick turpin of the road had lurked under the drooping boughs of these same trees and sallied out to the hilltop with his ominous cry of "stand and deliver!" many a jolly grazier and fat squire had yielded up his purse at this turn of the road. for a change we meant to rum-pad a baronet, and i flatter myself we made as dashing a trio of cullies as any gentlemen of the heath among them all. it might have been a half hour after we had taken our stand that the rumbling of a coach came to our ears. the horses were splashing through the mud, plainly making no great speed. long before we saw the chaise, the cries of the postilions urging on the horses were to be heard. after an interminable period the carriage swung round the turn of the road and began to take the rise. we caught the postilion at disadvantage as he was flogging the weary animals up the brow of the hill. he looked up and caught sight of us. "out of the way, fellows," he cried testily. next instant he slipped to the ground and disappeared in the darkness, crying "'ware highwaymen!" in the shine of the coach lamps he had seen creagh's mask and pistol. the valet watkins, sitting on the box, tried to lash up the leaders, but macdonald blocked the way with his horse, what time the irishman and i gave our attention to the occupants of the chaise. at the first cry of the postilion a bewigged powdered head had been thrust from the window and immediately withdrawn. now i dismounted and went forward to open the door. from the corner of the coach into which aileen macleod had withdrawn a pair of bright eager eyes looked into my face, but no volney was to be seen. the open door opposite explained his disappearance. i raised the mask a moment from my face, and the girl gave a cry of joy. "did you think i had deserted you?" i asked. "oh, i did not know. i wass thinking that perhaps he had killed you. i will be thanking god that you are alive," she cried, with a sweet little lift and tremble to her voice that told me tears were near. a shot rang out, and then another. "excuse me for a moment. i had forgot the gentleman," i said, hastily withdrawing my head. as i ran round the back of the coach i came plump into volney. though dressed to make love and not war, i'll do him the justice to say that one was as welcome to him as the other. he was shining in silver satin and blue silk and gold lace, but in each hand he carried a great horse pistol, one of which was still smoking at the barrel. the other he pointed at me, but with my sword i thrust up the point and it went off harmlessly in the air. then i flung him from me and covered him with my barker. creagh also was there to emphasize the wisdom of discretion. sir robert volney was as daring a man as ever lived, but he was no fool neither. he looked at my weapon shining on him in the moonlight and quietly conceded to himself that the game was against him for the moment. from his fingers he slipped the rings, and the watch from his pocket-coat. to carry out our pretension i took them and filled my pockets with his jewelry. "a black night, my cullies," said volney as easy as you please. "the colour of your business," i retorted thoughtlessly. he started, looking at me very sharp. "else you would not be travelling on such a night," i explained lamely. "ah! i think we will not discuss my business. as it happens, the lady has no jewelry with her. if you are quite through with us, my good fellows, we'll wish you a pleasant evening. watkins, where's that d--d postilion?" "softly, sir robert! the night's young yet. will you not spare us fifteen minutes while the horses rest?" proposed creagh. "oh, if you put it that way," he answered negligently, his agile mind busy with the problem before him. i think he began to put two and two together. my words might have been a chance shot, but when on the heel of them creagh let slip his name volney did not need to be told that we were not regular fly-by-nights. his eyes and his ears were intent to pierce our disguises. "faith, my bullies, you deserve success if you operate on such nights as this. an honest living were easier come by, but lard! not so enticing by a deal. your enterprise is worthy of commendation, and i would wager a pony against a pinch of snuff that some day you'll be raised to a high position by reason of it. how is it the old catch runs? "'and three merry men, and three merry men, and three merry men are we, as ever did sing three parts in a string, all under the gallows tree.' "if i have to get up in the milkman hours, begad, when that day comes i'll make it a point to be at tyburn to see your promotion over the heads of humdrum honest folks," he drawled, and at the tail of his speech yawned in our faces. "we'll send you cards to the entertainment when that happy day arrives," laughed creagh, delighted of course at the aplomb of the macaroni. donald roy came up to ask what should be done with watkins. it appeared that volney had mistaken him for one of us and let fly at him. the fellow lay groaning on the ground as if he were on the edge of expiration. i stooped and examined him. 'twas a mere flesh scratch. "nothing the matter but a punctured wing. all he needs is a kerchief round his arm," i said. captain macdonald looked disgusted and a little relieved. "'fore god, he deaved (deafened) me with his yammering till i thought him about to ship for the other world. these englishers make a geyan work about nothing." for the moment remembrance of volney had slipped from our minds. as i rose to my feet he stepped forward. out flashed his sword and ripped the mask from my face. "egad, i thought so," he chuckled. "my young friend montagu repairing his fallen fortunes on the road! won't you introduce me to the other gentlemen, or would they rather remain incog? captain claude duval, your most obedient! sir dick turpin, yours to command! delighted, 'pon my word, to be rum-padded by such distinguished--er--knights of the road." "the honour is ours," answered creagh gravely, returning his bow, but the irishman's devil-may-care eyes were dancing. "a strange fortuity, in faith, that our paths have crossed so often of late, montagu. now i would lay something good that our life lines will not cross more than once more." "why should we meet at all again?" i cried. "here is a piece of good turf under the moonlight. 'twere a pity to lose it." he appeared to consider. "as you say, the turf is all that is to be desired and the light will suffice. why not? we get in each other's way confoundedly, and out of doubt will some day have to settle our little difference. well then, if 'twere done 'twere well done quickly. faith, mr. montagu, y'are a man after my own heart, and it gives me a vast deal of pleasure to accept your proposal. consider me your most obedient to command and prodigiously at your service." raffish and flamboyant, he lounged forward to the window of the carriage. "i beg a thousand pardons, sweet, for leaving you a few minutes alone," he said with his most silken irony. "i am desolated at the necessity, but this gentleman has a claim that cannot be ignored. believe me, i shall make the absence very short. dear my life, every instant that i am from you is snatched from paradise. fain would i be with you alway, but stern duty"--the villain stopped to draw a plaintive and theatric sigh--"calls me to attend once for all to a matter of small moment. anon i shall be with you, life of my life." she looked at him as if he were the dirt beneath her feet, and still he smiled his winsome smile, carrying on the mock pretense that she was devoted to him. "ah, sweet my heart!" he murmured. "'twere cheap to die for such a loving look from thee. all heaven lies in it. 'tis better far to live for many more of such." there was a rush of feet and a flash of steel. donald roy leaped forward just in time, and next moment hamish gorm lay stretched on the turf, muttering gaelic oaths and tearing at the sod with his dirk in an impotent rage. sir robert looked down at the prostrate man with his inscrutable smile. "your friend from the highlands is in a vast hurry, montagu. he can't even wait till you have had your chance to carve me. well, are you ready to begin the argument?" "quite at your command. there is a bit of firm turf beyond the oaks. if you will lead the way i shall be with you anon." "lud! i had forgot. you have your adieux to make to the lady. pray do not let me hurry you," he said urbanely, as he picked his way daintily through the mud. when he had gone i turned to the girl. "you shall be quit of him," i told her. "you may rely on my friends if--if the worst happens. they will take you to montagu grange, and my brother charles will push on with you to scotland. in this country you would not be safe from him while he lives." her face was like the snow. "iss there no other way whatever?" she cried. "must you be fighting with this man for me, and you only a boy? oh, i could be wishing for my brother malcolm or some of the good claymores on the braes of raasay!" the vanity in me was stung by her words. "i'm not such a boy neither, and angelo judged me a good pupil. you might find a worse champion." "oh, it iss the good friend you are to me, and i am loving you for it, but i think of what may happen to you." my pulse leaped and my eyes burned, but i answered lightly, "for a change think of what may happen to him, and maybe to pass the time you might put up a bit prayer for me." "believe me, i will be doing that same," she cried with shining eyes, and before i divined her intent had stooped to kiss my hand that rested on the coach door. my heart lilted as i crossed the heath to where the others were waiting for me beyond the dip of the hillock. "faith, i began to think you had forgotten me and gone off with the lady yourself," laughed volney. i flung off my cloak and my inner coat, for though the night was chill i knew i should be warm enough when once we got to work. then, strangely enough, an unaccountable reluctance to engage came over me, and i stood tracing figures on the heath with the point of my small sword. "are you ready?" asked the baronet. i broke out impetuously. "sir robert, you have ruined many. your victims are to be counted by the score. i myself am one. but this girl shall not be added to the list. i have sworn it; so have my friends. there is still time for you to leave unhurt if you desire it, but if we once cross swords one of us must die." "and, prithee, mr. montagu, why came we here?" "yet even now if you will desist----" his caustic insolent laugh rang out gaily as he mouthed the speech of tybalt in actor fashion. "'what, drawn, and talk of peace? i hate the word, as i hate hell, all montagus, and thee; have at thee, coward.'" i drew back from his playful lunge. "very well. have it your own way. but you must have some one to act for you. perhaps captain mac--er--the gentleman on your right--will second you." donald roy drew himself up haughtily. "feint a bit of it! i'm on the other side of the dyke. man, montagu! i'm wondering at you, and him wronging a hieland lassie. gin he waits till i stand back of him he'll go wantin', ye may lippen (trust) to that." "then it'll have to be you, tony," i said, turning to creagh. "guard, sir robert!" "'sdeath! you're getting in a hurry, mr. montagu. i see you're keen after that 'hic jacet' i promised you. lard! i vow you shall have it." under the shifting moonlight we fell to work on the dripping heath. we were not unevenly matched considering the time and the circumstances. i had in my favour youth, an active life, and a wrist of steel. at least i was a strong swordsman, even though i could not pretend to anything like the mastery of the weapon which he possessed. to some extent his superior skill was neutralized by the dim light. he had been used to win his fights as much with his head as with his hand, to read his opponent's intention in advance from the eyes while he concealed his own; but the darkness, combined with my wooden face, made this impossible now. every turn and trick of the game he knew, but the shifting shine and shadow disconcerted him. more than once i heard him curse softly when at a critical moment the scudding clouds drifted across the moon in time to save me. he had the better of me throughout, but somehow i blundered through without letting him find the chance for which he looked. i kept my head, and parried by sheer luck his brilliant lunges. i broke ground and won free--if but barely--from his incessant attack. more than once he pricked me. a high thrust which i diverted too late with the parade of tierce drew blood freely. he fleshed me again on the riposte by a one-two feint in tierce and a thrust in carte. "'l'art de donner et de ne pas recevoir,'" he quoted, as he parried my counter-thrust with debonair ease. try as i would i could not get behind that wonderful guard of his. it was easy, graceful, careless almost, but it was sure. his point was a gleaming flash of light, but it never wavered from my body line. a darker cloud obscured the moon, and by common consent we rested. "three minutes for good-byes," said volney, suggestively. "oh, my friends need not order the hearse yet--at least for me. of course, if it would be any convenience----" he laughed. "faith, you improve on acquaintance, mr. montagu, like good wine or--to stick to the same colour--the taste of the lady's lips." i looked blackly at him. "do you pretend----?" "oh, i pretend nothing. kiss and never tell, egad! too bad they're not for you too, montagu." "i see that sir robert volney has added another accomplishment to his vices." "and that is----?" "he can couple a woman's name with the hint of a slanderous lie." sir robert turned to creagh and waved a hand at me, shaking his head sorrowfully. "the country boor in evidence again. curious how it will crop out. ah, mr. montagu! the moon shines bright again. shall we have the pleasure of renewing our little debate?" i nodded curtly. he stopped a moment to say: "you have a strong wrist and a prodigious good fence, mr. montagu, but if you will pardon a word of criticism i think your guard too high." "y'are not here to instruct me, sir robert, but----" "to kill you. quite so!" he interrupted jauntily. "still, a friendly word of caution--and the guard _is_ overhigh! 'tis the same fault my third had. i ran under it, and----" he shrugged his shoulders. "was that the boy you killed for defending his sister?" i asked insolently. apparently my hit did not pierce the skin. "no. i've forgot the nomination of the gentleman. what matter? he has long been food for worms. pardon me, i see blood trickling down your sword arm. allow me to offer my kerchief." "thanks! 'twill do as it is. art ready?" "lard, yes! and guard lower, an you love me. the high guard is the one fault-- well parried, montagu!--i find in angelo's pupils. correcting that, you would have made a rare swordsman in time." his use of the subjunctive did not escape me. "i'm not dead yet," i panted. i parried a feint une-deux, in carte, with the parade in semicircle, and he came over my blade, thrusting low in carte. his laugh rang out clear as a boy's, and the great eyes of the man blazed with the joy of fight. "gad, you're quick to take my meaning! ah! you nearly began the long journey that time, my friend." he had broken ground apparently in disorder, and by the feel of his sword i made sure he had in mind to parry; but the man was as full of tricks as the french king louis and with incredible swiftness he sent a straight thrust in high tierce--a thrust which sharply stung my ribs only, since i had flung myself aside in time to save my vitals. after that came the end. he caught me full and fair in the side of the neck. a moist stifling filled my throat and the turf whirled up to meet the sky. i knew nothing but a mad surge of rage that he had cut me to pieces and i had never touched him once. as i went down i flung myself forward at him wildly. it is to be supposed that he was off guard for the moment, supposing me a man already dead. my blade slipped along his, lurched farther forward, at last struck something soft and ripped down. a hundred crimson points zigzagged before my eyes, and i dropped down into unconsciousness in a heap. v the hue and cry languidly i came back to a world that faded and grew clear again most puzzlingly, that danced and jerked to and fro in oddly irresponsible fashion. at first too deadly weary to explain the situation to myself, i presently made out that i was in a coach which lurched prodigiously and filled me with sharp pains. fronting me was the apparently lifeless body of a man propped in the corner with the head against the cushions, the white face grinning horridly at me. 'twas the face of volney. i stirred to get it out of my line of vision, and a soft, firm hand restrained me gently. "you are not to be stirring," a sweet voice said. then to herself its owner added, ever so softly and so happily, "thaing do dhia (thank god.) he iss alive--he iss alive!" i pointed feebly a leaden finger at the white face over against me with the shine of the moon on it. "dead?" "no. he hass just fainted. you are not to talk!" "and donald roy----?" the imperious little hand slipped down to cover my mouth, and kenneth montagu kissed it where it lay. for a minute she did not lift the hand, what time i lay in a dream of warm happiness. a chuckle from the opposite seat aroused me. the eyes in the colourless face had opened, and volney sat looking at us with an ironic smile. "i must have fallen asleep--and before a lady. a thousand apologies! and for awaking so inopportunely, ten thousand more!" he changed his position that he might look the easier at her, a half-humorous admiration in his eyes. "sweet, you beggar my vocabulary. as the goddess of healing you are divine." the flush of alarmed maiden modesty flooded her cheek. "you are to lie still, else the wound will break out again," she said sharply. "faith, it has broken out," he feebly laughed, pretending to misunderstand. then, "oh, you mean the sword cut. 'twould never open after it has been dressed by so fair a leech." the girl looked studiously out of the coach window and made no answer. now, weak as i was--in pain and near to death, my head on her lap with her dear hand to cool my fevered brow--yet was i fool enough to grow insanely jealous that she had used her kerchief to bind his wound. his pale, handsome face was so winning and his eyes so beautiful that they thrust me through the heart as his sword had been unable to do. he looked at me with an odd sort of friendliness, the respect one man has for another who has faced death without flinching. "egad, montagu, had either of us driven but a finger's breadth to left we had made sure work and saved the doctors a vast deal of pother. i doubt 'twill be all to do over again one day. where did you learn that mad lunge of yours? i vow 'tis none of angelo's teaching. no defense would avail against such a fortuitous stroke. methought i had you speeding to kingdom come, and lard! you skewered me bravely. 'slife, 'tis an uncertain world, this! here we ride back together to the inn and no man can say which of us has more than he can carry." all this with his easy dare-devil smile, though his voice was faint from weakness. an odd compound of virtues and vices this man! i learnt afterwards that he had insisted on my wounds being dressed before he would let them touch him, though he was bleeding greatly. but i had no mind for badinage, and i turned my face from him sullenly. silence fell till we jolted into the courtyard of "the jolly soldier," where creagh, macdonald, and hamish gorm, having dismounted from their horses, waited to carry us into the house. we were got to bed at once, and our wounds looked to more carefully. by an odd chance volney and i were put in the same room, the inn being full, and the macdonald nursed us both, creagh being for the most part absent in london on business connected with the rising. lying there day after day, the baronet and i came in time to an odd liking for each other, discussing our affairs frankly with certain reservations. once he commented on the strangeness of it. "a singular creature is man, montagu! here are we two as friendly as--as brothers i had almost said, but most brothers hate each other with good cause. at all events here we lie with nothing but good-will; we are too weak to get at each other's throats and so perforce must endure each the other's presence, and from mere sufferance come to a mutual--shall i say esteem? a while since we were for slaying; naught but cold steel would let out our heat; and now--i swear i have for you a vast liking. will it last, think you?" "till we are on our feet again. no longer," i answered. "i suppose you are right," he replied, with the first touch of despondency i had ever heard in his voice. "the devil of it is that when i want a thing i never rest till i get it, and after i have won it i don't care any more for it." "i'm an obstinate man myself," i said. "yes, i know. and when i say i'll do a thing and you say i sha'n't nothing on earth can keep us from the small sword." "did you never spare a victim--never draw back before the evil was done?" i asked curiously. "many a time, but never when the incentive to the chase was so great as now. 'tis the overcoming of obstacles i cannot resist. in this case--to pass by the acknowledged charms of the lady--i find two powerful reasons for continuing: her proud coyness and your defense of her. be sure i shall not fail." "i think you will," i answered quietly. out of doubt the man had a subtle fascination for me, even though i hated his principles in the same breath. when he turned the batteries of his fine winning eyes and sparkling smile on me i was under impulse to capitulate unconditionally; 'twas at remembrance of aileen that my jaws set like a vice again. but as the days passed i observed a gradual change in volney's attitude toward the highland lass. macdonald had found a temporary home for her at the house of a kind-hearted widow woman who lived in the neighbourhood, and so long as we were in danger the girl and her grey-haired friend came often to offer their services in nursing. aileen treated the baronet with such shy gentle womanliness, her girlish pity struggling through the highland pride, forgetting in the suffering man the dastard who had wronged her, that he was moved not a little from his cynical ironic gayety. she was in a peculiar relation toward us, one lacking the sanction of society and yet quite natural. i had fought for her, and her warm heart forbade her to go her way and leave me to live or die as chance might will. as she would move about the room ministering to our wants, wrapped in her sweet purity and grace, more than once i caught on his face a pain of wistfulness that told me of another man beneath the polished heartless macaroni. for the moment i knew he repented him of his attempted wrong, though i could not know that a day of manly reparation would come to blot out his sin against her. as we grew better aileen's visits became shorter and less frequent, so that our only temptation to linger over our illness was removed. one day sir robert limped slowly across the floor on the arm of creagh while i watched him enviously. from that time his improvement was rapid and within a week he came to make his adieux to me. dressed point-devise, he was once more every inch a fop. "i sha'n't say good-bye, montagu, to either you or the lady, because i expect to see you both again soon. i have a shot in my locker that will bring you to mighty short one of these days. tony creagh is going to london with me in my coach. sorry you and the lady won't take the other two seats. well, au revoir. hope you'll be quite fit when you come up for the next round." and waving a hand airily at me he went limping down the stairs, devoid of grace yet every motion eloquent of it, to me a living paradox. nor was it long before i too was able to crawl out into the sunshine with aileen macleod and captain macdonald as my crutches. not far from the inn was a grove of trees, and in it a rustic seat or two. hither we three repaired for many a quiet hour of talk. long ago donald had established his relationship with aileen. it appeared that he was a cousin about eight degrees removed. none but a highlander would have counted it at all, but for them it sufficed. donald roy had an extraordinary taking way with women, and he got on with the girl much more easily than i did. indeed, to hear them daffing with each other one would have said they had been brought up together instead of being acquaintances of less than three weeks standing. yet donald was so clever with it all that i was never the least jealous of him. he was forever taking pains to show me off well before her, making as much of my small attainments as a hen with one chick. like many of the west country highlanders he was something of a scholar. french he could speak like a native, and he had dabbled in the humanities; but he would drag forth my smattering of learning with so much glee that one might have thought him ignorant of the plainest a b c of the matter. more than once i have known him blunder in a latin quotation that i might correct him. aileen and he had a hundred topics in common from which i was excluded by reason of my ignorance of the highlands, but the macdonald was as sly as a fox on my behalf. he would draw out the girl about the dear northland they both loved and then would suddenly remember that his pistols needed cleaning or that, he had promised to "crack" with some chance gentleman stopping at the inn, and away he would go, leaving us two alone. while i lay on the grass and looked at her aileen would tell me in her eager, impulsive way about her own kindly country, of tinkling, murmuring burns, of hills burnt red with the heather, of a hundred wild flowers that blossomed on the braes of raasay, and as she talked of them her blue eyes sparkled like the sun-kissed lochs themselves. ah! those were the good days, when the wine of life was creeping back into my blood and i was falling forty fathoms deep in love. despite myself she was for making a hero of me, and my leal-hearted friend, macdonald, was not a whit behind, though the droll look in his eyes suggested sometimes an ulterior motive. we talked of many things, but in the end we always got back to the one subject that burned like a flame in their hearts--the rising of the clans that was to bring back the stuarts to their own. their pure zeal shamed my cold english caution. i found myself growing keen for the arbitrament of battle. no earthly paradise endures forever. into those days of peace the serpent of my eden projected his sting. we were all sitting in the grove one morning when a rider dashed up to the inn and flung himself from his horse. 'twas tony creagh, and he carried with him a placard which offered a reward of a hundred guineas for the arrest of one kenneth montagu, esquire, who had, with other parties unknown, on the night of july first, robbed sir robert volney of certain jewelry therein described. "highwayman it says," quoth i in frowning perplexity. "but volney knows i had no mind to rob him. zounds! what does he mean?" "mean? why, to get rid of you! i tore this down from a tavern wall in london just after 'twas pasted. it seems you forgot to return the gentleman his jewelry." i turned mighty red and pleaded guilty. "i thought so. gad! you're like to keep sheep by moonlight," chuckled creagh. "nonsense! they would never hang me," i cried. "wouldn't, eh! deed, and i'm not so sure. the hue and cry is out for you." "havers, man!" interrupted macdonald sharply. "you're frightening the lady with your fairy tales, creagh. don't you be believing him, my dear. the hemp is not grown that will hang kenneth." but for all his cheery manner we were mightily taken aback, especially when another rider came in a few minutes later with a letter to me from town. it ran:-- dear montagu, "once more unto the breach, dear friends." our pleasant little game is renewed. the first trick was, i believe, mine; the second yours. the third i trump by lodging an information against you for highway robbery. tony i shall not implicate, of course, nor mac-what's-his-name. take wings, my fly-by-night, for the runners are on your heels, and if you don't, as i live, you'll wear hemp. give my devoted love to the lady. i am, your most obed^t serv^t to command, rob^t volney. in imagination i could see him seated at his table, pushing aside a score of dainty notes from phyllis indiscreet or passionate diana, that he might dash off his warning to me, a whimsical smile half-blown on his face, a gleam of sardonic humour in his eyes. remorseless he was by choice, but he would play the game with an english sportsman's love of fair play. eliminating his unscrupulous morals and his acquired insolence of manner, sir robert volney would have been one to esteem; by impulse he was one of the finest gentlemen i have known. though creagh had come to warn me of volney's latest move, he was also the bearer of a budget of news which gravely affected the state at large and the cause on which we were embarked. the french fleet of transports, delayed again and again by trivial causes, had at length received orders to postpone indefinitely the invasion of england. yet in spite of this fatal blow to the cause it was almost certain that prince charles edward stuart with only seven companions, of whom one was the ubiquitous o'sullivan, had slipped from belleisle on the doutelle and escaping the british fleet had landed on the coast of scotland. the emotions which animated us on hearing of the gallant young prince's daring and romantic attempt to win a kingdom with seven swords, trusting sublimely in the loyalty of his devoted highlanders, may better be imagined than described. donald roy flung up his bonnet in a wild hurrah, aileen beamed pride and happiness, and creagh's volatile irish heart was in the hilltops. if i had any doubts of the issue i knew better than to express them. but we were shortly recalled to our more immediate affairs. before we got back to the inn one of those cursed placards offering a reward for my arrest adorned the wall, and in front of it a dozen open-mouthed yokels were spelling out its purport. clearly there was no time to be lost in taking volney's advice. we hired a chaise and set out for london within the hour. 'twas arranged that captain macdonald and hamish gorm should push on at once to montagu grange with aileen, while i should lie in hiding at the lodgings of creagh until my wounds permitted of my travelling without danger. that volney would not rest without attempting to discover the whereabouts of miss macleod i was well assured, and no place of greater safety for the present occurred to me than the seclusion of the grange with my brother charles and the family servants to watch over her. as for myself, i was not afraid of their hanging me, but i was not minded to play into the hands of volney by letting myself get cooped up in prison for many weeks pending a trial while he renewed his cavalier wooing of the maid. never have i spent a more doleful time than that which followed. for one thing my wounds healed badly, causing me a good deal of trouble. then too i was a prisoner no less than if i had been in the tower itself. if occasionally at night i ventured forth the fear of discovery was always with me. tony creagh was the best companion in the world, at once tender as a mother and gay as a schoolboy, but he could not be at home all day and night, and as he was agog to be joining the prince in the north he might leave any day. meanwhile he brought me the news of the town from the coffee-houses: how sir robert walpole was dead; how the camerons under lochiel, the macdonalds under young clanranald, and the macphersons under cluny had rallied to the side of the prince and were expected soon to be defeated by sir john cope, the commander-in-chief of the government army in scotland; how balmerino and leath had already shipped for edinburgh to join the insurgent army; how beauclerc had bet lord march a hundred guineas that the stockings worn by lady di faulkner at the last assembly ball were not mates, and had won. it appeared that unconsciously i had been a source of entertainment to the club loungers. "sure 'tis pity you're mewed up here, kenn, for you're the lion of the hour. none can roar like you. the betting books at white's are filled with wagers about you," creagh told me. "about me?" i exclaimed. "faith, who else? 'lord pam bets mr. conway three ponies against a hundred pounds that mr. kenneth montagu of montagu grange falls by the hand of justice before three months from date,'" he quoted with a great deal of gusto. "does your neck ache, kenn?" "oh, the odds are in my favour yet. what else?" i asked calmly. "'mr. james haddon gives ten pounds each to his royal highness the prince of wales and to sir robert volney and is to receive from each twenty guineas if mr. k. montagu is alive twelve months from date.' egad, you're a topic of interest in high quarters!" "honoured, i'm sure! i'll make it a point to see that his royal highness and my dear friend volney lose. anything else?" "at the coffee-house they were talking about raising a subscription to you because they hear you're devilish hard up and because you made such a plucky fight against volney. some one mentioned that you had a temper and were proud as lucifer. 'he's such a hothead. how'll he take it?' asks beauclerc. 'why, quarterly, to be sure!' cries selwyn. and that reminds me: george has written an epigram that is going the rounds. out of some queer whim--to keep them warm i suppose--madame bellevue took her slippers to bed with her. some one told it at the club, so selwyn sat down and wrote these verses: "'well may suspicion shake its head-- well may clorinda's spouse be jealous, when the dear wanton takes to bed her very shoes--because they're fellows.'" creagh's merry laugh was a source of healing in itself, and his departure to join the prince put an edge to the zest of my desire to get back into the world. just before leaving he fished a letter from his pocket and tossed it across the room to me. "egad, and you are the lucky man, kenn," he said. "the ladies pester us with praises of your valour. this morning one of the fair creatures gave me this to deliver, swearing i knew your whereabouts." 'twas a gay little note from my former playmate antoinette westerleigh, and inclosed was a letter to her from my sister. how eagerly i devoured cloe's letter for news of aileen may be guessed. my dearest 'toinette:-- since last i saw you (so the letter ran) seems a century, and of course i am dying to come to town. no doubt the country is very healthy, but lud! 'tis monstrous dull after a london season. i vow i am already a lifetime behind the fashions. is't true that prodigious bustles are the rage? and while i think of it i wish you would call at madame ronald's and get the lylack lute-string scirt she is making for me. also at duprez's for the butifull little hat i ordered. please have them sent by carrier. i know i am a vast nuisance; 'tis the penalty, my dear, for having a country mawkin as your best friend. of course you know what that grate brother of mine has been at. gaming i hear, playing ducks and drakes with his money, and fighting duels with your lover. for a time we were dreadfully anxious about him. what do you think he has sent me down to take care of for him? but you would never guess. my love, a scotch girl, shy as one of her own mountain deer. i suppose when he is recovert of his wounds he will be down here to philander with her. aileen macleod is her name, and really i do not blame him. i like her purely myself. in a way quite new she is very taking; speaks the prettiest broken english, is very simple, sweet, and grateful. at a word the pink and white comes and goes in her cheeks as it never does in ours. i wish i could acquire her manner, but alack! 'tis not to be learnt though i took lessons forever. the gracefull creature dances the scottish flings divinely. she is not exactly butifull, but--well, i can see why the men think so and fall down in worship! by the way, she is very nearly in love--tho she does not know it--with that blundering brother of mine; says that "her heart iss always thanking him at all events." if he knew how to play his cards--but there, the oaf will put his grate foot in it. she came here with a shag-headed gillie of a servant, under the protection of a captain macdonald who is a very fine figure of a man. he was going to stay only an hour or two, but _charles_ persuaded him to stop three days. charles teases me about him, swears the captain is already my slave, but you may depend on't there is nothing in it. last night we diverted ourselves with playing hide the thimble, and the others lost the scotch captain and me in the armory. he is a peck of fun. this morning he left for the north, and do you think the grate mr. impudence did not buss us both; aileen because she is his cousin a hundred times removed and me because (what a reason!) "my eyes dared him." of course i was in a vast rage, which seemed to hily delight captain impudence. i don't see how he dared take so grate a preaviledge. do you? aileen is almost drest, and i must go smart myself. my dear, an you love me, write to your own cloe. p. s.--lard, i clear forgot! 'tis a secret that the scotch enchantress is here. you must be sure not to mention it, my dear, to your sir robert, but la! i have the utmost confidence in your discretion. conceive my dismay! discretion and antoinette westerleigh were as far apart as the poles. what more likely than that the dashing little minx would undertake to rally her lover about aileen, and that the adroit baronet would worm out of her the information he desired? the letter crystallized my desire to set out at once for montagu grange, and from there to take the road with miss macleod hotspur for scotland. it appeared to me that the sooner we were out of england the better it would be for both of us. i made the journey to the grange by easy stages, following so far as i could little used roads and lanes on account of a modest desire to avoid publicity. 'twas early morning when i reached the grange. i remember the birds were twittering a chorus as i rode under the great oaks to the house. early as it was, cloe and aileen were already walking in the garden with their arms entwined about each other's waists in girl fashion. they made a picture taking enough to have satisfied a jaded connoisseur of beauty: the fair tall highland lass, jimp as a willow wand, with the long-lashed blue eyes that looked out so shyly and yet so frankly on those she liked, and the merry brown-eyed english girl so ready of saucy tongue, so worldly wise and yet so innocent of heart. cloe came running to meet me in a flutter of excitement and mistress aileen followed more demurely down the path, though there was a highland welcome in her frank face not to be denied. i slid from the horse and kissed cloe. miss macleod gave me her hand. "we are hoping you are quite well from your wounds," she said. "quite," i answered. "better much for hearing your kind voices and seeing your bright faces." i dare say i looked over-long into one of the bright faces, and for a punishment was snatched into confusion by my malapert sister. "i didn't know you had heard my kind voice yet," mimicked miss madcap. "and are you thinking of holding aileen's hand all day?" my hand plumped to my side like a shot. both of us flamed, i stammering apologies the while cloe no doubt enjoyed hugely my embarrassment. 'tis a sister's prerogative to teach her older brothers humility, and cloe for one did not let it fall into neglect. "to be sure i do not know the highland custom in the matter," she was continuing complacently when aileen hoist her with her own petard. "i wass thinking that perhaps captain macdonald had taught you in the armory," she said quietly; and cloe, to be in the fashion, ran up the red flag too. it appeared that my plan for an immediate departure from england jumped with the inclination of miss macleod. she had received a letter from her brother, now in scotland, whose plans in regard to her had been upset by the unexpected arrival of the prince. he was extremely solicitous on her behalf, but could only suggest for her an acceptance of a long-standing invitation to visit lady strathmuir, a distant relative living in surrey, until times grew more settled. to aileen the thought of throwing herself upon the hospitality of one she had never met was extremely distasteful, and she hailed my proposal as an alternative much to be desired. the disagreeable duty of laying before my lawyer the involved condition of my affairs had to be endured, and i sent for him at once to get it over with the sooner. he pulled a prodigious long face at my statement of the gaming debts i had managed to contract during my three months' experiment as the prodigal son in london, but though he was extraordinarily severe with me i made out in the end that affairs were not so bad as i had thought. the estate would have to be plastered with a mortgage, but some years of stiff economy and retrenchment, together with a ruthless pruning of the fine timber, would suffice to put me on my feet again. the expenditures of the household would have to be cut down, but mr. brief thought that a modest establishment befitting my rank might still be maintained. if i thought of marrying---- a ripple of laughter from the lawn, where aileen and charles were arranging fishing tackle, was wafted through the open window and cut athwart the dry speech of the lawyer. my eyes found her and lingered on the soft curves, the rose-leaf colouring, the eager face framed in a sunlit aureola of radiant hair. already my mind had a trick of imagining her the mistress of the grange. did she sit for a moment in the seat that had been my mother's my heart sang; did she pluck a posy or pour a cup of tea 'twas the same. "if i thought of marrying----" well, 'twas a thing to be considered one day--when i came back from the wars. chapter vi in the matter of a kiss it may be guessed that the music of the gray morn when we started found a ready echo in my heart. the whistle of a plover cut the breaking day, the meadow larks piped clear above us in chorus with the trilling of the thrush, the wimpling burn tinkled its song, and the joy that took me fairly by the throat was in tune with all of them. for what does a lover ask but to be one and twenty, to be astride a willing horse, and to be beside the one woman in the world for him? sure 'tis heaven enough to watch the colour come and go in her face, to hear the lilt of her voice, and to see the changing light in her eye. what though at times we were shy as the wild rabbit, we were none the less happy for that. in our hearts there bubbled a childlike gaiety; we skipped upon the sunlit hilltops of life. and here was the one drop of poison in the honey of my cup: that i was wearing an abominable misfit of a drab-coloured suit of homespun more adapted to some village tradesman than to a young cavalier of fashion, for on account of the hue and cry against me i had pocketed my pride and was travelling under an incognito. nor did it comfort me one whit that aileen also was furbished up in sombre gray to represent my sister, for she looked so taking in it that i vow 'twas more becoming than her finery. yet i made the best of it, and many a good laugh we got from rehearsing our parts. i can make no hand at remembering what we had to say to each other, nor does it matter; in cold type 'twould lose much of its charm. the merry prattle of her pretty broken english was set to music for me, and the very silences were eloquent of thrill. early i discovered that i had not appreciated fully her mental powers, on account of a habit she had of falling into a shy silence when several were present. she had a nimble wit, an alert fancy, and a zest for life as earnest as it was refreshing. a score of times that day she was out of the shabby chaise to pick the wild flowers or to chat with the children by the wayside. the memory of her warm friendliness to me stands out the more clear contrasted with the frigid days that followed. it may be thought by some that our course in travelling together bordered on the edge of the proprieties, but it must be remembered that the situation was a difficult one for us both. besides which my sister cloe was always inclined to be independent, of a romantical disposition, and herself young; as for aileen, i doubt whether any thought of the conventions crossed her mind. her people would be wearying to see her; her friend kenneth montagu had offered his services to conduct her home; hamish gorm was a jealous enough chaperone for any girl, and the maid that cloe had supplied would serve to keep the tongues of the gossips from clacking. we put up that first evening at the king's arms, a great rambling inn of two stories which caught the trade of many of the fashionable world on their way to and from london. aileen and i dined together at a table in the far end of the large dining-room. as i remember we were still uncommon merry, she showing herself very clever at odd quips and turns of expression. we found matter for jest in a large placard on the wall, with what purported to be a picture of me, the printed matter containing the usual description and offer of reward. watching her, i was thinking that i had never known a girl more in love with life or with so mobile a face when a large company of arrivals from london poured gaily into the room. they were patched and powdered as if prepared for a ball rather than for the dust of the road. dowagers, frigid and stately as marble, murmured racy gossip to each other behind their fans. famous beauties flitted hither and thither, beckoning languid fops with their alluring eyes. wits and beaux sauntered about elegantly even as at white's. 'twas plain that this was a party _en route_ for one of the great county houses near. aileen stared with wide-open eyes and parted lips at these great dames from the fashionable world about which she knew nothing. they were prominent members of the leading school for backbiting in england, and in ten minutes they had talked more scandal than the highland lass had heard before in a lifetime. but the worst of the situation was that there was not one of them but would cry "montagu!" when they clapped eyes on me. here were lord march, george selwyn, sir james craven, topham beauclerc, and young winton westerleigh; lady di davenport and the countess dowager of rocksboro; the hon. isabel stanford, mistress antoinette westerleigh, and others as well known to me. they had taken us at unawares, and as creagh would have put it in an irish bull the only retreat possible for us was an advance through the enemy. at present they paid no more attention to us than they would to the wooden negro in front of a tobacco shop, but at any moment detection might confront me. faith, here was a predicament! conceive me, with a hundred guineas set upon my head, thrust into the very company in all england i would most have avoided. and of all the people in the world they chanced on me as a topic of conversation. george selwyn, strolling up and down the room, for want of something better to do, stopped in front of that confounded placard and began reading it aloud. now i don't mind being described as "tall, strong, well-built, and extremely good-looking; brown eyes and waving hair like ilk; carries himself with distinction;" but i grue at being set down as a common cutpurse, especially when i had taken the trouble to send back sir robert's jewelry at some risk to myself. "wonder what montagu has done with himself," queried beauclerc after selwyn had finished. "or what volney has done with him," muttered march behind his hand. "i'll lay two to one in ponies he never lives to cross another man." "you're wrong, march, if you think volney finished him. he's alive all right. i heard it from denman that he got safe across to france. pity volney didn't pink the fellow through the heart for his d----d impudence in interfering; not that i can stand volney either, curse the popinjay!" snarled craven sourly. "if montagu reaches the continent, 'twill be a passover the jews who hold his notes will not relish," suggested selwyn in his sleepy way. a pink-and-white-faced youth shimmering in cream satin was the animated heart of another group. his love for scandal and his facility for acquiring the latest tidbit made him the delight of many an old tabby cat. now his eyes shone with the joy of imparting a delicious morsel. "egad, then, you're all wrong," he was saying in a shrill falsetto. "stap me, the way of it was this! i have it on the best of authority and it comes direct, rot me if it doesn't! sir robert's man, watkins, told madame bellevue's maid, from whom it came straight to lord pam's fellow and through him to old methuselah, who mentioned it to----" "you needn't finish tracing the lineage of the misinformation. we'll assume it began with adam and ended with a dam--with a descendant of his," interrupted craven with his usual insolence. "now out with the lie!" "'pon honour, craven, 'tis gospel truth," gasped pink-and-white. "better send for a doctor then. if he tries to tell the truth for once he'll strangle," suggested selwyn whimsically to march. "spit it out then!" bullied craven coarsely. "oh, lard! your roughness gives me the flutters, sir james. i'm all of a tremble. split me, i can't abide to be scolded! er-- well, then, 'twas a welsh widow they fought about--name of gwynne and rich as croesus--old enough to be a grandmother of either of 'em, begad! volney had first claim and montagu cut in; swore he'd marry her if she went off the hooks next minute. they fought and montagu fell at the first shot. next day the old begum ran off with her footman. that's the story, you may depend on't. lud, yes!" "you may depend on its being wrong in every particular," agreed lady di coolly. "you'd better tell the story, 'toinette. they'll have it a hundred times worse." "oh lard! gossip about my future husband. not i!" giggled that lively young woman. "don't be a prude, miss!" commanded the dowager countess sharply. "'tis to stifle false reports you tell it." "slidikins! an you put it as a duty," simpered the young beauty. "'twould seem that--it would appear--the story goes that-- do i blush?--that sir robert-- oh, let lady di tell it!" lady di came to scratch with the best will in the world. "to correct a false impression then; for no other reason i tell it save to kill worse rumours. everybody knows i hate scandal." "'slife, yes! everybody knows that," agreed craven, leering over at march. "sir robert volney then was much taken with a scotch girl who was visiting in london, and of course she dreamed air castles and fell in love with him. 'twas joan and darby all the livelong day, but alack! the maid discovered, as maids will, that sir robert's intentions were--not of the best, and straightway the blushing rose becomes a frigid icicle. well, this northern icicle was not to be melted, and sir robert was for trying the effect of a surrey hothouse. in her brother's absence he had the maid abducted and carried to a house of his in town." "'slife! a story for a play. and what then?" cried pink-and-white. "why then--enter mr. montagu with a 'stay, villain!' it chanced that young don quixote was walking through the streets for the cooling of his blood mayhap, much overheated by reason of deep play. he saw, he followed, at a fitting time he broke into the apartment of the lady. here sir robert discovered them----" "the lady all unready, alackaday!" put in the honourable isabel, from behind a fan to hide imaginary blushes. "well, something easy of attire to say the least," admitted lady di placidly. "i' faith then, montagu must make a better lover than sir robert," cried march. "every lady to her taste. and later they fought on the way to surrey. both wounded, no graves needed. the girl nursed montagu back to health, and they fled to france together," concluded the narrator. "and the lady--is she such a beauty?" queried beauclerc. "slidikins! i don't know. she must have points. no scotch mawkin would draw sir robert's eye." you are to imagine with what a burning face i sat listening to this devil's brew of small talk. what their eyes said to each other of innuendo, what their lifted brows implied, and what they whispered behind white elegant hands, was more maddening than the open speech. for myself, i did not value the talk of the cats at one jack straw, but for this young girl sitting so still beside me-- by heaven, i dared not look at her. nor did i know what to do, how to stop them without making the matter worse for her, and i continued to sit in an agony grizzling on the gridiron of their calumnies. had they been talking lies outright it might have been easily borne, but there was enough of truth mixed in the gossip to burn the girl with the fires of shame. at the touch of a hand i turned to look into a face grown white and chill, all the joy of life struck out of it. the girl's timorous eyes implored me to spare her more of this scene. "oh kenneth, get me away from here. i will be dying of shame. let us be going at once," she asked in a low cry. "there is no way out except through the crowd of them. will you dare make the attempt? should i be recognized it may be worse for you." "i am not fearing if you go with me. and at all events anything iss better than this." there was a chance that we might pass through unobserved, and i took it; but i was white-hot with rage and i dare say my aggressive bearing bewrayed me. in threading our way to the door i brushed accidentally against mistress westerleigh. she drew aside haughtily, then gave a little scream of recognition. "kenn montagu, of all men in the world--and turned quaker, too. gog's life, 'tis mine, 'tis mine! the hundred guineas are mine. i call you all to witness i have taken the desperate highwayman. 'tall, strong, and extremely well-looking; carries himself like a gentleman.' this way, sir," she cried merrily, and laying hold of my coat-tails began to drag me toward the men. there was a roar of laughter at this, and the pink-white youth lounged forward to offer me a hand of welcome i took pains not to see. "faith, the lady has the right of it, montagu. that big body of yours is worth a hundred guineas now if it never was before," laughed selwyn. "sorry to disappoint the lady, but unfortunately my business carries me in another direction," i said stiffly. "but lud! 'tis not fair. you're mine. i took you, and i want the reward," cries the little lady with the sparkling eyes. aileen stood by my side like a queen cut out of marble, turning neither to the right nor to the left, her head poised regally on her fine shoulders as if she saw none in the room worthy a look. "this must be the baggage about which they fought. faith, as fine a piece as i have seen," said craven to march in an audible aside, his bold eyes fixed insolently on the highland girl. aileen heard him, and her face flamed. i set my teeth and swore to pay him for that some day, but i knew this to be no fitting time for a brawl. despite me the fellow forced my hand. he planted himself squarely in our way and ogled my charge with impudent effrontery. me he quite ignored, while his insulting eyes raked her fore and aft. my anger seethed, boiled over. forward slid my foot behind his heel, my forearm under his chin. i threw my weight forward in a push. his head went back as though shot from a catapult, and next moment sir james craven measured his length on the ground. with the girl on my arm i pushed through the company to the door. they cackled after me like solan-geese, but i shut and locked the door in their faces and led aileen to her room. she marched up the stairs like a goddess, beautiful in her anger as one could desire. the gaelic heart is a good hater, and 'twas quite plain that miss macleod had inherited a capacity for anger. "how dare they? how dare they? what have i done that they should talk so? there are three hundred claymores would be leaping from the scabbard for this. my grief! that they would talk so of my father's daughter." she was superbly beautiful in her wrath. it was the black fury of the highland loch in storm that leaped now from her eyes. like a caged and wounded tigress she strode up and down the room, her hands clenched and her breast heaving, an impetuous flood of gaelic pouring from her mouth. for most strange logic commend me to a woman's reasoning, i had been in no way responsible for the scene down-stairs, but somehow she lumped me blindly with the others in her mind, at least so far as to punish me because i had seen and heard. apparently 'twas enough that i was of their race and class, for when during a pause i slipped in my word of soothing explanation the uncorked vials of her rage showered down on me. faith, i began to think that old jack falstaff had the right of it in his rating of discretion, and the maid appearing at that moment i showed a clean pair of heels and left her alone with her mistress. as i was descending the stairs a flunky in the livery of the westerleighs handed me a note. it was from antoinette, and in a line requested me to meet her at once in the summer-house of the garden. in days past i had coquetted many an hour away with her. indeed, years before we had been lovers in half-earnest boy and girl fashion, and after that the best of friends. grimly i resolved to keep the appointment and to tell this little worldling some things she needed much to know. i found her waiting. her back was turned, and though she must have heard me coming she gave no sign. i was still angry at her for her share in what had just happened and i waited coldly for her to begin. she joined me in the eloquent silence of a quaker meeting. "well, i am here," i said at last. "oh, it's you." she turned on me, mighty cold and haughty. "sir, i take it as a great presumption that you dare to stay at the same inn with me after attempting to murder my husband that is to be." "murder!" i gasped, giving ground in dismay at this unexpected charge. "murder was the word i used, sir. do you not like it?" "'twas a fair fight," i muttered. "was it not you that challenged? did you not force it on him?" "yes, but----" "and then you dare to come philandering here after me. do you think i can change lovers as often as gloves, sir? or as often as you?" "madam, i protest----" "la! you protest! did you not come here to see me? answer me that, sir!" with an angry stamp of her foot. "yes, mistress westerleigh, your note----" "and to philander? do you deny it?" "deny it. odzooks, yes! 'tis the last thing i have in my mind," i rapped out mighty short. "i have done with women and their follies. i begin to see why men of sense prefer to keep their freedom." "do you, kenn? and was the other lady so hard on you? did she make you pay for our follies? poor kenn!" laughed my mocking tormentor with so sudden a change of front that i was quite nonplussed. "and did you think i did not know my rakehelly lover sir robert better than to blame you for his quarrels?" i breathed freer. she had taken the wind out of my sails, for i had come purposing to give her a large piece of my mind. divining my intention, womanlike she had created a diversion by carrying the war into the country of the enemy. she looked winsome in the extreme. little dimples ran in and out her peach-bloom cheeks. in her eyes danced a kind of innocent devilry, and the alluring mouth was the sweetest cupid's bow imaginable. laughter rippled over her face like the wind in golden grain. mayhap my eyes told what i was thinking, for she asked in a pretty, audacious imitation of the scotch dialect aileen was supposed to speak, "am i no' bonny, kenneth?" "you are that, 'toinette." "but you love her better?" she said softly. i told her yes. "and yet----" she turned and began to pull a honeysuckle to pieces, pouting in the prettiest fashion conceivable. the graceful curves of the lithe figure provoked me. there was a challenge in her manner, and my blood beat with a surge. i made a step or two toward her. "and yet?" i repeated, over her shoulder. one by one the petals floated away. "there was a time----" she spoke so softly i had to bend over to hear. i sighed. "a thousand years ago, 'toinette." "but love is eternal, and in eternity a thousand years are but as a day." the long curving lashes were lifted for a moment, and the dancing brown eyes flashed into mine. while mine held them they began to dim. on my soul the little witch contrived to let the dew of tears glisten there. now a woman's tears are just the one thing kenneth montagu cannot resist. after all i am not the first man that has come to make war and stayed to make love. "'toinette! 'toinette!" i chided, resolution melting fast. "and y'are commanded to love your neighbours, kenn." i vow she was the takingest madcap in all england, and not the worst heart neither. i am no puritan, and youth has its day in which it will be served. my scruples took wing. "faith, one might travel far and not do better," i told her. "when the gods send their best to a man he were a sorry knave to complain." yet i stood helpless, in longing desire and yet afraid to dare. no nicety of conscience held me now, rather apprehension. i had not lived my one and twenty years without learning that a young woman may be free of speech and yet discreet of action, that alluring eyes are oft mismated with prim maiden conscience. 'tis in the blood of some of them to throw down the gauntlet to a man's courage and then to trample on him for daring to accept the challenge. her eyes derided me. a scoffing smile crept into that mocking face of hers. no longer i shilly-shallied. she had brought me to dance, and she must pay the piper. "modesty is a sweet virtue, but it doesn't butter any bread," i cried gaily. "egad, i embrace my temptation." which same i did, and the temptress too. "am i your temptation, adam?" quoth the lady presently. "i vow y'are the fairest enticement, eve, that ever trod the earth since the days of the first garden. for this heaven of your lips i'll pay any price in reason. a year in purgatory were cheap----" i stopped, my florid eloquence nipped in bud, for the lady had suddenly begun to disengage herself. her glance shot straight over my shoulder to the entrance of the summer-house. divining the presence of an intruder, i turned. aileen was standing in the doorway looking at us with an acrid, scornful smile that went to my heart like a knife. chapter vii my lady rages i was shaken quite out of my exultation. i stood raging at myself in a defiant scorn, struck dumb at the folly that will let a man who loves one woman go sweethearting with another. her eyes stabbed me, the while i stood there dogged yet grovelling, no word coming to my dry lips. what was there to be said? the tie that bound me to aileen was indefinable, tenuous, not to be phrased; yet none the less it existed. i stood convicted, for i had tacitly given her to understand that no woman found place in my mind save her, and at the first chance she found another in my arms. like a detected schoolboy in presence of the rod i awaited my sentence, my heart a trip-hammer, my face a picture of chagrin and dread. for just a moment she held me in the balance with that dreadful smile on her face, my day of judgment come to earth, then turned and away without a word. i flung wildly after her, intent on explaining what could not be explained. in the night i lost her and went up and down through the shrubbery calling her to come forth, beating the currant and gooseberry bushes in search of her. a shadow flitted past me toward the house, and at the gate i intercepted the girl. better i had let her alone. my heart misgave me at sight of her face; indeed the whole sweep of her lithesome reedy figure was pregnant with highland scorn and pride. "oh, aileen, in the arbour----" i was beginning, when she cut me short. "and i am thinking i owe you an apology for my intrusion. in troth, mr. montagu, my interruption of your love-makings was not intentional." her voice gave me the feel of being drenched with ice-water. "if you will let me explain, aileen----" "indeed, and there iss nothing to explain, sir. it will be none of my business who you are loving, and-- will you open the gate, mr. montagu?" "but i must explain; 'twas a madness of the blood. you do not understand----" "and gin i never understand, mr. montagu, the lift (sky) will not fall. here iss a great to-do about nothing," she flung back with a kind of bitter jauntiness. "aileen," i cried, a little wildly, "you will not cast me off without a hearing. somehow i must make it clear, and you must try----" "my name it iss miss macleod, and i would think it clear enough already at all events. i will be thanking you to let me pass, sir." her words bit, not less the scorch of her eyes. my heart was like running water. "and is this an end to all-- will you let so small a thing put a period to our good comradeship?" i cried. "since you mention it i would never deny that i am under obligations to you, sir, which my brother will be blithe to repay----" "by heaven, i never mentioned obligations; i never thought of them. is there no friendship in your heart for me?" "your regard iss a thing i have valued, but"--there was a little break in the voice which she rode over roughshod--"i can very well be getting along without the friendships of that girl's lover." she snatched open the gate and flung past me to the house, this superb young creature, tall, slim, supple, a very diana in her rage, a woman too if one might judge by the breasts billowing with rising sobs. more slow i followed, quite dashed to earth. all that i had gained by months of service in one moment had been lost. she would think me another of the volney stamp, and her liking for me would turn to hate as with him. a low voice from the arbour called "kenn!" but i had had enough of gallivanting for one night and i held my way sullenly to the house. swift feet pattered down the path after me, and presently a little hand fell on my arm. i turned, sulky as a baited bear. "i am so sorry, kenn," said mistress antoinette demurely. my sardonic laughter echoed cheerlessly. "that there is no more mischief to your hand. oh never fear! you'll find some other poor breeched gull shortly." the brown dovelike eyes of the little rip reproached me. "'twill all come right, kenn. she'll never think the worse of you for this." "i'll be no more to her than a glove outworn. i have lost the only woman i could ever love, and through my own folly, too." "alackaday, kenn! y' 'ave much to learn about women yet. she will think the more of you for it when her anger is past." "not she. one of your fashionables might, but not aileen." "pooh! i think better of her than you. she's not all milk and water. there's red blood in her veins, man. spunk up and brazen it out. cock your chin and whistle it off bravely. faith, i know better men than you who would not look so doleful over one of 'toinette westerleigh's kisses. if i were a man i would never kiss and be sorry for all the maids in christendom." the saucy piquant tilt to her chin was a sight for the gods to admire. "you forget i love her." "oh, you play on one string. she's not the only maid i' the world," pouted the london beauty. "she's the only one for me," i said stubbornly, and then added dejectedly, "and she's not for me neither." the little rogue began to laugh. "i give you up, kenn. y'are as moonstruck a lover as ever i saw. here's for a word of comfort, which you don't deserve at all. for a week she will be a thunder-cloud, then the sun will beam more brightly than ever. but don't you be too submissive. la! women cannot endure a wheedling lover." after that bit of advice my sage little monitor fell sober and explained to me her reason for sending me the note. it appeared that sir robert volney was due to meet the party at the inn that very evening, and miss westerleigh was of opinion that i and my charge would do well to take the road at once. i was of that mind myself. i lost no time in reaching the house and ordering a relay of horses for our immediate travel. then i took the stairs three at a time and came knocking at aileen's door. "who iss there?" asked a small voice, full of tears and muffled in a pillow. her distress went to my heart, none the less because i who had been the cause of it could not heal it. "tis i--kenneth montagu. open the door, please." there was a moment's silence, then-- "i am not wishing to see mr. montagu to-night." "not for the world would i trouble you, miss macleod, but there is a matter i have to disclose that touches us nearly." "i think you will not have heard aright. i am desiring to be alone, sir," she answered, the frost in her voice. it may be guessed that this dismissal chafed me. my eagerness was daunted, but yet i would not be fubbed off. "miss macleod, you may punish me as much as you like some other time," i cried desperately, "but 'fore god! if you do not open the door you will regret it till the last day of your life." "are you threatening me, sir?" she asks, mighty haughty. "threatening--no! i do not threaten, but warn. this matter is of life and death, not to be played with;" and to emphasize my words i mentioned the name of volney. she came raging to the door and whipped it open very sudden. her affronted eyes might have belonged to a queen, but the stains on her cheeks betrayed her. "well, and what iss this important matter that cannot be waiting? perhaps mr. montagu mistakes this for the room of mistress westerleigh." i told her that sir robert was expected shortly to arrive at the inn, and that we must be on the road at once. she thanked me very primly for the information, but declared she would not trouble me further, that she meant to abide at the inn all night no matter who came; moreover, that when she did leave hamish gorm would be sufficient guard. i argued, cajoled, warned, threatened, but she was not to be moved. the girl took a perverse pleasure in thwarting me, and the keener i grew the more dour grew she. we might have disputed the point an hour had i not come to my senses and appeared to give way. suspecting that the girl's fears of sir robert would reassert themselves when she was left to herself, i sought her maid and easily induced the girl to propose to her mistress a departure without my knowledge. the suggestion worked like a charm, and fifteen minutes later i had the pleasure of seeing the chaise roll out of the lighted yard into the night. need it be said that kenneth montagu was ahorse and after the coach within a few minutes. all night i jogged behind them, and in the morning rode up to the inn where they stopped for breakfast. from mistress aileen i got the slightest bow in the world as i passed to my solitary breakfast at a neighbouring table. within the hour they were away again, and i after to cover the rear. late in the day the near wheeler fell very lame. the rest of the animals were dead beat, and i rode to the nearest hamlet to get another horse. the night was falling foul, very mirk, with a rising wind, and methought the lady's eyes lightened when she saw me return with help to get them out of their difficulty. she thanked me stiffly with a very straight lip. "at all events there will be no end to the obligations i am under, mr. montagu. they will be piling high as ben nevis," she said, but 'twould have taken a penetrating man to have discovered any friendliness in the voice. yet henceforth i made myself one of the party, admitted on sufferance with a very bad grace. more than once i tried to break through the chill conventionals that made the staple of our conversation, but the girl was ice to me. in the end i grew stiff as she. i would ride beside the coach all day with scarce a word, wearying for a reconciliation and yet nourishing angry pride. when speech appeared to be demanded between us 'twas of the most formal. faith, i think we were liker a pair of spoilt children than sensible grown folks. while we were still in the northern counties rumours began to reach us that general cope's army had been cut to pieces by the highlanders. the stories ran that not a single man had escaped, that the clans, twenty thousand strong, were headed for england, that they were burning and destroying as they advanced. incredible reports of all kinds sprang out of the air, and the utmost alarm prevailed. the report of cope's defeat was soon verified. we met more than one redcoat speeding south on a foam-flecked weary steed, and it did not need the second sight to divine that the dispatches they carried spoke loudly of disaster fallen and of reinforcements needed. after we had crossed the border parties of foraging highlanders began to appear occasionally, but a word in the gaelic from hamish gorm always served as a password for us. to make short, early in october we reached the scottish capital, the formal relations which had been established between miss macleod and me continuing to the end of the journey. there lived in edinburgh an unmarried aunt of aileen, a miss flora macbean by name, and at her house i left the girl while i went to notify her brother of our arrival. i found him lodged in high street near the old flesh-market close. malcolm macleod was a fine manly fellow of about three and thirty, lusty and well-proportioned, very tanned and ruddy. he had a quick lively eye and a firm good-humoured mouth. in brief, he was the very picture of a frank open-hearted highland gentleman, and in the gay macleod tartan looked as gallant a figure of a soldier as one would wish to see. he greeted me with charming friendliness and expressed himself as deeply gratified for my care of his sister, offering again and again to put himself at my service in any way i might desire. we walked down the street together, and more than once a shot plumped at our feet, for the city was under fire from the hanoverian garrison at the castle. everywhere the clansmen were in evidence. barefooted and barelegged celts strutted about the city with their bonnets scrugged low on their heads, the hair hanging wild over their eyes and the matted beards covering their faces. for the most part they were very ragged, and tanned exceedingly wherever the flesh took a peep through their outworn plaids. they ran about the streets in groups, looking in shop windows like children and talking their outlandish gibberish; then presently their highland pride would assert itself at the smile of some chance passer and would send them swinging proudly off as though they had better things at home. out of a tobacco shop came captain donald roy singing blithely, "'will ye play me fair, highland laddie, highland laddie?'" he was of course in the full macdonald tartan regimentals--checkered kilt, sporran, plaid, a brace of pistols, a dirk in his stocking, and claymore. at sight of me his face lighted and he came running forward with both hands outstretched. "and is it you at last, kenn? man, but i've been wearying for a sight of your honest face. i was whiles thinking you must have given us the go-by. fegs, but it's a braw day and a sight guid for sair een to see you, lad. you will have heard how we gave johnnie cope his kail through his reek." he broke off to hum:-- "'now johnnie, troth, ye werena blate, to come wi' the news o' your ain, and leave your men in sic a strait, so early in the morning.' "and did you bring my kinswoman back safe with you? i'se wad ye found the journey no' ower lang;" and he cocked a merry eye at me. i flushed, and introduced him to major macleod, who took occasion to thank him for his services to his sister. they fell into a liking for each other at once. when the major was called aside by one of his gillies a moment later, macdonald expressed his trust of the other in the old scotch saying, "yon's a man to ride the water wi', kenneth." a curious sight illustrative of the highland way of "lifting" what took their fancy occurred as we were all three walking toward the house of macleod's aunt. three shag-headed gillies in the tattered cameron tartan dragged an innkeeper from his taproom and set him down squat on the causeway. without even a by-your-leave they took from his feet a pair of new shoes with silver buckles. he protested that he was a loyal jacobite. "sae muckle ta better. she'll no' grumble to shange a progue for the prince's guid," one of the caterans answered cheerfully by way of comfort. to my surprise the two highland gentlemen watched this high-handed proceeding with much amusement, enjoying not a little the ridiculous figure cut by the frightened, sputtering host. i asked them if they were not going to interfere. "what for would we do that at all events?" asked the macdonald. "man, montagu, but you whiles have unco queer notions for so wise a lad. it's as natural for a hielander to despoil a southron as for a goose to gang barefit. what would lochiel think gin we fashed wi' his clansmen at their ploy? na, na! i wad be sweir to be sae upsitten (impertinent). it wadna be tellin' a macdonald, i'm thinkin'." aileen was so prettily glad to see her brother and so friendly with donald roy, so full of gay chatter and eager reminiscence, that i felt myself quite dashed by the note of reserve which crept into her voice and her manner whenever she found it incumbent to speak to me. her laugh would be ringing clear as the echo of steel in frost, and when donald lugged me into the talk she would fall mim as a schoolgirl under the eye of her governess. faith, you would have thought me her dearest enemy, instead of the man that had risked life for her more than once. here is a pretty gratitude, i would say to myself in a rage, hugging my anger with the baby thought that she would some day scourge herself for this after i were killed in battle. here is a fine return for loyal service rendered, and the front of my offending is nothing more than the saluting an old playmate. "man, kenneth, but you hae played the cuddie brawly," was donald's comforting remark to me after we had left. "you maun hae made an awfu' bauchle of it. when last i saw the lady she hoisted a fine colour when i daffed about you, and now she glowers at you in a no' just friendly way." i admitted sadly that 'twas so and told him the reason, for donald roy had a wide observation of life and a varied experience with the sex that made him a valuable counsellor. the situation amused him hugely, but what he could find of humour in it was more than i could see. "deil hae't, but yon quean antoinette will be a geyan ettercap (madcap). tony creagh has been telling me about her; he's just a wee thingie touched there himsel'." "pardon me," i interrupted a little stiffly, "but i think i did not give the name of the lady." the highlander looked at me dryly with a pawky smile. "hoots, man! i ken that fine, but i'm no a fule. you named over the party and i picked the lady that suited the speceefications." then he began to chuckle: "i wad hae liked dooms weel to hae seen you stravaiging (wandering) through the grosset (gooseberry) bushes after the lass." i told him huffily that if that was all he could say i had better have kept the story to myself. i had come for advice, not to be laughed at. donald flashed his winsome smile and linked an arm in mine. "well then, and here's advice for you, man. jouk (duck) and let the jaw (wave) go by. gin it were me the colder she were the better i wad like it. dinna you see that the lass rages because she likes you fine; and since she's a hieland maid brought up under the blue lift she hasna learnt to hate and smile in the same breath." "i make neither head nor tail of your riddles," i told him impatiently. "by your way of it so far as i can make out she both likes and hates me. now how can that be?" captain macdonald's droll eye appeared to pity me. "kenneth, bairn, but you're an awfu' ignoramus. you ken naething ava about the lassies. i'm wondering what they learnt you at oxford. gin it's the same to you we'll talk of something mair within your comprehension." and thereupon he diverted the conversation to the impending invasion of england by the highland army. presently i asked him what he thought of the prince now that he had been given a chance to study the young chevalier at closer range, and i shall never forget the eager highlander's enthusiastic answer. "from the head to the heel of him he is a son of kings, kind-hearted, gallant, modest. he takes all hearts by storm. our highland laddie is the bravest man i ever saw, not to be rash, and the most cautious, not to be a coward. but you will be judging for yourself when you are presented at the ball on tuesday." i told him that as yet i had no invitation to the ball. "that's easy seen to. the chevalier o'sullivan makes out the list. i'll drop a flea in his lug (ear)." next day was sunday, and i arrayed myself with great care to attend the church at which one macvicar preached; to be frank i didn't care a flip of my fingers what the doctrine was he preached; but i had adroitly wormed out of miss macbean that he was the pastor under whom she sat. creagh called on me before i had set out, and i dragged him with me, he protesting much at my unwonted devotion. i dare say he understood it better when he saw my eyes glued to the pew where miss aileen sat with her aunt in devout attention. what the sermon was to have been about we never knew, on account of an interruption which prevented us from hearing it. during the long prayer i was comfortably watching the back of aileen's head and the quarter profile of her face when creagh nudged me. i turned to find him looking at me out of a very comical face, and this was the reason for it. the hardy macvicar was praying for the hanoverians and their cause. "bless the king," he was saying boldly. "thou knows what king i mean-- may the crown sit easy on his head for lang. and for the young man that is come among us to seek an earthly crown, we beseech thee in mercy to take him to thyself, and give him a crown of glory." one could have heard a pin fall in the hush, and then the tense rustle that swept over the church and drowned the steady low voice that never faltered in the prayer. "egad, there's a hit for the prince straight from the shoulder," chuckled the irishman by my side. "faith, the jacks are leaving the church to the whigs. there goes the major, miss macleod, and her aunt." he was right. the prayer had ended and the macleod party were sailing down the aisle. others followed suit, and presently we joined the stream that poured out of the building to show their disapproval. 'tis an ill wind that blows nobody good. miss macbean invited creagh and me to join them in dinner, and methought that my goddess of disdain was the least thing warmer to me than she had been in weeks. for the rest of the day i trod on air. chapter viii charles edward stuart a beautifully engrossed invitation to the prince's ball having duly arrived from his secretary the chevalier o'sullivan, i ask you to believe that my toilet tuesday evening was even more a work of art than that of sunday. in huge disorder scarfs, lace cravats, muffs, and other necessary equipment were littered about the room. i much missed the neat touch of my valet simpkins, and the gillie hamish gorm, whom major macleod had put at my service, did not supply his place by a deal, since he knew no more of patching the face or powdering a periwig than he had arrived at by the light of nature. but despite this handicap i made shift to do myself justice before i set off for the lodgings of lord balmerino, by whom i was to be presented. 'twas long since the scottish capital had been so gay as now, for a part of the policy of the young chevalier was to wear a brave front before the world. he and his few thousand highlanders were pledged to a desperate undertaking, but it was essential that the waverers must not be allowed to suspect how slender were the chances of success. one might have thought from the splendour of his court and from the serene confidence exhibited by the prince and his chiefs that the stuarts were already in peaceable possession of the entire dominions of their ancestors. a vast concourse of well-dressed people thronged to holyrood house from morning till night to present their respects to prince charles edward. his politeness and affability, as well as the charms of his conversation and the graces of his person, swept the ladies especially from their lukewarm allegiance to the hanoverians. they would own no lover who did not don the white cockade of jacobitism. they would hesitate at no sacrifice to advance the cause of this romantic young gambler who used swords for dice. all this my three days residence in the city had taught me. i was now to learn whether a personal meeting with him would inspire me too with the ardent devotion that animated my friends. a mixed assembly we found gathered in the picture gallery of holyrood house. here were french and irish adventurers, highland chiefs and lowland gentlemen, all emulating each other in loyalty to the ladies who had gathered from all over scotland to dance beneath the banner of the white rose. the hall was a great blaze of moving colour, but above the tartans and the plaids, the mixed reds, greens, blues, and yellows, everywhere fluttered rampant the white streamers and cockades of the stuarts. no doubt there were here sober hearts, full of anxious portent for the future, but on the surface at least was naught but merriment. the gayest abandon prevailed. strathspey and reel and highland fling alternated with the graceful dances of france and the rollicking jigs of ireland. plainly this was no state ceremonial, rather an international frolic to tune all hearts to a common glee. we were on the top of fortune's wave. had we not won for the young chevalier by the sword the ancient capital of his family, and did not the road to london invite us southward? the pipers of each clan in turn dirled out triumphant marches, and my heart began to beat in faster time. water must have filled the veins of a man who could stand unmoved such contagious enthusiasm. for me, i confess it, a climax came a moment later that made my eyes swim. balmerino was talking with malcolm macleod and james hepburn of keith, a model of manly simplicity and honour who had been "out" in the ' ; and as usual their talk fell on our enterprise and its gallant young leader. keith narrated a story of how the young chevalier, after a long day's march on foot, had led the army three miles out of its way in order to avoid disturbing the wife of a cottar who had fallen asleep at the critical stage of a severe illness. balmerino capped it with another anecdote of his dismounting from his horse after the battle of gladsmuir to give water and attendance to a wounded english soldier of cope's army. macleod smiled, eyes sparkling. "he iss every inch the true prince. he can tramp the hills with a highlander all day and never weary, he can sleep on pease-straw as well as on a bed of down, can sup on brose in five minutes, and win a battle in four. oh, yes, he will be the king for malcolm macleod." while he was still speaking there fell over the assembly a sudden stillness. the word was passed from lips to lips, "the prince comes." every eye swept to the doorway. men bowed deep and women curtsied low. a young man was entering slowly on the arm of lord george murray. "the prince!" whispered balmerino to me. the pipes crashed out a measure of "wha'll be king but charlie?" then fell into quiet sudden as they had begun. "dhia theasirg an righ!" (god save the king) cried a splendid young highland chief in a voice that echoed through the hall. clanranald's cry was lifted to the rafters by a hundred throats. a hundred claymores leaped to air, and while the skirling bagpipes pealed forth, "the king shall enjoy his own again," charles stuart beneath an arch of shining steel trod slowly down the hall to a dais where his fathers had sat before him. if the hearts of the ladies had surrendered at discretion, faith! we of the other sex were not much tardier. the lad was every inch a prince. his after life did not fulfil the promise of his youth, but at this time he was one to see, and once having seen, to love. all the great charm of his race found expression in him. gallant, gracious, generous, tender-hearted in victory and cheerful in defeat (as we had soon to learn, alas!), even his enemies confessed this young stuart a worthy leader of men. usually suffused with a gentle pensiveness not unbecoming, the ardour of his welcome had given him on this occasion the martial bearing of a heroic young achilles. with flushed cheek and sparkling eye he ascended the dais. "ladies, gentlemen, my loyal highlanders, friends all, the tongue of charles stuart has no words to tell the warm message of his heart. unfriended and alone he came among you, resolved with the help of good swords to win back that throne on which a usurper sits, or failing in that to perish in the attempt. how nobly you our people have rallied to our side in this undertaking to restore the ancient liberties of the kingdom needs not be told. to the arbitrament of battle and to the will of god we confidently appeal, and on our part we pledge our sacred honour neither to falter nor to withdraw till this our purpose is accomplished. to this great task we stand plighted, so help us god and the right." 'tis impossible to conceive the effect of these few simple sentences. again the pipes voiced our dumb emotion in that stirring song, "we'll owre the water and owre the sea, we'll owre the water to charlie; come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, and live and die wi' charlie." the mighty cheer broke forth again and seemed to rock the palace, but deeper than all cheering was the feeling that found expression in long-drawn breath and broken sob and glimmering tear. the gallant lad had trusted us, had put his life in our keeping; we highly resolved to prove worthy of that trust. at a signal from the prince the musicians struck up again the dance, and bright eyes bedimmed with tears began to smile once more. with a whispered word balmerino left me and made his way to the side of the prince, about whom were grouped the duke of perth, lord lewis gordon, lord elcho, the ill-fated kilmarnock, as well as lochiel, cluny, macleod, clanranald, and other highland gentlemen who had taken their fortune in their hands at the call of this young adventurer with the enchanting smile. to see him was to understand the madness of devotion that had carried away these wise gray-haired gentlemen, but to those who never saw him i despair of conveying in cold type the subtle quality of charm that radiated from him. in the very bloom of youth, tall, slender, and handsome, he had a grace of manner not to be resisted. to condescend to the particulars of his person: a face of perfect oval very regular in feature; large light blue eyes shaded by beautifully arched brows; nose good and of the roman type; complexion fair, mouth something small and effeminate, forehead high and full. he was possessed of the inimitable reserve and bearing that mark the royal-born, and that despite his genial frankness. on this occasion he wore his usual light-coloured peruke with the natural hair combed over the front, a tartan short coat on the breast of which shone the star of the order of st. andrews, red velvet small-clothes, and a silver-hilted rapier. the plaid he ordinarily carried had been doffed for a blue sash wrought with gold. all this i had time to note before lord balmerino rejoined me and led me forward to the presentation. the prince separated himself from the group about him and came lightly down the steps to meet me. i fell on my knee and kissed his hand, but the prince, drawing me to my feet, embraced me. "my gallant montagu," he cried warmly. "like father, like son. god knows i welcome you, both on your own account and because you are one of the first english gentlemen to offer his sword to the cause of his king." i murmured that my sword would be at his service till death. to put me at my ease he began to question me about the state of public feeling in england concerning the enterprise. what information i had was put at his disposal, and i observed that his grasp of the situation appeared to be clear and incisive. he introduced me to the noblemen and chiefs about him, and i was wise enough to know that if they made much of me it was rather for the class i was supposed to represent than for my own poor merits. presently i fell back to make way for another gentleman about to be presented. captain macdonald made his way to me and offered a frank hand in congratulation. "'fore god, montagu, you have leaped gey sudden into favour. deil hae't, red donald brought with him a hundred claymores and he wasna half so kenspeckle (conspicuous). i'll wad your fortune's made, for you hae leaped in heels ower hurdies," he told me warmly. from affairs of state to those of the heart may be a long cast, but the mind of one-and-twenty takes it at a bound. my eye went questing, fell on many a blushing maid and beaming matron, at last singled out my heart's desire. she was teaching a highland dance to a graceful cavalier in white silk breeches, flowered satin waistcoat, and most choicely powdered periwig, fresh from the friseur. his dainty muff and exquisite clouded cane depended from a silken loop to proclaim him the man of fashion. something characteristic in his easy manner, though i saw but his back, chilled me to an indefinable premonition of his identity. yet an instant, and a turn in the dance figure flung into view the face of sir robert volney, negligent and unperturbed, heedless apparently of the fact that any moment a hand might fall on his shoulder to lead him to his death. aileen, to the contrary, clearly showed fear, anxiety, a troubled mind--to be detected in the hurried little glances of fearfulness directed toward her brother malcolm, and in her plain eagerness to have done with the measure. she seemed to implore the baronet to depart, and volney smilingly negatived her appeal. the girl's affronted eyes dared him to believe that she danced with him for any other reason than because he had staked his life to see her again and she would not have his death at her door. disdain of her own weakness and contempt of him were eloquent in every movement of the lissom figure. 'twas easy to be seen that the man was working on her fears for him, in order to obtain another foothold with her. i resolved to baulk his scheme. while i was still making my way toward them through the throng they disappeared from the assembly hall. a still hunt of five minutes, and i had run down my prey in a snug little reception-room of a size to fit two comfortably. the girl fronted him scornfully, eyes flaming. "coward, you play on a girl's fears, you take advantage of her soft heart to force yourself on her," she was telling him in a low, bitter voice. "i risk my life to see the woman that i love," he answered. "my grief! love! what will such a thing as you be knowing of love?" the man winced. on my soul i believe that at last he was an honest lover. his beautiful, speaking eyes looked straight into hers. his mannerisms had for the moment been sponged out. straight from the heart he spoke. "i have learnt, aileen. my hunger for a sight of you has starved my folly and fed my love. believe me, i am a changed man." the play and curve of her lips stung him. he flung himself desperately into his mad love-making. "'belle marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour,'" he quoted from moliere. "'tis true, aileen; i die of love; it burns me up," he added passionately, hungry eyes devouring the flying colours of her cheek, the mass of rippling hair, the fresh, sweet, subtle fragrance of her presence. "you'll have to hurry about it then, for on my soul you're due to die of tightened hemp to-morrow," i told him, lounging forward from the door. the girl cried out, eyes dilating, hand pressing to the heart. for the man, after the first start he did not turn a hair. the face that looked over his shoulder at me was unmoved and bereft of emotion. "my malapropos friend montagu again. devil take it, you have an awkward way of playing harlequin when you're not wanted! now to come blundering in upon a lady and her friend is-- well, not the best of form. better drop it before it becomes a habit," he advised. "'slife, 'tis tit for tat! i learnt it from you," was my answer. long we looked at each other, preparing for the battle that was to come. save for the quick breathing of the girl no sound fell. "sir robert, your audacity confounds all precedent," i said at last. "you flatter me, mr. montagu." "believe me, had major macleod discovered you instead of me your soul had by this time been speeding hellward." "exit flattery," he laughed. "the lady phrased it less vilely. heavenward, she put it! 'twould be interesting to know which of you is right." "as you say, an interesting topic of speculation, and one you're like to find the answer of shortly, presupposing that you suffer the usual fate of captured spies." his brows lifted in polite inquiry. "indeed! a spy?" he asked, indifferently. "why not? the favourite of the hanoverian usurpers discovered in our midst--what other explanation will it bear?" he smiled. "perhaps i have a mind to join your barelegged rebellion." "afraid your services are not available, sir robert. three hundred macleod claymores bar the way, all eager to wipe out an insult to the daughter of raasay. faith, when they have settled their little account against you there won't be much left for the prince." "ah! then for the sake of argument suppose we put it that i'm visiting this delightful city for my health." "you will find the climate not agree with you, i fear." "then say for pleasure." "'twill prove more exciting than amusing." "on my life, dear kenn, 'tis both." "i have but to raise my voice and you are undone." "his voice was ever soft, gentle, and low, an excellent thing in kenneth," he parodied, laughing at me. the girl said never a word, but her level eyes watched me steadily. no need of words to tell me that i was on trial! but i would not desist. "you appear not to realize the situation," i told him coldly. "your life is in hazard." the man yawned in my face. "not at all, i sit here as safe as if i were at white's, and a devilish deal better satisfied. situation piquant! company of the best! gad's life, i cry content." "i think we talk at cross purposes. i am trying to have you understand that your position is critical, sir robert." nonchalant yet watchful, indolent and yet alert, gracefully graceless, he watched me smilingly out of half-closed eyes; and then quietly fired the shot that brought me to. "if you were not a gentleman, montagu, the situation would be vastly different." "i do not see the point," i told him; but i did, and raged at it. "i think you do. your lips are sealed. i am your rival"--he bowed to aileen--"for the favour of a lady. if you put me out of the way by playing informer what appearance will it bear? you may talk of duty till the world ends, but you will be a marked man, despised by all--and most of all by kenneth montagu." the man was right. at one sweep he had spiked my guns, demolished my defenses. the triumph was sponged from my face. i fumed in a stress of impotence. "i don't know about that. i shall have to think of it. there is a duty to perform," i said at last, lamely. he waved a hand airily. "my dear fellow, think as long as you please. you can't think away facts. egad, they're immutable. you know me to be no spy. conceded that i am in a false position. what can you do about it? you can't in honour give me up. i'faith, you're handcuffed to inaction." i was, but my temper was not improved at hearing him tell it me so suavely and so blandly. he sat smiling and triumphant, chuckling no doubt at the dilemma into which he had thrust me. the worst of it was that while i was ostensibly master of the situation he had me at his mercy. i was a helpless victor without any of the fruits of victory. "you took advantage of a girl's soft heart to put her in a position that was indefensible," i told him with bitter bluntness. "save this of throwing yourself on her mercy there was no other way of approaching her. of the wisdom of the serpent you have no lack. i congratulate you, sir robert. but one may be permitted to doubt the manliness of such a course." the pipers struck up a song that was the vogue among our party, and a young man passed the entrance of the room singing it. "oh, it's owre the border awa', awa', it's owre the border awa', awa', we'll on an' we'll march to carlisle ha', wi' its yetts, its castles, an' a', an' a'." the audacious villain parodied it on the spot, substituting two lines of his own for the last ones. "you'll on an' you'll march to carlisle ha', to be hanged and quartered an' a', an' a'," he hummed softly in his clipped english tongue. "pity you won't live to see it," i retorted tartly. "you're still nursing that maggot, are you? debating with yourself about giving me up, eh? well that's a matter you must settle with your conscience, if you indulge in the luxury of one." "you would never give him up, kenneth," said aileen in a low voice. "surely you would not be doing that." "i shall not let him stay here. you may be sure of that," i said doggedly. the girl ventured a suggestion timidly. "perhaps sir robert will be leaving to-morrow--for london mayhap." volney shook his head decisively. "not i. why, i have but just arrived. besides, here is a problem in ethics for mr. montagu to solve. strength comes through conflict, so the schools teach. far be it from me to remove the cause of doubt. let him solve his problem for himself, egad!" he seemed to find a feline pleasure in seeing how far he could taunt me to go. he held me on the knife-edge of irritation, and perillous as was the experiment he enjoyed seeing whether he could not drive me to give him up. "miss macleod's solution falls pat. better leave to-morrow, sir robert. to stay is dangerous." "'tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but i tell you, my lord fool, 'out of this nettle danger, we pluck this flower safety,'" he quoted. "i see you always have your tag of shakespeare ready; then let me remind you what he has to say about the better part of valour," i flung back, for once alert in riposte. "a hit, and from the same play," he laughed. "but a retreat-- 'tis not to be thought of. no, no, montagu! and it must be you'll just have to give me up." "oh, you harp on that! you may say it once too often. i shall find a way to get rid of you," i answered blackly. "let me find it for you, lad," said a voice from the doorway. we turned, to find that donald roy had joined the party. he must have been standing there unobserved long enough to understand my dilemma, for he shot straight to the mark. "sir robert, i'll never be denying that you're a bold villain, and that is the one thing that will be saving your life this night. i'm no' here to argie-bargie with you. the plain fact is just this; that i dinna care a rap for you the tane gate or the tither (the one way or the other). i'd like fine to see you dancing frae the widdie (gallows), but gin the lady wants you spared i'll no' say her no. mr. englisher, you'll just gie me your word to tak the road for the border this night, or i'll give a bit call to major macleod. i wouldna wonder but he wad be blithe to see you. is it to be the road or the macleod?" i could have kissed the honest trusty face of the man, for he had lifted me out of a bog of unease. i might be bound by honour, but captain macdonald was free as air to dictate terms. volney looked long at him, weighed the man, and in the end flung up the sponge. he rose to his feet and sauntered over to aileen. "i am desolated to find that urgent business takes me south at once, miss macleod. 'tis a matter of the gravest calls me; nothing of less importance than the life of my nearest friend would take me from you. but i'm afraid it must be 'au revoir' for the present," he said. she looked past the man as if he had not existed. he bowed low, the flattery of deference in his fine eyes, which knew so well how to be at once both bold and timid. "forgiven my madness?" he murmured. having nothing to say, she still said it eloquently. volney bowed himself out of the room, nodded carelessly to me as he passed, touched macdonald on the arm with a pleasant promise to attend the obsequies when the highlander should be brought to london for his hanging, lounged elegantly through the crowded assembly hall, and disappeared into the night. chapter ix blue bonnets are over the border next day i enrolled myself as a gentleman volunteer in lord balmerino's troop of horse-guards, and was at once appointed to a lieutenancy. in waiting for reinforcements and in making preparations for the invasion three weeks were lost, but at last, on the st of october, came the order for the march. we had that day been joined by cluny macpherson at the head of his clan pherson, by menzies of shien, and by several other small bodies of highlanders. all told our force amounted to less than five thousand men, but the rapidity of our movements and the impetuous gallantry of the clansmen made the enterprise less mad than it appeared upon the face of it. moreover we expected to be largely reinforced by recruits who were to declare themselves as we marched south. it may be guessed that the last hour of leisure i had in the city was spent with aileen. of that hour the greater part of it was worse than lost, for a thickheaded, long-legged oaf of an ayrshire laird shared the room with us and hung to his chair with dogged persistency the while my imagination rioted in diverse forms of sudden death for him. nor did it lessen my impatience to know that the girl was laughing in her sleeve at my restlessness. she took a malicious pleasure in drawing out her hobnailed admirer on the interesting subject of sheep-rot. at last, having tormented me to the limit of prudence, she got rid of him. to say truth, miss aileen had for weeks held me on the tenter-hooks of doubt, now in high hope, far more often in black despair. she had become very popular with the young men who had declared in favour of the exiled family, and i never called without finding some colour-splashed gael or broad-tongued lowland laird in dalliance. 'twas impossible to get a word with her alone. her admirers were forever shutting off the sunlight from me. aileen was sewing on a white satin cockade, which the man from ayrshire, in the intervals between the paragraphs of his lecture on the sheep industry, had been extremely solicitous of obtaining for a favour. 'twas a satisfaction to me that my rustic friend departed without it. he was no sooner gone than i came near and perched myself on the arm of a chair beside the girl. for a minute i sat watching in silence the deft movements of the firm brown hands in which were both delicacy and power. then, "for malcolm?" i asked. "no-o." "for whom then?" "for a brave gentleman who iss marching south with the prince--a kind friend of mine." "you seem to have many of them. for which one is the favour?" i queried, a little bitterly. she looked at me askance, demure yet whimsical. "you will can tell when you see him wearing it." i fell sulky, at the which mirth bubbled up in her. "is he as good a friend as i am, this fine lover of yours?" i asked. "every whit." mockery of my sullenness danced in her blue eyes. "and do you--like him as well?" i blurted out, face flaming. she nodded yes, gaily, without the least sentiment in the world. i flung away in a pet. "you're always laughing at me. by heaven, i won't be made a fool of by any girl!" the corners of her eyes puckered to fresh laughter. "troth, and you needna fear, kenneth. no girl will can do that for you." "well then," i was beginning, half placated at the apparent flattery, but stopped with a sudden divination of her meaning. "you think me a fool already. is that it?" "i wass thinking that maybe you werena showing the good gumption this day, mr. kenneth montagu." my pride and my misery shook hands. i came back to blurt out in boyish fashion, "let us not quarrel again to-day, aileen, and--do not laugh at me these last few minutes. we march this afternoon. the order has been given out." her hands dropped to her lap. save where a spot of faint red burned in either cheek the colour ran out of her face. i drove my news home, playing for a sign of her love, desiring to reach the spring of her tears. "some of us will never cross the border twice," i said. my news had flung a shadow across the bright track of her gayety. 'tis one thing for a high-spirited woman to buckle on the sword of her friend; 'tis another to see him go out to the fight. "let us not be thinking of that at all, kenneth," she cried. "why not? 'tis a fact to face," i insisted cruelly. "there'll be many a merry lusty gentleman lying quiet under the sod, aileen, before we reach london town. from the ownership of broad moorland and large steading they will come down to own no more of earth than six foot by two." "they will be dying as brave gentlemen should," she said, softly, her voice full of tears. "and if i am one of them?" i asked, making a more home thrust. the girl stood there tall, slim, pallid, head thrown back, the pulse in the white curved throat beating fast. "oh kenneth, you will not be," she cried piteously. "but if i am?" "please, kenneth?" her low voice implored me to desist; so too the deep billowing breasts and melting eyes. "the fighting will be sharp and our losses heavy. it's his death many a man is going to, aileen." "yes, and if you will be believing me, kenneth, the harder part iss for those of us who cannot fight but must wear away the long days and mirk nights at home. at the least i am thinking so whatever. the long live day we sit, and can do nothing but wait and wait. after every fight will not some mother be crooning the coronach for her dear son? every glen will have its wailing wife and its fatherless bairns. and there will be the lovers too for whom there iss the driech wait, forby (besides) that maybe their dearest will be lying under the rowans with their een steekit (eyes fixed) in death." "there are some of us who have neither mother, wife, nor lover. will there be none to spare a tear for us if we fall?" "indeed, and there will, but"--a wan little smile broke through the film of gathering tears--"we will be waiting till they are needed, and we will be praying that the evil day may never come." "i'm hoping that myself," i told her, smiling, "but hope never turns aside the leaden bullet." "prayers may," she answered quickly, the shy lids lifting from the blue eyes bravely to meet my look, "and you will never be wanting (lacking) mine, my friend." then with the quick change of mood that was so characteristic of her, she added: "but i will be the poor friend, to fash (bother) you with all these clavers (idle talk) when i should be heartening you. you are glad to be going, are you not?" all the romance and uplift of our cause thrilled through me. "by god, yes! when my king calls i go." her eyes shone on me, tender, wistful, proud. "and that's the true word, kenneth. it goes to the heart of your friend." "to hear you say that rewards me a hundred times, dear." i rose to go. she asked, "must you be leaving already?" when i told her "yes!" she came forward and shyly pinned the cockade on the lapel of my coat. i drew a deep breath and spoke from a husky throat. "god bless you for that, aileen girl." i was in two minds then about taking her in my arms and crying out that i loved her, but i remembered that i had made compact with myself not to speak till the campaign was ended and the prince seated as regent on his father's throne. with a full heart i wrung her hand in silence and turned away. prince charles and his life-guards, at the head of the army, moved from holyrood to pinkie-house that afternoon. a vast concourse of people were gathered to cheer us on our way, as we passed through the streets to the sound of the pipes and fife and beating drum. more than one twisted cripple flung himself before the horse of the prince, begging for "the king's touch." in each case the young chevalier disclaimed any power of healing, but his kindly heart forbade his denying the piteous appeal. with a slight smile of sympathy he would comply with the request, saying, "i touch, but god heal." at the head of each clan-regiment rode its chief, and in front of every company the captains, lieutenants, and ensigns, all of whom were gentlemen of the clan related by blood ties to the chief. though i say it who was one of them, never a more devoted little army went out on a madder or more daring enterprise. just one more glimpse of aileen i got to carry with me through weary months of desire. from the window of her aunt's house she was waving a tartan scarf, and many a rugged kerne's face lighted at the girl's eager loyalty. flushed with shy daring, the soft pliant curves of her figure all youth and grace, my love's picture framed in the casement was an unconscious magnet for all eyes. the prince smiled and bowed to her, then said something which i did not catch to creagh who was riding beside him. the irishman laughed and looked over at me, as did also the prince. his highness asked another question or two, and presently tony fell into narration. from the young stuart prince's curious looks at me 'twas plain to be seen that creagh was recounting the tale of my adventures. once i heard the prince exclaim, "what! that boy?" more than once he laughed heartily, for creagh was an inimitable story-teller and every point to be scored in the telling gained sparkle from his irish wit. when he had finished prince charles sent for me and congratulated me warmly on the boldness and the aplomb (so he was kind enough to phrase it) which had carried me through devious dangers. chapter x culloden i have neither space nor heart to attempt a history of our brilliant but ill-starred campaign. surely no more romantic attempt to win a throne was ever made. with some few thousand ill-armed highlanders and a handful of lowland recruits the prince cut his way through the heart of england, defeated two armies and repulsed a third, each of them larger than his own and far better supplied with the munitions of war, captured carlisle, manchester, and other towns, even pushed his army beyond derby to a point little more than a hundred miles from london. had the gentlemen of england who believed in our cause been possessed of the same spirit of devotion that animated these wild highlanders we had unseated the hanoverians out of doubt, but their loyalty was not strong enough to outweigh the prudential considerations that held them back. their doubts held them inactive until too late. there are some who maintain that had we pushed on from derby, defeated the army of the duke of cumberland, of which the chance at this time was good, and swept on to london, that george ii would have been sent flying to his beloved hanover. we know now in what a state of wild excitement the capital city was awaiting news of our approach, how the household treasures of the guelphs were all packed, how there was a run on the bank of england, how even the duke of newcastle, prime minister of great britain, locked himself in his chamber all day denying admittance to all in an agony of doubt as to whether he had better declare at once for the stuarts. we know too that the wynns and other loyal welsh gentlemen had already set out to rally their country for the honest cause, that cautious france was about to send an army to our assistance. but all this was knowledge too late acquired. the great fact that confronted us was that without a french army to assist, our english friends would not redeem their contingent pledges. we were numerically of no greater force than when we had set out from scotland, and the hazard of an advance was too great. general wade and the duke of cumberland were closing in on us from different sides, each with an army that outnumbered ours, and a third army was waiting for us before london. 'tis just possible that we might have taken the desperate chance and won, as the prince was so eager that we should do, but it was to be considered that as a defeated army in a hostile country, had the fortune of war declared against us, we would surely have been cut to pieces in our retreat. by lord george murray and the chiefs it was judged wiser to fall back and join lord john drummond's army in scotland. they declared that they would follow wherever the prince chose to lead, but that they felt strongly that a further advance was to doom their clansmen to destruction. reluctantly the prince gave way. on the th of december, before daybreak, the army began its retreat, which was conducted with great skill by lord george murray. never were men more disappointed than the rank and file of the army when they found that a retreat had been resolved upon. expressions of chagrin and disappointment were to be heard on every hand. but the necessity of the retreat was soon apparent to all, for the regulars were now closing in on us from every hand. by out-marching and out-maneuvering general wade, we beat him to lancaster, but his horse were entering the town before we had left the suburbs. at clifton the duke of cumberland, having joined forces with wade, came in touch with us, and his van was soundly drubbed by our rear-guard under lord george, who had with him at the time the stewarts of appin, the macphersons, colonel stuart's regiment, and donald roy's macdonalds. by great good chance i arrived with a message to lord george from the prince in time to take part in this brilliant little affair. with his usual wisdom lord george had posted his men in the enclosures and park of lowther hall, the macdonalds on the right of the highway, colonel stuart in close proximity, and the macphersons and the appin regiment to the left of the road. i dismounted, tied my horse, and joined the red macdonald's company where they were lying in the shrubbery. we lay there a devil of a while, donald roy smoking as contented as you please, i in a stew of impatience and excitement; presently we could hear firing over to the left where cluny macpherson and stewart of ardshiel were feeling the enemy and driving them back. at last the order came to advance. donald roy leaped to his feet, waved his sword and shouted "claymore!" next moment we were rushing pell-mell down the hillside through the thick gorse, over hedges, and across ditches. we met the dragoons in full retreat across the moor at right angles toward us, raked them with a cross fire, and coming to close quarters cut them to pieces with the sword. in this little skirmish, which lasted less than a quarter of an hour, our loss was insignificant, while that of the enemy reached well into the three figures. the result of this engagement was that our army was extricated from a precarious position and that cumberland allowed us henceforth to retreat at leisure without fear of molestation. of the good fortune which almost invariably attended our various detachments in the north, of our retreat to scotland and easy victory over general hawley at the battle of falkirk, and of the jealousies and machinations of secretary murray and the irish prince's advisers, particularly o'sullivan and sir thomas sheridan, against lord george murray and the chiefs, i can here make no mention, but come at once to the disastrous battle of culloden which put a period to our hopes. a number of unfortunate circumstances had conspired to weaken us. according to the highland custom, many of the troops, seeing no need of their immediate presence, had retired temporarily to their homes. several of the clan regiments were absent on forays and other military expeditions. the chevalier o'sullivan, who had charge of the commissariat department, had from gross negligence managed to let the army get into a state bordering on starvation, and that though there was a quantity of meal in inverness sufficient for a fortnight's consumption. the man had allowed the army to march from the town without provisions, and the result was that at the time of the battle most of the troops had tasted but a single biscuit in two days. to cap all, the men were deadly wearied by the long night march to surprise the duke of cumberland's army and their dejected return to drummossie moor after the failure of the attempt. many of the men and officers slipped away to inverness in search of refreshments, being on the verge of starvation; others flung themselves down on the heath, sullen, dejected, and exhausted, to forget their hunger for the moment in sleep. without dubiety our plain course was to have fallen back across the nairn among the hills and let the duke weary his troops trying to drag his artillery up the mountainsides. the battle might easily have been postponed for several days until our troops were again rested, fed, and in good spirits. lord george pointed out at the counsel that a further reason for delay lay in the fact that the mackenzies under lord cromarty, the second battalion of the frasers under the master of lovat, the macphersons under cluny, the macgregors under glengyle, mackinnon's followers, and the glengary macdonald's under barisdale were all on the march to join us and would arrive in the course of a day or two. that with these reinforcements, and in the hill country, so eminently suited to our method of warfare, we might make sure of a complete victory, was urged by him and others. but o'sullivan and his friends had again obtained the ear of the prince and urged him to immediate battle. this advice jumped with his own high spirit, for he could not brook to fall back in the face of the enemy awaiting the conflict. the order went forth to gather the clans for the fight. to make full the tale of his misdeeds came o'sullivan's fatal slight to the pride of the macdonalds. since the days of robert the bruce and bannockburn it had been their clan privilege to hold the post of honour on the right. the blundering irishman assigned this position to the athole men in forming the line of battle, and stubbornly refused to reform his line. the duke of perth, who commanded on the left wing, endeavoured to placate the clan by vowing that they would that day make a right of the left and promising to change his name to macdonald after the victory. riding to the duke with a message from the prince i chanced on a man lying face down among the whin bushes. for the moment i supposed him dead, till he lifted himself to an elbow. the man turned to me a gash face the colour of whey, and i saw that it was donald roy. "ohon! ohon! the evil day hass fallen on us, kenneth. five hundred years the macdonalds have held the post of honour. they will never fight on the left," he told me in bitter despair and grief. "wae's me! the red death grips us. old maceuan who hass the second sight saw a vision in the night of cumberland's ridens driving over a field lost to the north. death on the field and on the scaffold." i have never known a man of saner common sense than donald roy, but when it comes to their superstitions all highlanders are alike. as well i might have reasoned with a wooden post. maceuan of the seeing eyes had predicted disaster, and calamity was to be our portion. he joined me and walked beside my horse toward his command. the firing was by this time very heavy, our cannon being quite ineffective and the artillery of the english well served and deadly. their guns, charged with cartouch, flung death wholesale across the ravine at us and decimated our ranks. the grape-shot swept through us like a hail-storm. galled beyond endurance by the fire of the enemy, the clans clamoured to be led forward in the charge. presently through the lifting smoke we saw the devoted mackintoshes rushing forward against the cannon. after them came the maclaughlans and the macleans to their left, and a moment later the whole highland line was in motion with the exception of the macdonalds, who hewed the turf with their swords in a despairing rage but would neither fight nor fly. their chief, brave keppoch, stung to the quick, advanced almost alone, courting death rather than to survive the day's disgrace. captain donald roy followed at his heels, imploring his chieftain not to sacrifice himself, but keppoch bade him save himself. for him, he would never see the sunrise again. next moment he fell to the ground from a musket-shot, never to speak more. my last glimpse of captain roy was to see him carrying back the body of his chief. i rode back at a gallop along the ridge to my troop. the valley below was a shambles. the english cannon tore great gaps in the ranks of the advancing highlanders. the incessant fire of the infantry raked them. from the left wing major wolfe's regiment poured an unceasing flank fire of musketry. the highlanders fell in platoons. still they swept forward headlong. they reached the first line of the enemy. 'twas claymore against bayonet. another minute, and the highlanders had trampled down the regulars and were pushing on in impetuous gallantry. the thin tartan line clambering up the opposite side of the ravine grew thinner as the grape-shot carried havoc to their ranks. cobham's and kerr's dragoons flanked them _en potence_. to stand that hell of fire was more than mortal men could endure. scarce a dozen clansmen reached the second line of regulars. the rest turned and cut their way, sword in hand, through the flanking regiments which had formed on the ground over which they had just passed with the intention of barring the retreat. our life-guards and the french pickets, together with ogilvy's regiment, checked in some measure the pursuit, but nothing could be done to save the day. all was irretrievably lost, though the prince galloped over the field attempting a rally. the retreat became a rout, and the rout a panic. as far as inverness the ground was strewn with the dead slain in that ghastly pursuit. the atrocities committed after the battle would have been worthy of savages rather than of civilized troops. many of the inhabitants of inverness had come out to see the battle from curiosity and were cut down by the infuriated cavalry. the carnage of the battle appeared not to satiate their horrid thirst for blood, and the troopers, bearing in mind their disgrace at gladsmuir and falkirk, rushed to and fro over the field massacring the wounded. i could ask any fair-minded judge to set up against this barbarity the gentle consideration and tenderness of prince charles and his wild highlanders in their hours of victory. we never slew a man except in the heat of fight, and the wounded of the enemy were always cared for with the greatest solicitude. from this one may conclude that the bravest troops are the most humane. these followers of the duke had disgraced themselves, and they ran to an excess of cruelty in an attempt to wipe out their cowardice. nor was it the soldiery alone that committed excesses. i regret to have to record that many of the officers also engaged in them. a party was dispatched from inverness the day after the battle to put to death all the wounded they might find in the inclosures of culloden park near the field of the contest. a young highlander serving with the english army was afterwards heard to declare that he saw seventy-two unfortunate victims dragged from their hiding in the heather to hillocks and shot down by volleys of musketry. into a small sheep hut on the moor some of our wounded had dragged themselves. the dragoons secured the door and fired the hut. one instance of singular atrocity is vouched for. nineteen wounded highland officers, too badly injured to join the retreat, secreted themselves in a small plantation near culloden-house, to which mansion they were afterward taken. after being allowed to lie without care twenty-four hours they were tossed into carts, carried to the wall of the park, ranged against it in a row, and instantly shot. i myself was a witness of one incident which touches the butcher of cumberland nearly. if i relate the affair, 'tis because it falls pat with the narrative of my escape. in the streets of inverness i ran across major macleod gathering together the remnant of his command to check the pursuit until the prince should have escaped. the man had just come from seeing his brave clansmen mowed down, and his face looked like death. "the prince-- did he escape?" i asked. "i saw him last trying to stem the tide, with sheridan and o'sullivan tugging at his reins to induce a flight." the macleod nodded. "they passed through the town not five minutes ago." i asked him whether he had seen anything of captain roy macdonald, and he told me that he had last seen him lying wounded on the field. i had him describe to me accurately the position, and rode back by a wide circuit toward drummossie moor. i had of course torn off the white cockade and put it in my breast so as to minimize the danger of being recognized as a follower of the prince. my heart goes to my throat whenever i think of that ride, for behind every clump of whins one might look to find a wounded clansman hiding from the riders of cumberland. by good providence i came on captain macdonald just as three hussars were about to make an end of him. he had his back to a great stone, and was waiting grimly for them to shoot him down. supposing me to be an officer of their party the troopers desisted at my remonstrance and left him to me. donald roy was wounded in the foot, but he managed to mount behind me. we got as far as the wall of the park when i saw a party of officers approaching. hastily dismounting, we led the horse behind a nest of birches till they should pass. a few yards from us a sorely wounded highland officer was lying. macdonald recognized him as charles fraser, younger of inverallachie, the lieutenant-colonel of the fraser regiment and in the absence of the master of lovat commander. we found no time to drag him to safety before the english officers were upon us. the approaching party turned out to be the duke of cumberland himself, major wolfe, lord boyd, sir robert volney, and a boy officer of wolfe's regiment. young fraser raised himself on his elbow to look at the duke. the butcher reined in his horse, frowning blackly down at him. "to which side do you belong?" he asked. "to the prince," was the undaunted answer. cumberland, turning to major wolfe, said, "major, are your pistols loaded?" wolfe said that they were. "then shoot me that highland scoundrel who dares look on me so insolently." major wolfe looked at his commander very steadily and said quietly: "sir, my commission is at the disposal of your royal highness, but my honour is my own. i can never consent to become a common executioner." the duke purpled, and burst out with, "bah! pistol him, boyd." "your highness asks what is not fitting for you to require nor for me to perform," answered that young nobleman. the duke, in a fury, turned to a passing dragoon and bade him shoot the young man. charles fraser dragged himself to his feet by a great effort and looked at the butcher with a face of infinite scorn while the soldier was loading his piece. "your highness," began wolfe, about to remonstrate. "sir, i command you to be silent," screamed the duke. the trooper presented his piece at the fraser, whose steady eyes never left the face of cumberland. "god save king james!" cried inverallachie in english, and next moment fell dead from the discharge of the musket. the faces of the four englishmen who rode with the duke were stern and drawn. wolfe dismounted from his horse and reverently covered the face of the dead jacobite with a kerchief. "god grant that when our time comes we may die as valiantly and as loyally as this young gentleman," he said solemnly, raising his hat. volney, boyd, and wolfe's subaltern uncovered, and echoed an "amen." cumberland glared from one to another of them, ran the gamut of all tints from pink to deepest purple, gulped out an apoplectic dutch oath, and dug the rowels deep into his bay. with shame, sorrow, and contempt in their hearts his retinue followed the butcher across the field. my face was like the melting winter snows. i could not look at the macdonald, nor he at me. we mounted in silence and rode away. only once he referred to what we had seen. "many's the time that charlie fraser and i have hunted the dun deer across the heather hills, and now----" he broke into gaelic lamentation and imprecation, then fell as suddenly to quiet. we bore up a ravine away from the roads toward where a great gash in the hills invited us, for we did not need to be told that the chances of safety increased with our distance from the beaten tracks of travel. a man on horseback came riding behind and overhauled us rapidly. presently we saw that he was a red-coated officer, and behind a huge rock we waited to pistol him as he came up. the man leaped from his horse and came straight toward us. i laid a hand on captain roy's arm, for i had recognized major wolfe. but i was too late. a pistol ball went slapping through the major's hat and knocked it from his head. he stooped, replaced it with the utmost composure, and continued to advance, at the same time calling out that he was a friend. "i recognized you behind the birches, montagu, and thought that you and your friend could use another horse. take my galloway. you will find him a good traveller." i ask you to believe that we stared long at him. a wistful smile touched his sallow face. "we're not all ruffians in the english army, lad. if i aid your escape it is because prisoners have no rights this day. my advice would be for you to strike for the hills." "in troth and i would think your advisings good, sir," answered donald. "no glen will be too far, no ben too high, for a hiding-place from these bloody sassenach dogs." then he stopped, the bitterness fading from his voice, and added: "but i am forgetting myself. god, sir, the sights i have seen this day drive me mad. at all events there iss one english officer captain macdonald will remember whatever." and the highlander bowed with dignity. i thanked wolfe warmly, and lost no time in taking his advice. captain roy's foot had by this time so swollen that he could not put it in the stirrup. he was suffering a good deal, but at least the pain served to distract him from the gloom that lay heavy on his spirits. from the hillside far above the town we could see the lights of inverness beginning to glimmer as we passed. a score of times we had to dismount on account of the roughness of the ground to lead our horses along the steep incline of the mountainsides, and each time donald set his teeth and dragged his shattered ankle through bracken and over boulder by sheer dour pluck. hunger gnawed at our vitals, for in forty-eight hours we had but tasted food. deadly weariness hung on our stumbling footsteps, and in our gloomy hearts lurked the coldness of despair. yet hour after hour we held our silent course, clambering like heather-cats over cleugh and boggy moorland, till at last we reached bun chraobg, where we unsaddled for a snatch of sleep. we flung ourselves down on the soft heather wrapped in our plaids, but for long slumber was not to be wooed. our alert minds fell to a review of all the horrors of the day: to friends struck down, to the ghastly carnage, to fugitives hunted and shot in their hiding-places like wild beasts, to the mistakes that had ruined our already lost cause. the past and the present were bitter as we could bear; thank heaven, the black shadow of the future hung as yet but dimly on our souls. if we had had the second sight and could have known what was to follow--the countryside laid waste with fire and sword, women and children turned out of their blazing homes to perish on the bleak moors, the wearing of the tartan proscribed and made a crime punishable with death, a hundred brave highlanders the victim of the scaffold--we should have quite despaired. except the gentle soughing of the wind there was no sound to stir the silent night. a million of night's candles looked coldly down on an army of hunted stragglers. i thought of the prince, cluny, lord murray, creagh, and a score of others, wondering if they had been taken, and fell at last to troubled sleep, from which ever and anon i started to hear the wild wail of the pibroch or the ringing highland slogans, to see the flaming cannon mouths vomiting death or the fell galloping of the relentless hanoverian dragoons. in the chill dawn i awoke to a ravening hunger that was insistent to be noted, and though my eyes would scarce believe there was donald roy cocked tailor fashion on the heath arranging most temptingly on a rock scone sandwiches of braxy mutton and a flask of usquebaugh (highland whiskey). i shut my eyes, rubbed them with my forefingers, and again let in the light. the viands were still there. the macdonald smiled whimsically over at me. "gin ye hae your appetite wi' you we'll eat, mr. montagu, for i'm a wee thingie hungry my nainsell (myself). 'deed, to mak plain, i'm toom (empty) as a drum, and i'm thinkin' that a drappie o' the usquebaugh wad no' come amiss neither." "but where in the world did you get the food, donald?" "and where wad you think, but doon at the bit clachan yonder? a very guid freend of mine named farquhar dhu lives there. he and donald roy are far ben (intimate), and when i came knocking at his window at cock-craw he was no' very laithe to gie me a bit chack (lunch)." "did you climb down the mountain and back with your sore ankle?" he coloured. "hoots, man! haud your whitter (tongue)! aiblins (perhaps) i wass just wearying for a bit exercise to test it. and gin i were you i wadna sit cocking on that stane speiring at me upsitten (impertinent) questions like a professor of pheelosophy, you muckle sumph!" i fell to with a will. he was not a man to be thanked in words. long since i had found out that captain roy was one to spend himself for his friends and make nothing of it. this was one of his many shining qualities that drew me so strongly to him. if he had a few of the highland faults he did not lack any of the virtues of his race. shortly we were on our way once more, and were fortunate enough before night to fall in with cluny and his clan, who having heard of our reverse had turned about and were falling back to badenoch. at trotternich we found a temporary refuge at the home of a surgeon who was distantly related to the macdonald, but at the end of a fortnight were driven away by the approach of a troop of wolfe's regiment. the course of our wanderings i think it not needful to detail at length. for months we were forever on the move. from one hiding-place to another the redcoats and their clan allies drove us. no sooner were we fairly concealed than out we were routed. many a weary hundred miles we tramped over the bleak mountains white with snow. weariness walked with us by day, and cold and hunger lay down with us at night. occasionally we slept in sheilings (sheep-huts), but usually in caves or under the open sky. were we in great luck, venison and usquebaugh fell to our portion, but more often our diet was brose (boiling water poured over oatmeal) washed down by a draught from the mountain burn. now we would be lurking on the mainland, now skulking on one of the islands or crossing rough firths in crazy boats that leaked like a sieve. many a time it was touch and go with us, for the dragoons and the campbells followed the trail like sleuths. we fugitives had a system of signals by which we warned each other of the enemy's approach and conveyed to each other the news. that balmerino, kilmarnock, and many another pretty man had been taken we knew, and scores of us could have guessed shrewdly where the prince was hiding in the heather hills. chapter xi the red heather hills a sullen day, full of chill gusts and drizzle, sinking into a wet misty night! three hunted jacobites, dragging themselves forward drearily, found the situation one of utter cheerlessness. for myself, misery spoke in every motion, and to say the same of creagh and macdonald is to speak by the card. fatigue is not the name for our condition. fagged out, dispirited, with legs moving automatically, we still slithered down cleughs, laboured through dingles and corries, clambered up craggy mountainsides all slippery with the wet heather, weariness tugging at our leaden feet like a convict's chain and ball. our bones ached, our throats were limekilns, composts of sores were our ragged feet. on every side the redcoats had hemmed us in, and we knew not whether we tramped to a precarious safety or to death. indeed, 'twas little we cared, for at last exhaustion had touched the limit of endurance. not a word had passed the lips of any of us for hours, lest the irritation of our worn nerves should flame into open rupture. at length we stood on the summit of the ridge. scarce a half mile from us a shieling was to be seen on the shoulder of the mount. "that looks like the cot where o'sullivan and the prince put up a month ago," said creagh. macdonald ruffled at the name like a turkeycock. since culloden the word had been to him as a red rag to a bull. "the devil take o'sullivan and his race," burst out the scotch captain. "gin it had not been for him the cause had not been lost." the irishman's hot temper flared. "you forget the macdonalds, sir," he retorted, tartly. "what ails you at the macdonalds?" demanded the gentleman of that ilk, looking him over haughtily from head to foot. creagh flung out his answer with an insolent laugh. "culloden." the macdonald's colour ebbed. "it will be a great peety that you hafe insulted me, for there will presently be a dead irishman to stain the snow with hiss blood," he said deliberately, falling into more broken english as he always did when excited. creagh shrugged. "that's on the knees of the gods. at the worst it leaves one less for the butcher to hang, scotch or irish." "it sticks in my mind that i hafe heard you are a pretty man with the steel--at the least i am thinking so," said captain roy, standing straight as an arrow, his blue eyes fixed steadily on his opponent. "gadso! betwixt and between, but i dare say my sword will serve to keep my head at all events whatefer," cried creagh, mimicking scornfully the other's accent. donald whipped his sword from its scabbard. "fery well. that will make easy proving, sir." the quarrel had cropped out so quickly that hitherto i had found no time to interfere, but now i came between them and beat down the swords. "are you mad, gentlemen? put up your sword, tony. back, macdonald, or on my soul i'll run you through," i cried. "come on, the pair of ye. captain roy can fend for (look out for) himself," shouted the excited highlander, thrusting at me. "fall back, tony, and let me have a word," i implored. the irishman disengaged, his anger nearly gone, a whimsical smile already twitching at his mouth. "creagh, you don't mean to impeach the courage of captain macdonald, do you?" i asked. "not at all--not at all. faith, i never saw a man more keen to fight," he admitted, smiling. "he was wounded at culloden. you know that?" "so i have heard." then he added dryly, some imp of mischief stirring him: "in the heel, wasn't it?" "yes, in the foot," i told him hastily. "i suppose you do not doubt the valour of the captain's clan any more than his own." "devil a bit!" he answered carelessly. "i've seen them fight too often to admit of any question as to their courage at all, at all. for sheer daring i never saw the beat of the highland troops--especially if there chanced to be any plunder on the other side of the enemy, egad!" i turned to donald roy, who was sullenly waiting for me to have done. "are you satisfied, captain, that tony meant to impute nothing against you or your men?" "oich! oich!" he grumbled. "i wass thinking i heard some other dirty sneers." "if the sneers were unjust i retract them with the best will in the world. come, captain macdonald, sure 'tis not worth our while doing the work of the redcoats for them. 'slife, 'tis not fair to jack ketch!" exclaimed the irishman. "right, donald! why, you fire-eating hotspur, you began it yourself with a fling at the irish. make up, man! shake hands with tony, and be done with your bile." creagh offered his hand, smiling, and his smile was a handsome letter of recommendation. donald's face cleared, and he gripped heartily the hand of the other. "with great pleasure, and gin i said anything offensive i eat my words at all events," he said. "you may say what you please about o'sullivan, captain macdonald. ecod, he may go to the devil for me," creagh told him. "well, and for me too; 'fore god, the sooner the better." "if there is to be no throat-cutting to warm the blood maybe we had better push on to the bothy, gentlemen. i'm fain niddered [perishing] with the cold. this highland mist goes to the marrow," i suggested merrily, and linking arms with them i moved forward. in ten minutes we had a roaring fire ablaze, and were washing down with usquebaugh the last trace of unkindness. after we had eaten our bannocks and brose we lay in the shine of the flame and revelled in the blessed heat, listening to the splash of the rain outside. we were still encompassed by a cordon of the enemy, but for the present we were content to make the most of our unusual comfort. "here's a drammoch left in the flask. i give you the restoration, gentlemen," cried donald. "i wonder where the prince is this night," i said after we had drunk the toast. we fell to a meditative sombre silence, and presently captain roy began to sing softly one of those touching jacobite melodies that go to the source of tears like rain to the roots of flowers. donald had one of the rare voices that carry the heart to laughter and to sobs. the singer's song, all pathos and tenderness, played on the chords of our emotion like a harp. my eyes began to smart. creagh muttered something about the peat-smoke affecting his, and i'm fain to admit that i rolled over with my face from the fire to hide the tell-tale tears. the haunting pathetic wistfulness of the third stanza shook me with sobs. "on hills that are by right his ain, he roams a lanely stranger; on ilka hand he's pressed by want, on ilka hand by danger." "ohon! ohon!" groaned donald. "the evil day! the evil day! wae's me for our bonnie hieland laddie!" "may the blessed mother keep him safe from all enemies and dangers!" said creagh softly. "and god grant that he be warm and well fed this bitter night wherever he may be," i murmured. something heavy like the butt of a musket fell against the door, and we started to our feet in an instant. out flashed our swords. "who goes?" cried the macdonald. we threw open the door, and in came a party of four, rain dripping from their soaked plaids. i recognized at once young clanranald and major macleod. the other two were a tattered gillie in the macdonald tartan and a young woman of most engaging appearance, who was supported in the arms of clanranald and his henchman. the exhausted lady proved to be no other than the celebrated miss flora macdonald, whose gallant and generous devotion, for a protracted period, as we afterwards learned, had undoubtedly saved the life of the prince from his enemies. donald no sooner beheld his kinswoman than he dropped on his knee and with the wildest demonstrations of joy kissed the hand of the ragged kerne who supported her. i stared at captain roy in amazement, and while i was yet wondering at his strange behaviour tony creagh plumped down beside him. my eyes went to the face of the gillie and encountered the winsome smile of the young chevalier. desperately white and weary as he was, and dressed in an outcast's rags, he still looked every inch the son of kings. to me he was always a more princely figure in his days of adversity, when he roamed a hunted wanderer among highland heughs and corries with only those about him over whose hearts he still was king, than when he ruled at holyrood undisputed master of scotland. it appeared that the party of the prince, with the exception of clanranald, were destined for raasay, could they but run the cordon of troopers who guarded the island of skye. through malcolm, arrangements had been made by which murdoch macleod, a younger brother wounded at culloden, was to be in waiting with a boat to convey the party of the prince across the sound. it will be believed that we discussed with much care and anxiety the best disposition to be made of ourselves in running the lines of the enemy. the final decision was that the prince, malcolm, and i should make the attempt that night while creagh, captain roy, and miss flora followed at their leisure on the morrow. since the young lady was provided with a passport for herself and her attendant this promised to be a matter of small danger on their part. never have i known a woman treated with truer chivalry and deference than this heroic highland girl was by these hardy mountaineers. her chief, clanranald, insisted on building with his own hands a fire in her sleeping room "ben" the house, and in every way the highest marks of respect were shown her for her devotion to the cause. though he expected to join her again shortly, the prince made her his warmest acknowledgments of thanks in a spirit of pleasantry which covered much tender feeling. they had been under fire together and had shared perils by land and by sea during which time his conduct to her had been perfect, a gentle consideration for her comfort combined with the reserve that became a gentleman under such circumstances. on this occasion he elected to escort her in person to the door of her chamber. after a snatch of sleep we set out on our perillous journey. sheets of rain were now falling in a very black night. donald roy parted from us at the door of the hut with much anxiety. he had pleaded hard to be allowed to join the party of the prince, but had been overruled on the ground that he was the only one of us with the exception of malcolm that could act as a guide. moreover he was the kinsman of miss flora, and therefore her natural protector. over and over he urged us to be careful and to do nothing rash. the prince smilingly answered him with a shred of the gaelic. "bithidh gach ni mar is aill dhiu." (all things must be as god will have them.) the blackness of the night was a thing to be felt. not the faithful achates followed Æneas more closely than did we the macleod. no sound came to us but the sloshing of the rain out of a sodden sky and the noise of falling waters from mountain burns in spate (flood). hour after hour while we played blindly follow-my-leader the clouds were a sieve over our devoted heads. braes we breasted and precipitous heathery heights we sliddered down, but there was always rain and ever more rain, turning at last into a sharp thin sleet that chilled the blood. then in the gray breaking of the day malcolm turned to confess what i had already suspected, that he had lost the way in the darkness. we were at present shut in a sea of fog, a smirr of mist and rain, but when that lifted he could not promise that we would not be close on the campfires of the dragoons. his fine face was a picture of misery, and bitterly he reproached himself for the danger into which he had led the prince. the young chevalier told him gently that no blame was attaching to him; rather to us all for having made the attempt in such a night. for another hour we sat on the dripping heather opposite the corp-white face of the macleod waiting for the mist to lift. the wanderer exerted himself to keep us in spirits, now whistling a spring of clanranald's march, now retailing to us the story of how he had walked through the redcoats as miss macdonald's betty burke. it may be conceived with what anxiety we waited while the cloud of moisture settled from the mountain tops into the valleys. "by heaven, sir, we have a chance," cried malcolm suddenly, and began to lead the way at a great pace up the steep slope. for a half hour we scudded along, higher and higher, always bearing to the right and at such a burst of speed that i judged we must be in desperate danger. the prince hung close to the heels of malcolm, but i was a sorry laggard ready to die of exhaustion. when the mist sank we began to go more cautiously, for the valley whence we had just emerged was dotted at intervals with the campfires of the soldiers. cautiously we now edged our way along the slippery incline, keeping in the shadow of great rocks and broom wherever it was possible. 'tis not in nature to walk unmoved across an open where every bush may hide a sentinel who will let fly at one as gladly as at a fat buck--yes, and be sure of thirty thousand pounds if he hit the right mark. i longed for eyes in the back of my head, and every moment could feel the lead pinging its way between my shoulder blades. major macleod had from his youth stalked the wary stag, and every saugh and birch and alder in our course was made to yield us its cover. once a muircock whirred from my very feet and brought my heart to my mouth. presently we topped the bluff and disappeared over its crest. another hour of steady tramping down hill and the blue waters of the sound stretched before us. 'twas time. my teeth chattered and my bones ached. i was sick--sick--sick. "and here we are at the last," cried the major with a deep breath of relief. "i played the gomeral brawly, but in the darkness we blundered ram-stam through the sassenach lines." "'fortuna favet fatuis,'" quoted the young chevalier. "luck for fools! the usurper's dragoons will have to wait another day for their thirty thousand pounds. eh, montagu?" he asked me blithely; then stopped to stare at me staggering down the beach. "what ails you, man?" i was reeling blindly like a drunkard, and our prince put an arm around my waist. i resisted feebly, but he would have none of it; the arm of a king's son (de jure) supported me to the boat. we found as boatmen not only murdoch macleod but his older brother young raasay, the only one of the family that had not been "out" with our army. he had been kept away from the rebellion to save the family estates, but his heart was none the less with us. "and what folly is this, ronald?" cried malcolm when he saw the head of the house on the links. "murdoch and i are already as black as we can be, but you were to keep clean of the prince's affairs. it wad be a geyan ill outcome gin we lost the estates after all. the red cock will aiblins craw at raasay for this." "i wass threepin' so already, but he wass dooms thrang to come. he'll maybe get his craig raxed (neck twisted) for his ploy," said murdoch composedly. "by heaven, malcolm, i'll play the trimmer no longer. raasay serves his prince though it cost both the estate and his head," cried the young chieftain hotly. "in god's name then let us get away before the militia or the sidier roy (red soldiers) fall in with us. in the woody cleughs yonder they are thick as blackcocks in august," cried the major impatiently. we pushed into the swirling waters and were presently running free, sending the spurling spray flying on both sides of the boat. the wind came on to blow pretty hard and the leaky boat began to fill, so that we were hard put to it to keep from sinking. the three brothers were quite used to making the trip in foul weather, but on the prince's account were now much distressed. to show his contempt for danger, the royal wanderer sang a lively erse song. the macleods landed us at glam, and led the way to a wretched hovel recently erected by some shepherds. here we dined on broiled kid, butter, cream, and oaten bread. i slept round the clock, and awoke once more a sound man to see the prince roasting the heart of the kid on an iron spit. throughout the day we played with a greasy pack of cards to pass the time. about sundown creagh joined us, macdonald having stayed on skye to keep watch on any suspicious activity of the clan militia or the dragoons. raasay's clansmen, ostensibly engaged in fishing, dotted the shore of the little island to give warning of the approach of any boats. to make our leader's safety more certain, the two proscribed brothers took turns with creagh and me in doing sentinel duty at the end of the path leading to the sheep hut. at the desire of the prince--and how much more at mine!--we ventured up to the great house that night to meet the ladies, extraordinary precautions having been taken by raasay to prevent the possibility of any surprise. indeed, so long as the prince was in their care, raasay and his brothers were as anxious as the proverbial hen with the one chick. doubtless they felt that should he be captured while on the island the reputation of the house would be forever blasted. and this is the most remarkable fact of charles edward stuart's romantic history; that in all the months of his wandering, reposing confidence as he was forced to do in hundreds of different persons, many of them mere gillies and some of them little better than freebooters, it never seems to have occurred to one of these shag-headed gaels to earn an immense fortune by giving him up. my heart beat a tattoo against my ribs as i followed the prince and raasay to the drawing-room where his sister and miss macdonald awaited us. eight months had passed since last i had seen my love; eight months of battle, of hairbreadth escapes, and of hardships scarce to be conceived. she too had endured much in that time. scarce a house in raasay but had been razed by the enemy because her brothers and their following had been "out" with us. i was to discover whether her liking for me had outlived the turmoils of "the ' ," or had been but a girlish fancy. my glance flashed past miss flora macdonald and found aileen on the instant. for a hundredth part of a second our eyes met before she fell to making her devoirs to the young chevalier, and after that i did not need to be told that my little friend was still staunch and leal. i could afford to wait my turn with composure, content to watch with long-starved eyes the delicacy and beauty of this sweet wild rose i coveted. sure, hers was a charm that custom staled not nor longer acquaintance made less alluring. every mood had its own characteristic fascination, and are not the humours of a woman numberless? she had always a charming note of unconventional freshness, a childlike _naiveté_ of immaturity and unsophistication at times, even a certain girlish shy austerity that had for me a touch of saintliness. but there-- why expatiate? a lover's midsummer madness, you will say! my turn at last! the little brown hand pressed mine firmly for an instant, the warm blue eyes met mine full and true, the pulse in the soft-throated neck beat to a recognition of my presence. i found time to again admire the light poise of the little head carried with such fine spirit, the music of the broken english speech in this vibrant highland voice. "welcome-- welcome to raasay, my friend!" then her eyes falling on the satin cockade so faded and so torn, there came a tremulous little catch to her voice, a fine light to her eyes. "it iss the good tale that my brothers have been telling me of kenneth montagu's brave devotion to hiss friends, but i wass not needing to hear the story from them. i will be thinking that i knew it all already," she said, a little timidly. i bowed low over her hand and kissed it. "my friends make much of nothing. their fine courage reads their own spirit reflected in the eyes of others." "oh, then i will have heard the story wrong. it would be donald who went back to drummossie moor after you when you were wounded?" "could a friend do less?" "or more?" "he would have done as much for me. my plain duty!" i said, shrugging, anxious to be done with the subject. she looked at me with sparkling eyes, laughing at my discomposure, in a half impatience of my stolid english phlegm. "oh, you men! you go to your death for a friend, and if by a miracle you escape: 'pooh! 'twas nothing whatever. gin it rain to-morrow, i think 'twill be foul,' you say, and expect to turn it off so." i took the opening like a fox. "faith, i hope it will not rain to-morrow," i said. "i have to keep watch outside. does the sun never shine in raasay, aileen?" "whiles," she answered, laughing. "and are all englishmen so shy of their virtues?" tony creagh coming up at that moment, she referred the question to him. "sure, i can't say," he answered unsmilingly. "'fraid i'm out of court. never knew an englishman to have any." "can't you spare them one at the least?" aileen implored, gaily. he looked at her, then at me, a twinkle in his merry irish eyes. "ecod then, i concede them one! they're good sportsmen. they follow the game until they've bagged it." we two flushed in concert, but the point of her wit touched creagh on the _riposte_. "the men of the nation being disposed of in such cavalier fashion, what shall we say of the ladies, sir?" she asked demurely. "that they are second only to the incomparable maidens of the north," he answered, kissing her hand in his extravagant celtic way. "but i will not be fubbed off with your irish blarney. the english ladies, mr. creagh?" she merrily demanded. "come, tony, you renegade! have i not heard you toast a score of times the beauties of london?" said i, coming up with the heavy artillery. "never, i vow. sure i always thought edinburgh a finer city--not so dirty and, pink me, a vast deal more interesting. now london is built----" "on the thames. so it is," i interrupted dryly. "and--to get back to the subject under discussion--the pink and white beauties of london are built to take the eye and ensnare the heart of roving irishmen. confess!" "or be forever shamed as recreant knight," cried aileen, her blue eyes bubbling with laughter. tony unbuckled his sword and offered it her. "if i yield 'tis not to numbers but to beauty. is my confession to be in the general or the particular, miss macleod?" "oh, in the particular! 'twill be the mair interesting." "faith then, though it be high treason to say so of one lady before another, tony creagh's scalp dangles at the belt of the most bewitching little charmer in christendom." "her name?" "mistress antoinette westerleigh, london's reigning toast." aileen clapped her hands in approving glee. "and did you ever tell her?" "a score of times. faith, 'twas my rule to propose every second time i saw her and once in between." "and she----?" "laughed at me; played shill-i-shall-i with my devotion; vowed she would not marry me till i had been killed in the wars to prove i was a hero; smiled on me one minute and scorned me the next." "and you love her still?" "the sun rises in 'toinette's eyes; when she frowns the day is vile." "despite her whims and arrogances?" "sure for me my queen can do no wrong. 'tis her right to laugh and mock at me so only she enjoy it." aileen stole one shy, quick, furtive look at me. it seemed to question whether her lover was such a pattern of meek obedience. "and you never falter? there iss no other woman for you?" "saving your presence, there is no other woman in the world?" her eyes glistened. "kneel down, sir," she commanded. tony dropped to a knee. she touched him lightly on the shoulder with his sword. "in love's name i dub you worthy knight. be bold, be loyal, be fortunate. arise, sir anthony creagh, knight of the order of cupid!" we three had wandered away together into an alcove, else, 'tis almost needless to say, our daffing had not been so free. now malcolm joined us with a paper in his hand. he spoke to me, smiling yet troubled too. "more labours, o my theseus! more minotaurs to slay! more labyrinths to thread!" "and what may be these labours now?" i asked. "captain donald roy sends for you. he reports unusual activity among the clan militia and the redcoats on skye. a brig landed men and officers there yesterday. and what for will they be coming?" "i think the reason is very plain, major macleod," said tony blithely. "i'm jalousing (suspecting) so mysel'. they will be for the taking of a wheen puir callants (lads) that are jinking (hiding) in the hill birken (scrub). but here iss the point that must be learned: do they ken that the prince iss on the islands?" creagh sprang to his feet from the chair in which he had been lazying. "the devil's in it! why should montagu go? why not i?" "because you can't talk the gaelic, creagh. you're barred," i told him triumphantly. "would you be sending our guest on such an errand of danger, malcolm?" asked aileen in a low voice. "not i, but fegs! i will never say the word to hinder if he volunteers. 'tis in the service of the prince. the rest of us are kent (known) men and canna gang." grouped behind malcolm were now gathered the prince, raasay, and miss flora. to me as a focus came all eyes. i got to my feet in merry humour. "ma foi! ulysses as a wanderer is not to be compared with me. when do i set out, major?" "at skreigh-o'-day (daybreak). and the sooner you seek your sleep the better. best say good-night to the lassies, for you'll need be wide awake the morn twa-three hours ere sun-up. don't let the redcoats wile (lure) you into any of their traps, lad. you maunna lose your head or----" "----or i'll lose my head," i answered, drolling. "i take you, major; but, my word for it, i have not, played hide-and-go-seek six months among your highland lochs and bens to dance on air at the last." the prince drew me aside. "this will not be forgotten when our day of power comes, montagu. i expected no less of your father's son." then he added with a smile: "and when ulysses rests safe from his wanderings at last i trust he will find his penelope waiting for him with a true heart." without more ado i bade miss macdonald and aileen good-bye, but as i left the room i cast a last look back over my shoulder and methought that the lissome figure of my love yearned forward toward me tenderly and graciously. chapter xii volney pays a debt there are some to whom strange changes never come. they pursue the even tenor of their way in humdrum monotony, content to tread the broad safe path of routine. for them the fascination of the mountain peaks of giddy chance has no allurement, the swift turbulent waters of intrigue no charm. there are others with whom dame fortune plays many an exciting game, and to these adventure becomes as the very breath of life. to such every hazard of new fortune is a diversion to be eagerly sought. something of this elation seized me--for i am of this latter class--as murdoch and his gillies rowed me across the sound to skye in the darkness of the early morning. it was a drab dawn as ever i have seen, and every tug at the oars shot me nearer to the red bloodhounds who were debouched over the island. what then? was i not two years and twenty, and did i not venture for the life of a king's son? to-day i staked my head on luck and skill; to-morrow--but let the future care for her own. in a grove of beeches about half a mile from portree we landed, and murdoch gave the call of the whaup to signal donald roy. from a clump of whins in the gorse the whistle echoed back to us, and presently captain macdonald came swinging down to the shore. it appeared that another boatload of soldiers had been landed during the night, a squad of clan militia under the command of a lieutenant campbell. we could but guess that this portended some knowledge as to the general whereabouts of the prince, and 'twas my mission to learn the extent and reliability of that knowledge if i could. that there was some danger in the attempt i knew, but it had been minimized by the philibeg and hose, the glengarry bonnet and macleod plaid which i had donned at the instance of malcolm. i have spoken of chance. the first stroke of it fell as i strode along the highway to portree. at a crossroad intersection i chanced on a fellow trudging the same way as myself. he was one of your furtive-faced fellows, with narrow slits of eyes and an acquired habit of skellying sidewise at one out of them. cunning he was beyond doubt, and from the dour look of him one to bear malice. his trews were like joseph's coat for the colour of the many patches, but i made them out to have been originally of the campbell plaid. "a fine day, my man," says i with vast irony. "wha's finding faut wi' the day?" he answers glumly. "you'll be from across the mountains on the mainland by the tongue of you," i ventured. "gin you ken that there'll be nae use telling you." "a campbell, i take it." he turned his black-a-vised face on me, scowling. "or perhaps you're on the other side of the hedge--implicated in this barelegged rebellion, i dare say." under my smiling, watchful eye he began to grow restless. his hand crept to his breast, and i heard the crackle of papers. "deil hae't, what's it to you?" he growled. "to me? oh, nothing at all. merely a friendly interest. on the whole i think my first guess right. i wouldn't wonder but you're carrying dispatches from lieutenant campbell." the fellow went all colours and was as easy as a worm on a hook. "i make no doubt you'll be geyan tired from long travel, and the responsibility of carrying such important documents must weigh down your spirits," i drolled, "and so i will trouble you"--with a pistol clapped to his head and a sudden ring of command in my voice--"to hand them over to me at once." the fellow's jaw dropped lankly. he looked hither and thither for a way of escape and found none. he was confronting an argument that had a great deal of weight with him, and out of the lining of his bonnet he ripped a letter. "thanks, but i'll take the one in your breast pocket," i told him dryly. out it came with a deal of pother. the letter was addressed to the duke of cumberland, portree, skye. my lips framed themselves to a long whistle. here was the devil to pay. if the butcher was on the island i knew he had come after bigger game than muircocks. no less a quarry than the prince himself would tempt him to this remote region. i marched my prisoner back to captain roy and murdoch. to donald i handed the letter, and he ripped it open without ceremony. 'twas merely a note from the campbell lieutenant of militia, to say that the orders of his highness regarding the watching of the coast would be fulfilled to the least detail. "well, and here's a pirn to unravel. what's to be done now?" asked the macdonald. "by heaven, i have it," cried i. "let murdoch carry the news to raasay that the prince may get away at once. do you guard our prisoner here, while i, dressed in his trews and bonnet, carry the letter to the duke. his answer may throw more light on the matter." not to make long, so it was decided. we made fashion to plaster up the envelope so as not to show a casual looker that it had been tampered with, and i footed it to portree in the patched trews of the messenger, not with the lightest heart in the world. the first redcoat i met directed me to the inn where the duke had his headquarters, and i was presently admitted to a hearing. the duke was a ton of a little man with the phlegmatic dutch face. he read the letter stolidly and began to ask questions as to the disposition of our squad. i lied generously, magnificently, my face every whit as wooden as his; and while i was still at it the door behind me opened and a man came in leisurely. he waited for the duke to have done with me, softly humming a tune the while, his shadow flung in front across my track; and while he lilted there came to me a dreadful certainty that on occasion i had heard the singer and his song before. "'then come kiss me sweet and twenty. youth's a stuff will not endure,'" carolled the melodious voice lazily. need i say that it belonged to my umquhile friend sir robert volney. cumberland brushed me aside with a wave of his hand. "donner! if the pretender is on skye--and he must be--we've got him trapped, volney. our cordon stretches clear across the isle, and every outlet is guarded," he cried. "immensely glad to hear it, sir. let's see! is this the twelfth time you've had him sure? 'pon honour, he must have more lives than the proverbial cat," drawled sir robert insolently. there was one thing about volney i could never enough admire. he was no respecter of persons. come high, come low, the bite of his ironic tongue struck home. for a courtier he had the laziest scorn of those he courted that ever adventurer was hampered with; and strangely enough from him his friends in high place tolerated anything. the prince of wales and his brother cumberland would not speak to each other, yet each of them fought to retain volney as his follower. time-servers wondered that his uncurbed speech never brought him to grief. perhaps the secret of his security lay in his splendid careless daring; in that, and in his winning personality. "by god, volney, sometimes i think you're half a jacobite," said cumberland, frowning. "your grace does me injustice. my bread is buttered on the brunswick side," answered the baronet, carelessly. "but otherwise--at heart----" volney's sardonic smile came into play. "otherwise my well-known caution, and my approved loyalty,--egad, i had almost forgotten that!--refute such an aspersion." "himmel! if your loyalty is no greater than your caution it may be counted out. at the least you take delight in tormenting me. never deny it, man! i believe you want the pretender to get away." "one may wish the prince----" "the prince?" echoed cumberland, blackly. "the young chevalier then, if you like that better. 'slife, what's in a name? one may wish him to escape and be guilty of no crime. he and his brave highlanders deserve a better fate than death. i dare swear that half your redcoats have the sneaking desire to see the young man win free out of the country. come, my good fellow"--turning to me--"what do they call you--campbell? well then, campbell, speak truth and shame the devil. are you as keen to have the young chevalier taken as you pretend?" doggedly i turned my averted head toward him, saw the recognition leap to his eyes, and waited for the word to fall from his lips that would condemn me. amusement chased amazement across his face. a moment passed, still another moment. the word was not spoken. instead he began to smile, presently to hum, "'you'll on an' you'll march to carlisle ha' to be hanged and quartered, an' a', an' a'.' "come, mont-campbell, you haven't answered my question yet. if you knew where charles edward stuart was in hiding would you give him up?" he looked at me from under lowered lids, vastly entertained, playing with me as a cat does with a mouse. "i am a fery good servant of the king, god bless him whatefer, and i would just do my duty," answered i, still keeping the rôle i had assumed. "of course he would. ach, liebe himmel! any loyal man would be bound to do so," broke in cumberland. volney's eyes shone. "i'm not so sure," said he. "now supposing, sir, that one had a very dear friend among the rebels; given the chance, ought he to turn him over to justice?" "no doubt about it. friendship ends when rebellion begins," said the duke, sententiously. sir robert continued blandly to argue the case, looking at me out of the tail of his eye. faith, he enjoyed himself prodigiously, which was more than i did, for i was tasting a bad quarter of an hour. "put it this way, sir: i have a friend who has done me many good turns. now assume that i have but to speak the word to send him to his death. should the word be spoken?" the duke said dogmatically that a soldier's first duty was to work for the success of his cause regardless of private feelings. "or turn it this way," continued volney, "that the man is not a friend. suppose him a rival claimant to an estate i mean to possess. can i in honour give him up? what would you think, mont--er--campbell?" "not mont-campbell, but campbell," i corrected. "i will be thinking, sir, that it would be a matter for your conscience, and at all events it iss fery lucky that you do not hafe to decide it." "still the case might arise. it's always well to be prepared," he answered, laughing. "nonsense, robert! what the deuce do you mean by discussing such a matter with a highland kerne? i never saw your match for oddity," said the duke. while he was still speaking there was a commotion in the outer room of the inn. there sounded a rap at the door, and on the echo of the knock an officer came into the room to announce the capture of a suspect. he was followed by the last man in the world i wanted to see at that moment, no other than the campbell soldier whose place i was usurping. the fat was in the fire with a vengeance now, and though i fell back to the rear i knew it was but a question of time till his eye lit on me. the fellow began to tell his story, got nearly through before his ferret eyes circled round to me, then broke off to burst into a screed of the gaelic as he pointed a long finger at me. the duke flung round on me in a cold fury. "is this true, fellow?" i came forward shrugging. "to deny were folly when the evidence is writ so plain," i said. "and who the devil are you?" "kenneth montagu, at your service." cumberland ordered the room cleared, then turned on volney a very grim face. "i'll remember this, sir robert. you knew him all the time. it has a bad look, i make plain to say." "'twas none of my business. your troopers can find enough victims for you without my pointing out any. i take the liberty of reminding your highness that i'm not a hangman by profession," returned volney stiffly. "you go too far, sir," answered the duke haughtily. "i know my duty too well to allow me to be deterred from performing it by you or by anybody else. mr. montagu, have you any reason to give why i should not hang you for a spy?" "no reason that would have any weight with your grace," i answered. he looked long at me, frowning blackly out of the grimmest face i had ever fronted; and yet that countenance, inexorable as fate, belonged to a young man not four years past his majority. "without dubiety you deserve death," he said at the last, "but because of your youth i give you one chance. disclose to me the hiding-place of the pretender and you shall come alive out of the valley of the shadow." a foretaste of the end clutched icily at my heart, but the price of the proffered safety was too great. since i must die, i resolved that it should be with a good grace. "i do not know whom your grace can mean by the pretender." his heavy jaw set and his face grew cold and hard as steel. "you fool, do you think to bandy words with me? you will speak or by heaven you will die the death of a traitor." "i need not fear to follow where so many of my brave comrades have shown the way," i answered steadily. "bah! you deal in heroics. believe me, this is no time for theatricals. out with it. when did you last see charles stuart?" "i can find no honourable answer to that question, sir." "then your blood be on your own head, fool. you die to-morrow morning by the cord." "as god wills; perhaps to-morrow, perhaps not for fifty years." while i was being led out another prisoner passed in on his way to judgment. the man was captain roy macdonald. "i'm wae to see you here, lad, and me the cause of it by sending you," he said, smiling sadly. "how came they to take you?" i asked. "i was surprised on the beach just after murdoch left," he told me in the gaelic so that the english troopers might not understand. "all should be well with the yellow haired laddie now that the warning has been given. are you for carlisle, kenneth?" i shook my head. "no, my time is set for to-morrow. if they give you longer you'll find a way to send word to aileen how it went with me, donald?" he nodded, and we gripped hands in silence, our eyes meeting steadily. from his serene courage i gathered strength. they took me to a bothy in the village which had been set apart as a prison for me, and here, a picket of soldiers with loaded muskets surrounding the hut, they left me to myself. i had asked for paper and ink, but my request had been refused. in books i have read how men under such circumstance came quietly to philosophic and religious contemplation, looking at the issue with the far-seeing eyes of those who count death but an incident. but for me, i am neither philosopher nor saint. connected thought i found impossible. my mind was alive with fleeting and chaotic fragmentary impulses. memories connected with cloe, charles, balmerino, and a hundred others occupied me. trivial forgotten happenings flashed through my brain. all the different aileens that i knew trooped past in procession. gay and sad, wistful and merry, eager and reflective, in passion and in tender guise, i saw my love in all her moods; and melted always at the vision of her. i descended to self-pity, conceiving myself a hero and a martyr, revelling in an agony of mawkish sentiment concerning the post-mortem grief of my friends. from this at length i snatched myself by calling to mind the many simple highlanders who had preceded me in the past months without any morbid craving for applause. back harked my mind to aileen, imagination spanning the future as well as the past. tender pity and love suffused me. mingled with all my broken reflections was many a cry of the heart for mercy to a sinner about to render his last account and for healing balm to that dear friend who would be left to mourn the memory of me painted in radiant colours. paradoxical though it may seem, the leaden hours flew on feathered foot. dusk fell, then shortly darkness. night deepened, and the stars came out. from the window i watched the moon rise till it flooded the room with its pale light, my mind at last fallen into the sombre quiet of deep abstraction. a mocking voice brought me to earth with a start. "romantic spectacle! a world bathed in moonlight. do you compose verses to your love's bright eyes, mr. montagu? or perhaps an epitaph for some close friend?" an elegant figure in dark cloak, riding boots, and three-cornered hat confronted me, when i slowly turned. "hope i don't intrude," he said jauntily. i gave him a plain hint. "sir robert, like lord chesterfield, when he was so ill last year, if i do not press you to remain it is because i must rehearse my funeral obsequies." his laugh rang merrily. coming forward a step or two, he flung a leg across the back of a chair. "egad, you're not very hospitable, my friend. or isn't this your evening at home?" he fleered. i watched him narrowly, answering nothing. "cozy quarters," he said, looking round with polite interest. "may i ask whether you have taken them for long?" "the object of your visit, sir," i demanded coldly. "there you gravel me," he laughed. "i wish i knew the motives for my visit. they are perhaps a blend--some pique, some spite, some curiosity, and faith! a little admiration, mr. montagu." "all of which being presumably now satisfied----" "but they're not, man! far from it. and so i accept the courteous invitation you were about to extend me to prolong my call and join you in a glass of wine." seeing that he was determined to remain willy-nilly, i made the best of it. "you have interpreted my sentiments exactly, sir robert," i told him. "but i fear the wine will have to be postponed till another meeting. my cellar is not well stocked." he drew a flask from his pocket, found glasses on the table, and filled them. "then let me thus far play host, mr. montagu. come, i give you a toast!" he held the glass to the light and viewed the wine critically. "'t is a devilish good vintage, though i say it myself. montagu, may you always find a safe port in time of storm!" he said with jesting face, but with a certain undercurrent of meaning that began to set my blood pounding. but though i took a glimmer of the man's purpose i would not meet him half-way. if he had any proposal to make the advances must come from him. nor would i allow myself to hope too much. "i' faith, 'tis a good port," i said, and eyed the wine no less judicially than he. volney's gaze loitered deliberately over the cottage furnishings. "cozy enough, but after all not quite to my liking, if i may make so bold as to criticise your apartments. i wonder now you don't make a change." "i'm thinking of moving to-morrow," i told him composedly. "to a less roomy apartment, but one just as snug." "shall you live there permanently?" he asked with innocent face. "i shall stay there permanently," i corrected. despite my apparent unconcern i was playing desperately for my life. that volney was dallying with some plan of escape for me i became more confident, and i knew from experience that nothing would touch the man on his weak side so surely as an imperturbable manner. "i mentioned pique and spite, mr. montagu, and you did not take my meaning. believe me, not against you, but against that oaf cumberland," he said. "and what may your presence here have to do with your pique against the duke? i confess that the connection is not plain to me," i said in careless fashion. "after you left to-day, mr. montagu, i humbled myself to ask a favour of the dutchman--the first i ever asked, and i have done him many. he refused it and turned his back on me." "the favour was----?" "that you might be taken to london for trial and executed there." i looked up as if surprised. "and why this interest on my behalf, sir robert?" he shrugged. "i do not know--a fancy--a whim. george selwyn would never forgive me if i let you be hanged and he not there to see." "had you succeeded selwyn would have had you to thank for a pleasant diversion, but i think you remarked that the dutchman was obstinate. 'tis a pity--for selwyn's sake." "besides, i had another reason. you and i had set ourselves to play out a certain game in which i took an interest. now i do not allow any blundering foreigners to interfere with my amusements." "i suppose you mean you do not like the foreigner to anticipate you." "by god, i do not allow him to when i can prevent it." "but as in this instance you cannot prevent it----" my sentence tailed into a yawn. "that remains to be seen," he retorted, and whipped off first one boot and then the other. the unfastened cloak fell to the floor, and he began to unloose his doublet. i stared calmly, though my heart stood still. "really, sir robert! are you going to stay all night? i fear my accommodations are more limited than those to which you have been accustomed." "don't stand gaping there, montagu. get off those uncivilized rags of yours and slip on these. you're going out as sir robert volney." "i am desolated to interfere with your revenge, but--the guards?" "fuddled with drink," he said. "i took care of that. don't waste time asking questions." "the duke will be in a fearful rage with you." his eyes grew hard. "am i a child that i should tremble when cumberland frowns?" "he'll make you pay for this." "a fig for the payment!" "you'll lose favour." "i'll teach the sullen beast to refuse me one. the boots next." he put on the wig and hat for me, arranged the muffler over the lower part of my face, and fastened the cloak. "the watchword for the night is 'culloden.' you should have no trouble in passing. i needn't tell you to be bold," he finished dryly. "i'll not forget this," i told him. "that's as you please," he answered carelessly. "i ask no gratitude. i'm settling a debt, or rather two--one due cumberland and the other you." "still, i'll remember." "oh, all right. hope we'll have the pleasure of renewing our little game some day. better take to the hills or the water. you'll find the roads strictly guarded. don't let yourself get killed, my friend. the pleasure of running you through i reserve for myself." i passed out of the hut into the night. the troopers who guarded the bothy were in either the stupid or the uproarious stage of their drink. two of them sang a catch of a song, and i wondered that they had not already brought down on them the officer of the day. i passed them carelessly with a nod. one of them bawled out, "the watchword!" and i gave them "culloden." toward the skirts of the village i sauntered, fear dogging my footsteps; and when i was once clear of the houses, cut across a meadow toward the shore, wary as a panther, eyes and ears alert for signals of danger. without mishap i reached the sound, beat my way up the sand links for a mile or more, and saw a boat cruising in the moonlight off shore. i gave the whaup's cry, and across the water came an answer. five minutes later i was helping the gillie in the boat pull across to raasay. when half way over we rested on our oars for a breathing space and i asked the news, the rug-headed kerne shot me with the dismal tidings that malcolm macleod and creagh, rowing to skyes for a conference with captain roy, had fallen into the hands of the troopers waiting for them among the sand dunes. he had but one bit of comfort in his budget, and that was "ta yellow-haired sassenach body wass leaving this morning with raasay hersel' and murdoch." at least i had some assurance that my undertaking had secured the safety of the prince, even though three staunch men were on their way to their death by reason of it. once landed on raasay, i made up the brae to the great house. lights were still burning, and when i got close 'twas easy to be seen that terror and confusion filled it. whimpering, white-faced women and wailing bairns ran hither and thither blindly. somewhere in the back part of the house the bagpipes were soughing a dismal kind of dirge. fierce-eyed men with mops of shock hair were gathered into groups of cursing clansmen. through them all i pushed my way in to aileen. chapter xiii the little god has an innings by the great fireplace she stood, hands clasped, head upturned as in prayer. the lips moved silently in the petition of her heart. i saw in profile a girl's troubled face charged with mystery, a slim, tall, weary figure all in white against the flame, a cheek's pure oval, the tense curve of a proud neck, a mass of severely snodded russet hair. so i recalled her afterward, picture of desolation seeking comfort, but at the moment when i blundered on her my presence seemed profanity and no time was found for appraisement. abashed i came to a halt, and was for tiptoeing back to the door; but hearing me she turned. "kenneth!" she cried, and stood with parted lips. then, "they told me----" "that i was taken. true, but i escaped. how, i will tell you later. the prince-- is he safe?" "for the present, yes. a lugger put in this morning belonging to some smugglers. in it he sailed for the mainland with ronald and murdoch. you will have heard the bad news," she cried. "that malcolm, creagh, and donald are taken?" "and flora, too. she iss to be sent to london for assisting in the escape of the prince. and so are the others." i fell silent, deep in thought, and shortly came to a resolution. "aileen, the highlands are no place for me. i am a stranger here. every clachan in which i am seen is full of danger for me. to-morrow i am for london." "to save malcolm," she cried. "if i can. raasay cannot go. he must stay to protect his clansmen. murdoch is a fugitive and his speech would betray him in an hour. remains only i." "and i." "you?" "why not? after 'the ' ' women's tears saved many a life. and i too have friends. sir robert volney, evil man as he iss, would move heaven and earth to save my brother." there was much truth in what she said. in these days of many executions a pardon was to be secured less by merit than by the massing of influence, and i knew of no more potent influence than a beautiful woman in tears. together we might be able to do something for our friends. but there was the long journey through a hostile country to be thought of, and the probability that we might never reach our destination in freedom. i could not tell the blessed child that her presence would increase threefold my chances of being taken, nor indeed was that a thing that held weight with me. sure, there was her reputation to be considered, but the company of a maid would obviate that difficulty. ronald returned next day, and i laid the matter before him. he was extraordinarily loath to let aileen peril herself, but on the other hand he could not let malcolm suffer the penalty of the law without making an effort on his behalf. raasay was tied hand and foot by the suspicions of the government and was forced to consent to leave the matter in our hands. he made only the one stipulation, that we should go by way of edinburgh and take his aunt miss macbean with us as chaperone. we embarked on the smuggler next day for the long island and were landed at stornoway. after a dreary wait of over a week at this place we took shipping on a brig bound for edinburgh. along the north coast of scotland, through the pentland firth, and down the east shore _the lewis_ scudded. it seemed that we were destined to have an uneventful voyage till one day we sighted a revenue cutter which gave chase. as we had on board _the lewis_ a cargo of illicit rum, the brig being in the contraband trade, there was nothing for it but an incontinent flight. for some hours our fate hung in the balance, but night coming on we slipped away in the darkness. the captain, however, being an exceedingly timid man for one in his position, refused absolutely to put into the leith road lest his retreat should be cut off. instead he landed us near wemyss castle, some distance up the coast, and what was worse hours before the dawn had cleared and in a pelting rain. i wrapped volney's cloak around aileen and we took the southward road, hoping to come on some village where we might find shelter. the situation might be thought one of extreme discomfort. there were we three--aileen, her maid, and i--sloshing along the running road in black darkness with the dreary splashing of the rain to emphasize our forlorn condition. over unknown paths we travelled on precarious errand. yet i for one never took a journey that pleased me more. the mirk night shut out all others, and a fair face framed in a tartan shawl made my whole world for me. a note of tenderness not to be defined crept into our relationship. there was a sweet disorder in her hair and more than once the wind whaffed it into my face. in walking our fingers touched once and again; greatly daring, mine slipped over hers, and so like children we went hand in hand. an old romancer tells quaintly in one of his tales how love made himself of the party, and so it was with us that night. i found my answer at last without words. while the heavens wept our hearts sang. the wine of love ran through me in exquisite thrills. every simple word she spoke went to my heart like sweetest music, and every unconscious touch of her hand was a caress. "tired, aileen?" i asked. "there is my arm to lean on." "no," she said, but presently her ringers rested on my sleeve. "'t will be daylight soon, and see! the scudding clouds are driving away the rain." "yes, kenneth," she answered, and sighed softly. "you will think i am a sad blunderer to bring you tramping through the night." "i will be thinking you are the good friend." too soon the grey dawn broke, for at the first glimmer my love disengaged herself from my arm. i looked shyly at her, and the glory of her young beauty filled me. into her cheeks the raw morning wind had whipped the red, had flushed her like a radiant diana. the fresh breeze had outlined her figure clear as she struggled against it, and the billowing sail was not more graceful than her harmonious lines. out of the sea the sun rose a great ball of flaming fire. "a good omen for the success of our journey," i cried. "look! "'night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.' "the good god grant it prove so, kenneth, for malcolm and for all our friends." after all youth has its day and will not be denied. we were on an anxious undertaking of more than doubtful outcome, but save when we remembered to be sober we trod the primrose path. we presently came to a small village where we had breakfast at the inn. for long we had eaten nothing but the musty fare of the brig, and i shall never forget with what merry daffing we enjoyed the crisp oaten cake, the buttered scones, the marmalade, and the ham and eggs. after we had eaten aileen went to her room to snatch some hours sleep while i made arrangements for a cart to convey us on our way. a wimpling burn ran past the end of the inn garden, and here on a rustic bench i found my comrade when i sought her some hours later. the sun was shining on her russet-hair. her chin was in her hands, her eyes on the gurgling brook. the memories of the night must still have been thrilling her, for she was singing softly that most exquisite of love songs "annie laurie." "'maxwelton's braes are bonnie, where early fa's the dew, where me and annie laurie made up the promise true.'" her voice trembled a little, and i took up the song. "'made up the promise true, and ne'er forget will i; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doun and dee.'" at my first words she gave a little start, her lips parted, her head came up prettily to attention, and though i could not see them i was ready to vow that she listened with shining eyes. softly her breath came and went. i trod nearer as i sang. "'her brow is like the snaw-drift, her throat is like the swan, she's jimp about the middle, her waist ye weel micht span.' "oh, aileen, if i might--if i only had the right! won't you give it me, dear heart?" in the long silence my pulse stopped, then throbbed like an aching tooth. "i'm waiting, aileen. it is to be yes or no?" the shy blue eyes met mine for an instant before they fluttered groundward. i could scarce make out the low sweet music of her voice. "oh, kenneth, not now! you forget--my brother malcolm----" "i forget everything but this, that i love you." in her cheeks was being fought the war of the roses, with lancaster victorious. the long-lashed eyes came up to meet mine bravely, love lucent in them. our glances married; in those clear highland lochs of hers i was sunk fathoms deep. "truly, kenneth?" "from the head to the heel of you, aileen, lass. for you i would die, and that is all there is about it," i cried, wildly. "well then, take me, kenneth! i am all yours. of telling love there will be many ways in the gaelic, and i am thinking them all at once." and this is the plain story of how the great happiness came into kenneth montagu's life, and how, though all unworthy, he won for his own the daughter of raasay. chapter xiv the aftermath at edinburgh we received check one. aileen's aunt had left for the highlands the week before in a fine rage because the duke of cumberland, who had foisted himself upon her unwilling hospitality, had eaten her out of house and home, then departing had borne away with him her cherished household _penates_ to the value of some hundred pounds. years later major wolfe told me with twinkling eyes the story of how the fiery little lady came to him with her tale of woe. if she did not go straight to the dour duke it was because he was already out of the city and beyond her reach. into wolfe's quarters she bounced, rage and suspicion speaking eloquent in her manner. "hech, sir! where have ye that dutch prince of yours?" she demanded of wolfe, her keen eyes ranging over him. "'pon honour, madam, i have not him secreted on my person," returned the major, gravely turning inside out his pockets for her. the spirited old lady glowered at him. "it's ill setting ye to be sae humoursome," she told him frankly. "it wad be better telling ye to answer ceevilly a ceevil question, my birkie." "if i can be of any service, madam----" "humph, service! and that's just it, my mannie. the ill-faured tykes hae rampaigned through the house and taen awa' my bonnie silver tea service that i hae scoured every monday morning for thirty-seven years come michelmas, forby the fine holland linen that my father, guid carefu' man, brought frae the continent his nainsel." "i am sorry----" "sorry! hear till him," she snorted. "muckle guid your sorrow will do me unless----" her voice fell to a wheedling cajolery--"you just be a guid laddie and get me back my linen and the silver." "the duke has a partiality for fine bed linen, and quaint silver devices are almost a mania with him. perhaps some of your other possessions"-- "his dutch officers ate me out of house and home. they took awa' eight sacks of the best lump sugar." "the army is in need of sugar. i fear it is not recoverable." miss macbean had a way of affecting deafness when the occasion suited her. "eih, sir! were you saying you wad see it was recovered? and my silver set wi' twenty solid teaspoons, forby the linen?" she asked anxiously, her hand to her ear. wolfe smiled. "i fear the duke----" "ou ay, i ken fine you fear him. he's gurly enough, guid kens." "i was about to say, madam, that i fear the duke will regard them as spoils from the enemy not to be given up." the major was right. miss macbean might as well have saved her breath to cool her porridge, for the duke carried her possessions to london despite her remonstrances. five years later as i was passing by a pawnbroker's shop on a mean street in london miss macbean's teapot with its curious device of a winged dragon for a spout caught my eye in the window. the shopkeeper told me that it had been sold him by a woman of the demi-monde who had formerly been a mistress of the duke of cumberland. she said that it was a present from his royal highness, who had taken the silver service from the house of a fiery rebel lady in the north. our stay in the scottish capital was of the shortest. in the early morning we went knocking at the door of miss macbean's house. all day i kept under cover and in the darkness of night we slipped out of the city southwest bound. of that journey, its sweet comradeship, its shy confidences, its perpetual surprises for each of us in discovering the other, i have no time nor mind to tell. the very danger which was never absent from our travel drew us into a closer friendliness. was there an option between two roads, or the question of the desirability of putting up at a certain inn, our heads came together to discuss it. her pretty confidence in me was touching in the extreme. to have her hold me a captain greatheart made my soul glad, even though i knew my measure did not fit the specifications by a mile. her trust in me was less an incense to my vanity than a spur to my manhood. the mere joy of living flooded my blood with happiness in those days. i vow it made me a better man to breathe the same air as she, to hear the lilt of her merry laugh and the low music of her sweet voice. not a curve in that dimpled cheek i did not love; not a ripple in the russet hair my hungry eyes had not approved. when her shy glance fell on me i rode in the sunshine of bluest sky. if by chance her hand touched mine, my veins leaped with the wine of it. of such does the happiness of youth consist. 'tis strange how greedy love is in its early days of the past from which it has been excluded, how jealous sometimes of the point of contact with other lives in the unknown years which have gone to make up the rungs of the ladder of life. i was never tired of hearing of her childhood on the braes of raasay: how she guddled for mountain trout in the burn with her brother murdoch or hung around his neck chains of daisies in childish glee. and she-- faith, she drew me out with shy questions till that part of my life which would bear telling must have been to her a book learned by rote. yet there were times when we came near to misunderstanding of each other. the dear child had been brought up in a houseful of men, her mother having died while she was yet an infant, and she was in some ways still innocent as a babe. the circumstances of our journey put her so much in my power that i, not to take advantage of the situation, sometimes held myself with undue stiffness toward her when my every impulse was to tenderness. perhaps it might be that we rode through woodland in the falling dusk while the nesting birds sang madrigals of love. longing with all my heart to touch but the hem of her gown, i would yet ride with a wooden face set to the front immovably, deaf to her indirect little appeals for friendliness. presently, ashamed of my gruffness, i would yield to the sweetness of her charm, good resolutions windwood scattered, and woo her with a lover's ardour till the wild-rose deepened in her cheek. "were you ever in love before, kennie?" she asked me once, twisting at a button of my coat. we were drawing near manchester and had let the postillion drive on with the coach, while we loitered hand in hand through the forest of arden. the azure sky was not more blue than the eyes which lifted shyly to mine, nor the twinkling stars which would soon gaze down on us one half so bright. i laughed happily. "once--in a boy's way--a thousand years ago." "and were you caring for her--much?" "oh, vastly." "and she--wass she loving you too?" "more than tongue could tell, she made me believe." "oh, i am not wondering at that," said my heart's desire. "of course she would be loving you." 'twas aileen's way to say the thing she thought, directly, in headlong highland fashion. of finesse she used none. she loved me (oh, a thousand times more than i deserved!) and that was all there was about it. to be ashamed of her love or to hide it never, i think, occurred to her. what more natural then than that others should think of me as she did? "of course," i said dryly. "but in the end my sweetheart, plighted to me for all eternity, had to choose betwixt her lover and something she had which he much desired. she sighed, deliberated long--full five seconds i vow--and in end played traitor to love. she was desolated to lose me, but the alternative was not to be endured. she sacrificed me for a raspberry tart. so was shattered young love's first dream. 'tis my only consolation that i snatched the tart and eat it as i ran. thus phyllis lost both her lover and her portion. ah, those brave golden days! the world, an unexplored wonder, lay at my feet. she was seven, i was nine." "oh." there was an odd little note of relief in the velvet voice that seemed to reproach me for a brute. i was forever forgetting that the ways of 'toinette westerleigh were not the ways of aileen macleod. the dying sun flooded the topmost branches of the forest foliage. my eyes came round to the aureole which was their usual magnet. "when the sun catches it 'tis shot with glints of gold." "it is indeed very beautiful." "in cloudy weather 'tis a burnished bronze." she looked at me in surprise. "bronze! surely you are meaning green?" "not i, bronze. again you might swear it russet." "that will be in the autumn when they are turning colour just before the fall." "no, that is when you have it neatly snodded and the firelight plays about your head." she laughed, flushing. "you will be forever at your foolishness, kenn. i thought you meant the tree tips." "is the truth foolishness?" "you are a lover, kennie. other folks don't see that when they look at me." "other folks are blind," i maintained, stoutly. "if you see all that i will be sure that what they say is true and love is blind." "the wise man is the lover. he sees clear for the first time in his life. the sun shines for him--and her. for them the birds sing and the flowers bloom. for them the world was made. they----" "whiles talk blethers," she laughed. "yes, they do," i admitted. "and there again is another sign of wisdom. your ponderous fool talks pompous sense always. he sees life in only one facet. your lover sees its many sides, its infinite variety. he can laugh and weep; his imagination lights up dry facts with whimsical fancies; he dives through the crust of conventionality to the realities of life. 'tis the lover keeps this old world young. the fire of youth, of eternal laughing youth, runs flaming through his blood. his days are radiant, his nights enchanted." "i am thinking you quite a poet." "was there ever a better subject for a poem? life would be poetry writ into action if all men were lovers--and all women aileens." "ah, kenneth! this fine talk i do not understand. it's sheer nonsense to tell such idle clavers about me. am i not just a plain highland lassie, as unskilled in flattering speeches as in furbelows and patches? gin you will play me a spring on the pipes i'll maybe can dance you the fling, but of french minuets i have small skill." "call me dreamer if you will. by helen's glove, your dreamer might be the envy of kings. since i have known you life has taken a different hue. one lives for years without joy, pain, colour, all things toned to the dull monochrome of gray, and then one day the contact with another soul quickens one to renewed life, to more eager unselfish living. never so bright a sun before, never so beautiful a moon. 'tis true, aileen. no fear but one, that fate, jealous, may snatch my love from me." her laughter dashed my heroics; yet i felt, too, that back of her smiles there was belief. "i dare say. at the least i will have heard it before. the voice iss jacob's voice, but----" i blushed, remembering too late that my text and its application were both volney's. "'tis true, even if jacob said it first. if a man is worth his salt love must purify him. sure it must. i am a better man for knowing you." a shy wonder filled her eyes; thankfulness too was there. "yet you are a man that has fought battles and known life, and i am only an ignorant girl." i lifted her hand and kissed it. "you are my queen, and i am your most loyal and devoted servant." "for always, kenn? when you are meeting the fine ladies of london will you love a highland lassie that cannot make eyes and swear choicely?" "forever and a day, dear." aileen referred to the subject again two hours later when we arose from the table at the manchester ordinary. it was her usual custom to retire to her room immediately after eating. to-night when i escorted her to the door she stood for a moment drawing patterns on the lintel with her fan. a fine blush touched her cheek. "were you meaning all that, kennie?" "all what, dear heart?" "that--nonsense--in the forest." "every bit of it." her fan spelt kenneth on the door. "sometimes," she went on softly, "a fancy is built on moonlight and laughing eyes and opportunity. it iss like sunshine in winter on raasay--just for an hour and then the mists fall." "for our love there will be no mists." "ah, kenn, you think so now, but afterward, when you take up again your london life, and i cannot play the lady of fashion, when you weary of my simpleness and are wishing me back among the purple heather hills?" "that will be never, unless i wish myself there with you. i am no london mohawk like volney. to tramp the heather after muircocks or to ride to hounds is more my fancy. the macaronis and i came long since to the parting of the ways. i am for a snug home in the country with the woman i love." i stepped to the table, filled a glass with wine, and brought it to her. "come, love! we will drink together. how is it old ben jonson hath it? "'drink to me only with thine eyes, and i will pledge with mine; or leave a kiss but in the cup, and i'll not look for wine. the thirst that from the soul doth rise doth seek a drink divine; but might i of jove's nectar sup i would not change from thine.' "drink, sweetheart." she tasted, then i drained the glass and let it fall from my fingers to shiver on the floor. before we parted aileen had one more word for me, "kennie." "yes, dear heart," i cried, and was back at her side in a moment. "what you said in the woods--i am knowing it all true. it is great foolishness, but my heart is singing the same song," and with that she whipped the door to in my face. i sauntered into the common room, found a seat by the fireplace, and let my eye wander over the company. there were present some half dozen yokels, the vicar's curate, a country blood or two, and a little withered runt of a man in fustian with a weazened face like a wrinkled pippin. the moment i clapped eyes on him there came to my mind the dim recollection of a former acquaintance and the prescient fear of an impending danger. that i had seen him i was ready to take oath, yet i could not put my finger upon the circumstances. but the worst of it was that the old fellow recognized me, unless i were much mistaken, for his eyes never left me from the first. from my mother i have inherited a highland jauntiness which comes stealing over me when sobriety would set me better. let the situation be a different one, uncertain of solution, with heads tipping in the balance, and an absurd spirit of recklessness straightway possesses me. but now, with this dear child on my hands, carelessness and i were far apart as the poles. anxiety gripped me, and i sweated blood. yet i must play the careless traveller, be full of good stories, unperturbed on the surface and apparently far from alarm. i began to overdo the part, recognized the fact, and grew savage at myself. trying to conciliate him, i was free with the ale, and again overdid it. he drank my ale and listened to my stories, but he sat cocking on his seat like an imp of mischief. i rattled on, insouciant and careless to all appearances, but in reality my heart like lead. behind my smiling lips i cursed him up hill and down dale. lard, his malicious grin was a thing to rile the gods! more than once i wake up in the night from dreaming that his scrawny hand was clapping the darbies on my wrists. when we were ready to start next morning the post boy let me know that one of the horses had gone lame. here was a pretty pickle. i pished and pshawed, but in the end had to scour the town to find another in its place. 'twas well on toward noon when the boy and i returned to the ordinary with a nag that would serve. of other lovers i have scant knowledge, but the one i know was wont to cherish the memory of things his love had said and how she had said them; with what a pretty tilt to her chin, with what a daring shyness of the eyes, with what a fine colour and impetuous audacity she had done this or looked that. he was wont in advance to plan out conversations, to decide that he would tell her some odd brain fancy and watch her while he told it. many an hour he spent in the fairy land of imagination; many a one he dreamed away in love castles built of fancied rambles in enchanted woods, of sweet talks in which he always said and did the right thing; destined alas! never to pass from mind to speech, for if ever tongue essayed the telling it faltered some fatuous abortion as little like love's dream as caliban resembled ariel. fresh from the brave world of day-dreams, still smiling happily from some whimsical conceit as well as with anticipation of aileen's gladness at sight of me, i passed through the courtyard and into the ordinary. a hubbub at the foot of the stairway attracted me. a gaping crowd was gathered there about three central figures. my weasened pippin-face of the malicious grin was one of them; a broad-shouldered, fair-faced and very much embarrassed young officer in the king's uniform stood beside him; and from the stairway some three steps up aileen, plainly frightened, fronted them and answered questions in her broken english. "i am desolated to distress you, madam," the boy officer was saying, "but this man has laid an information with me that there is a rebel in your party, one who was in manchester with the pretender's force some months since. it will be necessary that i have speech with him." "there iss no rebel with me, sir. the gentleman with whom i travel iss of most approved loyalty," she faltered. "ah! he will no doubt be able to make that clear to me. may i ask where he is at present?" aileen went white as snow. her distress was apparent to all. "sir, i do entreat you to believe that what i say iss true," she cried whitely. the little rat in fustian broke out screaming that he would swear to me among ten thousand: as to the girl she must be the rebel's accomplice, his mistress mayhap. aileen, her big, anxious eyes fixed on the officer, shrank back against the stair rail at her accuser's word. the lad commanded him sharply to be quiet, but with the utmost respect let aileen understand that he must have talk with me. all this one swift glance had told me, and at this opportune moment i sauntered up, volney's snuff-box in my hand. if the doubt possessed me as to how the devil i was to win free from this accusation, i trust no shadow of fear betrayed itself in my smirking face. "egad, here's a gathering of the clans. hope i'm not _de trop_," i simpered. the lieutenant bowed to me with evident relief. "on the contrary, sir, if you are the gentleman travelling with this lady you are the desired complement to our party. there has been some doubt expressed as to you. this man here claims to have recognized you as one of the pretender's army; says he was present when you bought provisions for a troop of horsemen during the rebel invasion of this town." "'slife, perhaps i'm charles stuart himself," i shrugged. "i swear to him. i swear to him," screamed fustian. on my soul merely to look at the man gave me a nausea. his white malevolence fair scunnered me. i adjusted volney's eye-glass with care and looked the fellow over with a candid interest, much as your scientist examines a new specimen. "what the plague! is this rusty old last year's pippin an evidence against me? rot me, he's a pretty scrub on which to father a charge against a gentleman, lud, his face is a lie. no less!" "may i ask your name, sir, and your business in this part of the country?" said the lieutenant. some impulse--perhaps the fact that i was wearing his clothes--put it into my head to borrow volney's name. there was risk that the lad might have met the baronet, but that was a contingency which must be ventured. it brought him to like a shot across a lugger's bows. "sir robert volney, the friend of the prince," he said, patently astonished. "the prince has that honour," i smiled. "pray pardon my insistence. orders from headquarters," says he apologetically. i waved aside his excuses peevishly. "sink me, sir robert volney should be well enough known not to be badgered by every country booby with a king's commission. lard, i vow i'll have a change when fritz wears the crown." with that i turned on my heel in a simulation of petty anger, offered my arm to aileen, and marched up the stairs with her. my manner and my speech were full of flowered compliments to her, of insolence to the young gentleman below, for there is nothing more galling to a man's pride than to be ignored. "'twas the only way," i said to aileen when the door was closed on us above. "'tis a shame to flout an honest young gentleman so, but in such fashion the macaroni would play the part. had i stayed to talk with him he might have asked for my proof. we're well out of the affair." but we were not out of it yet. i make no doubt that no sooner was my back turned than the little rat in fustian, his mind set on a possible reward, was plucking at the lad's sleeve with suggestions and doubts. in any case there came presently a knock at the door. i opened. the boy officer was there with a red face obstinately set. "sir, i must trouble you again," he said icily. "you say you are sir robert volney. i must ask you for proofs." at once i knew that i had overdone my part. it had been better to have dealt with this youth courteously; but since i had chosen my part, i must play it. "proofs," i cried blackly. "do you think i carry proofs of my identity for every country bumpkin to read? sink me, 'tis an outrage." he flushed, but hung doggedly to his point. "you gain nothing by insulting me, sir robert. i may be only a poor line officer and you one high in power, but by heaven! i'm as good a man as you," cried the boy; then rapped out, "i'll see your papers, if you have me broke for it." my papers! an inspiration shot into my brain. when volney had substituted for me at portree he had given me a pass through the lines, made out in his name and signed by the duke of cumberland, in order that i might present it if challenged. hitherto i had not been challenged, and indeed i had forgotten the existence of it, but now-- i fished out the sheet of parchment and handed it to the officer. his eye ran over the passport, and he handed it back with a flushed face. "i have to offer a thousand apologies for troubling you, sir robert. this paper establishes your identity beyond doubt." "hope you're quite satisfied," i said with vast irony. "oh, just one more question. the lady travelling with you?" i watched him silently. "she is from the highlands, is she not?" he asked. "is she?" "to be sure 'tis sufficient if sir robert volney vouches for her." "is it?" "and of course the fact that she travels in his company----" my answer was a yawn, half stifled behind my hand. the lad glared at me, in a rage at me for my insolence and at himself for his boyish inability to cope with it. then he swung on his heel and stamped down-stairs. five years later i met him at a dinner given by a neighbour of mine in the country, and i took occasion then to explain to him my intolerable conduct. many a laugh we have since had over it. we reached london on a dismal wednesday when the rain was pouring down in sheets. aileen i took at once to our town house that she might be with cloe, though i expected to put up with my old nurse in another part of the city. i leave you to conceive the surprise of charles and my sister when we dropped in on them. the news they had for us was of the worst. every week witnessed the execution of some poor jacobites and the arrival of a fresh batch to take their place in the prisons. the scotch lords balmerino, cromartie and kilmarnock were already on trial and their condemnation was a foregone conclusion. the thirst for blood was appalling and not at all glutted by the numerous executions that had already occurred. 'twas indeed for me a most dismal home-coming. chapter xv a reprieve! "my lord of march, is arthur lord balmerino guilty of high treason?" lord march, youngest peer of the realm, profligate and scoundrel, laid his hand on the place where his heart ought to have been and passed judgment unctuously. "guilty, upon my honour." the lord high steward repeated the same question to each of the peers in order of their age and received from each the same answer. as it became plain that the prisoner at the bar was to be convicted the gentleman-gaoler gradually turned the edge of his axe toward balmerino, whose manner was nonchalant and scornful. when the vote had been polled my lord bowed to the judges with dignity and remarked, "i am sorry to have taken up so much of your time without avail, my lords. if i pleaded 'not guilty' my principal reason was that the ladies might not miss their show." shortly afterward he was ushered out of westminster hall to his carriage. from the view-point of the whigs balmerino was undoubtedly guilty as lucifer and not all the fair play in the world could have saved him from tower hill. he was twice a rebel, having been pardoned for his part in "the ' ," and 'twas not to be expected that so hardened an offender would again receive mercy. but at the least he might have been given courtesy, and that neither he nor his two fellows, kilmarnock and cromartie, did at all receive. the crown lawyers to the contrary took an unmanly delight in girding and snapping at the captives whom the fortune of war had put in their power. monstrous charges were trumped up that could not be substantiated, even the lord high steward descending to vituperation. horry walpole admitted balmerino to be the bravest man he had ever seen. throughout the trial his demeanour had been characteristic of the man, bold and intrepid even to the point of bravado. the stout old lord conversed with the official axe-bearer and felt the edge of the ominous instrument with the unconcern of any chance spectator. there was present a little boy who could see nothing for the crowd and balmerino alone was unselfish enough to think of him. he made a seat for the child beside himself and took care that he missed nothing of the ceremony. when the solicitor-general, whose brother, secretary murray, had saved his own life by turning evidence against balmerino, went up to the scotch lord and asked him insolently how he dared give the peers so much trouble, balmerino drew himself up with dignity and asked, "who is this person?" being told that it was mr. murray, "oh!" he answered smiling, "mr. murray! i am glad to see you. i have been with several of your relations; the good lady your mother was of great use to us at perth." through the crowd i elbowed my way and waited for the three condemned scotch lords to pass into their carriages. balmerino, bluff and soldierly, led the way; next came the tall and elegant kilmarnock; lord cromartie, plainly nervous and depressed, brought up the rear. balmerino recognized me, nodded almost imperceptibly, but of course gave no other sign of knowing the gawky apprentice who gaped at him along with a thousand others. some one in the crowd cried out, "which is balmerino?" the old lord turned courteously, and said with a bow, "i am balmerino." at the door of the coach he stopped to shake hands with his fellow-sufferers. "i am sorry that i alone cannot pay the debt, gentlemen. but after all 'tis but what we owe to nature sooner or later, the common debt of all. i bear in mind what sir walter raleigh wrote the night before his head paid forfeit. "'cowards fear to die; but courage stout, rather than live in snuff, will be put out.' "poor murray drags out a miserable life despised by all, but we go to our god with clean hands. by st. andrew, the better lot is ours." "i think of my poor wife and eight fatherless bairns," said cromartie sadly. rough arthur elphinstone's comforting hand fell on his shoulder. "a driech outlook, my friend. you must commend them to the god of orphans if the worst befalls. as for us-- well, in the next world we will not be tried by a whig jury." balmerino stepped into the coach which was waiting to convey him to the tower. the gentleman-gaoler followed with the official axe, the edge of which still pointed toward its victim. he must have handled it carelessly in getting into the carriage, for i heard balmerino bark out, "take care, man, or you'll break my shins with that d----d axe." they were the last words i ever heard from his lips. the door slammed and the coach drove away to the prison, from which my lord came forth only to meet the headsman and his block. sadly i made my way towards the city through the jostling crowds of sightseers. another batch of captives from the north was to pass through the town that day on their way to prison, and a fleering rabble surged to and fro about the streets of london in gala dress, boisterous, jovial, pitiless. from high to low by common consent the town made holiday. above the common ruck, in windows hired for the occasion, the fashionable world, exuding patronage and perfume, sat waiting for the dreary procession to pass. in the windows opposite where i found standing room a party from the west end made much talk and laughter. in the group i recognized antoinette westerleigh, sir james craven, and topham beauclerc. "slitterkins! i couldn't get a seat at westminster hall this morning for love or money," pouted mistress westerleigh. "'tis pity you men can't find room for a poor girl to see the show." "egad, there might as well have been no rebellion at all," said beauclerc dryly. "still, you can go to see their heads chopped off. 'twill be some compensation." "i suppose you'll go, selwyn," said craven to that gentleman, who with volney had just joined the group. "i suppose so, and to make amends i'll go to see them sewn on again," returned selwyn. "i hear you want the high steward's wand for a memento," said beauclerc. "not i," returned selwyn. "i did, but egad! he behaved so like an attorney the first day and so like a pettifogger the second that i wouldn't take the wand to light my fire with." "here they come, sink me!" cried craven, and craned forward to get a first glimpse of the wretched prisoners. first came four wagon-loads of the wounded, huddled together thick as shrimps, their pallid faces and forlorn appearance a mute cry for sympathy. the mob roared like wild beasts, poured out maledictions on their unkempt heads, hurled stones and sticks at them amid furious din and clamour. at times it seemed as if the prisoners would be torn from the hands of their guard by the excited mob. scarce any name was found too vile with which to execrate these unfortunate gentlemen who had been guilty of no crime but excessive loyalty. some of the captives were destined for the new prison in southwark, others for newgate, and a few for the marshalsea. those of the prisoners who were able to walk were handcuffed together in couples, with the exception of a few of the officers who rode on horseback bound hand and foot. among the horsemen i easily recognized malcolm macleod, who sat erect, dour, scornful, his strong face set like a vise, looking neither to the right nor the left. another batch of foot prisoners followed. several of the poor fellows were known to me, including leath, chadwick, and the lawyer morgan. my roving eye fell on creagh and captain roy shackled together. from the window above a piercing cry of agony rang out. "tony! tony!" creagh slewed round his head and threw up his free hand. "'toinette!" he cried. but miss westerleigh had fainted, and volney was already carrying her from the window with the flicker of a grim smile on his face. i noticed with relief that craven had disappeared from sight. my relief was temporary. when i turned to leave i found my limbs clogged with impedimenta. to each arm hung a bailiff, and a third clung like a leech to my legs. some paces distant sir james craven stood hulloing them to the sport with malign pleasure. "to it, fustian breeches! yoho, yoho! there's ten guineas in it for each of you and two hundred for me. 'slife, down with him, you red-haired fellow! throw him hard. ecod, i'll teach you to be rough with craven, my cockerel montagu!" and the bully kicked me twice where i lay. they dragged me to my feet, and craven began to sharpen his dull wit on me. "two hundred guineas i get out of this, you cursed rebel highwayman, besides the pleasure of seeing you wear hemp--and that's worth a hundred more, sink my soul to hell if it isn't." "your soul is sunk there long ago, and this blackguard job sends you one circle lower in the inferno, catchpoll craven," said a sneering voice behind him. craven swung on his heel in a fury, but volney's easy manner--and perhaps the reputation of his small sword too--damped the mettle of his courage. he drew back with a curse, whispered a word into the ear of the nearest bailiff, and shouldered his way into the crowd, from the midst of which he watched us with a sneer. "and what mad folly, may i ask, brought you back to london a-courting the gallows?" inquired volney of me. "haven't you heard that malcolm macleod is taken?" i asked. "and did you come to exchange places with him? on my soul you're madder than i thought. couldn't you trust me to see that my future brother-in-law comes to no harm without ramming your own head down the lion's throat? faith, i think craven has the right of it: the hempen noose is yawning for such fools as you." the bailiffs took me to the new prison and thrust me into an underground cell about the walls of which moisture hung in beads. like the rest of the prisoners i was heavily ironed by day and fastened down to the floor by a staple at night. one hour in the day we were suffered to go into the yard for exercise and to be inspected and commented upon by the great number of visitors who were allowed access to the prison. on the second day of my arrival i stood blinking in the strong sunlight, having just come up from my dark cell, when two prisoners shuffled across the open to me, their fetters dragging on the ground. conceive my great joy at finding creagh and donald roy fellow inmates of new prison with me. indeed captain roy occupied the very next cell to mine. i shall not weary you with any account of our captivity except to state that the long confinement in my foul cell sapped my health. i fell victim to agues and fevers. day by day i grew worse until i began to think that 'twas a race between disease and the gallows. came at last my trial, and prison attendants haled me away to the courts. poor leath, white to the lips, was being hustled out of the room just as i entered. "by heaven, montagu, these whigs treat us like dogs," he cried passionately to me. "they are not content with our lives, but must heap foul names and infamy upon us." the guards hurried us apart before i could answer. i asked one of them what the verdict had been in leath's case, and the fellow with an evil laugh made a horrid gesture with his hands that confirmed my worst fears. in the court room i found a frowning judge, a smug-faced yawning jury, and row upon row of eager curious spectators come to see the show. besides these there were some half-score of my friends attending in the vain hope of lending me countenance. my shifting glance fell on charles, cloe, and aileen, all three with faces like the corpse for colour and despairing eyes which spoke of a hopeless misery. they had fought desperately for my life, but they knew i was doomed. i smiled sadly on them, then turned to shake hands with george selwyn. he hoped, in his gentle drawl, that i would win clear. my face lit up at his kindly interest. i was like a drowning man clutching at straws. even the good-will of a turnkey was of value to me. "thanks, selwyn," i said, a little brokenly. "i'm afraid there's no chance for me, but it's good hearing that you are on my side." he appeared embarrassed at my eagerness. not quite good form he thought it, i dare say. his next words damped the glow at my heart. "'gad, yes! of course. i ought to be; bet five ponies with craven that you would cheat the gallows yet. he gave me odds of three to one, and i thought it a pretty good risk." it occurred to me fantastically that he was looking me over with the eye of an underwriter who has insured at a heavy premium a rotten hulk bound for stormy seas. i laughed bitterly. "you may win yet," i said. "this cursed prison fever is eating me up;" and with that i turned my back on him. i do not intend to go into my trial with any particularity. from first to last i had no chance and everybody in the room understood it. there were a dozen witnesses to prove that i had been in the thick of the rebellion. among the rest was volney, in a vile temper at being called on to give testimony. he was one of your reluctant witnesses, showed a decided acrimony toward the prosecution, and had to have the facts drawn out of him as with a forceps. such a witness, of high social standing and evidently anxious to shield me, was worth to the state more than all the other paltry witnesses combined. the jury voted guilty without leaving the court-room, after which the judge donned his black cap and pronounced the horrible judgment which was the doom of traitors. i was gash with fear, but i looked him in the face and took it smilingly. it was volney who led the murmur of approval which greeted my audacity, a murmur which broke frankly into applause when aileen, white to the lips, came fearlessly up to bid me be of good cheer, that she would save me yet if the importunity of a woman would avail aught. wearily the days dragged themselves into weeks, and still no word of hope came to cheer me. there was, however, one incident that gave me much pleasure. on the afternoon before the day set for our execution donald roy made his escape. some one had given him a file and he had been tinkering at his irons for days. we were in the yard for our period of exercise, and half a dozen of us, pretending to be in earnest conversation together, surrounded him while he snapped the irons. some days before this time he had asked permission to wear the english dress, and he now coolly sauntered out of the prison with some of the visitors quite unnoticed by the guard. the morning dawned on which nine of us were to be executed. our coffee was served to us in the room off the yard, and we drank it in silence. i noticed gladly that macdonald was not with us, and from that argued that he had not been recaptured. "here's wishing him a safe escape from the country," said creagh. "lucky dog!" murmured leath, "i hope they won't nail him again." brandy was served. creagh named the toast and we drank it standing. "king james!" the governor of the prison bustled in just as the broken glasses shivered behind us. "now gentlemen, if you are quite ready." three sledges waited for us in the yard to draw us to the gallows tree. there was no cowardly feeling, but perhaps a little dilatoriness in getting into the first sledge. five minutes might bring a reprieve for any of us, and to be in the first sledge might mean the difference between life and death. "come, gentlemen! if you please! let us have no more halting," said the governor, irritably. creagh laughed hardily and vaulted into the sledge. "egad, you're right! we'll try a little haltering for a change." morgan followed him, and i took the third place. a rider dismounted at the prison gate. "is there any news for me?" asked one poor fellow eagerly. "yes, the sheriff has just come and is waiting for you," jeered one of the guards with brutal frankness. the poor fellow stiffened at once. "very well. i am ready." a heavy rain was falling, but the crowd between the prison and kennington common was immense. at the time of our trials the mob had treated us in ruffianly fashion, but now we found a respectful silence. the lawyer morgan was in an extremely irritable mood. all the way to the common he poured into our inattentive ears a tale of woe about how his coffee had been cold that morning. over and over again he recited to us the legal procedure for bringing the matter into the courts with sufficient effect to have the prison governor removed from his position. a messenger with an official document was waiting for us at the gallows. the sheriff tore it open. we had all been bearing ourselves boldly enough i dare say, but at sight of that paper our lips parched, our throats choked, and our eyes burned. some one was to be pardoned or reprieved. but who? what a moment! how the horror of it lives in one's mind! leisurely the sheriff read the document through, then deliberately went over it again while nine hearts stood still. creagh found the hardihood at that moment of intense anxiety to complain of the rope about his neck. "i wish the gossoon who made this halter was to be hanged in it. 'slife, the thing doesn't fit by a mile," he said jauntily. "mr. anthony creagh pardoned, mr. kenneth montagu reprieved," said the sheriff without a trace of feeling in his voice. for an instant the world swam dizzily before me. i closed my eyes, partly from faintness, partly to hide from the other poor fellows the joy that leaped to them. one by one the brave lads came up and shook hands with creagh and me in congratulation. their good-will took me by the throat, and i could only wring their hands in silence. on our way back to the prison creagh turned to me with streaming eyes. "do you know whom i have to thank for this, kenneth?" "no. whom?" "antoinette westerleigh, god bless her dear heart!" and that set me wondering. it might be that charles and aileen alone had won my reprieve for me, but i suspected volney's fine hand in the matter. whether he had stirred himself in my affairs or not, i knew that i too owed my life none the less to the leal heart of a girl. chapter xvi volney's guest of all the london beaux not one had apartments more elegant than sir robert volney.[ ] it was one of the man's vanities to play the part of a fop, to disguise his restless force and eager brain beneath the vapid punctilios of a man of fashion. there were few suspected that his reckless gayety was but a mask to hide a weary, unsatisfied heart, and that this smiling debonair gentleman with the biting wit was in truth the least happy of men. long he had played his chosen rôle. often he doubted whether the game were worth the candle, but he knew that he would play it to the end, and since he had so elected would bear himself so that all men should mark him. if life were not what the boy robert volney had conceived it; if failure were inevitable and even the fruit of achievement bitter; if his nature and its enveloping circumstance had proven more strong than his dim, fast-fading, boyish ideals, at least he could cross the stage gracefully and bow himself off with a jest. so much he owed himself and so much he would pay. something of all this perhaps was in sir robert volney's mind as he lay on the couch with dreamy eyes cast back into the yesterdays of life, that dim past which echoed faintly back to him memories of a brave vanished youth. on his lips, no doubt, played the half ironic, half wistful smile which had become habitual to the man. and while with half-shut eyes his mind drifted lazily back to that golden age forever gone, enter from the inner room, captain donald roy macdonald, a cocked pistol in his hand, on his head volney's hat and wig, on his back volney's coat, on his feet volney's boots. the baronet eyed the highlander with mild astonishment, then rose to his feet and offered him a chair. "delighted, i'm sure," he said politely. "you look it," drolled macdonald. "off to the wars again, or are you still at your old profession of lifting, my highland cateran?" donald shrugged. "i am a man of many trades. in my day i have been soldier, sailor, reiver, hunter and hunted, doctor and patient, forby a wheen mair. what the gods provide i take." "hm! so i see. prithee, make yourself at home," was volney's ironical advice. macdonald fell into an attitude before the glass and admired himself vastly. "fegs, i will that. the small-clothes now-- are they not an admirable fit whatever? and the coat-- 'tis my measure to a nicety. let me congratulate you on your tailor. need i say that the periwig is a triumph of the friseur's art?" "your approval flatters me immensely," murmured volney, smiling whimsically. "faith, i never liked my clothes so well as now. you make an admirable setting for them, captain, but the ruffles are somewhat in disarray. if you will permit me to ring for my valet watkins he will be at your service. devil take him, he should have been here an hour ago." "he sends by me a thousand excuses for his absence. the fact is that he is unavoidably detained." "pardon me. i begin to understand. you doubtless found it necessary to put a quietus on him. may one be permitted to hope that you didn't have to pistol him? i should miss him vastly. he is the best valet in london." "your unselfish attachment to him does you infinite credit, sir robert. it fair brings the water to my een. but it joys me to reassure you at all events. he is in your bedroom tied hand and foot, biting on a knotted kerchief. i persuaded him to take a rest." volney laughed. "your powers of persuasion are great, captain macdonald. once you persuaded me to leave your northern capital. the air, i think you phrased it, was too biting for me. london too has a climate of its own, a throat disease epidemic among northerners is working great havoc here now. one trusts you will not fall a victim, sir. have you--er--developed any symptoms?" "'twould nae doubt grieve you sair. you'll be gey glad to learn that the crisis is past." "charmed, 'pon honour. and would it be indiscreet to ask whether you are making a long stay in the city?" "faith, i wish i knew. donald roy wad be blithe to answer no. and that minds me that i will be owing you an apology for intruding in your rooms. let the facts speak for me. stravaiging through the streets with the chase hot on my heels, your open window invited me. i stepped in, footed it up-stairs, and found refuge in your sleeping apartments, where i took the liberty of borrowing a change of clothes, mine being over well known at the new prison. so too i purloined this good sword and the pistol. that sir robert volney was my host i did not know till i chanced on some letters addressed to that name. believe me, i'm unco sorry to force myself upon you." "i felicitate myself on having you as a guest. the vapours had me by the throat to-night. your presence is a sufficing tonic for a most oppressive attack of the blue devils. this armchair has been recommended as an easy one. pray occupy it." captain roy tossed the pistol on a table and sat him down in the chair with much composure. volney poured him wine and he drank; offered him fruit and he ate. together, gazing into the glowing coals, they supped their mulled claret in a luxurious silence. the highlander was the first to speak. "it's a geyan queer warld this. _anjour d'hui roi, demain rien._ yestreen i gaped away the hours in a vile hole waiting for my craig (neck) to be raxed (twisted); the night i drink old claret in the best of company before a cheery fire. the warm glow of it goes to my heart after that dank cell in the prison. by heaven, the memory of that dungeon sends a shiver down my spine." "to-morrow, was it not, that you were to journey to tyburn and from thence across the styx?" "yes, to-morrow, and with me as pretty a lot of lads as ever threw steel across their hurdies. my heart is wae for them, the leal comrades who have lain out with me in the heather many a night and watched the stars come out. there's montagu and creagh now! we three have tholed together empty wame and niddering cold and the weariness o' death. the hurly o' the whistling claymore has warmed our hearts; the sight of friends stark from lead and steel and rope has garred them rin like water. god, it makes me feel like a deserter to let them take the lang journey alane. did you ken that the lad came back to get me from the field when i was wounded at drummossie moor?" "montagu? i never heard that." "took his life in his hand to come back to that de'il's caldron where the red bluid ran like a mountain burn. it iss the boast of the macdonalds that they always pay their debts both to friend and foe. fine have i paid mine. he will be thinking me the true friend in his hour of need," finished donald bitterly. "you don't know him. the temper of the man is not so grudging. his joy in your escape will help deaden his own pain. besides, what could you do for him if you were with him at the end? 'twould be only one more sacrifice." the grim dour highland sternness hung heavy on donald's face. "i could stand shoulder to shoulder with him and curse the whigs at all events. i could cry with him 'god save king james' in the teeth of the sidier roy." volney clapped his hands softly. "hear, hear!" he cried with flaming eyes. "almost thou persuadest me to be a jacobite." the gael turned to him impetuously, his blue eyes (as i conceive) moist with emotion. "man, could i persuade you to be saving the lad? it was for this that i waited in your rooms to see you. they say that you are a favourite of princes, that what you ask you get. do for once a fine thing and ask this boy's life." "they exaggerate my power. but for argument's sake suppose it true. why should i ask it? what have i to gain by it?" volney, his eyes fixed on the fire, asked the question as much to himself as to the highlander. the manner of his tone suggested that it was not a new one to him. "gain! who spoke of gain? are you a jew peddler or an english gentleman?" cried donald. "they call me dissolute, gambler, profligate. these be hard names, but i have earned them all. i make no apologies and offer no excuses. as i have lived my life, so have i lived it. for buttered phrases i have no taste. call me libertine, or call me man of fashion; 'tis all one. my evil nature--_c'est plus fort que moi_. at least i have not played the hypocrite. no canting sighs! no lapses to morality and prayers! no vices smugly hidden! the plain straight road to hell taken at a gallop!" so, with chin in hand and dark eyes lit by the flickering flame, this roué and sentimentalist philosophized. "and montagu?" cried the gael, harking back to his prosaic text. "has made his bed and he must lie in it." "by heaven, who ruined him and made an outlaw of him? who drove him to rebellion?" "you imply that i strewed his bed with nettles. perhaps. 'tis well my shoulders are broad, else they could not bear all that is laid upon them." "you would never be letting a petty private grudge influence you?" volney turned, stung to the quick. "you go too far, captain macdonald. have i given bonds to save this fool from the consequences of his folly? i cherish no hatred toward him, but i play no jonathan to his david. egad, it were a pretty rôle for me to essay! you would cast me for a part full of heroics, the moving of heaven and earth to save my dearest enemy. thank you, i am not for it. neither for nor against him will i lift a hand. there is no malice in my heart toward this poor condemned young gentleman. if he can win free i shall be glad, even though his gain is my loss, but further than that i will not go. he came between me and the thing i most desired on earth. shall i help him to the happiness which will condemn me to misery?" for an instant the habitual veil of mockery was snatched aside and the tortured soul of the man leaped from his burning eyes. "you saved him at portree," was all that donald could say. "i paid a debt to him and to cumberland. the ledger is now balanced." the jacobite paced up and down the room for a minute, then stopped and touched the other on his shoulder where he sat. "i too am somewhat in your debt, sir robert. when montagu opposed you he fought for his own hand. therein he was justified. but i, an outsider, interfered in a quarrel that was not mine own, spoiled sport for you, in short lost you the lassie. you followed her to scotland; 'twas i that drove you back to england when montagu was powerless. from first to last i am the rock on which your love bark has split. if your cause has spelled failure i alone am to blame." "so? what then?" "why this: without captain donald roy macdonald the lad had been helpless. donald was at his back to whisper words of advice and encouragement. donald contrived the plot which separated you from the lady. donald stood good fairy to the blessed pair of bairns and made of himsel' a match-making auld mither. you owe your hatred to donald roy and not to the lad who was but his instrument." the macaroni looked at the other with an odd smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "and so?" "and so," continued the macdonald triumphantly, a challenge in his voice and manner, "and so, who but donald should be your enemy? my certes, a prettier foe at the broadsword you will not find in a' scotland." "i do not quite take your meaning. would you fight with me?" "blithe would i be to cross the steel with you, but little that would help kenneth. my plan is this: save the lad from the halter and i will tak' his place." "you mean that if i compass his freedom you will surrender to be executed?" "i am meaning just that." "i thought so from the first. 'slife, man, do you think i can change my foes like gloves? _chacun paie son écot._" "why not? iss not a man a better foe than a halfling boy?" "i would never seek a better foe or a better friend than either you or montagu, captain. on my soul, you have both the true ring. but as to your offer i must decline it. the thing is one of your wild impracticable highland imaginings, a sheer impossibility. you seem to think i have a blood feud and that nothing less than a foeman's life will satisfy me. in that you err. i am a plain man of the world and cannot reach your heroics." the jacobite's face fell. "you are going to let the boy die then?" volney hesitated, then answered with a shrug. "i shall be frank with you. to-day i secured montagu a reprieve for two weeks. he shall have his chance such as it is, but i do not expect him to take it. if he shows stubborn i wash my hands of him. i have said the last word. you may talk till yule without changing my mind." then, with an abrupt turn of the subject: "have you with you the sinews of war, captain? you will need money to effect your escape. my purse is at your service not less than my wardrobe, or if you care to lie hidden here for a time you will be quite safe. watkins is a faithful fellow and devoted to me." the highlander flushed, stammering out: "for your proffered loan, i accept it with the best will in the world; and as to your offer of a hiding-place, troth! i'm badly needing one. gin it were no inconvenience----" "none in the world." "i will be remembering you for a generous foe till the day of my death. you're a man to ride the water wi'." "lard! there's no generosity in it. every mohawk thinks it a pleasure to help any man break the laws. besides, i count on you to help drive away the doldrums. do you care for a hand at piquet now, captain?" "with pleasure. i find in the cartes great diversion, but by your leave i'll first unloose your man watkins." "'slife, i had forgot him. we'll have him brew us a punch and make a night of it. sleep and i are a thousand miles apart." ----- [ ] the material for this chapter was furnished me with great particularity by captain donald roy macdonald. from his narrative to me, i set down the story in substance as he told it. --k. m. chapter xvii the valley of the shadow there came to me one day a surprise, a marked hour among my weeks struck calm. charles, cloe, and aileen had been wont to visit me regularly; once selwyn had dropped in on me; but i had not before been honoured by a visit from sir robert volney. he sauntered into my cell swinging a clouded cane, dressed to kill and point device in every ruffle, all dabbed with scented powder, pomatum, and jessamine water. to him, coming direct from the strong light of the sun, my cell was dark as the inside of jonah's whale. he stood hesitating in the doorway, groping with his cane for some guide to his footsteps. for an instant i drew back, thinking he had come to mock me; then i put the idea from me. however much of evil there was in him, volney was not a small man. i stepped forward to greet him. "welcome to my poor best, sir robert! if i do not offer you a chair it is because i have none. my regret is that my circumstances hamper my hospitality." "not at all. you offer me your best, and in that lies the essence of hospitality. better a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred, egad," returned my guest with easy irony. all the resources of the courtier and the beau were his. one could but admire the sparkle and the versatility of the man. his wit was brilliant as the play of a rapier's point. set down in cold blood, remembered scantily and clumsily as i recall it, without the gay easy polish of his manner, the fineness is all out of his talk. after all 'tis a characteristic of much wit that it is apposite to the occasion only and loses point in the retelling. he seated himself on the table with a leg dangling in air and looked curiously around on the massive masonry, the damp floor, the walls oozing slime. i followed his eye and in some measure his thoughts. "stone walls do not a prison make," i quoted gaily. "ecod, they make a pretty fair imitation of one!" he chuckled. i was prodigious glad to see him. his presence stirred my sluggish blood. the sound of his voice was to me like the crack of a whip to a jaded horse. graceful, careless, debonair, a man of evil from sheer reckless wilfulness, he was the one person in the world i found it in my heart to both hate and admire at the same time. he gazed long at me. "you're looking devilish ill, montagu," he said. i smiled. "are you afraid i'll cheat the hangman after all?" his eyes wandered over the cell again. "by heaven, this death's cage is enough to send any man off the hooks," he shivered. "one gets used to it," i answered, shrugging. he looked at me with a kind of admiration. "they may break you, montagu, but i vow they will never bend you. here are you torn with illness, the shadow of the gallows falling across your track, and never a whimper out of you." "would that avail to better my condition?" "i suppose not. still, self-pity is the very ecstasy of grief, they tell me." "for girls and halfling boys, i dare say." there he sat cocked on the table, a picture of smiling ease, raffish and fascinating, as full of sentimental sympathy as a lass in her teens. his commiseration was no less plain to me because it was hidden under a debonair manner. he looked at me in a sidelong fashion with a question in his eyes. "speak out!" i told him. "your interest in me as evidenced by this visit has earned the right to satisfy your curiosity." "i dare swear you have had your chance to save yourself?" he asked. "oh, the usual offer! a life for a life, the opportunity to save myself by betraying others." "do you never dally with the thought of it?" he questioned. i looked up quickly at him. a hundred times i had nursed the temptation and put it from me. "are you never afraid, montagu, when the night falls black and slumber is not to be wooed?" "many a time," i told him, smiling. "you say it as easily as if i had asked whether you ever took the air in the park. 'slife, i have never known you flinch. there was always a certain d----d rough plainness about you, but you play the game." "'tis a poor hound falls whining at the whip when there is no avoiding it." "you will never accept their offer of a pardon on those terms. i know you, man. y'are one of those fools hold by honour rather than life, and damme! i like you for it. now i in your place----" "----would do as i do." "would i? i'm not so sure. if i did it would be no virtue, but an obstinacy not to be browbeat." then he added, "you would give anything else on earth for your life, i suppose?" "anything else," i told him frankly. "anything else?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing. "no reservations, montagu?" our eyes crossed like rapiers, each searching into the other's very soul. "am i to understand that you are making me an offer, sir robert?" "i am making you an offer of your life." "respectfully declined." "think again, man! once you are dead you will be a long time dead. refuse to give her up, and you die; she is not for you in any case. give way, and i will move heaven and earth for a pardon. believe me, never was such perfect weather before. the birds sing divinely, and charles tells me montagu grange is sorely needing a master." "charles will look the part to admiration." "and doubtless will console himself in true brotherly fashion for the loss of his brother by reciting his merits on a granite shaft and straightway forgetting them in the enjoyment of the estate." "i think it likely." he looked at me gloomily. "there is a way to save you, despite your obstinacy." i shuffled across to him in a tumult of emotion. "you would never do it, would never be so vile as to trade on her fears for me to win her." "i would do anything to win her, and i would do a great deal to save your life. the two things jump together. in a way i like you, man." but i would have none of his liking. "oh, spare me that! you are the most sentimental villain unhung, and i can get along without your liking." "that's as may be," said he laughing, "but i cannot well get along without you. on my honour, you have become one of my greatest sources of interest." "do you mean that you would stake my life against her hand?" i demanded whitely. he gave me look for look. "i mean just that. by heaven, i shall win her fair or foul." i could only keep saying over and over again, "you would never do it. even you would never do that." "wouldn't i? you'll see," he answered laughing hardily. "well, i must be going. oh, i had forgot. balmerino sent you this note. i called on him yesterday at the tower. the old scotchman is still as full of smiles as a bride." balmerino's letter was the friendliest imaginable. he stated that for him a pardon was of course out of the question, but that sir robert volney had assured him that there was a chance for me on certain conditions; he understood that the conditions had to do with the hand of a young woman, and he advised me, if the thing were consistent with honour, to make submission, and let no foolish pride stand in the way of saving my life. the letter ended with a touching reference to the cause for which he was about to die. i was shaken, i confess it. not that i thought for a moment of giving up my love, but my heart ached to think of the cruel position into which she would be cast. to save her lover's life, she must forsake her love, or if she elected the other alternative must send him to his death. that volney would let this burden of choice fall on her i would scarce let myself believe; and yet--there was never a man more madly, hopelessly in love than he. his passion for her was like a whirlwind tossing him hither and thither like a chip on the boiling waters, but i thought it very characteristic of the man that he used his influence to have me moved to a more comfortable cell and supplied with delicacies, even while he plotted against me with my love. after that first visit he used to come often and entertain me with the news and gossip of the town. i have never met a more interesting man. he was an onlooker of life rather than an actor, an ironical cynic, chuckling with sardonic humour. the secret of his charm lay perhaps in a certain whimsical outlook and in an original turn of mind. once i asked him why he found it worth while to spend so many hours with me when his society was so much sought after by the gayest circle in the town. "i acquit you of any suspicion of philanthropy, sir robert. i give you credit for pursuing a policy of intelligent selfishness. you must know by this time that i will not purchase my life, nor let it be purchased, on the terms which you propose. well then, i confess it puzzles me to guess what amusement you find in such a hole as this." "variety spices life. what's a man to do to keep himself from ennui? for instance, i got up this morning at ten, with selwyn visited lady dapperwit while she was drinking coffee in her nightrail, talked a vast deal of scandal with her, strolled in the park with fritz, from there to white's in a sedan, two hours at lunch, and an hour with you for the good of my soul." "the good of your soul?" i quizzed. "yes, i visit you here and then go away deuced thankful for my mercies. i'm not to be hanged next week, you know. i live to marry the girl." "still, i should think you might find more interesting spots than this." "i am a student of human nature, montagu." "a condemned prisoner, never a wit at the best of times, full of fears and agues and fevers! one would scarce think the subject an inviting one for study." "there you do yourself injustice. y'are the most interesting man i know. a dozen characters are wrapped up in you. you have the appearance of being as great a rip as the rest of us, and i vow your looks do not belie you, yet at times you have the conscience of a ranting dissenter. i find in you a touch both of selwyn's dry wit and of balmerino's frostly bluntness; the cool daring of james wolfe combined with as great a love of life as murray has shown; the chivalry of don quixote and the hard-headedness of cumberland; sometimes an awkward boy, again the grand manner chesterfield himself might envy you; the obstinacy of the devil and----" "oh, come!" i broke in laughing. "i don't mind being made a composite epitome of all the vices of the race, but i object to your crossing the styx on my behalf." "and that reminds me of the time we came so near crossing together," he broke out, diverting the subject in his inconsequent fashion. "d'ye remember that dr. mead who dressed our wounds for us after our little argument? it appears that he and a dr. woodward fell into some professional dispute as to how a case should be treated, and lud! nothing would satisfy them but they must get their toasting forks into action. the story goes that they fought at the gate of gresham college. mead pinked his man. 'take your life,' quoth he. 'anything but your medicine,' returns woodward just before he faints. horry walpole told me the story. i suppose you have heard selwyn's story of lord wharton. you know what a spendthrift wharton is. well the duke of graftsbury offered him one of his daughters in marriage, a lady of uncertain age and certain temper. but the lady has one virtue; she's a devilish fine fortune. a plum, they say! wharton wrote graftsbury a note of three lines declining the alliance because, as he put it, the fortune was tied up and the lady wasn't." "not bad. talking of selwyn, i suppose he gets his fill of horrors these days." "one would think he might. i met him at the prince's dinner yesterday, and between us we two emptied nine bottles of maraschino. conceive the splitting headache i'm wearing to-day." "you should take a course in jacobitism," i told him gravely. "'tis warranted to cure gout, liver trouble, indigestion, drunkenness, and sundry other complaints. i can warrant that one lives simply while he takes the treatment; sometimes on a crust of bread and a bowl of brose, sometimes on water from the burn, never does one dine over-richly." "yet this course is not conducive to long life. i've known a hundred followers of it fall victim to an epidemic throat disease," he retorted. then he added more gravely, "by the way, you need have no fears for your friend miss flora macdonald. i learn on the best of authority that she is in no danger whatever." "and malcolm?" i asked. "his name has been put near the foot of the list for trial. long before that time the lust for blood will be glutted. i shall make it a point to see that his case never comes to trial. one cannot afford to have his brother-in-law hanged like a common cutpurse." day by day the time drew nearer on which my reprieve expired. i saw nothing of aileen now, for she had followed the king and his court to bath, intent on losing no opportunity that might present itself in my favour. for one reason i was glad to have her gone; so long as she was out of town sir robert could not urge on her the sacrifice which he intended. the time of my execution had been set for friday, and on the preceding monday volney, just arrived from the executions of balmerino and kilmarnock, drove out to new prison to see me. he was full of admiration for balmerino's bold exit from the stage of life and retailed to me with great gusto every incident of the last scene on tower hill. "i like your bluff balmerino's philosophy of life," he told me. "when i called on him and apologized for intruding on the short time he had left the old lord said, 'o sir, no intrusion at all. i am in no ways concerned to spend more time than usual at my devotions. i think no man fit to live who is not fit to die, and to die well is much the easier of the two.' on the scaffold no bridegroom could have been more cheerful. he was dressed in his old blue campaign uniform and was as bold and manly as ever. he expressed joy that cromartie had been pardoned, inspected with interest the inscription on his coffin, and smilingly called the block his pillow of rest. 'pon honour, the intrepid man then rehearsed the execution with his headsman, kneeling down at the block to show how he would give the signal for the blow. he then got up again, made a tender smiling farewell with his friends, and said to me, 'i fear some will think my behaviour bold, volney, but remember what i say, that it arises from confidence in god and a clear conscience.' he reaffirmed his unshaken adherence to the house of stuart, crying aloud, 'god save king james!' and bowed to the multitude. presently, still cheerfully, he knelt at the block and said in a clear voice, 'o lord, reward my friends, forgive my enemies, bless prince charles and his brother, the duke, and receive my soul.' his arms dropped for the signal, and arthur elphinstone of balmerino passed to the valhalla where brave men dwell as gods." "god bring peace to his valiant restless soul," i said, much moved. "'tis a thing to admire, the sturdy loyalty of you jacobites," he said after a pause. "you carry it off like gentlemen. every poor highlander who has yet suffered has flung out his 'god save king james' on the scaffold. now i'll wager you too go to death with the grand air--no canting prayers for king george, eh?" "i must e'en do as the rest," i smiled. "yet i'd bet a pony you don't care a pinch of snuff for james stuart. 'tis loyalty to yourselves that animates you." presently he harked back to the topic that was never closed between us. "by this time next week you will have touched the heart of our eternal problem. the mystery of it will perhaps be all clear to you then. 'tis most strange how at one sweep all a man's turbulent questing life passes into the quiet of--of what? that is the question: of unending death or of achieved knowledge?" then he added, coming abruptly to the issue: "the day draws near. do you think better of my offer now?" "sir robert, i have lived a tempestuous life these past months. i have known hunger and cold and weariness; i have been at the top of fortune's wave and at the bottom; but i have never found it worth my while to become divorced from honour. you find me near dead from privations and disease. do you think i would pay so much for such an existence? believe me, when a man has passed through what i have he is empty of fears." "i could better spare a better man," he said. "sorry to inconvenience you," i told him grimly. "i' faith, i think you're destined to do that dead or alive." "i think i am. you will find me more in your way dead than alive." "i'll outlive your memory, never fear." then quietly, after a moment's hesitation: "there's one thing it may be a comfort for you to know. i've given up any thought of putting her on the rack. i'll win fairly or not at all." i drew a deep free breath. "thank you for telling me." "i mean to marry her though. i swear to you, montagu, that my heart is wrapped up in her. i thought all women alike until i met this one. now i know better. she could have made a different man of me; sometimes i think she could even yet. i vow to you i would not now injure a hair of her head, but willy-nilly, in the end i shall marry the girl." "to ruin her life?" "to save mine rather." "do you think yourself able to change the whole course of your life for her?" he mused. "ah, montagu! there your finger falls pat on the pulse of my doubt. my heart cries aye, my reason gives a negative." "don't worry overmuch about it," i answered, railing at him. "she'll never look at you, man. my grave will be an insurmountable barrier. she will idealize my memory, think me a martyr and herself a widowed maid." the shot scored. 'twas plain he must have often thought of that himself. "it may interest you to know that we are engaged to be married," i added. "indeed! let me congratulate you. when does the happy event occur, may i ask? or is the day set?" he had no need to put into words more clearly the irony of the fate that encompassed us. "dead or alive, as you say, i bar your way," i said tartly. "pooh, man! i give you six weeks of violent grief, six months of tender melancholy." "you do not know the scotch. she will die a maid," i answered. "not she! a live lover is more present than a dead one. has she sworn pretty vows to you, montagu? 'at lovers' perjuries, they say, love laughs.' is there nothing to be said for me? will her heart not always whisper that i deserve gratitude and love, that i perilled my life for her, saved the lives of her brother and her lover, neither of them friends of mine, again reprieved her lover's life, stood friend to her through all her trouble? you know a woman's way--to make much of nothing." "forgive, if i prod a lagging memory, miss westerleigh?" long he laughed and merrily. "eloped for gretna green with tony creagh last night, and i, poor forsaken swain, faith! i do not pursue." you may be sure that dashed me. i felt as a trapped fox with the dogs closing in. the future loomed up clear before me, aileen hand in hand with volney scattering flowers on my grave in sentimental mood. the futility of my obstinacy made me bitter. "come, montagu! listen to reason," urged the tempter. "you get in my way, but i don't want to let you be sponged out. the devil of it is that if i get you a pardon--and i'm not sure that i can get it--you'll marry the girl. i might have you shipped to the barbadoes as a slave with some of the others, but to be frank i had rather see you hanged than give you so scurvy an end. forswear what is already lost and make an end of it." i turned away blackly. "you have my answer. sir robert, you have played your last card. now let me die in peace." he shrugged impatiently and left me. "a fool's answer, yet a brave man's too," he muttered. aileen, heart-broken with the failure of her mission, reached town on thursday and came at once to the prison. her face was as the face of troubled waters. i had no need to ask the question on my lips. with a sobbing cry she threw herself on my breast. my heart was woe for her. utter weariness was in her manner. all through the long days and nights she had agonized, and now at last despaired. there seemed no tears left to shed. long i held her tight, teeth set, as one who would keep his own perforce from that grim fate which would snatch his love from him. she shivered to me half-swooning, pale and of wondrous beauty, nesting in my arms as a weary homing-bird. a poignant grief o'erflowed in me. "oh, aileen! at least we have love left," i cried, breaking the long silence. "always! always!" her white lips answered. "then let us regret nothing. they can do with me what they will. what are life and death when in the balance dwells love?" i cried, rapt in unearthly worship of her. her eyes found mine. "oh, kenneth, i cannot--i cannot--let you go." sweet and lovely she was beyond the dream of poet. i trembled in an ecstasy of pain. from the next cell there came to us softly the voice of a poor condemned appin stewart. he was crooning that most tender and heart-breaking of all strains. like the pibroch's mournful sough he wailed it out, the song that cuts deep to a scotchman's heart in time of exile. "lochabar no more, lochabar no more. we'll maybe return to lochabar no more." i looked at aileen, my face working. a long breath came whistling through her lips. her dear face was all broken with emotion. i turned my eyes aside, not daring to trust myself. through misty lashes again i looked. her breast lifted and fell in shaking sobs, the fount of tears touched at last. together we wept, without shame i admit it, while the stewart's harrowing strain ebbed to a close. to us it seemed almost as the keening of the coronach. so in the quiet that comes after storm, her dear supple figure still in my arms, sir robert volney came in unexpectedly and found us. he stopped at the door, startled at her presence, and methought a shadow fell on his face. near to death as i was, the quality of his courage was so fine and the strength of the passion in him so great that he would have changed places with me even then. aileen went up to him at once and gave him her hand. she was very simple, her appeal like a child's for directness. "sir robert, you have already done much for me. i will be so bold as to ask you to do more. here iss my lover's life in danger. i ask you to save it." "that he may marry you?" "if god wills." volney looked at her out of a haggard face, all broken by the emotions which stirred him. a minute passed, two minutes. he fought out his fight and won. "aileen," he said at last, "before heaven i fear it is too late, but what man can do, that will i do." he came in and shook hands with me. "i'll say good-bye, montagu. 'tis possible i'll see you but once more in this world. yet i will do my best. don't hope too much, but don't despair." there was unconscious prophecy in his words. i was to see him but the once more, and then the proud, gallant gentleman, now so full of energy, was lying on his deathbed struck out of life by a foul blow. chapter xviii the shadow falls it would appear that sir robert went direct from the prison to the club room at white's. he was observed to be gloomy, preoccupied, his manner not a little perturbed. the usual light smile was completely clouded under a gravity foreign to his nature. one may guess that he was in no humour to carry coals. in a distant corner of the room he seated himself and fell to frowning at the table on which his elbow rested. at no time was he a man upon whom one would be likely to foist his company undesired, for he had at command on occasion a hauteur and an aloofness that challenged respect even from the most inconsiderate. we must suppose that he was moved out of his usual indifference, that some long-dormant spring of nobility was quickened to a renewed life, that a girl's truth and purity, refining his selfish passion, had bitten deep into the man's callous worldliness. for long he sat in a sombre silence with his head leaning on his hand, his keen mind busy with the problem--so i shall always believe--as to how he might even yet save me from the gallows. by some strange hap it chanced that sir james craven, excited with drink, the bile of his saturnine temper stirred to malignity by heavy losses at cards, alighted from his four in hand at white's shortly after volney. craven's affairs had gone from bad to worse very rapidly of late. he had been playing the races heavily and ruin stared the man in the face. more than suspected of dubious play at cards, it had been scarce a week since the stewards of a leading racetrack had expelled him for running crosses. any day a debtor's prison might close on him. within the hour, as was afterward learned, his former companion frederick prince of wales had given him the cut direct on the mall. plainly his star was on the decline, and he raged in a futile passion of hatred against the world. need it be said that of all men he most hated his supplanter in the prince of wales' good-will, sir robert volney. to volney then, sitting gloomily in his distant solitude, came craven with murder in his heart and a bitter jest on his lips. at the other side of the table he found a seat and glared across at his rival out of a passion-contorted face. sir robert looked past him coldly, negligently, as if he had not been there, and rising from his seat moved to the other side of the room. in the manner of his doing it there was something indescribably insulting; so it seemed to topham beauclerc, who retailed to me the story later. craven's evil glance followed volney, rage in his bloodshot eyes. if a look could kill, the elegant macaroni had been a dead man then. it is to be guessed that craven struggled with his temper and found himself not strong enough to put a curb upon it; that his heady stress of passion swept away his fear of volney's sword. at all events there he sat glowering blackly on the man at whose charge he chose to lay all his misfortunes, what time he gulped down like water glass after glass of brandy. presently he got to his feet and followed sir robert, still dallying no doubt with the fascinating temptation of fixing a quarrel upon his rival and killing him. to do him justice volney endeavoured to avoid an open rupture with the man. he appeared buried in the paper he was reading. "what news?" asked craven abruptly. for answer the other laid down the paper, so that sir james could pick it up if he chose. "i see your old rival montagu is to dance on air to-morrow. 'gad, you'll have it all your own way with the wench then," continued craven boisterously, the liquor fast mounting to his head. volney's eyes grew steelly. he would have left, but the burly purple-faced baronet cut off his retreat. "damme, will you drink with me, or will you play with me, volney?" "thanks, but i never drink nor play at this time of day, sir james. if it will not inconvenience you to let me pass----" with a foolish laugh, beside himself with rage and drink, craven flung him back into his chair. "'sdeath, don't be in such a hurry! i want to talk to you about-- devil take it, what is it i want to talk about?-- oh, yes! that pink and white baggage of yours. stap me, the one look ravished me! pity you let a slip of a lad like montagu oust you." "that subject is one which we will not discuss, sir james," said volney quietly. "it is not to be mentioned in my presence." "the devil it isn't. i'm not in the habit of asking what i may talk about. as for this mistress of yours----" sir robert rose and stood very straight. "i have the honour to inform you that you are talking of a lady who is as pure as the driven snow." buck craven stared. "after sir robert volney has pursued her a year?" he asked with venomous spleen, his noisy laugh echoing through the room. i can imagine how the fellow said it, with what a devilish concentration of malice. he had the most irritating manner of any man in england; i never heard him speak without wanting to dash my fist in his sneering face. "that is what i tell you. i repeat that the subject is not a matter for discussion between us." craven might have read a warning in the studied gentleness of volney's cold manner, but he was by this time far beyond reck. by common consent the eyes of every man in the room were turned on these two, and craven's vanity sunned itself at holding once more the centre of the stage. "and after the trull has gadded about the country with young montagu in all manner of disguises?" he continued. "you lie, you hound!" sir james sputtered in a speechless paroxysm of passion, found words at last and poured them out in a turbid torrent of invective. he let fall the word baggage again, and presently, growing more plain, a word that is not to be spoken of an honest woman. volney, eyeing him disdainfully, the man's coarse bulk, his purple cheeks and fishy eyes, played with his wine goblet, white fingers twisting at the stem; then, when the measure of the fellow's offense was full, put a period to his foul eloquence. full in the mouth the goblet struck him. blood spurted from his lips, and a shower of broken glass shivered to the ground. craven leaped across the table at his enemy in a blind fury; restrained by the united efforts of half a dozen club members, the struggling madman still foamed to get at his rival's throat--that rival whose disdainful eyes seemed to count him but a mad dog impotent to bite. "you would not drink with me; you would not play with me; but, by god, you will have to fight with me," he cried at last. "when you please." "always i have hated you, wanted always to kill you, now i shall do it," he screamed. volney turned on his heel and beckoned to beauclerc. "will you act for me, topham?" he asked; and when the other assented, added: "arrange the affair to come off as soon as possible. i want to have done with the thing at once." they fought within the hour in the field of the forty footsteps. the one was like fire, the other ice. they were both fine swordsmen, but there was no man in england could stand against volney at his best, and those who were present have put it on record that sir robert's skill was this day at high water mark. he fought quite without passion, watching with cool alertness for his chance to kill. his opponent's breath came short, his thrusts grew wild, the mad rage of the man began to give way to a no less mad despair. every feint he found anticipated, every stroke parried; and still his enemy held to the defensive with a deadly cold watchfulness that struck chill to the heart of the fearful bully. we are to conceive that craven tasted the bitterness of death, that in the cold passionless face opposite to him he read his doom, and that in the horrible agony of terror that sweated him he forgot the traditions of his class and the training of a lifetime. he stumbled, and when sir robert held his hand, waiting point groundward with splendid carelessness for his opponent to rise, craven flung himself forward on his knees and thrust low at him. the blade went home through the lower vitals. volney stood looking at him a moment with a face of infinite contempt, than sank back into the arms of beauclerc. while the surgeon was examining the wound craven stole forward guiltily to the outskirts of the little group which surrounded the wounded man. his horror-stricken eyes peered out of a face like chalk. the man's own second had just turned his back on him, and he was already realizing that the foul stroke had written on his forehead the brand of cain, had made him an outcast and a pariah on the face of the earth. the eyes of volney and his murderer met, those of the dying man full of scorn. craven's glance fell before that steady look. he muttered a hope that the wound was but slight; then, in torture, burst out: "'twas a slip. by heaven, it was, volney! i would to god it were undone." "'to every coward safety, and afterward his evil hour,'" quoted volney with cold disdain. the murderer turned away with a sobbing oath, mounted his horse and rode for the coast to begin his lifetime of exile, penury, and execration. "do i get my passport?" asked sir robert of the surgeon. the latter began to talk a jargon of medical terms, but volney cut him short. "enough! i understand," he said quietly. "get me to my rooms and send at once for the prince of wales. beauclerc, may i trouble you to call on cumberland and get from him an order to bring young montagu to my place from the prison? and will you send my man watkins for a lawyer? oh, and one more commission--a messenger to beg of miss macleod her attendance. in case she demurs, make it plain to her that i am a dying man. faith, topham, you'll be glad i do not die often. i fear i am an unconscionable nuisance at it." topham beauclerc drove straight to the residence of the duke of cumberland. he found the duke at home, explained the situation in a few words, and presently the pair of them called on the duke of newcastle and secured his counter-signature for taking me temporarily from the new prison. dusk was falling when beauclerc and the prison guards led me to volney's bedroom. at the first glance i saw plainly that he was not long for this world. he lay propped on an attendant's arm, the beautiful eyes serene, an inscrutable smile on the colourless lips. beside him sat aileen, her hand in his, and on the other side of the bed the duke of cumberland and malcolm. when he saw me his eyes brightened. "on time, kenneth. thanks for coming." beauclerc had told me the story, and i went forward with misty eyes. he looked at me smiling. "on my soul i believe you are sorry, montagu. yes, i have my quietus. the fellow struck foul. my own fault! i always knew him for a scoundrel. i had him beaten; but 'tis better so perhaps. after all i shall cross the river before you, kenneth." then abruptly to an attendant who entered the room, "has the prince come yet?" "but this moment, sir." the prince of wales entered the room, and volney gave him his old winsome smile. "hard hit, your highness!" "i trust it is not so bad as they say, robert." "bad or good, as one looks at it, but this night i go wandering into the great unknown. enough of this. i sent for you, fritz, to ask my last favour." the face of the stolid dutchman was all broken with emotion. "'tis yours, robert, if the thing is mine to grant." "i want montagu spared. you must get his pardon before i die, else i shall not pass easy in mind. this one wrong i must right before the end. 'twas i drove him to rebellion. you will get him pardoned and see to it that his estates are not confiscated?" "i promise to do my best. it shall be attended to." "to-day?" "this very hour if it can be arranged." "and you, cumberland, will do your share." the duke nodded, frowning to hide his emotion. volney fell back on the pillows. "good! where is the priest?" a vicar of the church of england came forward to offer the usual ministrations to the dying. volney listened for a minute or two with closed eyes, then interrupted gently. "thank you. that will suffice. i'll never insult my maker by fawning for pardon in the fag hour of a misspent life." "the mercy of god is without limits----" "i hope so. that i shall know better than you within the space of four-and-twenty hours. i'm afraid you mistake your mission here. you came to marry antony, not to bury cæsar." then, turning to me, he said with a flare of his old reckless wit: "any time this six weeks you've been qualifying for the noose. if you're quite ready we'll have the obsequies to-night." he put aileen's hand in mine. the vicar married us, the prince of wales giving away the bride. aileen's pale face was shot with a faint flush, a splash of pink in either alabaster cheek. when the priest had made us man and wife she, who had just married me, leaned forward impulsively and kissed our former enemy on the forehead. the humorous gleam came back to his dulling eyes. "only one, montagu. i dare say you can spare that. the rest are for a better man. don't cry, aileen. 'fore heaven, 'tis a good quittance for you." he looked at the soft warmth and glow of her, now quickened to throbbing life, drew a long breath, then smiled and sighed again, her lover even to the last. a long silence fell, which sir robert broke by saying with a smile, "in case selwyn calls show him up. if i am still alive i'll want to see him, and if i'm dead he'll want to see me. 'twill interest him vastly." once more only he spoke. "the shadow falls," he said to aileen, and presently dozed fitfully; so slipped gradually into the deeper sleep from which there is no awakening this side of the tomb. thus he passed quietly to the great beyond, an unfearing cynic to the last hour of his life. the afterword my pardon came next day, duly signed and sealed, with the customary rider to it that i must renounce the stuarts, and swear allegiance to king george. i am no hero of romance, but a plain englishman, a prosaic lover of roast beef and old claret, of farming and of fox-hunting. our cause was dead, and might as well be buried. not to make long of the matter, i took the oath without scruple. to my pardon there was one other proviso: that i must live on my estate until further notice. if at any time i were found ten miles from montagu grange, the pardon was to be void. aileen and i moved to our appointed home at once. it may be believed that our hearts were full of the most tender joy and love, for i had been snatched from the jaws of death into the very sunshine of life. we had but one cloud to mar the bright light--the death of many a dear friend, and most of all, of that friendly enemy who had given his life for her good name. moralists point out to me that he was a great sinner. i care not if it be so. let others condemn him; i do not. rather i cherish the memory of a gallant, faultful gentleman whose life found wrong expression. there be some to whom are given inheritance of evil nature. then how dare we, who know not the measure of their temptation, make ourselves judges of their sin? at the grange we found awaiting us an unexpected visitor, a red-haired, laughing highlander, who, though in hiding, was as full of merriment as a schoolboy home for the holidays. to cloe he made most ardent love, and when, at last, donald roy slipped across the waters to st. germains, he carried with him a promise that was redeemed after the general amnesty was passed. six weeks after my pardon malcolm macleod and miss flora macdonald stopped at the grange for a short visit with us. they were on their way north, having been at length released without a trial, since the passion for blood was now spent. "we three, with captain donald roy and tony creagh, came to london to be hangit," smiled major macleod as they were about to resume their journey. "twa-three times the rope tightened around the gullets of some of us, yet in the end we all win free. you and tony have already embraced the other noose; donald is in a geyan ill way, writing latin verses to his lady's eyes; and as for me,"--he smiled boldly at his companion--"i ride to the land of heather side by side with miss flora macdonald." here i drop the quill, for my tale is told. for me, life is full of many quiet interests and much happiness, but even now there grips me at times a longing for those mad wild days, when death hung on a hair's breadth, and the glamour of romance beckoned the feathered foot of youth. finis google books (university of california libraries) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/denouncedromance blouiala (university of california libraries) . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. appleton's town and country library no. denounced by the same author. in the day of adversity. a romance. mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "we do not hesitate to declare that mr. bloundelle-burton's new romance will be very hard to beat in its own particular line. in his previous works mr. burton gave evidence which entitled him to a very prominent place among the writers of his class; and now, at another bound, he has leaped into the foremost rank. if he only keeps up to the level of 'in the day of adversity,' he must continue to rank as one of the most interesting and popular writers of the day. . . . mr. burton's creative skill is of the kind which must fascinate those who revel in the narratives of stevenson, rider haggard, and stanley weyman. even the author of 'a gentleman of france' has not surpassed the writer of 'in the day of adversity' in the moving interest of his tale."--_st. james's gazette_. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. denounced _a romance_ by john bloundelle-burton author of in the day of adversity, the hispaniola plate, etc. "the adder lies i' the corbie's nest." jacobite ballad new york d. appleton and company copyright, , by d. appleton and company. contents. i. a home coming ii. a subject of king george iii. a woman's letter iv. the subjects of king james v. my lord goes out of town vi. kate makes an appointment vii. "the bird that danced the rigadoon" viii. "fortune! an unrelenting foe to love" ix. denounced x. how my lord returned home xi. archibald's escape xii. hey! for france xiii. man and wife xiv. flight xv. united xvi. "treason has done his worst" xvii. gasconism xviii. "what face that haunts me?" xix. "which way i fly is hell--myself am hell!" xx. avenged xxi. the bastille xxii. despair! xxiii. at last xxiv. broken hearts xxv. "his hours to their last minute mounted" xxvi. kate learns she is free xxvii. afar off still xxviii. "a kind of change came in my fate" xxix. free xxx. the marquis goes home xxxi. "an outstayed welcome" xxxii. "love strong as death!" appendix denounced. chapter i. a home coming. it was a wild and stormy sea through which the bluff-bowed galliot laboured, as, tossed first from one wave to another, she, with the best part of her gear stowed away and no sail on her but a close-reefed main-topsail and a spanker, endeavoured to make her way towards the suffolk coast. on the poop, the captain--a young man of not more than thirty--hurled orders and oaths indiscriminately at his crew, every man of which was a good deal older than himself, while the crew themselves worked hard at hauling up the brails, going out on the gaff to pass the gaskets, and stowing the mainsail-yard. but still she laboured and rolled and yawed, her forefoot pointing at one moment almost to the dutch coast and at another to the english--she had left calais thirty hours before, intending to fetch dover, and had been blown thus far out of her course--and it seemed as though she would never get any nearer to the land she wished to reach. and, to make matters worse, lying some distance off on her starboard beam--though too far to be distinguished through the haze in the air and the spume of the waves--was a large vessel about which those on board could not decide as to whether she was one of king george's sloops or--a privateer. the young captain trusted it was the first, since he had no quarrel with either his majesty or his navy, and had no men who could be pressed, while the passengers in the cabin--but this you shall read. in that cabin there sat four persons, three men and a woman--the last of whom shall be first described. a woman young--of not more than twenty-four years of age--fair and well-favoured, her wheat-coloured hair brought back in a knot behind her head, above which, as was still the custom of the time for ladies when travelling, she wore a three-cornered hat. wrapped in a long, collarless coat, square cut and possessing no pockets--also the custom of the time--it was still easy to perceive that, underneath, was a supple, graceful figure, and, when--as was occasionally the case--this long coat was thrown open so that the wearer might get a little relief from the stuffiness of the cabin, the beauty of that figure might plainly be perceived beneath the full scarlet waistcoat embroidered with gold lace, which, by its plenitude of pockets, atoned for the absence of any in the coat. her face was, as has been said, a well-favoured one, oval, and possessing large blue eyes and delicate, thin lips, and with upon it even here, on this tossing sea, a fair rose and milk complexion, while in those large eyes the observer might have well imagined he saw a look of unhappiness. also, too, a look of contempt whenever they rested on the man who, as she leant an elbow on one side of the table between them, leant one of his on the other. they rested on him now with much that look as, pushing over to her a glass of burnt wine which the cabin-boy has just brought in at his orders, as well as some ratafia biscuits, he said: "i would counsel you, my lady, to partake of a little more refreshment. i have spoken with the master outside who says that by no chance can we make harwich ere nightfall. your ladyship, excellent sailor as you are, must have a care to your health." "my health," she replied, "needs no care, either from myself or you. and when i am athirst i will drink, as when i am hungry i will eat. you had best offer your refreshments to our fellow-passengers." the man to whom she spake was but two or three years older than herself--and was her husband, simeon larpent, viscount fordingbridge. he, too, was well dressed in the travelling costume of the day, wearing a black frock with a gold button, a black waistcoat trimmed with gold, black velvet breeches, and a gold-laced three-cornered hat, while on the table lay a silver-hilted hanger that slid about with every motion of the vessel. in looks he was her equal, being, however, as dark as she was fair, but of well-cut, even features and of a clear complexion. he wore, too, his natural hair, cropped somewhat short as though a wig might in other circumstances be easily assumed, but the absence of this article of dress in no way detracted from his appearance. as her ladyship spoke he darted one swift glance at her from under his eyelids--a glance that seemed to embody in it a full return of all the coldness and contempt with which she had addressed him; and then, acting on her suggestion, he turned to the two other inhabitants of the cabin and said: "come, father sholto, and you, fane, come and take a sup of the liquor. 'twill do you both good. come and drink." "ah, the drink, the drink," exclaimed the latter, "well, give me a sup. maybe 'twill appease a qualm. kitty, me child," turning to lady fordingbridge, "why do ye not do as your husband asks? 'tis a good stomachic--by the powers! how the barky rolls." "i want nothing," her ladyship replied, lifting her eyes to him with almost as contemptuous a glance as when she had previously raised them to her husband, and then relapsing again into silence. "i, too," said the other man, who had been addressed as "father sholto," "will take a sup, she does roll badly. yet, my lord," he said, as he poured some out into a mug that stood by the liquor, "let me persuade you to be more guarded in your expressions. to forget, indeed," he went on, while his cold grey eyes were fixed on the other, "that there is such a person as 'father sholto' in existence for the present; that such a well-known ecclesiastic is travelling in your lordship's esteemed company. for," he continued, after swallowing the liquor at a gulp, "i do assure you--fane, see that the door of the cabin is fast! and that none of the crew are about!--you could not make your entry into your own country, could not return to make your peace with king george, the elector of hanover--with a worse companion in your train than the man who is known as 'father sholto.' therefore----" "therefore," interrupted lord fordingbridge impatiently, "i will not forget again, mr. archibald. enough!" "therefore," continued the other, as though no interruption had occurred, still in the cold, low voice and still with the cold grey eyes fixed on his lordship, "it is best you do not forget, at least, at present. later, if your memory fails you--i have known it treacherous ere now--it will be of little importance. charles edward, the prince of wales, is at edinburgh, soon he will be at st. james'; but until he is, remember what we are. you are the viscount fordingbridge, but lately succeeded to your father's title, and a convert from his jacobitism to hanoverian principles; her ladyship here, who is ever to be depended upon, follows your estimable political principles; her respected father, mr. doyle fane, has, he avers, no politics at all; and i am mr. archibald, a scotch merchant. you will remember?" "_peste!_ yes. i will remember. tutor me no more. now, fane, the sea abates somewhat--go and discover if we are near the english coast. and, mr. archibald, i have a word to say to my lady here, with your permission. as i am at the expense of this passage, may i ask for a moment's privacy with her? doubtless the air on the deck will refresh you both." "precisely," replied the other. "we will not intrude unless it grows again so rough that we cannot remain on deck. come, fane." when both had left the cabin lord fordingbridge turned to his wife who still sat, as she had done from the beginning of mr. archibald's remarks, indifferent and motionless as though in no way interested in what had passed, and exclaimed: "you hear, madam, the circumstances in which i return to my own. 'tis not too agreeable, i protest. we are roman catholics, yet we come as protestants, jacobites, yet under the garb and mask of hanoverians. and in our train a jesuit priest, arch-plotter, and schemer, who passes as a respectable scotch merchant. a sorry home coming, indeed!" "if such duplicity is painful to your lordship's mind," his wife remarked, "'twould almost have been best to have remained in exile. then you would have been safe, at least, and have done no outrage to your--conscience. and, later, when those who are fighting for prince charles have re-established him upon his grandfather's throne--if they ever do!--you could have declared yourself without fear of consequences." no word, nor tone of her sneer was lost upon lord fordingbridge, and he turned savagely upon her. "have a care, my lady," he exclaimed, "have a care. there are ways in my power you little dream of by which if your defiance----" "defiance!" exclaimed her ladyship. "defiance! you dare to use that term to me. you!" "ay! defiance. what! shall the daughter of doyle fane, the broken-down irish adventurer, the master of the fence school in the rue trousse vache, flout and gibe me--the man who took her from a garret and made her a lady--a peeress. i--i--" "yes!" she replied. "you! you--who have earned for ever her undying hatred by doing so; by making her a lady by lies, by intriguing, by duplicity. a lady! yet your wife! had you left me in the rue trousse vache--in the garret over the fence school--whose wife should i have been now? answer that, simeon larpent, answer that." "the wife of a man," he said, quietly and calm again in a moment, for he had the power to allay the tempestuous gusts that overtook him occasionally almost as quickly as they arose, "who, if the fates are not more propitious than i deem they will be, rides at the present moment to his doom, to a halter that awaits him. a man who rides on a fruitless journey to england as volunteer with his cousin balmerino in the train of charles edward; a man----" "whom," she interrupted again, "i loved with my whole heart and soul; whom i loved from the first hour my eyes ever gazed on him. a man whom you separated me from with your jesuitical lies--they did well to educate you at lisbon and st. omer--a man who, if god is just, as i do believe, shall yet live to take a desperate vengeance on you. and for the reason that he may do so, i pray night and day that charles edward will fight his way to london. then you must meet--unless you flee back to france again--then, lord fordingbridge, you must stand face to face with him at last. then----" "then you trust to be a widow. is it not so, my lady? you will be free then, and bertie elphinston may have the bride i stole from him. is that your devout aspiration?" "alas, no!" she replied. "or, if it is, it can never come to pass. if bertie elphinston saw me now he would shrink from me. he would not touch my hand. he would pass across the street to avoid me." as she uttered the last words there came from over the swirling, troubled sea the boom of a cannon, accompanied a moment afterwards by harsh cries and orders from the deck of the galliot, and by the rattling of cordage and a sudden cessation of the slight way that was still on the vessel. "what does that gun mean?" asked lord fordingbridge as he started to his feet, while fane and mr. archibald re-entered the cabin hastily. "it means," said the disguised jesuit, who spoke as coolly and calmly as ever, "that the vessel which has been following us since dawn is king george's--he forgot on this occasion to term the english king 'the elector of hanover'--bomb-ketch the 'furnace.' she has fired the gun to bring us to. doubtless they wish to inspect our papers and to see there are no malignant priests or jacobites on board. we are now in english waters and within two miles of harwich, therefore they are quite within their rights." "bah!" exclaimed his lordship. "let them come. what have we to fear?" "nothing whatever," replied mr. archibald. "the viscount fordingbridge is an accession to the usurper's whig peers; a harmless irish gentleman, such as mr. doyle fane, and a simple scotch merchant, such as i, can do no harm. while for her ladyship here----" "come, come on deck," said his lordship, "and let us see what is doing. will it please you to remain here, my lady?" he asked, turning to his wife with an evil glance in his eye. "yes," she replied, "if they wish to see me i shall be found here." the sea had abated considerably by now, so that already a boat had been lowered from the ketch, which was not more than five cables length from the galliot by the time they reached the deck. it was manned by a dozen sailors while an officer sat in the stern sheets, and the brawny arms of the men soon brought it alongside. then, while the seamen kept the boat off the galliot with their hands and oars, the officer seized the man-ropes thrown over to him, and easily sprang up the accommodation ladder on to the deck. "what vessel is this?" he asked fiercely of the captain, "and what passengers do you carry?" "it is the bravermann, of rotterdam, sir," the young captain replied, "chartered at calais to bring his lordship and wife with two other passengers to dover. we are blown off our course, however, and----" "where are these passengers?" asked the officer. "here is one," said lord fordingbridge, coming forward, "and here two others whom i have accommodated with a passage. her ladyship is in the cabin." "your papers, if you please." his lordship produced from his pocket two large documents, duly signed by the english ambassador and countersigned by the first secretary of the legation, while to them was also affixed a stamp of the mairie; and the lieutenant, for such he was, glanced over them, compared the description of the viscount with that of the person before him, and then said he must see her ladyship. "come this way then," the other replied, and led him into the cabin. "my lady," he said to his wife, "this gentleman wishes to compare you with your description on our passports." very calmly lady fordingbridge turned her eyes on the lieutenant as he, touching his hat to her, glanced at the paper and retired saying he was satisfied. then, turning to the others, he said, "now your passports, quick." fane and mr. archibald also passed his scrutiny, though once he looked under his eyelids at the latter as if to make sure he was the man whose description he held in his hand, and then their passports were also returned to them. "let me see over the ship and also her papers," he said to the captain, and when this was done he seemed satisfied that his duty had been performed. "you may proceed," he said. "call the boat away," and with such scant ceremony he went to the ship's side and prepared to re-embark in his own cutter. "pardon me," exclaimed the viscount, stopping him, "but we have heard strange rumours in paris of a landing effected in scotland by the prince of--the person known as the young pretender. also we have heard he has reached edinburgh and been joined by many persons of position in scotland, and that an english army has set forth to oppose his further march. can you tell me, sir, if this is true?" "i know nothing whatever on the subject," replied the lieutenant, curtly as usual. "his majesty's land forces concern us not; our account is on the sea. and our duty is to search all unknown vessels proceeding to england to see that they bear neither jacobites, pestilential priests, arms, nor money with them. is the boat there?" hearing that she had again come alongside, having kept off the galliot to prevent her being stowed in, he descended swiftly to her without deigning to award the slightest salute to anyone on board. but as his men pulled off he saw the face of lady fordingbridge gazing out from the cabin porthole, and raised his hat to her. "yet," said mr. archibald to the viscount, as they sat once more in the cabin while the vessel now entered smooth water and drew close in to harwich, "whatever his duty may be he has not been wondrous happy in carrying it out. for there are jacobites, a pestilential priest, and money for the cause all in this ship together, arms alone being wanting. faugh! he was a rough sea-dog, yet none too good a setter. well, well. perhaps in this town we may glean some news." chapter ii. a subject of king george. the month of may, , was drawing to a close, and june was already giving signs of its approach, as my lord viscount fordingbridge sat in the library of his house in kensington-square and warmed his feet at the fire which, in spite of the genial spring weather, burned pleasantly on the hearth. by his side, on a table, lay the morning papers of the day to which he constantly referred, and which, after each occasion of doing so, he threw down with a very palpable expression of satisfaction. "in truth," he muttered to himself, "nought could have gone much better. i am safe and--and the necks of all the rest are jeopardised. jeopardised! nay! 'tis much worse than that. those who are caught must surely die, those who are not caught must be so ere long. as for charles edward himself he hath escaped. well, let him go; i have no quarrel with him." again he took up one of the journals and read: "this morning his majesty's ship of war, exeter, arrived from scotland, having on board the earls of cromartie and kilmarnock, and the lord balmerino. they have been committed prisoners to the tower on a charge of high treason." "ah," he mused, "that's well, so far as it goes, though for myself i care not whether their lordships finish on tower hill or are set free. fools all! yet they were near winning, the devil seize them! had they but pushed on from derby they must have won, and the german who now sits secure would never have had my allegiance. charles edward would have transformed my title into that of a marquis, i doubt me if george will do as much in reward for my change of politics. but what i would fain know is, where is the wolf elphinston, balmerino's cousin? he fought at culloden, i know well--recklessly, like a man sick of life. perhaps 'twas for his lost love, kitty! at least in hawley's despatch he is mentioned as having killed four men of barrell's regiment with his own blade. may fate confound him! if taken his life is forfeit, but where is he?" a knock came at the library door as he mused, and in reply to his answer mr. archibald entered. as usual, certainly since he left france, he was clothed as became the part he had now assumed, of a well-to-do scotch merchant, there being only one new addition to any portion of his dress. his hat, which he threw carelessly upon the table, on the top of his lordship's journals, bore in it the _black_ cockade! "ha, ha! my worthy merchant," exclaimed lord fordingbridge, as his quick eye perceived this, "my worthy dealer in brocades, broadcloth, and colchester baize, so already thou trimmest the sails to catch the favouring german breezes. 'tis well." "stop this fooling," said the jesuit, looking angrily at him; "is this the time for you to be joking and jeering when everything is lost? you have the journals there, you know well what has happened. the principals of the noblest cause, of the most sublime restoration that would have ever taken place, are prisoners with their lives in forfeit, some in london, some in carlisle gaol, and some at inverness, and you sit gibing there. _pardieu!_ sometimes i think you are a fool instead of the knave i once deemed you." "if," said the viscount, scowling at the other as he spoke, "you deem yourself called upon to address me in such a manner, i shall be forced, mr. archibald, to also alter my style of address to you, and to speak both to and of you as the reverend archibald sholto, priest of the society of jesus, and an avowed jacobite. and you will remember that here, in england, at such a moment as this, to be so proclaimed could not be otherwise than fraught with unpleasant consequences to you. moreover, you will have the goodness to remember that now--since the disastrous events, to your side, of culloden, the viscount fordingbridge is a fervent hanoverian." "i will remember," said the priest, "that however desirous the viscount fordingbridge may be to espouse the cause of the house of hanover, it is not in his power to do so, so long as there remains one stuart to assert a claim to the throne of his ancestors. when that race ceases to exist, when no living stuart is left to call for aid, then perhaps, you may be permitted to become hanoverian, not before. now, my lord fordingbridge, listen to me, while i go over the cards i hold in my hand against simeon larpent, my whilom scholar at st. omer, who----" "nay!" exclaimed the other, "do nothing of the sort. i retract, i had forgotten. recall nothing. yet, for my safety, i must appear an adherent of king george. indeed, to-morrow i attend his levée." "for the good of the stuart cause," the other said, "you will continue as you have begun since your return to this country, to appear an adherent of this king george; for the good of the cause that is not yet lost. there will be another rising ere long, be sure of that; if it comes not before, it will do so at the death of the present usurper. now, listen to the news i bring you." "what is it?" the other asked, while he paled as he did so. "what?" "the worst that you can hear. elphinston is in london." "elphinston here! is he mad? his life is not worth an hour's purchase." "he knows that," replied the jesuit coolly, "as well as you or i do. yet he heeds it not. why should he? are not other men's lives doomed who are now in london? men who," he went on, speaking coldly and with great distinctness, "brought money into england to aid the cause; men," still his voice fell more and more crisp upon the other's ear, "who did endeavour to compass the death of george as he returned from his last visit to herrenhausen; men who----" "silence, you jesuit devil," interrupted the other. "sometimes i wonder that you do not fear to speak as you do; that you do not dread that your own death may be compassed." "i have no fear," replied the priest, taking snuff as he spoke, "so long as the walls of st. omer contain my papers. rather should i fear for those whose secrets would be divulged if i were to die. to die even suddenly, without being assassinated." "well! to your news," exclaimed the other. "what of elphinston! where does he hide himself away?" "at the moment," answered the priest, "he--and my brother douglas----" "so he is here, too!" "he is here, too. they dwell together in lodgings at the village of wandsworth. perhaps later, if it goes ill with balmerino, they may remove into the city." "to make some mad attempt to save him!" "possibly. meanwhile, do you not dread to meet the man yourself! you stole his bride from him, you will remember, and now he suspects how you brought it about. how will you answer to him for the falsehoods by which you persuaded her that he was already the husband of another woman?" "by my sword," lord fordingbridge replied--though at the moment he was thinking of a far different manner in which bertie elphinstone should be answered. "it will be your only plan," sholto said. "for by treachery you can accomplish nothing. if elphinston is blown upon he will know well who is his informer and will, in his turn, inform. inform upon the man who plotted to have george's person seized by french pirates as he returned to england from france, the man who spread broadcast through england the reward offered by prince charles of £ , to whomsoever should seize and secure george----"[note a] "why," exclaimed fordingbridge, maddened by the other's taunts, "why do you persecute me like this? what have i ever done to you that you threaten me thus?" "recall," replied the jesuit, "your vows at st. omer, your sins since, your broken pledges, your cancelled oaths. then answer to yourself why i do these things. moreover, remember i love my brother--he has been my charge since his boyhood--and if elphinston is betrayed douglas must fall too. also remember, elphinston has been ever beloved by me. you have inflicted one deadly wound on him, you have wrecked his life by striking him through his love--think you that i will ever permit you to injure him again? man!" the jesuit said, advancing nearer to fordingbridge as he spoke, and standing before him in so threatening a manner that the other shrank back from him, "if evil comes to elphinston through you, such evil shall in turn come to you through me that i will rend your life for ever and always. remember, i say again, remember." he took his hat from off the table as he finished, and left the room addressing no further remark to the other. and, quietly as he ever moved, he was about to descend the stairs when lady fordingbridge coming from out an open door, stopped him. "i wish to speak to you," she said, in a soft, low voice, "come within a moment," and, followed by sholto, she led him back into the room she had just quitted. here, too, a warm pleasant fire burned in the grate, while an agreeable aroma of violets stole through the apartment; and motioning her visitor to a seat her ladyship said: "is the news true? are they--is mr. elphinston in london?" "it is true, kitty," he said. "yet i know not how you heard it." "from my father who dreads as much to meet him as the craven in his library must do." she paused a moment, then she continued, "have you seen him?" "yes," he said, "i have seen him." "and," she asked, wistfully, "did he send no word of pardon--to me?" the jesuit shook his head, though in a gentle kindly manner, ere he replied. "no, child. he spoke not of you." she sat gazing into the embers for a few moments more; then she went on. "yet he must know, he cannot but know how basely i was deceived. you told me months ago that he had learnt some of the story from your brother's lips, who learnt it from you. is there no room for pity in his heart? will he never forgive?" "if he thinks aught," said the jesuit, still very gently, to her, "it is that you should never have believed so base a tale. so at least he tells douglas. to me he has never spoken of the matter." "alas!" she said. "how could i doubt? lord fordingbridge i might have disbelieved, but my father!" and here she shuddered. "how could i think that he would stoop to practise such lies, such duplicity, on his own child?" father sholto made no answer to this remark, contenting himself with lifting his hands from his knees and warming the palms at the fire. and so they sat, neither speaking for two or three moments. then she said: "father, will you take a letter to him from me?" this time he lifted his bushy eyebrows instead of his hands, and looked at her from underneath them. next he shrugged his shoulders, and then he said: "kitty, for you i will do anything, for you who have ever been a dutiful daughter of the church, ay! and a loyal adherent to a now sadly broken cause. yet, child, what use to write? nothing can undo what is done; you must make the best of matters. solace your wounded heart with the rank you have gained, with your husband's now comfortable means, your reception at the court of the hanoverian king, for king he is, and, i fear, must be. however great the evil that was done, it must be borne. you and bertie elphinston are sundered for ever in this world, unless----" "unless?" she repeated, with a swift glance from her eyes. "you both survive him. yet, how shall such a thing be! he is no older than elphinston himself, and, much as he has wronged that other, no reparation, not even his life, would set things right. if bertie slew him he could not marry his victim's widow." "alas! alas!" said lady fordingbridge, "the last thing he would wish to do now, even were i free, would be to have me for his wife. me whom once he loved so tenderly." once more the jesuit twitched up his great eyebrows and muttered something to himself, and then seemed bent in thought. and as kitty sat watching him she caught disconnected whispers from his lips. "douglas might do it," she heard him say; "that way the gate would be open. yet he cannot be spared, not yet," until at last he ceased, after which, looking up from his reverie, he said to her: "what do you wish to write to him, child? you, the viscountess fordingbridge, must have a care as to your epistles to unmarried men." "be under no apprehension," she replied. "yet, if--if--he would pardon me, would send me one little line to say--god!--that he does not hate me--oh! that he who once loved me so should come to hate me--then, then i might again be happy, a little happy. father, i must write to him." "so be it," he answered. "write if you must. i will convey the letter." chapter iii. a woman's letter. the next night father sholto, who was lodged in lord fordingbridge's house, took a hackney coach through the fields to chelsea church, and so was ferried across to battersea. then, because the evening was soft and mild and there was a young moon, he decided to walk on by the road to the next village, namely wandsworth, which lay half an hour further on. "poor kitty," he thought to himself, as he felt the packet she had confided to him press against his breast, "poor kitty! why could she not have believed in bertie's truth? surely anything might have been set against the word of such a creature as simeon larpent, pupil of mine though he be. _peste!_ why was not i in paris when all was happening? by now they would have been happy. they could have lived in france or italy. we, the society," and he crossed himself as he went on, "would have found the wherewithal; or even in america they might have, perhaps, been safe. yet now! now! elphinston is a heartbroken man; kitty, a heartbroken woman. alas! alas!" with meditations such as these, for political scotch jesuit as archibald sholto was, and fierce partisan of his countrymen, charles stuart and his father james, there beat a kindly heart within him, he reached the long, straggling village street of wandsworth. then, turning off somewhat sharply to the right, he emerged after another five minutes upon a road above the strand of the river, on which, set back in shady gardens, in which grew firs, cedars, and chestnut trees, were some antique and picturesque houses built a hundred years before. at one of these, the first he came to, he knocked three times on the garden gate and rang a bell, the handle of which was set high in the door frame; and then in a moment a strong, heavy tread was heard coming from the house to the gate. "who is it?" a man's voice asked from within. "_nunquam triumphans_,"[ ] was the priest's answer, softly given, and as he spoke the postern door was opened, and a tall man stood before sholto. in a moment their hands were clasped in each other's and their greetings exchanged. "'tis good of you, archie, to come again to-night," his younger brother said to him; "have you brought more news? how fares it with those in the tower?" "ill," replied the other. "as ill as may be. the trials are fixed, 'tis said, for july at latest. one will, however, escape. tullibardine----" "the marquis of tullibardine escape! why, then, there is hope for the others!" "ay!" replied the elder brother, "there is, by the same way. tullibardine is dying in the tower. his life draws to a close." "pish! what use such an escape? but come in, archie. bertie looks ever for you." then he stopped on the gravel path and, gazing into the other's face as it shone in the moonlight, he said, "what of kitty? have you told her he is in london?" "ay," replied the jesuit, "and have on me now a letter to him from her, suing, i believe, for forgiveness. douglas!" he exclaimed, seizing the other by the arm, "bertie must pardon her. you must make him. otherwise----" "what?" "i fear i know not what. her love for him is what it ever was, stronger, fiercer, may be, because of the treachery that tore them asunder; she thinks of him alone. and if she grows desperate heaven knows what may be the outcome of it. murder of simeon! betrayal of him! self-slaughter! she is capable of all or any, if goaded too far. he must forgive her." "forgive her!" exclaimed his younger brother. "forgive her! why, who shall doubt it; what possesses your mind? there is no fear of that. no, that is not what there is to fear." "what then?" asked archibald, bewildered. "that if they should once again meet no power on earth could ever part them more. even now he broods all day, and night too, on finding her, on carrying her off by force. there are scores of our countrymen in london in disguise who would do it for him at his bidding or help him to do it as well as to slay fordingbridge. i tell you, archie, he would stand at nothing. nothing! why, man, as we fought side by side at prestonpans he muttered a score of times, 'kate, kate, kate.' and once, as he cut down an officer of fowke's dragoons, he exclaimed, 'each hanoverian dog who falls brings us so much the nearer to london and me to kate.' faith! though the battle lasted but four minutes, he muttered her name ten times as often." "come," said the other, "let us go in to him. i would i knew what is best to do. ah, well! most affairs settle themselves. pray heaven this one may." over a fire, burning in an ancient grate constructed for the consumption of wood alone, they found bertie elphinston brooding, as his friend had described. and as all the scotch had done who had sought a hiding-place in london after the defeat of the stuart army in scotland, any marks that might proclaim their nationality had been carefully exchanged--where the purse allowed--for more english traits and characteristics. therefore elphinston was now clad as any other gentleman of the time might be, plainly but well--a branched velvet coat with a satin lining, a black silk embroidered waistcoat, and breeches of velvet in keeping with the coat constituting his dress, while he wore his own hair, of a dark-brown colour and slightly curly. against the side of the large open-mouthed grate and near to his hand there reclined an ordinary plate-handled sword, with the belt hanging to it as when unbuckled from the body; deeper in a recess might be seen two claymores, with which weapons the scotch had recently inflicted such deadly slaughter on the duke of cumberland's troops. "ha, archie!" exclaimed the young man, springing up from his chair and grasping the jesuit's hand, "welcome, old friend. so you have found your way here once more. _a la bonne chance!_ yet," he went on, while his handsome face clouded again with the gloomy look that it had borne before lighting up at the entrance of their friend, "why say so! you can bring us no good news now--you can," he said in a lower voice, "bring me none. yet speak, archie, how is it with our poor friends?" "as before. there is no news, except that their trials are fixed. yet all bear up well, the head of your house especially so. he jests ever--p'raps 'tis to cheer his wife more than for aught else. she is admitted to see him, and brings and takes our news, and he sends always, through her, his love to you. also he bids you begone from out of england, you and douglas both, since there can be no safety for you in it. the king is implacable, he will spare none." "and the prince, our prince," asked elphinston, "what of him; is he safe?" "he is not taken," replied the other. "we know nought else. but in truth, it is partly to endorse lord balmerino's injunction that i am here to-night. both of you must begone. london is no place for jacobites of any degree; for those who have recently fought the peril is deadly. already the whole town is searched from end to end. the tower is full of prisoners. from noble lords down to the meanest, it is crammed with them. gallows are already being put up on kennington common; soon the slaughter will begin. my boys, you must back to france." "douglas may go if he will," replied elphinston, looking at his comrade. "i remain here. i have something to do." then he said quietly, "where is lord fordingbridge?" "at present in london, but he leaves for his seat in cheshire to-morrow. bertie," the jesuit exclaimed, "if what you have to do is with him it must be postponed. to seek out fordingbridge now would be your undoing." "and his wife--does--does she go too?" "no," the other replied, "she stays in london. bertie, i have brought you a letter from her." "a letter from kate--lady fordingbridge--to me! to me! what does it mean? what can have caused her to write to me?" "best read the letter," replied the other. "and as you read it think--try to think--kindly of her. remember, too, that whatever she was to you once, she is now another man's wife. however great a villain he may be, remember that." "give me the letter," elphinston said briefly. sholto took from his pocket the little packet; then, as he gave it to the other, he said, "douglas and i will leave you to its perusal. the night is fine, he can walk with me to battersea. farewell." "farewell," returned elphinston. "and--and--tell her ladyship if there is aught to answer such answer will be sent." "be careful of your messengers. remember. danger surrounds you." "i shall remember." when they were gone, his friend saying he would be back in an hour's time, the young man turned the letter over more than once ere he broke the seal--it bore no address upon it, perhaps for safety's sake--and then, at last, he opened it and commenced its perusal. and as he did so and saw the once familiar handwriting, he sighed profoundly more than once. yet soon he was engrossed in the contents. they ran as follows: "i hear you are in london and that at last is it possible for me to do what i have long desired--though hitherto no opportunity has arisen--namely, to explain that which in your eyes may seem to be my treachery to you. "mr. elphinston, when you and i last parted, i was your affianced wife; i write to you now as the wife of another man to ask you for your pardon. if i set down all as it came to pass it may be that, at least, you will cease to hate my memory--the memory of my name. nightly i pray that such may some day be the case. thereby at last i may know ease, though never again happiness in this world. "when you quitted paris a year ago you went, as you said you were going, to rome on a message to the pope connected with the cause. alas! you and father sholto had not been sped a week ere very different tidings reached me. my father--god forgive him!--first poisoned my ears with rumours--which he said were spread not only over all paris but also at st. germains, vincennes, and marly--that it was on no political matter that you had departed. it was known--even i knew so much, i had jested with you about it, had even been sore on the subject--that madeleine baufremont, of the queen's chamber, admired you. now, so said my unhappy father, with well-acted misery, it was whispered that she and you had gone away together. moreover, he said there was no doubt that you and she were married. he even named the church at which the marriage had taken place at moret, beyond fontainebleau." "so, so," muttered bertie elphinston, as he read. "i see. i begin to see. 'tis as i thought, though i did not know this. well, a better lie than one might have hoped." "next," the letter continued, "there came to me the man who is now my husband--then, as you know, the honourable simeon larpent, his father being still alive. needless to tell you, mr. elphinston, of how this man had ever sought my love; first, because of our poverty, in a manner alike disgraceful to both, and next, when that design failed, in a more honourable fashion. yet, of no avail when you---- but enough. you also know well how every plea of his was rejected by me. "he, too, told the same tale. he protested to me that on the morning you left st. germains madeleine baufremont set out on the same southern road, that your carriages met and joined at Ã�tampes, and that thence you travelled together to moret." "the devil can indeed speak the truth," muttered bertie, as he read thus far. "still, i would not--i could not--believe. our last parting was fresh in my mind, ay! in my heart; our last vows and last farewells, our projects for the future, our hopes of days of happiness to come--forgive me if i remind you of them--they are wrecked now! i say i could not believe. yet, wherever i looked, wherever i made inquiries, there was but one answer. the english, scotch, and irish gentlemen who frequented my father's house all gave the same answer, though none spake the words i feared. some, i observed, regarded me with glances that were full of pity--for which i hated them--others preserved a silence that was worse tenfold than speech, some smiled in their sleeves. and larpent was ever there--always, always, always. and one day he came to where i was sitting and said to me, 'kitty, if you will indeed know the truth, there is a witness below who can give it to you. the _curé_ of moret has come to paris with a petition to the king against the exactions of the seigneur. kitty, he it was who made bertie elphinston and madeleine baufremont man and wife." "'so be it,' i replied. 'yet, remember their marriage makes ours no nearer.' 'it will come,' he replied. 'i can not believe that my reward will never come.' whereon he left the room and came back with the _curé_. alas! he told so plain a tale, describing you with such precision and madeleine baufremont also, that there was, indeed, no room left for doubt. yet still i could scarce believe; for even though you had not loved me, even though your burning words, your whispers of love had all been false, why, why, i asked again and again, should you have stooped to such duplicity? if you had tired of me, if that other had turned your heart from me to her, one word would have been enough; i must have let you go when you no longer desired to stay by my side. mr. elphinston, i wrote to you at rome, to the address you had given me and to the english college there; i wrote to father sholto--alas! i so much forgot my pride, that i wrote to douglas, who had then joined the squadron commanded by monsieur de roquefeuille for the invasion of england. i could not part from you yet"--these words were scored out by the writer, and, in their place, the sentence began--"i could not yet believe in your deceit, in your cold, cruel betrayal of a woman who had trusted in you as in a god; it seemed all too base and heartless. yet neither from you nor the sholtos came one line in answer to my prayer." elphinston groaned bitterly as he read the words. he knew now how easily the trap had been laid. "then, at last, i did believe. then, at last, i renounced you and your love. i denied to my own heart that i had ever known a man named bertie elphinston, that i had ever been that man's promised wife. i tore you from my heart for ever. it was hard, yet i did it. time passed, no intelligence came of you or madeleine baufremont. i even heard that the duc de baufremont had petitioned the king that, if you again entered french territory, you should be punished for abducting his daughter. yet, as the days went on, i allowed simeon larpent to approach me no nearer on the subject. so he and my father concocted a fresh scheme by which i was at last led to consent to become his wife. we were, as you know, poor, horribly poor; the _cours d'escrime_ hardly provided for our needs. often, indeed, i had wondered how we managed to subsist so well on what seemed to me to be nothing. my father talked vaguely of an allowance to him, in common with other refugees from england, from the french king or from the chevalier st. george, or the scotch fund. now--for at this period the old lord fordingbridge died--he said we had been subsisting for some time on money lent, or we could, if we chose, consider it given to us, by the present lord. he would never, my father said, demand repayment; indeed, such was his lordship's respect for him and his admiration for me, that he would cheerfully continue his allowance, or, since he was now very well-to-do, increase it. so i learnt that i had been dependent for the bread i ate, the dress i wore, to this man. need i say more! you know that i became the wife of lord fordingbridge. "a month had not passed ere i knew the truth as to how i had been duped and deceived--as to how i had been false to you. de roquefeuille's squadron was driven back by sir john norris, and douglas sholto returned to paris. he told me all; that it was your kinsman and namesake of glenbervie who had left paris with you to espouse madeleine baufremont, and that you--tied under a solemn promise to in no way let his approaching marriage with her be known--had kept the secret even from me. alas! had you given me one hint, spoken one word, how different all would have been! yet, i do not reproach you for fidelity to your friend; i only ask that when you think of me--if you ever think at all--as not trusting you, you will recollect that your own silence made it possible for me to doubt. "one word more, and i shall not trouble you further. it is to beseech you to quit london at once, to put yourself in safety, with the seas between you and the english government. for, even though you might lie hid from the vengeance that will fall on all followers of the prince who may be caught, i fear that private malice, aided by personal fear of you, may lead to your betrayal. be warned, i beseech you. farewell and forgive. "catherine fordingbridge." chapter iv. the subjects of king james. the letter written by lady fordingbridge, read in conjunction with some other remarks made by other persons who have been introduced to the reader's notice, may serve to inform him of the state of affairs that led to the position in which things were at the period when this narrative commences, namely, the month of may, . a few other words of additional explanation alone are necessary. at the time when cardinal tencin (who looked forward to becoming the successor of fleury as prime minister of france, and who owed his elevation to the purple as well as to the primacy of france to the influence of the old pretender) persuaded louis xv. to support the claims of the stuarts as his great-grandfather and predecessor had done, paris was, as is well known to all readers of history, full of english, scotch, and irish jacobites. these refugees from their own countries were to be found in all capacities in that city, some serving as the agents of the exiled chevalier de st. george, who was now resident at rome, and others as correspondents between the followers of the stuarts in london, rome, and paris; also, some resided there either from the fact that their presence would not be tolerated in england or its dependencies, and some because, in their staunch loyalty to the fallen house, they were not disposed to dwell in a country which they considered was ruled over by usurpers. to this class belonged the late viscount fordingbridge, a staunch cheshire nobleman, who had been out in the ' , had afterwards escaped from the isle of skye, and had also had the good fortune to escape forfeiture of his estates, owing to the fact that, though he had been out himself, he had neither furnished men, arms, nor money, so far as was known. but also in paris were still others who, loyal jacobites as they were, and followers of a ruined party, were yet obliged to earn their bread in the best way they were able. thus doyle fane, kitty's father, an irish gentleman of good family who had himself seen service under france and austria, eked out a slender allowance--paid irregularly by james stuart--by lessons in swordsmanship, of which art he was an expert master. some, again, obtained commissions in french regiments, many, indeed, being glad to serve as simple privates; while several who were more fortunate--and among whom were douglas sholto and bertie elphinston--obtained positions in the garde du roi or the mousquetaires, or other corps, and so waited in the hopes of a descent on england in which they would be allowed to take part by resigning temporarily their french commissions. of priests affecting stuart principles there were also several, some, as was the case with archibald sholto, being temporarily attached to st. omer, at which there was a large english seminary for the education of young catholics, but all of whom were frequently in london and paris, plotting always restlessly for the overthrow of the present reigning house in england, and for the restoration of the discarded one. fane's residence at this period, which was shortly before the expedition of charles edward to recover, if possible, the throne of england for his father, was a popular resort of many of the exiled english, scotch, and irish, principally because, in the better classes of men who were still young, the practice of the sword was unceasing, and also, perhaps, because in the next house to his was a well-known tavern, "le ph[oe]bus anglais," kept by a jacobite, and a great place of assembly for all the fraternity. but for the younger men there was an even greater attraction than either the advantages of continued practice in swordsmanship or a cheap but good tavern--the attraction of kitty fane's beauty. kitty kept her father's house for him, kept also his accounts, made his fees go as long a way as possible, and his bottle last out as well as could be the case when submitted so often to the constant demands on it, and was admired and respected by all who came to the little house in the rue trouse vache. besides her beauty, she was known to be a girl who respected herself, and was consequently respected; and as doyle fane was also known to be a gentleman by birth, and kitty's mother to have been a daughter of one of the oldest families in ireland, none ever dreamed of treating her in a manner other than became a lady. of declared lovers she had two, one whom she disliked for reasons she knew not why--at first; the other whom she adored. simeon larpent, heir to the then dying lord fordingbridge, was one; bertie elphinston, of the regiment of picardy, the other. with larpent, however, the reasons why she disliked him soon made themselves apparent. he was crafty by nature, with a craft that had been much fostered at st. omer and lisbon, where he was educated, and he was, she thought, lacking in bravery. when other men were planning and devising as to how they could find a place in that army which--under count saxe, to be convoyed to england by de roquefeuille--was then forming, he made no attempt to become one of its number, giving as his reasons his father's ill-health and his opinion that he could better serve the cause by remaining in france. yet bertie elphinston had at the same time a delicate mother residing at passy, and douglas sholto was in poor health at the moment; and still they were both going. moreover, simeon larpent's admiration was distasteful to her. he had then but recently come back to paris from lisbon, from which he brought no particular good character, while he appeared by his conversation and mode of life to have contracted many extremely bad habits. in the paris of those days the practice and admiration of morality stood at a terribly low point, yet simeon larpent seemed more depraved than most young men were in that city even. in a morose and sullen fashion he revelled in all the iniquities that prevailed during the middle of louis xv's reign, and his name became noted in english circles as that of a man unscrupulous and abandoned, as well as shifty and cunning. moreover, even his jacobitism was looked upon with doubtful eyes, and not a few were heard to say that the hour which witnessed his father's death would also see him an avowed hanoverian. that such would have been the case was certain, had not, however, the old lord's death taken place at the very moment when charles edward made the last stuart bid for restoration in england. but at such a time it was impossible that the new peer could approach the english king. had he done so it would have been more than his life was worth. at the best, he would have been forced into a duel with some infuriated jacobite; at the worst, his body would have been found in the seine, stabbed to the heart. meanwhile those events which lady fordingbridge had spoken of in her letter to bertie elphinston had taken place; nothing was heard by her either of her lover or the sholtos, and she became the wife of fordingbridge. for a month he revelled in the possession of the beautiful woman he had coveted since first he set eyes on her; then she found out the truth and his lordship had no longer a wife except in name. she had one interview with him--alone--and after that had taken place she never willingly spoke to him again. her pride forbade her to separate from him, but with the exception that the same roof sheltered and the same walls enclosed them, they might as well have dwelt in different streets. against all his protestations, his vows, his declarations that love, and love alone, had forced him to play the part he had, she turned a deaf ear; she would not even open her lips if possible, to show that she had heard his words. she had come to hate and despise him--as she told him in that one interview--and her every action afterwards testified that she had spoken the truth. and now, when the married life of lord and lady fordingbridge had arrived at this pass, the time was also come when scores of jacobites, militant, priestly, or passive as they might be, poured into england. for charles edward had landed at moidart, tullibardine had displayed at glenfinnen the white, blue, and red silk standard of the prince, the march southward had begun. following on this news--all of which reached paris with extraordinary rapidity--came the intelligence of the battle of preston, the capture of edinburgh, charles's installation at holyrood, the rout of cope's army, the march into england, and the determination of george ii. to take the field in person against the invader. and among those who received their orders to at once proceed to england was lord fordingbridge, such orders coming from out the mouth of the restless father sholto. "but," exclaimed his lordship, "i have no desire to proceed to england. my unhappy married life--for such it has become--will be no better there than here. and in france, at least, matrimonial disputes are not regarded." "your desire," said the priest, "is of no concern. i tell you what is required of you--there is nothing left for you but to conform. we wish a goodly number of adherents to the stuart cause--indeed, all whom it is possible to obtain--to be in london when the prince and his army arrive, as it is now an almost foregone conclusion they will do. you must, therefore, be there. only, since you are of a calculating--not to say timorous--nature, and as no jacobite nobleman will be permitted to enter england until the prince is in london, you will travel with papers describing you as a nobleman who has given in his adherence to the house of hanover. i shall go with you--it is necessary that i keep you under my eyes as much as possible; also it is fitting that i should be in london. in either case my services will be required, whether we are successful or not." in this way, therefore, his lordship returned to england in company with his wife and his wife's father as well as the jesuit. only, he made several reservations in his own mind as to how he would manage his own political affairs, as to how, indeed, he would trim his sails. "for," said he to himself, "whether i become hanoverian or remain jacobite will depend vastly on which side wins. once in england i shake off this accursed hold which sholto and all the other priests of st. omer have on me; nay, if hanover comes up uppermost, sholto himself shall be laid by the heels. there will be a pretty sweep made of the jesuits if charles gets beaten. if he drives out george, why, then--ah! well, time enough to ponder." the events of three months soon showed to which side victory was ultimately to belong. cumberland destroyed the scotch army, charles edward was in hiding in the land he had entered attended by such bright hopes and prospects; all who had fought on his side were either dead, in prison, or fled. and simeon larpent, viscount fordingbridge, was--quite with the consent for the time being of archibald sholto--an avowed hanoverian and received into favour by the hanoverian king, though with a strong watch kept on all his actions by that king's ministers. chapter v. my lord goes out of town. on the day after bertie elphinston received the letter from his lost love, lady fordingbridge, his lordship himself set out from london to journey into cheshire, there to visit his estate in that county. he had previously intimated to his wife--who had told father sholto of the fact--that he intended being absent from london for some weeks; indeed, had asked her whether it was her desire to accompany him. to this question or invitation her ladyship had, however, returned the usual monosyllabic answer which she generally accorded him, and had briefly replied "no." then being pressed by him to give some reason for her refusal to so accompany him, she had turned round with that bright blaze in her blue eyes which he had learnt to dread, and had exclaimed: "why pester me--especially when we are alone--with these useless questions and formalities? we have arranged, decided the mode in which our existences are to be passed, if passed together--it is enough. we remain together ostensibly on the condition that i share this house with you--i will have no other part in your false life. and if you cannot conform to this arrangement, then even this appearance of union can--had best be--severed." the viscount bit his lips after her cold contemptuous tones, yet, with that strange power which he possessed, he overmastered the burning rage that rose up in his heart against her. only he asked himself now, as often before he had asked himself, would he always be able to exercise such control--able to refrain from bursting forth against her, and by so doing put an end to the artificial existence they were living? but now the morning had come for him to depart for the country; outside in the square he could hear the horses shaking their harness while his carriage waited for him; it was time for him to go. therefore he went to his wife's morning-room and found her ladyship taking her chocolate. "i come, madam," he said, with that usual assumption of courtliness which he always treated her to since they had become estranged, "to bid you farewell for some few weeks. i will notify you by the post of my proposed return. meanwhile your ladyship need not be dull. you have the entry now to the court circles, you have also your respected father with you in this house. and there are many friends of your younger days in london"--he shot an evil, oblique glance at her out of the corner of his eye as he said this, which was not lost on her--"to wit, mr. archibald and--and--others. doubtless ere i return you may have renewed some of your earlier acquaintanceships. they should be agreeable." for answer she gave him never a word, but, stirring her cup of chocolate leisurely, looked him straight in the face; then she let her eyes fall on the journal she had been perusing and again commenced to do so as though he were not in the room. "curse her," muttered her husband to himself as her indifference stung him to the quick, "curse her, ere long the bolt shall be sped." after which he exclaimed: "my lady, as is ever the case, i perceive my presence is unwelcome. once more i bid you adieu," and took himself out of the room and also out of the house. and so he set forth upon his journey. for a young man on the road to his old family seat, lord fordingbridge was that morning strangely preoccupied and indifferent to the events around him, and sat in his carriage huddled up in one corner of it more like an elderly sick man than aught else. the cheerful bustle of the village of islington, the pretty country villas at highgate, the larks singing over finchley common and hadley green, had no power to rouse him from his stupor--if stupor it was--nor either had the bright sun and the warm balmy spring air that came in at the open windows. a strange way for an english nobleman to set out upon his journey to the place where his forefathers had dwelt for ages! a strange way, indeed, considering that he might be regarded as an extremely fortunate man. the head of a family with strong stuart tendencies, and suspected of himself participating in those tendencies, he had yet been at once received into favour by the king on returning to london. this alone should have made his heart light within him, for he had but now to conform to that king's demands to pass the rest of his existence in peace and full enjoyment of his comfortable means--to feel that his father's and his family's jacobitism was forgotten, that all was well with him. george was now welcoming to his fold every exiled jacobite who had not openly fought or plotted and schemed against him in the recent invasion, and many peers and gentlemen who had long lived abroad in exile were hastening to tender their adherence to the german king, feeling perfectly sure that, after the events of the past three months, the day of the stuarts was past and gone for ever. why, therefore, could not simeon larpent look forward as hopefully to the future as all his brother exiles who had returned were doing? why! was it because of the enmity of his wife to him, an enmity which he knew could never slacken; or was it because of his fear of that other man whom he had so deeply wronged; or because of what his scheming mind was now fashioning? this we shall see. the roads were heavy with the recent spring showers so that the four horses of his coach could drag it but tediously along them, and it was nightfall ere south mimms was reached, and night itself ere they arrived at st. albans, and lord fordingbridge descended at the angel. to the bowing landlord he gave his name, and stated that he wished a bedroom and a parlour for himself, and a room for his men; and then, as he was about to follow his obsequious host up the broad staircase, he said, pulling out his watch: "it is now after seven. at nine i expect to be visited by a gentleman whom i have appointed to meet me here. his name is captain morris. you will please entertain him at my cost to-night, and do so at your best. on his arrival, if he hath not supped, ask him to do so; if he hath, show him in at once to me. now i will prepare for my own meal." again boniface bowed low--lower even than before, after he had become acquainted with his visitor's rank and position--and escorted him to a large, comfortable bedroom on the first floor, in which a cheerful fire burnt in the grate. and throwing open two heavy folding-doors, he showed next a bright sitting-room, also with a fire, and well lit. "this will do very well," said his lordship. "now send my servant to me with my valise. and let him wait on me at table." all through the repast he partook of the viscount meditated gloomily and gravely, eating but little of the substantial meal provided by the landlord, drinking sparingly, and addressing no remark to his servant. then when he had finished, he had his chair drawn up before the fire, a bottle of wine and another of brandy placed on the table, and, bidding the servant withdraw and bring captain morris to him when he should arrive, he again fell to meditating and musing, speaking sometimes aloud to himself. "it is the only way," he muttered, in disconnected sentences, "the only way. and it must be done at one swoop; otherwise it is useless. so long as one of them is free i am fettered. the only way! and--then--when that is accomplished--to deal with you, my lady. let me see." he began counting on his fingers and tapping the tips as still he pondered, touching first his forefinger, then the second and third, and once or twice nodding his head as though well satisfied with himself. "as for fane," he muttered next, "he scarce counts. yet he, too, must be taken care of. but of that later. doubtless when i begin with my lady--vengeance confound her!--he will become revengeful, but before he can do so--well, he will be harmless. so, so. it should work." the clock struck nine as he spoke, and he compared it with his great tortoiseshell watch, and then sat listening. the inn was very quiet, he doubted if any other travellers were staying in it, especially as the coach from london passed through early in the day, but outside in the street there were signs of life. the rustics bade each other good-night as they passed; a woman's laugh broke the air now and again; sometimes a dog barked. and at last, above these sounds, he heard a horse's hoofs clattering along the street as though ridden fast. "that," said his lordship, "may be he. 'tis very possible. for one of his majesty's servants, he is none too punctual." as he spoke the horse drew up with still more clatter at the porch below his window, and he heard a clear, firm voice ask if lord fordingbridge had that day arrived from london. and two or three moments later his servant knocked at the door, and, entering, said that captain morris was come. "has he supped?" "he says he requires nothing, my lord, but desires to see you at once. he rides to hertford to-night, he bid the landlord say, and has but little time at his disposal." "so be it. show him in," and a moment later captain morris entered the room. a man of something more than middle age, this gentleman's features, aquiline and clear cut, presented the appearance of belonging to one in whom great ability as well as shrewdness and common sense were combined. tall and extremely thin, his undress riding-habit of dark blue embroidered with gold lace set off his figure to extreme advantage, while the light sword he carried by his side, his gold-trimmed three-cornered hat with its black cockade, and his long riding boots all served to give him the appearance of an extremely gentlemanly and elegant man. "welcome, sir," said lord fordingbridge, advancing to meet him with extended hand, while at the same time he noticed--and took account of--the clear grey eyes, the thin lips, and aquiline nose of his visitor. "welcome, sir. i am glad you have been able to reach here to-night. to-morrow i must resume my journey. be seated, i beg." "the orders which i received from london," replied captain morris, in a clear, refined voice that corresponded perfectly with his appearance, "made it imperative that i should call on you to-night. as your lordship may be aware, in this locality i have certain duties to perform which can be entrusted to no one else." "i am aware of it," fordingbridge replied. then he said, "before we commence our conversation, let me offer you a glass of wine or brandy. the night is raw, and you have doubtless ridden long." captain morris bowed, said he would drink a glass of wine, and, when he had poured it out of the decanter, let it stand by his side untouched for the moment. after which he remarked: "i understand, my lord, that i am to receive from your lips to-night some information of considerable importance to his majesty, touching those who have been engaged in plotting against his security. may i ask you to proceed at once with what you have to tell me? i have still some distance to ride to-night, and also other work to do." "yes," answered fordingbridge, "you have been exactly informed. yet--how to tell--how to begin, i scarcely know. my object is to put in the king's hands--without, of course, letting it be known that the information comes from me--some facts relating to several notorious jacobites now sheltering in london. men who are," he continued, speaking rapidly, "inimical to his majesty's peace and security, hostile to his rule, and, if i mistake not, bent at the present moment in endeavouring in some way to effect a rescue of the scotch lords now in confinement at the tower." a slight smile rose upon his visitor's face as he uttered these last words; then captain morris said quietly: "that is hardly likely to come to pass, i should imagine. the tower does not disgorge its victims freely, certainly not by force. as for the scotch lords, i am afraid they will only quit the place for their trials and afterwards for tower hill." "yet," remarked lord fordingbridge, "the attempt may be made. of the men i speak of, two are desperate, and both fought at culloden and the battles that took place during the pretender's march into england. they will stop at nothing if," with a quick glance at the other, "they are not themselves first stopped." "give me their names, if you please," said morris, with military precision, as he produced from his pocket a notebook, "and where they are to be found." "their names are bertie elphinston and douglas sholto--the former a kinsman of the lord balmarino. both have lived in exile in france, serving in the french king's army, one in the _garde du roi_ at first, and then in the regiment of picardy. the other, sholto, has served in the mousquetaires." "their names," said captain morris, "are not in the list," and he turned over the leaves of his notebook carefully as he spoke. "but for you, my lord, these men might have escaped justice. 'tis strange nothing was known of them." "they crossed from france with charles edward. many names of those who accompanied him are probably not known. you may rely on my information. i myself returned but from france some weeks ago. i know them well." "indeed!" exclaimed captain morris. "indeed! your lordship doubtless came to support his majesty shortly after so many of his enemies crossed over." "precisely. but i will be frank. i should tell you i am myself a converted--perverted, some would say--jacobite. my father, the late lord, died one, i do not espouse his political faith." captain morris bowed gravely; then he said: "and you know, therefore, these gentlemen--these scotch rebels." "i know them very well. shall i furnish you with a description of their persons?" "if you please;" and as the captain replied to the question, he--perhaps unwittingly--pushed the untasted glass of wine farther away from him into the middle of the large table, where it remained undrunk. after the appearance of elphinston and sholto had been fully given and noted in the captain's book, he asked: "and where are these men to be found, lord fordingbridge?" "they shelter themselves in the village of wandsworth, near london, in an old house on the waterside, as the strand there is called. it is the first reached from the village." again this was written down, after which captain morris rose to take his departure, but my lord's tale was not yet told. pointing to the chair the other had risen from, he said: "i beg you to be seated a moment longer. there is still another--the worst rebel of all--of whom i wish to apprise you. a priest." "a priest! you speak truly; they are, indeed, his majesty's worst enemies. a jesuit, of course?" "of course. with him it will be necessary to use the most astute means in the government's power to first entrap him, and then to deal with him afterwards. he should, indeed, be confined in total solitude, forbidden, above all things else, to hold any communication with other rebels." "you may depend, lord fordingbridge, on all being done that is necessary, short of execution." "short of execution!" interrupted the other. "short of execution! why do not the scheming jesuits--the mainspring of all, the cause of the very rebellion but now crushed out--merit execution as well as those who routed cope's forces and hewed down cumberland's men? _grand dieu!_ i should have thought they would have been the first to taste the halter." "possibly," replied the captain in passionless tones, and with an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, "but at present no jesuit priests have been executed. i doubt if any will be. the government have other punishments for them--exile to the american colonies, and so forth. now, my lord, this priest's name and abode." "he is brother to douglas sholto, an elder brother by another mother, yet they have ever gone hand in hand together. named archibald, of from thirty-eight to forty years of age. crafty, dissimulating, and----" "that is of course," said captain morris. "now, tell me, if you please, where this man is to be found. is he also in hiding at wandsworth?" "nay," replied the other--and for the first time the informer seemed to hesitate in his answer. yet for a moment only, since again he proceeded with his story. "he is disguised, of course; passes as a scotch merchant having business between london and paris, and is known as mr. archibald." he paused again, and captain morris's clear eyes rested on him as, interrogatively, he said: "yes? and his abode?" "is my own house. in kensington-square." this time the officer started perceptibly, and fixed an even more penetrating glance upon the other than before. indeed, so apparent were both the start and look of surprise on his face that the traitor before him deemed it necessary to offer some excuse for his strange revelation. "yes," he said, "in my own house. it has been necessary for me to let him hide there awhile the better to--to entrap--to deliver him to justice." "your lordship is indeed an ardent partisan," coldly replied captain morris; "the king is much to be congratulated on so good a convert." "the king will, i trust, reward my devotion. the stuarts have never shown any gratitude for all that has been done for them--by my family as much as any. now, captain morris," he went on, "i have told you all that i have to tell. i have simply to ask that in no way shall it be divulged--as, indeed, i have the promise of his majesty's ministers that nothing shall be divulged--as to the source whence this information is derived. it is absolutely necessary that i appear not at all in the matter." "that is understood. the secretary of state for scotch affairs, from whom i receive my instructions, knows your lordship's desire, without a doubt." "precisely. it is with him i have been in communication. yet, still, i would make one other request. it is that father sholto may not be arrested in my house. that would be painful to--to--lady fordingbridge, a young and delicate woman. he can easily be taken outside, since he quits the house fearlessly each day." "that too," replied morris, "i will make a note of for the secretary's consideration. i wish you now, my lord, good evening," saying which he bowed and went toward the door. "if i could possibly prevail on you to refresh yourself," said fordingbridge, as he followed him to it, "i should be happy," and he held out his hand as he spoke. but the captain, who seemed busy with his sash, or sword belt, did not perhaps see the extended hand, and muttering that he required no refreshment, withdrew from the room. nevertheless, when he reached the bar in the passage below he asked the smiling landlady if she could give him a glass of cordial to keep out the rawness of the night air, and to fortify him for his ride. also he asked, in so polite a manner as to gratify the good woman's heart, if he might scrawl a line at her table whereat she sat sewing and surrounded by her bottles and glasses. buxom landladies rarely refuse politenesses to persons of captain morris's position, especially when so captivatingly arrayed as he was in his undress bravery, and as he wrote his message and sealed it she thought how gallant a gentleman he was. then he looked up and enquired if there was any ostler or idle postboy about the place who could ride for him with a letter to-morrow morning to dunstable, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, paid for his cordial, the hire of the next morning messenger and his horse's feed, and so bade her a cheerful good-night. in the yard, while his animal was being brought out, he looked with some little interest at his lordship's travelling carriage, inspected the crest upon its panels and the motto, and, tossing the fellow who brought the nag a shilling, and seeing carefully to his holsters, rode away into the night. upstairs, my lord, standing before the fire, noticed the unemptied glass of wine, and, remembering that the captain had not chosen to see his outstretched hand, cursed him for an ill-conditioned hanoverian cur. downstairs, the hostess, being a daughter of eve, turned over the captain's letter addressed to "josias brandon, esq., justice of the peace," and would have given her ears, or at least a set of earrings, to know what its contents were. had she been able to see them they probably would have given her food for gossip for a twelvemonth, brief as they were. they ran: "the viscount fordingbridge passes through dunstable to-morrow in his coach on his road to cheshire. from the time he does so until he returns through your town to london, he is to be followed and watched and never lost sight of. let me be kept acquainted with all his movements--by special courier, if needful.--noel morris, captain." chapter vi. kate makes an appointment. between lady fordingbridge and her father a better state of things existed than that which prevailed between her and her husband. indeed, kitty, who could not forgive the treachery of the man who was now her husband, could not, at the same time, bring herself to regard her father's share in that treachery in as equally black a light. she knew that it was the actual truth that he had been much in debt to simeon larpent (as he was then), and she had persuaded herself also to believe that which he constantly assured her was the truth--and, perhaps, might have been--that larpent would have proceeded against him for his debt, in spite of the story fane had been instructed to tell to the effect that the other was very willing to continue their creditor. moreover, old and feeble as her father was now--broken down and unable any longer to earn bread to put in their mouths, she did not forget that, until the events of the last few unhappy months, he had been an excellent parent to her. for, hardly and roughly, by long days of weary work, the bread had been earned somehow, the roof kept over their heads, the clothes found for their backs. hour after hour, as she remembered, the worn-out old irish gentleman--once the brilliant young military adventurer had stood in the room set apart for the fencing school, giving his lessons to men young enough to be his sons; and also she recalled how every night, it seemed to her, he was more fatigued than before, his back a little more bowed, his weariness greater. and as--even after the marriage had taken place into which she had been hoodwinked--she thought of all this, and of how he had grown older and more feeble in his fight to keep the wolf from the door, she almost brought herself to forgive him entirely for the great wrong he had done her. she sat thinking over all this on the morning after her lord's departure for the country, while opposite to her, toasting his feet in front of the fire, her father sat. the old man was well dressed now; he was comfortable and without care--an astute irish attorney settled in paris had tied the viscount up as tightly as possible in the matter of jointure, settlements and dowry for kitty, not without remonstrance from fordingbridge, which was, however, unavailing; and out of her own money she had provided for her father. and as her eyes rested on him she felt that, badly as he had behaved to her, she was still glad to know that his laborious days were past. at this time kitty was very near to forgiving him altogether; her strong, loving heart remembering so much of all he had done for her in the past, and forgetting almost all of his wrongdoing. "what do your letters say to ye, kitty, this morning?" asked doyle fane, who, after more than forty years' absence from his native land, still retained some of its rich raciness of tone and accent. "ye've a big post there before ye, me child." "very little of any importance," she replied. "the night coach through st. albans brings me a letter from his lordship trusting i shall be happy during his enforced absence. faugh! also there is one by the french packet from kathleen muskerry. her uncle, the priest at marly, is removed to st. roch. lady belrose, whose acquaintance i made a month ago at leicester house, writes desiring me to accompany her to the masquerade at vauxhall." "good, me child, good. and what for not? 'twill do ye good to see some life, to----" "to see some life!" she repeated, "see some life! in the midst of death all around us!" "death!" the old man repeated. "death! faith, i did not know it. what death is there around us?" "father!" she exclaimed, looking at him, "is there not death all around--threatening those whom we love--whom we loved once? do you not know that london is at the present moment full of followers of the unhappy prince, who, if they are caught, must be doomed? do you not know that the tower, newgate, the new gaol over the water in southwark, is crowded with such men, all of whom have soon to stand their trial for high treason--men of whom we have known many, some of whom were your pupils? father, this is no time for masquerades." for a moment the old man gazed at her with solemn eyes, as though endeavouring to penetrate her mind, to discover if behind her words there lay any hidden meaning; then he asked: "are there any--any whom--we know particularly well among these threatened men? you may tell me, kitty. you may trust me--now." "is not father sholto in jeopardy?" she asked, while her eyes also rested on him much as his had dwelt on her. perhaps she, too, was wondering if he guessed to whom, more than all others, her remarks applied. "if he were discovered would he not share the gaol, if not the scaffold? he told us yesterday that there was a newly-made law against any jesuit priests from france who should be found in england."[note b] "are there any--any others?" he almost whispered. but still her clear blue eyes regarded him, and she spoke no word. "well, well," he said a moment after. "perhaps it may be, even after so many years, that i do not deserve your confidence. yet, kitty, i was nigh as much deceived in some things as you were. child," he said, leaning across the table as he spoke, "i swear to you i thought that man who came to us was, in truth, the priest, the _curé_ of moret. how could i know he was a paid creature of larpent's, a vile cheat, instead of the man who, as i supposed, had tied the hands of bertie el----?" "stop," said his daughter, "stop! don't mention that again. let it be done with, forgotten; dead and buried. it is past! over! i--i--am lord fordingbridge's wife." "yet i must ask. i must know. nay, i do know. fordingbridge hinted as much to me ere he set out. kitty," and now his voice sank to a whisper that none but she could have heard, even though in the room, "is he in london?" "yes," she whispered also, softly as a woman's whisper ever is. "yes. he is here. oh, father! for the love of god, betray us--him--no more. for if you do, it will not end this time with broken hearts, but with death." "betray you," he said, "betray you again! why will you not believe me once more? see, kitty, see here," and as he spoke he rose from his chair and stood before her. "i swear to you that i am true in spite--in spite of what i once did, partly in ignorance--unwittingly. i myself loved elphinston and always despised larpent. and i did--honestly, i did--believe that he had married mademoiselle baufremont." "well," she said, "well, he had not. enough of that. and, since you ask me to trust you once again as i trusted you before, i answer you--remember his life, as well as douglas sholto's, are in your hands--he is in london. both are here." "'tis madness," he murmured, "madness. for, kitty, as sure as he is here he will be betrayed. fordingbridge will denounce him." "alas!" she replied, almost wringing her hands, "alas! i fear as much myself. yet father sholto says not--that it is impossible. for, he declares, should harm come to either of them through him, he will cause him also to be denounced. he knows some secret as to fordingbridge's doings that, he says, would bring him to the block for a surety, which secret, if he turns traitor, he will use most remorselessly. and, do what he may, at least he is harmless now. he will be in cheshire for a month. by that time i pray that both the others may be beyond the seas." "have you seen him?" he asked, still in a low voice. he knew that in london at this time walls almost had ears, and that every footman or waiting-maid might be a spy of the government--especially in a house but recently re-opened after many years of disuse, and, consequently, possessing a staff of servants new to their employers and taking neither interest nor sympathy in their affairs. also he knew that, in the garb of servants, many a government agent was carefully watching every action of his or her temporary employers. london especially had but recently recovered from too great a fright to cease as yet to fear for its safety, and saw a bugbear in many harmless strangers now in its midst; the house of a nobleman returned recently from france--the birthplace of the late invasion--and known to be a catholic, would, therefore, be a particularly likely object to be subjected to supervision, quiet yet effectual. "no," she replied; "no, i have not seen him. god forbid i should. and if i did, the only words i could, i think, find heart to utter would be to beseech him to fly at once. oh! father, father, i dread some awful calamity, though i know not in what form or shape it may come." as she spoke, a tap was heard at the door, and, a second afterwards, father sholto entered the room, while so much had her ladyship's fears and tremors overcome her and her father that both exclaimed at once, in the same words, "is all well?" "in so far as i know," he replied, after having exchanged morning greetings with them. "as well as all will ever be. why do you ask? have you reason to dread aught?" "no, no," kitty replied. "still, i know not why, i am strangely uneasy, strangely nervous to-day. some feeling of impending ills seems to hang over me." "yet," said sholto, "if omens are to be supposed to have any power, no such feeling should trouble you to-day. kitty, i bear good news----" "good news!" she exclaimed. "from----" "from an acquaintance of mine--one who is in the office of the scotch secretary of state. nay," he went on, seeing the look of disappointment on her face, and knowing she had expected matter of a different kind, "'tis worth hearing. among the names of those now in london for whom diligent search is being made--the names of those who, if found, are doomed--three do not appear--three in whom we are concerned." "thank god!" exclaimed lady fordingbridge and her father together. "they are----" "our two friends across the river and--and--myself." "therefore you may escape at once?" she asked. "all of you? there is nothing to keep you here in england--the cause is broken, it can never be regained now--you can all depart in peace?" "yes," he said, "we can." but letting his eye fall on fane, he took her a little apart and said: "kitty, we have the chance of getting across the water; at least, we are safe at present. i, you know, can go at any moment; there is nothing to detain me. the glorious work, the accomplishment of which i crossed over to see, will never be done now--i may as well go. but--shall the others go too? it rests with you to say." "with me," she said, looking up at him; "with me? why, how should i prevent them going? oh archibald, if i could see them i would beg them on my knees to go while there is yet time." "one will not leave england without the other; douglas would never go without bertie. and, kitty, elphinston will not go yet." "not yet! why not? what does he tarry for? is it to take vengeance on my husband, to--to----" "to see you." "to see me," she said, clasping her hands convulsively together, while from her soft blue eyes there shone so bright a light that father sholto knew how deeply the love still dwelt in her heart for the poor wanderer and outcast; "to see me. oh! say, does he forgive--has he sent me one word of pardon, of pity?" "ay, child, he forgives, if he has aught to forgive. those are his words. yet, he bids me say, he must see you, speak with you; then--then he will go away for ever. now," sholto went on, "'tis for you to decide. if you see him, there is naught to prevent his going; only--i must tell you, it is my duty as a priest, though you need but little caution from me--remember this man loves you now as much as he ever loved you, and--you are another man's wife." fane had left the room when the others drew apart--perhaps he guessed that sholto had some message for his daughter--so that now they could speak at ease. for a moment lady fordingbridge seemed lost in thought--as though struggling between conflicting desires, the one to see again the man she loved, the other to know that he was safe, a third to remember that, however hateful to her lord fordingbridge was, she was still his wife. then suddenly she said: "you are right. 'tis best we should not meet. yet--yet--you say he will not quit england without our doing so." "i fear not. and time is precious. remember, though the names are not in the list, they may be at any moment. or he, or both of them, may be denounced. many of cumberland's and cope's regiments are back in london; they may be recognised by some against whom they fought, and, if that were the case, their chance of existence would be small. kitty, if you are strong enough, as you should be, 'tis almost best that you should see him. then he can go in peace." "i am strong enough," she replied. "have no fear of me; i have none of myself. yet, how can it be? he cannot come here--i cannot go to him. but oh! to hear from his own lips that he forgave me, that he would think of me sometimes without bitterness." "what answer shall i give him, then?" "does he await one?" "eagerly. if you bade him meet you in george's throne-room he would contrive to be there." "when do you see him again?" she asked. "to-night, after dark." "so be it. to-night you shall bear him a message from me. now, leave me a little while. at dinner we will meet again. then, then, i will ask you to carry a note to him." when she was alone she went to the standish and, taking pens and paper, wrote two notes. the first was easily despatched; it simply told lady belrose she would accompany her and her party to vauxhall on the following night. the next took longer, caused her much deliberation. she pined to see the man whom in her own heart she accused herself of having deceived; yet she dreaded the hour when she should stand face to face with him. alas! how could she look into his eyes--eyes that she feared would look back but sternly upon her--and plead for forgiveness, remembering that, had she but trusted and believed in him, they who now met as strangers would by this time have been man and wife a twelvemonth. yet, it was not only to gratify her own desire to once more touch his hand and hear his voice, even though that voice should reproach her, that she desired to see him. it was also to save him, since he would leave the country, he had said, after they had once met. so, at last, she decided it should be so. she would see him once, would take his pardon from his own lips--sholto had said that he forgave her--and then she would bid him go and consult nothing but his own safety and that of his true and tried friend. she took the pen in her hand again and drew the paper towards her, but, at first, she knew not what to say. in the previous letter she had sent him the words and ideas had come easily enough, for then she was writing a straightforward narrative with, in it, a sad plea for forgiveness. but now it was different. she was making an assignation with a man she had once loved--once!--she was deceiving her husband. "bah!" she said, as this thought rose to her mind. "if 'tis deception let it be so. out of his deceit to me is borne mine to him." whereon once more she pondered a moment on what she should say, and then wrote: "lady fordingbridge will be at the masquerade at vauxhall to-morrow night. may she hope she will hear none but gentle words there?" that was all. chapter vii. "the bird that danced the rigadoon." the rejoicings into which london broke out when, at last, the scottish rebellion was decisively crushed caused ranelagh and vauxhall gardens to be, perhaps, more frequented in the warm spring and summer of than they had ever been previously. indeed, after the fright which had fallen upon the capital when the news came that the highland troops were at derby and within four days' march of london, it was not very astonishing that the inhabitants should, on the removal of that terror, give themselves up to wholesale amusement. six months before, imminent ruin stared them in the face; the bank of england, by that time regarded as being almost as stable an institution as it is now considered, had only escaped closing its doors by the oft-quoted artifice of paying the demands made on it in sixpences. regiments engaged in foreign campaigns--ligonier's horse and hawley's and rich's dragoons--had been hurried home from williamstadt; admiral vernon and commodores boscawen and smith were each at sea with a squadron looking for ships carrying the invaders; while fifty merchantmen, styled "armed cruisers," were patrolling the channels round our shores. also, as an outcome of the panic, the inhabitants of london had purchased for the army about to take the field against the pretender, , pairs of breeches and the same number of pairs of woollen gloves, , shirts, , woollen caps and pairs of stockings, and , pairs of woollen spatterdashes; while, not to be outdone by the other citizens, the managers of the then existing london theatres offered to form the members of their various companies into volunteers attached to the city regiment. but, ere the springtime had come, the invasion was over, the danger past. the young duke of cumberland, fresh from his triumphs in flanders, had not only destroyed the rebel army, but had taken terrible and bloody vengeance upon all who had opposed him.[note c] therefore london--indeed, all england--slept again in safety at night, and with the arrival of summer had plunged with greater fervour than ever into all its usual enjoyments. amongst the enjoyments of the former none were more popular than those of ranelagh and vauxhall gardens, the latter being more generally known and spoken of at that period as the spring gardens. here, on the warm evenings which may brought with it, until the fashionable world departed for its country seats, or for bath, epsom, or tunbridge, went on one continual round of pleasures and festivities--one night a masquerade, another a concert, vocal and instrumental, where, among others, the mysterious tenducci--whose sex was always matter of discussion--sang and warbled, sometimes in a man's voice, sometimes in a woman's; illuminations took place every evening, and, as they died out and the company departed, the nightingales might be heard singing in the neighbouring fields and groves. it was on one of these warm may nights that the wherry which brought lady belrose's party from pimlico fields to the spring gardens arrived at the latter place, while, as the boat touched the shore, from the gardens might already be heard the orchestra playing. in the wherry sat, of course, lady belrose herself, a still young and still good-looking woman, who, being a widow, thought herself entitled to always have in attendance upon her some beau or other, and who, to-night, had brought two, one a young lad from oxford, the other almost as young a man, sir charles ames. by her side sat lady fordingbridge, whose plain evening frock contrasted somewhat strongly with that of her friend, who was arrayed in a gorgeous brocade silk, while one of her cavaliers carried over his arm a green velvet mantle laced with gold, in case the evening turned cold and she should have occasion for it. "i protest," said her ladyship, as stepping ashore she put on her mask, in which she was copied by the others--"i protest the very sound of the fiddles squeaking makes me long for a dance. mr. fane," she said, turning to that gentleman, who formed the last member of the party, "am i to have you for a partner to-night?" fane bowed and responded politely that he only trusted his old age and stiff joints would not prevent him from making himself acceptable, on at least one occasion, to her ladyship; while sir charles ames, turning to kitty, desired to know if she would so far favour him as to give him a dance. but lady belrose, who had already gathered from her friend that she only made one of the party because of a serious and grave interview which she anticipated having with a gentleman whom she might meet at the _fête_, here interposed and, in a few well-chosen words, gave the baronet to understand that to dance was not lady fordingbridge's desire that evening. "she is not well," she said, "and will simply be an onlooker. meanwhile, doubtless i can find you a sufficiency of partners among other friends." to this the young man protested that there was no need for lady belrose to endeavour to find him partners among her friends, since, if she would but condescend to be his partner, he could not possibly desire any other, and so, with these interchanges of politeness, they entered the gardens. on this particular night at vauxhall--the opening masquerade of the season--the fashionable world, as well as those who, though not in that world themselves, loved to gaze on the happier beings who were of it, assembled in large numbers and in a variety of costumes. scaramouches in their black dresses, toques and masks, with rush lances in their hands, mingled with dancing girls clad in the turkish costumes still known in these days as "roxanas," in memory of the infamous woman who had first worn this garb; shepherdesses walked arm-in-arm with men dressed as grave and reverend clergymen; assumed victims of the inquisition, invested in the san benito, pirouetted and twirled with brazen-faced and under-clad iphigenias and phrynes--for the world was none too modest in those days!--mock soldiers, knights and satyrs, harlequins, and men in wizard's garments danced and drank, laughed and shouted with milkmaids, nuns, and joans of arc. and to testify, perhaps, the fact that they had not forgotten the dangers through which the country had recently passed, and also, perhaps, to hurl one last taunt at their crushed and broken foes, many of the maskers had arrayed themselves in the garbs of their late enemies--for some strutted round and round the orchestra pavilion and banqueting room dressed as highlanders or french officers, others as miserable scotch peasants having in their hands flails and reaping hooks. others, again, had even attempted to portray the character of the unhappy charles edward, now in hiding in the scotch wilds, and, as they danced and sang or drank their glasses of ale and ate their twopenny slices of hung-beef, and endeavoured even by their conversation to ape what they imagined to be the scotch dialect. at the same time, outside all this seething, painted, and bedizened crowd were many others of the better classes, such as those who formed lady belrose's party, or visitors of a similar degree, who contented themselves by concealing their identity with masks, vizards, and dominos, or with hoods and laces. in a somewhat retired spot beneath where stood a noble statue of handel, now nearing his last days, executed by roubiliac, and at the back of which were a small wooded green and bosquet in which were many arbours, lady belrose and her friends sat down to watch the kaleidoscopic crowd. here, sir charles ames, summoning a waiter, bade him bring refreshments for the party--viz., some iced fruits and a flask of champagne--and they being partaken of, he invited her ladyship to honour him by becoming his partner in a _quadrille de contredanse_, a new style of dancing introduced into the french ballets a year or so before, and but just come over to london. this the sprightly lady accepted at once, having already perfected herself in the new divertissement under duharnel's tuition; but, on her other cavalier desiring also the honour of lady fordingbridge's hand, kitty refused, on the ground that she knew not the dance, and neither was she very well. "i' faith, kate," said lady belrose, as she shook her sack over her great balloon-shaped hoop and fastened her mask more tightly under her hood, "yet have you lost but little to-night. the quadrille is well enough in our own houses or on our country lawns; here, i protest, the noise, the dust, and the stench of the oil lamps, to say nothing of the unknown and, doubtless, unclean creatures with whom we rub shoulders and touch hands, do not recommend it overmuch. however, lead me to it, sir charles, since you will have it so," and in another moment she, with her partner and the others who formed the sets, were bowing and curtseying to each other. meanwhile mr. wynn, lady belrose's second string, having begged that he might be allowed to find a partner and himself join in a set, since lady fordingbridge was so obdurate (he, too, had been learning the new dance from monsieur duharnel), took himself off, so that kitty and her father were left alone together. and now it was that she, after scanning each male figure that was "more than common tall," began to tremble a little in her limbs and to feel as though she were about to faint. for in that portion of the crowd which was not dancing and which still followed its leaders round and round the orchestra pavilion, thereby illustrating the words of bloomfield, a poet of the period, who wrote: first we traced the gay circle all round, ay--and then we went round it again-- she saw two forms that, she doubted not, were those for whom she looked--partly in eagerness, partly with nervousness. these maskers did not walk side by side, but one behind the other, and, possibly, to ordinary onlookers would not have appeared to have any connection with each other. yet kitty knew very well that, inseparable in almost all else, they were now equally so. the first, who was the tallest, was clad in a costume, perhaps unique that night in the spring gardens, perhaps almost unique among the many costumes that have ever been assumed since first masquerades were invented. it was that of the headsman. arrayed in the garb of that dismal functionary, a rusty black velvet suit, with the breeches and black woollen stockings to match, the masker might yet have failed to inform those who saw him of the character he wished to portray, had it not been for at least one other accessory. on his back, strapped across it, he carried the long, narrow-bladed axe used for decapitation, its handle fringed and tasselled with leathern thongs. yet there were other tokens also of the part he represented. in a girdle round his waistcoat he bore a formidable knife having a blade a foot long and an inch and a half deep--the knife with which the doomsman finished his ghastly task if the axe failed to do its duty, as had too often happened. his mask, too, was not that of the ordinary reveller at such places as this, not a mask made ostensibly to conceal the features, yet, as often as not, revealing them almost as clearly as though it had not been assumed; instead, it was long and full, covering not only the eyes and the bridge of the nose, but also the whole of the upper part of the face, and leaving only visible the lower jaw and the two ends of a thick brown moustache that hung below it. alone by that moustache would kitty have known the wearer, if by no other sign. it had been pressed too often against her own lips for her to forget it! yet, also, would she have known him without it. his companion, the man who followed after him, was not so conspicuous by his appearance. he, indeed, wrapped in a long brown woollen cloak which descended to his shoes and must have been more than warm on such an evening as this, with at his side a scotch claymore, or broadsword, and on his head a scotch bonnet--the mask, of course, being worn--passed among the crowd as an excellent representative of their now despised and fallen enemies. yet, had that crowd known that amongst them stalked in reality one whose prowess had been terribly conspicuous when exhibited against their own soldiers, they might not have gazed as approvingly as they now did on douglas sholto. as kitty regarded these two figures--still trembling and feeling as though she were about to faint--she saw the eyes of the former one fix themselves upon her, and observed him hesitate for a moment ere continuing his course, then, in an instant, he went on again in the stream that continued to revolve round the orchestra pavilion. and she knew that a few moments would bring him again before her. "father," she said, nerving herself to that interview which she so ardently desired, yet which, womanlike, she almost feared now, "the green behind looks cool and inviting, especially now that the sun is gone and the lamps are lit. i will stroll down there awhile and take the air. meanwhile, rest you here--there is some more champagne in the flask--and keep these seats until the others come back. the _contredanse_ will be finished just now." "mind no gallant treats ye rudely, child. the crowd is none too orderly as regards some of its members. ladies alone, and without a cavalier, may be roughly accosted." "have no fear," she said, "i can protect myself. i shall be back ere lady belrose takes part in the next dance," saying which she turned and went down the walk that led between the grassy lawn and the arbours, in each of which now twinkled the many-coloured oil lamps. and, as she so turned, that portion of the maskers in which was the man dressed as the headsman passed by the chair she had just vacated, and she knew that he must have seen her rise and move away. a few moments later she was aware that such was the case. a heavy tread sounded behind her--she had now advanced considerably down the path and had almost reached a rustic copse, in which were two or three small arbours--another instant, and the voice she longed yet feared to hear, the voice that she thought trembled a little as it spoke, addressed her: "is lady fordingbridge not afraid to separate herself from her party thus?" she heard bertie elphinston say--surely his voice quivered as he spoke. "or does pity prompt her to do so; pity for another?" "lady fordingbridge," she replied, knowing that her own voice was not well under control, "has no fear of anyone, unless it be of those whom, all unwittingly, she has injured." then, scarcely knowing what she said, or whether her words were intelligible, and feeling at a loss what else to say, she gazed up at him and exclaimed, "you come to these festivities in a strange garb, sir. surely the executioner's is scarcely a suitable one for a night of rejoicing." "yet suitable to him who wears it. perhaps 'tis best that i who may apprehend----" "oh, mr. elphinston!" she exclaimed suddenly, interrupting him, "it was not to hear such words as these that i came here to-night. you know why i have sought this meeting; have you nought to say to me but this?" "yes," he replied, "yes. but let us not stand here upon the path exposed to the gaze of all the crowd. come, let us enter this arbour. we shall be unobserved there." she followed him into the one by which they were standing, and--for she felt her limbs were trembling beneath her--sank on to a rustic bench. and he, standing above her, went on: "the letter that you sent to me asked that i should pity and forgive you. kate, we meet again, perhaps for the last time on earth; let me say at once, there is nothing for me to forgive. if fault there was, then it was mine. let mine, too, be the blame. i should have told you that elphinston of glenbervy was about to marry mademoiselle baufremont. yet, he had sworn me to silence, had bidden me, upon our distant kinsmanship, to hold my peace, had sought my assistance to enable him to wed the woman whom he loved. how could i disclose his secret even to you? how could i foresee that a scheming devil would turn so small a thing to so great an account?" "but," she said, gazing up at him and noticing--for both had instinctively unmasked at the same time--how worn his face was, how, alas! in his brown hair there ran grey threads though he was still so young; "but why, to all those letters i sent, was no answer vouchsafed? i thought from one or from the other some reply must surely come. have you forgotten how, for many years now, we four--douglas and archibald, you and i--had all been as brothers and sister--until--until," she broke off, and then continued: "how we had vowed that between us all there should be a link and bond of friendship that should be incessable?" "i have forgotten nothing," he replied, "nothing. no word that was ever spoken between us, no vow, nor promise ever made." again the soft blue eyes were turned to him, imploringly it seemed; begging by their glance that he should spare her. and, ceasing to speak of his remembrance of the past, he continued: "circumstances, strange though they were, prevented any one of us from receiving your letters--or from answering them in time. i was lying ill of roman fever at the english college; archibald sholto was in tuscany in the train of charles edward, cardinal aquaviva having provided their passports; douglas was with de roquefeuille, and received your letter only on his return to paris, where it had been sent back to him. kate, in that stirring time, when the prince was passing from rome to picardy, was it strange no answer should come?" "no, no," she replied. "no," and as she spoke she clasped both of her hands in her lap, and bent her head to hide her tears. then she muttered, yet not so low but that he could hear her: "had i but waited! but trusted!" "it would have been best," he said very gently. and as he spoke, as though in mockery of their sad hearts, many of the maskers went by laughing and jesting, and the quadrille being finished the band was playing the merry old tune of "the bird that danced the rigadoon." "you hear the air?" she said, looking up suddenly again. "you hear? oh! my heart will break." "yes," he answered, "i hear." chapter viii. "fortune! an unrelenting foe to love." that song in the old days in the rue trousse-vache had been the air which bertie elphinston had whistled many a time to kate to let her know that he was about to enter the "_salle d'escrime_," or to make her look out of the window and see the flowers he had brought her from his mother's garden in the suburbs. also, on a sunday morning early, he had often stood beneath the window of her room and had piped the "rigadoon" to remind her that it was time for them to be away for their day's outing. for in those happy times--alas! but a year ago--these two fond, happy lovers had spent every sabbath together and alone. arm in arm the whole day; or, when the soft summer nights fell over the bois de boulogne, or the woods of st. germain or the forest of fontainebleau, his arm round her waist and her soft fair head upon his shoulder, they had wandered together, taking a light meal here and there at any roadside _auberge_ they happened on, and then both going back to supper, at her father's little house, where, as they had done all day, they talked of the future that was before them. and now the future had come and they were parted for ever! no wonder that the old french song which had found its way to england grated harshly on their ears. "thank god, 'tis finished," he said, as the orchestra struck up a dance tune next. "for us, to our hearts, it awakens memories best left to slumber for ever." then sitting down by her side on the rustic bench, he continued: "kate, you wrote in your letter to me," and he touched his breast involuntarily as he spoke, so that she knew he bore it about him, "that there was private treachery to be feared. is it to be feared from him?" "alas!" she whispered, "i almost dread 'tis so. he is not satisfied yet; he----" "he should be! he has all i wanted." "to injure you," she continued, "would be, as he knows, the best way to strike at me." "to strike at you?" "yes, to repay me for my scorn and contempt--my hate of him." "you hate him!" he exclaimed. "from the depths of my heart. how can it be otherwise? his treachery--when i learnt it--made me despise him; his conduct since has turned my contempt to hatred. oh," she exclaimed, "it is awful, terrible for a woman to hate her husband! yet what cause have i to do aught else? when he speaks--though i have long since ceased to reply to anything he says--his words are nothing but sneers and scorn; sometimes of you, sometimes of me. and he gloats over having separated us, of having taken your place, while at the same time he is so bitter against me that, if he dared, i believe he would kill me. moreover, he fears your vengeance. that is another reason why, if he could betray you to the government, he would." "'tis by betrayal alone that we can be injured," bertie said, thoughtfully. "none of our names are known, nor in the proscribed list. yet how can he do it? he it was who planned the attack upon the fubbs[ ] to be made when the elector crossed from holland; he who disseminated the tracts, nay, had them printed, counselling his taking off. he was worse than any--no honest jacobite ever stooped to assassination!--and many of us know it." "be sure," she replied, "that what he could do would be done in secret; bert--mr. elphinston, who is that man who has passed the arbour twice or more, and looks always so fixedly at you?" "i know not," he replied, "yet he has been ever near douglas and me--he and another man--since we entered the gardens. perhaps a government spy. well, he can know nought of me." the man she had mentioned was a tall, stoutly-built individual, plainly enough clad in an old rusty black suit of broadcloth, patched black stockings and thick-soled shoes with rusty iron buckles upon them, and bore at his side a stout hanger. he might be a spy, it was true, but he might also have been anything else, a low follower of the worst creatures who infested the gardens, a gambling-hell tout, or a bagnio pimp. yet his glance from under his vizard was keen and penetrating as it was fixed on them, but especially on elphinston, each time he passed the summer house wherein they sat. but now their conversation, which to both seemed all too short and to have left so much unsaid, was interrupted by the advent of douglas sholto, who came swiftly down the shell-strewn path, and, seeing them in the arbour, paused and entered at once. "kitty," he said, grasping her hand, "this is not the greeting i had intended to give you, though it's good to look upon your bonnie face again. but, bertie, listen. we are watched, followed, perhaps known; indeed, i am sure of it. one of those fellows who have kept near to us, and whom we saw at wandsworth as we set forth--i see the other down the path--spoke but now to three soldiers of the coldstreams. perhaps 'twas to identify us; you remember the first battalion at culloden," he added grimly; "perhaps to call on them for help. bertie, we must be away at once." "'tis as i suspected," said lady fordingbridge, now pale as ashes and trembling from head to foot. "my words have too soon come true. how, how has he done it?" "farewell, kate," said bertie elphinston, "we must, indeed, hasten if this is true. yet first let me take you to your father and friends. then," with a firm set look on his face, he said, "douglas and i must see our way through this, if 'tis as he suspects. come, kate." "no, no," she said, imploringly. "wait not to think of me. begone while there is yet time. lose no moment. farewell, farewell. we may meet again yet." but ere another word could be said a fresh interruption occurred. from either end of the path that ran between the arbour and the lawn, both spies--for such they soon proclaimed themselves--advanced to where the others were; the first, the one of whom kate had spoken, coming back from the end by the bosquet, the other from the platform where the orchestra and dancing were. and in the deepening twilight, for it was now almost dark, the three soldiers of the coldstreams came too, followed by two others belonging to the "old buffs," a regiment also just brought back to london after falkirk and culloden. and behind these followed a small knot of visitors to the gardens who had gleaned that there was something unusual taking place, or about to do so. "your names," said the first man, who had kept watch over the movements of elphinston, as he came close to the two comrades, while his own companion and the soldiers also drew very near, "are, if i mistake riot, bertie elphinston and douglas sholto. is that the case?" "my friend," said the former, "i would bid you have a care how you ask persons unknown to you, and to whom you are unknown, what their names are. it is a somewhat perilous proceeding to take liberties with strangers thus." "you are not persons unknown to me. i can give a full description of your actions during the last year, which would cause you to be torn limb from limb by the people in this garden. as it is, i require you to go with us to the nearest magistrate, where i shall swear an information against you, and----" "by what process," asked douglas sholto, "do you propose to carry out your requirements? by your own efforts, perhaps?" "by our own efforts, aided by those of five soldiers here, of several others now in the spring gardens, and by the general company herein assembled, if necessary. but come, sirs, we trifle time away. will you come, or won't you?" for answer douglas sholto dealt the man such a blow with his fist that he fell back shrieking that his jaw was broken; while his comrade, calling on the soldiers for aid in the name of the king against rebels who had fought at culloden, hurled himself on elphinston, with his sword drawn and in his hand. but the latter, drawing from his back the long lean-bladed axe, presented so formidable an appearance, that the other shrank back appalled, though he called on the soldiers still for assistance. "beware," said elphinston, as he ranged himself by the side of his friend, "beware! we are not men to be played with, and, as sure as there's a heaven above, if any of you come within swing of my arm, i'll lop your heads off!" "the hound fought at culloden; i saw him there," said one of the coldstreams. "by heavens, i'll attempt it on him if he had fifty axes," and so saying he sprang full at the young scotchman. as he came, the latter might have cleft his head open from scalp to chin, but he was a soldier himself; and the other had not drawn the short sword he wore at his side ere he flew at him. therefore, he only seized him by the throat as he would have seized a mad bull-dog that attacked him, and in a minute had hurled the fellow back among the others. but now all the soldiers as well as the two police agents had had time to draw their weapons, and seven gleaming blades were presented at the breasts of the two young men when a timely assistance arrived. sir charles ames burst through the crowd on the outskirts of the antagonists, his own bright court rapier flashing in the air, and following him came mr. wynn and doyle fane, also with their weapons drawn. "for shame! for shame!" said sir charles. "five great hulking soldiers and two others against two men. put up your weapons, or we'll make you." "put up your own," said one of the old buffs; "they are rebels. curse them! we have met before," and as he spoke he lunged full at the breast of elphinston. "hoot!" said fane, the spirit of the old swordsman, the old irishman, aroused at this, "if it's for tilting, my boys, come along. it's a pretty dance i'll teach ye. there, now, look to that." and with the easiest twist of his wrist he parried the soldier's thrust at elphinston, with another he had slit the sleeve of the man's uniform to the elbow, while a thin line of blood ran quickly out from his arm. "my word," he continued, "i've always said the worst hands in the world with a sword were soldiers--of these present days. your mother's broom handles would suit ye better," whereon he turned his point towards another. meanwhile sir charles ames had placed himself by bertie and douglas, and had already exchanged several passes with the others, when, stepping back a moment into the arbour, he saw to his intense astonishment the figure of kitty, she being in a swoon, and consequently unconscious. "lady fordingbridge," he murmured, "lady fordingbridge. so, so! a little assignation with our rebel friends. humph! i'd scarce have thought it of her. however, 'tis no affair of mine, and as she's molly belrose's friend, why, i must be the same to her friends." whereon he again took his place alongside the two jacobites and assisted at keeping the others at bay. but the crowd still augmented in their neighbourhood, and while the soldiers--all of whom had of late fought in flanders as well as scotland, and were as fierce as their chief, cumberland--were pressing the others hardly, some of the livelier masqueraders began to feel disposed to assist one side or another. therefore, 'twas almost a riot that now prevailed in the spring gardens; and as among the company there were numerous other jacobites, who, although they had probably not been out with charles stuart, were very keen in their sympathies with his cause, they took the opportunity of joining the fracas on their own account and of breaking the heads of several hanoverian supporters. and also, gathering that the scene arose from the attempted apprehension of two of their own leaning, they gradually directed their way towards the arbour where the affray had begun--summarily knocking down or tripping up all who opposed them, so that the next morning many shopboys, city clerks, and respectable city puts themselves appeared at their places of business with broken crowns, bruised faces, and black eyes. at present nothing serious had occurred beyond a few surface wounds given on either side; the soldiers and police agents were no match for the five skilful swordsmen to whom they were opposed, and the latter refrained from shedding the blood of men beneath them. "yet," said sir charles ames to mr. wynn, while he wiped his face with his lace-embroidered handkerchief, "if the canaille do not desist soon i must pink one for the sake of my gentility. wynn, where is lady belrose during this pleasing interlude?" "safe in the supper room," replied the young beau. "she is very well. i saw to that. ames, who are these stalwart highlanders whose cause we espouse?" "the devil himself only knows," replied the worldly exquisite. "ha! would you?" to one of the coldstreams as he tried a pass at him. "go home, my man, go home. i know your colonel; you shall be whipped for this. yet," he whispered to his friend, "i do think these knocks are _pour les beaux yeux de madame_. what's that shout?" "the constables, i imagine." "the more the merrier! ha! wynn, we are borne along the path. the deuce take it, we have lost the shelter of the arbour!" "for heaven's sake," whispered elphinston to the baronet, "as i see you are a gentleman, go back and look to lady fordingbridge. i cannot see her after to-night--sir, on your honour, tell her 'all is well.' she will understand." "on my honour, i will," the baronet replied. "london will be too hot for you--perhaps for me, too. i do fear i'm a little of a stuart myself; but listen, my aunt, lady ames, lives at kensington, by the gravel pits; direct a letter to--to the fair one, under cover to my respected relative, and she shall get it. oh, no thanks, i beg; i have my own _affaires de c[oe]ur_. i know, i know----" and now the _mêlée_ became more general, and gradually the partisans of both sides were borne asunder, two only keeping together, bertie and douglas. "where is fane?" whispered the former. "with kate. i saw him in the bower with her. heaven grant----" he was interrupted by a man who at this moment ranged himself alongside them both, and who muttered, "follow me, through the copse here. there is an exit by which you can escape from the gardens. back yourselves to the copse as easily as you can, then watch my movements." "to leave her thus is impossible!" exclaimed elphinston. "i cannot." "tush, nonsense!" replied sholto, "her father is with her and our dandy friends by now. come, come, we can do better for her and all of us by escaping than by being taken." "but fane; they will arrest him." "if they do he has his answer. he was protecting his daughter. and her position will assure his. come, bertie, come. once outside, we can seek new lodgings in another part of the town; put on new disguises. come." all the time this colloquy had taken place they had still been struggling with others, though by now the affray had lost the sanguinary character it once threatened to possess. the soldiers and the agents were separated from them by a mass of people, among whom were many of their sympathisers; but none were using deadly weapons, rather preferring buffeting and hustling than aught else. so that, as the tall man entered another summer house and, dragging sholto and elphinston after him, shut a door which guarded its entrance, the thing was done so quickly that the two originals of the disturbance had disappeared in the darkness ere they were missed. "this," said the man, "is a private entrance and exit, reserved for some very high and mighty personages whom i need not mention. they are good patrons of ours--i am the proprietor's, mr. jonathan tyers, chief subordinate. also a scotchman like yourselves, or by now you would probably have been taken. hark to them!" the people were howling outside, "down with the rebels!" "find the culloden dogs and cut them to pieces!" etc., the soldiers' voices being heard the loudest of all, while in response many shouted, "charlie stuart for aye!" and some bolder spirits shrieked a then well-known song, "the restoration," which had been originally composed in honour of the return of charles ii. "come," said the tall man, "come, your safety is here." wherewith he opened another door in the back of the arbour and showed them a quiet leafy lane which was entirely deserted. "there," he continued, "is your way. follow the grove in this direction, and 'twill bring you to kennington," and he pointed south; "the other leads to the river. fare ye well, and if you are both wise, quit london as soon as you have changed your garments. for myself i must go round to the front entrance; if i go back through the gardens i may be called to account by the mob for your escape." upon which, and not waiting for his countrymen's thanks, he took himself off quickly. "which way now, bertie?" asked douglas. "wandsworth is done with. where to?" "to kensington. i, at least, must watch the square to see if kate gets safe back to her home." "then we go together. only, what of these accursed clothes? we must make shift to get rid of them." chapter ix. denounced. to put the river between them and their late antagonists and would-be captors naturally occurred to the young men as their wisest plan, although as, urged by douglas, the other strode towards it, he more than once reproached himself for coming away and leaving lady fordingbridge behind. nor could any words uttered by his friend persuade him to regard his departure as anything else than pusillanimous. "she went there to meet me; to see me once again," he repeated, "and i have left her to heaven knows what peril. these men know me--know us--well enough for what we are. 'tis not difficult to guess whence comes their knowledge! they may accuse her of being a rebel, too. oh! kate, kate! what will be the end of it all; what the finish of our wrecked and ruined lives?" "no harm can come to her, i tell you," replied his comrade. "why, man, heart up! has not the fox, fordingbridge, made his peace with george; how shall they arrest his wife or her father as rebels? tush! 'tis not to be thought on. come, fling away as much of this disguise as possible. we near the end of the lane, and i can hear the shouts of the watermen to their fares; and still we must go a mile or two higher up and take boat ourselves." as he spoke he discarded his own woollen cloak, and tossed it over a high fence into the grounds of a country house by which they were now passing, while, slowly enough, for his heart was sore within him, bertie imitated his actions. the axe (which, like the principal part of his dress, had been hired from a costumer or fashioner--a class of tradesmen more common even in those days than these, since fancy dresses were greatly in demand for the masques, _ridottos al fresco_, and fancy dress balls which took place so frequently) had been lost in the latter part of the riot, and now he discarded also the peculiar mask he had worn, producing from his pocket the ordinary vizard used at such entertainments, and which the forethought of douglas had induced him to bring. for the rest, his clothes would attract no attention. they were suitable either to a man whose circumstances did not permit of his wearing velvet, silk, or fine broadcloth, or to one who had assumed the simple disguise of a superior workingman. the headsman's knife, however, he did not discard, but slipped up his sleeve, and douglas retained his sword. and now they drew near to the end of the lane, when, to their satisfaction, they perceived an alley running out of it and parallel to the course of the river, as they supposed, by the aid of which they might be enabled to follow its course for some distance without coming out on to the bank where, at this moment, there would be many persons from the garden taking boat to the other side. "fortune favours us up to now," exclaimed sholto to his moody companion, as they turned into this smaller lane; "heaven grant it may continue to do so!" then, changing the subject, he said, "bertie, lad, who do you think set those bloodhounds on us? 'twas some one who knew of our hiding-hole. as we remarked, we were followed from wandsworth." "who!" said elphinston, stopping to look in his friend's face and peering at him under the light of the stars, "who, but one? the man whom i have to kill; whom i am ordained to kill sooner or later." "you will kill him?" the other asked, stopping also. "as a dog, when next i see him--or, no, not as a dog, for that is a creature faithful and true, and cannot conceive treachery--but as some poisonous, devilish thing, adder or snake, that stings us to the death when least we expect the blow. why," he asked, pausing, "do you shudder?" "i know not," replied douglas; "yet i have done so more than once when his name has been mentioned. i know not why," he repeated, "unless i am fey." "fey! fey!" echoed elphinston. "let him be fey! he should be! it is predestined; his fate at my hands is near. he cannot avoid it." as they ceased speaking they continued on their way until, at last, the lane opened on to a dreary waste of fields and marshes which stretched towards the very places which they most desired to avoid, battersea and wandsworth; while opposite to them, on the other side of the river, were the equally dreary marshes known as tothill and pimlico fields. "i' faith," said douglas, as his eye roamed over all this extent of barrenness, which was more apparent than it would otherwise have been owing to the late rising of the moon, now near its full, "i' faith, we're atwixt the devil and the deep sea--or, so to speak, the river. how are we to cross; or shall we go back and over the bridge at westminster?" "nay," replied bertie; "as we came down the lane i saw a house to the right of us; doubtless 'tis to that the lane belongs. now, 'tis certain there must be boats somewhere. let us down to the shore and see. hark! there is the clock of chelsea church striking. the west wind brings the sound across the marshes. ha! 'tis eleven of the clock. come, let us waste no time." they turned therefore down to the river's bank, walking as quietly as possible so that their feet should make no more noise than necessary on the stones and shingle, for it was now low tide; and then, to their great joy, they saw drawn up by the water's edge a small wherry in which sat a man, and by his side he had a lantern that glimmered brightly in the night. "friend," said elphinston, "we have missed our way after leaving the spring gardens; can you put across the river? we will pay you for your trouble." the fellow looked at them civilly enough, then he said, "yes, so that you waste no time. i have business here which i may not leave for more than a quarter of an hour. wilt give me a crown to ferry you across?" "the price is somewhat high," said douglas. "yet, since we would not sleep in these marshes all night, nor retrace our steps to westminster bridge, we'll do it." "in with you, then," replied the man, "yet, first give me the crown; i have been deceived by dissolute maskers ere now." then, when he had received the money, he said he supposed ranelagh or the new chelsea waterworks[ ] would do very well. "aye," said douglas, "they will do," whereupon, having taken their seats, the man briskly ferried them across. yet, as they traversed the river, the fear sprang into their hearts that they had been tracked from vauxhall, that even yet they were not safe from pursuit. for scarcely were they half way across the stream when the man's lantern, which he had left on the bank--perhaps as a signal--was violently waved about in the air by some hand, while a couple of torches were also seen flickering near it and voices were heard calling to him. "ay! ay!" the man bellowed back; "ay! ay! what! may i not earn a crown while you do your dirty work? in good time. in good time," he roared still louder, in response to further calls from the bank, while he pulled more lustily than before towards the north shore. "what is it?" asked elphinston. "who are they who seem so impatient for your services?" "a pack of fools," the man replied. "young sprigs of fashion who have been quarrelling there," nodding towards ranelagh gardens, to which they were now close, "quarrelling over their wine and their women, i do guess, and two of them have crossed over to measure the length of their swords. well, well; if one's left on the grass i'll be there pretty soon to see what pickings there are in his pockets. 'tis the fools that provide the wise men's feasts," whereon this philosopher pulled his boat to the bank, set the young men ashore, and, a moment later, was quickly pulling away back to the duelling party. ranelagh itself was shut up as they stepped ashore, all its lights were out and the hackney coachmen and chairmen gone with their last fares; and of that night's entertainment--which was sure to have been a great one in rivalry to its neighbour and opponent at vauxhall--nothing was left but the shouting figures of those on the other bank, and, perhaps, a dead man on the grass of the marshes, with a sword-thrust through his lungs and his wide-staring eyes gazing up at the moon. it seemed, therefore, that they must walk to kensington, since no conveyance was to be found here. "not that the distance is much," said bertie elphinston, who had before now walked at nights from wandsworth and chelsea to the square, simply to gaze on the house that enshrined the woman he had loved so much; perhaps also to see the place where the man dwelt whom he meant to kill when the opportunity should arise--"but 'tis the hour that grows so late. if they have gone home at once from the gardens without being disturbed by any of the police agents, she must be housed by now--and--and--i cannot see her again." "at least you can wait. if not to-day, then to-morrow you can meet, surely. all trace of us is lost now, we shall never go back to wandsworth--we must send the landlady our debt by some sure hand--a change of clothes and hiding place will put us in safety again. and as for messages, why, archibald will convey them." "archibald!" exclaimed the other with a start. "archibald! heavens! we had forgotten!--what have we been thinking of? he may be taken too." "taken! archibald taken! oh, bertie, why should that be?" "why should it be! rather ask, why should it not be? do you think that tiger's whelp who has set the law on us will spare him? no, simeon larpent means to make a clean sweep of all at once; his wife's old lover, that lover's friend, and the priest who knows so much of his early life and all his secrets, plots and intrigues against first one and then the other, jacobite and hanoverian alike. i tell you, archibald is in as great a danger as we are!" and he strode on determinately as he spoke. their way lay now towards knightsbridge by a fair, broad road through the fields, and between some isolated houses and villas that were dotted about; and as by this time the moon was well up, everything they passed could be seen distinctly. of people, they met or passed scarcely any; the road that, an hour or so before, had been covered with revellers of all degrees wending their way back from ranelagh to the suburbs of chelsea, kensington, and knightsbridge, or to what had, even in those days, been already called "the great city," was now, with midnight at hand, as deserted as a country lane. yet one sign they did see of the debaucheries that took place in ranelagh as well as in the spring gardens; a sign of the drunkenness and depravities that prevailed terribly in those days among almost all classes. lying at the side of the road, where, doubtless, they had fallen together as they reeled away from the night's orgie, they perceived two young men and a young woman--masked, and presenting a weird appearance as they lay on their backs, their flushed faces turned up to the moon, yet with the upper part hidden by the black vizard. it was easy to perceive that all had fallen together and been afterwards unable to rise--as they lay side by side they were still arm in arm, and, doubtless, the first who had fallen had dragged the others after him. the two young men seemed from their apparel to be of a respectable class, perhaps clerks or scriveners, their clothes being of good cloth, though not at all belaced; as for their companion, the bacchante by their sides, she might have been anything from shopgirl or boothdancer down to demirep. "now," said douglas, "here is our chance for disguise. these fellows have good enough coats and hats--see, too, they sport the black cockade. well, 'twill not hurt them to sell us some apparel." wherewith he proceeded to lift the nearest sot up and relieve him of his coat, waistcoat, and hat. apparently the fellow thought he was being put to bed by some one, as he muttered indistinctly, "hang coat over chair--shan't wear it 'gain till sunday"--but as douglas slipped a couple of guineas into his breeches pocket he went to sleep peacefully enough once more. as for the other young man, he never stirred at all while bertie removed his garments, nor when he put into his pocket a similar sum of two guineas, and also his copper-cased watch, which had slipped from out his fob. "they are somewhat tight and pinching," remarked douglas as he and his friend donned their new disguise, "even though we are now as lean as rats after our scotch campaign." yet, tight as their new clothes were, they answered, at least, a good purpose. it would have taken a shrewd eye to recognise in these two respectably clad men--in spite of their coats being somewhat dusty from having lain in the road while on the backs of their late masters, the headsman and the highlander who, a few hours before, had walked round and round the orchestra pavilion at vauxhall. after this they went forward briskly towards kensington-square, attracting no attention from anyone indeed meeting few people, for at this distance from the heart of the town there was scarcely anyone ever stirring after midnight, and it was somewhat past that time now. as they neared kensington, it is true, they were passed by a troop of the queen's guards (as the nd life guards were then called) returning, probably, from some duty at st. james's palace, but otherwise they encountered none whom they need consider hostile to them. in the square there was, when they reached it at last, no sign of life. the watchman in his box slumbered peacefully, his dog at his feet, and in the windows of the houses scarcely a light was to be seen. nor was there any appearance of activity in the house belonging to fordingbridge, though bertie thought he should have at least seen some light in the room which he knew, from enquiry of sholto, to be kate's. "'tis strange," he said, "strange. surely they must have returned from the masquerade by now. after crossing the water a coach would have brought them here in less than an hour. 'tis passing strange!" "they may have got back so early," hazarded douglas, "that already all are abed. or they may have gone on to lady belrose's, in hanover-square. a hundred things may have happened. and where, i wonder, is archie? he surely will be in bed." "can he be arrested? it may be so." "god forbid! yet this darkness and silence seem to me ominous. what shall we do?" "heaven knows. hist! who comes here?" and as he spoke, from out of one of the doorways over which was, as may still be seen, a huge scallop-shell, there stepped forth a man. enveloped in one of the long cloaks, or roquelaures, still worn at the period, and with the tip of a sword's scabbard sticking out beneath it, the man sauntered leisurely away from where they were standing, yet as he went they could hear him humming to himself an air they both knew well. it was that old tune "the restoration"--which they had heard once before this evening!--to which the highland army marched after it had crossed the border. presently the man turned and came towards them slowly, then as he passed by he looked straight in their faces, and, seeming satisfied by what he saw, he muttered, "a fine spring night, gentlemen. ay, and so it is. a fine night for the young lambs outside the town and for the hawks within--though the hawks get not always their beaks into the lambs too easily; in fact, i may give myself classical license and say they are _non semper triumphans_." "in very truth," replied bertie, "some--though 'tis not always the hawks--are _nunquam triumphans_. that is, if i apprehend your meaning." "ay, sir," said the man, dropping his classics and changing his manner instantly. "you apprehend me very well. sir, i am here with a message for you from a certain scotch trader, one mr. archibald; also from a certain fair lady----" "ah!" "or rather, let me say, without beating about the bush, i brought to a certain fair lady, to-night, a message from mr. archibald, while she, considering it possible that a certain, or two certain brave gentlemen might appear in this square to-night, did beg me to remain in this sad square to deliver the message." "sir," said elphinston, teased by the man's quaint phraseology, yet anxious to know what the message really was that had been sent from father sholto to kate, and on from her to him, "sir, we thank you very much. will you now please to deliver to us that message?" "sir, i will. it is for that i am here." then without more ado he said hastily, "the worthy trader has been warned from a friend, a countryman of ours, who is connected, or attached, so to speak, to the scotch secretary of state's orifice, that he may very possibly be cast into durance should he remain there," and he jerked his thumb at lord fordingbridge's house as he spoke; "whereon, seeing that precaution is the better part of valour, the worthy trader has removed himself from the hospitable roof there," upon which he this time jerked his head instead of his thumb towards the house, "and has sought another shelter which, so to speak as it were, is not in this part of the town, but more removed. but, being a man of foresight and precaution, also hath he gone to warn two gallant gentlemen residing at a sweet and secluded village on the river to be careful to themselves remove----" "that," said douglas, "we have already done. yet his warning must have got there too late." "and," continued their garrulous and perspicacious friend, "also did he request and desire me to attend here in the square until a certain fair lady should return from the gallimanteries and _ridottos al fresco_ to which she had that evening been." "and did the certain fair lady return?" asked elphinston, unable to repress a smile at his stilted verbiage. "return she did. in gay company! two sparks with her, dressed in the best, though somewhat dishevelled as though with profane dancings and junketings--one had his coat ripped from lapel to skirt--and an elderly man--i fear me also a wassailer!--with a fierce eye. then i up and delivered the worthy--hem!--trader's message, when, lo! as flame to torch-wood, there burst forth from all a tremendous clamjamfry such as might have been heard up there," and this time he jerked his head towards where kensington palace lay. "as how?" asked the young men together. "why should they make a clamjamfry?" "hech!" answered their eccentric countryman, "'tis very plain ye ken not women--nor, for that matter, the young sparks of london! this is how it went. one certain fair lady--from whom i bring you a wee bit message--wrung her hands and wept, saying, 'betrayed, betrayed again! the veellain! the veellain!' whereby i think she meant not you; the other fair lady, who is maybe an hour or so older, stormed and scolded and screeched about unutterable scoundrels, yet bade the other cease weeping and seek her house, to which she was very welcome; while the two young men uttered words more befitting their braw though unholy dishevelled apparel, and spake of him," and here the nodding head was wagged over to fordingbridge's house again, "as though he were lucifer incarnate--though that was not the name, so to speak as it were. and for the old man with the fierce eye, hech! mon, his language was unbefitting a christian." "and the message the lady scrawled. what is it?" "'tis here," the other replied. "you must just excuse the hasty writing--" but ere he could finish his remark bertie had taken a piece of paper from his hand which he brought out from under his cloak, and, striding to where an oil lamp glimmered over a doorway, read what it contained. the few lines ran as follows: "we are once more betrayed. he has, i know, done this. i leave his house and him for ever from to-night. i pray god you may yet escape. if you ever loved me, fly--fly at once. lose no moment.--katherine." chapter x. how my lord returned home. it was on a bright afternoon, a week after the events which have been described, that lord fordingbridge's travelling carriage drew up in front of his house, and my lord descended in an extremely bad humour. there was, perhaps, more than one reason why he was not in the most amiable of tempers, the principal one being that the news which he had hoped to receive ere he again made his entrance into london had not come to hand. all the time that he had been on his cheshire property--which he had found to be considerably neglected since his father's departure for france--he had been expecting to receive, from one source or another, the information of the arrest of those three enemies of his, about whom he had given information sufficient to bring them to justice. yet none had come. daily he had sent to the coach office at chester for the journals from london, but, when he had perused them, he still failed to find that any of the three had been haled to justice. nor was there even a description in any of them of the scene at vauxhall--which, had he found such description, might have been exceedingly pleasant reading. but, in truth, nothing was more unlikely than that he should find it. a fracas at either ranelagh or the spring gardens was by no means likely to be chronicled in either the "london journal" or the "craftsman," or any other news-sheet of the period, since in those days the ubiquitous reporter was unknown, or, when he existed, did not consider anything beneath a murder, a state trial, or an execution worthy of his pen. also the proprietors of ranelagh and vauxhall, and similar places of entertainment, took very good care to keep anything unpleasant that happened out of the papers. nothing short, therefore, of mr. jonathan tyers sending an account of what had occurred in his grounds to the papers of the day with the request that it might be inserted--accompanied, perhaps, by a payment for such insertion--would have led to the publication of the matter, and that the worthy proprietor of the spring gardens would do such a thing as this was not to be supposed. also, my lord had received no news from his wife, nor her father, which astonished him considerably. for he had supposed that, in about a week's time, the post would bring him a letter full of accusations, reproaches, and injurious epithets from her ladyship, who, he felt sure, would at once connect him with the arrest of the three men--yet, no more from her than from the public prints did he gather one word. so that at last he began to have the worst fears that, after all, the government had bungled in some way and that the victims had escaped. it was, therefore, in a very ill humour that he again returned to london, cursing inwardly and vehemently at any delay necessitated by the changing of horses, by nights spent at inns on the road, and by the heavy roads themselves; and at st. albans, where he once more slept, by receiving no visit at all from captain morris, to whom he had written saying that he would be there on a certain evening and would be pleased to see him. instead, however, he received a visit from another person who had troubled his mind a great deal during the past week or so; a somewhat rough, uncouth-looking fellow, who seemed to have dogged his footsteps perpetually--who had passed him soon after he left dunstable on his journey down, whom he saw again at coventry and at stafford, and who, to his amazement, now strode into the apartment he occupied as hitherto, and stated that he brought a message from the captain. "hand it to me, then," said his lordship, regarding the man as he stood before him in his rough riding cloak and great boots, and recognising him as the fellow who had appeared so often on his journey. "there is nothing to hand," the other replied. "only a word-of-mouth message." "a word-of-mouth message! indeed! captain morris spares me but scant courtesy. well, what is the message?" "only this. the work has failed, and the birds have escaped from the net. that's all." "escaped from the net!" his lordship said, sinking back into the deep chair he sat in, and staring at the uncouth messenger. "escaped from the net! but the particulars, man, the particulars! how has it come about? are the government and their underlings a pack of fools and idiots that they let malignant traitors escape thus?" "very like, for all i know, or, for the matter of that, care. the captain's one of their underlings, as you call them, and i'm another. perhaps we're fools and idiots." "you are another, are you?" said his lordship, looking at him, "another, eh? pray, sir, is that why you have dogged me into cheshire and back again as you have done, for i have seen you often? am i a suspected person that i am followed about thus? am i, sir?" "very like," again replied this stolid individual. "very like, though i know not. i received my orders at dunstable to keep you in sight, and i kept you, that's----" "leave the room. go out of my sight at once!" exclaimed lord fordingbridge, springing from his seat and advancing toward the man. "go at once, or the ostler shall be sent for to throw you out. go!" when the man had departed, muttering that "fool, or idiot, or both, he'd done his duty, and he didn't care for any nobleman in england, jacobite or hanoverian, so long as he done that," the viscount gave himself up to the indulgence of one of those fits, or rather tempests, of passion, which, as a rule, he rarely allowed himself to indulge in, and cursed and swore heartily as he stamped up and down the room for half an hour. "everything goes wrong with me," he muttered, as he shook his fist in impotent rage at his own reflection in the great mirrors over the fireplace, "everything, everything! if that infernal captain had only gone to work as he should have done on the information i gave him, they would all have been lodged in gaol by now--two of them doomed to a certain death and the other to a long imprisonment or banishment to the colonies. and now they are fled--are free--safe, while i am far from safe since elphinston is at large; and am suspected, too, it seems, since, forsooth, that chuckle-headed boor is set to follow me." this latter thought was, perhaps, as unpleasant a one as any which rose to his mind, since if he were also suspected it might be the case that, while he had denounced the others, they--or probably archibald sholto alone--might have denounced him. and at this terrible thought he quaked with fear, for he knew what an array of charges might be brought. nay, it was the very fear of those charges being brought, combined with his other fear of elphinston wreaking vengeance on him for having deceived and stolen his promised wife, that had led to his betraying the three men who alone could denounce him. and now they were all free, instead of being in newgate or the tower, and he, it seemed, was as much suspected as they! he tossed about his bed all night, made a wretched breakfast, and then set out for london, determined at all hazards to discover exactly what had happened, or perhaps to find out that nothing had happened. yet as he went he mused on what his future course should be, and came to at least one determination. "i will send her ladyship packing," he said, with a sardonic grin. "i have had enough of her and her airs and graces, and she may go to elphinston or to the devil for aught i care. i have a surprise to spring upon her, a trump card, or, as the late louis was said to call that card, '_la dernière piece d'or_,' because it always won. and, by heaven, i'll spring it without mercy!" in which frame of mind his lordship arrived in front of his town house. but now a new matter of astonishment arose, also a new fuel for his humours; for the house appeared deserted, the blinds were drawn down in all the windows. he could perceive no smoke arising from any chimney, there was no sign of life at all about the place. he bade his manservant get down from beside the coachman and tug lustily at the bell, while all the time that the man was doing so he was fretting and fuming inwardly, and at last was meditating sending for the watch and having the door forced, when it was opened from the inside, and the oldest servant in his establishment, a decrepit, deaf old man, who had acted as caretaker for many years during his and his father's absence abroad, appeared. "come here, luke, come here," his lordship called loudly to him; "come here, i say," and he motioned that he should descend the steps and approach the travelling carriage, from the door of which he was now glaring at him. but, whether from fright or senility, or both combined, the other did not obey him, and only stood shivering and shaking and feebly bowing upon the threshold. "what devil's game is this?" fordingbridge muttered to himself as he now sprang out and ran up the steps, after which he grasped the old man by the collar and, dragging him toward him, bawled in his ear question after question as to what cause the present state of the house was owing. but the old fellow only shivered and shook the more, and seemed too paralyzed by his master's violence to do anything but wag his jaws helplessly. hurling him away, therefore, with no consideration at all for either his age or feebleness, fordingbridge rushed through the hall ringing a bell that communicated with the kitchens and another with the garrets, calling out the names of male and female servants, and receiving no answer to any of his summons. then, tired of this at last, he bade his manservant bring in his valises and ordered the travelling carriage off to the stables. but by now the old servitor seemed to have recovered either his breath or his senses somewhat, and coming up to his lordship in a sidling fashion, such as a dog assumes when fearful of a blow if it approaches its master too near, he mumbled that there was no one else in the house but himself. "so i should suppose," lord fordingbridge replied, endeavouring to calm himself and to overcome the gust of passion with which he had once more been seized, "so i should suppose; i have called enough to have waked the dead had there been any here." then once more regarding the old man with one of his fierce glances, he shouted at him in a voice that penetrated even to his ears, "where are they all? where is her ladyship?" in a lower voice. "where are the servants?" "gone, all gone," luke replied, "all gone. none left but me." "where are they gone to?" the old man flapped his hands up and down once or twice--perhaps he performed the action with a desire to deprecate his master's anger--and looked up beseechingly into his face as though asking pardon for what was no fault of his, then replied: "her ladyship has gone away--for good and all, i hear, my lord." "ha! where is she gone to?" "to lady belrose's. i am told. she--she--they--the servants say she will never come back." the viscount paused a moment--this news had startled even him!--then he muttered, "no, i'll warrant she never shall. this justifies me." and again he continued, still shouting at the old man, so that his valet upstairs must have heard every word he uttered: "and the servants, where are they?" "all gone too. they were frightened by the police and the soldiers--" "the soldiers! what soldiers?" "they ransacked the house to find mr. archibald. but he, too, was gone. that terrified all but me--me it did not frighten. no, no," he went on, assuming a ludicrous appearance of bravery that was almost weird to behold, "me it did not frighten. i remember when, also, the soldiers searched the house for your father, his late lordship with--he! he!--the same re----" "silence!" roared fordingbridge. "how dare you couple my father's name with that fellow? so mr. archibald is also gone! but what about the soldiers? the soldiers, i say," raising his voice again to a shriek. "ah, the soldiers," luke repeated. "yes, yes. the soldiers. brave soldiers. i had a son once in their regiment, long ago, when dunmore commanded them; he was wounded at--um----um" and he stopped, terrified by the scowl on lord fordingbridge's face. "what," bawled the latter, "did they do here--in this house? curse your son and your recollections, too. what did they do here--in my house?" "they sought for mr. archibald--her ladyship being gone forth. but he, too, was out--ho! ho--and--and he never came back. then the captain--a brave, young lord, they say--said you were known to be fostering a rebel--they called him a rebel jesuit priest!--that you were denounced from dunstable, and that you must make your own account with the government. then the maids fled, and next the men--they said they owed you no service. ah! there are no old faithful servants now--or few--very few." "go!" said fordingbridge, briefly--and again his look terrified the poor old creature so, that he slunk off shivering and shaking as before. slowly the viscount mounted the stairs to his saloon, or withdrawing room, and when there he cast himself into a chair and brooded on what he had heard. "harbouring a rebel--a rebel jesuit priest," he muttered. "so! so! am i caught in the toils that i myself set? pardieu, 'twould seem so. i denounce a rebel, and, unfortunately, that rebel lives on me--is housed with me. i never thought of that! it may tell badly for me; worse, too, because i brought him to england in my train. how shall i escape it?" and he sat long in his chair meditating. "the captain said," he went on, "that i must make my own account with the government. ah, yes, yes; why! so indeed i must. and 'tis not hard. make my account! why, yes, to be sure. easy enough. i, having embraced the principles of hanover, and being now firm in my loyalty to george, do, the better to confound his enemies, shelter in my house one whom i intend to yield up to him. well! there's no harm in that, but rather loyalty. otherwise," and he laughed to himself as he spoke, "i might lay myself open to the reproach of being a bad host; of not respecting the sacredness of the guest." eased in his mind by this reflection and by the excuse which he had found, as he considered, for appeasing the government and satisfying it as to his reasons for sheltering a jesuit plotter, he rose from his seat and wandered into the other rooms of his house, viewing with particular interest and complaisance the one which had been her ladyship's boudoir, or morning-room. "a pretty nest for so fair a bird," he muttered, as he regarded the mortlake hangings and lace curtains, the deep roomy lounge, the bright silver tea service, and--as blots upon the other things--bunches of now withered flowers in the vases. "a pretty nest. yet, forsooth, the silly thing must fall out of it; wander forth to freedom and misery. for they say, who study such frivolities, that caged birds, once released, pine and die even in their freedom. _soit!_ 'tis better that the bird should escape and die of its own accord than be thrust into the cold open by its master's hand. and that would have happened to your ladyship," and he laughed as he spoke of her, "had you not taken the initiative. my lady fordingbridge," uttering the words with emphasis, nay, with unction, "i had done with you. it was time for you to go." a little clock on the mantelpiece, a masterpiece of tompion's, chimed forth the hour musically as he spoke; he remembered his father buying it as a present for his mother the year before they fled to france; and turning round to look at it he saw, standing against its face, where it could not fail to be observed, a letter addressed to him. opening it, he found written the words, "i have left the house and you. i know everything now." that was all; there was no form of address, no superscription. nothing could be more disdainful, nor, by its brevity, more convincing. and, whatever the schemes the man might have been maturing in his evil mind against the writer, yet that brief, contemptuous note stung him more than a longer, more explanatory one could have done. "so be it," he said again, "so be it." then he bade his man come and dress him anew, and afterwards call a hackney coach. and on entering the latter when ready, he ordered the driver to convey him first to the duke of newcastle's (the secretary of state), and later to lady belrose's in hanover-square. "for, to commence," he muttered, as he drove off, "i must square his grace, and then have one final interview with my dearly beloved katherine. newcastle has the reputation of being the biggest fool in england--he should not be difficult to deal with; while as to her--well, she is no fool but yet she shall find her master." chapter xi. archibald's escape. fortune had, indeed, stood the friend of those three denounced men, otherwise they must by now have been lying--as fordingbridge had said--in one of the many prisons of london awaiting their trial; trials which--in the case of two at least--would have preceded by a short time only their executions and deaths; deaths made doubly horrible by that which accompanied them, by the cutting out and casting into the fire of the still beating hearts of the victims, the disembowelling and quartering and mangling. yet, if such was ever to be their fate--and they tempted such fate terribly by their continued presence in london, or, indeed, in england--it had not yet overtaken them; until now they were free. how douglas sholto and bertie elphinston had escaped the snare you have seen; how archibald sholto eluded those who sought him has now to be told. kate had no sooner departed in a chariot, sent for her by lady belrose, to take a dish of tea in company with the other members of the proposed party before going on to vauxhall, than mr. archibald, who had a large room at the top of the house, was apprised by the servant that a scotch gentleman awaited him in the garden.[ ] on desiring to be informed what the gentleman's name and errand were--for those engaged as the jesuit now was omitted no precautions for their safety--a message was brought back that the visitor was an old friend of mr. archibald's, whom he would recognise on descending to the garden, and that his business was very pressing. now archibald was a man of great forethought--necessity had made him such--and therefore, ere he descended to the garden, he thought it well to take an observation of this mysterious caller, who might be, as he said, a friend or, on the other hand, a representative of the law endeavouring to take advantage of him. the opportunity for this observation presented itself, however, without any difficulty. on the backstairs of each flight in the houses of kensington-square there existed precisely what exists in the present day in most houses, namely, windows half-way up each flight, and, gazing out into the garden--up and down the gravel walks of which the visitor was walking, sometimes stopping to inspect or to smell some of the roses already in bloom, and sometimes casting glances of impatience at the house--archibald saw the man who, later on, was to deliver kate's message to bertie. "why!" he exclaimed to himself, "as i live 'tis james mcglowrie. honest jemmy! indeed, he can come on no evil intent to me or to those dear to me. yet--yet--i fear. even though he means no harm he may be the bearer of bad news," and so saying he passed down the stairs and to the man awaiting him. "james," he said, addressing the other in their native brogue, "this is a sight for sair een. yet," he went on, "what brings you here? first, how did you know i dwelt here, and next, what brings you?--though right glad i am to see you once again." "i have a wee bit message for ye, archibald," said the other, shaking him warmly by the hand, "that it behoves you vary weel to hear. and," dropping at once into the verbosity that was to so tease, while at the same time it amused, elphinston some hours later, "not only to hear, but, so to speak, as it were, to ponder on, yet also to decide quickly over and thereby to arrive at a good determination. d'ye take, archibald sh----, i mean, so to speak, mr. archibald?" "why, no," said the other, with a faint smile, "i cannot in truth say that i do. james mcglowrie, you can speak to the point when you choose. choose to do so now, i beg you." "to the point is very well. and so i will speak. now, archie, old friend, listen. ye ken and weel remember, i doubt not, geordie mcnab, erstwhile of edinburgh." "indeed i do." "so--so. vary weel. now geordie mcnab is come south and has gotten himself into the scotch secretary of state's office, for geordie is no jacobite!--and there he draws £ a year sterling--not scotch. oh, no. geordie is now vary weel to do, and what with the little estate his poor auld mother left him, which, so to speak, yields him thirty bolls and firlots of barley, some peats at twopence per load, and many pecks of mustard seed at a shilling, and----" "jemmy, jemmy," said the other, reproachfully, "was this the important errand you came here upon?" "nay, nay. my tongue runs away with me as ever. yet, listen still. geordie is no jacobite, yet, i'faith, there's a many he's overweel disposed to, among others an old schoolfellow o' his, one archibald." "one archibald! ha! i take you. and, jemmy, is he threatened; has he aught to fear from the scotch secretary's office?" "the warst that can befall. ay, man, the very warst. so are also two friends of his, late of--hem--a certain army that has of late made excursions and alarums, as the bard hath it." "so! i understand! we have been informed against, blown upon. alas! alas! we were free but for this--our names not even upon the list." "yet now," said mcglowrie, "are they there. likewise also your addresses and habitments--all are vary weel known. my laddie, ye must flee out o' the land and awa' back to france, and go ye must at once. there's no time to be lost." "i cannot go without warning the others--without knowing they are safe." then, while a terribly stern look came into his face, he said, "who has done this thing, mcglowrie, who has done it?" "can ye not vary weel guess? 'tis not far to seek." "ay," the jesuit answered, "it needs no question. oh! simeon larpent, simeon larpent, if ever i have you to my hand again, beware. oh! to have you but for one hour in paris and with the holy church to avenge me, a priest, against you!" then changing this tone to another more suitable, perhaps, to the occasion and the danger in which he stood, he asked: "what do they mean to do? when will they proceed to the work, think you?" "at once; to-night, perhaps; to-morrow for certain. go, archie, go, pack up your duds and flee, i say. even now the government may have put the officers upon your hiding-place; have told the soldiers at kensington to surround the house. lose no time." "but the boys--the boys at wandsworth. what of them?" "they shall be warned, even though i do it myself. but now, archie, up to your room, bring with you--in a small compass, so to speak--your necessaries, and come with me." "but where to? where to?" "hech! with me. i have a bit lodgment, as you will know vary weel soon, in the minories; 'tis near there poor lady balmerino lodges--though they promise her that after her lord is condemned, as he must be--as he must be!--she shall be lodged with him in the tower to the last; come with me, i say. for the love o' god, archie, hesitate no longer." then indeed, archibald sholto knew that, if he would save himself and help the others, and--as he hoped--wreak his vengeance on the treacherous adder that had stung them, he must follow honest james mcglowrie's counsel. so, very swiftly he passed up to his room, collected every paper he possessed, and carried away with him a small valise, in which were a change of clothes, several bank bills and a bag of guineas, louis d'ors, and gold crowns. then he returned to the garden where mcglowrie was still walking up and down as before, and announced that he was ready to follow him. "only," he said, "we will go as quietly as may be, and without a word. i will not even tell the servants i am going, heaven knows if they are not spies themselves. i will just vanish away, and, as i hope, leave no trace. come, jemmy, there is a door behind the herb-garden that gives into the lane, and the lane itself leads to the west-road. if we can cross that in safety we can pass by lord holland's--he is secretary of war now, and of the privy council--yet that matters not to us; behind his leafy woods we shall come to the other road. then for a hackney or a passing coach to the city. only, the boys, jemmy, the boys! what of them?" "have no fear. if they are not warned already by geordie mcnab 'twill surprise me very much, and once i have seen ye off to the minories i'll be away to wandsworth myself. thereby i'll make sure. come, archie, come. the evening draws in. come, mon." "i will. only, jemmy, stick your honest nose outside the garden gate and see that neither soldiers, spies, nor men of the law are there. if it is as you say, the house may even now be surrounded." mcglowrie did as the other requested, going out and sauntering up and down the lane, but seeing no signs of anyone about who might threaten danger. to a maid-servant, drawing water from a well which served for many of the gardens of the houses, he gave in his pleasant scotch way the "good e'en," and remarked that "the flowers were thirsty these warm may nights, and required, so to speak as it were, a draught to refresh 'em "; and to a boy birdnesting up tree he observed that it was a cruel sport which would wring a poor mither's heart, even as his own mither's would full surely be wrung should he be torn away from her grasp, even as he was tearing the young from the nest. but, all the time he was delivering these apothegms, his eye was glancing up and down the lane, and searching for any sign of danger. and, seeing none, he went back to archibald sholto and bade him follow since all was clear. "and now," said he, as they passed to the left of holland house and so reached kensington gravel pits, "let us form our plans. first, there are the two young men, who must of a surety have been warned by geordie, yet, supposing he should have failed, must yet be warned, so to speak. now, shall i get me away----" "alas!" said sholto, "i have just recalled to mind that, if they are not already on their guard, 'tis now too late. they were to go to the masquerade at vauxhall; are there by now. 'tis certain. one of them had an appointment with--with the wife of the double-dyed scoundrel who owns the house we have but just now quitted." "hoot! ma conscience! with his enemy's wife. vary good! vary good! perhaps 'tis not so strange the man is his enemy. weel, weel, 'tis no affair of mine, yet i like not this trafficking wi' other men's goods. but since they are away on this quest they need no warning. now for yourself, archie. get you away to the minories--here is the precise address," and he slipped a piece of paper into his hand, "go there, lie perdu, and await my return." "but kate! lady fordingbridge! i must let her know of my absence; what will she think when she returns home and finds me gone? and the others--they may be taken when they also return to their homes." "leave't to me. i will await my lady's return from these worldly doings--ma word! a married woman and meeting other men in such sinfu' places!--even though she comes not till the break o' day--as is very likely, i fear, under the circumstances! and, meanwhile, for the others we must trust to geordie." "no," said archibald sholto, "we will not trust to geordie, true as i believe him to be. this is the best plan. if you will wait--as i know you will--until her ladyship returns, though it will not be for some hours yet, i apprehend, i will make my way to wandsworth, find out if they are warned, and, if not, will myself wait their return. then i will accept your shelter in the minories for a time until we can all three get safe back to france. for france is now our only refuge again, as it has so often and so long been before." "humph!" said mcglowrie, "perhaps so 'tis best. none know you at wandsworth?" "none. no living soul except the woman of the house--a true one. her father fell in the cause in the ' ' at sherriffmuir. she is safe." "so be it. then away with you to yon village, and trust me to manage things in this one. now, off wi' you, archie, but first make some change in your clothing." "but how? i have no other clothes but those i wear." "hoot! a small changement is easy, and sometimes, so to speak as it were, effectual. off with that hat and wig." and as he spoke he took off each of his. "you will lose by the exchange, jemmy," said archibald. "mine is but a rusty bob and a poor hat; both yours are very good." "no matter. to-morrow at the lodgment we will change again." therefore, with his appearance considerably altered, archibald sholto prepared now to set out for wandsworth. but ere he did so he said one word to honest james mcglowrie. "jemmy," he remarked, "make no mistake about ka--lady fordingbridge and this meeting with bertie elphinston to which she has gone. she is as good and pure a woman as ever lived and suffered. i have known her from a child, gave her her first communion; there is no speck of ill in her." "lived and suffered, eh?" repeated the other. "ay, lived and suffered! the man she has gone to meet was to have been her husband; they loved each other with all their hearts and souls; and by foul treachery she was stolen from him by that most unparalleled scoundrel, fordingbridge. remember that, jemmy, when you see her to-night; remember she is as pure a woman as your mother was, and respect her for all that she has endured." "have no fear," said jemmy, manfully, "have no fear. although ye are a papist, archie, and a priest at that, i'll e'en take your word for it." so, with a light laugh from the jesuit at the rigid and plain-spoken presbyterianism of his old schoolfellow and whilom fag, they parted with a grasp of the hand, each to what he had to do. that james mcglowrie carried out his portion of the undertaking has been already told, as well as how, after the information he gave lady fordingbridge, she decided to accept lady belrose's offer of her house as a refuge, if only temporarily; and how he afterwards became a messenger from her to bertie elphinston. as for archibald sholto, he, too, did that which he had said would be best. he made his way from kensington to chelsea and so to wandsworth, only to find when he had arrived there that his brother and friend had long since--for it was by then nine o'clock--departed for vauxhall. therefore he said a few words to the landlady--herself an adherent of the stuarts, as she, whose father had fallen at sherriffmuir, was certain to be--telling her that it was doubtful if they would ever return to their lodgings, but that, if they did, she must manage to send them off at once. he told her, too, the address of the minories where he could be communicated with, under cover to mcglowrie, and, since he it was who had sent them as lodgers to her house, he gave her some money on their account. then he left her and, thorough and indomitable in all he did, made his way to the spring gardens. "if they are there," he thought, as he waited outside the inn in wandsworth--an old one, known then, as now, as the spread eagle, while the horse was being put into the shafts of the hackney coach he had hired, "i may see them in time to warn them. dressed as the executioner, the woman said of bertie and douglas, without any disguise, though in a garb that will be supposed to be one in that place; there should be no difficulty in finding them if they are still there. thank god, they were not caught in their lodgings." he did not know, nor could the landlady have told him--not knowing herself--of how they had been watched and followed from the village to vauxhall; so he passed his time on the lonely drive through the battersea marshes in meditating how this last act of treachery of lord fordingbridge was to be repaid. for that it should be so repaid, and with interest, archibald sholto had already determined. "though not for his baseness to me so much," he muttered, "as to those whom i love. for since to me, a priest, there can be no home, no wife, no children, i have centred all my heart upon those three--my brother, our friend bertie, and poor, bonnie kate. and those it is against whom he has struck. may god forget me if i strike not equally, ay! and with more certainty than he has done, when my hour comes." a good friend was archibald sholto, jesuit though he was, but a terrible foe. as you shall see. on his way to the garden he passed half a dozen young men of fashion who, from their talk and actions, he knew to be about to assist at a duel, and, forgetting that he was in secular garb, he could not forbear from addressing them in his priestly character and begging them to desist from the sin they contemplated. but they bade him pass on and not interfere in what concerned him not, while one, striking at the horse with his clouded cane, caused the animal to dash off upon the uneven road or track. these, doubtless, were the men for whom the boatmen who ferried bertie and douglas across later on were waiting. so he reached the gardens, but only to find that most of the company was already gone, and that, with the exception of a few revellers who would keep the night up so long as it were possible, none of the masqueraders remained. yet, even from these he gathered enough to set his mind fairly at rest; for, happening to hear one of them speak of the "merry disturbance" which had taken place that night, and also boast somewhat loudly of how he had assisted the jacobites in resisting the limbs of the law, he, by great suavity and apparent admiration of the speaker's prowess, managed to extract from him a more or less accurate account of what had taken place. thus he learned that, in some way, his brother and friend had made their escape--aided, of course, by the pot-valiant hero to whom he was listening--and also that the "ladies of fashion" and the gentlemen by whom they were accompanied had also departed without molestation. "though," continued the narrator, as he swallowed the last drop of brandy in his glass and then looked ruefully at the empty vessel, "i know not if they would have been allowed to go so freely had not i and my friend assisted in protecting them." after that archibald withdrew, and, on foot, made his way to the city, while as he crossed london bridge nearly two hours later--for he was weary with all that had happened that day--the sun came up and lighted with a rosy hue the tower lying on his right hand. "ay," he muttered. "ay, many's the poor aching heart within your walls this morning besides the doomed balmerino, cromartie, and kilmarnock--for nought can save them; thank god that some at least are free at present. but how long will they be so? how long? how long?" chapter xii. hey! for france. during the time which elapsed between the eventful proceedings of that day and the time when my lord fordingbridge--agitated by receiving no news in cheshire from his wife--returned to london, all those whom this history has principally to deal with met together with considerable frequency. for, whether the clue was lost to the whereabouts of elphinston and the sholtos, or whether the government was growing sick of the wholesale butchery of jacobites which was going on in scotland and england--though it would scarce seem so, since two of the lords in the tower and some score of other victims were yet to be executed and their remains to be brutally used--at least those three friends were still at large. archibald sholto was in hiding at james mcglowrie's lodgings in the minories, in the neighbourhood of which that honest gentleman was much engaged in the grain and cattle trade between london and scotland and also holland and france. farther east still was bertie elphinston, he being close to the spot where the unhappy lady balmerino, his kinswoman, was lodged; while in the west end, or rather the west of london, at the kensington gravel pits, and under the roof of no less a person than sir charles ames, douglas had found a home and hiding place. as for kate and her father, they were in hanover-square, the guests of lady belrose, and were to remain as such until the former had had an interview with fordingbridge. "for," said kate to her friend who, although a comparatively new one, was proving herself to be very staunch, "then i shall know, then i shall be able to decide; though even now my decision is taken, my mind made up. who can doubt that it is he who has done this? he and no other. no other!" "indeed, dear," replied her hostess, as she bade her black boy--a present from her devoted admirer, sir charles--go get the urn filled, for they were drinking tea after dinner, "indeed, dear, no one, i think, from all that you have told me. yet if you leave him, what is to become of you and mr. fane? you have, you say--pardon me for even referring to such a thing--no very good means of subsistence. i," went on her ladyship, speaking emphatically, "should at least take my settlement. i would not, positively i would not, allow the wretch to benefit by keeping that. no, indeed!" "if," replied kate, "'tis as i fear--nay, as i know it is, i will not touch one farthing of his. not one farthing. i will go forth, and he shall be as though i had never seen or spoken to him." "but," asked the more practical woman of the world, "what will you do, dear? you cannot live on air, and--which is almost worse--you cannot marry someone who will give you a good home. and you so pretty, too!" she added. "marry again!" exclaimed kate, her eyes glistening as she spoke. "heaven forbid! have i not had enough of marriage? one experience should suffice, i think." "it has indeed been a sad one," answered lady belrose, who had herself no intention of continuing her widowhood much longer, and was indeed at that moment privately affianced to sir charles ames. "but, kate, if your monster were dead you might be happy yet." "no, no," the other replied, "never. and he is not dead, nor like to die. i am, indeed, far more likely to die than he--since the doctors all say i am far from strong, though i do not perceive it." "but what will you do?" again asked the practical hostess. "how live? mr. fane has, you say, no longer sufficient youth or activity to earn a living for you at the fence school--can you, dear, earn enough for both?" "i think so," kate replied, "by returning to paris. that we must do--there is nothing to be earned here. but, in paris, archibald sholto has much influence in the court circles; he knows even the king and--and--the new favourite, la pompadour, who has deposed madame de chateauroux. also he is a friend of cardinal tencin, who owes much to the exiled stuarts. it is, he thinks, certain that some place either at the court, or in the prince's household--if he has escaped from scotland, which god grant!--or in the chevalier st. george's, at rome, might be found for me--a place which would enable me to keep my old father from want for the rest of his life." "kate, you are a brave woman, and a good one, too, for from what you have told me your father himself has behaved none too well to you, and----" "i must forget that," the other replied, "and remember only how for years he struggled hard to keep a home for us, to bring me up as a lady. i must put away every thought of his one wrong to me and remember only all that he has done for my good." meanwhile kate's determination to part from her husband--if, as no one doubted, he it was who had endeavoured to betray the others to the government--was well known to her three friends; and therefore, with them as with her and her father, preparations were being hurried on by which they also might return to france. for them there was, as there had been before the invasion of scotland and england, the means whereby to exist; douglas and bertie had not sacrificed their commissions in the french regiments to which they belonged, and archibald was employed by the stuart cause as an agent, was also a member of the college of st. omer, and was a priest of st. eustache. that bertie elphinston would ever have left london while his kinsman and the head of his house, arthur, lord balmerino, lay in the tower awaiting his trial and certain death was not to be supposed, had not a message come from that unhappy nobleman ordering him to go. also, he bade him waste no time in remaining where he was hourly in danger and could, at the same time, be of no earthly good. "he bids me tell you, bertie," said lady balmerino, in a meeting which she contrived to have with the young man on one of those evenings when both were lodged in the eastend, and while she wept piteously as she spoke, "he bids me tell you that it is his last commandment to you, as still the head of your house and the name you bear, to flee from england. the rank and title of balmerino must die with him, but he lays upon you the task of bearing and, he hopes, perpetuating the name of elphinston honourably. also he sends you his blessing as from a dying old man to a young one, bids you trust in god and also serve the house of stuart while there is any member of it left. and if more be needed to make you fly, he orders you to do it for your mother's sake." after that elphinston knew where his duty lay--knew that he must return to france. it was hard, he swore, to leave england and also, thereby, to leave the scoundrel fordingbridge behind and alive, still he felt that it must be so. fordingbridge merited death--yet he must escape it! but he had one consolation, too. ere long kate would be back in paris--it was not possible that her husband could be innocent--therefore he would sometimes see her. a poor consolation, indeed, he told himself, to simply be able to see the woman who was to have been his wife yet was now another man's--no power on earth, no determination on her part to sever her existence from fordingbridge could alter that!--yet it was something. consequently, he with the others set about the plans for their departure. now, to so arrange and manage for this departure, they looked to james mcglowrie, who had both the will and the power to help them. an old acquaintance of his in scotland, when both were boys who had not then gone forth into the world, mcglowrie had kept up an occasional correspondence with archibald sholto until the present time, and thereby had been able to afford him assistance and had proved himself invaluable when fordingbridge informed against them. indeed, had mcglowrie not known where archibald sholto was living when in london, geordie mcnab's information derived from the scotch secretary's office could never have been utilized, and archibald sholto must at least have been taken. and now he was to be even more practically useful than before--it was in his cattle-trading boats that all were, one by one, to be conveyed to the continent. "though," said jemmy, as he arranged plans with them one night in a little inn at limehouse where they were in the habit of meeting, and where there was little danger of their being discovered, "i can give none of ye any certain guarantee, so to speak as it were, of ye getting over in safety. infernal sloops o' war and bomb-ketches, and the devil knows what else, are prowling about the waters looking for rebels, and as like as not may light upon the one or other of you." "we must risk that," said bertie. "great heavens! what have we not risked far worse?" "vary weel," replied mcglowrie; "then let one of you begin the risk to-morrow night. and you it had best be, mr. elphinston. my little barky drops down the river then, and once you're round the north foreland you will be safe, or nearly so, to reach calais. be ready by seven to-morrow night." "why do you select me to go first, mr. mcglowrie? i have quite as many, if not more, interests in england than either douglas or archie." "um!" muttered honest jemmy, who did not care to say that he thought a man who was philandering about after a married woman was best got out of the way as soon as possible, though such was, indeed, his opinion, he being a strict moralist. "um! i thought the noble lord had laid his commands on ye to be off and awa' at anst. the head of the family must be obeyed." "also," said archibald sholto, "you have your mother to think of. we have no mother. bertie, you had best go to-morrow night." "and you have seen kate," whispered gentle douglas sholto, who took, perhaps, a more romantic view of things--for he had known of their love from the first and, from almost envying them at its commencement, had now come to pity them, "have made your farewells. if you get safe to france you must of a surety meet again--for fordingbridge is a villain, and she will keep her word and part from him--is it not best you go at once?" "you and i have always gone together, douglas, hand in hand in all things," his friend replied; "i like not parting from you now." "still let it be so, i beg you. remember, once we are back in paris all will be as happy as it has been before, or nearly so, and there will be no fordingbridge there. he, at least, will not be by us to set the blood tingling in our veins with the desire to slay him." "so be it," said bertie, "i will go." this being therefore decided, mcglowrie gave his counsel as to what was to be done. the "little barky" of which he had spoken was in the habit of taking over to calais good black cattle in exchange for french wines (what did it matter if sometimes the bottles were stuffed full of lace instead of bordeaux?), silks, and ribbons, and it was as a drover he proposed elphinston should go. the duties would be nothing, and the assumption of them would be a sufficient explanation of his being on board. "and then," said he, "when once you set your foot on calais sands you can again become captain elphinston of the regiment of picardy, and defy king geo--hoot! what treason am i talking?" it was the truth that he had seen kate again since the night of the conflict at vauxhall, and then, stung to madness by the renewed villainy and treachery of her husband, he had pleaded to her to let him seek out fordingbridge and slay him with his own hands. but, bitterly as she despised and hated the man who had brought them such grief and sorrow, she refused to even listen to so much as a suggestion of his doing this. "no, no, no!" she exclaimed, shuddering at the very idea of such a tragedy. "no, no. what benefit would it be to you or to me to have the stain of his blood on our hands?" "it would remove for ever the obstacle between us," he said; "would set you free; would place us where we were before." "never, never," she replied. "i have been his wife--though such by fraud and trickery--and if he were dead, god knows i could not mourn him; yet i will not be his murderess, his executioner, as i shall be if i let you slay him. if he fell by your hand, i could never look upon your face again. moreover, even were i hardened enough to do so--which i am not--do you not know that the french law permits no man to become the husband of a woman whose first husband he has slain? we should be as far apart then as ever--nay, farther, with his death between us always." "i know, i know," he said, recognising, however, as he did so that there was no possibility of his taking vengeance on fordingbridge, since by doing so he would thus place such a barrier between them. "yet there are other lands where one may live besides france and england. there is sweden, where every soldier is welcome; there is----" "cease, i beseech you, cease! it can never be. if in god's good time he sees fit to punish him, he will do so. if not, i must bear the lot that has fallen to me. meanwhile be assured that once i find he has done this act of treachery, i shall never return to him." "and we shall meet in paris--that is, if ever i can get back there?" "yes," she answered. "we shall meet in paris; for it is there i must go. there, at least, i must find a means of existence; though, since now we understand, since we have forgiven each other--is it not so?--'twould perhaps be best that we should not meet again." "no, no," he protested. "no, no. for even though this snake has crept in between us--so that never more can we be to each other what--what--my god!--what we once were; so that there must be no love, no passing of our days, our lives, together side by side--yet, kate, we can at least know that the other is well if not happy; we can meet sometimes. can we not? answer me." "oh, go!" she exclaimed, breaking down at his words and weeping piteously, as she sank into a chair and buried her head in her hands. "go! in mercy, go! i cannot bear your words; they break my heart. leave me, i beseech you!" so--because he, too, could bear the interview no longer, and could not endure to see her misery--he left her, taking her hand and kissing it ere he departed, and whispering in her ear that soon they would meet again. chapter xiii. man and wife. the hackney coach drew up at lady belrose's house in hanover-square a couple of hours after it had left kensington-square, and lord fordingbridge, descending from it, rang a loud peal upon the bell. for some reason--the whereof was perhaps not known to him, or could not have been explained by even his peculiarly constituted mind--he had attired himself for the two interviews with great care. his black velvet suit, trimmed with silver lace--for he wore mourning for the late viscount--was of the richest; his thick hair was now confined beneath a handsome tye-wig, and his ruffles and breast lace were the finest in his possession. yet he, knowing himself to be the unutterable scoundrel he was, could scarcely suppose that this sumptuousness of attire was likely to have much effect upon the woman who had deserted him for a cause which he had not the slightest difficulty in imagining. perhaps, however, it was assumed for the benefit of the duke of newcastle, with whom he had had a satisfactory interview. "lady fordingbridge is living here," he said quietly, but with a sternness he considered fitting to the occasion, to the grave elderly man who opened the door to him--a man whose appearance, lady belrose frequently observed, would have added respectability to the household of a bishop--"show me to her." the footman looked inquiringly at him for a moment; he was not accustomed to such imperious orders from any of her ladyship's visitors, however handsome an appearance they might present. then he said: "lady belrose lives here. lady fordingbridge is her guest. and if you wish to see her, sir, i must know whose name to announce." "i am her husband, lord fordingbridge. be good enough to announce that, and at once." the staid manservant gave him a swift glance--it was not to be doubted that many a gossip had been held below stairs as to the reason why lady fordingbridge had quitted and caused to be shut up her own house, only to come and dwell at his mistress's--then he invited his lordship to follow him into the morning room on the right of the door. "i will tell her ladyship," he said, and so left him. when he was alone, lord fordingbridge, after a hasty glance round the room, and a sneer at the portraits of a vast number of simpering young men which hung on the walls--her admirers, he considered, no doubt--took a seat upon the couch and pondered over the coming interview with his wife. "it is time," he thought, "that things should draw to a conclusion. for," he said, as though addressing kate herself, "i have had enough of you, my lady. you have long ceased to be a wife to me--never were one, indeed, but for a month, and then but a very indifferent spouse, a cold-hearted, cold-blooded jade; now it is time you should cease to be so much in even name. so, so. you shall be stripped of your borrowed plumage; we will see then how you like the position of affairs. i myself am heartily sick of them." he had no premonition of what kate might be about to say to him when she should enter the room in which he now sat; yet he had a very strong suspicion that her remarks would consist of accusations against him of having betrayed the sholtos and elphinston. "well, well," he said,-"let her accuse. i have the last card. it is a strong one. it should win the trick." yet at the same time, strong as any card might be which he held in his hand, he would have given a good deal to have known where at the present moment those three men might be harbouring whom he had endeavoured so strongly to give to the hangman's hands. and once, as a sudden thought came to his mind--a thought that almost made the perspiration burst out upon him--a thought that they might all be in this very house and appear suddenly to take vengeance on him for his treachery!--he nearly rose from his seat as though to fly while there was yet time. but, coward though he was, both physically and morally, he had strength to master his impulse, and, in spite of his fears that at any moment elphinston, whom he had wronged the worst of all, might enter the room, to remain seated where he was. still his eyes sought ever the hands of the clock as moment after moment went by and his wife failed to come, until at last he was wrought to so high a pitch of nervousness that he started at any sound inside and outside of the house. a man bawling the news in the street or blowing the horn, which at that time the newsboys carried to proclaim their approach, set his nerves and fibres tingling; the laughter of some of the domestics in the kitchens below him had an equally jarring effect, and when aloud knock came at the street door he quivered as though the avenging elphinston was indeed there. then, at last, the door opened suddenly, and his wife stood before him. he saw in one swift glance that she was very pale--she, whose complexion had once been as the rose-blush--and this he could understand. it was not strange she should be so. what he could not understand was the habit in which she appeared, the manner in which she was attired. ever since she had become his wife he had caused her to be arrayed in the richest, most costly dresses he could afford; had desired, nay, had commanded, that in all outward things she should carry out the character of lady fordingbridge; that her gowns, her laces, her wigs, should all be suitable to his position. yet now she appeared shorn of all those adornments which his common, pitiful mind regarded as part and parcel of his dignity. the dress she wore was a simple black one, made of a material which the humblest lady in the land might have had on, without lace or trimmings or any adornment whatsoever. also on her head there was no towering wig, nor powder, nor false curls; instead, her own sweet golden hair was neatly brushed back into a great knot behind. nor on her hands, nor on her neck, was any jewellery, save only the one ring which, from the day he had put it on her finger, she had ever regarded as a badge of slavery. "madam," he said, rising and advancing towards her, while as he did so she retreated back towards the door, "madam, i have come here to desire an explanation from you as to why i find you gone from my house and living under the shelter of another person's roof. and also, i have to ask," he continued, letting his eye fall upon the plainness of her attire, "why you present yourself before me in such a garb as you now wear? i must crave an immediate answer, madam." "i am here to give it," she replied. "and since i do not doubt that it is the last time you and i will ever exchange words again in the world, that answer shall be full and complete. but, first, do you answer me this, lord fordingbridge. was it by your craft that mr. elphinston and douglas and archibald sholto were denounced?" she spoke very calmly; in her voice there was no tremor; also he could see that her hands, in one of which she held a small packet, did not quiver. "madam," he replied, endeavouring to also assume a similar calmness, but not succeeding particularly well, while at the same time one of those strong waves of passion rose in his breast which he had hitherto always mastered when engaged in discussion with her, "madam, by what right do you ask me such a question as this? what does it concern you if i choose to denounce jacobite plotters to the government? nothing! and again i ask why you have left my roof for that of the worldling with whom you have taken refuge, and why you appear before me in a garb more befitting a mercer's apprentice than my wife?" "your equivocation condemns you. simeon larpent, it was you who played the spy, you who were the denouncer of those three men. i knew that there could be no doubt on that score." "and again i say, what if i did? what then? what does it concern you? what have you to do with it?" "i have this to do," she replied; "but that which is to be done shall be done before witnesses," and stepping to the bell rope, she pulled it strongly, so that the peal rang through the house. "witnesses!" he exclaimed. "witnesses! none are required. yet, be careful; i warn you ere it is too late. if you summon witnesses to this interview, they may chance to hear that which, to prevent their hearing, you would rather have died. be careful what you do, madam." as he finished, the footman opened the door, and, without hesitating one moment, she said to the man: "ask the two gentlemen to step this way." "two gentlemen!" he repeated; "two gentlemen! so, this is a trap! who are the two gentlemen, pray?" and as he spoke he drew his sword. "if, as i suspect, they are the two bullies--your lover, whom you meet at masquerades, whom you give assignations to, and his friend--they shall at least find that i can defend myself." in truth, bold as he seemed, he was now in great fear. he expected nothing else but that, when the door again opened, sholto and elphinston would appear before him, and he began to quake and to think his last hour was come. his treachery was, he feared, soon to be repaid. she made no answer to his vile taunt about her lover, nor did she take any heed of the drawn sword that shook in his hand; had she been a statue she could not have stood more still as she regarded him with contempt and scorn. then the door did open, and sir charles ames and douglas sholto entered the room. the first he did not know; had, indeed, never seen him before; but at the sight of the other he grasped his weapon more firmly, expecting that ere another moment had passed the hands of the young highlander would be at his throat, and that he would have to defend his life against him. to his intense surprise sholto treated him with as much indifference as if he too had been a statue; after one glance--which, if disdain could have the power to slay, would have withered him as he stood--he took no further heed of him. as for sir charles ames, he, observing the drawn weapon in the other's hand, smiled contemptuously, shrugged his shoulders, and then took his place behind lady fordingbridge and by the side of douglas. "sir charles and you, douglas," she said, "forgive me for asking you to be present at this interview, yet i do so because i desire that in after days there shall be one or two men, at least, to testify to that which i now do." then, turning towards her husband, who still stood where he had risen on her entrance, she said: "simeon larpent, since first i met you--to my eternal unhappiness--your life has been one long lie, one base deceit. the first proposals ever made to me by you were degrading to an honest woman, were infamy to listen to. next, you obtained me for your wife by more lies, by more duplicity, by more deceit. also, from the time i have been your wife, you, yourself a follower of the unhappy house of stuart by birth and bringing up, have endeavoured in every way to encompass the death of three followers of the same cause, because one of those men was to have been my husband had not you foully wronged him to me; because the other two were his and my friends." she paused a moment as though to gather fresh energy for her denunciation of him; and he, craven as he was, stood there before her, white to the very lips, and with his eyes wandering from one to the other of the two listeners. then she continued: "for all this, simeon larpent, but especially for that which you have last done, for this your last piece of cruel, wicked treachery, for this your last bitter, tigerish endeavour to destroy three men who had otherwise been safe, i renounce and deny you for ever." all started as she uttered these words, but without heeding them she continued: "for ever. i disavow you, i forswear you as my husband. i have long ceased to be aught to you but a wife in name; henceforth i will not be so much as that. i have quitted your house. i quit now and part with for so long as i shall live your name, the share in the rank that you smirch and befoul. from to-day i will never willingly set eyes on you again, never speak one word to you, though you lay dying at my feet, never answer to the name of fordingbridge. i return to what i was; i become once more katherine fane." he, standing before her, moistened his lips as though about to speak, but again she went on, taking now from off her finger the one ring that alone she wore. placing it on the table, she continued: "thus i discard you, thus i sever to all eternity the bond that binds me to you; a bond that no priest, no church, shall ever persuade or force me into again recognising." and with these words she placed also on the table the package she had brought into the room with her. "there," she said, "is every trinket you have given me, except the jewellery of your family, which you have possession of. at your own house is every dress and robe, every garment i own that has been bought with your money. so the severance is made. again i say that i renounce you and deny you. from to-day, lord fordingbridge, your existence ceases for me." it seemed that she had spoken her last word. with an inclination of her head towards those two witnesses whom she had summoned to hear her denunciation, she moved towards the door, while they, after casting one glance at him, the denounced, standing there--sir charles ames, conveying in his looks all the ineffable disdain which a polished gentleman of the world might be supposed to feel towards another who had fallen so low, and douglas regarding him as a man regards some savage, ignoble beast--prepared to follow her. then, at last, he found his voice--a harsh and raucous one, as though emotion, or hate, or rage were stifling its natural tones--and exclaimed ere they could quit the room: "stay. the last word is not yet said. you, katherine fane, as you elect, wisely, to call yourself henceforth, and you, her witnesses, listen to what i have now to say. this parley, this conference, call it what you will, may justly be completed." she paused and looked at him--disdainfully, and careless as to what he might have to say in this her final interview with him--and they, doing as she did, paused also. then he continued, still speaking hoarsely but clearly enough: "you have said, madam, that you renounce and deny me for ever; that you are resolved never more to share my rank or title, nor again to bear my name. are you so certain that 'tis yours to so refuse or so renounce at your good will and pleasure?" "what, sir, do you mean by such questions?" asked sir charles ames, speaking now for the first time. but lord fordingbridge, heeding him not, continued to address her, and now, as he spoke, he raised his hand and pointed his finger at her. "you have been very scornful, very cold and disdainful since first we came together, madam, treating me ever to your most bitter dislike, while all the time every thought and idea of yours was given to another man--all the time, i say, while you continued to bear the title of the viscountess fordingbridge. once more, i ask, are you so sure that this title was yours to fling away, the husband yours to renounce and deny in your own good pleasure?" and his eyes glared at her now as he spoke, and she knew that the devil which dwelt in him had got possession. "be more explicit," she said, "or cease to speak at all. if i could think, if i could awake as from an evil dream and learn that i had never been your wife, never plighted troth with you, i would upon my knees thank god for such a mercy." "those thanks may be more due than you dream of. how if i were to tell you----?" "what?" fell from the lips of all, while douglas took a step nearer to him, and sir charles felt sure that in another moment they would be told of some earlier marriage. "what?" for answer he went on, one finger raised and pointing at her as though to emphasize his remarks: "you have taunted me often with the jesuit education i received at st. omer--at lisbon. well, it was true: such an education i did receive at both places. only, madam--my lady fordingbridge!--miss fane!--have you never heard that one so educated may, at such places, receive other things? may become acolytes, priests? what if _i_ became such? what would you then be--a priest----?" "it is a lie!" she exclaimed, "and you know it." "are you so sure? can you prove--or, rather, _disprove_ it? answer me that--answer, if you are sure that you share my name and rank--have power to renounce them." as he finished, douglas sprang at him and, in spite of his drawn sword, would have choked the life out of him on the spot had not sir charles interceded, while at the same moment kitty's voice was heard bidding him desist. "even so," she said, "true or untrue, it is best. the infamy, if infamy there is, must be borne. at least, i am free. free! am justified after these hints!" "ay," lord fordingbridge said, "you may be free. to do what, however? to fling yourself into your lover's arms to-night--only, where will you find him? newgate, the tower, the new gaol in southwark are full of such as he; 'tis there, mistress fane, that doubtless you must seek him." "and 'tis there," said douglas sholto, an inspiration occurring suddenly to his mind, "that you shall join him. the king has issued orders for every jesuit priest to be arrested who shall be found, or denounced, in these dominions, and, jacobite though i am, with my life at stake, i will drag you there with my own hands ere you shall be suffered to escape. you have proclaimed yourself, shown us the way; by your own lips shall you be judged." chapter xiv. flight. that douglas had spoken out of the fury of his heart and, consequently, without thought, was, however, very apparent at once; for when kate had quitted the room, leaving fordingbridge free from the grasp of the former--since douglas, a second after he had seized him, flung him trembling and shivering on the couch--sir charles ames spoke and said, as he drew sholto aside to where the other would not hear them: "it would indeed serve the scoundrel right if he were treated as you suggest. only, unfortunately, it is not possible. first of all, i believe this insinuation is a lie." "i am sure of it. if he had ever been admitted a priest my brother must have known of it, and, in any circumstances, the truth can soon be proved by him. a letter to the head of the jesuit college at lisbon from another jesuit such as archibald is will prove his statement to be false." "yet even," said sir charles, "were he a jesuit priest and so subject to arrest and imprisonment in this country, you would stand in far too much danger to bring it about. also, he can tell too much, as he would undoubtedly do if he was himself given up. let us consider what is best." "i," replied douglas, speaking in an even lower whisper, so that the villain could not possibly hear him, "go to-night, as you know. archie probably to-morrow, or the next night, and bertie is already gone. surely it might somehow be done." "impossible," replied sir charles, "impossible. remember, we are in lady belrose's house; we must bring no scandal upon her. no, that way will not do." "what then?" asked douglas. "what then? for i am determined that his power of doing any harm shall be forever quenched now. we have him in our hands, and we will hold him fast." as he spoke he glanced where the traitor sat glowering at them from the sofa. he seemed now to be thoroughly cowed, thoroughly alarmed also for his own safety, and his piercing black eyes scintillated and twinkled more like the eyes of a hunted, timorous creature than those of a man. indeed, as douglas looked at him, it seemed as though fordingbridge were really mad with terror. yet, abject as he now was, the other shuddered again, as he had more than once shuddered before when speaking of or looking at the man. "we must get him away from this house," said sir charles. "i will have no disturbance here. come, let us take him to the park. there we can talk at freedom, and, i think, so persuade his lordship of our intentions that henceforth he will be harmless. do you agree?" douglas nodded, whereon sir charles, advancing into the room again, addressed lord fordingbridge. "my lord," he said, in his coldest, most freezing manner, "it were best you sheathed that sword," and he pointed to it as it lay beside him on the sofa. "such weapons are unfitted to a lady's house, and you may be at ease--no injury is intended you." fordingbridge gazed at him--still with the terror-stricken look in his eyes, the glance almost of madness or, at best, of imbecility; yet he did as the baronet bade him, and replaced his weapon. but he uttered no word. "we shall be obliged," continued sir charles, "if you will accompany us to st. james's park. we have something to say to you." "if," said fordingbridge, finding his voice at last, "you intend to make me fight a duel with that man, i will not do it. he---- "there is," interrupted douglas, "no thought of such a thing. my sword is not made to cross one borne by you." "very well," replied the other meekly, "i will come." but, a moment later, he burst out into one of his more natural methods of speaking, and cried, "you have the whip hand of me for the moment, but we shall see. we shall see." "we shall," replied sir charles, calmly; "but if your lordship is now ready we may as well depart. we have already encroached somewhat on lady belrose's hospitality." the grave manservant seemed somewhat astonished, when he opened the street door at a summons from the bell, to observe the three gentlemen go down the steps together and enter the hackney coach which was still waiting for the viscount. also he was surprised--since he and all the other servants in the house had gathered a very accurate knowledge of what had transpired in the small saloon--to witness the courteous manner in which sir charles motioned to his lordship to enter the vehicle before him, and then entered it himself, followed by douglas. next, he heard the direction given to the man to drive to st. james's park, and retired, wondering what it all meant. after the words he had--by chance, of course--overheard in the room, he, too, naturally supposed that a duel was about to be fought; but being a discreet man, he only mentioned this surmise to his fellow-servants, and took care not to alarm his mistress. arrived in the park and the coach discharged by sir charles, who even took so much of the ordering of these proceedings upon himself as to pay the man the hire demanded, the former, still with exquisite politeness, requested fordingbridge to avail himself of a vacant bench close by, since he and his friend, mr. sholto, had a few words to say to each other before they laid their deliberations before him. and fordingbridge, still with the terror-stricken look upon his face and the vacillating glance in his eyes, obeyed without a word. and now the others paced up and down the path at a short distance from him, but always keeping him well in their view, and the deliberations mentioned by sir charles took some time in arriving at. but they came to an end at last, and the baronet, drawing near to the bench where fordingbridge was seated, proceeded to unfold them to him. "my lord," he said, speaking with great clearness and cold distinctness, "you may perhaps think that i should have no part in whatever has transpired between you and others. yet i think i have. it fell to my lot--to my extreme good fortune--to be of assistance to the viscountess fordingbridge, for so i shall continue to call her in spite of your observations and disclosures this morning, which i do not believe. it fell to my lot, i repeat, to be of some service to her ladyship on a certain night a week or two ago. that service was rendered necessary by your betrayal of a cause which you had once espoused, of a man whom you had previously injured cruelly, and of another man, mr. douglas, who had never injured you. therefore, i was of assistance to her ladyship, who was more or less under my charge and protection that evening, and i am glad to have been able to do so." "i wish," muttered fordingbridge hoarsely, glaring at him, "that you had been at the devil before you did so." "doubtless. but i was not. that service, however, and your visit to-day to the house of a lady who is shortly about to honour me by becoming my wife, justifies me, i think, in taking some part in these proceedings, though only as spokesman. in that character i now propose to tell you what mr. sholto intends to do." "what?" gasped fordingbridge, moistening his lips. "first," said sir charles, unsparingly, "when he has left the country, which he will do almost immediately, to denounce you to his majesty's government. you are pledged by every oath that can be regarded as sacred in any cause to the house of stuart----" "no!" exclaimed fordingbridge. "no. i am now an adherent of the house of hanover." "i am afraid even that will be of little avail to you. for, if you are, you are a double traitor. it was you who planned the attack on the 'fubbs,' which brought the king from herrenhausen at the outbreak of the scotch invasion; you who circulated the papers offering a large reward for his assassination; you who, but a month or so ago, brought over with you father sholto, the most notorious plotter among the jesuits." "i denounced him," whined fordingbridge. "i denounced him. that alone will save me from the king's anger." "that," replied sir charles, "is possible. i am willing to allow it. but you are by your own confession a jesuit priest, therefore you will be subject to all the punishments and penalties now in force against such persons. also, you will have let loose against you the whole of the anger of the jesuits--should his majesty be inclined to spare you--when mr. sholto has informed them of your treachery. you, as one yourself, can best imagine what form that anger is likely to take." fordingbridge gasped as he stared at the baronet; and now, indeed, it seemed as if the light of idiocy alone shone in his eyes. "but," went on sir charles, "you have also something else to reckon with, namely, the punishment which your brother religionists may see fit to accord to you for having, as a priest--as you suggest yourself--gone through the form of matrimony. i have not the honour to be of the romanist religion myself, therefore i do not know what shape that punishment may take, but, from what mr. sholto tells me, it is for your own sake to be hoped that you have hinted a lie and are, indeed, no priest." "let me go," said fordingbridge, "let me go." then he muttered, "curses on you all. if i could kill you both as you stand there, blast you both to death before me, i would do it." "without doubt," replied sir charles; "but if you will pardon my saying it, your schemes for injuring others seem to fall most extraordinarily harmless. and i trust your aspirations for our ill will not take effect until, at least, we have had time to put some leading jesuits in france--if not here--in possession of your true character." "curse you both, curse you all," again muttered fordingbridge impotently. "now," continued sir charles, "i propose to accompany your lordship as far as the door of your own house. once i have seen you safe there, care will be taken that you shall find no means of communicating in any way with those who have it in their power to injure our friends. when, however, they are beyond your reach you will be free from observation, and will be quite at liberty to devote yourself to making another peace with the government and with the--order of the jesuits. my lord, shall we now proceed to kensington-square?" "have a care," said fordingbridge, with an evil droop of his eye at him, "have a care, however, for yourself. if they escape me, you may not. a harbourer of jacobites, an abettor in their escape from england and from justice, i may yet do you an evil turn, sir charles ames." "i do not doubt it if you have the power. but, lord fordingbridge, you have so much to think of on your own behalf, you will be so very much occupied in you own affairs shortly--what with the state on one side and the church (your church) on the other--that i am afraid you will have but little time to devote to me. and i think, my lord, i can hold my own against you. now, come." douglas shook hands with sir charles as they stood apart once more from the wretched man, and after one hearty grasp strode away through the park, leaving the other two alone. yet he did not hesitate to acknowledge the truth of the baronet's last whispered words to him. "lose no time," that gentleman said as they parted, "in putting the sea between you and england. also induce your brother to go at once. i have frightened the craven cur sufficiently to keep him quiet for a day or so--alas! mine are but idle threats. the government must find out his villainies for themselves, while for his church you must put them on the scent, but afterwards i cannot answer for what he may do. once he finds that they are but idle threats he may go to work again. begone, therefore, both of you, and let me hear when you are safe in france." "have no fear," douglas replied; "by to-morrow, if all is well, we may be in calais. mcglowrie sends another vessel to-night. if possible, archie and i, kate and her father, may be in it. but the day grows late, there is much to do. again farewell, and thanks, thanks, thanks for all." "he is safe from you," said the baronet, turning, after douglas was gone, to fordingbridge. "now, my lord, i am ready." "i will not go with you," replied the other, some spark of manliness, or perhaps shame, rising in his breast at the manner in which he was dominated by this man whom, until to-day, he had never seen nor heard of. "i will not go with you." and he drew back from him and laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword. "no?" inquired sir charles, with his most polished air. then he continued: "i am sorry my enforced society should be so unwelcome." as he spoke he glanced his eye round the grassy slopes of the park and across the low brick wall which at that time separated it from piccadilly. "i regret it very much. but, my lord, i must not force myself where i am disliked. therefore, since i see a watchman outside who appears to have little to occupy him, i will, with your lordship's permission, ask him to accompany you and see you safely home. or, stay," and again his eye roved over the grass, "there is a sergeant's guard passing towards buckingham house--your lordship can see their conical caps over the bushes--i will summon them and relieve you of my presence, since it is so distasteful." "oh!" exclaimed fordingbridge, "if ever the time should come--if ever the chance is mine!" "it is not at present," replied the baronet. then, with an air of determination which until now he had not assumed, he stamped his foot angrily and exclaimed: "come, sir, i will be trifled with no longer. either with me, or the watch, or the soldiers. but at once. at once, i say!" and fordingbridge, knowing he was beaten, went with him. a coach was found at the park wicket, into which they entered and proceeded to kensington, no word being uttered by either during the drive. then, when they had arrived outside fordingbridge's house, sir charles, with a relaxation of the courteous manner that he had previously treated the other to, said, coldly and briefly: "remember, for two days you will have no opportunity of injuring anyone. that i shall take steps to prevent. afterwards, you will have sufficient occupation in consulting your own welfare," and, raising his three-cornered hat an inch, he entered the coach again. only, he thought it well to say to the driver in a clear, audible voice which the other could not fail to hear: "drive to kensington palace now; i have business with the officer of the guard." with those terrifying words ringing in his ears--for fordingbridge knew how, at that time, soldiers quartered in the neighbourhood of suspected persons acted as police act in these days, and were employed often to make arrests of persons implicated with the state--he entered his house, locking himself in with a key he carried. then he proceeded at once to ring the bells and shout for the deaf old servitor, luke, but without effect. there was no response to the noise he made, no sound of the old man's heavy, shuffling feet, and he began to wonder if he, too, had taken flight like the rest of the servants. yet, even if he had, his master meditated, it would matter very little now. he was himself about to take flight. london was too hot to hold him. a coward ever from his infancy, there could have been no better plan devised to frighten this man from doing more harm to those whom he wished to injure than the one adopted by sir charles ames; while the latter's statement that he had business with the officer of the guard at kensington palace was the culminating point to the other's fears. moreover--although his mind appeared to him to be strangely hazy and distraught now, and unable to retain the sequence of that day's events--he recognised the fearful weapon he had drawn against himself in suggesting that he was a jesuit priest. upon that statement, testified to by sir charles, a man of responsible position, he would certainly be arrested at once; while, if proof could be obtained that he was in truth a priest, or had ever been trained to be one, the most terrible future would lie before him. as he thought of all this in a wandering, semi-vacant manner, he set about doing that which, since the interview in the park, he had made up his mind to do. he would fly from england, he would return to france. yet, he reflected, if in france, paris would still be closed to him. there the jesuits were in possession of terrible authority, although an authority not recognised by the government; if they knew what he had done, even in only betraying archibald sholto to the english authorities, their vengeance on him would be sharp, swift, terrible. and in paris also--he could not doubt it--would soon be bertie elphinston and douglas, even archibald himself. no, it must not be paris. not yet at least! but he must be somewhere out of london, out of england, and he set to work--still in a dazed, stupefied manner--to make his plans. he went first to his own bedroom, to which was attached a small toilet or dressing-room, and, unlocking an iron-bound strong box, took from it some money--a small casket of louis d'ors and english guineas, a leather case stuffed full of bills of exchange and several notes, among them a large one drawn by a parisian money-lender on a london goldsmith. then, next, he opened a false tray, or bottom, in the strong box, and from it took out several shagreen cases which he slipped into his pocket. these contained all his family jewels. yet the man's fear was so great that he might even by now have been denounced by sir charles ames to the officer of the guard at kensington palace, that more than once he rose from the box and, on hearing any slight noise in the square, ran to the window and peered out of it and down into the road, and then came back to his task of packing up his valuables. and all the while as he did so he muttered to himself continually: "the notary must see to all--i will write to him from france. he had best sell all and remit the money. england is done with! neither hanoverian nor jacobite now. curse them both and all." then he laughed, a little sniggering, feeble laugh--it was wondrous that, in the state his mind was and with the ruin which was upon him, he could have been moved by such a trifle!--and chuckled to himself and said: "if luke comes back now he will find the door barred forever. a faithful servant! a faithful servant! well, his home is gone. let him go drown himself." he fetched next all the silver which he could find about the house, and which had been brought forth on his return from the coffers where it had lain since his father's flight into france years ago--candelabras, old dishes and baskets and a coffee pot, with a tankard or so--and hurled them into the strong box and locked it securely. then, after once more peering into the square and seeing that all was clear, he descended to the hall, opened the door an inch or two and again glanced his eye round, and, a moment later, drew the door to and went forth into the night. chapter xv. united. all through picardy, from artois to the ile de france, from normandy to champagne, the wheat was a-ripening early that year, the trees in the orchards and gardens of the rich, fruitful province had their boughs bent to the earth with their loads, and, so great was the summer heat, the cattle stood in the rivers and pools for coolness, or sought shelter under the elms and poplars dotted about by the river's banks. yet, heat notwithstanding, the great bare road that runs from calais through boulogne, abbeville, and amiens, as well as through clermont and chantilly and st. denis to paris, had still its continuous traffic to which neither summer nor winter made much difference, except when the snows of the latter belated many diligences and waggons--for it was the high road between the coast and the capital. and thus it was now, in this hot, broiling june of . along that road, passing each other sometimes, sometimes breaking down, sometimes, by the carelessness of drunken drivers or postillions, getting their wheels into ditches and sticking there for hours, went almost every vehicle that was known in the france of those days. monseigneur's carriage, drawn by four or six stout travelling roadsters--wrenched for the occasion from the service of monseigneur's starving tenants--and with monseigneur within it looking ineffably bored at the heat and the dust and the inferior _canaille_ who obtruded themselves on his vision--would lumber by the diligence, or royal post, farmed from louis the well-beloved--so, loved, perhaps, because he despised his people and said france would last his time, which was long enough!--or be passed by a _desobligéant_, or chaise for one person, or by a fat priest on a post-horse, or by a travelling carriage full of provincials _en route_ for paris. also, to add to the continuous traffic on this road in that period, were _berlins à quatre chevaux_, carriers' waggons loaded with merchandise either from or to england, countless horsemen civil and military, and innumerable pedestrians, since the accomplishment of long journeys on foot, with a wallet slung on the back, was then one of the most ordinary methods of travelling amongst the humbler classes. seated in the _banquette_, or hooded seat, attached to the back of the diligence from calais to amiens, on one of these broiling days in june of , were kate fane--as now she alone would describe herself or allow herself to be styled--and her father. they had crossed from england in the ordinary packet-boat a day or two before, and were at this moment between abbeville and amiens, at which latter place they proposed to remain for the present at least. to look at her none would have supposed that, not more than a week or two before, this golden-haired girl, now dressed in a plain-checked chintz, with, to protect her head from the heat, a large flapping straw hat, had been discarded by the man whom she had imagined to be her husband; had been told that she was, possibly, no lawful wife. for she looked happier, brighter at this time than she had ever done since she went through a form of marriage with the viscount fordingbridge, because--though not in the way that he had falsely insinuated--she was free of him. "what was it archie said to ye?" asked her father as the diligence toiled up a small hill, the road of which was shaded by trees from the burning sun. "what was it he said to ye in the letter you got at calais? tell me again; i like not to think that my daughter has been flouted and smirched by such a scoundrel as that. lawfully married, humph! lawfully married, he said, eh?" "lawfully married enough, father," kate replied. "lawfully enough to tie me to him for ever as his wife. but," she went on, "lawful or not lawful, nothing shall ever induce me to see him, to speak with him again." "read me the letter," said fane; "let me hear all about it." "nay, nay," answered his daughter, "time enough when we get to amiens, when we shall all meet again. oh, the joyful day! the blessed chance! to think that to-night we shall all of us be together once more! all! all! just as we used to be in the happy old times in the trousse vache," and she busied herself with taking a little wine and water from a basket she had with her, and a bunch of grapes and some chipped bread, and ministering to the old man. so, as you may gather from her words, those who had been in such peril in england were back safe in france. bertie elphinston had crossed, disguised, of course, as a drover, unmolested by "infernal sloops o' war and bomb-ketches"--to use honest mcglowrie's words--or anything else. and, also, the sholtos had come in the same way, finding, indeed, so little let or hindrance in either the river or on the sea, that they began to think the english king's rage and hate against all who had taken part in the late rebellion were slacked at last. they were, in truth, not nearly glutted yet, and the safe, undisturbed passage which they had been fortunate enough to make was due to that strange chance which so often preserves those who are in greatest danger. still, they were over, no matter how or by what good fortune, and that night--that afternoon, in another hour's time--all would meet at the inn, _la croix blanche_, in amiens. at calais kate had learned the welcome tidings; a letter had been given into her hands by no less a person than the great dessein himself--hotel-keeper, _marchand-de-vin_, job-master, and letter of coaches, chaises, and post-horses, and plunderer of travellers generally!--and in it was news from father sholto, as he might safely be called here in france, and from bertie and douglas. sholto's letter told her all she desired to know, viz., that fordingbridge's suggestion of his being a priest was a lie, "the particulars of which," the jesuit wrote, "i will give you at amiens when we meet." bertie's, on the other hand, told her--manfully and, of course, as a woman would think, selfishly--that he regretted that it was an implied lie. "because," wrote he, "had it been the truth, we might have become man and wife within twenty-four hours of meeting, and now we are as far apart as ever." some other details were also given, such as that father sholto was in residence for the time being at the jesuit college, and that bertie had rejoined his regiment and was now on duty at the citadel. douglas was at the _croix blanche_, and would take care that suitable rooms were kept for them, though, since it happened to be the great summer fair-time, the city was full of all kinds of people, and rooms in fierce demand at every hostelry. these letters, received by kate as they landed from the packet-boat in the canal at calais, were sufficient to prompt her to lose no time in hastening onward--north. the diligence, she found, left the hospitable doors of monsieur dessein at five o'clock on summer mornings, and did the distance of sixty miles to amiens in eleven hours, which dessein spoke of approvingly--and falsely--as being the fastest possible. still they could not afford anything that was faster--for they had little money in their purse these days. therefore, at dawn, they clambered into the _banquette_, which happened to be vacant, and set out upon their road. and now, as the diligence skirted the river somme, and drew near to picquigny, the towers of the cathedral _nôtre dame d'amiens_ came into sight, and the ramparts of the city. and, because it was fair-time, the roads were full of people of all kinds streaming towards it; of market people, with their wares, and waggons of fruit and vegetables, and poultry, of saltimbanques and strolling actors, strong men, fat women, dwarfs, and giants--since in those days fairs were not much different from what they are now, only the play was a little rougher and the speech a little coarser even among the lowest. nevertheless, amidst the ringing of the cathedral bells, as well as those of the collegiate church and amiens' fourteen parish churches, the diligence arrived at last, and only one hour late, at the office of the _poste du roi_, and there, walking up and down in front of it, were bertie and douglas, both in their uniforms, and waiting for them. "how did you know, mr. elphinston," kate asked, glad of the bustle and confusion in the streets caused by the fair and by the arrival of the diligence, "that we should come to-day? we might not have crossed from england for another week--nay, another month, for the matter of that." "we should have been here all the same," bertie replied. "i am not on duty at this time in the day, and douglas would have come every afternoon. we have watched the arrival of the diligence, kate, for the last week--since--ever since you wrote to say you were about to set out." "i did not know i told archie that." "no, but you told me. have you forgotten all you wrote to me, kate?" "no," she said, in a low voice, and with her soft blush. "yet, remember, ber----mr. elphinston--we are as far apart as ever. archie says i am, in truth, that man's wife." "i remember," he replied; "i must remember," and he led the way into the inn, which was close by the _poste du roi_. the young men had been fortunate enough to secure a room for themselves and the new arrivals, where they could sit as well as take their meals apart, in spite of the inn being crowded. nay, those who crowded it now were scarcely of the class who require sitting-rooms, nor, in some cases, bedrooms even; many of them being very well satisfied to lie down and take their rest in the straw of the stables. for among the customers of _la croix blanche_ were horse-dealers from normandy and from flanders; the performers at the booths, the strolling actors, mendicant friars--if friars they were!--vendors of quack medicines, and all the _olla-podrida_ that went to make up a french fair. these cared not where they slept, while of those who sought bedrooms there were _commis voyageurs_, ruffling gentlemen of the road, bedizened with tawdry lace, and with red, inflamed faces beneath their bag-wigs _à la pigeon_--on whom the local watch kept wary eyes--large purchasers of woollen ribbons and ferrets, serges, stuffs, and black and green soap for the paris market, in the production of all of which things amiens has ever been famous, as well as for its _pâti de canard_. nor did any of these people require private rooms for the consumption of their food, but, instead, ate together at the ordinary, or fed in the kitchen among the scullions and their pots and pans. therefore, undisturbed, or disturbed only by the cries that arose from below, as evening came on and the guests' table became crowded, douglas and bertie ministered to the wants of kate and her father, and compared notes of the passages they had made across from england. also they spoke of their future, kate's being that which needed the most discussion. "prince edward is safe," said bertie, "of this there is no doubt. he is known by those of this country, though by none in england, to be secure with cluny in the mountain of letternilichk, near moidart. off moidart is the 'bellona,' a nantes privateer, with three hundred and forty men on board, and well armed. she will get him away, in spite of lestock's squadron, which is hovering about between scotland and brittany. now, kate, when he arrives in paris, as he will do shortly, his household will be a pleasant one. your place must be there." "in the household of the prince!" exclaimed kate. "ay! in the household of the prince. nay, never fear. you will not be the only woman. the ladies elcho and ogilvie will be with you; also old lady lochiel. oh, you will be a bonnie party! while, as for mr. fane, some place must also be found." "but who is to find these places?" she asked. "archie," replied douglas. "he has interest enough with tencin to do anything. indeed, from finding a post at court to obtaining a _lettre de cachet_, he can do it." "why," said bertie to him aside, noticing that he turned pale as he spoke, "did you shiver then, douglas, as i have seen you do before now? you do not fear a _lettre de cachet_ for vincennes or the bastille--and--and--we are not talking of the man at whose name i have seen you shiver before." "i--i do not know," his companion replied. "it must be that i am fey, or a fool, or both. yet, last night i dreamt that archie was asking the minister for a _lettre de cachet_ to consign someone--i know not whom--to the bastille, and--and--i woke up shivering as i did just now." "it could not be for you, at least," answered the other. "perhaps," replied douglas, moodily, "for someone who had injured me. who knows?" whatever reply his stronger-minded friend might have made to this gloomy supposition, which was by no means the first he had known douglas to be subjected to, was not uttered since at that moment archibald sholto himself entered the room. his greetings to kate were warm and, at the same time, brotherly. he, too, remembered how for years the little party assembled now in _la croix blanche_ had all been as though one family; he remembered the black spot that had come amongst them; that to fordingbridge, whom he himself had introduced into fane's house, was owing most, if not all, of the evil that had befallen them. also he recalled that, but for fordingbridge's treachery, neither he, nor bertie, nor douglas would have been forced to flee out of england for their lives; that kate would never have forfeited her position nor have had the foul yet guarded suggestion hurled against her that she was no wife, but only a priest's mistress. then, when their first welcomes and salutations were over, he spoke aloud to her on the subject that, above all, engrossed their minds. "kitty," he said, "is fordingbridge gone mad? for to madness alone can such conduct as his be attributed." "i do not know," she replied. "i cannot say. all i know is that he is a villain and a traitor--that i have done with him for ever. yet he must be mad when he throws out so extraordinary a hint as that he is a priest. he could not have been a priest, and you not know it--could he?" up from the guests' room below there came the hubbub of those at supper, the shouts of the copper captains for more petits pigolets of wine, mixed with the clattering of plates and dishes, the calls of other travellers for food, and the general disturbance that accompanies a french inn full of visitors, as father sholto answered gravely: "my child, he might have been a priest and i not know it; god might even have allowed so wicked a scheme to enter his heart as that, being one, he should go through a form of marriage with an innocent woman. but, my dear, one thing is still certain, he was not, is not, a priest--i know it now beyond all doubt; you are as lawfully his wife as it is possible for you to be." "what--what, then, was the use of such a statement, such a lie, added to all the others which--god forgive him!--he has already told since first he darkened our door?" "the gratification of his hate, his revenge against you and all of us. he hated you because you had never loved him, and had at last come to despise him; he hated bertie because you had always loved him" (as he spoke, the eyes of those two met in one swift glance, and then were quickly lowered to the table at which they sat); "he hated me because i knew him. and, remember, until he had put himself in the power of douglas and sir charles ames by insinuating himself to be what he was not--a priest--he thought that i should soon be removed from his path for ever. once in the power of the english government, my tongue would have been silenced; it would have been hard to prove, perhaps, that he was not a priest; that you were a lawful married woman." "yet, surely, it could have been proved in some way. and--and--of what avail such a lie to him? knowing he is not a priest, he would not have dared to take another wife." "perhaps," replied sholto, "he had no desire to take another. if he is not mad, he had but one wish, to outrage and insult you, and thereby avenge himself upon you. moreover, he must have some feelings still left in him--your very renunciation of him may have led to his denial of you." "how have you found for certain that he is no priest?" "in the easiest manner. a letter to the 'general' at rome, another to the 'provincial' at lisbon, and, lo! a reply from each to the effect that neither under the name of simeon larpent nor the title of viscount fordingbridge had anyone been ever admitted to the society of jesus. at st. omer, i knew, of course, such a thing could not have happened; nay, i knew more: i knew that neither as novice nor acolyte, even, had fordingbridge ever been admitted, nor had he submitted to any of those severe examinations which all must pass through ere they can become these alone. as for priest--well, it was impossible, impossible that he could be one and i not know it, never have heard of it." "so, kate," whispered bertie to her, "you are still lady fordingbridge. as far apart as ever--as far apart as ever." "surely," said she to him, as now they talked alone and outside the general conversation that was going on, "surely it is better so. i have renounced him, it is true; willingly i will never see nor speak to him again; he and i are sundered for ever. yet--yet--bertie," and for the first time now, after so long, she called him frankly by the old, familiar name, "i could never have come to you had i been that other thing. you could not have taken such as i should have been for your wife." he looked at her, but answered no word. then he sighed and turned away. they sat far into the evening talking and making plans, while still, through the warm summer night, the noise of the crowded city came in at their windows and nearly deafened them. and this is what they decided upon for the future. the troop to which bertie elphinston belonged in the regiment of picardy would be removed, later on, to quarters at st. denis, and at about the same time douglas would rejoin his regiment in paris, while his brother archibald was about to depart for st. omer, where he should remain for some time. he had, he said, nothing more to do now in the world, since the restoration he had hoped so much from had failed altogether. therefore, because at present there was no need for kate to go to paris, and because, also, her father became more and more ailing every day, they decided to remain at amiens, to live quietly there in lodgings, and to have at least the friendship of the two young men to cheer them. there was still a little money left from the sale of doyle fane's fencing school in paris--indeed, it had never been touched since kate's marriage--which would suffice for their wants, especially since amiens was cheaper than paris to reside in. then, when the time came, they would all move on to the capital, and there, as they told each other, try to forget the black, bitter year which had come and separated them all from the happy life they had once led together. "only," said bertie once again that night to her, ere he went back to the citadel, "only, still we are parted; the gulf is ever between us. o kate, kate! if it were not for that." and once more for reply she whispered: "'tis better so, better than if it had been as he, that other, said. at least i am honest; if--if freedom ever comes, no need for you to blush for me." "nay," he said, "none could do that, knowing all. for myself, kate, i would it had been as the wretch said. then the bar would not be there." "but the blot would." with which words she left him and the others, going with her father to the rooms prepared for them. meanwhile, as now the full night was upon them, the hubbub and the uproar grew greater in the inn. back from the booths and open-air theatres came the mummers and the mountebanks, the mendicant friars with their pills and potions, balsams, styptics, and ointments, the norman and flemish horse dealers--the latter drunk and shouting for more drink--and all the rest. and they distributed themselves about the _croix blanche_, as, indeed, they were doing in every other hostelry in amiens, and laughed and shrieked and howled and cursed as they sought their beds in the straw or the garrets, and turned the ancient city into a veritable pandemonium. "i will walk with you a part of the way," said douglas to his brother and bertie as they rose to depart. "this narrow street is hot and stuffy, especially with the fumes that arise from the revellers below. the night air will be cool and refreshing before sleep." and buckling on his sword he went down with them, and out through the still crowded inn yard. at the jesuit college he parted with archibald, and went on a little farther with bertie, and then, saying that he was refreshed with the coolness, bade him also good-night. "it is good for us all to be together again, bertie, boy, is it not?" he exclaimed as they shook each other by the hand; "good to think that, with but a few intervals of separation when on service, we shall scarcely ever be parted more. nothing is wanting now but that you and kate could come together lawfully." "that," replied the other, "seems never likely to be permitted to us. well, we must bear it, hard as it is. yet, douglas, i am as honestly glad as you can be that we are safe back in france with all our troubles over." "yes," replied douglas, "with our troubles over. yet i wonder where that rogue ingrain, fordingbridge, is?" he was soon to know. chapter xvi. "treason has done his worst." some of those who came to amiens as attendants upon the fair had not yet sought their beds, whether in the straw of the stables, on the brick floors of the kitchens, or in the sweltering garrets under the red-tiled roofs. night birds, however, were most of these, creatures who found their account in roaming the streets, seeking whom they might devour. night birds, such as the bellowing, red-faced bullies who had been shouting all day for drink and food in the _croix blanche_, and who, managing to keep sober in spite of all their potations, sallied forth at midnight. for it was then their work began. then horse dealers, merchants, buyers, dissolute members of the local _bourgeoisie_ and the _petite noblesse_, making their way to their lodgings or houses, found themselves suddenly seized by the throat or from behind, and their watches, trinkets and rings taken from them and their purses cut--nay, might deem themselves fortunate if their throats were not cut too. once or twice men of this stamp passed douglas after he had quitted his friend--fellows in soiled finery with great swords by their sides, and with their huge hats drawn down over their faces--who looked at him askance, seeing his sword also by his side and noting his well-knit form and military bearing. but, as they observed his glance fixed keenly on them and his hand ready enough to his weapon, they passed on with a surly "good-night." making his way back to the inn, douglas came to a sudden halt as he arrived under the _beau dieu_ on the pillar of the great west doorway of _nôtre dame d'amiens_, for, in the open space in front of that entrance he saw two of these very night birds standing, evidently, as he supposed at first, planning and concocting some villainy. regarding them from behind a buttress of that old cathedral of robert de luzarches, he could observe them and all their movements plainly enough, since the full moon was high in the heavens by now; and, although the towers obscured somewhat the light, a great stream of it poured down into the place before the west doorway and with its rays illuminated the space. great brawny fellows they were, he could see; good types of the half swashbuckler, half highwayman, of the period--the class of men who would be found one day fighting as mercenaries at placentia or raucoux, another robbing a church or some lonely grange, another hung or broken on the wheel, or swinging in chains on a gibbet on some heath or by the seashore. "by st. firmin!" he heard one say to the other, while he balanced something in his hand which sparkled in the moonlight as he gazed down at it, "who would have thought the scarecrow had such valuables upon him? _regardez moi ça!_" and again he moved what he had in his hand, so that it glittered as though on fire. "'tis enough," replied the other, "we have done well this fairing. now for paris and _vogue la galère!_ we have the wherewithal to amuse ourselves for a year. come, let us ride to-night; to-morrow he may raise a hue and cry. come, the horses are outside; the gates do not shut till midnight. hark! it wants but a quarter," he broke off as the big clock above them boomed out that hour. "come," and clasping his companion's arm they disappeared round the other side of the cathedral. the first impulse of douglas was to seize these men, if possible; the next, since they were two to one, to follow them to the gate and there to call on the watchman to prevent their exit. and knowing that some robbery had been committed, perhaps some murder--as was very likely--he was about to put this idea in practice when his action was arrested by what startled him far more than the sight of the two scoundrels regarding their stolen wealth had done. that which so startled him was a man's form creeping up behind him in the shadow of the cathedral, a man who had come so near to him without his knowing it that, as douglas turned and faced him, he sprang out at him and endeavoured to seize him by the throat. and as he did so he shrieked out, "villain, thief, give me back my property! give it back, i say, or," and he hissed the words out, "i will kill you! see, i am armed: you have left me this," and he brandished a long knife that shone in the moonlight--into which douglas had now dragged him--as the jewels had heretofore shone. of the man himself, nor of his dagger, douglas had no fear; he was stronger than his antagonist, and his hand held the other's, which grasped the weapon, as in a vice. but what appalled, almost unnerved him, was that he knew the voice--and he knew the man. it was fordingbridge. "you fool!" he cried, "do you not know me? i am douglas sholto," and as he said the words he felt the other's hold relax, felt him disengage himself and stagger back against the wall of the cathedral, where, the moon lighting up his pale, cadaverous face, he stood gasping and glaring at him. "douglas sholto!" he muttered, whispering to himself, "douglas sholto here? so, you herd with thieves and robbers, do you? where are they gone, those others? where, where, i say?" "to the gates, i imagine. beyond them by now," for as he spoke the hour boomed forth from the clock in the tower above, and was repeated by all the other clocks in the city. "your property, lord fordingbridge, is gone. i cannot say that i am sorry for it, though, had you not come when you did, i was about to follow the men who robbed you and have them stopped at the gate. now, knowing whom they have despoiled, i can only say i rejoice that for once you have met with scoundrels as great as yourself." glowering, staring at him intently, the other leaned back against the cathedral, while from his eyes there shone a light which looked like the light of madness. nay, in that moment douglas decided in his own mind that he was mad. still, so great a villain did he know fordingbridge to be, that, gentle as he was to all others, he could feel no pity towards him. instead, he said: "so, my lord, not content with having nearly sacrificed our lives in england, you have tracked us all to this place, doubtless in furtherance of some scheme of your own, though what it is i cannot even guess. you can harm no one here. your spite----" "it is false," said fordingbridge; "i have done no such thing. i am myself on the road to paris"--he did not say that he was a fugitive from england--"and i have been robbed of all--jewels, money, bills." "to paris!" echoed douglas. "i am afraid you will scarcely be welcome there. the base hint you gave about being a priest will surely lead you into trouble--for it is a lie, as my brother has discovered," and he saw the other start at his words. but he went on: "moreover, there are many ardent adherents of the stuart cause in paris. how do you imagine they will receive the intelligence that you, a supposed adherent yourself, endeavoured to betray three others to their doom in london? lord fordingbridge, take my advice, do not go to paris." in truth, he had no intention of going to paris, as has been already told. after much deliberation, when he stole away from his house at kensington, and during the time occupied in escaping to france, he had been meditating much upon where he should live, where go to until the trouble he had brought upon himself by his own evil actions should have blown over. money he did not want, having a large sum in france that had been invested by his father, as well as that which he could procure from his property in england, and so, at last, he decided that he would for some time at least take up his abode at amiens. there he was comparatively near paris if he wished at any time to visit the capital, and at the same time he was but a day's journey to the seaports of calais and boulogne, should he find it necessary at any time to quit france suddenly. full of these ideas, and certain that it would not be long before he could either return to england or take up his position in paris, he had come on to amiens and was now staying at a larger inn than the _croix blanche_ under the name of mr. chester--which had been his mother's. he had come out that night, partly driven forth by the shouts and carousings that were going on in his own hostelry in the same manner that they were in all the others in the city, and which, with his brain in the state it had been for some time now, were maddening to him. and partly, also, he had been driven forth by discovering that a large group of english visitors had arrived during the afternoon, the very sight of whom was terrifying to him, since amongst them were one or two young men of fashion whom he had more than once met at king george's levees. therefore, he had determined to wander about the city until it was time to go to bed, and then to return and keep his room until the english party had gone on to paris the next morning and the hubbub of the fair was over. but near the cathedral he had been attacked and robbed of his money and trinkets--which, for precaution, as he imagined, he had kept on his person--and in endeavouring to follow the thieves he had stumbled on douglas sholto. "no one would know that i was in paris," he said, with a cunning leer in his eyes, as he answered the other's remark. "no one, no one." "on the contrary," replied douglas, "everyone would know--bertie, my brother, your wife, all." again the other leered at him with so sidelong a glance, with such a snake-like look, that douglas, remembering how archibald had said that night that he must be mad, began to feel sure that he was, indeed, in the presence of a demoniac--a creature whose pursuit of evil had turned his brain. and again, for some reason, the young man shuddered violently as he looked at him, as he had shuddered more than once before. "no," hissed fordingbridge, glinting his eyes round the open space in front of the great cathedral, which, with the exception of the spot where they stood, close up by the door, was now bathed in moonlight. "no; they do not know, they will never know. they think i am still in england; that i shall not leave it." "indeed! will they think so to-morrow when i tell them i have met you to-night?" "tell them to-morrow! to-morrow?" he whispered. "how can you do that, douglas sholto?" "very easily. they are all here." "here!" he almost screamed the word "here," and his eyes roved round the place as though he thought they might be hiding behind some buttress, or pillar, ready to spring out on him. "ay, here. one, who seeks for you ever, at the citadel, another at the jesuits' college, and your wife at an inn in the town." fordingbridge reeled back against the cathedral walls once more as he heard this unexpected disclosure--he had until now imagined that douglas was alone in amiens; and there he stood absolutely paralysed with apprehension. in amiens! the very place he had selected for a refuge. in amiens. they would know all to-morrow, all. and he would be brought face to face with elphinston, who would slay him, he never doubted; with archibald sholto, who would denounce him to the jacobites, of whom there were many in this city as well as paris; to the church, which he had slandered by falsely stating himself to be one of its priests. a church which, he knew--had reason enough to know--was sufficiently powerful to resent any affront to it; a church which--though the inquisition had no foothold in france--could make its vengeance felt. and he remembered he had bound himself to that church by many oaths to further the stuart cause in england, and had ended by denouncing three of its most active partisans! no need for elphinston to force him to fight; no need for the jacobites to take vengeance on him for his treachery; archibald sholto would see that the punishment was accorded. as he stood there, while douglas remained regarding him, he thought it all out as well as his disordered mind would permit; remembered that but for the hated form of the man before him they would never know he was in france. and if they never knew, then he might remain in peace until things could be smoothed over in england. but could they be so smoothed? he must know that first. "you drove me out of england," he said, or rather whined; "now you would drive me out of france"; and he folded his hands across his breast as he spoke, and stood shaking before the other. "your own cowardice, your own wickedness, drove you out," replied douglas. "nought else. and, lord fordingbridge, because i would not have you regard us upon the same bad level as yourself, let me tell you this: none of us are spies, denouncers, informers. none. we do not shift from white to black cockade to save our necks nor to gratify a base hatred. you were not denounced by us to the english government even after your execrable lies at lady belrose's; we but frightened you into silence till we had time to quit england ourselves. you have been terrified by a bugbear--by your own evil nature." alas! poor douglas. he was no match for this crafty, frenzied villain. he told more than he should. he showed fordingbridge that england was still open to him; he presented him with the knowledge that, besides himself, there was no one knew of his presence in france. in a moment the wretch had grasped this fact; in another he had resolved on what he would do. his glittering eye still upon douglas, who stood there calmly contemptuous, his left hand idly resting on his sword hilt, and his right in the lace of his ruffles, he asked: "is this true?" for answer douglas shrugged his shoulders and replied, "all men are not born liars." alas! poor douglas. unready as he was, he had no time to save himself. with a harsh, raucous cry the other sprang at him; the knife, which he had held hidden in his sleeve so long, gleamed in the moonlight; a moment later and it was buried in douglas's bosom. "so," said the assassin, "in this way i am free of france too." as he struck the unhappy man the latter reeled back three paces and then fell prone in the full blaze of the moonlight, while the murderer, with a hurried glance round, prepared to skulk away in the deep shadow thrown by the cathedral walls on a side street. yet, as though the horror of the deed he had done were not enough for him to carry away, he knew that it had been observed. as he turned to fly, he saw looking at him from a window in a darkened room the white face of a woman distorted with terror; a face from which the eyes seemed starting. and, as he crept by the buttress in the shadow, he also saw her raise her finger and point as though denouncing him. chapter xvii. gasconism. the summer waned, the autumn came, and poor, gentle douglas lay in his grave, but still his murderer had never been discovered. yet in connection with that murderer, or rather in connection with the murder itself, some extraordinary facts had been forthcoming which, after all, but served to surround it more and more with mystery. these you shall hear. when that white-faced woman, whose threatening finger had pointed at the assassin as he fled, recovered from her horror--she was but a poor concierge who had happened to be seeking her bed--she rushed forth into the open place where douglas's body lay, and there, with wild and piercing shrieks, awakened all who dwelt round the cathedral. at first she conveyed to those who hurried to the spot the idea that it was she who was the shedder of blood, for, as she threw herself down by the victim's side to see if any spark of life remained, her own white night garments became stained with the dreadful fluid, so that those hurrying to the scene imagined that they saw a guilty woman screaming over her own evil deed. but as she grew more composed she was able to tell her tale coherently; to relate how, in curiosity, she had stood watching those two conversing there; how she had seen the blow struck, and the murderer flee into the darkness. she was very poor, she said, every sou was worth taking account of; therefore, on moonlight nights, she sought her bed without candlelight. yet now she bemoaned her thrift, for had she but burnt a light it might have alarmed the assassin--have saved the unhappy victim. "but _mort de ma vie!_" exclaimed the chief of the watch, who by this time had arrived with two or three of his subordinates, "why not rush out and follow the man; why not at least open the window and scream? _peste!_ you women can do that if a mouse scampers across the floor or your husband reproves you, yet, behold! when a man is done to death you hold your tongue." the poor affrighted creature, still whimpering and shivering, explained that she had no thought of murder being about to be done; she had supposed they were two friends parting for the night; there was no sign of argument or quarrel, and, when the deed was done, she thought she had swooned for a moment or so. she could say no more. "_peste!_" again exclaimed the chief of the watch--a tetchy man given to examining all kinds of characters from midnight revellers and wassailers to housebreakers and worse, "why not do something better than swoon? and i'll be sworn, too, that you would not know the fellow again even though he came back this instant itself." but to this the woman protested her dissent. she would know him again anywhere, at once or at a long interval, adding with a shudder that "for ever and as long as she should live, his features were stamped into her memory." "what was he like, then?" asked the chief, "how clad?" "fairly tall," she replied, "though not so tall, i think, as _that_," and she glanced at poor douglas's body lying in the centre of the crowd that surrounded it. the chief of the watch, and a doctor who had come from out a house near, had examined it at once on their arrival, and, alas! there was no life left in it. the gentle spirit had flown. "also," she went on, "the assassin was very dark, his eyes of a piercing nature, his face white as a corpse--as _that_," and again she glanced at the dead man; "but the whiteness might be from horror, _mon dieu!_ it was a terrible face, the face of a devil, terror-stricken; the face of a fiend. but no remorse, oh, no! only fear--it might be of himself." "and his clothes?" asked the chief. "what of them?" "sombre, dark. all dark. scarce any lace at sleeves or breast, neither aigrette nor cockade, nor galloon to his hat; no sword." "not a bully, then, nor _filou?_ no appearance of a knight of the road? hein?" "no," the woman replied, "no." then, reflectively, she said, "it was, i think, no murder for gain nor greed. nay, could not have been. he stooped not, went not near the--the body after it fell. more like, i think, a deed of hate, of bitter, hot rage. who knows? perhaps a wife stolen, a daughter wronged. all is possible. for see, _it_," and again she glanced down, "was young, and--and, _mon dieu, il était beau!_" so they all said who gazed upon the handsome features now setting rigidly in the blaze of the moon. "_il était beau!_" "well," said the chief, "we must not stay here. he must be removed. meanwhile, i must to the officers of the guard; none must pass the gates at daybreak except under strict scrutiny. and the body must be searched to see if we can gather who and what he is. alas! alas! the woman speaks well. he was handsome." but now an exclamation arose from the crowd, while one or two stooped hurriedly to the earth, and the first picked up something that, as he held it out, glistened in his hand. it was an unset stone, a ruby. "_tiens_," said the chief, turning it over in his hand, "what's this? a ruby, and unset," he repeated. then meditatively, "it may have fallen from a setting worn by one or other, victim or murderer--from, say, a ring, a collar, a brooch for cravat, or ruffle. has he upon his body," he said to his attendant, "any setting to which it might by chance belong?" the man bent down and inspected poor douglas's form, then he rose and shook his head. "neither ring nor chain that i can see. nought that is likely to have held such as that stone." "humph!" mused the chief, "humph!" then he whispered to himself, "if anyone pass the gate to-morrow with an unfilled setting--bah! _non! non! non!_ he that has the setting belonging to the ruby will scarcely show it. yet, that the murderer owns it is most likely. if it had been lost by anyone who has lately worshipped here," and he glanced up at the cathedral over which the daffodil dawn was coming now from the east, "there would have been hue and cry enough. _allons_," he said aloud. "to the watch house. and, _bonne femme_, come you with us to testify." then, turning to his underlings, he said, "bring him with you--find a plank or door. and--and--be gentle with him. _pauvre garçon!_ has he a mother, i wonder?" for three or four days the search went on, those whom he had loved so aiding it in every way. archibald, stern, silent, inwardly crushed; bertie mad with grief and despair; kate broken-hearted. the lower parts of the city were ransacked and received visits from the watch and the exempts, but nothing came of it except great discomfort to the denizens thereof. nothing! and--which perhaps was not strange--never to one of those who had so loved him came the veriest shadow of a thought as to who the murderer was. it was not possible, indeed, that such a thought should come. he, they imagined--if ever in their sorrow they let his foul memory enter their mind--was in england. no, they never dreamt of him. they began, therefore, at last to think, as all the world which went to make up amiens thought, that some of the outcasts, the thieves and scoundrels who had visited the city at fair-time, had taken his bright young life. yet, strange to say, if such were the case, he had not been robbed. his pocketbook was on him, his purse untouched. there was little enough in either, it was true, yet, the night-birds would have had them had they been his slayers! then, at last, it seemed that the murderers were caught. there rode up to the south gate, on the fifth day, a sergeant and three troopers of the regiment picardy, and with them they had--bound with rope;--two villainous-looking scoundrels, fellows in stained and tawdry riding coats, with brandy-inflamed faces, one having a broken leg, so that as he sat on his horse he groaned with every movement it made. the sergeant's story was brief and soon told to the captain of the guard, while bertie elphinston, summoned to hear it, stood by hollow-eyed and sad, wondering if he was to learn that in these swashbucklers he saw the assassins of his poor friend. "_monsieur le capitaine_," said the sergeant, "by orders received from you we have scoured the roads for the last few days. then, last night, we put up at the _dragon volant_, outside of poix, and here we found these two _larrons_. this one--this creature here--who calls himself jacques potin, was abed with his broken leg, his horse having thrown him; the other one, who names himself adolphe d'aunay, was nursing him. _ma foi!_ a strange patient and a strange nursing. from the room they occupied came forth howlings and singings and songs of the vilest, mixed with oaths and laughter sufficient to have awakened their grandfathers in their prison graves. 'twas this drew my attention to them, _monsieur le capitaine_. passing their door, attracted by their roars and singings, i was also led to stop and listen, because, the uproar over, i next heard this conversation: 'curse you and your leg too!' said he who calls himself d'aunay; 'if 'twere not for your accident we should have been in paris now, safe and free with our prize disposed of. your drunkenness, whereby you got your fall, has ruined all.' '_mon petit choux_,' said the other, 'bemoan not; here we are snug and comfortable. our _logement_ is good, the food of the best, the wine of the most superior. what would you more? and we have the jewels, which are a small fortune, and the money--_bonnes pieces fortes et trebuchantes_--for our immediate wherewithal. as for the bills and bonds--well, we have destroyed them, so they can tell no tales. _mon enfant_, be gay.' "upon this," went on the sergeant, "i arrested them and found these." whereupon the man produced from his pockets numerous gold coins, french and english, louis d'ors and double louis d'ors, some gold quadruple pistoles, and a handful of english guineas. and also he brought forth, wrapped in a filthy handkerchief, a considerable quantity of pieces of jewellery containing superb precious stones. there were two necklaces, innumerable rings and bracelets, and a woman's tiara of rubies and diamonds. and from this latter--the rubies and diamonds being set alternately--one of the former was missing. "alas!" said bertie aside to his brother captain, "that proves nothing as regards my poor friend. he possessed no jewels, nor, in the world, one-half of that money. he had nought but his pay and a little allowed him by the scot's fund. these men may be his murderers, but all this is the result of another robbery--perhaps another murder." "nevertheless," said the captain of the guard, "we will hear their story. observe, a stone is missing from the tiara, and such a stone was found where your friend was slain." then turning to the two fellows before them, he said curtly, "now, your account of yourselves. and explain your possession of all this," and he swept his hand over the plain guardroom table, whereupon the money and the jewellery had been temporarily placed. "explain!" exclaimed the man who was called d'aunay and who appeared to be the boldest of the two--while he regarded the captain with an assumed air of fierceness and disdain. "explain! what shall i explain? that we are two gentlemen of gascony." "_sans doute_," the captain muttered under his teeth. "_oui, monsieur, sans doute_," repeated the fellow, who had overheard his whisper. "of gascony, i repeat. from tarbes, and resident at paris." "amiens scarcely lies on the route between those places," the captain remarked quietly. "permit that i make myself clear. we had been to your great fair in this fine city, and, by st. firmin, had much enjoyed ourselves and were riding back to paris when, by great misfortune, my friend, who suffers much from a painful and distracting vertigo, fell from his horse. naturally, i remained to solace and console him, and 'twas there that your sergeant--who, you will pardon me for saying, possesses not manners of the highest refinement and appears to combine the calling of a _mouchard_ with that of a soldier--burst in upon our privacy, and has added to his insults by dragging us back here." "you have your papers, doubtless?" the captain asked. "doubtless--at paris. they are there." "is it usual for gentlemen of--of gascony to travel with such jewellery and gems as these?" "_monsieur le capitaine_," said the man named d'aunay, "you will pardon me if i say that it is usual for gentlemen of gascony to do precisely whatever it seems best to them. at the same time they are respecters most profound of the law. therefore, monsieur, if you have had any complaint of jewellery stolen, i am willing to give a more full account of that which is in our possession." he was a bold villain--yet, perhaps, more of a crafty one. on the road from paris to amiens his sharpness had gathered something from the troopers, chatting among themselves, of what they were being brought back for, and he knew that it was for murder, and not robbery, that they were wanted. therefore, being innocent of the former, he brazened it out as regards the latter, though all the while thinking that there was, probably, as great a hue and cry after those who had robbed the man near the cathedral as those who had murdered the other one. that the captain of the guard was nonplussed his equally sharp eyes saw at once; and he drew himself up a little more to his full height and regarded the other with a still more assured air of haughty disdain. however, the captain went on: "there was a murder committed five nights ago in the place de la cathédrale----" "_nom d'un chien!_" interrupted d'aunay, "is it murder we are accused of next? excellent! go on, monsieur. there are still other crimes in the decalogue." "no, you are not accused of it. but circumstances require explanation. first to me, afterwards, perhaps, to the law. one circumstance is that in your jewellery," and he emphasised the "your" very strongly, "there is a stone, a ruby, missing from the tiara. now----" "it is found?" exclaimed the cunning vagabond, with an admirable assumption of gladness. "ha! that is well, monsieur; these are joyous tidings. that tiara was my mother's, la marquise d'aunay. i am indeed thankful." "it was found on the spot where the murder took place--the spot where the victim's body was also found." "_vraiment!_ and that spot was----?" he asked, with still greater coolness. "i shall not tell you. indeed, it would be best for you to say what spots you were in on that night." "on that night; monsieur speaks of which night?" "the th. the last night of the fair." "the th! jacques, _mon ami_," to his friend, "correct me if i forget to mention any place we visited. _vonons_. we supped at nine--_tiens_, the _paté de canard_ was excellent; we must instruct our cook in paris to attempt one. then we visited the theatre, a vile representation of '_les précieuses_,' i assure you, monsieur. next, because in gascony we never forget, amidst all our troubles of after years, our early religious instruction, we decided to attend the evening service at la cathédrale; there was a large and reverent crowd, monsieur----" "_dame!_" exclaimed the captain, turning to bertie; "i can do nothing with the fellow." then, re-addressing d'aunay, he said: "i have finished with you, sir. your next examination will be before the procureur du roi," and he ordered the two "gentlemen of gascony" to be confined in the guardhouse until that official should interrogate them. yet they were too much even for this astute old lawyer, who had learned his craft in paris in the law courts of the grand monarch, as they had learned theirs in half the gaols of france. d'aunay insisted first on knowing who charged them with having stolen the jewellery; where the person was who had lost it or had it stolen; and if the unhappy young man who had been so monstrously and cruelly done to death was known, or even supposed, to have been possessed of any similar jewellery? having achieved victory over the procureur in this respect, in the doing of which he exhibited such virtuous indignation, accompanied by strange exclamations and shrugs and hangings of the bench in front of him, as to nearly terrify the representative of the law into releasing him, he began on a new tack. "summon the good woman," he exclaimed, "who saw the murder done. by st. firmin, if she says one of us is the man, then to the wheel with us! also call the watch at the southern gate; if he in turn says that we did not pass through ere midnight--i hear the excellent female places the assassination after the first quarter past the hour had struck--then, i say, to the wheel with us! _sacré nom d'un chien!_ were ever gentlemen treated thus before? _sacré mille tonnerres_, is this france in which we are?" the woman was summoned, and instantly replied, "no, neither of the messieurs before her was the man. no resemblance whatever. she was certain. that face she could never forget. it was a devil's. on her most sacred oath, neither were concerned in the awful scene." the watchmen at the gate affirmed that both men passed out before midnight struck--the hour for the gate to close on _fête_-days. there was no possibility of his being mistaken--one, the big man, swore at him for having half closed the gate, thinking the last person had gone through for that night; the other insulted him and jeered at him, and flung a sou at his feet. "so," said the old procureur du roi, "you seem free of this crime. yet, i misdoubt me but you are the lawful prey of the gibbet. the sergeant heard you speaking of your plunder. that you have stolen the jewellery no one can doubt----" "produce the owner," interrupted d'aunay, on whom a clear light had now dawned. "we ask nothing but that." "also you swear by st. firmin. he is a saint of picardy, not of the south of france." "it would be strange if i did not swear by him. in the few hours we were here we heard everyone we met swear terribly by him. he must, indeed, be a saint of picardy--_surtôut_ of amiens." "also," went on the judge, "you spoke truth when you said you had been to the theatre and to the cathedral----" "naturally, monsieur. it is ever my habit. to shun the truth is impossible to me." "but your actions were suspicious. both at the theatre and the cathedral you were observed to place yourselves, to force yourselves, nearest to those who presented the appearance of greatest wealth----" "_finissons!_" roared d'aunay now in virtuous indignation. "enough. produce more tangible reasons for this detention, these insults, or release us. your charges have all fallen to the ground; you now begin a fresh one equally baseless. yet, because i love justice and respect the law--its administrators i cannot always respect--if anyone has been robbed at either theatre or church, bring them forward, and we will meet that charge too." "you will be released," said the procureur; "you are now free. but the jewellery will be retained for the present. later on it may be returned to you." so, not without many protestations, the fellows went away from amiens, d'aunay breathing maledictions against the barbarous laws which permitted honest gentlemen to be arrested and their property confiscated. yet, he swore, the end was not yet arrived at; when they reached paris they would soon set the highest legal authorities at work. also he edified the good people of amiens by the tenderness and care with which he assisted his suffering friend to mount his horse. later in that day they halted for an evening meal on the cool grass at the wayside, and, as d'aunay helped his comrade from his wallet, he said: "jacques, _mon ami_, observe always the advantage of truth. had i not mentioned our visit to the cathedral in the earlier part of the evening that cursed ruby would almost have sunk us." then he wagged his head and took a drink of wine. "yet," he continued, "i understand it not. let us consider. we took the plunder close by the cathedral. in front of the cathedral that other one was slain. none claim the jewels---_peste!_ 'tis hard to lose them. what do you make of it?" "a fool can see," replied jacques, as he shifted his wounded leg into an easier position. "any fool can see that. it was our friend who----" "precisely," said d'aunay. "precisely. _allons!_ to paris." "and the ruby fell out when we were examining the spoil!" "again, precisely. and remember, jacques, that if we ever meet our friend who once owned the jewels it would be worth while attacking him. also, above all, jacques, remember the truth is best. _allons!_ to paris!" chapter xviii. "what face that haunts me?" after that all hope was given up of discovering who had murdered douglas. from the first, from the moment bertie saw the jewels taken from the two vagabonds by the sergeant, he felt that neither of them were the culprits. yet, all asked each other whenever they met, "if not these scoundrels, who then?" "he had no enemy in france, in the world," said bertie, as they sat one night in the lodgings which kate had hired for her father and herself. "why, why should any creature have taken his life? in his regiment he was most popular--nay, beloved. oh! oh! i cannot understand it." and now, since, as has been said, the summer was waning--for douglas had been dead three months when they talked thus--their little circle was about to be broken up once more. one was gone for ever, they said in whispered tones, he could never come back; could those who still remained be once more united after they separated at amiens? bertie, with his troop and one other of the regiment of picardy, was to proceed to st. denis; kate and her father were to go to paris; archibald was to remain behind at amiens. over the latter a great change had come since his brother's death. he had always been a quiet and reserved man--perhaps from the very nature of his calling--one who never said more than was absolutely necessary to any person on any subject; now he seemed to have retired entirely within himself and to have but two things in this world to which his life was devoted: his faith, and his determination to find the murderer of douglas. "and," he said to bertie, "i shall do it. have no fear of that. i shall do it. i have now an idea--though an idea of so strange, so extraordinary a nature, that i hardly dare to let myself believe that it can ever take a tangible shape." "and may i, may kate, know nothing of that idea? remember how we both loved him." "no," sholto replied. "no. it may come to nothing--must, it almost seems certain, come to nothing. yet, if the secret can be unravelled, i will find the way to do it. then, when i am sure, if ever i am, you shall know all. nay, you will most assuredly know all." "will you tell us--tell me--no more than this?" asked bertie. "i will tell you nothing. it is possible i may be mistaken; more than possible. if i am not, then you will know." and with this the other had to be content, and to prepare to proceed to his new quarters outside paris. the jesuit's idea was, indeed, one about which he might well say that he could not believe it should ever assume a tangible shape. it was nothing else than that he believed he had seen those jewels--especially that tiara--before. he had examined them many times since they had been taken away from d'aunay and his companion and kept in the custody of the mayor of amiens--had turned them over and over in his hands; scrutinised the settings to see if he could observe any mark or inscription upon them. but there was nothing--no coronet engraved inside the tiara with a name, or initials, such as might well have been looked for in such costly gewgaws--nothing! yet the tiara forced itself upon his memory, seemed to be a thing he had seen before--worn upon a woman's head at some great ceremony. especially he seemed to remember one diamond to the extreme left of the diadem, a yellow, light brown stone that had flashed out a different light from its fellows beneath the gleams of many-lustred candelabras. but where? where? where? "almost," he whispered to himself, "i seem to see, as through a mist, the head, the face that was beneath it. dark hair, grizzled grey; pale olive complexion; lines of care. who was it? who? if i could remember that." at night as he lay upon his truckle bed, or as he walked by the banks of the somme, or held the jewels in his hands--for more than once he went to see them--he mused on all this. nay, when the memory of his beloved brother and his cruel death was more than usually strong upon him, he would ponder upon the idea that was ever in his mind as he stood at night, solitary and alone, in the place de la cathédrale before the great west door, and on the very spot where his loved one had fallen. but still memory failed him, or, as he came near believing now, he was the sport of a delusion. practised by long training in every mental art, he took next to recalling each scene of splendour--for in some such scene it was, he felt sure, that he had seen that gleaming hoop worn, if he had ever seen it at all--in which he had ever taken part from the time he had been ordained a priest, from the time when, an ardent enthusiast of the stuart cause, he had mixed in the great court circles. scenes at versailles, at marly and vincennes, st. germain and fontainebleau--for he had been amidst them all--were recalled carefully, yet still the phantom of the dark-haired woman with the threads of grey running through that hair evaded him. he had known so many such, he told himself, wearily; had seen so many women to whom jewels and adornments were the natural accompaniments, that, perhaps, it was not strange he should forget. also, he reflected, how easy for him, who had seen countless jewelled head-dresses worn, to imagine that he remembered this particular one! yet he could swear he remembered that yellow, brown diamond! tortured thus by his struggles with the dim shadows of his memory, he bade farewell to the others as they departed, and left him alone in the city so bitterly dear to him. "farewell, kate," he said, "farewell. god bless you! you are separated, as i think, for ever from a man utterly unworthy of you; yet you have still the consolation of being without dishonour--ay, without speck or blemish. he will never trouble you again, i do believe. let him, therefore, go his evil way, and go you yours in peace and happiness. i would that i could see a way to your obtaining the one happiness that should belong to you; wish it for your sake and bertie's. but it cannot be. not yet, at least. therefore bear up. heaven in its mercy will, i know, protect and prosper you." "good-bye, good-bye, archie," kate replied, as she sobbed unrestrainedly. "oh, how unhappy we are! we looked forward to so much in this meeting here, and see--see how it has ended! shall we ever be happy again?" "in heaven's mercy," he said, "in heaven's mercy." then he kissed her on the brow, shook hands with her father, and went his way back to his gloomy life, and now still more gloomy thoughts. yet never in those thoughts--no, not even though they had sometimes spoken of the man himself--did it dawn upon him that here was the one who might be the murderer of douglas. bertie was already gone, the two troops of the regiment of picardy having marched out a day or so before, the blare of their trumpets and the clatter of the horses' hoofs having awakened the city early. and he had seen kate--dawn though it was--glancing from her window to look at him, to wave him her farewell. "yet," he had said to her overnight, "it must not be for long, kitty. it seems to me that we grow nearer to one another as trouble falls--at least, there can be no assassin's knife to come between us. kate, i shall come and see you as often as i can get leave to visit paris; even though you are in a king's--a future king's--house, as i still hope--i may come. is it not so?" "yes," she said, "you may come always. oh, bertie, we are parted for ever--our lives, our hopes, all--yet if i could not sometimes see you, know that you are well, happy--you will be happy, will you not, when this great sorrow is eased by time?--i think i should die. surely it cannot be wrong, remembering what we once were to each other, what we once were to have been, to wish to know and hear of you." "what we once were to have been!" he repeated, in almost a whisper. "to have been. o kate! o kate! those plans, those projects for the future!" his voice broke and failed him as he continued: "you have not forgotten them! kate, do you remember how once we pictured ourselves growing old together, how we meditated on the time that should come when, our lives done with, we should rest together in some calm and peaceful grave?" "no," she said, "no," and sprang to her feet excitedly. "no! no! no! i will not remember--will recall nothing, for if i do i shall go mad. remember nothing--'tis best so. go, bertie elphinston, go to your duties, as i will go to mine. let us forget everything--except--except----" she faltered, changing in a moment womanlike--"that it was i who ruined and cursed both our lives." he soothed her as best he could, reproaching himself for having revived such memories; reproaching himself, too, for the silence that had led to her believing him false. and once he said, as he had said in england when first they met again: "mine was the fault, let mine be the blame. yet, unhappily, both have had to suffer. surely something must arise to end that suffering ere long." he did not know it, could not, indeed, know it; yet the end was far off still. there were more vigils of sorrow to be kept by both, more grief and pain to be endured. nor when she said between her tears, "if we were to be parted again now, if i should never see your face more, my heart would break," could she know what lay in front of them--black, dark, and lowering. her future was in a way provided for. the cardinal tencin, in spite of being somewhat out of favour now and retired to his archbishopric of lyons--for when a french prelate was in disgrace his punishment was that he should attend to his diocese instead of being in paris!--had still entire influence over the exiled stuarts. therefore it was to him that archibald sholto applied on behalf of kate, and through him that she was to be appointed to the small court now being formed round charles edward in paris. that unhappy prince--though fortunate in some things, especially in his escape from scotland after the rebellion--had now landed at roscort, three leagues west of morlaix, from the "bellona," of st. malo, and was safe once more in paris. his adventures since the defeat of culloden had been truly marvellous, and his escapes not less so; twice he was in danger of being shot, five times in danger of being drowned, nine times he was pursued by men of war and armed vessels of king george, and six times he escaped being captured by what seemed to be miracles. also he had been almost famished for want of food and drink, and had had to lie out on the bare heaths or wild mountains and to shelter in caves. yet now he had entered paris again, had been graciously welcomed by the french king and queen, and was in treaty for a fine house in the quartier st. germain. it was to that house that kate, with her father, was to go, there to form two of his small court. at first when she took up her residence in it she was happy. she was among friends she had known in paris, many of them also comrades of bertie who had fought in the last invasion and themselves escaped. the lords ogilvie and elcho were there with the ladies of their family; there, too, were old lochiel and young lord lewis gordon; the young lochiel also, and captain stafford, who had lain long in newgate in irons, yet was now escaped and free. also she was happy because bertie was able to come and see her, and on one occasion, with all the others, including herself, accompanied the prince when he went to pay his respects to louis at versailles. "faith, kate," he whispered to her on that evening, when, charles edward being at supper with the royal family, they strolled together up and down the mirrored galleries of the palace, "'tis even better than the old days, were it not that dear douglas has left us," and he sighed. "but," he went on, "you are provided for--that, at least, is well, or as well as things are ever likely to be." she said, "yes, it is well, so far." then she continued: "still, bertie, i am unhappy." "unhappy?" "yes. unhappy because i never know when that man--my husband--may cross my path again. oh, if i could be sure i should never see him more!" "at least he can never harm or annoy you. have no fear of that. remember, he knows that archibald and i are in paris, and, of course, believes that douglas is here also. his dread of us will keep him away. he will trouble you no more. and if he should come--which is of all things most unlikely--why, i shall be near at hand to shield and protect you." "you will always be near me?" she asked. "always now? oh, promise, bertie; promise me that you will never disappear again." "of course, i promise. why, where should i go to?" and he laughed as he asked. "my life is now bound up with the regiment. short of campaigns nothing can take me far from you." "yet," she replied, "i fear--fear always. it is only when you are near that i feel safe--feel that i have one who is a brother to stand between me and harm." "yes," he said, "as a brother. it can never be anything else than that now--yet, as a brother, i will not fail you." so they went back to paris as they had come, the royal visit being over. and then it seemed at last as if, with some few changes, things were to be almost as they had once been, though it is true that, instead of the old house in the rue trousse vache, she and her father were lodged in a mansion which was in fact a palace, that douglas was gone out of their life forever, and that she was a wife in name, though nothing else. bertie came at least once a week to paris from st. denis, both to pay his respects to his prince--as he regarded always charles edward--and also to see her, and brought her flowers from the gardens round that old town. but he brought no news from archibald as to his having been successful in discovering who the murderer of douglas was. the priest had, indeed, written to them once or twice from amiens, but he either refrained from mentioning the subject at all, or, if he did so, said that he could discover nothing, and that any idea he might have had on the matter was, he now feared, a futile one. "i began to also fear," bertie said, as he talked it over with kate, "that it was indeed a futile one--that never now will he be avenged. poor douglas! who could have desired his life--who have struck so foul a blow?" "it must have been," she answered, "as we at first thought, a murder in the hope of robbery afterwards." "or," said bertie, "as sometimes i think now, the offshoot of another--an undiscovered murder. what if those vagabonds who called themselves gascon gentlemen had previously slain someone else who was possessed of all that jewellery, and douglas had come across them at the time, and, in endeavouring to save that other, was slain himself?" "no," she said, "no. that is impossible. no other victim's body was found, and there was no place where they could have hidden it away, or, having hidden it, could not also have disposed of his. besides, remember: the woman--the concierge--saw only one other slay him, and that other was neither of the gascons. nor was his sword drawn. no, we must seek elsewhere for the solution of that crime." thus they talked it over and over whenever they met. surely it was natural that they should do so, seeing how much he had been to them, and how awful a blow his assassination was, but never did they arrive at any thought or idea of who was the actual murderer. and, as they so discussed it day by day, the autumn departed as the summer had done, and the winter was almost upon them. already the leaves lay in heaps at the roots of the trees, the swallows were all gone, the nights were long and dark, and douglas slept unavenged in his grave. and still the troubles, the griefs and sorrows of this luckless man and woman were not yet at an end. another blow was still to fall upon them--it was close at hand now, though they knew it not. chapter xix. "which way i fly is hell--myself am hell!" it was the feast of st. denys, the patron saint of france. over all the land, from north to south and east to west, the churches and cathedrals were crowded on that day with worshippers bringing offerings and gifts to the altars, praying for the saint's aid to be still continued to them, asking for pardon for past sins, for prosperity in the future. on that day the king himself went in state to nôtre dame, accompanied by his brilliant court. in the provinces, governors of fortresses and of departments did the same thing at the local cathedrals; prisoners were released because of the anniversary of st. denys, while some of the worst among them were executed--both as an example, and because it was the great _fête_-day and a holiday when other people required to be amused. in amiens, as in all the other cities boasting a beautiful cathedral and possessed of a strong religious element, it was the same as elsewhere. from morning until night the bells clanged at intervals from the towers of nôtre dame and the fourteen parish churches; processions innumerable took place, masses of all kinds--capitular, conventual, missa cantata, missa fidelium, mass high and low--were said and sung, accompanied by kyrie, gloria, and credo, by sanctus, benedictus, and agnus dei. but at last all was over--of a religious nature. the crowds that had filled nôtre dame d'amiens were streaming out to other forms of celebration of the _jour de patron_. it was the turn of the theatres now and the family gatherings, of the dance and song and jest among the better classes; the turn of the supper party and the wineshop and the _courtesan_ for the remainder of the day--or rather night. yet, for those who still were willing to continue their religious devotions, still to regard the occasion more as a fast than a feast, the opportunity presented itself and was availed of by many. in every church in the city, in the cathedral above all, worshippers still knelt in prayer, though the hour grew late; at the confessionals hidden priests still listened to the sins--real or imaginary--of those who knelt before them. in that cathedral with, still lingering about it, the odour of the incense that had been used that day, with the organ still pealing gently through the aisles, while at intervals the _voix celeste_, in flute-like tones, seemed almost to utter the soul's cry, "oh, agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere mihi!"--those confessors sat there, and would sit until midnight struck, to listen to and absolve all those who sought for pardon. "my son," came forth the muffled voice of one, his face being hidden in the impenetrable darkness in which he sat--a darkness still more profound since many of the lights in the great edifice had either been extinguished or had burnt themselves out, "the confession is not yet all made. therefore, as yet there can be no absolution. confess thy sins! continue!" kneeling outside, the stricken creature thus addressed, its wild hair streaming down its back and meeting with the other unkempt hair on cheek and chin, its eyes gleaming, like a hunted animal's, around and up and down the dusky aisles, and glancing at pillars as though fearing listeners behind each, went on: "my life, oh, holy father, was in his hands. he knew all; knew i was in france, and that he could give me up to justice to those whom i had wronged. oh, father, _mea culpa, mea culpa!_ absolve me! absolve me!" "tell first thy sin," the muffled voice said again. "thou hast not yet told all. deceive not the church. confession first, then absolution." the penitent groaned and wrung his hands, threw back the locks from his face, and then, with that face pressed close to the confessional, hissed in a whisper: "father, i was mad--am mad, i think. i was sore wrought; but half an hour before i had been assaulted and robbed by two villains of much wealth in jewels--and--and--i feared he would denounce me for my crimes, make my presence known. so, holy father--in my frenzy, in my fear--i struck him dead. i slew him. have mercy on me, god!" "where slew you him?" the priest's stifled voice continued. "there, father--without, by the west door. oh, pardon, pardon, that here, on holy ground that should be sanctuary, i took his life!" it seemed almost to the wretch outside the confessional that the priest had uttered a gasp, had started in his seat, as he heard these words; yet presently he spoke again: "the victim being the young scots officer found murdered more than three months past?" "'tis so, holy father. 'tis so. oh, pardon! pardon me! _mea culpa, mea culpa!_" "what restitution have you made?" the voice was heard to ask. "what restitution propose to make?" "i know not what to make, father. i cannot call him back to life. what can i, must i do?" "have you wronged others--man, woman, or child? think! trifle not with the church. there are, doubtless, others." "oh, father, i have been an evil liver--a bad husband; bad friend. set my feet but in the right way! show me the path. and oh! father, absolve me of this sin of blood. above all, that!" "confess all," the priest said, "confess all." then, still shivering there, while more and more the shadows grew within the great temple and it became more and more empty, the wretched assassin went on, though ever and again glancing behind the stately column and pillars as though fearing that unseen listener. he told how, determined to gain possession of a woman whose beauty maddened him--the more so because she despised him, or, at least, regarded him not--he had tricked her into the belief that the man she really loved had jilted her. also how, when even that brought them no nearer, he had married her. how, later on, when wearied and exasperated by her hate and scorn, he had denied her as his wife, hinting that he was himself a priest; yet it was a lie, for he was no priest, having never been more that a lector. "almost," came forth the confessor's voice again, "art thou beyond absolution--beyond pardon." "no! no! no!" wailed the wretch. "twice hast thou used our holy church to aid in thy deceit. first, when thou suborned a villain and caused him to pretend he had performed the holy office of marriage; next, when thou falsely claimedst the office of priest to disavow thy lawful wife. man, how shall i absolve thee? yet, be more careful, or thy soul is lost for ever. hast thou done more evil than this, committed more outrages against the church?" because, perhaps, the wretched creature was half mad with terror now, with a new terror for his soul--whereas before he had but feared for his body--he told all that he had done; how, indeed, he had still further sinned against the church in that he had set on foot a plot having for part of its intent the ruin of a priest of that church, a jesuit, one sholto. it was all told at last. for so long did the confessor sit silent in his unseen place that the miserable penitent, thinking no absolution would come forth to him, began to tremble, even to weep, and to call on him again for pardon and for pity. but at last the other spoke: "art thou well-to-do in the world?" he asked. "what are thy means?" yes, he said he was well-to-do; he had large means in both england and france. what portion should he set aside to appease both god and the church? "all," answered the priest. "all." "all!" he gasped. "go forth a beggar! "all. ay, all. better go forth a beggar, stand naked in the market-place, than strip thy soul of its last chance of salvation." "all!" "to the last sol, the last dénier--excepting a provision for thy unhappy wife. thou art the shedder of blood, the blasphemer of the church and its holy offices, thy soul is clogged with guilt. i know not, even then, and with all else that thou must do, if it can ever find expiation." "say not so, father; absolve me, pardon me! see! see! i will do it. before god i swear, in this his house, that i will do it! i will become a beggar, part with all. only, father, give me his pardon. pardon, and set me free!" "yet, still more," said that voice, "must thou do. listen!" and from his lips there fell so deep a charge that the murderer, kneeling there, knew that to save his soul in heaven he must forego all hopes of future peace on earth. nevermore was he to touch meat nor aught but the coarsest black bread, never drink but water, never sleep soft, nor lie warm again. and there was worse even than that. he was to go forth to wild, savage parts of the world, there to pass the rest of his existence in trying to preach god's goodness and mercy to the heathen who knew him not. on the promise that he would do this the priest would give him absolution; otherwise he would refuse it, and his soul must go to everlasting perdition. he promised, and he was absolved! still sitting there, the last in the cathedral that night--for all were gone now except those who were to guard it until midnight had struck--he became the prey of even worse horrors than he had been before; he was absolved as regards his soul, yet into his mind a new fear had arisen for his body--a fear that became a spectre. he had thought that once or twice he had recognised in the tones of the priest's voice some that were familiar to him; now he felt sure that they were. he had confessed to his bitterest enemy on earth--to archibald sholto! to the brother of the man whom he had murdered! this was the meaning of the awful doom passed on him--the doom of ruin, beggary, and starvation, of expatriation to wild and savage lands. to him! he had confessed to him of all others! yet, was it so, or was he, in truth, mad? he had heard of madmen who knew that they were mad and who could yet be so cunning as to contend with that madness, wrestle with it, subdue it--for a time. let him do so now. let him think it all out. was it, in truth, archibald sholto? it might well be. for three months he had been in hiding in a small village near amiens, watching over the course of events connected with his assassination of douglas, avoiding, above all others, yet keeping them ever under his own view, two persons. one was archibald, the other the woman who had seen his face on that night--the white-faced woman in the darkened room who had raised her finger and pointed as he did the deed. "avoided them," he muttered now, as he sat there in the dark, watching the sacred lamp that burned unceasingly above the high altar, but still engaged always in peering into the deep shadows and blackness in which the huge pile was now enveloped--"avoided them. o god, how have i avoided them! yet, drawn irresistibly to where they were. little does he know how i have seen him officiating at his own church, or she how i have passed her close, though unseen; even peered into her room at night from the street, when, dragged here by--by--the fierce desire to stand again upon the spot where--where he fell. once, too, she felt, unwittingly, my presence. as i brushed against her in the street she shuddered and drew back from me. something revealed that one accursed had touched her." he moaned aloud as he sat there, his head buried in his hands; then, because his mind was now disordered and he was half mad, half sane, a smile came on the evil face that he turned up as the moon's rays came through the great rose window and lighted all the nave. "yet," he murmured, "it was in the confessional under the seal of confession. if it was douglas's brother, he can do naught. naught! confession is sacred. that seal cannot be broken. but was it he? was it? was it? "his face i could not see, but the tones were like unto his," he continued. "and once he started--i am certain of it. o god, have i told his brother all? his brother! his brother!" above, from the great tower, there boomed the striking of the hour--midnight. and again he shuddered and moaned and whispered with white lips: "the very hour, the hour that i cannot hear, can never hear again, without agony and horror unspeakable. the hour told by the same clock that told it on that night of blood. i must go," he wailed in low, broken tones, "must go there. he draws me to the spot; i see his finger beckoning me nightly. his eyes met mine once, a month ago, as i reached paris. i thought i was free and had escaped, yet they dragged me back to this accursed spot. i must go. i must go. he waits for me. ever--ever when the moon is near her full. i am absolved by him, his brother, yet he is always beckoning me and makes me go." a hand fell on his shoulder as he sat there, and he started up with almost a shriek, and with his own hand thrust in his breast--perhaps to draw some hidden knife, perhaps to still the leap his heart gave. "monsieur," a voice said, the voice of the old sacristan, "permit that i disturb your pious meditations. but all are gone now, including the priests. the cathedral is about to close." "yes, yes," he muttered low, "i will go. i will go. i have stayed too long." "by the west door, if it pleases monsieur. it is the only one open." "the west door," the terrified creature muttered as he left the old man putting out the last remaining lights, and so made his way towards the exit indicated. "by the west door. it must needs be that. it is the nearest to the spot, and he will be there waiting for me, the moonlight shining in his glittering eyes as he beckons me to him, the glare of reproach in them. i must go. i must go." down the long aisle he crept, shaking as with a palsy as he went, starting and almost crying out again as a bat flew by and brushed his hair with its wings, going onward to what he dreaded to see, the phantom of the murdered man which his distracted brain conjured up nightly. "he will be there," he muttered again. "he will be there." he reached the great west door--striking against the bell ropes hanging in the tower, and gasping at the contact--and then paused at the wicket let into the door, dreading to go out through it to meet the ghostly figure that he knew awaited him. still, it must be done, and with another gasp, a smothered groan, he stepped out through the wicket into the shadow thrown by the cathedral wall, and gazed upon the moon-illuminated spot where douglas had fallen dead. and once more he smothered a shriek that rose to his lips. standing above that spot, its back to him, but as he could tell by the bent head, gazing down upon it, there was the figure of a man--a man still as death itself; a man bare-headed. "you have come again," he hissed in terror. "again! again! mercy! mercy!" swiftly the figure turned and faced him--its eyes glistening in the moonlight as he had said--and advanced towards him. "douglas!" he screamed. "douglas! mercy!" "no," the figure said. "no. not douglas. archibald." chapter xx. avenged. he had fallen grovelling to the earth as that figure turned its face towards him, and now he remained in the same position. as he did so archibald sholto knew for certain that he had found his brother's murderer. in the moment of witnessing that frenzied terror there had flashed into his mind the knowledge of who had been the wearer of the tiara with the one yellow-brown diamond in it; the recognition of the dark head streaked with grey with which his thoughts had been filled for weeks, yet without certainty--the head of the murderer's late mother! he knew all now. she it was who had worn the diadem in the great ceremonies he had taken part in; the rejoicings at the peace of ' , the almost equally great rejoicings at the death of the emperor charles, and many others. she, lady fordingbridge, his mother, had worn it often; often had he observed the strange light emitted by that blemished jewel; and now, from the tiara in which it still remained, a ruby was missing, and had been found on the spot where his brother had been done to death. therefore he knew that that brother's assassin was before him. god had given him into his hands. he bent forward over the crouching creature at his feet; in a low voice he said: "so, i have found you, simeon larpent. even though you are armed to-night as you were on that other night; even though you bear about you the weapon with which you slew him, you cannot escape me." "you can do nothing," the other said, turning up an evil eye at him and then rising to his feet--"nothing! your tongue is sealed. what i confessed was under the sanctity of the confessional; you dare tell naught." at once the jesuit's clear mind grasped the facts--at once he perceived that the murderer had been cleansing his soul before a confessor--and thought that he was that confessor. "i told you all," fordingbridge went on, "all, all. and you absolved me, pardoned me, though the punishment you meted out to me was hard. have you not vengeance enough? to go forth a beggar and an outcast--to wander in savage lands until i die--surely, surely, that is enough. let me go in peace." "not yet," archibald sholto answered; "not yet." "not yet!" the other repeated. "not yet! what more would you have? all is told--you know all now. shall i repeat what i said in there? i slew him here upon this spot because he would have warned you and elphinston that i was in france, and--you absolved me. it is enough." "you slew him here upon this spot," the jesuit said, and he pointed with his finger to the place, "upon this spot. you acknowledge it?" "have i not said? you have absolved me." it was strange how, from the repetition of this phrase, he seemed to take comfort. "you have absolved me." "you are mistaken," the other said, while as he spoke he drew nearer to the murderer, though keeping ever a wary eye upon him. "mistaken! i have heard no confession for a week." "what!" exclaimed fordingbridge, springing back a step or so, while now his eyes glared round the deserted cathedral place--again like the eyes of some hunted or trapped wild beast. "what! it was not you in there? not you!" "no. not i. simeon larpent, you are doomed. you divulged your crime under the seal of the confessional in the cathedral; you have divulged it openly here with no such seal to protect you. murderer! you are in my power!" as he spoke he saw the other do that which he had been anticipating. he saw his hand steal to his breast; he knew that he was searching for some weapon concealed there. but he feared him not; he, too, was armed. ever since he had sought for the assassin he had carried about with him a small pistol, knowing that if, by any strange chance, fortune should throw him across the villain's path, such weapon might be needed. to-night he had come out to gaze again on the place where the deed had been done, never thinking, never dreaming, that there of all places on the earth that murderer should be found, yet not neglecting the precaution of being armed. now that precaution stood him in good stead. "draw no hidden weapon from your breast," he said, as he saw the hand go to it; "remember, i am not as douglas was, but am forewarned; and if you bring forth one, i will slay you here on the spot as you slew him, and save the hangman his office," and as he spoke he showed the other the little inlaid pistol, its barrel glistening in the moon's rays. "you know nothing," the other hissed at him now, "nothing. i have told you nothing--you have no witnesses. my word is as good as yours, even if i let you take me--which i will not," he continued, "which i will not." "no witnesses?" said archibald; "no witnesses? nay, look behind you. look! i say. no other witness is required." affrighted at his words--thinking, perhaps, that the terrible spectre that haunted him always now might be standing menacingly behind him--he glanced round, and what he saw struck nearly as much horror to his crime-laden brain as could have done the ghost of his victim. advancing from an open door by the side of the cathedral there came a woman, her face white as any ghost's or leper's, her eyes distended, her hand uplifted and pointing at him. indeed, so appalling was her ghastliness, the whiteness of her face being made doubly so by the rays of the moon falling upon it, that the dazed, stricken creature hid his own face in his hands and recoiled as she advanced. "it is he," she said. "it is he. nightly almost he comes when the moon is up. seize on him, seize him! let him never escape again," and still she pointed at the man shivering between them. "fear not," archibald said. "fear not." then turning to fordingbridge, while he held the pistol pointed at him, he continued: "come! resistance is useless. i have sworn here, upon this spot, to avenge douglas; i will keep my oath. till you stand upon the scaffold you are mine." "he has a weapon to his hand," the woman said, still with her own pointing at him as if it were the hand of fate. "see!" then, as though she were one inspired, she said, as she turned to him, "give me the knife." whether his mind was gone at last, or whether fear had so overcome fordingbridge that he was no longer master of his actions, sholto was never able to decide. yet, from whichever cause it was, he obeyed his ghastly denouncer in so far that, as she spoke to him, the dagger dropped to the earth. and she, picking it up, placed it in the priest's hands, saying: "it is borne in on me that with this he slew that other one. i feel it--know it." "you will testify that he is the murderer?" sholto said. "you do not doubt?" "doubt!" she exclaimed, turning her wan, white face on him. "doubt! how should i doubt? he has haunted me since that awful night--haunted me, almost driven me to my death. oh, you know not! i have risen at night from my bed to see him standing there, muttering, grimacing over that very spot, so that, as i gazed on him from out the darkness of my room, i have swooned again as on that night i swooned. had i been a man, nay, had i had a man to call on, i would have gone forth and seized him. yet, when i have told others that nightly, almost, the murderer came and gloated over the space where he slew the other, they derided me, said i was mad, would not even watch themselves. oh, the horror of it! the horror of it!" "the horror is ended for you now, poor woman," the priest said. "never more will he affright your sight when you rise from your bed. yet do me one service, i beg you. put on some clothes, for the night air gets cold"--she had, indeed, come forth from her room--where she had again been watching in terror, fearing to see another murder--in little else than her night raiment--"and go fetch the watch. i will see that he escapes not." the woman went away at his request, and coming out from the house, at which she was the concierge, with a cloak thrown over her shoulders, sped down the darkened streets, while once more the avenger and his prey were left alone. but they spoke no more to one another now; only stood there silent, facing each other. yet once, after a few moments' pause, fordingbridge chuckled audibly and whispered to himself. god only knows what was in the wretched man's mind as he did so; archibald, at least, made no attempt to discover. for himself he was contented. fate had thrown into his hands the assassin of his beloved brother--that was enough. presently the woman came back, and with her three of the watch, armed and with a lantern borne in the hands of one, and into their custody the jesuit gave fordingbridge. yet, since he could not feel at ease until he had seen the other safe under lock and key, he accompanied them to the prison--to which the guardhouse was attached--and handed him over to the officials there. "to-morrow," he said, "i will formally lay my charge against him before the procureur du roi; till then, i pray you, keep him safe. he is the murderer of the young scotch officer who was slain outside the cathedral, and was my brother, as all amiens knows." "never fear, monsieur," said the chief of the watch; "we will keep him safe enough. our cage is strong." * * * * * * * a few nights later than the one on which the murderer, fordingbridge, had been taken to the prison, bertie elphinston, riding up to the northern gate of paris, demanded admission. it was a cold, raw night this--one of those october evenings common enough to the north of france, when the moisture hangs like rain-drops on every bush and bramble, and when the rawness penetrates to the inside of man, making him think of drams of brandy and nantz as the best preventive of chill and cold. he would not have ridden in to-night, would not have left the comfortable fire in the officers' quarters of the st. denis caserne to splash through six miles of wet roads, only it was thursday, the day on which he invariably went to paris, partly to pay his respects to charles edward, partly to see his mother and kate. also, if he did not come on thursday there was no other opportunity for him to do so for a week; there were only the officers of two troops quartered in the old town, and but one night a week granted to each for leave. therefore he was loath to lose his turn, and to go a whole fortnight without seeing the two creatures dearest to him in the world. "a rough, raw night," he said to the man at the gate as he passed in, "a night better for indoor pleasures than the streets. you have the best of it," glancing in at the bright fire in the man's room, "much the best of it." "_mais out, monsieur le capitaine_," said the custodian--who knew him very well--following his glance as it rested on the blazing hearth and his little girl playing with a pup before it. "_mais oui_." then he said, as bertie stooped down to tighten the buckle of his stirrup leather, "was monsieur expecting, _par hazard_, to meet anyone hereabouts to-night? any friend or person with a message?" "no," replied elphinston, partly in answer to his question, partly in surprise. "no one. why do you ask?" the man shrugged his shoulders in the true french manner, then he said: "oh, for no serious reason--but," and he paused and then went on again: "there came yesterday an unknown one to me who asked how often monsieur le capitaine elphinston rode into paris. i knew not your name then, monsieur, but his description was graphic, very graphic, so that at once i knew he meant you. moreover, the other officers of monsieur's regiment come not so regularly on any day, some come not at all." "'tis strange," bertie said; "i know no one who need ask for me in this mysterious manner, especially as there is no mystery about me. my life is simple and open enough, i should suppose. six days a week in garrison at st. denis, one night a week in paris; there is not much to hide." "so i told the man, monsieur le capitaine; not much to hide. _voyez-vous_, i said, here is the captain's life so far as i know it. he rides in every thursday evening about six of the clock, leaves his horse, as i have heard him say, at an inn in the rue st. louis, sees his friends, sleeps at the inn, and rides out of paris again at six in the morning to his duties. not much mystery in that, _mon ami?_ i said to him. not much mystery in that." "and what did he say to you in return?" asked bertie. "little enough. remarked that he had made no suggestion of mystery; indeed, was not aware of any reason for such; only he desired to see you. asked if you wore your military dress, to which i answered _ma foi!_ no. the uniform of the regiment of picardy was too handsome, the cuirass too heavy for ordinary wear, the gold lace too costly; and that monsieur was always well but soberly attired. also that his horse, a bright bay, was a pretty creature, as she is, as she is," whereon he stroked the mare's muzzle affectionately, for he himself was an old cavalryman and knew a good horse when he saw one. "well," said bertie with a laugh, "you have described me accurately, so that my friend should know me when he sees me. however, i must not linger here. good-night. good-night, _bébé_," to the child playing with the dog, both of whom he, who loved children and animals, had long since made acquaintance with. as he rode through the narrow streets towards the inn where he always put up for the night, he reflected that it might have been wise to ask the gate-keeper for a description of the man who had been anxious to obtain that of him; but since he had not done so there was no help for it. yet he could not dismiss from his mind the fact of the unknown having inquired for him--and by name, too--nor help wondering who on earth he could be. he pondered over every friend he could call to mind, old comrades in the french king's service by whose side he had fought, or comrades in the late english invasion; yet his meditations naturally amounted to nothing. the man might have been one of them or none of them, and, whoever he was, no amount of cogitation would reveal him. he must wait and see what the mysterious inquirer might turn out to be. he rode into the inn he used in the rue st. louis, put up his horse, and after personally seeing it attended to--for it had done duty before starting for paris--went into the guests' room and made a slight meal, after which he ordered a coach to be called to take him to passy, where his mother lived. later, when bertie elphinston had disappeared from all human knowledge from that night, the search that was made for him elucidated what had been his movements and actions up to a certain point, after which all clue was lost. what those movements were have now to be told. quitting his mother after an hour's visit, he found the same coach standing outside the _auberge_ in the street of the little suburb, and, again hiring it, proceeded to the mansion of charles edward, on the quai de théatin--to which he had removed from the château de st. antoine, where he had resided for a short time as the guest of louis xv--and here he spent two more hours with his countrymen in attendance on the prince, and with kate. at this place he had finally dismissed the coach, and as he left the house an episode arose which recalled to his mind the unknown person who had inquired for him at the north gate. as he descended the steps of the mansion he saw, to his surprise, that, lurking opposite by the parapet which separated the quai from the river, was a man who had been standing near him when he hired the coach outside his inn on the other side of the seine, and who, still more strangely, had been standing outside the inn at passy when he quitted his mother's house. that this man was following him was therefore scarcely to be doubted, and, determined to see whether such was the case, he crossed the road, stared under his hat, which was drawn well down over his features, and then walked slowly on towards the pont neuf. also, he took the precaution of loosening his sword in its sheath. if he had had any doubts--which was not the case--they would soon have been resolved, since, as he proceeded along the narrow footway by the parapet, the man followed him at the same pace. then, instantly, bertie stopped, faced around, and, walking back half-a-dozen paces, said to him: "monsieur has business with me without doubt. be good enough to explain it," and now he lifted his sword in its scabbard so that, while he held the sheath in the left hand, his right grasped the handle. "i--i----" the man stammered. "yes, monsieur elphinston----" "monsieur elphinston! so you know me?" and a light flashed on his mind. "monsieur elphinston. ha! perhaps it was you who inquired for me at the north gate yesterday?" "yes, monsieur," the man replied respectfully; "it was i who did so." "who are you, then? what is your affair with me that you track me thus?" "i am servant to carvel, the exempt. i have orders to keep you in view." "servant to an exempt![ ] what, pray, has an exempt to do with me?" bertie asked in astonishment. "that, monsieur," the man said, still very respectfully, "i cannot say. i but obey my orders, do my duty. i received instructions that you were to be kept under watch from the time you entered paris, and i am carrying them out--must carry them out." "where is this exempt to be found, this man carvel? we will have the matter regulated at once. where is he, i say?" "if monsieur would be so complaisant as to follow me--it is but across the pont neuf--doubtless monsieur will make everything clear." "lead on," bertie said, "i will follow you, or, since you may doubt me, will go first." "if monsieur pleases." at this period, and indeed for long afterwards, paris was too often the scene of terrible outrages committed on unprotected persons. men--sometimes even women--were inveigled into houses under one pretence or another and robbed, oftentimes murdered for whatever they might chance to have about them, and, frequently, were never heard of again. that this was the case bertie knew perfectly well, yet--even after the mysterious murder of his friend at amiens--he had not the slightest belief that anything of a similar nature was intended towards him. first, he was a soldier and known by the man behind him to be one; he was armed, although now dressed as a civilian, and therefore a dangerous man to attack. and, next, none who knew aught of him could suppose that it would be worth while to endeavour to rob him. the scots officers serving in france were no fit game for such as got their living by preying on their fellow-creatures. still he could not but muse deeply on what could possibly be the object of any exempt in subjecting him to such espionage, while at the same time he hastened his footsteps over the bridge so as at once to arrive at a solution of the matter. "here is the bureau of monsieur carvel," said the spy, as on reaching the northern side of the river he directed his companion to a house almost facing the approach to the bridge; "doubtless he will explain all." "doubtless," replied elphinston. "summon him." the door was opened an instant after the man had rapped on it, and another man, plainly dressed and evidently of the inferior orders, though of a respectable type, admitted them to a room on the left-hand side of the passage; a room on the walls of which hung several weapons--a blunderbuss, a musquetoon or so, some swords--which bertie noticed were mostly of fashionable make with parchment labels attached to them--and one or two pairs of gyves, or fetters. also, on the walls were some roughly-printed descriptions of persons, in some cases illustrated with equally rough wood-cuts. "so!" said the man, looking first at the spy and then at elphinston. "so! whom have we here?" "monsieur le capitaine elphinston," the other replied. "learning, monsieur carvel, your desire to meet with him from me, he elected to visit you at once." "_tiens!_ it will save much trouble. monsieur le capitaine is extremely obliging." "sir," said bertie sternly, "i am not here with the intention of conferring any obligation upon you. i wish to know why i, an officer of the king, serving in the regiment of picardy, am tracked and spied upon by your follower, or servant. i wish a full explanation of why i am subjected to this indignity." "monsieur, the explanation is very simple. an order signed by the vicomte d'argenson has been forwarded to me for your arrest, and with it a lettre de cachet." "a lettre de cachet!" "yes, monsieur. a lettre de cachet, ordering me to convey you to the bastille." "my god!" chapter xxi. the bastille. "la bastille! où toute personne, quels que soient son rang, son âge, son sexe, peut entrer sans savoir pourquoi, rester sans savoir combien, en attendant d'en sortir sans savoir comment."--servan. "on what charge is that letter issued?" asked elphinston a moment later, when he had recovered somewhat from the stupefaction into which the exempt's last words had thrown him. "on what charge?" "monsieur," the man replied, "how can i answer you? nay! who could do so? not even de launey, the governor, could tell you that. these _billets-doux_ are none too explicit. they order us, the exempts, in one letter to arrest; the governor, in another, to receive. but that is all. it is from the examiners, the judges, from d'argenson himself, wise child of a wise father! that you must seek an explanation." "but there is no possible reason for it, no earthly charge that can be brought against me. it must be a mistake!" "so all say," the exempt exclaimed, repressing a faint smile that rose to his features. "yet, here is the name, very clearly written," and he took from his pocket the lettre de cachet, impressed with a great stamp, and read from it:--"'elphinston. scotch. capitaine du regiment de picardy. troop fifth, at st. denis.' that is you, monsieur?" "yes," bertie said with a gasp. "it is i. no doubt about that." there rose before his mind, as he spoke, every story, every legend he had ever heard in connection with the bastille. and although it is true that, in the days when that fortress existed, it was not regarded in so terrible a light as time and fiction have since cast upon its memory, it still presented itself in a sufficiently appalling aspect. men undoubtedly went in and came out after very short intervals of incarceration--some doing so two or three times a year--yet, if all reports were true, there were some sent there who never came out again. moreover, few who were committed could ever learn the reason whereof until they were ultimately released, and no communication whatever, except by stealth and great good fortune could be made with the outer world. from the time the gates closed on them they were lost to that outer world for the period--long or short--which they passed there. this knowledge alone, without the aid of time and fiction, was, indeed, sufficient to make elphinston gasp. "when," he asked, after another pause for reflection on the state in which he now found himself, "does that lettre de cachet come into operation--when do you propose to put it into force?" "monsieur," replied carvel, with a swift glance at him and another at the man standing behind, "it _has_ come into operation; it is already in force." "you mean----?" "i mean that you have surrendered yourself without having to be sought for--without having to be arrested. please to consider it in that light, monsieur." "to consider it in the light that i am to be conveyed to the bastille from here--at once?" "if monsieur pleases. though not at once--not this immediate instant. monsieur de launey prefers to receive those who are sent to him at eight o'clock in the morning. that is his hour of reception." again bertie paused an instant, then said: "in such case i may advise my friends of this detention. it will ease their minds--and it can be done before eight o'clock. it is now scarcely midnight." "i regret to have to say no, monsieur," and bertie started at his reply. "such would be against all order, all rule. from the moment the persons named in the lettres de cachet are in our hands they can have no further communication with their friends." "what if i refuse to comply with your demands--with the demands of that lettre de cachet? what then, i say?" "monsieur is here," the exempt replied, "that is sufficient. it is too late for him now to retreat. we are furnished with attendants for escorting to the bastille those who are arrested; monsieur will perceive it would be vain for him to contend against us. there are at the present moment half-a-dozen such attendants in this house." "so be it," said bertie, "i will not contend. some absurd mistake has been made that will be rectified as soon as i have seen the governor." "_sans doute_," replied the exempt; "meanwhile let me suggest to monsieur that he should rest until it is necessary to set out. he may yet have some hours of refreshing sleep." "i do not desire to sleep," bertie said, "only to be left alone. is that impossible, too?" "by no means. we have a room here in which monsieur may remain at his ease. but," and he pointed to the labelled swords hanging on the walls, "it is our habit to disembarrass all who are brought here of their weapons. those who are arrested at their own houses or lodgings leave them in custody there. but monsieur may rest assured of his weapon being quite safe. if he comes out to-morrow or--or--or--a month later, say, it will be at his service." "if," replied bertie, taking off his diamond-cut civilian sword, "it had been the weapon of my profession, you should never have had it. as it is--take it." "keep it carefully," said carvel to his men, "until monsieur le capitaine returns. i guarantee you 'twill not be long ere he does so. i myself believe, monsieur, a mistake has been made. 'tis not with such metal as you that madame la bastille is ordinarily stuffed." after this, and on receiving bertie's word of honour that he had no other weapon of any kind, knife nor pistol, about him, he was shown into a room at the back of the house, where the exempt told him he would be quite undisturbed--a room the window of which, he noticed, was cross-barred, and with, outside the window, a high blank wall. here he passed the night in reflections of the most melancholy nature, wondering and wondering again and again on what unknown possibility could have led to this new phase in his existence. at one moment--so far afield did he have to go to seek for some cause for his arrest--he mused, if by any chance fordingbridge could have come to paris and, exercising some to him unknown influence, have procured the lettre de cachet. yet he was obliged to discard this idea from his mind as he had discarded others, when he reflected that nothing was more unlikely than that the minister of the king would have signed an order for the incarceration of one englishman at the request of another. but, with this conjecture dismissed, he had to content himself and remain as much in the dark as before. at seven o'clock the exempt came to him and told him that it was time to set out. "a coach is ready, monsieur," he said, "all is now prepared. would you desire to make any toilette before your departure?" bertie said he would, and when he had done this, laving his face and washing his hands in a basin brought him by two of carvel's attendants, he announced that he was prepared to accompany him. "perhaps when i have seen the governor of the bastille," he said, "i shall better understand why i am confided to his keeping." to which once more the other replied, "_sans doute_." everything being therefore ready, carvel and elphinston entered the coach, while, of four men who had appeared on the scene that morning, two went inside with them, and the others, mounting horses, rode on either side of the vehicle. in this way they progressed through the small portion of the city necessary to be traversed, arriving at the fortress exactly as the great clock over the doorway--decorated with a bas relief representing two slaves manacled together--struck eight. that their destination was apparent to those members of the populace by whom they passed it was easy to perceive. women and men, hurrying to their shops and places of business, regarded the party with glances which plainly showed that they knew whither they were going, the former doing so with terrified and uneasy looks, the latter according to their disposition. of these, some laughed and made jeering allusions to the morning ride which the gentleman was taking; some frowned with disapproval; and some there were who muttered to one another, "how long? how long shall we groan under the tyranny of our masters?" while others answered, "not for ever! it cannot be for ever, though the good god alone knows when the end will come. perhaps not even in our day!" "descend, monsieur," said the exempt, as the coach drew up; then, turning to some sentinels within the gate which opened to receive them, he remarked, "_couvrez-vous, messieurs_." surprised at this order, which bertie did not understand, he glanced at the soldiers standing about and observed that, as he approached them, they removed their hats from their heads and placed them before their faces until he had passed by, so that they could by no means have seen what his appearance was like. and to the inquiring look which he directed to his captain, the exempt replied, with a slight laugh: "madame la bastille endeavours ever to be a polite hostess. she thinks it not well that these fellows, who are not always in her service, should be able afterwards to recognise her guests when they have quitted her hospitable roof. _vraiment!_ her manners are of the most finished. come, monsieur elphinston, jourdan de launey attends us.[ ] he rises ever at seven, so as to welcome those who arrive early. come, i beg." following, therefore, his guide, and followed by the men who had escorted them, bertie crossed a drawbridge and a courtyard, and then arrived at a flight of stone stairs let into the wall, at which was stationed an officer handsomely dressed, who, on seeing elphinston, bowed politely to him and requested that he would do him the honour to accompany him to the governor. then, turning round on the exempt's followers who came behind them, he said in a very different tone: "stay where you are. do you suppose we require your services to welcome the arrivals? and for you, monsieur l'exempt, we will rejoin you later." whereon he opened a small door off the staircase and led bertie into a room. a room which astonished the young man as he stepped into it; for, although he had often talked with people in paris who had been imprisoned in the bastille, and had heard that some parts of it were sumptuously furnished, he had not imagined that even the governor possessed such an apartment as this. it was, indeed, so large as to be almost a hall, though the gorgeous hangings of yellow damask fringed with silver and with lace made it look smaller, while at the same time they imparted a brilliancy to the vastness of the room; and some cabinets, bureaux, and couches distributed about also served to give it a comfortable appearance. in front of a blazing fire--so great, indeed, that the wonder was that any mortal could approach near it--there stood, warming his hands, the governor, de launey himself, while seated close by at a table covered with papers was a miserable-looking person who was engaged in writing. no man, possibly, ever presented a greater contrast between his own appearance and the dreaded position which he occupied than did jourdan de launey, then an old man approaching his end. he was very thin and very bald, with beady black eyes and a rosy face which gave him the appearance of extreme good humour, while that which rivetted the attention of everyone who saw him for the first time was the extraordinary shaking, or palsy, that possessed him always. even now, as he stood before the huge, roaring fire, holding out the palms of his hands to it and lifting first one foot and then another to its warmth, he shook and shivered so that he seemed as though dying of cold. to him the handsomely apparelled officer--whom bertie soon learned bore the rank of the "king's lieutenant of his majesty's fortress of the bastille"--addressed himself, saying that the captain elphinston had arrived; whereon de launey turned his back to the fire, regarded bertie for a moment, and then held out a long, white, shivering hand, which the other, as he took it, thought might well have belonged to a corpse. "sir," he said, in a voice of extreme sweetness, though somewhat shaken by his tremblings, "you are very welcome, though i fear this abode may scarcely be so to you. yet i beg of you to believe that what can be done to put you at your ease and make you comfortable shall be done. moreover, permit me to tell you that which i tell all my visitors who are not of the lower classes, nor murderers and ruffians, who need not to be considered, that your visit here by no means brings with it a loss of self-respect or of social position. the bastille is not a prison, as the _canaille_ think; is not bicêtre nor even vincennes; it is a place where gentlemen are simply detained at the pleasure of his majesty, and when they go forth they go unstained. if you will remember that, monsieur le capitaine," he continued with increased sweetness of voice, "you will, i think, repine less at our hospitality." bertie bowed, as, indeed, he could not but do to such extreme politeness, no matter how much he resented his incarceration, then he said: "sir, i am obliged to you for your civility. yet, monsieur, if you would add to it by telling me with what i am charged and why i am brought here at all, you would greatly increase my obligation." "monsieur le capitaine," replied the governor, "i regret to refuse--but it is impossible. that you cannot know until you appear before the lieutenant of the civil government, or examiner, who comes here at periods to examine our visitors. then, by the questions he will ask, you will undoubtedly be able to surmise with what you are charged." "and when will he come, monsieur?" "i know," he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders which so blended into one of his shivers that it was almost imperceptible, "no more than you do. he comes when it pleases him, or, perhaps, i might more truthfully say, when he has time, and then he interrogates those whom, also, it pleases him. sometimes it is our latest guest"--de launey never by any chance used the word "prisoner"--"sometimes those who have been here for years. and some there are who have been here for many--but no matter!" then, turning to the king's lieutenant, he bade that officer give him captain elphinston's _mittimus_, or the stamped letter containing the order for his reception and security. this letter he read carefully, during which time it shook so in his palsied hands that bertie could not but wonder how he could distinguish the characters in it; after which he looked up with his good-humoured smile and said: "sir, i felicitate you. you are of the first class of guests; beyond restriction you will have little to complain of. the king"--and he raised his tottering white hand to his forehead as though saluting that monarch in person--"is, you know, your host; your pension will be of the best. secretary," he said, turning round sharply to the man at the table, "read to the captain the bill of fare for the principal guests." this man, who seemed, at least, to derive no great good from his position, seeing that he was miserably clad in an old suit of ragged nismes serge, a pair of old blue breeches loose at the knees, and a wig which had scarcely any hair left on it, began to read from a paper, when, to bertie's astonishment, a very different voice from the soft tones he had recently been listening to issued from the governor's lips; and in a harsh, commanding way de launey exclaimed: "fellow, stand up before gentlemen! _mort de ma vie!_ do you dare to sit and read before us?" whereon the wretched creature sprang up as though under the lash, and began hastily to gabble out: "_dejeuner à lafourchette_. potage. a quarter of a fowl or a slice of ox beef. a pie, a sheep's tongue or a ragout, biscuits, and rennets. a quarter septier of wine, to suffice also for dinner and supper. dinner: a loaf, soup, petite pâté's, roast veal or mutton, pigeon or pullet, or beef and toasted bread. supper: a fish of the season, or a bird and a chipped loaf. by order of the king, to the extent of sols a day." as he read from his paper--to which the visitor paid but little attention, since he cared nothing about the meals he might receive--de launey nodded and wagged his head with approbation, and, when he finished, exclaimed: "a noble king! fellow," to the secretary, "begone! go seek the turnkey, bluet, and bid him prepare for monsieur le capitaine the second chamber of the chapel." "the second chamber of the chapel! the best apartment!" "_mon dieu!_" exclaimed de launey, while he shook terribly, "do my infirmities render me unintelligible? ay, the second chamber; and for you, if ever you misunderstand me again, the vault under the ditch where the malefactors lie!" then, putting out his long, white, trembling hand--while all the time he smiled blandly--he nipped the man's arm between two fingers and repeated, "where the malefactors lie! where the man was eaten alive by rats! _tu comprends, cher ami?_ go. the second chamber in the chapel for monsieur le capitaine. _va!_" the man left the room quickly, casting a glance, half of terror and half of hate, on de launey, who, after regarding him till he was gone, turned round to elphinston with his pleasant smile, and said, "a vile wretch that. yet a useful one, and bound to me by the deepest ties of gratitude. sent here by the jesuits some years ago. ha! ha! the holy fathers know how to obtain the lettres de cachet! for an unspeakable crime--the corruption of a nun to protestantism, saved his life by telling them that he was the man who had been eaten by the rats, though 'twas another. thus i bound him to me for ever. he writes a most beautiful hand, knows the history of every man in the bastille, and--ha! ha!--draws no recompense. the inquisition injured my family once--they burnt an aunt of mine in seville--therefore i love to thwart them." bertie inclined his head to show that he heard the governor's words; then the latter continued in his mellifluous strains: "now, captain elphinston, i must tell you that you should try and make yourself as comfortable as possible here. above all, do not dream of an escape. many have done so; few have succeeded--the abbé du bacquoy alone of late years.[ ] for the walls are thick--oh, so thick!--between each room there is a space of many feet--the windows are barred; so, too, are the fireplaces; the ceilings cannot be reached by two men standing one on the other's shoulders. moreover, a visitor seen outside his window, or on the roofs or walls, could not escape the eyes of the sentries, and would be shot--poof!--like a sparrow. monsieur, let me beg you, therefore, to content yourself with our hospitality. later on--if you are not recalled--we will perhaps give you some companions; we wish our guests to have the enjoyment of society. monsieur le capitaine, here is bluet, who will conduct you to your apartment. _au revoir_. i trust sincerely you will be at your ease." again the ice-cold, shivering hand clasped that of elphinston, de launey bowed to him with as much grace as though he were taking part in a minuet, and, following the turnkey, who had come in with the secretary, the prisoner went forth to his chamber. descending the stairs and out by the small door in the wall, he passed again through the corps de garde, all the members of which once more instantly took off their hats and held them before their faces. then he was led across a great court and in at a square door painted green, and so up three small steps on to a great staircase, at the bottom of which were two huge iron doors that clanged with an ominous sound behind him. at the head of this staircase were three more gates, one after the other--wooden gates covered with iron plates--and when these were locked behind elphinston also, another iron-bound door was opened, and he stood within a great vaulted room, some sixty feet long and about fifteen in breadth, and the same in height. "_voilà!_" exclaimed the secretary, "behold the second room of the chapel. _mon dieu!_ a fine apartment for an untitled guest! but the old animal will have his way. yet, why this room of princes? 'twas here the man with the iron mask died, they say; here that the duke of luxembourg and the marshals de biron and bassompiere once reposed." "at least," said bertie, casting his eyes round the vault--for such it was--"i trust there was more accommodation for those illustrious personages than there appears for me. am i to sleep on the floor, and lie on it also in the day? there is neither bed nor chair here." "all in good time, brave captain," replied bluet, the turnkey, who even at this early period of the morning appeared to be half drunk--"all in good time, noble captain. i shall make your room a fitting boudoir for a duchess ere night. have no fear." "now," said the secretary, "give up all you have about you." "what!" "all, everything," replied the other. "oh, be under no apprehension; we do not rob the king's guests; oh, no! every visitor to this delectable castle has to do the same, even though he be a prince of the blood. i shall give you a note for what you hand me, and on your sortie you will see all is as you handed to me. yet the old _cochon_, de launey, loveth trinkets for his wife--young enough to be his daughter; if you have a ring or a jewel, you can part with it; it will be to your advantage." "friend," said elphinston, "i am a soldier who has fought in hard wars, sometimes without even receiving a sol of any pay--as in the last campaign in scotland--what should i have? see, i have no rings on my fingers, no watch to my pocket, no solitaire to my cravat. yet, here is my purse with a few louis d'ors and one gold quadruple pistole; count those, if you will," and he pitched it into the secretary's ragged hat as he spoke. the man told over the coins, muttering that the large piece was _bien forte et trébuchante_, then made an accurate note of them and gave the list to bertie. "all," he said again, "will be returned you on your exit, unless you choose to give them to bluet and me. we get little enough, though god knows we have also little enough--at least, i have--of opportunities for spending. yet even here one may have his little pleasures," and he winked at bertie, who turned from him in disgust. "no trinkets on the bosom," he went on questioningly, "no lockets, nor crosses, nor reliquaries of saints? humph!" "there is," replied elphinston, "on my breast a bag of satin, in which is a lock of hair--the hair of the woman whom i love. fellow, do you think i will let you take that, or even fasten your foul eyes on it! ask me no more; otherwise i will speak to the governor." "it is against the rules," said the other, "quite against the rules, yet----" "curse the rules!" "yet," he said, "so that when you leave us you will give me one, only one of those pieces, i will not insist." "leave me," said bertie, and his voice was so stern that, followed by the turnkey, the man slunk out of the room, and a moment afterwards the heavy door was locked and barred on him. chapter xxii. despair! left alone at last, he walked up and down the huge chamber, or vault, his mind full of melancholy, heartbroken reflections. "my god, my god!" he muttered, "what have i done that thus thou lettest thy hand fall so heavily on me? what fresh sin committed, that this fresh punishment should be mine! i have lost the one thing i cared for in this life, lost her; now i am incarcerated here in this place of horror, this place where men's existences, even their very names, are forgotten as much as though they had lain for years in their graves; this place which may be my grave." then, a few moments later, his heart and courage returned to him, and he murmured to himself again: "yet, i will not repine. that abject creature spoke of others who had been here and yet escaped, obtained their liberty, all but him, the hapless masque de fer, who drew his last breath in this gloomy dungeon. bassompiere, luxembourg, de biron, all went forth to the world again. how many men have i not known myself who have been here? there was one, the old comte de tilly, who told me he had been incarcerated thirteen times, and that, whenever he saw the exempts in the street, he took off his hat to them, and asked if by any chance they happened to be seeking for him. and these walls," he exclaimed, looking up at the blackened sides of the room, "seem to bear testimony to many who have inhabited the place." they did, indeed; for, written all over the grimy and smoky sides of the vault, were records left by those who had been incarcerated. in one part of the room near the barred fireplace, through which a child could not have crept, were the words: "the widow lailly and her daughter were brought into this hell on the th september, "; in another place was the name of a neapolitan prince, one de riccia, with his remarkable motto beneath it, "empoisona ove strangola." and there were scores of other names, of all countries: one, that of the chevalier lynch, gentleman, of sligo in ireland; another, jean cronier, _redacteur_, "du burlesk gazette," holland; a third, magdalen de st. michel, while in a different hand underneath was written, "who slew her husband, a king's sailor;" yet another, "the _curé_ de méry, falsely accused of rioting and drunkenness"; and many more. and, still continuing his sad patrol of the room, he saw that at each corner of it were statues of the four evangelists, so that he understood now why it should be called the "room of the chapel," though why the "second room" he never learned. "so," he said, as he mused in his misery, "so this place has been holy ground, consecrated. heavens! was ever a place of prayer turned to such vile use since the temple became a den of thieves?" as thus he pondered he heard the doors outside clanging, and a moment afterwards, the unbarring of the chapel door and the harsh grating of the key in the lock, a sound which was followed by the entrance of the turnkey, bluet--who appeared now more drunk than before--and another man, also a turnkey. "ha!" said the former with a hiccough, "now to arrange the boudoir. georges, disgorge thy burden and be gone. i have alone to do with monsieur le capitaine," and, as he spoke, he reeled across the room with a small folding table he had brought with him and placed it under the barred and latticed window, where the light streamed on it. meanwhile, the other turnkey, georges, had thrown down a huge bundle of what was evidently bedding, and departed, to return again a few moments later, with a tray, on which were several dishes. "_voilà!_" bluet muttered as he arranged the table, "behold your first meal as guest of madame la bastille. a soup--of lentils--_bon! bon!_ some cockscombs in vinegar--_pas mal ça!_ some chip bread, beef full of gravy, with a garniture of parsley. also the quarter septier of wine--and good, too, you see, of bourgogne. now for more furniture to accommodate our new guest." whereon he reeled off to the passage and brought back a sound wooden chair, which he placed by the table, exclaiming, "_voilà! monsieur est server_." seeing that the fellow, in spite of his drunkenness, was doing his best to treat him well, and reflecting also that much of any comfort he was likely to obtain might depend on him, bertie resolved to make a friend of bluet if possible; so, sitting down to the meal, he made a semblance of eating it; and as he did so he said: "if i did not perceive that already you have been making free enough with the drink, i would ask you to join me. this great jar," touching the quarter septier, which contained half a gallon at least, "is more than i can consume in a week, yet you, i judge, could drink it all at a sitting." "_facilement_. i often do. and the wine is of the best. when st. mars was governor here, he robbed the visitors, they say; took the king's money for the best and gave the worst. de launey, now, is different." "he is more generous, then?" "nay, more timorous. for, observe, he fears the king should find out he is being hoodwinked. yet, all do not drink nor eat alike here. some get only a _chopine_ of the thinnest, one _plat_ to each meal, coarse bread, and no fruit. it depends on the degree of the personage, also the probability of the length of his visit. because, you see, monsieur le capitaine, some seem never likely to depart--and there are many such, i assure you, who become forgotten; there is no hope they will ever go forth; they have no money to give away in fees--for if a visitor wishes to reward us for our little cares, he may make an order on de launey to distribute some of the money he holds; they become the guest who has outstayed his welcome. you understand, monsieur?" he spoke with an air of drunken gravity, and, although in drink, showed so much intelligence that bertie guessed this was the man's normal condition. also, the latter observed that the state he was in by no means prevented him from being able to fulfil any duty he had to perform. indeed, during the time he had been enlightening bertie as to the customs of the bastille, he had been arranging in a corner of the room some furniture the other man had come back with, as well as that which he had originally brought. thus he had fitted up a little truckle bedstead in one of the corners near the fireplace and under the statue of st. matthew which stood in the wall above, a bedstead which had some curtains of dirty flowered stuff, with a bag of straw for a mattress, and also a blanket as dirty as the curtains, and full of holes, and a quilt of flock. likewise he had brought in a great pitcher of water, a ewer and mug, all of which were of pewter. "_avec ça_," he said, regarding these things with a look of satisfaction, "monsieur is well provided. oh, well provided! now for this you must pay six livres a month--none of which comes to me, alas!--and if you wish more it can be hired. yet, faith! it is a chamber for a king. shall i send for a fagot and make a fire to purge the air of the room?" "nay," said poor bertie, "it is very well. yet i would that the chamber was not so vast; it is large, and draughty, and dark. can i not be removed into a better one--at least, a smaller one?" "that will come if you remain with us. lengthened sojourns are not made in this one. so you may content yourself with this, namely, while you are here--in this apartment--you may go out at any moment. now, i have other guests to see to; i will return later with the dinner. adieu, monsieur," and he went away, banging, and locking, and barring the heavy door behind him. through the glazed window above, which had two great shutters to it that were always closed, but had an iron gate or smaller window within them, while outside was a green wooden lattice, bertie could see that the sun was shining; nay, a ray or so even forced its way through the iron gate and illuminated a foot's breadth all along the dungeon, or room. in one way it was, perhaps, not very welcome, for it showed plainly the filthy condition of the floor, all incrusted with dirt as it was, and with other refuse, such as small meat-bones, fish-bones, egg-shells, and pieces of bread-crust trodden into it. yet, also, to his sad heart it brought some comfort; it spoke to him of the world without, of the gay streets and gardens of paris; of her, his love. what was she doing now, he pondered; would she soon be wondering what had become of him, and why, as once before--so long, so long ago, as now it seemed--he had again disappeared from her and made no sign? or would he be free before thursday came again? he thought, looking round the gloomy chapel, while he considered and mused on these things, that his head might reach that little iron gate, or _grille_, in the shutters if he placed upon the table the chair and then stood on that, and thus he would be able to obtain a sight of what was outside. so he set to work to place them in position, and then, on clambering up, found that he could obtain a view of the garden of the bastille, and, owing to a low-roofed portion of the fortress almost immediately in front of him, of away beyond into the city. in the garden he perceived a lady walking, accompanied by a dog that seemed from its action to be very old, for it moved slowly and feebly without any gambols; and he wondered who she was, and if she might be de launey's wife, who was "young enough to be his daughter." the garden itself, he could also perceive, since the chapel was no higher than the first floor, formed the interior, or courtyard, of all towers of the prison, and he saw that, by glancing upwards, the windows of other rooms, or cells, were visible to him. indeed, not only were they visible, but so also was one of the inmates, who, as bertie observed him, was leaning against his little window frame with his face at the bars as though to catch the air. he was a man somewhat over middle age, with scowling features and long, unkempt hair, and as bertie regarded him he saw his lips moving as though either he was talking to some fellow-prisoner within the room or muttering to himself. this man fascinated elphinston so that he could not remove his eyes from off him--for in those other eyes there seemed to be a hell of despair--and, as he thus looked, the man, shifting his gaze, glanced down and across, and so saw him at his lattice. for a moment he stared at bertie and then made a motion to him with his finger--it seemed as though to bid him stay where he was--and then disappeared from the window to return a moment later with a little piece of light board in one hand to which he pointed with the other. made more curious than ever by this, elphinston continued to regard him and his actions fixedly, which were as follows: first the man held up in his right hand--his left still grasping the board--something that appeared like a piece of burnt wood, and then, applying it to the board, drew on it the letter n. pointing to it, he next drew the letters o, u, and v, then e, then a, then another u, until at last he had spelt out the whole of the word _nouveau_. next, after a glance across at bertie, as though to ask if he understood, and seeing that he did, he again went on with four more letters, making the word _venu_, and carefully finishing the sentence by drawing, last of all, a solitary note of interrogation, and looking over to bertie as though awaiting his reply to the question. receiving from him two or three emphatic nods of the head, he began again, and this time produced a longer sentence, which, by recollecting each word as it had been found, bertie made out to be (in french, of course), "i have been here twenty-one years." at this melancholy information he tried to throw into his features--for no action of his body could be at all apparent to the man--as much sympathy as was possible, whereon the other again pointed to his board and continued with his letters until he had formed the sentence, "have you been before the judges?" and receiving a negative shake from bertie's head, again worked out, "_nor i, yet_," and waited as though to see what effect this stupendous piece of information might have on a newly-arrived prisoner. if the unhappy man desired to see horror depicted on that newcomer's face--if such a sight could be gratifying to him who had lived forgotten there so long, without, perhaps, even knowing why he was so detained, he must indeed have been gratified. for as that terrible sentence came out letter by letter on the board, bertie shrank back from the lattice, while his countenance must plainly have shown to the other the emotions of pity mixed with dread and dismay with which the communication had filled him. "twenty-one years," he muttered to himself, forgetting even for the moment his new-found acquaintance opposite, "twenty-one years without knowing what he is charged with; without hope. my god! what has his life been during that time; waiting, waiting always! and it may be so with me," he thought, shuddering as he did so, "it may be my case. i am twenty-six years old now; at forty-seven i may still be in this prison, untried, uncondemned, yet unreleased--no nearer to my freedom than now." and again he shuddered. he glanced over to the unhappy prisoner in the opposite tower as he finished these reflections, and saw that he was waiting for his attention to begin his letters again. and, once more fascinated by their terrible revelations, he watched eagerly as the next sentence was formed. slowly the words were composed, letter by letter; slowly they met his eyes, and seemed to numb his brain and strike a chill to his heart. "i am not the worst case," the prisoner spelt out. "above you in the tour de la bertaudière is one who has been here for forty-two years. untried still!" then, with a wave of his hand, the man vanished from his window--perhaps because he heard the gaoler coming into his room--and bertie saw him no more that day. yet that which he had gleaned from his opposite neighbour was enough to furnish him with sufficient food for miserable reflections all through the remainder of the day, and far into the night when he lay sleepless on his unclean bed. bluet had visited him twice during that period, bringing him two more meals--each good enough in its way, and with different meats at each, but badly cooked; and on the second occasion, and when he could perceive through the lattice that night was coming on, the turnkey had offered to let him have some light if he wished it. high up above the latticed window there was an iron socket into which a candle could be fitted, or on to which a lamp might be swung, and bluet had volunteered to bring in a ladder and place the light there if elphinston desired it. but he replied, "no, he wanted nothing. he would try to sleep till daybreak, try to rest. the day had been long enough for him already." "_ma foi! sans doute!_" the fellow replied, he seeming neither more nor less drunk than he had been at nine o'clock in the morning. "_sans doute_, monsieur is fatigued, yet he must not lose heart. if the judges do not release him ere long, he shall be moved to another chamber where, perhaps, he will have some society. there is plenty here. of all sorts. then monsieur will be gay." "gay!" exclaimed bertie. "gay! in this place?" "and why not? oh, figure to yourself, there is gaiety here and to suffice. hark now to that! hark, i say!" and at the moment he spoke bertie heard a voice in his own tongue trolling forth a drinking song. "ha! ha! _mon dieu!_" exclaimed the turnkey, "it is the gallant captain. also a captain like monsieur, but of the road. they say he stopped the cardinal's carriage at fontainebleau not so long ago, yet this he denies. and a spy, too, of england, they say. he plays the big game. _mon dieu!_ listen! he sings well, though i understand no word of your somewhat severe and sombre tongue." severe and sombre though it might be, it did not sound so as the gallant captain shouted forth his drinking song. "he's gay," said bluet; "he has found a new companion--one, however, who will scarce join in his mirth. a miserable creature sent in by the priests, a murderer, they hint. _mon dieu!_ either he will desolate the captain or the captain will drive him mad with his carousings." after which, and having wished bertie "a good-night and good repose," he took himself off, and, ere the latter slept, he could have sworn he heard bluet's harsh voice joining in a song with the captain, though this time in the french language. "so," he thought to himself as, after having knelt by his wretched bed and prayed for mercy from his god, he flung himself upon it, "so 'tis to this pass i am brought--i, who have served the french king faithfully for years, who have committed no crime against him. and am i doomed to remain here forgotten? perhaps be like that other one with whom i communicated to-day, or that still more unhappy man whose life has been spent in these awful walls. forty-two years, he said of him--forty-two years!" and again he applied that second case to himself as he had done the first. "forty-two years! i shall be then sixty-six. all, all will be dead and gone. my mother long since, kate almost of a certainty; douglas, too; even the scoundrel fordingbridge! o god!" he cried, wrought up by these reflections, "release me from this place, i beseech thee, release me; even though it be only by death. let me not linger on here untried for a fault i know not of, uncondemned and forgotten. take my life, but not my freedom while i live. what have i done? what have i done?" and with such a heartbroken prayer as this on his lips bertie elphinston fell asleep at last, if that can be termed sleep which was no more than a disturbed forgetfulness--a broken slumber from which he would wake with a start as some sound from other parts of the prison penetrated his chamber, or a rat would scamper across his bed and touch his hand with its foul, dank coat. chapter xxiii. at last. the days went on slowly and without anything to distinguish them from one another, until, at last, it seemed to bertie in his dungeon that he would soon lose count of them, would forget how many had passed since first he entered the prison, and would become confused as to the days of the week. every night he heard the roaring of the english "captain"--if such he was--and every day he communicated with the prisoner in the tower opposite to him, but these alone were the incidents of his life, for beyond the visits of bluet with his meals, no one came near him. and he thought ever of what those outside would imagine had become of him. with that opposite prisoner, for whose appearance at his window he looked eagerly every morning, he had now established an almost perfect system of corresponding, so that, although their intercourse was naturally very slow, it was at least something with which to beguile many weary hours. he had been unable to discover any board which would answer to the one on which his strangely made friend wrote and rubbed out letter after letter and formed his words, but as he had found several large pieces of paper in a corner of the chapel, he had managed to shape a number of large letters--indeed, all of the alphabet--which, by holding each up successively, answered the purpose equally well. and thus they corresponded slowly and wearily, but still intelligibly, and in that way the monotony of their lives was relieved. yet even this was not always practicable, and sometimes they had to desist from communicating with each other at all since, on certain days the sentries were set on the tower in which the man was, and would have discovered their correspondence had they not discontinued it. but at other times the men's duty took them to other parts of the prison roof--for the _corps de garde_ was not strong, the walls, locks, and bars being alone considered sufficient to prevent any attempt at escape--and then they were uninterrupted. "i am alone in my cell," the other had communicated to bertie, "and my name is falmy. i am of geneva. of the reformed faith. i know of no other reason why i am here so long. fleury sent me here the year before he was cardinal." every morning, however, he prefaced any other message to bertie by the question, "have you been examined yet?" and as each day the other shook his head he seemed by his expression to show that he regretted such was the case. "if you are not examined soon, your stay may be long. but take heart," he signalled, "the principal examiner is extremely irregular, yet he comes at last in most cases." "he has not done so in yours, poor friend," returned bertie, "nor in the case of him who has been here forty-two years! who is he?" "le marquis de chevagny, of near chartres. it was the grand monarque who sent him here. he is forgotten. in december he will have been here forty-three years." "what was his fault?" "he wrote a _pasquinade_ on madame la vallière. she obtained the lettre de cachet from the king." "and," signalled back bertie, "for that he has suffered forty-three years!" "he will suffer till he dies. louis and la vallière have been long dead, so have all of their time. he is forgotten. he will never go forth. nor shall i. those who are forgotten are lost." with such recitals as these it was not surprising that bertie's heart should sink ever lower; that as days followed days and grew at last into weeks, he began to feel sure that for him the gates of his prison would never open. he, too, would be forgotten by those who had sent him there; would he, he asked himself, be forgotten by those who loved him? no one knew that he was incarcerated in those dreadful walls, that fortress in which one was as much shut off from the world as in a tomb. no one would ever know! he consulted falmy one day as to whether there was no possibility of communicating with that outer world, no chance of letting some friend who could interest himself in his behalf know where he was, but in reply the other only shook his head moodily. then, after staring out of his window for some moments, with always in his face that look of despair which bertie had observed from the first and had been so fascinated by, falmy made a sign to him to attend, and began his letters again. "there is," he signalled, "one chance alone, be confined with some prisoner whose release may come while you are together. then to send a message to your friends. by word of mouth alone. no written line can go forth. all are searched for letters ere they are let go." bertie thought a moment, then he asked: "can i get changed to another room?" again falmy shook his head gloomily and pondered. but another thought appeared to come to his mind, and he signalled: "you will be changed ere long if you are not released or examined. none remain in the chapel who are to stay in this devil's den. i have made many friends at your window, and lost them all. soon i shall lose you," and as he finished the last word bertie saw falmy's face working piteously and knew that he wept. and he, his heart torn with both their griefs, wept too, and left his window suddenly to throw himself on his bed. and still the days went on, and the weeks, and he knew, by the notches he made on the wall as each fresh dawn broke, as well as by the increased cold, that the depth of winter had come. on the roof of the tour de la bertaudière he could see the snow lying now, or heard it fall into the garden with a thud when a slight thaw happened, while the cold became so intense that neither he nor falmy could stay long at the window to communicate with each other. he had given various little orders to bluet for payment out of his stock of louis d'ors during this time, so that the man still looked after him well, and he had a few fagots of wood allowed him, or rather found him, in consequence, over which he would sit and shiver, though the large bulging bars in front of the grate prevented him from getting near enough to the sticks to derive much warmth from them. and often he was driven to seek his pallet and lie huddled up in the foul bedding to keep himself from perishing. and still the weeks went on now, and he was there, though he had begged the turnkey to ask the governor to remove him to a warmer and smaller room, and also to some place where he might have company. but bluet had only shrugged his shoulders and said that such a request was useless, adding that de launey was a brigand who would do nothing until it pleased him. "yet," replied bertie, "he said he would do his best for me and make me comfortable. comfortable! comfortable! my god!" "poof! poof?" exclaimed bluet. "you must not believe in him. he is full of words to those who come in--_le sal gascon!_--because he knows not how soon they may go out again, nor whether they may not have come in by mistake--as _mon dieu!_ many have--nor what trouble those who go out may plunge him into. but once he finds they are not going--that is to say, not going just at once--why, then he possesses the bastille memory which, _ma foi!_ means an agreeable forgetfulness. _tenez!_ have no hopes from that shivering _escargot!_" "i am doomed, then, to die in this vault--to be killed by the cold and the draughts!" "_non, non_, be calm. you will go forth. none but princes and marshals stay long here. and there has been a clearing from above; many have departed; there is room for you now. soon i shall remove monsieur." "who are gone? any who have been here long?" "no. many new ones, and one who was here eight years--by a mistake. he was a hollander, a doctor, and--_mort de ma vie!_--they thought he was schwab, the alsatian poisoner. he now is gone, and the pig, de launey, entertained him to breakfast ere he went, though he would allow him only _la petite bouteille_ while he remained. and the captain of the road, the sweet singer of songs, he is gone too, only 'tis to the place de grève, for a certain purpose," and he motioned to his throat as he spoke and winked at the other, who shuddered. vile and dissolute as the man's roarings and carousals had been, they had served to cheer him up in his loneliness and desolation, and he regretted his fate. another week passed, and bertie, who had now contracted a terrible cold and cough that plagued him at nights, began to believe that he would never leave the chapel alive, when bluet, coming with his breakfast one morning, told him that he was to be moved. "thank god!" exclaimed the poor prisoner, "thank god! it cannot be worse than this." "no," said the turnkey, "because where you are going to you will find _la société_. though, _par hazard_, i know not if it will enchant you much. there is the oldest pensioner of madame la bastille, the marquis de chevagny--a sad man, taking little enjoyment of his life--though he should be used to it by now! and another, a fool, a madman, they say a murderer. but i know not. however, he is a compatriot of monsieur le capitaine, an englishman." "what is his name?" asked bertie. "monsieur, to many there are no names in the bastille. only numbers, with few exceptions, such as that of de chevagny, of whom we are justly proud. he is a credit to us and to our care. still, i doubt not you will soon find out the idiot's name. he has his sane moments, though they are few. but his principal remark is that he trusts the wheel is not too painful. 'tis to that he is bound to go." "an idiot! and sent to the wheel, even though a murderer! will they do that?" "faith, they will. for, _tenez_, monsieur"--and he laid a dirty finger along his nose and looked slyly at bertie--"he is a prisoner of the church, of the priests. he has outraged them. do you think he will escape their claws if he were forty thousand times as mad?" "when shall i join this company?" asked bertie. "i shall be glad to go. at least, the marquis de chevagny should be an interesting companion." "at once. i will go fetch pierre to assist in carrying up your baggage and furniture, and then the king's lieutenant will escort you to the _calotte_. and, cheer up, 'tis high, but pleasant; you can see _tout paris_, and the top windows of the rue st. antoine. _ma foi!_ a gay view, a fine retreat." while the man was gone, bertie placed the table and chair against the wall and sprang on top of them, and since it was falmy's usual time for being at the window, was happy in finding him there. "adieu," he signalled as rapidly as he possibly could, "i go to one of the _calottes_. i pray we may be able to correspond as before." then in an instant he knew by the light in falmy's face that such was the case, for he nodded and himself began to signal back: "if not the one above me, we can. i----" but at this moment bertie heard bluet coming back to the door, and, hurriedly jumping down, replaced the chair and table in their accustomed position. he had never been able to judge whether the turnkey would have remonstrated at this correspondence with another prisoner, and perhaps have caused it to be stopped. he did not, indeed, think he would do so, but he had always taken precautions to prevent him knowing what they did, and he took them now on this the last occasion. bluet was attended by the other turnkey, pierre, and accompanied by the king's lieutenant, who was second in command in the prison; and while the two former busied themselves in getting together his bed and linen, as well as his furniture, the latter addressed him with that french etiquette and politeness which so often does duty for kind-heartedness. "monsieur has, i trust, found himself as comfortable as circumstances will permit," he said, "and has wanted for nothing. the food served in this chapel is always of the first order." "i have nothing to complain of," replied elphinston; "since i am here, i must take what comes. yet, i wish you would answer me a question or so, monsieur. you are, or have been, a soldier, like myself. may not that ancient comradeship of arms make you gracious enough to do so?" "it is not the graciousness i lack," replied the officer, "it is the power. for, monsieur elphinston, you must surely know we are vowed to silence and secrecy within these walls. it is more than our posts, nay, our heads, are worth to answer questions or divulge secrets." "if i could know," said bertie, "when i shall be interrogated it would be much." "no mortal man in the bastille can tell you that," the king's lieutenant interrupted, "not even de launey himself. the examiner, or judge, comes at fitful times and without warning. he came a week ago; he may come again next week; he may not come again for a year, or for two years." "is it because he did not concern himself with my case a week ago that i am now moved?" bertie asked wistfully; "is it because i am passed over and may have to wait a long time now that this change takes place?" the officer shrugged his shoulders and turned his face away. he was a soldier and had a heart within him, in spite of being the lieutenant of the bastille, and he could not reply that bertie had guessed accurately, that it was because he had been passed over, and might, in consequence, be passed over for years, that he was now removed from the chapel. "i see. i understand," bertie said. "i understand very well. i may linger on here till i am old; i may become, if i live long enough, the oldest prisoner!" then, once more addressing the lieutenant, he said, though without any hope of receiving an answer: "if i could only know to whom or what i owe this incarceration it might ease my mind; might, perhaps, enable me to confute the charge that in years to come may be brought against me. can you not help me!--me, a brother soldier?" bluet and pierre had left the chapel with the furniture and bedding, so that they were alone now, and the lieutenant, glancing round the place, said softly: "have you no suspicion? can you not guess? does not your memory point to one whom you have injured?" "my memory," replied bertie, "points to one who has injured me and those i love so deeply that, if had the power, he would have caused me to be sent here. but even his devilish malignity could not procure him that. he cannot have the power." he had thought of fordingbridge over and over again as the man whose hand might have inflicted this last deadly blow, yet he could never convince himself that it could indeed be he. he would be almost as much an outcast now, if in the city, as he would have been in london with a price upon his head. how, he had asked himself, could it be fordingbridge? and the lieutenant's next words, uttered in almost a whisper, in spite of their being still alone, seemed to confirm his doubts. "think again," he said; "reflect on some other than this one you mention; on one whom you injured, whose ambition you thwarted in its dearest design; on one who is powerful, has the ear of the king, who could send you here, and did so. reflect!" bertie drew back in amazement and stared at the lieutenant, unable to believe his own ears. then he repeated: "whose ambition i thwarted! one who is powerful--the friend of the king! oh, 'tis impossible, impossible! some awful mistake has been made. i know no one such as that. no one." then, clasping his hands together, while his voice rang out clear and distinct in that vaulted chapel, he exclaimed, "for god's sake, help me in this! for god's sake, tell me to whom you refer!" "hush!" said the other. "hush! they are coming back. and as for the name, it must never pass my lips. if the recollection of your own actions cannot help you now, i can do no more;" and, seeing the turnkeys at the door, he said in his usual tones, "monsieur, follow me to your new apartment." dazed with what he had heard, elphinston obeyed him, and slowly they went through the gloomy passages and up more stairs through iron-plated doors, until they stood at the one which opened into the _calotte_ of the tower above the chapel--so called because, being the topmost chamber in the roof, it resembled a _calotte_, or fool's cap, or extinguisher. "messieurs," said the lieutenant to the inmates of the room when the door had been unlocked and unbarred, "allow me to present to you a comrade. let me trust you will be agreeable to each other. monsieur de chevagny, you are the father of the house; i commit him to you." then, glancing over to a bed in the corner, on which a dark-haired man lay sleeping with his face turned to the wall, the lieutenant shrugged his shoulders and said, "_mon dieu! le fou_ sleeps heavily. well, we need not disturb him. no presentations are necessary with him." the man addressed as chevagny--whom bertie could not but regard with interest, despite the whirl in which his brain was at the strange, inexplicable revelations of the lieutenant--rose with courtesy from a chair as his name was mentioned, and, coming towards bertie, held out a thin hand. his hair was snow-white and of great length, while his face, partly from age and partly, perhaps, from long confinement, was shrivelled and wan. what his clothes might have originally been it was impossible to guess; now they were a mass of rags and tatters, patched in some places, in others hanging in shreds. round his neck he wore for a cravat the sleeve of an old shirt; while the soles of his shoes, which were full of holes, were joined to the upper parts by pieces of pack thread. all over his face there grew a great beard as white as the hair on his head, and this may have helped to keep him warm, especially as over his breast it was tucked inside a shirt that was almost black from long wear. yet, with all this ragged misery, those features of his face which his hair and beard allowed to be seen were refined and elegant, were the features of a well-born man. "sir," he said to bertie as he held out his hand, "what there is here i welcome you to, and i can only pray that it may not be your lot to grow as familiar with this place as i have become. for now--now--" and bertie could see his old lips tremble as he spoke, "this place has grown through my unhappiness to be the only spot on earth that i know of--my only home." "monsieur le marquis," said bertie, "for your greeting, sad as it is and sad as is the spot where we meet, i thank you. so long as i am here--so long!--i shall respect and pity you." he had taken no heed of the figure on the bed while he was speaking, having, indeed, his back turned to it, but now it forced him to observe it. for, as he spoke for the first time, that figure--its wild eyes staring as though about to start from its head, and its hands opening and shutting convulsively--was kneeling on the bed, muttering, whining, gasping behind him. and, turning round suddenly and seeing its contortions and its awful maniacal fear, bertie reeled back across the _calotte_, exclaiming: "my god! fordingbridge! face to face at last!" chapter xxiv. broken hearts. yet in that very moment he knew that once more fordingbridge had escaped his vengeance. he recognised in the creature which had flung itself at his feet and was moving, grimacing, and chattering there, that he was mad--that he could no longer right his wrongs by choking the life out of it. those wild, misty eyes, extended to their utmost with fear and maniacal frenzy, told only too plainly that the brain behind them was gone for ever, that henceforward he had to do with a thing that lived, it was true, but had no sense nor reason. yet the maniac recognised him, he observed, was striving in his way to sue for mercy--could he be so mad as to be safe from his revenge? "you know him?" asked the marquis, in his sad, weak voice, he having witnessed the scene with astonishment. "you know him?" "to my bitter cost. until to-day i thought--so much has he wronged me--that to him also i owed my detention here. yet that, it seems now, can hardly be. monsieur, how long has he been your companion?" de chevagny paused a moment as though endeavouring to count the time since first his companion had been there--his blue eyes gazing out wistfully to the rue st. antoine, the roofs of which could plainly be seen from this room--then he shrugged his shoulders and said, "i cannot tell. i do not know. i have lost the power of keeping count. yet--yet--it must be many weeks. we had no fire when first he came, and--and--the swallows were---- no," he broke off, "i cannot remember." that told bertie much; told him that it could scarcely have been fordingbridge who had been the cause, even though indirect, of his being seized and sent here. they must have come in almost at the same time. who, then, was the strange, mysterious man of power--the friend of the king, of whom the lieutenant had spoken, the man whose deadly vengeance he had incurred? "begone!" he said to his old enemy, still grovelling at his feet; "away from me, i say. heavens!" he exclaimed, "must this companionship be added to my other sufferings? is the bastille so small, or are its chambers so crowded, that this wretch and i could not be kept apart? oh, what an irony of fate that i who have sought him so long must meet him thus!" "monsieur," said de chevagny, while still fordingbridge knelt at bertie's feet, wringing his hands and muttering, "monsieur, if his wrongs to you, his evil doings, are not beyond all forgiveness, you may pardon him now, almost pity him. he is doomed to death, i hear; nothing, not even his madness, can save him." "pity him!" exclaimed bertie, "pity him! he has ruined, broken my life for ever; how can i pity him? and, even though he be not the cause of my presence here, i curse the hour that he was born, the day that threw him across my path!" "they say," repeated the wretched maniac, his eyes glinting about the room in his frenzy, "they say nothing can save me. the priests will have my blood, will have me broken upon the wheel, will even refuse me absolution at the last. yet i confessed to one of them--i confessed--i should be spared." "what fresh crime have you committed that brings you here?" asked elphinston sternly of him. "what deed of treachery--or worse?" "i slew him," said fordingbridge, still shaking all over, "because i hated him, because he wrought my downfall. i came behind him on--on--the _place_, i had the knife up my sleeve thus," and he bent his hand as though to illustrate the holding of a concealed dagger's hilt in it, "and when he turned from me i drove it home. he was dead a moment afterwards. dead! dead at my feet!" and he leered hideously as he spoke. "who was it you assassinated thus, in a manner so well becoming all your actions? some poor, feeble creature unable to protect himself; some old man or stripling, perhaps, and unarmed?" was it well that bertie did not suspect? if he had known, if he could but have known or guessed that, so far from being such as he imagined, the victim had been his own stalwart friend and comrade who had fallen beneath the foul assassin's knife, could he have restrained himself enough not to have dashed his brains out against the prison walls? "ha! ha!" laughed fordingbridge, while at the same time there came into his eyes the awful look of cunning so peculiar to maniacs--"ha! ha! i know. but the secret's mine--mine--and the priests'. yet, though i confided in them--confessed to them--they still denounced me, will now slay me. they say," he went on, putting out a long, shaking finger and endeavouring to touch the arm of the poor old marquis, who shrank back from him as from some foul creature, "they say that not even my english peerage can save me, since the priests are determined to have vengeance. do you think that is so? will they kill an english peer?" "there is," said de chevagny coldly--for now he knew that the creature he had pitied when first he came to this room was a cold-blooded assassin who had probably gone mad from terror afterwards--"there is no reason why they should not. the priests have slain many french peers who were not murderers--son eminence grise more than a hundred, they say. why should they not slay an english peer who is such as you are?" "but not by the wheel," fordingbridge moaned, "not by the wheel. oh, to think of it!" and again he mowed and mouthed as he spoke. "i have seen men killed thus--there was one at--at--i forget the place--my memory is gone--but i saw him. they broke his bones with iron bars, and finished by beating in his chest-bone, and----" breaking off inconsequently, "i want my dinner; i am hungry." in disgust the others turned away from him, while he threw himself on his bed in the corner and moaned again that he was hungry. "i have had many strange companions in this cell in my time," said chevagny, in his quiet, sad tones, "but never one like this. it is an insult to put such as he is in with us." "will they execute him as he fears?" asked bertie. "i had always thought that the bastille detained its prisoners or sent them forth free. i knew not that condemned men went from it to meet their death." "many have so gone forth," the other replied, "though generally only traitors. yet this man stands in evil case, too; he has murdered, i judge from what he has now said, a priest--a jesuit; if so, he must die, for the jesuits are powerful in the bastille--gerville, the chaplain, is himself one. and, if he is a murderer, he should die." "in truth he should," replied bertie, "nor would i lift a finger to save him. for he is a murderer in more senses than one: he has slain two lives already--my own and another. i had sworn to myself to kill him if we ever met; we have done so, and lo! i cannot slay him. no matter, let the place de grève do its work!" that he should feel no pity for the wretch lying there on his bed was not strange; he had wrought far too much bitter woe to elphinston for such a sentiment to rise into his heart. indeed, instead of pity, there had come into his mind now a great desire to discover, if possible, who the victim could be whom fordingbridge had slain. he had not actually said it was a priest, though the marquis de chevagny had suggested that it was one, and as bertie pondered on all this a terrible idea flashed into his mind--was the victim archibald sholto? he knew that fordingbridge hated him, he knew that archibald possessed many secrets of his; could it be that he had come upon him unawares and slain him? if so, if such was the case, then it was not strange that the jesuits had determined upon his execution. and as he reflected on all this he determined that, if fordingbridge were not taken away to his doom at once, he would find out who it was that had fallen victim to his treachery. bluet came in as he made these resolutions, and began busying himself with preparing their midday meal, laying three covers at the table in the middle of the room. as, usual the fellow was in his accustomed semi-drunken condition, which bertie had long since discovered was owing to his habit of abstracting some or all of the prisoners' wine ere he brought it to them--a pleasing custom none complained of, since he was, otherwise, an obliging rascal; and, as usual, he began to chatter in his familiar manner to those in the _calotte_. "_ma foi!_" he exclaimed, "if things go on as they now are, we shall soon have no guests at all. the examiners come again to-night; we are informed they will dine with _le vieux singe_ de launey; there will be some clearances to-morrow morning." it was natural that at these words hope should spring into the breast of elphinston; that he should be excited with the thought that now his case might be considered. also, perhaps, it was natural that to de chevagny they caused not the slightest emotion. "is--is there any possibility, any chance of knowing who will be called before them?" asked the former. "can you, bluet, give any guess?" "_mon dieu! non_," replied the other, "not the least. when d'argenson, who is the presiding examiner, has supped--and, heavens! he will punish old de launey's _vin de brequiny_, which is a wine to make the goats dance--then he will call for the list of our visitors, and will go over it from the first here to the last; and from that list he will select the names of some, but who they will be d'argenson and his friend, the devil, alone can tell." "there will be one," said the marquis softly, "whose name at least he will not select--one who is forgotten by all outside these walls. yet, how well he was known and loved once by many--by many!" "ah, monsieur le marquis," said the good-natured vagabond, trying to cheer him, "what should we within the walls do if he did not forget you? _mon dieu!_ i would disband myself, would go forth also if you, the father of our company, our bastille flower, left us. _non, non_, marquis, we cannot part with you. you are our father, our pride." "i was here," said the poor old prisoner, shaking his head--and as he did so he shook a drop from each of his eyes on to his long beard--"when bernaville was governor. he put me first in the tour de la comte, where lauzun had been, and where, when he tried to escape, they hanged his servant outside his door as a warning; him they dared not hang; and then i thought always that the examiner--it was d'argenson's father in those far-off days--might send for me. but he never did, he never did. and none have sent for me yet, and never will. you will go," he said, looking at elphinston, "as the others have gone, and he," looking at the maniac on the bed, "will go to his doom, but i shall remain until i go, too--unto my grave. ah, my grave, my grave! and then--i may see again the young wife they took me from--'tis almost forty-three years ago--and the little babe i left slumbering on her breast; the little child that we were going to make so brave a feast over and christen brigide because it was my mother's name, because it had blue eyes like hers." bertie had turned his face away from the old man to hide his tears, and now he took him by the hand and wrung it softly, while bluet, who, for a turnkey of the bastille, seemed also much affected, exclaimed boisterously: "courage, courage, monsieur! we may lose you yet to our desolation. and madame la marquise may welcome you still--without doubt she lives for you--and _la petite mademoiselle_, now surely a great lady, as a de chevagny must be. heart of grace, monsieur, heart of grace, and see the fine dinner i have brought you! _regardez moi ça_. here is a fish--_ombre chevalier_, of the best--and two pigeons, some beef with the gravy in it, and a salad, some rennets and biscuits, and, for the wine, two little bottles. because, you see, monsieur," turning to bertie with a husky whisper, "here in the _calottes_ the visitors drink not with such abundance as in the chapel rooms. 'tis not my fault." "why," exclaimed the marquis, in a stern voice very different from that in which he had just spoken, and regarding the table fiercely, "have you placed three covers? who are the three?" "_mon dieu!_ you are three, monsieur. _le fou_--the english lord--must eat too, is it not so? the portion is for three, and a good one at that." "he is a villain!" exclaimed the old marquis, his eyes flashing. "he shall not sit at the table. i thought his drivellings of murder were not true, until this gentleman came, and that he was a harmless idiot. now, i know he is a villain. and--and--i am a gentleman--a peer of france--he shall not sit at meat with me." "faith! then he must eat on his bed. here, fool," bluet exclaimed, going up to fordingbridge, who seemed more dazed than ever, though he had been regarding the food eagerly; "the marquis will not have you at the table; eat there!" and he flung a platter down before him, on which there was some of the beef and salad, and an apple, or rennet, all mixed together. the miserable wretch sprang at the portion like a wild beast that was famished, and devoured it in a few moments, and then threw himself on the bed again and either slept or pretended to do so, while the marquis and bertie, taking no notice of him, discussed their meal, which, in spite of bluet's eulogies, was not a very solid one. and during its progress they took the opportunity of telling each other a good deal of their various affairs and history, though, since the poor marquis had been immured so many years, his did not take long in the recital. yet it was pitiful to hear. "i had been married but a year," he said. "i was young--but twenty-five--well to do; nay, rich and happy. then i wrote a little _ballade_, a harmless one, upon la vallière; it was sung about the streets, it reached marly and versailles, and--and--that was all! a week later i was here--and it is forty-three years ago. o jeanne, my wife! o brigide, my little child, my babe! where are you both now? forty-three years! forty-three years! forty-three years! if they should see me they would not know me. jeanne could not recognize in me the young husband who was torn from her side; my little girl never knew me, will never know me now." that bertie's expressions of pity and sympathy with the poor old prisoner eased his grief he could not flatter himself, nothing could bring comfort, he knew, to that broken heart and wasted life. moreover, he was himself too appalled, too overshadowed, by the dread of what might be his own fate to give much consolation to the other. he was young, almost as young as the marquis had been when he was brought here; he might be here, in this very _calotte_, forty-three years hence. could there be any horror greater than this to look forward to? anything more dreadful than such as this, to freeze the very life out of him! yet, he hoped that it was not possible; he even hoped that to-night, when the judges came, might see his liberty announced. for he knew now that he must be the victim of some awful error; there was no man in france whom he had injured, no man whom he knew who held the rank and power which the king's lieutenant said his enemy held. how, then, could he have come here except by a mistake? bluet brought their supper at eight o'clock and announced to them that d'argenson had arrived with two other examiners, or judges, as they were termed indifferently; that they were supping with de launey, and that, when this was finished, they would proceed to the great hall, where those who were to be examined would be summoned one by one before them. "and when--when," asked bertie, "shall i know if--if--i am passed over?" while it seemed to him as he spoke as though his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth so that he was scarcely intelligible. bluet shrugged his shoulders ere he answered, then he said: "'tis scarce possible to say. _mon dieu!_ in this place day and night scarce know distinction. they may sit till daybreak--i have known them do it when making a great clearance, and we have had to rouse our guests from their beds to go before them. yet, 'tis not always so; ordinarily, by midnight, the affair is finished." "so that," said bertie, "i can know nothing for certain until the morrow." again bluet shrugged his shoulders, again he answered dubiously that, "_en vêrité_, that might be so;" and then, saying that "monsieur le capitaine must hope for the best," he took himself off. so, in this hapless frame of mind, bertie sat down to pass the first night in his new lodging. that he should sleep was impossible, and therefore bidding the marquis, who had already got into his bed, "good-night," he dragged a chair in front of the barred fireplace and sat there brooding through the hours. of fordingbridge, who was lying outside his bed, neither of the others had taken any heed, and even when he muttered incoherently bertie regarded him not. as he sat there watching the fire die, he heard the great clock over the gateway strike eleven; as he still sat on, listening for any sound which might announce the coming of those who would be sent to fetch him, he heard it strike twelve. yet still no one came. by this time the candle in the socket high up out of reach was flickering and flaring at its last ebb and throwing great shadows on the walls; and once, as he looked round the room, disturbed by some movement of fordingbridge's, he saw that the latter was sitting up on his bed peering at him with his great hollow vacant eyes, in which the glare of madness was almost intensified by the unsteady waverings of the candle's flame. then, as the great clock tolled one, the light went out, and he heard fordingbridge throw himself back on his bed. still the time went on--once fordingbridge laughed in the dark, an imbecile, vacant laugh; once, he could have sworn, he heard him mutter "sholto!" and once he moved uneasily on his pallet and groaned--and then the clock struck two. but still he sat on in the darkness before the dead fire, waiting, waiting. and, at last, he heard a sound of a door opening in a distant corridor, then another, and then footsteps approaching. and a moment later bluet's voice was speaking outside. "monsieur," he heard him say, "_je regrette beau-coup_, but the judges have departed; monsieur's chance is not yet arrived." and with a heartbroken groan bertie groped his way to where his bed had been placed and flung himself upon it, while, as he did so, he heard his maniacal foe at the other end of the _calotte_ muttering to himself and laughing once more. chapter xxv. "his hours to their last minute mounted." after that night bertie ceased to believe that he would ever go forth from the bastille; a lethargy, which was partly despair and partly a fierce, bitter repining at the inexplicable, unmerited cruelty which had consigned him to such a place, took possession of his spirits, and he came to regard himself as one who was dead to the world for ever. yet from the other--to whose long sufferings his own could at present form no comparison--he received consolation in many forms; from de chevagny, continual exhortations were made that he should never lose heart, while even bluet would tell him, in his own familiar, good-natured manner, that he was far too young a visitor to consider himself a permanency as yet. "there have been men here," said the marquis, repeating the same stories over and over again to him for his comfort, "who have not given up hope for years, who have then done so and become despairing, and have then, after still more years, gone out free." after which he would tell of the dutch doctor who had been mistaken for the alsatian poisoner; of others who had been there ten, fifteen, twenty years, and had at last got away; indeed, to solace poor bertie, the marquis more than once said that even he himself, after forty-three years, had not lost all courage, and hoped to spend some few of those remaining to him in freedom. yet, as the other looked in his face and heard his sad, trembling tones, he knew that it was but pity that inspired the words; that, in his heart, de chevagny knew he would never be released. from falmy--by use of their letters which, in spite of the change in lodging, they could still make visible to one another--he received also many sentences of encouragement and counsel, while one day there came from that unhappy man a piece of information which once more set his heart beating with hope, and raised great expectations. "i have been joined by another prisoner," he signalled across to the window of the _calotte_. "he is, however, about to obtain his liberty--awaits only his signed acquittal from d'argenson. if you have messages to send, he will deliver them if possible." in an instant bertie had snatched from an old trunk that had been brought by de chevagny the letters which he used, and a few moments later he had begun to signal a message to his mother, which he intended to augment by another to kate. his heart beat high as he did so; he knew that, if this prisoner who was to be released was only faithful, in a few days at most the two women who loved him so would know of his whereabouts, though they were powerless to obtain his freedom. yet, could even that be possible? who could say? his mother might represent to the king his long and faithful services in the regiment; kate might have powerful friends at court who could do something. with trembling hands he formed the words, letter by letter. "tell him my name is elphinston. bid him seek out my mother. she lives at the rue----" alas! as he finished the last letter of the word "rue," upon the _calotte_ about the tower in which falmy was there appeared the cone-shaped shako, or cap, worn by the _corps de garde_ of the bastille, followed by the body of a sentry, and, hastily leaving the window, he desisted from his work. he was foiled for the day at least; the sentry he knew, was set on that particular tower, and either he or those who relieved him would be there for twenty-four hours. and as he reflected that in those twenty-four hours the _acquit_ from d'argenson might come for the prisoner who was about to be released, he felt as if he would go mad. falmy appeared at his window often during the day, looking wistfully up to the _calotte_, though bertie, who could still observe him when standing back from the window, dared make no sign. it would matter nothing for the soldiers to see him at the opening--the prisoners were allowed the privilege of looking out if the windows were low enough to permit of their doing so--but the slightest communication that should be observed to pass between them would be visited with the most severe punishment, even to confinement in the dungeons beneath the ditch. he perceived, therefore, all the signs of distress on falmy's face; he even observed him turn round, and saw his lips move as he gesticulated to his new companion within the room; he could guess, as plainly as though he had heard him, what the genevese was saying. he felt sure that he was explaining that there must be a sentry above them, and that therefore elphinston dared not signal across. "oh!" exclaimed poor bertie, "oh, if i had but acquainted them with my mother's address at once before the guard was set! that would have been enough. fool! fool that i am to lose so fair a chance! the very visit of a man set free from this place to my mother's house would have alarmed her suspicions, would have told her all. and now, now, he knows not where to go. god help me! it was my only hope, and i have lost it." all day he watched the roof of the opposite tower, hoping against hope, for he _knew_ the guard would only be changed, and not removed. he watched still as the shadows of the winter evening deepened into night, and still also he watched until the night itself had come and both tower and sentry were obscured in darkness. and as he kept his dreary vigil all through the day, he saw falmy's face at his own window, staring at him with sad and melancholy glances, but without any sign being made by him, so that he knew that a guard had been placed above the roof of his tower as well. "on any other day it would have mattered nothing," he moaned to himself. "oh, why to-day of all days should these towers have been selected!" it was so absolute a chance, such a coincidence, that the guard should happen to have been placed at this part of the bastille on this particular occasion that his misery and mental anxiety were not strange. of all the days he had been in the _calotte_, there was scarce one that could have been worse for him and his prospects. the restless night passed, the dawn broke, cold, grey, and miserable, and springing from his bed he rushed to the window--only to see above the opposite tower a sentry still there. the twenty-four hours' guard was not yet finished, would not be until the great clock over the gate should clang out nine. and it was not yet eight o'clock on this dreary february morning! but at last the hour arrived. the sentry presented arms to the king's lieutenant who came to dismiss him from his post. as the clock struck, the roof was deserted, and a few minutes later falmy's face appeared at the window. but he shook his head mournfully, and then, with his board and piece of charcoal, he communicated the melancholy words, "the prisoner went forth at eight o'clock." and now, indeed, bertie gave himself up to despair--black despair that grew deeper and deeper as the weeks crept by one after the other; as slowly the cruel, griping paris winter passed, and gradually they knew that spring was coming. yet to him who had once welcomed the birth of new summers with such eagerness, the one now on its way to gladden the earth brought no comfort. the swallows came back and circled round and round the towers of the prison, and began, with countless chirps and squeaks, to build their nests below the gloomy eaves, yet he only found himself wondering vaguely why, when they were free, they should choose so foul a place. also, over in the garret windows of the rue st. antoine he saw daily a girl tending some flowers in a box, even saw the tint of the flowers themselves as they burst into bloom, and wondered, too, if she, who had her liberty, ever cast one thought to the poor prisoners confined so near to her. as for his companions, de chevagny and fordingbridge, they seemed, from opposite reasons, to be indifferent to any changes that the season might bring, though sometimes the former would stand at the window and hold out his hands and let the warm may sun--for may had come--stream down upon them and his face, and whisper sadly that for those who could be out in the woods and fields it was good, very good. then, when he was tired of standing or sitting thus, he would cast himself on his bed and sigh, and so sleep away the hours. with fordingbridge, both he and elphinston had ceased to hold any converse at all; nor, indeed, had they been willing to talk with him, was it possible that he could either have understood or replied to them. his madness seemed to grow upon him daily, and, while he became more taciturn, also he became more imbecile. once he woke bertie in the early morning by crawling to his bedside, and, holding out a piece of string which he had found imbedded in the filth of the floor, asked him to hang him ere they could lead him to the wheel; and one night he raved and moaned so through the dark hours--and on this occasion the other heard him beyond all doubt mutter the name of archibald--that the prison doctor was sent for the next day. this official, who was addressed diversely by bluet as _monsieur le docteur_ herment and _monsieur l'abbé_ herment when he brought him in, seemed to be in about the same state of semi-drunkenness as the turnkey generally was, and to be also an inordinately vain creature. he had on his head a golden-haired wig which, while he was examining the unhappy wretch fordingbridge, he was engaged in telling bertie had been made from the hair of one of his _chères amies_ who loved him truly; and he also remarked that some silver buckles on his shoes had been given him by a _grande dame_ who had recently been released from the bastille. "what of the patient?" asked the latter sternly, such observations being unwelcome to him. "will his lunacy increase, think you?" "_ma foi!_" exclaimed the _abbé_, or doctor, "so much so that it is my duty to warn the society of jesuits to be expeditious with what they have to do. otherwise they will miss their victim, and our good parisians will lose a spectacle. the wheel furnishes many a _fête_ in the place de grève." "will they do that?" asked bertie. "will they execute so miserable a wretch as this?" _"bien sûr_, they will. was there ever a jesuit who forgave?" "what has he done? they say he has slain a priest." but the other was not to be entrapped like this, so, with a wink, he replied: "monsieur, you should know by now that madame la bastille keeps her secrets well. but this i will tell you," and he pointed as he spoke to fordingbridge, who was writhing on his bed, though none in the room could guess whether he understood what was being said or not, "he is doomed. and since he appears likely to escape the examiners if there is much more delay, his time will not be long now. not long. not very long! oh, no! _bon jour, messieurs_, i have my report to make to the governor. yet, since we must not lose our friend, i will send him a draught." whether the creature' really made his report as he said he should, and thereby hastened fordingbridge's end, bertie elphinston never knew, but at any rate it came soon afterwards. it was on one night, one th of may, when the weather had taken an extraordinary change, and all the warmth of the coming summer seemed to have disappeared and winter to have returned, and when from their window they could see slight flakes of snow mingled with the falling rain, that bluet, bringing in the supper, appeared to be especially solicitous that fordingbridge should make a good meal. "_mangez, mon ami_," he said, as the other crouched on his bed, staring round the room with the hunted expression that was always now in his eyes--"_mangez bien_. make a good supper. _mon dieu!_ you eat nothing of late," and he came over to the table where the others sat and asked their permission to tempt the idiot with some meat and biscuits. then, as he bent over to take them from the dish, he whispered significantly: "he goes to-morrow. before daybreak." if bertie had known that the doomed man had, to his other crimes, added that of cowardly slaying his bosom friend douglas, could it have been possible that into his heart there could have come the feeling--was it pity--that now arose? at last, then, fordingbridge's end had come; he was to pay for all! and--and--for of such complex emotions are we formed--as bertie heard that his doom was sealed, he forgot the wrongs he had suffered at this man's hands; he forgot the wreck of his and of kate's life; if he did not forgive him, he compassionated him. rising from his chair he went over to the bed where fordingbridge was seated, and on which he shrank from him as he approached, and, pointing to the biscuit he held in his trembling hands, he said, very gently, "eat, fordingbridge, eat. it will do you good. and, see, you have nothing to drink," and going back to the table he poured out a cup of wine and brought it to him. with still trembling hands the madman took it from him, glinting at him over the cup as though afraid, and watching him as though fearful that at any moment a blow might be dealt; and then, when he had drained the last drop, he began slowly to munch the biscuit, which he kept shut in the palm of his hand, as though someone was about to take it from him. "do you ever," asked bertie, speaking slowly and distinctly, as if he might thereby make him understand what he was saying, "do you ever think of those who--who were once dear to you? if--if--it should please god in his infinite mercy that, some day, perhaps in some far-off, remote day, i may depart from here, and you--may not--not accompany me, is there any word, any message, you would wish to send?" still fordingbridge shrank from him, creeping, edging farther away from where he had sat down by his side, but he uttered no word. only, still his eyes roamed restlessly over bertie's form, and still his mouth worked convulsively as ever, and his hands twitched. "think. reflect, i beseech you," the man whom he had wronged so much continued, "you are not well--you may--at any moment--be worse. and i, forgetful of the past, would, if it ever comes into my power, very willingly do this for you. fordingbridge, you may trust me. as i sit by you to-night, i cast away for ever from my memory the evil you have wrought me; i desire only that, if i can, i may serve you. can i do nothing?" and still the other shrank from him, understanding, perhaps, not one word that he said. once more, however, bertie continued: "if you can comprehend me, i pray you do so. think, remember. you had a wife once; before god i believe she is your wife now, and always has been; i do not believe that you deceived her. have you no word for her, no plea for pardon, no request that, as time goes on, she may come to think of you without bitterness? also there are others--archibald sholto and douglas----" a cry from the maniacal lips interrupted him--a hoarse cry such as an animal in pain, an animal that had been struck suddenly and unawares, might utter. "douglas! douglas! douglas!" he shrieked. "douglas! douglas!" and so continued muttering that name again and again. then, with another sound, half wail, half sigh, he flung himself back on his bed, and thus spent his last night on earth. yet, even on that night, through the whole of which he chattered unintelligible words to himself, he laughed once or twice convulsively, and as though suffocating with suppressed mirth. * * * * * * * as the shadows of the night departed and the morning gave signs of breaking, with still the snow-flakes mingling with the rain that beat against the windows of the towers, they came for him--the king's lieutenant, accompanied by four of the _corps de garde_. "put on your cloak, if you have one," that officer said to the miserable creature shrinking back to the wall, while he shivered all over and uttered his broken cries--"put on your cloak, and come." "in pity leave him!" exclaimed bertie; "in the name of christianity, of humanity, refrain from taking so miserable a life as this! vile as he has been, see, see what he is now! it is as though you took the life of a helpless child, of a dumb brute. as you hope for mercy, show some." "i am but an instrument," said the lieutenant; "i have my orders; willingly or unwillingly i must obey them. and if i would spare him, nay, if my master the king would spare him, the church would not. he is in their grip; it will be unfastened an hour hence, when he is dead." then, turning to the soldiers, he said, "bring him away." they took the shaking wretch--no longer a man but only a living thing--by the arms and led him moaning to the door; yet, when he had arrived there, he had the strength to wrench one of them free; and looking round at bertie for the last time in the world, and with his starting, scintillating eyes fixed on him, he raised that arm, the hand clenched as though grasping a weapon, and--once--twice--struck downward fiercely with it. then he was gone for ever. chapter xxvi. kate learns she is free. a great masked ball was over at the opera house; the candles were burning down into their sockets in the girandoles and lustres; the may morning, which under ordinary circumstances should have broken so soft and bright, had dawned foul, rainy, and snowy; and carriages, hackney coaches, and sedan chairs were pushing their way up to the doors of the theatre and carrying off their employers to their houses and beds. but all were not yet departed; some still sat drinking or chatting at the supper tables; some danced in groups without any music to accompany them except the airs which they hummed or whistled themselves, for the orchestra had put up its instruments and gone also to its bed; and some, principally men, struggled and pushed in the _vestiaires_ to obtain cloaks, roquelaures, hats and riding hoods, and swords--which latter could not by law be worn in the ball-room. mock harlequins jostled imitation henrys of navarre; mock monks swore at supposed crusaders; minotaurs and cavaliers and priests all contended against one another for their and their female companions' wraps, and at the same time laughed and jested and proposed breakfasts at neighbouring taverns, or a visit to the gambling hells, which on such nights as these kept their doors perpetually open. amidst all this confusion there ran through the whole place a rumour--a whisper, which reached first those in the _vestiaires_, and next the people at the supper tables--that those who so chose might yet finish their night's enjoyment with another spectacle--a grim and dismal but still enjoyable one--which was far better than any tavern breakfast or punting at the gaming table. "_figurez-vous!_" screamed one reveller, a deformed creature by nature, who had, with true parisian appreciation of ludicrousness, arrayed himself consequently as venus--"_figurez-vous, mes enfants_, there are two for execution, although, _malheureusement_, but only one is to be broken. the other, they say--because, _peste!_ he is a _sal anglais_ and also of high rank--escapes the wheel and is only to be decapitated. a curse upon the law, say i, that treats an englishman better than us!" "_ma petite vénus de poche_," remarked another to him, clad as an arquebusier, "have a care how you curse the law; otherwise you may get broken yourself. there are plenty of police here in disguise, and if they hear you, that goodly hump of yours will stand a fine chance of being smashed by the executioner's bar. _ma foi!_ the _coup de grâce_ is generally administered to the chest bone; with you, i presume, it will be administered on the _bosse_." "i spoke only in jest," exclaimed the deformed one, glancing round apprehensively; "i meant no harm. a good subject, i, of the king of france and all his ministers. but come, let us away. who's for the grève? _mon dieu!_ we must not miss the show!" "i am for it, for one!" screamed a girl not over twenty, whose golden hair hung down over her back, and whose tones and glances proclaimed her to be already far sunken in dissipation. "i have never yet seen a man done to death; and as for the wheel, why, i have prayed often for a chance of seeing it. they say the _coup de grâce_ is magnificent if the--the patient--is still sensible. now, in our old village, before the young lord brought me to town, we never saw anything but a beggar in the stocks. and, _dame! les ceps_ cease to be interesting after one has pelted the occupiers for half an hour." "pretty things," said the arquebusier, looking down sardonically on her, "have a care, _ma chère_, that you never come to worse than _les ceps_ yourself. i have known many country girls brought to town by their young lords, and--hem!--who got worse shift than the stocks when they were discarded." "_ah! voyons!_" exclaimed the girl, "_avec ça!_ look you, my figure of fun, you are insolent. get you home to your wife and family, and earn bread for them. we of the fashion desire none of your _banalités_." yet, as she spoke, she was being inducted into her long cloak by some of her would-be admirers, and also many others were getting ready. for paris had not had an execution for some two months now, and the "half-tiger, half-monkey nature" which voltaire attributed to his countrymen was thirsty for its favourite form of entertainment. in the ball-room itself there sat, however, a group very different from those in the vestibule, who, since the masquerades were open to all who could pay for admission, had attended the ball. this group consisted of sir charles and lady ames--once lady belrose--and kate, who, in spite of her melancholy and her ill-health, had been persuaded to accompany them. heaven knows such diversions were little enough in her way now! yet lady ames had been kind to her when she needed kindness, and, at the express desire of sir charles and his wife, she had consented to go with them. in one way she was not unhappy: she knew, she felt certain, that this second disappearance of bertie elphinston from the knowledge of the world was not of his own accord. that something terrible had happened she could not doubt; yet she knew also that, whatever that something might be, it was not due to any desire to hide himself from her--that was, if he was still alive. but was he? douglas's awful death by an unknown hand might also have been elphinston's lot: who could tell? and then her own husband's disappearance! did not that point to some catastrophe? over and over again she had meditated on all these things, lying awake for nights together, pondering over them, wondering, wondering always. for even now she was in total ignorance of who the murderer of douglas had been, of what archibald had discovered. he had written to her at intervals, it was true, but he had either avoided all reference to the tragedy, or had said that, if the murderer was ever brought to justice, she would doubtless know all. her husband he never mentioned. yet, those who are aware of what she could not guess can understand how difficult a task it would have been for the jesuit to tell her that he had discovered the assassin, and that fordingbridge, her husband, was the man. it may be that, after he had handed him over to the proper authorities, he hoped, nay, endeavoured so to arrange that she should never discover that her husband was the criminal. better that he should disappear from her knowledge forever, go to his doom without her dreaming that he had paid for the crime with his life, than that she should know to what a foul thing she had been united. the candles guttered lower in their sockets, the attendants were putting out even the few lights that still burned; it was time to go. the opera house was emptying fast of all who had danced the night away there; amidst shrieks and whoops and yells the lower class of visitors were departing in coaches and chairs or on foot--some to their homes, but many to the place de grève. the spectacle of one man being broken to death and another decapitated was not to be missed. "they say," exclaimed sir charles, as he returned with the cloaks and hoods of the two ladies, "that an execution takes place this morning on the place de grève. hark! you may hear the creatures chattering over it as they go forth. well, our coachman need not go through the _place_, though it is on our road. surely he can skirt round it. at least, i will bid him do so," and he escorted his wife and kate to their carriage. outside, the crowd that was making its way to the place of execution was stamping down the now fast-falling snow as it fell, and hurrying forward for fear it should be too late for the show. with renewed shrieks and yells it went onward, singing songs and choruses, roaring out ballads that perhaps it deemed suitable to the occasion, beating on _tambours-de-basque_ and little tabours which formed the accompaniments of many of the masquers' costumes, and hammering on doors that were as yet unopened, with their shepherds' crooks and wooden swords (which were allowed to form part of their dress) and canes, and howling at the inhabitants to arise and come forth to _le spectacle_. they halted very little on their short way, sometimes only to shake the falling snow off their clothes, sometimes to wipe the paint and raddle from their faces which the wet snow had turned into sticky filth, and sometimes to kick over the braziers of the early morning chestnut-sellers, or to run into an early-opened wineshop, hastily gulp down a drink, and then go on again. "heavens!" exclaimed sir charles, as the slow-progressing coach kept pace with the creatures that passed along the miserable three-foot sideways or crunched along the road--"heavens! what a crowd is a parisian one! their laughter is as ferocious in its way as the roughness of our english rabble--nay, i believe, far more deadly. how they revel in what they are going to see!" "i tell you, my friends," screamed one painted harridan from the sedan chair she was being carried in, to a number of her friends who walked beside it, "that it is a great, a magnificent spectacle. i have seen it, _voyez-vous_, at lyons, on the place bellecour, often--once, twice, thrice. _ma foi!_ the shriek at the first blow as the man lies back, his body tied to the wheel, is _pénétrant écrasant!_ and so on, the cries becoming lower, till they are no better than sobs or groans, until the _coup de grâce_. then, sometimes, but alas! not always, there will be one more wild shriek, and _voilà! c'est fini_. after that it is always time for breakfast." one or two girls in the crowd making its way onward glanced at the ogress in the sedan chair and turned white; and kate, who had heard all her words, grasped lady belrose's hand; while a man, walking steadily along through the snow, answered the woman, saying: "_peste!_ 'tis not always as good as that. i waited once all through a summer night at caen to see a man broken--i remember we played cards, i and the others, in the moonlight, and i lost four gold pistoles--and, _dame!_ the fellow was a favoured one. favoured, you understand. a vile aristocrat. so, as we thought, they strangled him as they bound him, and, _malediction!_ he suffered not at all. never screamed once--not once. 'twas a cruel wrong to the spectators." "'tis an aristocrat who suffers to-day, they say," another man exclaimed. "nay," screamed still another, "not so. the aristocrat will suffer not; they will but slice his head off with the axe. there is no suffering in that; 'tis done and over in a moment. yet i would see him die, too. he is an english aristocrat, and i hate all english; one beat me the other day for regarding his flaxen-haired wife too admiringly! i have never seen an englishman die. they are brutes, yet they have the courage of devils." "an english aristocrat!" said sir charles to his companions. "i do not understand this. there have been no englishmen arrested in paris for a longtime; otherwise i must have heard of it among our friends here. what does he mean?" "my dear charles," replied his wife, "you do not know the parisians very well. an english aristocrat to them is any englishman who is outside his own country for pleasure and with his pocket well lined with guineas. doubtless, however, this is some needy ragamuffin or copper captain, who has come to the scaffold for his sins, and they suppose him an aristocrat." whatever sir charles may have replied was drowned now by an increase of the howls and yells of the crowd, by fiercer beatings on the _tambours-de-basque_ and tabours, by snatches of wild, frenzied songs, and by bursts of hysterical laughter. the place de grève was in sight. "turn off!" said sir charles, putting his head out of the window and addressing the coachman--"turn off, i say! i told you to leave the route to that infernal _place_ and avoid it. why have you disobeyed me?" the man shrugged his shoulders as he looked round from his seat--doubtless, in spite of the orders he had received, he meant to see _le spectacle_ himself if possible--then he said: "monsieur, it is impossible to turn off, or scarcely now to proceed. the crowd encompasses us. yet the _place_ is not so full but we may pass through it. _mon dieu!_ if it had been a fine may morning, a fly could not have passed." "is--is there anything--dreadful--taking place yet? if so, we will not proceed." the driver stood up on his box and gazed forward; then he shook his head and said: "_non_, monsieur, there is nothing. only the erection itself, and the soldiers and people; not many of the latter, either. _nous autres_," pointing to the howling crowd from the bal masqué seething around them, "will double the sightseers." but he muttered to himself, "ere we get into the middle of the _place_ we shall see something, or i'm a stupid _escargot_." "go on, then," said sir charles, "as quickly as you can, since you cannot now turn round. lose no time." and he spoke to his companions, saying, "best put on your masks. this is no place for ladies to be seen in. but we shall be through it all in five minutes." lady belrose and kate did as he bade them, and then the coach went on, slowly following all those in the road before them. unfortunately, it had no curtains to the windows, which shut from within as was the custom of the day, otherwise the baronet would have closed out the whole of their surroundings. but this was impossible. and still the crowd accompanying them shrieked and howled more and more--fighting and struggling to pass each other; thrusting those in front of them away, elbowing and pushing--the man who had waited all night at caen playing at cards, throwing another almost under the wheels of sir charles's coach, while a girl was borne down in the crush and dragged aside fainting--stamping with glee and excitement, almost dancing in frenzy. for the bell of the neighbouring church was tolling now, and, through the flakes of snow as they fell, the wheel and the block for the two condemned men were visible on the scaffold. that scaffold itself was a platform some seven feet high, around which stood a company of the grenadiers, with, on either side of it, a guard of the musketeers. on the left of it was the wheel itself, fixed horizontally between stout wooden supports let into the platform, it being a large cannon-wheel. on the right side was a headsman's block, with, beneath it, a basket filled with sawdust, now half covered by snow. by the wheel and leaning against it was a huge club, iron-bound at the head, and at this sight the crowd became still more excited, if possible, pointing it out to each other and saying, "behold, _la massue_. she will do her work well, _Ã�a pese bien_," and laughing and screaming once more, and rubbing their hands. next came a roar, with shrieks from women and more faintings among them, while, by some impulse unrecognised perhaps by themselves, all of the latter produced their masks and put them on. it may be that something feminine, some feeling of womanly shame, prompted them to hide their features, to disguise their presence there. as for the men, the excitability of their natures affected them in a different way, for at what was happening now some of them, even strangers to each other, shook hands effusively, and some clapped others on the back. for the condemned ones were in sight. they came forth together from a small door in the wall of the _hôtel de ville_, side by side, these two who were to suffer; one--he who was to perish on the wheel--being nearly naked, and having on him nothing but a short pair of breeches reaching to his knees and a sleeveless singlet. he was a great, bull-chested man, with massive limbs that would have become a gladiator, and, as he strode along attended by a confessor with a crucifix in his hand, he seemed to the mob to appear like one who would suffer severely. therefore they roared and shrieked at him, and some waved handkerchiefs and clapped and cried, while he regarded them almost with contempt. yet there was a glance in his eyes as if he could not comprehend why all these people, whom he saw through the falling flakes, should be thus fantastically dressed and should also be masked. in truth it was a weird scene in the place de grève that morning, with the condemned men approaching the scaffold through the snow, and with, for the greater part of the spectators, these women, through the holes of whose masks their eyes glittered, and whose grotesque costumes were but little suited either to the occasion or the wintry morning. yet still there was the other doomed one. he, however, approached the platform very differently from the manner in which the man whose portion was the wheel came forward. he, too, had by his side a confessor with a crucifix--after each there walked the executioners, and also the officials--and it seemed as if he would shelter himself behind the robes of the priest. yet sometimes, too, he smiled and gibbered at the crowd as though it was composed of his friends, and only when he saw the masked faces of the women and all the quaint garbs of the onlookers did he seem astonished. at his appearance the crowd appeared startled, the shouts died down; instead of them a whisper ran through their ranks. "he is mad! _il est fou!_" they cried, and again some women fainted. "great god!" muttered sir charles ames hoarsely, catching sight of him. then, suddenly, he said: "kate--lady fordingbridge--do not look out; for pity's sake do not!" and to his wife he made signs that she should prevent her friend from glancing at the scaffold. but he was too late! already she had done so; already she, peering from the window of the coach, her own face masked, had seen the face of the trembling, grinning wretch; and, since gradually the coachman had edged the carriage through the crowd until it was not now ten paces from the platform, he, too, saw her--the woman with her face disguised--glaring at him. she herself was nearly fainting at this time, yet she could see the headsman grasp his axe and motion to the victim to kneel down and place his head upon the block, and in her agony she raised her hand to her brow. in doing so it struck and loosened the mask, so that it fell off, leaving her face exposed. and then the crowd's enjoyment culminated! for he saw the mask fall away from her--he saw her face. and with a wild scream--a scream that penetrated to the hearts of all in the place de grève--he shrieked: "kate! kate! i have seen him! he forgives! he is a prisoner in----" and fell back, dying, into the executioner's arms. the frenzied brain had failed at last. chapter xxvii. afar off still. kate had been, as already stated, far from well of late; the horrible revelation of that snowy morning brought her near to death's door; and, after she had been taken back to the prince's house in a prostrate condition and put at once to bed, her life was for some weeks despaired of. meanwhile she was carefully ministered to by all the scotch ladies who formed a part of the establishment, and also by lady ames, who refused under any circumstances to quit paris; though, indeed, her indulgent husband did not press her to do so. "the king," she said, "may call me a jacobite, may even prosecute me for one when i return to london, yet i shall not leave lady fordingbridge now--no, not even if i have to become an inmate of charles edward's house. oh, the horror of seeing one's husband brought out to such a doom, villain though he was; the horror of it! how shall she ever recover from such a catastrophe?" "how, indeed?" replied sir charles, who, worldling though he was, had been as terribly shocked as she at the end of fordingbridge's career. "yet it might have been worse. it was a merciful providence that saw fit to end his life at the moment it did. think, only think, if, added to all else, she had seen his head fall, as she would have done had he not died at the instant!" lady ames nodded her head reflectively as she agreed with him; then a few moments later she said, speaking from the deep _fauteuil_ in which she was sitting in their lodgings, which they had now taken on the quai des théatins so as to be near her: "you heard his last words?--'i have seen him. he forgives. he is a prisoner in----' and then died before he could conclude. what, charles, do you think they pointed to?" sir charles shrugged his shoulders; then he asked significantly, "what does _she_ think they pointed to?" "alas!" his wife replied, "she does not refer to them; seems scarcely to have heard them uttered, or, if she did, not to have understood them. remember, she is but a woman, and, although it is impossible she should regret his death, the horror, the shame of it, has broken her down completely. she longed--any woman would long--to be free of a man who had deceived her from the first as he had done, yet no woman could desire her freedom should come in such an awful form. they say," she continued, sinking her voice to an awestruck whisper, "that he died of fright upon that scaffold." "possibly," replied sir charles, "possibly. he was a cowardly fellow, as it seemed to me, when sholto and i had that interview with him in your morning-room. i should not be surprised; other men have died on the scaffold, at the foot of the gallows, before now. why not he? but," he said, changing the subject, "since we can do nothing, we must be what assistance we can to her. now, i propose to set about discovering what he was led out to execution for; what his crime was. it must have been something horribly grave to lead to a man of his position being executed in france; for, although no treaty of peace has as yet been signed between them and us, we are no longer at open strife. and if," he added, "france would but send this stuart packing, and harbour him no longer, a lasting peace might be secured."[ ] "what could it have been, think you?" his wife asked. "something terrible, to lead to such a conclusion." "yes," he replied, "yes. something terrible." then he devoted himself to the task of discovering what that something terrible could have been. meanwhile, kate, after being utterly broken down and lying between life and death for something short of a month, began to mend at last, her naturally fine though delicate constitution enabling her to triumph over the blow she had received. then she, too, told lady ames that she must discover for her own future ease, if not peace of mind, the reason why her wretched husband, after having disappeared for so many months, had met his end in such a way. also she undeceived her friend in the belief that she had not heard that wretched husband's last words. "for," she said, "i heard them all, clearly and distinctly. heard them! i hear them now--at night; all day; as i lie here. 'i have seen him. he forgives. he is a prisoner in----.' and," she continued, laying a white, wan hand on that of the other who sat by her bedside, "i know well enough to whom he referred. it was to bertie, to mr. elphinston." "great heavens!" exclaimed lady ames, who, in the excitement of all that had happened since that terrible morning, had absolutely forgotten that this other one was also as mysteriously missing as lord fordingbridge had been--"great heavens! to mr. elphinston. yes, it must be. each word would apply to him. o kate! what does it all mean?" "god knows what it means; what it points to none can doubt--to the fact that in the prison from which they brought him the other one is incarcerated; though on what charge i cannot dream. oh, my dear," she exclaimed to her friend, "beg sir charles to find out that--those two things, above all: the prison, and the reason why he is detained. then, when that is discovered, we may do something to obtain his release, since i am known to so many who have influence." "yes," lady ames acquiesced, "yes; charles must do that. yet there are many prisons in paris where men are kept unknown to the outer world--la force, bicêtre, vincennes, the bastille. and what can he have done to be sent to any one of them?" "heaven alone knows. yet, in france, men are sent on the most trivial charges, on suspicion alone, sometimes. oh, i beseech you, ask your husband to discover first where he is, and then we may learn of what he is accused, and do our best to free him." sir charles, with now a clue as to whom the miserable man had referred, prosecuted his researches with great ardour, keeping ever two points before him for elucidation: the first being the reason for which fordingbridge had been brought to execution, and the second the prison from which he had been conducted to the hôtel de ville; for, when he had discovered the latter, he would know almost of a surety where elphinston was. yet almost as well might he have demanded information of the stones in the streets and have expected to receive an answer, as from those whom, with infinite trouble, he sought out. commencing with the english ambassador--who professed himself profoundly ignorant of the execution of lord fordingbridge, as well as extremely shocked that such an outrage should have been committed upon a nobleman of our country, no matter what his fault was--he next managed to procure an interview with the mayor of paris and with the prefect of police, the former a more important functionary then than now. yet all was useless; he got no further. after many visits to the ambassador, the latter told him plainly that lord fordingbridge's death would lead to very little discussion between the two countries; moreover, any discussion was just now to be avoided. france and england were by this time sick of warfare and wanted peace, and the only thing that stood in the way of that peace was the espousal of the stuart cause by france. "and," remarked the ambassador quietly to sir charles, in a private interview they had together, "the peace will come, and, if i am not deceived, the stuarts will go. the chevalier de st. george at rome knows such to be the case; so does the prince here; only they do not run away from the storm. time enough for that when it breaks; anyhow, it won't be particularly hurtful--will only, indeed, lead to a residence in paris being exchanged for the capital of some other country. yes, everything points to peace--has begun, indeed, to do so for some time back. now," and his excellency leaned forward and spoke very gravely, "this fordingbridge episode must not disturb that impending peace." "no one wishes that it should do so," sir charles exclaimed; "we only desire a little information. he had a wife, and, although he had behaved as a thorough scoundrel to her, is it not natural that she should wish to know what his crime was, and what prison he was confined in before the morning when he was taken to what was intended for his execution?" "perfectly natural," replied the ambassador, with easy grace, "perfectly natural on her part. only, how is the information to be obtained? i tell you frankly i cannot procure it for you. lord fordingbridge was, in london, what they term here 'a suspect'; he was under government surveillance there; known to be a late jacobite avowing hanoverian principles--yet known also, of late, to have been one of the prime movers, if not _the_ prime mover, in the attempted assassination of his majesty before the invasion. also he was known--i assure you," the ambassador interjected still more gravely, as he bent forward, "everything was known about him--to be the friend of charles edward's followers, yet to be, also, their denouncer. he disappeared from england, no one knew why, closed up his house, wrote to his attorney to say he should probably not return for many years, and also that the lady who had passed as the viscountess was not so in actual fact." "it was a lie!" exclaimed sir charles. "without doubt," the diplomatist continued suavely. "i only mention all these things to show you that we need not trouble our soon-to-be-beloved french neighbours about the viscount fordingbridge, especially as, after all, it was a higher power than they who slew him. remember, he plotted to kill the king; he was hanoverian or jacobite as it suited him; in fact, sir charles, he was contemptible. let us forget him." "everyone is perfectly willing to do so, i assure your excellency," the baronet replied, in quite as easy a manner as the other was capable of assuming; "he is quite done with on all sides. only someone else has to be remembered who is supposed to be in the prison he was led out from--someone whose freedom many of us desire to procure." "an englishman, of course?" "yes. not precisely so, though. a scotchman, and----" "a jacobite, perhaps?" the ambassador asked with a sweet smile. "there have been tendencies----" "precisely. good-morning. you can hardly----i protest, sir charles, you can hardly expect king george's representative to interest himself in that quarter. _good_-morning." as regards the mayor and the _préfet_, he arrived no nearer. the former, a rabid hater of all things british, told him that, although he had no knowledge of what persons might be in the various prisons of paris, he was quite sure that, if any englishmen were incarcerated, they deserved to be. the _préfet_, more politely but with equal firmness, said he also was not aware of what english people might be detained in the prisons, but that, even if he possessed the knowledge, he should not consider it his duty to give any information on the subject. then kate, by this time recovered somewhat from the shock of her husband's death, and, although she knew it not, rapidly mending in health through the knowledge of the freedom that was now hers undoubtedly, determined that she would lose no opportunity of herself discovering where bertie elphinston was incarcerated; for that fordingbridge had spoken the truth in his last moments, half mad though he seemed, she never had the faintest shadow of a doubt. first she wrote, as was natural, to archibald sholto, telling him everything exactly as it occurred from the ending of the ball at the opera house to fordingbridge's last words. also she asked him to discover, if possible, for what crime her husband had been condemned to death. above all, she begged him to find out from what prison he had been led to the hôtel de ville on the morning of his execution. "because," she wrote, "in that prison bertie elphinston, your friend, your murdered brother's friend, will be found." her letter reached father sholto at st. omer, to which he had removed from amiens, and for some weeks he did not answer it; while, when he did so, he simply wrote to say that he would endeavour to find out the reason why bertie should be incarcerated in the prison from which fordingbridge had been brought forth. "'tis a cold answer at best," he muttered to himself one evening, as he paced along the marshy swamps around st. omer, unobservant of the ripening fruit in the rich orchards all about, and even of the glorious sunset behind him--"a cold answer, yet what else to make? i cannot tell her that it must be the bastille in which bertie is confined. merciful father in heaven!" he broke off, "what can he have done to be there? because it was to the bastille that i, determined never to loose my hold on douglas's murderer, procured he should be sent. also i dread to tell her what fordingbridge's crime was, who the avenger of that crime is. i dread! i dread! it is more than i have strength to dare." still pacing the marshes, he turned over and over again in his mind all that he had pondered on for so long, with--now added to all that--the fresh knowledge derived through kate that elphinston was in the bastille. "in the bastille! the bastille! so that is where he disappeared to without leaving a trace, a sign behind him. to the bastille! it seems incredible. what could he have done? a good officer, a favourite with all. it is indeed incredible." still musing, he approached the town, to be aroused from his meditations, in spite of himself, by the clash of arms from the guard being relieved at the gates, and by the blare of some trumpets from the walls. they seemed to chide him, he thought, for being so inactive; they seemed to reproach him for meditating so much and for doing so little. "only," he murmured as he almost wrung his hands, "what--what shall i do? he is in the bastille, and, though i could send that other one to the same fortress, i have no power to obtain this one's release. who can help me? to whom shall i apply?" at last, tossing on his bed as he had so often wearily tossed before, he thought of tencin. the cardinal, he knew, was no longer in the greatest favour, and had been sent back to his archbishopric as a punishment; yet he could not be the primate of france and still be without some influence. if he could do nothing else, he could at least find out on what charge elphinston, an officer of the king's army, had thus been thrown into prison. so he sat down and wrote to monseigneur. of course more weeks passed thus--long ones to the poor prisoner in the _calotte_, and almost as long to the woman outside who loved him so, and to the man at st. omer who was doing his best for him; then, at last, the archbishop wrote, but could tell nothing. he was, he said, astonished that such a thing could be. the scotch officers had served the king faithfully without exception; it was incredible that one could be thus incarcerated. the only thing his eminence could suppose was that elphinston must have mortally wounded or angered someone of high position at court--someone much in favour with the king himself, and able to procure a lettre de cachet from him without any questions whatever being asked. he could imagine nothing else but that. then, having given vent to his surmise, he proceeded to suggest to sholto the very best steps he could take. "of all men," his eminence wrote, "there is none for your purpose like d'argenson. as you know, all the family are of the same trade--lieutenants of police, presidents of parliament, judges; and the present one, like his father before him, is not only one of his majesty's chief judges, but also the chief examiner of the _internes_ of the bastille. the family is high in the world now, but some generations back were low--forget not that. yet, neither will your remembrance of it have weight with d'argenson. he has a heart of marble if he has any heart at all, but with it a sense of justice that it is impossible to excel. if captain elphinston is falsely detained, or detained in error, d'argenson will set the matter right, though he may take months to do it." "though he may take months to do it." alas! it soon seemed to archibald sholto that he was more like to take years. he had got into communication with this important personage through the influence of the cardinal, but once in communication had advanced, or seemed to advance, no further. the judge wrote in his tablets, it is true, the name of elphinston, and said that if he were in any prison in france he would take care that his case was inquired into sooner or later. beyond that he refused to say another word. and with this sholto had to be content, and to try and persuade himself that it was at least something toward the desired end. also he wrote to kate, saying that it was from the bastille that fordingbridge had been brought to execution, and that therefore doubtless it was the bastille in which bertie was. and he bade her be of good heart and hope for the best, since one of the principal examiners of prisoners detained in the prisons had promised that his case should be inquired into. "though he may take months to do it!" the cardinal had said. verily it seemed as if he had indeed known the man of whom he wrote. for the months passed away outside the bastille as they were passing away inside, and to those without there came no news of him within; so that, at last, kate was led almost to believe that, as her husband had lied to her from the very beginning, so he had lied to her at the end. for it seemed to her that if bertie had ever been in the gloomy fortress, by which she now so often walked and to which she went and stood before and gazed upon, he must have been released ere this, or in some way have found an opportunity of communicating with her. chapter xxviii. "a kind of change came in my fate." it was in the early part of may, , that fordingbridge had been led out to his doom, and month after month had passed, another may had come and gone, and, at last, another december--the december of --had come round. then even the hopeless state into which bertie had been so long plunged was quickened back to life by the behaviour of two people with whom he held some intercourse. although falmy and he had almost ceased now, from very weariness during the passage of time--perhaps from heartbrokenness--to communicate much, they did occasionally do so when either considered that he had anything to tell the other that might cause him some faint stir of interest; and one morning the former, appearing at his window, made signs to bertie that he was about to signal. then when the other nodded to show that he was attending to him, the genevese traced on his board the sentence, "have you heard anything unusual?" to this bertie, with a bound of his heart--for, in spite of his long incarceration and his growing hopelessness, he still had, although he knew it not, a ray of courage, of presentiment, left in him--shook his head, and by eager facial signs asked falmy to explain his meaning. but he, whether it might be that he was afraid of communicating too swiftly anything he had gathered, only signalled back, "say nothing to de chevagny as yet. it is rumoured that they have remembered him." "remembered him," thought bertie, "at last!" and as he so reflected he looked round upon the poor old man sitting with his white head bent over his knees, and wondered if, should this be true, it would be for his good to go forth. "'tis now forty-five years," he said to himself, "since he came here. a lifetime! of what use for him to regain his liberty? he said once to me, when first i was brought to this room, that this awful place was his only home. heaven grant, if they release him, that he may not find it to be so!" he watched bluet's manner when he removed the remains of their next meal--which meals had gradually, as month followed month, become more sparse and meagre, possibly because de launey had now come to suppose that neither of them would ever be able to publish to anyone outside those gloomy walls the story of his neglect and parsimony, to call it by no other name--and as he did so he noticed that this good-natured fellow seemed even kinder to the old man than ever. "_mon dieu!_" he began now, with his usual exclamation, varied only occasionally with his _ma foi_--"_mon dieu_, 'tis cold, monsieur le marquis. yet, i'll warrant me, there are blazing fires in many a happy home in france. _par exemple_, now, in the château de chevagny i will dare to say they keep good fires for monsieur." the old man looked up at him with a startled, hurt look; then he said softly: "bluet, you have always been good and kind to me. in the ten years you have been here i have come to look on you as a friend. yet, when you recall needlessly to me my--my long-vanished home--that i shall never see more--you hurt, you wound me." "ah! _avec ça!_" said bluet, "i'll wager you see that home again yet. or, perhaps--_mon dieu!_ why not?--the hôtel de chevagny in paris itself. monsieur le marquis is not to suppose we shall entertain him for ever; no, no! neither is he to imagine that because he has dwelt with us so long--it is a little long, i concede--he shall never leave us." the old man regarded him fixedly for a moment, then he sighed and gave a true french shrug to his shoulders. "if," he exclaimed, in his gentle, well-bred voice, the aristocratic tones of which he had never lost--"if it pleases you to wound me, bluet, you must do so. yet i know not why. we have always been such good friends." "cease," said bertie to the turnkey in a whisper. "why play with an old man thus?" "it is no play," bluet replied in the same whisper, only that his was a husky, vinous one. "he is remembered. d'argenson comes to-morrow night. he will go before him. it may be that on the next day he will be free. break it to him if you can." "you are certain of this?" bertie asked, intensely startled and interested now. "certain? i thought you told me long ago that no one knew who the judges would call before them." "_ordinairement_," replied bluet, while he glanced at the marquis, who was again warming himself at the fire, "no one does. but this is different. the minister sent a day or so ago asking if there was one incarcerated here of his name. they say the primate, tencin, stirred him to it. then--then--_voyez-vous_--d'argenson's secretary came and--poof!--we hear many things, we jailors! d'argenson will come himself to-morrow night, and, _mort de ma vie!_ we shall lose the prison flower! where--where will he go to? may the good god protect him!" the name of tencin roused many bitter reflections in bertie's heart, many recollections of how it was this cardinal and archbishop who had been the mainspring, the prime mover, in the scots' invasion of--of--was it a year ago, or two years ago? he had to pause and count over to himself the time ere he could recollect, for he seemed to have lost all power now of reckoning the period that he had been in the bastille. then, when he had arrived at the remembrance that he had absolutely been here for two winters and was in the third december of his detention, his mind went back to the name of tencin again. tencin, he repeated--tencin, the minister who brought about the invasion of england, who was the friend, almost, indeed, the patron, of his own master, charles edward. yet he, a devoted follower and adherent of that prince, a man who had followed him until the last, had had to suffer so cruel an imprisonment as this which he had undergone! tencin! would he allow that if he knew of it? would he let one who had served the prince so well be incarcerated there? it might be not, if he but knew that such was the case. only, how could the fact be brought to the powerful cardinal's knowledge? that was the question. he glanced at the marquis, who was still sitting gazing into the embers, and he remembered that bluet had said again, before he left the _calotte_ with the remains of the supper, "break it to him if you can." well, he would try and break it to him; only, he prayed heaven that in the breaking he might not kill the old man with the shock. and, if that did not happen, then--why, then, perhaps, through him the cardinal might be apprised of how a faithful adherent of the cause he had championed was wrongfully immured in the bastille--immured, neglected, and forgotten. "monsieur de chevagny," he said, drawing up another chair by the side of the old man, "are you fatigued to-night? you seem so--seem more weary than usual. you are not ill?" in truth, the old marquis had been presenting signs of late that his strength was failing rapidly, and that he was fast nearing the only escape from the bastille that had for forty-five years seemed likely to come to him; and to-night he appeared even more feeble, as well as more absent-minded and lethargic, than ever; also he was more dazed than was his wont. but he replied: "no, no, not ill--or only so from having lived for seventy years; and also from having passed forty-five of those years in prison. a long while! a long while! a lifetime! my father's whole life was not so long." "yet," said bertie soothingly, "it may still be prolonged; it may----" "would you desire for me that it should be prolonged?" the other asked, lifting his eyes to bertie's. "is that to be wished, think you?" for a moment the younger man hesitated, then he said, speaking very gently: "yes, if--if you could find happiness thereby. for suppose--only suppose--that some great chance should come to you; some undreamed of, unsuspected chance, by which you might be enabled to see once more the wife you so tenderly loved, the little child you left sleeping on her bosom----" "stop! for god's sake, stop!" de chevagny exclaimed. "you torture me; you wring my heart worse, far worse, than ever bluet did. you conjure up hopes that my senses tell me can never be realized; you bring before me thoughts and ideas that i have been trying to bury and put away for many, many years now." and, as he spoke, bertie saw his old eyes fill with tears; again saw those tears drop from his eyelids to his snowy beard. "oh, my friend, my fellow-prisoner," he said, "believe me, i would not torture you unnecessarily. think you that i, before whom this living tomb yawns as it yawned before you years ago--that i, who, great powers! may be here, in this very room, forty years hence--would say one word to distress you? no, no. never, never! but, listen to me, i beseech you; and, above all, listen to me calmly. i have something to tell you, something that i pray earnestly may make you very, very happy." as he spoke he dropped on one knee by the old man's side, while, taking one of his hands in his, he passed his arm round the other's waist, and, drawing him to him, supported his now trembling form as a son might have done. and as he did so he felt how worn and thin his poor old body was. "what is it?" whispered the marquis. "what is it? you--you frighten me! i--i cannot bear a shock." "pray, pray," continued bertie, "do not be frightened nor alarmed. indeed, you have no cause. but, oh, my dear and honoured friend and companion, there has come strange news into this place, strange news for you--nay, start not! strange news! it is said--strive to be calm, i beseech you--that, that--be brave! as you have been so long--your release is at hand. it may come soon, at any moment now." he felt the old man's feeble frame quiver in his grasp; he felt him draw a long breath, and saw him close his eyes. then for a long while he was silent, sitting enfolded in the other's arms as though he were asleep or dead. but at last he spoke: "if it should be so, if this is true, what will become of me? can i hope to find my wife alive? and for my little child that was--she is almost old now, if she still lives. she will not know me; will not, perhaps, believe i am her father." "oh, how can she doubt it? and for your wife--she need not be dead; how many women live far beyond your own age--why, my mother is near it. look hopefully forward, therefore, i beg of you, to your release; think of what happiness may be yours still." but, although bertie used every argument to prove to de chevagny that there must be still some period of such happiness before him, however short that period might be, he could not bring him to so regard his forthcoming release. above all, he could not make him believe for one instant that he would ever meet his wife or child upon earth; and he reiterated again and again that, if he could not have them with him, he would almost prefer to remain a prisoner. "i have grown used to the filth and squalor of this place," he said, "to my wretched rags. my hotel across the river, even if it has not been long since confiscated, would be no fit abode for me. better remain here without hope, better forget that i was ever a free man, loving others and beloved myself, than go forth into the world where i am unknown. and," he said tenderly, "i have at least one friend here--i have you." on the next day, however, when bluet had told him that beyond all doubt he was to be taken before d'argenson that night, he began to show a little more interest in what was occurring, and, at last, to look forward eagerly to the hour when the examiner should arrive. "for," he said, "i shall have a piteous tale to tell him; perhaps when he hears it he may be disposed to look into the cases of some others who are here. there is that poor man falmy, over the way; he, too, should be released." at six o'clock the king's lieutenant paid a visit to the _calotte_--de launey had never been known to visit a "guest" from the time he was first received by him--and asked the marquis whether he would choose to have a change of linen and some fresher clothes in which to appear before the judges; but this offer he firmly refused. "as i am," he said, "as i have been for so many years," and he held up his arm, from which his sleeve hung in a hundred tatters; "so i will go before him, and, if he releases me, so i will go forth into the world again." "that," said the king's lieutenant, politely and with a slight smile, "monsieur le marquis must know will not be permitted. no guest leaves us who does not sign a paper in which he undertakes most solemnly to divulge nothing of what has occurred within. he would scarcely, therefore, be allowed to depart in such a garb as that in which monsieur le marquis is now unhappily clad. besides, the illustrious family of de chevagny is rich; the head of the house will scarcely adorn himself with such raiment when he goes back to his proper position." "rich!" the old man echoed with bitter scorn--"rich! what have i to do with riches now? if i find not my wife or child, i shall not live a week in my unaccustomed lot. a garret such as this will do well enough for me." the lieutenant departed after this, saying that the marquis--as he was scrupulous now to call him on every occasion--might expect to be sent for early in the evening; and those two, who had grown to be such friends, sat down to pass what, with the exception of the night, would probably be their last hours together. all was arranged between them as to what was to be done on elphinston's behalf when once de chevagny was free--he was first to seek out his mother and kate, being careful to say nothing to the latter about her husband and his end until he discovered what she knew about him, and in any circumstances to be very discreet in what he revealed. then he was to strive in every way to bring elphinston's case before tencin, so that something might be done as soon as possible. "for," said bertie, "never will i believe that when once his eminence knows that i have been thrust in here under what must be, cannot help but be, a false charge, a mistake, he will allow me to remain. oh, my friend, my friend, lose no time, i beseech you, in releasing me from this death in life!" "have no fear," replied de chevagny, "i shall remember. first your mother, madame elphinston, at passy; then to her who was that creature's wife; then--then to the king or to--what is his name?--tencin! tencin! i shall not forget. yet, oh, my friend, how shall i leave you here--alone! and you so young--so young! not yet in your prime." "fear not for me," replied elphinston, assuming a hopefulness he by no means felt; for he doubted if, even with the marquis de chevagny at liberty and free to plead his cause, his release was likely to be obtained. if there was, indeed, as the king's lieutenant had hinted, some terrible and powerful enemy in the background whom he had injured without knowing it, it was possible that even tencin's exertions and influence might be of no avail. yet still he sought to cheer the other. "fear not for me. once you are free to bring my case before the king i have no fear myself"--then he started, for he heard the clanging of the doors. "hark!" he said, "hark! they are coming for you. oh, i pray god that when you return from your examination you may do so with your liberty assured--as it must be! as it must be! otherwise they would not send for you at all," and he kissed the old man's hand as he spoke, and whispered to him to be calm. "god bless you!" the marquis replied--"god bless you! i will be brave." as he did so the door was unlocked, and once more the king's lieutenant came in, accompanied by four turnkeys, one of whom was bluet, who behind the officer's back kept gesticulating and nodding his head and winking at bertie--who stood a little behind de chevagny--in an extraordinary manner. "the fellow had indeed a good heart," he thought to himself, "which even the miseries he is witness of in this living hell are unable to suppress. one would think that de chevagny was his dearest friend, so overjoyed is he." and still, as he reflected thus, bluet's grimaces and becks and nods continued. "réné xavier ru de chevagny, marquis de chevagny," read out the king's lieutenant from a paper in his hand, "the viscomte d'argenson, judge and examiner of his majesty's fortresses, desires your presence." "i--i have waited the summons long," the marquis said, with quiet dignity; "i am ready to obey it." and he turned round to touch bertie's hand in a temporary farewell, when again the voice of the king's lieutenant was heard reading from the paper: "elphinston--baptismal name uncertain--captain of the regiment of picardy, formerly of the regiment of scots dutch----" "what!" exclaimed elphinston, dazed by being summoned at last so unexpectedly, and also at the last description--"what!" --"the vicomte d'argenson, judge and examiner of his majesty's fortresses, desires your presence." "i, too, am ready," he replied in a low voice. "_avancez!_" said the lieutenant, and at the word the party left the _calotte_ and descended the massive stairs, the officer with two turnkeys leading the way, while bluet and another followed. and as they went to the hall of judgment, bertie whispered to the marquis: "i begin to understand. i know now why i have been here so long. it was another elphinston, not i, who served in the scots dutch--the elphinston who eloped with the daughter of the duc de baufremont!" chapter xxix. free. when the stairs had been descended, at the foot of which were several soldiers who, as ever, removed their hats and placed them before their faces so as not to observe the prisoners, they passed through a little door into a great court and, traversing this, entered what was known and served as the arsenal or armoury. there bertie observed a number of gorgeously dressed footmen and coachmen seated about, whom he supposed to belong to the judges, as well as a number of exempts and several messengers of the bastille, known to all paris by the badge they wore--a brass plate, having on it an engraved club full of points and spikes, with round it the motto "_monstrorum terror_"--most of whom, perhaps from long habit, regarded the party very indifferently. leaving this place behind, they traversed another court, and then, after the king's lieutenant had struck three times on an iron-studded door, they were admitted to a large, stately hall well warmed and lighted. it was the hall known as the _salle de justice_. at one end of the hall, seated in great padded chairs let into niches, were four judges clad in scarlet robes, with huge wigs upon their heads, while one, who was undoubtedly d'argenson, wore above his wig a richly laced three-cornered hat, as a symbol that he represented the sovereign. at his feet sat his registrar, or secretary, with a long table before him covered with a great crimson cloth that hung down to the ground, and also with innumerable papers, while at either end of the table stood sergeants-at-arms with maces. in the midst of the court, or hall, near to these, was a railed-in space, within it two small wooden stools, and to these the sergeants motioned that both de chevagny and bertie should approach, while, as they did so, the registrar handed up to each of the judges papers which were copies of the interrogatories about to be administered. at another table, with some papers also before him, sat de launey, shivering and shaking and smiling in exactly the same way that bertie had seen him do more than two years ago. poor wretch! smiles and shivers were alike to be soon over for him now; in another few months the worst form of paralysis was to end his life. as de chevagny and bertie took their seats upon the stools in the inclosure, the judges half rose and bowed to them (a ceremony always observed, except when the worst class of _détenus_ were brought before them), and, on their salutation being returned, d'argenson, glancing down his paper of interrogatories, prepared to address de chevagny, the first on his list. this judge, who sat as president, and was reported to work harder than any other twenty men in the french king's service, sitting, indeed, in the law courts during the whole of each day, and being able, consequently, to only make his examinations of the prisons at night, was a strange man to observe. his complexion was as swarthy as a mulatto's, his eyes enormously large and black, his eyebrows each as big as an ordinary man's moustache, while his reputation for austerity had spread through the whole kingdom. yet he possessed also, in contradistinction to his appearance, a voice as soft and sweet as a girl's, or de launey's own, and hands--one of which, covered with brilliants, generally lay extended on the desk before him--as white as marble. "monsieur the marquis de chevagny," he began now--while as he did so the old man rose from the stool and faced him as he leaned upon the rail--"monsieur de chevagny, you have been a resident in this fortress for a long period. i perceive you came here on the th of january, ," and the silvery tones ceased for a moment as though awaiting an answer. "it is true," de chevagny replied, "true." and he bent his head. "the charge against you was the writing of a contumelious lampoon upon the then marquise de la vallière and holding her up to contempt and derision. for that the lettre de cachet concerning you was signed by--by a then illustrious personage. that letter was an open one, unlimited as to the continuance of its effect----" "the charge was true," murmured the marquis, "the punishment cruel beyond all thought." "monsieur le marquis," interposed the judge, while his voice sounded even sweeter, more silvery than before, "i must remind you of what doubtless in the passage of years you have forgotten: there must be no criticism here, no discussion of those who are, or once were, all-powerful. monsieur, i represent the king's majesty; let me beg of you to offend--unintentionally, no doubt--no more." he paused a moment, and it seemed as if some bird had ceased to warble its innocent notes; then he continued: "the family of la vallière is now practically extinct. the king, in his sublime goodness, is therefore pleased to ordain that you shall no longer be asked to remain here. monsieur le marquis de chevagny, permit me to congratulate you. you may depart at any time most convenient to you." the old man raised his hand to his long white beard and stroked it thoughtfully for a moment; then he, in his clear aristocratic tones, replied: "you congratulate me, monsieur, on what? on a wasted, ruined life, perhaps; a prison for forty-five years; an existence given me by god and taken away by man; a home desolated; a broken heart--nay, two, if not three, broken hearts; and all for what? a youthful folly, a joke made in the exuberance of a young man's spirit. oh, monsieur, spare me your congratulations! if you were even born when i first came here, think, think of the passage of those years, think of what lives you have known, think of the use they have been put to, and then reflect on mine. surely your congratulations are the last bitter drop." "monsieur de chevagny," replied the judge, "i must not argue with you. yet one word i will say: i had no part in sending you here; my share is only to tell you that you are free." and he took up in his jewelled hand a fresh batch of papers, and, stooping forward, whispered something to the registrar. as the old man tottered back to the stool he had risen from, that functionary said: "elphinston, captain of the regiment of picardy, formerly of the regiment of scots dutch, answer to your name." "my name," said bertie, advancing to the rail and standing as the marquis had previously stood, "is elphinston, and i am of the regiment of picardy. i never served in the scots dutch regiment." with an almost imperceptible start d'argenson bent his dark, luminous eyes on him, as did all the other judges, who had sat like dead men in their seats, while de launey, with the king's lieutenant and the registrar, also cast surprised looks on him. "you say that you were never in the regiment of scots dutch, monsieur?" asked d'argenson, still holding the papers in his hand and glancing at them; "what, then, is your _nom de baptême?_" "bertie." the judge glanced again at the papers, then he conferred for a moment with the other judges, and then spoke again: "pardon us our ignorance of your scotch name, monsieur; but this name 'bertie' we do not know it. albert we know, but not bertie. is that the whole name, or a part of one--an abbreviation?" "my name is bertie, _tout court_." the white hand of the judge rubbed his chin softly, and he said: "you were never in the scots dutch regiment? and, _par exemple_, you will perhaps also tell us if you are the husband of mademoiselle de baufremont, daughter of the duke of that name." "i am not. i am the husband of no woman." a visible stir went through the others in the _salle de justice_ at these words, while d'argenson shrugged his shoulders. then, sweetly as ever, he continued: "there are many noble scotch gentlemen serving his majesty. would it be known to you if there were any others of your name--your family name--in the army?" "i know of one other," bertie replied. "_he_ was in the scots dutch." "ha!" exclaimed d'argenson. "and his first name, what is that?" "basil." d'argenson threw down his papers and for several minutes conferred again with the other judges; and during the time he did so bertie could not but muse on how the bastille and its accursed uses had been lent to one more crime, one more mistake that was in itself a crime. for that he had suffered for the man who was his namesake there could now be no doubt; the only wonder in his mind was that it had never occurred to him before, never dawned upon him that such was the case. and now he only prayed that the judges might never have it come to their knowledge that, innocently enough, he had rendered assistance to that other elphinston. "god knows," he mused, "that i have suffered sufficiently already by doing so; 'twas through that assistance that i lost my love; surely i shall not also have to suffer further; surely the duke de baufremont's vengeance will not be permitted to still fall heavily on me." and once more he prayed that his share in the transaction might not be known. then d'argenson spoke again: "_monsieur le capitaine_," he said, "your answers to my interrogatories appear to show that, by grave misfortune, you have been confused with another man. such errors are always to be regretted; nay, more, when they have been made, it is always the custom of his majesty--a most gracious sovereign!--to make atonement for them and to nobly recompense those who have been injured. i shall to-morrow take steps to ratify your statement: if i find it accurate, you may expect to go away from here in a very short time. his majesty will sign your acquittance at once. you will be free." "sir," replied bertie, "i might have been free two years and a half ago, might never have suffered this long misery--while much other misery might have also been spared to those whom i love and who love me--had this examination taken place when i was first brought here." "doubtless," d'argenson replied coldly. "but the laws of france have their mode of procedure and cannot be altered for any case in particular. _monsieur le capitaine_, your examination is concluded," and turning to his brother judges, he said, as he rose: "_mes frères, la séance est terminée_." of what use was it, bertie asked himself as he and de chevagny were conducted back to the _calotte_, to rage or fret against this legal wall of adamant? as well hurl one's self against a rock and hope to make an impression on it. for a fault not his own, he had been forced to endure two years and more of miserable imprisonment, and now, by chance alone, he was likely to be set free. yet the very word "free" sent his blood dancing and tingling in his veins once more; it brought to him the happy hope of seeing his mother, his beloved kate again. and when he saw her, there would be no further barrier between them; she, too, was free--free to become his wife. then, at last, their long vexations would be over--at last--at last! "make yourselves as comfortable as you can, _mes enfants_," said bluet to them when once more they were back in the _calotte_, "it will not be for long now. meanwhile, to-morrow, i will see if i cannot snatch from that villainous cellarer a bottle of the best _vin de brecquiny_ wherewith to celebrate your sortie. and i--though i am but a poor drinker at best--will drink to your happy restoration to your friends and families." as the turnkey had said, so it happened. from the next morning their meals were improved; the best wine was served to them; everything gave promise that their imprisonment was at an end. one morning--which was the third day from their examination by d'argenson--bluet, accompanied by another turnkey, came in, bearing a large basket, in which was a quantity of new linen, with some ruffles and lace for both of them. then, next, the tailor was brought in to prepare a plain but serviceable suit for the marquis, and also to repair bertie's clothes, his suit being, though much used, still wearable. and, to complete all, bluet arrived on another morning with the necessary implements for cutting and trimming their hair and beards, which, with the exception of the attentions they had been able to render each other with a rusty pair of scissors they had discovered imbedded in the filth of the floor, had not been done at all since the younger prisoner had been there. "_avec ça!_" exclaimed their cheerful janitor, "messieurs will go forth into the world again as though to a _fête_ or a wedding. _ma foi!_ monsieur le marquis, you look not fifty years of age. you will both do very well. ah, but the brave day is at hand!" and at last it came. one evening, a week now after the judge had pronounced that the marquis de chevagny might go back to life, and had said that the captain elphinston might cherish hopes of doing so, the king's lieutenant again made his appearance in the _calotte_, unaccompanied this time by anyone but bluet, for the purpose of unbarring the doors. "messieurs," he said, "have the goodness to accompany me to the _salle de justice_. the commissary attends you to hand to you your _permission de sortie_. you will depart to-morrow, if it so pleases you." rising, they followed him through all the passages and courts as before, and arrived at the great hall. here they observed that the judges were not again present, but in their place, and seated at the scarlet-draped table of the judges' registrar was the commissary, a little, old, wizened man, who bowed to them as they entered. "be seated, i beg," he said, motioning them to two chairs placed in front of him--two _fauteuils_ very different in appearance and comfort from the stools that had previously been accorded them; and when they had done so, he instantly read from two papers before him: "réné xavier ru de chevagny, marquis de chevagny," he began; "his majesty, king louis xv, graciously accords you this his permission to depart out of this fortress, the bastille, from this present moment. this permission i now hand to you as a certificate of his majesty's gracious goodness." here he held the paper out over the table to the old man, who took it from him without uttering one word. then the commissary continued: "and in consideration of your having been unable to attend to your own interests, properties, and estates of late, his majesty ordains that you may draw upon the captain of this his fortress, monsieur jourdan de launey, for a sum not exceeding fifty _louis d'ors_, for your present expenses, to be by you recouped later on." "i--i want nothing," de chevagny began, when, as he did so, his eye fell upon bluet standing near and behind the king's lieutenant, and remembering all the fellow's kindness to him--kindness which he had never been under any obligation to show he ceased what he was saying; while the commissary continued: "from this moment you are at liberty to depart. monsieur le marquis you will consult your own pleasure as to when you do so." then turning to bertie and addressing him, he again read out the rigmarole about "his majesty's gracious goodness," and handed to him his certificate of freedom. and also he informed him that he, too, could draw on de launey for fifty _louis d'ors_, to be recorded later on. "if, monsieur," bertie exclaimed, however, at this, "i draw them, i know not how they are ever to be refunded. i was an officer in the french king's army when i was brought here. i can scarcely suppose i am one now. when i quit this prison i am as like as not to be a beggar in the streets. this incarceration has stolen my life from me for two years; now i am free, its effect will be to deprive me of the means whereby to live in the future." "_monsieur le capitaine_, i think not. i am authorized to tell you that a commission in his majesty's service will still be provided for you, in consequence of your residence here being due to a slight mistake." "so be it," said bertie; "i rejoice to hear that so much justice will be done to me." yet, as he spoke, he took a vow that never more would he serve the french king, never more draw sword for a country in which such errors could happen as that which had imprisoned him for those two years. "now," said the commissary, "you must please to sign these papers, and to swear upon your honours that you will neither reveal, when outside this fortress, any of the situations of the various chambers, apartments, towers, halls, or courts of which you have obtained any knowledge, nor the names of any other persons here with which you have become acquainted in any way. also you must, upon your honours, state that you carry no messages from anyone within this fortress to anyone whatsoever outside of it, either written or verbal. and when you do go forth at the time it shall please you, you will also sign another paper stating that you have been deprived of nothing, neither money, clothes, jewellery, nor trinkets of which you were in possession when you arrived." de chevagny shrugged his shoulders as he answered: "i may sign with safety. i have no recollection of anything i had about me when i came here in the year . i know not what i had. and what matters it? what matters it?" "as for me," said elphinston, "i had but a few gold pieces in my purse when i came here, and they have been exhausted long ago in payment for my bed. there can be nothing left; and if there is, i want it not." that night, however, both he and de chevagny decided to draw each upon de launey for ten _louis d'ors_, with which to reward the faithful bluet, and also--for such was the custom even in this hateful place-to give a treat to the turnkeys. so, ere they slept for the last time in their miserable chamber, these men were called in, and, bringing with them various sorts of wine, chocolate, pasties, and ratafias, were rewarded also with pieces of money, while they drank to the health of those whom they termed the "parting guests." one other had, however, to be taken a sad farewell of--one whom there was no likelihood of their ever meeting again in this world--the unhappy genevese, falmy. at daybreak bertie was at the window looking for him, and a few moments later he appeared at his; and the tears streamed down the former's eyes so as almost to blind him as for the last time he sent his message across to the opposite tower. "farewell! i leave with de chevagny," he signalled. "god ever bless you, and may he at last release you! is there no message for anyone outside?" for, in spite of the promise he had given to take none from any prisoner, he felt absolved from it when he thought of the bitter agony of those incarcerated still. indeed, such was the feeling of all who went forth from that living death. but falmy shook his head sadly; then, listlessly, as though hopeless and heartbroken, he signalled back, "none; i have no friends. if i ever had any, they are dead or have forgotten me. farewell!" and, with a look upon his face that bertie never forgot, he left the window. down through the corridors and passages they passed, away through the _corps de garde_, with, for the last time, their laced hats held before their faces, until they reached the wicket and so to the great gates which opened to admit their exit. and a moment later, as the great clock struck nine above their heads, they stood outside the prison walls.[note d] they were free! chapter xxx. the marquis goes home. the turnkey had provided a _fiacre_ for them, and into this they stepped from the outside of the great gate, while bluet; looking as sad as though he were parting for ever from his dearest friends, asked where the man should be instructed to drive them to? strange to say, neither had given any thought to this matter, though, had bertie been alone, no consideration would have been necessary on the subject. his mother's house would have been his destination; for, although often and often in his misery he had mused on whether she was still alive, and on whether she would ever fold him in her arms again, nothing would have kept him from going straight to passy and at once resolving his doubts. but now, with de chevagny by his side--a poor old man cast back into an unknown world after nearly half a century's exclusion from it--he could not leave him; he must be his first consideration. "dear friend," he said, while still bluet stood by the coach door, "have you thought of where we shall proceed to? will you go to your own home first, or come to mine--if--if--god! if i have any left there. at least we will not part--or not now, not now." the poor, old marquis wrapped the dark blue cloak they had provided him with around him as the other spoke, for the december morning, although bright and sunny, was cold and crisp, then he said, "home! to my home? what home have i?" "_mon dieu!_" exclaimed bluet, consoling to the last, "_sans doute_, a beautiful home. monsieur must well remember--even i, a prison watch-dog, have heard of it--the hôtel de chevagny. monsieur will doubtless go there. and, _parbleu!_ when i have a day's release from my labours, i shall make a little visit to the marquis. he will be glad to see his old friend and servant, bluet _n'est ce pas?_" "yes," the marquis whispered, dazed, as it seemed to the others, by his freedom--"yes, i shall always be glad to see you, bluet. let us go--let us go," and he held out his hand to the turnkey, as did bertie. "hôtel de chevagny," said bluet to the driver; "you know it without doubt. away with you to the house of the noble marquis!" "de chevagny!" said the man from his box--"de chevagny! no, i know it not. what is the quarter?" "st. germain, naturally. monsieur," looking in again at the window, "the name of the street--of the street, monsieur?" he repeated, seeing that the marquis appeared to scarcely understand him. but a moment later he muttered: "the rue charles martel. that is it." "bon!" said the coachman, he having caught the words--"_bon!_ rue charles martel," and as once more bluet exchanged farewells with them, he lashed his horse and drove off, while de chevagny cast one last look on the bastille and shuddered. "forty-five years," he murmured, "forty-five years. a young man when i entered there, an old man now--worn out and near his end." "nay, nay," said bertie, "do not think so. remember, you may find many alive who are still dear to you. let us pray so at least." but the marquis, burying his head in the collar of his cloak, spoke no more, though bertie, regarding him from time to time, saw that he was gazing out and observing the places they passed by; and as they traversed the pont neuf, he observed a brighter look in his face than he had hitherto seen. "this, at least, has not changed," he muttered. "it is the same as when i was young--as when i passed over it to go to the bastille. forty-five years ago!--forty-five years ago!" presently--for it was no great distance from the quartier st. antoine to that of st. germain--the hackney coach arrived at the end of the rue charles martel; a long, sad-looking street, having high walls all along it into which were set great wooden gates, and behind which were large courtyards belonging to the various mansions or hotels of the nobility. yet, as they entered this street and observed a large, modern, and very gaunt-looking house, de chevagny seemed more bewildered than ever, and raised his finger to his forehead as though confused. "i--i--do not understand," he said. "has the man mistaken the way? bellancourt's house stood here--years ago--when i was a lad. i have played in the gardens often--oh, so often, with his children! it was an old, old house, built in the days of henri of navarre. where is it? that is not it." "this is a new building," replied bertie; "is it not possible the present owner may have removed the old one to make way for this?" "yes, yes," de chevagny whispered--"yes, it is forty-five years ago. i should have remembered. forty-five years ago. and sixty since i played under the cedars in the garden. my god!" the hackney carriage rolled along slowly, for in this old-fashioned street the road, like so many in paris in those days, was far from good, and a slight thaw had now set in which rendered it particularly heavy. then, looking out, the marquis pointed to an antique mansion the roofs of which could be seen behind the walls. "see," he said excitedly, "see, it is the house of de montpouillan, the man whom the king delighted to honour! i was at a ball there three nights before i was taken, and he--louis, the grand monarque--was there too. he danced in the ballet[ ] with the daughter of st. hillaire, a blonde whose hair shone like the gold of a new _louis d'or_. _mon dieu!_ observe--there is a hatchment over the house. someone is dead." again bertie tried to soothe him by reminding him that, whomsoever it might be, he could scarcely have known them after his long and terrible absence; yet this consolation, unhappy as it was, only served to remind him of his own sad fate and to set him once more murmuring, "forty-five years!" but a moment afterwards he gave a gasp--a cry, indeed--and exclaimed: "my house! my house! see, see, it is there!" and called feebly to the driver to stop. above the walls bertie could perceive the red tiles of a long, low hotel; could observe also that in many places some of those tiles had fallen away and left great gaps yawning; and also that the whole gave signs of being in a ruinous condition. the huge, double wooden gates hung loosely on their hinges, while one or two beams in them bulged inward from rottenness and the lock, once large and handsome and a triumph of the smith's art, was rusted and almost fallen from its wooden socket. "alas! alas!" thought elphinston to himself, "it is not here that he will find his wife or child. he must look farther for them--perhaps in heaven!--who knows? poor de chevagny--poor, unhappy man!" there hung a great iron bell-handle on the side of the vast door, and the marquis, grasping it, rang a peal that could be heard echoing in the house itself across the courtyard--a peal that met with no response. then they waited for a minute or two, the marquis leaning on bertie's arm and gazing up wistfully into his face, as though seeking to read therein what his thoughts might be, and the driver staring over the wall at the unshuttered and uncurtained windows. "_mon dieu!_" the man muttered to himself so that they could not hear him, "after having dwelt in the _palais des grenouilles_[ ] so long, it is not strange if the master is no more expected," and he cracked his whip vigorously as though hoping, perhaps, to thereby attract some attention from within. still the old man looked up sadly at his companion's face, and muttered, "my home, my home!" so ruefully that the other had to turn away from him so that he should not see his eyes; and then bertie, seizing the bell handle, rang a strong, lusty peal upon it. "if there is anyone here," he said, "that should arouse them. the bell has a tongue that might wake the dead!" he could have bitten his own tongue out a moment later, for at his words, especially the last one, de chevagny started, and then muttered, "the dead--the dead. ah! it is the dead who never come back to us. they are gone. all are gone! when shall we meet again? never, never, never!" as though in answer to that question which his own weary heart had answered for itself, a door was heard to open in the front of the house--it creaked wofully on its hinges--and then steps were also heard upon the stones of the courtyard, the steps of someone in sabots, and next the key was turned in the rusty lock and one half of the great gate pulled back; following upon which, a woman of about forty years of age appeared at the doorway, and, after regarding the _fiacre_ and the young man with the old one now leaning so heavily on his arm, asked them what they desired. "to come into my own house," said the latter, looking at her, though he could see at once that she had been born since he last stood upon that spot. "i am the marquis de chevagny." she was not an uncomely-looking woman, neither did she appear hard nor severe; still she answered, with a look of suspicion in her face: "there is no marquis de chevagny. the title exists no longer." "yet," said the old man feebly, "i am he. this is my house. woman, i have but left the bastille an hour ago. i have been a prisoner there for forty-five years." she took a step backward, as though to regard him more particularly, while her brow wrinkled a little and her colour came and went, as she exclaimed, "my god, it is not possible!" "it is true," he said. "i pray you let me enter. i am very old and feeble--older than even i should be by my years--and--and this _is_ my house. do not refuse me!" "enter," the woman said, pulling wider open the door. "and this--monsieur," glancing at bertie, "who is he?" "i also have been a prisoner in the bastille, though for only a short space of time in comparison with his. i beseech you," he said, sinking his voice to a whisper, "answer him very gently--especially when he asks you of--of his family." "i understand," the woman said in return as she walked by their side across the courtyard, in which one or two fowls were strutting about--"i understand. is he truly the marquis?" "he is, indeed." "god help him!" and as she spoke, they reached the door of the house. they entered a great hall with a tiled floor and, above it at the back, a window of stained glass, some panes of which were broken--a hall in which there was no furniture except a plain oaken bench, that looked as though it had been used to chop wood upon; and on to this the marquis de chevagny sank, exhausted already, while bertie, saddened at such a home-coming as this, stood by to cheer and comfort him if possible. "this is not as i left it," the old man said as his glance roved round the spacious but empty hall. "has there been no one to guard it?" then, as though such trifles were unworthy of consideration, he asked eagerly, while a strange light shone from his eyes: "i had a wife, a child, when they took me from here. are they--they--still alive?" "is it possible monsieur does not know?" "know! what should i know? woman, i tell you i have been dead to the world for forty-five years--buried alive in a place to which no news ever comes. where," he continued, "where are my wife and child?" "alas! monsieur," she said, seeming while she spoke as though endeavouring to avoid answering him, "i have heard of you from my father; he was _garde chasse_ at the château de chevagny many years ago." "lenoir! was he your father?" "yes, monsieur, but he has been dead these twenty years; and then----" "my wife and child!" he interrupted--"my wife and child! are they dead, too?" "alas! monsieur, i never saw madame la marquise. she--she--died the year i was born." de chevagny straightened himself upon the bench--as he did so there came to bertie's recollection how his own father had so straightened himself as he died in his arms a few years before, and he wondered why he recalled that incident at this moment--then the marquis said: "the year you were born? how old are you?" "forty-one, monsieur." "forty-one!" he whispered, "forty-one! so! she lived four years. four years. and i--i--have been hoping, praying--o god! how i have prayed!--to see her again--to see her again, while for forty-one years she has been lying in her grave--in her grave!" he paused awhile, perhaps because he heard the sobs of bertie and the woman mingling with his own; then he said: "and the little child--my dear, dear little babe! is--is she dead, too?" "_non_, monsieur--at least i think not. she----" "thank god!" "she married, very young, the vicomte de brunet," the woman answered through her tears, "and went with him to guadeloupe; and sometimes, at intervals, she writes to her friends in paris, and they send me news of her. also, she has once written to me." "and she is well? has she children of her own, perhaps?" "no, monsieur. her marriage has not been so blessed by the _bon dieu!_" he sat thinking awhile, meditating deeply ere he spoke again; then he said: "but this house and the château--they were good properties; we have drawn large sums from them for generations. who takes the rents, the produce, now--to whom do they belong?" "to the state, i have heard, monsieur; to the king; though, it is said, in trust only. yet, i know not. i cannot say. but i suppose so. twice annually a monsieur comes from the minister of the king to visit us, and twice, also, i hear, one visits the château. if all has been saved for you, monsieur, during your long absence, you should be very rich." "rich," he repeated--"rich! very rich! yes, yes, very rich." then, turning on the woman suddenly, almost fiercely for him, he asked: "where--where, do you know--did my wife die? where did my little child live until she married? if the state, the king, took possession of my property, they would not let them stay here nor at the château." "madame la marquise went back to stay with her father after monsieur had gone away. mademoiselle de chevagny lived with him also until she married." then, observing that the old man looked even more feeble and drawn than she had at first noticed, she said: "but, monsieur, do not stay here in this cold hall. come into the saloon, i beg of you. there is no fire, but i can soon make one. come, monsieur, come." slowly leaning on bertie's arm, he rose at her behest--and now the latter perceived that he weighed more heavily on him than before--and, all together, they went into a fair-sized _salon_, or morning-room, to the left of the corridor; while the woman, preceding them, made haste to open the window shutters and to let a flood of light from the wintry sun pour into the room. it seemed to have been left much as it must have been in those long-past years, when so dreadful a doom had fallen upon that unhappy family--perhaps had scarcely undergone any alteration since those days. upon the walls there hung several pictures: one, of a man in half armour, bearing a strong resemblance to him who now tottered on bertie's arm; another, of an elderly woman, of a long anterior date; a third, of a young man in all the bravery of the rich apparel of louis xiv's date, a young man with bright blue eyes and a joyous smile--de chevagny himself. also, there were many chairs, none very comfortable, since, fifty years before this time, comfortable chairs were almost unknown articles; a table or so and a tabouret; also a woman's worktable in a corner by the fireplace with, above it, a painting of a fair young girl with a soft, gentle expression, done in what was, at the period in which it was painted, quite a new style--the style of antoine watteau--and much embellished with a rural landscape behind the portrait. with a gasp, a cry of recognition, de chevagny regarded this portrait in the light of the thin december sun, and then, leaning now so heavily on bertie's arm as to be almost entirely held up and supported by him, he exclaimed: "see! see! she has come back to me; we have met again! again, jeanne, my love, my wife, my dear! o jeanne, jeanne, we shall be so happy now!" the woman and bertie regarded each other significantly, though neither could speak from emotion, while de chevagny addressed the latter, saying: "see! there is the table where nightly she sits and works, making little things for the child that is to come--the babe that shall make us so happy. here," and he put his finger on a gilt nail by the chimney-piece, "where she hangs her workbasket at night; here," and he pointed to a low stool, "where i sit by her side and tell her all i have done at the court." he broke off, and appeared to be listening. "hark!" he said, "hark! it is striking eleven--we are going to bed--the great _cloche_ is ringing; there is a noise in the courtyard. god!" he screamed, "it is full of torches; the exempts are there; they have come to seize me--to drag me to the bastille--to part us! hide! oh, hide me!" "courage, courage, dear friend," said bertie, soothingly, as he held him in his arms, and noticed once again how heavy and inert his poor form was--"courage, courage! they will never come for you again. you are free forever now. dispel these illusions. be brave." "free," he repeated, "free!" and his wandering blue eyes sought bertie's once more, while in them there was again that wistful look which so wrung his heart. "free! yes, i am free!" and as he spoke he released himself from elphinston's grasp and flung himself upon his knees before his wife's picture. "my darling," he murmured, gazing up at it, "_ma mignonne_, we shall never part more. i am free! free! free! and so happy! oh, so happy!" and he clasped his hands together and bent over the low chair before the picture. and once again he looked up and murmured, "so--so happy now!" when at last they ventured to speak to him, and, getting no answer, to raise his head, they saw upon his face so sweet and placid a smile that, remembering all, bertie would not have wished to call him back to the world in which he had suffered so much. chapter xxxi. "an outstayed welcome." it was the night of monday, the th of december, , and once again all paris lay under the snow--snow that hung in great masses over the eaves of the houses, threatening, when the next thaw should come, to fall and envelop the passers-by; that was caked and hardened on the _chaussées_ of all the streets by the recent hard frost; that, out on the quays, was of the consistency of iron almost from the same cause; while, so severe had that frost been, that on the river the snow had been frozen into huge solid blocks, which swirled round and round in vast masses as, under the stars, they floated slowly down towards the open country and the sea. there were but few abroad on this cold night, certainly few pedestrians; yet, as the clocks from nôtre dame and all the other churches round struck eleven, there was one who, swiftly making his way along the quai des théatins, directly opposite the louvre, seemed neither to heed the cold nor the snow beneath his feet. wrapped in a long cloak, or roquelaure, held up sufficiently, however, not to impede his limbs in their stride, and with his three-cornered hat pressed down closely over his head, this man, without turning round to regard even the few casual passers-by, went onward until, as he neared the edge of the quay, on which stood a large, imposing hotel, from the windows of which issued a blaze of lights, he suddenly stopped in amazement; for outside this great mansion there was what he least would have expected to see--a large concourse of people assembled together, indiscriminately mixed with whom were exempts, other officers of police, and a considerable body of soldiers, as well as several sergeants of the grenadiers clad in their cuirasses and skullcaps. also he saw a number of musketeers (or horse guards) standing by their horses ready to mount them, as well as several of the _guets_, or street watchmen, near them; while, to make this concourse more astonishing to those who did not know what might be its object, in the road were half a dozen scaling ladders, with, by them, several of the _guets_, with axes and hammers in their hands. but that which was more astonishing for him to behold than aught else was that between the ordinary people or onlookers in the streets and the officials, civil and military, who stood in front of the mansion, was stretched as a barrier a thick, handsome, crimson silk cord fringed with gold. this cord, attached to gilt poles or staves about four feet high, served with the hotel itself to form an exact square, the house making the fourth side; and inside that square itself it was that the musketeers, sergeants of the grenadiers, and superior officers of the police were standing, as well as several other officers of high rank, as testified by their gorgeous uniforms and trappings. "it is the prince's house," bertie whispered to himself, for he was the man who had been making his way swiftly along the quai des théatins but a few moments ago--"the prince's house! what can be intended towards him? he should be safe here in paris, if anywhere. and kate is within--a lady of his suite--ill, and, my mother said, sick almost to death. heaven! i may not be able to see her even now, after so long! what a fate is mine! on the first night that i am able to approach her after so long and cruel a separation, to find the way barred thus!" he was about to ask a man in the crowd which he had now joined what the strange scene meant, when a murmur arose amongst those collected there, and at the same moment the order was given to the musketeers to mount their horses and the sergeants of grenadiers to form their men into double line. and at that instant the tramp of other animals' hoofs was heard and the roll of wheels. then, a moment later, a handsome and much-gilded coach drawn by four horses came swiftly along the quay until it reached the crowd, and the astonished coachman, seeing the gilt-embroidered crimson cord with the military behind it, pulled his animals up sharply. from the interior of the coach a voice, clear, crisp, and distinct, was heard exclaiming in french: "what is the meaning of this assembly? why am i prevented from entering my house?" and directly afterwards a gloved hand was put out from the open window, while a tall young man of about thirty years of age stepped from the coach. he was clad, perhaps because of the wintry weather, in a thick rose-coloured velvet suit embroidered with silver and lined with peach-coloured satin and silver tissue, and his waistcoat was a rich gold brocade with a spangled fringe set on in scallops; his silk stockings were also peach-coloured; in his lace cravat there sparkled a magnificent diamond solitaire. over his shoulders he wore the insignia of the garter of england and the order of st. andrew, and on his breast there hung a gold medal by a blue satin ribbon, on which, if it could have been inspected, would have been seen the words, "carolus, walliæ princeps, amor et spes britanniæ." as to his appearance, his face was oval and of a good complexion, though now he seemed somewhat pallid in the torchlight, and his eyes, which were very prominent and full, were blue. "god bless your royal highness!" cried bertie loudly, in which he was imitated by many, while all the officers and soldiers saluted him, and the richly clad civilians in the inclosure uncovered their hats. the prince glanced at the spot where elphinston's voice came from, and gave a look of recognition at his tall, stalwart form; then, turning to two of the gentlemen who surrounded him, he said, while he threw over his shoulders a small fleecy cape of ermine he had brought in his hand from the carriage: "monseigneur le duc de biron, and you, monsieur de vaudreville, you are friends of mine--friends ever, as i have thought--explain to me, therefore, i beg you, why my way is barred to my abode, and why i see you amongst those who so bar it? and, monsieur le duc and gentlemen, the night is more than cold; be covered, i beseech you," and he put on his own hat, in the lace of which there sparkled another superb diamond as an aigrette, while the white cockade was visible. but the others remained uncovered, while the duc de biron said: "may it please you, monseigneur----" "monseigneur!" interrupted charles edward. "i am the prince of wales! either that, or nothing! now, if you please, the reason of this _guet-apens_. do i owe it to my cousin louis?" the duke shrugged his shoulders, as though deprecating the prince's wrath, then he said: "his majesty regrets that your highness would not conform to his desire that you should leave france, according to the terms of the recent peace made at aix-la-chapelle, as conveyed to you by the duc de gesvres----" "neither my royal father nor i had part in that peace," again interrupted the prince. "therefore," went on the duc de biron, "his majesty has thought it well that you shall be conducted, with all respect and reverence, to the frontier. yet some forms must be observed, which i pray your highness to pardon." then, turning to monsieur de vaudreville, he said: "your duty." "monseigneur," said de vaudreville, "i arrest you in the name of the king, my master." "then," exclaimed bertie, as with a bound he rushed under the crimson cord, "arrest me also! this is the prince of wales, my master; we fought near to one another in the scotch campaign; where he goes i go too!" "captain elphinston," said charles edward, who had recognised him when first he spoke, "i am, indeed, rejoiced to see you by my side again. there could be no truer friend. yet it must not be. your services have already been too many; i can never requite them. henceforth live for yourself and those who love you." and turning to the duke and de vaudreville, who with the soldiers and the crowd had been astounded--indeed, touched--with this proof of devotion to the unfortunate prince, he said: "i shall not dispute his majesty's orders. yet, i think the manner is a little too violent." "i hope not, monseigneur," de biron said. "i should be _au desespoir_ if such were the case. but since there are other formalities to be gone through and your highness does not contest his majesty's decree, will you please to enter your house, and to permit of our accompanying you?" "as you please," replied the prince. "but," he said, pointing to bertie, "here is a gallant gentleman of the family of my lord balmerino, who was done to death on tower hill in my cause. he is a devoted adherent of our house, though i have lost sight of him for some time. gentlemen, i am alone, save for my grooms. i beg of you to allow him to enter also." the duc de biron and de vaudreville bowed at his words, and bowed again to elphinston, after which the order was given for the soldiers to stand out of the way while his highness entered the house. then, with another bow, the duke begged the prince to precede them, motioning also to bertie to accompany them. "i am glad to see you, captain elphinston," charles edward said as they approached the hall. "i have thought often of you and of your poor friend, and mine, mr. sholto. and--you will find in my house one to whom your coming may be a new life. you understand?" "i understand, your royal highness. i should have been here long before, but that i have been a prisoner in the bastille." "in the bastille! you! so that is where you have been hidden from all human knowledge. but stay--we cannot talk now. what do they intend to me? do you know? i do not, though i have long known that my presence in paris is unwelcome." bertie shook his head mournfully, and then they entered the hall of the mansion which the prince had hired from a french nobleman. a huge fire burned in the grate at one end of it, and to this charles edward advanced, and, holding out his hands to the blaze, warmed them. "your highness," said the duc de biron, who by no means appeared to relish the task before him, "again i beg you to believe that in what we have now to do no disrespect is intended. yet, it must be done. i have to ask you for your sword and any other weapons you may have about you." the prince started and coloured at these words, then, with a calmness which he never lost until the end of his life--when despair and, alas! drink had done their worst with him--he said: "i shall never deliver my sword to you, nor any man. but, since i am helpless---- no, captain elphinston," seeing a movement on the latter's part, "do not interfere, i beg you. since i am helpless, you may take them, and what else i have of arms." at a sign from the duke, de vaudreville undid the sash of his dress sword--he had been that night to a gala performance at the opera in the palais royal--and took the weapon from him, and then, seeing a melancholy smile upon his face, the other, with many profusions of apology and regret, gently felt in his pockets and removed from them two small ivory-handled and silver-inlaid pistols and a little knife with two blades. "do not be surprised," the prince said, "at seeing the pistols. since i was hunted like a wild beast in scotland--ay, hunted even by dogs--i, a king's son--i have carried them ever. and here in paris also my life has been sought." "i have to ask your highness to give a promise that you will make no attempt on your own life nor that of any other person," de vaudreville said. the prince shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the pistols and knife in the other's hands; then he said, "i promise. what more?" "your highness," said the duke, "will be conducted to vincennes to-night. de chatelet has received orders to prepare a room for you. to-morrow you will set out upon your journey. but, for the present, again i ask your highness to pardon me," and he faltered as he continued, "it is necessary for the greater security that you should be bound." "bound!" the prince exclaimed, and now he turned white as death. "bound! i! the prince of wales!" "alas! sire," said the duke, "it is the king's orders. yet, i pledge you my word as a peer of france, such orders are issued solely out of regard to your highness's person, and to prevent you making any attempt on that person." "i shall make no attempt," charles edward replied. "but i am unused to such proceedings as these. and i do not even say whether they are justifiable or not; the disgrace does not affect me, but your master alone." while he was speaking, de vaudreville continued to bind him, using crimson cord of a similar nature to that which formed the barrier outside, and at last both his legs and arms were securely tied, when the unhappy prince lost his calmness, and, looking down on de vaudreville with a glance that has been described as "menacing and terrible," exclaimed: "have you not enough now?" "not yet," replied the other, "though it is nearly ended." it was, indeed, nearly ended, since the prince's body was now so swathed with the cords that it would have been impossible for more to be placed round it or his limbs, and, looking at the duke with still his sad smile upon his face, he said: "i hope, monsieur, no other englishman will ever be treated thus. they are not made for such a purpose;" after which he asked what was to be done next. "to vincennes next," replied de biron, with a low bow. "my horses are fatigued," the prince said; "they cannot travel so far and back to-night." "have no fear," the duke answered. "a coach has been secured." and now they prepared to lift the unhappy descendant of a family of kings, the last descendant who ever made a bid or struck a blow for all that his ancestors had lost--since his brother the cardinal, henry, duke of york, was a mere shadow of a stuart--and to carry him to the hired coach that waited without. but bertie, who had been a furious witness of this insult to him whom, rightly or wrongly, he deemed--in agreement with three fourths of his country people and perhaps one half of the english--to be the rightful heir to the english throne, could not part thus from him. as he saw him tied and bound, there arose before him once more the memory of the bright young chieftain with whom he had embarked at port st. lazare, with whom he had landed in lochaber, and before whom the old marquis of tullibardine had unfurled at glenfinnan his white, blue, and red silk standard, with, on it, the proud and happy motto, "_tandem triumphans_." also before his eyes there rose the progress through scotland, the joyous welcome at edinburgh, the victory at prestonpans, the surrender at carlisle, the glorious march to and arrival at derby, with the news which succeeded that arrival, to the effect that the german king was trembling for fear at st. james's, and all london mad with terror. and then culloden!--that bitter day, when, as cumberland's butchers hacked and shot the wounded and the dying, charles urged on the living to avenge their comrades, and was at last forced off the field against his will, his face bespattered with the dirt thrown up by the cannon balls that fell around him. and now to see him thus! "oh, sir," he cried, flinging himself at the prince's feet, "let me go with you wherever the king of france may see fit to send you. give me but leave to see her i love, to tell her that once more i have returned to her, and then let me follow you, as is my duty and desire, wherever you go!" it was not only charles edward who was affected by this manly speech; even de biron, who understood english well, and de vaudreville, who did not, but evidently guessed accurately what he had said, were touched by it. "no, elphinston, no," the prince replied. "as i said but now, the day is past for services to be rendered to me or my cause. that cause is lost; this is the last blow. when france joins hands with england, how can a stuart hope? farewell, captain elphinston; she whom you love--i know all!--will recover yet, ill as she is, i hope. i pray to god that he may bless you both. farewell! we shall never meet again--never again! yet, remember, i beseech you, when you hear my name mentioned, that we fought side by side once--that we were comrades--and--and--so, try to think well of me." they bore him away after this, scarce giving bertie time to kiss his hand, and from that night they never did meet again. to the prince there were still to be forty years of life accorded; what that life became, with every hope shattered and every desire unaccomplished, the world well knows. between them the grenadiers and de vaudreville carried him to the hired coach--for owing to his silken fetters he was unable to walk--and put him into it at the spot where it waited, behind the kitchens. and bertie, following like a faithful dog who perceives its master departing, thus saw the last of him and received his last look. de vaudreville, he observed, sat by him; two captains of the musketeers entered the coach and sat opposite to him; two other officers rode on each side of the vehicle, with a hand upon the door; six grenadiers with fixed bayonets mounted behind like footmen, and the rest of the soldiers accompanied them on foot.[note e] thus the last but one of the stuarts left paris; thus the last hospitality and favour of france were withdrawn from the representative of the unhappy family whose cause france had so long espoused. "and now," said bertie to himself, as with a final courteous bow the duc de biron entered his own gorgeous carriage and departed to give an account of the proceedings to louis--"and now for her whom i have pined for so long! god grant that the report of her ill-health may be exaggerated! if i lose her, i have nothing more to live for!" chapter xxxii. "love strong as death!" neither the duc de biron nor de vaudreville had thought it necessary to place any of their soldiery or police within the mansion--perhaps because the person they required was himself outside it--and, consequently, there was nothing to prevent bertie from making his way from the hall to the upper regions where he naturally supposed kate would be--nothing, that is to say, beyond a few terrified-looking menservants, who, on perceiving him mount the stairs, retreated before him, probably imagining that he had been left in possession of the place by those who had taken away their master. they were quickly, however, undeceived by the stranger calling to them to ask who was now in charge of the establishment, and to whom he should address himself with a view to finding lady fordingbridge. "lady fordingbridge," one of the footmen replied, answering him in french, as he had spoken, though his accent showed plainly enough that he was a scotchman--"lady fordingbridge! she sees no one; she is very ill. she is, indeed----" "what!" interrupted bertie, in so sad a voice that even the man refrained from concluding his speech, which he had intended to do with the words, "dying, they say." but here a lady who had been descending the stairs from above, and now reached the corridor on the first floor at the same time that elphinston did, came forward and said, as she motioned the servants back: "it is indeed captain elphinston! oh, why not have come sooner, and why, of all nights, be so unhappy as to select this one? captain elphinston, your disappearance has very nearly brought lady fordingbridge to her grave--that, and the tragic death of her husband." "she knows that, then?" he asked, as he recognised the lady who spoke to him, she being the wife of lord ogilvie, whose title at that time was forfeited in england, though afterward restored--"she knows that, then?" "yes, she knows it," lady ogilvie replied. "does she also know the reason of it--of why he was led forth to execution on the place de grève?" bertie next demanded. he himself knew it now; his mother, whom he found still alive and well, though terribly prostrated by the two years and more of anxiety which she had endured since his disappearance, having told him all. "no," her ladyship replied, "that she does not know. we have never told her. rather we have let her suppose that he was about to be executed for some political crime. we could not tell her how base he was. yet," she went on, "it seems that you and he met in prison--that you forgave him. did you forgive him _that?_" "nay," replied bertie, "i knew not what he had done, and only saw that his mind was gone. and, not knowing, i forgave. now, lady ogilvie, i beseech you let me go to her!" "first," she replied, "i must warn her that you are here. she is very ill; she cannot bear a shock." "is she as ill as that?" "she is very weak and feeble. perhaps now you have appeared again, come back almost from the very jaws of death, she may recover. let us pray she will!" then she left him alone, saying she would soon return. agonizing as had been the long hours, weeks, months that he had spent alone in the chapel-room of the bastille, and nearly as much alone in the _calotte_ with de chevagny, when, both heartbroken, they had sometimes scarcely exchanged a word for days, none had seemed more bitter, more unendurable, than the few minutes during which lady ogilvie was absent. for everything that he had gathered as to the state of kate's health, since he had emerged into the world once more, pointed only too plainly to the fact that he had but found her again to again lose her, and to lose her this time beyond all hopes of recovery. "come," said lady ogilvie, returning to him--"come; she is now expecting you. i have prepared her. come." he followed her up the great stairs to the second floor, and there his companion opened the door and ushered him into a large, well-warmed and lighted room, and then left them. seated before the great fire, yet with her face turned eagerly towards the door as though watching for him, he saw her once again--saw the woman he had loved so long, the woman whom fate had parted him from. she was thin, now, almost to attenuation--she, whose supple, graceful figure had once been one of her greatest charms--so thin that she looked more like a child that was unwell than a grown woman, and on her face there were no roses now. "kate," he exclaimed, advancing swiftly to her as she held out her thin worn arms to him, and falling on his knee beside her--"kate, my darling, i have come back at last; am free once more! kate, nothing can part us now." for answer she let her head droop to his shoulder and lie there. it seemed to her that at last perfect peace had come, that all the black and dreadful past was gone and done with for ever; then she whispered: "nothing part us! oh, my dear, my love, there is one parting more only to be made; then--then--we shall meet to never part again. bertie, you have come in time, yet too late--too late for this world." "no, no," he said, "it shall not be! kate, do not leave me now. think, think, my darling, of how long we have waited, of all that has separated us so long, and that now there is no longer any barrier between us. think of the dreary months in prison, months that i counted day by day, hoping, praying ever to get free and come back to you; think how brave you have been, always waiting for me. o kate, my sweet, do not go and leave me now alone!" and as he spoke he wept, and buried his head upon her lap. "nay," she said, stroking his head and noticing how grey and grizzled it was now, though he was still so young a man--"nay, do not weep, bertie. you are too strong to shed tears, too strong and brave. it was your strength and manhood i loved so much, was so proud of. do not weep now; for it is best, bertie, best so." "best!" he answered almost fiercely, and raising his head as he did so, while she with one wan hand put back softly from his forehead the brown locks flecked with grey. "best! how can it be best; how, how? o kate, think, think of all our hopes formed so long ago, the hopes of happy years to come to be passed together!--the hopes that we should grow old together, and then, together at the end, share one calm and peaceful grave. my darling, those years are still before us; i cannot lose you now. stay, stay with me! remember all our plans formed in the days of the rue trousse vache, the days when we wandered forth hand in hand together. oh, stay with me, my darling, stay!" it appeared as if the rose-blush came back into her cheeks at his whispered prayer, as if a new life was dawning for her again. then she murmured: "oh, my dear, it seems as though i must not leave you now. bertie, i will stay with you, if i may--if god will let me!" appendix. note a. _the reward offered by charles edward_. "whereas we have seen a certain scandalous and malicious paper, published in the stile and form of a proclamation, bearing date the st instant, wherein, under pretence of bringing us to justice, like our royal ancestor king charles i of blessed memory, there is a reward of thirty thousand pounds sterling, promised to those who shall deliver us into the hands of our enemies, we could not but be moved with a just indignation at so insolent an attempt. and though from our nature and principles we abhor and detest a practice so unusual among christian princes, we cannot but out of a just regard to the dignity of our person, promise the like reward of thirty thousand pounds sterling, to him or those who shall seize and secure, till our further orders, the person of the elector of hanover, whether landed, or attempting to land, in any part of his majesty's dominions. should any fatal accident happen from hence, let the blame lie entirely at the door of those who first set the infamous example. charles, p. r. "given in our camp at kinlocheill, august the nd, . "by his highness's command. jo murray." _headed_.--charles, prince of wales, etc., regent of the kingdom of scotland, england, france, and ireland, and the dominions thereunto belonging. note b. _jesuit priests in england_. a long proclamation was issued, headed "george r.," and dated december , , which, after threatening all kinds of penalties against those who knew of jesuit priests being in england, or those who harboured them, continued: "we, for the better discovering and apprehending of such jesuit and popish priests, do by this our royal proclamation, by and with the advice of our privy council, strictly charge and command all our judges, justices of the peace, magistrates, officers, and other our loyal subjects, that they do use their utmost care and endeavour to discover, apprehend, and bring to trial, all jesuit and popish priests, except such popish priests, not being our natural born subjects, as, by the law of this our realm, are permitted to attend foreign ministers." a reward of one hundred pounds for every such priest was offered. note c. _the duke of cumberland's vengeance after culloden_. extract from a letter written by an officer in the king's army: "the moor was covered with blood, and our men, what with killing the enemy, dabbling their feet in the blood, and splashing it about one another, looked like so many butchers." a gentleman named george charles, who wrote an accurate history of the rebellion, also says: "vast numbers of the common people's houses or huts were likewise laid in ashes; all the cattle, sheep, and goats were carried off; and several poor people, especially women and children, were found dead on the hills, supposed to be starved. even places of worship were not exempt from the ravages of the unprincipled soldiery; several mass-houses about strathbogie were pulled down by them; some non-jurant episcopal meetinghouses were likewise burnt and destroyed, and they were generally shut up all over the kingdom. the commander-in-chief was at this time amusing himself and his staff with foot and horse races." note d. _the bastille_. in presenting the bastille to the readers of these pages exactly as it was according to every authority on the subject--although in considerable opposition to the usually accepted and melodramatic and transpontine ideas on the fortress--i do not feel that i have robbed romance of any of her charms. the true bastille offers the fictionist quite as much opportunity for his powers as the fusty, tawdry thing which, under its name, has heretofore done duty in its place. the bastille was never the place of indescribable horrors which fictionists and dramatists have contrived--"out of their own heads," as the children say--to represent it; indeed, i may truthfully assert that i have never read a description yet of the place in fiction, nor seen a representation of the place in drama, which could by any possibility have approached very near accuracy. and this is the more extraordinary, because there are something like forty authorities who may be referred to on the subject, including among them such men as the duc de richelieu and voltaire, both of whom had in their time been prisoners in it. in truth, the bastille was more a house of detention than anything else, and in many cases was regarded as a shelter or harbour of refuge from outside storms. instances are frequent of men petitioning to be sent there to escape their enemies, and of others refusing to come out and be forced to meet their enemies. moreover, if a young man of fashion contracted debts or low amours, or gambled, or was too intimate with undesirable women--as was the case with the duc d'estrées, the duc de mortemart, the comte d'harcourt, and others--nothing was more common than for his father to pack him off to the bastille, accompanied by his tutor and his valet. also, the bastille was often regarded by the parisians as a suitable object for poking fun at. voltaire, after having been incarcerated there for objecting to being thrashed by the chevalier de rohan for being a poet, told louis xv, when he promised to provide for him, that "he trusted his majesty's provision would not again include board and lodging." another poet, referring to the moat round the fortress, delivered himself of the lines: que vois-je dans ce marécage digne de curiosité, se tenir sur sa gravité en citadel de village? a quoi sert ce vieux mur dans l'eau? est-ce un aqueduc, un caveau? est-ce un reservoir de grenouilles? and langlet du frosnoy (an abbé and a most prolific writer, who passed half his life in various prisons, and died at eighty by tumbling into the fire while reading a book) used to take his papers, his snuff, and his nightgown off to the bastille when rearrested, and calmly go on with his work there on being once more locked up. as regards the surrender of the bastille (for, as marmontel truthfully says, it was only threatened with siege and never really besieged) in , and the release of the "unhappy prisoners," it may be mentioned that there were but seven of them there, and that one was an imbecile englishman named whyte, whose friends had had him shut up to keep him out of harm's way. four of the others were common forgers awaiting trial; the sixth was the comte de solages, detained at the request of his family and on their paying his expenses; and the seventh was tavernier, a man who had conspired against the late king. no record of torture being practised in the bastille--after the middle ages--can be found; while, as for food, the kings allowed so fair a sum to each prisoner--generally one hundred sols, or five francs, a day--that often the latter petitioned that, instead of so many meals, they might be allowed some of the money for other things. in the case of a prince of the blood, fifty livres a day were allowed; for the cardinal de rohan one hundred and twenty were granted. discipline had, however, to be maintained, and where the "guests" were too obstreperous they were sometimes confined alone in dark, solitary cells, instead of being in rooms with others for companions. latude, who has been regarded as a martyr, was frequently punished for swearing, roaring so that people outside could hear him, and "playing the devil," to use the words of the officials; yet he was allowed tobacco, seeds for the birds he was permitted to keep, new clothes when he asked for them, fur gloves to keep his hands warm, and almost whatever food he desired. allègre, who escaped from the bastille with him and was retaken, was also a troublesome man; he broke all the windows, china, and pottery in his room daily, and tore up his mattresses and shirts, "which cost the king twenty francs each," and his pocket-handkerchiefs. he died mad at last at charenton, did not know latude, who went to see him, and told everyone that he was god. the instrument of torture found in the bastille on its fall turned out, when regarded by intelligent people, to be a small printing press left behind by one françois lenormand, who had been permitted to have it in his room for occupation; also a billiard table was discovered which was provided, the year before the bastille surrendered, for the amusement of the "prisoners"! the "awful cells" which have furnished so much matter for powerful writing, were "the ice houses" in which wine, meat, and fish were stored. in truth, the "king's furnished apartments" seem to have been far from unpleasant abode to many, as the abbé de mehégan acknowledged when his mother implored the king to keep him there as long as possible, because he was so dissolute and extravagant and such a terror to all the girls in his parish. of course, in the days of louis xiv and louis xv some prisoners were detained for long periods, and one there was who was detained the same length of time--forty-four years--as i have accorded to de chevagny. falmy's case was also possible in louis xv's reign. but in louis xvi's first year the bastille was cleared of all but tavernier and some others whose trial was close at hand, and even the revolutionists acknowledged that no "court" victim had been incarcerated during that unhappy king's reign. the last man to enter the bastille was one reveillon, a furniture dealer, and he did so at his own request, and with a demand for the rights of "sanctuary," as his fellow-workmen were destroying his house in the faubourg st. antoine because he had used defamatory language against _them!_ and he was afraid for his life. terrible, therefore, as the bastille was, as a place in which one might be detained for an indefinite period, it was not what it has hitherto been represented; yet, as i have said, it formed a sufficiently gloomy abode in which to secrete such characters as bertie elphinston and fordingbridge when such secretion was rendered necessary in the interests of my narrative. the descriptions of the bastille have been gathered by me from the accounts of the spy, constantin de renneville, who was a prisoner for eleven years, and who, when released, went to london, and was there assassinated by an unknown hand; of the adventurer, jean louis carra, who, after writing odes of praise upon the fall of the bastille, perished at the hands of the republicans; of the duc de richelieu, who, when a very old man of ninety, could not resist visiting the place where he had been three times confined when a very young one; and of voltaire, who had had considerable experience of its hospitality, having been sent there twice; and of many other authors of the past and present. note e. _arrest of charles edward_. the arrest of charles edward took place under precisely similar circumstances to those which i have described, with one exception, namely, that it was carried out on his quitting the opera house in the palais royal instead of outside his own house on the quai des théatins, and it was from behind the _kitchen_ of the palais royal that he was taken away in a hired cab. i have transposed the arrest to the latter spot to suit the requirements of the story. the duc de biron took part in it, against his will, in the capacity of colonel-in-chief of the guards. he was the least celebrated of the many ducs de biron, of whom a french writer said "all were celebrated and some notorious." footnotes [footnote : "_tandem triumphans_" was the motto emblazoned on charles edward's banner during the march into england. "_nunquam triumphans_" was afterwards a password between jacobites.] [footnote : the remarkable name of one of the royal yachts of george ii.] [footnote : inaugurated .] [footnote : at this period most of the houses in kensington-square had large gardens at the back. those on the west side, where i fordingbridge's is supposed to be situated, covered what known as scarsdale-place.] [footnote : a tipstaff, or executor of warrants for the government.] [footnote : governor of the bastille from to , and father of the last governor of that prison, le marquis bernard réné jourdan de launey, who was brutally murdered by the populace on the fall of the bastille in .] [footnote : latude's successful escape was made some years after the date of this narrative--viz., in .] [footnote : as happened the next year, by the treaty of aix-la-chapelle.] [footnote : the ballets in which the french kings, and louis xiv in particular, frequently danced, were more in the style of a minuet than anything else. there is a picture in the luxembourg of one being performed, with louis taking part in it and representing _le printemps_.] [footnote : a derisive name sometimes applied to the bastille, especially by the lower classes in paris.] the end. [transcriber's note: i feel that it is important to note that this book is part of the caledonian series. the caledonian series is a group of books comprising all of sir walter scott's works.] waverley by sir walter scott volume ii waverley or 'tis sixty years since chapter xxxvi an incident the dinner hour of scotland sixty years since was two o'clock. it was therefore about four o'clock of a delightful autumn afternoon that mr. gilfillan commenced his march, in hopes, although stirling was eighteen miles distant, he might be able, by becoming a borrower of the night for an hour or two, to reach it that evening. he therefore put forth his strength, and marched stoutly along at the head of his followers, eyeing our hero from time to time, as if he longed to enter into controversy with him. at length, unable to resist the temptation, he slackened his pace till he was alongside of his prisoner's horse, and after marching a few steps in silence abreast of him, he suddenly asked--'can ye say wha the carle was wi' the black coat and the mousted head, that was wi' the laird of cairnvreckan?' 'a presbyterian clergyman,' answered waverley. 'presbyterian!' answered gilfillan contemptuously; 'a wretched erastian, or rather an obscure prelatist, a favourer of the black indulgence, ane of thae dumb dogs that canna bark; they tell ower a clash o' terror and a clatter o' comfort in their sermons, without ony sense, or savour, or life. ye've been fed in siccan a fauld, belike?' 'no; i am of the church of england,' said waverley. 'and they're just neighbour-like,' replied the covenanter; 'and nae wonder they gree sae weel. wha wad hae thought the goodly structure of the kirk of scotland, built up by our fathers in , wad hae been defaced by carnal ends and the corruptions of the time;--ay, wha wad hae thought the carved work of the sanctuary would hae been sae soon cut down!' to this lamentation, which one or two of the assistants chorussed with a deep groan, our hero thought it unnecessary to make any reply. whereupon mr. gilfillan, resolving that he should be a hearer at least, if not a disputant, proceeded in his jeremiade. 'and now is it wonderful, when, for lack of exercise anent the call to the service of the altar and the duty of the day, ministers fall into sinful compliances with patronage, and indemnities, and oaths, and bonds, and other corruptions,--is it wonderful, i say, that you, sir, and other sic-like unhappy persons, should labour to build up your auld babel of iniquity, as in the bluidy persecuting saint-killing times? i trow, gin ye werena blinded wi' the graces and favours, and services and enjoyments, and employments and inheritances, of this wicked world, i could prove to you, by the scripture, in what a filthy rag ye put your trust; and that your surplices, and your copes and vestments, are but cast-off garments of the muckle harlot that sitteth upon seven hills and drinketh of the cup of abomination. but, i trow, ye are deaf as adders upon that side of the head; ay, ye are deceived with her enchantments, and ye traffic with her merchandise, and ye are drunk with the cup of her fornication!' how much longer this military theologist might have continued his invective, in which he spared nobody but the scattered remnant of hill-folk, as he called them, is absolutely uncertain. his matter was copious, his voice powerful, and his memory strong; so that there was little chance of his ending his exhortation till the party had reached stirling, had not his attention been attracted by a pedlar who had joined the march from a cross-road, and who sighed or groaned with great regularity at all fitting pauses of his homily. 'and what may ye be, friend?' said the gifted gilfillan. 'a puir pedlar, that's bound for stirling, and craves the protection of your honour's party in these kittle times. ah' your honour has a notable faculty in searching and explaining the secret,--ay, the secret and obscure and incomprehensible causes of the backslidings of the land; ay, your honour touches the root o' the matter.' 'friend,' said gilfillan, with a more complacent voice than he had hitherto used, 'honour not me. i do not go out to park-dikes and to steadings and to market-towns to have herds and cottars and burghers pull off their bonnets to me as they do to major melville o' cairnvreckan, and ca' me laird or captain or honour. no; my sma' means, whilk are not aboon twenty thousand merk, have had the blessing of increase, but the pride of my heart has not increased with them; nor do i delight to be called captain, though i have the subscribed commission of that gospel-searching nobleman, the earl of glencairn, fa whilk i am so designated. while i live i am and will be called habakkuk gilfillan, who will stand up for the standards of doctrine agreed on by the ance famous kirk of scotland, before she trafficked with the accursed achan, while he has a plack in his purse or a drap o' bluid in his body.' 'ah,' said the pedlar, 'i have seen your land about mauchlin. a fertile spot! your lines have fallen in pleasant places! and siccan a breed o' cattle is not in ony laird's land in scotland.' 'ye say right,--ye say right, friend' retorted gilfillan eagerly, for he was not inaccessible to flattery upon this subject,--'ye say right; they are the real lancashire, and there's no the like o' them even at the mains of kilmaurs'; and he then entered into a discussion of their excellences, to which our readers will probably be as indifferent as our hero. after this excursion the leader returned to his theological discussions, while the pedlar, less profound upon those mystic points, contented himself with groaning and expressing his edification at suitable intervals. 'what a blessing it would be to the puir blinded popish nations among whom i hae sojourned, to have siccan a light to their paths! i hae been as far as muscovia in my sma' trading way, as a travelling merchant, and i hae been through france, and the low countries, and a' poland, and maist feck o' germany, and o! it would grieve your honour's soul to see the murmuring and the singing and massing that's in the kirk, and the piping that's in the quire, and the heathenish dancing and dicing upon the sabbath!' this set gilfillan off upon the book of sports and the covenant, and the engagers, and the protesters, and the whiggamore's raid, and the assembly of divines at westminster, and the longer and shorter catechism, and the excommunication at torwood, and the slaughter of archbishop sharp. this last topic, again, led him into the lawfulness of defensive arms, on which subject he uttered much more sense than could have been expected from some other parts of his harangue, and attracted even waverley's attention, who had hitherto been lost in his own sad reflections. mr. gilfillan then considered the lawfulness of a private man's standing forth as the avenger of public oppression, and as he was labouring with great earnestness the cause of mas james mitchell, who fired at the archbishop of saint andrews some years before the prelate's assassination on magus muir, an incident occurred which interrupted his harangue. the rays of the sun were lingering on the very verge of the horizon as the party ascended a hollow and somewhat steep path which led to the summit of a rising ground. the country was uninclosed, being part of a very extensive heath or common; but it was far from level, exhibiting in many places hollows filled with furze and broom; in others, little dingles of stunted brushwood. a thicket of the latter description crowned the hill up which the party ascended. the foremost of the band, being the stoutest and most active, had pushed on, and, having surmounted the ascent, were out of ken for the present. gilfillan, with the pedlar and the small party who were waverley's more immediate guard, were near the top of the ascent, and the remainder straggled after them at a considerable interval. such was the situation of matters when the pedlar, missing, as he said, a little doggie which belonged to him, began to halt and whistle for the animal. this signal, repeated more than once, gave offence to the rigour of his companion, the rather because it appeared to indicate inattention to the treasures of theological and controversial knowledge which were pouring out for his edification. he therefore signified gruffly that he could not waste his time in waiting for an useless cur. 'but if your honour wad consider the case of tobit--' 'tobit!' exclaimed gilffflan, with great heat; 'tobit and his dog baith are altogether heathenish and apocryphal, and none but a prelatist or a papist would draw them into question. i doubt i hae been mista'en in you, friend.' 'very likely,' answered the pedlar, with great composure; 'but ne'ertheless, i shall take leave to whistle again upon puir bawty.' this last signal was answered in an unexpected manner; for six or eight stout highlanders, who lurked among the copse and brushwood, sprung into the hollow way and began to lay about them with their claymores. gilfillan, unappalled at this undesirable apparition, cried out manfully, 'the sword of the lord and of gideon!' and, drawing his broadsword, would probably have done as much credit to the good old cause as any of its doughty champions at drumclog, when, behold! the pedlar, snatching a musket from the person who was next him bestowed the butt of it with such emphasis on the head of his late instructor in the cameronian creed that he was forthwith levelled to the ground. in the confusion which ensued the horse which bore our hero was shot by one of gilfillan's party, as he discharged his firelock at random. waverley fell with, and indeed under, the animal, and sustained some severe contusions. but he was almost instantly extricated from the fallen steed by two highlanders, who, each seizing him by the arm, hurried him away from the scuffle and from the highroad. they ran with great speed, half supporting and half dragging our hero, who could, however, distinguish a few dropping shots fired about the spot which he had left. this, as he afterwards learned, proceeded from gilfillan's party, who had now assembled, the stragglers in front and rear having joined the others. at their approach the highlanders drew off, but not before they had rifled gilfillan and two of his people, who remained on the spot grievously wounded. a few shots were exchanged betwixt them and the westlanders; but the latter, now without a commander, and apprehensive of a second ambush, did not make any serious effort to recover their prisoner, judging it more wise to proceed on their journey to stirling, carrying with them their wounded captain and comrades. chapter xxxvii waverley is still in distress the velocity, and indeed violence, with which waverley was hurried along nearly deprived him of sensation; for the injury he had received from his fall prevented him from aiding himself so effectually as he might otherwise have done. when this was observed by his conductors, they called to their aid two or three others of the party, and, swathing our hero's body in one of their plaids, divided his weight by that means among them, and transported him at the same rapid rate as before, without any exertion of his own. they spoke little, and that in gaelic; and did not slacken their pace till they had run nearly two miles, when they abated their extreme rapidity, but continued still to walk very fast, relieving each other occasionally. our hero now endeavoured to address them, but was only answered with 'cha n'eil beurl agam' i.e. 'i have no english,' being, as waverley well knew, the constant reply of a highlander when he either does not understand or does not choose to reply to an englishman or lowlander. he then mentioned the name of vich lan vohr, concluding that he was indebted to his friendship for his rescue from the clutches of gifted gilfillan, but neither did this produce any mark of recognition from his escort. the twilight had given place to moonshine when the party halted upon the brink of a precipitous glen, which, as partly enlightened by the moonbeams, seemed full of trees and tangled brushwood. two of the highlanders dived into it by a small foot-path, as if to explore its recesses, and one of them returning in a few minutes, said something to his companions, who instantly raised their burden and bore him, with great attention and care, down the narrow and abrupt descent. notwithstanding their precautions, however, waverley's person came more than once into contact, rudely enough, with the projecting stumps and branches which overhung the pathway. at the bottom of the descent, and, as it seemed, by the side of a brook (for waverley heard the rushing of a considerable body of water, although its stream was invisible in the darkness), the party again stopped before a small and rudely-constructed hovel. the door was open, and the inside of the premises appeared as uncomfortable and rude as its situation and exterior foreboded. there was no appearance of a floor of any kind; the roof seemed rent in several places; the walls were composed of loose stones and turf, and the thatch of branches of trees. the fire was in the centre, and filled the whole wigwam with smoke, which escaped as much through the door as by means of a circular aperture in the roof. an old highland sibyl, the only inhabitant of this forlorn mansion, appeared busy in the preparation of some food. by the light which the fire afforded waverley could discover that his attendants were not of the clan of ivor, for fergus was particularly strict in requiring from his followers that they should wear the tartan striped in the mode peculiar to their race; a mark of distinction anciently general through the highlands, and still maintained by those chiefs who were proud of their lineage or jealous of their separate and exclusive authority. edward had lived at glennaquoich long enough to be aware of a distinction which he had repeatedly heard noticed, and now satisfied that he had no interest with his attendants, he glanced a disconsolate eye around the interior of the cabin. the only furniture, excepting a washing-tub and a wooden press, called in scotland an ambry, sorely decayed, was a large wooden bed, planked, as is usual, all around, and opening by a sliding panel. in this recess the highlanders deposited waverley, after he had by signs declined any refreshment. his slumbers were broken and unrefreshing; strange visions passed before his eyes, and it required constant and reiterated efforts of mind to dispel them. shivering, violent headache, and shooting pains in his limbs succeeded these symptoms; and in the morning it was evident to his highland attendants or guard, for he knew not in which light to consider them, that waverley was quite unfit to travel. after a long consultation among themselves, six of the party left the hut with their arms, leaving behind an old and a young man. the former addressed waverley, and bathed the contusions, which swelling and livid colour now made conspicuous. his own portmanteau, which the highlanders had not failed to bring off, supplied him with linen, and to his great surprise was, with all its undiminished contents, freely resigned to his use. the bedding of his couch seemed clean and comfortable, and his aged attendant closed the door of the bed, for it had no curtain, after a few words of gaelic, from which waverley gathered that he exhorted him to repose. so behold our hero for a second time the patient of a highland esculapius, but in a situation much more uncomfortable than when he was the guest of the worthy tomanrait. the symptomatic fever which accompanied the injuries he had sustained did not abate till the third day, when it gave way to the care of his attendants and the strength of his constitution, and he could now raise himself in his bed, though not without pain. he observed, however, that there was a great disinclination on the part of the old woman who acted as his nurse, as well as on that of the elderly highlander, to permit the door of the bed to be left open, so that he might amuse himself with observing their motions; and at length, after waverley had repeatedly drawn open and they had as frequently shut the hatchway of his cage, the old gentleman put an end to the contest by securing it on the outside with a nail so effectually that the door could not be drawn till this exterior impediment was removed. while musing upon the cause of this contradictory spirit in persons whose conduct intimated no purpose of plunder, and who, in all other points, appeared to consult his welfare and his wishes, it occurred to our hero that, during the worst crisis of his illness, a female figure, younger than his old highland nurse, had appeared to flit around his couch. of this, indeed, he had but a very indistinct recollection, but his suspicions were confirmed when, attentively listening, he often heard, in the course of the day, the voice of another female conversing in whispers with his attendant. who could it be? and why should she apparently desire concealment? fancy immediately aroused herself and turned to flora mac-ivor. but after a short conflict between his eager desire to believe she was in his neighbourhood, guarding, like an angel of mercy, the couch of his sickness, waverley was compelled to conclude that his conjecture was altogether improbable; since, to suppose she had left her comparatively safe situation at glennaquoich to descend into the low country, now the seat of civil war, and to inhabit such a lurking-place as this, was a thing hardly to be imagined. yet his heart bounded as he sometimes could distinctly hear the trip of a light female step glide to or from the door of the hut, or the suppressed sounds of a female voice, of softness and delicacy, hold dialogue with the hoarse inward croak of old janet, for so he understood his antiquated attendant was denominated. having nothing else to amuse his solitude, he employed himself in contriving some plan to gratify his curiosity, in despite of the sedulous caution of janet and the old highland janizary, for he had never seen the young fellow since the first morning. at length, upon accurate examination, the infirm state of his wooden prison-house appeared to supply the means of gratifying his curiosity, for out of a spot which was somewhat decayed he was able to extract a nail. through this minute aperture he could perceive a female form, wrapped in a plaid, in the act of conversing with janet. but, since the days of our grandmother eve, the gratification of inordinate curiosity has generally borne its penalty in disappointment. the form was not that of flora, nor was the face visible; and, to crown his vexation, while he laboured with the nail to enlarge the hole, that he might obtain a more complete view, a slight noise betrayed his purpose, and the object of his curiosity instantly disappeared, nor, so far as he could observe, did she again revisit the cottage. all precautions to blockade his view were from that time abandoned, and he was not only permitted but assisted to rise, and quit what had been, in a literal sense, his couch of confinement. but he was not allowed to leave the hut; for the young highlander had now rejoined his senior, and one or other was constantly on the watch. whenever waverley approached the cottage door the sentinel upon duty civilly, but resolutely, placed himself against it and opposed his exit, accompanying his action with signs which seemed to imply there was danger in the attempt and an enemy in the neighbourhood. old janet appeared anxious and upon the watch; and waverley, who had not yet recovered strength enough to attempt to take his departure in spite of the opposition of his hosts, was under the necessity of remaining patient. his fare was, in every point of view, better than he could have conceived, for poultry, and even wine, were no strangers to his table. the highlanders never presumed to eat with him, and, unless in the circumstance of watching him, treated him with great respect. his sole amusement was gazing from the window, or rather the shapeless aperture which was meant to answer the purpose of a window, upon a large and rough brook, which raged and foamed through a rocky channel, closely canopied with trees and bushes, about ten feet beneath the site of his house of captivity. upon the sixth day of his confinement waverley found himself so well that he began to meditate his escape from this dull and miserable prison-house, thinking any risk which he might incur in the attempt preferable to the stupefying and intolerable uniformity of janet's retirement. the question indeed occurred, whither he was to direct his course when again at his own disposal. two schemes seemed practicable, yet both attended with danger and difficulty. one was to go back to glennaquoich and join fergus mac-ivor, by whom he was sure to be kindly received; and in the present state of his mind, the rigour with which he had been treated fully absolved him, in his own eyes, from his allegiance to the existing government. the other project was to endeavour to attain a scottish seaport, and thence to take shipping for england. his mind wavered between these plans, and probably, if he had effected his escape in the manner he proposed, he would have been finally determined by the comparative facility by which either might have been executed. but his fortune had settled that he was not to be left to his option. upon the evening of the seventh day the door of the hut suddenly opened, and two highlanders entered, whom waverley recognised as having been a part of his original escort to this cottage. they conversed for a short time with the old man and his companion, and then made waverley understand, by very significant signs, that he was to prepare to accompany them. this was a joyful communication. what had already passed during his confinement made it evident that no personal injury was designed to him; and his romantic spirit, having recovered during his repose much of that elasticity which anxiety, resentment, disappointment, and the mixture of unpleasant feelings excited by his late adventures had for a time subjugated, was now wearied with inaction. his passion for the wonderful, although it is the nature of such dispositions to be excited by that degree of danger which merely gives dignity to the feeling of the individual exposed to it, had sunk under the extraordinary and apparently insurmountable evils by which he appeared environed at cairnvreckan. in fact, this compound of intense curiosity and exalted imagination forms a peculiar species of courage, which somewhat resembles the light usually carried by a miner--sufficiently competent, indeed, to afford him guidance and comfort during the ordinary perils of his labour, but certain to be extinguished should he encounter the more formidable hazard of earth damps or pestiferous vapours. it was now, however, once more rekindled, and with a throbbing mixture of hope, awe, and anxiety, waverley watched the group before him, as those who were just arrived snatched a hasty meal, and the others assumed their arms and made brief preparations for their departure. as he sat in the smoky hut, at some distance from the fire, around which the others were crowded, he felt a gentle pressure upon his arm. he looked round; it was alice, the daughter of donald bean lean. she showed him a packet of papers in such a manner that the motion was remarked by no one else, put her finger for a second to her lips, and passed on, as if to assist old janet in packing waverley's clothes in his portmanteau. it was obviously her wish that he should not seem to recognise her, yet she repeatedly looked back at him, as an opportunity occurred of doing so unobserved, and when she saw that he remarked what she did, she folded the packet with great address and speed in one of his shirts, which she deposited in the portmanteau. here then was fresh food for conjecture. was alice his unknown warden, and was this maiden of the cavern the tutelar genius that watched his bed during his sickness? was he in the hands of her father? and if so, what was his purpose? spoil, his usual object, seemed in this case neglected; for not only waverley's property was restored, but his purse, which might have tempted this professional plunderer, had been all along suffered to remain in his possession. all this perhaps the packet might explain; but it was plain from alice's manner that she desired he should consult it in secret. nor did she again seek his eye after she had satisfied herself that her manoeuvre was observed and understood. on the contrary, she shortly afterwards left the hut, and it was only as she tript out from the door, that, favoured by the obscurity, she gave waverley a parting smile and nod of significance ere she vanished in the dark glen. the young highlander was repeatedly despatched by his comrades as if to collect intelligence. at length, when he had returned for the third or fourth time, the whole party arose and made signs to our hero to accompany them. before his departure, however, he shook hands with old janet, who had been so sedulous in his behalf, and added substantial marks of his gratitude for her attendance. 'god bless you! god prosper you, captain waverley!' said janet, in good lowland scotch, though he had never hithero heard her utter a syllable, save in gaelic. but the impatience of his attendants prohibited his asking any explanation. chapter xxxviii a nocturnal adventure there was a moment's pause when the whole party had got out of the hut; and the highlander who assumed the command, and who, in waverley's awakened recollection, seemed to be the same tall figure who had acted as donald bean lean's lieutenant, by whispers and signs imposed the strictest silence. he delivered to edward a sword and steel pistol, and, pointing up the track, laid his hand on the hilt of his own claymore, as if to make him sensible they might have occasion to use force to make good their passage. he then placed himself at the head of the party, who moved up the pathway in single or indian file, waverley being placed nearest to their leader. he moved with great precaution, as if to avoid giving any alarm, and halted as soon as he came to the verge of the ascent. waverley was soon sensible of the reason, for he heard at no great distance an english sentinel call out 'all's well.' the heavy sound sunk on the night-wind down the woody glen, and was answered by the echoes of its banks. a second, third, and fourth time the signal was repeated fainter and fainter, as if at a greater and greater distance. it was obvious that a party of soldiers were near, and upon their guard, though not sufficiently so to detect men skilful in every art of predatory warfare, like those with whom he now watched their ineffectual precautions. when these sounds had died upon the silence of the night, the highlanders began their march swiftly, yet with the most cautious silence. waverley had little time, or indeed disposition, for observation, and could only discern that they passed at some distance from a large building, in the windows of which a light or two yet seemed to twinkle. a little farther on the leading highlander snuffed the wind like a setting spaniel, and then made a signal to his party again to halt. he stooped down upon all fours, wrapped up in his plaid, so as to be scarce distinguishable from the heathy ground on which he moved, and advanced in this posture to reconnoitre. in a short time he returned, and dismissed his attendants excepting one; and, intimating to waverley that he must imitate his cautious mode of proceeding, all three crept forward on hands and knees. after proceeding a greater way in this inconvenient manner than was at all comfortable to his knees and shins, waverley perceived the smell of smoke, which probably had been much sooner distinguished by the more acute nasal organs of his guide. it proceeded from the corner of a low and ruinous sheep-fold, the walls of which were made of loose stones, as is usual in scotland. close by this low wall the highlander guided waverley, and, in order probably to make him sensible of his danger, or perhaps to obtain the full credit of his own dexterity, he intimated to him, by sign and example, that he might raise his head so as to peep into the sheep-fold. waverley did so, and beheld an outpost of four or five soldiers lying by their watch-fire. they were all asleep except the sentinel, who paced backwards and forwards with his firelock on his shoulder, which glanced red in the light of the fire as he crossed and re-crossed before it in his short walk, casting his eye frequently to that part of the heavens from which the moon, hitherto obscured by mist, seemed now about to make her appearance. in the course of a minute or two, by one of those sudden changes of atmosphere incident to a mountainous country, a breeze arose and swept before it the clouds which had covered the horizon, and the night planet poured her full effulgence upon a wide and blighted heath, skirted indeed with copse-wood and stunted trees in the quarter from which they had come, but open and bare to the observation of the sentinel in that to which their course tended. the wall of the sheep-fold indeed concealed them as they lay, but any advance beyond its shelter seemed impossible without certain discovery. the highlander eyed the blue vault, but far from blessing the useful light with homer's, or rather pope's benighted peasant, he muttered a gaelic curse upon the unseasonable splendour of mac- farlane's buat (i.e. lantern) [footnote: see note ]. he looked anxiously around for a few minutes, and then apparently took his resolution. leaving his attendant with waverley, after motioning to edward to remain quiet, and giving his comrade directions in a brief whisper, he retreated, favoured by the irregularity of the ground, in the same direction and in the same manner as they had advanced. edward, turning his head after him, could perceive him crawling on all fours with the dexterity of an indian, availing himself of every bush and inequality to escape observation, and never passing over the more exposed parts of his track until the sentinel's back was turned from him. at length he reached the thickets and underwood which partly covered the moor in that direction, and probably extended to the verge of the glen where waverley had been so long an inhabitant. the highlander disappeared, but it was only for a few minutes, for he suddenly issued forth from a different part of the thicket, and, advancing boldly upon the open heath as if to invite discovery, he levelled his piece and fired at the sentinel. a wound in the arm proved a disagreeable interruption to the poor fellow's meteorological observations, as well as to the tune of 'nancy dawson,' which he was whistling. he returned the fire ineffectually, and his comrades, starting up at the alarm, advanced alertly towards the spot from which the first shot had issued. the highlander, after giving them a full view of his person, dived among the thickets, for his ruse de guerre had now perfectly succeeded. while the soldiers pursued the cause of their disturbance in one direction, waverley, adopting the hint of his remaining attendant, made the best of his speed in that which his guide originally intended to pursue, and which now (the attention of the soldiers being drawn to a different quarter) was unobserved and unguarded. when they had run about a quarter of a mile, the brow of a rising ground which they had surmounted concealed them from further risk of observation. they still heard, however, at a distance the shouts of the soldiers as they hallooed to each other upon the heath, and they could also hear the distant roll of a drum beating to arms in the same direction. but these hostile sounds were now far in their rear, and died away upon the breeze as they rapidly proceeded. when they had walked about half an hour, still along open and waste ground of the same description, they came to the stump of an ancient oak, which, from its relics, appeared to have been at one time a tree of very large size. in an adjacent hollow they found several highlanders, with a horse or two. they had not joined them above a few minutes, which waverley's attendant employed, in all probability, in communicating the cause of their delay (for the words 'duncan duroch' were often repeated), when duncan himself appeared, out of breath indeed, and with all the symptoms of having run for his life, but laughing, and in high spirits at the success of the stratagem by which he had baffled his pursuers. this indeed waverley could easily conceive might be a matter of no great difficulty to the active mountaineer, who was perfectly acquainted with the ground, and traced his course with a firmness and confidence to which his pursuers must have been strangers. the alarm which he excited seemed still to continue, for a dropping shot or two were heard at a great distance, which seemed to serve as an addition to the mirth of duncan and his comrades. the mountaineer now resumed the arms with which he had entrusted our hero, giving him to understand that the dangers of the journey were happily surmounted. waverley was then mounted upon one of the horses, a change which the fatigue of the night and his recent illness rendered exceedingly acceptable. his portmanteau was placed on another pony, duncan mounted a third, and they set forward at a round pace, accompanied by their escort. no other incident marked the course of that night's journey, and at the dawn of morning they attained the banks of a rapid river. the country around was at once fertile and romantic. steep banks of wood were broken by corn-fields, which this year presented an abundant harvest, already in a great measure cut down. on the opposite bank of the river, and partly surrounded by a winding of its stream, stood a large and massive castle, the half- ruined turrets of which were already glittering in the first rays of the sun. [footnote: see note .] it was in form an oblong square, of size sufficient to contain a large court in the centre. the towers at each angle of the square rose higher than the walls of the building, and were in their turn surmounted by turrets, differing in height and irregular in shape. upon one of these a sentinel watched, whose bonnet and plaid, streaming in the wind, declared him to be a highlander, as a broad white ensign, which floated from another tower, announced that the garrison was held by the insurgent adherents of the house of stuart. passing hastily through a small and mean town, where their appearance excited neither surprise nor curiosity in the few peasants whom the labours of the harvest began to summon from their repose, the party crossed an ancient and narrow bridge of several arches, and, turning to the left up an avenue of huge old sycamores, waverley found himself in front of the gloomy yet picturesque structure which he had admired at a distance. a huge iron-grated door, which formed the exterior defence of the gateway, was already thrown back to receive them; and a second, heavily constructed of oak and studded thickly with iron nails, being next opened, admitted them into the interior court-yard. a gentleman, dressed in the highland garb and having a white cockade in his bonnet, assisted waverley to dismount from his horse, and with much courtesy bid him welcome to the castle. the governor, for so we must term him, having conducted waverley to a half-ruinous apartment, where, however, there was a small camp-bed, and having offered him any refreshment which he desired, was then about to leave him. 'will you not add to your civilities,' said waverley, after having made the usual acknowledgment, 'by having the kindness to inform me where i am, and whether or not i am to consider myself as a prisoner?' 'i am not at liberty to be so explicit upon this subject as i could wish. briefly, however, you are in the castle of doune, in the district of menteith, and in no danger whatever.' 'and how am i assured of that?' 'by the honour of donald stewart, governor of the garrison, and lieutenant-colonel in the service of his royal highness prince charles edward.' so saying, he hastily left the apartment, as if to avoid further discussion. exhausted by the fatigues of the night, our hero now threw himself upon the bed, and was in a few minutes fast asleep. chapter xxxix the journey is continued before waverley awakened from his repose, the day was far advanced, and he began to feel that he had passed many hours without food. this was soon supplied in form of a copious breakfast, but colonel stewart, as if wishing to avoid the queries of his guest, did not again present himself. his compliments were, however, delivered by a servant, with an offer to provide anything in his power that could be useful to captain waverley on his journey, which he intimated would be continued that evening. to waverley's further inquiries, the servant opposed the impenetrable barrier of real or affected ignorance and stupidity. he removed the table and provisions, and waverley was again consigned to his own meditations. as he contemplated the strangeness of his fortune, which seemed to delight in placing him at the disposal of others, without the power of directing his own motions, edward's eye suddenly rested upon his portmanteau, which had been deposited in his apartment during his sleep. the mysterious appearance of alice in the cottage of the glen immediately rushed upon his mind, and he was about to secure and examine the packet which she had deposited among his clothes, when the servant of colonel stewart again made his appearance, and took up the portmanteau upon his shoulders. 'may i not take out a change of linen, my friend?' 'your honour sall get ane o' the colonel's ain ruffled sarks, but this maun gang in the baggage-cart.' and so saying, he very coolly carried off the portmanteau, without waiting further remonstrance, leaving our hero in a state where disappointment and indignation struggled for the mastery. in a few minutes he heard a cart rumble out of the rugged court-yard, and made no doubt that he was now dispossessed, for a space at least, if not for ever, of the only documents which seemed to promise some light upon the dubious events which had of late influenced his destiny. with such melancholy thoughts he had to beguile about four or five hours of solitude. when this space was elapsed, the trampling of horse was heard in the court-yard, and colonel stewart soon after made his appearance to request his guest to take some further refreshment before his departure. the offer was accepted, for a late breakfast had by no means left our hero incapable of doing honour to dinner, which was now presented. the conversation of his host was that of a plain country gentleman, mixed with some soldier-like sentiments and expressions. he cautiously avoided any reference to the military operations or civil politics of the time; and to waverley's direct inquiries concerning some of these points replied, that he was not at liberty to speak upon such topics. when dinner was finished the governor arose, and, wishing edward a good journey, said that, having been informed by waverley's servant that his baggage had been sent forward, he had taken the freedom to supply him with such changes of linen as he might find necessary till he was again possessed of his own. with this compliment he disappeared. a servant acquainted waverley an instant afterwards that his horse was ready. upon this hint he descended into the court-yard, and found a trooper holding a saddled horse, on which he mounted and sallied from the portal of doune castle, attended by about a score of armed men on horseback. these had less the appearance of regular soldiers than of individuals who had suddenly assumed arms from some pressing motive of unexpected emergency. their uniform, which was blue and red, an affected imitation of that of french chasseurs, was in many respects incomplete, and sate awkwardly upon those who wore it. waverley's eye, accustomed to look at a well-disciplined regiment, could easily discover that the motions and habits of his escort were not those of trained soldiers, and that, although expert enough in the management of their horses, their skill was that of huntsmen or grooms rather than of troopers. the horses were not trained to the regular pace so necessary to execute simultaneous and combined movements and formations; nor did they seem bitted (as it is technically expressed) for the use of the sword. the men, however, were stout, hardy-looking fellows, and might be individually formidable as irregular cavalry. the commander of this small party was mounted upon an excellent hunter, and, although dressed in uniform, his change of apparel did not prevent waverley from recognising his old acquaintance, mr. falconer of balmawhapple. now, although the terms upon which edward had parted with this gentleman were none of the most friendly, he would have sacrificed every recollection of their foolish quarrel for the pleasure of enjoying once more the social intercourse of question and answer, from which he had been so long secluded. but apparently the remembrance of his defeat by the baron of bradwardine, of which edward had been the unwilling cause, still rankled in the mind of the low-bred and yet proud laird. he carefully avoided giving the least sign of recognition, riding doggedly at the head of his men, who, though scarce equal in numbers to a sergeant's party, were denominated captain falconer's troop, being preceded by a trumpet, which sounded from time to time, and a standard, borne by cornet falconer, the laird's younger brother. the lieutenant, an elderly man, had much the air of a low sportsman and boon companion; an expression of dry humour predominated in his countenance over features of a vulgar cast, which indicated habitual intemperance. his cocked hat was set knowingly upon one side of his head, and while he whistled the 'bob of dumblain,' under the influence of half a mutchkin of brandy, he seemed to trot merrily forward, with a happy indifference to the state of the country, the conduct of the party, the end of the journey, and all other sublunary matters whatever. from this wight, who now and then dropped alongside of his horse, waverley hoped to acquire some information, or at least to beguile the way with talk. 'a fine evening, sir,' was edward's salutation. 'ow, ay, sir! a bra' night,' replied the lieutenant, in broad scotch of the most vulgar description. 'and a fine harvest, apparently,' continued waverley, following up his first attack. 'ay, the aits will be got bravely in; but the farmers, deil burst them, and the corn-mongers will make the auld price gude against them as has horses till keep.' 'you perhaps act as quartermaster, sir?' 'ay, quartermaster, riding-master, and lieutenant,' answered this officer of all work. 'and, to be sure, wha's fitter to look after the breaking and the keeping of the poor beasts than mysell, that bought and sold every ane o' them?' 'and pray, sir, if it be not too great a freedom, may i beg to know where we are going just now?' 'a fule's errand, i fear,' answered this communicative personage. 'in that case,' said waverley, determined not to spare civility, 'i should have thought a person of your appearance would not have been found on the road.' 'vera true, vera true, sir,' replied the officer, 'but every why has its wherefore. ye maun ken, the laird there bought a' thir beasts frae me to munt his troop, and agreed to pay for them according to the necessities and prices of the time. but then he hadna the ready penny, and i hae been advised his bond will not be worth a boddle against the estate, and then i had a' my dealers to settle wi' at martinmas; and so, as he very kindly offered me this commission, and as the auld fifteen [footnote: the judges of the supreme court of session in scotland are proverbially termed among the country people, the fifteen.] wad never help me to my siller for sending out naigs against the government, why, conscience! sir, i thought my best chance for payment was e'en to gae out [footnote: see note .] mysell; and ye may judge, sir, as i hae dealt a' my life in halters, i think na mickle o' putting my craig in peril of a saint john-stone's tippet.' 'you are not, then, by profession a soldier?' said waverley. 'na, na; thank god,' answered this doughty partizan, 'i wasna bred at sae short a tether, i was brought up to hack and manger. i was bred a horse-couper, sir; and if i might live to see you at whitson-tryst, or at stagshawbank, or the winter fair at hawick, and ye wanted a spanker that would lead the field, i'se be caution i would serve ye easy; for jamie jinker was ne'er the lad to impose upon a gentleman. ye're a gentleman, sir, and should ken a horse's points; ye see that through--ganging thing that balmawhapple's on; i selled her till him. she was bred out of lick-the-ladle, that wan the king's plate at caverton-edge, by duke hamilton's white-foot,' etc., etc., etc. but as jinker was entered full sail upon the pedigree of balmawhapple's mare, having already got as far as great-grandsire and great-grand-dam, and while waverley was watching for an opportunity to obtain from him intelligence of more interest, the noble captain checked his horse until they came up, and then, without directly appearing to notice edward, said sternly to the genealogist, 'i thought, lieutenant, my orders were preceese, that no one should speak to the prisoner?' the metamorphosed horse-dealer was silenced of course, and slunk to the rear, where he consoled himself by entering into a vehement dispute upon the price of hay with a farmer who had reluctantly followed his laird to the field rather than give up his farm, whereof the lease had just expired. waverley was therefore once more consigned to silence, foreseeing that further attempts at conversation with any of the party would only give balmawhapple a wished-for opportunity to display the insolence of authority, and the sulky spite of a temper naturally dogged, and rendered more so by habits of low indulgence and the incense of servile adulation. in about two hours' time the party were near the castle of stirling, over whose battlements the union flag was brightened as it waved in the evening sun. to shorten his journey, or perhaps to display his importance and insult the english garrison, balmawhapple, inclining to the right, took his route through the royal park, which reaches to and surrounds the rock upon which the fortress is situated. with a mind more at ease waverley could not have failed to admire the mixture of romance and beauty which renders interesting the scene through which he was now passing--the field which had been the scene of the tournaments of old--the rock from which the ladies beheld the contest, while each made vows for the success of some favourite knight--the towers of the gothic church, where these vows might be paid--and, surmounting all, the fortress itself, at once a castle and palace, where valour received the prize from royalty, and knights and dames closed the evening amid the revelry of the dance, the song, and the feast. all these were objects fitted to arouse and interest a romantic imagination. but waverley had other objects of meditation, and an incident soon occurred of a nature to disturb meditation of any kind. balmawhapple, in the pride of his heart, as he wheeled his little body of cavalry round the base of the castle, commanded his trumpet to sound a flourish and his standard to be displayed. this insult produced apparently some sensation; for when the cavalcade was at such distance from the southern battery as to admit of a gun being depressed so as to bear upon them, a flash of fire issued from one of the embrazures upon the rock; and ere the report with which it was attended could be heard, the rushing sound of a cannon-ball passed over balmawhapple's head, and the bullet, burying itself in the ground at a few yards' distance, covered him with the earth which it drove up. there was no need to bid the party trudge. in fact, every man, acting upon the impulse of the moment, soon brought mr. jinker's steeds to show their mettle, and the cavaliers, retreating with more speed than regularity, never took to a trot, as the lieutenant afterwards observed, until an intervening eminence had secured them from any repetition of so undesirable a compliment on the part of stirling castle. i must do balmawhapple, however, the justice to say that he not only kept the rear of his troop, and laboured to maintain some order among them, but, in the height of his gallantry, answered the fire of the castle by discharging one of his horse- pistols at the battlements; although, the distance being nearly half a mile, i could never learn that this measure of retaliation was attended with any particular effect. the travellers now passed the memorable field of bannockburn and reached the torwood, a place glorious or terrible to the recollections of the scottish peasant, as the feats of wallace or the cruelties of wude willie grime predominate in his recollection. at falkirk, a town formerly famous in scottish history, and soon to be again distinguished as the scene of military events of importance, balmawhapple proposed to halt and repose for the evening. this was performed with very little regard to military discipline, his worthy quarter-master being chiefly solicitous to discover where the best brandy might be come at. sentinels were deemed unnecessary, and the only vigils performed were those of such of the party as could procure liquor. a few resolute men might easily have cut off the detachment; but of the inhabitants some were favourable, many indifferent, and the rest overawed. so nothing memorable occurred in the course of the evening, except that waverley's rest was sorely interrupted by the revellers hallooing forth their jacobite songs, without remorse or mitigation of voice. early in the morning they were again mounted and on the road to edinburgh, though the pallid visages of some of the troop betrayed that they had spent a night of sleepless debauchery. they halted at linlithgow, distinguished by its ancient palace, which sixty years since was entire and habitable, and whose venerable ruins, not quite sixty years since, very narrowly escaped the unworthy fate of being converted into a barrack for french prisoners. may repose and blessings attend the ashes of the patriotic statesman who, amongst his last services to scotland, interposed to prevent this profanation! as they approached the metropolis of scotland, through a champaign and cultivated country, the sounds of war began to be heard. the distant yet distinct report of heavy cannon, fired at intervals, apprized waverley that the work of destruction was going forward. even balmawhapple seemed moved to take some precautions, by sending an advanced party in front of his troop, keeping the main body in tolerable order, and moving steadily forward. marching in this manner they speedily reached an eminence, from which they could view edinburgh stretching along the ridgy hill which slopes eastward from the castle. the latter, being in a state of siege, or rather of blockade, by the northern insurgents, who had already occupied the town for two or three days, fired at intervals upon such parties of highlanders as exposed themselves, either on the main street or elsewhere in the vicinity of the fortress. the morning being calm and fair, the effect of this dropping fire was to invest the castle in wreaths of smoke, the edges of which dissipated slowly in the air, while the central veil was darkened ever and anon by fresh clouds poured forth from the battlements; the whole giving, by the partial concealment, an appearance of grandeur and gloom, rendered more terrific when waverley reflected on the cause by which it was produced, and that each explosion might ring some brave man's knell. ere they approached the city the partial cannonade had wholly ceased. balmawhapple, however, having in his recollection the unfriendly greeting which his troop had received from the battery at stirling, had apparently no wish to tempt the forbearance of the artillery of the castle. he therefore left the direct road, and, sweeping considerably to the southward so as to keep out of the range of the cannon, approached the ancient palace of holyrood without having entered the walls of the city. he then drew up his men in front of that venerable pile, and delivered waverley to the custody of a guard of highlanders, whose officer conducted him into the interior of the building. a long, low, and ill-proportioned gallery, hung with pictures, affirmed to be the portraits of kings, who, if they ever flourished at all, lived several hundred years before the invention of painting in oil colours, served as a sort of guard chamber or vestibule to the apartments which the adventurous charles edward now occupied in the palace of his ancestors. officers, both in the highland and lowland garb, passed and repassed in haste, or loitered in the hall as if waiting for orders. secretaries were engaged in making out passes, musters, and returns. all seemed busy, and earnestly intent upon something of importance; but waverley was suffered to remain seated in the recess of a window, unnoticed by any one, in anxious reflection upon the crisis of his fate, which seemed now rapidly approaching. chapter xl an old and a new acquaintance while he was deep sunk in his reverie, the rustle of tartans was heard behind him, a friendly arm clasped his shoulders, and a friendly voice exclaimed, 'said the highland prophet sooth? or must second-sight go for nothing?' waverley turned, and was warmly embraced by fergus mac-ivor. 'a thousand welcomes to holyrood, once more possessed by her legitimate sovereign! did i not say we should prosper, and that you would fall into the hands of the philistines if you parted from us?' 'dear fergus!' said waverley, eagerly returning his greeting. 'it is long since i have heard a friend's voice. where is flora?' 'safe, and a triumphant spectator of our success.' 'in this place?' said waverley. 'ay, in this city at least,' answered his friend, 'and you shall see her; but first you must meet a friend whom you little think of, who has been frequent in his inquiries after you.' thus saying, he dragged waverley by the arm out of the guard chamber, and, ere he knew where he was conducted, edward found himself in a presence room, fitted up with some attempt at royal state. a young man, wearing his own fair hair, distinguished by the dignity of his mien and the noble expression of his well-formed and regular features, advanced out of a circle of military gentlemen and highland chiefs by whom he was surrounded. in his easy and graceful manners waverley afterwards thought he could have discovered his high birth and rank, although the star on his breast and the embroidered garter at his knee had not appeared as its indications. 'let me present to your royal highness,' said fergus, bowing profoundly-- 'the descendant of one of the most ancient and loyal families in england,' said the young chevalier, interrupting him. 'i beg your pardon for interrupting you, my dear mac-ivor; but no master of ceremonies is necessary to present a waverley to a stuart.' thus saying, he extended his hand to edward with the utmost courtesy, who could not, had he desired it, have avoided rendering him the homage which seemed due to his rank, and was certainly the right of his birth. 'i am sorry to understand, mr. waverley, that, owing to circumstances which have been as yet but ill explained, you have suffered some restraint among my followers in perthshire and on your march here; but we are in such a situation that we hardly know our friends, and i am even at this moment uncertain whether i can have the pleasure of considering mr. waverley as among mine.' he then paused for an instant; but before edward could adjust a suitable reply, or even arrange his ideas as to its purport, the prince took out a paper and then proceeded:--'i should indeed have no doubts upon this subject if i could trust to this proclamation, set forth by the friends of the elector of hanover, in which they rank mr. waverley among the nobility and gentry who are menaced with the pains of high-treason for loyalty to their legitimate sovereign. but i desire to gain no adherents save from affection and conviction; and if mr. waverley inclines to prosecute his journey to the south, or to join the forces of the elector, he shall have my passport and free permission to do so; and i can only regret that my present power will not extend to protect him against the probable consequences of such a measure. but,' continued charles edward, after another short pause, 'if mr. waverley should, like his ancestor, sir nigel, determine to embrace a cause which has little to recommend it but its justice, and follow a prince who throws himself upon the affections of his people to recover the throne of his ancestors or perish in the attempt, i can only say, that among these nobles and gentlemen he will find worthy associates in a gallant enterprise, and will follow a master who may be unfortunate, but, i trust, will never be ungrateful.' the politic chieftain of the race of ivor knew his advantage in introducing waverley to this personal interview with the royal adventurer. unaccustomed to the address and manners of a polished court, in which charles was eminently skilful, his words and his kindness penetrated the heart of our hero, and easily outweighed all prudential motives. to be thus personally solicited for assistance by a prince whose form and manners, as well as the spirit which he displayed in this singular enterprise, answered his ideas of a hero of romance; to be courted by him in the ancient halls of his paternal palace, recovered by the sword which he was already bending towards other conquests, gave edward, in his own eyes, the dignity and importance which he had ceased to consider as his attributes. rejected, slandered, and threatened upon the one side, he was irresistibly attracted to the cause which the prejudices of education and the political principles of his family had already recommended as the most just. these thoughts rushed through his mind like a torrent, sweeping before them every consideration of an opposite tendency,--the time, besides, admitted of no deliberation,--and waverley, kneeling to charles edward, devoted his heart and sword to the vindication of his rights! the prince (for, although unfortunate in the faults and follies of his forefathers, we shall here and elsewhere give him the title due to his birth) raised waverley from the ground and embraced him with an expression of thanks too warm not to be genuine. he also thanked fergus mac-ivor repeatedly for having brought him such an adherent, and presented waverley to the various noblemen, chieftains, and officers who were about his person as a young gentleman of the highest hopes and prospects, in whose bold and enthusiastic avowal of his cause they might see an evidence of the sentiments of the english families of rank at this important crisis. [footnote: see note .] indeed, this was a point much doubted among the adherents of the house of stuart; and as a well- founded disbelief in the cooperation of the english jacobites kept many scottish men of rank from his standard, and diminished the courage of those who had joined it, nothing could be more seasonable for the chevalier than the open declaration in his favour of the representative of the house of waverley-honour, so long known as cavaliers and royalists. this fergus had foreseen from the beginning. he really loved waverley, because their feelings and projects never thwarted each other; he hoped to see him united with flora, and he rejoiced that they were effectually engaged in the same cause. but, as we before hinted, he also exulted as a politician in beholding secured to his party a partizan of such consequence; and he was far from being insensible to the personal importance which he himself gained with the prince from having so materially assisted in making the acquisition. charles edward, on his part, seemed eager to show his attendants the value which he attached to his new adherent, by entering immediately, as in confidence, upon the circumstances of his situation. 'you have been secluded so much from intelligence, mr. waverley, from causes of which i am but indistinctly informed, that i presume you are even yet unacquainted with the important particulars of my present situation. you have, however, heard of my landing in the remote district of moidart, with only seven attendants, and of the numerous chiefs and clans whose loyal enthusiasm at once placed a solitary adventurer at the head of a gallant army. you must also, i think, have learned that the commander-in-chief of the hanoverian elector, sir john cope, marched into the highlands at the head of a numerous and well- appointed military force with the intention of giving us battle, but that his courage failed him when we were within three hours' march of each other, so that he fairly gave us the slip and marched northward to aberdeen, leaving the low country open and undefended. not to lose so favourable an opportunity, i marched on to this metropolis, driving before me two regiments of horse, gardiner's and hamilton's, who had threatened to cut to pieces every highlander that should venture to pass stirling; and while discussions were carrying forward among the magistracy and citizens of edinburgh whether they should defend themselves or surrender, my good friend lochiel (laying his hand on the shoulder of that gallant and accomplished chieftain) saved them the trouble of farther deliberation by entering the gates with five hundred camerons. thus far, therefore, we have done well; but, in the meanwhile, this doughty general's nerves being braced by the keen air of aberdeen, he has taken shipping for dunbar, and i have just received certain information that he landed there yesterday. his purpose must unquestionably be to march towards us to recover possession of the capital. now there are two opinions in my council of war: one, that being inferior probably in numbers, and certainly in discipline and military appointments, not to mention our total want of artillery and the weakness of our cavalry, it will be safest to fall back towards the mountains, and there protract the war until fresh succours arrive from france, and the whole body of the highland clans shall have taken arms in our favour. the opposite opinion maintains, that a retrograde movement, in our circumstances, is certain to throw utter discredit on our arms and undertaking; and, far from gaining us new partizans, will be the means of disheartening those who have joined our standard. the officers who use these last arguments, among whom is your friend fergus mac-ivor, maintain that, if the highlanders are strangers to the usual military discipline of europe, the soldiers whom they are to encounter are no less strangers to their peculiar and formidable mode of attack; that the attachment and courage of the chiefs and gentlemen are not to be doubted; and that, as they will be in the midst of the enemy, their clansmen will as surely follow them; in fine, that having drawn the sword we should throw away the scabbard, and trust our cause to battle and to the god of battles. will mr. waverley favour us with his opinion in these arduous circumstances?' waverley coloured high betwixt pleasure and modesty at the distinction implied in this question, and answered, with equal spirit and readiness, that he could not venture to offer an opinion as derived from military skill, but that the counsel would be far the most acceptable to him which should first afford him an opportunity to evince his zeal in his royal highness's service. 'spoken like a waverley!' answered charles edward; 'and that you may hold a rank in some degree corresponding to your name, allow me, instead of the captain's commission which you have lost, to offer you the brevet rank of major in my service, with the advantage of acting as one of my aides-de-camp until you can be attached to a regiment, of which i hope several will be speedily embodied.' 'your royal highness will forgive me,' answered waverley (for his recollection turned to balmawhapple and his scanty troop), 'if i decline accepting any rank until the time and place where i may have interest enough to raise a sufficient body of men to make my command useful to your royal highness's service. in the meanwhile, i hope for your permission to serve as a volunteer under my friend fergus mac-ivor.' 'at least,' said the prince, who was obviously pleased with this proposal, 'allow me the pleasure of arming you after the highland fashion.' with these words, he unbuckled the broadsword which he wore, the belt of which was plaited with silver, and the steel basket-hilt richly and curiously inlaid. 'the blade,' said the prince, 'is a genuine andrea ferrara; it has been a sort of heir- loom in our family; but i am convinced i put it into better hands than my own, and will add to it pistols of the same workmanship. colonel mac-ivor, you must have much to say to your friend; i will detain you no longer from your private conversation; but remember we expect you both to attend us in the evening. it may be perhaps the last night we may enjoy in these halls, and as we go to the field with a clear conscience, we will spend the eve of battle merrily.' thus licensed, the chief and waverley left the presence-chamber. chapter xli the mystery begins to be cleared up 'how do you like him?' was fergus's first question, as they descended the large stone staircase. 'a prince to live and die under' was waverley's enthusiastic answer. 'i knew you would think so when you saw him, and i intended you should have met earlier, but was prevented by your sprain. and yet he has his foibles, or rather he has difficult cards to play, and his irish officers, [footnote: see note .] who are much about him, are but sorry advisers: they cannot discriminate among the numerous pretensions that are set up. would you think it--i have been obliged for the present to suppress an earl's patent, granted for services rendered ten years ago, for fear of exciting the jealousy, forsooth, of c----and m----? but you were very right, edward, to refuse the situation of aide-de-camp. there are two vacant, indeed, but clanronald and lochiel, and almost all of us, have requested one for young aberchallader, and the lowlanders and the irish party are equally desirous to have the other for the master of f--. now, if either of these candidates were to be superseded in your favour, you would make enemies. and then i am surprised that the prince should have offered you a majority, when he knows very well that nothing short of lieutenant-colonel will satisfy others, who cannot bring one hundred and fifty men to the field. "but patience, cousin, and shuffle the cards!" it is all very well for the present, and we must have you properly equipped for the evening in your new costume; for, to say truth, your outward man is scarce fit for a court.' 'why,' said waverley, looking at his soiled dress,'my shooting jacket has seen service since we parted; but that probably you, my friend, know as well or better than i.' 'you do my second-sight too much honour,' said fergus. 'we were so busy, first with the scheme of giving battle to cope, and afterwards with our operations in the lowlands, that i could only give general directions to such of our people as were left in perthshire to respect and protect you, should you come in their way. but let me hear the full story of your adventures, for they have reached us in a very partial and mutilated manner.' waverley then detailed at length the circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted, to which fergus listened with great attention. by this time they had reached the door of his quarters, which he had taken up in a small paved court, retiring from the street called the canongate, at the house of a buxom widow of forty, who seemed to smile very graciously upon the handsome young chief, she being a person with whom good looks and good-humour were sure to secure an interest, whatever might be the party's "political opinions". here callum beg received them with a smile of recognition. 'callum,' said the chief, 'call shemus an snachad' (james of the needle). this was the hereditary tailor of vich lan vohr. 'shemus, mr. waverley is to wear the cath dath (battle colour, or tartan); his trews must be ready in four hours. you know the measure of a well-made man--two double nails to the small of the leg--' 'eleven from haunch to heel, seven round the waist. i give your honour leave to hang shemus, if there's a pair of sheers in the highlands that has a baulder sneck than her's ain at the cumadh an truais' (shape of the trews). 'get a plaid of mac-ivor tartan and sash,' continued the chieftain, 'and a blue bonnet of the prince's pattern, at mr. mouat's in the crames. my short green coat, with silver lace and silver buttons, will fit him exactly, and i have never worn it. tell ensign maccombich to pick out a handsome target from among mine. the prince has given mr. waverley broadsword and pistols, i will furnish him with a dirk and purse; add but a pair of low- heeled shoes, and then, my dear edward (turning to him), you will be a complete son of ivor.' these necessary directions given, the chieftain resumed the subject of waverley's adventures. 'it is plain,' he said,'that you have been in the custody of donald bean lean. you must know that, when i marched away my clan to join the prince, i laid my injunctions on that worthy member of society to perform a certain piece of service, which done, he was to join me with all the force he could muster. but, instead of doing so, the gentleman, finding the coast clear, thought it better to make war on his own account, and has scoured the country, plundering, i believe, both friend and foe, under pretence of levying blackmail, sometimes as if by my authority, and sometimes (and be cursed to his consummate impudence) in his own great name! upon my honour, if i live to see the cairn of benmore again, i shall be tempted to hang that fellow! i recognise his hand particularly in the mode of your rescue from that canting rascal gilfillan, and i have little doubt that donald himself played the part of the pedlar on that occasion; but how he should not have plundered you, or put you to ransom, or availed himself in some way or other of your captivity for his own advantage, passes my judgment.' 'when and how did you hear the intelligence of my confinement?' asked waverley. 'the prince himself told me,' said fergus, 'and inquired very minutely into your history. he then mentioned your being at that moment in the power of one of our northern parties--you know i could not ask him to explain particulars--and requested my opinion about disposing of you. i recommended that you should be brought here as a prisoner, because i did not wish to prejudice you farther with the english government, in case you pursued your purpose of going southward. i knew nothing, you must recollect, of the charge brought against you of aiding and abetting high treason, which, i presume, had some share in changing your original plan. that sullen, good-for-nothing brute, balmawhapple, was sent to escort you from doune, with what he calls his troop of horse. as to his behaviour, in addition to his natural antipathy to everything that resembles a gentleman, i presume his adventure with bradwardine rankles in his recollection, the rather that i daresay his mode of telling that story contributed to the evil reports which reached your quondam regiment.' 'very likely,' said waverley; 'but now surely, my dear fergus, you may find time to tell me something of flora.' 'why,' replied fergus, 'i can only tell you that she is well, and residing for the present with a relation in this city. i thought it better she should come here, as since our success a good many ladies of rank attend our military court; and i assure you that there is a sort of consequence annexed to the near relative of such a person as flora mac-ivor, and where there is such a justling of claims and requests, a man must use every fair means to enhance his importance.' there was something in this last sentence which grated on waverley's feelings. he could not bear that flora should be considered as conducing to her brother's preferment by the admiration which she must unquestionably attract; and although it was in strict correspondence with many points of fergus's character, it shocked him as selfish, and unworthy of his sister's high mind and his own independent pride. fergus, to whom such manoeuvres were familiar, as to one brought up at the french court, did not observe the unfavourable impression which he had unwarily made upon his friend's mind, and concluded by saying,' that they could hardly see flora before the evening, when she would be at the concert and ball with which the prince's party were to be entertained. she and i had a quarrel about her not appearing to take leave of you. i am unwilling to renew it by soliciting her to receive you this morning; and perhaps my doing so might not only be ineffectual, but prevent your meeting this evening.' while thus conversing, waverley heard in the court, before the windows of the parlour, a well-known voice. 'i aver to you, my worthy friend,' said the speaker, 'that it is a total dereliction of military discipline; and were you not as it were a tyro, your purpose would deserve strong reprobation. for a prisoner of war is on no account to be coerced with fetters, or debinded in ergastulo, as would have been the case had you put this gentleman into the pit of the peel-house at balmawhapple. i grant, indeed, that such a prisoner may for security be coerced in carcere, that is, in a public prison.' the growling voice of balmawhapple was heard as taking leave in displeasure, but the word 'land-louper' alone was distinctly audible. he had disappeared before waverley reached the house in order to greet the worthy baron of bradwardine. the uniform in which he was now attired, a blue coat, namely, with gold lace, a scarlet waistcoat and breeches, and immense jack-boots, seemed to have added fresh stiffness and rigidity to his tall, perpendicular figure; and the consciousness of military command and authority had increased, in the same proportion, the self-importance of his demeanour and the dogmatism of his conversation. he received waverley with his usual kindness, and expressed immediate anxiety to hear an explanation of the circumstances attending the loss of his commission in gardiner's dragoons; 'not,' he said, 'that he had the least apprehension of his young friend having done aught which could merit such ungenerous treatment as he had received from government, but because it was right and seemly that the baron of bradwardine should be, in point of trust and in point of power, fully able to refute all calumnies against the heir of waverley-honour, whom he had so much right to regard as his own son.' fergus mac-ivor, who had now joined them, went hastily over the circumstances of waverley's story, and concluded with the flattering reception he had met from the young chevalier. the baron listened in silence, and at the conclusion shook waverley heartily by the hand and congratulated him upon entering the service of his lawful prince. 'for,' continued he, 'although it has been justly held in all nations a matter of scandal and dishonour to infringe the sacramentum militare, and that whether it was taken by each soldier singly, whilk the romans denominated per conjurationem, or by one soldier in name of the rest, yet no one ever doubted that the allegiance so sworn was discharged by the dimissio, or discharging of a soldier, whose case would be as hard as that of colliers, salters, and other adscripti glebes, or slaves of the soil, were it to be accounted otherwise. this is something like the brocard expressed by the learned sanchez in his work "de jure-jurando" which you have questionless consulted upon this occasion. as for those who have calumniated you by leasing- making, i protest to heaven i think they have justly incurred the penalty of the "memnonia lex," also called "lex rhemnia," which is prelected upon by tullius in his oration "in verrem." i should have deemed, however, mr. waverley, that before destining yourself to any special service in the army of the prince, ye might have inquired what rank the old bradwardine held there, and whether he would not have been peculiarly happy to have had your services in the regiment of horse which he is now about to levy.' edward eluded this reproach by pleading the necessity of giving an immediate answer to the prince's proposal, and his uncertainty at the moment whether his friend the baron was with the army or engaged upon service elsewhere. this punctilio being settled, waverley made inquiry after miss bradwardine, and was informed she had come to edinburgh with flora mac-ivor, under guard of a party of the chieftain's men. this step was indeed necessary, tully-veolan having become a very unpleasant, and even dangerous, place of residence for an unprotected young lady, on account of its vicinity to the highlands, and also to one or two large villages which, from aversion as much to the caterans as zeal for presbytery, had declared themselves on the side of government, and formed irregular bodies of partizans, who had frequent skirmishes with the mountaineers, and sometimes attacked the houses of the jacobite gentry in the braes, or frontier betwixt the mountain and plain. 'i would propose to you,' continued the baron,'to walk as far as my quarters in the luckenbooths, and to admire in your passage the high street, whilk is, beyond a shadow of dubitation, finer than any street whether in london or paris. but rose, poor thing, is sorely discomposed with the firing of the castle, though i have proved to her from blondel and coehorn, that it is impossible a bullet can reach these buildings; and, besides, i have it in charge from his royal highness to go to the camp, or leaguer of our army, to see that the men do condamare vasa, that is, truss up their bag and baggage for tomorrow's march.' 'that will be easily done by most of us,' said mac-ivor, laughing. 'craving your pardon, colonel mac-ivor, not quite so easily as ye seem to opine. i grant most of your folk left the highlands expedited as it were, and free from the incumbrance of baggage; but it is unspeakable the quantity of useless sprechery which they have collected on their march. i saw one fellow of yours (craving your pardon once more) with a pier-glass upon his back.' 'ay,' said fergus, still in good-humour, 'he would have told you, if you had questioned him, "a ganging foot is aye getting." but come, my dear baron, you know as well as i that a hundred uhlans, or a single troop of schmirschitz's pandours, would make more havoc in a country than the knight of the mirror and all the rest of our clans put together.' 'and that is very true likewise,' replied the baron; 'they are, as the heathen author says, ferociores in aspectu, mitiores in actu, of a horrid and grim visage, but more benign in demeanour than their physiognomy or aspect might infer. but i stand here talking to you two youngsters when i should be in the king's park.' 'but you will dine with waverley and me on your return? i assure you, baron, though i can live like a highlander when needs must, i remember my paris education, and understand perfectly faire la meilleure chere.' 'and wha the deil doubts it,' quoth the baron, laughing, 'when ye bring only the cookery and the gude toun must furnish the materials? weel, i have some business in the toun too; but i'll join you at three, if the vivers can tarry so long.' so saying, he took leave of his friends and went to look after the charge which had been assigned him. chapter xlii a soldier's dinner james of the needle was a man of his word when whisky was no party to the contract; and upon this occasion callum beg, who still thought himself in waverley's debt, since he had declined accepting compensation at the expense of mine host of the candlestick's person, took the opportunity of discharging the obligation, by mounting guard over the hereditary tailor of sliochd nan ivor; and, as he expressed himself, 'targed him tightly' till the finishing of the job. to rid himself of this restraint, shemus's needle flew through the tartan like lightning; and as the artist kept chanting some dreadful skirmish of fin macoul, he accomplished at least three stitches to the death of every hero. the dress was, therefore, soon ready, for the short coat fitted the wearer, and the rest of the apparel required little adjustment. our hero having now fairly assumed the 'garb of old gaul,' well calculated as it was to give an appearance of strength to a figure which, though tall and well-made, was rather elegant than robust, i hope my fair readers will excuse him if he looked at himself in the mirror more than once, and could not help acknowledging that the reflection seemed that of a very handsome young fellow. in fact, there was no disguising it. his light-brown hair--for he wore no periwig, notwithstanding the universal fashion of the time--became the bonnet which surmounted it. his person promised firmness and agility, to which the ample folds of the tartan added an air of dignity. his blue eye seemed of that kind, which melted in love, and which kindled in war; and an air of bashfulness, which was in reality the effect of want of habitual intercourse with the world, gave interest to his features, without injuring their grace or intelligence. 'he's a pratty man, a very pratty man,' said evan dhu (now ensign maccombich) to fergus's buxom landlady. 'he's vera weel,' said the widow flockhart, 'but no naething sae weel-far'd as your colonel, ensign.' 'i wasna comparing them,' quoth evan, 'nor was i speaking about his being weel-favoured; but only that mr. waverley looks clean- made and deliver, and like a proper lad o' his quarters, that will not cry barley in a brulzie. and, indeed, he's gleg aneuch at the broadsword and target. i hae played wi' him mysell at glennaquoich, and sae has vich lan vohr, often of a sunday afternoon.' 'lord forgie ye, ensign maccombich,' said the alarmed presbyterian; 'i'm sure the colonel wad never do the like o' that!' 'hout! hout! mrs. flockhart,' replied the ensign, 'we're young blude, ye ken; and young saints, auld deils.' 'but will ye fight wi' sir john cope the morn, ensign maccombich?' demanded mrs. flockhart of her guest. 'troth i'se ensure him, an he'll bide us, mrs. flockhart,' replied the gael. 'and will ye face thae tearing chields, the dragoons, ensign maccombich?' again inquired the landlady. 'claw for claw, as conan said to satan, mrs. flockhart, and the deevil tak the shortest nails.' 'and will the colonel venture on the bagganets himsell?' 'ye may swear it, mrs. flockhart; the very first man will he be, by saint phedar.' 'merciful goodness! and if he's killed amang the redcoats!' exclaimed the soft-hearted widow. 'troth, if it should sae befall, mrs. flockhart, i ken ane that will no be living to weep for him. but we maun a' live the day, and have our dinner; and there's vich lan vohr has packed his dorlach, and mr. waverley's wearied wi' majoring yonder afore the muckle pier-glass; and that grey auld stoor carle, the baron o' bradwardine that shot young ronald of ballenkeiroch, he's coming down the close wi' that droghling coghling bailie body they ca' macwhupple, just like the laird o' kittlegab's french cook, wi' his turnspit doggie trindling ahint him, and i am as hungry as a gled, my bonny dow; sae bid kate set on the broo', and do ye put on your pinners, for ye ken vich lan vohr winna sit down till ye be at the head o' the table;--and dinna forget the pint bottle o' brandy, my woman.' this hint produced dinner. mrs. flockhart, smiling in her weeds like the sun through a mist, took the head of the table, thinking within herself, perhaps, that she cared not how long the rebellion lasted that brought her into company so much above her usual associates. she was supported by waverley and the baron, with the advantage of the chieftain vis-a-vis. the men of peace and of war, that is, bailie macwheeble and ensign maccombich, after many profound conges to their superiors and each other, took their places on each side of the chieftain. their fare was excellent, time, place, and circumstances considered, and fergus's spirits were extravagantly high. regardless of danger, and sanguine from temper, youth, and ambition, he saw in imagination all his prospects crowned with success, and was totally indifferent to the probable alternative of a soldier's grave. the baron apologized slightly for bringing macwheeble. they had been providing, he said, for the expenses of the campaign. 'and, by my faith,' said the old man, 'as i think this will be my last, so i just end where i began: i hae evermore found the sinews of war, as a learned author calls the caisse militaire, mair difficult to come by than either its flesh, blood, or bones.' 'what! have you raised our only efficient body of cavalry and got ye none of the louis-d'or out of the doutelle [footnote: the doutelle was an armed vessel which brought a small supply of money and arms from france for the use of the insurgents.] to help you?' 'no, glennaquoich; cleverer fellows have been before me.' 'that's a scandal,' said the young highlander; 'but you will share what is left of my subsidy; it will save you an anxious thought tonight, and will be all one tomorrow, for we shall all be provided for, one way or other, before the sun sets.' waverley, blushing deeply, but with great earnestness, pressed the same request. 'i thank ye baith, my good lads,' said the baron, 'but i will not infringe upon your peculium. bailie macwheeble has provided the sum which is necessary.' here the bailie shifted and fidgeted about in his seat, and appeared extremely uneasy. at length, after several preliminary hems, and much tautological expression of his devotion to his honour's service, by night or day, living or dead, he began to insinuate, 'that the banks had removed a' their ready cash into the castle; that, nae doubt, sandie goldie, the silversmith, would do mickle for his honour; but there was little time to get the wadset made out; and, doubtless, if his honour glennaquoich or mr. wauverley could accommodate--' 'let me hear of no such nonsense, sir,' said the baron, in a tone which rendered macwheeble mute, 'but proceed as we accorded before dinner, if it be your wish to remain in my service.' to this peremptory order the bailie, though he felt as if condemned to suffer a transfusion of blood from his own veins into those of the baron, did not presume to make any reply. after fidgeting a little while longer, however, he addressed himself to glennaquoich, and told him, if his honour had mair ready siller than was sufficient for his occasions in the field, he could put it out at use for his honour in safe hands and at great profit at this time. at this proposal fergus laughed heartily, and answered, when he had recovered his breath--'many thanks, bailie; but you must know, it is a general custom among us soldiers to make our landlady our banker. here, mrs. flockhart,' said he, taking four or five broad pieces out of a well-filled purse and tossing the purse itself, with its remaining contents, into her apron, 'these will serve my occasions; do you take the rest. be my banker if i live, and my executor if i die; but take care to give something to the highland cailliachs [footnote: old women, on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead, which the irish call keening.] that shall cry the coronach loudest for the last vich lan vohr.' 'it is the testamentum militare,' quoth the baron, 'whilk, amang the romans, was privilegiate to be nuncupative.' but the soft heart of mrs. flockhart was melted within her at the chieftain's speech; she set up a lamentable blubbering, and positively refused to touch the bequest, which fergus was therefore obliged to resume. 'well, then,' said the chief, 'if i fall, it will go to the grenadier that knocks my brains out, and i shall take care he works hard for it.' bailie macwheeble was again tempted to put in his oar; for where cash was concerned he did not willingly remain silent. 'perhaps he had better carry the gowd to miss mac-ivor, in case of mortality or accidents of war. it might tak the form of a mortis causa donation in the young leddie's favour, and--wad cost but the scrape of a pen to mak it out.' 'the young lady,' said fergus, 'should such an event happen, will have other matters to think of than these wretched louis-d'or.' 'true--undeniable--there's nae doubt o' that; but your honour kens that a full sorrow--' 'is endurable by most folk more easily than a hungry one? true, bailie, very true; and i believe there may even be some who would be consoled by such a reflection for the loss of the whole existing generation. but there is a sorrow which knows neither hunger nor thirst; and poor flora--' he paused, and the whole company sympathised in his emotion. the baron's thoughts naturally reverted to the unprotected state of his daughter, and the big tear came to the veteran's eye. 'if i fall, macwheeble, you have all my papers and know all my affairs; be just to rose.' the bailie was a man of earthly mould, after all; a good deal of dirt and dross about him, undoubtedly, but some kindly and just feelings he had, especially where the baron or his young mistress were concerned. he set up a lamentable howl. 'if that doleful day should come, while duncan macwheeble had a boddle it should be miss rose's. he wald scroll for a plack the sheet or she kenn'd what it was to want; if indeed a' the bonnie baronie o' bradwardine and tully-veolan, with the fortalice and manor-place thereof (he kept sobbing and whining at every pause), tofts, crofts, mosses, muirs--outfield, infield--buildings--orchards-- dove-cots--with the right of net and coble in the water and loch of veolan--teinds, parsonage and vicarage--annexis, connexis-- rights of pasturage--feul, feal and divot--parts, pendicles, and pertinents whatsoever--(here he had recourse to the end of his long cravat to wipe his eyes, which overflowed, in spite of him, at the ideas which this technical jargon conjured up)--all as more fully described in the proper evidents and titles thereof--and lying within the parish of bradwardine and the shire of perth--if, as aforesaid, they must a' pass from my master's child to inch- grabbit, wha's a whig and a hanoverian, and be managed by his doer, jamie howie, wha's no fit to be a birlieman, let be a bailie--' the beginning of this lamentation really had something affecting, but the conclusion rendered laughter irresistible. 'never mind, bailie,' said ensign maccombich, 'for the gude auld times of rugging and riving (pulling and tearing) are come back again, an' sneckus mac-snackus (meaning, probably, annexis, connexis), and a' the rest of your friends, maun gie place to the langest claymore.' 'and that claymore shall be ours, bailie,' said the chieftain, who saw that macwheeble looked very blank at this intimation. 'we'll give them the metal our mountain affords, lillibulero, bullen a la, and in place of broad-pieces, we'll pay with broadswords, lero, lero, etc. with duns and with debts we will soon clear our score, lillibulero, etc. for the man that's thus paid will crave payment no more, lero, lero, etc. [footnote: these lines, or something like them, occur in an old magazine of the period.] but come, bailie, be not cast down; drink your wine with a joyous heart; the baron shall return safe and victorious to tully-veolan, and unite killancureit's lairdship with his own, since the cowardly half-bred swine will not turn out for the prince like a gentleman.' 'to be sure, they lie maist ewest,' said the bailie, wiping his eyes, 'and should naturally fa' under the same factory.' 'and i,' proceeded the chieftain,'shall take care of myself, too; for you must know, i have to complete a good work here, by bringing mrs. flockhart into the bosom of the catholic church, or at least half way, and that is to your episcopal meeting-house. o baron! if you heard her fine counter-tenor admonishing kate and matty in the morning, you, who understand music, would tremble at the idea of hearing her shriek in the psalmody of haddo's hole.' 'lord forgie you, colonel, how ye rin on! but i hope your honours will tak tea before ye gang to the palace, and i maun gang and mask it for you.' so saying, mrs. flockhart left the gentlemen to their own conversation, which, as might be supposed, turned chiefly upon the approaching events of the campaign. chapter xliii the ball ensign maccombich having gone to the highland camp upon duty, and bailie macwheeble having retired to digest his dinner and evan dhu's intimation of martial law in some blind change-house, waverley, with the baron and the chieftain, proceeded to holyrood house. the two last were in full tide of spirits, and the baron rallied in his way our hero upon the handsome figure which his new dress displayed to advantage. 'if you have any design upon the heart of a bonny scotch lassie, i would premonish you, when you address her, to remember and quote the words of virgilius:-- nunc insanus amor duri me martis in armis, tela inter media atque adversos detinet hostes; whilk verses robertson of struan, chief of the clan donnochy (unless the claims of lude ought to be preferred primo loco), has thus elegantly rendered:-- for cruel love had gartan'd low my leg, and clad my hurdies in a philabeg. although, indeed, ye wear the trews, a garment whilk i approve maist of the twa, as mair ancient and seemly.' 'or rather,' said fergus, 'hear my song:-- she wadna hae a lowland laird, nor be an english lady; but she's away with duncan grame, and he's row'd her in his plaidy.' by this time they reached the palace of holyrood, and were announced respectively as they entered the apartments. it is but too well known how many gentlemen of rank, education, and fortune took a concern in the ill-fated and desperate undertaking of . the ladies, also, of scotland very generally espoused the cause of the gallant and handsome young prince, who threw himself upon the mercy of his countrymen rather like a hero of romance than a calculating politician. it is not, therefore, to be wondered that edward, who had spent the greater part of his life in the solemn seclusion of waverley-honour, should have been dazzled at the liveliness and elegance of the scene now exhibited in the long deserted halls of the scottish palace. the accompaniments, indeed, fell short of splendour, being such as the confusion and hurry of the time admitted; still, however, the general effect was striking, and, the rank of the company considered, might well be called brilliant. it was not long before the lover's eye discovered the object of his attachment. flora mac-ivor was in the act of returning to her seat, near the top of the room, with rose bradwardine by her side. among much elegance and beauty, they had attracted a great degree of the public attention, being certainly two of the handsomest women present. the prince took much notice of both, particularly of flora, with whom he danced, a preference which she probably owed to her foreign education and command of the french and italian languages. when the bustle attending the conclusion of the dance permitted, edward almost intuitively followed fergus to the place where miss mac-ivor was seated. the sensation of hope with which he had nursed his affection in absence of the beloved object seemed to vanish in her presence, and, like one striving to recover the particulars of a forgotten dream, he would have given the world at that moment to have recollected the grounds on which he had founded expectations which now seemed so delusive. he accompanied fergus with downcast eyes, tingling ears, and the feelings of the criminal who, while the melancholy cart moves slowly through the crowds that have assembled to behold his execution, receives no clear sensation either from the noise which fills his ears or the tumult on which he casts his wandering look. flora seemed a little--a very little--affected and discomposed at his approach. 'i bring you an adopted son of ivor,' said fergus. 'and i receive him as a second brother,' replied flora. there was a slight emphasis on the word, which would have escaped every ear but one that was feverish with apprehension. it was, however, distinctly marked, and, combined with her whole tone and manner, plainly intimated, 'i will never think of mr. waverley as a more intimate connexion.' edward stopped, bowed, and looked at fergus, who bit his lip, a movement of anger which proved that he also had put a sinister interpretation on the reception which his sister had given his friend. 'this, then, is an end of my day- dream!' such was waverley's first thought, and it was so exquisitely painful as to banish from his cheek every drop of blood. 'good god!' said rose bradwardine, 'he is not yet recovered!' these words, which she uttered with great emotion, were overheard by the chevalier himself, who stepped hastily forward, and, taking waverley by the hand, inquired kindly after his health, and added that he wished to speak with him. by a strong and sudden effort; which the circumstances rendered indispensable, waverley recovered himself so far as to follow the chevalier in silence to a recess in the apartment. here the prince detained him some time, asking various questions about the great tory and catholic families of england, their connexions, their influence, and the state of their affections towards the house of stuart. to these queries edward could not at any time have given more than general answers, and it may be supposed that, in the present state of his feelings, his responses were indistinct even to confusion. the chevalier smiled once or twice at the incongruity of his replies, but continued the same style of conversation, although he found himself obliged to occupy the principal share of it, until he perceived that waverley had recovered his presence of mind. it is probable that this long audience was partly meant to further the idea which the prince desired should be entertained among his followers, that waverley was a character of political influence. but it appeared, from his concluding expressions, that he had a different and good-natured motive, personal to our hero, for prolonging the conference. 'i cannot resist the temptation,' he said, 'of boasting of my own discretion as a lady's confidant. you see, mr. waverley, that i know all, and i assure you i am deeply interested in the affair. but, my good young friend, you must put a more severe restraint upon your feelings. there are many here whose eyes can see as clearly as mine, but the prudence of whose tongues may not be equally trusted,' so saying, he turned easily away and joined a circle of officers at a few paces' distance, leaving waverley to meditate upon his parting expression, which, though not intelligible to him in its whole purport, was sufficiently so in the caution which the last word recommended. making, therefore, an effort to show himself worthy of the interest which his new master had expressed, by instant obedience to his recommendation, he walked up to the spot where flora and miss bradwardine were still seated, and having made his compliments to the latter, he succeeded, even beyond his own expectation, in entering into conversation upon general topics. if, my dear reader, thou hast ever happened to take post-horses at----or at----(one at least of which blanks, or more probably both, you will be able to fill up from an inn near your own residence), you must have observed, and doubtless with sympathetic pain, the reluctant agony with which the poor jades at first apply their galled necks to the collars of the harness. but when the irresistible arguments of the post-boy have prevailed upon them to proceed a mile or two, they will become callous to the first sensation; and being warm in the harness, as the said post-boy may term it, proceed as if their withers were altogether unwrung. this simile so much corresponds with the state of waverley's feelings in the course of this memorable evening, that i prefer it (especially as being, i trust, wholly original) to any more splendid illustration with which byshe's 'art of poetry' might supply me. exertion, like virtue, is its own reward; and our hero had, moreover, other stimulating motives for persevering in a display of affected composure and indifference to flora's obvious unkindness. pride, which supplies its caustic as an useful, though severe, remedy for the wounds of affection, came rapidly to his aid. distinguished by the favour of a prince; destined, he had room to hope, to play a conspicuous part in the revolution which awaited a mighty kingdom; excelling, probably, in mental acquirements, and equalling at least in personal accomplishments, most of the noble and distinguished persons with whom he was now ranked; young, wealthy, and high-born,--could he, or ought he, to droop beneath the frown of a capricious beauty? o nymph, unrelenting and cold as thou art, my bosom is proud as thine own. with the feeling expressed in these beautiful lines (which, however, were not then written), [footnote: they occur in miss seward's fine verses, beginning--'to thy rocks, stormy lannow, adieu.'] waverley determined upon convincing flora that he was not to be depressed by a rejection in which his vanity whispered that perhaps she did her own prospects as much injustice as his. and, to aid this change of feeling, there lurked the secret and unacknowledged hope that she might learn to prize his affection more highly, when she did not conceive it to be altogether within her own choice to attract or repulse it. there was a mystic tone of encouragement, also, in the chevalier's words, though he feared they only referred to the wishes of fergus in favour of an union between him and his sister. but the whole circumstances of time, place, and incident combined at once to awaken his imagination and to call upon him for a manly and decisive tone of conduct, leaving to fate to dispose of the issue. should he appear to be the only one sad and disheartened on the eve of battle, how greedily would the tale be commented upon by the slander which had been already but too busy with his fame! never, never, he internally resolved, shall my unprovoked enemies possess such an advantage over my reputation. under the influence of these mixed sensations, and cheered at times by a smile of intelligence and approbation from the prince as he passed the group, waverley exerted his powers of fancy, animation, and eloquence, and attracted the general admiration of the company. the conversation gradually assumed the tone best qualified for the display of his talents and acquisitions. the gaiety of the evening was exalted in character, rather than checked, by the approaching dangers of the morrow. all nerves were strung for the future, and prepared to enjoy the present. this mood of mind is highly favourable for the exercise of the powers of imagination, for poetry, and for that eloquence which is allied to poetry. waverley, as we have elsewhere observed, possessed at times a wonderful flow of rhetoric; and on the present occasion, he touched more than once the higher notes of feeling, and then again ran off in a wild voluntary of fanciful mirth. he was supported and excited by kindred spirits, who felt the same impulse of mood and time; and even those of more cold and calculating habits were hurried along by the torrent. many ladies declined the dance, which still went forward, and under various pretences joined the party to which the 'handsome young englishman' seemed to have attached himself. he was presented to several of the first rank, and his manners, which for the present were altogether free from the bashful restraint by which, in a moment of less excitation, they were usually clouded, gave universal delight. flora mac-ivor appeared to be the only female present who regarded him with a degree of coldness and reserve; yet even she could not suppress a sort of wonder at talents which, in the course of their acquaintance, she had never seen displayed with equal brilliancy and impressive effect. i do not know whether she might not feel a momentary regret at having taken so decisive a resolution upon the addresses of a lover who seemed fitted so well to fill a high place in the highest stations of society. certainly she had hitherto accounted among the incurable deficiencies of edward's disposition the mauvaise honte which, as she had been educated in the first foreign circles, and was little acquainted with the shyness of english manners, was in her opinion too nearly related to timidity and imbecility of disposition. but if a passing wish occurred that waverley could have rendered himself uniformly thus amiable and attractive, its influence was momentary; for circumstances had arisen since they met which rendered in her eyes the resolution she had formed respecting him final and irrevocable. with opposite feelings rose bradwardine bent her whole soul to listen. she felt a secret triumph at the public tribute paid to one whose merit she had learned to prize too early and too fondly. without a thought of jealousy, without a feeling of fear, pain, or doubt, and undisturbed by a single selfish consideration, she resigned herself to the pleasure of observing the general murmur of applause. when waverley spoke, her ear was exclusively filled with his voice, when others answered, her eye took its turn of observation, and seemed to watch his reply. perhaps the delight which she experienced in the course of that evening, though transient, and followed by much sorrow, was in its nature the most pure and disinterested which the human mind is capable of enjoying. 'baron,' said the chevalier, 'i would not trust my mistress in the company of your young friend. he is really, though perhaps somewhat romantic, one of the most fascinating young men whom i have ever seen.' 'and by my honour, sir,' replied the baron,'the lad can sometimes be as dowff as a sexagenary like myself. if your royal highness had seen him dreaming and dozing about the banks of tully-veolan like an hypochondriac person, or, as burton's "anatomia" hath it, a phrenesiac or lethargic patient, you would wonder where he hath sae suddenly acquired all this fine sprack festivity and jocularity.' 'truly,' said fergus mac-ivor, 'i think it can only be the inspiration of the tartans; for, though waverley be always a young fellow of sense and honour, i have hitherto often found him a very absent and inattentive companion.' 'we are the more obliged to him,' said the prince, 'for having reserved for this evening qualities which even such intimate friends had not discovered. but come, gentlemen, the night advances, and the business of tomorrow must be early thought upon. each take charge of his fair partner, and honour a small refreshment with your company.' he led the way to another suite of apartments, and assumed the seat and canopy at the head of a long range of tables with an air of dignity, mingled with courtesy, which well became his high birth and lofty pretensions. an hour had hardly flown away when the musicians played the signal for parting so well known in scotland. [footnote: which is, or was wont to be, the old air of 'good-night and joy be wi' you a'.] 'good-night, then,' said the chevalier, rising; 'goodnight, and joy be with you! good-night, fair ladies, who have so highly honoured a proscribed and banished prince! good-night, my brave friends; may the happiness we have this evening experienced be an omen of our return to these our paternal halls, speedily and in triumph, and of many and many future meetings of mirth and pleasure in the palace of holyrood!' when the baron of bradwardine afterwards mentioned this adieu of the chevalier, he never failed to repeat, in a melancholy tone, 'audiit, et voti phoebus succedere partem mente dedit; partem volucres dispersit in auras; which,' as he added, 'is weel rendered into english metre by my friend bangour:-- ae half the prayer wi' phoebus grace did find, the t'other half he whistled down the wind.' chapter xliv the march the conflicting passions and exhausted feelings of waverley had resigned him to late but sound repose. he was dreaming of glennaquoich, and had transferred to the halls of lan nan chaistel the festal train which so lately graced those of holyrood. the pibroch too was distinctly heard; and this at least was no delusion, for the 'proud step of the chief piper' of the 'chlain macivor' was perambulating the court before the door of his chieftain's quarters, and as mrs. flockhart, apparently no friend to his minstrelsy, was pleased to observe, 'garring the very stane-and-lime wa's dingle wi' his screeching.' of course it soon became too powerful for waverley's dream, with which it had at first rather harmonised. the sound of callum's brogues in his apartment (for mac-ivor had again assigned waverley to his care) was the next note of parting. 'winna yer honour bang up? vich lan vohr and ta prince are awa to the lang green glen ahint the clachan, tat they ca' the king's park, [footnote: the main body of the highland army encamped, or rather bivouacked, in that part of the king's park which lies towards the village of duddingston.] and mony ane's on his ain shanks the day that will be carried on ither folk's ere night.' waverley sprung up, and, with callum's assistance and instructions, adjusted his tartans in proper costume. callum told him also,' tat his leather dorlach wi' the lock on her was come frae doune, and she was awa again in the wain wi' vich ian vohr's walise.' by this periphrasis waverley readily apprehended his portmanteau was intended. he thought upon the mysterious packet of the maid of the cavern, which seemed always to escape him when within his very grasp. but this was no time for indulgence of curiosity; and having declined mrs. flockhart's compliment of a morning, i.e. a matutinal dram, being probably the only man in the chevalier's army by whom such a courtesy would have been rejected, he made his adieus and departed with callum. 'callum,' said he, as they proceeded down a dirty close to gain the southern skirts of the canongate, 'what shall i do for a horse?' 'ta deil ane ye maun think o',' said callum. 'vich ian vohr's marching on foot at the head o' his kin (not to say ta prince, wha does the like), wi' his target on his shoulder; and ye maun e'en be neighbour-like.' 'and so i will, callum, give me my target; so, there we are fixed. how does it look?' 'like the bra' highlander tat's painted on the board afore the mickle change-house they ca' luckie middlemass's,' answered callum; meaning, i must observe, a high compliment, for in his opinion luckie middlemass's sign was an exquisite specimen of art. waverley, however, not feeling the full force of this polite simile, asked him no further questions. upon extricating themselves from the mean and dirty suburbs of the metropolis, and emerging into the open air, waverley felt a renewal of both health and spirits, and turned his recollection with firmness upon the events of the preceding evening, and with hope and resolution towards those of the approaching day. when he had surmounted a small craggy eminence called st. leonard's hill, the king's park, or the hollow between the mountain of arthur's seat and the rising grounds on which the southern part of edinburgh is now built, lay beneath him, and displayed a singular and animating prospect. it was occupied by the army of the highlanders, now in the act of preparing for their march. waverley had already seen something of the kind at the hunting-match which he attended with fergus macivor; but this was on a scale of much greater magnitude, and incomparably deeper interest. the rocks, which formed the background of the scene, and the very sky itself, rang with the clang of the bagpipers, summoning forth, each with his appropriate pibroch, his chieftain and clan. the mountaineers, rousing themselves from their couch under the canopy of heaven with the hum and bustle of a confused and irregular multitude, like bees alarmed and arming in their hives, seemed to possess all the pliability of movement fitted to execute military manoeuvres. their motions appeared spontaneous and confused, but the result was order and regularity; so that a general must have praised the conclusion, though a martinet might have ridiculed the method by which it was attained. the sort of complicated medley created by the hasty arrangements of the various clans under their respective banners, for the purpose of getting into the order of march, was in itself a gay and lively spectacle. they had no tents to strike having generally, and by choice, slept upon the open field, although the autumn was now waning and the nights began to be frosty. for a little space, while they were getting into order, there was exhibited a changing, fluctuating, and confused appearance of waving tartans and floating plumes, and of banners displaying the proud gathering word of clanronald, ganion coheriga (gainsay who dares), loch-sloy, the watchword of the macfarlanes; forth, fortune, and fill the fetters, the motto of the marquis of tullibardine; bydand, that of lord lewis gordon, and the appropriate signal words and emblems of many other chieftains and clans. at length the mixed and wavering multitude arranged themselves into a narrow and dusky column of great length, stretching through the whole extent of the valley. in the front of the column the standard of the chevalier was displayed, bearing a red cross upon a white ground, with the motto tandem triumphans. the few cavalry, being chiefly lowland gentry, with their domestic servants and retainers, formed the advanced guard of the army; and their standards, of which they had rather too many in respect of their numbers, were seen waving upon the extreme verge of the horizon. many horsemen of this body, among whom waverley accidentally remarked balmawhapple and his lieutenant, jinker (which last, however, had been reduced, with several others, by the advice of the baron of bradwardine, to the situation of what he called reformed officers, or reformadoes), added to the liveliness, though by no means to the regularity, of the scene, by galloping their horses as fast forward as the press would permit, to join their proper station in the van. the fascinations of the circes of the high street, and the potations of strength with which they had been drenched over night, had probably detained these heroes within the walls of edinburgh somewhat later than was consistent with their morning duty. of such loiterers, the prudent took the longer and circuitous, but more open, route to attain their place in the march, by keeping at some distance from the infantry, and making their way through the inclosures to the right, at the expense of leaping over or pulling down the drystone fences. the irregular appearance and vanishing of these small parties of horsemen, as well as the confusion occasioned by those who endeavoured, though generally without effect, to press to the front through the crowd of highlanders, maugre their curses, oaths, and opposition, added to the picturesque wildness what it took from the military regularity of the scene. while waverley gazed upon this remarkable spectacle, rendered yet more impressive by the occasional discharge of cannon-shot from the castle at the highland guards as they were withdrawn from its vicinity to join their main body, callum, with his usual freedom of interference, reminded him that vich lan vohr's folk were nearly at the head of the column of march which was still distant, and that 'they would gang very fast after the cannon fired.' thus admonished, waverley walked briskly forward, yet often casting a glance upon the darksome clouds of warriors who were collected before and beneath him. a nearer view, indeed, rather diminished the effect impressed on the mind by the more distant appearance of the army. the leading men of each clan were well armed with broad- sword, target, and fusee, to which all added the dirk, and most the steel pistol. but these consisted of gentlemen, that is, relations of the chief, however distant, and who had an immediate title to his countenance and protection. finer and hardier men could not have been selected out of any army in christendom; while the free and independent habits which each possessed, and which each was yet so well taught to subject to the command of his chief, and the peculiar mode of discipline adopted in highland warfare, rendered them equally formidable by their individual courage and high spirit, and from their rational conviction of the necessity of acting in unison, and of giving their national mode of attack the fullest opportunity of success. but, in a lower rank to these, there were found individuals of an inferior description, the common peasantry of the highland country, who, although they did not allow themselves to be so called, and claimed often, with apparent truth, to be of more ancient descent than the masters whom they served, bore, nevertheless, the livery of extreme penury, being indifferently accoutred, and worse armed, half naked, stinted in growth, and miserable in aspect. each important clan had some of those helots attached to them: thus, the maccouls, though tracing their descent from comhal, the father of finn or fingal, were a sort of gibeonites, or hereditary servants to the stewarts of appin; the macbeths, descended from the unhappy monarch of that name, were subjects to the morays and clan donnochy, or robertsons of athole; and many other examples might be given, were it not for the risk of hurting any pride of clanship which may yet be left, and thereby drawing a highland tempest into the shop of my publisher. now these same helots, though forced into the field by the arbitrary authority of the chieftains under whom they hewed wood and drew water, were in general very sparingly fed, ill dressed, and worse armed. the latter circumstance was indeed owing chiefly to the general disarming act, which had been carried into effect ostensibly through the whole highlands, although most of the chieftains contrived to elude its influence by retaining the weapons of their own immediate clansmen, and delivering up those of less value, which they collected from these inferior satellites. it followed, as a matter of course, that, as we have already hinted, many of these poor fellows were brought to the field in a very wretched condition. from this it happened that, in bodies, the van of which were admirably well armed in their own fashion, the rear resembled actual banditti. here was a pole-axe, there a sword without a scabbard; here a gun without a lock, there a scythe set straight upon a pole; and some had only their dirks, and bludgeons or stakes pulled out of hedges. the grim, uncombed, and wild appearance of these men, most of whom gazed with all the admiration of ignorance upon the most ordinary productions of domestic art, created surprise in the lowlands, but it also created terror. so little was the condition of the highlands known at that late period that the character and appearance of their population, while thus sallying forth as military adventurers, conveyed to the south-country lowlanders as much surprise as if an invasion of african negroes or esquimaux indians had issued forth from the northern mountains of their own native country. it cannot therefore be wondered if waverley, who had hitherto judged of the highlanders generally from the samples which the policy of fergus had from time to time exhibited, should have felt damped and astonished at the daring attempt of a body not then exceeding four thousand men, and of whom not above half the number, at the utmost, were armed, to change the fate and alter the dynasty of the british kingdoms. as he moved along the column, which still remained stationary, an iron gun, the only piece of artillery possessed by the army which meditated so important a revolution, was fired as the signal of march. the chevalier had expressed a wish to leave this useless piece of ordnance behind him; but, to his surprise, the highland chiefs interposed to solicit that it might accompany their march, pleading the prejudices of their followers, who, little accustomed to artillery, attached a degree of absurd importance to this field-piece, and expected it would contribute essentially to a victory which they could only owe to their own muskets and broadswords. two or three french artillerymen were therefore appointed to the management of this military engine, which was drawn along by a string of highland ponies, and was, after all, only used for the purpose of firing signals. [footnote: see note .] no sooner was its voice heard upon the present occasion than the whole line was in motion. a wild cry of joy from the advancing batallions rent the air, and was then lost in the shrill clangour of the bagpipes, as the sound of these, in their turn, was partially drowned by the heavy tread of so many men put at once into motion. the banners glittered and shook as they moved forward, and the horse hastened to occupy their station as the advanced guard, and to push on reconnoitring parties to ascertain and report the motions of the enemy. they vanished from waverley's eye as they wheeled round the base of arthur's seat, under the remarkable ridge of basaltic rocks which fronts the little lake of duddingston. the infantry followed in the same direction, regulating their pace by another body which occupied a road more to the southward. it cost edward some exertion of activity to attain the place which fergus's followers occupied in the line of march. chapter xlv an incident gives rise to unavailing reflections when waverley reached that part of the column which was filled by the clan of mac-ivor, they halted, formed, and received him with a triumphant flourish upon the bagpipes and a loud shout of the men, most of whom knew him personally, and were delighted to see him in the dress of their country and of their sept. 'you shout,' said a highlander of a neighbouring clan to evan dhu, 'as if the chieftain were just come to your head.' '_mar e bran is e a brathair_, if it be not bran, it is bran's brother,' was the proverbial reply of maccombich. [footnote: bran, the well-known dog of fingal. is often the theme of highland proverb as well as song.] 'o, then, it is the handsome sassenach duinhe-wassel that is to be married to lady flora?' 'that may be, or it may not be; and it is neither your matter nor mine, gregor.' fergus advanced to embrace the volunteer, and afford him a warm and hearty welcome; but he thought it necessary to apologize for the diminished numbers of his battalion (which did not exceed three hundred men) by observing he had sent a good many out upon parties. the real fact, however, was, that the defection of donald bean lean had deprived him of at least thirty hardy fellows, whose services he had fully reckoned upon, and that many of his occasional adherents had been recalled by their several chiefs to the standards to which they most properly owed their allegiance. the rival chief of the great northern branch, also, of his own clan had mustered his people, although he had not yet declared either for the government or for the chevalier, and by his intrigues had in some degree diminished the force with which fergus took the field. to make amends for these disappointments, it was universally admitted that the followers of vich ian vohr, in point of appearance, equipment, arms, and dexterity in using them, equalled the most choice troops which followed the standard of charles edward. old ballenkeiroch acted as his major; and, with the other officers who had known waverley when at glennaquoich, gave our hero a cordial reception, as the sharer of their future dangers and expected honours. the route pursued by the highland army, after leaving the village of duddingston, was for some time the common post-road betwixt edinburgh and haddington, until they crossed the esk at musselburgh, when, instead of keeping the low grounds towards the sea, they turned more inland, and occupied the brow of the eminence called carberry hill, a place already distinguished in scottish history as the spot where the lovely mary surrendered herself to her insurgent subjects. this direction was chosen because the chevalier had received notice that the army of the government, arriving by sea from aberdeen, had landed at dunbar, and quartered the night before to the west of haddington, with the intention of falling down towards the sea-side, and approaching edinburgh by the lower coast-road. by keeping the height, which overhung that road in many places, it was hoped the highlanders might find an opportunity of attacking them to advantage. the army therefore halted upon the ridge of carberry hill, both to refresh the soldiers and as a central situation from which their march could be directed to any point that the motions of the enemy might render most advisable. while they remained in this position a messenger arrived in haste to desire mac-ivor to come to the prince, adding that their advanced post had had a skirmish with some of the enemy's cavalry, and that the baron of bradwardine had sent in a few prisoners. waverley walked forward out of the line to satisfy his curiosity, and soon observed five or six of the troopers who, covered with dust, had galloped in to announce that the enemy were in full march westward along the coast. passing still a little farther on, he was struck with a groan which issued from a hovel. he approached the spot, and heard a voice, in the provincial english of his native county, which endeavoured, though frequently interrupted by pain, to repeat the lord's prayer. the voice of distress always found a ready answer in our hero's bosom. he entered the hovel, which seemed to be intended for what is called, in the pastoral counties of scotland, a smearing-house; and in its obscurity edward could only at first discern a sort of red bundle; for those who had stripped the wounded man of his arms and part of his clothes had left him the dragoon-cloak in which he was enveloped. 'for the love of god,' said the wounded man, as he heard waverley's step, 'give me a single drop of water!' 'you shall have it,' answered waverley, at the same time raising him in his arms, bearing him to the door of the hut, and giving him some drink from his flask. 'i should know that voice,' said the man; but looking on waverley's dress with a bewildered look--'no, this is not the young squire!' this was the common phrase by which edward was distinguished on the estate of waverley-honour, and the sound now thrilled to his heart with the thousand recollections which the well-known accents of his native country had already contributed to awaken. 'houghton!' he said, gazing on the ghastly features which death was fast disfiguring, 'can this be you?' 'i never thought to hear an english voice again,' said the wounded man;'they left me to live or die here as i could, when they found i would say nothing about the strength of the regiment. but, o squire! how could you stay from us so long, and let us be tempted by that fiend of the pit, ruffin? we should have followed you through flood and fire, to be sure.' 'ruffin! i assure you, houghton, you have been vilely imposed upon.' 'i often thought so,' said houghton,'though they showed us your very seal; and so tims was shot and i was reduced to the ranks.' 'do not exhaust your strength in speaking,' said edward; 'i will get you a surgeon presently.' he saw mac-ivor approaching, who was now returning from headquarters, where he had attended a council of war, and hastened to meet him. 'brave news!' shouted the chief; 'we shall be at it in less than two hours. the prince has put himself at the head of the advance, and, as he drew his sword, called out, "my friends, i have thrown away the scabbard." come, waverley, we move instantly.' 'a moment--a moment; this poor prisoner is dying; where shall i find a surgeon?' 'why, where should you? we have none, you know, but two or three french fellows, who, i believe, are little better than _garçons apothecaires_.' 'but the man will bleed to death.' 'poor fellow!' said fergus, in a momentary fit of compassion; then instantly added, 'but it will be a thousand men's fate before night; so come along.' 'i cannot; i tell you he is a son of a tenant of my uncle's.' 'o, if he's a follower of yours he must be looked to; i'll send callum to you; but _diaoul! ceade millia mottigheart_,' continued the impatient chieftain, 'what made an old soldier like bradwardine send dying men here to cumber us?' callum came with his usual alertness; and, indeed, waverley rather gained than lost in the opinion of the highlanders by his anxiety about the wounded man. they would not have understood the general philanthropy which rendered it almost impossible for waverley to have passed any person in such distress; but, as apprehending that the sufferer was one of his _following_ they unanimously allowed that waverley's conduct was that of a kind and considerate chieftain, who merited the attachment of his people. in about a quarter of an hour poor humphrey breathed his last, praying his young master, when he returned to waverley-honour, to be kind to old job houghton and his dame, and conjuring him not to fight with these wild petticoat-men against old england. when his last breath was drawn, waverley, who had beheld with sincere sorrow, and no slight tinge of remorse, the final agonies of mortality, now witnessed for the first time, commanded callum to remove the body into the hut. this the young highlander performed, not without examining the pockets of the defunct, which, however, he remarked had been pretty well spunged. he took the cloak, however, and proceeding with the provident caution of a spaniel hiding a bone, concealed it among some furze and carefully marked the spot, observing that, if he chanced to return that way, it would be an excellent rokelay for his auld mother elspat. it was by a considerable exertion that they regained their place in the marching column, which was now moving rapidly forward to occupy the high grounds above the village of tranent, between which and the sea lay the purposed march of the opposite army. this melancholy interview with his late sergeant forced many unavailing and painful reflections upon waverley's mind. it was clear from the confession of the man that colonel gardiner's proceedings had been strictly warranted, and even rendered indispensable, by the steps taken in edward's name to induce the soldiers of his troop to mutiny. the circumstance of the seal he now, for the first time, recollected, and that he had lost it in the cavern of the robber, bean lean. that the artful villain had secured it, and used it as the means of carrying on an intrigue in the regiment for his own purposes, was sufficiently evident; and edward had now little doubt that in the packet placed in his portmanteau by his daughter he should find farther light upon his proceedings. in the meanwhile the repeated expostulation of houghton--'ah, squire, why did you leave us?' rung like a knell in his ears. 'yes,' he said, 'i have indeed acted towards you with thoughtless cruelty. i brought you from your paternal fields, and the protection of a generous and kind landlord, and when i had subjected you to all the rigour of military discipline, i shunned to bear my own share of the burden, and wandered from the duties i had undertaken, leaving alike those whom it was my business to protect, and my own reputation, to suffer under the artifices of villainy. o, indolence and indecision of mind, if not in yourselves vices--to how much exquisite misery and mischief do you frequently prepare the way!' chapter xlvi the eve of battle although the highlanders marched on very fast, the sun was declining when they arrived upon the brow of those high grounds which command an open and extensive plain stretching northward to the sea, on which are situated, but at a considerable distance from each other, the small villages of seaton and cockenzie, and the larger one of preston. one of the low coastroads to edinburgh passed through this plain, issuing upon it from the enclosures of seaton house, and at the town or village of preston again entering the denies of an enclosed country. by this way the english general had chosen to approach the metropolis, both as most commodious for his cavalry, and being probably of opinion that by doing so he would meet in front with the highlanders advancing from edinburgh in the opposite direction. in this he was mistaken; for the sound judgment of the chevalier, or of those to whose advice he listened, left the direct passage free, but occupied the strong ground by which it was overlooked and commanded. when the highlanders reached the heights above the plain described, they were immediately formed in array of battle along the brow of the hill. almost at the same instant the van of the english appeared issuing from among the trees and enclosures of seaton, with the purpose of occupying the level plain between the high ground and the sea; the space which divided the armies being only about half a mile in breadth. waverley could plainly see the squadrons of dragoons issue, one after another, from the defiles, with their videttes in front, and form upon the plain, with their front opposed to that of the prince's army. they were followed by a train of field-pieces, which, when they reached the flank of the dragoons, were also brought into line and pointed against the heights. the march was continued by three or four regiments of infantry marching in open column, their fixed bayonets showing like successive hedges of steel, and their arms glancing like lightning, as, at a signal given, they also at once wheeled up, and were placed in direct opposition to the highlanders. a second train of artillery, with another regiment of horse, closed the long march, and formed on the left flank of the infantry, the whole line facing southward. while the english army went through these evolutions, the highlanders showed equal promptitude and zeal for battle. as fast as the clans came upon the ridge which fronted their enemy, they were formed into line, so that both armies got into complete order of battle at the same moment. when this was accomplished, the highlanders set up a tremendous yell, which was re-echoed by the heights behind them. the regulars, who were in high spirits, returned a loud shout of defiance, and fired one or two of their cannon upon an advanced post of the highlanders. the latter displayed great earnestness to proceed instantly to the attack, evan dhu urging to fergus, by way of argument, that 'the sidier roy was tottering like an egg upon a staff, and that they had a' the vantage of the onset, for even a haggis (god bless her!) could charge down hill.' but the ground through which the mountaineers must have descended, although not of great extent, was impracticable in its character, being not only marshy but intersected with walls of dry stone, and traversed in its whole length by a very broad and deep ditch, circumstances which must have given the musketry of the regulars dreadful advantages before the mountaineers could have used their swords, on which they were taught to rely. the authority of the commanders was therefore interposed to curb the impetuosity of the highlanders, and only a few marksmen were sent down the descent to skirmish with the enemy's advanced posts and to reconnoitre the ground. here, then, was a military spectacle of no ordinary interest or usual occurrence. the two armies, so different in aspect and discipline, yet each admirably trained in its own peculiar mode of war, upon whose conflict the temporary fate at least of scotland appeared to depend, now faced each other like two gladiators in the arena, each meditating upon the mode of attacking their enemy. the leading officers and the general's staff of each army could be distinguished in front of their lines, busied with spy-glasses to watch each other's motions, and occupied in despatching the orders and receiving the intelligence conveyed by the aides-de-camp and orderly men, who gave life to the scene by galloping along in different directions, as if the fate of the day depended upon the speed of their horses. the space between the armies was at times occupied by the partial and irregular contest of individual sharp-shooters, and a hat or bonnet was occasionally seen to fall, as a wounded man was borne off by his comrades. these, however, were but trifling skirmishes, for it suited the views of neither party to advance in that direction. from the neighbouring hamlets the peasantry cautiously showed themselves, as if watching the issue of the expected engagement; and at no great distance in the bay were two square-rigged vessels, bearing the english flag, whose tops and yards were crowded with less timid spectators. when this awful pause had lasted for a short time, fergus, with another chieftain, received orders to detach their clans towards the village of preston, in order to threaten the right flank of cope's army and compel him to a change of position. to enable him to execute these orders, the chief of glennaquoich occupied the church-yard of tranent, a commanding situation, and a convenient place, as evan dhu remarked, 'for any gentleman who might have the misfortune to be killed, and chanced to be curious about christian burial.' to check or dislodge this party, the english general detached two guns, escorted by a strong party of cavalry. they approached so near that waverley could plainly recognise the standard of the troop he had formerly commanded, and hear the trumpets and kettle-drums sound the signal of advance which he had so often obeyed. he could hear, too, the well-known word given in the english dialect by the equally well-distinguished voice of the commanding officer, for whom he had once felt so much respect. it was at that instant, that, looking around him, he saw the wild dress and appearance of his highland associates, heard their whispers in an uncouth and unknown language, looked upon his own dress, so unlike that which he had worn from his infancy, and wished to awake from what seemed at the moment a dream, strange, horrible, and unnatural. 'good god!' he muttered, 'am i then a traitor to my country, a renegade to my standard, and a foe, as that poor dying wretch expressed himself, to my native england!' ere he could digest or smother the recollection, the tall military form of his late commander came full in view, for the purpose of reconnoitring. 'i can hit him now,' said callum, cautiously raising his fusee over the wall under which he lay couched, at scarce sixty yards' distance. edward felt as if he was about to see a parricide committed in his presence; for the venerable grey hair and striking countenance of the veteran recalled the almost paternal respect with which his officers universally regarded him. but ere he could say 'hold!' an aged highlander who lay beside callum beg stopped his arm. 'spare your shot,' said the seer, 'his hour is not yet come. but let him beware of to-morrow; i see his winding-sheet high upon his breast.' callum, flint to other considerations, was penetrable to superstition. he turned pale at the words of the _taishatr_, and recovered his piece. colonel gardiner, unconscious of the danger he had escaped, turned his horse round and rode slowly back to the front of his regiment. by this time the regular army had assumed a new line, with one flank inclined towards the sea and the other resting upon the village of preston; and, as similar difficulties occurred in attacking their new position, fergus and the rest of the detachment were recalled to their former post. this alteration created the necessity of a corresponding change in general cope's army, which was again brought into a line parallel with that of the highlanders. in these manoeuvres on both sides the daylight was nearly consumed, and both armies prepared to rest upon their arms for the night in the lines which they respectively occupied. 'there will be nothing done to-night,' said fergus to his friend waverley; 'ere we wrap ourselves in our plaids, let us go see what the baron is doing in the rear of the line.' when they approached his post, they found the good old careful officer, after having sent out his night patrols and posted his sentinels, engaged in reading the evening service of the episcopal church to the remainder of his troop. his voice was loud and sonorous, and though his spectacles upon his nose, and the appearance of saunders saunderson, in military array, performing the functions of clerk, had something ludicrous, yet the circumstances of danger in which they stood, the military costume of the audience, and the appearance of their horses saddled and picqueted behind them, gave an impressive and solemn effect to the office of devotion. 'i have confessed to-day, ere you were awake,' whispered fergus to waverley; 'yet i am not so strict a catholic as to refuse to join in this good man's prayers.' edward assented, and they remained till the baron had concluded the service. as he shut the book, 'now, lads,' said he, 'have at them in the morning with heavy hands and light consciences.' he then kindly greeted mac-ivor and waverley, who requested to know his opinion of their situation. why, you know tacitus saith, "in rebus bellicis maxime dominalur fortuna," which is equiponderate with our vernacular adage, "luck can maist in the mellee." but credit me, gentlemen, yon man is not a deacon o' his craft. he damps the spirits of the poor lads he commands by keeping them on the defensive, whilk of itself implies inferiority or fear. now will they lie on their arms yonder as anxious and as ill at ease as a toad under a harrow, while our men will be quite fresh and blithe for action in the morning. well, good-night. one thing troubles me, but if to-morrow goes well off, i will consult you about it, glennaquoich.' 'i could almost apply to mr. bradwardine the character which henry gives of fluellen,' said waverley, as his friend and he walked towards their bivouac: 'though it appears a little out of fashion, there is much care and valour in this "scotchman."' 'he has seen much service,' answered fergus, 'and one is sometimes astonished to find how much nonsense and reason are mingled in his composition. i wonder what can be troubling his mind; probably something about rose. hark! the english are setting their watch.' the roll of the drum and shrill accompaniment of the fifes swelled up the hill--died away--resumed its thunder--and was at length hushed. the trumpets and kettle-drums of the cavalry were next heard to perform the beautiful and wild point of war appropriated as a signal for that piece of nocturnal duty, and then finally sunk upon the wind with a shrill and mournful cadence. the friends, who had now reached their post, stood and looked round them ere they lay down to rest. the western sky twinkled with stars, but a frost-mist, rising from the ocean, covered the eastern horizon, and rolled in white wreaths along the plain where the adverse army lay couched upon their arms. their advanced posts were pushed as far as the side of the great ditch at the bottom of the descent, and had kindled large fires at different intervals, gleaming with obscure and hazy lustre through the heavy fog which encircled them with a doubtful halo. the highlanders, 'thick as leaves in vallombrosa,' lay stretched upon the ridge of the hill, buried (excepting their sentinels) in the most profound repose. 'how many of these brave fellows will sleep more soundly before to-morrow night, fergus!' said waverley, with an involuntary sigh. 'you must notthink of that,' answered fergus, whose ideas were entirely military. 'you must only think of your sword, and by whom it was given. all other reflections are now too late.' with the opiate contained in this undeniable remark edward endeavoured to lull the tumult of his conflicting feelings. the chieftain and he, combining their plaids, made a comfortable and warm couch. callum, sitting down at their head (for it was his duty to watch upon the immediate person of the chief), began a long mournful song in gaelic, to a low and uniform tune, which, like the sound of the wind at a distance, soon lulled them to sleep. chapter xlvii the conflict when fergus mac-ivor and his friend had slept for a few hours, they were awakened and summoned to attend the prince. the distant village clock was heard to toll three as they hastened to the place where he lay. he was already surrounded by his principal officers and the chiefs of clans. a bundle of pease-straw, which had been lately his couch, now served for his seat. just as fergus reached the circle, the consultation had broken up. 'courage, my brave friends!' said the chevalier, 'and each one put himself instantly at the head of his command; a faithful friend [footnote: see note .] has offered to guide us by a practicable, though narrow and circuitous, route, which, sweeping to our right, traverses the broken ground and morass, and enables us to gain the firm and open plain upon which the enemy are lying. this difficulty surmounted, heaven and your good swords must do the rest.' the proposal spread unanimous joy, and each leader hastened to get his men into order with as little noise as possible. the army, moving by its right from off the ground on which they had rested, soon entered the path through the morass, conducting their march with astonishing silence and great rapidity. the mist had not risen to the higher grounds, so that for some time they had the advantage of star-light. but this was lost as the stars faded before approaching day, and the head of the marching column, continuing its descent, plunged as it were into the heavy ocean of fog, which rolled its white waves over the whole plain, and over the sea by which it was bounded. some difficulties were now to be encountered, inseparable from darkness, a narrow, broken, and marshy path, and the necessity of preserving union in the march. these, however, were less inconvenient to highlanders, from their habits of life, than they would have been to any other troops, and they continued a steady and swift movement. as the clan of ivor approached the firm ground, following the track of those who preceded them, the challenge of a patrol was heard through the mist, though they could not see the dragoon by whom it was made--'who goes there?' 'hush!' cried fergus, 'hush! let none answer, as he values his life; press forward'; and they continued their march with silence and rapidity. the patrol fired his carabine upon the body, and the report was instantly followed by the clang of his horse's feet as he galloped off. 'hylax in limine latrat,' said the baron of bradwardine, who heard the shot;'that loon will give the alarm.' the clan of fergus had now gained the firm plain, which had lately borne a large crop of corn. but the harvest was gathered in, and the expanse was unbroken by tree, bush, or interruption of any kind. the rest of the army were following fast, when they heard the drums of the enemy beat the general. surprise, however, had made no part of their plan, so they were not disconcerted by this intimation that the foe was upon his guard and prepared to receive them. it only hastened their dispositions for the combat, which were very simple. the highland army, which now occupied the eastern end of the wide plain, or stubble field, so often referred to, was drawn up in two lines, extending from the morass towards the sea. the first was destined to charge the enemy, the second to act as a reserve. the few horse, whom the prince headed in person, remained between the two lines. the adventurer had intimated a resolution to charge in person at the head of his first line; but his purpose was deprecated by all around him, and he was with difficulty induced to abandon it. both lines were now moving forward, the first prepared for instant combat. the clans of which it was composed formed each a sort of separate phalanx, narrow in front, and in depth ten, twelve, or fifteen files, according to the strength of the following. the best-armed and best-born, for the words were synonymous, were placed in front of each of these irregular subdivisions. the others in the rear shouldered forward the front, and by their pressure added both physical impulse and additional ardour and confidence to those who were first to encounter the danger. 'down with your plaid, waverley,' cried fergus, throwing off his own; 'we'll win silks for our tartans before the sun is above the sea.' the clansmen on every side stript their plaids, prepared their arms, and there was an awful pause of about three minutes, during which the men, pulling off their bonnets, raised their faces to heaven and uttered a short prayer; then pulled their bonnets over their brows and began to move forward, at first slowly. waverley felt his heart at that moment throb as it would have burst from his bosom. it was not fear, it was not ardour: it was a compound of both, a new and deeply energetic impulse that with its first emotion chilled and astounded, then fevered and maddened his mind. the sounds around him combined to exalt his enthusiasm; the pipes played, and the clans rushed forward, each in its own dark column. as they advanced they mended their pace, and the muttering sounds of the men to each other began to swell into a wild cry. at this moment the sun, which was now risen above the horizon, dispelled the mist. the vapours rose like a curtain, and showed the two armies in the act of closing. the line of the regulars was formed directly fronting the attack of the highlanders; it glittered with the appointments of a complete army, and was flanked by cavalry and artillery. but the sight impressed no terror on the assailants. 'forward, sons of ivor,' cried their chief, 'or the camerons will draw the first blood!' they rushed on with a tremendous yell. the rest is well known. the horse, who were commanded to charge the advancing highlanders in the flank, received an irregular fire from their fusees as they ran on and, seized with a disgraceful panic, wavered, halted, disbanded, and galloped from the field. the artillery men, deserted by the cavalry, fled after discharging their pieces, and the highlanders, who dropped their guns when fired and drew their broadswords, rushed with headlong fury against the infantry. it was at this moment of confusion and terror that waverley remarked an english officer, apparently of high rank, standing, alone and unsupported, by a fieldpiece, which, after the flight of the men by whom it was wrought, he had himself levelled and discharged against the clan of mac-ivor, the nearest group of highlanders within his aim. struck with his tall, martial figure, and eager to save him from inevitable destruction, waverley outstripped for an instant even the speediest of the warriors, and, reaching the spot first, called to him to surrender. the officer replied by a thrust with his sword, which waverley received in his target, and in turning it aside the englishman's weapon broke. at the same time the battle-axe of dugald mahony was in the act of descending upon the officer's head. waverley intercepted and prevented the blow, and the officer, perceiving further resistance unavailing, and struck with edward's generous anxiety for his safety, resigned the fragment of his sword, and was committed by waverley to dugald, with strict charge to use him well, and not to pillage his person, promising him, at the same time, full indemnification for the spoil. on edward's right the battle for a few minutes raged fierce and thick. the english infantry, trained in the wars in flanders, stood their ground with great courage. but their extended files were pierced and broken in many places by the close masses of the clans; and in the personal struggle which ensued the nature of the highlanders' weapons, and their extraordinary fierceness and activity, gave them a decided superiority over those who had been accustomed to trust much to their array and discipline, and felt that the one was broken and the other useless. waverley, as he cast his eyes towards this scene of smoke and slaughter, observed colonel gardiner, deserted by his own soldiers in spite of all his attempts to rally them, yet spurring his horse through the field to take the command of a small body of infantry, who, with their backs arranged against the wall of his own park (for his house was close by the field of battle), continued a desperate and unavailing resistance. waverley could perceive that he had already received many wounds, his clothes and saddle being marked with blood. to save this good and brave man became the instant object of his most anxious exertions. but he could only witness his fall. ere edward could make his way among the highlanders, who, furious and eager for spoil, now thronged upon each other, he saw his former commander brought from his horse by the blow of a scythe, and beheld him receive, while on the ground, more wounds than would have let out twenty lives. when waverley came up, however, perception had not entirely fled. the dying warrior seemed to recognize edward, for he fixed his eye upon him with an upbraiding, yet sorrowful, look, and appeared to struggle, for utterance. but he felt that death was dealing closely with him, and resigning his purpose, and folding his hands as if in devotion, he gave up his soul to his creator. the look with which he regarded waverley in his dying moments did not strike him so deeply at that crisis of hurry and confusion as when it recurred to his imagination at the distance of some time. [footnote: see note .] loud shouts of triumph now echoed over the whole field. the battle was fought and won, and the whole baggage, artillery, and military stores of the regular army remained in possession of the victors. never was a victory more complete. scarce any escaped from the battle, excepting the cavalry, who had left it at the very onset, and even these were broken into different parties and scattered all over the country. so far as our tale is concerned, we have only to relate the fate of balmawhapple, who, mounted on a horse as headstrong and stiff-necked as his rider, pursued the flight of the dragoons above four miles from the field of battle, when some dozen of the fugitives took heart of grace, turned round, and cleaving his skull with their broadswords, satisfied the world that the unfortunate gentleman had actually brains, the end of his life thus giving proof of a fact greatly doubted during its progress. his death was lamented by few. most of those who knew him agreed in the pithy observation of ensign maccombich, that there 'was mair tint (lost) at sheriff-muir.' his friend, lieutenant jinker, bent his eloquence only to exculpate his favourite mare from any share in contributing to the catastrophe. 'he had tauld the laird a thousand times,' he said, 'that it was a burning shame to put a martingale upon the puir thing, when he would needs ride her wi' a curb of half a yard lang; and that he could na but bring himsell (not to say her) to some mischief, by flinging her down, or otherwise; whereas, if he had had a wee bit rinnin ring on the snaffle, she wad ha' rein'd as cannily as a cadger's pownie.' such was the elegy of the laird of balmawhapple. [footnote: see note .] chapter xlviii an unexpected embarrassment when the battle was over, and all things coming into order, the baron of bradwardine, returning from the duty of the day, and having disposed those under his command in their proper stations, sought the chieftain of glennaquoich and his friend edward waverley. he found the former busied in determining disputes among his clansmen about points of precedence and deeds of valour, besides sundry high and doubtful questions concerning plunder. the most important of the last respected the property of a gold watch, which had once belonged to some unfortunate english officer. the party against whom judgment was awarded consoled himself by observing, 'she (i.e. the watch, which he took for a living animal) died the very night vich lan vohr gave her to murdoch'; the machine, having, in fact, stopped for want of winding up. it was just when this important question was decided that the baron of bradwardine, with a careful and yet important expression of countenance, joined the two young men. he descended from his reeking charger, the care of which he recommended to one of his grooms. 'i seldom ban, sir,' said he to the man; 'but if you play any of your hound's-foot tricks, and leave puir berwick before he's sorted, to rin after spuilzie, deil be wi' me if i do not give your craig a thraw.' he then stroked with great complacency the animal which had borne him through the fatigues of the day, and having taken a tender leave of him--' weel, my good young friends, a glorious and decisive victory,' said he; 'but these loons of troopers fled ower soon. i should have liked to have shown you the true points of the pralium equestre, or equestrian combat, whilk their cowardice has postponed, and which i hold to be the pride and terror of warfare. weel--i have fought once more in this old quarrel, though i admit i could not be so far ben as you lads, being that it was my point of duty to keep together our handful of horse. and no cavalier ought in any wise to begrudge honour that befalls his companions, even though they are ordered upon thrice his danger, whilk, another time, by the blessing of god, may be his own case. but, glennaquoich, and you, mr. waverley, i pray ye to give me your best advice on a matter of mickle weight, and which deeply affects the honour of the house of bradwardine. i crave your pardon, ensign maccombich, and yours, inveraughlin, and yours, edderalshendrach, and yours, sir.' the last person he addressed was ballenkeiroch, who, remembering the death of his son, loured on him with a look of savage defiance. the baron, quick as lightning at taking umbrage, had already bent his brow when glennaquoich dragged his major from the spot, and remonstrated with him, in the authoritative tone of a chieftain, on the madness of reviving a quarrel in such a moment. 'the ground is cumbered with carcasses,' said the old mountaineer, turning sullenly away; 'one more would hardly have been kenn'd upon it; and if it wasna for yoursell, vich lan vohr, that one should be bradwardine's or mine.' the chief soothed while he hurried him away; and then returned to the baron. 'it is ballenkeiroch,' he said, in an under and confidential voice, 'father of the young man who fell eight years since in the unlucky affair at the mains.' 'ah!' said the baron, instantly relaxing the doubtful sternness of his features, 'i can take mickle frae a man to whom i have unhappily rendered sic a displeasure as that. ye were right to apprise me, glennaquoich; he may look as black as midnight at martinmas ere cosmo comyne bradwardine shall say he does him wrang. ah! i have nae male lineage, and i should bear with one i have made childless, though you are aware the blood-wit was made up to your ain satisfaction by assythment, and that i have since expedited letters of slains. weel, as i have said, i have no male issue, and yet it is needful that i maintain the honour of my house; and it is on that score i prayed ye for your peculiar and private attention.' the two young men awaited to hear him, in anxious curiosity. 'i doubt na, lads,' he proceeded, 'but your education has been sae seen to that ye understand the true nature of the feudal tenures?' fergus, afraid of an endless dissertation, answered, 'intimately, baron,' and touched waverley as a signal to express no ignorance. 'and ye are aware, i doubt not, that the holding of the barony of bradwardine is of a nature alike honourable and peculiar, being blanch (which craig opines ought to be latinated blancum, or rather francum, a free holding) pro servitio detrahendi, seu exuendi, caligas regis post battalliam.' here fergus turned his falcon eye upon edward, with an almost imperceptible rise of his eyebrow, to which his shoulders corresponded in the same degree of elevation. 'now, twa points of dubitation occur to me upon this topic. first, whether this service, or feudal homage, be at any event due to the person of the prince, the words being, per expressum, caligas regis, the boots of the king himself; and i pray your opinion anent that particular before we proceed farther.' 'why, he is prince regent,' answered mac-ivor, with laudable composure of countenance; 'and in the court of france all the honours are rendered to the person of the regent which are due to that of the king. besides, were i to pull off either of their boots, i would render that service to the young chevalier ten times more willingly than to his father.' ' ay, but i talk not of personal predilections. however, your authority is of great weight as to the usages of the court of france; and doubtless the prince, as alter ego, may have a right to claim the homagium of the great tenants of the crown, since all faithful subjects are commanded, in the commission of regency, to respect him as the king's own person. far, therefore, be it from me to diminish the lustre of his authority by withholding this act of homage, so peculiarly calculated to give it splendour; for i question if the emperor of germany hath his boots taken off by a free baron of the empire. but here lieth the second difficulty-- the prince wears no boots, but simply brogues and trews.' this last dilemma had almost disturbed fergus's gravity. 'why,' said he, 'you know, baron, the proverb tells us, "it's ill taking the breeks off a highlandman," and the boots are here in the same predicament.' 'the word caligae, however,' continued the baron, 'though i admit that, by family tradition, and even in our ancient evidents, it is explained "lie-boots," means, in its primitive sense, rather sandals; and caius caesar, the nephew and successor of caius tiberius, received the agnomen of caligula, a caligulis sine caligis levioribus, quibus adolescentior usus fuerat in exercitu germanici patris sui. and the caligae were also proper to the monastic bodies; for we read in an ancient glossarium upon the rule of saint benedict, in the abbey of saint amand, that caligae were tied with latchets.' 'that will apply to the brogues,' said fergus. 'it will so, my dear glennaquoich, and the words are express: caligae, dicta sunt quia ligantur; nam socci non ligantur, sed tantum intromittuntur; that is, caligae are denominated from the ligatures wherewith they are bound; whereas socci, which may be analogous to our mules, whilk the english denominate slippers, are only slipped upon the feet. the words of the charter are also alternative, exuere seu detrahere; that is, to undo, as in the case of sandals or brogues, and to pull of, as we say vernacularly concerning boots. yet i would we had more light; but i fear there is little chance of finding hereabout any erudite author de re vestiaria.' 'i should doubt it very much,' said the chieftain, looking around on the straggling highlanders, who were returning loaded with spoils of the slain,'though the res vestiaria itself seems to be in some request at present.' this remark coming within the baron's idea of jocularity, he honoured it with a smile, but immediately resumed what to him appeared very serious business. 'bailie macwheeble indeed holds an opinion that this honorary service is due, from its very nature, si petatur tantum; only if his royal highness shall require of the great tenant of the crown to perform that personal duty; and indeed he pointed out the case in dirleton's doubts and queries, grippit versus spicer, anent the eviction of an estate ob non solutum canonem; that is, for non- payment of a feu-duty of three pepper-corns a year, whilk were taxt to be worth seven-eighths of a penny scots, in whilk the defender was assoilzied. but i deem it safest, wi' your good favour, to place myself in the way of rendering the prince this service, and to proffer performance thereof; and i shall cause the bailie to attend with a schedule of a protest, whilk he has here prepared (taking out a paper), intimating, that if it shall be his royal highness's pleasure to accept of other assistance at pulling off his caligae (whether the same shall be rendered boots or brogues) save that of the said baron of bradwardine, who is in presence ready and willing to perform the same, it shall in no wise impinge upon or prejudice the right of the said cosmo comyne bradwardine to perform the said service in future; nor shall it give any esquire, valet of the chamber, squire, or page, whose assistance it may please his royal highness to employ, any right, title, or ground for evicting from the said cosmo comyne bradwardine the estate and barony of bradwardine, and others held as aforesaid, by the due and faithful performance thereof.' fergus highly applauded this arrangement; and the baron took a friendly leave of them, with a smile of contented importance upon his visage. 'long live our dear friend the baron,' exclaimed the chief, as soon as he was out of hearing, 'for the most absurd original that exists north of the tweed! i wish to heaven i had recommended him to attend the circle this evening with a boot-ketch under his arm. i think he might have adopted the suggestion if it had been made with suitable gravity.' 'and how can you take pleasure in making a man of his worth so ridiculous?' 'begging pardon, my dear waverley, you are as ridiculous as he. why, do you not see that the man's whole mind is wrapped up in this ceremony? he has heard and thought of it since infancy as the most august privilege and ceremony in the world; and i doubt not but the expected pleasure of performing it was a principal motive with him for taking up arms. depend upon it, had i endeavoured to divert him from exposing himself he would have treated me as an ignorant, conceited coxcomb, or perhaps might have taken a fancy to cut my throat; a pleasure which he once proposed to himself upon some point of etiquette not half so important, in his eyes, as this matter of boots or brogues, or whatever the caliga shall finally be pronounced by the learned. but i must go to headquarters, to prepare the prince for this extraordinary scene. my information will be well taken, for it will give him a hearty laugh at present, and put him on his guard against laughing when it might be very mal-a-propos. so, au revoir, my dear waverley.' chapter xlix the english prisoner the first occupation of waverley, after he departed from the chieftain, was to go in quest of the officer whose life he had saved. he was guarded, along with his companions in misfortune, who were very numerous, in a gentleman's house near the field of battle. on entering the room where they stood crowded together, waverley easily recognised the object of his visit, not only by the peculiar dignity of his appearance, but by the appendage of dugald mahony, with his battleaxe, who had stuck to him from the moment of his captivity as if he had been skewered to his side. this close attendance was perhaps for the purpose of securing his promised reward from edward, but it also operated to save the english gentleman from being plundered in the scene of general confusion; for dugald sagaciously argued that the amount of the salvage which he might be allowed would be regulated by the state of the prisoner when he should deliver him over to waverley. he hastened to assure waverley, therefore, with more words than he usually employed, that he had 'keepit ta sidier roy haill, and that he wasna a plack the waur since the fery moment when his honour forbad her to gie him a bit clamhewit wi' her lochaber- axe.' waverley assured dugald of a liberal recompense, and, approaching the english officer, expressed his anxiety to do anything which might contribute to his convenience under his present unpleasant circumstances. 'i am not so inexperienced a soldier, sir,' answered the englishman, 'as to complain of the fortune of war. i am only grieved to see those scenes acted in our own island which i have often witnessed elsewhere with comparative indifference.' 'another such day as this,' said waverley, 'and i trust the cause of your regrets will be removed, and all will again return to peace and order.' the officer smiled and shook his head. 'i must not forget my situation so far as to attempt a formal confutation of that opinion; but, notwithstanding your success and the valour which achieved it, you have undertaken a task to which your strength appears wholly inadequate.' at this moment fergus pushed into the press. 'come, edward, come along; the prince has gone to pinkie house for the night; and we must follow, or lose the whole ceremony of the caligae. your friend, the baron, has been guilty of a great piece of cruelty; he has insisted upon dragging bailie macwheeble out to the field of battle. now, you must know, the bailie's greatest horror is an armed highlander or a loaded gun; and there he stands, listening to the baron's instructions concerning the protest, ducking his head like a sea-gull at the report of every gun and pistol that our idle boys are firing upon the fields, and undergoing, by way of penance, at every symptom of flinching a severe rebuke from his patron, who would not admit the discharge of a whole battery of cannon, within point-blank distance, as an apology for neglecting a discourse in which the honour of his family is interested.' 'but how has mr. bradwardine got him to venture so far?' said edward. 'why, he had come as far as musselburgh, i fancy, in hopes of making some of our wills; and the peremptory commands of the baron dragged him forward to preston after the battle was over. he complains of one or two of our ragamuffins having put him in peril of his life by presenting their pieces at him; but as they limited his ransom to an english penny, i don't think we need trouble the provost-marshal upon that subject. so come along, waverley.' 'waverley!' said the english officer, with great emotion;' the nephew of sir everard waverley, of----shire?' 'the same, sir,' replied our hero, somewhat surprised at the tone in which he was addressed. 'i am at once happy and grieved,' said the prisoner, 'to have met with you.' 'i am ignorant, sir,' answered waverley, 'how i have deserved so much interest.' 'did your uncle never mention a friend called talbot?' 'i have heard him talk with great regard of such a person,' replied edward; 'a colonel, i believe, in the army, and the husband of lady emily blandeville; but i thought colonel talbot had been abroad.' 'i am just returned,' answered the officer; 'and being in scotland, thought it my duty to act where my services promised to be useful. yes, mr. waverley, i am that colonel talbot, the husband of the lady you have named; and i am proud to acknowledge that i owe alike my professional rank and my domestic happiness to your generous and noble-minded relative. good god! that i should find his nephew in such a dress, and engaged in such a cause!' 'sir,' said fergus, haughtily, 'the dress and cause are those of men of birth and honour.' 'my situation forbids me to dispute your assertion,' said colonel talbot; 'otherwise it were no difficult matter to show that neither courage nor pride of lineage can gild a bad cause. but, with mr. waverley's permission and yours, sir, if yours also must be asked, i would willingly speak a few words with him on affairs connected with his own family.' 'mr. waverley, sir, regulates his own motions. you will follow me, i suppose, to pinkie,' said fergus, turning to edward, 'when you have finished your discourse with this new acquaintance?' so saying, the chief of glennaquoich adjusted his plaid with rather more than his usual air of haughty assumption and left the apartment. the interest of waverley readily procured for colonel talbot the freedom of adjourning to a large garden belonging to his place of confinement. they walked a few paces in silence, colonel talbot apparently studying how to open what he had to say; at length he addressed edward. 'mr. waverley, you have this day saved my life; and yet i would to god that i had lost it, ere i had found you wearing the uniform and cockade of these men.' 'i forgive your reproach, colonel talbot; it is well meant, and your education and prejudices render it natural. but there is nothing extraordinary in finding a man whose honour has been publicly and unjustly assailed in the situation which promised most fair to afford him satisfaction on his calumniators.' 'i should rather say, in the situation most likely to confirm the reports which they have circulated,' said colonel talbot, 'by following the very line of conduct ascribed to you. are you aware, mr. waverley, of the infinite distress, and even danger, which your present conduct has occasioned to your nearest relatives?' 'danger!' 'yes, sir, danger. when i left england your uncle and father had been obliged to find bail to answer a charge of treason, to which they were only admitted by the exertion of the most powerful interest. i came down to scotland with the sole purpose of rescuing you from the gulf into which you have precipitated yourself; nor can i estimate the consequences to your family of your having openly joined the rebellion, since the very suspicion of your intention was so perilous to them. most deeply do i regret that i did not meet you before this last and fatal error.' 'i am really ignorant,' said waverley, in a tone of reserve, 'why colonel talbot should have taken so much trouble on my account.' 'mr. waverley,' answered talbot, 'i am dull at apprehending irony; and therefore i shall answer your words according to their plain meaning. i am indebted to your uncle for benefits greater than those which a son owes to a father. i acknowledge to him the duty of a son; and as i know there is no manner in which i can requite his kindness so well as by serving you, i will serve you, if possible, whether you will permit me or no. the personal obligation which you have this day laid me under (although, in common estimation, as great as one human being can bestow on another) adds nothing to my zeal on your behalf; nor can that zeal be abated by any coolness with which you may please to receive it.' 'your intentions may be kind, sir,' said waverley, drily; 'but your language is harsh, or at least peremptory.' 'on my return to england,' continued colonel talbot, 'after long absence, i found your uncle, sir everard waverley, in the custody of a king's messenger, in consequence of the suspicion brought upon him by your conduct. he is my oldest friend--how often shall i repeat it?--my best benefactor! he sacrificed his own views of happiness to mine; he never uttered a word, he never harboured a thought, that benevolence itself might not have thought or spoken. i found this man in confinement, rendered harsher to him by his habits of life, his natural dignity of feeling, and--forgive me, mr. waverley--by the cause through which this calamity had come upon him. i cannot disguise from you my feelings upon this occasion; they were most painfully unfavorable to you. having by my family interest, which you probably know is not inconsiderable, succeeded in obtaining sir everard's release, i set out for scotland. i saw colonel gardiner, a man whose fate alone is sufficient to render this insurrection for ever execrable. in the course of conversation with him i found that, from late circumstances, from a reexamination of the persons engaged in the mutiny, and from his original good opinion of your character, he was much softened towards you; and i doubted not that, if i could be so fortunate as to discover you, all might yet be well. but this unnatural rebellion has ruined all. i have, for the first time in a long and active military life, seen britons disgrace themselves by a panic flight, and that before a foe without either arms or discipline. and now i find the heir of my dearest friend-- the son, i may say, of his affections--sharing a triumph for which he ought the first to have blushed. why should i lament gardiner? his lot was happy compared to mine!' there was so much dignity in colonel talbot's manner, such a mixture of military pride and manly sorrow, and the news of sir everard's imprisonment was told in so deep a tone of feeling, that edward stood mortified, abashed, and distressed in presence of the prisoner who owed to him his life not many hours before. he was not sorry when fergus interrupted their conference a second time. 'his royal highness commands mr. waverley's attendance.' colonel talbot threw upon edward a reproachful glance, which did not escape the quick eye of the highland chief. 'his immediate attendance,' he repeated, with considerable emphasis. waverley turned again towards the colonel. 'we shall meet again,' he said; 'in the meanwhile, every possible accommodation--' 'i desire none,' said the colonel; 'let me fare like the meanest of those brave men who, on this day of calamity, have preferred wounds and captivity to flight; i would almost exchange places with one of those who have fallen to know that my words have made a suitable impression on your mind.' 'let colonel talbot be carefully secured,' said fergus to the highland officer who commanded the guard over the prisoners; 'it is the prince's particular command; he is a prisoner of the utmost importance.' 'but let him want no accommodation suitable to his rank,' said waverley. 'consistent always with secure custody,' reiterated fergus. the officer signified his acquiescence in both commands, and edward followed fergus to the garden-gate, where callum beg, with three saddle-horses, awaited them. turning his head, he saw colonel talbot reconducted to his place of confinement by a file of highlanders; he lingered on the threshold of the door and made a signal with his hand towards waverley, as if enforcing the language he had held towards him. 'horses,' said fergus, as he mounted, 'are now as plenty as blackberries; every man may have them for the catching. come, let callum adjust your stirrups and let us to pinkie house [footnote: charles edward took up his quarters after the battle at pinkie house, adjoining to musselburgh.] as fast as these ci-devant dragoon-horses choose to carry us.' chapter l rather unimportant 'i was turned back,' said fergus to edward, as they galloped from preston to pinkie house, 'by a message from the prince. but i suppose you know the value of this most noble colonel talbot as a prisoner. he is held one of the best officers among the red-coats, a special friend and favourite of the elector himself, and of that dreadful hero, the duke of cumberland, who has been summoned from his triumphs at fontenoy to come over and devour us poor highlanders alive. has he been telling you how the bells of st. james's ring? not "turn again, whittington," like those of bow, in the days of yore?' 'fergus!' said waverley, with a reproachful look. 'nay, i cannot tell what to make of you,' answered the chief of mac-ivor, 'you are blown about with every wind of doctrine. here have we gained a victory unparalleled in history, and your behaviour is praised by every living mortal to the skies, and the prince is eager to thank you in person, and all our beauties of the white rose are pulling caps for you;--and you, the preux chevalier of the day, are stooping on your horse's neck like a butter-woman riding to market, and looking as black as a funeral!' 'i am sorry for poor colonel gardiner's death; he was once very kind to me.' 'why, then, be sorry for five minutes, and then be glad again; his chance to-day may be ours to-morrow; and what does it signify? the next best thing to victory is honourable death; but it is a pis- aller, and one would rather a foe had it than one's self.' 'but colonel talbot has informed me that my father and uncle are both imprisoned by government on my account.' 'we'll put in bail, my boy; old andrew ferrara [footnote: see note ] shall lodge his security; and i should like to see him put to justify it in westminster hall!' 'nay, they are already at liberty, upon bail of a more civic disposition.' 'then why is thy noble spirit cast down, edward? dost think that the elector's ministers are such doves as to set their enemies at liberty at this critical moment if they could or durst confine and punish them? assure thyself that either they have no charge against your relations on which they can continue their imprisonment, or else they are afraid of our friends, the jolly cavaliers of old england. at any rate, you need not be apprehensive upon their account; and we will find some means of conveying to them assurances of your safety.' edward was silenced but not satisfied with these reasons. he had now been more than once shocked at the small degree of sympathy which fergus exhibited for the feelings even of those whom he loved, if they did not correspond with his own mood at the time, and more especially if they thwarted him while earnest in a favourite pursuit. fergus sometimes indeed observed that he had offended waverley, but, always intent upon some favourite plan or project of his own, he was never sufficiently aware of the extent or duration of his displeasure, so that the reiteration of these petty offences somewhat cooled the volunteer's extreme attachment to his officer. the chevalier received waverley with his usual favour, and paid him many compliments on his distinguished bravery. he then took him apart, made many inquiries concerning colonel talbot, and when he had received all the information which edward was able to give concerning him and his connexions, he proceeded--'i cannot but think, mr. waverley, that since this gentleman is so particularly connected with our worthy and excellent friend, sir everard waverley, and since his lady is of the house of blandeville, whose devotion to the true and loyal principles of the church of england is so generally known, the colonel's own private sentiments cannot be unfavorable to us, whatever mask he may have assumed to accommodate himself to the times.' 'if i am to judge from the language he this day held to me, i am under the necessity of differing widely from your royal highness.' 'well, it is worth making a trial at least. i therefore entrust you with the charge of colonel talbot, with power to act concerning him as you think most advisable; and i hope you will find means of ascertaining what are his real dispositions towards our royal father's restoration.' 'i am convinced,' said waverley, bowing, 'that if colonel talbot chooses to grant his parole, it may be securely depended upon; but if he refuses it, i trust your royal highness will devolve on some other person than the nephew of his friend the task of laying him under the necessary restraint.' 'i will trust him with no person but you,' said the prince, smiling, but peremptorily repeating his mandate; 'it is of importance to my service that there should appear to be a good intelligence between you, even if you are unable to gain his confidence in earnest. you will therefore receive him into your quarters, and in case he declines giving his parole, you must apply for a proper guard. i beg you will go about this directly. we return to edinburgh tomorrow.' being thus remanded to the vicinity of preston, waverley lost the baron of bradwardine's solemn act of homage. so little, however, was he at this time in love with vanity, that he had quite forgotten the ceremony in which fergus had laboured to engage his curiosity. but next day a formal 'gazette' was circulated, containing a detailed account of the battle of gladsmuir, as the highlanders chose to denominate their victory. it concluded with an account of the court afterwards held by the chevalier at pinkie house, which contained this among other high-flown descriptive paragraphs:-- 'since that fatal treaty which annihilates scotland as an independent nation, it has not been our happiness to see her princes receive, and her nobles discharge, those acts of feudal homage which, founded upon the splendid actions of scottish valour, recall the memory of her early history, with the manly and chivalrous simplicity of the ties which united to the crown the homage of the warriors by whom it was repeatedly upheld and defended. but on the evening of the th our memories were refreshed with one of those ceremonies which belong to the ancient days of scotland's glory. after the circle was formed, cosmo comyne bradwardine of that ilk, colonel in the service, etc., etc., etc., came before the prince, attended by mr. d. macwheeble, the bailie of his ancient barony of bradwardine (who, we understand, has been lately named a commissary), and, under form of instrument, claimed permission to perform to the person of his royal highness, as representing his father, the service used and wont, for which, under a charter of robert bruce (of which the original was produced and inspected by the masters of his royal highness's chancery for the time being), the claimant held the barony of bradwardine and lands of tully-veolan. his claim being admitted and registered, his royal highness having placed his foot upon a cushion, the baron of bradwardine, kneeling upon his right knee, proceeded to undo the latchet of the brogue, or low-heeled highland shoe, which our gallant young hero wears in compliment to his brave followers. when this was performed, his royal highness declared the ceremony completed; and, embracing the gallant veteran, protested that nothing but compliance with an ordinance of robert bruce could have induced him to receive even the symbolical performance of a menial office from hands which had fought so bravely to put the crown upon the head of his father. the baron of bradwardine then took instruments in the hands of mr. commissary macwheeble, bearing that all points and circumstances of the act of homage had been rite et solenniter acta et peracta; and a corresponding entry was made in the protocol of the lord high chamberlain and in the record of chancery. we understand that it is in contemplation of his royal highness, when his majesty's pleasure can be known, to raise colonel bradwardine to the peerage, by the title of viscount bradwardine of bradwardine and tully-veolan, and that, in the meanwhile, his royal highness, in his father's name and authority, has been pleased to grant him an honourable augmentation to his paternal coat of arms, being a budget or boot-jack, disposed saltier-wise with a naked broadsword, to be borne in the dexter cantle of the shield; and, as an additional motto, on a scroll beneath, the words, "draw and draw off."' 'were it not for the recollection of fergus's raillery,' thought waverley to himself, when he had perused this long and grave document,' how very tolerably would all this sound, and how little should i have thought of connecting it with any ludicrous idea! well, after all, everything has its fair as well as its seamy side; and truly i do not see why the baron's boot-jack may not stand as fair in heraldry as the water-buckets, waggons, cart- wheels, plough-socks, shuttles, candlesticks, and other ordinaries, conveying ideas of anything save chivalry, which appear in the arms of some of our most ancient gentry.' this, however, is an episode in respect to the principal story. when waverley returned to preston and rejoined colonel talbot, he found him recovered from the strong and obvious emotions with which a concurrence of unpleasing events had affected him. he had regained his natural manner, which was that of an english gentleman and soldier, manly, open and generous, but not unsusceptible of prejudice against those of a different country, or who opposed him in political tenets. when waverley acquainted colonel talbot with the chevalier's purpose to commit him to his charge, 'i did not think to have owed so much obligation to that young gentleman,' he said, 'as is implied in this destination. i can at least cheerfully join in the prayer of the honest presbyterian clergyman, that, as he has come among us seeking an earthly crown, his labours may be speedily rewarded with a heavenly one. [footnote: the clergyman's name was mac-vicar. protected by the cannon of the castle, he preached every sunday in the west kirk while the highlanders were in possession of edinburgh, and it was in presence of some of the jacobites that he prayed for prince charles edward in the terms quoted in the text.] i shall willingly give my parole not to attempt an escape without your knowledge, since, in fact, it was to meet you that i came to scotland; and i am glad it has happened even under this predicament. but i suppose we shall be but a short time together. your chevalier (that is a name we may both give to him), with his plaids and blue caps, will, i presume, be continuing his crusade southward?' 'not as i hear; i believe the army makes some stay in edinburgh to collect reinforcements.' 'and to besiege the castle?' said talbot, smiling sarcastically. 'well, unless my old commander, general preston, turn false metal, or the castle sink into the north loch, events which i deem equally probable, i think we shall have some time to make up our acquaintance. i have a guess that this gallant chevalier has a design that i should be your proselyte; and, as i wish you to be mine, there cannot be a more fair proposal than to afford us fair conference together. but, as i spoke today under the influence of feelings i rarely give way to, i hope you will excuse my entering again upon controversy till we are somewhat better acquainted.' chapter li intrigues of love and politics it is not necessary to record in these pages the triumphant entrance of the chevalier into edinburgh after the decisive affair at preston. one circumstance, however, may be noticed, because it illustrates the high spirit of flora mac-ivor. the highlanders by whom the prince was surrounded, in the license and extravagance of this joyful moment, fired their pieces repeatedly, and one of these having been accidentally loaded with ball, the bullet grazed the young lady's temple as she waved her handkerchief from a balcony. [footnote: see note ii.] fergus, who beheld the accident, was at her side in an instant; and, on seeing that the wound was trifling, he drew his broadsword with the purpose of rushing down upon the man by whose carelessness she had incurred so much danger, when, holding him by the plaid, 'do not harm the poor fellow,' she cried; 'for heaven's sake, do not harm him! but thank god with me that the accident happened to flora mac-ivor; for had it befallen a whig, they would have pretended that the shot was fired on purpose.' waverley escaped the alarm which this accident would have occasioned to him, as he was unavoidably delayed by the necessity of accompanying colonel talbot to edinburgh. they performed the journey together on horseback, and for some time, as if to sound each other's feelings and sentiments, they conversed upon general and ordinary topics. when waverley again entered upon the subject which he had most at heart, the situation, namely, of his father and his uncle, colonel talbot seemed now rather desirous to alleviate than to aggravate his anxiety. this appeared particularly to be the case when he heard waverley's history, which he did not scruple to confide to him. 'and so,' said the colonel, 'there has been no malice prepense, as lawyers, i think, term it, in this rash step of yours; and you have been trepanned into the service of this italian knight-errant by a few civil speeches from him and one or two of his highland recruiting sergeants? it is sadly foolish, to be sure, but not nearly so bad as i was led to expect. however, you cannot desert, even from the pretender, at the present moment; that seems impossible. but i have little doubt that, in the dissensions incident to this heterogeneous mass of wild and desperate men, some opportunity may arise, by availing yourself of which you may extricate yourself honourably from your rash engagement before the bubble burst. if this can be managed, i would have you go to a place of safety in flanders which i shall point out. and i think i can secure your pardon from government after a few months' residence abroad.' 'i cannot permit you, colonel talbot,' answered waverley, 'to speak of any plan which turns on my deserting an enterprise in which i may have engaged hastily, but certainly voluntarily, and with the purpose of abiding the issue.' 'well,' said colonel talbot, smiling, 'leave me my thoughts and hopes at least at liberty, if not my speech. but have you never examined your mysterious packet?' 'it is in my baggage,' replied edward; 'we shall find it in edinburgh.' in edinburgh they soon arrived. waverley's quarters had been assigned to him, by the prince's express orders, in a handsome lodging, where there was accommodation for colonel talbot. his first business was to examine his portmanteau, and, after a very short search, out tumbled the expected packet. waverley opened it eagerly. under a blank cover, simply addressed to e. waverley, esq., he found a number of open letters. the uppermost were two from colonel gardiner addressed to himself. the earliest in date was a kind and gentle remonstrance for neglect of the writer's advice respecting the disposal of his time during his leave of absence, the renewal of which, he reminded captain waverley, would speedily expire. 'indeed,' the letter proceeded, 'had it been otherwise, the news from abroad and my instructions from the war office must have compelled me to recall it, as there is great danger, since the disaster in flanders, both of foreign invasion and insurrection among the disaffected at home. i therefore entreat you will repair as soon as possible to the headquarters of the regiment; and i am concerned to add that this is still the more necessary as there is some discontent in your troop, and i postpone inquiry into particulars until i can have the advantage of your assistance.' the second letter, dated eight days later, was in such a style as might have been expected from the colonel's receiving no answer to the first. it reminded waverley of his duty as a man of honour, an officer, and a briton; took notice of the increasing dissatisfaction of his men, and that some of them had been heard to hint that their captain encouraged and approved of their mutinous behaviour; and, finally, the writer expressed the utmost regret and surprise that he had not obeyed his commands by repairing to headquarters, reminded him that his leave of absence had been recalled, and conjured him, in a style in which paternal remonstrance was mingled with military authority, to redeem his error by immediately joining his regiment. 'that i may be certain,' concluded the letter, 'that this actually reaches you, i despatch it by corporal tims of your troop, with orders to deliver it into your own hand.' upon reading these letters waverley, with great bitterness of feeling, was compelled to make the amende honorable to the memory of the brave and excellent writer; for surely, as colonel gardiner must have had every reason to conclude they had come safely to hand, less could not follow, on their being neglected, than that third and final summons, which waverley actually received at glennaquoich, though too late to obey it. and his being superseded, in consequence of his apparent neglect of this last command, was so far from being a harsh or severe proceeding, that it was plainly inevitable. the next letter he unfolded was from the major of the regiment, acquainting him that a report to the disadvantage of his reputation was public in the country, stating, that one mr. falconer of ballihopple, or some such name, had proposed in his presence a treasonable toast, which he permitted to pass in silence, although it was so gross an affront to the royal family that a gentleman in company, not remarkable for his zeal for government, had never theless taken the matter up, and that, supposing the account true, captain waverley had thus suffered another, comparatively unconcerned, to resent an affront directed against him personally as an officer, and to go out with the person by whom it was offered. the major concluded that no one of captain waverley's brother officers could believe this scandalous story, but that it was necessarily their joint opinion that his own honour, equally with that of the regiment, depended upon its being instantly contradicted by his authority, etc. etc. etc. 'what do you think of all this?' said colonel talbot, to whom waverley handed the letters after he had perused them. 'think! it renders thought impossible. it is enough to drive me mad.' 'be calm, my young friend; let us see what are these dirty scrawls that follow.' the first was addressed,-- 'for master w. ruffin, these.'-- 'dear sur, sum of our yong gulpins will not bite, thof i tuold them you shoed me the squoire's own seel. but tims will deliver you the lettrs as desired, and tell ould addem he gave them to squoir's bond, as to be sure yours is the same, and shall be ready for signal, and hoy for hoy church and sachefrel, as fadur sings at harvestwhome. yours, deer sur, 'h. h. 'poscriff.--do'e tell squoire we longs to heer from him, and has dootings about his not writing himself, and lifetenant bottler is smoky.' 'this ruffin, i suppose, then, is your donald of the cavern, who has intercepted your letters, and carried on a correspondence with the poor devil houghton, as if under your authority?' 'it seems too true. but who can addem be?' 'possibly adam, for poor gardiner, a sort of pun on his name.' the other letters were to the same purpose; and they soon received yet more complete light upon donald bean's machinations. john hodges, one of waverley's servants, who had remained with the regiment and had been taken at preston, now made his appearance. he had sought out his master with the purpose of again entering his service. from this fellow they learned that some time after waverley had gone from the headquarters of the regiment, a pedlar, called ruthven, rufnn, or rivane, known among the soldiers by the name of wily will, had made frequent visits to the town of dundee. he appeared to possess plenty of money, sold his commodities very cheap, seemed always willing to treat his friends at the ale- house, and easily ingratiated himself with many of waverley's troop, particularly sergeant houghton and one tims, also a non- commissioned officer. to these he unfolded, in waverley's name, a plan for leaving the regiment and joining him in the highlands, where report said the clans had already taken arms in great numbers. the men, who had been educated as jacobites, so far as they had any opinion at all, and who knew their landlord, sir everard, had always been supposed to hold such tenets, easily fell into the snare. that waverley was at a distance in the highlands was received as a sufficient excuse for transmitting his letters through the medium of the pedlar; and the sight of his well-known seal seemed to authenticate the negotiations in his name, where writing might have been dangerous. the cabal, however, began to take air, from the premature mutinous language of those concerned. wily will justified his appellative; for, after suspicion arose, he was seen no more. when the 'gazette' appeared in which waverley was superseded, great part of his troop broke out into actual mutiny, but were surrounded and disarmed by the rest of the regiment in consequence of the sentence of a court-martial, houghton and tims were condemned to be shot, but afterwards permitted to cast lots for life. houghton, the survivor, showed much penitence, being convinced, from the rebukes and explanations of colonel gardiner, that he had really engaged in a very heinous crime. it is remarkable that, as soon as the poor fellow was satisfied of this, he became also convinced that the instigator had acted without authority from edward, saying, 'if it was dishonourable and against old england, the squire could know nought about it; he never did, or thought to do, anything dishonourable, no more didn't sir everard, nor none of them afore him, and in that belief he would live and die that ruffin had done it all of his own head.' the strength of conviction with which he expressed himself upon this subject, as well as his assurances that the letters intended for waverley had been delivered to ruthven, made that revolution in colonel gardiner's opinion which he expressed to talbot. the reader has long since understood that donald bean lean played the part of tempter on this occasion. his motives were shortly these. of an active and intriguing spirit, he had been long employed as a subaltern agent and spy by those in the confidence of the chevalier, to an extent beyond what was suspected even by fergus mac-ivor, whom, though obliged to him for protection, he regarded with fear and dislike. to success in this political department he naturally looked for raising himself by some bold stroke above his present hazardous and precarious trade of rapine. he was particularly employed in learning the strength of the regiments in scotland, the character of the officers, etc., and had long had his eye upon waverley's troop as open to temptation. donald even believed that waverley himself was at bottom in the stuart interest, which seemed confirmed by his long visit to the jacobite baron of bradwardine. when, therefore, he came to his cave with one of glennaquoich's attendants, the robber, who could never appreciate his real motive, which was mere curiosity, was so sanguine as to hope that his own talents were to be employed in some intrigue of consequence, under the auspices of this wealthy young englishman. nor was he undeceived by waverley's neglecting all hints and openings afforded for explanation. his conduct passed for prudent reserve, and somewhat piqued donald bean, who, supposing himself left out of a secret where confidence promised to be advantageous, determined to have his share in the drama, whether a regular part were assigned him or not. for this purpose during waverley's sleep he possessed himself of his seal, as a token to be used to any of the troopers whom he might discover to be possessed of the captain's confidence. his first journey to dundee, the town where the regiment was quartered, undeceived him in his original supposition, but opened to him a new field of action. he knew there would be no service so well rewarded by the friends of the chevalier as seducing a part of the regular army to his standard. for this purpose he opened the machinations with which the reader is already acquainted, and which form a clue to all the intricacies and obscurities of the narrative previous to waverley's leaving glennaquoich. by colonel talbot's advice, waverley declined detaining in his service the lad whose evidence had thrown additional light on these intrigues. he represented to him, that it would be doing the man an injury to engage him in a desperate undertaking, and that, whatever should happen, his evidence would go some length at least in explaining the circumstances under which waverley himself had embarked in it. waverley therefore wrote a short state of what had happened to his uncle and his father, cautioning them, however, in the present circumstances, not to attempt to answer his letter. talbot then gave the young man a letter to the commander of one of the english vessels of war cruising in the frith, requesting him to put the bearer ashore at berwick, with a pass to proceed to---- shire. he was then furnished with money to make an expeditious journey, and directed to get on board the ship by means of bribing a fishing-boat, which, as they afterwards learned, he easily effected. tired of the attendance of callum beg, who, he thought, had some disposition to act as a spy on his motions, waverley hired as a servant a simple edinburgh swain, who had mounted the white cockade in a fit of spleen and jealousy, because jenny jop had danced a whole night with corporal bullock of the fusileers. chapter lii intrigues of society and love colonel talbot became more kindly in his demeanour towards waverley after the confidence he had reposed in him, and, as they were necessarily much together, the character of the colonel rose in waverley's estimation. there seemed at first something harsh in his strong expressions of dislike and censure, although no one was in the general case more open to conviction. the habit of authority had also given his manners some peremptory hardness, notwithstanding the polish which they had received from his intimate acquaintance with the higher circles. as a specimen of the military character, he differed from all whom waverley had as yet seen. the soldiership of the baron of bradwardine was marked by pedantry; that of major melville by a sort of martinet attention to the minutiae and technicalities of discipline, rather suitable to one who was to manoeuvre a battalion than to him who was to command an army; the military spirit of fergus was so much warped and blended with his plans and political views, that it was less that of a soldier than of a petty sovereign. but colonel talbot was in every point the english soldier. his whole soul was devoted to the service of his king and country, without feeling any pride in knowing the theory of his art with the baron, or its practical minutiae with the major, or in applying his science to his own particular plans of ambition, like the chieftain of glennaquoich. added to this, he was a man of extended knowledge and cultivated taste, although strongly tinged, as we have already observed, with those prejudices which are peculiarly english. the character of colonel talbot dawned upon edward by degrees; for the delay of the highlanders in the fruitless siege of edinburgh castle occupied several weeks, during which waverley had little to do excepting to seek such amusement as society afforded. he would willingly have persuaded his new friend to become acquainted with some of his former intimates. but the colonel, after one or two visits, shook his head, and declined farther experiment. indeed he went farther, and characterised the baron as the most intolerable formal pedant he had ever had the misfortune to meet with, and the chief of glennaquoich as a frenchified scotchman, possessing all the cunning and plausibility of the nation where he was educated, with the proud, vindictive, and turbulent humour of that of his birth. 'if the devil,' he said, 'had sought out an agent expressly for the purpose of embroiling this miserable country, i do not think he could find a better than such a fellow as this, whose temper seems equally active, supple, and mischievous, and who is followed, and implicitly obeyed, by a gang of such cut-throats as those whom you are pleased to admire so much.' the ladies of the party did not escape his censure. he allowed that flora mac-ivor was a fine woman, and rose bradwardine a pretty girl. but he alleged that the former destroyed the effect of her beauty by an affectation of the grand airs which she had probably seen practised in the mock court of st. germains. as for rose bradwardine, he said it was impossible for any mortal to admire such a little uninformed thing, whose small portion of education was as ill adapted to her sex or youth as if she had appeared with one of her father's old campaign-coats upon her person for her sole garment. now much of this was mere spleen and prejudice in the excellent colonel, with whom the white cockade on the breast, the white rose in the hair, and the mac at the beginning of a name would have made a devil out of an angel; and indeed he himself jocularly allowed that he could not have endured venus herself if she had been announced in a drawing-room by the name of miss mac-jupiter. waverley, it may easily be believed, looked upon these young ladies with very different eyes. during the period of the siege he paid them almost daily visits, although he observed with regret that his suit made as little progress in the affections of the former as the arms of the chevalier in subduing the fortress. she maintained with rigour the rule she had laid down of treating him with indifference, without either affecting to avoid him or to shun intercourse with him. every word, every look, was strictly regulated to accord with her system, and neither the dejection of waverley nor the anger which fergus scarcely suppressed could extend flora's attention to edward beyond that which the most ordinary politeness demanded. on the other hand, rose bradwardine gradually rose in waverley's opinion. he had several opportunities of remarking that, as her extreme timidity wore off, her manners assumed a higher character; that the agitating circumstances of the stormy time seemed to call forth a certain dignity of feeling and expression which he had not formerly observed; and that she omitted no opportunity within her reach to extend her knowledge and refine her taste. flora mac-ivor called rose her pupil, and was attentive to assist her in her studies, and to fashion both her taste and understanding. it might have been remarked by a very close observer that in the presence of waverley she was much more desirous to exhibit her friend's excellences than her own. but i must request of the reader to suppose that this kind and disinterested purpose was concealed by the most cautious delicacy, studiously shunning the most distant approach to affectation. so that it was as unlike the usual exhibition of one pretty woman affecting to proner another as the friendship of david and jonathan might be to the intimacy of two bond street loungers. the fact is that, though the effect was felt, the cause could hardly be observed. each of the ladies, like two excellent actresses, were perfect in their parts, and performed them to the delight of the audience; and such being the case, it was almost impossible to discover that the elder constantly ceded to her friend that which was most suitable to her talents. but to waverley rose bradwardine possessed an attraction which few men can resist, from the marked interest which she took in everything that affected him. she was too young and too inexperienced to estimate the full force of the constant attention which she paid to him. her father was too abstractedly immersed in learned and military discussions to observe her partiality, and flora mac-ivor did not alarm her by remonstrance, because she saw in this line of conduct the most probable chance of her friend securing at length a return of affection. the truth is, that in her first conversation after their meeting rose had discovered the state of her mind to that acute and intelligent friend, although she was not herself aware of it. from that time flora was not only determined upon the final rejection of waverley's addresses, but became anxious that they should, if possible, be transferred to her friend. nor was she less interested in this plan, though her brother had from time to time talked, as between jest and earnest, of paying his suit to miss bradwardine. she knew that fergus had the true continental latitude of opinion respecting the institution of marriage, and would not have given his hand to an angel unless for the purpose of strengthening his alliances and increasing his influence and wealth. the baron's whim of transferring his estate to the distant heir-male, instead of his own daughter, was therefore likely to be an insurmountable obstacle to his entertaining any serious thoughts of rose bradwardine. indeed, fergus's brain was a perpetual workshop of scheme and intrigue, of every possible kind and description; while, like many a mechanic of more ingenuity than steadiness, he would often unexpectedly, and without any apparent motive, abandon one plan and go earnestly to work upon another, which was either fresh from the forge of his imagination or had at some former period been flung aside half finished. it was therefore often difficult to guess what line of conduct he might finally adopt upon any given occasion. although flora was sincerely attached to her brother, whose high energies might indeed have commanded her admiration even without the ties which bound them together, she was by no means blind to his faults, which she considered as dangerous to the hopes of any woman who should found her ideas of a happy marriage in the peaceful enjoyment of domestic society and the exchange of mutual and engrossing affection. the real disposition of waverley, on the other hand, notwithstanding his dreams of tented fields and military honour, seemed exclusively domestic. he asked and received no share in the busy scenes which were constantly going on around him, and was rather annoyed than interested by the discussion of contending claims, rights, and interests which often passed in his presence. all this pointed him out as the person formed to make happy a spirit like that of rose, which corresponded with his own. she remarked this point in waverley's character one day while she sat with miss bradwardine. 'his genius and elegant taste,' answered rose, 'cannot be interested in such trifling discussions. what is it to him, for example, whether the chief of the macindallaghers, who has brought out only fifty men, should be a colonel or a captain? and how could mr. waverley be supposed to interest himself in the violent altercation between your brother and young corrinaschian whether the post of honour is due to the eldest cadet of a clan or the youngest?' 'my dear rose, if he were the hero you suppose him he would interest himself in these matters, not indeed as important in themselves, but for the purpose of mediating between the ardent spirits who actually do make them the subject of discord. you saw when corrinaschian raised his voice in great passion, and laid his hand upon his sword, waverley lifted his head as if he had just awaked from a dream, and asked with great composure what the matter was.' 'well, and did not the laughter they fell into at his absence of mind serve better to break off the dispute than anything he could have said to them?' 'true, my dear,' answered flora; 'but not quite so creditably for waverley as if he had brought them to their senses by force of reason.' 'would you have him peacemaker general between all the gunpowder highlanders in the army? i beg your pardon, flora, your brother, you know, is out of the question; he has more sense than half of them. but can you think the fierce, hot, furious spirits of whose brawls we see much and hear more, and who terrify me out of my life every day in the world, are at all to be compared to waverley?' 'i do not compare him with those uneducated men, my dear rose. i only lament that, with his talents and genius, he does not assume that place in society for which they eminently fit him, and that he does not lend their full impulse to the noble cause in which he has enlisted. are there not lochiel, and p--, and m--, and g--, all men of the highest education as well as the first talents,-- why will he not stoop like them to be alive and useful? i often believe his zeal is frozen by that proud cold-blooded englishman whom he now lives with so much.' 'colonel talbot? he is a very disagreeable person, to be sure. he looks as if he thought no scottish woman worth the trouble of handing her a cup of tea. but waverley is so gentle, so well informed--' 'yes,' said flora, smiling, 'he can admire the moon and quote a stanza from tasso.' 'besides, you know how he fought,' added miss bradwardine. 'for mere fighting,' answered flora,' i believe all men (that is, who deserve the name) are pretty much alike; there is generally more courage required to run away. they have besides, when confronted with each other, a certain instinct for strife, as we see in other male animals, such as dogs, bulls, and so forth. but high and perilous enterprise is not waverley's forte. he would never have been his celebrated ancestor sir nigel, but only sir nigel's eulogist and poet. i will tell you where he will be at home, my dear, and in his place--in the quiet circle of domestic happiness, lettered indolence, and elegant enjoyments of waverley- honour. and he will refit the old library in the most exquisite gothic taste, and garnish its shelves with the rarest and most valuable volumes; and he will draw plans and landscapes, and write verses, and rear temples, and dig grottoes; and he will stand in a clear summer night in the colonnade before the hall, and gaze on the deer as they stray in the moonlight, or lie shadowed by the boughs of the huge old fantastic oaks; and he will repeat verses to his beautiful wife, who will hang upon his arm;--and he will be a happy man.' and she will be a happy woman, thought poor rose. but she only sighed and dropped the conversation. chapter liii fergus a suitor waverley had, indeed, as he looked closer into the state of the chevalier's court, less reason to be satisfied with it. it contained, as they say an acorn includes all the ramifications of the future oak, as many seeds of tracasserie and intrigue as might have done honour to the court of a large empire. every person of consequence had some separate object, which he pursued with a fury that waverley considered as altogether disproportioned to its importance. almost all had their reasons for discontent, although the most legitimate was that of the worthy old baron, who was only distressed on account of the common cause. 'we shall hardly,' said he one morning to waverley when they had been viewing the castle--'we shall hardly gain the obsidional crown, which you wot well was made of the roots or grain which takes root within the place besieged, or it may be of the herb woodbind, parietaria, or pellitory; we shall not, i say, gain it by this same blockade or leaguer of edinburgh castle.' for this opinion he gave most learned and satisfactory reasons, that the reader may not care to hear repeated. having escaped from the old gentleman, waverley went to fergus's lodgings by appointment, to await his return from holyrood house. 'i am to have a particular audience to-morrow,' said fergus to waverley overnight, 'and you must meet me to wish me joy of the success which i securely anticipate.' the morrow came, and in the chief's apartment he found ensign maccombich waiting to make report of his turn of duty in a sort of ditch which they had dug across the castle-hill and called a trench. in a short time the chief's voice was heard on the stair in a tone of impatient fury: 'callum! why, callum beg! diaoul!' he entered the room with all the marks of a man agitated by a towering passion; and there were few upon whose features rage produced a more violent effect. the veins of his forehead swelled when he was in such agitation; his nostril became dilated; his cheek and eye inflamed; and hislook that of a demoniac. these appearances of half-suppressed rage were the more frightful because they were obviously caused by a strong effort to temper with discretion an almost ungovernable paroxysm of passion, and resulted from an internal conflict of the most dreadful kind, which agitated his whole frame of mortality. as he entered the apartment he unbuckled his broadsword, and throwing it down with such violence that the weapon rolled to the other end of the room, 'i know not what,' he exclaimed, 'withholds me from taking a solemn oath that i will never more draw it in his cause. load my pistols, callum, and bring them hither instantly-- instantly!' callum, whom nothing ever startled, dismayed, or disconcerted, obeyed very coolly. evan dhu, upon whose brow the suspicion that his chief had been insulted called up a corresponding storm, swelled in sullen silence, awaiting to learn where or upon whom vengeance was to descend. 'so, waverley, you are there,' said the chief, after a moment's recollection. 'yes, i remember i asked you to share my triumph, and you have come to witness my disappointment we shall call it.' evan now presented the written report he had in his hand, which fergus threw from him with great passion. 'i wish to god,' he said, 'the old den would tumble down upon the heads of the fools who attack and the knaves who defend it! i see, waverley, you think i am mad. leave us, evan, but be within call.' 'the colonel's in an unco kippage,' said mrs. flockhart to evan as he descended; 'i wish he may be weel,--the very veins on his brent brow are swelled like whipcord; wad he no tak something?' 'he usually lets blood for these fits,' answered the highland ancient with great composure. when this officer left the room, the chieftain gradually reassumed some degree of composure. 'i know, waverley,' he said, 'that colonel talbot has persuaded you to curse ten times a day your engagement with us; nay, never deny it, for i am at this moment tempted to curse my own. would you believe it, i made this very morning two suits to the prince, and he has rejected them both; what do you think of it?' 'what can i think,' answered waverley, 'till i know what your requests were?' 'why, what signifies what they were, man? i tell you it was i that made them--i to whom he owes more than to any three who have joined the standard; for i negotiated the whole business, and brought in all the perthshire men when not one would have stirred. i am not likely, i think, to ask anything very unreasonable, and if i did, they might have stretched a point. well, but you shall know all, now that i can draw my breath again with some freedom. you remember my earl's patent; it is dated some years back, for services then rendered; and certainly my merit has not been diminished, to say the least, by my subsequent behaviour. now, sir, i value this bauble of a coronet as little as you can, or any philosopher on earth; for i hold that the chief of such a clan as the sliochd nan ivor is superior in rank to any earl in scotland. but i had a particular reason for assuming this cursed title at this time. you must know that i learned accidentally that the prince has been pressing that old foolish baron of bradwardine to disinherit his male heir, or nineteenth or twentieth cousin, who has taken a command in the elector of hanover's militia, and to settle his estate upon your pretty little friend rose; and this, as being the command of his king and overlord, who may alter the destination of a fief at pleasure, the old gentleman seems well reconciled to.' 'and what becomes of the homage?' 'curse the homage! i believe rose is to pull off the queen's slipper on her coronation-day, or some such trash. well, sir, as rose bradwardine would always have made a suitable match for me but for this idiotical predilection of her father for the heir- male, it occurred to me there now remained no obstacle unless that the baron might expect his daughter's husband to take the name of bradwardine (which you know would be impossible in my case), and that this might be evaded by my assuming the title to which i had so good a right, and which, of course, would supersede that difficulty. if she was to be also viscountess bradwardine in her own right after her father's demise, so much the better; i could have no objection.' 'but, fergus,' said waverley, 'i had no idea that you had any affection for miss bradwardine, and you are always sneering at her father.' 'i have as much affection for miss bradwardine, my good friend, as i think it necessary to have for the future mistress of my family and the mother of my children. she is a very pretty, intelligent girl, and is certainly of one of the very first lowland families; and, with a little of flora's instructions and forming, will make a very good figure. as to her father, he is an original, it is true, and an absurd one enough; but he has given such severe lessons to sir hew halbert, that dear defunct the laird of balmawhapple, and others, that nobody dare laugh at him, so his absurdity goes for nothing. i tell you there could have been no earthly objection--none. i had settled the thing entirely in my own mind.' 'but had you asked the baron's consent,' said waverley, 'or rose's?' 'to what purpose? to have spoke to the baron before i had assumed my title would have only provoked a premature and irritating discussion on the subject of the change of name, when, as earl of glennaquoich, i had only to propose to him to carry his d--d bear and bootjack party per pale, or in a scutcheon of pretence, or in a separate shield perhaps--any way that would not blemish my own coat of arms. and as to rose, i don't see what objection she could have made if her father was satisfied.' 'perhaps the same that your sister makes to me, you being satisfied.' fergus gave a broad stare at the comparison which this supposition implied, but cautiously suppressed the answer which rose to his tongue. 'o, we should easily have arranged all that. so, sir, i craved a private interview, and this morning was assigned; and i asked you to meet me here, thinking, like a fool, that i should want your countenance as bride's-man. well, i state my pretension --they are not denied; the promises so repeatedly made and the patent granted--they are acknowledged. but i propose, as a natural consequence, to assume the rank which the patent bestowed. i have the old story of the jealousy of c----and m----trumped up against me. i resist this pretext, and offer to procure their written acquiescence, in virtue of the date of my patent as prior to their silly claims; i assure you i would have had such a consent from them, if it had been at the point of the sword. and then out comes the real truth; and he dares to tell me to my face that my patent must be suppressed for the present, for fear of disgusting that rascally coward and faineant (naming the rival chief of his own clan), who has no better title to be a chieftain than i to be emperor of china, and who is pleased to shelter his dastardly reluctance to come out, agreeable to his promise twenty times pledged, under a pretended jealousy of the prince's partiality to me. and, to leave this miserable driveller without a pretence for his cowardice, the prince asks it as a personal favour of me, forsooth, not to press my just and reasonable request at this moment. after this, put your faith in princes!' 'and did your audience end here?' 'end? o no! i was determined to leave him no pretence for his ingratitude, and i therefore stated, with all the composure i could muster,--for i promise you i trembled with passion,--the particular reasons i had for wishing that his royal highness would impose upon me any other mode of exhibiting my duty and devotion, as my views in life made what at any other time would have been a mere trifle at this crisis a severe sacrifice; and then i explained to him my full plan.' 'and what did the prince answer?' 'answer? why--it is well it is written, "curse not the king, no, not in thy thought!"--why, he answered that truly he was glad i had made him my confidant, to prevent more grievous disappointment, for he could assure me, upon the word of a prince, that miss bradwardine's affections were engaged, and he was under a particular promise to favour them. "so, my dear fergus," said he, with his most gracious cast of smile, "as the marriage is utterly out of question, there need be no hurry, you know, about the earldom." and so he glided off and left me plante la.' 'and what did you do?' 'i'll tell you what i could have done at that moment--sold myself to the devil or the elector, whichever offered the dearest revenge. however, i am now cool. i know he intends to marry her to some of his rascally frenchmen or his irish officers, but i will watch them close; and let the man that would supplant me look well to himself. bisogna coprirsi, signor.' after some further conversation, unnecessary to be detailed, waverley took leave of the chieftain, whose fury had now subsided into a deep and strong desire of vengeance, and returned home, scarce able to analyse the mixture of feelings which the narrative had awakened in his own bosom. chapter liv 'to one thing constant never' 'i am the very child of caprice,' said waverley to himself, as he bolted the door of his apartment and paced it with hasty steps. 'what is it to me that fergus mac-ivor should wish to marry rose bradwardine? i love her not; i might have been loved by her perhaps; but rejected her simple, natural, and affecting attachment, instead of cherishing it into tenderness, and dedicated myself to one who will never love mortal man, unless old warwick, the king-maker, should arise from the dead the baron too --i would not have cared about his estate, and so the name would have been no stumbling-block. the devil might have taken the barren moors and drawn off the royal caligae for anything i would have minded. but, framed as she is for domestic affection and tenderness, for giving and receiving all those kind and quiet attentions which sweeten life to those who pass it together, she is sought by fergus mac-ivor. he will not use her ill, to be sure; of that he is incapable. but he will neglect her after the first month; he will be too intent on subduing some rival chieftain or circumventing some favourite at court, on gaining some heathy hill and lake or adding to his bands some new troop of caterans, to inquire what she does, or how she amuses herself. and then will canker sorrow eat her bud, and chase the native beauty from her cheek; and she will look as hollow as a ghost, and dim and meagre as an ague fit, and so she'll die. and such a catastrophe of the most gentle creature on earth might have been prevented if mr. edward waverley had had his eyes! upon my word, i cannot understand how i thought flora so much, that is, so very much, handsomer than rose. she is taller indeed, and her manner more formed; but many people think miss bradwardine's more natural; and she is certainly much younger. i should think flora is two years older than i am. i will look at them particularly this evening.' and with this resolution waverley went to drink tea (as the fashion was sixty years since) at the house of a lady of quality attached to the cause of the chevalier, where he found, as he expected, both the ladies. all rose as he entered, but flora immediately resumed her place and the conversation in which she was engaged. rose, on the contrary, almost imperceptibly made a little way in the crowded circle for his advancing the corner of a chair. 'her manner, upon the whole, is most engaging,' said waverley to himself. a dispute occurred whether the gaelic or italian language was most liquid, and best adapted for poetry; the opinion for the gaelic, which probably might not have found supporters elsewhere, was here fiercely defended by seven highland ladies, who talked at the top of their lungs, and screamed the company deaf with examples of celtic euphonia. flora, observing the lowland ladies sneer at the comparison, produced some reasons to show that it was not altogether so absurd; but rose, when asked for her opinion, gave it with animation in praise of italian, which she had studied with waverley's assistance. "she has a more correct ear than flora, though a less accomplished musician," said waverley to himself. 'i suppose miss mac-ivor will next compare mac-murrough nan fonn to ariosto!' lastly, it so befell that the company differed whether fergus should be asked to perform on the flute, at which he was an adept, or waverley invited to read a play of shakspeare; and the lady of the house good-humouredly undertook to collect the votes of the company for poetry or music, under the condition that the gentleman whose talents were not laid under contribution that evening should contribute them to enliven the next. it chanced that rose had the casting vote. now flora, who seemed to impose it as a rule upon herself never to countenance any proposal which might seem to encourage waverley, had voted for music, providing the baron would take his violin to accompany fergus. 'i wish you joy of your taste, miss mac-ivor,' thought edward, as they sought for his book. 'i thought it better when we were at glennaquoich; but certainly the baron is no great performer, and shakspeare is worth listening to.' 'romeo and juliet' was selected, and edward read with taste, feeling, and spirit several scenes from that play. all the company applauded with their hands, and many with their tears. flora, to whom the drama was well known, was among the former; rose, to whom it was altogether new, belonged to the latter class of admirers. 'she has more feeling too,' said waverley, internally. the conversation turning upon the incidents of the play and upon the characters, fergus declared that the only one worth naming, as a man of fashion and spirit, was mercutio. 'i could not,' he said, 'quite follow all his old-fashioned wit, but he must have been a very pretty fellow, according to the ideas of his time.' 'and it was a shame,' said ensign maccombich, who usually followed his colonel everywhere, 'for that tibbert, or taggart, or whatever was his name, to stick him under the other gentleman's arm while he was redding the fray.' the ladies, of course, declared loudly in favour of romeo, but this opinion did not go undisputed. the mistress of the house and several other ladies severely reprobated the levity with which the hero transfers his affections from rosalind to juliet. flora remained silent until her opinion was repeatedly requested, and then answered, she thought the circumstance objected to not only reconcilable to nature, but such as in the highest degree evinced the art of the poet. 'romeo is described,' said she, 'as a young man peculiarly susceptible of the softer passions; his love is at first fixed upon a woman who could afford it no return; this he repeatedly tells you,-- from love's weak, childish bow she lives unharmed, and again-- she hath forsworn to love. now, as it was impossible that romeo's love, supposing him a reasonable being, could continue to subsist without hope, the poet has, with great art, seized the moment when he was reduced actually to despair to throw in his way an object more accomplished than her by whom he had been rejected, and who is disposed to repay his attachment. i can scarce conceive a situation more calculated to enhance the ardour of romeo's affection for juliet than his being at once raised by her from the state of drooping melancholy in which he appears first upon the scene to the ecstatic state in which he exclaims-- --come what sorrow can, it cannot countervail the exchange of joy that one short moment gives me in her sight.' 'good now, miss mac-ivor,' said a young lady of quality, 'do you mean to cheat us out of our prerogative? will you persuade us love cannot subsist without hope, or that the lover must become fickle if the lady is cruel? o fie! i did not expect such an unsentimental conclusion.' 'a lover, my dear lady betty,' said flora, 'may, i conceive, persevere in his suit under very discouraging circumstances. affection can (now and then) withstand very severe storms of rigour, but not a long polar frost of downright indifference. don't, even with your attractions, try the experiment upon any lover whose faith you value. love will subsist on wonderfully little hope, but not altogether without it.' 'it will be just like duncan mac-girdie's mare,' said evan, 'if your ladyships please, he wanted to use her by degrees to live without meat, and just as he had put her on a straw a day the poor thing died!' evan's illustration set the company a-laughing, and the discourse took a different turn. shortly afterwards the party broke up, and edward returned home, musing on what flora had said. 'i will love my rosalind no more,' said he; 'she has given me a broad enough hint for that; and i will speak to her brother and resign my suit. but for a juliet--would it be handsome to interfere with fergus's pretensions? though it is impossible they can ever succeed; and should they miscarry, what then? why then alors comme alors.' and with this resolution of being guided by circumstances did our hero commit himself to repose. chapter lv a brave man in sorrow ifmy fair readers should be of opinion that my hero's levity in love is altogether unpardonable, i must remind them that all his griefs and difficulties did not arise from that sentimental source. even the lyric poet who complains so feelingly of the pains of love could not forget, that at the same time he was 'in debt and in drink,' which, doubtless, were great aggravations of his distress. there were, indeed, whole days in which waverley thought neither of flora nor rose bradwardine, but which were spent in melancholy conjectures on the probable state of matters at waverley-honour, and the dubious issue of the civil contest in which he was pledged. colonel talbot often engaged him in discussions upon the justice of the cause he had espoused. 'not,' he said, 'that it is possible for you to quit it at this present moment, for, come what will, you must stand by your rash engagement. but i wish you to be aware that the right is not with you; that you are fighting against the real interests of your country; and that you ought, as an englishman and a patriot, to take the first opportunity to leave this unhappy expedition before the snowball melts.' in such political disputes waverley usually opposed the common arguments of his party, with which it is unnecessary to trouble the reader. but he had little to say when the colonel urged him to compare the strength by which they had undertaken to overthrow the government with that which was now assembling very rapidly for its support. to this statement waverley had but one answer: 'if the cause i have undertaken be perilous, there would be the greater disgrace in abandoning it.' and in his turn he generally silenced colonel talbot, and succeeded in changing the subject. one night, when, after a long dispute of this nature, the friends had separated and our hero had retired to bed, he was awakened about midnight by a suppressed groan. he started up and listened; it came from the apartment of colonel talbot, which was divided from his own by a wainscotted partition, with a door of communication. waverley approached this door and distinctly heard one or two deep-drawn sighs. what could be the matter? the colonel had parted from him apparently in his usual state of spirits. he must have been taken suddenly ill. under this impression he opened the door of communication very gently, and perceived the colonel, in his night-gown, seated by a table, on which lay a letter and a picture. he raised his head hastily, as edward stood uncertain whether to advance or retire, and waverley perceived that his cheeks were stained with tears. as if ashamed at being found giving way to such emotion, colonel talbot rose with apparent displeasure and said, with some sternness, 'i think, mr. waverley, my own apartment and the hour might have secured even a prisoner against--' 'do not say intrusion, colonel talbot; i heard you breathe hard and feared you were ill; that alone could have induced me to break in upon you.' 'i am well,' said the colonel, 'perfectly well.' 'but you are distressed,' said edward; 'is there anything can be done?' 'nothing, mr. waverley; i was only thinking of home, and some unpleasant occurrences there.' 'good god, my uncle!' exclaimed waverley. 'no, it is a grief entirely my own. i am ashamed you should have seen it disarm me so much; but it must have its course at times, that it may be at others more decently supported. i would have kept it secret from you; for i think it will grieve you, and yet you can administer no consolation. but you have surprised me,--i see you are surprised yourself,--and i hate mystery. read that letter.' the letter was from colonel talbot's sister, and in these words:-- 'i received yours, my dearest brother, by hodges. sir e. w. and mr. r. are still at large, but are not permitted to leave london. i wish to heaven i could give you as good an account of matters in the square. but the news of the unhappy affair at preston came upon us, with the dreadful addition that you were among the fallen. you know lady emily's state of health, when your friendship for sir e. induced you to leave her. she was much harassed with the sad accounts from scotland of the rebellion having broken out; but kept up her spirits, as, she said, it became your wife, and for the sake of the future heir, so long hoped for in vain. alas, my dear brother, these hopes are now ended! notwithstanding all my watchful care, this unhappy rumour reached her without preparation. she was taken ill immediately; and the poor infant scarce survived its birth. would to god this were all! but although the contradiction of the horrible report by your own letter has greatly revived her spirits, yet dr.---- apprehends, i grieve to say, serious, and even dangerous, consequences to her health, especially from the uncertainty in which she must necessarily remain for some time, aggravated by the ideas she has formed of the ferocity of those with whom you are a prisoner. 'do therefore, my dear brother, as soon as this reaches you, endeavour to gain your release, by parole, by ransom, or any way that is practicable. i do not exaggerate lady emily's state of health; but i must not--dare not--suppress the truth. ever, my dear philip, your most affectionate sister, 'lucy talbot.' edward stood motionless when he had perused this letter; for the conclusion was inevitable, that, by the colonel's journey in quest of him, he had incurred this heavy calamity. it was severe enough, even in its irremediable part; for colonel talbot and lady emily, long without a family, had fondly exulted in the hopes which were now blasted. but this disappointment was nothing to the extent of the threatened evil; and edward, with horror, regarded himself as the original cause of both. ere he could collect himself sufficiently to speak, colonel talbot had recovered his usual composure of manner, though his troubled eye denoted his mental agony. 'she is a woman, my young friend, who may justify even a soldier's tears.' he reached him the miniature, exhibiting features which fully justified the eulogium; 'and yet, god knows, what you see of her there is the least of the charms she possesses--possessed, i should perhaps say--but god's will be done.' ' you must fly--you must fly instantly to her relief. it is not-- it shall not be too late.' 'fly? how is it possible? i am a prisoner, upon parole.' 'i am your keeper; i restore your parole; i am to answer for you.' 'you cannot do so consistently with your duty; nor can i accept a discharge from you, with due regard to my own honour; you would be made responsible.' 'i will answer it with my head, if necessary,' said waverley impetuously. 'i have been the unhappy cause of the loss of your child, make me not the murderer of your wife.' 'no, my dear edward,' said talbot, taking him kindly by the hand, 'you are in no respect to blame; and if i concealed this domestic distress for two days, it was lest your sensibility should view it in that light. you could not think of me, hardly knew of my existence, when i left england in quest of you. it is a responsibility, heaven knows, sufficiently heavy for mortality, that we must answer for the foreseen and direct result of our actions; for their indirect and consequential operation the great and good being, who alone can foresee the dependence of human events on each other, hath not pronounced his frail creatures liable.' 'but that you should have left lady emily,' said waverley, with much emotion, 'in the situation of all others the most interesting to a husband, to seek a--' 'i only did my duty,' answered colonel talbot, calmly, 'and i do not, ought not, to regret it. if the path of gratitude and honour were always smooth and easy, there would be little merit in following it; but it moves often in contradiction to our interest and passions, and sometimes to our better affections. these are the trials of life, and this, though not the least bitter' (the tears came unbidden to his eyes), 'is not the first which it has been my fate to encounter. but we will talk of this to-morrow,' he said, wringing waverley's hands. 'good-night; strive to forget it for a few hours. it will dawn, i think, by six, and it is now past two. good-night.' edward retired, without trusting his voice with a reply. chapter lvi exertion when colonel talbot entered the breakfast-parlour next morning, he learned from waverley's servant that our hero had been abroad at an early hour and was not yet returned. the morning was well advanced before he again appeared. he arrived out of breath, but with an air of joy that astonished colonel talbot. 'there,' said he, throwing a paper on the table, 'there is my morning's work. alick, pack up the colonel's clothes. make haste, make haste.' the colonel examined the paper with astonishment. it was a pass from the chevalier to colonel talbot, to repair to leith, or any other port in possession of his royal highness's troops, and there to embark for england or elsewhere, at his free pleasure; he only giving his parole of honour not to bear arms against the house of stuart for the space of a twelve-month. 'in the name of god,' said the colonel, his eyes sparkling with eagerness, 'how did you obtain this?' 'i was at the chevalier's levee as soon as he usually rises. he was gone to the camp at duddingston. i pursued him thither, asked and obtained an audience--but i will tell you not a word more, unless i see you begin to pack.' 'before i know whether i can avail myself of this passport, or how it was obtained?' 'o, you can take out the things again, you know. now i see you busy, i will go on. when i first mentioned your name, his eyes sparkled almost as bright as yours did two minutes since. "had you," he earnestly asked, "shown any sentiments favourable to his cause?" "not in the least, nor was there any hope you would do so." his countenance fell. i requested your freedom. "impossible," he said; "your importance as a friend and confidant of such and such personages made my request altogether extravagant." i told him my own story and yours; and asked him to judge what my feelings must be by his own. he has a heart, and a kind one, colonel talbot, you may say what you please. he took a sheet of paper and wrote the pass with his own hand. "i will not trust myself with my council," he said; "they will argue me out of what is right. i will not endure that a friend, valued as i value you, should be loaded with the painful reflections which must afflict you in case of further misfortune in colonel talbot's family; nor will i keep a brave enemy a prisoner under such circumstances. besides," said he, "i think i can justify myself to my prudent advisers by pleading the good effect such lenity will produce on the minds of the great english families with whom colonel talbot is connected."' 'there the politician peeped out,' said the colonel. 'well, at least he concluded like a king's son: "take the passport; i have added a condition for form's sake; but if the colonel objects to it, let him depart without giving any parole whatever. i come here to war with men, but not to distress or endanger women."' 'well, i never thought to have been so much indebted to the pretend--' 'to the prince,' said waverley, smiling. 'to the chevalier,' said the colonel; 'it is a good travelling name, and which we may both freely use. did he say anything more?' 'only asked if there was anything else he could oblige me in; and when i replied in the negative, he shook me by the hand, and wished all his followers were as considerate, since some friends of mine not only asked all he had to bestow, but many things which were entirely out of his power, or that of the greatest sovereign upon earth. indeed, he said, no prince seemed, in the eyes of his followers, so like the deity as himself, if you were to judge from the extravagant requests which they daily preferred to him.' 'poor young gentleman,' said the colonel, 'i suppose he begins to feel the difficulties of his situation. well, dear waverley, this is more than kind, and shall not be forgotten while philip talbot can remember anything. my life--pshaw--let emily thank you for that; this is a favour worth fifty lives. i cannot hesitate on giving my parole in the circumstances; there it is (he wrote it out in form). and now, how am i to get off?' 'all that is settled: your baggage is packed, my horses wait, and a boat has been engaged, by the prince's permission, to put you on board the fox frigate. i sent a messenger down to leith on purpose.' 'that will do excellently well. captain beaver is my particular friend; he will put me ashore at berwick or shields, from whence i can ride post to london; and you must entrust me with the packet of papers which you recovered by means of your miss bean lean. i may have an opportunity of using them to your advantage. but i see your highland friend, glen ---- what do you call his barbarous name? and his orderly with him; i must not call him his orderly cut- throat any more, i suppose. see how he walks as if the world were his own, with the bonnet on one side of his head and his plaid puffed out across his breast! i should like now to meet that youth where my hands were not tied: i would tame his pride, or he should tame mine.' 'for shame, colonel talbot! you swell at sight of tartan as the bull is said to do at scarlet. you and mac-ivor have some points not much unlike, so far as national prejudice is concerned.' the latter part of this discourse took place in the street. they passed the chief, the colonel and he sternly and punctiliously greeting each other, like two duellists before they take their ground. it was evident the dislike was mutual. 'i never see that surly fellow that dogs his heels,' said the colonel, after he had mounted his horse, 'but he reminds me of lines i have somewhere heard--upon the stage, i think:-- close behind him stalks sullen bertram, like a sorcerer's fiend, pressing to be employed. 'i assure you, colonel,' said waverley,'that you judge too harshly of the highlanders.' 'not a whit, not a whit; i cannot spare them a jot; i cannot bate them an ace. let them stay in their own barren mountains, and puff and swell, and hang their bonnets on the horns of the moon, if they have a mind; but what business have they to come where people wear breeches, and speak an intelligible language? i mean intelligible in comparison to their gibberish, for even the lowlanders talk a kind of english little better than the negroes in jamaica. i could pity the pr----, i mean the, chevalier himself, for having so many desperadoes about him. and they learn their trade so early. there is a kind of subaltern imp, for example, a sort of sucking devil, whom your friend glena---- glenamuck there, has sometimes in his train. to look at him, he is about fifteen years; but he is a century old in mischief and villainy. he was playing at quoits the other day in the court; a gentleman, a decent-looking person enough, came past, and as a quoit hit his shin, he lifted his cane; but my young bravo whips out his pistol, like beau clincher in the "trip to the jubilee," and had not a scream of gardez l'eau from an upper window set all parties a-scampering for fear of the inevitable consequences, the poor gentleman would have lost his life by the hands of that little cockatrice.' 'a fine character you'll give of scotland upon your return, colonel talbot.' 'o, justice shallow,' said the colonel, 'will save me the trouble --"barren, barren, beggars all, beggars all. marry, good air,"--and that only when you are fairly out of edinburgh, and not yet come to leith, as is our case at present.' in a short time they arrived at the seaport. the boat rock'd at the pier of leith, full loud the wind blew down the ferry; the ship rode at the berwick law. 'farewell, colonel; may you find all as you would wish it! perhaps we may meet sooner than you expect; they talk of an immediate route to england.' 'tell me nothing of that,' said talbot; 'i wish to carry no news of your motions.' 'simply, then, adieu. say, with a thousand kind greetings, all that is dutiful and affectionate to sir everard and aunt rachel. think of me as kindly as you can, speak of me as indulgently as your conscience will permit, and once more adieu.' 'and adieu, my dear waverley; many, many thanks for your kindness. unplaid yourself on the first opportunity. i shall ever think on you with gratitude, and the worst of my censure shall be, que diable alloit-il faire dans cette galere?' and thus they parted, colonel talbot going on board of the boat and waverley returning to edinburgh. chapter lvii the march it is not our purpose to intrude upon the province of history. we shall therefore only remind our readers that about the beginning of november the young chevalier, at the head of about six thousand men at the utmost, resolved to peril his cause on an attempt to penetrate into the centre of england, although aware of the mighty preparations which were made for his reception. they set forward on this crusade in weather which would have rendered any other troops incapable of marching, but which in reality gave these active mountaineers advantages over a less hardy enemy. in defiance of a superior army lying upon the borders, under field- marshal wade, they besieged and took carlisle, and soon afterwards prosecuted their daring march to the southward. as colonel mac-ivor's regiment marched in the van of the clans, he and waverley, who now equalled any highlander in the endurance of fatigue, and was become somewhat acquainted with their language, were perpetually at its head. they marked the progress of the army, however, with very different eyes. fergus, all air and fire, and confident against the world in arms, measured nothing but that every step was a yard nearer london. he neither asked, expected, nor desired any aid except that of the clans to place the stuarts once more on the throne; and when by chance a few adherents joined the standard, he always considered them in the light of new claimants upon the favours of the future monarch, who, he concluded, must therefore subtract for their gratification so much of the bounty which ought to be shared among his highland followers. edward's views were very different. he could not but observe that in those towns in which they proclaimed james the third, 'no man cried, god bless him.' the mob stared and listened, heartless, stupefied, and dull, but gave few signs even of that boisterous spirit which induces them to shout upon all occasions for the mere exercise of their most sweet voices. the jacobites had been taught to believe that the north-western counties abounded with wealthy squires and hardy yeomen, devoted to the cause of the white rose. but of the wealthier tories they saw little. some fled from their houses, some feigned themselves sick, some surrendered themselves to the government as suspected persons. of such as remained, the ignorant gazed with astonishment, mixed with horror and aversion, at the wild appearance, unknown language, and singular garb of the scottish clans. and to the more prudent their scanty numbers, apparent deficiency in discipline, and poverty of equipment seemed certain tokens of the calamitous termination of their rash undertaking. thus the few who joined them were such as bigotry of political principle blinded to consequences, or whose broken fortunes induced them to hazard all on a risk so desperate. the baron of bradwardine, being asked what he thought of these recruits, took a long pinch of snuff, and answered drily,'that he could not but have an excellent opinion of them, since they resembled precisely the followers who attached themselves to the good king david at the cave of adullam--videlicet, every one that was in distress, and every one that was in debt, and every one that was discontented, which the vulgate renders bitter of soul; and doubtless,' he said, 'they will prove mighty men of their hands, and there is much need that they should, for i have seen many a sour look cast upon us.' but none of these considerations moved fergus. he admired the luxuriant beauty of the country, and the situation of many of the seats which they passed. 'is waverley-honour like that house, edward?' 'it is one-half larger.' 'is your uncle's park as fine a one as that?' 'it is three times as extensive, and rather resembles a forest than a mere park.' 'flora will be a happy woman.' 'i hope miss mac-ivor will have much reason for happiness unconnected with waverley-honour.' 'i hope so too; but to be mistress of such a place will be a pretty addition to the sum total.' 'an addition, the want of which, i trust, will be amply supplied by some other means.' 'how,' said fergus, stopping short and turning upon waverley--'how am i to understand that, mr. waverley? had i the pleasure to hear you aright?' 'perfectly right, fergus.' 'and am i to understand that you no longer desire my alliance and my sister's hand?' 'your sister has refused mine,' said waverley, 'both directly and by all the usual means by which ladies repress undesired attentions.' 'i have no idea,' answered the chieftain, 'of a lady dismissing or a gentleman withdrawing his suit, after it has been approved of by her legal guardian, without giving him an opportunity of talking the matter over with the lady. you did not, i suppose, expect my sister to drop into your mouth like a ripe plum the first moment you chose to open it?' 'as to the lady's title to dismiss her lover, colonel,' replied edward, 'it is a point which you must argue with her, as i am ignorant of the customs of the highlands in that particular. but as to my title to acquiesce in a rejection from her without an appeal to your interest, i will tell you plainly, without meaning to undervalue miss mac-ivor's admitted beauty and accomplishments, that i would not take the hand of an angel, with an empire for her dowry, if her consent were extorted by the importunity of friends and guardians, and did not flow from her own free inclination.' 'an angel, with the dowry of an empire,' repeated fergus, in a tone of bitter irony, 'is not very likely to be pressed upon a ---- shire squire. but, sir,' changing his tone, 'if flora mac-ivor have not the dowry of an empire, she is my sister; and that is sufficient at least to secure her against being treated with anything approaching to levity.' 'she is flora mac-ivor, sir,' said waverley, with firmness, 'which to me, were i capable of treating any woman with levity, would be a more effectual protection.' the brow of the chieftain was now fully clouded; but edward felt too indignant at the unreasonable tone which he had adopted to avert the storm by the least concession. they both stood still while this short dialogue passed, and fergus seemed half disposed to say something more violent, but, by a strong effort, suppressed his passion, and, turning his face forward, walked sullenly on. as they had always hitherto walked together, and almost constantly side by side, waverley pursued his course silently in the same direction, determined to let the chief take his own time in recovering the good-humour which he had so unreasonably discarded, and firm in his resolution not to bate him an inch of dignity. after they had marched on in this sullen manner about a mile, fergus resumed the discourse in a different tone. 'i believe i was warm, my dear edward, but you provoke me with your want of knowledge of the world. you have taken pet at some of flora's prudery, or high-flying notions of loyalty, and now, like a child, you quarrel with the plaything you have been crying for, and beat me, your faithful keeper, because my arm cannot reach to edinburgh to hand it to you. i am sure, if i was passionate, the mortification of losing the alliance of such a friend, after your arrangement had been the talk of both highlands and lowlands, and that without so much as knowing why or wherefore, might well provoke calmer blood than mine. i shall write to edinburgh and put all to rights; that is, if you desire i should do so; as indeed i cannot suppose that your good opinion of flora, it being such as you have often expressed to me, can be at once laid aside.' 'colonel mac-ivor,' said edward, who had no mind to be hurried farther or faster than he chose in a matter which he had already considered as broken off, 'i am fully sensible of the value of your good offices; and certainly, by your zeal on my behalf in such an affair, you do me no small honour. but as miss mac-ivor has made her election freely and voluntarily, and as all my attentions in edinburgh were received with more than coldness, i cannot, in justice either to her or myself, consent that she should again be harassed upon this topic. i would have mentioned this to you some time since, but you saw the footing upon which we stood together, and must have understood it. had i thought otherwise i would have earlier spoken; but i had a natural reluctance to enter upon a subject so painful to us both.' 'o, very well, mr. waverley,' said fergus, haughtily, 'the thing is at an end. i have no occasion to press my sister upon any man.' 'nor have i any occasion to court repeated rejection from the same young lady,' answered edward, in the same tone. 'i shall make due inquiry, however,' said the chieftain, without noticing the interruption, 'and learn what my sister thinks of all this, we will then see whether it is to end here.' 'respecting such inquiries, you will of course be guided by your own judgment,' said waverley. 'it is, i am aware, impossible miss mac-ivor can change her mind; and were such an unsupposable case to happen, it is certain i will not change mine. i only mention this to prevent any possibility of future misconstruction.' gladly at this moment would mac-ivor have put their quarrel to a personal arbitrement, his eye flashed fire, and he measured edward as if to choose where he might best plant a mortal wound. but although we do not now quarrel according to the modes and figures of caranza or vincent saviola, no one knew better than fergus that there must be some decent pretext for a mortal duel. for instance, you may challenge a man for treading on your corn in a crowd, or for pushing you up to the wall, or for taking your seat in the theatre; but the modern code of honour will not permit you to found a quarrel upon your right of compelling a man to continue addresses to a female relative which the fair lady has already refused. so that fergus was compelled to stomach this supposed affront until the whirligig of time, whose motion he promised himself he would watch most sedulously, should bring about an opportunity of revenge. waverley's servant always led a saddle-horse for him in the rear of the battalion to which he was attached, though his master seldom rode. but now, incensed at the domineering and unreasonable conduct of his late friend, he fell behind the column and mounted his horse, resolving to seek the baron of bradwardine, and request permission to volunteer in his troop instead of the mac-ivor regiment. 'a happy time of it i should have had,' thought he, after he was mounted, 'to have been so closely allied to this superb specimen of pride and self-opinion and passion. a colonel! why, he should have been a generalissimo. a petty chief of three or four hundred men! his pride might suffice for the cham of tartary--the grand seignior--the great mogul! i am well free of him. were flora an angel, she would bring with her a second lucifer of ambition and wrath for a brother-in-law.' the baron, whose learning (like sancho's jests while in the sierra morena) seemed to grow mouldy for want of exercise, joyfully embraced the opportunity of waverley's offering his service in his regiment, to bring it into some exertion. the good-natured old gentleman, however, laboured to effect a reconciliation between the two quondam friends. fergus turned a cold ear to his remonstrances, though he gave them a respectful hearing; and as for waverley, he saw no reason why he should be the first in courting a renewal of the intimacy which the chieftain had so unreasonably disturbed. the baron then mentioned the matter to the prince, who, anxious to prevent quarrels in his little army, declared he would himself remonstrate with colonel mac-ivor on the unreasonableness of his conduct. but, in the hurry of their march, it was a day or two before he had an opportunity to exert his influence in the manner proposed. in the meanwhile waverley turned the instructions he had received while in gardiner's dragoons to some account, and assisted the baron in his command as a sort of adjutant. 'parmi les aveugles un borgne est roi,' says the french proverb; and the cavalry, which consisted chiefly of lowland gentlemen, their tenants and servants, formed a high opinion of waverley's skill and a great attachment to his person. this was indeed partly owing to the satisfaction which they felt at the distinguished english volunteer's leaving the highlanders to rank among them; for there was a latent grudge between the horse and foot, not only owing to the difference of the services, but because most of the gentlemen, living near the highlands, had at one time or other had quarrels with the tribes in their vicinity, and all of them looked with a jealous eye on the highlanders' avowed pretensions to superior valour and utility in the prince's service. chapter lviii the confusion of king agramant's camp itwas waverley's custom sometimes to ride a little apart from the main body, to look at any object of curiosity which occurred on the march. they were now in lancashire, when, attracted by a castellated old hall, he left the squadron for half an hour to take a survey and slight sketch of it. as he returned down the avenue he was met by ensign maccombich. this man had contracted a sort of regard for edward since the day of his first seeing him at tully-veolan and introducing him to the highlands. he seemed to loiter, as if on purpose to meet with our hero. yet, as he passed him, he only approached his stirrup and pronounced the single word 'beware!' and then walked swiftly on, shunning all further communication. edward, somewhat surprised at this hint, followed with his eyes the course of evan, who speedily disappeared among the trees. his servant, alick polwarth, who was in attendance, also looked after the highlander, and then riding up close to his master, said,-- 'the ne'er be in me, sir, if i think you're safe amang thae highland rinthereouts.' 'what do you mean, alick?' said waverley. 'the mac-ivors, sir, hae gotten it into their heads that ye hae affronted their young leddy, miss flora; and i hae heard mae than ane say, they wadna tak muckle to mak a black-cock o' ye; and ye ken weel eneugh there's mony o' them wadna mind a bawbee the weising a ball through the prince himsell, an the chief gae them the wink, or whether he did or no, if they thought it a thing that would please him when it was dune.' waverley, though confident that fergus mac-ivor was incapable of such treachery, was by no means equally sure of the forbearance of his followers. he knew that, where the honour of the chief or his family was supposed to be touched, the happiest man would be he that could first avenge the stigma; and he had often heard them quote a proverb, 'that the best revenge was the most speedy and most safe.' coupling this with the hint of evan, he judged it most prudent to set spurs to his horse and ride briskly back to the squadron. ere he reached the end of the long avenue, however, a ball whistled past him, and the report of a pistol was heard. 'it was that deevil's buckle, callum beg,' said alick; 'i saw him whisk away through amang the reises.' edward, justly incensed at this act of treachery, galloped out of the avenue, and observed the battalion of mac-ivor at some distance moving along the common in which it terminated. he also saw an individual running very fast to join the party; this he concluded was the intended assassin, who, by leaping an enclosure, might easily make a much shorter path to the main body than he could find on horseback. unable to contain himself, he commanded alick to go to the baron of bradwardine, who was at the head of his regiment about half a mile in front, and acquaint him with what had happened. he himself immediately rode up to fergus's regiment. the chief himself was in the act of joining them. he was on horseback, having returned from waiting on the prince. on perceiving edward approaching, he put his horse in motion towards him. 'colonel mac-ivor,' said waverley, without any farther salutation, 'i have to inform you that one of your people has this instant fired at me from a lurking-place.' 'as that,' answered mac-ivor, 'excepting the circumstance of a lurking-place, is a pleasure which i presently propose to myself, i should be glad to know which of my clansmen dared to anticipate me.' 'i shall certainly be at your command whenever you please; the gentleman who took your office upon himself is your page there, callum beg.' 'stand forth from the ranks, callum! did you fire at mr. waverley?' 'no,' answered the unblushing callum. 'you did,' said alick polwarth, who was already returned, having met a trooper by whom he despatched an account of what was going forward to the baron of bradwardine, while he himself returned to his master at full gallop, neither sparing the rowels of his spurs nor the sides of his horse. 'you did; i saw you as plainly as i ever saw the auld kirk at coudingham.' 'you lie,' replied callum, with his usual impenetrable obstinacy. the combat between the knights would certainly, as in the days of chivalry, have been preceded by an encounter between the squires (for alick was a stout-hearted merseman, and feared the bow of cupid far more than a highlander's dirk or claymore), but fergus, with his usual tone of decision, demanded callum's pistol. the cock was down, the pan and muzzle were black with the smoke; it had been that instant fired. 'take that,' said fergus, striking the boy upon the head with the heavy pistol-butt with his whole force--'take that for acting without orders, and lying to disguise it.' callum received the blow without appearing to flinch from it, and fell without sign of life. 'stand still, upon your lives!' said fergus to the rest of the clan; 'i blow out the brains of the first man who interferes between mr. waverley and me.' they stood motionless; evan dhu alone showed symptoms of vexation and anxiety. callum lay on the ground bleeding copiously, but no one ventured to give him any assistance. it seemed as if he had gotten his death-blow. 'and now for you, mr. waverley; please to turn your horse twenty yards with me upon the common.' waverley complied; and fergus, confronting him when they were a little way from the line of march, said, with great affected coolness, 'i could not but wonder, sir, at the fickleness of taste which you were pleased to express the other day. but it was not an angel, as you justly observed, who had charms for you, unless she brought an empire for her fortune. i have now an excellent commentary upon that obscure text.' 'i am at a loss even to guess at your meaning, colonel mac-ivor, unless it seems plain that you intend to fasten a quarrel upon me.' 'your affected ignorance shall not serve you, sir. the prince--the prince himself has acquainted me with your manoeuvres. i little thought that your engagements with miss bradwardine were the reason of your breaking off your intended match with my sister. i suppose the information that the baron had altered the destination of his estate was quite a sufficient reason for slighting your friend's sister and carrying off your friend's mistress.' 'did the prince tell you i was engaged to miss bradwardine?' said waverley. 'impossible.' 'he did, sir,' answered mac-ivor; 'so, either draw and defend yourself or resign your pretensions to the lady.' 'this is absolute madness,' exclaimed waverley, 'or some strange mistake!' 'o! no evasion! draw your sword!' said the infuriated chieftain, his own already unsheathed. 'must i fight in a madman's quarrel?' 'then give up now, and forever, all pretensions to miss bradwardine's hand.' 'what title have you,' cried waverley, utterly losing command of himself--'what title have you, or any man living, to dictate such terms to me?' and he also drew his sword. at this moment the baron of bradwardine, followed by several of his troop, came up on the spur, some from curiosity, others to take part in the quarrel which they indistinctly understood had broken out between the mac-ivors and their corps. the clan, seeing them approach, put themselves in motion to support their chieftain, and a scene of confusion commenced which seamed likely to terminate in bloodshed. a hundred tongues were in motion at once. the baron lectured, the chieftain stormed, the highlanders screamed in gaelic, the horsemen cursed and swore in lowland scotch. at length matters came to such a pass that the baron threatened to charge the mac-ivors unless they resumed their ranks, and many of them, in return, presented their firearms at him and the other troopers. the confusion was privately fostered by old ballenkeiroch, who made no doubt that his own day of vengeance was arrived, when, behold! a cry arose of 'room! make way! place a monseigneur! place a monseigneur!' this announced the approach of the prince, who came up with a party of fitz-james's foreign dragoons that acted as his body-guard. his arrival produced some degree of order. the highlanders reassumed their ranks, the cavalry fell in and formed squadron, and the baron and chieftain were silent. the prince called them and waverley before him. having heard the original cause of the quarrel through the villainy of callum beg, he ordered him into custody of the provost-marshal for immediate execution, in the event of his surviving the chastisement inflicted by his chieftain. fergus, however, in a tone betwixt claiming a right and asking a favour, requested he might be left to his disposal, and promised his punishment should be exemplary. to deny this might have seemed to encroach on the patriarchal authority of the chieftains, of which they were very jealous, and they were not persons to be disobliged. callum was therefore left to the justice of his own tribe. the prince next demanded to know the new cause of quarrel between colonel mac-ivor and waverley. there was a pause. both gentlemen found the presence of the baron of bradwardine (for by this time all three had approached the chevalier by his command) an insurmountable barrier against entering upon a subject where the name of his daughter must unavoidably be mentioned. they turned their eyes on the ground, with looks in which shame and embarrassment were mingled with displeasure. the prince, who had been educated amongst the discontented and mutinous spirits of the court of st. germains, where feuds of every kind were the daily subject of solicitude to the dethroned sovereign, had served his apprenticeship, as old frederick of prussia would have said, to the trade of royalty. to promote or restore concord among his followers was indispensable. accordingly he took his measures. 'monsieur de beaujeu!' 'monseigneur!' said a very handsome french cavalry officer who was in attendance. 'ayez la bonte d'aligner ces montagnards la, ainsi que la cavalerie, s'il vous plait, et de les remettre a la marche. vous parlez si bien l'anglois, cela ne vous donneroit pas beaucoup de peine.' 'ah! pas du tout, monseigneur,' replied mons. le comte de beaujeu, his head bending down to the neck of his little prancing highly- managed charger. accordingly he piaffed away, in high spirits and confidence, to the head of fergus's regiment, although understanding not a word of gaelic and very little english. 'messieurs les sauvages ecossois--dat is, gentilmans savages, have the goodness d'arranger vous.' the clan, comprehending the order more from the gesture than the words, and seeing the prince himself present, hastened to dress their ranks. 'ah! ver well! dat is fort bien!' said the count de beaujeu. 'gentilmans sauvages! mais, tres bien. eh bien! qu'est ce que vous appelez visage, monsieur?' (to a lounging trooper who stood by him). 'ah, oui! face. je vous remercie, monsieur. gentilshommes, have de goodness to make de face to de right par file, dat is, by files. marsh! mais, tres bien; encore, messieurs; il faut vous mettre a la marche. ... marchez done, au nom de dieu, parceque j'ai oublie le mot anglois; mais vous etes des braves gens, et me comprenez tres bien.' the count next hastened to put the cavalry in motion. 'gentilmans cavalry, you must fall in. ah! par ma foi, i did not say fall off! i am a fear de little gross fat gentilman is moche hurt. ah, mon dieu! c'est le commissaire qui nous a apporte les premieres nouvelles de ce maudit fracas. je suis trop fache, monsieur!' but poor macwheeble, who, with a sword stuck across him, and a white cockade as large as a pancake, now figured in the character of a commissary, being overturned in the bustle occasioned by the troopers hastening to get themselves in order in the prince's presence, before he could rally his galloway, slunk to the rear amid the unrestrained laughter of the spectators. 'eh bien, messieurs, wheel to de right. ah! dat is it! eh, monsieur de bradwardine, ayez la bonte de vous mettre a la tete de votre regiment, car, par dieu, je n'en puis plus!' the baron of bradwardine was obliged to go to the assistance of monsieur de beaujeu, after he had fairly expended his few english military phrases. one purpose of the chevalier was thus answered. the other he proposed was, that in the eagerness to hear and comprehend commands issued through such an indistinct medium in his own presence, the thoughts of the soldiers in both corps might get a current different from the angry channel in which they were flowing at the time. charles edward was no sooner left with the chieftain and waverley, the rest of his attendants being at some distance, than he said, 'if i owed less to your disinterested friendship, i could be most seriously angry with both of you for this very extraordinary and causeless broil, at a moment when my father's service so decidedly demands the most perfect unanimity. but the worst of my situation is, that my very best friends hold they have liberty to ruin themselves, as well as the cause they are engaged in, upon the slightest caprice.' both the young men protested their resolution to submit every difference to his arbitration. 'indeed,' said edward, 'i hardly know of what i am accused. i sought colonel mac-ivor merely to mention to him that i had narrowly escaped assassination at the hand of his immediate dependent, a dastardly revenge which i knew him to be incapable of authorising. as to the cause for which he is disposed to fasten a quarrel upon me, i am ignorant of it, unless it be that he accuses me, most unjustly, of having engaged the affections of a young lady in prejudice of his pretensions.' 'if there is an error,' said the chieftain, 'it arises from a conversation which i held this morning with his royal highness himself.' 'with me?' said the chevalier; 'how can colonel mac-ivor have so far misunderstood me?' he then led fergus aside, and, after five minutes' earnest conversation, spurred his horse towards edward. 'is it possible-- nay, ride up, colonel, for i desire no secrets--is it possible, mr. waverley, that i am mistaken in supposing that you are an accepted lover of miss bradwardine? a fact of which i was by circumstances, though not by communication from you, so absolutely convinced that i alleged it to vich ian vohr this morning as a reason why, without offence to him, you might not continue to be ambitious of an alliance which, to an unengaged person, even though once repulsed, holds out too many charms to be lightly laid aside.' 'your royal highness,' said waverley,'must have founded on circumstances altogether unknown to me, when you did me the distinguished honour of supposing me an accepted lover of miss bradwardine. i feel the distinction implied in the supposition, but i have no title to it. for the rest, my confidence in my own merit is too justly slight to admit of my hoping for success in any quarter after positive rejection.' the chevalier was silent for a moment, looking steadily at them both, and then said, 'upon my word, mr. waverley, you are a less happy man than i conceived i had very good reason to believe you. but now, gentlemen, allow me to be umpire in this matter, not as prince regent but as charles stuart, a brother adventurer with you in the same gallant cause. lay my pretensions to be obeyed by you entirely out of view, and consider your own honour, and how far it is well or becoming to give our enemies the advantage and our friends the scandal of showing that, few as we are, we are not united. and forgive me if i add, that the names of the ladies who have been mentioned crave more respect from us all than to be made themes of discord.' he took fergus a little apart and spoke to him very earnestly for two or three minutes, and then returning to waverley, said, 'i believe i have satisfied colonel mac-ivor that his resentment was founded upon a misconception, to which, indeed, i myself gave rise; and i trust mr. waverley is too generous to harbour any recollection of what is past when i assure him that such is the case. you must state this matter properly to your clan, vich ian vohr, to prevent a recurrence of their precipitate violence.' fergus bowed. 'and now, gentlemen, let me have the pleasure to see you shake hands.' they advanced coldly, and with measured steps, each apparently reluctant to appear most forward in concession. they did, however, shake hands, and parted, taking a respectful leave of the chevalier. charles edward [footnote: see note .] then rode to the head of the macivors, threw himself from his horse, begged a drink out of old ballenkeiroch's cantine, and marched about half a mile along with them, inquiring into the history and connexions of sliochd nan ivor, adroitly using the few words of gaelic he possessed, and affecting a great desire to learn it more thoroughly. he then mounted his horse once more, and galloped to the baron's cavalry, which was in front, halted them, and examined their accoutrements and state of discipline; took notice of the principal gentlemen, and even of the cadets; inquired after their ladies, and commended their horses; rode about an hour with the baron of bradwardine, and endured three long stories about field-marshal the duke of berwick. 'ah, beaujeu, mon cher ami,' said he, as he returned to his usual place in the line of march, 'que mon metier de prince errant est ennuyant, par fois. mais, courage! c'est le grand jeu, apres tout.' chapter lix a skirmish theeader need hardly be reminded that, after a council of war held at derby on the th of december, the highlanders relinquished their desperate attempt to penetrate farther into england, and, greatly to the dissatisfaction of their young and daring leader, positively determined to return northward. they commenced their retreat accordingly, and, by the extreme celerity of their movements, outstripped the motions of the duke of cumberland, who now pursued them with a very large body of cavalry. this retreat was a virtual resignation of their towering hopes. none had been so sanguine as fergus macivor; none, consequently, was so cruelly mortified at the change of measures. he argued, or rather remonstrated, with the utmost vehemence at the council of war; and, when his opinion was rejected, shed tears of grief and indignation. from that moment his whole manner was so much altered that he could scarcely have been recognised for the same soaring and ardent spirit, for whom the whole earth seemed too narrow but a week before. the retreat had continued for several days, when edward, to his surprise, early on the th of december, received a visit from the chieftain in his quarters, in a hamlet about half- way between shap and penrith. having had no intercourse with the chieftain since their rupture, edward waited with some anxiety an explanation of this unexpected visit; nor could he help being surprised, and somewhat shocked, with the change in his appearance. his eye had lost much of its fire; his cheek was hollow, his voice was languid, even his gait seemed less firm and elastic than it was wont; and his dress, to which he used to be particularly attentive, was now carelessly flung about him. he invited edward to walk out with him by the little river in the vicinity; and smiled in a melancholy manner when he observed him take down and buckle on his sword. as soon as they were in a wild sequestered path by the side of the stream, the chief broke out--'our fine adventure is now totally ruined, waverley, and i wish to know what you intend to do;--nay, never stare at me, man. i tell you i received a packet from my sister yesterday, and, had i got the information it contains sooner, it would have prevented a quarrel which i am always vexed when i think of. in a letter written after our dispute, i acquainted her with the cause of it; and she now replies to me that she never had, nor could have, any purpose of giving you encouragement; so that it seems i have acted like a madman. poor flora! she writes in high spirits; what a change will the news of this unhappy retreat make in her state of mind!' waverley, who was really much affected by the deep tone of melancholy with which fergus spoke, affectionately entreated him to banish from his remembrance any unkindness which had arisen between them, and they once more shook hands, but now with sincere cordiality. fergus again inquired of waverley what he intended to do. 'had you not better leave this luckless army, and get down before us into scotland, and embark for the continent from some of the eastern ports that are still in our possession? when you are out of the kingdom, your friends will easily negotiate your pardon; and, to tell you the truth, i wish you would carry rose bradwardine with you as your wife, and take flora also under your joint protection.'--edward looked surprised.--'she loves you, and i believe you love her, though, perhaps, you have not found it out, for you are not celebrated for knowing your own mind very pointedly.' he said this with a sort of smile. 'how,' answered edward, 'can you advise me to desert the expedition in which we are all embarked?' 'embarked?' said fergus; 'the vessel is going to pieces, and it is full time for all who can to get into the long-boat and leave her.' 'why, what will other gentlemen do?' answered waverley, 'and why did the highland chiefs consent to this retreat if it is so ruinous?' 'o,' replied mac-ivor, 'they think that, as on former occasions, the heading, hanging, and forfeiting will chiefly fall to the lot of the lowland gentry; that they will be left secure in their poverty and their fastnesses, there, according to their proverb, "to listen to the wind upon the hill till the waters abate." but they will be disappointed; they have been too often troublesome to be so repeatedly passed over, and this time john bull has been too heartily frightened to recover his good-humour for some time. the hanoverian ministers always deserved to be hanged for rascals; but now, if they get the power in their hands,--as, sooner or later, they must, since there is neither rising in england nor assistance from france,--they will deserve the gallows as fools if they leave a single clan in the highlands in a situation to be again troublesome to government. ay, they will make root-and-branch- work, i warrant them.' 'and while you recommend flight to me,' said edward,--'a counsel which i would rather die than embrace,--what are your own views?' 'o,' answered fergus, with a melancholy air, 'my fate is settled. dead or captive i must be before tomorrow.' 'what do you mean by that, my friend?' said edward. 'the enemy is still a day's march in our rear, and if he comes up, we are still strong enough to keep him in check. remember gladsmuir.' 'what i tell you is true notwithstanding, so far as i am individually concerned.' 'upon what authority can you found so melancholy a prediction?' asked waverley. 'on one which never failed a person of my house. i have seen,' he said, lowering his voice, 'i have seen the bodach glas.' 'bodach glas?' 'yes; have you been so long at glennaquoich, and never heard of the grey spectre? though indeed there is a certain reluctance among us to mention him.' 'no, never.' 'ah! it would have been a tale for poor flora to have told you. or, if that hill were benmore, and that long blue lake, which you see just winding towards yon mountainous country, were loch tay, or my own loch an ri, the tale would be better suited with scenery. however, let us sit down on this knoll; even saddleback and ulswater will suit what i have to say better than the english hedgerows, enclosures, and farmhouses. you must know, then, that when my ancestor, ian nan chaistel, wasted northumberland, there was associated with him in the expedition a sort of southland chief, or captain of a band of lowlanders, called halbert hall. in their return through the cheviots they quarrelled about the division of the great booty they had acquired, and came from words to blows. the lowlanders were cut off to a man, and their chief fell the last, covered with wounds by the sword of my ancestor. since that time his spirit has crossed the vich ian vohr of the day when any great disaster was impending, but especially before approaching death. my father saw him twice, once before he was made prisoner at sheriff-muir, another time on the morning of the day on which he died.' 'how can you, my dear fergus, tell such nonsense with a grave face?' ' i do not ask you to believe it; but i tell you the truth, ascertained by three hundred years' experience at least, and last night by my own eyes.' 'the particulars, for heaven's sake!' said waverley, with eagerness. 'i will, on condition you will not attempt a jest on the subject. since this unhappy retreat commenced i have scarce ever been able to sleep for thinking of my clan, and of this poor prince, whom they are leading back like a dog in a string, whether he will or no, and of the downfall of my family. last night i felt so feverish that i left my quarters and walked out, in hopes the keen frosty air would brace my nerves--i cannot tell how much i dislike going on, for i know you will hardly believe me. however--i crossed a small footbridge, and kept walking backwards and forwards, when i observed with surprise by the clear moonlight a tall figure in a grey plaid, such as shepherds wear in the south of scotland, which, move at what pace i would, kept regularly about four yards before me.' 'you saw a cumberland peasant in his ordinary dress, probably.' 'no; i thought so at first, and was astonished at the man's audacity in daring to dog me. i called to him, but received no answer. i felt an anxious throbbing at my heart, and to ascertain what i dreaded, i stood still and turned myself on the same spot successively to the four points of the compass. by heaven, edward, turn where i would, the figure was instantly before my eyes, at precisely the same distance! i was then convinced it was the bodach glas. my hair bristled and my knees shook. i manned myself, however, and determined to return to my quarters. my ghastly visitant glided before me (for i cannot say he walked) until he reached the footbridge; there he stopped and turned full round. i must either wade the river or pass him as close as i am to you. a desperate courage, founded on the belief that my death was near, made me resolve to make my way in despite of him. i made the sign of the cross, drew my sword, and uttered, "in the name of god, evil spirit, give place!" "vich ian vohr," it said, in a voice that made my very blood curdle, "beware of to-morrow!" it seemed at that moment not half a yard from my sword's point; but the words were no sooner spoken than it was gone, and nothing appeared further to obstruct my passage. i got home and threw myself on my bed, where i spent a few hours heavily enough; and this morning, as no enemy was reported to be near us, i took my horse and rode forward to make up matters with you. i would not willingly fall until i am in charity with a wronged friend.' edward had little doubt that this phantom was the operation of an exhausted frame and depressed spirits, working on the belief common to all highlanders in such superstitions. he did not the less pity fergus, for whom, in his present distress, he felt all his former regard revive. with the view of diverting his mind from these gloomy images, he offered, with the baron's permission, which he knew he could readily obtain, to remain in his quarters till fergus's corps should come up, and then to march with them as usual. the chief seemed much pleased, yet hesitated to accept the offer. 'we are, you know, in the rear, the post of danger in a retreat.' 'and therefore the post of honour.' 'well,' replied the chieftain, 'let alick have your horse in readiness, in case we should be overmatched, and i shall be delighted to have your company once more.' the rear-guard were late in making their appearance, having been delayed by various accidents and by the badness of the roads. at length they entered the hamlet. when waverley joined the clan mac- ivor, arm-in-arm with their chieftain, all the resentment they had entertained against him seemed blown off at once. evan dhu received him with a grin of congratulation; and even callum, who was running about as active as ever, pale indeed, and with a great patch on his head, appeared delighted to see him. 'that gallows-bird's skull,' said fergus, 'must be harder than marble; the lock of the pistol was actually broken.' 'how could you strike so young a lad so hard?' said waverley, with some interest. 'why, if i did not strike hard sometimes, the rascals would forget themselves.' they were now in full march, every caution being taken to prevent surprise. fergus's people, and a fine clan regiment from badenoch, commanded by cluny mac-pherson, had the rear. they had passed a large open moor, and were entering into the enclosures which surround a small village called clifton. the winter sun had set, and edward began to rally fergus upon the false predictions of the grey spirit. 'the ides of march are not past,' said mac-ivor, with a smile; when, suddenly casting his eyes back on the moor, a large body of cavalry was indistinctly seen to hover upon its brown and dark surface. to line the enclosures facing the open ground and the road by which the enemy must move from it upon the village was the work of a short time. while these manoeuvres were accomplishing, night sunk down, dark and gloomy, though the moon was at full. sometimes, however, she gleamed forth a dubious light upon the scene of action. the highlanders did not long remain undisturbed in the defensive position they had adopted. favoured by the night, one large body of dismounted dragoons attempted to force the enclosures, while another, equally strong, strove to penetrate by the highroad. both were received by such a heavy fire as disconcerted their ranks and effectually checked their progress. unsatisfied with the advantage thus gained, fergus, to whose ardent spirit the approach of danger seemed to restore all its elasticity, drawing his sword and calling out 'claymore!' encouraged his men, by voice and example, to break through the hedge which divided them and rush down upon the enemy. mingling with the dismounted dragoons, they forced them, at the sword-point, to fly to the open moor, where a considerable number were cut to pieces. but the moon, which suddenly shone out, showed to the english the small number of assailants, disordered by their own success. two squadrons of horse moving to the support of their companions, the highlanders endeavoured to recover the enclosures. but several of them, amongst others their brave chieftain, were cut off and surrounded before they could effect their purpose. waverley, looking eagerly for fergus, from whom, as well as from the retreating body of his followers, he had been separated in the darkness and tumult, saw him, with evan dhu and callum, defending themselves desperately against a dozen of horsemen, who were hewing at them with their long broadswords. the moon was again at that moment totally overclouded, and edward, in the obscurity, could neither bring aid to his friends nor discover which way lay his own road to rejoin the rear-guard. after once or twice narrowly escaping being slain or made prisoner by parties of the cavalry whom he encountered in the darkness, he at length reached an enclosure, and, clambering over it, concluded himself in safety and on the way to the highland forces, whose pipes he heard at some distance. for fergus hardly a hope remained, unless that he might be made prisoner revolving his fate with sorrow and anxiety, the superstition of the bodach glas recurred to edward's recollection, and he said to himself, with internal surprise 'what, can the devil speak truth?' [footnote: see note .] chapter lx chapter of accidents edward was in a most unpleasant and dangerous situation. he soon lost the sound of the bagpipes; and, what was yet more unpleasant, when, after searching long in vain and scrambling through many enclosures, he at length approached the highroad, he learned, from the unwelcome noise of kettledrums and trumpets, that the english cavalry now occupied it, and consequently were between him and the highlanders. precluded, therefore, from advancing in a straight direction, he resolved to avoid the english military and endeavour to join his friends by making a circuit to the left, for which a beaten path, deviating from the main road in that direction, seemed to afford facilities. the path was muddy and the night dark and cold; but even these inconveniences were hardly felt amidst the apprehensions which falling into the hands of the king's forces reasonably excited in his bosom. after walking about three miles, he at length reached a hamlet. conscious that the common people were in general unfavourable to the cause he had espoused, yet desirous, if possible, to procure a horse and guide to penrith, where he hoped to find the rear, if not the main body, of the chevalier's army, he approached the alehouse of the place. there was a great noise within; he paused to listen. a round english oath or two, and the burden of a campaign song, convinced him the hamlet also was occupied by the duke of cumberland's soldiers. endeavouring to retire from it as softly as possible, and blessing the obscurity which hitherto he had murmured against, waverley groped his way the best he could along a small paling, which seemed the boundary of some cottage garden. as he reached the gate of this little enclosure, his outstretched hand was grasped by that of a female, whose voice at the same time uttered, 'edward, is't thou, man?' 'here is some unlucky mistake,' thought edward, struggling, but gently, to disengage himself. 'naen o' thy foun, now, man, or the red cwoats will hear thee; they hae been houlerying and poulerying every ane that past alehouse door this noight to make them drive their waggons and sick loike. come into feyther's, or they'll do ho a mischief.' 'a good hint,' thought waverley, following the girl through the little garden into a brick-paved kitchen, where she set herself to kindle a match at an expiring fire, and with the match to light a candle. she had no sooner looked on edward than she dropped the light, with a shrill scream of 'o feyther, feyther!' the father, thus invoked, speedily appeared--a sturdy old farmer, in a pair of leather breeches, and boots pulled on without stockings, having just started from his bed; the rest of his dress was only a westmoreland statesman's robe-de-chambre--that is, his shirt. his figure was displayed to advantage by a candle which he bore in his left hand; in his right he brandished a poker. 'what hast ho here, wench?' 'o!' cried the poor girl, almost going off in hysterics, 'i thought it was ned williams, and it is one of the plaid-men.' 'and what was thee ganging to do wi' ned williams at this time o' noight?' to this, which was, perhaps, one of the numerous class of questions more easily asked than answered, the rosy-cheeked damsel made no reply, but continued sobbing and wringing her hands. 'and thee, lad, dost ho know that the dragoons be a town? dost ho know that, mon? ad, they'll sliver thee loike a turnip, mon.' 'i know my life is in great danger,' said waverley, 'but if you can assist me, i will reward you handsomely. i am no scotchman, but an unfortunate english gentleman.' 'be ho scot or no,' said the honest farmer, 'i wish thou hadst kept the other side of the hallan. but since thou art here, jacob jopson will betray no man's bluid; and the plaids were gay canny, and did not do so much mischief when they were here yesterday.' accordingly, he set seriously about sheltering and refreshing our hero for the night. the fire was speedily rekindled, but with precaution against its light being seen from without. the jolly yeoman cut a rasher of bacon, which cicely soon broiled, and her father added a swingeing tankard of his best ale. it was settled that edward should remain there till the troops marched in the morning, then hire or buy a horse from the farmer, and, with the best directions that could be obtained, endeavour to overtake his friends. a clean, though coarse, bed received him after the fatigues of this unhappy day. with the morning arrived the news that the highlanders had evacuated penrith, and marched off towards carlisle; that the duke of cumberland was in possession of penrith, and that detachments of his army covered the roads in every direction. to attempt to get through undiscovered would be an act of the most frantic temerity. ned williams (the right edward) was now called to council by cicely and her father. ned, who perhaps did not care that his handsome namesake should remain too long in the same house with his sweetheart, for fear of fresh mistakes, proposed that waverley, exchanging his uniform and plaid for the dress of the country, should go with him to his father's farm near ullswater, and remain in that undisturbed retirement until the military movements in the country should have ceased to render his departure hazardous. a price was also agreed upon, at which the stranger might board with farmer williams if he thought proper, till he could depart with safety. it was of moderate amount; the distress of his situation, among this honest and simple-hearted race, being considered as no reason for increasing their demand. the necessary articles of dress were accordingly procured, and, by following by-paths known to the young farmer, they hoped to escape any unpleasant rencontre. a recompense for their hospitality was refused peremptorily by old jopson and his cherry-cheeked daughter; a kiss paid the one and a hearty shake of the hand the other. both seemed anxious for their guest's safety, and took leave of him with kind wishes. in the course of their route edward, with his guide, traversed those fields which the night before had been the scene of action. a brief gleam of december's sun shone sadly on the broad heath, which, towards the spot where the great north-west road entered the enclosures of lord lonsdale's property, exhibited dead bodies of men and horses, and the usual companions of war, a number of carrion-crows, hawks, and ravens. 'and this, then, was thy last field,' said waverley to himself, his eye filling at the recollection of the many splendid points of fergus's character, and of their former intimacy, all his passions and imperfections forgotten--'here fell the last vich ian vohr, on a nameless heath; and in an obscure night-skirmish was quenched that ardent spirit, who thought it little to cut a way for his master to the british throne! ambition, policy, bravery, all far beyond their sphere, here learned the fate of mortals. the sole support, too, of a sister whose spirit, as proud and unbending, was even more exalted than thine own; here ended all thy hopes for flora, and the long and valued line which it was thy boast to raise yet more highly by thy adventurous valour!' as these ideas pressed on waverley's mind, he resolved to go upon the open heath and search if, among the slain, he could discover the body of his friend, with the pious intention of procuring for him the last rites of sepulture. the timorous young man who accompanied him remonstrated upon the danger of the attempt, but edward was determined. the followers of the camp had already stripped the dead of all they could carry away; but the country people, unused to scenes of blood, had not yet approached the field of action, though some stood fearfully gazing at a distance. about sixty or seventy dragoons lay slain within the first enclosure, upon the highroad, and on the open moor. of the highlanders, not above a dozen had fallen, chiefly those who, venturing too far on the moor, could not regain the strong ground. he could not find the body of fergus among the slain. on a little knoll, separated from the others, lay the carcasses of three english dragoons, two horses, and the page callum beg, whose hard skull a trooper's broadsword had, at length, effectually cloven. it was possible his clan had carried off the body of fergus; but it was also possible he had escaped, especially as evan dhu, who would never leave his chief, was not found among the dead; or he might be prisoner, and the less formidable denunciation inferred from the appearance of the bodach glas might have proved the true one. the approach of a party sent for the purpose of compelling the country people to bury the dead, and who had already assembled several peasants for that purpose, now obliged edward to rejoin his guide, who awaited him in great anxiety and fear under shade of the plantations. after leaving this field of death, the rest of their journey was happily accomplished. at the house of farmer williams, edward passed for a young kinsman, educated for the church, who was come to reside there till the civil tumults permitted him to pass through the country. this silenced suspicion among the kind and simple yeomanry of cumberland, and accounted sufficiently for the grave manners and retired habits of the new guest. the precaution became more necessary than waverley had anticipated, as a variety of incidents prolonged his stay at fasthwaite, as the farm was called. a tremendous fall of snow rendered his departure impossible for more than ten days. when the roads began to become a little practicable, they successively received news of the retreat of the chevalier into scotland; then, that he had abandoned the frontiers, retiring upon glasgow; and that the duke of cumberland had formed the siege of carlisle. his army, therefore, cut off all possibility of waverley's escaping into scotland in that direction. on the eastern border marshal wade, with a large force, was advancing upon edinburgh; and all along the frontier, parties of militia, volunteers, and partizans were in arms to suppress insurrection, and apprehend such stragglers from the highland army as had been left in england. the surrender of carlisle, and the severity with which the rebel garrison were threatened, soon formed an additional reason against venturing upon a solitary and hopeless journey through a hostile country and a large army, to carry the assistance of a single sword to a cause which seemed altogether desperate. in this lonely and secluded situation, without the advantage of company or conversation with men of cultivated minds, the arguments of colonel talbot often recurred to the mind of our hero. a still more anxious recollection haunted his slumbers--it was the dying look and gesture of colonel gardiner. most devoutly did he hope, as the rarely occurring post brought news of skirmishes with various success, that it might never again be his lot to draw his sword in civil conflict. then his mind turned to the supposed death of fergus, to the desolate situation of flora, and, with yet more tender recollection, to that of rose bradwardine, who was destitute of the devoted enthusiasm of loyalty, which to her friend hallowed and exalted misfortune. these reveries he was permitted to enjoy, undisturbed by queries or interruption; and it was in many a winter walk by the shores of ullswater that he acquired a more complete mastery of a spirit tamed by adversity than his former experience had given him; and that he felt himself entitled to say firmly, though perhaps with a sigh, that the romance of his life was ended, and that its real history had now commenced. he was soon called upon to justify his pretensions by reason and philosophy. chapter lxi a journey to london theamily at fasthwaite were soon attached to edward. he had, indeed, that gentleness and urbanity which almost universally attracts corresponding kindness; and to their simple ideas his learning gave him consequence, and his sorrows interest. the last he ascribed, evasively, to the loss of a brother in the skirmish near clifton; and in that primitive state of society, where the ties of affection were highly deemed of, his continued depression excited sympathy, but not surprise. in the end of january his more lively powers were called out by the happy union of edward williams, the son of his host, with cicely jopson. our hero would not cloud with sorrow the festivity attending the wedding of two persons to whom he was so highly obliged. he therefore exerted himself, danced, sung, played at the various games of the day, and was the blithest of the company. the next morning, however, he had more serious matters to think of. the clergyman who had married the young couple was so much pleased with the supposed student of divinity, that he came next day from penrith on purpose to pay him a visit. this might have been a puzzling chapter had he entered into any examination of our hero's supposed theological studies; but fortunately he loved better to hear and communicate the news of the day. he brought with him two or three old newspapers, in one of which edward found a piece of intelligence that soon rendered him deaf to every word which the reverend mr. twigtythe was saying upon the news from the north, and the prospect of the duke's speedily overtaking and crushing the rebels. this was an article in these, or nearly these words:-- 'died at his house, in hill street, berkeley square, upon the th inst., richard waverley, esq., second son of sir giles waverley of waverley-honour, etc. etc. he died of a lingering disorder, augmented by the unpleasant predicament of suspicion in which he stood, having been obliged to find bail to a high amount to meet an impending accusation of high-treason. an accusation of the same grave crime hangs over his elder brother, sir everard waverley, the representative of that ancient family; and we understand the day of his trial will be fixed early in the next month, unless edward waverley, son of the deceased richard, and heir to the baronet, shall surrender himself to justice. in that case we are assured it is his majesty's gracious purpose to drop further proceedings upon the charge against sir everard. this unfortunate young gentleman is ascertained to have been in arms in the pretender's service, and to have marched along with the highland troops into england. but he has not been heard of since the skirmish at clifton, on the th december last.' such was this distracting paragraph. 'good god!' exclaimed waverley, 'am i then a parricide? impossible! my father, who never showed the affection of a father while he lived, cannot have been so much affected by my supposed death as to hasten his own; no, i will not believe it, it were distraction to entertain for a moment such a horrible idea. but it were, if possible, worse than parricide to suffer any danger to hang over my noble and generous uncle, who has ever been more to me than a father, if such evil can be averted by any sacrifice on my part!' while these reflections passed like the stings of scorpions through waverley's sensorium, the worthy divine was startled in a long disquisition on the battle of falkirk by the ghastliness which they communicated to his looks, and asked him if he was ill? fortunately the bride, all smirk and blush, had just entered the room. mrs. williams was none of the brightest of women, but she was good-natured, and readily concluding that edward had been shocked by disagreeable news in the papers, interfered so judiciously, that, without exciting suspicion, she drew off mr. twigtythe's attention, and engaged it until he soon after took his leave. waverley then explained to his friends that he was under the necessity of going to london with as little delay as possible. one cause of delay, however, did occur, to which waverley had been very little accustomed. his purse, though well stocked when he first went to tully-veolan, had not been reinforced since that period; and although his life since had not been of a nature to exhaust it hastily, for he had lived chiefly with his friends or with the army, yet he found that, after settling with his kind landlord, he should be too poor to encounter the expense of travelling post. the best course, therefore, seemed to be to get into the great north road about boroughbridge, and there take a place in the northern diligence, a huge old-fashioned tub, drawn by three horses, which completed the journey from edinburgh to london (god willing, as the advertisement expressed it) in three weeks. our hero, therefore, took an affectionate farewell of his cumberland friends, whose kindness he promised never to forget, and tacitly hoped ene day to acknowledge by substantial proofs of gratitude. after some petty difficulties and vexatious delays, and after putting his dress into a shape better befitting his rank, though perfectly plain and simple, he accomplished crossing the country, and found himself in the desired vehicle vis-a-vis to mrs. nosebag, the lady of lieutenant nosebag, adjutant and riding- master of the--dragoons, a jolly woman of about fifty, wearing a blue habit, faced with scarlet, and grasping a silver-mounted horse-whip. this lady was one of those active members of society who take upon them faire lefrais de la conversation. she had just returned from the north, and informed edward how nearly her regiment had cut the petticoat people into ribands at falkirk, 'only somehow there was one of those nasty, awkward marshes, that they are never without in scotland, i think, and so our poor dear little regiment suffered something, as my nosebag says, in that unsatisfactory affair. you, sir, have served in the dragoons?' waverley was taken so much at unawares that he acquiesced. 'o, i knew it at once; i saw you were military from your air, and i was sure you could be none of the foot-wobblers, as my nosebag calls them. what regiment, pray?' here was a delightful question. waverley, however, justly concluded that this good lady had the whole army-list by heart; and, to avoid detection by adhering to truth, answered, 'gardiner's dragoons, ma'am; but i have retired some time.' 'o aye, those as won the race at the battle of preston, as my nosebag says. pray, sir, were you there?' 'i was so unfortunate, madam,' he replied, 'as to witness that engagement.' 'and that was a misfortune that few of gardiner's stood to witness, i believe, sir--ha! ha! ha! i beg your pardon; but a soldier's wife loves a joke.' 'devil confound you,' thought waverley: 'what infernal luck has penned me up with this inquisitive hag!' fortunately the good lady did not stick long to one subject. 'we are coming to ferrybridge now,' she said, 'where there was a party of ours left to support the beadles, and constables, and justices, and these sort of creatures that are examining papers and stopping rebels, and all that.' they were hardly in the inn before she dragged waverley to the window, exclaiming, 'yonder comes corporal bridoon, of our poor dear troop; he's coming with the constable man. bridoon's one of my lambs, as nosebag calls 'ern. come, mr.-- a--a--pray, what's your name, sir?' 'butler, ma'am,' said waverley, resolved rather to make free with the name of a former fellow-officer than run the risk of detection by inventing one not to be found in the regiment. 'o, you got a troop lately, when that shabby fellow, waverley, went over to the rebels? lord, i wish our old cross captain crump would go over to the rebels, that nosebag might get the troop! lord, what can bridoon be standing swinging on the bridge for? i'll be hanged if he a'nt hazy, as nosebag says. come, sir, as you and i belong to the service, we'll go put the rascal in mind of his duty.' waverley, with feelings more easily conceived than described, saw himself obliged to follow this doughty female commander. the gallant trooper was as like a lamb as a drunk corporal of dragoons, about six feet high, with very broad shoulders, and very thin legs, not to mention a great scar across his nose, could well be. mrs. nosebag addressed him with something which, if not an oath, sounded very like one, and commanded him to attend to his duty. 'you be d--d for a----,' commenced the gallant cavalier; but, looking up in order to suit the action to the words, and also to enforce the epithet which he meditated with an adjective applicable to the party, he recognised the speaker, made his military salaam, and altered his tone. 'lord love your handsome face, madam nosebag, is it you? why, if a poor fellow does happen to fire a slug of a morning, i am sure you were never the lady to bring him to harm.' 'well, you rascallion, go, mind your duty; this gentleman and i belong to the service; but be sure you look after that shy cock in the slouched hat that sits in the corner of the coach. i believe he's one of the rebels in disguise.' 'd--n her gooseberry wig,' said the corporal, when she was out of hearing, 'that gimlet-eyed jade--mother adjutant, as we call her --is a greater plague to the regiment than provost-marshal, sergeant-major, and old hubble-de-shuff, the colonel, into the bargain. come, master constable, let's see if this shy cock, as she calls him (who, by the way, was a quaker from leeds, with whom mrs. nosebag had had some tart argument on the legality of bearing arms), will stand godfather to a sup of brandy, for your yorkshire ale is cold on my stomach.' the vivacity of this good lady, as it helped edward out of this scrape, was like to have drawn him into one or two others. in every town where they stopped she wished to examine the corps de garde, if there was one, and once very narrowly missed introducing waverley to a recruiting-sergeant of his own regiment. then she captain'd and butler'd him till he was almost mad with vexation and anxiety; and never was he more rejoiced in his life at the termination of a journey than when the arrival of the coach in london freed him from the attentions of madam nosebag. chapter lxii what's to be done next? itwas twilight when they arrived in town; and having shaken off his companions, and walked through a good many streets to avoid the possibility of being traced by them, edward took a hackney- coach and drove to colonel talbot's house, in one of the principal squares at the west end of the town. that gentleman, by the death of relations, had succeeded since his marriage to a large fortune, possessed considerable political interest, and lived in what is called great style. when waverley knocked at his door he found it at first difficult to procure admittance, but at length was shown into an apartment where the colonel was at table. lady emily, whose very beautiful features were still pallid from indisposition, sate opposite to him. the instant he heard waverley's voice, he started up and embraced him. 'frank stanley, my dear boy, how d'ye do? emily, my love, this is young stanley.' the blood started to the lady's cheek as she gave waverley a reception in which courtesy was mingled with kindness, while her trembling hand and faltering voice showed how much she was startled and discomposed. dinner was hastily replaced, and while waverley was engaged in refreshing himself, the colonel proceeded --'i wonder you have come here, frank; the doctors tell me the air of london is very bad for your complaints. you should not have risked it. but i am delighted to see you, and so is emily, though i fear we must not reckon upon your staying long.' 'some particular business brought me up,' muttered waverley. 'i supposed so, but i shan't allow you to stay long. spontoon' (to an elderly military-looking servant out of livery),'take away these things, and answer the bell yourself, if i ring. don't let any of the other fellows disturb us. my nephew and i have business to talk of.' when the servants had retired, 'in the name of god, waverley, what has brought you here? it may be as much as your life is worth.' 'dear mr. waverley,' said lady emily, 'to whom i owe so much more than acknowledgments can ever pay, how could you be so rash?' 'my father--my uncle--this paragraph,'--he handed the paper to colonel talbot. 'i wish to heaven these scoundrels were condemned to be squeezed to death in their own presses,' said talbot. 'i am told there are not less than a dozen of their papers now published in town, and no wonder that they are obliged to invent lies to find sale for their journals. it is true, however, my dear edward, that you have lost your father; but as to this flourish of his unpleasant situation having grated upon his spirits and hurt his health--the truth is--for though it is harsh to say so now, yet it will relieve your mind from the idea of weighty responsibility--the truth then is, that mr. richard waverley, through this whole business, showed great want of sensibility, both to your situation and that of your uncle; and the last time i saw him, he told me, with great glee, that, as i was so good as to take charge of your interests, he had thought it best to patch up a separate negotiation for himself, and make his peace with government through some channels which former connexions left still open to him.' 'and my uncle, my dear uncle?' 'is in no danger whatever. it is true (looking at the date of the paper) there was a foolish report some time ago to the purport here quoted, but it is entirely false. sir everard is gone down to waverley-honour, freed from all uneasiness, unless upon your own account. but you are in peril yourself; your name is in every proclamation; warrants are out to apprehend you. how and when did you come here?' edward told his story at length, suppressing his quarrel with fergus; for, being himself partial to highlanders, he did not wish to give any advantage to the colonel's national prejudice against them. 'are you sure it was your friend glen's foot-boy you saw dead in clifton moor?' 'quite positive.' 'then that little limb of the devil has cheated the gallows, for cut-throat was written in his face; though (turning to lady emily) it was a very handsome face too. but for you, edward, i wish you would go down again to cumberland, or rather i wish you had never stirred from thence, for there is an embargo in all the seaports, and a strict search for the adherents of the pretender; and the tongue of that confounded woman will wag in her head like the clack of a mill, till somehow or other she will detect captain butler to be a feigned personage.' 'do you know anything,' asked waverley, 'of my fellow-traveller?' 'her husband was my sergeant-major for six years; she was a buxom widow, with a little money; he married her, was steady, and got on by being a good drill. i must send spontoon to see what she is about; he will find her out among the old regimental connections. to-morrow you must be indisposed, and keep your room from fatigue. lady emily is to be your nurse, and spontoon and i your attendants. you bear the name of a near relation of mine, whom none of my present people ever saw, except spontoon, so there will be no immediate danger. so pray feel your head ache and your eyes grow heavy as soon as possible, that you may be put upon the sick- list; and, emily, do you order an apartment for frank stanley, with all the attentions which an invalid may require.' in the morning the colonel visited his guest. 'now,' said he, 'i have some good news for you. your reputation as a gentleman and officer is effectually cleared of neglect of duty and accession to the mutiny in gardiner's regiment. i have had a correspondence on this subject with a very zealous friend of yours, your scottish parson, morton; his first letter was addressed to sir everard; but i relieved the good baronet of the trouble of answering it. you must know, that your free-booting acquaintance, donald of the cave, has at length fallen into the hands of the philistines. he was driving off the cattle of a certain proprietor, called killan --something or other--' 'killancureit?' 'the same. now the gentleman being, it seems, a great farmer, and having a special value for his breed of cattle, being, moreover, rather of a timid disposition, had got a party of soldiers to protect his property. so donald ran his head unawares into the lion's mouth, and was defeated and made prisoner. being ordered for execution, his conscience was assailed on the one hand by a catholic priest, on the other by your friend morton. he repulsed the catholic chiefly on account of the doctrine of extreme unction, which this economical gentleman considered as an excessive waste of oil. so his conversion from a state of impenitence fell to mr. morton's share, who, i daresay, acquitted himself excellently, though i suppose donald made but a queer kind of christian after all. he confessed, however, before a magistrate, one major melville, who seems to have been a correct, friendly sort of person, his full intrigue with houghton, explaining particularly how it was carried on, and fully acquitting you of the least accession to it. he also mentioned his rescuing you from the hands of the volunteer officer, and sending you, by orders of the pret--chevalier, i mean--as a prisoner to doune, from whence he understood you were carried prisoner to edinburgh. these are particulars which cannot but tell in your favour. he hinted that he had been employed to deliver and protect you, and rewarded for doing so; but he would not confess by whom, alleging that, though he would not have minded breaking any ordinary oath to satisfy the curiosity of mr. morton, to whose pious admonitions he owed so much, yet, in the present case he had been sworn to silence upon the edge of his dirk, [footnote: see note .] which, it seems, constituted, in his opinion, an inviolable obligation.' 'and what is become of him?' 'oh, he was hanged at stirling after the rebels raised the siege, with his lieutenant and four plaids besides; he having the advantage of a gallows more lofty than his friends.' 'well, i have little cause either to regret or rejoice at his death; and yet he has done me both good and harm to a very considerable extent.' 'his confession, at least, will serve you materially, since it wipes from your character all those suspicions which gave the accusation against you a complexion of a nature different from that with which so many unfortunate gentlemen, now or lately in arms against the government, may be justly charged. their treason --i must give it its name, though you participate in its guilt--is an action arising from mistaken virtue, and therefore cannot be classed as a disgrace, though it be doubtless highly criminal. where the guilty are so numerous, clemency must be extended to far the greater number; and i have little doubt of procuring a remission for you, providing we can keep you out of the claws of justice till she has selected and gorged upon her victims; for in this, as in other cases, it will be according to the vulgar proverb, "first come, first served." besides, government are desirous at present to intimidate the english jacobites, among whom they can find few examples for punishment. this is a vindictive and timid feeling which will soon wear off, for of all nations the english are least blood-thirsty by nature. but it exists at present, and you must therefore be kept out of the way in the mean-time.' now entered spontoon with an anxious countenance. by his regimental acquaintances he had traced out madam nosebag, and found her full of ire, fuss, and fidget at discovery of an impostor who had travelled from the north with her under the assumed name of captain butler of gardiner's dragoons. she was going to lodge an information on the subject, to have him sought for as an emissary of the pretender; but spontoon (an old soldier), while he pretended to approve, contrived to make her delay her intention. no time, however, was to be lost: the accuracy of this good dame's description might probably lead to the discovery that waverley was the pretended captain butler, an identification fraught with danger to edward, perhaps to his uncle, and even to colonel talbot. which way to direct his course was now, therefore, the question. 'to scotland,' said waverley. 'to scotland?' said the colonel; 'with what purpose? not to engage again with the rebels, i hope?' 'no; i considered my campaign ended when, after all my efforts, i could not rejoin them; and now, by all accounts, they are gone to make a winter campaign in the highlands, where such adherents as i am would rather be burdensome than useful. indeed, it seems likely that they only prolong the war to place the chevalier's person out of danger, and then to make some terms for themselves. to burden them with my presence would merely add another party, whom they would not give up and could not defend. i understand they left almost all their english adherents in garrison at carlisle, for that very reason. and on a more general view, colonel, to confess the truth, though it may lower me in your opinion, i am heartly tired of the trade of war, and am, as fletcher's humorous lieutenant says, "even as weary of this fighting-'" 'fighting! pooh, what have you seen but a skirmish or two? ah! if you saw war on the grand scale--sixty or a hundred thousand men in the field on each side!' 'i am not at all curious, colonel. "enough," says our homely proverb, "is as good as a feast." the plumed troops and the big war used to enchant me in poetry, but the night marches, vigils, couches under the wintry sky, and such accompaniments of the glorious trade, are not at all to my taste in practice; then for dry blows, i had my fill of fighting at clifton, where i escaped by a hair's-breadth half a dozen times; and you, i should think--' he stopped. 'had enough of it at preston? you mean to say,' answered the colonel, laughing; 'but 'tis my vocation, hal.' 'it is not mine, though,' said waverley; 'and having honourably got rid of the sword, which i drew only as a volunteer, i am quite satisfied with my military experience, and shall be in no hurry to take it up again.' 'i am very glad you are of that mind; but then what would you do in the north?' 'in the first place, there are some seaports on the eastern coast of scotland still in the hands of the chevalier's friends; should i gain any of them, i can easily embark for the continent.' 'good, your second reason?' 'why, to speak the very truth, there is a person in scotland upon whom i now find my happiness depends more than i was always aware, and about whose situation i am very anxious.' 'then emily was right, and there is a love affair in the case after all? and which of these two pretty scotchwomen, whom you insisted upon my admiring, is the distinguished fair? not miss glen--i hope.' 'no.' 'ah, pass for the other; simplicity may be improved, but pride and conceit never. well, i don't discourage you; i think it will please sir everard, from what he said when i jested with him about it; only i hope that intolerable papa, with his brogue, and his snuff, and his latin, and his insufferable long stories about the duke of berwick, will find it necessary hereafter to be an inhabitant of foreign parts. but as to the daughter, though i think you might find as fitting a match in england, yet if your heart be really set upon this scotch rosebud, why the baronet has a great opinion of her father and of his family, and he wishes much to see you married and settled, both for your own sake and for that of the three ermines passant, which may otherwise pass away altogether. but i will bring you his mind fully upon the subject, since you are debarred correspondence for the present, for i think you will not be long in scotland before me.' 'indeed! and what can induce you to think of returning to scotland? no relenting longings towards the land of mountains and floods, i am afraid.' 'none, on my word; but emily's health is now, thank god, reestablished, and, to tell you the truth, i have little hopes of concluding the business which i have at present most at heart until i can have a personal interview with his royal highness the commander-in-chief; for, as fluellen says, "the duke doth love me well, and i thank heaven i have deserved some love at his hands." i am now going out for an hour or two to arrange matters for your departure; your liberty extends to the next room, lady emily's parlour, where you will find her when you are disposed for music, reading, or conversation. we have taken measures to exclude all servants but spontoon, who is as true as steel.' in about two hours colonel talbot returned, and found his young friend conversing with his lady; she pleased with his manners and information, and he delighted at being restored, though but for a moment, to the society of his own rank, from which he had been for some time excluded. 'and now,' said the colonel, 'hear my arrangements, for there is little time to lose. this youngster, edward waverley, alias williams, alias captain butler, must continue to pass by his fourth alias of francis stanley, my nephew; he shall set out to- morrow for the north, and the chariot shall take him the first two stages. spontoon shall then attend him; and they shall ride post as far as huntingdon; and the presence of spontoon, well known on the road as my servant, will check all disposition to inquiry. at huntingdon you will meet the real frank stanley. he is studying at cambridge; but, a little while ago, doubtful if emily's health would permit me to go down to the north myself, i procured him a passport from the secretary of state's office to go in my stead. as he went chiefly to look after you, his journey is now unnecessary. he knows your story; you will dine together at huntingdon; and perhaps your wise heads may hit upon some plan for removing or diminishing the danger of your farther progress north- ward. and now (taking out a morocco case), let me put you in funds for the campaign.' 'i am ashamed, my dear colonel--' 'nay,' said colonel talbot, 'you should command my purse in any event; but this money is your own. your father, considering the chance of your being attainted, left me his trustee for your advantage. so that you are worth above l , , besides brere-wood lodge--a very independent person, i promise you. there are bills here for l ; any larger sum you may have, or credit abroad, as soon as your motions require it.' the first use which occurred to waverley of his newly acquired wealth was to write to honest farmer jopson, requesting his acceptance of a silver tankard on the part of his friend williams, who had not forgotten the night of the eighteenth december last. he begged him at the same time carefully to preserve for him his highland garb and accoutrements, particularly the arms, curious in themselves, and to which the friendship of the donors gave additional value. lady emily undertook to find some suitable token of remembrance likely to flatter the vanity and please the taste of mrs. williams; and the colonel, who was a kind of farmer, promised to send the ullswater patriarch an excellent team of horses for cart and plough. one happy day waverley spent in london; and, travelling in the manner projected, he met with frank stanley at huntingdon. the two young men were acquainted in a minute. 'i can read my uncle's riddle,' said stanley;'the cautious old soldier did not care to hint to me that i might hand over to you this passport, which i have no occasion for; but if it should afterwards come out as the rattle-pated trick of a young cantab, cela ne tire a rien. you are therefore to be francis stanley, with this passport.' this proposal appeared in effect to alleviate a great part of the difficulties which edward must otherwise have encountered at every turn; and accordingly he scrupled not to avail himself of it, the more especially as he had discarded all political purposes from his present journey, and could not be accused of furthering machinations against the government while travelling under protection of the secretary's passport. the day passed merrily away. the young student was inquisitive about waverley's campaigns, and the manners of the highlands, and edward was obliged to satisfy his curiosity by whistling a pibroch, dancing a strathspey, and singing a highland song. the next morning stanley rode a stage northward with his new friend, and parted from him with great reluctance, upon the remonstrances of spontoon, who, accustomed to submit to discipline, was rigid in enforcing it. chapter lxiii desolation waverley riding post, as was the usual fashion of the period, without any adventure save one or two queries, which the talisman of his passport sufficiently answered, reached the borders of scotland. here he heard the tidings of the decisive battle of culloden. it was no more than he had long expected, though the success at falkirk had thrown a faint and setting gleam over the arms of the chevalier. yet it came upon him like a shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned. the generous, the courteous, the noble-minded adventurer was then a fugitive, with a price upon his head; his adherents, so brave, so enthusiastic, so faithful, were dead, imprisoned, or exiled. where, now, was the exalted and high-souled fergus, if, indeed, he had survived the night at clifton? where the pure-hearted and primitive baron of bradwardine, whose foibles seemed foils to set off the disinterestedness of his disposition, the genuine goodness of his heart, and his unshaken courage? those who clung for support to these fallen columns, rose and flora, where were they to be sought, and in what distress must not the loss of their natural protectors have involved them? of flora he thought with the regard of a brother for a sister; of rose with a sensation yet more deep and tender. it might be still his fate to supply the want of those guardians they had lost. agitated by these thoughts he precipitated his journey. when he arrived in edinburgh, where his inquiries must necessarily commence, he felt the full difficulty of his situation. many inhabitants of that city had seen and known him as edward waverley; how, then, could he avail himself of a passport as francis stanley? he resolved, therefore, to avoid all company, and to move northward as soon as possible. he was, however, obliged to wait a day or two in expectation of a letter from colonel talbot, and he was also to leave his own address, under his feigned character, at a place agreed upon. with this latter purpose he sallied out in the dusk through the well-known streets, carefully shunning observation, but in vain: one of the first persons whom he met at once recognised him. it was mrs. flockhart, fergus mac- ivor's good-humoured landlady. 'gude guide us, mr. waverley, is this you? na, ye needna be feared for me. i wad betray nae gentleman in your circumstances. eh, lack-a-day! lack-a-day! here's a change o' markets; how merry colonel macivor and you used to be in our house!' and the good- natured widow shed a few natural tears. as there was no resisting her claim of acquaintance, waverley acknowledged it with a good grace, as well as the danger of his own situation. 'as it's near the darkening, sir, wad ye just step in by to our house and tak a dish o' tea? and i am sure if ye like to sleep in the little room, i wad tak care ye are no disturbed, and naebody wad ken ye; for kate and matty, the limmers, gaed aff wi' twa o' hawley's dragoons, and i hae twa new queans instead o' them.' waverley accepted her invitation, and engaged her lodging for a night or two, satisfied he should be safer in the house of this simple creature than anywhere else. when he entered the parlour his heart swelled to see fergus's bonnet, with the white cockade, hanging beside the little mirror. 'ay,' said mrs. flockhart, sighing, as she observed the direction of his eyes, 'the puir colonel bought a new ane just the day before they marched, and i winna let them tak that ane doun, but just to brush it ilka day mysell; and whiles i look at it till i just think i hear him cry to callum to bring him his bonnet, as he used to do when he was ganging out. it's unco silly--the neighbours ca' me a jacobite, but they may say their say--i am sure it's no for that--but he was as kind-hearted a gentleman as ever lived, and as weel-fa'rd too. oh, d'ye ken, sir, when he is to suffer?' 'suffer! good heaven! why, where is he?' 'eh, lord's sake! d'ye no ken? the poor hieland body, dugald mahony, cam here a while syne, wi' ane o' his arms cuttit off, and a sair clour in the head--ye'll mind dugald, he carried aye an axe on his shouther--and he cam here just begging, as i may say, for something to eat. aweel, he tauld us the chief, as they ca'd him (but i aye ca' him the colonel), and ensign maccombich, that ye mind weel, were ta'en somewhere beside the english border, when it was sae dark that his folk never missed him till it was ower late, and they were like to gang clean daft. and he said that little callum beg (he was a bauld mischievous callant that) and your honour were killed that same night in the tuilzie, and mony mae braw men. but he grat when he spak o' the colonel, ye never saw the like. and now the word gangs the colonel is to be tried, and to suffer wi' them that were ta'en at carlisle.' 'and his sister?' 'ay, that they ca'd the lady flora--weel, she's away up to carlisle to him, and lives wi' some grand papist lady thereabouts to be near him.' 'and,' said edward,'the other young lady?' 'whilk other? i ken only of ae sister the colonel had.' 'i mean miss bradwardine,' said edward. 'ou, ay; the laird's daughter' said his landlady. 'she was a very bonny lassie, poor thing, but far shyer than lady flora.' 'where is she, for god's sake?' 'ou, wha kens where ony o' them is now? puir things, they're sair ta'en doun for their white cockades and their white roses; but she gaed north to her father's in perthshire, when the government troops cam back to edinbro'. there was some prettymen amang them, and ane major whacker was quartered on me, a very ceevil gentleman,--but o, mr. waverley, he was naething sae weel fa'rd as the puir colonel.' 'do you know what is become of miss bradwardine's father?' 'the auld laird? na, naebody kens that. but they say he fought very hard in that bluidy battle at inverness; and deacon clank, the whit-iron smith, says that the government folk are sair agane him for having been out twice; and troth he might hae ta'en warning, but there's nae me like an auld fule. the puir colonel was only out ance.' such conversation contained almost all the good-natured widow knew of the fate of her late lodgers and acquaintances; but it was enough to determine edward, at all hazards, to proceed instantly to tully-veolan, where he concluded he should see, or at least hear, something of rose. he therefore left a letter for colonel talbot at the place agreed upon, signed by his assumed name, and giving for his address the post-town next to the baron's residence. from edinburgh to perth he took post-horses, resolving to make the rest of his journey on foot; a mode of travelling to which he was partial, and which had the advantage of permitting a deviation from the road when he saw parties of military at a distance. his campaign had considerably strengthened his constitution and improved his habits of enduring fatigue. his baggage he sent before him as opportunity occurred. as he advanced northward, the traces of war became visible. broken carriages, dead horses, unroofed cottages, trees felled for palisades, and bridges destroyed or only partially repaired--all indicated the movements of hostile armies. in those places where the gentry were attached to the stuart cause, their houses seemed dismantled or deserted, the usual course of what may be called ornamental labour was totally interrupted, and the inhabitants were seen gliding about, with fear, sorrow, and dejection on their faces. it was evening when he approached the village of tully-veolan, with feelings and sentiments--how different from those which attended his first entrance! then, life was so new to him that a dull or disagreeable day was one of the greatest misfortunes which his imagination anticipated, and it seemed to him that his time ought only to be consecrated to elegant or amusing study, and relieved by social or youthful frolic. now, how changed! how saddened, yet how elevated was his character, within the course of a very few months! danger and misfortune are rapid, though severe teachers. 'a sadder and a wiser man,' he felt in internal confidence and mental dignity a compensation for the gay dreams which in his case experience had so rapidly dissolved. as he approached the village he saw, with surprise and anxiety, that a party of soldiers were quartered near it, and, what was worse, that they seemed stationary there. this he conjectured from a few tents which he beheld glimmering upon what was called the common moor. to avoid the risk of being stopped and questioned in a place where he was so likely to be recognised, he made a large circuit, altogether avoiding the hamlet, and approaching the upper gate of the avenue by a by-path well known to him. a single glance announced that great changes had taken place. one half of the gate, entirely destroyed and split up for firewood, lay in piles, ready to be taken away; the other swung uselessly about upon its loosened hinges. the battlements above the gate were broken and thrown down, and the carved bears, which were said to have done sentinel's duty upon the top for centuries, now, hurled from their posts, lay among the rubbish. the avenue was cruelly wasted. several large trees were felled and left lying across the path; and the cattle of the villagers, and the more rude hoofs of dragoon horses, had poached into black mud the verdant turf which waverley had so much admired. upon entering the court-yard, edward saw the fears realised which these circumstances had excited. the place had been sacked by the king's troops, who, in wanton mischief, had even attempted to burn it; and though the thickness of the walls had resisted the fire, unless to a partial extent, the stables and out-houses were totally consumed. the towers and pinnacles of the main building were scorched and blackened; the pavement of the court broken and shattered, the doors torn down entirely, or hanging by a single hinge, the windows dashed in and demolished, and the court strewed with articles of furniture broken into fragments. the accessaries of ancient distinction, to which the baron, in the pride of his heart, had attached so much importance and veneration, were treated with peculiar contumely. the fountain was demolished, and the spring which had supplied it now flooded the court-yard. the stone basin seemed to be destined for a drinking-trough for cattle, from the manner in which it was arranged upon the ground. the whole tribe of bears, large and small, had experienced as little favour as those at the head of the avenue, and one or two of the family pictures, which seemed to have served as targets for the soldiers, lay on the ground in tatters. with an aching heart, as may well be imagined, edward viewed this wreck of a mansion so respected. but his anxiety to learn the fate of the proprietors, and his fears as to what that fate might be, increased with every step. when he entered upon the terrace new scenes of desolation were visible. the balustrade was broken down, the walls destroyed, the borders overgrown with weeds, and the fruit-trees cut down or grubbed up. in one compartment of this old-fashioned garden were two immense horse-chestnut trees, of whose size the baron was particularly vain; too lazy, perhaps, to cut them down, the spoilers, with malevolent ingenuity, had mined them and placed a quantity of gunpowder in the cavity. one had been shivered to pieces by the explosion, and the fragments lay scattered around, encumbering the ground it had so long shadowed. the other mine had been more partial in its effect. about one-fourth of the trunk of the tree was torn from the mass, which, mutilated and defaced on the one side, still spread on the other its ample and undiminished boughs. [footnote: a pair of chestnut trees, destroyed, the one entirely and the other in part, by such a mischievous and wanton act of revenge, grew at invergarry castle, the fastness of macdonald of glengarry.] amid these general marks of ravage, there were some which more particularly addressed the feelings of waverley. viewing the front of the building thus wasted and defaced, his eyes naturally sought the little balcony which more properly belonged to rose's apartment, her troisieme, or rather cinquieme, etage. it was easily discovered, for beneath it lay the stage-flowers and shrubs with which it was her pride to decorate it, and which had been hurled from the bartizan; several of her books were mingled with broken flower-pots and other remnants. among these waverley distinguished one of his own, a small copy of ariosto, and gathered it as a treasure, though wasted by the wind and rain. while, plunged in the sad reflections which the scene excited, he was looking around for some one who might explain the fate of the inhabitants, he heard a voice from the interior of the building singing, in well-remembered accents, an old scottish song:-- they came upon us in the night, and brake my bower and slew my knight; my servants a' for life did flee, and left us in extremitie. they slew my knight, to me sae dear; they slew my knight, and drave his gear; the moon may set, the sun may rise, but a deadly sleep has closed his eyes. [footnote: the first three couplets are from an old ballad, called the border widow's lament.] 'alas,' thought edward, 'is it thou? poor helpless being, art thou alone left, to gibber and moan, and fill with thy wild and unconnected scraps of minstrelsy the halls that protected thee?' he then called, first low, and then louder, 'davie--davie gellatley!' the poor simpleton showed himself from among the ruins of a sort of greenhouse, that once terminated what was called the terrace- walk, but at first sight of a stranger retreated, as if in terror. waverley, remembering his habits, began to whistle a tune to which he was partial, which davie had expressed great pleasure in listening to, and had picked up from him by the ear. our hero's minstrelsy no more equalled that of blondel than poor davie resembled coeur de lion; but the melody had the same effect of producing recognition. davie again stole from his lurking-place, but timidly, while waverley, afraid of frightening him, stood making the most encouraging signals he could devise. 'it's his ghaist,' muttered davie; yet, coming nearer, he seemed to acknowledge his living acquaintance. the poor fool himself appeared the ghost of what he had been. the peculiar dress in which he had been attired in better days showed only miserable rags of its whimsical finery, the lack of which was oddly supplied by the remnants of tapestried hangings, window-curtains, and shreds of pictures with which he had bedizened his tatters. his face, too, had lost its vacant and careless air, and the poor creature looked hollow-eyed, meagre, half-starved, and nervous to a pitiable degree. after long hesitation, he at length approached waverley with some confidence, stared him sadly in the face, and said, 'a' dead and gane--a' dead and gane.' 'who are dead?' said waverley, forgetting the incapacity of davie to hold any connected discourse. 'baron, and bailie, and saunders saunderson, and lady rose that sang sae sweet--a' dead and gane--dead and gane; but follow, follow me, while glowworms light the lea, i'll show ye where the dead should be-- each in his shroud, while winds pipe loud, and the red moon peeps dim through the cloud. follow, follow me; brave should he be that treads by night the dead man's lea.' with these words, chanted in a wild and earnest tone, he made a sign to waverley to follow him, and walked rapidly towards the bottom of the garden, tracing the bank of the stream which, it may be remembered, was its eastern boundary. edward, over whom an involuntary shuddering stole at the import of his words, followed him in some hope of an explanation. as the house was evidently deserted, he could not expect to find among the ruins any more rational informer. davie, walking very fast, soon reached the extremity of the garden, and scrambled over the ruins of the wall that once had divided it from the wooded glen in which the old tower of tully- veolan was situated. he then jumped down into the bed of the stream, and, followed by waverley, proceeded at a great pace, climbing over some fragments of rock and turning with difficulty round others. they passed beneath the ruins of the castle; waverley followed, keeping up with his guide with difficulty, for the twilight began to fall. following the descent of the stream a little lower, he totally lost him, but a twinkling light which he now discovered among the tangled copse-wood and bushes seemed a surer guide. he soon pursued a very uncouth path; and by its guidance at length reached the door of a wretched hut. a fierce barking of dogs was at first heard, but it stilled at his approach. a voice sounded from within, and he held it most prudent to listen before he advanced. 'wha hast thou brought here, thou unsonsy villain, thou?' said an old woman, apparently in great indignation. he heard davie gellatley in answer whistle a part of the tune by which he had recalled himself to the simpleton's memory, and had now no hesitation to knock at the door. there was a dead silence instantly within, except the deep growling of the dogs; and he next heard the mistress of the hut approach the door, not probably for the sake of undoing a latch, but of fastening a bolt. to prevent this waverley lifted the latch himself. in front was an old wretched-looking woman, exclaiming, 'wha comes into folk's houses in this gate, at this time o' the night?' on one side, two grim and half-starved deer greyhounds laid aside their ferocity at his appearance, and seemed to recognise him. on the other side, half concealed by the open door, yet apparently seeking that concealment reluctantly, with a cocked pistol in his right hand and his left in the act of drawing another from his belt, stood a tall bony gaunt figure in the remnants of a faded uniform and a beard of three weeks' growth. it was the baron of bradwardine. it is unnecessary to add, that he threw aside his weapon and greeted waverley with a hearty embrace. chapter lxiv comparing of notes thearon's story was short, when divested of the adages and commonplaces, latin, english, and scotch, with which his erudition garnished it. he insisted much upon his grief at the loss of edward and of glennaquoich, fought the fields of falkirk and culloden, and related how, after all was lost in the last battle, he had returned home, under the idea of more easily finding shelter among his own tenants and on his own estate than elsewhere. a party of soldiers had been sent to lay waste his property, for clemency was not the order of the day. their proceedings, however, were checked by an order from the civil court. the estate, it was found, might not be forfeited to the crown to the prejudice of malcolm bradwardine of inch-grabbit, the heir-male, whose claim could not be prejudiced by the baron's attainder, as deriving no right through him, and who, therefore, like other heirs of entail in the same situation, entered upon possession. but, unlike many in similar circumstances, the new laird speedily showed that he intended utterly to exclude his predecessor from all benefit or advantage in the estate, and that it was his purpose to avail himself of the old baron's evil fortune to the full extent. this was the more ungenerous, as it was generally known that, from a romantic idea of not prejudicing this young man's right as heir-male, the baron had refrained from settling his estate on his daughter. this selfish injustice was resented by the country people, who were partial to their old master, and irritated against his successor. in the baron's own words, 'the matter did not coincide with the feelings of the commons of bradwardine, mr. waverley; and the tenants were slack and repugnant in payment of their mails and duties; and when my kinsman came to the village wi' the new factor, mr. james howie, to lift the rents, some wanchancy person --i suspect john heatherblutter, the auld gamekeeper, that was out wi' me in the year fifteen--fired a shot at him in the gloaming, whereby he was so affrighted, that i may say with tullius in catilinam, "abiit, evasit, erupit, effugit." he fled, sir, as one may say, incontinent to stirling. and now he hath advertised the estate for sale, being himself the last substitute in the entail. and if i were to lament about sic matters, this would grieve me mair than its passing from my immediate possession, whilk, by the course of nature, must have happened in a few years; whereas now it passes from the lineage that should have possessed it in scecula saculorum. but god's will be done, humana perpessi sumus. sir john of bradwardine--black sir john, as he is called--who was the common ancestor of our house and the inch-grabbits, little thought such a person would have sprung from his loins. mean time, he has accused me to some of the primates, the rulers for the time, as if i were a cut-throat, and an abettor of bravoes and assassinates and coupe-jarrets. and they have sent soldiers here to abide on the estate, and hunt me like a partridge upon the mountains, as scripture says of good king david, or like our valiant sir william wallace--not that i bring myself into comparison with either. i thought, when i heard you at the door, they had driven the auld deer to his den at last; and so i e'en proposed to die at bay, like a buck of the first head. but now, janet, canna ye gie us something for supper?' 'ou ay, sir, i'll brander the moor-fowl that john heatherblutter brought in this morning; and ye see puir davie's roasting the black hen's eggs. i daur say, mr. wauverley, ye never kend that a' the eggs that were sae weel roasted at supper in the ha'-house were aye turned by our davie? there's no the like o' him ony gate for powtering wi' his fingers amang the het peat-ashes and roasting eggs.' davie all this while lay with his nose almost in the fire, nuzzling among the ashes, kicking his heels, mumbling to himself, turning the eggs as they lay in the hot embers, as if to confute the proverb, that 'there goes reason to roasting of eggs,' and justify the eulogium which poor janet poured out upon him whom she loved, her idiot boy. 'davie's no sae silly as folk tak him for, mr. wauverley; he wadna hae brought you here unless he had kend ye was a friend to his honour; indeed the very dogs kend ye, mr. wauverley, for ye was aye kind to beast and body. i can tell you a story o' davie, wi' his honour's leave. his honour, ye see, being under hiding in thae sair times--the mair's the pity--he lies a' day, and whiles a' night, in the cove in the dern hag; but though it's a bieldy eneugh bit, and the auld gudeman o' corse-cleugh has panged it wi' a kemple o' strae amaist, yet when the country's quiet, and the night very cauld, his honour whiles creeps doun here to get a warm at the ingle and a sleep amang the blankets, and gangs awa in the morning. and so, ae morning, siccan a fright as i got! twa unlucky red-coats were up for black-fishing, or some siccan ploy--for the neb o' them's never out o' mischief--and they just got a glisk o' his honour as he gaed into the wood, and banged aff a gun at him. i out like a jer-falcon, and cried--"wad they shoot an honest woman's poor innocent bairn?" and i fleyt at them, and threepit it was my son; and they damned and swuir at me that it was the auld rebel, as the villains ca'd his honour; and davie was in the wood, and heard the tuilzie, and he, just out o' his ain head, got up the auld grey mantle that his honour had flung off him to gang the faster, and he cam out o' the very same bit o' the wood, majoring and looking about sae like his honour, that they were clean beguiled, and thought they had letten aff their gun at crack- brained sawney, as they ca' him; and they gae me saxpence, and twa saumon fish, to say naething about it. na, na, davie's no just like other folk, puir fallow; but he's no sae silly as folk tak him for. but, to be sure, how can we do eneugh for his honour, when we and ours have lived on his ground this twa hundred years; and when he keepit my puir jamie at school and college, and even at the ha'-house, till he gaed to a better place; and when he saved me frae being ta'en to perth as a witch--lord forgi'e them that would touch sic a puir silly auld body!--and has maintained puir davie at heck and manger maist feck o' his life?' waverley at length found an opportunity to interrupt janet's narrative by an inquiry after miss bradwardine. 'she's weel and safe, thank god! at the duchran,' answered the baron; 'the laird's distantly related to us, and more nearly to my chaplain, mr. rubrick; and, though he be of whig principles, yet he's not forgetful of auld friendship at this time. the bailie's doing what he can to save something out of the wreck for puir rose; but i doubt, i doubt, i shall never see her again, for i maun lay my banes in some far country.' 'hout na, your honour,' said old janet, 'ye were just as ill aff in the feifteen, and got the bonnie baronie back, an' a'. and now the eggs is ready, and the muir-cock's brandered, and there's ilk ane a trencher and some saut, and the heel o' the white loaf that cam frae the bailie's, and there's plenty o' brandy in the greybeard that luckie maclearie sent doun, and winna ye be suppered like princes?' 'i wish one prince, at least, of our acquaintance may be no worse off,' said the baron to waverley, who joined him in cordial hopes for the safety of the unfortunate chevalier. they then began to talk of their future prospects. the baron's plan was very simple. it was, to escape to france, where, by the interest of his old friends, he hoped to get some military employment, of which he still conceived himself capable. he invited waverley to go with him, a proposal in which he acquiesced, providing the interest of colonel talbot should fail in procuring his pardon. tacitly he hoped the baron would sanction his addresses to rose, and give him a right to assist him in his exile; but he forbore to speak on this subject until his own fate should be decided. they then talked of glennaquoich, for whom the baron expressed great anxiety, although, he observed, he was 'the very achilles of horatius flaccus,-- impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer; which,' he continued, 'has been thus rendered (vernacularly) by struan robertson:-- a fiery etter-cap, a fractious chiel, as het as ginger, and as stieve as steel.' flora had a large and unqualified share of the good old man's sympathy. it was now wearing late. old janet got into some kind of kennel behind the hallan; davie had been long asleep and snoring between ban and buscar. these dogs had followed him to the hut after the mansion-house was deserted, and there constantly resided; and their ferocity, with the old woman's reputation of being a witch, contributed a good deal to keep visitors from the glen. with this view, bailie macwheeble provided janet underhand with meal for their maintenance, and also with little articles of luxury for his patron's use, in supplying which much precaution was necessarily used. after some compliments, the baron occupied his usual couch, and waverley reclined in an easy chair of tattered velvet, which had once garnished the state bed-room of tully-veolan (for the furniture of this mansion was now scattered through all the cottages in the vicinity), and went to sleep as comfortably as if he had been in a bed of down. chapter lxv more explanation with the first dawn of day, old janet was scuttling about the house to wake the baron, who usually slept sound and heavily. 'i must go back,' he said to waverley,'to my cove; will you walk down the glen wi' me?' they went out together, and followed a narrow and entangled foot-path, which the occasional passage of anglers or wood-cutters had traced by the side of the stream. on their way the baron explained to waverley that he would be under no danger in remaining a day or two at tully-veolan, and even in being seen walking about, if he used the precaution of pretending that he was looking at the estate as agent or surveyor for an english gentleman who designed to be purchaser. with this view he recommended to him to visit the bailie, who still lived at the factor's house, called little veolan, about a mile from the village, though he was to remove at next term. stanley's passport would be an answer to the officer who commanded the military; and as to any of the country people who might recognise waverley, the baron assured him he was in no danger of being betrayed by them. 'i believe,' said the old man, 'half the people of the barony know that their poor auld laird is somewhere hereabout; for i see they do not suffer a single bairn to come here a bird-nesting; a practice whilk, when i was in full possession of my power as baron, i was unable totally to inhibit. nay, i often find bits of things in my way, that the poor bodies, god help them! leave there, because they think they may be useful to me. i hope they will get a wiser master, and as kind a one as i was.' a natural sigh closed the sentence; but the quiet equanimity with which the baron endured his misfortunes had something in it venerable and even sublime. there was no fruitless repining, no turbid melancholy; he bore his lot, and the hardships which it involved, with a good-humored, though serious composure, and used no violent language against the prevailing party. 'i did what i thought my duty,' said the good old man, 'and questionless they are doing what they think theirs. it grieves me sometimes to look upon these blackened walls of the house of my ancestors; but doubtless officers cannot always keep the soldier's hand from depredation and spuilzie, and gustavus adolphus himself, as ye may read in colonel munro his "expedition with the worthy scotch regiment called mackay's regiment" did often permit it. indeed i have myself seen as sad sights as tully-veolan now is when i served with the marechal duke of berwick. to be sure we may say with virgilius maro, fuimus troes--and there's the end of an auld sang. but houses and families and men have a' stood lang eneugh when they have stood till they fall with honour; and now i hae gotten a house that is not unlike a domus ultima'--they were now standing below a steep rock. 'we poor jacobites,' continued the baron, looking up, 'are now like the conies in holy scripture (which the great traveller pococke calleth jerboa), a feeble people, that make our abode in the rocks. so, fare you well, my good lad, till we meet at janet's in the even; for i must get into my patmos, which is no easy matter for my auld stiff limbs.' with that he began to ascend the rock, striding, with the help of his hands, from one precarious footstep to another, till he got about half-way up, where two or three bushes concealed the mouth of a hole, resembling an oven, into which the baron insinuated, first his head and shoulders, and then, by slow gradation, the rest of his l ong body; his legs and feet finally disappearing, coiled up like a huge snake entering his retreat, or a long pedigree introduced with care and difficulty into the narrow pigeon-hole of an old cabinet. waverley had the curiosity to clamber up and look in upon him in his den, as the lurking-place might well be termed. upon the whole, he looked not unlike that ingenious puzzle called 'a reel in a bottle,' the marvel of children (and of some grown people too, myself for one), who can neither comprehend the mysteryhowit has got in or how it is to be taken out. the cave was very narrow, too low in the roof to admit of his standing, or almost of his sitting up, though he made some awkward attempts at the latter posture. his sole amusement was the perusal of his old friend titus livius, varied by occasionally scratching latin proverbs and texts of scripture with his knife on the roof and walls of his fortalice, which were of sandstone. as the cave was dry, and filled with clean straw and withered fern, 'it made,' as he said, coiling himself up with an air of snugness and comfort which contrasted strangely with his situation, 'unless when the wind was due north, a very passable gite for an old soldier.' neither, as he observed, was he without sentries for the purpose of reconnoitring. davie and his mother were constantly on the watch to discover and avert danger; and it was singular what instances of address seemed dictated by the instinctive attachment of the poor simpleton when his patron's safety was concerned. with janet, edward now sought an interview. he had recognised her at first sight as the old woman who had nursed him during his sickness after his delivery from gifted gilfillan. the hut also, although a little repaired and somewhat better furnished, was certainly the place of his confinement; and he now recollected on the common moor of tully-veolan the trunk of a large decayed tree, called the try sting-tree, which he had no doubt was the same at which the highlanders rendezvoused on that memorable night. all this he had combined in his imagination the night before; but reasons which may probably occur to the reader prevented him from catechising janet in the presence of the baron. he now commenced the task in good earnest; and the first question was, who was the young lady that visited the hut during his illness? janet paused for a little; and then observed, that to keep the secret now would neither do good nor ill to anybody. ' it was just a leddy that hasna her equal in the world--miss rose bradwardine!' 'then miss rose was probably also the author of my deliverance,' inferred waverley, delighted at the confirmation of an idea which local circumstances had already induced him to entertain. 'i wot weel, mr. wauverley, and that was she e'en; but sair, sair angry and affronted wad she hae been, puir thing, if she had thought ye had been ever to ken a word about the matter; for she gar'd me speak aye gaelic when ye was in hearing, to mak ye trow we were in the hielands. i can speak it weil eneugh, for my mother was a hieland woman.' a few more questions now brought out the whole mystery respecting waverley's deliverance from the bondage in which he left cairnvreckan. never did music sound sweeter to an amateur than the drowsy tautology with which old janet detailed every circumstance thrilled upon the ears of waverley. but my reader is not a lover and i must spare his patience, by attempting to condense within reasonable compass the narrative which old janet spread through a harangue of nearly two hours. when waverley communicated to fergus the letter he had received from rose bradwardine by davie gellatley, giving an account of tully-veolan being occupied by a small party of soldiers, that circumstance had struck upon the busy and active mind of the chieftain. eager to distress and narrow the posts of the enemy, desirous to prevent their establishing a garrison so near him, and willing also to oblige the baron--for he often had the idea of marriage with rose floating through his brain--he resolved to send some of his people to drive out the red-coats and to bring rose to glennaquoich. but just as he had ordered evan with a small party on this duty, the news of cope's having marched into the highlands, to meet and disperse the forces of the chevalier ere they came to a head, obliged him to join the standard with his whole forces. he sent to order donald bean to attend him; but that cautious freebooter, who well understood the value of a separate command, instead of joining, sent various apologies which the pressure of the times compelled fergus to admit as current, though not without the internal resolution of being revenged on him for his procrastination, time and place convenient. however, as he could not amend the matter, he issued orders to donald to descend into the low country, drive the soldiers from tully-veolan, and, paying all respect to the mansion of the baron, to take his abode somewhere near it, for protection of his daughter and family, and to harass and drive away any of the armed volunteers or small parties of military which he might find moving about the vicinity. as this charge formed a sort of roving commission, which donald proposed to interpret in the way most advantageous to himself, as he was relieved from the immediate terrors of fergus, and as he had, from former secret services, some interest in the councils of the chevalier, he resolved to make hay while the sun shone. he achieved without difficulty the task of driving the soldiers from tully-veolan; but, although he did not venture to encroach upon the interior of the family, or to disturb miss rose, being unwilling to make himself a powerful enemy in the chevalier's army, for well he knew the baron's wrath was deadly; yet he set about to raise contributions and exactions upon the tenantry, and otherwise to turn the war to his own advantage. meanwhile he mounted the white cockade, and waited upon rose with a pretext of great devotion for the service in which her father was engaged, and many apologies for the freedom he must necessarily use for the support of his people. it was at this moment that rose learned, by open-mouthed fame, with all sorts of exaggeration, that waverley had killed the smith at cairnvreckan, in an attempt to arrest him; had been cast into a dungeon by major melville of cairnvreckan, and was to be executed by martial law within three days. in the agony which these tidings excited she proposed to donald bean the rescue of the prisoner. it was the very sort of service which he was desirous to undertake, judging it might constitute a merit of such a nature as would make amends for any peccadilloes which he might be guilty of in the country. he had the art, however, pleading all the while duty and discipline, to hold off, until poor rose, in the extremity of her distress, offered to bribe him to the enterprise with some valuable jewels which had been her mother's. donald bean, who had served in france, knew, and perhaps over- estimated, the value of these trinkets. but he also perceived rose's apprehensions of its being discovered that she had parted with her jewels for waverley's liberation. resolved this scruple should not part him and the treasure, he voluntarily offered to take an oath that he would never mention miss rose's share in the transaction; and, foreseeing convenience in keeping the oath and no probable advantage in breaking it, he took the engagement--in order, as he told his lieutenant, to deal handsomely by the young lady--in the only mode and form which, by a mental paction with himself, he considered as binding: he swore secrecy upon his drawn dirk. he was the more especially moved to this act of good faith by some attentions that miss bradwardine showed to his daughter alice, which, while they gained the heart of the mountain damsel, highly gratified the pride of her father. alice, who could now speak a little english, was very communicative in return for rose's kindness, readily confided to her the whole papers respecting the intrigue with gardiner's regiment, of which she was the depositary, and as readily undertook, at her instance, to restore them to waverley without her father's knowledge. for 'they may oblige the bonnie young lady and the handsome young gentleman,' said alice, 'and what use has my father for a whin bits o' scarted paper?' the reader is aware that she took an opportunity of executing this purpose on the eve of waverley's leaving the glen. how donald executed his enterprise the reader is aware. but the expulsion of the military from tully-veolan had given alarm, and while he was lying in wait for gilfillan, a strong party, such as donald did not care to face, was sent to drive back the insurgents in their turn, to encamp there, and to protect the country. the officer, a gentleman and a disciplinarian, neither intruded himself on miss bradwardine, whose unprotected situation he respected, nor permitted his soldiers to commit any breach of discipline. he formed a little camp upon an eminence near the house of tully-veolan, and placed proper guards at the passes in the vicinity. this unwelcome news reached donald bean lean as he was returning to tully-veolan. determined, however, to obtain the guerdon of his labour, he resolved, since approach to tully-veolan was impossible, to deposit his prisoner in janet's cottage, a place the very existence of which could hardly have been suspected even by those who had long lived in the vicinity, unless they had been guided thither, and which was utterly unknown to waverley himself. this effected, he claimed and received his reward. waverley's illness was an event which deranged all their calculations. donald was obliged to leave the neighbourhood with his people, and to seek more free course for his adventures elsewhere. at rose's entreaty, he left an old man, a herbalist, who was supposed to understand a little of medicine, to attend waverley during his illness. in the meanwhile, new and fearful doubts started in rose's mind. they were suggested by old janet, who insisted that, a reward having been offered for the apprehension of waverley, and his own personal effects being so valuable, there was no saying to what breach of faith donald might be tempted. in an agony of grief and terror, rose took the daring resolution of explaining to the prince himself the danger in which mr. waverley stood, judging that, both as a politician and a man of honour and humanity, charles edward would interest himself to prevent his falling into the hands of the opposite party. this letter she at first thought of sending anonymously, but naturally feared it would not in that case be credited. she therefore subscribed her name, though with reluctance and terror, and consigned it in charge to a young man, who at leaving his farm to join the chevalier's army, made it his petition to her to have some sort of credentials to the adventurer, from whom he hoped to obtain a commission. the letter reached charles edward on his descent to the lowlands, and, aware of the political importance of having it supposed that he was in correspondence with the english jacobites, he caused the most positive orders to be transmitted to donald bean lean to transmit waverley, safe and uninjured, in person or effects, to the governor of doune castle. the freebooter durst not disobey, for the army of the prince was now so near him that punishment might have followed; besides, he was a politician as well as a robber, and was unwilling to cancel the interest created through former secret services by being refractory on this occasion. he therefore made a virtue of necessity, and transmitted orders to his lieutenant to convey edward to doune, which was safely accomplished in the mode mentioned in a former chapter. the governor of doune was directed to send him to edinburgh as a prisoner, because the prince was apprehensive that waverley, if set at liberty, might have resumed his purpose of returning to england, without affording him an opportunity of a personal interview. in this, indeed, he acted by the advice of the chieftain of glennaquoich, with whom it may be remembered the chevalier communicated upon the mode of disposing of edward, though without telling him how he came to learn the place of his confinement. this, indeed, charles edward considered as a lady's secret; for although rose's letter was couched in the most cautious and general terms, and professed to be written merely from motives of humanity and zeal for the prince's service, yet she expressed so anxious a wish that she should not be known to have interfered, that the chevalier was induced to suspect the deep interest which she took in waverley's safety. this conjecture, which was well founded, led, however, to false inferences. for the emotion which edward displayed on approaching flora and rose at the ball of holyrood was placed by the chevalier to the account of the latter; and he concluded that the baron's views about the settlement of his property, or some such obstacle, thwarted their mutual inclinations. common fame, it is true, frequently gave waverley to miss mac-ivor; but the prince knew that common fame is very prodigal in such gifts; and, watching attentively the behaviour of the ladies towards waverley, he had no doubt that the young englishman had no interest with flora, and was beloved by rose bradwardine. desirous to bind waverley to his service, and wishing also to do a kind and friendly action, the prince next assailed the baron on the subject of settling his estate upon his daughter. mr. bradwardine acquiesced; but the consequence was that fergus was immediately induced to prefer his double suit for a wife and an earldom, which the prince rejected in the manner we have seen. the chevalier, constantly engaged in his own multiplied affairs, had not hitherto sought any explanation with waverley, though often meaning to do so. but after fergus's declaration he saw the necessity of appearing neutral between the rivals, devoutly hoping that the matter, which now seemed fraught with the seeds of strife, might be permitted to lie over till the termination of the expedition. when, on the march to derby, fergus, being questioned concerning his quarrel with waverley, alleged as the cause that edward was desirous of retracting the suit he had made to his sister, the chevalier plainly told him that he had himself observed miss mac-ivor's behaviour to waverley, and that he was convinced fergus was under the influence of a mistake in judging of waverley's conduct, who, he had every reason to believe, was engaged to miss bradwardine. the quarrel which ensued between edward and the chieftain is, i hope, still in the remembrance of the reader. these circumstances will serve to explain such points of our narrative as, according to the custom of story-tellers, we deemed it fit to leave unexplained, for the purpose of exciting the reader's curiosity. when janet had once finished the leading facts of this narrative, waverley was easily enabled to apply the clue which they afforded to other mazes of the labyrinth in which he had been engaged. to rose bradwardine, then, he owed the life which he now thought he could willingly have laid down to serve her. a little reflection convinced him, however, that to live for her sake was more convenient and agreeable, and that, being possessed of independence, she might share it with him either in foreign countries or in his own. the pleasure of being allied to a man of the baron's high worth, and who was so much valued by his uncle sir everard, was also an agreeable consideration, had anything been wanting to recommend the match. his absurdities, which had appeared grotesquely ludicrous during his prosperity, seemed, in the sunset of his fortune, to be harmonised and assimilated with the noble features of his character, so as to add peculiarity without exciting ridicule. his mind occupied with such projects of future happiness, edward sought little veolan, the habitation of mr. duncan macwheeble. chapter lxvi now is cupid a child of conscience--he makes restitution. shakspeare mr. duncan macwheeble, no longer commissary or bailie, though still enjoying the empty name of the latter dignity, had escaped proscription by an early secession from the insurgent party and by his insignificance. edward found him in his office, immersed among papers and accounts. before him was a large bicker of oatmeal porridge, and at the side thereof a horn spoon and a bottle of two-penny. eagerly running his eye over a voluminous law-paper, he from time to time shovelled an immense spoonful of these nutritive viands into his capacious mouth. a pot-bellied dutch bottle of brandy which stood by intimated either that this honest limb of the law had taken his morning already, or that he meant to season his porridge with such digestive; or perhaps both circumstances might reasonably be inferred. his night-cap and morning-gown, had whilome been of tartan, but, equally cautious and frugal, the honest bailie had got them dyed black, lest their original ill- omened colour might remind his visitors of his unlucky excursion to derby. to sum up the picture, his face was daubed with snuff up to the eyes, and his fingers with ink up to the knuckles. he looked dubiously at waverley as he approached the little green rail which fenced his desk and stool from the approach of the vulgar. nothing could give the bailie more annoyance than the idea of his acquaintance being claimed by any of the unfortunate gentlemen who were now so much more likely to need assistance than to afford profit. but this was the rich young englishman; who knew what might be his situation? he was the baron's friend too; what was to be done? while these reflections gave an air of absurd perplexity to the poor man's visage, waverley, reflecting on the communication he was about to make to him, of a nature so ridiculously contrasted with the appearance of the individual, could not help bursting out a-laughing, as he checked the propensity to exclaim with syphax-- cato's a proper person to intrust a love-tale with. as mr. macwheeble had no idea of any person laughing heartily who was either encircled by peril or oppressed by poverty, the hilarity of edward's countenance greatly relieved the embarrassment of his own, and, giving him a tolerably hearty welcome to little veolan, he asked what he would choose for breakfast. his visitor had, in the first place, something for his private ear, and begged leave to bolt the door. duncan by no means liked this precaution, which savoured of danger to be apprehended; but he could not now draw back. convinced he might trust this man, as he could make it his interest to be faithful, edward communicated his present situation and future schemes to macwheeble. the wily agent listened with apprehension when he found waverley was still in a state of proscription; was somewhat comforted by learning that he had a passport; rubbed his hands with glee when he mentioned the amount of his present fortune; opened huge eyes when he heard the brilliancy of his future expectations; but when he expressed his intention to share them with miss rose bradwardine, ecstasy had almost deprived the honest man of his senses. the bailie started from his three-footed stool like the pythoness from her tripod; flung his best wig out of the window, because the block on which it was placed stood in the way of his career; chucked his cap to the ceiling, caught it as it fell; whistled 'tullochgorum'; danced a highland fling with inimitable grace and agility, and then threw himself exhausted into a chair, exclaiming, 'lady wauverley! ten thousand a year the least penny! lord preserve my poor understanding!' 'amen with all my heart,' said waverley; 'but now, mr. macwheeble, let us proceed to business.' this word had somewhat a sedative effect, but the bailie's head, as he expressed himself, was still 'in the bees.' he mended his pen, however, marked half a dozen sheets of paper with an ample marginal fold, whipped down dallas of st. martin's 'styles' from a shelf, where that venerable work roosted with stair's 'institutions,' dirleton's 'doubts,' balfour's 'practiques,' and a parcel of old account-books, opened the volume at the article contract of marriage, and prepared to make what he called a'sma' minute to prevent parties frae resiling.' with some difficulty waverley made him comprehend that he was going a little too fast. he explained to him that he should want his assistance, in the first place, to make his residence safe for the time, by writing to the officer at tully-veolan that mr. stanley, an english gentleman nearly related to colonel talbot, was upon a visit of business at mr. macwheeble's, and, knowing the state of the country, had sent his passport for captain foster's inspection. this produced a polite answer from the officer, with an invitation to mr. stanley to dine with him, which was declined (as may easily be supposed) under pretence of business. waverley's next request was, that mr. macwheeble would despatch a man and horse to----, the post-town at which colonel talbot was to address him, with directions to wait there until the post should bring a letter for mr. stanley, and then to forward it to little veolan with all speed. in a moment the bailie was in search of his apprentice (or servitor, as he was called sixty years since), jock scriever, and in not much greater space of time jock was on the back of the white pony. 'tak care ye guide him weel, sir, for he's aye been short in the wind since--ahem--lord be gude to me! (in a low voice), i was gaun to come out wi'--since i rode whip and spur to fetch the chevalier to redd mr. wauverley and vich lan vohr; and an uncanny coup i gat for my pains. lord forgie your honour! i might hae broken my neck; but troth it was in a venture, mae ways nor ane; but this maks amends for a'. lady wauverley! ten thousand a year! lord be gude unto me!' 'but you forget, mr. macwheeble, we want the baron's consent--the lady's--' 'never fear, i'se be caution for them; i'se gie you my personal warrandice. ten thousand a year! it dings balmawhapple out and out--a year's rent's worth a' balmawhapple, fee and life-rent! lord make us thankful!' to turn the current of his feelings, edward inquired if he had heard anything lately of the chieftain of glennaquoich. 'not one word,' answered macwheeble, 'but that he was still in carlisle castle, and was soon to be panelled for his life. i dinna wish the young gentleman ill,' he said, 'but i hope that they that hae got him will keep him, and no let him back to this hieland border to plague us wi' black-mail and a' manner o' violent, wrongous, and masterfu' oppression and spoliation, both by himself and others of his causing, sending, and hounding out; and he couldna tak care o' the siller when he had gotten it neither, but flung it a' into yon idle quean's lap at edinburgh; but light come light gane. for my part, i never wish to see a kilt in the country again, nor a red-coat, nor a gun, for that matter, unless it were to shoot a paitrick; they're a' tarr'd wi' ae stick. and when they have done ye wrang, even when ye hae gotten decreet of spuilzie, oppression, and violent profits against them, what better are ye? they hae na a plack to pay ye; ye need never extract it.' with such discourse, and the intervening topics of business, the time passed until dinner, macwheeble meanwhile promising to devise some mode of introducing edward at the duchran, where rose at present resided, without risk of danger or suspicion; which seemed no very easy task, since the laird was a very zealous friend to government. the poultry-yard had been laid under requisition, and cockyleeky and scotch collops soon reeked in the bailie's little parlour. the landlord's cork-screw was just introduced into the muzzle of a pint bottle of claret (cribbed possibly from the cellars of tully-veolan), when the sight of the grey pony passing the window at full trot induced the bailie, but with due precaution, to place it aside for the moment. enter jock scriever with a packet for mr. stanley; it is colonel talbot's seal, and edward's ringers tremble as he undoes it. two official papers, folded, signed, and sealed in all formality, drop out. they were hastily picked up by the bailie, who had a natural respect for everything resembling a deed, and, glancing slily on their titles, his eyes, or rather spectacles, are greeted with 'protection by his royal highness to the person of cosmo comyne bradwardine, esq., of that ilk, commonly called baron of bradwardine, forfeited for his accession to the late rebellion.' the other proves to be a protection of the same tenor in favour of edward waverley, esq. colonel talbot's letter was in these words:-- 'my dear edward, 'i am just arrived here, and yet i have finished my business; it has cost me some trouble though, as you shall hear. i waited upon his royal highness immediately on my arrival, and found him in no very good humour for my purpose. three or four scotch gentlemen were just leaving his levee. after he had expressed himself to me very courteously; "would you think it," he said, "talbot, here have been half a dozen of the most respectable gentlemen and best friends to government north of the forth, major melville of cairnvreckan, rubrick of duchran, and others, who have fairly wrung from me, by their downright importunity, a present protection and the promise of a future pardon for that stubborn old rebel whom they call baron of bradwardine. they allege that his high personal character, and the clemency which he showed to such of our people as fell into the rebels' hands, should weigh in his favour, especially as the loss of his estate is likely to be a severe enough punishment. rubrick has undertaken to keep him at his own house till things are settled in the country; but it's a little hard to be forced in a manner to pardon such a mortal enemy to the house of brunswick." this was no favourable moment for opening my business; however, i said i was rejoiced to learn that his royal highness was in the course of granting such requests, as it emboldened me to present one of the like nature in my own name. he was very angry, but i persisted; i mentioned the uniform support of our three votes in, the house, touched modestly on services abroad, though valuable only in his royal highness's having been pleased kindly to accept them, and founded pretty strongly on his own expressions of friendship and good-will. he was embarrassed, but obstinate. i hinted the policy of detaching, on all future occasions, the heir of such a fortune as your uncle's from the machinations of the disaffected. but i made no impression. i mentioned the obligations which i lay under to sir everard and to you personally, and claimed, as the sole reward of my services, that he would be pleased to afford me the means of evincing my gratitude. i perceived that he still meditated a refusal, and, taking my commission from my pocket, i said (as a last resource) that, as his royal highness did not, under these pressing circumstances, think me worthy of a favour which he had not scrupled to grant to other gentlemen whose services i could hardly judge more important than my own, i must beg leave to deposit, with all humility, my commission in his royal highness's hands, and to retire from the service. he was not prepared for this; he told me to take up my commission, said some handsome things of my services, and granted my request. you are therefore once more a free man, and i have promised for you that you will be a good boy in future, and remember what you owe to the lenity of government. thus you see my prince can be as generous as yours. i do not pretend, indeed, that he confers a favour with all the foreign graces and compliments of your chevalier errant; but he has a plain english manner, and the evident reluctance with which he grants your request indicates the sacrifice which he makes of his own inclination to your wishes. my friend, the adjutant- general, has procured me a duplicate of the baron's protection (the original being in major melville's possession), which i send to you, as i know that if you can find him you will have pleasure in being the first to communicate the joyful intelligence. he will of course repair to the duchran without loss of time, there to ride quarantine for a few weeks. as for you, i give you leave to escort him thither, and to stay a week there, as i understand a certain fair lady is in that quarter. and i have the pleasure to tell you that whatever progress you can make in her good graces will be highly agreeable to sir everard and mrs. rachel, who will never believe your views and prospects settled, and the three ermines passant in actual safety, until you present them with a mrs. edward waverley. now, certain love-affairs of my own--a good many years since--interrupted some measures which were then proposed in favour of the three ermines passant; so i am bound in honour to make them amends. therefore make good use of your time, for, when your week is expired, it will be necessary that you go to london to plead your pardon in the law courts. 'ever, dear waverley, yours most truly, 'philip talbot.' chapter lxvii happy's the wooing that's not long a doing when the first rapturous sensation occasioned by these excellent tidings had somewhat subsided, edward proposed instantly to go down to the glen to acquaint the baron with their import. but the cautious bailie justly observed that, if the baron were to appear instantly in public, the tenantry and villagers might become riotous in expressing their joy, and give offence to 'the powers that be,' a sort of persons for whom the bailie always had unlimited respect. he therefore proposed that mr. waverley should go to janet gellatley's and bring the baron up under cloud of night to little veolan, where he might once more enjoy the luxury of a good bed. in the meanwhile, he said, he himself would go to captain foster and show him the baron's protection, and obtain his countenance for harbouring him that night, and he would have horses ready on the morrow to set him on his way to the duchran along with mr. stanley, 'whilk denomination, i apprehend, your honour will for the present retain,' said the bailie. 'certainly, mr. macwheeble; but will you not go down to the glen yourself in the evening to meet your patron?' 'that i wad wi' a' my heart; and mickle obliged to your honour for putting me in mind o' mybounden duty. but it will be past sunset afore i get back frae the captain's, and at these unsonsy hours the glen has a bad name; there's something no that canny about auld janet gellatley. the laird he'll no believe thae things, but he was aye ower rash and venturesome, and feared neither man nor deevil, an sae's seen o't. but right sure am i sir george mackenyie says, that no divine can doubt there are witches, since the bible says thou shalt not suffer them to live; and that no lawyer in scotland can doubt it, since it is punishable with death by our law. so there's baith law and gospel for it. an his honour winna believe the leviticus, he might aye believe the statute- book; but he may tak his ain way o't; it's a' ane to duncan macwheeble. however, i shall send to ask up auld janet this e'en; it's best no to lightly them that have that character; and we'll want davie to turn the spit, for i'll gar eppie put down a fat goose to the fire for your honours to your supper.' when it was near sunset waverley hastened to the hut; and he could not but allow that superstition had chosen no improper locality, or unfit object, for the foundation of her fantastic terrors. it resembled exactly the description of spenser:-- there, in a gloomy hollow glen, she found a little cottage built of sticks and reeds, in homely wise, and wall'd with sods around, in which a witch did dwell in loathly weeds, and wilful want, all careless of her needs, so choosing solitary to abide far from all neighbours, that her devilish deeds, and hellish arts, from people she might hide, and hurt far off, unknown, whomsoever she espied. he entered the cottage with these verses in his memory. poor old janet, bent double with age and bleared with peat-smoke, was tottering about the hut with a birch broom, muttering to herself as she endeavoured to make her hearth and floor a little clean for the reception of her expected guests. waverley's step made her start, look up, and fall a-trembling, so much had her nerves been on the rack for her patron's safety. with difficulty waverley made her comprehend that the baron was now safe from personal danger; and when her mind had admitted that joyful news, it was equally hard to make her believe that he was not to enter again upon possession of his estate. 'it behoved to be,' she said, 'he wad get it back again; naebody wad be sae gripple as to tak his gear after they had gi'en him a pardon: and for that inch-grabbit, i could whiles wish mysell a witch for his sake, if i werena feared the enemy wad tak me at my word.' waverley then gave her some money, and promised that her fidelity should be rewarded. 'how can i be rewarded, sir, sae weel as just to see my auld maister and miss rose come back and bruik their ain?' waverley now took leave of janet, and soon stood beneath the baron's patmos. at a low whistle he observed the veteran peeping out to reconnoitre, like an old badger with his head out of his hole. 'ye hae come rather early, my good lad,' said he, descending; 'i question if the red-coats hae beat the tattoo yet, and we're not safe till then.' 'good news cannot be told too soon,' said waverley; and with infinite joy communicated to him the happy tidings. the old man stood for a moment in silent devotion, then exclaimed, 'praise be to god! i shall see my bairn again.' 'and never, i hope, to part with her more,' said waverley. 'i trust in god not, unless it be to win the means of supporting her; for my things are but in a bruckle state;--but what signifies warld's gear?' 'and if,' said waverley modestly, 'there were a situation in life which would put miss bradwardine beyond the uncertainty of fortune, and in the rank to which she was born, would you object to it, my dear baron, because it would make one of your friends the happiest man in the world?' the baron turned and looked at him with great earnestness. 'yes,' continued edward, 'i shall not consider my sentence of banishment as repealed unless you will give me permission to accompany you to the duchran, and--' the baron seemed collecting all his dignity to make a suitable reply to what, at another time, he would have treated as the propounding a treaty of alliance between the houses of bradwardine and waverley. but his efforts were in vain; the father was too mighty for the baron; the pride of birth and rank were swept away; in the joyful surprise a slight convulsion passed rapidly over his features, as he gave way to the feelings of nature, threw his arms around waverley's neck, and sobbed out--'my son, my son! if i had been to search the world, i would have made my choice here.' edward returned the embrace with great sympathy of feeling, and for a little while they both kept silence. at length it was broken by edward. 'but miss bradwardine?' 'she had never a will but her old father's; besides, you are a likely youth, of honest principles and high birth; no, she never had any other will than mine, and in my proudest days i could not have wished a mair eligible espousal for her than the nephew of my excellent old friend, sir everard. but i hope, young man, ye deal na rashly in this matter? i hope ye hae secured the approbation of your ain friends and allies, particularly of your uncle, who is in loco parentis? ah! we maun tak heed o' that.' edward assured him that sir everard would think himself highly honoured in the flattering reception his proposal had met with, and that it had his entire approbation; in evidence of which he put colonel talbot's letter into the baron's hand. the baron read it with great attention. 'sir everard,' he said, 'always despised wealth in comparison of honour and birth; and indeed he hath no occasion to court the diva pecunia. yet i now wish, since this malcolm turns out such a parricide, for i can call him no better, as to think of alienating the family inheritance--i now wish (his eyes fixed on a part of the roof which was visible above the trees) that i could have left rose the auld hurley-house and the riggs belanging to it. and yet,' said he, resuming more cheerfully, 'it's maybe as weel as it is; for, as baron of bradwardine, i might have thought it my duty to insist upon certain compliances respecting name and bearings, whilk now, as a landless laird wi' a tocherless daughter, no one can blame me for departing from.' 'now, heaven be praised!' thought edward,'that sir everard does not hear these scruples! the three ermines passant and rampant bear would certainly have gone together by the ears.' he then, with all the ardour of a young lover, assured the baron that he sought for his happiness only in rose's heart and hand, and thought himself as happy in her father's simple approbation as if he had settled an earldom upon his daughter. they now reached little veolan. the goose was smoking on the table, and the bailie brandished his knife and fork. a joyous greeting took place between him and his patron. the kitchen, too, had its company. auld janet was established at the ingle-nook; davie had turned the spit to his immortal honour; and even ban and buscar, in the liberality of macwheeble's joy, had been stuffed to the throat with food, and now lay snoring on the floor. the next day conducted the baron and his young friend to the duchran, where the former was expected, in consequence of the success of the nearly unanimous application of the scottish friends of government in his favour. this had been so general and so powerful that it was almost thought his estate might have been saved, had it not passed into the rapacious hands of his unworthy kinsman, whose right, arising out of the baron's attainder, could not be affected by a pardon from the crown. the old gentleman, however, said, with his usual spirit, he was more gratified by the hold he possessed in the good opinion of his neighbours than he would have been in being rehabilitated and restored in integrum, had it been found practicable.' we shall not attempt to describe the meeting of the father and daughter, loving each other so affectionately, and separated under such perilous circumstances. still less shall we attempt to analyse the deep blush of rose at receiving the compliments of waverley, or stop to inquire whether she had any curiosity respecting the particular cause of his journey to scotland at that period. we shall not even trouble the reader with the humdrum details of a courtship sixty years since. it is enough to say that, under so strict a martinet as the baron, all things were conducted in due form. he took upon himself, the morning after their arrival, the task of announcing the proposal of waverley to rose, which she heard with a proper degree of maiden timidity. fame does, however, say that waverley had the evening before found five minutes to apprise her of what was coming, while the rest of the company were looking at three twisted serpents which formed a, jet d'eau in the garden. my fair readers will judge for themselves; but, for my part, i cannot conceive how so important an affair could be communicated in so short a space of time; at least, it certainly took a full hour in the baron's mode of conveying it. waverley was now considered as a received lover in all the forms. he was made, by dint of smirking and nodding on the part of the lady of the house, to sit next miss bradwardine at dinner, to be miss bradwardine's partner at cards. if he came into the room, she of the four miss rubricks who chanced to be next rose was sure to recollect that her thimble or her scissors were at the other end of the room, in order to leave the seat nearest to miss bradwardine vacant for his occupation. and sometimes, if papa and mamma were not in the way to keep them on their good behaviour, the misses would titter a little. the old laird of duchran would also have his occasional jest, and the old lady her remark. even the baron could not refrain; but here rose escaped every embarrassment but that of conjecture, for his wit was usually couched in a latin quotation. the very footmen sometimes grinned too broadly, the maidservants giggled mayhap too loud, and a provoking air of intelligence seemed to pervade the whole family. alice bean, the pretty maid of the cavern, who, after her father's misfortune, as she called it, had attended rose as fille-de- chambre, smiled and smirked with the best of them. rose and edward, however, endured all these little vexatious circumstances as other folks have done before and since, and probably contrived to obtain some indemnification, since they are not supposed, on the whole, to have been particularly unhappy during waverley's six days' stay at the duchran. it was finally arranged that edward should go to waverley-honour to make the necessary arrangements for his marriage, thence to london to take the proper measures for pleading his pardon, and return as soon as possible to claim the hand of his plighted bride. he also intended in his journey to visit colonel talbot; but, above all, it was his most important object to learn the fate of the unfortunate chief of glennaquoich; to visit him at carlisle, and to try whether anything could be done for procuring, if not a pardon, a commutation at least, or alleviation, of the punishment to which he was almost certain of being condemned; and, in case of the worst, to offer the miserable flora an asylum with rose, or otherwise to assist her views in any mode which might seem possible. the fate of fergus seemed hard to be averted. edward had already striven to interest his friend, colonel talbot, in his behalf; but had been given distinctly to understand by his reply that his credit in matters of that nature was totally exhausted. the colonel was still in edinburgh, and proposed to wait there for some months upon business confided to him by the duke of cumberland. he was to be joined by lady emily, to whom easy travelling and goat's whey were recommended, and who was to journey northward under the escort of francis stanley. edward, therefore, met the colonel at edinburgh, who wished him joy in the kindest manner on his approaching happiness, and cheerfully undertook many commissions which our hero was necessarily obliged to delegate to his charge. but on the subject of fergus he was inexorable. he satisfied edward, indeed, that his interference would be unavailing; but, besides, colonel talbot owned that he could not conscientiously use any influence in favour of that unfortunate gentleman. 'justice,' he said, 'which demanded some penalty of those who had wrapped the whole nation in fear and in mourning, could not perhaps have selected a fitter victim. he came to the field with the fullest light upon the nature of his attempt. he had studied and understood the subject. his father's fate could not intimidate him; the lenity of the laws which had restored to him his father's property and rights could not melt him. that he was brave, generous, and possessed many good qualities only rendered him the more dangerous; that he was enlightened and accomplished made his crime the less excusable; that he was an enthusiast in a wrong cause only made him the more fit to be its martyr. above all, he had been the means of bringing many hundreds of men into the field who, without him, would never have broken the peace of the country. 'i repeat it,' said the colonel,'though heaven knows with a heart distressed for him as an individual, that this young gentleman has studied and fully understood the desperate game which he has played. he threw for life or death, a coronet or a coffin; and he cannot now be permitted, with justice to the country, to draw stakes because the dice have gone against him.' such was the reasoning of those times, held even by brave and humane men towards a vanquished enemy. let us devoutly hope that, in this respect at least, we shall never see the scenes or hold the sentiments that were general in britain sixty years since. chapter lxviii to morrow? o that's sudden!--spare him, spare him' shakspeare edward, attended by his former servant alick polwarth, who had reentered his service at edinburgh, reached carlisle while the commission of oyer and terminer on his unfortunate associates was yet sitting. he had pushed forward in haste, not, alas! with the most distant hope of saving fergus, but to see him for the last time. i ought to have mentioned that he had furnished funds for the defence of the prisoners in the most liberal manner, as soon as he heard that the day of trial was fixed. a solicitor and the first counsel accordingly attended; but it was upon the same footing on which the first physicians are usually summoned to the bedside of some dying man of rank--the doctors to take the advantage of some incalculable chance of an exertion of nature, the lawyers to avail themselves of the barely possible occurrence of some legal flaw. edward pressed into the court, which was extremely crowded; but by his arriving from the north, and his extreme eagerness and agitation, it was supposed he was a relation of the prisoners, and people made way for him. it was the third sitting of the court, and there were two men at the bar. the verdict of guilty was already pronounced. edward just glanced at the bar during the momentous pause which ensued. there was no mistaking the stately form and noble features of fergus mac-ivor, although his dress was squalid and his countenance tinged with the sickly yellow hue of long and close imprisonment. by his side was evan maccombich. edward felt sick and dizzy as he gazed on them; but he was recalled to himself as the clerk of arraigns pronounced the solemn words: 'fergus mac-ivor of glennaquoich, otherwise called vich ian vohr, and evan mac-ivor, in the dhu of tarrascleugh, otherwise called evan dhu, otherwise called evan maccombich, or evan dhu maccombich--you, and each of you, stand attainted of high treason. what have you to say for yourselves why the court should not pronounce judgment against you, that you die according to law?' fergus, as the presiding judge was putting on the fatal cap of judgment, placed his own bonnet upon his head, regarded him with a steadfast and stern look, and replied in a firm voice, 'i cannot let this numerous audience suppose that to such an appeal i have no answer to make. but what i have to say you would not bear to hear, for my defence would be your condemnation. proceed, then, in the name of god, to do what is permitted to you. yesterday and the day before you have condemned loyal and honourable blood to be poured forth like water. spare not mine. were that of all my ancestors in my veins, i would have perilled it in this quarrel.' he resumed his seat and refused again to rise. evan maccombich looked at him with great earnestness, and, rising up, seemed anxious to speak; but the confusion of the court, and the perplexity arising from thinking in a language different from that in which he was to express himself, kept him silent. there was a murmur of compassion among the spectators, from the idea that the poor fellow intended to plead the influence of his superior as an excuse for his crime. the judge commanded silence, and encouraged evan to proceed. 'i was only ganging to say, my lord,' said evan, in what he meant to be an insinuating manner, 'that if your excellent honour and the honourable court would let vich ian vohr go free just this once, and let him gae back to france, and no to trouble king george's government again, that ony six o' the very best of his clan will be willing to be justified in his stead; and if you'll just let me gae down to glennaquoich, i'll fetch them up to ye mysell, to head or hang, and you may begin wi' me the very first man.' notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion, a sort of laugh was heard in the court at the extraordinary nature of the proposal. the judge checked this indecency, and evan, looking sternly around, when the murmur abated, 'if the saxon gentlemen are laughing,' he said, 'because a poor man, such as me, thinks my life, or the life of six of my degree, is worth that of vich ian vohr, it's like enough they may be very right; but if they laugh because they think i would not keep my word and come back to redeem him, i can tell them they ken neither the heart of a hielandman nor the honour of a gentleman.' there was no farther inclination to laugh among the audience, and a dead silence ensued. the judge then pronounced upon both prisoners the sentence of the law of high treason, with all its horrible accompaniments. the execution was appointed for the ensuing day. 'for you, fergus mac- ivor,' continued the judge, 'i can hold out no hope of mercy. you must prepare against to-morrow for your last sufferings here, and your great audit hereafter.' 'i desire nothing else, my lord,' answered fergus, in the same manly and firm tone. the hard eyes of evan, which had been perpetually bent on his chief, were moistened with a tear. 'for you, poor ignorant man,' continued the judge, 'who, following the ideas in which you have been educated, have this day given us a striking example how the loyalty due to the king and state alone is, from your unhappy ideas of clanship, transferred to some ambitious individual who ends by making you the tool of his crimes--for you, i say, i feel so much compassion that, if you can make up your mind to petition for grace, i will endeavour to procure it for you. otherwise--' 'grace me no grace,' said evan; 'since you are to shed vich ian vohr's blood, the only favour i would accept from you is to bid them loose my hands and gie me my claymore, and bide you just a minute sitting where you are!' 'remove the prisoners,' said the judge; 'his blood be upon his own head.' almost stupefied with his feelings, edward found that the rush of the crowd had conveyed him out into the street ere he knew what he was doing. his immediate wish was to see and speak with fergus once more. he applied at the castle where his unfortunate friend was confined, but was refused admittance. 'the high sheriff,' a non-commissioned officer said, 'had requested of the governor that none should be admitted to see the prisoner excepting his confessor and his sister.' 'and where was miss mac-ivor?' they gave him the direction. it was the house of a respectable catholic family near carlisle. repulsed from the gate of the castle, and not venturing to make application to the high sheriff or judges in his own unpopular name, he had recourse to the solicitor who came down in fergus's behalf. this gentleman told him that it was thought the public mind was in danger of being debauched by the account of the last moments of these persons, as given by the friends of the pretender; that there had been a resolution, therefore, to exclude all such persons as had not the plea of near kindred for attending upon them. yet he promised (to oblige the heir of waverley-honour) to get him an order for admittance to the prisoner the next morning, before his irons were knocked off for execution. 'is it of fergus mac-ivor they speak thus,' thought waverley, 'or do i dream? of fergus, the bold, the chivalrous, the free-minded, the lofty chieftain of a tribe devoted to him? is it he, that i have seen lead the chase and head the attack, the brave, the active, the young, the noble, the love of ladies, and the theme of song,--is it he who is ironed like a malefactor, who is to be dragged on a hurdle to the common gallows, to die a lingering and cruel death, and to be mangled by the hand of the most outcast of wretches? evil indeed was the spectre that boded such a fate as this to the brave chief of glennaquoich!' with a faltering voice he requested the solicitor to find means to warn fergus of his intended visit, should he obtain permission to make it. he then turned away from him, and, returning to the inn, wrote a scarcely intelligible note to flora mac-ivor, intimating his purpose to wait upon her that evening. the messenger brought back a letter in flora's beautiful italian hand, which seemed scarce to tremble even under this load of misery. 'miss flora mac- ivor,' the letter bore, 'could not refuse to see the dearest friend of her dear brother, even in her present circumstances of unparalleled distress.' when edward reached miss mac-ivor's present place of abode he was instantly admitted. in a large and gloomy tapestried apartment flora was seated by a latticed window, sewing what seemed to be a garment of white flannel. at a little distance sat an elderly woman, apparently a foreigner, and of a religious order. she was reading in a book of catholic devotion, but when waverley entered laid it on the table and left the room. flora rose to receive him, and stretched out her hand, but neither ventured to attempt speech. her fine complexion was totally gone; her person considerably emaciated; and her face and hands as white as the purest statuary marble, forming a strong contrast with her sable dress and jet-black hair. yet, amid these marks of distress there was nothing negligent or ill-arranged about her attire; even her hair, though totally without ornament, was disposed with her usual attention to neatness. the first words she uttered were, 'have you seen him?' 'alas, no,' answered waverley, 'i have been refused admittance.' 'it accords with the rest,' she said; 'but we must submit. shall you obtain leave, do you suppose?' 'for--for--tomorrow,' said waverley; but muttering the last word so faintly that it was almost unintelligible. 'ay, then or never,' said flora, 'until'--she added, looking upward--'the time when, i trust, we shall all meet. but i hope you will see him while earth yet bears him. he always loved you at his heart, though--but it is vain to talk of the past.' 'vain indeed!' echoed waverley. 'or even of the future, my good friend,' said flora,'so far as earthly events are concerned; for how often have i pictured to myself the strong possibility of this horrid issue, and tasked myself to consider how i could support my part; and yet how far has all my anticipation fallen short of the unimaginable bitterness of this hour!' 'dear flora, if your strength of mind--' 'ay, there it is,' she answered, somewhat wildly; 'there is, mr. waverley, there is a busy devil at my heart that whispers--but it were madness to listen to it--that the strength of mind on which flora prided herself has murdered her brother!' 'good god! how can you give utterance to a thought so shocking?' 'ay, is it not so? but yet it haunts me like a phantom; i know it is unsubstantial and vain; but it will be present; will intrude its horrors on my mind; will whisper that my brother, as volatile as ardent, would have divided his energies amid a hundred objects. it was i who taught him to concentrate them and to gage all on this dreadful and desperate cast. oh that i could recollect that i had but once said to him, "he that striketh with the sword shall die by the sword"; that i had but once said, "remain at home; reserve yourself, your vassals, your life, for enterprises within the reach of man." but o, mr. waverley, i spurred his fiery temper, and half of his ruin at least lies with his sister!' the horrid idea which she had intimated, edward endeavoured to combat by every incoherent argument that occurred to him. he recalled to her the principles on which both thought it their duty to act, and in which they had been educated. 'do not think i have forgotten them,' she said, looking up with eager quickness; 'i do not regret his attempt because it was wrong!--o no! on that point i am armed--but because it was impossible it could end otherwise than thus.' 'yet it did not always seem so desperate and hazardous as it was; and it would have been chosen by the bold spirit of fergus whether you had approved it or no; your counsels only served to give unity and consistence to his conduct; to dignify, but not to precipitate, his resolution.' flora had soon ceased to listen to edward, and was again intent upon her needlework. 'do you remember,' she said, looking up with a ghastly smile, 'you once found me making fergus's bride-favours, and now i am sewing his bridal garment. our friends here,' she continued, with suppressed emotion, 'are to give hallowed earth in their chapel to the bloody relics of the last vich ian vohr. but they will not all rest together; no--his head!--i shall not have the last miserable consolation of kissing the cold lips of my dear, dear fergus!' the unfortunate flora here, after one or two hysterical sobs, fainted in her chair. the lady, who had been attending in the ante-room, now entered hastily, and begged edward to leave the room, but not the house. when he was recalled, after the space of nearly half an hour, he found that, by a strong effort, miss mac-ivor had greatly composed herself. it was then he ventured to urge miss bradwardine's claim to be considered as an adopted sister, and empowered to assist her plans for the future. 'i have had a letter from my dear rose,' she replied, 'to the same purpose. sorrow is selfish and engrossing, or i would have written to express that, even in my own despair, i felt a gleam of pleasure at learning her happy prospects, and at hearing that the good old baron has escaped the general wreck. give this to my dearest rose; it is her poor flora's only ornament of value, and was the gift of a princess.' she put into his hands a case containing the chain of diamonds with which she used to decorate her hair. 'to me it is in future useless. the kindness of my friends has secured me a retreat in the convent of the scottish benedictine nuns in paris. tomorrow--if indeed i can survive tomorrow--i set forward on my journey with this venerable sister. and now, mr. waverley, adieu! may you be as happy with rose as your amiable dispositions deserve; and think sometimes on the friends you have lost. do not attempt to see me again; it would be mistaken kindness.' she gave him her hand, on which edward shed a torrent of tears, and with a faltering step withdrew from the apartment, and returned to the town of carlisle. at the inn he found a letter from his law friend intimating that he would be admitted to fergus next morning as soon as the castle gates were opened, and permitted to remain with him till the arrival of the sheriff gave signal for the fatal procession. chapter lxix a darker departure is near, the death drum is muffled, and sable the bier campbell after a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found waverley on the esplanade in front of the old gothic gate of carlisle castle. but he paced it long in every direction before the hour when, according to the rules of the garrison, the gates were opened and the draw-bridge lowered. he produced his order to the sergeant of the guard and was admitted. the place of fergus's confinement was a gloomy and vaulted apartment in the central part of the castle; a huge old tower, supposed to be of great antiquity, and surrounded by outworks, seemingly of henry viii's time, or somewhat later. the grating of the large old-fashioned bars and bolts, withdrawn for the purpose of admitting edward, was answered by the clash of chains, as the unfortunate chieftain, strongly and heavily fettered, shuffled along the stone floor of his prison to fling himself into his friend's arms. 'my dear edward,' he said, in a firm and even cheerful voice,'this is truly kind. i heard of your approaching happiness with the highest pleasure. and how does rose? and how is our old whimsical friend the baron? well, i trust, since i see you at freedom. and how will you settle precedence between the three ermines passant and the bear and boot-jack?' 'how, o how, my dear fergus, can you talk of such things at such a moment!' 'why, we have entered carlisle with happier auspices, to be sure; on the th of november last, for example, when we marched in side by side, and hoisted the white flag on these ancient towers. but i am no boy, to sit down and weep because the luck has gone against me. i knew the stake which i risked; we played the game boldly and the forfeit shall be paid manfully. and now, since my time is short, let me come to the questions that interest me most--the prince? has he escaped the bloodhounds?' 'he has, and is in safety.' 'praised be god for that! tell me the particulars of his escape.' waverley communicated that remarkable history, so far as it had then transpired, to which fergus listened with deep interest. he then asked after several other friends; and made many minute inquiries concerning the fate of his own clansmen. they had suffered less than other tribes who had been engaged in the affair; for, having in a great measure dispersed and returned home after the captivity of their chieftain, according to the universal custom of the highlanders, they were not in arms when the insurrection was finally suppressed, and consequently were treated with less rigour. this fergus heard with great satisfaction. 'you are rich,' he said, 'waverley, and you are generous. when you hear of these poor mac-ivors being distressed about their miserable possessions by some harsh overseer or agent of government, remember you have worn their tartan and are an adopted son of their race, the baron, who knows our manners and lives near our country, will apprise you of the time and means to be their protector. will you promise this to the last vich ian vohr?' edward, as may well be believed, pledged his word; which he afterwards so amply redeemed that his memory still lives in these glens by the name of the friend of the sons of ivor. 'would to god,' continued the chieftain, 'i could bequeath to you my rights to the love and obedience of this primitive and brave race; or at least, as i have striven to do, persuade poor evan to accept of his life upon their terms, and be to you what he has been to me, the kindest, the bravest, the most devoted--' the tears which his own fate could not draw forth fell fast for that of his foster-brother. 'but,' said he, drying them,'that cannot be. you cannot be to them vich ian vohr; and these three magic words,' said he, half smiling, 'are the only open sesame to their feelings and sympathies, and poor evan must attend his foster-brother in death, as he has done through his whole life.' 'and i am sure,' said maccombich, raising himself from the floor, on which, for fear of interrupting their conversation, he had lain so still that, in the obscurity of the apartment, edward was not aware of his presence--'i am sure evan never desired or deserved a better end than just to die with his chieftain.' 'and now,' said fergus, 'while we are upon the subject of clanship--what think you now of the prediction of the bodach glas?' then, before edward could answer, 'i saw him again last night: he stood in the slip of moonshine which fell from that high and narrow window towards my bed. "why should i fear him?" i thought; "to-morrow, long ere this time, i shall be as immaterial as he." "false spirit," i said, "art thou come to close thy walks on earth and to enjoy thy triumph in the fall of the last descendant of thine enemy?" the spectre seemed to beckon and to smile as he faded from my sight. what do you think of it? i asked the same question of the priest, who is a good and sensible man; he admitted that the church allowed that such apparitions were possible, but urged me not to permit my mind to dwell upon it, as imagination plays us such strange tricks. what do you think of it?' 'much as your confessor,' said waverley, willing to avoid dispute upon such a point at such a moment. a tap at the door now announced that good man, and edward retired while he administered to both prisoners the last rites of religion, in the mode which the church of rome prescribes. in about an hour he was re-admitted; soon after, a file of soldiers entered with a blacksmith, who struck the fetters from the legs of the prisoners. 'you see the compliment they pay to our highland strength and courage; we have lain chained here like wild beasts, till our legs are cramped into palsy, and when they free us they send six soldiers with loaded muskets to prevent our taking the castle by storm!' edward afterwards learned that these severe precautions had been taken in consequence of a desperate attempt of the prisoners to escape, in which they had very nearly succeeded. shortly afterwards the drums of the garrison beat to arms. 'this is the last turn-out,' said fergus, 'that i shall hear and obey. and now, my dear, dear edward, ere we part let us speak of flora-- a subject which awakes the tenderest feeling that yet thrills within me' 'we part not here!' said waverley. 'o yes, we do; you must come no farther. not that i fear what is to follow for myself,' he said proudly. 'nature has her tortures as well as art, and how happy should we think the man who escapes from the throes of a mortal and painful disorder in the space of a short half hour? and this matter, spin it out as they will, cannot last longer. but what a dying man can suffer firmly may kill a living friend to look upon. this same law of high treason,' he continued, with astonishing firmness and composure, 'is one of the blessings, edward, with which your free country has accommodated poor old scotland; her own jurisprudence, as i have heard, was much milder. but i suppose one day or other--when there are no longer any wild highlanders to benefit by its tender mercies--they will blot it from their records as levelling them with a nation of cannibals. the mummery, too, of exposing the senseless head--they have not the wit to grace mine with a paper coronet; there would be some satire in that, edward. i hope they will set it on the scotch gate though, that i may look, even after death, to the blue hills of my own country, which i love so dearly. the baron would have added, moritur, et moriens dukes reminiscitur argos.' a bustle, and the sound of wheels and horses' feet, was now heard in the court-yard of the castle. 'as i have told you why you must not follow me, and these sounds admonish me that my time flies fast, tell me how you found poor flora.' waverley, with a voice interrupted by suffocating sensations, gave some account of the state of her mind. 'poor flora!' answered the chief, 'she could have borne her own sentence of death, but not mine. you, waverley, will soon know the happiness of mutual affection in the married state--long, long may rose and you enjoy it!--but you can never know the purity of feeling which combines two orphans like flora and me, left alone as it were in the world, and being all in all to each other from our very infancy. but her strong sense of duty and predominant feeling of loyalty will give new nerve to her mind after the immediate and acute sensation of this parting has passed away. she will then think of fergus as of the heroes of our race, upon whose deeds she loved to dwell.' 'shall she not see you then?' asked waverley. 'she seemed to expect it.' 'a necessary deceit will spare her the last dreadful parting. i could not part with her without tears, and i cannot bear that these men should think they have power to extort them. she was made to believe she would see me at a later hour, and this letter, which my confessor will deliver, will apprise her that all is over.' an officer now appeared and intimated that the high sheriff and his attendants waited before the gate of the castle to claim the bodies of fergus mac-ivor and evan maccombich. 'i come,' said fergus. accordingly, supporting edward by the arm and followed by evan dhu and the priest, he moved down the stairs of the tower, the soldiers bringing up the rear. the court was occupied by a squadron of dragoons and a battalion of infantry, drawn up in hollow square. within their ranks was the sledge or hurdle on which the prisoners were to be drawn to the place of execution, about a mile distant from carlisle. it was painted black, and drawn by a white horse. at one end of the vehicle sat the executioner, a horrid-looking fellow, as beseemed his trade, with the broad axe in his hand; at the other end, next the horse, was an empty seat for two persons. through the deep and dark gothic archway that opened on the drawbridge were seen on horseback the high sheriff and his attendants, whom the etiquette betwixt the civil and military powers did not permit to come farther. 'this is well got up for a closing scene,' said fergus, smiling disdainfully as he gazed around upon the apparatus of terror. evan dhu exclaimed with some eagerness, after looking at the dragoons,' these are the very chields that galloped off at gladsmuir, before we could kill a dozen o' them. they look bold enough now, however.' the priest entreated him to be silent. the sledge now approached, and fergus, turning round, embraced waverley, kissed him on each side of the face, and stepped nimbly into his place. evan sat down by his side. the priest was to follow in a carriage belonging to his patron, the catholic gentleman at whose house flora resided. as fergus waved his hand to edward the ranks closed around the sledge, and the whole procession began to move forward. there was a momentary stop at the gateway, while the governor of the castle and the high sheriff went through a short ceremony, the military officer there delivering over the persons of the criminals to the civil power. 'god save king george!' said the high sheriff. when the formality concluded, fergus stood erect in the sledge, and, with a firm and steady voice, replied,' god save king james!' these were the last words which waverley heard him speak. the procession resumed its march, and the sledge vanished from beneath the portal, under which it had stopped for an instant. the dead march was then heard, and its melancholy sounds were mingled with those of a muffled peal tolled from the neighbouring cathedral. the sound of military music died away as the procession moved on; the sullen clang of the bells was soon heard to sound alone. the last of the soldiers had now disappeared from under the vaulted archway through which they had been filing for several minutes; the court-yard was now totally empty, but waverley still stood there as if stupefied, his eyes fixed upon the dark pass where he had so lately seen the last glimpse of his friend. at length a female servant of the governor's, struck with compassion, at the stupefied misery which his countenance expressed, asked him if he would not walk into her master's house and sit down? she was obliged to repeat her question twice ere he comprehended her, but at length it recalled him to himself. declining the courtesy by a hasty gesture, he pulled his hat over his eyes, and, leaving the castle, walked as swiftly as he could through the empty streets till he regained his inn, then rushed into an apartment and bolted the door. in about an hour and a half, which seemed an age of unutterable suspense, the sound of the drums and fifes performing a lively air, and the confused murmur of the crowd which now filled the streets, so lately deserted, apprised him that all was finished, and that the military and populace were returning from the dreadful scene. i will not attempt to describe his sensations. in the evening the priest made him a visit, and informed him that he did so by directions of his deceased friend, to assure him that fergus mac-ivor had died as he lived, and remembered his friendship to the last. he added, he had also seen flora, whose state of mind seemed more composed since all was over. with her and sister theresa the priest proposed next day to leave carlisle for the nearest seaport from which they could embark for france. waverley forced on this good man a ring of some value and a sum of money to be employed (as he thought might gratify flora) in the services of the catholic church for the memory of his friend. 'fun-garque inani munere,' he repeated, as the ecclesiastic retired. 'yet why not class these acts of remembrance with other honours, with which affection in all sects pursues the memory of the dead?' the next morning ere daylight he took leave of the town of carlisle, promising to himself never again to enter its walls. he dared hardly look back towards the gothic battlements of the fortified gate under which he passed, for the place is surrounded with an old wall. 'they're no there,' said alick polwarth, who guessed the cause of the dubious look which waverley cast backward, and who, with the vulgar appetite for the horrible, was master of each detail of the butchery--'the heads are ower the scotch yate, as they ca' it. it's a great pity of evan dhu, who was a very weel-meaning, good-natured man, to be a hielandman; and indeed so was the laird o' glennaquoich too, for that matter, when he wasna in ane o' his tirrivies.' chapter lxx dulce domum the impression of horror with which waverley left carlisle softened by degrees into melancholy, a gradation which was accelerated by the painful yet soothing task of writing to rose; and, while he could not suppress his own feelings of the calamity, he endeavoured to place it in a light which might grieve her without shocking her imagination. the picture which he drew for her benefit he gradually familiarised to his own mind, and his next letters were more cheerful, and referred to the prospects of peace and happiness which lay before them. yet, though his first horrible sensations had sunk into melancholy, edward had reached his native country before he could, as usual on former occasions, look round for enjoyment upon the face of nature. he then, for the first time since leaving edinburgh, began to experience that pleasure which almost all feel who return to a verdant, populous, and highly cultivated country from scenes of waste desolation or of solitary and melancholy grandeur. but how were those feelings enhanced when he entered on the domain so long possessed by his forefathers; recognised the old oaks of waverley- chace; thought with what delight he should introduce rose to all his favourite haunts; beheld at length the towers of the venerable hall arise above the woods which embowered it, and finally threw himself into the arms of the venerable relations to whom he owed so much duty and affection! the happiness of their meeting was not tarnished by a single word of reproach. on the contrary, whatever pain sir everard and mrs. rachel had felt during waverley's perilous engagement with the young chevalier, it assorted too well with the principles in which they had been brought up to incur reprobation, or even censure. colonel talbot also had smoothed the way with great address for edward's favourable reception by dwelling upon his gallant behaviour in the military character, particularly his bravery and generosity at preston; until, warmed at the idea of their nephew's engaging in single combat, making prisoner, and saving from slaughter so distinguished an officer as the colonel himself, the imagination of the baronet and his sister ranked the exploits of edward with those of wilibert, hildebrand, and nigel, the vaunted heroes of their line. the appearance of waverley, embrowned by exercise and dignified by the habits of military discipline, had acquired an athletic and hardy character, which not only verified the colonel's narration, but surprised and delighted all the inhabitants of waverley- honour. they crowded to see, to hear him, and to sing his praises. mr. pembroke, who secretly extolled his spirit and courage in embracing the genuine cause of the church of england, censured his pupil gently, nevertheless, for being so careless of his manuscripts, which indeed, he said, had occasioned him some personal inconvenience, as, upon the baronet's being arrested by a king's messenger, he had deemed it prudent to retire to a concealment called 'the priest's hole,' from the use it had been put to in former days; where, he assured our hero, the butler had thought it safe to venture with food only once in the day, so that he had been repeatedly compelled to dine upon victuals either absolutely cold or, what was worse, only half warm, not to mention that sometimes his bed had not been arranged for two days together. waverley's mind involuntarily turned to the patmos of the baron of bradwardine, who was well pleased with janet's fare and a few bunches of straw stowed in a cleft in the front of a sand-cliff; but he made no remarks upon a contrast which could only mortify his worthy tutor. all was now in a bustle to prepare for the nuptials of edward, an event to which the good old baronet and mrs. rachel looked forward as if to the renewal of their own youth. the match, as colonel talbot had intimated, had seemed to them in the highest degree eligible, having every recommendation but wealth, of which they themselves had more than enough. mr. clippurse was therefore summoned to waverley-honour, under better auspices than at the commencement of our story. but mr. clippurse came not alone; for, being now stricken in years, he had associated with him a nephew, a younger vulture (as our english juvenal, who tells the tale of swallow the attorney, might have called him), and they now carried on business as messrs. clippurse and hookem. these worthy gentlemen had directions to make the necessary settlements on the most splendid scale of liberality, as if edward were to wed a peeress in her own right, with her paternal estate tacked to the fringe of her ermine. but before entering upon a subject of proverbial delay, i must remind my reader of the progress of a stone rolled downhill by an idle truant boy (a pastime at which i was myself expert in my more juvenile years), it moves at first slowly, avoiding by inflection every obstacle of the least importance; but when it has attained its full impulse, and draws near the conclusion of its career, it smokes and thunders down, taking a rood at every spring, clearing hedge and ditch like a yorkshire huntsman, and becoming most furiously rapid in its course when it is nearest to being consigned to rest for ever. even such is the course of a narrative like that which you are perusing. the earlier events are studiously dwelt upon, that you, kind reader, may be introduced to the character rather by narrative than by the duller medium of direct description; but when the story draws near its close, we hurry over the circumstances, however important, which your imagination must have forestalled, and leave you to suppose those things which it would be abusing your patience to relate at length. we are, therefore, so far from attempting to trace the dull progress of messrs. clippurse and hookem, or that of their worthy official brethren who had the charge of suing out the pardons of edward waverley and his intended father-in-law, that we can but touch upon matters more attractive. the mutual epistles, for example, which were exchanged between sir everard and the baron upon this occasion, though matchless specimens of eloquence in their way, must be consigned to merciless oblivion. nor can i tell you at length how worthy aunt rachel, not without a delicate and affectionate allusion to the circumstances which had transferred rose's maternal diamonds to the hands of donald bean lean, stocked her casket with a set of jewels that a duchess might have envied. moreover, the reader will have the goodness to imagine that job houghton and his dame were suitably provided for, although they could never be persuaded that their son fell otherwise than fighting by the young squire's side; so that alick, who, as a lover of truth, had made many needless attempts to expound the real circumstances to them, was finally ordered to say not a word more upon the subject. he indemnified himself, however, by the liberal allowance of desperate battles, grisly executions, and raw-head and bloody-bone stories with which he astonished the servants' hall. but although these important matters may be briefly told in narrative, like a newspaper report of a chancery suit, yet, with all the urgency which waverley could use, the real time which the law proceedings occupied, joined to the delay occasioned by the mode of travelling at that period, rendered it considerably more than two months ere waverley, having left england, alighted once more at the mansion of the laird of duchran to claim the hand of his plighted bride. the day of his marriage was fixed for the sixth after his arrival. the baron of bradwardine, with whom bridals, christenings, and funerals were festivals of high and solemn import, felt a little hurt that, including the family of the duchran and all the immediate vicinity who had title to be present on such an occasion, there could not be above thirty persons collected. 'when he was married,' he observed,'three hundred horse of gentlemen born, besides servants, and some score or two of highland lairds, who never got on horseback, were present on the occasion.' but his pride found some consolation in reflecting that, he and his son-in-law having been so lately in arms against government, it might give matter of reasonable fear and offence to the ruling powers if they were to collect together the kith, kin, and allies of their houses, arrayed in effeir of war, as was the ancient custom of scotland on these occasions--'and, without dubitation,' he concluded with a sigh, 'many of those who would have rejoiced most freely upon these joyful espousals are either gone to a better place or are now exiles from their native land.' the marriage took place on the appointed day. the reverend mr. rubrick, kinsman to the proprietor of the hospitable mansion where it was solemnised, and chaplain to the baron of bradwardine, had the satisfaction to unite their hands; and frank stanley acted as bridesman, having joined edward with that view soon after his arrival. lady emily and colonel talbot had proposed being present; but lady emily's health, when the day approached, was found inadequate to the journey. in amends it was arranged that edward waverley and his lady, who, with the baron, proposed an immediate journey to waverley-honour, should in their way spend a few days at an estate which colonel talbot had been tempted to purchase in scotland as a very great bargain, and at which he proposed to reside for some time. chapter lxxi this is no mine ain house, i ken by the bigging o't old song. the nuptial party travelled in great style. there was a coach and six after the newest pattern, which sir everard had presented to his nephew, that dazzled with its splendour the eyes of one half of scotland; there was the family coach of mr. rubrick;--both these were crowded with ladies,--and there were gentlemen on horseback, with their servants, to the number of a round score. nevertheless, without having the fear of famine before his eyes, bailie macwheeble met them in the road to entreat that they would pass by his house at little veolan. the baron stared, and said his son and he would certainly ride by little veolan and pay their compliments to the bailie, but could not think of bringing with them the 'haill comitatus nuptialis, or matrimonial procession.' he added, 'that, as he understood that the barony had been sold by its unworthy possessor, he was glad to see his old friend duncan had regained his situation under the new dominus, or proprietor.' the bailie ducked, bowed, and fidgeted, and then again insisted upon his invitation; until the baron, though rather piqued at the pertinacity of his instances, could not nevertheless refuse to consent without making evident sensations which he was anxious to conceal. he fell into a deep study as they approached the top of the avenue, and was only startled from it by observing that the battlements were replaced, the ruins cleared away, and (most wonderful of all) that the two great stone bears, those mutilated dagons of his idolatry, had resumed their posts over the gateway. 'now this new proprietor,' said he to edward, 'has shown mair gusto, as the italians call it, in the short time he has had this domain, than that hound malcolm, though i bred him here mysell, has acquired vita adhuc durante. and now i talk of hounds, is not yon ban and buscar who come scouping up the avenue with davie gellatley?' 'i vote we should go to meet them, sir,' said waverley, 'for i believe the present master of the house is colonel talbot, who will expect to see us. we hesitated to mention to you at first that he had purchased your ancient patrimonial property, and even yet, if you do not incline to visit him, we can pass on to the bailie's.' the baron had occasion for all his magnanimity. however, he drew a long breath, took a long snuff, and observed, since they had brought him so far, he could not pass the colonel's gate, and he would be happy to see the new master of his old tenants. he alighted accordingly, as did the other gentlemen and ladies; he gave his arm to his daughter, and as they descended the avenue pointed out to her how speedily the 'diva pecunia of the southron --their tutelary deity, he might call her--had removed the marks of spoliation.' in truth, not only had the felled trees been removed, but, their stumps being grubbed up and the earth round them levelled and sown with grass, every mark of devastation, unless to an eye intimately acquainted with the spot, was already totally obliterated. there was a similar reformation in the outward man of davie gellatley, who met them, every now and then stopping to admire the new suit which graced his person, in the same colours as formerly, but bedizened fine enough to have served touchstone himself. he danced up with his usual ungainly frolics, first to the baron and then to rose, passing his hands over his clothes, crying, 'bra', bra' davie,' and scarce able to sing a bar to an end of his thousand- and-one songs for the breathless extravagance of his joy. the dogs also acknowledged their old master with a thousand gambols. 'upon my conscience, rose,' ejaculated the baron, 'the gratitude o' thae dumb brutes and of that puir innocent brings the tears into my auld een, while that schellum malcolm--but i'm obliged to colonel talbot for putting my hounds into such good condition, and likewise for puir davie. but, rose, my dear, we must not permit them to be a life-rent burden upon the estate.' as he spoke, lady emily, leaning upon the arm of her husband, met the party at the lower gate with a thousand welcomes. after the ceremony of introduction had been gone through, much abridged by the ease and excellent breeding of lady emily, she apologised for having used a little art to wile them back to a place which might awaken some painful reflections--'but as it was to change masters, we were very desirous that the baron--' 'mr. bradwardine, madam, if you please,' said the old gentleman. '--mr. bradwardine, then, and mr. waverley should see what we have done towards restoring the mansion of your fathers to its former state.' the baron answered with a low bow. indeed, when he entered the court, excepting that the heavy stables, which had been burnt down, were replaced by buildings of a lighter and more picturesque appearance, all seemed as much as possible restored to the state in which he had left it when he assumed arms some months before. the pigeon-house was replenished; the fountain played with its usual activity, and not only the bear who predominated over its basin, but all the other bears whatsoever, were replaced on their several stations, and renewed or repaired with so much care that they bore no tokens of the violence which had so lately descended upon them. while these minutiae had been so needfully attended to, it is scarce necessary to add that the house itself had been thoroughly repaired, as well as the gardens, with the strictest attention to maintain the original character of both, and to remove as far as possible all appearance of the ravage they had sustained. the baron gazed in silent wonder; at length he addressed colonel talbot-- 'while i acknowledge my obligation to you, sir, for the restoration of the badge of our family, i cannot but marvel that you have nowhere established your own crest, whilk is, i believe, a mastiff, anciently called a talbot; as the poet has it, a talbot strong, a sturdy tyke. at least such a dog is the crest of the martial and renowned earls of shrewsbury, to whom your family are probably blood-relations.' 'i believe,' said the colonel, smiling, 'our dogs are whelps of the same litter; for my part, if crests were to dispute precedence, i should be apt to let them, as the proverb says, "fight dog, fight bear."' as he made this speech, at which the baron took another long pinch of snuff, they had entered the house, that is, the baron, rose, and lady emily, with young stanley and the bailie, for edward and the rest of the party remained on the terrace to examine a new greenhouse stocked with the finest plants. the baron resumed his favourite topic--'however it may please you to derogate from the honour of your burgonet, colonel talbot, which is doubtless your humour, as i have seen in other gentlemen of birth and honour in your country, i must again repeat it as a most ancient and distinguished bearing, as well as that of my young friend francis stanley, which is the eagle and child.' 'the bird and bantling they call it in derbyshire, sir,' said stanley. 'ye're a daft callant, sir,' said the baron, who had a great liking to this young man, perhaps because he sometimes teased him --'ye're a daft callant, and i must correct you some of these days,' shaking his great brown fist at him. 'but what i meant to say, colonel talbot, is, that yours is an ancient prosapia, or descent, and since you have lawfully and justly acquired the estate for you and yours which i have lost for me and mine, i wish it may remain in your name as many centuries as it has done in that of the late proprietor's.' 'that,' answered the colonel, 'is very handsome, mr. bradwardine, indeed.' 'and yet, sir, i cannot but marvel that you, colonel, whom i noted to have so much of the amor patritz when we met in edinburgh as even to vilipend other countries, should have chosen to establish your lares, or household gods, procul a patrice finibus, and in a manner to expatriate yourself.' 'why really, baron, i do not see why, to keep the secret of these foolish boys, waverley and stanley, and of my wife, who is no wiser, one old soldier should continue to impose upon another. you must know, then, that i have so much of that same prejudice in favour of my native country, that the sum of money which i advanced to the seller of this extensive barony has only purchased for me a box in----shire, called brere-wood lodge, with about two hundred and fifty acres of land, the chief merit of which is, that it is within a very few miles of waverley-honour.' 'and who, then, in the name of heaven, has bought this property?' 'that,' said the colonel, 'it is this gentleman's profession to explain.' the bailie, whom this reference regarded, and who had all this while shifted from one foot to another with great impatience, 'like a hen,' as he afterwards said, 'upon a het girdle'; and chuckling, he might have added, like the said hen in all the glory of laying an egg, now pushed forward. 'that i can, that i can, your honour,' drawing from his pocket a budget of papers, and untying the red tape with a hand trembling with eagerness. 'here is the disposition and assignation by malcolm bradwardine of inch- grabbit, regularly signed and tested in terms of the statute, whereby, for a certain sum of sterling money presently contented and paid to him, he has disponed, alienated, and conveyed the whole estate and barony of bradwardine, tully-veolan, and others, with the fortalice and manor-place--' 'for god's sake, to the point, sir; i have all that by heart,' said the colonel. '--to cosmo comyne bradwardme, esq.,' pursued the bailie, 'his heirs and assignees, simply and irredeemably, to be held either a me vel de me--' 'pray read short, sir.' 'on the conscience of an honest man, colonel, i read as short as is consistent with style--under the burden and reservation always--' 'mr. macwheeble, this would outlast a russian winter; give me leave. in short, mr. bradwardine, your family estate is your own once more in full property, and at your absolute disposal, but only burdened with the sum advanced to re-purchase it, which i understand is utterly disproportioned to its value.' 'an auld sang--an auld sang, if it please your honours,' cried the bailie, rubbing his hands; 'look at the rental book.' '--which sum being advanced, by mr. edward waverley, chiefly from the price of his father's property which i bought from him, is secured to his lady your daughter and her family by this marriage.' 'it is a catholic security,' shouted the bailie,' to rose comyne bradwardine, alias wauverley, in life-rent, and the children of the said marriage in fee; and i made up a wee bit minute of an antenuptial contract, intuitu matrimonij, so it cannot be subject to reduction hereafter, as a donation inter virum et uxorem.' it is difficult to say whether the worthy baron was most delighted with the restitution of his family property or with the delicacy and generosity that left him unfettered to pursue his purpose in disposing of it after his death, and which avoided as much as possible even the appearance of laying him under pecuniary obligation. when his first pause of joy and astonishment was over, his thoughts turned to the unworthy heir-male, who, he pronounced, had sold his birthright, like esau, for a mess o' pottage. 'but wha cookit the parritch for him?' exclaimed the bailie; 'i wad like to ken that;--wha but your honour's to command, duncan macwheeble? his honour, young mr. wauverley, put it a' into my hand frae the beginning--frae the first calling o' the summons, as i may say. i circumvented them--i played at bogle about the bush wi' them--i cajolled them; and if i havena gien inch-grabbit and jamie howie a bonnie begunk, they ken themselves. him a writer! i didna gae slapdash to them wi' our young bra' bridegroom, to gar them baud up the market. na, na; i scared them wi' our wild tenantry, and the mac-ivors, that are but ill settled yet, till they durstna on ony errand whatsoever gang ower the doorstane after gloaming, for fear john heatherblutter, or some siccan dare- the-deil, should tak a baff at them; then, on the other hand, i beflummed them wi' colonel talbot; wad they offer to keep up the price again' the duke's friend? did they na ken wha was master? had they na seen eneugh, by the sad example of mony a puir misguided unhappy body--' 'who went to derby, for example, mr. macwheeble?' said the colonel to him aside. 'o whisht, colonel, for the love o' god! let that flee stick i' the wa'. there were mony good folk at derby; and it's ill speaking of halters'--with a sly cast of his eye toward the baron, who was in a deep reverie. starting out of it at once, he took macwheeble by the button and led him into one of the deep window recesses, whence only fragments of their conversation reached the rest of the party. it certainly related to stamp-paper and parchment; for no other subject, even from the mouth of his patron, and he once more an efficient one, could have arrested so deeply the bailie's reverent and absorbed attention. 'i understand your honour perfectly; it can be dune as easy as taking out a decreet in absence.' 'to her and him, after my demise, and to their heirs-male, but preferring the second son, if god shall bless them with two, who is to carry the name and arms of bradwardine of that ilk, without any other name or armorial bearings whatsoever.' 'tut, your honour!' whispered the bailie, 'i'll mak a slight jotting the morn; it will cost but a charter of resignation in favorem; and i'll hae it ready for the next term in exchequer.' their private conversation ended, the baron was now summoned to do the honours of tully-veolan to new guests. these were major melville of cairnvreckan and the reverend mr. morton, followed by two or three others of the baron's acquaintances, who had been made privy to his having again acquired the estate of his fathers. the shouts of the villagers were also heard beneath in the court- yard; for saunders saunderson, who had kept the secret for several days with laudable prudence, had unloosed his tongue upon beholding the arrival of the carriages. but, while edward received major melville with politeness and the clergyman with the most affectionate and grateful kindness, his father-in-law looked a little awkward, as uncertain how he should answer the necessary claims of hospitality to his guests, and forward the festivity of his tenants. lady emily relieved him by intimating that, though she must be an indifferent representative of mrs. edward waverley in many respects, she hoped the baron would approve of the entertainment she had ordered in expectation of so many guests; and that they would find such other accommodations provided as might in some degree support the ancient hospitality of tully-veolan. it is impossible to describe the pleasure which this assurance gave the baron, who, with an air of gallantry half appertaining to the stiff scottish laird and half to the officer in the french service, offered his arm to the fair speaker, and led the way, in something between a stride and a minuet step, into the large dining parlour, followed by all the rest of the good company. by dint of saunderson's directions and exertions, all here, as well as in the other apartments, had been disposed as much as possible according to the old arrangement; and where new movables had been necessary, they had been selected in the same character with the old furniture. there was one addition to this fine old apartment, however, which drew tears into the baron's eyes. it was a large and spirited painting, representing fergus mac-ivor and waverley in their highland dress, the scene a wild, rocky, and mountainous pass, down which the clan were descending in the background. it was taken from a spirited sketch, drawn while they were in edinburgh by a young man of high genius, and had been painted on a full-length scale by an eminent london artist. raeburn himself (whose 'highland chiefs' do all but walk out of the canvas) could not have done more justice to the subject; and the ardent, fiery, and impetuous character of the unfortunate chief of glennaquoich was finely contrasted with the contemplative, fanciful, and enthusiastic expression of his happier friend. beside this painting hung the arms which waverley had borne in the unfortunate civil war. the whole piece was beheld with admiration and deeper feelings. men must, however, eat, in spite both of sentiment and vertu; and the baron, while he assumed the lower end of the table, insisted that lady emily should do the honours of the head, that they might, he said, set a meet example to the young folk. after a pause of deliberation, employed in adjusting in his own brain the precedence between the presbyterian kirk and episcopal church of scotland, he requested mr. morton, as the stranger, would crave a blessing, observing that mr. rubrick, who was at home, would return thanks for the distinguished mercies it had been his lot to experience. the dinner was excellent. saunderson attended in full costume, with all the former domestics, who had been collected, excepting one or two, that had not been heard of since the affair of culloden. the cellars were stocked with wine which was pronounced to be superb, and it had been contrived that the bear of the fountain, in the courtyard, should (for that night only) play excellent brandy punch for the benefit of the lower orders. when the dinner was over the baron, about to propose a toast, cast a somewhat sorrowful look upon the sideboard, which, however, exhibited much of his plate, that had either been secreted or purchased by neighbouring gentlemen from the soldiery, and by them gladly restored to the original owner. "in the late times," he said, "those must be thankful who have saved life and land; yet when i am about to pronounce this toast, i cannot but regret an old heirloom, lady emily, a poculum potatorium, colonel talbot--" here the baron's elbow was gently touched by his major-domo, and, turning round, he beheld in the hands of alexander ab alexandro the celebrated cup of saint duthac, the blessed bear of bradwardine! i question if the recovery of his estate afforded him more rapture. "by my honour," he said, "one might almost believe in brownies and fairies, lady emily, when your ladyship is in presence!" "i am truly happy," said colonel talbot, "that, by the recovery of this piece of family antiquity, it has fallen within my power to give you some token of my deep interest in all that concerns my young friend edward. but that you may not suspect lady emily for a sorceress, or me for a conjuror, which is no joke in scotland, i must tell you that frank stanley, your friend, who has been seized with a tartan fever ever since he heard edward's tales of old scottish manners, happened to describe to us at second-hand this remarkable cup. my servant, spontoon, who, like a true old soldier, observes everything and says little, gave me afterwards to understand that he thought he had seen the piece of plate mr. stanley mentioned in the possession of a certain mrs. nosebag, who, having been originally the helpmate of a pawnbroker, had found opportunity during the late unpleasant scenes in scotland to trade a little in her old line, and so became the depositary of the more valuable part of the spoil of half the army. you may believe the cup was speedily recovered; and it will give me very great pleasure if you allow me to suppose that its value is not diminished by having been restored through my means." a tear mingled with the wine which the baron filled, as he proposed a cup of gratitude to colonel talbot, and 'the prosperity of the united houses of waverley-honour and bradwardine!' it only remains for me to say that, as no wish was ever uttered with more affectionate sincerity, there are few which, allowing for the necessary mutability of human events, have been upon the whole more happily fulfilled. chapter lxxii a postscript which should have been a preface our journey is now finished, gentle reader; and if your patience has accompanied me through these sheets, the contract is, on your part, strictly fulfilled. yet, like the driver who has received his full hire, i still linger near you, and make, with becoming diffidence, a trifling additional claim upon your bounty and good nature. you are as free, however, to shut the volume of the one petitioner as to close your door in the face of the other. this should have been a prefatory chapter, but for two reasons: first, that most novel readers, as my own conscience reminds me, are apt to be guilty of the sin of omission respecting that same matter of prefaces; secondly, that it is a general custom with that class of students to begin with the last chapter of a work; so that, after all, these remarks, being introduced last in order, have still the best chance to be read in their proper place. there is no european nation which, within the course of half a century or little more, has undergone so complete a change as this kingdom of scotland. the effects of the insurrection of ,--the destruction of the patriarchal power of the highland chiefs,--the abolition of the heritable jurisdictions of the lowland nobility and barons,--the total eradication of the jacobite party, which, averse to intermingle with the english, or adopt their customs, long continued to pride themselves upon maintaining ancient scottish manners and customs,--commenced this innovation. the gradual influx of wealth and extension of commerce have since united to render the present people of scotland a class of beings as different from their grandfathers as the existing english are from those of queen elizabeth's time. the political and economical effects of these changes have been traced by lord selkirk with great precision and accuracy. but the change, though steadily and rapidly progressive, has nevertheless been gradual; and, like those who drift down the stream of a deep and smooth river, we are not aware of the progress we have made until we fix our eye on the now distant point from which we have been drifted. such of the present generation as can recollect the last twenty or twenty-five years of the eighteenth century will be fully sensible of the truth of this statement; especially if their acquaintance and connexions lay among those who in my younger time were facetiously called 'folks of the old leaven,' who still cherished a lingering, though hopeless, attachment to the house of stuart. this race has now almost entirely vanished from the land, and with it, doubtless, much absurd political prejudice; but also many living examples of singular and disinterested attachment to the principles of loyalty which they received from their fathers, and of old scottish faith, hospitality, worth, and honour. it was my accidental lot, though not born a highlander (which may be an apology for much bad gaelic), to reside during my childhood and youth among persons of the above description; and now, for the purpose of preserving some idea of the ancient manners of which i have witnessed the almost total extinction, i have embodied in imaginary scenes, and ascribed to fictitious characters, a part of the incidents which i then received from those who were actors in them. indeed, the most romantic parts of this narrative are precisely those which have a foundation in fact. the exchange of mutual protection between a highland gentleman and an officer of rank in the king's service, together with the spirited manner in which the latter asserted his right to return the favour he had received, is literally true. the accident by a musket shot, and the heroic reply imputed to flora, relate to a lady of rank not long deceased. and scarce a gentleman who was 'in hiding' after the battle of culloden but could tell a tale of strange concealments and of wild and hair'sbreadth'scapes as extraordinary as any which i have ascribed to my heroes. of this, the escape of charles edward himself, as the most prominent, is the most striking example. the accounts of the battle of preston and skirmish at clifton are taken from the narrative of intelligent eye-witnesses, and corrected from the 'history of the rebellion' by the late venerable author of 'douglas.' the lowland scottish gentlemen and the subordinate characters are not given as individual portraits, but are drawn from the general habits of the period, of which i have witnessed some remnants in my younger days, and partly gathered from tradition. it has been my object to describe these persons, not by a caricatured and exaggerated use of the national dialect, but by their habits, manners, and feelings, so as in some distant degree to emulate the admirable irish portraits drawn by miss edgeworth, so different from the 'teagues' and 'dear joys' who so long, with the most perfect family resemblance to each other, occupied the drama and the novel. i feel no confidence, however, in the manner in which i have executed my purpose. indeed, so little was i satisfied with my production, that i laid it aside in an unfinished state, and only found it again by mere accident among other waste papers in an old cabinet, the drawers of which i was rummaging in order to accommodate a friend with some fishing-tackle, after it had been mislaid for several years. two works upon similar subjects, by female authors whose genius is highly creditable to their country, have appeared in the interval; i mean mrs. hamilton's 'glenburnie' and the late account of 'highland superstitions.' but the first is confined to the rural habits of scotland, of which it has given a picture with striking and impressive fidelity; and the traditional records of the respectable and ingenious mrs. grant of laggan are of a nature distinct from the fictitious narrative which i have here attempted. i would willingly persuade myself that the preceding work will not be found altogether uninteresting. to elder persons it will recall scenes and characters familiar to their youth; and to the rising generation the tale may present some idea of the manners of their forefathers. yet i heartily wish that the task of tracing the evanescent manners of his own country had employed the pen of the only man in scotland who could have done it justice--of him so eminently distinguished in elegant literature, and whose sketches of colonel caustic and umphraville are perfectly blended with the finer traits of national character. i should in that case have had more pleasure as a reader than i shall ever feel in the pride of a successful author, should these sheets confer upon me that envied distinction. and, as i have inverted the usual arrangement, placing these remarks at the end of the work to which they refer, i will venture on a second violation of form, by closing the whole with a dedication-- these volumes being respectfully inscribed to our scottish addison, henry mackenzie, by an unknown admirer of his genius. the end notes note i, p. the clan of mac-farlane, occupying the fastnesses of the western side of loch lomond, were great depredators on the low country, and as their excursions were made usually by night, the moon was proverbially called their lantern. their celebrated pibroch of hoggil nam bo, which is the name of their gathering tune, intimates similar practices, the sense being:-- we are bound to drive the bullocks, all by hollows, hirsts, and hillocks, through the sleet, and through the rain. when the moon is beaming low on frozen lake and hills of snow, bold and heartily we go; and all for little gain. note , p. this noble ruin is dear to my recollection, from associations which have been long and painfully broken. it holds a commanding station on the banks of the river teith, and has been one of the largest castles in scotland. murdoch, duke of albany, the founder of this stately pile, was beheaded on the castle-hill of stirling, from which he might see the towers of doune, the monument of his fallen greatness. in - , as stated in the text, a garrison on the part of the chevalier was put into the castle, then less ruinous than at present. it was commanded by mr. stewart of balloch, as governor for prince charles; he was a man of property near callander. this castle became at that time the actual scene of a romantic escape made by john home, the author of douglas, and some other prisoners, who, having been taken at the battle of falkirk, were confined there by the insurgents. the poet, who had in his own mind a large stock of that romantic and enthusiastic spirit of adventure which he has described as animating the youthful hero of his drama, devised and undertook the perilous enterprise of escaping from his prison. he inspired his companions with his sentiments, and when every attempt at open force was deemed hopeless, they resolved to twist their bed-clothes into ropes and thus to descend. four persons, with home himself, reached the ground in safety. but the rope broke with the fifth, who was a tall, lusty man. the sixth was thomas barrow, a brave young englishman, a particular friend of home's. determined to take the risk, even in such unfavourable circumstances, barrow committed himself to the broken rope, slid down on it as far as it could assist him, and then let himself drop. his friends beneath succeeded in breaking his fall. nevertheless, he dislocated his ankle and had several of his ribs broken. his companions, however, were able to bear him off in safety. the highlanders next morning sought for their prisoners with great activity. an old gentleman told the author he remembered seeing the commandant stewart bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste, riding furiously through the country in quest of the fugitives. note , p. to go out, or to have been out, in scotland was a conventional phrase similar to that of the irish respecting a man having been up, both having reference to an individual who had been engaged in insurrection. it was accounted ill-breeding in scotland about forty years since to use the phrase rebellion or rebel, which might be interpreted by some of the parties present as a personal insult. it was also esteemed more polite, even for stanch whigs, to denominate charles edward the chevalier than to speak of him as the pretender; and this kind of accommodating courtesy was usually observed in society where individuals of each party mixed on friendly terms. note , p. the jacobite sentiments were general among the western counties and in wales. but although the great families of the wynnes, the wyndhams, and others had come under an actual obligation to join prince charles if he should land, they had done so under the express stipulation that he should be assisted by an auxiliary army of french, without which they foresaw the enterprise would be desperate. wishing well to his cause, therefore, and watching an opportunity to join him, they did not, nevertheless, think themselves bound in honour to do so, as he was only supported by a body of wild mountaineers, speaking an uncouth dialect, and wearing a singular dress. the race up to derby struck them with more dread than admiration. but it is difficult to say what the effect might have been had either the battle of preston or falkirk been fought and won during the advance into england. note , p. divisions early showed themselves in the chevalier's little army, not only amongst the independent chieftains, who were far too proud to brook subjection to each other, but betwixt the scotch and charles's governor o'sullivan, an irishman by birth, who, with some of his countrymen bred in the irish brigade in the service of the king of france, had an influence with the adventurer much resented by the highlanders, who were sensible that their own clans made the chief or rather the only strength of his enterprise. there was a feud, also, between lord george murray and john murray of broughton, the prince's secretary, whose disunion greatly embarrassed the affairs of the adventurer. in general, a thousand different pretensions divided their little army, and finally contributed in no small degree to its overthrow. note , p. this circumstance, which is historical, as well as the description that precedes it, will remind the reader of the war of la vendee, in which the royalists, consisting chiefly of insurgent peasantry, attached a prodigious and even superstitious interest to the possession of a piece of brass ordnance, which they called marie jeanne. the highlanders of an early period were afraid of cannon, with the noise and effect of which they were totally unacquainted. it was by means of three or four small pieces of artillery that the earls of huntly and errol, in james vi's time, gained a great victory at glenlivat, over a numerous highland army, commanded by the earl of argyle. at the battle of the bridge of dee, general middleton obtained by his artillery a similar success, the highlanders not being able to stand the discharge of musket's mother, which was the name they bestowed on great guns. in an old ballad on the battle of the bridge of dee these verses occur:-- the highlandmen are pretty men for handling sword and shield, but yet they are but simple men to stand a stricken field. the highlandmen are pretty men for target and claymore, but yet they are but naked men to face the cannon's roar. for the cannons roar on a summer night like thunder in the air; was never man in highland garb would face the cannon fair but the highlanders of had got far beyond the simplicity of their forefathers, and showed throughout the whole war how little they dreaded artillery, although the common people still attached some consequence to the possession of the field-piece which led to this disquisition. note , p. the faithful friend who pointed out the pass by which the highlanders moved from tranent to seaton was robert anderson, junior, of whitburgh, a gentleman of property in east lothian. he had been interrogated by the lord george murray concerning the possibility of crossing the uncouth and marshy piece of ground which divided the armies, and which he described as impracticable. when dismissed, he recollected that there was a circuitous path leading eastward through the marsh into the plain, by which the highlanders might turn the flank of sir john cope's position without being exposed to the enemy's fire. having mentioned his opinion to mr. hepburn of keith, who instantly saw its importance, he was encouraged by that gentleman to awake lord george murray and communicate the idea to him. lord george received the information with grateful thanks, and instantly awakened prince charles, who was sleeping in the field with a bunch of pease under his head. the adventurer received with alacrity the news that there was a possibility of bringing an excellently provided army to a decisive battle with his own irregular forces. his joy on the occasion was not very consistent with the charge of cowardice brought against him by chevalier johnstone, a discontented follower, whose memoirs possess at least as much of a romantic as a historical character. even by the account of the chevalier himself, the prince was at the head of the second line of the highland army during the battle, of which he says, 'it was gained with such rapidity that in the second line, where i was still by the side of the prince, we saw no other enemy than those who were lying on the ground killed and wounded, though we were not more than fifty paces behind our first line, running always as fast as we could to overtake them.' this passage in the chevalier's memoirs places the prince within fifty paces of the heat of the battle, a position which would never have been the choice of one unwilling to take a share of its dangers. indeed, unless the chiefs had complied with the young adventurer's proposal to lead the van in person, it does not appear that he could have been deeper in the action. note , p. the death of this good christian and gallant man is thus given by his affectionate biographer, doctor doddridge, from the evidence of eye-witnesses:-- 'he continued all night under arms, wrapped up in his cloak, and generally sheltered under a rick of barley which happened to be in the field. about three in the morning he called his domestic servants to him, of which there were four in waiting. he dismissed three of them with most affectionate christian advice, and such solemn charges relating to the performance of their duty, and the care of their souls, as seemed plainly to intimate that he apprehended it was at least very probable he was taking his last farewell of them. there is great reason to believe that he spent the little remainder of the time, which could not be much above an hour, in those devout exercises of soul which had been so long habitual to him, and to which so many circumstances did then concur to call him. the army was alarmed by break of day by the noise of the rebels' approach, and the attack was made before sunrise, yet when it was light enough to discern what passed. as soon as the enemy came within gun-shot they made a furious fire; and it is said that the dragoons which constituted the left wing immediately fled. the colonel at the beginning of the onset, which in the whole lasted but a few minutes, received a wound by a bullet in his left breast, which made him give a sudden spring in his saddle; upon which his servant, who led the horse, would have persuaded him to retreat, but he said it was only a wound in the flesh, and fought on, though he presently after received a shot in his right thigh. in the mean time, it was discerned that some of the enemy fell by him, and particularly one man who had made him a treacherous visit but a few days before, with great professions of zeal for the present establishment. 'events of this kind pass in less time than the description of them can be written, or than it can be read. the colonel was for a few moments supported by his men, and particularly by that worthy person lieutenant-colonel whitney, who was shot through the arm here, and a few months after fell nobly at the battle of falkirk, and by lieutenant west, a man of distinguished bravery, as also by about fifteen dragoons, who stood by him to the last. but after a faint fire, the regiment in general was seized with a panic; and though their colonel and some other gallant officers did what they could to rally them once or twice, they at last took a precipitate flight. and just in the moment when colonel gardiner seemed to be making a pause to deliberate what duty required him to do in such circumstances, an accident happened, which must, i think, in the judgment of every worthy and generous man, be allowed a sufficient apology for exposing his life to so great hazard, when his regiment had left him. he saw a party of the foot, who were then bravely fighting near him, and whom he was ordered to support, had no officer to head them; upon which he said eagerly, in the hearing of the person from whom i had this account, "these brave fellows will be cut to pieces for want of a commander," or words to that effect; which while he was speaking he rode up to them and cried out, "fire on, my lads, and fear nothing." but just as the words were out of his mouth, a highlander advanced towards him with a scythe fastened to a long pole, with which he gave him so dreadful a wound on his right arm, that his sword dropped out of his hand; and at the same time several others coming about him while he was thus dreadfully entangled with that cruel weapon, he was dragged off from his horse. the moment he fell, another highlander, who, if the king's evidence at carlisle may be credited (as i know not why they should not, though the unhappy creature died denying it), was one mac-naught, who was executed about a year after, gave him a stroke either with a broadsword or a lochaber-axe (for my informant could not exactly distinguish) on the hinder part of his head, which was the mortal blow. all that his faithful attendant saw farther at this time was that, as his hat was fallen off, he took it in his left hand and waved it as a signal to him to retreat, and added, what were the last words he ever heard him speak, "take care of yourself"; upon which the servant retired.'--some remarkable passages in the life of colonel james gardiner. by p. doddridge, d.d. london, , p. . i may remark on this extract, that it confirms the account given in the text of the resistance offered by some of the english infantry. surprised by a force of a peculiar and unusual description, their opposition could not be long or formidable, especially as they were deserted by the cavalry, and those who undertook to manage the artillery. but, although the affair was soon decided, i have always understood that many of the infantry showed an inclination to do their duty. note , p. it is scarcely necessary to say that the character of this brutal young laird is entirely imaginary. a gentleman, however, who resembled balmawhapple in the article of courage only, fell at preston in the manner described. a perthshire gentleman of high honour and respectability, one of the handful of cavalry who followed the fortunes of charles edward, pursued the fugitive dragoons almost alone till near saint clement's wells, where the efforts of some of the officers had prevailed on a few of them to make a momentary stand. perceiving at this moment that they were pursued by only one man and a couple of servants, they turned upon him and cut him down with their swords. i remember when a child, sitting on his grave, where the grass long grew rank and green, distinguishing it from the rest of the field. a female of the family then residing at saint clement's wells used to tell me the tragedy, of which she had been an eye-witness, and showed me in evidence one of the silver clasps of the unfortunate gentleman's waistcoat. note , p. the name of andrea de ferrara is inscribed on all the scottish broadswords which are accounted of peculiar excellence. who this artist was, what were his fortunes, and when he flourished, have hitherto defied the research of antiquaries; only it is in general believed that andrea de ferrara was a spanish or italian artificer, brought over by james iv or v to instruct the scots in the manufacture of sword blades. most barbarous nations excel in the fabrication of arms; and the scots had attained great proficiency in forging swords so early as the field of pinkie; at which period the historian patten describes them as 'all notably broad and thin, universally made to slice, and of such exceeding good temper that, as i never saw any so good, so i think it hard to devise better.'--account of somerset's expedition. it may be observed that the best and most genuine andrea ferraras have a crown marked on the blade. note , p. the incident here said to have happened to flora mac-ivor actually befell miss nairne, a lady with whom the author had the pleasure of being acquainted. as the highland army rushed into edinburgh, miss nairne, like other ladies who approved of their cause, stood waving her handkerchief from a balcony, when a ball from a highlander's musket, which was discharged by accident, grazed her forehead. 'thank god,' said she, the instant she recovered,'that the accident happened to me, whose principles are known. had it befallen a whig, they would have said it was done on purpose.' note , p. the author of waverley has been charged with painting the young adventurer in colours more amiable than his character deserved. but having known many individuals who were near his person, he has been described according to the light in which those eye-witnesses saw his temper and qualifications. something must be allowed, no doubt, to the natural exaggerations of those who remembered him as the bold and adventurous prince in whose cause they had braved death and ruin; but is their evidence to give place entirely to that of a single malcontent? i have already noticed the imputations thrown by the chevalier johnstone on the prince's courage. but some part at least of that gentleman's tale is purely romantic. it would not, for instance, be supposed that at the time he is favouring us with the highly wrought account of his amour with the adorable peggie, the chevalier johnstone was a married man, whose grandchild is now alive; or that the whole circumstantial story concerning the outrageous vengeance taken by gordon of abbachie on a presbyterian clergyman is entirely apocryphal. at the same time it may be admitted that the prince, like others of his family, did not esteem the services done him by his adherents so highly as he ought. educated in high ideas of his hereditary right, he has been supposed to have held every exertion and sacrifice made in his cause as too much the duty of the person making it to merit extravagant gratitude on his part. dr. king's evidence (which his leaving the jacobite interest renders somewhat doubtful) goes to strengthen this opinion. the ingenious editor of johnstone's memoirs has quoted a story said to be told by helvetius, stating that prince charles edward, far from voluntarily embarking on his daring expedition, was, literally bound hand and foot, and to which he seems disposed to yield credit. now, it being a fact as well known as any in his history, and, so far as i know, entirely undisputed, that the prince's personal entreaties and urgency positively forced boisdale and lochiel into insurrection, when they were earnestly desirous that he would put off his attempt until he could obtain a sufficient force from france, it will be very difficult to reconcile his alleged reluctance to undertake the expedition with his desperately insisting upon carrying the rising into effect against the advice and entreaty of his most powerful and most sage partizans. surely a man who had been carried bound on board the vessel which brought him to so desperate an enterprise would have taken the opportunity afforded by the reluctance of his partizans to return to france in safety. it is averred in johnstone's memoirs that charles edward left the field of culloden without doing the utmost to dispute the victory; and, to give the evidence on both sides, there is in existence the more trustworthy testimony of lord elcho, who states that he himself earnestly exhorted the prince to charge at the head of the left wing, which was entire, and retrieve the day or die with honour. and on his counsel being declined, lord elcho took leave of him with a bitter execration, swearing he would never look on his face again, and kept his word. on the other hand, it seems to have been the opinion of almost all the other officers that the day was irretrievably lost, one wing of the highlanders being entirely routed, the rest of the army outnumbered, outflanked, and in a condition totally hopeless. in this situation of things the irish officers who surrounded charles's person interfered to force him off the field. a cornet who was close to the prince left a strong attestation that he had seen sir thomas sheridan seize the bridle of his horse and turn him round. there is some discrepancy of evidence; but the opinion of lord elcho, a man of fiery temper and desperate at the ruin which he beheld impending, cannot fairly be taken in prejudice of a character for courage which is intimated by the nature of the enterprise itself, by the prince's eagerness to fight on all occasions, by his determination to advance from derby to london, and by the presence of mind which he manifested during the romantic perils of his escape. the author is far from claiming for this unfortunate person the praise due to splendid talents; but he continues to be of opinion that at the period of his enterprise he had a mind capable of facing danger and aspiring to fame. that charles edward had the advantages of a graceful presence, courtesy, and an address and manner becoming his station, the author never heard disputed by any who approached his person, nor does he conceive that these qualities are overcharged in the present attempt to sketch his portrait. the following extracts corroborative of the general opinion respecting the prince's amiable disposition are taken from a manuscript account of his romantic expedition, by james maxwell of kirkconnell, of which i possess a copy, by the friendship of j. menzies, esq., of pitfoddells. the author, though partial to the prince, whom he faithfully followed, seems to have been a fair and candid man, and well acquainted with the intrigues among the adventurer's council:-- 'everybody was mightily taken with the prince's figure and personal behaviour. there was but one voice about them. those whom interest or prejudice made a runaway to his cause could not help acknowledging that they wished him well in all other respects, and could hardly blame him for his present undertaking. sundry things had concurred to raise his character to the highest pitch, besides the greatness of the enterprise and the conduct that had hitherto appeared in the execution of it. 'there were several instances of good nature and humanity that had made a great impression on people's minds. i shall confine myself to two or three. 'immediately after the battle, as the prince was riding along the ground that cope's army had occupied a few minutes before, one of the officers came up to congratulate him, and said, pointing to the killed, "sir, there are your enemies at your feet." the prince, far from exulting, expressed a great deal of compassion for his father's deluded subjects, whom he declared he was heartily sorry to see in that posture. 'next day, while the prince was at pinkie house, a citizen of edinburgh came to make some representation to secretary murray about the tents that city was ordered to furnish against a certain day. murray happened to be out of the way, which the prince hearing of called to have the gentleman brought to him, saying, he would rather despatch the business, whatever it was, himself than have the gentleman wait, which he did, by granting everything that was asked. so much affability in a young prince flushed with victory drew encomiums even from his enemies. 'but what gave the people the highest idea of him was the negative he gave to a thing that very nearly concerned his interest, and upon which the success of his enterprise perhaps depended. it was proposed to send one of the prisoners to london to demand of that court a cartel for the exchange of prisoners taken, and to be taken, during this war, and to intimate that a refusal would be looked upon as a resolution on their part to give no quarter. it was visible a cartel would be of great advantage to the prince's affairs; his friends would be more ready to declare for him if they had nothing to fear but the chance of war in the field; and if the court of london refused to settle a cartel, the prince was authorised to treat his prisoners in the same manner the elector of hanover was determined to treat such of the prince's friends as might fall into his hands; it was urged that a few examples would compel the court of london to comply. it was to be presumed that the officers of the english army would make a point of it. they had never engaged in the service but upon such terms as are in use among all civilised nations, and it could be no stain upon their honour to lay down their commissions if these terms were not observed, and that owing to the obstinacy of their own prince. though this scheme was plausible, and represented as very important, the prince could never be brought into it, it was below him, he said, to make empty threats, and he would never put such as those into execution; he would never in cold blood take away lives which he had saved in heat of action at the peril of his own. these were not the only proofs of good nature the prince gave about this time. every day produced something new of this kind. these things softened the rigour of a military government which was only imputed to the necessity of his affairs, and which he endeavoured to make as gentle and easy as possible.' it has been said that the prince sometimes exacted more state and ceremonial than seemed to suit his condition; but, on the other hand, some strictness of etiquette was altogether indispensable where he must otherwise have been exposed to general intrusion. he could also endure, with a good grace, the retorts which his affectation of ceremony sometimes exposed him to. it is said, for example, that grant of glenmoriston having made a hasty march to join charles, at the head of his clan, rushed into the prince's presence at holyrood with unceremonious haste, without having attended to the duties of the toilet. the prince received him kindly, but not without a hint that a previous interview with the barber might not have been wholly unnecessary. 'it is not beardless boys,' answered the displeased chief, 'who are to do your royal highness's turn.' the chevalier took the rebuke in good part. on the whole, if prince charles had concluded his life soon after his miraculous escape, his character in history must have stood very high. as it was, his station is amongst those a certain brilliant portion of whose life forms a remarkable contrast to all which precedes and all which follows it. note , p. the following account of the skirmish at clifton is extracted from the manuscript memoirs of evan macpherson of cluny, chief of the clan macpherson, who had the merit of supporting the principal brunt of that spirited affair. the memoirs appear to have been composed about , only ten years after the action had taken place. they were written in france, where that gallant chief resided in exile, which accounts for some gallicisms which occur in the narrative. 'in the prince's return from derby back towards scotland, my lord george murray, lieutenant-general, cheerfully charg'd himself with the command of the rear, a post which, altho' honourable, was attended with great danger, many difficulties, and no small fatigue; for the prince, being apprehensive that his retreat to scotland might be cut off by marischall wade, who lay to the northward of him with an armie much supperior to what h.r.h. had, while the duke of comberland with his whole cavalrie followed hard in the rear, was obliged to hasten his marches. it was not, therefore, possible for the artilirie to march so fast as the prince's army, in the depth of winter, extremely bad weather, and the worst roads in england; so lord george murray was obliged often to continue his marches long after it was dark almost every night, while at the same time he had frequent allarms and disturbances from the duke of comberland's advanc'd parties. 'towards the evening of the twentie-eight december the prince entered the town of penrith, in the province of comberland. but as lord george murray could not bring up the artilirie so fast as he wou'd have wish'd, he was oblig'd to pass the night six miles short of that town, together with the regiment of macdonel of glengarrie, which that day happened to have the arrear guard. the prince, in order to refresh his armie, and to give my lord george and the artilirie time to come up, resolved to sejour the th at penrith; so ordered his little army to appear in the morning under arms, in order to be reviewed, and to know in what manner the numbers stood from his haveing entered england. it did not at that time amount to foot in all, with about cavalrie, compos'd of the noblesse who serv'd as volunteers, part of whom form'd a first troop of guards for the prince, under the command of my lord elchoe, now comte de weems, who, being proscribed, is presently in france. another part formed a second troup of guards under the command of my lord balmirino, who was beheaded at the tower of london. a third part serv'd under my lord le comte de kilmarnock, who was likewise beheaded at the tower. a fourth part serv'd under my lord pitsligow, who is also proscribed; which cavalrie, tho' very few in numbers, being all noblesse, were very brave, and of infinite advantage to the foot, not only in the day of battle, but in serving as advanced guards on the several marches, and in patroling dureing the night on the different roads which led towards the towns where the army happened to quarter. 'while this small army was out in a body on the qth december, upon a riseing ground to the northward of penrith, passing review, mons. de cluny, with his tribe, was ordered to the bridge of clifton, about a mile to southward of penrith, after having pass'd in review before mons. pattullo, who was charged with the inspection of the troops, and was likeways quarter-master-general of the army, and is now in france. they remained under arms at the bridge, waiting the arrival of my lord george murray with the artilirie, whom mons. de cluny had orders to cover in passing the bridge. they arrived about sunsett closly pursued by the duke of comberland with the whole body of his cavalrie, reckoned upwards of strong, about a thousand of whom, as near as might be computed, dismounted, in order to cut off the passage of the artilirie towards the bridge, while the duke and the others remained on horseback in order to attack the rear. 'my lord george murray advanced, and although he found mons. de cluny and his tribe in good spirits under arms, yet the circumstance appear'd extremely delicate. the numbers were vastly unequall, and the attack seem'd very dangerous; so my lord george declin'd giving orders to such time as he ask'd mons. de cluny's oppinion. "i will attack them with all my heart," says mons. de cluny, "if you order me." "i do order it then," answered my lord george, and immediately went on himself along with mons. de cluny, and fought sword in hand on foot at the head of the single tribe of macphersons. they in a moment made their way through a strong hedge of thorns, under the cover whereof the cavalrie had taken their station, in the strugle of passing which hedge my lord george murray, being dressed en montagnard, as all the army were, lost his bonet and wig; so continued to fight bare-headed during the action. they at first made a brisk discharge of their firearms on the enemy, then attacked them with their sabres, and made a great slaughter a considerable time, which obliged comberland and his cavalrie to fly with precipitation and in great confusion; in so much that, if the prince had been provided in a sufficient number of cavalrie to have taken advantage of the disorder, it is beyond question that the duke of comberland and the bulk of his cavalrie had been taken prisoners. 'by this time it was so dark that it was not possible to view or number the slain who filled all the ditches which happened to be on the ground where they stood. but it was computed that, besides those who went off wounded, upwards of a hundred at least were left on the spot, among whom was colonel honywood, who commanded the dismounted cavalrie, whose sabre of considerable value mons. de cluny brought off and still preserves; and his tribe lykeways brought off many arms;--the colonel was afterwards taken up, and, his wounds being dress'd, with great difficultie recovered. mons. de cluny lost only in the action twelve men, of whom some haveing been only wounded, fell afterwards into the hands of the enemy, and were sent as slaves to america, whence several of them returned, and one of them is now in france, a sergeant in the regiment of royal scots. how soon the accounts of the enemies approach had reached the prince, h.r.h. had immediately ordered mi-lord le comte de nairne, brigadier, who, being proscribed, is now in france, with the three batalions of the duke of athol, the batalion of the duke of perth, and some other troups under his command, in order to support cluny, and to bring off the artilirie. but the action was entirely over before the comte de nairne, with his command, cou'd reach nigh to the place. they therefore return'd all to penrith, and the artilirie marched up in good order. 'nor did the duke of comberland ever afterwards dare to come within a day's march of the prince and his army dureing the course of all that retreat, which was conducted with great prudence and safety when in some manner surrounded by enemies.' note , p. as the heathen deities contracted an indelible obligation if they swore by styx, the scottish highlanders had usually some peculiar solemnity attached to an oath which they intended should be binding on them. very frequently it consisted in laying their hand, as they swore, on their own drawn dirk; which dagger, becoming a party to the transaction, was invoked to punish any breach of faith. but by whatever ritual the oath was sanctioned, the party was extremely desirous to keep secret what the especial oath was which he considered as irrevocable. this was a matter of great convenience, as he felt no scruple in breaking his asseveration when made in any other form than that which he accounted as peculiarly solemn; and therefore readily granted any engagement which bound him no longer than he inclined. whereas, if the oath which he accounted inviolable was once publicly known, no party with whom he might have occasion to contract would have rested satisfied with any other. louis xi of france practised the same sophistry, for he also had a peculiar species of oath, the only one which he was ever known to respect, and which, therefore, he was very unwilling to pledge. the only engagement which that wily tyrant accounted binding upon him was an oath by the holy cross of saint lo d'angers, which contained a portion of the true cross. if he prevaricated after taking this oath louis believed he should die within the year. the constable saint paul, being invited to a personal conference with louis, refused to meet the king unless he would agree to ensure him safe conduct under sanction of this oath. but, says comines, the king replied, he would never again pledge that engagement to mortal man, though he was willing to take any other oath which could be devised. the treaty broke oft, therefore, after much chaffering concerning the nature of the vow which louis was to take. such is the difference between the dictates of superstition and those of conscience. glossary a', all. aboon, abune, above. ae, one. aff, off. afore, before. ahint, behind. ain, own. aits, oats. amaist, almost. ambry, a cupboard, a pantry. an, if. ane, one. aneuch, enough. array, annoy, trouble. assoilzied, absolved, acquitted. assythment, satisfaction, auld, old. baff, a blow. bagganet, a bayonet. bailie, a city magistrate in scotland. bairn, a child. baith, both. banes, bones. bang-up, get up quickly, bounce. barley, a parley, a truce. bauld, bold. baulder, bolder. bawbee, a halfpenny. bawty, sly, cunning. bees, in the, bewildered, stupefied. beflumm'd, flattered, cajoled. begunk, a trick, a cheat. ben, within, inside. benempt, named. bicker, a wooden dish. bide, stay, endure. bieldy, affording shelter. bigging, building. birlieman, a peace officer. black-cock, the black grouse. black-fishing, ashing by torchlight, poaching. blude, bluid, blood. boddle, bodle, a copper coin, worth one third of an english penny. bogle about the bush, beat about the bush, a children's game. bonnie, beautiful, comely, fine, boune, prepared. bra', fine, handsome, showy. brander, broil. breeks, breeches. brent, smooth, unwrinkled. brogues, highland shoes. broo, brew, broth. bruckle, brittle, infirm. bruik, enjoy. brulzie, bruilzie, a broil, a fray. buckie, a perverse or refractory person. buttock-mail, a fine for fornication. bydand, awaiting. ca', call. cadger, a country carrier. cailliachs, old women on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead, which the irish call keening. callant, a stripling, a fine fellow. cannily, prudently. canny, cautious, lucky. carle, a churl, an old man. cateran, a freebooter. chiel, a young man. clachan, a village, a hamlet. clamyhewit, a blow, a drubbing. clash, chatter, gossip. clatter, tattle, noisy talk. close, a narrow passage. clour, a bump, a bruise. cocky-leeky, a soup made of a cock, seasoned with leeks. coghling and droghling, wheezing and blowing. coronach, a dirge. corrie, a mountain hollow. coup, fall. cow yer cracks, cut short your talk, hold your tongues. crack, boast. craig, the neck, the throat. crames, merchants' shops, booths. cut-lugged, crop-eared. daft, foolish, mad, crazy. daur, dare. deaving, deafening. decreet, an order of decree. deliver, light, agile. dern, hidden, concealed, secret. ding, knock, beat, surpass. dingle, dinnle, tingle, vibrate with sound. doer, an agent, a manager. dog-head, the hammer of a gun. doiled, crazed, silly. doited, having the faculties impaired. dorlach, a bundle. dow, a dove. dowf, dowff, dull, spiritless. drappie, a little drop, a small quantity of drink. effeir, what is becoming. eneugh, enough. etter-cap, a spider, an ill-natured person. evite, avoid, escape. ewest, ewast, contiguous. fallow, a fellow. fauld, fold. feared, afraid. feck, a quantity. fleyt, frightened, shy. frae, from. gad, a goad, a rod. gane, gone; gang, go. gar, make. gate, way. gaun, going. gear, goods. ghaist, a ghost. gin, if. gite, crazy, a noodle, gled, a kite. gleg, quick, clever. glisk, a glimpse. gowd, gold. graning, groaning. grat, wept. gree, agree. greybeard, a stone bottle or jug. grice, gryce, gris, a pig. gripple, griping, niggardly. gude, guid, good. gulpin, a simpleton. ha', hall. hag, a portion of copse marked off for cutting. haggis, a pudding peculiar to scotland, containing oatmeal, suet, minced sheep's liver, heart, etc., seasoned with onions, pepper, and salt, the whole mixture boiled in a sheep's stomach. hail, whole. heck, a hay rack; at heck and manger, in plenty. het, hot. hog, a young sheep before its first shearing. horse-couper, horse-cowper, a horse-dealer. hurdles, the buttocks. hurley-house, a large house fallen into disrepair. ilk, same; of that ilk, of the same name or place, ilka, every. ingle, a fire burning upon the hearth. in the bees, stupefied. keepit, kept. kemple, a scotch measure of straw or hay. ken, know. kippage, disorder, confusion. kirk, church. kittle, tickle, ticklish. laird, lord of the manor. landlouper, a wanderer, a vagabond. leddy, a lady. lightly, make light of, disparage. limmer, a hussy, a jade. loon, a worthless fellow, a lout. loup, leap, start. lug, an ear. lunzie, the loins, the waist. mae, more. mains, the chief farm of an estate. mair, more. maist, most, almost. mart, beef salted down for winter. mask, mash, infuse. maun, must. merk, an old silver coin worth / pence, english. mickle, large, much. morn, tomorrow. mousted, powdered. muckle, great, much. munt, mount. mutchkin, a measure equal to about three quarters of an imperial pint. na, nae, no, not. naigs, horses. nail, the sixteenth part of a yard. natheless, nevertheless. neb, nose, tip. ne'er be in me, devil be in me. old to do, great doings. ower, over. paitrick, a partridge. panged, crammed. parritch, oatmeal porridge. paunie, a peacock. peculium, private property. pinners, a headdress for women. plack, a copper coin worth one third of a penny. plaidy, an outer covering for the body. plenish, furnish. ploy, an entertainment, a pastime. pottinger, an apothecary. pownie, a pony. powtering, poking, stirring. pretty man, a stout, warlike fellow. quean, a young woman. redd, part, separate. reises, twigs, branches. resiling, retracting, withdrawing. riggs, ridges, ploughed ground. rintherout, a roving person, a vagabond. row, roll. rowed, rolled. rowt, cried out, bellowed, roynish, scurvy, coarse. sae, so. st. johnstone's tippet, a rope or halter for hanging. sair, sore, very. sall, shall. sark, a shirt. saumon, a salmon. saut, salt. scarted, scratched, scribbled over. schellum, a rascal. scroll, engross, copy. shanks, legs. sheers, shears. shouther, the shoulder. siccan, sic, such. siller, money. silly, weak. skig, the least quantity of anything. sma', small. smoky, suspicious. sneck, cut. sorted, put in proper order, adjusted. sowens, the seeds of oatmeal soured. speer, ask, investigate. spence, the place where provisions are kept. sprack, lively. sprechery, movables of an unimportant sort. spuilzie, spoil. spung, pick one's pocket. stieve, firm. stoor, rough, harsh. strae, straw. streeks, stretches, lies. swair, swore. syne, before, now, ago. taiglit, harassed, encumbered, loitered. tauld, told. thae, those. thir, these. thole, bear, suffer. thraw, twist, wrench. threepit, maintained obstinately. throstle, the thrush. till, to. tirrivies, hasty fits of passion, tocherless, without dowry. toun, a town, a hamlet, a farm. toy, an old-fashioned cap for women. trews, trousers. trindling, rolling. trow, believe. tuilzie, a quarrel tume, toom, empty. turnspit doggie, a kind of dog, long-bodied and short-legged, formerly used in turning a treadmill. tyke, a dog, a rough fellow. umquhile, formerly, late. unco, strange, very, unsonsy, unlucky. usquebaugh, whiskey. veny, venue, a bout. vivers, victuals. wa', wall wad, would. wadset, a deed conveying property to a creditor wain, a wagon; to remove. walise, a portmanteau, saddlebags. wan, won. wanchancy, unlucky. ware, spend. weel-fard, weel-faur'd, having a good appearance. weising, inclining, directing. wha, who. whar, where, what for, why. wheen, a few. while syne, a while ago. whiles, sometimes. whilk, which. whin, a few. whingeing, whining. winna, will not. wiske, whisk. yate, gate. transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=dnmjaaaamaaj . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. [frontispiece: "but i am grieved i have no virgil." p. ] parson kelly by a. e. w. mason and andrew lang new york longmans, green, and co. london and bombay _copyright, _, by longmans, green, and co. * * * _all rights reserved_ first edition, september, reprinted october, university press john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. to the baron tanneguy de wogan _the representative of a house illustrious for its antiquity:_ _in prosperity splendid: in exile and poverty gay_ _and constant: of loyalty unshaken;_ is dedicated _this narrative, founded on the deeds of his ancestor_, the chevalier nicholas de wogan. a. e. w. m. a. l. preface the authors wish to say that the proceedings of lady oxford are unhistorical. swift mentions a rumour that there was such a lady, but leaves her anonymous. contents chapter i. the parson expresses irreproachable sentiments at the mazarin palace. ii. mr. wogan refuses to acknowledge an undesirable acquaintance in st. james's street. iii. mr. wogan instructs the ignorant parson in the ways of women. iv. shows the extreme danger of knowing latin. v. a literary discussion in which a critic, not for the first time, turns the tables upon an author. vi. mr. nicholas wogan reminds the parson of a night at the mazarin palace. vii. lady mary wortley montagu has a word to say about smilinda. viii. mr. kelly has an adventure at a masquerade ball. ix. wherein the chivalrous mr. kelly behaves with deplorable folly. x. what came of mr. kelly's winnings from the south sea. xi. the parson departs from smilinda and learns a number of unpalatable truths. xii. the parson meets scrope for the third time, and what came of the meeting. xiii. of the rose and the rose-garden in avignon. xiv. of the great confusion produced by a ballad and a drunken crow. xv. at the deanery of westminster. xvi. mr. wogan acts as lightning conductor at lady oxford's rout. xvii. lady oxford's 'coup de théâtre'. xviii. wherein a new fly discourses on the innocence of the spider's web. xix. stroke and counter-stroke. xx. mr. scrope bathes by moonlight and in his peruke. xxi. in which mr. kelly surprises smilinda. xxii. an eclogue which demonstrates the pastoral simplicity of corydon and strephon. xxiii. how the messengers captured the wrong gentleman; and of what letters the colonel burned. xxiv. mr. wogan wears lady oxford's livery, but does not remain in her service. xxv. how the miniature of lady oxford came by a mischance. xxvi. mr. wogan traduces his friend, with the happiest consequences. xxvii. how, by keeping parole, mr. kelly broke prison. xxviii. mr. wogan again invades england, meets the elect lady, and bears witness to her perfections. parson kelly chapter i the parson expresses irreproachable sentiments at the mazarin palace "what mighty quarrels rise from trivial things!" so wrote mr. alexander pope, whom nicholas wogan remembers as a bookish boy in the little catholic colony of windsor forest. the line might serve as a motto for the story which mr. wogan (now a one-armed retired colonel of dillon's irish brigade in french service) is about to tell. the beginnings of our whole mischancy business were trivial in themselves, and in all appearance unrelated to the future. they were nothing more important than the purchase of a couple of small strong-boxes and the placing of parson kelly's patrimony in mr. law's company of the west. both of these events happened upon the same day. it was early in february of the year , and the streets of paris were deep in snow. wogan, then plotting for king james's cause, rode into paris from st. omer at ten o'clock of the forenoon, and just about the same hour parson kelly, plotting too in his way, drove through the orleans gate. a few hours later the two men met in the marais, or rather nicholas wogan saw the skirts of kelly's coat vanishing into an ironmonger's shop, and ran in after him. kelly was standing by the counter with a lady on either side of him, as was the dear man's wont; though their neighbourhood on this occasion was the merest accident, for the parson knew neither of them. 'sure it's my little friend the lace merchant,' said wogan, and clapped his hand pretty hard on the small of his friend's back, whom he had not seen for a twelvemonth and more. kelly stumbled a trifle, maybe, and no doubt he coughed and spluttered. one of the ladies dropped her purse and shuddered into a corner. '_quelle bête sauvage!_' murmured the second with one indignant eye upon nicholas wogan, and the other swimming with pity for mr. kelly. 'madame,' said wogan, picking up the purse and restoring it with his most elegant bow, 'it was pure affection.' 'no doubt,' said kelly, as he rubbed his shoulder; 'but, nick, did you never hear of the bear that smashed his master's skull in the endeavour to stroke off a fly that had settled on his nose? that was pure affection too.' he turned back to the counter, on which the shopman was setting out a number of small strong-boxes, and began to examine them. 'well, you must e'en blame yourself, george,' said nick, 'for the mere sight of you brings the smell of the peat to my nostrils and lends vigour to my hand.' this he said with all sincerity, for the pair had been friends in county kildare long before kelly went to dublin university, and took deacon's orders, and was kicked out of the pulpit for preaching jacobitism in his homilies. as boys they had raced bare-legged over the heather, and spent many an afternoon in fighting over again that siege of rathcoffey castle which an earlier nicholas wogan had held so stoutly for king charles. the recollection of those days always played upon wogan's foolish heartstrings with a touch soft as a woman's fingers, and very likely it now set george kelly's twanging to the same tune; for at wogan's words he turned himself about with a face suddenly illumined. 'here, nick, lay your hand there,' said he and stretched out his hand. 'you will be long in paris?' 'no more than a night. and you?' 'just the same time.' he turned again to the counter, and busied himself with his boxes in something of a hurry, as though he would avoid further questioning. wogan blew a low whistle. maybe we are on the same business, eh?' he asked. 'the king's business?' 'whisht, man,' whispered kelly quickly, and he glanced about the shop. 'have you no sense at all?' the shop was empty at the moment, and there was no reason that wogan could see for his immoderate secrecy. but the parson was much like the rest of the happy-go-lucky conspirators who were intriguing to dislodge the elector from the english throne--cautious by fits and moods, and the more often when there was the less need. but let a scheme get ripe for completion, and sure they imagined it completed already, and at once there would be letters left about here, for all the world to read, and a wink and a sly word there, so that it was little short of a miracle when a plot was launched before it had been discovered by those it was launched against. not that you are to attribute to mr. wogan any superior measure of reticence. on the contrary, it is very probable that it was precisely mr. wogan's tongue which george kelly distrusted, and if so, small blame to him. at any rate, he pursed up his lips and stiffened his back. consequence turned him into a ramrod, and with a voice pitched towards the shopman: 'i am still in the muslin trade,' said he, meaning that he collected money for the cause. 'i shall cross to england to-morrow.' 'indeed and will you now?' said wogan, who was perhaps a little contraried by his friend's reserve. 'then i'll ask you to explain what these pretty boxes have to do with the muslin trade?' 'they are to carry my samples in,' replied kelly readily enough; and then, as if to put wogan's questions aside, 'are you for england, too?' 'no,' said wogan, imitating mr. kelly's importance; 'i am going to visit my aunt anne at cadiz; so make the most of that, my little friend.' wogan was no great dab at the cyphers and the jargon of the plots, but he knew that the duke of ormond, being then in spain, figured in the correspondence as my aunt anne. it was now kelly's turn to whistle, and that he did, and then laughed besides. 'i might have guessed,' said he, 'for there's a likely prospect of broken heads at all events, and to that magnet you were never better than a steel filing.' 'whisht, man,' exclaimed wogan, frowning and wagging his head preposterously. 'is it yourself that's the one person in the world to practise mysteries? broken heads, indeed!' and he shrugged his shoulder as though he had a far greater business on hand. kelly's curiosity rose to the bait, and he put a question or two which wogan waived aside. the parson indeed had hit the truth. wogan had no business whatsoever except the mere fighting, but since the parson was for practising so much dignified secrecy, wogan would do no less. to carry the joke a step further, he turned to the counter, even as kelly had done, and examined the despatch-boxes. he would buy one, to convince kelly that he, too, was trusted with secret papers. the boxes were as like to one another as peas, but wogan discovered a great dissimilitude of defects. 'there's not one of them fit to keep a mouldy cheese in,' said he, tapping and sounding them with his knuckles, 'let alone--' and then he caught himself up with a glance at kelly. 'however, this perhaps may serve--but wait a little.' he felt in his pockets and by chance discovered a piece of string. this string he drew out and carefully measured the despatch-box, depth and width and length. then he put the tip of his thumb between his teeth and bit it in deep thought. 'well, and it must serve, since there's no better; but for heaven's sake, my man, clap a stouter lock on it! i could smash this with my fist. a good stout lock; and send it--wait a moment!' he glanced towards kelly and turned back to the shopman. 'i'll just write down where you are to send it to.' to kelly's more complete mystification he scribbled a name and an address on a sheet of paper, and folded it up with an infinity of precautions. 'send it there, key and all, by nine o'clock tomorrow morning.' the name was mr. kelly's, the address the inn at which mr. kelly was in the habit of putting up. wogan bought the box merely to gull kelly into the belief that he, also, was a royal messenger. then he paid for the box, and forthwith forgot all about it over a bottle of wine. kelly, for his part, held his despatch-box in his hand. 'nick, i have business,' said he as soon as the bottle was empty, 'and it appears you have too. shall we meet to-night? mr. law expects me at the mazarin palace.' 'faith, then i'll make bold to intrude upon him,' said nicholas, who, though mr. law kept open house for those who favoured the white rose, was but a rare visitor to the mazarin palace, holding the financier in so much awe that no amount of affability could extinguish it. however, that night he went, and so learned in greater particular the secret of the parson's journey. it was nine o'clock at night when wogan turned the corner of the rue vivienne and saw the windows of the mazarin palace blazing out upon the snow. a little crowd shivered and gaped beneath them, making, poor devils! a vicarious supper off the noise of mr. law's entertainment. and it was a noisy party that mr. law entertained. before he was half-way down the street wogan could hear the peal of women's laughter and a snatch of a song, and after that maybe a sound of breaking glass, as though a tumbler had been edged off the table by an elbow. he was shown up the great staircase to a room on the first floor. 'monsieur nicholas de wogan,' said the footman, throwing open the door. wogan stepped into the company of the pretty arch conspirators who were then mismanaging the chevalier's affairs. however, with their mismanagement wogan is not here concerned, for this is not a story of kings and queens and high politics but of the private fortunes of parson kelly. olive trant was playing backgammon in a corner with mr. law. madame de mezières, who was seldom absent when politics were towards, graced the table and conversed with lady cecilia law. and right in front of mr. wogan stood that madcap her sister, fanny oglethorpe, with her sleeves tucked back to her elbows, looking gloriously jolly and handsome. she was engaged in mincing chickens in a china bowl which was stewing over a little lamp on the table, for, said she, mr. law had aspersed the english cooks, and she was minded to make him eat his word and her chicken that very night for supper. she had parson kelly helping her upon the one side, and a young french gentleman whom wogan did not know upon the other; and the three of them were stirring in the bowl with a clatter of their wooden spoons. 'here's mr. wogan,' cried fanny oglethorpe, and as wogan held out his hand she clapped her hot spoon into it. 'm. de bellegarde, you must know mr. wogan. he has the broadest back of any man that ever i was acquainted with. you must do more than know him. you must love him, as i do, for the broadness of his back.' m. de bellegarde looked not over-pleased with the civility of her greeting, and bowed to wogan with an affectation of ceremony. mr. law came forward with an affable word. olive trant added another, and madame de mezières asked eagerly what brought him to paris. 'he is on his way to join the duke of ormond at cadiz,' cried kelly; 'and,' said this man deceived, 'he carries the most important messages. bow to him, ladies! gentlemen, your hands to your hearts, and your knees to the ground! it's no longer a soldier of fortune that you see before you, but a diplomatist, an ambassador: his excellency, the chevalier wogan;' and with that he ducked and bowed, shaking his head and gesticulating with his hands, as though he were some dandified court chamberlain. all the parson's diplomacy had been plainly warmed out of him in his present company. mr. law began to laugh, but fanny oglethorpe dropped her spoon and looked at wogan. 'the duke of ormond?' said she, lowering her voice. 'indeed? and you carry messages?' said miss olive trant, upsetting the backgammon board. 'of what kind?' exclaimed madame de mezières; and then, in an instant, their pretty heads were clustered about the table, and their mouths whispering questions, advice, and precautions, all in a breath. 'it's at bristol you are to land?' 'the earl marischal is for scotland?' 'you carry , barrels, mr. wogan?' meaning thereby stands of arms. and, 'you may speak with all confidence,' miss oglethorpe urged, with a glance this way and that over her shoulders. 'there are none but honest people here. m. de bellegarde,' and she looked towards the french spark, blushing very prettily, 'is my good friend.' mr. wogan bowed. 'it was not that i doubted m. de bellegarde,' he replied. 'but 'faith, ladies, i have learnt more of the prospects of the expedition from your questions than ever i knew before. i was told for a certain thing that heads would be broken, and, to be sure, i was content with the information.' at that mr. law laughed. kelly asked, 'what of the despatch-box, then?' the ladies pouted their resentment; and mr. wogan, for the first and last time in his life, wore the reputation of a diplomatist. 'a close man,' said m. de bellegarde, pursing his lips in approval. 'but sped on an unlikely venture,' added mr. law, getting back to his backgammon. 'oh, i know,' he continued, as the voices rose against him, 'you have grumblings enough in england to fill a folio, and so you think the whole country will hurry to the waterside to welcome you, before you have set half your foot on shore. but, when all is said, the country's prosperous. your opportunity will come with its misfortunes.' but madame de mezières would hear nothing of such forebodings; and olive trant, catching up a glass, swung it above her head. 'may the oak flourish!' she cried. fanny oglethorpe sprang from her seat. 'may the white rose bloom!' she answered, giving the counter-word. the pair clinked their glasses. 'aye, that's the spirit!' cried the parson. 'drink, nick! god save the king! here's a bumper to him!' he stood with his face turned upwards, his blue eyes afire. 'here's to the king!' he repeated. 'here's to the cause! god send that nothing ever come between the cause and me.' he drained his glass as he spoke, and tossed it over his shoulder. there was a tinkling sound, and a flash of sparks, as it were, when the glass splintered against the wall. george kelly stood for a moment, arrested in his attitude, his eyes staring into vacancy, as though some strange news had come of a sudden knocking at his heart. then he hitched his shoulders. 'bah!' he cried, and began to sing in a boisterous voice some such ditty as of all the days that's in the year, the tenth of june's to me most dear, when our white roses do appear to welcome jamie the rover. or it may have been let our great james come over, and baffle prince hanover, with hearts and hands in loyal bands, we'll welcome him at dover. it was not the general practice to allow the parson to sing without protest; for he squeezed less music out of him than any other irishman could evoke from a deal board with his bare knuckles. when he sang, and may heaven forgive the application of the word in this conjunction, there was ever a sort of mortal duello between his voice and the tune--very distressing to an audience. but now he sang his song from beginning to end, and no one interrupted him, or so much as clapped a hand over an ear; and this not out of politeness. but his words so rang with a startling fervour; and he stood, with his head thrown back, rigid in the stress of passion. his voice quavered down to silence, but his eyes still kept their fires, his attitude its fixity. once or twice he muttered a word beneath his breath, and then a hoarse cry came leaping from his mouth. 'may nothing ever come between the cause and me, except it be death--except it be death!' a momentary silence waited upon the abrupt cessation of his voice: wogan even held his breath; miss oglethorpe did not stir; and during that silence, there came a gentle rapping on the door. kelly looked towards it with a start, as though there was his answer; but the knocking was repeated before anyone moved; it seemed as if suspense had hung its chains upon every limb. it was mr. wogan who opened the door, and in stalked destiny in the shape of a lackey. he carried a note, and handed it to george kelly. 'the messenger has but this instant brought it,' he said. kelly broke the seal, and unfolded the paper. 'from general dillon,' he said; and, reading the note through, 'ladies, will you pardon me? mr. law, i have your permission? i have but this one night in paris, and general dillon has news of importance which bears upon my journey.' with that he took his hat, and got him from the room. fanny oglethorpe sprang up from her chair. 'sure, my chicken will be ruined,' she cried. 'come, m. de bellegarde,' and the pair fell again to stirring in the bowl, and with such indiscriminate vigour that more than once their fingers got entangled. this mr. wogan observed, and was sufficiently indiscreet to utter a sly proposal that he should make a third at the stirring. 'there is no need for a third,' said miss oglethorpe, with severity. 'but, on the other hand, i want a couple of pats of butter, and a flagon of water; and i shall be greatly obliged if mr. wogan will procure me them.' and what with that and other requests which chanced to come into her head, she kept him busy until the famous supper was prepared. in the midst of that supper back came mr. kelly, and plumped himself down in his chair, very full of his intelligence. a glass or two of mr. law's burgundy served to warm out of his blood all the reserve that was left over from the morning. 'we are all friends here,' said he, turning to miss oglethorpe. 'moreover, i need the advantage of your advice and knowledge. general dillon believes that my lord oxford maybe persuaded to undertake the muslin trade in britain.' 'lord oxford,' exclaimed miss oglethorpe, with a start, for oxford had lain quiet since he nearly lost his head five years agone. 'he is to collect the money from our supporters?' 'it is the opinion that he will, if properly approached.' mr. law, at the top of the table, shook his head. 'it is a very forward and definite step for so prudential a politician,' said he. 'but a politician laid on a shelf, and pining there,' replied george. 'there's the reason for it. he has a hope of power,--_qui a bu, boira!_ the hope grows real if we succeed.' 'i would trust him no further than a norfolk attorney,' returned mr. law; 'and that's not an inch from the end of my nose. he will swear through a two-inch board to help you, and then turn cat in pan if a whig but smile at him.' 'besides,' added miss oglethorpe, and she rested, her chin thoughtfully upon her hands. as she spoke, all the eyes in that company were turned on her. 'besides,' and then she came to a stop, and flushed a little. 'lord oxford,' she continued, 'was my good friend when i was in england.' then she stopped again. finally she looked straight into m. de bellegarde's eyes, and with an admirable bravery: 'some, without reason, have indeed slandered me with stories that he was more than my friend.' 'none, madame, who know you, i'll warrant,' said m. de bellegarde, and gravely lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed it. 'well, that's a very pretty answer,' said she in some confusion. 'so mr. kelly may know,' she went on, 'that i speak with some authority concerning my lord oxford. it is not he whom i distrust. but he has lately married a young wife.' 'ah,' said mr. law, and 'oh!' cried mr. wogan, with a shrug of his shoulders. 'if a lady is to dabble her tender fingers in the pie--' 'and what of it, mr. wogan?' madame de mezières took him up coldly. 'yes, mr. wogan, what of it?' repeated olive trant hotly, 'provided the lady be loyal.' in an instant mr. wogan had the whole nest swarming about his ears, with the exception of fanny oglethorpe. it was intimated to him that he had a fine preposterous conceit of his sex, and would he be pleased to justify it? madame de mezières hinted that the ability to swing a shillelagh and bring it down deftly on an offending sconce did not comprise the whole virtues of mankind. and if it came to the test of dealing blows, why there was joan of arc, and what had mr. wogan to say to her? mr. wogan turned tail, as he always did when women were in the van of the attack. 'ladies,' he said, 'i do not think joan of arc so singular after all, since i see four here who i believe from my soul could emulate her noblest achievements.' but mr. wogan's gallantry went for very little. the cowardice of it was apparent for all that he bowed and laid his hand on his heart, and performed such antics as he thought likely to tickle women into good humour. 'besides,' put in lady cecilia, with a soothing gentleness, 'mr. wogan should know that the cause he serves owes, as it is, much to the good offices of women.' mr. wogan had his own opinions upon that point, but he wiped his forehead and had the discretion to hold his tongue. meanwhile fanny oglethorpe, who had sat with frowning brows in silence, diverted the onslaught. 'but it is just the loyalty of lady oxford which is in question. lady oxford is a whig, of a whig family. she is even related to mr. walpole, the minister. i think mr. kelly will have to tread very warily at lord oxford's house of brampton bryan.' 'for my part,' rejoined mr. law, 'i think the chevalier de st. george would do better to follow the example of mr. kelly and my friends here.' 'and what is that?' asked wogan. 'why, scrape up all the money he can lay hands on and place it in my company of the west.' mr. wogan was not well pleased to hear of his friend's speculation, and, when they left the house together, took occasion to remonstrate with him. 'how much have you placed?' he asked. 'all that i could,' replied george. 'it is little enough--the remnant of my patrimony. mr. law lent me a trifle in addition to make up a round sum. it is a very kindly man, and well disposed to me. i have no fears, for all the money in france dances to the tune he fiddles.' 'to his tune, to be sure,' grumbled wogan; 'but are you equally certain his tune is yours? oh, i know. he is a monstrous clever man, not a doubt of it. the computation of figures--it is the devil's own gift, and to my nose it smells damnably of sulphur.' mr. wogan has good occasion to reflect how providence fleers at one's apprehensions when he remembers the sleepless hours during which he tossed upon his bed that night, seeing all the parson's scanty savings drowned beyond redemption in the china seas. for no better chance could have befallen kelly than that wogan's forebodings should have come true. but the venture succeeded. fanny oglethorpe made a fortune and married m. de bellegarde. olive trant, the richer by , pistoles, became princess of auvergne. do they ever remember that night at the hotel de mazarin, and how parson kelly cried out almost in an agony as though, in the heat of passion, he surmised the future, 'may nothing come between the cause and me'? well, for one thing the money came. it placed in his hands a golden key wherewith to unlock the gates of disaster. chapter ii mr. wogan refuses to acknowledge an undesirable acquaintance in st. james's street mr. wogan left paris early the next morning without a thought for the despatch-box that he had sent to kelly, and, coming to cadiz, sailed with the spaniards out of that harbour on the tenth of march, and into the great storm which dispersed the fleet off cape finisterre. in company with the earl marischal and the marquis of tullibardine, he was aboard one of those two ships which alone touched the coast of scotland. consequently, he figured with better men, as field-marshal keith, and his brother the ambassador, and my lord george murray, in that little skirmish at glenshiel, and very thankful he was when the night shut black upon the valleys and put its limit to the attack of general wightman's soldiers from inverness. a council of war was held in the dark upon a hill-side, whence the fires of general wightman's camp could be seen twinkling ruddily below, but wogan heard little of what was disputed, for he went to sleep with his back against a boulder and dreamed of his ancestors. he was waked up about the middle of the night by the earl marischal, who informed him that the spaniards had determined to surrender at discretion, and that the handful of highlanders were already dispersing to their homes. 'as for ourselves, we shall make for the western islands and wait there for a ship to take us off.' 'then i'll wish you luck and a ship,' said wogan. he stood up and shook the dew off his cloak. 'i have friends in london, and i'll trust my lucky star to get me there.' 'your star's in eclipse,' said the earl. 'you will never reach london except it be with your legs tied under a horse's belly.' 'well, i'm thinking you have not such a clear path after all to the western islands! did you never hear of my forefather, thomas wogan, that rode with twenty-eight cavaliers through the heart of cromwell's england, and came safe into the highlands? sure what that great man could do with twenty-eight companions to make him conspicuous, his degenerate son can do alone.' mr. wogan began his journey by walking over the hill, near to the top of which his friends had been driven off the road to inverness by the english fire, which was very well nourished. he made his way to loch duich, as they call it, and so by boat round ardnamurchan, to a hamlet they call oban. there he changed his dress for the campbell black and green, and, joining company with a drove of rob roy's cattle from the lennox, travelled to glasgow. his irish brogue no doubt sounded a trifle strange in a highland drover, but he was in a country where the people were friendly. at glasgow he changed his dress again for a snuff-coloured bourgeois suit, and so rode into england by the old carlisle and preston route, which he had known very well in the year . wogan was at this time little more than a lad, though full-grown enough to make a man and a good-sized boy into the bargain, and the exploit of the cavalier thomas wogan, as it had prompted his design, so it exhilarated him in the execution. he went lightly on his way, weaving all manner of chivalric tales about his ancestor, to the great increase of his own vanity, bethinking him when he stopped for an hour at a wayside inn that here, too, perhaps thomas wogan had reined in his horse, and maybe had taken a draught from that very pint-pot which nicholas now held to his lips. thus the late burst up the hill-side above the shiel was quickly robbed of its sting, and by the time that he had reached london he was so come to a pitch of confidence in the high destinies of the wogan family that, after leaving his horse in the charge of mr. gunning, of mussell hill, whom he knew of old as a staunch friend of george kelly's, and borrowing from him a more suitable raiment than his stained travelling dress, he must needs walk down st. james's street with no more disguise than the tilting of his hat over his nose, and the burying of his chin in his cravat. soon mr. wogan's confidence and, with his confidence, his legs were brought to a sudden check. for when he was come half-way down the hill he saw the figure of one captain montague in the uniform of the guards turn the corner out of ryder street and walk towards him. wogan had met the officer before on an occasion of which he did not wish at this particular moment to be reminded. he wheeled about, took a step or two, and so came again to a halt. was it known, he asked himself, that he had sailed from cadiz and landed in scotland? if so, and it was a most likely conjecture, then for wogan to be straggling about st. james's street was egregious impertinence, and the sooner he got under shelter the better for his neck. now wogan's destination was the lodging of george kelly, not five hundred yards away, in bury street. but to reach that lodging it would be necessary for him to turn about again and face the captain. would the captain know him again? wogan debated the question, and finding no answer, asked himself another. what would thomas wogan have done under the like contingency? the answer to that was evident enough. wogan turned about on the instant, cocked his hat on the back of his head, took his chin out of his cravat, twirled his cane, whistled a tune and sauntered past the captain, looking him over as if he were so much dirt. the captain stopped: wogan felt his heart jump into his throat, whistled a bit louder, and twirled his cane a trifle ferociously. over his shoulder he saw the captain draw his brows together and rub a check with the palm of his hand like a man perplexed. the captain took a step towards wogan, and stopped again. wogan sauntered on, expecting every moment to hear his name called, and a clattering run, and then to feel a heavy hand close upon his shoulder. but no voice spoke, no steps clattered on the pavement. wogan reached the corner and spied up st. james's street as he turned. the captain was still standing in the attitude of perplexity; only, instead of smoothing his cheek, he had tilted his peruke aside and was scratching his head to ease the labour of his recollections. at the sight of him the ancestor and his twenty-eight cavaliers rode clean out of mr. wogan's mind. 'sure, thomas wouldn't have done it, but nicholas will,' said he, and kicking up his heels he ran. he ran along ryder street, turned into bury street, raced a hundred yards or so up the cobbles, and thundered on the door of kelly's lodging. here and there a head was poked from a window, and mr. wogan cursed his own noisiness. it seemed an age before the door was opened. fortunately it was mrs. barnes, kelly's landlady, in person, and not her serving-woman, who stood in the entrance. 'is the parson in london?' says wogan. 'say that he is, mrs. barnes, and say it quick.' 'why, it's mr. wogan!' cries she. 'whisht, my dear woman!' answered wogan, pushing through the doorway. 'it's mr. hilton. there's no wogan anywhere in england. remember that, if you please.' mrs. barnes slammed the door in a hurry. 'then you are in trouble again,' said she, throwing up her hands. 'well, there's nothing unusual in that,' said he. 'sure man is born to it, and who am i that i should escape the inheritance?' and he opened the door of mr. kelly's sitting-room. he saw the figure of a man bending over the table. as the door was thrown open, the figure straightened itself hurriedly. there was a sound of an iron lid clanging down upon a box, and the sharp snap of a lock. george kelly turned and stood between the table and the door, in a posture of defence. then-- 'nick!' he cried, and grasped his friend's hand. the next moment he let it go. 'what brings you here?' he exclaimed. 'my ancestor,' said wogan, dropping into a chair. ''twas his spirit guided me.' 'then take my word for it,' cried george, 'if there's a bedlam beyond the grave your ancestor inhabits it.' wogan made no reply in words at first. but he rose stiffly from his chair, bowed to kelly with profuse ceremony, took his hat, and with his hat a step towards the door. kelly, on the other hand, shut the door, locked it, put the key in his pocket and leaned his back against the panels. wogan affected to see nothing of these actions, but spoke in a tone of dignity like a man taking his leave. 'such insults as you are pleased to confer on me,' said he, 'no doubt i deserve, and i take them in all christian meekness. but when my ancestor thomas wogan, god rest his soul for ever and ever, rode with twenty-eight cavaliers from dover to scotland through the thick of his bloodthirsty foes to carry the succour of his presence to the friends of his blessed majesty of sacred memory king charles the second, it was not, i'd have you know, mr. kelly, in order that his name should be bespattered after he was dead by a snuffling long-legged surreptitious gawk of a parson who was kicked out of his dublin pulpit with every circumstance of ignominy because his intellect didn't enable him to compose a homily.' at this point wogan drew a long breath, which he sorely needed. it was not at all truth that he had spoken, as he knew--none better. the parson was indeed stripped of his gown because he preached a very fine homily on the text of 'render unto cæsar the things that are cæsar's,' wherein he mingled many timely and ingenious allusions to the chevalier. nor was there any particular force in that epithet 'surreptitious,' beyond that it had an abusive twang. yet it was just that word at which mr. kelly took offence. 'surreptitious,' said he, 'and if you please what is the meaning of that?' and then surveying wogan, he began of a sudden to smile. 'ta-ta-ta,' he said with a grimace. 'it is a pretty though an interjectional wit,' replied wogan in a high disdain, falling upon long words, as was his fashion on the rare occasions when he cloaked himself with dignity. 'faith,' continued george, with the smile broadening over his face, 'but it is indeed the very picture of christian meekness,' and then, breaking into a laugh, 'will you sit down, you noisy firebrand. as for thomas wogan--be damned to him and to all his twenty-eight cavaliers into the bargain!' mr. wogan will never deny but what the man's laugh was irresistible, for the parson's features wore in repose something of clerkly look. they were cast in a mould of episcopal gravity; but when he laughed his blue eyes would lighten at you like the sun from a bank of clouds, and the whole face of him wrinkled and creased into smiles, and his mouth shook a great rumbling laugh out of his throat, and then of a sudden you had come into the company of a jolly man. wogan put his hat on the table and struggled to preserve his countenance from any expression of friendliness. 'it is the common talk at the cocoa tree that you sailed from cadiz. it is thought that you were one of the remnant at glenshiel. oh, the rumour of your whereabouts has marched before you, and that you might have guessed. but see what it is to know no virgil, and,' shaking a minatory finger, 'fama, malum quo non aliud velocius ullum.' mr. wogan bowed before latin like a sapling before the wind. he seated himself as he was bid. 'and you must needs come parading your monstrous person through the thick of london, like any fashionable gentleman,' continued george. 'what am i to do with you? why couldn't you lie quiet in a village and send me news of you? did you meet any of your acquaintance by chance when you came visiting your friend mr. kelly? perhaps you passed the time of day with mr. walpole--' and as he spoke the name he stopped abruptly. he walked once or twice across the room, shifting his peruke from one side of his head to the other in the fluster of his thoughts. then he paused before wogan. 'oh, what am i to do with you?' he cried. 'tell me that, if you please.' but the moment wogan began, 'sure, george, it's not you that i will be troubling for my security'--kelly cut in again: 'oh, if you have nothing better to say than that, you say nothing at all. it is dribbling baby's talk,' and then he repeated a question earnestly. 'did you see anyone you knew, or rather did anyone that knows you see you?' 'why,' replied wogan meekly, 'i cannot quite tell whether he knows me or not, but to be sure i ran into the arms of captain montague not half a dozen yards from the corner of ryder street.' 'montague!' exclaimed kelly. wogan nodded. 'the man who fought against you at preston siege?' 'the same.' ''tis a pity you were at so much pains to save his life in that scuffle.' 'haven't i been thinking that myself?' asked wogan. 'if only i had left him lying outside the barricades, where he would have been surely killed by the cross-fire, instead of running out and dragging him in! but it is ever the way. once do a thoroughly good-natured action and you will find it's the thorn in your side that will turn and sting you. but i am not sure that he knew me,' and he related how the captain had stopped with an air of perplexed recollection, and had then gone on his way. kelly listened to the account with a certain relief. 'it is likely that he would not remember you. for one thing, he was wounded when you carried him in, and perhaps gave little heed to the features of his preserver. moreover, you have changed, nick, in these years. you were a stripling then, a boy of fifteen, and,' here he smiled and laid a hand on wogan's shoulder, 'you have grown into a baby in four years.' then he took another turn across the room. 'well, and why not?' he said to himself, and finally brought his fist with a bang upon the table. 'i'll hazard it,' said he. 'i am not sure but what it is the safest way,' and, drawing a chair close to wogan, he sat himself down. 'it was the mention of mr. walpole set me on the plan,' he said. 'you heard in paris that lady oxford is a kinsman of his. well, i go down to lord oxford's in two days. it is a remote village in the north of herefordshire. you shall come with me as my secretary. 'faith, but i shall figure in my lord's eyes as a person of the greatest importance.' mr. wogan resisted the proposal as being of some risk to his friend, but kelly would hear of no argument. the plan grew on him, the more he thought of it. 'you can lie snug here for the two days. mrs. barnes is to be trusted, devil a doubt. you can travel down with me in safety. i am plain mr. johnson here, engaged in smuggling laces from the continent into england. and once out of london there will be little difficulty in shipping you out of the country until the affair's blown over.' so it was arranged, and kelly, looking at his watch, says-- 'by my soul, i am late. i should have been with my lord of rochester half-an-hour since. the good bishop will be swearing like a dragoon.' he clapped his hat on his head, took up his cane, and marched to the door. his hand was on the knob, when he turned. 'by the way, nick, i have something which belongs to you. 'twas sent to my lodging in paris by mistake. i brought it over, since i was sure to set eyes on you shortly.' 'ah,' said nick. 'then you expected me, for all your scolding and bullying.' 'to speak the honest truth, nick,' said kelly, with a laugh, 'i have been expecting you all the last week.' he went into his bedroom, and brought out the strong-box which wogan had purchased in paris. 'sure there was no mistake,' said wogan. 'i sent it to you as a reward for your discretion.' 'oh, you did. well, you wasted your money, for i have no need for it.' 'nor i,' replied wogan. 'but it has a very good lock, and will serve to hold your love-letters.' kelly laughed carelessly at the careless words, and laid the box aside upon his scrutore. many a time in the months that followed wogan saw it there, and the sight of it would waken him to a laugh, for he did not know that a man's liberty, his honour, his love, came shortly to be locked within its narrow space. chapter iii mr. wogan instructs the ignorant parson in the ways of women mr. wogan then remained for two days closeted in his friend's lodgings, and was hard put to it to pass the time, since the parson, who acted as secretary and right-hand man to bishop atterbury, was ever dancing attendance upon his lordship at bromley or the deanery of westminster. wogan smoked a deal of tobacco, and, knitting his brows, made a strenuous endeavour to peruse one of george kelly's books--a translation of tully's _letters_. he did, indeed, read a complete page, and then being seized with a sudden vertigo, such as from his extreme youth had prevented him from a course of study, was forced to discontinue his labours. at this juncture mrs. barnes comforted him with a greasy pack of cards, and for the rest of that day he played games of chance for extraordinary stakes, one hand against t'other, winning and losing millions of pounds sterling in the space of a single hour. by bedtime he was sunk in a plethora of wealth and an extremity of destitution at one and the same time; and so, since he saw no way of setting the balance right, he bethought him of another plan. on the morrow he would write out a full history of his ancestors, as a memorial of their valour and a shame to the men of this age. the parson, when he was informed of the notable design, quoted a scrap of latin to the effect that it would be something more than a brazen proceeding. wogan, however, was not to be dissuaded by any tag of rhyme, and getting up before daylight, since he had but this one day for the enterprise, was at once very busy with all of kelly's spluttering pens. he began with the founder of the family, the great chevalier ugus, who lived in the time of my little octavius cæsar, and was commissioned by that unparalleled monarch to build the town of florence. 'ugus,' wrote mr. wogan in big round painful letters with a flourish to each, and, coming to a stop, woke up george kelly to ask him in what year of our lord octavius cæsar was born into this weary world. 'in no year of our lord,' grumbled george, a little churlishly to wogan's thinking, who went back to his desk, and taking up a new pen again wrote 'ugus.' thereupon he fell into a great profundity of thought; so many philosophic reflections crowded into his head while he nibbled his pen, as he felt sure must visibly raise him in the estimation of his friends. so, taking his candle in one hand and his pen in the other, he came a second time to kelly's bedside and sat him down heavily upon his legs, the better to ensure his awakening. it is to be admitted that this time the parson sat up in his bed, and swore with all the volubility of a dragoon or even of my lord bishop of rochester. but wogan smiled amiably, knowing when he communicated his thoughts how soon those oaths would turn to cries of admiration. 'it is a very curious thing,' said wogan, shifting himself a little so that kelly's shins should not press so sharply, 'how the mere inking of one's fingers produces speculation. just as great valorous deeds are the consequence of swords,' here he paused to snuff the candle with his fingers, 'so great philosophic thoughts are the consequence of pens. put a sword in a man's hand! what does he want to do but cut his neighbour right open from the chine to the ribs? put a pen between his fingers, on the other hand, and what does he want to do but go away by himself and write down great thoughts?' 'then, in heaven's name, why don't you do it?' cried george. 'because, my friend,' replied wogan, 'out of the great love i bear for you, i shall always, always communicate my thoughts first of all to you.' here the parson groaned like a man giving up the ghost, and wogan continued: 'for instance, you have doubtless heard of my illustrious forbear the chevalier ugus.' at this kelly tried to turn on his side; but he could not do so, since his legs were pinned beneath wogan's weight. 'the chevalier ugus,' repeated wogan, 'who built and beautified the city of florence to the glory of god in the reign of the emperor octavius. how many of the english have loitered in the colonnades, and feasted their eyes upon the cathedral, and sauntered on the bridges of the arno? how many of them, i say, have drawn profitable thoughts and pleasurable sensations from the edifices of my great ancestor? and yet not one of them--if poor nicholas wogan, his degenerate son, were to poke his nose outside of mrs. barnes's front door--not one of them but would truss him hands and heels and hang him up to derision upon a nasty gibbet.' so far wogan had flowed on when a sigh from kelly's lips brought him to a pause. he leaned forward and held the candle so that the light fell upon kelly's face. kelly was sound asleep. 'to be sure,' said wogan in a soft voice of pity, on the chance that kelly might be counterfeiting slumber, 'my little friend's jealous of my reflective powers,' and going back to his chair wrote 'ugus' a third time with a third pen; and then, in order to think the more clearly, laid his hand upon the table and closed his eyes. it was mrs. barnes's hand upon his shoulder, some three hours afterwards, which roused him from his so deep reflections, and to a man in wogan's course of life the shoulder is a most sensitive member. she took the paper, whereon the great name was thrice inscribed, very daintily between her forefinger and thumb, as though she touched pitch; folded it once, twice, thrice, and set it on the mantelshelf. there mr. kelly, coming into the room for breakfast, discovered it, hummed a little to himself like a man well pleased, and turned over the leaf to see what was written t'other side. 'that is all,' said wogan, indifferently. 'and it is a very good night's work,' replied kelly, with the politest gravity, 'not a letter--and there are precisely twelve of them in all--but is writ with scrupulous correctness. such flourishes, too, are seldom seen. i cannot call to mind that ever i saw a _g_ so pictorially displayed. ugus--ugus--ugus--' and he held the paper out at arm's length. 'i went no further with my work,' explained wogan, 'because i reflected--' 'what, again?' asked the parson in a voice of condolence. 'that the mere enunciation of the name ugus gives an epitome of the wogan family.' 'indeed, it gives a history in full,' said the parson. 'it comprises--' 'nay, it conveys--' 'all that need be known of the wogan family.' 'all that need be known, indeed, and perhaps more,' added george with the air of a man turning a compliment mr. wogan was sensibly flattered, and took his friend's words as an apology for that disrespect which he had shown towards thomas wogan two days before, and the pair seated themselves to breakfast in the best of good humour. 'we start at nine of the evening,' said george. 'i have commanded a sober suit of grey cloth for you, nick, since you cannot squeeze into my coats, and it should be here by now. meanwhile, i leave you to mrs. barnes's attentions.' of these attentions mrs. barnes was by no means sparing. for the buxom widow of the bookseller, who, to her credit be it said, had her full share of good looks, joined to an admirable warmth of heart a less adorable curiosity. with the best intentions in the world for her lodgers' security, she was always prying into their secrets. nor did she always hold her tongue outside her own doors, as mr. kelly had bitter reason afterwards to know. in a word, she had all the inquisitiveness of her class, and sufficient wiles to make that inquisitiveness difficult to parry. not that nicholas wogan was at all troubled upon this score, for if there was one quality upon which the good man prided himself, it was his comprehension of the sex. 'woman,' he would say with a sententious pursing of the lips and a nod of the head; and again 'woman,' and so drop into silence; as who should say, 'here's a nut i could show you the kernel of were i so disposed.' this morning, however, mrs. barnes made no demand upon wogan's cunning. for she took the paper with the thrice iterated ugus which the parson had replaced upon the mantelshelf, and, with the same gingerly precautions as she had used in touching it before, dropped it into the fire. 'and why that?' asked wogan. mrs. barnes flung out at him in reply. 'i have no patience with you,' she cried. 'what's ugus, mr. wogan? answer me that,' and she struck her arms akimbo. 'what's ugus but one of your cypher words, and you must needs stick it up on your mantelshelf for all the world to see?' 'it's no cypher word at all,' replied wogan with a laugh. 'what is it then?' said she. 'my dear woman, the merest mare's nest,' said he. 'oh, you may "dear woman" me,' cried she, and sat herself down in a chair, 'and you may laugh at a woman's fears; but, good lack, it was a bad day when mr. kelly first found a lodging here. what with his plottings here and his plottings there, it will be a fortunate thing if he doesn't plot us all into our graves.' 'whisht,' interrupted wogan. 'there are no plots at all, any more than there's sense in your talk.' but the woman's eloquence was not so easily stemmed. 'then if there are no plots, why is mr. kelly "mr. johnson," why is mr. wogan "mr. hilton"; and why, oh why, am i in danger of my life and liberty, and in peril of my immortal soul?' 'sure you are bubbled with your fears, answered wogan. 'it is sufficiently well known that since mr. george kelly ceased to minister to souls he has adopted the more lucrative profession of a lace merchant. there's some secrecy no doubt in his comings and goings, but that is because he is most honourably engaged in defrauding the revenue.' 'a pretty lace merchant, upon my soul,' said she, and she began to rock her body to and fro. the sight alarmed nicholas wogan, since he knew the movement to be a premonition of tears. 'a lace merchant who writes letters in latin, and rides in the bishop of rochester's coach, and goes a-visiting my lord oxford in the country. thirteen shillings have i paid for letters in one day. laces, forsooth! it is hempen ropes the poor gentleman travels in, and never was a man so eager to fit them to his own neck.' and, at the affecting prospect which her words called up, the good woman lifted her apron to her eyes and forthwith dissolved into tears. sobs tore her ample bosom, her soft frame quivered like a jelly. never did mr. wogan find his intimate knowledge of the sex of more inestimable value. he crossed the room; he took one plump hand into his left palm and gently cherished it with his right. the tears diminished to a whimpering. he cooed a compliment into mrs. barnes's ear, 'a little white dove of a hand in a brown nest, my dear woman,' said he, and affectionately tweaked her ear. even the whimpering ceased, but ceased under protest! for mrs. barnes began to speak again. wogan, however, kissed the tearful eyes and sealed them in content. 'hoity-toity, here's a set out,' he said, 'because my lord oxford wants a pair of venice ruffles to hide his gouty fingers, or a new mantilla for his new spouse,' and so, softly chiding her, he pushed her out of the room. at nine o'clock to the minute the chaise drove up to the door. mr. kelly took a stroll along the street to see the coast was clear; mrs. barnes was in two minds whether to weep at losing her lodgers, or to smile at their prospects of security, and compromised between her emotions by indulging them alternately; and finally the two friends in burgess dress entered the chaise and drove off. mr. wogan thrust his head half out of the window, the better to take his fill of the cool night air, but drew it back something of the suddenest at the corner where ryder street debouches into st. james's. 'sure the man's a spy,' said he, flinging himself back. parson kelly leaned cautiously forward, and under an oil-lamp above the porch of a door he saw captain montague. the captain was standing in an indecisive attitude, tapping with his stick upon the pavement and looking up and down the street. 'i doubt it,' returned kelly. 'i have ever heard he was the most scrupulous gentleman.' 'but he's a whig. a whig and a gentleman! but it's a contradiction in terms. whigging is a nasty insupportable trade, and infects a man like a poison. a whig is a sort of third sex by itself that combines all the failings of the other two.' however, this time it was evident that captain montague had taken no note of nicholas wogan. he could not but reflect how it was at this very spot that he had come upon the captain before, and mighty glad he was when the lights of knightsbridge had sunk behind them, and they were driving betwixt the hedgerows. then at one spring he jumped to the top of his spirits. 'george, what a night!' cries he. 'sure i was never designed to live in a house at all, but to be entirely happy under the blue roof-tree of the sky. put me out on a good road at night and the whole universe converses with me on the most familiar terms. perhaps it's a bush that throws out a tendril and says, "smell that, you devil, and good luck to you." or, maybe it's the stars that wink at me and say, "here's a world for you, nick, my little friend. only wait a moment, and we'll show you a bit of a moon that'll make a poet of you." then up comes the moon, perhaps, in a crescent like a wisp of fire, and, says she, "it's all very well here, nicholas, but take my word for it, i can show you as good on the sea and better. for you'll have all this, and the hiss of the water under your lee besides, and the little bubbles dancing on the top." but what troubles you, george?' but kelly made little or no reply, being sunk in the consideration of some difficulty. for two days he remained closeted with his trouble, and it was not until they had got to worcester that he discovered it. they changed horses at the 'dog and turk' and drove through the town under the abbey clock. 'it is five minutes to twelve,' said wogan, looking at the clock. 'yes,' said kelly with a sigh, 'the face is very plain to read.' then he sighed again. 'now, if the clock were a woman,' said he, 'it might be half-past four and we still thinking it five minutes to twelve.' 'oh, is it there you are?' said wogan. 'why, yes,' replied kelly. 'lord oxford, do you see, nick, is a half-hearted sort of trembler--that we know and are ready for him. but what of my lady?' wogan crossed his legs and laughed comfortably. here was matter with which he could confidently deal. 'well, what of her?' he asked. 'you heard what fanny oglethorpe said. she is a kinswoman of mr. walpole's. how shall we be sure of her at all? a woman, nick, is a creature who walks in the byways of thought. how shall an obtuse man follow her?' wogan took a pinch of snuff. 'it is very well, george,' said he, 'that i took this journey with you. i'll make your conduct plain to you as the palm of my hand. in the first place, there was never a woman yet from cleopatra downwards that cared the scrape of a fiddle for politics. 'twas never more than a path that led to something else, and is held of just as small account as the road a girl dances down when she goes to meet her lover. look at fanny oglethorpe, olive trant, and the rest of them in paris! d'you think it's the cause they ever give a thought to? if you do you're sadly out, my friend. no; what troubles their heads is simply that the chevalier is a romantical figure of a man, and would look extraordinarily well with a gold crown on the top of his periwig. now i'm wagering it will be just the same with my lady oxford. you have all the qualifications down to your legs, and let my lady once take a liking to your person she will gulp your politics without a grimace.' mr. kelly turned a startled face towards his instructor. 'you would have me pay court to her?' says he. 'just that,' says wogan, imperturbably. 'keep your politics for my lord and have a soft word ready for my lady. pen her a delicate ode in latin. to be sure the addresses of an erudite man have something particularly flattering to the sex. or drop out a pretty compliment on her ear.' 'oh, on her ear?' said kelly, beginning to smile. 'of what sort?' 'faith, george, but you exasperate me,' said nick. 'isn't there an infinity of images you could use? for instance--,' said he, and hummed a little. 'well, for instance!' said kelly, urging him on. 'for instance,' returned wogan, 'you can speak of its functions--' 'i understand. i am to tell her that it is a very proper thing for a woman to sit and listen to other people.' 'tell her that,' cries wogan, lifting up his hands, 'and you will be drubbed down the staircase pretty quick! no. tell her there is never a poet laureate in the world would print a single one of his poems if he could treasure his music within her ear.' 'ah,' says kelly. 'that is a compliment of quite a different kind,' and he repeated it three times to commit it to memory. 'but one, nick, will not suffice. i must have more sayings about her ear.' 'and you shall,' says wogan. 'you can speak of its appearance.' 'of its appearance?' 'and fit a simile to it.' 'give me one,' said kelly. 'you can say her ear is like a rosy shell on the sea-banks.' mr. kelly began to laugh outright. 'sure,' said he, 'i might as well tell her at once her hair is sandy.' 'oh, she will not examine your words so nicely. she will just perceive that you intend a compliment.' 'and take me for a very impertinent fellow.' 'george' said wogan, 'for a parson you are a man of a most unnatural modesty.' in which remark wogan did his friend no more than the merest justice. for he had nothing in common with that usual foible of the young chaplains and tutors who frequent the houses of the great. to listen to them over a bottle you would think them conquerors of all hearts, from the still-room maid to my lady and her daughters. but mr. kelly was in a different case. the bishop of rochester himself gave him the character of being prudent and reserved beyond his years. and perhaps it was by reason of that very modesty that he slid insensibly into the thoughts of more women than he knew of. of these, however, lady oxford was not one. it was about three in the afternoon of the next day when the chaise drove up to the door of the great house at brampton bryan. the parson and nicholas wogan had barely stepped into the hall before an inner door opened and my lady came forward to greet them. she was for her sex uncommonly tall, and altogether of a conquering beauty, which a simple country dress did but the more plainly set forth. for, seeing her, one thought what a royal woman she would look if royally attired, and so came to a due appreciation of her consummate appearance. whereas, had she been royally attired, her dress might have taken some of the credit of her beauty. she stood for a second between the two men, looking from one to the other as though in doubt. 'and which is mr. james johnson? 'said she, with a sly emphasis upon the name. 'i am,' said george, stepping forward, 'and your ladyship's humble servant.' she gave him a smile and her hand. mr. kelly clicked his heels together, bent over the hand and kissed it reverentially. the lady sighed a quick little sigh (of pleasure) as she drew her hand away. 'i have taken the liberty, your ladyship,' said kelly, 'to bring my secretary, mr. hilton, with me,' and he waved a hand towards wogan. 'mr. hilton,' she returned, 'is very welcome. for, indeed, we hear too few voices in the house.' she bowed very graciously, but she did not give her hand to mr. wogan. 'gentlemen,' she continued, 'my lord bids me make you his apologies, but he lies abed. else would he have welcomed you in person.' 'your ladyship,' said kelley, 'if we come at an inopportune time--' 'by no means,' interrupted lady oxford. 'my lord is troubled with the gout, but the fit is passing. and if for a couple of days my poor hospitality will content you--' 'your ladyship,' protested kelly, but that was all he said. now, to mr. wogan's thinking, here was as timely an occasion for a compliment as a man could wish. and since mr. kelly had not the tact to seize it, why, his friend must come to his help. accordingly, 'so might the holy angels apologise when they open the gates of paradise,' said wogan with his hand on his heart, and bowed. as he bowed he heard some stifled sounds, and he looked up quickly. my lady was crimson in the face with the effort to check her laughter. 'mr. hilton is too polite,' said she instantly, with an elaborate courtesy, and turned again to kelly with some inquiries about his journey. wogan was shown up the stairs before the inquiries were answered. the staircase ran round the three sides of the hall up to a landing on the fourth, and as wogan came to the first turn he saw lady oxford cross to the great wood fire which was burning on the hearth; when he came to the second he saw that the parson had crossed too and stood over against her; when he reached the third turn, my lady was seated toasting a foot at the blaze; when he reached the landing, mr. kelly had drawn up a chair. wogan leaned for a moment over the balustrade. it was a very small foot with an admirably arched instep; mr. wogan had seen the like in spain. well, very likely she only thrust it out to warm it. the firelight coloured her face to a pretty rose hue, sparkled in her dark eyes, and searched out the gold threads in her brown hair. mr. wogan was much tempted to whisper a reminder to his friend concerning her ear. but he resisted the temptation, for after all it seemed there would be little to do about my lady's politics. chapter iv shows the extreme danger of knowing latin an hour later the three sat down to dinner, though, for all the talking that one of them did, there might have been present only the two whom wogan had left chatting in the hall. it was not that lady oxford omitted any proper courtesy towards mr. johnson's secretary, but the secretary himself, sensible that he was something too apt to say in all companies just what came into his head, was careful to keep his tongue in a strict leash, lest an inconvenient word should slip from him. his deficiency, however, was not remarked. lady oxford was young, and for all that my lord lay upstairs in a paroxysm of the gout, she was in the highest feather; she rattled from course to course, plying mr. kelly with innumerable questions as to the latest tittle-tattle of the tea-parties, and whether lady mary wortley and mr. pope were still the best of friends. 'then your ladyship is acquainted with lady mary?' says kelly, looking up with some eagerness. for lady mary, then a toast among the wits and a wit among the toasts, was glanced at by some tongues as if, being sister to the duchess of mar, she was not of the most loyal to the elector. the duke of mar was still secretary to king james over the water. 'without doubt,' returned lady oxford. 'lady mary is my bosom friend. the dear malicious creature! what is her latest quip? tell me, mr. johnson, i die to hear it. or rather whisper it. it will be too deliciously cruel for loud speaking. lady mary's witticisms, i think, should always be spoken in a low voice, with a suggestive nod and a tap of the forefinger on the table, so that one may not mistake where the sting lies. not that the sayings are in themselves at all clumsy--how could they be, when she has such clever friends? but they gain much from a mysterious telling of them. you agree with me?' it was evident that lady oxford wasted no love on lady mary, and kelly's face fell. 'your ladyship,' he replied, 'though i have no claims to be considered clever, i have the honour to be ranked amongst her friends.' 'indeed!' said she with a light laugh at the rebuff. 'no doubt you have brought her some of your laces and brocades from france, mr.--johnson.' she paused slyly upon the name. kelly glanced quickly at her, their eyes met, and the lady laughed. there could be no doubt that she knew something of kelly's business. indeed, she would hardly have asked him for the fashionable gossip at all had she taken him for just what he represented himself to be. wogan put his foot on his friend's pretty heavily, and, he knows not how, encountered her ladyship's. to his horror, lady oxford made a moan of pain. kelly starts up in a hurry. 'your ladyship is unwell,' says he, and bids the servant bring a bottle of salts. 'no,' she replied with a smile on her lips and her eyes full of tears, 'but your secretary has dropped a blot on the wrong paper.' 'your ladyship,' cried wogan in an extremity of confusion, 'it was the most miserable accident, believe me. a spasm in the leg, madam, the consequence of a sabre cut across the calf,' he explained, making the matter worse. 'oh, and in what battle was mr. johnson's secretary wounded?' she said, taking him up on the instant. 'in a struggle with the preventive men,' replied wogan hurriedly, and he too broke off with a wry face, for mr. johnson was warning _him_ and with no less vigour. before he knew what he was doing wogan had stooped down and begun to rub his leg. lady oxford's smile became a laugh. 'to be sure,' said she, 'and i think mr. johnson must have been wounded too, in just that same way, and in just that same encounter.' 'faith, madam,' said kelly, 'the smuggling trade is a hard one. no man engages in it but sooner or later he gets a knock that leaves its mark.' lady oxford expressed the profoundest sympathy with a great deal of disbelief; and when her ladyship left her guests to their wine, they looked at one another across the table. 'well,' said wogan cheerfully, 'if my lady oxford is in mr. walpole's interest we have not made the best beginning in the world,' and in a little he went off to smoke a pipe in the stables. kelly withdrew to the great library, and had not been there many minutes before lady oxford came in. it seemed she did not see him at the first, although he sat bent up over the fire and his shadow huge upon the walls. mr. kelly certainly did not remark her entrance. for one thing, he was absorbed in his book; for another, the carpet was thick and the lady's step of the lightest. she went first to the bookcase, then she crossed the room and shuffled some papers on a table, then she knocked against a chair, the chair knocked against the table, and at the noise kelly looked up. he rose to his feet. lady oxford turned round, started, and uttered a sharp little cry. 'my lady,' began mr. kelly. 'oh, it is you, mr. johnson,' she broke in with a hand to her heart, and dropped into the chair. 'i believe,' she said with a broken laugh, 'i was foolish enough to be frightened. i fancied you had gone with your friend to the stables,' which was as much as to say that she knew he had not. kelly commenced an apology for so disordering her, but she would not listen to it. 'no,' she said, 'it is i that am to be blamed. indeed, such stupid fears need chiding. but in a house so lonely and silent they grow on one insensibly. indeed, i have known the mere creak of the stairs keep me awake in terror half the night.' she spoke with the air of one gently railing at her own distress, but shivered a little to prove the distress genuine, and kelly, as he looked at her, felt a sudden pang of pity. 'your place, my lady, is not here,' he cried, 'but in the mall, at the spring gardens, in the lighted theatres, when even your ladyship's own sex would pay you homage for outrivalling them.' 'nay,' she replied, with the sweetest smile of reproof, 'you go too fast, mr. johnson. my place is here, for here my duty lies.' she looked up to the ceiling with a meek acceptance of the burden laid upon her fair shoulders. 'but i am not come to disturb you,' she continued briskly; 'i came to fetch a book to read aloud to my lord.' at that a sigh half broke from her and was caught back as it were upon her lips. 'perhaps, mr. johnson,' she said in a well-acted flurry, 'you will help me in the selection?' 'with all the heart in the world,' said he, laying down his volume. the choice took perhaps longer than need have been, for over each book there was some discussion. this one was too trivial to satisfy my lord oxford's weighty mind; that other was too profound to suit his health. 'and nothing too contentious, i implore you, lest it throw him into a heat,' she prayed, 'for my lord has a great gift of logic, and will argue with you by the hour over the merest trifle.' this with another half-uttered sigh, and so the martyr sought her lord's bedside. it appeared, however, that lord oxford was sleepy that night, or had no mind for the music of his lady's voice, for in a very little while she returned to the library and mr. kelly, where wogan presently found them discussing in a great animation the prospects of mr. law's ventures. 'you are in for a great stake?' she asked. 'for all i have,' replied kelly, 'and a little more. it is not a great sum.' 'but may become one,' said she, 'and will if a friend's good wishes can at all avail.' and so she wished her guests good night. the next morning lord oxford sent a message that he was so far recovered as would enable him to receive his visitors that afternoon. meanwhile lady oxford, after breakfast carried off the two gentlemen to visit a new orchard she was having planted. the orchard was open to the south-west, and kelly took objection to its site, quoting virgil in favour of a westerly outlook. 'ah, but the west wind,' she said, 'comes to us across the welsh mountains, which even in the late spring are at times covered deep in snow. however, i should be pleased to hear the advice of virgil,' and the parson goes off to the library and fetches out a copy. it was a warm day in april, with the sky blue overhead and the buds putting out on the trees, and for the most part of that morning mr. kelly translated the georgics to her ladyship, on a seat under a great yew-tree, in a little square of grass fenced off with a hedge. she listened with an extraordinary complaisance, and now and then a compliment upon the parson's fluency; so that mr. wogan lost all his apprehensions as to her meddling in the king's affairs. for, to his thinking, than listening to virgil, there was no greater proof of friendship. nor was it only upon this occasion that she gave the proof. lord oxford was a difficult man from his very timidity, and the parson's visit was consequently protracted. his lordship needed endless assurances as to the prospects of a rising on behalf of king james, before he would hazard a joint of his little finger to support it. who would take the place of the royal swede? could the french regent be persuaded to lend any troops or arms or money, or even to wink? had the czar been approached? indeed he had, by wogan's brother charles. and what office would my lord oxford hold when james iii. was crowned? each day saw these questions reiterated and no conclusion come to. lady oxford was never present at these discussions; the face of her conduct was a sedulous discretion. it is true that after a little she dropped the pretence of laces, and, when the servants were not present, styled the parson 'mr. kelly.' but that was all. 'these are not women's matters,' she would say with a pretty humility, and then rise like a queen and sail out of the room. mr. wogan might have noticed upon such occasions that the parson hesitated for a little after she had gone, and spoke at random, as though she had carried off some part of his mind from affairs with the waft of her hoop. but he waited on the lady's dispositions and set down what he saw of his friend's conduct at the time as merely the consequence of an endeavour to enlist her secrecy and good-will. these councils with lord oxford took place, as a rule, in the afternoon, his lordship being a late riser, and even when risen capable only of sitting in a chair, with a leg swathed in a mountain of flannel. so that, altogether, mr. kelly had a deal of time upon his hands, and doubtless would have found it hang as heavy as nick wogan did, but for the sudden interest he took in lady oxford's new orchard. he would spend hours over the 'observations on modern gardening,' and then, 'nick,' he would cry,' there's no life but a country life. one wakes in the morning, and the eye travels with delight over the green expanse of fields. one makes friends with the inanimate things of nature. nick, here one might re-create the golden age.' 'to my mind,' says nick, 'but for the dogs and horses it would be purely insupportable. with all the goodwill in the world i cannot make friends with a gatepost, and i'm not denying i shall be mightily glad when the wambling old sufferer upstairs brings his mind at last to an anchor.' but the parson was already lost in speculation, and would presently wake to ask wogan's opinion as to whether a huff-cap pear was preferable to a bar-land. to which he got no answer, and so, snatching up his virgil, would go in search of lady oxford. he acquired, indeed, a most intimate knowledge of apples and pears, and would discourse with her ladyship upon the methods of planting and grafting as though he had been adam, and she flora, or, rather, our mother eve, before the apple was shared between them. for apples the store, the hayloe-crab, the brandy-apple, the red-streak, the moyle, the foxwhelp, the dymock-red; for pears the squash pear, the oldfield, the sack-pear, never a meal passed but one of these names cropped up at the table and was bandied about between kelly and her ladyship like a tennis-ball. now all this, though dull, was none the less reassuring to wogan, who saw very clearly that lady oxford was altogether devoted to country pursuits, and wisely inferred that while there might result confusion in the quality of the pears, there would be the less disorder in the affairs of the chevalier. moreover, her ladyship's inclination towards mr. kelly plainly increased. he translated the whole of the second book of the georgics to her, five hundred and forty-two mortal lines of immortal poetry, and she never winced. nor did she cry halt at the end of them, but, thereafter, listened to the eclogues; and, all at once, their conversation was sprinkled with melib[oe]us and m[oe]ris, and lycidas and mopsus, and heaven knows what other names. mr. wogan remembers very well coming upon them one wet afternoon in the hall when it was growing dark. the lamps had not been lit, and kelly had just finished reading one of the pastorals by the firelight. lady oxford sat with her hands clasped upon her knees, and, as he closed the book, 'oh for those days,' she cried, 'when a youth and a maid could roam barefoot over the grass in simple woollen garments! but now we must go furbelowed and bedecked till there's no more comfort than simplicity,' and she smoothed her hand over her petticoat with a great contempt for its finery. lady mary wortley, to whom wogan related this saying afterwards, explained that doubtless her ladyship had laced her stays too tight that morning; but the two men put no such construction on her words, nor, indeed, did they notice a certain contradiction between them and lady oxford's anxiety for london gossip--the parson, because he had ceased to do anything but admire; wogan, because a little design had suddenly occurred to him. it was lady oxford's patience under the verses which put it into wogan's head. for since she endured to listen to poetry about trees and shepherds, poetry about herself must be a sheer delight to her. so, at all events, he reasoned, not knowing that lady oxford had already enjoyed occasion to listen to poetry about herself from lady mary's pen, which was anything but a delight. accordingly he hinted to his friend that a little ode might set a firm seal upon her friendliness. 'make her a dryad in one of the trees of her own orchard, d'ye see?' he suggested; 'something pretty and artful, with sufficient allusions to her beauty. who knows but what she may be so flattered as to carry the verses against her heart; and so, when some fine day she brings her husband's secrets to mr. walpole, she may hear the paper crackling against her bodice, and turn back on the very doorstep.' 'she will carry no secrets,' replied kelly with a huff. 'she is too conscious of her duties. besides, she knows none. have you not seen her leave the room the moment politics are so much as hinted of?' 'true,' said wogan. 'but what's her husband for except to provide her with secrets when they are alone to which she cannot listen without impertinence in company?' kelly moved impatiently away. he stood with a foot upon the fender, turning over the pages of his virgil. 'you allow her no merit whatsoever,' he said slowly with a great gentleness. 'indeed, but i do,' replied wogan. 'i allow that she will be charmed by your poetry, and that's a rare merit. she will find it as soothing as a soldier does a pipe of tobacco after a hard day's fighting.' 'i would not practise on her for the world,' says kelly with just the same gentleness, and goes softly out by the door. wogan, however, was troubled by no such delicate scruples. an ode must be written, even if he had to write it himself. he slapped his forehead as the notion occurred to him. the ode might be dropped as though by accident at some spot where her ladyship's eyes could not fail to light on it. wogan heaved a deep breath, took a turn across the room, and resolved on the heroical feat. he would turn poet to help his friend. for two nights he fortified himself with the perusal of sir john suckling's poems, and the next morning took pencil and paper into the garden. he walked along the terrace, and seated himself on the bench beneath the yew-tree. wogan sucked strenuously at his pencil. 'strephon to his smilinda, running barefoot over the grass in a gale of wind,' he wrote at the top, and was very well pleased with the title. by noonday he had produced a verse, and was very well pleased with that, except, perhaps, that the last line halted. the verse ran as follows:-- nay, sweet smilinda, do not chide the wind that wantons with thy hair; the grass will all his prickles hide nor harm thy snowy feet and bare. and, listen, the enamoured air makes lutestrings of thy locks so fair. at night the stars are mirrors which reflect thine eyes: at least that is what i expect. mr. wogan spent an hour and three pipes of tobacco over his unwonted exercise, which brought him into a great heat. having finished the verse he blew out his cheeks and took a rest from his labours. it was a fine spring morning, and the sun bright as a midsummer day. to his right the creepers were beginning to stretch their green tendrils over the red bricks of the garden wall. to his left half-a-dozen steps led up to a raised avenue of trees. wogan looked down the avenue, noted the border of spring flowers, and a flash of a big window at the extreme end; and in all the branches the birds sang. the world seemed all together very good, and his poem quite apiece with the world. wogan stretched his arms and kicked out his feet. his feet struck against something hard in a tuft of grass. he stooped down and picked it up. it was kelly's virgil. the book was open, and the pages all blotted and smeared with the dew. it had evidently lain open on the grass by the bench all night. wogan wiped the covers dry, and, using it as a desk, settled himself to the composition of his second verse. he had not, however, thought of an opening for it before a voice hailed him from behind. he turned round and saw kelly coming towards him from the direction of the orchard, and at that moment the opening of his verse occurred to him; strephon offered to smilinda his heart's allegiance. wogan set his pencil to the paper, fearful lest he should forget the line. 'nick,' cries kelly, waving a bundle of letters, and starts to run. wogan slipped his paper between the leaves of the book; just as he did so, strephon, in return for his heart's 'allegiance,' asked for smilinda's soft 'obedience.' 'nick,' cries kelly again, coming up to the bench, 'what d'you think?' 'i think, 'says wogan, 'that interruption is the true source of inspiration.' 'what do you mean?' asked kelly, looking at wogan's pencil. 'i mean,' says wogan, looking at the cover of the book, 'that if i lived by my poetry, i would hire a man to rap at my door all day long.' kelly, however, had no ears for philosophy. 'nick,' says he, 'will you listen to me, if you please? i have a letter from miss oglethorpe. it explains--' 'yes,' interposed wogan thoughtfully. 'it explains why the best poets are ever those who are most dunned by their creditors.' kelly snatched the virgil out of wogan's hand, and threw it on to the grass. the book opened as it fell. it opened at the soiled pages, and it was behind those pages that wogan had slipped his poem. 'you are as contrarious as a woman. here am i, swollen with the grandest news, and you must babble about poets and creditors. nick, there'll be few creditors to dun you and me for a bit. just listen, will you?' he leaned his elbows on the back of the bench, and read from his letter. it was to the effect that, during april, an edict had been published in france, transferring to mr. law's company of the west the exclusive rights of trading to the east indies and the south seas. 'think of it, nick!' he cried. 'the actions have risen from livres to , , and we are as yet at the budding of may. why, man, as it is we are well to do. just imagine that, if you can, you threadbare devil! we shall be rich before august.' 'we shall dine off silver plates in september!' cries nick, leaping up in the contagion of his friend's good spirits.. 'and drink out of diamond cups in november,' adds kelly, dropping at once into the irish accent. 'bedad!' shouts wogan, 'i'll write my poetry on beaten gold,' and he sprang on to the seat. 'you shall,' replies kelly; 'and your ink shall be distilled out of black pearls.' 'sure, george, one does not write on gold with ink, but with a graving tool.' 'this nonsense, and poetry, are what the lucky heart sings,' said kelly. 'to a tune of clinking coins,' said wogan. he stooped down to his friend. 'have it all in solid gold, and tied up in sacks,' said he earnestly. 'none of their bills of exchange, but crowns, and pieces of eight, and doubloons, and guinea-pieces; and all tied up in sacks.' 'what will we do with it?' asked kelly. 'why, sit on the sacks,' replied nick, and then grew silent. he looked at kelly. kelly looked away to the garden-wall. 'ah!' said the parson, with a great start of surprise. 'there's a lizard coming out of the bricks to warm himself,' and he made a step away from the bench. wogan's hand came quickly down upon his shoulder. 'george,' said he, 'i think we are forgetting something. not a farthing of it is mine at all.' 'now, that's a damned scurvy ungenerous remark,' replied george. 'haven't i borrowed half of your last sixpence before now?' wogan got down from the seat. 'poverty may take a favour from poverty, george, and 'tis all very well.' kelly sat himself down on the bench, crossed his knees, and swung a leg to and fro. 'i don't want the money,' said he, with a snort. 'my philosophy calls it altogether an encumbrance,' said wogan, sitting down by his side. kelly turned his back on wogan, and stared at the garden-wall. then he turned back. 'i know,' said he of a sudden, and smacks his hand down on wogan's thigh. 'we'll give it to the king. he can do no more than spend it.' 'he will certainly do no less.' but they did not give it to the king. wogan was sitting turned rather towards the house, and as he looked down the avenue, he saw the great windows at the end open, and lady oxford come out. 'here's her ladyship come for her latin lesson,' said wogan, and he rose from his seat. 'i'll tell her of our good fortune,' said kelly, and he walked quickly to the steps at the end of the avenue. lady oxford stopped on the first step, with a hand resting on the stone balustrade. george kelly stood on the grass at the foot of the steps, and told her of his news. 'the shares,' he ended, 'have risen to double value already.' it seemed to wogan that her eyes flashed suddenly with a queer, unpleasant light, and the hand which was resting idly on the balustrade crooked like the claws of a bird. he had seen such eyes, and such a hand, at the pharo tables in paris. 'it is the best news i have heard for many a day,' she said the next instant, with a gracious smile, and coming down the steps, walked by mr. kelly's side towards the bench. 'and what will you do with it?' she asked. it was her first question, for she was a practical woman. 'in the first flush,' replied kelly, hesitating as to how he should put the answer, 'we had a thought of disposing of it where it is sorely needed.' she looked quickly at kelly; as quickly looked away. she took a step to the seat with her eyes on the ground. 'oh,' she observed slowly; 'you would give it away.' there was, perhaps, a trifle of a pucker upon her forehead, perhaps a shade of disappointment in her eyes. but it was all gone in a moment. she clasped her hands fervently together, raised her face to the heavens, her cheeks afire, her eyes most tender. 'indeed,' she exclaimed, 'the noblest, properest disposition of it! heaven dispense me more such friends who, in a world so niggardly, retain so ancient a spirit of generosity,' and she stood for a little, with her lips moving, as if in prayer. it was plain to mr. wogan that her ladyship had guessed the destination of the money. no such thought, however, troubled george kelly, who was wholly engaged in savouring the flattery, and, from his appearance, found it very much to his taste. 'i would not, however, if a woman might presume to advise,' she continued, 'be in any great hurry to sell the shares. though they have risen high, they will doubtless rise higher. and your gift, if you will but wait, in a little will grow worthier of the spirit which prompts it.' 'madam,' returned kelly, 'it is very prudent advice. i will be careful to follow it.' was it relief which showed for an instant in lady oxford's face? kelly did not notice; wogan could not tell; and a second afterwards an event occurred which wholly diverted his thoughts. all three had been standing with their faces towards the garden-seat, the yew-tree and the orchard beyond, lady oxford between, and a little in advance of kelly and wogan, so that each saw her face obliquely over her shoulders. now, however, she turned and sat down, giving thus her whole face to the two men; and both saw it suddenly blanch, suddenly flush as though all the blood had leaped from her heart into her cheeks, and then fade again to pallor. terror widened and fixed her eyes, her lips parted, she quivered as though she had been struck a buffet across the face. 'your ladyship--' began kelly, and, noticing the direction of her gaze, he broke off his sentence, and turned him about. as he moved, lady oxford, even in the midst of her terror, stole a quick, conscious glance at his face. 'sure, 'tis a predecessor to george,' thought wogan; and he too turned about. some twenty paces away a man was waiting in an easy attitude. he was of the middle height, and, judged by his travelling dress and bearing, a gentleman. his face was thin, hard, and sallow of complexion, the features rather peaked, the eyes dark, and deepset beneath the brows. without any pretension to good looks, the stranger had a certain sinister distinction--stranger, for that he was to the two men at this time, whatever he may have been to lady oxford. yet george thought he had seen the man's eyes before, at avignon, when the king was there; and wogan later remembered his voice, perhaps at genoa, which he had used much at one time. he stood just within the opening in the hedge, and must needs have come through the trees beyond, while lady oxford and her guests were discussing the parson's good fortune. as soon as he saw the faces turned towards him, he took off his hat, made a step forwards, and flourished a bow. 'your ladyship's most humble and obedient servant.' he laid a stress upon the word 'obedient,' and uttered it with a meaning smile. lady oxford returned his bow, but instinctively shifted her position on the bench towards kelly, and timidly put out a hand as though she would draw him nearer. the stranger took another step forwards. there was no change in his expression, but the step was perhaps more swiftly taken. 'mr. george kelly,' he said quietly, and bowed again. 'the reverend mr. george kelly, i think,' and he bowed a third time, but lower, and with extreme gravity. wogan started as the stranger pronounced the name. instantly the stranger turned to him. 'ah,' said he, 'captain nicholas wogan, i think,' and he took a third step. his foot struck in a tuft of grass, and he stumbled forward; he fell plump upon his knees. for a gentleman of so much dignity the attitude was sufficiently ridiculous. wogan grinned in no small satisfaction. 'sure, my unknown friend,' said he, 'i think something has tripped you up.' 'yes,' said the stranger, and, as he stood up, he picked up a book from the grass. 'it is,' said he, 'a copy of virgil.' chapter v a literary discussion in which a critic, not for the first time, turns the tables upon an author kelly frowned at wogan, enjoining silence by a shake of the head. her ladyship was still too discomposed to speak; she drew her breath in quick gasps; her colour still came fitfully and went. the only person entirely at ease in that company was the disconcerting stranger, and even behind his smiling mask of a face one was somehow aware of sleeping fires; and underneath the suave tones of his voice one somehow felt that there ran an implacable passion. 'upon my word,' said he, 'i find myself for a wonder in the most desirable company. a revered clergyman, a fighting captain, a lady worthy of her quality, and a poet.' he tapped the virgil as he spoke, and it fell open between his hands. his speech had been uttered with a provocative politeness, and since no one responded to the provocation, he continued in the same strain. 'the story of dido'--the book was open at the soiled pages--'and all spluttered with tears.' 'it has lain open in the dew since yesterday,' interrupted wogan. 'tears no less because the night has shed them,' he replied; 'and indeed it is a sad story, though not all true as the poet relates it. for dido had a gout-ridden husband hidden discreetly away in a dark corner of the palace, and Æneas was no more than an army chaplain, though he gave himself out for a general.' kelly flushed at the words, and took half a step towards the speaker of them. 'it is very true, mr. kelly. a chaplain, my soul upon it, a chaplain. didn't he invoke his religion when he was tired of the lady, and so sail away with a clear conscience? a very parsonical fellow, mr. kelly. _o infelix dido!_ he burst out, 'that met with an army chaplain, and so became food for worms before her time!' he shut up the book with a bang, and, as ill-luck would have it, mr. wogan's poem peeped out from the covers as if in answer to his knock. 'oho,' says he, 'another poet,' and he read out the dedication. 'strephon to his smilinda running barefoot in a gale of wind.' kelly laughed aloud, and a faint smile flickered for the space of a second about lady oxford's lips. wogan felt his cheeks grow red, but constrained himself to a like silence with his companions. his opportunity would come later; meanwhile some knowledge was needed of who the stranger was. 'a pretty conceit,' resumed the latter, 'though consumption in its effects. will the author pardon me?' he took the sheet of paper in his hand, dropped the virgil carelessly on the grass, and read out the verses with an absolute gravity which mocked at them more completely than any ridicule would have done. 'it breaks off,' he added, 'most appropriately just when the gentleman claims the lady's obedience. there is generally a break at that point. "at least, that is what i expect,"' he quoted. then he looked at each of his two adversaries. for adversaries his language and their faces alike proved them to be. 'now which is strephon?' he asked, with an insinuating smile, as he calmly put the verses in his pocket. 'is it the revered clergyman or the fighting captain?' kelly's face flushed darkly. 'the revered clergyman,' he broke in, and his voice shook a little, 'would be happy to be reminded of the occasion which brought him the honour of your acquaintance.' 'a sermon,' replied the stranger. 'i was much moved by a sermon which you preached in dublin upon the text of "render unto cæsar the things that are cæsar's."' mr. kelly could not deny that he had preached that sermon; and for all he knew the stranger might well have been among his audience. he contented himself accordingly with a bow. so wogan stepped in. 'and the fighting captain,' he said, with a courtesy of manner no whit inferior to his questioner's, 'would be glad to know when he ever clapped eyes upon your honour's face, if you please.' 'never,' answered the other with a bow. 'captain nicholas wogan never in his life saw the faces of those who fought behind him. he had eyes only for the enemy.' now, mr. wogan had fought upon more than one field of which he thought it imprudent to speak. so he copied the parson's example and bowed. 'does her ladyship also wish to be reminded of the particulars of our acquaintance?' said the stranger, turning now to lady oxford. there was just a tremor, a hint of passion discernible in his voice as he put the question. both wogan and kelly had been waiting for it, had restrained themselves to silence in the expectation of it. for only let the outburst come, and the man's design would of a surety tumble out on the top. lady oxford, however, suddenly interposed and prevented it. it may be that she, too, had caught the threatening tremble of his words, and dreaded the outburst as heartily as the others desired it. at all events, she rose from the bench as though some necessity had spurred her to self-possession. 'no, mr. scrope,' she said calmly, 'i do not wish to be reminded of our acquaintance either in particular or in general. it was a slight thing at its warmest, and i thank god none of my seeking. mr. kelly, will you give me your arm to the house?' the stranger for a second was plainly staggered by her words. kelly cast a glance at wogan which the 'fighting captain' very well understood, offered his arm to lady oxford, and before the stranger recovered himself, the pair were up the steps and proceeding down the avenue. 'a slight thing!' muttered mr. scrope in a sort of stupor. 'god, what's a strong thing, then?' and at that the passion broke out of him. 'it's the parson now, is it?' he cried. 'indeed, mr. wogan, a parson is very much like a cat. whether he throws his cassock over the wall, or no, it is still the same sly, soft-footed, velvety creature, with a keen eye for a soft lap to make his bed in,' and with an oath he started at a run after kelly. wogan, however, ran too, and he ran the faster. he got first to the steps, sprang to the top of them, and turned about, just as mr. scrope reached the bottom. 'wait a bit, my friend!' said wogan. 'let me go, if you please,' said mr. scrope, mounting the lowest step. 'you and i must have a little talk first.' 'it will be talk of a kind uncommon disagreeable to you,' said mr. scrope hotly, and he mounted the second step. wogan laughed gleefully. 'why, that's just the way i would have you speak,' said he. mr. scrope stopped, looked over wogan from head to foot, and then glanced past him up the avenue. 'i have no quarrel with you, mr. wogan,' he said politely, and took the third step. 'and have you not?' asked wogan. 'i'm thinking, on the contrary, that you took exception to my poetry.' 'was the poetry yours? indeed, i did not guess that,' he replied. 'but the greatest of men may yet be poor poets.' 'in this case you're mightily mistaken,' cried wogan, and he stamped his foot and threw out his chest. 'i am my poetry.' mr. scrope squinted up the avenue under wogan's arm. 'damn!' said he. wogan turned round; parson kelly and her ladyship were just passing through the window into the house. wogan laughed, but a trifle too soon. for as he still stood turned away and looking down the avenue, mr. scrope took the last three steps at a bound, and sprang past him. luckily as he sprang he hit against wogan's shoulder, and so swung him round the quicker. wogan just caught the man's elbow, jerked him back, got both his arms coiled about his body, lifted him off his feet, and flattened him up against his chest. mr. scrope struggled against the pressure; he was lithe and slippery like a fish, and his muscles gave and tightened like a steel spring. wogan gripped him the closer, pinioning his arms to his side. in a little scrope began to pant, and a little after to perspire; then the veins ridged upon his face, and his eyes opened and shut convulsively. 'have you had enough, do you think?' asked wogan; 'or shall i fall on you? but you may take my word for it, whatever you think of my love-poems, that i never yet fell on any man but something broke inside of him.' mr. scrope was not in that condition which would enable him to articulate, but he seemed to gasp an assent, and wogan put him down. he staggered backwards towards the house for a yard or two, leaned against one of the trees, and then, taking out his handkerchief, wiped his forehead; at the same time he walked towards the house, but with the manner of a man who is dizzy, and knows nothing of his direction. 'stop!' cried wogan. scrope stooped, and turned back carelessly, as though he had not heard the command. indeed, he seemed even to have forgotten why he was out of breath. 'mr. wogan,' he said, 'i do not quite understand. it seems you write love-poems to her ladyship, and yet encourage the parson to court her.' wogan was not to be drawn into any explanation. 'let us leave her ladyship entirely out of the question. there's the value of my poetry to be argued out.' mr. scrope bowed, and they walked down the steps side by side, and through the opening in the hedge. a path led through the trees, and they followed it until they came to an open space of sward. wogan measured it across with his stride. 'a very fitting place for the argument, i think,' he said, and took off his coat. 'what? in smilinda's garden?' asked scrope easily. 'within view of smilinda's windows? surely the common road would be the more convenient place.' 'why, and that's true,' answered wogan. 'it would have been an outrage.' 'no,' said scrope, 'merely a flaw in the argument. this is the nearest way. at least, i think so,' and he turned off at an angle, passed through a shrubbery, and came out opposite a little postern-gate in the garden-wall. 'you know the grounds well,' said wogan. 'it is my first visit,' replied scrope, with a trace of bitterness, 'but i have been told enough of them to know my way.' he stepped forward and opened the gate. outside in the road stood a travelling chaise with a pair of horses harnessed to it. 'there is no one within view,' said wogan. the road ran to right and left empty as far as the eye could reach; in front stretched the empty fields. 'no one,' said mr. scrope, and he looked up to the sky. 'well, i would as lief take my last look at the sunlight as at anything else, and i doubt not it is the same with you.' wogan, in spite of himself, began to entertain a certain liking for the man. he had accepted each stroke of ill-fortune--his discomfiture at lady oxford's hands, the grapple on the steps, and now this duel--without disputation. moreover wogan was wondering whether or no the man had some real grievance against her ladyship and what motive brought him, in what expectation, in his chaise to brampton bryan. he felt indeed a certain compunction for his behaviour, and he said doubtfully, 'mr. scrope, you and i might have been very good friends in other circumstances.' 'i doubt it very much, mr. wogan.' scrope shook his head and smiled. 'your poetry would always have come between us. i would really sooner die than praise it.' he looked up and down the road as he spoke, and then made an almost imperceptible nod at his coachman. 'that field opposite will do, i think,' scrope said, and advanced from the doorway to the side of his chaise as though he was looking for something. it was certainly not his sword; wogan now thinks it was his pistols. wogan felt his liking increase and was inclined to put the encounter off for a little. it was for this reason that he stepped forward and passed an arm through scrope's just as the latter had set a foot on the step of the chaise, no doubt to search the better for what he needed. 'now what's amiss with the poem?' asked wogan in a friendly way. 'it is altogether too inconsequent,' replied scrope with a sudden irritation for which wogan was at a loss to account. 'but my dear man,' said he, 'it was not intended for a syllogism.' scrope took his foot off the step and turned to wogan as though a new thought had sprung into his brain. 'mr. wogan,' he said, 'i shall have all the pleasure imaginable in pointing out the faults to you if you care to listen and have the leisure. then if you kill me afterwards, why i shall have done you some slight service and perhaps the world a greater. if i kill you, on the other hand, why there's so much time wasted, it is true, but i am in no hurry.' there was no escape from the duel; that wogan knew. mr. scrope had insulted the parson, lady oxford, and himself; he was aware besides that the parson and wogan, both of them at the best suspected characters, were visiting the earl of oxford; and he had, whether it was justified or no, a hot resentment against the parson. he might, since he knew so much, know also more, as, for instance, the names under which the parson and wogan were hiding themselves. it would not in any case need a very shrewd guess to hit upon their business, and if mr. scrope got back safe to london, why he might make himself confoundedly unpleasant. wogan ran through these arguments in his mind, and was brought to the conclusion that he must most infallibly kill mr. scrope; but at the same time a little of his company meanwhile could do no harm. 'nor i,' replied wogan accordingly. 'i shall be delighted to confute your opinions.' mr. scrope bowed; it seemed as though his face lighted up for a moment. 'there is no reason why we should stand in the road,' he said, 'when we can sit in the chaise.' 'very true,' answered wogan. scrope mounted into the chaise. wogan followed upon his heels. they sat down side by side, and scrope pulled out the verses from his pocket. he read the dedication once more: 'strephon to smilinda running barefoot over the grass in a gale of wind.' 'let me point out,' said he, 'that you have made the lady run barefoot at the very time when she would be most certain to put on her shoes and stockings. and that error vitiates the whole poem. for the wind is severe, you will notice. so when she reprimands the storm, she should really reprimand herself for her inconceivable folly.' 'but smilinda has no shoes and stockings at all in the poem,' replied wogan triumphantly. 'that hardly betters the matter,' returned scrope. 'for in that case her feet might be bare but they would certainly not be snowy.' he stooped down as he spoke and drew from under the seat a bottle of wine, which he opened. 'this,' he said, 'may help us to consider the poem in a more charitable light.' he gave wogan the bottle to hold, and stooping once more fetched out a couple of glasses. then he held one in each hand. 'now will you fill them?' he said. wogan poured out the wine and while pouring it: 'two glasses?' he remarked. 'it seems you came prepared for the conversation.' scrope raised his eyes quickly to wogan's face, and dropped them again to the glasses. 'one might easily have been broken,' he explained. they leaned back in the chaise, each with a glass in his hand. 'it is to your taste, i hope,' said scrope courteously. wogan smacked his lips in contentment. 'lord oxford has no better in his cellars.' 'i may agree without boastfulness. it is indeed florence of a rare vintage, which i was at some pains to procure.' he laughed with a spice of savagery and resumed the consideration of wogan's verses. 'you seem to me to have missed the opportunity afforded by your gale of wind. a true poet would surely have made great play with the lady's petticoats.' 'smilinda had none,' again replied wogan in triumph, and he emptied his glass. 'no shoes and stockings and no petticoats,' said he in a shocked voice. 'it is well you wrote a poem about her instead of painting her portrait,' and he filled wogan's glass again, and added a little to his own, which was no more than half empty. 'don't you comprehend, my friend,' exclaimed wogan, 'that smilinda's a nymph, an ancient roman nymph?' 'oh, she's a nymph!' 'yes, and so wears no clothes but a sort of linsey-wolsey garment kirtled up to her knees.' 'well, let that pass. but here's a line i view with profound discontent. "the grass will all its prickles hide." thistles have prickles, mr. wogan, but the grass has blades like you and me; only, unlike you and me, it has no scabbards to sheathe them in.' 'well,' said wogan, 'but that's very wittily said,' and he laughed and chuckled. 'it is not bad, upon my faith,' replied scrope. 'let us drink to it in full glasses.' he emptied the bottle into wogan's glass and tossed it into the road. 'now here's something more. the wind, you observe, makes lutestrings of smilinda's hair.' 'there is little fault to be discovered in that image, i fancy,' said wogan, lifting his glass to his lips with a smile. 'it is a whimsical image,' replied scrope. 'it is as much as to call her hair catgut.' wogan was startled by the criticism. he sat up and scratched his nose. 'well, i had not thought of that,' he said. he was somewhat crestfallen, and he looked to his glass for consolation. the glass was empty; he looked on to the road where the empty bottle rolled in the dust. 'i have its fellow,' said scrope, interpreting wogan's glance. he produced a second bottle from the same place. the second bottle brought them to the end of the verse. there was, however, a little discussion over the last line, and a third bottle was broached to assist. '"at least that is what i expect." it is a very vile line, mr. wogan.' 'it is, perhaps, not so good as the others,' wogan admitted. 'but you must blame the necessities of rhyming.' 'but the art of the poet is to conceal such necessities,' answered scrope. 'and observe, mr. wogan, you sacrifice a great deal here to get an accurate rhyme, but in the remaining two lines of the next verse you do not trouble your head about a rhyme at all.' 'oh, let me see that!' said wogan, holding out a hand for the paper. he had clean forgotten by this time what those two lines described. 'allegiance, mr. wogan,' said scrope, politely handing him the verses, 'is no rhyme to obedience.' 'allegiance--obedience--obedience--allegiance,' repeated wogan as clearly as he could. 'nay, i think it's a very good rhyme.' 'oh!' exclaimed scrope in a sudden comprehension. 'if you tell me the verses are conceived in the irish dialect, i have not another word to say.' now mr. wogan, as a rule, was a little touchy on the subject of his accent. but at this moment he had the better part of three bottles of admirable florence wine under his belt and was so disposed to see great humour in any remark. he grew uproarious over mr. scrope's witticism. 'sure, but that's the most delicate jest i have heard for months,' he cried. 'conceived in the irish dialect! ho! ho! i must tell it at the cocoa tree--though it hits at me,' and he stood up in the chaise. 'obedience--allegiance.' mr. scrope steadied him by the elbow. 'faith, mr. scrope, but you and i must have another crack one of these days.' he put a foot out on the step of the chaise. 'i love a man that has some warmth in his merriment--and some warmth in his bottle too.' he stepped out of the chaise on to the ground. 'the best florence i have tasted--the best joke i have heard--the irish dialect. ha, ha!' and he waved a hand at scrope. scrope called quickly to the coachman; the next instant the chaise started off at a gallop. wogan was left standing in the road, shouting his laughter. when the coach chaise was some thirty yards away, however, his laughter stopped completely. he rubbed his hand once or twice over his bemused forehead. 'stop!' he yelled suddenly, and began to run after the chaise. scrope stood up and spoke to the driver. the horses slackened their pace until wogan got within twenty yards of it. then scrope spoke again, and the coachman drove the horses just as fast as wogan was running. 'you have forgotten something, my friend,' cries wogan. 'and what's that?' asked scrope pleasantly, leaning over the back of the chaise. 'you have forgotten the duel.' 'no,' shouted scrope with a grimace. 'it is you that forgot that.' 'ah, you cheese-curd!--you white-livered coward!' cried wogan, 'and i taking you for a fine man--equal to myself--you chalky cheese-curd!' he quickened his pace; scrope called to the coachman; the coachman whipped up his horses. 'oh wait a bit till i come up with you. i'll eat you in your clothes.' wogan bounded along the road, screaming out every vile epithet he could lay his tongue to in the heat of the moment. his hat and wig fell off on the road; he did not stop, but ran on bareheaded. 'but listen, the enamoured air makes lutestrings of thy locks so fair,' quoted scrope, rubbing his hands with delight. wogan's fury redoubled, he stripped off his coat and ran till the road grew dizzy and the air flashed sparks at him. but the chaise kept ever at the same distance. with this interval of twenty yards between them, chaise and wogan dashed through the tiny street of brampton bryan. a horde of little boys tumbled out of the doors and ran at wogan's heels. the more he cursed and raved, the more the little boys shouted and yelled. scrope in the chaise shook with laughter, clapped his hands as if in commendation of wogan's powers, and encouraged him to greater efforts. they passed out of the village; the children gave up the pursuit, and sent a few parting stones after wogan's back; in front stretched the open road. wogan ran half a mile further, but he was too heavily handicapped with his three bottles of wine, and scrope's horses were fresh. he shouted out one last oath, and then in a final spasm of fury sat down by the roadside, stripped off his shoe, and springing into the middle of the road, hurled it with all his might at the retreating chaise. the shoe struck the top of the hood, balanced there for a moment, and bounced over on to the seat. scrope took it up and waved it above his head. 'the grass will all its prickles hide, nor harm thy snowy feet and bare.' the driver plied his whip; the chaise whirled out of sight in a cloud of dust; and the disconsolate wogan hobbled back to brampton bryan with what secrecy he could. mr. scrope was on his way with the road to london open, were he disposed to follow it. mr. wogan seemed to see his chaise flashing through the turnpikes, and his sallow cheeks taking on an eager colour as the miles were heaped behind him. he knew that mr. kelly and nicholas wogan were at lord oxford's house at brampton bryan. he knew enough, therefore, to throw some disorder on the chevalier's affairs were he disposed to publish his news. but not in that way did he take, at this time, his revenge upon the parson. chapter vi mr. nicholas wogan reminds the parson of a night at the mazarin palace while wogan pursued in vain a flying foe, lady oxford and parson kelly waited in the house for his return, her ladyship in a great discomposure and impatience, and the parson more silent than ordinary. whatever he may have thought of scrope's unexpected visit, his pride forbade him questions. 'the most unfortunate affair,' exclaimed her ladyship distractedly. 'sure never was a woman so cursed. but indeed i was born under a frowning star, mr. kelly, and so my lord's friends cannot visit him, but some untoward accident puts them into peril.' 'you need be troubled by no fears on our account,' replied kelly, 'for nick will ensure the fellow's silence before ever he lets him out of his sight.' 'true,' said she, with a fresh pang of anxiety, 'mr. wogan is with him and will doubtless seek an explanation.' kelly smiled, but without any overwhelming amusement. 'neither,' said he, 'need your ladyship fear that he will listen to any indiscreet explanation. words have very little to do with the explanations which nicholas favours.' lady oxford remarked the distant stateliness in kelly's tone and was in a hurry to retrieve the slip she had made. 'it is just that i mean,' she cried, coming over to kelly. 'if mr. wogan--kills this man,' and her eyes flashed as though she did in her heart desire that consummation, 'here at the park gates--' 'believe me,' replied kelly reassuringly, 'he will omit no proper ceremony if he does.' 'no, nor will the county justices either,' retorted lady oxford, 'and there are mr. george kelly and mr. nicholas wogan to explain their presence at brampton bryan manor, as best they can, to a bench of bumpkins.' 'again your ladyship is unnecessarily alarmed. for if mr. scrope is now no more, mr. george kelly and mr. nicholas wogan are still mr. james johnson and his secretary mr. hilton. no harm threatens brampton bryan manor from their visit.' this he said no less coldly, and to cut the conversation short, stalked with excessive dignity to the door. lady oxford was gazing ruefully down the avenue from the window, when she heard the knob of the door move under his hand. she turned quickly about. 'it was not of brampton bryan manor i was thinking,' she said hurriedly, 'nor of our safety. why, in what poor esteem do you hold me! am i then so contemptible a thing?' there was no anger in her reproach. rather it melted in a most touching sadness. 'have i no friends whose safety troubles me?' she added. at that out came her handkerchief and fluttered at her eyes. 'nay, but i thought i had--two of the noblest.' it was a mere scrap of a handkerchief, and the greater part of that a lace edging. it would not have sopped up many tears, but it served her ladyship's turn. for indeed the mere sight of it convinced kelly of his monstrous cruelty. 'your ladyship!' he cried, turning back. 'tears! and i have caused them. faith, i should be hanged for that. yet they flow for my friend and me, and i am blessed instead.' but she would have none of his apologies. she stepped back as he approached. 'no,' said she, and wiped an imaginary tear-drop from the dryest of eyes; 'you have asked me for an explanation of mr. scrope's coming and you have a right to ask it.' 'madam,' expostulated kelly, 'i was careful, on the contrary, to ask for no explanation whatever. for i have no right to it.' 'oh, but you have,' returned her ladyship with asperity; and then up went her handkerchief again. 'all men,' she said, in a voice most pathetical, 'have a right to ask any explanation of any woman, at anytime. women, poor sad creatures, are suspect from their cradles, and to distrust them is the prerogative of manhood.' here she tore away her handkerchief and lifted her hands in an ardent prayer. 'oh that some day i might meet with one single man who would believe us worthy of respect!' she walked away to the window and said in a low voice, 'with what friendship would i requite him.' thus the unfortunate mr. kelly was not merely plunged in remorse, but brought to see that he had missed the one solitary path which would have led him into this great lady's friendship. 'your ladyship,' he implored, 'mistakes my sentiments altogether.' 'mr. kelly,' she replied, proudly, 'we will not, if you please, pursue the matter. you have your explanation and i trust you will allow it to content you,' and so she sailed majestically out of the room, leaving mr. kelly in that perturbation that he quite failed to notice he had received no explanation whatever. she dropped her stateliness, however, when the door was closed behind her, and, hurrying across the hall, lay in wait behind a shrubbery for wogan's return. wogan, on the other hand, had admirable reasons for avoiding all paths, and so slipped into the back of the house unseen. consequently it was not until half-an-hour later, when lady oxford was fairly distracted, that she discovered him, decently clothed, and urging upon kelly the necessity of an immediate retreat. he broke off from his advice as lady oxford entered. 'you have done him no hurt? 'she asked, looking wogan over from head to foot in search of a speck of blood, and ready to swoon if she saw one. 'not the least in the world,' replied wogan. 'nor he you?' 'there was never any likelihood of that.' wogan had to put the best face on the matter possible, and since he could not own to the humiliating truth, why, the necessary lie might just as well redound to his credit. 'i swore him to secrecy upon his bended knees. he took the oath on the hilt of this very sword, 'and wogan hitched forward his hanger. a footman at this moment announced that dinner was served. 'will you give me your hand, mr. wogan?' asked lady oxford, and detaining him until kelly had passed out of the room: 'he gave you doubtless a reason for his coming?' she asked. 'surely he did,' said wogen, who was not for admitting any omission on his own part. 'and what reason?' asked her ladyship. mr. wogan looked at the ground and got a flash of inspiration. 'why,' said he as bold as brass, 'precisely the same reason which you gave to my friend george kelly,' in which answer wogan hit the literal truth, although her ladyship looked puzzled, as well she might, and then flushed a fine crimson. however, she made up an ingenious story, and that same day hinted rather than told it with a pretty suggestion of sympathy which quite melted mr. kelly's heart, and threw wogan into some doubt whether to believe her or no. scrope, it appeared, had been at some indefinite time a secretary to mr. walpole, and was entrusted with the keeping of the good man's accounts. lady oxford was then simply mistress margaret middleton and intimate with her cousin, mr. walpole, although since her marriage, as mr. kelly and his friend were requested to note, that intimacy had entirely ceased. hence it came about that the rash scrope cast longing eyes upon the humble relation of his patron, and was indeed so carried away by passion that margaret was forced now and again to chide him for the forwardness of his demeanour. also, alas! he transgressed in a more serious way. for mr. walpole's accounts fell into the saddest disorder; there were sums of money of which no trace could be found until--well, the deplorable affair was hushed up. mr. scrope was turned off and set down his dismissal to margaret, who, gentle soul, would not have hurt a fly. from that time he had not spared her his resentment, and would go miles out of his way if by any chance he might fix a slight upon her. which conduct she most christianly forgave, since indeed the poor man's head must needs be turned. 'yet he had all the appearances of prosperity,' objected wogan. 'i fancied that i said that there were large sums missing,' replied her ladyship. 'yes, you did indeed say so,' said mr. kelly, 'but you avoided the implication out of your generous pity.' it is not in truth very difficult to befool a man who does half the fooling himself. mr. kelly was altogether appeased by lady oxford's explanation, which to his friend seemed to explain nothing, but none the less he readily acknowledged to wogan the propriety of hurrying his business to a close. 'to tell the truth,' said wogan, as soon as her ladyship had withdrawn, 'i feel my cravat stiffening prophetically about my neck. my presence does not help you; indeed, it is another danger; and since we are but a few miles from aberystwith, i am thinking that i could do nothing wiser than start for that port to-night.' the parson drew figures with his forefinger on the table for a while; then: 'i would not have you go, he said slowly. 'i will use what despatch i may; but i would not have you go, and leave me here.' kelly was true to his word, and used so much despatch that within two days he extorted a promise from lord oxford to undertake the muslin trade in england, as the cant phrase went. possibly he might have won that same promise before had used the same despatch. but lord oxford's foible was to hold long discourses, and mr. pope truly said that he had an epical habit of beginning everything at the middle. however it may be, the two men left the manor on the morning of the third day. wogan drove back with the parson as far as worcester, who for the first few miles remained in a melancholy silence, and then burst out of a sudden. 'to think that she should be mewed up in a corner of herefordshire, with no companions but drunken rustics! mated to an old pantaloon, too!' 'sure it was her ladyship's own doing,' murmured wogan. 'no woman in all london could hold a candle to her. and we distrusted her--we distrusted her, nick.' he beat a clenched fist into the palm of his other hand to emphasise the enormity of the crime. 'why, what impertinent fools men are!' then he again relapsed into silence and again broke out. 'damme! but fortune plays bitter tricks upon the world. 'tis all very well to strike at a pair of rascals like you and me, nick, but she strikes at those who offend her least. faith, but i am bewildered. here is a woman indisputably born to be a queen and she is a nurse. and no better prospect when my lord dies than a poor jointure and a dull dower house.' 'oh, she told you that, did she?' said wogan. 'sure it was a queenly complaint.' 'she made no complaint,' said kelly fiercely. 'she would not--she could not. it is a woman of unexampled patience.' he grumbled into silence, and his thoughts changed and turned moodily about himself. 'why did i ever preach that sermon?' he exclaimed. 'but for that i might now have the care of half-a-dozen rambling parishes. instead of hurrying and scurrying from one end of europe to the other, at the risk of my neck, i might sit of an evening by the peat fire of an inn kitchen and give the law to my neighbour. i might have a little country parsonage all trailed over with roses, and leisure to ensure preferment by my studies and enjoy the wisdom of my latin friend tully. i might have a wife, too,' he added, 'and maybe half a score of children to plague me out of my five wits with their rogueries.' he fetched up a sigh as he ended which would have done credit to my lady oxford; and wogan, seeing his friend in this unwonted pother, was minded to laugh him out of it. 'and a credit to your cloth you would have been,' says he. 'why, it's a bottle you would have taken into the pulpit with you, and a mighty big tumbler to measure your discourse by. indeed there would have been but one point of resemblance between yourself and your worthier brethren, and that's the number of times you turned your glass upside down before you came to an end.' kelly, however, was not to be diverted from his melancholy. the picture of the parsonage was too vivid on the canvas of his desires. and since he dreamed of one impossibility, no doubt he went a step further and dreamed of another besides. no doubt his picture of the parsonage showed the figure of the parson's wife, and no doubt the parson's wife was very like to my lady oxford. wogan, though he had laughed, was, to tell the truth, somewhat disturbed, and began to reckon up how much he was himself to blame for setting kelly's thoughts towards her ladyship. he had not thought that his friend had taken the woman so much to heart. but whenever the parson fell a dreaming of a quiet life and the cure of souls, it was a sure sign the world was going very ill with him. 'i would have you remember, george,' said wogan, 'that not so long ago i saw you stand up before a certain company in paris and cry out with an honest--ay, an honest passion, "may nothing come between the cause and me!" kelly flushed as his words were recalled to him and turned his head away. wogan held out his hand. 'george, am i then to understand that something has come between the cause and you?' and he had to repeat the question before he got an answer. then kelly turned back. 'understand nothing, nick, but that i am a fool,' he cried heartily, and slapped his hand into wogan's. 'true, the cause, the cause,' he muttered to himself once or twice. after all, nick,' he said, 'we have got the old man's assurance. my lord oxford will lend a hand. we have not failed the cause.' and they did not speak again until they drove into worcester. then kelly turned to nick with a sad sort of smile. 'well, have you nothing to say to me? 'said he. mr. wogan could discover nothing to say until he had stepped out of the chaise at the post-house and was shaking his friend's hand. then he delivered himself of the soundest piece of philosophy imaginable. 'woman,' he said, 'is very much like a jelly-fish--very pretty and pink and transparent to look at, but with a devil of a sting if you touch it.' chapter vii lady mary wortley montagu has a word to say about smilinda from worcester nicholas wogan made his way to bristol, and, taking passage there on a brigantine bound for havre-de-grace with a cargo of linen, got safely over into france. he travelled forthwith to paris that he might put himself at the disposition of general dillon, and, being commanded to supper some few days after his arrival by the duke of mar, saw a familiar swarthy face nodding cheerily at him across the table. the lady was embrowned with the eastern sun, and, having lost her eye-lashes by that disease which she fought so manfully to conquer, her eyes were fierce and martial. it was indeed the face of the redoubtable lady mary wortley montagu, sister to the duchess of mar, who chanced to be passing through paris on her travels from constantinople. wogan remembered that mr. kelly's rustic friend at brampton bryan had spoken of lady mary with considerable spleen. and since he began to harbour doubts of her rusticity, he determined to seek some certain information from lady mary. lady mary was for a wonder in a most amiable mood, and had more than one question to put concerning 'kelly as the bishop that was to be when your king came to his own.' 'why, madam, he has a new friend,' said wogan. lady mary maybe caught a suspicion of uneasiness in wogan's tone. she cocked her head whimsically. 'a woman?' 'yes.' 'who?' 'my lady oxford.' lady mary made a round o of her lips, drew in a breath, and blew it out again. 'there go the lawn-sleeves.' wogan took a seat by her side. 'why?' lady mary shrugged her shoulders. 'in what esteem is she held?' continued wogan, 'of what character is she?' 'i could never hear,' returned lady mary carelessly. 'for her friends always stopped abruptly when they chanced upon her character, and the rest was merely pursed lips and screwed-up eyes, which it would be the unfairest thing in the world to translate in her disfavour. her character, mr. wogan, is a tender and delicate plant. it will not grow under glass, but in a dark room, where i believe it flourishes most invisibly.' lady mary seemed ill-disposed to pursue the topic, and began to talk of her journey and the great things she had seen at constantinople. wogan waited until she came to a pause, and then stepped in with another question. 'is lady oxford political?' 'lady oxford! lady oxford!' she repeated almost pettishly. 'upon my word, the woman has infected you. you can speak of nothing else. political?' and she laughed maliciously. 'that she is, and on both sides. she changes her party more often than an ambitious statesman. for politics to my lady oxford are just pawns in the great game of love.' 'oh, love,' exclaimed wogan, with a recollection of mr. scrope. 'is love her quarry?' 'she will play cat to any man's mouse,' returned lady mary indifferently. 'and there are many mice?' lady mary shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. however, wogan's appetite for information was only whetted, and to provoke lady mary to speak more freely he made an inventory of lady oxford's charms. he dwelt on her attractions. lady mary played with her fan, pulled savagely at the feathers, opened it, shut it up, while wogan discoursed serenely on item--a dark eye, big, with a glint of light in it like sunshine through a thundercloud. lady mary laughed scornfully. wogan went on to item--a profusion of blackish-brown hair, very silky, with a gloss, and here and there a gold thread in the brown; item--a barbary shape; item--an admirable instep and a most engaging ankle. 'it would look very pretty in the stocks,' lady mary snapped out. wogan shook his head with a knowing air. ''twould slip out.' 'not if i had the locking of it in,' she exclaimed with a vicious stamp of the foot, and rose, as though to cross the room. 'i have omitted the lady's most adorable merit,' said wogan thoughtfully. lady mary was altogether human, and did not cross the room. 'she has the greatest affection for your ladyship. she spoke of your ladyship indeed in quite unmeasured terms, and while praising your ladyship's wit would not have it that one single spark was due to the cleverness of your ladyship's friends. upon that point she was most strenuous.' lady mary sat down again. the stroke had evidently told. 'i am most grateful to her,' she said, 'and when did lady oxford show such a sweet condescension towards me?' 'but a few weeks ago at brampton bryan, where she was nursing her husband with an assiduous devotion.' 'i have known her show the like devotion before, when her losses at cards have driven her from london.' 'so she gambles?' inquired wogan. 'altogether, then, a dangerous friend for george.' lady mary nodded. 'particularly for george,' said she with a smile. 'for observe, she is compact of wiles, and so is most dangerous to an honest man. she is at once insatiable in her desires, and implacable if they are not fulfilled. she is always in love, and knows nothing of what the word means. she is tender at times, but only through caprice; she is never faithful except for profit or lack of occasion to be anything else. coquetry is the abiding principle of her nature, and her virtue merely a habit of hiding her coquetry. her mind is larded with affectations as is her face with paint, and once or twice she has been known to weep--when tears were likely to deceive a man. there, mr. wogan, you have her likeness, and i trust you are satisfied.' it was not a character very much to wogan's liking (lady mary, he learned later, was quoting from a manuscript 'portrait' of her own designing), though he drew a spice of comfort from the thought that lady mary might have coloured the effigy with her unmistakable enmity. but events proved that she had not over-coloured it, and even at that time lady oxford had no better reputation than lady mary wortley attributed to her. the ballad-makers called her gallant, and they did her no wrong--the ballad-makers of the _ruelles_, be it understood, not they of the streets, but such poets as lady mary wortley montagu herself and his grace sophia of wharton.[ ] the street-singers knew not lady oxford, who, indeed, was on the top of the fashion, and could hold her own in the war of written verses. it was in truth to her ability to give as good as she took in the matter of ballads that she owed lady mary's hostility, who had no taste for the counter-stroke. there were many such daring penthesileas of the pen who never gave each other quarter; but neither wogan nor the parson were at this time in their secrets, although subsequently a ballad, not from lady mary's pen, was to have an astonishing effect upon their fortunes. --------------------- footnote : sophia, a nickname of the _duke_ of wharton. --------------------- 'your ladyship can help me to make the best of it, at all events,' said wogan. 'since you have told me so much, will you tell me this one thing more? have you ever heard of mr. scrope?' 'scrope? scrope?' said she casting about in her recollections. wogan told her the story of mr. scrope's appearance at brampton bryan, and the explanation which lady oxford had given to account for it. lady mary laughed heartily. 'secretary to mr. walpole?' she said. 'and how, then, did he come to hear that mad sermon of mr. kelly's at dublin?' 'sure i have been puzzled to account for that myself,' says wogan. 'but who is he? where does he come from? what brought him to brampton bryan? what took him away in such a mighty hurry? for upon my word i find it difficult to believe the man's a coward.' 'and you are in the right,' replied her ladyship. 'i know something of mr. scrope, and i will wager it was no cowardice made him run. i doubt you have not seen the last of mr. scrope. it is a passionate, determined sort of creature. he came to london a year or so agone. it was understood that he was a country gentleman with a comfortable estate in leicestershire. he had laid his estate at lady oxford's feet, before she was as yet her ladyship. lady oxford would have it, and then would have none of it, and married the earl. well, he had been her valet for a season, and, i have no doubt, thought the service worth any price. she gave him her fan to hold, her gloves to caress, and what more can a man want? he spent much of his money, and some whisper that he turned informer afterwards.' 'oh, did he?' asked wogan, who was now yet more concerned that he had let the informer slip through his fingers. 'yes. an informer for conscience' sake--a gentleman spy. his father died for monmouth's affair. he has ever hated the pretender and his cause. he is a protestant and a fanatic.' then she looked at wogan and began to laugh. 'i would have given much to have seen you bouncing down the road after mr. scrope's chaise,' and she added seriously, 'but i doubt you have not heard the last of mr. scrope.' that also was wogan's thought. for lady mary's story, though vague enough, was sufficiently clear to deepen his disquietude. well, mr. wogan would get no comfort by the mere addling his brains with thinking of the matter, and he thrust it forth of his mind and went upon his way, that led him clean out of the path of this story for a while. he was despatched to cadiz to take charge of a ship, and, in company with captain galloway of the _resolution_, who was afterwards seized at genoa, and morgan, of the _lady mary_, he spent much fruitless time in cruising on and off the coasts of france, spain, and sweden. it was given out that they carried snuff, or were engaged in the madagascar trade. but they took no cargoes aboard but barrels of powder and stands of arms, and waited on the rising, which never came. there were weeks idled away at morlaix, at roscoff in brittany, at lisbon in portugal, at alicant bay in spain, until wogan's heart grew sick with impatience. at rare times, when the venture wore a face of promise, the little fleet would run the hazard of the channel and creep along the english coast, from dartmouth, across the west bay to portland, from portland on to the isle of wight. mr. wogan would pace the deck of his little ketch, _fortune_, of a night, and as he looked at the quiet fields lying dark beneath the sky, would wonder how the world wagged for his friend the parson, and whether my lady oxford was shaping it or no, until a longing would seize on him to drop a boat into the water and himself into the boat, and row ashore and see. but it was not for more than a full twelve months that his longing was fulfilled, and during those twelve months the harm was done. chapter viii mr. kelly has an adventure at a masquerade ball for the greater part of that year mr. kelly simply went about his business. he travelled backwards and forwards from general dillon, lord lansdowne, the duke of mar, in paris, to the bishop of rochester, in london, and from the bishop to the others of the five who mismanaged the chevalier's affairs in england, lord arran, lord strafford, lord north and grey, lord orrery, and last, though not least, the earl of oxford. thus business brought him more than once knocking again at the doors of brampton bryan manor, though he did not always find her ladyship at home to welcome him. on such occasions he found the great house very desolate for the want of her footstep and her voice, and so would pull out his watch and fall to wondering what at that precise moment she was engaged upon in town. thus things dallied, then, until a warm wet night of summer in the year . mr. kelly was in london and betook himself to his majesty's theatre in drury lane, where he witnessed a farce which was very much to his taste. it was entitled 'south-sea; or the biter bit,' and was happy not merely in its quips, but in the moment of its performance. for the king, or, as the honest party called him, the elector, and his lords had sold out, and were off to germany with their plunder, and the stocks were falling by hundreds every week. mr. kelly might well laugh at the sallies on the stage and the wry faces with which the pit and boxes received them. for he had recently sold out his actions in the mississippi scheme at a profit of , per cent., and had his money safe locked up at mr. child's, the goldsmith. kelly's, however, was not a mere wanton pleasure. for the floating of the bubble out of reach meant a very solid change in the jacobite prospects. so long as the south-sea scheme prospered and all the town grew wealthy, there would be no talk of changing kings and no chance for mr. kelly's friends. that great and patriotic bishop whom he served, my lord of rochester, had said to him this many a month past, 'let 'em forget their politics, let 'em all run mad in change alley, and the madder the better. for the funds will fall and be the ruin of thousands, and when england is sunk into a salutary wretchedness and discontent, then our opportunity will come.' it was altogether, then, in a very good humour that mr. kelly left the theatre. the night was young, and he disinclined for his lodgings. he strolled across to the groom porters, in white hall, where his spirits were mightily increased. for taking a hand there at bassette, in three deals he won nine rich septlevas, and, for once, did not need the money, and when he left the groom porters his pockets were heavy with gold, and his head swimming with the fumes of punch. it is not to be wondered at that those same fumes of punch floated lady oxford into mr. kelly's mind. he swaggered up st. james's street with her ladyship consequently riding atop of his bemused fancies. it was a gay hour in st. james's, being then about half past one of the morning. music rippled out of windows open on the night. kelly heard the dice rattle within and the gold clink on the green cloth; lovers were whispering on the balconies; the world seemed to be going very well for those who had not their money in the bubble, and for no one better than for mr. kelly. he looked about him, if by chance he might catch a glimpse of his divinity among the ladies of fashion as he watched them getting into their chairs, pushing their hoops sidelong before them, and the flambeaux flaring on their perfections. he imagined himself a paladin rescuing her from innumerable foes. she was an angel, a sprite, a hamadryad, in fact everything tender and immaterial. he was roused from these dreams by an illumination of more than ordinary brilliancy, and looking up saw that he had wandered to the theatre in the haymarket. a ragged crowd of pickpockets and the like was gathered about the portico. carriages and chairs set down in quick succession, ladies in dominoes, gentlemen in masks. mr. kelly remembered that it was a night of the masquerades; all the world would be gathered in the theatre, and why not lady oxford, who was herself the better half of it? kelly had a ticket in his pocket, pushed through the loiterers, and stood on the inner rim of the crowd watching the masqueraders arrive. every carriage that drew up surely concealed her ladyship, every domino that passed up the steps hid her incomparable figure. mr. kelly had staked his soul with unruffled confidence upon her identity with each of the first twelve women who thus descended before he realised that he was not the only one who waited. from the spot where he stood he could see into the lobby of the theatre. heidegger, m. le surintendant des plaisirs du roi de l'angleterre, 'with a hundred deep wrinkles impressed on his front, like a map with a great many rivers upon 't,' was receiving the more important of his guests. the guests filed past him into the parterre, heidegger remained. but another man loitered ever in the lobby too. he was evidently expecting someone, and that with impatience. for as each coach or chaise drew up he peered eagerly forward; as it delivered its occupants he turned discontentedly away. it is perhaps doubtful whether mr. kelly would have paid him any great attention but for his dress, which arrested all eyes and caused the more tender of the ladies who passed him to draw their cloaks closer about them with a gesture of disgust. for he was attired to represent a headsman, being from head to foot in black, with a crape mask upon his face and a headsman's axe in his hand. he had carried his intention out with such thoroughness, moreover, that he had daubed his doublet and hose with red. mr. kelly was in a mood to be charmed by everything strange and eccentric, and the presence of this bloodsmeared executioner at a masquerade seemed to him a piece of the most delicate drollery. moreover, the executioner was waiting like mr. kelly, and with a like anxiety. mr. kelly had a fellow-feeling for him in his impatience which prompted him suddenly to run up the steps and accost him. 'like me, you are doubtless waiting for your aunt,' said the parson courteously. the impulse, the movement, the words had all been the matter of a second; but the executioner was more than naturally startled, as mr. kelly might have perceived had he possessed his five wits. for the man leaped rather than stepped back; he gave a gasp; his hand gripped tight about the handle of his axe. then he stepped close to kelly. 'you know me?' he said. the voice was muffled, the accent one of menace. kelly noticed neither the voice nor the menace. he bowed with ceremony. 'without a doubt. you are m. de strasbourg.' the headsman laughed abruptly like a man relieved. 'you and i,' he returned, mimicking kelly's politeness of manner, 'will be better acquainted in the future.' kelly was overjoyed with the rejoinder. 'here's a devil of a fellow for you,' he cried, and with his elbow nudged heidegger in the ribs. heidegger was at that moment bent to the ground before the duchess of wharton, and nearly stumbled over her grace's train. he turned in a passion as soon as the duchess had passed. 'vas you do dat for dam?' he said all in a breath. kelly however was engaged in contemplating the executioner. he ran his thumb along the edge of the axe. 'it is cruelly blunt,' said he. 'you need not fear,' returned the other. 'for your worship is only entitled to a cord.' 'oh, so you know me,' says kelly, stepping close to the executioner. 'without a doubt,' replied the latter, stepping back, 'monsieur le marchand de dentelles.' it was kelly's turn to be startled, and that he was effectually; he was shocked into a complete recovery of his senses and an accurate estimation of his folly. he walked to the entrance and stood upon the steps. the executioner knew him, knew something of his trade. who, then, was m. de strasbourg? kelly recalled the tones of his voice, conned them over in his mind, and was not a penny the wiser. he glanced backwards furtively across his shoulder and looked the man over from head to foot. at that moment a carriage drove up to the entrance. mr. kelly was standing on the top of the steps and the face of the coachman on the box was just on a level with his own. he stared, in a word, right at it, and so took unconsciously an impression of it upon his mind, while pondering how he should act with regard to m. de strasbourg. consequently he did not notice that a woman stepped out of the carriage and, without looking to the right or left, quickly mounted the steps. his eyes, in fact, were still fixed upon the coachman's face; and it needed the brushing of her cloak against his legs to rouse him from his reflections. he turned about just as she disappeared at the far end of the lobby. he caught a glimpse of a white velvet cloak and an inch of blue satin petticoat under a muffling domino. he also saw that m. de strasbourg was drawn close behind a pillar, as though he wished to avoid the lady. as soon, however, as she had vanished he came boldly out of his concealment and followed her into the theatre. mr. kelly began instantly to wonder whether a closer view of the domino would help him discover who m. de strasbourg really was, and entering the theatre he went up into the boxes. at first his eyes were bedazzled by the glitter of lights and jewels and the motley throng which paraded the floor. there was the usual medley of chinese, turks, and friars; here was a gentleman above six feet high dressed like a child in a white frock and leading strings and attended by another of very low stature, who fed him from time to time with a papspoon; there was a soldier prancing a minuet upon a hobby horse to the infinite discomfort of his neighbours; and as for the women--it seemed to mr. kelly that all the goddesses of the heathen mythology had come down from olympia in their customary négligé. among them moved m. de strasbourg like a black shadow, very distinguishable. kelly kept his eyes in the man's neighbourhood, and in a little perceived a masked lady with her hair dressed in the greek fashion. what character she was intended to represent he could not for the life of him determine. he learnt subsequently that she went as iphigeneia--iphigeneia, if you please, in a blue satin petticoat. to be sure her bosom was bared for the sacrifice, but then all the ladies in that assembly were in the like case. she had joined a party of friends, of whom m. de strasbourg was not one. for though he kept her ever within his sight, following her hither and thither, it was always at a distance; and, so far as kelly could see, and he did not take his eyes from the pair, he never spoke to her so much as a single word. on the contrary he seemed rather to lurk behind and avoid her notice. kelly's curiosity was the more provoked by this stealthy pursuit. he lost his sense of uneasiness in a wonder what the man designed against the woman. he determined to wait the upshot of the affair. the night wore away, the masqueraders thinned. the inch of blue satin petticoat took her departure from the parterre. m. de strasbourg followed her; mr. kelly followed m. de strasbourg. the lobby was crowded. kelly threaded his way through the crowd and came out upon the steps. he saw the lady, close wrapped again in her velvet cloak, descend to her carriage. the coachman gathered up his reins and took his whip from its rest. the movement chanced to attract kelly's eyes. he looked at the coachman, at the first glance indifferently, at the second with all his attention. for this was not the same man who had driven the carriage to the masquerade. and then the coachman turned his full face towards kelly and nodded. he nodded straight towards him. but was the nod meant for him? no! well, then, for someone just behind his shoulder. kelly did not turn, but stepped quietly aside and saw m. de strasbourg slip past him down the steps. so the nod was meant for him. m. de strasbourg was still masked, but he had thrown a cloak about his shoulders which in some measure disguised his dress. the mystery seemed clear to kelly; the lady was to be forcibly abducted unless someone, say mr. james johnson, had a word to say upon the matter. the carriage turned and drove slowly through the press of chairs and shouting link-boys; m. de strasbourg on the side-walk kept pace with the carriage. kelly immediately crossed the road, and, concealed by the carriage, kept pace with m. de strasbourg. thus they went as far as the corner of the haymarket, and then turned into pall mall. at this point kelly, to be the more ready should the lady need his assistance, stepped off the pavement and walked in the mud hard by the hind wheels of the carriage. it was now close upon four of the morning, but, fortunately, very dark, and only a sullen sort of twilight about the south-eastern fringes of the sky. in pall mall the carriages were fewer, but the coachman did not quicken his pace, doubtless out of regard for m. de strasbourg, and at the corner of pall mall, where the road was quite empty, he jerked the horses to a standstill. instantly m. de strasbourg ran across the road to the carriage, the coachman bent over on that side to watch, and mr. kelly, on the other side, ran forward to the box. m. de strasbourg wrenched open the door and jumped into the carriage. mr. kelly heard a woman's scream and sprang on to the box. the coachman turned with a start. before he could shout, before he could speak, kelly showed him a pistol (for he went armed) under the man's nose. 'one word,' said kelly, 'and i will break your ugly face in with the stock of that, my friend.' the woman screamed again; m. de strasbourg thrust his head out of the window. 'go on,' he shouted with an oath, 'you know where. at a gallop! kill the horses, they are not mine! flog 'em to death so you go but fast enough.' 'to the right,' said kelly, quietly. the man whipped up the horses. they started at a gallop up st. james's street. 'to the right,' again whispered kelly. the carriage turned into ryder street, rocking on its wheels. m. de strasbourg's head was again thrust from the window. 'that's not the way. are you drunk, man?--are you drunk?' he cried. 'to the left,' says kelly, imperturbably, and fingered the lock of the pistol a little. the carriage swung into bury street. 'stop,' said kelly. the coachman reined in his horses; the carriage stopped with a jerk. 'where in the devil's name have you taken us?' cried m. de strasbourg, opening the door. kelly sprang to the ground, ran round the carriage to the open door. 'to the marchand de dentelles, m. de strasbourg,' said he with a bow. 'i have some most elegant pieces of _point d'alençon_ for the lady's inspection.' m. de strasbourg was utterly dumbfounded. he staggered back against the panels of the carriage; his mouth opened and shut; it seemed there was no language sufficiently chaotic to express his discomposure. at last: 'you are a damned impudent fellow,' he gasped out in a weak sort of quaver. 'am i?' asked kelly. 'shall we ask the lady?' he peeped through the door. the lady was huddled up in a corner--an odd heap of laces, silks, and furbelows, but with never a voice in all the confusion. it seemed she had fainted. meanwhile m. de strasbourg turned on the unfortunate coachman. 'get down, you rascal,' he cried; 'you have been bribed, you're in the fellow's pay. get down! not a farthing will you get from me, but only a thrashing that will make your bones ache this month to come.' 'your honour,' replied the coachman piteously, 'it was not my fault. he offered to kill me unless i drove you here.' m. de strasbourg in a rage flung back to kelly. he clapped a hand on his shoulder and plucked him from the carriage door. 'so you offered to kill him, did you?' he said. 'perhaps you will make a like offer to me. but i'll not wait for the offer.' he unclasped his cloak, drew his sword (happily not his axe) and delivered his thrust with that rapidity it seemed all one motion. mr. kelly jumped on one side, and the sword just gleamed against his sleeve. m. de strasbourg overbalanced himself and stumbled a foot or two forwards. kelly had whipped out his sword by the time that m. de strasbourg had recovered, and a battle began which was whimsical enough. a quiet narrow street, misty with the grey morning, the carriage lamps throwing here a doubtful shadow, a masked headsman leaping, swearing, thrusting in an extreme passion, and, to crown the business, the coachman lamenting on the box that whichever honourable gentleman was killed he would most surely go wanting his hire, he that had a woeful starving family! mr. kelly, indeed, felt the strongest inclination to laugh, but dared not, so hotly was he pressed. the attack, however, he did not return, but contented himself with parrying the thrusts. his design, indeed, reached at no more than the mere disarming of m. de strasbourg. m. de strasbourg, however, lost even his last remnants of patience. 'rascal!' he cried. 'scullion! grasshopper!' then he threw his hat at kelly and missed, and at last flung his periwig full in kelly's face, accompanying the present with a thrust home which his opponent barely parried. it was this particular action which brought the contest to a grotesque conclusion quite in keeping with its beginnings. for the periwig tumbled in the mud, and the coachman, assured that he would get no stiver of his hire, scrambled down from his box, rushed at a prize of so many pounds in value, picked it up and took to his heels. m. de strasbourg uttered a cry and leaped backwards out of reach. 'stop!' he bawled to the coachman. the coachman only ran the quicker. m. de strasbourg passed his hand over his shaven crown and looked at the carriage. it was quite impossible to abduct a lady without a periwig to his head. he swore, he stamped, he shouted 'stop!' once more, and then dashed at full speed past kelly in pursuit. kelly made no effort to prevent him, but gave way to his inclination and laughed. the coachman threw a startled glance over his shoulder and, seeing that m. de strasbourg pressed after him, quickened his pace; behind him rushed a baldheaded executioner hurling imprecations. the pair fled, one after the other, to the top of bury street, turned the corner and disappeared. kelly laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and leaned against the carriage. the touch of the panels recalled him to the lady's presence. the street was now fairly roused by the clamour. night-capped heads peeped from the windows; an indignant burgher in a dressing-gown even threatened mr. kelly with a blunderbuss; and, as he turned to the door of the carriage, he saw mrs. barnes at a window on the second floor looking at him with an air of the gravest discontent. 'take me into shelter, good sir, at once, at once,' cried the lady from out the confusion of her laces, in a feigned tone of the masquerade. 'with all my heart, madam,' said kelly. 'this is my door, and my lodging is at your disposal. only the street is fairly awake, and should you prefer, i will most readily drive you to your own house.' the lady looked out of the window. she was still masked so that kelly could see nothing of her face, and she hesitated for a little, as if in doubt what answer she should make. 'you may make yourself at ease, madam,' said kelly, believing that she was not yet relieved of fear; 'you are in perfect safety. our worthy friend had to choose between your ladyship and his periwig, of which he has gone in chase. and, indeed, while i deplore his taste, i cannot but commend his discretion.' 'very well,' she replied faintly. 'i owe you great thanks already, mr.--' she paused. 'johnson,' said kelly. 'mr. johnson,' she replied; 'and i shall owe you yet more if you will drive me to my home.' she gave him the address of a house in queen's square, westminster. kelly mounted on the box, took up the reins, and drove off. he looked up, as he turned the carriage in the narrow street, towards the second floor of his lodging. mrs. barnes shook her head at him in a terrible concern. 'i shall write and tell mr. wogan,' she bawled out. 'hush, mrs. barnes, have you no sense?' cried kelly, and he thought that from within the carriage he heard a stifled peal of laughter. 'poor woman,' thought he, ''tis the hysterics,' and he drove to queen's square, westminster, at a gallop. chapter ix wherein the chivalrous mr. kelly behaves with deplorable folly mr. kelly did not drive very straight perhaps, but to be sure he had the streets entirely to himself, and he certainly hit upon queen's square. the house was unknown to him, and he drove through the square before he found it. it made an angle at the south corner, and was conspicuous for a solid family air, and a fine new statue of queen anne. level windows of a distinguished respectability looked you over with indifference and said, 'here's a house you'll take off your hat to, if you please.' 'faith, but those windows must have shuddered in their sashes when they saw the parson driving madam home at five o'clock of the morning from a masquerade ball. a sleepy footman opened the door; a no less sleepy maid yawned in the hall. however, they both waked up to some purpose when mr. kelly jumped down from the box, bade the footman take the carriage round to the stables, called the maid to attend upon madam, and himself opened the carriage door. he opened it quickly with a thought that madam might very likely have removed her mask, for he was not so tipsy but that he was curious to know who it was that he had befriended. madam, however, had done nothing of the kind. 'is my lady ill?' asked the maid, hurrying forward. so madam was a woman of title. 'a trifle discomposed, no doubt,' answered kelly. my lady said nothing whatever. it seemed she was unwilling to speak in the feigned voice before her maid, and in the natural voice before mr. kelly. she took his arm, and, leaning on it somewhat heavily, yet walked with a firm enough step into the hall, as mr. kelly could not but remark. the maid threw open a door on the right. it gave into a little cheery room with a wainscot of polished oak, and a fire blazing on the hearth. my lady did not release mr. kelly's arm, and they both stood in front of the fire, and no doubt found the warmth comfortable enough after the chill of the morning. her ladyship, indeed, went so far as to untie the strings of her domino, and make as though she would turn it back upon her shoulders. but with a glance at mr. kelly, she changed her mind, and hugged it somewhat closer over her dress than before. 'were you at the masquerade, mr. johnson?' she asked in a low voice. mr. kelly took the movement and the words together, and set them down as mere coquetry. now, coquetry to kelly at that time was a challenge, and it was contrary to his principles of honour to remain under such a provocation from man or woman. so he answered: 'indeed, your ladyship, i was, to my eternal happiness. i shall dream of blue satin for a month to come.' her ladyship hitched her domino a little tighter still about her neck, and quickly tied the strings again, but made no other reply to his sally. the action, while it inflamed his curiosity, put him into something of a quandary. was it but another piece of coquetry, he asked himself, or did she indeed wish to hinder him from discovering who she was? he could answer neither question, but he felt constrained, at all events, to offer to take her concealment as a hint that he should depart. it seemed a pity, for the adventure promised well. 'your ladyship,' he said, and at that she gave a start and glanced at him, 'for so i understand from your maid i may address you,' he added, 'it grows late, the world is getting on to its legs, and your ladyship has had an eventful night.' he took a step backwards and bowed. 'no,' said she, in a sharp quick voice, and put out a hand to detain him. then she stopped as quickly, and drew in her hand again. mr. kelly had borne himself very prettily in the little affair with m. de strasbourg. madam, in fact, was in the typical attitude of woman. she knew it was inconvenient to keep him, but for the life of her she could not let him go, wherefore she found a woman's way out of the trouble. for she staggered on her legs, and fainted to all appearance clean away, leaving matters to take their own course and shift for themselves. she fainted, of course, towards mr. kelly, who caught her in his arms and set her in an arm-chair. the maid, who all this while had been standing in the doorway, smiled. 'i will run to her ladyship's dressing-room for the salts,' she said, and so went out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her. kelly kneeled by the lady's side, and taking up her fan, sought to waft her that way back into the world. she did not stir so much as a muscle, but lay all huddled up in her domino and mask. mr. kelly leaned over her, and so became aware of a penetrating perfume which breathed out from her dress. the perfume was bergamot. kelly dropped the fan and sat back on his heel. the maid had called her 'my lady,' and bergamot was lady oxford's favourite perfume. what if it was lady oxford he had unwittingly rescued! the possibility caught his breath away. if that were only true, he thought, why, he had done her some slight service, and straightway a great rush of tenderness came upon him, which went some way to sober him. in a minute, however, he dropped into despondency; for lord oxford's house was in the northern part of the town, as he knew, though he had never as yet been there, and neither the footman nor the maid were of her ladyship's household. yet, if by some miracle the lady might be smilinda! she was of the right height. mr. kelly looked at her, seeking vainly to trace out the form hidden under the folds of the domino. but if it were smilinda, then smilinda had swooned. mr. kelly woke to this conclusion with a start of alarm. he clapped his hand into his pocket, pulled out his snuff-box, opened it quickly, and held it close beneath her ladyship's nose. the effect of the snuff was purely magical, for before she could have inhaled one grain of it--before, indeed, mr. kelly's box was within a foot of her face, up went her hands to the tie-strings of her mask. so the swoon was counterfeit. 'madam,' said kelly, 'you interpret my desires to a nicety. it is your face i would see, but i did not dream of removing your mask. i did but offer to revive you with a pinch of snuff.' she took the box from his hand, but not to inhale the macawba. 'it is for your own sake, mr. johnson, that i do not unmask. 'tis like that i am a fright, and did you see my face you would take me for a pale ghost.' 'madam,' said kelly, 'i am not afraid of ghosts, nor apt to take your ladyship for one of those same airy appearances. a ghost! no,' he cried, surveying her. 'an angel! it is only the angels in heaven that wear blue satin petticoats.' the lady laughed, and checked the laugh, aware that a laugh betrays where a voice does not. 'ghost or angel,' she said,' a being of my sex would fain see herself before she is seen. 'tis a mirror i seek.' she was still holding mr. kelly's snuff-box. it was open and within the lid a little looking-glass was set; and as she spoke she turned away and bent over it with a motion as if she was about to lift her mask. 'nay,' said kelly abruptly; he stretched out his hand towards the snuff-box. 'the glass will be unfaithful, for the snuff has tarnished it. madam, i beseech you, unloose that mask and turn your face to me and consult a truer mirror, your servant's eyes.' he spoke, perhaps, with a trifle more of agitation than the occasion seemed to warrant. madam did indeed turn her face to mr. kelly, but it was in surprise at his agitation, and the mask still hid her face. mr. kelly could see no more than a pair of eyes blazing bright and black through the eyelet holes. 'you are gallant, i find, as well as brave,' she said, 'unless some other cause prompted the words.' 'what cause, madam? you wrong me.' 'why,' said she, 'you still hold out your hand.' mr. kelly drew it away quickly. 'ah,' she continued, 'i am right. there was a reason. you would not have me examine your snuff-box too closely.' in that she was right, for the snuff-box was at once the dearest and the most dangerous of mr. kelly's possessions. it was a pretty toy in gold and tortoiseshell, with brilliants on the hinges, and had been given to mr. kelly on a certain occasion when he had been presented to his king at avignon. for that reason, and for another, he was mightily loth to let it out of his possession. what that other reason was madam very soon discovered. 'it is a dangerous toy,' she said. 'it has perhaps a secret to tell?' 'madam, has not your mask?' returned kelly. 'there is a mystery behind the mirror.' 'well, then, it's mystery for mystery.' for all that he spoke lightly he was in some uneasiness. for the lady might not be smilinda, and her fingers played deftly about the setting of the mirror, touching a stone here and there. to be sure she wore gloves, and was the less likely therefore to touch the spring. but give her time enough--however, at that moment kelly heard the maid's footsteps in the hall. he stepped to the door at once and opened it. 'you have the salts?' he asked. 'you have been the deuce of a time finding them.' the maid stared at him. 'but her ladyship fainted,' she argued. 'well,' said he, 'wasn't that why you went for the salts?' 'to be sure,' says she. ''twas an order to go for the salts.' she pushed open the door. my lady was still fingering the box. the maid paid no attention to the box, but she looked at my lady's mask; from the mask she looked towards kelly with a shrug of the shoulders, which said 'zany' as plain as writing. kelly had no thoughts to spare for the maid. 'madam,' he said, 'here is your maid, to whose attentions i may leave you.' he advanced, made a bow, took up his hat, held out his hand for his snuff-box. 'but i cannot let you go,' she answered, 'without i thank you'--all the time she was running her fingers here and there for the spring. kelly noticed, too, with some anxiety, that while he had gone to the door she had made use of the occasion to strip off her glove--'and thank you fitly, as i should have done ere this. but the trouble i was in has made me backward.' 'nay, madam,' said kelly impatiently, and taking a step nearer, 'there is no need for thanks. no man could have done less.' her ladyship's fingers travelled faster in their vain attempt. 'but you risked your life!' said she in admiration. 'it is worth very little,' said he with a touch of disdain; 'and, madam, i keep you from your bed.' the maid turned her eyes up to the ceiling, and then madam by chance pressed on a diamond which loosed a hidden spring; the glass in the snuff-box flew down and showed a painting of the chevalier in miniature. 'oh!' cried my lady with a start in which, perhaps, there was a trace of affectation. then she turned to the maid and bade her bring some wine and glasses. she spoke quickly, now forgetting for the moment to disguise her voice. mr. kelly recognized it with absolute certainty. the voice was smilinda's. the maid went out of the door. kelly looked at the lady, and seeing that she was seemingly engrossed in the contemplation of the little picture, stole after the maid. 'betty!' he called in a whisper. 'sir? 'she asked, coming to a stop. he took a crown from his pocket, spun it in the air, and caught it. 'the margout,' said he, 'will doubtless be more difficult to discover than the salts,' he suggested. 'it might indeed be necessary to go down to the cellar,' she replied readily. 'and that would take time,' said kelly, handing her the crown. 'it would take an entire crown's worth,' said the maid, pocketing the coin. kelly slipped back into the room. the lady seemed not to have noticed mr. kelly's absence, so fondly did she study the portrait; but none the less, no sooner had he closed the door than she cried out, not by any means to him but in a sort of ecstasy, '_le roi!_' then she hid the snuff-box suddenly and glanced with a shudder round the room. the panic was altogether misplaced, since there could be no other person in the room except the owner of the box, who, if her ladyship was guilty for admiring, was ten thousand times more so for possessing it. she caught with her hand at her heart when she perceived mr. kelly, then her eyes smiled from out of her mask, as though in the extremity of her alarm she had forgotten who he was, and so fell back in her chair with an air of languor, breathing deep and quick. 'upon my word, i fear, mr. johnson,' she said, 'that if i have escaped one danger by your help i have fallen into another. you seem to me to be a man of dangerous company.' 'indeed i find it so when i am with you, madam, since you discover my secrets and show me nothing of your own,' replied kelly. the maid it appears, had no less perversity than her mistress, for precisely at this moment she rapped on the door, and without waiting for any answer sharply entered the room, bearing the wine and glasses on a salver. there was a distance of three yards between kelly and her ladyship. the maid measured the distance with her eyes, and her face showed some disappointment. her ladyship dismissed her, filled both the glasses and took one in her hand. mr. kelly drained the other, and the bumper carried off the remnant of his brains. 'you run no danger from my knowing your secret, mr. johnson,' said she, 'for--' breaking off her sentence, she turned her head aside, swiftly pushed up her mask and kissed the portrait in the box, stooping her fragrant hair over it. mr. kelly, speeded by the wine, was this time too quick for her ladyship. before she could raise her face he had paid the same compliment to her lips as she to his majesty. she lifted her head with a bewitching air of anger. 'lady oxford!' he cried out as if in amazement, since he had bottomed the mystery for now some time. 'forgive me, madam, if my hasty loyalty to my sovereign prevented me from recognising his latest adherent. the cause must now infallibly triumph.' 'sir,' she began, looking up at him with her eyes melting from anger to reproach, 'your apology is something graceless. for though my colour be gone'--it was only the worse or artificial part of her matchless complexion which the mask had rubbed off--'you yet had time to know and respect a face you--'and then she came suddenly to a stop, as she untied the strings of her domino and threw it back from her shoulders. 'you blame me,' she said pitifully. her ladyship was a ready woman, and even went more than half-way to meet an attack. at brampton bryan the talk had been of duty and the charms of a rustic life; but here the dutiful country wife, violently disarrayed in the extreme of fashion, had been alone to a masquerade ball and mr. kelly might conceive himself tricked. and so 'you blame me,' she said, 'you blame me even as you blamed me at brampton bryan, and with no more justice.' 'at brampton bryan!' exclaimed kelly suddenly. 'm. de strasbourg! m. de strasbourg was scrope.' her ladyship nodded. 'and 'twas he attacked _you_--would have carried you off.' her ladyship shivered. 'and i let him go. curse me! i let him go even as nick did. but the third time! oh, only let the third time come.' her ladyship shook her head with the most weariful resignation. 'it will come too late, that third time,' she said; 'too late for me. i have no husband who can protect me, and no friend so kind as to serve me in his place.' 'nay, madam,' cried kelly, instantly softened by the lonely picture which her words called up in his mind. she was transfigured all at once into una, andromeda, ariadne, or any other young woman of great beauty and virtue who has ever been left desolate to face a wintry world. 'believe me, you have one friend whose only aspiration is to serve you with his life-blood. 'faith, madam, had you but shown me your face when first i came to the door of your carriage, i would never have let m. de strasbourg run away until i had offered you his smoking heart on the point of my sword.' her ladyship gave the parson to understand that she had gone to the ball on the king's service. had his brain been of its customary sobriety the adventure would doubtless have surprised him more than it did. he might have questioned the nature of the service which took her ladyship to the masquerade. but she had sufficient art to tell him nothing and persuade him that she told all. moreover, he had other matters to engage him. there is no need to extend more particularly the old story of a young man's folly with a woman of lady oxford's kind. she had sought to hide who she was, she said, because she dared not trust herself; and the fact that she was not living in her own house, which was being repaired, but in one that she had borrowed, with the servants, from a friend who had gone to the bath, seemed to make her intention possible. but heaven had been against her. mr. kelly was readily beguiled into the sincere opinion that she had fought against her passion, but that her weakness and his transcendent bravery, of which she would by no means allow him to make light, had proved her ruin. it was all in a word set down to gratitude, which was a great virtue, she suggested. love, indeed, was just the charge of powder which would have never flashed--no never--had not gratitude served as a flint and thrown off the spark. well, mr. kelly walked home in the dawning of a new day and painted his thoughts with the colours of the sky. for weeks thereafter he seemed in his folly to tread on air; and no doubt he had more than ordinary warrant for his folly. he had a fortune safely lodged with mr. child, the goldsmith; his mistress was no less fair than she showed fond; and so fond she was that she could not bring herself to chide the coachman who was discovered the next morning drunk with drugged wine at a tavern near the haymarket, whither one of scrope's hirelings had lured him. mr. kelly was prosperous in the three great games of life, love, and politics. for he was wholly trusted by the bishop, by lord oxford and the rest; he took his place in the world and went and came from france with hanging matter in his valise. the valise weighed all the lighter for the thought that he was now serving lady oxford as well as the king. she was at this time always in his dreams. his passion indeed was in these days extreme, a devouring fire in brain and marrow. he believed her a most loyal conspirator, and, of course, all that he knew came to her ladyship's ears. but his bliss in the affection of lady oxford quite blinded him to danger, and he seemed to himself to walk invisible, as though he had the secret of fernseed. for a season, then, mr. kelly was the happy fool, and if the season was short--why, is it ever long? mr. wogan is not indeed sure that the parson has got altogether out of her ladyship's debt, in spite of what happened afterwards. for when the real morning broke and the true love came to him, troubles followed apace upon its coming. it is something to have been a happy fool, if only for a season and though the happiness ended with the folly. chapter x what came of mr. kelly's winnings from the south sea luck is a chameleon, and in november of that same year , thought fit to change its complexion. the date, to be precise, was the th of the month. mr. wogan can determine on the particular day, for the reason that mrs. barnes carried out her threat, and sent him a laborious long letter concerning the parson's moral iniquities. the letter reached mr. wogan in october, who was then cleaning his ship at morlaix in brittany, and what with his fifteen months of purposeless cruises, felt himself as encrusted with idleness as his ship's bottom with barnacles. it was just this eternal inactivity which no doubt induced him to take the serious view of mrs. barnes's epistle. 'it is a most cruel affair,' said he to mr. talbot, who was with him, 'and of the last importance that i should hurry to london and set it straight.' 'but you are fixed here,' said the crow, for so talbot was commonly called from the blackness of his complexion. 'can i undertake the business for you?' 'no,' says nick, shaking his head very solemn; though maybe his eye twinkled. mr. wogan forgets what point the plot was at then, for since the black year, , there had been but one plot, though it had changed and shifted shape like the faces you see in the dark before you sleep. but he could not hear that anything immediate was intended; and it would be, therefore, the most convenient occasion to refit his ketch _fortune_. he gave orders to that effect, travelled to paris, obtained from general dillon a month's leave to dispose of his own affairs, and went whistling to london like a schoolboy off on his holidays. for, to tell the truth, he was not greatly concerned at george kelly's backslidings, but on the contrary was inclined to chuckle over them, and trusted completely to his friend's discretion. he arrived in london on november , and drove boldly to kelly's lodging in bury street. for the glenshiel affair had completely blown over--there had never been more than a rumour that he was there--and as for the fifteen, why mr. wogan had his pardon like the rest. that he got for his behaviour to captain montagu at preston; moreover, who could know the boy wogan that ran away from westminster school, and his task of copying lord clarendon's history, in mr. hilton, the man of six feet four in his stockings. he found kelly's lodgings empty. 'a letter came for him three days ago,' explained mrs. barnes, 'and he set off almost on the instant in an agitation so great that he did not wait to pack his valise, but had it sent after him.' 'where to?' 'i do not know,' replied mrs. barnes with a sniff of the nose and a toss of the head, 'and no doubt i am a better woman for not knowing.' 'no doubt, replied wogan gravely. 'but, mrs. barnes, who signed the letter? where did it come from?' 'and how should i know that?' she cried. 'would i demean myself by reading the letters of a nasty trull? for she's no better for all her birth, and that's not so high neither.' 'ah,' says wogan, 'i see you don't know who signed the letter.' 'and that's truth,' said she, 'but i saw the superscription. as for the letter, he hid it in his bosom.' 'well, that's as good as showing the signature. who carried his valise after him?' 'francis vanlear,' she said, 'the porter who plyed in st. james's street and piccadilly and lodged at the crown ale-house in germain street.' thither wogan sent for him, and when he was come asked him whither he had carried the valise. 'to mr. gunning's at mussell hill,' vanlear answered, where he had found a horse ready saddled at the door and 'mr. johnson' in a great fume to be off. wogan gave the porter a crown for his trouble and went forthwith to mr. gunning's, whom he had not seen since the occasion of his coming down from glenshiel. from mr. gunning he learned that kelly had undoubtedly taken the aberystwith road, since he had left the horse he borrowed at beaconsfield, and thither had mr. gunning sent to fetch it. kelly's destination was consequently as clear to wogan as the urgency of his haste, and coming back into london he dropped in at the cocoa tree, where he found the story of lady oxford and mr. kelly a familiar pleasantry. he heard of it again that night at will's coffeehouse in covent garden, and at burton's in king street, where mr. kelly was very well known. for, besides being close to kelly's lodging, it was one of the houses to which his letters were directed under cover. from burton's wogan came back to bury street, and, while smoking a pipe in the parlour before going to bed, he chanced to notice his strongbox. it stood on the scrutoire by the side of mr. kelly's big bible, where wogan had left it eighteen months before. it was the brother to mr. kelly's strong-box, in every particular but one, and that one a stouter lock. wogan remembered that when he had placed the box on the scrutoire the key was attached to it by a string. now, however, he noticed that the key was gone. he was sufficiently curious to cross the room and try the lock. but the box would not open; it was securely locked. there were papers too within it, as he found out by shaking it. kelly, then, was using the box--but for what purpose? his own box served for his few political papers. any other papers that needed the shelter of a strong box must be love-letters. here, then, were amorous, not political epistles. besides, he was in the habit of burning all those which had done their work, and the rest which he needed he carried about in his own dispatch-box. 'now, i wonder,' said wogan, tapping the lid, 'i wonder whether a certain letter, signed--shall we say smilinda?--and summoning my friend to brampton bryan, is locked up inside you.' wogan's guess hit the truth even to the signature, though he was destined to get little satisfaction from this proof of his sagacity. the letter, he later learned, lay in box with not a few others in the same handwriting, and they all ended in the same manner with a request: 'burn this.' mr. kelly would have been honester had he obeyed it, but, like many a man when passion gets hold of him, he could not part with them. faint whispers breathed, as it seemed, from heaven, and caught and written loud in my lady's hand, pure diamonds fetched up from the obscure mines of a woman's heart, sure he treasured them up beyond all jewels, and locked them up in mr. wogan's despatch-box to his own undoing. this letter was, (wogan learned afterwards) the most laconic of them all, and it was the most momentous. it began, 'my own strephon,' and then strephon was crossed out and again written on the top, and it was signed 'smilinda' in a doubtful hand; as though, at first, brampton bryan had recalled to her ladyship the beginning of their affections with so overpowering a compulsion that she must needs use the names which were associated with it, and then the dear woman's modesty timidly crossed them out, and in the end love got the upper hand and wrote them in again. at least that was a small portion of all the great meanings which kelly read in the hesitation of her ladyship's address. between the strephon and the smilinda there was but one line--'come; there is a secret. i have great need of you.' but this had been quite enough to send mr. kelly spurring out into the november night with such speed that he came to oxford the next day, where he found the snow lying very deep. the snow troubled him, no doubt, because it delayed him, but he took little account of the cold beyond a sharp pang or two lest smilinda might have caught a chilblain. for himself--well, smilinda had need of him--the great lady turned for help to the irish outlaw. wasn't it always so? her majesty throws her glove to the page, my lord the king cophetua goes clean daft for a beggar wench, and the obliging cupid builds a rickety bridge whereby the despairing lovers leap into each other's arms. smilinda needed him! there was a tune ravished from heaven! his whole frame moved to it as the waves to the direction of the moon. it sang in his blood, his heart beat to it, the hooves of his horse drummed it out on the road. even the boughs of the trees whispered the words with a tender secrecy to the wind, much as the reeds whispered that other saying, ages ago, which the queen in the fable had entrusted to them. and, 'faith, when you come to think of it, there was little difference in meaning between the two remarks. smilinda needed mr. kelly! it was, after all, as much as to say 'mr. kelly has ass's ears.' he made such haste that on the evening of the second day after his departure from london he cantered up the drive of the manor house. lady oxford met him in the hall, and mr. kelly's heart gave a great jump of pride when he saw her stately figure all softened to an attitude of expectation. 'i knew you would come,' she said; and, as mr. kelly bent over her hand, she whispered, 'my strephon,' for all the world as if her emotion choked her. then she raised her voice for the servants to hear: 'my lord is from home, mr. johnson, but he has commissioned me at once to pay you his regrets and to act as his deputy in your business.' mr. kelly was all impatience to broach his business, but her ladyship's solicitude would not allow him to speak until he had supped. she came near to waiting upon him herself, and certainly plied him with her best wine, vowing that it was ill weather for travellers, and that if he kept his glass full beside his elbow it was a sure sign he hated her. this, of course, after the servants had been dismissed. mr. kelly chided her for the thought, and, with a shake of the finger, quoted her a text: 'we are bidden not to look upon the wine when it is red,' said he. 'and a very good text, too,' says she; 'so, if you please, shut your eyes and drink it,' and, coming behind him, she laid her cool hand upon his eyes and forehead. so mr. kelly drank, and the bumper floated his wits into my lady's haven. 'now,' says my lady; and, leading the way into her boudoir, she sat herself down before the fire, and, clasping her hands at the back of her head, smiled at mr. kelly. 'strephon,' she murmured on a lilt of her voice, and with all the provocation that witchery could devise. mr. kelly was on his knees at her side in a moment. she laid a white hand upon his breast, and, gently holding him off: 'tell me,' says she, 'why i sent for you.' 'because my smilinda needed me,' he answered with a laugh of pride. her hand caressed his shoulder. she nodded, bit her under lip and smiled very wisely. 'what is the service strephon can do?' cried kelly. 'is it to lift the world? give me but your love and i'll accomplish that.' smilinda clapped her hands with delight, like a child. 'it is nothing so important,' said she. 'it is not in truth any service you can do for me, but rather one that i can do for you.' kelly's face lost all its light, and dropped to the glummest disappointment. he had so nursed that aspiration of doing her some great service. through the night, through the day, it had borne him company. some great service--that was to be the bridge of cupid's building whereby they were to stand firm-footed on equal ground. and now it was some service lady oxford was to do for him. lady oxford noticed the change; it may have been to read the thought which it expressed, and that the thought touched her to unwonted depths. for the smile faded from her lips, her eyes became grave, thoughtful, there was a certain suspense in her attitude. 'must the woman always owe, the man always pay?' she asked, but in a broken way, and with almost a repugnance for herself. indeed, she barely finished the question, and then, with an abrupt laugh, crossed to the window, drew aside the curtains, and gazed out upon the darkness and the glimmering snow. 'a strange, cold world,' she said in an absent voice, 'with a strange white carpet.' mr. kelly in truth had given her a glimpse into a world yet stranger to her ladyship than that which her eyes beheld--a world that had an odd white carpet too, though the feet of those who paced it as often as not were stained--a world of generous impulses and unselfish devotions. into this world lady oxford was peering with an uneasy curiosity. perhaps for a moment she compared it with her own; perhaps she was caught by it and admired it; but, if so, it was with a great deal of discomfort. for she dropped the curtain petulantly across the window, and, coming back to the fire--well, what she would have said it is impossible to guess, for a gentle tap on the door was followed by a servant's entrance into the room. he carried a letter on a salver, and, advancing to lady oxford, offered it to her. now, mr. kelly was standing almost at the centre of the mantelpiece, lady oxford at one end; and they faced one another. so the man inevitably stopped between them, and, when he lifted up the salver, it was impossible but that the parson should observe the superscription. he recognised the handwriting of lady mary wortley montagu. lady oxford recognised it too, for she flushed as she picked the letter up. but she flushed deeper as she read it through, and then crumpled it up and flung it into the fire with an anger which showed very clearly she would have done the like for lady mary were the writer instead of her letter within reach of her vindictive fingers. 'a strange, incomprehensible creature is lady mary wortley montagu,' said lady oxford with a laugh and a glance at mr. kelly. 'the most whimsical contradiction. she offers you a kindness with one hand and slaps you in the face with the other. for instance, this letter here. 'twas written out of pure kindness. it completes the friendliest service, yet it ends with so rough a jest that but for strephon's sake i should be much drawn to reject the service.' 'for my sake? 'asked kelly. 'why, to be sure. lady mary gave me a piece of news a week ago in town. it was that news which made me send for you, and she writes now expressly to confirm it. but, let my strephon answer me,' and she asked whether he had yet sent his winnings from the mississippi to be used for the king's service. now, mr. kelly was, after all, a human being. it was all very well in the first flush of prosperity to propose to scatter his few thousands, but afterwards he had come to see that they would not go so very far. besides, he had now obvious reasons for desiring to cut as agreeable a figure as he could. at all events the money still remained with mr. child, the goldsmith, and so he told her ladyship, with a little remorse. 'then,' she cried in joy,' that chance has come for which smilinda has been longing. my presents, strephon, you have always refused,' which was true enough; indeed, on the other hand, she had mr. kelly's royal snuff-box and a few of his jewels. 'but now i can make your fortune, and with yours my own. there's the sweetness of it,' she said, and clasped her hands on her heart. 'your fortune, too!' 'my fortune you have made already,' said he, with other compliments proper to the occasion. but her ladyship was in a practical mood. 'listen,' says she. 'i am made acquainted that the tide has turned. i mean, you know, in the straits of magellan. the south-sea stock that has been falling so long will certainly rise in a week; the elector is buying secretly. lady mary has it from mr. pope, and he at the first and best hands from mr. craggs, the secretary. mr. craggs will insert my name in the next list and your money i shall send to the directors with my own. you shall be rich, strephon, on the level of your merits.' mr. kelly was very well content with his one speculation, but the evident joy with which lady oxford anticipated serving him was worth more than his thousands. 'my gold shall be in smilinda's coffers the morning that i get back to town, 'he said. 'you must go at once,' she exclaimed, 'we must lose no time. stay. i will travel with you to-morrow morning if you will favour me with your company'; and so a new flow of compliments carried the south sea out of sight. but a minute or two later mr. kelly, chancing to look down at the hearth, said, quite inconsequently: 'we must not forget to thank lady mary.' smilinda followed the direction of his eyes, and saw that lady mary's letter had tumbled out of the fire and now lay, half burnt, but the other half only curled up and scorched. she shivered as though she was cold, and the better to warm herself knelt down on the hearth-rug. then she took up the letter (which kelly must not see) and carelessly tossed it into the fire. 'you know lady mary,' she said. 'yes, you told me.' 'i do, indeed,' said kelly, with a smile. 'i could wish you did not,' said her ladyship with a frown. smilinda made it plain that she was jealous. kelly laughed heartily at the assumption, which was in truth ridiculous enough. 'who am i,' said he, 'that i should attract lady mary's fancy,' 'you are--my strephon,' replied smilinda, with a sigh of exquisite tenderness. kelly argued the matter on other grounds. smilinda listened to them all. 'i have no doubt you are right,' she said, with a meek resignation. 'but i remember you spoke very warmly of the friendship you had for her, and ever since--' here she broke off shyly. 'a weak woman's empty fears,' she continued,' but they keep her awake at nights. well, she must even make the best of them.' smilinda lying awake at nights out of jealousy! there was a notion to convict mr. kelly of slow murder. he was on his knees in a moment, and swore that for the future on earth and in heaven he would avoid lady mary's company as though she was the devil in person. it was a confused sort of oath and deprived mr. kelly for a time of a very good friend; but on the other hand it undoubtedly raised a load from lady oxford's anxieties. she left brampton bryan the next morning and travelled with mr. kelly up to london, where the coach set them down at the king's head in the strand. kelly went straight from the king's head to the goldsmith and his money was carried to queen's square that same afternoon. it would seem, however, that mr. pope had been choused, for the market fell from little to nothing. but when the bubble presently burst into air, smilinda burst into tears, and mr. kelly was smitten to the heart for her distress. 'i have ruined thee, my strephon,' she sobbed. she had covered her face with her hands and the tears trickled through her fingers. 'love arms me against such ill-fortunes,' replied kelly. 'it is only smilinda's tears that hurt. each one of them falls upon strephon's heart like a drop of molten lead.' 'ah, strephon,' she cried. 'thou art ruined and smilinda's hapless hand hath dealt the blow. the arrow came from her quiver,' she being one of dian's nymphs, you are to suppose. then mr. kelly fell to comparing himself to procris in the fable, who was shot by her lover, and said that it was sweet to perish by her inadvertent shaft. it seems that kind of love-making has now gone out of date. but that was the humour of it when kelly and wogan were young. men and women, let them but fall in love, and they were all swains and nymphs, though they dabbled in the stocks and were as hard-headed as before and afterwards. 'that odious lady mary,' exclaimed smilinda. 'she was born to be my bane and curse. 'twas her counsel that ruined my strephon. my strephon has kept his oath?' her strephon had, but on the other hand, mr. wogan had sworn no oath, and would not have kept it if he had done so. he paid a visit to lady mary soon after kelly's return from brampton bryan. she asked him his news and gave him a budget of gossip in return. 'and lady oxford has sold her diamonds!' she ended. wogan asked how that came about, and she answered: 'lady oxford was here at the bassette table three weeks since. her stakes were ever inordinately high, and she lost to me all night. she drew a queen when she should have chose the knave, the knave was sonica. "there go my diamonds," she said, and vowing she would punt no more, went home in her chair. i could not see her or hear of her for a little. i guessed that she had run away into the country until she could wheedle enough money to pay me out of the dotard husband. so at a venture i wrote a polite letter to her, hoping that the country air would restore her credit. well, here she is back in london and her losses paid. that means selling her diamonds.' wogan laughed over lady oxford's straits and came home to the lodging in bury street. wogan's time was getting short and he must return to morlaix. but, as has been said, he left brittany in a hurry with very little money in his pocket, and what was left at his journey's end he had since spent in london. so he said to the parson: 'george, my friend, i must dip into your winnings after all. for here am i with a couple of crowns,' he took them out and laid them on the table. george flushed crimson. 'nick,' said he, 'you have two crowns more than i have.' wogan turned away to the window and looked out into the street, bethinking him of what lady mary had told him. 'sure, nick, it's the truth,' kelly pleaded, entirely miscomprehending wogan's action. 'i drew the money out of the mississippi and sunk it in the south sea. it's all gone. i have not two penny pieces to rub together until this day week, when my pension is paid. nick, you'll believe that. why, nick, you would ha' been welcome to all that i had. but you know that. sure you know it.' wogan had no such mean thought as kelly in his fluster attributed to him. he turned back to the table. 'so you are as poor as an irish church mouse again, are you?' he said with a smile. 'well, here's two crowns--one for me, one for you.' he pocketed one coin and pushed the other over to the parson. the parson took it up and turned it over blinking his eyes. for a moment there was an awkward sort of silence. wogan laughed; the parson blew his nose. 'i hear,' said wogan, 'that lady oxford has lost her diamonds.' kelly looked up in perplexity. 'lost her diamonds!' said he. 'why, she wore them last night!' 'i thought the rumour was untrue,' said wogan. mr. kelly slipped his crown into his pocket. there was no more said about the matter between them, though perhaps they clasped hands at parting with a trifle more than their ordinary heartiness. mr. wogan, however, told lady mary of the parson's loss, and she was at no pains to discover the explanation. lady oxford had paid lady mary with the parson's guineas. they had never been in the south sea bubble. 'i should like to send the money i won back to mr. kelly,' said lady mary. 'that's plainly impossible,' returned wogan, and to this lady mary perforce agreed. '_olet_,' the latin-learned lady said, and wogan remarked, 'certainly,' so she put the money aside, thinking that some day she might employ it on mr. kelly's behalf. that night wogan borrowed his travelling money from mr. carte, the historian, whom he met at the cocoa tree, and so set out the next morning for brittany. chapter xi the parson departs from smilinda and learns a number of unpalatable truths mr. wogan then returned to morlaix, and, finding his ketch by this time cleaned and refitted, and two others (the _revolution_, a big ship of guns, under morgan, which was afterwards seized by commodore scot at genoa, and the _lady mary_, a smaller vessel of guns, commanded by captain patrick campbell) at anchor in the harbour, he set sail for the downs. there they picked up four thousand small arms and a couple of hundred kintals of cannon powder, for traffic, it was alleged, on the coasts of brazil and madagascar. but the arms and ammunition travelled no further than bilboa, where they were stored in the country house of mr. brown, an irish merchant of that part, against the next expedition to england. at bilboa the three ships parted, and mr. wogan, taking in upon freight such goods as he could get, sailed to genoa, and lay there behind the mole. nor was the parson to tarry long behind him in london; for less than a fortnight after wogan's departure, he was sent to carry to rome, for the chevalier's approval, a scheme of a lottery for raising a quarter of a million pounds, which mr. christopher layer (later hanged) most ingeniously imagined. with the scheme he carried some silk stockings as a present for the chevalier and his spouse. this was none of the bishop of rochester's work, who knew nothing of mr. layer, and of what was later plotted by bold and impatient spirits. the parson had sad work parting with smilinda, but made light of the separation to save the lady from distress, and she had happily broken a bank at pharo that same night, which withheld her from entirely breaking her heart. still, it was as affecting an affair as one could wish for. the parson received certain orders of atterbury's as to business with general dillon, the chevalier's manager in paris, just before he was to start; and, coming from the deanery at westminster where the bishop resided, he walked at once through petty france to queen's square. lady oxford's house was all in a blaze of light with figures moving to and fro upon the blinds of the windows. 'mr. johnson' was announced, but for some little while could not get a private word with her ladyship, and so stood of one side, taking his fill of that perfumed world of fans and hoops, of sparkling eyes and patches and false hearts wherein lady oxford so fitly moved. many of the faces which flitted before his eyes were strange to him, but one he remarked in particular--a strong, square sort of face set on the top of an elegant figure that wore the uniform of the king's guards. mr. kelly had seen that face under the oil-lamp of a portico in ryder street on the occasion when he and nicholas wogan set out on their first journey to brampton bryan, and the officer who owned the face was now a certain colonel montague. kelly remarked him because he was playing at the same table with her ladyship, and losing his money to her with all the grace in the world. at last lady oxford rose, and, coming towards him: 'well?' she murmured, 'my strephon is pale.' 'i leave for rome to-morrow morning,' he returned in a whisper. at that her hand went up to her heart, and she caught her breath. 'wait,' said she, and went back to her cards. as the guests were departing some two hours later, she called to kelly openly. 'mr. johnson leaves for paris to-morrow morning, and has the great kindness to carry over some of my brocades, which indeed need much better repairing than they can get in london.' it made an excuse for mr. johnson to stay, but none the less provoked a smile here and there; and colonel montague, deliberately coming to a stop a few paces from kelly, took careful stock of him. the colonel did not say a word, but just looked him over. mr. kelly was tickled by the man's impudence, and turned slowly round on his heels to give him an opportunity of admiring his back. then he faced him again. the colonel gravely bowed his thanks for mr. kelly's politeness, mr. kelly as gravely returned the bow, and the colonel stalked out of the door. it was in this way that mr. kelly and the colonel first met. but the moment smilinda and strephon were left alone! 'oh,' wailed smilinda, and her arms went round strephon's neck. '_heureuse en jeu, malheureuse en amour_. o fatal cards, would that i had lost this dross!' cries she, with her eyes on the glittering heap of guineas and doubloons strewed about the table. 'oh, strephon, thou wilt forget me in another's arms. i dread the french syrens.' and then mr. kelly to the same tune: 'never will i forget smilinda. if i come back with the king, and he makes me a bishop, with a pastoral crook, thy strephon will still be true.' whereat the lady laughed, though kelly was jesting with a heavy heart, and vowed that lady mary would write a ballad on 'strephon, or the faithful bishop.' then she fell into a story of lovely mrs. tusher, the bishop of ealing's wife, who was certainly more fair than faithful. next she wept again, and so yawned, and gave him her portrait in miniature. 'you will not part with it--never--never,' she implored. the portrait was beautifully set with diamonds. 'it shall be buried with me,' said kelly, and so lady oxford let him go, but called him back again when he was through the door to make him promise again that he would not part with her portrait. mr. kelly wondered a little at her insistence, but set it down to the strength of her affection. so he departed from the cave of the enchantress with many vows of mutual constancy and went to rome, and from rome he came back to genoa, where he fell in with nicholas wogan. mr. wogan remembers very well one night on which the pair of them, after cracking a bottle in grimble's tavern, came down to the water-gate and were rowed on board of wogan's ketch. this was in the spring of the year , some four or five months since the parson had left england, and wogan thought it altogether a very suitable occasion for what he had to say. he took the parson down into his cabin, and there, while the lamp flecked the mahogany panels with light and shade, and the water tinkled against the ship's planks as it swung with the tide, he told him all that he had surmised of lady oxford's character, and how lady mary had corroborated his surmises. at the first mr. kelly would hear nothing of his arguments. 'it is pure treason,' said he. 'from any other man but you, nick, i would not have listened to more than a word, and that word i would have made him eat. but i take it ill even from you. why do you tell me this now? why did you not tell it me in london, when i could have given her ladyship a chance of answering the slander?' 'why,' replied wogan, 'because i know very well the answer she would have made to you--a few words of no account whatever, and her soft arms about your neck, and you'd have been convinced. but now, when you have not seen her for so long, there's a chance you may come to your senses. did you never wonder what brought scrope to brampton bryan?' 'no need for wonder since she told me.' 'she told you, did she? well, i'm telling you now, and do you sit there until i have told you, for mr. scrope's history you are going to hear. bah, leave that bodkin of a sword alone. if you draw it, upon my soul i'll knock you down and kneel on your chest. mr. scrope went before you in her ladyship's affections.' here mr. kelly flinched as though he had been struck, and thereafter sat with a white stern face as though he would not condescend to answer the insinuation. 'sure he was a gentleman--out of leicestershire, and of some fortune, which fortune lady oxford spent for him. he was besides a sad, pertinacious fellow, and nothing would content him but she must elope with him from her old husband, and make for themselves a paradise on the rhine. it appears that he talked all the old nonsense--they were man and wife in the sight of god, and the rest of it. her ladyship was put to it for shifts and excuses, and at the last, what with his money being almost spent, and his suit more pressing, she fled into the country where we met her. scrope was no better than a kitten before its eyes are opened, and, getting together what was left of his fortune, followed her with a chaise, meaning to carry her off there and then. however, he found us there, and i take it that opened his eyes. and i would have you beware of mr. scrope, george. a kitten becomes a cat, and a cat has claws. it is lady mary's thought that you have not heard the last of him, for his conscience hath made him a kind of gentleman spy on the honest party.' george, who in spite of himself could not but see how exactly wogan's account fitted in with and explained scrope's attempt after the masquerade, caught at lady mary's name with an eager relief. 'ah, it was she gave you this flimsy story,' he cried, leaning forward over the table. 'there's more malice in it than truth, nick. the pair of them have been at loggerheads this long while. lady mary never could suffer a woman who can hold her own against her. why, nick, you have been gulled,' and he lit his pipe, which he had let go out. 'oh, and have i? well, at all events, i have not stripped myself of every penny in order to pay lady oxford's losses at cards. scrope is not the only man whom her ladyship has sucked dry.' 'what do you mean?' cried kelly, letting his pipe slip out of his fingers and break on the floor. wogan told him of his visit to lady mary, and the story was so circumstantial, the dates of the loss at cards and the payment so fitted with lady oxford's message to kelly and her proposal as to the placing of his fortune, that it could not but give him pause. 'it is not true,' was all he could find to say, and 'i'll not believe it,' and so fell to silence. 'you'll be wanting another pipe,' said wogan. he fetched one from a cupboard and filled it. the two men smoked for a while in silence. then kelly burst out of a sudden: 'nick, the fool that i was ever to preach that sermon in dublin,' and stopped. wogan knew well enough what the parson meant. his thoughts had gone back to the little parsonage, and the rambling cure of half a dozen parishes, and the quiet library, and evenings by the inn-fire, where he would tell his little trivial stories of the day's doings. it was always that dream he would play with and fondle when the world went wrong with him, though to be sure, could the dream have come true, he would have been the unhappiest man that ever breathed irish air. 'shall we go on deck?' wogan proposed. it was a fine clear night, but there was no moon. the riding-lights of ships at anchor were dotted about the harbour, the stars blazed in a rich sky; the water rippled black and seemed to flash sparks where the lights struck it; outside the harbour the mediterranean stretched away smooth as a slab of marble. kelly stood in the chains while wogan paced up and down the deck. the parson was in for his black hour, and silent companionship is the only alleviation for the trouble. after a time he came towards wogan and caught him by the arm, but so tight that wogan could feel his friend's finger-nails through the thick sleeves of his coat. 'i'll not believe it,' kelly argued; but it was against himself he was arguing now, as wogan perceived, and had the discretion to hold his tongue. ''faith,' he continued, 'she came into my life like a glint of the sun into a musty dark room,' and then he suddenly put his hand into his bosom and drew out something at which he looked for a moment. he laughed bitterly and swung his arm back. before, however, he could throw that something into the sea wogan caught his hand. 'sure,' said he, 'i saw a sparkle of diamonds.' kelly opened his hand and showed a miniature. 'lady oxford's diamonds,' he answered bitterly, 'which she did not sell, but gave out of a loving, generous heart.' 'george, you're moon-struck,' said wogan. 'diamonds, after all, are always diamonds.' 'true,' said kelly, 'and i promised never to part with them,' he sneered. he put the miniature back in his pocket, and then dropping his arm to his side said, 'put me ashore, nick. i will see you to-morrow. i am very tired.' but in the morning he was gone, and a few days later nick, who was not spared certain prickings of conscience for the hand he had taken in bringing about the parson's misfortunes (he had just now, by hindering him from throwing away the miniature, taken more of a hand than he guessed), sailed out from genoa. the rest of that year ' was a busy time for all engaged in forwarding the great affair. england itself seemed ripe for the attempt, and it was finally determined to hazard it in the spring of the next year, when the elector would be in hanover. the new plan was that the exiled duke of ormond, whom the soldiers were thought to love, should sail from spain with the earl marischal, morgan, and halstead, commanding some ragged regiments of mr. wogan's countrymen. the duke was to land in the west, the king was to be at antwerp ready to come over, and the young prince charles of wales, who would then be not quite two years old, was to be carried to the highlands. a mob was to be in readiness in town, with arms secretly buried; the soldiers were expected to declare for high church and ormond; and in a word the 'honest party' was to secure its interest on its own bottom, without foreign help, which the english people has never loved. the rich lords, but not bishop atterbury, knew of the beginning of this scheme, but abandoned it. they did not know, or only lords north and grey knew, that the scheme lived on without them. mr. kelly therefore had his hands full, and it was very well for him that it was so. there were things at stake of more moment than his love-affairs, as he was the first to recognise. yet, even so, he had time enough, in the saddle and on the sea, to plumb the black depths of his chagrin and to toss to and fro that shuttlecock of a question, whether he should accuse her ladyship for her trickeries or himself for misdoubting her. however, he got a complete answer to that question before the year was out. it was his habit now, whenever he was in london, to skulk out of sight and knowledge of lady oxford, to avoid theatres, routs, drums, and all places where she might be met, and mr. carte the historian took his place when it was necessary to visit lord oxford in the country. mr. carte had a ready pretence, for lord oxford kept a great store of old manuscripts concerning the history of the country, and these beauties, it is to be feared, came somewhat between mr. carte and his business, just as her ladyship's eyes had come between mr. kelly's and his. accordingly the parson saw little of her ladyship and heard less, since his friends avoided all mention of her and he himself asked no questions. 'saw little,' and the phrase is intended. for often enough of an evening his misery would fetch him out of the coffee houses and lead him like a man blindfold to where her ladyship was accustomed to visit. there he would stand in the darkness of the street until the door opened and lady oxford, all smiles and hooped petticoats, would trip gaily out to her chair. but very likely habit--the habit of her conversation and appearance--had as much to do with this particular folly as any despairing passion. how many lovers the wide world over fancy they are bemoaning their broken hearts, when they are only deploring their broken habits! well, mr. kelly, at all events, took the matter _au grand sérieux_, and so one night saw her ladyship come out from the porch of drury lane theatre in company with colonel montague. there is one unprofitable piece of knowledge which a man acquires who has ever had a woman make love to him; he knows when that woman is making love to someone else. lady oxford's modest droop of the head when the colonel spoke, her shy sidelong smile at him, her red lips a trifle parted as though his mere presence held her in a pleased suspense--all these tokens were familiar to mr. kelly as his daily bread, and he went home eating his own heart, and nursing a quite unjustifiable resentment against nicholas wogan for that he ever saved the colonel's life. it did not take kelly long to discover that his suspicions were correct. a few questions to his friends, who for his sake had kept silence, and the truth was out. lady oxford's constancy had lasted precisely seven weeks before the whig colonel had stepped into the jacobite parson's shoes. mr. kelly put his heart beneath his heel and now stamped her image out of it. then he went upon his way, and the king's business took him to avignon. chapter xii the parson meets scrope for the third time, and what came of the meeting it was early in the year when mr. kelly came to _la ville sonnante_, and took a lodging at l'auberge des papes in the rue des trois faucons. he brought with him a sum of , _l_. collected in england, and this sum he was to hand over to a messenger from the duke of ormond, who was then at corunna in spain, and, what with his disbursements in the purchase of arms, and the support of irish troops, was hard put to it for money. it was therefore of the last importance that this sum should come safe to corunna, and so extraordinary precautions were taken to ensure that result. the parson, since he did not know who the messenger might be, was to wait every morning between the hours of nine and ten on the first bench to the left of the porte du rhone in the boulevard outside the city walls, until a man should ask him if he had any comfortable greeting for aunt anne, that being the cant name for the duke. this man was thereafter to prove to mr. kelly's satisfaction that he was indeed the messenger expected. now, the messenger was delayed in his journey, and so for a week george kelly, having deposited his money with mr. philabe, the banker, sat every morning on his bench with what patience he might. he came in consequence to take particular notice of an oldish man and a rosebud of a girl who walked along the boulevard every morning at the time that he was waiting. they were accompanied by a french poodle dog, and indeed it was the poodle dog which first attracted mr. kelly's attention to the couple. it has already been said that mr. kelly had a trick of catching a woman's eyes, though this quality implies no great merit. on the other hand he drew dogs and children to him, and that implies a very great merit, as you may observe from this, that there is never a human being betwixt here and cathay will admit that dogs and children have a dislike for him. the poodle dog, then, comes to a halt opposite mr. kelly's bench on the very first morning that he sat there, cocks his ears, lifts a forefoot from the ground, and, looking after the old man and the young girl, says plain as print, 'here, wait a bit! there's something on this bench very well worth looking into.' however, his master and mistress were in a close conversation and so the poodle puts his foot on the ground and trots after them. but the next morning he came up to the bench, puts his head of one side to display the fine blue riband round his neck, squats on his haunches, and flops a paw on to the parson's knee. 'how d'ye do?' says the parson politely. 'i think i'll stretch myself, thank you,' says the poodle, and promptly proceeds to do so, using mr. kelly's knee as a purchase for his paws. he was still engaged upon this exercise when his young mistress missed him. she whistled; the poodle looked at the parson with the clearest invitation. 'won't you come too?' 'i have not been presented,' replied the parson. thereupon the girl turned round. 'harlequin,' she called to the dog, and showed mr. kelly as sweet a face as a young man ever deserved to see. it was fresh and clear as the morning dew, with frank eyes and a scarlet bow of a mouth ready for a laugh. 'harlequin!' said mr. kelly to himself with a start, as he looked towards the girl. harlequin trotted off to his mistress, and got prettily chided for his forwardness, of which chiding he made little or no account, and very properly. it is not every dog that achieves immortality by stretching itself against a stranger's knee. but harlequin did. for had harlequin not made mr. kelly's acquaintance, he would never have found a niche in mr. swift's verses. now let me tell you plainly, sir, our witness is a real cur, a dog of spirit for his years, has twice two legs, two hanging ears, his name is _harlequin_, i wot, and that's a name in every plot: * * * * * * * his answers were extremely witty before the secret wise committee; confest as plain as he could bark, then with his fore-foot left his mark: wrote the dean of st. patrick's concerning this very poodle dog of miss rose townley. for rose townley was the girl's name, as the parson now knew, and the old gentleman was her father, who had tended mr. nicholas wogan after his wounds in the year ' at preston. mr. wogan had more than once spoken to kelly of dr. townley and his daughter rose, who had retired to avignon, after the rising, and he had made mention of their poodle harlequin, of which poodle the present or reigning dog, harlequin ii., was the son and heir. so that, hearing the name called out by rose, kelly was aware who the two people were. dr. townley had been suspected in the rising, and therefore had settled at avignon as physician to the duke of ormond, and when the nobleman left the town, remained because he was grown old, and had lost his taste for politics and warrings. he had, moreover, received his pardon for his share in the struggle, and was indeed at this very time preparing to return into england. but of this kelly was not aware. the next morning kelly was again on his bench, and again dr. townley and his daughter passed him. harlequin came forward at once to wish the parson good-morning. rose spoke to her father, plainly telling him of harlequin's new friendship, for the doctor looked up towards mr. kelly and the girl looked away. in consequence there sprang up a queer sort of acquaintance between the doctor and his daughter on the one hand, and parson kelly on the other. every morning they looked for him on his bench; every morning he had a few words with harlequin. doubtless he would have pursued the acquaintance further, but for rose. she it was who kept the parson from approaching dr. townley. for he was still sore with lady oxford's treacheries, and feminine beauty was _vanitas vanitatum_ to him. moreover, though he had snatched her ladyship's image out of his heart, some of her sayings had stuck in his mind, and amongst her sayings not a few were aimed at girls. smilinda was a woman, and saw a rival in each youthful beauty. 'girls of our time,' she would say with a sneer, 'were very kind, at all events, whatever one might think of their looks. and to hear them speak of marriage, why one would fancy oneself in the company of rakes dressed up like the other sex for a masquerade.' she would gloat over the misadventures of poor mistress dolly walpole, the minister's sister, by the hour, she had even written a ballad thereon, 'the dolliad,' and since mr. kelly had never had been much in the society of young unmarried women, he had insensibly imbibed a deal of smilinda's philosophy upon this head. and so he waited for the messenger in silence. now, upon the fourth day mr. philabe the banker sent round for the parson to l'auberge des papes, and, when he was come, told him that on that morning a man called at the bank with a letter which he gave to a clerk. the clerk carried the letter to mr. philabe, who opened it. it enclosed a second letter superscribed to mr. george kelly, and prayed the banker to add to the superscription mr. kelly's address. this mr. philabe would not do, but sent out word that he would take care the letter came into kelly's hands. the man, however, who had brought it immediately replied that it was of the last importance the letter should be delivered at once: otherwise there was no use in delivering it at all. if mr. philabe would send a messenger at once, well and good; if not, would he kindly return the letter forthwith. this request roused mr. philabe's suspicions. for if he sent a messenger, as he was prayed to do, the man could follow him, and as easily discover the address as if philabe had written it on the note. he replied consequently that neither could he accede to this request, but that mr. kelly should most certainly have the letter that day. upon this the man insisted that the letter should be returned to him, but the more strenuously he insisted, the stronger became mr. philabe's suspicions, until he determined not to part with the letter at all, and the man finally went away very ill-pleased. mr. philabe, as he told this story, handed the letter to mr. kelly, who broke open the seal, and found nothing but a clean sheet of paper. 'little doubt,' said he, 'why the fellow wanted his letter back. it is a pure trick to know where i lodge. what was he like?' 'he wore a travelling-dress,' said mr. philabe, 'and a cocked hat.' 'and very likely a pair of boots,' added kelly. 'but this tells me very little of his looks.' mr. philabe was a poor hand at a description, and beyond that the man had a nose, two eyes, a mouth, two legs, and a pair of arms, kelly learned nothing whatever of his appearance. that very day, however, the mystery was to be made clear. between daylight and dark mr. kelly chanced to walk up the narrow rue st. agricole, and had just come abreast of the broad flight of steps which leads upwards to the church, when a man leaped down in front of him. 'i beg your pardon,' said the parson politely stepping aside. 'that is not enough,' said the other, and, turning on his heel, he faced kelly and barred the way. kelly recognised the voice, recognised the face. 'ah,' cried he, 'mr. scrope.' his first feeling was one almost of exultation. in the face of his enemy he forgot altogether that there was no longer any amorous reason for his enmity. he almost forgot, too, what he had heard from wogan about mr. scrope's supposed quality as a gentleman spy. 'the third time,' he said with a laugh. 'i promised myself the third time.' scrope nodded his head. 'we are of one mind, then.' he looked up and down the street. it was empty from end to end. 'there is a little square terrace at the top of these steps, with blank walls upon the two sides, and the church door upon the third. the terrace will be very suitable and quiet.' he turned as he spoke and set a foot upon the lowest step. 'one moment,' said kelly. during scrope's words he had reflected. scrope and himself, politics apart, were really in the like case. for if he had followed scrope in her ladyship's caprices, montague had followed him, 'as amurath to amurath succeeds.' his enmity quite died away, and gave place to something very like a fellow-feeling. moreover, he had to consider the messenger from the duke of ormond and the , _l_. in mr. philabe's keeping. 'one moment,' he said. scrope stopped with a sneer. 'if you can remain a few days at avignon,' he continued, 'i shall be happy to oblige you in whatever you will. for the moment i have duties.' 'of course,' interrupted scrope. 'duties are wonderful convenient things when one's bones are in danger. the pious Æneas knew that very well, mr. kelly; but then the worthy army-chaplain had not a scrope upon his heels for the best part of a twelvemonth.' 'oh,' cried kelly, 'then it is you who have followed me.' more than once he had heard that his steps were dogged. 'over a wearisome stretch of europe,' agreed scrope. 'it was you who came to philabe this morning?' 'who else? so, you see, i have been at some pains to come up with you, and those duties must wait.' 'those duties,' replied kelly, 'are so urgent that i am in two minds whether to take to my heels.' to any man who was acquainted with the parson this statement would have been proof enough that there was all the necessity in the world for delay. but then scrope knew very little of his opponent, and: 'i am not at all surprised to hear that,' he replied contemptuously. mr. kelly reddened at the sneer, but kept a tight hold upon his patience. 'understand me,' said he quietly. 'if i ran away now, i should most certainly follow you afterwards, as you have followed me, and when i came up with you i should kill you.' 'and understand me,' broke in scrope. his cold, sneering face suddenly lighted up with a fierce passion. 'neither you will follow me, nor i you. we stand face to face, as i have hoped we should until i have dreamed the hope true. you have robbed me of what i held most precious. you have done worse. you have proved to me that what i held most precious was never worth so much as a cracked farthing. that morning i came to brampton bryan, i came at lady oxford's bidding. we were to have done with pretences for good and all. oh, she had forgotten, if you will, but if she had forgotten, who made her forget? you, mr. kelly, the sneaking cuckoo! i would have worn her proudly, for all the world to see--the star upon my coat, the scarf across my breast. i would have faced my fellows with one arm for her waist, and the other for a naked sword to silence their slanders with. well, there's no waist, but there's still the naked sword.' as he spoke, with his left hand he jerked his sword out of the scabbard, and caught it by the hilt with his right. 'there's still the naked sword,' he laughed, with a sort of thrill in the laugh, and made the blade whistle through the air. there's still the sword and a vile cuckoo of a parson--' 'that's enough,' cried kelly, marching to the steps in an anger now not a whit less than scrope's, for there was a certain sting of truth in scrope's abuse which put him to shame; 'more than enough.' 'no, not more than enough,' said scrope quietly, and he followed. 'you want a little more?' said kelly, who had reflected. 'very well; your heroics may be candid enough, but it is less mr. scrope the lover and rival than mr. scrope, the spy, that i regard with a certain misliking.' '_assez_, you die!' said scrope, with a hiss in his voice. the space at the top of the steps was a pretty enough spot for their purpose. it was open only on the side towards the street, which was quite deserted, and raised so high above the pathway that a passer-by would see nothing of what was doing. on the other hand, however, the light was failing. scrope was for bringing the encounter to a speedy end, and drove at the parson in an impetuous fury. his sword glittered and darted very chill and cold in that grey twilight. he thrust swift as a serpent. the blood of the parson was also up. he had at first regarded scrope's challenge as a pure piece of irony. why should two men fight for a hilding who had equally jilted and cheated the pair? that had been george's first thought; but now his rapier was drawn for the cause, and to rid it of a dangerous enemy. scrope was probably on the track of ormond and the gold, as well as on that of his rival. the parson was as brave as steel, but (though he never knew it) was no true master of the play. the men rushed at each other; their swords were locked, they were breast to breast; george wrenched his blade free, leaped back to get his distance, struck his heel against a cobble, and the next moment he felt scrope's blade burn into his side. kelly clasped his hand over the wound, and sank on to the ground. the blood came through between his fingers; he snatched the cravat from his neck, and made a poor shift to bandage it about his body. the one thought in his mind was of the duke of ormond's messenger. perhaps the very next morning he might come to avignon and find no one on the bench. 'a surgeon,' he whispered to scrope, saving his breath. scrope was quietly wiping his sword, and made no reply. 'a surgeon,' repeated kelly. 'i must live.' 'or die,' said scrope carelessly. he pulled on his coat, and came close to kelly. then he suddenly felt in his pockets. 'no,' he said, with an air of disappointment. 'i was hoping that i had a copy of virgil wherewith to soothe your last moments. shall i take a message to her ladyship?' he picked up his hat. 'or shall i ask mr. nicholas wogan to write a ballad--"strephon's farewell to his smilinda"? mr. wogan would, i think, be extremely amusing with so pathetical a subject for his muse. well, it grows late. you will, no doubt, excuse me.' he made a bow to the parson, clapped his hat on his head, and walked, whistling to the steps. he stopped when he had descended a couple of them, and, turning, shook his head thoughtfully at kelly. 'but i am grieved i have no virgil,' he said, and so disappeared below the level of the terrace. kelly listened till the sound of his feet died slowly down the street. then he began to drag himself painfully upon his knees towards the steps. he did not dare to get to his feet, lest his blood should flow faster from his wound. he did not dare to shout. he crawled forward over the flags for miles, it seemed; then the knot of the bandage got loose, and a great faintness came over him. with fumbling fingers he re-tied the knot; the flags began to heave before his eyes like waves of the sea, the silence roared in his ears. he looked upwards, and a spinning procession of houses and churches turned him giddy. he sank down on his side, and then he was aware of something wet that rasped along his hand. he looked down. there was a joyous little bark, and the something wet rasped along his check. 'harlequin!' he thought, with a pang of hope. he summoned all his strength, all his will; the houses ceased to spin. he let himself down to his full length, with great care drew a scrap from one pocket, a pencil from the other, and laboriously wrote. then he poked the paper underneath the ribbon round the poodle's neck. 'home!' he cried, clapping his hands; and fainted. but ten minutes afterwards miss rose townley unfolded a slip of paper, with here and there the mark of a bloody thumb, and written on it these words, 'help harlequin's friend'; and at her feet a bright-eyed poodle dog stood, wagging his tail, ready to conduct her to the spot where harlequin's friend lay in sore need. chapter xiii of the rose and the rose-garden in avignon. life is not wholly the lopsided business that some would have you esteem it. here was the parson paying, with a sword-thrust of the first quality, for a love-affair that was dead already; over and ended. that was bad, but, to balance his accounts, the parson waked up from his swoon in dr. townley's house, with the doctor's beautiful daughter, rose, to be his nurse-tender. lady oxford had caused his duel with scrope, to be sure, but she had thereby, as it were, cast him straight into the girl's arms, and in that very condition which was likely to make her most tender to him. carry the conceit a little farther, and you'll see that here was mr. kelly, through her ladyship's behaviours, imprisoned in the hands of one of those very creatures which she was ever persuading him to avoid: namely, that terrible monster a girl, and she very young, frank, and beautiful. when the parson came to his senses, he called dr. townley to his side, and telling him who he was, and how that, being a friend of mr. wogan's, he knew the doctor from hearing his daughter call the dog harlequin, he continued: 'you were at preston with my friend, and i therefore have the less reluctance in asking a service of you beyond those you have already done me;' and he began to tell the doctor of the expected messenger from spain whom he was to meet on the boulevard. but the doctor interrupted him. 'mr. wogan is indeed my friend, though i have seen nothing of him these past six years; and his name is a passport into our friendship, as my daughter will assure you. so, mr. kelly, such kindness and hospitality as we can show you you may count upon; but--well, i had my surfeit of politics at preston. i have no longer any faith in your cause, in your king. i do not think that he will come before the coming of the coquecigrues. i am, indeed, leaving avignon in a few months, and hope for nothing better than a peaceful life in some village of my own country under the king who now sits on the throne. this he said very kindly, but with a certain solemnity which quite closed mr. kelly's lips; and so, giving him a sleeping potion, the doctor left the room. in spite of the potion, however, the parson made but a restless night of it, and more than once from under his half-closed lids he saw the doctor come to his bedside; but towards morning he fell into something of a sleep and woke up in the broad daylight with a start, as a man will who has something on his mind. in a minute or two mr. kelly remembered what that something was. he got out of his bed, and, holding the door open, listened. there was no sound audible at all except the ticking of a clock in the parlour below. mr. kelly drew on his clothes carefully, so as not to disarrange the bandages of his wound, and, taking his shoes in his hand, crept down the stairs. it was a slow, painful business, and more than once he had to sit down on the steps and rest. he glanced into the parlour as he passed, and saw, to his great relief, that it was only half past eight in the morning. what with fomentations and bandages mr. kelly had kept the tiny household out of bed to a late hour, and so no one was astir. he drew back the bolt and slipped out of the house. half an hour later, dr. townley came into the bedroom and found it empty. he scratched his head to ease his perplexity, and then wisely took counsel with his daughter. 'there was a man he expected to come for him,' he said. 'he was very urgent last night that i should see to it. but i cut him short, and so do not know where they were to meet with each other.' at that moment the clock in the parlour struck nine. 'i know!' cried rose on a sudden, and dragged her father off to the boulevard outside the porte du rhone, where they discovered mr. kelly sitting bolt upright on his bench, with a flushed red face and extraordinarily bright eyes, chattering to himself like a monkey. the parson lay for a week after that at death's door, and it needed all dr. townley's skill and rose's nursing to keep him out of the grave. meanwhile the duke of ormond's messenger arrived from corunna, and kicked his heels on the boulevard until mr. kelly recovered his senses and summoned mr. philabe to his aid. mr. philabe the next morning took kelly's place on the bench, and that day the money changed hands and the messenger started back post-haste to corunna. at corunna he told the story of the parson's misfortune in more than one café, and so it came shortly to wogan's ears, who put in with his ship at that port in order to give up his command. the reason for this change in wogan's condition was simple enough. sufficient arms and ammunition had now been collected at bilboa, and it was become urgent that the plans for the rising of the soldiers in england, and the capture of the tower of london, should be taken earnestly in hand. the duke of ormond, who was to land in the west, was supposed a great favourite with the english troops, but it was none the less necessary that their favour should be properly directed. to that end mr. talbot, tyrell, and nicholas wogan, amongst others, were deputed to travel into england, ready for the moment of striking. nick was to have the rank of a colonel, and was bidden to repair to paris by a certain date, where he was to take his instructions from general dillon and the earl of mar. now that date gave him half a week or so of leisure, and he knew of no better use to which he could put it than in stopping at avignon, which lay directly in his path to paris. but before he reached the olives of provence mr. kelly was convalescent and much had happened. how it had happened mr. wogan only discovered by hints which the parson let slip unconsciously. for george had a complete distaste for the sensibilities, and, after all, a true man, even in the company of his closest friend, never does more than touch lightly upon the fringe of what he holds most sacred. he said that he was recovered of two fevers at one and the same time, and by the same ministering hands, and so was come forth into a sweet, cool life and a quiet air. his affairs, whether of stocks in the mississippi scheme or of the great business, went clean out of his mind. his heart was swept and garnished like the man's in the parable, and almost unawares a woman opened the door and stepped in, bringing with her train seven virtues, as of modesty, innocence, faith, cheerfulness, youth, courage, and love--qualities no better nor no fairer than herself. how did it begin? why, at the first there would be a smiling face at the doorway to wish him a good morning, or if he had slept ill a sweet look of anxious fear which would make up for a dozen sleepless nights. when he could get up from his bed and come into the parlour, the dog harlequin, and rose, and he became children and playfellows together, for the brute had been taught a hundred pretty tricks that would make a dying man laugh; until at length the girl grew familiar, and was seated at the very hearth and centre of his affections, where her memory remains enshrined. mr. kelly spoke frankly of the matter only once in mr. wogan's hearing, and that was many years afterwards, and then he was not speaking of the matter at all. it was lady mary wortley who set him on to it one night. for she quoted a saying of some sage or another. 'in a man,' said she, 'desire begets love, and in a woman love begets desire.' 'and that is true,' said kelly. 'i do think the steadfast and honourable passions between our sex and women are apt to have their beginnings on the woman's side, and then, being perceived and most gratefully welcomed, light up as pure a flame in the heart of a man. for otherwise, if a man sees a woman that she is fair, as king david saw bathsheba, and so covets her, his appetite may in the end turn to love or may not. but if his eyes are first opened to an innocent woman's love, he being at best a sinful creature, he is then stirred with a wonderful amazement of grateful tenderness which never can pass away, but must endure, as i hold, even after death.' which was all very modish and philosophical, and meant--well, just what anyone who had visited avignon in february of the year ' might have seen with half an eye. rose was in love with the parson and the parson knew it, and so fell in love with rose. mr. wogan reached avignon in the afternoon. the doctor's house stood a stone's throw from the palace of the emperor constantine, with a little garden at the back which ran down to the city wall. the top of the wall was laid out as a walk with a chair or two, and there wogan found the parson and rose townley. it was five years and more since wogan had seen rose townley, and she was grown from a child to a woman. he paid her a foolish compliment, and then the three of them fell into an awkward silence. mr. wogan asked kelly for a history of his wound, and then: 'so 'twas scrope. lady mary was right when she warned me we had not seen the last of him. 'faith, george, it was my fault. for, d'ye see, if i had not been so fond of my poetry i should have made my account with the gentleman at the gates of brampton bryan manor, and you would never have been troubled with him at all.' "brampton bryan?" asked rose. "where is that?" mr. kelly made no answer, and perhaps wogan's remark was not the discreetest in the world. miss rose would not forget that name, brampton bryan. at all events, the three of them fell to silence once more, and mr. wogan knew that he was trespassing and that he would have done better to have journeyed straight to paris. rose, however, came to the rescue and made him tell over again, as he had told her often before, his stories of the march to preston. but, whereas before she had listened to them with a great enthusiasm and an eagerness for more, now her colour came and went as though they frightened her, and she would glance with a quick apprehension towards the parson. 'and the battles are to be fought all over again,' she said, clasping her hands on her knees, and then plied wogan for more details. she shivered at the thought of wounds and cannon-balls and swords, yet she must know to the very last word all that was to be described of them. so, until the sun sank behind the low green hills of the cevennes, and the rhone at their feet, in that land of olives, took on a pure olive tint. then she rose and went into the house to prepare the supper, leaving the two friends together; and it presently appeared that rose townley was not the only one who was frightened. the parson watched her as she went down the garden, brushing the pink blossoms from the boughs of a peach tree or two that grew on the lawn. there was an old moss-grown stone sundial close to the house; she paused for a moment beside it to pick up a scarf which was laid on the top and so passed through the window, whence in a moment or two a lamp-light shone. the parson seemed sunk in a reverie. 'i am afraid, nick,' he said slowly. 'i am afraid.' 'what! you too?' exclaimed wogan. 'afraid of the wars?' 'the wars--no, no,' replied kelly scornfully dismissing the interpretation of his fears, and then following out his own train of thoughts, 'you have known her a long time, nick?' 'six years.' 'i would that i too had known her six years ago,' said the parson with a remorseful sigh. 'she has changed in those six years.' 'how?' 'why, she has grown a foot, and grown a trifle shy.' 'ah, but that's only since--' began the parson with a nod, and came to a sudden stop. rose's shyness was the outcome of her pride. she was shy just because she knew that she loved a man who had breathed no word of love to her. mr. kelly sat for a little longer in silence. then, 'but i am afraid, nick,' he repeated, and so went down into the house leaving nick in some doubt as to what he was afraid of. the parson repeated his remark the next morning after breakfast. mr. wogan was smoking a pipe upon the wall; the parson was walking restlessly about as he spoke. 'i am afraid,' said he, and looks towards the house. as soon as he looked, he started. so wogan looked too. rose townley had just come from the window and was walking across the lawn more or less towards them with an infinite interest and attention for everything except the two figures on the city wall. 'she comes slowly,' said kelly in a great trepidation, as though he had screwed up his courage till it snapped like a fiddle-string. 'she is lost in thought. no doubt she would not be disturbed,' and he glanced around him for means of escape. there was, however, only one flight of narrow steps from the wall down to the garden; and if he descended that he would be going to meet her. wogan laughed. 'she comes very slowly,' said he. 'no doubt she saw you from the window.' 'it is plain she did not,' replied the parson, 'for, as you say, she comes very slowly.' 'the vanity of the creature!' cried wogan. 'd'ye think if she saw you she would run at you and butt you in the chest with her head?' 'no,' says kelly quickly. 'i do not. but--well, if she saw us here she would at the least look this way.' 'would she?' asked wogan. ''faith, my friend, you'll have to go to school again. your ignorance of the ways of women is purely miraculous. she does not look this way, therefore she does not know you are here! she looks to every other quarter; observe, she stops and gazes at nothing with the keenest absorption, but she will not look this way. oh, indeed, indeed, my simple logician, she does not know you are here. again she comes on--in this direction, you'll observe, but how carelessly, as though her pretty feet knew nothing of the path they take. see, she stops at the dial. mark how earnestly she bends over it. there's a great deal to observe in a dial. one might think it was a clock and, like herself, had stopped. there's a peach tree she's coming to. a peach tree in blossom. i'll wager you she'll find something very strange in those blossoms to delay her. there, she lifts them, smells them--there's a fine perfume in peach blossoms--she peers into them, holds them away, holds them near. one might fancy they are the first peach blossoms that ever blossomed in the world. now she comes on again just as carelessly, but perhaps the carelessness is a thought too careful, eh? however, she does not look this way. watch for her surprise, my friend, when she can't but see you. she will be startled, positively startled. oh, she does not know you are here.' the girl walked to the steps, mounted them, her face rose above the level of the wall. 'oh,' she cried, 'mr. kelly!' in an extremity of astonishment. wogan burst out into a laugh. 'what is it?' asked rose. 'sure, mr. kelly will tell you,' said wogan, and he strolled to the end of the walk, turned, walked down the steps and so left them together. 'what was it amused mr. wogan?' asked rose of kelly as soon as wogan had vanished. the parson left the question unanswered. he balanced himself on one foot for a bit then on the other, and he began at the end, as many a man has done before. 'i can bring you nothing but myself,' said he, 'and to be sure myself has battered about the world until it's not worth sweeping out of your window.' 'then i won't,' said she with a laugh. the laugh trembled a little, and she looked out over the river and the fields of provence with eyes which matched the morning. 'you won't!' he repeated, and then blundered on in a voice of intense commiseration. 'my dear, i know you love me.' it was not precisely what rose expected to hear, and she turned towards the parson with a look of pride. 'and of course i love you too,' he said lamely. 'you might almost have begun with that,' said she with a smile. 'was there need?' he asked. 'since i thought every blade of grass in your garden was aware of it.' then he stood for a second silent. 'rose,' said he, savouring the name, and again 'rose,' with a happy sort of laugh. but he moved no nearer to her. rose began to smile. 'i am glad,' said she demurely, 'that you find the name to your liking.' 'it is the prettiest name in the world,' cried he with enthusiasm. 'i am much beholden to my parents,' said she. 'but, my dear,' he continued, 'you put it to shame.' the girl uttered a sigh which meant 'at last!' but mr. kelly was in that perturbation that he altogether misunderstood it. 'but you mustn't believe, my dear, it's for your looks i love you,' he said earnestly. 'no, it's for your self; it's for the shining perfections of your nature. sure i have seen good-looking women before to-day.' 'i have no doubt of that,' she said, tapping with her foot on the pavement. 'yes, i have,' said he. 'but when i looked at them 'twas to note the colour of their eyes or some such triviality, whereas when i look at your eyes, it's as though a smiling heart leaned out of them as from a window and said, "how d'ye do?" sure, my dear, i should love you no less if you had another guess nose, and green eyes.' (he reflectively deformed her features.) 'it's your shining perfections that i am on my knees to.' 'are you?' she interrupted with a touch of plaintiveness. he was standing like a wooden post and there was at the least a couple of yards between them. 'just your shining perfections. 'faith, you have the most extraordinary charm without any perversity whatever, which is a pure miracle. i am not denying,' he continued thoughtfully, 'that there's something taking in perversity when it is altogether natural, but, to be sure, most women practise it as though it were one of the fine arts, and then it's nothing short of damnable--i beg your pardon,' he exclaimed waking up of a sudden. 'indeed, but i don't know what i am saying at all. rose,' and he stepped over to her, 'i have no prospects whatever in the world, but will you take them?' well, she did. mr. kelly had come to his meaning in a roundabout fashion enough, as he acknowledged that same day to nicholas wogan. 'upon my conscience, but i made a blundering ass of myself,' said he. 'you would,' said wogan. 'my dear man, why didn't you tell me of your intention and i would have written you out a fine sort of speech that you could have got by heart?' 'sure i should have stammered over the first sentence and forgot the rest,' said kelly with a shake of the head. 'to tell the truth, the little girl has sunk me to such a depth of humility and diffidence that i find it wonderful i said anything at all.' then he grew silent for a minute or so. 'nick,' said he secretly, drawing his chair a trifle closer. 'there's a question troubles me. d'ye think i should tell her of my lady oxford?' 'it would be entirely superfluous,' replied wogan with decision, 'since the thing's done with.' 'but is it?' asked kelly. 'is it, nick? look you here. we thought it was done with a year ago, and up springs mr. scrope at avignon. mr. scrope does his work and there's not the end of it. for i am carried here and so my very betrothal is another consequence. it is as though her ladyship had presented me to rose. well, how are we to know it's done with now? if it ends here it is very well. but, d'ye see, nick, it was after all not the most honourable business in the world, and am i to make this great profit out of it? well, perhaps my fears confuse my judgment. i am all fears to-day, nick,' and he stopped for a moment and clapped his hand into his pocket. 'i'll confess to you a very childish thing,' said he. 'look!' and out of his pocket he drew a pistol. 'what's that for?' asked nick. 'it's loaded,' replied kelly. 'i went up to my room, after the little girl had taken me, and loaded it and slipped it into my pocket,' and he began to laugh, perhaps something awkwardly. 'for, you see, since she prizes me, why i am grown altogether valuable.' he put back the pistol in his pocket. 'but don't misunderstand me, nick. the new fears are quite overbalanced by a new confidence. sure, it's not the future i am afraid of.' 'i understand,' said wogan gravely. 'it's what's to come.' 'yes, that's it,' said kelly. being afraid, and being a man of honour, kelly did nothing, said nothing on the head of his old love affair, and trembled with apprehension of he knew not very well what. a path of flowers stretched before him, but a shadow walked on it, a tall, handsome shadow, yet unfriendly. it is mr. wogan's firm belief, based on experience, that a woman always finds everything out. the only questions are, when, and how will she take it? sometimes it is a letter in the pocket of an old coat which the dear charitable creature is giving to a poor devil of a chairman. sometimes it is a glance at a rout, which she shoots flying. now it is a trinket, or a dead flower in a book, or a line marked in a poem, but there is always a trail of the past, and woman never misses it. george's wooing seemed as flowery as the meadows about avignon, white with fragrant narcissus, or as the gardens purple with judas trees in spring. rose was all _parfait amour_, and, in her eyes, mr. kelly was a hero, a clerical montrose, or a dundee of singular piety. wogan has known women more zealous for the cause, such as her grace of buckingham, or madame de mézières, who had ever a private plot of her own running through the legs of our schemes, like a little dog at a rout, and tripping us up. to miss townley george was the cause, and the cause was george, so that, in truth, she was less of a jacobite than a georgite. there never had been such a george as hers for dragons. why did he fight mr. scrope? she was certain it was all for the cause! indeed, that _casus belli_, as the lawyers say, proved a puzzle. why, in fact, did the parson come to be lying on the flags, in receipt of a sword-thrust of the first quality? george was the last man to brag of his services, but he was merely obliged to put the sword-thrust down to his credit with the cause. his enemy had been a whig, a dangerous spy, which was true, but not exactly all the truth, about as much of it as a man finds good for a woman. rose clasped her hands, raised her eyes to heaven, and wondered that it did not better protect the right. what other deeds of arms had her warrior done? she hung on george imploring him to speak of deadly 'scapes, and of everything that it terrified her to hear. mr. kelly, in fact, had never drawn sword in anger before; he was, by profession, a man of peace and of the pen. if ever he indulged a personal ambition, it would have been for a snug irish deanery, and he communicated to miss townley a part of his favourite scheme, for leisure, a rose-hung parsonage, and tully, his roman friend. but the girl put this down to his inveterate modesty, remarked by all europe in his countrymen. 'nay, i _know_ you have done more,' she said one day alone with him in a bower of the garden. 'you have done something very brave and very great, beyond others. you helped to free the queen from the emperor's prison at innspruck!' 'i!' exclaimed mr. kelly in amazement. 'what put that notion into the prettiest head in the world? why, it was nicholas's brother charles, with other irish gentlemen, gaydon, misset, and o'toole, who did that feat; the world rings of it. i was in paris at that time.' 'then you did something greater and braver yet, that is a secret for state reasons, or else, why does the king give you such rich presents?' mr. kelly blushed as red as the flower after which his lady was named. 'now,' he thought, 'how, in the name of the devil, did she hear of the box the king gave me, and i gave to lady oxford?' that trinket was lying on lady oxford's table, but the face behind the mirror was now that of a handsomer man than either his majesty, or mr. kelly, or colonel montague. kelly knew nothing about that, but he blushed beautifully when miss townley spoke of a rich royal present. 'you blush,' cried the girl, before he could find an answer. 'i know you are hiding something, now.' (and here she added to his pleasure without taking anything from his confusion), 'tell me why you blush to find it fame?' 'troth, isn't my face a mirror, and reflects your rosy one, my rose?' answered mr. kelly, putting on a great deal of the brogue, to make her laugh. for, if a woman laughs, she is apt to lose sight of her idea. 'i must be told; i cannot trust you to show me how brave you are.' mr. kelly was upon dangerous ground. if he was expected to talk about the box given by the king, and if rose wished to see, or to know what had become of it, kelly had not a fable ready, and the truth he could not tell. he made a lame explanation: 'well, then, i blushed, if i did, for shame that the king has to borrow money to help better men than me.' 'i don't care if he borrowed the money or not, for he could not have borrowed for a better purpose than to give you--what i have seen.' mr. kelly was pale enough now. what in the wide world had she seen? certainly not the snuffbox. 'seen in a dream, my dear; sure the king never gave me anything but my little pension.' 'then you know other kings, for who else give diamonds? ah, you are caught! you have the queen's portrait set with diamonds.' 'the queen's portrait?' cried kelly in perplexity. he was comforted as well as perplexed. 'twas plain that rose knew nothing of the royal snuffbox, now the spoil of lady oxford's spear and bow. 'yes,' cried rose. 'whose portrait but the queen's should it be that lies on your table? so beautiful a lady and such diamonds!' mr. kelly groaned in spirit. the snuff-box was not near so dangerous as this new trail that rose had hit. she had seen, in his possession, the miniature of smilinda, and had guessed that it was a royal gift; the likeness of the princess clementina sobieska, who had but lately married the king. 'i saw it lying on your table the day we brought you home from the seat on the boulevard, when we thought'(here miss rose hid her face on her lover's shoulder, and her voice broke) 'that--you--would--die.' now was this rose wet with a shower, and when kelly, like the glorious sun in heaven, had dried these pretty petals, what (mr. wogan puts it to the casuists) was the dear man to say? what he thought was to curse nick for holding his hand when he was about throwing smilinda's picture into the sea. what he said was that, under heaven, but without great personal danger, he had been the blessed means of detecting and defeating a wicked hanoverian plot to kidnap and carry off from rome the dear little prince of wales, and mrs. hughes, his welsh nurse. this prodigious fable george based on one of the many flying stories of the time. it satisfied miss townley's curiosity (as, indeed, it was very apt to do) and george gave her the strictest orders never to breathe a word of the circumstance, which must be reckoned a sacred mystery of the royal family. he also remarked that the portrait flattered her majesty (as painters will do), and that, though extremely pretty and gay, she had not that air of dignity and command, nor was so dark a beauty. 'in fact, my dear,' said george, 'you might wear that portrait at the elector's birth night rout (if you could fall so low) and few people would be much the wiser. these roman painters are satisfied with making a sitter pretty enough to please her, or him.' george was driven to this flagrant incorrectness because, though miss townley had not yet seen the queen's portrait (her father having changed sides) she might see one any day, and find mr. kelly out. the girl was satisfied, and the thing went by, for the time. but, on later occasions, his conscience gnawing him, the good george very unwisely dropped out general hints of the unworthiness of his sex, and of himself in particular, as many an honest fellow has done. in mr. wogan's opinion, bygones ought to be bygones, but it takes two to that bargain. meanwhile miss rose might make as much or as little of her lover's penitences as she chose, and, indeed, being a lass of gold, with a sense of honour not universal in her sex, and perfectly sure of him, she made nothing whatever, nor thought at all of the matter. but there was another dragon in the course that never yet ran smooth. the excellent surgeon, who had not recovered the fright of preston, was obdurate. he had no dislike for mr. kelly, but a very great distaste for mr. kelly's cause. rose might coax, the parson might argue, wogan might use all his blandishments--the good man was iron. in brief, kelly must cease to serve the king, or cease to hope for rose. this was a hard choice, for indeed mr. kelly could not in honour leave hold of the threads of the plot which were then in his hands. so much dr. townley was at last brought to acknowledge, and thereupon a compromise was come to. mr. kelly was to go over to england once again, on the last chance. the blow was to be struck in this spring of the year . if it failed, or could not be struck, mr. kelly was to withdraw from the king's affairs and earn his living by writing for the booksellers, and instructing youth. the parson was the more ready to agree to this delay, because of a circumstance with which he was now acquainted. the doctor and his daughter were themselves on the point of returning to england. mr. kelly and rose had no great difficulty in persuading the surgeon that he would find it more convenient to live in london than in the country, of the miseries of which they drew a very pathetic and convincing picture; and so, being assured that the delay would not mean a complete separation, they accepted the plan and fell to mapping out their lives. they chose the sort of house they would live in and where, whether in paris or in england: they furnished it from roof to cellar. 'there must be a room for nick,' said the parson, 'so that he can come in and out as if to his own house.' mr. wogan had borne his part in persuading dr. townley, without a thought of the great change which the parson's marriage meant for him. but these words, and the girl's assent, and above all a certain unconscious patronage in their voices, struck the truth into him with something of a shock. mr. wogan escaped from the room, and walked about in the garden. these two men, you are to understand, had been boys together, george being by some years the older, and had quarrelled and fought and made friends again twenty times in a day. mr. kelly bore, and would bear till his dying day, a little scar on his cheek close to his ear, where he was hit by a mallet which wogan heaved at him one day that he was vexed. wogan never noticed that scar but a certain pleasurable tenderness came over him. his friendship with the parson had been, as it were, the heart of his boyhood. and in after years it had waxed rather than diminished. the pair of them could sit one on each side of a fire in perfect silence for an hour together, and yet converse intelligibly to each other all the while. well, here was mr. wogan alone in the darkness of the little garden at avignon now. the rhone looked very cold beneath the stars, and the fields entirely desolate and cheerless. yet he gazed that way persistently, for if he turned his head toward the house he saw a bright window across which the curtains were not drawn, and a girl's fair hair shining gold against a man's black periwig. mr. wogan had enough sense to strangle his jealousy that night, and was heartily ashamed of it the next morning when he bade the couple good-bye and set out for paris. mr. kelly took his leave a few days later, being now sufficiently recovered to travel. the precise date was the eighth of april. to part from rose you may well believe was a totally different matter from his adieus to smilinda. nothing would serve the poor girl, who had no miniature and diamonds to give, but to sacrifice what she prized most in the world after her father and her lover. 'you cannot take me,' she said with a tearful little laugh, 'but you shall take harlequin, who made us acquainted. that way you will not be altogether alone.' harlequin wagged his tail, and sat up on his hind legs as though he thoroughly approved of the proposal, and mr. kelly, to whom the poodle could not but be an inconvenience, had not the heart to refuse the gift. george had to give as well as to take, and felt even less blessed in giving than in receiving. for miss rose must have a souvenir of him, too, and what should it be but that inestimable testimony to her lover's loyalty and courage, the portrait of the queen! there was no way of escape, and thus, as a memorial of mr. kelly's singular attachment to the best of causes and of queens, miss townley was treasuring the likeness of the incomparable smilinda. the ladies, in the nature of things, could never meet, george reckoned, for the daughter of the exiled country physician would not appear among the london fashionables. in paris, on his road to london, mr. kelly visited the duke of mar, who most unfortunately took notice of the dog, and asked him what he purposed to do with it. 'my lord,' replied kelly, 'when i am on my jaunts harlequin will find a home with the bishop of rochester, whose wife has a great liking for dogs. the poor lady is ill, and, alas, near to her death; the bishop is fretting under the gout, and his wife's sickness, and the jealousies among the king's friends. moreover, he is much occupied with building his tomb in the abbey, so that, altogether, their house is of the gloomiest, and harlequin may do something to lighten it.' for the poodle had more accomplishments than any dog that ever the parson had met with, and this he demonstrated to the duke of mar by putting him through his tricks. the duke laughed heartily, and commended the parson's kindliness towards his patron. but in truth the parson never did a worse day's work in the whole of his life. chapter xiv of the great confusion produced by a ballad and a drunken crow from this time until saturday, may , the world seemed to go very well for those concerned in the bishop of rochester's plot, which was a waiting plot; and in the other scheme, the scheme for an immediate rising, which was a hurrying scheme, and not at all known to the good bishop. there was a comforting air of discontent abroad; the losses from the south sea made minds heavy and purses light. mr. walpole had smoked nothing of what was forward, so far as a man could see; and within a month the country was to rise. mr. wogan from paris travelled to havre-de-grace, whence james roche, an irishman, settled in that port, and a noted smuggler upon the english coast, set him across the channel, and put him ashore at the three sheds and torbay near elephant stairs in rotherhithe. mr. wogan took his old name of hilton, and went about his business, paying a visit now and again to the cocoa tree, where amongst other gossip he heard that lady oxford was still on the worst of friendly terms with lady mary wortley montagu, and the best of loving terms with colonel montague. there was more than one jest aimed at mr. kelly on this last account, since a man who has been fooled by a woman is ever a fair mark for ridicule; and when james talbot began to talk of the parson with a mock pity, wogan could no longer endure it. 'sure your compassion is all pure waste, crow,' said he. 'i could tell you a very pretty tale about the parson were i so minded.' of course he _was_ minded, and he told the story of the parson's betrothal with a good many embellishments. he drew so tender a picture of rose, that he became near to weeping over it himself; he clothed her in high qualities as in a shining garment, and you may be sure he did not spare lady oxford in the comparison. on the contrary, he came very near to hinting that it was the parson jilted lady oxford, who therefore fell back upon colonel montague to cover her discomfiture. at all events that was the story which soon got about, and mr. wogan never said a word to correct it, and in due time, of course, and in a way not very agreeable, it came to her ladyship's ears. the parson arrived in london on a wednesday, the th of april. the weather had been terrible on the sea, and the unhappy dog harlequin had contrived to slip his leg by a fall on deck. however, he soon recovered of his injury, thanks to the care of mrs. barnes, and mr. kelly carried him to the bishop's house at bromley, where his lady lay a-dying. there, too, as he had good cause afterwards to remember, he wrote certain letters for the bishop, to the king, the duke of mar, and general dillon, and put them in the common post. they did but carry common news, and excuses for delay. the bishop's lady died on the th of april, and on that very day harlequin's hurt broke out again, and the poor creature went whining lugubriously about the gloomy house, as though it was mourning for its mistress. this fact should be mentioned, because the duke of mar had made an inquiry in a letter as to how harlequin fared, and whether _mr. illington_, as the bishop was called, had as yet received the dog. kelly replied that '_illington_ is in great tribulation for poor harlequin, who is in a bad way, having slipped his leg again,' which was true, for since the dog by his tricks greatly lightened his lady's sickness, the bishop grew very fond of him, though at the bishop's trial, when these things were brought up to prove that illington and he were the same man, it was said 'he never loved a dog.' so much for mr. kelly. rose and her father reached london a fortnight or more after the parson. wogan had no knowledge of her arrival, for since he left avignon he had not so much as clapped his eyes upon the parson, who, what with the bishop's grief for his wife, and what with the bishop's gout, was much occupied at bromley. it was not until that calamitous day, the th of may, that the two friends met again. events moved very quickly upon that same day. it seemed they had been hatching this long while out of sight, like thunderclouds gathering on a clear day under the rim of the sea. seven breathless hours saw the beginning and the end. for it was not until six o'clock of the afternoon that mr. wogan chanced upon the ballad, that was our ruin, and by three of the morning all was over. now, on the th of may, in the morning, mr. wogan found himself far enough from london, at the seat of sir harry goring, a gentleman of sussex, and a very loud friend of the cause. this noisy sir harry drove mr. wogan back to town, in very great state and splendour, and drew up before burton's coffee-house, at an hour when the streets had lost the high sun of the day. mr. wogan alighted, thinking to seek his letters at burton's, and the baronet's carriage rolled off to his town house. wogan entered the coffee-house; the great room was extraordinary full, and there was an eager buzz of talkers, who dropped their voices, and looked oddly at mr. wogan as he passed through, and so upstairs to a little chamber kept private for himself and his friends. as he went he heard roars of laughter, and a voice chanting in the deplorable, lamenting tone of the street ballad-singer. mr. wogan caught a name he knew in this ditty, and knocking hastily in the manner usual and arranged, was admitted. the room was thick with tobacco smoke, and half-a dozen empty bottles made mantraps on the floor. through the virginia haze wogan saw two men; one was tyrell, a friend of the cause, the other was a tall man, very black, in whom he recognised his friend talbot, of his own country and politics, nicknamed the crow from his appearance. the crow was swaying on his legs as he steadied himself by the table, and he sang:-- let weapons yield them to the gown, the latin singers say: ye squires and ladies of renown, the tune is changed to-day! a lady loved a parson good, and vowed she'd still be true, alas, the sword goes o'er the hood, the sword of montague! 'what ribaldry have you got now?' said wogan, but the crow hastily embraced him in the french manner, holding the paper of the ballad over his shoulder, and still chanting. 'the little parson is made immortal,' quoth he. 'here is the newest ballad, all the story of his late amorous misfortune. why do you look so glum?' for wogan had gently disengaged himself from mr. talbot's embrace, who exhaled a perfume of wine and strong waters. 'crow, you fool, be quiet,' said wogan; 'this is miching mallecho! who wrote that rant?' 'we think it is lady mary montagu, from the latin tags; it is headed _cedat armis toga_.' but lady mary was not the writer, though she got the credit of the mischievous nonsense, as was intended, and 'hence these tears,' as the parson said. mr. wogan had snatched the ballad into his hands by this time, where he intended to keep it. 'gentlemen,' he asked, 'are you entirely sober?' 'does my speech betray me? 'said tyrell, who, to do him justice, was wholly in his right mind. 'that is no answer; but, if it were, and if you don't care for a lady's name--' 'she jilted the parson!' cried the crow. 'have you no thought of the reputation of--mr. farmer?' 'mr. farmer?' exclaimed tyrell. mr. farmer was the cant name for the chevalier, and tyrell scratched his head, wondering what on earth the chevalier had to do in the same galley with the parson's love affairs. 'mr. farmer!' replied the crow, blinking his eyes reproachfully. 'indeed, it is yourself has been drinking, nick. what has the ballad of poor george's misfortune to do with mr. farmer, a gentleman of unbleb--upblem--i repeat, sir,' said the crow with solemnity, 'a gentleman of unblemished reputation?' 'mark how a long word trips you up, and the evening so young!' 'mr. farmer's health! i buzz the bottle!' cried the crow, putting out his hand to the bottle, that was nearly empty. mr. wogan stopped his hand. 'i tell you, crow, the affair hangs on your nonsense. we may all hang for it,' he said in a certain tone of voice, which made tyrell open his mouth. wogan read through the ballad, which was full of insults enough to drive any woman mad, let alone lady oxford. he knew what a woman wild with anger can do, and blessed his stars that for so many months her ladyship had not met kelly, and could know nothing of the inner plot for an immediate rising. still, she knew enough to do a power of mischief. the ballad was written in a feigned hand, which wogan did not know. 'james,' he said to talbot,' where did you get this thing? you are not haunting the fine ladies who pass these wares about? where did you get it?' he said, shaking the crow, who had fallen half asleep, as he spoke. 'got it from my friend mr. pope,' answered the crow drowsily. 'you got it from mr. pope! _you!_ where did you meet mr. pope?' 'at the little fox under the hill, down by the water.' this tavern was precisely the shyest meeting-place of the party, where the smugglers came to arrange crossings and receive letters. 'mr. alexander pope at the fox under the hill! crow, you are raving! what kind of man is your friend mr. pope?' 'who's mr. pope? don't know the gentleman. hear he's poet.' 'the gentleman who gave you the ballad.' 'didn't say pope, said scrotton,' answered the crow. 'very honest man, my friend mr. scrotton. met him often. exshlent judge of wine, mr. scrotton. exshlent judge of plots. mr. scrotton applauded our scheme.' 'you told him about it? what plot did you tell him of? not of the rising? not of this immediate blow? crow, you should be shot!' 'i told him! you inshult me, sir. very good plot, very good wine. mr. scrotton told me about plot. often talked it over a bottle. i'm a most cautious man. i don't drink except with very honest men. dangerous!' murmured the crow. 'you are sure his name is scrotton?' 'quite certain. said "pope" because of poetry. soshiation of ideas. mr. pope's poet. you'd know that, but you are drunk, mr. wogan.' there was nothing more to be got out of the crow. invited to give a personal description of mr. scrotton, he fell back on his moral character as 'a very honest man.' he might be, or, again, he might be a spy. in any case, here was the ballad, and there was the furious woman ready for any revenge. 'go home; go to bed! tyrell and i will walk with you to your rooms,' said mr. wogan, who, stepping to the letter-rack, picked up an epistle for mr. hilton. the handwriting of the superscription made him look so blank that the others noticed his face and were silent. the letter was in lady oxford's hand. he put it in his pocket. they led the crow to his door in germain street. he behaved pretty well on the whole, only insisting that his fortune would be made if wogan would but give him the ballad and let him sing it at the corner of st. james's. 'affluence would be mine,' he said, and dropped a tear. 'oh, wilton--hogan, i would say--'tis a golden opportunity!' but if the opportunity was golden, wogan was of iron, and they did not leave the debased crow till he slept in the sheets, which on the night before it was probable that his limbs had never pressed. when the crow was slumbering like a babe, mr. wogan and tyrell stepped out, turning the key of his chamber on the outside and entrusting it to his landlady. 'mr. talbot has a fever,' wogan told her, 'and will see nobody. he must on no account see anyone except mr. tyrell, nor must he be disturbed before his physician calls.' accompanied by the gift of a crown, the key was pocketed by the woman of the house, who expressed anxiety for the health and repose of so quiet a gentleman as mr. talbot. 'and now, what is all this pother about?' tyrell asked when they were got into the street. 'come towards the park and i will instruct you. i need quiet for thought, and sylvan repose. what have you been doing all day?' 'watching the crow play the fool at burton's.' 'you have no news?' 'i have seen nobody.' they walked for a hundred yards or so in silence, wogan frowning, and tyrell much perturbed with wogan's perturbation. 'the new ballad is a true ballad,' said wogan after a pause. 'devil a doubt of it; but what then?' 'the greater the truth, the greater the libel.' '_et après?_' 'and the greater is the rage of the libelled. this ballad must have run through all the boudoirs before it reached the crow.' 'and yet i do not smoke you. where does this touch the affair?' 'the lady that's libelled knew george very well.' tyrell nodded his head. 'george knew everything,' continued wogan. tyrell stopped and caught wogan by the elbow. 'then, what george knew the lady knows?' 'no. thank god, she knows nothing of what is immediately intended. it is a year and more since george and she have spoken. she knows nothing of the blow. but she knows the men who are directing it.' 'may be she's staunch,' said tyrell. wogan quoted lady mary: 'politics are nothing more to her than pawns in the game of love.' the two men stood looking at each other for a moment. the matter was too serious for them even to swear. then they walked on again. 'do you think,' asked nick, 'she will be in the best of tempers when she hears she is sung about in coffee-houses? do you think she will blame anybody but kelly for blabbing? she will give the ballad to lady mary wortley montagu, and isn't kelly of lady mary's friends? no, he did not blab, but never mind. she will think he did. and do you know that she is a kinswoman of the minister, mr. walpole? let her say a word, and she _will_ say it, and where is mr. farmer's affair?' 'where the elector's hat and wig often are--in the fire,' answered tyrell, looking serious enough. 'that letter which i took up was from her; i know her hand. she is stirring.' wogan opened the scented letter as he walked. it was but to say that lady oxford had heard that mr. hilton was in town, and begged the favour of his company at her rout that night. he told tyrell what there was to tell, both of them looking very unlike a may sunset as they walked under the trees. since he left brampton bryan, mr. wogan had not been favoured with any compliments from lady oxford. why did she begin her favours to-day? 'she is stirring,' he said again. by this time they were got within the park. there much was stirring. carts were streaming in and out with soldiers driving, soldiers lounging among the burdens of planks, tents, picks, and spades. beside the walnut walk soldiers in their shirt sleeves were digging, trenching, measuring; a child could see what was toward--they were meting out a camp. mr. wogan looked at mr. tyrell, mr. tyrell looked at mr. wogan. 'the lady _has_ stirred,' said tyrell in dismay. 'and what is more she knows of the blow.' 'or mr. scrotton is not a very honest man,' said wogan, and whistled "lilliburlero." he was disposed on the whole to agree with tyrell. somehow lady oxford had got news of the inner plot; perhaps through this mysterious mr. scrotton. the walnut walk was all astir and agape with evening loungers; it hummed with gossip. the two gentlemen went to the cake house, sat down, and called for glasses of ratafia. studying the face of mr. tyrell, of which his own was no doubt the very likeness, mr. wogan inferred that they needed this refreshment. they listened, with conscious grins of innocence, to the talk at the tables, being a little comforted to hear many questions, but no certain answers. the soldiers, it seems, being asked, could or would give no answer but that they had orders to make a camp. fair ladies, smiling on private men, could get no other reply. it might be only for practice. it might be that the french were expected. mr. wogan heartily wished that they were, but nobody was expected, so far as he knew, save these same ragged regiments of his countrymen with the duke. and, lo! a welcome was being got ready for them. as for the regiment that had been tampered with in the tower, they were pitching tents in the park. the two gentlemen, who had been conversing on faro and newmarket, and laying each other fantastic odds, arose and walked eastwards. 'i think the air of the waterside would be wholesome,' remarked mr. tyrell. 'i have to see a friend,' said mr. wogan, and they shook hands and parted. 'you will warn the crow to be on the wing?' said wogan over his shoulder, and the other nodded. mr. wogan could not but smile to think of the crow winging an unsteady flight across the channel. he managed to steer across, after all, thanks to tyrell. then wogan read lady oxford's _billet_ again, and he walked to bury street. he knocked, and the door was opened by mrs. barnes. 'mr. johnson at home?' 'it would appear, mr. hilton, that i did not give satisfaction,' said mrs. barnes, whose aspect was of a severity. 'give satisfaction?' 'mr. kelly has thought to better himself, and if he prefers bed-fellows such as shall be nameless, and the coals disappearing, and his letters pryed into, and if he thinks that i ever mention my gentlemen's affairs...!' here mrs. barnes threw her apron over her head, but gulps of lamentation escaped aloud, though her emotion was veiled like that of the greek gentleman in the picture. mr. wogan was not unpractised in the art of consoling mrs. barnes. he led her within, she was slowly induced to unshroud her pleasing features, and, at last, revealed the strange circumstance that kelly had left her rooms two days before without giving in any sound justifying plea for this treason. mr. wogan, who was well aware of mrs. barnes's curiosity and the fluency of her tongue, was in no doubt as to the cause which had led the parson to leave her, and thought the step in this posture of their affairs altogether prudent. 'but he will return,' he reassured her. 'what!--you know mr. johnson, he will never desert you.' 'so he said. he would come back in a month, and paid in advance to reserve the rooms, but it would seem that i do not give satisfaction. and here's all his letters to all manner of names. look at them! look at them! and how many of them are signed ugus? oh, i know what that will end in, and i'm just going to send the girl round with them--' 'i'll carry them myself, mrs. barnes,' said wogan, interrupting her. he picked up the letters from the table, and glanced about the room, if by chance mr. kelly had left anything inconvenient behind him. but, except the letters, there was not so much as a scrap of paper about to show that ever he had lodged there. wogan looked at the scrutoire on which the strong-box he had given to his friend at paris was used to rest. it had held lady oxford's letters in the old days, but of late it had lain unused, and the dust had gathered thick upon the lid, so that in his haste the parson might well have forgotten it. but he had carried it away, and with it his big bible, which had stood beside it in such an incongruous juxtaposition. 'i'll carry them myself,' said wogan, and putting the letters in his pocket he went down the steps. he marched some twenty yards down the street and then came to a stop. he looked round. mrs. barnes was watching him from the doorway with as grim a smile as her cheery face could compass. 'but, my dear woman, where will i carry them to? 'asks wogan, coming back. 'that's it,' cried she with a triumphant toss of her head. 'one minute mrs. barnes is a tattling, troublesome woman, and, if you please, we'll not take so much trouble as to say good-bye to her, and the next it's mrs. barnes that must help us, and tell us where we are to go. mr. johnson lodges at mrs. kilburne's in ryder street.' 'mrs. kilburne's! why, she's your bosom friend, mrs. barnes.' mr. wogan was a trifle surprised that the parson should leave mrs. barnes because of her curiosity and take a lodging with mrs. barnes's bosom friend, who, to tell the truth, was no less of a gossip. 'well,' said mrs. barnes, firing up. 'd'ye think i would let him go to those i know nothing of, who would rob him and starve him of his last crust of bread. no, for all that he scorns and despises me! no, he asked me where he should go and i told him to mrs. kilburne.' 'oh, he asked you,' said wogan. 'well, it is a very irish proceeding. i'll go to mrs. kilburne's and find him.' 'you may go to mrs. kilburne,' said she as wogan turned away, 'but as to finding him,' and she shrugged her shoulders. 'why, what do you mean?' 'a man in that moppet's livery, for moppet she is, my lady or not my lady, brought a note yesterday and he that had been hiding from her, like the honest man he used to be before she came trapesing after him.' 'a note? was it anything like this?' asked wogan, pulling from his pocket his own invitation to lady oxford's rout. 'it was very like that,' said mrs. barnes. 'i sent the fellow on with the scented thing.' a note from lady oxford to george, an heroic epistle from ariadne to theseus! an invitation too! ariadne invites theseus to her rout, and for something more, conjectured wogan, than the pleasure of winning his money at cards. wogan's anxiety concerning lady oxford's attitude was much increased. there was the ballad, the camp in hyde park, there were the letters of invitation. mr. wogan thought it high time to see theseus, and leaving mrs. barnes with a becoming blush on her features that laughed through their tears, he walked to ryder street. mr. wogan knocked at the door in the deepening dusk. the landlady opened. she knew wogan, who, indeed, had occupied her chambers at one time. she smiled all over her jolly face: 'mr. hilton! taller than ever, and welcome as ever.' 'thank you, mrs. kilburne, i shall soon rival the monument, but i can still get under your lintel by stooping. where is mr. johnson?' 'mr. johnson? oh, sir, what a life that poor gentleman lives. out all night, home in the morning with mud or dust on him to the shoulder, and so to bed all day.' 'then mr. johnson must be wakened. i can do it, were he one of the seven sleepers. george!' cried mr. wogan, lifting up his voice. 'oh, sir, be quiet! a very dainty gentleman has my first floor, and he will be complaining of the noise. you always were that noisy, mr. hilton!' she walked down the passage as she spoke and threw open a door upon the right. 'mr. johnson, he has my ground floor, but you can't waken him, loud as you are, nor any man, so be quiet, mr. hilton.' 'have i to weep for my poor friend's decease?' asked wogan, as he entered the room. 'no, sir, or i would not be laughing at your nonsense.' there was no doubt this was the parson's lodging. for as wogan stood just within the door, he saw by the window mr. kelly's scrutoire. it was the first thing indeed on which his eyes fell. he stepped across the room and threw open the lid. he saw a dispatch-box, and from the lock he knew it to be that in which kelly kept safe the papers of the bishop's plot. 'so there's another lodger in the house,' said nick thoughtfully. he took up the box and tried the lid. it was locked. but mr. wogan would have preferred that the parson should have kept the papers in the box which he had given him at paris, of which the lock was stouter. that box he saw further back in the scrutoire, half hidden in news-sheets. but that too he found to be locked, and shaking it in his hand, was aware that, like the other, it held papers. the lid of the box was covered with dust, as though it had not been touched for months. lady oxford's letters had been locked up there. no doubt they were there still. mr. wogan wondered for a little at the strange sentiment which makes a man keep such dead tokens of a dead passion. he put the box back amongst the news-sheets, and turning to mrs. kilburne, 'but where is the man?' he cried. 'george!' and he rapped on the table with his cane. 'you can't waken mr. johnson,' said mrs. kilburne 'because he awoke an hour ago, and dressed in a hurry, but braver than common, with his silver-hilted sword, alençon ruffles, black coat and satin lining, silver shoulder-knots, and best buckles, and out he goes. he was summoned by a man in the livery of my lord, the good bishop of rochester.' 'will you tell him, when he returns, that mr. hilton waited on him, and greatly desires to see him in his best before he goes to bed?' wogan pulled the letters from his pocket and laid them on the table which stood in the centre of the room. 'i will, sir, but, if you call again, pray, sir, be very quiet. my first floor gentleman is such a dainty gentleman.' 'a mouse shall be noisy in comparison. i have a great tenderness, mrs. kilburne, for the nerves of fine gentlemen.' mrs. kilburne grinned in a sceptical sort. 'but,' wogan added suddenly, 'it is very like i shall fall in with mr. johnson before then.' he took some half-a-dozen of the letters again into his hand and looked them over. they were inscribed to such cant names as illington, hatfield, johnson, andrews, and were evidently dangerous merchandise. mr. wogan thought they would be safer in his pocket than on mr. kelly's table. he picked up the rest, but as he put them back into his pocket, one fell on to the floor. wogan caught sight of the handwriting as it fell. then it stared up at him from the floor. the letter was written in a woman's hand, which mr. wogan was well enough acquainted with, although it was neither lady oxford's nor the hand of rose. it was in the handwriting of lady mary wortley montagu. wogan stooped down and picked it up. for a letter, it was extraordinary light. wogan weighed it in his hand for a second, wondering what it might be. however, there was no answer to be got that way, and mr. wogan had weightier matter to engage his thoughts. he put it into his pocket and marched to his own lodgings, which were hard by in the same street. several problems, a swarm of skirmishing doubts, trooped through his mind. 'what did my lady oxford mean by writing to kelly?' to this wogan answered that she meant the same thing by kelly as by himself, and for some reason had bidden him to her rout. as to her motive for that act of unexpected hospitality, wogan had his own thoughts, which he afterwards confided to his friend. 'but who,' he pondered, 'can answer for a woman's motives when the devil of perversity sits at her elbow?' next, why had kelly made himself such a beau? it could not be merely to do honour to a mourning prelate who would never glance at his secretary's satin and point d'alençon. mr. wogan inferred that his first guess was right, that lady oxford had bidden kelly to her rout, and that, by the token of his raiment, mr. kelly meant to accept the invitation. kelly knew nothing of the camp, and the discovery which it seemed to speak of, when he left the lodgings where he had slept all day. of the ballad, too, it was like that kelly knew nothing, and, in wogan's opinion, the ballad was the cause of the military stir. lady oxford, inflamed with anger, blaming lady mary for the ballad, and blaming kelly for blabbing her fault to her enemy, lady mary; had doubtless visited mr. walpole. the innocent kelly, innocent of all these things, would be going to lady oxford's to fathom the causes of her renewed friendship. mr. wogan puzzled his brains over these matters while he supped in solitude at his lodgings. his friends have hinted that his mental furnishing is not in a concatenation with his bodily stature. he has answered that, if it were so, he would be shakespeare and the duke of marlborough rolled into one. though refreshed with burgundy, his head felt weary enough when he turned to the question, 'what was he, wogan, to do next?' in his opinion, the boldest plan is ever the best; moreover, he had a notion that there was no safer place in london for him, that night, and perhaps for mr. kelly, than queen's square in westminster which lady oxford had taken for a permanence. for if lady oxford had blabbed, the last place in london where the messengers would be like to look for the parson was her ladyship's withdrawing-room. unless of course she was laying a trap, which did not seem likely. in the face of this new ballad, lady oxford would not dare to have the parson arrested within, or even near her house. it would provoke too great a scandal. he decided, therefore, first to go to the dean's house, at westminster, where the bishop of rochester stayed, see mr. kelly, if he could, and unfold his parcel of black news. next, he would take kelly to lady oxford's, if kelly would come, for wogan not only deemed this step the safest of his dangers, but expected to enjoy a certain novelty of the emotions, in which he was not disappointed. he therefore, imitating the clerical example, began to decorate himself in his most seductive shoulder knots to do honour to lady oxford. it may be that wogan's mind, already crowded by a number of occurrences and dubitations, had exhausted its logical powers, for there was one idea which should have occurred to him earliest, and which only visited him while he was shaving. who was the first person he was likely to encounter at lady oxford's? why, the very last person whom at this juncture it was convenient for him to meet--namely, colonel montague. wogan heartily wished he had left the colonel between two fires at preston barricade. but now there was no help for it, go he must. the colonel, like other people, might not remember the boy in the man and under a new name, or, if he did--and then a fresh idea occurred to wogan which made him smile. 'i was born,' he said, 'to be a lightning conductor!' chapter xv at the deanery of westminster wogan finished the work of adorning his person, and stepped into the street. the night was serene, with a full moon, the air still, the pavements were clean as the deck of his ketch. he thought that he would walk from his rooms to the dean's by way of st. james's park, and consequently he passed through ryder st. and in front of mr. kelly's new lodgings. just as he came to mr. kelly's lodgings, the door opened. a gentleman came forth; the moonlight was full on his face. mr. wogan muffled his face in his cloak, and stepped stealthily back. the gentleman was colonel montague. he bade the chairmen carry him to queen's square; mr. wogan heard the word of command with an inexpressible confusion of dismay. he had hardened his heart to encounter the enemy whose life, in a youthful indiscretion, he had saved at the risk of his own, but what was the colonel doing in kelly's lodgings? by this time the warrior and his chair had turned the corner, and mr. wogan abandoned himself to meditation. up and down ryder street he paced, puzzling over the colonel's visit to kelly, whom, at all events, he could not have found at home. was he was he carrying a cartel to his predecessor in lady oxford's heart? in that case it was all the more necessary to meet him and play the part of dr. franklin's kite, which had not at that time been flown, but is now making talk enough for the learned. on this point mr. wogan's mind was constant. should he question mrs. kilburne, he asked himself? mr. wogan crossed the road. but the colonel was little likely to have told her a word of his business. mr. wogan stopped. there was another point: for whatever reason the colonel had called at george's lodgings, george must be told of the visit. here was something which pressed, without question. mr. wogan marched towards the dean's house in westminster, where the bishop of rochester lay. he knew the road very well, being himself an old westminster boy. it was but seven years since he had run away to join his brother charles and raise the north for king james. he could not tell, at this moment, whether he had deserted his studies for king james's sake, or to escape his dull task of writing out my lord clarendon's weary history in a fair hand. as he entered the precincts, wogan felt much like a truant boy, and it was as if time had stood still while _he_ ran. nothing was changed, except that the new dormitory, which bishop atterbury had just built, shone white among the black old stones. there were lights in the windows that suddenly went out: the lads were abed. wogan looked up at the blank windows, and thought of seven years agone, and of his life since then, an unprofitable contemplation, which his mind gladly deserted. he marched up under the arch, through the darkling cloister, and tapped, gently but firmly, at the dean's door. he must see mr. kelly. as it chanced, and by the merest accident in the world, wogan timed his taps thus: -- , , , , -- . there were stealthy steps within, with a movement of yellow light, and then a voice that mr. wogan knew very well came through a judas. 'is it my father's knock?' 'is it your granny's knock, sam?' asked wogan through the judas. the voice was that of sam wesley, a young usher in wogan's time, one whom he had always liked and tormented. the steps moved away, and the light. 'sam!' whispered mr. wogan, very loud for a whisper, through the judas. 'sam, you remember me. nick wogan.' the steps were silent. 'sam, remember lord clarendon! remember nick, who kicked the bully for beating your little brother jack.' the steps shuffled back to the door. 'you have not the password,' said the voice through the judas. 'damn the password,' whispered wogan. 'i want george kelly. i must see him in the name of the blackbird. hawks are abroad.' 'it is clean against all rules,' came the voice from within. 'open, in the name of the cobbler's wax i once put on your chair, or i'll break the windows. you know me, sam!' mr. wesley knew mr. wogan. he undid the lock, mr. wogan smuggled himself within, and nearly choked mr. wesley in his embrace. 'it is a giant!' said mr. wesley, putting up his candle to wogan's face. the wind blew on the light that flickered in the absolute darkness, all the house being hung with black for mrs. atterbury's death. 'a son of anak, sam, who would have battered down your old door in a minute.' 'i verily believe you would, nick,' said sam, leading the way up the black stairs to a den of his own, where he was within call of the bishop. on tiptoe he marched, placing his finger on his lips. when they were got among sam's books and papers of the boys' exercises, the usher said, 'it is a very extraordinary thing, purely a providence.' 'i deserve one; the purity of my life deserves one,' said mr. wogan. 'but wherein do you see the marvel?' 'you did not know it, but you gave my father's knock,' said sam in a voice of awe. 'it is old jeffrey's doing--directed, of course--directed.' 'old jeffrey? is it a cant name for an honest man?' 'for a very honest spirit,' said the usher, and explained to mr. wogan that the particular knock and the passwords to follow (which mr. wogan did not know) were his own invention. his father's house at epworth, in the year , had been troubled, it seems, by an honest goblin that always thumped and routed with a particular malevolence when the elector was prayed for as 'the king.' old mr. wesley's pet knock, though, the sprite could not deliver. mr. wesley had a conceit that the goblin might be the ghost of some good fellow who died at preston. 'he keeps his politics in the next world,' said mr. wogan. 'wit might say much on that head, wisdom little,' whispered the usher, wagging his kind head. 'you have special business with mr. johnson?' he asked. 'he is with my lord, hard by. the bishop's voice was raised when mr. johnson entered. i caught angry words, but now for long they have been quiet.' 'mr. johnson has a way with him,' said wogan, who had learned from goring that the reverend father in god was of a hasty temper. 'how doth his lordship?' 'very badly. i never saw him in a less apostolic humour. i know not what ill news he has had from france, or elsewhere, but he has been much troubled about mr. johnson's dog, harlequin. the poodle has been conveyed out of town as craftily as if he were the chevalier, i know not why, and is now skulking in the country, i know not where.' it was, indeed, mr. wesley's part to know nothing. he was the bishop's man, and as honest as the day, but had no more enterprise than another usher. wogan, he has said, knew harlequin, second of that name, and had seen him coddled by mrs. barnes. he was cudgelling his brains for harlequin's part in the great affair, when a silver whistle sounded, thin and clear. mr. wesley beckoned to wogan to be still, crept out of the room, and returned on tiptoe with kelly. the parson's elegant dress was a trifle disarranged; his face and hands were somewhat stained and blackened as with smoke, but the careful man had tucked up his alençon ruffles beneath his sleeves. on seeing wogan george opened his eyes and his mouth, but spoke never a word. he carried a soft bundle wrapped in a tablecloth, and when the door was shut he handed this to mr. wesley. 'you have the key of the dean's garden?' he whispered. 'yes; but wherefore?' answered sam. 'his lordship bids me ask you to have the kindness to bury the contents of this--' 'i know not what is in the bundle,' said mr. wesley, with an air of alarm. 'and you need not be told,' said george. 'but can you let me and my friend mr. hilton--' 'mr. hilton?' gasped sam, as kelly put his hand out to wogan. 'i must present you to mr. hilton,' george said, and wogan bowed and grinned. 'i was about to entreat you, mr. wesley, while you are playing the sexton, to permit me and mr. hilton the convenience of a few moments of privacy in your chamber.' 'with all my heart,' said the puzzled sam, hospitably opening a cupboard in his bookcase, whence he lugged out glasses and a bottle of florence. then he put list shoes over his own, and stole forth on his errand like a clerical cat. all this while wogan had said not one word to kelly, nor kelly to wogan. mr. wogan had sat down to sample the bottle, and kelly stared at him. 'how did you make your way in here?' he asked at length. 'old jeffrey,' said wogan airily. 'i drink old jeffrey's health, wherever he is.' 'i believe you are the devil himself. that password is known to no mortal but mr. wesley and me. the bishop does not know it. his servants never see me come or go--only sam. whence got you the word?' mr. wogan very gently tapped -- , , , , -- on the table. 'i know many things,' he said. 'but, george, what do _you_ know?' 'i know you should be aboard, nick, and down to the waterside you step from this house.' 'i am already promised,' said mr. wogan with an air of fashion. 'i sup with lady oxford.' 'you are mad.' 'nay, _you_ are mad. i know many things. when you were carried hither in your chair, you knew nothing. george, what did the bishop tell you? why was he wroth with you? in brief, george, what do you know?' 'the bishop angry with me! nick, you know too much. you are the devil.' 'i want to know a great deal more. come, unpack, and then it is my turn. but first step into mr. wesley's bedchamber and wash these hands, which go very ill with silver shoulder-knots; and pour the blackened water out of window. any man or messenger could see that you have been burning a mort of papers.' mr. kelly hastily adopted mr. wogan's precautions. when he entered the room again the conspirator had vanished, the clerical beau remained. 'now,' said wogan, 'you are fit to carry out your worldly design of pleasure, and i shall not be ashamed to sup in your company at lady oxford's.' 'i have changed my mind; i shall not go. but, nick, how did you know my mind? 'twas the last of minds you expected to take me in.' 'i am the devil. have you not guessed it yourself?' replied mr. wogan, who was enjoying himself hugely. perhaps it was the florence, coming a-top of the burgundy. he was quite easy about the discovery. 'but unpack,' he said. 'what befell you with the bishop?' 'he received me oddly. the room was as dark as a wolf's mouth, being hung with black bombazine. there was a low fire in a brazier, that shone red on his lordship's polished poll, for he wore no perruque. his eyes blazed, his teeth grinned white. i was put in mind of a fierce old black panther in the french king's gardens.' 'remote from the apostolic,' said mr. wogan. 'so were his first words,' said kelly: '"you irish dog, come here!" quoth the bishop. 'i offered a conjecture that, in the mournful light, his lordship did not precisely see whom he was addressing. on that the little old man sprang out at me, seized me by the collar, and then fell back on his couch with a groan that was a curse. i put a cordial that stood by him to his lips, and was about to call mr. wesley, when he forbade me with his eyebrows, and cried: '"answer me this question before we part for ever. did you despatch my letters of april to the king and the others?" '"my lord," i said, "my duty to you ended with that episcopal laying on of hands, and with that expression which you were pleased to use when i entered." 'he groaned, and said: '"i apologise. i am mad with pain" (which was plainly true), "and grief, and treachery. i beg your pardon, mr. kelly, as a christian and a sick old man." '"my lord, you honour me. i enclosed the letters, as you directed, in a packet addressed to mr. gordon, the banker in boulogne, and i sent them by the common post, your lordship not having forbidden the ordinary course." '"then, damn it, sir, you have ruined us!" said the sick old christian. "did i not bid you write to dillon that nothing of importance should go by the post?" '"but your lordship did not seem to reckon these letters of importance, for you did not discharge me from sending them in the common course." 'the bishop groaned again more than once, and there was a whole commination service in the sounds. you know harlequin, wogan?' mr. wogan nodded and wondered. ''tis harlequin has ruined us,' said kelly; 'harlequin and the duke of mar.' 'i am devilish glad to hear it,' said mr. wogan. 'glad to hear it!' exclaimed kelly, rising from his chair. 'you are told of the discovery of the great affair, and the probable ruin of the cause, and the danger of your friends and yourself, and you are glad to hear it!' 'faith, i am,' replied wogan easily, 'for i knew of the discovery before you told me, but i put it down to a lady of your acquaintance.' the parson very slowly sat himself down again on his chair. 'in heaven's name, why?' he asked, with a certain suspense. 'tell your tale first, then i'll tell mine. this is very excellent florence.' 'the tale is too long, but the short of it is this: the bishop had by him a letter of mar's, dated may , in which mar, addressing the bishop as illington, denounced him as plainly to anyone who read the piece as if he had used the bishop's own style and title. he condoled on mrs. illington's recent death, he referred to mr. illington's high place in the church, and to his gout. the three circumstances combined left no doubt as to who illington is. there was no need such a letter of pure compliment should be written at all, except for the purpose of being opened in the post, and fixing the bishop as illington. then,' kelly went on, 'i remembered a letter of mar to myself, of last week, in which he spoke of the dog harlequin as mrs. illington's. if these letters were opened in the post,--and the bishop knows for certain that they were opened,--a blind man could see that rochester and illington are the same man, and own the same dog. the beast saved my life, but he has lost the cause,' said kelly with a sigh. 'mar has sold us. it is known he holds a pension from the elector. the bishop knows it in a roundabout way, through lady mary wortley montagu, and so the bishop and i have burned his papers in the brazier. sam is interring their ashes in the garden.' mr. wogan poured out another glass of florence. 'was there anything very pressing in these same letters of april , george? was there anything to put fear on the elector's ministers? did they say, for instance, that the blow was to be dealt, you and i know when?' 'not a word of that,' replied kelly, and his face lightened. on the other hand, wogan's fell, which kelly no doubt remarked, for he continued eagerly, 'd'ye see, there is a chance still, for the cause, for us, if the blow be struck quickly. we must strike quickly. so may we retrieve mar's treachery. the bishop in his letter made excuses to the king for the delay of any blow. he is not in favour of anything immediate, and in the letters he made his disposition plain. the letters only compromised his lordship in general, they did not reveal--the blow.' mr. wogan, however, only shook his head. ''faith, now, i'm sorry to hear that,' said he. 'you are glad and sorry on very strange occasions,' said kelly, sourly. 'first you are pleased that mar sold us, and then you are displeased that he did not sell the last secret.' mr. wogan leaned his elbows on the table, and bent across towards his friend. 'i am sorry because the last secret has been sold, and it was not mar that sold it. therefore somebody else sold it; therefore i am at the pain of being obliged to suspect a lady who probably knows her late lover's cypher.' mr. kelly blanched. 'and how do you know that the last secret is sold?' 'as any man would know who had not lain abed all the day. george, the park is full of soldiers. the tower regiment that we thought layer had bought is there with the rest under canvas. ministers would not make an encampment in the park because they knew that the bishop had advised the king that nothing was to be done. therefore mar is not the only traitor.' 'and why should my lady oxford be the judas?' 'mainly to punish a certain nonjuring clergyman, for whose sake she is the burden of a ballad, and sung of in coffee-houses.' 'a ballad? of what sort?' 'of the sort that makes a good whipping-post for a fine lady. ridicule is the whip, and, by the lord, it is laid on unsparingly. perhaps you would like to hear it,' and mr. wogan recited, in a whisper, so much of the poem as he judged proper. it closed thus:-- 'oh, happy ending to my rhymes, consoled for all his woes, the parson flies to foreign climes, and dwells--beneath the rose!' mr. kelly swore an oath and took a turn across the room. he came to a stop in front of sam's bookcase. 'rose,' said he, in a voice of tenderness, 'sure they might have left the little girl out of it.' 'the barb was venomed, you see,' said mr. wogan. 'it was not enough to make a scoff of the lady. she must be stripped of that last consolation, the belief that the discarded parson wastes in despair. now she knows that the parson is consoled. there was spark to powder. the parson may be putting on flesh. there's an insult to her beauty. faith, but she must feel it in her marrow, since she risks her lord's neck for the pleasure of requiting it.' 'no,' said kelly, 'she could do what she would, for her lord's neck is not in this noose. oxford had withdrawn before.' this was news to mr. wogan, who had been concerned only with the actual plan of attack, and sufficiently concerned to have no mind for other matters. 'oxford withdrawn,' he cried rising and coming across to the parson. 'damn him, 'twas pure folly to trust him. do you remember what law said that night in paris? he would trust him no further than he would trust a norfolk attorney.' kelly was silent for a moment, thoughtfully drawing a finger to and fro across the backs of sam's books. 'i have good reason to remember that night,' he said very sadly. 'have you forgotten what i said? "may nothing come between the cause and me!" why, it seems the cause goes down because of me, and with the cause my friends, and with my friends, rose.' mr. wogan had no word to say. whatever excuses rose to his tongue seemed too trivial for utterance. kelly's finger stopped on one particular book, travelled away and came back to it. wogan saw that the book was a bible. the parson took it from the shelf and turning over the leaves read a line here and there. wogan knew very well what was passing through his mind. his thoughts had gone back to the little country parsonage and the quiet life with no weightier matter to disturb it than the trifling squabbles of his parish. 'you warned me, nick,' he said, 'you warned me. but i was a fool and would not heed. read that!' and with a bitter sort of laugh he handed the open bible to mr. wogan, pointing to a verse. 'there's a text for the preacher.' the bible was open at the book of proverbs, and mr. wogan read. 'the lips of a strange woman drop as a honey-comb and her mouth is smoother than oil. but her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. her feet go down to death. her steps take hold on hell.' mr. wogan read the text aloud. 'the strange woman, nick,' said kelly, 'the strange woman,' and then in a fierce outburst, 'if i live the man who wrote that ballad shall rue it.' 'they give it to lady mary.' 'she never wrote it. nick, who wrote the ballad? how did you get hold of it?' 'i found the crow, quite tipsy, singing it to tyrell, at burton's, in the little room upstairs.' 'and where did the crow get the ballad?' 'that is another uncomfortable circumstance. you know talbot?' 'an honest man, and a good officer, at preston or in spain, but a sponge for drink. a pity he was ever let into the plot!' 'well, he got the ballad from someone with whom he had been drinking at the little fox under the hill, not a fashionable resort.' 'did he name his friend?' 'he was drunk enough to begin by calling him mr. pope.' 'mr. pope, the poet?' 'he took that back; and said the poetry put mr. pope into his head. the man's real name, he remembered, was scrotton. i can't guess who he was, friend or spy, but we may take it that he knows what the crow knows.' 'thank god for that!' cried kelly. 'you rejoice on very singular occasions, and are grateful for very small mercies,' said mr. wogan, who found it his turn to be surprised. 'what are you so thankful for?' 'thankful that a woman need not have done this thing, and that my folly may not be the cause of this disaster. another knew everything--pope--scrotton--the ballad! who wrote the ballad? who of our enemies knew a word about rose? are you blind? who was at avignon, spying on me, when i first met rose? who hates lady oxford no less than he hates me? whose name was the unhappy tippler trying to remember? scrotton? pope?' 'scrope!' cried wogan, cursing his own stupidity. 'scrope it must have been, and the crow swore that the man told him about the plot, and often talked it over.' 'that means, of course, that scrope made him talk. the old curse of the cause, that lost us edinburgh castle in the fifteen, when the scots stopped at the tavern to powder their hair. our curse, nicholas. wine!' 'and woman,' mr. wogan thought, but george ran on, 'scrope it was who wrote the ballad, for no enemy but scrope knew what the writer knew. lady mary is a friend. lady oxford is innocent, thank god--i say it with a humble heart--and i am not the cause of the ruin.' george's eyes shone like those of a man reprieved. wogan shook his friend's hand; his own eyes were opened. ''tis you are the devil,' he said. 'scrope has hit everyone he hates, and blown up the plot.' 'his time will come,' said kelly; 'but i hear sam on the stair.' mr. wesley, tapping lightly, entered his room. 'gentlemen,' he said, 'the outer door is open.' mr. wesley's anxiety was plainly to be read in his face. the two gentlemen bade him farewell, with many thanks for his hospitality. he accompanied them to the door, and they heard the bolt shot behind them as they stood in the cloister. 'whither should they go?' both men reflected, silent. mr. wogan has remarked on a certain gaiety and easiness of mind caused on this occasion, he considers, by mr. wesley's florence coming after his own burgundy at supper. he was also elated by george's elation, for to find innocence in one whom he had suspected elevated mr. kelly's disposition. they were betrayed, true, but the bitterness of a betrayal by the woman he had loved left him the lighter when the apprehension of it had passed. one little point rankled in mr. wogan's mind in spite of all. why had lady oxford bidden both of them to her rout? he came at an answer by a roundabout road. 'i must hurry home and burn my papers,' said kelly, as soon as they were out in the cloister, with the door of the dean's house shut behind them. mr. wogan, who had other notions, gripped his arm. 'by the way, did you burn my lady's invitation to her rout to-night? what did she say, george? why did she invite you? and did you burn the note?' mr. kelly smote his hand on his brow. 'my wits were wool-gathering.' 'on cupid's hedges,' said wogan. 'but i locked the note up.' 'with the rest of the lady's letters in my dispatch box?' ''faith, nick, you are the devil. how did you know that?' 'oh, i have divined your amorous use of my box.' 'but you are wrong. i had the box with the dangerous papers of the plot open on the table when i was reading the letter. mrs. kilburne knocked at the door. i did not know who it might be. i slipped the letter in on the top of the papers of the plot, and locked the box before i opened the door.' 'there it remains then? well, her ladyship's note is in the better company. but what did she say? did she give a reason for your meeting?' 'the chief thing, after the usual compliments, was that she had most important news, that might not be written, to give me about mr. farmer's affairs. probably she may have had an inkling of the discovery and wished to warn me.' 'we must see her,' said wogan, whose curiosity was on edge from the first about this party of pleasure. 'but my papers--i must burn my papers.' 'george, you are set, or you are not set. if you had been set the messengers would have been at your lodgings before i went thither; in fact, before you were out of bed. therefore, either you have the whole night safe or, going home now, you go into a mousetrap, as the french say, and your papers are the cheese to lure you there. now, they cannot know of my lady's invitations, and if they by any accident did know, a minister would hardly take a man at a lady's house. that were an ill use for the hostess.' 'that's true,' said mr. kelly, after reflecting. 'nicholas, i knew not that you had so much of the syllogism in your composition.' 'another thing, and an odd thing enough,' added wogan. 'perhaps nothing is laid against _you_ at all. did scrope lay information when he found us at brampton bryan?' 'no!' cried kelly. 'and at avignon, when a proper spy would have stopped the duke's gold, he was content with the sword in his own hand.' 'precisely,' said wogan; 'scrope has blown the plot, that's business; but he deals with you himself, that's pleasure. he tried to meet you at brampton bryan--he did not have us laid by the heels. he nearly did for you at avignon, while he let the duke's business alone, quite content. now you are alive and he wants a meeting, 'tis clear he did not inform on you, otherwise the messengers would have been with you when the soldiers began the camp in the morning. 'faith, you may meet mr. scrope tonight in st. james's park. he is a kind of gentleman, mr. scrope! but we must see her ladyship first; sure, nothing's safer.' 'nicholas, thou reasonest well,' said the parson. mr. wogan towed off his prize, and the pair moved out of the dark, musty cloister into the moonlight. chapter xvi mr. wogan acts as lightning-conductor at lady oxford's rout mr. wogan steered his captive through petty france. it was about ten of the clock, a night of moonlight and young spring, a night for poets to praise and lovers to enjoy. mr. wogan was not, at the moment, a lover, and poetry was out of his mind. 'one trifle i forgot to mention,' he said. 'i saw montague come out of your new lodgings this evening. he bade his chairmen go to queen's square.' 'montague? how could he know where to look for me? what can he want with me?' 'i misdoubt he was not very well pleased with the ballad, and would have you explain it.' 'montague,' sneered mr. kelly, with a touch of temper; 'i am grieved i missed him.' 'you need not grieve, for you will see him to-night. so there's balm for your grief, and another reason why you should sup with lady oxford.' the parson stepped out more briskly after that, and wogan could not refrain from remarking upon his new alacrity. 'it is after all a very human sort of a world, as worlds go,' said he. 'here's a man with all his hopes crumbling to grave-dust about him, and the mere prospect of a quarrel with another man whom he has never spoken to, on account of a woman he has a great contempt for, will make all his blood flow quicker.' for it was evident that, though the parson no longer cared a straw for smilinda's favours, he had not forgiven the man who had supplanted him in them. at the further end of the street along which they walked, one house threw out into the night a great blaze of light, and a noise of many voices. as wogan perceived it, a certain improvement upon his plan came into his head. 'george,' said he, as he directed his captive towards the house, 'will you resolve me a theological quandary? do the doctors of your sect consider as binding a promise given to a person of a different faith?' 'assuredly they do,' cried kelly. 'dr. hooker plainly writes--' 'i shall take your word for it, without hooker's bond. next, does your reverence reckon it immoral to shake an elbow on occasion?' 'even the very puritans, at the height of their power, doubted if they could proceed against dicers by way of the greater excommunication. we read that the chosen people themselves cast lots--whence i argue for a permitted latitude.' 'well, then, we are opposite the doors of le queux's temple of hazard; you may hear through the windows how the devout are calling the main. now i must take your promise, as you say it is binding, to wait here in obedience to your commanding officer. a wise leader will ever send out scouts to inspect a dangerous pass. i shall reconnoitre at lady oxford's: proper precautions should never be neglected, even in a friendly country. if i do not return, or send, in forty minutes by your watch, you must follow. all will seem safe.' 'but, nick, what if they take you? sure we had best go together.' 'they will not arrest me alone. you don't loose your gun at a rabbit when you are stalking a deer. i am not the keeper of secrets, but the king's mere servant, to give knocks and to take them. i write no letters, and none write them to me. it is mr. johnson they will be stalking, if anyone at all, never fear, and they will not shoot at the rabbit whilst mr. johnson is out of gunshot. in the meantime, have you any money?' 'just enough to pay my chairmen.' mr. wogan turned his pockets inside out. 'then here are ten guineas. in my belief our luck must be somewhere, if a man would look for it, and it may very well be lurking in the cavern of a dice-box. lose or win, if you hear nothing of me, you march forwards and occupy queen's square in forty minutes. it is ten o'clock now. and if you do not join me in forty minutes i walk straight to your lodgings and take my chance.' 'so be it,' said kelly, pocketing mr. wogan's gold, and stepping reluctantly into the house of le queux. mr. wogan waited until the door closed upon him, and then went on his way alone to queen's square. he had not displayed the whole face of his purpose to the parson. it was not merely to reconnoitre that he pushed forward. the parson might desire an occasion with the colonel, but wogan, for miss townley's sake, meant to meet the colonel first. betrothed men should not be brawlers, and george was hardly a match for the colonel. the colonel was not, in the nature of things, likely to feel well-disposed towards the parson. the ballad would have turned that ill-disposition into a genuine hostility. so here was one of the reasons, besides the wish to reconnoitre, why wogan left his friend behind him in le queux's gaming-rooms. he would be the lightning-conductor; he would pick a quarrel with the colonel before mr. kelly arrived, if by any means that could be brought about. mr. wogan stopped in the shadow a few yards from lady oxford's house, and watched. it was a night of triumph for lady oxford. a score or so of link-boys yelled and flashed their torches about the portico; carriages and chairs pressed towards the door. gentlemen with stars upon their velvet coats, and ladies altogether swaddled in lace and hoops thronged up the steps. but of the possible messengers for whom mr. wogan looked, not one was to be seen in any corner. timidity itself might have slept secure. only a few ragged loiterers stood about in the roadway on the look-out for a lace handkerchief or a convenient pocket. wogan crossed the road and joined the throng upon the stairs. he had carried it off boldly enough at the deanery, and in the street with kelly, but, as he walked on alone, the fumes of the florence wine escaped from the seat of his reasoning faculties. his logic did not seem so conclusive, and he felt an ugly double-edge on some of his arguments. thus, the plot had certainly been discovered, yet kelly had not been pounced upon. this might be a generosity of mr. scrope's (who had behaved as handsomely before), but again, what if mr. kelly's first suspicions were true? what if lady oxford had learned something? what if this rout were intended to enable her to savour her revenge for the ballad? the thing was not beyond wogan's power of belief, and the more he gazed on this perspective, the less he enjoyed it. under her roof, however, for the sake of her own credit, kelly and he must be safe from arrest. besides it might be that her ladyship was ignorant of the ballad. reflecting on these doubts, and thankful for this tender mercy, wogan's heart was ill at ease, though he put on a face of brass. the chatter which buzzed at his inattentive ears seemed the most impertinent thing in the world. at each step a flowered petticoat swung against his legs, or a fan, held by a hand in a perfumed glove, knocked against his elbow, and somehow the fine gentlemen and ladies in their fine clothes seemed to him at that moment as incongruous as a nightmare. scraps of gossip of which he took no note at the time, for no reason whatever stuck in his mind, and he remembered them quite clearly afterwards; how that lady holderness was sunk in all the joys of love, notwithstanding she wanted the use of her two hands by a rheumatism; and mrs. hervey, _revenue_ from such bagatelles as honour and reputation, had taken to herself two most fascinating lovers, and all the envy of her sex. a shrill lady behind mr. wogan's shoulder was proposing a general act for divorcing all the people of england, so that those who pleased might marry again, whereby many reputations which stood in dire peril would be saved from exposure. mr. wogan had much ado not to shout 'hold your tongues, will you? here, maybe, is life and death in the balance.' he had got about half-way up the stairs when the shrill voice changed its tune, and now mr. wogan pricked up his ears. 'you have heard the new ballad? oh, the sweetest, most malicious thing. you must certainly hear it. smilinda, the parson, and the colonel. you know who smilinda is? the parson and the colonel make a guess easy.' she quoted a line or two. 'it appears that the parson has consoled himself with rose, and snaps his fingers at smilinda. who wrote it? no one but smilinda's dear friend, lady mary wortley montagu, that i will wager. 'tis the most ingenious thing; and most ingeniously given to the town just at the time when it will sting most. poor smilinda.' the voice went off into a giggle, in the midst of which mr. wogan distinguished a name--lord sidney beauclerk's. mr. wogan would hardly have heeded the name had he not heard it again twice before he reached the stairhead, and each time in that same conjunction with the parson and the colonel, and the malicious aptness of the ballad. even then he gave but scanty heed to lord sidney beauclerk, for the knowledge that the ballad was indeed become the common talk occupied his thoughts, and so thoroughly, that it was the nearest thing imaginable but he gave his name as mr. wogan to the lackey who announced him. mr. hilton, however, was announced, and mr. hilton stepped through the great doorway into the room, and made his bow. at the first he was sensible only of a great blaze of light spotted here and there with the flames of candles; of a floor polished like a mirror, of a throng of misty faces, a hubbub of voices, and a gorgeous motley of colours like the turkish bazaars lady mary was used to describe. then the faces grew distinct. mr. wogan noticed one or two of the _honest_ party, who, knowing his incognito, threw a startled glance at him, and like the rats from the sinking ship, scuttled away as soon as his eyes met theirs. he looked around him for lady oxford. he could not see her in the crowd which ebbed and flowed about the floor. there were card tables set against the walls; doubtless she would be seated at one of them. he glanced down the line of tables to his left. he did not see lady oxford, but his attention was seized by one particular table. it stood empty; a few packs of cards waited upon it for the players to handle, but by some strange chance it stood empty. it was the one vacant table in the room. mr. wogan was an irishman, and now and again had his visionary moments, though he said little about them. as he looked at that one empty table a queer sort of fancy crept into his head, and, to be frank, struck something of a chill into his veins. it came upon him slowly that the table was not in truth empty at all; that in the midst of this velvet company, all jewels and compliments, there sat at this table a grey shrouded figure which silently awaited its player. mr. wogan was roused by a touch on his elbow. 'mr. hilton?' mr. hilton saw a dapper, young gentleman at his side who looked like nothing so much as a tangle of ribbons swept up from a milliner's shop. 'to be sure,' said wogan. 'her ladyship sits yonder.' mr. wogan looked. her ladyship sat with her back towards him at the table nearest to that which stood empty. she had been screened from his sight by the young gentleman now at his elbow. as wogan looked, lady oxford turned with an anxious smile and a glance beyond his shoulder. the smile, the glance braced mr. wogan. for doubtless her ladyship looked to discover whether the parson followed in his steps. he approached lady oxford. by her side sat colonel montague, black as thunder, and with a certain uneasy air of humiliation, like a man that finds himself ridiculously placed, and yet has not the courage to move. mr. wogan was encouraged; he could have wished the colonel in no other mood. mr. wogan suddenly understood that it was himself who was cast to play with the shrouded figure, and the stake was the privilege of crossing swords with montague. from the colonel his eye strayed to a youth who stood by lady oxford's chair, and the sight of him clean took wogan's breath away. it was not merely his face, though even in that bright company he shone a planet among stars. nature, indeed, thought wogan, must have robbed a good many women of their due share of looks before she compounded so much beauty in the making of one man. but even more remarkable than his beauty was his extraordinary likeness to wogan's king. at the first glance wogan would have sworn that this youth was the king, grown younger, but that he knew his majesty was at antwerp waiting for the blow to fall. at the second, however, he remarked a difference. the youth had the haunting eyes of the stuarts, only they were lit with gaiety and sparkled with success; he had the clear delicate features of the stuarts, only they were rounded out of their rueful length, and in place of a sad gravity, were bright with a sunny contentment. misfortune had cast no shadows upon the face, had dug no hollows about the eyes. lady oxford spoke to this paragon, smiled at him, drooped towards him. the colonel shifted a foot, set his lips tight and frowned. wogan placed a hand upon his guide's sleeve. 'will you tell me, if you please, the name of her ladyship's new friend?' the young gentleman stared at wogan. 'let me perish, mr. hilton, but you are strangely out of the fashion. or is it wit thus to affect an ignorance of our new conqueror, for whom women pine with love and men grow sour with envy? but indeed it is wit--the most engaging pleasantry. 'twill make your reputation, mr. hilton.' 'it is pure ignorance,' interrupted wogan curtly. 'indeed? but i cannot bring myself to believe it.' he stared at wogan as though he was gazing at one of dr. swift's yahoos. 'slit my weazand if i can. sir, he is the gold leaf upon the pill of the world. for his sake dowagers mince in white and silver, and at times he has to take to his bed to protect himself from their assiduities.' 'he has a dangerous face for these times,' again mr. wogan broke in. 'blame his grandmother for that, mr. hilton; he is of the royal blood. nell gwynn of pious memory gave his father birth. our last charles was his grandsire; he hath queen mary's eyes. it is lord sidney beauclerk.' 'i thought as much. he is a very intimate friend of her ladyship's?' 'mr. hilton, the world is very _grossier_,' remarked his guide, with a smirk. mr. wogan could have laughed. he understood why the colonel looked so black, why the ballad was so maliciously apt, why my lord sidney beauclerk was coupled with the parson and the colonel in the common talk. her ladyship was taking a new lover. colonel montague was the crumpled ribbon that has done good service but is tossed into the cupboard to make way for fresher colours. the ballad was apt indeed. mr. wogan's spirits rose with a bound. sure here was an occasion for picking a quarrel with the colonel ready to his hand. he bowed very low to her ladyship. her ladyship went on punting. colonel montague looked at him, and then looked at him again with the same perplexity which mr. wogan had found so distasteful one evening in st. james's street three years before; but he said nothing. her ladyship laid down a card and gave mr. wogan a hand, which he kissed with proper ceremony. 'you have come late, mr. hilton,' she said; 'and you have come, it seems--alone?' 'madam,' replied wogan, with a glance of great sympathy towards the colonel, and in his softest brogue, 'men are born to loneliness as the sparks fly upward.' the colonel took his meaning, and his face flushed. wogan's spirits rose higher. if only montague was strung to the same pitch of exasperation and injury as the parson had been in the like circumstances! the supposition seemed probable. mr. wogan could have rubbed his hands in sheer content. the colonel, however, made no rejoinder, and mr. wogan had to amuse himself by watching the play. it was little amusement, however, that mr. wogan got; on the contrary, as he watched, his fears returned to him. her ladyship was evidently in something of a flutter. she did not show her usual severe attention to the game. now she called her black boy sambo to bring her fan; now she would pat her spaniel; now she would gaze through the crowd of perruques and laces towards the door. her smile was fixed even when she paid her losses, and that was not her way, she being a bad loser. she was watching for someone, and that someone without a doubt was mr. kelly. wogan could not but ask himself with what intention she watched. her ladyship was taking a new lover, and for that reason the ballad struck her hard--if she knew of it. smilinda was not the woman to forgive the blow. she would assuredly blame kelly for the ballad--if she knew of it. had she lured him here to strike back? she turned once more to mr. wogan, as though she would put some question to him; but, before she could open her lips, a name was bawled up the stairs, and a sudden hush fell upon the room. the throng in the doorway dissolved as if by magic, and between the doorway and lady oxford's chair a clear path was drawn. the name was lady mary wortley montagu's. everyone then knew of the ballad and laid it at lady mary's door. everyone? mr. wogan asked himself. did lady oxford know? montague frowned and drummed with his knuckles on the table; it was the only sound heard in the room. then lord sidney noisily thrust back his chair, and, stepping past lady oxford, stood in the open space between her and the door with a frank boyish championship for which mr. wogan at once pitied and liked him. the name was passed up the stairs from lackey to lackey, growing louder with each repetition. the silence was followed by a quick movement which ran through the room like a ripple across a pool, as each head was turned towards lady oxford to note how she would bear herself. she rose, the radiant goddess of hospitality. 'there is no striving, colonel montague, against this run of luck,' she said, with the most natural ease; 'but my dear lady mary is come to save me from ruin. mrs. hewett,' she turned to her opposite, 'will you be tallier to our table? the bank is open to a bidder. no? ah!' and she took a step forwards to where her champion was standing apart, his hand on his hip, his face raised, ready to encounter even so dangerous an antagonist as lady mary, 'my lord sidney beauclerk, you are not afraid?' he looked at her, from her to the door. 'i am your servant,' said she, with her eyelids half-closed over her eyes, 'your grateful servant,' and she motioned him to the table; 'for, being a woman, i positively die to hear what new scandal dear lady mary has set on foot.' she spoke with an affectionate compassion for lady mary's foible and an air of innocence which quite took aback the most part of her guests. mr. wogan, however, was better acquainted with her ladyship's resources, and, wishing to know for certain whether lady oxford knew of the ballad; 'i can satisfy your ladyship's curiosity,' he said bluntly; and with that the noise of the room sank to silence again. he was still standing by the card-table. lady oxford turned about to him something quickly. it may be she was disconcerted, or that anger got the upper hand with her. at all events, for an instant she dropped the mask. she gave wogan one look; he never remembers, in all the strange incidents of his life, to have seen eyes so hard, so cold, and so cruel, or a face so venomous. in a second the look was gone, and the prettiest smile of inquiry was softening about her mouth. 'there is a new poem, is there not, from lady mary's kind muse?' said wogan. 'a new poem!' cried she. 'let us hear it, i pray. it would be the worst of ill-breeding had i not knowledge enough to congratulate my friend. the happy subject of the poem, mr. hilton?' lady oxford took a step towards him. she was all courtesy and politeness, but mr. wogan, while he recognised her bravery, had her look of a second ago very distinct before his eyes, and was in no mood for pity. he bowed with no less courtesy. 'it is thought to be an allegory,' he said, 'wherein the arm of flesh is preferred before a spiritual--blade. the rejoinder, as it seemed, was approved, for the ladies whispered behind their fans, and here and there a man checked a laugh. lady oxford met the thrust with all the appearances of unconcern. 'and tagged with latin, mr. hilton?' she asked. that was enough for mr. wogan. lady oxford knew the ballad, and gave it to lady mary. without a doubt she must believe mr. kelly supplied lady mary with the matter of it. 'of a truth the ballad will' be tagged with latin. sure lady mary has scholars enough among her friends who would not let her wit go naked when a scrap of latin could cover it decently--indeed, too decently at times, for, though we always see the latin, one is hard put to it now and then to discover the wit. do you not think so, mr.--hilton?' she paused ever so slightly before the name, and ever so slightly drawled it, with just a hint of menace in her accent. mr. hilton, none the less, got a clear enough knowledge of the dangerous game he was playing. lady oxford had but to say 'mr. wogan,' and it would not be mr. wogan who would have the chance of playing a hand with the figure at the empty table. lady mary's name was now called out from the doorway, and mr. wogan was glad enough to leave the encounter to her worthier hands. lady mary sailed into the room; lady oxford swam forwards to meet her. the two ladies dissolved almost in smiles and courtesies. 'we were in despair, dearest lady mary; we feared you would baulk us of your company. france, they said, was happy in your sunshine.' 'france, madam?' asked lady mary. 'it was your dear friend, mr. pope, who said you had withdrawn thither--la, in the strangest hurry!' 'indeed, very like! i denied mr. pope my door two days ago, and his vanity could only conceive i was gone abroad.' 'your ladyship was wise. a poet's tongue wags most indiscreetly. not that anyone believes those fanciful creatures. a romance of a--a m. rémond for whom you should have placed money in the sinking south sea; the frenchman arriving in london in a hurry; lady mary in a hurry arriving in france; a kind of country dance figure of partners crossing. a story indubitably false, to the knowledge of all your ladyship's friends, as i took occasion to say at more than one house where the rumour was put about.' lady oxford had scored the first point in the game, as wogan reckoned and marked 'fifteen--love' with chagrin. however, he took some comfort from lady mary's face, which was grown dangerously sweet and good-natured. nor was his confidence vain, for lady mary did more than hold her ground. 'your ladyship's good will,' said she, 'is my sufficient defence. my lord oxford is here? it is long since i paid him my respects.' 'alas, my dear lord has lain these last six weeks at brampton bryan,' sighed lady oxford, 'with a monstrous big toe all swathed in flannel. your ladyship, i fear, can only greet my husband by proxy.' there was just a sparkle of triumph in lady mary's eyes. 'by proxy!' she said; 'with all the willingness in the world;' and she swept a courtesy to colonel montague, who was coming forward to join them. lady oxford flirted her fan before her face. a murmur almost of applause ran from group to group of the company. mr. wogan, who loved the game of tennis, marked 'fifteen--all.' at that moment a clock upon the mantelshelf chimed the half-hour. in fifteen minutes the parson would arrive, and mr. wogan had not played his hand. he moved a few yards from the table at which lord sidney beauclerk, with his eyes upon lady oxford, was dealing the cards, and stood apart by the empty table, wondering how he should do. he picked up a pack of cards idly, and lady mary spoke again to lady oxford: 'i interrupted your ladyship's game.' 'nay, your coming was the most welcome diversion. colonel montague,' said lady oxford, as she was gliding back to her table, 'shared my bank, and played with the worst of luck. i declare the colonel has ruined me;' and so retired out of range of lady mary's guns. the colonel followed lady oxford. lady mary turned to mr. wogan, and in a voice loud enough for others than mr. wogan to hear: 'what!' said she, 'was lady oxford ruined by colonel montague? i did not think their acquaintance was of so old a standing.' 'thirty--fifteen,' said mr. wogan in an abstraction. lady mary stared. 'i was but marking the game and scoring points to your ladyship,' wogan said. colonel montague had heard lady mary's sally, for he stopped. lord sidney beauclerk had heard it, for he rose as though to mark his disbelief, and handed lady oxford to her chair with a sort of air of protection very pretty in the boy. it seemed, indeed, as though even lady oxford was touched, for her face was half turned towards mr. wogan, and he saw it soften with something like pity and her eyes swam for an instant in tears. it was new, no doubt, for the spider to feel compassion for the fly, but mr. wogan was not altogether surprised, for he began to find the fly very much to his own taste. it was a clean-limbed, generous lad, that looked mighty handsome in the bravery of his pink satin coat, and without one foppish affectation from his top-knot to his shoe-buckles. mr. wogan was still holding the pack of cards in his hands. 'you have a mind to play? 'asked lady mary. wogan looked at the clock. he had only fifteen minutes for his business as lightning conductor. in fifteen minutes the parson would be here. 'if you will present me to the player i have a mind to play with,' said he, dropping the pack on the table. 'with all my heart,' said she; 'name him.' 'colonel montague.' her ladyship looked at wogan doubtfully, and beckoned the colonel with her fan. the colonel, who had his own feud with lady mary over the supposed authorship of the ballad, made as though he had not seen her summons. lady mary repeated it with no better result, and finally took a step or two towards him. montague could no longer affect to misunderstand. 'i wish to present you to a friend,' she said, as colonel montague joined her. 'if your ladyship will excuse me,' said the colonel coldly, 'i have no taste for the acquaintance of irish adventurers.' mr. wogan was not out of earshot, and laughed gleefully as he caught the insult. here was his opportunity, come in the nick of time. 'did anyone mention me?' he said pleasantly, as he came round the card-table. but before the colonel could answer, or lady mary interfere, the servant at the door announced: 'dr. and miss townley!' wogan's heart gave a leap. he swore beneath his breath. 'miss townley?' asked her ladyship, who had caught his oath. 'is rose, _the_ rose,' replied wogan. lady mary knew the ballad, knew who rose was, and looked perplexed as to why lady oxford had asked the girl. mr. wogan, on the other hand, was no longer perplexed at all. his doubt was now a certainty. lady oxford had prepared a scenic revenge, a _coup de theater_. to this end, and to prove her ignorance of the ballad, she had invited kelly, montague, and rose. of the _coup de theater_ her ladyship had got more than she bargained for. on her bosom miss townley wore diamonds that caught the eye even in that aladdin's treasure house of shining stones, and among the diamonds the portrait of lady oxford. her ladyship saw it, and grew white as marble. miss townley saw lady oxford, knew the face of the miniature that she had thought was the queen's, and blushed like the dawn. her hand flew to her neck as she courtesied deep to lady oxford's courtesy; when she rose, by some miracle of female skill, the miniature and the diamonds had vanished. rising at the same moment, lady oxford looked herself again. but the women understood each other now, and, as they purred forth their _politesses_, wogan knew that the buttons were off the foils. he had his own game to play, that would brook no waiting, and he played it without pause. lady mary had moved towards the door. colonel montague was gliding back to his old position near lord sidney. wogan followed colonel montague and stopped him. 'sir,' said he, in a low brogue, 'i fancied that i caught a little word of yours that reflected on me counthry and me honour.' 'for your country, sir,' replied the colonel politely, 'your speech bewrayeth you, but the habitation of your honour is less discernible.' ''faith, colonel,' said wogan, who found his plan answering to his highest expectations, 'you are so ready with your tongue that you might be qualifying for an irishman. doubtless you are as ready to take a quiet little walk, in which case i shall be most happy to show you where my honour inhabits. but, to speak the plain truth, it is somewhat too near the point of my sword to make lady oxford's drawing-room a convenient place for the exhibition.' colonel montague smiled at the pleasantry in an agreeable way which quite went to wogan's heart. 'with all the goodwill imaginable,' said he, 'i will take that walk with you to-morrow,' and he made a bow and turned away. 'but colonel,' said wogan in some disappointment, 'why not to-night?' 'there are certain formalities. for instance, i was not fortunate enough to catch your name.' ''tis as ancient as any in ireland,' cried wogan, in a heat, quite forgetting his incognito. 'my forefathers--' 'ah, sir, they were kings, no doubt,' interrupted montague with the gravest politeness. 'no, sir, viceroys only,' answered wogan with indifference, 'up to edward i.' 'your highness,' said the colonel, and he bowed to the ground, 'i reckon to-morrow a more suitable time.' mr. wogan was tickled out of his ill-humour, and began to warm to the man. 'sure, colonel, you and i will be the best of good friends after i have killed you, and for the love of mercy let that be to-night. look!' and stepping to the window he drew aside the curtain. 'look,' said he, peering out, 'it is the sweetest moonlight that ever kissed a sword-blade! oh, to-night, colonel!' then he dropped the curtain something suddenly. he had seen a face in the street. 'you prefer sunlight? very well, sir. but you will acknowledge that to-morrow i have the _earliest_ claims on your leisure.' colonel montague bowed. 'the word, you will remember, was an irish adventurer.' wogan impressed it upon him. 'sir, i am wedded to the phrase. you will send your friend to my lodgings at mrs. kilburne's, in ryder street.' 'mrs. kilburne's!' exclaimed wogan. wogan might have guessed as much had he used his brains. it was at the corner of ryder street that he had plumped upon montague when he came down to london from glenshiel. it was under a portico in ryder street that the parson and he had seen montague on the night they had driven out on the first journey to brampton bryan. it was at mrs. kilburne's door that wogan had seen montague that afternoon. the colonel was her fine gentleman upon the first floor. sure, the parson had the worst luck in the world. at all events, the colonel was a gentleman. wogan consoled himself with that reflection as he thought of mr. kelly's despatch box in the scrutoire of his parlour below the colonel's rooms. that thought led wogan's eyes again to the clock. it was half an hour past ten. the parson was due in ten minutes. 'good-bye t'ye, colonel,' he said hastily to montague, as he turned towards the door. he almost knocked against rose, who was standing close by his elbow. she made an effort to detain him; he breathed a word of apology. it did not occur to him then that she might have overheard his conversation with the colonel. he hurried past lady oxford and dr. townley, who was talking of his schooldays, when he knew lord oxford. 'mr. hilton,' cried her ladyship. mr. hilton was deaf as a bed-post. for when he had looked out of the window at the moonlight he had seen a face in the roadway of which the parson should have knowledge before he reached the house. it was that face which had made him drop the curtain so quickly and fall in so quickly with the colonel's objections. a link-boy's torch had flashed for a second upon a man on the other side of the road, and his face was scrope's. scrope was watching the house. wogan pressed through the throng towards the door, but before he could reach it a firm hand closed upon his arm. he looked round. lord sidney beauclerk was standing by his side with a flushed, angry face. 'a word with you, mr. hilton!' 'a hundred, my lord, in half an hour,' said wogan, and shook himself free. he must warn the parson and turn him back from the house. but he was too late. in the doorway of the house he met mr. kelly, whose face wore a singular air of content. and on the other side of the road stood scrope with his head turned towards the doorway. scrope knew that the parson had come. mr. wogan took kelly's arm, and led him to the shady side of the street, out of the noisy crowd of lackeys and link-boys. 'those divines err,' said kelly, 'who condemn the occasional casting of lots. it is not an ill game.' 'then you found our lurking luck?' 'six rouleaux of gold,' said mr. kelly, tenderly caressing his pocket. 'the sinews of war, and we are like to need them.' 'then the coast is not clear?' 'clear!' said wogan, 'there is every sign of thunder, wind, and earthquake. first, montague is here!' 'and here is his capulet!' said kelly smiling. wogan smiled too, having secured his duel with the colonel. 'then miss townley is here, and, george, she was wearing my lady's miniature. the women know each other.' george's mouth opened, and his utterance was stayed. then, 'it is a trap. i go home,' he said. despair spoke in his voice. 'no!' mr. wogan's plans had changed. 'why not? i have no more to lose, and my duty to do.' 'you do not go home, for scrope is watching the house. he has seen you come. he is behind us now.' mr. kelly's hand went to his sword, but wogan checked him. 'don't let him think you know. we must leave the house together, and your duty is to be just now where miss townley is. be quick!' the argument had weight with mr. kelly. wogan had his reasons for advancing it. if they went away together, later, wogan could engage mr. scrope's attentions while the parson went safely on to ryder street. the two passed out of the shade, but not before george had placed his hand in wogan's. his hand was cold as ice. chapter xvii lady oxford's 'coup de thÉÂtre.' the parson, when the two friends had climbed the crowded stairs, began making his way towards his fate and lady oxford's table, with a smile on his face. he did not see rose, who was a little apart, hidden from him by a group of strangers. wogan was about joining her, when a woman's voice whispered in his ear: 'you are mad!' the voice was lady mary's. 'you are mad, both of you! he should be halfway to the coast by now. what brings him here? i wrote, or rather i sent to him.' 'true,' said wogan, remembering the letter which he had picked up in the parson's lodging, and slipped into his pocket. it had been thrust clean out of his mind at the deanery by those more pressing questions as to how the blow had been discovered, and how they were to escape from the consequences of the discovery. he drew it out, still sealed up. 'he has not opened it?' she asked. 'he has not seen it,' replied wogan, who began to fear from her ladyship's discomposure that the letter held news of an urgent importance. she took the letter from his hands, and broke the seal. 'this was my message,' she said. there was no scrap of writing in the letter, but a feather from a bird's wing: it meant "fly!" 'the feather is white,' said wogan. he could not have mounted it.' 'he loses his life.' 'perhaps, but he keeps his honour. there is something that he must do in london if by any means he can. he must burn the papers at his lodgings and the best hope lies in audacity.' mr. wogan tore up the sheet on which her ladyship had written mr. johnson's name into fragments too minute for anyone to piece them together again. 'this proof of your good will,' said he, 'shall not rise in judgment against you.' 'but you?' said lady mary. 'why do you stay?' wogan laughed. 'for one thing, i have a little business of my own to settle, and--well--' 'and,' said she, 'your friend's in danger.' she spoke with so much kindliness that mr. wogan felt a trifle awkward, and turned his eyes from her face. he saw that rose still stood alone, though many of the gallants eyed her through their quizzing-glasses. 'lady mary,' he said, 'you have the kindest heart!' 'hush! whisper it,' she replied, 'or you will destroy my reputation. what service would you have me do now?' 'you see miss rose? you have read a certain ballad which the ignorant give to your ladyship? and you know lady oxford. it is miss rose townley's first visit to this house, and one cannot believe that lady oxford asked her with any amiable intention.' 'and i am to be lady oxford's spoil-sport?' 'it has gone beyond sport. at this moment her ladyship has murder in her mind. the girl entered the room wearing our hostess's portrait in diamonds,' and he told her shortly how she came to wear it. lady mary looked her horror. 'she has hidden it, but you will not leave the girl?' lady mary nodded, her lips tight closed. wogan presented the girl. lady mary made room for her at her side, and wogan only heard her say, 'my dear, be brave, you tremble.' what else passed, wogan did not desire to hear. lady mary had faults, they say, as a woman, but she was of a manlike courage, and her's was the friendship of a man. never did woman need it more than miss townley, and never, sure, was counsel and comfort wiser and kinder than that which, wogan knew later, lady mary gave to the angry, frightened, and bewildered girl. lady mary's credentials were wogan's name; the girl could not suspect them. how had she come hither? lady oxford had invited her father, rose said, as a schoolfellow of my lord's, and had asked, too, for the daughter's company. then the young lady was lured, her new friend said, by a wicked woman for a cruel purpose. that purpose, whatever it was, and neither wogan nor kelly nor lady mary could do more than guess, must be defeated at any cost--at all costs. lady mary glanced at the guilt and guilelessness of our sex. kelly, too, had been entrapped, before he knew rose, but that was ended. lady mary certainly knew it was ended, however things appeared. according to men's notions, he was compelled to lie to rose about the miniature. now miss townley might, if she chose, give kelly his _congé_ to-morrow. to-night she must know nothing, see nothing, bear no grudge, be staunch; she owed it to her honour, to the honour of her sex, to kelly's very life, and to her revenge, if she craved for one, on the false enchantress. that was lady mary's sermon. and the lesson was needed. she reported it later to wogan who, at this moment, was following the parson with all his eyes. lady oxford at the card-table was greeting kelly with a conspicuous kindness. her smile was one wide welcome. 'my dear mr. johnson,' she said, 'you are grateful as flowers worked on the very finest alençon. sure you bring me those laces for which i gave you a commission in paris, and the lutestring from my lady mar.' mr. kelly murmured a word that the laces were below, and he hoped her ladyship would be satisfied. but his eyes searched the room all the time for rose, whom he could not see. 'you shall show me them!' cried lady oxford; 'but first you must bring me luck. mr. johnson and i were always lucky before he went abroad.' she spoke with a provoking smile at colonel montague, and then shot a quick glance at lord sidney beauclerk, who was now risen from the table, and stood in a window watching her. the glance said plain as writing, 'you understand. i have to face out the ballad. i can trust you.' wogan's blood boiled as he noticed and read the look, for it was just that tender appeal to her lover's faith which always brought about the lover's undoing. lord sidney's young face flushed with pride at the trust she reposed in him, and she continued to kelly: 'look over my hand, mr. johnson; you must not leave me. what card shall i choose? you, colonel montague, i discard you. i appoint you to the commissariat, run and see that lady rich does not starve. she is leaving her party with the air of a loser, and needs the comforts of chicken and champagne. but first let me make you better acquainted with the gentleman who supersedes you. mr. johnson, the right-hand man of my dear bishop of rochester.' there she stopped short in a pretty confusion, as though the words had slipped from her lips against her will. 'who should be thrown to the lions,' growled the colonel to himself, and added gruffly, 'mr. johnson and i have met before.' the colonel turned his broad scarlet back with the ghost of a bow, and went reluctantly to lady rich, a mature matron, dressed to kill, in virginal white. wogan watched them out of the door, and was again turning back to the card-table, when again lord sidney beauclerk's hand was laid on his sleeve. 'a word with you, mr. hilton,' said he in a hard voice. 'when the half-hour is past, my lord,' said wogan, looking at his watch. 'there are still eight minutes and a few seconds.' 'i will set my watch by yours,' said the lad with great dignity; which he did, and went back to his corner. mr. johnson's welcome, meanwhile, was as that of the prodigal swain. he made more than one effort to slip from her side and go in search of rose, but lady oxford would not let him go. she had eyes only for him, eyes to caress. many curious people watched the scene as at a play. all the town knew the ballad, and here was lady oxford's reply. mr. johnson and lady oxford were to all seeming the best of friends, and no more than friends, for was not miss townley in the room to testify the limits of their friendship? a shifting of the groups gave wogan suddenly a view of rose townley. she was still talking with lady mary, or rather she was still listening to her, and threw in now and again a short reply. but she spoke with an occupied air, and her eyes were drawn ever towards the card-table at which lady oxford was practising her blandishments on the parson. then to wogan's relief a few ladies and gentlemen stepped between, and the living screen hid him from her view. at this moment lady oxford lost heavily. 'an ace? sonica! i am bankrupt!' she cried, and rising from the table she addressed the parson. 'mr. johnson, you bring me no better luck than did the colonel. i must console myself with private talk, and news of lace and lutestring. what have you brought me? come, i positively die to see,' and so, with her sweetest smile, she carried off the parson. it was thus she had wrought on that first night when kelly met the colonel, but there was a mighty difference in kelly's demeanour. then he had given her his arm with the proudest gallantry. now her ladyship went out of her way to lead him past rose, where she sat with lady mary. he threw an imploring glance at the girl, and followed in lady oxford's wake, the very figure of discomfort. fine smiles rippled silently round the company as the pair made their way to the door. rose watched them, her face grown very hard and white, but she said no word until they had gone. she stood motionless, except that her bosom rose and fell quickly. then she turned to lady mary. 'i must bid your ladyship good-night,' she said; 'i have stayed too long.' pride kept her voice clear, her words steady, but it could not mask the pain of her face. 'what ails you, child? you must smile. smile!' whispered lady mary. but rose was struck too hard. she lowered her eyes and fixed them on the floor to hide the humiliation they expressed, but she could not smile. she tried, but no more came of it than a quiver at the corners of her lips, and then she set her mouth firmly, as though she could not trust herself. 'i thought i had persuaded you,' whispered lady mary. 'it is for honour, it is for life, his life. appearances are nothing. you _must_ stay.' 'i thank your ladyship, who is most kind. i will stay,' said the girl. her face flushed purely with a delicate, proud anger. lady mary presented her to some of her friends, with whom rose bore herself bravely. wogan saw that she had taken her part, and blessed lady mary. he had followed lady oxford and the parson out of the room, and leaned over the balusters while they descended the stairs. it was an ominous business, this summons of lady oxford. why must she carry him off alone with her? what blow had she to strike? mr. wogan was not surprised that kelly had turned pale, and though he held his head erect, had none the less the air of one led to the sacrifice. to make the matter yet more ominous, lady oxford herself seemed in a flutter of excitement; her colour was heightened; she sparkled with even more than her usual beauty; her tongue rattled with even more than its usual liveliness. half-way down the stairs she met lady rich and colonel montague mounting. lady oxford stopped and spoke to the colonel. mr. wogan caught a word or two, such as 'miss townley--the poor girl knows no one.' kelly started a little; the colonel sullenly bowed. lady oxford, leaning upon mr. kelly's arm in order to provoke the colonel, must needs in pity bid the colonel wait upon rose in order to provoke mr. kelly. there wogan recognised her ladyship's refinements. the pair passed down to the foot of the stairs. to the right of the staircase a door gave on to that little room into which kelly had led lady oxford on the night of the masquerade. lady oxford left his arm and went towards it. kelly remained standing by the stairs, very still. it was in this room that lady oxford had discovered the chevalier's likeness in the lid of the snuff-box, and had deceived george into the belief that she was, heart and soul, as deep in the cause as he. it was that room which had witnessed the beginnings of the history. now it seemed it was like to see the end. kelly looked up the stairs and saw wogan's face. he smiled, in a quiet, hopeless way, and then lady oxford threw open the door. she turned back to kelly, a languorous smile upon her lips, a tender light in her eyes. neither the smile nor the look had power to beguile the two men any longer. kelly stepped forwards to her like a man that is tired. wogan had again the queer sense of incongruity. behind him voices laughed and chattered, in some room to his left music sounded; and here at the foot of the stairs was a woman all smiles and graces playing with life and death as a child with toys. the pair passed into the room. the door shut behind them. the click of the latch is one of the things wogan never will forget. chapter xviii wherein a new fly discourses on the innocence of the spider's web wogan was still leaning on the rail of the balustrade when a watch was held beneath his nose. 'the half-hour is gone, mr. hilton,' said lord sidney beauclerk. 'true,' said wogan, 'it is now a quarter past eleven.' his eyes moved from the watch to the closed door. 'half an hour, my lord,' he mused, 'a small trifle of minutes. you may measure it by grains of sand, but, if you will, for each grain of sand you may count a life.' 'you hit my sentiments to a nicety.' lord sidney spoke with a grave significance which roused wogan from his reflections. the lad's face was hard; his eyes gloomy and fierce. wogan remembered that, when lord sidney had spoken before, he had not seemed in the best of good humour. 'my lord,' he said, 'we can hardly talk with comfort here in the doorway.' he led the way back into the inner withdrawing-room and across the room to the recess of a window. 'here we shall be private,' he said. 'mr. hilton, you spoke a little while ago of a ballad, wherein, to use your words, the arm of flesh was preferred to a spiritual blade. that may have been wit, of which i do not profess to be the judge. but you aimed an insult at a woman, and any man may claim to be the judge of that.' 'my lord,' answered wogan gently, 'you do not know the woman. i could wish you never will.' lord sidney laughed with a sharp scorn which brought the blood into wogan's face. it was plain the remark was counted an evasion. 'at all events i know an insult when i hear it. let us keep to the insult, mr. hilton. it reaped its reward, for here and there a coward smirked his applause.' lord sidney's voice began to tremble with passion. 'but it has yet to be paid for. you must pay for it to me,' and, since wogan kept silence, his passion of a sudden got the upper hand, and in a low quick voice--there was as much pain as anger in it--'it hurts me,' he said, clenching his hands, 'it positively hurts me. here is a woman'--he stopped in full flight, and blushed with a youthful sort of shame at his eloquence--'a woman, sir, in a word, and you must torture her with your brave sneers and she must wear a smiling face while her heart bleeds! mr. hilton, are you a man? why, then, so am i, and it humiliates me that we should both be men. the humiliation will not pass even after,' and he drew a breath in through his shut teeth, 'after i have killed you.' mr. wogan had listened to the outburst with all the respect he thought due to a boy's frank faith. a boy--wogan's years were not many more than his, but he had seen mankind, and marvelled how they will trust a woman who, they know, has fooled one man, if but a husband. but, at lord sidney's talk of killing him, wogan sank the philosopher and could not repress a grin. 'kill me, my young friend; _ne fait ce tour qui veut_,' he said; 'but sure you may try if you will. you will not be the first who has tried.' 'i have no doubt of that,' said lord sidney gravely, 'and you will oblige me by using another word. i may be young, mr. hilton, but i thank god i am not your friend.' there was a dignity, a sincerity in his manner which to mr. wogan's ears robbed the speech of all impertinence. wogan simply bowed and said: 'if you will send your friend to burton's coffee house in the morning----' 'to burton's coffee house.' lord sidney turned away. mr. wogan drew aside the curtain of the window and stared out into the night with an unusual discontent. across the road mr. scrope was still lurking in the shadow--a hired spy. very like, he had once been just such another honest lad, with just the same chivalry, before my lady cast her covetous eyes on him. downstairs in the little room the parson was fighting, for the cause, for his sweetheart, for his liberty, and maybe for his life, with little prospect of a safe issue. it seemed a pity that lord sidney beauclerk should be wasted too. 'my lord,' said wogan, calling after lord sidney. and lord sidney came back. wogan was still holding the curtain aside; he had some vague thought of relating scrope's history, but his first glance at lord sidney's face showed to him it would not avail. lord sidney would disbelieve it utterly. wogan dropped the curtain. 'how old is your lordship?' he asked. lord sidney looked surprised, as well he might, and then blushed for his youth. 'i am twenty,' he said, 'and some months,' with considerable emphasis on the months as though they made a world of difference. 'ah,' replied wogan, 'i am of the century's age, twenty-two and some more months. you are astonished, my lord. but when i was fifteen i fought in battles.' 'was it to tell me this you called me back?' 'no,' said wogan solemnly, 'but you meet me tomorrow. i am not sure that i could do you better service than by taking care that you meet no one afterwards. it was that i had to tell you,' and he added with a smile, 'but i do not think i shall bring myself to do you that service.' lord sidney's face changed a little from its formal politeness. he eyed mr. wogan as though for a moment he doubted whether he had not mistaken his man. then he said: 'in a duel, mr. hilton, there are two who fight.' 'not always, my lord. sometimes there is one who only defends,' and with that they parted. clamorous dames took lord sidney captive. wogan looked at his watch. five minutes had passed since that latch had clicked. he strolled out of the room to the stairs. the door was still shut. he came back into the room and stood by lady mary, who was describing to rose the characters of those who passed by. she looked anxiously at wogan, who had no comforting news and shook his head, but she did not cease from her rattle. 'and here comes colonel montague with a yellow bundle of bones tied up in parchment, 'she cried. lady rich was the bundle of bones in parchment. 'colonel montague--well, my dear, he is a gallant officer in the king's guards who fought at preston, and he owes his life to a noisy irish boy who has since grown out of all recognition.' here rose suddenly looked up at wogan. 'it was this colonel montague you saved!' said she. 'hush,' whispered wogan, who had his own reasons for wishing the colonel should discover nothing upon that head. 'remember, if you please, that my name is hilton.' colonel montague led lady rich to the sofa. 'colonel, has fortune deserted you that you look so glum?' asked lady mary. 'i am on the losing hand indeed, your ladyship, to-night,' said montague bitterly. 'well, _malheureux en jeu_,' said her ladyship maliciously, 'you may take comfort from the rest of the proverb.' lady rich shook her rose-coloured ribbons, a girlish simpleton of forty summers. 'i am vastly ashamed of being so prodigiously ignorant,' said she. 'i daresay i ask a mighty silly question, but what is the rest?' 'french, my dear, and it means that fifteen years is the properest age for a woman to continue at, but why need one be five?' colonel montague smiled grimly. mr. wogan stifled a laugh. lady rich looked somewhat disconcerted. 'oh, is that a proverb?' said she with a _minauderie_. 'i shall dote on proverbs,' and so she simpered out of range. lady mary lifted up her hands. '_regardez cet animal!_' she cried; '_considérez ce néant_. there's a pretty soul to be immortal.' 'your ladyship is cruel,' said rose in remonstrance. 'nay, my dear, it is the only way to keep her quiet. my lady rich is like a top that hums senselessly. you must whip it hard enough and then it goes to sleep and makes no noise. mr. hilton, are you struck dumb?' mr. hilton's ears were on the stretch to catch the sound of a door, and making an excuse he moved away. suspense kept him restless; it seemed every muscle in his body clamoured to be doing. he walked again to the window. scrope was still fixed at his post. wogan sauntered out of the room to the stairs, and down the stairs to the hall. the hall was empty. the door of the little room where kelly and lady oxford were closeted was shut, and no sound came through it, either of word or movement. wogan wished he had been born a housemaid, that he might lean his ear against the keyhole without any shame at the eavesdropping. he stood at the stair-foot gazing at the door as though his eyes would melt the oak by the ardour of their look. above the voices laughed, the smooth music murmured of all soft pleasures. here, in the quiet of the hall, wogan began to think the door would never open; he had a foolish fancy that he was staring at the lid of a coffin sealed down until the judgment day, and indeed the room might prove a coffin. he looked at his watch; only a poor quarter of an hour had passed since the door had closed. wogan could not believe it; he shook his watch in the belief that it had stopped, and then a hubbub arose in the street. the noise drew nearer and nearer, and wogan could distinguish the shouts of newsboys crying their papers. what they cried as yet he could not hear. in the great room at the head of the stairs the voices of a sudden ceased; here and there a window was thrown open. the ominous din rang through the open windows and floated down the stairs, first the vague cries, then the sound of running feet, and last of all the words, clear as a knell: 'bloody popish plot! a plot discovered!' so lady oxford had played her cards. the plot was out; scrope was in the street; the parson was trapped. wogan determined to open that door. he took his hand from the balustrade, but before he had advanced a step, the door was opened from within. her ladyship sailed forth upon mr. kelly's arm, radiant with smiles; and, to wogan's astonishment, kelly in the matter of good humour seemed in no wise behind her. chapter xix stroke and counter-stroke those fifteen minutes had none the less proved a _mauvais quart d'heure_ for mr. kelly. as he entered the room, the memories of the grey morning when first he stood there were heavy upon his thoughts. a cheerful fire burnt upon the hearth now as then. there was the settee on which her ladyship had lain in her pretended swoon. the text which he had read in the deanery recurred to him: 'her ways are the ways of death; her feet take hold on hell.' through the open door came the sound of music and the words jangled through kelly's mind to the tune. lady oxford closed the door; as the latch caught, kelly lifted his head and faced her. on that first occasion her ladyship had worn a mask, and in truth she wore no mask now. a cruel smile played about her lips; a cruel light glittered in her eyes. she looked him over with triumph, as though he were her captive bound hand and foot. the look braced mr. kelly. he started from his memories as a man starts up from sleep; he lived alert and complete in the moments as they passed. rose, the king's papers, his own liberty--this was his new text. her ladyship could be trusted to give a sufficient exposition of the other. she seated herself, and with her fan beckoned him to a chair. 'we have much to speak of, sir. i hear that i have to make you my congratulations, and to pay you my thanks. you may conceive with what sincerity.' mr. kelly remained standing by the fireside. 'for what services does your ladyship thank me?' 'you have made me a tavern-jest. i have to thank you for a ballad.' mr. kelly did not deny or argue the point. his pressing business was to know what lady oxford intended. 'and on what fortunate event does your ladyship congratulate me?' 'are there so many fortunate events in the life of an irish runagate and traitor? on your happy marriage, sir, with the starving apothecary's daughter.' mr. kelly laughed pleasantly. 'your ladyship is pleased to be facetious. upon my honour, i know no such woman,' he said, thinking thus to provoke her to disclose her purposes. lady oxford, to his surprise, rose up with a joyful air. 'i knew it,' she cried. 'i knew the story of the girl was the idle talk of the cocoa tree. and lady mary thought to stab me with the cruel news. ah, if the honour of my strephon be pledged, his smilinda's anger vanishes.' here she threw her arms about kelly's neck, in a very particular embrace, as if she would kiss him. but she refrained from such a caress. her arms were clasped tighter and yet more tight till kelly could scarcely breathe, and her cold whispering mouth touched his ear. 'there was, then, no starving apothecary?' 'none, madam. you have been misinformed.' the embrace grew deadly tight. he could not have thought that a woman had such strength in her arms. 'no man named townley? no daughter rose? no wound? no nursing? no love-vows? no dog harlequin? no betrothal? liar!' she whispered in a strange voice, 'i see your miss's ring upon your finger. i saw my portrait upon her breast. did she steal it? 'tis like enough. but 'tis likelier that you lie!' 'your ladyship misunderstands,' said kelly. 'i denied that there was a starving apothecary's daughter. i did not deny that there was a man named townley, who, by the way, is your ladyship's guest. i did not deny there was a daughter rose----' 'go!' she cried suddenly, releasing kelly, and pushing him off. 'i know everything, everything. go, traitor to your king and to your word! and when you are hanged, but _not till you are dead_, remember that you have made a toy and jest of _me_, babbling to your lady marys and your wogans.' she flung herself back on a settee panting and tearing her laced handkerchief into shreds. kelly waited a little for her to recover her composure. 'madam,' he said, 'in the fatal circumstances you mention with such relish, it is certainly not of you that i shall think, though in less painful moments i shall ever do so with honour and gratitude. as for what you say of my babbling, i protest my innocence before heaven. your ladyship forgets that you have an enemy from whom it was my good fortune once to defend you.' lady oxford dropped her handkerchief and sat forward staring doubtfully at kelly, who at once pressed his advantage. 'it was into this room that i then had the honour of escorting your ladyship. upon that occasion, if i may be pardoned for reminding you, what appears now to be treachery in me, seemed more akin to loyalty. but though the sentiments of your ladyship have suffered a change since then, those of mr. scrope have not. it was he who had attacked you then; it is he who attacks you now, and, believe me, it is my regret that i was not again at hand to defend you.' the parson should have stopped before those last few words were spoken. he spoke them in all sincerity, but they lost him the advantage he had gained, for it was not in lady oxford's nature to believe them. she made her profit out of her lovers' sincerity, yet could not comprehend it. it seemed almost as though some instinct led her to choose them for that very quality, with which her judgment could not credit them. 'a fine story,' she exclaimed with a sneer, 'and no doubt the apothecary's daughter would be entirely content with it, but i know you lie.' kelly bowed in silence. 'wait,' she said, mistaking the bow, for mr. kelly had a certain question to ask before he returned to the company; 'we must appear together.' she took in her hand a box of lace which had been placed ready in the room. 'your hand, if you please, mr. johnson, for the last time. you are going, sir, to your death by rope and knife, or by point of sword.' mr. kelly gave lady oxford his hand, and put his question: 'your ladyship has no fear that i shall escape?' her ladyship had none whatever, as her smile clearly showed. 'then perhaps your ladyship will inform me how much liberty i have still left to me.' 'you have to-night free,' she answered, and as he heard the words kelly's heart gave a great leap within him. 'so much reprieve you have. but you must not go till i dismiss you. enjoy yourself.' she took kelly's hand with a low courtesy. he had to-night free! at all events, the king's papers would be saved. if all else went down, the papers would be saved. so it came about that he met wogan at the stair-foot with a smiling face. in the withdrawing-room the clatter of tongues had begun again, so that neither lady oxford nor the parson distinguished the shouts of the newsboys, as they mounted the stairs. to mr. wogan, indeed, who followed upon their heels, the words no longer rose clear and audible. but as they entered the room, it was plain something was stirring. the windows stood open, gentlemen leaned out, ladies asked questions; about each window there was a restless, noisy group. the candles guttered in the wind; the card-tables were deserted; and straight in front of him mr. wogan saw rose, her hands clasped in an extremity of apprehension. colonel montague stood beside her chatting easily and making as though he remarked nothing of her uneasiness. then the hoarse cries again rang through the room. 'bloody popish plot.' 'a plot discovered.' 'what, yet another plot?' said mr. wogan smiling to lady oxford. 'mr. walpole discovers plots by the dozen; he is the most active of our guardians, 'said kelly easily. he dared not look at rose. 'we must hear more of it,' said lady oxford pleasantly, and calling her black boy: 'run, sambo, bring this late-flying night-bird of ill omen.' the boy grinned, and ran away upon his errand. lady oxford came up to my lady mary montagu. 'see, madam,' she cried, opening the box of lace with the air of a child that has a new toy. 'see what this kind obliger has brought me from the looms of the fairy queen. all point d'alençon of the finest. yes, you may well look envious. here is meat for a queen.' the other ladies, deserting the windows when they heard that magical word 'lace,' crowded round, and kelly was, where many a pretty fellow would have loved to be, in the centre of a perfumed world of fans and hoops, of sparkling eyes and patched faces. kelly, however, had other business on hand, and, slipping through the group while lady oxford was praising her lace, he drew wogan aside to a window now deserted. there he told him of his conversation with lady oxford. 'so you see, nick, i have to-night free. i mean to run to my lodging, burn the papers, and then--why one has a night free. i may yet outwit my lady. besides, the papers once burned, there's little proof to condemn me. speak to rose, nick! she will believe _you_; you never lied to her. tell her there's no need to despair. then make speed to the coast. i must go to ryder street.' as he turned, nick caught him by the arm. 'you must not go yet.' 'why?' for answer wogan turned to the window. 'stand here in the shadow of the curtain. across the street; there, in the corner.' kelly put his hands to his face to shut out the light of the room, and peered into the darkness. 'there is a man. who is it?' 'i told you! scrope. i saw him an hour ago. a link-boy's torch showed me his face. you have to-night free. an hour or so more will make little difference to you, and may tire out our friend there--or he may mean another bout with the sharps.' 'i hope so,' said kelly. at this moment sambo returned with a little damp sheet of the _flying post_, and the laces were forgotten. sambo carried the sheet to lady oxford. 'faugh,' said she, 'i dare not touch the inky thing!' wogan came out from his window, where he left his friend, and took the sheet from the boy's black paw. 'does your ladyship wish to alarm us all by reading out the news? these papists are terrible fellows.' 'read! read!' said lady oxford, with a contented laugh. wogan ran his eyes over the print. 'it is scarce fit for ladies' ears,' he said meaningly. 'some nonsense out of grub street. the wretch should be whipped from temple bar to westminster,' and wogan made as if he would tear the sheet. her ladyship hesitated. but she could not guess what the sheet contained, and she knew mr. wogan would try to screen his friend. 'nay, read sir,' she said boldly, 'or must i imperil my own fingers with the foul thing?' wogan folded the paper, and with a bow held it out to her ladyship; again she hesitated; she did not take the sheet; she looked into wogan's face as though she would read the news-sheet there. curious smiles began to show upon the faces about her, heads to nod, lips to whisper. 'shall i oblige your ladyship?' asked mr. methuen, who stood by. 'if you please,' replied lady oxford, but in a less certain tone than she had used before. mr. methuen took the sheet from wogan's hand, unfolded it, and glanced at it. 'it is indeed scarce fit for your ladyship's ears,' he said; and in his turn he folded it. the smiles broadened, the whispers increased. lady oxford was altogether disconcerted. 'i will read it,' a young voice rang out. lord sidney beauclerk stepped forward, took the sheet from mr. methuen, and at once read it aloud. he began defiantly, but towards the end his voice faltered. mr. kelly did not turn round, and seemed to pay no heed whatever. 'they write from paris that a foul plot against the throne, and even the sacred person of his most gracious majesty hath been discovered. in town, it is thought that a lady of great beauty who has a tory lord of advanced years and gouty habit to her husband, and a young whig officer of great promise for her friend, hath given the intelligence to the minister. nobody has yet been taken, but the gentry of the silver greyhound are thought to have their eyes on a certain reverend nonjuror. we say no more for the present.' lord sidney crumpled up the sheet, and retiring from the circle, slowly tore it in pieces. 'to be sure, they say quite enough,' murmured lady mary, and no one else spoke, but all looked to lady oxford. lady oxford was brave. in the silence of the company who were gathered round she spoke. 'too scurrilous to need a contradiction! doubtless it is i and my kind lace-dealer who are aimed at. now mr. johnson is here, and is my guest. the inference is plain.' mr. johnson turned from the window and came up to the group. 'my confidence in her ladyship is as great as my certainty that there is no plot in which i am concerned,' said kelly, bowing to the lady, and letting his jolly laugh out of him to the comfort of the company who did not smoke his jest. mr. wogan admired his friend. it was now become impossible for kelly to leave the house. should he go now, his going would wear all the appearances of a hasty flight, and who knew but what some of mr. walpole's spies might be within the room as well as in the street? kelly must remain and brave it out, as he clearly recognised. for, 'there are ears to be cut for this,' he went on, 'but we had better be cutting the cards.' 'mr. johnson holds the bank with me!' cried lady oxford. 'after this terrible false alarm i am ready to risk all, and brave everything. i must win enough to pay for my laces; i am much in mr. johnson's debt. sambo, my money box.' the black boy ran out of the room. mr. kelly walked towards the card-table, and as he went, a light hand was laid upon his arm, and rose's trembling voice whispered in his ear: 'george, you will go. yes, now, to-night. there may yet be time for you to cross to france.' mr. kelly was comforted beyond words, beyond belief. rose knew, and she forgave; he had not thought it was in woman's nature. but he was also tempted to fly; his papers unburned, the cause deserted. the hand upon his sleeve had its fingers on his heart-strings, and was twanging them to a very pretty tune. a few strides would bring him to the doorway, a couple of leaps to the foot of the stairs, and outside was the night. 'you will go,' she repeated, seeing how her voice weakened him. 'now--now.' 'yes 'trembled on his lips. it seemed to rose in her great longing that she heard the word breathed upon the air. but he did not speak it; he spoke no word at all. he started, his mouth dropped, his blue eyes stared, the blood was drained from his cheeks. he stood amazed, like one that sees a ghost. rose followed the direction of his eyes; she saw the guests, the tables, the candles, but nothing that should so startle her lover. 'what is it?' she asked, fearing any delay that checked the assent she had seen tremble on his lips. 'you will go! you will go!' but even as she spoke she knew that he would not go. his face kept its pallor, but grew resolute, ennobled. he had ceased to think of his own safety. 'i cannot go,' he said. 'why?' 'mr. johnson,' lady oxford's voice broke in. sambo had returned with a casket curiously enamelled. 'mr. johnson,' said she, looking into the casket: 'some five hundred pounds.' 'and six rouleaux,' added kelly, bringing out the spoils of hazard with an air. rose turned away, her face of a sudden grown very white and hard. she had done her best to make kelly seek safety, and he would not: could she do more? the parson crossed suddenly to wogan, his face very pale, but with a wonderful bright light in his eyes. 'nick, i have seen the king, here, in this room, young, happy. the shadow of the hundred years of sorrow of his race has lifted from his forehead.' 'the king is at antwerp, george. you have not seen him.' 'then it is his spirit, which has taken form to hearten us,' kelly whispered in a voice of awe. 'george, you have seen lord sidney beauclerk.' it needed no more than a word to make him understand. he had not seen the king nor the king's appearance, only the king's cousin, lord sidney. but now he could not forget any longer that the king's papers were in his lodgings; that at all costs he must reach his lodgings unfollowed; that at all costs those papers must be a little pile of ashes before the morning came. 'the bank is open,' said lady oxford. 'colonel montague, will you find a lady and be our opposite?' the glum colonel bowed in silence, and allied himself with silly smiling lady rich. the play was high. the luck had not deserted kelly, while lady oxford paid him a hundred flattering compliments and bantered her military lover, who was not ready at repartee or was not ready then. '_malheureux en jeu_,' said lady oxford, repeating the proverb lady mary had already quoted that evening. 'how fortunate, colonel, must be your affections!' 'it is only your ladyship who has all the luck and wins, or wins back if she loses,' answered the colonel, looking at mr. kelly with an evil favour, and her ladyship laughed in pure delight. there was another game besides quadrille played at that table. lady oxford was setting colonel montague and the parson by the ears. did she wish to embroil them in a quarrel to make kelly's ruin doubly sure? wogan watched the colonel; he had the first claim upon the colonel's sword. mr. kelly kept smiling and raking in the rippling golden stakes. the company stood round; they had left their tables to see this great battle of quadrille. at times wogan caught a glimpse of rose townley through a gap in the circle. she could not know why her lover had not fled. she only knew that, in her despite, he stayed in the house of the woman of whom he had told her at avignon, though his life was in peril; she only saw that woman fawning upon him, and him smiling back to the woman. lady mary had stolen her hand into the girl's, that no doubt was cold as marble, and in his heart wogan blessed her kind ladyship. at last all the tide of gold had turned to lady oxford's side of the table. the colonel rose and confessed defeat. people began to say their good-byes. dr. townley crossed the room to his daughter, who rose at once with a word of thanks to lady mary. mr. kelly remarked her movement, and with an imploring look bade her wait until lady oxford released him. 'mr. johnson,' said her ladyship, dividing the winnings, 'short accounts make long friends. i think when you reckon up the night you will find that all my great debt to you is fully paid.' mr. kelly bowed, and took the money, his eyes on her flushed face and glittering serpent's eyes. lady oxford turned to colonel montague. 'your revenge is waiting for you, colonel, whenever you are pleased to claim it. to-morrow if you will.' 'madam, i may claim my revenge to-night,' said the colonel, and stepped back with his full weight upon kelly's foot. there was no mistaking the deliberate movement. lady oxford made as though she had not seen it, but as she turned away her face had a look of pleasure, which mr. kelly remarked. 'nay, colonel,' said wogan, 'you and i have a game to play, you remember. le queux's is still open and i claim the first call on your leisure at hazard.' colonel montague answered mr. wogan with a good-nature which the latter did not comprehend. 'i have indeed some words to say to you, sir.' 'but, colonel,' said the parson, 'you trod upon my foot. i shall be happy to consult you on the bruise to-morrow.' 'to-morrow?' said montague, his face hardening instantly. 'i may inquire after it before then,' and so making his bow he got him from the room. lady oxford gave her hand to wogan and dismissed him with a friendly word. she was so occupied with the pleasure of her revenge that she had altogether forgotten his jest about the ballad. wogan on his side made his leave-taking as short as could be, for out of the corner of his eye he saw kelly offering his arm to miss townley, and kelly must not leave the house without wogan at his side. for, in the first place, colonel montague was for a sure thing standing sentinel within ten paces of the door, and after he had run the gauntlet of the colonel, there was scrope for him to make his account with, should scrope attempt to follow in his tracks. mr. wogan had a mind to insist upon his first claim to colonel montague's attentions, and, once they were rid of him, it would not be difficult to come to a suitable understanding with scrope should he attempt to follow them to ryder street. mr. wogan was indeed already relishing in anticipation the half-hour that was to come, and hurried after the parson, who was by this time close to the door with rose upon his arm and dr. townley at his heels. 'good night, mr. johnson,' said her ladyship in a lazy voice. 'take care of yourself, for they tell me the streets are not too safe.' kelly dropped rose townley's arm and turned back towards lady oxford. 'but surely,' said he with some anxiety, 'tonight the streets are safe. your ladyship assured me of their safety to-night.' lady oxford made no reply for a few seconds, she stood watching kelly with an indolent smile. a word of lady mary's came back to wogan's mind--a word spoken two years since in paris, 'she will play cat to any man's mouse.' 'to-night?' said lady oxford, lifting her eyebrows, and she glanced towards the clock. it was five minutes to one. kelly stared at the clock, his mouth open and his eyes fixed. then he drew his hand across his forehead, and, walking slowly to the mantelpiece, leaned his hands on it in a broken attitude and so stared at the clock again. lady oxford had struck her last blow, and the last was the heaviest. kelly had the night free, but the night was gone--and the streets were not safe. nothing could be saved now--not even the king's papers. then wogan saw a change come over his face. the despair died out of it and left it blank as a shuttered window. but very slowly the shutter opened. he was thinking; the thought became a hope, the hope a resolve. first his knees straightened, then the rounded shoulders rose stiff and strong. in his turn kelly struck. 'your ladyship,' he said, 'was kind enough some time ago to entrust me with your own _brocades_. those brocades are in the strong box in my lodgings.' wogan understood. brocades was the name for letters in the jargon of the plot. lady oxford's love-letters were in that box which he had handled that very afternoon. if kelly was seized in the street his rooms would be searched, the king's papers found, and, with the king's papers, lady oxford's love-letters. lady oxford understood too. her ingenious stratagems of the evening to discredit the ballad and save her fair fame would be of little avail if the world once got wind of those pretty outpourings of smilinda's heart. her face grew very white. she dropped her fan and stooped to recover it. it was noticeable, though unnoticed, that no one of those who were still present stepped forward to pick up the fan. curiosity held them in chains, not for the first time that evening. it was as though they stood in a room and knew that behind locked doors two people were engaged in a duel. now and then a clink of steel would assure them that a thrust was made; but how the duel went they could not tell. when lady oxford rose her colour had returned. 'my brocades?' she said. 'indeed, i had purely forgotten them. you have had them repaired in paris?' 'yes, madam,' answered kelly deliberately. 'i do not think the streets are so unsafe as your ladyship supposes; but i should be sorry for them to fall into any hands but your own if by any chance footpads end my days to-night.' he bowed and walked towards rose townley and her father, who stood in the doorway at a loss what to make of the scene. he had crossed half the distance before lady oxford moved. then, it seemed with one swift step, she stood at kelly's side. 'mr. johnson, you are my prisoner!' she exclaimed. 'my dear brocades! mr. johnson, you are surely the most attentive of men. you must tell me how they have been repaired; i shall not close my eyes unless you take pity on my impatience.' had kelly been the man to care for triumphs wrested from a woman, he would have found his occasion now. a minute before, lady oxford's eyes glittered with menaces, her face was masterful; now, her eyes besought pity, her face was humbled. 'if your ladyship will permit me,' said kelly, 'i will return when i have seen miss townley to her chair.' it was a difficult moment for miss townley. for to those who looked on it seemed that by some means here was mr. johnson brought back into bondage before the very eyes of his betrothed. but rose was patient of lady mary's lesson. 'tomorrow give him his _congé_ if you will; to-night be staunch! it is for life and honour!' she knew no more, but she was loyal. wogan had seen men go, for the cause, to a shameful death by torture. but he never saw courage so unfaltering, or loyalty so true, as this girl's. she was not herself in that hour; she had taken up a part as an actress does, and she played it clean, and played it through. to-morrow she might be a woman again, a woman wronged, deceived, insulted; to-night, with the astonishing valour and duplicity of her sex, she was all in her part, to see nothing, to know nothing, to be staunch. to the smiles, the simpered sarcasms, the quizzing glances, she paid no heed. she said, with a simple dignity, to lady oxford: 'i will not keep mr. johnson long. it is but a few steps to your ladyship's door, where my chair waits for me,' and she held out her hand to kelly. she had her reward. kelly's face put on a look of pride which no one in the room could mistake. he took her hand with a laugh, and threw back his chest. 'i will return, your ladyship,' he said gaily, and with rose passed out of the door. the whispers were stilled; the couple went down the stairs in a great silence. rose bore herself bravely until she had stepped into her chair; showed a brave face then at the window. 'i shall hear of you from france,' she whispered. 'good-night.' the chair was carried off; dr. townley followed. the parson returned slowly up the stairs. his heart was full; in rose's eyes he had seen the tears gathering; no doubt in the darkness of her chair they were flowing now. she would hear of him from france! well, he had his one weapon--lady oxford's letters. if he used that weapon aright, why should she not hear of him from france? by the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was already putting together the words of the letter he should write. when he re-entered the withdrawing-room, the last few guests, of whom wogan was one, were taking their departure. wogan saw kelly move towards the little card-table which had stood empty. kelly sat down, and with the fingers of one hand he played with the cards, cutting them unwittingly as though for a deal. it was, after all, he and not wogan who had to play the hand with the shrouded figure. wogan had already made his adieux. as he passed out of the door lady oxford was standing in the middle of the room plucking at her fan. as he went down the stairs, the door was flung to with a bang. lady oxford and kelly were left alone. chapter xx mr. scrope bathes by moonlight and in his peruke wogan had heard two doors shut that evening, and with very different feelings. one had been latched gently, and the sound had filled him with apprehensions; one had been flung to with an angry violence, and the sound soothed him like the crooning of music. for kelly, it seemed, after all held the trumps in his hand; he had but to play them aright and the game was his. 'the longer he takes to play them the better,' murmured wogan, as he stood on the steps of lady oxford's house and looked briskly about him. for to his left, standing openly in the moonlight, he saw a tall martial figure wrapped in a cloak, and the end of a scabbard shining beneath the cloak, while across the road his eyes made out a hunched form blotted against the wall. the figure in the cloak was colonel montague; the skulker would no less certainly be mr. scrope. if the parson would only take time enough to deploy his arguments like a careful general! mr. wogan would have liked to have run back and assured kelly that there was no need whatever for hurry, since he himself had enough amusements on his hands to make the time pass pleasantly. he advanced to the colonel first. 'sir, it is now to-morrow, the date at which you kindly promised me a few moments of your leisure. you may hear the chimes of the abbey strike the half hour after one.' 'mr. wogan,' replied the colonel, 'i reckon this yesterday--till after breakfast. at present i have an engagement with another person.' 'colonel montague, your reckoning of time is contrary to the almanac, and to a sound metaphysic, of which i am the ardent advocate. you will understand, sir, that such a difference of opinion between gentlemen admits of only one conclusion.' colonel montague smiled, and to wogan's chagrin and astonishment replied: 'you have grown a foot, or thereby, mr. wogan, since last we met, on an occasion which you will permit me to say that i can never forget. all our differences are sunk for ever in that one consideration. i implore you to leave me to the settlement of my pressing business.' so the colonel knew of that unfortunate rescue at preston. wogan, however, was not so easily put off. 'grown a foot, sir!' he cried. 'i am not the same man! you speak of a boy, who died long ago; if he made a mistake in saving your life, overlook a pure accident, and oblige me.' 'the accident does not remove my obligation.' 'if you knew the truth, you would be sensible that there was no obligation in the matter. come, take a stroll in the park, and i'll tell the truth of the whole matter to whichever of us is alive to hear it.' 'i had the whole truth already, to-night, from the young lady.' 'the young lady?' wogan had told rose townley of how he saved the life of a colonel montague, and to-night he had informed her that this colonel was the man. she had been standing by his elbow when he had picked his quarrel with montague. sure she had overheard and had interfered to prevent it. 'the young lady!' he cried. 'all women are spoil-sports. but, colonel, you must not believe her. i made a great deal of that story when i told it to miss townley. but you would find it a very simple affair if you had it from an eye-witness.' the colonel shook his head. 'yet the story was very circumstantial, how you leaped from the barricades--' 'that were but two feet high.' 'and, through a cross fire of bullets, crossed the square to where i lay--' 'the fire was a half charge of duckshot that an old fellow let off by mismanagement from a rusty pistol. both sides stopped firing the moment i jumped over--the politest thing. i might have been tripping down the mall with a lady on my arm, for all the danger i ran.' 'but your wounds?' 'i slipped and cut my shin on the sharp cobbles, that's true.' 'mr. wogan, it will not do! had i known your name this evening when lady mary made us acquainted, certain expressions properly distasteful to you would not have escaped my lips. but now i can make amends for them to the gallant gentleman who brought a wounded enemy out of a cross-fire. i apologise to you, but i cannot oblige you to the extent you wish, however you may attempt to make light of your courage, and of the obligation on my side.' 'sure, colonel, to be done with adornment of the real truth, i only saved such a fine man to have the pleasure of killing him myself.' here the colonel broke into a laugh. 'mr. wogan, if i drew my sword and stood up before you without making a parry or a lunge, would you kill me?' 'no, indeed, there would be little diversion in that game,' said wogan, who was now grown quite melancholic. 'well, that is the utmost you will get from me, i am much pressed for time, and look to find another.' 'another!' wogan's failing hopes revived. 'praise be to the saints! i see your mistake, and you shall understand it in a twinkling. the other and myself are just one man for these purposes. george is my _alter ego_. we are the greatest friends, and have been taken for each other when we are talking. i'll talk all the time we fight, and you can fancy it is george whose ribs you are trying to tickle.' the colonel, however, was obdurate, and before wogan could hit upon a likelier argument both gentlemen heard a cough. someone was standing on lady oxford's doorstep looking towards them. the colonel coughed in reply, and the figure--it was mr. kelly's--waved his hand, and marched, like the ghost of hamlet's father, toward st. james's park. the colonel followed, like hamlet, and mr. wogan followed the colonel. would there be a fourth to follow wogan? the three men marched in the moonlight, their footsteps rang boldly on the road. was there a fourth behind them stealthily creeping in the shadow of the wall? as they turned a corner out of the square wogan fell a little further to the rear. he kept his head screwed upon his shoulders, and he saw a shadow slink round the corner. he listened, and heard the stealthy steps. he stopped; the steps ceased. wogan went on again. he knew that scrope was dogging them. the figure in front moved silently on till he reached a sweet spot for an occasion, a little _clairière_ among the trees, the smoothest sward, moonlight on the grass, dark shadow all around. there he stopped, turned, and dropped his cloak. the moon shone silvery on the silver shoulder-knots of mr. kelly. the other two gentlemen advanced. 'nick,' exclaimed kelly, 'you should be on your road to the coast.' 'at last!' cried colonel montague, dropping his cloak. 'a moment, sir,' said kelly; 'i must dismiss my friend.' 'and would you be so mad? are you to have nobody to see fair and run for the surgeon while the other gentleman makes his escape? george, i never knew you were so selfish.' kelly drew his friend a little way aside. 'nick, i have that to do which cannot be done before a witness.' mr. wogan merely gaped at this extraordinary speech. he noticed that kelly looked white and haggard even for a man in the full moonlight. 'when i tell you that my honour hangs on it, that a witness is mere ruin, when i pray you by our old friendship? nick, you _must_ go out of eye-shot and ear-shot.' 'i think you are crazed,' said wogan. 'i have obeyed you all night. things have taken the turn that you must obey me. there is no time for an explanation, the hour presses, and, nick, my honour hangs on it. you must retire to where you can neither see nor hear us, or i am shamed--lost with the cause.' mr. kelly had been whispering, his voice trembled as the cause was named. wogan had only once seen him thus moved. had he played his trumps amiss after all? it seemed he had not won the game. 'very well,' said wogan. 'good-night. i will take care you are not troubled with witnesses.' 'no,' said kelly suddenly, and then 'yes; goodnight.' he stood looking at wogan a moment and then hurried off to the colonel, who seemed, to wogan's judgment, a man apt to give the parson his bellyful. wogan twitched his cloak about him, and took his road down a path, bordered by bushes. it was the path by which they had come into the park. wogan was determined that the parson should not be troubled by witnesses. from his boyhood mr. wogan has had a singular passion for bird's-nesting. he idly scanned the bushes as he marched, for he had heard a twig snap, and in a thick bush he saw what at a first glance certainly resembled a very large brown bird's-nest. looking more narrowly at this curiosity there were shining eyes under the nest, a circumstance rarely found in animated nature. mr. wogan paused and contemplated this novelty. the bush was deep; the novelty was of difficult access because of the tangled boughs. wogan reckoned it good to show a puzzled and bemused demeanour, as of one who has moored himself by the punch-bowl. 'it's a very fine bird,' he said aloud. 'i wonder what is the exact species this fine fowl may belong to?' then he wagged his head in a tipsy manner, and so lurched down the path singing: 'i heard a bird sing in a bush, and on his head was a bowl of punch, _la-la-loodie!_' but wogan's eye was cocked back over his shoulder, for he hoped that the fowl, thinking the hunter gone, would save him trouble by breaking cover. the bush did not stir, however; all was deadly still. wogan lurched back to the bush, still singing, parted the branches, and peered in. his mind, in fact, was quite fixed as to the nature and name of this nocturnal fowl. he spied into the bush. 'i have heard, in france, of a bird called "the cuckoo kelly,"' he said, 'i wonder if this can be _le cocu_ scrope?' something glittered in the heart of the bush. mr. wogan leaped aside, his hat spun round on his head, he was near blinded by the flame and smoke of a pistol discharged almost _à bout portant_. a figure had scrambled out of the bush on the further side, and was running at a great pace towards st. james's. mr. wogan gave a view halloo, and set off at the top of his own pace in pursuit. he was swift of foot when young, sound of wind, and long of stride. at every step he gained on the flying figure, which, he happily remembered, might be armed with another pistol. these commodities usually go in pairs. reflecting on this, and reckoning his distance to a mathematical nicety, mr. wogan applied his toe to that part of the flying gentleman's figure which he judged most accessible and most appropriate to his purpose. the flying gentleman soared softly into a parabola, coming down with a crash, while a pistol fell from his hand. as the priming was spilled, mr. wogan let the weapon lie, and courteously assisted the prostrate person to rise. 'i fear i stumbled over you, sir,' he said. 'i hope i was not so unfortunate as to hurt you. why, 'tis mr. scrope, the celebrated critic and amateur of virgil. mr. scrope, the writer of ballads.' 'you are a brutal irish bully,' said scrope, whose hands and face were bleeding, for he had the mischance to slip on a gravel path covered with sharp little flints at the top of the canal. 'nay, when last we met it was my poetry that you criticised, and now 'tis my manners that do not please you! how could i guess that it was mr. scrope who lay in a bush to watch an explanation between gentlemen? this time, sir, of your flight, you have not two horses to carry you off, and i am not barefoot. suppose we take up our conversation where we left it when last you ran away? you have a sword i see.' scrope's sword was already out, and he made a desperate pass at wogan, who broke ground and drew his own weapon. scrope was no match for his reach and skill in fence. 'why, sir, our positions are altered,' said wogan. 'now it is you who make errors, and i who play critic and instructor.' wogan made a parade in _contre de carte_. 'look, sir, your blade was beaten a good half foot out of line. had i chosen to riposte, my sword-hilt would have rung on your breast-bone. ah, that was rather better,' he said, stepping a pace back, and offering his breast full like a fencing master with his pupil. 'but you did not really extend yourself. now, sir, _un_, _deux_, _doublez_, _dégagez_, _vite!_' and mr. wogan passed his sword through the lappet of scrope's coat, coming back on guard. 'that is how you ought to lunge. there is another thing that i would have you notice. coming on rashly as you do, i could stop you at any moment with a time thrust. i have only to extend my long arm, and where are you?' scrope broke ground, sweating, and drew breath: 'you cowardly _maître d'armes!_' he exclaimed between two pants. 'cowardly, sir? am i a spy? or a nameless, obscene rhymer? do i carry pistols and try to use them? fie, mr. scrope, you must see that a coward who meant to kill you would have done so long ago, and left you here--with an insult, and without a surgeon. you remember the little square at avignon. you want another lesson.' wogan parried, riposted, and just grazed his opponent on the fore-arm. '_touché!_' he said. 'now you see i do not mean to kill you: at least, not with the sword. to do so would be to oblige a lady whom i have no desire to please. would you prefer to lay down your weapon and come frankly to my embrace? you remember our fond hugs at brampton bryan? by the way, mr. scrope,' asked wogan, as an idea occurred to him, 'the night is warm and you seem heated, do you swim? the place is convenient for a bathe, and sheltered from coarse observation.' with this remark wogan switched scrope's sword out of his hand by a turn of the wrist in _flanconade_. the blade flew up and fell flashing in the water of the canal. 'now, sir, your life is at my mercy. you have betrayed my cause; you have nearly murdered my friend; you have insulted two ladies of my acquaintance; you have censured my poetry; and you have spoiled my hat with your pistol bullet. i repeat, do you swim? there are two places here mighty convenient for a ducking.' here mr. wogan caught his enemy by the collar. 'the canal is shallow; rosamond's pool is deep. you have your choice; safety and prose, or poetry and peril?' scrope was squirming in wogan's grip like a serpent. when mr. wogan had calmed him he carried mr. scrope like a babe to the edge of the canal. 'one, two, three!' he said, heaving mr. scrope backward and forward, like children setting a swing in motion. 'and away!' a heavy body flew through the air, flashed into the canal, and did not at first arise to the surface. 'i hope he has not hit his head or broken his neck,' said wogan with anxiety. 'it would be very disagreeable to have to wade for him.' his fears were soon set at rest. scrope scrambled to his feet, the water reaching nearly to his middle. in his dripping perruque he cut a figure odd enough, and sufficiently pitiable. 'a water god! a triton!' cried wogan. 'have you a virgil in your pocket? you might study the marine deities whom you resemble. you are sure you have again forgotten to bring the virgil you desired for mr. kelly's use at avignon.' 'd----n you, i shall see your bowels burned before your eyes for this, you popish traitor,' cried scrope, shaking his fist. 'that is as may be. you have done what you can to that end already. you have told all you know; as regards myself it is not very much, and i am not in newgate yet. moreover, i know a way out. but stop, i cannot possibly permit you to land, for scrope was wading to the bank. 'stay where you are and admire the moonshine! if you set foot on shore i will merely throw you in again! you might be hurt. scrope turned and was beginning to wade to the other side of the canal. 'it really is not safe in the middle if you do not swim,' cried wogan. 'moreover, i can easily be at the further bank before you.' mr. wogan suited the action to the word. he ran round the bank as scrope waded across. he met his bedraggled victim at the water's edge. mr. wogan uttered a joyful whoop; there was a great splash and again scrope sank beneath the surface. he regained his feet and rose spluttering. 'i do trust, mr. scrope, that you are not hectic, or subject to rheumatism,' said wogan with sympathy. wogan walked to the centre of the path across the top of the canal. he spread his cloak upon the grass and sat down, contemplating the moonlight on buckingham house. there was a sweet odour of the budding may in the air. 'a more peaceful scene, mr. scrope,' he cried, 'i have rarely witnessed. all the poet whom you tried to crush wakes in my bosom. i shall recite mr. pope's celebrated night piece for your benefit.' mr. wogan then arose from his seat on the grass, and, raising his hand towards the moon, delivered mr. pope's lines in his best manner. 'as when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, o'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light. when not a breath disturbs the deep serene, and not a cloud o'erspreads the solemn scene.' 'you are not listening, mr. scrope!' scrope was listening, but not to wogan. wogan ceased from reciting and listened also. he heard steps and voices of men approaching. presently, to his great amazement, he recognised the tones of kelly and montague, whose mere existence had been banished from his mind. he was yet more surprised when they both came in view, walking very friendly together. wogan rose as they drew near him. 'what, both of you?' he exclaimed. 'you do not seem to be glad to see us again, sir?' said colonel montague. 'and devil a scratch between the pair of you!' cried mr. wogan. 'george, what does this mean? am i to hear,' he asked with honest indignation, 'that one of you has debased himself to an apology?' he looked from one to the other much perplexed in mind. 'it is too long a tale for the opportunity, mr. wogan,' said the colonel laughing. 'but _what_ does that mean?' he pointed to the water god in the perruque, whose shadow was reflected in the calm bosom of the lake. 'colonel montague,' cried scrope, 'i appeal to you as a protestant and an officer of his majesty's for your protection against an irish, popish, jacobite conspirator.' 'that gentleman,' said wogan, 'whom i have been entertaining with mr. pope's poem, is an english protestant, whig, spy, and murderer, and even, i suspect, a writer in the newspapers. he persists in staying out in the water there, where i cannot get at him. he is one of the maritime powers. egad! george, you know mr. scrope of northumberland and grub street?' george bowed to mr. scrope. 'the fourth time you see, sir, has been lucky, contrary to the proverb,' he said politely. 'the poor devil's teeth are chattering audibly,' said colonel montague. 'may i ask you to explain his situation, mr. wogan?' 'faith, sir, the story, as you say, is too long for the occasion. and i want an explanation myself. after a gentleman has trod on another gentleman's foot, here you both are, well and smiling. i am betrayed,' cried mr. wogan, 'in the character of a friend. i could not have thought it of george.' 'what was the pistol shot we heard, nick?' asked mr. kelly. 'that was mr. scrope firing at me.' 'and the view halloo that might have wakened the dead?' 'that was me remonstrating with mr. scrope. but i crave your pardon for my thoughtlessness. no doubt the noise brought up some ungentlemanly person who interrupted you in your explanation. you will begin it again? mr. scrope and i will be delighted to see fair play, but you will see it from the water, mr. scrope. you don't come out yet.' 'our honours, about which you are so kindly concerned, mr. wogan, are as intact as our persons,' said the colonel. 'then you have been finding out that george saved your life, or you saved george's, some time in the dark ages, all to prevent you killing each other in a friendly way?' 'you are in an ingenious error, mr. wogan; but mr. johnson and i have important business together in the town, and we must bid you farewell. pray allow that dripping gentleman to land and go to bed.' 'but i cannot take him with me, and it is purely inconvenient to let him follow me, for the precise reason that he would not follow me at all, but my friend mr. johnson. i am like my countryman who caught a tartar in the muscovite wars. to be sure, i might tie him to a tree with his garters. come out, mr. scrope, and be tied to a tree!' 'no, no,' said the colonel; 'your friend will die of a cold.' 'then what am i to be doing?' asked wogan. 'he is a very curious gentleman.' 'i must leave that for you and your friend to determine,' said colonel montague. he turned to kelly. 'in ten minutes,' said he, moving off. 'in ten minutes, corydon,' said kelly, and wogan thought he heard the colonel mutter, 'oh, damnation!' it was all greek to wogan, and kelly seemed in no mind to translate the greek for his baser comprehension. 'be off, nick,' said he. 'i have ten minutes to wait here, and for ten minutes mr. scrope shall stand in the pond. you have that much law. it is time enough for your long legs.' 'and do you think i am leaving mr. scrope to follow you while i go quietly to bed?' asked wogan, who was in truth hurt by the proposal. 'no. i shall take him with me. it is the best plan after all.' 'it will not matter, i think, whether he follows me or no; and, nick, as to going to bed, i hope it will not be on this side of the channel. truth, i should be blaming you as it is for your delay, but i have no heart to it.' he had dropped into the irish accent, a thing very rare with him. 'for the world topples about me to-night, and the sight of a friend is very pleasant to me. there! it is all i had to say to you. good-night. good-bye.' he clapped his hand on wogan's shoulder and then sat himself down on the grass. if mr. scrope had had his wits about him, he might have chosen this occasion to creep out of the water, for wogan was paying little heed to him. 'george,' said he, 'it seems the game has gone against you. but i have the simplest plan imaginable to put matters straight. what if you give me the key to that pretty despatch-box? you see if i go to your lodging and am taken--' 'no!' cried kelly. 'but yes,' said wogan, seating himself on the grass beside kelly. 'if i am taken, why, it's just nick wogan that's taken, and no one but nick wogan is a penny the worse. but if you go and are taken--well, there's the doctor's daughter.' kelly would not listen to reason. it was not, he said, a mere matter of slipping into the house and burning the cyphers. but a man must pay for his own shortcomings, and the whole aspect of affairs had changed. and then he fell to thanking wogan, which thanks wogan cut short; and so they sat in the moonlight like a couple of owls, only they did not talk. 'you are very thoughtful,' said kelly, with a tired sort of laugh, 'and you have thought most of your ten minutes away.' 'i was thinking,' said wogan, 'of a word you used to say about a little parsonage in ireland and your latin books, and an acre or two of land, and how, like a fool, i laughed at you for speaking so.' kelly rose very quickly to his feet. 'come, nick,' said he almost sharply. 'my ten minutes are almost up. i cannot watch scrope after that, and you may just as well save your life as lose it.' 'i mean to take him with me,' said wogan. 'come out, my friend. i'll give him the slip, never fear, when i want to.' 'and then you will start for france?' mr. wogan did not mention a couple of obstacles which would at all events delay his departure. in the first place he had a little matter of business with lord sidney beauclerk, and in the second it would be no more than politeness to inquire after kelly's health before he went abroad. he kept silent upon this subject, and again summoned scrope, who waded with his teeth chattering from the water. he drove scrope before him along a bypath, leaving the parson standing alone in the moonlight. mr. wogan had no expectation that he would ever see his friend's face again, and therefore he swore most heartily at scrope. 'come, my man,' said he, 'i am to see that you do not catch cold,' and he marched scrope at a round pace eastwards as far as temple bar, and thence northwards to soho, and from soho westwards. scrope had been enjoined strictly not to open his lips; but, on the other hand, he heard a great deal about his own character, his merits as a poet, and the morals of his family, which was no doubt new to him. some three hours later, when the moon had long since set, the pair came to the fields behind holland house, and there wogan took his leave of scrope. the man could do no more harm for that night, and he had for the moment lost his taste for spying. 'you will stay here for five minutes,' said wogan, who in five seconds was lost in the darkness. he knew a shy place in westminster where he could pass the night undisturbed. as he laid his head on the pillow it seemed to him to be a good year since he had driven off from sir harry goring's house in the morning. and what of the parson, whom he had last seen, a sombre figure in the moonlight by the water of st. james's park? well, the night had only then begun for kelly, who, to be sure, had lain abed all the day before. chapter xxi in which mr. kelly surprises smilinda the devil in all this affair, it was that wogan could not be in two, or even three, places at once. while kelly was shut in with lady oxford earlier, mr. wogan, as he has said, was on the wrong side of the door. there he was again, after the rout, while he conversed with colonel montague in the street. again, while wogan was busy with mr. scrope in st. james's park, kelly and the colonel were exchanging their unknown explanations, of a kind not admired by mr. wogan, which ended in their walking, like a pair of brothers, towards george's rooms. in all these conjunctures mr. wogan's advice, could he have been present, might have been serviceable, or at least his curiosity must have been assuaged. what did pass between kelly and lady oxford when the rout was over, and what were the considerations which induced george and the colonel to resist their natural and mutual desire for an honourable satisfaction? these questions (that perplexed wogan when he awoke, about noon, from the fatigue of the previous day) were answered later by kelly, and the answer must be given before the later adventures and sorrows of george can be clearly narrated. sure, no trifle could have turned sword and gown into friends that night. when lady oxford and kelly were left alone in the empty rooms, among the waning candles and scattered cards, lady oxford marched, like indignant royalty, to the end of the inner withdrawing-room, where they could not be heard or interrupted without warning. mr. kelly followed with a mind made up. it was, after all, lady oxford that had betrayed him, but he had, by an accident of forgetfulness, kept her letters, and they now gave him the advantage. if those letters could be saved, the chevalier's papers could and should be saved too, and himself rescued from peril and rose from much unhappiness. rose was at the bottom of his thoughts that night; her face was mirrored there bright, it seemed, with divinity. the chevalier was there too, no doubt, but rose peeped over his shoulder. mr. kelly, then, hardened his heart, and, for love and loyalty, meant to push his advantage over lady oxford to its limits. he approached her as she stood retired. 'wretch,' cried lady oxford, 'you promised to burn my letters. of all traitors you are the most abandoned and perfidious.' the parson thought that memory supplied him with a parallel, but he replied: 'it is a promise all men make and all men break.' lady oxford struck her hand upon a table. 'you swore you had burned them.' this time george was less ready with his answer, but her ladyship stood awaiting it. 'my passion must be my excuse, madam; i could not bear to part with these elegant testimonies of your esteem. it is as i have the honour to tell your ladyship; the brocades are in my strong box in my lodgings. to-morrow they shall be restored to your hands.' 'to-morrow!' she said, in a voice of despair. 'to-morrow! i am undone!' 'it is not so long to wait for the finery, and i do not think the streets are so purely unsafe as you suppose.' 'i am undone!' she repeated. 'the public will ring of my name. i shall become a byword, a thing of scorn for every scribbler to aim his wit at.' she gnawed her fingers in an agony of fear and perplexity. mr. kelly had learned enough. there was plainly no chance within the lady's knowledge, as he had hoped, of saving her letters. neither, then, could the king's papers be saved. he bowed, and took a step towards the door. 'stop!' mr. kelly turned with alacrity at the eager cry, but lady oxford had no words of hope for him. 'you must not leave this house to-night, or must leave it secretly by the garden.' kelly smiled grimly. her ladyship was suddenly grown most tender of her reputation now that it was in peril. 'your ladyship's care for me, and your hospitality overcome me, but i have, as you perhaps remarked, an assignation of honour with colonel montague which nothing must prevent me from keeping. he is longing for an instant revenge--at the hazard table. a while ago, you may pardon me for observing, your ladyship was remote from feeling this sudden and violent anxiety on my hand.' mr. kelly's irony was poured out to deaf ears. lady oxford paced to and fro about the room, wringing her hands in her extremity. then she stopped suddenly. 'i might drive to the minister's.' she reached out a hand towards the bell. kelly shook his head. 'that visit would be remarked upon unfavourably by the friends of my lord oxford, who are not in the minister's interest. mr. walpole has no party to-night, and must have gone to bed--'tis verging on two o'clock--or else he is in his cups. moreover, the _dolliad_, the ballad on his sister, was credited to your pen. you know that mr. walpole loves a broad jest, and loves revenge. he will not protect you nor miss so fair an opportunity. nay, i think i read in to-morrow's _flying post_, "in the papers of the prisoner kelly, among other treasonable matter reserved for a later occasion, were found the following letters of a high curiosity, which we are graciously permitted to publish; one begins--_oh, my delicious strephon_." lady oxford snapped her fan between her fingers and dashed the fragments in kelly's face. he owns that he cannot well complain she served him ill, but he wanted to repay her in some sort for her innuendo about his fate at the hangman's hands, and similar favours. beholding her passion, which was not unjust, he felt bitterly ashamed of his words. 'you coward!' she said. her dark eyes glared at him from a face white as the ivory of her broken fan, and then, quite suddenly, she burst into a storm of tears. kelly's shame was increased a thousandfold. 'i humbly crave your ladyship's pardon,' he said. 'i have spoken in terms unworthy of a chairman. but some remarks of your ladyship's on a future event, to me of painful interest, had left an unhappy impression.' but lady oxford paid no heed to the stammered apology. as mr. kelly moved to her she waived him aside with her hands, and, dropping on to a sofa, pressed her weeping face into the cushions. sobs shook her; she lay abandoned to distress. mr. kelly stood apart and listened to the dolorous sound of her weeping. that was true which she had said; he had promised to burn those letters; he had sworn that he had burned them. his fine plan of using them as a weapon against her began to take quite another complexion. there were, no doubt, all manner of pious and respectable arguments to be discovered in favour of the plan, if only he pried about for them. but a saying of mr. scrope's was suddenly scrawled out in his recollections: 'Æneas was an army chaplain who invoked his religion when he was tired of the lady, and so sailed away with a clear conscience.' kelly murmured 'rose' to himself, and, again, 'rose,' seeking to fortify himself with the mention of her name. but it had the contrary effect. even as he heard his lips murmuring it, the struggle was over. george had a number of pretty finical scruples, of which his conduct at this crisis of his fortunes was a particular example. he relates how it seemed to him that at the mention of her name rose threw out a hand to him and drew him up out of a slough; how he understood that his fine plan was unworthy of any man, and entirely despicable in the man whom she, out of her great condescension, had stooped to love; how he became aware that he owed it to her, since she was a woman, that no woman's fame, whether a smilinda's or no, should be smirched by any omission of his; how he suddenly felt in his very marrow that it would dishonour rose to save her even from great misery by a _lâcheté_ towards another of her sex. his duty was revealed to him in that moment, as clear as it was unexpected. he sets his revulsion of feeling wholly to rose's account, as a man in love should, but very likely her ladyship's fan had something to do with it. he spoke again to lady oxford, and very gently. 'madam, it is true. i promised to burn your letters. i swore that i had burned them. my honour, i perceive, can only be saved by saving yours.' lady oxford raised her head from the cushions and stared at him with wondering eyes. 'let us play this game _cartes sur table_,' continued kelly. her ladyship rose from her sofa and sat herself in a chair at a table, still wondering, still suspicious. george took the chair on the other side of the table, and spoke while lady oxford dried the tears upon her face. to help her at all he must know all that she knew. his first business was to remove her ladyship's suspicions. 'i understand that your ladyship, by some means of which i am as yet ignorant, has become aware of a certain plot, and has carried the knowledge to mr. walpole.' lady oxford neither agreed nor denied. she admitted the truth of mr. kelly's statement in her own way. 'you bragged and blabbed to my worst enemy, to lady mary, with her poisonous pen,' and her fine features writhed with hatred as she spoke lady mary's name. 'there your ladyship was misled,' returned kelly. 'my lips have been sealed, as i already had the honour to inform you. my lady mary may not love you, but she is innocent of this offence. if she wrote those rhymes, she was, indeed, more my enemy than yours; and my enemy, as your ladyship is aware, she is not.' lady oxford understood the strength of the argument. 'ah, yes,' she said thoughtfully. 'the apothecary's daughter!' the contemptuous phrase slipped from lady oxford by mistake, and was not at all uttered in a contemptuous voice. but she had no doubt fallen into a habit of so terming the girl in her thoughts. none the less, however, it stung mr. kelly, who was at some trouble to keep his voice gentle. he knew how much smilinda owed at this moment to the apothecary's daughter. 'the young lady to whom i conceive you refer, miss townley, is of a family as ancient, loyal, and honourable as your ladyship's own, and you may have seen on what terms both ladies were this evening. moreover, lady mary was purely ignorant of miss townley's very existence when that pasquinade was written.' 'then who wrote it?' 'mr. scrope, as i have the honour to repeat.' 'scrope?' she answered in a quick question, as though for the first time she understood that george might well be right. he gave the reasons for his belief as he had given them at the deanery to nicholas wogan. they were to the last degree convincing. lady oxford was persuaded long before mr. kelly had come to an end. a look came into her face which kelly could not understand, a look of bitter humiliation. 'scrope,' she muttered, as her fingers played with the cards upon the table. she overturned a card which lay face downwards on the table, and it chanced to be the knave of hearts. 'your ladyship now sees that you fell into a natural error,' continued kelly, who was anxious to smooth lady oxford's path, 'in consequence of which you took a natural revenge. may i ask how you secured the means of revenge? how, in a word, you came to know of the hidden plot within the plot?' her ladyship's answer fairly startled mr. kelly. it was not given at once. she still played with the cards, and overturned another. it was the knave of clubs. 'the cards tell you,' she said with a bitter smile. mr. kelly leaned back in his chair open-mouthed. 'scrope?' he asked. 'scrope,' replied her ladyship. 'i received a humble letter from him praying that i would forgive his odious ingratitude, and, by way of peace-offering, bidding me tell my lord oxford--' 'who had already withdrawn,' said george. 'i think i understand,' lady oxford's look of humiliation had enlightened him, 'and i think your ladyship understands with me. mr. scrope is a sort of a gentleman, and would prefer to do his dirty work without appearing as a spy. he has made use of your ladyship. he sends you the plot and spurs you to disclose it with his ballad. he would have disclosed it himself, i doubt not, had not your ladyship served his turn. but mr. scrope has his refinements, and, besides that he spares himself, would take a particular pleasure in compassing my ruin at the same time that he outwitted you.' little wonder that lady oxford broke in upon mr. kelly's reasonings. it must have been sufficiently galling for her to reflect that in exacting her revenge she had been the mere instrument of a man she had tossed aside. 'it is both of us that he has ruined, not you alone,' she cried. certainly, mr. scrope was a person to reckon with, and had killed quite a covey of birds with one stone. 'are you sure?' asked kelly. 'are you sure of that?' she bent across the table eagerly, but she did not reply to the question. 'will you kill scrope,' she flashed out, 'and you and i part friends?' kelly, even in the midst of this tangle of misfortunes, could not but smile. 'i fear that i may have been anticipated. mr. scrope has been watching your ladyship's house to-night--and mr. wogan observed him, and, i conceive, has undertaken for him.' lady oxford at that smiled too. 'then he is a dead man,' she said, slowly savouring her words like wine. 'but his death, madam, will not save your letters,' said kelly; and the fire died out of her face. 'he has betrayed us both,' she moaned. it seemed she had already forgotten how she herself had seized at the occasion of betraying mr. kelly. kelly was in no mood to debate these subtleties. 'are you sure?' he contented himself with asking for a second time. 'there is one thing mr. scrope has not done. he has taken no measures purposely to insure that your letters will be discovered, since he does not know of them; else, no doubt, he would have done his worst. we two are still engaged in a common cause--your ladyship's. your intentions in my regard i were much less than a man if i did not forgive, granting (what i now know) your ladyship's erroneous interpretation of my ground of offence, the babbling to lady mary. does your ladyship permit me, then, at the eleventh hour, to save you, if i can find a way, from the odious consequences of mr. scrope's unparalleled behaviour?' 'you?' lady oxford's brows were drawn together in perplexity. the notion that mr. kelly was prepared to do this thing was still new and strange to her. 'you?' her eyes searched his for the truth of his purpose, and found it. 'you?' she said again, but in a voice of gratitude and comprehension. and then, with a gesture of despair, she thrust her chair back and stood up. 'you cannot save yourself. i cannot save you.' 'no,' replied george, 'myself i cannot save; but it may not be too late to save my honour, which is now wrapped up in that of your ladyship's. my case is desperate; what can be done for yours? be plain with me. how much does your ladyship know?' lady oxford turned away from the table. in the face of kelly's generosity no doubt she hesitated to disclose the whole truth of her treachery. 'i know no more than that you are in peril of arrest,' she said. 'madam, surely you know more than that. you spoke earlier this evening of my arrest, and you spoke with the assurance of a more particular knowledge.' lady oxford took a turn across the room. 'oh, my god, what can i do?' she cried, lifting her hands to her head. 'i hear lady mary's laughter and the horrid things they will say!' the whimsical inconsequence of smilinda's appeal to her maker did not fail to strike kelly as ludicrous, but, as his own case was hopeless and abandoned, any thought of revenge or mockery had ceased to agitate him. his honour now stood in saving all that was left of hers from open and intolerable shame, and rose beckoned him to the task. 'surely you know more,' he persisted quietly. lady oxford gave in and came back to the table. 'the messengers should be waiting for you in ryder street.' at last kelly knew the worst. he would be taken before he reached his doorstep. there would be no chance of saving the cyphers in his strong box. could he save smilinda's letters? he bent his forehead upon his hands, thinking. smilinda watched him; her lips moved as though she was praying. 'i might be carried to your lodgings and claim what is mine,' she suggested. 'you would be carried to a trap--a _souricière_. ten to one you would be arrested by the messengers. at all events your visit would be remarked upon, and you would not obtain the letters.' lady oxford had no other proposal at hand, and there was silence in the room. mr. kelly remained with his face buried in his hands; he took the air in long deep breaths. no other sound was audible except the faint ticking of the clock in the outer withdrawing-room. for smilinda was holding her breath lest she should disturb the man whom she had betrayed, and who was now wholly occupied with the attempt to save her. then she remarked that the sound of his breathing ceased. she bent forwards; he raised his face to hers. he did not seem to see her; his eyes kindled with hope. 'you have found a way?' she whispered; and he whispered back: 'a desperate chance, but it may serve.' he started to his feet. 'it must serve.' a smile brightened over his face. 'it will serve.' sure he showed as much pleasure as if he had discovered an issue for himself. 'quick!' said smilinda, with a smile to answer his. 'tell me!' 'colonel montague--' 'what of him? why speak to me now of him?' lady oxford's face had clouded at the name. 'he is your only salvation.' 'what can he do?' 'everything we need. his loyalty to the present occupant of the throne is entirely beyond a suspicion. he can act as he will without peril to his reputation. he can even rescue your papers, which are not in the same strong box as my own. the colonel, if any man, can assist you if he will.' 'but he will not,' said her ladyship sullenly. 'he will,' answered kelly confidently, 'if properly approached. he is a man of honour, i take it? you will pardon me for saying that your ladyship's flattering behaviour towards me, in his presence (for the nature of which you had, doubtless, your own particular reasons) can have left him in no doubt on certain heads; while it is equally plain that your ladyship hath no longer any very tender interest in keeping his esteem and regard. nevertheless, being a gentleman, he will not abandon your ladyship's cause.' lady oxford was in no way comforted. 'it may well be as you say,' she returned with a look at mr. kelly. she had already one example of how much a gentleman could forgive a woman when she stood in need of his help. 'but, mr. kelly, you cannot come at colonel montague.' 'why not?' 'you know very well that he lodges in the same house as yourself. i sent a lackey with a note to you, yesterday. and your reply was dated from ryder street.' mr. kelly stepped back, he could hardly believe his ears. 'colonel montague--lodges--in the same house as myself?' he asked. 'yes,' lady oxford replied in a dispirited fashion. she had lost heart altogether. mr. kelly, on the other hand, was quite lifted up by the unexpected news. 'this is a mere miracle in nature,' he cried. 'i only went into my present lodgings two days ago. i have been abroad for the greater part of the time, and asleep the rest, and have had no knowledge of the other tenants, even of their names. 'faith, madam, your letters are as safe as though the ashes were now cold in your grate.' 'but the colonel will have gone home, and you are to be taken in ryder street. you will not get speech with him.' 'nay, madam, he has not gone home. he is waiting for me now.' lady oxford started. 'ah, your ladyship remembers. he is waiting for me. ten yards from your doorstep--ten yards at the farthest,' and kelly actually chuckled. carried away by his plan, he began to pace the room as he unfolded it. 'i shall see the colonel, and if i can by any means do so, i will acquaint him, as far as is necessary, with the embarrassing posture of your affairs. i shall give him the key of the box containing the--brocades, and, if the messengers be not already in possession of them, the rest must be entrusted to his honour as a gentleman and a soldier. the unexpected accident of our being fellow-lodgers gives him, to this end, a great advantage, and can scarce have occurred without the providence of--some invisible power or another which watches over your ladyship.' kelly thought that lady oxford this night had enjoyed what is called the devil's own luck. 'have i your ladyship's leave to try my powers of persuasion with colonel montague?' very much to kelly's surprise she moved towards him, like one walking in her sleep. 'you are bleeding,' she said, and stanched with her handkerchief some drops from his brow, where it had been cut by the broken edges of the ivory fan. then she went again into a bitter fit of weeping, which kelly could never bear to see in a woman. she may have remembered the snow upon the lawn, years ago, and a moment's vision of white honour. then she stinted in her crying as suddenly as she had begun; in a time incredibly short you could not tell that she had wept. 'you must carry a token. i must write. oh my shame!' she said, and sitting down to a scrutoire, wrote rapidly and briefly, sanded the paper, and offered it open to kelly. 'i cannot see it; your ladyship must seal it,' he said, which she did with a head of cicero. george took the note, and said: 'now time presses, madam. i must be gone. i trust that, if not now, at least later, you may forgive me.' her lips moved, but no words came forth. kelly made his bow, and so took leave of smilinda, she gnawing her lips, as she watched him with her inscrutable eyes, moodily pushing to and fro with her foot the broken pieces of the fan on the polished floor. there came into kelly's fancy his parting view of rose at avignon, her face framed among the vine leaves, in the open window; she leaning forth, with a forced smile on her dear lips and waving her kerchief in farewell. a light wind was stirring her soft hair at that time, and she crying '_au revoir_! _au revoir!_ there was a scent of lilacs from the garden in the air of april, george remembered, and now the candles were dying in the sconces with a stench. with these contrasted pictures of two women and two farewells in his fancy, kelly was descending the wide empty staircase, not knowing too well where he went. something seemed to stir, he lifted his eyes and before him he saw again the appearance of his king: the king, young and happy, and as beautiful as the dawn that was stealing into the room and dimming the lustres on the stairs. then the appearance moved aside, and kelly found himself gazing into a great empty mirror that hung on the wall, facing the gallery above. lord sidney beauclerk, in fact, had not left the house with the other guests, and kelly, remembering, laughed aloud as he reached the fresh air without. chapter xxii an eclogue which demonstrates the pastoral simplicity of corydon and strephon wogan has told already how kelly came out of the house in queen's square, how he led the way to the glade, so convenient for the occasion, and how he dismissed his friend. george has since declared that he never was more tossed up and down in his mind than during that trifle of a promenade. here was the colonel that had insulted him, and wished nothing, more or less, than to cut his clerical throat. and here was kelly, that must make friends with his enemy, if he was to save his honour, and the reputation, such as it was, of the woman whom he had once loved. it was a quandary. if kelly began by showing a flag of truce, the colonel, as like as not, would fire on it by way of a kick or cuff, and then a friendly turn to the conversation would be totally out of the possible. had kelly been six inches taller than he was and a perfect master of his weapon, he might have trusted to the chance of disarming the colonel and then proposing a cartel, but unhappily it was the elector's officer who possessed these advantages. thus kelly could think of nothing except to get rid of mr. wogan's presence as a witness of the explanation. he succeeded in that, and then marched back to the colonel, who had stood aside while george conversed with his friend. kelly waited, as the wiser part, till the colonel should show his hand. but the colonel also waited, and there the two gentlemen stood speechless, just out of thrust of each other, while every convenience in nature called on them to begin. at last the colonel cleared his throat and said, 'reverend mr. lace-merchant, i am somewhat at a loss as to how i should deal with you.' 'faith, it is my own case,' thought george to himself, but all he uttered was, 'gallant mr. drill-sergeant, the case seems clear enough. you trod on my foot, and,' said george, as he let his cloak slip from his shoulders to the ground, 'you invited me to take a walk; what circumstance now befogs your intellects?' kelly's instincts, naturally good, though dimmed a trifle by a learned education and a clerical training, showed him but that one way out of the wood. 'several circumstances combine, sir. thus, i do not want to save the hangman a job. again, my respect for your cloth forbids me to draw sword on you, and rather prompts to a public battooning tomorrow in st. james's. i therefore do but wait to favour you with this warning, which is more than a trafficker of your kidney deserves.' 'truth, sir, if you wait to cane me till to-morrow, i have every reason to believe that you may wait a lifetime. as to cloth, mine is as honourable as ever a german usurper's livery.' this did not promise a friendly conclusion, but george was ever honourably ready to support the honour of his gown, and he confesses that, at this moment, he somewhat lost sight of his main object. the colonel stepped forward with uplifted cane, a trifle of tortoise-shell and amber, in his hand. george drew back one pace and folded his arms on his breast. his eyes, which are of an uncommon bright blue, were fixed on the colonel's. 'you will find, sir, if you advance one foot, that i do not stand kick or cuff. you are dealing with one who knows his weapon' (no experience could cure george of this delusion), 'and who does not value his life at a straw. moreover, you began a parley for which i did not ask, though i desired it, and i have to tell you that your honour is involved in continuing this conversation in quite another key.' george stepped forward the pace he had withdrawn, and clasped his hands behind his back, watching the colonel narrowly. there was something in his voice, more in his eyes. the colonel had seen fire, and knew a brave man when he met one. he threw down his cane and kelly reckoned that the worst of his task was over. 'you may compel me to fight,' george went on, 'and i never went to a feast with a better stomach, but first i have certain words that must be spoken to you.' 'you cannot intend to escape by promising a discovery?' 'sir, i do not take you for a messenger or a minister. one or both i can find without much seeking, and, for that sufficient reason, before they lay hands on me i absolutely demand to speak to you on a matter closely touching your own honour, which, as i have never heard it impeached, i therefore sincerely profess my desire to trust.' 'you are pleased to be complimentary, but i know not how my honour can be concerned with a jacobite trafficker and his treasons.' 'i make you this promise, that, if you do thus utterly refuse to listen for five minutes, i will give you every satisfaction at the sword's point, or, by god! will compel you to take it, as you have been pleased to introduce battoons into a conversation between gentlemen. and if, when you have heard me, you remain dissatisfied, again i will give you a lesson with sharps. you see that we are not likely to be interrupted, and that i am perfectly cool. this is a matter to each of us of more than life or death.' 'i do see that you desire to pique my curiosity for the sake of some advantage which i am unable to perceive. perhaps you expect your friends on the scene?' 'you may observe that i began by dismissing the only friend i have in this town. do you, perhaps, suspect that mr. nicholas wogan needs, or has gone to procure, assistance?' 'i confess that i know that gentleman too well for any such suspicions.' 'then, sir, remember that the roman says _noscitur a sociis_, and reflect that i am a friend of mr. wogan's, who must stand sponsor, as you do not know me, for my honesty. moreover,' said george, working round by a risky way to his point, 'had i wished to escape i could, instead of socking you, have sneaked off t'other way. you observed that i remained some minutes with a lady to-night after you and the rest of her company had withdrawn?' 'it is very like your impudence to remind me of that among other provocations! i am not concerned in your merchant's business of brocades.' 'but, indeed, with your pardon, you are concerned in the highest degree, and that is just the point i would bring you to consider.' 'i tire of your mysteries, sir,' he said, shrugging his shoulders. 'speak on, and be brief.' 'on these brocades turns the question whether the honour of a lady, which you are bound to cherish, shall be the laughing-stock of the town. sir, in a word, you, and you only, can save that person; need i say more?' 'did she send you with this message to save your own skin?' 'that is past saving, except by a miracle, which i am in no situation to expect will be wrought for me. understand me, sir, i am out of hope of earthly salvation. i have nothing to gain, nothing to look for from man. i make you freely acquainted with that position of my affairs, which are purely desperate. and the person of whom we speak looks to you as her sole hope in the world. she sends you this, take it, i know not the contents, the seal, as you perceive, being unbroken.' 'this looks more serious,' said the colonel, taking the sealed note which kelly handed to him. he pored over the letter, holding it up to the moonlight. 'do as the bearer bids you, if you would have me live,' he read; then, with a bitter laugh, he tore the note into the smallest shreds, and was about to dash them down on the grass. 'hold, sir,' kelly said; 'preserve them till you can burn them. or--i have myself swallowed the like before now.' the colonel stared, and put the fragments into his pocket-book. 'well,' he said, 'i am hearing you.' 'i thank you, sir; you will grant that i did not wrong you in trusting your generosity. if i am a free man to-morrow, or even to-night after this business is done, i shall have the honour of meeting you, wherever you are pleased to appoint. for my cloth have no scruple, i never was more than half a parson.' 'sir, i shall treat you as you may merit. and now for your commands, which, it seems, i am in a manner under the necessity to obey.' 'you see this key, sir,' said kelly, offering that of one of his strong boxes, 'take it, go to my lodgings, which, by a miracle, are in the same house as your own. enter my parlour, 'tis on the ground floor; open the small iron strong box which this key fits, and burn all the--brocades which you find there.' 'this is a most ingenious stroke of the theatre! i am to burn, i perceive, all the papers, or brocades as you call them, which damn you for a jacobite plotter! it is not badly contrived, sir, but you have come to the wrong agent i am acquainted with the ingenious works of the french playwrights.' 'sir, you compel me, against my will, to be more plain with you than i desire. it is your own fault if i give you concern. on opening the coffer you may satisfy yourself of the hand of the writer, which cannot but be familiar to you. moreover, the letters of the person for whom we are concerned are addressed (that you may not make the error which you apprehend) to one strephon--not a cant name of a political plot.' 'she called you--strephon?' 'she was so kind.' 'and i was corydon,' groaned the colonel between his teeth. '_arcades ambo!_' said george. 'but now 'tis the hour of a third shepherd! lycidas, perhaps, _le plus heureux des trois_. oh, colonel, be easy, we are both yesterday's roses, or, rather, i am the rose of the day before yesterday.' 'and it is for this woman--' 'ay, it is just for this woman that you are to risk your commission, for a risk there may be, and i my life, for i could get away from this place. you perceive that we have no alternative?' 'what must be, must,' he said, after some moments of thought; 'but what if i find the messengers already in possession of your effects?' 'in that case i must depend solely on your own management and invention. but i may say that gold will do much, nay, everything with such fellows, and your position, moreover, as a trusted officer of your king's, will enable you to satisfy men not very eminent for scruples.' 'gold! i have not a guinea, thanks to the cards, not a stiver in my rooms to-night. the cards took all.' 'here, at least,' cried george, 'i can offer some kind of proof of my honesty, and even be of service. i am poor, heaven knows, but there are my winnings, easily enough to corrupt four messengers. use the money; i have friends who will not let me starve in the tower. nay, delicacy is purely foolish. i insist that you take it.' 'mr. johnson,' the colonel said, 'you are a very extraordinary man.' 'sir, i am an irishman,' said george. 'i will not say that i never met one like you, but i hope, after all accounts are settled between us, to have the advantage of your acquaintance. sir, _au revoir_.' 'i shall be with you, sir, in ten minutes after your arrival in your lodgings, whether the coast be clear or not. but let me attend you across the park, as far as the corner of pall mall street.' if kelly was an irishman, montague was an englishman, and kelly was well enough acquainted with that nation to know that the last proof given of his disinterestedness was by much the most powerful he could have used. he reflected again on the devil's own luck of smilinda that night, for if the cards had gone contrary to her and george he could not have produced this demonstration of his loyalty, nor could he very well have invited the colonel to pay the piper out of his own pocket. the colonel also walked silently, turning about in his mind all the aspects of this affair. 'i understand,' he said, 'that you are upon honour not to involve me in tampering with anything disaffected? you will take no advantage whatever that may give _me_ the air of being concerned, to shelter yourself or your party?' 'you have my word for it, sir. your honour, next to that in which we are equally concerned, is now my foremost consideration.' he nodded, then sighed, as one not very well satisfied. 'things may come to wear a very suspicious complexion, but i must risk a little; the worse the luck. mr. johnson, neither of us has been very wise in the beginnings of this business.' 'i came to that conclusion rather earlier than you, sir, and on very good evidence.' 'no doubt,' growled montague, and he muttered once or twice, 'strephon, corydon--corydon, strephon.' then he turned unexpectedly to kelly. 'you mentioned these letters as i was leaving the room, and i noticed that her ladyship grew white. she kept you, she knew then of the danger you were in and has just informed you of it. now, how came she to have so particular a knowledge of your danger?' mr. kelly did not answer a question which boded no good for lady oxford. 'she had grounds of resentment against you in a certain ballad.' kelly seized at the chance of diverting montague from his suspicions, and showed how the ballad was aimed at him no less than at her ladyship, and, without giving the colonel time to interrupt, 'here i must bid you _au revoir_, sir,' he said, 'for some ten minutes, time enough for you to do what is needed, if, as i hope, you are not disturbed. the messengers, i conceive, will be lurking for me in ryder street outside our common door; they will not think of preventing you from entering, and before i arrive, whatever befalls _me_, our common interest will be secured.' 'you are determined to follow?' 'what else can i do? i must know the end of this affair of the brocades. it is not wholly impossible that the messengers have wearied of waiting, and think to take me abed to-morrow. when you have done what you know, you will leave my room, and i, if i am not taken, have some arrangements of my own to make. that, i presume, is not a breach of my engagement with you?' 'certainly not, sir. when i have left your room i am in no sense responsible for your actions. i wish you good fortune.' while they thus walked and were sad enough, they came within ear-shot of wogan, who, at that moment, was declaiming mr. pope's night piece to mr. scrope, who was in the canal. what conversation passed between the four gentlemen wogan has already told, and he has mentioned how the colonel went away, and how, after using pains to prevent mr. scrope from catching a cold, he himself withdrew to court slumber, and left mr. kelly alone in the moonlight. mr. kelly did not remain in the open, but lay _perdu_ on the shadowy side of the grove. concealing himself from any chance of a rencounter, he allotted a space of twelve minutes by his watch, and time never paced more tardy with him in all his life. there was in his favour but the one chance that the messengers might choose to take him abed in the early morning, when the streets would be empty. at this moment st. james's street was full of chairs and noises; night-rakers were abroad, and the messengers, who are not very popular, might fear a rescue by the rabble. on this chance kelly fixed his hopes, for if he could but be alone for ten minutes in his lodgings, he and his friends would have little to fear from any evidence in his possession. if the colonel succeeded, lady oxford, and, with her ladyship, george's honour, were safe. if, by an especial miracle of heaven, george could have a few minutes alone in his room, the cause and the faithful of the cause would be safe. the colonel, kelly hoped, could hardly fail to do his part of the work; he would enter his own rooms unchallenged, his uniform and well-known face must secure him as much as that, and the epistles of smilinda would lie in ashes. so he hoped, but nothing occurred as he anticipated. chapter xxiii how the messengers captured the wrong gentleman; and of what letters the colonel burned. for colonel montague was taken in mr. kelly's place, as you may see with your own eyes in his grace of dorset's report to the lords' committees, where the informations of john hutchins and daniel chandler, described as 'two of his majesty's messengers in ordinary,' are printed. these did not chance to be men of a very high degree of intelligence, as their own confessions bear testimony, in itself a fortunate circumstance. colonel montague, when he parted from the parson at the grove in st. james's park, walked into pall mall street by the path at the corner of st. james's house and up to st. james's street to the corner of ryder street, where he turned. ryder street, what with gentlemen walking home on the footpaths and chairs carried in the road, was a busy thoroughfare at this time of the night, and he remarked nothing extraordinary until he was close to his own doorstep. then he distinguished, or rather seemed to distinguish--for in the doubtful light he could not be certain--at a little distance on the opposite side of the road a man in the blue and silver livery of lady oxford. the man was loitering at the edge of the path, taking a few steps now this way now that. he was tall, and not unlike mr. wogan in his girth. now, colonel montague was aware that her ladyship possessed a lackey of just such a conspicuous figure. 'for once in a while,' he thought, 'the news-sheet spoke truth to-night. it seems it was lady oxford that set the reverend non-juror, for here is her lackey to point him out to the messengers.' with this thought urging him to get his business done quickly, montague walked up to his door and knocked. on the instant, three men ran across the road and collared him. the capture was observed by one or two gentlemen, who stopped, and immediately a small crowd began to gather about them. montague was prudent enough to waste no time in a useless struggle with the messengers, and asked them quietly who they were and what they intended. at this moment the door was opened by mrs. kilburne's maid, and the messengers, lifting the colonel up, carried him into the house. hutchins, a short, stoutish fellow, who was the chief of the three men, told the colonel who they were. 'and we hold a warrant for your apprehension under lord townshend's seal,' he said, and showed his scutcheon and the warrant. 'not for my apprehension,' replied montague. 'there is one without there who can speak for me.' for the door was still open to the street, and amongst the people who thronged the entrance, he now saw very clearly the blue and silver livery of her ladyship. the lackey, however, pushed backwards out of range, and since those who were foremost of the crowd turned about to see who it was that montague pointed to, hutchins took the occasion to close the door in their faces. 'you are george kelly, _alias_ james johnson, _alias_ joseph andrews,' said he, turning again to colonel montague, and reading out from the warrant a number of names by which the parson was known to the honest party. 'it is the first i have heard of it,' replied montague, and he invited the messengers up to his rooms on the first floor, where he would be happy to satisfy them of their mistake. mrs. kilburne had now joined her maid in the passage, and she followed the messengers up the stairs, wringing her hands over the disgrace which, through no fault of hers, had fallen upon her house. when they were come within the room, montague threw open his cloak, which he wore wrapped about his shoulders, and discovered his scarlet coat beneath it. 'i am colonel montague,' he said, 'and an officer under the king as well as you. if there is work to be done for the king, i shall be very happy to assist you. i fought for the king at preston,' and he made a great flourish of his services and valorous acts, not being sure that the messengers had reinforcements without, and hoping that mr. kelly might enter meanwhile and do what was needful. mrs. kilburne's tongue and care for the parson seemed likely to forward this plan, for, with many unnecessary words, she declared how the colonel had lodged with her for years. 'and as for mr. johnson,' she said, 'there was such a man who came and went, but he lodged with mrs. barnes in bury street, and there you should go if you seek for news of him.' but the ten minutes were not yet gone. the maid remained downstairs in the passage. she was a perfectly honest poor wench, who would have risked herself for the parson or for any gentleman in distress. but montague, however closely he listened, could not hear that she opened the door, or any noise in the room below. hutchins made his apologies with a great many 'your honours,' and the colonel was no less polite in his compliments upon hutchins's zeal, which he would be sure to make known in the proper quarters. but still the parson did not come, and montague could hold the messengers in talk no longer, though that would have been of little use, as he now discovered. for hutchins turned about to chandler,-- 'go down into the street and tell lyng and randall,' he said, 'that our man is not come. bid them watch for him at the corner of ryder street and st. james's.' and as he spoke he gave chandler the warrant. chandler slipped it into his pocket, and ran downstairs to join the others of his worshipful calling in the street. hutchins followed him, but remained within, in the passage, to watch the maid of the house, and see that she did not go out to warn the parson. the colonel and mrs. kilburne were thus left alone. 'mrs. kilburne,' said montague. 'you must take my word for it, i am mr. kelly's friend, and without any argument, if you please.' for he saw that she was on the point of interrupting him. 'there is but one thing you can do for him. send someone you can trust, or go yourself to lure the messengers off to mrs. barnes's house. but you must be quick, and here's money to help you.' he filled her hands with the parson's gold, and she, in her turn, went downstairs and out of the house by a door at the back. montague, for his part, had it in mind to try whether the like means might not over-persuade hutchins's zeal. with that design he descended to hutchins, whom he found lighting a candle in mr. kelly's room with the door open so that he might command a view of the maid who was still waiting in the passage. the colonel stepped into the room, casting his eyes about for the strong-box with smilinda's letters, which he could not see. he saw the scrutoire, however, which stood in the window with the lid closed. hutchins held the candle above his head and remarked it at the same time. 'i will search the rooms,' he said with an air of consequence. colonel montague was in a quandary. hutchins had only to throw back the lid and the parson's strong-box would be in his hands. he had only then to break open the lock, and all smilinda's dainty sentiments about the union of souls would be splotched over by the dirty thumbs of a constable. and the colonel could not prevent the sacrilege unless the money did it for him. 'mr. hutchins,' he said, and jingled the gold in his pockets. but he got no further in his persuasions. for the name was scarce off his lips when a hubbub arose without. it was a confusion of noise at the first as though it came from the end of the street. 'they have taken him,' said hutchins, setting down the candle and flinging aside the curtains of the window. the noise was louder, and kelly's voice was heard, bawling, 'a rescue! an arrest! an arrest! a rescue!' that the rabble might think he was taken for debt. those who were gathered in front of the house did indeed turn themselves about, but they were for the most part of the better class, and the night-rakers and such-like who might have attempted a rescue, only came up behind at mr. kelly's bawling, from st. james's street, where they were likely to find more profit than in ryder street. this friendly mob was running together indeed, but came too late. 'yes, they have taken him,' said montague. mrs. kilburne had not drawn the messengers off. on the other hand, hutchins had not opened mr. kelly's scrutoire. 'they have taken him,' and the parson was already under the window. his sword was gleaming in his hand but the messengers dragged upon his arms and he could not use it. hutchins threw up the window. 'bring him in,' and he rushed to the street door and unlocked it. kelly was hustled up the steps, shouting all the while. he was forced into the passage just as the rabble came up at his heels. 'a rescue!' they cried. lyng and chandler turned about and drove them back. randall sprang in after kelly and slammed the door. the posture of affairs then was this: colonel montague and hutchins were standing in mr. kelly's room close to the scrutoire and the open window. mr. kelly, lyng, who was a big lout, designed by providence for this office and no other, and the maid, were in the passage. randall and chandler were outside in the street and at their wits' ends to keep back the mob, which was now grown very clamorous. mr. kelly was the first to make any movement. he sheathed his sword, carefully dusted the sleeves of his coat where the messengers had held him and arranged his cravat. 'these are ill times for a peaceful man to live in,' he said. 'it seems a gentleman cannot walk home of an evening but he must be set upon and cuffed.' with a shrug of the shoulders, as though the whole matter was a mystery, he sauntered into his parlour. his eyes carelessly took in the room. it seemed that nothing had been disturbed. the scrutoire was shut, but were smilinda's letters still hidden there or were they safe in montague's pockets? his eyes rested on the colonel's face and put the question. but the colonel gave no sign; hutchins stood at his elbow. kelly's eyes travelled from the colonel's face to his red coat. 'one of the king's officers,' he said with a smile. 'in the presence of one of the king's officers, gentlemen,' he said politely with a bow to hutchins, 'i take it that you will forgo your ingenious attempt to rob me and we may all go quietly to bed.' he moved as he spoke towards the scrutoire, and again looked at the colonel. the colonel's face was still a blank. 'we hold a warrant for the arrest of george kelly, alias james johnson,' began hutchins. 'indeed?' replied george with an effort of attention, as though fatigue put a strain upon his good manners. 'and why should george kelly prefer to call himself james johnson? i cannot think it is the better name. mr. george kelly lacks taste, i am afraid,' and he stifled a yawn with his hand. 'colonel montague,' said hutchins, who was in some perplexity as to what to make of kelly's present indifference, 'your honour promised to assist me.' colonel montague being appealed to, nodded his head. 'though you will not need my assistance,' he said, 'for here is another of your fellows.' chandler had come within the house, and pushing into the room said that the curtains were drawn apart so that the rabble could see clearly all that happened in the room and were on that account the less inclined to disperse. as he spoke he hitched the curtains to and a volley of curses went up from the disappointed crowd. hutchins immediately turned to kelly. 'give me your sword.' kelly, who knew not what to make of the colonel's manner, but thought it likely he had taken his measures, took his sword by the hanger and handed it sheath and all to hutchins, who in his turn passed it to montague. montague stood in the corner by the window. 'there is some stupid blunder,' said kelly, 'which i cannot take it upon me to understand. you talk to me a great deal about a warrant, but i have not seen it. it is a new thing to come taking off gentlemen to the round-house in the middle of the night without a warrant, but we live in ill times.' all this he said with an admirable air of resignation, though his eyes kept glancing towards montague, who still dared give no sign. the colonel waited upon occasion; his present aim was to hinder the messengers from any suspicion that the parson and he were in one purpose or indeed were acquainted. in answer to kelly, chandler took the warrant from his pocket and handed it to colonel montague, who read it through. 'it is a very sufficient warrant,' he said, 'and this gentleman may be satisfied if he is rightly named, of which of course i have no assurance,' and folding the paper he handed it back to chandler. whereupon chandler went out again into the street to guard the door from the rabble. hutchins then took kelly's hat, placed it on the table, and searching his pockets, pulled out some papers which he had about him, things of no moment; and these papers he laid in the hat. but to search kelly's pockets hutchins must needs stoop. here was the colonel's chance. over hutchins' shoulder, kelly's eyes again put their question. the colonel now answered with a shake of the head. smilinda's letters had not been saved, a great surprise and disappointment to the parson, who of course knew nothing of montague's mistaken arrest. kelly, however, wasted no precious moments in regrets. as hutchins turned to place the papers in the hat, kelly thrust lyng aside, and, springing to the window, tore aside the curtains and again bawled at the top of his voice. 'a rescue! an arrest!' shouts of encouragement greeted him; the hubbub filled the street again. hutchins and lyng at once sprang upon kelly, tore him back from the window, and sent him staggering across the room. 'tie his hands!' cried hutchins, as he pulled down the sash. 'knock him down! gag him!' and he turned to help lyng. the maid in the passage began to cry; the colonel stood irresolute; the parson drew himself up against the wall as the two men approached him. his irish blood bubbled in his veins at the prospect of so fine a tumble. he clenched his hands. he forgot smilinda's letter, the cause, even rose. his face became one broad grin and in an accent as broad as the grin. 'and what'll i be doin' while you're tyin' my hands?' he asked. 'why, just this,' and his fist shot out like a battering-ram and took the worthy lyng on the tip of the chin. mr. lyng was clean lifted off both his feet and so sat down on the floor with some violence, where he felt his neck in a dazed sort of way to make sure that it was not broken. 'oh, why isn't nick here?' cried kelly, and indeed nicholas wogan bewails his absence at that festivity to this day. 'come, mr. hutchins, i have the other fist for you,' and he began to dance towards hutchins, who called on the colonel to mark the murderous look in the prisoner's eyes and save him from immediate destruction. 'is it destruction you want?' asked kelly with a chuckle. 'i'll gratify you with all the destruction imaginable.' and no doubt he would have been as good as his word. but hutchins, while shutting the window had not drawn the curtains, and the rabble in the street had thus enjoyed a full view of the parson's prowess. they had roared their applause when lyng went down, and as hutchins drew back before the parson's fisticuffs, they hooted the messenger for a coward and made a rush at the door. a stone or two shattered the window and a voice was yelling, 'murder! murder!' in tones of unmistakable sincerity. chandler then rushed in, his face bleeding, and said that randall was being mobbed, and, if they did not come to help him, would be knocked on the head. at this, lyng, who was now got to his feet, ran out into the street with chandler. hutchins remained in the room, but cried out to chandler that he should go or send for a file of musquets. now chandler, when he rushed into the room, was holding the warrant in his hand, he still held it when he ran out again, as the parson remarked, and instantly thought of a plan by which, after all, smilinda's letters might be secured, and her name kept wholly out of the business. accordingly he ceased from his warlike posture and sat down in a chair. hutchins took the occasion to draw the curtains and shut out the mob from a view of the room. mr. kelly smiled, for he was just wondering what excuse he could discover to do that very thing himself. mr. hutchins was helping him very well. 'it is a pity,' said the parson in a plaintive voice, sucking his knuckles, which were bleeding, 'that a peaceful, law-abiding citizen must put himself to so much discomfort because a couple of rascally messengers will not show him their warrant.' 'it is under lord townshend's seal,' began hutchins. 'it may be, or it may not be. i have not seen it. i cannot really surrender unless the proper formalities are observed.' hutchins, who was no doubt well pleased to see the peaceful turn things were taking and had not the wits to suspect it, replied with an oafish grin that the prisoner was wise to submit himself to his lawful captors. 'and as for the warrant, chandler has it safe enough in the street.' 'in the street!' cried kelly, suddenly flying into a passion. 'and what's the warrant doing in the street? how dare the warrant be in the street when it is intended for a gentleman in the house? upon my word it would take very little to persuade me that there's no warrant at all,' and he began to stamp and fume about the room. 'colonel montague has read it,' said hutchins. 'i certainly read a warrant,' agreed the colonel with an impartial air. 'a warrant, yes,' said kelly in a testy voice. 'but how can the colonel know whether it is intended for me? how can he know whether it is a real warrant at all? you come here with a scutcheon, mr. hutchins. but you might have stolen the scutcheon, as you have certainly forged the warrant.' he stopped in front of hutchins and wagged his head at him. 'mr. hutchins, i begin to suspect you are one of a gang of cheats come here to rob me. but i will not be your gull,' he cried out as though his fury overmastered him. 'no, nor his worship the colonel either,' and he called to the maid to lock the street door. 'lock it,' said he. 'lock the door' and mr. hutchins and i will get to the bottom of the matter quietly.' that very thing now happened which mr. kelly most desired. the maid ran down the passage to the street door: hutchins ran out of the room after her to prevent her locking it. kelly flung to the door of the parlour: mr. hutchins was outside, the colonel and kelly were alone within the room. 'my sword,' said the parson in a quick whisper. montague held it out to him without a word: he had no right to refuse it to a free man. kelly snatched the hilt; the blade rattled out of the scabbard; he stood on guard with his naked blade. meanwhile hutchins and the maid were quarrelling in the passage over the door key, as kelly could distinguish from their voices. he made a quick step towards the window, threw open the scrutoire, and returned to his station at the door. but he had not so much as glanced at the scrutoire; he had kept his eyes fixed upon the door. still keeping his eyes so fixed, he pointed towards the strong boxes. 'be quick,' he whispered. 'in the strong box! take the candle and have done. you know the hand, and you have the key.' montague pulled the key from his pocket, and fumbled at the lock. 'it will not fit,' he said under his breath and swore. 'be quick,' repeated kelly. the key rattled in the lock as the colonel turned it this way and that. mr. kelly was about to throw a glance over his shoulder when he saw the handle of the door turn. it was turned cautiously without any noise. the next moment the door flew open. fortunately it opened upwards towards the window and the scrutoire. kelly stopped it with his foot when it was but half open, so that montague was entirely hidden behind the panels from the eyes of any one on the threshold or in the passage. hutchins was on the threshold peering into the room. but he did not peer long, for at the same moment that kelly stopped the door with his foot he made at hutchins, with his sword, a pass so vigorous that the hulking fellow leaped back a good yard, crying out to montague: 'will your honour let a poor man be killed in his duty?' the colonel made no answer to the pathetic question. he was occupied with business of another complexion. mr. kelly heard a crack. 'what is the matter?' he asked, in a low voice. 'the key is filled with dust, or the lock is jammed,' montague whispered back. 'i have broken open the box with the guard of my sword.' 'be quick,' said kelly. 'make sure you have smilinda's letters.' all this while he had not looked towards the scrutoire. the most that he saw was the shadow of the colonel thrown on the wall of the room by the single candle, a shadow monstrous big that held the shadow of a paper to its eyes. it is to be said in mr. kelly's defence that he dared not look about him. the door of the room was half open; the messenger who had retreated into the passage was plainly hardening his heart for a rush. mr. kelly's attention was entirely distracted from colonel montague's proceedings at this important moment. 'yes,' whispered montague. 'this is her hand, this is the blue-edged paper she affects of late. "my own strephon," and dated two days back. it bids you to her rout.' the words passed in and out of mr. kelly's ears. his eyes were occupied with hutchins, and with his eyes his mind. he did not remember that he had thrust this letter of her ladyship's, as he had told to wogan, into the wrong box, the box holding the papers of the bishop and the king. then a little flame shot up and illumined the room, which was at once filled with a smell of burning paper. montague had burned smilinda's letter, inviting kelly to her rout. it seemed that hutchins had after all no stomach for mr. kelly's sword, which to be sure must have glittered ominously in the dismal light of the solitary candle. he ran back again down the passage and pulled open the street door. 'chandler,' he shouted, calling his fellow to assist him. a yell of laughter answered him, and a voice from the street cried out that chandler was gone for a file of soldiers. kelly could hear hutchins swearing and cursing, though it was himself that had sent chandler on the errand. a second flame spirted up and died away. montague had burned a second letter. 'lyng! randall!' cried hutchins at the street-door, but again he was answered with jeers, and again the voice called to him mockingly that they were gone to bury street, where they were told they would be sure to snare the right man. montague, who heard everything clearly, blessed mrs. kilburne aloud, and burned a third paper. kelly kicked the door to. 'we are safe, then, it seems,' he said. 'smilinda's safe.' he took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face, leaning his back against the panels of the door. he could hear hutchins bawling up the street for his partners, and his voice sounded as though he had moved from the door in search of them. so for the first time kelly looked at montague and the scrutoire. colonel montague had turned the strong-box upside down and emptied the papers on the scrutoire, so that they lay face downwards. by a scruple of delicacy, having read the topmost letter to make sure it was lady oxford's hand, he looked at them no more. he took them up one by one, face downwards, and so burned them separately, knowing no doubt that, lighted in a single heap, only those on the outside and the edges of the letters in the middle, would catch fire. one by one he burnt them face downwards at the candle, the secret letters of the cause. he had burned three, and he now held the fourth in his hand. he approached it to the candle; he did not so much as look at it. but had he merely glanced once at mr. kelly leaning there against the panels of the door, that glance would have surely told him what papers he was burning. kelly did not speak a word, or stir a muscle. he had wiped the sweat from his face a second ago, but his forehead was wet now: his eyes stared greedily at the papers: a slow smile, of a knavish kind, that went very ill with his face, curved his lips. an extreme temptation chained him; the devil whispered in his ear, 'be silent,' and the parson held his peace. the blue-edged letter bidding him to the rout he had slipped on the top of the chevalier's papers, as he had told mr. wogan. colonel montague was merrily burning the papers of the plot. kelly had but to hold his tongue, and in a few minutes he was safe. the cause was saved so far as the papers went, and lady oxford, her letters unburned, was lost. no wonder the key did not fit; it was the wrong key! kelly could see the corner of wogan's strong-box peeping out from beneath a thatch of papers in the corner of the scrutoire. all this the parson saw and understood in the one short moment during which montague approached the paper to the candle. his mind was tossed up and down in a tempest; the winds of temptation blew hard against the tides of his nature. on one side was safety and the king's interest, and rose, who to be sure need never know of the treachery by which the parson had won her; on the other, a broken pledge that he had given to the colonel, and the ruin of smilinda, who had betrayed him. montague lit the sheet of paper and held it up. kelly saw the blue flame creep down from the edge, the writing turn brown, the paper curl over black and tattered, with a multitude of red sparks; and still he kept his peace. montague dropped the ashes on the scrutoire, and took a fifth paper from the pile. the parson turned away, and laid his ear to the panel, making a pretence that he heard hutchins stirring in the passage. 'be quick!' he said first, and then, moistening his dry lips with his tongue: 'make quite sure you have smilinda's letters.' 'smilinda?' asked montague. kelly forced a laugh. 'no doubt she called herself something equally pretty to you.' 'phylissa,' growled montague. 'she has a pretty conceit in names. make sure those are her letters,' and again he spoke with an effort. 'not i. i have had my fill of the lady's handwriting.' montague was already holding the paper to the flame, when kelly's good angel got the upper hand with him. he is happy now to think that no chance accident, such as the return of hutchins or the coming of the soldiers, hurried him into the better choice with a mind half made up. here was the very occasion of which he had dreamed when he stayed behind in lady oxford's withdrawing room. he could use the weapon which her letters put into his hand to save the chevalier's papers and himself and rose. but he put the weapon aside. he turned about from the door: montague was holding the paper to the flame, and a corner of it had taken fire. kelly sprang to the scrutoire, snatched the paper out of montague's hand, and crushed the fire out in the palm of his hand. 'i gave you the right key, 'he whispered. 'you chose the wrong box.' montague snatched up the pile of papers and turned them over. 'good god! cyphers!' he exclaimed, and dropped them as though they were, in truth, burning. 'the other box; the other box,' said kelly, pointing to it. he fancied that he heard hutchins moving cautiously just outside the door, and was now in a fever lest the delay brought about by his incertitude might balk his intentions. at any moment the messenger might come back from bury street, or the file of the musquets march tramping up the stairs. all this indeed takes a long time to tell, and seemed no less long to mr. kelly in the happening; but the whole of the occurrences, the movements of the messengers, the tidings cried to him from the street, the burning of the papers, with kelly's own thoughts and doubts and unlooked-for temptations, passed with momentary speed. montague found wogan's strong box, the box of the love-letters, unlocked it, tore out all the contents, and glanced at a few at the top, middle and bottom. 'smilinda--smilinda--smilinda,' he said, reading the signatures. 'and it's for this woman,' he cried, striking the letters with his fist, 'smilinda, phylissa, and the lord knows what else to the lord knows what other men, that----' but the parson was in no mood to listen to montague's reflections. 'put the other papers back into that box, the box with the unbroken lock, lock it and give me the key,' he said. montague crammed her ladyship's letters into the inner pocket of his coat. but before he could move the door opened with a crash, and hutchins flew in, kelly made a furious pass, and hutchins, leaping back, 'parried the thrust with the door,' as he truly said in his evidence before the lords' committee. had he not used that novel parade kelly would infallibly have run him through, and, as it was, george could scarcely drag his point out of the wood of the door, which hutchins in leaping back had shut. being now sufficiently terrified, for indeed no man ever had a narrower escape of his life, hutchins contented himself with a plaintive expostulation from the safety of the passage. 'sure, i would serve lord townshend himself in the same way,' kelly shouted back, 'if he tried to enter my room against my will without a warrant,' and lowering his voice so that only montague might hear, 'lock the box, and throw me the key.' if only for montague's sake the papers of the plot must not be found lying open upon kelly's scrutoire, and the box which held them broken among a litter of ashes. mr. kelly could not but remember with what care, earlier in the evening, he had burned and buried the ashes of his grace of rochester's letters, and reflect with some sadness what little good had come of it. montague locked up the papers of the plot in the box which had held smilinda's letters, and tossed the key to kelly, who caught it. 'there is no more to do?' said montague. 'nothing,' and kelly handed him back his sword and sat him down on a sofa. he seized the occasion to make montague acquainted with the accident through which smilinda's last letter had been laid on the top of those in the box that contained very different wares, adding apologies for his brief delay to inform him. the colonel then sat down over against kelly and laid the flat of kelly's sword across his knees. he looked at the sword for a little. then, 'you had a chance to let me destroy your own papers,' he said. 'yes, and to be a liar to a loyal gentleman, and a traitor to a more sacred cause than even my king's.' 'smilinda's?' montague looked up in perplexity. 'no,' said kelly, and he stared for a little at the floor, then he said very slowly, 'a long while ago i made a prayer that nothing might ever come between the cause and me except it be death. even while i made the prayer i was summoned to visit lady oxford, who was then unknown to me. well, something has come between the cause and me--honour. a more sacred cause than even my king's. himself would say it.' colonel montague fancied that he heard a distant regular tramp of feet like soldiers. but mr. kelly was clean lost in his thoughts. 'i could meet the king with a clear face and this story on my lips,' he continued, 'even though it were over there in rome, and in his old lodging. the very approach to him was secret, his antechamber a cellar underground. you went by night, you crossed the cellar in the dark, you climbed a little winding stair, and above, in a mean crazy chamber which overhangs the tiber, there was my king looking towards england. a man like me, with a man's longings and a man's despair, but, unlike me, robbed of a nation. day by day delay shadowed his eyes and wrote upon his face until the face became an open book of sorrows. yet himself would say, "perish the cause, perish all but honour,"' and, suddenly throwing up his arms, mr. kelly cried out in a voice of great passion and longing, 'the king! the king!' colonel montague very likely had his own opinions as to how the king would take it, but he was careful to keep them to himself, and in the silence which followed upon kelly's outburst the tread of soldiers was heard very distinct, and hutchins's voice at the door bidding them hurry. mr. kelly raised his head. he too had heard the sound, and, drawing a ring from his finger, 'take my seal ring, when you are alone seal up the brocades in a packet. you know the person whom they concern.' montague took the ring and slipped it on his finger. 'mr. johnson, or kelly, or whoever you are,' he said cordially, 'we must needs be public enemies, but i wish my king had many as loving servants as your king has in you.' the rattle of the butts of musquets could now be heard in the passage. 'and, damme,' said montague, bending forward suddenly; he had all this while maintained in word and carriage the reserve of the englishman, but now he showed a decent warmth of blood, 'had you been in my place and i in yours, smilinda or no smilinda, i should have let you burn the cyphers.' on those words he was pleased to say, which mr. kelly merely counted a politeness, the door was driven open by the butts of several fusils, a sergeant with a file of musqueteers entered; behind them came chandler with the warrant, lyng with a broken head, hutchins with a white, scared face, and randall whose coat was in tatters. they were surprised enough, you may be sure, to see the colonel on one side of the fireplace and their redoubtable prisoner as quiet upon the other. 'oh,' said mr. kelly, with an admirable air of astonishment, 'it seems you have a warrant after all.' hutchins then read the warrant through, and mr. kelly surrendered. but the messenger had not done; he picked up presently the impudence to question the colonel. 'your worship let the prisoner take his sword?' the dignified montague stared at hutchins with a strong amazement until the fellow was quite abashed. 'what's the world coming to?' he said. 'here is your prisoner's sword, if he is your prisoner.' and, lifting mr. kelly's sword from his knees, he handed it to hutchins. hutchins then made haste to secure mr. kelly's effects. he went over to the scrutoire, and the first things he clapped his eyes upon were a pile of black ashes and a great many splotches of hot grease from the candle. hutchins looked at the colonel with a question upon his lips; the colonel looked stonily at hutchins. hutchins raised his nose and sniffed the air. 'will your worship tell me whether the prisoner meddled with any papers?' he asked, but with less impertinence than before. 'yes, sir, the gentleman did.' 'what was done with them?' 'sir, they were burned, as you may perceive.' 'and how came you, sir, to let them be burned?' 'i am not to answer to you, sir, for my conduct, of which i can give a sufficient account to persons who have the right to question me. i have, for your satisfaction, no knowledge of this gentleman's name, nor as to whether he is correctly described in a warrant which was not in the house while we were together. it appears to me that you are all very likely to lose your scutcheons for your doltish stupidity, whether you have hold of the right or the wrong gentleman. i wish you a good night, sir,' he said, bowing to kelly, 'and speedy deliverance, if you deserve it, from your present company.' he put his hat on his head and walked out of the room without another word. hutchins thereupon searched mr. kelly's scrutoire; he found one box broken open and empty, another box, its own fellow, locked. mr. kelly delivered the key to it, with a great show of reluctance. it held the papers of the bishop's plot and a key to the bishop's cypher, which was used to convict him at his trial. as for the burned papers, it came out at george's trial that he had destroyed letters in the presence of a king's officer. but the duke of wharton, in his famous speech, argued that a man of mr. kelly's figure might very well have letters to burn which were not political. that night the parson was taken to the house of john gardiner, living in westminster market, there to be kept in safe custody. he walked between the soldiers, and whistled a lively tune as he walked. this was related in more than one inn-parlour the next day by the sergeant, who was mightily surprised that a man should bear so heavy a charge so easily, and so the story got about. but mr. kelly was sensibly lightened by having saved smilinda in the end after so many mischances, and when he thought of her letters safe in the colonel's inner pocket, felt a private glow of pleasure which put all conjectures of his fate and doom clean out of his head. moreover, he says that rose was never nearer to him than on that night and during that walk. he speaks as though she walked by his side amongst his captors, and walked with a face that smiled. chapter xxiv mr. wogan wears lady oxford's livery, but does not remain in her service. the question with which mr. wogan lay down to sleep after lady oxford's rout, woke him at noon; he sent a boy whom he could trust to ryder street to desire colonel montague's attendance. montague came back presently with the boy, and gave wogan the news that the parson was taken. 'there was no escape possible,' he said. 'i cannot tell you the innermost truth of the affair, because the secret is not mine to tell; but, mr. wogan, you will take my word for it, your friend was in the net.' 'the room was searched?' 'and his papers seized. one or two, i believe, were burned, but the greater part were seized,' and then he broke out with an oath. 'damn these plots! what in the world made you meddle with such tory nonsense?' 'faith,' said wogan, 'i have been wondering how ever you demeaned yourself to become a whig.' wogan wondered very much more what strange mishap had brought mr. kelly to this pass at the moment when he seemed to have success beneath his hand. something wholly unexpected must have happened during those few minutes when he and smilinda were left alone. something had happened, indeed, but it was something very much simpler than mr. wogan looked for, who had not the key to the parson's thoughts. however, he forebore to inquire, and instead: 'colonel,' said he, 'you professed last night that you were under some trifling obligation to me.' 'i trust to-day to make the profession good.' 'faith, then you can, colonel. there's a little matter of a quarrel.' at this the colonel broke in with a laugh. 'with whom?' 'with a lad i have taken a great liking for,' and the colonel laughed again. 'therefore i would not put a slight on him by missing a certain appointment. it is lord sidney beauclerk.' colonel montague's face clouded as he heard the name. 'and the reason of the quarrel?' 'he took objection to a few words i spoke last night.' 'about a ballad? i heard the words.' 'i told him that he would find a friend of mine waiting at burton's coffee-house this morning, and i doubt if many friends of mine will be seen abroad to-day.' montague rose from the bed. 'i will not deny,' he said, 'that there are services i should have preferred to render you. but i will go to burton's, on one condition, mr. wogan--that you do not stir from this house until i come back to you. there's an ill wind blowing which might occasion you discomfort if you went abroad.' this he said with some significance. 'it catches at one's throat, i dare say,' replied wogan, taking his meaning. 'i have a tender sort of delicate throat in some weathers.' colonel montague walked to burton's, at the corner of king street in st. james's. the coffeehouse buzzed with the news of mr. kelly's arrest, and colonel montague saw many curious faces look up from their news-sheets and whisper together as he entered. in a corner of the room sat lord sidney beauclerk, with a man whom montague had remarked at lady oxford's rout the night before. lord sidney arose as montague approached and bowed stiffly. 'i come on behalf of a gentleman, whom, perhaps, we need not name,' said montague. 'indeed?' said lord sidney, with a start of surprise. 'i can understand that your lordship did not expect me, but i am his friend.' 'to be frank, i expected no one.' 'your lordship, then, hardly knows the gentleman?' 'on the contrary,' said lord sidney, and he took up from the table the _flying post_ of that morning. he handed the paper to montague, and pointed to a sentence which came at the end of a description of mr. kelly's arrest. 'it is said that mr. nicholas wogan is also in london, hiding under the _incognito_ of hilton, and that he will be taken to-day.' 'you see, my lord,' said montague, 'that there are certain difficulties which threaten to interfere with our arrangements.' 'my friend is aware of them,' said lord sidney, and presented his friend. 'before making any arrangements i should be glad if your lordship would favour me with a hearing in some private place. it is i who ask, not my friend, mr. hilton.' lord sidney reluctantly consented, and the two men walked out of the coffee-house. 'there are to be no apologies, i trust,' said lord sidney. montague laughed. 'your lordship need have no fears. what i propose is entirely unknown to mr. wogan. but it seems to me that the conditions of the duel have changed. if mr. wogan shows his face in london he will be taken. if he fights you, it matters not whether you pink him or no, for if he escapes your sword he will be taken by the messengers. on the other hand, he will not go from london until he has met you; unless--' 'unless--?' 'unless your lordship insists upon deferring the meeting until it can take place in france.' 'yes, i will consent to that,' said lord sidney, after a moment's pause. 'it is common fairness.' 'again i take the liberty to observe that your lordship does not know the gentleman. you must insist.' lord sidney was brought without great difficulty to understand the justice of colonel montague's argument. 'very well; i will insist,' he said; and, coming back to burton's coffee-house, he wrote a polite letter, which the colonel put in his pocket. montague, however, did not immediately carry it to mr. wogan. he stood on the pavement of king street for a little, biting his thumb in a profundity of thought; then he hurried to the stable where he kept his horses, and gave a strict order to his groom. from the stable he set out for queen's square, but on the way he bought a _flying post_, and stopped in st. james's park to see what sort of account it gave of mr. kelly's arrest. 'the plot concerning which they write from paris,' it began, 'hath brought the guards into the park, and a reverend and gallant non-juror within danger of the law. the messengers that were essaying to take mr. kelly needed reinforcement by a file of musquets before his reverence's lodgings could be stormed. it is said that a loyal colonel of the guards who lodges in the same house in ryder street was discovered with mr. kelly when the soldiers forced their way in, and that by his interference many valuable papers have been saved, which would otherwise have been destroyed. it appears that kelly was intent upon burning certain cyphers and letters, and had, indeed, burnt two or three of them before the loyal colonel interrupted him.' the loyal colonel took off his hat to grub street for this charitable interpretation of his conduct. lady oxford, he reflected, must be in a fine flutter, for assuredly she would have sent for the news-sheet the first thing. montague tapped the pocket in which were her ladyship's letters, and smiled. her anxieties would be very suitable to a certain plan of his own. he walked straight to queen's square and knocked at the door. it seemed to him purely providential that the man who opened the door was the big lackey whom he had seen in ryder street the night before. montague looked him over again and said, 'i think that i saw you last night in ryder street.' he had some further conversation with the lackey, and money passed between them. but the conversation was of the shortest, for her ladyship, in a fever of impatience, and bearing every mark of a sleepless night, ran down the stairs almost before colonel montague had finished. she gave her hand to him with a pretty negligence, and the colonel bent a wooden face over it, but did not touch the fingers with his lips. then she led the way into the little parlour, and her negligence vanished in a second. she was all on fire to know whether her letters had been seized or no; yet even at that moment it was not in her nature to put a frank question when a devious piece of cajolery might serve. 'corydon!' she said in a whisper of longing, as though montague was the one man her heart was set upon, as though she had never brought mr. kelly into this very room on a morning of summer two years ago. 'my corydon!' she said, and sighed. 'madam,' said montague, in a most sudden enthusiasm, 'i think there is no poetry in the world like a nursery rhyme.' her ladyship could make nothing of the remark. 'a nursery rhyme?' she repeated. 'a nursery rhyme,' repeated the colonel. '"will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly."' lady oxford looked at him quite gravely. 'i do not in the least understand,' she said. she had a wonderful knack of burying her head in the sand and believing that no one spied her, as travellers tell of the ostrich. 'but you have a message for me, have you not?' she put the question frankly now, since coquetry had failed. 'i have a packet to deliver to your ladyship,' replied montague. lady oxford drew a breath and dropped into a chair. 'thank you! how shall i thank you?' she cried; and seeing that montague made no answer whatever, but stood stiff as a ramrod, she became at once all weak woman. 'you are very good to me,' she murmured in a very pathetical voice. 'your ladyship owes me no thanks,' replied montague. 'your ladyship has need of all your gratitude for a gentleman who gave up all that he held dear to save your good name.' he had it on the tip of his tongue to add, 'which was not worth saving,' and barely refrained from the words. lady oxford was not abashed by the rebuke. she turned upon the colonel eyes that swam with pity for mr. kelly's misfortunes. 'i read that he was taken,' she said sadly. 'poor gentleman! but he should have burnt my letters long ago. they were letters written, as we women write, with a careless pen and ill-considered words which malice might misconstrue. he should have burnt them, as he swore to do; but he broke his word, and so, alas! pays most dearly for his fault. indeed, it grieves me to the heart, and all the more because he brought his own sufferings about. so unreasonable we poor women are,' and she shook her head, and smiled with a sort of pity for women's frail readiness to forgive. 'madam,' said montague, growing yet colder, 'it is not for me either to construe or to misconstrue the packet which i am to give you, nor am i at all concerned to defend a gentleman whom i am proud to name my friend.' the indifference of the speech no doubt stung her ladyship. 'friend!' she said with a sneer. 'this friendship is surely something of the suddenest. i did not even so late as last night notice any great cordiality between you.' 'very likely not,' said montague. 'last night there was a trivial cause for disagreement upon which to-day we are of one mind.' lady oxford flushed and took another tone. 'you are cruel,' she said. she was not so much insulted as hurt. 'you are ungenerous. you are cruel.' but colonel montague was not in a melting mood, and so, 'give me the packet,' she said sullenly. montague pressed his hand over his pocket and smiled. lady oxford rose from her chair with a startled face. 'you mean to keep it? to use it?' 'not to your ladyship's hurt.' lady oxford looked at him with eyes mournful in their reproach. 'mr. kelly bade you give these letters back to me at once,' she said; and then, with a great fervour of admiration, 'mr. kelly would have given them back to me at once.' it seemed as though the thought of the noble mr. kelly was the one thing which now enabled her to keep her faith in men. 'very likely,' replied montague coolly, who was not at all moved by the disparaging comparison of himself with the parson. 'mr. kelly would have given them back to you at once had not your ladyship taken good care that a few locks and bars should hinder him. but i am not mr. kelly, and indeed it is well for your ladyship i am not. had your ladyship betrayed _me_, why, when that pretty news-sheet was read out last night, i would have stood up before the whole company, and told boldly out how your ladyship came by the knowledge which gave you the power to betray me.' the words and the stern voice in which they were spoken stung lady oxford into a passion. she forgot to deny that she had betrayed mr. kelly. 'it would have been an infamy!' she cried. 'a harsh critic might say that it would have matched an infamy.' her ladyship saw her mistake. 'there was nothing which mr. kelly could have said. mr. kelly was my friend, as i have told you frankly; but i did not betray him.' 'your ladyship's livery is blue and silver, i think--a pretty notable livery even at night, as i had occasion to remark in ryder street.' lady oxford was put out of countenance. 'what am i to do to earn the packet which is mine?' she asked bitterly. 'the simplest thing imaginable. your ladyship, i fear me, has not slept well. what say you to a little country air, with your humble servant for a companion? if your ladyship would order your carriage to be at your door in an hour's time we might take the air for a while together. on our return your ladyship will be refreshed for this evening's diversions, and i shall be the lighter by a packet of letters.' lady oxford did not know what to make of the colonel's proposal, but she perforce consented to it. 'i obey your orders,' said she bitterly; and montague went back to wogan, whom he found sitting on the edge of the bed and disconsolately swinging his legs. 'i have a letter for you from lord sidney beauclerk,' said montague. it was a very polite letter, and assured mr. wogan that he would on no account fight with him in england; but would cut his throat somewhere in france with the greatest friendliness possible. 'very well,' said wogan, 'but i have to reach france first.' 'you will start in an hour's time,' said montague. 'in broad daylight?' asked wogan. 'and what of the ill wind and the sore throat that's like to come of it?' 'i have got a fine coat to protect the throat.' montague went outside and cried down the stairs to know whether a parcel had been brought into the house. the parcel was carried upstairs into mr. wogan's room. the colonel unwrapped it, and spread out on the bed a blue and silver livery. 'a most distasteful garb,' said wogan. 'it is indeed not what we would choose for the descendant of kings,' murmured montague gently as he smoothed out the coat. 'viceroys, colonel, viceroys.' 'viceroys, then, mr. wogan; but no doubt they murdered, and robbed, and burned, and ravished, just like kings. besides, you have an example. for i seem to have heard of another wogan, who went to innspruck as a shopkeeper.' 'to be sure,' cried nick. 'that is the finest story in the world. it was my brother charles--' 'you shall tell me that story another time,' said montague, and wogan stripped off his clothes. 'will you tell me what i am to do when i am dressed?' 'you will go to a certain house.' 'yes,' said wogan, and pulled on the lackey's breeches. 'at the house you will find a carriage.' 'i shall find a carriage.' wogan drew on a stocking. 'you will mount behind as though you were a footman from the house.' 'a footman from the house,' repeated wogan, and he pulled on the other stocking. 'i shall get into the carriage with a companion. you won't know me. the carriage will drive off. you won't speak a word for fear your brogue should betray you.' 'i will whisper my opinions to you in english, colonel,' said wogan as he fastened his garters. 'i don't think you could,' said montague, 'and certainly you will not try. we shall drive to the almshouses at dulwich. when we get there, i will make an excuse to stop the carriage.' 'you won't be alone, then?' 'no. let me see. it is a fine sunny day. i will say that my watch is stopped, and i will send you to see the time by the sundial in the court.' wogan buttoned his waistcoat. 'i will bring you the exact minute.' 'no you won't. you will cross the court to the chapel, by the chapel you will find a path, and the path will lead you out through an arch into another road, bordered with chestnut trees.' 'and when i am in the road?' wogan tied his cravat. 'you will find my groom with a horse. the horse will be saddled. there will be pistols in the holsters, and then your patron saint or the devil must help you to get out of the country.' 'i have a friend or two on the coast of sussex who will do as well,' said wogan, and he drew the coat over his shoulders, 'and i am very grateful to you. but sure, colonel, what if a constable pulls me off the carriage by the leg before we are out of london? you will be dipped yourself.' 'there's no fear of that if you hold your tongue.' wogan took up his hat. 'and who is to be your companion?' montague hesitated. 'my companion will be a lady.' 'oh! and where's the house with the carriage waiting at the door?' 'in queen's square, westminster. wogan looked at his clothes. 'i am wearing her damned livery,' he cried. 'no, i will stay and be hanged like a gentleman, but i take no favours at lady oxford's hand,' and in a passion he began to tear off the clothes. 'she offers none,' said montague. 'she knows nothing of what i intend. i would not trust her. if you have to stand behind, i have to drive by her side; and upon my word i would sooner be in your place. her ladyship's footman for an hour! man, are you so proud that your life cannot make up for the humiliation? why, i have been her lapdog for a year.' wogan stopped, with one arm out of the sleeve of his coat. the notion that her ladyship was not helping him, but that, on the contrary, he was tricking her, gave the business a quite different complexion. 'd'ye see? the one place in london where the king's messengers will not look to find you is the footboard of lady oxford's carriage,' urged montague. there was reason in the argument: it was the same argument which mr. wogan had used to persuade mr. kelly to go to queen's square the evening before, and now he suffered it to persuade himself. wogan drew on the coat again, pulled his peruke about his face, and drew his hat forward on his forehead. 'now follow me. it is a fortunate thing we are close to her ladyship's house.' montague walked quickly to queen's square. wogan followed ten yards behind. as they turned into the square they saw lady oxford's carriage waiting at the door. 'does the coachman know?' asked wogan, lounging up to the colonel and touching his hat with his forefinger. 'the lackey whose place you took has primed him.' at the door mr. wogan climbed up to the footboard while montague entered the house. in a minute lady oxford came out, and was handed into the carriage by the colonel. she did not look at her new lackey, but gave an order to the coachman and the carriage drove off. mr. wogan began to discover a certain humour in the manner of his escape which tickled him mightily. he noticed more than one of his acquaintances who would have been ready to lay him by the heels, and once lady oxford made a little jump in her seat and would have stopped the coachman had not colonel montague prevented her. for lord sidney beauclerk stood on the path gazing at her ladyship and the colonel with a perplexed and glowing countenance. mr. wogan winked and shook a friendly foot at him from the back of the carriage, and his lordship was fairly staggered at the impertinence of her ladyship's footman. so they drove out past the houses and between the fields. colonel montague was plainly in a great concern lest lady oxford should turn round and discover who rode behind her. he talked with volubility about the beauty of spring and the blue skies and the green fields, and uttered a number of irreproachable sentiments about them. lady oxford, however, it seemed, had lost her devotion to a country life, and was wholly occupied with the colonel's indifference to herself. her vanity put her to a great many shifts, which kept her restless and mr. wogan in a pucker lest she should turn round. now it was her cloak that, with an ingenious jerk, she slipped off her shoulders, and the colonel must hoist it on again; now it was her glove that was too small, and the colonel must deny the imputation and admire her liliputian hand, which he failed to do; now his advice was asked upon the proper shape of a patch at the corner of the mouth, and a winsome, smiling face was bent to him that he might judge without any prejudice. the colonel, however, remained cold, and wogan was sorely persuaded to lean over and whisper in his ear: 'flatter her, soften your face and adore her, and she will be quiet as a cat purring in front of a fire.' for it was solely his indifference that pricked her. had he pretended a little affection, she would have whistled him off without any regret, but she could not endure that he should discard her of his own free will. this, however, colonel montague did not know; he had not mr. wogan's experience of the sex, and so lady oxford restlessly practised her charms upon him until they came to the gates of the almshouses at dulwich. then colonel montague cried to the coachman to halt. 'or would your ladyship go further?' he asked, and pulled his watch out of his fob to see the time. but his watch had unaccountably stopped. 'nay, there's a sundial in the court there,' he said, and over his shoulder bade the lackey go and look at it. the lackey climbed down from the footboard. at the same moment colonel montague bade the coachman turn, and since the lackey kept at the back of the carriage as it turned, lady oxford did not catch a glimpse of him. the lackey walked through the gates, crossed the grass to the chapel without troubling his head about the sundial, ran down the passage and under the archway into a quiet road shaded with chestnut trees and laburnums. colonel montague's groom was walking a horse up and down the road. wogan mounted the horse, thrust his feet into the stirrups, and took the air into his chest with incomparable contentment. the afternoon sunlight shone through the avenue and glistened on the laburnum flowers. but there is another sort of yellow flower that blooms from the mouth of a pistol barrel with which mr. wogan was at that moment more concerned, and he unstrapped the holsters and looked to the priming to see whether the buds were ready to burst. then he drove his heels into his horse's flanks and so rode down between the chestnut trees. 'your ladyship, we need wait no longer,' said montague to lady oxford. 'your footman will not come back, and i have the honour to return you your packet of letters.' with that he drew the letters from his pocket, sealed up in a parcel with mr. kelly's ring. lady oxford clutched them tight to her bosom, and lay back in the carriage, her eyes closed. the coachman drove back to london. they had gone almost half the way before lady oxford recovered sufficiently from her joy to have a thought for anything but the letters. then she looked at montague, and her eyes widened. 'the footman!' she said. 'ah! i have saved mr. kelly after all. i have saved him!' the colonel might have pointed out that whatever saving had been done, lady oxford had taken but an involuntary hand in it. but he merely shrugged his shoulders; he imagined her anxiety on mr. kelly's account to be all counterfeit, although, may be, she was sincere. 'mr. kelly,' he said, 'is most likely in the tower. your footman was mr. nicholas wogan.' lady oxford was silent for some little time. then in a low, broken voice she said: 'there was no need you should have so distrusted me.' montague glanced at her curiously. her face had a new look to him. it was thoughtful, but with a certain simplicity in the thoughtfulness; compunction saddened it, and it seemed there was no artifice in the compunction. 'madam,' he answered gently, 'if i had told you, and the manner of mr. wogan's escape became known, you might fall under the imputation of favouring mr. wogan's cause.' lady oxford thanked him with a shy look, and they drove back among the streets. neither of them spoke until they reached queen's square, but colonel montague was again very gentle as he handed her from the carriage and bade her good-bye. lady oxford's discretion was to seek. the colonel seemed to be in a relenting mood; she could not resist the temptation. 'my corydon!' she whispered under her breath. montague's face hardened in an instant. 'my phylinda!' he replied. 'no, i should say my smilissa. madam, there is, in truth, some family likeness between the names, and perhaps it would be better if i said simply "lady oxford."' so the colonel got his foot out of the net. her ladyship made no answer to his sneer, but bowed her head and passed slowly into her house. montague had struck harder than he had intended, and would gladly have recalled the words. but the door was closed, and the strange woman out of sight and hearing. he walked away to his lodging in ryder street, very well content with his day's work, and opening the door of his parlour on the first floor was at once incommoded by a thick fog of tobacco-smoke. but through the fog he saw, comfortably stretched in his best armchair, with his peruke pushed back and his waistcoat unbuttoned, a lackey in lady oxford's livery. montague lifted up his voice and swore. chapter xxv how the miniature of lady oxford came by a mischance. 'i lent you the swiftest horse i have,' said montague. 'it is just for that reason i am back before you,' replied wogan. colonel montague at once became punctilious to the last degree. he stood correct in the stiffest attitude of military deportment. a formal politeness froze the humanity out of his face. 'this makes me very ridiculous, mr. wogan,' he said in a tone of distaste. 'if you will pardon the remark, i was at some pains and perhaps a little risk to get you safe out of london. you accepted my services, as it seemed, and yet here you are back in london! indeed this makes me very ridiculous.' mr. wogan had quite forgotten that colonel montague was an englishman, and so hated ridicule worse than the devil. he was briskly reminded of the fact, and having ruffled the gentleman's feelings, must now set to work to soothe them. 'it is very true, colonel. my behaviour looks uncommonly like a breach of good taste. but it was not for the purpose of playing a trick on you that i came back into danger, when i was safe upon the back of your beautiful horse. sure, never have i ridden a nobler beast. a mouth of velvet, a leg tapered like a fine lady's finger, a coat--sir, i have seen the wonderful manufactures of lyons. there never was silk so smooth or of so bright a gloss, as the noble creature's coat. he spurned the earth, at each moment he threatened to float among the clouds. sure, that horse was the original of pegasus in a direct descent. a true horse, and more than a horse, a copy of all that is best in england, an example of what is most english and therefore most admired, the true english military gentleman.' 'mr. wogan,' interrupted montague, with a grim sort of smile, 'you are likely to learn a little more particularly about the velvet mouth of the english military gentleman if you continue to praise his horse at the expense of his sense. will you tell me why you have come back?' 'you have a right to ask that, colonel, but i have no right to answer you. it is a private affair wherein others are concerned. i should have remembered it before, but i did not. it only came into my mind when i was riding between the chestnut trees, and leaving my friend behind me.' colonel montague was silent for a little. 'in another man, mr. wogan, i should suspect an intention to meddle with these plots. but i have no need to remind you that such a proceeding would not be fair to me. and if mr. kelly's concerns have brought you back i cannot complain. meanwhile how are you to lie hidden? i cannot keep you here.' 'there are one or two earths, colonel, which are not yet stopped, i have no doubt. i did but take the liberty to use your lodging until it grew dark.' the evening was falling while wogan and montague thus talked together. wogan wrote a letter which he put into his pocket, and holding the ends of his wig in his mouth, without any fear ran the hazard of the streets. lady mary wortley montagu was that evening adorning herself for a masquerade in her house, when word was carried to her that lady oxford's big lackey was below and had brought a letter. lady mary had no sooner glanced at the superscription than she sent her maid downstairs to bring the lackey immediately to her boudoir. thither he came without awaking suspicion in the servants, and found lady mary sitting in front of her toilette, which was all lighted up with candles, and the rest of the room dark. mr. wogan remained in a dark corner by the door. 'you have a message from lady oxford,' said she, carelessly holding out a hand as though to take a letter. 'by word of mouth, your ladyship,' replied wogan in a disguised voice. lady mary dismissed her maid and spoke in considerable heat: 'colonel montague told me you had escaped.' 'i have come back,' replied wogan coolly, who had no reason to think he had justly incurred lady mary's anger, and so made no account of it. 'it is sheer madness,' she exclaimed, 'and yet no more mad than it is for your friends to take precautions for your safety,' and she dabbed a patch on her cheek viciously. 'why have you come back?' 'your ladyship has not forgotten how some while ago lady oxford paid her losses at cards.' lady mary raised her head from her mirror and looked at wogan. 'with mr. kelly's winnings from the south sea,' said she. 'your ladyship was kind enough then to say that you would not count the money yours.' 'i remember.' 'but would keep it, since you could not return it to george, until such time as it could be used on his behalf.' lady mary took a key from a drawer in her toilette and, unlocking a cabinet in a corner of the room, showed wogan a parcel of bills of exchange lying amongst a heap of guineas. 'the moment for using it has come,' said wogan. 'take it, then,' said lady mary, who now asked for no explanations. 'no. it is only of use if your ladyship uses it.' 'how?' lady mary went back to her toilette and busied herself with a number of little silver pots and boxes, while wogan disclosed his plan. 'george was taken last night in his lodging, as your ladyship is no doubt aware. it is a large sum that lady oxford lost at cards, and a large sum might perhaps bail george, if a trusted whig were the surety. he would have some few weeks of liberty, at all events.' 'some few weeks that are like to cost you your life,' said lady mary, who was now grown friendly. 'it was to tell me this you came back. i should have guessed.' 'madam, i shall never believe my life's in danger until i am dead,' replied wogan, with a laugh. 'i will see what the money can do to-morrow,' said lady mary. 'where shall i have news of you? or very likely i am to meet you at ranelagh?' wogan disclaimed any such bravado, and told her ladyship of a house where she might hear of him if she sent by night and if her messenger knocked in a particular way. to that house he now bent his steps, and stayed there that night and the next day. it was already dark when the particular knock sounded on the door, and mr. wogan lifted a corner of the blind and peered down into the street. what he saw brought him down the stairs in a single bound; he opened the door cautiously, and who should slip in but the parson. 'nick!' said he, in a warm voice. his hand clasped wogan's in the dark. 'thanks, thanks!' it appeared that lady mary, after seeing that george was bailed out, had told him that the notion of bailing him was none of hers. moreover, in order to make sure smilinda's letters were safe, kelly had gone as soon as he was released to colonel montague, who told him of wogan's return to london and other matters of no importance, so that he now wasted a great deal of time in superfluous compliments. 'but you shall not lose your life on my account, nick. montague's horse, which it seems you have taken a liking to,' he said, with a smile, 'will be waiting for you at twelve o'clock to-night at dulwich, and in the same road; but, nick, this time you will have to walk to dulwich. there is a warrant out for you. you can slip away with a better chance on foot; and, nick, this time you will not come back. promise me that.' wogan promised readily enough. 'i brought the colonel into some danger of suspicion by returning before,' he said. 'it is a strange thing, george, that, while our friends have left us in the lurch, we should owe, i my escape, you your few weeks of liberty, to perfectly inveterate whigs, though how you came to an understanding with the colonel is quite beyond me to imagine.' 'i will tell you that now, nick, since you have an hour to spare;' and, going up to wogan's room, mr. kelly related to him the story of his meeting with the colonel in the park, of the disturbance with the messengers in his rooms, and of the saving of smilinda, and how his love for rose urged him to it. it was eight o'clock when he had come to an end. mr. wogan heard the clocks striking the hour. 'it will take me an hour to get to dulwich,' he said, 'so i have three hours to spare. george, have you seen rose?' 'no; but she knows that i am free, for lady mary sent the news to her.' 'that's a pity,' said wogan, pursing his lips. 'on the contrary, it was not the least kind of lady mary's many kindnesses,' said george, who was astonished at mr. wogan's cruelty, that would have left the girl in her anxieties a moment longer than was necessary. 'had she not heard the news till it was stale, she would never have forgiven me--she that has forgiven me so much,' said he, with more sentiment than logic. 'oh,' said wogan, 'she has forgiven you so much? my young friend, you are very certain upon a very uncertain point. there's that little matter of her ladyship's miniature.' mr. kelly looked anxiously at wogan. 'true,' said he; 'i told her a lie about it at avignon, and made out it was the likeness of queen clementina.' 'the lie is the smallest part of the difficulty. she wore the miniature, and wore it in lady oxford's withdrawing-room. there's the trouble, for there's the humiliation.' 'but, nick,' said kelly, 'she forgave it. didn't i escort her to her chair? didn't i feel her hand upon the sleeve of my coat?' 'oh! she carried herself very bravely, never a doubt of that. for one thing, you were in peril; and, to be sure, she will have kept a liking for you at the worst of it. for another, lady oxford was there, and lady oxford was not to win the day. my little friend rose is a girl of an uncommon spirit, and would hold her own against any woman, for all her modest ways. but, just because she has spirit, she will not meekly forgive you. if you expect her to droop humbly on to your bosom, you are entirely in the wrong of it. 'oons! but it must have been a hard blow to her pride when she found she was in lady oxford's house, and knew who lady oxford was, and had that miniature about her throat. will she forgive you at all? the best you have to hope is that she will be content with making your head sing. that she will do for a sure thing; and i think--' 'what?' asked the parson. the danger of life, the messengers, the angry colonel, had only raised his blood; the fear of rose drove it to his heart. he was now plainly scared. 'i think it was the greatest pity imaginable that lady mary sent word to her you were free. for, d'ye see, if you had dropped upon rose suddenly, and she thinking you locked up in a dark prison and your head already loose upon your shoulders, why, you might have surprised her into a forgetfulness of her pride; but now she will be prepared for your coming. i think, george, i will walk along with you as far as soho, since i have three hours to kick my heels in.' 'will you, nick?' cried george eagerly; and then, with his nose in the air, 'but i have no fears whatever. she is a woman in a thousand.' he was, none the less, evidently relieved when wogan clapped his hat on his head. the night was dark, and wogan in his livery had no fears of detection. the two men walked through by-streets until they came to piccadilly. the parson was nerving himself for the meeting, but would not allow that he was in the least degree afraid. 'a trivial woman would think of nothing but her humiliation and her slight, but rose is, as you say, of an uncommon spirit, nick,' he argued. nick, however, preserved a majestic silence, which daunted the parson, who desired arguments to confute. they were by this time come into bond street, and mr. kelly, who must be talking, declared with a great fervour, 'there are no limits to a woman's leniencies. black errors she will pardon; charity is her father and her mother; she has an infinity of forgiveness, wherefore with truth we place her among the angels.' upon that text he preached most eloquently all the way up bond street, past the new building, until he came to the corner of frith street in soho. in frith street, all at once the parson's assurance was shown to be counterfeit. he caught at his friend's arm. 'nick,' said he, in a quavering, humble voice, 'it is in frith street she lives. what am i to do at all? i am the most ignorant man, and a coward into the bargain. nick, i have done the unpardonable thing. what am i to do now?' thus the parson twittered in a most deplorable agitation. mr. wogan, on the contrary, was very calm. it was just in these little difficulties, which require an intimate knowledge of the sex, that he felt himself most at home. he stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'nick,' and george shook the arm he held, 'sure you can advise me. you have told me so often of your great comprehension of women. sure, you know all there is to be known about them, at all.' 'no, not quite all,' said wogan, with a proper modesty. 'but here i think i can help you. which is the house?' kelly pointed it out. a couple of windows shone very bright upon the dark street, a few feet above their heads. looking upwards they could see the ceiling of the room and the globe of a lamp reflected on the ceiling, but no more. 'it is in that room she will be sitting,' whispered the parson. 'and waiting for you,' added mr. wogan grimly. 'and waiting for me,' repeated the parson with a shiver. they both stared for a little at the ceiling and the shadow of the lamp. 'now, if the ceiling would only tell us something of her face,' said kelly. 'it would be as well to have a look at her,' said wogan. the street was quite deserted. 'will you give me a back'? the house was separated from the path by an iron railing a couple of feet from the wall. the parson set his legs apart and steadied himself by the railing, while wogan climbed up and knelt on to his shoulders. in that position he was able to lean forward and catch hold of the sill. his forehead was on a level with the sill. by craning his neck he could just look into the room. 'is she there?' asked the parson. 'yes, and alone.' 'how does she look? not in tears? nick, don't tell me she's in tears.' the parson's legs became unsteady at the mere supposition of such a calamity. 'make yourself easy upon that point,' said wogan, clinging for dear life to the sill, 'there's never a trace of a tear about her at all. for your sake, george, i could wish that there was. her eyes are as dry as a campaigner's biscuits. oh, george, i am in despair for you.' 'nick, you are the most consoling friend,' groaned the parson, who now wished for tears more than anything else in the world. 'what is she doing?' 'nothing at all. she is sitting at the table. george, have you ever noticed her chin? it is a sort of decisive chin, and upon my word, george, it has the ugliest jilting look that ever i saw. she has just the same look in her big grey eyes, which are staring at nothing at all. keep still, george, or you will throw me.' for the parson was become as uneasy as a restive horse. 'but, nick, is she doing nothing at all? is she reading?' 'no, she is doing nothing but expect you. but she is expecting you. steady, for if i tumble off your shoulders the noise will bring her to the windows.' the menace had its effect. mr. kelly's limbs became pillars of marble, and wogan again looked into the room. 'wait a moment,' he said, 'i see what she is doing. she is staring at something she holds in her hands.' 'my likeness?' cried the parson hopefully. 'to be sure it will be that.' 'i will tell you in a moment. hold on to the railings, george.' george did as he was bid, and wogan, still holding to the window-sill very cautiously, stood up on his friend's shoulders. george, however, seemed quite insensible to mr. wogan's weight. 'it will be my likeness,' he repeated to himself. 'i had it done for her by mr. zincke. i was right, nick; she has forgiven me altogether.' mr. wogan's head was now well above the window-sill, and he looked downwards upon rose, who sat at the table. 'yes, it's a likeness,' said nick. 'i told you. i told you,' said the parson. the man began to wriggle with satisfaction. 'you are wrong, nick. you know nothing at all about women, after all. come down, you vainglorious boaster.' it seemed he was about to cut capers with mr. wogan on his shoulders. 'wait,' said nick suddenly, and hitched himself higher. 'nick, she will see you.' 'no, she's occupied. george!' 'what is it?' 'it's lady oxford's miniature she is staring at, and not yours at all.' the parson grew quite stiff and rigid. 'are you sure?' he whispered, in an awe-stricken voice. 'i can see the diamonds flashing. 'faith my friend, but i had done better to have let you throw them into the sea at genoa.' a groan broke from the parson. 'why didn't you, nick? what am i to do now?' 'i can see the face. 'tis the miniature of her ladyship that you gave out to be queen clementina's. did you ever meet gaydon, george?' he asked curiously. 'gaydon?' asked kelly. 'what in the world has gaydon to do with rose?' 'listen, and i'll inform you. he told my brother charles a very pretty story of the princess clementina. it seems that when she escaped out of her perils and came to bologna to marry the chevalier, who had, just at the moment when he expected his bride, unaccountably retired into spain, she stayed at bologna, and so, picking up the gossip of the town, expressed a great desire to visit the caprara palace. 'twas there the lady lived who had consoled the chevalier in his anxieties. no doubt he never expected the princess to get out of the emperor's prison. but charles got her out, and here was she at bologna. to be sure, the princess was a most natural woman, eh? and when she came to the caprara palace she asked to be shown the portrait of the princess de la caprara. that was more natural still. gaydon describes how she looked at the portrait, and describes very well. for sure rose is looking at lady oxford's in just the same way.' 'that's good news, nick,' said kelly, grasping at a straw of comfort. 'for the princess clementina forgave.' 'ah, but there's a difference i did not remark at the first. i remember gaydon said the princess turned very red, while your little friend rose, on the contrary, is white to the edge of her lips. sure, red forgives, when white will not. george,' and mr. wogan ducked his head beneath the window-ledge, 'she is coming to the window! for the love of mercy don't move, or she will hear!' george pressed himself close to the railings. wogan hunched himself against the wall in the most precarious attitude. would she open the window? would she see them? both men quaked as they asked themselves the question, though they had come thither for no other purpose but to see her and be seen of her. wogan threw a glance over his shoulder to where the light of the window fell upon the road. but no shadow obscured it. 'sure, she's not coming to the window at all,' said nick. 'oh, nick,' whispered the parson, 'you made my heart jump into my throat.' wogan drew his head up level with the window again, and again ducked. 'she is standing looking towards the window with the likeness in her hand,' and he scrambled to the ground, where the pair of them stood looking at one another, and then to the house, and from the house down the street. wogan was the first to find his tongue. 'it is a monstrous thing,' said he, and he thumped his chest, 'that a mere slip of a girl should frighten two grown men to death.' mr. kelly thumped his chest too, but without any assurance. 'nick, i must look for myself,' he said. footsteps sounded a little distance down the street, and sounded louder the next moment. a man was approaching; they waited until he had passed, and then mr. kelly climbed on to wogan's shoulders, and in his turn looked into the room. 'nick!' he whispered in a voice of awe. 'what is she doing?' 'she has thrown smilinda's likeness on the ground. she is stamping on it with her heel. she is grinding it all in pieces.' 'and the beautiful diamonds? look if she picks them up, george!' 'no; she pays no heed to the stones. it is the likeness she thinks of. it was in pieces a moment ago; it is all powder now,' and he groaned. 'george, it is an ill business. when a woman spurns diamonds you may be sure she is in a mortal fluster. it's a gorgon you have to meet--a veritable gorgon.' mr. kelly slid from wogan's shoulders to the ground. 'what will i do, nick?' nick bit his thumb, then threw his shoulders back. 'i am not afraid of her,' said he. 'no, i am not. i have done nothing to anger or humiliate her. i am not afraid of her at all--not the least in the world. i will go in myself. i will beard her just to show you i am not at all afraid of her.' 'will you do that? nick, you _are_ a friend,' cried kelly, who was most reasonably startled by his friend's heroism. 'to be sure i will,' said nick, looking up at the window. 'i am not afraid of her. a little slip of a girl! why should we fear her at all? haven't we killed men more than once? do you wait here, george. if i hold my hand up at the window with my fingers open--so, you may come in. but if i hold up a clenched fist, you had best go home as fast as your legs can carry you. you see, the case is different with you. i have no reason whatever to be frightened at her.' he knocked at the door, and in a little the door was opened. 'not the least bit in the world!' he stopped to say to mr. kelly in the street. then he stepped into the passage. chapter xxvi mr. wogan traduces his friend, with the happiest consequences mr. wogan's title of hilton was now, thanks to the _flying post_, as familiar as his name; he refused both the one and the other to the servant, and was admitted to rose townley without any formalities. her eyes flashed as they remarked his livery, but she was not in any concern about mr. wogan, and asked him no questions. she rose with the utmost coldness, did not give him her hand, and only the bare mockery of a bow, as though her indignation against mr. kelly was so complete that it must needs embrace his friend. 'i thought that he would have plucked up enough courage to come himself,' said she, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. 'he is a man of the meanest spirit,' replied wogan, in a sullen agreement. 'it is a strange thing how easily one may be misled. here have i been going up and down the world with him for years, and i never knew him until now, never knew the black heart of him, and his abominable perfidies.' rose was taken aback by wogan's speech. no doubt she expected a hotch-potch of excuses and arguments on mr. kelly's behalf, which would but have confirmed her in her own opinion; but falling in with her views, he took the words out of her mouth. 'so,' she said doubtfully, 'he has lost your friendship too?' 'to be sure,' cried wogan in a heat, 'would you have me keep friends with a vile wretch whose thoughts writhe at the bottom of his soul like a poisonous nest of vipers?' rose neither answered the question nor expressed any approval of wogan's elegant figure describing mr. kelly's mind. 'oh,' said she, 'then he did not send you to make his peace with me?' wogan answered with all the appearances of reluctance. 'no. in fact the man was coming himself, and with a light heart. he made a great to-do about the infinite fairness and charity of women, which place them equal to the angels, and how you excelled all women in that and other womanly qualities. but i told him, on the contrary, that i knew your spirit, and that you were of too noble a pride to shut your eyes to a slight, and would certainly dismiss him. however, he would not be persuaded, so i slipped away from him and ran here, so that i might warn you against him.' rose forgot to thank mr. wogan for his zeal on her behalf. indeed her face, in spite of herself, had lightened for a second; in spite of herself her eyes had sparkled when wogan spoke of the great faith mr. kelly had in her charity. 'it was more than a slight,' she said, 'i could forgive a slight--he would have come himself had not you prevented him.' 'but he is coming. he would have been here already, but that he paid a visit on the way to colonel montague to discover whether lady oxford's letters had been restored to her.' 'lady oxford's letters!' exclaimed rose, her face flushing again with anger. 'to be sure,' said wogan, 'you would know nothing of them. it is a fine story--the story of lady oxford's love-letters.' 'i have no wish to hear it,' cried rose sharply, and she turned towards the window. mr. wogan took a quick step towards her. if she looked out of the window she could hardly fail to observe the parson. 'nor is it a story that you should hear,' said wogan in a soothing voice, 'though indeed to hear it from mr. kelly's lips would surely make you aware of his devilish sophistries. for he declares that, but for you, lady oxford's love-letters would never have been restored to her, nor would he have gone to prison and put his neck in the noose.' rose shivered at those last words and drew in her breath. she turned quickly back to wogan. 'but for me?' she asked. 'what have i to do with lady oxford's love-letters, or with his danger?' and her voice softened towards the end of the sentence. 'why, lady oxford, who knew very well mr. kelly's trade, betrayed him in revenge for a certain ballad wherein your name was mentioned.' 'yes,' interrupted rose, 'lady mary told me of the ballad.' 'well, you heard mr. kelly perhaps assure lady oxford that he had her brocades in his lodging, and perhaps you remarked her ladyship's confusion.' 'yes. i guessed what the brocades were.' 'very well. mr. kelly remained with her ladyship, who informed him that he would be taken outside his door, and his rooms searched. there were papers in his rooms of a kind to bring him into great danger. but there were also lady oxford's letters. the story he will tell you is this, that he meant to use lady oxford's letters as a weapon by which he might save his papers and so himself; but a complete revolution took place in his thoughts. he suddenly understood that he owed it to you that no woman's name should be smirched by his fault, and that thus he was bound, at the peril of his life, to rescue lady oxford's letters, as he did. a strange chance put it into his hands to burn his own papers, and leave lady oxford's to be seized, in which case he would have been saved, and she lost. but he saved his honour instead, and his love for you helped him to it. he rescued her ladyship's letters, his own are in the hands of the minister.' mr. wogan, who had now secured a most attentive listener, disclosed all that mr. kelly had told him of what took place in ryder street. 'this is the story he will tell you. and to be sure, he adds a pretty touch to the pretence. for he went whistling to prison and he says that he whistled because he felt as if you were walking by his side.' 'but what if it were no pretence at all?' mr. wogan sagely shook his head, though the story had the stamp of truth on it to those who knew the parson. 'if he had held you in such respect would he have sent you lady oxford's miniature to wear at lady oxford's rout?' 'but he did not send it to me for that purpose,' she cried, 'he did not even know that i was going to the rout. he gave me the miniature a long time ago, when it would have been very difficult for him to tell me whose it was.' 'but he told you it was queen clementina's.' 'no. it was i who guessed at that, and he--did not deny it.' here at all events was sophistry, but mr. wogan was less indignant at it than his anger with the parson's subtleties would lead one to expect. 'well,' said wogan, 'i have told you what it was my plain duty to disclose to you.' at this moment wogan chanced to look towards the window. he beheld mr. kelly's face pressed against the glass. the man had grown impatient and so had climbed on to the railings. mr. wogan broke off with an exclamation he could not repress. 'what is it?' said rose, turning about. 'some most beautiful diamonds,' said wogan, spreading out his hand to the window. he then dropped on to the floor and began picking up the diamonds which rose had scattered when she set her foot on the miniature. rose bit her lips, and flushed, as he held them in his palm. then he said carelessly: 'that fine miniature had diamonds set about it. d'ye know, miss townley, that miniature would have been at the bottom of the sea long before mr. kelly came to avignon, but for the diamonds about it. 'twas i held his arm when, having done with her ladyship, he would also have done with her ladyship's present, and i bade him keep it for the value of the jewels.' there was a loud knocking at the door, which came not a moment earlier than was necessary to prevent mr. wogan revealing himself as still the parson's friend. 'there's the fellow come to importune you,' said wogan. 'then he would have thrown it away but for you,' said miss townley thoughtfully. 'he did not keep it out of any--' but wogan heard the servant pass down to the door, and thought it would be as well if he had a private word with the parson. 'you will excuse me,' he said with dignity, 'but i have no heart for the man's company. besides, i have stayed too long in london as it is. delays would be dangerous.' but rose had no ears for any dangers of mr. wogan, as he was indescribably glad to remark. for her eyes looked past him to the door; from head to foot she seemed to listen for the sound of the parson's voice. mr. wogan bowed, and opened the door. though she followed him to the door, and held it open as he passed out, she did not notice that he was going, she had no word of farewell. she did not even notice that mr. wogan put the diamonds in his pocket. for mr. wogan had his wits about him. diamonds were diamonds, and the carpet no place for them. some day they might be of use to the parson. the door of the street was opened as wogan stepped into the passage. but rose did not shut the door of the parlour and so wogan, as he met kelly, could only whisper hurriedly, 'remember, i am your worst enemy,' and so left him to his own resources. it appeared, however, that they were sufficient. the parson made no excuses whatever; he carried the day by the modesty of his omissions. both with regard to the miniature and to the saving of smilinda he disclosed to her no more than a bald array of facts. he made no parade of the part which the thought of rose had played in the revulsion of his feelings, bringing him to see that he was bound in honour to save smilinda's honour; he did not tell her why he went whistling to prison. but rose knew from wogan of these evidences of his love, and no doubt thought of them the more because he would not use them to soften her just resentments. mr. wogan left them together, and, walking out to dulwich, found the colonel's horse waiting in the road between the chestnut trees. he came to the coast of sussex in the morning, where he had friends among the smugglers, and lay all that day in a hut within sound of the waves. it was a black, melancholy day for nicholas wogan, who was leaving his friends behind him to face their perils alone, and who felt very solitary; not even the memory of the noble deeds of his illustrious forefathers had any power to cheer him, until he heard the grating noise of the boat's keel as it was dragged down the beach to the sea, and saw the sail like a great wing waft up between him and the stars. he got safe to paris, where he heard of the strange use to which the parson put his few weeks of liberty, for the parson married rose townley three weeks later at st. james's church in piccadilly, and wrote to mr. wogan a very warm, human sort of letter which had not one single classical allusion to disfigure it. in that letter he gave the reasons which had induced him to the marriage. 'i am told,' he wrote, 'that a man so dangerously circumstanced must be selfish in the extreme to marry a woman who, in a short while, may, at the worst, be widowed; and at the best must be separated from her husband in his gaol. i do not fear that you will have so mean an opinion of my inclinations, but i would not have you think me careless upon this point neither. dr. townley is old, and his health breaks. he will leave his daughter, when he dies, but little money, and that moment cannot be very far off. it is true that rose has beauty, and no doubt she might make a rich marriage if she had only beauty. but she has frankness, truth, and constancy as well, qualities which are not marketable wares, since those who possess them will not bring them into the market. now, if i suffer death for the cause, rose will be no poorer than she was before; if, on the other hand, i live, there are the booksellers, and from the silence of my prison i can make shift to earn for her a decent livelihood.' as all the world knows, mr. kelly lived, and even gained much credit by his speech at his trial. he made it plain, to all but prejudiced whigs, that there was no plot, nor he concerned in any, if there were. but what is whig justice? he was sentenced to prison for life. the papers in his strong box were enough to help a foolish fellow, counsellor layer, on his way to tyburn, enough to send lord orrery to the tower, and lord north and grey into exile. the plot was ruined for that time; the bishop of rochester was banished, for mar's traitorous mention of the dog harlequin fixed the guilt on that holy man. mr. kelly came off with loss of fourteen years of his life, which years he passed in the tower. it was not, after all, so silent a prison as he imagined it would be. for though during the first months his confinement was severe, and he never drew air except from between the bars, afterwards this rigour was relaxed. he was placed in a room of which one window took the morning sun, and the other commanded the river, and the ships going up and down with the tide; he was allowed the use of his books, and to receive what visitors he would. his visitors were not few, and amongst them colonel montague was the most frequent. his gaolers, the officers who were stationed in the tower, and their wives, became his familiar friends, and it is said that when, after fourteen years, he escaped, not a woman in the precincts could make up her mind whether to clap her hands for joy, or weep at the loss of his society. moreover, rose came and went at her pleasure. the first years of his imprisonment were thus not wholly unhappy years. he sat amongst his books translating cicero, and if at times his limbs ached for the stress and activity of his youth, and he began to dream of hours in the saddle and starry nights at sea, it was not perhaps for very long. he had friends enough to divert his leisure moments, and rose to keep him busy at his work. for what he had foreseen came to pass. two years after mr. kelly came to the tower, dr. townley died, and left rose but poorly circumstanced. she came to lodge close by the tower gates, and the parson set his pen to his paper and wrote essays and translations till the whole tower of london buzzed with his learning, and no doubt a friendly jacobite here and there bought one of his books. mr. wogan, indeed, bought them all. he has them ranged upon a bookshelf in his lodging at paris, all bound in leather and most dignified; the very print has a sonorous look. 'mr. kelly's _opera_' he calls them, and always speaks of the books as 'tomes' with prodigious respect and perhaps a sigh. for-- 'he lacks one quality,' mr. wogan was heard to say, 'to set him on the pinnacle of fame. he cannot write poetry. it is a trick, no doubt, a poor sort of trick; but george had it not, and so when there was poetry to be written, he had to come to his friends.' thus ten years passed, and then came the black day, when rose fell sick of a fever and must keep her bed. she sent word to george daily that he should expect her on the morrow, until a delirium took her, and the doctor, who had been charged by rose to make light of her suffering, was now forced to tell mr. kelly the truth. she lay at death's door, calling on her husband, who could not come to her, and talking ever of that little garden at avignon above the rhone, in which she fancied that he and she now walked. mr. kelly took the news in silence as a dog takes pain, and never slept and barely moved while the fever ran its course. rose was at the tower gates, george was in his prison; a few yards only were between them, but those few yards were built upon with stones. in the daytime messages were brought to him often enough, but at night, when the mists rose from the river and the gates were closed, and the parson had the dark loitering hours wherein to picture the sick room with its dim light and the tired figure tossing from this side to that of the bed, then indeed smilinda had her revenge. chapter xxvii how, by keeping parole, mr. kelly broke prison every morning mr. kelly looked for the doctor to come to him with word that in the little house without the tower gate the blinds were drawn. but that message was not brought to him, and colonel montague, making a visit to the prison, three weeks after rose fell ill, found the parson sitting very quiet in his chair with a face strangely illumined. 'last night she slept,' said george, 'and waked only at midday. the fever has left her, and she will live. it is wonderful.' the colonel said what was fitting to the occasion, and the parson replied to him absently, with his eyes upon the river and the boats swinging on the tide; and after a while father myles macdonnell, whom the colonel had neither seen nor heard of, was ushered into the room. the reverend father was a kinsman of parson kelly, and though their acquaintance had been of the slightest, the parson now turned to him with a great welcome. for his thoughts were now entirely bent upon an escape from his captivity. he dared not survey the possibility that some time rose might again fall ill, and that again he must sit behind the bars and only hear news of how she fared. the reverend myles, who was of the honest party, but not as yet blown upon by suspicion, seemed to him his only help and instrument. for a long while, when the colonel had gone, the pair debated the means of escape, but found no issue; and rose brought her white face back to the tower, and the parson's spirits drooped, so that at last his health began to fail. he was therefore allowed to drive out in a coach to any place within ten miles of london in the custody of a warder, and on his parole to return before dark. of this favour he made frequent use, and no doubt the sight of the busy faces in the streets urged him yet more to make a bid for his freedom. now these journeys of the parson to take the air set father myles macdonnell upon a pretty plan, which he imparted to rose and to george. 'you drive one afternoon up into highgate woods--d'ye follow that? i have half-a-dozen well-disposed persons hiding in a clump of trees who will take care of your warder--d'ye see? there will be a stout horse tethered to a branch close by, and a lugger waiting off the coast of essex--'but the parson would hear no more of the scheme. 'i have given my parole to come back to the tower before dark,' said he, and glanced at rose, who was looking away, to strengthen him in his objection. 'i cannot break it, can i, rose? i have given my parole. i am not one of the butcher cumberland's officers. we must keep troth.' rose made an effort and agreed. 'yes,' said she, 'he has given his parole, and he cannot break it.' 'not so long as he's a lost protestant,' said the reverend father. he tapped george on the knee, and continued in a wheedling voice: 'it is a matter of religion, d'ye see? just let me convert you. i can do it in a twinkling, and so i shall save your body and your soul in one glorious moment.' 'how so? 'asked the parson with a laugh, for he was by this time well used to his kinsman's efforts to convert him. 'how shall a catholic creep out of the tower more easily than a protestant?' 'because a catholic can break his parole. it's a great sin, to be sure, but i can absolve him for it afterwards.' to mr. kelly's thinking (and, indeed, to mr. wogan's) this was no sterling theology, and he would not be persuaded. another device had to be invented, and when at last a satisfactory plan was resolved upon, the plotters must wait for the quick nightfalls of autumn. it was on guy fawkes day, the fifth of november, , that mr. kelly made his escape. on the morning of that day he drove out to epsom in the custody of his warder and upon his parole to return before dark. at four o'clock, when the light was just beginning to fall, father myles macdonnell came into the tower by the sally port stairs opposite the mint. he was told that the parson was taking the air, and replied that he would go to the parson's room and wait. thereupon he crossed the precincts of the tower, and coming over the green and down the steps of the main-guard, he inquired of the porter at traitor's gate whether or no mr. kelly had returned. the porter answered 'not yet.' 'it is a great pity,' said the reverend myles, who seemed much flustered. 'i am in a great hurry, and would you tell him, if you please, the moment he comes, to run with all haste to his room?' upon that he turned off under the archway of the bloody tower, and again mounted the steps of the main-guard. about half-an-hour afterwards, in the deepening twilight, mr. kelly was set down within the traitor's gate; he had kept his parole. the porter gave him father myles's message; and the warder, since it appeared that he could only proceed as usual to his lodging, took his leave of him. the parson accordingly ran up the steps of the main-guard on to the green, which was by this time very obscure. three minutes afterwards father myles macdonnell hurried past the sentry at the sally port stairs opposite the mint, grumbling that he would wait no longer, and so came out upon tower hill. just at that time to a moment another father myles macdonnell accosted the porter at traitor's gate and requested him to let him out, seeing that he was, as he had already said, in a great hurry. the porter let him out with no more ado. the second father myles was the real father myles; the first one who went grumbling out by the sally port stairs was parson kelly. he had met father myles in the dark corner by beauchamp tower, had slipped over his head a cassock which the father had brought with him, and had run across to the entrance over against the mint, and so into freedom. the carriage which had driven him to epsom, after putting him down again at the tower, had driven to tower hill, where it waited for the parson close by the sally port stairs. it did not wait long: and the parson was hurried at a gallop out of london amidst the crackling of fireworks and the burning of effigies of guy fawkes. it seemed the town was illuminated to celebrate his escape. at the tower his evasion was not discovered until half-past seven of the evening, when the two porters, being relieved from their separate stations at the traitor's gate and the sally port stairs, each vowed that he had let out father myles macdonnell. this seemed so miraculous an occurrence that the warder ran to mr. kelly's chamber. it was empty, and then the clamour began. the parson had thus three hours' start, and, though a reward of _l_. was offered for his recapture, no more was heard of him for a week. then, however, two fishermen coming into an alehouse at broadstairs saw the reward for kelly proclaimed in print upon the wall, and fell into a great fury and passion, saying that they had only received five pounds when they might have had three hundred. for a fee of five pounds they had put a man over from broadstairs to calais, who, when once he was landed in france, had said to them: 'if anyone inquires for george kelly, you may say that he is safely landed in france.' and indeed at the very moment when the fishermen were lamenting their mistake in the alehouse, george kelly and rose were taking their dinner in mr. wogan's lodging at paris. rose had travelled into france the day before the parson escaped, and so, after fourteen years, they were united. it was a merry sort of a party, and no doubt wogan made a great deal of unnecessary noise. he drew the parson aside into a window before the evening was over. 'you are not very rich, i suppose?' said he. 'i want for nothing,' said the parson with a foolish eye on rose, like a boy of eighteen. wogan fumbled in his fob and brought out a packet which he unfolded. 'diamonds!' cried kelly. 'they are yours,' said wogan. 'i picked them up off the floor of a room in soho on an occasion which you may remember. a miniature frame had come by a mischance.' 'smilinda's?' asked kelly with a frightened glance over his shoulder to rose, who had the discretion not to meddle in this private conversation. 'yes,' says wogan; 'smilinda's. she gave the stones to you. very likely they are worth a trifle.' 'we'll slip out and sell them to-morrow,' answered the parson in a whisper. they slipped out, but they did not sell them. the diamonds were paste, and mr. wogan at last understood why lady oxford, when she gave her miniature set with brilliants to the parson, had been so anxious that he should never part with it. chapter xxviii mr. wogan again invades england, meets the elect lady, and bears witness to her perfections it seemed to wogan that this particular story of the parson's fortunes, which began in paris so long ago, had now ended in paris. but he was wrong, and it was not till ten years after mr. kelly's escape from the tower that wogan witnessed the last circumstance in england, and himself spoke the closing word. retiring soon from paris, which ill suited a slender purse, mr. kelly lived, with his fair wife, at avignon, where he played secretary to the duke of ormond. the parson was a _gêne_ on the amours of the aged duke, who posted him off, in the year forty-five, to, escort the prince of wales to the scottish islands. wogan himself, earlier in the same year of grace, lost an arm at the battle of fontenoy, but got a leaf of the laurels, being dubbed chevalier of the order of st. louis. his arm amputated and the wound healed, wogan must needs join the prince of wales, then residing in his palace of holyrood, near edinburgh. wogan came too late for that pretty onfall at prestonpans, but he marched south with the prince's forces, riding again the old roads from carlisle to lancaster and preston. the buxom maids of the inns were broad-blown landladies now; some of them remembered wogan; and the ale was as good as ever. it chanced that at preston, where he tarried for a couple of days, mr. wogan was billeted on a cobbler, a worthy man, but besotted with a new religion, which then caused many popular tumults. to england it had been brought over from america by two brothers of wogan's old friend, sam wesley, the usher at westminster school, and familiar of bishop atterbury. wogan's host could talk of nothing but this creed, whose devotees cried out (it seemed), laughed, fell down in fits, barked, and made confession in public. 'ah, sir,' he said to wogan, 'if you could but hear the brothers wesley, charles and john, in the pulpit or singing hymns! charles sings like an angel, and to hear john exhort the unaroused might waken those who have lain for a score of years in the arms of the devil.' 'john wesley, little jack wesley?' cried wogan. 'why, i have saved him from many a beating at westminster school!' 'do you know that saint, sir? 'asked the cobbler, in an enthusiasm. 'know him, i know nobody else, if he is the brother of honest sam wesley, that once let me into the deanery on a night in may. assuredly i knew little jack.' the cobbler came near kneeling to wogan. 'here, indeed, is the finger of providence,' he exclaimed. 'dear sir, you may yet cast off the swathings of the scarlet woman.' 'easy, be easy, mr. crispin!' quoth wogan. 'but tell me, is jack to preach and is charles to sing in this town of yours to-night?' 'unhappily no, but we are promised the joy of hearing that famed disciple, mr. bunton, discourse, and the elect lady, as the brethren style her, will also speak.' 'do the women preach in your new church?' 'no, but they are permitted to tell the story of their call, and to-night we shall hear the elect lady--' 'confess before the congregation? 'faith, the discourse may be improving. is the elect lady handsome?' 'she hath been one of the most renowned beauties of her age, and there are some who say that she is little altered by time. ah, sir, she will make you embrace the truth.' 'my embraces were ever at the mercy of feminine persuasion,' said wogan. 'is this elect lady of these parts?' 'no, sir, she comes from the south, travelling with holy mr. bunton. you will oblige me infinitely, sir, if you will take pity on your own poor soul and join our love-feast. we meet in the warehouse of mr. brown, our most eminent grocer, in scotch lane, behind the "jackdaw and bagpipes."' 'i thank you for your solicitude,' wogan said; 'and as to the love-feast, i'll think of it.' consequently he thought no more of it till the bottle had gone round half-a-dozen times at the prince's mess in the 'bull tavern.' lord elcho, who had certainly drunk his dose, began telling, as a good thing, of his conversation with a _bourgeois_ of preston. '"what is your prince's religion?" asked the _bourgeois_. '"that is still to seek, my good man, still to seek," i answered him,' cried elcho, laughing. the prince laughed also; the free-thinking philosophers had been at him already, first in rome, then in paris. 'good for you, elcho,' he cried; then, musing, ''tis a very awkward business, this of religion. we have given three crowns for a mass, and there's the difficulty, there it is, as black as ever. i wish some one would invent a new creed, and the rest agree about it, d----n them, and then what is still to seek, my religion, would be found.' a thought came into wogan's head; the bottle had made rounds enough, and more; next morning they were to march early. 'sir,' he said, 'there _is_ a new religion, and a handsome lady to preach it.' then he repeated what his host, the cobbler, had chanted to him, 'the meeting is at night in the warehouse of mr. brown, the eminent grocer.' 'a handsome woman!--a new belief! by st. andrew, i'll go,' cried charles. 'you'll come, nick, you and--' he looked at the faces looming through the tobacco smoke round the wine-stained table. the blue reek of pipes clouded and clung to men's faces; to the red rough beard of lochgarry, the smart, clean-shaven ker of graden and maxwell of kirkconnell, the hardy gaze of brave balmerino, the fated duke of perth. wogan thought of the highland belief in the shroud of mist that is seen swathing men doomed soon to die, as were so many of them. the prince stood and stared, his pipe in his hand. 'nick, you will come, you and ker of graden; he's sober! _allons!_' 'sir,' whispered mr. murray of broughton, 'think of the danger! the elector has his assassins everywhere; they are taken; your royal highness laughs and lets them go, and the troops murmur.' 'danger! will they look for me at a tub-thumping match?' the prince picked up a cork from the floor; he set it to the flame of a candle; he touched with it his eyebrows and upper lip; he tucked his brown hair under his wig, standing before the mirror on the chimneypiece. then he flung a horseman's cloak over his shoulders, stooped, and limped a little in his walk. 'a miracle,' everyone called out, for scarce a man of them could have known him. he tossed his hand in the air; '_allons, en avant!_' he cried, with a laugh; and wogan, with ker of graden, did what all might have better done at derby--followed their leader. the night was wintry, and a cold north wind blew about the rare flickering oil lamps in the street. all three men buttoned themselves up in their cloaks. the prince, still stooping and limping, took an arm of each of his aides-de-camp; indeed, he somewhat needed their support. 'i am like that sultan in monsieur galland's eastern tales,' he said, 'visiting my subjects incognito. nick, you are mesrour, the chief of the--no, you're giaffar. graden is--i forget the eastern minister's name. i am the caliph. but what are the rabble about?' the three pilgrims had entered the lane that led to the warehouse of the devout grocer. there was a mob around the door waving torches and shouting insults at a few decent tradesmen and their wives who were bent on the same pious errand as wogan and his friends. 'away, swaddlers!' 'down with the methodists!' they cried; and a burly fellow brushed against wogan's shoulder in the least gentlemanly style. he reeled off and fell flat in the lane, while the other ragamuffins laughed at him. the three devotees stepped briskly through the grinning crowd that cried to graden, 'come to buy brimstone, scotch sandy?' 'come to escape it, my dear friend,' quoth wogan's host, the cobbler, who stood at the door, and kept it, too, against the mob with a great show of spirit. 'you _have_ thought of us, sir?' asked the cobbler. 'ay, and brought two other inquiring spirits,' said wogan. they were conducted into a long half-empty warehouse, smelling of cheese and festooned with cobwebs. a light or two burned dimly in horn lanterns; a low platform of new planks had been set up at the top of the room; a table with seven candles made an illumination there; a big black bible, and a jug of water with a glass flanked the bible. the preacher sat on a chair (most of the congregation stood, or reposed on barrels and benches), and on another chair, beside the preacher, was a lady, veiled, her fine figure obscured by widow's weeds. 'is that your beauty?' whispered the prince. 'the elect lady, sir,' murmured the cobbler devoutly. '_mon dieu!_ she has a very pretty foot!' and wogan, too, noticed the blaze of a diamond buckle that nearly covered the little arched instep. tap, tap! went the elect lady's foot, thrust out in front of her heavy petticoat of crape. 'the lady is travelling everywhere, for the good of souls, gentlemen, with mr. wesley's friend and choice disciple, the preacher, mr. bunton.' 'l'heureux monsieur bunton! quelle chance!' quoth his highness. mr. bunton, the preacher, was indeed a fine, handsome young fellow as any widow could wish to look upon. he wore lay dress, not being a priest ordained of the church of england. as for the congregation, they were small trading people, not rabble; indeed, the mob outside broke most of the windows during the sermon, that was interrupted, not only by the pebbles of the ragamuffins, but by the antics of the congregation. mr. bunton, after a hymn had been sung without any music, began his preaching. he assured the audience that none of them could be a gayer dog than he had been, that was now a shining light. he obliged the congregation with a history of his early life and adventures, which wogan now tells in few words, that people may know what manner of men were certain of these saints, or had been. mr. bunton was reared in sin, he said, as a land-surveyor. a broth of a boy he was, and nine times his parents sent him from reading to london to bind him to a trade. nine times his masters returned him on their hands. here the audience groaned aloud, and one went off in a fit. mr. bunton then told how he was awakened to sin as he walked in cheapside. at this many, and the cobbler among them, cried 'hallelujah!' but some went off into uncontrollable fits of laughter, which did not disturb the gravity of the rest of the assembly. the preacher's confession was, indeed, of such a nature that wogan let a laugh out of himself, while graden and the prince rolled in extreme convulsions. 'go on, gentlemen; you are in the right path,' said the cobbler. 'our converts are generally taken in this way first. it is reckoned a very favourable sign of grace. some laugh for a week without stopping to sleep, eat, or drink.' 'i'll try to stop to drink,' hooted his highness, his face as red as a lobster; and then off he went again, the bench shaking beneath him, while wogan and graden laughed till the tears ran down their cheeks in their dark corner. the sympathetic cobbler murmured texts of an appropriate character. indeed, now he thinks of it all, and sees mr. bunton sawing the air while he tells the story of his early wicked days, mr. wogan laughs as he writes. the man was greasy and radiant with satisfied vanity. his narrative of what he did and thought after he awoke to sin in cheapside was a marvel. 'i felt that beef and mutton were sinful things.' here came a groan from an inquiring butcher. 'i wished to put away all that was of the flesh fleshy. my desire was to dwell alone, in a cave, far from the sight of woman.' the elect lady groaned, and all the wenches in the congregation followed suit. 'abstaining from feasts of fat things, my mind was set on a simple diet of acorns, grass, and crabs.' 'les glands, les écrevisses, et l'herbe des champs!' hooted the prince. 'mon dieu, quel souper, et quelle digestion il doit avoir, cet homme-là!' 'but, sisters and brethren,' mr. bunton went on, 'did i yield to these popish temptations? did i live, like one of their self-righteous so-called saints, on crabs, acorns, and grass? did i retire to a cave? no, dear sisters and brethren. my motive for abstaining was bad; it was a suggestion of the old man--' 'qui donc est-il, ce vieillard bien pensant?' whispered the prince. 'the devil, sir,' answered graden, who knew the doctrine of the scotch ministers. 'my motive for not living on crabs in a cave was bad, i confess, but it was over-ruled for the best. dear friends, i kept myself far from these temptations, because, indeed, i was afraid of ghosts that haunt caves and such places.' 'il ne mangeait pas les écrevisses, parce qu'il avait peur des revenants! o c'est trop!' said the prince, in a voice choked with emotion, while more advanced disciples cried 'glory!' and 'hallelujah!' 'but next,' the preacher went on, much gratified and encouraged by these demonstrations, 'i was happily brought acquainted with that precious sister, that incomparable disciple of mr. wesley, whom we call the elect lady. then i awoke to light, and saw that it was laid upon me to preach, continually and unceasingly, making in every town confession of my offences. that dear lady, friends, promises for this once (she is as modest as she is generous and good) to tell us the moving story of her own early dangers, while she was a dweller in the tents of--of shem, i think.' the congregation cheered and stamped with their feet, all but a few who were rolling on the floor in fits and foaming at the mouth. mr. bunton sat down very warm, and applied himself to the mug of water. the elect lady rose up to her full height, and tossed back her veil over her shoulders. 'ah, nous sommes trompés,' said the prince. 'c'est une femme de quarante ans, bien sonnés!' but wogan, between the shoulders of the congregation, stared from his dim corner as he had never stared at mortal woman before. the delicate features were thickened, alas, the lips had fallen in, the gold threads had been unwoven out of the dark brown hair. there were two dabs of red on a powdered face, where in time past the natural roses and lilies had bloomed; but the voice and the little andalusian foot that beat the time with the elect lady's periods were the voice and the foot of the once incomparable smilinda! nay, when she turned and looked at the converted land-surveyor beside her, mr. wogan knew in her gaze the ghost of the glance that had bewitched scrope, and kelly, and colonel montague, and lord sidney beauclerk, and who knows how many other gallants? in that odd place wogan felt a black fit of the spleen. a woman's loss of beauty,--wogan can never think of it unmoved. what tragedy that we men endure or enact is like this? but her ladyship spoke, and she spoke very well. the congregation, all of them that were not in fits or in laughing hysterics, listened as if to an angel. heavens! what a story she told of her youth! what dangers encountered! what plots prepared against her virtue, ay, by splendid soldiers, beautiful young lords, and even clergymen; above all, by one monster whom she had discovered to be, not only a monster, but a traitor to the king, and an agent of the pretender. she was a young thing then, married to an old lord, all unprotected, on every side beset by flattery. the congregation groaned and swayed at the picture of man's depravity, but wogan, his spleen quite forgotten, was chuckling with delight. yet, all unawakened as she was, said this penitent, an unknown influence had ever shielded her. she remembered how one of these evil ones, the clergyman, after kneeling vainly at her feet, had cried, 'sure, some invisible power protects your ladyship.' here the groans gave place to cries of praise, arms were lifted, the simple, good people wept. wogan listened with a less devotional air, bending forward on his bench, and rubbing his hands for joy. in truth it had just come upon him that it was his duty to stand up when the elect lady sat down, and bear his witness to the truth of her narrative. 'not to her be the triumph,' she went on, 'all unawakened as she then was, and remained, till she heard mr. wesley preach,' and thereafter went through the world with brother bunton, converting land-surveyors, colliers, and others. wogan does not care to remember or quote any more of this lady's pieties. they had a kind of warmth and ease of familiarity which, in sacred things, are not to his liking. however, when she ceased, mr. wogan stood up, a tall figure of a french officer with an empty sleeve in his dim corner. 'good people,' he said; 'in my heedless youth i had the honour to be of the acquaintance of this lady who has just spoken to you.' the elect lady glanced at wogan; she gave a strange, short cry, and the black veil swept over her face again. 'i was,' wogan went on, 'the eye-witness of these trials to which her ladyship's virtue was exposed by the wicked ones of whose company i was a careless partaker. i have heard that wicked minister say that some invisible power protected her ladyship. if any testimony to the truth of her ladyship's moving tale were needed i could bear that evidence, as could my friend the rev. mr. kelly, now in france with despatches, and also general montague, at present serving with field-marshal wade, in the neighbourhood of newcastle.' wogan sat down. 'that was providential indeed,' said the cobbler; and all the congregation bawled 'miracle.' but the elect lady sat still, her face in her hands, like a niobe in black bombazine. in the confusion, the three inquirers from the prince's army slipped modestly out. a heavy shower of snow had swept the rabble out of the lane. all was dark and cold, after the reek of the crowded warehouse. 'nick,' said the prince, 'was that story all true? was the elect lady a prude?' 'it is mr. kelly's story, sir,' said wogan. your royal highness can ask him.' 'george was her adorer? then george shall tell me the tale over a bottle. how the cold strikes! hey, for a bowl of punch!' cried the prince. 'i am at your commands, sir, but may i say that it is one of the morning, and the pipes play the reveillé at four?' 'to quarters, then! what is the word, damme? what is the word?' '_slaint an righ_, sir.' 'slaint an righ? i never can get my tongue about it. oh, if our subjects had but one language and one religion! but it shall not be the religion of mr. bunton. _bon soir!_' 'you have taken every trick, wogan!' said graden, as the prince entered his inn. 'a sober night, for once, before a long day's march.' * * * * * next morning the army went south, to derby, and then (by no fault of the irish officers or of their prince) came back again. wogan was at falkirk, culloden, and ruthven, woe worth the day! how he reached france when all was over, is between him and a very beautiful young lady of badenoch; she said she bore a king's name--miss helen macwilliam. of king macwilliam wogan hath never heard, but the young lady (whose brothers had taken to the heather) protected wogan in his distress, tended his wound, hid him from the red-coat soldiers, and at last secured for him a passage in a vessel from montrose. and for all souvenir, she kept the kerchief with which she had first bound up the bayonet-stab that wogan came by, when he, with the stewarts, broke through barrel's regiment at culloden. he writes this at avignon, where george and his wife also dwell, in the old house with the garden, the roses, and the noisy, pretty children that haunted mr. kelly's dreams when he was young. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ mistress nancy molesworth a tale of adventure by joseph hocking author of "the birthright," etc. [illustration: logo] new york doubleday & mcclure co. copyright, , by doubleday & mcclure co. press of j. j. little & co. astor place, new york contents chapter page i.--trevanion, ii.--peter trevisa's offer, iii.--crossing the rubicon, iv.--my journey to endellion, v.--my first night at endellion, vi.--the uses of a serving-maid, vii.--on the roof of endellion castle, viii.--otho discovers my name, ix.--benet killigrew as a wrestler, x.--the escape from endellion, xi.--my fight with benet killigrew, xii.--roche rock, xiii.--the wisdom of gossiping with an innkeeper, xiv.--the haunted chapel of st. mawgan, xv.--the scene at a wayside inn, xvi.--why i took nancy to treviscoe, xvii.--the charge of treason, xviii.--otho killigrew's victory, xix.--launceston castle, xx.--i escape from the witch's tower, xxi.--describes my journey from launceston castle to a lonely mansion accompanied by two women, xxii.--mistress nancy tells me many things, xxiii.--in which it is shown that uncle anthony was more than a droll, xxiv.--otho killigrew uses an old proverb, xxv.--how january changed to june, xxvi.--i fall into otho killigrew's hands, xxvii.--how benet killigrew and i fought in the light of the beacon fire, xxviii.--otho killigrew's last move, xxix.--the king's gratitude, xxx.--in which uncle anthony plays his harp, mistress nancy molesworth chapter i. trevanion. the only part of my history which i regard as worthy of placing on record is confined to a few months. i was thirty-two years of age at the time, and had thus entered into the very summer of my life. at that age a man's position ought to be assured; at any rate his career should be marked out with tolerable plainness. such, however, was not my fortune. although i bear one of the best known and most honoured names in my native country, i, roger trevanion, was in sore straits at the time of which i write. and this not altogether because of my own faults. i did not come into the possession of my heritage until i was thirty, my father having retained absolute control of his estate until his death. up to that time i knew nothing of his money matters. neither, indeed, did i care. i had enough for my own use; i possessed good horses and was able to enjoy what festivities the county provided, to the full. ever since my mother's death, which took place when i was fourteen, my father paid me but little attention. he saw to it that i was taught to ride, fence, shoot, with other accomplishments befitting my station, and then allowed me to follow my own inclinations. as a consequence i became a gay fellow, being guilty, i am afraid, of most of the misdemeanours common to young men. i remembered that i was a trevanion, however, and while i did not belong to the most important branch of the family, i held to the code of honour to which for many generations we had been true. i knew that my father gambled freely, and had many relations with people which were beyond my comprehension. i did not trouble about this, however. very few restraints were placed upon me, and i was content. when my father died, i discovered that i was a poor man. i had still the semblance of wealth. i lived in the old house, and was supposed to own the lands surrounding it. the old servants still called me master, and the farmers paid their rents to me as they had paid them to my fathers. in reality, however, everything was mortgaged for nearly all it was worth. true, the lawyer told me that if i would discharge a number of superfluous servants, get rid of a number of useless horses, and consent to the sale of a quantity of timber, i could by practicing the strictest economy for ten years, place everything on a satisfactory footing. "that will mean that i must give up hunting, racing, drinking, betting, besides closing the house and living like a hermit, i suppose?" i said to him. "that does not suit me. is there no other way?" "yes, there is one," he replied. "and that?" "a suitable marriage." i shrugged my shoulders. "women are not in my way, mr. hendy," i said. the truth was, i had fancied myself in love when i was twenty, with the daughter of john boscawen, a distant relation of the famous boscawens. she had led me on until i was mad about her. i was her slave for several months, and she treated me as though i were a dog of the fetch-and-carry breed. presently a young fellow from a place near penzance, prideaux by name, came to her father's place, and no sooner did he start a-courting her than she sent me about my business, drove me away in fact, as though i were a cur. since that time i had hated women, and i grew angry at the thought of ever being expected to put confidence in one. "the state of your affairs is not generally known," persisted the lawyer, "and a wife with a handsome dowry would mean getting back the deeds." "no petticoats for me," i replied angrily. "but if the petticoats mean comfort and freedom from money cares, would you not be wise to put aside your prejudice against them?" "anything but that," i cried, remembering amelia boscawen. "retrenchment or a wife," persisted the lawyer. "neither," i cried, angry that directly i came into my heritage i should find myself in such a fix. the lawyer sighed. "from whom did my father borrow?" i asked presently. "peter trevisa," he replied. i knew the man slightly. a little, shrivelled-up, old creature who had married late in life, and who had one son whom we called "young peter," because he was so much like his father. young peter was not so old as i, and i had never been friendly with him. in fact i had despised him as a ferrety kind of fellow, with whom i had nothing in common. "he holds you like that," said the lawyer, putting out his hand and clasping it. a great deal more was said, but to no purpose, and i went on as i had gone before. true, i discharged one or two of the younger servants and sold a quantity of timber, but i did not retrench as the lawyer advised. thus at the end of two years i was, if possible, in a worse position than when my father died. one day--and here my story really begins--i rode off to a fox hunt. i still held my head high, and rode the best horse in the field. i was careful, too, to be well dressed, and i prided myself that in spite of my poverty i was inferior to none. i was young, regarded as handsome, stood over six feet in my stockings, and was well set up. as usual i avoided women, although there were many at the meet. although one of the heaviest men there, i kept well ahead through the day, and in spite of the weight of my debts i was in at the death. after the hunt i went to geoffry luxmore's ball, which was a part of the day's programme, but i did not join the dancers. i wanted to be free from women, and therefore accepted an invitation to take part in a game of cards. while sitting at dinner i saw old peter trevisa. he nodded to me in a friendly way. afterward he came to me and caught me by the arm. "and how are matters going at trevanion, eh, lad?" he asked. "grandly," i replied gaily, for i was heated with good wine and i felt no cares. "thou shouldst be in the dancing-room, lad," he said. "there's many a fine maid there; many with a big dowry. geoffry luxmore's daughter should suit thee well, roger." "no women for me," i cried. "no; dost a hate them so?" i shrugged my shoulders. "then my peter'll be getting trevanion, roger?" he said with a leer. in spite of my excitement i felt uneasy as i looked at his eyes. "i've been thinking about calling in my mortgage," he said. "do," i replied. "ah, sits the wind in that quarter, eh? well, roger, thou hast always been a dare-devil fellow. but a landless trevanion will be a sorry sight." "there never has been one yet." "and if thou art the first, 'twill be a sorry business." i felt more uncomfortable, so i swallowed a large bumper of wine to keep my spirits up. presently we sat down to play. i won, i remember, freely at first, and was in high good humour. "luck seems with thee to-night," said old peter trevisa. "after all, it seems thou'st done well to come here rather than go a-dancing with the maidens yonder." as he spoke the music ceased, and on looking up i saw ned prideaux, the fellow who had stolen amelia boscawen from me, come into the room. i don't know that i felt any enmity toward him; the only wrong feeling i had for him was on account of my pride. that he should have been preferred before me wounded my vanity. old peter trevisa knew of the business, and laughed as he came up. "thou didst beat him in courting, lad," he said to prideaux, "let's see if thou canst beat him at playing." this he said like one who had been drinking a good deal. and although i had not seen him making free with wine, i fancied he must be fairly drunk; consequently i did not resent his words. besides, i was in high good humour because of my winnings. "i'll take a hand with pleasure," answered prideaux. he wiped his brow, for he had been dancing, and sat down opposite me. i broke a fresh bottle of wine, and we commenced playing. fool that i was, i drank freely throughout the evening, and presently i became so excited that i hardly knew what i was doing. several fellows gathered around to watch us, and the stakes were high. i had not been playing with prideaux long before my luck turned. i began to lose all i had gained. old peter trevisa chuckled as he saw that the cards were against me. "give it up, roger," he said in a sneering kind of way; "trevanion can't stand bad luck, lad." this wounded my pride. "trevanion can stand as much as i care to let it stand," i replied, and i laid my last guinea on the table. presently mr. hendy, the old family lawyer, came to my side. "be careful, mr. trevanion," he whispered, "this is no time for ducks and drakes." but i answered him with an oath, for i was in no humour to be corrected. besides, wild and lawless as i had been for several years, i remembered that i was a trevanion, and resented the family attorney daring to try to check me in public. "he won't listen to reason, hendy," sneered old peter trevisa. "ah, these young men! hot blood, hendy, hot blood; we can't stop a trevanion." i had now lost all my money, but i would not stop. old trevisa standing at my elbow offering sage advice maddened me. i blurted out what at another time i would not have had mentioned on any consideration. "you have a stake in trevanion, trevisa," i cried angrily. "nonsense, nonsense, roger," whispered the old man, yet so loudly that all could hear. "you have," i cried, "you know you have. if i paid you all you lent my father, there would be little left. how much would the remnant be?" "we'll not speak of that," laughed the old man. "but we will," i said defiantly, for what with wine, and bad luck, and the irritation of the old man's presence i was beside myself. "what more would you lend on the estate?" he named a sum. "i'll play you for that sum, prideaux," i cried. "no," replied prideaux; "no, trevanion, you've lost enough." "but i will!" i replied angrily. "no," said prideaux, "i'm not a gamester of that order. i only play for such sums as have been laid on the table." "but you shall!" i cried with an oath; "you dare not as a gentleman refuse me. you've won five hundred guineas from me this very night. you must give me a chance of winning it back." "luck is against you, trevanion," replied prideaux. "it shall never be said of me that i won a man's homestead from him. i refuse to play." "prideaux has won a maid from you!" laughed old trevisa with a drunken hiccup. "be careful or he'll take trevanion, too." "i'll never play for the land," cried prideaux again. "but you shall," i protested. "if you refuse you are no gentleman, and you will act like a coward to boot." "very well," replied prideaux coolly, "it shall be as you say." we arranged our terms and commenced playing again. half an hour later i had lost the sum which old peter trevisa said he could further advance on trevanion. i do not think i revealed my sensations when i realized that i had lost my all, but a cold feeling came into my heart nevertheless. "trevanion," said prideaux, "we'll not regard the last half-hour's play as anything. it was only fun." "that will not do," i replied. "we have played, and i have lost; that is all." "but i shall not take----" "you will," i cried. "you have played fairly, and it is yours. i will see to it at once that the amount shall be handed to you." "i will not take it," cried prideaux. "i absolutely refuse." i know i was mad; my blood felt like streams of molten fire in my veins, but i was outwardly cool. the excitement i had previously shown was gone. perhaps despair helped me to appear calm. "look you, peter trevisa," i said; "you give prideaux a draft for that money." "roger, roger," said the old man coaxingly, "take prideaux's offer. he won your maid; don't let him win trevanion too. you'll cut a sorry figure as a landless trevanion." i seized a pen which lay near, and wrote some words on a piece of paper. "there," i said to prideaux as i threw it to him, "it shall not be said that a trevanion ever owed a prideaux anything, not even a gaming debt. gentlemen, i wish you good-night." i left the room as i spoke and ordered my horse. i was able to walk straight, although i felt slightly giddy. i scarcely realized what i had done, although i had a vague impression that i was now homeless and friendless. a ten-mile journey lay before me, but i thought nothing of it. what time i arrived at trevanion i know not. my horse was taken from me by an old servant, and without speaking a word to any one i went straight to bed. chapter ii. peter trevisa's offer. the next morning i awoke with terrible pains in my head, while my heart lay like lead within me. for some time i could not realize what had happened; indeed, i hardly knew where i was. it was broad daylight, but i could not tell what the hour was. presently a clock began to strike, and then i realized that i lay in my own bed at trevanion and that the clock stood in the turret of my own stables. i counted the strokes. it stopped at eleven. no sooner had it ceased than all that had happened the previous night flashed through my mind. i jumped out of bed and looked out of the window. never had the place seemed so fair to look upon, never had the trees looked so large and stately. and i was burdened with the dread remembrance that it was no longer mine. when i had dressed i tried to face the matter fairly. i tried to understand what i had done. the more i thought about it the more i cursed myself for being a fool. for i felt how insane i had been. i had drunk too much wine, i had allowed myself to become angry at old peter trevisa's words. i had blurted out truths which under other circumstances i would rather have bitten my tongue in two than have told. i had acted like a madman. wild, foolish as i had been in the past, that night was the climax of my folly. why had old peter trevisa's presence and words aroused me so? the more i thought the sadder i became, the darker did my prospects appear. i had given prideaux a written guarantee for the money i had been unable to pay. that piece of paper meant my ruin, if he took advantage of it. would he do this? yes, i would see that he did. in extremities as i was, i would rather sacrifice the land than violate our old code of honour. i heard a knock at the door, and a servant entered. "from mr. trevisa of treviscoe, sir," he said. i am afraid my hand trembled slightly as i took the letter. "who brought it, daniel?" i asked. "a servant, sir." "let breakfast be ready in ten minutes, daniel; i'll be down by that time." "yes, sir." i broke the seal of the letter and read it. i soon discovered that it was written by young peter trevisa. for, first of all, it was written in a clear hand and correctly spelt, and i knew that old peter's writing was crabbed and ill-shapen; besides which, the old man had not learnt the secret of stringing words together with anything like ease. the contents of the epistle, too, revealed the fact that the son, and not the father, acted as scribe. the following is an exact transcript thereof: "treviscoe the th day of march in the year . "_to roger trevanion, esq., of trevanion._ "dear sir:--the events of last night having altered their complexion somewhat after you left the house of geoffry luxmore, esq., and the writing which you gave to mr. edward prideaux having changed hands, with that gentleman's consent, it has become necessary for you to visit treviscoe without delay. my father has therefore instructed me to write (instead of employing our attorney, who has up to the present conducted all correspondence relating to my father's connections with trevanion) urging your presence here. i am also asked to impress upon you the fact that it will be greatly to your advantage to journey here immediately, while your delay will be perilous to yourself. we shall therefore expect you here within two hours from the delivery of this letter. "peter trevisa." this communication certainly looked ominous, and i felt in no very pleasant frame of mind as i entered the room beneath, where my breakfast had been placed for me. "where is the fellow who brought this, daniel?" i asked of my old serving-man. "he is standin' outside, sur. he wudden cum in. he seemed in a terble 'urry." i went to the door and saw a horse which had evidently been hard ridden. it was covered with mud and sweat. the man who stood by the animal's side touched his hat when he saw me. "go into the kitchen, my man, and get something to eat and drink," i said. "i must not, sur," was the reply. "my master told me to ride hard, and to return immediately i got your answer." "anything wrong at treviscoe?" "not as i know ov, sur." i had no hope of anything good from old peter, and i felt like defying him. my two years' possession of trevanion had brought but little joy. every day i was pinched for money, and to have an old house to maintain without a sufficient income galled me. the man who is poor and proud is in no enviable position. added to this, the desire to hide my poverty had made me reckless, extravagant, dissolute. sometimes i had been driven to desperation, and, while i had never forgotten the trevanion's code of honour, i had become feared and disliked by many people. let me here say that the trevanion code of honour might be summed up in the following way: "never betray a woman. never break a promise. never leave an insult unavenged. suffer any privation rather than owe money to any man. support the church, and honour the king." having obeyed these dictates, a trevanion might feel himself free to do what else he liked. he could be a drunkard, a gamester, a swashbuckler, and many other things little to be desired. i speak now for my own branch of the family, for i had but little to do with others of my name. in the course of years the estates had been much divided, and my father's patrimony was never great. true, there were many hundreds of acres of land, but, even although all of it were free from embarrassment, it was not enough to make its owner wealthy. my father had also quarrelled with those who bore our name, partly, i expect, because they treated him with but little courtesy. perhaps this was one reason why he had been recklessly extravagant, and why he had taken no pains to make me careful. anyhow i am afraid that while i was feared by many i was beloved by few. i had had many quarrels, and the law of my county being something lax, i had done deeds which had by no means endeared me to my neighbours. my pride was great, my temper was of the shortest, my tastes and habits were expensive, and my income being small, i was weary of keeping up a position for which i had not the means. consequently, as i read young peter trevisa's letter, i felt like refusing to obey his bidding. i had been true to the trevanion code of honour. i had given prideaux a written promise that the gaming debt should be paid. let them do their worst. i was young, as strong as a horse, scarcely knew the meaning of fatigue, and i loved adventure. i was the last of my branch of the family, so there was no one that i feared grieving. very well, then, i would seek my fortune elsewhere. there were treasures in india, there were quarrels nearer home, and strong men were needed. there were many careers open to me; i would leave trevanion and go to lands beyond the seas. i was about to tell the man to inform his master that i refused to go to treviscoe, when i was influenced to change my mind. i was curious to know what old peter had to say. i was careless as to what he intended doing in relation to the moneys i owed him, but i wondered what schemes the old man had in his mind. why did he want to see me? it would do no harm to ride to his house. i wanted occupation, excitement, and the ride would be enjoyable. "very well," i said, "if i do not see your master before you do, tell him i will follow you directly." "yes, sur," and without another word the man mounted the horse and rode away. i ate a hearty breakfast, and before long felt in a gay mood. true the old home was dear to me, but the thought of being free from anxious care as to how i might meet my creditors was pleasant. i made plans as to where i should go, and what steps i should first take in winning a fortune. the spirit of adventure was upon me, and i laughed aloud. in a few days cornwall should know me no more. i would go to london; when there nothing should be impossible to a man of thirty-two. i spoke pleasantly to daniel, the old serving-man, and my laughter became infectious. a few seconds later the kitchen maids had caught my humour. then my mood changed, for i felt a twinge of pain at telling them they must leave the old place. some of them had lived there long years, and they would ill-brook the thought of seeking new service. they had served the family faithfully too, and ought to be pensioned liberally instead of being sent penniless into the world. a little later i was riding furiously toward treviscoe. the place was a good many miles from trevanion, but i reached it in a little more than an hour. i found old peter and his son eagerly awaiting me. "glad to see you, roger, glad to see you," said the old man. "why did you send for me?" i asked. "i'll tell you directly. john, take some wine in the library." the servant departed to do his bidding, and i followed the two trevisas into the library. "sit down by the fire, roger, lad; that's it. first of all we'll drink each other's health in the best wine i have in my cellar. this is a special occasion, roger." "doubtless, a special occasion," i replied; "but no wine for me at present. i want to keep my head cool in talking with such as you. what do you want of me?" "let's not be hasty, roger," said old peter, eyeing me keenly, while young peter drew his chair to a spot where his face was shaded, but from which he could see me plainly. "let's be friendly." "i'm in no humour to be friendly," was my rejoinder. "tell me why you have wished me to come to you?" "i would have come to you, but i had a twinge of gout this morning, and was not able to travel. i wanted to see you on an important matter, my dear lad." "will you drop all such honeyed phrases, peter trevisa," i said angrily. "i know you lent money to my father on trevanion. i know i have been a fool since i came into possession. last night i lost my head. well, prideaux shall be paid, and you will take the rest. i quite expect this, and am prepared for it." "prideaux has been paid," laughed the old man. "in cash?" "aye, that he has." "who paid him?" "i did." "oh, i see. you wanted the bone all to yourself, did you," i cried angrily. "well, some dogs are like that. but it makes no difference to me. do your worst." "you remember this," he said, holding up the piece of paper i had given to prideaux the night before. "i was mad when i wrote it," i replied, "but i remember it well. how did it come into your hands?" "prideaux has very fine notions about honour," remarked old peter. "he did not like taking advantage of it, and yet he knew that you as a trevanion would insist on his doing so." "well?" "well, roger lad, seeing i have the trevanion deeds, i thought i might as well have this too. so i offered him money down, and he was pleased to arrange the matter that way. he has made the thing over to me." "let's see it--his writing ought to be on it to that effect." "it is; aye, it is." "then let me look at it." "no, roger. this paper is very precious to me. i dare not let you have it. you might destroy it then." "peter trevisa," i cried, "did ever a trevanion do a trick like that?" "no, but you are in a tight corner, and----" "listen, you chattering old fool," i cried angrily. "if i wished, i could squeeze the life out of the bodies of both of you and take the paper from you before any one could come to your aid. but that's not my way; give it me." "i'll trust you, roger; here it is." i looked at the paper. i saw my own promise and signature; underneath it was stated that the money had been paid by peter trevisa, and signed "edward prideaux." i flung it at him. "there," i said, "you've forged the last link in your chain now. i am quite prepared for what i have no doubt you will do. trevanion is yours. well, have it; may it bring you as much joy as it has brought me." "you misjudge me," cried old peter. "you misjudge both me and my son. true, trevanion would be a fine place for my lad, but then i should not like to drive you away from your old home. all the trevanions would turn in their graves if any one else lived there. i want to be your friend. i desire to help you on to your feet again." "wind!" i cried. "trust you to help any man!" "listen to what my father has to say," cried young peter. "you will see that we both wish to be friendly." his face was partly hidden; nevertheless i saw the curious light shining from his eyes. he was undersized, this young peter, just as his father was. a foxy expression was on his face, and his mouth betrayed his nature. he was cunning and sensual. his was not unlike a monkey's face. his forehead receded, his lips were thick, his ears large. "roger trevanion, my lad, there is no reason why you should have to leave your old home. nay, there is no reason why you should not be better off than you have been. that is why i got this paper from edward prideaux." old peter spoke slowly, looking at me from the corner of his eyes. "you want me to do something," i said after a minute's silence. "ah, roger," laughed the old man, "how quickly you jump at conclusions." "it will not do, peter trevisa," i cried. "you have trevanion. well, make the most of it. i shall not be sorry to be away from the county. the thought that everything has really belonged to you has hung like a millstone around my neck. i am not going to fetch and carry for you." "but if you had the deeds back. if i burnt this paper. if the estate were unencumbered. what then?" "you know it will not be. trust you to give up your pound of flesh." "you do me an injustice," replied old peter, with a semblance of righteous indignation. "what right have you to say this? have i been hard on you. have i dunned you for your money." "no; but you have lost no opportunity of letting me know that the place belongs to you." "that was natural, very natural. i wanted to put a check on your extravagance." i laughed in his face, for i knew this to be a lie. "roger trevanion," cried young peter, "my father is a merciful man. he has your welfare at heart. he is old too. is it manly to mock old age." "let there be an end of this," i cried. "i begin to see why you have brought me here. i knew you had some deep-laid plans or i would not have come. it is always interesting to know what such as you think. well, let's know what it is." for the moment i seemed master of the situation. an outsider would have imagined them in my power instead of i being in theirs. especially did young peter look anxious. "i am sure we can trust roger," said the old man. "when a trevanion gives his word he has never been known to break it." "but they are learning to be careful how to give their word," i retorted. peter looked uneasy. "but if i ask you to keep what i tell you a secret, you will promise, roger?" "i ask for no confidences," i replied. "you said just now that we wanted you to do something," said young peter. "you guessed rightly. if you do not feel inclined to do what we ask you, you will of course respect anything we may tell you?" "that is but fair," was my answer. "you promise, then?" cried old peter. "if i honourably can," i replied. for a few seconds both men were silent; then old peter began to speak again. "roger trevanion," he said, "you know that i hold the deeds of trevanion; you know that you are entirely at my mercy." "well enough." "you would like to remain at trevanion? you, a trevanion, would not like to be an outcast, a mere vagrant, a landless gipsy." "i don't care much," i replied. "i should be free; and i would rather be landless than be supposed to own the land, while everything practically belonged to you. i've told you this before. why make me say it again?" "but you would like the deeds back. you would like to live at the old home with plenty of money?" "you know i would. why mock me?" "you would do a great deal in order that this might come to pass." "what do you want?" we had come back to the same point again, and again old peter hesitated. "you know restormel?" he said at length. "restormel castle, up by lostwithiel?" i asked. "no; restormel in the parish of st. miriam, a few miles north from here?" "oh, yes, i know." "what do you know?" both old peter and young peter spoke in the same breath; both spoke eagerly, too--anxiously in fact. "what is rumoured by certain gossips," i replied. "i expect there is no truth in it." "but what have you heard?" "it is said that the estate belongs to a chit of a maid," i replied; "that the maid's mother died at her birth, and that her father, godfrey molesworth, did not long survive her. that he was broken-hearted. that everything was left to a mere baby." "but what became of the baby?" "i know not. i have heard that she has never been seen on the place, although her father has been dead wellnigh twenty years. that the rents are paid to colman killigrew who lives at endellion castle, and who is a godless old savage. rumour says that he claims to be the maid's guardian. but of this i am ignorant. he lives full fifty miles from here, and i know nothing of him." "that is all you have heard?" "that is all i can remember at present." "you have never seen the maid?" "no. who has? stay; i have heard she was placed in a convent school. old killigrew is a catholic, i suppose." "i'll tell you more, roger trevanion. colman killigrew has been fattening on the restormel lands for wellnigh twenty years. he hath kept the maid, nancy molesworth, a prisoner. in a few months she will be twenty-one. he intends marrying her to one of his sons. she hates the whole tribe of killigrews, but he cares nothing for that. he is determined; you can guess why." "yes, such things are common. but what is that to me? i know nothing of the maid, nancy molesworth; i do not care. let the killigrews marry her; let them possess restormel." "my son peter hath seen the maid, roger." "ah! how?" "he had to pay a visit in the neighbourhood of endellion castle, and he saw her by chance." "spoke he to her?" "no, he did not; she did not see him. she is kept a close prisoner, but my peter hath lost his heart." i turned and looked at young peter, and his face looked more monkeyish than ever. a simpering smile played around his protruding mouth. his eyes shone like those of a weazel. "well," i said, "what is this to me?" "this, roger trevanion. i want that maid, nancy molesworth, brought here to treviscoe. i want to save her from those papist savages who would bring ruin upon the maid and upon the country." "that's nothing to me," i replied; "i avoid women. they are all alike--all cruel, all selfish, all false as hell. why tell your plans to me?" "because," cried young peter, "if you will bring the sweet maid, nancy molesworth, to treviscoe, you shall have the trevanion deeds back. i will destroy this paper you gave to prideaux, and we will forgive a large part of the money you have had from us." and he named a fairly liberal sum. chapter iii. crossing the rubicon. i must confess to being startled by this proposal. i had not foreseen it. that i should have to do with any woman formed no part of my plans. as i have said, i hated women; i had not forgotten the lesson i had learnt as a lad. hence the suddenness of his proposal took me somewhat aback. but i did not betray my feelings. instead i walked quietly around the room, occasionally glancing at the two men who watched me closely. "if i refuse to do this," i said presently, "you will of course make good your claims on trevanion?" both nodded. "and if i consent, you will in payment for my services destroy the paper i gave to prideaux, give me back the deeds, and forgive the amount you mentioned?" "i will have papers drawn up to that effect," replied old peter in honeyed tones. "i will always be a friend to you, and render you any little services in my power. you are but thirty-two. think what a gay life you could live!" i saw what was in his mind. he thought i should continue my spendthrift habits, and that as a natural consequence he would soon possess the deeds again. but i said nothing. there was no need that i should. besides at that moment i felt a great desire to stay at trevanion, and i formed a resolution that if ever i got the deeds, i would never let them go out of my possession again. the matter required thinking about; and heedless of the inquiries i still paced treviscoe library, trying the while to read the two trevisas' motives, and understand the whole bearings of the case. i was not long in forming conclusions. "the restormel estates are valuable, i suppose?" i said at length. "there is some very good land on it," replied old peter. "molesworth harbour is in it." "just so; and you mean that young peter should marry this maid?" i continued. "and what then?" cried old peter. "that's naught to you. you hate all women, you say. you care not what may become of her if you have your deeds back, and become a prosperous man?" "no!" i replied, shrugging my shoulders. "i care not"; and yet i felt uneasy, i knew not why. "besides the maid hates the killigrews, hates 'em!" "how do you know?" "i've found out." i must confess i did not like the work. the idea that i should take a maid barely twenty-one from the man claiming to be her guardian, and bring her to treviscoe, the home of these two trevisas, was repellent to me. i was not over-particular what i did as a rule, but this caused a nasty taste in my mouth. this nancy molesworth might marry young peter, crawling ugly worm as he was, that was nothing to me; what matter it who women married? he might have the restormel lands too, if he could get them. still, although i had given myself pretty much over to the devil during the last few years, i did not like the thought that a trevanion should do the dirty work of a trevisa. had they told me all? why should they select me for this mission? and why should they be willing to pay such a big price? there were plenty of gangs of cut-throats in cornwall who would do their bidding for a less sum. "you had better place this affair in other hands," i said at length. "haven't we offered enough?" cried young peter. "it's too dear at any price, i am afraid," i replied, and yet my heart went out toward trevanion as i spoke. "you are prepared to give up your old home, discharge your old servants, and become nameless then?" old peter said, his ferrety eyes fastened on me all the while. "others would do it cheaper," i replied; "far cheaper. tom belowda's gang would attempt the work for a hundred guineas." young peter lost his head as i spoke. "could i trust the sweet maid with a gang of roughs?" he cried; "besides, we should place ourselves in their power, they would know our secrets." "it would pay them not to tell." "aye, but a secret held by such ceases to be a secret." i saw that my game was to hold back, and i continued to do so. the thought of retaining trevanion grew dearer each minute, but i did not let them know. "it's a difficult task," i suggested, still continuing to pace the room. "not so difficult for such as you," said old peter coaxingly. "when you trevanions make up your mind to do a thing you do it, although the furies stand in your way. you are as strong as a horse and if need be could fight like a fiend from the bottomless pit. not that there would be any need," he added quickly. "if it is so easy," i retorted, "let young peter do this himself. he says he loves this maid, and love," i laughed sneeringly, "overcomes all difficulties. this is just the work for a lover. it smacks of far-off days. let peter attack the castle like the knights of past ages, and bear off his bride in triumph. he would make a fine sight carrying a maid on his crupper." i saw a look of vindictive hatred shine from young peter's eyes, but he said nothing. "peter is not fit for such work," was the old man's reply. "he was delicate from a child. riding wearies him, he has neither the strength nor the daring necessary." "you say that killigrew has sons?" i said at length, a new thought flashing into my mind. "yes." "many?" "five." "be they weaklings like you, or strong fighting men?" i said, turning to young peter. "strong men, giants," he said quickly, and then he tried to qualify his words as though he were afraid that difficulties would hinder me. for the first time i found pleasure in the thought of accepting the mission. it fired my blood to think of doing battle with these sturdy killigrews. they were papists too, and i had been taught to hate them from my childhood. i longed for some reckless work to do. at first it had seemed tame and mean to carry away a chit of a maid from endellion castle, and take her to treviscoe, that she might become the wife of peter trevisa. i surmised, too, that young peter thought quite as much of restormel as he did of the maid. but to go into a house where there were five young fellows who were giants, and take away a maid who was closely guarded, aroused all my love for adventure. "what is this endellion castle?" i asked. "is it one of the old cornish fortresses?" "part of the castle still stands," replied young peter. "the grandfather of the present colman killigrew built the present house adjoining it." "it is well guarded, i suppose?" "yes," replied young peter reluctantly. "colman killigrew and all his sons are rebels at heart. in his father's days he and his family supported king james; they long for a catholic to be on the throne, and there is a rumour that they are planning against our good king george." "hath anything been proved against them?" "no, not proved, but matters look suspicious. rumour saith, that should there be a rebellion he could command five hundred swords. there is a strong papist feeling in the neighbourhood of endellion." "and the maid, is she a papist?" "her father, godfrey molesworth, was a strong protestant, but heaven only knows what they have persuaded her to be." this information caused new thoughts to come into my mind, and i determined to remember what he had told me. "are colman killigrew and his sons beloved by the neighbouring families?" i asked presently. "he is both beloved and hated. some of the catholics are his friends, but others mistrust him sorely." these matters came out slowly. evidently young peter did not care about discussing them. perchance he was afraid lest i should shrink from trying to carry out his plans when i knew them. i was silent for some time. i pondered much over what i had heard. "all this should be nothing to thee, roger, lad," said old peter, becoming more and more familiar in his tones. "all the trevanions for many generations have sought to help the oppressed. thou hast the blood of thy fathers within thee. this is work worthy of the best. besides, if thou wilt do this, both peter and myself will befriend thee always. peter's heart went out after the maid, and he longed to set her free. she is suffering, roger, suffering greatly. killigrew will rob her, and sell her to one of his brutal sons. such a work as we asked will win the blessing of heaven." "have done with this quaker talk!" i cried. "i care nothing about such things. perchance the maid will be better off where she is than with you; perchance, too, one of these killigrews will make a better husband for her than your puling lad." "nay, think not so," cried the old man; "peter is a good lad, weak in body, but quick in thinking, and hath a kind heart." "i like a fight," i blurted out; "i do not object to a rough bit of work, but----" i mused. "but what, roger, lad?" "i hate aught that hath to do with women. this matter presents many difficulties. i must get to speak with the maid, if she be as you say. if not, i must carry her off by force. anyway i shall have a wench on my hand for days. i dislike this. i am no woman's man, and i should repel her by my roughness." peter's eyes glistened. "but you would be kind to her?" he asked eagerly. "kind!" i replied. "i would always treat a helpless maid with respect. no man who is a man could be cruel to these poor things, who cannot fight for themselves. still one cannot trust women. mostly they would betray a man at a pinch even though he were fighting for their welfare." "that is why we are anxious to have such a man as you to help us," cried old peter. "if we gave this to some, my lad would be eating his heart away with jealousy. he would think they would be plotting to take her away from him. but you, roger, you have been badly treated by women, therefore----" "i should pay them scant courtesy," i interrupted. "i know a trevanion would always treat a well-born maid as she should be treated. besides----" "besides what?" "if you promise to bring the maid here, you will bring her." "yes," i replied grimly, "if i promise." "you are as clever as a lawyer, and strong as a horse," wheedled old peter, "and a trevanion always keeps his promise." to this i vouchsafed no reply, but i saw the old man's purpose in trying to flatter me. "will you promise?" cried young peter at length, after much more talk. i considered the matter again. i thought of the trevanion deeds, and the forgiveness of half the debts my father had contracted. on the other hand, i pictured myself going into the world a landless wanderer, after having turned all the old servants adrift. it was not pleasant. then i tried to realize the work these two trevisas wanted me to do. should i bring a maid, badly as she might be treated by the killigrews (and i much doubted this portion of their narrative), a maid well born and beauteous, to be the wife of a crawling worm like young peter trevisa? but this did not trouble me much. what did i care who she married? killigrew, a giant cut-throat, or trevisa, a weak-chested, knocked-kneed, sensual little vermin?--it mattered not. neither did i trouble much as to who possessed the restormel lands. still i was a trevanion, and a trevanion hates dirty work--at least of that kind. on the other hand, i loved adventure. the thought of spiting these killigrews and taking the maid from them, even though i knew little of them, except that they were papists, stirred my blood. true i did not understand all the motives of the trevisas in selecting me to do this work, but that did not matter. i doubted much if the maid would consent to marry young peter, although i brought her to treviscoe. that, however, was not my business. old peter regarded his son as a handsome man, with brains enough for two; i knew him to be a flat-chested, ugly weakling with plenty of cunning. "have you made up your mind?" asked old peter at length. "yes," i cried. "you will undertake the work?" "on conditions." he got up from his seat and held out his hand to me. "let's shake hands on it," he cried. "not yet," i replied; "i must name my conditions first." "well, what are they, roger, lad? don't be unreasonable." "first," i replied, "this business will need money. it may take many weeks. i know not what will happen to me on the way. i must not go to endellion a moneyless man." "we have thought of that," replied young peter; "there are a hundred guineas in this bag." "that is well," i replied; "it is a stingy allowance, but it may suffice. the next condition i make is, that you draw up a writing stating what you have just promised me." "it shall be done." "then send for mr. hendy, my attorney, without delay." "why?" "that it may be placed in his hands." "i--i cannot consent to that," cried old peter. "i want no other person to know our plans. i will keep the paper safely, lad, quite safely." i thought i saw his cunning now. if they kept the agreement, i should be quite powerless to claim my own, even if i did my work. i saw, too, why they were so willing to offer liberal terms. "if you refuse, i refuse," i replied. "i stake everything on this, peter trevisa. if i fail to bring that maid here to treviscoe, it will mean that i am a dead man, for i swear that i will not give up while i am alive. if i promise, i promise." this i said firmly, for i knew the danger which attended my work. "but i will do right, you may trust me," wheedled the old man. "maybe," i replied; "do as i say, or i refuse. i simply demand that you write the matter down and sign it. on conditions that i bring the maid, nancy molesworth, to treviscoe, within two months, you give me back the trevanion deeds, the paper i gave prideaux, and a declaration that you forgive me the money you mentioned. if i do not bring the maid here in that time, it shall be returned to you, and you can destroy it." he tried to wriggle out of this, and brought forward as many objections as if he were a lawyer. but i did not yield, and so at length, doubtless believing they would be able to get the better of me, even if i succeeded in my mission, he promised. "let us send for lawyer hendy at once, and then the matter will be settled," he said, as though he were thinking of means whereby he could keep me in his power. "not yet," i said; "there is yet another condition." "no, no!" he cried; "i have made no more conditions." "this will have to be complied with," i replied with a laugh, for to see these men yielding to my terms made me merry. "what more do you want?" asked old peter after many words. "i demand that lawyer hendy shall manage trevanion while i am away," i said. "if i do not return in two months you may conclude that i am dead. in that case i demand that certain sums of money be given to the servants who have served our family for many years." these sums i named, also the servants to whom they were to be given. "i agree to the first part of the condition, not the second," cried old peter. "why?" i asked. "do you expect me to fail? do you think i shall be killed? is the expedition so dangerous? a little while ago you said it was very easy, and that i should be sure to succeed." "but it is not fair," whined he. "in that case i should lose much money for nothing." "and i risk everything. you will have to do this only in case of my death. i may lose my life, and you refuse to lose a few paltry guineas." "i tell you i will not!" he cried. "very well, then you may get some one else to do your work." "then i will have trevanion. every stick, every field, every jot and tittle will be mine, and you will have to leave the county a vagrant," shrieked the old man. "no," i said firmly. "i will go to endellion on my own account. possibly the maid might bring me fortune." "but you promised you would not," pleaded young peter. "i promised nothing of the sort. i said i would tell no man. neither will i." "but you hate women," he continued; "you have refused your lawyer to marry a woman with money, even although it might save your estates!" i laughed aloud, for this speech was uttered in a whining, yet savage way, just like a dog who is afraid whines, showing its teeth all the time. "i did not know then what i know now," i said with glee, for it was a pleasant thing to see these scheming money-grubs having the worst of a game. they wriggled and twisted finely for some time, and then consented, as i knew they would, for i saw from the beginning that they had concocted a scheme which would mean much profit to them. besides i believe that young peter was really much in love with the maid nancy molesworth. so lawyer hendy was sent for, old peter trying to ply me with wine the meanwhile. in this he did not succeed, however, for i felt i must not lose my head, and thus be led to do foolish things. we drew up the papers as i had stipulated; they were signed by both peter and his son, and lawyer hendy was given full instructions. on leaving, i took the money old peter had offered me and counted it carefully. "you will do your best, roger; you will not break your promise?" he said tremulously. "i do not break promises," i replied. "when will you start?" "to-morrow morning!" "god bless you, roger." "i am not sure he can while i do your work," i replied. chapter iv. my journey to endellion. the next morning i started to ride to the home of the killigrews. i could see that daniel sorely wanted to accompany me, but i decided not to take him. in nine cases out of ten a man does work better when unencumbered. mostly people who pretend to help fail to understand what is in one's mind, and as a consequence generally bungle things grievously. i did not want this matter bungled. the more i thought about it the more was i determined to see the thing through successfully. the picture of living at trevanion, practically unharassed by debts, became more pleasant each hour. besides as a race we were not given to bungling, and although i was little in love with the thought of having a maid for a companion, i gloried in the prospect of measuring wits, and if needs be swords, with these sturdy killigrews. i therefore mounted my favourite horse which i called "chestnut," on account of his colour; a horse the like of which was difficult to be matched. he was going five, stood over sixteen hands high, and was of a build which united strength with speed to such a degree that half the squires in the county wanted him. i had been sorely tempted to sell him, but had never yielded to the temptation. i had always prided myself on riding the best horse in the county, and chestnut was certainly second to none. in spite of my unusual weight he carried me easily, he would run until he dropped, and possessed tremendous staying power. added to this, i had seen him foaled, had fed him with my own hands, and when jenkins, the famous horse-breaker, declared to me his inability to "break him in," i had undertaken the task myself, and had succeeded. i did it by a new method, too, for i never struck him a blow. i do not attribute this to any special power i possess over horses generally, for jenkins would in nine cases out of ten succeed where i failed. the truth was, chestnut, when he was a colt, regarded me as a sort of playfellow and learnt to love me. being an intelligent animal, he soon understood me, indeed he had a curious instinct by which he seemed to divine my thoughts and feelings. i carefully armed myself, and placed in my saddle-bags as much ammunition as i could conveniently carry. i did not know whether i should stand in need of these things, but i thought it well to be prepared. the county was infested by robbers, and as i carried a large amount of money i thought it well to test my sword-blade and pistols. thus equipped i had no fear. i was a fair shot, and generally held as a strong swordsman. "when may i expect 'ee back then, sur, makin' so bold?" asked daniel as i mounted. "i don't know, daniel; don't expect me until you see me. as you know, i have given you full particulars, and mr. hendy will visit you constantly." "you be goin' into danger, master roger," said the serving-man tremulously. "laive me go weth 'ee, sur." daniel was nearly fifty years of age, and had served our family all his life, so he had been allowed to take liberties. "ould smiler es jist aitin his 'ead off, sur, and i baint no good 'ere when you be gone. taake me weth 'ee, sur. you wa'ant be sorry." as i said, i did not think it best to take him, so i rode away leaving him disconsolate. on my way to the home of the killigrews i passed through truro, tresillian, ladock, and mitchell, but nothing happened worthy of note. i did not hurry, rather i rode slowly, for i wanted to enjoy the quiet of the day. everywhere new life was appearing. everywhere, too, the spirit of rest seemed to reign. in those days i did not think much about the beauties of early spring, but i could not help being impressed by the scene around tresillian. the little arm of the river enclosed by wooded hills was indeed fair to look upon. i rested my horse at the gates of tregothnan, where the boscawens lived and looked with somewhat envious eyes on the long line of yew-trees which bordered the drive, and remembered that i had once loved the maid who was related to the people who dwelt in the great house in the distance. i did not get beyond st. columb that day, and, on arriving there, tried to find out something about the killigrews. i had not gone far enough north, however. the main branch of the family, as all the country knows, had lived at st. erme, about five miles north of truro, also at falmouth, but it had died out. colman killigrew was the descendant of one benet killigrew, who, although he did not, like some of his relations, become a courtier, was sufficiently fortunate to marry a mistress scobell rosecarrick, of endellion, in which endellion castle was situated. through her this branch of the killigrews became possessed of a pleasant estate, and also became allied to an ancient race. this i had learnt by reading carew's survey of cornwall after i had returned from peter trevisa. of their present condition, however, i knew nothing, neither could i discover anything about them at st. columb. arriving at wadebridge the next day, my attention was attracted by an inn called "the molesworth arms." as the name of the maid i had promised to take from endellion to treviscoe was molesworth, and as it was moreover the chief inn in the town, i decided to rest there and partake of some refreshment. although it was scarcely noon, i found the common room of the inn filled with a number of people. mostly the occupants were farmers, although i fancied one or two of them belonged to the gentlefolk of the neighbourhood. i did not pay particular attention to them, however, because my interest became centred in a hale-looking old man, who was evidently a travelling story-teller and minstrel. he had finished his singing, and was now telling a story before taking his departure. there is no need that i should repeat the tale here; at the same time i mention the incident because i was impressed by the wondrous way he had of making us all look at him. one could have heard a pin drop when he was speaking. i was fascinated by him too, partly, i expect, because i did not understand him. as all the county knows, a tale-teller, or a wandering singer, who is usually called "a droll," is no unusual thing. many of them had visited trevanion, and i had always given them food and a bed. mostly they came when the house was full of visitors, and regaled the company with song and story. but they were mostly of the lower orders of life, and spoke the cornish dialect. indeed their stories usually had but little charm apart from the dialect, although occasionally tales were told which were interesting because of their subject-matter. these were generally of a supernatural order, and described the dead arising or spirits coming back to the world to bring some message to their friends. i had never seen this man at trevanion, however, neither did he belong to the class who had visited the house. it is true he spoke the cornish dialect, but at times he let words drop which showed he knew something of learning. he had an air of authority with him, too, which suggested that he lived on terms of equality with men of position. at least this was what i thought. he paid no attention to me, save to give me one glance, and when he had finished his story said he must move on. "stay till even', uncle anthony," said the innkeeper, "do 'ee now. a passel of people will be comin'." "no," replied uncle anthony, "i have promised to be twelve miles away by to-night, so i mus' be goin'." "tich yer 'arp afore you go, uncle," pleaded the innkeeper. "i sha'ant, i tell 'ee," replied anthony. a number of coins were thrown to the droll, and then shouldering his harp he left the inn. "'ee's a cure es uncle anthony," said the innkeeper, turning to me; "'ee es for sure, sur." "who is he?" i asked. "he does not seem like a common droll." "he ed'n for sure, sur. i've 'eerd that uncle do come of a rich family, but law, you ca'ant git nothin' from un. everybody es glad to zee un. he's a clain off zinger, and can play butiful, 'ee can. which way ded you cum then, sur, makin' sa bould." "from southward," i replied. "far, sur?" "from truro." "aw, i thot you wos a bit of a furriner. i cud zee you ded'n belong to thaise paarts. goin' fur, sur?" "probably to bodmin town," i replied, for i did not feel like taking the talkative innkeeper into my confidence. "aw, uncle anthony es well knawed in thais paarts, 'ee es for sure. and 'ee d' knaw a lot too. wot uncle doan knaw ed'n much use to nobody." i stayed at the inn till late in the afternoon, during which time i plied the innkeeper with many questions, but i learnt nothing about the killigrews more than i had hitherto discovered; then i mounted chestnut and rode towards endellion, in which parish the maid nancy molesworth lived. i could not help noticing what a pretty spot wadebridge was as i rode over the bridge, after which the town was called. the tide was high, and several good-sized vessels lay at the riverside. but i had naught to do with them, so stopping only to take a glance at the river as it broadened out towards padstow, and again in the other direction as its waters lapped the banks near the little village of egloshayle, i rode on towards st. minver. it must be remembered that it was the twenty-sixth day of march, and so daylight began to fade soon after six o'clock, and as i wanted to reach the home of the killigrews before dark, i rode rapidly. i puzzled my brains sorely to know by what pretext i could enter the house, also under what name i should present myself. i dared not tell them that i was a trevanion, for my people were well known. we were well known to the killigrews who had lived at pendennis castle, also to those who possessed a place a few miles from truro. moreover, all the trevanions were stout protestants, and as colman killigrew and his sons were rank papists, i dared not appear to them under this guise. my pride rebelled against assuming a false name and professing a false religion, but i had promised peter trevisa, and as in those days i was not over-particular about such matters i vowed to let nothing stand in the way of my seeing the business through. my purpose was to stay at endellion several days, else how could i accomplish my mission? in order to do this i must in some way establish some claim upon the owner thereof. there would be no difficulty in staying one night, or even two, for the laws of cornish hospitality made this easy. no house of importance would close its doors to a traveller, be he rich or poor. i determined, therefore, to pretend that i was a member of an obscure branch of the penryn family, who were well known to be catholics; that i was the owner of a small barton, and that i was anxious to see a catholic king on the throne of england. that i had heard rumours of the probability of the grandson of king james coming to england, and that could a leader be found i might render assistance to the catholic cause. beyond this i decided upon nothing. if questions were asked me, i must trust to my wits. i determined to keep a cool head and open eyes. if the worst came to the worst i could fight with the best, indeed i rather hoped for difficult work. presently i saw the tower of endellion church. it was on a little hillside, while all around the country was bare, as far as trees were concerned. i rode towards the little village, and seeing a strapping maid, i stopped and spoke to her. "do you know where squire killigrew lives, my pretty maid?" i asked. she laughed in my face, revealing fine white teeth and shining blue eyes. "iss, sur. endellion." "this is endellion, is it not?" i said, pointing to the church. "this is the church town, this is. endellion es dree miles from we, right over ginst the say." "the killigrews live there, you say? do you know them?" "knaw 'em. who doan't?" "i don't, but i want to see them." the maid stared at me as though she were afraid, then she said almost fearfully. "doan't 'ee knaw 'em?" "no," i replied. "do they knaw you?" "no." "then doan't 'ee go, sur. they'll kill 'ee, sur. they be terble, sur. they taake no noatice of the passon, nor the bible, sur." i saw that the maid was in earnest. no one was near, for i had not entered the village, so i dismounted and stood by her side. "you seem a good maid," i said, "and i believe you would not tell a lie. what know you of these killigrews?" "i'm feared to tell 'ee, sur. nearly everybody es feared to go there. the 'ouse es full ov rubbers. say rubbers, and land rubbers. people miles round 'ave bin rubbed, and murdered, and people do zay tes they. but we ca'ant tell. and everybody es feared to tackle 'em. they be fighters, terble fighters. some ov 'em do ride ere zumtimes like maazed people. doan't 'ee go 'mong 'em, sur, doan't 'ee now. "yes, i must go." "then taake care ov yezelf, sur. you be very big and strong, sur; and do car a sword. but doan't 'ee vex 'em." "i'll be careful. is that all you know?" "that's oall, sur." "and yonder is the road?" i said, pointing northwards. "iss, sur, that's ev et." i gave the maid a crown piece and a kiss, whereupon she blushed finely, but curtsied like one well reared, as i believe she was. "whan you git to the crossways, sur, turn to the right. the left road do laid to rosecarrick. do 'ee be careful, sur, an' doan't 'ee vex 'em." i laughed as i mounted my horse. "i'll remember," i said; "what is your name, my maid?" "jennifer lanteglos, sur," and she curtsied again as i rode away. "evidently jennifer lanteglos is afraid of the killigrews," i thought as i rode away. it was now becoming dusk, but i felt sure i could easily cover the three miles before dark. i had not gone a mile, when i saw a man tramping along the lane. i stopped as i overtook him. i saw that he was the droll i had seen at molesworth arms at wadebridge. "uncle anthony," i said, using the term i had heard the innkeeper use, for the term "uncle" is one of respect towards elderly people, "go you my way?" "what a question," retorted the old man. "how do i know ef you doan't tell me where you be goin'?" "i am going to squire colman killigrew's at endellion," i replied. "do 'ee think you'll git in?" laughed uncle anthony. "yes," i replied, "the killigrews are of an old cornish family, they will give shelter to a traveller." he eyed me keenly. "a traveller! ugh! a purty traveller. but doan't 'ee be sa sure of gittin' into endellion!" "go you there?" "iss," he replied. "then if you can get shelter, why not i?" "i--i?" he retorted sharply. "i go everywhere. nobody'll zay no to ould ant'ny. i zing, an' tell taales, an' shaw 'em wizard's tricks, i do." "then if we go as fellow-travellers, both will be taken in." "i zeed 'ee at wadebridge," he said. "you come from a long way off, you do. wa's yer name, young squire?" "roger penryn." "penryn, penryn," he repeated the name slowly, and looked at me again. "iss, we'll be fellow-travellers. i'll take 'ee to endellion." i did not understand his behaviour, but i determined to make the best use of him that i could. the innkeeper at wadebridge had told me that every house was open to uncle anthony, for in country places where entertainment was scarce he was regarded as a godsend. "you look tired, uncle," i said; "get on my horse, and ride the remaining distance." he did not speak, but when i had dismounted he prepared to climb on to chestnut. "it's a long time since i was on the back of a 'oss like this," he remarked when he was seated. "and you would not remain long on," i replied, "if i was not here to keep chestnut in order." he opened his mouth as if to contradict me sharply, but seeming to think better of it, simply asked me to hand his harp to him. "i can carry it," i assured him. "no one carries that harp but me," he replied sharply; "the devil wud git into un, if other hands than mine did hould un." so i handed him the instrument, more and more puzzled at his manner of speech. i walked slowly by chestnut's head, who seemed to resent his change of rider, but a word from me kept him quiet, after which no conversation took place till i saw a large stone gateway. "what's yon?" i asked anthony. "the gateway to the place where the killigrews do live," he replied. i had hardly opened the gate when i heard a tramping of feet and a hurried sound of voices near. immediately a rough hand was laid on my arm, and i saw that we were surrounded by several men. it was now nearly dark, and i could not well distinguish who had attacked us. bidding chestnut be still i freed myself in a moment, and drew my sword. "no," cried uncle anthony. "doan't 'ee knaw me, clement killigrew; doan't 'ee knaw uncle anthony, benet, colman?" "down," cried a strong deep voice. "uncle anthony on horseback! what means this?" "visitors to endellion, benet; a supper and a bed!" replied the droll. "a supper and bed for thee, and welcome, uncle anthony," was the reply, "but for this jackanapes,--no, we keep no open house for such." "jackanapes yourself," i cried hotly, for i could ill brook such words. "you carry swords, come on then one at a time, and we will see who is a jackanapes." but no swords were drawn. instead they looked at me keenly. "is this horse thine?" "it is." "why let old uncle anthony ride on him then?" "that is my affair, not yours." "know you to whom you speak?" "i thought i did at first. i was told that this is the entrance to colman killigrew's house, and i thought you might be killigrews. but they be gentlemen, and know decent ways, so i judge you cannot be they." a general laugh followed this sally, and then one of them spoke in low tones to uncle anthony. "we have been mistaken," said one presently. "if you bear the name of penryn, come to endellion, and welcome. we may know your business later on. but we live a rough life here, and make not friends easily." "but they be cutthroats, footpads, who attack a man unawares," i replied. "and we be killigrews, roger penryn, for such is the name uncle anthony says you have given," was the reply. "we mistook our man, that is all, and beg to tender our apologies for discourteous treatment. we think all the better of you for drawing your sword. but put it up, man, we will conduct you to endellion. at the same time you must confess that it is not oft that a gentleman dismounts and lets a wandering tale-teller sit on his horse." "the old man was tired, and----" i did not finish the sentence, for i had become cool again, and i knew i had a difficult game to play, if i would get the better of these wild fellows. i could not see their faces, but i saw they were strong, well-built men. they carried themselves well, too, and did not slouch along as country squires often do. presently i heard the roar of the sea, and soon after saw the dim outline of a large castellated building. here and there lights twinkled, but altogether it was as gloomy a place as one could well conceive. "we give you a welcome at endellion," said one of the killigrews who had not hitherto spoken. "we be a rough branch of the old family tree, but the same blood flows through our veins." some one gave a shrill whistle and a serving-man appeared. "take this horse, and see that it is well curry-combed and foddered," was the command. a minute later, i with the others entered the old house from which, if i accomplished my purpose, i was to take the maid called nancy molesworth. my blood tingled at the thought of wild adventure; all the same, as i saw these sturdy men by my side, i very much doubted the outcome of the business. chapter v. my first night at endellion. i had barely time to take note of the house on entering. in the dim light i could just see the grim gray walls on the outside and the great hall within. but nothing appeared to me with distinctness. the strident voices of the killigrews had the effect of making me keep my hand on the hilt of my sword. i remember, too, that my heart beat faster than its wont, while both my eyes and ears seemed preternaturally sharp. nowhere was a woman to be seen, and although i was no lover of women, especially of those who belong to that class with which my people mated, i felt that a house filled with rough men was no desirable residence for a gentlewoman. presently i was ushered into the dining-hall, a huge oak-paneled room. at the head of the table sat an old man. he had long white hair and beard, and beneath his rugged forehead, and overshadowed by bristling eyebrows, gleamed a pair of piercing black eyes. he arose as i entered, and i saw that he was well on towards seventy. "a warm welcome, roger penryn," he said. "from what i hear my sons played a rough game at the gates yonder. i am sorry for this. the truth is, they thought that the hanson varlets were playing them a trick. but enough of that. a man of your stamp bears no ill-will because of a mistake." he kept his eyes on me all the time he spoke as if he would read my very soul, and i winced at the thought that i appeared under an assumed name, for i hate fighting an under-handed battle. at the same time i was sure that had i appeared as a trevanion, i should have been ill-received. "it is but little wonder in these rough times, that suspicion is aroused," i said. "there are many rumours of treason afloat in my part of the country. indeed, hugh boscawen is reported to be raising an army to put down a rebellion there at this time." he nodded his head, still eyeing me keenly. "know you hugh boscawen?" he asked. "not well," i replied, "but i have seen him." "and have thought of joining his ranks?" he asked. "nay, a penryn strikes not a blow for the house of hanover, when the real king of england is perhaps eating his heart away in france, yonder." "ah, say you so?" he cried eagerly. he seemed to be about to say more, but checked himself. "we will not talk of these things now," he said; "perchance when you have been here a few hours we can discuss such matters. besides, here come my sons. you are a strapping fellow, roger penryn, but methinks my benet is taller." a servant entered bearing a huge haunch of beef, another followed bearing other things, and then all being ready we fell to right heartily. old colman killigrew talked pleasantly with me as we ate, and when the meal was over he pressed wine upon me. but i had passed the age of hot-blooded boyhood, and, knowing the work i had to do, drank cautiously, for a man filled with wine has a loose tongue and an unwary head. "hath old uncle anthony supped?" asked colman killigrew presently. "let him come in when he is ready." i was glad to have the old man say this, for i was becoming weary of the talk of the young killigrews. they drank freely, and grew heedless as to the language they used. for, careless as i was in those days, i loved not to hear men speak of maidens as though they were brute beasts. i have also discovered that men, when they live away from the society of women altogether, grow churlish. i had seen this in my own life, although i had not fallen so low as these men of endellion. one among these sons, however, was different from the rest. he was neither tall nor handsome like his brothers. i discovered that he was called otho, after an ancient member of the race, and seemed to be regarded as the wise-man of the family. he had more learning too than the others, and spoke with more taste. he was not pleasant to look upon; he had a short bull-neck, and there was a round upon his back which almost approached a hump. i saw, however, that his hands were large and his wrists thick. moreover, his legs, while ill-shaped, were thickset and evidently powerful. he did not drink freely like the others, nor did he talk much, but he watched me closely. when uncle anthony entered, i noticed that he was regarded with great respect. he had evidently visited the house often, and knew the ways of the inmates. he had a seat of honour beside old colman killigrew too, and they conversed together in low tones, while the sons plied me with questions about my life in the south. presently a number of the serving people came in, and with them three women-folk. they were ill-favoured, however, not like the kitchen maiden i had kept at trevanion. two out of the three were past mid-age, too, while the third was a large-limbed wench, angular and awkward, but evidently as strong as a man. so far, not a sign of nancy molesworth was visible. "now, uncle anthony, a song and a story!" cried otho killigrew. "shall it be a little zong or a little stoary first, then?" asked uncle anthony in broad cornish. "a song first, then a story, and then a galloping song and dance to finish up with," replied otho. uncle anthony swept his eyes quickly around the room; then, standing up, he, bowed towards colman killigrew. "i drink the 'ealth of the 'ouse," he said, bending towards the owner of endellion. "the killigrews 'ave been called 'a grove ov aigels' (eagles); they 'ave flied 'igh; they 'ave stood avore kings, they 'ave. ther've bin wisht times laately, but a better day es comin'. the raace 'ave allays bin great fer lovin' and drinkin' and fightin', and their sun es risin' again. i can zee et." "may it come quickly!" cried benet, a giant of a fellow. "there are no women to love around here--they are afraid of us; but drinking is always good; as for fighting, i long for the clash of steel." all the brothers echoed this, save otho; he looked steadily into the huge fireplace, and spoke not. from that moment i felt sure that he was the one selected to wed nancy molesworth. uncle anthony touched his harp-strings and began to sing a plaintive song. i had heard it often before; but he sung with more feeling than did the drolls who had visited trevanion. it was moreover peculiar to cornwall, and, interspersed as it was by uncle anthony's explanations, caused even the hard-featured serving-women of endellion to wipe their eyes. i will write it down here, for the song is being forgotten, while the fashion of receiving wandering story-tellers is fast dying out. this is how he sung it: "cowld blaws the wind to-day, sweet'art, cowld be the draps ov raain; the fust trew-luv that ever i 'ad, in the greenwud 'ee wos slain. "'twas daown in the gaarden-green, sweet'art, where you and i did waalk; the purtiest vlower that in the gaarden growed es rinkled (withered) to a staalk. "the staalk will graw no laives, sweet'art, the vlowers will ne'er return: and now my oan love es dead and gone, wot can i do but mourn?" "the pore maid did zing this," explained uncle anthony. "she was in a wisht way, for maidens be vit fer nothin' 'cipt they've got a man by 'em. the man es the tree, an' the maid es an ivy-laif, and tha's oal 'bout it. but you do knaw, my deears, that when a man 'ave bin dead one year, 'ee do allays cum back. tha's religion, ed'n et then? zo-- "a twelvemonth an' a day bein' gone, the sperrit rised and spok: "'my body es clay cowld, sweet'art, my breath smells 'evvy an' strong; and ef you kiss my cowld white lips, your time will not be long.' "ah, but thicky maid wos a true maid. she cudden rest till she 'ad kissed the booy she loved; and w'en she'd kissed 'im once, she loved him more and more. zo she cried: "oa, wawn mooar kiss from yer dear cowld lips, one kiss is oal i craave; oa, wawn mooar kiss from yer dear cowld lips, an' return back to yer graave." after this, uncle anthony sung in a low, wailing tone a stormy kind of duet between the maid and what he called her "booy's sperrit," who tried to make her accompany him to the world of shadows, and after much weeping, she departed with her lover. "and zo et es, my deears," remarked uncle anthony, "that trew luv is stronger'n death." "that's a wisht zong, sure enough, uncle anthony," remarked one of the women, who at such times were allowed especial liberty. "strick up summin' purty and sweet and lively." whereupon he sung a song about a sailor who courted a rich nobleman's daughter "worth five hundred thousan' in gould." this pleased them much, after which he started to tell a story. at first he did not interest me, for my mind was filled with many things; but presently i saw that his tale was original. he brought in our meeting in the molesworth arms at wadebridge, and insinuated many surmises concerning me. he took a long time to tell the story, for he weaved in a love episode, a duel, the appearance of a ghost and a wizard, besides many droll sayings peculiar to the county; but through it all i could see that he aimed at me, and gave hints that he suspected i had other motives in coming to endellion than those which i had revealed. he described me as an unknown cavalier who wore a mask; he also spoke of a wise man whose eyes pierced the mask. it is true he dated the story in the far back past; all the same, i could not help seeing his meaning. i doubt whether any of the listeners other than myself saw his drift--but i felt sure that he had suspicions concerning me. whether his feelings were friendly or no, i could not gather; neither could i understand his motive in so turning the story. the tale was well liked, however, for the old man weaved it well. he ended it by telling us that the maid wedded the man she loved, and that when she was on her way to church, she trod on flowers strewn by angel hands, while angel voices sung songs of hope and gladness to her. "and what became of the masked cavalier?" asked otho killigrew when he had finished. "i'll tell 'ee that next time i come this way," replied uncle anthony. "that's a paart of another stoary." "and the wise man?" i asked,--"what became of him?" "the wise man, maaster roger penryn--for tha's the naame you towld me to call 'ee--es livin' still. a trewly wise man don' never die. 'ee do live top 'igh plaaces, my deear. a wise man do mount a 'igh rock, and rest in paice. around 'im es the wild, treacherous waaste, but up there 'ee's saafe. 'appy be they who in trouble seek the shelter of the wise man's 'igh plaace. 'tes the shadda of a great rock in a weary land." i pondered much about the old man's tale, and made up my mind that, if i could, i would speak with him alone. i decided that he was not what he seemed; but how i could converse with him again was not easy to discover, for he expressed a desire to retire, and otho killigrew continued to watch me closely. before i was in any way able to decide what to do, i knew by the baying of the hounds outside and the sounds at the door that some visitor was approaching. at a look from colman killigrew, all the serving-people left the room. uncle anthony also went out with them, saying that he would retire to rest. the newcomer turned out to be one john polperro, a fair-spoken young fellow of about five-and-twenty. i saw at a glance that he was a gentleman, although of no great force of character. he was dressed in accordance with the latest foppery of the times, and was, i thought, mighty careful about his attire. his face was somewhat weak, but there was no vice, no meanness in it. i presently discovered, too, that on occasion he could speak boldly. colman killigrew's welcome was by no means warm, while each of the sons looked at him distrustfully, almost savagely. but he did not seem to heed their evident dislike. "i would like a word with you alone," he said to the squire. "i am alone," was the reply. "i have no secrets from my sons." "but there is a stranger among you," retorted polperro. "he is a friend who honours us by staying with us. he is of the same religion and hath the same interests." i winced at this, and rose to leave, but colman killigrew, by a gesture, bid me remain. "but this is not an affair for the ears of all," retorted polperro. "i have no affairs with you that may not be discussed by all here," was the cool response. i wondered at this, for i could not fathom the old man's design. perhaps he thought that by treating me as one of his family, even though i was a stranger, he would cause me to be more obedient to his wishes in the future. i listened eagerly, however, for i remembered why i was there. "be it so, then," replied polperro with a touch of anger in his voice. "you know, then, that i have met mistress nancy molesworth?" the old man nodded. "i love her." colman killigrew betrayed no emotion whatever, but the sons made a movement expressive of scorn and derision. polperro saw this, and the colour began to mount to his cheeks. i could see, too, that he had difficulty in refraining from angry words; but he mastered himself. "i have reason to believe that my sentiments are not unrequited." still colman killigrew was silent. "you know that a messenger was sent to you. he bore a letter containing an offer of marriage. this you received and read." the old man nodded. "this you received and read," repeated john polperro, "but i cannot think you fairly understood the purport of the letter, otherwise you would have sent back a different answer." "the answer was plain." "but curt and uncivil. it was not such an answer as one gentleman may send to another." "i said that eagles mate not with hawks." "that is why i cannot think you understood. my family is at least as old as your own." "on the father's side, perchance--but on the mother's?--bah! we will not speak of it." young john polperro's hand played nervously with the hilt of his sword; but still he kept his temper under control. "i am come with my father's consent and approval," he continued; "i am come in person to offer my name and fortune--a name as good as your own, a fortune more than equal to that of the killigrews." "i give you the same answer that i gave to your messenger," was the response. john polperro still kept outwardly cool. "then i have another proposition to make," he continued, but this time his voice took a loftier tone. "i am here to offer mistress nancy molesworth the protection of my father's house. i am here to offer her safety and honour!" the old man started to his feet. he had been pricked on the quick at last. "what mean you, sir?" he cried. "it is well known that ever since she came from the convent, she has been afraid to live here!" cried polperro. "that your sons pay her attention which she hates; that she loathes the thought of living where modesty, virtue, and honour are all outraged!" i think he was sorry he had uttered these words as soon as they had passed his lips. all the killigrews looked as though they would have liked to have struck him dead. on my part, however, i had a feeling of admiration. courage is always good, even although it be shown at the wrong time. nothing was said or done, however. they remembered that the man stood in their own house. "the maid has had but one occasion to speak of her woes to any one," continued polperro. "you allowed her to visit mistress arundell, where she met with a friend she had known at the convent school. there, as you know, it was my good fortune to meet her." i felt he was a fool. why could he not have spoken more guardedly? if he wanted to do mistress nancy an injury, he could not have accomplished his purpose better. i saw, too, that old colman killigrew ground his teeth with rage, and i heard him mutter something about his being mad to let the girl go a-gadding about at people's houses. for a moment i thought he would have answered polperro angrily; but such was not his plan. "you stand in my own hall, or it might go hard with you," he said presently. "but enough. you spoke in hot blood, just as a lovesick fool may. let me also say this, although you deserve not this explanation: mistress nancy molesworth is betrothed to my eldest son otho according to her father's wish. therefore her honour is safe, and she will be wedded to one of her own degree." "is this by her own will?" cried polperro. "a maid's will is like the wind in april," replied the old man, "and is no more to be relied on. but i tell you this, she shall be guarded safely." "kept in prison!" retorted polperro; "and these," looking with scorn on the young men, "will be her gaolers." he turned to leave the room, but did not flinch at the angry looks bestowed upon him. benet killigrew turned to follow him, but he was stopped by his father's word. "he stands in my own hall, benet, and must be treated as a guest," he said. "the time may come when the laws of courtesy may not hinder you from giving him the chastisement he deserves." "that time cannot come too soon for me!" cried john polperro. "meanwhile, do not think mistress nancy molesworth is without friends. and besides that, it might be profitable for you to remember----" he did not finish the sentence. perchance he felt that silence were wise. "i did not think you would witness such a scene, roger penryn," said the old man when he had gone, "for in truth i did not believe the lad had so much spirit." "he spoke stoutly," i responded, not daring to ask the questions which hung on my lips. "he sadly lacked wisdom, however, and will land himself in trouble if he be not careful." "i had many things to say to you to-night," remarked old colman killigrew, "but they must stand over. i am not as young as i was, and young polperro's words have ill prepared me to speak on matters which lie near my heart, and i trust to yours also. but the opportunity will come to-morrow." i bent my head gravely. i was glad he had put off his questionings, for, truth to tell, i dreaded the man. i instinctively felt his eyes probing me. i knew he had been making plans all through the evening to find out who i was, and why i had come northward. "i will retire to rest," he said; "perchance you, too, will be glad to get to your room?" "i will go with him," said otho killigrew; "it is easy for a stranger to lose his way in this house." so i said good-night to his brothers, who pressed me to stay among them and drink another bottle of wine, and walked up a broad stairway with otho by my side. on reaching the top of the stairway i saw a man walking to and fro; but he seemed to pay no heed to us as we passed by him. "you will stay a day or two with us, i trust?" remarked otho. i answered in the affirmative. "and then?--go you farther north?" "that will depend on what your father thinks," i responded. he gave me a searching glance, but spoke no word more until we reached my bedroom door. "i am afraid you have had a rough welcome," he said; "but we have the name for a rough people. all the same, we are faithful to our friends." "yes," i assented. "the killigrews never yet turned their backs upon those who merited their friendship," concluded otho; "but they never forgive those who betray their trust. never!" he uttered the words slowly and distinctly, as was his manner of speech. "sleep soundly, roger penryn," he said as he bade me good-night. "the tower of london is not more safely guarded than endellion." "it is good of you to tell me," i replied; "but a good sword and a ready hand are all i have needed in the past." to this he did not reply, and i heard his steps echo along the corridor. he walked slowly, like a man deep in thought. did he suspect anything, or did my mission make me suspicious? the room into which i was ushered was plain and bare. the walls were whitewashed, the floor almost wholly uncovered. i sat for a long while on the bed in deep thought, and my musings were not pleasant. i almost regretted having undertaken to do peter trevisa's bidding. not because of the danger. nay, that was almost the only redeeming feature in the business. and yet i tried to persuade myself that my mission was good. were not these killigrews lawless men? should i not be rendering signal service to the maid nancy molesworth by taking her away from a place which, according to polperro, she loathed? and still i was not satisfied. presently i thought i heard a rustling outside. instantly i went to the door and opened it softly. the corridor was but dimly lighted, but i saw the retreating form of a woman. she did not look a well-bred dame; at the same time she was different from the serving-women i had seen in the hall. i started to follow her; but before i had taken two steps, she turned, and i saw her face. dim as was the light, her features seemed familiar. evidently she was a superior kind of serving-maid. in a moment, however, she vanished. "ah," i thought, "there is some stairway yonder!" i looked cautiously around before starting to seek it, then stopped. i heard the clank of steel. i saw the man i had passed with otho killigrew, still pacing the corridor. "a sentinel, eh?" i mused; "truly, the place is guarded." noiselessly i slid back to my room. the man had not seen me. my stockinged foot touched a piece of paper, which was carefully folded. close to my bed the candles flickered in the socket; so, after carefully bolting my door, i made my way towards them. on unfolding the paper i saw one word only. the word was roche. chapter vi. the uses of a serving-maid. a few minutes later i was in total darkness. but i did not sleep. my mind was much occupied by what i had seen and heard. i tried to understand the purport thereof, as seemed necessary at such a time. several facts were plain. foremost in point of interest was that the maid mistress nancy molesworth was in the house. i fell to thinking about her, and wondered much as to what she was like. from what i gathered, too, she was not indisposed to receive the attention of john polperro, who had that night asked for her hand in marriage. but that did not trouble me. what should i care whom she married? it was for me to take her to treviscoe, and thus be freed from my difficulties. the maid's love was nothing to me. that was doubtless as changeable as the wind. i remembered, too, that she was betrothed to otho killigrew. then there were three who wanted her. i laughed as i thought of it. i imagined, however, that restormel lands had far more to do with the desire to get her than had her beauty or her goodness. the killigrews, however, for the present possessed her; but they did not reckon upon me. she was well guarded, and perchance the sentinel in the corridor was especially appointed as her watchman. the wench i had seen was perhaps mistress nancy molesworth's serving-woman. but what did that piece of paper mean? what was the purport of the word written thereon? _roche_--i would bear it in mind. when morning came i would again examine the thing. perhaps it would reveal more to me in the light of day. by and by i fell asleep without having formed any plan of action. but when morning came, my mind was clear and my hand steady. the window of my room faced the open country. beneath me was a courtyard, perhaps twenty feet down. there were also rooms above--how high, i could not tell. as i opened the window the clear spring air entered the room, likewise the sound of the sea. i discovered afterwards that, like several others on this northern coast, the house was built close to the cliff; but i could see nothing of it at the time. the sound of the waves was pleasant to me, however, as was the smell of the morning air, and i felt like singing for the very joy of youth, and health, and strength. on remembering my mission, however, i became more thoughtful; and, hastily dressing myself, i found my way towards the dining-hall. on walking along the corridor, no guard appeared. evidently his work was regarded as done; but all around me was the hum of voices. there were doubtless eyes and ears around me of which i knew nothing. otho killigrew was coming in from the outside as i came into the entrance hall. he greeted me cordially, although i thought his face looked anxious. "you rise early, roger penryn," he said; "my brothers have not yet appeared." "the morning air was so sweet that i wanted to drink it to the full," i answered, moving towards the door. "i will go out with you," said otho. "endellion is a quaint old place. men build not houses so now." we stood outside, and i looked on the grim gray building. young peter trevisa had described it rightly. an old castle still stood. it was mostly a ruin, but well preserved. the house in which i had slept had been modeled somewhat on the lines of the place which had been reared in the far back past. "it was built in the old feudal days," remarked otho, nodding towards the ruin. "the killigrews are an ancient race." "but the killigrews have not always lived here?" "the rosecarricks have, and the killigrews were mixed with them many generations ago. perhaps that is why the newer part of the house was modeled on the old. i am glad the ruins stand so well. i have discovered many a secret place. i love things old, too." "old systems, you mean?" "yes, i was not thinking of them then,--but do. i love the feudal system. it is the only way a people can be knitted to a crown." "but the killigrews are not all in love with the crown," i suggested meaningly. "no; we are the only branch of the family who do not pay homage to the new order of things. you are a catholic, so i can speak freely. we long for a catholic king to reign. we keep up the feudal system somewhat, too. our tenants are bound to us; so much so, that we could raise many men to help in a cause we espoused." i changed the subject, for i saw whither he was drifting. "the back of the house almost overhangs the cliffs," i said. "yes; there be several of a similar nature--rosecarrick, trevose, polwhele, and others. it was thought necessary in the old times." he accompanied me around the building, talking in his careful measured way all the time, while i examined, as well as i was able, the particular features of the place. we had barely compassed the house when a great clanging bell rang. on entering the dining-hall we found breakfast prepared; but old colman killigrew did not appear. benet killigrew met me, and examined me as though he were calculating my strength. i could have sworn that he would have liked to have challenged me to wrestle. presently otho, who had left me, came back, telling me that his father was too unwell to meet me at breakfast, but hoped to be well enough to leave his bed-chamber when evening came; in the mean while, he could trust his sons to assure me of his welcome. why, i knew not, but i felt somewhat disturbed at this; but simply expressing my sorrow at his ill health, we sat down to breakfast. what happened during the day was of little moment, only when night came i reflected that never for a minute had i been left alone. either one or other of the killigrews had been with me. it might only be a happening, or it might be they had received orders not to allow me out of their sight. moreover, only one thing of interest had been mentioned, and that appeared of no consequence. it was simply that old anthony, the droll, had left early. i should have thought nothing of this, only i had made sure that he wanted to speak to me, and had moreover determined to ask him the meaning of the story he had told. just before the evening meal i had a few minutes to myself, and was able to reflect calmly on my position. if, as i suspected, the killigrews had determined to watch me, i must take bold steps at once in order to accomplish my work. in this surmise i was right, as will appear presently. but how to commence, was my difficulty. it was plain that mistress nancy was closely watched; and as i had no thought as to what part of the house she was kept, and as she knew naught of me, there appeared no way by which i could speak to her. besides, even if such chance did occur, how could i approach her? to say the least, i was an impostor, acting a lie in order to maintain my right to trevanion. that was the thought which galled me. for the rest, i cared nothing; but i did wince at the thought of a trevanion being afraid to tell his name. i had almost decided to leave the house at once, and then think of another way to accomplish my work, when i heard the rustle of a woman's dress outside the door. in a second i was in the corridor, and saw the same serving-maid i had seen the previous night. i slipped back into my chamber again immediately, for coming towards her i saw otho killigrew. "your mistress, amelia?" said otho; "she is better disposed to-day, i hope." "she's fine and wisht," replied the girl. "she do set and mope oall day long. she've bin worse to-day." "ah! do you know why?" "she seed maaster john polperro go way laast night." otho uttered a curse. "she's so loanly, she've nothing to do. she've no books to raid, nor nothin'." "tell her i'll go to rosecarrick this night and bring some for her. i'll take them to her." "she waan't see 'ee, maaster otho," replied the girl earnestly; "but p'r'aps it would soffen 'er ef you wos to git 'er somethin' to raid. and, maaster otho." "yes, what is it?" "i wish you would laive me go ovver to church town to-night. i waant to see jennifer, my sister." "and what will your mistress do meanwhile?" "she doan't spaik to me when i'm weth 'er, sur. besides, i waan't be long." "very well," replied otho, after hesitating a little. "when do you wish to go?" "i might so well go after supper, sur." "see that your mistress wants nothing before you go." "oall right, sur." instantly i made up my mind that i would speak to amelia that night. i felt sure that the maid was sister to jennifer lanteglos, whom i had seen the previous night. she was going to endellion village after supper, while otho killigrew was going to rosecarrick to get some books for mistress nancy molesworth. i must frame some sort of reason for absenting myself early from the supper-table. i do not think i should have accomplished this had not fortune favoured me. old colman killigrew sent word to say that he was not well enough to sup with us, but would i come and speak with him after the meal was over? my mind was made up. otho was silent during supper, but the other brothers talked loudly. i joined in their conversation, and made myself jovial. presently otho left without a word of explanation to any one; and no sooner had he gone than i told the brothers of their father's wish that i should visit him. they laughed at me, saying i was but a child at drinking; but i had my way. as chance would have it, no sooner had i reached the great door than i saw amelia walking along a passage towards a small doorway i had seen through the day. a few seconds later, i stood outside the house, while the girl walked a few yards ahead of me. she did not go along the main road, but down a narrow pathway. when i thought we were a sufficient distance from the house, i spoke to her. it was a risk to try and talk with her, doubtless, but nothing could be done without risk. "amelia--amelia lanteglos!" i said. she turned sharply. "no, maaster benet," she said, "you mustn't go wi' me. i shell screech murder ef you do." i knew by her voice that she both feared and hated benet killigrew. "i am not benet," i said. "i am a friend." "you--you are the straanger?" she stammered. "yes," i said; "yet not such a stranger as you think." in a few minutes i had won the girl's confidence. there are several ways of making a serving-maid pliable. one is to appeal for her help, another to make love to her, another to bribe her, another to flatter her. i did the last. i told her i had heard what a faithful servant she was, how much she was trusted in the house, and what a fine-looking maid she was. this had to be done by degrees. "you have a very responsible position, amelia," i said at length; "and it is well for your mistress that you love her. she needs your love, too. what she would do without you, i do not know." "no, nor i," said the girl. "your mistress needs friends, amelia." the maid began to cry bitterly. "i wouldn't stay in the plaace but for mistress nancy," she sobbed at length. "i caan't tell 'ee oall, sur. there be two of 'em that do want 'er, but she do 'aate 'em oall." "and she loves young john polperro," i said. "he's the one that ought to marry her." "how do you know, sur?" "never mind, i do know," i replied; "but say no word to any of them, or it will be worse for your mistress." "i wouldn't say anything for worlds, sur." "amelia," i continued, after much talk, "i am come here to help your mistress." "to help her, sur,--'ow?" "i cannot tell you now. in fact, i can tell only her. could you not arrange that i could see her?" "see mistress nancy molesworth, sur?" "yes." "no, sur. she is always watched. she caan't laive her rooms without owld maaster knowin'." "in what part of the house does she reside?" the maid told me. it was in the same wing as that in which my own bed-chamber was situated, but the floor above. the door which opened to it was also watched. "are the watchers faithful?" i asked. "sam daddo and tom juliff, sur. they'll do nothin' but what the owld maaster do tell 'em." "but why is she watched so closely?" "she've tried to git away once, sur. tha's why." "then she loves not the killigrews?" "she haates 'em, sur. but i caan't tell 'ee oall." i tried to devise a means whereby i could see her, but none were feasible. force could not be used until flight was arranged, and that was not done. indeed, i had not seen the maid yet. "but," i said, "doth your mistress have no outdoor exercise." "she cannot go out except one of they killigrews go weth 'er, and so she doan't go at all. the last time she was out, master otho went wi' 'er. she waan't go no more now." "but she will die cooped up in rooms where she hath no fresh air." "she sometimes walks on the leads at the top of the 'ouse; but that's oall." "how does she get there?" "there's a stairs from the room." "ah! but there must be other ways of getting to the roof." "i doan't knaw, i've only bin there a vew months. i wudden stay now but for mistress nancy." "but i can trust you, amelia?"--and then i satisfied myself that she would be secret. "tell her," i continued presently, "that if she values her liberty or her honour, if she cares for john polperro, to be on the leads to-night at midnight. if i do not get there it will be because i cannot." with that i left the girl, and hurried back to the house. i entered the side door without notice, and then made up the broad stairway towards the room in which i had been told old colman killigrew slept. "will you tell your master that master roger penryn waits to see him?" i said to the man who paced the corridor. i gave my false name without wincing this time, for my blood was tingling with excitement. the thought of seeing mistress nancy molesworth, together with wondering what the outcome would be, made me eager for action. a few moments later i entered the old man's room, prepared to answer any question he might put. he eyed me keenly as i entered, but spoke scarce a word for several minutes. little by little, however, he got to talking about king george, and the feeling in the country concerning him. "you say hugh boscawen is busy raising an army?" he queried presently. "do volunteers come quickly?" "but tardily," i replied. "cornish folks love not the thought of a german wearing the crown and spending our money. moreover, the catholic feeling is strong." "say you so?" he queried, fixing his eyes on me. "what indications be there?" "it is fully believed that master john wesley is a good catholic and that he is labouring in the interest of the catholic church, having authority from the pope; and everywhere he is gaining followers, everywhere people be forsaking the parish churches." he nodded his head gravely. "it is rumoured that young charles is planning to get to england even now," i continued. "if he but leads an army, the people will, if they have encouragement and a leader, flock to his standard." "what steps have you taken in the neighbourhood of falmouth?" he asked. "i have simply spoken with the people. i am but poor. i am the only representative of a small branch of my family. what the cause needs is an old and well-known name. we want a man who can place himself at the head of five hundred good swords--one who can gain the confidence of the country." "can you name the man?" he asked, keeping his eyes on me. "colman killigrew," i replied boldly. "is my name known so far away from here?" "else why should i come here?" was my response. after this he asked me many questions about the penryns, which i answered readily, for i knew them intimately. "you heard of me; and hearing that young charles was coming to claim his own, you thought----" "that the hope of the country lay in you." "what force could you raise in your part of the country, if the need for men should arise?" i answered him vaguely. "it is well you came, roger penryn," he said, after he had asked me many questions. "the rumour you have heard concerning young charles is true. he will land in scotland; and there is no doubt that the highlanders will flock to his standard. he will then march southwards, and there is but little doubt but he will have a great following. there will be much opposition too, for many people comprehend not the glories of the catholic faith. he will need every good sword he can command; hence the need for the faithful to be ready." i nodded my head, but spoke not, for i was already tired of playing my part. "we will work quietly," continued old colman killigrew. "while hugh boscawen is publicly gathering his men, you and others will have to work in the dark. but no time must be lost. now that we understand each other, you must begin at once to gather the defenders of the faith and be ready for action. not that we would be discourteous," he added quickly; "you must stay with me at least another day." "it is well," i replied; "you are well situated here. this should be a stronghold in time of trouble." after this i asked him many questions about the castle, and what secret rooms there were. i asked him, too, the means by which the roof could be reached in order to make use of the battlements; but concerning this he would tell me nothing. indeed, as i afterwards reflected, he had told me little but what was common rumour. i did not join the younger killigrews that night. i wanted to be alone to think, and to devise means whereby i could reach the roof at midnight, and so talk with mistress nancy molesworth. i therefore got back to my bed-chamber with all speed, and spent some time in musing quietly. i examined the situation of the chamber with much care. underneath me, as i have said, was a courtyard, but to the left were the ruined walls of the old castle. if i could reach them i might find means of climbing to the top of the newer portion of the house; but it seemed impossible. i knew that a sentinel guarded the passage, otherwise i would have made my way up the stairway i had seen. i silently opened the door and examined the corridor in the hope that i should see some other means of carrying out my wishes; but the man was wide awake and watchful. all was now quiet. evidently the family had gone to bed. i thought once of creeping along by the wall, and disabling the man called sam daddo who stood there. but that must necessarily mean noise; besides, the time was not ripe for such an action. i could not take away the maid nancy molesworth that night, and the man's disablement must lead to many questions on the morrow. so i crept back into my chamber again. my candle had gone out, but the moon shone almost as bright as day. the window of my room was not large, but i could at a pinch have squeezed my body through. it was divided into two parts, the division being made by a granite upright. "this is a big chamber," i mused; "surely there should be another window." then i remembered that i had examined every crevice of the place with the exception of the walls behind the big bed on which i had slept. the window faced the east, but the head of the bed was against the northern wall. i tried to peer behind it, but could see nothing. then making as little noise as possible, i lifted the thing away. having done this, i saw an aperture which looked as though it might have been intended for a second window. "this is well," i thought, pleased at my discovery. "mistress nancy molesworth, i think i shall see you to-night." for by this time the spirit of adventure fairly possessed me, and, forgetting everything save my purpose to see the maid, i pulled away the boards which had covered the opening. this done, the light shone in, and i soon found that, although the hinges were sadly rusted, they yielded to pressure. a few seconds later my hair was fanned by the breezes outside, and my eyes were eagerly measuring the distance between me and the walls of the old castle upon which i looked. "it can be easily done," i thought, and without hesitation i put my feet through the opening; and then, placing my arm around the granite upright, i managed to get the whole of my body outside. a moment later i stood on the ivy-grown walls of the old castle. my heart gave a leap, for i heard the sound of a deep-toned bell. was my action discovered? i soon reassured myself. it was only the clock striking twelve. i looked around me for means of ascent, and then i felt i had undertaken a fool's task. would the maid come on to the roof at the bidding of a stranger? would she listen to me, even if she did come? but it was not for me to think of that. i had promised to be there, and i would go--if i could. i carefully crept along the ivy-grown walls, eagerly looking for a means of ascent, for i knew that if i were to see the maid i must act quickly. even now it was past the hour i had promised to meet her. the night was very bright, but i could see nothing to aid me, and i began to upbraid myself as a childish fool for promising what i could not fulfil, when i spied an iron pipe fastened to the wall. the battlements were perhaps twelve feet above me, and this pipe was by no means easy to reach. i would get hold of the thing, and by means thereof would climb to the roof. no sooner had the plan entered my mind than i prepared to execute it. chapter vii. on the roof of endellion castle. as i have said, the task i had set myself was not an easy one. first of all, i should have to leap several feet to a ledge, which was by no means wide, and then i should have to grasp the pipe, as well as some ivy which had climbed up by its side. if i failed to reach the ledge i should fall, i knew not how far; or if the pipe yielded to my weight, the same thing would happen. but i did not hesitate. my blood was hot, and the spirit of adventure overmastered me. besides--and i must confess it if i will tell my story truly--in spite of my hatred of women, i felt a great desire to see the maid i had promised to take to treviscoe. i recked not of consequences--nay, i had a sort of pleasure in dangerous deeds. so i made the leap without hesitation, although a curious feeling possessed me as i thought of the yawning darkness underneath me. i reached the ledge in safety, and the thing i grasped held firm. then, without waiting a second, i started to climb. it was weary work, for the ivy yielded, and the crevices wherein i could stick my feet were few. but i had often attempted this kind of thing as a boy, and before long i placed my arm round one of the huge merlons which the ancient killigrews had caused to be placed there; and in a few seconds i lifted myself up so that my head was raised some distance above the stonework. i had scarcely done this when i heard a slight scream, which came so suddenly that i was in danger of relaxing my hold. instinctively divining what this meant, however, i made a low sound suggesting silence, and before long stood on the roof. it had been a hard climb, and i panted freely, looking round meanwhile for the one who had screamed. at first i could see nothing but chimneys; but presently i saw two dark forms hiding by a portion of the roof which stood somewhat higher than the rest. i walked slowly towards them. even now i am conscious of a strange feeling at heart as i remember that night. for there in the bright moonlight appeared a spectacle which was almost awesome. the sight of the sea and the rock-bound coast burst suddenly upon me. below, hundreds of feet down, the waves cast themselves on the beach, which was studded with huge masses of rock. the sea shone in the light of the moon, and behind the crest of every wave was a great streak of silver lustre, fair to behold. far out, i could see the waves a-dancing, while here and there the lights of distant vessels shone. away to the right, tintagell, perchance the mightiest coast-rock in england, lifted its hoary head, while to the left the bare, rugged cliffs, in spite of the soft moonbeams, looked chill and drear. and i was there--behind the battlements of the home of the killigrews--alone save for the presence of two helpless women. all this came to me quickly--i seemed to realize it in a moment; and then i shook the feeling from me, for i remembered i had work to do. "'tis he," i heard a voice say, which i recognized as that of amelia lanteglos. and then i saw the other maid, whose face was partly hidden, turn towards me. "be not afraid," i said as gently as i could; for though i would have little to do with them, i loved not to frighten women. "what would you, sir?" said a voice, low and sweet. "amelia, my serving-maid, hath persuaded me to come here to-night. it is against my better judgment i have come, but----" then she stopped as though she knew not how to finish what she had begun to say. i cannot deny it, i felt something like pity for the maid. her voice was sad and plaintive. it suggested weariness, loneliness--and no man is unmoved by such things. i felt ashamed, too. i had promised to take her to treviscoe, to be the wife of peter trevisa; for i had little doubt but that if those two men once got her there, they would try to frame arguments strong enough to make her yield to their wishes. but this was only for a moment. i reflected that women were as little to be trusted as april weather, and would veer around like a weathercock. i remembered my own love affair, and called to mind the words the girl boscawen had said to me only a few days before she threw me over for prideaux. "i would speak to you alone for a few minutes," i said, wiping the sweat from my forehead. "your hand is bleeding," she said kindly; "and--and how did you get here?" "i climbed from the old castle wall." "but it is impossible--it could not be! no one could do it!" this she said in low, broken whispers, but like one frightened. "but i am here," i replied grimly; "and there was no other way of getting here from my chamber. one has to risk something if you are to be saved from the killigrews." "what do you know of the killigrews?" she asked eagerly. she followed me a few steps out of ear-shot of the serving-maid, still keeping her face hidden. "i know that you are to be the wife of otho killigrew, unless desperate measures are taken," i replied. "i know, too, that benet killigrew professes to love you." "how do you know?" "you are mistress nancy molesworth, are you not?" "yes, and you are master roger penryn, so my maid tells me. but i do not know you." she let the shawl with which she had wrapped her head fall, and for the first time i saw her face. she was but little more than twenty years of age, and in the moonlight looked younger. as far as i could judge, her hair was of chestnut hue, and it flashed brightly even in the night light. her face appeared very pale, and her eyes shone as though she were much excited; but she was a very beautiful maid. she was not of the timid, shrinking kind which some men love, but stood up before me bravely, for the which even then i was glad. nor was she little, and weak; rather she was taller than most women, and shaped with much beauty. "it matters but little whether you know me or not, if you will trust me," i said. "believe me, i have come to take you away from this den of cutthroats to a place of safety." "where?" "where would you go?" i asked. my head was bare, and my face was plainly to be seen, so bright was the night. i felt her eyes fastened upon me, and it seemed to me as though she were reading my innermost thoughts. but i was not to be baulked by a girl, so i tried to appear unconcerned as she gazed. "you met john polperro at the arundells," i continued. "he has offered his hand to you in marriage, but your guardian refused. last night he came here and repeated that offer, but it was declined. he is a fine fellow, polperro, and spoke boldly." "i know," said she--speaking, as i thought, more to herself than to me. "after your guardian had refused his request that you might become his wife," i went on, "he offered you a home in his father's house. he spoke hotly, indiscreetly, but still as an honest man; that offer was also refused. perchance you have been informed of this?" she did not speak, nor did she make any sign whatever. "it is impossible for polperro to help you now. if he again appears in the neighbourhood, he will receive steel for a welcome. but i admire him. i am always proud to call such as he my friend; so if i can take you to his father's house, i shall be doing a good deed, and rendering a service to one he loves." this i said in a stammering kind of way, for somehow the girl's eyes made me feel uncomfortable. i wished she would not look at me so steadfastly. "know you master john polperro?" she asked presently. "else why should i be here?" i responded, wishing i had adopted some other plan of action. i hated this underhanded method of work, and the maid's eyes looked truthful. i should have felt far more at ease could i have taken her away by force than have subjected myself to this kind of work. still, circumstances had made force of such kind impossible. had the maid been allowed her liberty, i might have accomplished my purpose differently; but being a safely guarded prisoner, i had to gain her confidence. "and you came here by his wish? you are trying to do what he found impossible?" i bit my lip with vexation. why should she ask such questions. was i not planning to take her away from a place where she was unhappy? "it was no easy thing to get from my bed-chamber here," i replied evasively. "a single slip, and i should either have been killed or crippled for life. neither is it an easy thing to deal with these killigrews. but for my promise to the man, i tell you i would not have attempted it." "your promise to whom?" she asked, and i cursed myself for being a fool. why could i not have boldly told the necessary lies? i had intended to. chance had given me the finest possible opportunity. i found no difficulty in trying to deceive old colman killigrew. why, then, should this chit of a maid make me stammer? what could be more easy than to tell her that i, being a stranger to the killigrews, and a friend of john polperro, had come here to take her to a place of honour and safety? "to whom should my promise be given?" i said. "i spoke to your maid that she might tell you of my desire to meet you. i have risked my life to get here, and i have a difficult game to play with the killigrews." i was angry beyond measure with myself for telling of any danger i had encountered. had i been acting a straightforward part, i should not have mentioned it; but now i had a feeling that such words were necessary. "if you will consent to trust me," i went on clumsily, for i felt her eyes upon me as i spoke, "i will arrange plans whereby i can take you away. i could be ready by to-morrow night. it could be done without detection. a rope could be fastened around yon battlements--it is only a dozen feet or so to the old castle walls. from thence it is not difficult of descent. i could get horses in readiness, and in a few hours we could be out of danger." "and if you were discovered?" she asked abruptly. "nothing would give me greater pleasure than to fight the killigrews," i replied grimly. i knew there was a gulf between us. she did not trust me. she doubted every word i was saying. i wished the light were not so good, so that she might not see my face so plainly. and yet i had her at advantage. she loved not the killigrews--she hated the thought of wedding otho. probably i appeared as her only hope of escaping from them. i could see the girl amelia lanteglos watching us closely. doubtless she was wondering as to the upshot of our conversation. "do you think i gain any advantage by coming here?" i went on like a fool. "i never saw you until this hour. i have no spite against the killigrews, they never harmed me. it would not harm me if you were to marry otho. possibly he would make you as good a husband as--as another. but i--i gave a promise that i would set you free, if i could. however, if you prefer to fly to the open arms of otho,--well----" i shrugged my shoulders, and tried to hum a tune as i looked across the shining sea. i know i said this brutally; but the maid angered me--angered me by the truthfulness of her looks, and the way she made me bungle the thoughts i had in my mind. she continued to look at me steadfastly. perhaps she remembered that if she accepted my offer, and if i succeeded in effecting her escape, she would have to travel alone with a man of whom she knew nothing. presently she seemed to have made up her mind. "you seem to be a gentleman," she said; "you speak as if you----" she hesitated as though she could not put her thoughts into words. i remained silent. she made a sudden movement forward, and placed her hand on my arm. "i am alone, helpless," she said. "i am surrounded by those i cannot trust. i hate--loathe the thought of----" again she stopped suddenly; then, looking straight into my face, she said: "are you what you seem to be?" it came upon me like a clap of thunder, and, like a schoolboy discovered in theft, i hung my head. "is your name roger penryn?" she asked. "no!" "do you know john polperro?" "no!" the words came from me like shots from a musket. i could not tell a lie with the girl's cruel, truthful eyes upon me. they choked the falsehood in my throat, and i felt myself to be the sport of this maid who knew nothing of the world. i was glad i had told the truth, and yet i reproached myself for being beaten at the first definite move in the game i was playing. probably the whole thing had been rendered impossible by my madness. trevanion was gone from me forever; but, worse than that, i should have to confess to peter trevisa that i had failed to do the thing i had promised--that i had bungled most miserably. i turned to go away. i would speak no more with her. she had been too much for me--she, a simple maid scarcely out of her teens. i had scarcely taken a step, however, before she stopped me. "then you are another tool of the killigrews," she said. "there are not enough of them, and they must needs hire you. not being able to work their will with me, even although i am a prisoner, they must needs use some other base means to accomplish their purpose." this she said passionately, yet with fine scorn. "there you are wrong, mistress nancy molesworth," i said warmly, for she had wounded me sorely. "i am not the tool of these people. nay, my life is in danger while i stay here. but enough of that. you refuse to accept my help?" "how can i accept the help of a man who comes with a lie on his lips?" she cried;--"who comes professing a false name, and who pretends to be the friend of a man to whom he never spoke. how can i trust a man whose every action and every word is a lie?" "had i been a liar," i said, "i could have deceived you easily; but enough. there is no need that i should weary you with my presence. some time perhaps----" "if your name is not roger penryn, what is it?" she said; "and why have you tried to raise my hopes only to deceive me?" i opened my mouth to tell her my name, but i could not utter the word. i could not tell her i was a trevanion, nor relate to her my purpose in coming hither. "it is not well i should speak to you further," i said. "but i have wrought you no harm. neither would i if you had trusted in me. nay, as god is my witness,"--and this i cried out passionately, for somehow the maid dragged the words from me,--"i would have let no harm have happened to you!" with this i walked to the spot where i had ascended, and prepared to descend. "stop!" she whispered. "it will be far more difficult to go down than it was to come up." "what of that?" i replied grimly. "because,"--and a blush mantled her cheek,--"there is another road down. look, yonder is the stairway." "there is a sentinel." "he is a lover of my maid," she replied. "she would lead him away a few steps out of sight while you got to your own chamber." "but i should have to pass through your apartments." "amelia shall show you the way. i will remain here." "no," i replied, for i was angry with her. "i will not be beholden to you in any way." for the first time she looked at me kindly, but i took no heed. i placed my arm around the merlon, and then, grasping the gutter, lowered myself. i had often accomplished such feats, and this fact helped me now. in a few minutes i had reached the ledge, and a little later stood on the old castle walls again. arrived there, i stopped and listened; but no sound reached me. i looked up, and saw that the maid nancy molesworth had followed my descent--saw that she was watching me now. there was an expression of wonder, of bewilderment, on her face. doubtless she was seeking to divine who i was, and why i should come to her. i was sure she wanted a friend, too. but i knew not what to say--i had forfeited my right to help her. i suppose i was foolish at the moment, however. most men are at times. "good-night, mistress nancy molesworth," i said. "remember that i am your friend. perhaps some day i may be able to show it." then i squeezed myself into my bed-chamber, feeling ill pleased with myself. i pulled off my clothes, and got to bed; but i could not sleep. two conflicting forces were at war within me. one moment i reproached myself as a fool for not being able to deceive a slip of a maid without stammering. the next i found myself pitying her, and calling myself a traitor to my name for not seeking to rescue her from the killigrews. sometimes i cursed myself for being as easily moved as a boy of twenty-one, not able to withstand the simple questions of a convent-school girl; and again i reproached myself for yielding to peter trevisa's wishes, and undertaking a work unfit for a man of honour. presently a more serious matter presented itself to me. should i abandon peter trevisa's commission? the maid had practically rejected my offer. should i go back to treviscoe and tell him that i had failed? should i forever carry around with me the memory of the fact that i had made a promise to do a thing, and then at the first difficulty i had given it up like a puling girl? i had taken his money, i had given my word that i would do his work;--could i give it up? even although trevanion did not lie at the end of the business, it were unfair and cowardly to fail in my undertaking thus. well, supposing i decided to make a second attempt; suppose i decided to devise new means to take the maid away--there were many obstacles in my road. old colman killigrew expected me to depart the next day. i had promised to take his messages to some catholic families in the south of the country, and i should have no excuse for staying at endellion. once outside the house, my power to do anything would be gone. "let it be so," i said to myself angrily. "i will leave the whole business in the lurch. let old peter do his work as best he may, and let the maid nancy molesworth fight her own battles with these killigrews. to-morrow i will start for london, and there i will seek for work more congenial to me. if this charles comes to england, king george will need good swords." but even as these thoughts passed through my mind, i was not satisfied with them. i felt i should be playing a coward's part, and was seeking some other way whereby to better satisfy myself, when i heard a low knocking at the door. i did not speak, and the rapping became louder. "who is there?" i asked, like one awaked out of sleep. "otho killigrew," said a voice. chapter viii. otho discovers my name. "he hath discovered where i have been," was my first thought. "he hath been told that i have conversed with the maid nancy molesworth." and i began to think how i should answer him. i got out of bed, however; and after hastily pulling on my small-clothes, i went to the door. "what want you?" i asked sleepily. "surely this is a queer time of night to wake one out of sleep." "let me in, and i will tell you," he replied. "it will be useless to resist," i thought, "for otho is master here, and i shall only arouse useless suspicion by refusing." besides, i was curious to know why he was desirous of seeing me; so without more ado i opened the door. no sooner had i done so, however, than in walked not only otho, but benet. for a time otho looked at me awkwardly, like one not knowing what to say. but benet closed the door, and stood with his back against it, holding a candle in his hand. "hath charles landed?" i asked, watching them closely. "no," replied otho. "but something of importance hath taken place," i said; "else why this midnight visit?" "yes, important events have happened." he spoke curtly, like one angry. "and it hath to do with me, i suppose?" "yes." "what then?" he looked at me keenly for a minute. then he answered me slowly, according to his usual manner of speech. "charles hath not landed," he said. "all the same, important events have happened with which you have to do." "and they?" i asked, noticing the grin that overspread benet killigrew's face. "are two in number." "name them," i said eagerly. "first, that your name is not roger penryn." "yes; what next?" he seemed surprised that i should make so little ado at his discovery, and stared at me as though waiting for me to say some foolish thing. whereas the truth was, that i was relieved that the truth was to come to light. i fretted like a horse frets when a saddle rubs him, every time i heard the name of penryn. "what next?" i repeated. "that you are a sneak." "steady, steady, otho killigrew!" i said, for the word had not a pleasant sound. "but we will deal with these two charges. what are your proofs?" "there are proofs enough," replied otho--"proofs enough. one is, that i suspected you as you sat at my father's table last night." "i thought you were of the ferret breed," i replied; "it is a pity your eyes are not pink." he kept his temper well. "believing you were not what you pretended to be, i sent a man to the place you said you came from," he went on. "he hath returned this very night." "well thought of," i laughed. "and you made discoveries?" "my man discovered that there was no roger penryn." i almost felt a pleasure in the business now. i had no qualms when talking with men. all the same, i knew that i was in dangerous hands. these killigrews were no fools. "it seems i must have created a new member of the family," i said pleasantly. "well, go on." "no, there is no roger penryn; but there is a roger trevanion." "ah!" "yes, a fellow with a bad reputation." "nothing like your own, i hope?" i said sneeringly, for i was ill pleased at his discovery. "a fellow who hath wasted his patrimony." "he never betrayed women, i hope?" i responded. "this fellow left his home on a chestnut horse, the servants not knowing whither he went. my man discovered, however, that he stayed at st. columb and wadebridge. from thence he came here." "ah, your man hath a good nose for scenting." "yes, he traced you here, roger trevanion." "well, trevanion is a better name than penryn--far better than killigrew." "it's a bad name for a sneak, a liar." "have a care, otho killigrew!" i said. "you've mentioned that word twice now." "yes, i have," he said slowly. "i may mention it again. what then?" "only that i shall make you swallow it." at this benet grinned again. "good!" he said aloud. "i like that!" "i shall say it again, and shall not swallow it." "you are two to one," i replied, "and you have your lackey outside; but if i hear it again, there will be a new version of the story about the first-born slain." he looked at his brother, and then spoke with less assurance. "i will prove it," he said slowly. "that is a different matter," i replied. "go on." "you have been on the roof of this house to-night." i made no movement or sound indicating surprise. i had been expecting this. "well, what then? am i a prisoner here?" "why were you there?" "only to have a talk with your prisoner," i replied. "i was curious to see the beauteous maid who hates you." i hit him hard there, and he lost his temper. "look'ee, roger trevanion," speaking quickly and angrily for the first time, "what is the meaning of this masquerade? the trevanions are protestants. why did you come here, pretending to be a catholic? why did you climb to the roof? you are a woman-hater." "only for a wager," i laughed. "mark this!" he cried,--"there are dungeons here as well as battlements." "so i have heard. and it would be just like a killigrew to throw a guest into one of them." "guest!" he answered with a sneer. "yes, guest," i replied. "you have forfeited your right to that name." "prove it. is it an uncommon thing for a man to travel under a name other than his own?" "it is an uncommon thing for a guest to get out of his chamber window, and climb to the roof of the house." "not if a man is of a curious disposition," i laughed. so far we had been fencing, and neither had gained much advantage. but i determined to bring matters to a close issue. "look you, otho killigrew," i said, "you have come to my bedchamber two hours past midnight. why? you must have something in your mind other than the things you have spoken about." "i have come to you in mercy." i shrugged my shoulders. "in mercy," he repeated. "it is true you have forfeited your right to be considered as a guest. nevertheless i remember that trevanion is a good name, and that i am a killigrew." i waited for him to continue. "you had a purpose in coming here. what, i do not know. you have been a--that is, you are not what you pretended to be. you have tried to win my father's confidence, and discover his secrets." "i did not seek to know your father's secrets." "no, but you came as a catholic. you came as one desirous of bringing a catholic king on the throne. my father welcomes such as his own children. otherwise you would not have been welcomed so warmly, nor would you have been asked to remain while polperro sought to degrade us all. it is a weakness of my father to take to his heart all who belong to old catholic families, and to trust them blindly----" "i am waiting for your mercy," i said. "you have done two things while in this house," said otho: "you have pretended to side with my father in carrying out the great plan of his life, and as a consequence obtained secrets from him; and you have sought for, and obtained, an interview with my affianced wife. either of these actions would justify us in dealing with you in a summary fashion. but we have decided on conditions to be merciful." "explain." "i have discovered that you trevanions never break a promise." "that must be strange to such as you." "if you will promise two things, we have decided to let you leave endellion in no worse condition than you entered it." "you are very merciful." "seeing that you have abused our hospitality, it is." "well, about your conditions?" "our conditions are very easily complied with. the first is, that you never breathe to any living soul anything which my father has divulged in relation to the cause he loves." "that is the whole of the first?" "it is. you see i am trusting you as a trevanion. i know that if you make a promise you will keep it." "and the second?" "the second is different." and i saw that otho killigrew spoke not so easily. he lost that calm self-possession which characterized him when he spoke about the catholic cause. the blood mounted to his cheek, and his hand trembled. "tell me why you climbed the roof of the house!" he cried. "tell me what happened there!" "i am waiting to hear the condition," was my answer. "are you interested in mistress nancy molesworth? was that one of your reasons for coming here?" he asked eagerly. "is she anything to you? did you ever see her?" i saw that otho killigrew was scarcely master of himself as he spoke of the maid i had seen that night. i remarked also that benet had an ugly look on his face as he listened. "i am still waiting to hear the second condition," i said, trying as well as i could to see my way through the business, and decide what steps to take. "it is this," cried otho. "you promise not to interest yourself in any way with mistress molesworth; that you never speak of her within one month from this time; that you render no assistance in any way to those who seek to baulk me in my purposes." the last sentence came out seemingly against his will. as luck would have it, too, i turned my eyes in the direction of benet at this time, and noted the gleam in his eyes. "if i mistake not," i said to myself, "benet loveth not otho, and it would take but little to make him lift his hand against his brother." "why this second condition?" i said, more for the purpose of gaining time than anything else. "what hath mistress nancy molesworth to do with me?" "how do you know her name is nancy?" he asked savagely. "i heard john polperro name it. but what hath she to do with me?" "i would not have given you this opportunity," he went on, without heeding my question. "as soon as i knew you had climbed to the roof where she walks, i determined that you should be kept in safety until such time as--as----but it does not matter; benet would not have it so. he suggested that you should have a chance of escape." i saw that benet looked eagerly at me as though he would speak, but by an effort he restrained himself. "the maid is not in a convent school now," i said jibingly. "she is not to be a nun, i suppose. and i have taken no vow that i will not speak to a maid." "but you must not speak to her!" he cried, like one beside himself,--"not to her." "why, pray?" "because," he cried, evidently forgetting the relation in which i stood to him,--"because she is my betrothed wife! because she belongs to me--only! because no one but myself must lay hands on her!" "if she be your betrothed wife, she should love you," i said. "and if she loves you, perfect trust should exist between you." "but there be enemies! there be those who----" he hesitated, evidently realizing that he had said more than he had intended. "will you promise?" he cried. "and if i do not?" i asked. "i told you there were dungeons here as well as battlements," he said. "if you will not give your sacred promise, you shall lie there until it is my pleasure to set you free!" "tell me this, otho killigrew," i said, after thinking a moment. "you say you are betrothed to this maid. does she willingly become your wife?" "that is naught to you!" in truth it was not; and for a moment i was in sore straits what to promise. i had no interest in the maid. she had paid me but scant courtesy that night, and why should i care whom she wedded? moreover, if i refused to promise i was sure that otho would carry out his threat. even were i friendly disposed towards her and john polperro, i could do them no good by refusing to abide by otho killigrew's conditions. then i remembered the look of loathing on the maid's face as she spoke of the killigrews, and instinctively i felt that such a marriage would be worse than death to her. i am anything but a sentimental man, neither do i give way to foolish fancy; but at that moment i saw the maid pleading with me not to promise. "no, i will not accept your last condition," i said. the words escaped me almost without the consent of my own will, for i felt i dared not sneak out of the house in such a way. after all, i was a trevanion, and came of an honourable race. my fathers had fought many battles for women in the past. perhaps some of their spirit came to me as i spoke. "you will not!" he cried like one amazed. "no!" i cried, "i will not. look you, i have seen that maid this very night. if you were a man such as a woman could love, if the maid did not loathe you, i would not have given either of you a second thought. but even although it may not be possible for me to lift a finger on her behalf, i will not bind myself by a promise not to help her. why, man,"--and my anger got the better of me,--"it were sending a maid to hell to make her the wife of such as you!" i heard benet killigrew laugh. "good!" he cried; "the fellow's a man!" but otho was mad with rage. he gave an angry cry, and then leaped on me; but i threw him from me. i looked around for my sword; but before i could reach it, the two men i had seen acting as sentinels rushed into the room, and i was overpowered. still i made a fair fight. twice did i throw the men from me, and i know that they carried bruises for many a day. but one unarmed man against three is weary work, and at length i was dragged from the room. one thing i could not help noticing, however: benet took no part in the business. he simply held the candle and looked on, occasionally uttering cries of joy when i seemed to be getting the best of the battle. when i was left alone in a room at the basement of the castle, i at first upbraided myself because of my foolishness. i had acted the part of a madman. and yet, on reconsidering the matter, i did not see what i could have done other than what i did. true, my prison walls might hinder me, but my promise did not. it might be possible to escape in spite of the bolts of a jailer--my people had done this often; but none had ever tried to escape from their promises. then i thought of my promise to peter trevisa. well, i knew not at the time i undertook his work what i knew when i lay imprisoned, or i would not have made it. besides, i could pay the forfeit. the bargain was honourably made. if i failed to bring the maid to him within a certain time, i had lost trevanion. my debt of honour would be paid. on reflection, therefore, though i was ill pleased at being confined in that dark cell, i felt strangely light-hearted. i was no longer acting a lie. i should no longer skulk under the name of penryn. i did not believe the killigrews would murder me, neither would they starve me. i was not a weakling, and i could look for means of escape. if i could succeed in gaining my freedom, i vowed i would take away the maid nancy molesworth, if for no other reason than to spite the killigrews. presently morning came, and i was able to see more plainly where i was, and what my prison was like. the place was really a cellar, and but little light found its way there. true, there was a window; but it was very narrow, revealing a small aperture, the sides of which were composed of strong masonry. over the aperture was a heavy iron grating, which grating was on a level with the courtyard. the window, too, was securely guarded with heavy iron bars. the door was strongly made of oak, and iron studded. the sight of these things made my heart heavy; escape seemed impossible. the hours dragged heavily on, and i grew weary of waiting. but presently i heard footsteps outside. the two knaves who had obeyed the bidding of otho killigrew entered, one bearing food and the other my clothes. neither spoke, although the one i had known as sam daddo looked less surly than the other. i remembered that he was a lover of mistress nancy molesworth's serving-maid, and tried to think how i could turn this fact to account. they did not stay, but presently returned, bringing a small, roughly made couch. "evidently," i thought, "it is intended that i shall be kept a prisoner for some time." after this i was left alone. it is needless to say that i tried to make many plans of escape; but they all died at their birth, for each seemed more futile than the other. i tried the strength of the window bars, and found that they did not yield to pressure. i listened at the door in the hope of hearing sounds whereby i might be able to more exactly locate my prison. this also was in vain. at mid-day another meal was brought to me, but no word was spoken. still i did not despair. true, i dared take no steps for escape through the day, for footsteps were constantly crossing the courtyard outside. but when night came i would try the window bars again. i noticed an iron clamp on the couch which had been brought. possibly i could use that as an instrument whereby i could prise open the window. my spirits, i remember, kept wonderfully high, for i could not fully realize that i was a prisoner. in truth, the whole matter seemed to me a sort of dream out of which i should presently awake. for on analyzing my thoughts, i saw no reason why i should be interested in mistress nancy molesworth. indeed, i laughed at myself as a foolish dreamer for refusing to promise not to render her any assistance should she wish to escape otho killigrew. perhaps my bargain with old peter trevisa and his son had somewhat to do with it. the rest i put down to the foolish impulse of the moment. for why should the memory of her face make me grow angry with otho? were i a woman, i would rather be wedded to him than to young peter trevisa. concerning benet's behaviour, i could come to no definite conclusion, although i formed many conjectures. but i did not trouble, for presently i fancied i saw a weakness in my prison, and thought i saw a means of obtaining my freedom. my evening meal was brought by a serving-man whom i had not hitherto seen, accompanied by sam daddo. just as if i remained a guest, i spoke to daddo in a friendly fashion, and asked after the health of his master. he spoke no word in reply, however, although i was sure i saw him wink at me in a meaning way. i was not slow to interpret this, especially when, a few seconds later, i saw it repeated. he remained silent, however, in spite of my frequent questions, so i gave up talking, continuing only to watch. this was not in vain, for as the strange serving-man was passing out of the door, sam, in following him, put his right hand behind his back and revealed a piece of paper. this i snatched at eagerly, though noiselessly, wondering what it might mean. ere long i was able to examine it, for my gaolers locked the door, and i listened to their footsteps as they traversed a passage, and climbed some stone steps. lifting my couch, and placing it against the door so that i might not be surprised, i went to my window and unfolded the piece of paper i had taken from sam daddo's hand. only a few words were written thereon, but enough to give me food for thought. this was what i read: "_i hope i have misjudged you. forgive me if i have. i have heard of all that took place after you left me last night. i grieve much that you should be a prisoner because of me; but means may be offered for your escape. i need a friend sorely, for i am in dire danger, and i am a weak, ignorant girl. once at polperro, i should be safe. the one who gives you this may not help you, although he would not willingly harm me. unless help comes i shall be wedded to o. in a week, and i welcome the thought of death more._" as i said, this missive gave me much food for thought. it was evidently written by mistress nancy molesworth. little consideration was needed, moreover, to assure me that she must be in sore straits or she would not have sought to enlist the sympathy of a prisoner. a few hours before she had spurned me as a liar. but i bore her no grudge for that--i had deserved it. it was apparent sam daddo had told his sweetheart what had passed between otho killigrew and myself. he had doubtless listened at the door, and heard all. this, perchance, had led the maid to write me. yet she knew not what was in my mind, and must risk much in trusting me. she seemed to regard my escape as a possibility, and therefore built upon it. i must confess, too, that her helplessness appealed to me, and a feeling of joy surged in my heart at the thought of striking a blow for her liberty. but what could i do? concerning this, i thought long and carefully, but could fix my mind on no definite plan save to wrench the iron clamp from my couch, and apply it to what i thought a weak spot in my window. the result of this was doubtful, and could not be attempted until late at night when the family had gone to bed. i therefore waited several hours, and then, after listening carefully, i commenced my work. a minute later i stopped suddenly, for i heard footsteps outside. then the door opened, and benet killigrew entered. chapter ix. benet killigrew as a wrestler. on entering my prison, he closed the door and locked it. then, putting the key in his pocket, he placed the candle he had brought on a shelf, and faced me. "i like you, roger trevanion," he said. "you are a man after my own heart." i shrugged my shoulders, showing no surprise at his presence, but wondering what was in his mind. "why?" i asked. "because you are a man. it did my soul good to see you beard otho, and struggle with those fellows. by my faith, i fair itched to help you!" i could see he had something in his mind. if i kept my head cool, and my ears open, i might discover something of importance. i remembered, too, the look he had given his brother as he spoke of his feelings towards mistress nancy molesworth, and drew my conclusions accordingly. "but you struck no blow," i said. "that would have been fool's work. i dared not go against my own brother before the servants. indeed, ill as i would have liked it, had you proved too much for them, i should have lent them a helping hand." i was silent, wondering what he was driving at. "i had this meeting in my mind," he continued. "i determined to come and see you when otho was safe asleep." "you are afraid of otho," i said, drawing a bow at a venture. "who would not be?" he cried savagely. "otho is as cunning as the devil. he should have been a priest. he hath all the learning of the family, and can wriggle his way like an adder. oh, i speak plainly now! i gloried to hear you give him word for word. even i dare not do so." i had been summing up the nature of the man as he spoke, and thought i saw whereby i could make him unloose his tongue more freely still. "i can see he is master here," i said. "all you have to obey every movement of his finger. you seem like children in his hands, or like dogs who have to fetch and carry at his bidding." "he hath won the confidence of my father," he cried harshly, "and so it is 'otho this,' and 'otho that.'" "while benet, who is twice as big a man, and twice as handsome, is nobody," i said. "it is otho who will get endellion, otho who will marry mistress nancy molesworth and get restormel,"--and i laughed in a sneering kind of way. "no,--by the mass, no, if you will help me!" "i help you!"--this i said in a tone of surprise. all the same, i expected something of this sort. "i could see you pitied the maid," he went on. "i could see that a man of inches like you thought it was a shame for a maid such as she to be wedded to such a shambling creature as he." "she should have a man like you," i suggested. "ah, you see it!" he cried. "i thought so last night. i said, here is a man who knows a man!"--and he drew himself up with a sort of mountebank bravado. "but i am kept out of it," he continued. "she is not allowed to think of me. she is not allowed even to see me. i must not speak to her. it's all otho, otho. he must have endellion, he must have restormel, and he must have the maid, too." "and he seems to love her." "love her! with the cunning love of a priest. but it is not the love of a man such as i. if she could see me, talk with me, all would be different!" "you think she would love you?" "maidens have not been wont to say me nay," he said, strutting around as vainly as a peacock. "but what hath all this to do with me?" "ah, yes!" he cried; "i had forgotten. otho hath embittered my father against you. he hath warned all the servants against you. you are to be kept here until otho is wedded to nancy." "and then?" "i cannot say yet. but if otho hath his will it will go ill with you. but i have brains and power as well as otho. i marked you last night, and i know that you, too, love the sight of a man." i could not help smiling at the fellow's vanity. but i said nothing. "you refused otho's conditions last night, and you are here because of it. look you, i will get you out of this if you like." "how?" "oh, otho hath not everything his own way. i have friends as well as he. if you will help me, you shall be free. is it to be a bargain?" "how help you?" "otho hath ceased to suspect me. he thinks i have given up all thoughts of wedding nancy, seeing that my father hath willed that he shall wed her." i waited in silence. "a priest is coming here from padstow shortly," he went on. "it is intended that otho and nancy shall be wedded before he leaves. if you will help me, we will baulk him. i will take her away. i know a parson near bodmin, and he will wed her to me." "whether the maid wills or no?" "she will be glad enough to wed me, i'll lay to that,"--and again he strutted around the room. "and how will you do this?" i asked. "nay, i will not tell you until i get your promise. give me your word, roger trevanion, and i will tell you how you shall get out of this hole; also my plans for taking away the maid nancy from the marriage altar." in truth, i felt less inclined to give my promise to benet than to otho; but i had become more cautious. "but why need you my help?" i asked. "because,"--he unlocked the door and listened carefully before replying; then, after locking it again, came back to me, and continued: "because otho hath bewitched almost everybody, and because i need such a man as you to carry out my plans." "but at least you can tell me what you wish me to do?" "i want you to help me to take her from here, and carry her to bodmin. after that, i care not." "but there will be danger," i said. "i must know something more about the matter before i give you my word." "nay, i will tell you no more!" he cried angrily. "and if i refuse?" he gave no answer, but looked black. whereupon i bethought me of the usual plan of those who are undecided. "i must have time to think," i said; "this request of yours hath come upon me suddenly. come to me to-morrow night at this time and i will give you my answer." "and in the mean time you are a gentleman?" he queried. "i am a prisoner." "but you will not speak to the serving-men about what hath been spoken in confidence?" "there is surely no need to ask me such a question," i said. he looked at me keenly. "it is well, roger trevanion," he said. "i shall look on you as my ally and prepare accordingly. i can trust you, for you are a man, and love men. by the mass, they shall all know that benet is more than a match for otho! good-night, trevanion. i am ill pleased that you should have to spend another night in this hole, but it may not be helped. i will have my plans ready by to-morrow night,--and then----" he strutted towards the door as he spoke, taking the key from his pocket meanwhile. my heart gave a great leap, for a daring plan came into my mind. i had no time to consider its value, for it required instant action. i determined to put it to the test without delay. "wait a moment, killigrew," i said. "there is just another matter before you go." he turned around willingly. i could see he was in no haste to depart. "you are sure our conversation hath not been heard?" i said, looking at him steadily. "do you think i am a fool?" he said vainly. "i went to the door to see that otho had not ferreted us out. as for the guard, i told him to keep away until i came back." my heart seemed to be in my mouth, for this fell in exactly with the plan that had been so suddenly born in my mind. "it is well," i replied. then i waited a second, measuring benet with my eye. "you have told me that i am a man after your own heart," i continued presently. "you said you could trust me because i could fight. but it seems i must take you on trust. it is ill undertaking a difficult and dangerous piece of work with a man who may be able to do nothing but talk." his eyes burnt red, a fierce expression flashed across his face. "do you say that to me--benet killigrew?" he said in tones of angry wonder. "yes, to you," i replied, still keeping my eyes steadily upon him. i saw the vexation pass away, and in its place came a look of wild joy. "you want to know if i can fight--whether i have courage?" he cried eagerly. "ah!" i cried in the same tone. "there is one way you can know," he continued. "try now, will you?" he had swallowed my bait without a doubt. he had not even guessed the thought in my mind. in his joy at the thought of battle he had snatched as eagerly at my suggestion as a hungry dog snatches at a bone. "yes, it will be well," i replied. "you want me to help you in a dangerous business. you may fail me at a dangerous pinch, for aught i know. you might show the white feather." "benet killigrew fail to fight!" he cried in wonder. "why, let me fetch swords, man. by the mass, i have been longing for months to find a man worthy of being called a man!" "we cannot fight with swords," i said. "even here we should arouse the house. the sound of steel reacheth far." "with fists, then!" he cried. "let's try a hitch first; after that we can use fists!" he grasped my hand with a cry of joy. "i said you were a man after my own heart," he said eagerly. "i love a fight beyond all things. i have been longing for one,--ay, longing! but there hath been no man who would dare stand before me. i am afraid it will go hard with you, for i can barely govern myself when my blood is up. but i will not hurt you too much, for i love you, trevanion. i love any man who will dare fight with benet killigrew!" so far i had got my way. in spite of his boasting, i did not wonder at his brother being able to manage him easily. in the business of scheming he would be but a child to otho. and still i was doubtful. he was as big, if not a bigger, man than myself. doubtless he knew every trick of a wrestler and a fighter. i took note of his great thews and sinews. he carried himself with ease, and his step was springy. still, i did not see any other means of carrying out my purposes; for although i had determined to try and escape through the window, i had very little hopes of succeeding. i therefore took off my shoes, and threw them into the corner of the room; then i divested myself of my coat. benet growled like a dog enjoying a bone as he followed my example. "i wish we had wrestling shirts," he said with a laugh, and his eyes gleamed with fierce joy. "had i known, i would have prepared for this." i did not speak, but held out my hand for him to shake. he gripped me hard, and gave a grunt of satisfaction. "a man's hand!" he said. i placed my right hand across his shoulders, and caught him firmly; and when i had done this i felt more doubtful than ever as to the result. benet killigrew had not boasted of his strength in vain. the fellow was a giant. i felt his great chest heave. if ever a man felt the joy of battle, it was he. i am sure he forgot everything of his plans, and of our relations to each other, in the gladness of the moment. i knew, too, the moment he placed his hands upon me that he was a wrestler. he heeded not the fact that the floor on which we stood was of stone, barely covered with a thin layer of barley straw. he felt my body carefully, but giving away no chance thereby. he seemed to gloat over the opportunity of testing his own muscles. "a man's chest!" he grunted. "by heaven, i love you, trevanion!" then i saw that he was trying for the "loin throw," and prepared myself for his advances. thus it was when he thought to accomplish his purpose i was ready for him, and for a moment held him at advantage. "ah!" he cried, "better and better!" but i knew that every power i possessed would have to be used, for by this time the fierce longing for mastery had come over him. never did i feel so glad as at that moment that i had been true to the traditions of my race and county. for the trevanions, although the sport had during the last few years been kept alive by the common people, had always been noted as wrestlers, and that in the county which, man to man, could challenge europe. while i had the advantage, therefore, i gripped him for a hug. had he been a weaker man his ribs would have cracked like matches, indeed, had he been able to hold me so, i doubt whether the struggle would have continued a minute longer. but he had caught a deep breath, and i might as well have sought to crush a tree as benet killigrew. so i gave up the hug and he laughed like a boy. "a good try!" he grunted, and then he tested me sorely. my sinews seemed likely to crack, so great was the strain that he put upon them, while the sweat came out over my forehead, and rolled down my face. however i held my ground, and when at length he failed in the cross hitch, i began to have more confidence. especially did i hope for victory as i heard him mutter savagely, "by cormoran, he's my match!" so then i determined to be careful. i hoped that he had lessened his power of endurance by the wine-drinking, wild life he had lived. i therefore acted on the defensive until i should be able to try the throw i had often practised. presently i thought his grip less mighty, but i was not sure, for never in my life had i been held by such a man. had he been less confident of victory, he would perchance have been a better wrestler, but he did not seem to think that even his muscles must presently give way. so it came about that while he tried a dozen tricks, and put forth much strength in so doing, i used what power i had more warily. at length i thought i saw my chance, and so i prepared for what wrestlers call "the flying mare." in getting the grip necessary for this throw, i had to face the danger of placing myself in his power. however, i ventured to do this, for by no other way could i throw him. he saw my move immediately, and took advantage of it, and for a minute i was afraid that all was over with me. never in my life had i struggled so hard. i saw balls of fire flash before my eyes, while my sinews seemed likely to snap at any moment. his grip grew weaker, however, in spite of his frantic struggles. i heard him panting like a mad dog, for i believe he then realised for the first time that i should master him. then with all the strength of shoulders, back, and loins i used the trick i had intended, and benet killigrew, giant though he was, went flying across the room, his head striking the floor with a terrible thud. for a moment i was afraid i had killed him, but only for a moment; i had seen such throws before, and knew the result. he would lie stunned for a few minutes, and then when he came to consciousness he would be dazed for the next half-hour. this was what i hoped for, and for which i had been struggling. after wiping the sweat from my brow, i seized benet's jacket and put it on. as luck would have it, the garment fitted me well. then i took my money from my pockets. otho had left me this, for which, as you may be sure, i felt thankful. after this i cast my eyes around me again, for i remembered that benet had worn his hat when he came to see me. this i put on; so being about his height, and wearing his hat and coat, i fancied i should be able, except in bright light, to pass myself for him. my sword i gave up hope of getting; but my pistols were in my saddle-bags. giving killigrew a last look, and noting that he was still breathing, i unlocked the door, and in a few seconds later was in the passage outside. the candle which i took with me, although it burnt low, showed me where to go. i therefore groped along the dark pathway, and climbed the steps which led to the entrance hall. here i saw a man leaning against the wall. i had extinguished my light, and as the hall was dimly lighted the fellow could not see me plainly. "all right, maester benet?" asked the man sleepily. "yes," i answered in a whisper, motioning him to be silent. evidently benet's actions were not of an orderly nature, for he seemed to take but little notice when i made my way towards the side door, out of which i had gone when i followed amelia lanteglos. arrived there, however, i was likely to be found out, for the man came after me. "the kay, maaster benet; i shall want the kay if you be goin' out!" i flung it to him, therefore, and before the fellow came near me was outside the walls of the house. overjoyed at my success, i drew a deep breath, but i dared not linger. in a few minutes benet would probably return to consciousness, and would hammer at the prison door which i had locked. i therefore found my way to the courtyard, hoping to reach the stables without accident, for i determined not to leave chestnut behind me. i had barely crossed the yard when i saw a man. evidently old colman killigrew was afraid of his neighbours, else he would not have his house guarded so carefully. "who's that?" asked the man. "es et maaster benet?" mimicking benet's voice as well as i was able, i bade him saddle the stranger's horse. "what stranger?" asked the man. "he who came two nights ago," i replied, "i want to ride the beggar." the man gave a laugh, and went to the stables without a word. "put on his own saddle," i said, blessing benet for having led his serving-men to obey his strange whims without questioning. the man put a lighted candle in a lanthorn, and began to saddle chestnut, but in this he found a difficulty. the horse had not been in the habit of obeying any other voice than mine. he snapped at the fellow so viciously, that he left the stall. "he's a oogly beggar, maaster. i can't saddle un. he's a booty to look top, but i wudden ride un ef i wos you. i spoase you've locked up the gen'l'man, ain't ee?" "stand still, chestnut," i said in my own voice. the horse recognized me, and gave a joyful whinney. instantly the fellow suspected me. he saw that i was not his master, and moved towards the door. i was sorry to do it, but it could not be helped. i struck him a heavy blow and he fell heavily on the ground. "if you move or make a noise you are a dead man," i said. "my gor!" muttered the fellow, "tes the gen'leman hisself." in a few seconds i saddled chestnut; then i determined to use him further. "come with me," i said. "where, sur?" he asked tremblingly. "show me the nearest way to the high-road," i said. "if you deceive me, i'll kill you. i want to avoid the lodge gates too." he obeyed me without a word. a few minutes later i was on a cart-track which led in the direction of endellion village. "laive me go back, sur," pleaded the man. "i waan't tell nothin', and they may vind out that i've left the courtyard. hark, they have vound out!" i heard men shouting as he spoke. "laive me go back, sur," he continued to plead; "this trail do laid to the high-road, you caan't go wrong." i let him go, for he could be of no further use to me; then i gave chestnut rein, and a few minutes later was safe on the high-road. chapter x. the escape from endellion. all the events which i have just described happened so suddenly that i had been able to think of nothing beyond obtaining my liberty. on reaching the high-road, however, i began to cast about for my course of procedure. knowing that i should probably be followed, i had to decide quickly, but although i racked my wits sorely, i could settle upon nothing that pleased me. for, foolish as it may seem, no sooner was i away from endellion, than i wanted to be back again, and now that it seemed impossible for me to keep my bargain with peter trevisa, i felt more than ever determined to take the maid nancy molesworth to treviscoe. i found myself constantly pitying her too, and wondering how she would fare among the killigrews. my first determination to ride towards london i abandoned, and so i rode on dejectedly until i bethought me of a sentence which benet killigrew had let drop about a priest coming from padstow who was to wed mistress nancy to otho. this decided me, and without more ado i touched chestnut's side with my heels, and rode towards st. enedock, from which i had heard i should be able to get a ferry-boat to take me across the camel river to padstow. although the road was none of the best, i reached st. enedock in a little more than an hour; and then i began to look about me to obtain the ferry-boat. did i not believe i was hardly pressed for time, i should have stayed at this village for some time, for it was talked about throughout the county. it had been averred that the whole place was often covered with sand, while the church was so much buried that the people often had a difficulty in entering. indeed report had it that the vicar only conducted a service therein once a year so as to be able to claim his tithes, and in order to do this he had to climb in at one of the windows. although it was but two hours past midnight i succeeded in waking the ferryman, who lived in a hut close by the river, and after some argument succeeded in persuading him to take me across. long before we had reached the little landing-place at padstow, i found that he was somewhat of a character, and possessed strong religious views. "i can see you are a staunch protestant," i said after a good deal of talking on his part. "down with popery i do zay, sur," was his response. "and yet one of your great families are papists." "you do main the rosecarricks." "no." "who then; the killigrews?" "yes." "they belong to th' ould sur nick, and the young killigrews be sons of hell," he cried with energy. "supposing one of them were to come enquiring of you whether i came across here?" i asked. he looked at me keenly. "be you a protestant?" he asked. "sound," i replied. "and p'r'aps you doan't want me to know who you be?" he queried slyly. "you are a clever man," i answered. "then they shaan't know," he said with a grin, "onnly you must know, sur, i allays charge double in sich cases." i laughed, and promised him this, feeling myself in fortune's way. "any time, sur, night or day, i'm yer sarvent," he cried when i had paid him his money. "my brother do work the ferry from this side, sur, and 'ee's ov the saame opinions as i be. i'll spaik to un, sur. i'll tell un 'bout ee. you can allays depend on we, sur." i found padstow to be an ugly little fishing village, while the inn to which i went provided but poor accommodation, even after i had spent a good half-hour in arousing the landlord. however chestnut was well stabled and foddered, so i minded but little, especially as i found the innkeeper willing to talk. i was not long in discovering that only one papist priest lived at padstow, and that very few of the people were of his persuasion. indeed, although the priest lodged with a papist family in the town, he spent much of his time in visiting the few catholic families in the neighbourhood. he went often to the arundells at lanherne, to the rosecarricks, and to the killigrews at endellion. "do the people hate him?" i asked. "that they doan't," replied the innkeeper; "he's the jolliest ould chap you ever zeed. i tell 'ee, sur, ef oal the priests 'ad a-bin like he, i doan't b'leeve we cornish people wud 'ave changed our religion years agone." after learning all i could from him, i went to bed, determined to find the priest next day, and discover his relations with the killigrews. although i little expected it, i fell asleep almost immediately, nor did i wake until late the following morning, when the landlord came to my door asking "whether i would 'ave a scrowled salt pilchard, 'am rasher, or conger pie for my breakfast." as soon as i could i started out to find the priest, but on going to the house at which he stayed i found that he would not be home until night. he had gone to lanherne the previous day, on urgent business, but had bade the woman prepare for his coming about nine o'clock. this gave me time to look about me, and prepare for his coming. much as i disliked appearing in a disguise, i saw that i should defeat my own purposes if i presented myself to the priest as roger trevanion. i therefore bought a suit of homely garments but such as a gentleman might wear on holiday occasions. i was also able to purchase a good sword, which done i felt myself ready to meet the priest. it was therefore with much impatience that i waited until nine o'clock, the hour when he was supposed to arrive; then remembering that probably he would want food after his journey i decided to put off my visit until half an hour later. for it is well known that a man is more inclined to be trustful and friendly after a meal than before. it was turned half-past nine, therefore, before i presented myself at his lodgings. i was immediately shown into the room in which he sat. "what want you of me, my son?" he asked. "i wish to know when you could perform the marriage rite, father," i asked, noting the friendly and unsuspicious way with which his eyes rested on me. "ha," he said kindly, "then you are one of the few faithful ones yet to be found in the country. you look on marriage as a sacrament, and not a mere legal business like the heretics of these parts." "i trust so, father. when could you wed us?" "is the maid here in padstow?" he asked. "nay," i replied. "she is at present with heretics, but she is of the true faith." "what is her name, my son?" then i told him a tale i had been weaving through the day, and which was so plausible that he did not appear to doubt it. "i could wed you to-morrow," he said at length, for it will be remembered that this took place in , eight years before the famous law passed by lord hardwicke, through whose influence it was decreed that banns of marriage must be publicly announced in the parish church in order for the ceremony to be legal. "i do not think i could bring her here to-morrow," i said cautiously. "then i am afraid you will have to wait a few days, my son," he replied. "why father?" i asked. "because to-morrow night i go to the killigrews at endellion, and shall stay there three or four days." "you know when you will return from endellion, i suppose?" i asked quietly. "i shall stay no longer than four days," was his reply; "at the end of that time i must return." "so if i came to you after that time, all would be well?" "yes; but speak not of it, my son, we of the true faith are sorely harried in this country. cornish people love not the stuarts, although in some countries their return is longed for. until the right time comes, we must be cautious." i knew all i desired now, and should be able to act accordingly. my journey had not been in vain, and before long i left him, my head all a-whirl with many thoughts. i waited not an hour longer at padstow, and not wishing to cross the river again by means of the ferry, i determined to ride to wadebridge, and from thence make my way to the village of st. kew, where i could leave chestnut, and then go afoot to endellion, which was only two miles away. this i did, passing through wadebridge without any one noticing me, and arriving at st. kew about five o'clock in the morning. after breakfast i walked to endellion and looked carefully around me, for i was again in the killigrews' country. there were but a few houses in the village, and i could easily discover what i wanted to know, if i cared to ask of the cottagers; but this i would not do, for it is well known that people with little to interest them talk much about what any stranger may say. i therefore waited until after eight o'clock, and then to my delight i saw jennifer lanteglos leave one of the cottages, and make her way towards the fields near. this was what i desired; so, unseen by her and by the cottagers, i followed. when she had passed through two fields i overtook her and spoke kindly. "whither away, jennifer my fine maid?" i asked. she gave a start. "plaise, sur, i be going to teel taetis" (till potatoes), she replied like one in fear. "you remember me, jennifer?" i queried, for the girl seemed too frightened to lift her eyes to mine. "oa iss, sur. i've 'eerd 'bout 'ee. do 'ee be careful, sur, do 'ee." "hath amelia been home lately?" i asked. "aw iss, laast night, sur." "did she tell you aught?" "iss, sur. she towld me 'bout you, sur." "and what thought she about me?" "she 'ardly knawed what to think, sur, 'cept that you be a braave strong gentleman." "and did she tell you what her mistress thought about me?" the girl shook her head. "look you, jennifer, i want to see your sister to-night." "doan't 'ee try to, sur. they be purtly maazed weth 'ee up at the 'ouse. they 'll kill 'ee, sur. doan't 'ee go nist (near) 'em, sur." i saw she was in earnest, and that she was anxious for my welfare. "jennifer," i said, "your sister loves her young mistress, doesn't she?" "oa iss, sur, that she doth." "and she wants a friend right badly?" "oa iss, sur, i musn't say nothin', but she do, sur." "then look here, jennifer, you must go to endellion this day and see your sister. you must tell her to come here this night." at first the maid was much frightened, but i succeeded in persuading her at length. i also told her what she must say, and how she must carry out my plans. "your sister must be here at nine o'clock this night," i said, "here by this stile. you must go up to the house at once, and tell her to find out all she can through the day. tell her i would befriend her young mistress. you must not plant any potatoes to-day, jennifer. here is a crown piece for your trouble." this done, i went back to st. kew. i felt at ease in my mind that jennifer would fullfil my mission, and i hoped that nancy molesworth would not hesitate to fall in with the plans i had conceived. i remained at st. kew all the day, not stirring outside the inn, until it was time for me to go to meet amelia lanteglos. when i arrived at the stile, no one was to be seen, and i feared much that the maid had failed me, but i had not waited long before i saw two women coming towards me. these proved to be mistress nancy molesworth's serving-maid and her sister jennifer. so far all was well. at first amelia lanteglos was chary of speech, but at length she spoke freely, and told me all that had happened at the house. sam daddo had told her that the killigrews were searching for me, and that should they find me it would go ill with me. "and benet killigrew?" i asked. "ee es more maazed than anybody, sur. ee do zay as ow 'ee went down where you wos put, to zee that you wos saafe, and that you took 'im unawares like. ee do vow 'ee'll kill 'ee, sur, for you ded strick an unfair blaw." "and your mistress?" i asked presently, after the maid had talked about benet's passion; "what of her, amelia?" "i'm afraid she'll go luny, sur. she do 'aate the thot of marryin' maaster otho, and she do zay a priest es comin' to-morra to marry 'er to 'im." "and does she trust me, amelia?" "i dunnaw, sur. i believe she do sometimes. she wud be glad to do anything to git away from they killigrews." "would she be willing to take a bold step to get away from endellion castle?" i asked her. "she caan't, sur. she's watched night and day." "but if means were offered?" "aw, sur, she wud git away ef she could." after this i did my best to test the maid's loyalty and devotion to her mistress, for i was risking everything upon the plan i had formed, and did not want to be hasty. "amelia," i said presently, "i want you to tell your mistress that i desire to be her friend. i would take her from yon den, and on my oath as a gentleman i seek to free her from the killigrews. tell her also that if she will be willing to obey me i will effect her escape." "how, sur?" asked the maid, who trembled violently. "benet killigrew wants her," i said. "he did, sur, but i believe 'ee's gived up the thot now; besides my mistress do 'aate maaster benet as much as the other." "that may be, but you must deceive him." "ow, sir?" "in this way. benet killigrew has been planning to carry your mistress away. that was the reason he came down to me in that cell where i was imprisoned at endellion. he wanted me to help him, and offered me my liberty on condition that i would help to carry out his plans. his design is to take her to a priest near bodmin. well, i want you to tell your mistress that she must consent to this, and you must convey the news to benet. do you understand?" "but she wudden't, sur, she wudden't!" "tell her that she must arrange for benet to get horses and be ready to take her away to-morrow night." "but, sur, the priest es comin' to marry 'er to maaster otho to-morra night. besides she'd ruther die than go away aloan with maaster benet." "then benet must also get a horse for you, and you must accompany your mistress. you must ride through endellion village, and when you get to the four cross-roads on the other side, i shall meet you--do you see?" "but what good'll that be?" "you must see to it, that only benet come with you, and then i shall stop you and take your mistress away from him." "but you cudden, sur; he's a terable fighter, and wud kill 'ee." "who came off best when we fought the other night? i tell you, you need not fear." slowly the girl grasped my meaning, and, after many protestations, she agreed to carry my message to her mistress. "you are sure that the killigrews intend marrying her to otho to-morrow night?" "aw, iss, sur." "well go back now, and tell your mistress what i have said to you. then to-morrow morning jennifer must go to you, and you must tell her if she hath consented to my plans. mind, if you betray me, or if you fail, you will have sent your mistress to a place worse than hell." the maid protested much, and i had to content myself with walking back to st. kew with her assurance that she would do her utmost. in spite of my excitement my heart was heavy with misgivings, for the more i considered what i had done, the more did difficulties present themselves. how could the maid nancy be expected to trust me? only once had i seen her, and then she had torn my lying disguise from me in a minute. i had left her convicted of deceit. was it likely then that she should undertake to obey my behests? might not my protection seem worse than that of benet killigrew? would she not rather become the wife of otho than trust to me? these and a thousand other disquieting thoughts filled my mind as i walked back to the inn. and yet i had had hopes. if the maid hated the killigrews so much, would she not risk anything to escape them? had she not written me a letter, and therein told me that she would trust me? but if she did, could i carry out my plans? supposing she trusted to benet, and he brought her to the four cross-ways, could i take her from him? i had beaten him at wrestling, but was i a better swordsman? then i laughed at my own anxiety, and wondered why i cared so much. why should i trouble? i tried to analyze my own thoughts. should i take her to peter trevisa's if i succeeded in mastering benet? that were poor return for the maid's trust; nay, it would stamp me as a base trickster. and yet had i not promised trevisa? was i not day by day spending his money? again and again i felt like giving up the whole business; but when i encouraged such a thought the remembrance of nancy molesworth's face would come to me, and i saw her just as when she laid her hand on my arm on the roof of the house, and said: "i am alone, helpless. i am surrounded by those i cannot trust. i hate--loathe the thought of----" then in spite of myself i found myself gripping the hilt of my sword, and setting my teeth together while i vowed to set her at liberty. i found joy in the thought of beating the killigrews too, and laughed as i thought of their discomfiture. but i need not tell of all my fears, notwithstanding they worried me sorely, and when i made my way towards the stile the following morning i had almost prepared myself to be told that the maid nancy would not trust me. i found jennifer lanteglos waiting for me. she had just come from the house of the killigrews. "have you seen your sister this morning?" i asked. "iss, sur." "well?" and i waited impatiently for her to speak. "ef you plaise, sur, they'll come." i know not why, but my heart seemed to have a difficulty in beating. "hath mistress nancy spoken to benet?" i asked excitedly. "no, sur, but 'melia 'ave. maaster benet wos took in a minit." "and he'll arrange the escape?" "iss, sur, they be going to leave the house at nine o'clock." "how?" "i dunnaw, sur. 'melia ded'n tell me, she 'ad n' time. but she'll do et, sur." that was all the wench could tell me, and so i had to be content. how benet was to deceive otho, how they were to escape without detection, i knew not. it was an anxious day that i passed, but i comforted myself with the thought that mistress nancy molesworth was not to be imposed upon, and that she would see to it that all my behests were obeyed. all the same, as i thought of the many things which might take place, i cursed myself as a numskull for not devising a better plan; for i fancied i saw a hundred ways better than the one i had marked out. at nine o'clock i dismounted from chestnut at the four cross-ways, ready, as i thought, for whatever might happen. i looked around me, for it was bright moonlight, and took note of the position. it was a lonely spot, a mile from the house, so unless the party were followed we were not likely to be troubled with interference. after i had waited a quarter of an hour or so, and heard no sounds i became sorely impatient. had benet seen through the scheme and taken her the other way? had otho discovered the plot? had amelia proved false? had nancy changed her mind at the last minute? i called myself a fool for caring so much, but at that time i was in a fever, and i chafed finely as i strode to and fro. more than half an hour had passed, and i had put my foot in the stirrup to ride towards endellion, when i heard the sound of horses' hoofs; a minute or so later i saw a man and two women riding towards me. i drew my sword, and waited. chapter xi. my fight with benet killigrew, and our flight across the moors. "stop!" i cried as the party came up. immediately the women checked their horses, but the man seemed as though he would ride on, heedless of me. when he saw that his companions obeyed my bidding, however, he wheeled around savagely. "who are you, my man?" he cried. it was benet killigrew who spoke. evidently the women had carefully obeyed my bidding. "thank you, killigrew, for carrying out my plans," i said. "now you can ride back to your father and the priest, and tell them what a fool you have been." i heard him growl an oath which i will not here set down. "what want you?" he cried. "i could have shot you easily," i said, "but that is not my way. go back now, i will take care of the lady." he saw the trap into which he had fallen, but he was not a man to give up easily. "ha!" he laughed, "after all, i'm glad of this. you thought i should play into your hands, but, by heaven, you play into mine!" he leaped from his horse as he spoke, and i believe that for the moment in his eagerness to fight he had forgotten why he was there. bidding chestnut stand still, i placed myself on guard while benet drew his sword. "i like not fighting before women," he cried; "they faint at the sight of blood, but, by cormoran, i love you, trevanion! we'll fight for the maid, and the best man shall have her." "stop a minute," i said. "this is mistress nancy molesworth, is it not?" "yes,"--it was the maid herself who spoke. "and you do not wish to go with this man benet killigrew?" "no, no. i will go no further with him now. i only came here thus at your bidding!" "did you?" growled benet, "but you will go further with me. trevanion, you are over confident, my man. because you threw me by a trick i had not practised, you ventured on this scheme? i love you for it, but you are a dead man, trevanion"; and he gave a laugh of wild joy. for the moment i repented i had not wounded him unawares and taken away the maid without his knowing who had done it, but only for a moment. it is but a coward's device to hurt an unprepared man. besides, although benet killigrew was a wild rake, and ill-fitted to be the husband of such a maid as nancy molesworth, he was a brave man, and loved a fight, and as such i respected him. without waiting he attacked me hotly; all the same i saw he was wary, and was not weakened by over-confidence, as he was when we wrestled. his eyes continued to gleam with a fierce joy, and he laughed like a man well pleased. "you thought to beat benet killigrew," he cried, "you thought to use him as a tool, eh?" for full three minutes we fought without either gaining advantage, and i realized how much depended on the skill and strength of my right arm. i saw too that benet meant to kill me; every thrust he made meant death had i not been successful in parrying them. never before had i fought with such a man; never before had i seen such a gleam of joy, a joy that was devilish, as i saw in benet killigrew's eyes. i had no chance of noticing the two women, for benet pressed me sorely. i fancied i heard some slight screams, but of these i recked nothing. a woman always cries out at a man's blows. for the first few minutes i acted on the defensive. i was anxious to test my antagonist, before seeking to disable him, for this was all i wanted to do. presently, therefore i prepared myself for a method of attack of which i fancied killigrew would be ignorant, but in making it i placed myself at a disadvantage, for my heel caught on a big stone which lay in the road, and i was thrown off my guard. he was not slow in making use of this, as may be imagined, and i doubt much if i could have saved myself, for i stumbled back a couple of paces, and as i stumbled i saw his sword arm raised. before he could strike, however, his arm was caught from behind, and in a second i was my own man again. he gave a savage oath, and furiously threw aside the one who had kept him from taking advantage of my mishap. in a second i saw that it was mistress nancy molesworth who had come to my aid, and while i felt ashamed that i needed to be helped by a maid, the incident in the battle nerved my arm. "come on, benet killigrew," i said, "that stone shall not serve you again." "bah, you were at my mercy," he cried, "but you were saved by the maid nancy. well, the best man shall have her!" after that no further word was spoken, for we fell to again, and each of us fought like grim death. and now benet fought not so much for the joy of fighting, as for the sake of claiming the maid who had held his hand, and for revenge on me. i too fought in deadly earnest, for now that the maid had rendered me such signal service i felt more than ever desirous of ridding her from the power of the killigrews, and perhaps i desired to show her even at that moment that i was a better man than my opponent. besides, i knew that otho killigrew and his brothers might be upon me at any moment, so that whatever was done must be done quickly. with this in my mind i became less cautious, being anxious to finish the business, and benet, noting this, thought, i expect, that my guard was becoming weak; whereupon, imagining i was yielding ground, he rushed on me with so little care that he spitted himself on my sword, while his weapon fell from his hand. precious though every moment was, i undid his doublet and examined the wound i had made. the blood came freely, but i did not think it was mortal. for this i was glad, because i wished not to have his life resting on me. "you have got the maid, trevanion," he gasped, "but i shall not die. some time we shall fight again," and with that he fell into a swoon. "we are followed!" it was the maid nancy who spoke, and instantly i heard the sound of horses. "mount!" i cried quickly, and then i saw that the serving-maid had not alighted from her horse. whistling to chestnut that he might come to me, i turned to help mistress nancy to get on her horse; but she would have nought to do with me. instead she led her steed to a high stone, and without my aid sat in her saddle. i jumped on chestnut's back, therefore, and galloped southward, with the two women close to me. both of them rode well. the maid nancy sat her horse gracefully, as every well-born woman should, while amelia lanteglos rode carelessly and easily, as is common among country wenches who make a practice of riding horses barebacked. for a couple of miles neither spoke; we rode hard as was natural, but at the end of that time i drew my rein for a moment. i was anxious to listen whether we were followed. the women, however, rode forward. "stop!" i said. "for why?" it was mistress nancy who spoke. "i wish to listen whether the killigrews are riding behind us, or whether they have stopped with benet." upon this they obeyed my behest, i thought unwillingly. i listened for a few moments, but no sound reached me. "they must be staying awhile with benet," i said aloud. "yes, but they will follow us. let us forward!" "whither?" i asked, for her tones nettled me. she spoke as though i were a servant. "there is but one place," she replied sharply. "your promise was to take me to polperro." "and when you get there?" i asked. "your work will be done then, sir." "but the killigrews will follow you to polperro." "i have friends there who will protect me. let us waste no more time." we rode forward without another word, although, to tell the truth, her discourteous mode of speech cooled my ardour. apparently she did not remember that i had been scheming and fighting for her liberty. evidently i was no more to her than a lad who might open a gate through which she might enter into liberty. what became of me in opening the gate, she cared not. this ill-agreed with my nature, although, when i remembered my promise to peter trevisa, i felt tongue-tied. the truth was, i wot not what to do. my bargain with trevisa hung like a millstone around my neck, and the fact that i could not altogether shake off the thought that i meant to take the maid to treviscoe made me ashamed to speak to her. i do not pretend to be a hero such as story-tellers rave about, and i must confess that the thought of having trevanion under easy circumstances became hourly more dear to me. all the same i wanted to act worthily of my name, and the thought of the helplessness of the women who rode near me made me anxious for their safety. "we must ride through wadebridge," i said at length. "why?" "because of the river." "very well." after that we lapsed into silence again. a mile or two further on i sought to draw her into a conversation, but in vain. evidently she had accepted my escort as the one means of escaping from the killigrews, but she loved me no more than she trusted them. i was as distasteful to her as they were, and she would have scorned my help had any other means presented themselves. i could see too that she did not trust me, and that if i acted contrary to her wishes she would leave me. now that she had gained her liberty she felt confident of her own strength and ingenuity. the fact that no sound of the killigrews followed us gave her assurance, and in her ignorance of what might happen she fancied herself well out of harm's way. for myself she was sure i must have some purpose of my own to serve, and it was for her to use me in so far as i could be of any value to her, taking precautions all the time, however, that i did not betray her. this was how the matter appealed to me, and every mile of the journey confirmed my belief. moreover i felt she was just, for although my heart revolted at the thought of taking her to treviscoe, i knew i had not given up hopes of getting back trevanion. all this made me a sorry companion, and made me hang my head as i rode along. "we must decide what road we take after we reach wadebridge," i said as we drew near the little port. "how? why?" she asked. "there be several roads," i replied. "the nearest way to polperro will be to ride through egloshayle, and thence, on to bodmin, but that is also the road the killigrews will most likely take in their search after you." "but they are not following." "doubtless they stopped when they came to benet, but if i know otho he will not give up easily." "and the other roads?" "there is one across the moors by which we can get to a place called st. blazey; from thence it is but a few miles to polperro." "and which do you advise?" "i had better not advise," i replied proudly. "the road to bodmin is good, although it hath but an ill name, because of the footpads who infest it. the one across the moors is rough and not so easily followed. it would be easy to get lost there in the dark." "and think you the killigrews would overtake us if we went the bodmin road?" "they could ride faster than we." "and they would take me back?" "i can fight one, i cannot fight many. besides, when one is not trusted, it is but little he can do." she looked at me keenly. "advise me," she said presently. "there will be no sound of horses' hoofs across the moors," i said. "that fact cuts two ways, but it would give us the advantage at the start." "we will go across the moors," she said in a more friendly way, although her voice was anxious, as indeed it might well be. accordingly we rode across the bridge which leads into the little town of wadebridge, and then went some distance on the padstow road, until we came to a little lane which led to the moors. we had gone perhaps a mile across a dreary tract of land, when she spoke again. "there be no bogs, no dangerous places here?" she asked. "i never heard of any," i replied. "and you think we are away from danger?" "i think we are less likely to be followed than if we had taken the main way. in my opinion it would be best for us to find some place of rest as soon as daylight comes." "why?" "we shall not be able to travel rapidly in the dark, and, think as we may, but the killigrews will be scouring the whole countryside, and that right quickly." "but can we not hurry on to polperro?" "it is several hours' ride from here. in an hour or so it will be daylight. they will then be able to track our horses. even if they fail to track us in that way, they will have men placed near john polperro's house." "why did you not tell me this earlier?" "you would not listen to me." "what would you do now then?" "i think it would be best to find a farm-house. if we could hap on a convenient one it would be best to rest there two or three days. this done, i might reconnoitre polperro's place, and perchance prepare him for your coming." she turned her head towards me, but the sky was overcast and the light was dim. she could barely see my face, neither could i see hers. then i remembered that i had never seen the maid in broad daylight, and for the first time i felt the strangeness of my position. i was alone on a wide stretch of moors with a lady and her serving-woman. we were in all probability pursued by those who had the legal right to govern the lady's actions. she desired to go to a place of safety, while it was to my interest to take her to peter trevisa. all this i knew before, but until then i did not realize what it meant. "will it be safe to go to a farm-house?" she said at length. "the country people are very hospitable," i replied; "besides we can pay them liberally." presently the dark outline of a square church tower appeared against the dark sky. "what is that?" she asked. "it is st. wenn church tower," i replied. "we should have got farther than this, but we have been obliged to come very slowly across the moors. i think the road will soon be better now." "it will soon be daylight, you say. will you look out for some place where we can stay." she spoke despondingly. doubtless she was lonely, and perhaps she felt the real difficulties of the situation. she spoke no further to me, however, but fell back with her serving-maid, leaving me to my thoughts. presently i saw a gray streak in the eastern sky, and then looking back i saw a party of horsemen. "ride faster!" i cried out. "we are followed." "by whom?" "look back," i replied. she obeyed me, and i saw by the look in her eyes that she came to the same conclusion as i. "what can we do?" she cried. in truth i knew not how to answer her. i had discovered enough of the killigrews to know they would not be easily beaten. i was sure too they would seek to be revenged on me, while the maid nancy would be wholly in their power, if i were unable to protect her. to make matters worse, too, i saw that her horse was lame. it might be that only a stone had become wedged in the hollow of his hoof, but on the other hand it might be more serious. daylight would soon be upon us, and our followers, if they were the killigrews, would find us easily. "in truth, i cannot tell you just yet," i said. "let us ride on." it was but comfortless words i could speak, but she made no complaining answer. we descended into a little hollow from which we could not see our pursuers, but we were none the less free from danger. a few minutes later we climbed the hill on the other side, i vainly racking my brain for some feasible plan. all the time the light grew brighter, but i looked not towards her. truth to tell, i was ashamed. when we reached the summit of the hill, while we were hidden from those behind, the country southward was exposed to our view. my heart gave a great leap, for what i saw set me thinking rapidly. before me, about two miles away, rose a great rock. it was perhaps thirty feet high, while nearly at the summit i could see what seemed like masonry. a doorway was fashioned, just as though some one had used the place as a refuge. "that," i thought, "is roche rock!" no sooner had the fancy flashed through my brain, than i remembered anthony, the tale-teller. i called to mind what he had said about escaping to a high rock amidst the wild waste of moors. i minded the scrap of paper lying at my chamber door, on which was written the word _roche_. as i said, the light was increasing, although the sun had not yet risen. i looked back; we were still hidden from our pursuers. "mistress nancy!" i cried, "yonder is one place of refuge." "yonder rock! how?" "i cannot explain now. come, let us ride more quickly. i feel sure there is safety!" for the first time since the daylight came i looked at her face. true, she had suffered much excitement, fear, and fatigue through the night, but at that moment the light of hope shone in her eyes. yes, she was a beauteous maid, and i wondered not that so many men loved her. i had no feeling of the sort myself,--at the same time her many fears appealed to my pity, and, forgetful of my promises, i swore to myself that i would take her to a place of safety. "let us not spare horseflesh!" i cried. "it is but a couple of miles." i urged her horse forward, but it was no use. the animal was badly lamed, and it became more painful for him to hobble at every step he took. "it cannot be helped," i cried; "my chestnut can carry us both easily. there, place your foot on mine, and jump in front of me!" the maid hesitated as though the thought were unpleasant, but she overcame her feelings, and did as i bid her, i feeling more than ever determined to stand by her loyally. past thirty as i was, the unaccustomed experience of a maid sitting near me made my blood tingle, as after speaking to chestnut we rode through roche church town. no one was astir; indeed, the whole village seemed as much unconscious as the dead who lay near the old parish church. roche contained only a few houses, and we quickly passed through it: then turning to the left we hurried forward towards the rock, which stood amidst a number of small rocks on the lone moor. the serving-maid, amelia lanteglos, kept close to me, neither did she make any complaint. indeed throughout the whole journey she had kept cheerful, and as far as lay in her power had ministered to her mistress. arrived at the rock, i looked around me. there were no signs of pursuers; indeed all was silent as death, save for the sound of our panting horses. i looked up towards the masonry at the summit of the rock, which looked like a chapel, and eagerly sought for some signs of life. in my eagerness to get there, i had scarcely thought of the improbability of any one taking up abode at such a place. i had obeyed the impulse of the moment, without recking its wisdom. meanwhile mistress nancy stood by chestnut's head looking at me doubtfully. "uncle anthony," i said; and as if some one rose from the dead, i heard sounds which seemed to come from the heart of the great rock, and a minute later i saw uncle anthony's face appear at a small window. "uncle anthony," i repeated, "i want your protection. there are helpless women here who are fleeing from danger." his eyes rested on me for barely a second, then he turned to the maid nancy. "the shadow of a great rock in a weary land," he said softly. "come, my lamb." a few minutes later he had descended to the base of the rock. "come, my lamb," he said again. with an agility of which i should not have thought him capable, he climbed up the steep side of his resting-place, carefully helping mistress nancy all the time, until he came to a doorway seemingly hewn out of the rock; having told her to enter, he rendered a similar service to amelia lanteglos, while i stood and watched him like one dazed. chapter xii. roche rock. "come, roger trevanion," he said presently, "yet there is room." "the horses?" i queried. "ah yes," he said, quickly coming to me. "i can make no provision for them." i gave a gesture of impatience. "you have a story to tell me, roger trevanion," he said, "and it is well it should be told quickly. but there is plenty of grass on the moors, and your horse obeys you like a christian. take off the saddle, and tell it to go yonder out of sight, and the other will follow." i was not long in doing his bidding. i pulled off the head-gearing and saddles from both the animals, and then i told chestnut what i wanted him to do. i am sure he understood me perfectly, for he trotted some distance across the moors, the other nag following as uncle anthony had said. "there be many horses grazing on these moors," said the old man, as though he divined the thoughts in my mind, "so yours will attract no notice." i looked around me again, and then up at the vast mass of bluish schorl rock on which the lonely chapel was built. "a wise man doth mount the high rock, and rest in peace," he said, repeating the very words he had used when i had seen him at endellion, only now he spoke like a man of learning and not in the cornish vernacular as he had spoken then. "happy are they who in trouble seek the shelter of the wise man's high place." "i remember," i replied, "that is why i came." "you will not be troubled," he said, "it hath a bad name. spirits of the dead are said to haunt this moor." "the killigrews fear not man nor devil, especially otho," i replied. "come, you have much to tell me," was his answer. "at present no man is in sight, but come. the lady nancy and her serving-maid will want food and rest, and there is trouble in your eyes." i followed him as he climbed towards the summit of his hiding-place, but i found it a difficult task, for it was almost perpendicular; the foot-places were but narrow, too, and the holding-places few. but uncle anthony went easily, like one who had ascended and descended many times, as indeed he had. i discovered that the building in which the old man lived was divided into two apartments. the one he had used for domestic purposes, and the other for prayer and meditation. the latter was the one known at st. michael's chapel. "it is but little i can offer," remarked he; "but such as i have give i unto thee. come, we will go where the lady and her serving-maid resteth." as i entered the strange hiding-place, mistress nancy looked eagerly towards me as if expecting danger, but i quickly dispelled her fears, and a few minutes later we were all eating such fare as uncle anthony had been able to provide. little was said during the meal; all of us were apprehensive of danger, and, when we had eaten, the old man led me into the chapel. "i can guess much," he said, "perchance you will wish to tell me more." i hesitated, for in truth i wot not how much to tell. i knew next to nothing of the story-teller, who led such a strange existence. who was the man who masqueraded one day as a traveling droll, and the next as hermit? moreover, how came he to know my name? that he was a man possessed of great powers of penetration was easily to be seen, and i felt almost afraid as he fixed his keen gray eyes upon me. i looked from the window and saw three horsemen coming along the road we had travelled, and pointed towards them. "the killigrews," i said. "yes, but they will not come here." he spoke with certainty, and i could not help believing that he told the truth. "who are you, uncle anthony?" i asked. "a friend of the oppressed, and one who never forgets a kindness," he replied. "have you powers more than is ordinarily possessed by men?" "there be those who have eyes, and see, and there be those who have eyes and see not. i see." "how know you what my name is?" he smiled. "is the name of trevanion an obscure one? are the features of the trevanions unknown? cornwall is not a large county, and there be those who know it well." "but you knew not when we entered endellion together." "there be those who, in hours of quiet thought, recall impressions once made. there be those who can search the human heart, and read the mind." "such powers belong only to the god who made us," i replied. "there be those to whom god speaks. those who dream dreams and see visions." i looked at him questioningly, but i could read nothing in his face; when i looked into his eyes my own fell, even as the hands of a feeble swordsman fall before those of his master. "if you know all, what need is there for me to tell you?" i stammered. "no man knows all," he replied. "but i have seen the face of the lady nancy molesworth. i have looked into her soul and seen its weariness and sorrow. i know the hopes of the killigrews. i looked into your heart, and knew that your life was linked unto hers. i wrote the word 'roche' on that piece of paper, and have waited for your coming." "and beyond that?" "beyond that, nothing certain." i debated with myself whether i should tell him everything, but i was afraid and held my peace. "have you naught to tell me, roger trevanion?" he said presently. "i had heard of the maid's imprisonment at endellion," i replied, "and i determined to set her at liberty." then i described to him what had happened as i have here written it down. "but what is the end to be?" "she wishes to be taken to the house of john polperro." "and you will take her there?" i was silent, for i remembered the promise i had made to peter trevisa. again he scanned my features closely. "love you this maid?" he asked sternly. "i love no maid!" i replied scornfully. "then what is your purpose? oh, i know your history, roger trevanion. i know that for years you have taken no woman to your heart. i know that you have lived in poverty for years. would you wed her for her possessions?" "i would wed no woman for her possessions," i replied angrily. "women are naught to me." "so i have been told. then do you help her from pure chivalry? is it your purpose to take her to the place she desires to go? have you faced imprisonment and death without thought of reward?" "what is that to you?" i asked. "this," he replied. "you need my help, and i must be assured that you mean all that a gentleman should mean before i extend it further." "gentleman!" i cried, "what know you of the feelings of a gentleman? you a droll, a travelling tale-teller!" this i said with a purpose, for i desired to see further into the heart of the man. i saw too that i had not spoken in vain. his eyes flashed angrily, and he placed his hand on his left hip as though he carried a sword there. "as good a gentleman as you," he cried angrily, and for the moment he had lost control over himself. "i have a name as good as yours, my family--" he stopped, feeling doubtless that he had been betrayed into saying more than he intended. "if you are a gentleman," i replied, "you will know that a man does not tell all that is in his heart to every passing stranger. you evidently have your secret, you do not tell it to me." "true," he replied quietly. "i spoke hastily, roger trevanion. i know too that the word of a trevanion is to be trusted, thus i will not question it." then he waited for some time in silence, his eyes occasionally scanning the wild moors around, and again resting upon me. "i am waiting," he said presently. "for what?" "your word." "what word?" "the word that your motives are honourable. that you seek only to carry out the maid's wishes. that you will take her to the house of john polperro, and then, if she wishes, leave her as a gentleman should." i did not answer. i could not. "i wait," he said presently. "i am not accustomed to pledge my word and tell my purposes to strangers," i replied. "i must consider." "and i must consider," he retorted. "what?" "whether i tell the lady nancy not to trust you. whether i shall send word to the killigrews telling of your whereabouts, or throw you on the rocks beneath us!" i laughed in his face, and yet as i looked at his lean sinewy body, and saw the flash of his eyes, my laughter died on my lips. i felt sure that he could not easily carry out his threat, but i saw i should be a fool if i made him my enemy. "it will not be well for us to be at cross purposes," i said presently. "believe me, i would not do the maid an ill turn." "and methinks i spoke hastily, foolishly," he replied, "for in truth i am no fighter. i forgot that i am an old man, that my sinews are soft and my bones stiff." "besides," i suggested, "the maid nancy hath a will of her own. she is not easily forced." "yes, yes," he replied eagerly, "we must speak with her. nothing must be done hastily. as you said some time ago, the killigrews will be watching around polperro's house, and she must not go there yet. no, no!" he spoke, i thought, rather to himself than to me, and i wondered what was in his mind. "the killigrews will be scouring the countryside," he went on, "but it will be many hours before they think of roche rock. of that i will swear. she is safe yet, but she cannot stay here long. it would neither be seemly nor right, and uncle anthony hath many hiding-places--many." "we will have to stay here till nightfall," i said, as though he still trusted in me. "yes," he replied, "and as soon as she hath rested we will speak together. you feel weary perchance. lie down on this pallet and rest." "no, i cannot rest; my mind is filled with many things," was my answer. "i will stay here and watch"; and indeed i felt no weariness. uncle anthony left the chapel, but soon returned. "the lady nancy is asleep," he remarked, "and the serving-maid sits by her watching." some hours passed, but nothing of importance happened. i had a further conversation with uncle anthony, but i could not find out who he was, or why he chose such a strange mode of existence; but presently he came to me, saying that he had prepared food for us, after which it would be well if we talked together. during the meal a silence fell upon us, neither did mistress nancy once look at me in the face. but my eyes constantly rested upon her. she was evidently very anxious, and the journey through the night had told upon her. nevertheless i was more and more impressed by the thought of her beauty. and yet, as i thought, there was but little tenderness in her beauty. her face was set, almost rigid, a look of determination constantly revealed itself, and she seemed to be thinking deeply. "the killigrews are in the neighbourhood," said uncle anthony when the simple meal had been eaten. "they will know that you are near. they will have seen the lame horse you left on the road." "but how will they know i have not gone on?" this she said like one impatient. "they be keen men these killigrews, and hard riders. they were only a few miles behind. if you had continued on horseback they would have seen you; this they will be sure to know." "it will be well to start immediately after dark," i suggested. "we must take a circuitous route. i know of a safe hiding-place in the west of the county. once there it will be easy to find out whether it will be safe for you to go to polperro's home." her eyes flashed angrily into mine, but she gave no answer. i felt her behaviour to be a poor reward for the service i had rendered, and a bitter feeling came into my heart. then i thought of what my suggestion meant, and my eyes dropped. still i went on, unheeding the cool reception she gave to my words. "i am sure you will be safe in the place i have in my mind," i said, "it is in the neighbourhood where the killigrews dare not come. for hugh boscawen lives close by, and he has armed many men to protect the king against the pretender. if the killigrews came there methinks it would go ill with them. at present i am afraid it would be unsafe for you to seek john polperro's aid." "would you place me under hugh boscawen's care?" she asked. "that would scarcely be wise," i replied stammeringly. "with whom would you place me then?" "i know an old squire who lives near him," i replied. "he would do anything for me." she lifted her eyes to my face, and looked steadily at me. "what is his name?" she asked. i tried to utter peter trevisa's name, but i could not. again she put a weight upon my tongue, just as when i stood close to her on the top of endellion house. i mumbled some words indistinctly, and cursed myself for being such a fool. why could i not brazen out the matter as i had intended? was i to be again beaten by this chit of a girl? she was silent for a few seconds; then she spoke again. "master penryn, or whatever your name may be," she said, still keeping her eyes steadily upon me, "will you tell me why you have sought to help me away from the killigrews?" "have not my actions told you?" i stammered. "told me what?" "that i desire to be a friend to you." "i have tried to believe so," was her answer. "i have tried to trust you, but i cannot. if you would be my friend, tell me plainly what led you to endellion. tell me why you kept silence when i asked you the other night. i need a friend--sadly. i am hedged around by those who seek to do me ill. but i cannot trust a man who by every action betrays an evil purpose." "methinks you trusted me to fight benet killigrew," i retorted. "you trusted me to bring you so far. have i betrayed that trust?" "i will be frank with you," was her answer. "when i heard of your answers to otho, when i was told that you preferred imprisonment rather than promise him that you would not seek to set me at liberty, i doubted myself. i thought i had been unjust to you. i wrote and told you so. when i heard of your escape through mastering benet, and thought of what it meant, i doubted myself more still. as you know, i was in sore straits, and when i heard of what my maid told me, i could not believe that a gentleman would prove false to a defenceless maid. thus i risked everything in my desire for freedom, and because i was trying to believe in you. i believed in you as you fought benet; but when we were alone together i shrunk from you in spite of myself. i seemed to see the mask that you wore. perchance i appear ungrateful, for indeed, you have so far behaved as a man of honour should, but every minute my heart is telling me that you are a traitor, and that you have purposes of your own of which you dare not speak." as she spoke, it seemed as though my heart were laid bare to her gaze. i saw myself a miserable spy, a traitor to the name i bore. i cursed myself for having aught to do with the maid who was so wise, and wished that i had spurned peter trevisa's overtures. moreover anger burnt in my heart against her, and my tongue was unloosed. unmindful of consequence i answered her in wrath. "you call me a traitor," i cried, "because i do not flatter and favour; because i do not make love to you like otho killigrew or his brother benet. you trust john polperro rather than me, because he comes with honeyed words telling of a love which perchance he doth not feel. benet killigrew would take you from endellion because he would marry you and your estates. otho got a priest to come there with the same end in view. polperro is smooth-spoken, but would he render nancy molesworth the service he promises if restormel did not exist? well, i come to you with no honeyed words. i do not tell you that i love you, for in truth i do not. i love no woman, and will end my life without taking a wife. but am i a traitor because of that? you accuse me of not telling you all that is in my mind. cannot a man have an honourable secret? may i not have honourable purposes and yet not be able to divulge them? this accusation seems a poor reward to a man who hath endangered both liberty and life to bring you so far." i saw that my answer had its effect. her lips quivered and her eyes became softer. "i am not forgetful of your services, and perchance i am unkind, but in all my life my heart hath never told me wrong," she said. "all the same i will trust you if you will answer me one fair question. if you had a sister, a dear one, in such dire extremity as i am, would you have her done by as you have it in your heart to do by me?" again i was tongue-tied, and my eyes fell before hers. i thought of her as being the wife of young peter trevisa, i thought of the net which the two trevisas were probably trying to weave around her just then, and i stood dumb, like a boy caught in the act of stealing. the maid gave a sigh, and then as i lifted my eyes to hers again i saw a look of loathing and disgust on her face. "i have heard of you as having two names," she said, and i detected scorn in her tones. "you have called yourself penryn, and i have heard that you are a trevanion. they are both honourable. but i dare not trust you, because you are unworthy of either. i would thank you if i could for bringing me here, but i cannot, for there is that in your mind which means worse to me than being the wife of a killigrew." "i am dismissed then?" i cried in a rage--"dismissed like a disgraced servant. well, let it be so." "yes," she cried, "i know you now, and i would rather trust to the mercies of the killigrews than to one who, under the guise of friendship, would use the one who sought his help in order to carry out some base purpose of his own." with these words, she left the little room, and went into the chapel where i had spent most of the morning with uncle anthony. the maid had maddened me now. i felt no sympathy with her. hitherto my mind and heart had been divided. sometimes i had altogether made up my mind to place her under the protection of john polperro, and never had i fully decided to take her to peter trevisa's. indeed, i believe that had she wept and prayed like some maidens would have done, aye, had she appealed to my honour as a gentleman, i should at all hazards have been led by her will. but now all was different. she had defied me, insulted me. she had refused to have aught further to do with me. she preferred being taken back to endellion, to being left under my escort. "very well, my proud lady," i thought, "but you have not done with me yet. you _shall_ go to peter trevisa's, and neither the killigrews, john polperro, nor uncle anthony shall prevent me from taking you." and this i determined because i was mad, and because, in spite of the fact that her accusation was partly just, her words rankled in my heart. but i knew that i must be wary. i knew that uncle anthony was watching me closely, so i feigned to take my dismissal kindly. "be it so," i laughed; "i am always glad to be rid of women. i will leave you shortly, uncle anthony, but this bout with the maid hath tired me more than wrestling, and me thinks i will rest awhile." this i said because i wanted an excuse for staying on the rock. "that is well," said uncle anthony kindly. "we must not be hard on the maid; perchance she will think better of you presently. i will go and fetch the pallet from the chapel." "and, uncle anthony," i said with a laugh, "hermit though you are, you must surely have a bottle of wine somewhere." "think you so?" replied the old man. "well, i will see." he shortly returned with wine, which i drank. after which i lay down, not thinking of going to sleep, but rather to wait and watch. presently, however, a drowsy feeling came over me, which i felt no inclination to resist, and before long i became unconscious. when i awoke, it was dark. i listened, but could hear no sound. i went into the chapel, and found it empty; i called aloud, but got no reply. then i realized what had happened. while i had been asleep uncle anthony had escaped with the maid, and both were doubtless many miles away. chapter xiii. the wisdom of gossiping with an innkeeper. i had been beaten. i knew it, and the fact maddened me. the old hermit and the maid had divined the thoughts in my mind. in all probability the wine i had drunk was drugged. thus while i was asleep, they had gone away, leaving me alone on the lonely rock. which way had they gone? i knew not. they in the silence of the night had left me, leaving me in entire ignorance. i looked from the chapel window, and saw a vast tract of country around me, for the moon had risen high in the heavens; then, yielding to the impulse of the moment, i climbed to the highest peak on the great mass of stone. from this point i could see far in all directions, but no signs of life were visible. i could see roche church tower among the trees, i could see the little village near. for the rest, nothing was in sight save vast stretches of moorland. here and there was a cultivated field, but mostly the country-side was barren and forsaken. i listened, but all was silent. the night was very calm, save for a sighing wind which as it entered a valley near made a low moaning sound. for a moment a superstitious dread laid hold on me. i remembered the story i had been told years before. it was said that the last heir of the tregarrick family, on whose lands the rock stood, became weary of life, built the chapel in which old anthony had taken up his abode, and called it st. michael's chapel. here he lived many years and died in sorrow. rumour also had it that tregeagle's spirit, that ogre of cornish childhood, haunted the rock and the moors, and often breathed forth his sorrow in sighs and moans. but i mastered my fears by an effort. i remembered how i had been beaten, and anger drove all other feelings away. the last heir of the tregarricks and the spirit of tregeagle was nothing to me, living or dead. i looked at my watch, and by the light of the moon discovered that it was midnight. i had, therefore, been asleep for ten hours. darkness came on about six o'clock, so that in all probability they had left me long hours before. i racked my brains sorely in order to divine the direction they had taken, but without avail. then i remembered that they must need horses, and wondered how they managed. i felt sure, however, that uncle anthony would be too full of devices to remain long in difficulty about horseflesh. as he had said, many horses grazed among the moors; they were of no great value, but doubtless he could obtain a couple that would serve his purpose. one they had already, on which amelia lanteglos had ridden, a useful animal which benet killigrew had taken from his father's stables. this set me thinking again, and without more ado i cautiously crept down to the moors. giving a long shrill whistle which i had taught chestnut to obey, i awaited results. in a few seconds i heard the sound of horse's hoofs; then in a short space of time the animal i had learnt to love came up to me, and with a whinny of gladness began to lick my hand. "ah, chestnut, old boy," i laughed, "at any rate they could not steal you from me. which way are they gone, my lad?" as though he understood me, he turned his head southward. "well, chestnut," i said, "i want to find them badly. you know which way they went. i leave everything to you." whereupon, i went to the hollow place under the rock into which i had thrown my saddle, and to my delight i found that uncle anthony had left both saddle and bridle untouched. a few seconds later i was on chestnut's back. "follow them, chestnut," i said; "i leave everything to you," and as though he understood me, he carefully picked his way among the rocks till he reached the highway, then without hesitation went westward towards the church. presently we came to some cross-ways, where he hesitated, but only for a second. putting his nose to the ground he sniffed uneasily around and then started on a brisk trot southward. when i had gone perhaps three miles, all my hopes had departed. if the truth must be told, too, i felt more and more like giving up what seemed a useless quest. in spite of chestnut choosing the southward road in preference to any other, i was very probably riding away from the maid nancy and her companions, and even if i were not, what should i gain by following them? "let her go," i cried bitterly. "it has been an ill game i have been playing--an ill game. let uncle anthony take her whither he will." but this feeling did not long possess me. for the first time since i had seen the maid, the promise i had made to peter trevisa became really binding; moreover, i hated the thought of being beaten. if i gave up at this point, i should never cease to reproach myself with being outwitted by a girl, and it was not my nature to accept defeat easily. besides, i was curious to see what the end of the business would be. in spite of myself i was interested in the maid. i admired her coolness and her far-sightedness. even though i was angry with her for calling me a traitor, her very feeling of distrust of me made me sure she was no ordinary schoolgirl. nay, i carried my conclusions further. the intuition that warned her against deceit, the power by which she made me stammer like a boy, and hang my head like a thief, convinced me that here was a pure-hearted maid, and one who might be trusted. a little later i came to st. denis, but, as chestnut showed no inclination to halt, i rode straight on. i did not guide him in the least, and although i felt myself foolish in allowing him to take the st. stephen's road, i laid no weight on the bridle rein. while passing through a little hamlet called trethosa, the morning began to dawn, and by the time i had reached st. stephen's it was broad daylight. i found a little inn in the village close by the churchyard gates, called the king's arms. here, in spite of the fact that chestnut seemed as if he would go on, i stopped. the truth was, i felt hungry and faint, and i knew that my horse would be all the better for a gallon or two of oats and a good grooming. the landlord's name i discovered to be bill best, and i found him very communicative, which is not a common trait among cornishmen. he told me his history with great freedom, also that of his wife. he related to me the circumstances of his courtship, and mentioned the amount of his wife's dowry. "'tis a grand thing to have a good wife," i remarked. "'tes, and ted'n," was his reply. i asked him to explain. "well i be a man that do like my slaip, i be. when i caan't slaip ov a night, i be oal dazey droo the day. why now i be as dazey as can be. ordnarly i be a very cute man, avin a oncommon amount of sense. ax our passon. why, 'ee'll tell 'ee that as a boy i cud leck off catechism like bread'n trycle. but since i've bin married i caan't slaip." "why, does your wife keep you awake?" "no, ted'n that. tes the cheldern. but my betsey cud slaip through a earthquake, and zo tes, that all droo the night there's a passel of cheldern squallin, keepin' me wake. laast night, now, i 'ardly slaiped for the night." "indeed," i replied, "and was it your children last night?" "paartly," he replied, "paartly the cheldern, and paartly summin else. be you a gover'ment man?" "no." "nothin' toal of a passon nuther, i spects?" "no, why?" "well now i'll tell 'ee. but law, ere be your 'am rashers and eggs. haive to em now. they rashers ded cum from a pig thirty-score wight, the beggest in this parish. look top the graavy too; they'll make yore uzzle like a trumpet fer sweetness. ait em and i'll tell 'ee while you be feedin'. but law, ther's nuff fer boath ov us, i can allays craake better wen i'm aitin'." accordingly he sat down by my side and helped himself liberally. "well, naow, as i woz a-zayin'," he continued, "i ded'n go to bed till laate laast night. i was avin a bit of tolk weth the 'ow'll martin ovver to kernick. do you know martin?" "no." "doan't 'ee fer sure, then? he's a purty booy, 'ee es. years agone 'ee used to stail sheep in a coffin. stoal scores an scores that way. ave 'ee 'eerd ow 'ee nacked ovver the exciseman, then?" "no." "ded'n 'ee? law, that wos a purty taale, that wos. 'twud maake 'ee scat yer zides weth laffin. but there, you genlemen waan't care to do that. wot wos us talkin' bout, then?" "you said you couldn't sleep last night." "to be zure i ded. i'll tell 'ee. old martin do do a bit ov smugglin', and do dail weth the smugglers, and as you be'ant a gover'ment man i may tell 'ee that he brought me a vew ankers of things laast night laate. he ded'n laive me till after twelve o'clock. well, when 'ee wos gone off i went to bed, and wos just going off to slaip when our tryphena beginned a squall. that zet off casteena, and casteena off tamzin, and in a vew minutes the 'ouse wos like bedlam. you be'ant married, be 'ee, sur?" "no." "then you doan knaw nothin bout life, you doan't. gor jay! ow they cheldern ded screech for sure. but they ded'n waake mauther, not they. she slaiped through et oal, and snored like a tomcat into the bargain. aw she's a gefted wumman, my wife es. but owsummever, i got em off again arter a bit and got into bed again. i wos just gittin braave'n slaipy when i 'eerd the sound of osses comin from kernick way. 'gor jay!' ses i, 'tes the exciseman! he've bin fer ould martin and now he's comin fer me.'" at this i became interested. "the sound of horses," i said; "were they coming fast?" "aw iss, braave coose, but not gallopin'. well i lied luff and wos oal ov a sweat, but twadd'n no excisemen t'oal, fer just as they got by the church gates they stopped for a minit." "what time was this?" "aw 'bout haaf-past two or dree o'clock. well, i 'eerd 'em talkin', and arter a bit i 'eerd a wumman spaik, so you may be sure i pricked up my ears like a greyhound when he do 'ear a spaniel yelp among the vuss bushes. so up i gits and looks out." "well, and what did you see?" "a man and two wimmen." "ah!" i cried. "well, they ded'n stay long, for one of the wimmen zaid they wos vollied. she must a 'ad sharp ears, for i ded'n 'ear nothin'." "which way did they go?" "they zeemed unaisy, when i 'eerd the man zay they wud go on to scacewater, an' then turn back to penhale." "well?" i cried eagerly, "go on." "aw, i thot i cud maake 'ee hark. well, i 'eerd em go up by sentry, and then go on terras way, purty coose." "is that all?" "well, after that i cudden slaip, and i jist lied and lied for long time, and then i'eerd sum more osses comin'. 'gor jay!' ses i, 'wot's the mainen ov this?' i got out abed again, mauther slaipin' oal the time, and arkened with oal the ears i 'ad." "and what happened?" "why, i zeed three hossmen ride long, and they galloped arter the others as ef they'd knawed which way they went." "and is that all?" "ed'n that nuff? i cudden slaip a wink arterwards. fust, i thot they might be the french, then i thot they might be ghoasts, but i tell 'ee it maade me oal luny, and 'eer i be this mornin', weth not aaf my sharpness. wy i tell 'ee, sur, i be a uncommon man ordnarly." i asked the landlord many other questions, but although he informed me many things about the roads, he could tell me nothing more about the midnight travellers. however, i had heard enough to assure me that i had come on the track of my late companions, and i was also assured that the maid nancy was being pursued by the killigrews. "where and what is penhale?" i asked presently. "penhale, sur, is one of the five manor 'ouses in the parish. maaster trewint es the oaner ov et. it 'ave bin in the family for scores a years." "i wonder if that will be one of uncle anthony's hiding-places?" i mused, "if it is, he hath doubtless taken mistress nancy there, and is probably there now, unless the killigrews have relieved him of his charge." "is trewint the squire of your parish?" i asked bill best. "well, sur, ther eden no squire so to spaik. but 'ees a well-connected man, sur. why, he do belong to the tregarrick family, which ded once own oal roche." this set me thinking again. uncle anthony had told me that he was a gentleman; he had hinted that his family was as good as my own why had he taken up his abode at roche rock, which had belonged to the tregarricks? was there any meaning in his going to mr. trewint, who was related to the tregarricks? these and many other questions troubled me for a long time. after considering the whole situation for an hour or more, i determined to find my way to penhale and there make inquiries. i thought it better to go there afoot, first because the distance was scarcely two miles, and second because i desired to attract no attention. leaving the manor house of resugga on my left, i walked on until i came to a little wooded dell in which two houses were built. here i stayed awhile, arrested by the beauty of the scene. the place was called terras, and was very fair to look upon. a little stream purled its way down the valley, under giant trees, and filled as my mind was with many things, i could but stop and listen to the music of the water as it mingled with the sound of rustling leaves overhead. as i passed on, i saw the miners working in the moors. they were tin-streamers, and were, so i was told, making riches rapidly. after this i stopped at a farm called trelyon, from whence i could see trelyon downs. here legend had it giants lived, and streamed the moors for minerals, and made bargains with the devil in order that success might attend their labours. after leaving trelyon i was not long in reaching penhale, a house of considerable size and importance, and here i stopped and looked about me. the house was comparatively new and very substantial, while signs of prosperity were everywhere to be seen. fine trees grew all around, and the gardens were well planted. evidently a well-to-do yeoman lived here. i tried to think of an excuse for entering, but presently gave up the idea. if uncle anthony and mistress nancy were there it would not be well for them to know my whereabouts; and yet if i were to fulfil my promise to peter trevisa, and thus retain trevanion, i must know if they were behind the walls which looked as though they might hide mysteries. very soon i bethought me of the stables, and was just starting to find them, when i saw a well-fed, portly man come out of the front door. "jack," he shouted. "yes, sur," replied a voice. "bring my horse." on saying this he entered the house again. the place was perfectly silent, save for the stamping of horses' hoofs and the bleat of sheep in the distance. from the spot on which i stood i could easily see and hear without being seen. presently the man, whom i took to be the owner of the place, came to the door again, and this time some one accompanied him, although whoever it was kept out of sight. "well, i must be going. you say i shall not be seeing you again." i could not hear the murmured reply. "well, have your own way. i have heard of the old chapel and well in st. mawgan, where it is said an old priest lives; but man, you are safer here." after this i heard nothing, and a little later the owner of the place rode away. i waited until he was well out of hearing, when i found my way to the stables. in the stableyard i saw the man who had brought his master's horse to the door. "is your master at home?" i asked. "no sur; missus es." "ah, well, she'll be of no use. she wouldn't know if mr. trewint has a horse for sale." on this i entered the stable, and to my delight saw the animal amelia lanteglos had ridden from endellion, with two others. "maaster 'aant got noan for sale," replied the man. "we're right in the tealin' time, and oal the hosses be in use." "how's that?" i replied; "here are three doing nothing. one of these would suit me. i can call again when your master will be at home." "it'll be no good, sur. maaster waant be 'ome till laate to-night. he's gone to st. austell market, and afore he do git back thaise hosses'll be gone. they'll be out of the staable by haalf-past nine this ev'nin'. i've got oaders to saddle 'em at that time." i seemed to be in luck's way. by pure chance, so it seemed to me, i had found out the whereabouts of mistress nancy and her companions, and had also discovered their destination. so without asking more questions i left penhale, and then walked back to st. stephen's along a footpath which led by a farm called tolgarrick, and the manor house of resugga. i formed my plan of action. i would be even with uncle anthony for the trick he had played me, and i would take the maid nancy to peter trevisa's house, for both had angered me. and yet even at this time my heart revolted against the course i had marked out. by nine o'clock that night i stood outside penhale with chestnut by my side. i chose a sheltered position, and i felt sure that no one knew i was there. i waited anxiously, and watched the stable doors closely. half-past nine came, and i grew anxious; ten o'clock passed, and all was silent as the grave. had the groom deceived me? had uncle anthony discovered my visit and formed new plans accordingly. bidding chestnut stand still, i crept cautiously towards the stables. a few seconds later i saw to my chagrin that i had been outwitted. the horses i had seen in the morning had gone. "never mind," i said grimly, "i'll not give up yet." i mounted chestnut and rode westward in the direction in which i thought st. mawgan lay; but i had not gone far when i again came to a standstill. if uncle anthony had suspected me, and changed the time of his departure, might he not also alter his plans completely? besides, even though he intended going to the old chapel at st. mawgan, it was impossible for me to find it that night. clouds had obscured the sky, and i was ignorant of the country. at eleven o'clock, therefore, i drew up at an inn at a village called summercourt, disappointed and angry. here i decided to remain for the night. chapter xiv. the haunted chapel of st. mawgan. i had fully intended to be up betimes on the morning following my arrival at summercourt, and although i gave the landlord of the inn no instructions to call me, i had no doubt but that i should wake early. so tired was i, however, and so much had my rest been broken, that it was past midday before i was aroused from the deep sleep into which i had fallen. consequently it was well on in the afternoon before i started for st. mawgan. i knew that the parish was largely under catholic influence. the arundel family owned a house there, but i had no idea as to the whereabouts of the chapel. this could only be discovered by searching, and, impatient with myself for losing so much time, i rode rapidly past st. columb, and reached st. mawgan just as the shades of evening were descending. i should, doubtless, have accomplished the journey more quickly if i had not missed my way and wandered several miles out of my course. arrived at the parish church, however, i found that my difficulties had only just begun. i was afraid to make too many inquiries concerning this chapel, for fear the killigrews might hear of my questionings, for, although i had seen no traces of them, i felt sure they were following mistress nancy molesworth. i found, moreover, that the few people in the parish were anything but intelligent, and could give no information of value. at length, after much searching and many roundabout inquiries, i heard of a haunted dell about a mile and a half from st. mawgan, where the devil was said to reside. an old farm labourer gave me the information, and with much earnestness besought me to keep away from it. "the devil 'ave allays come there, sur," remarked the old man. "tes a very low place. tes a 'olla (hollow) between two 'oods. the papist priests ded kip un off while they was 'lowed to live there, but since the new religion tho'ull sir nick have jist done wot 'ee's a mind to." "how did the papist priest keep him off?" i asked. "well, sur, they ded build a chapel here, and they ded turn the well ov water, where the devil made hell broth, into good clain watter. 'twas a 'oly well when they wos there, sur, so i've been tould. but law, sence the priests be gone he've gone there to live again, and i've 'eerd as how ee've bin zid in the chapel." "have you seen him?" "i wudden, sur, for worlds; but, jimmy jory zid un, sur." "and what did he look like?" "jist like a wrinkled-up ould man, sur." "and which is the way to this chapel?" "'tis down there, sur," replied the old man, pointing southward; "but doan't 'ee go nist the plaace, sur, doan't 'ee. 'tis gittin' dark, an 'ee'l zoon be out now." unwittingly the old labourer had confirmed the words of mr. trewint at penhale. evidently a hermit did live at the ruined chapel. probably he was one of the few remaining anchorites which were yet to be found in the county. one of those who, tired of the world, had sought solitude, even as the last heir of the tregarricks had sought it, when he built st. michael's chapel on roche rock. unmindful, therefore, of the old man's warnings, i found my way down the valley. the wooded hills sloped up each side of me, which so obscured the evening light that i had difficulty in finding my way. the place seemed terribly lonely, i remember; no sound broke the stillness save the rippling of a little stream of water which ran towards the sea, and the occasional soughing of the wind among the trees. once, as i stood still and listened, it seemed to me that the very silence made a noise, and a feeling of terror came over me, for the old labourer's stories became real. my mission, too, seemed to be more foolish at each step i took, and in the stillness i seemed to hear voices bidding me return. nature had given me strong nerves, however, and presently the spirit of adventure got hold of me again, and then i pushed on merrily. i had gone perhaps a mile from st. mawgan when i saw, in spite of the gathering darkness, a distinct footpath leading southward. this i followed, although the valley became darker and darker. by and by, however, it ended in a little green amphitheatre. this i judged to be about ten yards across, and the only outlet was the pathway by which i had just come. the little open space, however, was a relief to me, because the evening light was not altogether shut out, and i looked eagerly around me in the hope that i had arrived at the spot for which i had been searching. twice did i wander around the green spot, but the trees which grew around were so thick that i could discover nothing beyond them. "it must be all an idle tale," i mused bitterly, "and i've been a dupe to silly stories. why should i trouble more? i'll go back to the inn at st. mawgan, get chestnut saddled, and start for london to-morrow"; but even as the thought passed through my mind, i saw a dark bent form creep along the grass, and then was hidden from me by the thick undergrowth. without hesitation i made my way to the spot where the dark object had disappeared, and then saw a slight clearage in the bushes, which had before escaped my attention. a few seconds later i had entered another open place, but it was smaller than the other, and situated at the foot of the rising ground. i again looked around me, but could see nothing, and was musing as to the course i should take, when i heard a slight groan. i hurried to the spot from whence the sound came, drawing my sword as i did so. i did not go far, however, for i saw, almost hidden by the trees, a dark building. "hallo!" i cried aloud. but there was no answering voice. "there is some one here," i said; "speak, or i fire." "what would you, roger trevanion?" said a strange voice. i must confess that my heart gave a bound as i heard my own name in this lonely place, but i quickly mastered myself. "i would see you," i replied. "you cannot see spirits of just men made perfect," was the reply. "they can see you while they remain invisible." "we will see," i replied. "i have flint and steel here. i will light up this place, then perchance i shall find that the living as well as the dead inhabit the place." i heard a low murmuring, then the voice replied: "trouble not yourself, roger trevanion, there shall be light," and in a few seconds, as if by magic, a small lamp shone out in the darkness, revealing several objects, which at first i could not understand. as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, i discovered a rude table on which stood a crucifix; on the walls too, rough and unplastered as they were, i saw pictures of a religious order. but my attention was drawn from other objects by a pallet bed which lay in the corner of the room, on which a human body lay. "uncle anthony," i cried, not that i recognized him, but the name came involuntarily to my lips. "why are you here, roger trevanion?" asked a voice which i detected as uncle anthony's. "nay, rather, why are you here?" i cried; "and where is mistress nancy molesworth?" "she is where you will never reach her," he replied, bitterly i thought, and yet in a feeble tone of voice. "what mean you?" i cried, and then i saw that his head was bandaged. "i mean that through your faithlessness"--he hesitated as though he knew not how to proceed. "the killigrews!" i cried. "ay." "they overtook you?" "nay, they came here. i did my best, but what was i against three? once i thought we should have beaten them, for mistress nancy wounded one of them sorely." "but where are they gone? which way did they take her?" "doubtless to endellion. why i tell you this i know not. had you been faithful this need not have been." "tell me the whole story," i said at length. "why should i? but it doth not matter now. you can do her no harm, neither can you save her from the killigrews. well, perchance it is god's will. they are of the true faith, and--and you know most of the story, roger trevanion. you followed us to penhale; the maid saw you, and so we left the house earlier than we had intended, and by a road through the fields. we reached this spot in safety, but they found us. otho was with them, and, well, i am no fighter,--i did my best, but they took her. i--i am wounded in the head--a sword cut." why i knew not, but my heart seemed a hot fire. "and is mistress nancy gone with these three killigrews--alone?" "her serving-maid, amelia, cried out to go with her, and they took her." "ah!" i cried, relieved. he gave me details of the struggle, which i need not write down here, and which i thought, in spite of the fact that he seemed to hide the truth, told that he had fought well. "and did not this hermit help you?" "michael is weaker than a child," replied anthony, "he did nothing but pray." "and how long since this took place?" "four hours ago." "four hours!--only?" "that is all." "they can be followed, she can be delivered!" "no, no," murmured uncle anthony; "tell me, roger trevanion, why would you deliver her?" "because, because!----" then i stopped, i could not formulate the thought in my mind. "did she go willingly?" i asked. "nay," cried the old man bitterly, "i--i think they gagged her; they bound her to her horse. she cried out sorely while she could, she struggled--and i--i could do nothing." my blood ran through my veins like streams of fire; there were many questions i wanted to ask, but there was no time. i seemed to see her struggling with the killigrews. i pictured her look of loathing as she talked with them. "trevanion or no trevanion," i cried, as i hurried up the valley, "i'll strike another blow for the maid's liberty. i know she doth not trust me; but i'll free her from otho killigrew. some one must have seen her--i'll follow them. they cannot well get beyond padstow to-night!" a little later i had taken the road which the landlord of the inn at st. mawgan had told me led to padstow. i rode hard till i came to a roadside inn. it was the first house i had noticed since i had left mawgan. a light was shining from one of the windows, and i decided to stop. "if they have passed here some one will have seen them," i mused, "and i must not go farther without inquiry." i accordingly dismounted, and called for the landlord. an elderly man appeared, and in the light of the moon, which had just risen, i saw that his shoulders were bent, and that he craned his neck forward while he scanned my face. "what'll 'ee plaise to 'ave, sur?" he asked in a wheedling tone of voice. "a bottle of wine," i replied. "iss, to be sure, i'll tell 'em, sur. your hoss do look flighty, sur. you wa'ant caare to laive un." "he will stand quietly," i replied; "but i'll fasten him to your crook here. i should not advise you to go near him." "you be'ant comin' in, sur, be 'ee?" "just a minute," i replied. "ah iss, to be sure," he answered, leading the way into a dark room. "but you have a room with a light here," i objected, as he pushed a candle into a smouldering fire. "iss, sur, but tes used, sur. to tell the truth, sur, for i can zee you be a gen'leman, my wife's sister is there. she's terble bad weth small-pox, sur." "small-pox!" i cried aghast. "aw, iss, sur. i doan't go ther' myself, and tes makin' terble 'ard agin my custom." all the while he was pulling out the cork from a bottle of wine. "i don't think i'll stay to drink," i said, thinking of the man's statement about his wife's sister. "of course i'll pay for it," i added, noting the look of chagrin on his face. "you be a rail gen'leman," he remarked, as i threw down a guinea. "have you been away from the house to-day?" i asked. "no, sur." "have you noticed a party on horseback ride by this afternoon?" "what time would it be, sur?" "about four o'clock, i should imagine." "no, sur, there ain't no party of no sort gone long 'ere." "you are quite sure?" "iss, sur. be you lookin' out for a party, sur?" "yes," i replied, "but i must have been misinformed." "how many was in the party, sur?" "why?" "well, bill bennetto, maaster veryan's hind, was over here little while ago, and he zaid as ow 'ee'd zeed a party of five ride through st. eval. ther' wos three gentlemen and two laadies, sur. they wos ridin' 'ard for padstow, 'ee zaid." "what time was this?" "'bout fower a clock, sur. praps that was the lot you was wantin'." "how far is it from here to padstow." "oa ten or twelve mile, i shud think." "a straight road?" "aw, iss, you can't miss et." glad to get out of the house infected with small-pox, i contented myself with this information, and a few seconds later i was on chestnut's back again, riding northward. i had gone only a short distance, however, when i came to a junction of roads. here a difficulty presented itself, for i knew not which way to take. "what did the fellow mean by telling me it was a straight road?" i grumbled angrily, and then it struck me suddenly that he seemed very anxious for me to leave his house. i looked eagerly around me in the hope of getting out of my difficulty, but it was a lonely place, and no houses were in sight. presently, however, i saw a light shining, and making my way towards it, discovered a cottage. "which is the way to padstow?" i asked of a man who held a lantern in his hand, and who evidently lived at the cottage. "dunnaw, sur, i be sure. i speck the best way will be for 'ee to go to little petherick and inquire." "is it a straight road?" "lor bless 'ee, sur, no. 'tes as crooked as a dog's hind leg." i wondered at this, and asked the man if he knew the landlord of the farmer's rest. "aw, iss i do knaw un, sur." "what kind of a man is he?" "a littlish man, with a long neck like a gander, and sharp eyes like a rat." "yes, i know, but is he a respectable man!" "iss, 'ee've saved a braavish bit of money. i do 'ear as how 'ee've got vour hundred in tura bank." "his wife's sister has small-pox, hasn't she?" "what do 'ee main, sur?" i repeated my question. "why, bless 'ee, sur, his wife aan't got no sister. she's jenny johnses onnly darter. as fur small-pox, i never 'eerd tell o' noan." giving the man a piece of money, i rode back towards the farmer's rest again. evidently the landlord had been purposely deceiving me. why? my heart thumped loudly against my ribs, for i had grave suspicion that he desired to hide something from me. i made my way very quietly to the house. if he had reasons for deceiving me, it behoved me to be careful. i saw that the light still shone from the window of the room in which the landlord said his wife's sister lay. telling chestnut to stand still, i crept silently towards the house. i saw that the door was closed, and although i listened intently i could hear no sound. placing my hand on the door handle, i was about to try and open it, when i saw a woman come from a building close by which was evidently used as a washhouse. she did not see me, neither did she come to the front door at which i stood. as far as i could judge, she was making her way to the yard at the back of the inn. "surely," i thought, "that is amelia lanteglos." i started to follow her, when, the girl hearing my step turned around, and i saw that i was right. "amelia," i whispered. "good lord, sur, is that you?" was her answer. "yes, where is your mistress?" "aw, i be glad, i be glad," she sobbed, "we've 'ad a terble time, sur--a terble time." "is your mistress ill?" i asked. "she'll go mazed zoon." "why?" she looked anxiously around, and then turned towards me again. "ther's nobody harkenin', nobody do knaw you be 'ere, sur, do mun?" "no one. i called here less than an hour ago, and the landlord told me that his wife's sister had small-pox. so i rode away, but i found out that he told me false. that's why i've come back again. no one has seen me but you." "and you be my young missus' friend, be'ant 'ee, sur? you doan't main she no 'arm." "no." "then i'll tell 'ee, sur. she's inside there weth master otho." i suspected this, so waited for her to proceed. "colman es in the 'ouse too, sur; but 'ee's in bed. mistress nancy ded fire a pistol at un, and 'urt 'es arm. that was when uncle anthony was weth us." "but there were three." "iss, sur. maaster clement es gone to padstow." "what for." "gone to fetch the priest, sur." "why? to marry otho to your mistress?" the maid sobbed. "she'll go mazed, sur. she's in ther weth maaster otho. you do knaw his way, sur. i believe he'll jist frighten her till she do marry un." "but why did they stop here?" "'twas on account of mistress nancy, sur. she made out to faint an like that, sur, thinkin to gain time. but maaster otho can't be aisy bait. he brought her here, and ded send clement off for the priest. besides, maaster colman could hardly sit on the hoss." i saw the danger. in the then condition of the marriage laws, the maid nancy was practically helpless. if the priest went through a form of service, even without the maid's assent, otho could, by means of the testimony of the landlord of the inn, claim that a legal marriage had taken place. what was to be done, therefore, would have to be done quickly. "where are your horses, amelia?" she pointed to the house in which they were stabled. "you can saddle them without any one knowing?" "aw, iss sur." "do, then." with that i turned towards the front door of the inn again; and i must here confess that i hugely enjoyed the situation. the love of adventure was strong upon me, and i laughed at the thought of thwarting the killigrews. i owed the landlord a debt for deceiving me. i therefore went to the spot where i had left chestnut, and, having taken some stout cord from my saddlebag, came back, and, on trying to open the door, found it barred. then i knocked sharply. "who's there?" it was boundy, the landlord, who spoke. "come, boundy," i cried, "open the door quick; there's no time to lose." "es that you, sur?" he responded, and immediately drew back the bolts. no sooner had he done so than i caught him and dragged him outside. "make a sound, and you are a dead man!" i said, in a whisper. something in my voice, i suppose, told him that i meant what i said, for he made no sound, neither did he struggle when i bound him hand and foot. he was no stronger than a lad of twelve, and very little heavier. i therefore took him to the stables, where amelia lanteglos had gone. "amelia," i said, "here's the landlord. you need not be afraid. he's bound. but if he makes a noise, stuff some hay in his mouth." the girl grasped the situation in a second. "oal right, sur," she said with a grin, and i knew i could trust her. then i went back and entered the inn, closing the door after me, and silently bolting it. i heard the murmuring of women in the kitchen behind; evidently they knew nothing of what had taken place. after this i made my way to the room in which otho killigrew had taken mistress nancy molesworth. chapter xv. the scene at a wayside inn. i was about to knock when i heard the sound of voices. "and do you think," i heard a voice say, which i recognized as mistress nancy's, "that although you force me into this marriage, i shall really be your wife?" "ay, that you will." it was otho who spoke in his low, mocking way. "but i will not be your wife. i despise you, loathe you." "that feeling will soon pass away when you are the wife of otho killigrew. you will love me all the more for being so determined to have you. and i--well, i would a thousand times rather have this than an ordinary wedding. clement and father o'brien will soon be here. i thought i heard his voice a few seconds ago." "but i will die sooner than wed you!" "ah, i like to see your eyes shine like that. it makes you more handsome than ever. with me as master, and you as mistress of restormel, we shall be much sought after in the county." "is this the act of a gentleman, otho killigrew? the very gypsies will cry out against you as a mean knave." "it is the act of a gentleman," replied otho coolly. "you had every opportunity to wed me in a way befitting your station, but you would not have it so. you trusted to a trickster, and thereby sadly compromised your reputation. now i must treat you as i am obliged. you should be thankful that i am willing to wed you after such conduct." "i would i had trusted the man you call a trickster!" cried the maid bitterly, at which it flashed upon me that i was playing the part of an eavesdropper. true, i felt justified in listening, at the same time i felt uncomfortable, and was about to knock at the door when his words arrested me again. "come, nancy, let us act reasonably. if you will promise to go to endellion with me, and wed me there, we will have done with this method of going on. let me have a kiss and we will be friends." he evidently laid hands on her as he spoke, for the maid cried out. at this i was unable to control myself, and i pushed the door with so much vehemence that the rusty hinges gave way, and i entered the room. even at that time i noticed that the apartment was bare of all furniture, save for a few straight-back chairs and a rickety table. mistress nancy stood at one corner of the room, her eyes flashing fiercely and her face as pale as death. otho was holding one of her hands, but on hearing the noise of my entrance had turned his face angrily towards me. i knew i dared not give him time, for doubtless he carried dagger and pistols, and would use them without hesitation. i therefore leapt upon him, and in a second we were engaged in a mad struggle. as for the maid, she gave another cry which i thought told of her joy at my coming. maddened, desperate as he was, i soon discovered that i had not his brother benet to deal with. he availed himself of all sorts of wrestler's tricks, and tried to use his knife, but it was no use. in a few seconds i had thrown him heavily on the floor. he lay stunned, but this i knew would not be for long. "mistress nancy molesworth," i said, turning panting to the maid, "will you trust me now?" she looked piteously into my face. "dare i?" she cried; "i am all alone, i have no one to help me. i would rather die than wed him," and she gave a look of loathing towards otho. "may i trust you?" "you may," i said eagerly, and at that moment i felt a joy in sacrificing trevanion rather than carrying out peter trevisa's wishes. "as god is above us, i will take you wherever you wish to go, and i give my life to see that no harm happens to you!" and this i said like one compelled, for my words seemed to be dragged from me by some wondrous power which the maid possessed. she caught my hand eagerly. her eyes seemed to burn like live coals, and as i thought she looked into the very depth of my life. "yes, i will trust you," she cried, "and i will bless you forever. but can you take me away. these men seem to have friends everywhere." "i can, and i will," i cried eagerly, for at that time my heart was hot, and i felt no weakness. "come quickly," i continued, "i have prepared my plans." then turning around i saw two women in the room, evidently the landlord's wife and a servant-maid. "what do 'ee main? who be you?" screamed one of the women. but i took no heed. mistress nancy caught some clothing which she had thrown on the table, and although the woman tried to bar the doorway, i led her out. all this time otho had been lying on the floor like one dead. i went to the door which i had bolted, and was about to open it, but i desisted, for i heard the clatter of horses' hoofs. for a moment my heart sank within me; i felt sure that colman killigrew had returned with the priest. if that were so, i should be one against many. the maid nancy had also heard the noise, for her face was piteous to behold. "'tis they, 'tis they," she cried. "oh, you will not let me fall into their hands, will you?" it was then that i realized the secret of my heart. at that moment i knew that mistress nancy molesworth was all the world to me, and that all my vows never to care for a woman again were no more than the chaff which the wind drives away. my blood was on fire, and i vowed that all the killigrews on earth should not take her from me. "no, by god, no!" i cried, "they shall not get you." my words seemed to give her confidence, for she became calmer and steady again. "give me a pistol," she said, "i will help you." at that moment there was a sound of knocking at the door. "let us in!" cried a voice, which i recognized as clement's, and the landlord's wife rushed towards the door. ill as i like to touch a woman i felt i must not hesitate, and so with no gentle hand i threw her against the door, whereupon she went into violent hysterics. as for the servant, she went into the backyard screaming. seeing a key in the door, i quickly turned it, and placed it in my pocket. "come, we can follow the servant-maid," i said to mistress nancy, but at that moment otho killigrew staggered towards us, with his knife uplifted. i struck him a cruel blow, but it could not be helped, and again he fell heavily. seeing the barrel of a pistol gleaming from his belt, i took it from him and gave it to the maid. she took it without a word, and i knew by the light in her eyes that she meant to use it. meanwhile clement killigrew kept beating the door, and i knew that he would ere long succeed in breaking it down. it is true i had cocked my pistol, while mistress nancy held hers ready to shoot, but i knew not how many were outside, so i dared not wait. i therefore took the dear maid's hand and led her into the yard. "amelia," i cried. "here you be, sur." i hurried towards her, and found two horses saddled. "mount, mount," i cried quickly, "they'll be after us." "no, they waan't," retorted amelia, "i've turned all the other horses out in the field." "and where's boundy?" "lyin' inside there, weth his mouth chucked vull of hay." in spite of our danger, i could not help laughing aloud. by this time they had both mounted, and as yet no one had followed us into the yard. "there's another way down to the road," cried amelia, "it'll bring us out furder down. where's yore oss, sur?" "he's all right. you are a clever girl, amelia." this i said while we went silently down the cart track under the trees. on reaching the road i gave a low whistle, and in a second i heard the clatter of hoofs, as chestnut came towards me. he gave a whinney as he saw me, but before i could mount i heard a bullet whiz by me, and strike hazel bushes on the top of the hedge. then i saw clement killigrew and the priest coming towards us. great as was my longing to stop and meet these men, i deemed it prudent to get away as quickly as possible. a new fear had come into my life, a fear that they should harm the maid nancy. i sprang to the stirrup therefore, and before i was fairly on chestnut's back he started into a gallop. i checked him for fear i should leave my companions behind, but i need not have feared. their horses kept neck to neck with mine. for a time i could hear no one following, but presently the sound of horses' hoofs rang out in the night air. i stopped and listened. "there is only one horse," i said, and as i spoke the sound ceased. again we rode on, and again i could hear the following horseman; a mile or so farther on we pulled up a second time, and as soon as we stopped our pursuer also stopped. "what is the meaning of that, i wonder?" i said aloud. "we have been riding more slowly and he has not gained upon us. when we stop he follows our example. what does it mean?" "it is clement," said mistress nancy; "he will have got his orders from otho." "but why does he not seek to overtake us?" "it would not suit his purpose," cried she; "he dare not come too close to us. he will be afraid. he knows you have pistols. his purpose will be to keep us in sight and mark where we go." "but what good will that do him?" "when he thinks we are safely housed, he will send for help." "but how?" "the killigrews have followers all around in this part of the country," she said. "they have friends unknown to you." "but we will ride right on to the west of the country, where hugh boscawen is raising men against the enemies of the king." "even there he will have friends. clement is almost as cunning as otho." "i will go back and fight him," i said quietly. "we will soon be rid of him." "he will know of your coming, and will ride away from you. if you follow him he will lead you into some trap." "but we must be rid of him," i cried; "we shall not be safe while he follows." then the maid held her peace, but i knew she greatly feared clement killigrew. at this i became anxious, for, truth to tell, i felt awkward and helpless now. i dared not make other suggestions, because i believed that in spite of what she had said she still failed to trust me. then i had cared little about her good opinion concerning me, now i would dare anything to win her smile. i determined that no harm should come to her, for my heart yearned for her, even as the heart of a mother must yearn for her first-born son. i looked at her as she rode by my side, and in the light of the moon i could discern every feature. pale she was and anxious, but to me her face was glorious beyond compare. i saw resolution, foresight, a nobleness in her every movement, but all this made her further removed from me. in the light of my new-found love she became a new creature. all my being went out to her, all my life i was ready to lay at her feet. i remembered what i had said on roche rock--i had told her that i cared for no woman, that she was nothing to me but the veriest stranger. i would have given anything to have recalled those words, but it could not be. i thought of what i had promised peter trevisa, and i was filled with shame. i tried to drive the promise from my mind, but it had been made. all this made me silent and awkward, and i rode by her side eager to save her from the killigrews, yet distrusting myself sorely. and yet with my love, painful as it was, came joys unknown to me before. never till then had i realized what a gladness it was to live, to think, to act. the road on which i rode became a scene of beauty, the country air scented with the perfume of spring seemed to me like a breath from paradise, the murmuring of the sea in the distance made heaven near. so much, indeed, did i live in the thought of my love, and of what she would think of me, that for the moment i forgot that clement killigrew was following us, as a sleuth-hound follows his prey. in my heart i called her my lady nancy, and wondered what i could do to make her think better of me. for i could not help feeling that she had turned to me as a last resource, and that even now, should john polperro appear, she would immediately dispense with my services. although i hated this thought, i could not blame her for it, for who was i that she should trust me? i remembered, too, that since we left the inn her words to me had been cool and distant, as though she were ashamed of her emotion at the time when i found her in the room with otho killigrew. i was recalled to myself at length by amelia lanteglos, who said with a laugh: "ours be good 'osses, be'ant 'em, sur?" "yes," i replied; "i did not think uncle anthony could find such good ones among the moors." "thaise be'ant uncle anthony's. these belong to the killigrews. the one i do ride belonged to maaster otho, 't'other to maaster coleman." "good," i cried, thinking what a quick-witted girl she was. "you are a clever maid, amelia." "i ain't a-lived 'mong the killigrews for nothin'!" she said; "besides i'd do anything for mistress nancy." her mistress did not speak, but i noted the look she gave her. "he es still follin'," continued amelia; "we shall 'ave to do summin zoon. what time es et, i wonder?" "about nine o'clock, i expect," i replied. "ah! yonder is light. i wonder if it is a kiddleywink?" "why?" asked mistress nancy. "i hope it is," i replied, for at that moment a plan flashed through my mind. a few minutes later we rode up to a little hamlet consisting of four houses, one of which was a public house. "we will dismount here," i said. "to what purpose?" asked mistress nancy. "i have a plan in my mind," i replied. "but if we stop here clement will act." "so will i." she spoke no word but dismounted, while i called the landlord. "have you stabling for three horses?" i asked when he appeared. "jist," was his reply. "and a room into which these ladies can go; a private room?" "aw, iss, sur. ther's the pa'lor. they ca' go in theer." "very well." i quickly saw them in the room, and having ordered refreshments for them i left. i felt as though mistress nancy did not desire my company, and i determined not to force it upon her. then i hurried to the stables, where the three horses had been put. "have you a lock to the stable door?" i asked of the man who had taken care of the horses. "law no, sur; we doan't want no locks. ther's jist a hasp to kip the door from blawin' open." "are there no highwaymen or horse-stealers in these parts?" "we ain't a 'ad a 'oss stailed for 'ears," was the reply. "well, keep your eye on that stable," i said sternly. "if anything happens to those horses, you'll be hanged." "i'll mind, sur," replied the man; "nobody shall tich 'em. nobody shall go into the stable but me;" and i knew by the look of dogged determination on his face that he meant what he said. at this moment i heard the clatter of hoofs, and i hurried into the house. i saw the landlord go to the door, and heard him say to the horseman: "no sur, you can't stable yer 'oss. a party 'ave jist come, sur, and i've only room for dree 'osses." "well, all right," said clement killigrew in tones scarcely above a whisper, "fasten him here to the crook at the door, 'twill be just as well. i suppose i can have a bottle of wine. by the way, do not let the other party know i have come here." "no, sur, i wa'ant let em knaw, but i a'ant got no wine. a jug of good ale, sur." "all right, that will do;" then he said something in low tones to the landlord, which i did not hear. "all right, sur," i heard the innkeeper say in reply. "i'll 'tend to et, sur; but you'll 'ave to go into the kitchen among the farmers-men, the palor is okkipied." there was no reply to this, and then clement killigrew went into the kitchen. without hesitation i entered the room after him. all had happened as i expected. he had followed us to the inn, he had come in quietly, he had made arrangements with the landlord to take a message to some one near with whom he doubtless had influence, and now he would wait until help came. then he would try and recapture mistress nancy and take her back to endellion. consequently, i determined to act at once. my purpose was to go into the room, and as soon as possible quarrel with him. i knew that the killigrews never brooked an insult, and i thought that by careful management i should lead him to challenge me. this done, i hoped to disable him and then continue our journey before help could come. by so doing i should escape his espionage, and in a few hours be out of his reach. he gave a start as i swaggeringly entered the room; but quickly appeared composed. some half-dozen labourers were there, with their jugs of beer before them, and all seemed awed at the advent of two gentlemen with swords by their sides and pistols in their belts. clement killigrew was standing in front of the fire, for although the spring was upon us the nights were cold. "ill-mannered knave," i said, striding up to him, "what do you mean by standing in front of the fire?" he looked at me angrily, and seemed about to answer back according to the manner of my address; but controlling his feelings he stood aside. "i ask your pardon," he said politely, "it was very rude of me to keep the fire from the rest of the company." "it was rude," i replied, "and none but a varlet would do it." "i have expressed my apologies," was his response. "words are cheap," i said; "still, i suppose that is all you are able to give." "yes, i will give more than words," he replied, and on this i grasped the hilt of my sword, for i hoped that i had aroused him to fight, but my hopes were short-lived. "i will be glad to pay for a glass of brandy grog for each of these good fellows," he said blandly. the men murmured their pleasure. "a rail gen'leman," they said, looking at him with admiration, while they regarded me with angry scowls. so far he had the best of the encounter. evidently he had determined to avoid a quarrel. perhaps he was afraid of me, perhaps he thought it wise to refrain from fighting. "this man seeks to buy your friendship," i said loudly. "i will tell you what he is--he is one of two things. either a common highway robber, or a coward. if he be the first, let him fight--or i will take him to the nearest magistrate; if he is the second, you ought to drum him out of the house." "i am not a highway robber," he replied blandly. "to prove it i am perfectly willing to go with you and these gentlemen to the nearest magistrate; put it down then that i am a coward." "yes," i said, "you are a coward, all the killigrews are." again his eyes flashed, and this time he placed his hand on the butt end of his pistol. on looking at me, however, he again assumed a bland expression. "you have given me a name, sir, and you have called me a coward. well, have your own way. the truth is, although i am travelling in civilian's attire, i hope soon to be ordained a priest. for the present, therefore, i am under a vow not to fight." "a rail gen'leman, a rail gen'leman," murmured the men. "an arrant coward," i cried. "i think," said clement to the landlord, who had entered, "that your drink must be very strong here. this gentleman must be drunk." this gave me my chance, and i was about to strike him in the face, when i heard amelia's voice outside. "come, sir, quick." i left the room, while the men gave a loud guffaw at my supposed discomfiture. "git the 'osses out quick, sir," cried the maid. "why?" "do as she tells you," said mistress nancy. "he'll ride after us as before," i objected. "no he wa'ant, not fur," cried amelia. i did as they suggested, and when i had paid the landlord i prepared to mount. i was still in the dark why mistress nancy had suggested this course of procedure, but it was for her to command and me to obey. i kept my eyes steadily on the front door while my two companions mounted. i thought i saw clement killigrew come out, but was not sure. "ride on quickly out of pistol range," i said to them, then i walked backward by chestnut's side for twenty or thirty yards, all the time holding my pistol in my right hand. no one following, i placed my foot in the stirrup and was soon galloping down the road. we had not gone far when i heard the sound of hoofs behind us. "he's again following us," i said bitterly. "he wa'ant come fur!" said amelia with a laugh; so i turned to her, asking what she meant. chapter xvi. why i took mistress nancy to treviscoe. amelia did not immediately answer my question, but continued to laugh like one in high spirits. "he wa'ant come fur!" she repeated; and after we had gone on, it may have been a mile or two, i stopped and listened again, and this time there were no following footsteps. "now we must ride quick," said the maid. "how! what use will it be?" i asked almost angrily. "clement's horse will be as good as either of yours." "iss, but his hoss is drunk!" laughed amelia. "drunk?" i cried. "iss, drunk. when i zeed you go into the kitchen, and tried to git into a row weth maaster clement, i minded a trick i once seed at endellion church town. so i tould the chap that took your 'osses to draw me a gallon of beer. he axed me questions 'bout et, but i knawed 'ow to git over 'ee." "and did the horse drink it?" "drink et! i shud think he ded. he wos thusty and sooped up every drap. aw i shud like to see un now;" and the maid laughed again. in spite of everything i joined her. it was purely a village girl's trick, and well carried out. a thirsty horse will drink a quantity of beer, and generally a few minutes after becomes light-headed and unable to walk straight. "you are a clever girl, amelia," i said again, "and you are right in saying we must ride quickly. clement will find out the trick, and will follow us on foot." "we've got the wind in our back," she replied, "zo ef we git a mile or so ahead, the sound of our 'osses wa'ant reach he." so we rode hard until we came to summercourt. here there were several branch roads, and so far as i could see no one was stirring. even although clement followed on foot, he would have great difficulty in finding which way we had gone. "which way shall we go?" i asked of mistress nancy. "do you think it will be safe for us to go to polperro?" she asked hesitatingly. "i think so," i replied, although my heart was sore at saying this. "these killigrews will know your whereabouts, and as a consequence there will be no watchers at polperro." "and you will take me there safely?--that is," she continued, as though she were correcting herself, "you think you can?" "oh yes, i can," i replied; "and i will take you whither you will." "then perhaps we had better go there--i know of no other place." she spoke plaintively, and as i thought hesitatingly. i longed to offer her a home at trevanion, but i dared not. "it is well," i replied, as cheerfully as i could; "there is just another matter we may as well settle, however. shall we ride there on our horses, or shall we go by water?" "what do you mean?" she asked anxiously. "polperro's house is close to the sea, is it not?" i asked. "yes--that is, i believe so." "well, if we were to ride to veryan bay, we could get a boat and sail from there." "and is that a better way?" "you shall decide, if you please," was my reply. "from here to veryan is, perchance, twelve miles. i do not imagine that the killigrews would suspect us of going there; so even if clement should try and follow us with another horse, i do not think he would take that course. he would rather imagine that we should make for polperro by road." she was silent for a few seconds, then she told amelia to ride behind us out of earshot. at this my heart fluttered wildly, for i thought she had something of importance to say to me. for a few minutes we rode side by side without either speaking a word. the moon had risen high in the heavens, and many of the clouds had passed away, so i could see her every feature plainly. "do you wonder," she said presently, "that, in spite of the vow you took some time ago, i cannot feel as friendly towards you as i would." "no," i replied almost sullenly. "perhaps you know that my liberty, my happiness, my fortune, the whole future of my life is at stake." "yes." "it is only a few months since i returned from a convent school in france. my father, i suppose, was a rich man; and i have heard vaguely that i legally inherit a large property when i am twenty-one. that time will soon come now. that is why the killigrews are anxious to marry me at once. all i have would then become theirs. i have heard, too, that my property is strictly entailed. but i have been told nothing definite; it would seem as though all have been in a league to keep the truth from me. ever since i returned from school i have been practically a prisoner. but i am determined to be free!" "you shall be free if it is in my power to make it possible," i replied. she gave a sharp, searching look, and then went on. "i am, as you see, entirely dependent on you." i was silent. "as far as i know there is but one man in whom i can trust. he--he has asked me to be his wife. he does not know that i have taken this step." she said this in a constrained, hesitating way, as though she were afraid to utter the words. "do you wish to be john polperro's wife?" i stammered awkwardly. "that is, would you under ordinary circumstances choose him for your husband? is he to you the man above all others?" "you are a stranger to me," she went on, as though i had not spoken. "until that night when you climbed to the housetop at endellion i had never seen you, never heard of you. i have no claim on you save the claim that any gentlewoman who is in trouble has upon a man of honour." "be that as it may," i replied, "all i have and am are at your service. i will take you whither you will." this i said, i am afraid, with a sigh, for i realized that after i had taken her to polperro my work would be done. i must leave her, perchance never to see her again. "i may trust you fully then?" "fully." "then," she said, and her voice became hard and unsympathetic, i thought, "will you tell me why you came to endellion? why you tried to deceive me the first time you spoke to me? why you did not answer me frankly when we were together with that old man on roche rock?" her questions came quickly, and i saw by the way she grasped the bridle rein that she was much wrought upon. in a second i realized what they meant. i saw that the moment i told her the truth, even although she might perforce trust me to take her to polperro, all possibility of respect for me would be gone. she would think of me as one who for gain would have betrayed a woman's confidence, one who was the tool of men who had bought me for a price. i had given up all idea of taking her to treviscoe, but the fact that i had consented to such a bargain must stamp me in her eyes as a knave. i tried to open my mouth to speak, but for the moment i could not, and i sat staring into vacancy as though i were a born fool. "forgive me," she said coldly, "i will not trouble you to answer me. i have no right to know your secrets or your plans. you have promised to take me to polperro, and your name is trevanion; i will trust to one bearing your name to do as you have promised. i am sorry to trouble you, but i am obliged to take advantage of a gentlewoman's claim on a gentleman, and to ask you to take me to the house of my only friend." my heart was heavy, for i saw what her words implied. she would regard me with less respect than she might regard a paid guide. although she had said she would trust me, her heart would doubt me all the time. i knew by the tones of her voice that when the time of our parting came she would be glad. she had given me a chance of proving myself an honourable man, and i had been unable to take advantage of it. therefore, although by all laws of chivalry i was bound to serve her, she would accept that service no longer than she absolutely needed me. aye, she would loathe my presence and my service, even although she could not do without them. this i knew was what my silence meant to her, but what would an explanation mean? the truth would be perhaps worse than the suspicion. never did i despise myself as i did then, and i felt as though i dared not tell her the truth. but this was only for a second. despise me though she must, i would tell her the whole story. i had at least repented; whatever my motives had been in the past, they were pure now. "mistress nancy molesworth," i said, "i will answer the questions you have asked." "no, no," she interrupted. "i have no right to know. i was wrong in asking. your secret life can be nothing to me." "i must answer your questions nevertheless," i replied. "and you have a right to know something of the man in whom you trust so much. i shall probably lose what little confidence you have in me, and certainly all your respect, but still i must tell you." she protested again, in chilling, indifferent tones, but i heeded her not. "you said just now that i was a trevanion," i said; "well, you spoke truly, i am a trevanion." then sparing myself in no degree, i told her the plain facts as i have told them here. it was painful to me, painful as pulling out my eyes, but i felt i would rather she should know all than that she trust me blindfolded, while all the time she hated to be obliged to speak to me. during the time i was speaking she made no response. our horses walked slowly on (for by this time i imagined we were entirely away from the killigrews), and so she heard every word i uttered. sometimes i looked at her face, but it revealed nothing to me. it was as motionless as the face of a statue. "that is all," i said when i had finished; "but believe me in this at least: i did not fully realize what my premise meant, and you cannot think worse of my conduct than i think myself. i know it was unworthy, but it shall not turn out to your ill. if it is in the power of man, i will take you to the place to which you would go." "shall we ride faster?" she said presently. "yes," i replied, "but which way? will you go by road or water?" "if we go to veryan, we pass tresillian, i think you said?" "i do not remember saying so, but it is true." "then we will go that way." for the next few miles we rode rapidly, neither speaking a word, but presently she slackened her horse's pace. "how far is tresillian from here?" she asked. "about one mile." "thank you for being so frank," she said after a few seconds of silence. "i know it must be unpleasant for me to be near you," i said bitterly; "but believe me, i will trouble you no longer than i can help." "when you have taken me to my destination, what will you do?" "i shall start for london." "why?" "there can be nothing left for me in cornwall. i shall join the king's standard, and honourably seek my way to fortune." "you will lose your home, the home of your fathers?" "it must be." "you say that--that man gave you money." "yes, but he will be amply recouped. all the same, i shall send him the amount as soon as i have earned it." "what kind of man is he? and what kind of man is--is his son?" again i did not spare myself, indeed i took a sort of savage delight in describing the two men i had promised to serve. "and if you had taken me to treviscoe, you would claim the deeds. you would have fulfilled your obligations to them, and the old homestead would be yours?" "forgive me," i cried, "i did not know i could have become so base," and indeed at that moment i felt unworthy to ride by her side. "can you think of trevisa's purpose in wanting to get me there?" she asked, without seeming to notice my words. "i think i told you," i replied bitterly. "yes, but he told you nothing of the means by which he hoped to carry out his purpose?" "no, it was nothing to me. i was desperate, mad. besides i thought not of that, and i--i loved adventure." "but you give me your sacred promise that you will take me wherever i desire to go?" "you know i do. i despise myself. believe me, i am not at heart a base villain, and i am anxious to prove to you how bitterly i repent--what i bargained to do. i long to break my miserable promise; nay, i shall be glad to bear the consequences of failing to redeem my pledge to him. i--i will do anything, suffer anything to carry out your purposes." this i said hesitatingly, because it came to me that i was betraying the love for her which was burning in my heart. "you mean, then, that you will take me wherever i ask you?" "yes, yes!" i said eagerly. "then take me to treviscoe, to the home of these--these trevisas." i started back aghast. "no, no!" i cried. "but you have promised me, promised me on your honour." "but--but you do not understand." "i understand perfectly." "they are both miserable, sensual wretches." "you told me that a little while ago. but please take me there." "i am sure they have sinister, evil purposes in wishing to get you there." "most likely, nevertheless i rely on your promises." "they will do their utmost to get you into their power. they have no conscience, no sense of honour." "i should judge not. but i will go." i looked into her face. her eyes shone like live coals, her face was as pale as death, but i could see she was resolute. "very well," i said with a sigh. "i will do as you command me." it was now midnight, and we were within two miles of truro. "it is well on to twenty miles from here to trevisa's place," i said, "and the roads are bad. to say the least, it is a three hours' journey. there is a good inn at truro, and i think you would be safe there. which will you do--stay at truro, or ride direct to trevisa's?" she hesitated a few seconds, then she decided to stay at truro. i was glad of this, because i knew she must be very weary. half an hour later our horses were in a comfortable stable, while mistress nancy molesworth sat at the same table with me in one of the best inns in the county. "you still wish me to take you to treviscoe?" i said after we had partaken of refreshment. "yes. good-night." when i reached my room i pondered long over the events of the day, and wondered much at the maid nancy's behaviour, but could not divine her motives. i determined to take her to peter trevisa as she had commanded, but i was strong in my resolve to watch over her as jealously as a young mother watches over her first-born child. it was past midday when i awoke, and so i hurriedly dressed, wondering what the woman i had learnt to love would think of me, but when i went down-stairs i discovered that she had not yet risen. i went to the stables and examined the horses. they were well fed and groomed, and as far as i could gather, no one had been there making inquiries concerning us. this put me at my ease, and when presently mistress nancy appeared, i assured her of her safety. about an hour before dark we left truro, and during our ride she asked me many questions, the meaning of which i could not understand. one thing she insisted on, for which in my heart i thanked her. it was that we should take my attorney, mr. hendy, with us to treviscoe, for i knew that peter trevisa had a great terror of the law. accordingly we called at the old lawyer's house, and asked him to accompany us. he seemed much surprised at seeing us, and the more was his astonishment when he discovered that mistress nancy went to treviscoe against my will, for this he soon discovered. he said but little, however, and rode quietly with us like a man in a dream. "what do you wish me to say to these men, mistress molesworth?" i said to her, when treviscoe appeared in sight. "nothing," she replied absently. "nothing!" "no. that is, say just what you would have said if you had carried out the purpose with which you started out." her words pierced me like a dagger-thrust, but i said nothing. a few minutes later we came up to the hall door. was mr. trevisa at home? "yes," the servant replied; "old mr. trevisa is, but not young mr. peter." at this i was glad, but on looking at the maid nancy's face i saw that she seemed perfectly indifferent. all the same she held tightly by her serving-maid's arm. old peter seemed overjoyed at our appearance. "what, roger, lad!" he cried; "welcome, welcome! i see you've brought a guest for us too. ah, she is doubly, trebly welcome. you've come for a long stay, i trust, mistress molesworth. ah, but you must be tired; i will order refreshments. here, pollizock, you knave, take refreshments into the dining-hall without delay. i am sorry my peter is away, but he will be back to-morrow. i have many things i want to speak to you about, mistress molesworth. you will not desire much company to-night, and doubtless both roger and my friend hendy will want to be jogging as soon as they've had a bite. mary tolgarrick will have many knick-knacks, such as ladies need, won't you, eh, mary?" "thank you," replied the maid, her face still set and stern, "but i bought all that i need in truro to-day; my maid amelia will bring them to me." "it is well," sniggered old peter. "be at home, my lady. ah, i wish my peter were here! he is always witty and gay. but he is away in your interest, mistress molesworth; he will have many things to tell you--many things he hath discovered. but my son peter is wise, very wise." the ladies went out of the room, leaving lawyer hendy and myself with old peter. "ah, roger lad," cried the old man, "you are a man. smart and clever. you have saved trevanion for yourself. when my peter comes back we will settle the matter legally. did you have much trouble, my lad? ah, you must have played a deep game with the killigrews." i did not reply. i could not. i was too much ashamed. to think that i had planned to bring a well-born maid into such company, to remember that forever the woman i loved must think of me as doing this, was to fill my cup of degradation and misery. and yet she had come here of her own free will--aye, she had insisted on coming after i had told her all. this i could not understand. "have the killigrews any idea where you have taken their ward, roger trevanion?" asked old peter presently. "no." "no? that is well. tell me about it, lad?" "i cannot to-night; i am not in the humour." "still surly, roger? ha, i know you hate to have aught to do with women. but you will be paid. you have brought her here as you said, and you shall be well paid, well paid." my arms ached to throttle the old wretch. i longed to place my hands around his skinny neck and choke him, but i did nothing. then old peter began talking to lawyer hendy, and i fell to wondering what the end of the business was to be. that the maid nancy would fall in with old peter's plans, i could not believe; and yet she evidently intended to stay there. would she desire me to be near as her protector? what were her purposes? but the maid's mind was a sealed book to me. presently she appeared again, her face still set, and her eyes burning with the light of purpose. old peter led the way into the dining-hall, and although i could not eat, i took my seat at the table. "we shall not need you," said old peter to the servants; "leave us. we can talk more freely now," he whined, turning towards us. "is there anything i can do for you, mistress molesworth?" "yes," she replied steadily; "i wish you to fulfil your obligations to master roger trevanion, and give him the deeds of his estates." "when my son peter comes home everything shall be settled, my dear lady." "they can be settled now, can they not?" "it will be difficult. i do not suppose our friend hendy hath the papers at hand." "yes, i have them here," replied the lawyer. at this i knew not what to say. my mind was torn with conflicting thoughts. chapter xvii. the charge of treason. peter trevisa seemed much chagrined at the course events were taking. doubtless he would twist and turn like a fox before fulfilling his promises; but the maid stood expectant by as the attorney took some papers from a receptacle and laid them on the table. "everything is in order here," said the old man quietly. "of course, certain formalities will have to be complied with, but----" "i will have none of it!" i cried; "none of it." so saying, i rose to leave the room. "do you wish me to render you any further service, mistress molesworth?" i continued hastily, "have you any commands for me?" "do you mean to say," she asked quietly, "that you will not use to your advantage the means you have obtained in order to----" i interrupted her rudely, for truly i was sore distraught. "think not too badly of me," i cried. "i am mean enough, god knows; but being in the company of a good woman has taught me what a man ought to be. no, no. i am a beggar--a beggar i will remain until i win my fortune honourably. tell me what i can do to serve you?" "nothing," she replied, coldly, i thought. "you will stay here, then?" "yes," she replied slowly; "seeing that mr. trevisa is so hospitably inclined, i will remain during the night." "many nights, my fair lady," cried old peter gaily. "treviscoe is very fair demesne, and when my son comes back to-morrow he will make it very pleasant for you. ah! roger knows that it is our joy to help all those who are sorrowful or oppressed." "and is it your desire that i should leave you here?" i asked almost bitterly. "you are sure you will not claim what is your right?" she asked. "sure you will not allow mr. hendy to establish you at your old home?" "i have no home," i cried. "if you do not wish me to stay and serve you, i will ride back to the old place, and, having discharged the servants, i will leave it forever." "nay, nay, roger," cried old peter, yet i saw that his eyes gleamed with avarice. taking no notice of him i waited for the maid nancy's answer. "do you wish me to remain near you?" i repeated. "no," she answered; "but i should like mr. hendy to stay for an hour or so if he will." "then i am dismissed?" i said rudely, for my heart was very sore; but she made no answer, whereupon i turned on my heel, and a few minutes later was riding towards my old home. old daniel welcomed me with tearful eyes. i might have been away years instead of a few days. and yet, as i considered what had happened since i bade him good-bye, years seemed to have elapsed. "is all well, daniel?" i asked, after many protestations of joy and affection on his part. "all well, master roger; all well. the attorney hath been here much, but i have no complaints to make. the serving-maids will be rejoiced to see 'ee, sur. they say the 'ouse is so lonely as a church when you be out ov et. aw, sur, i be glad to see 'ee." i had meant to tell the old man of my plans, but his joy at seeing me tied my tongue. i did not think the servants cared so much for me, and this revelation of their affection made it hard for me to tell them that on the morrow they would have to leave my service and the house which some of them had learnt to love. as a consequence, i determined to delay the news until the following morning. this set me thinking again upon all that had happened, and, as well as i could, i tried to understand the whole bearing of the case. i had successfully completed the work i had undertaken, but in so doing i had changed the whole tenor of my life. i had gone to endellion a woman hater; on returning i knew that i had willingly laid my heart at a woman's feet. i had, on discovering this, abandoned the idea of taking the maid nancy to treviscoe, and she had insisted on going. why? i formed many surmises concerning this, but could think of nothing which satisfied me. the great question, however, was what would become of her? that she had a purpose in going to trevisa's i did not doubt; but i knew, too, that old peter would not lightly let her leave his house. doubtless, also, young peter had devised many plans for the purpose of fulfilling his heart's desire. i knew he would seek to forge claims whereby he would try and bind nancy to him. and i had left her at treviscoe, unprotected and alone. true, i was confident that she could hold her own against both father and son, nevertheless it was dangerous for her to be there. then what purpose had she in speaking with the attorney? why was she anxious for me to leave her? for she was anxious. i called to mind the conversation which took place at treviscoe, and which i have but meagrely described, and i was certain that she was relieved when i left her. did she loathe my presence? did she scorn me for playing so unmanly a part? badly as i acted, i was less to be blamed than the men who had employed me. besides, i had refused to benefit by what i had done. after much thinking, i determined not to leave the neighbourhood. i would watch over her, i would be near to protect her in case of danger. this was the last thought in my mind before i fell asleep, and all through the night i dreamed i was defending her from powerful enemies, and rescuing her from dire perils. i was awoke by daniel knocking at my door. "you be wanted down-stairs, sur." "wanted by whom, daniel?" "some gen'lemen; i doan't knaw who they be. but they say tes very important, sur." i hastily dressed, and made my way into the library where daniel at my request had shown my visitors. the moment i entered the room a tall man came towards me, and placing his hand on my shoulder said quietly: "roger trevanion, you are a prisoner." "a prisoner!" i cried; "for what?" "treason." "treason! you must be mad!" "that remains to be proved." "but at least you can state in something like detail what you mean. what have i done? wherein have i acted wrongly?" "it is not for me to answer. i have simply to do my duty. i am instructed to arrest you, and that is my purpose in being here. doubtless you will be allowed every opportunity of defending yourself--but with that i have nothing to do. my commands are to take you to viscount falmouth in a way befitting your station. consequently, if you give me your word that you will offer no resistance, you may accompany us to tregothnan as though you were simply going there on some private business." i looked around the room, and saw three other men. evidently the spokesman had brought them for the purpose of taking me by force in case of necessity. as may be imagined, i was for a few minutes stunned by the course events had taken. i had never dreamed that i was in the slightest danger; i had no idea that i had by any action placed myself under suspicion. presently, however, i thought i saw otho killigrew's hands at work; i imagined i saw evidence of his busy brain; i became more self-possessed after this, and although i was in sore straits at the thought of leaving nancy at treviscoe, i tried to regard the whole matter as a joke. "gentlemen," i said, "what grounds there are for apprehending me i have not the ghost of an idea. i, as all my fathers were, am a true supporter of both crown and church. but, of course, you have done right in obeying orders, and i will be ready to go with you in a few minutes. in the mean time i hope you will join me at breakfast." they willingly fell in with this proposal, but although i tried hard, i could get no information from them beyond what i have here set down. an hour later i was on my way to tregothnan, where i was presently informed hugh boscawen (viscount falmouth) awaited me. perhaps there is no lovelier spot anywhere between the tamar and land's-end than tregothnan. it overlooks the truro river, and all that vast stretch of woodland which surrounds it. around the house, which is an ancient pile, are rare gardens and parks, where old trees grow, the like of which is not to be found in the fairest county in england. the house was in many parts becoming decayed, and i had heard reports that hugh boscawen hoped one day to replace it by a more commodious dwelling. but i suspect that, like his father, he was too busy with political schemes to care much for a place justly renowned for many miles around. i was shown into the library where hugh boscawen and three other gentlemen sat. two of these i knew slightly. one was sir john grenville and another john rosecorroch, the forefathers of both of whom fought against cromwell nearly a century before. my attention, however, was more particularly drawn to hugh boscawen, before whom i was especially brought. as i looked at his face i was somewhat reminded of his father, who had died eleven years before, and whom i had twice seen. it called to my mind, also, the stories i had heard about the first viscount. so great was the old man's political zeal that he had caused the arrest of many who held high monarchical principles. even sir richard vyvian or trelowaren, and mr. tremain, two of the most renowned and highly respected gentlemen for miles around, did not escape his vigilance. they were friends of his too, but, as he declared, "friendship had nought to do with principles." the son, however, was not so great a man as his father. he had not the same commanding countenance, neither did his eyes flash forth the same light. on the other hand, the man before whom i stood seemed to be aware that he did not possess a keen, penetrating intellect, and as a consequence was suspicious and very cautious. report had it, too, that he was very zealous in his service for the king, and would leave no stone unturned in order to carry out his designs. in proof of this, he had, as i have already stated, been engaged in raising an army to resist any forces which the young pretender might be able to command. "roger trevanion," he said slowly, "i am sorry to see you here." "then it is a pity i should have been brought here, my lord," i said a little hotly, for it went sore against the grain to be brought a prisoner before a man whose family was no nobler than my own. "neither would you have been brought here," he replied, "had not the country been threatened by danger, and some, about whose loyalty there should be no doubt, have become renegades." "you may have received information which has no foundation in fact, my lord," was my reply. "nevertheless i should like to ask two questions. first, what right have you to have me brought here a prisoner? and second (providing you can prove your right to arrest whom you please), what are the charges laid against me?" "although you have asked your questions with but little respect for my position," he replied hotly, and i saw that his vanity was touched, "i may inform you that by the gracious commands of his majesty, king george ii., it is my duty not only to raise an army in cornwall wherewith to fight any rebels who may take up arms on the side of the young pretender, but also to arrest any who give evidence of plotting against the peace of the country, or who in any way favor the claims of the descendants of the stuarts." "admitting that you are commissioned to arrest traitors," i said, "i wish to know why i am included in such a category. this is the first time a trevanion was ever degraded in such a way, and if i speak hotly, i think there is but little wonder." "i have treated you leniently, roger trevanion," he replied. "remembering the house to which you belong, i ordered that your arrest should not be made public, and that every consideration should be shown you. have not my commands been obeyed?" "as to that," i replied, "i have no complaints to offer. my grievance is that i have been brought here at all; for truly i know of nothing in the nature of treason that can be laid to my charge." in reply to this sir john grenville handed hugh boscawen papers which he had been scanning, and on which i gathered the charge against me had been written. "you shall yourself be the judge whether i, holding the commission i do, have not acted rightly in bringing you here; and i here repeat that nothing but respect for your name has kept me from making the matter public and treating you as others, acting as you have acted, have been treated all over the country. indeed, i doubt whether i have done right in using the discretionary powers invested in me in such a way as to shield you from public calumny. if your conduct were bruited abroad, the brave fellows who have voluntarily armed themselves to fight for the king all up and down the country would without hesitation throw you into the deepest dungeon beneath pendennis castle, even if they did not at once kill you." this he said with, i thought, a sort of peacock pride, which made me, short of temper as i was, itch to make him swallow his words. "it ill becomes one possessing your powers to condemn a man unheard," i cried hotly. "what is written on that paper i know not; this i know, if there is anything alleged against my loyalty, i will proclaim the man who wrote it a liar." hugh boscawen seemed about to lose his temper, but he was restrained by sir john grenville, who seemed to regard me more favorably. "very well," he said at length, "i will relate the charges made against you. if you can clear yourself, well and good; if not, you must prepare for the consequences." knowing not what might be written, and fearing otho killigrew's cunning (for i felt sure i saw his hand in all this), i foolishly called out for a public trial. "there is no need at present for a public trial," said hugh boscawen, who i could see was prejudged against me. "i am especially commissioned to deal with such as you." "up to about fourteen days ago," he continued, "you were known to live a useless and dissolute life. instead of taking your part in the service of the country, your time was spent in gaming, drinking, and such like foolish pursuits. do you deny this?" "i do not," i replied. "i acted as many others are acting. perchance some of the many sons of your late father behave little differently even to-day. but is there aught that smacks of treason in this?" "no; but even while living this life, you often let hints drop concerning the danger of our gracious king, and the coming of the young pretender." "but never to favour his coming," i replied. "this taken by itself would have but little meaning," he went on; "but subsequent events cause your words to have grave import." "what subsequent events, my lord?" i asked hotly. "about fourteen days ago you left your home, and rode away alone. will you tell me the object of your journey?" i was silent, for in truth i cared not to tell this man about the flight of the maid nancy. "you are silent. if your journey was honourable, what need is there for seeking to hide it?" "my lord," i said, "most of us have our secrets. they may be innocent enough, but still we do not care to have them made public property." "ordinarily that may be true," he replied; "but remembering the charge against you, i shall require you to state why you left trevanion." "for no traitorous purpose, my lord, that i will swear. my reason for leaving home had nothing whatever to do with the coming of the pretender." "out of your own mouth i will convict you," he replied. "did you not tell colman killigrew, of endellion, that you came to see him for the very purpose of seeking to help the enemy of the king?" the words came upon me like a thunderbolt. i saw now that my position was more dangerous than i had conceived. "believe me, my lord," i cried, "i had another purpose in going to endellion. i, hearing that killigrew favored charles stuart, used that as a means whereby i might enter his house." "you told him a lie." "it was necessary in order to accomplish that on which i had set my mind." "you admit telling a lie to him. how do i know you would not tell a lie to me?" "but it is well known that the killigrews are enemies of george ii.," i cried. hugh boscawen smiled scornfully. not great of intellect, he nevertheless sought to impress me with his erudition. "i know that the killigrews pretend this," he replied, "but only for the purpose of serving the king. it is true that the family hath nearly died out, and beyond this one branch there are no representatives; but they have always supported king and crown." "tom killigrew was master of revels of charles ii.," i replied hotly, "and the family have always sworn allegiance to the stuart race." "i am not here to bandy words with you, roger trevanion," he said; "the question is, did you or did you not offer your services to colman killigrew? did you not offer to help to raise an army against the king? did you not say that the people called methodists were papists in disguise, and desired to bring back the catholic religion, and again establish high monarchical powers?" again i was silent, for in truth i had no answer to give. "i am waiting for you to speak," he continued presently. "i have no answer to make beyond again saying that this was a mere subterfuge on my part to establish a footing in the house." "why wished you to establish a footing in the house?" "this also must remain my secret for the present," was my answer. "i tell you you are making a rope for your own neck," said sir john grenville. "tell the truth, lad; we are not thine enemies." "i will give you one more chance," said hugh boscawen. "you have refused to answer the other questions i have asked, will you answer this? there is a man known to hate the house of hanover, who wanders up and down the country in many disguises. yesterday he was a priest of the catholic order, to-day he is a hermit living in cells, to-morrow he will be a wandering minstrel and tale-teller; the day after he will meet with men of high degree and converse with them as with equals. he is known as uncle anthony, as father anthony, as sir anthony tregarrick. ah! i see your lips tremble! well, this man is one of the most dangerous men in the country; he has gone to france, and has had secret converse with him who is desirous of leading the rebels to battle; he is commissioned to arouse a rebellious feeling in cornwall, and he hath been doing this by many underhanded means. answer me this: have you met this man disguised as a traveling tale-teller? have you allowed him to ride on your horse? have you had secret converse with him in one of his many hiding-places?" "for no seditious purpose, my lord." "but you have had converse with him?" "yes, but my conversation hath had naught to do with the coming of charles." "that may be proved. for a week past i have used many means to discover this man's whereabouts. if he is taken he will assuredly die. you were in his company not many days ago. do you know where he is now?" it seemed as though the fates were against me. truth was, i had, in spite of everything, learned to love this lonely old man. if i told all the truth i should be the means of his death, so i again held my peace. "you know where he is," said sir john grenville, who had several times advised hugh boscawen as to the questions he should ask me. "tell us where you saw him last and it shall be well for you." "never have i spoken one word with the travelling droll about the affairs of the nation," i replied; "and i defy any man to prove that i have used any endeavours to injure my king." "but we have witnesses!" "then let your witnesses appear!" i cried hotly, for i thought i was safe in saying this. "they shall appear, roger trevanion," said hugh boscawen; "they shall appear," whereupon he signaled for a serving-man to attend him. when the man came, hugh boscawen spoke to him in low tones, and immediately after we were left alone again. "you say no man hath heard you proclaim against our gracious king?" said hugh boscawen to me. "no man," i replied. no sooner had i spoken than the door opened, and otho killigrew and his brother clement entered the room. upon this my heart fluttered much, for i knew otho to be as cunning as the devil, and as merciless. all the same i met his gaze boldly, for i determined now we had met in this way that it should go hard with him. but i did not know then the man with whom i had to deal. chapter xviii. otho killigrew's victory. both otho killigrew and his brother clement bowed courteously to hugh boscawen. both, too, appeared perfectly at ease in his presence. "i have asked you to come here," said viscount falmouth to them blandly, "in order to substantiate the charge you made last night against roger trevanion." "i should have been glad to have escaped the duty," replied otho, speaking slowly as was his wont, "but as a loyal subject of our gracious majesty, george ii., whom may god preserve, i could do no other." "you could not if your charges are true," was falmouth's rejoinder. "the name of killigrew hath long been associated with the best life of the county. i remember that the coat-of-arms of falmouth, with which town i am so closely associated by name and interest, is taken from that of the killigrews. let me see, your arms are those of the devonshire killigrews, and are _gules, three mascles or_. it pleases me much that your branch of that ancient and honourable family remain loyal, especially as evil reports have been rife concerning you." "my father hath allowed reports to go forth uncontradicted," replied otho; "he found that by so doing he could best serve his king. and as a further proof of the loyalty of our family, we have at the first opportunity laid information before you concerning this man, roger trevanion." "will you be good enough to repeat here what you stated last night concerning him, so that he may have every opportunity of defending himself?" i cannot here put down in exact words the story which otho killigrew told, for in truth i cannot do justice to the subtlety of his mind, nor describe his power of twisting actions and statements which were most innocent into what seemed definite proof that i was a most determined enemy of the king. as i listened my power of speech seemed for a time to be gone, and i could do nothing but stare first at him, and then at hugh boscawen as though i was a born fool. i saw, too, on consideration, that my actions had laid me open to such an accusation. i _had_ pretended to be a papist; i _had_ declared myself to be in favor of the return of charles the pretender; i _had_ promised old colman killigrew to obtain recruits to fight against the king. moreover, if i defended myself i must tell the whole miserable story of my bargain with peter trevisa, and then drag in the name of the maid who became constantly dearer to me. thus when hugh boscawen asked me if i had aught to say, i was for a few moments stupidly silent. "look you," said sir john grenville, "you can at least answer plain questions. did you, on going to endellion, tell master colman killigrew that you were a papist, and that hearing he was in the favour of the pretender's return, you desired to offer him your service? yes, or no?" "that is true, sir john," i blurted out; "but i only used this as a means whereby i might be able to enter the house." "but why did you wish to enter the house?" again i was silent, for in truth i could not make up my mind to tell the whole truth. i knew that otho killigrew longed to know my real reason for coming to endellion; longed to know what interest i had in the maid, nancy molesworth, and was doubtless using every means in his power to try and find out where i had taken her. i was sure, moreover, that did i once begin to tell my story, i should probably let words fall that might give him a knowledge of her whereabouts, and then she would be quickly in his power again. but besides all this, i had given my promise to peter trevisa, before undertaking the mission of which i had become so heartily ashamed, that i would tell no man concerning it. at the time i had made the promise i had seen no danger, and had any one told me two days before that any of the killigrews of endellion would dare to charge me with treason against the king, i would have laughed at him. yet such was the case, and innocent as i was of all traitorous purposes, i could see no loophole for my escape. "you are silent in relation to sir john's query," said hugh boscawen, who did not seem to relish any one asking questions but himself. "let me ask you one in master otho killigrew's presence: did you or did you not promise to try and get recruits to try and fight against the king?" "what i said had no meaning in it," i replied. "the king hath no truer or more loyal subject than roger trevanion." "if you are a true and loyal subject, you will be glad to give information whereby all traitors can be brought to book," replied boscawen. "i mentioned just now the name of one who, when you were with him, was known as a traveling droll, by the name of uncle anthony. as i told you, he is the most dangerous man in the county. will you tell us what you know of him?" "i know uncle anthony as a welcome guest of colman killigrew," i replied. "when first i went to endellion i was attacked by otho killigrew's brother, and they would perchance have done me harm but for the interference of the old man to whom you refer. as soon as they saw that he was my companion they received me kindly. when i entered the house i perceived that he was treated with great respect--almost as an honoured guest." "i may say," replied otho calmly, "that this is true. my father had doubts concerning him, but would do nothing against him until he was absolutely sure of his guilt. knowing of the reports circulated about our family he came to our house and was received kindly, as we try to receive all visitors. it was during his last visit that my father's suspicions concerning him were confirmed." "then," cried i, "why did you not arrest him?" "i may also say," went on otho, without seeming to notice me, "that by some secret means unknown to us, he left on the same night he arrived with roger trevanion. but even had he stayed he would have been safe." "why?" asked sir john grenville. "because," replied otho, "he entered our house as a guest,--as a humble one, it is true, but still as a guest, and therefore we could take no steps against him. when gone, however, and we had been able to verify our doubts concerning him, i deemed it right to mention the fact of his visit to my lord falmouth." "but he hath long been known to me as a dangerous man," cried hugh boscawen. "we live far away from centers of information at endellion," replied otho humbly. "and you say that roger trevanion knows where this man can be found?" "i know that he has been the companion of the man," replied otho, "and that he can probably tell where he now resides." "i do not know," i replied, thinking that he might have removed from the lonely chapel. "when saw you him last, and where?" asked hugh boscawen. again i hesitated. ought i to tell of the old man's whereabouts? i could not see into the depths of otho killigrew's mind, but i felt assured that he had some purpose in bringing in uncle anthony's name. did he desire to punish him for assisting mistress nancy molesworth's escape? did he think i might be led to speak of him and thus tell of my purpose in coming to endellion. i was sure that this puzzled him sorely. was it to find out this that he had braved the danger of visiting tregothnan, the home of the man whose joy it was to find out treason and punish it? i knew next to nothing of the old story-teller. he might or might not be a political meddler. i was sure, however, that he was shrewd beyond common, and would have friends unknown to me. he had many hiding-places too, and in spite of his wound it was not likely that he would stay at the hermit's chapel. then another thought struck me. if it was the purpose of hugh boscawen to arrest uncle anthony, the old man would surely be aware of it, and any information i might be able to give would effect but little. on the other hand, if he were told that otho killigrew had laid information concerning him, the keen old recluse would not hesitate to make out a bad case against the killigrews, and, in spite of the part they were playing, would pull their mask aside, and show the viscount their real sentiments. i therefore determined to speak freely. "when i last saw uncle anthony," i replied, "he was lying in a lonely chapel in the parish of st. mawgan. he had been wounded by otho killigrew for seeking to defeat his evil purposes." "what evil purposes?" "i will let the old droll answer that, when you have taken him," i replied; "but it had naught to do with treason against the king." "had it to do with the purpose for which you say you went to endellion?" asked sir john grenville. "it had, sir john." "then let me tell you this," said the baronet, "it will be well for you if you will tell us the reason for which you took this journey and the event which led to this charge being made against you." at that moment i turned and caught the eye of otho killigrew; and from the eagerness with which he looked at me, i knew that he longed for me to answer sir john's question. was there something lurking behind of which i had no knowledge? had peter trevisa and his son told me everything when he asked me to bring the maid, nancy molesworth, to them? had otho killigrew come to the conclusion that i might help him to find out some valuable secrets? during the time he had been accusing me of treason, he had never once hinted at the truth. did he know where mistress nancy was? and more than this, might not one of his reasons for placing himself in danger in order to cause my arrest be that he feared me? i remembered now that i knew nothing of the maid nancy's life prior to her coming to endellion, and i reproached myself for not asking her. all this flashed through my mind in a second, and determined me more than ever to let drop no hint as to the truth. possibly i should be doing the maid i loved incalculable injury by so doing, for i knew that otho killigrew was merciless. "there be certain things, sir john, which a gentleman may not tell," i replied. "you will know as well as i that the trevanions have more than once suffered rather than endanger the fair fame of a lady. i can only give you my word of honour that i never dreamed of treason, and that if it become necessary i am willing to take up arms for the king." "methinks he tries to make me out a liar," replied otho killigrew, speaking more quickly than was his wont; "i will be willing to withdraw my charges if he will make it clear that what he has just said is true. we be all gentlemen here, and not one of us would let the fair name of a lady suffer." by speaking thus he confirmed my suspicions, and i still held my peace. possibly hugh boscawen and sir john grenville, in their over-zeal for the king, their minds poisoned by the cunning of otho killigrew, might commit me for public trial, but i did not fear that. i feared rather that by speaking i should give killigrew a power which he did not now possess, even though my knowledge was meager in extreme. after this i was asked many more questions, some of them concerning uncle anthony, and others about matters which seemed to me trivial beyond measure; but i was not able to assure my judges of my innocence, and i was at length condemned to be imprisoned at launceston castle until such time as i could be publicly tried. now this was sore grief to me, for i should thus leave the maid nancy in the hands of peter trevisa and his son, or, what would be worse, at the mercy of otho killigrew. it is true there seemed but little danger that peter trevisa would play into otho's hands, but i had many doubts. "my lord," i said, as soon as i was able to collect my thoughts "as you know, i have been away from trevanion for many days. may i pray your clemency in so far that i may be allowed to return for a few hours in order to consult my attorney and make other simple arrangements concerning my servants?" "this shall be granted," replied hugh boscawen. "it would ill beseem that one of your name should be treated with lack of due courtesy. you shall, therefore, ride to your house as a free man might; you shall also be allowed to see your attorney. furthermore, there is no need that for the present the knowledge of the charges laid against you should become public." at this i knew not what to think, for i felt myself as it were in a network of difficulties, and knew not whether hugh boscawen desired to be my friend or enemy. all the same i determined to make the most of my opportunities. i immediately sent a message to lawyer hendy, therefore, asking him to meet me at trevanion, and tried to think of means whereby i could tell mistress nancy of the fate which had befallen me, or, better still, to see her. nothing, however, occurred to me on my journey home; indeed i was kept busy talking with my guardsmen, who, although they treated me respectfully, watched me closely. once i thought of attempting flight, but i reflected that such a course would be unwise, even if it were possible. besides, being unarmed, i was very nearly helpless in such a matter. i had not long returned to trevanion when lawyer hendy came. he listened very attentively to my recital of my experiences, but made no comment thereon. instead he sat quibbling the end of his riding-whip, like one in deep thought. "what is the meaning of this?" i asked presently. "i cannot tell--yet." "you think otho killigrew has some deep-laid purpose?" "possibly. possibly he is only inspired by a spirit of revenge. but enough of that for the present. what do you wish done while you are away at--that is, from home?" "before i deal with that," i cried, "i wish to know what happened at treviscoe last night?" "last night? nothing." "nothing?" "no." "but mistress nancy wished to speak with you, and you stayed with her. what had she to say?" "it is not for me to tell you." i ground my teeth with impatience. "then she told you nothing of her history or purposes?" i asked. "i did not say so," replied the attorney grimly. "but she did not know of the danger in which i stood?" "yes." "what!" "do not misunderstand. she knew that you were in danger, because she knew otho killigrew; but she knew nothing, suspected nothing of the course events would take." "i should like her to know what has happened to me," i said, "otherwise she will think i am unwilling to render her further service. would you take a letter to her? i am allowed to write letters." "i would if i could, but i cannot." "cannot, why?" "because i do not know where she is." "what do you mean, hendy?" i cried. "you left her last night at treviscoe!" "i mean, master roger trevanion," said the attorney slowly, but speaking every word plainly, "that i do not know where the lady mistress nancy molesworth is." "then get to know through peter trevisa." "he doth not know!" "how?" i cried, now truly amazed. "because she is gone, and peter trevisa is as ignorant of her whereabouts as you are." "then she is in otho killigrew's hands." "i do not think so." "your reason for that?" i cried. "because there are no evidences of it. she left treviscoe last night, not many hours after i left, at least such is peter trevisa's opinion. he sent for me early this morning, and on my arrival i found him like one demented. the maid had crept out of the house with her servant, and had themselves saddled the horses and rode them away." "and left no traces behind?" "not a trace." "but did she hold any conversation with peter trevisa after you had left?" the lawyer gave a start. "i had not thought of that," he said hastily. "look you, hendy," i cried, for the time forgetting that in an hour or so i should be on my way to launceston jail, "i have puzzled my brains sorely concerning this. do you know the history of the business?" "i think so; yes. trevisa has been obliged to tell me." "has he told you why he wished the maid brought to treviscoe?" "no--that is, beyond what he told you." "you mean that young peter had fallen in love with her?" "that is it." "but that cannot be all; he would never wish her brought to treviscoe unless he had some powerful reason to urge to the maid for the course he had taken." "i think you are right." "have you any idea what the reason is?" "no." "do you think he tried its effects last night?" mr. hendy was silent. "it might have miscarried, you know," i continued eagerly; but the old attorney spoke no word, instead he walked to and fro the room as though cogitating deeply. an hour later i was on horseback again, and proceeded under the charge of four men towards launceston, a town situated on the extreme borders of the county, where at that time one of the county jails was situated. chapter xix. launceston castle. concerning my journey to launceston there is but little need to describe in detail. except that it was long and wearisome it calls but for few remarks. on our way thither we passed through bodmin, where was a jail, and where the assizes were periodically held. i asked why i was not imprisoned there, seeing it was so much nearer trevanion than launceston, and would thus save a long journey, but the men in whose custody i was made no reply. indeed we did not stay at bodmin at all. instead we made our way towards the bodmin moors, and passed through one of the dreariest regions it has ever been my lot to see. the journey through the night, from wadebridge to roche rock, was awesome enough, but it was cheerful compared with our wanderings through that waste land which lies between the town of bodmin and the village of lewannick, a distance of something like twenty miles. besides, in the ride to roche rock i was excited, i breathed the air of romance and adventure; a young girl who i was even then learning to love rode by my side, and i had but little time to think of the lonely district through which we rode. now i was a prisoner, my destination was one of the county jails, where i should have to lie until such time as i should be tried for treason. all this made the bare brown moors look more desolate. we had to ride slowly, too, for there were innumerable bogs and quagmires, and no proper roads had been made. one spot especially impressed me. it was that known as dozmary pool, about which numberless wild tales had been told. legend had it that it had no bottom, and that tregeagle, about whose terrible fate all the children in cornwall had heard, was condemned to scoop out its dark waters with a limpet shell in order to atone for his sins. of the legend i thought but little, but the supposed scene of his trials was enough to strike terror into the bravest heart. the pool is as black as ink, and is situated in the midst of uninhabited moorland. early spring as it was, the wind howled dismally across the weary waste, and my custodians shuddered as they rode along, for truly it required little imagination to believe that the devil must delight to hold his revels there. i have since thought that if i had played upon the superstitious fears of my guards i should have had but little difficulty in effecting my escape. after we had left the bodmin moors, we came upon those situated in the parish of altarnun, and these were, if possible, less cheerful than the other, for on our right hand rose a ghastly-looking hill on which nothing grew, and whose gray, forbidding rocky peaks made us long to get into civilized regions again. by and by, however, after passing through a hamlet called bolven tor we came to altarnun, where we rested for nearly two hours, and then made our way towards launceston. it was quite dark when we entered the town, so i was able to form but little conception of it. even in the darkness, however, i could see the dim outline of a huge building lifting its dark head into the night sky. "launceston castle!" remarked one of my companions. "am i to stop there?" i asked. "is it a prison?" "i don't know exactly," was the reply; "you'll find out soon enough for your own comfort, i dare say." upon this we came up to a high wall which was covered with ivy, and behind which great trees grew. the sight of the walls was oppressive enough, but the trees looked like old friends, and reminded me of the great oaks which grew around trevanion. "here's a door," cried one, "let's knock." whereupon the fellow knocked loudly, and soon afterwards i heard the sound of footsteps. "what want you?" said a voice. "a prisoner," was the reply. "take him to the lock-up," was the answer. "this is not the place for constables to bring drunken men." "if it please you, we be not constables," replied one of my companions. "we have come from my lord falmouth, with a prisoner of quality, and i carry important papers." "but it is not for me to examine them," replied the voice, "and master hugh pyper is gone to a supper to-night at south petherwin, and god only knows when he will be back. moreover, when he comes i much doubt whether he will be fit to read such papers." "in heaven's name, why?" "because sir geoffry luscombe keeps the best wine in the county, and because whenever master hugh pyper goes there he thinks he is bound by conscience not to leave until he has drunk until he can drink no more." "and this master hugh pyper is the constable and keeper of the jail and castle? i know he is, for such is the name written on my papers." "well, i will open the door," grumbled the man from within, "but i wish you had chosen some other time. to-morrow morning, up to twelve o'clock, master pyper will be asleep, and from then until late to-morrow night he will give no man a civil word. you say your prisoner is a man of quality?" "that he is." "all the same, i shall have to put him into a common jail until master pyper is able to read what you have brought." we passed through the door as he spoke, and the man who had been speaking, and who held a lantern in his hand, looked at me keenly. "i wish gentlefolk would keep out of trouble," he grumbled; "if they did, i should keep out of trouble. master pyper is always in a villainous temper whenever a man of quality is made prisoner. but come this way." i expected to be taken to the castle itself, but in this i was mistaken. south of this ancient pile, and away from the main structure, i noticed a long low building, towards which i was led. the man who held the lantern gave a whistle, whereupon another fellow appeared on the scene. "all quiet, jenkins?" he asked. "oal gone to slaip, sur. they've been braave and noisy, but they be oal right now." "you have an empty cell?" "iss, mr. lethbridge, there es wawn." "open it." a few seconds later i had entered an evil-smelling hole, which as far as i could see was about eight feet square and five feet high. on one side was a heap of straw, in another a bench. "are you hungry?" asked the man called lethbridge. "i was before i entered this hole," i replied. "i cannot eat here." "there have been as good as you who have eaten there," he replied. then, after hesitating a second, he went on, "you would like to pay for a decent supper i expect." "for the whole lot of you if we can have a clean place," was my answer. mr. lethbridge looked around. "every man is innocent until he is proved guilty," he remarked sententiously, "and thus before trial every prisoner is allowed certain privileges. come back again, sir." i therefore accompanied him to what seemed like a tower, situated southwest of the gate at which he had entered. "this is the witch's tower," remarked mr. lethbridge. "a witch was once burnt here, but she will not disturb us. john jenkins, you know where to get a good supper. the best you know!" the man gave a grin and walked away in evident good humour. "john jenkins is always willing to do little errands," remarked mr. lethbridge, "and he only expects a trifle. the people to whom he's gone will send a good supper and not be unreasonable. do not be downhearted, sir." bad as was my condition, i was cheered at the thought of a good meal which might be eaten amidst clean surroundings, and although the room under the witch's tower was not cheerful, it was dry and clean. a few minutes later a decent supper was brought, of which we all partook heartily. mr. lethbridge was the best trencherman among us, although he assured us at starting that having had supper he would be able to eat nothing. the amount of wine he consumed, too, was astounding, especially as he was constantly telling us that unlike his master, hugh pyper, the governor of the castle, he was but an indifferent drinker. presently, however, when both he and the men who had escorted me from trevanion had become fairly drunk, i was informed that i might stay in the witch's tower for the night, while they would go to mr. lethbridge's lodge and drink my health in some more wine that they would order in my name. i was glad to be rid of them, for dreary and lonely as the witch's tower was, jenkins had brought some straw for me to lie on, and i felt very tired. i could not sleep, however. i had too many things to think about, for in truth the events of the last few days were beyond my comprehension. i was weary with wondering, too. in spite of myself i had become enmeshed in a network of mysteries, and, seemingly without reason, my very life might be in danger. but more than all, i was ignorant concerning the fortunes of the maid nancy molesworth, and i would have given up willingly the thing dearest to me on earth to know of her safety. i will not try to write down all my anxieties, and hopes, and fears. i will not try to tell of the mad feelings which possessed me, of the wild projects i dreamed about, or of the love which grew hourly more ardent, and yet more hopeless. those who have read this history will, if the fires of youth run in their veins, or if they remember the time when they were young and buoyant, know what i longed for, and what i suffered. the following morning master lethbridge came to me and informed me that my companions of the previous day had started on their journey home, and that in remembrance of my generosity of the previous night,--with a hint concerning his hopes of future favours,--he intended braving the governor's anger, and would allow me to occupy the witch's tower until such time as master hugh pyper should be inclined to speak with me. he also assured me that he would allow me to walk about within the precincts of the castle walls, but warned me against any attempt at escape, as warders were constantly on the watch and would not hesitate to shoot me dead. although i did not believe this, i could not at that time see the wisdom in trying to escape, so i wandered round the castle grounds thinking over my condition and over my prospects. it is true i had not seen master hugh pyper, the governor of the castle, but it was not difficult to see that he was somewhat lax of discipline. as for that matter, however, the place was, i suspect, no better and no worse governed than many other county prisons throughout the country. the jail itself, however, was a wretched, noisome, evil-smelling place, where the convicted and unconvicted suffered alike, and i dreaded the thought of being removed from the witch's tower and placed in the common prison. i discovered that i might possibly have to stay two months in the place before my trial came off, as the spring assizes were often delayed as late as the end of may, or even the beginning of june. it was, therefore, a matter of considerable anxiety to me as to the kind of man hugh pyper might prove to be, for on him would depend my well-being. i remembered that my father had spoken of sir hugh pyper, the grandfather of the present governor, who after the restoration of the monarchy was rewarded for his good service in the cause of the king by a grant of the castle as lessee, and was made constable and keeper of the jail. i assumed that the position was hereditary, and doubtless the present castle governor would be invested with large powers. as to the place itself, apart from the unhealthy condition of the jail, it is fair, and long to be remembered. the castle stands on a fine eminence, and is surrounded by several acres of land. under ordinary circumstances i could have wished for no more pleasant place of residence. the spring leaves were bursting everywhere, and every plant and shrub gave promise that in a few days the country-side, which i could plainly see from the witch's tower, would be a scene of much beauty. my mind and heart, however, were so full of anxiety that i fretted and fumed beyond measure, and panted for freedom as a thirsty horse pants for water. i wanted to search for nancy, to be assured of her safety, and to fight for her if needs be. i longed, too, to solve the many problems which faced me, not by quietly musing in solitude, but by daring action in the world outside. for unlike some men, i can think best when i have work to do. i cannot plan anything from the beginning. my mind is so ordered that i desire only to decide definitely on the first steps to be taken in any enterprise and then to be guided by circumstances. i was brought before master hugh pyper on the evening of the day after my imprisonment, and at a glance i saw that he corresponded with the picture i had drawn of him from lethbridge's description. that he fed well and drank much wine no one could fail to see. he was a big, burly man, too, and i thought not of a very cautious nature. the papers which had been signed by viscount falmouth lay before him as i entered the room where he sat, and which he had been evidently reading. "roger trevanion," he cried, "i am sorry to see you here. why, man alive, can't you see how foolish it is to oppose the king! god is always on the side of the kings, man, always. that's what my grandfather, sir hugh, always said, and that's what i always say. stick to the reigning monarch! i knew your father, too. a man with a proud temper, but a good fellow withal. he could drink well, could your father--drink all night--and then be as merry as a lark in the morning. i can't; i must have six good hours of sleep after as many with the bottle, and woe betide the man who disturbs me! but after that i am as gay as your father was. now then, what have you been doing?" "nothing wrong," i replied quietly. "but boscawen shows a clear case against you. if all this is proved at the assizes, by gad, your neck will stretch." upon this i spoke freely. i told pyper that i was guilty of no treason, that circumstances seemed against me, but that king george had no truer subject than i. i made him believe me, too, for his manner became quite sympathetic. "the killigrews of endellion!" he cried, when i had finished my history. "ah, lad, they are as deep as dozmary pool and as full of evil. no one knows what they are. some say they are no better than a gang of robbers, others that they are angels of light. one report hath it that they are plotting treason against the king, another that they spend their time in finding out traitors and bringing them to book. sir john dingle believes that they intend sailing with the wind. if the pretender's cause fails, as doubtless it will, for england will have no high monarchy and no popery, these killigrews will put in a strong plea for reward; but if this young charles ousts king george, which god forbid, then they will prove that they have raised an army for him. but you can't catch 'em, roger trevanion. did you ever catch eels? i have; but it's slippery work, slippery work. you must sand your hands well, and then they are so slimy that they will slide through your fingers." "i believe all that, and i know there is a _prima facie_ case against me. but i dare not tell all." this i said hesitatingly, for i hardly knew my man. "daren't tell all; what do you mean?" "well, it is true i went to endellion; true that i said many of the things laid to my charge, but my visit there had nothing to do with political matters." "what then? a woman?" i was silent, and i felt the hot blood rush to my face. "a woman! ha! ha!" laughed pyper. "but did you tell my lord falmouth of this?" "no." "why?" "because i dared not, i feared to do her harm." "but who is she? tell me the history of the business. look you, trevanion, i am sorry you are here; i know your family--who doesn't?--and i should like to see you well out of this trouble. you see i am not treating you like a prisoner." "i can tell you a little, but a very little," i replied. "perhaps i ought to tell you more than i do; but i am bound by promises. i went to endellion to carry away a lady from the house." "by gad, you did! and you succeeded, you dog?" "i did." "who is the lady?" thereupon i told pyper all i dared: enough, as i thought, to explain the position in which i was placed, but not enough to break my faith with trevisa or to be of any service to the killigrews. "but why did you seek to take the maid away?" "that i cannot tell at present," i replied. he was thoughtful for a second, and i began to see that hugh pyper had more brains that i had given him credit for; then he said: "and the name of this maid, roger trevanion?" i hesitated for a second. "i think i know," he went on. "is she not the child of godfrey molesworth?" "did you know him?" i asked "know him!" he cried, "well. why the woman he married was some relation of the killigrews, that is why old colman became guardian of the child. the mother was irish. godfrey molesworth went to ireland to marry her." "was she a catholic then?" "yes. there was much talk about it at the time, for godfrey was a strong protestant." my heart gave a leap, for i remembered some words which had dropped from the lips of the irish priest at padstow. but i dared not mention them to pyper, they might have serious issues and explain much. they must be pondered carefully, too. after this, many more questions were asked and answered, but they led to nothing; neither need i write them down here. at the same time my further conversation with this florid-looking old governor of launceston castle revealed the fact that, in spite of his freedom in eating and drinking, he was a keen observer of men and things, and was not easily deceived. "i must keep you here, roger trevanion," he said presently, "for i have my duty to perform; but i will make your stay here as pleasant as possible. you shall not stay in the ordinary prison, but shall continue to occupy the witch's tower. as far as food is concerned, too, you shall be well supplied, even though i have to send it from my own table. but i am doubtful as to the future, lad." "you think judge and jury will find me guilty?" "it will be to the killigrews' interest to be against you, i am afraid. as far as i can see, only one thing can save you." "and that?" i cried eagerly. "that the maid nancy molesworth shall appear on your behalf, and tell the truth concerning you." "i do not know where she is." "but you can find out. you know where you took her." "no. she has left the place to which i took her, and no one knows whither she has gone." he looked at me keenly for some seconds, as if trying to find out if there was anything behind the words i had spoken. presently he said: "if i were you i would engage the keenest lawyer in cornwall to find out, and so prepare a case." "i have done that. i suppose he will be allowed to visit me?" "yes, i shall allow you to have visitors. but mind, my lad, i can allow no trying to escape. you are a dead man if you do!" as i sat in the witch's tower afterwards, i pondered over what he had said. in truth, my case was more serious than i had thought. i saw that did i not speak out boldly my life was in imminent danger, for the king was very bitter against those who appeared to side with the pretender. to say that i longed for freedom would be but faintly to describe my feelings! yet what could i do? after i had been a prisoner for some time, i determined to try and escape. every day the conviction grew upon me that the maid nancy needed me. in my dreams i saw her hiding from her pursuers, i saw her at the mercy of the killigrews, and when i awoke i thought i heard her crying to me to come and help her. as the days went by, too, i became nervous. lying alone in the silence of the witch's tower, and remembering all the stories i heard from lethbridge concerning the life of the woman who had been burnt there, i became the prey of morbid fears. often at night i thought i saw her lifting her skinny hands out of the fire which consumed her and fancied i could hear her dying cries. i, who had laughed at foolish superstitions and prided myself on my firm nerves, shuddered each day at the thought of the coming night, and when night came i suffered the torments of the lost. and yet i dared not ask to leave the tower, for if i did i should doubtless be put in the common jail. here not only would my surroundings be filthy and the atmosphere sickening, but i should be thrown into contact with the other prisoners. added to this, my chances of escape would be much lessened, for the place was on the whole strictly guarded. whereas while at the witch's tower i was comparatively unmolested, i had a view of the world outside, and i thought i saw means whereby i might, if fortunate, obtain my liberty. to effect this i should have to bribe one of the jailers, and my plans would take several days to carry out. nevertheless, if there was any chance of getting away from launceston castle, the fact of my occupying the dismal chamber i have mentioned gave it me. i therefore determined to suffer all the ghastly spectres of the mind which came to me during the night rather than seek to exchange my prison. when i had been at launceston jail about three weeks i received information that a man was about to visit me. wondering as to whom it might be, i awaited his coming eagerly. at first i thought it might be mr. hendy, the attorney, but i quickly discovered my mistake. it was not the lawyer's figure that i saw coming across the castle yard towards me. for the moment, indeed, i could not make out who my visitor was. he looked like a fairly prosperous yeoman, and was, as far as i could see, a stranger to me. but this was only for a minute. i quickly penetrated the evident disguise, and felt sure that the man was otho killigrew. chapter xx. i escape from the witch's tower. as may be imagined, the sight of otho killigrew set me a-wondering much, for i knew he would not come to see me save for important reasons. doubtless he fancied i was in possession of some knowledge which he hoped i might impart; but i hoped that by being careful i might lead him to betray more to me than i should communicate to him. i therefore received him civilly, hard as it was to do so, but i saw that he lacked his usual self-possession. he spoke more quickly than was his wont, and his mouth twitched as though he were nervous and much wrought upon. "trevanion," he said, when we were presently left alone, "we have been fighting a battle which i have won." "i thought so until i saw you coming towards me just now," was my reply as i watched him closely. he flushed angrily, for he saw that i had divined his motives; but he stuck to his guns. "which i have won," he repeated. "when the assizes come off i shall have to appear against you. i have only to repeat the evidence i gave to boscawen, and you will swing." "possibly yes, probably no," was my reply. "what do you mean?" "look you," i said boldly; "when i set out for endellion i imagined the kind of men i had to contend with; when i entered your house i took the measure of your whole tribe. i knew that the killigrews of falmouth, before that branch of the family died out, were honest loyal gentlemen, but i saw that the killigrews of endellion were----" i stopped. "what?" he asked. "i will reserve my opinion," i replied; "but i can tell you this, i did not go like a lamb to the slaughter." "it seems to me that you did," he replied with a sneer. "true, you seemed to win for a time, and you succeeded in taking away my affianced wife. but what is the result of it? you are in the county jail for treason, and the hangman's rope is dangling over your head." "as far as that is concerned," i replied jauntily, for i determined to put a bold face on the matter, "my neck is as safe as yours, as you will find out in good time. as for the maid, she is where you will never get her." "do not be too sure," he replied; "we have not earned the title of sleuthhounds for nothing." my breath came freer as he said this. i believed that he was ignorant of the maid nancy's whereabouts. probably he had come to me in order to obtain information. "moreover," he went on, "you are here on a very grave charge. unless it is to my interest to do otherwise, i shall certainly give evidence against you at the assizes, and nothing can save you from death." "man alive," i replied, "you do not hold the destinies of the world in your hand. there be men born of women besides otho killigrew." "but none that can save you." "i have no doubt but that you are a clever fellow, killigrew," i said; "but omniscience belongeth not to man." "well, who can save you?" "those who _will_ save me at the proper time." "uncle anthony cannot give evidence; he dare not show himself," replied otho; "neither will nancy. she would thereby frustrate all her desires." little as he might suspect it, he had by this answer revealed something of his mind to me. for one thing, uncle anthony was still at large, and it was evident that he thought the maid nancy would sacrifice much by appearing in a public way. "and what desires would she frustrate?" i asked with a laugh. "maybe you know, may be you do not. i will assume that you do not," was his answer. i laughed again, for i saw what his answer might mean. upon this he looked glum for some seconds, and seemed to hesitate as to what steps he should take. "look here," he cried presently. "i will admit you are a clever fellow, trevanion. it is a compliment you paid me, and i will return it. i will not pretend that i came here out of pure desire to set you free. i did not. but i can set you free!" "undoubtedly." "and i will--if you, that is, if you make it worth while." "you wish to bargain with me, i know," was my answer; "why did you not say so at first? but a bargain assumes _quid pro quo_." "well, i'll give you as much as you give me." "what will you give?" "your liberty." "and what do you require?" he hesitated a second, and then he spoke in his old measured way. "first, i require to know where mistress nancy molesworth is now. second, i wish you to tell me your reasons for taking her away from endellion. third, i desire to be informed of all you know concerning that lady." it was in the last question that my interest particularly lay. for, as the readers of this history know, i myself was in almost total ignorance of the things he desired to know. it is true, if i told him of my conversation with peter trevisa and his son, he would form his own surmises concerning peter's plans, but even then i doubted if i should impart the information he wanted. "you must surely know more about mistress nancy than i," i replied evasively. "did your father not take her at the death of her father? did he not send her to france? did you not receive her at endellion a few months ago? what, then, should there be for me to impart?" "you know," he answered; "be frank with me. you were with her alone for many hours, and she told you many things." "true, she told me many things," i replied; "but concerning what do you wish me to speak?" again he hesitated. i saw that he was afraid lest he might betray himself, and this was what i desired him to do. "what do you know of her parentage, her father and mother's marriage? what of her father's will?" "was there a will?" i said at a venture, because i saw that it was by an effort that he mentioned it. his face turned pale. evidently i had touched a sore spot. my heart gave a bound, for i connected his question with the remark the priest had let fall at padstow and peter trevisa's desire to get the maid at treviscoe. "come, trevanion," he said again, "let us be frank." "yes," i replied; "let us be frank. at present it is you who ask all the questions, while you give no information yourself." "i have offered to pay you for your information," he said. "i have offered you your liberty." "true," i answered, "you have offered it; but what assurance have i that you would fulfil your promise? i would not trust you as far as i could throw a bull by the horns. you have asked me many questions. by answering them i should place a great deal of power in your hands. directly i told you all that you desire to know, you would leave launceston and act on the information i have given; then when i am tried, what proof have i that you will tell the truth?" "on my word of sacred honour, i will set you free." "a snap of my finger for your sacred honour, otho killigrew," i cried, suiting the action to the word. "indeed, i very much doubt if you dare to give such evidence as might set me free. your family is too deeply implicated." "trust otho killigrew for that," he replied scornfully; "i always play to win." "look you," i said at length, "assuming that the charges you have brought against me are not shown to be worthless before the assizes, and reckoning that an order does not come from hugh boscawen to set me at liberty, i might on certain conditions be inclined to make a promise." "what?" he cried eagerly. "i expect that in the ordinary course of things my trial will come off in about a month," i said. "well, if i am brought to trial, and you give such evidence as will set me free, then when i am out of all danger i might tell you what i know." "you do not trust me?" "not a whit." "yet you expect me to trust you." "a trevanion never yet broke his word, while the promises of the endellion killigrews are as brittle as pie-crust." i thought i was fairly safe in making this promise. i should in this case insure my liberty; at any rate, i should give otho a great incentive to do his best to prove my innocence. moreover, i had but little to tell, even if i related all the suspicions to which i have referred, and which shall be set down in due order. and even if my information should be the means of placing the maid nancy in otho's power, i should be at liberty to act on her behalf. "a month, a month," he said at length, as if musing. "during which time i shall be within the boundary walls of launceston castle," i replied. "but if i go to hugh boscawen, and prevail upon him to give an order for your release before the trial?" "of course the promise holds good," and i laughed inwardly as i thought how little i could tell him. "you will tell me where mistress nancy molesworth is?" he cried. "i will tell you where i took her," i replied. "and why you took her away from endellion?" "yes." for a few seconds he hesitated as if in doubt. "in three days i will return with an order for your release," he cried. after he had gone, i almost repented for what i had done, for i felt afraid of otho killigrew. he played his cards in such a manner that i did not know what he held in his hand. i realized that by telling him who it was that employed me, i might give him an advantage, the full meaning of which i could not understand. true, i should be at liberty before telling him, and thus i had fancied i should be free to take action in the maid's defence. but on consideration i could not but remember that his fertile brain might conceive a dozen things whereby, although i might be free from the charge of treason, i could still be made powerless to render service. however, nothing could be accomplished without risk, and possibly the risk that i had taken was the least possible under the circumstances. i therefore tried to make plans of action which i might carry into effect the hour i regained my liberty. presently the old thought of seeking to escape grew upon me. supposing i could get away from the castle, i should at the end of the three days be free from pursuit, for once hugh boscawen's warrant were in pyper's hands he could no longer be justified in searching for me. the difficulty was in getting away and then eluding my pursuers until such time as the governor should receive falmouth's communication. i had many times considered the position of the witch's tower, which was not far from the boundary walls of the castle grounds. i saw that, in order to escape, i must first of all be able to either break down the door or squeeze my body through one of the slits in the walls of the tower. to do either of these things was not easy. the door was heavy and iron-studded, besides being carefully locked; the slits in the wall, which were really intended as windows, were very narrow, certainly not wide enough for a man of my build to squeeze himself through. but supposing this could be done, there were still the boundary walls of the castle grounds which stood in the way of my escape. during the hours of daylight, when i had been allowed to walk around the prison grounds, i had carefully examined these, and i fancied i could manage to scale them in one or two places. but they were closely watched through the day, and at night i with the other prisoners was safely under lock and bolt. jenkins, the turnkey, was a man of average build and strength, and should a favourable opportunity occur i could doubtless easily gag him and take away his keys; but such an experiment was fraught with much danger. throughout the whole of the night following otho killigrew's visit, during which time he was riding southward, i worked out my plans, and when morning came prepared to carry them into effect. although i watched carefully through the whole of the morning no opportunity came, and when the afternoon drew to a close and i had not even begun to act, i felt exceedingly despondent. two days after otho killigrew's visit, about an hour before sunset, i saw jenkins trying, as i thought, to catch my attention. he winked at me several times, and placed his forefinger on his lip as though he meditated on some secret thing. lethbridge, however, was with him, and so there was no opportunity for me to ask him what he meant. after a while, however, seeing that lethbridge had turned his back on us, he put a letter in my hand. as may be imagined, as soon as i was able i broke the seal and read the contents. it was written boldly in a man's hand. this was how it ran: "at ten o'clock to-night the warder will visit you. he will be alone. you must bind and gag him. means to do this will be found in his pockets. you must then leave the tower and make your way to the angle in the boundary wall nearest your prison. you will there find a rope hanging. on the other side of the wall you will find friends." i had never hoped for such a message as this. i had expected to be shortly visited by lawyer hendy, but the thought that any one had been planning for my escape had never occurred to me. who my friends might be i knew not, but they had evidently bribed jenkins, at least such was my thought. for an hour i was jubilant, but at the end of the time doubts began to cross my mind. was this some ruse of the killigrews? should i escape only to tell otho what i had promised him and then be captured by the prison authorities? again and again i looked at the handwriting. it was altogether strange to me; but it was evidently the work of a man. who then but otho would take such a step? and yet on reconsideration i thought he would know me better than to believe i should answer his questions under such circumstances. he had promised to prove my innocence to lord falmouth, and to obtain from him a written warrant for my liberty. no, no; it must be some one other than otho. but who? uncle anthony! no sooner had the thought of him occurred to me than all my doubts departed. the mysterious old hermit and storyteller had heard of my condition, he had come to launceston, and by methods peculiar to himself had obtained an influence over jenkins. again i read the letter, and i felt sure i saw his hand and mind in every word. doubtless, too, he would be able to tell me much about the maid nancy which i desired to know, and perchance give me power over the killigrews. he had doubtless formed a plan of action and provided means to carry it out. i could have laughed aloud, and even then i thought i could see the grim smile upon the old man's face and the curious twinkle of his deep-set eyes. eagerly i waited for ten o'clock to come. never did minutes seem to drag along so wearily, never had the silence of my prison seemed so oppressive. after much weary waiting, a clock began to strike. i counted the strokes eagerly. it had struck ten. it was the church clock which struck, and i knew that the jail was ordered by the time thereby indicated. for as all who have been to launceston know, the parish church is situated near the castle, and is of rare beauty, while the sound of the bells seems to come from the very heart of the ancient fortress. knowing that the hour mentioned in the letter had arrived, therefore, i was, if possible, more eagerly expectant than ever. my heart thumped loudly at every sound, and in my heart i cursed the wailing of the wind among the trees, because i thought it kept me from hearing the first approach of my jailer. for a long weary time i waited, but no footsteps greeted my ears. i felt my nerves tingling even to the bottom of my feet, and a thousand times i imagined whisperings and altercations which had no actual existence. presently the church clock struck again, and its deep tones echoed across the valley towards st. thomas' church, and also towards st. stephen's, both of which lay in the near distance. doubtless the rest of the prisoners were asleep, and the sonorous sounds sweeping across hill and dale was nothing to them. but to me it came like a death-knell to my hopes. an hour had passed since the time mentioned in the letter i had received had come, and still i had heard no one approach. i placed my body against the door and pressed hardly. it yielded not one whit. i climbed to one of the windows in the wall and looked out. the night was drear, the clouds hung heavily in the sky, neither moon nor stars appeared. no sound reached me save the sighing of the wind among the branches of the trees. still i waited, still i listened--all in vain. the clock struck twelve. as the sound of the last stroke of the bell died away, i heard something outside like the croaking of a raven; a few seconds later i heard whispering voices. again i climbed to the window in the wall and looked out. beneath me, perhaps ten feet down, i saw two human figures. one i thought i recognized as jenkins, the other was strange to me. the man whom i concluded to be jenkins carried a lantern in his hand, but it was but dimly lighted. when lifted, however, it revealed to me a form wrapped in a long cloak. no face was visible; it was hidden by a hood attached to the cloak. "open the door of the tower, i tell you." "i dare not." it was jenkins who spoke, and his voice was full of fear. "but you promised." "i know i did; but i be feared, i tell 'ee. i shud be axed questshuns, and i be es fullish as a cheeld." "i gave you money." "i know you ded; but there, i tell 'ee i caan't. go 'way, do'ee now, or we sh'll be vound out, an' it'll go 'ard wi oal ov us." "but i promised that all should be well with you, and that you should have a big reward." "i knaw, i knaw. that maid you 'ad maade me veel silly, and she cud make me promise anything, but that was in the daytime, when i wos as bould as a lion. but tes night now, and i be feared, i tell 'ee. besides, how could you make et right fur me; ya be'ant nothin' but a youngish chap. who be 'ee? what be 'ee called?" "who am i?" and as if by magic the voice which had reached me in a hoarse whisper now became like that of an old woman. it was pitched in a high key and it quavered much, save when it took a lower tone, and then it became like the croaking of a raven. "open the door of my tower," said the voice. i could scarce help trembling myself as i heard the tones, but the effect on jenkins was more marked. "_your_ tower; oa my gor!" he moaned. "yes, my tower," said the voice, still alternating between the tones of an old toothless woman and the hoarse croaking of a raven. "my tower; the place where i was imprisoned, the place where i saw dark spirits of the dead, and heard the secrets of those who cannot be seen by human eyes. here i lay, unloved, uncared for; here my bones were burnt and my flesh was consumed; here my guilty soul took its flight, only to come back and haunt my grim prison--sometimes in visible shape, sometimes unseen save by the eyes of the departed. open the door of _my_ tower, i say, or you shall suffer the tortures i suffered!" "oa, my gor, my gor!" moaned the trembling voice of jenkins, "tes jezebel grigg, the witch." "will you open the door?" continued the voice. "oa i caan't!" whined jenkins like one demented; "when you slocked me out in the mornin', you wos a spruce chap, and 'ad a purty maid weth 'ee. oa 'ave marcy 'pon me, mawther grigg; have marcy 'pon me!" "mercy," was the reply, "mercy! you have broken your word--disobeyed me. what shall keep me from causing your flesh to drop from your bones, your fingers to wither amidst agonies of pain, your every limb to burn even as mine burned when the fires were lit around me? do you want to keep company with me, john jenkins? open the door, or prepare to go with me to-night!" "oa, i will, i will," moaned jenkins; "i will; but how did 'ee git in 'ere? the doors and gaates be all locked." "what are doors and gates to jezebel grigg's spirit?" and the hooded form laughed; and the laugh to my excited ears was like the croaking of a raven into which the spirit of evil had entered. i heard the clanking of keys at the door, and a second later jenkins entered, the lantern shaking in his hand, his face pale as death. "i say, maaster," he said, his teeth chattering, his voice quavering. "yes," was my reply, and if the truth must be told my heart quaked somewhat, for by his side was the strange hooded form. "follow me, roger trevanion," said the voice. "where?" i asked. "to freedom." "freedom from what?" for i liked not the dark shapeless thing greatly, although i seemed to be upheld in a way i knew not. "from the law, from the killigrews," was the reply in a hoarse whisper. "very well," was my reply. "i am ready to follow you." "john jenkins, you will take roger trevanion's place this night," said my deliverer. "no, no," cried john, "i darn't stay 'ere oal by myself in your tower." "speak as loud as that again, and you will follow me whither you would not go. listen, john jenkins. you must stay here. i promise you this: no harm shall come to you. i will not haunt the tower this night. there, lie on the straw. if you make a sound before the church clock strikes seven to-morrow morning you shall feel the power of jezebel grigg, the witch who was burnt here. when you are asked questions in the morning, tell the governor that you were seeing that all was safe for the night when i came and put you here. give me your keys." like a thing half dead he obeyed, and though i was not altogether free from superstitious fear i could not help laughing at the fellow's agony. "now follow me, roger trevanion," said the hooded form, turning to me, still in the voice of a toothless old woman. i followed without a word, but not without many misgivings, for although i had professed to scorn the power of witches, i was at that time sore distraught. still she promised me liberty, and in my inmost heart i believed that the creature was a friend. when we were outside the tower she locked the door carefully and placed the key close by. after this she led the way to the angle in the wall spoken of in the letter, where i saw the end of a rope ladder. "climb, roger trevanion," she whispered. "you are a woman; go first," i said. "climb, roger trevanion," she repeated imperiously; "your danger is greater than mine." much as i disliked doing this i obeyed. a few seconds later i stood on the top of the wall, and turning round i saw the dim outline of the castle looming up into the dark sky, while lying beneath it was the unwholesome den where the prisoners lay. looking beneath me, i could see the hooded form of my deliverer, standing as still as a statue. on the other side i saw three horses saddled. "hold the rope while i climb." i held the rope as commanded, and a minute later the woman stood by my side. "could you leap to that branch of the tree, and descend to the path that way?" she said, pointing to the spreading branches of an elm-tree which grew close by. "easily," i replied. "then hold the ladder while i descend." like one in a dream i obeyed, and then watched while with great agility she descended from fifteen to twenty feet below. "now be quick," she said, "all is ready." at that moment my heart gave a great leap, for i heard a cry come from the witch's tower. a wild, despairing cry, more like the yell of a wild beast than that of a human being. i took my hands from the rope, and immediately it was pulled away. i was on the top of the castle wall alone. "be quick, quick, or all is lost," cried a voice peremptorily from beneath. i did not hesitate, dangerous as my feat was. in the gloom of the night i saw the dark branch of the tree; i gave a leap towards it and caught it. the branch yielded with my weight so much that my feet were only a few feet from the ground. "let go, let go!" i obeyed the command and dropped harmlessly to the ground. "now be quick and mount!" a horse stood by my side, saddled and bridled. in an instant i leapt on its back, noticing as i did so that i had now two companions instead of one, and that they also mounted the horses that stood waiting. "ride hard!" said my deliverer, turning her horse's face southward. i gladly obeyed, for i breathed the air of freedom. i was now outside the great high walls within which i had been confined. the spring air seemed sweeter there, while my heart grew warm again and all feelings of fear departed. midnight as it was, and dark as was the gloomy prison from which i had escaped i seemed in a land of enchantment. again a cry, a fearful agonizing cry came from the witch's tower, which made me laugh aloud, for jenkins' fears seemed foolish as i struck my heels into my horse's sides. neither of my companions spoke; they seemed as eager to get away as i. we made no noise, for we rode through a meadow. presently, however, we jumped a low hedge, and then the iron hoofs of our steeds rang out on the hard highway, but even as they did so we could hear the fearful cry of john jenkins, who lay imprisoned within the dark walls of the witch's tower. chapter xxi. describes my journey from launceston castle to a lonely mansion accompanied by two women. the events i have just described happened so suddenly that i was too excited to think seriously who my deliverer could be. i knew that jenkins would arouse the other jailers, and that in a few minutes the governor of the prison would be acquainted with the fact of my escape. i was sure, moreover, that much as i believed he sympathized with me, he would seek to do his duty as the constable of the castle and bring me back to the prison again. it is true otho killigrew had promised to arrive the next morning with a warrant from hugh boscawen to set me at liberty, but upon this i could not depend. i knew, moreover, that should i be brought to trial the fact of my attempted escape would go against me. we had several things in our favour. i imagined that we were mounted moderately well. my horse carried me with seeming ease, although it was too small of bone to keep up speed through a long journey. the steeds of my companions kept breast to breast with mine. in any case, it must take hugh pyper some considerable time to get horses in order to follow us. then the wind blew from the northeast, and thus the sound of our horses' hoofs would be wafted away from my late prison. it would be, therefore, difficult for him to determine which way we had gone, especially as about a mile out of the town there were several branch roads. the night was dark, too, and thus to track us would be impossible, at any rate, until morning came. on the other hand, however, i was unarmed and practically alone. as far as i knew my companions were two women, and although one of them had effected my escape in a marvelous way, i suspected that if fighting became necessary they would be a hindrance rather than a help. this led me to think who they might be, and to wonder who it was that had impersonated the witch jezebel grigg who had been buried in the tower where i had been confined. for, once out in the free open air, all superstitious dread had departed. that it was uncle anthony i could no longer believe. true, the veiled figure was quite as tall as jenkins, my jailer; perhaps taller, but in no way did it remind me of the lonely hermit with whom i had talked so long on the top of roche rock, and whom i had left sick and wounded in the ruined chapel in the parish of st. mawgan. presently every fibre of my body quivered with a great joy, my blood fairly leaped in my veins, and i could have shouted aloud for joy. my deliverer was the maid nancy! she had heard of my arrest, had traced me to my prison, and had provided means for my escape. hitherto i had been the deliverer, i had schemed and fought for her escape from endellion; now all had changed. she had entered my prison walls and set me at liberty, not for any selfish purposes of her own, but because of the kindness of her heart. the thought was joy unspeakable; at the same time it filled me with shame. she whom i had been willing to betray into the house of peter trevisa for a bribe, had dared a thousand things to save me from danger and possible death. a thousand questions flashed into my mind to ask her, but a weight was upon my lips. she rode by my side, still covered with the dark mantle, and still hooded. the other was doubtless her faithful serving-maid, amelia lanteglos. true, her face was hidden and she spoke not, but even in the darkness i thought i recognized her strong figure, recognized the easy way she rode, even as hundreds of girls of her class rode in my native county. meanwhile the horses dashed along freely, the road was good, and nothing impeded our progress. when we came to the junction of roads close by lewannick, she did not ride straight forward towards altarnun, but turned to the left through lewannick village, until we came to four crossways, called trevadlock cross. soon afterwards we reached another church town, north hill by name, close by which a friend of my father lived, at a house named trebartha hall. but we did not stay here, much as i should have liked under ordinary circumstances to have spoken to my father's friend. we crossed the river lynher, a clear flowing stream which rushes between some fine rugged hills, and then continued on our journey until we reached the parish of linkenhorne. "if we keep on at this speed, we shall be in the town of liskeard in a little more than an hour," i said presently, feeling that i could keep silence no longer. indeed i wondered much afterwards how i could have been speechless so long, feeling sure as i did that the woman i loved was by my side. no reply, however, was made to me; and my companions never so much as moved their hoods from their faces. by this time our horses showed signs of fatigue; especially was mine becoming spent, for i was no light weight to carry. "it will be well to rest at liskeard," i said, "if only for the sake of the horses." "no, we must not stay there." she tried to speak in the same tone as when she had commanded john jenkins to open the door of the witch's tower, but i thought i detected the voice i had learned to love in spite of the hoarse whisper. "i have not spoken to you, mistress nancy molesworth," i replied quietly, "for i thought you desired not speech, and i would not have said aught to you now; only in an hour it will be daylight, and my horse cannot carry me many miles farther." i thought i saw her start as i mentioned her name, while her companion made a quick movement. but neither gave answer to my words. silently we sped along, my steed panting much but still holding out bravely. presently we came to a steep hill, and in mercy to the poor animals we had to allow them to slacken speed; indeed i sprung from my saddle and walked by my horse's head. "we have ridden so hard that i have not had a chance to thank you for this great service, mistress molesworth," i said; "indeed we had gone several miles before i divined who you were. words are poor, and they cannot tell the gratitude i feel." she made no answer to my words. "at first i dared not believe it could be you; indeed i knew of no one who could bring me deliverance;" and still she kept her hood closely around her head, answering nothing. "your heart is kind," i went on, "and unlike women generally, you are not afraid of danger. believe me, i am not ungrateful. i am your servant for life. i am afraid you are still in danger, and i rejoice that i am free to help you." daylight was now dawning, indeed i could see the colour of her gray cloak plainly. "will you not pull aside your hood?" i said, scarcely thinking of my words. she did not obey me, but i noticed her gloved hand tremble. i saw, too, that she reeled in her saddle. "you are ill!" i cried, and then i rushed to her side, for she was falling from her horse. during the hours of danger and hard riding she had shown no sign of weakness, but now the danger was far behind, her woman's weakness overcame her. as i caught her, she fell in my arms like one in a dead faint; so i laid her carefully on the grassy bank beside the road. by this time the other woman had dismounted and had come to her side. "watch here, while i go and fetch some water," i cried, and then seeing a pool near by, i stooped and scooped some in the hollow of my hand. when i came back, however, she was sitting up, and both women had drawn their hoods more closely around their faces. if it were mistress nancy, she did not wish me to recognize her. but it must be she, for who else would have gone through so much to come to me? she must have travelled with her companion some sixty miles through a lonely part of the country in order to get to launceston, and when there must have braved all sorts of dangers in order to effect my liberty. the thought made my heart swell with such pride and joy that my bosom seemed too small to contain it. in spite of my baseness in selling myself to peter trevisa, she could not altogether despise me. i knew now that i had never loved the maid to whom i thought i had given my heart as a boy. my feeling for her was only a passing passion, of no more importance than chaff, and as light as thistledown. but all was different now. i was thirty-two years of age, and i had given all the strength of my life to her. true, my tongue was tied. i could not tell her of the fire that burned in my heart--i was, i knew, unworthy. by that fatal confession, as we rode by tregothnan gates through tresillian, i had forever made it impossible that she could think of me as i thought of her. besides, i was homeless and landless. looking at her as she sat there on the dewy bank that early spring morning, i would rather have lost my right arm than take the wages of my service to peter trevisa. the purity and truth of her life roused within me the nobility of my race. better be a beggar from door to door than accept the prize of base service. i who had ceased to believe in the goodness of women, now realized that this maid made me ashamed of all the past and caused to arise in me a longing for the pure and the true. but my love for her was none the less hopeless. how could it be, when i was minute by minute dogged by the memory of the hour when i promised to be a judas? "are you better?" i asked as gently as i could, for i knew how boorish i had become through the years. "yes, yes; we must hasten on. we may be followed." this she said like one afraid. "but whither?" i asked. "if you would tell me your plans, your wishes, i could perchance carry them out. but you are overwrought--you need rest." "no, no, i am quite strong. i can easily ride another thirty miles," and her voice was hoarse and unnatural. "even if you could, my horse is not fit to carry me so far," was my reply. "but you are not out of danger." "we must be thirty miles from launceston town," i said, "and no one could find me with ease even here. but to what spot did you intend that i should go?" it seemed strange even then that i should be following the plans of a woman; strange that a simple maid, as i believed her to be, should provide for me a safe hiding-place. "i would rather not tell you," she replied; "that is, i think i had better not. you can trust me?" this she said wistfully, i thought. "in everything," i answered eagerly, "but will you trust me, too? you are not fit to travel further, and after a few hours' rest we shall all be better. let us go to yonder farmhouse and ask for food and shelter." "such an act might be dangerous." "no. all our cornish folk are hospitable; besides, my money has not been taken from me. i can pay the good folk well." she eagerly caught at my proposal, so eagerly that i wondered at her swift change of opinion. a few minutes later, therefore, i stood knocking at a farmhouse door, asking for food and shelter for man and beast. at first both the farmer and his wife looked at us suspiciously, but when i told him of my deliverer's weariness, how that she had fainted and fallen from her saddle, they gave us a warm welcome. half an hour later, i sat with these farmer folk at breakfast, but my companions, still keeping their hoods tightly drawn around their faces, had followed the woman of the house into another apartment. after breakfast the farmer's wife provided me with a couch, in what she called "the pallor," where i gladly stretched my weary body and immediately fell asleep. when i awoke the afternoon was well advanced. food was again placed before me, and after i had partaken thereof i went out into the farmyard to look after the horses. i had scarcely reached the stables when a sound reached my ears that made my heart sink like lead. it was the noise of many voices, and was not more than a mile away. without waiting a second i threw the saddles on the horses, and then rushed into the house. the farmer's wife had left the kitchen, leaving my companions alone. they were still closely hooded. "come," i cried, "we must start at this moment!" "why?" "the hue and cry!" "i am ready," she said, quietly but resolutely. "are the horses ready?" "they are saddled and standing in the yard." "come then," and both left the room without another word. at that moment the farmer's wife came into the kitchen again. thinking it would be unwise to tell her our reason for leaving suddenly, i threw two guineas on the table, and then with a hurried good-bye left. by this time the sound had become nearer, and my conjecture became confirmed. "it may not be you they are after," she said; "they would hardly come so far." perhaps she was right. i remembered that hours ere this papers might have been placed in hugh pyper's hands commanding him to set me at liberty. "still it will be safer farther south," i said. by this time we had mounted our horses and were galloping along the farm lane which led to the high road. she whom in my heart i called my love was still clothed in her long gray cloak, her face still hidden from my sight. all weakness seemed to have left her now; she was the embodiment of resolution, and courage, and strength. the sounds of pursuers became fainter and more distant. "if we go through liskeard at this speed we shall attract attention, and if the people be following us, they will be informed of the direction we have taken." "but we will not touch liskeard," i said. "i know the country well now. if you will tell me where you wish to go i will guide you by the least traversed roads." "go to lostwithiel then," she said; "after that i will act as guide." wondering at her words, i led the way through the village of st. cleer, leaving liskeard on our left, until after more than two hours' hard riding we came to the village of boconnoc. arrived here, i stopped suddenly, for a suspicion entered my mind as to the place she intended to go. "look you, my lady," i said, "we are at boconnoc, five miles only from lostwithiel; will you tell me of your intended destination?" "you said you would trust me," was her reply. "i remember," i cried, harshly i am afraid, because for the first time since boyhood the feeling of jealousy made me almost beside myself. "but let me ask you one question. is it your intention to go to polperro?" "and if i do not desire to go there?" she said, after hesitating a few seconds, "what then?" "i will go with you whither you will, asking no questions." "but you do not desire to go to polperro?" i was silent, but i hoped that she understood my feelings. "in three hours, four at the most, we ought to be at our journey's end if we ride hard," she said, "until then i ask you to trust me." with this i was fain to be content, and almost ashamed of myself, we continued to ride southward. an hour later i saw that my suspicions were groundless. we were going away from polperro. after we had passed lostwithiel i asked her to be the guide, but she told me to lead on to st. austell, after which she would choose the road. about two hours after dark we entered a part of the country that was strange to me, but my guide evidently knew the road well, for in spite of the darkness she never hesitated as to the way we should take. presently we came to a lane, down which we rode for some distance, and then stopped at a small house, which in the darkness looked to me like a lodge. no sooner did we stop than a light shone, and a minute later i heard a gate swing on rusty hinges. "all well?" "all well," was the reply, which i judged was spoken by an old man. we passed through the open way, after which i heard some one lock the gates. by this time the sky, which had been cloudy all day, cleared. there was no moon, but the stars shone clearly overhead. as well as i could i looked around me, and saw that we were riding along what seemed to me a disused carriage drive. huge trees bordered the way, the branches of which nearly met overhead. the leaves were far from fully grown, however; and thus looking upward i could see the stars twinkling. the memory of that night will never leave me. even now the feelings which possessed me then come back. everything seemed unreal. the dark trees on either side of the way looked like tall spectres, the women who had been with me since the previous night seemed mere phantoms of the mind. the clank of the horses' hoofs grated on my excited nerves until i felt like crying out. neither of us spoke. i was too much wrought upon. perhaps they were. what had seemed reasonable enough in the day appeared like madness now. in spite of what i had seen and heard i could not believe that the maid nancy would expose herself to so much danger in order to rescue me. darker and darker became the road, for huge evergreens, laurels, and rhododendrons grew between the oaks. moreover, i saw that we were descending into a valley. the night winds swept among the trees, making sweet music, but to me it was like the dirge of death. a bat darting to and fro struck my face with its wing, and an owl hooted dismally. "how much further?" i asked, more because i wanted to hear the sound of human voices than from desire to ask questions. but no reply was given, and but for the love in my heart, i felt, strong man as i was, like giving way to fear. presently i saw a faint twinkling light, and afterwards the dark outline of a huge building appeared. a few minutes later we had come up close to an ivy-covered house. my companions dismounted and motioned me to do the same. then out of the shadows came a man and took the horses. i heard a bell clang through a seemingly empty building, and then the door by which we stood opened. "come in." i obeyed, feeling more than ever that my experiences could not be real. "this way, please." i followed my companion without a word along a wide corridor, after which i descended some steps, until i imagined i must be below the level of the earth. then she opened the door of a compartment, and we entered together. it was a low-ceiled room, but looked comfortable and well-appointed. a lamp burned brightly on the table, and a cheerful wood fire burned in the chimney place. before the fire a huge armchair was placed. "will you sit here and rest? i will return presently." mechanically i obeyed, and a moment later i was left alone. the room, the house--everything was as silent as death. i walked around the apartment, and stamped my feet to assure myself that i was not dreaming. i held my hands before the wood fire, and lifted the logs from place to place so that i might convince myself that i had not entered an enchanted region, such as i had read about in my boyhood. then i examined the room more closely. i could nowhere discover a window. what did it mean? had i been removed from one prison to another? had i been mistaken as to the identity of my deliverer? why had she kept her face hidden? it must have been her. who else would have undergone so much? i sat down in the chair, and stretched my legs wearily. twenty-four hours before i had sat straining my ears in the witch's tower of launceston castle, and now i was immured in a far more lonely spot. i had asked no questions because i believed that the woman i loved rode by my side. had i done right? a distant rumbling noise reached me. where was i? to whom did this house belong? by what right had i been brought here? i heard a knock at the door, and a second later an old man entered. "if you will follow me, sir, you shall have change of raiment, and water to wash with." like one in a dream i followed him, and to my astonishment i found in an adjoining compartment not only clothes but arms. a sword hung by the wall, a pair of pistols lay on a table. the clothes were well made and of good quality as befitted a gentleman. "here is all you will want, i think, sir. when you have washed and dressed will you be pleased to go back to the other room?" a few minutes later i had removed the muddy-stained garments which i had worn in launceston castle, and had clothed myself in those which lay in the room. they looked quite new, as though they had just come from the hands of a tailor. they fitted me well, too; and i must confess to a feeling of pleasure as i beheld myself. when i returned to the room into which i had at first entered, i found that the table had been spread for food, but no one was in it. again i sat down and tried to think, but my mind seemed a blank--i was dazed with the experiences of the last twenty-four hours. presently my heart beat fast, for i heard light tripping footsteps outside the room door. this was followed by gentle knocking. "come in." the door opened, and to my joy mistress nancy molesworth entered. she met me with a smile, but there was, i thought, something distant and repellant about it. "food will be immediately brought, master trevanion," she said. "i am sure you must need it." "i need something more," i replied. "and that?" was the response. "anything in my power to give, you shall have." "the removal of mystery," i replied. "i have spent the whole of this day like one in a dream. i seem to be enveloped in shadows." "i have much to tell you by and by," she answered. "and much to ask, too, i trust," i cried. "you have saved me from i know not what; for i know it is you to whom i owe everything. you will let me serve you, for verily you need service." "we will talk of many things at the proper time," she replied, "but food is being brought." both of us stood silent while the old serving-man brought food; then when he had gone she turned to leave me. "mistress molesworth," i said, "you will not condemn me to eat my food alone. may i be honoured with your company at supper?" she hesitated a second. "thank you," she said, "you will desire quiet after so much excitement. i will return to you to-morrow." i sat down with a sad heart, and ate the food with but a poor appetite. during my meal i heard only one sound. it was that of a clock striking the hour of midnight. after supper i went into the bedroom i have mentioned, and fell into a deep sleep, from which i did not wake till late next day. when i got up i hoped to see mistress nancy at once, and so was mightily disappointed when the old serving-man brought me a message from her telling me that she would not be able to visit me till night. chapter xxii. mistress nancy tells me many things. "i can think of nothing to say to you till i have thanked you again and again for a service which i thought no woman could render." "it is of that which i do not wish to speak." "but i must. i did not believe a woman could possess such rare courage and foresight. i did not believe a woman could plan so well, execute so bravely. especially do i wonder when i realize my own unworthiness. i thank you from the depths of my soul." mistress nancy had visited my compartment as she had promised, and at my request she sat on a low seat by the fire, while i stood leaning on the back of the huge chair which i have mentioned. she wore the same garments as when we had travelled together for the first time. her face was pale, but very beautiful; her dark eyes shone with a look of resolution; her dark curling locks glistened in the lamp-light. "i did not mean you to know who your deliverer was. but it does not matter." she spoke indifferently, i thought. "it does matter!" i cried vehemently. "i should be base indeed if i do not remember such service with gratitude until my dying day." "i did what no woman could help doing." this she said slowly. "i do not understand." "yet there should be no difficulty in doing so. you rescued me, you thought of me, acted for me." "mention not that again," i replied bitterly, "i am sorely ashamed." "i do not mean the--the first part of the journey, but afterwards. i have heard of your trial before lord falmouth, heard of what otho killigrew said. you refused to tell all the truth because you feared to hurt me. you did not wish that man to know anything concerning me." i wondered who her informant might be, but i did not speak. "when i knew you were taken to launceston, and feeling sure that otho would show no mercy if you were brought to trial, i did my best. i could do no other--i--i--would have done the same for any one." she spoke coldly; her tones were hard and unfeeling. my heart grew chill; the hope that arose in me, in spite of myself, was dispelled. "thank you," i said, as steadily as i could. "but why--why did you wish me to remain in ignorance--as to who you were?" "because i thought it was better so. no one who saw me in launceston would recognize me now." "what disguise did you wear? what means did you use to--to effect my escape; that is, beyond those i know of?" "i would rather not tell you." i was silent again, for her manner made me feel that she still scorned me. i looked towards her; she was gazing steadily into the fire. "where am i now?" i asked, after a painful silence. "at restormel." "ah!" "does the fact surprise you?" "everything surprises me. nothing surprises me. i am somewhat dazed. restormel, that is your father's house, your own home?" "my father's house--yes. my own home--i know not." "what do you mean?" and at that moment i remembered the suspicions which were aroused in my mind by otho killigrew's questions. again she refrained from replying, her eyes still fixed on the glowing embers. "let me tell you something," i cried. "my thoughts may be groundless, but it may be well for you to know them." then i related to her the conversation i had had with the catholic priest at padstow. at that time i had not regarded it of importance, as it simply referred to a complaint about the unfairness of the marriage laws, where catholics were concerned. after this i told her of otho killigrew's visit, of what he had said, and of the bargain we had made. "on consideration i thought it best to promise him this," i concluded. "he aroused certain suspicions in my mind, and i thought i could still serve you if i were free. it may be i acted wrongly, but i thought it was worth the risk." during the recital she uttered no sound. she seemed to be much changed since that night when we had parted at treviscoe. "and i--i have relieved you of the necessity of telling him anything, i suppose?" she said icily. "yes," i replied, feeling that she mistrusted me again. i longed to ask her what had happened since the night i had left her with peter trevisa, but i dared not; her manner froze the words on my lips. "you do not know why trevisa asked you to take me to his house?" she said presently. "i only know what he told me. i knew that was not all the truth. he thought he had some hold upon you." "and you had no idea what it was?" "not then." "and now?" "nothing but what was aroused in my mind by what i have just told you." "master roger trevanion," she said, rising from her seat and facing me, "you tried to persuade me not to go to that man's house." "i did." "and i persisted in going. i did so for two reasons." "and they?" "one was that you should be able to claim the price of your hire." "do not taunt me with that." "the other was that i determined to find out the reason he had in wishing to get me there. i had not been able to understand all the killigrews had hinted from time to time. i thought that trevisa's motives might have a connection with what they had said." "and you were not afraid?" "women are not all so cowardly as you think. i might have acted differently had his son been with him, but when i found him alone i determined to stay until i had discovered what was in his mind." "and you discovered it?" "yes." i could not help admiring her as she stood there before me so brave, so far-seeing, so resolute. she was barely twenty-one. she had revealed to me all the weaknesses, all the tenderness of a woman; yet now, after having accomplished what few men would think of attempting, she was calmer than i. as i have said, she was taller and more largely formed than most women, and the hand that rested on a table by her side was as firm as a man's. no one could in any way associate her with littleness or poverty of nature. everything told of purity, of nobleness, of beauty of life. remembering my bargain with trevisa, i dared not look at her; but i was glad i had refused to take the price of my work. i waited for her to continue, for i felt i had no right to ask her questions. "you told me," she went on, "that peter trevisa was a cunning, evil-minded man. you were right. like all such men, he judged the motives of others by his own. what he would do under certain circumstances, he would expect others to do." "yes, that is so." "he thought, acting on this principle, that if he could get me into his house, i should be glad to fall in with his plans." "he told me that his son peter had seen you at endellion," i said; "that he fell in love with you, that it was the intention of colman killigrew to marry you to his son whom you hated, that i should be rendering you a service by taking you to him." "do not speak of his son's love," she said; "the thought of it is not pleasant. it is true he told me the same story. i did not sleep in the house that night. directly after your lawyer had gone i told him i desired to speak with him. he fawned and professed to be delighted. presently his real reasons for trying to get me into the house came out. he tried to keep them back until his son came home, but in this he failed." "and what were his reasons?" i asked eagerly in spite of myself. "the first was this: he said he could prove that my father's marriage was illegal, and--and thus i had no true claim to the restormel lands. you suspected this?" i nodded. "he told me, moreover, that he alone possessed the knowledge whereby it could be proved that i was not the rightful heir. if he did not disclose what he knew, no one would doubt my rights; or even if they doubted, they could have no case against me; if he told what he knew, i should be penniless." "i see," i cried; "i see. then he named the price of his silence." "yes." "of course that was that you should marry his son. i see. it was cunningly planned. he thinks his son peter is a sort of apollo, and he imagined that you would desire to effectually stop him from speaking by becoming his daughter. it would then be to his advantage to be silent." "that was a part of his plan, but not all. he has found out that i possess knowledge of great importance." "knowledge of great importance?" "yes. it concerns the coming of charles stuart." "you have seen the pretender!" i cried. "i have seen charles stuart. he visited the convent in which i was educated. he came once when colman killigrew was present. he sought to enlist my sympathies. i do not know why; but both he and colman killigrew discussed plans in my presence." "and young peter trevisa found out this. how?" "i do not know." "is your knowledge of such importance that it might be valuable to such as hugh boscawen?" "yes." i longed to ask further questions, but refrained from doing so. "peter trevisa believed that if i told him what i knew his son would be able to make use of it. the father is very ambitious for his son. he imagines that if he were to communicate important knowledge to the king it would mean preferment--perhaps knighthood." "i see his plot." "i refused to marry his son." "yes." "i told him that even were his statements as to my father's marriage true, i would rather be penniless--than be bought." i do not think she meant it, but her words hurt me like a knife-thrust. "after that he changed his ground of attack," she went on quietly; "he said that if i would tell him what i knew of charles stuart's plans, his secret should die with him. he represented this as my duty. he said i might be saving the country, as well as giving his son peter the greatest chance of his life. after this he went on to say that it was a shame for me to be robbed of my rightful heritage because of an unjust law." "and after that?" i broke in eagerly. "he said he would not have my answer that night; he would wait until young peter came home." "and you, of course, refrained from giving him an answer?" "no. i told him that he could act as he pleased. did i feel it a duty to inform the authorities concerning what i knew, i should do so without threat." "and what did he say?" "he denied all knowledge of threat. he called it an _arrangement_. he used honeyed terms; he was full of flattery. he professed to be delighted at my refusal to comply with his wishes, even while he used many means to lead me to alter my mind. he called himself all sorts of names for speaking to me in such a brutal way. he was only an old fool, he said, and had not stated the case properly; but when young peter came back everything would assume a different aspect." i could easily imagine the scheming old wretch while she told me of this interview. i could see his shifty, cunning eyes gleaming. i could hear him using all sorts of honeyed terms in order to gain his ends. "and the conclusion of it all?" i asked at length. "i left the house that night." "how?" "by means of amelia. she found out the position of the stables. she saddled the horses, and we left treviscoe without any one knowing about it." "and you came here?" "yes." "but you are in danger. peter trevisa is as cunning as the devil. both father and son are like ferrets; they can crawl into any hole. they see in the dark. in order to get here, you must have taken some one into your confidence. that some one may betray your trust." she walked slowly across the room, and then came back to her former position. "that night--when i left endellion," she replied, "i took certain things away with me. little relics left me by my father. i had heard that the house was left in charge of two old servants--one a kind of bailiff, who was commissioned by colman killigrew to act as steward until i should come of age." "i see, yes." "he has lived here all these years, with his wife. my guardian has visited restormel only occasionally, but old adam coad has been a faithful old man. my father left a letter for me when he died, with orders that i should read it as soon as i was old enough. in it he mentioned this man as a faithful, loving servant. i wrote to adam twice while i was in france; but i received no reply from him." she ceased speaking, and i saw her lips tremble. perhaps she remembered that she was a fatherless girl, and that her path was beset with snares. "i accidentally heard while at endellion that he was alive and that he managed the estate under my guardian's supervision." "you brought your father's letter with you?" i suggested. "yes." "but there is a lodge. we passed through the gates to-night." "fortune favoured me. that morning, after i had escaped from treviscoe, just as i came up to the lodge gates, i saw two men talking to each other. i heard the one call the other adam coad." "i see; and adam received you?" "after i had proved to him who i was--yes." "and--and you trust him?" "he is all my father said of him, and more. he has been kindness itself to me; through him i was able to bring you here. you are safe, too. old adam, his wife, and a serving-man who has lived with them all these years, are all, i verily believe, ready to die for me." "then you are staying here in secret?" "yes." "and you have heard nothing of the trevisas?" "i know they have been searching for me." "but they have disclosed nothing concerning your father's marriage?" "no; i believe not." "you found out that i had been taken prisoner through adam, i suppose?" "yes. he looks a quiet, inoffensive old man; but he is very shrewd and not easily deceived. i told him that you had effected my escape from endellion, and he knew enough of the killigrews to be sure that they would have many schemes afoot." "but if they suspect that you are here?" "they would have a difficulty in finding me. this house has many rooms not easily discovered. this room is not known to the killigrews. it is underground. the doorway cannot be seen from the outside, and can only be opened by touching a spring." "i see; and you will stay here until you come of age?" again her lips trembled, and she moved nervously across the room. "i wish i could be of further service to you," i said at length. "i am glad that you trust me enough to--to tell me what--what you have told me. will you trust me further? will you tell me all you can about your father's marriage? believe me, i will rest neither night nor day until i have found out whether there is any truth in peter trevisa's statements." "you will have to stay here--in privacy. you are not safe," was her reply. "that is, you must stay here until you can escape to france." "you forget," i replied, "you forget otho killigrew's promise. if he hath laid such information before hugh boscawen as to lead him to give an order for my freedom, all danger is gone." "you have still escaped from launceston castle." "yes, but if hugh pyper receives viscount falmouth's warrant for my freedom, he will say naught of my escape. look, mistress nancy, let me serve you." i spoke like a schoolboy. i thought nothing of difficulties, i almost forgot the danger through which i had passed. neither did i realize the importance of the news she had just imparted. the last ten years of my life seemed only a dream; i was a boy of twenty-two instead of a man of thirty-two. the maid had made me long to do impossible things, to undertake impossible missions. it has been said by some great writer that a convent school destroys all foresight, all calculation in a young girl's life. that continuous solitude, save for the companionship of her fellow-scholars, and seclusion from the life of the world, lead her to conjure up in her imagination all the romantic scenes which young girls love, even although she has never heard of such things. that on leaving the convent she is a prey to first impressions, and longings for love and romance; thus she never troubles about results, never comprehends difficulties and dangers. mistress nancy proved this man to be wrong. of the depths of her nature i knew but little, of her heart's longing i was ignorant; but she was constantly revealing to me a rare power of penetration; she was cool, courageous, and full of forethought. on the other hand, she seemed to know but little of the world's wisdom. the thought of losing her wealth caused her no apparent distress; the supposition that her father's marriage was not legal seemed to bring no painful thoughts to her mind. the bare thought of illegitimacy would bring anguish unspeakable to some; mistress nancy seemed to reck nothing of it. in this sense she was a child, ignorant of the ways and thoughts of the world; in others she was capable of independent and daring action. "believe me," i continued presently, "to serve you is the dearest thought of my life. i owe it to you," i added as if in explanation. "it would be wrong for you to rush into danger," she replied calmly. "if you are freed from danger, then i will claim your help again. but i have friends, and i am not afraid." i looked into her eyes as she spoke, and i saw that no fear was expressed there. she did not seem to realize her position, and yet her words belied her apparent ignorance of the danger by which she was surrounded. "you say that your knowledge concerning the pretender is of importance," i said, after a pause. "yes." "is it right to keep it secret?" "i do not understand." "if charles comes to england, it will mean civil war," i cried; "it will mean that the whole country will be in turmoil. if the pretender succeeds in his design, a reign of ignorance, bondage, and oppression will curse the country." "tell me your reasons for saying this," she replied. "are you a catholic?" i asked. "i do not know," was her answer. "i suppose so. i was trained in a convent school, but i have been told that my father hated the catholic religion, and i know that he would hate nothing that was good. i am but an ignorant girl; i think i must have purposely been kept ignorant." this she said plaintively. "let me tell you of these stuarts," i cried. "let me relate to you what charles i. and charles ii., as well as james ii., have done for england." i spoke eagerly; i told of the profligacy of the stuart court, of the wanton extravagance, and of the corruption of the race. i had proceeded but a little way in my story, however, when i heard a quick footstep outside the door, and immediately after an old man stood in the room. "is anything the matter, adam?" cried mistress nancy. "yes, dear lady," answered he; "colman killigrew, his son otho, and others are nearing the house." chapter xxiii. in which it is shown that uncle anthony was more than a droll. as may be imagined, adam's message excited me much. what purpose had colman killigrew in coming to restormel so late at night? and otho, what was the meaning of his being present? had either of them any suspicion of my whereabouts? for myself i had but little fear, but what of nancy? i looked eagerly into her face, but she was perfectly calm and composed. evidently she knew no fear. "can you think of their reasons for coming?" i asked. "i think i can guess." then turning to adam she said: "you will, of course, admit them?" "i must, my dear young lady," replied the old man, "i must. i should do no good by refusing them, and i should arouse suspicion." "true." "of course it will take some little time"; this he said meaningly. "yes, yes. he will think you are in bed. and where will you put them?" "all right, my dear young lady," he replied mysteriously. "you need not fear," he went on, "they shall never know that you are here." "no, i can trust you for that, adam"; then her eyes rested on me. "master roger trevanion is as safe as you are," he said quickly. "you are certain?" "perfectly." "that will do. we will stay here until you come." the old man bowed and left us, and mistress nancy gazed steadily into the fire for some time as though she were ignorant of my presence. "master roger trevanion," she said presently, "i did not know you cared so much for your country. in the past you have seemed indifferent as to what king reigned, catholic or protestant." "until i knew you i was practically indifferent," i replied humbly. "i cared for little besides my own enjoyment. in a way, i was a loyal protestant, and would have fought for king george; but it would have been for self-advancement chiefly, and--and because i loved a fight." "and now?" "you have made me ashamed of myself in more ways than one," i replied. "and you do not wish a stuart to return to the throne?" "he would curse the country." again she was silent for a few seconds, still gazing steadily into the fire. "would you play the spy?" she asked presently. "no," i replied roughly. then i started, for i heard the clang of a bell resounding through the empty house. "not for the sake of king george?" "i would rather some one else did it," i replied. "but if no one else would do it, or could do it?" i was silent. "and if thereby you could possibly save your country from a great calamity?" "i am not a mole," i replied. "i cannot burrow in the ground. i like to fight in the open." at that moment we heard the sound of voices, among which i recognized that of old colman killigrew. "we need not be alarmed," she said. "the killigrews know nothing of this room." then she sat gazing into the fire again, while i fell to wondering what was in her mind. "you said just now that you wanted to serve me?" she said presently. "yes, yes," i whispered eagerly. "would you play the spy in order to save me from calamity?" "do not put it that way," i said bitterly; "but i would do anything that a gentleman could do to serve you. you have made me love what is honourable, you have made me hate that which is mean." "would it be mean to discover the plottings of my enemies?" she asked tremulously. "no, no," i answered eagerly. "such a work would be worthy of any man. command me, mistress nancy. tell me of the man who has plotted against you, and i will go to him and tear his secret from him." "wait!" was her answer. at this moment i heard a low rapping at the door. she wandered slowly around the room for some minutes speaking never a word; then turning to me suddenly she said: "follow me if you would serve me." she touched a spot on the door, and immediately it swung on its hinges. i followed her into the passage, and up a long flight of stairs. "whither are we going?" i asked presently. "to a secret place in the house," was her answer; "you will be safer there." "but you told me i was safe yonder." "will you not trust me?" she said. "you said you would serve me." i followed her without another word. had she told me to go to my death, i think i should have obeyed. presently she opened the door of an apartment. "enter there," she said; "do not make a sound of any sort. wait in perfect silence until i return." i entered. "you can trust me, can't you?" she whispered. "yes, yes!" i answered. "i will obey you to the very letter." "mind, make no sound. do not move." "very well. are you not coming with me?" "no. walk four paces into the apartment. make no sound." i did as she commanded me; then i heard the door close and i was left in perfect darkness. i waited minute after minute in silence, wondering what she meant by such strange conduct. under other circumstances i should have tried to get a light, and have examined the room in which she had left me; but i had given my promise, and i would abide by it. besides, was i not doing this to serve her? i called to mind the rapping i had heard while we had been in the other room; that was doubtless a signal between her and adam. how long i stayed there i know not. i was like one stunned by a heavy blow; my mind was bewildered--everything was as confused as a dream. sometimes i thought i _was_ dreaming. presently i heard a sound of approaching footsteps. several people seemed to be coming straight to the spot where i sat. had mistress nancy been mistaken? that she had in any way betrayed me was not to be considered. i saw no light, but i could hear footsteps and voices plainly. a few seconds later, it seemed to me that people were so near that i had need only to stretch out my hand in order to touch them. all the same this could not have been. no one had entered the apartment, of that i was sure. "now then we can get to business." it was old colman killigrew who spoke, and his voice sounded strangely near. he might be standing close to my ear. "we have need, and that quickly." i gave a start. the voice was uncle anthony's, and he spoke as one having authority. instinctively i stretched out my hands, but i touched nothing. why were these men's voices so plain? "how many swords can you command?" asked otho killigrew. "in twenty-four hours, a thousand," replied uncle anthony. "and hugh boscawen hath five thousand," was old colman killigrew's rejoinder. "yes, but where be they? here, there, everywhere. he hath gone about this work like a fool. no method--no order. besides he is ignorant of what we know. to-night is wednesday. to-morrow night at this time charles lands at veryan bay. we must meet him with a thousand men. then must we go silently to tregothnan, and make boscawen prisoner. when the true king lands, and boscawen appeareth not, the very men who would have fought against us will be for us. besides, is not the man john wesley a papist? true, i have not seen him, but rumour hath it that his followers long for the return of a catholic king." "you depend too much on rumour, father anthony," said otho moodily. "what say you?" "that i have ceased to trust you," replied otho boldly. "i cannot forget the part you have played in the flight of nancy; or in your treatment of roger trevanion. it is well to have that matter settled. we trusted you, and you failed us; but for you mistress nancy would have been my wife ere this." "and you would have regretted it to your dying day. think you i am a fool, otho killigrew?" "why should i have regretted it?" asked otho sullenly. "time will show, my lad. he who weds a loveless wife must have sufficient reasons for doing so." "and were not my reasons sufficient?" "they were built upon thistledown, otho killigrew." "why did you not tell me this?" "because you chose to act without me, or rather to act against me. have you not known me long enough to be sure i would do nothing without purpose. bah! you thought you were very wise. you got trevanion imprisoned, you tried to arouse suspicion concerning me, and then like a fool you visited him at launceston castle." "but that has done no harm. he has escaped." "true; but before he did so, you proved his innocence to hugh boscawen, and obtained a warrant for his liberty. now we have no hold upon him. he hath gone, whither i know not. his whereabouts is as great a mystery as that of the maid nancy herself." "then you know not where she is?" "i know nothing. i have been busy doing other work, or i might have set to work to discover. i know trevanion took her to peter trevisa's." "to peter trevisa's! why?" "because--well, peter trevisa knows more of nancy molesworth, aye, and of this very house and the lands surrounding it, than you do. peter trevisa holds everything like that!" "ah!" cried otho killigrew. "enough of this," cried old colman killigrew, "all that can wait now. more pressing matters come first." "i know it, colman killigrew," replied uncle anthony; "but this son of thine thinks he is very wise in suspecting me and in seeking to thwart my purposes. it is well to prove to him that he is a fool. he should learn to obey before he seeks to command." "well, and the other matter; is all ready?" "it is. that is why i have ordered you here to-night. we must make this our centre. the house is isolated and practically uninhabited but for the man who obeys you implicitly. here we can speak freely. there is a lonely road leading from the house to the sea; we can come and go without suspicion at least for three days." "why three days?" asked otho. "i say three days, because i do not know what is in peter trevisa's mind." "what of him? what hath he to do with it?" "i cannot tell yet; when charles hath landed, and starts his march through cornwall and devonshire, i, the old hermit, may have time to think of other things." "you are right," replied old colman. "and now there is work to do. the men must be gathered." "they are being gathered," replied uncle anthony. "and armed." "that is being done. if our work is done silently through the next two days all will be well. our great danger is that hugh boscawen shall hear of it. if he does, we are lost." "you speak strongly," said old colman killigrew; "you speak strongly, father anthony." "because i feel strongly. i tell you much depends, very much depends on the next few days. oh, i know! have i not gone around to almost every house in the county? have i not worn a dozen disguises? have i not wormed my way into the confidence of the faltering, and given courage to cowards? here i have been a droll, a story-teller, there a priest hearing confessions and commanding service. to many a man i have gone who longed for the true faith and dared not confess it, and to each i have brought hope and courage. many and many a night have i sat in my lonely hiding-places thinking, thinking of this time and preparing for it. to-day, through my labours, and i make no boast, there be fifty heads of houses in this county ready not only to do battle themselves, but to lead their dependants, who but for me would have timidly cried, 'long live king george ii.' this i have done quietly, secretly. pronounced protestants have scarcely suspected it, and hugh boscawen, fool that he is, thinks the whole county is loyal to those german usurpers." "i know you have worked hard, father anthony," replied old colman killigrew. "many and many is the hour that you and i have talked concerning these matters at endellion; through you we are a strong chain, whereas without you we should have been loops of iron which have no connection." "and no one knows of the coming of charles stuart?" asked otho killigrew. "not yet; it is not well. we must be silent; silent as death. still if we are wise there will be no need to fear. there be many thousands who are true to our cause. let charles come, let the people see him at the head of a few hundred men, and they will flock to his standard as sheep flock together at the sound of the barking of the shepherd's dog. all the same, this hugh boscawen, this viscount falmouth must not know, for, fool though he may be, he hath much power." all this i heard, scarce thinking of what it meant. all was so sudden, so mysterious. but when uncle anthony finished speaking, the purport of it all flashed upon me like light. i saw, or fancied i saw, mistress nancy's purpose in conducting me to this room. she wished me to know the plans of these men; she knew, too, of the cunningly contrived arrangements whereby the sound was conveyed from one room to the other. all the same, i liked not the thought that she had made me an eavesdropper, although, doubtless the two rooms had been constructed by the molesworths for some such purpose as this, and they were honourable men. i dared make no sound, for by so doing i had put myself in extreme danger, and i could not get out. so i sat there while they unfolded their plans, the gist of which i have here written down. truly my bargain with peter trevisa had led me a pretty dance, and yet, but for the motive thereof, i did not wish matters otherwise. presently they prepared to depart, for the which i was truly glad, for my limbs were becoming cramped. i dared not move, for i reflected that sound would be conveyed to them as clearly as to me, and by and by, when i heard their retreating footsteps, i started up with great relief and stretched my long limbs with much comfort. after a long time, for so it seemed to me, i heard a scratching at the door. "come," said a voice which i had learned to know, although it spoke but in a whisper. i hurried towards the door, and saw in the dim light the face of my love. after that, and without speaking a word, i followed her into the room where my meals had been brought. when the door was closed, i looked into her eyes eagerly. "well?" she said questioningly. "you led me there for a purpose," i said. i thought i saw laughter in her face. "adam is a wise old man, and knows the house inch by inch; knows its history, its secret places." "and he led them there with an object?" i persisted. "you refused to play the spy, master trevanion," she whispered with a low laugh, "and yet----" and there she broke off without finishing the sentence. "mistress nancy," i cried, "you are sure you are safe here?" "have you not had proof?" "then i must away!" "away?" "yes. i have heard strange things. i tell you i must leave the house this very hour." "but why?" "can you not guess?" then i knew that although she had not heard a word, she was aware of the subject of their conversation. her face i thought grew paler, and her hands trembled slightly. "they do not know where i am," i went on, "neither have they any clew to your whereabouts. they do not guess you are here, but i must away. can i have a horse?" "no, no, it is impossible. there are many men about the house. they are watching everywhere." "then i must away on foot." "is it urgent?" "let me tell you all i heard," i cried; "for their every word came as plainly to me as if i sat in their midst. the pretender is to land at veryan bay to-morrow midnight." "so soon?" "ah," i cried, "that was the secret which peter trevisa wished you to impart? you had heard that he intended landing in cornwall?" she did not speak, but her silence told me of many things. "i go to tregothnan," i cried. "i go this very hour. adam coad must let me out. surely he knows of the secret ways." she hesitated a second; then she said: "no, adam must know nothing of this. i will conduct you. but you are sure it is right to tell lord falmouth." "it is more than right," i cried; "i shall perchance save the country from civil war." she looked at me as if in great doubt. "but if the catholic faith is the true one," she cried, "and if charles stuart is the lawful heir to the throne--then----" and her lips trembled piteously as if she were in sore straits. "i am no great hand at theology," i said; "but i know that popery is lies, oppression, cruelty, ruin! we have had enough of it in england. if the pretender lands and hugh boscawen is taken prisoner, it will mean brother fighting against brother, perhaps father fighting against son. the whole country will be in tears. we shall have the rack, the thumbscrew, the faggot back again. as for the stuarts, they have proved themselves to be a race of scoundrels." i spoke warmly, for now that i was brought face to face with facts, i saw everything in a new light. the earnestness of my race rose up within me, and even then i felt ashamed of the useless life i had lived. "are you such a protestant, then?" she asked. "all my race have been for two hundred years," i cried; "and the reign of a stuart will mean a deathblow for all who try to uphold liberty and truth." "but you will be in great danger." "i must go nevertheless. guide me, mistress nancy, and that quickly." i pulled on my boots as i spoke, and buttoned my coat closely around me. "yes, yes," she replied, eagerly. "but you will need arms. wait; i will fetch you sword and pistols." in a few seconds she had returned. "this is a sword which my father wore," she said, her voice trembling. my heart leapt wildly. she could not scorn me, if with her own hands she had brought her father's sword. "i will use it for no unworthy cause, mistress nancy," i cried. "i will strike no blow for anything which your father would condemn." "come, come," she said. "adam showed me the way only a few days ago. come! but you will be careful?" again my heart seemed to burn within me. it may seem but little to the reader, indeed the matter was trivial, yet i rejoiced beyond measure to think that she was anxious for my welfare. i accompanied her along an underground passage, then we climbed some stone steps, and presently i stood by a low doorway. taking a key from her pocket she unlocked the door, which opened into a dark shrubbery. "you see that path?" she whispered. "yes." "it leads to the woods. i can tell you no more. but be careful; there are watchers all around, for the killigrews are not yet gone. god be with you!" "good-bye, mistress nancy." "no, only good-morning." "and you will be careful, mistress nancy. do not let them see you. if i did not think you were safe i know not if i could go--even now. but when i may, i will come back, i will serve you with my whole heart." "i am safe, go--but be careful. good-morning. when you return come to this door and give three knocks." i rushed up the path she had pointed out, and heard the door close behind me as i went. i had not gone far, however, before i saw a dark form moving among the trees. "who goes there?" said a voice. i made no reply, but rushed on. "stop or i fire." at this i made a sudden halt. chapter xxiv. otho killigrew uses an old proverb. there was no help for it. i had to wait till the man came up. "all is well!" i said, in a low voice. "but who are you?--why----!" before he could speak again or raise his musket. i struck him heavily. he fell like a log of wood, senseless, inert. i lifted my hand to strike again; but it is hard striking an unconscious man, and i refrained. besides i felt sure it would be some time before he would regain his wits again, meanwhile i should be perhaps a mile on my way. i therefore left him lying there, while i sped through the woods like a deer. who he was i knew not, but i suspected that he was some follower of the killigrews, who watched while his masters discussed their plans within the house. i had but a vague idea of the right direction, for the trees were dark and high, and i was not much acquainted with this part of the country. nevertheless, being country-bred, and having often to travel by night, i did not fear going far wrong. in half an hour i reached a lane, and then i took my bearings. listening, i heard the splash of the waves on the sea-coast near. this i knew lay southwest, so i was able to choose my direction without difficulty. tregothnan lay a good many miles southward; i heeded not the distances, however, my one purpose was to reach hugh boscawen's house without mishap. once out in the open country the night was not dark, and i felt no weariness. my fear was that otho killigrew should overtake me. i was sure that the man i had struck down would relate his adventure, and that otho killigrew, in spite of what uncle anthony had said, was as clever as the devil himself. moreover, as i rushed on, i could not help believing that the man had recognized me. possibly he had come from endellion, and had seen me there. this lent wings to my feet, for should otho and his satellites follow me on horseback, i should be in a sore predicament. presently my fear became a terror. if the man had recognized me, and had revealed the fact to the killigrews and uncle anthony, would they not connect my presence with mistress nancy? for a moment my heart ceased to beat, but presently comfort came. my love, in spite of her youth, was no simpering, helpless chit of a maid. she would know how to hold her own; with old adam as her friend she could outwit all the killigrews. then another thought came to me which assured me much. i was confident that uncle anthony was the maid's friend. i called to mind a dozen things which had happened during the time i was with him on roche rock. i remembered the way he spoke when he was left wounded and helpless in the old chapel in the parish of st. mawgan. their purposes might be one with regard to the catholic faith and the coming of charles stuart, but i felt sure that the mysterious old man loved mistress nancy, and that he loved not otho killigrew. this made me feel kindly towards him, and although i had it from his own lips that he had been spending his life in preparation for the coming of the pretender, i thought of many plans whereby i might be able to help him, if i reached hugh boscawen. while these thoughts passed through my mind, i rushed on with unabated speed. the morning had only just begun to dawn, and no one had molested me. i therefore began to have hopes that i should fulfil my mission without mishap. just as i caught the first glimpse of the rising sun, however, they were rudely dispelled. i had at this moment just reached the brow of a hill, and saw the entrance gates to one of the roads which led to hugh boscawen's house. they were not much more than a mile distant, and i fancied that, once inside them, my dangers would be over. by this time, as may be imagined, i was sore spent, for i had run a great part of the way. i therefore contented myself with walking down the hill towards the gates, but had not gone far when i heard the sound of galloping horses. turning, i saw two men riding towards me. they were otho killigrew and another man. i started to run, holding my sheathed sword in my left hand, but i saw that such a course would be useless. they were evidently well mounted, and i was spent and weary. each side of me great hedges towered up, covered with hazel bushes. if i tried to escape into the fields by climbing over one of them, they would shoot me like a dog. "stop!" cried otho. for answer i cocked one of the pistols mistress nancy had given me. at least i would fight to the very last. otho saw my action, and a second later two pistol-bullets whizzed by me, one tearing the sleeve of my coat. evidently both of them had fired. perhaps the movements of the horses had caused them to miss their aim. my hands trembled because of my long journey, otherwise i was fairly calm. i fired at otho. seeing my action, he spurred his horse furiously, and my bullet just escaped him--instead it struck the horse of the man who accompanied him. this made the animal rear and plunge mightily, and a second later the fellow lay sprawling on the ground. the horse, however, after some capering, galloped madly away. "come," i thought, "this is good work," and lifting my other pistol i shot at otho's steed, rather than at its rider. i thought the bullet struck the animal, but otho was a better horseman than his companion. he kept his seat firmly. i had now no weapon save my sword, for there was no time to re-load, so i started running again, taking as many turns as a hare in the road, so as to give otho as little chance as possible to take aim. another bullet whizzed by, and still i was unharmed. i wondered how much ammunition he had, and in spite of my danger i hoped that i should come well out of the business. for if it became a question of swords, i had no fear. otho was no swordsman, while his companion, as far as i could judge, was only a common serving-man, who would have but little knowledge of fencing. i heard another pistol shot, and at that very moment i felt something strike my side and burn me, as though a red-hot knife had been placed on my flesh. in spite of my struggles to stand upright, i stumbled and fell. in falling i struck my head against a stone which stunned me somewhat. "ah!" i heard otho say, "that is well. come, juliff, we shall soon settle this business." in spite of my fall i kept my eyes open, and saw otho dismount. he seemed in great good humour, for he laughed aloud, while his companion limped slowly after him. he drew his sword as he came near me, and never did i see such a look of devilish gloating as rested on his face at that moment. the man seemed utterly changed. he was no longer the slow-speaking, almost religious-looking man i had known. his eyes burned red, and he laughed in such a way that for the moment i forgot the burning pain at my side. "it is my turn now, roger trevanion," he said, and his voice fairly trembled with passion. "and he who laughs last laughs best. you have beaten me many times. oh yes, i'll give you your due. you've beaten me many times. you are a man with brains, that i will admit, but so is otho killigrew. you got away from endellion and took nancy with you, that's once; you mastered me at the inn up by st. mawgan, that's twice; you got away from launceston castle after you knew i should gain your freedom, and that's three times. and now my turn hath come!" these last words came slowly, and seemed to pass through his set teeth; this i noticed, although i was still somewhat dazed by my fall. "you are in my power, master roger trevanion," and he held his sword close to me, "and now before i make you swallow six inches of steel, i will tell you something else: mistress nancy molesworth is in my power too. and this i will add: otho killigrew's intentions are no longer honourable, for reasons that you can guess as well as i." there was such a fiendish tone in his voice, and his words gave me such a shock, that my strength came back to me as if by a miracle. before he could hinder me i had at one bound leapt to my feet and drawn my sword. the pistol shot no longer hurt me one whit; my right arm felt no weakness. "they do laugh best who laugh last," i cried; whereupon i attacked him violently, and as he was no swordsman he fell back from me. "juliff, juliff," he cried, but juliff was so crippled by his fall that he was no longer able to help his master. then a strange light came into his eyes, and his guard became weaker and weaker, until i wondered what it meant, for all the killigrews were fighters in one way or another. i do not say that otho killigrew was not a brave man. in the ordinary meaning of the word, he knew no fear, and could meet death as bravely as another. but directly he knew that my wound was not mortal, and that i had retained my mastery of the sword, he became a schemer and a plotter again. in short, the otho killigrew who thought i was powerless and the otho killigrew whose sword clashed against mine were two different men. keeping one eye on me, he gave a glance at juliff who had dragged himself to the hedge side. evidently the man had broken some limb in his fall from the horse, for one arm hung limp, and he groaned loudly. for my own part i had no mercy in my heart, and i had made up my mind to kill him. that i was able to do this i had no manner of doubt. as i have said he was no swordsman, and although my side ached sorely, the sinews of my right arm seemed like steel bands. but for those words he had spoken about nancy, i should have contented myself with disabling him by a flesh wound, but remembering what he had said, i felt i could be satisfied with nothing less than his death. i think he saw this as he looked into my eyes; for his face became pale and ashen; and he gasped like a man whose throat is nearly choked. "he who laughs last laughs best," i repeated grimly, and then he was certain that he would get no mercy from me. he was not like his brother benet. that giant would never dream of yielding, his one thought would be to fight to the very last--but otho, as i said, had again become cool and calculating. doubtless he remembered how much depended on him, and thought how the cause he loved needed him. anyhow he took to his heels, and ran rapidly in the direction of restormel. "coward!" i shouted, as he left me standing in the road. "coward! otho killigrew," i repeated again, as soon as i had gained my breath, but he took no heed of my taunt, and indeed i was sorry afterward that i uttered it. i was master of the situation, however, and taking no thought of juliff who lay groaning by the hedge side, i caught otho killigrew's horse, which had not been hurt by my pistol-shot, and jumped into the saddle. my side pained me sorely as i did this, and now that my danger was over i felt somewhat faint and dizzy. indeed, i doubt much if i should have been able to have walked to tregothnan, for the house was several miles beyond the lodge gates. no difficulty presented itself with the gate-keeper. he had just risen as i came up, and when i told him that i had important business with his lord, he made no ado in allowing me to enter. when i neared tregothnan my heart beat fast, for i remembered the circumstances under which i was last there. the old man at the door gave a start, too, as he saw me, and i felt sure i was recognized; but seeing the eager look on my face, he bade me enter, and told me he would inform his lordship of my presence. evidently hugh boscawen was an early riser, for in a few seconds he entered the room where i stood. "i have heard strange news concerning you, master roger trevanion," he said as he entered. "but not so strange as i have to tell you, my lord," was my reply. he gave a start at my words. "what ails you, man?" he asked, "you are wounded, your clothes are bloody." "of that presently, my lord," i said hastily. "know you that the pretender lands at veryan bay to-night, and that the lovers of the stuarts have a thousand men armed to receive him?" he started back like a man who had received a prick with a sword. "what mean you?" he cried. i repeated my words, and gave him further particulars. "you are sure of this?" i assured him that i was. "i would that sir john grenville were here," he said to himself, "this is sore sudden." "there is need of immediate action, my lord," was my reply, "and the country looks up to you." my words seemed to arouse his mind to activity. "ah," he cried, "now they will know that i was right. men laughed at me for saying the pretender would ever think of landing in cornwall, and jeered at me for gathering together our brave cornishmen. but how came you to know this, trevanion?" he seemed to have forgotten that i had lately been brought before him as a traitor, forgot that otho killigrew had been my accuser. "i will tell you all i can, my lord," i replied. "i escaped from the witch's tower, at launceston castle. i knew i was innocent, and i felt that there were those outside who needed me." "yes, killigrew came to me. he proved your innocence. i signed a warrant for your liberty. but you escaped--that i know. but it is no matter; go on." "i was led to restormel." "what, the old castle up by lostwithiel?" "no, to the seat of the late master molesworth." "ah, yes, i remember. well?" "colman killigrew of endellion is the guardian of master molesworth's daughter; hence he is practically master there." "yes, i have heard as much." "while i was in the house, colman killigrew and his son otho, with others, came. it is regarded as a good centre for dealing with the pretender's cause. i overheard their conversation." "which you have told me?" "partly. what i did not tell you is that they fear you greatly. they know you have gathered an army from various parts of the country. their idea is, that after the pretender lands to-night they will come here and take you prisoner. they believe that, when this is done, the very men you have armed to fight for the king will fight for charles." "ah!" he cried; "but king george will know of my wisdom now! and you, trevanion, you escaped, and came here to tell me. hath no one any suspicions?" "they have more than suspicions, my lord. on leaving restormel a few hours ago, a man stopped me. i silenced him for the time, but he must have given information; anyhow, i was followed. doubtless messengers were sent out to scour the country-side, but two only overtook me." "two?" "aye, otho killigrew and a serving-man. they were on horseback and i on foot." "were you armed?" "i had a couple of pistols and a sword." then i told him of all that had happened. "then you have a bullet in your body?" "i think not, but i have a slight wound. i think i should like a doctor," and, indeed, at that minute my head seemed to whirl most amazingly, and there was a noise in my ears like the sound of many waters. after that i remember little that took place, at least for a long time; but presently when hours later my senses came back to me, i felt vastly better. "it was lucky we had a doctor staying in the house," said hugh boscawen. "trevanion, you will have to lie quiet for many days." "no, my lord," i replied, "that is impossible. i must away. there is much to be done." "i must ask your forgiveness, trevanion," said hugh boscawen, mistaking my meaning. "i trusted in killigrew, such is the power of a smooth tongue. i see now that the king hath none more faithful than you. but you have done your part; in fact, methinks you have saved the country. now you can rest. i have made all arrangements, and my trusty henchmen are scouring the country. when charles arrives at veryan to-night we will give him a warm welcome. in a week from now he will be in safe custody. heard you whether the french will be sending troops with him?" "i judge not. i gathered that he would come practically alone." "that is well. now you may safely rest." "no, my lord, i cannot"; and thereupon i told him in a few words of my relations with mistress nancy molesworth. of my love i said not a word, but beyond that i told him everything. "this shall be looked into when this affair is blown over, trevanion," he said. "such a maid as she should not be robbed of her rights through some foolish flaw in our laws. but what would you?" "i must find out what hath become of her, my lord," i said, for i remembered otho killigrew; "moreover, there is a matter which may have escaped your attention." "what matter?" "the friends of the pretender will now know that i have informed you of their plans, and i am sure that otho killigrew would not have run away as he did had not some cunning plan entered his fertile brain. believing that you are aware of what will happen, they will act accordingly." "but they did not know that you heard their conversation?" "perhaps not; but they will suspect, and be prepared." "well, what then?" "i think, my lord," i said, "that they will doubtless have signals whereby they will be able to communicate with the pretender. if he is to cease being a danger to the country, he must be allowed to land, and then taken prisoner." "i see; you have a good brain, trevanion. but that shall be attended to. i will give orders at once." "still i cannot rest here, my lord. i must be up and doing. and i feel quite strong. i can go to restormel; i must go!" he saw i was determined. "you shall hear what the doctor saith," was his answer. "ah! but it was rare good luck that the fellow was staying here." a minute later the doctor came into the room. he had come from truro to bleed one of the serving-maids, and had been obliged to stay all night. "master trevanion had better lie still for a week," was his reply to hugh boscawen's query. "true, the wound is not deep, and i have bandaged it well, but severe movement will cause it to start bleeding, and then there may be trouble." "but it will not be dangerous for me to move?" i said. "i feel quite strong." "i do not use the word dangerous," replied the surgeon, "and you feel strong because by giving you a most potent medicine of my own invention you have had several hours of refreshing sleep. moreover, my remedy hath had the effect of keeping your blood cool and of energizing your vital powers. it is really a most remarkable cordial, and did i live in london, i should soon become the most famous of living physicians." "then if the cordial be so potent," was my reply, "and if the wound is not deep, it will surely be safe for me to travel. for, in truth, it will do me more harm to be imprisoned here than to do what i feel must be done. had you been an ordinary doctor, and knew not of this cordial, it might have been dangerous, but surely not after i have been under your treatment." after a long harangue i managed by flattering the doctor's vanity to get away; all the same it was not far from dark when i, with many doubts and many misgivings, rode in the direction of restormel. i had barely reached the lodge gates when i saw two men riding towards the house from which i had just come. one was dressed as a squire of the old school, and the other as an ordinary serving-man. i looked steadily into his face as i passed, and, although it was in many respects strange, i thought i recognized it. when he was out of sight, i asked the gate-keeper if he knew who it was. "he gave his name as master john polperro," was the reply. chapter xxv. how january changed to june. now i had never seen the elder john polperro, but i remembered his son, and as i rode along i thought how unlike the two men were. so unlike were they, indeed, that no one on seeing them together would suspect them to be related. i paid but little attention to this, however, but rather set to wondering why he was going to see hugh boscawen. had news of any sort reached him? knew he aught of the plots afoot? after this i felt certain i had seen the man somewhere. some of the features i could not recall; but the eyes and the protruding brows above them were not ordinary. the possessor of those keen gray penetrating orbs was not of the common type of humanity. "where have i seen those eyes before?" i thought; and then my side burned and ached fearfully, just as i had felt it immediately after otho killigrew had shot at me. my blood also coursed madly through my veins, and i became much excited. "uncle anthony!" i said aloud, and i was sure i was not mistaken. presently i cooled down again, and i was able to think calmly. here then were the facts. he was visiting hugh boscawen under the guise of the elder john polperro. he had, doubtless, become acquainted with the success of otho's search after me, and had gone to tregothnan to confer with the master thereof concerning the coming of the pretender. moreover, i was sure that he would not go there unless some subtle plan had formed itself in his cunning old brain. i knew that hugh boscawen was no match for him, and that unless he were checkmated the king's cause would perchance be ruined. this being so what ought i to do? my first impulse was to ride back to tregothnan and inform hugh boscawen of my conviction; but i refrained. i remembered the kind of man with whom i had to deal. uncle anthony would know of my coming, and would naturally guess that i had penetrated his disguise. this would allow him time to resort to other means in order to carry out his purposes. after this i thought of writing a note to boscawen, telling him to arrest uncle anthony; but this i could not do. i remembered the old man's kindness to nancy, i thought of the evident love he had for her. no, no--i could not do this, even although i knew him to be the most dangerous plotter in the country. and yet i dared not allow him to have his way with the man who was championing the cause of the reigning king. after much thinking, therefore, i wrote a note in the gatekeeper's lodge and commissioned the man to take it to his master. this is what i wrote: "_act as though your visitor of this morning, who gives his name at your lodge as john polperro, had not called. i have powerful reasons for this. at the same time listen to him as though you desired to fall in with his plans. his information is not trustworthy, of this i am sure._ "roger trevanion." this note i reflected would frustrate uncle anthony's designs, but would not lead boscawen to arrest the old man or do him any injury. so i mounted my horse again and rode northward. i had no definitely formed plans of my own, except that, despite the danger, i would go to restormel and seek to find mistress nancy. i could not help believing that otho killigrew, notwithstanding the critical work he had to do, would still find time to hunt down my love and work her harm. that he knew of her being at restormel was manifested by what he had said to me, and i was sore afraid. moreover, i had promised hugh boscawen that i would meet his men in the woods, near the only spot a boat could well land, at veryan bay. he had, he told me, arranged with his henchmen that they should gather as many as possible of those who had taken up arms for king george at this place, and that they should come as far as possible, stealthily and after dark. his hope was that, though the information i had given him came very late, at least two thousand men would be lying among the woods at eleven o'clock that night. as i have said, the danger was doubtless great in going to restormel. if the killigrews could get hold of me i should fare badly. and yet this very danger might make my entrance possible. they would never think i should venture there that night, and thus they might be unprepared for me. moreover, i hoped that they would all be away at veryan bay, regarding the welfare of a hapless maid as unworthy of their notice. anyhow, i made my way towards restormel, and having fastened the horse i had taken from otho to a tree some distance from the house, i crept silently towards it. no light shone from the windows, no sound reached my ears. seemingly the place was deserted. i strained both ears and eyes without avail; it would seem as though no form of life existed behind the dark walls of the house. did not this mean that otho was still ignorant of the whereabouts of nancy? might she not be still safe and well in that part of the house, the secrets of which were unknown to the killigrews. i had reason to know how self-reliant and far-seeing she was, and i knew how faithful and shrewd was amelia lanteglos her serving-maid. my heart beat loud with joy at the thought. creeping nearer and nearer the road, i determined to try and find the door from which i had come early that morning. it was hidden by evergreens and difficult to find, but i fancied that if i went there and knocked, either she or old adam coad would come to me. in any case, i hoped i should hear news concerning her, for, as may be imagined, my heart was torn with many fears, especially when i remembered what otho had said. presently i stopped, for i heard approaching footsteps; they came not from the house, but from the lodge gates. i listened intently, and before long heard the murmur of men's voices. "you join us not then?" it was otho killigrew who spoke. "no, i am no fighter. i do not see what i should gain now that the affair has gone so far; besides it matters not to me who is king." i detected young peter trevisa's voice, and instantly my mind was on the alert. what had these two worthies been planning? i remembered that treviscoe was but a few miles from restormel. had otho been visiting the trevisas? if so, nancy had been the subject of their discussion. "but the other matter is settled?" "yes." "then good-night. i have much to do ere midnight. but i can trust you? and you can trust your men?" "to be sure. they will do aught that i tell them." "mind, if you betray me or fail me----" this was spoken in a threatening voice. "i will see that my part is done, if you do yours." "and i will." the men separated. their words conveyed but little meaning to me. that together they had concocted some plan concerning nancy i was sure. i saw otho stand still, as if thinking deeply, after young peter trevisa had gone; then he made his way towards the shrubbery through which i had come early that morning. silently i followed. i ill liked the part i was playing, but i thought of my love, and determined that i would do all a man could. for my love grew stronger each hour, even although i had no hope that she i loved cared aught for me. how my heart hungered for some token of a possible affection for me no words of mine can write. again and again i tried to comfort myself with the thought that did she not care for me more than ordinary she would never have braved the dangers of helping me to escape from launceston castle, that she would not have been so anxious for my welfare. but i remembered again how she had told me that what she had done for me she would have done for any one who rendered a service. nevertheless, i knew that if she could never care for me, i had still given my life to her, and that until my limbs lay cold in death i must seek to serve her. for when a man who is past thirty really loves for the first time, it is love forever. true, i loved my country, and i had espoused the cause of liberty and truth, because i could not help it, but nancy's welfare was more to me than these. thus i could not help following otho killigrew, and although my wound pained me, i knew that strength would not fail. presently otho walked down the very path along which i had come, and made his way towards the door which nancy had thought secret. evidently he knew the road well, for he hesitated not. having reached the door, he knocked three times, just as mistress nancy had told me to knock. what did this mean? how did any one know of this? i did not spend much time in surmising concerning the matter, for i knew that otho would have many ways of finding out things unknown to most men. the door opened as if by magic. i heard no footsteps nor noise of any sort. evidently the sound of his knock must have reached some one who knew the secret of the opening thereof. without hesitating a second he entered, and immediately the door closed behind him, leaving me outside. at this moment i knew not what to do. i dared not make a sound, for i knew not who might be near. perhaps a dozen men might be lurking near the house, and if i made a noise they would shoot me down like a rabbit or take me prisoner. and yet i longed to know whither otho went. i wanted to understand his purpose in entering. i reflected that nancy must be within. if the killigrews had not discovered that this was her hiding-place, she would naturally remain there as she had said, and if they had found her out, no place could have served their purpose better. had she opened the door quickly, thinking it was i who had knocked? had she been expecting to hear my footsteps? the thought filled me with joy even in spite of my anxiety; and yet i stood among the shrubs powerless and alone. presently i heard the sound of voices. i could detect no words, but i knew people talked near me. their voices became louder and louder, and by and by a cry like that of a woman in pain reached me. this came from within the house, and once i was sure i detected otho's voice, not soft and gentle-spoken as was generally the case, but harsh and strident. how i restrained myself i do not know. indeed i feel sure i should have attempted to break down the door had i not seen it open, seemingly without hands, as it had opened before. a minute later otho appeared again. he did not look around, but hurried along the crooked path between the shrubs. now and then i heard him laugh in his low guttural way, as though he had won a victory. he passed close beside me, so close that i could easily have stabbed him to death before he had time to defend himself. why i did not, i do not know. since then i have wished that i had. but i have always loathed striking an unprepared man. so i let him go, and shortly after i heard the sound of a horse galloping northward. when these sounds died away, i made my way to the door, and knocked three times, even as otho had knocked. but without effect. although i listened intently no sound of any sort reached me. the noise i made echoed and re-echoed through the house, but no notice was taken. again i gave the signal agreed upon by mistress nancy and myself; but the house might be empty for all the answer i got. now this troubled me sorely, for i was afraid lest my love should have suffered some ill at the hands of otho, and the closed door made it impossible for me to render any help even if it were necessary. but i would not be baulked. rather than go away in suspense i would break down the door, even though i brought the whole race of the killigrews to the spot. i therefore struck the door loudly, and although i thought i detected some sounds of movement within, i still remained outside. so i put my shoulder against the iron-studded barrier and pressed hardly, and although it yielded somewhat the bolts held firmly. my action, however, must have told those within that i was determined to enter, for at this time i heard footsteps coming towards me. "no, you ca'ant come in," said a voice from within. "amelia--amelia lanteglos," i said aloud. "wait a minnit, maaster roger trevanion," was the reply, spoken as i thought excitedly, almost feverishly. then a bolt drew back and the door opened. "forgive me," said amelia lanteglos, "but i thought it was--somebody else. where did 'ee come from, sur?" "i can't tell you now, amelia," i said; "is your mistress safe?" "saafe. iss, sure; but she've bin purtly frightened." "yes." "maaster otho mimicked the knock. three times ya knaw, and i opened the door. she ded think t'was he knockin' again." "that is why i was refused admittance?" "iss, sur, that's ev et." "can you take me to your mistress now?" "iss, sur; come this way." i followed the maid along dark corridors in perfect silence, she muttering and laughing in a strange way; i feverishly excited, my side paining me sorely, yet feeling no weakness. presently she stopped, and then knocked timidly at the door of an apartment. the only response that i heard was a piteous cry and a sob. amelia knocked again. "i do not wish to be seen. i will not open the door. you can force your way in if you dare, but you do not come here again with my consent." and now there was nothing plaintive in the tones of her voice, it was rather angry--defiant. "i'll maake sa bould as to oppen the door," whispered amelia; "she do think tes maaster otho," and without further ado she suited the action to the word, i entered the apartment, and amelia left us together. a lamp stood on the table, which was in the centre of the room, so that i could see my love plainly. she stood as far away from the door as possible, and her back was turned upon me. i caught sight of one of her hands, and saw that the fist was constantly clenching and unclenching itself. evidently the poor maid was sore distraught, and the sight of her sorrow rendered me dumb. "do you think, otho killigrew," she said slowly, still keeping her back towards me, "that you can change my mind? you say i am in your power, and that i have no friend to help me; well, if you had a spark of manhood in you, you would cease to molest me, for you would know that your very presence is loathsome. now go, and leave me to find what peace i can." her words filled my heart with joy and sorrow at the same time. joy, because it was not i who was loathsome to her; sorrow, because she stood there helpless and alone, and because i felt myself unable to help her. and thus all i could think upon to say, and that in a very husky voice, was: "mistress nancy." she turned herself round quickly, and i saw her eyes gleam with the fires of hatred and anger. her face was pale and hard, her whole body was rigid; but as her eyes caught mine, a change came over her as quick as a flash of light. in a second her eyes became soft and humid, her hands became unclenched, her form lost its rigidity, and a rosy flush mantled her face. it was as though a cold cruel night in january had changed to a smiling june morning. her lips parted to speak, but she only uttered one word, but that word opened the gates of heaven to me. "roger!" it was a cry of surprise, of infinite relief, of untold joy. i opened my arms. i could not help doing so, and i am sure she saw that my eyes burned with the fires of love. i took two steps towards her, my arms still extended. "nancy," i said. then she came towards me and fell upon my shoulder. "he told me you were in the power of the killigrews," she sobbed, "and that to-night you would die." i held her to my heart a moment, knowing nothing, understanding nothing, save that i was in heaven. i had never hoped for this. did such a mad fancy enter my mind, i had dispelled it as something as impossible as heaven might be to a lost soul. oh! but i never knew the meaning of life or joy until that moment. she my dear, dear maid, lay with her head pillowed on my shoulder, while her shining hair mingled with my own unkempt locks. "and did you care?" i said like one in a dream, for truly my joy made me unable to say the words that were wise. at this she started back, like one ashamed. i saw the tears trickling down her cheeks, and a look which i could not comprehend come into her eyes. "oh, it is you, master roger trevanion!" she cried. "forgive me, i--i did not know. i think i--i am overwrought. you will pay no heed to the foolish words and action of--of one--who--who knew not what she was doing." but i was eager, fearless, determined now. knowing my own unworthiness as i did, i could not forget the look in her eyes as she uttered my name. "nay, nancy, my love, turn not away!" i cried. "but--but--i must--i--i did not know. oh! what must you think of me?" she sobbed like one ashamed. "i think you are the best and purest maid god ever sent on earth," i answered. "i--i--o my love, come to me again!" but she stood still, her hands trembling and her bosom heaving. "you--you must forget my foolishness, forget it forever," she said wildly. "i was so afraid, i did not know what i was doing!" "no, i shall never forget it," i replied, "never, never! a man cannot forget heaven, even though he may have felt it only while he draws one breath. o my dear, dear maid; come to me again. i love you better than name, home, liberty, life. i have never dared to tell you before. i am so unworthy, but i love you, love you!" "but, but----" she cried piteously. "no, no," i said, "let there be no buts. i cannot bear that you should turn away from me now. i have loved you for many weary, weary days--hopelessly, hopelessly. i dared not tell you till now--but do not repulse me." "and do you want me--really want me? that is, you--you do not despise me because----" "mistress nancy--nancy, my dear one," i said, growing bolder each moment, although i wot not what to say, for truly my love made me as foolish as a child, "all my life is bound up in you; i care for naught but you, and i mind nothing now you are near me. even my wound hurts me not one whit now." "your wound?" she cried. "what wound?" "oh, it is nothing," i answered, vexed with myself for being such a fool as to mention it; "my side was only grazed by the pistol-shot." "what pistol-shot? when? where?" "it was only a scratch--this morning--when--when otho fired at me this morning." "then you are hurt, you are wounded?" "no, not now. o my love, will you not come to me?" then she rushed to me. "but, but you are not--that is, you are not----" she did not finish the sentence, for she lay sobbing on my shoulder again, just as a babe might sob on its mother's breast. "and do you care?" i said again. "oh, will you not speak to me once more? will you not tell me what--what i long to hear?" "you are safe--that is, you are sure you are not hurt--that is very badly?" "no, no; i mind nothing. i am quite well. i shall be happier than words can tell if you--you will only tell me you love me." "i--i am afraid i told you too soon," and this she said with a laugh that had a sob in it, but the sob contained no sorrow, and still i was not satisfied. "but my love, tell me," i cried, "tell me really, for i shall never be content until i hear the words from your own lips." "oh, i cannot, i am so ashamed," she sobbed. "i did not mean you should know until you--had first told me--that is,--o roger, i am so happy!" and after that i could doubt no longer, for she lay in my arms contentedly and as if she knew no fear, and then i cared for nothing. the dangers which surrounded me i minded no more than the old knight in armour might mind the threats of children, for although i was homeless and nearly friendless, my heart throbbed with a joy which until then i never believed possible. "roger," she said again presently, "i am so ashamed, but i could not help it, and--and i _am_ happy; but--but--tell me again what you told me just now." chapter xxvi. i fall into otho killigrew's hands. how long we remained oblivious to everything save our new-found love i know not, for truly i had entered upon a new life. my dear love had revealed herself to me in a way which made the dark night seem like day. i had known her as one fair beyond words, it is true, and more faithful and courageous than i had believed a woman could be, but distant and often cold and repellant. even when she had braved many things for my welfare she treated me with distant formality, such as had chilled my heart and made me despair of ever winning her love. but this night she had shown me her heart, and now i knew her not only as noble and pure, but as tender and winsome and loving. many and many a time did she raise her dear face to mine and bid me tell her again and again that my wound was not dangerous and that i suffered no pain. and because i loved her so, i am afraid i told her what was not true, for the wound ached sorely, although i minded it not one whit. in very truth, one look from her eyes dispelled the thought of pain, and i felt the strength of many men surge within me. to say that i was content would be to play with words, for sitting there with my love nought but joy filled my life. presently, however, she bade me tell her of my experiences, and this i did briefly, for i wanted to know what had happened to her, and why otho killigrew had visited her and what he had said to her. besides, it had come to me that i must take her away from restormel, although for the moment i knew not where. in my happiness, too, i had almost forgotten the promise i had made to hugh boscawen, and that it was my duty to make my way to veryan bay that night. "what did otho tell you, my love?" i asked. "that you have been taken prisoner by his people, and that you were to be put to death to-night, unless----" "but that was nothing," i answered. "what was his purpose in coming to you?" "he had discovered, i know not how, that you were here last night. he had also found out the signal by which i was to admit you." "how?" "i know not. he had also divined--oh, roger! i must be very foolish, but he had divined that--that----" "what, my dear maid?" "that i love you," and she hid her face on my shoulder again, as though she were ashamed to show her face. "how think you so?" "he told me so, and--and i could not deny it." "no," said i with a glad laugh, "and then?" "he tried to trade upon my love. he said you were in his power, and that unless i promised him something you should die this very night." "what was that?" "to marry him." "and you?" "i was sorely frightened; but i told him that i would rather die than do this. i could not, you know, roger, even though i did not know you cared aught for me." "but you must have known i loved you, my dear." "sometimes i thought i did, and at others i could only--that is--even were i sure you did, i knew you would rather die than that i should wed him." "well, let us hear the rest of this," i said. "surely otho must have been attending the performances of some travelling showman, for such plots smack of a fourth-rate playhouse." "he sorely frightened me, for he threatened to torture you; and you know what a cruel face he has." "well, and what was the end of it?" by this time my heart began to grow bitter towards otho killigrew, and had he been there at that moment it would have gone hard with him. "he told me that you had been taken to a place of safety, and then asked me if i would allow him to take me there. he said it was the only condition on which he would show you any mercy." "and you?" "i refused him again. and yet i fancy my looks must have consented, for, roger," and she nestled closer to me again, "i hoped that i might be able to help you." now this matter required thought, for i felt sure otho had some deep-laid purpose in it all. "he said he would return as soon as his duties allowed him," she added presently. "here?" "yes." "you will refuse to admit him?" "oh, there will be no need now--you will be here;--that's--no--no--you must not. he seems to have discovered all about the house, and even old adam coad obeys him. if he finds you here he will find means to kill you." "you need not fear," i said; "to-night all the killigrews will be prisoners, and before long they will be hanged," and i told her what was being done. "then he cannot come back here to-night?" "no, he will not be here. all the same, let every door be bolted. but i must away." she looked at me piteously. she was so changed, this maid nancy, during the last hour. all her reserve, all her coldness had gone. "but i will be back before morning," i said, "and then----" i stopped, for my heart grew cold. in very truth, i seemed helpless. she seemed to divine my thoughts, for she concluded the sentence. "i shall have no care. and yet," and this she said sadly, "o roger, i cared naught about this--this story of trevisa's till to-night. if it is true, i shall be dowerless--nameless. i shall take every thing and give you nothing--that is--nothing but--myself." the last words came coyly, and yet with a sob, and for the moment i cared nothing, even the loss of my old home weighed no more than thistledown. but only for a moment; my destitution rested heavily on me a minute later. "it is all well," i cried in a tone of confidence i was far from feeling. "even although trevisa's story be true, i shall have--but there is not time to tell you now. wait for me, my love. no harm can come to you to-night--and i will soon be back. i will not knock this time; you may know me by this cry," and i imitated the hoot of a night bird. soon after i rode away with a light heart in spite of my cares, and my many doubts. i knew nothing of otho's plans, and for aught i could tell he might have spies all around the house; but no one molested me. indeed although i listened carefully all was silent as death, and i concluded that the killigrews had mustered all their forces in order to be ready when charles stuart landed. when i reached veryan bay all was silent. it was perhaps ten o'clock, only two or three hours before the pretender was supposed to land, but not a soul was visible. i rode across country in order to avoid coming into contact with any of the friends of the stuarts: for i knew that were i caught it would mean instant death. every footstep was, i was sure, beset with danger; for while hugh boscawen had given me a passport whereby i should be safe among his followers, i knew not where the enemy might be lurking. presently i reached the woods just above veryan bay, and with as little noise as possible crept along under the trees. a few seconds later i was surrounded by armed men. they had been lying quietly amidst the brushwood until orders for action came. no sooner was my passport seen than i was conducted to hugh boscawen. "saw you that old man?" i asked. "yes, but not until i had first received your letter." "well, what did he say?" "he seemed weighted with important news at first, but presently he talked of the most senseless matters." "ah," i said, and instantly i surmised what it meant. uncle anthony had guessed that i had penetrated his disguise, and had sent a message. "did you see him immediately on his arrival?" "no, i had many things to occupy me, and i kept him waiting some time. your letter prepared me for the foolish things he had to say." "all your arrangements have been carried out then?" "yes; one thousand men lie in this wood and a thousand more on the other side of the valley. it was all i could raise on such short notice. but they are enough. the pretender's friends have got wind of my prompt action. they have abandoned the idea of coming here. i am sorry, but it does not matter; the craft containing charles is on its way, and he will be here in a few hours." he tried to speak coolly, but i could see that he was excited beyond measure. his voice shook, and was fairly husky. "how do you know that they have abandoned the idea of bringing their forces here?" "my spies discovered it," he said shortly. "oh, i have not been idle, young man; my men have had eyes and ears everywhere." i realized then as i felt when at tregothnan that he seemed to resent my questions, and i knew that his abilities did not equal his zeal. i could quite believe that the killigrews had abandoned the idea of meeting the forces which hugh boscawen had gathered, but i did not believe that they would submit so meekly as this man seemed to think. as far as i could judge, matters were ill-arranged, and although every one was on the tiptoe of expectation, there seemed to be little definite idea as to the serious issue at stake. "you see," he went on, "such a number of men could not be got together so secretly as i had hoped. the pretender's friends found this out, and not a man of theirs is to be found within two miles. of that i am sure." "and do you think, my lord, that they will give up so easily?" i asked. "they cannot help themselves. i tell you the coast is guarded two miles in each direction." "no more than two miles?" "is not that enough, trevanion! i tell you i saw through the whole business ten minutes after you brought the news. you shall not be forgotten, trevanion, i can assure you that." "i suppose neither sir richard nor john rosecorroch are here?" "no, there was no time to get advisers; besides it would have confused matters. one general is enough." i felt impatient with the man, loyal and well-meaning as he was. i remembered that he had paid but little heed to me at tregothnan. doubtless during the hours i had been lying asleep through the day he had given his orders, and in his own way had made ready. but he did not know the resources of colman killigrew or uncle anthony, to say nothing of otho. "have you considered, my lord, that they may still signal to charles stuart farther up the coast?" "what mean you, trevanion?" "doubtless the pretender set sail from the north of france, and is sailing down the channel. think you the killigrews have not prepared for the present state of things? they have been too long plotting not to realize their danger, and they will not allow charles to walk blindfold into your hands, especially now they know what hath been done. they will either have moved their forces farther up the coast, or if that be impossible they will have warned him not to land." "i tell you their forces have been disturbed. they have heard of what has happened, and they have lost heart. as for the other, it is a dark murky night, and no signal could be seen from afar." "but there is danger, my lord," i persisted; "and you would not like charles to escape you?" "no, by heaven, no! but what would you suggest?" and here the man revealed the fact that he should have taken counsel in the affair. "i would suggest this, my lord. give me a few men. i know the coast well; i will go northward, and if they are seeking to signal, either i will send you word, or, if i am able, take these killigrews prisoners." "the plan sounds well, trevanion. it can do no harm, and it shall be done. do you ride northward as you suggest." now all along i had been a free lance in the business. lord falmouth, of whom i have spoken as hugh boscawen, because our county people preferred this honoured old name to the title which had first been given to his father--lord falmouth, i say, had insisted that i was not in a fit condition to render him active service because of my wound. in truth, as i have before intimated, he urged that i should stay for some time at tregothnan, and although i had managed to persuade him as to my fitness to travel and to meet him at veryan bay, i knew practically nothing of what he had done. that he should have been able to secure such a large number of men at such a short notice was indicative of his influence in the county. as far as that matter goes, there was no man better known or more respected, while the name of boscawen was held in reverence from land's end to the banks of the tamar, and even beyond it. at one time he was believed to have much influence in parliament, and no small amount of power over king george himself. but i, who am not a politician, cannot speak with authority on such matters. of his kinsman, the great admiral boscawen, and his prowess, all the world knows. but hugh did not possess the admiral's genius as a commander, and i could not help seeing, ignorant as i was in all matters pertaining to warfare, that the matter seemed sorely bungled, because of a failure to understand how wily uncle anthony and the killigrews were. however, i rode off with a few men, and found my way with all diligence along the coast. as boscawen had said, it was a dark, murky night, and it would be difficult to see a signal from afar. i dared not ride very near the coast, as many parts of it were dangerous; indeed it was with difficulty that we made the journey at all. the country was thickly wooded, and pathways were few. i had gone perhaps four miles beyond the spot where boscawen's men lay, keeping a sharp lookout on the coast all the way, when i stopped the horses and listened. we had been riding through fields and by the side of hedges, so as to make as little noise as possible, and i had commanded a halt because i thought i saw two or three dark forms not far away. for some minutes we listened in vain, but presently i heard the sound of footsteps coming along a lane near by. creeping silently to the hedgeside, i could detect the noise of three men coming from a northward direction. "it's all up," i heard one say. "yes, we'd better get as far from these parts as possible." "i suppose a big fire has been lit up by chapel point!" "yes, that was the signal agreed on in case of danger." "do you think they'll see it? it's a beastly night." "if they can keep it up long enough." "ah, yes; if they can do that the vessel will turn back." "i suppose so." the men passed on, and i heard them discussing the situation as they trudged in the direction of st. austell; but this was all that came to me distinctly. i had heard enough, however, to confirm my suspicions. my plan now was to send two men back with the news, and then to ride on to chapel point, a spot some distance farther north. half an hour later i was near enough to chapel point to see the ruddy glow of a beacon light, and i became sadly afraid lest hugh boscawen would not be able to send men in time to extinguish the fire before it was seen by the pretender. indeed, so much did my fears possess me that i could not remain inactive, and so, foolishly, i crept nearer and nearer the danger signal. i was drawn on by a kind of fatal fascination, and so excited did i become that i recked nothing of the danger by which i was surrounded. it soon became plain to me that the spot was well chosen. a huge fire was lit on the slope of a hill, and thus the blaze, while hidden from the neighbourhood of veryan bay, could be plainly seen by any who sailed down the channel. in the ruddy glow, too, i could see many forms; and as i thought how much depended on extinguishing the blaze before it could be seen by the rebels, i had difficulty in restraining myself from rushing thitherward single-handed. indeed i did, in order to watch their actions more closely, leave the men who accompanied me, and this, as events will show, almost led to my undoing. i had not been away from my companions more than a few minutes when i was roughly seized, and even before i had time to cry out i was dragged away into the darkness. how far i was hurried on i scarcely know; but presently when i was allowed to stop, i found myself surrounded by a dozen or more men, amongst whom i detected otho killigrew and uncle anthony. i could plainly see them, for the light from the fire threw a ruddy glare upon us. we stood in a hollow, however, and were partially sheltered. "ah, roger trevanion," said otho killigrew, and his voice was husky with savage joy. "i did not think we should meet again so soon." "no," i replied as coolly as i was able, "and you would not care to meet me now if you were not surrounded by a dozen of your followers." "i always like playing a safe game," he replied slowly as was his wont. "even although you have to be a coward; this morning you ran away from me like a whipped schoolboy." "i had matters of more importance to perform than to kill a ruffian," he replied. "apparently," i said, with a laugh i little felt, "but you miserably bungled your matters." my words evidently stung him. "have a care, roger trevanion," he said. "this morning we both used a well-worn proverb--'he who laughs last laughs best.' i think that applies to me, for in a few minutes you will have gone to that place where there will be little laughter, and where you will be in company with the personage who describes himself as travelling to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it." "scarcely," i replied. "you could never be happy without your constant friend and master." i heard uncle anthony chuckle in his quiet way, but otho went on still in cold, cruel tones: "i have not yet decided what death you shall die. i think, however, that i shall increase the brilliancy of the light yonder by using you as fuel. it will be excellent preparation for you too." "that would be just like you," i said; "you are too great a coward to try and kill me in open fight. however, let's have done with it as quickly as possible." i said this, i must confess, with difficulty; my throat was dry, and even then i could almost feel the fire burning my flesh. at the same time i knew that such words would make him desire to prolong my agony, and, in truth, his devilish desire to taunt me and make me suffer saved my life. "all in good time, roger trevanion," he said coolly. "there is no hurry for a few minutes, and the devil can wait. i have a few things to tell you, too. i have had some slight training for the priesthood, and i wish to give you a few comforting messages before you depart, just as a priest should." "go on," i said grimly, but indeed i was sore afraid. chapter xxvii. how benet killigrew and i fought in the light of the beacon fire. "of course you expect no mercy from me?" said otho presently. "i know you are too good a pupil of your master to dream of such a thing," i replied, and even as i spoke i wondered how long it would take the messenger i had sent to reach hugh boscawen, and whether help could arrive before otho had completed his designs. "be careful, roger trevanion," he said bitterly. "why?" i asked. "i know you will do your worst whatever may happen. say your say, man, and unless you gag me i shall say mine." "yes, i will say my say. oh, i know what you are thinking. well, we have sentinels in every direction, and the moment there is a sign of any friends of yours coming, we shall be warned, and that moment you shall die." my heart sank as he said this. for although i do not think i fear death more than another man, i did dread the cruelty of this man. besides, i longed for life; never, indeed, had it been so sweet to me as now. only a few hours before my dear maid nancy had laid her head on my shoulder and had sobbed out her love to me. i knew, too, that she would have a bitter enemy in otho, and if i were dead she would be a prey to his many wiles. still i determined not to betray fear. at any rate, he should not have the comfort of making me plead for mercy. "then say on," i said, "your thoughts can give you little comfort; you have been outwitted, beaten all along the line. i can die, but not before i've drawn your teeth." "except that charles will not land." "if that is any comfort to you, except that." "we may as well add another thing," he sneered; "but i will refrain, because it refers to a lady." i was silent. "oh yes, i have touched you at last, have i? well, let me give you a little comfort in that direction. the lady shall be well looked after." i looked at uncle anthony as he spoke, and saw the old man's face twitch. in spite of myself i was comforted. my dear maid was not without one friend. "perhaps i will refer to that again presently," he went on; "you will be glad to hear her name in your last minutes. but let me tell you another thing: roger trevanion, i hate you." "doubtless," i said with a sneer. "i hate you," he went on, and now he spoke quickly and passionately. "i hate you because again and again you have beaten me, and i never forgive a man who has done that. you have outwitted me--yes, i will admit it--and have made the only woman----" he stopped a second as though his passion had led him to commence a sentence which he did not know how to finish. "god is tired of you," he continued presently, "for you have hindered the true king from coming back to england, and with the true king the true faith. we owe our failure to you." "yes, you do," i replied, "you do. you thought to restore the fortunes of your dying name. religion is little to you. how can it be? but the failure of your plans to bring the pretender here is the deathblow to your hopes. to succeed you have lied, you have played the spy; you have bartered friendship, and all things good and true. well, i have beaten you. you can take a paltry revenge by killing me, but you cannot undo the fact that i have beaten you." i felt a savage joy in saying this, for at that moment i cared for nothing. "you will not fight as a man should," i went on. "when it comes to open blows you run away like a coward. you prefer plot and intrigue, and lies in the dark." "it cannot be said that you are guiltless of plot and intrigue, either," remarked uncle anthony quietly. "i have been obliged to use my enemies' weapons," i replied; "but i have betrayed no man, no woman. i have sought to hurt no man. nay, i have ever tried to befriend rather than to harm." "i know more about you than you think," remarked uncle anthony; "and at one time i should have been sorely disturbed at doing you harm, so much did i believe in you. it is little use deploring the inevitable. i am too old a man to give up because of one failure, or to cry out because god seemeth against me. but why did you interfere, roger trevanion? you, the gay spendthrift--you, who have cared but little for aught save your gaming and your revelries. why did you not live your life, and let others deal with matters of serious import? religion is naught to you. it is everything to some of us." "because the society of a pure woman made me ashamed of myself," i cried; "because she made me remember my name, my race, and my duty to my country and to god." the old man sighed, while otho spoke apart with two or three of the men. "methinks i had better have killed you this very evening," he said; "my hand was on the trigger of my pistol." "when we met?" "aye." "and i might have had you arrested," i replied. "i recognized you in spite of your disguise. i wrote a note to lord falmouth warning him that no reliance could be placed upon the information you might give. i might have added your name." "so you might," he said quietly, and he seemed in deep thought. "then this danger signal would not have been seen," he added. at that moment we heard the sound of a gun coming from across the waters. "ah!" cried voices all around me; "they have seen the danger signal. now we must leave." "but not before i have dealt with roger trevanion," cried otho killigrew; "now, you fellows, do my bidding." "not that, by god, no!" cried one of the men, "let him die as man should. i'll have naught to do with roasting." "but we owe all our failure to him," cried otho. "you have your own private grudge, no doubt," said another. "kill him as a gentleman should be killed. hot lead, cold steel, or the water, i don't mind which, but not that." i looked around as well as i could, but uncle anthony had gone, and i saw that there was a movement among the men who had waited by the fire. "then it shall be cold steel," cried otho, and he drew his sword from his sheath. if it be possible to realize a sense of satisfaction at such a moment, i realized it then. at any rate, i was not to suffer the cruel torture which otho intended. indeed, i doubt whether my mind could have withstood much longer the strain i was undergoing. for the last few days my life had been one constant excitement. every nerve was strung to the highest pitch, and although my wound was neither deep nor dangerous, it had pained me much. "they laugh best who laugh last," said otho, coming to me grimly, "and i shall laugh last, i warrant you." "be quick, then, and do your devil's work!" i cried aloud, for i was sore wrought upon. "i cannot touch you, i am bound, so you are safe. but i would to god i could die at the hands of a man, instead of a revengeful cut-throat." "no, you shall die by my hand," said otho, slowly and grimly. "no, by heaven he shall not!" cried a voice near; "whatever he is, trevanion is a brave man, and he can fight. i would i had known you were here sooner. ah, i love a man who can fight! cut the ropes, men, and let him die as a man should!" it was benet killigrew who spoke, and i saw his eyes fairly gleam with savage joy. "yes, it is i, roger trevanion," he cried; "i told you we should meet again; i told you we should fight again. faith, i almost forgive you for having spoiled all my old dad's plans; i shall have a fight after all, a real fight with a man who knows the use of a sword. aye, but i love you, trevanion. i love you!" "benet, this is not your affair," said otho; "it was agreed upon that this fellow should be taken and killed at all hazards, and that i should see it done." "i care not, otho. he is a worthy gentleman, and he shall die as becometh one. oh, you need not fear, i will kill him; but not as a butcher may kill a pig. cut his cords, men. nay i will do it myself. there, that's it. stand up, roger trevanion. ah! they have not taken your sword from you; it is well! stand around, men; there is plenty of light." for once otho killigrew yielded to his brother. perhaps he was glad to do so, for while it may be easy to kill another in hot fight, a man must have lost his manhood if he willingly and in cold blood will kill another who is helpless and bound. besides, otho knew it to be dangerous to stay there. the king's men might come at any minute. "yes, i will leave you to my brother, roger trevanion," he said slowly; "i think i am glad he came. he saves me from doing dirty work." "very dirty," i replied. "aye," he said, "just as a hangman's work is dirty. still it is necessary, and benet is better fitted for it than i. and before i go, i will give you a little information. i go to see a lady who is a mutual acquaintance. i will tell her how i left you. she will be much interested. you are about to take a long journey, and the end thereof will be dark. i wish you all the joy you can get out of it. i will tell our lady friend about it, as we caress each other and laugh at you." "coward," i cried, unable to control myself, "base, skulking coward. come back and fight me," but he laughed in his quiet way as he mounted a horse that stood near-by. "by the way," he continued, "you stole my horse, but benet will make that all right. you will soon be in congenial company--and so shall i. good-night!" "you are right, trevanion," cried benet in almost a friendly tone. "otho is a coward; he hath a way with him which drives me mad. ah, but i love you. stand around, men. now draw, man"; and putting himself in a posture of defense, he made his sword whistle about his head. "had we not better get away to a distance?" asked one who stood by. "we can now do no good by staying, and we may be in danger at any minute." "nonsense!" cried benet. "they will have heard the guns as well as we, and they will know what it means. the game is up, i tell you. besides we can never find a better place than this. here is green grass to stand on, and a rare light. now, trevanion." i drew my sword and stood before him. even as i did so i knew to whom i owed his coming. it was uncle anthony who had told him how i stood. the old man knew his disposition, knew that fighting was the breath of benet killigrew's life, and was sure that it would be untold joy to him to do battle with me again. perhaps he hoped that in some way i might be able to successfully defend myself. for the hermit felt kindly towards me, even although i had thwarted the hope of his life. strange as it may seem, however, i had almost forgotten the greater issues at stake. while i had spoken with otho and uncle anthony, and heard the mutterings of bitterness among their companions because their hopes had been frustrated, i felt that i had indeed taken part in a very important business, that, perhaps, i had changed the very life of the country. i had to some extent realized the bitter disappointment they must have felt, as well as their great anger towards me. but now my thoughts were narrowed down to smaller issues, and although just after i drew my sword i heard the dull boom of another gun resounding across the waters, i thought nothing of the rage that the young pretender must have felt, or of what it might mean to millions of people. my great thought was to sell my life dearly, for now that i was once more free i felt my own man again. i knew that benet killigrew was a great fighter, and although he had not been master in the past, i stood at great disadvantage now. i had been weakened by my wound, and my experiences of the last few days were not of a nature to fit a man to fight with such a swordsman as benet. all around me stood the dark angry faces of his friends, and i was sure that, even should i master my opponent, they would see to it that i should not escape alive. still a man at thirty-two years of age is not easily conquered. he has not lost the hot blood of youth, and he has also gained the caution and the judgment necessary to use his strength wisely. and this i determined to do. most of the men who had lit the great beacon fire were gone, and i hoped that even in spite of my dark prospects i might still be able to keep my skin whole. i knew the man who stood before me. passionate, daring, and strong as he might be, he had still the feelings of a gentleman. there was nothing cunning in his nature. he would fight openly, fight for the very joy of fighting. the ferociousness of the savage he doubtless possessed, but he had higher feelings as well. "it gives me joy to meet you, benet killigrew," i said. "if i am to die, i shall be glad to die at the hands of a brave man, rather than to be butchered by one who knows not what a swordsman ought to feel." "ah! good!" he replied, "it is not oft i can find a man who is worthy of standing before benet killigrew"--this he said with a kind of mountebank bravado peculiar to him--"and it gives joy to my soul to meet a man. i do not know much about who is the true king. i joined the business because there was a chance of a fight. but i am sick of it. no sooner was it discovered that there would be three to one against us than they all showed the white feather, and so i was robbed of a rare bit of fun. but you have turned up, trevanion, and by my soul i love you for it; and although i must kill you, because i have given my promise, i shall be fair grieved to do it." "at least we will fight as gentlemen," i replied, "and neither i am sure will take advantage of the other." "that goes without saying," he cried; "but come let us begin, we are wasting time! guard!" i must confess that all my own love for a fight was aroused in me at that moment, and i needed no further invitation. at the same time my policy was to act only on the defensive. i knew that benet would be careful, and would throw away no chances. i have thought since that the scene must in its way have been impressive. the great "danger fire" still cast its ruddy glow upon the dark faces of the men who formed a ring around us, while in the near distance the waves surged upon the rock-bound coast. it must have been far past midnight, and the winds played among the newly budding leaves which appeared on the trees in the woods nearby. above the sounds of both wind and waves could be heard the clash of our swords and the sound of benet's voice as we fought. for there was nothing cool and contained about this man. he could not help but express his feelings, and every time i parried his thrusts he gave a cry of pleasure and admiration. "it is a joy to fight with you, trevanion," he would say; "by heaven, you are a man! good! well parried!" his eyes continued to gleam with a savage joy, and he constantly laughed as though he were enjoying himself vastly. presently, however, he grew more serious, for i was very careful. i contented myself with parrying, never offering to return his thrusts, and although he tried hard he could not so much as touch me. "by heaven, fight!" he cried at length, but that i would not do. my policy was to tire him out if i could, and then disarm him. this, however, was easier said than done. he fought on with savage pleasure, showing no weakness. his wrists seemed to be made of steel, and his eyes continued to shine with a passionate light. we had been fighting for some minutes, when i thought it wise to change my tactics. i slowly yielded before him, and he thought my guard grew weaker. "ah!" he cried with satisfaction. just at that moment i heard a cry among the woods. "it's the boscawens!" cried one of the bystanders. "quick, killigrew, we shall be in danger soon!" at this my heart gave a great bound, for hope grew stronger. i might live to see my dear nancy again, and this thought nerved my arm. i thought of otho's threat, and i longed to get to restormel and see if my love was safe. i still pretended to yield to benet, and while my guard was still sufficient, i made him believe it was growing weaker. another cry came from the woods, sharper and clearer. "the signal!" cried the bystanders, "the last signal. we must be away." "no, he yields," cried benet, "and i promised to kill him, and i will keep my word. ah!" "but they will soon be here. let us settle the business for you." "no, by cormoran, no! what! benet killigrew call help? i'll fight and kill him by myself though ten thousand boscawens stand by!" "but there is danger, man! if we are caught we shall be hanged!" "can't you see i am fighting!" roared benet, still keeping his eyes upon me, and never for a moment thrown off his guard. all the same, this talk was not to his advantage. it made him somewhat rash, and i knew that my chance had nearly come. "'tis they!" one cried presently. "truscott, give me your pistol!" "i'll kill the man who interferes," said benet madly; "i promised that there should be no unfair advantage, and by heaven there shall not!" but his speech caused his own undoing. it was impossible for any man to fence well under such circumstances, and so i was able to use the chance i had long been waiting for, and his sword flew from his hand. at that moment there was the tramp of horses' hoofs and the shout of voices, and i knew that the bystanders became panic-stricken. "we cannot go without killing him," cried one. "no; very good, then"; and a bullet whizzed by my head, after which i heard retreating footsteps. "fly, benet killigrew!" i panted. "no, by god, no!" "yes," i answered; "you had not fair play. those fellows confused you. we will finish another time. if the boscawens take you, you will be hanged!" "will you fight again?" panted benet. "yes; now begone!" but it was too late. a dozen horsemen, headed by hugh boscawen, rode up to us. "safe and unhurt, trevanion?" he cried. "yes, my lord." "it is well. have they all gone! no! at least here is one prisoner." "no, i think not, my lord," i answered; "this gentleman and i have been settling a long-standing affair." "aye, but he is a rebel." "nay, my lord, let him go free," i said excitedly, for i could not bear the thought of benet being treated as a rebel. "i will swear to you that this gentleman hath never plotted against the king. he is an honourable man; but for him i should have been dead ere this." "but you were fighting with him." "the fight was a private matter, my lord. i ask you for his liberty as a special favour. i will give my word that he will never lift up his hand against the king's true subjects." "i like not to refuse you anything, trevanion," said boscawen, "you rendered such signal service. well, if the fellow will give his word that he will in no way help the pretender's cause, i will for your sake set him at liberty." "aye, i will promise, gladly," cried benet; "i hate the whole business." "then you are free," said boscawen. "good!" cried benet, "and, by heaven, i love you, trevanion; i love you! and i have your promise. another time?" "yes, another time." he took his sword, and laughed a great laugh. "it is well," he said; "i love you for a man, and you are more worthy of the maid nancy than i." he left then, and a few seconds later was lost in the darkness, for by this time the beacon fire began to burn low. of all that was said during the next half-hour i have but little remembrance. many questions were asked me which i answered as well as i was able, and many things i heard which i was but little able to understand, for my mind was sorely exercised as to what had become of my dear maid. after a time, however, i was able to get a word with hugh boscawen alone, when i told him of what otho killigrew had said. "we will go thither," he cried; "i myself will accompany you to the house. if we be quick, we shall be able to capture this fellow. he at least will be a valuable prisoner." so as quickly as possible we set out for restormel, but so anxious was i that i fretted and fumed at the delay in starting and the slowness of our journey. morning was breaking when we reached restormel, and the sight of the house set my heart beating fast for joy, for i hoped that soon i should hold my love in my arms again. but sore disappointment was in store for me. we found the house empty save for adam coad and his wife. neither of them knew where nancy was. all the old man could remember was that they had heard a noise in the house, and when they had searched for his mistress she was nowhere to be found. again i remembered otho's words, and then my overtaxed nature yielded to the continuous strain; i felt my blood grow cold and head grow dizzy. after that all became dark to me. chapter xxviii. otho killigrew's last move. i suppose i must have been sorely ill, for consciousness did not return to me for some time, and even when it did i was much bewildered and sadly weak. my memory played me many tricks, too, and i have been told since that my words were wellnigh meaningless. hugh boscawen sent for the doctor whose drugs had done me so much good the previous day, and on his arrival i was put to bed, and after having drunk a large quantity of the decoction he prepared, i became unconscious again. i suppose the stuff must have been a kind of sleeping draught, for although it was yet morning when i had been put to bed, daylight was altogether gone when i awoke. the room in which i lay was lighted by means of a candle, and by my side sat mr. inch the doctor. "how long have i been asleep?" i asked. "at the least twelve hours," and dr. inch laughed cheerfully. "twelve hours!" i cried aghast. "twelve hours, and verily i believe your life hath been saved thereby. i will now take away a little blood, and in a few days you will be well." this he said in evident good-humour with himself, as though he had effected a wondrous cure. "twelve hours!" i cried again; "then otho hath fifteen hours' start of me." "i know not what you mean. my care hath been that you should have necessary rest and restoration. this you have had. you are much better now, are you not?" "oh, i am all right," i said, sitting up in my bed; and indeed i felt quite refreshed and strong. "but where am i?" "at restormel." "oh yes, at restormel," and instantly i had grasped the whole situation. "and boscawen, where is he?" "lord falmouth hath had many matters of importance to deal with; he went away before i came, but left word, saying he would if possible return to you this evening." "but did he seek to find otho killigrew; has he any knowledge of his whereabouts? does he know where----" i stopped then, for i remembered that dr. inch must have been ignorant concerning the matter which lay so near my heart. still i could not refrain from asking many questions, although the doctor was able to give me but little satisfaction. just as i had consented to be bled, and was making ready for the operation, hugh boscawen came into the room. he had evidently spent a busy day, for he looked much wearied, but expressed delight at seeing me so well. "have you found them?" i asked, thinking of otho and nancy. "they have all escaped, except one or two foolish varlets who know nothing about the business," he replied, mistaking the purport of my question. "but i do not despair. my men are scouring the country, and i have sent messengers to london with the news. and i have not forgotten you, trevanion; i have not forgotten you." "but otho killigrew and mistress nancy molesworth, what of them?" i asked feverishly. "i have heard nothing," was the reply, "nothing at all. i wish i could get him; he and that old hermit have been the brains of the whole matter. still, do not be anxious, trevanion; i will find him. he hath no friends in these parts, and therefore can have no hiding-place. the coast is being watched everywhere too." "you do not know otho killigrew," i cried bitterly; "and it is no use telling me not to be anxious. as well tell a boat to sail steadily on a stormy sea." "it is no use fretting. all that can be done shall be done. it should be easy to find him too, for we are all faithful to the king for many a mile around, and i have given strict orders." at this my pulses started a-dancing again, for i remembered something of importance. "how long hath it been dark?" i asked. "but an hour or so." "my lord, i must get to saddle again," i cried; "and i think, if you will accompany me, you will be able to arrest otho killigrew." "good!" he cried, "but where, trevanion?" "but master trevanion must not rise," cried the doctor. "i must take an ounce of blood from him, after which he must lie still for three days." "i shall need all my blood," i cried eagerly, and in spite of all the doctor's persuasions i was soon on my feet again and ready for action. "let me have some food," i said with a laugh, for i felt my own man again, and the thought of action eased my anxious heart. food was speedily set before me, of which i partook heartily, as every man should who has work to do, and while i was eating i told hugh boscawen my plans. "know you aught of peter trevisa?" i asked. "but little," was his answer; "he is a man reputed to care for but little save his ugly son and his money bags." "have you ever been to treviscoe?" "never." "i have," i replied; "i believe otho killigrew is there. it is there he hath taken mistress nancy, i could swear it." and then i told him of the conversation i had heard between otho and young peter trevisa. "there is naught in that," remarked hugh boscawen, shaking his head doubtfully. "in itself there is but little," i answered, "but connected with all else which i have heard there is much"; and thereupon i told him of my suspicions. "it is worth trying for, anyhow," remarked hugh boscawen. "i will accompany you to treviscoe. if he be there, it accounts for my inability to find him." a little later we rode towards treviscoe, which as i have said was no great distance from restormel. we were well armed, and were also accompanied by several men, upon whose trustworthiness boscawen said he could rely. "you have paid no heed to trevisa?" i asked of him as we rode along. "no; peter trevisa hath in no way been under suspicion; besides, the place is so near restormel that i did not think there was any need. i naturally set my men farther afield." "but the coast hath been watched." "carefully." at this my heart became heavy again, for i felt sure that otho killigrew could if he would devise plans whereby all hugh boscawen's followers could be outwitted. still i trusted that the two trevisas, once having mistress nancy in their midst again, would not let her go without much hard bargaining, for i had suspicions concerning otho's plans which will leak out presently. "it will be well," i said presently, "if we enter treviscoe secretly." "but that will be impossible." "to me alone it might be; but not to you. you hold the king's commission. you can command, you can enforce threats, you can insist on your own method of entrance." "true," he replied proudly. "then i would suggest that you forbid the gatekeeper to communicate with the house concerning our entrance, and threaten him with a severe penalty if he disobeys. when we get to the house, command the servant to show us to the room where his master is--also with a threat, without letting any one know of our arrival." "i understand. yes, it shall be done." "we must surprise them. if he have time to think, they will outwit us. we must make no noise; we must enter the house unknown to its masters." "you speak wisely, trevanion--perchance trevisa hath had more to do with treason than we wot of," and by this speech he betrayed the fact that he had inherited much of his father's love for arresting people concerning whom he had any suspicions. when we came to the lodge gate, the man let us enter without any ado as soon as hugh boscawen had mentioned his name. i knew, too, by the fear expressed in his quavering voice that we need have no apprehensions concerning him. our entrance to the house, too, was effected just as easily. we crept silently along the grass which bordered the way, and when i saw that no light shone from the front windows i surmised that old peter, if he was within, was in the library, which was situated in a wing of the building in the rear of the main structure. this made our work all the easier. i knocked lightly, hugh boscawen standing by my side. an old serving-man opened the door, and gave a start of fear as soon as he saw who we were, but my companion quickly brought him to reason; indeed so great was his reverence for the name and power of the boscawens that he raised no protest whatever when he was told what he desired him to do. "utter no word to any one concerning our presence," said hugh boscawen impressively. "show us the door of the room where your master is, and depart. these men of mine will stand here within call." the old serving-man tremblingly acquiesced. "hath your master visitors?" continued hugh boscawen, still in a whisper. "he hath, my lord; but he is loyal, my lord--loyal. neither my master nor his son hath left the house these two days." i knew this to be false; all the same young peter might have met otho killigrew without the man knowing anything about it. "who are his visitors?" "i do not know, my lord." "trevanion," whispered boscawen to me, "i must serve the king. i must find out if there be any treason about." "how?" "all means are honourable in the service of the king," he replied. "we must listen." i saw his eyes gleam with eagerness; if ever man was alert to his chances, it was he. i verily believe that nothing rejoiced him more than to punish treason. we therefore crept noiselessly to the door, and soon my nerves were all a-twitch with excitement, for i heard otho killigrew's voice, and he was mentioning my own name, and i quickly judged that we had come at an opportune time. "i never wished to be harsh to a lady," said otho, "for that reason i allowed your maid to accompany you this morning; when i took you, i am afraid by guile, and somewhat unceremoniously, from the house you have thought to be yours. but all is fair in love and war. i have also allowed you to be alone throughout this day, but the time is come for the settlement of matters, and this time roger trevanion will not be able to help you." "and is it true, that is--what you told me about him?" it was my dear nancy's voice, husky and tearful, which spoke; i gripped my sword-hilt, and with difficulty kept myself from bursting open the door. hugh boscawen held my arm, however, and motioned me to be still. "to quote the great bard," replied otho in a mocking voice, "he is gone 'to that country from whose bourne no traveller returns.' trevanion sleeps with his fathers." "killed by your hand?" "nay cousin, not by my hand; by another's." "like richard, the murderous king, you hire your murderer, i suppose." "no; trevanion died in a fair fight, died by my brother benet's hand." "in fair fight, you say. where? when?" and her voice was tremulous. "in fair fight; but we need not enter into details now. he is dead, and i am suspected to have left the country with the others who led this business--spoiled, i will admit, through trevanion. but the end is not yet, and he will not spoil our plans next time. but there are other matters more important to me. my lungs pine for the air of france, and i ask you to come with me." "no, i will not go with you." "think again, my cousin; for thus i will call you, although we are not related by law. we catholics have always suffered--we suffer still. so unjust are the english laws to catholics that you to-day have according to the law no name, no home." "then why do you persecute me?" "because i love you." "i do not believe it. if you loved me, you would leave me in peace." "i do love you, i offer you my hand in marriage. i offer you my name--an old name." i heard a movement in the room, there was a sound like that of the rustling of a woman's dress. then i heard my dear maid's voice again. "otho killigrew," she said, "i know not what truth there is in what you say. i know you to be a liar. again and again have you tried to deceive me. but i do not believe you would offer to marry me if i were nameless and penniless. you--you are too base." "you mistake me, misjudge me, mistress nancy," said otho slowly. "as i tell you, roger trevanion is dead; he died before sunrise this morning by my brother benet's hand. and the other matter is also true. you have no name. let the fact become known, and you would be a wanderer, a vagrant in the county, for none would give you a home. all children born out of wedlock are despised. but i love you, i would save you from being disgraced; i desire to give you my name, i will make you my wife. true, when i sought your hand i thought you were rightfully the owner of restormel; but peter trevisa hath proved to me beyond dispute that you have no shadow of claim to it. but i love you!" "this is true, my fair lady," and i detected old peter's voice; "it is true. i have told you so before, but he!--he!" and he giggled feebly, "you know what you said." "and if i marry otho killigrew, you will keep the matter a secret, i suppose." "i would do much for otho killigrew. not that i agree with his views on politics; oh no! 'long live king george,' i say, but i would serve him in this matter, and if you wedded him i would say nothing." "and what price would he pay you for this?" "he, he!" and again the old wretch laughed feebly, "there would be no price. of course not. it is simply an arrangement--a private arrangement between two gentlemen. you see, my dear lady, i have proofs that your father was not legally married. still it is morally yours, and if you marry my friend, master otho killigrew, no one ever need to know that you are base-born." he uttered the last words in such a tone as must have wounded my dear maid sorely; but she spoke steadily and clearly for all that. "look you," she replied, "your words may be true; i am afraid they are. well, tell all you can, proclaim to the world that i am base-born in the eyes of the law. that threat shall not make me do what you ask. if i am penniless, i am penniless; but rather than marry otho killigrew i would beg my bread from door to door, i would earn my living as a servant in a farm kitchen." "it is hard to use force, my fair cousin," said otho, "but i am not beaten easily. when i set my mind upon a thing,--well, i generally get it." he hesitated again, and then went on still more slowly. "you see, i generally prepare my plans carefully beforehand. i have done so in this case. i knew your character, and i anticipated your answer. my friend trevisa is a very religious man, and hath a friend who is a clergyman. it is true he doth not bear a very high character, but that is because he hath been sadly misunderstood. still, he is a very obliging man, and has on many occasions rendered valuable service. at great risk to myself i have brought him here to-night. he will overlook the little matter of your consent, and marry us at once. you see, i love you, and--well, i desire the rents of restormel estate; i need them badly in fact." "but i will not wed you." "i say in this case, the reverend mr. winter will overlook the little matter of your consent. it is true he is not of the true faith, but i shall be willing to overlook that little matter in this case." "then i will proclaim my shame to the world. i will tell every one what you have told me." "that doth not matter. peter trevisa is the only one who holds the secret of this matter. he will at the proper time deny all knowledge of it. you see how perfectly plain-spoken i am." then my dear maid spoke again, and her voice was indeed sad. "i am all alone," she said, "i have no friends. you are many against one poor girl. very well, do your worst, i will not do one thing that you say. oh, you cowards, you poor miserable cowards! if i were a man you would not dare act so. and i do not believe any one calling himself a clergyman would do as you say; but even if he will, i will resist you to the last, and i will die by my own hand rather than"--then i heard her sob bitterly. i could bear no more. if this were a farce, i could not allow it to continue further; if they intended carrying out their threats, it was time to interfere; even hugh boscawen no longer held me back. i put my shoulder to the door and burst it open. without ado, hugh boscawen went across the room and placed his hand on otho killigrew's shoulder. "otho killigrew, i arrest you in the king's name," he said. otho did not lose his presence of mind, but turned coolly towards him. "why, my lord?" he said, "what have i done to be arrested? i defy you to prove aught against me." "that remains to be seen," he said; then he gave a whistle, and immediately his men entered. peter trevisa and his son had started to their feet and were staring at us, but were at first too frightened to speak; near them was a man dressed as a minister of the gospel, and there was no need to take a second look at him to know that he was a disgrace to his calling. doubtless he was one of those outcast clergymen who were notorious in that day, and who would for a fee perform the marriage ceremony under the most outrageous circumstances. the country had for a long time been disgraced by its marriage laws, for thereby all sorts of outrages had been committed. young squires owning much property had been dragged into inns, drugged, or made drunk, and had then been married even to fallen women on the streets. it is true that such scenes, though common in london, had not so often happened in cornwall; at the same time, some in our county had been forced into unholy alliances. all this became impossible a few years after, when lord hardwick's famous marriage act was passed; but at that time, had i not come upon the scene, i believe that otho killigrew, in spite of my dear maid's continuous refusal, would have used means to have gone through an unholy farce, and this vile clergyman's signature would have made it legal. not far from the rest otho killigrew had stood, and as i entered i had seen the look of cruel determination on his face, the look which made his brothers fear him and which told them that he would surely gain his ends. doubtless he had prepared for all exigencies, and had bargained with the two trevisas, for they, after failing to gain their way with nancy, would be willing to sell their secret to the highest bidder. my dear maid's face had been turned from me, but i saw she stood upright before them, and was in an attitude of defiance, even although she stood helpless and alone. she had not seen me; her eyes had been turned towards hugh boscawen, who had gone straight to otho killigrew; neither, i think, had any one noticed me. doubtless they all fancied i was dead, killed by benet killigrew's hand, even as otho had said. "it is a dangerous thing to arrest the king's faithful subjects," went on otho quietly, although his lips twitched nervously, "and i am faithful. true, evil reports may have been circulated about me; but who is the man who can prove treason against me? no man, my lord." "there is one, otho killigrew," i said quietly. he stared like one who had seen a ghost, and stammered incoherently, but i paid but little heed to him, for my dear maid had heard my voice, and with a cry of joy and hands outstretched came towards me. chapter xxix. the king's gratitude. for the next few minutes every one in the room was in a state of consternation, for so certain had they all been of my death that they seemed to have difficulty in believing that i could indeed be roger trevanion. even nancy, who had been cool and defiant up to now, broke quite down, and asked me again and again, sobbing and laughing at the same time, all sort of fond, foolish questions which i will not write down. presently, however, otho killigrew obtained command over himself, and said to me: "the devil hath again missed his own then. i was a fool to trust benet." "you see benet fought as a man," i replied; "unlike you, he would not act as a butcher." i was sorry afterwards that i answered him thus, for it is a coward's trick to strike a man when he is down; but when i called to mind what i had just heard i could scarce restrain myself. had he shown any signs of penitence i should have pitied him, for i saw that all hope had gone from his face, and it is easy to have kindly feelings towards a man who is beaten. peter trevisa, however, behaved differently. the old man's face was yellow with fear, for he knew the power hugh boscawen possessed. "my lord," he whined, "this is a fearful blow, a fearful blow that you should have discovered a traitor in my house. but i knew nought of it, my lord; he came here on a matter entirely different." "he did," replied hugh boscawen, "and that matter shall be sifted to the very bottom." "i do not think you--you understand, my lord," he said stammeringly. "perfectly. you were about to force this maid into an unholy marriage, and you had promised to keep secret some information you say you possess concerning her father's marriage. whatever it is, it shall be secret no longer. that i can promise you. whether you have placed yourself within the grip of the law remains to be proved. that is a question which also applies to you," he added, turning to the clergyman. "no, my lord," replied the reverend mr. winter. "i was invited here to perform a marriage ceremony in the ordinary way. i had no knowledge that anything was wrong, and should certainly have refused to comply with the wishes of master otho killigrew after having understood the lady's sentiments." it was, of course, impossible to prove that the man spoke lies, as the man had uttered no word before, and we knew nothing of the history of his coming. "well, everything shall be sifted to the bottom," repeated hugh boscawen, "and justice shall be done to all. as far as mistress molesworth is concerned, she shall accompany me to tregothnan this very night. as for you, trevanion, you will naturally want to go to your home." "pardon me, my lord," said old peter trevisa, his avarice overcoming his fear, "he hath no home." "hath no home, what mean you?" "trevanion is mine, my lord; i possess all the deeds, and roger trevanion hath no right to go there." "i have heard something of this," said boscawen; "tell me all the details." whereupon peter told him of his relations with my father and of the episode which i described in the beginning of this history. "i think you have not told all, master peter trevisa." it was nancy who spoke. "there is nothing more to tell--nothing," snarled peter. "there is much," replied nancy. "then tell it if you care; tell it." but she was silent. she remembered that a recital of the scene would give me pain, and spoke no word. "i will tell it, my lord," i said; "the time hath come when it should be told. i did a base thing, i made a bargain with this man. he has told you how he became sole possessor of trevanion, but, as mistress nancy has declared, there is more to tell. this man bade me come here, and he promised me that if i would bring mistress nancy molesworth here he would give me back the deeds of the estate and forgive half the sum i owed him." "but what was his purpose in proposing this?" "i knew not at the time, my lord. i was reckless, foolish, extravagant; and to my eternal shame i made a bargain with him. after much difficulty i brought her here, but not until i had besought her not to come. you see she had made me so ashamed of myself that i loathed the mission i had undertaken. i told her the history of what i had done, and in spite of all my advice she insisted on coming." "i see. then you can claim your own." "i offered it, my lord, offered it before an attorney, but he refused, he--he would not take it." "is that true, trevanion?" "it is, my lord. i--i could not take the price of my base deed." hugh boscawen looked at me steadily; he was a gentleman, and understood that which was in my heart. "that, too, must be investigated," he said quietly; "but still you have not told me trevisa's object in asking you to bring mistress molesworth here." "it was this secret, my lord. he thought she was base like himself. he believed she would be glad to wed his son when he placed his case before her." "and she, of course, refused?" "yes, my lord." hugh boscawen seemed to be thinking for a few seconds, then he said quietly: "yes, mistress molesworth shall accompany me to tregothnan until the matter be investigated, and you, trevanion, must go to your old home. trevisa hath not complied with the usual formalities in calling in the mortgages, hence the place is still yours." "no, no; it is mine, my lord," cried old peter. "it is my advice, my wish that you go there, trevanion, and you have the right." "and i, my lord?" remarked otho, who had been listening intently, "may i be privileged to know where i am to go?" "you are a prisoner," replied boscawen. it was sore grief for me to see my dear maid ride away with boscawen, even although it was best for her to do so. indeed there seemed no way in which i could serve her. in spite of her safety, therefore, i rode to trevanion with a sad heart; for truly all seemed darkness when she was not near. i was weak and ill, too, for although i had disobeyed dr. inch in going to treviscoe that night, i was scarcely fit to undertake the journey. it was late when i reached trevanion, so late that the servants had gone to bed, but old daniel was quickly aroused, and no sooner did he know that it was i who called to him than his joy knew no bounds. in a few minutes every servant in the place was dressed, all eager to serve me. the tears come into my eyes as i write even now, for i call to mind the looks on their faces, their tearful eyes, and their protestations of joy. i suppose i had been an indulgent master, but i had done nothing to deserve the affection they lavished on me. "god bless 'ee, master roger; god bless 'ee!" they said again and again as they hovered around me. all this gave me sadness as well as joy, because of the fact that shortly they would all have to seek another master. once back in the old home again, it became dearer to me than ever. each room had its history, every article of furniture was associated with some incident in the history of the trevanions. again and again i wandered around the house, and then, unable to restrain myself, i went out into the night and wandered among the great oaks in the park, and plucked the early spring flowers. the night had become gloriously fine, and i could plainly see the outlines of the old homestead, which was never so dear to me as now. i heard the clock striking the hour, and although it was two in the morning, i did not go in, it was so joyful to breathe the pure spring air and to wander among the places i had haunted as a boy. "maaster roger!" it was old daniel who shouted. "yes, daniel; anything the matter?" "aw, no sur, we was onnly wonderin' ef you wos oal saafe, sur; tes oal right." "if it were only really mine," i thought, "and if those faithful old servants could only have my dear nancy as mistress. if i could but bring her here, and say, 'this is all yours, my dear maid.'" well, why could i not? it was still in my power. mr. hendy still held the papers. it _was_ mine. but only by accepting the price of base service. no, i could not be happy if i took advantage of the bargain. the look in my dear maid's eyes forbade me. but what could i do? she was nameless, and would, i was afraid, soon be homeless and friendless. lord falmouth had told me to wait until i heard from him, before i went to tregothnan, and until that time i should not be able to see her. i would have gone to london and offered my services to the king but for my promise to await boscawen's commands. i was sorely troubled about these things, and yet it was a joy to be at trevanion, joy beyond words. for i was at home, and my dear nancy loved me. destitute we might be, but we were still rich in each other's love, and as i remembered this i laughed aloud, and sang snatches of the songs i had sung as a boy. "daniel," i shouted. "yes, sur." "where is chestnut?" "in the stable, sur." i made my way thither, and chestnut trembled for very joy at the sight of me. if ever a horse spoke, he spoke to me in the joyful whinny he gave. he rubbed his nose against me, and seemed to delight in my presence. after all, my homecoming was not without its joys. "whoever leaves me, my beauty," i cried, "you shall not leave me; and to-morrow we'll have a gallop together; you and i, chestnut, do you hear?" and chestnut heard and understood, i am sure, for he whinnied again, and when i left the stable he gave a cry as if he sorrowed at seeing me go. the last few weeks had been very strange to me, but i did not regret them. how could i? had i not found my nancy? had i not won the love of the dearest maid in the world? presently when i went to my bedroom i knelt down to pray. it was many years since i had prayed in this bedroom, not indeed since boyhood, but i could not help asking god to forgive my past and to thank him for making me long to be a better man. i prayed for my dear nancy, too; i could not help it, for she was as dear to me as my heart's blood, and it was through her that god had shown me what a man ought to be. i did not sleep long, i could not; as soon as daylight came i rose and went out to hear the birds sing and to drink in the fresh sweet air of the morning. everywhere life was bursting into beauty, and the sun shone on the glittering dew-drops. presently the dogs came up to me and greeted me with mad, rollicking joy and gladsome barking; and then, when i went back to the house, the servants came around me bidding me a pleasant good-morning, and hoping i was well. "you'm home for good, i hope, sur," they said again and again; "tes fine and wisht wethout 'ee, sur; tes like another plaace when you be here, sur." and then although i tried, i could not tell them they would soon have to leave me, and that i was only there on sufferance. after that many days passed away without news coming from any quarter. i saw no visitors save lawyer hendy, and he was less communicative and more grim than i had ever known him before. he professed entire ignorance of peter trevisa's plans, also of the investigation which hugh boscawen was making. it was very hard for me to refrain from going to tregothnan, and demanding to see my nancy, for truly my heart hungered more and more for her each day. i heard strange rumours concerning the killigrews, but knew nothing for certain. of otho it was said that he had escaped from the king's men and was again at liberty, and this made me sore uneasy, for i knew that many schemes would be forming in his fertile brain; but, as i said, i knew nothing for certain. i still stayed at trevanion, seldom going beyond the boundary of the estate, for hugh boscawen had charged me concerning this when we had parted. at length, however, when many days had passed away, a messenger came to me from tregothnan bearing a letter which summoned me thither without delay. so i mounted chestnut, and before long i was closeted with hugh boscawen in the library of his old home. "you expected to hear from me before, trevanion?" he said cheerily. "i did, my lord," i replied, "and it hath been weary waiting." "i have not been idle," he replied. "it is but yesterday that i returned from london. i have held converse with his gracious majesty, king george ii." i waited in silence, for i did not see what this had to do with me. "you found all well at trevanion, i hope?" "all well, my lord." "you love the old place?" "dearly, as you may imagine." "i can quite understand. this old house now--i have often been advised to pull it down and build something more modern, but for the life of me i cannot. every room, every stone is dear to me. probably my sons, or my sons' sons, will build a more pretentious dwelling, but this is good enough for me. it is a pity your pride forbids you from keeping that old place of yours. the trevisas would turn it into a dog-kennel. ought you not to reconsider the question?" "i have considered it many times, my lord, but the thing is impossible. i did a base thing to promise trevisa what i did, and to make a bargain with him; it would be baser still to receive the wages of service, unworthy my name." "ah well, you should know your own affairs, only it seems sad that you, the last member of a branch of your house, should be houseless, landless, and all for a fad." "better a trevanion should be landless than take the price of dishonour," i said. "mistress nancy molesworth hath made me feel this. i hope she is well?" i brought in her name because i was longing to hear news concerning her. "we will speak of her presently; but yes, i may say the young person is well. i understand, then, that you have decided to leave trevanion rather than profit by your bargain with trevisa?" "i can do no other, my lord." "no, you cannot, trevanion, you cannot. still you are not going to leave trevanion." "i am afraid it cannot be helped." "many things are possible when kings speak." "i am afraid i do not understand," i said with a fast-beating heart. "then i will make you understand. i have, as i told you, but just returned from london; i have held converse with his gracious majesty, king george ii. i have told him your story. i have informed him of the signal service you have rendered." "yes, my lord," i said, like one in a dream. "he is not ungrateful, nay, he is much pleased; and as a reward for your fidelity and bravery, trevanion is yours free of all incumbrances." what followed after that i have but a dim remembrance, for indeed i was unable to pay much heed to the details which he communicated to me. enough that trevanion was mine, and that i could now give a home to my dear maid. "with regard to the other matter," went on hugh boscawen, "the king could not interfere. the question of the law comes in, and the law is sacred. the matter is not yet settled, but i am afraid everything will pass to the next of kin." i said nothing, and although i knew it would be a sore blow to my dear maid, i am afraid it troubled me but little, for had i not trevanion to offer her? "it will be a sad blow to the maid," said boscawen, "not simply because of the loss of the lands, but she is also without name. foolish as it may seem, the fact of the illegality of her father's marriage, even although he thought all was well, will ruin her chances for life. some yeoman might marry her, but no one of higher position. you, for example, would not give her your name. you could not. high as the trevanions have stood, your friends would close their doors to such a wife." "that would not matter, my lord," i answered quickly. "do you know young john polperro too?" he asked without noticing my interruption. "i have seen him once," i replied. "it was at endellion, was it not?" "yes, my lord." "he has been here this morning." "indeed," i said, and although i scarce knew why, i became strangely excited. "he had heard of my return, and rode here with all speed. news had reached him that i had assumed the guardianship of the maid. he had heard nothing of--of trevisa's secret, and he came to repeat his offer of marriage." "did he see her?" i asked. "no," replied hugh boscawen dryly, "he did not even ask for that honour." "no," i replied, much relieved; "why not?" "he seemed eager to plead his cause until i told him the truth, and then----" "what?" i asked. "he said he would consult his father." i laughed aloud. "you seem merry, trevanion." "yes, i am," i replied. "it shows the value of the love he protested at endellion. but it would not have mattered, she would not have listened to him." "i suppose i can guess your reason for saying this?" "most likely," i replied. "but surely, trevanion, you will not--that is, consider, man. it would not be simply wedding a penniless bride; she is worse than penniless. you see this stain upon her birth closes the door of every house in the country to her." "not all," i cried. "you see," he went on, "you will now hold your head high when it is noised abroad, as it soon will be, that you have received favour from the king, that trevanion is yours free from all encumbrance, you will be able to choose your bride from the fairest and the richest. besides, you must think of further advancements at the king's hands. that would become impossible if you wedded this maid." "my lord," i cried, "i love her! i never loved a woman before. i thought i did ten years ago, and when she proved false i vowed i could never trust a woman again. but now----" "but now, what?" "you can guess, my lord." "then you are bent on marrying her?" "i am going to beg her, to beseech her if needs be," i replied. "you say she is still in this house, my lord. should i be imposing too much on your kindness if i ask that i may see her. i have not beheld her for many days, and my heart hungers for her sorely." "how old are you, trevanion?" "past thirty-two," i replied. "you are not a boy," he said like one musing, "and you ought to know your mind." then he looked steadily in my face as though he would read my inmost thoughts. "he is right," he cried, looking fiercely out of the window and across the broad rich valley where the clear water of the river coiled. he seemed communing with himself and thinking of some event in his own past life. "he is right," he repeated still fiercely; "by god, i would do it myself if i were in his place!" he left the room abruptly without looking at me, and i was left alone. minutes passed, i know not how many, and i stood waiting for my love. whatever might be the truth concerning her father's marriage, it was naught to me. now that i had a home to offer her, everything was plain, and i could have shouted aloud in my joy. had she been a beggar maid it would not have mattered; i loved her with all the strength of my life, and my love had made me careless concerning the thoughts of the world. for love is of god, and knows nothing of the laws of man. besides, i had looked into the depths of her heart; i had seen her sorrow when she thought i was in danger. i remembered the light which shone from her eyes when she came to me that night at restormel. i remembered the tone of her voice when she had sobbed out my name. i heard a rustle of a woman's dress outside the door, and eagerly, just like a thoughtless boy, i ran and opened it; and then i saw my nancy, pale and wan, but still my nancy,--and then i wanted naught more. chapter xxx. in which uncle anthony plays his harp. now of what nancy and i said to each other during the next few minutes there is no need for me to write. at first joy conquered all other feelings, and we lived in a land from whence all sorrow had fled, but by and by she began to talk about "good-byes," and a look of sadness dimmed the bright light in her eyes. so i asked her the meaning of this, and it soon came out that she had been grieving sorely concerning the dark shadow which had fallen upon her life. she had learned from hugh boscawen probably about her father's marriage being invalid, and she felt her position keenly. for although she had been treated with great kindness at the home of the boscawens, she could not help believing that she was there on sufferance and not as an honoured guest. so to cheer her i told her of the good fortune that had befallen me, and how hugh boscawen had been commissioned to give me back my old home as a reward for the services i had rendered to my country. at this she expressed much joy, but persisted in saying that my good fortune had removed us further away from each other than ever. and then she repeated what hugh boscawen had said a few minutes before, and declared that she would never stand in the way of my advancement. "and what would advancement be to me if i have not you, nancy?" i asked. she thought it would be a great deal. "and do you love me, my dear?" i asked. she thought i had no need to ask such a question. "then suppose you were mistress of restormel, and i were without home, would you let me go away because i was poor and what the world called disgraced?" and at this my nancy began to laugh, even while her eyes grew dim with tears. "no, roger," she said; "but--but you are so different." after that i would hear no further objections, neither indeed did she offer more, for she saw that they grieved me, and so it soon came about that she gave her consent to be the mistress of the home which i had won back. "but you are giving me everything, and i am giving you nothing," she said. "nay," i replied, "but you can give me more, a thousand times more, than i can give you. even although i could give you trevanion a hundred times over, my gift would be as nothing compared with yours." "and what can i give you?" she asked as if she were wondering greatly. "nancy molesworth," i answered, and then the light came back to her eyes again, and she came to me joyfully, even as she had come at restormel. now those who read this may regard what i have written as the foolish meanderings of a lovesick swain, and not worthy of being written down; nevertheless it gives me joy beyond measure to think of that glad hour when i was able to make my nancy laugh again. for i who for years had laughed at love had entered into a new life, and now all else was as nothing compared with the warm kisses she gave me and the words of love she spoke. true, i had passed my boyhood, but i have discovered that, no matter what our age maybe, the secret of all life's joy is love. surely, too, god's love is often best expressed in the love of the one woman to whom a man gives his heart, and the love of the children that may be born to them. i would not wait long for our wedding-day, neither, indeed, did my nancy desire it; and so three weeks later i took her to trevanion, where she was welcomed by my old servants, even as though she were sent direct to them from god. and in truth this was so. now the wedding feast at trevanion was not of a kind that found favour in the county, for by my dear maid's wish we had none of high degree among us, save hugh boscawen only, who, in spite of his many duties, spent some hours with us. indeed, he did not leave till near sundown, for, in spite of the many cares which pressed upon him, he seemed to rejoice in the thought of our love, and in the glad shouts of the youths and maidens who danced beneath the trees on the closely shorn grass. for my own part, my heart was overfull with gladness, for never surely was the world so fair to any man as it was to me that june day. all around the birds were singing as if to give a welcome to nancy, while everywhere the gay flowers gloried in their most beauteous colours as though they wished to commemorate our wedding-day. away in the far distance we could hear the shout of the hay-makers, and above us the sun shone in a cloudless sky. everything was in the open air, for although i loved the very walls of the old house, my nancy desired that the wedding guests should be received on the grassy lawns, where all was fair and free, and where we could hear the distant murmur of the sea. and indeed it was best so. there the farmers and their wives, whose families had been tenants for many generations, conversed more freely, while the young men and their sweethearts danced more gaily. but best of all, my nancy rejoiced beyond measure, especially when the old servants and tenants came to her and wished her all happiness. for no one seemed to know but that she was the owner of restormel. neither peter trevisa nor his son had breathed one word concerning their secret, and hugh boscawen had held his peace. when the sun was sinking behind the trees and lighting up the western sky with wondrous glory, the man to whom i owed so much took his leave. "trevanion, you are a happy man," he said. i did not reply save to give a hearty laugh and to press nancy's hand, which lay on my arm. "i am afraid there may be dark days for england ahead, but you, trevanion, have entered into light. now, then, before i go let me see your tenants and servants dance again." so i called to the old fiddlers, men who had lived in the parish all their lives, and they struck up "sir roger de coverley," when old and young laughed alike. "all seem happy save yon old blind beggar," remarked my friend; "he seems sad and hungry." "then he shall not be sad and hungry long," i said, noting for the first time an old man on the lawn; "stay a little longer, and you shall see that he will soon be as happy as the rest." "no," replied boscawen; "i give you good evening, and all joy," and therewith he went away. "fetch yon old man, daniel, and give him of the best of everything," i said; "food and drink, aye, and a pipe and tobacco too. no man shall be sad and weary to-day if i can help it." so daniel fetched him, and all the while young and old laughed and danced for very joy, aye, white-haired tottering old men and women, as well as the little children made the place ring with their joyous shouts. "you are happy, my love, are you not?" i said turning to the dear maid at my side. "yes, perfectly happy, but for one cloud in the sky." "nay, there must be nothing. tell me what that one cloud is, and i will drive it away." "i cannot help it. you give me everything, and i give you nothing. i never cared for restormel till you told me you loved me. i do not care about it for myself now--only for you, roger. if i could bring you something now----" "please sir, that old man wants to speak to you." i turned and saw the old beggar standing by daniel's side. "i wish you joy on your wedding-day," he said in a thin quavering voice. he was much bent, and his eyes were nearly covered with green patches. "thank you, old man," i said, "let them bring you food and drink. you are weary, sit down on this chair and rest." "i wish my lady joy, too," he said; "full joy, complete joy. that is an old man's blessing, and that is what i bring to her. may i--may i kiss my lady's hand?" now i was not over-pleased at this; but another glance at the poor old creature drove away all unkind thought; besides, it was my wedding-day. and so nancy gave him her hand to kiss. "may every cloud depart from your sky, my sweet lady," he said; "aye, and by god's blessing the last cloud shall be driven away." at this i started, for he had been repeating our own words. i looked at him again, and my heart beat strangely. "let me add joy to the day, and not sorrow," he continued. "let me bring my harp, and i will play the old cornish melodies, and i will tell the old cornish stories." "but not until you have had food and rest," said my dear nancy. he would not wait for this, however, so the people flocked around him, and he played and sung wondrously for such an old man. after this he told the people stories which moved the wedding guests much, first to tears and then to laughter. "you shall stay at the house to-night, old man," i said; "what is your name?" "i have many names," he replied, "but many call me david, because i am cunning with the harp and can charm away evil spirits, even as king david of old charmed away the evil spirits from the heart of saul. there is only one sad thought in the heart of your dear lady to-night, and that my harp shall charm away." after the guests were all gone that night i called the old minstrel to the room where my forefathers had sat, and where my nancy and i had come. the lights were not yet lit, for it was near midsummer, and the night shone almost like day. the windows were open too, and i cared not to shut out the sweet air of that summer evening. he came, bearing his harp with him, and when we were alone i spoke freely. "uncle anthony," i said, "take off the patches from your eyes and stand upright." "ah, you have penetrated my disguise?" he said. "even before you spoke so strangely," i replied. "i will not take off my patches, and i must not stay at your house to-night, roger trevanion," he said quietly. "in an hour from now i must be on my way again." "but why?" "i am not yet safe. for the present i will say no more. sometime, perchance, i may come to your house as an honoured guest." "and you shall have a royal welcome," was my answer. "but before i go, i would drive away the one cloud in the sky." i did not speak, for truly i was in the dark as to his meaning. "you, my lady nancy," said uncle anthony, turning towards her, "believe that you are not mistress of restormel. i found out old peter trevisa's secret, and so, although my heart was saddened at the failure of my plans, and although you, roger trevanion, caused their failure, i determined, after all our hopes were shattered, that i would find out the truth." "and what have you discovered?" i asked eagerly. "i have been to ireland--to many places," he answered, "and now i have come to give my lady nancy her wedding dowry. here it is," and he placed a package in my love's hands. "there is proof," he went on, "that your father's marriage was valid, proof that none can deny, and so restormel is rightfully yours." at this my dear love broke down altogether, for she had never dreamed of this, but soon her tears were wiped away and her eyes shone again. "o roger!" she cried, "i am glad now that you thought i was poor when you married me." concerning the meaning of this i have asked her many times, but she will not tell me, neither can i think what it is, for i am sure she never doubted my love. "and what hath become of the killigrews?" i asked presently, after many things were said which i need not here write down. "they were hunted from place to place as though they had been foxes," replied uncle anthony. "old colman hath died of disappointment; aye, more than disappointment--of a broken heart; all the rest, with the exception of benet and otho, have escaped to france. they will never come back to england again." "and benet and otho," i asked, "where are they?" "otho escaped," cried the old man with a low laugh; "he is as cunning as the devil. he hath gone to scotland, and hath joined the highlanders." "and benet?" "benet deserved a better fate. after you and he fought that night," and again the old man laughed in his low meaning way, "and he had rejoined his companions, he complained much of the way matters had been managed, and declared that he would no more lift up his hand against the king. whereupon many being savage with drink, and mad at the words he spoke, accused him of desiring not to kill you. this led to many unwise things being said, and presently many of them turned upon him like a troop of jackals turn upon a lion." "but he fought them?" "aye, and rejoiced in it, for fighting is the breath of benet's life. but they were too many for him,--one acted a coward's part and stabbed him in the back." now at this my heart was sore, for although benet and i had scarcely ever met save to fight, and although he was a wild savage fellow, i could not help loving him. "but he died like a man," i cried; "he showed no fear?" "he died grandly. he had but one regret at dying, he said." "and that?" i asked eagerly. "i was not there, but one who was, told me. 'aye, i am grieved,' he said, 'trevanion promised to fight me. he was the only real man who ever faced me, and now i shall not live to prove that i was the better man of the two.'" we kept uncle anthony more than an hour, but we could not prevail upon him to stay all night. it was not for him, he said, to stay at trevanion on the night after our wedding-day, but before he went he told us many things concerning his life which i could not understand before. i need not write them down here, for he would not wish it. i will only say that the remembrance of the love he once bore for a maid made him love nancy as a daughter, and this almost led to a breach between him and the killigrews. "you will come again as soon as you can?" i said to him when at length he left the house. "aye, as soon as i can. may god bless you, roger trevanion." "he hath blessed me," i answered; "blessed me more than i believed possible." "and god bless you, mistress nancy trevanion," he said, turning to my dear wife. "and may god bless you, uncle anthony." "yes, uncle anthony, that is the name i love most. may i kiss your hand again, dear lady?" "yes," said my nancy. "not only your hand, dear lady, but your brow, if i may." "yes, yes," was nancy's response. "i loved a maid many years ago," he said; "her face was pure like yours, my child, and her eyes shone with the same light, and she--she was called nancy." he kissed her forehead with all the passionate fervour of a boy, and then went away without speaking another word. of the packet he brought my dear wife i need say little, save that when i showed it to mr. hendy, my lawyer, he remarked that none could doubt its value. it proved beyond all dispute the validity of godfrey molesworth's marriage with nancy killigrew, although the wedding took place in ireland under peculiar circumstances. and then it came about that restormel passed into our hands without question, and people who would doubtless have treated her with scorn, had the marriage been illegal, now desired to claim her friendship. i have often wondered since that night whether the nancy which uncle anthony had loved long years before was not the nancy killigrew who became godfrey molesworth's wife, and my nancy's mother. hugh boscawen rejoiced greatly over my dear wife's good fortune, and i have since been given to understand that it was through him peter trevisa had uttered no word concerning his secret, and that he was using all his influence with the king in order to persuade him to seek to use means whereby my nancy might be able to rightfully claim her name and fortune. concerning this, however, he would never speak to me, although i asked him many times. not long after our marriage, however, serious matters disturbed the country, and hugh boscawen became much perturbed. charles the pretender succeeded in landing in scotland with a very few followers, and immediately he was joined by a large number of highlanders. concerning his fortunes there is of course no need to speak. all the country rang with the news of his victories, and finally of his defeat. few, however, seem to realize that, had he landed in cornwall months before, his fortunes might have been different. some there are who say that there was never a danger of his coming to a part of the country where his chances would have been so poor, and many more say that the army of brave-hearted cornishmen were gathered together by boscawen without reason. but what i have set down shows that the man whom the world calls lord falmouth, and whom i always love to think of as hugh boscawen, although not a great leader of armies, was still wise in his times, and a true lover of his king and country. otho killigrew became a follower of the pretender in scotland, and had charles stuart been successful in his enterprises, he would doubtless have given otho as high a place as that which tom killigrew occupied at the court of charles ii., perhaps higher, for he was cunning beyond most men; but at the battle of culloden moor, which the duke of cumberland won, and when the pretender's forces were utterly routed, otho was killed. thus it was that endellion as well as restormel came to nancy, for none of the killigrews who fled to france dared to come back and claim their old home. it was not of much value to us, however, for both house and lands were mortgaged for all they were worth. i live at trevanion still, for, although restormel is a fine and larger house, it is not home to me, neither is it to nancy for that matter, and we shall never think of leaving the spot endeared by long association and obtained through the favour of the king. besides, we could not be as happy anywhere else. all the servants know us and love us, and old daniel, although he grows weak and feeble now, thinks no one can serve us as well as he. amelia lanteglos, or rather amelia daddo, is no longer maid to nancy, for she hath married her one-time lover, who now hath a farm on the trevanion estate; but jennifer lanteglos is with us, and no more faithful servant can be found anywhere. our eldest son, roger molesworth, is true to the name he bears, for he hath inherited all his mother's beauty, and looks forward to the time when he will inherit restormel and live on the estate; but our second son, benet, cares for none of these things. he is big and daring and strong like the man after whom he is named, and cares for nothing so much as the wild free life of the country. i tell nancy that he resembles benet in many ways, and she, with the mother's love shining from her eyes, says that he possesses all benet killigrew's virtues but none of his vices. i have but little to tell now, and that little shall be told quickly. about a year after the final defeat of the pretender, and when the country had settled down into peace, jennifer lanteglos came into the room where my nancy and i sat alone together, save for the presence of molesworth, who crowed mightily as he lay in his cradle. "please, sur, an old man is at the door asking if he may come in and tell tales." "let him come in, jennifer," i said. "in the kitchen, sur?" "no, in here," for a great hope was in my heart. a few seconds later an old man entered the room bearing a harp. "welcome home, uncle anthony," i said. "no, not home," he said tremblingly, "but i will stay one night if you will let me." "no, always," said my dear nancy, "stay for the sake of my mother, the other nancy." he is with us still, and is much respected in our parish. no one knows the part he played in the days before nancy became my wife, and although i believe hugh boscawen hath his suspicions, he says nothing. the end. public library, the hathitrust digital library, and google. flemington by violet jacob (mrs. arthur jacob) author of "the interloper," "the sheep-stealers," &c. london john murray, albemarle street, w. to evelyn frances munro author's note this book has no claim to be considered an historical novel, none of the principal people in it being historic characters; but the taking of the ship, as also the manner of its accomplishment, is true. v. j. contents book i chapter page i. prologue ii. jetsam iii. a coach-and-five iv. business v. "the happy land" vi. in darkness and in light vii. treachery viii. the heavy hand ix. "toujours de l'audace" book ii x. adrift xi. the guns of montrose xii. inchbrayock xiii. the interested spectator xiv. in search of sensation xv. wattie has theories xvi. the two ends of the line xvii. society xviii. balnillo finds perfection book iii xix. the winter xx. the parting of the ways xxi. huntly hill xxii. huntly hill (_continued_) xxiii. the muir of pert xxiv. the vanity of men xxv. a royal duke xxvi. the vanishing bird xxvii. epilogue book i flemington chapter i prologue mr. duthie walked up the hill with the gurgle of the burn he had just crossed purring in his ears. the road was narrow and muddy, and the house of ardguys, for which he was making, stood a little way in front of him, looking across the dip threaded by the water. the tall white walls, discoloured by damp and crowned by their steep roof, glimmered through the ash-trees on the bank at his right hand. there was something distasteful to the reverend man's decent mind in this homely approach to the mansion inhabited by the lady he was on his way to visit, and he found the remoteness of this byway among the grazing lands of angus oppressive. the kilpie burn, travelling to the river isla, farther west, had pushed its way through the undulations of pasture that gave this particular tract, lying north of the sidlaws, a definite character; and the formation of the land seemed to suggest that some vast ground-swell had taken place in the earth, to be arrested, suddenly, in its heaving, for all time. thus it was that a stranger, wandering about, might come unwarily upon little outlying farms and cottages hidden in the trough of these terrestrial waves, and find himself, when he least awaited it, with his feet on a level with some humble roof, snug in a fold of the braes. it was in one of the largest of these miniature valleys that the house of ardguys stood, with the kilpie burn running at the bottom of its sloping garden. mr. duthie was not a stranger, but he did not admire the unexpected; he disliked the approach to ardguys, for his sense of suitability was great; indeed, it was its greatness which was driving him on his present errand. he had no gifts except the quality of decency, which is a gift like any other; and he was apt, in the company of madam flemington, to whose presence he was now hastening, to be made aware of the great inconvenience of his shortcomings, and the still greater inconvenience of his advantage. he crossed the piece of uneven turf dividing the house from the road, and ascended the short flight of stone steps, a spare, black figure in a three-cornered hat, to knock with no uncertain hand upon the door. his one great quality was staying him up. like the rest of his compeers in the first half of the seventeen hundreds, mr. duthie wore garments of rusty blue or grey during the week, but for this occasion he had plunged his ungainly arms and legs into the black which he generally kept for the sabbath-day, though the change gave him little distinction. he was a homely and very uncultured person; and while the approaching middle of the century was bringing a marked improvement to country ministers as a class, mentally and socially, he had stood still. he was ushered into a small panelled room in which he waited alone for a few minutes, his hat on his knee. then there was a movement outside, and a lady came in, whose appearance let loose upon him all those devils of apprehension which had hovered about him as he made his way from his manse to the chair on which he sat. he rose, stricken yet resolute, with the cold forlorn courage which is the bravest thing in the world. as madam flemington entered, she took possession of the room to the exclusion of everything else, and the minister felt as if he had no right to exist. her eyes, meeting his, reflected the idea. christian flemington carried with her that atmosphere which enwraps a woman who has been much courted by men, and, though she was just over forty-two, and a grandmother, the most inexperienced observer might know how strongly the fires of life were burning in her still. an experienced one would be led to think of all kinds of disturbing subjects by her mere presence; intrigue, love, power--a thousand abstract yet stirring things, far, far remote from the weather-beaten house which was the incongruous shell of this compelling personality. dignity was hers in an almost appalling degree, but it was a quality unlike the vulgar conception of it; a dignity which could be all things besides distant; unscrupulous in its uses, at times rather brutal, outspoken, even jovial; born of absolute fearlessness, and conveying the certainty that its possessor would speak and act as she chose, because she regarded encroachment as impossible and had the power of cutting the bridge between herself and humanity at will. that power was hers to use and to abuse, and she was accustomed to do both. in speech she could have a plain coarseness which has nothing to do with vulgarity, and is, indeed, scarcely compatible with it; a coarseness which is disappearing from the world in company with many better and worse things. she moved slowly, for she was a large woman and had never been an active one; but the bold and steady brilliance of her eyes, which the years had not faded, suggested swift and sudden action in a way that was disconcerting. she had the short, straight nose common to feline types, and time, which had spared her eyes, was duplicating her chin. her eyebrows, even and black, accentuated the heavy silver of her abundant unpowdered hair, which had turned colour early, and an immense ruby hung from each of her tiny ears in a setting of small diamonds. mr. duthie, who noticed none of these things particularly, was, nevertheless, crushed by their general combination. it was nine years before this story opens that christian flemington had left france to take up her abode on the small estate of ardguys, which had been left to her by a distant relation. whilst still almost a child, she had married a man much older than herself, and her whole wedded life had been spent at the court of james ii. of england at st. germain, whither her husband, a scottish gentleman of good birth in the exiled king's suite, had followed his master, remaining after his death in attendance upon his widow, mary beatrice of modena. flemington did not long survive the king. he left his wife with one son, who, on reaching manhood, estranged himself from his mother by an undesirable marriage; indeed, it was immediately after this latter event that christian quitted her post at court, retiring to rouen, where she lived until the possession of ardguys, which she inherited a few months later, gave her a home of her own. different stories were afloat concerning her departure. many people said that she had gambled away the greater part of her small fortune and was forced to retrench in some quiet place; others, that she had quarrelled with, and been dismissed by, mary beatrice. others, again, declared that she had been paid too much attention by the young chevalier de st. george and had found it discreet to take herself out of his way; but the believers in this last theory were laughed to scorn; not because the world saw anything strange in the chevalier's alleged infatuation, but because it was quite sure that christian flemington would have acted very differently in the circumstances. but no one could be certain of the truth: the one certain thing was that she was gone and that since her retreat to rouen she had openly professed whig sympathies. she had been settled at ardguys, where she kept her political leanings strictly to herself, for some little time, when news came that smallpox had carried off her son and his undesirable wife, and, as a consequence, their little boy was sent home to the care of his whig grandmother, much against the will of those jacobites at the court of st. germain who were still interested in the family. but as nobody's objection was strong enough to affect his pocket, the child departed. 'madam' flemington, as she was called by her few neighbours, was in correspondence with none of her old friends, and none of these had the least idea what she felt about her loss or about the prospect of the child's arrival. she was his natural guardian, and, though so many shook their heads at the notion of his being brought up by a rank whig, no one was prepared to relieve her of her responsibility. only mary beatrice, mindful of the elder flemington's faithful services to james, granted a small pension for the boy's upbringing from her meagre private purse; but as this was refused by christian, the matter ended. and now, in the year of grace , young archie flemington was a boy of eight, and the living cause of the rev. william duthie's present predicament. madam flemington and the minister sat opposite to each other, silent. he was evidently trying to make a beginning of his business, but his companion was not in a mood to help him. he was a person who wearied her, and she hated red hair; besides which, she was an episcopalian and out of sympathy with himself and his community. she found him common and limited, and at the present moment, intrusive. "it's sma' pleasure i have in coming to ardguys the day," he began, and then stopped, because her eyes paralyzed his tongue. "you are no flatterer," said she. but the contempt in her voice braced him. "indeed, that i am not, madam," he replied; "neither shall it be said of me that i gang back from my duty. nane shall assail nor make a mock of the kirk while i am its minister." "who has made a mock of the kirk, my good man?" "airchie." the vision of her eight-year-old grandson going forth, like a young david, to war against the presbyterian stronghold, brought back madam flemington's good-humour. "ye may smile, madam," said duthie, plunged deeper into the vernacular by agitation, "ay, ye may lauch. but it ill beseems the grey hair on yer pow." irony always pleased her and she laughed outright, showing her strong white teeth. it was not only archie and the kirk that amused her, but the whimsical turn of her own fate which had made her hear such an argument from a man. it was not thus that men had approached her in the old days. "you are no flatterer, mr. duthie, as i said before." he looked at her with uncomprehending eyes. a shout, as of a boy playing outside, came through the window, and a bunch of cattle upon the slope cantered by with their tails in the air. evidently somebody was chasing them. "let me hear about archie," said the lady, recalled to the main point by the sight. "madam, i would wish that ye could step west to the manse wi' me and see the evil abomination at my gate. it would gar ye blush." "i am obliged to you, sir. i had not thought to be put to that necessity by one of your cloth." "madam----" "go on, mr. duthie. i can blush without going to the manse for it." "an evil image has been set up upon my gate," he continued, raising his voice as though to cry down her levity, "an idolatrous picture. i think shame that the weans ganging by to the schule should see it. but i rejoice that there's mony o' them doesna' ken wha it is." "fie, mr. duthie! is it venus?" "it has idolatrous garments," continued he, with the loud monotony of one shouting against a tempest, "and a muckle crown on its head----" "then it is not venus," observed she. "venus goes stripped." "it is the pope of rome," went on mr. duthie; "i kent him when i saw the gaudy claes o' him and the heathen vanities on his pow. i kent it was himsel'! and it was written at the foot o' him, forbye that. ay, madam, there was writing too. there was a muckle bag out frae his mou' wi' wicked words on it! 'come awa' to babylon wi' me, mr. duthie.' i gar'd the beadle run for water and a clout, for i could not thole that sic' a thing should be seen." "and you left the pope?" said madam flemington. "i did," replied the minister. "i would wish to let ye see to whatlike misuse airchie has put his talents." "and how do you know it was archie's work?" "there's naebody hereabouts but airchie could have made sic' a thing. the beadle tell't me that he saw him sitting ahint the whins wi' his box of paint as he gae'd down the manse road, and syne when he came back the image was there." as he finished his sentence the door opened and a small figure was arrested on the threshold by the sight of him. the little boy paused, disconcerted and staring, and a faint colour rose in his olive face. then his glum look changed to a smile in which roguery, misgiving, and an intense malicious joy were blended. he looked from one to the other. "archie, come in and make your reverence to mr. duthie," said madam flemington, who had all at once relapsed into punctiliousness. archie obeyed. his skin and his dark eyes hinted at his mother's french blood, but his bow made it a certainty. the minister offered no acknowledgment. if archie had any doubt about the reason of mr. duthie's visit, it did not last long. the minister was not a very stern man in daily life, but now the pope and madam flemington between them had goaded him off his normal peaceable path, and his expression bade the little boy prepare for the inevitable. archie reflected that his grandmother was a disciplinarian, and his mind went to a cupboard in the attics where she kept a cane. but the strain of childish philosophy which ran through his volatile nature was of a practical kind, and it reminded him that he must pay for his pleasures, and that sometimes they were worth the expense. even in the grip of nemesis he was not altogether sorry that he had drawn that picture. madam flemington said nothing, and mr. duthie beckoned to him to come nearer. "child," said he, "you have put an affront upon the whole o' the folk of this parish. you have raised up an image to be a scandal to the passers-by. you have set up a notorious thing in our midst, and you have caused words to issue from its mouth that the very kirk-officer, when he dichted it out wi' his clout, thought shame to look upon. i have jaloused it right to complain to your grandmother and to warn her, that she may check you before you bring disgrace and dismay upon her and upon her house." archie's eyes had grown rounder as he listened, for the pomp of the high-sounding words impressed him with a sense of importance, and he was rather astonished to find that any deed of his own could produce such an effect. he contemplated the minister with a curious detachment that belonged to himself. then he turned to look at his grandmother, and, though her face betrayed no encouragement, the subtle smile he had worn when he stood at the door appeared for a moment upon his lips. mr. duthie saw it. madam flemington had not urged one word in defence of the culprit, but, rightly or wrongly, he scented lack of sympathy with his errand. he turned upon her. "i charge you--nay, i demand it of you," he exclaimed--"that you root out the evil in yon bairn's nature! tak' awa' from him the foolish toy that he has put to sic' a vile use. i will require of you----" "sir," said madam flemington, rising, "i have need of nobody to teach me how to correct my grandson. i am obliged to you for your visit, but i will not detain you longer." and almost before he realized what had happened, mr. duthie found himself once more upon the stone steps of ardguys. archie and his grandmother were left together in the panelled room. perhaps the boy's hopes were raised by the abrupt departure of his accuser. he glanced tentatively at her. "you will not take away my box?" he inquired. "no." "mr. duthie has a face like this," he said airily, drawing his small features into a really brilliant imitation of the minister. the answer was hardly what he expected. "go up to the cupboard and fetch me the cane," said madam flemington. it was a short time later when archie, rather sore, but still comforted by his philosophy, sat among the boughs of a tree farther up the hill. it was a favourite spot of his, for he could look down through the light foliage over the roof of ardguys and the kilpie burn to the rough road ascending beyond them. the figure of the retreating mr. duthie had almost reached the top and was about to be lost in the whin-patch across the strath. the little boy's eyes followed him between the yellowing leaves of the tree which autumn was turning into the clear-tinted ghost of itself. he had not escaped justice, and the marks of tears were on his face; but they were not rancorous tears, whose traces live in the heart long after the outward sign of their fall has gone. they were tears forced from him by passing stress, and their sources were shallow. madam flemington could deal out punishment thoroughly, but she was not one of those who burn its raw wounds with sour words, and her grandson had not that woeful sense of estrangement which is the lot of many children when disciplined by those they love. archie adored his grandmother, and the gap of years between them was bridged for him by his instinctive and deep admiration. she was no companion to him, but she was a deity, and he had never dreamed of investing her with those dull attributes which the young will tack on to those who are much their seniors, whether they possess them or not. mr. duthie, who had just reached middle life, seemed a much older person to archie. he felt in his pocket for the dilapidated box which held his chief treasures--those dirty lumps of paint with which he could do such surprising things. no, there was not very much black left, and he must contrive to get some more, for the adornment of the other manse gatepost was in his mind. he would need a great deal of black, because this time his subject would be the devil; and there should be the same--or very nearly the same--invitation to the minister. chapter ii jetsam eighteen years after the last vestige of archie's handiwork had vanished under the beadle's 'clout' two gentlemen were sitting in the library of a square stone mansion at the eastern end of the county of angus. it was evening, and they had drawn their chairs up to a fireplace in which the flames danced between great hobs of polished brass, shooting the light from their thrusting tongues into a lofty room with drawn curtains and shelves of leather-bound books. though the shutters were closed, the two men could hear, in the pauses of talk, a continuous distant roaring, which was the sound of surf breaking upon the bar outside the harbour of montrose, three miles away. a small mahogany table with glasses and a decanter stood at lord balnillo's elbow, and he looked across at his brother james (whose life, as a soldier, had kept him much in foreign countries until the previous year) with an expression of mingled good-will and patronage. david logie was one of the many scottish gentlemen of good birth who had made the law his profession, and he had just retired from the edinburgh bench, on which, as lord balnillo, he had sat for hard upon a quarter of a century. his face was fresh-coloured and healthy, and, though he had not put on so much flesh as a man of sedentary ways who has reached the age of sixty-two might expect to carry, his main reason for retiring had been the long journeys on horseback over frightful roads, which a judge's duties forced him to take. another reason was his estate of balnillo, which was far enough from edinburgh to make personal attention to it impossible. his wife margaret, whose portrait hung in the dining-room, had done all the business for many years; but margaret was dead, and perhaps david, who had been a devoted husband, felt the need of something besides the law to fill up his life. he was a lonely man, for he had no children, and his brother james, who sat opposite to him, was his junior by twenty-five years. for one who had attained to his position, he was slow and curiously dependent on others; there was a turn about the lines of his countenance which suggested fretfulness, and his eyes, which had looked upon so many criminals, could be anxious. he was a considerate landlord, and, in spite of the times in which he lived and the bottle at his elbow, a person of very sober habits. james logie, who had started his career in lord orkney's regiment of foot with the scots brigade in holland, had the same fresh complexion as his brother and the same dark blue eyes; but they were eyes that had a different expression, and that seemed to see one thing at a time. he was a squarer, shorter man than lord balnillo, quicker of speech and movement. his mouth was a little crooked, for the centre of his lower lip did not come exactly under the centre of the upper one, and this slight mistake on the part of nature had given his face a not unpleasant look of virility. most people who passed james gave him a second glance. both men were carefully dressed and wore fine cambric cravats and laced coats; and the shoes of the judge, which rested on the fender, were adorned by gilt buckles. they had been silent for some time, as people are who have come to the same conclusion and find that there is no more to say, and in the quietness the heavy undercurrent of sound from the coast seemed to grow more insistent. "the bar is very loud to-night, jamie," said lord balnillo. "i doubt but there's bad weather coming, and i am loth to lose more trees." "i see that the old beech by the stables wants a limb," observed the other. "that's the only change about the place that i notice." "there'll be more yet," said the judge. "you've grown weather-wise since you left edinburgh, david." "i had other matters to think upon there," answered balnillo, with some pomp. james smiled faintly, making the little twist in his lip more apparent. "come out to the steps and look at the night," said he, snatching, like most restless men, at the chance of movement. they went out through the hall. james unbarred the front door and the two stood at the top of the flight of stone steps. the entrance to balnillo house faced northward, and a wet wind from the east, slight still, but rising, struck upon their right cheeks and carried the heavy muffled booming in through the trees. balnillo looked frowning at their tops, which had begun to sway; but his brother's attention was fixed upon a man's figure, which was emerging from the darkness of the grass park in front of them. "who is that?" cried the judge, as the footsteps grew audible. "it's a coach at the ford, ma lord--a muckle coach that's couped i' the water! wully an' tam an' andrew robieson are seekin' to ca' it oot, but it's fast, ma lord----" "is there anyone in it?" interrupted james. "ay, there was. but he's oot noo." "where is he?" "he'll na' get forward the night," continued the man. "ane of the horse is lame. he cursin', ma lord, an' nae wonder--he can curse bonnie! robieson's got his wee laddie wi' him, and he gar'd the loonie put his hands to his lugs. he's an elder, ye see." the judge turned to his brother. it was not the first time that the ford in the den of balnillo had been the scene of disaster, for there was an unlucky hole in it, and the state of the roads made storm-bound and bedraggled visitors common apparitions in the lives of country gentlemen. "if ye'll come wi' me, ma lord, ye'll hear him," said the labourer, to whom the profane victim of the ford was evidently an object of admiration. balnillo looked down at his silk stockings and buckled shoes. "i should be telling the lasses to get a bed ready," he remarked hurriedly, as he re-entered the house. james was already throwing his leg across the fence, though it was scarcely the cursing which attracted him, for he had heard oaths to suit every taste in his time. he hurried across the grass after the labourer. the night was not very dark, and they made straight for the ford. the den of balnillo ran from north to south, not a quarter of a mile from the house, and the long chain of miry hollows and cart-ruts which did duty for a high road from perth to aberdeen plunged through it at the point for which the men were heading. it was a steep ravine filled with trees and stones, through which the balnillo burn flowed and fell and scrambled at different levels on its way to join the basin of montrose, as the great estuary of the river esk was called. the ford lay just above one of the falls by which the water leaped downwards, and the dense darkness of the surrounding trees made it difficult for captain logie to see what was happening as he descended into the black well of the den. he could distinguish a confusion of objects by the light of the lantern which his brother's men had brought and set upon a stone; the ford itself reflected nothing, for it was churned up into a sea of mud, in which, as logie approached, the outline of a good-sized carriage, lying upon its side, became visible. "yonder's the captain coming," said a voice. someone lifted the lantern, and he found himself confronted by a tall young man, whose features he could not see, but who was, no doubt, the expert in language. "sir," he said, "i fear you have had a bad accident. i am come from lord balnillo to find out what he can do for you." "his lordship is mighty good," replied the young man, "and if he could force this mud-hole--which, i am told, belongs to him--to yield up my conveyance, i should be his servant for life." there was a charm and softness in his voice which nullified the brisk impertinence of his words. "i hope you are not hurt," said james. "not at all, sir. providence has spared me. but he has had no mercy upon one of my poor nags, which has broken its knees, nor on my stock-in-trade, which is in the water. i am a travelling painter," he added quickly, "and had best introduce myself. my name is archibald flemington." the stranger had a difficulty in pronouncing his _r's_; he spoke them like a frenchman, with a purring roll. the other was rather taken aback. painters in those days had not the standing in society that they have now, but the voice and manner were unmistakably those of a man of breeding. even his freedom was not the upstart licence of one trying to assert himself, but the easy expression of a roving imagination. "i should introduce myself too," said logie. "i am captain james logie, lord balnillo's brother. but we must rescue your--your--baggage. where is your postilion?" flemington held up the lantern again, and its rays fell upon a man holding the two horses which were standing together under a tree. james went towards them. "poor beast," said he, as he saw the knees of one of the pair, "he would be better in a stall. andrew robieson, send your boy to the house for a light, and then you can guide them to the stables." meanwhile, the two other men had almost succeeded in getting the carriage once more upon its wheels, and with the help of flemington and logie, it was soon righted. they decided to leave it where it was for the night, and it was dragged a little aside, lest it should prove a pitfall to any chance traveller who might pass before morning. the two gentlemen went towards the house together, and the men followed, carring flemington's possessions and the great square package containing his canvases. when they entered the library lord balnillo was standing with his back to the fire. "i have brought mr. flemington, brother," said logie, "his coach has come to grief in the den." archie stopped short, and putting his heels together, made much the same bow as he had made to mr. duthie eighteen years before. a feeling of admiration went through james as the warm light of the house revealed the person of his companion, and something in the shrewd wrinkles round his brother's unimpressive eyes irritated him. he felt a vivid interest in the stranger, and the cautious old man's demeanour seemed to have raised the atmosphere of a law-court round himself. he was surveying the new-comer with stiff urbanity. but archie made small account of it. "sir," said balnillo, with condescension, "if you will oblige me by making yourself at home until you can continue your road, i shall take myself for fortunate." "my lord," replied archie, "if you knew how like heaven this house appears to me after the bottomless pit in your den, you might take yourself for the almighty." balnillo gave his guest a critical look, and was met by all the soft darkness of a pair of liquid brown eyes which drooped at the outer corners, and were set under thick brows following their downward lines. gentleness, inquiry, appeal, were in them, and a quality which the judge, like other observers, could not define--a quality that sat far, far back from the surface. in spite of the eyes, there was no suggestion of weakness in the slight young man, and his long chin gave his olive face gravity. speech and looks corresponded so little in him that balnillo was bewildered; but he was a hospitable man, and he moved aside to make room for archie on the hearth. the latter was a sorry sight, as far as mud went; for his coat was splashed, and his legs, from the knee down, were of the colour of clay. he held his hands out to the blaze, stretching his fingers as a cat stretches her claws under a caressing touch. "sit down and put your feet to the fire," said the judge, drawing forward one of the large armchairs, "and james, do you call for another glass. when did you dine, mr. flemington?" "i did not dine at all, my lord. i was anxious to push on to montrose, and i pushed on to destruction instead." he looked up with such a whimsical smile at his own mishaps that balnillo found his mouth widening in sympathy. "i will go and tell them to make some food ready," said the captain, in answer to a sign from his brother. balnillo stood contemplating the young man; the lines round his eyes were relaxing a little; he was fundamentally inquisitive, and his companion matched no type he had ever seen. he was a little disturbed by his assurance, yet his instinct of patronage was tickled by the situation. "i am infinitely grateful to you," said archie. "i know all the inns in brechin, and am very sensible how much better i am likely to dine here than there. you are too kind." "then you know these parts?" "my home is at the other end of the county--at ardguys." "i am familiar with the name," said balnillo, "but until lately, i have been so much in edinburgh that i am out of touch with other places. i am not even aware to whom it belongs." "it is a little property, my lord--nothing but a few fields and a battered old house. but it belongs to my grandmother flemington, who brought me up. she lives very quietly." "indeed, indeed," said the judge, his mind making a cast for a clue as a hound does for the scent. he was not successful. "i had not taken you for a scot," he said, after a moment. "i have been told that," said archie; "and that reminds me that it would be proper to tell your lordship what i am. i am a painter, and at this moment your hall is full of my paraphernalia." lord balnillo did not usually show his feelings, but the look which, in spite of himself, flitted across his face, sent a gleam of entertainment through archie. "you are surprised," he observed, sighing. "but when a man has to mend his fortunes he must mend them with what tools he can. nor am i ashamed of my trade." "there is no need, mr. flemington," replied the other, with the measured benevolence he had sometimes used upon the bench; "what you tell me does you honour--much honour, sir." "then you did not take me for a painter any more than for a scot?" said archie, smiling at his host. "i did not, sir," said the judge shortly. he was not accustomed to be questioned by his witnesses and he had the uncomfortable sensation of being impelled, in spite of a certain prejudice, to think moderately well of his guest. "i have heard tell of your lordship very often," said the latter, suddenly, "and i know very well into what good hands i have fallen. i could wish that all the world was more like yourself." he turned his head and stared wistfully at the coals. balnillo could not make out whether this young fellow's assurance or his humility was the real key-note to the man. but he liked some of his sentiments well enough. archie wore his own hair, and the old man noticed how silky and fine the brown waves were in the firelight. they were so near his hand as their owner leaned forward that he could almost have stroked them. "are you going further than montrose?" he inquired. "i had hoped to cozen a little employment out of aberdeen," replied flemington, "but it is a mere speculation. i have a gallery of the most attractive canvases with me--women, divines, children, magistrates, provosts--all headless and all waiting to see what faces chance and i may fit on to their necks. i have one lady--an angel, i assure you, my lord!--a vision of green silk and white roses--shoulders like satin--the hands of venus!" balnillo was further bewildered. he knew little about the arts and nothing about artists. he had looked at many a contemporary portrait without suspecting that the original had chosen, as sitters often did, an agreeable ready-made figure from a selection brought forward by a painter, on which to display his or her countenance. it was a custom which saved the trouble of many sittings and rectified much of the niggardliness or over-generosity of nature. "i puzzle you, i see," added archie, laughing, "and no doubt the hair of van dyck would stand on end at some of our modern doings. but i am not van dyck, unhappily, and in common with some others i do half my business before my sitters ever see me. a client has only to choose a suitable body for his own head, and i can tell you that many are thankful to have the opportunity." "i had no idea that portraits were done like that," said lord balnillo; "i never heard of such an arrangement before." "but you do not think it wrong, i hope?" exclaimed flemington, the gaiety dying out of his face. "there is no fraud about it! it is not as if a man deceived his sitter." the half-petulant distress in his voice struck balnillo, and almost touched him; there was something so simple and confiding in it. "it might have entertained your lordship to see them," continued archie ruefully. "i should have liked to show you the strange company i travel with." "so you shall, mr. flemington," said the old man. "it would entertain me very greatly. i only fear that the lady with the white roses may enslave me," he added, with rather obvious jocosity. "indeed, now is the time for that," replied archie, his face lighting up again, "for i hope she may soon wear the head of some fat town councillor's wife of aberdeen." as he spoke captain logie returned with the news that dinner was prepared. "i have been out to the stable to see what we could do for your horses," said he. "thank you a thousand times, sir," exclaimed archie. lord balnillo watched his brother as he led the painter to the door. "i think i will come, too, and sit with mr. flemington while he eats," he said, after a moment's hesitation. a couple of hours later archie found himself in a comfortable bedroom. his valise had been soaked in the ford, and a nightshirt of lord balnillo's was warming at the fire. when he had put it on he went and looked at himself in an old-fashioned mirror which hung on the wall. he was a good deal taller than the judge, but it was not his own image that caused the indescribable expression on his face. chapter iii a coach-and-five archie sat in his bedroom at a table. the window was open, for it was a soft october afternoon, and he looked out meditatively at the prospect before him. the wind that had howled in the night had spent itself towards morning, and by midday the tormented sky had cleared and the curtain of cloud rolled away, leaving a mellow sun smiling over the basin of montrose. he had never been within some miles of balnillo, and the aspect of this piece of the country being new to him, his painter's eye rested appreciatively on what he saw. two avenues of ancient trees ran southward, one on either side of the house, and a succession of grass fields sloped away before him between these bands of timber to the tidal estuary, where the water lay blue and quiet with the ribbon of the south esk winding into it from the west. beyond it the low hills with their gentle rise touched the horizon; nearer at hand the beeches and gean-trees, so dear to lord balnillo's heart, were red and gold. here and there, where the gale had thinned the leaves, the bareness of stem and bough let in glimpses of the distant purple which was the veil of the farther atmosphere. to the east, shut out from his sight by all this wood, was the town of montrose, set, with its pointed steeple, like the blue silhouette of some dutch town, between the basin and the north sea. a pen was in flemington's hand, and the very long letter he had just written was before him. "balnillo house. "madam, my dear grandmother, "i beg you to look upon the address at the head of this letter, and to judge whether fortune has favoured your devoted grandson. "i am _on the very spot_, and, what is more, seem like to remain there indefinitely. could anything in this untoward world have fallen out better? montrose is a bare three miles from where i sit, and i can betake myself there on business when necessary, while i live as secluded as i please, cheek by jowl with the very persons whose acquaintance i had laid so many plots to compass. my dear grandmother, could you but have seen me last night, when i lay down after my labours, tricked out in my worshipful host's nightshirt! though the honest man is something of a fop in his attire, his arms are not so long as mine, and the fine ruffles on the sleeves did little more than adorn my elbows, which made me feel like a lady till i looked at my skirts. then i felt more like a highlandman. but i am telling you only effects when you are wanting causes. "i changed horses at brechin, having got so far in safety just after dark, and went on towards montrose, with the wind rising and never a star to look comfort at me through the coach window. though i knew we must be on the right road, i asked my way at every hovel we passed, and was much interested when i was told that i was at the edge of my lord balnillo's estate, and not far from his house. "the road soon afterwards took a plunge into the very vilest place i ever saw--a steep way scarcely fit for a cattle-road, between a mass of trees. i put out my head and heard the rushing of water. oh, what a fine thing memory is! i remembered having heard of the den of balnillo and being told that it was near balnillo house, and i judged we must be there. another minute and we were clattering among stones; the water was up to the axle and we rocked like a ship. one wheel was higher than the other, and we leaned over so that i could scarcely sit. then i was inspired. i threw myself with all my weight against the side, and dragged so much of my cargo of canvases as i could lay hold of with me. there was a great splash and over we went. it was mighty hard work getting out, for the devil caused the door to stick fast, and i had to crawl through the window at that side of the coach which was turned to the sky, like a roof. i hope i may never be colder. we turned to and got the horses out and on to dry ground, and the postilion, a very frog for slime and mud, began to shout, which soon produced a couple of men with a lantern. i shouted too, and did my poor best in the way of oaths to give the affair all the colour of reality i could, and i believe i was successful. the noise brought more people about us, and with them my lord's brother, captain logie, hurrying to the rescue with a fellow who had run to the house with news of our trouble. the result was that we ended our night, the coach with a cracked axle and a hole in the panel, the postilion in the servants' hall with half a bottle of good scots whisky inside him, the horses--one with a broken knee--in the stable, and myself, as i tell you, in his lordship's nightshirt. "i promise you that i thought myself happy when i got inside the mansion--a solemn block, with a grand manner of its own and corinthian pillars in the dining-room. his lordship was on the hearthrug, as solemn as his house, but with a pinched, precise look which it has not got. he was no easy nut to crack, and it took me a little time to establish myself with him, but the good james, his brother, left us a little while alone, and i made all the way i could in his favour. i may have trouble with the old man, and, at any rate, must be always at my best with him, for he seems to me to be silly, virtuous and cunning all at once. he is vain, too, and suspicious, and has seen so many wicked people in his judicial career that i must not let him confound me with them. i could see that he had difficulty in making my occupation and appearance match to his satisfaction. he wears a mouse-coloured velvet coat, and is very nice in the details of his dress. i should like you to see him--not because he would amuse you, but because it would entertain me so completely to see you together. "james, his brother, is cut to a very different pattern. he is many years younger than his lordship--not a dozen years older than myself, i imagine--and he has spent much of his life with lord orkney's regiment in holland. there is something mighty attractive in his face, though i cannot make out what it is. it is strange that, though he seems to be a much simpler person than the old man, i feel less able to describe him. i have had much talk with him this morning, and i don't know when i have liked anyone better. "and now comes the triumph of well-doing--the climax to which all this faithful record leads. i am to paint his lordship's portrait (in his judge's robes), and am installed here definitely for that purpose! i shall be grateful if you will send me my chestnut-brown suit and a couple of fine shirts, also the silk stockings which are in the top shelf of my cupboard, and all you can lay hands on in the matter of cravats. my valise was soaked through and through, and, though the clothes i am wearing were dried in the night, i am rather short of good coats, for i expected to end in an inn at montrose rather than in a gentleman's house. though i am within reach of ardguys, and might ride to fetch them in person, i do not want to be absent unnecessarily. any _important_ letters that i may send you will go by a hand i know of. i shall go shortly to montrose by way of procuring myself some small necessity, and shall search for that hand. its owner should not be difficult to recognize, by all accounts. and now, my dear grandmother, i shall write myself "your dutiful and devoted grandson, "archibald flemington." archie sealed his letter, and then rose and leaned far out of the window. the sun still bathed the land, but it was getting low; the tree-tops were thrusting their heads into a light which had already left the grass-parks slanting away from the house. the latter part of his morning had been taken up by his host's slow inspection of his canvases, and he longed for a sight of his surroundings. he knew that the brothers had gone out together, and he took his hat and stood irresolute, with his letter in his hand, before a humble-looking little locked case, which he had himself rescued the night before from among his submerged belongings in the coach, hesitating whether he should commit the paper to it or keep it upon his own person. it seemed to be a matter for some consideration. finally, he put it into his pocket and went out. he set forth down one of the avenues, walking on a gorgeous carpet of fallen leaves, and came out on a road running east and west, evidently another connecting brechin with montrose. he smiled as he considered it, realizing that, had he taken it last night, he would have escaped the den of balnillo and many more desirable things at the same time. as he stood looking up and down, he heard a liquid rush, and saw to his right a mill-dam glimmering through the trees, evidently the goal of the waters which had soused him so lately. he strolled towards it, attracted by the forest of stems and golden foliage reflected in the pool, and by the slide down which the stream poured into a field, to wind, like a little serpent, through the grass. just where it disappeared stood a stone mill-house abutting on the highway, from which came the clacking of a wheel. the miller was at his door. archie could see that he was watching something with interest, for the man stood out, a distinct white figure, on the steps running up from the road to the gaping doorway in the mill-wall. flemington was one of those blessed people for whom common sights do not glide by, a mere meaningless procession of alien things. humanity's smallest actions had an interest for him, for he had that love of seeing effect follow cause, which is at once priceless and childish--priceless because anything that lifts from us the irritating burden of ourselves for so much as a moment is priceless; and childish because it is a survival of the years when all the universe was new. priceless yet again, because it will often lead us down unexpected side-tracks of knowledge in a world in which knowledge is power. he sat down on the low wall bounding the mill-field, for he was determined to know what the miller was staring at. whatever it was, it was on the farther side of a cottage built just across the road from the mill. he was suddenly conscious that a bare-footed little girl with tow-coloured hair had appeared from nowhere, and was standing beside him. she also was staring at the house by the mill, but with occasional furtive glances at himself. all at once the heavy drone of a bagpipe came towards them, then the shrill notes of the chanter began to meander up and down on the blare of sonorous sound like a light pattern running over a dark background. the little girl removed her eyes from the stranger and cut a caper with her bare feet, as though she would like to dance. it was evident that the sounds had affected flemington, too, but not in the same way. he made a sharp exclamation under his breath, and turned to the child. "who is that playing?" he cried, putting out his hand. she jumped back and stood staring. "who is that playing?" he repeated. she was still dumb, scrubbing one foot against her bare ankle after the manner of the shoeless when embarrassed. archie was exasperated. he rose, without further noticing the child, and hurried towards the mill. when he had reached the place where the stream dived through a stone arch under the road he found she was following him. he heard the pad, pad, of her naked soles in the mud. all at once she was moved to answer his question. "yon's skirlin' wattie!" she yelled after him. but he strode on, taking no notice; fortune was playing into his hand so wonderfully that he was ceasing to be surprised. in the little yard of the cottage he found a small crowd of children, two women, and the miller's man, collected round the strangest assortment of living creatures he had ever seen. the name 'skirlin' wattie' had conveyed something to him, and he was prepared for the extraordinary, but his breath was almost taken away by the oddness of what he saw. in the middle of the group was a stout wooden box, which, mounted on very low wheels, was transformed into the likeness of a rough go-cart, and to this were yoked five dogs of differing breeds and sizes. a half-bred mastiff in the wheel of the team was taking advantage of the halt and lay dozing, his jowl on his paws, undisturbed by the blast of sound which poured over his head, whilst his companion, a large, smooth-haired yellow cur, stood alert with an almost proprietary interest in what was going on awake in his amber eyes. the couple of collies in front of them sniffed furtively at the bystanders, and the wire-haired terrier, which, as leader, was harnessed singly in advance of the lot, was sharing a bannock with a newly-breeched man-child, the sinister nature of whose squint almost made the dog's confidence seem misplaced. the occupant of the cart was an elderly man, whom accident had deprived of the lower part of his legs, both of which had been amputated just below the knee. he had the head of falstaff, the shoulders of hercules, and lack of exercise had made his thighs and back bulge out over the sides of his carriage, even as the bag of his pipes bulged under his elbow. he was dressed in tartan breeches and doublet, and he wore a huge kilmarnock bonnet with a red knob on the top. the lower half of his face was distended by his occupation, and at the appearance of flemington by the gate, he turned on him, above the billows of crimson cheek and grizzled whisker, the boldest pair of eyes that the young man had ever met. he was a masterly piper, and as the tune stopped a murmur of applause went through the audience. "man, ye're the most mountaineous player in scotland!" said the miller's man, who was a coiner of words. "aye, dod, am i!" replied the piper. "hae?" continued the miller's man, holding out an apple. the beggar took it with that silent wag of the back of the head which seems peculiar to the east coast of scotland, and dropped it into the cart. archie handed him a sixpence. "ye'll hae to gie us mair noo!" cried the squinting child, whose eyes had seen straight enough, and who seemed to have a keen sense of values. "aye, a sang this time," added its mother. "ye'll get a pucklie meal an' a bawbee gin' ye sing 'the tod,'"* [*fox.] chimed in an old woman, who had suddenly put her head out of the upper story of the cottage. the beggar laid down his pipes and spat on earth. then he opened his mouth and gave forth a voice whose volume, flexibility, and extreme sweetness seemed incredible, considering the being from whom it emanated. "there's a tod aye blinkin' when the nicht comes doon, blinkin' wi' his lang een, and keekin' round an' roun', creepin' by the farm-yaird when gloamin' is to fa', and syne there'll be a chicken or a deuk awa'. aye, when the guidwife rises there's a deuk awa'! "there's a lass sits greetin' ben the hoose at hame, for when the guidwife's cankered she gie's her aye the blame, and sair the lassie's sabbin', and fast the tears fa', for the guidwife's tynt a bonnie hen, and it's awa'. aye, she's no sae easy dealt wi' when her gear's awa'! "there's a lad aye roamin' when the day gets late, a lang-leggit deevil wi' his hand upon the gate, and aye the guidwife cries to him to gar the toddie fa', for she canna thole to let her chicks an' deuks awa'. aye, the muckle bubbly-jock himsel' is ca'ed awa'! "the laddie saw the tod gae by, an' killed him wi' a stane, and the bonnie lass wha grat sae sair she sits nae mair her lane, but the guidwife's no contented yet--her like ye never saw, cries she, 'this time it is the lass, an' she's awa'!' aye, yon laddie's waur nor ony tod, for jean's awa'!" archie beat the top rail of the paling with so much enthusiasm that the yellow cur began to bark. the beggar quieted him with a storm of abuse. the beldame disappeared from the window, and her steps could be heard descending the wooden stair of the cottage. she approached the cart with a handful of meal on a platter which skirling wattie tilted into an old leather bag that hung on his carriage. "whaur's the bawbee?" cried the squinting child. a shout of laughter went up, led by archie. "he kens there's nae muckle weicht o' meal, and wha' should ken it better?" said the beggar, balancing the bag on his palm and winking at the miller's man. the latter, who happened to be the child's unacknowledged parent, disappeared behind the house. "one more song, and i will supply the bawbee," said archie, throwing another coin into the cart. skirling wattie sent a considering glance at his patron; though he might not understand refinement, he could recognize it; and much of his local success had come from his nice appraisement of audiences. "i'll gie ye logie kirk," said he. "o logie kirk, among the braes i'm thinkin' o' the merry days afore i trod the weary ways that led me far frae logie. "fine do i mind when i was young, abune thy graves the mavis sung, and ilka birdie had a tongue to ca' me back to logie. "o logie kirk, tho' aye the same, the burn sings ae remembered name, there's ne'er a voice to cry 'come hame to bonnie bess at logie!' "far, far awa' the years decline that took the lassie wha was mine and laid her sleepin' lang, lang syne among the braes at logie." his voice, and the wonderful pathos of his phrasing, fascinated archie, but as the last cadences fell from his mouth, the beggar snatched up the long switch with which he drove his team and began to roar. "a'm awa'!" he shouted, making every wall and corner echo. "open the gate an' let me through, ye misbegotten bairns o' auld nick! stand back, ye clortie-faced weans, an' let me out! round about an' up the road! just round about an' up the road, a' tell ye!" the last sentences were addressed to the dogs who were now all on their legs and mindful of the stick whirling in the air above them. archie could see that he was not included in the beggar's general address, but, being nearest to the gate, he swung it open and the whole equipage dashed through, the dogs guided with amazing dexterity between the posts by their master's switch. the rapid circle they described on the road as they were turned up the hill towards brechin seemed likely to upset the cart, but the beggar leaned outwards so adroitly that none of the four wheels left the ground. as they went up the incline he took up his pipes, and leaving the team to its own guidance, tuned up and disappeared round the next bend in a blast of sound. flemington would have given a great deal to run after him, and could easily have overtaken the cart, for its pace was not very formidable. but the whole community, including the tow-headed little girl, was watching skirling wattie out of sight and speculating, he knew, upon his own identity. so he walked leisurely on till the road turned at the top of the hill, and he was rewarded at the other side of its bend by the sight of the beggar halting his team by a pond at which the dogs were drinking. he threw a look around and behind him; then, as no human creature was to be seen, he gave a loud whistle, holding up his arm, and began to run. skirling wattie awaited him at the pond-side, and as archie approached, he could almost feel his bold eyes searching him from top to toe. he stopped by the cart. "my name is flemington," said he. "a've heard worse," replied the other calmly. "and i have a description of you in my pocket," continued archie. "perhaps you would like to see it." the beggar looked up at him from under his bushy eyebrows, with a smile of the most robust and genial effrontery that he had ever seen on a human face. "a'd need to," said he. archie took a folded paper from his pocket. "you see that signature," he said, putting his forefinger on it. the other reached up to take the paper. "no, no," said flemington, "this never goes out of my hand." "that's you!" exclaimed the beggar, with some admiration. "put it back. a' ken it." he unhooked his leather bag, which hung inside the cart on its front board. this archie perceived to be made, apparently for additional strength, of two thicknesses of wood. skirling wattie slid the inner plank upwards, and the young man saw a couple of sealed letters hidden behind it, one of which was addressed to himself. "tak' yon," said the beggar, as the sound of a horse's tread was heard not far off, "tak' it quick an' syne awa' ye gang! mind ye, a gang ilka twa days frae montrose to brechin, an a'm aye skirlin' as a gang." "and do you take this one and have it sent on from brechin," said archie hurriedly, handing him the letter he had written to madam flemington. the other wagged the back of his head, and laid a finger against the rim of his bonnet. archie struck into the fields by the pond, and had time to drop down behind a whin-bush before an inoffensive-looking farmer went by on his way between the two towns. the beggar continued his progress, singing to himself, and flemington, who did not care to face the mill and the curious eyes of the tow-headed little girl again, took a line across country back to balnillo. he hated the tow-headed little girl. chapter iv business events seemed to flemington to be moving fast. lord balnillo dined soon after five, and during the meal the young man tried to detach his mind from the contents of the letter lying in his pocket and to listen to his host's talk, which ran on the portrait to be begun next morning. the judge had ordered his robes to be taken out and aired carefully, and a little room with a north aspect had been prepared for the first sitting. the details of archie's trade had excited the household below stairs, and the servant who waited appeared to look upon him with the curious mixture of awe and contempt accorded to charlatans and to those connected with the arts. only james seemed to remain outside the circle of interest, like a wayfarer who pauses to watch the progress of some wayside bargain with which he has no concern. yet, though archie's occupations did not move logie, the young man felt intuitively that he was anything but a hostile presence. "with your permission i shall go early to bed to-night," said flemington to his host, as the three sat over their wine by the dining-room fire and the clock's hands pointed to eight. "fie!" said the judge; "you are a young man to be thinking of such things at this hour." "my bones have not forgotten yesterday----" began archie. "and what would you do if you had to ride the circuit, sir?" exclaimed balnillo, looking sideways at him like a sly old crow. "man, james, you and i have had other things to consider besides our bones! and here's mr. flemington, who might be your son and my grandson, havering about his bed!" archie laughed aloud. "captain logie would need to have married young for that!" he cried. "and i cannot picture your lordship as anybody's grandfather." "come, jamie, how old are you?" inquired his brother in a tone that had a light touch of gratification. "i lose count nowadays," said james, sighing. "i must be near upon eight-and-thirty, i suppose. life's a long business, after all." "yours has scarcely been long enough to have begotten me, unless you had done so at twelve years old," observed archie. "when i had to ride the circuit," began balnillo, setting down his glass and joining his hands across his waistcoat, "i had many a time to stick fast in worse places than the den yonder--ay, and to leave my horse where he was and get forward on my clerk's nag. i've been forced to sit the bench in another man's wig because my own had rolled in the water in my luggage, and was a plaster of dirt--maybe never fit to be seen again upon a lord of session's head." logie smiled with his crooked mouth. he remembered, though he did not mention, the vernacular rhyme written on that occasion by some impudent member of the junior bar: "auld david balnillo gangs wantin' his wig, and he's seekin' the loan of anither as big. a modest request, an' there's naething agin' it, but he'd better hae soucht a new head to put in it!" "it was only last year," continued his brother, "that i gave up the saddle and the bench together." "that was more from choice than from necessity--at least, so i have heard," said archie. "you heard that, mr. flemington?" "my lord, do you think that we obscure country-folk know nothing? or that reputations don't fly farther than edinburgh? the truth is that we of the younger generation are not made of the same stuff. that is what my grandmother tells me so often--so often that, from force of habit, i don't listen. but i have begun to believe it at last." "she is a wise woman," said balnillo. "she has been a mighty attractive one," observed archie meditatively; "at least, so she was thought at st. germain." "at st. germain?" exclaimed the judge. "my grandfather died in exile with his master, and my father too," replied flemington quietly. there was a silence, and then james logie opened his mouth to speak, but archie had risen. "let me go, lord balnillo," he said. "the truth is, my work needs a steady hand, and i mean to have it when i begin your portrait to-morrow." when he had gone james took the empty seat by his brother. "his grandfather with the king, and he following this womanish trade!" he exclaimed. "i should like to have asked him more about his father," said balnillo; "but----" "he did not wish to speak; i could see that," said james. "i like the fellow, david, in spite of his paint-pots. i would like him much if i had time to like anything." "i have been asking myself: am i a fool to be keeping him here?" said the other. "was i right to let a strange man into the house at such a time? i am relieved, james. he is on the right side." "he keeps his ears open, brother." "he seems to know all about _me_," observed balnillo. "he's a fine lad, jamie--a lad of fine taste; and his free tongue hasn't interfered with his good sense. and i am relieved, as i said." logie smiled again. the affection he had for his brother was of that solid quality which accepts a character in the lump, and loves it for its best parts. david's little vanities and vacillations, his meticulous love of small things, were plain enough to the soldier, and he knew well that the bench and the bar alike had found plenty to make merry over in balnillo. he had all the loyal feeling which the scot of his time bore to the head of his family, and, as his sentiments towards him sprang from the heart rather than from the brain, it is possible that he undervalued the sudden fits of shrewdness which would attack his brother as headache or ague might attack another man. the fact that david's colleagues had never made this mistake was responsible for a career the success of which surprised many who knew the judge by hearsay alone. drink, detail and indecision have probably ruined more characters than any three other influences in the world; but the two latter had not quite succeeded with lord balnillo, and the former had passed him over. "i wonder----" said james--"i wonder is it a good chance that has sent him here? could we make anything of him, david?" "whisht, james!" said the other, turning his face away quickly. "you go too fast. and, mind you, if a man has only one notion in his head, there are times when his skull is scarce thick enough to stand between his thoughts and the world." "that is true. but i doubt flemington's mind is too much taken up with his pictures to think what is in other men's heads." "maybe," replied balnillo; "but we'll know that better a few days hence. i am not sorry he has gone to bed." "i will give him an hour to get between his blankets," said logie, drawing out his watch. "that should make him safe." meanwhile flemington had reached his room and was pulling his great package of spare canvases from under his sombre four-poster. he undid the straps which secured them and drew from between two of them a long dark riding-coat, thrusting back the bundle into its place. he changed his clothes and threw those he had taken off on a chair. then he took the little locked box he had saved so carefully from the catastrophe of the previous night, and, standing on the bed, he laid it on the top of the tester, which was near enough to the ceiling to prevent any object placed upon it from being seen. he gathered a couple of cushions from a couch, and, beating them up, arranged them between the bedclothes, patting them into a human-looking shape. though he meant to lock his door and to keep the key in his pocket during the absence he contemplated, and though he had desired the servants not to disturb him until an hour before breakfast, he had the good habit of preparing for the worst. he slipped out with the coat over his arm, turned the key and walked softly but boldly down into the hall. he paused outside the dining-room, listening to the hum of the brothers' voices, then disappeared down the back-stairs. if he found the door into the stable-yard secured he meant to call someone from the kitchen regions to open it and to announce that he was going out to look at his disabled horse. he would say that he intended to return through the front door, by which captain logie had promised to admit him. everything was quiet. the only sign of life was the shrill voice of a maid singing in the scullery as she washed the dishes, and the house was not shut up for the night. through the yard he went and out unmolested, under the great arch which supported the stable clock, and then ran swiftly round to the front. he passed under the still lighted windows and plunged into a mass of trees and undergrowth which headed the eastern approach. once among the friendly shadows, he put on the coat, buttoning it closely about his neck, and took a small grey wig from one of its deep pockets. when he had adjusted this under his hat he emerged, crossed the avenue, dropped over the sunk wall dividing it from the fields, and made down them till he reached the montrose road. through the still darkness the sound of the balnillo stable clock floated after him, striking nine. there was not enough light to show him anything but his nearest surroundings. the wall which bounded the great balnillo grass-parks was at his left hand, and by it he guided his steps, keeping a perpetual look out to avoid stumbling over the inequalities and loose stones, for there were no side-paths to the roads in those days. he knew that the town was only three miles off, and that the dark stretch which extended on his right was the basin of montrose. a cold snap played in the air, reminding him that autumn, which in scotland keeps its mellowness late, was some way forward, and this sting in the breath of night was indicated by a trembling of the stars in the dark vault overhead. he hastened on, for time was precious. the paper which he had taken from skirling wattie's hands had bid him prepare to follow logie into the town when dark set in, but it had been able to tell him neither at what hour the soldier would start nor whether he would walk or ride. his chance in meeting the beggar so soon had put him in possession of james's usual movements immediately, but it had given him little time to think out many details, and the gaps in his plans had been filled in by guesswork. he did not think james would ride, for there had been no sound of preparation in the stable. his intention was to reach the town first, to conceal himself by its entrance, and when james should pass, to follow him to his destination. he had a rough map of montrose in his possession, and with its help he had been able to locate the house for which he suspected him to be bound--a house known by the party he served to be one of the meeting-places of the adherents of charles edward stuart. archie's buoyancy of spirit was sufficient to keep at arm's length a regret he could not quite banish; for he had the happy carelessness that carries a man easily on any errand which has possibilities of development, more from the cheerful love of chance than from responsible feeling. his light-hearted courage and tenacity were buried so deep under a luxuriance of effrontery, grace, and mother-wit, and the glamour of a manner difficult to resist, that hardly anyone but madam flemington, who had brought him up, suspected the toughness of their quality. he had the refinement of a woman, yet he had extorted the wonder of an east-coast scotsman by his comprehensive profanity; the expression, at times, of a timid girl, yet he would plunge into a flood of difficulties, whose further shore he did not trouble to contemplate; but these contrasts in him spoke of no repression, no conscious effort. he merely rode every quality in his character with a loose rein, and while he attempted to puzzle nobody, he had the acuteness to know that his audience would puzzle itself by its own conception of him. the regret which he ignored was the regret that he was obliged to shadow a man who pleased him as much as did james logie. he realized how much more satisfaction he would have got out of his present business had its object been lord balnillo. he liked james's voice, his bearing, his crooked mouth, and something intangible about him which he neither understood nor tried to understand. the iron hand of madam flemington had brought him up so consistently to his occupation that he accepted it as a part of life. his painting he used as a means, not as an end, and the changes and chances of his main employment were congenial to a temperament at once boyish and capable. the pleiades rode high above taurus, and orion's hands were coming up over the eastern horizon as he reached the narrow street which was the beginning of montrose. the place was dark and ill-lit, like every country town of those days; and here, by the north port, as it was called, the irregularities of the low houses, with their outside stairs, offered a choice of odd corners in which he might wait unseen. he chose the narrowest part of the street, that he might see across it the more readily, and drew back into the cavity, roofed in by the 'stairhead' of a projecting flight of steps which ran sideways up a wall. few people would leave the town at that hour, and those who were still abroad were likely to keep within its limits. a wretched lamp, stuck in a niche of an opposite building, made his position all the more desirable, for the flicker which it cast would be sufficient to throw up the figure of logie should he pass beneath it. he watched a stealthy cat cross its shine with an air of suppressed melodrama that would have befitted a man-eating tiger, and the genial bellowing of a couple of drunken men came down the high street as he settled his shoulders against the masonry at his back and resigned himself to a probable hour of tedium. not a mile distant, james logie was coming along the montrose road. he had trodden it many times in the darkness during the past weeks, and his mind was roving far from his steps, far even from the errand on which he was bent. he was thinking of archie, whom he believed to be snug in bed at balnillo. he had gone out last night and landed this fantastic piece of young humanity from the den, as a man may land a salmon, and he had contemplated him ever since with a kind of fascination. flemington was so much unlike any young man he had known that the difference half shocked him, and though he had told his brother that he liked the fellow, he had done so in spite of one side of himself. it was hard to believe that but a dozen years divided them, for he had imagined archie much younger, and the appeal of his boyishness was a strong one to logie, who had had so little time for boyishness himself. his life since he was fifteen had been merged in his profession, and the restoration of the stuarts had been for many years the thing nearest to his heart. there had been one exception to this, and that had long gone out of his life, taking his youth with it. he was scarcely a sad man, but he had the habit of sadness, which is as hard a one to combat as any other, and the burst of youth and buoyancy that had come in suddenly with archie had blown on james like a spring wind. archie's father and grandfather had died in exile, too, with charles edward's parents. and his eyes reminded him of other eyes. the events that had taken place since the landing of the prince in july had made themselves felt all up the east coast, and the country was jacobite almost to a man. charles edward had raised his standard at glenfinnan, had marched on edinburgh in the early part of september, and had established himself in holyrood on the surrender of the town. after his victory over cope at preston pans, he had collected his forces on portobello sands--thirteen regiments composed of the highland clans, five regiments of lowlanders, two troops of horse commanded by lords elcho and balmerino, with two others under lord kilmarnock and lord pitsligo. the command of the latter consisted of angus men armed with such weapons as they owned or could gather. the insurgent army had entered england in two portions: one of these led by lord george murray, and one by the prince himself, who marched at the head of his men, sharing the fatigues of the road with them, and fascinating the imagination of the scots by his hopeful good-humour and his keen desire to identify himself with his soldiers. the two bodies had concentrated on carlisle, investing the city, and after a few days of defiance, the mayor displayed the white flag on the ramparts and surrendered the town keys. after this, the prince and his father had been proclaimed at the market cross, in presence of the municipality. but in spite of this success the signs of the times were not consistently cheering to the jacobite party. there had been many desertions during the march across the border, and no sooner had the prince's troops left edinburgh than the city had gone back to the whig dominion. at perth and dundee the wind seemed to be changing too, and only the country places stuck steadily to the prince and went on recruiting for the stuarts. although he was aching to go south with the invaders, now that the english were advancing in force, logie was kept in the neighbourhood of montrose by the business he had undertaken. his own instincts and inclinations were ever those of a fighter, and he groaned in spirit over the fate which had made it his duty to remain in angus, concerned with recruiting and the raising of money and arms. he had not yet openly joined the stuarts, in spite of his ardent devotion to their cause, because it had been represented to him that he was, for the moment, a more valuable asset to his party whilst he worked secretly than he could be in the field. the question that perplexed the coast of angus was the landing of those french supplies so sorely needed by the half-fed, half-clothed, half-paid troops, in the face of the english cruisers that haunted the coast; and it was these matters that kept logie busy. james knew the harbour of montrose as men know the places which are the scenes of the forbidden exploits of their youth. this younger son, who was so far removed in years from the rest of his family as to be almost like an only child, was running wild in the town among the fisher-folk, and taking surreptitious trips across the bar when the staid david was pursuing his respectable career at a very different kind of bar in edinburgh. he was the man that montrose needed in this emergency, and to-night he was on his way to the town; for he would come there a couple of times in the week, as secretly as he could, to meet one david ferrier, a country gentleman who had joined the regiment of six hundred men raised by lord ogilvie, and had been made deputy-governor of brechin for the prince. ferrier also was a man well calculated to serve the cause. he owned a small property and a farm not far from the village of edzell, situated at the foot of a glen running up into the grampians, and his perfect knowledge of the country and its inhabitants of all degrees gave him an insight into every turn of feeling that swept through it in those troubled days. the business of his farm had brought him continually into both brechin and montrose, and the shepherds, travelling incessantly with their flocks from hill to strath, formed one of his many chains of intelligence. he had joined lord ogilvie a couple of months earlier, and, though he was now stationed at brechin with a hundred men of his corps, he would absent himself for a night at a time, staying quietly at montrose in the house of a former dependent of his own, that he might keep an eye upon the movements of an english ship. the government sloop-of-war _venture_ had come into the harbour, carrying sixteen guns and about eighty men, and had anchored south of the town, in the strait made by the passage of the river esk into the sea. montrose, apparently, was to suffer for the work she had done as a port for stuart supplies, for the _venture_, lying at a convenient distance just under the fishing village of ferryden, had fired heavily on the town, though no jacobite troops were there. the commander had unrigged the shipping and burned two trading barques whose owners were townsmen, and he had landed a force at the fort, which had captured the town guns and had carried them on board a vessel lying at the quay. ferrier looked with complete trust to james logie and his brother balnillo. the old man, during his judicial career, had made some parade of keeping himself aloof from politics; and as his retirement had taken place previous to the landing of the prince, he had sunk the public servant in the country gentleman before the world of politicians began to divide the sheep from the goats. for some time few troubled their heads about the peaceable and cautious old lord of session, whose inconspicuous talents were vegetating among the trees and grass-parks that the late lady balnillo had husbanded so carefully for him. as to his very much younger brother, who had been incessantly absent from his native land, his existence was practically forgotten. but because the government's secret intelligence department on the east coast had remembered it at last with some suspicion, flemington had been sent to montrose with directions to send his reports to its agent in perth. and flemington had bettered his orders in landing himself at balnillo. as archie heard a steady tread approaching, he shrank farther back under the stair. he could only distinguish a middle-sized male figure which might belong to anyone, and he followed it with straining eyes to within a few feet of the lamp. here it paused, and, skirting the light patch, stepped out into the middle of the way. he scarcely breathed. he was not sure yet, though the man had come nearer by half the street; but the height matched his expectation, and the avoidance of the solitary light proved the desire for secrecy in the person before him. as the man moved on he slipped from his shelter and followed him, keeping just enough distance between them to allow him to see the way he went. the two figures passed up the high street, one behind the other, flemington shrinking close to the walls and drawing a little nearer. before they had gone a hundred yards, his unconscious guide turned suddenly into one of those narrow covered-in alleys, or closes, as they are called, which started at right angles from the main street. archie dived in after him as unconcernedly as he would have dived into the mouth of hell, had his interests taken him that way. these closes, characteristic of scottish towns to this day, were so long, and burrowed under so many sightless-looking windows and doors, to emerge in unexpected places, that he admired james's knowledge of the short cuts of montrose, though it seemed to him no more than natural. the place for which he conceived him to be making was a house in the new wynd nicknamed the 'happy land,' and kept by a well-known widow for purposes which made its insignificance an advantage. it was used, as he had heard, by the jacobite community, because the frequent visitors who entered after dusk passed in without more comment from the townspeople than could be expressed in a lifted eyebrow or a sly nudge. it was a disconcerting moment, even to him, when the man in front of him stopped, and what he had taken for the distant glimmer of an open space revealed itself as a patch of whitewash with a door in it. the close was a cul-de-sac. flemington stood motionless as the other knocked at the door. flight was undesirable, for james might give chase, and capture would mean the end of a piece of work of which he was justly proud. he guessed himself to be the fleeter-footed of the two, but he knew nothing of the town's byways, and other night-birds besides logie might join in. but his bold wit did not desert him, for he gave a loud drunken shout, as like those he had heard at the north port as he could make it, and lurched across the close. its other inmate turned towards him, and as he did so archie shouted again, and, stumbling against him, subsided upon the paved floor. the door beyond them opened a little, showing a portion of a scared face and a hand which held a light. "guid sakes! what'll be wrang?" inquired a tremulous female voice. the man was standing over archie, pushing him with his foot. his answer may have reassured the questioner, but it had a different effect upon the heap on the ground. "hoot, woman! don't be a fool! it's me--ferrier!" chapter v "the happy land" the door opened a little further. "here," said ferrier to the woman, "go up and bring me the roll of unwritten paper from the table." "you'll no be coming in?" "not now. maybe in another hour or more." "but wha's yon?" said she. "lord! woman, have you lived all these years in montrose and never seen a drunken man?" exclaimed he impatiently. "shut the door, i'm telling you, and get what i want. he will not trouble you. he's past troubling anybody." she obeyed, and archie heard a bolt shot on the inside. though he had been startled on discovering his mistake, he now felt comforted by it, for, being unknown to ferrier, he was much safer with him than he would have been with james. he raised his head and tried to get an idea of his companion's face, but the darkness of the close was too great to let him distinguish his features. he had discovered where he lived by accident, but though a description of the man was in the little box now reposing on the tester of his bed at balnillo, he did not know him by sight. these things were going through his mind as the woman returned from her lodger's errand, and the door had just been made fast again when there was a step at the close's mouth and another man came quickly in, stopping short as he found it occupied. ferrier coughed. "ferrier?" said james's voice softly. "what is this?" he asked as his foot came in contact with archie. "it's a drunken brute who came roaring in here a minute syne and fell head over heels at my door," replied the other. "the town is full of them to-night." he stooped down and took flemington by the shoulder. "up you get!" he cried, shaking him. archie breathed heavily and let his whole weight hang on ferrier's hand. "haud awa' frae me, lassie!" he expostulated thickly. logie laughed. "he must be far gone indeed to take you for a lass," he observed. ferrier gave archie a stronger shake. "a'll no gang hame wantin' annie!" continued flemington, whose humour was beginning to find some pleasure in the situation. the raw vernacular that he had mastered with absolute success in childhood was at his tongue's end still. "come, come," said james. ferrier moved forward, but archie had reached out a limp hand and taken him by the ankle. "annie!" he muttered, "ma bonnie, bonnie annie!" ferrier, who had nearly fallen forward, tried to strike out with his foot, but archie's grip, nerveless yet clinging as a limpet, held him fast. "a' tell ye, a'll nae gang hame wantin' annie!" he repeated more loudly. "he has me by the foot, damn him!" said ferrier. james swore quietly but distinctly. "annie! _annie!_" roared archie, making the silent close echo again. "great heavens!" exclaimed the exasperated james, "we shall have the whole town out of bed if this goes on! shake him off, man, and let us be going." he bent down as he spoke and groping in the darkness, found flemington's heels. he seized them and began to drag him backwards as a man drags a fighting dog. he had a grip of iron. the effect of the sudden pull on ferrier was to make him lose his balance. he staggered against the side of the close, calling to logie to desist. archie still held on with back-boneless tenacity; but as the scrape of flint and steel cut the darkness, he knew that he had carried his superfluous pleasantries too far. he dared not loose ferrier's ankle and roll to the wall, lest the action should prove him to be more wideawake and less intoxicated than he seemed. he could only bury his face in his sleeve. his next sensation was a violent stab of burning pain in his wrist that made him draw it back with a groan. "i knew that would mend matters," said james grimly, as he blew out the tiny twist of ignited tow and replaced it and the steel box in his pocket. "come away--this sot has wasted our time long enough. he can sleep off his liquor as well here as anywhere else." "you've helped to sober him," said ferrier, as the two men went out of the close. flemington sat up. the burn stung him dreadfully, for the saltpetre in which the tow had been dipped added to the smart. but there was no time to be lost, so he rose and followed again. ferrier and logie went off up the high street, and turned down an offshoot of it which archie guessed to be the new wynd, because it answered to its position in his map of the town. he dashed to the corner and watched them by the one light which illuminated the narrow street till he could see them no longer. then he flitted after them, a soft-footed shadow, and withdrew under a friendly 'stairhead,' as he had done at the north port. a little farther on he could distinguish the two ascending an outside stair to a squat building, and he heard the sound of their knuckles on wood. another minute and they were admitted. the two captains were let into a small room in the back premises of 'the happy land' by a slatternly-looking woman, who disappeared when she had given them a light. pens and ink lay upon the table and the smoke of lamps had blackened the ceiling. it was a wretched place, and the sound of rough voices came now and again from other parts of the house. james drew up a chair, and ferrier also sat down, tossing the roll of paper to his companion. "a young man called flemington is at balnillo painting my brother's portrait," said logie. "it's a pity that i have not something of his gift for drawing." "flemington----?" said the other. "there is a widow flemington who lives a mile or so this side of the perthshire border; but that is the only part of the country i do not know." "this is her grandson. she lived at st. germain, and her husband was with king james. he is a strange lad--a fine lad too. my brother seems mightily taken up with him." "where is your plan?" asked ferrier. james took out a small pocket-book and laid it on the table; then he smoothed out the roll of paper, drew the points of the compass on it, and began to copy from the rough sketches and signs which covered the leaf of his little book. ferrier watched him in silence. "i could not do that were it to save my life," he said at last. "i learned something, campaigning by the walls of dantzig," replied james. ferrier watched the growing of the hasty map with admiration. his own talents for organization and tactics had given this obscure landowner the position he held in the prince's haphazard army, but the professional soldier was invaluable to him. he sat wondering how he could have got on without james. "see," said logie, pushing the paper to him, "here lies the _venture_ off ferryden, at the south side of the river, and here is inchbrayock island. that english captain is a fool, or he would have landed some men there. you and i will land on it, ferrier. and now," he went on, "the man is twice a fool, for, though he has taken the guns from the fort and put them on board one of the unrigged ships, he has left her beside the quay. this point that i have marked with a cross is where she is moored. it would be idle not to make use of such folly! why, man, if we can carry through the work i have in my mind, we shall blow the _venture_ out of the water! three nights i have skulked round the harbour, and now i think that every close and every kennel that opens its mouth upon it is in my head. and the island is the key to everything." logie's eyes shone in the dim room like the eyes of some animal watching in a cave. "we must get possession of the ship at the quay-side," continued he. "then we will take a couple of the town guns and land them on inchbrayock. a hundred men from brechin should be sufficient." "it must be done at night," said the other. "at night," said james, getting up and putting his hands on the back of his chair. "and now, as soon as possible, we must go down to the harbour and look carefully at the position of everything." ferrier stood up and stretched himself, as men so often will when they are turning over some unacknowledged intention. james took up the roll of paper, glanced at it and threw it down again. "i see it as though it had come by inspiration!" he cried. "i see that we have a blockhead to deal with, and when heaven sends such an advantage to his highness, it is not you nor i, ferrier, who will balk its design. you will not hang back?" he looked at his friend as though he were ready to spring at him. but ferrier went on with his own train of thought. he was a slower man than logie, but if he lacked his fire, he lacked none of his resolution. "you are right," he said. "a man is a fool who leaves what he has captured on the farther side of the river, who thinks, having taken his enemy's guns from a fort, that he can let it stand empty. he has done these follies because he knows that there are no troops in montrose." "ay, but there are troops in brechin!" burst out james. "there are troops in brechin," repeated ferrier slowly, "and they must be got quietly into the town. i wish there were not eight miles of road between the two." "i have not forgotten that," said james, "and to-night i mean to remain here till daylight and then return home by the side of the basin. i will make my way along its shore and judge whether it be possible for you to bring your men by that route. if you can get them out of brechin by the river-bank and so on along the side of the esk, you will avoid the road and i will be waiting for you at the fort." logie had come round the little table and stood by his friend, waiting for him to speak. "i will go with you," said ferrier. "we can part below balnillo, and i, too, will go back to brechin by the river. i must know every step before i attempt to bring them in the dark. there must be no delays when the time comes." james drew a long sigh of relief. he had never doubted his companion's zeal, but his heart had been on fire with the project he carried in it, and ferrier's complete acceptance of it was balm to his spirit. he was a man who spared himself nothing, mentally or physically. he folded the roll of paper and gave it to ferrier. "keep it," said he. "now we must go to the harbour." chapter vi in darkness and in light when the men had disappeared into the house, archie remained under his stairhead considering. he had been told in his instructions to discover two things--whether logie was in touch with ferrier, and whether 'the happy land' was frequented by the pair. though ferrier was in command of the small jacobite force in brechin, it was suspected that he spent an unknown quantity of his time in montrose. to the first of these questions he had already mastered the answer; it only remained for him to be absolutely certain that the house in front of him was 'the happy land.' he could not swear that he was in the new wynd, though he was morally certain of it, but there were marks upon the house which would be proof of its identity. there would be a little hole, covered by an inside sliding panel, in the door of 'the happy land,' through which its inmates could see anyone who ascended the stair without being seen themselves, and there would be the remains of an ancient 'risp,' or tirling-pin, at one side of it. archie ran lightly across the street, crept up the staircase, and passed his palm over the wood. yes, there was the hole, two inches deep in the solid door. he put in his finger and felt the panel in the farther side. then he searched along the wall till his hand came in contact with the jagged edge of the ancient risp. there was no ring on it, for it had long been disused, but it hung there still--a useless and maimed veteran, put out of action. he returned to his post satisfied. his discoveries had earned him the right to go home, but he did not mean to do so. how he was going to get back into balnillo house, unseen, he did not know, and had not, so far, troubled himself to imagine. perhaps he might have to stop out all night. he hoped not, but he was not going to meet trouble half-way. the house would be locked, the household--with the exception of the errant james--abed, and his own room was not upon the ground-floor. however, these were matters for later consideration, and he would remain where he was for a time. for all he knew, ferrier and logie might combine business with pleasure by staying in 'the happy land' till morning; but they were just as likely to come out within measurable time, and then he could see where they went. he was quite happy, as he was everywhere. he fell to thinking of other things: of his host, with his thin, neat legs and velvet coat; of that 'riding the circuit' upon which the old man valued himself so much. in his mind's eye he figured him astride of his floundering nag at the edge of some uninviting bog in an access of precise dismay. that was how he would have wished to paint him. his powers of detachment were such that he became fascinated by the idea, and awoke from it with a start to hear the footsteps of logie and ferrier coming down the stairway opposite. they did not retrace their way up the wynd, but went on to its end and turned into a street leading southwards, whilst archie slipped along in their wake. at last they reached a wilderness of sheds and lumber, above which stood a windmill on a little eminence, and the strong smell of sea and tar proclaimed the region of the harbour. a light shone clear and large across the dark space of water, touching the moving ripples, and this archie guessed to be the riding-light of the _venture_, which lay like a sullen watch-dog under ferryden village. he had to go very warily, for the pair in front stopped often and stood talking in low voices, but the bales and coils of rope and heaps of timber with which the quays were strewn gave him cover. he could not get close enough to them to hear what they said, but their figures were much plainer against the background of water than they had been in the streets, and he noted how often logie would stretch out his arm, pointing to the solitary light across the strait. there was scarcely any illumination on this side of it, and the unrigged shipping lay in darkness as ferrier and his friend went along the quay and seated themselves on a windlass. archie, drawing closer, could hear the rustle as the former unrolled james's map. the soldier took out his flint and steel and struck a light, covering it with his hand, and both men bent their heads over the paper. archie's wrist smarted afresh as he saw it; his sleeve had rubbed the burn, and he could feel the oozing blood. he crouched behind them, peering through the medley of ropes and tackle which hung on the windlass. by standing up he could have touched the two men. he had no idea what it was that they were studying, but his sharp wits told him that it must be a map of some kind, something which might concern the english ship across the waterway. he longed to get it. his confidence in his own luck was one of the qualities that had served him best, and his confidence in his own speed was great and, moreover, well-placed. he knew that he had twelve years of advantage over james, and, from the sound of ferrier's voice, he judged that he had the same, or more, over him. the temptation of chance overmastered him. he raised himself noiselessly, leaned over the intervening tackle, and made a bold snatch at the map, which ferrier held whilst james was occupied with the lighted twist of tow. but his luck was to fail him this time. logie moved his hand, knocking it against flemington's, and the light caught the paper's edge. a soft puff of sea-wind was coming in from over the strait, and in one moment the sheet was ablaze. archie snatched back his hand and fled; but the glare of the burning paper had been bright enough to show logie a man's wrist, on which there was a fresh, bleeding mark. the bright flare of the paper only intensified the darkness for the two astounded men, and though each was instantly on his feet and running in the direction of the retreating footsteps, archie had threaded the maze of amphibious obstacles and was plunging between the sheds into the street before either of them could get clear of the pitfalls of the quay. he tore on, not knowing whither he went. his start had been a good one, but as he paused to listen, which he did when he had gone some way, he could hear them following. the town was so quiet that he met nobody, and he pressed on, trusting to luck for his direction. through the empty streets he went at the top of his speed, launched on the flood of chance, and steering as best he could for the north end of the town. finally, an unexpected turning brought him within a few yards of the north port. he waited close to the spot where he had first taken shelter, and listened; then, hearing nothing, he struck out at a brisk walk for the country, and was soon clear of montrose. he sat down by the wayside to rest. he had had a more sensational night than he expected, and though his spirits were still good, his ill-luck in missing the paper he had risked so much to obtain had cooled them a little, and by the light of this disappointment he looked rather ruefully on his poor prospects of getting to bed. it was past midnight, and there seemed nothing to do but to return to balnillo and to make himself as comfortable as he could in one of the many out-buildings which the yard by its back-door contained. the household rose early, and at the unlocking of that door he must manage to slip in and gain his bedroom. he rose, plodded home, and stole into the courtyard, where, searching in an outhouse, he found an endurable couch on a heap of straw. on this he spread his coat like a blanket, crawling under it, and, with a calmness born of perfect health and perfect nerves, was soon asleep. when dawn broke it found him wakeful. he had not rested well, for his burnt wrist was very sore, and the straw seemed to find it out and to prick the wound, no matter how he might dispose his hand. he propped himself against the wall by the open outhouse-window, whence he could see the back door of balnillo and watch for the moment of its first opening. it would be neck or nothing then, for he must enter boldly, trusting to hit on a lucky moment. at last the growing light began to define details of the house, tracing them out on its great mass with an invisible pencil, and he thought he heard a movement within. the stable-clock struck six, and high above he could see the sun touching the slates and the stone angles of the chimney-stacks with the first fresh ethereal beam of a pure october morning. he inhaled its breath lovingly, and with it there fell from him the heaviness of his uneasy night. all was well, he told himself. his sensuous joy in the world, his love of life and its hazards and energies came back upon him, strong, clean, and ecstatic, and the sounds of a bolt withdrawn made him rise to his feet. a maidservant came out carrying a lantern, whose beam burned with feeble pretentiousness in the coming sunlight. she set it down by the threshold and went past his retreat to the stable. no doubt she was going to call the men. when she had gone by he slipped out, and in a dozen paces was inside the house. another minute and he was in his room. he looked with some amusement at the rough effigy of himself which he had made in the bed overnight, and when he had flung the cushion back to its place he got out of his clothes and lay down, sinking into the cool luxury of the sheets with a sigh of pleasure. but he had no desire to sleep, and when a servant came to wake him half an hour later he was ready to get up. he rose, dressed, wrote out the detailed description of his night's discoveries, and put the document in his pocket to await its chance of transmission. a message was brought to him from lord balnillo as he left his room, which begged his guest to excuse his company at breakfast. he had been long astir, and busy with his correspondence; at eleven o'clock he would be ready for his sitting, if that were agreeable to mr. flemington. as mr. flemington realized how easily he might have met the judge as he ran through the shuttered passage, his belief in the luck that had used him so scurvily last night returned. there was no sign of james as archie sat down to his meal, though a second place was set at the table, and as he did not want to ask embarrassing questions, he made no inquiry about him. besides which, being immoderately hungry, he was too well occupied to trouble about anyone. he went out upon the terrace when he had finished. the warm greyness of the autumn morning was lifting from the earth and it was still early enough for long shadows to lie cool on the westward side of the timber. as they shortened, the crystal of the dew was catching shafts from the sun, and the parks seemed to lie waiting till the energy of the young day should let loose the forces of life from under the mystery of its spangled veil. where the gean-trees glowed carmine and orange, touches of quickening fire shot through the interstices of their branches, and coloured like a tress of trailing forget-me-not, the south esk wound into the basin of montrose, where the tide, ebbing beyond the town, was leaving its wet sands as a feasting-ground for all sorts of roving birds whose crying voices came faintly to archie, mellowed by distance. truly this was a fascinating place, with its changing element of distant water, its great plain lines of pasture, its ordered vistas of foliage! the passion for beauty lay deep below the tossing, driving impulses of flemington's nature, and it rose up now as he stood on the yew-edged terraces of balnillo and gazed before him. for the moment everything in his mind was swallowed up but the abstract, fundamental desire for perfection, which is, when all is said and done, humanity's mainspring, its incessant though often erring guide, whose perverted behests we call sin, whose legitimate ones we call virtue; whose very existence is a guarantee of immortality. the world, this crystalline morning, was so beautiful to archie that he ached with the uncomprehended longing to identify himself with perfection; to cast his body down upon the light-pervaded earth and to be one with it, to fling his soul into the heights and depths of the limitless encompassing ether, to be drawn into the heart of god's material manifestation on earth--the sun. he understood nothing of what he felt, neither the discomfort of his imprisonment of flesh, nor the rapturous, tentative, wing-sweeps of the spirit within it. he left the garden terrace and went off towards the basin, with the touch of that elemental flood of truth into which he had been plunged for a moment fresh on his soul. the whole universe and its contents seemed to him good--and not only good, but of consummate interest--humanity was fascinating. his failure to snatch the map from ferrier's hand last night only made him smile. in the perfection of this transcendent creation all was, and must be, well! his thoughts, woven of the same radiant appreciation, flew to james, whose personality appealed to him so strongly. the gentle blood which ran in the veins of the pair of brothers ran closer to the surface in the younger one; and a steadfast, unostentatious gallantry of heart seemed to be the atmosphere in which he breathed. he was one of those whose presence in a room would always be the strongest force in it, whether he spoke or was silent, and his voice had the tone of something sounding over great and hidden depths. it was not necessary to talk to him to know that he had lived a life of vicissitude, and archie, all unsuspected, in the watches of last night had seen a side of him which did not show at balnillo. his grim resourcefulness in small things was illustrated by the raw spot on the young man's wrist. that episode pleased flemington's imagination--though it might have pleased him even better had the victim been someone else; but he bore james no malice for it, and the picture of the man haunting the dark quays, strewn with romantic, sea-going lumber, and scheming for the cause at his heart, whilst the light from the hostile ship trailed the water beside him, charmed his active fancy. but it was not only his fancy that was at work. he knew that the compelling atmosphere of logie had not been created by mere fancy, because there was something larger than himself, and larger than anything he could understand, about the soldier. and feeling, as he was apt to do, every little change in the mental climate surrounding him he had guessed that logie liked him. the thought added to the exultation produced in him by the glory of the pure morning; and he suddenly fell from his height as he remembered afresh that he was here to cheat him. it was with a shock that he heard skirling wattie's pipes as he reached the montrose road, and saw the beggar's outlandish cart approaching, evidently on its return journey to montrose. his heart beat against the report that lay in his pocket awaiting the opportunity that fate was bringing nearer every moment. there was nobody to be seen as the beggar drew up beside him. the insolent joviality that pervaded the man, his almost indecent oddness--things which had pleased archie yesterday struck cold on him now. he had no wish to stay talking to him, and he gave him the paper without a word more than the injunction to have it despatched. he left him, hurrying across the montrose road and making for the place where the ground began to fall away to the basin. he sat down on the scrubby waste land by a broom-bush, whose dry, burst pods hung like tattered black flags in the brush of green; their acrid smell was coming out as the sun mounted higher. below him the marshy ground ran out to meet the water; and eastward the uncovered mud and wet sand, bared by the tide ebbing beyond montrose, stretched along its shores to the town. the fall of the broom-covered bank was steep enough to hide anyone coming up from the lower levels, and he listened to the movements of somebody who was approaching, and to the crackling noise of the bushes as they were thrust apart. the sound stopped; and archie, leaning forward, saw james standing half-way up the ascent, with his back turned towards him, looking out across the flats. he knew what his thoughts were. he drew his right sleeve lower. so long as he did not stretch out his arm the mark could not be seen. he did not want to appear as if he were watching logie, so he made a slight sound, and the other turned quickly and faced him, hidden from the waist downwards in the broom. then his crooked lip moved, and he came up the bank and threw himself down beside flemington. chapter vii treachery james did not look as if he had been up all night, though he had spent the most part of it on foot with ferrier. the refreshment of morning had bathed him too, but he was still harassed in mind by some of the occurrences of the last few hours. last night he had seen the mark on the wrist stretched suddenly between himself and his friend, and had understood its significance. it was the mark that he had put there. as the two men listened to the flying footsteps that mystified them by their doublings in the darkness, it had dawned upon them that the intruder skulking behind the windlass and the tipsy reveller prone in the close were one and the same person. the drunkard was a very daring spy, as sober as themselves. "you are out betimes," said archie, with friendly innocence. "i often am," replied james simply. archie pulled up a blade of grass and began to chew it meditatively. "i see your long night has done you good," began logie. "there were many things i should have liked to ask you, yesterday evening, but you went away so early that i could not." silence dropped upon the two: upon logie, because his companion's manner last night had hinted at remembrances buried in regret and painful to dig up; on flemington, because he knew the value of that impression, and because he would fain put off the moment when the more complete deception of the man whose sympathetic attitude he divined and whose generosity of soul was so obvious, must begin. he did not want to come to close quarters with james. he had hunted him and been hunted by him, but he had not yet been obliged to lie to him by word of mouth; and he had no desire to do so, here and now, in cold blood and in the face of all this beauty and peace. "i could not but be interested in what you said," continued the other. "you did not tell us whether you had been at st. germain yourself." "never!" replied archie. "i was sent to scotland at eight years old, and i have been here ever since." he had taken the plunge now, for he had been backwards and forwards to france several times in the last few years, since he had begun to work for king george, employed in watching the movements of suspicious persons between one country and the other. he looked down on the ground. the more he hesitated to speak, the more he knew that he would impress james. he understood the delicacy of his companion's feeling by instinct. it was not only dissimulation which bade him act thus, it was the real embarrassment and discomfort which were creeping on him under the eyes of the honourable soldier; all the same, he hoped that his reluctant silence would save him. "you think me impertinent," said logie, "but do not be afraid that i mean to pry. i know how hard life can be and how anxious, nowadays. there is so much loss and trouble--god knows what may happen to this tormented country! but trouble does not seem natural when a man is young and light-hearted, as you are." archie was collecting materials wherewith to screen himself from his companion's sympathy. it would be easy to tell him some rigmarole of early suffering, of want endured for the cause which had lain dormant, yet living, since the unsuccessful rising of the ' , of the devotion to it of the parents he had scarcely known, of the bitterness of their exile, but somehow he could not force himself to do it. he remembered those parents principally as vague people who were ceaselessly playing cards, and whose quarrels had terrified him when he was small. his real interest in life had begun when he arrived at ardguys and made the acquaintance of his grandmother, whose fascination he had felt, in common with most other male creatures. he had had a joyous youth, and he knew it. he had run the pastures, climbed the trees, fished the kilpie burn, and known every country pleasure dear to boyhood. if he had been solitary, he had yet been perfectly happy. he had gone to edinburgh at seventeen, at his own ardent wish, to learn painting, not as a profession, but as a pastime. his prospects were comfortable, for madam flemington had made him her heir, and she had relations settled in england who were always ready to bid him welcome when he crossed the border. life had been consistently pleasant, and had grown exciting since the beginning of his work for government. he wished to heaven he had not met james this morning. but to logie, archie was merely a youth of undoubted good breeding struggling bravely for his bread in an almost menial profession, and he honoured him for what he deemed his courage. there was no need to seek a reason for his poverty after hearing his words last night. his voice, when he spoke of his father's death in exile, had implied all that was necessary to establish a claim on james's generous and rather bigoted heart. for him, there were only two kinds of men, those who were for the stuarts and those who were not. people were very reticent about their political feelings in those days; some from pure caution and some because these lay so deep under mountains of personal loss and misfortune. "i dare not look back," said archie, at last, "i have to live by my trade and fight the world with my brush. you live by sticking your sword into its entrails and i by painting its face a better colour than nature chose for it, and i think yours is the pleasanter calling of the two. but i am grateful to mine, all the same, and now it has procured me the acquaintance of his lordship and the pleasure of being where i am. i need not tell you that i find myself in clover." "i am heartily glad of it," said james. "indeed, so am i," rejoined archie, pleased at having turned the conversation so deftly, "for you cannot think what strange things happen to a man who has no recognized place in the minds of respectable people." james rolled over on his chest, leaning on his elbows, and looked up at his companion sitting just above him with his dark, silky head clear cut against the background of green bush. the young man's words seemed to trip out and pirouette with impudent jauntiness in their hearer's face. logie did not know that archie's management of these puppets was a part of his charm. his detached points of view were restful to a man like james, one continually preoccupied by large issues. it was difficult to think of responsibilities in archie's presence. "you might never imagine how much i am admired below stairs!" said the latter. "while i painted a lady in the south, i was expected to eat with the servants, and the attentions of a kitchen-girl all but cost me my life. i found a challenge, offering me the choice of weapons in the most approved manner, under my dish of porridge. it came from a groom." "what did you do?" asked james, astounded. "i chose warming-pans," said archie, "and that ended the matter." james laughed aloud, but there was bitterness in his mirth. and this was a man born at st. germain! "we laugh," said he, "but such a life could have been no laughing matter to you." "but i assure you it was! what else could i do?" "you could have left the place----" began james. then he stopped short, remembering that beggars cannot be choosers. his expression was not lost on archie, who saw that the boat he had steered so carefully into the shallows was drawing out to deep water again, and that he had used his luxuriant imagination to small purpose. he had so little self-consciousness that to keep james's interest upon himself was no temptation to him, though it might have been to some men. he cast about for something wherewith to blot his own figure from the picture. "and you," he said, gravely, "you who think so much of my discomforts, and who have actually wielded the sword while i have merely threatened to wield the warming-pan--you must have seen stranger things than the kitchen." "i?" said james, looking fixedly out to where the town steeple threw its reflection on the wet sand--"yes. i have seen things that i hope you will never see. it is not for me to speak ill of war, i who have turned to it for consolation as a man may turn to his religion. but war is not waged against men alone in some countries. i have seen it when it is waged against women and little children, when it is slaughter, not war. i have seen mothers--young, beautiful women--fighting like wild beasts for the poor babes that cowered behind their skirts, and i have seen their bodies afterwards. it would be best to forget--but who can forget?" archie sat still, with eyes from which all levity had vanished. he had known vaguely that james had fought under marshal lacy in the war of the polish succession, in the bloody campaign against the turks, and again in finland. the ironic futility of things in general struck him, for it was absurd to think that this man, seared by war and wise in the realities of events whose rumours shook europe, one who had looked upon death daily in company with men like peter lacy, should come home to be hunted down back streets by a travelling painter. he contemplated his companion with renewed interest; no wonder he was ruthless in small things. he was decidedly the most fascinating person he had known. "and you went to these things _for consolation_--so you said?" "for consolation. for a thing that does not exist," said the other slowly. he paused and turned to his companion with an expression that horrified the young man and paralyzed his curiosity. the power in his face seemed to have given way, revealing, for a moment, a defencelessness like the defencelessness of a child looking upon the dark; and it told archie that there was something that even logie dreaded and that that something was memory. the deep places he had guessed in james's soul were deep indeed, and again flemington was struck with humility, for his own unimportance in contrast with this experienced man seemed little less than pitiful. the feeling closed his lips, and he looked round at the shortening shadows and into the stir of coming sunlight as a man looks round for a door through which to escape from impending stress. he, who was always ready to go forward, recoiled because of what he foresaw in himself. his self-confidence was ebbing, for he was afraid of how much he might be turned out of his way by the influence on him of logie. he wished that he could force their talk into a different channel, but his ready wits for once would not answer the call. something not understood by him was moving james to expression, as reserved men are compelled towards it at times. perhaps the bygone youth in him rose up in response to the youth at his side. the many years dividing him from his brother, the judge, had never consciously troubled him in their intercourse, but the tremendous divergence in their respective characters had thrown him back upon himself. archie seemed to have the power of turning a key that balnillo had never held. "but i am putting you out of conceit with the world," cried james abruptly; "let no one do that. take all you can, flemington! i did--i took it all. love, roystering, good company, good wine, good play--all came to me, and i had my bellyful! there were merry times in holland with the scots brigade. it was the best part of my life, and i went to it young. i was sixteen the day i stood up on parade for the first time." "i have often had a mind to invade holland," observed archie, grasping eagerly at the impersonal part of the subject; "it would be paradise to one of my trade. the very thought of a windmill weaves a picture for me, and those strange, striped flowers the dutchmen raise--i cannot think of their names now--i would give much to see them growing. you must have seen them in every variety and hue." "ay, i saw the tulips," said james, in a strange voice. "the dutchmen can paint them too," said archie hurriedly. "what devil makes you talk of tulips?" cried james. "fate painted the tulips for me. oh, flemington, flemington! in every country, in every march, in every fight, among dead and dying, and among dancers and the music they danced to, i have seen nothing but those gaudy flowers--beds of them growing like a woven carpet, and diane among them!" no feminine figure had come into the background against which stood archie's conception of logie. "diane?" he exclaimed involuntarily. james did not seem to hear him. "her eyes were like yours," he went on. "when i saw you come into the light of the house two evenings since, i thought of her." neither spoke for a few moments; then james went on again: "fourteen years since the day i saw her last! she looked out at me from the window with her eyes full of tears. the window was filled with flowers--she loved them. the tulips were there again--crimson tulips--with her white face behind them." flemington listened with parted lips. his personal feelings, his shrinking dread of being drawn into the confidence of the man whom it was his business to betray, were swallowed by a wave of interest. "i was no more than a boy, with my head full of cards and women and horses, and every devilry under heaven, when i went to the house among the canals. the conte de montdelys had built it, for he lived in holland a part of the year to grow his tulips. he was a rich man--a hard, old, pinched frenchman--but his passion was tulip-growing, and their cultivation was a new thing. it was a great sight to see the gardens he had planned at the water's edge, with every colour reflected from the beds, and the green-shuttered house in the middle. even the young men of the brigade were glad to spend an afternoon looking upon the show, and the conte would invite now one, now another. he loved to strut about exhibiting his gardens. diane was his daughter--my poor diane! flemington, do i weary you?" "no, no, indeed!" cried archie, who had been lost, wandering in an enchanted labyrinth of bloom and colour as he listened. the image of the house rising from among its waterways was as vivid to him as if he had seen it with bodily eyes. "she was so young," said the soldier, "so gentle, so little suited to such as i. but she loved me--god knows why--and she was brave--brave to the end, as she lay dying by the roadside . . . and sending me her love. . . ." he stopped and turned away; archie could say nothing, for his throat had grown thick. logie's unconscious gift of filling his words with drama--a gift which is most often given to those who suspect it least--wrought on him. james looked round, staring steadily and blindly over his companion's shoulder. "i took her away," he went on, as though describing another man's experiences; "there was no choice, for the conte would not tolerate me. i was a protestant, and i was poor, and there was a rich spaniard whom he favoured. so we went. we were married in breda, and for a year we lived in peace. such days--such days! the conte made no sign, and i thought, in my folly, he would let us alone. it seemed as though we had gained paradise at last; but i did not know him--montdelys." "then the boy was born. when he was two months old i was obliged to come back to scotland; it was a matter concerning money which could not be delayed, for my little fortune had to be made doubly secure now, and i got leave from my regiment. i could not take diane and the child, and i left them at breda--safe, as i thought. at twenty-three we do not know men, not the endless treachery of them. flemington, when god calls us all to judgment, there will be no mercy for treachery." archie's eyes, fixed on the other pair, whose keen grey light was blurred with pain, dropped. he breathed hard, and his nostrils quivered. "you seem to me as young as i was then. may god preserve you from man's treachery. he did not preserve me," said james. "i do not know how montdelys knew that she was defenceless," continued he, "but i think there must have been some spy of his watching us. as soon as i had left holland he sent to her to say he was ill, probably dying, and that he had forgiven all. he longed for the sight of the boy, and he asked her to bring him that he might see his grandchild; she was to make her home with him while i was absent, and he would send word to me to join them on my return. diane sent me the good news and went, fearing nothing, to find herself a prisoner. "and all this time he had been working--he and the spaniard--to get the pope to annul our marriage, and they had succeeded. what they said to her, what they did, i know not, and never shall know, but they could not shake diane. i was on my way back to holland when she managed to escape with the boy. storms in the north sea delayed me, but i was not disturbed, knowing her to be safe. i did not know when i landed at last that she was dead. . . . she swam the canal, flemington, with the child tied on her shoulders, and the brother-officer of mine--a man in my own company, whom she had contrived to communicate with--was waiting for her with a carriage. my regiment had moved to bergen-op-zoom, and he meant to take her there. he had arranged it with the wife of my colonel, who was to give her shelter till i arrived, and could protect her myself. they had gone more than half-way to bergen when they were overtaken, early in the morning. she was shot, flemington. the bullet was meant for carmichael, the man who was with her, but it struck diane. . . . they laid her on the grass at the roadside and she died, holding carmichael's hand, and sending--sending----" he stopped. "and the child?" said archie at last. "carmichael brought him to bergen, with his mother. he did not live. the bullet had grazed his poor little body as he lay in her arms, and the exposure did the rest. they are buried at bergen." again archie was speechless. "i killed the spaniard," said james. "i could not reach montdelys; he was too old to be able to settle his differences in the world of men." archie did not know what to do. he longed with a bitter longing to show his companion something of what he felt, to give him some sign of the passion of sympathy which had shaken him as he listened; but his tongue was tied fast by the blighting knowledge of his true position, and to approach, by so much as a step, seemed only to blacken his soul and to load it yet more heavily with a treachery as vile as that which had undone james. "i could not endure holland afterwards," continued logie; "once i had looked on that spanish hound's dead body my work was done. i left the scots brigade and took service with russia, and i joined peter lacy, who was on his way to fight in poland. fighting was all i wanted, and god knows i had it. i did not want to be killed, but to kill. then i grew weary of that, but i still stayed with lacy, and followed him to fight the turks. we outlive trouble in time, flemington; we outlive it, though we cannot outlive memory. we outlast it--that is a better word. i have outlasted, perhaps outlived. i can turn and look back upon myself as though i were another being. it is only when some chance word or circumstance brings my youth back in detail that i can scarce bear it. you have brought it back, flemington, and this morning i am face to face with it again." "it does not sound as if you had outlived it," said the young man. "life is made of many things," said james; "whether we have lost our all or not, we have to plough on to the end, and it is best to plough on merrily. lacy never complained of me as a companion in the long time we were together, for i was on his staff, and i took all that came to me, as i have done always. there were some mad fellows among us, and i was no saner than they! but life is quiet enough here in the year since i came home to my good brother." the mention of lord balnillo made flemington start. "gad!" he exclaimed, rising, thankful for escape, "and i am to begin the portrait this morning, and have set out none of my colours!" "and i have gone breakfastless," said logie with a smile, "and worse than that, i have spoilt the sunshine for you with my tongue, that should have been silent." "no, no!" burst out flemington rather hoarsely. "don't think of that! if you only knew----" he stood, unable to finish his sentence or to utter one word of comfort without plunging deeper into self-abhorrence. "i must go," he stammered. "i must leave you and run." james laid a detaining hand on him. "listen, flemington," he said. "listen before you go. we have learnt something of each other, you and i. promise me that if ever you should find yourself in such a position as the one you spoke of--if you should come to such a strait as that--if a little help could make you free, you will come to me as if i were your brother. your eyes are so like diane's--you might well be hers." archie stood before him, dumb, as james held out his hand. he grasped it for a moment, and then turned from him in a tumult of horror and despair. chapter viii the heavy hand it was on the following day that lord balnillo stood in front of a three-quarter length canvas in the improvised studio; archie had begun to put on the colour that morning, and the judge had come quietly upstairs to study the first dawnings of his own countenance alone. from the midst of a chaos of paint his features were beginning to appear, like the sun through a fog. he had brought a small hand-glass with him, tucked away under his velvet coat where it could not be seen, and he now produced it and began to compare his face with the one before him. flemington was a quick worker, and though he had been given only two sittings, there was enough on the canvas to prompt the gratified smile on the old man's lips. he looked alternately at his reflection and at the judicial figure on the easel; archie had a tactful brush. but though balnillo was pleased, he could not help sighing, for he wished fervently that his ankles had been included in the picture. he stooped and ran his hand lovingly down his silk stockings. then he took up the glass again and began to compose his expression into the rather more lofty one with which flemington had supplied him. in the full swing of his occupation he turned round to find the painter standing in the doorway, but he was just too late to catch the sudden flash of amusement that played across archie's face as he saw what the judge was doing. balnillo thrust the glass out of sight and confronted his guest. "i thought you had gone for a stroll, sir," he said rather stiffly. "my lord," exclaimed flemington, "i have been searching for you everywhere. i've come, with infinite regret, to tell you that i must return to ardguys at once." balnillo's jaw dropped. "i have just met a messenger on the road," said the other; "he has brought news that my grandmother is taken ill, and i must hurry home. it is most unfortunate, most disappointing; but go i must." "tut, tut, tut!" exclaimed the old man, clicking his tongue against his teeth and forgetting to hope, as politeness decreed he should, that the matter was not serious. "it is a heart-attack," said archie. "tut, tut," said balnillo again. "i am most distressed to hear it; i am indeed." "i _may_ be able to come back and finish the picture later." "i hope so. i sincerely hope so. i was just studying the admirable likeness when you came in," said balnillo, who would have given a great deal to know how much of his posturing flemington had seen. "ah, my lord!" cried archie, "a poor devil like me has no chance with you! i saw the mirror in your hand. we painters use a piece of looking-glass to correct our drawing, but it is few of our sitters who know that trick." guilty dismay was chased by relief across balnillo's countenance. "you are too clever for me!" laughed flemington. "how did you learn it, may i ask?" but balnillo had got his presence of mind back. "casually, mr. flemington, casually--as one learns many things, if one keeps one's ears open," said he. a couple of hours later archie was on his way home. he had left one horse, still disabled, in the judge's stable, and he was riding the other into brechin, where he would get a fresh one to take him on. balnillo had persuaded him to leave his belongings where they were until he knew what chance there was of an early return. he had parted from archie with reluctance. although the portrait was the old man's principal interest, its maker counted for much with him; for it was some time since his ideas had been made to move as they always moved in flemington's presence. the judge got much pleasure out of his own curiosity; and the element of the unexpected--that fascinating factor which had been introduced into domestic life--was a continual joy. balnillo had missed it more than he knew since he had become a completely rural character. archie saw the basin of montrose drop behind him as he rode away with a stir of mixed feelings. the net that logie had, in all ignorance, spread for him had entangled his feet. he had never conceived a like situation, and it startled him to discover that a difficulty, nowhere touching the tangible, could be so potent, so disastrous. he felt like a man who has been tripped up and who suddenly finds himself on the ground. he had risen and fled. the position had become intolerable. he told himself in his impetuous way that it was more than he could bear; and now, every bit of luck he had turned to account, every precaution he had taken, all the ingenuity he had used to land himself in the hostile camp, were to go for nothing, because some look in his face, some droop of the eyes, had reminded another man of his own past, and had let loose in him an overwhelming impulse to expression. "remember what i told you yesterday," had been james's last words as flemington put his foot in the stirrup. "there must be no more challenges." it was that high-coloured flower of his own imagination, the picture of himself in the servants' hall, that had finally accomplished his defeat. how could he betray the man who was ready to share his purse with him? and, putting the matter of the purse aside, his painter's imagination was set alight. the glow of the tulips and the strange house by the winding water, the slim vision of diane de montdelys, the gallant background of the scots brigade, the grave at bergen-op-zoom--these things were like a mirage behind the figure of james. the power of seeing things picturesquely is a gift that can turn into a curse, and that power worked on his emotional and imaginative side now. and furthermore, beyond what might be called the ornamental part of his difficulty, he realized that friendship with james, had he been free to offer or to accept it, would have been a lifelong prize. they had spent the preceding day together after the sitting was over, and though logie had opened his heart no more, and their talk had been of the common interests of men's lives, it had strengthened archie's resolve to end the situation and to save himself while there was yet time. there was nothing for it but flight. he had told the judge that he would try to return, but he did not mean to enter the gates of balnillo again, not while the country was seething with prince charlie's plots; perhaps never. he would remember james all his life, but he hoped that their ways might never cross again. and, behind that, there was regret; regret for the friend who might have been his, who, in his secret heart, would be his always. he could, even now, hardly realize that he had been actually turned from his purpose. it seemed to him incredible. but there was one thing more incredible still, and that was that he could raise his hand to strike again at the man who had been stricken so terribly, and with the same weapon of betrayal. it would be as if james lay wounded on a battle-field and he should come by to stab him anew. the blow he should deal him would have nothing to do with the past, but archie felt that james had so connected him in mind with the memory of the woman he resembled--had, by that one burst of confidence, given him so much part in the sacred kingdom of remembrance wherein she dwelt--that it would be almost as if something from out of the past had struck at him across her grave. archie sighed, weary and sick with fate's ironic jests. there were some things he could not do. the two men had avoided politics. though flemington's insinuations had conveyed to the brothers that he was like-minded with themselves, the prince's name was not mentioned. there was so much brewing in james's brain that the very birds of the air must not hear. sorry as he was when flemington met him with the news of his unexpected recall, he had decided that it was well the young man should go. when this time of stress was over, when--and if--the cause he served should prevail, he would seek out archie. the "if" was very clear to james, for he had seen enough of men and causes, of troops and campaigns and the practical difficulties of great movements, to know that he was spending himself in what might well be a forlorn hope. but none the less was he determined to see it through, for his heart was deep in it, and besides that, he had the temperament that is attracted by forlorn hopes. he was a reticent man, in spite of the opening of that page in his life which he had laid before flemington; and reticent characters are often those most prone to rare and unexpected bouts of self-revelation. but when the impulse is past, and the load ever present with them has been lightened for a moment, they will thrust it yet farther back behind the door of their lips, and give the key a double turn. he had enjoined flemington to come to him as he would come to a brother for assistance, and it had seemed to archie that life would have little more to offer had it only given him a brother like james. a cloud was on his spirit as he neared brechin. when he left the inn and would have paid the landlord, he thrust his hand into his pocket to discover a thin sealed packet at the bottom of it; he drew it out, and found to his surprise that, though his name was on it, it was unopened, and that he had never seen it before. while he turned it over something told him that the unknown handwriting it bore was that of james logie. the coat he wore had hung in the hall at balnillo since the preceding night, and the packet must have been slipped into it before he started. as he rode along he broke the seal. the paper it contained had neither beginning nor signature, yet he knew that his guess was right. "you will be surprised at finding this," he read, "but i wish you to read it when there are some miles between us. in these disturbed days it is not possible to tell when we may meet again. should you return, i may be here or i may be gone god knows where, and for reasons of which i need not speak, my brother may be the last man to know where i am. but for the sake of all i spoke of yesterday, i ask you to believe that i am your friend. do not forget that, in any strait, i am at your back. because it is true, i give you these two directions: a message carried to rob smith's tavern in the castle wynd at stirling will reach me eventually, wheresoever i am. nearer home you may hear of me also. there is a little house on the muir of pert, the only house on the north side of the muir, a mile west of the fir-wood. the man who lives there is in constant touch with me. if you should find yourself in urgent need, i will send you the sum of one hundred pounds through him. "flemington, you will make no hesitation in the matter. you will take it for the sake of one i have spoken of to none but you, these years and years past." and now he had to go home and to tell madam flemington that he had wantonly thrown away all the advantages gained in the last three days, that he had tossed them to the wind for a mere sentimental scruple! so far he had never quarrelled with his occupation; but now, because it had brought him up against a soldier of fortune whose existence he had been unaware of a few weeks ago, he had sacrificed it and played a sorry trick on his own prospects at the same time. he was trusted and valued by his own party, and, in spite of his youth, had given it excellent service again and again. he could hardly expect the determined woman who had made him what he was to see eye to eye with him. christian flemington had kept her supremacy over her grandson. parental authority was a much stronger thing in the mid-eighteenth century than it is now, and she stood in the position of a parent to him. his french blood and her long residence in france had made their relationship something like that of a french mother and son, and she had all his confidence in his young man's scrapes, for she recognized phases of life that are apt to be ignored by english parents in dealing with their children. she had cut him loose from her apron-strings early, but she had moulded him with infinite care before she let him go. there was a touch of genius in archie, a flicker of what she called the _feu sacré_, and she had kept it burning before her own shrine. the fine unscrupulousness that was her main characteristic, her manner of breasting the tide of circumstance full sail, awed and charmed him. for all his boldness and initiative, his devil-may-care independence of will, and his originality in the conduct of his affairs, he had never freed his inner self from her thrall, and she held him by the strong impression she had made on his imagination years and years ago. she had set her mark upon the plastic character of the little boy whom she had beaten for painting mr. duthie's gate-post. that was an episode which he had never forgotten, which he always thought of with a smile; and while he remembered the sting of her cane, he also remembered her masterly routing of his enemy before she applied it. she had punished him with the thoroughness that was hers, but she had never allowed the minister to know what she had done. technically she had been on the side of the angels, but in reality she had stood by the culprit. in spirit they had resented mr. duthie together. he slept at forfar that night, and pushed on again next morning; and as he saw the old house across the dip, and heard the purl of the burn at the end of his journey, something in his heart failed him. the liquid whisper of the water through the fine, rushlike grass spoke to him of childhood and of the time when there was no world but ardguys, no monarch but madam flemington. he seemed to feel her influence coming out to meet him at every step his horse took. how could he tell his news? how could he explain what he had done? they had never touched on ethical questions, he and she. as he came up the muddy road between the ash-trees he felt the chilly throe, the intense spiritual discomfort, that attends our plunges from one atmosphere into another. it is the penalty of those who live their lives with every nerve and fibre, who take fervent part in the lives of other people, to suffer acutely in the struggle to loose themselves from an environment they have just quitted, and to meet an impending one without distress. but it is no disproportionate price to pay for learning life as a whole. also, it is the only price accepted. he put his horse into the stable and went to the garden, being told that madam flemington was there. the day was warm and bright, and as he swung the gate to behind him he saw her sitting on a seat at the angle of the farther wall. she rose at the click of the latch, and came up the grass path to meet him between a line of espalier apple-trees and a row of phlox on which october had still left a few red and white blossoms. the eighteen years that had gone by since the episode of the manse gate-post had not done much to change her appearance. the shrinking and obliterating of personality which comes with the passing of middle life had not begun its work on her, and at sixty-one she was more imposing than ever. she had grown a great deal stouter, but the distribution of flesh had been even, and she carried her bulk with a kind of self-conscious triumph, as a ship carries her canvas. a brown silk mantle woven with a pattern of flower-bouquets was round her shoulders, and she held its thick folds together with one hand; in the other she carried the book she had been reading. her hair was as abundant as ever, and had grown no whiter. the sun struck on its silver, and red flashes came from the rubies in her ears. she said nothing as archie approached, but her eyes spoke inquiry and a shadow of softness flickered over so slightly round her broad lips. she was pleased to see him, but the shadow was caused less by her affection for him than by her appreciation of the charming figure he presented, seen thus suddenly and advancing with so much grace of movement in the sunlight. she stopped short when he was within a few steps of her, and, dropping her book upon the ground without troubling to see where it fell, held out her hand for him to kiss. he touched it with his lips, and then, thrusting his arm into the phlox-bushes, drew out the volume that had landed among them. from between the leaves dropped a folded paper, on which he recognized his own handwriting. "this is a surprise," said madam flemington, looking her grandson up and down. "i have ridden. my baggage is left at balnillo." the moment of explanation would have to come, but his desire was to put it off as long as possible. "there is your letter between the pages of my book," said she. "it came to me this morning, and i was reading it again. it gave me immense pleasure, archie. i suppose you have come to search for the clothes you mentioned. i am glad to see you, my dear; but it is a long ride to take for a few pairs of stockings." "you should see balnillo's hose!" exclaimed flemington hurriedly. "i'll be bound the old buck's spindle-shanks cost him as much as his estate. if he had as many legs as a centipede he would have them all in silk." "and not a petticoat about the place?" "none nearer than the kitchen." "he should have stayed in edinburgh," said madam flemington, laughing. she loved archie's society. "i hear that this captain logie is one of the most dangerous rebels in scotland," she went on. "if you can lay him by the heels it is a service that will not be forgotten. so far you have done mighty well, archie." they had reached the gate, and she laid her hand on his arm. "turn back," she said. "i must consult you. i suppose that now you will be kept for some time at balnillo? that nest of treason, montrose, will give you occupation, and you must stretch out the portrait to match your convenience. i am going to take advantage of it too. i shall go to edinburgh while you are away." "to edinburgh?" exclaimed flemington. "why not, pray?" "but you leave ardguys so seldom. it is years----" "the more reason i should go now," interrupted she. "among other things, i must see my man of business, and i have decided to do it now. i shall be more useful to you in edinburgh, too. i have been too long out of personal touch with those who can advance your interests. i had a letter from edinburgh yesterday; you are better thought of there than you suspect, archie. i did not realize how important a scoundrel this man logie is, nor what your despatch to montrose implied." he was silent, looking on the ground. she knew every turn of archie's manner, every inflection of his voice. there was a gathering sign of opposition on his face--the phantom of some mood that must not be allowed to gain an instant's strength. it flashed on her that he had not returned merely to fetch his clothes. there was something wrong. she knew that at this moment he was afraid of her, he who was afraid of nothing else. she stopped in the path and drew herself up, considering where she should strike. never, never had she failed to bring him to his bearings. there was only one fitting place for him, and that was in the hollow of her hand. "grandmother, i shall not go back to balnillo," said he vehemently. if the earth had risen up under her feet madam flemington could not have been more astonished. she stood immovable, looking at him, whilst an inward voice, flying through her mind like a snatch of broken sound, told her that she must keep her head. she made no feeble mistake in that moment, for she saw the vital importance of the conflict impending between them with clear eyes. she knew her back to be nearer the wall than it had been yet. her mind was as agile as her body was by nature indolent, and it was always ready to turn in any direction and look any foe squarely in the face. she was startled, but she could not be shaken. "i've left balnillo for good," said he again. "i cannot go back--i will not!" "you--_will not?_" said christian, half closing her eyes. the pupils had contracted, and looked like tiny black beads set in a narrow glitter of grey. "is that what you have come home to say to _me?_" "it is impossible!" he cried, turning away and flinging out his arms. "it is more than i can do! i will not go man-hunting after logie. i will go anywhere else, do anything else, but not that!" "there is nothing else for you to do." "then i will come back here." "that you will not," said christian. he drew in his breath as if he had been struck. "what are you that you should betray me, and yet think to force yourself on me without my resenting it? what do you think i am that i should suffer it?" she laughed. "i have not betrayed you," said he in a husky voice. the loyal worship he had given her unquestioning through the long dependence and the small but poignant vicissitudes of childhood came back on him like a returning tide and doubled the cruelty of her words. she was the one person against whom he felt unable to defend himself. he loved her truly, and the thought of absolute separation from her came over him like a chill. "i did not think you could speak to me in this way. it is terrible!" he said. his dark eyes were full of pain. he spoke as simply as a little boy. satisfaction stole back to her. she had not lost her hold on him, would not lose it. another woman might have flung an affectionate word into the balance to give the final clip to the scale, but she never thought of doing that; neither impulse nor calculation suggested it, because affection was not the weapon she was accustomed to trust. her faith was in the heavy hand. her generalship was good enough to tell her the exact moment of wavering in the enemy in front, the magic instant for a fresh attack. "you are a bitter disappointment," she said. "life has brought me many, but you are the greatest. i have had to go without some necessities in my time, and i now shall have to go without you. but i can do it, and i will." "you mean that you will turn from me altogether?" "am i not plain enough? i can be plainer if you like. you shall go out of this house and go where you will. i do not care where you go. but you are forgetting that i have some curiosity. i wish to understand what has happened to you since you wrote your letter. that is excusable, surely." "it is logie," said he. "he has made it impossible for me. i cannot cheat a man who has given me all his confidence." "he gave you his confidence?" cried madam flemington. "heavens! he is well served, that stage-puppet prince, when his servants confide in the first stranger they meet! captain logie must be a man of honour!" "he is," said archie. "it was his own private confidence he gave me. i heard his own history from his own lips, and, knowing it, i cannot go on deceiving him. i like him too much." madam flemington was confounded. the difficulty seemed so strangely puerile. a whim, a fancy, was to ruin the work of years and turn everything upside down. on the top, she was exasperated with archie, but underneath, it was worse. she found her influence and her power at stake, and her slave was being wrested from her, in spite of every interest which had bound them together. she loved him with a jealous, untender love that was dependent on outward circumstances, and she was proud of him. she had smiled at his devotion to her as she would have smiled with gratified comprehension at the fidelity of a favourite dog, understanding the creature's justifiable feeling, and knowing how creditable it was to its intelligence. "what has all this to do with your duty?" she demanded. "my duty is too hard," he cried. "i cannot do it, grandmother!" "_too hard!_" she exclaimed. "pah! you weary me--you disgust me. i am sick of you, archie!" his lip quivered, and he met her eyes with a mist of dazed trouble in his own. a black curtain seemed to be falling between them. "i told him every absurdity i could imagine," said he. "i made him believe that i was dependent upon my work for my daily bread. i did not think he would take my lies as he did. his kindness was so great--so generous! grandmother, he would have had me promise to go to him for help. how can i spy upon him and cheat him after that?" he stopped. he could not tell her more, for he knew that the mention of the hundred pounds would but make her more angry; the details of what logie had written could be given to no one. he was only waiting for an opportunity to destroy the paper he carried. "we have to do with principles, not men," said madam flemington. "he is a rebel to his king. if i thought you were so much as dreaming of going over to those worthless stuarts, i would never see you nor speak to you again. i would sooner see you dead. is _that_ what is in your mind?" "there is nothing farther from my thoughts," said he. "i can have no part with rebels. i am a whig, and i shall always be a whig. i have told you the plain truth." "and now _i_ will tell you the plain truth," said madam flemington. "while i am alive you will not enter ardguys. when you cut yourself off from me you will do so finally. i will have no half-measures as i have no half-sentiments. i have bred you up to support king george's interests against the whole band of paupers at st. germain, that you may pay a part of the debt of injury they laid upon me and mine. mary beatrice took my son from me. you do not know what you have to thank her for, archie, but i will tell you now! you have to thank her that your mother was a girl of the people--of the streets--a slut taken into the palace out of charity. she was forced on my son by the queen and her favourite, lady despard. that was how they rewarded us, my husband and me, for our fidelity! he was in his grave, and knew nothing, but i was there. i am here still, and i remember still!" the little muscles round her strong lips were quivering. archie had never seen madam flemington so much disturbed, and it was something of a shock to him to find that the power he had known always as self-dependent, aloof, unruffled, could be at the mercy of so much feeling. "lady despard was one of that irish rabble that followed king james along with better people, a woman given over to prayers and confessions and priests. she is dead, thank god! it was she who took your mother out of the gutter, where she sang from door to door, meaning to make a nun of her, for her voice was remarkable, and she and her priests would have trained her for a convent choir. but the girl had no stomach for a nunnery; the backstairs of the palace pleased her better, and the queen took her into her household, and would have her sing to her in her own chamber. she was handsome, too, and she hid the devil that was in her from the women. the men knew her better, and the chevalier and your father knew her best of all. but at last lady despard got wind of it. they dared not turn her into the streets for fear of the priests, and to save her own son the queen sacrificed mine." she stopped, looking to see the effect of her words. archie was very pale. "is my true name flemington?" he asked abruptly. "you are my own flesh and blood," said she, "or you would not be standing here. their fear was that the chevalier would marry her privately, but they got him out of the way, and your father seduced the girl. then, to make the chevalier doubly safe, they forced him to make her his wife--he who was only nineteen! they did it secretly, but when the marriage was known, i would not receive her, and i left the court and went to rouen. i have lived ever since in the hope of seeing the stuarts swept from the earth. your father is gone, and you are all i have left, but you shall go too if you join yourself to them." "i shall not do that," said he. "do you understand now what it costs me to see you turn back?" said madam flemington. the mantle had slipped from her shoulders, and her white hands, crossed at the wrists, lay with the fingers along her arms. she stood trying to dissect the component parts of his trouble and to fashion something out of them on which she might make a new attack. forces outside her own understanding were at work in him which were strong enough to take the fine edge of humiliation off the history she had just told him; she guessed their presence, unseen though they were, and her acute practical mind was searching for them. she was like an astronomer whose telescope is turned on the tract of sky in which, as his science tells him, some unknown body will arise. she had always taken his pride of race for granted, as she took her own. the influx of the base blood of the "slut" had been a mortification unspeakable, but to madam flemington, the actual treachery practised on her had not been the crowning insult. the thing was bad, but the manner of its doing was worse, for the queen and lady despard had used young flemington as though he had been of no account. the flemingtons had served james stuart whole-heartedly, taking his evil fortunes as though they had been their own; they had done it of their own free will, high-handedly. but mary beatrice and her favourite had treated christian and her son as slaves, chattels to be sacrificed to the needs of their owner. there was enough nobility in christian to see that part of the business as its blackest spot. she had kept the knowledge of it from archie, because she had the instinct common to all savage creatures (and christian's affinity with savage creatures was a close one) for the concealment of desperate wounds. her silks, her ruby earrings, her physical indolence, her white hands, all the refinements that had accrued to her in her world-loving life, all that went to make the outward presentment of the woman, was the mere ornamental covering of the savage in her. that savage watched archie now. madam flemington was removed by two generations from archie, and there was a gulf of evolution between them, unrealized by either. their conscious ideals might be identical; but their unconscious ideals, those that count with nations and with individuals, were different. and the same trouble, one that might be accepted and acknowledged by each, must affect each differently. the old regard a tragedy through its influences on the past, and the young through its influences on the future. to archie, madam flemington's revelation was an insignificant thing compared to the horror that was upon him now. it was done and it could not be undone, and he was himself, with his life before him, in spite of it. it was like the withered leaf of a poisonous plant, a thing rendered innocuous by the processes of nature. what process of nature could make his agony innocuous? the word 'treachery' had become a nightmare to him, and on every side he was fated to hear it. its full meaning had only been brought home to him two days ago, and now the hateful thing was being pressed on him by one who had suffered from it bitterly. what could he say to her? how was he to make her see as he saw? his difficulty was a sentimental one, and one that she would not recognize. archie was not logical. he had still not much feeling about having deceived lord balnillo, whose hospitality he had accepted and enjoyed, but, as he had said, he could not go "man-hunting" after james, who had offered him a brother's help, whose heart he had seen, whose life had already been cut in two by the baneful thing. there was little room in archie's soul for anything but the shadow of that nightmare of treachery, and the shadow was creeping towards him. had his mother been a grand-duchess of spotless reputation, what could her virtue or her blue blood avail him in his present distress? she was nothing to him, that "slut" who had brought him forth; he owed her no allegiance, bore her no grudge. the living woman to whom he owed all stood before him beloved, admired, cutting him to the heart. he assented silently; but christian understood that, though he looked as if she had carried her point, his looks were the only really unreliable part of him. she knew that he was that curious thing--a man who could keep his true self separate from his moods. it had taken her years to learn that, but she had learnt it at last. for once she was, like other people, baffled by his naturalness. it was plain that he suffered, yet she could not tell how she was to mould the hard stuff hidden below his suffering. but she must work with the heavy hand. "you will leave here to-morrow," she said; "you shall not stay here to shirk your duty"; and again the pupils of her eyes contracted as she said it. "i will go now," said he. chapter ix "toujours de l'audace" "doag," said the beggar, addressing the yellow cur, "you an' me'll need to be speerin' aboot this. whiles, it's no sae easy tellin' havers frae truth." though skirling wattie was on good terms with the whole of his team, the member of it whom he singled out for complete confidence, whom he regarded as an employer might regard the foreman of a working gang, was the yellow cur. the abuse he poured over the heads of his servants was meant more as incentive than as rebuke, and he fed them well, sharing his substance honestly with them, and looking to them for arduous service in return. they were a faithful, intelligent lot, good-tempered, but for one of the collies, and the accepted predominance of the yellow cur was merely one more illustration of the triumph of personality. his golden eyes, clear, like unclouded amber, contrasted with the thick and vulgar yellow of his close coat, and the contrast was like that between spirit and flesh. he was a strong, untiring creature, with blunt jaws and legs that seemed to be made of steel, and it was characteristic of him that he seldom laid down but at night, and would stand turned in his traces as though waiting for orders, looking towards his master as the latter sang or piped, whilst his comrades, extended in the dust, took advantage of the halt. the party was drawn up under the lee of a low wall by the grassy side of the brechin road, and its grotesqueness seemed greater than ever because of its entirely unsuitable background. the wall encircled the site of an ancient building called magdalen chapel, which had long been ruined, and now only survived in one detached fragment and in the half-obliterated traces of its foundations. round it the tangled grass rose, and a forest of withered hemlock that had nearly choked out the nettles, stood up, traced like lacework against the line of hills beyond the basin. in summer its powdery white threw an evanescent grace over the spot. the place was a haunt of skirling wattie's, for it was a convenient half-way house between montrose and brechin, and the trees about it gave a comforting shelter from both sun and rain. the tailboard of the cart was turned to the wall so that the piper could lean his broad back against it, and there being not a dozen inches between the bottom of his cart and the ground, he was hidden from anyone who might chance to be in the chapel precincts. the projecting stone which made a stile for those who entered the enclosure was just level with his shoulder, and he had laid his pipes on it while he sat with folded arms and considered the situation. he had just been begging at a farm, and he had heard a rumour there that archie flemington was gone from balnillo, and had been seen in brechin, riding westwards, on the preceding morning. the beggar had got a letter for him behind his sliding boards which had to be delivered without delay. "doag," said he again, "we'll awa' to auld davie's." skirling wattie distrusted rumour, for the inexactitudes of human observation and human tongues are better known to a man who lives by his wits than to anybody else. he was not going to accept this news without sifting it. to balnillo he would go to find out whether the report was true. the only drawback was that "auld davie," as he called the judge, abhorred and disapproved of beggars, and he did not know how he might stay in the place long enough to find out what he wanted. he was a privileged person at most houses, from the sea on the east to forfar on the west, but lord balnillo would none of him. nevertheless, he turned the wheels of his chariot in his direction. he wondered, as he went along, why he had not seen archie by the way; but archie had not left balnillo by the brechin road, being anxious to avoid him. what was the use of receiving instructions that he could not bring himself to carry out? the last person he wished to meet was the beggar. wattie turned into the balnillo gates and went up the avenue towards the stable. his pipes were silent, and the fallen leaves muffled the sound of his wheels. he knew about the mishap that had brought flemington as a guest to the judge, and about the portrait he was painting, for tidings of all the happenings in the house reached the mill sooner or later. that source of gossip was invaluable to him. but, though the miller had confirmed the report that flemington had gone, he had been unable to tell him his exact destination. he drove into the stable yard and found it empty but for a man who was chopping wood. the latter paused between his strokes as he saw who had arrived. "a'm seekin' his lordship," began wattie, by way of discovering how the land lay. "then ye'll no find him," replied the woodman, who was none other than the elder, andrew robieson, and who, like his master, disapproved consistently of the beggar. he was a sly old man, and he did not think it necessary to tell the intruder that the judge, though not in the house, was within hearing of the pipes. it was his boast that he "left a' to providence," but he was not above an occasional shaping of events to suit himself. the beggar rolled up to the back-door at the brisk pace he reserved for public occasions. a shriek of delight came from the kitchen window as the blast of his pipes buzzed and droned across the yard. the tune of the 'east nauk of fife' filled the place. a couple of maidservants came out and stood giggling as wattie acknowledged their presence by a wag of the head that spoke gallantry, patronage, ribaldry--anything that a privileged old rogue can convey to young womanhood blooming near the soil. a groom came out of the stable and joined the group. the feet of the girls were tapping the ground. the beggar's expression grew more genially provocative, and his eyeballs rolled more recklessly as he blew and blew; his time was perfect. the groom, who was dancing, began to compose steps on his own account. suddenly there was a whirl of petticoats, and he had seized one of the girls round the middle. they spun and counter-spun; now loosing each other for the more serious business of each one's individual steps, now enlacing again, seeming flung together by some resistless elemental wind. the man's gaze, while he danced alone, was fixed on his own feet as though he were chiding them, admiring them, directing them through niceties which only himself could appreciate. his partner's hair came down and fell in a loop of dull copper-colour over her back. she was a finely-made girl, and each curve of her body seemed to be surging against the agitated sheath of her clothes. the odd-woman-out circled round the pair like a fragment thrown off by the spin of some travelling meteor. the passion for dancing that is even now part of the life of angus had caught all three, let loose upon them by the piper's handling of sound and rhythm. in the full tide of their intoxication, a door in the high wall of the yard opened and lord balnillo came through it. the fragment broke from its erratic orbit and fled into the house with a scream; the meteor, a whirling twin-star, rushed on, unseeing. the piper, who saw well enough, played strong and loud; not the king himself could have stopped him in the middle of a strathspey. the yellow dog, on his feet among his reposing companions, showed a narrow white line between his lips, and the hackles rose upon his plebeian neck. "silence!" cried lord balnillo. but the rest of his words were drowned by the yell of the pipes. as the dancers drew asunder again, they saw him and stopped. his wrath was centred on the beggar, and man and maid slunk away unrebuked. wattie finished his tune conscientiously. to balnillo, impotent in the hurricane of braying reeds, each note that kept him dumb was a new insult, and he could see the knowledge of that fact in the piper's face. as the music ceased, the beggar swept off his bonnet, displaying his disreputable bald head, and bowed like the sovereign of some jovial and misgoverned kingdom. the yellow dog's attitude forbade balnillo's nearer approach. "go!" shouted the judge, pointing a shaking forefinger into space. "out with you instantly! is my house to be turned into a house of call for every thief and vagabond in scotland? have i not forbidden you my gates? begone from here immediately, or i will send for my men to cudgel you out!" but he leaped back, for he had taken a step forward in his excitement, and the yellow cur's teeth were bare. "a'm seekin' the painter-laddie," said the beggar, giving the dog a good-humoured cuff. "away with you!" cried the other, unheeding. "you are a plague to the neighbourhood. i will have you put in montrose jail! to-morrow, i promise you, you will find yourself where you cannot make gentlemen's houses into pandemoniums with your noise." "a'd like brechin better," rejoined the beggar; "it's couthier in there." balnillo was a humane man, and he prided himself, as all the world knew, on some improvements he had suggested in the montrose prison. he was speechless. "ay," continued wattie, "a'm thinkin' you've sent mony a better man than mysel' to the tolbooth. but, dod! a'm no mindin' that. a'm asking ye, _whaur's the painter-lad?_" one of balnillo's fatal qualities was his power of turning in mid-career of wrath or eloquence to daily with side-issues. he swallowed the fury rising to his lips. "what! mr. flemington?" he stammered. "what do you want of mr. flemington?" "is yon what they ca' him? well, a'm no seekin' onything o' him. it's him that's seekin' me." astonishment put everything else out of balnillo's mind. he glared at the intruder, his lips pursed, his fingers working. "he tell't me to come in-by to the muckle hoose and speer for him," said the other. "there was a sang he was needin'. he was seekin' to lairn it, for he liket it fine, an' he tell't me to come awa' to the hoose and lairn him. dod! maybe he's forgotten. callants like him's whiles sweer to mind what they say, but auld stocks like you an' me's got mair sense." "i do not believe a word of it," protested balnillo. "hoots! ye'll hae to try, or the puir lad 'll no get his sang," exclaimed skirling wattie, smiling broadly. "just you cry on him to come down the stair, an' we'll awa' ahint the back o' yon wa', an' a'll lairn him the music! it's this way." he unscrewed the chanter and blew a few piercing notes. the sound flew into the judge's face like the impact of a shower of pebbles. he clapped his hands to his ears. "i tell you mr. flemington is not here!" he bawled, raising his voice above the din. "he is gone. he is at ardguys by this time." "man, is yon true? ye're no leein'?" exclaimed wattie, dropping his weapon. "is yon the way to speak to his lordship?" said the deep voice of andrew robieson, who had come up silently, his arms full of wood, behind the beggar's cart. "turn this vagabond away!" exclaimed balnillo, almost beside himself. "send for the men; bring a horsewhip from the stable! impudent rogue! go, robieson--quick, man!" but wattie's switch was in his hand, and the dogs were already turning; before the elder had time to reach the stables, he had passed out under the clock and was disappearing between the trees of the avenue. he had learned what he wished to know, and the farther side of brechin would be the best place for him for the next few days. he reflected that fortune had favoured him in keeping captain logie out of the way. there would have been no parleying with captain logie. book ii chapter x adrift archie rode along in a dream. he had gone straight out of the garden, taken his horse from the stable, and ridden back to forfar, following the blind resolution to escape from ardguys before he should have time to realize what it was costing him. he had changed horses at the posting-house, and turned his face along the way he had come. through his pain and perplexity the only thing that stood fast was his determination not to return to balnillo. "i will go now," he had said to madam flemington, and he had gone without another word, keeping his very thoughts within the walled circle of his resolution, lest they should turn to look at familiar things that might thrust out hands full of old memories to hold him back. in the middle of his careless life he found himself cut adrift without warning from those associations that he now began to feel he had valued too little, taken for granted too much. balnillo was impossible for him, and in consequence he was to be a stranger in his own home. madam flemington had made no concession and had put no term to his banishment, and though he could not believe that such a state of things could last, and that one sudden impulse of hers could hurl him out of her life for ever, she, who had lived for him, had told him that she would "do without him." then, as he assured himself of this, from that dim recess wherein a latent truth hides until some outside light flashes upon its lair, came the realization that she had not lived for him alone. she had lived for him that she might make him into the instrument she desired, a weapon fashioned to her hand, wherewith she might return blow for blow. all at once the thought made him spiritually sick, and the glory and desirableness of life seemed to fade. he could not see through its dark places, dark where all had been sunshine. he had been a boy yesterday, a man only by virtue of his astounding courage and resource, but he was awakening from boyhood, and manhood was hard. his education had begun, and he could not value the education of pain--the soundest, the most costly one there is--any more than any of us do whilst it lasts. he did not think, any more than any of us think, that perhaps when we come to lie on our death-beds we shall know that, of all the privileges of the life behind us, the greatest has been the privilege of having suffered and fought. all he knew was that his heart ached, that he had disappointed and estranged the person he loved best, and had lost, at any rate temporarily, the home that had been so dear. but hope would not desert him, in spite of everything. madam flemington had gone very wide of the mark in suspecting him of any leaning towards the stuarts, and she would soon understand how little intention he had of turning rebel. there was still work for him to do. he had been given a free hand in details, and he would go to brechin for the night; to-morrow he must decide what to do. possibly he would ask to be transferred to some other place. but nothing that heaven or earth could offer him should make him betray logie. madam flemington had seen him go, in ignorance of whether he had gone in obedience or in revolt. perhaps she imagined that her arguments and the hateful story she had laid bare to him had prevailed, and that he was returning to his unfinished portrait. in the excitement of his interview with her, he had not told her anything but that he refused definitely to spy upon james any more. he had started for ardguys so early, and had been there such a short time, that he was back in forfar by noon. there he left his horse, and, mounting another, set off for brechin. he was within sight of its ancient round tower, grey among the yellowing trees above the south esk, when close to his left hand there rose the shrill screech of a pipe, cutting into his abstraction of mind like a sharp stab of pain. it was so loud and sudden that the horse leaped to the farther side of the road, snorting, and flemington, sitting loosely, nearly lost his seat. he pulled up the astonished animal, and peered into a thicket of alder growing by the wayside. the ground was marshy, and the stunted trees were set close, but, dividing their branches, he saw behind their screen an open patch in the midst of which was skirling wattie's cart. his jovial face seemed to illuminate the spot. "dod!" exclaimed the piper, "ye was near doon! a'd no seek to change wi' you. a'm safer wi' ma' doags than you wi' yon horse. what ailed ye that ye gae'd awa' frae balnillo?" "private matters," said archie shortly. "aweel, they private matters was no far frae putting me i' the tolbooth. what gar'd ye no tell me ye was gaein'?" "have you got a letter for me?" said flemington, as wattie began to draw up his sliding-board. "ay, there's ane. but just wait you, ma lad, till a tell ye what a was sayin' to auld davie----" "never mind what you said to lord balnillo," broke in flemington; "i want my letter." he slipped from the saddle and looped the rein over his arm. "dinna bring yon brute near me!" cried wattie, as horse and man began to crush through the alders. "a'm fell feared o' they unchancy cattle." archie made an impatient sound and threw the rein over a stump. he approached the cart, and the yellow dog, who was for once lying down, opened his wary golden eyes, watching each movement that brought the intruder nearer to his master without raising his head. "you are not often on this side of brechin," said archie, as the beggar handed him the packet. "fegs, na!" returned wattie, "but auld davie an' his tolbooth's on the ither side o't an' it's no safe yonder. it's yersel' i hae to thank for that, mr. flemington. a didna ken whaur ye was, sae a gae'd up to the muckle hoose to speer for ye. the auld stock came doon himsel'. dod! the doag gar'd him loup an' the pipes gar'd him skelloch. but he tell't me whaur ye was." "plague take you! did you go there asking for me?" cried archie. "what was a to dae? a tell't davie ye was needin' me to lairn ye a sang! 'the painter-lad was seekin' me,' says i, 'an' he tell't me to come in-by.'" flemington's annoyance deepened. he did not know what the zeal of this insufferable rascal had led him to say or do in his name, and he had the rueful sense that the tangle he had paid such a heavy price to escape from was complicating round him. the officious familiarity of the piper exasperated him, and he resented government's choice of such a tool. he put the letter in his pocket, and began to back out of the thicket. he would read his instructions by himself. "hey! ye're no awa', man?" cried wattie. "i have no time to waste," said flemington, his foot in the stirrup. "but ye've no tell't me whaur ye're gaein'!" "brechin!" archie called the word over his shoulder, and started off at a trot, which he kept up until he had left the alder-bushes some way behind him. then he broke the seal of his letter, and found that he was to convey the substance of each report that he sent in, not only to his majesty's intelligence officer at perth, but to captain hall, of the english ship _venture_, that was lying under ferryden. he was to proceed at once to the vessel, to which further instructions for him would be sent in a couple of days' time. he pocketed the letter and drew a breath of relief, blessing the encounter that he had just cursed, for a road of escape from his present difficulty began to open before him. he must take to his own feet on the other side of brechin, and go straight to the _venture_. he would be close to montrose, in communication with it, though not within the precincts of the town, and safe from the chance of running against logie. balnillo and his brother would not know what had become of him, and christian flemington would be cured of her suspicions by the simple testimony of his whereabouts. he would treat the two days that he had spent at the judge's house as if they had dropped out of his life, and merely report his late presence in montrose to the captain of the sloop. he would describe his watching of the two men who came out of 'the happy land,' and how he had followed them to the harbour through the darkness; how he had seen them stop opposite the ship's light as they discussed their plans; how he had tried to secure the paper they held. he would tell the captain that he believed some design against the ship to be on foot, but he would not let logie's name pass his lips; and he would deny any knowledge of the identity of either man, lest the mention of ferrier should confirm the suspicions of those who guessed he was working with james. when he had reported himself to perth from the ship, he would no longer be brought into contact with skirling wattie, which at that moment struck him as an advantage. the evenings had begun to close in early. as he crossed the esk bridge and walked out of brechin, the dusk was enwrapping its parapet like a veil. he hurried on, and struck out along the road that would lead him to ferryden by the southern shore of the basin. his way ran up a long ascent, and when he stood at the top of the hill the outline of the moon's disc was rising, faint behind the thin cloudy bank that rested on the sea beyond montrose. there was just enough daylight left to show him the basin lying between him and the broken line of the town's twinkling lights under the muffled moon. it was quite dark when he stood at last within hail of the _venture_. as he went along the bank at the esk's mouth, he could see before him the cluster of houses that formed ferryden village, and the north sea beyond it, a formless void in the night, with the tide far out. though the moon was well up, the cloud-bank had risen with her, and taken all sharpness out of the atmosphere. at his left hand the water crawled slithering at the foot of the sloping bank, like a dark, full-fed snake, and not thirty yards out, just where it broadened, stretching to the quays of montrose, the vessel lay at anchor, a stationary blot on the slow movement. upstream, between her and the basin, the wedge-shaped island of inchbrayock split the mass of water into two portions. flemington halted, taking in the dark scene, which he had contemplated from its reverse side only a few nights ago. then he went down to the water and put his hands round his mouth. "_venture_ ahoy!" he shouted. there was no movement on the ship. he waited, and then called again, with the same result. through an open porthole came a man's laugh, sudden, as though provoked by some unexpected jest. the water was deep here, and the ship lay so near that every word was carried across it to the shore. the laugh exasperated him. he threw all the power of his lungs into another shout. "who goes there?" said a voice. "friend," replied archie; and, fearing to be asked for a countersign, he called quickly, "despatches for captain hall." "captain hall is ashore," announced a second voice, "and no one boards us till he returns." the _venture_ was near enough to the bank for archie to hear some derisive comment, the words of which he could not completely distinguish. a suppressed laugh followed. "damn it!" he cried, "am i to be kept here all night?" "like enough, if you mean to wait for the captain." this reply came from the open porthole, in which the light was obliterated by the head of the man who spoke. there was a sound as of someone pulling him back by the heels, and the port was an eye of light again. flemington turned and went up the bank, and as he reached the top and sprang on to the path he ran into a short, stoutish figure which was beginning to descend. an impatient expletive burst from it. "you needn't hurry, sir," said archie, as the other hailed the vessel querulously; "you are not likely to get on board?" "what? what? not board my own ship?" flemington was a good deal taken aback. he could not see much in the clouded night, but no impression of authority seemed to emanate from the indistinguishable person beside him. "ten thousand pardons, sir!" exclaimed the young man. "you are captain hall? i have information for you, and am sent by his majesty's intelligence officer in perth to report myself to you. flemington is my name." for a minute the little man said nothing, and archie felt rather than saw his fidgety movements. he seemed to be hesitating. a boat was being put off from the ship. she lay so near to them that a mere push from her side brought the craft almost into the bank. "it is so dark that i must show you my credentials on board," said archie, taking captain hall's acquiescence for granted. he heard his companion drawing in his breath nervously through his teeth. no opposition was made as he stepped into the boat. when he stood on deck beside hall the ship was quiet and the sounds of laughter were silent. he had the feeling that everyone on board had got out of the way on purpose as he followed the captain down the companion to his cabin. as the latter opened the door the light within revealed him plainly for the first time. he was a small ginger-haired man, whose furtive eyes were set very close to a thin-bridged, aquiline nose; his gait was remarkable because he trotted rather than walked; his restless fingers rubbed one another as he spoke. he looked peevish and a little dissipated, and his manner conveyed the idea that he felt himself to have no business where he was. as archie remarked that, he told himself that it was a characteristic he had never yet seen in a seaman. his dress was careless, and a wine-stain on his cravat caught his companion's eye. he had the personality of a rabbit. hall did not sit down, but stood at the farther side of the table looking with a kind of grudging intentness at his guest, and flemington was inclined to laugh, in spite of the heavy heart he had carried all day. the other moved about with undecided steps. when at last he sat down, just under the swinging lamp, archie was certain that, though he could be called sober, he had been drinking. "your business, sir," he began, in a husky voice. "i must tell you that i am fatigued. i had hoped to go to bed in peace." he paused, leaning back, and surveyed flemington with injured distaste. "there is no reason that you should not," replied archie boldly. "i have had a devilish hard day myself. give me a corner to lie in to-night, and i will give you the details of my report quickly." he saw that he would meet with no opposition from hall, whose one idea was to spare himself effort, and that his own quarters on board the _venture_ were sure. no doubt long practice had enabled the man to look less muddled than he felt. he sat down opposite to him. the other put out his hand, as though to ward him off. "i have no leisure for business to-night," he said. "this is not the time for it." "all the same, i have orders from perth to report myself to you, as i have told you already," said archie. "if you will listen, i will try to make myself clear without troubling you to read anything. i have information to give which you should hear at once." "i tell you that i cannot attend to you," said hall. "i shall not keep you long. you do not realize that it is important, sir." "am i to be dictated to?" exclaimed the other, raising his voice. "this is my own ship, mr. flem--fling--fl----" the name presented so much difficulty to hall that it died away in a tangled murmur, and archie saw that to try to make him understand anything important in his present state would be labour lost. "well, sir," said he, "i will tell you at once that i suspect an attack on you is brewing in montrose. i believe that it may happen at any moment. having delivered myself of that, i had best leave you." the word "attack" found its way to the captain's brain. "it's impossible!" he exclaimed crossly. "why, plague on't, i've got all the town guns! nonsense, sir--no'sense! come, i will call for a bottle of wine, 'n you can go. there's an empty bunk, i s'pose." the order was given and the wine was brought. archie noticed that the man who set the bottle and the two glasses on the table threw a casual look at hall's hand, which shook as he helped his guest. he had eaten little since morning, and drunk less. now that he had attained his object, and found himself in temporary shelter and temporary peace, be realized how glad he was of the wine. when, after a single glassful, he rose to follow the sailor who came to show him his bunk, he turned to bid good-night to hall. the light hanging above the captain's head revealed every line, every contour of his face with merciless candour; and flemington could see that no lover, counting the minutes till he should be left with his mistress, had ever longed more eagerly to be alone with her than this man longed to be alone with the bottle before him. archie threw himself thankfully into his bunk. there was evidently room for him on the ship, for there was no trace of another occupant in the little cabin; nevertheless, it looked untidy and unswept. the port close to which he lay was on the starboard side of the vessel, and looked across the strait towards the town. the lamps were nearly all extinguished on the quays, and only here and there a yellow spot of light made a faint ladder in the water. the pleasant trickling sound outside was soothing, with its impersonal, monotonous whisper. he wondered how long hall would sit bemusing himself at the table, and what the discipline of a ship commanded by this curiously ineffective personality could be. to-morrow he must make out his story to the little man. he could not reproach himself with having postponed his report, for he knew that hall's brain, which might possibly be clearer in the morning, was incapable of taking in any but the simplest impressions to-night. tired as he was, he did not sleep for a long time. the scenes of the past few days ran through his head one after another--now they appeared unreal, now almost visible to his eyes. sometimes the space of time they covered seemed age-long, sometimes a passing flash. this was saturday night, and all the events that had culminated in the disjointing of his life had been crowded into it since monday. on monday he had not suspected what lay in himself. he would have gibed had he been told that another man's personality, a page out of another man's history, could play such havoc with his own interests. he wondered what james was doing. was he--now--over there in the darkness, looking across the rolling, sea-bound water straight to the spot on which he lay? would he--could space be obliterated and night illumined--look up to find his steady eyes upon him? he lay quiet, marvelling, speculating. then logie, the shadowy town, the burning autumn-trees of balnillo, the tulips round the house in far-away holland, fell away from his mind, and in their place was the familiar background of ardguys, the ardguys of his childhood, with the silver-haired figure of madam flemington confronting him; that terrible, unsparing presence wrapped about with something greater and more arresting than mere beauty; the quality that had wrought on him since he was a little lad. he turned about with a convulsive breath that was almost a sob. then, at last, he slept soundly, to be awakened just at dawn by the roar of a gun, followed by a rattle of small shot, and the frantic hurrying of feet overhead. chapter xi the guns of montrose when archie lay and pictured james on the other side of the water his vision was a true one, but, while he saw him on the quay among the sheds and windlasses, he had set him in the wrong place. james stood at the point of the bay formed by the basin of montrose, at the inner and landward side of the town, not far from the empty fort from which hall had taken the guns. the sands at his feet were bare, for the tide was out, and the salt, wet smell of the oozing weed blew round him on the faint wind. he was waiting for ferrier. they had chosen this night, as at this hour the ebbing water would make it possible for the hundred men of ferrier's regiment to keep clear of the roads, and to make their way from brechin on the secluded shore of the basin. logie had not been there long when he heard the soft sound of coming feet, and the occasional knocking of shoes against stone. as an increasing shadow took shape, he struck his hand twice against his thigh, and the shadow grew still. he struck again, and in another minute ferrier was beside him; the soldiers who followed halted behind their leader. the two men said little to each other, but moved on side by side, and the small company wound up the rising slope of the shore to the deserted fort and gathered at its foot. james and his friend went on a little way and stood looking east down the townward shore of the strait past the huddled houses massed together at this end of montrose. the water slid to the sea, and halfway down the long quay in front of them was moored the unrigged barque that held the town guns--the four-pounders and six-pounders that had pointed their muzzles for so many years from the fort walls towards the thundering bar. hall had not concerned himself to bring the vessel into his own immediate neighbourhood, nor even to put a few dozen yards of water between her and the shore. he knew that no organized rebel force existed within nine miles of where she lay, and that the jacobites among the townsmen could not attempt any hostile movement unaided. he had eighty men on board the _venture_ with him, and from them he had taken a small guard which was left in charge of the barque. every two or three days he would send a party from the sloop to patrol the streets of montrose, and to impress disloyally inclined people. his own investigations of the place had not been great, for, though he went ashore a good deal, it cannot be said that king george's interests were much furthered by his doings when he got there. when logie and ferrier had posted a handful of men in the empty fort, they went on towards the barque's moorings followed by the rest, and leaving a few to guard the mouth of each street that opened on the quay. the whole world was abed behind the darkened windows and the grim stone walls that brooded like blind faces over the stealthy band passing below. when they reached the spot where the ferry-boat lay that plied between montrose and the south shore of the strait, two men went down to the landing-stage, and, detaching her chains, got her ready to push off. then, with no more delay, the friends pressed on to the main business of their expedition. as they neared the barque, a faint shine forward where her bows pointed seaward suggested that someone on board was waking, so, judging it best to make the attack before an alarm could be given, the two captains ran on with their men, and were climbing over the bulwarks and tumbling on to her deck before captain hall's guard, who were playing cards round a lantern, had time to collect their senses. the three players sprang to their feet, and one of them sent a loud cry ringing into the darkness before he sprawled senseless, with his head laid open by the butt-end of ferrier's pistol. in this unlooked-for onslaught, that had come upon them as suddenly as the swoop of a squall in a treacherous sea, they struck blindly about, stumbling into the arms of the swarming, unrecognized figures that had poured in on their security out of the peaceful night. james had kicked over the lantern, and the cards lay scattered about under foot, white spots in the dimness. the bank of cloud was thinning a little round the moon, and the angles of the objects on deck began to be more clearly blocked out. one of the three, who had contrived to wrench himself from his assailant's hold, sprang away and raced towards the after-part of the ship, where, with the carelessness of security, he had left his musket. three successive shots was the signal for help from the _venture_ in case of emergency, and he made a gallant effort to get free to send this sign of distress across the strait. but he was headed back and overpowered before he could carry out his intention. one of his companions was lying as if dead on the deck, and the other, who had been cajoled to silence by the suggestive caress of a pistol at the back of his ear, was having his arms bound behind him with his own belt. not a shot had been fired. except for that one cry from the man who lay so still at their feet, no sound but the scuffling and cursing on the barque disturbed the quiet. ferrier's men hustled their prisoners below into the cabin, where they were gagged and secured and left under the charge of a couple of soldiers. no roving citizen troubled the neighbourhood at this hour, for the fly-by-nights of montrose looked farther inland for their entertainment, and the fisher-folk, who were the principal dwellers in the poor houses skirting the quays, slept sound, and recked little of who might be quarrelling out of doors so long as they lay warm within them. the barque was some way up-stream from the general throng of shipping--apart, and, as hall had thought, the more safe for that, for his calculations had taken no count of an enemy who might come from anywhere but the town. he had never dreamed of the silent band which had been yielded up by the misty stretches of the basin. james leaned over the vessel's side towards the _venture_, and thought of captain hall. he had seen him in a tavern of the town, and had been as little impressed by his looks as was flemington. he had noticed the uncertain eye, the restless fingers, the trotting gait, and had held him lightly as a force; for he knew as well as most men know who have knocked about this world that character--none other--is the hammer that drives home every nail into the framework of achievement. but he had no time to spend in speculations, for his interest was centred in the ferry-boat that was now slipping noiselessly towards them on the current, guided down-stream by the couple of soldiers who had unmoored her. as she reached the barque a rope was tossed down to her, and she was made fast. the stolen guns were hauled from their storage, and a six-pounder lowered, with its ammunition, into the great tub that scarcely heaved on the slow swirl of the river; and whilst the work was going on, ferrier and james stepped ashore to the quay, and walked each a short way along it, watching for any movement or for the chance of surprise. there was nothing: only, from far out beyond the shipping, a soft rush, so low that it seemed to be part of the atmosphere itself, told that the tide was on the turn. in the enshrouding night the boat was loaded, and a dozen or so of the little company pushed off with their spoil. ferrier went with them, and logie, who was to follow with the second gun, watched the craft making her way into obscurity, like some slow black river monster pushing blindly out into space. the scheme he had been putting together since the arrival of the _venture_ was taking reality at last, and though he could stand with folded arms on the bulwark looking calmly at the departing boat, the fire in his heart burned hot. custom had inured him to risks of every kind, and if his keenness of enterprise was the same as it had been in youth, the excitement of youth had evaporated. it was the depths that stirred in logie, seldom the surface. like archie flemington, he loved life, but he loved it differently. flemington loved it consciously, joyously, pictorially; james loved it desperately--so desperately that his spirit had survived the shock which had robbed it of its glory, for him. he was like a faithful lover whose mistress has been scarred by smallpox. he could throw himself heart and soul into the stuart cause, its details and necessities--all that his support of it entailed upon him, because it had, so to speak, given him his second wind in the race of life. though he was an adventurer by nature, he differed from the average adventurer in that he sought nothing for himself. he did not conform to the average adventuring type. he was too overwhelmingly masculine to be a dangler about women, though since the shipwreck of his youth he had more than once followed in the train of some complaisant goddess, and had reaped all the benefits of her notice; he was no snatcher at casual advantages, but a man to whom service in any interest meant solid effort and unsparing sacrifice. also he was one who seldom looked back. he had done so once lately, and the act had shaken him to the heart. perhaps he would do so oftener when he had wrought out the permanent need of action that lay at the foundation of his nature. when the boat had come back, silent on the outflowing river, and had taken her second load, he lowered himself into the stern as her head was pulled round again towards inchbrayock. the scheme fashioned by the two men for the capture of the vessel depended for its success on their possession of this island. as soon as they should land on it, they were to entrench the two guns, one on its south-eastern side, as near to the _venture_ as possible, and the other on its northern shore, facing the quays. by this means the small party would command, not only the ship, but the whole breadth of the river and its landing-places, and would be able to stop communication between captain hall and the town. heavy undergrowth covered a fair portion of inchbrayock, and the only buildings upon it--if buildings they could be called--were the walls of an old graveyard and the stones and crosses they encircled. though the island lay at a convenient part of the strait, no bridge connected it with montrose, and those who wished to cross the esk at that point were obliged to use the ferry. the channel dividing its southern shore from the mainland being comparatively narrow, a row of gigantic stepping-stones carried wayfarers dry-shod across its bed, for at low tide there was a mere streak of water curling serpent-wise through the mud. when the guns were got safely into position on the island it was decided that ferrier was to return to the barque and take the remaining four-pounders with all despatch to a piece of rising ground called dial hill, that overlooked the mass of shipping opposite ferryden. he did not expect to meet with much opposition, should news of his action be carried to the town, for its main sympathies were with his side, and the force on the government vessel would be prevented from coming over the strait to oppose him until he was settled on his eminence by the powerful dissuaders he had left behind him on inchbrayock. he was to begin firing from dial hill at dawn, and james, who was near enough to the _venture_ to see any movement that might take place on her, was to be ready with his fire and with his small party of marksmen to check any offensive force despatched from the ship to the quays. hall would thus be cut off from the town by the fire from inchbrayock, on the one hand, and, should he attempt a landing nearer to the watermouth, by the guns on dial hill, on the other. james had placed himself advantageously. the thicket of elder and thorn which had engulfed one end of the burial-ground made excellent concealment, and in front of him was the solid wall, through a gap in which he had turned the muzzle of his six-pounder. he sat on the stump of a thorn-tree, his head in his hands, waiting, as he knew he would have to wait, for some time yet, till the first round from dial hill should be the signal for his own attack. the moon had made her journey by this hour, and while she had been caught in her course through the zenith in the web of cloud and mist that thickened the sky, she was now descending towards her rest through a clear stretch; she swung, as though suspended above the basin, tilted on her back, and a little yellower as she neared the earth, a dying, witch-like thing, halfway through her second quarter. james, looking up, could see her between the arms of the crosses and the leaning stones. the strangeness of the place arrested his thoughts and turned them into unusual tracks, for, though far from being an unimaginative man, he was little given to deliberate contemplation. the distant inland water under the lighted half disc was pale, and a faintness seemed to lie upon the earth in this hour between night and morning. his thoughts went to the only dwellers on inchbrayock, those who were lying under his feet--seamen, for the most part, and fisher-folk, who had known the fury of the north sea that was now beginning to crawl in and to surround them in their little township with its insidious arms, encircling in death the bodies that had escaped it in life. some of them had been far afield, farther than he had ever been, in spite of all his campaigns, but they had come in over the bar to lie here in the jaws of the outflowing river by their native town. he wondered whether he should do the same; times were so uncertain now that he might well take the road into the world again. the question of where his bones should lie was a matter of no great interest to him, and though there was a vague restfulness in the notion of coming at last to the slopes and shadows of balnillo, he knew that the wideness of the world was his natural home. then he thought of bergen-op-zoom. . . . after a while he raised his head again, roused, not by the streak of light that was growing upon the east, but by a shot that shattered the silence and sent the echoes rolling out from dial hill. chapter xii inchbrayock archie sprang up, unable, for a moment, to remember where he was. he was almost in darkness, for the port looked northward, and the pale light barely glimmered through it, but he could just see a spurt of white leap into the air midway across the channel, where a second shot had struck the water. as he rushed on deck a puff of smoke was dispersing above dial hill. then another cloud rolled from the bushes on the nearest point of inchbrayock island, and he felt the _venture_ shiver and move in her moorings. captain hall's voice was rising above the scuffling and running that was going on all over the ship, and the dragging about of heavy objects was making the decks shake. he went below and begun to hustle on his clothes, for the morning air struck chill and he felt the need of being ready for action of some kind. in a few minutes he came up warily and crept round to the port side, taking what cover he could. then a roar burst from the side of the _venture_ as she opened fire. he stood, not knowing what to do with himself. it was dreadful to him to have to be inactive whilst his blood rose with the excitement round him. no one on the vessel remembered his existence; he was like a stray dog in a market-place, thrust aside by every passer brushing by on the business of life. it was soon evident that, though the guns on the hill commanded the _venture_, their shot was falling short of her. as the sun heaved up from beyond the bar, the quays over the water could be seen filling with people, and the town bells began to ring. an increasing crowd swarmed upon the landing-stage of the ferry, but the boat herself had been brought by james to the shore of inchbrayock, and nobody was likely to cross the water whilst the island and the high ground seaward of the town was held by the invisible enemy which had come upon them from heaven knew where. captain hall was turning his attention exclusively on inchbrayock, and flemington, who had got nearer to the place where he stood, gathered from what he could hear that the man on dial hill was wasting his ammunition on a target that was out of range. a shot from the vessel had torn up a shower of earth in the bank that sloped from the thicket to the river-mud, and another had struck one of the gravestones on the island, splitting it in two; but the fire went on steadily from the dense tangle where the churchyard wall no doubt concealed earthworks that had risen behind it in the dark hours. this, then, was the outcome of james's night-wanderings with ferrier. archie contemplated captain hall where he stood in a little group of men. he looked even less of a personage in the morning light than he had done in the cabin, and the young man suspected that he had gone to bed in his clothes. this reminded him that he himself was unwashed, unshaven, and very hungry. whatsoever the issue of the attack might be, there was no use in remaining starved and dirty, and he determined to go below to forage and to find some means of washing. there was no one to gainsay him at this time of stress, and he walked into hall's cabin reflecting that he might safely steal anything he could carry from the ship, if he were so minded, and slip overboard across the narrow arm to the bank with nothing worse than a wetting. whilst he was attending to his own necessities, the booming went on overhead, and at last a shout from above sent him racing up from the welcome food he had contrived to secure. the wall on inchbrayock was shattered in two or three places and the unseen gun was silent. the cannonade from dial hill had stopped, but a train of figures was hurrying across from the northern shore of the island, taking shelter among the bushes and stones. a boat was being lowered from the _venture_, for the tide, now sweeping in, had covered the mud, making a landing possible. men were crowding into her, and as flemington got round to his former place of observation she was being pushed off. hall, who was standing alone, caught sight of him and came towards him; his face looked swollen and puffy, and his eyes were bloodshot. "we have been attacked," he began--"attacked most unexpectedly!" "i had the honour to report that possibility to you last night, sir," replied flemington, with a trifle of insolence in his manner. an angry look shot out of hall's rabbit eyes. "what could you possibly have known about such a thing?" he cried. "what reason had you for making such a statement?" "i had a great many," said archie, "but you informed me that you had no leisure to listen to any of them until this morning. perhaps you are at leisure now?" "you are a damned impudent scoundrel!" cried the other, noticing flemington's expression, which amply justified these words, "but you had better take care! there is nothing to prevent me from putting you under arrest." "nothing but the orders i carry in my pocket," replied archie. "they are likely enough to deter you." the other opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so a shot crashed into the fore part of the ship, and a hail of bullets ripped out from the thicket on the island; the boat, which was half-way between the _venture_ and inchbrayock, spun round, and two of the rowers fell forward over their oars. hall left archie standing where he was. the gun that the ship's gunners believed themselves to have disabled had opened fire again, after a silence that had been, perhaps, but a lure to draw a sortie from her; and as it was mere destruction for the boat to attempt a landing in the face of the shot, she had orders to put back. the position in which he was placed was now becoming clear to hall. he was cut off from communication with the quays by the guns safely entrenched on the island, and those on dial hill, though out of range for the moment, would prevent him from moving nearer to the watermouth or making an attempt to get out to sea. he could not tell what was happening in the town opposite, and he had no means of finding out, for the whole of the cannon that he had been mad enough to leave by the shore was in the enemy's possession, and would remain so unless the townspeople should rise in the government interest for their recapture. this he was well aware they would not do. his resentment against his luck, and the tale-bearing voice within, which told him that he had nothing to thank for it but his own carelessness, grew more insistent as his head grew clearer. he had been jerked out of sleep, heavy-headed, and with a brain still dulled by drink, but the morning freshness worked on him, and the sun warmed his senses into activity. the sight of flemington, clean, impertinent, and entirely comprehensive of the circumstances, drove him mad; and it drove him still madder to know that archie understood why he had been unwilling to see his report last night. hall's abilities were a little superior to his looks. so far he had served his country, not conspicuously, but without disaster, and had he been able to keep himself as sober as most people contrived to be in those intemperate days, he might have gone on his course with the same tepid success. he was one who liked the distractions of towns, and he bemoaned the fate that had sent him to anchor in a dull creek of the east coast, where the taverns held nothing but faces whose unconcealed dislike forbade conviviality, and where even the light women looked upon his uniform askance. he was not a lively comrade at the best of times, and here, where he was thrown upon the sole society of his officers, with whom he was not popular, he was growing more morose and more careless as his habits of stealthy excess grew upon him. archie, with his quick judgment of his fellow-men, had measured him accurately, and he knew it. in the midst of the morning's disaster the presence of the interloper, his flippant civility of word and insolence of manner, made his sluggish blood boil. it was plain that the party on the island must be dislodged before anything could be done to save the situation, and hall now decided to land as large a force as he could spare upon the mainland. by marching it along the road to ferryden he would give the impression that some attempt was to be made to cross the strait nearer to the coast, and to land it between dial hill and the sea. behind ferryden village a rough track turned sharply southward up the bank, and this they were to take; they would be completely hidden from inchbrayock once they had got over the crest of the land, and they were to double back with all speed along the mainland under shelter of the ridge, and to go for about a mile parallel with the basin. when they had got well to the westward side of the island, they were to wheel down to the basin's shore at a spot where a grove of trees edged the brink; for here, in a sheltering turn of backwater among the trunks and roots, a few boats were moored for the convenience of those who wished to cross straight to montrose by water instead of taking the usual path by the stepping-stones over inchbrayock island. they were to embark at this place, and, hugging the shore, under cover of its irregularities, to approach inchbrayock from the west. if they should succeed in landing unseen, they would surprise the enemy at the further side of the graveyard whilst his attention was turned on the _venture_. the officer to be sent in command of the party believed it could be done, because the length of the island would intervene to hide their manoeuvres from the town, where the citizens, crowding on the quays, would be only too ready to direct the notice of the rebels to their approach. as the boat put off from the ship archie slipped into it; he seemed to have lost his definite place in the scheme of things during the last twenty-four hours; he was nobody's servant, nobody's master, nobody's concern; and in spite of his bold reply to hall's threat of arrest, he knew quite well that though the captain would stop short of such a measure, he might order him below at any moment; the only wonder was that he had not done so already. he did not know into what hands he might fall, should hall be obliged to surrender, and this contingency appeared to be growing likely. by tacking himself on to the landing-party he would at least have the chance of action, and though, having been careful to keep out of hall's sight, he had not been able to discover their destination, he had determined to land with the men. after they had disembarked, he went boldly up to the officer in charge of the party and asked for permission to go with it, and when this was accorded with some surprise, he fell into step. as they tramped along towards ferryden, he managed to pick up something of the work in hand from the man next to him. his only fear was of the chance of running against logie; nevertheless, he made up his mind to trust to luck to save him from that, because he believed that logie, as a professional soldier, would be in command of the guns on the hill. it was from dial hill that the tactical details of the attack could best be directed, and if either of the conspirators were upon the island, archie was convinced it would be ferrier. they soon reached ferryden. the sun was clear and brave in the salt air over the sea, and a flock of gulls was screaming out beyond the bar, dipping, hovering, swinging sideways against the light breeze, now this way, now that way, their wanton voices full of mockery, as though the derisive spirits imprisoned in the ocean had become articulate, and were crying out on the land. the village looked distrustfully at the approach of the small company, and some of the fisher-wives dragged their children indoors as if they thought to see them kidnapped. such men as were hanging about watched them with sullen eyes as they turned in between the houses and made for the higher ground. the boom of the _venture's_ guns came to them from time to time, and once they heard a great shout rise from the quays, but they could see nothing because of the intervening swell of the land. they passed a farm and a few scattered cottages; but these were empty, for their inmates had gone to the likeliest places they could find for a view of what was happening in the harbour. presently they went down to the basin, straggling by twos and threes. at the water's edge a colony of beeches stood naked and leafless, their heads listed over westward by the winds that swept up the river's mouth. they were crowded thick about the creek down which flemington and his companions came, and at their feet, tied to the gnarled elbows of the great roots beneath which the water had eaten deep into the bank, lay three or four boats with their oars piled inside them. the beech-mast of years had sunk into the soil, giving a curious mixture of heaviness and elasticity to the earth as it was trodden; a water-rat drew a lead-coloured ripple along the transparency, below which the undulations of the bottom lay like a bird's-eye view of some miniature world. the quiet of this hidden landing-place echoed to the clank of the rowlocks as the heavy oars were shipped, and two boatloads slid out between the stems. archie, who was unarmed, had borrowed one of the officer's pistols, not so much with the intention of using it as from the wish for a plausible pretext for joining the party. at any time his love of adventure would welcome such an opportunity, and at this moment he did not care what might happen to him. he seemed to have no chance of being true to anybody, and it was being revealed to him that, in these circumstances, life was scarcely endurable. he had never thought about it before, and he could think of nothing else now. it was some small comfort to know that, should his last half-hour of life be spent on inchbrayock, madam flemington would at least understand that she had wronged him in suspecting him of being a turncoat. if only james could know that he had not betrayed him--or, rather, that his report was in the hands of that accursed beggar before they met among the broom-bushes! yet, what if he did know it? would his loathing of the spy under the roof-tree of his brother's house be any the less? he would never understand--never know. and yet he had been true to him in his heart, and the fact that he had now no roof-tree of his own proved it. they slipped in under the bank of the island and disembarked silently. the higher ground in the middle of it crossed their front like the line of an incoming wave, hiding all that was going on on its farther side. they were to advance straight over it, and to rush down upon the thicket where the gun was entrenched with its muzzle towards the _venture_. there was to be no working round the north shore, lest the hundreds of eyes on the quays should catch sight of them, and a hundred tongues give the alarm to the rebels. they were to attack at once, only waiting for the sound of another shot to locate the exact place for which they were to make. they stood drawn up, waiting for the order. archie dropped behind the others. his heart had begun to sink. he had assured himself over and over again that logie must be on dial hill; yet as each moment brought him nearer to contact with the enemy, he felt cold misgiving stealing on him. what if his guesses had been wrong? he knew that he had been a fool to run the risk he had taken. chance is such a smiling, happy-go-lucky deity when we see her afar off; but when we are well on our steady plod towards her, and the distance lessens between us, it is often all that we can do to meet her eyes--their expression has changed. archie's willingness to take risks was unfailing and temperamental, and he had taken this one in the usual spirit, but so much had happened lately to shake his confidence in life and in himself that his high heart was beating slower. never had he dreaded anything as much as he dreaded james's knowledge of the truth; yet the most agonizing part of it all was that james could not know the whole truth, nor understand it, even if he knew it. archie's reading of the other man's character was accurate enough to tell him that no knowledge of facts could make logie understand the part he had played. sick at heart, he stood back from the party, watching it gather before the officer. he did not belong to it; no one troubled his head about him, and the men's backs were towards him. he stole away, sheltered by a little hillock, and ran, bent almost double, to the southern shore of the island. he would creep round it and get as near as possible to the thicket. if he could conceal himself, he might be able to see the enemy and the enemy's commander, and to discover the truth while there was yet time for flight. he glanced over his shoulder to see if the officer had noticed his absence, and being reassured, he pressed on. he knew that anyone who thought about him at all would take him for a coward, but he did not reckon that. the dread of meeting james possessed him. sheep were often brought over to graze the island, and their tracks ran like network among the bushes. he trod softly in and out, anxious to get forward before the next sound of the gun should let loose the invading-party upon the rebels. he passed the end of the stepping-stones which crossed the esk's bed to the mainland; they were now nearly submerged by the tide rising in the river. he had not known of their existence, and as he noticed them with surprise, a shot shook the air, and though the thicket, now not far before him, blocked his view of the _venture's_ hull, he saw the tops of her masts tremble, and knew that she had been struck. before him, the track took a sharp turn round a bend of the shore, which cut the path like a little promontory, so that he could see nothing beyond it, and here he paused. in another few minutes the island would be in confusion from the attack, and he might discover nothing. he set his teeth and stepped round the corner. the track widened out and then plunged into the fringe of the thicket. a man was kneeling on one knee with his back to flemington; his hands were shading his eyes, and he was peering along a tunnel-shaped gap in the branches, through which could be seen a patch of river and the damaged bows of the _venture_. archie's instinct was to retreat, but before he could do so, the man jumped up and faced him. his heart leaped to his mouth, for it was james. * * * * * logie stood staring at him. then he made a great effort to pick up the connecting-link of recollection that he felt sure he must have dropped. he had been so much absorbed in the business in hand that he found it impossible for a moment to estimate the significance of any outside matter. though he was confounded and disturbed by the unlooked-for apparition of the painter, the idea of hostility never entered his mind. "flemington?" he exclaimed, stepping towards him. but the other man's expression was so strange that he stopped, conscious of vague disaster. what had the intruder come to tell him? as he stood, flemington murmured something he could not distinguish, then turned quickly in his tracks. logie leaped after him, and seized him by the shoulder before he had time to double round the bend. "let me go!" cried archie, his chest heaving; "let me go, man!" but james's grip tightened; he was a strong man, and he almost dragged him over. as he held him, he caught sight of the government pistol in his belt. it was one that the officer who had lent it to flemington had taken from the ship. he jerked archie violently round and made a snatch at the weapon, and the younger man, all but thrown off his balance, thrust his arm convulsively into the air. his sleeve shot back, laying bare a round, red spot outside the brown, sinewy wrist. then there flashed retrospectively before james's eye that same wound, bright in the blaze of the flaming paper; and with it there flashed comprehension. his impulse was to draw his own pistol, and to shoot the spy dead, but archie recovered his balance, and was grappling with him so that he could not get his arm free. the strength of the slim, light young man astonished him. he was as agile as a weasel, but james found in him, added to his activity, a force that nearly matched his own. there was no possible doubt of logie's complete enlightenment, though he kept his crooked mouth shut and uttered no word. his eyes wore an expression not solely due to the violent struggle going on; they were terrible, and they woke the frantic instinct of self-preservation in flemington. he knew that james was straining to get out his own pistol, and he hung on him and gripped him for dear life. as they swayed and swung to and fro, trampling the bents, there rose from behind the graveyard a yell that gathered and broke over the sound of their own quick breaths like a submerging flood, and the bullets began to whistle over the rising ground. archie saw a change come into james's eyes; then he found himself staggering, hurled with swift and tremendous force from his antagonist. he was flung headlong against the jutting bend round which he had come, and his forehead struck it heavily; then, rolling down to the track at its foot, he lay stunned and still. chapter xiii the interested spectator as james logie dashed back to his men to meet this unexpected attack, he left flemington lying with his face to the bank and his back towards the river; he was so close to the edge of the island that his hair rested on the wet sand permeated by the returning tide coming up the esk. james's whole mind had gone back like a released spring to its natural preoccupation, and he almost forgot him before he had time to join the brisk affray that was going on. but though archie lay where he fell, and was as still as a heap of driftwood, it was only a few minutes before he came to himself. perhaps the chill of the damp sand under his head helped to revive him; perhaps the violence of the blow had been broken by the sod against which he had been hurled. he stirred and raised himself, dazed, but listening to the confused sounds of fighting that rang over inchbrayock. his head hurt him, and instinctively he grubbed up a handful of the cold, wet sand and held it to his brow. his wits had not gone far, for there had been no long break in his consciousness, and he got on his feet and looked round for the best means of escape. james knew all. that was plain enough; and on the issue of the skirmish his own liberty would depend if he did not get clear of the island at once. he went back round the bend, and looking up the shore he saw a couple of the stepping-stones which were only half covered by the tide. in the middle of the channel they had disappeared already, but at either edge they lay visible, like the two ends of a partly submerged chain. blood was trickling down his face, but he washed it off, and made hastily for the crossing, wading in. the esk was not wide just there, though it was far deeper than he had fancied it, and he stumbled along, churning up the mud into an opaque swirl through which he could not see the bottom. he climbed the further bank, wasting no time in looking behind him, and never stopped until he stood, panting and dizzy, on the high ridge of land from which he could overlook inchbrayock and the harbour and town. he was a good deal exhausted, for his head throbbed like a boiling pot, and his hands were shaking. he lay down in a patch of whins, remembering that he was on the sky-line. he meant to see which way the fortunes of war were going to turn before deciding what to do with himself. thanks to chance, his business with captain hall was not finished, nor even begun; but as things seemed at present, captain hall might be a prisoner before the leisure which had been the subject of his own gibes that morning should arrive. the vessel's guns had roared out again as he struggled up the steep, but there had been silence on the island, and even the rattle of musketry had now stopped. something decisive must have taken place, though he could not guess what it was, and he was too far away to distinguish more than the moving figures in the graveyard. he was high enough to see the curve of the watery horizon, for ferryden village was some way below him. his view was only interrupted by a group of firs that stood like an outpost between him and the land's end. he lay among his friendly whin-bushes, staring down on the strait. if james were victorious he knew that there would soon be a hue and cry on his own tracks; but though alive to the desirableness of a good start in these circumstances, he felt that he could not run while there remained any chance of laying the whole of his report before captain hall. he thought, from what he had seen of the man, that the less he was reckoned with by his superiors the better, but it was not his business to consider that. as he turned these things over in his mind his eyes were attracted to dial hill, upon which the sudden sign of a new turn of events could be read. he could see the group of men with the guns below the flagstaff which crowned its summit, and what now attracted his attention was a dark object that had been run up the ropes, its irregular outline flapping and flying against the sky as it was drawn frantically up and down. flemington was blessed with long sight, and he was certain that the two sharp-cut ends that waved like streamers as the dark object dipped and rose, were the sleeves of a man's coat. he saw a figure detach itself from the rest and run towards the seaward edge of the eminence. ferrier--for he supposed now that ferrier was on the hill--must be signalling out to sea with this makeshift flag. he half raised himself from his lair. the cold grey-green of the ocean spread along the world's edge, broken by tiny streaks of foam as the wind began to freshen, and beyond the fir-trees, seen through their stems, the reason of the activity on dial hill slid into sight. a ship was coming up the coast not a couple of miles out, and as flemington watched her she stood in landward, as though attracted out of her course by the signals and the sound of firing in montrose harbour. she was too far off for him to distinguish her colours, but he knew enough about shipping to be certain that she was a french frigate. he dropped back into his place; whilst these sensational matters were going forward he did not suppose that anyone would think of pursuing him. the fact that the rebels were signalling her in suggested that the stranger might not be unexpected, and in all probability she carried french supplies and jacobite troops. the likelihood of an interview with captain hall grew more remote. the frigate drew closer; soon she was hidden from him by the jutting out of the land. another shot broke from the _venture_, but the quick reply from the island took all doubt of the issue of the conflict from archie's mind. james was in full possession of the place, and the surprise must have been a failure. archie watched eagerly to see the ship arrive in the river-mouth. it was evident that hall, from his position under the south shore of the strait, had not seen her yet. presently she rounded the land and appeared to the hundreds of eyes on the quays, a gallant, silent, winged creature, a vivid apparition against the band of sea beyond the opening channel of the esk, swept towards the town as though by some unseen impulse of fate. the shout that went up as she came into view rose to where archie lay on the hillside. the tide was now running high, and she passed in under dial hill. her deck was covered with troops, and the waving of hats and the cheers of the townspeople, who were pouring along the further side of the harbour, made the truth plain to the solitary watcher among the whins. the _venture_ sent a shot to meet her that fell just in front of her bows, but although it was followed by a second, that cut her rigging, no great harm was done, and she answered with a broadside that echoed off the walls of the town till the strait was in a roar. it had no time to subside before james's gun on inchbrayock began again. flemington could see that hall's surrender could only be a matter of time; the new-comer would soon be landing her troops out of his range, and, having done so, would be certain to attack the _venture_ from the ferryden side of the river. half of hall's men were on the island, which was in possession of the rebels, his vessel was damaged and in no condition to escape to sea, even had there been no hostile craft in his way and no dial hill to stand threatening between him and the ocean. the time had come for archie to think of his own plight and of his own prospects. he was adrift again, cut off even from the disorderly ship that had sheltered him last night, and from the unlucky sot who commanded her. his best plan would be to take the news of hall's capture to edinburgh, for it would be madness for him to think of going to perth, whilst his identity as a government agent would be published by ferrier and logie all over that part of the country. he was cast down as he sat with his hand to his aching head, and now that it had resulted in that fatal meeting, his own folly in going to the island seemed incredible. his luck had been so good all his life, and after the many years that he had trusted her, the jade had turned on him! he had been too high-handed with her, that was the explanation of it! he had asked too much. he had been over-confident in her, over-confident in himself. flemington was neither vain nor conceited, being too heartily interested in outside things to take very personal points of view; he merely went straight on, with the joy of life lighting his progress. but now he had put the crown on his foolhardiness. he had had so many good things--strength, health, wits, charm; the stage of his stirring life whereon to use them, and behind that stage the peaceful background of the home he loved, filled with the presence of the being he most admired and revered on earth. but new lights had broken in on him of late. troublous lights, playing from behind a curtain that hid unknown things. suddenly he had turned and followed them, impelled by uncomprehended forces in himself, and it seemed that in consequence all around him had shifted, disintegrated, leaving him stranded. once more as he watched, his anxious eyes on the scene below him, his heart full of his own perplexities, a last roar of shot filled the harbour, and then, on the _venture_, he saw the flag hauled down. he rose and looked about him, telling himself that he must get as far from the neighbourhood of montrose as he could in the shortest possible time. sixty miles of land stretched between him and edinburgh, and the only thing for him to do was to start by way of the nearest seaport from which he could sail for leith. he was a very different figure from the well-appointed young man who had ridden away from ardguys only yesterday, for he was soaked to above the knees from wading in the esk; blood had dripped on his coat from the cut on his forehead, and his hair at the back was clogged with sand. excitement had kept him from thinking how cold he was, and he had not known that he was shivering; but he knew it as he stood in the teeth of the fresh wind. he laughed in spite of his plight; it was so odd to think of starting for edinburgh from a whin-bush. he turned southwards, determining to go forward till he should strike the road leading to the seaport of aberbrothock; by sticking to the high ground he would soon come to it at the inland end of the basin, and by it he might reach aberbrothock by nightfall, and thence take sail in the morning. this was the best plan he could devise, though he did not care to contemplate the miles he would have to trudge. he knew that the broken coast took a great inward curve, and that by this means he would be avoiding its ins and outs, and he wished that he did not feel so giddy and so little able to face his difficulties. he remembered that the money he had on him made a respectable sum, and realized that the less worth robbing he looked, the more likely he would be to get to his journey's end in safety. he stepped out with an effort; southward he must go, and for some time to come angus must know him no more. chapter xiv in search of sensation when skirling wattie had delivered his letter to flemington on the foregoing day, he watched the young man out of sight with disgust, and cursed him for a high-handed jackanapes. he was not used to be treated in such a fashion. there was that about archie which took his fancy, for the suggestion of stir and movement that went everywhere with flemington pleased him, and roused his unfailing curiosity. the beggar's most pleasant characteristic was his interest in everybody and everything; his worst, the unseasonable brutality with which he gratified it. a livelihood gained by his own powers of cajolery and persistence had left him without a spark of respect for his kind. he would have been a man of prowess had his limbs been intact--and destiny, in robbing his body of activity, had transferred that quality to his brains. his huge shoulders and broad fists, the arrogant male glare of his roving eye, might well hint at the wisdom of providence in keeping his sphere of action to the narrow limits of a go-cart. those who look for likenesses between people and animals would be reminded by him of a wild boar; and it was almost shocking to anyone with a sense of fitness to hear the mellow and touching voice, rich with the indescribable quiver of pathos and tragedy, that proceeded from his bristly jaws when he sang. the world that it conjured up before imaginative listeners was a world of twilight; of stars that drew a trail of tear-dimmed lustre about the ancient haunted places of the country; stars that had shone on battlefields and on the partings of lovers; that had looked on the raids of the border, and had stood over the dark border-towers among the peat. it was a strange truth that, in the voice of this coarse and humble vagabond, lay the whole distinctive spirit of the national poetry of scotland. in the last few months his employment had added new zest to his life, for it was not only the pay he received for his occasional carrying of letters that was welcome to him; his bold and guileful soul delighted in the occupation for its own sake. he was something of a student of human nature, as all those who live by their wits must be of necessity; and the small services he was called upon to give brought him into contact with new varieties of men. archie was new to him, and, in the beggar's opinion, immeasurably more amusing than anyone he had seen yet. in modern parlance he would be called 'a sportsman,' this low-bred old ruffian who had lost his legs, and who was left to the mercy of his own ingenuity and to the efforts of the five dumb animals which supplemented his loss. he had--all honour to him--kept his love of life and its chances through his misfortune; and though he did not know it himself, it was his recognition of the same spirit in flemington that made him appreciate the young man. his services to the state had not been important up to the present time. a few letters carried, a little information collected, had been the extent of his usefulness. but, though he was not in their regular employ, the authorities were keeping a favourable eye on him, for he had so far proved himself capable, close-mouthed, and a very miracle of local knowledge. he sat in his cart looking resentfully after flemington between the stems of the alders and the lattice of their golden-brown leaves, and, though the one word tossed over the rider's shoulders did not tell him much, he determined he would not lose sight of archie if he could help it. "brechin" might mean anything from a night's lodging to a lengthened stay, but he would follow him as far as he dared and set about discovering his movements. skirling wattie had friends in brechin, as he had in most places round about, and certain bolt-holes of his own wherein he could always find shelter for himself and his dogs; but he did not mean to trust himself nearer than these refuges to lord balnillo, at any rate, not for a few days. chance had relieved him of the letter for which he was responsible sooner than he expected, and at present he was a free man. he roused his team, tucked his pipes into their corner of the cart, and, guiding himself carefully between the trees, issued from the thicket like some ribald vision of goblinry escaped from the world of folk-lore. he turned towards brechin, and set off for the town at a brisk trot, the yellow dog straining at his harness, and his comrades taking their pace from him. every inch of the road was known to wattie, every tree and tuft, every rut and hole; and as there were plenty of these last, he bumped and swung along in a way that would have dislocated the bones of a lighter person. the violent roughness of his progress was what served him for exercise and kept him in health. there were not many houses near the highway, but the children playing round the doors of the few he passed hailed him with shouts, and he answered them, as he answered everyone, with his familiar wag of the head. when he entered brechin and rolled past the high, circular shaft of its round tower, the world made way for him with a grin, and when it was not agile enough to please him, he heralded himself with a shrill note from the chanter, which he had unscrewed from his pipes. business was business with him. he meant to lie in the town to-night, but he was anxious to get on to flemington's tracks before the scent was cold. he drove to the swan inn and entered the yard, and there he had the satisfaction of seeing archie's horse being rubbed down with a wisp of straw. its rider, he made out, had left the inn on foot half an hour earlier, so, with this meagre clue, he sought the streets and the company of the idlers haunting their thievish corners, to whom the passing stranger and what might be made out of him were the best interests of the day. by the time the light was failing he had traced flemington down to the river, where he had been last seen crossing the bridge. the beggar was a good deal surprised; he could not imagine what was carrying archie away from the place. in the dusk he descended the steep streets running down to the esk, and, slackening his pace, took out a short, stout pair of crutches that he kept beside him, using them as brakes on either side of the cart. people who saw wattie for the first time would stand, spell-bound, to watch the incredible spectacle of his passage through a town, but, to the inhabitants of brechin, he was too familiar a sight for anything but the natural widening of the mouth that his advent would produce from pure force of habit. the lights lit here and there were beginning to repeat themselves in the water, and men were returning to their houses after the day's work as he stopped his cart and sent out that surest of all attractions, the first notes of 'the tod,' into the gathering mists of the river-side. by ones and twos, the details of a sympathetic audience drew together round him as his voice rose over the sliding rush of the esk. idlers on the bridge leaned over the grey arches as the sound came to them above the tongue of the little rapid that babbled as it lost itself in the shadow of the woods downstream. then the pipes took up their tune. jests and roars of laughter oiled the springs of generosity, and the good prospects of supper and a bed began to smile upon the beggar. when darkness set in, he turned his wheels towards a shed that a publican had put at his disposal for the night, and he and his dogs laid themselves down to rest in its comfortable straw. the yellow cur, relieved from his harness, stole closer and closer to his master and lay with his jowl against the pipes. presently wattie's dirty hand went out and sought the coarse head of his servant. "doag," he was muttering, as he went to sleep. perhaps in all the grim, grey little scottish town, no living creature closed its eyes more contentedly than the poor cur whose head was pillowed in paradise because of the touch that was on it. morning found man and dogs out betimes and migrating to the heart of the town. wattie was one who liked to get an early draught from the fountain-head of news, to be beforehand, so to speak, with his day. the swan inn was his goal, and he had not got up the hill towards it when his practised eye, wise in other men's movements, saw that the world was hurrying along, drawn by some magnet stronger than its legitimate work. the women were running out of their houses too. as he toiled up the steep incline, a figure burst from the mouth of a wynd and came flying down the middle of the narrow way. "hey! what ails ye, man? what's 'ahind ye?" he cried, stopping his cart and spreading out his arms as though to embrace the approaching man. the other paused. he was a pale, foolish-looking youth, whose progress seemed as little responsible as that of a discharged missile. "there's fechtin'!" he yelled, apparently addressing the air in general. "fechtin'?" "ay, there's fechtin' at montrose this hour syne! div ye no hear them, ye deef muckle swine?" continued the youth, rendered abusive by excitement. the two stared in each other's faces as those do who listen. dull and distant, a muffled boom drove in from the coast. a second throb followed it. the youth dropped his raised hands and fled on. wattie turned his dogs, and set off down the hill without more delay. here was the reason that archie had left the town! it was in expectation of this present disturbance on the coast that he had slipped out of brechin by the less frequented road round the basin. he scurried down the hill, scattering the children playing in the kennel with loud imprecations and threats. he sped over the bridge, and was soon climbing the rise on the farther side of the esk. if there was fighting going on, he would make shift to see it, and montrose would be visible from most of his road. soon he would get a view of the distant harbour, and would see the smoke of the guns whose throats continued to trouble the air. also, he would get forward unmolested, for there would be the width of the basin between himself and lord balnillo. he breathed his team when he reached the top of the hill; for he was a scientific driver, and he had some way to go. he cast a glance down at the place he had left, rejoicing that no one had followed him out of it. when he was on his own errands he did not like company, preferring, like most independent characters, to develop his intentions in the perfect freedom of silence. when he drew near enough to distinguish the _venture_, a dark spot under the lee of ferryden, he saw the white puffs of smoke bursting from her, and the answering clouds rising from the island. there had been no time to hear the rumours of the morning before he met the pale young man, or he would have learned that a body of prince charles's men under ferrier had left brechin last night whilst he lay sound asleep in the straw among his dogs. he could not imagine where the assailants had come from who were pounding at the ship from inchbrayock. the fields sloped away from him to the water, leaving an uninterrupted view. he pressed on to the cross-roads at which he must turn along the basin's shore. from there on, the conformation of the land, and the frequent clumps of trees, would shut out both town and harbour from his sight until he came parallel with the island. he halted at the turning for a last look at the town. the firing had ceased, which reconciled him a little to the eclipse of the distant spectacle; then he drove on again, unconscious of the sight he was to miss. for, unsuspected by him, as by the crowd thronging the quays of montrose, the french frigate was creeping up the coast, and she made her appearance in the river-mouth just as wattie began the tamer stage of his journey. the yellow cur and his companions toiled along at their steady trot, their red tongues hanging. the broadside from the french ship rang inland, and the beggar groaned, urging them with curses and chosen abuse. his intimate knowledge of the neighbourhood led him to steer for the identical spot on which flemington, crouched in his whin-bush, had looked down on the affray, and he hoped devoutly that he might reach that point of vantage while there was still something to be seen from it. silence had settled on the strait once more. not far in front a man was coming into sight, the first creature wattie had seen since leaving brechin, whose face was turned from the coast. he seemed a person of irresolute mind, as well as of vacillating feet, for every few yards he would stop, hesitating, before resuming his way. the beggar cursed him heartily for a drunkard, for, though he had a lively sympathy with backsliders of that kind, he knew that accurate information was the last thing to be expected from them. before the wayfarers had halved the distance between them the man stopped, and sitting down by the tumbledown stone dyke at the roadside, dropped his head in his hands. as the cart passed him a few minutes later, he raised a ghastly face, and skirling wattie pulled up astounded, with a loud and profane exclamation, as he recognized flemington. though archie had been glad to escape from the beggar yesterday, he was now thankful to see anyone who might pass for a friend. he tried to smile, but his eyes closed again, and he put out his hand towards the dyke. "i'm so devilish giddy," he said. wattie looked at the cut on his head and the stains of blood on his coat. "ye've gotten a rare dunt," he observed. archie, who seemed to himself to be slipping off the rounded edge of the world, made no reply. the other sat eyeing him with perplexity and some impatience. he did not know what he wanted most--to get to montrose, or to get news out of flemington. the dogs lay down in the mud. flemington kept his hand to his eyes for a minute, and then lifted his head again. "the ship has surrendered," he said, speaking with difficulty; "i have been on the high ground watching. she struck her flag. a french frigate----" he stopped again. the road on which he sat was whirling down into illimitable space. the other took in his plight. his coat, torn in his struggle with logie, was full of whin-prickles, and the wet mud was caked on his legs. his soft, silky hair was flattened on his forehead. "ye've been fechtin' yersel', ma lad," said wattie. "whaur hae ye been?" "there's a rebel force on inchbrayock," said archie, with another effort; "i have been on the island. yes, i've been fighting. a man recognized me--a man i saw at--on the road by balnillo. they will be hunting me soon, and i have papers on me they must not find, and money--all the money i have. god knows how i am to get away! i must get to aberbrothock." "what was ye sayin' aboot the french?" in broken sentences, and between his fits of giddiness, archie explained the situation in the harbour, and the beggar listened, his bristly brows knit, his bonnet thrust back on his bald head; and his own best course of action grew clear to him. montrose would soon be full of rebel soldiers, and though these might be generous audiences when merry with wine and loose upon the streets, their presence would make him no safer from lord balnillo. wattie knew that the judge's loyalty was beginning to be suspected, and that he might well have friends among the prince's officers, whose arrival might attract him to the town. and to serve archie would be a good recommendation for himself with his employers, to say nothing of any private gratitude that the young man might feel. "bide you whaur ye are!" he exclaimed, rousing his dogs. "lad, a'll hae to ca' ye oot o' this, an' dod! we'll need a' our time!" not far from them a spring was trickling from the fields, dropping in a spurt through the damp mosses between the unpointed stones of the dyke. the obedient dogs drew their master close to it, and he filled a battered pannikin that he took from among his small collection of necessities in the bottom of the cart. he returned with the water, and when archie had bathed his head in its icy coldness, he drew a whisky-bottle from its snug lair under the bagpipes, and forced him to drink. it was half full, for the friendly publican had replenished his store before they parted on the foregoing night. as the liquid warmed his stomach, archie raised his head slowly. "i believe i can walk now," he said at last. "ye'll need to try," observed wattie dryly. "ye'll no can ride wi' me. come awa', maister flemington. will a gi' ye a skelloch o' the pipes to help ye alang?" "in god's name, no!" cried archie, whose head was splitting. he struggled on to his feet. the whisky was beginning to overcome the giddiness, and he knew that every minute spent on the highroad was a risk. the beggar was determined to go to aberbrothock with archie; he did not consider him in a fit state to be left alone, and he counselled him to leave the road at once, and to cut diagonally across the high ground, whilst he himself, debarred by his wheels from going across country, drove back to the cross roads, and took the one to the coast. by doing this the pair would meet, flemington having taken one side of the triangle, while wattie had traversed the other two. they were to await each other at a spot indicated by the latter, where a bit of moor encroached on the way. as wattie turned again to retrace his road, he watched his friend toiling painfully up the slanting ground among the uneven tussocks of grass with some anxiety. archie laboured along, pausing now and again to rest, but he managed to gain the summit of the ridge. wattie saw his figure shorten from the feet up as he crossed the sky-line, till his head and shoulders dropped out of sight like the topsails of a ship over a clear horizon; he was disappointed at having missed the sight of so much good fighting. archie's account had been rather incoherent, but he gathered that the rebels were in possession of the harbour, and that a french ship had come in in the middle of the affray full of rebel troops. he shouted the information to the few people he met. he turned southward at the cross roads. behind him lay the panorama of the basin and the spread of the rolling country; brechin, the esk, the woods of monrummon moor, stretching out to forfar, and, northward, the grampians, lying with their long shoulders in the autumn light. his beat for begging was down there across the water and round about the country between town and town; but though his activities were in that direction, he knew aberbrothock and the coast well, for he had been born in a fishing-village in one of its creeks, and had spent his early years at sea. he would be able to put archie in the way of a passage to leith without much trouble and without unnecessary explanations; archie had money on him, and could be trusted to pay his way. he was the first to reach the trysting-place, and he drew up, glad to give his team a rest; at last he saw archie coming along with the slow, careful gait of a man who is obliged to consider each step of his way separately in order to get on at all. "sit ye doon," he exclaimed, as they met. "if once i sit down i am lost," said archie. "come on." he started along the road with the same dogged step, the beggar keeping alongside. they had gone about half a mile when flemington clutched at a wayside bush and then slid to the ground in a heap. wattie pulled up, dismayed, and scanned their surroundings. to let him lie there by the road was out of the question. he could not tell how much his head had been injured, but he knew enough to be sure that exposure and cold might bring a serious illness on a man in his state; he did not understand that the whisky he had given archie was the worst possible thing for him. to the beggar, it was the sovereign remedy for all trouble of mind or body. he cursed his own circumscribed energies; there was no one in sight. the nearest habitation was a little farmhouse on the skirts of the moor with one tiny window in its gable-end making a dark spot, high under the roof. wattie turned his wheels reluctantly towards it. unwilling though he was to draw attention to his companion, there was no choice. chapter xv wattie has theories though skirling wattie seldom occupied the same bed on many consecutive nights, his various resting-places had so great a family likeness that he could not always remember where he was when he chanced to wake in the small hours. sheds, barns, stables harboured him in the cold months when luck was good; loanings, old quarries, whin-patches, the alder clump beyond brechin, or the wall-side at magdalen chapel, in the summer. to-night he lay in the barn abutting on the tiny farmhouse at which he had sought shelter for archie. he had met with a half-hearted reception from the woman who came to the door. her man was away, she told him, and she was unwilling to admit strangers in his absence. she had never seen wattie before, and it was plain that she did not like his looks. he induced her at last, with the greatest difficulty, to give shelter in her barn to the comrade whom he described as lying in extremity at the roadside. finally, she despatched her son, a youth of fifteen, to accompany the beggar, and to help to bring the sufferer back. cold water revived archie again, and he reached the barn with the assistance of the lad, who, better disposed than his mother, cut a bundle of dry heather, which he spread in a corner for his comfort. the woman looked with silent surprise at her undesired guest; she had thought to see a fellow-traveller of different condition in company with the masterful old blackguard in the cart. her glances and her expressive silence made wattie uneasy, but there was no help for their plight whilst flemington could scarcely stand. the beggar had spent the rest of that day in the barn. he was not suffered to enter the farm, nor was he offered any food; but he had enough store by him from what he had collected in brechin for his own needs and those of his team. archie's only requirement was the bowl of water that his companion had obtained from the boy. he lay alternately dozing and tossing on his pile of heather. his body was chilled for his high boots had been full of the esk water, and wattie had hesitated to draw them off, lest he should be unable to get them on again after their soaking. night fell on the barn at last. wattie slept sound, with the yellow cur's muzzle against his shoulder; but he awoke towards midnight, for archie's feverish voice was coming from the corner in which he lay. he inclined his ear, attracted by the recurrent name of logie which ran through the disconnected babblings, rising again and again like some half-drowned object carried along a swift stream. the darkness made every word seem more distinct. "listen to me!" cried flemington. "logie! logie! you do not understand . . . it is safe . . . it is burnt! nobody shall know it from me. . . . i cannot take your money, logie . . . i will tell you everything, but you will not understand. . . ." the beggar was holding his breath. "i did not guess it was inchbrayock . . . i thought it would not be inchbrayock! logie, i will say nothing . . . but i will tell you all. for god's sake, logie, . . . i swear it is true! . . . listen. . . ." skirling wattie could hear him struggling as though he were fighting for his life. "not to ardguys . . . i cannot go back to ardguys! i shall never tell . . . never, never tell . . . but i shall know where you are! they shall never know. _ah!_" cried archie, raising his voice like a man in distress calling for help, "it is you, logie! . . . my god, let me go!" the beggar dragged himself nearer. the fragment of moon did no more than turn the chinks and cracks of the barn to a dull grey, and he could hardly see the outline of his companion. the nightmares that were tormenting archie pointed to something that must have happened before he came by his hurt, and the injury and the chill had produced these light-headed wanderings; there were troubles boiling in his mind that he had kept behind his teeth so long as his tongue was under control. wattie wondered what was all this talk of lord balnillo's brother. it seemed as if there were some secret between this man, suspected, as he well knew, of being an active rebel, and flemington. had it been light, wattie would have tried to get at the papers that archie had spoken of as being on him when they met, for these might give him some clue to the mystery. he sat in the dark leaning against the wall of the barn, his arms tightly folded across his great chest, his lips pursed, his gaze bent on the restless figure that he could just distinguish. all at once archie sat up. "where are you?" he asked in a high, strained voice. "a'm here," replied the beggar. "is it you, logie?" exclaimed flemington. "it's mysel'." wattie smoothed the roughness out of his accent as best he could. the other seemed to be hovering on the brink of consciousness. he sank back. "it is not logie," he said; "but you can tell him----" wattie leaned forward and laid his broad palm firmly and very gently on his shoulder. "what'll a' tell him?" said he. flemington turned towards him and groped about with his hot hand. "tell him from me that he can trust me," he said in a hoarse, earnest whisper. the beggar's touch seemed to quiet him. he lay still, murmuring indistinctly between snatches of silence. once again he sat up, groping about. "you will not forget?" he said. "na, na," replied wattie. he pushed him gently back, patting him now and again as a nurse might pat a restless child, and archie grew calmer. the hand quieted him. rough, dirty, guileful, profane as he was, without scruple or conscience or anything but the desire to do the best for himself, skirling wattie had got, lodged in body or spirit, or in whatsoever part of man the uncomprehended force dwells, that personal magnetism which is independent alike of grace and of virtue, which can exist in a soil that is barren of either. it may have been that which the yellow cur, with the clear vision belonging to some animals, recognized and adored; seeing not only the coarse and jovial reprobate who was his master, but the shadow of the mysterious power that had touched him. the dog, awakened by archie's cry, found that the beggar had moved, and drew closer to his side. flemington dozed off again, and wattie sat thinking; he longed to stir him up, that he might have the chance of hearing more of his rambling talk. but he refrained, not from humane feeling, but from the fear that the talker, if he were tampered with, might be too ill to be moved on the morrow. sleep was his best chance, and wattie had made up his mind that if it were possible to move him, he would prevail on the boy to get a beast from the nearest place that boasted anything which could carry him to aberbrothock. he knew that flemington could pay for it, and he would direct him to a small inn in that place whose landlord, besides being a retired smuggler, was a distant kinsman of his own. the matter of a passage to leith could be arranged through the same source for a consideration. archie should take his chance by himself. he realized with some bitterness the bright opportunities that can be lost upon a being who has no legs to speak of; for he could easily have relieved him of what money he carried had he been an able-bodied man. it was not that he lacked the force for such deeds, but that honesty was wantonly thrust upon him because his comings and goings were so conspicuous. notoriety takes heavy toll; and he had about the same chance as the king of being conveniently mislaid. he would have given a good deal for a sight of the papers that archie carried, and though the darkness interfered with him now, he promised himself that he would see them if the morning light should find him still delirious. he could not make out how ill he was; and in spite of his curiosity, he was not prepared to befriend him with the chance of his growing worse. to have him dying upon his hands would be a burden too great to endure, even should it lead to no awkward questionings. he would get rid of him to-morrow, whether his curiosity were satisfied or not: he had heard enough to make him suspect very strongly that flemington was in the pay of the rebels as well as in that of the king. it was a situation that he, personally, could very well understand. but the night turned, and archie grew more peaceful as the hours went by. he had one or two bouts of talking, but they were incoherent and fitful, and his mind appeared now to be straying among different phantoms. there was no more about logie, and wattie could only make out the word 'ardguys,' which he knew as the name of a place beyond forfar; and as he had discovered in brechin that flemington lived somewhere in those parts, he guessed that his thoughts were roving about his home. his breathing grew less laboured, and the watcher could hear at last that he slept. the moon dropped, and with her going the crevices lost their greyness and the barn grew black. the beggar, who was a healthy sleeper, laid himself down again, and in the middle of his cogitations passed into oblivion. when he awoke the place was light, and archie was looking at him with intelligent eyes; they were hollow, and there were dark shadows below them, but they were the eyes of a man in full possession of his wits. "we must get out of this place," he said. "i have been standing up, but my knees seem so heavy i can hardly walk. my bones ache, wattie; i believe there is fever in me, but i must get on. damn it, man, we are a sorry pair to be cast on the world like this! i fear i took terrible liberties with your whisky yesterday." it was a still, misty morning when the beggar, having harnessed his dogs, went out to look for the boy. when he was gone, flemington fumbled with his shaking fingers for the different packets that he carried. all were there safely--his letters, his money. he trusted nobody, and he did not like having to trust the beggar. his feverish head and the ague in his bones told him that he could scarcely hope to get to aberbrothock on foot. his boots were still wet, and a bruise on his hip that he had got in falling yesterday had begun to make itself felt. he propped himself against the wall and reached out for the water beside him. wattie had been some time away when the barn door opened and the farm-woman appeared on the threshold, considering him with suspicious disfavour. he dragged himself to his feet and bowed as though he were standing upon an aubusson carpet instead of upon a pallet of withered heather. the action seemed to confirm her distrust. "madam," said he, "i have to thank you for a night's shelter and for this excellent refreshment. you are too good. i drink to you." he raised the broken delf bowl with the drain of water that remained in it. being conscious of inhospitality, she was not sure how much irony lay in his words, and his face told her nothing. "it's the last ye'll get here," said she. the more she looked at flemington the more she was impressed by his undesirability as a guest. she was one of those to whom anything uncommon seemed a menace. "madam, i notice that you dislike me--why?" "wha are ye?" she inquired after a pause, during which he faced her, smiling, his eyebrows raised. "we are two noblemen, travelling for pleasure," said he. she crossed her arms, snorting. "heuch!" she exclaimed contemptuously. "a' wish ma gudeman was hame. he'd sort the pair o' ye!" "if you think we have any design on your virtue," he continued, "i beg you to dismiss the idea. i assure you, you are safe with us. we are persons of the greatest delicacy, and my friend is a musician of the first rank. i myself am what you see--your humble servant and admirer." "ye're a leear and a frenchman!" cried she. her eyes blazed. a little more provocation, and she might have attacked him. at this moment wattie's cart drove into the yard behind her, axle deep in the sea of mud and manure that filled the place. she turned upon the new-comer. she could not deal with archie, but the beggar was a foe she could understand, and she advanced, a whirl of abuse, upon him. the yellow dog's growling rose, battling with her strident tones, and archie, seeing the mischief his tongue had wrought, limped out, fearful of what might happen. "stand awa' frae the doag, wumman! he'll hae the legs o' ye roogit aff yer henches gin he get's a haud o' ye!" roared wattie, as the yellow body leaped and bounded in the traces. amid a hurricane of snarling and shouts he contrived, by plying his stick, to turn the animals and to get them out of the yard. archie followed him, but before he did so he paused to turn to his enemy, who had taken shelter in the doorway of the barn. he could not take off his hat to her because he had no hat to take off, having lost it on inchbrayock island, but he blew a kiss from the points of his fingers with an air that almost made her choke. wattie, looking back over his shoulder, called angrily to him. he could not understand what he had done to the woman to move her to such a tempest of wrath, but he told himself that, in undertaking to escort archie, he had made a leap in the dark. he would direct him to his cousin's house of entertainment in aberbrothock, and return to his own haunts without delay. at the nearest point of road the boy was standing by a sorry-looking nag that he held by the ear. a few minutes later they had parted, and the boy, made happy by the coin he had been given, was returning to the farm, while the beggar, who had also reaped some profit in the last twenty-four hours, watched his late companion disappearing down the road. when he was out of sight he turned his own wheels in the direction of brechin, and set off at a sober pace for that friendly town. he was singing to himself as he went, first because he owned the price of another bottle of whisky; secondly, because he was delighted to be rid of flemington; and thirdly, because an inspiring idea had come to him. his dogs, by the time they drew him into brechin, would have done two heavy days' work, and would deserve the comparative holiday he meant to give them. he would spend to-morrow in the town with his pipes in the company of that congenial circle always ready to spring from the gutter on his appearance. then, after a good night's rest, and when he should have collected a trifle, he would go on to forfar and learn for certain whether archie lived at ardguys and who might be found there in his absence. his idea was to arrive at the house with the last tidings of the young man; to give an account of the attack on the _venture_, its surrender, flemington's injury, and his own part in befriending him. it took some time, in those days of slow communication, for public news to travel so much as across a county, but even should the tale of the ship have reached ardguys, the news of archie could scarcely have preceded him. he hoped to find someone--for preference an anxious mother, who would be sensible of how much he had done for her son. there would be fresh profit there. and not only profit. there was something else for which the beggar hoped, though profit was his main object. he pictured some tender, emotional lady from whose unsuspicious heart he might draw scraps of information that would fit into his own theories. he would try the effect of logie's name, and there would be no harm in taking a general survey of flemington's surroundings and picking up any small facts about him that he could collect. his own belief in archie's double dealing grew stronger as he jogged along; no doubt that shrewd and unaccountable young man was driving a stiff trade. there was little question in his mind that the contents of the letter he had put into his hands by the alder-clump had been sold to captain james logie, and that its immediate result had been the taking of the ship. he had learned from archie's ravings that there had been a question of money between himself and logie. the part that he could make nothing of was the suggestion, conveyed by archie in the night, that he and the judge's brother had been fighting. "let me go, logie!" he had cried out in the darkness, and the blow on his forehead, which was bleeding when he found him, proved recent violence. but though he could not explain these puzzles, nor make them tally with his belief, his theory remained. flemington was in league with logie. for the present he determined to keep his suspicions to himself. chapter xvi the two ends of the line three days afterwards wattie sat at the gates of ardguys and looked between the pale yellow ash-trees at the house. there was nobody about at the moment to forbid his entrance, and he drove quietly in at a foot's pace and approached the door. the sun shone with the clear lightness of autumn, and the leaves, which had almost finished the fitful process of falling, lay gathered in heaps by the gate, for madam flemington liked order. on the steep pitch of the ancient slate roof a few pigeons, white and grey, sat in pairs or walked about with spasmodic dignity. the whole made a picture, high in tone, like a water-colour, and the clean etched lines of the stripped branches gave it a sharp delicacy and threw up the tall, light walls. all these things were lost upon the beggar. he had informed himself in forfar. he knew that the place was owned and lived in by a lady of the name of flemington, who was the grandmother of the young man from whom he had lately parted. he had learned nothing of her character and politics because of the seclusion in which she lived, and he stared about him on every side and scanned the house for any small sign that might give him a clue to the tastes or occupations of its inhabitant. whilst he was so engaged the front-door opened and the sound sent all the pigeons whirling from the roof into the air in flashes of grey-blue and white. madam flemington stood on the top step. the beggar's hand went instinctively to his bonnet. he was a little taken aback--why, he did not know--and he instantly abandoned his plan of an emotional description of archie's plight. she stood quite still, looking down at him. her luxuriant silver hair was covered by a three-cornered piece of black lace that was tied in a knot under her chin, and she wore the 'calash,' or hood, with which the ladies of those days protected their headdresses when they went out. a short furred cloak was round her. she considered wattie with astonishment. then she beckoned to him to approach. "who and what are you?" she asked, laying her hand on the railing that encircled the landing of the steps. that question was so seldom put to him that it struck him unawares, like a stone from behind a hedge. he hesitated. "a've got news for yer leddyship," he began. "i asked your name," said madam flemington. "wattie caird," replied he. "skirling wattie, they ca' me." the countryside and its inhabitants did not appeal to christian, but this amazing intruder was like no one she had ever seen before. she guessed that he was a beggar, and she brushed aside his announcement of news as merely a method of attracting attention. "you are one of the few persons in these parts who can afford to keep a coach," she remarked. a broad smile overspread his ribald countenance, like the sun irradiating a public-house. "dod, ma leddy, a'd think shame to visit ye on fut," said he, with a wag of his head. "you have better reasons than that," she replied rather grimly. "aye, aye, they're baith awa'," said he, looking at the place where his legs should have been. "a'm an ill sicht for the soutars!" she threw back her head and laughed a little. she had seen no one for months, with the exception of archie, who was so quick in mind and speech, and the humour of this vagabond on wheels took her fancy. there was no whining servility about him, in spite of his obvious profession. the horrified face of a maidservant appeared for one moment at a window, then vanished, struck back by the unblessed sight of her mistress, that paralyzing, unapproachable power, jesting, apparently, with skirling wattie, the lowest of the low. the girl was a native of forfar, the westernmost point of the beggar's travels, and she had often seen him in the streets. "you face life boldly," said madam flemington. "an' what for no? fegs, greetin' fills naebody's kyte."*[*stomach.] she laughed again. "you shall fill yours handsomely," said she; "go to the other door and i will send orders to the women to attend to you." "aye, will i," he exclaimed, "but it wasna' just for a piece that a' cam' a' the way frae the muir o' rossie." "from where?" said she. "the muir o' rossie," repeated he. "ma leddy, it was awa' yonder at the tail o' the muir that a' tell't maister flemington the road to aberbrothock." "mr. flemington?" "aye, yon lad flemington--an' a deevil o' a lad he is to tak' the road wi'! ma leddy, there's been a pucklie fechtin' aboot montrose, an' the prince's men hae gotten a haud o' king george's ship that's in by ferryden. as a' gaed doon to the toon, a' kaipit* [*met.] wi' flemington i' the road. he'd gotten a clour on 's heed. he was fechtin' doon aboot inchbrayock, he tell't me." "fighting? with whom?" asked madam flemington, fixing her tiger's eyes on him. the beggar had watched her face narrowly while he spoke for the slightest flicker of expression that might indicate the way her feelings were turning. "he was fechtin' wi' captain logie," he continued boldly, "a fell man yon--ye'll ken him, yer leddyship?" "by name," said christian. "a'm thinkin' it was frae him that he got the clour on 's heed. a' gie'd him ma guid whisky bottle, an' a' got water to him frae a well. a' ca'd him awa' frae the roadside--he didna ken wha would be aifter him ye see--an' a' gar'd a clatterin' auld wife at the muir side gie's a shelter yon nicht. a' didna' leave the callant, ma' leddy, till a' got a shelt to him. he's to edinburgh. a' tell't him wha 'd get him a passage to leith--a'm an aberbrothock man, mysel', ye ken." "and did he send you to me?" "aye, did he," said he, lying boldly. there was no sign of emotion, none even of surprise, on her face. her heart had beaten hard as the beggar talked, and the weight of wrath and pain that she had carried since she had parted with archie began to lighten. he had listened to her--he had not gone against her. how deep her words had fallen into his heart she could not tell, but deep enough to bring him to grips with the man who had made the rift between them. "are you sure of what you say?" she asked quickly; "did you see them fight?" "na, na, but 'twas the lad himsel' that tell't me. he was on the ship." "he was on the ship?" "aye, was he. and he gae'd oot wi' the sodgers to deave they rebels frae inchbrayock. they got the ship, ma leddy, but they didna get him. he escapit." "did you say he was much hurt?" said madam flemington. "hoots! ye needna' fash yersel', ma leddy! a' was feared for him i' the nicht, but there wasna' muckle wrang wi' him when he gae'd awa', or, dod, a' wouldna' hae left him!" he had no mind to spoil his presentment of himself as good samaritan. so far he had learnt nothing. he had spoken of the prince's men as rebels without a sign of displeasure showing on madam flemington's face. archie might be playing a double game and she might be doing the same, but there was nothing to suggest it. she was magnificently impersonal. she had not even shown the natural concern that he expected with regard to her own flesh and blood. "go now," said she, waving her hand towards the back part of the house; "you shall feed well, you and your dogs; and when you have finished you can come to these steps again, and i will give you some money. you have done well by me." she re-entered the house and he drove away to the kitchen-door, dismissed. if wattie hoped to discover anything more there about the lady and her household, he was disappointed. the servants raised their chins in refined disapproval of the vagrant upon whom their mistress had seen fit to waste words under the very front windows of ardguys. they resolved that he should find the back-door, socially, a different place, and only the awe in which they stood of christian compelled them to obey her to the letter. a crust or two would have interpreted her wishes, had they dared to please themselves. but madam flemington knew every resource of her larder and kitchen, for french housekeeping and the frugality of her exiled years had taught her thrift. she would measure precisely what had been given to her egregious guest, down to the bones laid, by her order, before his dogs. the beggar ate in silence, amid the brisk cracking made by five pairs of busy jaws; the maids were in the stronghold of the kitchen, far from the ungenteel sight of his coarse enjoyment. when he had satisfied himself, he put the fragments into his leathern bag and went round once more to the front of the house. a window was open on the ground-floor, and madam flemington's large white hand came over the sill holding a couple of crown pieces. she was sitting on the window-seat within. her cloak and the calash had disappeared, and wattie could see the fine poise of her head. she dropped the coin into the cart as he drove below. as he looked up he thought that if she had been imposing in her outdoor garments she was a hundredfold more so without them. he was at his ease with her, but he wondered at it, though he was accustomed to being at his ease with everybody. a certain vanity rose in him, coarse remnant of humanity as he was, before this magnificent woman, and when he had received the silver, he turned about, facing her, and began to sing. he was used to the plebeian admiration of his own public, but a touch of it from her would have a different flavour. he was vain of his singing, and that vanity was the one piece of romance belonging to him; it hung over his muddy soul as a weaving of honeysuckle may hang over a dank pond. had he understood madam flemington perfectly, he might have sung 'the tod,' but as he only understood her superficially, he sang 'logie kirk.' he did not know how nearly the extremities of the social scale can draw together in the primitive humours of humanity. it is the ends of a line that can best be bent to meet, not one end and the middle. yet, as 'logie kirk' rang out among the spectral ash-trees, she sat still, astonished, her head erect, like some royal animal listening; it moved her, though its sentiment had naught to do with her mood at present, nor with her cast of mind at any time. but love and loss are things that lay their shadows everywhere, and madam flemington had lost much; moreover, she had been a woman framed for love, and she had not wasted her gifts. as his voice ceased, she rose and threw the window up higher. "go on," she said. he paused, taking breath, for a couple of minutes. he knew songs to suit all political creeds, but this time he would try one of the jacobite lays that were floating round the country; if it should provoke some illuminating comment from her, he would have learned something more about her, and incidentally about archie, though it struck him that he was not so sure of the unanimity of interest between the grandmother and grandson which he had taken for granted before seeing madam flemington. his cunning eyes were rooted on her as he sang again. "my love stood at the loanin' side and held me by the hand, the bonniest lad that e'er did bide in a' this waefu' land; there's but ae bonnier to be seen frae pentland to the sea, and for his sake but yestereen i sent my love frae me. "i gie'd my love the white, white rose that's at my feyther's wa', it is the bonniest flower that grows where ilka flower is braw; there's but ae brawer that i ken frae perth unto the main, and that's the flower o' scotland's men that's fechtin' for his ain. "if i had kept whate'er was mine, as i had gie'd my best, my hairt were licht by day, and syne the nicht wad bring me rest; there is nae heavier hairt to find frae forfar toon to ayr, as aye i sit me doon to mind on him i see nae mair. "lad, gin ye fa' by chairlie's side, to rid this land o' shame, there will na be a prouder bride than her ye left at hame; but i will see ye whaur ye sleep frae lowlands to the peat, and ilka nicht at mirk i'll creep to lay me at yer feet." "you sing well," said christian when he had stopped; "now go." she inclined her head and turned from the window. as his broad back, so grotesque in its strange nearness to the ground, passed out between the gate-posts of ardguys, she went over to the mantelpiece. her face was set, and she stood with clasped hands gazing into the fireplace. she was deeply moved, but not by the song, which only stirred her to bitterness, but by the searching tones of the beggar's voice, that had smitten a way through which her feelings surged to and from her heart. the thought that archie had not utterly broken away from her unnerved her by the very relief it brought. she had not known till now how much she had suffered from what had passed between them. her power was not all gone. she was not quite alone. she would have scorned to admit that she could not stand in complete isolation, and she admitted nothing, even to herself. she only stood still, her nerves quivering, making no outward sign. presently she rang a little hand-bell that was on the table. the genteel-minded maid appeared. "mysie," said madam flemington, "in three days i shall go to edinburgh." chapter xvii society lord balnillo looked out of his sedan chair as it emerged from the darkness of a close on the northern slope of the old town of edinburgh. far down in front of him, where the long alley stopped, a light or two was seen reflected in the black water of the nor' loch that lay between the ancient city and the ground on which the new one was so soon to rise. the shuffling footfalls of his chairmen, echoing off the sides of the covered entry, were drowned in the noise that was going on a little way farther forward, where the close widened out into a square courtyard. one side of this place was taken up by the house of lady anne maxwell, for which the judge was bound. it had been raining, and edinburgh was most noisomely dirty under foot, so balnillo's regard for his silk-clad legs and the buckled shoes on his slim feet, had made him decide to be carried to his kinswoman's party. he wore his favourite mouse colour, but the waistcoat under his velvet coat was of primrose satin, and the lace under his chin had cost him more than he liked to remember. the courtyard sent up a glow of light into the atmosphere of the damp evening, for the high houses towering round it rose black into the sky, limiting the shine and concentrating it into one patch. from above, it must have looked like a dimly illuminated well. it was full of sedan chairs, footmen, lantern-carriers and caddies, and the chattering, pushing, jesting, and oaths were keeping the inhabitants of the neighbouring 'lands'--such of them as were awake, for edinburgh kept early hours in those days--from going to sleep. the sedan chairs were set down at the door, for they could seldom be carried into the low and narrow entrances of even the best town houses, and here, at lady anne's, the staircase wound up inside a circular tower projecting from the wall. the caddies, or street-messengers of edinburgh, that strange brotherhood of useful, omniscient rascals, without whose services nothing could prosper, ran in and out among the crowd in search of odd jobs. their eyes were everywhere, their ears heard everything, their tongues carried news of every event. the caddies knew all that happened in society, on the bench, in shops, in wynds, in churches, and no traveller could be an hour in the town before they had made his name and business common property. in an hour and a half his character would have gone the same way. their home by day was at the market cross in the high street, where they stood in gossiping groups until a call let one of them loose upon somebody else's business. it was the perpetual pursuit of other people's business that had made them what they were. a knot of caddies pressed round the door of lady anne maxwell's house as lord balnillo, sitting erect in order not to crease his clothes and looking rather like an image carried in a procession, was kept at a standstill whilst another guest was set down. through the open window of his chair there pressed a couple of inquisitive faces. "hey, lads!" cried a caddie, "it's davie balnillo back again!" "losh, it's himsel'! aweel, ma lord, we're fine an' pleased to see ye! grange is awa' in ben the hoose. i'se warrant he doesna' ken wha's ahint him!" balnillo nodded affably. the instant recognition pleased the old man, for he had only reached edinburgh in time to dress for his cousin's party; also, lord grange was a friend of his, and he was glad to hear that he was in front. as he looked complacently upon the crowd, his chairmen suddenly stepped forward, almost throwing him out of his seat. a cry rose round him. "canny! canny! ye hieland deevils! ye'll hae the pouthered wiggie o' him swiggit aff his heed! haud on, davie; we'll no let ye cowp!" balnillo was rather annoyed, for he had been knocked smartly against the window-frame, and a little cloud of powder had been shaken on his velvet sleeve; but he knew that the one thing a man might not lose before the caddies was his temper, if he did not want his rage, his gestures, and all the humiliating details of his discomfiture to be the town talk next day. he looked as bland as he could while he resettled himself. "it'll no be waur nor ridin' the circuit, ma lord?" inquired a voice. a laugh went round the group, and the chair moved on and was set down at its destination. though the caddies' knowledge of the judge went as far down as his foibles, the one thing that they did not happen to know was the motive that had brought him to edinburgh. the doings in the harbour had disturbed balnillo mightily; for, though the success of ferrier and james in taking the _venture_ rejoiced him, he was dismayed by what he had heard about archie flemington. his brother had told him everything. when captain hall and his men had been conveyed as prisoners to the town, and the ship had been taken possession of by prince charles' agent in montrose, logie had gone hastily to balnillo to give the news to david, and to prepare for his own departure to join the stuart army. there was no longer any need for secrecy on his part, and it had always been his intention to declare himself openly as soon as he had done his work in montrose. the place was well protected, and, besides the town guns that he and ferrier had taken from hall, there were the two armed vessels--both now belonging to the prince--lying in the harbour. the arrival of the frigate with her supplies had turned montrose from a rebelliously-inclined town into a declared jacobite stronghold. the streets and taverns were full of lord john drummond's troops, the citizens had given vent to their feelings upon the town bells, bonfires blazed in the streets, and prince charlie's name was on every lip; girls wore white roses on their breasts, and dreamed at night of the fascinating young spark who had come to set scotland alight. the intense jacobitism of angus seemed to have culminated in the quiet seaport. in all this outburst of loyalty and excitement the cautious balnillo did not know what to do. the risk of announcing his leanings publicly was a greater one than he cared to take, for his stake in the country and the land was considerable, and he was neither sanguine enough to feel certain of the ultimate triumph of the stuarts like the montrose people, nor generous enough to disregard all results like james. as he told himself, after much deliberation, he was "best away." he had heard from james of archie's sudden appearance upon the island, armed with a government weapon and in company with the attacking force from the ship, and had listened to james's grim denunciation of him as a spy, his passionate regrets that he had not blown his brains out there and then. james's bitterness had been so great that david told himself he could scarcely recognize his quiet brother. there was abundant reason for it, but logie had seemed to be beside himself. he had scarcely eaten or slept during the short time that he had been with him, and his face had kept the judge's tongue still. after his account of what had happened, balnillo had not returned to the subject again. step by step the judge had gone over all the circumstances of flemington's sudden emergence from the den on that windy night, and had seen how he had himself been cozened and flattered into the business of the portrait which stood unfinished, in solitary and very marked dignity, in the room with the north light. he was a man who suspected some of his own weaknesses, though his knowledge did not prevent him from giving way to them when he thought he could do so safely, and he remembered the adroit bits of flattery that his guest had strewn in his path, and how obligingly he had picked them up. he was shrewd enough to see all that. he thought of the sudden departure when madam flemington's mysterious illness had spirited archie out of the house at a moment's notice, and he saw how he had contrived to imbue both himself and james with the idea that he shared their political interests, without saying one definite word; he thought of his sigh and the change in his voice as he spoke of his father's death "in exile with his master." these things stood up in a row before balnillo, and ranged themselves into a sinister whole. the plain truth of it was that he had entertained a devil unawares. there had been a great search for flemington when the skirmish on inchbrayock was over. it was only ceasing when the french frigate swam into the river-mouth like a huge water-bird, and james, plunged in the struggle, was unable to spare a thought to the antagonist he had flung from him at the first sound of the attack. but when the firing had stopped, and the appearance of the foreign ship made the issue of the conflict certain, he returned to the spot where he had left archie, and found him gone. he examined the sand for some trace of the vanished man's feet, but the tide was now high in the river, and his footprints had been swallowed by the incoming rush. the stepping-stones were completely covered, and he knew that these--great fragments of rock as they were--would now be lying under enough water to drown a man who should miss his footing while the tide surged through this narrow stretch of the esk's bed. he guessed that the spy had escaped by them, though a short time later the attempt would have been impossible. he made a hasty search of the island, and, finding no sign of flemington, he returned with his men and the prisoners they had taken, leaving the dead to be carried over later to the town for burial. the boats were on the montrose side of inchbrayock, and, their progress being hampered by the wounded, some time was lost before he could spare a handful of followers to begin the search for flemington. he picked up a few volunteers upon the quays, and despatched them immediately to cross the strait and to search the southern shores of both the river and the basin; but they had barely started when flemington and the beggar were nearing the little farm on rossie moor. archie had spent so little time on the open road, thanks to his companion's advice, that none of those whom the pursuers met and questioned had seen him. before dusk came on, their zeal had flagged; and though one, quicker-witted than his comrades, had suggested the moor as a likely goal for their quarry, he had been overborne by their determination that the fugitive, a man who had been described to them as coming from the other side of the county, would make in that direction. when james had gone to join the stuart army on its march to england, his brother, waiting until the prince had left holyrood, set forth for edinburgh. it would have been difficult for him to remain at home within sound of the noisy rejoicings of montrose without either joining in the general exultation or holding himself conspicuously aloof. prudence and convenience pointed to the taking of a little holiday, and his own inclination did not gainsay them. he had not been in edinburgh since his retirement, and the notion of going there, once formed, grew more and more to his taste. a hundred things in his old haunts drew him: gossip, the liberal tables of his former colleagues, the latest modes in coats and cravats, the musical assemblies at which he had himself performed upon the flute, the scandals and anecdotes of the parliament house and the society of elegant women. he loved all these, though his trees and parks had taken their places of late. he loved james too, and the year they had spent together had been agreeable to him; but politics and family affection--the latter of the general rather than the individual kind--strong as their bonds were, could not bring the brothers into true touch with each other. james was preoccupied, silent, restless, and david had sometimes felt him to be inhuman in his lack of interest in small things, and in his carelessness of all but the great events of life. and now, as balnillo stepped forth at lady anne maxwell's door, he was hugging himself at the prospect of his return to the trimmings and embroideries of existence. he walked up the circular staircase, and emerged into the candle-light of the long, low room in which his cousin's guests were assembled. lady anne was a youngish widow, with a good fortune and a devouring passion for cards. she had all the means of indulging her taste, for not only did she know every living being who went to the making of edinburgh society, but, unlike most of her neighbours, she owned the whole of the house in which she lived, and, consequently, had space wherein to entertain them. while nearly all the edinburgh world dwelt in its flat, and while many greater ladies than herself were contented to receive their guests in their bedchambers, and to dance and drink tea in rooms not much bigger than the boudoirs of their descendants, lady anne could have received prince charles edward himself in suitable circumstances had she been so minded. but she was very far from having any such aspiration, and had not set foot in holyrood while the prince was there, for she was a staunch whig. as she greeted her cousin balnillo, she was wondering how far certain rumours that she had heard about him were true, and whether he also had been privy to the taking of the sloop-of-war in montrose harbour, for it was just a week since the news of logie's exploit had reached edinburgh. one of david's many reasons for coming to her party was his desire to make his reappearance in the polite world in a markedly whig house. he stood talking to lord grange in the oak-panelled room half full of people; through an open door another smaller apartment could be seen crowded with tables and card-players. lady anne, all of whose guests were arrived, had vanished into it, and the two judges stood side by side. lord grange, who valued his reputation for sanctity above rubies, did not play cards--at least, not openly--and balnillo, discovering new faces, as those must who have been over a year absent from any community, was glad to have him at his elbow to answer questions. silks rustled, fans clicked, and the medley of noises in the court below came up, though the windows were shut. the candles, dim enough to our modern standards of lighting, shone against the darkness of polished wood, and laughter and talk were escaping, like running water out of a thicket, from a knot of people gathered round a small, plump, aquiline-nosed woman. the group was at the end of the room, and now and again an individual would detach himself from it, to return, drawn by some jest that reached him ere he had crossed the floor. "mrs. cockburn's wit has not rusted this twelvemonth," observed lord grange. "i marvel she has any left after nine years of housekeeping with her straitlaced father-in-law," replied balnillo in a preoccupied voice. his eyes were elsewhere. "ah!" said grange, pulling a righteous face. the group round mrs. cockburn opened, and she caught sight of him for the first time. she bowed and smiled civilly, showing her rather prominent teeth, then, noticing balnillo, she came over to the two men. her friends stepped apart to let her pass, watching her go with that touch of proprietary pride which a small intimate society feels in its more original members. it was evident that her least acts were deemed worthy of observation. as she greeted david, he turned round with a low bow. "my lord, i thought you were buried!" she exclaimed. "dead and buried," droned grange, for the sake of saying something. "not dead," exclaimed she, "else i had been in mourning!" balnillo bowed again, bringing his attention back with a jerk from the direction in which it had been fixed. "come, my lord, what have you been doing all this long time?" "i have been endeavouring to improve my estate, ma'am." "and meanwhile you have left us to deteriorate. for shame, sir!" "edinburgh morals are safe in lord grange's hands," rejoined balnillo, with a sudden flash of slyness. mrs. cockburn smiled behind her fan. there were odd stories afloat about grange. she looked appreciatively at balnillo. he had not changed, in spite of his country life; he was as dapper, as ineffective, and as unexpected as ever. she preferred him infinitely to grange. "fie, davie!" broke in the latter, with a leer; "you are an ungallant dog! here is mrs. cockburn wasting her words on you, and you do nothing but ogle the lady yonder by the window." three pairs of eyes--the bright ones of mrs. cockburn, the rather furtive ones of balnillo, and the sanctimonious orbs of lord grange--turned in one direction. "mrs. cockburn is all knowledge, as she is all goodness," observed the last named, pompously. "pray, ma'am, tell us who is that lady?" chapter xviii balnillo finds perfection a sconce of candles beside a window-recess shed a collective illumination from the wall, and christian flemington stood full in their light, contemplating the company with superb detachment, and pervaded by that air, which never left her, of facing the world, unaided and unabashed, with such advantages as god had given her. her neck, still white and firm, was bare, for she wore no jewels but the ruby earrings which shot blood-red sparks around her when she moved. long necks were in fashion in those days, and hers was rather short, but the carriage of her head added enough to its length to do more than equalize the difference. her hair was like massed silver, and her flesh--of which a good deal could be seen--rose like ivory above the wine-colour of her silk gown, which flowed in spreading folds from her waist to the ground. a spanish fan with carved tortoiseshell sticks, a thing of mellow browns and golds, was half closed between her fingers. when she opened it, it displayed the picture of a bull-fight. "that is mrs. flemington--madam flemington, as i am told many people call her--i presume, because she came to scotland from france. you should know her, my lord," she added, addressing balnillo; "you are from angus." but balnillo was speechless. grange, who was transferring a pinch of snuff from his box to his nose, paused, his hand midway way between the two. "is she the widow of andrew flemington, who was in france with king james?" "the same," replied mrs. cockburn, tossing her head. she had small sympathy with the stuarts. "i had not expected to see the lady here. not that i know aught about her views. we have a bare acquaintance, and she is like yourself, lord balnillo--just arrived in edinburgh when our young hero has left holyrood." "she has been a fine woman," said lord grange, his eye kindling. "you may use the present tense, my lord," said mrs. cockburn. "aha!" sniggered grange, who adhered to the time-honoured beliefs of his sex, "you dare to show yourself generous!" "i dare to show myself what i am, and that is more than all the world can do," said she, looking at him very hard. he shifted from foot to foot. at this moment the gallows, to which he had condemned a few people in his time, struck him as a personal inconvenience. "ma'am," said he, swallowing his rage, "you must present davie, or he will lose what senses he has." "come, then, my lord, i will befriend you," said she, glad of the chance to be rid of grange. balnillo followed her, unable to escape had he wished to do so. christian was a woman who stood very still. she turned her head without turning her body as mrs. cockburn approached with her request, and balnillo saw her calm acquiescence. his breath had been almost taken away as he learned the identity of the stranger. here was the woman who knew everything about that astounding young man, his late guest, whose alarming illness had recalled him, who had lived at st. germain with the exiled queen, yet who was the grandmother of a most audacious whig spy! there was no trace of recent ill-health here. he had pictured some faint, feeble shred of old womanhood, not the commanding creature whose grey eyes were considering him as he advanced under cover of her leisurely consent. she seemed to measure him carelessly as he stood before her. he was torn asunder in mind, awestruck, dragged this way by his surprised admiration, that way by his intense desire to wring from her something about flemington. here was a chance, indeed! but balnillo felt his courage drown in the rising fear of being unable to profit by that chance. admiring bewilderment overcame every other feeling. he no longer regretted the price he had paid for the lace on his cravat. his name had roused madam flemington, though she gave no sign of the thrill that went through her as it fell from mrs. cockburn's lips. as david stood before her in the correct yet sober foppery of his primrose and mouse-colour, she regretted that she was quite ignorant of the pretext on which archie had left his picture unfinished, nor upon what terms he had parted with the judge. she had no reason for supposing balnillo to be aware of the young man's real character. he had been fighting with james logie, according to skirling wattie, yet there seemed to be no enmity in the business, for here was his brother, lord balnillo, assiduous in getting himself presented to her. mrs. cockburn had put her request with a smiling hint at the effect she had produced on his lordship. christian glanced at david's meticulous person and smiled, arrogantly civil, secretly anxious, and remained silent, ready to follow his lead with caution. the shrewd side of balnillo was uppermost to-night, stimulated perhaps by the sight of society and by the exhilarating sound of its voice. he recovered his momentarily scattered wits and determined to approach his new acquaintance with such direct and simple questions as might seem to her to be the natural inquiries of a man interested in flemington, and innocent of any mystery concerning him. it was quite possible--so he reasoned--that she was unaware of the details of what had happened on inchbrayock island. archie had fled, and the search for him had produced no result; he was unlikely to have made for his own home if he did not wish to be found, and he and madam flemington might not have met since the affair of the _venture_. it should be his--balnillo's--task to convince her of his ignorance. his intense curiosity about archie was almost stronger than his wrath against him. unlike james, whose bitterness was too deep for words, whose soul was driven before the fury of his own feelings like a restless ghost, david still looked back with a certain pleasant excitement to flemington's meteoric flash through the even atmosphere of his daily life. he would dearly have liked to bring him to justice, but he was anxious to hear a little more of him first. he had a curious mixture of feelings about him. there was no vainer man in scotland than balnillo, and if the mental half of his vanity had suffered from the deception practised on it, the physical half was yet preening itself in the sunny remembrance of the portrait at home--the portrait of david balnillo as he would fain have had the world see him--the portrait, alas and alas! unfinished. he could not feel quite as james felt, who had opened his purse, and, more--far more than that--had laid open the most sacred page of his life before flemington. he had placed his personal safety in his hands, too, though he counted that as a matter of less moment. "madam," said balnillo, "to see you is to rejoice that you have recovered from your serious illness." "you are very obliging, my lord. i am quite well," replied christian, concealing a slight surprise at this remark. "i am most happy in being presented to you," he continued. "what news have you of my charming friend mr. flemington, may i ask?" "when i heard your name, my lord, i determined to be acquainted with you, if only to thank you for your kindness to my boy. he could not say enough of yourself and your brother. i hope captain logie is well. is he with you this evening?" the mention of james acted on david as he had designed that the mention of archie should act on madam flemington. these two people who were playing at innocence were using the names of their relations to scare the enemy as savage tribes use the terrific faces painted on their shields. balnillo, in beginning the attack, had forgotten his own weak point, and he remembered that he could give no satisfactory account of his brother at the present moment. but his cunning was always at hand. "i had half expected to see him here," said he, peering round the room; "there was some talk of his coming. i arrived somewhat late, and i have hardly spoken to anyone but my lord grange and mrs. cockburn. the sight of yourself, ma'am, put other matters out of my head." "ah, sir," exclaimed christian, "i fear that your ardour was all on behalf of archie! but i am accustomed to that." she cast a look of indolent raillery at him, drawing back her head and veiling her eyes, fiery and seductive still, with the momentary sweep of their thick lashes. balnillo threw out his chest like a pouter pigeon. he had not been so happy for a long time. as he did so, she remembered archie's account of his silk legs, and his description of him as being "silly, virtuous, and cunning all at once." silly she could well believe him to be; virtuous he might be; whether he was cunning or not, time would show her. she did not mean to let him go until she had at least attempted to hear more about james logie. "madam," said he, "since seeing you i have forgotten mr. flemington. can i say more?" so far she was completely puzzled as to how much he knew about archie, but it was beginning to enter her mind that her own illness, of which she had just learned from him, had been the young man's pretext for leaving his work when it was only begun. why else had the judge mentioned it? and who but flemington could have put the idea into his head? she determined to make a bold attack on possibilities. "archie was distracted by my illness, poor boy, and i fear that your lordship's portrait suffered. but you will understand his anxiety when i tell you that i am the only living relation that he has, and that his devotion to me----" "he needs no excuse!" cried david fervently. she laid her hand upon his arm. "i am still hardly myself," she said. "i cannot stand long. fetch me a chair, my lord." he skipped across the floor and laid hold upon one just in time, for a gentleman was on the point of claiming it. he carried it back with the air of a conqueror. "apart--by the curtain, if you please," said christian, waving her hand. "we can speak more comfortably on the fringe of this rout of chattering people." he set the chair down in a quiet place by the wall, and she settled herself upon it, leaning back, her shoulder turned from the company. balnillo's delight deepened. "and the portrait, my lord. he did not tell me what arrangement had been made for finishing it," said christian, looking up at him as he stood beside her. she seemed to be completely unconcerned, and she spoke with a leisurely dignity and ease that turned his ideas upside down. he could make nothing of it. she appeared to court the subject of archie and the picture. he could only guess her to be innocent, and his warm admiration helped his belief. at no moment since he knew the truth from his brother's lips had archie's character seemed so black as it did now. david's indignation waxed as he grew more certain that flemington had deceived the noble woman to whom he owed so much, even as he had deceived him. he was becoming so sure of it that he had no desire to enlighten her. he longed to ask plainly where archie was, but he hesitated. even the all-wise mrs. cockburn was ignorant of this lady's political sympathies, and knew her only as the widow of a loyal exile. what might--what would be her feelings if she were to see her grandson in his real character? righteous anger smouldered under balnillo's primrose waistcoat, and his spasmodic shrewdness began to doze in the increasing warmth of his chivalrous pity for this new and interesting victim of the engaging rogue. "mr. flemington's concern was so great when he left my house that no arrangement was made," said he. "i had not the heart to trouble him with my unimportant affairs when so much was at stake." of the two cautious people who were feeling their way in the dark, it was the judge who was the more mystified, for he had laid hold of a definite idea, and it was the wrong one. christian was merely putting a bold face on a hazardous matter, and hoping to hear something of logie. she had not sought the introduction. david would have been the butt of her amused scorn had she been free enough from anxiety to be entertained. but she could not imagine on what footing matters really stood, and she was becoming inclined to suspect the beggar's statement that flemington had been fighting with james. her longing to see archie was great. she loved him in her own way, though she had driven him from her in her mortification and her furious pride. she had not believed that he would really go there and then; that he, who had served her purposes so gallantly all his life, would take her at her word. what was he doing? why had he gone to edinburgh? her own reason for coming had been the hope of seeing him. she had been four days in the town now, and she dared not make open inquiries for him, not knowing how far his defection had gone. she had accused him of turning to the stuarts, and he had denied the accusation, not angrily, but with quiet firmness. two horrible possibilities had occurred to her: one, that he was with the prince, and might be already known to the government as a rebel; the other, that he had never reached edinburgh--that his hurt had been worse than the beggar supposed, and that he might be ill or dying, perhaps dead. but it was only when she lay awake at night that she imagined these things. in saner moments and by daylight she put them from her. she was so well accustomed to being parted from him, and to the knowledge that he was on risky business, that she would not allow herself to be really disturbed. she assured herself that she must wait and watch; and now she was glad to find herself acquainted with balnillo, who seemed to be the only clue in her hand. mercifully, he had all the appearance of being an old fool. "i see that you are too modest to tell me anything of the picture," she began. "i hope it promised well. you should make a fine portrait, and i believe that archie could do you justice. he is at his best with high types. describe it to me." david espied a vacant chair, and, drawing it towards him, sat down to the subject with the same gusto that most men bring to their dinners. he cleared his throat. "i should have wished it to be full length," said he, "but mr. flemington had no suitable canvas with him. i wore my robes, and he was good enough to say that the crimson was appropriate and becoming to me. personally, i favour quiet colours, as you see, ma'am." "i see that you have excellent taste." he bowed, delighted. "i remarked you as you came in," continued she, "and i asked myself why these gentlemen looked so garish. observe that one beside the door of the card-room, my lord. i am sure that he chose his finery with some care, yet he reminds me of a clown at a merrymaking." "true, true--excellently true!" "in my youth it was the man of the world who set the fashions; now it is the tailor and the young sir fresh from his studies. what should these persons know of the subject?" balnillo was in heaven; from force of habit he ran his hand down the leg crossed upon his knee. the familiar inward curve of the slim silk ankle between his fingers was like the touch of a tried and creditable friend; it might almost be said that he turned to it for sympathy. he would have liked to tell his ankle that to-night he had found a perfection almost as great as its own. lord grange, who had taken leave of his hostess and was departing, paused to look at him. "see," said he, taking an acquaintance by the elbow, "look yonder at that doited davie balnillo." "he is telling her about his riding of the circuit," said the other, grinning. "the circuit never made him smile like that," replied grange sardonically. an hour later christian flemington stood at the top of the circular staircase. below it, balnillo was at the entrance-door, sending everyone within reach of his voice in search of her sedan chair. when it was discovered, he escorted her down and handed her into it, then, according to the custom of the time, he prepared to attend its progress to her lodgings in hyndford's close. the streets were even dirtier and damper than before, but he was as anxious to walk from lady anne's party as he had been determined to be carried to it. he stepped along at the side of the chair, turning, when they passed a light, to see the dignified silhouette of madam flemington's head as it appeared in shadow against the farther window. speech was impossible as they went, for avoidance of the kennel and the worse obstacles that strewed the city at that hour, before the scavengers had gone their rounds, kept david busy. the only profit that a man got by seeing his admired one home in edinburgh in was the honour and glory of it. when she emerged from the chair in hyndford's close he insisted upon mounting the staircase with her, though its narrowness compelled them to go in single file; and when they stopped halfway up at the door in the towering 'land,' he bade her good-night and descended again, consoled for the parting by her permission that he should wait upon her on the following day. christian was admitted and sailed into her little room. a light was in it and archie was standing at the foot of the bed. surprises had been rolling up round madam flemington all the evening; surprise at meeting balnillo, surprise at his attitude; and this crowning surprise of all. she was bewildered, but the blessing of unexpected relief fell on her. she went towards him, her hands outstretched, and flemington, who was looking at her with a wistfulness she had never seen in him before, took them and held them fast. "oh, archie!" she exclaimed. she could say no more. they sat down at the wide hearth together, the shadow of the great carved bed sprawling over the crowded space between the walls and over christian's swelling silks. then he told her the history of the time since they parted in ardguys garden; of his boarding of the _venture_; of the fight with the rebels at inchbrayock; of his meeting with wattie; of how he had reached aberbrothock half dead, and had lain sick for two days in an obscure tavern by the shore; how he had finally sailed for leith and had reached edinburgh. christian heard him, her gaze fixed upon the fire. she had elicited nothing about james logie from balnillo, and there was no word of him in archie's story. she longed to speak of him, but would not; she longed to know if the beggar had told the truth in saying that the two men had actually fought, but she asked nothing, for she knew that her wisest part was to accept the essentials, considering them as the whole. she would ask no questions. archie had come back. she had forbidden ardguys to him and he had evaded her ban by coming here. yet he came, having proved himself loyal, and she would ignore the rest. book iii chapter xix the winter april is slow in scotland, distrustful of her own identity, timid of her own powers. half dazed from the long winter sleep, she is often bewildered, and cannot remember whether she belongs to winter or to spring. after the struggles and perplexities of the months that had elapsed since balnillo and christian flemington met in edinburgh, she had come slowly to herself amid storms of sleet. beyond the grampians, in the north, her awakened eyes looked on a country whose heart had been broken at culloden. the ragged company that gathered round its prince on that wednesday morning was dispersed among the fastnesses of the hills, or lying dead and dying among the rushes and heather, whilst cumberland's soldiers finished their bloody business; the april snow that had blown in the faces of the clansmen as they hurled their unavailing valour on the whig army had melted upon mounds of slain, and in the struggle of an hour the hopes of half a century had perished. superior numbers, superior artillery, and superior generalship, had done their work; when the english dragoons had recovered themselves after the highland charge, they pursued almost to the gates of inverness, returning again to the battlefield before night should darken upon the carnage, to despatch the wounded wretches who still breathed among their dead comrades. the country smelt of blood; reeked of it. for miles and miles round inverness, where the search for fugitives was hottest, burnt hovels and blackened walls made blots upon the tardy green of spring. women went about, white-faced and silent, trying to keep from their eyes the self-betraying consciousness of hidden terrors; each striving to forget the peat-stack on the moor where some hunted creature was lying, the scrub in the hollow that sheltered some wounded body, the cranny in the hill to which she must journey painfully after dark with the crusts in her apron. the shot still rattled out over the countryside where the search was going on, and where, when it had been successful, a few maimed and haggard men stood along some shieling wall in front of a platoon of cumberland's musketry. all down the shores of loch ness and among the hills above the nairn water south-west of culloden, the dark rocks raised their broken heads to the sky over god knows what agonies of suffering and hunger. the carrion-crow was busy in the land. one-fifth of prince charles's army was dead upon the battle-field, and the church and tolbooth of inverness were full of wounded prisoners, to whom none--not even the surgeons of their own party--were suffered to attend. and so april passed, and may was near her passing. cumberland lay at fort augustus, to which place he had retired with kingston's horse and eleven battalions of foot. the victorious army was the richer by much spoil, and money was free; the duke's camp was merry with festivities and races, and in the midst of it he enjoyed a well-earned leisure, enlivened by women and dice. he had performed his task of stamping out the danger that threatened his family with admirable thoroughness, and he had, besides, the comfortable prospect of a glorious return to london, where he would be the hero of the general rejoicing that was to follow. he was rooted at fort augustus, a rock of success and convivial self-satisfaction in the flood of tears and anguish and broken aspiration that had drowned half scotland. the prince had begun his wanderings in the west, hiding among the hills and corries of the islands, followed by a few faithful souls, and with a price of thirty thousand pounds on his head, whilst cumberland's emissaries, chief among whom was john campbell of mamore, commandant of the west highland garrisons, searched the country in every direction. the rank and file of his army--such of his men as were not dead or in prison--were scattered to the four winds; and those officers who had escaped after culloden were in hiding, too, some despairing, some holding yet to the forlorn hope of raising his standard anew when the evil day should be over. among these last was james logie. he had come unhurt through the battle. complete indifference about personal issues had wrapped him round in a protecting atmosphere, as it seems to enwrap and protect the unconcerned among men. he had left the field in company with the prince and a few friends, with whom he reached the ford of falie on the nairn river. they had held a rapid council at this place, prince charles desiring that the remnant of his army should rendezvous at ruthven, in badenoch, whilst he made his way to france; for his hopes were living still, and he still looked for support and supplies from the french king. he had taken leave of his companions at the ford, and had set off with half a dozen followers for the coast. logie turned his face towards angus. he had been a conspicuous figure in the prince's immediate circle, and he knew that he had no time to lose if he was to cross the grampians alive. he thirsted to get back, and to test the temper of the east coast after the news of the reverse; like his master, he was not beaten yet. he did not know what had become of ferrier and the angus men, for he had been on the prince's staff; but the friends had met on the night before the battle, and it was a compact between them, that, should the day go against them, and should either or both survive the fight, they were to make for the neighbourhood of forfar, where they would be ready, in case of necessity, to begin on their task of raising new levies for the cause. he had reached the spey, and had gained deeside in safety by the shores of the avon, crossing the grampians near the sources of the isla. in the long winter that had passed since he joined the prince in the field, james had not forgotten flemington. his own labours in angus and at the taking of the _venture_, completely as they had filled his mind in the autumn, had sunk back into the limbo of insignificant things, but archie was often in his thoughts, and some time before the advance on inverness he had heard with indescribable feelings that he was intelligence officer to the duke of cumberland. the terrible thing to logie was that archie's treachery seemed to have poisoned the sacred places in his own past; when he turned back to it now, it was as though the figure of the young man stood blocking his view, looking at him with those eyes that were so like the eyes of diane, and were yet the eyes of a traitor. he could not bear to think of that october morning by the basin of montrose. perhaps the story that a fatal impulse had made him lay bare to his companion had been tossed about--a subject of ridicule on flemington's lips, its telling but one more proof to him of the folly of men. he could scarcely believe that archie would treat the record of his anguish in such a way; but then, neither could he have believed that the sympathy in archie's face, the break in his voice, the tension of his listening attitude, were only the stock-in-trade of a practised spy. and yet this horror had been true. in spite of the unhealed wound that he carried, in spite of the batterings of his thirty-eight years, logie had continued to love life, but now he had begun to tell himself that he was sick of it. and for another very practical reason his generous impulses and his belief in flemington had undone him. perhaps if the young painter had come to balnillo announcing an ostentatious adherence to the stuarts, he might have hesitated before taking him at his own value; but his apparent caution and his unwillingness to speak, and the words about his father at st. germain, which he had let fall with all the quiet dignity of a man too upright to pass under false colours, had done more to put the brothers on the wrong track than the most violent protestations. balnillo had been careful, in spite of his confidence in his guest; but in the sympathy of his soul james had given flemington the means of future access to himself. now the tavern in the castle wynd at stirling could be of use to him no longer, and he knew that only the last extremity must find him in any of the secret haunts known to him in the muir of pert. madam flemington had never reopened the subject of james logie with archie. in her wisdom she had left well alone. installed in her little lodging in hyndford's close, with her woman mysie, she had made up her mind to remain where she was. there was much to keep her in edinburgh, and she could not bring herself to leave the centre of information and to bury herself again in the old white house among the ash-trees, whilst every post and every horseman brought word of some new turn in the country's fortunes. news of the highland army's retreat to scotland, of the battle of falkirk, of the despatch of the duke of cumberland to the north, followed one another as the year went by, and still she stayed on. with her emergence from the seclusion of the country came her emergence from the seclusion she had made for herself; and on the duke's thirty hours' occupation of holyrood, she threw off all pretence of neutrality, and repaired with other whig ladies to the palace to pay her respects to the stout, ill-mannered young general whose unbeguiling person followed so awkwardly upon the attractive figure of his predecessor. now that archie was restored to her, christian found herself with plenty of occupation. the contempt she had hitherto professed for edinburgh society seemed to have melted away, and every card-party, every assembly and rout, knew her chair at its door, her arresting presence in its midst. madam flemington's name was on a good many tongues that winter. many feared her, some maligned her, but no one overlooked her. the fact that she was the widow of an exiled jacobite lent her an additional interest; and as the polite world set itself to invent a motley choice of reasons for her adherence to the house of hanover--which it discovered before her reception by the duke at holyrood made it public--it ended by stumbling on the old story of a bygone liaison with prince charles's father. the idea was so much to its taste that it was generally accepted; and christian, unknown to herself, became the cast-off and alienated mistress of that prince whom her party had begun to call 'the old pretender.' it was scarcely a legend that would have conciliated her had it come to her ears, but, as rumour is seldom on speaking terms with its victims, she was ignorant of the interested whispers which followed her through the wynds and up the staircases of the old town. but the reflected halo of royalty, while it casts deep shadows, reaches far. the character of royal light of love stood her in good stead, even among those to whom her supposed former lover was an abhorred spectre of popery and political danger. the path that her own personality would surely open for her in any community was illumined and made smooth by the baleful interest that hangs about all kingly irregularities, and there was that in her bearing which made people think more of the royal and less of the irregular part of the business. also, among the whigs, she was a brand plucked from the burning, one who had turned from the wrong party to embrace the right. edinburgh, whig at heart, in spite of its backslidings, admired madam flemington. and not only edinburgh, but that curious fraction of it, david balnillo. the impression that christian had made upon the judge had deepened as the weeks went by. by the time he discovered her true principles, and realized that she was no dupe of archie's, but his partisan, he had advanced so far in his acquaintance with her, had become so much her servant, that he could not bring himself to draw back. she had dazzled his wits and played on his vanity, and that vanity was not only warmed and cosseted by her manner to him, not only was he delighted with herself and her notice, but he had begun to find in his position of favoured cavalier to one of the most prominent figures in society a distinction that it would go hard with him to miss. he had begun their conversation at lady anne maxwell's party by the mention of archie flemington, but his name had not come up between them again, and when his enlightenment about her was complete, and the talk which he heard in every house that he frequented revealed her in her real colours, he had no further wish to discuss the man into whose trap he had fallen. david balnillo's discoveries were extremely unpalatable to him. if christian had cherished his vanity, she had made it smart, too. no man, least of all one like the self-appreciative judge, can find without resentment that he has been, even indirectly, the dupe of a person to whom he has attached himself; but when that person is a woman, determined not to let him escape from her influence, the case is not always desperate. for three unblessed days it was wellnigh desperate with balnillo, and he avoided her completely, but at the end of that time a summons from her was brought to him that his inclination for her company and the chance sight of lord grange holding open the door of her chair forbade him to disobey. she had worded her command as though she were conferring a favour; nevertheless, after an hour's hesitation, david had taken his hat and repaired to hyndford's close, dragging his dignity after him like a dog on a leash. if she guessed the reason of his absence from her side she made no remark, receiving him as if she had just parted from him, with that omission of greeting which implies so much. she had sent for him, she said, because her man of business had given her a legal paper that she would not sign without his advice. she looked him in the face as fearlessly as ever, and her glance sparkled with its wonted fire. for some tormented minutes he could not decide whether or no to charge her with knowledge of the fraud that had been carried on under his roof, but he had not the courage to do so. also, he was acute enough to see that she might well reply to his reproaches by reminding him that he had only himself to thank for their acquaintance. she had not made the advances; his own zeal had brought about their situation. he felt like a fool, but he saw that in speaking he might look like one, which some consider worse. he left her, assuring himself that all was fair in love and politics; that he could not, in common good breeding, withhold his help from her in her legal difficulty; that, should wind of archie's dealings with him get abroad in the town, he would be saving appearances in avoiding a rupture with the lady whose shadow he had been since he arrived in edinburgh, and that it was his duty as a well-wisher of prince charles to keep open any channel that might yield information about flemington's movements. whatsoever may have been the quality of his reasons, their quantity was remarkable. he did not like the little voice that whispered to him that he would not have dared to offer them to james. there was no further risk of a meeting with archie, for within a few days of the latter's appearance in hyndford's close he had been sent to the border with instructions to watch jedburgh and the neighbourhood of liddesdale, through which the prince's army had passed on its march to england. madam flemington knew that the coast was clear, and david had no suspicion that it had been otherwise. very few people in edinburgh were aware of flemington's visit to it; it was an event of which even the caddies were ignorant. and so balnillo lingered on, putting off his return to angus from week to week. his mouse-coloured velvet began to show signs of wear and was replaced by a suit of dark purple; his funds were dwindling a little, for he was not a rich man, and a new set of verses about him was going the round of the town. then, with january, came the battle of falkirk and the siege of stirling castle, and the end of the month brought cumberland and the mustering of loyal whigs to wait upon him at holyrood palace. david departed quietly. he had come to edinburgh to avoid playing a marked part in angus, and he now returned to angus to avoid playing a marked part in edinburgh. he was behaving like the last remaining king in a game of draughts when he skips from square to square in the safe corner of the board; but he did not know that government had kept its eye on all his doings during the time of his stay. perhaps it was on account of her usefulness in this and in other delicate matters that madam flemington augured well for her grandson, for when the whig army crossed the forth, archie went with it as intelligence officer to the duke of cumberland. chapter xx the parting of the ways july spread a mantle of heather over the grampians. in glen esk, the rough road into the lowlands, little better than a sheep-track, ran down the shore of loch lee, to come out at last into the large spaces at the foot of the hills. the greyness of the summer haze lay over everything, and the short grass and the roots of bog-myrtle and thyme smelt warm and heady, for the wind was still. the sun seemed to have sucked up some of the heather-colour out of the earth; the lower atmosphere was suffused with a dusty lilac where, high overhead, it softened the contours of the scattered rocks. amongst carpets of rush and deep moss, dappled with wet patches, the ruddy stems of the bog-asphodel raised slim, golden heads that drooped a little, as though for faintness, in the scented warmth. an occasional bumble-bee passed down wind, purposeful and ostentatious, like a respectable citizen zealous on the business of life. no one looking along the windings of the glen, and drawing in the ardent quietness of the summer warmth, would have supposed that fire and sword had been through it so lately. its vastness of outline hid the ruined huts and black fragments of skeleton gable-ends that had smoked up into the mountain stillness. homeless women and children had fled down its secret tracks; hunted men had given up their souls under its heights. the rich plainland of angus had sent its sons to fight for the prince in the north, and of those who survived to make their way back to their homes, many had been overtaken by the pursuit that had swept down behind them through the hills. no place had a darker record than glen esk. archie flemington rode down the glen with his companion some little way in front of the corporal and the three men who followed them. his left arm was in a sling, for he had received a sabre-cut at culloden; also, he had been rolled on by his horse, which was killed under him, and had broken a rib. his wound, though not serious had taken a long time to heal, for the steel had cut into the arm bone; he looked thin, too, for the winter had been a time of strenuous work. one of the three private soldiers, the last of the small string of horsemen, had a rope knotted into his reins, the other end of which was secured round the middle of a short, thickset man who paced sullenly along beside the horse. the prisoner's arms were bound at his back, his reddish beard was unkempt, and his clothes ragged; he made a sorry figure in the surrounding beauty. nearly two months had gone by since the battle of culloden, and the search for fugitives was still going on in remote places. cumberland, who was on the point of leaving fort augustus for edinburgh on his way to london, had given orders for a last scouring of glen esk. the party had almost reached its mouth, and its efforts had resulted only in the capture of this one rebel; but, as there was some slight doubt of his identity, and as the officer who rode beside archie was one whose conscience ranked a great way above his convenience, the red-bearded man had fared better than many of those taken by cumberland's man-hunters. if he were the person they supposed him to be, he was an angus farmer distantly related to david ferrier, and he was now being brought to his own country for identification. captain callandar, the officer in command, was a long, lean, bony man with a dark face, a silent, hard-bitten fellow from ligonier's regiment. he and archie had met very little before they started south together, and they had scarcely progressed in acquaintance in the few days during which they had ridden side by side. they had shared their food on the bare turf by day, lain down within a few yards of each other at night; they had gone through many of the same experiences in the north, and they belonged to the same victorious army, yet they knew little more of each other than when they started. but there was no dislike between them, certainly none on archie's side, and if the other was a little critical of the foreign roll of his companion's _r's_, he did not show it. archie's tongue had been quiet enough. he was riding listlessly along, and, though he looked from side to side, taking in the details of what he saw from force of habit, they seemed to give him no interest. he puzzled callandar a good deal, for he had proved to be totally different from anything that he had expected. the soldier was apt to study his fellow-men, when not entirely swallowed up by his duty, and he had been rather pleased when he found that cumberland's brilliant intelligence officer was to accompany him down glen esk. he had heard much about him. archie's quick answers and racy talk had amused the duke, who, uncompanionable himself, felt the awkward man's amazement at the readiness of others, and scraps of flemington's sayings had gone from lip to lip, hall-marked by his approval. callandar was taciturn and grave, but he was not stupid, and he had begun to wonder what was amiss with his companion. he decided that his own society must be uncongenial to him, and, being a very modest man, he did not marvel at it. but the sources of archie's discomfort lay far, far deeper than any passing irritation. it seemed to him now, as he reached the mouth of the glen, that there was nothing left in life to fear, because the worst that could come upon him was looming ahead, waiting for him, counting his horse's steps as he left the hills behind. an apprehension, a mere suggestion of what might be remotely possible, a skeleton that had shown its face to him in sleepless or overwrought moments since cumberland's victory, had become real. to most people who are haunted by a particular dread, fate plays one of the tricks she loves so much. she is an expert boxer, and whilst each man stands up to her in his long, defensive fight, his eye upon hers, guarding himself from the blow he expects to receive in the face, she hits him in the wind and he finds himself knocked out. but she had dealt otherwise with archie; for a week ago he had been specially detailed to proceed to angus to hunt for that important rebel, captain james logie, who was believed to have made his way southward to his native parts. at fort augustus it was felt that flemington was exactly the right man to be entrusted with the business. he was familiar with the country he had to search, he was a man of infinite resource and infinite intelligence; and cumberland meant to be pleasant in his harsh, ungraceful manner, when he gave him his commission in person, with a hint that he expected more from mr. flemington than he did from anybody else. he was to accompany captain callandar and his three men. the officer, having made a last sweep of glen esk, was to go on by brechin to forfar, where he would be joined by another and larger party of troops that was on its way down glen clova from braemar, for cumberland was drafting small forces into angus by way of the grampians, and the country was filling with them. he had dealt drastically with montrose. the rebellion in the town had been suppressed, and the neighbourhood put under military law. this bit of the east coast had played a part that was not forgotten by the little german general, and he was determined that the hornet's nest he had smoked out should not re-collect. whilst james logie was at large there could be no security. of all the rebels in scotland, logie was the man whom cumberland was most desirous to get. the great nobles who had taken part in the rising were large quarry indeed, but this commoner who had worked so quietly in the eastern end of angus, who had been on the prince's staff, who had the experience of many campaigns at his back, whose ally was the notorious ferrier, who had seized the harbour of montrose under the very guns of a government sloop of war, was as dangerous as any highland chieftain, and the news that he had been allowed to get back to his own haunts made the whig generals curse. though he might be quiet for the moment, he would be ready to stir up the same mischief on the first recrudescence of stuart energy. it was not known what had happened to ferrier, for although he was a marked man and would be a rich haul for anybody who could deliver him up to cumberland, he was considered a less important influence than james; and government had scarcely estimated his valuable services to the jacobites, which were every whit as great as those of his friend. lord balnillo was a puzzle to the intelligence department. his name had gone in to headquarters as that of a strongly suspected rebel; he was james's brother; yet, while archie had included him in the report he had entrusted to the beggar, he had been able to say little that was definite about him. the very definite information he had given about james and ferrier, the details of his pursuit of the two men and his warning of the attack on the _venture_, had mattered more to the authorities than the politics of the peaceable old judge, and balnillo's subsequent conduct had been so little in accordance with that of his brother that he was felt to be a source of small danger. he had been no great power on the bench, where his character was so easy that prisoners were known to think themselves lucky in appearing before him. no one could quite account for his success in the law, and the mention of his name in the legal circles of edinburgh raised nothing worse than a smile. he had taken no part in the rejoicing that followed james's feat at montrose, but had taken the opportunity of leaving the neighbourhood, and during his long stay in edinburgh he had frequented whig houses and had been the satellite of a conspicuous whig lady, one who had been received by cumberland with some distinction, the grandmother of the man who had denounced logie. the authorities decided to leave him alone. when the hills were behind the riders and the levels of the country had sunk and widened out on either hand, they crossed the north esk, which made a shallow curve by the village of edzell. the bank rose on its western side, and the shade of the trees was delightful to the travellers, and particularly to the prisoner they carried with them. as the horses snuffed at the water they could hardly be urged through it, and callandar and archie dismounted on the farther shore and sat on a boulder whilst they drank. they watched them as they drew the draught up their long throats and raised their heads when satisfied, to stare, with dripping muzzles, at distant nothings, after the fashion of their kind. the prisoner's aching arms were unbound that he might drink too. "egad, i have pitied that poor devil these last miles," said archie, as the man knelt at the brink and extended his stiffened arms into a pool. the other nodded. theoretically he pitied him, but a rebel was a rebel. "you have no bowels of compassion. they are not in your instructions, callandar. they should be served out, like ammunition." callandar turned his grave eyes on him. "the idea displeases you?" said archie. "it would complicate our duty." he spoke like a humourless man, but one side of his mouth twitched downwards a little, and flemington, who had the eye of a lynx for another man's face, decided that the mere accident of habit had prevented it from twitching up. he struck him as the most repressed person he had ever seen. "there would not be enough at headquarters to go round," observed archie. callandar's mouth straightened, and, like the horses, he looked at nothing. criticism was another thing not in his instructions. "they have drunk well," he said at last. "an hour will bring us to the foot of huntly hill. we can halt and feed them at the top before we turn off towards brechin. you know this country better than i do." "wait a little," said archie. "i am no rebel, and you may have mercy on me with a clear conscience." he had slipped his arm out of the sling and was resting it on his knee. "you are in pain?" exclaimed callandar, astonished. archie laughed. "why, man, do you think i ride for pleasure with the top half of a bone working east and the bottom half working west?" "i thought----" began callandar. "you thought me churlish company, and maybe i have been so. but this ride has been no holiday for me." "i did not mean that. i would have said that i thought your wound was mended." "my flesh-wound is mended and so is my rib," said flemington, "but there are two handsome splinters hobnobbing above my elbow, and i can tell you that they dance to the tune of my horse's jog." callandar's opinion of him rose. he had found him disappointing as a companion, but archie had hid his pain, and he understood people who did that. the edzell villagers turned out to stare at them as they passed a short time later, when they took the road again. after the riders left its row of houses their way ran from the river-level through fields that had begun to oust the moor, rising to the crest of huntly hill, on the farther side of which the southern part of angus spread its partial cultivation down to the basin of montrose. archie's discomfort seemed to grow; he shifted his sling again and again, and callandar could see his mouth set in a hard line. now and then an impatient sound of pain broke from him. they rode on, silent, the long rise of the hill barring their road like a wall, and the stems of the fir-strip that crowned it beginning to turn to a dusky black against the sky, which was cooling off for evening. flemington's horse was a slow walker, and he had begun to jog persistently. his rider, holding him back, had fallen behind. callandar rode on, preoccupied, and when, roused from his thoughts, he turned his head, archie waved him on, shouting that he would follow more slowly, for the troopers moved at a foot's pace because of their prisoner, and he stayed abreast of them. as callandar passed a green sea of invading bracken that had struggled on to the road his jaw dropped and he pulled up. behind the feathering waves an individual was sitting in a wooden box on wheels, and four dogs, harnessed to the rude vehicle, were lying on the ground in their leathern traces. he noticed with astonishment that the man had lost the lower parts of his legs. "you'll be captain callandar," said wattie, his twinkling eyes on the other's uniform; "you're terrible late." "what do you want?" said the officer, amazed. the beggar peered through the fern and saw the knot of riders and their prisoner coming along the road some little way behind. "whaur's yon lad flemington?" he demanded. "what do you want?" exclaimed callandar again. "if you are a beggar you have chosen a strange place to beg in." for answer wattie pulled up his sliding panel and took out two sealed letters, holding them low in the shelter of the fern, as if the midges, dancing their evening dance above the bracken-tops, should not look upon them. callandar saw that one of the letters bore his own name. "whisht," said the beggar, thrusting them back quickly, "come doon here an' hae a crack wi' me." as callandar had been concerned exclusively with troops and fighting, he knew little about the channels of information working in the country, and it took him a moment to explain the situation to himself. he dismounted under the fixed glare of the yellow dog. he was a man to whom small obstacles were invisible when he had a purpose, and he almost trod on the animal, without noticing the suppressed hostility gathering about his heels. but, so long as his master's voice was friendly, the cur was still, for his unwavering mind answered to its every tone. probably no spot in all angus contained two such steadfast living creatures as did this green place by the bracken when callandar and the yellow dog stood side by side. the soldier tethered his horse and sat down on the moss. wattie laid the letters before him; the second was addressed to archie. callandar broke the seal of the first and read it slowly through; then he sat silent, examining the signature, which was the same that flemington had showed to the beggar on the day when he met him for the first time, months ago, by the mill of balnillo. he was directed to advance no farther towards brechin, but to keep himself out of sight among the woods round huntly hill, and to watch the muir of pert, for it was known that the rebel, james logie, was concealed somewhere between brechin and the river. he was not upon the balnillo estate, which, with balnillo house, had been searched from end to end, but he was believed to be in the neighbourhood of the muir. "you know the contents of this?" asked callandar, as he put away the paper inside the breast of his coat. "dod, a ken it'll be aboot logie. he's a fell man, yon. have ye na got flemington wi' ye?" callandar looked upon his companion with disapproval. he had never seen him, never heard of him before, and he felt his manner and his way of speaking of his superiors to be an outrage upon discipline and order, which were two things very near his heart. he did not reply. "whaur's flemington?" demanded the beggar again. "you make very free with mr. flemington's name." "tuts!" exclaimed wattie, ignoring the rebuke, "a've got ma orders the same as yersel', an' a'm to gie yon thing to him an' to nae ither body. foo will a dae that if a dinna ken whaur he is?" his argument was indisputable. "mr. flemington will be with me in a moment," said callandar stiffly. "he is following." the sound of horses' feet was nearing them upon the road, and callandar rose and beckoned to archie to come on. "go to the top of the hill and halt until i join you," he told the corporal as the men passed. as archie dismounted and saw who was behind the bracken, he recoiled. it was to him as if all that he most loathed in the past came to meet him in the beggar's face. here, at the confines of the lowland country, the same hateful influences were waiting to engulf him. his soul was weary within him. he barely replied to wattie's familiar greeting. "do you know this person?" inquired callandar. he assented. "ay, does he. him and me's weel acquaint," said wattie, closing an eye. "hae, tak' yon." he held out the letter to flemington. the young man opened it slowly, turning his back to the cart, and his brows drew together as he read. his destiny did not mean him to escape. logie had been marked down, and the circle of his enemies was narrowing round him. flemington was to go no farther, and he was to remain with callandar to await another message that would be brought to their bivouac on huntly hill, before approaching nearer to brechin. he stood aside, the paper in his hand. here was the turning-point; he was face to face with it at last. he could not take part in logie's capture; on that he was completely, unalterably determined. what would be the end of it all for himself he could not think. nothing was clear, nothing plain, but the settled strength of his determination. he looked into the mellowing light round him, and saw everything as though it were unreal; the only reality was that he had chosen his way. heaven was pitiless, but it should not shake him. far above him a solitary bird was winging its way into the spaces beyond the hills; the measured beat of its wings growing invisible as it grew smaller and smaller and was finally lost to sight. he watched it, fascinated, with the strange detachment of those whose senses and consciousness are numbed by some crisis. what was it carrying away, that tiny thing that was being swallowed by the vastness? his mind could only grasp the idea of distance . . . of space. . . . callandar was at his elbow, and his voice broke on him as the voice of someone awakening him from sleep. "these are my orders," he was saying, as he held out his own letter; "you know them, for i am informed here that they are the duplicate of yours." there was no escape. callandar knew the exact contents of both papers. archie might have kept his own orders to himself, and have given him to suppose that he was summoned to forfar or perth, and must leave him; but that was impossible. he must either join in hunting logie, or leave the party on this side of huntly hill. "we had better get on," said callandar. they mounted, and as they did so, wattie also got under way. his team was now reduced to four, for the terrier which had formerly run alone in the lead had died about the new year. he took up his switch, and the yellow cur and his companions whirled him with a mighty tug on to the road. he had been waiting for some time in the bracken for the expected horseman, and as the dogs had enjoyed a long rest, they followed the horses at a steady trot. callandar and flemington trotted too, and the cart soon fell behind. beyond the crest of huntly hill the muir of pert sloped eastwards towards the coast, its edges resting upon the esk, but before the road began to ascend it forked in two, one part running upwards, and the other breaking away west towards brechin. "callandar, i am going to leave you," said archie, pulling up his horse. "to leave?" exclaimed the other blankly. "in god's name, where are you going?" "here is the shortest way to brechin, and i shall take it. i must find a surgeon to attend to this arm. there is no use for me to go on with you when i can hardly sit in my saddle for pain." "but your orders?" gasped callandar. "i will make that right. you must go on alone. probably i shall join you in a few days, but that will depend on what instructions i get later. if you hear nothing from me you will understand that i am busy out of sight. my hands may be full--that is, if the surgeon leaves me with both of them. good-bye, callandar." he turned his horse and left him. the other opened his mouth to shout after him, ordering him to come back, but remembered that he had no authority to do so. flemington was independent of him; he belonged to a different branch of the king's service, and although he had fought at culloden he was under different orders. he had merely accompanied his party, and callandar knew very well that, though his junior in years, he was a much more important person than himself. the nature of archie's duties demanded that he should be given a free hand in his movements, and no doubt he knew what he was about. but had he been callandar's subordinate, and had there been a surgeon round the nearest corner, his arm might have dropped from his shoulder before the officer would have permitted him to fall out of the little troop. callandar had never in all his service seen a man receive definite orders only to disobey them openly. he watched him go, petrified. his brain was a good one, but it worked slowly, and archie's decision and departure had been as sudden as a thunderbolt. also, there was contempt in his heart for his softness, and he was sorry. archie turned round and saw him still looking after him. he sent back a gibe to him. "if you don't go on i will report you for neglect of duty!" he shouted, laughing. chapter xxi huntly hill callandar rode up huntly hill. the rose-red of the blossoming briar that decks all angus with its rubies glowed in the failing sunlight, and the scent of its leaf came in puffs from the wayside ditches; the blurred heads of the meadow-sweet were being turned into clouds of gold as the sun grew lower and the road climbed higher. in front the trees began to mantle huntly hill. he had just begun the ascent at a foot's pace when he heard the whirr of the beggar's chariot-wheels behind him, then at his side, and he turned in his saddle and looked down on his pursuer's bald crown. wattie had cast off his bonnet, and the light breeze springing up lifted the fringe of his grizzled hair. "whaur awa's flemington?" he cried, as he came up. the other answered by another question; his thoughts had come back to the red-haired prisoner at the top of the hill, and it struck him that the man in the cart might recognize him. "what's your name?" he asked abruptly. "wattie caird." "you belong to these parts?" he nodded. "then come on; i have not done with you yet." "a'm asking ye whaur's flemington?" if callandar had pleased himself he would have driven wattie down the hill at the point of the sword, his persistence and his pestilent, unashamed curiosity were so distasteful to him. but he had a second use for him now. he was that uncommon thing, a disciplinarian with tact, and by virtue of the combination in himself he understood that the troopers in front of him, who had been looking forward eagerly to getting their heads once more under a roof that night, would be disgusted by the orders he was bringing. he had noticed the chanter sticking out from under wattie's leathern bag, and he thought that a stirring tune or two might ease matters for them. he did not see his way to dispensing with him at present, so he tolerated his company. "mr. flemington has a bad wound," he answered. "he has gone to brechin to have it attended to." "whaur did he get it?" "at culloden moor." "they didna tell me onything aboot that." "who tells you anything about mr. flemington? what do you know about him?" "heuch!" exclaimed wattie, with contempt, "it's mysel' that should tell them! a ken mair aboot flemington than ony ither body--a ken fine what's brocht yon lad here. he's seeking logie, like a'body else, but he kens fine he'll na get him--ay, does he!" callandar looked down from his tall horse upon the grotesque figure so close to the ground. he was furious at the creature's assumption of knowledge. "you are a piper?" said he. "the best in scotland." "then keep your breath for piping and let other people's business be," he said sternly. "man, dinna fash. it's king geordie's business and syne it's mine. him and me's billies. ay, he's awa', is he, flemington?" callandar quickened his horse's pace; he was not going to endure this offensive talk. but wattie urged on his dogs too, and followed hard on his heels. all through the winter, whilst the fortunes of scotland were deciding themselves in the north, he had been idle but for his piping and singing, and he had had little to do with the higher matters on which he had been engaged in the autumn, whilst the forces of the coming storm were seething south of the grampians. he had not set eyes on flemington since their parting by the farm on rossie moor, but many a night, lying among his dogs, he had thought of archie's voice calling to logie as he tossed and babbled in his broken dreams. he had long since drawn his conclusion and made up his mind that he admired archie as a mighty clever fellow, but he was convinced that he was more astute than anybody supposed, and it gave him great delight to think that, probably, no one but himself had a notion of the part flemington was playing. wattie was well aware of his advancement, for his name was in everybody's mouth. he knew that he was on cumberland's staff, just as logie was on the staff of the prince, and he wagged his head as he thought how archie must have enriched himself at the expense of both whig and jacobite. it was his opinion that, knowledge being marketable, it was time that somebody else should enrich himself too. he would have given a great deal to know whether flemington, as a well-known man, had continued his traffic with the other side, and as he went up the hill beside the dark whig officer he was turning the question over in his mind. he had kept his suspicions jealously to himself. whilst flemington was far away in the north, and all men's eyes were looking across the grampians, he knew that he could command no attention, and he had cursed because he believed his chance of profit to be lost. archie had gone out of range, and he could not reach him; yet he kept his knowledge close, like a prudent man, in case the time should come when he might use it. and now flemington had returned, and he had been sent out to meet him. the way had grown steep, and as callandar's horse began to stumble, the soldier swung himself off the tired beast and walked beside him, his hand on the mane. wattie was considering whether he should speak. if his information were believed, it would be especially valuable at this time, when the authorities were agog to catch logie, and the reward for his services must be considerable if there was any justice in the world. they would never catch logie, because flemington was in league with him. wattie knew what many knew--that the rebel was believed to be somewhere about the great muir of pert, now just in front of them, but so far as he could make out, the only person who was aware of how the wind set with archie was himself. what he had seen at the foot of huntly hill had astonished him till he had read its meaning by the light of his own suspicions. though he had not been close enough to the two men to hear exactly what passed between them when they parted, he had seen them part. he had seen callandar standing to look after the other as though uncertain how to act, and he had heard archie's derisive shout. there was no sign of a quarrel between them, yet callandar's face suggested they had disagreed; there was perplexity in it and underlying disapproval. he had seen his gesture of astonishment, and the way in which he had sat looking after flemington at the cross roads, reining back his horse, which would have followed its companion, was eloquent to the beggar. callandar had not expected the young man to go. wattie did not know the nature of the orders he had brought, but he knew that they referred to logie. he understood that those who received them were hastening to meet those who had despatched them, and would be with them that night; and this proved to him how important it was that the letters should be in the hand of the riders before they advanced farther on their way. he had been directed to wait on the northern side of huntly hill, and had been specially charged to deliver them before callandar crossed it. he told himself that only a fool would fail to guess that they referred to this particular place. but the illuminating part to wattie was the speech he had heard by the bracken: it was all that was needed to explain the officer's stormy looks. "these are my orders," callandar had said, "but you know them, for i am informed that they are the duplicate of yours." archie had disobeyed them, and wattie was sure that he had gone, because the risk of meeting logie was too great to be run. now was the time for him to speak. he had no nicety, but he had shrewdness in plenty. he was sudden and persistent in his address, and divining the obstacles in callandar's mind, he charged them like a bull. "flemington 'll na let ye get logie," said he. he made his announcement with so much emphasis that the man walking beside him was impressed in spite of his prejudices. he was annoyed too. he turned on him angrily. "once and for all, what do you mean by this infernal talk about mr. flemington?" he cried, stopping short. "you will either speak out, or i will take it upon myself to make you. i have three men in the wood up yonder who will be very willing to help me. i believe you to be a meddlesome liar, and if i find that i am right you shall smart for it." but the beggar needed no urging, and he was not in the least afraid of callandar. "it's no me that's sweer to speak, it's yersel' that's sweer to listen," said he, with some truth. "dod, a've tell't ye afore an' a'm telling ye again--_flemington 'll no let ye get him!_ he's dancin' wi' george, but he's takin' the tune frae chairlie. heuch! dinna tell me! there's mony hae done the same afore an' 'll dae it yet!" the officer was standing in the middle of the road, a picture of perplexity. "it's no the oxter of him that gars him gang," said wattie, breaking into the broad smile of one who is successfully letting the light of reason into another's mind. "it's no his airm. maybe it gies him a pucklie twist, whiles, and maybe it doesna, but it's no that that gars the like o' him greet. _he wouldna come up huntly hill wi' you, for he ken't he was ower near logie._ it's that, an' nae mair!" callandar began to think back. he had not heard one complaint from archie since the day they rode out of fort augustus together, and he remembered his own astonishment at hearing he was in pain from his wound. it seemed only to have become painful in the last couple of hours. "it is easy to make accusations," he said grimly, "but you will have to prove them. what proof have you?" "is it pruifs ye're needin'? fegs, a dinna gang aboot wi' them in ma poke! a can tell ye ma pruifs fine, but maybe ye'll no listen." he made as though to drive on. callandar stepped in front of the dogs, and stood in his path. "you will speak out before i take another step," said he. "i will have no shuffling. come, out with what you know! i will stay here till i get it." chapter xxii huntly hill (_continued_) callandar sat a little apart from his men on the fringe of the fir-wood; on the other side of the clearing on which the party had bivouacked wattie formed the centre of a group. it was past sunset, and the troop-horses, having been watered and fed, were picketed together. callandar's own horse snatched at the straggling bramble-shoots behind a tree. the officer sat on a log, his chin in his hand, pondering on the amazing story that the beggar had divulged. it was impossible to know what to make of it, but, in spite of himself, he was inclined to believe it. he had questioned and cross-questioned him, but he had been able to form no definite opinion. wattie had described his meeting with archie on the day of the taking of the ship; he had told him how he had accompanied him on his way, how he had been forced to ask shelter for him at the farm, how he had lain and listened in the darkness to his feverish wanderings and his appeals to logie. if the beggar's tale had been true, there seemed to be no doubt that the intelligence officer whose services were so much valued by cumberland, had taken money from the rebels, though it seemed that he had hesitated over the business. his conscience must have smitten him even in his dreams. "i will say nothing, but i will tell you all!" he had cried to logie. "i shall know where you are, but they shall never know!" in his delirium, he had taken the beggar for the man whose fellow-conspirator he was proving himself to be, and when consciousness was fighting to return, and he had sense enough to know that he was not speaking to logie, it was his companion's promise to deliver a message of reassurance that had given him peace and sleep. "tell him that he can trust me," he had said. what puzzled callandar was the same thing that had puzzled wattie: why had these two men, linked together by a hidden understanding, fought? perhaps flemington had repented of the part he was playing, and had tried to cut himself adrift. "let me go!" he had exclaimed. it was all past callandar's comprehension. at one moment he was inclined to look on wattie as an understudy for the father of lies; at another, he asked himself how he could have had courage to invent such a calumny--how he had dared to choose a man for his victim who had reached the position that archie had gained. but he realized that, had wattie been inventing, he would hardly have invented the idea of a fight between flemington and captain logie. that little incongruous touch seemed to callandar's reasonable mind to support the truth of his companion's tongue. and then there was flemington's sudden departure. it did not look so strange since he had heard what the beggar had to say. he began to think of his own surprise at finding archie in pain from a wound which seemed to have troubled him little, so far, and to suspect that his reliable wits had been stimulated to find a new use for his injured arm by the sight of huntly hill combined with the news in his pocket. his gorge rose at the thought that he had been riding all these days side by side with a very prince among traitors. his face hardened. his own duty was not plain to him, and that perturbed him so much that his habitual outward self-repression gave way. he could not sit still while he was driven by his perplexities. he sprang up, walking up and down between the trees. ought he to send a man straight off to brechin with a summary of the beggar's statement? he could not vouch for the truth of his information, and there was every chance of it being disregarded, and himself marked as the discoverer of a mare's nest. there was scarcely anything more repugnant to callandar than the thought of himself in this character, and for that reason, if for no other, he inclined to the risk; for he had the overwhelmingly conscientious man's instinct for martyrdom. his mind was made up. he took out his pocket-book and wrote what he had to say in the fewest and shortest words. then he called the corporal, and, to his extreme astonishment, ordered him to ride to brechin. when the man had saddled his horse, he gave him the slip of paper. he had no means of sealing it, here in the fir-wood, but the messenger was a trusted man, one to whom he would have committed anything with absolute conviction. he was sorry that he had to lose him, for he could not tell how long he might be kept on the edge of the muir, nor how much country he would have to search with his tiny force; but there was no help for it, and he trusted that the corporal would be sent back to him before the morrow. he was the only person to whom he could give the open letter. when the soldier had mounted, callandar accompanied him to the confines of the wood, giving him instructions from the map he carried. wattie sat on the ground beside his cart; his back was against a little raised bank. where his feet should have been, the yellow dog was stretched, asleep. as callandar and his corporal disappeared among the trees, he began to sing 'the tod' in his rich voice, throwing an atmosphere of dramatic slyness into the words that made his hearers shout with delight at the end of each verse. when he had finished the song, he was barely suffered to take breath before being compelled to begin again; even the prisoner, who lay resting, still bound, within sight of the soldiers, listened, laughing into his red beard. but suddenly he stopped, rising to his feet: "a lang-leggit deevil wi' his hand upon the gate, an' aye the guidwife cries to him----" wattie's voice fell, cutting the line short, for a rush of steps was bursting through the trees--was close on them, dulled by the pine-needles underfoot--sweeping over the stumps and the naked roots. the beggar stared, clutching at the bank. his three companions sprang up. the wood rang with shots, and one of the soldiers rolled over on his face, gasping as he tried to rise, struggling and snatching at the ground with convulsed fingers. the remaining two ran, one towards the prisoner, and one towards the horses which were plunging against each other in terror; the latter man dropped midway, with a bullet through his head. the swiftness of the undreamed-of misfortune struck panic into wattie, as he sat alone, helpless, incapable either of flight or of resistance. one of his dogs was caught by the leaden hail and lay fighting its life out a couple of paces from where he was left, a defenceless thing in this sudden storm of death. two of the remaining three went rushing through the trees, yelping as the stampeding horses added their share to the danger and riot. these had torn up their heel-pegs, which, wrenched easily from a resistance made for the most part of moss and pine-needles, swung and whipped at the ends of the flying ropes behind the crazy animals as they dashed about. the surviving trooper had contrived to catch his own horse, and was riding for his life towards the road by which they had come from edzell. the only quiet thing besides the beggar was the yellow cur who stood at his master's side, stiff and stubborn and ugly, the coarse hair rising on his back. wattie's panic grew as the drumming of hoofs increased and the horses dashed hither and thither. he was more afraid of them than of the ragged enemy that had descended on the wood. the dead troopers lay huddled, one on his face and the other on his side; the wounded dog's last struggles had ceased. half a dozen men were pursuing the horses with outstretched arms, and callandar's charger had broken loose with its comrades, and was thundering this way and that, snorting and leaping, with cocked ears and flying mane. the beggar watched them with a horror which his dislike and fear of horses made agonizing, the menace of these irresponsible creatures, mad with excitement and terror, so heavy, so colossal when seen from his own helpless nearness to the earth that was shaking under their tread, paralyzed him. his impotence enwrapped him, tragic, horrible, a nightmare woven of death's terrors; he could not escape; there was no shelter from the thrashing hoofs, the gleaming iron of the shoes. the cumbrous perspective of the great animals blocked out the sky with its bulk as their rocking bodies went by, plunging, slipping, recovering themselves within the cramped circle of the open space. he knew nothing of what was happening, nor did he see that the prisoner stood freed from his bonds. he knew james logie by sight, and he knew ferrier, but, though both were standing by the red-bearded man, he recognized neither. he had just enough wits left to understand that callandar's bivouac had been attacked, but he recked of nothing but the thundering horses that were being chased to and fro as the circle of men closed in. he felt sick as it narrowed and he could only flatten himself, stupefied, against the bank. the last thing he saw was the yellow coat of his dog, as the beast cowered and snapped, keeping his post with desperate tenacity in the din. the bank against which he crouched cut the clearing diagonally, and as the men pressed in nearer round the horses, callandar's charger broke out of the circle followed by the two others. a cry from the direction in which they galloped, and the sound of frantic nearing hoofs, told that they had been headed back once more. the bank was high enough to hide wattie from them as they returned, but he could feel the earth shake with their approach, which rang in his ears like the roar of some dread, implacable fate. he could see nothing now, as he lay half-blind with fear, but he was aware that his dog had leaped upon the bank behind him, and he heard the well-known voice, hoarse and brutal with defiant agony, just above his head. all the qualities that have gone to make the dog the outcast of the east seemed to show in the cur's attitude as he raised himself, an insignificant, common beast, in the path of the great, noble, stampeding creatures. it was the curse of his curship that in this moment of his life, when he hurled all that was his in the world--his low-bred body--against the danger that swooped on his master, he should take on no nobility of aspect, nothing to picture forth the heart that smote against his panting ribs. another moment and the charger had leaped at the bank, just above the spot where skirling wattie's grizzled head lay against the sod. the cur sprang up against the overwhelming bulk, the smiting hoofs, the whirl of heel-ropes, and struck in mid-air by the horse's knee, was sent rolling down the slope. as he fell there was a thud of dislodged earth, and the charger, startled by the sudden apparition of the prostrate figure below him, slipped on the bank, stumbled, sprang, and checked by the flying rope, crashed forward, burying the beggar under his weight. james and ferrier ran forward as the animal struggled to its feet, unhurt; it tore past the men, who had broken their line as they watched the fall. the three horses made off between the trees, and logie approached the beggar. he lay crushed and mangled, as quiet as the dead troopers on the ground. there was no mistaking wattie's rigid stillness, and as james and ferrier, with the red-bearded man, approached him, they knew that he would never rise to blow his pipes nor to fill the air with his voice again. the yellow dog was stretched, panting, a couple of paces from the grotesque body, which had now, for the first time, taken on dignity. as logie bent to examine him, and would have lifted him, the cur dragged himself up; one of his hind-legs was broken, but he crawled snarling to the beggar's side, and turned his maimed body to face the men who should dare to lay a hand on wattie. the drops poured from his hanging tongue and his eye was alight with the dull flame of pain. he would have torn logie to bits if he could, as he trailed himself up to shelter the dead man from his touch. he made a great effort to get upon his legs and his jaws closed within an inch of james's arm. one of the men drew the pistol from his belt. "ay, shoot the brute," said another. james held up his hand. "the man is dead," said he, looking over his shoulder at his comrades. "and you would be the same if yon dog could reach you," rejoined ferrier. "let me shoot him. he will only die lying here." "let him be. his leg is broken, that is all." the cur made another attempt to get his teeth into logie, and almost succeeded. ferrier raised his pistol again, but james thrust it back. "the world needs a few such creatures as that in it," said he. "lord! ferrier, what a heart there is in the poor brute!" "stand away from him, logie, he is half mad." "we must get away from this place," said james, unheeding, "or that man who has ridden away will bring the whole country about our ears. it has been a narrow escape for you, gourlay," he said to the released prisoner. "we must leave the old vagabond lying where he is." "there is no burying him with that devil left alive!" cried ferrier. "i promise you i will not venture to touch him." "my poor fellow," said james, turning to the dog, "it is of no use; you cannot save him. god help you for the truest friend that a man ever had!" he pulled off his coat and approached him. the men stood round, looking on in amazement as he flung it over the yellow body. the dog yelled as logie grasped and lifted him, holding him fast in his arms; but his jaws were muffled in the coat, and the pain of the broken limb was weakening his struggles. ferrier looked on with his hands on his hips. he admired the dog, but did not always understand james. "you are going to hamper yourself with him now?" he exclaimed. "give me the piper's bonnet," said the other. "there! push it into the crook of my arm between the poor brute and me. it will make him go the easier. you will need to scatter now. leave the piper where he is. a few inches of earth will do him no good. ferrier, i am going. you and i will have to lie low for awhile after this." the cur had grown exhausted, and ceased to fight; he shivered and snuffled feebly at the kilmarnock bonnet, the knob of which made a red spot against the shirt on james's broad breast. ferrier and gourlay glanced after him as he went off between the trees. but as they had no time to waste on the sight of his eccentricities, they disappeared in different directions. dusk was beginning to fall on the wood and on the dead beggar as he lay with his two silent comrades, looking towards the grampians from the top of huntly hill. chapter xxiii the muir of pert callandar watched his corporal riding away from the confines of the wood. his eyes followed the horse as it disappeared into hollows and threaded its way among lumps of rock. he stood for some time looking out over the landscape, now growing cold with the loss of the sun, his mind full of flemington. then he turned back with a sigh to retrace his way. his original intention in bringing wattie up the hill came back to him, and he remembered that he had yet to discover whether he could identify the red-bearded man. it was at this moment that the fusillade from his halting-place burst upon him. he stopped, listening, then ran forward into the wood, the map from which he had been directing the corporal clutched in his hand. he had gone some distance with the soldier, so he only reached the place when the quick disaster was over to hear the hoof-beats of the escaping horses dying out as they galloped down huntly hill. the smoke of the firearms hung below the branches like a grey canopy, giving the unreality of a vision to the spectacle before him. he could not see the beggar's body, but the overturned cart was in full view, a ridiculous object, with its wooden wheels raised, as though in protest, to the sky. he looked in vain for a sign of his third man, and at the sight of the uniform upon the two dead figures lying on the ground he understood that he was alone. of the three private soldiers who had followed him down glen esk there was not one left with him. archie, the traitor, was gone, and only the red-bearded man remained. he could see him in the group that was watching james logie as he captured the struggling dog. callandar ground his teeth; then he dropped on one knee and contemplated the sight from behind the great circle of roots and earth that a fallen tree had torn from the sod. of all men living he was one of the last who might be called a coward, but neither was he one of those hot-heads who will plunge, to their own undoing and to that of other people, into needless disaster. he would have gone grimly into the hornet's nest before him, pistol in hand, leaving heaven to take care of the result, had the smallest advantage to his king and country been attainable thereby. his own death or capture would do no more than prevent him from carrying news of what had happened to headquarters, and he decided, with the promptness hidden behind his taciturn demeanour, that his nearest duty was to identify james logie, if he were present. callandar's duty was the only thing that he always saw quickly. from his shelter he marked the two jacobite officers, and, as he knew ferrier very well from description, he soon made out the man he wanted. james was changed since the time when he had first come across archie's path. his clothes were worn and stained, and the life of wandering and concealment that he had led since he parted from the prince had set its mark on him. he had slept in as many strange places of late as had the dead beggar at his feet; anxious watching and lack of food and rest were levelling the outward man to something more primitive and haggard than the gallant-looking gentleman of the days before culloden, yet there remained to him the atmosphere that could never be obliterated, the personality that he could never lose until the earth should lie on him. he was no better clothed than those who surrounded him, but his pre-eminence was plain. the watcher devoured him with his eyes as he turned from his comrades, carrying the dog. as soon as he was out of sight, the rebels scattered quietly, and callandar crouched lower, praying fortune to prevent anyone from passing his retreat. none approached him, and he was left with the three dead men in possession of the wood. he rose and looked at his silent comrades. it would be useless to follow logie, because, with so many of his companions dispersing at this moment about the fringes of the muir of pert, he could hardly hope to do so unobserved. there would be no chance of getting to close quarters with him, which was callandar's chief desire, for the mere suspicion of a hostile presence would only make james shift his hiding-place before the gathering troops could draw their cordon round him. he abandoned the idea with regret, telling himself that he must make a great effort to get to brechin and to return with a mounted force in time to take action in the morning. the success of his ambush and his ignorance that he had been watched would keep logie quiet for the night. he decided to take the only road that he knew, the one by which flemington had left him. the upper one entangled itself in the muir, and might lead him into some conclave of the enemy. he began to descend in the shadows of the coming darkness that was drawing itself like an insidious net over the spacious land. he had almost reached the road, when a moving object not far from him made him stop. a man was hurrying up the hill some little way to his right, treading swiftly along, and, though his head was turned from callandar, and he was not near enough for him to distinguish his features, the sling across his shoulder told him that it was flemington. callandar stood still, staring after him. archie's boldness took away his breath. here he was, returning on his tracks, and if he kept his direction, he would have to pass within a few hundred yards of the spot on which he knew that the companions he had left would be halted; callandar had pointed out the place to him as they approached the hill together. archie took a wider sweep as he neared the wood, and the soldier, standing in the shadow of a rowan-tree, whose berries were already beginning to colour for autumn, saw that he was making for the muir, and knew that the beggar was justified. one thing only could be bringing him back. he had come, as wattie had predicted, to warn logie. he had spoken wisdom, that dead vagabond, lying silent for ever among the trees; he had assured him that flemington would not suffer him to take logie. he knew him, and he had laughed at the idea of his wounded arm turning him out of his road. "it's no the like o' that that gars the like o' him greet," he had said; and he was right. callandar, watching the definite course of the figure through the dusk, was sure that he was taking the simplest line to a retreat whose exact position he knew. he turned and followed, running from cover to cover, his former errand abandoned. it was strange that, in spite of all, a vague gladness was in his heart, as he thought that archie was not the soft creature that he had pretended to be. there were generous things in callandar. then his generous impulse turned back on him in bitterness, for it occurred to him that archie had been aware of what lay waiting for them, and had saved himself from possible accident in time. they went on till they reached the border of the muir, flemington going as unconcernedly as if he were walking in the streets of brechin, though he kept wide of the spot on which he believed the riders to have disposed themselves for the night. there was no one who knew him in that part of the country, and he wore no uniform to make him conspicuous in the eyes of any chance passer in this lonely neighbourhood. as callandar emerged from the straggling growth at the muir's edge, he saw him still in front going through the deep thickness of the heather. callandar wished that he knew how far the muir extended, and exactly what lay on its farther side. his map was thrust into his coat, but it was now far too dark for him to make use of it; the tall figure was only just visible, and he redoubled his pace, gaining a little on it. a small stationary light shone ahead, evidently the window of some muirland hovel. there is nothing so difficult to decide as the distance of a light at night, but he guessed that it was the goal towards which archie was leading. he went forward, till the young man's voice hailing someone and the sound of knocking made him stop and throw himself down in the heather. he thought he heard a door shut. when all had been quiet for a minute he rose up, and, approaching the house, took up his stand not a dozen yards from the walls. perplexity came on him. he had been surprisingly successful in pursuing flemington unnoticed as far as this hovel, but he had yet to find out who was inside it. perhaps the person he had heard speaking was logie, but equally perhaps not. there was no sound of voices within, though he heard movements; he dared not approach the uncurtained window to look in, for the person whose step he heard was evidently standing close to it. he would wait, listening for that person to move away, and then would try his luck. he had spent perhaps ten minutes thus occupied when, without a warning sound, the door opened and archie stood on the threshold, as still as though he were made of marble. it was too dark for either man to see more than the other's blurred outline. flemington looked out into the night. "come in, callandar!" he called. "you are the very man i want!" the soldier's astonishment was such that his feet seemed frozen to the ground. he did not stir. "come!" cried archie. "you have followed me so far that you surely will not turn back at the last step. i need you urgently, man. come in!" he held the door open. callandar entered, pushing past him, and found himself in a low, small room, wretchedly furnished, with another at the back opening out of it. both were empty, and the light he had seen was standing on the table. "there is no one here!" he exclaimed. "no," said flemington. "where is the man you were speaking to?" "he is gone. the ill-mannered rogue would not wait to receive you." "it was that rebel! it was captain logie!" cried callandar. "it was not logie; you may take my word for that," replied archie. he sat down on the edge of the table and crossed his legs. "try again, callandar," he said lightly. callandar's lips were drawn into an even line, but they were shaking. the mortification of finding that archie had been aware of his presence, had pursued his way unconcerned, knowing that he followed, had called him in as a man calls the serving-man he has left outside, was hot in him. no wonder his own concealment had seemed so easy. "you have sent him to warn logie--that is what you have done!" he cried. "you are a scoundrel--i know that!" he stepped up to him, and would have laid hold of his collar, but the sling stopped him. "i have. callandar, you are a genius." as the other stood before him, speechless, flemington rose up. "you have got to arrest me," he said; "that is why i called you in. i might have run out by the back of the house, like the man who is gone, who went with my message almost before the door was shut. look! i have only one serviceable arm and no sword. i left it where i left my horse. and here is my pistol; i will lay it on the table, so you will have no trouble in taking me prisoner. you have not had your stalking for nothing, after all, you mighty hunter before the lord!" "you mean to give yourself up--you, who have taken so much care to save yourself?" "i have meant to ever since i saw you under the rowan-tree watching me, flattened against the trunk like a squirrel. i would as soon be your prisoner as anyone else's--sooner, i think." "i cannot understand you!" exclaimed callandar, taking possession of the weapon archie had laid down. "it is hard enough to understand oneself, but i do at last," said the other. "once i thought life easy, but mine has been mighty difficult lately. from here on it will be quite simple. and there will not be much more of it, i fancy." "you are right there," said callandar grimly. "i can see straight before me now. i tell you life has grown simple." "you lied at the cross roads." "i did. how you looked after me as i went! well, i have done what i suppose no one has ever done before: i have threatened to report you for neglecting your duty." he threw back his head and laughed. "and i am obliged to tell you to arrest me now. o callandar, who will correct your backslidings when there is an end of me?" the other did not smile as he looked at flemington's laughing eyes, soft and sparkling under the downward curve of his brows. through his anger, the pity of it all was smiting him, though he was so little given to sentiment. perhaps archie's charm had told on him all the time they had been together, though he had never decided whether he liked him or not. and he looked so young when he laughed. "what have you done?" he cried, pacing suddenly up and down the little room. "you have run on destruction, flemington; you have thrown your life away. why have you done this--you?" "if a thing is worthless, there is nothing to do but throw it away." callandar watched him with pain in his eyes. "what made you suspect me?" asked archie. "you can tell me anything now. there is only one end to this business. it will be the making of you." "pshaw!" exclaimed the other, turning away. "why did you follow me?" continued archie. callandar was silent. "tell me this," he said at last: "what makes you give yourself up now, without a struggle or a protest, when little more than two hours ago you ran from what you knew was to come, there, at the foot of the hill? surely your friends would have spared _you!_" "now it is i who do not understand you," said archie. his companion stood in front of him, searching his face. "flemington, are you lying? on your soul, are you lying?" "of what use are lies to me now?" exclaimed archie impatiently. "truth is a great luxury; believe me, i enjoy it." "you knew nothing of what was waiting for us at the top of huntly hill?" "nothing, as i live," said archie. "the beggar betrayed you," said callandar. "when you were gone he told me that you were in logie's pay--that you would warn him. he was right, flemington." "i am not in logie's pay--i never was," broke in archie. "i did not know what to think," the soldier went on; "but i took him up huntly hill with me, and when we had unsaddled, and the men were lying under the trees, i sent the corporal to brechin with the information. i went with him to the edge of the wood, and when i came back there was not a man left alive. logie and ferrier were there with a horde of their rebels. they had come to rescue the prisoner, and he was loose." "then he _was_ ferrier's cousin!" exclaimed flemington. "we were right." "one of my men escaped," continued callandar, "or i suppose so, for he was gone. the beggar and the other two were killed, and the horses had stampeded." "so wattie is dead," mused flemington. "gad, what a voice has gone with him!" "they did not see me, but i watched them; i saw him--logie--he went off quickly, and he took one of the beggar's dogs with him, snarling and struggling, with his head smothered in his coat. then i went down the hill, meaning to make for brechin, and i saw you coming back. i knew what you were about, thanks to that beggar." neither spoke for a minute. archie was still sitting on the table. he had been looking on the ground, and he raised his eyes to his companion's face. something stirred in him, perhaps at the thought of how he stood with fate. he was not given to thinking about himself, but he might well do so now. "callandar," he said, "i dare say you don't like me----" then he broke off, laughing. "how absurd!" he exclaimed. "of course you hate me; it is only right you should. but perhaps you will understand--i think you will, if you will listen. i was thrown against logie--no matter how--but, unknowing what he did, he put his safety in my hands. he did more. i had played upon his sympathy, and in the generosity of his heart he came to my help as one true man might do to another. i was not a true man, but he did not know that; he knew nothing of me but that i stood in need, and he believed i was as honest as himself. he thought i was with his own cause. that was what i wished him to believe--had almost told him." callandar listened, the lines of his long face set. "i had watched him and hunted him," continued archie, "and my information against him was already in the beggar's hands, on its way to its mark. i could not bring myself to do more against him then. what i did afterwards was done without mention of his name. you see, callandar, i have been true to nobody." he paused, waiting for comment, but the other made none. "after that i went to edinburgh," he continued, "and he joined the prince. then i went north with cumberland. i was freed from my difficulty until they sent me here to take him. the duke gave me my orders himself, and i had to go. that ride with you was hell, callandar, and when we met the beggar to-day i had to make my choice. that was the turning-point for me. i could not go on." "he said it was not your wound that turned you aside." "he was a shrewd rascal," said flemington. "i wish i could tell how he knew so much about me." "it was your own tongue: once you spent the night in a barn together when you were light-headed from a blow, and you spoke all night of logie. you said enough to put him on your track. that is what he told me as we went up huntly hill." archie shrugged his shoulders and rose up. "now, what are you going to do?" he said. "i am going to take you to brechin." "come, then," said archie, "we shall finish our journey together after all. it has been a hard day. i am glad it is over." they went out together. as callandar drew the door to behind them archie stood still. "if i have dealt double with logie, i will not do so with the king," said he. "this is the way out of my difficulty. do you understand me, callandar?" the darkness hid the soldier's face. perhaps of all the people who had played their part in the tangle of destiny, character, circumstance, or whatsoever influences had brought flemington to the point at which he stood, he was the one who understood him best. chapter xxiv the vanity of men the last months had been a time of great anxiety to lord balnillo. in spite of his fine steering, and though he had escaped from molestation, he was not comfortable as he saw the imprisonments and confiscations that were going on; and the precariousness of all that had been secure disturbed him and made him restless. he was unsettled, too, by his long stay in edinburgh, and he hankered afresh after the town life in which he had spent so many of his years. his trees and parks interested him still, but he looked on them, wondering how long he would be allowed to keep them. he was lonely, and he missed james, whom he had not seen since long before culloden, the star of whose destiny had led him out again into the world of chance. he had the most upsetting scheme under consideration that a man of his age can entertain. at sixty-four it is few people who think seriously of changing their state, yet this was what david balnillo had in mind; for he had found so many good reasons for offering his hand to christian flemington that he had decided at last to take that portentous step. the greatest of these was the effect that an alliance with the whig lady would produce in the quarters from which he feared trouble. his estate would be pretty safe if madam flemington reigned over it. it was pleasant to picture her magnificent presence at his table; her company would rid country life of its dulness, and on the visits to edinburgh, which he was sure she would wish to make, the new lady balnillo would turn their lodging into a bright spot in society. he smoothed his silk stockings as he imagined the stir that his belated romance would make. he would be the hero of it, and its heroine, besides being a safeguard to his property, would be a credit to himself. there were some obstacles to his plan, and one of them was archie; but he believed that, with a little diplomacy, that particular difficulty might be overcome. he would attack that side of the business in a very straightforward manner. he would make madam flemington understand that he was large-minded enough to look upon the episode in which he had borne the part of victim in a reasonable yet airy spirit. in the game in which their political differences had brought them face to face the honours had been with the young man; he would admit that with a smile and with the respect that one noble enemy accords to another. he would assure her that bygones should be bygones, and that when he claimed archie as his grandson-in-law, he would do so without one grudging backward glance at the circumstances in which they had first met. his magnanimity seemed to him an almost touching thing, and he played with the idea of his own apposite grace when, in some sly but genial moment, he would suggest that the portrait upstairs should be finished. what had given the final touch to his determination was a message that james had contrived to send him, which removed the last scruple from his heart. his brother's danger had weighed upon david, and it was not only its convenience to himself at this juncture which made him receive it with relief. logie was leaving the country for holland, and the next tidings of him would come from there, should he be lucky enough to reach its shores alive. since the rescue of gourlay the neighbourhood of the muir of pert--the last of his haunts in which logie could trust himself--had become impossible for him, and he was now striving to get to a creek on the coast below peterhead. it was some time since a roof had been over him, and the little cottage from which flemington had despatched his urgent warning stood empty. its inmate had been his unsuspected connection with the world since his time of wandering had begun; for though his fatal mistake in discovering this link in his chain of communication to flemington had made him abjure its shelter, he had had no choice for some time between the muir and any other place. the western end of the county swarmed with troops. montrose was subdued; the passes of the grampians were watched; there remained only this barren tract west of the river; and the warning brought to him from a nameless source had implored him to abandon it before the soldiery, which his informant assured him was collecting to sweep it from end to end, should range itself on its borders. archie had withheld his name when he sent the dweller in the little hovel speeding into the night. he was certain that in making it known to james he would defeat his own ends, for logie would scarcely be disposed to trust his good faith, and might well look on the message as a trick to drive him into some trap waiting for him between the muir and the sea. james did not give his brother any details of his projected flight; he merely bade him an indefinite good-bye. the game was up--even he was obliged to admit that--and ferrier, whose ardent spirit had been one with his own since the beginning of all things, was already making for a fishing village, from which he hoped to be smuggled out upon the high seas. nothing further could be gained in angus for the stuart cause. the friends had spent themselves since april in their endeavours to resuscitate the feeling in the country, but there was no more money to be raised, no more men to be collected. they told themselves that all they could do now was to wait in the hope of a day when their services might be needed again. that day would find them both ready, if they were above ground. david knew that, had james been in scotland, he would not have dared to think of bringing christian flemington to balnillo. he had a feeling of adventure when he started from his own door for ardguys. the slight awe with which christian still inspired him, even when she was most gracious, was beginning to foreshadow itself, and he knew that his bones would be mighty stiff on the morrow; there was no riding of the circuit now to keep him in practice in the saddle. but he was not going to give way to silly apprehensions, unsuited to his age and position; he would give himself every chance in the way of effect. the servant who rode after him carried a handsome riding-suit for his master to don at forfar before making the last stage of his road. it grieved balnillo to think how much of the elegance of his well-turned legs must be unrevealed by his high boots. he was a personable old gentleman, and his grey cob was worthy of carrying an eligible wooer. he reached ardguys, and dismounted under its walls on the following afternoon. he had sent no word in front of him. christian rose when he was ushered into her presence, and laid down the book in her hand, surprised. "you are as unexpected as an earthquake," she exclaimed, as she saw who was her visitor. "but not as unwelcome?" said david. "far from it. sit down, my lord. i had begun to forget that civilization existed, and now i am reminded of it." he bowed, delighted. a few messages and compliments, a letter or two despatched by hand, had been their only communications since the judge left edinburgh, and his spirits rose as he found that she seemed really pleased to see him. "and what has brought you?" asked christian, settling herself with the luxurious deliberation of a cat into the large chair from which she had risen. "something good, certainly." "the simple desire to see you, ma'am. could anything be better?" it was an excellent opening; but he had never, even in his youth, been a man who ran full tilt upon anything. he had scarcely ever before made so direct a speech. she smiled, amused. there had been plenty of time for thought in her solitude; but, though she had thought a good deal about him, she had not a suspicion of his errand. she saw people purely in relation to the uses she had for them, and, officially, she had pronounced him harmless to the party in whose interests she had kept him at her side. the circumstances were not those which further sentiment. "i have spent this quiet time in remembering your kindnesses to me," he began, inspired by her smile. "you call it a quiet time?" she interrupted. "i had not looked on it in that way. quiet for us, perhaps, but not for the country." "true, true," said he, in the far-away tone in which some people seek to let unprofitable subjects melt. now that the active part of the rebellion had become history, she had no hesitation in speaking out from her solid place on the winning side. "this wretched struggle is over, and we may be plain with one another, lord balnillo," she continued. "you, at least, have had much to alarm you." "i have been a peaceful servant of law and order all my life," said he, "and as such i have conceived it my place to stand aloof. it has been my duty to restrain violence of all kinds." "but you have not restrained your belongings," she observed boldly. he was so much taken aback that he said nothing. "well, my lord, it is one of my regrets that i have never seen captain logie. at least you have to be proud of a gallant man," she went on, with the same impulse that makes all humanity set a fallen child upon its legs. but balnillo had a genius for scrambling to his feet. "my brother has left the country in safety," he rejoined, with one of those random flashes of sharpness that had stood him in such good stead. his cunning was his guardian angel; for he did not know what she knew--namely, that archie had left fort augustus in pursuit of james. "indeed?" she said, silenced. she was terribly disappointed, but she hid her feelings in barefaced composure. the judge drew his chair closer. here was another opening, and his very nervousness pushed him towards it. "ma'am," he began, clearing his throat, "i shall not despair of presenting james to you. when the country is settled--if--in short----" "i imagine that captain logie will hardly trust himself in scotland either in my lifetime or in yours. we are old, you and i," she added, the bitterness of her disappointment surging through her words. she watched him to see whether this barbed truth pierced him; it pierced herself as she hurled it. "maybe," said he; "but age has not kept me from the business i have come upon. i have come to put a very particular matter before you." she was still unsuspicious, but she grew impatient. he had wearied her often in edinburgh with tedious histories of himself, and she had endured them then for reasons of policy; but she felt no need of doing so here. it was borne in upon her, as it has been borne in upon many of us, that a person who is acceptable in town may be unendurable in the country. she had not thought of that as she welcomed him. "ma'am," he went on, intent on nothing but his affair, "i may surprise you--i trust i shall not offend you. at least you will approve the feelings of devotion, of respect, of admiration which have brought me here. i have an ancient name, i have sufficient means--i am not ill-looking, i believe----" "are you making me a proposal, my lord?" she spoke with an accent of derision; the sting of it was sharp in her tone. "there is no place for ridicule, ma'am. i see nothing unsuitable in my great regard for you." he spoke with real dignity. she had not suspected him of having any, personally, and she had forgotten that an inherited stock of it was behind him. the rebuke astonished her so much that she scarcely knew what reply to make. "as i said, i believe i am not ill-looking," he repeated, with an air that lost him his advantage. "i can offer you such a position as you have a right to expect." "you also offer me a brother-in-law whose destination may be the scaffold," she said brutally; "do not forget that." this was not to be denied, and for a moment he was put out. but it was on these occasions that he shone. "let us dismiss family matters from our minds and think only of ourselves," said he; "my brother is an outlaw, and as such is unacceptable to you, and your grandson has every reason to be ashamed to meet me. we can set these disadvantages, one against the other, and agree to ignore them." "i am not disposed to ignore archie," said she. "well, ma'am, neither am i. i hope i am a large-minded man--indeed, no one can sit on the bench for the time that i have sat on it and not realize the frailty of all creatures----" "my lord----" began christian. but it is something to have learned continuance of speech professionally, and balnillo was launched; also his own magnanimous attitude had taken his fancy. "i will remember nothing against him," said he. "i will forget his treatment of my hospitality, and the discreditable uses to which he put my roof." "sir!" broke in christian. "i will remember that, according to his lights, he was in the exercise of his duty. whatsoever may be my opinion of the profession to which he was compelled, i will thrust it behind me with the things best forgotten." "that is enough, lord balnillo," cried madam flemington, rising. "sit, madam, sit. do not disturb yourself! understand me, that i will allow every leniency. i will make every excuse! i will dwell, not on the fact that he was a spy, but on his enviable relationship to yourself." she stood in the middle of the room, threatening him with her eyes. some people tremble when roused to the pitch of anger that she had reached; some gesticulate; christian was still. he had risen too. "if you suppose that i could connect myself with a disloyal house you are much mistaken," she said, controlling herself with an effort. "i have no quarrel with your name, lord balnillo; it is old enough. my quarrel is with the treason in which it has been dipped. but i am very well content with my own. since i have borne it, i have kept it clean from any taint of rebellion." "but i have been a peaceful man," he protested. "as i told you, the law has been my profession. i have raised a hand against no one." "do you think i do not know you?" exclaimed she. "do you suppose that my ears were shut in the winter, and that i heard nothing in all the months i spent in edinburgh? what of that, lord balnillo?" "you made no objection to me then, ma'am. i was made happy by being of service to you." she laughed scornfully. "let us be done with this," she said. "you have offered yourself to me and i refuse the offer. i will add my thanks." the last words were a masterpiece of insolent civility. a gilt-framed glass hung on the wall, one of the possessions that she had brought with her from france. david suddenly caught sight of his own head reflected in it above the lace cravat for which he had paid so much; the spectacle gathered up his recollections and his present mortification, and fused them into one stab of hurt vanity. "i see that you can make no further use of me," he said. "none." he walked out of the room. at the door he turned and bowed. "if you will allow me, i will call for my horse myself," said he. he went out of the house and she stood where she was, thinking of what he had told her about his brother; she had set her heart upon archie's success in taking logie, and now the man had left the country and his chance was gone. the proposal to which she had just listened did not matter to her one way or the other, though he had offended her by the attitude he took up when making it. he was unimportant. it was of archie that she thought as she watched the judge and his servant ride away between the ash-trees. they were crossing the kilpie burn when her maid came in, bringing a letter. the writing on it was strange to christian. "who has brought this?" she asked as she opened it. "just a callant," replied the girl. she read the letter, which was short. it was signed 'r. callandar, captain,' and was written at archie flemington's request to tell her that he was under arrest at brechin on a charge of conspiring with the king's enemies. the writer added a sentence, unknown, as he explained, to flemington. "the matter is serious," he wrote, "the duke of cumberland is still in edinburgh. it might be well if you could see him. make no delay, as we await his orders." she stood, turning cold, her eyes fixed on the maid. "eh--losh, mem!" whimpered mysie, approaching her with her hands raised. madam flemington felt as though her brain refused to work. there seemed to be nothing to drive it forward. the world stood still. the walls, an imprisoning horror, shut her in from all movement, all action, when action was needed. she had never felt ardguys to be so desperately far from the reach of humanity, herself so much cut off from it, as now. and yet she must act. her nearest channel of communication was the judge, riding away. "fool!" she cried, seizing mysie, "run--run! send the boy after lord balnillo. tell him to run!" the maid hesitated, staring at the pallor of her mistress's face. "eh, but, mem--sit you down!" she wailed. christian thrust her from her path as though she had been a piece of furniture, and swept into the hall. a barefooted youth was outside by the door. he stared at her, as mysie had done. she took him by the shoulder. "run! go instantly after those horses! that is lord balnillo!" she cried, pointing to the riders, who were mounting the rise beyond the burn. "tell him to return at once. tell him he must come back!" he shook off her grip and ran. he was a corner-boy from brechin and he had a taste for sensation. madam flemington went back into her room. mysie followed her, whimpering still, and she pushed her outside and sank down in her large chair. she could not watch the window, for fear of going mad. she sat still and steady until she heard the thud of bare feet on the stone steps, and then she hurried out. "he tell't me he wadna bide," said the corner-boy breathlessly. "he was vera well obliged to ye, he bad' me say, but he wadna bide." christian left him and shut herself into the room, alone. callandar's bald lines had overpowered her completely, leaving no place in her brain for anything else. but now she saw her message from lord balnillo's point of view, and anger and contempt flamed up again, even in the midst of her trouble. "the vanity of men! ah, god, the vanity of men!" she cried, throwing out her hands, as though to put the whole race of them from her. chapter xxv a royal duke the duke of cumberland was at holyrood house. he had come down from the north by way of stirling, and having spent some days in edinburgh, he was making his final arrangements to set out for england. he was returning in the enviable character of conquering hero, and he knew that a great reception awaited him in london, where every preparation was being made to do him honour; he was thinking of these things as he sat in one of the grim rooms of the ancient palace. there was not much luxury here; and looking across the table at which he sat and out of the window, he could see the dirty roofs of the canongate--a very different prospect from the one that would soon meet his eyes. he was sick of scotland. papers were littered on the table, and his secretary had just carried away a bundle with him. he was alone, because he expected a lady to whom he had promised an audience, but he was not awaiting her with the feelings that he generally brought to such occasions. cumberland had received the visits of many women alone since leaving england, but his guests were younger than the one whose approach he could now hear in the anteroom outside. he drew his brows together, for he expected no profit and some annoyance from the interview. he rose as she was ushered in and went to the open fireplace, where he stood awaiting her, drawn up to his full height, which was not great. the huge iron dogs behind him and the high mantel-piece above his head dwarfed him with their large lines. he was not an ill-looking young man, though his hair, pulled back and tied after the fashion of the day, showed off the receding contours that fell away from his temples, and made his blue eyes look more prominent than they were. he moved forward clumsily as christian curtsied. "come in, madam, come in. be seated. i have a few minutes only to give you," he said, pointing to a chair on the farther side of the table. she sat down opposite to him. "i had the honour of being presented to your royal highness last year," she said. "i remember you well, ma'am," replied he shortly. "it is in the hope of being remembered that i have come," said she. "it is to ask you, sir, to remember the services of my house to yours." "i remember them, ma'am; i forget nothing." "i am asking you, in remembering, to forget one thing," said she. "i shall not waste your royal highness's time and mine in beating about bushes. i have travelled here from my home without resting, and it is not for me to delay now." he took up a pen that lay beside him, and put the quill between his teeth. "your royal highness knows why i have come," continued she, her eyes falling from his own and fixing themselves on the pen in his mouth. he removed it with his fat hand, and tossed it aside. "there is absolute proof against flemington," said he. "he accuses himself. i presume you know that." "i do. this man--captain logie--has some strange attraction for him that i cannot understand, and did him some kindness that seems to have turned his head. his regard for him was a purely personal one. it was personal friendship that led him to--to the madness he has wrought. his hands are clean of conspiracy. i have come all this way to assure your highness of that." "it is possible," said cumberland. "the result is the same. we have lost the man whose existence above ground is a danger to the kingdom." "i have come to ask you to take that difference of motive into consideration," she went on. "were the faintest shadow of conspiracy proved, i should not dare to approach you; my request should not pass my lips. i have been in correspondence with him during the whole of the campaign, and i know that he served the king loyally. i beg your highness to remember that now. i speak of his motive because i know it." "you are fortunate, then," he interrupted. "captain callandar, to whom he gave himself up, wrote me two letters at his request, one in which he announced his arrest, and one which i received as i entered my coach to leave my door. archie knows what is before him," she added; "he has no hope of life and no knowledge of my action in coming to your highness. but he wished me to know the truth--that he had conspired with no one. he is ready to suffer for what he has done, but he will not have me ashamed of him. look, sir----" she pushed the letter over to him. "his motives may go hang, madam," said cumberland. "your highness, if you have any regard for us who have served you, read this!" he rose and went back to the fireplace. "there is no need, madam. i am not interested in the correspondence of others." he was becoming impatient; he had spent enough time on this lady. she was not young enough to give him any desire to detain her. she was an uncommon-looking woman, certainly, but at her age that fact could matter to nobody. he wondered, casually, whether the old stories about her and charles edward's father were true. women struck him only in one light. "you will not read this, your royal highness?" said christian, with a little tremor of voice. "no, ma'am. i may tell you that my decision has not altered. the case is not one that admits of any question." "your highness," said christian, rising, "i have never made an abject appeal to anyone yet, and even now, though i make it to the son of my king, i can hardly bring myself to utter it. i deplore my--my boy's action from the bottom of my soul. i sent him from me--i parted from him nearly a year ago because of this man logie." he faced round upon her and put his hands behind his back. "what!" he exclaimed, "you knew of this? you have been keeping this affair secret between you?" "he went to montrose on the track of logie in november," said she; "he was sent there to watch his movements before prince charles marched to england, and he did so well that he contrived to settle himself under lord balnillo's roof. in three days he returned to me. he had reported on logie's movements--i know that--your highness's agents can produce his report. but he returned to my house to tell me that, for some fool's reason, some private question of sentiment, he would follow logie no longer. 'i will not go man-hunting after logie'--those were his words." "madam----" began cumberland. she put out her hand, and her gesture seemed to reverse their positions. "i told him to go--i told him that i would sooner see him dead than that he should side with the stuarts! he answered me that he could have no part with rebels, and that his act concerned logie alone. then he left me, and on his way to brechin he received orders to go to the government ship in montrose harbour. then the ship was attacked and taken." "it was flemington's friend, logie, who was at the bottom of that business," said cumberland. "he met logie and they fought," said madam flemington. "i know none of the details, but i know that they fought. then he went to edinburgh." "it is time that we finished with this!" exclaimed cumberland. "no good is served by it." "i am near the end, your highness," said christian, and then paused, unnerved by the too great suggestiveness of her words. "these things are no concern of mine," he observed in the pause; "his movements do not matter. and i may tell you, ma'am, that my leisure is not unlimited." it was nearing the close of the afternoon, and the sun stood like a red ball over the mists of the edinburgh smoke. cumberland's business was over for the day, and he was looking forward to dining that evening with a carefully chosen handful of friends, male and female. her nerve was giving way against the stubborn detachment of the man. she felt herself helpless, and her force ineffective. life was breaking up round her. the last man she had confronted had spurned her in the end--through a mistake, it was true--but the opportunity had been given him by her own loss of grip in the bewilderment of a crisis. this one was spurning her too. but she went on. "he performed his work faithfully from that day forward, as your royal highness knew when you took him to the north. his services are better known to you, sir, than to anyone else. he gave himself up to captain callandar as the last proof that he could take no part with the rebels. he threw away his life." "_that_, at least, is true," said the duke, with a sneer. he was becoming exasperated, and the emphasis which he put on the word 'that' brought the slow blood to her face. she looked at him as though she saw him across some mud-befouled stream. even now her pride rose above the despair in her heart. he was not sensitive, but her expression stung him. "i am accustomed to truth," she replied. he turned his back. there was a silence. "i came to ask for archie's life," she said, in a toneless, steady voice, "but i will go, asking nothing. your royal highness has nothing to give that he or i would stoop to take at your hands." he stood doggedly, without turning, and he did not move until the sound of her sweeping skirts had died away in the anteroom. then he went out, a short, stoutish figure passing along the dusty corridors of holyrood, and entered a room from which came the ring of men's voices. a party of officers in uniform got up as he came in. some were playing cards. he went up to one of the players and took those he held from between his fingers. "give me your hand, walden," said he, "and for god's sake get us a bottle of wine. damn me, but i hate old women! they should have their tongues cut out." chapter xxvi the vanishing bird the houses of brechin climb from the river up the slope, and a little camp was spread upon the crest of ground above them, looking down over the uneven pattern of walls, the rising smoke, and the woods that cradled the esk. such of cumberland's soldiery as had collected in angus was drawn together here, and as the country was settling down, the camp was increased by detachments of horse and foot that arrived daily from various directions. the muir of pert was bare, left to the company of the roe-deer and the birds, for james had been traced to the coast, and the hungry north sea had swallowed his tracks. the spot occupied by the tents of callandar's troop was in the highest corner of the camp, the one farthest from the town, and the long northern light that lingered over the hill enveloped the camp sounds and sights in a still, greenish clearness. there would be a bare few hours of darkness. callandar was now in command of a small force consisting of a troop of his own regiment which had lately marched in, and two of his men stood sentry outside the tent in which archie flemington was sitting at an improvised table writing a letter. he had been a close prisoner since his arrest on the muir of pert, and during the week that had elapsed, whilst correspondence about him and orders concerning him had gone to and fro between brechin and edinburgh, he had been exclusively under callandar's charge. that arrangement was the one concession made on his behalf among the many that had been asked for by his friends. at his own request he was to remain callandar's prisoner till the end, and it was to be callandar's voice that would give the order for his release at sunrise to-morrow, and callandar's troopers whose hands would set him free. the two men had spent much time together. though the officer's responsibility did not include the necessity of seeing much of his prisoner, he had chosen to spend nearly all his leisure in archie's tent. they had drawn very near together, this incongruous pair, though the chasm that lay between their respective temperaments had not been bridged by words. they had sat together on many evenings, almost in silence, playing cards until one of them grew drowsy, or some officious cock crowed on the outskirts of the town. of the incident which had brought them into their present relationship, they spoke not at all; but sometimes archie had broken out into snatches of talk, and callandar had listened, with his grim smile playing about his mouth, to his descriptions of the men and things amongst which his short life had thrown him. as he looked across at his companion, who sat, his eyes sparkling in the light of the lantern, his expression changing with the shades of humour that ran over his words, like shadows over growing corn, he would be brought up short against the thought of the terrible incongruity to come--death. he could not think of archie and death. at times he would have given a great deal to pass on his responsibility to some other man, and to turn his back on the place that was to witness such a tragedy. in furthering archie's wishes by his own application for custody of him he had given him a great proof of friendship--how great he was only to learn as the days went by. would to god it were over--so he would say to himself each night as he left the tent. he had thought archie soft when they parted at the cross-roads, and he had been sorry. there was no need for sorrow on that score; never had been. the sorrow to him now was that so gallant, so brilliant a creature was to be cut off from the life of the world, to go down into the darkness, leaving so many of its inhabitants half-hearted, half-spirited, half alive, to crawl on in an existence which only interested them inasmuch as it supplied their common needs. his hostility against logie ran above the level of the just antagonism that a man feels for his country's enemy, and he questioned whether his life were worth the price that flemington was paying for it. the hurried words that archie had spoken about logie as they left the hovel together had told him little, and that little seemed to him inadequate to explain the tremendous consequences that had followed. what had logie said or done that had power to turn him out of his way? a man may meet many admirable characters among his enemies without having his efforts paralyzed by the encounter. flemington was not new to his trade, and had been long enough in the secret service to know its requirements. a certain unscrupulousness was necessarily among them, yet why had his gorge only risen against it now? callandar could find no signs in him of the overwrought sensibility that seemed to have prompted his revolt against his task. logie had placed his safety in archie's hands, and it was in order to end that safety that the young man had gone out; he had laid the trap and the quarry had fallen into it. what else had he expected? it was not that callandar could not understand the scruple; what he could not understand was why a man of archie's occupation should suddenly be undone by it. having accepted his task, his duty had been plain. in theory, a rebel, to callandar was a rebel, no more, and archie, by his deed, had played a rebel's part; yet, in spite of that, the duty he must carry out on the morrow was making his heart sink within him. one thing about archie stood out plain--he was not going to shirk his duty to his king and yet take government money. whatsoever his doings, the prisoner who sat in the tent over yonder would be lying under the earth to-morrow because he was prepared to pay the last price for his scruple. no, he was not soft. callandar would have died sooner than let him escape, yet his escape would have made him glad. callandar came across the camp and passed between the two sentries into flemington's tent. the young man looked up from his writing. "you are busy," said the officer. "i have nearly done. there seems so much to do at the last," he added. the other sat down on the bed and looked at him, filled with grief. the lantern stood by archie's hand. his head was bent into the circle of light, and the yellow shine that fell upon it warmed his olive skin and brought out the brown shades in his brows and hair. the changing curves of his mouth were firm in the intensity of his occupation. he had so much expression as a rule that people seldom thought about his features but callandar now noticed his long chin and the fine lines of his nostril. his pen scratched on for a few minutes; then he laid it down and turned round. "you have done me many kindnesses, callandar," said he, "and now i am going to ask you for another--the greatest of all. it is everything to me that captain logie should get this letter. he is safe, i hope, over the water, but i do not know where. will you take charge of it?" "i will," said the other--"yes." the very name of logie went against him. "you will have to keep it some little time, i fear," continued archie, "but when the country has settled down you will be able to reach him through lord balnillo. promise me that, if you can compass it, he shall get this." "if it is to be done, i will do it." "from you, that is enough," said flemington, "i shall rest quietly." he turned to his writing again. callandar sat still, looking round the tent vaguely for something to distract his heavy thoughts. a card lay on the ground and he picked it up. it was an ace, and the blank space of white round it was covered with drawing. his own consideration had procured pens and books--all that he could find to brighten the passing days for his prisoner. this was the result of some impulse that had taken flemington's artistic fingers. it was a sketch of one of the sentries outside the tent door. the figure was given in a few lines, dark against the light, and the outline of the man's homely features had gained some quality of suggestiveness and distinction by its passage through archie's mind, and by the way he had placed the head against the clouded atmosphere made by the smoke rising from the camp. through it, came a touched-in vision of the horizon beyond the tents. he looked at it, seeing something of its cleverness, and tossed it aside. when archie had ended his letter, he read it through: "when this comes to your hands perhaps you will know what has become of me," he had written, "and you will understand the truth. i ask you to believe me, if only because these are the last words i shall ever write. a man speaks the truth when it is a matter of hours with him. "you know what brought me to balnillo, but you do not know what sent me from it. i went because i had no courage to stay. i was sent to find out how deep you were concerned in the stuart cause and to watch your doings. i followed you that night in the town, and my wrist bears the mark you set on it still. that morning i despatched my confirmation of the government's suspicions about you. then i met you and we sat by the basin of montrose. god knows i have never forgotten the story you told me. "logie, i went because i could not strike you again. you had been struck too hard in the past, and i could not do it. what i told you about myself was untrue, but you believed it, and would have helped me. how could i go on? "then, as i stood between the devil and the deep sea, my orders took me to the _venture_, and we met again on inchbrayock. i had made sure you would be on the hill. when i would have escaped from you, you held me back, and as we struggled you knew me for what i was. "you know the rest as well as i do, and you know where i was in the campaign that followed. last of all i was sent out with those who were to take you on the muir of pert. i had no choice but to go--the choice came at the cross-roads below huntly hill. it was i who sent the warning to you from the little house on the muir. you had directed me there for a different purpose. i sent no name with my message, knowing that if i did you might suspect me of a trick to entrap you again. that is all. there remained only the consequences, and i shall be face to face with them to-morrow. "there is one thing more to say. do not let yourself suppose that i am paying for your life with mine. i might have escaped had i tried to do so--it was my fault that i did not try. i had had enough of untruth, and i could no longer take the king's money; i had served his cause ill, and i could only pay for it. i have known two true men in my life--you and the man who has promised that you shall receive this letter. if you will think of me without bitterness, remember that i should have been glad. "archibald flemington." he folded the paper and rose, holding it out to callandar. "i am contented," said he; "go now, callandar. you look worn out. i believe this last night is trying you more than it tries me." * * * * * it was some little time after daybreak that callandar stood again at the door of the tent under the kindling skies. archie was waiting for him and he came out. the eyes of the sentries never left them as they went away together, followed by the small armed guard that was at callandar's heels. the two walked a little apart, and when they reached the outskirts of the camp they came to a field, an insignificant rough enclosure, in which half a dozen soldiers were gathered, waiting. at the sight of callandar the sergeant who was in charge of them began to form them in a line some paces from the wall. callandar and flemington stopped. the light had grown clear, and the smoke that was beginning to rise from the town thickened the air over the roofs that could be seen from where they stood. the daily needs and the daily avocations were beginning again for those below the hill, while they were ceasing for ever for him who stood above in the cool morning. in a few minutes the sun would get up; already there was a sign of his coming in the eastward sky. the two men turned to each other; they had nothing more to say. they had settled every detail of this last act of their short companionship, so that there should be no hesitation, no mistake, nothing to be a lengthening of agony for one, nor an evil memory for the other. archie held out his hand. "when i look at you," he said. "yes," said callandar. "there are no words, callandar. words are nothing--but the last bit of my life has been the better for you." for once speech came quickly to the soldier. "the rest of mine will be the better for you," he answered. "you said once that you were not a true man. you lied." flemington was giving all to disprove the accusation of untruth, and it was one of the last things he was to hear. so, with these rough words--more precious to him than any that could have been spoken--sounding in his ears, he walked away and stood before the wall. the men were lined in front of him. his eyes roved for a moment over the slope of the country, the town roofs, the camp, then went to the distance. a solitary bird was crossing the sky, and his look followed it as it had followed the one he had seen when he made his choice at the foot of huntly hill. the first had flown away, a vanishing speck, towards the shadows gathering about the hills. this one was going into the sunrise. it was lost in the light. . . . "fire!" said callandar. for archie was looking at him with a smile. chapter xxvii epilogue james logie stood at the window of a house in a dutch town. the pollarded beech, whose boughs were trimmed in a close screen before the walls, had shed its golden leaves and the canal waters were grey under a cloudy sky. the long room was rather dark, and was growing darker. by the chair that he had left lay a yellow cur. he had been standing for some minutes reading a letter by the fading light, and his back was towards the man who had brought it. the latter stood watching him, stiff and tall, an object of suspicion to the dog. as he came to the end, the hand that held the paper went down to james's side. the silence in the room was unbroken for a space. when he turned, callandar saw his powerful shoulders against the dusk and the jealous shadows of the beech-tree's mutilated arms. "i can never thank you enough for bringing me this," said logie. "my debt to you is immeasurable." "i did it for him--not for you." callandar spoke coldly, almost with antagonism. "i can understand that," said james. but something in his voice struck the other. though he had moved as if to leave him, he stopped, and going over to the window, drew a playing-card from a pocket in his long coat. "look," he said, holding out the ace scrawled with the picture of the sentry. james took it, and as he looked at it, his crooked lip was set stiffly, lest it should tremble. "it was in his tent when i went back there--afterwards," said callandar. he took the card back, and put it in his pocket. "then it was you----" began james. "he was my prisoner, sir." james walked away again and stood at the window. callandar waited, silent. "i must wish you a good-day, captain logie," he said at last, "i have to leave holland to-night." james followed him down the staircase, and they parted at the outer door. callandar went away along the street, and james came back slowly up the steep stairs, his hand on the railing of the carved banisters. he could scarcely see his way. the yellow dog came to meet him when he entered his room, and as his master, still holding the letter, carried it again to the light, he followed. half-way across the floor he turned to sniff at an old kilmarnock bonnet that lay by the wainscot near the corner in which he slept. he put his nose against it, and then looked at logie. trust was in his eyes and affection; but there was inquiry, too. "my poor lad," said james, "we both remember." the end __________ billing and sons, ltd., printers, guildford transcriber's note this transcription is based on images posted by the hathitrust digital library from a copy made available by the new york public library and digitized by google: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/record/ the following changes were made to the printed text: -- no attempt was made to reproduce the convention of using opening quotation marks along the left margin when quoting a letter. see pp. - , p. , and pp. - . -- p. : by the abrupt departure of his accuser,--changed the comma after "accuser" to a period. -- p. : where is your postillion?--changed "postillion" to "postilion" for consistency. -- p. : but i am telling you only effects whenyou are wanting causes.--changed "whenyou" to "when you". -- p. : the author's note defining "tod," originally at the bottom of the page, has been moved to the end of the chapter in the html-based versions of this transcription or placed in square brackets next to the word in the text version. -- p. : the wall which bounded the great balnillo grassparks--changed "grassparks" to "grass-parks" for consistency. -- p. : who had been inces santly absent--changed "inces santly", which was split between lines without a hyphen, to "incessantly". -- p. : for his throat had grown thick--added a period after "thick". -- p. : i left the scots' brigade--deleted the apostrophe after "scots" for consistency. -- p. : the gallant background of the scots' brigade--deleted the apostrophe after "scots" for consistency. -- p. : the grave at bergen op zoom--changed "bergen op zoom" to "bergen-op-zoom" for consistency. -- p. : i will give you the details of my report quickly.--added a closing quotation mark after "quickly." -- p. : that overlooked the mass of shiping opposite ferryden.--changed "shiping" to "shipping". -- p. : was grapling with him so that he could not get his arm free--changed "grapling" to "grappling". -- p. : the women were ruuning out of their houses too.--changed "ruuning" to "running". -- p. : "there's fechtin!" . . . "fechtin?" . . . "ay, there's fechtin . . ."--added an apostrophe after "fechtin" for consistency. -- p. : would make him no safer from lord balnillno.--changed "balnillno" to "balnillo". -- p. : the author's notes defining "kyte" and "kaipit," originally at the bottom of the page, have been moved to the end of the chapter in the html-based versions of this transcription or placed in square brackets next to the word in the text version. -- p. : a' tell 't maister flemington the road to aberbrothock.--deleted the space before the apostrophe in "tell 't" for consistency. -- p. : he tell 't me.--deleted the space before the apostrophe in "tell 't" for consistency. -- p. : a' tell 't him wha 'd get him a passage to leith--deleted the space before the apostrophe in "tell 't" for consistency. -- p. : to begin the seaach for flemington.--changed "seaach" to "search". -- p. : another smaller appartment could be--changed "appartment" to "apartment". -- p. : partial cultivation down to the basin of montrose--added a period after "montrose". -- p. : he had just began the ascent--changed "began" to "begun". -- p. : a've tell 't ye afore an' a'm telling ye again--deleted the space before the apostrophe in "tell 't" for consistency. -- p. : on whicht he party had bivouacked--changed "whicht he" to "which the". -- p. : he gave himt he slip of paper--changed "himt he" to "him the". -- p. : what a heart there is the poor brute!--inserted the word "in" between "is" and "the". -- p. : callander listened, the lines of his long face set.--changed "callander" to "callandar" for consistency. -- p. : you see, callander, i have been true to nobody.--changed "callander" to "callandar" for consistency. -- p. : the duke of cumberlaid is still in edinburgh.--changed "cumberlaid" to "cumberland". -- p. : he could see the dirty roofs of the cannongate--changed "cannongate" to "canongate". -- p. : it was to be calandar's voice--changed "calandar's" to "callandar's". -- p. : but you believed it, and would have helped me?--changed the question mark at the end of the sentence to a period. -- p. : callandar spoke coldly, almost with antagonism--added a period at the end of the sentence. spellings deemed to be variants (e.g., "carring" and "east nauk") were retained.